The Silver Skull (The Elemental Web Chronicles Book 2) Page 10

  Everyone had turned to stare at Ian. Olivia too arranged her features to project confusion.

  “I had nothing to do with this.” He held up his hands. “I did as you asked.”

  The count snorted. “You did not come alone. How can I be certain you do not still attempt to work with these agents? Perhaps you hope they might assist you in freeing your sister.” His countenance darkened. “Such will not be the case.” The count turned to Zheng. “Give the device to me.”

  Zheng dropped the acousticotransmitter into the count’s outstretched palm. He took a long look, then tossed the device to the floor, grinding it under his heel as if it were a poisonous insect.

  “Find the others,” he ordered Zheng.

  Seconds later, the strange crystals flashed gold once more. Zheng found the second device buried beneath the padding that cradled the osforare apparatus. It too met its end beneath the count’s heel.

  “Hold out your arms. Spread your legs apart,” Zheng commanded Ian.

  His jaw clenched, but he did as requested. The cylinder remained clear.

  Zheng turned to Olivia. “Frau Rathsburn?”

  Though Olivia did not hesitate to comply, her skin felt cold, her heart pounded and she was certain someone would detect the slight tremor in her outstretched hands. Fortune favored her, and the cylinder remained clear.

  She exhaled slowly, trying to disguise the fact that she’d been holding her breath again. Ian caught her hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She looked upward to smile gently in gratitude, as would a dutiful wife, and caught a flash of something in his eyes. He knew. Suspicion of her motives for sneaking aboard the escape dirigible had crept into his mind. She would have to dispel them before they became lodged too firmly.

  “Excellent.” The count clapped his hands together. “Now that outside interference is no longer an immediate concern, we may proceed. Zheng, if you will escort Herr Rathsburn to the laboratory.” The count turned to his wife. “Liebling, see to Frau Rathsburn.” He waved his hand at Olivia’s sagging gown. “It seems there was a mishap with her luggage.”

  “This project is of the utmost importance,” Olivia objected, willing to pad about longer on cold, stockinged feet if it meant she remained at Ian’s side. “My attire can wait.”

  “Nonsense,” Katherine answered, bringing with her the faint scent of jasmine as she threaded her arm through Olivia’s, tugging her away from Ian and leading her from the room. “Your husband will need time to renew old acquaintances with Doktor Warrick and consult upon recent developments in his work. Besides, dinner is at eight, and we will need much time to determine which of my gowns might be adjusted to fit your more… generous proportions.”

  Olivia ignored the veiled insult, looking over shoulder at Ian. “But I need to—”

  “Go, darling. I’ll see that our workspace is set up properly.” His face was stoic and unreadable. “I want a few words alone with Mr. Warrick. Count Eberwin, perhaps I might visit my sister first?”

  “Nein. You will see her tonight at dinner,” the count said. “Not before.”

  “You must tell me all about this unusual courtship of yours. A physician courting a programmer,” Katherine prattled on as if Ian had not spoken. “I want to know everything. For we are to become the closest of friends.”

  Though it ought to have felt like a reprieve—Olivia did not look forward to confronting the mechanics of the osforare apparatus—the smile the countess turned upon her did not reach her eyes. It was probably a trick of the light, but her teeth appeared somewhat pointy.

  Chapter Twelve

  IAN WATCHED AS HIS now-married almost-fiancée dragged his self-proclaimed, pretend wife from the great hall. Both women, it seemed, lived double lives. In the space of mere days, his life had twisted itself into a Gordian Knot. Alas, there was no simple way to solve the many problems strewn before him.

  Had Lady Katherine, more appropriately known as Countess Eberwin, wanted him here in Burg Kerzen from the beginning, to cure the cancerous nature of Warrick’s modified bone marrow transplants? Possibly. Yet the count knew nothing of her recent voyage to London. At the time his guardsman had landed on their balloon to deliver his summons, he’d thought she was in Berlin. Hell, it was even possible she worked for the Queen. What game did Katherine play?

  He cursed Black’s name. Had the man known who Katherine was and simply withheld the information from him, preferring to send him in blind to enhance the authenticity of his story? If so, he looked forward to their next meeting when he would greet the spy with a swift uppercut.

  Olivia. She was the greater mystery. Until she’d called out in horror when Zheng pointed his knife at the firkin cincture bolt, he’d dismissed every suspicion that she could be an actual agent. Fearful of blood and needles, afraid of heights. She was ton. A beautiful, privileged flirt in search of a titled husband. He’d been so certain the duke would never place his daughter in harm’s way. But now? He had to admit to the possibility. He was almost certain she herself had planted those acousticotransmitters.

  Impressive.

  She was bright, with a memory like a steel trap, and read punched Babbage cards as if they were pages in a book. What other as yet undiscovered skills might she possess? His gut informed him that he’d only peeled back the first of many layers.

  At least she seemed to be on his side. For now.

  Until a year ago his work had been beneath the notice of emperors and queens, of foreign and domestic agents. If not for the immediate threat to his sister, he might even have been flattered at all the sudden attention.

  Presently, however, he deeply resented that his own government viewed his activities in a suspicious light. That they would attempt to listen to his conversations, to hone in on his location. That he wasn’t worthy of their confidence. Or help. Not if such assistance might lead to a breakdown in international negotiations. The thought ignited a slow angry burn deep in his chest.

  “Doktor Warrick awaits you in the laboratory,” the count bellowed as he turned and strode from the room.

  Zheng waved at Ian’s case. “Bring the device.”

  “Warrick is not a physician,” Ian said, carefully restoring the osforare apparatus to its padding.

  “It is what the count desires to call him. That is what matters. And The Doktor is in charge of this project.”

  “For now.” He would not allow that man to ruin any more lives.

  A long corridor, many doorways and several spiral staircases later, they finally arrived at a cavernous tomb at the base of the castle. Zheng motioned him inside. As Ian started down stone steps worn smooth by the passage of time and thousands of feet, the thick wooden door slammed behind him. A key turned in the lock.

  He eyed the vast, windowless chamber before him.

  Three walls were constructed of stone and mortar. The fourth wall and the floor, if they could be termed such, consisted of the very bedrock upon which rested the foundation of Burg Kerzen. The room was cool and damp. Stacked floor to ceiling, wine barrels lined the space and exuded the pleasant, and somehow calming, scent of oak.

  Torches of the medieval variety—sticks wrapped in rags and dipped in kerosene—had been thrust into wrought iron sconces embedded in the stone walls, though the darkness in the far reaches of the room swallowed up most of this ancient light.

  In the corner of the room nearest the door, bright argon lamps blazed over a surprisingly modern and well-equipped space dedicated to bone research. It seemed the wine cellar was to be his laboratory. He saw but one research impediment: Warrick.

  This flaw rose from a stool and spread his arms wide. “Every modern laboratory convenience you could wish for will be provided. Except, of course, a copy of the key that keeps us here.” Warrick lifted an empty beaker from a nearby table and flourished a barrel spigot. “I am consoled by the abundance of ready wine. Do you prefer red or white?”

  Ian ignored him, stepping past the man as if he did not exist, and set his insulate
d case upon the floor. Prisoner or not, Warrick had taken the first steps that led to this fate whereupon a mad scientist found himself employed by a power hungry despot. It was enough that Ian didn’t kill him on first sight; indulging Warrick’s pretense of bonhomie was out of the question.

  A battery-powered cell culture incubator sat on the floor beside a long workbench. Ian crouched before it, swinging open the door. Inside, some twenty Petri dishes filled with blood-red media glistened in the damp heat. With closer examination, he was certain they would prove to be a line of deadly osteoblast progenitor cells.

  “What countermeasures have you employed in an attempt to remedy the progression to osteoblastoma?” he asked Warrick. Ian left the door ajar, knowingly exposing Warrick’s cells to airborne infectious agents. It was a test. Did Warrick himself believe in his work enough to protect his cells?

  “Until the count gives me a direct order, I’ll not be sharing any confidential research information with you,” Warrick snapped, firmly closing the incubator’s door. “It’s taken me over a year to progress to this point.”

  So Warrick had a solution in mind, if not one in fact.

  Once, this man had courted his sister, had once begged for her hand on bended knee. At the time his future was bright. Now, his eyes were sunken and hollow, speaking of long hours fruitlessly searching for a remedy. It burned like acid upon his skin that he himself had been the one to introduce this monster to Elizabeth.

  He shrugged, as if Warrick’s progress didn’t matter. It didn’t. Not if he could lay hands upon his sister and escape this castle. Escape. Would he also have to rescue Olivia? Or would she provide assistance? “At some point the count will order you to work with me,” he said. “Though I very much doubt I’ll be able to find a cure. You’ve certainly managed to make a mess of things. Self-perpetuating, and therefore cancerous cells, are not the answer.”

  Warrick crossed his arms. “And how do you propose to work with cells that will not renew themselves?”

  “Working directly with the cells in tissue culture is the wrong approach. You’ve been exiled from Lister University for over a year. Much progress has been made. None of which I intend to share with you.”

  Progress, but only in treating rats, his mind grumbled. But Warrick stiffened at his pronouncement and that, for now, counted as a minor victory.

  Given a choice, Ian would chain Warrick to one of those many iron rings bolted to the stone walls and leave him there to rot. Except he couldn’t. He needed a competent laboratory assistant. Allowing Warrick to work at his side would take the pressure off Olivia, leaving her free to work on the osforare apparatus alone, where her talent lay, rather than forcing her to pretend to skills she did not possess. Skills that would be very difficult to fake and might ultimately hinder his work.

  Warrick huffed.

  Ian turned to the workbench.

  On its surface gleamed an aetheric vacuum-chambered microscope—the latest model that touted enhanced resolution. Beside it was a fuge. A case containing needles and syringes. Rocking platforms, scales, a hot plate and ring stand. Above the bench were shelves that held a variety of glassware: Erlenmeyer flasks, beakers, titration equipment, bulbed pipettes. And Petri dishes—stacks and stacks of them.

  A wooden cabinet at the far end of the workbench held jars and bottles and boxes filled with all manner of chemicals in both liquid and powder form. Labels had been carefully written and pasted to each. Unfortunately, the labels were all in German. Some, those with Latin or Greek names or the few that bore their chemical symbols were decipherable, but others…

  “Can I assume your German approaches fluency?” Ian asked.

  “It does.”

  “When you are done pouting about my arrival, made necessary by both your incompetence and betrayal, please turn your hand to relabeling all these chemical supplies in English.”

  “If you think I’m going to take orders from you,” Warrick’s voice grew strident, “slide into past patterns—”

  “That is exactly what I think.” Ian closed the cabinet and turned on his heel. “Don’t pretend to be dense. Do you think I’m here voluntarily? My sister’s life has been threatened.” Lacking a blade, he pointed a finger at Warrick. “Don’t think for a moment that I don’t hold you responsible for her situation.”

  Warrick sputtered.

  “The count thinks you incompetent, no matter his show of loyalty by keeping you alive,” Ian continued. “I’ve been tasked with both curing your victims and providing an alternative therapy that will accomplish the same result in a nonlethal manner.”

  “Victims!” Warrick’s face was red.

  “I see no cages, empty or otherwise.” Ian swung an upturned hand about. “I doubt very much that there is an animal facility tucked at the far end of this chamber behind the barrels.” His voice took a hard edge as suppressed rage made his body vibrate. “You broke protocol, experimenting directly upon humans. How many graves have you filled this past year?” Nothing would satisfy him more than to add Warrick to that number.

  “Boys who desire nothing so much as to become guardsmen are readily supplied,” Warrick said. “But there are rats about if you wish to chase one down.”

  “More than one,” Ian said. “We’ll need about fifty to start.”

  Warrick gaped.

  A blatant lie, that arbitrary number. If necessary, he needed but one rat to demonstrate the effectiveness of the transforming agent he’d developed this past year, one rat who would have the strongest healthy femur in the castle, one rat to prove to the count that he could do as promised.

  With luck, such a demonstration would never become necessary. In the meantime, he would enjoy watching Warrick hunt rats.

  But first, Ian needed to know what the other man had done to make his cells so extremely malignant. “Concerning the research you’ve conducted this past year, where is your laboratory notebook?”

  “There is no notebook,” Warrick sneered. “I see no reason to lay my work out in logical order. What would my life be worth if my research was so easily reproducible?”

  From the moment students stepped into a laboratory at Lister University, it was drilled into them that they must make daily—even hourly—entries into a notebook detailing their thoughts, their procedures, their discoveries. If another scientist could not reproduce the work, what value had any discoveries made?

  Though there was a certain sense of logic to Warrick’s defense, Ian trusted him about as much as he would a gear missing a tooth, and the lack of a comprehensive, detailed laboratory notebook triggered a rather loud alarm. “You must have something in the way of notes,” he glowered.

  Warrick’s lips twisted into an approximation of a smile. “Not a single blasted page.”

  Impossible. Ian refused to accept Warrick’s statement as truth. Blood pressure rising to critical levels, he turned his back on its cause and arranged a number of unusual ingredients upon the surface of the workbench. Warrick would assume they were vital to his breakthrough, a new method to coat bones in antimony, rendering them unbreakable without condemning the recipient of the treatment to an abbreviated lifespan with a most gruesome and painful end.

  He tugged a packet of powder from his case, the one labeled simply with an “X” and measured out exactly one gram of dehydrated crystals. Pulling a bottle labeled “water” from the cabinet—his German could manage that at least—he poured the powder into the flask, added a measured amount of water and swirled the contents, watching as the reconstituted chemicals took on a rusty red color.

  This powder was purely for effect, composed of chemicals that produced a spectacle of color to draw the eye. He wouldn’t flaunt the true transformative powder before his enemies. A foreign scientist would need advanced skills and a sophisticated laboratory to analyze and tease apart the many chemical and biological components of that powder. Still, it could be done. That powder, carefully packaged and sewn into the lining of his waistcoat, was out of view from those who wou
ld force him to betray his country, his Queen, his sister. Himself.

  As expected, Warrick leaned in, peering over his shoulder. “You cannot convince me that the osteoblasts can be transformed in situ. To inject them directly with that fluid would require—”

  “Open the case,” Ian interrupted.

  Warrick did so. The sneer fell from his face.

  “Not at all impossible,” Ian said. “Not with Rankine Institute engineers close at hand. Do not presume to tell me what is or isn’t possible. You, now isolated from all work conducted at Lister, a solitary scientist—to use the term loosely—housed in a cavern beneath a castle falling into ruin. The antiquated conditions under which you work hamper your progress. Could you find no one sane to fund your treasonous work?”

  “I have made numerous advances. There is a way to stop the cells from multiplying. You should not have abandoned your original supposition that—” Warrick inhaled sharply.

  “How?” Ian demanded. “If so, why has it not been deployed?”

  “No. I will not allow you to badger me into revealing my plans. Keep your secrets. Perhaps they will save you.”

  Warrick lied. He was certain of it. There was no known method to cure cancer of the bone. Yet with so many lives at risk, he could not afford to ignore the man’s boast. If he could not be goaded into sharing his so-called advances, Ian was certain he could convince the count to compel him to produce his research notes. In the meantime…

  “I also require antimony,” Ian said. Perhaps ignoring Warrick would loosen his tongue. The man did love to brag. “I did not see it in the supply cabinet. Where is it?”

  “Zheng supplies it. On an as-needed basis.”

  Realization struck. China was the leading supplier of antimony. That Zheng and the count worked so closely together… He frowned.

  Warrick nodded. “Now you understand why Zheng is in the count’s pocket. If the Germans manage to develop an unbreakable soldier, Zheng stands to make millions. He’s not simply a mercenary chemical peddler, his family owns and operates an antimony mine.”