“But the thing is,” Grit said, with one last hop into the skeleton ceiling, “I just spent the last few days listening to someone natter on and on about airships, so I know a little bit about how they work, too.”
More silence. These faeries clearly had no plans to reveal themselves or their business on this ship to her. But with over a dozen people on board, she wasn’t in the mood to take any chances.
Grit looked at the gasbag now directly above her.
“These big bags,” she said, trying to keep her voice from wavering, “are filled with a gas the humans call ‘hydrogen.’ It’s lighter than air, which is what makes the Whale of Tales fly. But I hear it’s also highly flammable.”
Grit took one last, long look around, and raised her hand in the air. She had no intention of using her powers here, but if they weren’t going to talk willingly . . .
“So I would suggest you tell me what you’re doing on a human flying circus,” she said. “Because with a snap of my fingers, I could send this whole ship up in flames.”
There was a heavy pause, and then—out of nowhere—a thin rope shot out, curled around Grit’s wrist, and yanked it down by her side.
A faerie strolled out of the shadows, dressed in human-style shirt and trousers, with the world’s tiniest cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes. Those clothes could mean only one thing: the faerie was a member of the Free Folk—faeries who had forsworn both the Seelie and Unseelie courts—and therefore had no love for Seelie faeries like Grit.
“That was the wrong thing to say, miss,” he said, a pleasant twang in his voice. Quick as lightning, he spun another length of rope around his head a few times and cast it out. Brown, curling vines sprouted from his wrists and intertwined with the rope, elongating it until it reached up and snatched Grit around the waist, pulling her away from the gasbag before she could even cry out.
And then she was falling.
But all she could think about was the faerie—and the first thing she’d noticed when he stepped into the light.
He didn’t have any wings.
THE WONDER SHOW was ending, and Icarus was falling.
The man piloting the ornithopter somersaulted in dizzying loops as he descended, expertly maneuvering the wings as if he were a real bird in flight. The “feathers” of his wings somehow changed color from tawny brown to fiery reds and oranges, mimicking the fatal rays of the sun that melted the wax holding them together in the Greek myth. Icarus had been warned by his father not to fly too close to the sun with his artificial wings. But too thrilled by the freedom of flight, he’d failed to listen—and had met his doom in the sea below.
This fall was far from uncontrolled, though it might have looked that way to the audience. Carmer had never seen an ornithopter capable of such finely tuned movements. But Faerie aid could go only so far when machines were involved. Not only did mechanical devices tend to behave erratically around the presence of too much concentrated magic, most faeries wouldn’t even get near machines, if they had a say in the matter. Whoever had designed these devices—including the messenger glider—was clearly a genius.
As soon as Icarus descended from view, the other ships quickly swooped back into place for the finale. The music pumping through the gramophones changed from the somber, dramatic violins accompanying Icarus’s fall to a cheerful orchestral romp that felt rather jarring to Carmer. Though he knew it was all part of the show, he couldn’t get the image of the falling ornithopter pilot out of his head. He’d been much too far away to see the man’s face, but he imagined the look of terror there—the moment when Icarus realized his wings were gone and all he could do was flap his arms until he fell to his death.
By the time Carmer snapped back to attention, the Wonder Show ships were already dispersing, and Bell was shaking him by the shoulders and practically hopping up and down with excitement.
“Did you see that airman?!” Bell exclaimed. “It was so beautiful, I thought I might cry.” He fanned himself with his hand like one of the fashionable ladies around them.
It was beautiful, but it also wasn’t helpful. Other than the undercurrents of faerie song in the music, Carmer hadn’t detected a hint of actual magic. He was still learning, but he was willing to bet Grit felt the same.
“What do you think?” Carmer asked, staring out at the city as the ship began to circle back to the hotel.
Bell was about to open his mouth to answer when he realized Carmer was talking to Grit.
But Grit didn’t answer, and Carmer’s hat felt curiously light.
“YOU GUYS REALLY, really can’t take a joke,” Grit said weakly. She was tied up in the cargo hold of the Whale of Tales, facing a handful of decidedly unhappy Free Folk, and she had definitely not made a good first impression. “I wasn’t really going to set your ship on fire!”
The faerie with the pearly white wings she’d glimpsed in the hall tightened Grit’s bindings with a harrumph. They squeezed her newly healed wing painfully.
“Oh, that’s all fine and dandy, then,” said the wingless cowboy faerie, who seemed to be the leader of the bunch. (He was unlikely to have wrangled many actual cattle in his life, being about five and a half inches tall, but she couldn’t think of any other word that suited him better.) He leaned against a box labeled ORANGES with his arms crossed. “Nothin’ but a misunderstandin’, right?”
“I would never do something like that,” Grit assured him. “Not with all—”
The humans on board, she had almost said, but stopped herself just in time. She had no idea what these faeries’ relationship to the humans on the Roving Wonder Show was. Despite living in the human world, most Free Folk had no great love for the big folk themselves.
“Not with everyone here,” she finished lamely, blushing. “I’ve no quarrel with Free Folk.”
One or two of them seemed slightly mollified at her use of their preferred name. Most of the Fair Folk, as faeries in the courts called themselves, referred to the others as “street fae.”
“Good to hear it, miss,” said the cowboy. He stepped into the light, revealing a weathered face with a strong jaw. Brown curls snuck out from under his hat, touched by gray; this was unusual for a faerie of his apparent age. “But you threatened to burn down our ship. And that means we might have a quarrel with you.”
“Your ship?” Grit asked, looking him square in the eye.
The faerie raised an eyebrow. “’Scuse me?”
“I was just curious.” She shrugged, trying not to wince at the ropes squeezing her wings. “You called it ‘our’ ship. Maybe I’m out of line for saying this, but it seems like there’s a bit too many humans crawling about for it to be entirely your ship.” Grit looked up at him as innocently as she could. Something about this tiny cowboy didn’t sit right with her, kidnapping notwithstanding. And she was going to find out what it was.
He tugged at the bandana around his neck—his human-style clothes, Grit thought, suited him about as well as a wolf wearing a dog sweater—and cracked a smile.
“We have a . . . special arrangement with the Wonder Show here,” admitted the cowboy. “It looks like that might be an arrangement you’re familiar with.” He nodded to her mechanical wing.
“I am,” said Grit. She considered avoiding mentioning Carmer—there was no sense in getting him in trouble if she could help it—but she had no idea what the Wonder Show faeries had seen and what they hadn’t. For all she knew, they had Carmer socked away in another corner of the ship somewhere. “I’m traveling with a Friend of the Fae. We came here because we were . . . curious.”
And wondering if you were in need of rescuing, Grit thought wryly. Which, clearly, you were not. It was altogether more probable that someone was going to need to rescue her.
“You’ve got questions,” said the cowboy. “Just so happens I might have some for you, too. Whatcha say, darlin’? An answer for an answer.”
Grit set her teeth. Either these fae were going to let her go, or they were going to toss her trusse
d-up rump over the edge of the ship, and it hardly seemed like anything she had to say would change their minds one way or the other. But she could at least stall for time.
“Sure thing,” Grit said gamely. “Me first.”
“PARDON ME, GENTLEMEN, but passengers aren’t allowed in that part of the ship.”
Carmer and Bell halted, barely two steps onto the keel catwalk of the Whale of Tales, and turned around to see a young redheaded woman hanging upside down from the ceiling.
“I, um . . .” said Carmer. “I was just looking for my friend.”
She’s about five inches tall, with a penchant for setting things on fire with her bare hands.
The girl smiled knowingly and gracefully swung down to stand before them. She was wearing a polka dot dress loud enough to wake the dead and carrying a pink parasol and a large basket. All in all, she looked more prepared for picnicking than manning an airship. Carmer thought he recognized her as one of the tightrope walkers.
“Seems to me like you’ve already got one,” said the girl, nodding to Bell. “Plus, all the other passengers have already disembarked. I’m going to have to ask you to do the same.”
Bell clapped Carmer on the back. Carmer was starting to hate it when he did that.
“Don’t mind my friend here, miss,” said Bell. “Nan Tucket, right? I saw your act. Walking the high wire across those ships with baskets on your feet? That’s crazy!”
The girl’s mouth quirked, and a small blush crept into her pale cheeks. She was clearly, like Bell, a person who accepted “crazy” as a compliment.
“It’s an homage, really,” Nan explained, twirling her parasol. “To Maria Spelterini.”
“First woman to cross Niagara Falls on the high wire.” Bell mimed a tip of the hat. “With . . . was it peach baskets, I believe?”
Nan looked grudgingly impressed.
“Truth is, we’re aerial enthusiasts ourselves,” continued Bell. “Bell Daisimer, current balloonist and future pilot.” He reached out and shook the girl’s hand. “And this is . . .” Bell drifted off, just for a moment, and Carmer realized he’d never even told Bell his full name.
“Felix Cassius Tiberius Carmer III,” muttered Carmer, looking down at his feet.
Bell and the girl called Nan Tucket turned toward him in unison.
“This is Carmer,” said Bell, suppressing a laugh. “One of the brightest engineering minds from Skemantis.”
Carmer’s eyes widened, but he held his tongue. He’d spent barely a week in Skemantis, and had in fact been instrumental in dismantling one of the city’s crowning engineering achievements. (Granted, it had been corrupt technology running on stolen faerie magic, but still.)
“We were hoping to see a bit more of the ship,” said Bell. “Carmer here would just about wet himself if he got a glimpse of the latest Lilienthal engine we hear you’re using. Any chance we could get a bit of a private tour?” Bell flashed his most dazzling smile, but it appeared Nan was unimpressed.
“Sorry,” she said with a shrug. “Captain’s orders. I’d sneak you in my basket, but I don’t think you’d fit.” She winked, but gestured outside all the same. “Though you’d have a better shot at it than the other gent who tried sneaking backstage just now. Nearly as big as the ship, that one! Now come along, please. Unless you also plan on trying to convince me you’ve got a ‘personal invitation’ from Mr. Tinka?” Nan let out an unladylike snort—fortunately missing the guilty look exchanged by her two wayward passengers—and steered Bell out by the elbow, apparently confident that Carmer would follow.
“Honestly, what is it with you rubes tonight?” she muttered.
Before long, they were out in the cold night air, being shooed away from the Topside Hotel by a bellhop who looked relieved to see the backs of them.
“What are we going to do now?” Carmer asked Bell when they were out on the street.
“We’re going back to get a better look around the Wonder Show, of course,” said Bell, as if this were the most obvious answer in the world. He held up a small slip of paper.
“This is where the Whale is docking,” said Bell. The paper was of the same fine material as the glider invitations, but this one contained only a hastily scrawled note that read, ELYSIAN FIELD, WEST HANGAR. Bell frowned at it, despite being obviously pleased with his success.
“Where did you get that?” demanded Carmer.
“Oh, Felix Cassius Tiberius Carmer III,” said Bell, resuming his casual stroll along the sidewalk, “you underestimate the power of my charms.”
A SUBTLE CHANGE in the rhythm of the engine was the only indication that the ship had changed direction, but Grit felt it all the same. They’d stashed her in a windowless cargo hold, and there was no way to tell where in the world the ship was going.
“Okay,” she said. “First question: Who are you, and what are so many Free Folk doing here on the Wonder Show?”
“You don’t mess around, do you, miss?” asked the cowboy faerie with a barking laugh. “The name’s Yarlo, and I do believe that was two questions in one.”
Grit pressed her lips together.
“What do they call you?” Yarlo asked, absentmindedly twirling one of his vines around his gloved wrist.
“They call me Grit,” she said, trying to look as confident as she could while tied to a pole and surrounded by fruit crates. She wasn’t strictly lying. She just left out the part about also being called Grettifrida Lonewing, princess of the Seelie faerie kingdom of Skemantis. (Carmer did not have the premium on silly names in their relationship, a fact that delighted him to no end. Grettifrida, thought Grit. Honestly.)
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Grit,” said Yarlo.
“Clearly,” Grit said. “Now. This ship. I’ve met my fair share of Free Folk”—well, a handful from the local faerie pub—“and while they like to share a strong potion and a good revel every now and again, they’re hardly known for sticking together through thick and thin, if you don’t mind me saying so. But you lot seem to be traveling together.”
“I’m a relative newcomer to the Wonder Show, myself,” admitted Yarlo.
Grit was surprised; he was clearly in charge here.
“But it’s true, we stick together around here. I think you’ll agree that tough times make unlikely alliances.” He glanced knowingly again at her mechanical wing.
“Unlikely alliances,” Grit repeated. “You use your magic to help the Wonder Show in exchange for a place to stay?”
“The Wonder Show doesn’t need our magic to fly,” piped up the faerie with the white wings who had tied up Grit. She had light green hair, so pale it was almost white, too; it swirled up on the top of her head like a pearl onion. Her cheeks glowed with fluorescent light in place of the usual blush. “Its creator made it without any help from anyone.”
Yarlo’s eyes tensed, just a touch. “Grit,” he said, “meet Beamsprout.”
Beamsprout stepped forward. “And we don’t need to stay here. Free Folk may go wherever they wish, unbound by the confines of kingdoms and the rules of noble faeries.”
The two other faeries in the room nodded their approval, glowering.
Grit gulped, glad she’d kept her own noble status quiet.
Yarlo put up a hand to speak. “We have a healthy respect for the great mind behind the Wonder Show,” he allowed. “And Beamsprout is right. We choose to be here. And you’ll find we’ve never garnered any unwanted attention with the small amount of magic we do lend them.”
“Until now,” said Beamsprout, crossing her arms.
“Beamsprout, darlin’,” said Yarlo, “why don’t you check on the cables for docking? We must be nearly back to the camp. Thundrumble, Canippy, you go on, too. Tell the folks on the other ships we’ll meet at the . . . usual place.”
The other two faeries shrugged and flew off, but Beamsprout lingered with a final, narrow look at Grit before Yarlo shooed her away.
“I’ll take it from here with our visitor,” Yarlo said with a smi
rk. He stepped forward and whipped his vines to the floor with a crack, striking a hairsbreadth from Grit’s toes. She gasped.
As angry as the other Free Folk had been about her storming their home, there was something . . . different about Yarlo. He was toying with her—all friendly and smooth “y’all”s and “ma’am”s one minute, and stone cold the next—and he was enjoying it.
Grit had no idea how he would react to what she said next, but it couldn’t hurt to try.
“Well, before you decide whether to strangle me with those vines of yours or not, there’s one thing you should know,” she said. “I think . . . I think I know who stole your wings.”
6.
A NAUTILUS, ACTUALLY
“How do we know we’re going to the right place?”
The icy wind whipped against Carmer’s face as he and Bell pedaled furiously on the bicycles they’d rented for their stay in Driff City. It was nearly dark already; Elysian Field was miles farther from downtown than the fairgrounds had been. If Nan Tucket was just toying with them—a couple of “rubes,” as she’d said—they would lose precious time. Grit would lose precious time, wherever she was on the Whale of Tales. If she was still on the Whale of Tales.
“We don’t!” said Bell over his shoulder.
Well, that was comforting.
“The Wonder Show docks its ships all over the cities it visits—keeps them looking extra impressive when the whole fleet takes off at once. Plus, it’s easier for them to keep out nosy folks like us if no one knows exactly where the sausage gets made.” Bell pedaled harder, shooting ahead.
Carmer, whose legs were much shorter, struggled to keep up.
“But the Whale will be here, at least,” added Bell, “and that’s a good place to start!” Of course, they both knew that Grit might not even be on the Whale of Tales anymore, which meant that unless Bell Daisimer had a lot of charm stored up to bribe the crew, they might bike all night and never find the other ships.
They veered off the main road. Boxy, utilitarian buildings in shades of gray and brown surrounded the airfield before dissolving into marshy wetlands and outlying farmland. Carmer had only heard of Elysian Field, one of the largest airfields in the country, for the same reason that most people had heard of it: this was where the Jasconius had crashed just a few weeks before. Carmer looked for any telltale signs of an accident—scorched earth, ruts in the ground, even bits of wreckage—but the Driftsiders had cleaned up well. There was little indication that the field had just played host to a disaster.
The Crooked Castle Page 5
