Aristocrats and Artillery: Epiphany Club, #3

By Andrew Knighton

Adventurer Dirk Dynamo is back in Paris, in pursuit of the final clue to the location of the lost Great Library. But Paris is a city at war, with Prussian troops closing in from the east and the King in Shadow preparing to rise up in revolt. As violence reaches the city streets, can Dirk retrieve the last tablet, or will the path to the Great Library fall into the hands of a criminal mastermind?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Knighton
• Release date: Feb 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386038573

Andrew Knighton

Andrew Knighton is a freelance writer and an author of science fiction, fantasy, and steampunk stories. He lives in Yorkshire with his cat, his computer, and a big pile of books.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1: THE KING IN SHADOW

I preferred this place in the spring. Dirk Dynamo tilted his hat and water poured from the brim. A small trickle escaped down the back of his neck, running inside his long waxed coat.

It was certainly warmer. Sir Timothy Blaze-Simms hunched in his overcoat, his upturned collar and top hat making him look like a bespectacled chimney. And livelier.

They peered out of the cramped alley and down the rain-sodden Paris street. Everything around them - the sky, the street, the tall terraces - was a dark, lurking grey that swallowed optimism and spat out gloom. Autumn had come early to the city, or else the sky itself was weeping at France’s military defeat by the Prussians and their allies, and the second fall of the House of Bonaparte.

The hotel manager was telling me that they can hear guns on the north side of the city. Blaze-Simms glanced upwards, as if expecting to see shells fall on them at any minute. Probably Krupp’s breech-loaders.

That's bull. Dirk shook his head. It might only take a day for a message to come from Sedan, but it’ll take an army a hell of a lot longer. It ain't that bad yet.

A sentiment shared by the Government of National Defence, a familiar female voice said from the darkness behind them.

Dirk grinned as Blaze-Simms started at the sound. In his Pinkerton days, Dirk had tracked fugitives across the plains using skills learnt from the Indians, sensing the sound through the earth. When it was quiet he could hear a penny drop three streets away. He could certainly hear a high society lady sneaking over cobbles.

They're talking about settling down for a siege. Isabelle McNair stepped around puddles and took up a place between the two men. In her fashionable blue dress and grey jacket, she looked every inch the elegant lady about town. An umbrella blocked the view of her face, but Dirk could hear a smile in her voice. It appears that the Republic is as determined to defy the Prussians as the Emperor was.

Good for them. Dirk smiled at more than just Isabelle’s company. Time for the proletariat to cast aside the oppressors who got them into this mess. Government by the people for the people, that's what Europe needs.

Steady on, old chap. Blaze-Simms looked at him in alarm. It's that sort of sentiment brought the Bonapartes to power. Hardly a peace-loving lot.

There was a rumble of thunder, the sort of sound a civilian might mistake for artillery. But Dirk had seen his share of warfare, and he knew the difference between angry clouds and exploding shells. Knew it all too well.

Timothy's right. Water trickled past Isabelle’s face as she turned toward them. Sweet as your sentiment is, Mr Dynamo, I'm afraid it hasn’t been that sort of revolution. We can expect a nice, safe republic of bureaucrats and shopkeepers, not labourers in the halls of power.

We'll see. Dirk said. If the Prussians and their Black Forest buddies get here it could all be up for grabs.

He reached for a cigar, but rain had filled his pocket, leaving a brown mess of uncurled leaves.

Don’t worry. Isabelle took his arm. We’ll soon be warm and dry.

Dirk smiled. The gentle warmth of Isabelle pressing against him was more comfort than any cigar. He’d set out on this journey in search of treasure, seeking the stone tablets that would lead them to the lost Great Library of Alexandria. But with two tablets in their grasp and the third supposedly in this city, he was starting to think that he’d found something more precious in Isabelle McNair.

Except that she was married, a bitter corner of his brain reminded him.

Isabelle led them across the street and through a small, inconspicuous door. This district was far enough out from central Paris to have avoided the vast upheavals of urban reform. There were no broad boulevards or gaslights brightening the streets here, just the tall, cramped buildings that had piled up over centuries of growth.

Through the door, guttering candles lit their way down a long spiral staircase, along a tunnel and across a wrought iron bridge.

Not another damn sewer. Dirk screwed his face up in revulsion as he caught the stink of the place.

Not for long. Isabelle seemed unphased by their surroundings. And remember both of you, when it comes to Paris’s secrets this man could make or break our investigation. Please be on your best behaviour. She squeezed Dirk’s arm. No singing the Marseillaise or talking about guillotines.

Right you are, ma’am.

Isabelle rapped on a pair of heavy oak doors, steel reinforcements staining the wood with rust. A grille shot open revealing two feverish eyes above a waxed moustache, and a faint smell of perfume.

Oui? The voice was sharp with impatience.

Our letters of introduction. Isabelle spoke in flawless French. Dirk’s time in Quebec had taught him enough of the language to make conversation, and to recognise when someone was speaking it better than him.

Handing an envelope through the hole, Isabelle smiled brightly at those shifting eyes. There was a shuffling of papers, a few moments of murmuring, and the sound of bolts drawing back.

As the door swung open a wave of warm air swept over them, heavy with the smell of bodies sweating in a confined space. An attempt to drown out the stench of humanity with expensive perfume had failed, only adding a cloying note that made Dirk gag, accustomed though he was to barracks air. They stepped from damp darkness into a world of bright lights and busy chatter.

Sir Timothy Blaze-Simms, Mrs Isabelle McNair and Mr Dirk Dynamo. A man in a bright tabard announced them in clear, aristocratic French. Representatives of the Court of St James.

Dirk raised an enquiring eyebrow in Isabelle’s direction.

A little borrowed prestige, she murmured, to help us through the door.

The door in question led onto a marble staircase at the head of a wide, vaulted room. The place looked like a stage set of a palace. A brick-walled cellar had been white-washed so thickly that, where the paint was cracking in the corners, it peeled away in strips as thick as roof-slates. It was lit by a chandelier made irregular by missing pieces of its glittering glass crystals. Paintings lined the walls, some proprietorial country scenes, others elaborately rendered melees of horse, gunsmoke and glory. Their regular spread around the room made the absences stand out, spaces of blank wall where some masterpiece had once hung, as sad as empty chairs at a family dinner table.

They were led down the stairs, into a chattering chorus of frock-coats and bloated ball gowns. The clothes mingled the fashions of the decade with those of a hundred years before, sometimes on one person. Four-in-hand ties and cravats, powdered wigs and sideburns, bodices high-cut and low. Up close, Dirk caught glimpses of rework and patching, all meticulously done but none as invisible as their wearers seemed to hope.

No-one turned to greet them as they approached, to nod hello or catch an eye. These people were entirely wrapped up in each other and their world of hand-me-down aristocracy. Pale faces and wide eyes spoke of a life lived in darkness, like fearful lizards hiding from the sun.

Their guide, a footman in knee-length breeches, top-hat and tails, led them to a cluster of chairs by a fireplace.

Would madam or sirs care for a drink? His French was nasal - Parisian gentry carried to parodic extreme.

Sherry. Isabelle settled decorously into a seat.

I'll have a brandy. Blaze-Simms stepped past her to warm himself by the blazing fire.

Coffee please, Dirk said. Couple sugars if you've got them.

The footman winced at Dirk's heavily accented French, nodded, and departed into the crowd.

Dirk threw himself down in one of the armchairs. It was made of elaborately carved oak, but luxuriously padded, threadbare cushions hugging him close. The arms were worn with age, edges smoothed away by years of men at rest. And the fire, after the cold and wet outside, came like manna from a kindly god. Faint wisps of steam began to rise from his sodden coat.

What the hell is this place? Dirk reverted to English. As no-one around cared for their company, they were unlikely to care what he was saying.

This is the court of Louis XXI, Isabelle said. Otherwise known as the King in Shadow. But don't use that to his face. Louis is a little sensitive about his situation.

The footman reappeared with a silver tray and passed them their drinks.

I say, Blaze-Simms exclaimed, staring at the smeared side of his glass, this isn't really – ouch.

He stopped short as the toe of Isabelle’s boot knocked against his shin.

Thank you very much, she said, and the footman, still grimacing slightly, backed away through the room.

Timothy. Her voice was soft but firm. These people have convinced themselves that the old order never fell and the monarchy with it, that the revolution and Napoleon I were nothing but passing disturbances, King Louis Philippe and the Emperor Napoleon III pretenders to the throne. They have spent decades as the ghost of a court whose corpse was long ago left for the crows. This bubble of illusion may not be all they have, but it is the dessicated stalk upon which this dead flower hangs, and if you break it then you throw away our best lead. So please, no matter what you see, remember that you are among monarchy, and everything is as perfect as it could be.

Right ho. Timothy sat down with over-egged grace, sipping at his drink with a beatific smile.

And Mr Dynamo, Isabelle turned her gaze on the American, "I sympathise with your aversion to airs and graces, but in this place everyone is equally pathetic, and so equally entitled to play the grandiose part. This is nothing but a figment of grandeur, so there is really