by Robyn Bennis
Finally, the ship ceased its descent. The buzz of airscrews sawing through lumber turned into irregular thumps, then went silent. Girders above still creaked and the force of the wind against the envelope still rocked Mistral back and forth. Up in the superstructure, girders cracked and lines snapped in the darkness. Josette’s hiding place was not unaffected. The movement of the ship might bring the girders together to crush her at any moment, so she took the knife from her harness and cut her way up into the keel. In the darkness there, she called out, “Is the boiler fire quenched?”
No answer from inside the ship.
“Anyone amidships, check the boiler fire!”
Still no answer.
She nearly wept, the tremor clear enough in her voice when she called, “Is anyone still alive?”
Bernat groaned and said, “I am. I think.”
“Boiler fire’s out, sir,” Grey called back.
“Deck crew’s all accounted for,” Jutes reported.
The riggers began to report in, the last reporting that Chips was out cold, but breathing.
“Where’s Ensign Kember?” Josette called, as she clawed her way up the incline of the keel catwalk, past the companionway, to where Jutes and the deck crew were clustered. She tried to make her way farther back, but another tree had pierced the keel there and was blocking the way.
“Sabrine?” Private Grey called aft.
“Make sure a bag didn’t come down on her!” Josette called. “Check frame two!”
“I’m here!” Kember called. “I was out on the tail. You can see the beacon at Kuchin Signal Base from here. It can’t be more than five miles away. Can you believe that? Half the night spent spinning around in the storm, and we land five miles from base!” She was practically giddy. “It’ll be nothing to get her back, once we refloat her.”
“That’s wonderful, Ensign,” Josette said. “Now could you see to opening the top vents on all the bags containing inflammable air, so we don’t explode between now and then?”
“Er, yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
And with that, Josette sat in the crook made by a snapped-off stub of a branch and a keel girder, to catch her breath.
“You okay?” Bernat asked through the darkness, a few feet away.
“Fine,” she said. “I think I saw Davies’s marmot, though. How about you? Hurt?”
“Only my pride. Ow! And my leg.”
“Sorry, my lord,” Jutes said, from somewhere on the far side of Bernat’s voice. There was some rustling as Jutes checked him over, then the sergeant said, “Knee’s out of joint.”
She heard Bernat heave a sigh of relief. “Well, that doesn’t sound so bad.” He laughed. “I was afraid it was broken, and you’d have to grab hold of the leg and yank on it to reset the bone.”
“Jutes, now!” Josette said, reaching over and clapping onto Bernat’s thigh.
Whereupon Jutes grabbed hold of Bernat’s leg below the knee and yanked on it, not to reset the bone—which was indeed unbroken—but to pull the dislocated knee back into place. This procedure required less medical expertise than resetting a bone, but was by far the more painful operation. It had to go on longer, to boot, since the sinews as well as the muscles around the joint all conspired to oppose the necessary adjustment.
All of which could be deduced by the pitch of Bernat’s screaming. He cried out so long and loud that he wore his voice ragged. As he wailed on, Josette had to fight him off and keep hold of his thigh, a task made all the more difficult by its writhing, as the muscles twisted into unnatural shapes.
Finally, though, Jutes let go and Bernat’s voice quieted into a long moan.
“Got it?” Josette asked.
“Almost,” Jutes said.
“Almost?” Bernat asked in a whimper.
“Never you fret, my lord,” Jutes said, “It’ll only hurt…”
Bernat screamed out again as Jutes gave one last, hard pull.
“… for the rest of your life,” the sergeant concluded.
4
BERNAT WAS IN more pain than anyone in history, as near as he could determine. And yet these people, ostensibly his friends, were carrying on as if everything was perfectly ordinary. If anything, some of them were more cheerful than usual, now that Mistral was safely back in the shed.
Kember and Grey stood under the bow, laughing and sharing stories about the crash—and both of them stationed on the same keel, where the tale could hardly be different. Then there was Davies, leaning against a sawed-off tree trunk still impaled into the ship, describing to a gathered crowd of yardsmen—and for the hundredth time—the expression a marmot made when in shock. And of course there was Josette, speaking to some officer or another as they both strolled around the ship, inspecting the damage. All of them lavished concern and attention on the wounded ship, but none on the wounded gentleman.
“Never mind this,” he said to the yardsman carrying the front end of his jury-rigged palanquin chair. “Take me back to the medical building. No, on second thought, take me to the nearest tavern and leave me there.”
“How will you get back, my lord?” the man in back asked.
“How is not the issue. Who is the issue. Who will carry me up the stairs to her bedroom? But I will handle that business on my own.”
On the way out of the shed, however, he spotted Roland coming the other way. He nearly sprang out of his chair before the pain shot through his leg and pinned him back.
“Follow that man!” he commanded his carriers. “No, the one to the left! Left, damn you, left! Do they not have left where you come from?”
They eventually managed to steer him toward Roland, and by much calling and shouting, he managed to get the twit’s attention. Roland turned about just inside the shed, and stood transfixed by the sight of Bernat on the palanquin. He greeted him with, “Bernie! I didn’t know you’d been made Emperor of Utarma. Congratulations.”
Bernat sneered and said, “My knee is dislocated, you insufferable fribble.”
Roland only smirked. “A shame. That will put a damper on the coronation.” He looked over at the men carrying Bernat’s palanquin. “Can’t be too hard for them to hold you up, though. You’re filled with more hot air than the balloon.”
“It’s an airship!” Bernat corrected. “And it is not filled with hot air!”
“We mustn’t be picky,” Josette said, as she approached from behind Roland. This was, as far as Bernat knew, the first time in her life that Josette had chosen not to be picky about aerostatic terminology.
Roland turned around, and judging by the look reflected in Josette’s face, he must have been beaming. “Thank goodness you’re well,” he said. “I rushed over as soon as I heard about the crash.”
She walked to the other side of Bernat, putting him and his palanquin between her and Roland. “The only injury was to my career prospects.”
“Indeed,” Bernat said, feeling venomous. “How many airships is it that you’ve crashed?”
“Two,” she said. “Which is actually about average for an airship captain, but somehow I don’t expect that to be taken into account at my court martial.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” Roland said. “The city councilor who complained that you were off station has resigned and will be taking full responsibility. He’ll have a letter in all the papers tomorrow morning, admitting his guilt and praising your superior foresight.” He removed a letter from his coat and handed it to Josette.
Bernat caught a glimpse of it and called out, “That letter’s in your handwriting!”
“Yes,” Roland said, “but it’s his signature. I convinced him to come clean.”
Josette arched an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you charmed him?”
“No, you have it backward,” Bernat said. “Roland isn’t the charmer, he’s the snake.”
“Never in my life,” Roland said. “We only chatted for a while. He was admittedly reluctant at first, but after I inquired into the health and safety of his fami
ly members living in Copia Lugon, which I will one day be marquis of … Well, I suppose he must have felt a certain fraternity, as he became suddenly quite amenable.”
Bernat snorted so vigorously, it sent a renewed spasm of pain through his leg. “‘Will one day be marquis of through a simple accident of birth,’ you mean. And here you are, already scheming and abusing your power.”
Josette didn’t acknowledge these salient points, but only smirked as she read. “I like the bit about his everlasting shame and sorrow, that he endangered such a fine collection of national treasures as Mistral, her officers, and crew.”
“Do you?” Roland asked. “I was worried it might be a bit over the top.”
“Not at all.”
“Does no one care about the fate of the poor city councilor?” Bernat asked.
“Your concern is touching, Bernie,” Roland said. He looked at Josette. “Did he ever tell you how he reacted, when he found out I was sole heir?”
“Oh, for the love of heaven, are you still whining about that?”
“You tried to hire someone to have me assassinated!”
That, finally, brought Josette’s attention up from the letter. “Good God!” she cried. “Bernie, how could you?”
Bernat waved the matter away. “I was six years old and the ‘assassin’ was our nursemaid.” He looked thoughtfully into the distance. “She might have taken the job, too, if I’d made a better offer than my hobbyhorse and a couple of hawk feathers.”
“Next time you’ll know,” Josette said, handing the letter back to Roland.
“And do you know how he responded?” Bernat asked.
“Proportionally,” Roland said in a flat tone.
“He tried to smother me in my sleep that night!”
“I was never trying to smother you.”
“He held a pillow over my face for five full minutes!”
“Yes, but you’re still here, aren’t you?”
“You could have caused permanent damage!”
“But I didn’t. Well … I suppose there’s some room for debate on that matter.” He spoke an aside to Josette. “I was barely eleven, by the way.”
“And mature enough to know what you were doing, unlike a six-year-old.”
“Boys?” Josette said. “This is becoming less cute and more irritating by the moment.”
Roland grinned and said, “Then it will cease immediately.” He cast a sidelong glance at Bernat. “At least, it will on my end. Oh, and there’ll be a reception in your honor this evening. The king won’t be there, unfortunately, but we may be able to arrange an audience in the coming weeks. And I’ve managed to get rooms at the palace for you and your officers, for the duration of your stay in Kuchin.” He looked up at Mistral, ragged and pierced through with pine trees. “Which I imagine will be some time.”
Josette just made eyes at Roland for a while, a sight which brought bile into Bernat’s throat, before she called out, “Ensign!”
Kember was there in a moment, standing at attention. “Sir?”
“Are you interested in having a room at the palace, while we’re here?”
Kember’s eyes widened in surprise. She swallowed, causing her still-raw scar to twitch. “Sure!” she said.
Josette looked back to Roland. “We accept.” She turned to Kember. “Let’s give the crew leave to enjoy the city. You too, Ensign. I’d say you’ve earned a day off.”
Kember looked back at Mistral’s crew, already tending toward the rowdy side, and they hadn’t even been given leave yet. “How, uh, how much should they enjoy themselves, sir?”
Josette considered it, and said, “Let’s keep it to wanton drunkenness and petty vandalism. No fights. We start repairs as soon as the surveyors finish cataloging the damage, so we want everyone intact.”
Kember saluted smartly, then ran back to the ship, where her announcement of leave was answered with raucous cheers.
Roland shot her his snakiest grin. “Will you also be taking the day off, Captain?”
“‘Off’ is not quite how I would describe it,” she said.
“But it’s close? What would it take to get you the rest of the way, perhaps so far as to allow me to show you the Tellurian Quarter?”
Bernat tried to warn her away with his expression, but it only seemed to buoy her resolve. She gave Roland a smile—a genuine smile, which always spelled trouble—and asked him, “Am I detecting an attempt to bribe an officer of the Royal Aerial Signal Corps?”
Roland only grinned. “I was worried you wouldn’t pick up on my meaning, Captain Dupre.”
She smiled. “You needn’t have worried. Signals are our business, Lord Hinkal.”
Bernat couldn’t take it anymore. “Oh good God!” he cried. “Is tincture of ipecac the new thing for out-of-joint legs? If it is, I fear I’ve been overdosed.”
“It’s amazing,” Roland said, speaking as if he only had just noticed Bernat there. “Your injury has actually worsened your demeanor. I wouldn’t have believed it possible.”
“Oh, I’m just getting started, Brother.”
“If you two will excuse me,” Josette said, “I have to change into a uniform with less sap on it.” With that, she set off for the ship.
“No! Stop! Josette, it’s a trick!” Bernat kicked with his good leg at the yardsmen carrying the front corners of the palanquin. “Follow her!”
The yardsmen carrying Bernat leapt to action, running after, but Josette looked over her shoulder and stopped their progress by turning them both to stone—or near enough.
“You’re making a terrible mistake!” Bernat called after her. “You don’t know him like I do!”
But Josette ignored him entirely. On her way to the ship, she stopped only long enough to remind Ensign Kember of her solemn duty to keep the crew from brawling.
* * *
“BUT WHO THREW the first punch?” Josette asked.
“The girl, Ensign Kember,” the lieutenant of police said. “But I’m prepared to release her to your supervision, if you can promise she’ll never return to the Upper Park, or any other area of Kuchin which has been set aside for peaceful civic enjoyment.”
Josette signed a paper to that effect, and then accompanied the lieutenant to the detention building. As he was unlocking Kember’s cell, a voice from behind said, “Afternoon, Captain.”
She turned to see Luc Lupien leaning with his hands on the bars of the opposite cell, and six other bruised and bedraggled Mistrals sprawled on the floor or on benches. In the next cell over, Private Grey made brief eye contact and then lowered her gaze. “And I’ll take this lot, too,” Josette said to the policeman. “Can you wrap them up for me?”
Outside, she helped Kember into a covered carriage. Some of the crewmen were about to climb in themselves, but a single look from Josette told them they’d be finding their own transportation.
Half the ride went by in silence, with Kember staring at the split skin on her knuckles and looking like she might die of shame at any moment. When they were on the outskirts of town, Josette finally asked, “Who won?”
Kember perked up at the comment. “Well, sir, if you consider that there were more of them, and the navy doesn’t pay extra to people who weigh less—”
“Both of which are customarily taken into account when deciding the winner of an inter-service brawl.”
“—I’d say it was about a draw.”
“And how did this fight—which ended in a draw if all extenuating conditions are considered—begin in the first place?”
Kember gave the reason. And, in all fairness, navy enlisted uniforms were indeed very tawdry and did, in fact, feature an idiotic pommel on the cap. Any rational gang of sailors should have therefore taken no offence from the perfectly accurate comments Private Davies had directed toward them, and should have peacefully accepted the truth of the matter, and certainly not returned comments of their own regarding the air corps.
“This will go down in your service record,” Jo
sette said. “We couldn’t keep it out if we tried. And it will therefore make it more difficult for you to be promoted to lieutenant. Promotion comes hard enough already, for an auxiliary officer. You needn’t make it any harder.”
“Yes, sir.”
After a moment’s consideration, Josette added, “You’re the most promising ensign I’ve ever served with. It would be a damn shame if your impulsiveness and stupidity robbed the country of a good officer, which we need now more than ever.”
Kember was struck silent. When she finally regained the power of speech, she only asked in a meek little voice, “The most promising, sir?”
Josette was beginning to regret saying it. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
The carriage continued on through the countryside, until finally coming within sight of the palace. It could be seen from a great way off, though it was only three floors tall, because the ground for miles around had been flattened to leave an unimpeded view, and the palace itself was constructed on the raised bailey of a much earlier castle, so that its entire 850-acre grounds lay forty feet above the surrounding countryside.
The driver took them across the famous Reflecting Bridge over what used to be the moat, through the Ministers’ Court, past the royal menagerie, to the Nobles’ Court, and skirted the edge of the King’s Court before going around the palace and dropping them off at the back.
An attendant came out to meet them, and led them through the east-wing apartments, where they passed Bernat. He sat in a wheeled chair pushed by a servant, with his leg cast in plaster and held horizontal by a board. “You’re not ready yet?” he asked, sitting up.
“We shall be there on time,” Josette said, hurrying past.
The attendant first showed Kember into her room, but the girl paused in the doorway, examining it. The room was no more than ten paces to a side, with decent if not opulent furnishings. “Is this it?” she asked. “I thought a room at the palace would be bigger. With more … gold things.”
“I shall file a complaint with the management,” Josette said, as the attendant showed her to her own room, next door.
