by Stephen Hunt
‘I doubt I will fit my magnificent architecture through it,’ said Steamswipe. ‘I am intended for war, not crawling through the ducts of your flotation vessel like a softbody rodent.’
They waited a couple of minutes and were rewarded by a pop in the aerostat’s rigid envelope, then a hatch was lowered down by a hand crank next to the engine. Inside Harry stood in a chamber piled with barrels of expansion-engine gas, glass-lined wood branded with the silhouette of blow-barrel trees, their vapours safely sealed and stored.
‘The purser would have checked forward storage this morning,’ said Harry, closing the loading ramp behind them. ‘We can clear some of these barrels and make a hiding space in case any of the jack cloudies come in here for fuel during the voyage.’
Oliver opened his pack and checked the food was still there.
‘You won’t need that,’ said Harry. ‘This isn’t a passenger liner, it’s a Guardian Smike-class hauler. She hasn’t got the range to be exploring the lakes of Liongeli, Oliver. However many miners they’re taking out of here, they’re taking them as main cargo. And that means a landing somewhere in Jackals.’
‘Let us make a concealment position among the barrels,’ said Steamswipe. ‘I have a feeling it would be a mistake to discharge the Keeper of the Eternal Flame inside this hold.’
Harry looked at the blow-barrel tree silhouette on the barrels. ‘Very perceptive. And I will forgo my daily pinch of mumbleweed, given how I remember most skippers’ fondness for the strap when they catch a cloudie with a pipe on board.’
Their nest amongst the cargo constructed, the three of them waited an hour before the shouts outside warned them the airship was about to launch. The floor trembled as the vessel was drawn down the launch rail and onto a turntable to match the wind direction. Then the rail claws fell back and Oliver’s stomach dropped as the ship began to lift. It became hard to hear each other talk over the rise and fall of the engine’s noise – their whispers needed to become shouts. They might arrive at their destination deaf, but at least the racket would make it almost impossible for any sailor passing by to hear them moving about in the fuel store.
Shortly they had stopped rising and it became colder on board. The main gondola and crew compartments might have been heated, but now Oliver understood why – be it summer, autumn or spring – the jack cloudies who had landed at Hundred Locks came into town wearing thick woollen jumpers with roll-necks tied around their striped sailor’s vests like belts. Shivering, Oliver and Harry broke open the blanket rolls from their packs and took turns warming their hands on Steamswipe’s boiler stack.
Despite the chill and the din Oliver finally managed to drift off to sleep in the early hours of the morning. Harry opened one of his eyes. The young man was breathing deeply, his breath misting the icy air. Steamswipe and his weapon were in their approximation of sleep too, thoughtflow. Leaning over, Harry eased out the wooden case that had been given to Oliver by the reverend in Shadowclock. Checking the narrow corridor outside their fuel store was empty, Harry made his way through the duralumin-framed passage, canvas spheres of celgas brushing his head where he forgot to duck.
At the end of the gantry he opened the wooden door to the small forward head, a simple affair, little more than a seat with a flap opening out to the sky. The disreputable Stave opened the lid of the case. Both pistols were still inside, glinting malevolently. Even without their finely etched scenes, the ivory handles and precious metal plating, the brace would have raised a sack full of clinking guineas in any gunsmith or pawnshop in Jackals. You did not have to be a sorcerer to feel the press of their song, feel the draw of their wicked spangle. Harry shivered, slapped the lid shut, tossed the case into the head and jerked the flush.
As the flap opened, the case tumbled into the sky and Harry watched it disappear into the clouds. It was an expensive hunch, but it was not as if Oliver could have hit the side of a barn with either of those two marksman’s pieces.
‘Next time, preacher,’ Harry whispered to the clouds, ‘you can save your bloody gift-giving for Midwinter.’
Captain Stone of the RAN Heart of Oak pushed the cutlass hanging from his dress uniform back. The damn thing was always getting under his feet, but it was required dress for tonight. Half the high fleet looked like they had assembled in the ante-room outside the dining gallery of the governor’s mansion – the northern fleet, the eastern fleet, even a few stiff blue trousers adorned with the single yellow stripe of the western fleet. It was one of the captains of the west who moved through the press and approached him. Haredale. They had been midshipmen together on the Skysprite.
Haredale nodded politely. ‘Stone.’
‘Haredale.’ Captain Stone indicated his fellow officer’s hair, shorn to stubble on the side and wedge-high on top. ‘Going native?’
‘It’s all the go in Concorzia,’ said the colonial officer. ‘Half the fleet officers of the west are sporting ’em.’
‘How are affairs abroad?’ asked Stone. ‘I heard there were some tensions – not just among the natives.’
‘The colonials are taking more settlers now, genuine ones as well as the convict labour, heh. They are a damn volatile mob – transportees, the first families and the locals – always scrapping, but nothing the navy can’t control. The shadow of a ship of the line always sends ’em scampering for the woods. How is the fleet of the south? I heard you had some trouble down there recently.’
‘The RAN Bellerophon?’ said Stone ‘Let’s just say there is the story the First Skylord released for the Dock Street pensmen – and there are the rumours from the poor jacks we got back alive. If it was up to me I would close the whole bloody border, but parliament would have every jinn importer in Jackals banging on their door, so that isn’t going to happen. These days it’s rare for us to take a flotilla out without having to chase off some humpy raiding party coming out of the arids and into the uplands.’
Haredale pushed a finger under his high collar and pulled the cloth loose. ‘Which the caliph claims are bandits, of course.’
‘Bandits my rear end,’ said Stone. ‘Too well supplied. Too sophisticated for some tent-dwelling sand shaman. The caliph’s hand is over every raid. Mark my words, it won’t be long until we have half the upland Guardians calling for us to flatten a few palaces in Bladetenbul and give Cassarabia a bloody nose.’
‘As long as it keeps the fleet of the south out of mischief,’ said the colonial captain. ‘You passed the damn order’s tests then?’
‘A greater load of stuff and nonsense I have never had to sit through,’ growled Stone. ‘Half the officers of the blue kicking around the county waiting their turn for a truth hexing. How many feybreed have they turned up in the service? They’re tacking against the wind this time.’
‘Admiralty House should never have agreed,’ said Captain Haredale. ‘And it takes the governor of Shadowclock to throw us a do to send us off now the order has had its pleasure. Have you even seen an admiral or skylord back at the citadel since they ordered the high fleet home?’
‘There’s no danger from the Admiralty Board,’ snorted Stone. ‘Not unless parliament are worried they might prick someone with a quill. They would have better luck having us cleared by an alienist. The Bellerophon’s captain was clearly mad – not a feybreed.’
‘Never liked the man,’ said the colonial officer. ‘Ran an unhappy ship. Too damn keen to resort to the cat, rather than trusting his middies to keep discipline. Not surprised he went out barking.’
‘Still,’ said Stone, ‘dropping fins on Middlesteel. We’re fortunate they haven’t stuck us with worldsinger political officers like the Special Guard.’
‘That would never stand,’ said Haredale. ‘There’s only room for one skipper on a ship. They might as well fit us all with one of those hexed necklaces of theirs and keep us all on a lead.’
At the end of the room two grand doors were swung open by redcoats, revealing a long high table filled with platters of steaming meat and flagons o
f wine.
‘Winds of Thar, there’s a spread for you,’ said the colonial captain. ‘Best we avail ourselves before we get back to our weevil bread and salt jerky, heh?’
The milling officers of the fleet began to move into the larger chamber, failing to notice the thuggish crop of stubble on the faces of the redcoats flanking the entrance, or their badly buttoned tunics.
At the head of the table the governor waited for the officers to take their seats and then the chubby statesman raised a heavy crystal glass. ‘Officers of the fleet. I know you sailors normally avoid passing through my city walls due to our sad lack of taverns, but as you can see, my staff have been happy to waive the rules for this evening’s entertainment.’
There were some hoots down the table.
‘The results from the order have now been reported to the Admiralty and handed into the House of Guardians – sadly, none of you would make celgas miners and so the fleet has reluctantly decided to keep you on!’
That raised more whoops of merriment.
‘I think that proves what we all knew all along.’ The governor raised a news sheet freshly couriered from the capital. On the front page was an etching of an aerostat captain fainting into the arms of a couple of stripe-shirted aeronauts, an exaggerated figure of a worldsinger thrusting a truth crystal towards the officer and the speech bubble from the sailors bantering: ‘Does the feymist carry the skipper away?’ – ‘No,’ tis the odour of an early election that makes him swoon.’
‘It proves, gentlemen, that one bad apple does not spoil the barrel.’
Now the captains cheered.
‘So, as a small token of recognition for the service you have done protecting Shadowclock, let me thank our neighbours from the citadel and the aerostat fields to the north in a manner befitting as fine a bunch of jack cloudies as ever crewed a stat – with a raised glass of grog. Shadowclock’s celgas may float your vessels – now may our hospitality lift your hearts before you scatter to the four corners of Jackals and her possessions. To the Royal Aerostatical Navy!’
‘To the navy!’ the table chorused.
Seated in the middle of the table, Captain Stone passed Haredale a plate of boiled ham slices. Plenty of honeyed fat, just the way the Jackelians liked it.
‘You not drinking, Stone?’
‘Touch of sand belly,’ said Captain Stone. ‘Ship’s surgeon has me on powders. Just a taste of wine, jinn or blackstrap has me retching like a newborn.’
Filling up on water – the apothecary’s remedy had made him as dry as the skin of a sand nomad’s tent – Stone made his excuses and left in search of the rest room. He cursed his luck; ruing the day he had stepped out of the choking dust and tried that skewered stick of lamb in the shade of the border market.
After his gut had cleared, Stone realized he was sweating. He checked the pocket of his tunic for one of the parcels of powder and swore as he realized he had taken the last one before he left the citadel for the governor’s mansion. A bit of cool evening air then, even if it was the fog-shrouded miasma that hung over the hills of Shadowclock. He slipped out of a door and followed the line of a hedge around to the gardens. When a westerly was blowing strong enough to clear the smoke, the view from the hill was said to be the best in the walled city. Now all he could see was a constellation of yellow lamps twinkling through the evening smog in the streets below.
Captain Stone glanced behind him. That was odd. There seemed to be a lot of movement in the dining room, a whole company of red-coated men moving up and down the table. Surely the main course could not have finished so quickly? When the rigid envelope of an aerostat did not bind them to their duty, the officers of the high fleet could stretch a feast into the small hours of the morning. He moved closer to the window.
Inside was a picture of madness. Bodies were littered across the floor, others hanging stiff in their chairs, a few captains of the line crawling across the floor puking their guts out while their faces turned crimson. Moving methodically through the carnage the redcoats had knives out, pulling officers back and slicing their throats. At the head of the table the lumpen governor was gorging on the food, laughing and banging the table as his staff dispatched the fleet as if it were a line of animals at an abattoir.
It took a few seconds for the reality of the insane situation to penetrate Stone’s consciousness – seconds which stretched like minutes. Then his mind cleared with the first rush of adrenalin and an animal urge for survival. First the captain of the Resolute. Now this lunacy? It seemed that the worldsingers had set their hounds on the wrong trail – they should have left the citadel alone and tried their luck in Shadowclock.
Sliding his dress cutlass clear as he vanished into the garden, Captain Stone said a silent prayer to the souk vendors of Cassarabia. A prayer to a skewer of meat chunks of dubious provenance that had saved his life.
* * *
Oliver woke up early. They were sinking and the air was getting warmer. The rise and fall of the expansion engine had changed pitch too. Steamswipe’s unblinking visor met his gaze. He had Lord Wireburn unholstered. Harry was propped up against a barrel of expansion engine gas.
‘We’re landing?’ Oliver said over the racket of the engine.
‘How do you know?’
Harry flipped open a compass.
The engines cut off and for the first time in an age Oliver could hear silence as the vessel hung in the air. With a gentle tug they were being hauled in.
‘Her lines are out,’ said Harry. ‘We’ll be secure groundside soon enough.’
‘After we land we should send out a scout,’ said Steamswipe, ‘and observe the lay of the land. You could use the crawl space in the engines as a vantage point.’
‘Not for an hour or two I couldn’t. Right now that rotor drive is hot enough to fry a side of gammon. But there’s another way. I can do a soul walking.’
‘You can do that?’ asked Oliver. ‘I thought it was dangerous. Even my fey-finders from the Department of Feymist couldn’t do that and old Pullinger was a four-flower worldsinger.’
‘It takes concentration,’ said Harry. ‘You fill yourself with so much of the earth’s power that it can surge and sever the connection between your soul and your body – leaving you a mindless corpse. But I won’t travel that far. Just a quick poke about, nearby. A true soul walker could float all the way to Hundred Locks and back.’
The disreputable Stave moved his pack to the side of their nest among the barrels of gas and adopted a lotus position. ‘No noise now – an interrupted trance and you’ll be spoon-feeding me gruel until the crushers catch up with me.’
Oliver sensed the presence of the wolftaker lift from his body, drift through the chamber and slip through the catenary curtain of the aerostat. They waited in the shadows of the hold. An orange light on Lord Wireburn’s side had begun blinking. The holy relic was ready for the fight and with a start Oliver realized so was he. Harry shook himself out of the trance.
‘What do we face?’ asked Steamswipe.
Harry looked pale. ‘Give me a moment, old stick.’ He made a noise with his throat. ‘Circle. My skin feels like it’s on fire. All right, we’ve come down in Middlemarsh Forest. There’s an old mine behind us. Hasn’t been worked for a long time. Most of the buildings have been abandoned – but the shaft’s been cleared and the winch house has been rebuilt. I couldn’t go any deeper into the mine, the ground blocks a soul walking.’
‘How many foe?’
‘There’s crushers here – or at least, whippers in police uniform. Much the same thing in my book. Some others hanging around – they’ve got spore filters on their collars, so I’d say they’re from the undercity, Grimhope outlaws. But that’s not the worst of it. There’s Special Guard here!’
‘Almost a worthy foe,’ said
Steamswipe. He sounded pleased. ‘Their natural template has been distorted – their abilities in battle will be surprising.’
Oliver extended his newfound senses, touched the souls of the people on the ground and recoiled from their depravity. Wickedness, here, from those that were charged as protectors of Jackals. Could there be a greater treachery?
‘They’re getting ready to unload the miners from Shadowclock. The poor devils are in leg irons in the main hold,’ said Harry. ‘But why an abandoned mine? There’s no celgas here.’
‘There’s evil here,’ said Oliver. ‘And something else besides…’
They both stared at him. ‘What do you know about this place, lad?’
‘I know how to read, Harry. Before these jiggers stole my life that’s all I had to do. This place was in the penny sheets a couple of years back. Three children playing about in a worked-out copper mine found temple statues. Solid gold and gems for eyes. The mine was given to the archaeologists from the eight universities and the county constabulary had to fight off treasure seekers and tomb robbers coming out from the capital, hoping to dig out a fortune.’
‘The governor isn’t risking his neck at the gallows for gold,’ said Harry. ‘You can skim far more than the price of a few antiques from the patronage that comes with the governorship of Shadowclock. Whatever their jig here, they need miners to work their claim. Deep mine experience. The statues were from the coldtime?’
‘Chimecan, Harry. I think they went on display at the museum in Middlesteel.’
‘Okay, here’s the lay of the land. We wait for the Shadowclock miners to disembark and then we drop the ramp and head for the trees. There are plenty of people around. Even if we are spotted they’re as like to assume we’re crew. In the woods we’ll set up an observation and see if we can grab one of their people – find out where the miners are ending up and see how easy it’s going to be to penetrate this bleeding place.’
Oliver could feel the apprehension of the miners, their fear of the unknown as they descended the main loading ramp, and the hard hearts of the guards watching them. They did not see the miners as people at all, just a means to an end.
