Lawless

by Janeen Ippolito

 

  It would be death after all.

  The Pinnacle fell silent. She could sense their private mindspeak flitting around the farthest reaches of the room. Her heart beat loudly in her ears.

  What would become of Zephryn? Tactical partners were committed for life unto death. If one fell, the other fell. But she was a criminal, which already set her apart from Zephryn. And he was the prince. The Nightstalkers were among the most powerful dragons. Perhaps he could survive without her.

  It would make his life easier. The thought twisted her stomach into the tightest of knots. He’d never complained seriously. But in the end, she was a stone around his neck, dragging him down, just like she dragged down the fleet. She’d killed her father, and nothing could atone for that.

  Unbidden, traces of memories snaked out of the depths of her mind. Trapped in the cave as the monster came closer and closer.

  A monster with her father’s eyes, wreathed in green smoke.

  She shoved the image away. Maybe there were reasons her past was a mystery.

  The deep voice intoned, “Your punishment will be suspension from fleet activities. You will be confined to your cell, save for physical maintenance activities and any summonings before the Pinnacle.”

  Suspension? But serving the fleet was the only way Kesia could find redemption. If she was prohibited, how would she ever lose the title of criminal?

  She swallowed her questions. She was lucky to be alive. No, more than lucky. She should have been sentenced to death or to the mines. She was valuable to the Pinnacle. Somehow.

 

  “That, too, will be reevaluated. If he cannot be trusted to obey rules for your sake, then you may be reassigned to another who is more compliant with our laws. We will keep you both under strict observation.”

  Her legs turned to soft sand, and Kesia fought to remain standing. They would try to separate her and Zephryn?

  It would be better for him. He would no longer be burdened with her.

  Or perhaps it wouldn’t even happen. Perhaps, if she was obedient enough, the Pinnacle would change their minds.

  But they never did. And Kesia had no interest in obeying them any more than necessary. Her instincts had been confirmed. The Pinnacle wouldn’t kill her. Harm her, yes, but not kill her. She needed to know why.

  “Do you hear our words?”

  She nodded, the movement slow and unnatural with the short neck of her human form.

  “Good.” The light voice enunciated the ‘d’ like gunfire from a human airship. “You are dismissed.”

  Chapter 4

  High command meetings needed more beverages. Specifically the alcoholic kind, with generous portions and no ice to sully the contents. Shance had felt this many times before, but never so much as now, standing in front of his fellow captains and two Congruency generals while claiming he had been rescued by a dragon.

  The whole situation would have gone smoothly if everyone had their minds relaxed and opened with a few pints. As it stood, he almost would have rather been falling toward the ground and certain death than deal with the scrutiny and glares.

  Almost. The ground was hard, after all, and the ride on that dragon’s back had been quite a thrill. Or was it her shoulders?

  Her voice had been so beautiful.

  “Captain Windkeeper! Are you listening?”

  He blinked and sat up in the leather chair at the end of the long, polished table. “Yes. I am hearing every word.”

  General Markem raised his eyebrows behind the small, round spectacles perching on his nose. “See that you do. This is serious business. Grand Count Nul financed the majority of that vessel’s production as a sign of good faith in the war effort. Your failure to protect The Silver Streak from harm is worse than careless.”

  “Sir, it was a routine sail of celebration that had been approved by port command.” Shance leaned forward on the table, meeting the general’s gaze head-on. “Its destruction was sabotage, pure and simple.”

  “So you say.”

  Next to Markem, General Brody cleared his throat. “The reports from the other surviving crew confirm Captain Windkeeper’s statements. His liability in this situation is not under question, General Markem.”

  “Thank you, sir.” A good man, Brody. Also a good card player, something that probably went a long way to explain the understanding twinkle in his green eyes. Unlike Markem, whose pasty skin hadn’t seen shipboard sunlight in decades, Brody’s face and hands were still leathery-brown from frequent trips to the sky—and trips on the water as well. A true sailor worth listening to.

  Then Brody’s expression hardened, his wrinkles drawn tight against his cheeks. “Still, that doesn’t explain the sudden loss of your Talent or the appearance of the dragon. I agree with General Markem that both are highly disturbing.”

  “Trust me, I’m just as concerned as you are.” Shance made a flicking motion with his hand, sending a stylus on the table flying toward his fingers with a gust of wind. He held out the writing tool. “As you see, my power has returned, fully intact. My guess is that its disappearance had something to do with the effects of the bomb.”

  Markem grunted. “Ah yes, the mysterious green smoke.”

  One of the captains, a sturdy woman with a square face whose name he couldn’t remember, cleared her throat. “We have reports in other Scepters of this smoke, as well as reports of large dead zones in the plains between them. All say that this smoke eradicates usage of Talents around it for a period of time.”

  “Dragon work?” Brody asked.

  “They’ve never shown this capability before. Chemicals aren’t their trademark.” She shrugged, the action doing nothing for her small chest. That, and the ashen hair she kept tightly bound from her face, jogged Shance’s memory.

  Captain Annabel Tegan. Recently assigned to the Scepter of Commerce after her airship had crash-landed on its first attack in dragon airspace. No survivors except her, and no sign of the ship. Rumor was she’d been grounded for life. Her assignment as Markem’s personal aide and liaison to the local police brigades was a formality. She’d kept quiet about her Talent, but it certainly hadn’t helped her face down dragons or spare one life from her ship.

  Markem nodded. “The dragons have shown great cunning. A weapon like this could be in their grasp.”

  “Yes, but it’s dangerous.” All eyes turned to Shance again. He continued, “Smoke blows in the wind. Dragons use the wind. Using that kind of weapon would risk dead zones in their own air space—and they rely on their Talents as much as we do.”

  Sour looks twisted the faces of many officers in the conference room. Ah yes, another slip-up, daring to suggest that dragons had anything in common with humans. It was much easier to kill them if they were simply big flying reptiles who liked setting things and people on fire.

  Shance had taken down his share of the beasts. But he also remembered stories from his grandfather, tales of dragons taking human forms and walking on Windkeeper airships as friends. That friendship was a reason open-air ships were a trademark of Windkeeper vessels—and why, for the sake of tradition, Shance had insisted on an open-air deck instead of an enclosed model.

  As it turned out, a dragon had saved his life. Maybe the merchant luck still held.

  “It could also be the Lawless.” That was Captain Cryor, a fresh-faced kid of nineteen rumored to be here because his Talent for memorization allowed him to pull out any historical battle strategy at a moment’s notice. “In the Battle of Sunward Hills, between the southern tribes of Kowfin and Mittrin, rebels sabotaged both sides of the skirmish and set the enemies against each other in weakened states, and then finished off what was left. Only two units survived on one side and none on the other. The Lawless could be trying the same tactic.”

  “Also a possibility,” Brody allowed.

  “In any case, we must be extra vig
ilant.” Markem coughed and adjusted his dark red command hat, the kind with the peaked brim that Shance would never be caught wearing unless forced to do so, and had conveniently forgotten for this meeting. “Captain Tegan, double the security around the dignitary quarters and public locations.”

  “Aye, sir.” Tegan fisted her hand and touched her mouth with the bent fingers.

  “Cryor, you and Heflersin patrol the Low Quarter for any sign of rebel activity or this mysterious smoke.”

  They both made the same salute as Tegan. “Aye, sir.”

  “Captain Windkeeper,” Markem released the full force of his glare, looking rather like a wrinkled, peeled potato, “You will remain portside until The Silver Streak has been repaired. Consider yourself and your crew on furlough until further notice.”

  Surprise jolted Shance to his feet and forced a sudden blast of air into the room. “Sir, considering my abilities, this is—”

  “These are your orders, Captain. Your crew need to recuperate from their experiences, and you need to allow the shipbuilders time to do their work. Do I make myself clear?”

  Shance opened his mouth to speak, but Brody caught his eye. A tiny smile that twitched the general’s lips hinted at another plan, one that Markem maybe didn’t know about. Relief washed over Shance. At least one of his superiors wouldn’t waste him on furlough.

  The breeze died down, and Shance sat slowly in his seat, schooling his face to something close to respect and giving a salute. “Aye. Sir.”

  “Good.” Markem stood, brushing off the dark red sleeves of his fitted dress coat. “You are dismissed.”

  Shance waited for the last of the other officers to leave the room before making his exit down the hallway. It was made of sculpted claymesh, like all buildings in this part of the land, and the cream-colored stone was inlaid with elaborate mosaics depicting various historical events, most of them economic treaties or significant business leaders. The entire city was ruled by an elected council chosen from the shrewdest business leaders and entrepreneurs. A Windkeeper had even served a few terms in the past, or so the story went.

  Of course, all of that was changed in wartime. Now, the High Command had their own seat at the council table, and their word was law.

  Shance shrugged his shoulders, trying to escape the feeling of being trapped. He didn’t belong here. He belonged in the open sky, with the wind whispering in his ears and coming at his call with a great burst of power. Even when he managed to escape the lacquered prison of the Central Market and step into the late afternoon sunlight, towering buildings crowded him, forcing the airflow into unhappy tunnels along the paved streets. That the winds carried the taste of the Trebbian Seas was only a partial relief, because they also carried exhaust from the smooth-topped cars that crowded the streets. Blaring car horns rang in his ears, along with the din of licensed street-sellers that lined every corner.

  Not as beautiful as the Scepter of Pleasure and lacking the vibrant creative energy of the Scepter of Knowledge. The Scepter of Commerce was more tolerable than the smoke-clogged Scepter of Industry, but if Shance were at the Scepter of Industry, his ship could have been repaired in half the time.

  There was one perk to the Scepter of Commerce: almost anything was legally for sale, including drinks at all hours of the day and night.

  He set off for a tavern down the street with some of the finest brew on this side of the Cloudpeaks.

  ***

  “Could you use some company?”

  Someone nudged him from behind. The voice was male. Not interesting.

  “Not right now, thanks. Already got some.” Shance turned away from the speaker for a moment in favor of the bright-faced young woman in his lap. Wylie wore trousers, like most people of the Scepter of Commerce and the surrounding villages, but hers hung low on her hips, and her tight tunic revealed a generous amount of sun-toned midriff and torso that felt very nice beneath his fingers.

  He had every intention of investigating further. After all, he was on furlough, which was paid leave. Might as well make the most of the situation. Wylie’s attentions were very welcome—and possibly, could lead to love. Certainly the feelings in his chest equaled something like that. Considering he could die in battle on any duty assignment, it would have to be enough.

  Shance traced a finger just below Wylie’s chest, along the hem of her tunic. “So, my dear, you were saying your Talent is skillful fingers?”

  “Well, I suppose.” She tossed her short, bleached chestnut hair and giggled, her lips quivering. “I’m good at strumming things and figuring out instruments. My fingertips are very sensitive to the needs of whatever I’m playing.”

  He flashed her a smile. “I’m sure they are. I would love to hear you play and admire your skills further. How are you not more famous?”

  “Oh, the Music Quarter hires what sells.” She leaned close to whisper in his ear. “But I always play from my passion.”

  Heat flared in Shance’s body. He pulled her closer, burying his face in her neck and trailing kisses up to those incredible lips as she giggled and gasped.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder. “Not this one, I’m afraid. He has a record.”

  “A what?” Wylie raised her eyebrows, uncertainty replacing her eagerness.

  “I have nothing of the sort.” Shance tilted his head back to take in the person behind him, his pleasure turning to anger. “Who are you—”

  His voice trailed off as General Brody folded his arms. Even in civilian clothes, upside down, and softened by three pints of local beer, he was a formidable figure. Enough to quench the fire in Shance’s loins like a bucket of ice.

  Brody raised an eyebrow at Shance. “Captain Windkeeper. I believe we had a meeting.”

  The conference meeting. The hint.

  “Yeah, what took you so long? Ah, I mean, yes, sir.” Shance gave a quick salute and turned to Wylie, who had slipped off his lap and signaled for another drink. He gave her a knowing smile, grabbed her hands, and pulled her close, aided by a breeze from the open window of the small tavern. “Where are you performing next, lovely one? I must get a closer look at your skill.”

  She pressed her finger to his lips and trailed it down his chin, playing with the open buttons of the collar of his shirt. “Come and find me, sky-man, and you’ll get all you need.”

  Shance watched Wylie turn and leave, her hips swaying beneath the trousers. He always remembered the women he’d bedded, at least for a little while. But they seldom remembered him. The captain insignia and charm were enough for ladies, never mind his desire for more. Who would take the risk of a relationship in wartime, especially with someone frequently sent into battle?

  So Shance filled the hollow in his heart with something else. Like more alcohol. That usually worked.

  “Captain.” General Brody’s tone cut through his hazy thoughts. “This way.”

  Another shot of cold, although this time, Shance would either need an actual shower or sex with Wylie to fully clear his mind. Even so, he automatically pushed back his chair and followed the general across the dimly lit room, around small tables crowded with card games, seashell turns, and other forms of gambling. True to form, Brody had opted for a booth tucked near the open window at the front, a square of sunlight hitting the worn wooden table. An airman never liked being shut up in the dark.

  Brody sat down on the bench, leaned back, and took a slow swig from his stein. “Are you sober, Captain?”

  “Enough.” Shance leaned forward. Worry flickered in the other man’s eyes as he glanced around the room. The loud room filled with people. “Do you want privacy?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Done.” Shance made a flicking motion with his index finger, calling the breezes to his will. A moment later, they were enveloped in a gentle tunnel of wind that would prevent their conversation from being heard by anyone outside the booth.

  The general nodded shortly. “I’ll make this brief: your services are needed in the fleet.”


  “I already serve the Congruency with my life.” Not that he had a choice. Conscription of those Talented with useful abilities was standard. “What else could I give?”

  Brody smiled sourly, tugging at his collar. “Your freedom.”

  “Sir?”

  “Grand Count Nul Thredsing has no male heir. Are you aware of that?”

  Shance shrugged, rubbing his fingers in circles on the table. “No, but what does that matter? Women can inherit wealth and property in the Scepter of Commerce.”

  “Indeed. He is quite pleased with his daughter, Countess Nula. She is exceptionally Talented in ways that suit this city, and I believe he would give her anything she asked for. As it turns out—” Brody paused for another swig. Either the brew was exceptionally horrible, or this was the worst news since the loss at Edgefell Peaks. “—she wants you.”

  Shance stopped tracing circles on the table. For a moment, the wind tunnel ceased. Shance snapped his fingers absently to restart it before asking, “Wants me as what?”

  “This is in the strictest confidence, Captain Windkeeper. It is a very delicate arrangement for our fleet. The Grand Count is a key player in numerous aspects of politics, including the Curious Intrigue, and has been a generous supporter of the war effort. Unlike others in this money-grubbing city, he donates his funds instead of giving a loan with a high interest rate. He’s a shrewd businessman in his own right and can afford to give money for good publicity. His only weakness is the happiness of his daughter. And she wants you.”

  Anger surged through Shance. This couldn’t be happening. He slammed his palms on the table. “Sir, are you suggesting I bed this woman for the good of the fleet?”

  “No. I am strongly urging you to marry her.”

  Chapter 5

  Zephryn’s bare-skinned chest glistened in the lamplit cavern, the residual gleam from his recent slatesheen application. Slatesheen enabled dragons in scale form to deflect nearly any projectile. In skin form, it shielded against some types of gunfire and resisted blades and other forms of torture.