by Jeff Wheeler
“Indeed, ma’am,” he replied and then coughed into his fist.
She went to a small sofa and sat down, her hands folded primly on her lap. Her slightly inquisitive look conveyed a clear message. She would not have a conversation with him. She expected him to say his piece and depart.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, ma’am. I’ll dispense with idle chatter. I do not wish to waste your time.” There was a flash of lightning from the storm outside, followed by a boom of thunder. The cloud cover swallowed any light, making it look like the middle of the night.
She didn’t respond to his statement. Instead, she tilted her head patiently and waited.
“I’m here, ma’am, on behalf of a young woman I regard highly.” He assumed the posture of his profession and began to pace slowly in the room, as if she were a judge he was arguing his case for. “My masters have for many years labored to discover the identity of Lord Fitzroy’s ward so that he might adopt her legally. Her father’s identity is one Mr. Pratt of the Fells. The mother’s identity has been hidden for many years. Until now.”
She revealed no expression of alarm or concern. He had carefully prepared his little speech in the hopes that she might betray something. She did not.
“You must discern, madame, that I would not be here if there was not incontrovertible proof that this child’s mother is, in fact, Your Ladyship.”
He inhaled deeply, searching her face. She had yet to reveal any emotion, but there was something in her eyes. Just a slight narrowing, an interest sparked. She was a master of self-control. Not even the stage performers in the City could have been so poised.
“And by what evidence do you make such a claim, Mr. Skrelling?”
Ah, she wished for him to play his cards first. She was keeping her secrets close, then. “I have made this search the focus of the last several years of my life, Lady Corinne. You know, as well as I do, how the Mysteries of Thought work. I have been relentless in my pursuit. I have eschewed failure and spurned setbacks. There are no birth records because she was never born in a hospital. She was born in secret. In shame. And so only the mother would know where or when. You were never a suspect because you appear to be so young. You would have needed to be at least twelve or thirteen years old nineteen years ago—unlikely but not impossible—and since you have no heir with Lord Lawton, it would be logical to deduce that you are barren. But I did not solve this riddle through conjecture, Your Ladyship. Proof, as I said.”
He paused, trying to see what effect his words had on her. She gazed at him with earnestness, hands still placid on her lap.
“In order to free my lady of her state of uncertainty, I needed proof,” he continued. “Three years ago, while I was at school, there was an intruder at the abbey who attempted to kidnap Miss Cettie. Lord Fitzroy’s youngest daughter was then abducted by the same man. One Caulton Forshee was sent for, from Billerbeck Abbey. He possesses a priceless device called the Cruciger orb, which has the power to find anything. Mr. Forshee used it to find both the girl and the attacker. All of this started the war we have now been fighting for three years. I visited Billerbeck Abbey, ma’am. I . . . used the Cruciger orb myself to answer the question that has tormented me for these many years. I know it’s forbidden to use without the permission of the privy council, but Mr. Forshee was unaware that I used it.” He swallowed. “It revealed your name to me, Lady Corinne. The rest I have pieced together myself. Young, but not impossibly so. A scandal of such proportion would undoubtedly rock the world. I’ve come to offer terms so that Miss Cettie can be legally adopted and your reputation preserved. As you no doubt know, even though she is legally an adult, the adoption can still be made official, provided an agreement is reached with one of the parents, the mother’s side being the stronger. I will submit to a binding sigil that will forever prevent me from speaking of what I know. Not even Miss Cettie needs to learn the truth. Just you. And I.” He gave her a slight nod. “She will be wealthy enough as one of Fitzroy’s heiresses. I do not seek a claim to any of your property.” He gestured to the grand library and, indirectly, to Pavenham Sky itself.
“What say you, my lady? Can we reach an agreement?”
Lady Corinne rose from the sofa. Her expression was still guarded, still calm. There was not a flush to her cheeks, no pout of regret. “Well, young man. Thank you for visiting me. You were very helpful indeed. My servant will escort you away.”
Clarence flexed his brows. “M-ma’am?” he stuttered.
Then he felt an awareness, a plunging feeling of darkness and doubt. He saw Lady Corinne nod to someone else, and he whirled, expecting to see Master Sewell. He’d not heard the door open.
Another man approached him from behind, walking so quietly his steps couldn’t be heard. He looked more like a merchant than a servant, though the scar on his face gave him a rough appearance. Clarence recognized him instantly as the man he’d seen in Vicar’s Close. The one who had then kidnapped Miss Cettie and Anna Fitzroy. Panic and dread slithered down his spine. Clarence tried to bolt for the door, but the man seized him, twisting his arm behind his back, ignoring his flailing. His attacker then marched him to the veranda door.
Lady Corinne stared impassively at him as he gaped back at her. In a moment of clarity, he realized just how badly he had blundered. The man opened the veranda door wider and dragged Clarence out into the rear gardens. Rain lashed at them violently, and more thunder rippled in the sky. There were no groundskeepers out on a day like this. No witnesses.
“P-please, man!” Clarence wailed, trying to master his terror. “Let me go! I w-won’t . . . tell a soul!”
The man grunted and hauled him through the garden. Clarence’s shoes slipped on the grass, but the grip on his arm was merciless.
They reached the end of the gardens. There was a small wall, and Clarence could see the open sky beyond it.
“W-what are you d-doing?” he stammered.
They reached the edge of the wall. Clarence’s heart quailed. He couldn’t think. It was all happening too fast. He shouldn’t have come. He should have revealed the information to someone else to protect himself. In a misguided attempted to protect Lady Corinne’s honor, he’d duped himself into . . .
The scar-faced man hoisted him over the wall and shoved him off the side of the manor.
He couldn’t even scream as he fell.
CETTIE
CHAPTER ONE
CETTIE OF THE CLOUDS
Of her many duties as keeper of Fog Willows, Cettie’s least favorite was arguing with the admiralty. It meant a voyage to Lockhaven, where she was always put down in ways both subtle and direct for her ill breeding. They all knew her story, how her mentor and father had rescued her from a hand-to-mouth existence in the Fells, and she could see they despised her for it. It didn’t matter that she was the coinventor of the storm glass, the invention that allowed them to track storms capable of waylaying their sky ships. She was roundly disparaged each time a new payment was transferred from the Ministry of War to the accounts of Dolcoath Mines and Sigils. Surely part of her mistreatment came because she was a woman, because she came from the Fells, and because she was immune to the attempts at bribery and extortion that were typical in the business dealings of the day. Fitzroy led the soldiers, but the Ministry of Law’s edicts guaranteed he had as much right to perform business as anyone else. The government itself ran on contracts, on money exchanged for goods and services and speculation. Everyone knew there was money to be made in war. Or lost.
“Confound it, young lady!” said the aggravated Admiral Peckton, his cheeks puffing out. “Think of the rations that your scheme is depriving our brave men of on the front! Surely you would consider a discount, this month only, so that we may supply enough bread to our starving dragoons!”
Every month it was a different ploy. They’d attacked her patriotism, they’d tried to intimidate her, they’d even questioned her intelligence until she’d proven that Mrs. Romrell’s teaching in mathematics quite eclipse
d their own. Now they appealed to her compassion, to the waif she’d been in the Fells. Well, let them. The common people would be better off if she was paid. She and her guardian had agreed that a large portion of the profits from their endeavor would be donated to charities helping the families of the fallen—a cause that received little support from the government.
“Admiral Peckton,” she responded in a firm, steady voice, “you should have considered the stores of bread when the Ministry of War bid for this report. Though perhaps it is best that you did not. There is a storm coming, I assure you.” She tapped the rolled map on the heel of her hand. There was a seal closing it, affixed with Fitzroy’s coat of arms. His key hung from her belt, the key to Fog Willows, granting her the authority to use the Mysteries on his behalf. Her own abilities, however, were more than sufficient. And the admiralty had learned that when they had tried to intimidate her with a Fear Leering.
The admiral had thick bronze whiskers and a seething countenance. He sat in his chair and muttered under his breath about her lack of feeling.
She stood at the head of the council table, facing four admirals at once. The prime minister, Lord Welles, was seated in an ornate chair at the other end, watching her shrewdly.
“Just pay her, Peckton,” he snorted. “Be done with it.”
Cettie nodded to him, still surprised that someone of her station was addressing the prime minister of the empire. She was only nineteen, and this was the third time she’d attended him in his office.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, “for honoring the terms of the deal.”
He gestured at her, a small wave of annoyance. “Open the scroll, my dear.”
She stood still, watching as Admiral Peckton consulted with his ministry’s advocate before signing the order that would transfer the funds. After he signed it, the advocate signed it as well and then presented it to her. She quickly glanced the form over to ensure all was in order. One time they had left out the date of the transaction, which had delayed the transfer of funds. The next month, she’d spiked the price higher in return.
“All is in order, then,” she said, taking the paper from them and handing over the huge rolled map. Vociferous, she thought. It was the command word to release the binding sigil on the seal. The map would burn to ash if someone tried to open it without knowing the password.
Admiral Peckton took it from her and broke the wax seal. The paper made a stiff crackling sound as it was unrolled. Weights were used to hold down the corners as the other admirals gathered around to view it. Lord Welles remained in his chair, watching her.
“As you can see, my lord admirals,” Cettie said, “there is a new storm wall forming over Hautland. The storm glass predicts that it will move southwest to strike the shores of our lands by week’s end.”
“Are you certain it will follow the marked path, young lady?”
“Don’t be daft, Peckton,” said Admiral Clifton, pushing back his thick silver hair. “She draws the maps herself.”
She did. And the Ministry of War learned the news days in advance of the other ministries. It was one of Fitzroy’s strategies to force the four ministries to bid against one another for the knowledge. Since the war with Kingfountain had started three years ago, the Ministry of War refused to be outbid, even though the Ministry of Law often attempted it. In truth, Cettie would never withhold the information from her own father, who was, after all, at the front lines of the battle. No doubt they knew it, but they were not the trusting sort. If Fitzroy was to have the information, they wanted it too. Knowledge was power.
“This is valuable information,” said Clifton, appraising her. “We were going to send transports that way to bolster Fitzroy’s forces.”
“He already knew about the storm,” said Lord Welles shrewdly, bringing his fingers together. “Once again, you’ve proven the usefulness of your invention. Well done.” He dipped his head to her, though some of the other admirals looked at her with undisguised scorn.
It was tempting to be flattered by his praise. But she knew Lord Welles was a politician above all. His kindnesses, when given, were given for a reason. She’d seen his temper before and felt it too. Just being in the room with him made her uneasy, especially knowing how he had contributed to her friend Sera’s downfall. She gathered the contract and the leather tube case she’d brought to transport the map and turned toward the door. Welles stopped her again.
“Here is a bit of news for you, Miss Cettie. One that will not cost you. Lord High Admiral Fitzroy has gathered our forces to Hautland to prepare for a major engagement with General Montpensier. There will likely be a huge battle by week’s end, regardless of the weather. If you would bear that news to Lady Maren, I would be indebted to you. But keep it secret otherwise. How he knows where our enemies will attack next . . . well, it’s nothing short of a miracle.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he said the words.
“He’s a bloody harbinger,” said Admiral Peckton angrily.
“It’s a good thing he’s on our side,” Clifton countered.
Cettie knew Welles was watching her, gazing keenly at her face to judge her reaction. She knew Fitzroy was in Hautland. She was the one who’d told him to go there after her vision two days before.
“Do you think it will end the war?” she asked Lord Welles.
He entwined his fingers and shrugged. “Only the Knowing can say, my dear. We would have been defeated long ago if not for your guardian’s efforts. But nothing is certain in war. Three years of fighting.” He sighed. “So many dead. There will be a dearth of young men when this conflict is over. Mothers grieving for sons. Sisters for their brothers. Ghastly business. You do your guardian credit. He’s trained you well.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister,” she said, her cheeks flushing.
“Go,” he said with a little wave of his hand. Again, his politeness unnerved her.
As she headed for the door, she heard another admiral say, “Are you sure it’s wise, my lord, to allow Fitzroy to draw all our forces there? In a storm, no less? The other garrisons have been stripped naked. If Montpensier attacks any of them, we’ll crumble to dust. Why would he attack Hautland?”
“Because it’s the biggest mirror gate,” Lord Welles said with a sigh. “It’s also on the coast and within easy striking distance of our shores. One would think he’d avoid it for being too obvious, especially since we’ve always kept it well guarded, but Montpensier always strikes where we’d least expect him to. He’s a genius on the waters.
“If Fitzroy is right—and he has been, time after time—then our enemies are going to flood our realm with this one final push. We’ll need every man jack ready to fight him. This storm may be the very thing that allows us to hinder his fleet. His greatest strength is the ships that pass unseen beneath the waters, but the storm will make it difficult for him. His usual strategy of sending the underwater ships first may not work.”
“It could also ruin our sky fleet,” said Peckton. “We’ll face the same difficulties.”
Cettie knew she was lingering too long at the door. The storm would strike when Montpensier’s fleet arrived through the mirror gate. She’d seen it. Part of her longed to share the details of her vision with the prime minister. The visions had started after she took the Test at Muirwood three years ago, but she and Fitzroy had agreed to keep them a secret. She never knew when the visions would come, and she and her guardian feared she’d be exploited for political purposes if the privy council discovered the truth. This way, she was kept safe, and her visions were used to help protect her world from being overrun by another civilization seemingly intent on destroying it.
Cettie climbed up the rope ladder to her tempest to return to Fog Willows. Joses met her on deck, grinning broadly.
“Is that a victory smile, Cettie?” he asked, flashing a grin. Her childhood friend had been spared military duty because he was a servant in a wealthy household, her wealthy household. Had he still been living in the Fells, he would have ended up in a
different kind of uniform. He was a year younger than her, which they had found out after Fitzroy had successfully hunted down his deed. No longer starving, Joses had grown into a broad-shouldered young man with a quick wit and an adventurous air. They had drifted apart during her years at Muirwood Abbey, but now that she was the keeper of the house, she saw him daily.
“They paid the price they promised to,” she answered, handing him the empty map tube. “Let’s get back home.”
“Can we go shopping in the City first? The last time we came, we took a jaunt down there.”
Cettie shook her head no. “Not this time, Joses.”
“Please?” He gave her his most convincing forlorn look.
“I have a message for Lady Maren,” Cettie answered. “Maybe next time.”
“Very well,” he grumbled, then winked at her. “I’ll make ready to depart.”
“Thank you.”
As Cettie climbed the steps to the helm, she found herself thinking about the first time she had piloted a tempest. It had been with Aunt Juliana’s sky ship, and she had practiced her piloting skills over the fenlands surrounding Muirwood Abbey. With the command of a private sky ship, she could have tried to visit Sera at Pavenham Sky. Of course, she had little doubt she would be turned away. All Cettie’s letters to Sera had been returned unopened. Every single one.
Cettie invoked the Leerings, and soon the tempest made its way from Lockhaven. She never grew tired of looking down at the palatial manors glinting in the sunlight. A fog shrouded the City below, as it normally did, obscuring both the tenements and the larger homes that thronged beneath the massive floating mountain supporting Lockhaven. Cettie increased their speed and set the course.
They had not gone far when Joses cried out, “Cettie! I think we’re being followed!”
She looked down and saw him leaning over the rails. The ship could practically fly itself, with or without someone at the helm, so she rushed down the planks to the lower deck and joined him at the railing.
