The King of the Skies

by Robert J. Crane

  And then was thrown up and over the railing, arcing onto a deck full of surprised pirates.

  Burnton stared with slackjawed horror.

  “You—!”

  “Get her!” Barnes cried.

  The arrayed pirates began to move—

  “Hold on!” I cried, lifting my hands over my head. “I surrender!”

  Burnton’s mouth dropped lower. “You what?”

  “I surrender,” I repeated, “and invoke the right … to parley.”

  21

  I was escorted into the bowels of the Velocity by Burnton, Barnes, and an ensemble of four mean-looking pirates—after having my line launcher and Decidian’s Spear confiscated. That left me with only my clothes, the compass, and my talisman—and Burnton’s crew were clearly suspicious of those. I suspected the only reason they remained in my custody were the telltale markings on my talisman, and the obvious function of the compass as I handed it over for observation.

  “You don’t need to escort me like a deranged criminal,” I said. “You’ve taken all my gear.”

  “You’ll forgive me for not treating you as harmless,” said Burnton without looking over his shoulder. “Last time I turned my back on you, you aimed a boulder at my back.”

  Your head, actually, I thought, but didn’t feel this was the time to explain that.

  The interior of Burnton’s ship was dark and sleek, lit by over-bright bulbs. The halls were utilitarian, bare except for their closed doors, but then I wouldn’t have expected otherwise. Perhaps the living spaces were decorated and showy, but not one room was open to see, so I could not know.

  Burnton led us to an expansive office—his office, I gathered. Centered in the ship, it had no true windows, but they were emulated: miniature gates peered out into alien landscapes, edges warbling. The rest of the walls were filled with cabinets of trophies and pilfered treasures, or adorned by accolades on plaques.

  I felt a stab of envy. I had none of this.

  Burnton’s desk was wooden, much too big.

  He dropped into the seat behind it.

  “You going to offer me the other?” I asked, nodding to it.

  “No,” he said. No pomp here; Burnton was short.

  I lowered myself in anyway. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes smoldered.

  Barnes and two of my escorts remained close at hand. The other two returned to the door, standing to either side of it. It was closed, leaving me boxed in, trapped on all sides, and with no weapon to fight my way out if things turned hairy.

  I prayed they would not.

  “So,” said Burnton, leaning forward. “You wanted to talk. I am listening.”

  I set my face. Took a deep breath. And began …

  “I was wrong.”

  His face didn’t change. Nor did he, or any of the others in this room, say a word. He just stared, still as a statue, waiting.

  I had no choice but to continue and hope that he would take this well.

  “I shouldn’t have taken the second crypt key from you. That was wrong of me.”

  Still nothing. Forget hoping that Burnton was taking this well; right now I’d settle for any reaction better than the sour look on his face.

  “It was unfair—very unfair,” I added, like that would gain me any kudos (it didn’t), “and I’m sorry.

  “I was wrong. And you …”

  This was hardest of all. But I forced it out:

  “You were better.”

  Did I believe that? I was so conflicted on the whole thing still. “An eye for an eye” was fair, I thought … but then, this whole “lead by example” thing? That had merit too … and in any case, did I really think Burnton had bested me? He’d faked me out, and that irked me something rotten—but could I take the high ground, given that that kind of tactic was hardly outside of my own personal playbook?

  But this was the right thing to say. It was the right way to apologize.

  And it was, I hoped, the right way to engineer the scenario I was hoping for.

  All that hinged on whether Burnton would bite.

  Right now, he was not biting.

  “I want to make a peace offering,” I said into the silence.

  Now Burnton stirred, leaning forward just slightly. “And that offering would be?”

  “Use of my crypt key.”

  He scoffed. “I’ve fallen for your tricks already, Seeker girl. I shan’t again.”

  “It’s not a trick. I swear it.”

  “Of course it is. ‘Halloween.’ ‘London Police.’ This is all a game to you, isn’t it, and I’m little more than a fiddle to play.” He leaned forward, teeth bared almost manically. “Well, let me tell you … I am no fiddle. I am Tyran Burnton, the King of the Skies!”

  Err, yeah. I knew that; it said so on most of the plaques.

  Instead of wondering if he’d commissioned them or genuinely been granted the things on some obscure world, I said, “I’m not lying, or playing games. I’ve come here for peace. I am willing to give you the second key to Brynn Overson’s crypt.”

  “So why didn’t you bring it with you?”

  “I had to endure some challenging gymnastics on my way up,” I answered. “If I’d fallen from the underside of your ship, the key would’ve been lost forever—and neither of us would’ve been granted access to the crypt. And neither of us,” I went on, almost conspiratorially, “would have a chance at laying our hands on what’s inside. You do know what’s inside, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Then we’re on the same page. You can see just why I was pursuing it in the first place myself. I still want to pursue it.”

  “A shame I won the keys then,” said Burnton. Murmurs from the guarding pirates agreed with him.

  “I’d still like a shot at it,” I said.

  “Another shame.”

  “Neither of us gets a shot if we don’t join our key fragments together.”

  A pause. “You may have a point.”

  “I’d like peace. I’m willing to give you my key fragment—”

  “The one you stole,” said Burnton.

  “—the one I stole,” I amended, not adding that he’d used unfair tactics to acquire his, “in exchange for a fair shot at what’s in Overson’s crypt.”

  “And what precisely does that mean?”

  “You’ve done quests before,” I said. “You know what the end game is like. There’s always some challenge. Hell, if you’ve been working on this thing half as long as I have, you probably have half an idea of what this particular challenge is going to be before we even get there.”

  Burnton’s face didn’t give away anything. Which surprised me, because as boastful as he was, I’d expect him to be shouting to the rooftops if he’d found the solution. Not the solution itself, obviously, but that he’d worked it out—surely he’d brag about that?

  But then, I’d proven myself an adversary now; that probably took me out of his target audience.

  “We combine crypt keys—and we both take a fair shot at the main event. How’s that sound?”

  “And what’s to stop you from stabbing me in the back?”

  Your pirate army, first and foremost, I thought.

  Instead I said, “I know what I did in Biristall wasn’t very honorable …” And neither was what you did in the first temple, I didn’t add. “But that’s not me. Not usually. I’m … good. I’m decent. I don’t believe on stepping over someone to get what I want, or stabbing them in the back, or—or chucking a rock at the back of their head to steal back a quest prize.”

  “Funny way of showing it.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t believe in that. I did that because I was frustrated. And because I’ve … I’ve gotten my head stuck up my arse a bit, to be perfectly honest.”

  Those words were easy to say, much easier than telling Burnton he was better than me. I hadn’t anticipated it; they’d be hard, I was sure.

  But there was something liberating about admitting that
I was wrong.

  “I’ve become so full of hubris after the successes I—we’ve—racked up these few months, it’s all gone to my head. I’ve been kind of an idiot to my friends about the whole thing, and that’s not fair either.”

  Idiot, Mira. You’re a damned idiot.

  “It’s not justified,” I continued, “but I’ve been hunting for Overson’s crypt for months now. I was so hungry for it that I just kind of … ended up being a total arse when it slipped through my fingers. Have you ever felt like that?”

  “No,” said Burnton immediately. “I’m always the best.”

  More murmurings of agreement.

  I sighed.

  But Burnton … kind of melted, a little. The borderline frown that was his face eased, if only very slightly.

  “I may have heard such feelings of deep inadequacy described to me, by a friend, a very long time ago,” he said. “Or I have a very acute sense of empathy to your feelings.” With a sigh of his own, he said, “I’m willing to be the better man—the best man—but I will need your word.”

  “You have it,” I said. “Besides … I’ll need a ride to the crypt.”

  Burnton’s eyebrow quirked. “Oh?”

  “You don’t have to feign surprise,” I said. “I know Overson’s crypt is here, on Harsterra. I expect you know it too, don’t you?” He didn’t reply, but the look on his face answered my question—yes, Burnton knew, all right. “It makes sense, of course,” I said. “Where else to put it but a surfaceless world buffeted by wind? That’s half the challenge in itself.”

  Burnton licked his lips. “When am I to take you … and your comrades, I’d expect?”

  “They’ll be with me,” I said. “How’s twenty hours from now sound? It’ll give me time to get back, retrieve the key fragment …” And take care of one other thing, something I hadn’t needed to do for quite some time.

  “Barnes, synchronize the time with the girl before we escort her back to her homeworld,” said Burnton, standing.

  “So we have a deal?” I asked.

  “Deal,” he said—and he stuck his hand out over the desk for me to shake.

  I hesitated.

  He grinned. “I shan’t zap you this time. Unless you cross me. Then there will be much, much zapping.”

  Wasn’t entirely convinced I believed that … but I reached out, bracing, and shook—

  No paralyzing bolt of electricity surged through me. Just Burnton’s far-too-bright grin, and five words from him:

  “May the best Seeker win.”

  22

  Chelsea; the doorstep to Lady Angelica’s apartment.

  A beautiful summer morning—and our classic trio (that’s me, Heidi, and Carson, if somehow you’ve gotten confused over the course of our steady expansion) stood arguing while we waited for Archibald to answer the door.

  Okay, maybe “arguing” wasn’t quite the right word. But Heidi’s frown had only deepened as we rode the tube.

  “I wish you’d cheer up,” I said.

  “Are you sure this is really the best course of action?”

  “A fair fight? Yes. I’m sure.”

  Heidi harrumphed, but said no more.

  The door opened, and a steampunky butler, faceplate adorned with a perpetual smile, looked out. “Hello, visitors. Have you made an appointment?”

  “Since when does Lady Angelica take appointments?” I asked. “She’s not my doctor.”

  “An apothecary is kind of close,” said Carson.

  “Doctors are not chemists,” said Heidi over folded arms. “They can diagnose your athlete’s foot, but they don’t have the brains to brew the chemicals that’ll make it better again.”

  “Did you just insult the intelligence of doctors?” I asked. “You know they sit through like seven years of med school, right?”

  “I saw the last season of Scrubs. If it’s anything like that, they are screwing around and having far too many moral epiphanies. Like all American television, really. Vomit-inducing.”

  Carson opened his mouth to respond, but

  I cut in first.

  “Don’t argue with her today. She’s not very cheerful.”

  “We don’t have an appointment,” I said to Archibald. “Could we come in please? I need to make a purchase.”

  The butler was silent for a few long moments, I assumed communicating with the others in the building—or even Lady Angelica herself, if she was available. Then he said cheerily, “Yes! Do please come inside.”

  We ushered ourselves in quickly, pushing the door shut so the butler wouldn’t have to roll into it to do the job himself. Itself. These things were confusing.

  Archibald guided us to the stairs, rolling past Lady Angelica’s oddball collection. The endlessly pouring cup was still in place, as was the globe whose surface shifted, rearranging into the continents of a different world every few seconds. Joining them now was a miniature robotic cat perched daintily on a pedestal, mewling at us in a high-pitched electronic voice.

  “She’s on the fifth floor,” said Archibald, “and expecting you. Please make your way up. My companions will guide you.”

  “Thanks,” Carson said.

  “Safe travels!” he called, leaving us behind at the foot of the stairs, where his wheels prevented him from following. Luckily, another, this with a faceplate tinted slightly green, awaited at the top of the flight and greeted cheerily as we mounted the last step: “Hello! Please follow me.”

  Up we went. I half-expected Lady Angelica to meet us midway, joining us on the third floor, but she didn’t, and it was only at the fifth floor that she finally presented herself, stepping out of her brewing room as a butler with a red faceplate accompanied us to her door.

  “Leave them, Eugene,” she ordered.

  He stopped dead in his tracks. “Yes, Lady Hauk.”

  She met us, steps clipped. Her features were tight, but not in any way tense. It was just her put-togetherness, like some member of royalty out of the Victorian era. Indeed, the wide skirt of her black dress, hem almost touching the floor, and the way her hair was swept up beneath a bonnet gave her the appearance of someone who’d stepped out of a painting.

  “Hello, Lady Angelica,” I said.

  “Lady Hauk,” Heidi greeted.

  “H-hi,” Carson stammered, and coughed.

  Reaching us, Lady Angelica nodded a hello to Carson, to Heidi—and then her gaze fell to me.

  It was like my innards were glue, and it suddenly hardened.

  She appraised me, expression unreadable. “Pleased to see you again, Miss Brand. I was not certain when you would next grace my halls.”

  “Well, here I am,” I said, a little guiltily. Lady Angelica had been genuinely helpful and always concerned about how I was doing. Matronly, I’d have called her, or at the very least like an aunt. I felt, all of a sudden, that maybe I should be stopping in here for social visits.

  But that was silly. She was considerate, but that was most likely good customer service. I came to her to make a purchase; she was pleasant and friendly so as to foster a positive, repeated relationship. Like a Tesco Clubcard, only instead of 1p for every £1 I spent, Lady Angelica doted on me with a distant kindness.

  “We’re here to buy a spell,” I said.

  “Straight to business, I see.”

  I pulled a face. “Sorry. We’re kind of short on time.”

  “No matter. Archibald informed me on your arrival.” Waving us into the brewing room, she said, “You know what it is you’re after, I trust?”

  “Yes.” Fingers digging in my pocket, I retrieved a scrap of folded paper torn off a free Metro we’d snagged at the station this morning. I handed it over.

  Lady Angelica unfolded it and peered down her nose at the two words. Her lips moved, just slightly, as she read the name aloud.

  “Do you have it?” I asked.

  “I do,” she confirmed, and led us inside.

  The brewing room was much as I remembered. Smaller and pokier than might b
e expected for a room in a house so expansive, I guessed it had been converted from the upper-class, moneybags version of a broom closet. Still a sizable space—a small single bedroom in size, roughly—it was lined with cabinets of pre-brewed potions, or vials and jars of ingredients. A stand abutted one wall, and it was heaving with tubes and brewing stands and burners. A glass jar stood opened, lid discarded, the label on it faded. Brown flakes of something that looked—and smelled—quite unpleasant.

  “Great,” I said, keen to take it. “What’s the price?” I asked as I fished around in my other pocket for the stack of coup I’d brought.

  I held out a hand full of coins—

  Lady Angelica waved me off. “I don’t want your money for this one, Miss Brand.”

  I hesitated. “Oh. So, err, what do you …?”

  “Every once in a while, I happen to have a quest of my own,” Lady Angelica said. “This is one of those occasions.”

  “Uh …”

  “I have a different deal I’d like to propose. Your spell—for assistance on my quest.”

  It took a second to find my voice. “You … want to do some Seeking?” I asked, dumbfounded.

  “Yes,” she said. “Is that so unreasonable?”

  “No …”

  “Good. Then we have ourselves a deal, yes?”

  I exchanged glances with Heidi and Carson. Lady Angelica, playing a Seeker? I couldn’t for the life of me picture that … but this was a woman I knew would not yield to any argument, the way I might talk someone like Carson or Heidi around … so what choice did I have?

  “Yeah,” I said uneasily, “we’ve got a deal.”

  “Excellent.” Turning away, Lady Angelica rummaged among her potions—then came away with a single vial. Perilously thin, it was half-full with a reddish mist that looked like blood dripped into water. “There we are.”

  I took it—but Lady Angelica held it by the stopper for one second longer.

  I met her gaze.

  “I’ll be calling on you to fulfill your half of our bargain, Mira Brand,” she said, adding somewhat ominously, “soon.”