Free Steam Dogs by Sharon Joss

an even better view.
    He peered into the eyepiece to sort out the view. Based on what he
remembered of Emile’s charts, he must be looking at the cattle market. He was too
far north to see the hospital, where the Queen’s yacht would be docked. He swung
the telescope around and focused it downriver, trying to spy the cultivated
gardens surrounding the Royal Naval College, but the angle was wrong. He made a
mental note to take the ferry over to Greenwich as soon as possible.
    By the time Arvel and the smithy completed their negotiations, the
heavy mist outside had turned to a light rain. As they made their way back to
the air hangars, Arvel gave Simon the bad news.
    “They do have parts we can use, but if they rework them to my
specifications, it will take at least ten days. I know Rudy can get it done
much faster. He’s agreed to let Rudy use his furnace and tools for three days.
But he wants one hundred and twenty pounds more than we’ve got. Half now, and
the rest in three days.”
    “Will you be finished in three days?”
    Arvel winced. “Maybe.”
    The air show was five days away. “Not much time for practice
maneuvers.”
    “If we don’t get that gondola working, the Il Colibri is nothing more than an observation ship. Without it, we
might as well launch the Calabrone .”
      Il Calabrone was the hot air balloon
they’d brought with them. Like its bumblebee namesake, the black and gold
balloon had four pair of quiet, battery-powered propellers that maneuvered it
in any direction. “Pay the gentleman, Arvel. I’ll have the rest of the money in
a couple days.”
    “If we sold the fireworks, we’d have enough.”
    Simon shook his head. “Absolutely not. We need them. I need them. Leave the money to me.”
    “Just don’t get caught before the show.”
    He gave Arvel a mirthless grin. “When have I ever?” They both knew
he had gotten caught. Twice. But that
was a long time ago.
    #
    Brussels, Belgium
    November 1851

 
    The first snow of the season had fallen during the night, and the
clarion ring of the smithy’s iron hammers filled the frigid air. Simon breathed
on his icy fingers; the sensation of his steamy breath offering only a passing
moment’s respite from the biting cold. He’d had his eye on one fellow in
particular for nearly an hour. A short, small-boned, older man with a cane and
a gold watch he checked frequently. Simon felt confident in his improved technique,
and even if he fumbled the job, he was certain the old fellow could never
follow him once he reached the rooftops.
    Ignoring his hunger pangs, he waited until the old man reached the
front of the queue to speak to the smithy. Simon edged closer, trying to make
out what they were saying. Over the last few months, his French had improved
and he'd learned enough Flemish to get by. The old man wanted a special tool
made, he said, and when he laid out a drawing of what he wanted on the smithy’s
worktable, Simon made his move.
    Simon eased behind the fellow, and with a practiced touch, lifted
the watch from the man’s side jacket pocket. That was the knack of it, he’d
learned. Not to snatch, but to lift .
    But before he could slip away, the man grabbed him by the wrist in
a vise-like grip.
    Simon lunged away, but the old git slapped an iron cuff on him and
locked it. The last thing he saw was the old man’s cane coming down to strike
him.
    #
    Simon awoke with his cheek hard against the window of a moving coach.
His hands and feet had been manacled together. He could not have stood, much
less fled. The need to escape fueled his panic.
    “Who are you?” He held up his wrists. “Unlock these!”
    Across from him, the old man eyed him with a predatory glare. “You
have a light touch, but you’re stupid.” The man spoke in heavily-accented
English. “I spotted you before you even made your mind up to snatch it.”
    Simon glowered at him but said nothing. The man did not appear
threatening, but the cuffs terrified him.
    The old