Against the Tide by Elizabeth Camden

leaned across his desk and pointed a stubby finger at Bane. “I heard about what you did with that bridge to Canada last year. Don’t think you can intimidate me the way you did the bridge-building crew up in Vermont. I am made of tougher stuff.”
    Bane knew who had been behind the proposed bridge, and it had been a delight to scuttle the Professor’s plan to build a bridge that would have made smuggling opium in and out of Canada easier.
    Still, he feigned a look of casual surprise for Telenbaugh’sbenefit. “Who said I intimidated anyone? All I did was inform the team of the governor’s proposal requiring immigrants to pay additional taxes if they wished their children to attend school. Almost all of those workers came from Italy, so imagine their dismay when I told them.” Bane began picking at a nonexistent speck beneath his nails. “Actually, I was quite pleased I was able to persuade the mayor of the village to work with the local unions to set up rules against that sort of thing. I was even happier when that mayor was elected to the governorship the following month.”
    Bane straightened to look out the tiny office window. “Are your workers members of the union? I hear rumors the Knights of Labor are thinking of organizing miners up this way.” The only sign of Telenbaugh’s anxiety was the tightening of his fists, and Bane’s gaze went back to his nails. If Telenbaugh’s workers joined a union, it could spell disaster for his operations. “It’s just a rumor, though.”
    “What do you want?” Telenbaugh bit out.
    Bane leaned forward, focusing his full attention on Telenbaugh. Admiral Fontaine couldn’t publicly announce his candidacy for the seat until he resigned from the navy, but Bane wanted the path cleared to ensure an easy election.
    “I want you to quit lining Senator Wilkinson’s pockets,” Bane said. “Tell me what you want from a senator, and I’ll try to see that you get it. You’ve got two hundred men out there doing good, honest work. I won’t interfere with that, so long as you quit funding the reelection of a man who is allowing thousands of pounds of opium to pump through the bodies of people too ignorant to understand what they are consuming.”
    Bane could tell he was getting close, because Telenbaugh picked up his cigar, reached into a drawer for a match, and lit the tip. Getting the man to light his cigar at two o’clock in the afternoon was a victory. “I could squeeze you between my two hands and mashyou to a pulp,” Telenbaugh said, remnants of anger starting to fade as he drew on the cigar.
    Bane knew he had won. “You’d have to get in line behind the others who want the same thing. Now, tell me what you want, and I’ll see how I can get it for you.”

    The Professor had been waiting outside the postal station for almost an hour, but the delivery expected on today’s mail wagon was too important for him to lollygag at home. Not when a sixteenth-century psalter was about to be delivered into his hands.
    His eyes dilated in pleasure as he accepted the package from the postmaster, and he carried his new treasure gently down the steps, across the dusty street, and into his carriage. “Move over,” he instructed Boris, the hefty guard who was working a toothpick between his teeth. The Professor averted his eyes. Boris was an ungainly boor, but he had his uses.
    Besides, nothing would diminish his pleasure on a day such as today. He slit the brown paper wrapping, opened the box, and extracted his treasure. The psalter was unexpectedly heavy on his lap, and he traced his fingers across the exquisite leather covering the vellum pages within. The artistry lavished on the cover indicated a love and respect for the world of books, and across the centuries, the Professor felt a link with the Renaissance nobleman who had commissioned this volume. With the care of a surgeon, the Professor opened the cover and was greeted by a revolting sight.
    A postcard of a field of