by Ash, Sarah
“The Eagle ,” said Branville without hesitation.
“Really? More of a buzzard in size, I’d say, than an eagle.”
Some of the cadets sniggered at the major’s observation. Toran saw Branville’s face flush dark red. He can’t take a joke. Yet Eagle is a good name . . . a surprisingly apt one. “How about Eaglet , then?” he heard himself suggesting. “Or Aiglon , in the old tongue? When we make the craft full-size, we can call it Eagle .”
In the ensuing silence, he became aware that Branville was staring at him, stumped, for once, for words.
“ Aiglon sounds good to me,” said the major. “Branville?”
Branville curtly nodded his assent.
***
“Damn.” Gerard had been so caught up in his own thoughts that it was only the slip of the chisel and the sharp pain as it sliced into his finger that brought him back to himself with a jolt. “Idiot; what am I doing, day-dreaming when I should be paying attention?” Blood dripped into the molten metal, making it sizzle and hiss. Cursing, he drew out his clean handkerchief to wrap around the gash. And as he pressed the edges of the cut together, he had an unexpected moment of déjà vu .
I’ve done this before. He had been in the university laboratory, toiling into the small hours to finish making the working parts for his sky-craft and, in his sleep-starved clumsiness, he had cut his hand, mingling his blood with the molten metal he was pouring into the molds he had fashioned.
His face seared by the intense heat, Gerard stood back, watching as the steam cleared and the contents of the molds began to cool. It didn’t cause a problem then, in spite of my concerns, so I just have to trust that it’ll be all right this time.
“You all right over there, Ingenieur?” Mahieu, who had been assisting him (persuaded to stay late by the promise of a steak and porter supper at Pobjoy’s chop house afterwards) glanced up.
“Nicked myself,” Gerard said, grimacing.
Mahieu shrugged. “Never remove your gauntlets till the work’s done. Isn’t that what Maistre Cardin insists on?”
“Guilty, as charged.”
Mahieu grinned. “Not like you to be careless, Ingenieur. But why did you take on this extra work for the academy when you’ve been so busy?”
“A favor for a friend.” Gerard was staring at the contents of the molds, hoping that he wouldn’t have to cast them again; Toran would be back in the morning, eager to start assembling his engine and he didn’t want to disappoint him.
“I’ll finish off here while you get that cut cleaned up.”
***
“Génie,” Toran murmured as he stared in wonder at all individual parts of his engine laid out on Bernay’s table, each piece placed upon the detailed drawing the ingenieur had used as a template. “They’re so small.” He picked one up and began to examine it minutely. “But perfect.”
“They’ll need some fine-tuning before they’re ready to be assembled,” said Bernay. “I’ve brought files and machine oil. If you like I’ll give you a hand.”
“I don’t know how to thank you—” Toran began but Bernay shook his head.
“No need for thanks. Frankly, I enjoyed the exercise; I haven’t had so much fun since I was a student.” He grinned at Toran and Toran found himself grinning back, surprised to see how much younger Bernay looked when he smiled.
“Let’s get started, then,” he said, picking up a file.
***
“My grandfather had a theory.” Toran had never shared Grandpa’s Denys’s philosophy with anyone else before. He had come to look forward to these sessions with Gerard Bernay which reminded him of the times he had spent helping his grandfather in his workshop. He felt so at ease with Bernay that he had begun to chat away quite unselfconsciously.
“Oh?” Bernay glanced up from the tiny cog he was carefully filing. “About what?”
“He used to say that a gifted ingenieur was born, not made. He said that any project they touched would be instilled with a special quality. He called it ‘ Génie. ’”
“ Génie ?”Bernay laid down the file, smiling. “An apt name. Did he believe he was born with the gift?”
Toran shook his head. “No. But he thought I might have been.”
“I wish I could have met your grandfather.”
“You would’ve got on well. I really miss him.” Toran was so busy concentrating on making two of little cogs fit together that it was only as the mechanism began to move that he realized what he had said. He looked up gratefully at Bernay over the mechanism, unashamedly blinking away the tears that had filled his eyes. He had known instinctively that Bernay would understand where others, even Lorris, made fun of his obsession.
“How did you do that?” Bernay was staring at the whirring machine. “What’s powering it?”
“I—I don’t know.” Toran stared too. Bernay came closer. The intricate little mechanism whirred faster. “Move further off.” Bernay slowly backed away, not taking his eyes from the little engine. As he retreated, the moving parts slowed again.
“It wasn’t me,” Toran said. “It seems to be you.”
Gerard shook his head in disbelief. “It must be some residual momentum that we created when we were assembling the parts.”
It was only much later when Toran had returned to the academy that Gerard remembered that his own blood had mingled with the molten metal from which the parts had been forged, exactly as had happened in the university laboratory.
Something in my blood sets the mechanism in motion?
But the thought was so irrational and unscientific that he almost laughed out loud. A mere coincidence; any ingenieur worth his salt would find a credible reason for the puzzling phenomenon.
Chapter 14
The cadets of the Paladur Military Academy marched briskly onto the frosty parade ground and lined up for inspection, chins jutting up over their stiff collars, gilt buttons gleaming in the pale winter morning sun, boots freshly polished.
Colonel Mouzillon, followed by Major Bauldry and the other staff, walked slowly along the rows, adjusting an epaulette here, tutting over a scuffed boot there, finally climbing onto the raised platform from which he usually dismissed his charges. But, instead, Major Bauldry barked, “At ease!” and the colonel removed a letter from his pocket which he raised high so that the imperial seal could be glimpsed.
“I have just been informed that the academy’s design has made it through to the next round of the Emperor’s competition.”
Toran, whose thoughts had been miles away, heard the words “design” and “competition”.
“Colonel Nils Lindgren, the Emperor’s representative, will be paying us a visit to assess whether our entry will be selected for the final shortlist.”
Toran felt a sudden tightness in his chest; he was so excited at the news that he could hardly breathe. He heard as if from very far away the other cadets raising a rowdy cheer—and it wasn’t until someone clapped him heartily on the back that he woke up.
“Well done, Toran!” Lorris was beaming at him.
“The working scale model must be ready by the end of the month when Colonel Lindgren arrives,” Colonel Mouzillon announced. “So, as a special concession, Major Bauldry’s design team will be excused from weapons training in the following weeks to concentrate on their competition entry.”
“You lucky dogs,” whispered Lorris.
“There can be no slacking off now,” continued Colonel Mouzillon. “It’s an honor that the academy has been selected; it would be an even greater honor if our students’ design was chosen for the final round of the competition to be held at Tielborg University.”
“A trip to Tielen.” Lorris nudged Toran. “Isn’t that where you want to study after the academy?”
The Department of the Mechanical Arts at Tielborg University . . .
Toran nodded. Behind Lorris he saw that Branville was staring directly at him. But the instant their gazes intersected, Branville looked away. Toran scowled, in spite of himself.
“Cheer up,” said Lorris. “Why the glum face? Anyone would think you’d just been disqualified.”
If only I didn’t have to work with Branville. Something in that glare of his tells me he’s going to make every moment of this competition difficult for me.
***
As Gerard came out of the foundry, his ears ringing with the pounding of the machinery, he passed Mahieu the foreman.
“Letter’s just come for you, Ingenieur!” Mahieu called, his breath steaming on the frosty air. “Looks important. I’ve left it on your desk.”
Gerard nodded his thanks and quickened his pace toward the works office, wondering who had written to him; since the scandal at the university, his father had all but disowned him, never putting pen to paper.
So unless the old man’s suffered a change of heart . . .
The warmth from the stove in the office was stifling after the freezing chill outside. Gerard unwrapped his woolen scarf and shrugged off his greatcoat, then searched for the letter. Mahieu had left it propped up on the Works ledger where he could hardly miss it. But this was not personal correspondence; the creamy paper bore the imperial seal.
The competition.
Gerard seized it and eagerly cracked open the seal:
“To Ingenieur Gerard Bernay:
“It is with the greatest regret that I write on behalf of the judges to inform you that your entry for the imperial competition to design a Flying Machine has been disqualified.”
“ What ?” Gerard checked the wording again, just to be sure that he had not misread the stark message written in some obscure imperial secretary’s fussily neat handwriting. The second paragraph was even harder to digest.
“The judges declared that your design was too similar to another entry from a well-known and established ingenieur and, rather than insist that you undergo a cross-examination to defend yourself, they thought it best to avoid any kind of unfortunate scandal which would reflect unfavorably on your professional reputation.”
For a moment the perfectly scribed letters blurred. The letter dropped from his hands to the floor. He tore off his glasses, knuckling the wetness from his eyes. Tears of frustration almost spilled out as he furiously blinked them away. He had not realized until then how much he’d been pinning on the outcome of this competition—or how much he’d been hoping to return to Tielborg and reinstate his good name.
“Damn it all to hell.” He brought his clenched fist down on the desk, setting the pens rattling. “An ‘established ingenieur?’ Someone must have stolen my work. Someone at Tielborg University. Someone who—”
And then the realization that he had been set up sank in.
“Guy Maulevrier. Only you knew . . .” Even saying his tutor’s name aloud left a bitter taste souring his mouth. “Why did I trust you?” He had been played for a fool. “How could I have been so gullible?” It would be almost impossible to prove that he was the first to do the research and the designs; everything had been undertaken in Maulevrier’s department, under his supervision. Only one other student had watched him working on his drawings late into the night and that had been Edvin Stenmark.
The one person in the whole empire Maulevrier knows damn well I could never ask to testify on my behalf.
Chapter 15
Azhkendir
The neat columns of figures in the estate accounts grew ever more indistinct before Gavril’s eyes. He looked up, realizing that his sight wasn’t failing, but that the sky had darkened and flakes of snow were drifting past the windows of his study.
“Here comes winter,” he said aloud, reaching for the tinder to light the oil lamp on his desk. Winter was harsh this far north and the prospect of the long months of gloom ahead only made him regret being so far from his other home, sun-warmed Smarna with its temperate climate. As he gazed out over the gardens which were rapidly disappearing in snow mist, he heard men’s voices raised, coming from the courtyard below, loud and agitated.
The druzhina—probably arguing over some trivial matter again. Since the weather began to turn, there had been frequent disagreements over the daily duties.
Surely Askold can deal with the issue and leave me in peace to wrestle with these accounts.
“Lord Gavril!”
Apparently not.
Gavril sighed and laid down his pen. “Enter.”
Askold came in, only to be elbowed out of the way by his burly lieutenant, Gorian, whose fur-lined jacket was damp with fast-melting snow.
“Forgive us, my lord—” Askold began.
“It’s my boys, Lord Gavril.” Gorian, always blunt to the point of rudeness in his manner of speaking, cut in. He was out of breath as if he had just ridden back through the falling snow; his cheeks glowed red from the cold. “They’ve not returned. I’ve scoured the demesne for them but there’s no trace and—”
Gavril raised one hand to halt Gorian’s impassioned flow. “Your sons were out on patrol, Lieutenant? Perhaps they were forced to take shelter when the snow started.”
“Shelter? From a few flakes of snow?” Gorian let out a snort of disgust at the suggestion. “I’ve brought my lads up to handle all kinds of weather, like true druzhina.”
Askold cleared his throat. “There were reports of strangers on the northern edge of the forest. So I sent Radakh and Tarakh out to investigate. With strict orders to report straight back to me.” He shot a stern look at Gorian. “And they should have been back by noon.”
“Are you implying that my lads were malingering?” Gorian turned on his commanding officer.
“Strangers in Kerjhenezh Forest?” Gavril leaned forward, all attention now. “At this time of year? Why was I not told of this earlier?”
“Be on your guard,” the Emperor had written. “ That woman . . . bears you and your wife a deep grudge. And now that you and I are no longer ‘protected’ as we once were, we must be doubly vigilant .” He found himself wondering if this might be some new mischief orchestrated by Lilias Arbelian.
“We didn’t want to disturb you, my lord, until we’d gathered more information. They could have been pilgrims who’d got lost on their way to Saint Serzhei’s monastery.”
“But you suspect they might not have been pilgrims at all?” Gavril said. There had been “pilgrims” before who turned out to be members of the Francian Commanderie, on a mission to steal the holy relics from the monastery shrine.
“Send me back out with a patrol, my lord,” said Gorian. “The sun will set soon and the snow’s setting in.”
“Very well.” Gavril slammed the ledger shut and stood up. He was weary of poring over figures. “But I’m coming too.”
A look of alarm flickered across Askold’s face. “Suppose these strangers are here to cause trouble, my lord?”
“I assume you’re not proposing we ride out to meet them unarmed?” Gavril could not resist a barbed dig at Askold. Askold shook his head and stood back to let him lead the way.
***
“It’s still snowing,” said Ninusha, reaching up to close the winter parlor shutters and draw the heavy velvet curtains. “If it continues like this all night, we’ll be cut off by dawn.”
Larisa gave a gurgle and slid slowly sideways onto the rug at Kiukiu’s feet.
“Time to get the sleighs ready, then,” Kiukiu said, clutching her shawl closer to her as she bent down to sit Larisa upright again. “I hope your daddy will be back before nightfall, little one.” Why had Gavril insisted on accompanying the patrol? Sometimes he forgets that he’s not invulnerable any more . . .
Little Kion made a grab for Larisa’s red woolen ball; the two babies tussled amicably for a while before Kiukiu thought it was wise to distract them with the little wooden horse Semyon had carved for Larisa. Soon they were both chuckling as she made silly horse-like noises to amuse them, moving it up and down while they grabbed at its legs.
Kiukiu saw the adoring expression softening Ninusha’s eyes as she watched her baby son. And then the maid started, as if
remembering something vital, and asked, “Would you like some tea, my lady?”
“Yes, but you really don’t have to call me ‘my lady’.”
“Ilsi says I must.”
“Only if we have guests, then, to keep Ilsi satisfied. But when we’re here with the children, we can be as relaxed as we please. I’m so happy that Larisa has a playmate of her own age. Her little face lights up whenever she sees Kion.”
The wind began to rattle the shutters and a fierce draught gusted down the chimney, making the flames flicker in the grate.
“Lady Morozhka’s woken up,” Ninusha said, making the sign to avert evil as she went to pour the tea.
Kiukiu felt a shiver run through her body, setting the fine golden hairs on her arms on end. “And so have her Snow Spirits.” She had never forgotten the time she nearly died, lost in a blizzard on the moors . . . nor the eerily seductive song of the Snow Spirits, Morozhka’s Daughters, as they lured her away from the path . . .
“I’ve heard the Snow Spirits singing,” Ninusha handed her a cup of steaming tea, “but I’ve never seen them.”
“You don’t ever want to, believe me.” Kiukiu stared into the clear dark liquid; she had chosen one of Chinua’s most fragrant black blends from Khitari for today’s treat. “I would have died if Grandma Malusha hadn’t come to my rescue. Their song was so sweet . . .”
“Then the old tales are true?” Ninusha’s brown eyes widened. “The Snow Spirits sing to charm travelers off the road—and then they suck out their souls and leave them to freeze to death? Or if they find a handsome young man, they take him to Lady Morozhka to be her new lover. And when the thaw comes, his body is found, frozen in ice—”
Larisa suddenly dropped the horse with a clatter that made both mothers jump, and then she crawled off determinedly toward the woolen ball. Gavril had inserted a bell from off of one of the sleigh harnesses so that it made a bright jingling sound when rolled or shaken. Instantly Kion set off too and soon the two babies were tussling again.
