The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  Lilain was busy staring at the markings of the lumbering great craft floating above them. ‘Well if none of the passenger or trader ships’ll take us, maybe some of the cargo or salvage runners will. Might cost us a pretty florin, though. Weight’s everything to them.’

  Lurker jingled his pockets. Prospecting might have been thin in the capital, but generosity had flowed. Lincoln had not only furnished them with new clothes and supplies, but a fistful of coin each to help them on their way. Lurker had lost count of how many times he’d bowed and thanked the man. He scrunched up his face and grunted, keeping his voice low.

  ‘Well, for once, we ain’t short of wealth. Where was Lincoln back in Fell Falls, hmm?’

  Lilain just shrugged in reply.

  An hour of walking led them to the tallest of the docking towers, where all sorts of air-vessels came to congregate, like misshapen barnacles on a submerged mast. The huge feat of construction easily dwarfed the unfinished Spike a mile or two behind them. For now at least. Lurker had to tip his hat to stare up at its peak. He stared at a fat zeppelin as it tried and failed to dock, having trouble in the breeze. Its tail swung dangerously close to a nearby airskiff, and he couldn’t help but shudder. ‘It ain’t right to fly,’ he said. ‘If it was the Maker that forged us, he didn’t give us wings for a reason.’

  Lilain whacked him on the arm. ‘Technology is a marvellous thing, Lurker. You’d best embrace it or you’ll get left behind.’

  ‘Behind suits me just fine. Least it’ll be quiet.’ Lurker’s gaze stayed fixed on the zeppelin. It had never been the habit of industry to settle for small and simple. He wondered how such a thing stayed aloft. His eyes took in her two-dozen silver engines, the blur of her mighty propellers, and her sleek green hull ribbed with red metal struts and spines. It was like an iceberg of the sky; short on grace, yet full of power. It seemed a precarious sort of arrangement.

  As he gawped at the airship, Lurker felt a shiver up his spine; that old familiar feeling of eyes on his back. Unwanted and unwelcome. He sniffed, tasting the air. ‘Is it me, or do you get the feelin’ we’re bein’ watched?’ he asked, voice barely audible over the roar of engines above.

  Lilain bent to tie her bootlaces while she took a sly look around. The crowds were thick and tightly compressed, full of strange people from distant lands. Lurker stared about suspiciously. Maybe his old habits were getting the better of him.

  ‘A man in a hood,’ whispered Lilain. ‘Beard. To your back and left. Definitely not from around here.’ Lurker flicked her a thumb to let her know he’d heard. He didn’t dare turn to look. She got to her feet and joined him in staring up at the sky.

  Clearing his throat, Lurker dipped a hand into his jacket and pulled out his knife, fresh from the sharpener’s wheel. He handed it to Lilain. Long Tom was no use in close quarters, and close was all the crowd could afford them. He put a hand to the Mistress, sitting in his belt.

  ‘Let’s walk on and see what he does,’ Lilain suggested, nodding to a wide board at the far end of the street, covered with posters, notices, and scraps of paper. ‘You go ahead. I’ll hang back.’

  He agreed with a blink and she walked ahead to examine the board. Lurker rejoined the flow of the crowd and moved past her, turning right and then into another alleyway, making sure she saw him. He tucked himself against the wall and waited, pretending to roll a cigarette. The Mistress waited patiently by his side, pining to be of use. Lurker patted her in reassurance.

  A swift peek around the carved white stone of the wall told him he was not the target. The man was nowhere to be seen. In fact, he had barely moved, still slouching against a lamp-post, hood down and silent. It was only when Lilain moved that he stood up straighter. Every step Lilain took was echoed several yards behind her. Every turn anticipated. The man was a professional, that was for sure.

  Lurker ducked into a hollow doorway and let Lilain pass. She was already holding the knife against her chest. He sniffed as their follower passed, tasting foreign scents. Tobacco. A hint of whisky. Threads from another shore. He smelled like Merion; like Empire dirt, and rain.

  Lilain was clever. She left the main thoroughfare between the tall warehouses and sauntered through the narrower streets, playing casual. Lurker hung back, fondling the pistol’s handle, ready to draw. He wondered whether the hooded man had come to exact Dizali’s revenge, or to silence a pair of loose threads. It didn’t really matter; he would still end up with a bullet in his brain. Lurker had left his sense of mercy to die in the desert a long time ago.

  The man was closing the gap, smartly so, taking more of the flagstones with each stride, arms still firmly kept in pockets. Lurker followed suit, stretching his legs.

  ‘Pardon me, madam,’ barked the stranger, voice echoing off the stone of the alley. Empire and no doubt about it; a London accent like Merion’s, but rougher on the ears. Lurker kept moving as Lilain turned, her expression nonchalant. Her knife was now hidden in her pocket.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ she replied.

  ‘I just wanted a word…’

  The moment the man’s hands left their pockets, Lurker pounced. He surged forward, seizing his arms and slamming him up against the wall. There was a muffled grunt as his face met the stone. The man was strong; Lurker could feel it in the hardness of his muscles. He grit his teeth and strained to keep the stranger still. He was about to slam him against the wall again, to see if that knocked any sense into him, when the man dropped to his knees. He slid out of Lurker’s grasp like a snake, bending the prospector’s wrists into a sharp angle and throwing him against the stone. Lurker blinked as lights burst behind his eyes. His wrists were aflame. The hands that held them were like steel. Lurker was not used to being bested. He didn’t like it one darned bit.

  Lurker felt a tug at his belt. There was a sharp click as something cold and metallic was cocked. He felt the man freeze. People tended to do that when a gun barrel was pressed against their temples.

  ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let him go,’ hissed Lilain. ‘Nice and slowly now. No more neat tricks.’ She was standing side-on, arm outstretched, finger itching on the trigger.

  The man stayed silent and still.

  ‘Are you deaf as well as dumb?’ Lilain jabbed him with the gun one more time. The man released his hold and stepped backwards with his hands held to the sky. Lurker hoisted back his hood with one hand and socked him squarely in the jaw with the other. Whoever he was, he was tough as nails. He took the punch like a tree-trunk, barely flinching. Lurker’s hand ached more than he would have liked.

  A short crop of dark hair clung to the man’s grubby scalp. His beard was bushy, and tangled at the edges. His eyes were so dark they bordered on black, and they stared unflinchingly down the barrel of the Mistress. He wore simple clothes; no sigils or coats of arms in sight, especially not a tiger and eagle. He had no gun; just a long jacket with a hood. He looked part waif, part stray dog, and altogether dangerous. He was far from what Lurker had expected from Dizali. If anything, he felt like he was looking into a strange mirror.

  ‘On your knees!’ ordered Lilain. The man flashed some teeth in annoyance, and then dropped to his knees.

  ‘And hands behind your head.’ Lurker took Lilain’s knife and waved it in the man’s face, trying to elicit some hatred, some emotion, instead of the blank stare he wore.

  Lilain prodded him with the Mistress again. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘And what do you want?’ added Lurker.

  The man spent a while in silence, perhaps in thought. All the while his gaze switched between his two captors, gauging them, measuring them; calculating and disturbingly calm. He seemed no stranger to blades or guns. He barely seemed to sweat. When he finally answered, his voice was slow, measured, and even gruffer than before.

  ‘My name is Dower Gunderton. I’m here to find your nephew, Lady Hark.’

  Lilain squatted down to bring her face level with Gunderton, as dangerous as the finger on her trigger. ‘That’s Ms Ren
nevie to you. And you’ll forgive me if that doesn’t fill me with much confidence. Most people who come looking for my nephew have either tried to kill him or rob him. Or both. And I’m tired of it.’

  ‘I’m not here to do either.’

  ‘Then what do you want with him?’

  Gunderton tilted his head. ‘To keep him safe.’

  ‘And what are you to him?’

  A shrug. ‘Just a memory, most likely.’

  Lurker swapped a confused glance with Lilain. ‘You’re talkin’ riddles, man! Speak plainly.’

  ‘I looked after him when he was younger. I worked for his father, your brother, Ms Rennevie. I’m here to find him, and to make sure he’s kept out of harm’s way. Dizali’s way, if I’m being honest. As Karrigan would have wanted.’ Whoever he was, he seemed to know what he was talking about. Lurker humoured him.

  ‘You’re a bit late, ain’t you?’ he grunted. ‘Where were you when Cirque Kadabra turned to blood and bullets?’

  He almost missed it, but there was definitely a flash of annoyance in the man’s face. ‘I was delayed.’

  Lurker knew there was more behind that reply, but he knew better than most how some secrets needed time to show their heads in the sunlight.

  ‘Well, you’re out of luck, Mr Gunderton. Merion’s gone,’ Lilain told him, standing upright and rolling her neck. The pistol stayed fixed on the man.

  ‘Where is he?’ Gunderton asked, concerned all of a sudden. Act or truth, Lurker wasn’t sure.

  Lurker looked to Lilain, who nodded. ‘Gone to London. On Lincoln’s own ship.’

  Gunderton tried to get to his feet, but the prospector put a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘You ain’t goin’ nowhere yet, Mr Gunderton. Stay still, or I’ll—’

  The man ripped Lurker’s hand from his shoulder and twisted the wrist viciously, forcing him to his knees with a cry. In the same movement, he swiped the Mistress from Lilain’s hand and kicked her shins from under her. In the time it took to blink, they both found themselves on the ground, wide-eyed and speechless. Gunderton’s thumb lingered on the hammer of the Mistress for a brief moment, and then, to their surprise, he spun the pistol in the palm of his hand, and pointed the handle towards Lilain. ‘I’m not here to fight you.’

  Gunderton stepped back as Lilain snatched away the pistol and dusted herself off. Lurker picked up his knife and for a moment he considered giving this man a taste of his own medicine, but he’d already been embarrassed twice today and he didn’t much fancy making it three times.

  ‘Are you positive he’s gone to London?’ Gunderton asked. He definitely seemed concerned.

  ‘Unless King Lincoln is a liar, then yes, I’m positive!’ spat Lilain.

  ‘Why do you care?’ Lurker asked.

  Gunderton sniffed. ‘Because Karrigan would want me to. I owe that man a great many things.’

  ‘A man only makes amends when he has something to make amends for,’ said Lilain.

  Gunderton didn’t know what to make of that. He ran a couple of fingers through his beard and looked up as a droning airship lazily cast a shadow over them. ‘It seems I wasted a trip,’ he grumbled, voice fading into an irritated mumbling. Something about staying put in London.

  Lilain sighed. ‘The boy thinks he can take care of this mess all by himself and keep us out of harm’s way in the process. Well he’s being darn silly about it, and so we’re going to London to set him straight. So if you truly are looking out for Merion, then perhaps we should travel together. Merion won’t trust you without us, should you even manage to find him.’

  ‘Found you, didn’t I? I’ve tracked more people down than you’ve cut open, Ms Rennevie,’ Gunderton replied, sounding proud. ‘And I travel alone.’

  Lilain tutted. ‘Not any more you don’t.’ She pointed the way back to the main thoroughfare ‘Now move it, Mister.’

  Gunderton took a few moments to realise he wasn’t getting rid of this stubborn woman. He shrugged, muttered some more, and then began to walk. Lilain holstered the Mistress and followed him, one yard behind. Lurker hovered close at her shoulder.

  ‘You sure about this, Lil?’

  ‘Not one bit.’

  ‘Then we’re takin’ a risk we don’t need. He could have sold us a clever lie.’

  ‘What was it my brother once said to me? Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. If he is another of Dizali’s men, then we’ll have him within reach, won’t we?’ Lilain’s eyes flicked to the knife still lingering in Lurker’s hand.

  Lurker couldn’t deny the logic, even though he didn’t like it. ‘You’re a clever one, Lilain Rennevie. You know that?’

  One of Lilain’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘Of course,’ she said, before patting the grizzled prospector on the shoulder. ‘Come on.’

  *

  Airships seemed to be far more expensive than your average seafaring craft. Any old bucket with a solid hull could ply the roiling waves of the Iron Ocean, if it was so inclined. But, as their captains knew, airships were faster and slicker.

  One such captain stood before them. She seemed to be mostly comprised of fur coat; a curious choice given the sweltering heat between the white-painted buildings of the airship port. The coat must have been purloined from a large animal; it fell from her shoulders and brushed the dusty flagstones with every twitch. A thick badge was sewn into its breast, bearing the name “Skyhorse Coats”. A slim black cigarette, barely smouldering, seemed to be screwed in to the corner of her mouth. Maker knew how long it had been stuck there. She spoke around it with a thick drawl, eyes half-closed but sharp enough to realise when there was a heavy coin purse or two in their vicinity. The sparkle in those green irises said as much.

  Captain Higgis sucked at her teeth once more and nodded her head from side to side, making a show of working the sums. She was leaned against a signpost, so diagonal she looked as though she might topple at any minute.

  ‘Hmm, no. I don’t think so. I could get twice that for a bunk on my ship.’

  ‘Twice?’ Lilain seethed. ‘You’ve got to be jokin’. I could buy an airship for a hundred florins.’

  Higgis shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Ain’t just about whether it flies, ma’am. It’s about who’s flyin’ it. There ain’t nobody knows the sky better than I do.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ Lilain scoffed. ‘It’s a pretty big sky.’

  ‘Believe what you want.’ Higgis smiled and took a step back towards the saloon they had found her in, knocking back whisky as if it was all about to be set alight. ‘Don’t bother me one bit. There’s plenty of other customers need passage to the Empire. Why, you might wait a week for the next chance, what with so little of it available these days.’

  Lurker tried his hand at some persuading.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he began, taking off his hat and stepping forward. Higgis took a contemplative drag of her half-dead cigarette. ‘Tell you what. We call it sixty, and you’ll have an extra helper for this journey.’

  Higgis looked down at Lurker’s gloved hands as if the shape and size of them alone might convince her. They seemed to meet her approval. ‘You ever worked an airship before, sir?’

  ‘Worked on ships aplenty, in my younger days.’

  ‘You serve in the war?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  There was an uncomfortable moment as the cigarette was chewed and rolled around tobacco-stained lips. ‘Which side?’ It was a dangerous question. There were some that had never stopped fighting, deep in the darkest reaches of the New Kingdom.

  ‘The rightful one, ma’am.’ Lurker replied.

  Higgis laughed at that, a hoarse chuckle. ‘Fair enough, sir. Good answer. I’ll work you hard, mind. I run a tight ship,’ she explained, eliciting a snort from Lilain. ‘And I expect my passengers to stay out of my crew’s way.’

  Lurker bobbed his head. ‘That’s fair to me. If work ain’t hard then it ain’t work.’

  Higgis laughed again. ‘I like you, sir. You’ll do just fine. Tower
Nine. You got one hour. I leave at four, sharp. And by sharp, I mean razor. You understand?’

  ‘Absolutely, ma’am.’

  ‘Be there at quarter-to.’

  ‘Sharp.’

  Higgis flashed more of her stained teeth and sauntered off. ‘You’re catchin’ on quick.’

  Lilain waited until the door had slammed shut before she spoke.

  ‘John Hobble, you smooth talker.’

  ‘You know me.’

  ‘Apparently, I don’t.’

  Lurker gave his usual shrug. ‘I jus’ know the type. Met more than my fair share in the war. Her sort always likes havin’ someone new beneath ‘em to shout at and order about. Makes ‘em feel big. Besides, we ain’t got much choice, do we?’

  ‘No, we do not. Nor time.’

  It took them the best part of an hour to find Tower Nine, and by the time they arrived, they were skirting around the margin of lateness. Higgis seemed to have a passion for leaning; she was now propped up against a support girder, once again with a cigarette hanging from her lip. Lurker couldn’t tell if it was the same one or a fresh victim, doomed to die of boredom before it turned to ash.

  He looked up at the fat lump hanging several hundred feet over their heads, tethered to the ironwork of the tower by thick ropes and a flimsy-looking walkway. ‘It still ain’t natural,’ he muttered, as he eyed the airship’s bulbous nose, painted red like a target, and its fabric and steel flanks—ash grey—sporting a few hollow dents that caught the afternoon light. There were a number of disjointed patches too, old repairs, beaten and riveted into place. That didn’t give Lurker much confidence.

  It wasn’t the biggest airship he had ever seen. Probably no more than two hundred yards long from nose to rudder. Built for small cargo runs, no doubt; or a handful of passengers. Its tail fins were also a bright scarlet red, sun-bleached in places. Around them sat the halo of engines, buzzing away to themselves. The grey gondola clinging to its belly was sleek and narrow, tracing the contours of the hull, punctured in seemingly random places by portholes. Red stripes had been painted along the side, no doubt to cover some of the rust.