by A. C. Cobble
“Duke, there’s another advantage we have if we want it,” she mentioned.
He looked up.
“Your blood or your seed,” she said.
“No,” he declared, standing up and raising a finger to her. “The dark path is not the way to defeat my father. Surely, Sam, you can see that now. My father thinks what he is doing is right, that there is no evil act which is not justified. We will not fall into the same trap.”
“It is a trap,” she said, nodding slowly. “I realize that, now. The temptation… I can feel it, Duke. It’s like a call to me, like a honeyed voice begging me to step farther into the underworld, but what if I am not the one who chooses? Maybe that is the balance. I can make use of the power, but I will not make the choice to do so.”
“You want… you want me to…” he stammered.
She met his gaze. “What do you want? I am merely offering a possibility, not even a suggestion. With the right materials, I can be formidable. On this mission, I will serve as a tool, a blade in your hand. Use it or not, it is up to you. It is a way around descending to the depths of the underworld, Duke. If it is not my choice, I can maintain my grip on life. I will not be walking the dark path.”
“That is just words,” he said. “You’re just twisting the words, trying to make—”
“It is your choice,” she insisted.
He was silent, looking at the map, but she doubted he was seeing it. He was thinking. Thinking about her proposal. Thinking about what other options they had. Surprise, trickery, the supernatural. It was all that there was, the only cards they had to play. They couldn’t afford to ignore any one of them. She was certain of it, but she was also certain that she could not trust her instincts. She’d meant what she’d said. She would let him choose, and she wouldn’t argue with his decision.
Finally, after she’d given up on him taking her offer, he looked at her and asked, “How would it work?”
She smirked. “If you need to ask me that, then I’m beginning to understand why Isabella slapped you so hard.”
He frowned. “I’m being serious.”
“I know,” she admitted with a grin. “There’s never been a more serious occasion, but you can’t leave an opening like that and not expect me to take it.”
“I think you are the one leaving the opening,” he said, grinning back at her.
She rolled her eyes.
Sheepishly, he asked, “Do you need a drink?”
“No, Duke, I don’t,” she replied.
He hesitated and then slowly took a step around the corner of the table. Then quicker, he moved around the next corner, and then he was beside her.
She tilted her head, looking at him.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Her lips curling, she said, “It is your decision, Duke, but sorcery or not, your father or not, I am sure.”
He bent to kiss her, a hand sliding up her arm, her neck, to the side of her face.
She opened her lips, let his tongue twist across hers, felt his firm lips, the scratchy stubble on his chin against her smooth skin. His fingers curled into her hair, and she pressed herself against him. She moved her hands over his back, his sides, his hips. She let him kiss her, hold her head, and then she took his wrist and turned, putting her back against him.
His breath was fast in her ear, and at her direction, he let his hands trail from her shoulders to her breasts. Slowly at first then eagerly, he touched her, reaching down and unbuttoning her vest, yanking it off, and pulling her shirt free of her trousers and over her head. He was confident and assured, but she felt the tremble of anticipation in his hands. She felt its mirror in her chest.
Her skin pebbled in the cool air of the cabin, his warm hands covering her breasts, pinching her nipples. She reached behind and felt him. He moaned in her ear as she gripped him, and he squirmed with anxiousness as she moved her other hand back and unbuckled his belt. She shoved his trousers down, and he sprang free, bouncing against her back, stiff like a board.
One of his hands slid down her stomach, and he pulled her trousers down. He pushed her forward against the table in the center of the room, and she could feel his need. She turned, reaching down to grip him, and looked up to meet his gaze.
“Duke, there are a few things I’ve been meaning to teach you.”
“What?” he asked, bending to kiss her.
She let him, growing eager as well, feeling him in her hand, his shaking hands pulling her tight. She broke from the kiss and shoved him back to the bed, forcing him down and then climbing on top of him. She swiveled, crawling over him, opposite of the direction he lay.
“Use your lips and tongue,” she said. “Slow and gentle at first, and then use your fingers, and then not as slow. You’ll know when it’s time to stop being gentle.” She looked back at him, at his face peering at her between her thighs. “I’m no lady, Duke. You don’t have to pretend to look in my eyes while we’re doing this.”
She wiggled above him and then sat down on him.
Uncertain at first, he quickly figured out what to do. A little shiver went through her body, emanating from her core, and a soft gasp escaped her lips. She let her body react, guiding him to what she liked. She was glad to find the man was a quick study.
His hips twisted and thrust in front of her and he strained in her hand. She smiled. She leaned forward, blowing a stream of air over him, watching as he squirmed, gasping as his hands closed on her bottom. Dark path or no, King Edward or no, this was what she wanted. This was her connection, her grip on life.
She bent down, returning his attentions. She teased him, going slow, making him wait, drawing it out.
He writhed beneath her, thrusting up with his hips, and she wriggled atop him, offering suggestions, groaning with delight as he took them.
Then, he rolled her over, and crawled up beside her, whispering into her ear, “Now it’s time for me to show you a few things.”
The Cartographer XXIII
He glanced up at the tin sign swaying in the steady sea breeze. Stenciled on it was the name of the establishment, the Drunken Ass, and from the sloppy way the thing had been fashioned and hung, it was difficult to tell if it was meant to refer to the pub inside or the man who’d put up the sign.
It didn’t matter much either way as the Drunken Ass was the only public house in Fearndale, a tiny settlement clinging to the eastern shore of an island fifty leagues south of Southundon. The village shared the island with Southwatch, which wasn’t much bigger, but that town was sheltered by a low spine of rock that ran down the center of the landmass. Southwatch was at least slightly habitable.
Oliver ducked inside of the pub, shaking water from his jacket and nearly choking on the heavy cloud of smoke that filled the place.
Fearndale survived off harvesting thick sheets of moss that grew in abundance in the constantly damp climate. The stuff was used fresh in poultices and dried in fish stews. Kissed by the sea, it sold well to people who cared about such things, but there were only so many of those people. In Fearndale, the moss was dried and then burned to heat pubs, evidently.
He let the canvass sheet that served as the door fall down behind him, sealing him inside with the heat and the smoke. He grimaced at the moisture and slime that clung to his hand from touching the damp exterior of the canvass door. Wiping his fingers on his jacket, he looked around for First Mate Pettybone. It was hard to see in the haze, but finally, he saw the man’s knit cap hunched over in the corner of the pub. The first mate had two pitchers of ale and four cups arranged in front of him.
Oliver made his way through the room, the cold and tired patrons making no effort to look up at the stranger in their midst. Sam and Ainsley followed Oliver, and they drew a few interested glances. Even bundled and disguised, it must have been obvious to the moss farmers that there were actual women amongst them. After walking through the dismal place, Oliver suspected that was a rarity. Taking a seat next to Pettybone so that his back was to the wall, Oliver waited
until the priestess and the captain sat.
The first mate began pouring ales.
When everyone was settled, Oliver asked, “Well?”
Pettybone scrunched his lips tight and shook his head. “He’s preparing, it seems.”
“For us or something else?” questioned Oliver.
“Does it matter?” asked the first mate. “Word around the city is that Admiral Brach is assembling forces to move against the Darklands. Could be some truth to that, ey? But could be they’re preparing for you, too. Got at least a dozen fully armed airships floating around the city, and another two or three tied to the bridge at any moment. There are a score of man-o-wars in the harbor. Companies of royal marines are drilling in the barracks and bedding in a temporary tent city east of town. The marines are crawling all over the palace, and I didn’t bother to try and count ‘em. Thousands, at least.”
Oliver drummed his fingers on the table, thinking.
“By now, Prince Philip will have reported to the king that you’re coming for him,” mentioned Ainsley.
“And he knows what we did to his reavers,” added Sam.
Oliver quaffed his ale, enjoying the brew, finding the sour taste fitting.
“He’s arrayed against us, m’lord,” said Ainsley. “Everything the royal marines have is layered around the palace. Mayhaps if we wait for Brach to sail to the Darklands, we’ll get an opportunity, but…”
“But he won’t do that,” said Oliver. “Not while we’re still out here.”
“You could always flee, m’lord,” suggested Pettybone. “The captain and I would be happy to drop you anywhere you’d like to go. Without the Cloud Serpent floating overhead, you could disappear in the Southlands, Rhensar, anywhere, m’lord. No one would think to look for you in those places.”
“Aye, and you’d sail off with the airship?” questioned Oliver with a bitter grin.
“Only as long as you don’t want it anymore,” chirped Ainsley.
“It’s your airship,” said Pettybone. “None of us is going to argue that, but where the Cloud Serpent goes, the king will assume you’ve gone. You want to hide? You shouldn’t do it on that deck.”
Oliver sighed, rubbing a hand over his hair and fingering the knotted leather thong that kept it tied back.
“M’lord, before I hired on with the Company, I ah, I had some experience with conducting raids,” said Pettybone, scratching beneath his knit cap. “The defenders always have an advantage. They’ve got walls, they’ve got cannon, and they’ve got watchers. To win, all they gotta do is hold out until help comes along, and that’s assuming you’re even bringing enough force to threaten them. The smart raiders, the ones who’ll survive for a bit, they don’t attack the strength. They snatch what they can outside of the walls and then they’re off. They avoid direct confrontation and live to enjoy the spoils. We can’t win a battle against the royal marines. It’s not possible.”
“He’s right,” agreed Ainsley. “I’d stake our crew against any in the empire but not the entire empire. We can’t be of much help to you, m’lord.”
“And that’s not to mention the next layer of defense,” warned Sam. “Your father is a sorcerer, Duke, and not some mean conjurer like we’ve faced before. He’s completed a bargain with Ca-Mi-He. He’s aligned himself successfully with the most powerful spirit of the underworld. We won’t be dodging wolfmalkin or swinging obsidian blades to banish shades. We’ll be facing… well, I don’t even know. No one knows what he’s capable of because no one has achieved what he has. He’s hunched down in a fortress, protected by stone, cannon, and spirit.”
“The druid keep across the river from Southundon stood for a thousand years until it crumbled with a thought,” said Oliver. “A thought, Sam, is all that it took.”
“It’s not just a fortress. The man has an empire!” cried Sam before quickly quieting and looking around the room to see if anyone heard her.
Oliver nodded slowly, ideas unfurling in his mind like leaves of the first green shoots breaking above winter ground. He sipped his ale, and then he smiled. A plan, unformed and raw, was beginning to grow.
“What?” asked Sam, looking at him nervously.
“All empires fall,” said Oliver. “All empires crumble from within.”
Sam shook her head. “A nice platitude until you’re the one trying to bring the empire down.”
Oliver turned to Ainsley. “You said you’d stake the Cloud Serpent and her crew against any airship in the empire. Is that true? Is it really faster than the royal marine airships?”
The captain glanced at Pettybone and then back to Oliver. “It is.”
“Good,” said Oliver. “I think I have a plan, but we’re going to have to get close.”
Without word, the other three at the table reached for the ale pitchers.
The Captain III
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Captain,” muttered the first mate, speaking quietly so his voice wouldn’t be heard by the rest of the crew.
“Why’s that?” she asked, peering into the dense fog ahead of them.
“You reached your goal,” he said, “and now you’re going to die a wealthy woman.”
“We might not die,” she responded.
The first mate snorted.
“If you’re so sure we’re going to die, why are you here?” she asked, turning to look at him.
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he claimed. “The death I’ve seen, the blood that’s been shed for this empire, it’s not right. It’s not right, and it’s never going to end unless someone stops it. King Edward, that man is evil, Captain. He don’t care about anyone — his subjects or his enemies. He only cares about expanding the breadth of his power. All that talk of it being for the good, that’s the sweet seduction of dark power whispering in his ear. We might die tonight. In fact, I think we probably will, but if our sacrifice buys the duke a chance, it will be a small price to pay.”
She grunted and turned back to studying the fog.
“You don’t agree?” whispered Pettybone.
She didn’t answer for a long moment, and when she did, she said, “I haven’t given it much thought. Good, evil, I’m not the right person to judge. Is the king evil and his son noble? Aye, that’s probably the score of things, but I’m not the Church or a magistrate. I’m not doing this because I want to settle some grand battle for the fate of the world. I’m just doing it to get rich.”
Pettybone, choking on a response, shook his head.
Captain Ainsley put a hand on the gunwale of the Cloud Serpent. “This is my airship, First Mate. Mine, yours, and all the way down to the deck swab. Each of us has a share in this hunk of wood, iron, and stone. Each one of us has got a future that we never could’a dreamed a year ago. Each of us has an opportunity, First Mate. You want to do some good with your share and make a difference in the world? Have at it. If we weren’t doing what we are doing, we wouldn’t have to worry about making a difference, you know what I mean? We wouldn’t have the resources to choose.”
“And maybe that’s the point, ey?” replied Pettybone. “We get to choose.”
She shrugged. “I’m not a philosopher.”
“But you’re still doing the right thing when you don’t have to,” he said.
She felt his eyes on her and she shifted uncomfortably, wishing the man would go attend to his duties and leave her alone.
“You could order us to raise sail and turn this airship around,” said Pettybone. “Wouldn’t take much to convince the crew. Whether we help the duke or not, we’ll be outlaws after this. Our fortunes won’t change whether or not we accomplish our mission. What’s stopping you, Captain? If it’s only about getting rich, why aren’t we sailing off over the horizon?”
Ainsley gripped the butt of one of her pistols and kept staring ahead into the mist. “Get to work, First Mate. We’ve much to do tonight.”
“You’re a good woman, Captain,” he said, his voice fading as he left her side and walked away.
“Even if you don’t want to be.”
She looked around the dimly lit deck of the Cloud Serpent. The entire crew was on hand and prepared to begin.
“As soon as I light this, it’s too late to back out,” she said, pitching her voice to be heard by the crew but not so loud the sound reached past the proximity of their airship.
No one replied.
She imagined they thought it was already too late to back out. They weren’t entirely wrong. It was well known that the duke had fled on the airship. It was well known they were working with him. She figured there was no way an inspector could prove they were aware the duke was preparing to assassinate his father, but whether the king and his marines would take that into consideration if the crew turned themselves in was anyone’s guess. A gamble, and they’d all placed their chips on the big payout. They wouldn’t turn back now.
She had to admit her first mate was right. The crew thought the duke was doing the right thing, and that’d earned their loyalty, even when it wasn’t the wisest course they’d charted. They were loyal to her as well, she supposed, and not a voice had risen in dissent when she’d shared the plan.
“Very well, then,” she said. Then she touched the taper to the fuse and gave the barrel a shove.
It rocked in its cradle but didn’t roll. The lit wick sparked and hissed.
“Hells,” she muttered and shoved again, barely shifting the heavy munition.
“We usually roll it as a team. Let me help,” offered Pettybone.
Sparks flying from the sizzling wick, they both put shoulders against the fully loaded barrel and shoved. With the creak of wood on wood, the cylinder bounced out of its cradle, rolled down a short ramp, and then whistled into the air below them. They listened, breaths held for a half-a-dozen heartbeats, and then the thing exploded with a violent thump.
Along the edges of the airship, crewmen shouldered more munitions over the edge. Wicks crackling, the barrels whizzed through the sky and burst with deep, concussive thumps. In between the blasts, shouts of panic rose from far below. Lights flared or were extinguished as a dozen airships were kicked into motion and responded in a panic.
