by Jeff Wheeler
Cettie watched him go, her heart forming blisters. She’d known he didn’t like her. But she hadn’t realized how deep his seething feelings went.
CHAPTER THREE
CAPTAIN FRANCIS
Cettie’s room at Fog Willows was above the kitchen, and it overlooked the entire manor. It had belonged to her tormentor, Mrs. Pullman, years ago, and she’d worried bad memories would assail her. But Mrs. Harding, who had fulfilled the duties of keeper after Mrs. Pullman and before Cettie, had worked some sort of magic on the place. She had completely redecorated it and even turned the drafty, dusty garret above the room into a pleasant space with windows and rugs and end tables and small bookshelves. The space that had once belonged to Cettie’s enemy, the woman who’d attempted to control and quiet her, was now her safe haven.
Stephen’s words still stung her heart, but she refused to let them sink in deep. Cettie wouldn’t grant him the power to control her. He was miserable because he hadn’t tried to earn Fog Willows the way his father had hoped he would. Rather than focus on the fine points of running the estate, or even the mines, he preferred to enjoy himself. To covet more riches. That outlet had been taken from him, and his frustration was likely wreaking some havoc on his mind. Lady Maren had tried to apologize to her for her son’s behavior, but Cettie refused to let her mother take responsibility for it. Cettie loved the Fitzroys. Even Stephen. But she did not think his behavior was improving with age. She wasn’t sure what would improve it.
She smoothed the quilt that covered the bed and arranged the pillows. She hadn’t slept there in a few days. Joses had brought up her trunk, so she set out the dresses that needed laundering and arranged the shoes in a neat pile. There was quite a bit to do that day. She’d need to go to Lord Fitzroy’s study and compile the latest measurements from the various storm-glass devices throughout the realm. He’d also entrusted her with the family ledgers, and she would need to update them with the latest payment from the Ministry of War. On top of her duties as keeper of the house, there were guests now to be aware of—Phinia and Malcolm and Stephen. They would make demands on the staff, which would require her approval and attention. Cettie rubbed her temples in anticipation. It would be difficult, yes, but she would face it.
A throb of warning came into her heart from the Control Leering. Three sky ships were quickly approaching Fog Willows. Cettie walked to the windows facing the direction from which she sensed their approach and parted the curtains. From her vantage point above the kitchen, she had an uninterrupted view of the black marks in the sky descending toward the manor. A twinge of misgiving went through her. She sent a thought command to the Leering to notify Kinross to come to her at once. Then she activated the manor’s defenses and felt a thrum of power rising from the depths of the estate. Fog began to seep out of the stones.
As she watched the ships approach, the mist soon swirled around the grounds, turning the manor into a giant cloud. After a few minutes of this, she could no longer see the ships, but she could still sense their presence. Were these the same ships that had followed her exit from Lockhaven? Though she could not verify it by sight, her instincts warned her that they were. She stood there, watching, waiting, trying to judge their intentions. Surely they wouldn’t attack Fog Willows? No one could be that brainless. Lord Fitzroy was the Lord High Admiral of the Ministry of War, the commander of the fleet. But it wasn’t wise to underestimate some men’s willingness to court self-harm.
The Leering informed her the three ships were slowing down as they made their final approach. The sudden fog shielding the manor would no doubt unnerve them. She heard the noise of footsteps coming up the stairs and saw, through the Leering’s eyes, that Kinross and Lady Maren had both responded to her summons.
A tapping sound came from the door, and then the butler and the lady of the house entered.
“What is happening?” Maren asked with concern.
“The three tempests that tried to intercept me when I left Lockhaven may have followed me back here,” Cettie answered, still gazing out the window.
Lady Maren frowned. “That’s rather bold.”
“Should we send word to the Ministry of War?” Kinross asked with a scowl.
“Even if we did, it would take them too long to get here,” Cettie replied. “No, I think we must face this threat on our own.”
The three tempests came back into view as they approached the landing yard. She could see the smudges of shadow as they began to lower. Then there was a small tremor in the floor as the manor’s Leerings repulsed them.
“They’re trying to land,” Maren pointed out.
“I’m not letting them,” Cettie said resolutely. The three tempests had been shoved off course by the magic, and all three began to loop around. She felt a collective push against the manor’s defenses as the lead ship tried again to land and failed.
One of the captains reached out to her with a direct thought. It was the keeper of the manor who always received such messages.
This is Captain Francis of the Glennam, requesting permission to dock at Fog Willows.
“Now they’re asking for permission,” Cettie said with a smile.
“I’d like to speak to them,” said Lady Maren angrily. Kinross nodded in approval.
“If you wish,” Cettie replied. She invoked the Leering in the fireplace and connected it to the main Leering and then to the Glennam. Another throb of magic filled the air, and Cettie felt the gooseflesh go down her arms.
“This is Maren Fitzroy. State your business, please, and come no closer.”
There was a pause. Had they expected to deal with the lady of the manor?
“Hello, Maren,” said Captain Francis. There was a tone of familiarity. Maren’s eyes shot wide with recognition, and her face paled instantly. She knew the voice. She knew the man.
“W-what are you doing here, Clive?” she demanded, her cheeks suddenly flushing.
Cettie was confused. She’d never heard of a Clive Francis before, but the name had an immediate and profound effect on Lady Maren. A suspicion began to form.
“Can we talk about this in person, please?” the captain said. “There’s been a little misunderstanding. Your keeper ran away before we could announce our intentions. She threw one of my friend’s ships down. That wasn’t very kind. Please, Maren. My master wishes to purchase the latest weather map. Surely we can come to an arrangement.”
A look of anger filled Lady Maren’s eyes. The emotions battering her—surprise and dread and rage—seemed to verify Cettie’s guess. She put her hand on Lady Maren’s arm and gave her a warning look.
“No, I do not think that would be wise,” Maren replied, her voice trembling just a bit.
“Maren,” the captain said with a sigh. “Give me a chance to explain.”
Maren screwed up her face and shook her head no, even though the captain would not be able to see her. “Explain it to our advocates, Mr. Sloan and Mr. Teitelbaum, in the Fells. Do not come back here, Clive.”
Another sigh traveled over the connection, but her tone must have convinced the captain it was a useless cause. All three tempests broke away and left.
Maren bowed her head, trying to master her emotions. She bit her lip and shook her head in regret. “I should have let you handle this on your own,” she told Cettie with a smile. Then she glanced with sympathy at Kinross, who seemed beside himself. “You can tell her after I’m gone.”
Cettie had rarely seen Lady Maren so distraught. After the door closed and they heard her footsteps retreating down to the kitchen, Cettie turned to Kinross in wonderment.
“The blackguard,” Kinross muttered. He looked as if he didn’t even know where to start. “I’ve been with the family for a long time.” He sniffed and sighed deeply. “The master didn’t marry for many years after inheriting the estate from his father. I thought he might be content to stay a bachelor. But then he met Maren, who is, of course, connected to the Hardings. She loved another man.”
Cettie’s
eyes widened. She had heard this story before, of course, but now she finally knew the name of the final player. Perhaps that alone was indication of the pain the incident still caused. “Captain Francis?”
Kinross chuckled. “He was no captain then, Miss Cettie. A spendthrift. A wastrel. A rogue. He may have loved Maren . . . or he may have not. Either way, he used her to gratify his pride. Then he tossed her aside for a rich heiress in Lady Corinne’s set.” He said the last words as if they were bitter in his mouth. “Well, he took his wife’s money, and he gambled it and spent it a hundred times over. He ruined them both. I wouldn’t be surprised if there is a deed on him until he’s eighty. He’s a merchant mariner now, is he?” He clucked his tongue. “It’s been many years since that travesty. But he stole part of Lady Maren’s heart, and it hasn’t quite healed all the way. Nearly killed her. And it’s no coincidence that he was sent to wrangle a price. The villains.”
Before noon the next day, Mr. Sloan arrived on a zephyr from the Fells. Cettie had summoned him the previous day after the mishap with the ships. She met him in the sitting room where Fitzroy kept all his documents and ledgers. Mr. Sloan was a kindly man, very patient, and she admired the dignity with which he performed his office. He was favoring his cane more and more these days, and his white hair was thinning rapidly.
“I hope you will stay for dinner,” she said by way of invitation.
“I would be honored to, thank you,” he said with an easygoing smile. She offered him the stuffed chair, and he sank down, wincing with pain. She sat across from him in her own chair. “My heart isn’t getting any younger,” he said with a groan. “I’ll need to leave the practice eventually, but some days it seems sooner than others. It’s good to see you again, Miss Cettie.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sloan. I hope the journey wasn’t much of a trouble for you.” She didn’t like to visit the Fells—too many memories haunted her there—and was grateful he was sympathetic to her feelings.
“None at all, none at all. So . . . Captain Francis. I was civil to him, but I wouldn’t trust that man to hold a pencil for me. His employers knew they couldn’t outbid the Ministry of War, and that to even try would only enrich your family further,” he added with a wry smile, “so they opted to try and take the information by force—very foolish—and when that failed, they thought flattery and bribery might prevail.”
“Did they admit as much?” Cettie asked in surprise.
“Of course not. They wouldn’t have compromised themselves in such a way. But I’m summarizing the facts for you as I see them. This is a faction within the Ministry of Law, mind, not an action sanctioned by the minister himself. My advice as your advocate is that you refuse to sell this fortnight’s information to the Ministry of Law at any price as punishment for the misdeeds of the few. While it will injure your revenues slightly this term, it will prevent such intrigues in the future, and I’m sure the minister will punish the rogues for their ill-conceived gamble.”
His recommendation was completely unaffected by the fact that he himself was affiliated with the Ministry of Law. He served the interests of his client above his party, an attribute she highly valued.
“Thank you for the advice, Mr. Sloan. I think it would be wise to heed it. It’s disgusting that they used a man like Captain Francis, who has a history with this family, to try and leverage the situation. They should be punished.”
“I agree. It was low. But people will do unspeakable things to earn a profit. I nearly gave Captain Francis my opinion that neither you nor anyone else here at Fog Willows would take a bribe. But . . . I have to say, frankly, I’m not certain of that anymore.” He gripped the head of the cane and leaned forward in his chair. His eyes were serious. “I’ve come to learn, Miss Cettie, that Stephen has taken on some debts against his future expectations. I was sorry to hear it.”
Cettie’s heart sank. “How did you hear about it?”
Mr. Sloan frowned, which was incongruous for his normally cheerful face. “Someone came to me seeking information about his future inheritance. Of course I gave him nothing, but I did make a few well-timed comments to insinuate doubt. He spilled the story to me out of worry that he wouldn’t be paid back. I think Stephen has been approached by several creditors who have offered him money that exceeds whatever living he might feasibly get. They want him to be in bondage before he even inherits his dues. Better to sink their hooks into him now. I say this because he is here at the manor right now when he should be managing the affairs of the mines. That doesn’t bode well, you see.”
It certainly explained part of Stephen’s outburst from the previous day. She thought of Fitzroy’s study and the maps and data readings kept there . . . If Stephen was in debt, he’d feel the need for money more keenly. He might even stoop to betraying them.
“Thank you for telling me, Mr. Sloan. I will keep my eyes wide open.”
A placid smile replaced the frown on Mr. Sloan’s face. “I knew you would. You’re a canny girl. I’ve always admired you. While you are keeping your eyes open, would you inform me if you hear word of Mr. Skrelling? You haven’t heard from him recently, have you?”
He was a friend—of sorts—of hers from school. “Not for several months. Why do you ask?”
He shrugged and labored to rise from the chair. She hurried over to help him. “He went north to Billerbeck Abbey, and I haven’t heard from him since. He’s been missing for some time now. He’s always been such a dutiful and pragmatic worker. He was one I was considering making a partner someday. Now he’s disappeared. It’s a little odd, but then he’s always been just a little odd. I thought he might have stopped by here on the way, since he writes you all of those letters.”
Cettie’s cheeks flushed. “As I said, I’ve not heard from him.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Mr. Sloan said, wrinkling his nose. “I’m sure he’ll turn up.”
Some say the conflict between our world and the empire of Comoros comes down to a conflict of religion. That is true to some extent, but truly, religion is what keeps the poor from murdering the rich. The true source of our enmity is envy—we want what they have. Cities floating in the air. Air ships. Base emotions are easily inflamed.
I am a great student of history and have learned these facts as taught through the ages. The reason my soldiers fight for me is because I take care of them. I fight for their needs, for food and proper boots. For equipment and pay. For cannons and black ash. They will obey me above all men because I suffer what they suffer and fight for them just as fiercely as they fight to win my battles.
Our conflict with Comoros began when they realized their riches had been plundered by Gahalatine to drive his war machine. Of course they were plundered! Their kingdoms had destroyed one another in a fit of pique. Why shouldn’t we come to take the pickings?
The only way for them to get the wealth back is through trade or plunder. They alternate between each like a hammer and the forge. Even if many of our clashes have happened on in-between worlds we both trade with.
Envy. Greed. Malice. These are the forces that drive the proud in their flying cities. Not religion. They seek to enlighten our minds, but in truth they seek our knowledge and secrets just as surely as we seek theirs. I grow tired of playing their game. The time has come to defeat them once and for all and take what we want from their stores. Then we will rule the air and the sea. Only one of our civilizations can remain dominant. It will be ours.
—Leon Montpensier, Duke of La Marche
SERA
CHAPTER FOUR
A DEAD TREE
Sera Fitzempress kept her true feelings locked away in her heart. If her father believed that her isolation and confinement at Pavenham Sky would break her, he was dead wrong. It was a gilded prison, to say the least. She’d not gone hungry for food, although she was starved for companionship. She wasn’t allowed to interact with the guests invited to the Lawtons’ luxurious manor. No, her torture was to see the social gatherings but not participate in them. Thi
s, she supposed, was intended to drive her into a frenzy of conformity. A willingness to do and say and be anything others wanted her to be. It had instead fostered the opposite effect. Sera was stubborn by nature, and her defeat three years ago hadn’t broken her. If anything, it had emboldened her.
They could take everything from her. They could treat her like a doll—dress her in the latest fashions, surround her with exquisite food and music, and lecture her about comportment until they were blue in the face. They could shun her and sneer at her and play with her mind. But they could not break her. They could not control her.
So she waited, biding her time, keeping her heart a secret place she divulged to no one. She was more determined than ever that if—no, when—she was allowed her freedom, she would speak for the downtrodden, the people who had no choice but to fall in line with whatever the upper classes wanted.
But there were some advantages to being at Pavenham Sky, one of the largest being its situation on the coast. The floating manor and its hovering gardens were suspended over a series of sea cliffs that led to a private beach that was isolated on both sides. The weather shifted constantly, often going from fog to sunshine in a matter of hours. By patient observation, she had discovered that the tide came in and out at certain intervals depending on the cycles of the moon. She loved to visit the beach beneath the flying manor. Walking along the shore was her favorite pastime, and although she was never allowed to wander alone, she made regular journeys there until she knew every nook of it. Sometimes she’d climb the massive tree, the Shui-sa, which had fallen off an outcropping of rock nearby and been dragged by the waves to the shore, where it was stranded and eventually bleached. She loved walking up and down the trunk, careful not to fall. But her newest enjoyment was the tide pools.
In fact, she was crouching there when Master Sewell came walking up the beach to fetch her back to the manor. She had taken to drawing the varieties of sea life she found hidden in the shallows. The rocks were encrusted with different kinds of life, strange things that thrived under the constant pounding of the surf. She was particularly fascinated by the little sea stars that clung tenaciously to the rocks despite the unrelenting waves. Sometimes Sera could pry one off to study it. Sometimes their grip was too hard to break. She was like that.
