Ink, Iron, and Glass (Ink, Iron, and Glass #1)(65)

The topographical contours felt rough on the soles of her bare feet—she’d scribed the model to withstand the weight of giants like herself tramping all over Europe, but hadn’t considered that the extra-firm structural integrity might be rather uncomfortable from the giants’ perspective. Elsa picked her way cautiously through the jagged peaks of the Alps, which were just tall enough to bang her shins against if she wasn’t careful. She crossed through Switzerland and over Paris, and waded out through the English Channel to the Atlantic.

Rising from the water was a shiny brass podium with a glass front like a grandfather clock, displaying a complex interplay of gears within. At the moment, the inner workings were still and silent. Elsa slid open a small drawer on the side, checking the contents: a silver-backed pocket compass with not one but two needles, nestled in a bed of red velveteen cloth.

Satisfied, she closed the drawer and held out her empty palm to Leo. “I do believe we’re ready to begin.”

His amber gaze locked on her. There was tension around his eyes, but otherwise his features were schooled to appear calm. Resolute. He dropped the watch into her outstretched hand.

Elsa placed the watch atop the podium, pressed a series of buttons, and yanked down on a lever. The innards whirred to life, gears singing against one another. Soon, she could hear the ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk of the target settling into place. Then the mainspring let out a soft twang, and the machine fell silent again.

She picked up the watch and handed it back to Leo while Porzia waded to shore, staring down at the map. Elsa followed, calling, “Do we have a location?”

A beacon of light pulsed in southeast France along the coast. “The city of Nizza,” Porzia said. “That makes sense, I suppose.”

Faraz said, “How so?”

“Leo’s grandfather, Giuseppe Garibaldi, was a native Nizzardo. Ricciotti has returned to his family roots.”

With sudden savagery, Leo declared, “That man cares nothing for family.”

“Still,” Faraz said in a soothing tone, “perhaps he inherited property there. French-occupied Nizza is as close as you can get to Italian soil without actually crossing into Sardinia. It’s an ideal location for a man in hiding—just outside the reach of anyone who might be looking.”

For a moment Leo seemed to wrestle with his temper before tamping it down, and even then, his words came out clipped. “Yes. Well. Let’s go, then.” His fist, tense around his father’s watch, loosened one finger at a time, and he tucked it away in the pocket of his waistcoat.

“Not so fast—we still need to confirm our destination,” Elsa said, her palm resting on the carved-wood grip of her mother’s revolver, holstered at her right hip. She took a deep breath, drew the gun, and gently laid it upon the pedestal. “Moment of truth.”

The whole tracking world seemed to hold its breath as the machine chugged away. Or perhaps that impression simply came from the way the molecules of air rang in her ears. Elsa waited for the finishing twang of the mainspring, but it did not come—instead the machine fell prematurely silent, as if too tired to complete its task.

Porzia glowered at the revolver. “It’s not working.”

“What does that mean?” said Faraz.

She’s dead, thought Elsa, and pressed the back of her hand against her lips to hold in the cry of grief that threatened to erupt from her lungs. But then she remembered Jumi’s old lecture: We are stewards and caretakers—do you understand, darling? None of this is ours, it belongs to all Veldanese. She’d thought her mother meant Veldana—the trees and stones and water—but what if Jumi did not believe in the individual ownership of possessions in a general sense? Their world had so many shared resources that private property was not a terribly Veldanese concept. Even young Elsa had needed the idea of not yours explained to her when she’d disassembled Montaigne’s Pascaline.

She said, “I don’t think we Veldanese have a very strong sense of ownership. Even a few days of carrying around Jumi’s revolver is enough to confuse the targeting machine about who owns it.” She didn’t say, Either that or Jumi’s dead.

Porzia said, “Do you have anything else of your mother’s?”

“Nothing I haven’t been carrying or wearing or otherwise using.” Elsa jammed the revolver back into its holster, frustrated. There was no way to confirm that Garibaldi had Jumi with him, or even that she still lived.

Leo held out the pocket watch again. “Then we rely on what we do have.”

Elsa took the watch and retargeted Garibaldi, then grabbed the two-needled compass from the drawer on the side of the machine as Porzia turned the dials on her portal device. Porzia went first into the portal to return to her sitting room. Elsa stepped through next and collided with Porzia on the other side.

“What are you—oh.”

On the settee sat Gia Pisano, arms crossed, aiming a none-too-pleased glare at her daughter.

Porzia swallowed, and then said with forced brightness, “Mamma, you’re back. How was Firenze?”

“When you wrote that Casa needed maintenance,” Signora Pisano said, “I didn’t imagine you meant the house had been sabotaged.”

Leo and Faraz piled into the room behind them. Leo looked at Gia, looked at Porzia, muttered that he’d be right back, and fled the room.