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Captain Alexandria Thorne leaned out over the railing of his ship and breathed deeply, inhaling the salty air of zee, mixed with the scent of burning coal and too many bodies crammed together. It was not a pleasant smell, but after weeks of zailing far from home, it was a welcome one indeed.
Alexandria stood back from the railing and stretched her arms over her head. She had just completed the mountain of paperwork that Mr. Fires required from returning ships, and her back ached from all the time spent hunched over a table in her cabin. She supposed she could have skipped the paperwork by docking at one of the less than legal berths maintained by some of her smuggling acquaintances, but she wanted to avoid the attention of the constables for now.
As he disembarked and joined the crowd on the docks, Alexandria saw fireworks overhead. Turning to his first mate, he asked, “What’s the date?”
“The thirty-first of December,” the mate, a short man who wasn’t quite covered in enough bandages to be considered a true Tomb-Colonist but was definitely getting there, replied. “Who knows if the Empress will let us celebrate the true new year, though,” he added with disdain.
Alexandria nodded and thanked him, then checked the time. It was only nine; there were three hours left until 1901, whatever the Empress decreed. Time enough for her to meet up with some friends for some discreet plotting.
“I’d say we don’t need to blow anything up this time,” an elderly woman with a thick accent said. Her suggestion was met with several nods, but more than a few dismayed grumbles. “Think about it,” she continued. “We don’t need to get people’s attention. We already have it! We just need to remind them that they don’t have to blindly obey the Empress’s orders. I’m thinking graffiti. Lots of it.”
Around and around the cramped bar table they went, until each person seated had taken their turn to speak. Most agreed that the old woman’s ideas, while somewhat vague, showed the most promise, and from there, a debate and brainstorming session, in the same circuitous fashion, followed. The proceedings concluded with a pair of people being assigned to different areas of London, and drinks for the whole table. This group was perhaps not the most formally organized of London’s revolutionary chapters, but they were committed to their cause of resisting the monarchy, and made sure every member had a voice. They had little in the way of funding or supplies, and their efforts were generally small-scale. But anything that got more people to oppose the royal family was worthwhile, in their opinion.
Alexandria left the bar earlier than some of his fellows, and headed for Spite. His assignment was an area known as the Crowds, encompassing the Tenterhooks, Smashtile Alley, Blythenhale, and Strung-Up Street. His partner, a Rubbery Man whose name no one knew, had offered to take the first three, leaving Alexandria to do Strung-Up Street. It was a fair trade, as Strung-Up Street was both long and risky.
As Alexandria approached the low wall near the Stolen River, carrying a crate of paint supplies, she caught a glimpse of movement in a nearby alleyway. Not a Neddy Man or an ordinary constable; they’d have jumped her already. A Special Constable? Their dark uniforms would have let them blend in with the shadows, and they were generally more subtle and more competent.
Alexandria continued walking, being careful not to let on that he’d seen anything. After about a minute, he turned off of the main stretch of road and risked a quick glance behind him.
A tall man stood there, moonish light glinting off the brass buttons on his coat. He raised a hand in greeting. Eight fingers.
Alexandria never thought she’d be relieved to see him. She waved in return and hurried over to him. “Nice to see you again,” she said. “Thought you were… well, it doesn’t matter. I suppose you want to hear about Polythreme?”
The Manager of the Royal Bethlehem Hotel smiled. “If you don’t mind.”
Alexandria shrugged and walked over to sit on the cobblestone wall overlooking the river, setting his crate down in front of the wall. “I met the King with a Hundred Hearts,” he said, as the Manager climbed up to join him. “He was… unique.”
The Manager’s face twisted in an odd expression halfway between a grimace and a fond smile. “And?”
“His heart is broken.”
“I know.” The Manager reached into his coat. “Is that all?” His hand emerged from the coat clutching a glass bottle. He removed the cork, not meeting Alexandria’s eyes. “I’m very busy, you know.”
Alexandria raised her eyebrows. “Is that Broken Giant? From 1844?”
The Manager nodded and took a sip.
Alexandria snorted. “Of course your anxiety wine could pay my rent for months.”
“Anxiety wine?”
“Well, you’re clearly not toasting to a new year, and you look like you’d rather leap into the river than continue this conversation, so yeah, I’d say calling it anxiety wine is accurate.”
The Manager rolled his eyes and passed Alexandria the bottle, who raised it in an ironic toast before taking a deep drink. “Oh, that is good,” he said appreciatively. “Where do you find this stuff?”
The Manager took the bottle back. “I have my ways. Now, do you have any useful information for me?”
Alexandria tilted her head back to stare up at the false-stars. “The king’s heart is actually broken, I’m afraid. That diamond in his chest shattered a while back.”
“Oh.” The Manager took several more gulps of wine before asking, “Is he hurt?”
“I can’t imagine his condition is pleasant. But no, I don’t think it’s caused him any extra pain.” Alexandria paused, trying to decide how much of his conversation with the king to reveal. “A shard of that diamond was stolen by someone, and it was taken to Spite.” He watched the Manager’s reaction carefully. When the Manager didn’t seem inclined to jump up and start ransacking the nearest lodging-houses, Alexandria continued. “He’ll let you play the Marvellous if he gets the shard back.”
“Well.” The Manager sighed deeply. “It could have gone worse, I suppose. More wine?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Alexandria accepted the bottle, thought for a moment, then said, “You sold the First City.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.” The Manager turned to gaze out over the river. “I gave the Masters my city in exchange for his life.”
“You started all this.” Alexandria gestured to the city around them. “The lives upended, the cities taken. It started with you.”
“It would have started regardless,” the Manager snapped. “If not with me, than with someone else.”
“Hm.” Alexandria handed him the wine again. “I guess I still don’t understand why.”
“I don’t expect you to. But believe me, I had no idea what the king would become, or I would never have agreed.”
“He doesn’t love you anymore, you know. The king, I mean.”
“I know.”
“But you still love him.”
“How could I not?” The Manager stared at the wine bottle in his hand as though it held the secret of winning the Marvellous. “On the Surface, we were everything to each other. Losing him was the greatest pain I could imagine. After everything I’ve done, what kind of person would I be if I did not still love him?”
“What kind of person are you now?”
The Manager laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You tell me, my dear.”
The two of them finished the wine in silence, until Alexandria said, “If you need a distraction that isn’t alcoholic, you could help me out with something.”
“Oh?”
Alexandria smiled and nudged her crate with one foot. “It’s 1901 now. The perfect time to remind the people that the empress doesn’t get a say in what year it is.”
The Manager shrugged. “I suppose I can spare a few hours.”