Elle turned and looked at him. “An iron-boned ship?” So her suspicions had been correct.
Heller nodded. “Aye, we took her off a Trader. Even the ship’s grappling hooks are hexed. If you look at them closely you can see the magic inscribed on the metal. Captain says the slavers used the hooks to stop their prey from escaping in midair.” He shrugged. “Not sure how that all works, but I can tell you we found some pretty funny creatures lurking in the hull when we took her.” He pointed to the hatch. “See, over here is one.”
There, below his stubby finger, Elle could make out the faint markings of some ward or talisman engraved into the metal.
Elle felt her mouth go dry. Because part of her existed in both the Realms of Shadow and of Light, she was not usually so heavily affected by iron, as those who dwelled exclusively in the Shadow would be. But even she had felt the power of whatever made up this ship. The hexes were most likely the reason the aether would not work when they were first caught. She had been too distracted by the danger at the time to think about it, but if the Inanna had been an old battle ship that had been converted to a slaver specializing in the trade of Shadow creatures, then it all made sense. The thought made her feel sick.
“Never you mind,” Heller said, reading her thoughts. “We cleaned her up good and solid when we took her. Had her refitted for the crew as you can see. The captain even let the Shadow creatures we found chained up in here go free. They were worth quite a bit of gold, but he let them go just the same.”
Elle just shook her head. The world was so full of evil it was almost too much to comprehend.
“Anyways, I’m under orders that you are to be confined to quarters and so it shall be,” he said as he closed the door. Elle heard the wheel that operated the lock in the door spin, followed by the crunch of metal on metal. The door was resolutely locked and she was completely on her own.
Days passed in silence. The only company Elle had was the low hum of the ship’s engines.
The tiny cabin was fitted with two narrow bunks, bolted one above the other. In one corner was a small water closet and basin with a little shaving mirror embedded in the metal. Along the other side of the cabin were storage lockers. She still hated the place, but at least the berth was more or less clean and dry and, more important, she did not have to share it with anyone.
She even had an extra blanket and a small porthole. These were items of luxury for ordinary crewmen aboard a ship like this, and she found herself feeling strangely grateful for being afforded them.
She spent hours staring out of the grubby little porthole, thinking. Outside was nothing but endless sky and clouds. They were flying at high altitude; a feat only the very big airships could achieve, and so apart from the fact that they were traveling in a westerly direction, it was impossible to tell where they were or where they were going.
She was let out of her quarters once to attend Gertrude’s funeral. There among the other pirates, she stood dry eyed, staring bleakly at the row of bodies wrapped in canvas. In all, six people had died in the siege of the Water Lily.
Well, Gertrude, we gave them a run for their money, she thought silently as she watched the crewmen dispatch the bodies through a cargo hatch. They were far out over open water and the weighted canvas would sink down into the vast expanse of sea below.
To his credit, Dashwood said a few heartfelt words about the waste of human life and how everyone should take this as a lesson in humility, but Elle was too distraught to listen. She just stared out of one of the portholes at the white clouds that drifted below them.
Locked back inside her cabin after the funeral, Elle had crumpled to the ground. Alone, she had wept over the loss of her friend and her ship and the monstrous unfairness of it all.
She had stared at her stiletto for a long time, wondering briefly whether it might not be better to simply put an end to her misery, but Elle was not the sort to take the coward’s way out. No, she would hide the blade and bide her time, for at some stage these pirates would slip up. She just needed to be ready for them.
From what she could see, the Inanna was of the rigid design models, which meant that the gas balloons and hulls of the ship were all housed inside giant metal rings that formed her distinctive double-hull shape. The rings in turn were covered with specially reinforced canvas and metal plating. Even if the web of rigging that held the two together was severed, the upper and lower parts could still float independently. She was armor plated, armed and designed for long-haul flight, so with her spark reactors filled, she could remain airborne for weeks before she needed to touchdown on land. That was not good news, Elle realized. They could well be on the other side of the world before her chance of escape came.
Getting home was going to be much harder than she had initially thought.
Some days, when she listened carefully, she could hear the sound of hammering and the buzz of spark-powered saws cutting through metal from below. It was the sound of the crew working on stripping down the Water Lily. Every clang and buzz was a blow to her heart. But every night before she went to bed, she resolutely scratched a line into the metal of her bunk.
She had lost her ship. She felt the grief of it as if the Water Lily had been a person. And in a way the loss was just as great. For it had been the Water Lily and the escape that her work brought that provided Elle with sanctuary from her grief in the dark months that followed the loss of her husband. All was lost now, she thought bitterly. She had only two goals left in life now. One was to escape from this ship, and the other was to honor her promise to Gertrude. If there was even the slightest hope that it would bring him back, she would find the lost city of Angkor Wat. She had vowed that she would restore Marsh to the realm of Light and she would not stop until she managed it. Even if it was the last thing she did in this life.
But amid all of her ardent resolve, she found that she could not quell the nasty thought that perhaps Marsh did not wish to be found.
On and on it niggled while she lay in her bunk in the quiet, dark hours. Perhaps Marsh chose the realm of Shadow as a convenient means to be rid of their marriage. Perhaps he did not really love her as he said he did. Perhaps she made him so unhappy that dwelling in darkness in the form of a half-alive wraith was a preferable alternative. These thoughts made Elle very sad and she tried to push them down deep inside of her with a force that only someone as stubborn as she could muster.
She did not have to wait long for her prospects to change, though. On the fourth day alone in the cabin, there was a thump and a rattle at the door.
Atticus Crow appeared. “Captain says you can have these now,” he said, dumping her rucksack and her holdall onto the bunk. Then he turned and shoved Gertrude’s trunk into the narrow space on the floor. “I don’t know where you’re going to put all that stuff, though.” He sniffed. “Which is why ladies don’t belong on ships, I says.”
Elle was too thrilled to see her things to care about his nasty comment. The thought of wearing fresh underwear filled her with such joy that she honestly did not care what Atticus Crow or any of the other crewmen thought.
And so her solitary confinement continued.
In the late afternoon of the eleventh scratch, Atticus Crow appeared at the door again.
“Dinner,” he said awkwardly as he put a tray down on the small table which was welded to the hull.
“Thank you,” Elle said in a low voice. She was busy leafing through one of the journals she had found in Gertrude’s trunk. They were the chronicles of a lifetime’s work. It wasn’t the full set—the earlier ones were presumably at home—but she had been captivated by Gertrude’s easy style of writing and her wonderful illustrations. Gertrude, it turned out, had been blessed with the most amazing ability to draw, and her work was littered with fine drawings and diagrams.
She found the journal that was marked Siam. It was a slim volume in a soft leather cover. This was the volume that told her how to find Angkor Wat. She had studied it over and over, trying to memorize
every detail.
Atticus stared at her for a few seconds as if he wanted to say something.
Elle looked up from the page she was reading, but said nothing.
He turned bright red and pulled something wrapped in a dirty piece of cloth out of his coat pocket. “I saved this for you. I saw you looking at it when were went to get your things, so I thought you might want to keep it,” he said as he held the ragged bundle out to her.
Elle opened it and bit her lip. It was a small pane of glass with a fine water lily inlaid on it.
“I thought you might want it to remember her by,” Atticus said. “We are jettisoning the scrap tomorrow.”
Elle looked away, unable to say anything.
“It will get better.” Atticus cleared his throat again. “I was press-ganged when I was just a lad myself. They locked me up at first too, so I would forget about running away. I think I must have spent my first year crying. I was only little and the other fellas used to tease me something terrible. That was years and quite a few ships ago, but I still remember.”
Elle stared at him, surprised by his sincerity.
“Anyway,” Atticus continued. “The captain’s not so bad. He’s better than most. You’ll see—you just have to give him a chance.”
“Thank you.” She was oddly touched by this strange rough man’s kindness.
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “I’ll let you get back to your readin’ now,” he said, casting an eye over the journals that were spread out on the bunk.
“Say, is that a map?” His little eyes lit up at the sight of the fine illustration on the page.
“Er, not exactly,” Elle said. She moved to her bunk and started closing journals and shuffling papers. “They are scientific notes on archaeological digs.”
“So it’s like looking for buried treasure?” Atticus appeared even more interested.
“In a manner of speaking, but this is more like looking for history. So no gold or treasure,” Elle said, doing her best to keep her voice even.
He nodded slowly. “Hmm, sounds like hunting for treasure to me. There was plenty of gold in them crates we took.”
“Well, thank you for the glass pane,” Elle said, trying to divert his attention from the papers. “It was very kind of you to save it for me.”
Atticus nodded. “Always makes me sad when they strip a ship,” he said. “Makes me feel like someone’s died.” He turned to leave the cabin, casting a final long look at the papers she was holding in her arms.
The moment the door was locked, Elle flung the journals and notes onto the bed and regarded them. She shook her head in frustration at her stupidity. Allowing someone like Crow to see those notes was just about the most foolish thing she could have done.
She picked up the fork that was on her dinner tray. It wasn’t the ideal tool for the job, but it would do. She dragged the mattress off the bed and, using the tines of the fork, she unpicked the stitching on the side until she had a space that was big enough. Carefully she slipped the journal into the stuffing. She tucked the innards back and folded the canvas cover over as best she could. She lifted the mattress back onto the frame and pushed the open side against the hull. She would sew up the hole as soon as she managed to find a needle, but hopefully the hiding place would do for now.
Carefully she made up the bed again. With a little luck, if they decided to search her, Dashwood and his crew might overlook it in favor of the trunk.
After stowing the rest of the journals back in the trunk, she sighed and flopped down on the narrow bunk. The metal frame and the thin mattress groaned in sympathy under her.
How could she have been so careless?
The only way she could convince them to let her go was to make them believe that she was of no value at all. That was already difficult, given that Dashwood believed she might be worth something because of her title and connection. If rumor got out that she was in possession of treasure maps, there was no way these men would let her go. She closed her eyes in frustration. Her means of escape had just slipped away a little further.
CHAPTER 8
PARIS
Patrice Chevalier was not amused. The source of his discontent lay on the starched linen tablecloth next to his cooling cup of café au lait. It was a telegram.
He shook his head and stared out of the finely arched windows of his Paris apartment. Up here, he had a most excellent view of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.
Outside his windows, the citizens of Paris were going about their business. Fine ladies wove in and out of the elegant shops, with servants and automatons to carry parcels in tow. Steam cars rattled over the cobbles, their rivets and metal glistening in the thin, wintery sunshine of the November morning. The people below were like sheep, he decided. They were prone to traveling in herds, and utterly oblivious to the impending disaster that was threatening to befall the world.
The Oracle was missing.
Patrice sighed in frustration and picked up his cup. This was not the way he wanted to start his career as Grand Master of the Council. Damn and blast that woman.
Somewhere deep inside the building, an expensive-sounding doorbell rang. In fact, everything about Patrice Chevalier’s new apartment was the height of sophistication. Situated in the most desirable of neighborhoods, the imposing baroque building spoke of a grandeur and affluence, and his view of the city had caused more than one lady caller to suffer from the vapors the moment they entered.
There was a soft knock on the finely painted gilt-edged door.
“Entrez,” Patrice said.
At his command, Mr. Chunk, his right-hand man, appeared. Mr. Chunk was a man who had lived his entire life under an unfortunate name. Contrary to his nomenclature, he was lithe and athletic in the scrappy, stubbly kind of way that was typical of street fighters and pugilists. He was short and compact with sinewy muscles that played under the fabric of his shirt, no matter how he tried to hide them. Mr. Chunk also had the gift of mental agility, which many underestimated. This was why Patrice liked him so much. No one ever expected much of Mr. Chunk and he surprised them.
Mr. Chunk gave a short, awkward bow. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but you have a visitor. Are you available to see him?”
“A visitor?” Patrice frowned. He had arrived in Paris only the evening before and had tried to be as discreet as possible. It concerned him slightly that anyone should know his whereabouts. He would have to take care to be more guarded in the future.
“Who would be calling on me this early? It’s not even ten o’ clock yet.”
“A Mr. Crowley, sir,” Mr. Chunk said.
“Aleister Crowley the occultist?”
“I think so, sir. His card didn’t say.” Mr. Chunk held the visiting card out to Patrice.
Patrice scanned the card. It was white, cut from expensive-looking card. The one side simply said, A. Crowley, Esq. The other side contained a series of magical symbols printed in a vertical row. The symbols fizzed slightly when he touched the paper. I have important information for you … they whispered.
Patrice dropped the card on to the tablecloth and waved a dismissive hand. That was an impressive trick. He would have to remember to ask Crowley how he did that. “Very well, send him in. Let’s see what he has to say.”
A few moments later Patrice rose as Mr. Chunk ushered their guest in.
Aleister Crowley was the kind of man everyone noticed. He was burly, a bristly, jowly face that was perfectly ordinary in its ugliness, but for a gaze that hinted at a fierce intelligence. He moved with a silence and grace that belied the coarseness of his features, and his presence filled Patrice’s drawing room entirely.
“Please sit. Would you care for a coffee? Have you eaten? I am sure I could ring for something to be sent up for you.”
Crowley cleared his throat. “No, thank you,” he said softly as he sat down.
Patrice took a seat opposite him and folded his hands in his lap. “And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
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Crowley gave him a smile that sent shivers up and down Patrice’s spine. “Well, I am in Paris only temporarily. I am busy with preparations for an expedition to British India. There is a particular mountain that is just begging for me to mount.” He gave Patrice a dirty smile. “But then I heard rumors that you were due to arrive and so I simply had to come and make your acquaintance.”
“Well isn’t that kind of you,” Patrice said, returning the creepy smile with one of his very own. “I am at your service, monsieur.”
“So a Shadow Master has taken control of the Council of Warlocks,” Crowley said.
Patrice did not answer.
Crowley looked greatly amused. “Oh, Conrad de Montague and I go back many years. He blackballed me for membership to some of the London clubs when I was at Oxford. He was most indiscreet about … certain things,” Crowley said. “This in turn barred me from becoming part of the set to which one must belong in order to negotiate membership of the Council. My career as a warlock was forever ruined. It was all frightfully boring.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Patrice said.
Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Oh I have managed well enough on my own. You are, I take it, familiar with my work?” He paused and waited for Patrice to nod. “So I am sure you now understand the reason why I have hated de Montague for so many years. And my joy at hearing of his demise.” Crowley folded his hands in his lap, mimicking Patrice’s gesture. “Mr. Chevalier, you did me a most excellent favor when you killed him and I thank you for it.”
Patrice nodded slowly. “I suppose I did,” he said.
“Come now, Mr. Chevalier, there is no need to be so modest. Achieving what you have, is a most outstanding feat and I regard you with the greatest of admiration.”
“Thank you, sir,” Patrice said. To his surprise, he found himself starting to warm to his guest.
“And, as you have done me the great favor of vanquishing my nemesis, I am here to offer you my services in return.”
“And what would you possibly be able to do for me?” Patrice said.
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