by Chris Paton
“We'll see,” said Hannah and lowered the telescope. “Let's see what we drag out of the water first.” Hannah folded the telescope and walked in the direction of the boats.
Luise turned to see the emissary as it cannoned into the protected waters of the docks. Spray from the geyser drifted on the breeze and she tasted salt on her lips. The girl stood up and gripped the controls as she ran back and forth along the dockside in front of Luise.
“What are you doing?”
“Hush,” said the girl. “It is only a matter of time before the sea gets inside the boiler and floods it. I need to walk Kettlepot to the ladder over there,” she said with a nod of her head toward the rungs of a ladder bolted into the dockside. “You can come with me and I can introduce you.”
“I would like that,” said Luise as she followed the girl along the docks.
Flecks of black charcoal and wet splinters of wood bubbled to the surface in a line from the point the emissary had splashed down, and all the way to the ladder. Luise hurried after the girl as the bronze fingers of the emissary's right hand gripped the lowest rung of the ladder and it pulled itself up, one rung at a time, climbing hand over hand until it could press its cloven feet into the rungs. Water gushed out of the boiler door in the globus tank, and squirted from the puncture wounds and joints in the emissary's amour.
“There you are, Kettlepot,” said the girl. “I was so worried. I thought I had lost you.” The girl let go of the controls and hugged the emissary's leg as it climbed onto the dock. Luise stood back and waited, a frown creased her brow. “You did well, Kettlepot. And now we will have to get you cleaned up, oiled, and back in business.”
Luise stared at the dents and rifts in the emissary's armour and wondered just how long that would take. The emissary turned its head and the glow of the lodestone eye flashed for a moment before it dimmed and the emissary sank to a dormant position.
“The furnace is flooded,” the girl said and removed the control box and the harness. She reached up to open the furnace door and let the seawater drain out of it. She fumbled in her pockets for kindling and the means to make a small fire once the furnace was drained of water.
“Tell me something,” said Luise as she walked around the emissary. “How much did you control Kettlepot?”
“What do you mean?” the girl said and tilted her head to look at Luise.
“I think you know exactly what I mean. You sang when the emissary was fighting on the airship. You didn't even touch the levers on the control box.”
“There was no point. I couldn't see what was happening.”
“But you knew it would be fighting.”
“Yes.”
Luise paused for a moment to study the girl, the smudges on her cheeks and her hair, hacked into a simple fashion, probably with shears from the workshop.
“The other emissary was used like a cannonball.”
“Yep. That's a shame. He was just emerging.”
“Emerging?” Luise remembered the wink she thought the emissary had given her.
“Yep,” the girl said and frowned. “You're a maker, aren't you?”
“Part maker, part scientist, yes.”
“And you've never heard of Şteamƙin?”
“No,” said Luise, “I have not. Perhaps you had better tell me all about it, Miss...?”
“Ardelean. Emilia Ardelean.”
Chapter 5
The Hindu Kush
Afghanistan
July, 1851
The wooden cart creaked beneath the weight of its passengers as the caravaneer drove the two donkeys forward with a swish of a thin switch upon their hindquarters. The trail was rough and dusty in the heat of the Afghan summer. The peaks of the distant mountains of the Hindu Kush sparkled with fresh snow, but there was no relief for Hari and his travelling companions. He sat with his back against one side of the cart and smiled at Jamie as the young man, djinn-scarred as he was, struggled to make conversation with the beautiful woman sitting beside him. Hari banged the back of his head against the cart as the caravaneer led them across yet another stony section of the path. He rubbed his head and continued to observe the romantic tragedy unfolding before him.
“I have not always been this way,” Jamie said as Najma fiddled with the Lightning Jezail in her lap.
“I know. Do you not remember? I was with the Russian when he captured you?”
“Bryullov. Yes, of course. But he knocked me out rather soon after I saw you.”
“Yes,” Najma said and nodded. “I helped him drag your body onto the back of the horse. You were fatter than you are now,” she said and lowered her eyes quickly.
“Truly, British, you were fatter then,” Hari said and smiled at Najma’s blunt English.
“The Shah has kept me weak for too long. If I was as strong as I was in the beginning, we could fly to Russia.”
“Shh,” said Hari as the caravaneer's ears twitched. “Not so loud. But a good idea all the same. We must find more for you to eat.”
The cart jolted to a stop and the caravaneer put down his switch to check the hooves of both animals. Hari stepped down from the cart to stretch his legs. In the near distance, less than a mile from the path, the first buildings of the next village stood proud between the brown boulders and straw-coloured brush dominating the landscape. Hari walked to the head of the cart and pointed at the village.
“What is this place?” he asked the caravaneer.
“Sast.”
“Is it prosperous?”
The caravaneer shrugged and gestured at the land surrounding the village.
“You don't do any trade here?”
“I do not travel this path, unless for money,” he said.
A low wail rose from behind the walls of the compound closest to them. Jamie lifted his head as Najma cradled her Jezail and leaped onto the path. Jamie followed.
“What is it?” said Najma as she joined Hari where he stood a few feet in front of the donkeys.
“It is nothing,” the caravaneer said. “Ignore it.”
“Ignore what?” said Najma. “Clearly, it is not nothing.”
“You would do well to pretend not to hear such sounds as we pass the village. That place,” the man said and spat, “is cursed.”
“Cursed?” said Jamie. He leaned against the cart. “How cursed?”
The caravaneer paused as he studied Jamie. He reached for his switch and gripped it in one hand. “They say there is a djinni trapped in the village. It has been there for many years. Perhaps centuries.”
The caravaneer started as Jamie pushed himself off the cart and strode down the path toward the village.
“British? Wait.”
“Should we go with him, Nightjar?”
“I will not wait if you go to the village,” said the caravaneer. “I would not be cursed, not for all the money in the world.”
“Coward,” said Najma and spat on the ground. She slung the Jezail across her shoulder and hurried to catch up with Jamie.
“And you, Nightjar? Will you go with them?”
“I am thinking?” said Hari. “Do many people live in the village?”
“Some, yes.”
“Then there must be food. There,” Hari said and pointed. “I see a goat.”
“Yes?”
“Then perhaps we will fly after all.” Hari turned to shake the caravaneer's hand. “Thank you. Here is the rest of your money.”
“But we have not reached the mountains,” said the caravaneer and nodded towards the snowy peaks beyond the village.
“Take it, and go back to your family. We no longer require your service.”
“You are sure?”
“Truly,” said Hari as he retrieved two sling packs from the cart. He waved to the caravaneer and set off down the path to the village. He found Jamie and Najma waiting by the side of a compound of packed-earth at the corner of a large dusty square. In the middle of the square was the unmistakeable raised wall of a round djinn pit, piled high
with so much rubble and timber that the lid was hidden from view. The low wail of the djinni inside pierced the cracks in the pit wall. Jamie clenched his fists and took a step toward the pit.
“Take care, British. Look at the lid of the pit.”
“I cannot see the lid.”
“Truly, that is my point.”
Najma lifted the Jezail from her shoulder and pressed a copper-infused ball into the barrel. She removed the ramrod and tamped the shot all the way before winding the charging handle at the base of the stock.
“What?” she said and frowned at Hari.
“Is that the same Jezail you used when you shot me?”
“Yes,” Najma said and nodded. “It is a good weapon. Very accurate.”
“I hope so.” Hari took a step forward. He stopped and scanned the low buildings on the opposite side of the square. “Look out for the villagers. I am sure they do not want us to free the djinni.”
“I am sure of it. I do not want us to release it.”
“Truly,” Hari said and took a step toward Jamie.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Watch my back.” Hari continued walking toward the pit. He unbuttoned his shirt as he walked.
“And Jamie? Should I watch his back too?”
“No,” Hari said with a wave. “Leave him to me.”
The dust around the pit billowed in small clouds and puffs as Jamie removed one piece of timber after another, tossing them onto the dirt. Hari walked around the pit to stand opposite Jamie as the young man started on the boulders. The wailing from the pit stopped and was replaced with a nervous whisper, interjected with a cackle that raised the hair on the back of Hari's neck.
“What are your intentions, British?”
“To release the djinni,” Jamie said and grunted as he cast another small boulder to one side. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm and looked at Hari. “You could help, you know.”
“I don't think so.”
“Why not?” Jamie pushed a large rock onto the ground. He scowled at a group of people creeping out of the compound behind Hari. “They should be ashamed of themselves. Look,” he said and nodded at the villagers as they gathered in small group.
Hari twisted to see the villagers, several of them armed with clubs and muskets, as they moved as one in a slow circle around Hari and Jamie.
“They will not let you take off the lid,” Hari said as he turned to keep one eye on the villagers.
“You think they will try to stop me?”
“I know they will.”
“Let them,” said Jamie as he removed the last stone from the lid of the djinn pit.
The whisper from within the pit ricocheted in a spiral as the djinni within pressed gusts of stale air through the cracks in the lid. Hari imagined the djinni spinning to the bottom of the pit and back again in mad excitement.
“It's all right, Hari,” Jamie said with a smile. “The one that opens the pit commands the djinni. You know that.”
“And that,” Hari said with a glance at the villagers as they gripped the clubs and fingered the muskets in their hands, “is why I must command you to stop.”
“Why?” Jamie frowned. “Do you not hear the djinni within?”
“I do.”
“And how long do you think it has been trapped in there?”
“Long enough to turn mad,” Hari said and pressed his fingers into the shirt covering his chest. “You can hear it, can you not, British? It is mad.”
“That could have been me,” Jamie said and stabbed his fingers on the lid. The stone chipped beneath his fingertips. Hari noticed they had turned blue with a tinge of orange.
Hari opened his shirt and pressed the fingertips of his left hand on the spirals of his anti-djinn tattoo. A pulse of purple light spiralled around the tattoo and settled into a ball, cupped within Hari's palm. Jamie pointed orange fingers at Hari's chest and laughed.
“What are you going to do, Hari Singh?” he said. Jamie's voice deepened as the orange glow spread from his fingers beyond his wrist and along his arm all the way to his elbow. “Would you try and stop me, little man?”
“If I must,” Hari said and raised his left hand and prepared to hurl the ball of purple energy at Jamie. “I would rather not, British. I did not come all this way to fight you. I need you. Your sister needs you.”
“Hah,” Jamie said. He roared as the orange glow from his right arm flashed across his chest and flushed his entire body with djinn flame. “Djinn have no family, or have you forgotten that?”
“No, I have not,” Hari said and drew back his arm. “But you have,” he said and hurled the purple missile in a straight arc toward Jamie's chest.
Jamie's legs dissolved into twists of orange smoke as he launched out of the path of Hari's attack. Now fully djinn, Jamie glared at Hari and swept down toward the lid of the djinn pit as it rattled beneath him. Hari pressed his fingers to his tattoo to gather another missile. He leaped onto the lid and hurled the missile at Jamie's chest. Jamie shuddered and faltered in the mountain air.
“What have you done to me?” he roared as thin tendrils of anti-djinn energy burrowed into his chest and arms. Jamie twisted above the pit.
“I am sorry, British, but I cannot let you remove the lid and release the djinni inside the pit. I cannot.” Hari paused as he caught a glimpse of Najma crawling along a roof with her Jezail trained on Jamie. The villagers remained at a discreet distance, their fingers on the musket triggers and the pans primed with powder. Hari rocked as the lid beneath his feet trembled. He frowned as the whispers within the pit multiplied as if there was more than one djinni inside. He pressed his hand to his chest and drew another ball of energy from his tattoo.
“No more, Hari,” Jamie said as he withered toward the ground. The orange smoke holding him aloft paled to blue before coiling into two human legs. Jamie landed on the dust and reached for his torn clothing. “I said no more, Hari. I am changed.”
“Unfortunately, British,” Hari said as the trembling lid threatened to cast him to the ground, “this is not for you.”
Chapter 6
Hamburg Dockyard
The German Confederation
July, 1851
The steamjammer listed to port as the small boats and skiffs from the Hamburg dockyard drew nearer the stricken vessel. Luise walked beside Emilia as more boats were launched. The emissary Emilia had named Kettlepot clanked by their sides, seawater dripping from its joints with each step. Those joints will need greasing, Luise thought as the emissary's knees creaked. It stopped a moment later as the last coals were extinguished. Emilia reached up and smoothed her palm on Kettlepot's brass belly, and Luise smiled at the obvious affection the girl had for the emissary.
The dull ring of boots on metal rungs echoed up from the water as Schleiermacher climbed the ladder and pulled himself onto the deck. He walked up to Luise, nodded and then turned his attention to Emilia.
“Is it extinguished?”
“Yes, Herr Schleiermacher.”
“Good,” he said and straightened his jacket. “I order you not to refuel it again. Do you understand, Miss Ardelean? Because last time, there was some confusion on your part.”
“I understand, Herr Schleiermacher,” Emilia said and dipped her head. She kept her eyes on the ground and her hair covered her face, but Luise was convinced a shadow of a smile played on the young girl's lips.
“I am curious,” she asked. “Why should Emilia refrain from refuelling this particular machine?”
“Because it is infected, Miss Hanover.”
“How so?”
“With Şteamƙin.”
“Ah, Emilia was just telling me about that.”
“I wouldn't spend too much time on the matter,” Schleiermacher said and pointed at the emissary. “Once a machine is infected, there is no controlling it. The Şteamƙin get in the pipes, and the machine is spoiled – you can't even use the parts.” He sighed. “There has been some research done on
it. A previous Wallendorf engineer called Karl Finsch was the first to really investigate Şteamƙin, or, as we like to call it, the Brass Blight. I can make his notes available to you, Miss Hanover, but I urge you not to spend too much time on it. As for you, Emilia,” Schleiermacher said and gestured at the edge of the dock. “Either walk that thing off the dock and onto the seabed, or I will have a mammoth walker push it off.”
“Yes, Herr Schleiermacher,” Emilia said. She lifted her head and brushed the hair from her face as Schleiermacher walked away in search of more men for the boats. The look in her eye reminded Luise of when she too had been thoroughly wrapped up in her work, in her laboratory in London, before it had been trashed by the Welshman, Blaidd. Khronoglyphs, she mused, were to Luise what Şteamƙin obviously were to Emilia, and perhaps the man Schleiermacher called Finsch. She would have to investigate. But for the moment, it looked very likely that she would first play the role of Emilia's accomplice, the look on the young girl's face was proof enough.
“I have a very dear friend called Hari Singh,” Luise said to Emilia. “Being with you and Kettlepot reminds me of him, and the fun we had together.” She wrapped her hand around one of the emissary's salty fingers. Rust, Luise noted, was already beginning to plague the coils of metal springs between the brass joints. “What do you say we get Kettlepot off the dock and out of sight?”
“Is that what your friend would do?” Emilia said.
“Yes, I know he would. And if we do that, together, then it might not make me so sad when I think of him, and wonder where he might be.”
“We can take him into the siding shed of the rail yard. There is a storeroom at one end where they keep all kinds of machines. They'll never find him there.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because that is where I hid him last time,” Emilia said with a grin. “We'll need more fuel to get him going. I'll go and find some if you will stay here with him?”
“Of course. I will guard him with my life.”
