“Stop looking at those maps,” she ordered the engineers. “Right now.”
Even though Osyrus commanded the engineers, not Vera, all of them went silent.
“A problem, Vera?” Osyrus asked.
“There is no need to starve these cities. I will salvage the Eternity.”
Osyrus scoffed. “And how do you propose to accomplish such an ambitious task?”
“Decimar and I will take the Blue Sparrow to the crash site.”
Osyrus raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”
“Yes. We’ll expand her exterior cargo capacity with nets. We’ll bring as much of the food as possible for the army, but we’ll resupply the slums of Burz-al-dun first.”
“Why are you so fixated on the slums?” Nebbin asked.
Vera glared at him, which made the engineer’s face appear very much like a stick of butter that was about to melt.
“We are all working to preserve Kira’s empire, are we not? To rule the realm of Terra as she would have done?”
“Of course.”
“Kira would never allow her people to starve just so you can reduce the risk of troublesome rebellions.” She paused. “But I also understand the realities of war. So I will take this burden upon myself.” She paused. Seemed momentarily filled with emotion. “I can’t help Kira by moping at her side and waiting for her to heal. But I can honor the path she would have wanted me to take, no matter how dangerous it might be.”
It seemed to Castor that Vera the widow—famous for her cold composure and pragmatism—had finally been broken by her feelings for the empress. It was possible for her to succeed on this mission, but it was far, far more likely she and her ship would be destroyed by Blackjacks before she got anywhere close to the Eternity.
“I cannot spare any acolytes for such a mission,” Osyrus warned, apparently coming to the same conclusion as Castor. Can’t waste such a precious resource on a fool’s errand.
“I don’t need them,” said Vera. “I just need the Sparrow and Decimar’s crew.”
Osyrus gave a helpless gesture. “Fine. Request granted. I will have the ship refitted and fueled.”
“Good.”
Vera stalked out of the room at speed, with Decimar following quickly behind. The doors closed behind them, and there was a long silence.
“Well, it seems we might finally be rid of that Papyrian cunt,” Nebbin said eventually.
The engineers all laughed at that. So did Commander Vergun.
Castor wasn’t so sure. Just didn’t seem right, the widow making such a stupid decision. And he noticed that neither Garret nor Osyrus Ward were laughing, either. Ward leaned forward in his chair.
“Castor, would you be so kind as to locate our newly arrived count from Ghalamar and bring him up here?”
“Garwin?”
“Yes. I have the perfect task to get him started.”
* * *
Garwin’s face turned increasingly deep shades of red while Osyrus Ward explained his assignment.
“You better be fucking joking,” he hissed.
“I am not.”
Garwin’s hand was gripped tight around his sword, but the war acolyte standing half a stride behind Ward was clearly enough motivation for him to keep it there. “We’ll be chewed apart by Blackjacks.”
“Possibly. But in the event that you are not, I would like someone aboard the Blue Sparrow to provide stringent supervision over Vera the widow.”
“You send her to threaten me in the night, now I’m going to police her on a fucking suicide mission?”
“That is correct.”
Garwin’s face twitched with rage. “What was the point of even cajoling me and my men across the Soul Sea if you were just going to send us to our deaths? I’d have rather died in my own fucking bed.”
Osyrus pursed his lips. “You raise a valid concern.”
He began twisting his beard into a greasy knot, lost in thought once again.
“So, we don’t have to go?” Garwin asked.
“Oh, no you most definitely do. If you refuse, or fail to follow my orders exactly, I will kill you, all of your men, and every last citizen of Argel. But it occurs to me that there is an opportunity for experimentation here. If that crashed ship is repelling dragons by pure chance, there must be a way to reliably re-create the effect.”
“Some kind of resonance generator, perhaps?” Nebbin asked.
“Exactly.”
“What the fuck are you two talking about?” Garwin asked.
“No time to explain.” Osyrus stood. “I will manufacture a prototype with haste. My acolytes will install it onto the Sparrow before your departure.”
Osyrus disappeared up a stairwell in the back of the room that led to the upper workshops. Everyone else began to disperse, too. Before Castor could do the same, Garwin stopped him with an arm on his wrist.
“You’re Horellian, aren’t you?”
“Used to be.”
Garwin grunted. “This the way shit typically goes under Ward?”
“Pretty much.”
“Fuck.” Garwin shook his head. “I’m only here ’cause I’d be dead if I wasn’t. Why’re you?”
Castor shrugged. “’Cause they pay me.”
“Gold the only thing you care about?”
At the start of this, Castor had cared about watching the Balarian Empire burn. He’d helped the clock-toting bastards tear apart enough nations, he figured he owed it to the world to put them on the receiving end for once. Problem was, now that the line of Domitian emperors was broken and Actus Thorn was dead, the thing that had risen under Osyrus Ward wasn’t any better. Any sane man could see that it was worse.
So, Castor had decided to stop caring. He’d do his work, collect his coin, and once he had enough of it, he’d buy a little island for himself and never work another day in his life.
But he wasn’t going to waste breath telling any of that to Garwin. Poor bastard was a dead man.
So Castor just smiled. Slapped him on the shoulder.
“Good luck on your journey, Count.”
10
VERA
Castle Malgrave, Level 40
“Vera, please reconsider this,” Decimar said, following her down the winding stairwell of the King’s Tower. “If we go into that sector of the jungle, we’re all gonna get turned to dragon shit.”
“Relax, Decimar. We’re not taking the Sparrow to the Dainwood. And we’re definitely not going to sector thirteen.”
“Oh. Uh, where are we going then?”
“Pargos.”
“Again? Why?”
Vera gave him a look. “Just get your men ready. I know what I’m doing.”
“Right. On it.” They reached a landing and stopped. “Where are you going to be?”
“I need to get ready.”
“Any chance a bath is included in your preparations?” Decimar said. “Because, meaning no offense, you’re getting kinda ripe again.”
“No time,” Vera said, already heading toward the next stairwell down.
“It really doesn’t take that long!” Decimar called after her.
She ignored him.
* * *
First, Vera went down to the castle armory, where she refilled the pouch of shot for her sling from Ward’s stockpile. She didn’t like admitting it, but the machines he used to produce the shots created perfect orbs that flew far straighter and farther than anything she could carve by hand.
She also used a spare sharpening stone to freshen both of her daggers and Bershad’s old sword. None of the blades really needed the work, but Vera didn’t feel right leaving Floodhaven without going through the routine.
When that was done, she went to the kitchens, where she found a dozen fresh loaves of bread cooling by the window, and some kind of meat stew bubbling over a stove. She tore one of the loaves apart and started dipping the wedges into the stew, eating directly over the pot as quickly as possible.
A cook walked into the room.
“Hey, what do you think you’re—”
He stopped talking when he saw who the kitchen intruder was.
“Uh. Sorry, mistress.” He paused. Bowed his head. “Um, do you want butter or anything to go with that?”
Vera swallowed her last bite of food. “No. Just get me a canteen of fresh water and a clean cloth.”
After the cook delivered those items, Vera went back to see Kira.
The giant acolyte had resumed his imposing protection of the dome, which was currently bathed in the golden light of low evening that streamed in through the tall, narrow windows. The acolyte was so large that the entire door to the dome was blocked by his torso and meaty thighs. When she approached, his attention focused, and his hands formed massive fists, ready for violence. Vera had a momentary image of how easily those hands—which were the size of cook pots—could tear her apart.
All the same, she moved farther into the room, stopping in a beam of light.
“Let me through,” she said.
“Area restricted,” he rasped. “Offer identity.”
“Vera.”
The acolyte’s head cocked. He sniffed the air curiously, as if he could recognize her by scent and voice alone. Given all the things that Osyrus Ward had managed, that didn’t seem impossible.
“Identity confirmed.”
The acolyte moved out of the way, extending a welcoming arm toward the door like a butler or servant. Vera found the gesture both out of place and oddly disturbing. Like watching a wolf use a fork and knife.
“You may proceed, Vera Kilara-Sun.”
Vera had to walk through the acolyte’s enormous shadow to reach the dome. He smelled like burnt hair and moldy hay. The sound of his ragged breathing made her neck hairs tingle.
She released a low sigh of relief when she’d sealed the door again from the far side.
Kira’s eyes were closed. Her breathing artificial and steady. All around her, the machines whirred and hummed as if there were a thousand beehives embedded behind the metal and glass and rubber tubes. Vera knelt by her side. For a few moments, she couldn’t bring herself to do anything more than hold her hand. Eventually, she pulled the cloth she’d gotten from the kitchen from behind her breastplate, and uncorked the canteen. She dampened the cloth and carefully cleaned up Kira’s face—wiping away the sleep and gunk from her eyes.
Vera knew the act was useless and selfish. But she did it anyway. And when Kira’s face was clean and looking like some semblance of her old self, Vera felt guilty for feeling better.
“When I come back, I’ll have a way to get you out of here, Ki. I promise.”
Vera stayed with her for two hours, marking the seconds by her wrist bracer, and silently willing them to pass slower.
Then she headed to the skyship platform.
* * *
The Blue Sparrow was fully prepped. Levitation sack filled. The sides of the ship’s hull were decked out with tight netting that could hold the extra food and the engines were humming in a low idle. Good. Vera wanted to be in the sky before Osyrus Ward had a chance to think more about why she’d been so eager to take on such a dangerous task.
The Madman’s mind never stopped working.
Decimar saw her from the deck. Waved to her, then climbed down. But when he reached her, his face was stricken with alarm instead of the excitement she usually saw in him before a flight.
“We have a problem,” he said.
“Everything seems to be in order with the Sparrow.”
“Not with the ship. Osyrus Ward has added some passengers.”
Vera turned back to the deck. Along with the bowmen she recognized, she now saw a slew of unfamiliar faces. Some of them were wearing the standard skymen uniforms and helping out with the ship.
The rest were wearing Ghalamarian armor.
“How many?” she asked.
“Two score of my best men,” came a gruff and familiar voice from behind her.
Count Garwin. He was decked out in a full suit of armor, too. A lord’s plume running down from the top of his helmet.
“Seems the Madman doesn’t trust you to make this jaunt on your own,” he said. “I’ve got orders to gut you like a fish if this skyship goes even a fraction of a degree off course.”
Vera’s stomach tightened. Apparently, she hadn’t managed to get ahead of Osyrus Ward’s machinations after all. But she couldn’t solve that problem on the skyship platform.
“Very well, Count.” She motioned to the Sparrow. “Welcome aboard.”
Garwin tromped toward the ship, heavy footfalls echoing loud against the metal platform.
“What are we going to do now?” Decimar whispered when he was out of earshot.
“Improvise,” Vera said. “But we’ll do it from the air.”
“Aye. We’ll be…” Decimar trailed off. Looked over Vera’s shoulder. “Perfect. This is all we need.”
Vera turned around to find Garret walking toward them. The noose was on his hip and a traveler’s pack was slung over one shoulder.
“Ward ordered you to go with us, too?” Vera asked when he reached them.
“I volunteered.”
“Why? Dropping a skyship into a dragon-infested jungle to recover some lost food doesn’t offer a lot of opportunities for clean work.”
Garret glanced at the skyship, then back at her. “I disagree.”
11
BERSHAD
Dainwood Jungle
Bershad, Goll, and Felgor separated from the main army to get the donkeys.
When they’d landed on the western shore of Almira last winter, Vash was one of the only warriors from Ghost Moth Island who didn’t join the war. Goll had given him a lot of shit, but Bershad understood. After what they’d been through, Vash wanted to protect his son at all costs. These days, the only way to do that was to get lost in the Gloom.
Bershad picked up the familiar scent of the beasts an hour before they reached Vash and Wendell’s home. The smell reminded him of Alfonso and Rowan. Made his throat ache.
The Nomad—who’d returned to him a day before they had reached Dampmire—caught the scent, too. She flew ahead. Started circling.
“Leave those donkeys alone,” Bershad warned. “They’re not for eating. And you’re gonna scare the shit out of them if you drop any lower.”
The Nomad gave an irritated yank on their connection. She was always a little twitchy after Bershad got an injection. But she leveled off.
“You know that it makes you seem pretty crazy when you talk to Smokey like that, right?” said Felgor.
“Better than letting her eat all the donkeys,” Bershad muttered. “And stop calling her Smokey.”
“Put forth a different option and I’ll consider it.”
Bershad thought of Alfonso again. And again, his throat tightened.
“She doesn’t need a name.”
“The key is to pick one that suits her. What does she like to eat?”
“Boar. But it gives her the shits.”
“Hm. Yeah, that’s no good. Anything else?”
Bershad sighed. “I gave her a tuna once, way back. She liked that.”
“Tuna … hm.” Felgor paused. “Tuna the Enormous Gray Dragon. Tuna the Terror. That’s not bad.”
“I’m not calling her Tuna.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s stupid. And she doesn’t need a name.”
* * *
When they reached the farm—which was nestled into a shallow valley with good cover from the canopy—Wendell was in the pens, feeding the donkeys carrots. Vash was sitting on the porch with a sword across his lap, smoking a pipe.
Goll walked up first. Pulled his axe off his back. “Came here to rob you, I’m afraid. We’ll be needing all your valuables in a right hurry, or I’ve got to take your head.”
Vash took a pull from his pipe. Blew the smoke out of his nose. “You want it, come and get it.”
The two men broke into smiles. Then came over and embraced each ot
her—slapping each other on the back and laughing.
“It’s good to see you, my friend,” Vash said. “Glad the war hasn’t killed you yet.”
“Uncle Goll! Flawless!” Wendell shouted, dropping his pail of carrots and running toward the fence. Behind him, the donkeys swarmed the spilled treat. “You’re back! Have we won the war?”
“Not quite,” said Bershad. “But we have news.”
Vash nodded. “Come on in. I’ll get you fed while you tell me.”
When Bershad had finished explaining what had happened, and why they needed the donkeys, Vash sat for a few moments smoking his pipe. Eventually, he placed it on the table and cleared his throat.
“You’re all fucking crazy, you know that, right?”
Goll shrugged. “Between sneaking into Blackjack territory and crossing through the alchemist’s territory back on Ghost Moth, I’d say it’s a toss-up in terms of insanity.”
“There was a reason to do that, though,” said Vash, glancing over at Wendell.
“There’s a reason to do this, too,” said Bershad. “We can’t fight a war without food.”
“Yeah. Well, not like I owned the donkeys to begin with. Just been looking after ’em for Kerrigan. So, if you want ’em, take ’em.” He paused. “Where is she, by the way?”
“Uh, she had other business to work out.”
Vash nodded. “Still raw about the whole loss of her island thing, is it?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I come with you?” Wendell asked. “I know all the donkeys’ names, and some of them are stubborn bastards who only listen to me. I can help.”
“Best way you can help is by staying here and staying safe,” said Bershad. “I’ll look after them, I promise.”
Wendell sighed. “Fine. At least let me show you the biggest assholes before you go.”
Bershad nodded. “Sure, kid. That’d be helpful. How about you point them out to Goll and Felgor?”
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