The Clarity of Cold Steel

CLIPPER LIVES, but we’re talking razors and edges and beats of butterfly wings. He took two slugs through the left lung. A bloody mess. Missed his heart by a finger’s breadth. Halfway to Malabar, he’d coughed up enough blood to transfuse two fat kids. And then he didn’t, which was even scarier.

Brumson said, between sips of sherry, that Clipper wouldn’t need a transplant. This was after he died twice on his table, coming back only through a high pressure transfusion of blood and violent thoracic compression. Brumson also said Clipper didn’t have the scratch for a transplant even if he did need one. I could see Brumson doing some cold calculating in his head throughout. Real inspirational. Said Clipper’ll heal on his own barring infection or something equally bad, “One never does know for certain,” and he’d be out of action for some time, which suits me just jake. Should have listened to my gut and not idealistic blather. But what’s done can’t be undone and that’s a lesson you only learn the hard way and with regular refreshers.

We’re laid low in the Dirge again, back at Red Fort, our nice little hidey hole on the water. After dumping Clipper off with his scrupulous employer, the three of us snagged a cog-ferry out of Malabar and rounded the cape in the most sensible way, the way with the lowest concentration of patrolling port authority. A long grey glide.

Nikunj takes a sip of gin-whiskey-infused coffee and goes for a refill.

“Hey,” I say after he’s done.

He glances at me sidelong in question.

“Just a smidge,” I proffer my mug, raising my other hand, “but hold the coffee.”

“You kill yourself,” he says in disgust, “I’ll take no part.”

And so I do. My rented liver ain’t dead yet, feels like a pincushion someone’s sharpening rusty nails in, but I want to get as much off-road mileage out of it as possible. And at this point, what’s the harm?

Nikunj frowns as I upend the liquor bottle, pouring a thin trickle of the swill into my mug. I knock it back, smack my lips together like a boorish prick, which I have some practice at imitating. “Whoa.” Not sure if it’s strong stuff, but it surely does burn.

“Got a line on a dok who might be able to help.” Nikunj glares. “Might be able to un-Babel the hell out of that data card.”

“Chirag already ran it.” I hold out my hands. “Came up empty.”

“The man’s scum.” He fixes me an eye.

“True. But our main agenda’s getting topside.”

“To get topside we need a solid plan, and for a solid plan we need solid intel.”

“Too much time.”

“We can fumble around with our dicks in our hands as fast as fast can be.”

“Now you’re talking.”

He shakes his head. “We need to know everything about Gortham.”

“He’s a match for someone topside. Someone big. We already determined that.”

“Did I mention this dok’s supposedly one of the manufacturers of your pills?” Nikunj deadpans, waiting on my reaction. “Man out of the city might still have supply.”

“Starting to like this plan,” I say, blowing with the wind. “Who’s your man?”

“Arboghast, Lionel Montgomery,” Nikunj says. “Grafter of repute. They say he’s a genius. Holds more than a dozen patents in the field. Pioneered quite a bit of procedures, too. Plies his trade off the Weyland, a coal derrick moored off the east coast. A few leagues northeast of Malabar. Short ride with the right boat.”

I pat my pockets. “Left mine in my other coat.”

“And I have a plan.”

“Your plans are typically,” I rub my jaw in consideration, “what’s the word?”

“Brilliant?” Nikunj offers.

“Insane.” I snap my fingers. “And, by the by, why the hell’s the best grafter in the city doing his work off a bloody coal derrick? And a genius one at that? Why ain’t he topside slinging giblets for the Lords of Old Babylon? Cranking out some dime? Sucking dry the high life?”

Nikunj shrugs. “Don’t know the whole story, but I heard he had a falling out with the establishment a while back over some dealings with the resurrection men.”

“Corpse stealers?” Brooklyn looks up.

“Not these gents.” Nikunj shakes his head.

“The Burke and Hare business.” I nod, turn to Brooklyn. “I heard about them. They were churning out corpses rather than stealing them. You were just a little turnip then.” I look out over the water. “So, your chief got a boat with cojones we can wrangle?”

Brooklyn rubs his hands together. “Sure enough.”

“Aces. We hit Arboghast tonight.”