by Zoë Archer
The crewman stumbled backward, toward the rail. This side of the enemy airship was not hooked to the Bielyi Voron. The only thing that lay beyond the rail was open air. The crewman hit the rail, throwing off his balance. His eyes widened in horror as he toppled over the railing.
His scream faded as he fell the half mile to the ground.
She refused to go to the railing to look. It was enough that the man’s threats wouldn’t come to pass. Whirling around, she searched for Mikhail. It didn’t take long to find him.
The battle between him and Olevski raged on.
RELIEF POURED THROUGH Mikhail as the crewman assaulting Daphne fell to his death. It would’ve been more satisfying if he’d been able to kill the bastard himself, but he was damned impressed by her, sending that son of a bitch to his doom all on her own. For now, she was safe.
He, however, wasn’t. Mikhail had never been so injured, his every bone and muscle aching with each thrown punch, each absorbed blow. But he wouldn’t let up. Either he or Olevski had to die today.
Olevski swung at Mikhail, who ducked the attack. “Blaming me. But the blame’s on you, too. You were eager for that gold. Panting for it.”
“Carry that like an anchor around my neck.” He slammed a boot into Olevski’s thigh, causing him to stagger. “Same way I blame myself for ever introducing you to my family. For letting them love you. But the gun pointed at my head—that was your doing. Cost us time. Cost us everything.” He swung a fist, connecting with Olevski’s jaw. It made a satisfying crack.
“Damn fool.” Olevski spat blood and a tooth onto the deck. “Rushing into a fight when I had you cornered. I should still be in the navy. Be a rich admiral. Married to your sister and carving the roast for the Denisov Christmas dinner.” His bloodstained mouth curled. “Blame’s all yours, Mikhail Mikhailovich. The damn thief of my life.”
They threw themselves at each other again, grappling and punching. Back at the Admiralty, during training, Man O’ Wars had faced each other in the gymnasium, but they’d never gone full out like this. With the intent to kill. Olevski pushed Mikhail against the bulkhead of the pilot house, then locked his forearm across his neck, trying to crush his windpipe. Mikhail shoved his knee into Olevski’s stomach, throwing him back.
“I’ll kill you,” Olevski vowed hoarsely, “kill your crew. Break your ship into scrap. Sell that Englishwoman to al-Rahim—”
“Al-Rahim’s dead.”
Olevski shrugged, unconcerned over the death of his employer. “Plenty of warlords from here to Oceania. Rich warlords who’ll pay good money for her. It won’t be a total loss of profit for me.”
Smoke-colored fury clouded Mikhail’s eyes. Rage unlike anything he’d ever felt turned his veins to fire. Olevski could say anything he wanted about Mikhail, but no one threatened Daphne.
The ship juddered from all the damage it had taken from the Bielyi Voron’s ether cannons. A thick metal support beam, jagged at one end, swung loose from where it had held up an ether tank.
Mikhail raced toward the beam.
Olevski saw his intent, and tried to beat him to the thick piece of metal. But Mikhail was faster, motivated by far more than revenge or greed.
Snarling, he snapped the beam free. He swung around to face Olevski. His enemy pointed an ether rifle at his face. If Mikhail took a step, Olevski would shoot. A standoff.
Olevski fired. Mikhail rolled under the shot, narrowly avoiding it. He leapt up and swung the beam against the rifle, and the gun broke apart in Olevski’s hands.
Wasting no time, Mikhail slammed his boot into Olevski’s knee. The other Man O’ War fell to the deck.
Mikhail lunged.
The jagged metal slammed into Olevski’s chest, impaling him. Mikhail shoved hard, and the beam went all the way through, emerging from Olevski’s back. Blood covered the metal as Mikhail, roaring, plunged the beam into the deck, pinning Olevski to his ship.
Mikhail stepped back, watching as Olevski clawed at the metal sticking up from his chest.
“Changes nothing,” Olevski wheezed. “Never have … your family back. Always be … an outcast. Even to … her …” His glassy gaze slid toward Daphne, who looked on grimly.
Saying nothing, Mikhail watched as Olevski’s blood dripped down the beam, forming a large, dark pool on the deck. Olevski gave one final, rattling gasp. Then stilled.
The crew of Olevski’s ship saw this. Panic spread like a disease, from one crewman to another. Without Olevski, they had no more source of ether. If they didn’t have enough ether stored, the ship could crash in a matter of hours. In a rush, the crew sped below decks, pushing each other aside in their haste to get to the parachutes and sailcraft stored in the cargo bay.
Mikhail didn’t notice or care. He only knew that Daphne was suddenly beside him, her arm wrapped around his waist. It stunned him how unstable his legs were—he, who seldom felt any pain, any weakness. But now he could barely find anything left to support his weight. Daphne did her best to keep him upright, though she struggled beneath his bulk. Levkov appeared on his other side, and with Daphne’s help, they guided him toward the rail and back to his ship.
By the time he reached the rail, he had regained enough strength to walk on his own. He climbed over the rail without any assistance, then reached over and lifted Daphne across. The rest of his crew also leapt back over the rail . Some had been wounded, and were immediately taken down to the sick bay to be tended by Dr. Marlowe. Once everyone had gotten back on board the Bielyi Voron, the grappling hooks were disengaged. The two airships moved apart.
Members of Olevski’s crew used parachutes and sailcraft to abandon ship, floating down to the ground like dead leaves shaken from an autumn tree. No one remained on the deck of the drifting Chyornyi Golub—except Olevski, who gazed up at the smoky sky with vacant, lifeless eyes.
The French airship lost no time in retreating. It came about quickly, then sped off toward the horizon.
“Should we pursue, Captain?” asked Levkov.
Mikhail glanced down at Daphne as she leaned her head against his chest, her arm around his waist, watching the lifeless airship float away like so much flotsam. She looked exhausted, with dried blood caked along her forehead, her hair falling out of its braid. Her gaze turned from the Chyornyi Golub to the shattered ruin of al-Rahim’s compound below. With their leader dead, al-Rahim’s tribe had surrendered to Khalida, and he was gratified to see that none of the surrendered fighters were being killed or hurt. But bodies from the fight littered the ground. It would take a long while for either tribe to fully recover.
He shook his head. “Let the Frenchman go. This battle is finally over.”
INJURIES NEEDED TO be tended. Daphne had to spend a good thirty minutes with her parents, all of them reassuring one another that they were fine. She gave them as brief an account as possible of what had happened since their kidnapping, leaving out nearly everything between her and Mikhail. Fortunately, they didn’t press her for details. She wasn’t certain what she would tell them, anyway. They’d won this fight, yet everything remained as uncertain as a half-finished map. No way to know where the path led.
Once the situation on the Bielyi Voron had been settled, Daphne and Mikhail took the jolly boat back down to the scarred plain that held the broken walls and half-razed buildings of al-Rahim’s compound.
Khalida met them outside the destroyed gate, a contingent of warriors flanking her. The warlord limped slightly, but there was no denying the triumph in her gaze.
“I had no idea that working with ferengis could be so advantageous.” She held up the astrolabe. “This is mine again, as is this territory.” She eyed the groups of people who had once followed al-Rahim. “We’ll have more stability now.”
“You aren’t the only tribal leader in the area,” Mikhail noted.
“Will there be more war?” asked Daphne.
Khalida lifted her gaze heavenward. “That is for destiny to decide.”
“You’re a stronger force th
an destiny,” Daphne said. “And can do more for this region than fate ever could.”
“Sounds as though you’ve got a plan,” the warlord noted.
“She always does,” Mikhail said.
Much as his words pleased her, Daphne continued, level. “Join forces with the other tribal leaders.”
Khalida looked appalled. “Each tribe is unique. We are not some place like England or the United States where we pretend to be alike and ignore our differences.”
“All you need is to present the appearance of a cohesive front to the ferengi—I mean, European factions,” Daphne explained. For some time, she’d been pondering a solution to the unrest that plagued the region since the discovery of telumium. When the smoke cleared, there’d be more uncertainty. “If they think they’ll have a united power block to contend with, they’ll be less likely to cause trouble, and you and the people of the Peninsula won’t be as vulnerable.”
Raising a brow, Khalida asked, “But we won’t actually form a coalition?”
“You can retain as much of your diversity and autonomy as you like. It’s only to fool the Europeans.”
“A deception,” said Khalida.
The word made Daphne’s cheeks heat. She couldn’t exactly regret the lies she’d told, considering what they’d gotten her: her parents freed, the Man O’ War beside her. Yet did she truly have him? Certainties gave way to more ambiguity. “Well—”
“I like it.” The warlord grinned, and she turned to Mikhail. “Very devious, this one.”
He smiled down at Daphne. “In the best way.”
Chapter Fifteen
* * *
DAPHNE FELT A profound sense of disquiet to see her parents in Mikhail’s quarters. It was as though they existed in two separate realms—the rogue Man O’ War who had become her lover, and her parents with their achingly familiar faces and voices, their clothes and mannerisms. Not only that, but only hours earlier, she and Mikhail had made love atop the table where her parents now drank their tea. Daphne sat in a nearby chair, unsure where to look.
Afternoon sunlight poured through the bank of windows, and the sounds of the ship being repaired reverberated everywhere. In their way, the sounds were comforting. Reminding her that they had survived. Her parents and their assistants were alive. A kind of order had been restored to the region.
Yet she couldn’t feel easy. She glanced over at Mikhail, who leaned against a far bulkhead, arms crossed over his chest, expression distant. Their time together was almost over, and the thought felt as though her heart was being slowly, slowly crushed within her chest by some unseen vise.
“We’ve been discussing taking university positions, your father and I,” Daphne’s mother said. “Getting out of the field.”
“But you love being in the field,” she protested.
Her father coughed. “We’re not spry youths anymore. This … ordeal … has proved it, rather painfully. It might do us good to settle in one place for a while.”
“King’s College has been rather dogged in their pursuit of us,” added her mother. She turned a pointed look at Daphne. “I daresay they’d welcome someone with your qualifications, too.”
“I have a position at the Accademia. With a budget that allows me plenty of fieldwork of my own.”
“I’m sure they value your presence there, darling,” her father said quickly. “But we, that is, Adelaide and I, thought it might be best—”
“Safer—” her mother threw in.
Her father continued, “Yes, safer. While this dreadful Mechanical War continues, you might find it best to stay in England. Where you can be secure and protected.”
Silent up until that point, Mikhail said tonelessly, “I can fly you part way there. It’ll be faster and less dangerous than taking a seafaring ship. Or you could sail. It’s little difference to me.”
She stared at him. Ever since they’d returned from meeting with Khalida, he’d become more and more detached, until he seemed completely uninterested in her presence. Was this how it was to be, then, with the heat they’d shared turning to frost?
“Mama, Papa, perhaps you ought to take Captain Denisov up on his offer. The seas are dangerous, and his ship is fast.”
“I couldn’t help but notice that you made no reference to yourself, dearest,” her mother noted. “You won’t be coming with us to England. Will you find another way back to Florence?”
She took a breath. What she had to say wouldn’t be well received—by anyone—but it had to be spoken. Rising up from her chair, she said, “I’m not returning to Florence, or the Accademia.”
“Where will you go?” her father asked.
“Nowhere. I’m staying right here in Arabia.”
Both her parents made sounds of shock, each sputtering about the danger of remaining in the area, even with Khalida’s attempts to create stability.
Mikhail said nothing, but his crystal gaze burned her from across the stateroom. A muscle in his jaw tightened. She knew all the signs of his emotions now, his thoughts now. Even when he tried to keep them hidden, she knew.
“I’ve seen the effects of war here,” she said. “There are countless people caught in the middle, and they’re suffering. Hell,” she went on, “all over the globe, the war’s taking its toll. I can’t bury myself in my studies and pretend that it’s not happening. Maybe something can be done to make it better. Maybe I’m someone who can help.”
“You can’t play savior to these people,” Mikhail said, voice like iron.
“I never claimed that I could,” she fired back. “They didn’t ask for my help, and they might not want it. But I can offer it, at least.”
“But … you’re only an anthropologist,” her father protested. “They don’t need you to analyze societal structures and write monographs.”
“Yet I do know the warring sides.” She strode to the window, but kept a distance between herself and Mikhail. Though the people moving around below looked very tiny from this height, she’d never mistake them for toys or dolls to be manipulated as she desired. They had their own needs, their own wants. They were not extensions of herself. All she could do was offer them her help, and, if they wanted it, do what she could.
“Perhaps better than the locals might,” she went on. “I can suggest to Khalida and the other tribal leaders how to interact with Europeans to get the best possible results.” She smiled ruefully. “Studying how societies function can be very useful in the middle of a war.”
Her parents continued to protest her decision, but she did not try to answer their every objection.
Mikhail, in a voice so low only she could hear, said, “I’m not going to leave you here, professorsha.”
She turned to him. There, beneath the frost in his eyes, she saw it. Genuine concern, and loss. They both knew what her answer meant. By her staying here, in this hotbed of political unrest, they’d never see each other again.
A web of fractures spread through her heart. It would take just the tiniest tap against it to shatter completely.
She’d always believed that the process of coming to care for someone would take months, or years. That there could be no true feeling between two people without the long passage of time. She couldn’t tally the number of days she’d known Mikhail, only that—with his scoundrel’s smile and wounded heart—he’d become as integral to her as sunlight. Her world would be very dark without him. Dark and cold.
She might be cold and alone here in Arabia, but she could try to make someone’s life better, even if it wasn’t her own.
“What could we have together?” she whispered. “Stolen moments in Palermo, in between my academic work and your life as a mercenary?” She shook her head. “It couldn’t be enough.”
“We’d make it enough,” he said, low and fierce.
“For how long? Until we each wanted more, and couldn’t give it.”
She stared at his profile, bold and sharply defined, and saw the tight tension along his jaw, down his throat.
> “I’m not ashamed of you, Mikhail,” she said quietly, and the flare of his nostrils told her that she’d hit close to his fears. “This isn’t me turning my back on you. I’ve found a purpose here that I can’t ignore, and you’ve got the freedom of the skies. We know that we can never fit into each other’s worlds.”
Pain blazed in his eyes. He glanced away, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out three dazzling blue gems. The star sapphires.
He held them out to her. “Keep ’em.”
“But your payment—”
“There’s plenty left in al-Rahim’s hoard. And I’ve got a feeling you’ll need them more than I will.”
Carefully, she took the necklace from him. Unconcerned that her parents were there in the stateroom, she leaned close and kissed Mikhail. She needed to feel his lips against hers one last time.
He drank of her, bringing his hand up to cup her face, then forcibly pulled himself away. His chest rose and fell as if he’d run a great distance.
“Send me telegrams in Medinat al-Kadib,” she said quietly. “I promise I’ll answer them.”
His gaze flashed, and then he strode from the cabin without another word.
THE DAMNED PROBLEM with an airship was that privacy came at a premium. Mikhail had taken himself off to the armory, and now cleaned the rows and rows of weapons after they’d been used in battle.
“Don’t we have crew to take care of this?” asked Levkov, standing in the door.
Mikhail didn’t look up from disassembling an ether rifle and scrubbing its bore with a solvent-soaked brush. He was the captain of the damned ship. No need to explain himself to anyone.
Cleaning the guns stopped his mind from thinking thoughts he didn’t want to have, kept his hands busy, reminded him that this was the life he’d forged for himself. A life that now seemed as empty as a spent ether canister. He’d been on the Bielyi Voron for years. It had a crew of nearly fifty. Yet it seemed to echo with her absence.
They’d be flying on to Siam soon. Plenty of opportunities for profit in Siam.
Levkov stepped into the armory. “Herrera’s dropped them off, her and her parents.” No need to explain who her was. “The Carlisles wanted some more time with their daughter before they headed back to England. In about a week, some of Khalida’s warriors are going to escort the Carlisles to Alexandria, and they’ll take a seafaring ship home to Britain.”
