by Jeff Wheeler
One of the guards was gathering his courage for an attack. Cettie remained in her crouching position, her eyes fixed on the hollow crate he was using as a hiding place. The instant his courage had built enough, she knew it. He rose, swinging an arquebus up, and Rand dispatched him with a single shot. The man slumped onto the crate, the weapon still firm in his grip.
Cettie straightened and then continued to walk toward the main door of the warehouse. A light emanated from beneath the solid wood door. When she reached it, she rested her hand on the knob, trying to sense what lay beyond. The people inside radiated a sickly worry. The sound of the bodies collapsing had been loud enough that they’d probably heard it and were waiting on a report.
She twisted the knob and pushed her way into the room.
It was a messy office, full of ledgers and broken crates. A single lamp sat on an overcrowded desk, and a man cowered behind it. There were two guards next to the doorway, and both turned to see her enter.
“Who in the—” one said before Cettie’s hand chopped his throat, cutting his question short. She struck him twice more, catching him so off guard he couldn’t react, then shoved him into the other guard, who’d been trying to bring up an arquebus. Both were knocked off balance. Cettie increased their sense of dread, their fear of imminent death.
The man at the desk pushed his chair back as far as he could, the legs screeching on the floor. Cettie caught the second guard as he disentangled himself from the first, and she did a series of Bhikhu techniques, flipping him onto his back and knocking the wind out of him. She kicked the weapons away and strode over to the desk. The man there cowered in abject fear, his hands up, his face contorting.
Cettie shoved him up against the wall, attacking him with a blast of mind-numbing panic from the kystrel.
“P-please! Please, don’t!” he wailed.
“When are you expecting the Rage?”
“How did you—?”
She jammed her forearm into his throat. “Answer me.” She smelled the stink of urine and realized he’d wet himself. Reducing the pressure so he could speak, she said, “When are you expecting the sky ship?”
“It sh-should be here any moment. Don’t kill me.”
She had the sudden urge to break his neck, the sensation pressing at her. She knew how to. What would make this any different from when she’d shot at her father, the kishion, back in the Fear Liath’s cave? She had tried to kill him then. The compulsion raged inside her.
It wasn’t hers, but that knowledge didn’t lessen its power. “How many are guarding the warehouse?”
“Th-thirty men. Four dragoons.”
“That many?” Rand said, closing the door behind him. She hadn’t heard him enter, although she’d felt it. “I’ll go after the rest.”
The quivering man’s eyes bulged. “P-please. I have a wife . . . children!”
Cettie twisted a ring on her finger, exposing a poisoned needle, and quickly jammed it into the man’s neck.
When she pulled the needle away, he groaned, touching the wetness at his neck. The poison worked quickly, though, and he slid against the wall and lay at her feet. A surge of confidence filled her heart. She felt powerful and cunning. They’d already defeated great odds.
Rand walked over to the two prostrate guards, both of whom were still alive, and cracked their skills with the butt of his weapon. It sickened her; it thrilled her.
“I’ll go to the rooftop. See if you can find the manifest for the Rage. What cargo is it expecting, I wonder?”
Cettie nodded and quickly began to scan the desk as Rand exited through a rear door. She looked through the strewn papers, trying to find some sense of order. This unkempt desk was a sharp contrast to Lord Fitzroy’s, always kept so tidy. She could almost see the meticulous notes he’d kept while testing the invention that would become the first storm glass. The memory, so intense it might have happened yesterday, made her stop short. A slow ache began to build, but a surge of anger slammed against it, quelling it instantly. Thinking of the past only made things painful. The mission should be her sole focus now.
After spending several minutes searching, she discovered the manifest. It was written in the curving, fancy script of the Genevese. She’d developed a passing knowledge of the language on her own, in case she should ever find herself without her kystrel, but the kystrel allowed her to decipher and speak all languages. Her finger traced along the document. The manifest contained information about jackets and boots of various sizes. Provisions for the military. Tens of thousands of men, young and old, had been conscripted for the war effort, in both worlds. There were enough uniforms in the order to outfit a new regiment. According to the manifest, the uniforms were intended for Comoros’s allies in Brythonica.
The uniforms would never reach their destination, but whichever side used them, they’d soon be bloodied. They’d be shot through with holes. She could almost hear the groans from the battles yet unfought, smell the acrid stench of black ash.
A feeling of urgency struck her heart. It was Rand communicating to her. There was a thrill of excitement. The tempest was coming. He could see it.
Cettie joined Rand on the rooftop of the warehouse. The guards who hadn’t fled for their lives had been dispatched, their bodies brought below to avoid the notice of anyone in the sky ship.
“I’m going to stay,” Rand whispered to her. “I’ll get a better view from up here. You just keep the sky ship from fleeing. I know you can overwhelm the pilot. I’ll join you on board when you bring it low enough.”
She nodded. “I’ll wait down below.”
She was about to leave, but he caught her arm. “You did well, Cettie.” She felt his approval, his respect, and it made her cheeks warm. Rand wasn’t the man whose good opinion she most desired, but there was something intoxicating about his admiration.
Are you sure he’s truly Rand?
As she walked back down the stairs, she wondered at the ring she’d felt on his finger. She hadn’t seen it, only felt it, which meant it was a ring that could alter his appearance. Did that mean this man was someone else, pretending to be the Rand she knew? But he was so exactly who she remembered him to be . . .
Were there other kinds of magic rings in this world?
The situation unnerved her, yet she tried to banish her feelings, lest he sense them too.
Back in the lower room, she checked the pulse of the man she’d drugged. He was still alive. Breathing a sigh of relief, which she quickly cut short, remembering Rand could feel her feelings too, she exited the room back to the courtyard. She sat behind a large crate, her back to it, and felt the night wind caress her hot face.
Sitting in the shadows, she waited and waited, and then she heard it. Faintly, just a whisper, almost as gentle as the breeze. It grew louder. Not the rush of wind, not the distant echo of voices, but a clear and simple blend of harmonies that carried on the air. Leering magic. The sounds came from the tempest descending to the warehouse’s interior courtyard. As it lowered toward the ground, she heard the voices of the men on board. They spoke the language of the empire. Just hearing her own language again made her giddy inside.
Suddenly, the Leerings on the underbelly of the tempest were activated, and the courtyard was bathed in light. It was strong and made her wince. If she hadn’t been hiding behind a crate, too near a wall and too far from the tempest to be seen from its vantage point, she’d have been exposed.
The tempest hovered over the courtyard. She could sense its magic, along with the confusion and fatigue of the tired crew.
“I don’t see anyone waiting for us,” someone said, his voice rebounding off the cobblestones. “Is this the right warehouse?”
“It’s the Arsine. I’ve been here before,” said another man. “They should be expecting us.”
“I don’t like it,” said another man.
“Captain, want me to go down and knock on the door?”
Cettie frowned. If he did, he’d see the bodies strewn there
. Where was Rand? Why hadn’t he acted yet?
“Go down and see,” said another voice. She could sense the changing mood of the crew—dread and worry creeping up on them the longer their welcome was delayed.
Cettie heard the noise of a rope ladder being unfurled and dropped over the edge of the sky ship. The stretching noises the rope made indicated a member of the crew was on the way down. She bit her lip, straining to hear the sound of Rand’s arquebus.
The man’s boots hit the ground and started across the courtyard. Peering around the edge of the crate, Cettie saw him reach the doors. She held her breath as he tried the handle, then pushed the door open.
That was when Rand struck.
In three quick bursts, three members of the crew were shot down.
“Up! Up!” screamed someone, and Cettie felt the Leerings thrum to life. She reached out to the ship’s Control Leering with her mind and ordered it to drop the tempest lower and swing it around. It obeyed her at once, and she heard the cries and shouts of crew members as they were thrown down by the sudden spin. Some of them tottered over the side and crashed onto the cobblestones.
She felt the pilot struggling to wrench control of the tempest away from her, but her will, backed by the power of the kystrel, outmatched his. Keeping the tempest in a spin, she rose from behind the crate and walked toward the dangling rope ladder. Rand continued to fire down on the crew from above, killing those who’d fallen overboard with brutal efficiency.
As soon as she grabbed the scratchy rope of the ladder, she felt another will join the pilot’s. There were at least two mastons on board, then—the pilot, and someone else. As the weight of their combined will pressed against hers, the tempest began to rise again. She quickly dug her boots into the rungs and started up, quelling their command with her own. The tempest trembled in the air, like a leaf caught in a gale.
She gritted her teeth, climbing up the ropes quickly, efficiently, as the tempest suddenly began to rise faster. She felt the wind whip through her hair. Cettie scowled, impressed with the strength united against her. Were there three of them? Was the captain one of them, perhaps? She felt a surge of anger from Rand as he united his will with hers. The tempest began to list toward the warehouse itself, its movement uncontrolled. If she were still on the rope ladder when it struck, it would crush her.
Cettie had climbed the waterfall wall dozens of times, and a rope ladder, even in these conditions, was easy in comparison. She grasped the top edge of the tempest just as a man looked overboard. She caught a glimpse of graying hair and enormous sideburns, before she grabbed him by the jacket and yanked him down. He landed in the courtyard with a thud.
Cettie cleared the edge of the tempest and saw two men standing tall at the helm. She blasted them both with feelings of terror, weakening their strength. Then someone grabbed her from behind. How she hadn’t sensed him, she didn’t know. She heard a zip from the arquebus and felt the ball whir over her head.
It missed.
Rand never missed!
There was no time to focus on why the man was still standing—she needed to ensure he did not do so for long. Cettie shoved her arms forward, then struck her elbow back into the man’s ribs. He groaned but did not go down, so she found one of his fingers and torqued it hard. The man gasped with pain as she gripped his arm and swung him around. He spun and landed face-first on the deck.
The tempest lurched, and she was flung against the sidewall, barely managing to stop herself from going over. She pushed again at the combined will of the mastons, but despite their terror, their minds held firm. She respected that. Unfortunately, it meant they both had to die. She felt an irrational surge of anger toward these mastons who were defying her.
The noise of boots struck the deck of the tempest, and Rand rolled forward. The tempest had risen enough that he’d been able to jump on board from the top of the warehouse. In a low crouch, he aimed his weapon at the two men at the helm and fired twice. Both of his balls struck them, but they did not pierce their clothes. She heard the bullets drop harmlessly to the deck, then roll down the angled wood. She remembered that the arquebuses from the Ministry of War could not harm mastons. The Leerings embedded in the bullets were designed that way.
Rand frowned, undaunted, then threw down the arquebus and drew two pistols from his belt as he marched toward the helm. Cettie turned and saw the third man, the one who had grabbed her from behind, coming at her again.
And she recognized him.
They recognized each other.
Both of them blinked in surprise. It was Caulton Forshee.
Twin gunshots exploded, loud and deafening in comparison to the whir of arquebus bullets. The pilot and the captain were killed instantly, and Cettie felt their resistance vanish. The Control Leering obeyed her now.
Cettie stared at Caulton in shock. She’d not seen him in years. The last time their paths had crossed, he’d warned her, and Rand, of the dangers of the hetaera. She’d given him a kystrel. Oh, how things had changed. There was surprise on his face, a shocked look of recognition—and fear. Yes, he was afraid of her. He knew what she had become, despite his warnings. He could undoubtedly sense the power of her kystrel.
“Cettie,” he breathed out in dread. His hands were poised, defensive. He was ready to wrestle her again, even with an injured hand. She could see the lines of pain around his eyes.
Rand’s feelings came to her in a wash of malevolence from the pilot helm. He was smug, vindicated, even pleased by the mastons’ deaths. He had studied under Caulton Forshee at Billerbeck Abbey, but Cettie had no illusions. Rand would kill him heartlessly now.
Part of her wanted Rand to do just that. The feeling of rage and revenge was hot in her breast . . . but those emotions, the same ones that had thrummed through her off and on all night, were not naturally hers. They came from the Myriad Ones—in particular, the one who’d tormented her since she was a child. The ghost with no eyes. Most of the time she barely acknowledged its presence lingering inside her. Sometimes dormant. Sometimes furious.
Of all the people they could have faced on such a night, had the poisoner school known that Caulton Forshee would be there? Was it coincidence or purposeful? Was it perhaps fate?
If she didn’t act quickly, Rand would reload his pistols and murder Caulton before her eyes. She saw it would happen, knew it down to her bones. And so she kicked Caulton in the stomach. As soon as he bent double, she made the tempest tilt and shoved him overboard. He landed on the cobblestones below, then lifted his head and looked up at her in surprised disbelief.
There was no one left on board to oppose her will, so she commanded the Leering to rise quickly and head east.
Rand threw the bodies of the other two mastons overboard and then came down, the pistols once again holstered in his belt. He walked to the edge of the railing, gazing down at the bodies lying in the courtyard.
He scowled. “We needed to kill that last one,” he said. “We shouldn’t leave him alive.”
She felt the anger throbbing in his heart. It was an intense rage, the kind that was pitiless. He yearned to go back and slit the man’s throat. Something told her it was a boon he had not seen Forshee’s face.
Perhaps she was not so happy to see Rand again at all. Perhaps she had never truly known the man.
She thought once again of that ring.
“The mission,” Cettie reminded him smoothly, keeping her feelings of relief veiled. She’d outwrestled her ghost and Rand. But resisting their emotions had drained her. She quieted her heart, hiding her true feelings deep inside.
She had to keep them hidden. If she didn’t, she knew they’d kill her.
According to the Minister of Wind and the majority of doctors, the source of the cholera morbus is miasma, a term meaning pollution. It is the rank, fetid air of places like the Fells that causes it. They claim it is transmitted by the lungs and that the wealthy who have succumbed to the disease were infected by workers who originally came from the world below. T
his theory imagines the affliction as an invisible spore that gets breathed in and expelled in a cough or a sneeze.
If that were true, then why did the citizens of Kingfountain also suffer from it? Their air is far cleaner than ours. To test the spore theory, I have performed two studies. First, I’ve used Leerings to establish a connection between the hospital and the sky manor Fog Willows. These Leerings transport air from the manor’s altitude to the Fells—specifically, the hospital. I do this for the sickrooms, for those suffering and dying from the disease. No improvement in the patients has been noted, other than a general observation that the hospital smells nicer.
The other experiment I conducted was among cesspit workers. Those who dig out the deep latrines beneath the tenements. I imaged that their population would be the most susceptible to the cholera morbus, as they work primarily in the dark underground, which has the most noxious air.
I could not find a single case of the cholera morbus among these lowliest of laborers. Nor did I catch the disease myself from being there.
—Adam Creigh, Killingworth Hospital
SERA
CHAPTER FIVE
RETRIBUTION
Sera had seen Lord Welles in all his guises. Smug, indulgent, grandfatherly. He could also be cunning, urbane, and vengeful. The look on his face as he entered the council room that evening was all wariness. His cunning eyes went from face to face, noting the identities of those assembled. It was not the full privy council, just the four other ministers—Lord Scott, Minister of Thought; Lord Halifax, Minister of Law; Lord Prentice, Minister of Wind; and Mr. Durrant, the prime minister—and Sera herself.
