Call of Fire

by Beth Cato

  As Cy helped her to sit, she was reminded that she was still quite fortunate in her current companions. “My suggestion was reasonable, wasn’t it?” She tried not to sound whiny. “And they laughed at it. Dismissed the idea out of hand.”

  “Of course it was reasonable, Ingrid. More than that, it was respectful.” He drew the shades on the windows, creating cozy dimness. He moved stiffly, not willing to meet her gaze.

  “Cy, what is it?”

  “When I first went to the control cabin as the attack started, the crew was making note of fires down below. Large ones, newly started. They could’ve been started by lightning from the bird, or caused by other airships that the thunderbird downed.”

  “Oh.” Ingrid sank deeper into the chair. “You mean, there’s a chance that the thunderbird might have taken down the Palmetto Bug.”

  He was quiet for a moment, running his hand over his jaw. “This is the heading it’d take if it was flying directly toward Seattle on the way to Baranov.”

  There had already been the risk of the airship going down elsewhere if Fenris were injured, if the thieves were inept, if a scuffle occurred on board. But this . . . Ingrid couldn’t bear the thought, and not simply for what it’d mean for the fate of Mr. Sakaguchi and so many Chinese here and abroad. She couldn’t imagine the world without Fenris’s acerbic wit and miraculous mechanical feats, and Lee with his boundless curiosity and bright grins.

  “There’s no proof, Cy. We’ll find them in Seattle. We must. We’ll search every airship dock. You said you used to live there, right? You know your way around?”

  “More or less.”

  “See? Roosevelt will drop us off and pretend he doesn’t know us. We’ll find Fenris and Lee. We can pass word along to Roosevelt that we found Lee, and figure out what we do from there. God willing, we’ll find Mr. Sakaguchi in Seattle, too.”

  Cy sank into the chair across the way, his head in his hands. He stared at the window, silent.

  Ingrid stood and made two tentative steps to reach his chair. He tilted up his face to meet hers. His bristled jaw scraped her tender skin as they kissed. This wasn’t a passionate kiss, but one that affirmed her presence, her support. When they broke apart, she desperately wanted to say something inspired, something helpful, even though she knew she’d likely muck it up.

  “I’m not a natural optimist, Cy,” she said shakily, her words slow. “Mr. Sakaguchi was always the one with aggravating good cheer in my family. I need you. I need you to help me stay uplifted during this fight. I need someone to be my hope in this awful world.”

  “I won’t lie to you, Ingrid.”

  “I’m not asking you to lie to me. But you’re not being honest with yourself either. There’s no proof that they crashed here or anywhere else. We’ve all stayed alive so far amid ridiculous odds.”

  The look in his eyes changed. Ingrid kissed him again, this time drawing a soft moan from his throat. “That was a mighty fine St. Crispin’s Day speech,” he murmured.

  “You said not a minute ago that you wouldn’t lie to me, and now you compare my words to Shakespeare? Hyperbole on that scale is pretty close to a lie.” She gave him a gentle kick in the shins.

  “If any ship could outrun a thunderbird, it’d be the Bug.” Cy nodded, more like his old self. “I’m sorry to vex you like that. These recent days have been as pleasant as chugging castor oil.” He motioned her back. “You rest up. I can bring you some food.”

  Ingrid wasn’t about to argue with that. “Food sounds divine.” She really needed to warm up, too. She’d obviously used up her stored earth power and started to pull from her own body’s energy again. She’d likely suffer for that tomorrow, and for days to come.

  The damage wouldn’t be permanent, though. She was young and strong. Given some time to recuperate, she’d bounce back. Cy was fussing for nothing.

  Ingrid sat back in her chair, considered propriety for a moment, then slipped off her shoes. She tucked her knees up close. Apparently she hadn’t masked her shivers very well, as Cy grabbed a blanket from a rack and tucked it around her. He started to rummage in the food pantry. Roosevelt and the rest of the crew were busy for now. This was a good chance to rest, if she could.

  “Lee and Fenris are alive and we’ll find them,” she murmured to herself. She almost believed it.

  Chapter 10

  Sunday, April 22, 1906

  There was no miasma or sign of agitation in the earth of Seattle, but the potential for disaster was visible, gorgeous, and unnerving.

  Ingrid had seen many photographs of Mount Rainier over the years. Most any geomancy textbook featured an image or two. For a time, when she was young, she confused it with Mount Fuji in Japan. Both mountains dominated skylines above their cities. Mr. Sakaguchi had told her back then that the cities themselves were quite different. “If you’re confused, look to the roofs,” he said.

  That advice would be ineffectual now. After recent fires, Seattle had been built anew. From her vantage point near the top of Queen Anne Hill, in one of Mr. Roosevelt’s sitting rooms, the city looked distinctly Japanese with many curved, red-tiled roofs peppering a landscape abundant in trees and greenery. Beyond it all, Mount Rainier loomed, a giant with a thick white cap of snow.

  “It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” murmured Cy as he stepped alongside her. Coffee steam curled into his face. He breathed it in with a delighted sigh. Ingrid would never understand how he could willingly tolerate the stuff. For her, it would forever be a drink of desperation.

  “I knew it was big but it’s so . . . much.”

  “The shift of engine noise caused me to wake up as we approached the city last night. All that snow up there glowed, even with it being a new moon.” He sipped from his mug.

  The Bucephalus had docked at around three in the morning. Ingrid had roused long enough to stagger down the private mooring mast and into a house lit by low electric lights. She had a vague memory of Cy telling her he was sleeping in the room next door and to give the wall a good thump if she needed him, but then she fell into a glorious bed and remembered nothing more until the sun woke her.

  The more that magic physically depleted her, the more her body acted like that of a somnolent teenage boy.

  Not only was it damned annoying, but it was foolhardy. She needed to be alert. Her wits had been as thick as a straw-tick mattress last night. Blum herself could have stood in the doorway and Ingrid would have moved as swiftly as a tortoise.

  Cy set down his coffee long enough to fill a plate from the small private breakfast spread a maid had set up in the rather sterile sitting room. Ingrid guessed that they’d been bunked in an empty servants’ wing of the household. Only one maid had interacted with them, which Ingrid found comforting. The fewer people who saw them here, the better.

  Cy piled up three biscuits, each already split and bleeding butter, and a thick cut of ham. A banana—a sign of luxury as sure as gold—curved like a smile on one side of the plate.

  “What’s the full story on Mount Rainier’s Hidden One?” he asked as he began to eat.

  “This mountain is home to a powerful spirit originally called Tacoma. That was the name for the mountain itself, too, until . . . well.” She summarized the ways of white settlement with a tired shrug. “Tales say that tribes wouldn’t travel above the snow line. There was said to be a lake of fire up there, and intruders weren’t welcome. Tacoma only wished to see family.” She drank from her cup of green tea and eyed the ham on Cy’s plate. She’d already eaten, but the slab of meat still looked tempting. “Maybe when I have my own house someday, I should get a lake of fire to keep people away.”

  “I don’t think it’d work. Get a lake of fire, and soon enough you’ll have salesmen coming around offering new and improved lakes of fire.”

  “True.” She snorted and looked out on Seattle. Was Tacoma some kind of relation to her? The idea was strange, yet the more she thought of Pele as her grandmother, the more the idea felt right. Ingrid had known from her
earliest years that Mama and Mr. Sakaguchi loved her, and yet she had never known quite how to view herself in relation to them. She was set apart by her skin, the texture of her hair, the way she channeled energy. She never fit in; that’s why she used to joke that she was like a fantastic. Now that had turned out to be the truth, though the divine aspect was difficult to comprehend or accept.

  She pulled her gaze from the mountain to the city below. All she could hope was that it now housed Fenris and Lee, and maybe Mr. Sakaguchi, too.

  Someone knocked on the door. Before either she or Cy could turn, it opened to admit Mr. Roosevelt. He was neatly attired in a pin-striped brown suit. “Please continue to eat and drink. I cannot stay for long; I’m due at the Rainier Club on the half hour. I hope everything in my household has met with your approval?”

  Ingrid and Cy murmured gratitude as Mr. Roosevelt joined them at the window.

  “I will pursue the stolen kermanite,” he said without preamble. “I still would like to know how Abram Carmichael went from presumed dead in Unified Pacific custody in China to Thuggee hands in San Francisco. There are rumors of alliances between Chinese and Indian rebels, but if the Chinese knew what Mr. Carmichael could do, I don’t see him being handed away.”

  “That assumes the exchange was a willing one,” Ingrid pointed out. Her father had been a cruel and unpleasant man, but he hadn’t deserved to be tortured and passed around like that.

  “True. Political alliances these days resemble hungry dogs gathered at a food dish. A single snap, a growl, and suddenly good playmates are in a deadly melee.” He began to pace, his motion causing the sheer curtains to sway. “If you cannot find Lee Fong, send a message to my house here. Say the fire has gone out. Find him, say the opposite.” He pulled a thick envelope from inside his jacket. “You trust this man with your life?” He looked between Ingrid and Cy.

  “I meant what I said before. I wouldn’t have survived the earthquake without him.”

  “If I find out her trust is misplaced, I’ll attend to you personally, Mr. Jennings.” Mr. Roosevelt handed the envelope to Cy. Ingrid grimaced. Of course Mr. Roosevelt passed it to the only man present. “Here are addresses. No context included. If you must get hold of me elsewhere in the country, visit these places, or write them. The people are mine. They will contact me and will also supply you with money, within reason. I must leave here for San Francisco later today. The refugee crisis is being handled by fool mugwumps.”

  Cy opened and shut his mouth. Ingrid’s heart ached. She knew that he desperately wanted to ask after his father.

  “What about Ambassador Blum, sir?” she asked.

  At that, Mr. Roosevelt sighed. “You’re prey to her, young Miss Carmichael. Even more, you’re a fellow member of the fair sex, a woman of power at a disadvantage in a man’s world. She often mourns the lack of women like her. I’m afraid for you. I’m afraid that her respect for you will bring you all the more woe.”

  Ingrid compressed her lips. Roosevelt’s respect for her invited different sorts of woe, not that he could see that. Still, he was far preferable to Blum.

  “I will discreetly help you however I can,” Roosevelt continued. “I am firmly of the belief that you should not be abused as your father was.”

  Cy angled his body forward. “Pardon me, sir, but what would you see happen with Miss Carmichael?”

  Mr. Roosevelt considered Cy for a moment. “I would see her in a place where her pain couldn’t provoke the earth, but where she might know contemplation, happiness, and a sense of worth.”

  The answer felt almost too . . . politically pretty. Like something intended to please Mr. Sakaguchi. Cy accepted it with a neutral expression and a tiny nod.

  “I don’t intend to go down without a fight,” said Ingrid.

  “Which leads us to another matter, that of my dear friend Nobuo.” Mr. Roosevelt looked between Ingrid and Cy, his knuckles rapping on a side table. “If I can unravel this Thuggee conspiracy, we can remove the perception of guilt that has tarnished his reputation since the auxiliary explosion. You mentioned before that Lee intends to use himself to negotiate for Mr. Sakaguchi’s release. I mulled this matter over for some time. Lee cannot carry through with this plot.” Roosevelt raised a hand to request silence. “Lee Fong cannot go to the Chinese now. His people are in full diaspora since San Francisco, and they are militarizing. If he were placed in any leadership role now, that would harm his reputation later on, when, if all goes well, he will step forward as a diplomat.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but the Chinese are militarizing because they’re being butchered for simply existing.” Ingrid was increasingly irritated by Roosevelt’s idea of “help.”

  “Do you want Lee to have a gun shoved in his hands, for him to open fire on American people?” Mr. Roosevelt’s face reddened.

  “Lee is American. He was born here, same as you or me.” She levelly met his gaze. “I don’t want him being put in that position either, but what do you expect him to do? Go off with me to this hypothetical seismically dead place to keep me company while I experience contemplation and happiness? As if we’ll be happy with the knowledge that we’ve abandoned Mr. Sakaguchi to die. You know that’s what will happen. The Chinese are fighting to survive. They can’t drag around a useless Japanese geomancer indefinitely. They’ll kill him.”

  “Mr. Sakaguchi would not want Lee to risk himself this way. Lee must be the higher priority here.”

  “I do appreciate the help you’ve offered, for getting us to Seattle, but you’re asking an awful lot of us while you stay in the shadows,” Ingrid said softly.

  “I ask a great deal of you because of your unique capabilities.” He looked at Ingrid, not Cy, as he spoke. “You have proven yourself competent and you keep America’s interests in mind. I cannot send soldiers in pursuit of Lee, not without provoking undesired questions and escalating tensions with the Chinese.”

  “That is true,” Cy added. “But there are still inherent risks with putting Ingrid in places where she might be hurt. I’ll do whatever I can to keep her safe, but I can only do so much.” His words carried his frustration.

  “Do you want me to place guards on Miss Carmichael?” Mr. Roosevelt shook his head. “Would that encourage Lee Fong to come with you? Would that truly make you feel safer?”

  “No,” Ingrid said in a small voice. “I wouldn’t trust them.” Nor am I sure I can trust you, she thought.

  “Do what you can to find Lee Fong while keeping yourself safe, and then immediately retreat from the public eye and let me know of your whereabouts. Your coloration sets you apart, and Miss Blum will have agents in search of you.”

  “I’m fairly well aware of my coloration and how I stand out at this point in my life, Mr. Roosevelt.”

  To her surprise, he leaned down to give her an avuncular kiss on the cheek. “You’re a credit to your dear departed mother and to your adoptive father, Miss Carmichael. Stay the course! I’ll depart the household. Wait awhile longer, then exit through the alley. Mary will show you.” He briefly clasped Cy’s hand. “Godspeed.” With that, he left.

  With Roosevelt gone, the room felt empty, quiet. Ingrid nudged the faithful laundry bag with her foot. “Discreet help is better than no help, but damn it, why must everything be so complicated? Abandoning Mr. Sakaguchi . . .” She shook her head, tears in her eyes.

  “Don’t think ahead that much. We need to find Lee and Fenris first, or we have no way to negotiate for Mr. Sakaguchi at all.” Cy ran his hand through his hair. “Seattle’s grown in the past few years. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

  “We’ll find them, Cy.”

  He nodded. The affirmation didn’t reach his eyes.

  The pleasant weather Ingrid admired from the window had shifted to a chilly drizzle by the time they departed. The housekeeper, Mary, supplied them with lunch for later and an old hardback luggage case to replace the conspicuous laundry bag.

  “I suppose Fenris and Lee will be happy to see us for th
e laundry alone,” she said. “I hope they appreciate the effort we’re going through to make the delivery.”

  “Fenris doesn’t notice if anything is stained or dirty. He’d live in the same clothes for a year and a day, if he could.”

  “If I could have asked for anything more at the house this morning, it would have been a bath, but that can wait. I don’t mind stinking if we can find Fenris and Lee all the faster.”

  “Maybe that can still work out today. The idea of a bath appeals to me as well.” He said it innocently enough, but Ingrid gave him a little side eye as they rode the Counterbalance down the steep slope of Queen Anne Hill toward downtown.

  The mechanism was ingenious: in order for the electric cars to safely go up and down the hill, at either end of the ride the attendant would hook up the car to a sixteen-ton weight attached to the cable. That weight would travel in the opposite direction of the passenger car.

  She was grateful that Cy had a pleasant distraction for a few minutes. He had obviously been on the electric cars before but he still took in the device with a boyish smile as they clanked downhill.

  Downtown featured signs in both English and Japanese. Considering the niceness of the area, the streets smelled foul and there was a surprising amount of garbage about. As Ingrid and Cy worked their way closer to the largest ports at Elliott Bay, the pedestrian demographics shifted to the less affluent and more white. Other women of color were about town, too. Many carried baskets of groceries for themselves or employers. White women and children wore their Sunday best as they whirred past in rickshaws pulled by dark-skinned men.

  With a start, Ingrid realized they were wearing their Sunday best because it was Sunday. She stopped and leaned against a brick building. Rain droplets pattered on the back of her hood.

  “Ingrid?” Cy quietly asked. “Is it a . . . ?”

  “No. Not a seism,” she whispered. “It just struck me that it’s Sunday. It’s been a week since the auxiliary, since all this started. It feels like a lifetime.”