by Robyn Bennis
“I’m sorry we held you back from it,” she said.
“We?” Bernat asked, but was ignored as usual.
“Don’t apologize,” Roland said. “I wouldn’t have traded this ride for the world.”
Bernat flashed a sly smile and said, “For, I dare say, he has in mind a different sort of gallop and leap and tally-ho. Though it’s every bit as invigorating, I’m sure.”
Josette turned in the saddle, but Bernat stepped his horse neatly to the side, so that she wouldn’t be able to hurt him. True to his expectations, she tried to hit him with her riding crop, but being unable to coax her horse into sidestepping, she only managed to slash at the air.
Ignoring her feeble attempts, with his glee concealed under an impassive expression, Bernat said blithely to Roland, “Shall we follow the rest of the field to breakfast, or just mill about in the woods like idiots?”
Roland circled his horse around and broke into a trot, using his hand to smack Bernat across the back of the head on his way past.
* * *
BY THE TIME the hunting party returned to the duke’s chateau, his men had set two long tables topped with sumptuous pastries, sweetmeats, spiced juices, and sparkling wine. The servants ran about, wearing black riding vests and red horo cloaks that puffed out into a balloon shape when they were moving fast enough. Until now, Josette had only seen the horo cloak in old paintings, where it denoted an elite warrior, but to Duke Royama it apparently denoted the men who fetched his morning meal. It was undeniable, however, that they were elite among breakfast-fetchers. Everything set on the tables was fresh and delicious, and it would have been a truly lovely breakfast if there weren’t a bunch of horses shitting on the lawn, only a dozen paces away.
Josette was biting into a small tamarind pie and looking pointedly away from the creatures when Bernat hobbled up to her and set his cane against the table. He stood there, catching his breath.
“You really shouldn’t be exerting yourself so much,” Josette said, glancing at the cane and wondering if he shouldn’t still be on crutches. “You’ll only make it worse.”
“I appreciate the concern,” he said, with apparent sincerity, though you could never really know with him. “But we must offer our congratulations to the duke. Where the hell is Roland? The villain ought to be helping you through this.”
“Roland tried to bring me over, but before we could say a word, the duke sent him to check on the coffee. There were half a dozen servants within arm’s reach and he sent the heir to Copia Lugon.”
Bernat was not offended, but rather terrified. “Tell me you didn’t speak to the duke by yourself.”
“No,” Josette said, not meeting his eyes. “I ran and hid.”
He drew a deep breath and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You did the right thing. But now that I’m here, we must introduce you at once, before the coffee does come out.”
She arched an eyebrow at him.
“Duke Royama becomes irascible under its influence.”
Josette sighed and tossed the other half of her pie to the horses. “You people are a goddamn mess,” she said.
He smiled back to her, wiping sweat from his forehead, though it was quite chilly. “And yet you must humor us, if you wish to make something of your time here.”
They approached the duke at Bernat’s best pace, which was not considerable, so Josette had plenty of time to remember the proper form of address. When they arrived, she said, “Congratulations, Your Grace. The antlers—”
“Trophy,” Bernat said.
“The trophy was well won.”
The duke studied them both. He was a rotund man, tall and imposing in his black hunting jacket. He wore two blades at his waist, a rapier and a dirk—a long and a short weapon, in the style that for centuries of Garnian history was allowed only to the aristocracy. He didn’t quite ignore her, but only flashed a wide grin that seemed to say he was setting her aside. To Bernat, he said in a deep, gravelly voice, “You’re one of the Hinkal boys?”
“Bernat, Your Grace,” he said.
“The younger one, yes.” The duke worked his jaw for a while, as if chewing cud. With a grunt and a nod, he indicated that he was finished with Bernat for the moment, and turned his attention back to Josette. “I noticed you took no risk of showing me up, this time. Stuck well to the rear, no doubt on the wise council of your two advisors.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words.
The duke went on, regardless. “I’m not quite as stupid as they think me. Though I am every bit as impatient, so I wonder at seeing you still here, and not out fighting the war.”
This was the first time anyone had mentioned the war at such an outing, and Josette was taken off guard. She stumbled and stuttered, and began to speak three times, but managed nothing coherent.
Again, the duke went on, as if he hadn’t been expecting a reply at all, and indeed wouldn’t have welcomed one, but was only pausing to think of the next thing he wished to say. “That’s my land you’re defending. Did you know that? The king’s father fought for my claim on that land. I fought. My sons fought.” Josette wondered what the duke meant by “fought,” for she didn’t imagine that it involved being shot at overmuch. “And now it’s being dribbled away, piece by piece, by incompetents and cowards. We may not have lost a war in three generations, but our present king is doing his best to break with tradition.”
At this, the duke looked at Bernat, who only bowed and said, “As you say, Your Grace.”
His gaze swung back to Josette. “And you on the ground, going on hunts. Why aren’t you in the air?”
She very much wanted to remind him that he’d invited her to this hunt, and that such an invitation could not be refused. But Bernat helpfully whacked her in the ankle with his cane, to indicate the foolishness of such a course. “Mistral has six weeks of repairs ahead of her,” she said instead. “And that figure assumes we’ll have luftgas enough to float her, and spare parts to overhaul the steamjack.”
He grunted. “Six weeks, eh?”
Josette looked him straight in the eyes. “If not longer. Apart from the crash, we took quite a thumping over Canard.”
It seemed at first that he would grow angry, but then he grinned and said, “I hear that you also gave quite a thumping. In Vinzhalia, they’re calling you ‘The Shark,’ because you always get in close to bite. Did you know that?”
It occurred to Josette that any animal must get in close to bite—that, indeed, was practically part of the definition of biting. But she spoke respectfully. “I did not know that, Your Grace. By their fear, they honor me.”
“Ha! I only wish that our idiot king—may God preserve him—had half the spirit of a goddamn woman.” He looked over the top of her head and his eyes brightened. “Ah, finally, the coffee.”
Josette had already resolved to hold her tongue, so the sting of Bernat’s cane against her leg went to waste. Roland appeared next to her, off the opposite shoulder to Bernat, and said to the duke, “The coffee, Your Grace.”
Josette took the cup that Roland offered next to her, and sipped quietly at the rim.
“Now,” the duke said, taking a gulp from his steaming cup and ignoring Roland entirely, “we’ll soon be going on the offensive up north, and throwing everything we have into a winter campaign that ought to catch the Vins off guard. That took some doing, let me tell you. The generals, the rest of the king’s council? They’re not as bold as you and me. And that’s why I want your ship to be up there, if not for the opening moves of the campaign, then at least screening the advance following our initial success. The sooner the better. Your ship’s technological edge won’t last forever.”
“Indeed,” Josette said. “The Vins’ aeronautical engineers are as talented as ours, God help them. Now that they’ve seen Mistral in action, they’ll soon appreciate the principles behind her, and have ships like her within a year or two. That’s assuming one of their spies hasn’t stolen the plans
already. But I’m afraid that, without enough luftgas, Mistral will be wasted even if deployed. With inflammable air, we’d go up like a sulfur match the first time they threw a shell or a carcass round at us. In those circumstances, a blimp would fight as effectively as Garnia’s most advanced airship.” She received another whack from Bernat’s cane, and a kick from Roland on the other leg, and added a hasty, “Your Grace.”
In response to the duke’s peevish, skeptical glare, Bernat leapt in with, “If anything, Captain Dupre understates the danger of flying with inflammable air. I traveled aboard Mistral for not more than a month, Your Grace, and in that time she suffered…” He began counting on his fingers, but soon ran out. “Somewhere above ten separate fires.”
The duke looked no less skeptical. “I think you need to take better care of your ship, Captain.”
Josette held her ground. “Your Grace, that sentiment is not always compatible with the needs of the army.”
He lifted his cup and took another sip. When he lowered it again, it revealed a wide, toothy grin pointing down at her. “I do like your spirit, Captain. I’ll purchase the luftgas your ship needs, and get Laurent working on your spare steamjack parts. And, in return, you will help to ensure that this offensive succeeds. I want to read reports saying that the skies over Quah have been swept clean of Vin airships, that our army advances without risk of observation, while the enemy’s every move is known from the moment they make it. And I want to start reading those reports as early as possible.”
It took real strength to keep herself from throwing her arms around the duke and declaring him the finest gentleman in all creation. By an admirable exertion, she limited herself to saying, “I will make every effort, Your Grace.”
“Good, good,” he said, looking toward the other guests, as if picking out the next item on his list of chores.
Bernat slapped her lightly on the shoulder by way of congratulations. She expected much the same from Roland, but when she looked at him, he had to draw up a smile to cover the warring feelings underneath. She had no eye for emotions, but she could see the regret in him—and if not regret, then outright self-reproach—for setting her on the path that would see her ship restored and herself leaving Kuchin.
But this was merely a momentary weakness, she was certain. She set the matter aside, and turned to something more pressing. “And, if I may ask Your Grace’s indulgence for only a moment more,” she said to the duke, “what are your thoughts on retaking Durum?”
“What?” he asked. And then he seemed to remember the subject. He snorted. “No. Durum would be a fatal distraction.” With that he simply walked away from them without another word, or even a glance.
“You nearly pressed your luck too far,” Roland said, when the duke was gone. “It’s fortunate he paid hardly any attention to that question. It means he’ll likely forget you ever asked it.”
Bernat gave her another friendly slap on the shoulder, and smiled proudly. “You’ve made an ally of a very powerful man. Don’t think it’ll end with luftgas and engine parts. Perhaps, if you do well up north, he might even offer one of his less important sons to you. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? A trade up, certainly, from the fool who’s courting you now.”
She waved the notion away, but nothing could sour her mood—not even Bernat’s attitude, or the fight that seemed to be brewing between him and Roland. “The Vins are calling me ‘The Shark,’” she mused. “Because I always get in close to bite. Had you heard that, Roland?”
“The Shark,” Roland repeated, with a grin. “I like the sound of it. Very menacing.”
“I had not heard it before now,” Bernat said, then frowned. “But doesn’t any animal have to get in close to bite? It’s not as if that’s unique to sharks.”
She rolled her eyes and asked, “Must you always be so contrary?”
6
FOR TWO WEEKS, Bernat avoided the air base, lest he run into his insufferable brother visiting Josette. By the third week, however, the weather had taken a hard turn toward a cold winter, and he had to go back to Mistral for his russet kariginu robe, which would pair so well with his white cravat and red pantaloons, matching this season’s winter fashions in Kuchin—and the warm wool lining would, incidentally, keep him from freezing to death.
He’d snuck onto the ship stealthily enough, confirming by the pale morning light that no one was working on the keel, and that the ship was perfectly silent. But when he retrieved his robe and turned to leave, Josette was standing behind him.
“Gah!” he screamed, throwing his bundle into the air and nearly falling backward onto the wicker catwalk.
She stood, impassive, and put a hand on her hip. “You startle too easily. People will think you have soldier’s heart.”
He looked up into the superstructure of the ship, a wide, empty cavern crisscrossed by lines now that the luftgas bags were deflated. Had she descended from one of them like a spider?
He calmed himself and asked, “Soldier’s heart?”
“Something soldiers sometimes get when they’ve seen too much. Where do you suppose my luftgas is?”
“I’m just going to see it now. It’s invited me for breakfast.” He squeezed past her and walked toward the companionway—in no particular hurry, lest running away invoke some deep predatory instinct in Josette, inciting her to wrap him in silk and hang him from the girders for later consumption.
“Haven’t seen you around in a while,” she said, following.
“I would have been by earlier, but I was detained on state business.”
Josette snorted, and he could hear the smirk in her voice when she asked, “And this state business, what’s her name?”
“Lidia,” he said, grinning wide. “And she can put her legs behind her head.”
Another snort. “I’m sure she has a rich career in dance ahead of her.”
“Oh, I hope not. She’s a diplomat from Sotra. You’ve met her, now that I think of it. At Count Stoger’s luncheon. Remember?”
Josette only muttered, “The things you people get up to, I cannot understand.”
He laughed. “Not everyone finds pleasure lamentable, Josette. A brave few are actually quite fond of it.”
“You say that, of course, but what would you think of me if I went off and bedded some limber Sotrian diplomat?”
They had reached the top of the companionway steps, so he paused and turned to her. “I’d be happy for you, of course, because I am not a jackass.” He laughed again at the absurdity of the question.
“And if I bedded your brother?”
His laughter ceased in an instant. “That is a different matter entirely.” He grew anxious, and a chill cut through him despite the relative warmth inside the ship. “You’re not actually thinking of it, are you?”
She shrugged. “We’re seeing each other tonight and … it’s not impossible.”
“Good God!” It took him a little while to adjust to this grim new reality. “Do you love him?” he asked.
She did not meet his gaze, even for a second. “It’s not as simple as that.”
He made his best impression of Josette’s indignant snort. “It is that simple, actually. It’s a very simple question, in fact, made complex only by fear of the answer.” When she said nothing, he went on, “What could possibly drive you to consider this? The man’s a twit! And I knew he was a twit even when I was a twit!”
“You’re still a twit.”
“Then think of how much more of a twit he must be!” He tried to calm himself. “And an oblivious twit, at that. He and the rest of that pack of idiots have constructed their opulent façade, their illusion of peace. They’ve all built a throne of delusion, and they sit upon it, up to their heads in champagne and optimism, while outside the country is going to hell. We’ve seen men with their guts ripped open and their brains spilled out, while he thinks the war is a delightful little distraction—something cheerful to read about in the morning newspaper, though only when one is in the proper moo
d for it, of course.”
“That is true,” she said, so quiet he could hardly hear.
“Then what on Earth do you see in him?”
She faced him, flashing a peculiar little smile. “I was wondering myself, until you hit upon it.”
He stood perplexed.
“I mean, don’t you think I’ve earned it?”
“Earned what?” he asked, growing impatient.
“A moment’s peace, however illusory it may be.”
He looked at her sympathetically. “Surely there are enough oblivious twits in this town that it doesn’t have to be him. Give me a day—give me an hour!—and I’ll bring you a baker’s dozen to pick from. Why does it have to be him?”
“And why not him?” she asked. “Is it only that you wish he were lonely and miserable?”
“Not primarily,” he said. “My chief concern is your well-being, though of course I want my brother to be lonely and miserable. Does that make me such a bad person?”
“That, among other things.”
Bernat tried to think of an argument that might sway her, but if he couldn’t sway her with the simple fact that his brother was a no-good vermin—as was plainly obvious to all—then what else could he possibly say? “If you won’t listen to reason, at least let me give you the address of a good apothecary. If you’re going to sleep with my brother, you’ll require protection against a whole host of sexual diseases.”
“I have girders to inspect.” She gave him a curt nod. Without another word she hauled herself up by an overhead girder, and climbed into the vast superstructure.
* * *
SHE HADN’T NOTICED how dark it had become, nor how quiet. Up in the superstructure of frame one, just ahead of the tail, she squeezed through a gap in the web of rigging cables and wedged herself in. With lantern in hand, its light flickering upon the keel thirty feet below, she inspected the joints of a newly installed longitudinal girder. They were sound, as all had been so far, and there were only two hundred and seventy-eight left to check.
