by Robyn Bennis
She climbed farther up, one hand on the rigging and one on the lantern, weaving through the network of cables, until she came to the next longitudinal box girder. As she held up the lantern to inspect it, she heard from below, “Hello up there! Permission to come aboard?” It was Roland.
Despite needing a lantern, it was only now that she became truly cognizant of the darkness outside the ship’s canvas skin, and the quiet in the shed now that everyone else had left for the night. “No, don’t come aboard,” she called, shouting through the canvas. “I’ll come down to you. What time is it?”
“After eight,” Roland called back.
“Hell.” She slid down one of the transverse cables that cut athwartships from port to starboard, then down another going the other way, and from there it was a short hop down to the keel girders and then to catwalk.
Roland was waiting for her on the shed floor, near the hurricane deck. They embraced and, after a quick glance toward the shed door to be sure the carriage driver couldn’t see, she kissed him. Indeed, she went on kissing him for quite some time, with brief interruptions to check for voyeurs. Despite the awkwardness commensurate with so much caution, the impulse to inspect girders for the rest of the night gradually abated, until it was hardly noticeable at all.
When they finally leaned apart, Roland asked, “Where would you like to have dinner?”
“Wherever is farthest from the palace and politics and the war,” she answered.
“I know just the place,” he said, snapping his fingers. “It’s in Utarma, so we’ll have to take a ship to the other side of the world. But if we leave now, and skip dessert, we can be back in only two or three years.”
“Wonderful,” she said with a smile. “Let’s go.”
He seemed almost to consider it, or at least something along the same vein. She had heard talk of establishing an aerial signal base in Utarma, and it wasn’t unheard of for noblemen to travel there with the aim of securing property, so the thought was not quite as absurd as it had first seemed. It was still rather absurd, however, and he seemed to realize this at the same moment she did. They both laughed.
“Perhaps someplace a bit closer for this evening?” he said. “I know a place just outside the city. Excellent food, private rooms upstairs, and a variety of dishes to choose from every night, prepared individually. But the restaurant has no name, which is not quite the fashion in gastronomy these days, so it’s been left pretty much alone by the palace set.”
“That sounds perfect,” she said, offering her arm.
He took it, and they strolled down the length of Mistral, he tilting his head back the whole way and marveling at the ship, while she kept her eyes ahead. A burst of chill air met them outside the shed, which didn’t concern Josette until she saw that the carriage had no roof.
“An open carriage?” Josette asked.
“I expected it to be warmer,” Roland said. “It was warmer when I made the arrangements for the carriage. But we have plenty of warm blankets. I saw to that before I left the palace.”
“Aha,” she said, smirking. “You saw to warm blankets, but regrettably couldn’t find a warmer carriage?”
He smirked back. “They’re in great demand, you know. Hard to get one on short notice.”
He helped her up. The blankets lay folded on the rear seat, which was just wide enough for both of them to fit. Her smirk grew, and threatened to turn into an outright smile. “And harder yet,” she said, “to get a carriage wide enough for two people to sit next to each other with any space left between them.”
“Oh, indeed,” he said, stepping up and lifting the blanket. He slid down next to her, hip to hip, with not an inch to spare, and spread the blanket across them. “Practically impossible, with the demand so high at this time of year.” And then to the driver, he instructed, “Down the Ager Beatus and across town, please. I’ll direct you from there.”
In the air service, Josette had long since grown accustomed to the cold, but she pretended a chill and said, “I wouldn’t say it’s very warm under here.”
“Give it a minute,” he said.
* * *
AT THE SAME moment, Bernat was also giving directions to a palace coachman—or rather, relaying them. The coach had stopped in front of a man dressed in the smudged white trousers and gray shirt of a signal base yardsman, and the yardsman was telling Bernat how to reach the closest tavern. Bernat, with half his body stuck out the carriage window, was relaying those directions up to the carriage driver, who—being only a couple of feet away—was in as good a position as Bernat to hear what the yardsman was saying.
Despite hearing the directions twice, however, it took him a surprising amount of time to find the destination. This, as it turned out, was not a fault in the directions, but a fault in the tavern itself. Instead of facing the street and presenting signage like any sensible establishment, this tavern was hidden behind a bakery, its entrance tucked into a narrow side street that was hardly wide enough for two men to walk side by side. Bernat stepped down the alley and into the tavern, and leaned on his cane to have a rest while he looked about the place.
The unvarnished wooden floorboards were warped and cracked, with splinters sticking out of them at odd angles. The three long tables were fairly falling apart, held together by makeshift repairs, and none of them quite level. The only thing this place had over the dives in Arle was that the windows weren’t blackened by soot from the manufactories, so the patrons had a clear view of the snow-covered trash pile in the alley outside. But at least Bernat’s knee, which had begun to ache from the cold the minute he left his carriage, was now only aching from the muggy warmth, which was an altogether superior sort of pain.
“My lord, back here,” came a familiar voice from the rear corner. It was Sergeant Jutes—the last person Bernat expected to give him such an enthusiastic welcome. Though he had never tested the proposition before now, he’d always thought that Jutes would casually hide his face if he saw Bernat come into a tavern where he was drinking.
He made his way to the back, where Jutes was alone and brooding, and had a third of a table to himself. “Good to see you here, Sergeant,” Bernat said, as he sat and removed his gloves. “Do you expect any other Mistrals tonight?”
“Likely not,” Jutes said, motioning to the serving girl for another drink. “The lads have switched to Heloise’s, a few blocks over. I think they find this place a bit too swanky for their tastes.”
Bernat took a ceramic mug from the serving girl and sipped at the frothy head. It tasted like horse piss and turpentine. “And you don’t?” he asked, once he got his tongue working again.
“Don’t know about that, sir,” Jutes said. “But I gotta maintain some distance, as their sergeant. Can’t rightly go frolicking around with them at night, and call them a bunch of lazy slugs in the morning. Ain’t proper.”
“Didn’t I hear tales of the captain drinking with the crew, in Durum?”
Jutes sucked on his front teeth and stared into his drink. “Mayhap that ain’t the best idea she’s ever had.”
“Well, I’m going to be very honest with you, Sergeant,” Bernat said, and swallowed a mouthful of his beer so fast he hardly had to taste it going down. “I plan to spend the night getting drunk and moaning about how rotten the world has become.”
Jutes considered this in silence, over the course of several swigs of beer. Finally, he set his mug down on the table and said, “It just so happens that was my plan for the evening, too. With maybe a game of darts for variety.”
They had passed half a game of darts in silence before Bernat said, “You don’t talk much.” He threw the last dart of his set, and missed the twenty he needed to win the game. “Blast.”
“I have a rich inner life,” Jutes said, taking his place on the line.
Bernat plucked the darts from the board, handed them over, and stepped out of the way. “Then you must have spent time reflecting upon the unnatural proclivities of your captain.�
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Jutes hit a bullseye, bringing him within striking distance of victory, though none would have known it from his expressionless look of concentration. “I didn’t even know she was unnatural,” Jutes said, calm as a millpond. “Plenty of men in the service are, but she must be the first woman I’ve met. Funny, I’d have taken Ensign Kember for one a’ them, a’fore the captain.”
“No, I mean,” Bernat said, but was interrupted by Jutes making another throw. “I mean, what madness compels her to seek comfort in the arms of my idiot brother?”
Jutes, though he didn’t bat an eye at him, seemed more surprised by this news than by his initial impression. “Couldn’t speak to anything specific, my lord,” he said, “but it’s the air corps. If a person wasn’t half mad, at least, they wouldn’t be in it.”
Bernat made a frustrated groan that drew a sidelong glance from Jutes, just as the man was lining up his third throw. “So what am I supposed to do?” Bernat asked. “Just stand by and let him … ooze his way into her heart?”
“Well, sir,” Jutes said, rocking the dart rhythmically back and forth as he aimed, “whatever else one might say about the captain’s heart, however much it may take to open it up, I dare say there’s room in there for more than one sort of ooze.” He tossed his dart, hit the three dead center, and so won the game. His only celebration was a mute little nod.
“That is not what I’m worried about,” Bernat said. “My only concern is for her well-being.”
Jutes turned to look at him, and the sergeant’s studious stare made Bernat uncomfortable almost immediately. “Can’t see how her well-being’s in danger,” Jutes said. “Though I would warn you, my lord: the air corps ain’t the place to look, if you need a friend. Not because they ain’t good people, mind you, but because they’re so apt to die on you.”
Bernat muttered, “Which is … neither here nor there. I’m only concerned about her welfare. That’s all.”
“Just as you say, my lord.” Jutes collected the darts and wiped the scores off of the slate. Four men, seeing the game over, were already queued up, waiting to play.
Bernat stood at the line and held his hand out for the darts. “We’re going again,” he said.
Jutes looked past him and said, “I think these fellows might be waiting on the board.”
“Let them wait,” Bernat said, without looking at them. “Say, Jutes? What do you know about soldier’s heart?”
While Bernat lined up his first shot, the sergeant responded to his question with a long, thoughtful sigh.
* * *
THEY HAD A cozy table in the large salon room, not too far from the hearth fire, with a window looking out into the snow-caked woods. Roland had asked for a private room, but the restaurateur refused him, ostensibly on the grounds that there were none available. It was obvious, however, from the way he looked between Roland and Josette before answering, that this was not the reason.
“What was that about?” she asked, when they were seated.
Roland shook his head. “I must have mentioned to him that I’m not married, on one of my previous visits. Some people look down on an unmarried couple dining together in a private room. I have to remember to be more discrete in the future.”
“Indeed. Think of the scandal, if word got out that you were dining alone with a woman, without marrying her first. Why, all your peers would hold you in contempt, and their mistresses likewise.”
He smirked back. “Surely. I think we’ve also hit upon the real reason this establishment is unpopular among the gentry.” He looked over at the day’s menu, written on a slate hanging on the far wall. “They do a superb herb-stuffed duckling here. Do you care at all for marjoram?”
“Hmm?”
“Marjoram herb. Do you care for it? It’s only that there’s quite a lot in the duckling.”
“Is it imported or hot-house marjoram?” she asked.
“Hot-house, and picked this morning, I’m sure. Nothing less, at a place like this.”
She scrunched her lips and furrowed her brow. “Minced or ground?”
“Ground,” Roland said. “They grind it fresh for every dish, I believe.”
Josette stroked her chin in contemplation. “Leaf only, or stems included?”
“Leaf only.”
“Oh,” she said, putting a hint of disappointment in her voice. “Well, in that case, I have no idea what the hell marjoram is.”
Roland laughed in soft little gasps, no doubt to avoid drawing stares, as she fixed a grin on him.
She leaned across the table, and spoke in a mirthful whisper. “Now I’m sure, around here, they start you on marjoram from the moment you’re weaned. But, where I’m from…” She trailed off and joined him in demure laughter. The glee didn’t last, however, as the thought of Durum soured her mood. Her laugh trailed away as she looked back to the window, adding only, “… things are simpler.”
She steeled herself for the sympathetic reassurances that must inevitably follow such a foolish moment of weakness. But somehow he knew better, reached across the table to squeeze her hand, and said nothing as she leaned toward the window to look out into the woods behind the restaurant.
The silence drew the neatly dressed serving boy over. “Ma’am?” he asked.
Josette leaned back from the window, and the alabaster woods disappeared behind her own reflection in the glass. “Suckling duck, was it?” she asked Roland.
“Stuffed duckling,” he corrected.
She looked at the boy and said, “Stuffed duckling, for two.”
“And a magnum of Gebyl,” Roland added. “The ’98, please.”
* * *
“GEARS HAD SOLDIER’S heart,” Jutes said, standing off to the side and staring straight across the path of the darts, at a blank wall. “He used to scream out in the night, aboard ship.”
Bernat swallowed hard. “He never did it aboard Mistral.”
“Only ’cause, a couple years back, he noticed he clenched his fists before the screaming started. So he took to tying a sharp piece of wire around the end of one finger before he went to sleep, and if he clenched his fists in the night, it’d wake him up.” He frowned. “What makes you ask about it?”
“No particular reason,” Bernat said, staring at his feet. He looked up. “Was Gears hurt badly, in the airship crashes he survived? It must take a grievous wound to produce such dread.”
“That’s the bloody thing,” Jutes said, laughing without humor. “He came away from every one without a bloody scratch, just to die like that.”
At the line, with a dart in his hand, Bernat said, “He was a good man.”
Jutes laughed. “He was a scoundrel and a lecher.”
“Just as I said.” Bernat tossed the dart and hit his mark. He rested a moment before throwing the next, leaning on his cane. It had never occurred to him before, that the legs were the slightest bit involved in throwing darts, but it was occurring to him now with every galvanic spasm that wracked his poor knee.
“How’s that leg doing, my lord?” Jutes asked.
“Better,” Bernat said. “Yours?”
“Still gives me trouble, now and again, but most days I hardly notice it. Just a twinge when I walk, really. Nothing more.”
Bernat stood straight, letting his cane lean against his hip. He threw and hit a five—not very detrimental to his current game, but not what he was aiming for. “Goddamn it,” he muttered, as he hobbled off to sit nearby, leaving Jutes to retrieve the darts.
“Yer just having an off night, is all. Happens to the best of us, my lord, and likewise to such as you.”
Bernat couldn’t help but grin. “Sergeant Jutes, you’ve insulted me,” he said, and saw the man tense in response. “I’m touched.”
“Well, you’re one of us now, sir,” Jutes said, relaxing. “As much as you may come to regret it.” He threw and hit a twenty.
Bernat drained half a pint of rancid beer. “I already regret it. The air corps wrecks
your body, tears your friends away, makes you stare into the face of death every day you’re aloft, and what does it ever give back?”
Jutes threw another twenty, which put him nineteen away from winning the game. “Not rightly sure, sir. If you ever do work it out, be sure to let me know.”
“You’ll be the first.”
And with that, Jutes threw a nineteen to win.
“Damn it, man! How do you do it?” Bernat asked, more in wonder than irritation.
“For one thing, sir, I drink about half as much as you do.”
Bernat could hardly deny it, for the evidence was pouring down his throat at that very moment. He held up his finger to beg patience as he finished off the pint, slapped the mug down on the table, and answered Jutes with a loud and vulgar belch. “That may be so,” he finally concluded.
A quartet of rough men rose from their seats and approached the board, looking a threatening question at Bernat. They were not the same men who wanted to play earlier, he thought, though they shared a similar odor. Perhaps they were related.
“Another game!” Bernat said, sparing them the briefest glance before rising, cane in hand. “We’re going to play until I win one, Jutes.”
Jutes looked serenely from the men to Bernat. “Is that fair, sir?”
Bernat grinned. “Fair? Not a bit, but what the hell’s the point of being an aristocrat, if things are going to be fair?” He stood and walked toward the four rather large ruffians, ignoring the pain in his leg so he could keep his cane tight in his hand, ready to use as a club. “If these fellows have a problem with that, then we shall set them back in their place using the method historically preferred by the aristocracy: overwhelming violence.”
The apparent leader of the little group, or at least the cleanest of them and the one with the most teeth, brought his face near Bernat’s and said, “Now just calm down there, my fancy boy, and let us take our turn at the board.”
“I am calm,” Bernat said, and it wasn’t a lie. “And if you don’t turn around and walk away, you’re going to be calm, too. The ‘he looks so peaceful’ sort of calm.”
