He missed his husband terribly, but Blaine had a duty, even without a bloodline, and he could not turn his back on it now.
Blaine walked through the public park as if he were enjoying the day, smiling and nodding politely to the people he passed. When he left the greenery behind for the exhaust-filled street of the civic district, he took a winding path east. Blaine popped into a bookshop at one point to peruse the front table before leaving without buying anything.
Eventually, he slipped down an alleyway rife with trash and refuse, wrinkling his nose at the smell. At the end of that alleyway was a sewer grate, the rusted-over metal slick with foul water and muck that would never be cleaned. Blaine pulled from his pocket a rectangular bit of metal, the contraption elongating to a sturdy rod with a press of a button and the click of well-maintained clockwork gears.
In the shadows of the alleyway, Blaine used the rod to lever up the sewer grate, gaining entry to the ancient passages that twisted beneath Amari on either side of the Serpentine River.
Few in the Clockwork Brigade knew all the access points to the catacombs. Even less had the keys to unlock the hidden entrances below. Blaine could only unlock six routes—twelve access points—and the one he tossed himself down feet-first was one of the more unconventional ones.
Not least because of the filth he had to walk through until he reached the door.
He slid the grate back into place above him, climbed carefully down the ladder, and nearly gagged at the stench that greeted him. Blaine swung his satchel around and pulled out a heavy cylinder tube with a glass tip. The handheld gaslight provided enough light to see by once he switched it on. Blaine aimed it at the ledge he stood on and started walking.
He breathed through his mouth, lips barely open, trying not to smell the sludge drifting through the channel past the ledge. He had to duck his head to keep from knocking it on the ceiling, counting his steps until he came to a space in the wall that wasn’t any different upon first glance.
In the dark, even with the gaslight, it was difficult to see the outline of the door carefully hidden by practical means. Magic degraded over time, and any spells cast below were bound to draw attention no one needed.
Blaine ran his fingers over the wall, feeling for the indentation that would give way to the hidden lock. He found it in seconds and peeled back the covering. He slipped his hand into his satchel, reaching for the very bottom, and withdrew a key from a hidden pocket sewn there. Placing the key into the lock, he turned it, listening to the quiet sound of well-maintained gears clicking tumblers out of place.
The door shuddered in its frame. Blaine pushed it back half an inch before sliding it into a hidden casing. The grooves in the floor that allowed it to move weren’t stone but metal, and Blaine stepped over them to enter the catacombs.
The air smelled stale, but better than the air in the sewer proper. Blaine slid the door back into place, listening for the click of the lock catching. Gripping the gaslight tightly, he started down the tunnel, the perfectly cut metal panels surrounding him like nothing else he’d ever seen.
Blaine didn’t have a map of the catacombs. He’d been taken down this route once before by Lore and then verbally quizzed on it until he could visualize every turn with his eyes closed. Memory served him well, and he passed beneath the streets of Amari to the Auclair estate, no one the wiser.
The residence was located on the eastern side of the Serpentine River, on the border of the civic heart. The large manor house overlooked the winding waterway, with a sprawling garden walled off from the prying eyes of curious folk passing by. By virtue of its bloodline’s history, the estate was a grand building, four stories tall, recently renovated, and one of the few that had survived the Inferno.
Blaine never entered the estate through the front door. He only ever arrived through the basement.
The access routes could be opened from the inside, so it was no problem sliding aside the door that led into the Auclair bloodline’s home. The hard part was getting past the automaton always on guard in the basement.
The heavy shift of gears and metal reached Blaine’s ears, and he stayed exactly where he was in the catacomb tunnel. In the dimly lit shadows of the basement beyond, the glow from what passed for the automaton’s eyes was an eerie red.
Its left arm was bulky but human-shaped, with copper coils looped around sturdy hinged pieces of metal to act as fingers. Its right arm was a heavily modified Zip gun, and the multibarrel was currently pointed right at Blaine’s chest.
“Door mouse,” Blaine said.
The spell laid down over the floor of the basement just past the door flashed with magic, revealing itself in the dark. Then it went dormant, and Blaine let out a breath. His voice was keyed to the entrapment spell, and even though he had no magic, the code word unlocked it for safe passage.
“That is the last time I let Mainspring set the code word. It’s ridiculous,” a voice said from behind the automaton, all exasperation. “All right, stand down, Fred.”
Aether made the automaton’s eyes flash fiery red, the code word—more than the other man’s request—keeping it from shooting a hole clean through Blaine’s body. With the defensive spell sufficiently appeased, the automaton shifted on its mechanical feet, immediately lowering its Zip gun arm.
Blaine let out a heavy breath as it shuffled to the side in rigid movements, allowing him to get eyes on Meleri’s youngest child and only son. Lord Dureau Auclair flashed him a tight smile.
“You weren’t due for a check-in until next week,” Dureau said.
Blaine stepped into the basement, making sure to close the catacomb door tightly behind him so it locked. He didn’t bother bowing. “Needs must. I’m surprised you’re on guard duty.”
“The clarion crystal in your key called to the one in Mother’s study. We knew you were coming. We always know when a cog spins their way back to us. Shall we? Fred, resume guard position.”
The automaton lumbered back into position, facing the entrance, Zip gun arm pointed at the door. Blaine skirted past it and hurried through the dark after Dureau. The other man was younger than him by six years, popular amongst his peers according to the society columns in the broadsheets. Dureau put on a good show of a lackadaisical son who’d rather spend his time with friends out on the town.
In reality, Dureau was a high-ranking member of the Clockwork Brigade, loyal to his mother and in charge of code work amongst the cogs. Dureau had a way with languages few others did, and he channeled that skill into keeping everyone’s secrets safe. Locke was the name most people in the Clockwork Brigade knew him as, even if they didn’t know him, and it fit.
Dureau led him to a private study on the third floor. He knocked before reaching for the handle and pushing it open. “Mother, you have a guest.”
Blaine followed Dureau into the cozy, windowless space persistently lit by gas lamps. To compensate for the lack of windows, the wooden floor and wainscoting were done in a pale birch, the wallpaper white with flowering vines and birds in a watercolor style. Bookcases lined one wall, a trio of small chairs were tucked away in a corner by the door, and a credenza pressed up against the opposite wall.
