Steampunk!: An Anthology of Fantastically Rich and Strange Stories by Kelly Link Page A
Authors: Kelly Link
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made my way upstairs to the dormer room, where the boys slept, to look for him and found his bed empty, his coat and his peg leg and crutch gone.
"He's gone," Monty said. "Long gone." He sighed and looked out the window. "Must be trying to get back to the Gatineau." He shook his head.
"Do you think he'll make it?" I said, knowing the answer but hoping that Monty would lie to me.
"Not a chance," Monty said. "Not him. He'll either be beaten, arrested, or worse by sundown. That lad hasn't any self-preservation instincts."
At this, the dining room fell silent and all eyes turned on Monty, and I saw in a flash what a terrible burden we all put on him: savior, father, chieftain. He twisted his face into a halfway convincing smile.
"Oh, maybe not. He might just be hiding out down the road. Tell you what. Eat up and we'll go searching for him."
I never saw a load of plates cleared faster. It was bare minutes before we were formed up in the parlor, divided into groups, and sent out into Muddy York to find William Sansousy. We turned that bad old city upside down, asking nosy questions and sticking our heads in where they didn't belong, but Monty had been doubly right the first time around.
The police found William Sansousy's body in a marshy bit of land off the Leslie Street Spit. His pockets had been slit, his pathetic paper sack of belongings torn and the clothes scattered, and his fine hand-turned leg was gone. He had been dead for hours.
The detective inspector who presented himself that afternoon at Saint Aggie's was trailed by a team of technicians who had a wire sound-recorder and a portable logic engine for inputting the data of his investigation. He seemed very proud of his machine, even though it came with three convicts from the King Street Gaol in shackles and leg irons who worked tirelessly to keep the springs wound, toiling in a lather of sweat and heaving breath, heat boiling off their shaved heads in shimmering waves.
He showed up just as the clock in the parlor chimed eight times, a bear chasing a bird around on a track as it sang the hour. We peered out the windows in the upper floors, saw the inspector, and understood just why Monty had been so morose all afternoon.
But Monty did us proud. He went to the door with his familiar swagger and swung it wide, extending his hand to the inspector.
"Montague Goldfarb at your service, Officer. Our patron has stepped away, but please, do come in."
The inspector gravely shook the proffered hand, his huge gloved mitt swallowing Monty's boyish hand. It was easy to forget that he was just a child, but the looming presence of the giant inspector reminded us all.
"Master Goldfarb," the inspector said, taking his hat off and peering through his smoked monocle at the children in the parlor. All of us sat with hands folded like we were in a pantomime about the best-behaved, most crippled, most terrified, least threatening children in all the colonies. "I'm am sorry to hear that Mr. Grindersworth is not at home to the constabulary. Have you any notion as to what temporal juncture we might expect him?" If I hadn't been concentrating on not peeing myself with terror, the inspector's pompous speech might have set me to laughing.
Monty didn't bat an eye. "Mr. Grindersworth was called away to see his brother in Sault Sainte Marie, and we expect him tomorrow. I'm his designated lieutenant, though. Perhaps I might help you?"
The inspector stroked his forked beard and gave us all another long look. "Tomorrow, hey? Well, I don't suppose that justice should wait that long. Master Goldfarb, I have grim intelligence for you, as regards one of your young compatriots, a Master—" He consulted a punched card that was held in a hopper on his clanking logic engine. "William Sansousy. He lies even now upon a slab in the city morgue. Someone of authority from this institution is required to confirm the preliminary identification. You will do, I suppose. Though your patron will have to
"He's gone," Monty said. "Long gone." He sighed and looked out the window. "Must be trying to get back to the Gatineau." He shook his head.
"Do you think he'll make it?" I said, knowing the answer but hoping that Monty would lie to me.
"Not a chance," Monty said. "Not him. He'll either be beaten, arrested, or worse by sundown. That lad hasn't any self-preservation instincts."
At this, the dining room fell silent and all eyes turned on Monty, and I saw in a flash what a terrible burden we all put on him: savior, father, chieftain. He twisted his face into a halfway convincing smile.
"Oh, maybe not. He might just be hiding out down the road. Tell you what. Eat up and we'll go searching for him."
I never saw a load of plates cleared faster. It was bare minutes before we were formed up in the parlor, divided into groups, and sent out into Muddy York to find William Sansousy. We turned that bad old city upside down, asking nosy questions and sticking our heads in where they didn't belong, but Monty had been doubly right the first time around.
The police found William Sansousy's body in a marshy bit of land off the Leslie Street Spit. His pockets had been slit, his pathetic paper sack of belongings torn and the clothes scattered, and his fine hand-turned leg was gone. He had been dead for hours.
The detective inspector who presented himself that afternoon at Saint Aggie's was trailed by a team of technicians who had a wire sound-recorder and a portable logic engine for inputting the data of his investigation. He seemed very proud of his machine, even though it came with three convicts from the King Street Gaol in shackles and leg irons who worked tirelessly to keep the springs wound, toiling in a lather of sweat and heaving breath, heat boiling off their shaved heads in shimmering waves.
He showed up just as the clock in the parlor chimed eight times, a bear chasing a bird around on a track as it sang the hour. We peered out the windows in the upper floors, saw the inspector, and understood just why Monty had been so morose all afternoon.
But Monty did us proud. He went to the door with his familiar swagger and swung it wide, extending his hand to the inspector.
"Montague Goldfarb at your service, Officer. Our patron has stepped away, but please, do come in."
The inspector gravely shook the proffered hand, his huge gloved mitt swallowing Monty's boyish hand. It was easy to forget that he was just a child, but the looming presence of the giant inspector reminded us all.
"Master Goldfarb," the inspector said, taking his hat off and peering through his smoked monocle at the children in the parlor. All of us sat with hands folded like we were in a pantomime about the best-behaved, most crippled, most terrified, least threatening children in all the colonies. "I'm am sorry to hear that Mr. Grindersworth is not at home to the constabulary. Have you any notion as to what temporal juncture we might expect him?" If I hadn't been concentrating on not peeing myself with terror, the inspector's pompous speech might have set me to laughing.
Monty didn't bat an eye. "Mr. Grindersworth was called away to see his brother in Sault Sainte Marie, and we expect him tomorrow. I'm his designated lieutenant, though. Perhaps I might help you?"
The inspector stroked his forked beard and gave us all another long look. "Tomorrow, hey? Well, I don't suppose that justice should wait that long. Master Goldfarb, I have grim intelligence for you, as regards one of your young compatriots, a Master—" He consulted a punched card that was held in a hopper on his clanking logic engine. "William Sansousy. He lies even now upon a slab in the city morgue. Someone of authority from this institution is required to confirm the preliminary identification. You will do, I suppose. Though your patron will have to
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