by Zoë Archer
“Never seen anything like them,” he said.
“They must be centuries old. Precious.” Her brow furrowed. “What a waste to keep them hidden here, where no one can see them.”
“Khalida can, whenever she wants.” His mention of the warlord was enough to get them moving again. Yet they hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he flung out an arm, keeping her from going any farther.
“Think I know what that extendable ladder is for,” he said.
She gave a low gasp. A huge gap lay between the step on which they now stood and where the stairs resumed. Between the two solid steps was a sheer chasm that disappeared into darkness. Rough rocks lined the walls of the abyss, and a dank breeze swirled up from the void. An airship captain couldn’t be afraid of heights, but with his acute vision he could see jagged stone spikes at the bottom of the chasm and had a distinct image of himself—or, worse, Miss Carlisle—impaled on them.
“You’ve got your airship to cross distances,” she said. “Khalida has the ladder. Perhaps we could go back and try to take it from the guard.”
“And bring everyone running like it’s penny night at the brothel.” He shook his head. “Need to find another way across.” He studied the gap between the stairs. Forty feet separated them. “Blyat. This distance is too far for me to jump it. What’s the use of being a damned Man O’ War if I can’t do things like this?”
“I imagine that breaking into an Arabian warlord’s vault on behalf of her arch-nemesis wasn’t part of the navy’s intended use of Man O’ Wars,” she said drily. “Not very farsighted of those naval committees.”
No, this little Englishwoman could never be considered timid or reserved .
He glanced up again at the tapestries, especially the two hanging beside the chasm, an idea percolating. “You may be exceedingly clever, professorsha,” he said, “but my Man O’ War strength’s going to get us to the other side. Point of fact,” he added, thoughtfully studying the woven wall hangings, “I’ve got some cleverness of my own.”
“I never doubted it,” she answered.
He searched for a sign of sarcasm or hint of mockery in her words, her face, and found none. Echoes of heat still played across his stomach where she’d touched him; her slim fingers had been nimble and deft as they’d plucked a button from his waistcoat. The taste of her still lingered, and the softness of her lips against his. Hell, it had been just a kiss, just the press of her hand against his abdomen. He’d had far more carnal encounters, but those sensations had faded quickly, while Daphne Carlisle’s few touches continued to ring through him.
Misha, he snarled at himself, don’t be a sodding idiot. The woman meant to cheat you. She’s a green-eyed liar. Get the astrolabe, get out. Get your diamonds and move on.
“Are you a good jumper?” he asked her.
“My father told me I once leapt six feet straight into the air when I saw a millipede.” She shuddered. “I hate things with lots of legs.”
He crouched down. “At my signal, just imagine a dozen millipedes crawling up your ankles.” Energy and strength coiled within him, readying, eager for release.
“What—?”
He didn’t wait for the rest of her question. Using all the strength of his legs, he sprang up toward the wall. He stepped onto the wall and ran along it. The moment he got close enough to the tapestry, he grabbed hold. He gripped the fabric, clinging to it. The abyss yawned below him. He prayed that the tapestry’s weaver had made the piece good and durable, strong enough to hold his bulk. So far, it held, but that could change in an instant.
Reaching out, he tore at the tapestry’s farthest corner, ripping it away from its anchoring in the wall. He fought to hold on as the fabric swung like a pendulum with his weight.
Miss Carlisle muttered several curses in many different languages.
“Get ready to jump,” he called to her.
“I can’t leap that far,” she protested, “no matter how many millipedes are crawling after me.”
“I’ll come to you.” Using the tapestry like a rope, he gripped it with one hand. He braced his feet against the now-uncovered wall, balancing on his toes. Using the tapestry for support, he ran lightly along the wall, in one direction, then the other. Back and forth he went, gaining momentum, gaining distance with each pass.
He pushed against the wall with his feet, propelling himself closer to where Daphne Carlisle readied in a crouch on the steps. A foot closer, then another, then—
“Now!” He held out his hand, stretching toward her.
Only a moment’s hesitation flickered across her face before she jumped. The vision of her, flying, braid whipping behind her, expression set and determined. Her hand reached for his. For the barest moment, he feared they wouldn’t be able to get hold of each other. But then her palm found his, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, and he pulled. Carefully, though. He could dislocate her arm if he wasn’t cautious.
She grabbed the tapestry, as he’d hoped. They hung like that for a few moments, both clinging to their improvised rope, pressed close against each other. He could sense all of her—lithe strength, tensed muscles, her rapid inhalations and exhalations. A woman who’d just trusted him to catch her, trusted him with her life.
“My God,” she gulped. “I can’t believe I just did that.” Her eyes were perfect circles of shock.
“Like a St. Petersburg acrobat.” But she was still pale. What she needed was some distraction. “This is fun. Reminds me of the rope swing that hung over the swimming hole near my family’s summer cottage.”
She seemed eager for the distraction. “We’d spend summers with my grandparents in Northumberland. It was dull as blazes, but we couldn’t dig during the warmer months.”
“Wager you got into lots of trouble during the summer.”
A small smile tugged at her mouth. “My father got quite proficient at apologizing to the neighbors. I’m so very sorry Daphne let your sheep out of their pen. My regrets for the hole in your roof; Daphne takes after her mother’s side of the family. Everyone was relieved when it was time to head back out into the field.”
He found himself chuckling at the image of a young Daphne Carlisle wreaking havoc on a sleepy English village. Damned strange to be sharing childhood memories with her, revealing her to be a woman with a life, a history. Human, and flawed. Same as he himself was flawed.
She glanced down, and her face went pale.
“Don’t do that,” he commanded. “Keep your eyes on mine.”
She dragged her wide gaze back up to his. “At least you have beautiful eyes. Palest aquamarine. I could stare into them for hours. Thought so from the moment I saw you.”
He was hanging above an impossibly deep chasm, with jagged stone spikes below ensuring death to any who had the misfortune to fall on them, and there were guards and security systems throughout this vault, but he found himself actually blushing. Apparently, madness had set in. He said, “Danger seems to make you confess.”
“Seems that it does.” True to his direction, she continued to hold his gaze, allowing him to see that her green eyes held flecks of gold, like treasure in a forest.
God, not only was he mad, he was turning into that most dreaded of all creatures: a poet. Hazardous directions indeed. He was made for war, not sonnets.
He nodded toward the next tapestry beside them, fifteen feet away. “Ready to do it all over again?”
“I was looking forward to becoming a permanent part of Khalida’s tapestry collection.” She heaved a sigh, but her breath was shaky, revealing her fear. “But I guess that’s not to be.”
“It’s simple as letting sheep out of a pen. Feet on the wall. Run back and forth. Build momentum. Then I reach the next tapestry.”
She did as he directed, bracing her boots against the wall. At first, they bumped against each other, their feet and bodies out of alignment as they made several clumsy tries. Finally, they found a smooth and easy rhythm, moving naturally together.
Parts o
f him were machine, but the majority of him was a man. Establishing this kind of rhythm with her turned his mind, and other parts of him, to other activities that required their bodies to move together.
He needed to focus. Or else they’d both go tumbling tits over arse and wind up impaled.
There—he had enough momentum. “Hang on tight,” he commanded her. “I’m going to leave you here while I go for the other one.” Then he leapt, reaching out for the next tapestry.
But he was hasty. His hold of the fabric wasn’t secure. It skidded through his fingers. He slid down along the edge of the tapestry. Clenching his teeth, he managed to grab a firmer hold just before he slipped off the hanging entirely.
A moment ticked by with infinite slowness as he dangled from the bottom corner. Hand over hand, he climbed up the tapestry. Until he was level with Miss Carlisle, who looked white as talc as she clung to the other tapestry.
Her voice shook as she said, “Don’t frighten me like that.”
“My apologies. Unforgivably rude of me to almost fall to my death.”
She glared at him, which was far better than the fear she’d shown a moment earlier. “Let’s just get on with it,” she said, jaw tight.
Mikhail repeated the process, tearing the opposite corner of the tapestry from its anchor, then using the fabric as a rope as he gained momentum, running back and forth along the wall. She did the same, pushing herself nearer and nearer to him. Once again, at the high point of his approach, he reached for her, and she jumped. Their hands met and held.
It came as a shock, the relief and pleasure of touching her, even here in this blasted subterranean vault.
When she’d grabbed hold of the tapestry, and they were side by side, they ran together on the wall, building power. Until he felt they had enough, and with a burst of power, he let go of the tapestry and jumped for the bottom portion of the stairs.
He landed in a crouch, and forced all of his strength into his thighs so he wouldn’t be thrown forward and roll down the stairs. A tumble like that could play hell with the batteries in his pack. Losing one battery wasn’t too bad, but it’d be chancy if he damaged the rest. Once he was sure he’d gotten his footing, he stood and turned back to Daphne Carlisle.
She still clung to the tapestry, which continued to sway after he’d jumped.
“Same as before. Run along the wall,” he directed her. “Then jump.” When she dubiously eyed the distance between the tapestry and the stairs, he said, “I’ll catch you.”
Brave she might be, but she still needed to take a calming breath. He got a nice view—able to see the supple movement of her body, her lithe agility. She did remind him of the famous acrobats of St. Petersburg, women in gauzy costumes who flew and danced through the air like carefree butterflies. Except Miss Daphne Carlisle wore a leather jacket, snug trousers, and laced boots, more grimly determined than carefree.
She seemed to have decided she’d gotten enough momentum, and at the closest point of her run, let go of the tapestry. His heart stuttered as he beheld her in midair, entirely unsupported, momentarily fragile. He stretched his arms out to her.
And grabbed her. He felt the impact of her body against his, absorbed her energy into himself, and pulled her close, her arms around his shoulders, her legs around his hips. Impressions rocked through him—her taut muscles, the subtle tremors running through her, sinking into him.
They were like that for some time, his arms wrapped about her. Her breath puffed hotly against his neck. He pressed his mouth to the top of her head, feeling the silken threads of her hair against his lips, and against his chest her heart pounded.
An intimate embrace, the kind reserved for lovers. They appeared to become aware of that at the same time—she stiffened slightly in his embrace and dropped her legs from around his waist—yet neither seemed willing to let go. Not quite yet.
“Nicely done, professorsha,” he whispered. “More impressive than defending a dissertation.”
“You’ve never been before a dissertation committee.” She pulled back, just enough to hold his gaze. “I don’t think I would’ve trusted anyone else to catch me.”
Her words pierced him. Trust. Something that seemed to ebb and flow between them. Why should she trust him? She’d deceived him, and his motivations were far from charitable. It was there, though, that thing binding them together.
“You’re not a heavy burden,” he said.
Her lips curved into a smile. Need burned through him to feel that curve against his own lips. But he knew that once he kissed her, no matter where they happened to be, stopping would be impossible. Reluctantly, he loosened his arms around her. She, too, let go, but the slide of her hands down his body was exquisite torture.
Once they’d both gained their feet, they continued on down the stairs. The steps ended in yet another door.
“The astrolabe better be behind this,” he muttered, hand on the doorknob. “It’s been a damned long night. Only cure for it is several gallons of vodka.”
“Me, too.” She glanced at the door. “Sadly, the bacchanalia has to wait.”
He pushed the door open, and together they stepped inside a vast circular chamber lit by a ring of quartz lamps. The walls of the chamber were made of huge stone boulders. They must be far beneath the city.
“Look down,” she whispered.
The floor was elaborately carved, covered in symbols and curved lines in different configurations. It seemed to be in layers, too. A large circular plate was its base, and another plate chiseled into curves and arcs lay on top of that. A straight piece of stone crossed the whole floor, with a column in the middle. The entire design looked familiar. The large scale of it, though, made it a puzzle to place.
“My God,” she said, wonder in her voice. “It’s an astrolabe.”
Blyat, he should have seen that sooner. All the parts of the device were there, carved into the floor. She walked over the mater and plate that made up the base of the astrolabe, with its straight and curved lines showing things such as horizon, tropics, direction, and latitude. It took her several strides to cross the rete atop the plate, with its star pointers and stereographic projection of the ecliptic. She studied the straight piece of stone that crossed these parts. It had to be the rule, which located positions on the plate or rete.
The astrolabe was beautiful … and massive.
There was no door on the opposite side of the room. This chamber was their final destination.
All the excitement and energy he’d gotten from swinging on the tapestries, the heat that had fired through him from holding Daphne Carlisle close—it all drained out of him. Ice flowed through his body. He was never cold. But now he fought the chill spreading through him as if he stood in his own tomb.
“That son of a bitch,” he cursed. “Al-Zaman sent us on a fool’s errand.” He pointed angrily to the floor. “This is the astrolabe he wants us to steal.”
Chapter Nine
* * *
TORN BETWEEN DESPAIR and hysterical laughter, Daphne stared down at the floor. The astrolabe carving had to be at least thirty feet in diameter. No denying its beauty or the skill of the artisan who’d made it: in every aspect, it faithfully reproduced the complex device’s different components and markings, all in polished stone. But artistic merit didn’t help solve the problem of how, exactly, she was supposed to remove it from the vault, or transport it to al-Zaman.
“There has to be some way of getting it out of here,” she muttered.
For a moment, Denisov looked at her as if she were mad—which she supposed she was, to even consider hauling a massive stone astrolabe from this impenetrable place.
But then his gaze became thoughtful. “We’d have to dynamite it out of the floor. There’s TNT on board the Bielyi Voron, and no one knows how to set a charge better than Akua. Once it’s blasted out, the ship could haul it up.”
“That would necessitate us leaving the vault, getting to the ship, then returning here to set off what will likel
y be a massive explosion, and contending with the security systems and the guards.” She ticked the obstacles off on her fingers. “And since this chamber must be far below the surface, we’d need to find a way to transport the astrolabe up to your ship. It just cannot be done.”
“Man O’ Wars thrive on impossible situations.” His grin was audacious.
Her pulse leapt in response. “Much as I appreciate your resolve, Captain—”
“Mikhail,” he said. “When you were leaping into my arms a few minutes ago, were you thinking, Captain or Mikhail?”
“I was thinking, Please, God, don’t let me fall.”
“Don’t need to call me God—Mikhail will do. And I’ll call you Daphne.”
“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray to Mikhail my soul to keep.” The feel of his name on her lips had a strange resonance, like an old enchantment buried in her memory. She felt a subtle shift between them, an easing of mistrust. The sharing of first names wasn’t something done lightly. And when he chuckled lowly at her words, she felt the knot of his suspicion loosen even further.
You need to tell him the truth, her conscience demanded. All of the truth.
If I tell him now, he’ll desert me, and I need him more than ever.
Yet it felt like a blade she scored down her own heart, knowing that she continued to deceive him. What choice did she have?
“Admirable as your determination is, I’m certain that this”—she gestured to the carved floor—“can’t be what we’re seeking.”
He frowned. “Don’t see heaps of astrolabes piled in the corners.”
She turned in a slow circle, studying the chamber. “Cleverness is valued in this culture as much as physical strength. Think of all the tales of quick-witted men and women who survive and triumph by outthinking a situation or adversary.”
“Ali Baba or Scheherazade.”
