“I saw their war zeppelin on the way in, aye,” Buckle said softly, picking up the Founders pip and tucking it back in his coat pocket.
“Infamous buggers,” Ryder grumbled.
“It looks as if Spartak has not responded to our invitation, however,” Balthazar said.
Buckle felt a knot rise in his throat. “We need Spartak with us. We are better off without the Tinskins. We can manage without them.”
“Not if they join the Founders, we cannot,” Balthazar replied sharply, then softened his tone. “Both Andromeda Pollux and Katzenjammer Smelt are here in person, at my request; their presence adds a great weight to the proceedings. Together, we should be able to manage the Tinskins.”
“Lady Andromeda has a calming effect,” Ryder added. “And that is no small advantage, considering who is out there. This whole thing could quickly get out of hand.”
Balthazar sat at the desk and rubbed his eyes. It surprised Buckle that Balthazar took the seat—he never sat down in times of crisis. He was still his old self—the lion—but he looked tired, frailer than Buckle remembered. He looked smaller.
“Obviously we cannot trust the Tinskins much,” Balthazar said. “The Imperials possess excellent warships, but they are few in number, decimated as they are, as are we. The Alchemist machines are capital, but they are groundlings. The Gallowglasses have many airships, but they vary immensely in quality, mostly on the lower end, and their discipline is poor. The Brineboilers are militarily insignificant, but to deny the Founders their chemicals would be no small thing. It is also vital that we win the support of the All Blacks with their coal. But we need Spartak’s Grand Fleet to stand any chance at all. We need Spartak.”
The grandfather clock bonged, counting its way toward five o’clock.
Balthazar collected his official papers on the desk and thrust the stack to Ryder, who tucked them in a leather valise. “Well, boys, time to take tea with the vipers,” Balthazar said.
VALKYRIE SMELT
BACK IN THE MAIN CHAMBER of Pinyon Hall alongside Balthazar and Ryder, Buckle felt oppressed. The lofty ceiling and airy space of the towering chamber made no difference. Politics involved endless talking, a polite chat with hidden daggers. A spider’s game. He would rather be fighting the kraken—at least it was an honest foe.
“Fellow ambassadors and friends, you honor me with your presence here today,” Balthazar said, throwing his arms open in a sweeping gesture. He looked big again. “Please be seated. I am afraid we have things both heavy and fearful to discuss!”
The ambassadors and their small retinues, clustered uneasily in separate groups of vastly different fashions and colors, moved to the table. The three other members of the Crankshaft clan’s contingent stood waiting alongside Balthazar’s chair: Rutherford Washington, the clan’s hoary old chief ambassador, in an expensive black suit and tails; Orlando Churchill, pirate king turned respectable—and fabulously wealthy—merchant and mayor; and Silas Greenbriar, fingers stained with ink, the clan historian.
“I am sure that most of us are well acquainted, but please allow me a moment to make some brief introductions,” Balthazar said. “I am most honored to welcome Andromeda Pollux and the Alchemist clan to our parley table.”
Lady Andromeda was on the immediate left of Buckle. She sat comfortably in an ornate brass-and-iron wheelchair powered by a small steam engine. Buckle thought she looked weak, her cheeks and forehead crow’s-footed with pink marks from the shrapnel that had cut her during her rescue from the Founders’ prison, but her dark violet-black eyes were clear and resolute. Caliban Kepler was at Lady Andromeda’s back, big as an ox in his double-breasted white riding coat. General Scorpius was also there, the copper astrolabe on his breastplate agleam in the sunlight.
Andromeda nodded graciously to Balthazar, and then looked at Buckle; he saw both kindness and sadness in her glance as she smiled at him. She was so genuine that it seemed she could never lie—a powerful attribute. Buckle received a strong sense that Andromeda had something to say to him, but this was neither the time nor the place for it.
“We are also honored to welcome Mace Mardigan and the diplomats of the Gallowglass clan,” Balthazar said.
Buckle followed Scorpius’s glare across the table to the Gallowglass ambassador.
Mace Mardigan, a portly, hound-faced fellow in forest-green tails, slapped his tricornered hat with its white cockade on the table. Mardigan seemed to have absorbed the looks of both a buccaneer and a purser: his thin hay-colored hair, laced with a white ribbon at the back of his neck in piratical fashion, and his beefy, scarred knuckles spoke of a life of action—but his thick spectacles and overbearing cinnamon cologne, an excess of lace in his clothes, and a gold pocket watch tucked above his white cummerbund spoke of a fop. The four Gallowglass aides framed him, each clutching a bulky leather document case. Mardigan turned his eyes to Balthazar and removed his glasses with a theatrical flourish. “Pleased to be here, I am sure,” he boomed.
Balthazar turned to the Brineboilers. “To Thaddeus Aleppo and the Brineboilers, who covered many leagues in order to be with us here today, a hearty and humble welcome to you.”
“Thank you, Admiral Balthazar,” answered Aleppo. He and his assistant had stationed themselves far down the table, physically separating themselves from the others. Both were thin men of average height, light-brown hair, and tepid personalities, unremarkable in every way. “It is, of course, an honor to be invited.” Aleppo and the other man wore black suits with translucent buttons that glowed with a faint green bioluminescence when they moved.
“Harrumph!” Mardigan cleared his throat loudly, disdainfully turning his shoulder to the Brineboilers. “If this be a council of war, as described, I do not see any need for salt cookers to be here. They have no warships, no infantry—just potential to be a liability.”
Aleppo’s eyes swung contemptuously to Mardigan, but he said nothing.
“May I remind the ever-so-gracious Gallowglass ambassador,” Andromeda said, “that the Brineboilers may be a small clan, yes, unwarlike, yes, but if they were to deny an aggressive clan the fruits of their chemical and biological productions, they could quite hamper their efforts.”
Mardigan huffed and shook his head.
Buckle eyed Mardigan. He was a good soldier, a solid tactician. His buffoonery was nothing more than a well-calculated ruse designed to make his opponents underestimate him—which would be a serious mistake, for he was actually sharp-witted and dangerous.
And Aleppo was buying the sham.
“I agree with the Alchemist, Lady Pollux,” echoed the low voice of Katzenjammer Smelt as he strode into the hall with four officers, all smartly dressed in Imperial powder blues, and pickelhaubes with gleaming silver spikes. “If we decide to resist the Founders’ dreadnaughts and armored trains, we should be most grateful to any and all brave souls who might choose to stand with us.”
“May I introduce Chancellor Katzenjammer Smelt and the Imperial contingent,” Balthazar said.
Smelt arrived at the table, alongside the Brineboilers. “The Imperials are honored to be here,” he said, removing his pickelhaube and tucking it under his arm in one quick, smooth motion; the four officers tucked their helmets as well.
The Imperial leader’s four aides-de-camp were all blond, but there was one, the only female, whose hair was the color Buckle thought pure sunlight would be. Smelt placed his bony-fingered hand on her shoulder.
“May I introduce my daughter, Princess Valkyrie. Consider yourselves warned,” Smelt said with a poorly concealed pride.
Buckle scrutinized Smelt, the old stork, straight as a fence-post in his monocle and medal-draped blue uniform, glowing with paternal satisfaction. And there was plenty to be proud about. Valkyrie was tall, a swan-like creature, her lithe frame buttoned up and shoehorned into her stiff Imperial uniform, but it was her face, inescapable and relentless in its beauty, long in the cheeks like her father’s, but sensually feminine in its proportions, haughty in it
s perfection, pristine and untouchable as a fresco on the dome of a cathedral, that irresistibly drew every gaze toward her. Her eyes, clear and pale blue as new ocean ice, light-lidded under thin, straw-colored brows, took possession of all things.
A spoiled Prussian brat. Everything handed to her on a silver platter, Buckle concluded instantly.
“Good day, ambassadors,” Valkyrie said coldly, placing her spiked helmet on the table, where it sat like a gleaming silver turtle. Her hair was drawn up against the back of her head so severely that Buckle could clearly make out the flattering curves of her skull; her long neck plunged down into the high collar of her powder-blue tunic, which was embroidered on each side with rich red borders and a gold iron cross. Her uniform fit her perfectly, tailored to the curves of her female form, the buttons polished to a gleam, the epaulettes thick with gold and red lace.
Valkyrie turned her eyes to Buckle, eyes hostile and cold as blue glass.
Buckle returned her glance with a smile.
TINSKINS AND AMBASSADORS
THE MEETING HAD ONLY BEEN running for five minutes, and already Buckle was desperate to escape. He appreciated the fact that Balthazar had wanted him to be there, as well as the opportunity to steal long looks at Valkyrie, but his heart simply wasn’t in it. He was worried about Max and his zeppelin, and he wanted to immediately attend to both.
“Before we begin the proceedings,” Balthazar said, “I must first offer our sincerest and most heartfelt apologies to Chancellor Katzenjammer Smelt and the people of the Imperial clan. We Crankshafts were tragically deceived into believing that our Tehachapi stronghold was bombed by Imperial zeppelins, only to discover now that the attack was carried out by Founders warships disguised as Imperial hawks. Our retaliation, mistaken as it was, was swift and deadly, and there are no words which can take back the damages we inflicted upon the Imperials and their city. It was never our intention to make an enemy of the Imperial clan without just cause. It is my hope that now, in this desperate hour, we can both see through the veil of machinations and recognize our mutual enemy, and know that it is he, through agents of both dishonor and trickery, it is the Founders who have spilled both Crankshaft and Imperial blood.”
Buckle watched Smelt, who in his turn was peering at Balthazar through his monocle, clearly taken aback by the unexpected revelation and its attendant apology. Then Smelt’s jaw tightened and he nodded to Balthazar. “If you tell the truth, Balthazar—and I do believe you do, then we are both victims of the Founders. I denounce all oaths of vengeance taken against you. The Founders I shall damn until the last breath I take.” Smelt turned his gaze on Buckle. Buckle stared back, feeling the animosity between him and Smelt draining away. Buckle also felt a surge of relief. He had worried that Smelt might demand the return of the Pneumatic Zeppelin—an Imperial airship taken as a prize in an ill-begotten war—but Smelt did not.
“Their little shell game worked, though, did it not?” Mardigan said. “You two tore yourselves to pieces, reducing your fleets. You are easy meat for the dreadnaughts now, unless all of us rush to your rescue, hmmm?”
Andromeda patted her hand on the table. “We are all easy meat, Ambassador Mardigan,” she said. “None of us is strong enough to resist the Founders armada alone.”
“You have no idea how strong we Gallowglasses are, my lady,” Mardigan huffed.
“So you believe that you can stand alone against the Founders?” Andromeda asked.
Mardigan said nothing. He sniffed and looked at his watch.
“I have brought you all here to propose a grand alliance, a pact of mutual defense, which the Crankshafts and Alchemists have already agreed to sign,” Balthazar said. “A united front against Founders aggression is our best hope to avoid an all-out war.”
“Or to assure the destruction of each and every one of us,” Aleppo said. “Can the five clans gathered here today muster the might to resist the Founders’ onslaught? Perhaps the only road to survival is to accept their domination.”
Buckle disliked Aleppo for reasons he could not quite articulate—the man had disinterested, unreadable eyes—but despite Buckle’s confidence in his clan’s ability to fight, he understood the Brineboiler’s suggestion. Without Spartak or the Tinskins in the ranks, the proposed Grand Alliance was small potatoes.
Buckle tensed for the reaction he knew was coming.
“Coward!” Mardigan snapped at the Brineboiler.
Aleppo faced Mardigan, his eyes burning. “You! You brutes! It is easy for you to rattle your swords in defiance, swarming in numbers and so far away—but we Brineboilers are a small guild clan, defenseless under the shadow of the Founders’ city. We learned, over the years, that neutrality was our only salvation.”
“Be a slave, then, salt cooker,” Mardigan growled.
Mardigan was not putting on an act now, Buckle thought—he truly despised the Brineboilers.
Aleppo opened his mouth to fire back, thought better of it, and clamped his lips together.
“The Brineboilers are in the most difficult position of us all, Mardigan—surely you can see that,” Andromeda said.
“And what if we all sign this pact, this commitment to mutual defense?” Mardigan asked. “Does that mean that if the Brineboilers, a tiny, insignificant, ragtag clan, are invaded by the Founders—who will most surely do so—we are all bound to toss aside the logics of tactics and strategy and deploy to protect them, to sail into the basin and confront the Founders on ground of their own choosing? I am no fool. It has disaster written all over it.”
“We have not asked anyone to die for us,” Aleppo said softly. “Nor shall we.”
Buckle suddenly liked Aleppo a little better. The man had at least a bit of steel in him.
“The Brineboilers are vulnerable to occupation, of course,” Balthazar said. “Their contribution to the alliance would be to transfer their boil and chemical devices into our control, and thus deny those resources to the Founders. But our immediate concern is that we pool our armaments, gather a fleet and face down the Founders before they can destroy our clans piecemeal, as is surely their intention.”
Mardigan narrowed his eyes at Balthazar. “And how do you know the Founders’ intentions?”
“We have all heard the rumors of the Founders shipyards gearing up for war,” Balthazar replied. “And none of you would have come here today, in secret, if you did not fear the worst.”
The ambassadors held an uneasy silence.
Buckle prevented himself from grinning. Balthazar had them. Nothing more to do than wait for the ink to dry on the parchment.
“We have suspicions,” Mardigan said quietly, brushing at something unseen on the table with his hand, “that the destruction of our pocket zeppelin, the Erin, over the Boneyard five weeks ago, at nighttime, was not an accident. Some of you sent illegal expeditions to salvage her hydrogen.” He gave Balthazar a nasty glare as he said that. “But we got there first—we even beat the filthy yellowfingers to it—and despite the charred wreckage, one could see that her hull had been severely holed. Big cannonballs. Big cannons. Pirates and privateers do not carry ship smashers like that. Only we do, and a few of the major clans. And the Founders carry guns like that.”
The assembly nodded in silence.
“There are still not enough of us yet,” Smelt said. “To stand a chance in open battle against the Founders, we shall need the well-shipped Russians.”
“Yes,” Mardigan added. “We need Spartak.”
“The Spartak clan is notoriously neutral,” Aleppo said.
“Not this time,” Mardigan blustered. “Each clan will find itself on one side or the other before this mess is over, and this fledgling alliance will be finished if Spartak joins the Founders.”
“Spartak declined our invitation today, but I shall see to the matter personally,” Balthazar said.
“And the Steamweavers,” Aleppo asked. “Where are they?”
“To hell with the Steamweavers,” Mardigan groused.
“And where are the Tinskins?” Aleppo continued. “The Tinskins are reported to be here. Where are they?”
“Fear not, my friend, for the Tinskins have arrived,” came a woman’s strident shout from the hall entranceway.
Buckle turned to see the Tinskin ambassador, a woman agleam in a coat and long skirt beautifully stitched with gleaming scales of bronze, striding in with the captain of the guard, Garnet Cantrell.
“Take heart, fellow conspirators! The conquistadores are here!” the Tinskin female boomed as she strode up to the table.
THE GRAND ALLIANCE
“THE TINSKIN REPRESENTATIVE, ALHAMBRA CORTEZ, has arrived, Admiral,” Cantrell, the captain of the guard, declared, looking a bit harried by the new guest.
“Admiral Balthazar Crankshaft!” Cortez said. “How grand of you to invite us to your little parley here in your castle of boulders! We are most honored to be included, of course, we humble children of the south.”
Cortez was a graceful, silver-tongued woman with brown-black hair and a baritone voice clear and polished as a vespers bell. Her armored clothes glittered about her, and a high-combed morion helmet with cheek-guards rested in the crook of her arm, its tall peacock feather framing the left side of her head. Her skin was sand colored, her eyes deep brown and expressive, her face both pleasant and belligerent.
Buckle studied Cortez—she was young, perhaps only a few years older than him, but he sensed there was precious little youth left in her. He knew next to nothing about the Tinskins, but their ambassadors were reputed to be arrogant snakes—arrogant snakes with a lot of cannons behind them.
“We are most pleased you could attend upon such short notice, Ambassador Cortez,” Balthazar said. “Welcome to the Devil’s Punchbowl.”
“I would not have missed it, of course,” Cortez said with a wave of her white-gloved hand. She perched at the center of the table and with one sweep of her eyes, it seemed to Buckle, gathered all the details about the participants she might ever need to know.
Romulus Buckle & the Engines of War Page 17
