by Taven Moore
She had fully intended to fulfill her promises, yet her actions had not upheld that intent. What good was her journey if she achieved her goal through such unpleasant means?
Henceforth, she decided, she would be known not only as the girl who proved Starbirth. She would be known also as a good person, who uplifted her companions and set their goals as her own.
Something inside her loosened at the thought. Something stretched and eased, a tightness she had not even realized she had been carrying. Yes. This was good. This was right.
She looked, for just a moment, to Hank. Most of his face and expression were hidden to her. He had joined her crew for money alone. He had no stated goal, no quest for her to take up. Bones had joined because he had. What could she do for them? She would need to dig deeper, find their unstated goals and fulfill those. She thought of Hank’s stubbornness and grimaced. It would not be an easy task.
She smiled, suddenly. She was a Price. What need had she for simple tasks?
Hank caught her smile and his green eyes narrowed suspiciously. Her smile widened. Let him wonder what she was thinking. She would find a way to help him whether he liked it or not.
Snow began to speak again, her arms and body painting delicate shapes against the Miraj’s coppered walls.
“This one is through running,” Snow said, with Jinn translating. “This one’s secret is neither protection nor safe haven, a valuable item which this one keeps in hopes of selling in return for a future of her choosing. It is a many-bladed knife, sharp and cutting. The longer it is held, the deeper it wounds. This one could hear the conversation from this room, piped to her hiding spot by the one called Bones. This one knows of the Inspector Gideon and his employer. This one knows she was taken at the orchestration of this man. This one puts this ship and her crew in danger, and draws the attention of men seeking information this one wishes she did not carry.” Snow sighed, her ears pinned back. “This one would release her secret to the one called Gideon, and carry it no further. This one would be free.”
Gideon’s face showed no expression beyond kind sympathy, though his eyes gleamed. “My lady, I can assure you that I would bear your secret safely to my employer, should you entrust it to me.”
Snow’s tail thrashed. “This one will relinquish this many-bladed secret, and then she would be left alone. She would not be sought by inspectors or employers or Shinra warriors.”
Gideon bowed, doffing his gray felt hat. “None sent by my employer shall ever seek you again. You have my word, and by extension, that of my employer.”
Snow stared at him for a moment, ears pinned.
“In this one’s tenure as concubine to the Seraphs Lord Vakaano and Dame Vakaena, they would often entertain visiting dignitaries. Only thrice did they send this one away so that they might conduct their meetings in private. All were discussions with visiting Seraph. This one overheard the fourth discussion by accident, having arrived to find the door ajar and the Seraph from the skycity Guadosalam already deep in conversation. This, then, is what this one heard.”
“You worry overmuch. The Shinra’ere are no danger to us,” said Lord Phonziel, the visiting Seraph. “I cannot believe you bothered summoning me. If you wish to spread fear, it is not Guadosalam you should speak to, but Bevelle. Being so close to Ardel makes Dame Doakes paranoid enough to believe anything, so long as it leads to war. Personally, I am pleased with the status quo.”
“That is why we have called you,” said Dame Vakaena. “Your desire to maintain our current situation is well-known. Of all our brethren, you are least likely to seek personal profit from this information.”
“Indeed. I am also the least likely to act upon rumors of circumstance and vague concerns.”
“This is a waste of time, Vakaena. We can handle this situation on our own,” argued Lord Vakaano.
“I gave you a five-span of years to solve this problem your own way, Vakaano. It is now my turn, and my weapon is diplomacy. You shall abide by my will in this, or forfeit our wager.” Vakaano fell into a grudging silence. None stood against Vakaena when her silver tongue sharpened to razorblades.
Dame Vakaena continued. “Good. The situation is thus, Phonziel: our hold upon the Shinra’ere people weakens. By encouraging their little clan wars, we keep them beholden to us for supplies, but we also weaken their numbers. Should their population fall below a certain point, they cannot bolster our armies as they once did, should the land-dwelling humans grow restless again. During times of peace, they ask too many questions—questions which, need I remind you, we do not want them to know enough to ask.”
“All you have stated thus far is pure conjecture. I see no reason to fear. You have wasted a favor, asking me here for such a thing.”
“And Sozay? Is he mere conjecture?”
The room was silent for a moment, then Phonziel gave a dismissive laugh. “Conjecture, no, but he hides within the walls of Ardel like the terrified mouse he is. He is no true danger to us.”
“We have proof that he seeks a contact within the Shinra leaders. Proof that he has found it.”
“Impossible. That cannot be.” A pause. “Who has he contacted?”
“That Shinra is dead already. My concern is not for a single curious Shinra, it is the questions she may have asked—and the people who might have listened to those questions and also wonder about the answers. How would they react if they learned we were deliberately keeping them at war with one another? That we have been fabricating conflict for nearly a century? Or worse, if they learned—”
“Enough! Even if Sozay stirs trouble, the answers they seek cannot be found. We have burned all the books, and no Seraph would aid him. The very idea is insane, even for the most power-hungry of our brethren.”
“You seem so certain that all of the books were destroyed.”
“Of course they were. We all saw to it.”
“And the copy of The Book of Gorn found by researchers twenty-five years ago in your skycity library? What of that?”
“A fluke. The library and all of the researchers burned to the ground. I saw to it, myself. Do you doubt my success?” Phonziel’s voice quieted. “I assure you, not one single copy of The Book of Gorn remains on Guadosalam, save my own personal tome.”
“I do not mean to imply that you are uncareful. Instead, I point out that you, who has been most conscientious among our brothers and sisters, were caught unawares. If it could happen on your watch, dear brother, what then of a less careful Seraph? We destroyed the books, yes, but we can never be certain we destroyed them all. I believe it is to our advantage to focus not on destroying answers—but ensuring that none ever know enough to ask the questions in the first place. This Sozay attacks wisely, Lord Phonziel. He undermines our army, our strength. We cannot continue to fight the random brushfires that he sets off. He is the spark, and he must be extinguished.”
Snow paused then, and Jinn fell silent. Remora looked at the Shinra warrior and saw no emotion cross his face. His red eyes stared fixedly at the wall and his teeth clenched so tightly that veins stood out upon the gray flesh of his jaw.
Remora found herself having difficulty internalizing the full import of Snow’s confession herself—and she had not, as Jinn had, just learned that her people had been kept at deliberate war for over a century.
Could it be true? It must be true—that, or Snow was lying. Remora remembered, briefly, the events aboard the Swan. Mack Craft had wanted Snow very badly, and Jinn for having liberated her. Why would the Seraph go to such trouble to get her back, if Snow’s secret were untrue?
Remora took a sip of her now-cold tea, barely tasting the sweetness. She had been raised to believe the Seraph were . . . not godly, but better. Better than humans, better than everyone. Immortal leaders of the floating skycities, they governed everyone except the rogue city of Ardel.
They were leaders. Saviors. They had stopped the war which had threatened to destroy the entire world—made peace between the humans and the Shinra, and founde
d their government upon trade. This image of them as calculating manipulators—it sat oddly upon the mind, alien and unfamiliar.
Snow gestured once to Jinn. “This one’s secret has been told. This one returns to silence,” he said.
Immediately, Jinn left the room without meeting anyone’s gaze.
“Jinn,” she called to him, lifting a hand.
Hank stopped her, pushing her hand back to the table and shaking his head. “Let him be, Remora. Some news, you need time to absorb.”
Gideon stood and walked to Snow. He took her hand in his own and bowed deeply before pressing his lips against her furred knuckles. “Thank you, Lady. I cannot imagine how difficult it has been for you to bear that secret alone, or how much courage it has taken you to break free from the Seraph and seek escape. You have my thanks, and my respect.”
Snow nodded, looking as regal as a queen accepting a boon from her subject. She then removed her hand from his, turned, and left the room.
A moment of silence, and Gideon stood. “With your permission, I would take my leave of your ship for now and relay this information back to my employer. As the dresl noted, it is not the sort of secret one wishes to bear overlong.”
Remora stood. “I shall escort you out,” she said.
Gideon smiled and crooked his elbow. “I should be delighted at the company,” he said as she tucked her hand to his forearm.
Walking away, Remora overheard the flat mechanical translation of Hackwrench’s craft, “You’re all idiots. I’ve never trusted a Seraph. I can’t believe this is news to anyone,” followed by Hank’s low, “Hackwrench, shut up.”
Before she knew it, Remora found herself standing on the deck of the Miraj, waving farewell to Gideon. She had been so lost in contemplation that she barely remembered the short trip to the dock.
She considered, briefly, walking back to the dining room or perhaps visiting Jinn, then rejected both thoughts. Her wings twitched again, and suddenly the thought of keeping them hidden beneath her corset seemed unbearable. She would go to her room, and she would think. She would count herself lucky if only the day brought about no more startling revelations.
Unfortunately, that was not to be. As she turned to re-enter the ship proper, the emaciated figure of Bones emerged from the shadowed depths of the ship. Selfishly, she wished for a moment to send him away. The thought brought her up sharply. Send him away? As if he were a dog? No. He was a person, and he waited for her because he had a need. She would not so quickly forget the lessons of the day.
“Remora,” he said as she approached, then paused awkwardly, eyebeams flashing.
“Bones,” she said.
They stood that way for a long moment, while Remora counted to twenty. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked finally.
“Yes. I mean, no.” He moved his hand and she realized then that he cradled something, hidden beneath his jacket at his chest. “That is to say, I have been meaning to speak to you since the Swan, but I could not find an appropriate time.”
Remora had her own thoughts on whether or not now was more appropriate than any other time, but she held her tongue. She was tired, yes, but Bones was her friend. “Would you be more comfortable speaking within my quarters?” she asked.
“No!” he said, startling her. “No,” he repeated, more quietly. “No, there is no need. It is just . . . while the Miraj was away, I . . . ” In a rush, he finished the sentence. “I got you a gift.”
“A gift? Oh, you needn’t have! Truly, I would not have you—” Remora’s teeth clacked together as he lifted the item from his coat and showed it to her.
The bulk of the item was a glass dome, like an over-tall cake display.
The item inside the glass cage was no cake, though.
It was a butterfly, no larger than her hand, crafted entirely of copper and silver and brass. Tiny gears, so small she could barely see them, spun upon the butterfly’s body, its wings made of metal spikes connecting gossamer-thin metal sheets. The butterfly’s twin antennae swiveled to point at Remora, the tiny body expanding and contracting almost as if it were breathing.
“Do you like it?” asked Bones.
Remora peeled her gaze away from the wondrous butterfly to find Bones staring intently at her. “Oh!” she said. She looked at the butterfly again. “Oh, Bones, it’s . . . well, it’s exquisite!”
The butterfly took flight within the glass, tiny wings beating against the glass as it careened inside of its glass prison, tiny tink, tink sounds rising from the impact. Again and again, it thrust itself against the glass, until she wondered how it had not broken itself.
“Oh, it is trapped!” she said, the wonder of the encounter fading as she watched it struggle to find an escape.
“I thought it was pretty,” said Bones, eyebeams flickering through every color in the rainbow. “It reminded me of you.”
She looked at that butterfly and her own wings tried once again to flutter. Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Bones,” she whispered.
Alarmed, he stepped back. “I have done wrong,” he said. “I’ll get rid of it. Please, stop crying, Miss Remora. I am sorry.”
She reached forward, placing her hand on his forearm. “No, Bones. Please, don’t go. The butterfly is amazing. I have never seen its like.” She wiped at her eyes, but the tears she dislodged were replaced immediately. “It is like me. You are right.”
The butterfly’s frantic flight halted and it rested on the cage bottom again, body heaving and antenna swiveling. It seemed . . . so very real. Alive, impossible as that might seem.
Remora looked to the ticker, seeing his metal face as if for the first time. The butterfly was like both of them, not just her. “We must set it free, Bones. We cannot keep it caged.”
Bones looked to her, then to the butterfly. The frantic swirling of his eyebeams slowed. “It is like you,” he said again, “but you are not free.”
“I know,” she said.
“This is illogical,” Bones said. “It will escape, Miss Remora. It will fly away, and then you will not have it. I wish for you to have it.”
The tears started anew, and Remora’s hand tightened on Bones’s forearm. “I would rather it be free than beautiful only for me to see,” she said.
After a moment, he held out his hands, the glass display flat on his palms.
Remora found the locks holding the glass to its base and opened them, then lifted the glass away. “Go,” she whispered.
The tiny machine stayed where it had been, then a breeze tickled past its wings. The butterfly lifted up on metal legs, antennae quivering. Another breeze, and the butterfly pushed off, wings catching and holding the air. It spun away, lost to sight so quickly that she might have imagined it. Gone, as Bones had predicted.
Free.
Remora looked at the glass in her hand, then threw it overboard. She looked up at Bones and gave him a watery smile. “Thank you,” she said. She looked to the place where she had last seen the butterfly. “That was . . . the very best gift I have ever been given.”
Overcome, she leaned forward and hugged Bones once, hard. “Thank you,” she whispered again, then turned and made her way into the ship, toward her room.
It was only later, alone in her room, that Remora realized she had forgotten utterly to remind Gideon of their need for groceries.
11. Parasol
“We look forward to seeing you at the auction, Miss Gates. Please remember, the event begins at noon sharply and the doors shall be closed to all latecomers. Teas and an assortment of finger sandwiches shall be served during the opening entertainment.”
Remora smiled, holding her impatience firmly in check. “Thank you very much. I must confess, I have been looking forward to attending for quite some time.” Remora held out one gloved hand to accept the auction ticket in the woman’s grip.
The woman paused a moment, one finger to the side of her lips, then apparently decided to speak her mind. “You are aware, one hopes, that firearms and weap
onry shall be expressly forbidden during the auction?”
At Remora’s confused look, the woman lifted an eyebrow and shifted her gaze ever-so-slightly to the right.
Remora followed the woman’s glance to note the black-wrapped figure of Jinn standing behind her. His arms crossed his chest in an imposing posture and his red eyes narrowed as he glared at customers and shopkeepers with equal suspicion.
Despite the fact that the auction tent stood on a busy thoroughfare, most of the foot traffic appeared to be granting them a careful berth. The vendors in nearby stalls glowered at them.
Mortified, Remora turned back to the woman at the auction booth. “I do apologize. My bodyguard takes his job very seriously.”
“A noble goal,” the woman allowed, lips pursed, “but one that I assure you will be quite unnecessary for tomorrow’s event. The Bespin Auction House takes great care to ensure the safety of its bidders. In any event, you have purchased only a single pass for the event, and must of course attend alone.”
“Consider the matter completely understood,” Remora said, clasping her hands to keep them from snatching at the half-offered sheet of paper still in the woman’s hands.
The woman gave a small, “hmmm,” but finally handed over the stamped and notarized auction pass. Remora took it and smiled to the woman one last time before walking briskly away, paper clutched to her chest.
Finally, she had it. The first tangible step on her goal to proving Starbirth. Her heart beat faster. Everything she had done, all the planning and sacrifices she had made—all had led to this moment.
She tucked the pass deep into her pocket, feeling it slide against the sheet of paper already there—a worn and much-studied flier for the very auction she had just registered.
How many months ago had it been? Her uncle had come home after a visit to Bespin, kissed her on the forehead, and given her his customary gift—an old reference book. The tradition was one of her favorites. Once, the gift had been a complete guide to advanced cogsmithing, another time an entire set of smuggled Ardelan Encyclopedias.
