by Taven Moore
Bones’s eyegleam faded from red to pink. Dammit. Bones was not allowed to make friends with wealthy, unhinged socialites. Perhaps he should encourage the ticker to pick up a gambling habit instead.
Hank wanted to argue with Remora’s attitude, but since his first order of business was to reach the Miraj, it seemed pointless to disagree now. Not that Remora waited for his input. She smiled impishly at Bones and the two of them paraded out the door, laughing and chatting as if they were on their way to a picnic.
A quick glance showed that the warden had almost completely disappeared behind the door, like a tortoise retreating into his shell. Jinn gestured to the door, waiting until Hank passed to follow him out.
They stepped out of the cold prison into the bright light of midday. A few children raced past on hoverboards, shrieking with laughter. Traffic chugged past on the cobbled road, a mixture steam-powered carriages and coal-powered delivery vans, dotted with a few horse-drawn carriages from the very wealthy.
Parked neatly against the curb, a wrought-iron carriage hitched to six matched gray horses waited. A round man in a gray top hat and waistcoat perched like a chickadee at the front, holding the reins. He bowed, removing his hat and flashing a bald pate. “Welcome, Miss Price, and guests of Miss Price. Shall we be away to the wharves then, Miss?”
“Yes, that will be lovely, Arthur,” called Remora cheerfully.
“Splendid!” the man beamed, replaced his hat, and pulled a lever at his side. A sigh of escaping air whooshed and the side of the carriage folded outward. The top fell to rest against the curb, a set of carpeted stairs leading into the belly of the carriage itself.
Hank snorted. Typical gentry. No carriage needed six horses. No carriage needed horses at all, for that matter. Only status games and political one-upmanship required pointless displays of wealth such as this.
Bones and Remora disappeared inside the carriage. Hank hesitated only a moment before joining them. Hank had made every effort to avoid being drawn into the glittering, artificial world of the gentry again, but it looked as though he was being denied the choice today. Regardless, wherever this madness took him, he wanted to make sure Bones was with him.
Besides, once he got to the ship, he could put Miss Silver Spoon, Jinn, and this whole ridiculous situation behind him. Nobody could find him if he didn’t want to be found. All he needed was a ship and a good tailwind.
11. The Man in the Raspberry Suit
That was, Remora mused as they arrived at the wharf, quite possibly the most awkward carriage ride she had ever had the misfortune to participate in.
She’d tried to make small talk, truly she had, but never before had she encountered such a dour group of individuals!
McCoy glared at Jinn. Jinn closed his eyes and looked at no one. Bones stared morosely out the carriage window.
She’d had better conversations with an empty room.
With a whoosh of escaping air, the side of the carriage opened outward, copper gears in the ceiling spinning cheerfully. Once again grasping Bones’s arm for her exit from the carriage, Remora decided that enough was really quite enough. She could hardly move forward with her plan if the captain refused to speak to her, and McCoy looked disinclined to speak to anyone while Jinn was about.
The moment they boarded the ship, she fully intended to bring an end to this ridiculous pouting of his. She had no time for tantrums. It had taken three entire days to convince her uncle that she was going on her adventure whether he approved or not, and fully another day to track down the mysterious Ratchet person mentioned by Hank and gain ownership of the Miraj.
She needed to leave before the rest of the Price family descended upon her and began making demands upon her time and future. The hints of matchmaking and the attempts of assassination had already escalated to an irritating level. Just this morning, her porridge had been interrupted by a needlebot bearing a particularly nasty poison. It was the third attempt to kill her this week, and she had quite enough of it.
No, far better that she leave immediately. To do that, she needed Hank and the Miraj. It did her no good whatsoever to have a ship without a captain. Pirating was really not her strong suit, and she felt this was an excellent time to practice one of her uncle’s favorite managerial techniques—delegation.
As Jinn and McCoy descended the stairs, a tall man wearing a tailored suit in an eye-catching shade of raspberry approached. A white felt bowler topped his thinning brown hair, and his neatly trimmed mustache did not quite hide his yellowed teeth.
The stranger’s eyes met hers and held. Drat. That meant he was here for her. Assassin? Businessman? It didn’t truly matter—he was a delay regardless of his purpose, and therefore not someone she wished to talk to. She slipped a hand into the pocket of her skirt, fingers folding around her tiny derringer.
“Ah, Miss Price! What luck to have happened upon you!” the man exclaimed as he reached them.
She smiled politely. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I do not know—”
Hank interrupted. “Ratchet, you slimy shark, you look like a ponce in that costume. Why are you here? If it’s about the money, I’m good for it, you know I am.”
Remora’s grip on the gun relaxed. So this was the famous Ratchet? She looked more closely, noting the too-crisp lines of the suit and the perfectly snowy felt of his hat. Freshly tailored—he’d only recently purchased the suit. That meant his intent was likely business—rarely did someone buy a new suit when on a mission for murder. Particularly not a white hat—stains would be quite impossible to remove.
Ratchet’s bright welcoming smile faltered slightly, his eyes flicking briefly to McCoy. “Your debt has been paid, I’ve no business with you.”
“Paid?” said McCoy.
Remora sighed. Why would no one let her discuss this in private with the man? The trade agreements she had sat in on with her uncle taught her that captains were notoriously short-tempered when it came to their ships. She would prefer to bring up the matter gently rather than simply blurting it out.
“Was there something you needed, Mr. Ratchet?” she said, very deliberately not meeting McCoy’s gaze. The captain was staring at her with an unpleasantly suspicious look. She needed to change the subject.
Once again the center of attention, Ratchet brightened. “Yes! Indeed there is something I feel we need to discuss. It concerns your ownership of the Miraj. Perhaps we could speak . . . privately?”
Remora closed her eyes and counted to five. One of her more recent governesses had suggested it as a technique to control her tongue after she’d suggested to the Duke of Farthen that he might wish to wear a hat to hide the bald spot on the top of his head.
The counting never worked, but she held out the hope that someday it might.
“Mr. Ratchet,” she said, opening her eyes, “I do not feel that we have anything to discuss. Our business agreement was carried out in my absence. Mr. McCoy’s debt has been paid in full and ownership of the Miraj has been transferred to my name. You have your money; I have my signed Writ of Ownership. My uncle has seen to it that all of the appropriate legal authorities have been notified and all of the proper paperwork has been filed. Now if you’ll pardon me, “ she said, turning to Hank and refusing to cringe under his infuriated glare. “Mr. McCoy and I are late for a business meeting.”
“Damn right we are,” Hank said.
“Let’s not be so hasty,” said Ratchet, stepping forward. Her hand tightened on her gun again. It would be so much easier if she could simply shoot the man. Just a flesh wound. Something to slow him down. Nothing that would cause any lasting damage. Her uncle (and all of her governesses) had assured her that was an improper solution for social irritations, though they had yet to suggest a satisfactory alternative.
Impatiently, she stopped and gave Ratchet her attention once more. She really did not have time for this.
“You see, Miss—I sold the Miraj to you considerably below market value. I didn’t hav
e to sell it at all. I did so as a favor to the noble Price family. There are many ways in which a ship like the Miraj could be used to our mutual benefit. You owe me a small moment of your time, at the very least. With your name and my business ideas, we could make a fortune!”
She frowned at him. “I already have a fortune. Furthermore, I owe you nothing. If you wish to engage in business transactions with the Price family, you should contact the Price estate directly. You couldn’t possibly believe this to be the proper way to—oh!” she paused, eyes widening. “Oh, heavens me, I nearly missed it. You’re grifting me, aren’t you?”
Ratchet took a step back, brow furrowing. “Oh dear.” She turned to Hank for clarification. “That is the correct term, is it not? Grift? Hornswoggle? Bribery? Blackmail?”
He blinked at her. Her smile dimmed. “Is that . . . not the correct word? I could have sworn it was.”
Bones cleared his throat, a sound like someone shaking a tin can full of pebbles. “Yes, Remora. ‘Grift’ is the proper word.”
“Wonderful! Thank you!” she said brightly, then turned back to Ratchet. “I’m terribly sorry, but I really am in quite a hurry. I would like to finish this conversation, though. I’ve never been grifted before! On my return, we shall have to continue. At your place, I think. With tea and biscuits, of course. We must keep this civilized.”
Ratchet’s mouth flapped, but no sound escaped. Hank barked a laugh, smothering it with a hand.
“Welcome to my world,” he said to Ratchet, then turned and began walking down the dock.
Remora hurried to join him, but paused briefly, turning back. “I am being quite serious,” she called to Ratchet. “You mustn’t forget the tea!”
She waved for Jinn and Bones to follow, then darted forward to catch up to Hank. She wouldn’t put it past him to try and set sail without her, and they had a lot to discuss.
12. Sea Legs
Hank boarded the Miraj like a man coming home. She floated in one of the broad harbor bays on the wealthier side of the docks. On either side of her, bright-canvassed clippers nodded like sleek thoroughbreds. By contrast, she looked like a rusty lemon dropped in a bathtub. She rode low in the water as if she’d sprung a slow leak and her sails spiked outward at odd angles, a crazed patchwork of scavenged canvas.
She looked like an accident, as if she could fall apart at any moment.
That was precisely the way Hank intended her to look. He couldn’t hide the fact that she was an airship—but older airships commonly had their starshard uncoupled and repurposed for a newer airship design. The shardless ships often found themselves scrapped, but a few were seaworthy, if a captain were desperate enough to want a ship that old.
The Miraj’s wood creaked and groaned in welcome and he smiled as he ran a hand across the rusted metal of her deck railing. She pitched once, like a spirited horse testing her master, and his weight automatically shifted to the rolling deck. Behind him, Remora gasped and gripped the railing tightly.
Hank’s smile deepened. Perhaps a few minutes on board a real ship was all it would take to frighten the girl back home to her bankrolls and fancy parties.
It had been amusing to watch her flabbergast Ratchet—satisfying to watch that old goat, pampered and bedecked in a costume that would put the playwrights to shame, flap his lips like sails in the wind. Even so, the Miraj was his, just as surely as he was hers. No piece of paper could change that.
He’d thank Remora for paying off his debt, assure her that he’d pay her back what he owed, toss her back ashore like a discarded fish, and be on his way.
Jinn wouldn’t be so easy to get rid of, but Hank was on home ground now. He had the advantage, and as long as he had the Miraj, he was never unarmed.
He moved behind the nearest sailarm, kneeling down to spin the rusty metal hatch wheel covering the stairs to belowdecks.
“Bones!” he barked. Immediately, the ticker stood at his side.
“Captain?”
“We’ll be setting sail soon. I need you to check her, stem to stern. Make sure she’s still seaworthy. And make sure that rat of a loan shark didn’t install any nasty surprises while we were away.”
“Aye, Captain.” The ticker sketched a salute and moved off to do his duty. Hank nodded, grateful that his first mate hadn’t argued the order. Bones was business itself when it came to the ship—that’s what made him such a great first mate.
Still, Hank knew Bones would rather stay and discuss the business with Remora, but he didn’t like the way the ticker got all soft when the girl was around. She was trouble, and he didn’t want any latent heroics from Bones to keep him from throwing her off the ship when they were done.
The girl’s baffling hold over his first mate was a worry for another day. For now, he just wanted to get everyone except himself and Bones off his ship, and out of sight of land as quickly as possible.
He glanced around and saw the girl still clinging to the railing. His grin widened. No sea legs on her, then. She looked like she’d never even been off land before.
“Come on then,” he called to her, one boot kicking the portcap securely open. “I thought you were in a hurry!”
Her face flushed, then paled. She bit her bottom lip and narrowed her eyes, visually screwing up her courage before releasing the railing and darting across the curved metal deck to his side. The ship took that moment to give a particularly nasty buck and the girl skittered off course, nearly losing her footing. Every breeze seemed to toss her slight form to the side, and every pitch and roll of the ship caught her by surprise.
More slowly, Jinn followed, his black robes catching the wind and billowing sharply. Some of Hank’s mirth fled. He’d have liked to see the calm and collected Shima brother fly artlessly across the hull, but he supposed that was a bit much to ask. The Shinra’ere walked the ship as easily as he’d walked the land, hardly even leaning to keep his balance.
Remora finally made it to his side, clutching the portcap with a white-knuckled grip. She turned her face up to his and instead of the frustration and embarrassment he expected to see, she smiled. Pale, but with two bright patches of red upon her cheeks, she grinned. “Goodness! That will take a bit of getting used to, won’t it?”
She looked . . . exhilarated. She was too thin by far and as out of place as a sea minnow in a bucket, but something in those wide brown eyes made him want to smile back at her.
He quashed the feeling, killing the last of the mirth he’d felt at watching her tossed about the deck. She was the enemy. “Are we going to have that business meeting now, or would you like to play about on the decks for a while first?” he said.
The brightness in those brown eyes dimmed a little. He scowled at the pang of guilt he felt for ruining her mood. He wasn’t her wet-nurse. If she wanted coddling, there was a continent full of pandering simpletons she could go back to.
“You’re right, of course.” She turned to Jinn. “May I request you please wait out here until McCoy and I complete our business?”
The tall Shinra gave a shallow bow from the waist. “It is my understanding that the outcome of your business will affect my own mission. I will wait.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you, Jinn.” She began to descend the ladder through the open portcap, then paused, looking back up at the Shinra. “Oh! If my things arrive while I’m still downstairs, could you please tell them to begin setting up without me? And if the cook arrives, tell him I’d like a cup of Melange, my orange spice tea, please? And order something for yourself as well if you’d like.”
“Scratch that,” Hank barked. “She won’t be staying. Don’t let them put anything in my ship.”
Remora rolled her eyes and winked at Jinn. The Shinra had the audacity to wink one red eye at her in return. Hank growled. “You. Inside. Now,” he said to Remora.
Wisely, she walked.
13. Starbirth
Hank and Remora sat on opposite sides of the table bolted to the floor of the Miraj’s ready room. Hank sat back,
comfortable in his captain’s chair, and waited for Remora to speak first. He’d spent most of the trip plotting the course of this conversation. First, she’d say something along the lines of, “I bought it, it’s my ship,” or maybe even “I’m a Price, so you have to do what I say.”
Remora watched him with wide brown eyes, one finger idly spinning a long lock of red hair. He readied his replies and waited for the inevitable. Fifteen minutes—thirty on the topside—and she was off his ship and out of his hair.
“I’m curious,” she said. “What is your plan to get rid of me?”
Hank’s tongue stumbled, choking back the prepared response to the questions she hadn’t asked. He’d carried sacks of potatoes that weighed more than this girl. How did she manage to catch him flat-footed every time she opened her mouth? It was beyond irritating. “What do you mean?” he finally asked, his voice as even as he could manage.
She waved aside his attempt at politeness with a short laugh. “Oh, don’t be so modest. Everyone always has a plan to get rid of me. Well, everyone but Uncle. It’s okay. I won’t be mad, I’m just curious.”
Hank frowned, searching her face for an angle. What was she up to? He saw nothing but genuine inquisitiveness in her brown eyes and felt incredibly disturbed by that. A normal person assumed that everyone wanted to be around them—he had several good confidence scams that hinged on precisely that ego. What made a person nonchalantly believe that nobody wanted them around?
And damnably, she was right. Of course he had a plan to get rid of her.
He straightened his shoulders. As if she needed his pity—the richest woman on the entire western coast.
He switched tactics. Maybe if he played along with her bizarre games, she’d leave of her own volition. “I planned on telling you that I was going to pay you back for the debt to Ratchet, kick you off the ship, and sail away before you could send airships looking for me.”
