The Clockill and the Thief

by Gareth Ward

  “It’s fine, Stanley’s covering.” Zonda pushed him back down to the mattress.

  “You promised not to tell.” Events were spiralling out of control. His blue blood was supposed to be a secret, his injections doubly so. It was almost a relief that Zonda now knew; he hadn’t liked keeping it from her. However, the Fixer always said, If one person knows your secret, it ain’t secret. Sin trusted Stanley, only his friend had a mouth on him and might let something slip by accident. Then there was the problem of Jasper, who Sin was almost sure suspected the truth. Why hadn’t Jasper told anyone? What was he waiting for?

  Zonda pulled the blanket back over Sin’s shoulders. “Stanley’s still in the dark. I said you were helping me with something.”

  “Yee-ahh!” Cramps ripped through Sin’s abdomen. He drew his knees to his chest, his movement restricted by the blanket. The prickling pins and needles spread throughout his body and the cramps grew more intense. Through gritted teeth he said, “I need you to get something for me. And you need to keep this very secret.”

  The cramps had lessened by the time Zonda returned. They went in cycles and Sin knew they could resume at any minute. He took the syringe from Zonda, his hands trembling. “Did you have any problems?”

  “Easy cheesy. I got Lottie to lure Stanley away.”

  Tapping the glass, Sin nudged the plunger, bringing a droplet of sapphire liquid to the needle’s point. “You may want to look away.” He pressed the needle into a vein.

  “Don’t be a sillies. This is fascinating.” Zonda leaned closer.

  Sin depressed the plunger and finally, warmth spread throughout his body. He closed his eyes and mumbled, “Zon, will you go to the ball with me?”

  “I’ve already been invited by Jasper.”

  Sin’s eyes sprang open. He lifted his head, struggling to focus. “I sort of assumed it would be me and you.”

  “I’ve not accepted, yet.” Zonda’s mouth narrowed. “It doesn’t always pay to take things for granted. I need to consider my options.”

  “It has to be you. You’re my best friend, Zon.”

  She frowned. “I’ll make my final decision when we get back to the palace.”

  That was more than a week away. Sin’s head dropped back onto the pillow. His eyes closed, and the injection’s numbing effects rolled over him. “Suppose I could always go with Velvet,” he murmured sleepily.

  Tethered with landing harpoons, the Swordfish swayed in the breeze that swirled patterns across the wildflower meadow’s grass. It was early afternoon on the fifth of November and the galley hummed with excitement. Requests to “go ashore” – the terminology Hawk used for leaving the airship – had been denied, and so instead of returning to their rooms in the palace, the candidates hung about the Swordfish. Speculation was rife on whether they would be permitted to partake in the evening’s celebrations, and Stanley had started to take bets on the possibility. The palace’s fireworks displays were legendary; even living on the streets of Coxford Sin had heard tell of them. Ever since Nimrod had gifted the palace to COG it had ceased to receive visitors, but Guy Fawkes Night was the one exception, when the grounds were opened to the public for the purpose of the display.

  Sin sat on the middle of a bench, wedged between Zonda and Mercy. “It’s so exciterooney.” Zonda clapped her hands together. “Apparently, no one’s seen Nimrod for weeks. He must be doing something super-spectaculiferous for this year’s display.”

  “I used to climb to the top of Magdalen College Bell Tower and watch from there,” said Stanley. “Even though it was miles and miles away it looked wonderful. Up close it’s going to be benjo-epic.”

  “Closest I ever got to seeing fireworks was the Fixer fronting up the Banbury Boys when they tried to muscle in on his turf.” A grin spread across Sin’s face at the memory. The Fixer had marched towards the angry mob with a Roman candle cannon in each hand, shooting fireballs into their masses. Sin nodded to himself. “There were some oohs and ahhs that night, I can tell you.”

  A dazzling flash followed by a thunderous boom filled the galley. A column of orange smoke swirled like a whirlwind in the centre of the room. The smoke drifted downwards, spreading across the floor, and Noir became visible, his face covered by a malevolent mask in the form of a hideous effigy of Guy Fawkes. He placed his hands in front of the mask, paused, then whisked them away. The mask had vanished. The curl of a smile on his lips was perhaps supposed to be friendly but somehow it conspired to be more disturbing than the Fawkes mask. “Because of your hard work over the last two weeks, Captain Hawk has granted you shore-leave, so you can watch tonight’s display from the lake.”

  Spontaneous applause rippled through the candidates.

  “The East Wing should take especial delight in knowing that the hundreds of iron spikes they hammered into the lakeside are the launching posts for Nimrod’s most spectacular rockets yet.”

  “That’s how she rides,” shouted Stanley, accompanied by the cheers of the East Wingers.

  Sin looked on, detached from the excitement. In his experience, whenever Noir was involved, there was always a catch; a price to be paid.

  Noir held up his hand and the candidates quietened. Removing his top hat, he spun it in his fingers then reached inside. From the apparently empty interior he produced a fan of paper slips and a bundle of pencils. “Alas, two candidates must stay behind to ensure the safety of the Swordfish, so we will be holding an unlucky dip.”

  The pencils and paper were distributed among the candidates and they each wrote their name on a slip. Noir’s top hat was passed along the galley tables, and the folded papers deposited into it. The magician retrieved the hat and an expectant hush fell over the room. Noir reached inside and fossicked about. With a performer’s flourish he withdrew his hand, a slip clutched between thumb and forefinger. “And the first candidate staying behind is . . .” Noir slowly unfolded the paper. The candidates waited in tense silence. Sin sat back, resigned to his fate, already knowing whose name it would be.

  Noir’s thin blue lips again twisted into a smile. “COG Sin,” he announced, showing the paper for all to see. Sin met Noir’s cool gaze. It was a fix, of course. Noir clicked his fingers and the paper burst into flames, all evidence of foul play turning to ash. Noir selected a second piece of paper. “And the candidate joining COG Sin this evening is . . .”

  Sin looked to the ceiling. Anyone but Jasper. Anyone but Jasper or . . .

  “COG Von Darque,” rasped Noir.

  Or her. Sin gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. Zonda’s eyes narrowed, and she scowled across the room at Velvet. The West Winger returned her glare in spades.

  A brilliant pink flower burst into life, colouring the sky behind the palace with its expanding blooms before twinkling to nothing. Sin leaned on the rail of the gangplank that led up into the belly of the Swordfish. He stared across the meadow, trying to take in what little of the display he could see. He and Velvet should have been allowed to go with the others. It wasn’t as if the Swordfish even needed guarding. You couldn’t get a safer mooring than the headquarters of COG, the estate being surrounded by high, spiked walls and patrolled by watchmek. There wasn’t any danger. Well, not unless Noir knew something they didn’t.

  Velvet slouched next to him. “This isn’t fair,” she said, kicking the gangplank with the toe of her rigair boot.

  “Noir doesn’t do fair,” said Sin.

  “Why did it have to be me?” she lamented.

  “I’m sure Noir had his reasons for choosing us.” Sin let go of the brassanium rail and straightened. “Even if it’s only because he’s wicked.”

  Velvet turned her head sharply to look at Sin. “You think it wasn’t bad luck. You think Noir fixed it.”

  “I know Noir fixed it.”

  “You can’t be sure.” Velvet’s eyes narrowed.

  “I can.” Sin tapped his fingers on the rail. “I didn’t write my name on the slip of paper I put into the hat. I wrote Jasper
’s.”

  “You little cheat.” Velvet flicked her hair and the smell of lavender wafted over Sin. She sounded annoyed but she smiled at him.

  “Didn’t do me no good though,” he said.

  Velvet edged closer. “Oh, I don’t know. You get to be graced with my presence,” she said pleasantly.

  Her face was lit by an explosion of golden starbursts and Sin tried to read her expression. Was she genuine? Did she really want to spend some time with him? She certainly hadn’t seemed friendly when she’d made him shovel coal in the bunker.

  A barrage of rockets screamed across the sky, trailing sparkling red stars that dimly illuminated the wildflower meadow. A figure strode across the grassy expanse. Sin tensed. Something about the figure’s gait and flapping coat unsettled him. “We’re not expecting visitors, are we?”

  Velvet pulled away from Sin, perhaps sharing his unease. “No. Everyone’s supposed to be at the fireworks.”

  The figure drew nearer. Below a bowler hat leered a grinning Guy Fawkes mask. Sin backed up the gangplank and spun a brassanium wheel. The airship’s envelope shimmered, casting an elliptical glow across the ground. Illuminated by the chemical glare, the sight of the figure’s scarlet coat sent a shiver through Sin’s body. There was no way it could be him. He was dead.

  Velvet moved to the bottom of the gangplank, her hand resting on the hilt of her cutlass. “Halt! Who goes there?” she said, issuing the challenge they’d been taught for sentry duty.

  The figure stopped as commanded, now only a matter of yards away. He reached up and pulled off his mask. “I’m rather disappointed you didn’t recognise me,” said Eldritch.

  Drawing his cutlass, Sin rushed to Velvet’s side. “You’re dead. We shot you.”

  “You shot him?” queried Velvet.

  “You certainly shot me,” confirmed Eldritch, rubbing the small red scab on the centre of his forehead. “Let me pass on some advice that my Master Sergeant gave to me at the battle of Typhoo Valley. Never shoot a large-calibre man with a small-calibre round.” Eldritch pulled his coat to one side and drew his rapier. “You may not live to regret it.”

  Sin lunged. Velvet grabbed the D-ring on the back of his flight suit, stopping his advance. “We need to go.”

  Twenty more masked figures marched into the ring of light surrounding the Swordfish. Cutlasses hung from the belts of their scarlet leather flight suits, and on their hips, black leather holsters housed shiny steampistols.

  “You’re not going anywhere.” Eldritch brandished his rapier, herding Sin and Velvet back up the gangplank. “I have new orders. There’s someone who’s dying to meet you, COG Sin.”

  Velvet grabbed Sin’s hand as they retreated.

  Eldritch sneered. “How very touching. And how fitting COG Von Darque should be left on sentry duty with you. We have some unfinished business and this time, alas, there will be no Fixer to intervene.”

  Sin took another step backwards and felt the wooden flooring of the cargo bay beneath his feet. Velvet let go of his hand. “Now,” he shouted, and they fled in opposite directions along the boarding passageway.

  “You’re trapped. My crew will find you.” Eldritch’s voice trailed after Sin, but there were no pursuing footsteps.

  Sin shouldered through a door leading to an access ladder and hurried upwards. He ignored the noisy clatter of his rigair boots on the rungs. For now, speed was more important than stealth. He needed to rendezvous with Velvet in the B Deck heads. His Morse code still wasn’t the best, but he was sure that was the message Velvet had conveyed with the series of long and short squeezes she’d given his hand.

  Ducking through the door into the heads, Sin checked the cubicles. They were empty. He lowered a seat cover and rested his legs. How was Eldritch not dead? It couldn’t be coincidence that Noir had chosen him and Velvet to be on guard duty. The magician must have known about Eldritch’s plan to steal the Swordfish. Had Noir used Sin as additional bait, knowing Eldritch still wanted him, or did he believe they’d be the most likely to survive the encounter? Velvet’s mother, Lilith, had conspired with Noir before; maybe Noir was again volunteering the Baroness’s daughter for the good of COG.

  The door to the heads eased open. Sin rose quietly to his feet and grasped his cutlass.

  Velvet stepped inside, and Sin relaxed. “What now?” he whispered.

  “We need to escape before they get airborne. They’re going to have the gangplank covered so we’ll have to find another way.”

  “We could get some buoyancy aids and jump from the orbital catwalk?” Sin suggested.

  “If they’re prepping for take-off, the bridge and the boiler room will be humming with pirates. There’s no way we’ll be able to sneak into the safety lockers.”

  Sin fingered the metal D-ring on his flight suit. “I’ve got another idea, but you’re not going to like it.”

  Velvet met his gaze, a flicker of fear in her eyes. “At this point I’ll take anything.”

  Velvet and Sin stole along the starboard corridor, the shouts and running footsteps of pirates preparing for lift-off echoing around them. Sin’s breathing quickened, and the faintest tingling prickled his palms. So far they’d managed to dodge the crew, who seemed more concerned with getting airborne than finding the stowaways, but their luck couldn’t hold forever. They’d nearly reached the end of the passageway when a figure carrying a silver tea service rounded the corner. Sin froze. It was Mr Clark from the palace. What in Hades was he doing aboard the Swordfish? Had someone sent him to deliver tea and cakes to them, unaware of the pirates’ attack?

  “Good evening, sir. Good evening, Ms Von Darque,” said Mr Clark, continuing towards them. “I’ve brought a little light refreshment.”

  “Mr Clark, what are you doing here? It’s not safe,” said Sin.

  “I know, sir.” Clark stepped closer and hurled the tray at them.

  Sin ducked, and the scalding hot teapot flew past his head. Making use of the distraction, Clark pulled a knife from his belt. Sin grabbed the servant’s wrist and pushed him against the bulkhead, forcing the blade down. Years of hard service had given Clark a wiry strength and, battling Sin, he slowly raised the knife. The strength drained from Sin’s muscles, sapped by the growing pain of pins and needles. The knifepoint pricked his skin below his Adam’s apple. Sin sensed a movement behind him, then Velvet held the silver teapot’s pointed spout against Clark’s eyeball. “Drop the knife.”

  The weapon clattered to the floor. “Bloody gentry,” Mr Clark snarled, no longer bothering to maintain his clipped servant’s intonation. “You should’ve all drowned in the fish.”

  Sin retrieved the blade, a sickening feeling in his stomach. “It was you who sabotaged it?”

  “Aye. Unfortunately not well enough,” spat Clark. “Don’t matter now. Eldritch will do for you.”

  Velvet slammed the side of the teapot into Clark’s head and he crumpled unconscious to the deck. “See? You give the staff an inch and they take a country mile.” Without pause, she dropped the dented teapot onto the servant’s chest.

  “Thanks for stopping him.” Sin’s hand went to his throat, and a trickle of blood warmed his fingers. He hoped Velvet was too distracted to notice the colour, now more purple than red.

  They hurried into the next passageway, at the end of which stood the access door to the orbital catwalk. Angry shouts rang out behind them, Clark’s misfortune obviously having been discovered. The litanium door swung inwards and their footsteps faltered. A scarlet-suited pirate stepped into the passageway, a sizeable monkey wrench in his hand. The pirate’s left eyelid drooped, the result of a cruel scar that slashed diagonally across his face. “Captain wants you alive for when we get to the Rock.” His gaze flicked from Sin to Velvet. “I says it’s bad luck to have a lady aboard.”

  Velvet’s arm struck out. With fingers straight as an iron bar she stabbed the pirate in the throat. A strangled gasp escaped the thug’s mouth and he dropped to his knees. Velvet’s rigair boot
slammed into his jaw and he collapsed to the deck. “Fortunately, I’m no lady.” Velvet bent and took two pistols from the pirate’s holsters. She handed the smaller of the weapons to Sin. “It’s only a Very pistol, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Shoving the shiny brass flare gun under his belt, Sin stepped through the bulkhead door, onto the orbital catwalk. Earlier, standing guard on the gangplank, the night had felt calm; now, thirty yards up, the breeze swirled and eddied. Sin hurried towards one of the hawsers tethering the airship. The steel cable ran taut from a harpoon in the ground up to a hawse-hole overhead, where it disappeared into the airship. When Sin had devised his escape plan, he’d pictured the cable running at a gentle angle. Up close, he realised it was much steeper, not far from vertical. He grabbed hold of the hawser. “Hook a line and jump.”

  “That’s your plan?” said Velvet with an air of incredulity. “A quite literal death slide?”

  “You can always stay here and keep the pirates entertained. Your choice.”

  Velvet shot him a withering look and clambered onto the guard rail. She pulled the carabiner free of the brassanium safety reel attached to her flight suit’s harness. Line paid out behind her as she clipped it onto the hawser.

  “Use your boots to brake and it’ll be cushdie,” said Sin.

  Velvet met Sin’s gaze, her ice-blue eyes a mixture of fear and something else. “I hate you,” she said, although her words sounded hollow.

  “I know.” Sin patted her reassuringly on the back, then shoved her off the rail. Velvet plummeted for the first ten feet. She didn’t scream – Sin knew she wouldn’t. Kicking her feet against the cable, she managed to wedge the hawser between her boots, and her descent slowed. Smoke spilled from the soles, then the rubber ignited, trailing flames behind her. With a fiery thud, she slammed into the top of the landing harpoon.

  “Leaving so soon?” said Eldritch from behind Sin.

  Drawing the Very pistol, Sin turned. The traitor stood on the catwalk, a thick, bladed cutlass in one hand, rapier in the other.