by Frank Tuttle
“Which gives us thirteen days of contact with home,” Meralda estimated. “Possibly fourteen.”
In the Glass, the front page of the Times changed so that the headline read, “330 HOURS AND SEVEN MINUTES OF COMMUNICATION REMAINING!”
“Show-off,” muttered Mug.
“We’d better get back to our posts,” Kervis said. “Is there anything else, ma’am?”
“No. Thank you both. I’ll see you after the morning briefing.”
The Bellringers filed out, smiling.
“One look at that pair and the whole airship will know they’ve been up to something.” Mug swiveled all his eyes to face Meralda. “So. The Vonats have taken at least one swipe at us. Not counting whatever poisonous nasty they’ve hidden somewhere below decks.”
“That’s all gone,” Meralda said. “They dumped it all overboard, right before sunrise. Such a waste.” Meralda glanced back toward Goboy’s Glass. “Tower. Will the Glass allow you to observe the flying coils?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Please monitor their current consumption and radiator temperatures.”
“Aren’t they doing that on the bridge?” asked Mug.
“They are, but not as accurately as Tower can.”
“Correct,” replied the Tower. “I shall prepare the data in the form of a daily report for as long as I am able.”
“Thank you, Tower.” Meralda stood and began pacing.
“Yes, and remember to shoot down any more air pirates,” added Mug. “When you’re not too busy preparing reports, that is.”
The Glass shimmered and presented a normal reflection.
Meralda regarded herself in the mirror. Her hair was a wild tangle. Her dressing gown was inside-out, and a grey stocking clung to the left shoulder.
“Well, this voyage is off to a fine start.” Mug waved various fronds. “Vonat air-pirates. Mages engaged in smuggling. Provisions and rare art dumped into the Lamp River. We could be attacked again at any moment. What are you going to do about all that, Mistress?”
Meralda shrugged at her reflection and stood. “I’m going to bathe, dress, and have coffee,” she said.
“The stuff of epic legend,” Mug said. “But perhaps the murderous Vonats will be intimidated by your dedication to personal hygiene.”
Meralda draped her dressing gown over Mug’s cage and left him sputtering behind her.
* * *
Meralda wandered for a time, watching the sky grow brighter through the Intrepid’s many portholes. The view from the empty Grand Salon was especially lovely as the sea of clouds, their peaks just touched with crimson, rushed past below.
A man in a starched white galley apron poked his head inside the salon. “Pardon me, ma’am,” he said. “Just counting chairs. The view is better to the fore, by the way. Going to be a fine sunrise. Fifty-two.”
“Fifty-two what?” asked Meralda.
“Chairs,” said the man. “Missing one. Good day.”
He closed the door, leaving Meralda alone. Voices and footsteps sounded from outside the salon as the Intrepid began to waken. The Lord Mayor of Tirlin, surrounded by a retinue of bleary-eyed staffers, burst into the salon.
“I must be going,” announced Meralda, the second the Lord Mayor’s eyes fixed on her. “I’m in a terrible hurry.” She ducked through the door as he began to sputter demands for bigger quarters.
Outside the salon, the wide passageway led fore and aft. Meralda turned toward the airship’s bridge and hurried toward it, the Lord Mayor in pursuit.
* * *
“Chief Engineer on deck,” said the watch officer, as Meralda stepped through the doors onto the Intrepid’s bridge.
“Oh, my,” she said, halting suddenly.
The Intrepid’s wide glass bow was full of the sunrise. But it was not just any sunrise.
The risen sun, fat and orange and shrouded in a dazzling light, painted the endless bank of clouds beneath it with reds and oranges and yellows. The sky itself seemed to be composed of weary flames, frozen in place, cast in a scale that dwarfed all of creation.
The watch officer smiled. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “You never get used to seeing the sunrise, you know. No other sight quite like it.”
“You’re right,” Meralda agreed, her gaze still lost amid the golden, glowing peaks and crags of the clouds.
“It’s like someone spilled a bucket of autumn,” said the grinning elevator man, though his eyes never moved from his inclinometer.
“Aye, it’s pretty enough, but you know the old saying—red skies at night, airman’s delight. Red skies in morning, airman take warning,” said the young man poised by the rudder controls. He nodded at Meralda and smiled. “I’m rudder man first class Ingalls Innit,” he said. “Yon wight minding the bubble is Ben Salpeter.”
“Elevator operator Ben Salpeter,” corrected the other Air Corps officer. “You’ll have to forgive Mr. Innit,” he added. “He’s Eryan.”
“More work and less chatter,” said the watch officer. He rose and moved to stand beside Meralda. “Welcome, Chief Engineer Ovis. I’ve been hoping to meet you.” He extended his hand, and Meralda shook it. “The flying coils are performing perfectly.”
Meralda smiled, wishing she could remember his name.
The Intrepid’s deck dipped, ever so slightly, and the watch officer’s gaze turned to the elevator man.
“Already compensated, Officer Merton,” Salpeter said, as he made a minute adjustment to a polished brass lever. “We’ll see a bit of turbulence now that the sun is up, but nothing to worry about.”
The watch officer nodded. “These lads know their business.” He turned to face a man seated at a desk on the port side of the bridge. “Our position, Mr. Hay?”
The navigator consulted his charts and row of clocks and gauges briefly. “We are fifty miles from Ambervale station, sir. A hundred miles from the coast.”
“Current airspeed?”
“One hundred and eight miles per hour,” replied the navigator. “We made better than two hundred miles per hour out of Tirlin.” He swiveled to smile at Meralda. “Which makes us the fastest vehicle to ever take to the skies, Chief Engineer. It’s an honor to serve with you.”
The familiar buzzing of Mug’s tiny flying coils came from behind them. “It certainly is, and don’t you forget it,” Mug piped up, as he brought his flying cage to hover over Meralda’s right shoulder.
“Mug, meet your bridge crew,” Meralda said. “Everyone, this is Mug, who is not authorized to give orders, no matter what he might claim.”
“You wound me.” Mug flew his cage close to the curving glass tube at the elevator station. “What’s this?”
“The main inclinometer.” Salpeter blinked and grinned at the dandyleaf plant.
“And what is a main inclinometer?” Mug eyed the bubble with his mobile eyes.
“It indicates the pitch of the airship across her long axis,” the elevator man explained. “I watch the bubble there.” He pointed to the fist-sized air bubble that rode at the top of the curved tube. “During level flight, if the bubble moves aft, I raise our nose with these levers. If it moves to the fore, I lift our tail. If the Captain calls for descent or ascent, I adjust the elevators accordingly.”
Mug nodded and then flew about the station. “Doesn’t it get boring after a time?”
“I’m not the only elevator man aboard. We all work in shifts. Four hours watch, four hours rest, four hours standby.” He patted his instrument frame. “I wouldn’t care to be anywhere else, Sir, um, Mug.”
“Good man!” Mug bobbed over to the rudder man’s station, then the navigator’s desk, the gas master’s console, and finally the watch officer’s seat, demanding explanations at each stop. Finally, he brought his cage to hover near the Intrepid’s front glass. “Looks like we’ll see our first storm before the day is done. They’re going to get soaked taking on fresh provisions.” He turned half a dozen eyes toward Meralda and winked. “Not that certain people ha
ve any need of fresh provisions.”
Meralda glared.
“Well, gentlemen, it was wonderful meeting you.” Mug buzzed back toward the bulkhead behind Meralda. “I’d be much obliged if you’d keep that bubble level, Mr. Salpeter. Mistress, I’m due at a card game in the Grand Salon. Join me, if you wish.”
Mug buzzed away, humming the Air Corps marching song.
No sooner had the bridge hatch closed than it opened again to admit the King. He was bleary-eyed and his hair was mussed, but his lopsided grin returned at the sight of the sunrise.
“Just the Chief Engineer I was looking for,” he said, moving to stand beside Meralda. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I have a small task for you.”
“A small task,” replied Meralda, groaning inwardly. “And what might it be, Your Highness?”
“I need you to get a message through to the Air Corps outpost at Kenney. Tell them we’re two hundred miles out, and we’ll be docking later to take on provisions.”
Meralda frowned. “You said earlier we’d be stopping at the Ambervale station,” she said. “And if I recall, Kenney is a good four hundred miles south of Ambervale, which puts us nowhere near it.”
“Precisely,” said Yvin.
“You do realize the only communication gear we carried was left with the gifts in the Park,” Meralda said. “How am I to send a message to Kenney at all, even a false one?”
“You’ll think of something, Chief Engineer. Better hurry, though. Make it a little clumsy, won’t you? We don’t want to put our Vonats to undue effort now, do we?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Good. Ah, Mister Merton,” said the King, his voice booming suddenly. “Tell me all about this airship of ours.”
Meralda took one final brief glance at the golden-red clouds before slipping quietly off the bridge.
* * *
“Just send a wonder chicken ahead to Kenney,” Mug said. He flew his birdcage about Meralda’s tiny cabin in tight circles, barely avoiding walls and furniture with muffled cries of glee.
“The Vonats would never be able to intercept such a message,” Meralda said. “If there are indeed any Vonat sorcerers listening.”
“Oh, there are,” Mug said. “Why not tell the crows to be clumsy?”
“Remember the fire at the Docks?” asked Meralda. “Remember the giant smoke-woman?” She shook her head. “No. The staves will play no part in this.”
“Fine.” Mug brought his cage to a halt. “What will you do, then?”
Meralda sat at her desk and began to doodle. “Think like a Vonat,” she said. “How do airships normally communicate?”
“By telesonde,” Mug said. “But that’s limited to what, a couple of hundred miles?”
“At best.” Meralda frowned at her scribblings. “Any Vonat spy would know we wouldn’t just casually reveal our destination over the telesonde.”
“True,” Mug said. He swung his eyes about the dimly lit room. “So what have we got to work with? Your blouses, your skirts, your undermentionables?”
“Unmentionables,” corrected Meralda, who raised a finger in warning against Mug’s inevitable commentary. “But you have a point. I need items I simply don’t have.”
“Tim the Horsehead would just conjure whatever he needed from thin air,” Mug replied. “But times were different then. Magic filled the land, and unmentionables grew from every branch and bow.”
Meralda’s pencil stopped in mid-scribble. “Times,” she said. “Times. The Times.”
“If that’s a song you’re singing, I don’t know it,” Mug said.
“Do you recall the name of the penswift aboard? The one sent by the Tirlin Times?”
Mug regarded Meralda curiously with four of his blue eyes. “Primsbite, I think she was. Funny first name–Banquet? Snowshoe? Meringue, perhaps. Something like that.”
“Wedding. Mrs. Wedding O. Primsbite.” Meralda smiled. “Mug, I think it’s time I renewed my longstanding friendship with the press.”
“You loathe the papers,” Mug said. “You always have. The Times, especially, since they always draw you with your skirts flying up.”
“Not today,” Meralda said. She rose and spoke to the Bellringers through her door, asking them to find Mrs. Primsbite. “Tell her I’m sorry I’m late for our interview,” she added. “Make sure you mention that. Tell her I’ll be in the aft observation salon in half an hour.”
“Yes ma’am,” chorused the Bellringers.
Meralda turned. Mug flew to her side.
“I’m still not clear on how this helps us slip a false rumor to the Vonats,” he said. “Surely you don’t think she’s a Vonat spy.”
“Of course not,” Meralda said. “She’s been the chief penswift for the Times for twenty years. Her reputation is unimpeachable.”
“Unless she’s also able to shout over distances of hundreds of miles, I don’t see how that helps us,” Mug said.
“You’ll see,” Meralda said. “I’ll need a few things. Thank goodness I brought a few of my tools–now where did I put my implement bag?”
When Meralda arrived at the aft observation salon exactly thirty-three minutes later, she found an eager Mrs. Wedding Primsbite seated and smiling inside.
Mug piped up before Meralda or Mrs. Primsbite could speak. “May I present Meralda Ovis, Mage to the Crown of Tirlin,” he said, accompanying his words with a faint flourish of trumpets. “Mage Ovis, Wedding Primsbite, star penswift of the venerable and respected Tirlin Times.”
Mrs. Primsbite surprised Meralda by laughing. She rose, hands on her hips, and made a mocking bow toward Mug.
Mrs. Wedding Primsbite was a tall woman. On most of the occasions Meralda had seen the penswift before, she had been merely one of many faces in a noisy mob, each one trying to shout down the others in the hope their question would be the one responded to.
Meralda met the older woman’s gaze squarely, and offered her hand to shake.
The penswift took it, her smile warm and her grip firm. “It truly is a pleasure to meet you at last,” said the penswift. “Now what can I do for you, Mage Ovis? Tut, tut, I know quite well we had no interview scheduled, and it’s no good blaming it all on some royal mix-up. I’ve been pestering the King for years to grant an interview with Tirlin’s Lady Mage, and he’s always refused, saying that decision was up to you.”
“Ouch. She’s smart,” Mug said, as he hovered near the door. “I’ll wait outside while you two plot. If someone looks as if they’re about to barge in, I’ll sound a warning. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Primsbite. Mistress, don’t forget to complain about the paper’s artistic license.”
Mug buzzed away.
“I’ll be blunt,” Meralda said. “I need a favor, and I need it quickly. You want an interview, or even a series? Fine. I can do that.”
Mrs. Primsbite moved to stand in front of the salon’s wide glass wall. “And what sort of favor is it you would ask of me, dear?” she said, staring out into the rushing clouds.
Meralda crossed her arms over her chest. “I need you to send a short article back to your paper,” she said. “One that mentions our next stop at the Air Corps base at Kenney. Within the hour, please.”
Mrs. Primsbite merely nodded. “You know, of course, the King strictly prohibited the inclusion of any message-sending apparatus or means in our luggage,” she replied. “So I have no way at all of sending any article, short or long, back to my paper.”
Meralda took a place before the window at arm’s length from the penswift. “Naturally,” she said. “But, speaking hypothetically of course, what if your paper had arranged for some means of clandestine communication, if only to provide several hours of lead time upon our return home? That would be a major scoop, would it not? Why, the Times would be two editions, if not a whole day, ahead of every other paper in the Realms!”
Mrs. Primsbite smiled. “Why, I’m sure the idea never occurred to me before, but you’re probably correct. How unfortunate this is all purely hy
pothetical, and by the way, not actionable in a court of law.”
“Of course, if the Intrepid never returns home, the story will be lost,” added Meralda.
“I was assured every precaution has been taken to ensure our safety.”
“What if I told you several attempts have already been made on the mission?” Meralda said. “What if I told you three small Vonat airships attacked us moments after our departure, and that more lie hidden in the forests just ahead of us?”
Mrs. Primsbite turned to face Meralda. “I’d say tell me more, and insist on an exclusive. I can cite you as a highly placed anonymous source, with ties to the Palace, if you prefer.”
“First things first,” Meralda said. “This purely hypothetical means of communicating with your paper. Would it rely on a magical object, or a simple predetermined drop of a letter in a bag, perhaps marked with a nice long tail of brightly colored cloth?”
“Both would have been discussed, I imagine. The former would no doubt have been employed.”
“I see. Perhaps you could describe this imaginary communication device?”
“Hmm. I’m having a vision—I see a bird-shaped silver brooch, which only acts as a telesonde when touched to a certain plain metal coat hanger, which of course does not hang in my wardrobe. Is that sufficiently detailed?”
Meralda beamed. “It is. It certainly is.”
“An exclusive. No restrictions, save those of propriety and Crown secrets. Full access to you, even after our return home.” The penswift grinned. “For life.”
“All that, if you send a report mentioning Kenney at precisely the top of the hour,” Meralda said, holding out her hand. “Put this on the coat hanger you don’t have, when you touch the brooch that doesn’t exist to it, please.”
Mrs. Primsbite took the small object Meralda offered. It was a short length of solid metal, wrapped around with many a tight coil of enameled copper wire. It vanished in her purse without a second glance. “I feel honor bound to mention we’re quite out of range of my paper,” she said. “I doubt they’ve even sent a man with a receiving device to the coast yet.”
