"My dear doctor, they own three-quarters of the aristocracy, lock, stock, and wine cellar. Most, if not all, of the barons have developed secret armies of their own."

"What?" Watson exclaimed in astonishment.

"And furthermore, she has no means to make her objections stick. She is a woman of advancing years, losing her children one by one. Once she is gone, where is the forceful personality who will ensure the council stays meek and mild? Where is the next generation's Albert?"

Gloom descended on the table like one of the thick Thames fogs. Watson made a helpless gesture. "So where is this all to end?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "You would raise a hand to help our beleaguered queen?"

"Of course. What truehearted Englishman would not?"

"Your loyalty, as always, is beyond reproach. So, thank G.o.d, is your marksmanship."

Statements like that gave Watson a very bad feeling.

"Oh, look," said Holmes blandly. "Here comes my brother."

The timing was a little too pat. Holmes had been expecting this. Mycroft, who was every bit as tall as Sherlock but rather wider, strolled up to the table with an indolent swagger. He made a perfect picture of bureaucratic elegance in gray flannel tails, a top hat, and pristine white linens.

"I would like to point out, Sherlock, that you're at my table," Mycroft said with a slight fidget. "I reserve this table from two o'clock on. You know my habits are precise."

"A Mr. Holmes reserves this table," Sherlock replied, with a smugness only a younger brother in the right can muster. "I merely took advantage of the fact that you were being imprecise. There are other seats to be had."

"But this is the one I sit at."

"You could join us," Holmes suggested.

"I dine alone."

The brothers were intolerable once they got started. "Look here, Holmes," Watson broke in. Both Holmeses looked his way. Watson sighed. "We were done eating in any event."

"That is hardly the point," said Sherlock, rising from the contested spot. "And I was waiting for Mycroft to appear."

"Why?" his brother asked suspiciously.

"To advise you that I am taking Watson with me to Dartmoor."

The doctor pushed away from the table, rising to his feet. "You are?" This was the first he'd heard of it.

"I'll explain everything to him in due course, but I thought you should know."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I suppose medical expertise would come in useful, but the decision about the team wasn't yours to make."

"My piece of the game," Sherlock said firmly, "my rules. Come along, Watson, let us leave my misanthropic sibling to his repast."

"Sherlock," Mycroft replied, irritation leaking into his tone. "We need to have a conversation about this."

"In due course, brother mine. Perhaps when it is all over with." With that, he swept from the restaurant, stopping only long enough to inform the maitre d'hotel that Mr. Mycroft Holmes would be covering their bill.

"I do hate being the youngest," he purred. "My brother never lets me pay."

Being a good servant, the maitre d' only bowed.

Watson hurried after Holmes into the fading afternoon. The detective aimed his steps toward the riverbank, where the golden gaslights were already shedding their glow. It was gloomy and growing cold, with a mist already forming over the water.

"I did not follow a word of that exchange," Watson grumbled. "Dartmoor? What, pray tell, is in Dartmoor?"

"A great many wild ponies, from what I hear," said Holmes. He swung his walking stick with a jaunty air. The chaos of the street eddied around them, but he seemed oblivious to it. "The game is a-hoof, Watson."

"We have a case?"

"Indeed. Let me paint for you three facts. One, word has been put about that a dangerous criminal has escaped from the Dartmoor prison, thus giving the excuse for soldiers to roam the countryside without arousing the curiosity of the local population. But it is not a common prisoner they seek. Second, the local baronet, Sir Charles, well known for his philanthropy, was the one to find the escaped convict roaming the moor. A smart and capable old gentleman, loyal to our queen, he had the good sense to raise the alarm with the right people. Third, he has just been found dead. Word has it that he was murdered."

"There is hardly a case there," said Watson. "My guess is that Sir Charles died because he helped the convict."

"In all probability, you are standing closer to the truth than you know-but as always, facing the wrong way."

"You already know who did it? Where is the entertainment in that?"

Holmes didn't answer, but flagged down a cab. Once they had climbed inside, he resumed. "I need your literary talents, Watson. I need you to spin something out of these events."

"I always do."

"No, I need your invention beforehand." Holmes fiddled with his walking stick impatiently. "Fiction is your purview. Concoct a reason that I will require my niece to join us. Something supernatural that only her talents can unravel."

Watson knew little of magic, but he liked Evelina. Nevertheless, his conscience p.r.i.c.ked him. "Isn't that a bit tawdry, Holmes? A man has died. Why use his death as cover for our own purposes?"

"I would not be stretching truth too far if I said more may die unless we can free my niece."

"Why? How can she prevent death?"

Holmes gave him a dark look. "Humor me."

Watson made a gesture of surrender. "Very well, then. A family curse perhaps? A banshee?"

"This is Dartmoor, not Scotland."

"A ghost?"

"Rather dull, don't you think?"

"I don't know," Watson said, growing annoyed. "What do they have there besides ponies? Little s.h.a.ggy horses don't make terribly convincing monsters. The Dread Pony of Dartmoor, whickering death to carrots across the-"

"No, it doesn't quite work, but you've got the idea. There are rumors of a savage dog roaming the place. Perhaps you can work with that."

"Tell me the truth. Is this all a plot to get Evelina free?"

The detective made a face. "I require utter secrecy."

"Always."

"This morning I received word from a Miss Emily Barnes, a confidante of the renowned medium Madam Thala.s.sa. Her group is a.s.sembling to a.s.sist in the dismantling of a laboratory notorious for experimenting on live human subjects without their consent."

"Wait a moment." Watson reached across the cab and grabbed his friend's arm, pulling him close so they would not be overheard. "You're speaking of Her Majesty's Laboratories? No one knows where that is." As soon as he said it, everything fell into place.

Holmes's gray eyes were hard as flint. "One of their charges escaped. I could regale you with word of their atrocities, but let us say for now that Nellie Reynolds is giving the performance of her lifetime."

His shock sharper than the cold river wind, Watson let go of Holmes and reeled back against the seat cushions. His wits scrambled to right themselves. Surely this was treason-and yet Holmes's loyalties were never in question. And then Watson did his mental sums. Sir Charles? "Don't the Baskervilles live somewhere in Dartmoor?"

Holmes nodded slowly. "A dreadful coincidence, is it not? The murder victim was Sir Charles Baskerville. He found Nellie Reynolds wandering the moors and contacted Madam Thala.s.sa. His adopted son, Edmond, is the one directly involved with a rebellion against the Steam Council. I have been acquainted with Edmond Baskerville for some years."

Watson's mouth went dry. "What are you proposing?"

"That we catch a killer, of course, and you make a story about the adventure."

"And what are we really doing?"

"You are the medical doctor. Is there not an oath to do no harm? Might that promise extend to stopping those who break that oath?"

Watson bowed his head. What Holmes was proposing was insanely dangerous. But then so was the moral damage of ignoring an abomination like the laboratory on the moor. And he was a widower now. He was free to take risks because there was no one waiting at home-just a lot of empty echoes reminding him that he had failed kind and pretty Mary Morstan when the fever took her. "There is an oath. We all swear to uphold it."

Holmes crossed his long legs. "Then we are going to free my niece and unleash the one thing on the Steam Council that they fear."

"What is that, Holmes?" Watson feared that he already knew the answer.

"Magic. We are going to free the magic users and burn Her Majesty's Laboratories to the heath."

"Magic? You, Holmes?"

"Rebellions are won with logic, but also with pa.s.sion."

Rebellion! Cold terror trickled through Watson's gut. "Won't that be the next best thing to a declaration of war?"

Holmes gave a smile that was gone in an instant. "I'm afraid that horse has already left the stable-or that pony the moor. No one has admitted it yet, but the war has already begun. And this is the piece of it you and I have agreed to take on."

Watson folded his arms. He'd seen war already, and he hadn't much liked it. "I'm glad we had a good luncheon first."

October 2, 1889.

SOUTH OF LONDON.

1:30 p.m. Wednesday.

THE SCHOOLMASTER HURLED AN ACORN AT MICHAEL EDGERTON, hitting the back of that morning's Bugle with a resounding clatter. The paper dropped and his friend's scowl appeared over the top.

"Are we bored?" Edgerton asked dryly, shifting his back against the tree trunk where he was leaning.

It was a lovely morning, if one were a sightseer. Birds chirped, the sun shone, and the air was filled with the rich scent of early autumn. Part of the Schoolmaster's p.r.i.c.kly mood was the pain of having to resist the urge for an impromptu holiday.

Instead he kicked at a stone, sending it hurtling into a patch of brambles. "I'm wondering how I plan to rule an empire when I can't organize one party of people for a train journey of a few hundred miles. This should not have taken two days."

He should have gone alone, but one thing led to another, as happened when there were too many details circling like noisy seagulls. And, of course, the moment one let people off a train into the fresh country air, getting them back on was a challenge.

"You're grumpy when you aren't in charge," Edgerton replied coolly.

"Being in charge is my destiny, or so I'm told." Though "in charge," he had already discovered, was a complex and fluctuating condition. At the moment, the real monarch was the lure of a magic airship. Despite-or maybe because of-the dim view the authorities took of magic, everyone involved in today's expedition was eager to recover the magic-driven navigation device.

Edgerton folded the newspaper, clearly doing his best not to look aggrieved. "You're the one who suggested stopping here." He waved a hand around. "Wherever here is."

The Schoolmaster sighed, irritated by and appreciating his friend's blunt manner. Much of it, he knew, was just teasing, but it kept him from floating off into dreams of princely greatness in a way nothing else could. "This side trip makes sense. Captain Niccolo was picked up in these woods by patrols. There was no point in having him come back alone and get arrested all over again. Five young gentlemen on a country ramble won't be as tempting a target." Bucky Penner and Captain Smythe were with the air captain, looking for the place where he'd buried his navigation device.

"Especially when they're armed."

"It's a point of conversation during any unwanted encounter."

"I suppose providing a body guard is the least we can do, given the advantage Captain Niccolo represents." Edgerton gave a wry smile. "And I do enjoy watching a pirate rummage through pine cones for a magic box."

"Unfortunately, it's taking rather a long time. We'll miss the next train out."

Edgerton opened his paper again. "Do make up your mind whether a revolutionary species of dirigible is more or less important than making it to Baskerville Hall by tea."

"You're grumpy when you don't have something to do," the Schoolmaster shot back.

"Forgive my disgruntlement. I had a perfectly nice career planned before the Steam Council ruined my father. Now I'm your lackey."

"You're a lackey the way a mastiff is a lap dog." But he got the point. Edgerton had lost his future, and the rebellion was his only chance at getting it back.

In stark contrast, the Schoolmaster's prospects had always been open to debate. He could ship out to Australia and lose nothing but a chance at a huge what if. He'd never known his royal family, except through the stories Sir Charles had told. Contact had been strictly forbidden for everyone's safety-there had never been a birthday gift, a letter, or a secret visit from a bereft mother. Not once. He'd gained in safety but lost any emotional pull to his birth family.

And yet, it was the thousands of lives broken by the Steam Council that made that what if a chance worth taking. His friend, as just one instance, had lost more than a career. He'd lost fortune, position, and a father he'd deeply loved, all because the council wanted the Edgerton foundries for its own purposes. And that was a single tale in a litany that went on longer than the One Thousand and One Nights. Everyone in the Empire had a story to tell about the oppression of the steam barons. The Schoolmaster didn't consider himself more than usually high-minded, but if he could do something about the problem, it was his moral responsibility to stand up. Sir Charles Baskerville-as much a father as any boy could want-had raised him right.

Sadly, none of that relieved the boredom of watching Edgerton read the paper. "Is there any good news in there?" he asked.

"No. The Exchange reports the domestic market is shaky. There's cholera in the poor districts. Soho is mentioned. Gilbert and Sullivan are fighting again."

"Any news of blockades?"

"None."

"Then there is good news. They don't know we're on the move yet." Their war machines were mostly outside of London, the makers and their workshops hidden from the Steam Council. The drawback was that it would take time for them to a.s.semble and march on the capital. The Schoolmaster had sent word as soon as he was sure war was inevitable, but coordinating their scattered forces would be a challenge. That was where the Athena would be key.

The Schoolmaster glanced down the road-more of a dirt track with birch trees arching overhead. They'd been standing guard in case a patrol came by, but the traffic had been nonexistent. It seemed their time would be better spent hastening the search. "I'm going to go check on the captain's progress."