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Prologue Spire Albion, Habble Morning, House Lancaster Gwendolyn Margaret Elizabeth Lancaster,” said Mother in a firm, cross voice, “you will cease this nonsense at once.” “Now, Mother,” Gwendolyn replied absently, “we have discussed the matter at length upon multiple occasions.” She frowned down at the gauntlet upon her left hand and rotated her wrist slightly. “The number three strap is too tight, Sarah. The crystal is digging into my palm.” “Just a moment, miss.” Sarah bent nearer the gauntlet’s fastenings, eyeing them over the rims of her spectacles. She made a series of quick, deft adjustments and asked, “Is that better?” Gwendolyn tried the motion again and smiled. “Excellent. Thank you, Sarah.” “Of course, miss,” Sarah said. She began to smile but glanced aside at Mother and schooled her expression into soberly appropriate diffidence. “There has been no discussion,” Mother said, folding her arms. “Discussion implies discourse. You have simply pretended I wasn’t in the room when I broached the subject.” Gwendolyn turned to smile sweetly. “Mother, we can have this conversation again if you wish, but I have not altered my intentions in the least. I will not attend Lady Hadshaw’s Finishing Academy.” “I would be more than pleased to see you enter the Etheric Engineering Academy along with—” “Oh!” Gwendolyn said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve been working with those systems in the testing shop since I could walk, and I’m quite sure I will go mad if I have to endure two years’ worth of introductory courses.” Mother shook her head. “Gwendolyn, you cannot possibly think that—” “Enough,” Gwendolyn said. “I will enter the Spirearch’s Guard. I will take the oath. I will spend a year in the Service.” She turned to regard her reflection in the long mirror, adjusted her skirts marginally, and straightened the lapels of her short bolero jacket. “Honestly, other daughters of the High Houses take the oath. I cannot imagine why you’re making such a fuss.” “Other Houses are not the Lancasters,” Mother said, her voice suddenly cold. “Other Houses do not rule the highest habble of the Council. |
“Other Houses do not rule the highest habble of the Council. Other Houses are not custodians of the sternest responsibility within all of Spire Albion.” “Mother.” Gwendolyn sighed. “Honestly, as if the people living in the lower levels of the Spire are less worthy somehow. And besides, those great vats and crystals all but mind themselves.” “You are young,” Mother said. “You have little appreciation of how much those crystals are needed, and not only by those of Habble Morning or the Fleet, or of all the planning and foresight that must go into producing a single crystal over the—” “The course of generations,” Gwendolyn interrupted. “No, apparently I have not been enlightened to your satisfaction—I would, however, submit to you that another repetition of this particular bit of pedantry seems unlikely to correct the situation, and that therefore the least frustrating course of action for all involved would be to abort the attempt.” “Gwendolyn,” Mother said, her eyes narrowing. “You will return to your chambers in the next ten seconds or I swear to God in Heaven that I shall beat you soundly.” Ah. Now they came to it. Gwendolyn suppressed a flash of purely childish fear, and then one of much more reasonable anger, and forced herself to consider the situation and the room in a calm and rational manner. Mother’s outburst had been so entirely appalling as to freeze Sarah in place. The maid was perfectly aware that such a display of emotion from one of the leading ladies of Habble Morning was not something that should be witnessed by the hired help. Mother, in her anger, had been quite inconsiderate, since Sarah didn’t dare simply leave the room, either. How was the poor girl supposed to react? “Sarah,” Gwendolyn said, “I believe I heard Cook mention that her back was still giving her trouble. I would appreciate it if you ease her duties this morning. Would you mind, terribly, delivering Father’s breakfast to him, and sparing Cook the stairs?” “Of course not, Lady Gwendolyn,” Sarah said, bobbing in a quick curtsy. She flashed Gwendolyn a swift smile containing both gratitude and apology, and moved from the room with sedate efficiency. Gwendolyn smiled until Sarah had left the room, then turned and frowned faintly at Mother. “That was not very thoughtful of you.” “Do not attempt to change the subject,” Mother said. “You will take off that ridiculous gauntlet at once or face the consequences.” Gwendolyn arched one eyebrow sharply. |
“You will take off that ridiculous gauntlet at once or face the consequences.” Gwendolyn arched one eyebrow sharply. “You realize that I am armed, do you not?” Mother’s dark eyes blazed. “You wouldn’t dare.” “I should think I would have no need to do such a thing,” Gwendolyn replied. “However, I care to be beaten even less than I care to live out my days in this dreary mausoleum or one precisely like it. I daresay that at least in the Service I should find something to interest me.” She lifted her chin, narrowed her eyes, and said, “Do not test me, Mother.” “Impossible child,” Mother said. “Take her.” Gwendolyn realized at that moment that Mother’s threat and outrage alike had been feigned, a pretense that had distracted Gwendolyn until a pair of the House armsmen could approach her silently from behind. She took a quick step to one side and felt strong hands seize her left arm. Had she not moved, the second man would have had her right arm in the same moment, and her options would have been far more limited. Instead she seized the wrist of her assailant, pivoted her weight into him, robbing him of his balance, breaking the power of his grip at the same time, and continued her smooth circular motion into a throw, dumping him over one hip and onto the floor at the feet of the second armsman. The fallen man tripped the second, who struggled to push up from the floor. Gwendolyn lifted her skirts slightly and kicked the second man’s arm out from beneath him. He dropped down onto the first man with a surprised grunt, and glared up at her. “I’m terribly sorry,” Gwendolyn said. “It isn’t personal.” Then she gave him a calm, sharp kick to the head. The man let out a short grunt and dropped limply, stunned. “Esterbrook!” Mother said sharply. Gwendolyn turned from the two downed men to find Esterbrook, captain of House Lancaster’s armsmen, entering the room. Esterbrook was a lean, dangerouslooking man, his skin worn and leathery from years of the pitiless sunlight borne by aeronauts and marines. He wore a black suit and coat tailored in the same style as the uniform of the Fleet Marine he had once been. He bore the short, heavy, copper- clad blade of a Marine on one hip. |
He bore the short, heavy, copper- clad blade of a Marine on one hip. The gauntlet on his left hand was made of worn and supple leather, though the copper cagework around his forearm and wrist was as polished and bright as Gwendolyn’s newer model. Gwendolyn focused her thoughts at once, stepping away from the stunned men and lifting her left hand to present the crystal held against her palm to Esterbrook. She sighted her target, the captain’s grizzled head, in the V shape made by the spread of her first and second fingers. By the time she had, her gauntlet’s crystal had awakened to her concentration. Cold white light blazed from it, changing all the shadows in the room and causing her mother to blink and squint against the sudden radiance. “Good morning, Captain Esterbrook,” Gwendolyn said in an even tone. “I am well aware that your suit is lined with silk. I feel obliged to advise you that I am aiming at your head. Please do nothing that would require me to put my training to such tragic and wasteful use.” Esterbrook regarded her from behind his shaded spectacles. Then he reached up very slowly with his right hand, removed them, and blinked a few times against the etherlight of the weapon Gwendolyn held trained upon him. His eyes were an eerie shade of gold-green, and his feline pupils contracted into vertical slits against the light. “Quick,” he commented. Gwendolyn felt herself smile slightly. “I had an excellent teacher, sir.” Esterbrook gave her a very small portion of an ironic smile, and tipped his head to her in acknowledgment. “Where in the Spire did you find someone to teach you the Way?” “Cousin Benedict, naturally,” she replied. “Ha,” Esterbrook said. “I kept smelling the perfume on him. Thought he’d taken up with a woman.” Mother made a wordless, disgusted sound held tightly within her throat, barely audible past her tight-closed lips. “I have expressly forbidden your close association with him, Gwendolyn.” “Quite, Mother, yes,” Gwendolyn agreed. |
“I have expressly forbidden your close association with him, Gwendolyn.” “Quite, Mother, yes,” Gwendolyn agreed. “Captain, if you would be so kind as to disarm yourself, please.” Esterbrook stared at her for a moment more, and then the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. He inclined his head to her, then moved only his right hand to unbuckle his sword belt. It fell to the floor. “What are you doing?” Mother demanded of him. “My lady,” Esterbrook said in a polite tone, “Miss Gwen holds a deadly weapon, and one which she is fully capable of using.” “She won’t use it,” Mother said. “Not upon you. And not upon her family.” Gwendolyn felt a surge of frustration. Mother was quite right, of course. Such a thing would be unthinkable—but she had no intention of continuing to live her life cloistered within Lancaster Manor, venturing out only for the constant, meaningless, regular, deadly dull, boring routine of balls, dinners, concerts, and school. She could not allow Mother to call her bluff. So she shifted her arm very slightly and unleashed radiant etheric energy from the crystal against her palm. There was a howling scream of suddenly parted air and a blinding flash. It was followed an instant later by a deafening roar, like thunder, and a marble statuette sitting on a side table just behind Esterbrook exploded into dust and flying fragments. The fragments rattled and bounced around the room in the silence after the blast, and grew quiet only a few seconds later. Mother stood staring with her mouth open, her face pale, half of her body already coated with fine marble dust. Esterbrook was coated with the dust as well, but he hadn’t moved or changed his expression. “Captain,” Gwendolyn said. “If you would be so kind as to continue.” “Miss,” he said, bobbing his head again. Moving very slowly, and keeping his left arm completely still and at his side, he unbuckled the straps of the gauntlet and let it fall to the floor. |
Moving very slowly, and keeping his left arm completely still and at his side, he unbuckled the straps of the gauntlet and let it fall to the floor. “Thank you, Captain,” Gwendolyn said. “Step aside, please.” Esterbrook looked at Mother, spread his hands in a silent, helpless gesture, and took several steps back and away from his weaponry. “No,” Mother snapped. “No.” She took three quick strides to the chamber’s fantastically expensive door, made from wood harvested from the deadly, mist-bound forests of the surface and bound in brass. She twisted its key until it locked, and then withdrew it. She returned to her original position with her chin lifted in outrage. “You will obey me, child.” “Honestly, Mother,” Gwendolyn said, “at the rate we’re going, we’ll bankrupt ourselves redecorating.” Gwendolyn’s gauntlet howled again, and part of the door was blown to splinters and twisted brass. The rest was wrenched from its brass hinges and flew out into the hallway beyond, tumbling once before it crashed to the ground. Gwendolyn raised her arm until the crystal at her palm was parallel with her face and walked calmly forward, toward the door. The armsmen behind her groaned and began to gather themselves together. Gwendolyn felt a flash of relief. She hadn’t wanted to inflict any serious harm upon the two men. Benedict had informed her that, with blows to the head, one could never be sure. “No,” Mother breathed, as she walked by. “Gwendolyn, no. You can’t. You don’t understand the horrors you might face.” She was breathing very quickly and … Merciful Builders. Mother was crying. Gwendolyn hesitated and stopped walking. |
Gwendolyn hesitated and stopped walking. “Gwendolyn,” Mother whispered. “Please. You are my only child.” “Who else, then, will represent the honor of the Lancasters in the Service?” Gwendolyn looked at her mother’s face. Tears had made clean tracks through the thin layer of dust. “Please don’t go,” Mother whispered. Gwendolyn hesitated. She had her ambitions, of course, and her proper Lancaster reserve, but like Mother, she also had a heart. Tears … tears were unprecedented. She had never seen her mother weep except once, with laughter. Perhaps she could have been … somewhat more thoughtful about how she had approached her decision to enlist. But there was no more time for discussion. Enrollment for the Guard was this morning. She met her mother’s eyes and spoke as gently as she could. And she would not cry. She simply would not. Regardless of how much she might wish to. “I love you very much,” she said quietly. Then Gwendolyn Margaret Elizabeth Lancaster walked out over the shattered door and left her home. Lady Lancaster watched her daughter go, tears in her eyes. |
Lady Lancaster watched her daughter go, tears in her eyes. She waited until she heard the large front doors of the manor close to turn to Ester-brook. “Are you well, Captain?” “A bit surprised, perhaps, but well enough,” he said. “Lads?” “Lady Gwen,” said one of the guardsmen, touching his cheek and wincing, “hurts.” “You didn’t show the opponent sufficient respect,” Esterbrook said, amused. “Go get some breakfast. We’ll work on takedowns this morning.” The men shambled out, looking rather embarrassed, and Esterbrook watched them, evidently pleased. Then he paused, and blinked at Lady Lancaster. “My lady … are you crying?” “Of course I am,” she replied, pride swelling in her voice. “Did you see that? She stood up to all three of you.” “All four of us,” Esterbrook corrected her gently. “Gwendolyn has never had a problem standing up to me,” Lady Lancaster said in a wry tone. Esterbrook grunted. “Still don’t see why you feel a need for such dramatics.” “Because I know my daughter,” she said. “And I know very well that the only way to absolutely ensure that she pursues any given course of action is for me to forbid her to do so.” “Reminds me of someone else who insisted on joining the Service, my lady,” Esterbrook said. “Let’s see…” “I was quite young and willful at the time, as you know very well. But when I left it was nothing like that.” “Indeed not,” Esterbrook said. “As I recall it, my lady, you reduced three doors to splinters on your way out, not one.” Lady Lancaster eyed the captain and sniffed. “Honestly, Esterbrook. I’m all but certain that you’re exaggerating.” “And half a dozen statues.” “They were tasteless replicas.” “And a ten-foot section of stone wall.” “Mother was standing in the door. How else was I to leave?” “Yes, my lady,” Esterbrook said gravely. |
How else was I to leave?” “Yes, my lady,” Esterbrook said gravely. “Thank you for correcting me. I see now that there is no comparison to be made.” “I thought you’d see it that way,” she said. “You have good sense.” “Yes, my lady. But…” Esterbrook frowned. “I understand that you wanted to steer her toward the Service. I’m still not sure I understand why.” Lady Lancaster eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. Esterbrook was a faithful soldier, an invaluable retainer, and a lifelong friend and ally—but the warriorborn’s feline eyes tended to focus best on their immediate surroundings. She had no doubt that Esterbrook, if she so requested, could close his eyes and tell her the exact location of any object she could name in the room. But he’d have no idea where they were before the room’s most recent redecorating, or where they should go now that the centerpiece statue had been destroyed. The warriorborn dealt best with the present, whereas she, like the Lancasters before her, had to concern herself with the far past—and the near future. “Events are in motion in the Spires,” she said quietly. “Signs and portents appear. No fewer than four Fleet aeronauts have reported sightings of an Archangel, and swear that they were neither drunk nor sleeping. Spire Aurora has recalled her embassy from Spire Albion, and our fleets have already begun to skirmish. The lower habbles have become increasingly restive and…” Esterbrook tilted his head. “My lady?” “The crystals are … behaving strangely.” Esterbrook arched a skeptical eyebrow. Lady Lancaster shook her head. “I don’t know how else to explain it. But I’ve worked with them since I was a small child, and … something isn’t right.” She sighed and turned to regard the shattered door. |
But I’ve worked with them since I was a small child, and … something isn’t right.” She sighed and turned to regard the shattered door. “There are dark times ahead of us, old friend. Strife such as has not been seen since the breaking of the world. My child needs to see it for herself, to learn about those who will fight against it, to understand what is at stake. She’ll do that in his service, as she cannot anywhere else.” “Strife,” Esterbrook said. “Strife seems something of a handmaiden to Lady Gwen already.” Lady Lancaster looked at the shattered door and at the drifting dust, still swirling in the wake of her daughter’s passage. “Yes,” she said quietly. “God in Heaven, Archangels, merciful Builders, please. Please go with my child.” Chapter 1 Albion Merchant Ship Predator Captain Grimm flicked the telescoptic up off of the right eyepiece of his heavy goggles. The Auroran airship was a faint blot against the thick clouds below, while Predator was hidden high above in the aerosphere by the glare of the sun. A storm was roiling through the mezzosphere, the layer of heavy cloud and mist that lay beneath them, but there was still time to reach the enemy vessel before the storm began to interfere with the ship’s systems. Grimm nodded once, decisively. “We’ll go in on the currents. General quarters. Run out the guns. Spread the web, top, bottom, and flanks. Full power to the shroud. Set course for the Auroran vessel.” “Sound general quarters!” Commander Creedy bawled, and the ship’s bell gave three quick rings, repeated in a surging clamor. “Guns, make ready!” The command was echoed down the length of Predator as the gun crews raced to their turrets. “Spread the web ’round the clock!” Leather-skinned men in goggles and surplus Fleet aeronautical leathers leapt into the masts and rigging of the airship, shouting back their compliance. |
“Spread the web ’round the clock!” Leather-skinned men in goggles and surplus Fleet aeronautical leathers leapt into the masts and rigging of the airship, shouting back their compliance. Creedy grabbed the end of the speaking tube and called, “Engineering!” “Engineering, aye,” came the tinny-sounding answer. “Full power to the shroud, if you please, Mister Journeyman.” “Full power to the shroud, aye. And tell the captain to blow the hell out of them before they can touch our shroud. That storm’s too close. He times the approach wrong and we’ll be naked.” “Maintain discipline, Mister Journeyman,” Creedy said severely. “Maintenance is what I do, idiot,” snapped the engineer. “Don’t tell me my business, you jumped-up wollypog.” “Let it go, XO,” Grimm said very quietly to Creedy. He was smiling, if only barely, at Journeyman’s response. The etheric engineer was quite simply too valuable to replace and the man knew it. The taller, younger man scowled from behind his own goggles and folded his arms. “He should be setting an example for the other men in his compartment, Captain.” Grimm shrugged a shoulder. “He isn’t going to, Commander. You can’t squeeze blood from a stone.” He folded his hands calmly behind his back. “Besides. He might be right.” Creedy gave the captain a sharp look. “Sir?” “It’s going to be very close,” Grimm replied. Creedy stared hard at the Auroran ship and swallowed. It was one of the rival Spire’s Cortez-class ships—a large merchant cruiser much more massive than the Predator, carrying heavier guns and bearing a thicker shroud. Though the Cortez-class ships were officially trading vessels and not warships, they were well armed and had been known to carry an entire company of Auroran Marines. |
Though the Cortez-class ships were officially trading vessels and not warships, they were well armed and had been known to carry an entire company of Auroran Marines. This ship, Grimm was sure, was the vessel responsible for the recent losses in Albion merchant shipping. “Prepare boarders, sir?” Creedy asked. Grimm arched an eyebrow. “We are bold and daring, Commander, but not maniacs. I’ll leave that to Commodore Rook and his friends in the Fleet. Predator is a private vessel.” “Aye, sir,” Creedy replied. “Probably best if we didn’t linger about.” “We’ll rake their web hard, force them down, drop a buoy, and let Rook go after them,” Grimm confirmed. “If we stay for a slugging match, that storm could come boiling up and disrupt our shroud.” “And theirs,” Creedy pointed out. Good XOs did that in the Fleet, playing the devil’s advocate to the captain’s plans. Grimm found the practice mildly irritating. If he hadn’t owed Creedy’s sister a favor … “They have more and larger guns than we do,” Grimm replied. “And much more ship than we do. If we hang naked in front of a Cortez, the worst captain in their fleet would send us all screaming down to the surface.” Creedy shuddered. “Aye, sir.” Grimm clapped the young man’s shoulder and gave him a brief smile. “Relax. When Fleet disciplines young officers so decisively, they do it to make an impression—so that when they return to their duties in Fleet, they won’t repeat their mistake. They mean to put you to work again, or it would have been a simple discharge. They’ll not leave you habbled for long. Then you’ll be clear of Predator and in a properly armored hull again.” “Predator is a fine ship, Captain,” Creedy said stoutly. |
Then you’ll be clear of Predator and in a properly armored hull again.” “Predator is a fine ship, Captain,” Creedy said stoutly. “Just … a little more fragile than I’d like.” And, Grimm thought, considerably less fragile than he knew. “Buck up, XO. Even if we don’t bring a prize ship back with us, the bounty for laming her and leaving her to Rook will earn us a tidy bonus. A hundred crowns a head, at least.” Creedy grimaced. “While Rook rakes in hundreds of thousands of crowns in prize money. And buys his House a few more Councilors.” Grimm closed his eyes and lifted his chin slightly as the men unreeled the nearly transparent ethersilk webbing. He didn’t need to watch to know the way the etheric web would change as the power runs carried electricity to it, making it stir and rise, becoming seemingly weightless. It caught the invisible currents of etheric energy coursing through the aerosphere, and the translucent silk strands, spread like great cobwebs for a good two hundred feet around the vessel itself, caught the force of the unseen etheric currents coursing through the skies and began pulling Predator forward. The slender ship gathered speed rapidly. The wind rose, cold and dry. Distant thunder from the sullen storm rumbled through the thin air. The thought of Commodore Hamilton Rook gaining even more influence in the Spire didn’t particularly trouble Grimm. Most of the affairs of Spire Albion didn’t trouble him. Let the trogs in the Spires chew one another’s lips off, if that was what suited them. As long as he had Predator, he had everything he needed. Kettle, the sailor at the control grips of the ship a few feet behind and above Grimm and Creedy, let out a short whistle. Grimm turned and lifted an eyebrow. “Mister Kettle?” The grizzled sailor nodded down toward the approaching storm with his chin. “Skipper, you might consider a steeper descent than normal. |
“Skipper, you might consider a steeper descent than normal. Gravity will get us there quicker, and if the exchange doesn’t go well, we can just go right on past them into the clouds.” “Mind yourself, aeronaut,” Creedy snapped. “If you have a suggestion, you can pass it to the captain through me. Those are the regulations on a Fleet vessel.” “XO. This isn’t a Fleet vessel,” Grimm said quietly. “This is my ship. Let me think.” Mister Kettle’s suggestion had merit. The extra speed of the dive would make the gunnery tricky, but their ship was sound, and they shouldn’t need miraculous shooting to disable the enemy ship in a surprise attack—and they would commence the engagement a few moments sooner, ahead of the storm. He far preferred their chances if the Predator’s shroud was intact around them. Creedy, who could ride out a storm without blanching, began to look a little green at his captain’s views of Fleet regulations. But he glanced over his shoulder at Kettle and valiantly attempted to continue to do his duty as he saw it. “A steep dive seems unnecessary, sir. In all probability they won’t even realize we’re upon them until the guns open up.” “We’re a long way from home, XO. I’d rather not deal in probability.” Grimm nodded back to the older sailor. “We’ll do it your way, Mister Kettle. Inform the gun crews to adjust their firing angles.” “Aye, sir.” Grimm tilted his head and considered the strong breeze blowing across the deck. “Mister Creedy,” he said, “have the men rig sail, if you please.” Creedy paused and blinked in surprise. “Captain?” Grimm didn’t blame the younger man for his reaction. Few airships utilized windsails these days. Steam-driven propellers and the new screwlike turbines were the preferred means of locomotion in the event that a ship dropped out of the aerosphere or was becalmed in some portion of the sky without etheric currents strong enough to propel a vessel. |
Steam-driven propellers and the new screwlike turbines were the preferred means of locomotion in the event that a ship dropped out of the aerosphere or was becalmed in some portion of the sky without etheric currents strong enough to propel a vessel. But sails had advantages of their own: They didn’t require bulky, heavy steam engines to function, and they were— compared to steam engines, at least—nearly silent. It was funny, Grimm mused, how often in life a bit of judicious silence could come in handy. “Keep them reefed for now,” Grimm said. “But I want them ready.” “Aye, sir,” Creedy said, with even less enthusiasm than a few moments before— but he relayed the commands firmly. After that, there was little to do but wait as the Predator took position for her dive. Standard battle gear included a harness with a number of attachment points on it. A lifeline was a six- to nine-foot length of heavy, braided line of leather with a clip on either end, and every man was required to have three of them on him when general quarters was sounded. Grimm and Creedy both hooked a pair of lines to the various rails and rings set about the airship for that exact purpose, cinching them in tight. Once fastened in, Grimm paused to straighten his uniform. As the captain of an Albion merchant ship, he was not strictly required to wear one, but the crew had commissioned one for him after their first highly successful run as privateers. It was identical to the uniform of Fleet, but instead of his leathers being colored deep blue with gold trim, they were jet-black trimmed in bloodred. The two broad stripes of an airship captain adorned the end of each sleeve of his long coat. The coat’s skull-shaped silver buttons had seemed a bit excessive to him, but he had to admit that they did lend the outfit a credibly piratical air. Last of all, as always, he cinched tight the strap of his peaked cap, securing it tight to his head. Aeronauts considered it very bad luck for the captain to lose his cap when his ship dived into battle, and Grimm had seen too many odd things in his day to be entirely liberated from the superstition himself. It took several moments to cover the miles of distance between the Auroran vessel and Predator, and tension mounted the entire while, thick in the chill air, its rigidity visible in the spines of the gunners and aeronauts. Ship-to-ship combat was the most destructive violence known to man, and everyone on Predator knew it. Grimm played his role as he always did. The men were permitted to be nervous and fearful—it was the only sane response to their situation, after all. |
The men were permitted to be nervous and fearful—it was the only sane response to their situation, after all. But fear was a disease that could swell and spread, incapacitating crews and bringing on the destruction that had been dreaded in the first place. The captain was allowed no such luxury as fear. The men had to be sure—not only suspect, but be absolutely certain— that their captain knew precisely what he was doing. They had to know that their captain was invincible, infallible, immune to defeat. That sure and certain knowledge was critical to the crew—it allowed them to ignore their fear and to focus their minds upon their duties, as they’d been trained to do. Men who functioned as trained, even in the hellish fury of an aerial battle, were absolutely vital to victory. Such a crew tended to suffer far less injury and loss of life —and Grimm would sooner hurl himself off Predator’s ventral mastworks than needlessly spend a drop of his crew’s blood. So he did what he could to make them fight as efficiently and ferociously as possible. He did nothing. Grimm stood calmly on the deck, his lifelines neat and taut, his hands folded behind him. He stared ahead and allowed himself to show no emotion whatsoever. He could feel the eyes that shifted to him from time to time, and he stayed steady, a reassuring and confident presence. Creedy attempted to emulate his captain, with limited success. He clutched one rail so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, and his breath was coming too hard through his flared nostrils. “XO,” Grimm said quietly, smiling. “Perhaps your gloves?” Creedy looked down at his hand and hurriedly removed it from the rail. He spent a moment fishing his gloves from his pockets and donning them. Grimm couldn’t blame the young man. This would be his first battle aboard Predator, a civilian vessel. |
This would be his first battle aboard Predator, a civilian vessel. Built of little more than wood, she was not clad in the sheets of brass and coppershrouded steel armor a military vessel boasted. Should enemy fire penetrate her shroud, every blast would inflict hideous damage upon the ship and her crew alike— and a lucky shot could destroy her core crystal, unleashing a blast of energy that would spread both ship and crew across miles and miles of sky. Creedy’s fears were grounded in years of experience upon warships of Spire Albion’s Fleet. Everything he knew told him that he was about to engage in a battle that could very well end in mutual annihilation, that Grimm was taking a horrible risk. It wasn’t the XO’s fault that he had never fought upon Predator before. It was time. His ship was in position, perhaps a mile and a bit more above the Auroran vessel. “Sound maneuvers!” Grimm called. The ship’s bell began to ring in a rapid staccato, a last warning to the ship’s company to secure safety lines before Predator went into battle. Grimm felt a wolfish grin touch his mouth. He reached up to tighten the band of his peaked cap in preparation for the dive, and nodded slightly to one side. “Mister Kettle,” he said, “you may begin your dive.” Chapter 2 AMS Predator Grimm stood firm as Journeyman cut the power to the lift crystal’s suspension rig, and Predator dropped from the sky like a stone. An attack dive was a small vessel’s maneuver. The actual fall would inflict little damage on a vessel of any size, but the sudden reduction of speed on the far end of the dive could be a severe strain upon her timbers. Larger ships, with their far heavier armor, suffered more from such pressures, and in order to decelerate slowly enough to ease those strains, a large ship had to lose so much altitude that it often could not return to the level of the engagement effectively. A truly efficient combat dive required a brief, severe period of reduction in speed, and Grimm had read accounts of battleships and dreadnoughts that had attempted a dive, only to have their lift crystals tear themselves entirely free of the ship when attempting to arrest their descent too rapidly. Sane captains rarely tried a combat dive with anything heavier than a light cruiser—but for a relatively tiny destroyer-size ship like Predator, the dangerous feat dwelled at the heart of battle doctrine. Kettle kept his hands firm on the control grips, riding the ship into the dive, keeping her steady with the maneuvering planes mounted on her hull and in her tail. The etheric web still hauled the ship forward as before— but now she was rushing down as well, coming toward the Auroran ship almost directly out of the midday sun. |
The etheric web still hauled the ship forward as before— but now she was rushing down as well, coming toward the Auroran ship almost directly out of the midday sun. The deck began to buck and jolt as their speed built. Timbers moaned and flexed in protest, the pitch rising steadily. Only the safety lines of his harness held Grimm in place, and he was once more glad to be a man of only middling height—poor towering Creedy was trying to imitate Grimm’s stoic posture, and his head was being yanked about randomly as the ship bucked its way into battle. The Auroran grew larger and larger, and the sound of Predator’s straining timbers continued to rise in tone and volume. All ships made their own individual sounds during a dive, though no one was sure precisely why. Grimm’s midshipman’s tour had been aboard a destroyer named the Speck. It had howled like a damned soul when it stooped upon a victim. Other ships wailed like enormous steam whistles. Still others took up a regular pounding rhythm, like the beating of some vast drum. Once, Grimm had been aboard the light cruiser Furious, which literally boomed out enormous snarls as it charged to combat. But his ship outdid them all. When Predator sailed into war, she sang. The rapid winds and rising shrieks suddenly blended into a single harmonious tone. Lines in the rigging and the yards and the masts themselves quivered in time, and began giving off their own notes of music, in harmony with one another. As the speed increased, the chord rose and rose, and built and built, until it reached a crescendo of pure, eerie, inhuman fury. Grimm felt the music rise around him, felt the ship straining eagerly to her task, and his own heart raced in fierce exultation in time with her. Every line of the ship, every smudge upon her decks, every stain upon the leathers of his aeronauts leapt into his mind in vibrant detail. He could feel the ship’s motion, forward and down, could feel the wind of her passage, could feel the rising terror of his crew. One of the men screamed—one of them always did—and then the entire crew joined in with Predator, shrieking their battle cries together with their ship’s. |
One of the men screamed—one of them always did—and then the entire crew joined in with Predator, shrieking their battle cries together with their ship’s. The ship would not fail them—Grimm knew it; he felt it, the way he could feel sunlight on his face or the rake of wind in his hair. And he also felt it the instant their speed, their course, and their position were absolutely perfect. “Now!” he thundered, raising his arm in a single, sharp motion. Kettle pulled the altitude throttle from zero back up to its normal neutral buoyancy, and hauled hard on the steering grips. Though Grimm couldn’t see it, he knew what was happening: The engine room would have seen the throttle indicator, and even now Journeyman and his assistants would be unleashing power from the core crystal back into the lift crystal again, and the ship suddenly groaned as she began to slow. At the same time, Predator pirouetted upon her center axis, leaning over to her port, and brought her port-side broadside to bear upon the Auroran ship. Even with the protection of his goggles’ dark lenses, the flash of seven etheric cannon forced him to wince and look away as they sent their charges screaming toward the Aurorans. Each cannon was a framework of copper and brass around a copper-clad barrel of steel. A row of weapon crystals was suspended in the exact center of the barrel’s length upon copper wires, and when the weapon was activated, it behaved in much the same manner as a common gauntlet —except on a far larger scale. Then the energy of a cannon crystal was added to the outgoing rush of power, and the result was pure destruction. A cannon bolt unleashed massive energy upon impact. A single hit from one of Predator’s cannon, if placed in precisely the right place, could incinerate most of an unarmored vessel. Seven such weapons turned their fury upon the Auroran ship, targeting the tips of her masts, where her etheric web spread out around her. Grimm watched intently for the results of the first salvo. In theory, the light cannon aboard Predator could fire a bolt that would strike effectively from nearly two miles away. In practice, it took a steady ship, a steady target, skilled gunners, and no small amount of luck to hit something at more than half a mile, perhaps more if they used the heavier chase gun, Predator’s only medium cannon. A light ship’s defense was in its agility and speed, and they rarely cruised stably when they went into battle. Such cold-blooded trading of fire was for the heavier warships, armored to withstand multiple hits and carrying weapons ten times the size of Predator’s arms. His gunnery crews were all veteran aeronauts of the Fleet, and he would match them against any active warship’s crew. |
His gunnery crews were all veteran aeronauts of the Fleet, and he would match them against any active warship’s crew. Though Predator was moving swiftly, the target stood barely two hundred yards off her beam, and the men had known the exact angle at which Kettle would hold the ship. Ships did not dodge broadsides at this range. One could hardly see a cannon’s blast in flight. It simply moved too quickly. There was the flash of the gun and the flash impression of a glowing comet dragging a tail of sparks, and then impact upon the target, with a barely detectable delay in between. Not a single crew missed its target. And not a shot landed. Instead, there was a flash of emerald illumination perhaps twenty yards short of the enemy vehicle, as the cannon blasts struck the enemy ship’s shroud. The shroud was a field of energy generated by a ship’s crystal power core. When a cannon blast struck the shroud, it illuminated like a hazy, spherical cloud flickering with lightning, absorbing the incoming fire and dispersing its energy safely before it could strike the ship. Shrouds were a strain upon a ship’s core, a tremendous demand upon the core’s energy reserve. One did not simply sail along with the ship’s shroud raised and in place. Grimm’s eyes widened as time seemed to stop. Predator’s cannon had ripped deeply into the enemy’s shroud, the energy of the blasts chewing away at the defensive field, almost all the way to the Auroran’s hull. But they had not inflicted any damage. The Auroran vessel’s shroud was up and in place. Therefore she had seen Predator coming. Therefore she had been watching. Therefore the Auroran had intended to be spotted, sitting fat and lazy on a sluggish current just above the mezzosphere, a perfect target —and she would be ready to return fire. |
Therefore the Auroran had intended to be spotted, sitting fat and lazy on a sluggish current just above the mezzosphere, a perfect target —and she would be ready to return fire. Even as Grimm flashed through those thoughts, he saw signal rockets flare out from the Auroran—as if the shrieking thunder of discharged cannon wouldn’t have alerted the Auroran’s allies. Creedy screamed in fury. He had obviously reached the same conclusions Grimm had, and he’d likely thought that it would be his death scream. After all, no ship the size of Predator, unarmored, could survive the weight of fire the Auroran could throw back at her. And an instant later, the Auroran returned fire. The deck was nearly bleached away by the flash of light that spilled forth from Predator’s shroud when the Auroran guns spoke. The enemy ship carried twelve light cannon in her broadside to Predator’s seven, and if they were slightly less powerful individually, the difference was hardly worth noticing. The enemy fire lit up Predator’s shroud like a bank of fog, and wiped it away almost before it could be seen. But her shroud held, stopping the worst of the enemy fire no more than a dozen feet from her hull, and bathing the ship in the sharp smell of ozone. Creedy’s scream broke off in a shocked, choking sound. Grimm would laugh about that later, if he survived the next few moments. For now, he had a maneuver to complete—and then a trap to escape. “Kettle!” he boomed, signaling with his hands at the same time, “complete the dive and take us into the mist!” “Aye, sir!” answered the veteran pilot; then he set his feet and hauled on the steering grips, his teeth clenched, his neck straining with the effort. Predator had stooped upon the Auroran from above her and to her starboard. Now, as they dived beneath her, Kettle rolled the ship again, far onto her port side, presenting her starboard broadside to the Auroran’s lower hull and ventral rigging. Again Predator’s guns howled their fury, but this time there was a difference. Leftenant Hammond, the starboard gunnery officer, had spotted the enemy’s shroud, and in the bare seconds between that stunning revelation and his crews’ chance to fire he had reassigned targeting. Now Predator’s guns fired in a rippling sequence, one after another—each aimed exactly amidships on the Auroran. Ripple fire was an old tactic for hammering through a ship’s shroud, though it took tremendous training and skill to pull off. |
Ripple fire was an old tactic for hammering through a ship’s shroud, though it took tremendous training and skill to pull off. The first shot blew aside a portion of the shroud, creating a cavity in its defenses. The second lanced in deeper, into the opening created by the first, before it also claimed its portion of the shroud. Then the third and the fourth and so on. The number six gun’s blast left black scorch marks on the enemy’s hull. Number seven’s shot exploded almost exactly in the center of the enemy’s belly. There was a roar of released energy, a flash of hellishly bright light. A section of hull a good thirty feet across simply vanished, transformed into a cloud of soot and deadly splinters that flew up through the ship above them, hurled like spears by the force of the blast. Fire consumed the hull around the hole, and roiled and boiled through the vulnerable guts of the Auroran ship above them. Shattered ventral web-masts fell from the ship, only to become tangled in their own rigging and in the finer, nearly invisible shimmers of her ventral web. The sudden drag and the abrupt absence of her ventral web changed both the ship’s propulsive balance and her center of gravity, and she began listing heavily to port. The blast had also smashed one of her two ventral planes to splinters, and as she rolled, she began to yaw as well. Creedy, Kettle, and every crewman on the deck let out fierce, savage cries of triumph. Though they had by no means dealt the Auroran a mortal blow, she was, for the moment, severely lamed. She was still deadly, with her more numerous guns, bloodied but whole behind her mostly solid shroud, but in a duel between the two ships, Predator would now have the upper hand. Grimm didn’t watch the secondary explosions in the other ship, as flickering discharges of etheric energy found volatile crystals aboard the Auroran, probably upon the gauntlets in a weapons locker. He had already flipped his telescoptic back down and was raking the surrounding skies with his gaze and the telescopic lenses, searching for whomever the Auroran had been signaling. The second vessel rose out of the mists of the mezzosphere, murky clouds roiling off of her spars and rigging, boiling down off of her plated flanks and leaving her armored sides gleaming as she rose into the harsh light of the sun. The banner of the armada of Spire Aurora flew bold from both dorsal and ventral masts, two blue stripes on a field of white, with five scarlet stars spangled between the blue stripes. Across her prow was painted in gold: ASA Itasca. |
Across her prow was painted in gold: ASA Itasca. Staring at her, Grimm felt his bones turn cold. Itasca was a ship of legend, with a battle record stretching back more than five hundred years, and the Aurorans considered her a fine prize to be given to veteran captains on the fast route to their own admiralty. Grimm couldn’t remember her commander’s name at the moment, but he would be one of the Aurorans’ best. Worse, Itasca was a battlecruiser, a vessel designed specifically to run down ships like Predator and hammer them into clouds of glowing splinters. She could take the full punishment of Predator’s guns without flinching, and her own weapons—some four times Grimm’s own broadside, and nearly as heavy as those of a battleship—would slam aside Predator’s shroud and destroy the ship and crew behind it in a single salvo. Worse, trusting in her armored plates and shroud, Itasca could stand off and fire accurately from a range Predator could never hope to match. Even worse, she had an armored warship’s multiple power cores, and could store, deploy, and charge a far greater length of web than Predator, so that even with her vast additional mass, Grimm might not be able to outrun Itasca before her guns brought the race to a premature conclusion. The only thing they had going for them was blind luck: The Auroran warship had come up from the mist almost two thousand yards away—though Grimm thought it worth noting that if Predator had come down at the standard angle of attack instead of at Kettle’s more daring dive angle, Itasca would have come up barely a hundred yards to port. Itasca’s captain, whoever he was, had been lucky in positioning his vessel—after all, the Albion privateer could have dived down on the merchant cruiser from any angle, and Itasca’s captain had no way of knowing from which way he’d come. But he’d outthought Grimm and predicted his attack successfully. That was the kind of luck a smart captain made for himself. “Kettle!” he snapped. “Dive, now!” The helmsman’s hand was moving toward the throttle in instant obedience even as he blinked in surprise—and then looked past the captain to see Itasca turning her overwhelming broadside to them. The ship dropped again, without any maneuvers warning, catching many off guard. There were screams. Grimm saw Leftenant Hammond fly upward from the deck, held down by only a single safety line—the gunnery officer had to have rushed up and down the line of gunners, giving his crews instructions in rapid succession in order to pull off his ripple-fire maneuver. Grimm thanked God in Heaven that the man had remembered to keep one line secure despite his haste. For an instant, Grimm thought he’d avoided engaging Itasca entirely— and then, just as Predator reached the top layer of the mists, Itasca opened fire. Grimm’s ship was a small target, as ships went: Predator was barely more than a destroyer in terms of mass. |
Grimm’s ship was a small target, as ships went: Predator was barely more than a destroyer in terms of mass. She was moving fast as well, and at an oblique angle. Considering how far away Itasca rode, it would take a fiendishly skilled or lucky gunner indeed to place blasts on target, especially with crews whose eyes were used to the dimness of the mists and now rose into the brilliance of the aerosphere. Someone on Itasca was skilled. Or lucky. The blast of the warship’s heavy cannon ripped a hole in Predator’s shroud as easily as a stone hurtling through a cobweb. The round burst at the top of the rearmost dorsal mast, and only the steep angle of Predator’s renewed dive saved her. The explosion tore her topside masts away completely, hungrily devouring her entire dorsal web in a lacework of fire as it went. Shards and splinters of wood went flying, and Grimm heard crewmen scream as a cloud of deadly missiles ripped into the starboard gun crews. Shrapnel hit the main crystal of the starboard number three gun, and it went up in a green-white flash that killed its crew and left a gaping wound a good twelve feet across in the ship’s flank. An aeronaut named Aricson in one of the adjacent crews screamed as the section of deck to which his safety lines were fastened went flying out and away from Predator, dragging him with it. He shrieked in terror for an instant, and then man and scream both vanished into the mist, as the swirling sea of fog reached up and swallowed Predator whole. “Evasive action!” Grimm ordered. The distant screaming roars of the Itasca’s guns continued, and he heard the hungry hissing of blasts streaking through the mists around them, making them glow with hellish light. They had been lucky to survive a single glancing hit. Thirty guns raked the mist, and Grimm knew the enemy ship would be rolling onto her starboard side, giving the gunners a chance to track their approximate line of descent. If the same gunner or one of his fellows got lucky again, Predator would not be returning home to Spire Albion. Kettle turned the steering grips hard as the cold mist enveloped them, and the ship slalomed lower into the mezzosphere while Grimm waited for the round that would kill his ship and his crew, forcing himself not to hold his breath. All the while, Predator sang her defiance to the mists, the chord shifting and changing with each alteration of her course, and the sound drifted up behind them like mocking laughter. Grimm clenched his fists and ground his teeth. |
Grimm clenched his fists and ground his teeth. It was all very well for his ship to behave in such a fashion, but he sometimes wished that Predator could think as well as taunt the enemy. There was nothing to be done for it. Grimm simply had to hope that the mists of the mezzosphere would muffle and confuse the source of the sound, giving Itasca’s gunners no clear target. He waited for as long as he dared, nearly a minute, and then screamed, “Pull her up!” Kettle signaled the engine room, and their wild descent began to slow. A few measured breaths later, Predator leveled out, and they simply waited, everyone on deck entirely silent while Kettle struggled to trim the wounded ship as she completed her dash. After a time, Grimm slowly exhaled and bowed his head. He reached up and wearily removed his goggles. The wet air felt cold and sticky against the skin around his eyes. “They aren’t chasing us,” Creedy breathed, bringing his own goggles down. “Of course not. Itasca’s too damned big,” Grimm replied. His voice sounded hoarse and thin in his own ears. His neck and shoulders felt as if they’d been replaced with bars of brass. “A monster like that can’t dive with Predator. Besides, no Auroran captain would try to follow us in this murk for fear of looking ridiculous. Two blind men can’t have a very dignified chase.” Creedy snorted through his nose. “Damage control,” Grimm said quietly, unfastening his safety lines. “Make sure Doctor Bagen has everything he needs to see to the wounded. Call the roll. |
Call the roll. I’ll be in my cabin.” Creedy nodded, looking slowly around them. “Sir?” Grimm paused. “This ship’s shroud … it’s extremely powerful for a vessel of this size.” The young officer hadn’t actually asked the question, but it hung unspoken in the air between them. Grimm didn’t like prevarication. It complicated life. But though he thought the young officer was a decent enough sort, he wasn’t ready to extend that much trust. Not yet. So he gave the XO a flat gaze and said, “See to the ship, if you please, Mister Creedy.” Creedy snapped to attention and threw him an academy-perfect salute. “Yes, sir, Captain.” Grimm turned and went to the privacy of his cabin. He closed the door behind him and sat down on his bunk. The battle was over. His hands started to shake, and then his arms, and then his belly. He curled his chest up to his knees and sat quietly for a moment, shuddering in the terror and excitement he hadn’t allowed himself to feel during the engagement. Aricson’s scream echoed in Grimm’s head. He closed his eyes, and the purple blotch the dying number three gun had burned on his retina hovered in his darkened vision. Stupid. He’d been stupid. He’d been tearing huge swaths of profit from the Auroran merchant fleet. It had been inevitable that they would eventually respond to him. |
It had been inevitable that they would eventually respond to him. Some idiot would probably say that the fact that they’d sent Itasca to deal with him was a high compliment. Said idiot wouldn’t be visiting the families of the dead men to give them his condolences and their death pay. He knew that he’d made sound decisions given what he’d known at the time, but some of his men were dead because of them nonetheless. They were dead because he’d commanded them, and they’d followed. They’d known the risks, to a man, and every one of them was ex-Fleet. Things could have gone immeasurably worse than they had—but that would be little comfort to the newly minted widows back at the home Spire. He sat and shuddered and regretted and promised dead men’s shades that he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He was the captain. By the time Creedy arrived with the damage report, Grimm had reassembled himself. “Captain,” Creedy said respectfully. “I don’t think your accomplishments have been properly appreciated at home.” “Oh?” Grimm asked. “Yes, sir,” Creedy said. Controlled admiration crept into his tone. “I mean, for the Aurorans to dispatch Itasca to mousetrap a lone privateer … when you think about it, it’s really a kind of compliment, sir.” Grimm sighed. “Captain Castillo is one of their best,” Creedy went on. “His attack was nearly perfect, but you slipped right through his fingers. If you were a captain in the Fleet you’d have merited tactical honors for…” Creedy’s face reddened and his voice trailed off. “There are worse things to happen to a man than being drummed out of the Fleet, XO,” Grimm said quietly. “Casualties, then damage reports. |
“Casualties, then damage reports. How bad?” “Bad enough,” Creedy said. “Five dead, six injured —shrapnel, mostly, and a concussion from an aeronaut in engineering who unhooked his second line too soon.” Grimm nodded. “The ship?” “The dorsal masts are stubs. We’ll need to get to a yard to replace them. We had to cut the rigging loose and drop it, so we lost most of the dorsal web. There’s a hole in the gun deck where the number three gun was—we’ll need a yard to repair that, too. And we blew two cables in our suspension rig.” Grimm took a slow breath. The suspension rig was the central structure of the ship, built around the main lift crystal. The weight of the entire ship hung suspended from the rig, and was distributed through its cables. There were eight of them, any two enough to bear the weight of the entire vessel … but the more cables broke, the more likely it was that those remaining would break— especially during any highspeed maneuvers. The loss of the occasional cable was expected, but was never to be taken lightly. “You’re saving the best for last, I think,” Grimm said. Creedy grimaced. “Chief Journeyman says there are fractures in the main lift crystal.” Grimm stopped himself from spitting an acid curse and closed his eyes. “That second dive, so soon after the first.” “That was his theory, sir. He’s cut power to the lift crystal, and is running extra to the trim crystals to make up the difference in buoyancy and keep us afloat.” Grimm smiled faintly and opened his eyes. There would be no prize money on this trip, and no bounty, either. The trim crystals that helped adjust the ship’s attitude were expensive, and using them to help maintain the ship’s lift would be hard on them, but replacing them was a standard operating cost. The large crystals sufficiently powerful to suspend airships were another matter—they were far rarer and much more bitterly expensive. |
The large crystals sufficiently powerful to suspend airships were another matter—they were far rarer and much more bitterly expensive. Only a power core cost more, assuming one could be found at all. Where would he get the money? “I see,” Grimm said. “We’ll simply have to replace it, I suppose. Perhaps Fleet will put in a word with the Lancasters.” Creedy gave him a smile that contained more artifice than agreement. “Yes, sir.” “Well,” Grimm said. “It seems we need to return home. A bit earlier than we’d planned, but that’s all right.” “Set course for Spire Albion, sir?” “We’re in the mist, XO,” Grimm replied. “We can’t take our bearings until we get back up into open sky. Where Itasca is doubtless hunting for us.” A low, groaning tone rumbled through the cabin’s portal. After several seconds it rose higher and higher and higher, into a kind of distorted whistle, and then faded away. Creedy stared out the portal and licked his lips. “Sir, was that…?” “Mistmaw,” Grimm replied quietly. “Yes.” “Um. Isn’t that a danger to the ship, sir?” “Swallow us whole,” Grimm agreed. “They aren’t usually aggressive this time of year.” “Usually?” Grimm shrugged. “If it decides to come eat us, we can’t stop it, XO. Our popguns will only make it angry.” “The beasts are that big?” Grimm found himself smiling. “They’re that big.” He inhaled and exhaled slowly. |
“They’re that big.” He inhaled and exhaled slowly. “And they’re attracted to powered webbing.” Creedy glanced out the portal again. “Perhaps we should cut power to the web and reel it in, sir.” “I think that would be very wise, XO,” Grimm said. “Though I expect Journeyman cut power to the web within a moment after we pulled out of the dive. Unfurl the sails. We’ll spend the night moving with the wind, come up sometime tomorrow, and trust that Itasca won’t be sitting there waiting for us.” Creedy nodded. Once again the strange, long call of the sounding mistmaw vibrated through the cabin. “Sir? What do we do about that?” “The only thing we can, XO,” Grimm said. “We stay very, very quiet.” He nodded a dismissal to Creedy and said, “Raise sail. The sooner we get moving, the sooner we get back to Spire Albion.” Chapter 3 Spire Albion, Habble Morning, Tagwynn Vattery Bridget sat in the dim vaults of the vattery, back in the shadowy corner where the cracked old vat had been removed. She wedged her back against the corner and held her knees up close to her chest. She was cold, of course. The chamber was always cold. She noticed only when she paused to think about it: She’d lived too much of her life in this room for it to be truly uncomfortable. “Bridget?” called her father’s deep voice from the entrance of the chamber. “Bridget, are you back here? It’s time.” Bridget hugged herself harder and pushed a little farther back into the corner. The rows and rows of vats scattered the sound of his voice, sending it bouncing around the chamber. She leaned her head against the cold, reassuring solidity of the cinderstone wall and closed her eyes. |
She leaned her head against the cold, reassuring solidity of the cinderstone wall and closed her eyes. This was her home. She didn’t want to leave her home. Her father’s voice, gentle and deep, came again. “Take a few more moments, child. And then I want you to come out, please.” She didn’t answer him. She heard his gentle sigh. She heard the doors to the chambers shut, leaving her with the quietly gurgling vats and the faint glow of a few scattered secondhand lumin crystals. It wasn’t fair. She was perfectly happy doing exactly what she’d done ever since she was a small child. And it was a good and necessary duty. Her father’s vats provided the finest meats in all of Habble Morning, after all. Without someone to tend them, people would starve. Or at least eat inferior meat, she supposed. Personally, she took pride in her craft. She’d rather starve—to death, if necessary—than eat that ridiculous rubbery chum that Camden’s Vattery produced. It was ridiculous. Her family wasn’t one of the High Houses, except in a fussy technical sense. She and her father were the only remaining members of the Tagwynn line, for goodness’ sake, and it wasn’t as though they were running out buying new ethersilk outfits every other week. Or at all. |
Or at all. They lived no better than anyone else in Habble Morning. She hadn’t asked to be born to the lineage of some overachieving, bloodthirsty Fleet admiral, no matter how respected a role he played in the history of Spire Albion. It wasn’t as though she and her father enjoyed any particular privileges. Why on earth should she submit to an outdated, rigidly traditional obligation? She felt a small surge of outrage and tried to ride it into something larger and more determined, but it dwindled and flickered out again, leaving her feeling … small. She could pretend all she liked. She knew the real reason she didn’t want to spend her year in the service of the Spirearch. She was afraid. There was a rustle and a very light thump, and she looked up to see one of her favorite people bound lightly from the top of the next vat, land in silence only a few feet away, and sit down, regarding her with large green eyes. “Good morning, Rowl,” she said. Her voice sounded little and squeaky in her own ears, especially compared to her father’s basso rumble. The dark ginger cat purred a greeting and padded over to her. Without preamble, he climbed into her lap, turned a lazy, imperious circle, and settled down, still purring throatily. Bridget smiled and began to run her fingers lightly around the bases of Rowl’s ears. His purr deepened and his eyes narrowed to green slits. “I don’t want to go,” she said. “It isn’t fair. And it isn’t as though I can actually help anyone with anything. All I know is the vattery.” Rowl’s purring continued. |
All I know is the vattery.” Rowl’s purring continued. “We don’t even own a gauntlet or a sword, unless you count our carving knives. We don’t have enough money to get them, either. And even if we did, I don’t have the faintest idea of how to use them. What am I supposed to do for the Spirearch’s Guard?” Rowl, having had his fill of getting his ears rubbed, stretched and turned over onto his back. When she didn’t begin immediately, he swatted lightly at her hand with a soft paw, until she started scratching his chest and belly. Then he sprawled in unashamed luxury, enjoying the attention. “But … you know Father. He’s so … so good about honoring his obligations. When he gives his word, he keeps it. When he sets out to accomplish something, it’s not enough simply to accomplish it. He needs to be the best at it, too. Or at least try to be. He served his time. He says it’s important for me to do it, too.” She sighed. “But it’s a whole year. I won’t get to see him at all. And … and the neighbors and the people in this corridor. And … and the vats and the shop and…” She bowed her head and felt her face twist up in pure misery. She gathered Rowl in her arms and hugged him to her, rocking back and forth slightly. |
She gathered Rowl in her arms and hugged him to her, rocking back and forth slightly. After a few moments, the cat murmured, “Littlemouse, you are squishing my fur.” Bridget jerked guiltily and sat up, loosening her embrace. “Oh,” she apologized, “please excuse me.” The cat turned to meet her eyes with his and seemed to consider that for a moment. Then he nodded and said, “I do.” “Thank you,” Bridget said. “You are welcome.” The cat flicked his tail back and forth a few times and said, “Wordkeeper wishes you to leave his territory?” “It isn’t that he wants me to go,” Bridget said. “He thinks it is important that I do so.” Rowl tilted his head. “Then it is a duty.” “That’s how he sees it,” Bridget said. “Then there is no matter for consideration,” the cat replied. “You have a duty to your sire. He has a duty to his chief. If he has agreed to loan one of his warriors to his chief, then that warrior should go.” “But I’m not a warrior,” Bridget said. The cat looked at her for a moment and then leaned his head forward to rub his little whiskery muzzle against her face. “There are many kinds of war, Littlemouse.” “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked. “That you are young,” the cat said. “And less wise than one who is old. I am wiser than you, and I say you should go. It is obvious. You should trust a wiser head than your own.” “You aren’t any older than I am,” she countered. “I am cat,” Rowl said smugly, “which means I have made better use of my time.” “Oh, you’re impossible,” Bridget said. “Yes. |
“Yes. Cat.” Rowl rose and flowed down onto the floor. He turned to face her, curling his tail around his paws. “Why do you wish to dishonor and humiliate Wordkeeper? Would you change his name?” “No, of course not,” Bridget said. “But I’m just … I’m not like him.” “No,” Rowl said. “That is what growing up is for.” “I am not a child,” she said. The cat looked around speculatively and then turned back to her. “Rather than do your duty, you are hiding in the darkest corner of the darkest room in your home. This is very wise. Very mature.” Bridget scowled and folded her arms over her stomach but … she said nothing. She was acting like a child. Rowl was right. He generally was, but did he have to be so irritating about it? “You are afraid,” Rowl said. “You are afraid to leave the territory you know.” Bridget felt the tears welling up again. She nodded. “Why?” Rowl asked. “What is there to fear?” “I don’t know,” she whispered. Rowl just sat, green eyes penetrating. |
Rowl just sat, green eyes penetrating. Bridget bit her lip. Then she said in a very small voice, “I don’t want to be alone.” “Ah,” Rowl said. The cat turned and vanished into the deep shadows of the chamber, leaving her feeling smaller and colder and even more alone than before. Bridget wiped at her eyes with her sleeve and swallowed the tight feeling in her throat. Then she stood up. She left her hand against the cool stone for another long moment, and tried to think of that familiar sensation coursing into her, infusing her with strength. Rowl was right, in his smugly annoying way. Her family did have a duty. There might not be much left of House Tagwynn, but it was still a good House. After all her father had done for her, after all the love he had given her when her mother passed, she owed him more than embarrassment— even if no one thought it embarrassing but him. It was only a year. Only one … long … strange … lonely … terrifying year. She walked slowly to the chamber door. When her father opened it, she looked up at him. Franklin Tagwynn was an enormous block of a man, his shoulders almost as wide as the doorway. His arms were thicker than many men’s legs, and the muscles sloping up to his columnar neck were like slabs of stone. He wore his white apron, and his belt with its vatterist’s carving knives. His rumpled hair was the color of bare iron, and his eyes looked tired and concerned. She tried to smile for him. |
She tried to smile for him. He deserved it. His answering smile was tired, and she knew she hadn’t fooled him. He didn’t say anything. He just enfolded her in a gentle hug. She put her arms around his solid warmth and leaned against him. “There’s my brave girl,” he said quietly. “My Bridget. Your mother would have been so proud of you.” “I’m not brave,” she said. “I’m so afraid.” “I know,” he said. “I won’t know anyone,” she said. “I expect you’ll make friends quickly enough. I did.” She huffed out a tired little breath. “Because I’ve made so many friends in the Houses already.” “Bridget,” he said, his voice a gentle reproof. “You know you’ve never really tried.” “Of course not. They’re pompous, spoiled, egotistical brats.” His chuckle was a low rumble against her cheek. “Yes. I know that they seem that way to you. But you had more responsibility thrust on you than most children when you were young—especially the children of the Houses. You had to grow up so fast…” He leaned his cheek against her hair. |
You had to grow up so fast…” He leaned his cheek against her hair. “I can hardly believe it myself. Seventeen years went by so quickly.” “Daddy,” she said quietly. “I know you haven’t cared much for the other children of the Houses, but they aren’t all bad. And most of them will grow up. Eventually. You’ll see.” He leaned back from her and held her at arm’s length. “There’s something I must speak to you about. One more responsibility I must ask of you.” She nodded. “Of course, Father.” He rested his huge hand fondly on her head for a moment, smiling. Then he said, “I need you to look after someone for me.” She tilted her head and blinked. “Pardon?” Behind her father, two cats sauntered into the room. The first was a very large grey male, a muscular beast with many scars in his otherwise smooth fur, and notched ears. The second was Rowl. The ginger cat sat down behind and slightly to one side of the grey, and his whiskers quivered with amusement. Her father spoke very seriously. “Clan Chief Maul has decided that it is time for the Spirearch to recognize his tribe as citizens of Habble Morning, which, to his way of thinking, obviously means that his line is no different from one of the other High Houses. As such, he acknowledges his obligation to detach a member of his family for service to the Spirearch. I offered you to Rowl as a guide, to help him learn the ways of the Spirearch’s warriors.” Bridget blinked for a moment and then felt her face turning up into a wide, wide smile. “Wait … are you saying … are you saying that Rowl is going with me?” “No,” Rowl said smugly. |
“Wait … are you saying … are you saying that Rowl is going with me?” “No,” Rowl said smugly. “You are going with me. It is much more important that way.” Chief Maul glanced at Rowl in what might have been vague disapproval. The younger cat blinked his eyes once, slowly, and seemed to Bridget to be insufferably pleased with himself. “This is an important duty,” her father said. Laughter sparkled in his eyes. “And I know it will be a sacrifice for you. But are you willing to do this, for the sake of House Tagwynn’s good relations with the chief and his clan?” Bridget turned to Rowl and held out her arms. The ginger cat padded over and leapt up into them, nuzzled his cheek against hers again, and settled down comfortably. His softness was a favorite blanket, and his purr was as familiar as one of her mother’s barely remembered lullabies. “Well,” Bridget said. She nuzzled her cheek against Rowl’s fur. “If it’s for the House of Tagwynn, then obviously it is my solemn duty. I’ll manage.” Chapter 4 Spire Albion, Habble Morning For Gwen, the following two weeks were absolutely dreadful. “I really don’t quite see the point of all this,” she panted. Her legs hurt. Her feet ached. Her chest felt as if it were on fire. All in all, she saw little reason for this running about the Spirearch’s manor, and they’d done so for increasing amounts of time every single day during their training. “It’s good for you,” Cousin Benedict said. |
“It’s good for you,” Cousin Benedict said. He was a tall, lean young man less than two years older than Gwen herself, with tawny brown hair cut into a soft, thick brush. He wore the same exercise uniform Gwen did, though he loped along beside her lightly, without any apparent effort at all. There was no detectable strain in his voice. None at all. The rotten, cat-eyed, thoroughly disgusting lout. “It’s all very well for you,” Gwen gasped. “You’ve done it before.” “For the last two years, yes,” Benedict agreed. “You aren’t wearing these ridiculous clothes.” “I’m wearing exactly the same clothing,” Benedict countered. “Yes, but you’re used to them. Augh, pants, how do you stand running in these things?” “Better than I would in skirts, I daresay,” he answered. “I thought you’d love the running, Gwen. I personally grew to find it invigorating.” Gwen sputtered. “Invigorating? Benedict Michael Sorellin-Lancaster, you may personally kiss my —” “As you wish, coz,” Benedict said, smiling. “I must say, you’re shaping up rather nicely.” Gwen kept pushing herself to keep moving, and felt that she hardly had the energy to regard the compliment with the proper suspicion. “What?” The tall young man smirked. “You were barely able to complain at all the first few days. Just listen to you now. You’ve had something to say all the way to the end of the run.” Gwen glared daggers up at her larger cousin and let out an incoherent growling sound. |
You’ve had something to say all the way to the end of the run.” Gwen glared daggers up at her larger cousin and let out an incoherent growling sound. It was all she could manage as the crew of training Guardsmen rounded the corner and pounded their way down the final length of wall to the courtyard. As they ran, people in the market watched them pass—Gwen herself had seen this peculiar practice of the Guard on many occasions. She had been aware that she would perforce engage in the same activity upon joining, but no one had told her that it was so very … taxing. “Company!” bellowed the grey-haired Captain Cavallo as they reached their destination. “Halt! Fall out, people.” The grey-clad Guardsmen staggered to a ragged stop. Though the new recruits had set off in a neat formation, four abreast, that hadn’t lasted long, and the crew that flopped down onto the cinderstone floor did so in an unruly, panting mob. The shapeless tunic and trousers that they’d run in were all identical, and all of them were dampened with sweat. The veterans came to a relaxed stop, their breathing controlled, and stood grinning at the recruits or else speaking quietly to one another. Gwen disliked being gawked at by absolutely anyone, though that blocky blond Reginald Astor annoyed her more than most. He thought himself handsome, and was, in an irritatingly self-assured way, and he always had a habit of staring when she was disheveled and covered with sweat, with her uniform sticking to her in a most unladylike fashion. She looked up with a scowl and found Reginald staring again, an insolent smile on his face. She glared at him and said to Benedict, “I don’t suppose you mentioned to Reggie how much I dislike his gawking.” Benedict looked down at her, smiling. “It would only make him be more obvious about it.” “Such a needless trial,” Gwen muttered. “In addition to the needless trial we’re already undergoing.” “Would you like me to go protect my helpless little cousin, then?” Benedict offered. Gwen frowned for a moment. Benedict’s offer was tempting, and it shouldn’t have been. Normally she would have been perfectly comfortable with the notion of bracing some leering cad and pinning his ears back properly. For some reason, though, allowing her cousin to manage such a thing for her seemed … simpler. |
For some reason, though, allowing her cousin to manage such a thing for her seemed … simpler. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of all the running and classwork. Cavallo lectured the recruits for several hours every afternoon about the various habbles, their laws, and their relationships with one another —and while her own tutors had long since given her a similar grounding, it seemed that they had left a good many things out of their lessons. Or at least they had never made any particular effort to bring the ramifications of all those dry facts to Gwen’s attention, and she had found herself stammering like a perfect nitwit when confronted with them during the captain’s lectures. Gwen was unused to being less than excellent at anything she pursued. She was not an excellent runner. She was not an excellent student of Spire politics; nor did she seem to be able to gain a proper grasp of the morning inquisition classes, a subject to which she’d had no prior exposure whatsoever. Oh, she had done well enough in the practice hall, when it came to the use of gauntlets at least, but her blade work remained every bit as inept as it had ever been, and she felt glumly certain that when live blade training commenced in a few weeks, she would continue working with a wooden training blade. Being incompetent was surprisingly draining upon one’s confidence. And annoying. Was that why she didn’t want to deal with Reginald? Was she afraid that she would find herself insufficient to the task of dissuading him? She’d had a considerable amount of practice in insufficiency of late. What if it had become a habit? Nonsense, she told herself firmly. It appeared that she was going to have to face a great many challenging circumstances if she was to remain a Guardsman—and she had to remain a Guardsman. Any other outcome was unacceptable, since it would mean returning home and admitting to Mother that she had been correct. Now, that was something that could not be borne. “I will deal with him,” Gwen said firmly. “But thank you, coz, for offering.” Benedict nodded as if that had been the answer he expected all along. |
“But thank you, coz, for offering.” Benedict nodded as if that had been the answer he expected all along. “May I recommend you wait for a bit of privacy? A young woman bracing a peer in public is one thing—a recruit who confronts a veteran Guardsman that way is another matter entirely.” “I’ll consider it,” Gwen said. Benedict did his best not to wince, Gwen could tell, but he didn’t try to gainsay her, either. “Very well.” She sat for a time, breathing hard, her legs and feet aching most unpleasantly. It would pass, though. Already she felt she had recovered better from this run than she had after a night’s sleep subsequent to her first run, two weeks before. Gwen had to admit that the exercise was quite practical. Each level of the Spire was simply enormous, and if one could maintain a hard pace for hours at a time, it would not be difficult to outrun an enemy or to catch some kind of criminal. Thieves, she felt sure, did not run as a matter of daily training—they wouldn’t have someone like Cavallo pushing them. Were they the selfmotivated sort, they would hardly be thieves, would they? When Gwen looked up again, most of the recruits and veterans had moved back into the walled courtyard of the Spirearch’s palace. Only Reginald and a handful of his cronies remained outside, along with Gwen and one of the largest young women Gwen had ever met. The girl was a quiet one, and her blond hair was long and thick. She had shoulders as wide as some men, thick wrists, and strong-looking hands and forearms. Her name was … Bother. Gwen couldn’t remember her introducing herself to anyone. Actually, Gwen couldn’t remember her speaking at all, unless questioned by an instructor in the classroom. The other recruits all referred to her as the cat girl. The cat in question came scampering out of the courtyard and ran over to the large young woman. |
The cat in question came scampering out of the courtyard and ran over to the large young woman. It was a ginger-colored beast and would have been quite appealing had it not been such a filthy creature. Cats lived in all the crawl spaces and vents and other unsavory, dank, vermin-infested regions of the Spire as a matter of course. One would see cats now and again when moving about the habble, but they rarely associated directly with humans. Occasionally a household might be adopted by a cat or a small group of them, and some businesses found it wise to offer them food in exchange for their services as exterminators. It was a much simpler arrangement than refusing to pay the cats, and then finding one’s stores emptied without a trace in the dead of night. She had heard of cats who had been employed as tenders and guardians for young children—but such arrangements were almost always business-oriented. Gwen had never heard of a cat who showed affection. The lithe creature flowed into the cat girl’s lap, turning in several circles and rubbing against her as he did. He nuzzled her cheek with his nose, and sniffed curiously at her sweaty uniform. The girl absently ran her hands over the cat’s fur, and the beast settled down to enjoy the attention. “What I want to know,” said one of Reginald’s group, “is what, precisely, that vermin is doing running loose about the manor.” “It’s quite unnatural,” Reginald agreed. He folded his arms and regarded the cat girl speculatively. “It makes one wonder what could motivate a reasonable person to shelter such a pest.” At that, the cat girl looked up at Reginald. The large young man gave her his widest smile. “Well, how about it, Bridget, love? What rewards do you reap from having the beast nearby?” The cat girl—that was right; her name was Bridget … something-or-other— looked at Reginald for a few seconds before answering. Her face was a neutral mask. “You wouldn’t understand.” That drew a round of chortles from the young nobles. “Really?” Reginald asked. |
“Really?” Reginald asked. “And why is that?” Bridget frowned thoughtfully for a moment, choosing her words with deliberate care. Then she nodded slightly to herself and said calmly, “Because you are an ass, sir.” Had the cat girl slapped him across the face, she could not have drawn a more startled reaction from the young noble. Reginald opened his mouth silently a few times, and then said, “Excuse me.” “I’m sorry,” Bridget said. She rose, still holding the cat in her arms, and raised her voice slightly, enunciating the words. “You. Are. An. Ass.” She smiled faintly. “Sir.” Gwen felt her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “You … you cannot speak to me in such a way,” Reginald said. Bridget and the cat regarded him with unblinking eyes. “Apparently I can, sir.” Reginald’s eyes flashed with anger. “You shouldn’t even be here,” he snarled. “Your House died decades ago. You and your father are nothing but the last few scraps of meat clinging to a rotting bone.” Something shifted. Gwen couldn’t tell precisely what had happened, but the air was suddenly thick. Bridget’s face never moved. Her eyes didn’t narrow; nor did she bare her teeth. She said nothing. |
She said nothing. She did not so much as twitch a muscle. She only stared at Reginald. It was the cat, Gwen realized. The beast’s eyes seemed to have grown larger, and the very tip of his long tail had begun to flick left and right in slow rhythm. The cat stared at Reginald as if he were preparing to spring upon him with murder in mind. When Bridget spoke, her voice was hardly louder than a whisper. “What did you say about my father?” Gwen rose hurriedly. Reginald was a practiced duelist, and while most such confrontations ended in only mild injuries, it was quite possible for one or both participants to be killed when tempers were hot—and she was abruptly certain that the heavy silence now gathered around the cat girl was a thundercloud of undiluted rage. An insult like the one Reginald had delivered was ample grounds to demand satisfaction, though she was certain the ass hadn’t deliberately set out to provoke the reaction. If, however, Bridget was as upset as Gwen suspected, that might be exactly what he got —and Reggie, for all his oafishness, was more than competent with both blade and gauntlet. Bridget was very nearly as bad with blades as Gwen was, and her gauntlet work was atrocious. A duel could not end well for her. “Excuse me,” Gwen said, walking over to Bridget as though nothing at all were happening. Bridget’s eyes and those of the cat both flicked toward Gwen at the same time. Goodness, that young woman was tall. She had at least a foot on Gwen. “We haven’t been introduced,” Gwen said pleasantly. “I’m Gwendolyn Lancaster.” Bridget frowned faintly. “Bridget Tagwynn.” Gwen cocked an eyebrow. |
“Bridget Tagwynn.” Gwen cocked an eyebrow. “The House of Admiral Tagwynn?” The corner of Bridget’s mouth twitched, perhaps in irritation. “The same.” “How wonderful,” Gwen said, a slight edge to her tone. “He was the finest naval commander in the history of all of Spire Albion. In fact, the Spire might not be here at all if not for his courage and skill. You come from one of the greatest families in our history.” Bridget frowned again. Then she ducked her head in a small, awkward bow. “Thank you.” “She comes of a footnote in Albion history,” Reginald said, his voice sullen. “What has her family done for the Spire lately? Nothing. Their house grows meat, for Heaven’s sake, like a common trog.” Bridget’s eyes went back to Reginald. “You say that as if it is an insult, sir.” “And what is that supposed to mean?” Reginald demanded. “That I would rather be a common trog than an ass of House Astor, sir.” Reginald’s face turned bright red. “You dare cast an insult into the face of my House?” “Not its face,” Bridget said, arching an eyebrow. “Its ass.” “You vile little trog,” Reginald said. “You think that because you’ve been to the Spirearch’s Manor, because you are in training for the Guard, that you are worthy of such an honor? You think you can yap and taunt your betters because of it?” “I’m not sure,” Bridget said. “I’ll let you know once I meet someone better than me.” Reginald’s eyes blazed, and with a snarl he ripped one of his gloves from his belt and flung it hard at Bridget’s face. Bridget never moved—but Gwen did. She snatched the glove out of the air and turned to face Reginald. |
She snatched the glove out of the air and turned to face Reginald. “Reggie, no.” “Did you hear that bloody slab?” Reginald snarled. “Did you hear what she said about my House?” “And what you said about hers,” Gwen said. “You started this, Reginald Astor.” “Stay out of this, Gwendolyn. I demand satisfaction!” His furious gaze went back to Bridget. “Unless the famed courage of the House of Tagwynn has dwindled away to nothing along with its bloodline.” Bridget’s frown deepened and her mouth opened slightly. She glanced aside at Gwen and said, “Miss Lancaster … did this man just challenge me to a duel?” “Hardly a man,” Gwen replied. She looked up and met Bridget’s eyes. “And yes. He did.” “Lunatics,” Bridget breathed. “Must I accept?” “If you don’t,” Gwen said, “he can litigate. The Council could assess a punitive fine against House Tagwynn.” “Could?” Reginald said. “Would. I guarantee the High Houses would rule harshly against such a display of disrespect to one of the leading Houses of Albion.” Bridget looked at Gwen again. “Is that true?” “Courts are never certain,” Gwen said. “But … it probably is.” “But I never insulted the Astors. Only him.” “He’s the heir to the House, I’m afraid,” Gwen said. “The Council may not make that distinction.” Bridget closed her eyes for a moment and muttered beneath her breath, “When will I learn to keep my mouth shut?” “You don’t have to do this,” Gwen said. “We’re barely holding on as it is,” Bridget said. “If … if we were fined, my father would have to sell the vattery.” Reginald barked out a harsh-sounding laugh. |
“If … if we were fined, my father would have to sell the vattery.” Reginald barked out a harsh-sounding laugh. “Which is why insignificant little nothing Houses should show more respect to their seniors. You should have thought of that before you spoke.” The cat’s claws made scratching sounds against the sleeve of Bridget’s shirt. She put a hand on the beast, as if restraining it. “Apologize,” Reginald snarled. “Now. And I will forget that this happened.” Bridget paused again before she spoke. Then she squared her shoulders, faced Reginald, and said, “But I wouldn’t.” She glanced at Gwen. “How does this work? Do we fight right now?” Gwen blinked up at the large girl. “You … actually intend to accept his challenge?” Bridget nodded her head once. The cat made a low, eager growling sound. Gwen sighed. “It doesn’t happen here. You’ll need a second, someone to accompany you, help you prepare, and to schedule the duel. You’ll also need a Marshal to adjudicate it.” Bridget blinked. “That … seems like a needlessly complicated way to do something so adolescent.” “There are excellent reasons for it,” Gwen said. “I see,” Bridget said. “How do I accept his challenge?” Gwen wordlessly held out the glove. “Ah,” Bridget said, and took it. |
“Ah,” Bridget said, and took it. Reginald nodded tightly, and gestured at one of the young nobles beside him. “This is Barnabus. He will be my second. Have your second contact him. Good day.” He spun on a heel and marched away, into the palace, taking his entourage with him. Bridget and Gwen watched them go. After a moment Bridget said, “I didn’t need your help.” “Pardon?” Gwen asked. “Your help. I didn’t need you to come over here and make things worse.” “Worse?” Gwen asked, startled. “In what way did I make things worse?” “I didn’t ask you for your help. When you got involved his idiot pride was at stake. He was forced to start defending the honor of House Astor for fear of showing weakness to a Lancaster.” Bridget shook her head. “If you weren’t there, all I had to do was stop talking. It would have left him with nowhere to go.” “I was trying to help you,” Gwen said. Bridget rolled her eyes. “Why do all you people in the High Houses think that you are the only ones who can possibly manage matters that are none of your bloody business? Did you even consider the fact that I might not want your interference?” Gwen folded her arms and scowled. She … She hadn’t, had she? Not for one second. |
Not for one second. And of course Reggie had been more stung by Bridget’s words, because he wanted Gwen, and resented being humiliated in front of her. Gwen hadn’t thought things through. She’d simply charged into the situation, attempting to pour oil on troubled waters—only she’d set the oil on fire instead. As a result, it looked like someone was going to get burned. She couldn’t leave things in that state, not when she’d helped put them there. She couldn’t bear it if anyone were hurt because of her foolishness—well, perhaps if it was Reggie, and if he wasn’t hurt too badly, but she’d feel awful if anything happened to Bridget. “You might have a point,” Gwen said quietly. “But that doesn’t matter now.” “Why on earth not?” Bridget asked. “Have you the faintest idea of what is involved in a formal duel?” “Two fools.” Gwen found herself smiling faintly. “Other than that.” Bridget seemed to withdraw into herself. She hunched down a little, as if trying to hide her height. She frowned down at the cat, stroking its fur. “Other than that … no. I have no idea.” “Reginald does,” Gwen said quietly. “You might not want my help, Miss Tagwynn —but as of now, you most assuredly need it.” Chapter 5 Spire Albion, Habble Morning Bridget regarded the nobleman uncertainly. “I’m not at all sure about this, sir.” Benedict SorellinLancaster stood facing her, in the gloom of what could only loosely be considered early morning in Habble Morning’s marketplace, outside the training compound of the Spirearch’s Guard. He was a tall man, as tall as her father, but lean with youth and a natural inclination. Benedict gave her a smile that he probably meant to be reassuring, but it showed a little too much of his largerthan-average canine teeth. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he said. |
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he said. “You aren’t sure and you need to be. Come on, then. I need to assess what kind of physical strength you have. You’ll not hurt me, Miss Tagwynn, I assure you.” “It seems … improper,” she said, frowning. Of course she wouldn’t hurt him. But even had that been her intention, Benedict’s golden, vertically slit eyes showed him to be warriorborn, with the blood and the strength of lions in his limbs. “Are you quite sure this is sanctioned by the Guard?” “Normally, open-hand combat is taught after your initial training course, but there’s no regulation that says you’ve got to wait that long to learn. As long as it’s your time you’re spending, and not the Guard’s.” “I see,” Bridget said. “That seems equitable. How should I attack you?” Benedict’s face remained serious, but his eyes suddenly sparkled. Bridget’s stomach did an odd little shuffle-step, and she looked down straightaway. “Just come at me,” he said. “Try to pick me up.” Bridget frowned but nodded at him. “I see,” she said. She took several steps closer to the young man and said, “Excuse me, please.” “Don’t say ‘excuse me,’” Benedict chided. “You won’t be saying ‘excuse me’ to Reggie on the dueling stage —” Bridget bent, faintly irritated by his tone, got a shoulder beneath Benedict’s stomach, and dragged him up off the floor. He wasn’t much heavier than a slab of red meat from one of the large vats back home, and she lifted him, held him there for a moment, and then continued the motion, tossing him over her back and onto the cinderstone floor behind her. She turned to find him sitting on the ground, staring at her with his mouth slightly open. “I’m sorry,” she said. |
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Was that acceptable?” “You … uh,” Benedict said. His golden eyes glinted in the gloom. “You’re … rather fit, Miss Tagwynn.” “I work for a living,” Bridget said. She regretted the words almost instantly. She hadn’t meant them as an insult to him, implying that he did not, but a prickly scion of one of the great Houses of Albion could readily interpret them that way. But no anger touched his eyes. Instead his face spread into a slow, delighted smile. “Oh, Maker of Ways,” he breathed, and the sound flooded out into a bubbling laugh. Bridget liked the way his laugh sounded. She found her mouth tugging up into a small smile. “I beg your pardon, sir?” “We should issue tickets to this duel,” he said. “Reggie could spend his life trying and still not live it down.” “I beg your pardon?” Bridget repeated. “Whatever do you mean?” “The duel,” the young man said. “He challenged you, which means that you have the right to choose the location of the duel and the weapons to be used.” “How nice for me,” she said. “But I still don’t follow.” Benedict pushed himself back up to his feet, smiling. “You don’t choose a weapon at all. You make it an unarmed duel.” Bridget tilted her head. “That does seem less likely to result in someone being maimed or killed for no good reason. But I don’t know how to fight that way.” “I do,” Benedict said. |
But I don’t know how to fight that way.” “I do,” Benedict said. “The basics are reasonably simple to learn. And you’re strong enough.” Bridget frowned. “But … presumably Reggie has had a great deal more training than I have. And while I am quite strong for a woman, I am surely not much stronger than he is. Would that not mean that he would have little difficulty in overcoming me?” “That depends on what path you take,” Benedict said. Bridget felt her frown deepen. “My path … You aren’t going to attempt to convert me to your religion, are you? I hope you are not, sir. That would be awkward.” Again, that easy laugh rolled forth. “Those who follow the Way have no need to proselytize. One does not convert to the Way. One simply realizes that one already follows the Way.” “God in Heaven, not that speech again,” came a new voice. Gwendolyn Lancaster appeared from the gloom, dressed in the plain grey exercise clothing of the Guard, just as they were. It was difficult for Bridget to reconcile the absolute confidence in the noblewoman’s stance and voice with her utterly diminutive size. Bridget felt quite certain that even without training, she could break Miss Lancaster like a ceramic doll. “Dearest coz,” Benedict said, his voice turning even more pleasant. “You are looking … particularly Gwennish today.” Gwendolyn arched one dark brow sharply at that statement and then said, “What are you doing on the ground?” “She threw me here,” Benedict said, his tone pleased. Gwendolyn frowned at him, and then her eyebrows lifted. “Did she?” Her eyes turned to Bridget. |
“Did she?” Her eyes turned to Bridget. “She doesn’t look warriorborn.” “She isn’t,” Benedict said. “But she works in a vattery. I don’t suppose I weigh too much more than a side of red meat, do I, Miss Bridget?” “Not much more at all, sir.” Gwen narrowed her eyes. “Oh, you aren’t thinking…” “For Reggie? I most certainly am,” Benedict said. “It’s perfect.” “Stop it,” Bridget said at last, exasperated. “Both of you. Stop it this instant. It’s like you’ve both read a book that I haven’t and you won’t stop talking about it. It’s most impolite.” “I’m sorry,” Gwendolyn said. “I take it you weren’t raised to be as underhanded and devious as Benny and me.” Bridget blinked. Goodness, that the noblewoman would just say it outright like that seemed very, very bold. But at the same time … somewhat reassuring. Gwendolyn Lancaster might have been many things, but at least she didn’t seem as smugly capable of self-deception as many of the other children of the High Houses. “I would not care to make such a judgment of your families,” Bridget said carefully. “But … no. It would seem not.” Rowl came padding out of the darkness, silent, as always, offering no explanation of where he had been, as always. Bridget bent one of her knees slightly, hardly needing to think about it, and he used it as a springboard to hop lightly into her arms and then flow up onto one of her shoulders. The cat nuzzled her cheek and she leaned her head in toward his slightly. |
The cat nuzzled her cheek and she leaned her head in toward his slightly. “Listen carefully, Littlemouse,” Rowl said, in an almost inaudible tone. “I have sought word upon these two. They are dangerous.” Bridget flicked her eyes toward the cat and gave a tiny fraction of a nod to tell him that she understood. Being called “dangerous” by a cat could mean a great many things, but it was generally delivered as something of a compliment. She thought the two nobles to be rather selfinvolved and entirely overflowing with arrogance they hardly seemed to know existed, but she had learned long ago not to treat a cat’s opinion lightly. So she said to Gwendolyn, “Please excuse me, Miss Lancaster. You were saying?” Gwendolyn had tilted her head, her bright eyes studying the cat sharply. “I was saying that if you can come near to matching Reggie in physical strength, then you can fight a duel he cannot win.” “I don’t really care if anyone wins,” Bridget said. “I just want everyone to walk away alive, and for this nonsense to be over.” Gwendolyn blinked and suddenly flashed Bridget a smile that looked as warm and true as an aeronaut’s sunrise. “You have an absolutely wretched attitude about fighting a pointless duel for the sake of pride. Did you know that?” “Thank goodness,” Bridget said. “The point is,” Benedict said, rising easily to his feet, “that if you can offer him anything like a real fight, there’s no way he can win the duel. If he defeats you barehanded, it likely won’t be by much, and he looks like a brute and a bully. And if you defeat him, he’ll forever be the Astor who was beaten soundly by—” Benedict broke off and gave Bridget a slight smile. “By the vattery trog,” Bridget said. She smiled slightly. “That … would be quite the vile thing to do to him.” “Wouldn’t it, though,” Gwendolyn said, beaming. “But … I’m not going to do that,” Bridget said. “Why under Heaven would you not?” Gwendolyn asked. |
“Why under Heaven would you not?” Gwendolyn asked. “He more than has it coming.” “Possibly,” Bridget allowed. “But to humiliate him would be to invite some other kind of indirect reprisal —if not upon me, then upon my father. My father is a good man. I won’t see that kind of mischief brought to him because of me.” She looked at Benedict. “Is there some weapon that we could use that would allow him to win without slaughtering me or looking like a fool?” “There’s no weapon, tool, or clockwork in the world that could make Reggie not look the fool,” Gwen said in an acid tone. “I don’t care about victory,” Bridget said. “I don’t care about making him look bad. I just want to move on with my life as if we’d never traded words.” “You’re right, coz,” Benedict said, nodding slowly. “She has a wretched attitude about dueling for pride.” The two traded another, longer look, which again made Bridget feel that she’d skipped the necessary background reading needed to understand. “Food?” Gwendolyn suggested suddenly. “The two of you came out here so early, you’ve missed breakfast call. Inquisition class is in half an hour, and you don’t want to run on an empty stomach after that.” She looked up at Rowl and added, “And for you as well, Master Cat. I’m buying.” Rowl said smugly, “This one has her priorities well sorted. Tell her my favorite food.” “Rowl,” Bridget said. “That is not how one goes about such things.” She looked up to find both of the Lancasters staring at her. “You speak Cat,” Benedict said. “I mean, I’d heard that some people claimed to do it but … For goodness’ sake, you sounded exactly like a cat just now.” “He has no idea how terrible your accent is,” Rowl observed. Bridget rolled her eyes at the cat and said to Benedict, “Yes, of course. Do you … not have any cats in residence at House Lancaster?” “Certainly not,” Gwendolyn said. |
Do you … not have any cats in residence at House Lancaster?” “Certainly not,” Gwendolyn said. “Mother wouldn’t hear of it.” “We do, actually,” Benedict said, cutting over Gwendolyn smoothly. “The servants have an arrangement with several cats to handle vermin. But as far as I knew, it’s an old understanding, and no one there has ever actually communicated directly with a cat before.” Gwendolyn blinked several times. “How is it that you know that when I do not?” “Because no one tells you anything, coz,” Benedict said. “Perhaps because you spend so much time with Lady Lancaster and often do not pause to think before you speak.” Gwendolyn tilted her head to one side as if to acknowledge a fair point. Then she blinked again and said, “Then I am afraid that I have been quite rude. I have neither introduced myself to your companion nor sought introduction to him. Please convey to him my apologies, if you would, Miss Tagwynn.” Bridget looked carefully at Gwendolyn for a moment, waiting for the flash of mockery that would appear in her eyes, as they would have in Reggie’s, but it didn’t come. She seemed sincere. Imperious and obsessed with protocol—but sincere. “What is this she asks, Littlemouse?” Rowl said, leaning forward to peer intently at Gwendolyn. “She seeks an exchange of names,” Bridget told him, in Cat. “Human names, not cat names. She feels she has wronged you by not seeking it sooner.” Rowl stiffened in indignation. “Has she?” “Perhaps not intentionally,” Bridget allowed. “She wasn’t sure what to think of a cat appearing among humans. I suspect she genuinely seeks to avoid giving offense.” Rowl’s tail lashed back and forth. “What would Wordkeeper say of her?” Bridget smiled slightly. She knew precisely how her father would treat Miss Lancaster. |
She knew precisely how her father would treat Miss Lancaster. “He would ask her to tea and extend all courtesy.” Rowl nodded his head sharply, once, a very human gesture. “Then I will also extend courtesy. Tell her my name, and that she has not yet earned a cat name of her own, but that breakfast is a good start.” Bridget turned to Gwendolyn and said, “Miss Lancaster, this is Rowl of the Silent Paws tribe, kit to Maul, chief of the Silent Paws.” “A prince of his house, as you are of yours, coz,” Benedict noted. Gwendolyn evidently had the grace to avoid looking skeptical at this pronouncement. She gave Benedict a decidedly unreadable look, which only made him smile. He had, Bridget thought, a very nice smile. Gwendolyn turned back to look at Rowl seriously and said, “Welcome, Sir Rowl, to … the human part of Habble Morning. It would please me very much to buy you breakfast, if you would permit it.” Rowl promptly plopped down into Bridget’s arms, his throaty purr needing no translation. “A very good start,” he murmured. “Yes, Miss Lancaster,” Bridget said. “That would be fine.” Chapter 6 Spire Albion, Habble Morning Rowl watched Littlemouse and her fellow humans behaving foolishly, and wondered how soon she would need him to intervene and set things right. Once more they had slept less than all the humans in the Spirearch’s Guard, and once more the human Gwendolyn and her half-souled cousin thought that they were preparing Littlemouse for some kind of combat, which was ridiculous. The best way to prepare for fighting was to fight. Any kitten knew that. Currently Benedict was having Littlemouse practice falling, which was similarly ridiculous. One didn’t practice falling. One simply landed on one’s feet. Yet over and over, Littlemouse fell from her feet to her back, sometimes alone, sometimes helped along the way by Gwendolyn or Benedict. Rowl had been suspicious of this activity at first, assuming that it would be used as an excuse for Gwendolyn to eliminate a rival female, or for Benedict to claim mating rights with Littlemouse. |
Rowl had been suspicious of this activity at first, assuming that it would be used as an excuse for Gwendolyn to eliminate a rival female, or for Benedict to claim mating rights with Littlemouse. But over the past few days it had proven to be more foolish than nefarious, and did not seem to harm Littlemouse to any significant degree, so Rowl permitted it to continue. It seemed a shame to waste so much of one’s time—and to miss so much sleep—in such a fundamentally stupid activity. If they’d only asked Rowl about it, he could have explained it to them. Benedict began to show Littlemouse how to make him fall to the floor. What was the point of learning to do such a thing slowly, and obviously with considerable cooperation from Benedict? Did Littlemouse think that a foe would behave in such a way? Rowl sensed a pressure change in the air against the fur of his flank and his whiskers, and lazily tilted an ear in that direction. There was a whisper of motion, utterly inaudible to anyone but a cat, with all the commotion the humans were making to cover it, and Mirl emerged from the shadows. “Rowl,” said the blackfurred female. Mirl was a small cat, but swift and intelligent. She was one of Maul’s Whiskers, his spies and hunters. Only a tiny ring of green was visible around her large, dark pupils, and the only way to see her in the gloom was by the dim shine of her eyes. “Mirl,” Rowl replied lazily. Mirl prowled to his side and sat, studying the humans. “What are they doing?” “They mean to teach Littlemouse to fight,” Rowl said. Mirl considered them gravely. “I see. Have they begun yet?” “They seem to think so,” Rowl said. “What news from my father?” “He sends his greetings and says that you are to do your duty or he will notch your ears.” Rowl flicked his tail and yawned. |
“What news from my father?” “He sends his greetings and says that you are to do your duty or he will notch your ears.” Rowl flicked his tail and yawned. “I know what I am to do. Is that all?” Mirl twitched her ears in an amused flick, but her tone became more serious. “He says that Longthinker has confirmed the reports of the Silent Paw scouts.” Rowl moved his eyes to the smaller cat. “The new things in the air shafts?” Mirl blinked her eyes in affirmation. “So say the Shadow Tails, and the Quick Claws, and half a dozen other tribes besides them. Cats have gone missing in other habbles as well—but none have seen what took them.” Rowl made an irritated sound in his chest. “That seems cowardly.” “To me,” Mirl said, “it seems skillful.” “That as well. Are we then at war?” “Not yet,” Mirl said. “Maul says that first we must know whom we would war against.” “What does Longthinker say we face?” “Longthinker … is not sure.” Rowl looked at Mirl sharply. But he said nothing. His tail lashed back and forth restlessly. Longthinker was not cat, but he was clever, wise, and honorable. If he did not know what threat now stalked the Silent Paws and other tribes in their own home tunnels, it must be something strange indeed—or something new. “Please tell my father,” Rowl said, “that I advise a declaration of war immediately—without restriction. We will be better served by immediate aggression than by too much caution. Let us hunt and destroy them before they have a chance to nest.” “I will tell him your words,” Mirl said. She twitched a careless whisker. “He will not heed them.” Rowl ignored that last remark with the disdain it richly deserved. Mirl sat beside him and watched the humans flopping about. |
Mirl sat beside him and watched the humans flopping about. “I have seen such a thing before.” “This fight-teaching?” Rowl asked, his tone dubious. “In the Temple of the Way, in Habble Landing,” Mirl said. “What were you doing all the way down there?” Rowl asked. “My duty as a Whisker,” Mirl replied loftily. “They did something resembling this, only there were more of them and they wore different kinds of clothing.” “Did they look this foolish?” Mirl tilted her head thoughtfully. “Many did. But others seemed less foolish.” “In what way?” “They moved less poorly. Not so well as a cat, of course.” “Of course,” Rowl said. “But they were much less clumsy than most humans.” She used a paw to comb the fur of one ear. “Perhaps it works.” They both watched Littlemouse take a particularly hard fall. “Eventually.” “They are rather slow, humans,” Rowl mused. “Do you really think it has potential?” “She hardly need be much less clumsy to make another human look so,” Mirl said. “Whom is she to fight?” “A young male. He aimed words of pain at Wordkeeper. In reply, Littlemouse slapped his ears with her words. Now they plan to fight.” “They plan to fight?” Mirl said, mystified. “Why does she not go find him in his sleep and fight him then?” Rowl yawned. “I have no idea. But he will not find her in her sleep. |
But he will not find her in her sleep. If he tries, I will rip out his eyes.” “Sensible,” Mirl said. “Though a human is no easy prey. Not even for the mighty Rowl.” “A proper Whisker should not make so much noise,” Rowl growled. Mirl rose and bowed her head in a mirror of the human gesture. “Yes, mighty Rowl.” Rowl fetched her a swift rap on the nose (though not with his claws extended), but Mirl avoided it with lazy grace, her eyes dancing with laughter. She sauntered off, flicking her tail mockingly. “You are almost as handsome as you think you are, you know.” “You are too quick and too clever for your own good,” Rowl replied calmly. “Keep your wits about you in the tunnels. I would prefer it if you did not go missing.” “Don’t make a foolish mistake that gets you killed while protecting your human,” she replied. “Will I see you again soon?” “Perhaps,” Mirl said. “It depends on my mood.” Then she glided back into the dark the way she had come. Rowl watched her go, the insufferable female. He stared after her for a moment, his tail lashing thoughtfully. Insubordinate—but quick. And beautiful. And never, ever boring. Perhaps he would compose a song for her. Once “fighting” practice was over, things that mattered could be done. Rowl took his customary place in Littlemouse’s arms and accompanied her to breakfast in the marketplace. |
Rowl took his customary place in Littlemouse’s arms and accompanied her to breakfast in the marketplace. The marketplace was a sea of stalls and small buildings set in the center of the habble, surrounding the Spire Lord’s manor. About a quarter of the stalls were made of spirestone, originally placed there by someone the humans called the Builders. The remainder were made mostly of brick, their doors and vending windows now covered with hide stretched over frames. Some of the more well-to-do shops used wood from the junglecovered surface, painstakingly transported up miles of Spire. Littlemouse carried him toward the stall that smelled the best and was one of the few that were occupied this early in the day. Human Benedict seemed to know the owners of the stall personally, for they greeted him by name each morning. It was probably due to his hunger— the half-soul’s body burned hotter than other humans’, almost exactly as hot as a cat’s, and he had to eat more frequently than other humans. Rowl waited while Benedict ordered for everyone and paid with the small pieces of metal the humans valued so dearly. Once that was done, the food was made, and the humans went to a nearby table to eat. Rowl took his seat beside Littlemouse, who placed a roll of bread and meat in front of him. Rowl tore it open with his claws and waited for the little gouts of steam to clear. It did not matter how delicious the food tasted—burning one’s tongue was an undignified experience and he did not intend to repeat it. “What do you think of the training, Rowl?” Benedict asked politely, after the human had wolfed down one of the rolls whole. Rowl eyed Littlemouse. In his judgment, she did not seem to have made up her mind whether or not to favor these two humans with her loyalty, but she clearly regarded human Benedict as a potential mate. It would be discourteous of him to jeopardize her chances of propagating her species. “It seems painful,” he said to Littlemouse. She translated this into the human tongue, smiling wryly. “It can be,” Benedict said. |
“It can be,” Benedict said. “But in an actual fight, you might be injured and need to function anyway. Little pains now could save a life later.” “Cutting Reggie’s throat in his sleep could do so as well,” Rowl said, and eyed Littlemouse. She rolled her eyes, translating that, and human Gwendolyn promptly began choking on some of her food. Rowl calmly took a few bites from the cooler edges of his dumpling. “Quite a direct soul, isn’t he?” Gwendolyn managed after a few moments. “You have no idea,” Littlemouse said. “There is a good reason to limit the conflict to something less … decisive,” Benedict said, addressing Rowl directly. “Reggie is a member of a large and powerful family. The man who will be his second is also an Astor, of a cadet branch of the House. If anything permanent happens to Reggie, the second will report it and they might seek vengeance.” “I would think they would be glad to rid themselves of a fool,” Rowl replied. Human Gwendolyn made a snorting sound when Littlemouse translated and took another bite of her breakfast. “To a degree,” Benedict allowed. “But if they tolerate harm to a member of their House, others might see it as a sign of weakness.” “Ah,” Rowl said. “That makes at least a little sense.” He considered the situation gravely. “But Littlemouse does not have a large House to take vengeance on her behalf should Reggie do something permanent to her.” Benedict seemed uncomfortable when Littlemouse translated that. “There is … a certain amount of truth in that. But it is not in the interests of anyone in the habble for duels to be lethal. Pressure could be brought against House Astor if such actions were taken.” “If he kills Littlemouse,” Rowl asked, “would the House of Lancaster then war upon the House of Astor?” Benedict and Gwendolyn exchanged a long look. “I … don’t think so.” “Then this pressure you speak of is a paw without claws,” Rowl said. |
“I … don’t think so.” “Then this pressure you speak of is a paw without claws,” Rowl said. “It will do nothing to truly prevent his action.” Gwendolyn abruptly leaned across the table, looked hard at Rowl, and said firmly, “If any such thing happens to Miss Tagwynn, Master Rowl, I will personally challenge Reggie with gauntlets and blow a hole in him large enough for a cat to leap through. You have my word on that.” “Not only have I already lost the duel,” Littlemouse murmured, “but I’ve been killed as well. Why are we wasting breakfast on a dead woman?” Rowl looked up at Littlemouse and said, not unkindly, “You were already fool enough to become involved in this. It is time to let wiser heads than yours sort it out. I promise that once I am sure that you are not blindly walking into your own death, I will let you lose the fight on your own.” Littlemouse scowled at Rowl. “What did he say?” Benedict asked, blinking back and forth between them. “That he wants a bath,” Littlemouse said in a decidedly threatening tone. “Really, Littlemouse,” Rowl said, nibbling another bite. “You must at some point begin to grow out of these childish outbursts.” “Oh,” Littlemouse said, her face flushing. “You can be so infuriating.” “You are only angry because you know I am right,” Rowl said, in the tone one ought to use when one knows one is obviously correct and the other is entirely wrong. Footsteps approached through the gloom, and Rowl looked over to see the human Reggie’s associate approaching the breakfast table. He watched without moving, but settled his feet into a good place to allow him to throw himself at the enemy’s eyes should he attempt anything harmful. A few seconds later, Rowl’s humans became aware of the human approaching. He came to a stop at their table and lifted his chin. “Benedict. Gwen. Miss Tagwynn.” Rowl narrowed his eyes. “Good morning, Barnabus,” human Gwendolyn said in a chill tone. “You’re going to support him, are you?” The human Barnabus shrugged, apparently unfazed. |
“You’re going to support him, are you?” The human Barnabus shrugged, apparently unfazed. “The challenge was formally given and accepted, Gwen. He means to see it through.” “That doesn’t mean that you have to be the one who seconds him,” she replied. “He’s blood,” Barnabus said simply. “Besides, if I don’t, some hothead will.” Benedict shook his head. “He’s got a point, Gwen. I’m sorry you got dragged into this, Barney.” Barnabus shrugged. “Miss Tagwynn, may I ask who is serving as your second?” “Me,” said humans Benedict and Gwendolyn at the same time. And even as they did, Rowl let out his most violent and raucous war cry, and hurtled at human Barnabus’s eyes. The human was taken utterly off guard. He flung up his arms and fell backward. Rowl landed with his weight on the human’s chest and rode him all the way to the spirestone floor. The human fell even more clumsily than Littlemouse did, and hit with a huff of expelled breath, briefly stunned. Everyone there, in fact, looked briefly stunned. Rowl sat calmly on his chest, leaned over close to human Barnabus’s face, and snarled, “I am Rowl, kit of Maul, lord and master of the Silent Paws—and I am her second.” Littlemouse translated this in a startled, jerky voice. Human Barnabus stared at Rowl with wide eyes and then looked back and forth between him and Littlemouse, listening. “You can’t be serious,” Barnabus sputtered in response. Rowl batted him sharply on the nose with enough claw to draw a few drops of educational blood and let out another growl. “Pay attention, human. Littlemouse will meet the Reggie in unarmed battle in the market, in the light of noon, seven days hence.” Barnabus stared some more, eyeing the cat and then Littlemouse’s translation. |
Littlemouse will meet the Reggie in unarmed battle in the market, in the light of noon, seven days hence.” Barnabus stared some more, eyeing the cat and then Littlemouse’s translation. “Benedict,” he said a moment later. “Reggie picked an idiotic moment to indulge his taste for duels, but this is beyond the pale. A cat as her second? What will people think?” Benedict pursed his lips thoughtfully. “If it were me? I’d probably think that Reggie was one of the scum of the Great Houses, throwing his weight around against someone like Miss Tagwynn. But I think you’re missing the point, here, Barney.” “And what point would that be?” he demanded. “Him,” Benedict said, and pointed at Rowl. Rowl lashed his tail, never looking away from human Barnabus’s eyes. He held them for a moment, then rose and calmly prowled back to his breakfast. Littlemouse asked, in Cat, “This is what Maul wants?” “Obviously,” Rowl said. He might have sounded smug —not that he didn’t deserve to feel that way, of course. The human Barnabus had been entirely at his mercy. “I’m sure I don’t understand,” Barnabus said, staring at the cat. “I’m sure you don’t, either, sir,” Littlemouse said. “But you will. In one week.” Chapter 7 Spire Albion, Habble Morning, Ventilation Tunnels Grimm strode toward the Spirearch’s Manor, his booted steps striking the stone floor with sharp, clear impacts, and reminded himself that murdering the idiot beside him in an abrupt surge of joyous violence would be in extremely bad taste. “Perhaps her time has come,” said Commodore Hamilton Rook. He was a tall, regal-looking man, provided one desired a monarch whose nose was shaped like a sunhawk’s beak. |
He was a tall, regal-looking man, provided one desired a monarch whose nose was shaped like a sunhawk’s beak. His black hair was untouched by silver, which Grimm was certain was an affectation. His face and hands were weathered and cracked from his time aboard his ship, a battlecruiser called Glorious, a peer of Itasca, if not even remotely her rival. He was refined, well educated, exquisitely polite, and an utter ass. His Fleet uniform was a proper deep blue accented with an unseemly amount of golden braid and filigree, and bore three gold bands at the end of each sleeve. “What say you, my good Francis?” Grimm glanced aside and up at Rook. “As ever, I ask you not to call me Francis.” “Ah. The middle name then, I suppose? Madison?” Grimm felt the fingers of his sword hand tighten and relax. “Commodore, you are well aware that I prefer Grimm.” “A tad stuffy,” Rook said disapprovingly. “Might as well call you ‘Captain’ all day, as though you still had a true commission.” Extremely bad taste, Grimm thought. Appallingly bad taste. Historically bad taste. No matter how joyous. “I had hoped your recent successes might have made you less insecure,” Rook continued. “And you haven’t answered my question. My offer is more than generous.” Grimm turned down a side corridor out of the main traffic of the day in Habble Morning. “Your offer to pay me a quarter of her worth to break my ship into scrap? I had assumed you were making some kind of stillborn attempt at humor.” “Come now, don’t romanticize this,” Rook said. “She’s been a fine vessel, but Predator is outdated as a warship, and undersize as a ship of trade. |
“She’s been a fine vessel, but Predator is outdated as a warship, and undersize as a ship of trade. For what I’m offering you, you could secure a merchant vessel that would make you several fortunes. Think of your posterity.” Grimm smiled faintly. “And the fact that you would secure her core crystal for your House’s inventory is beside the point, I suppose.” Crystals of suitable size and density to serve as a ship’s power core were grown over the course of decades and centuries. Core crystals were not expensive; they were priceless. In Spire Albion, all current crystal production was under commission to the Fleet, leaving a set number of core crystals available to private owners—most of whom would not part with them at any price. Over the past two centuries, the Great Houses had been steadily acquiring the remaining core crystals. Certainly they could be had from other Spires, but so far as Grimm knew, no one in the world could match in power or quality the crystals the Lancasters produced. “Of course it would do no small amount of good for the standing of our House,” Rook replied. “But it’s an honest offer nonetheless.” “No,” Grimm said. “Very well,” Rook said, his voice tightening. “I’ll double it.” “No. Twice.” The larger man took a step in front of Grimm and stopped, glaring. “See here, Francis. I mean to have that crystal. I’ve seen the damage report your engineer turned in. You were lucky to make it back to the Spire at all.” “Was I?” “You need entirely new power runs, a new main lift crystal, and at least three new trim crystals! I’ve seen your accounts. You’ve nowhere near enough money to afford them.” “She’s wounded,” Grimm said firmly. “Not a derelict.” “Wounded,” Rook said, rolling his eyes. |
“Not a derelict.” “Wounded,” Rook said, rolling his eyes. “She can barely limp up and down the side of the Spire on a tether. Predator isn’t an airship any longer. She’s barely a windlass.” Grimm suddenly found himself facing Rook, his hands clenched into fists. Rook apparently did not notice that detail. “I am making you an open and friendly offer, Francis. Don’t force me to resort to other means.” Grimm stood silently for a moment, staring up at Hamilton Rook’s sneer. “And what means, sir,” he asked quietly, “would those be?” “I can pursue it in the courts, if need be,” he said. “Report on the dangerously slipshod handling of your ship. Report on the number of casualties you’ve suffered. Report on the complaints and accusations of criminal behavior other Spires have forwarded to the Fleet.” Grimm ground his teeth. “I incurred those accusations while acting on the Fleet’s behalf, and you know it.” “And would be ordered to deny it,” Rook said, his smile widening. “Honestly, Francis. Do you really think the Fleet would rather stand by you, a disgraced outcast, than suffer a public humiliation like that?” The smile vanished. “I will have that core crystal, Grimm.” Grimm nodded thoughtfully. And then, quite quickly and with no restraining gentleness whatsoever, he slapped Commodore Hamilton Rook across the face. The smack of the impact echoed down the empty corridor. Rook reeled back, stunned by the fact of the blow more than the force of it, and stared at Grimm with wide eyes. “Predator is not property,” Grimm said in a calm, level tone. “She is not my possession. |
“She is not my possession. She is my home. Her crew are not my employees. They are my family. And if you threaten to take my home and destroy the livelihood of my family again, Commodore, I will be inclined to kill you where you stand.” Rook’s eyes blazed and he drew himself up to his full, intimidating height. “You arrogant insect,” he snarled. “Do you think you can slap me about without paying for it?” In answer, Grimm took a quick step forward and did it again. Rook tried to flinch away from the blow, but Grimm’s hand was too quick for him. Again the sound of the slap echoed down the hallway. “I’ll do it any damned time I please, sir,” Grimm said in the same level voice. “Take me to court. Let me tell the judges and the public record precisely what incensed me enough to strike you. You will be publicly humiliated. If you hoped to keep any shred of your reputation, you would have no choice except to challenge me to a duel. And, as the challenged party, I would insist upon the Protocol Mortis.” Rook leaned his head back slightly from Grimm, as though he had opened his pantry to fetch cheese and found a crawlyscale waiting for him instead. “You wouldn’t dare. Even if you won, my family would have your hide.” “I’d change my flag to Spire Olympia,” Grimm said. “They’d be glad to have me. Let the Rooks attempt their little game with the captain of an Olympian vessel. Do you think your corpse is worth that, Hamilton?” Rook clenched his fists at his sides. |
Do you think your corpse is worth that, Hamilton?” Rook clenched his fists at his sides. “That’s treason.” “For an officer of the Fleet, yes,” Grimm said, baring his teeth. “But not for a disgraced outcast like me.” “You wretched little nothing,” Rook said. “I should—” Grimm took a step forward, never breaking eye contact, forcing Rook to take a step back. “You should what, Commodore?” he said. “Say nasty things behind my back? Challenge me to a duel? You haven’t got the spine to look in a man’s eyes when you kill him. That’s something else we both know.” Rook clenched his teeth, seething. “I will not forget this, Grimm.” Grimm nodded. “Yes. One of your many excellent failings, Hamilton, is that you forget favors and remember insults.” “Indeed. My House has a long memory—and wide vision.” Grimm felt a surge of anger threaten to shatter his demeanor, but he suppressed it from everything but the tenor of his voice. “Wide vision? Is that how you style it? Know this: If anything happens to any of my men, or to any of their families— anything, no matter how small—I shall hold you personally responsible. I shall denounce you to the Admiralty and the Council within the hour. And in the duel that follows, I shall kill you and cast your body from the top of the Spire—and not necessarily in that order. Am I perfectly clear, Commodore?” Rook swallowed and took another half step back. Grimm pointed a finger at him and said, “Stay away from my home. |
Grimm pointed a finger at him and said, “Stay away from my home. Stay away from my family. Good day, sir.” Then the captain of Predator turned precisely on a heel and continued marching toward the palace. Grimm hadn’t been walking for two minutes when a calm, amused voice spoke from the darkness of an unlit side corridor. “What’s happened to you, Mad? You’ve acquired a few shreds of discretion. I remember a time when you would have braced that pompous twit in the middle of the habble market at noonday.” Grimm snorted and didn’t slow his steps. “I’ve no time to fence with you, Bayard.” A small, slender figure of a man appeared from the gloom and fell into step beside him. Alexander Bayard wore a commodore’s uniform almost precisely like Rook’s, if not quite as richly fashioned. It was also a great deal more weatherworn. Bayard loved to spend his days aboard ship out on the deck of his flag vessel, the heavy cruiser Valiant, whereas Rook hid from the elements whenever he could. “Yes,” Bayard said easily. The smaller man lengthened his strides to match Grimm’s. “I’ve heard. You’ve a ship that can barely stay afloat and no means to repair her, so I’m certain you’re in quite the rush to clear port again.” “Don’t make me duel you,” Grimm said. “Why on earth not?” Bayard said, putting a bit of extra swagger in his step. He had dark, glittering eyes and hair that had gone magnificently silver decades before its time. “You’d lose and we both know it.” Grimm snorted. “You’re a true tradesman of violence, my stiff-necked friend,” Bayard continued. “But you’ve no ice in your soul and not a speck of reptile in your blood. |
“But you’ve no ice in your soul and not a speck of reptile in your blood. It takes calculation to win a duel against a reptile, and you’ve always been impatient.” Grimm found himself smiling. “You’ve just called yourself a reptile, Commodore.” “And so I am,” Bayard agreed. “I’m a viper who plays every angle to his advantage.” His smile faded slightly. “Which is why I’m in uniform and you aren’t, I’m afraid.” “There was no point in both of us being drummed out,” Grimm replied. “You know that I don’t hold it against you, Alex.” “You needn’t. I’ll do it for you. And as for Rook…” Bayard shuddered. “If it comes to a duel, I hope you will call upon me to be your second.” “I find it unlikely that I should be so desperate,” Grimm said. “I suppose that if everyone else says no, I may consider you.” “Excellent. A day in advance at least, if you please. My mistress would never understand if I walked out on her abruptly.” Grimm barked out a laugh. “Neither of you is married, and you’ve been seeing each other exclusively for … eleven years now?” “Thirteen,” Bayard said smugly. “God in Heaven. And yet you persist in the fiction that she is your mistress even now. Why?” A boyish grin spread over Bayard’s face. “Because scandal, old friend, is ever so much more enjoyable than propriety. Such things are the spice of life.” “You’re a degenerate,” Grimm said, but he was smiling widely now, and the rage and frustration he’d felt at his encounter with Rook had faded away. “How is Abigail?” “Rosy cheeked, starryeyed, and content, my friend. She sends her love.” “Please convey my warmest respects,” Grimm said. |
She sends her love.” “Please convey my warmest respects,” Grimm said. He cocked his head to one side and regarded Bayard. “Thank you, Alex.” “Rook would try the patience of an Archangel,” Bayard said, inclining his head. “You are not without friends, Grimm. Don’t waste another moment in concern for the fool.” “I would not consider the time spent thrashing him wasted.” Bayard let out a rich, warm laugh. “Few would, I daresay.” They came to a dim section of largely unused tunnel, where the lumin crystals were spaced widely apart. Grimm put his hand lightly upon the tunnel wall to guide his nearly blind steps. “You didn’t just happen upon me when I needed a boost in morale. You were following me.” “Obviously.” “Why?” “I think you need to speak to the Spirearch.” “That’s where I’m going now,” Grimm said. “Ah, yes,” Bayard replied. “But you see, he is not in his manor. He sent me to bring you to him—” Bayard stopped abruptly in his tracks. Grimm followed suit almost instantly. The tunnel was full of whispering sound: the echoes of their steps, of their voices, the distant empty exhale of air moving through the Spire’s vents, and their own breath. Grimm was never sure, after, what tiny hiccup of sound or what flicker of motion in the gloom gave the ambush away—his instincts simply screamed that danger was at hand, and he drew his sword in a liquid whisper of copper-clad steel. Beside him, he felt as much as heard Bayard do the same, and then something, some thing, shrieked in the dark and a cannonball of howling hot agony hurtled into his chest. Chapter 8 Spire Albion, Habble Morning, Ventilation Tunnels There was no time to react and no room to wield even the short, straight blade of his sword. Grimm fell before the horrible, painful weight and thrust at it with an arm, shoving something that snarled and spit and drew blood with teeth and claws. The creature was perhaps the size of a large child. It flew up and away from him. |
It flew up and away from him. “Grimm!” “I’m fine!” Grimm snapped, rolling swiftly to his feet. He tore his jacket from his shoulders and wrapped it swiftly around his left arm. “Cats?” “I think not. No cat ever made a sound like that.” The howling sound repeated itself from either direction of the tunnel. “More than one of them,” Grimm said. “Back-to-back,” Bayard replied, and Grimm felt the sudden, wiry pressure of the other man’s shoulders pressed against the middle of his back. “I should be friends with taller people,” Grimm panted. “Bite your tongue, old boy, or I’ll hack apart your ankles.” There was another motion in the dark and the creature flew at Grimm again. This time he interposed his leather-wrapped arm, and felt claws and teeth sink into it. Grimm let out a shout and spun to his left, slamming the creature against the stone of the Spire’s wall. He continued the motion of the spin with his right arm, thrusting his short blade home into the thing, and felt the weapon bite sharp and deep. A warbling shriek like nothing he had heard before filled the hallway, even as he heard Bayard cry out, “Hah!” A snarling cry came from somewhere behind Grimm. Grimm had no time to turn to Bayard. The creature was thrashing madly, its claws biting into Grimm’s arm even through the layers of thick leather hide. He struck with the sword as swiftly and viciously as he knew how, praying that he didn’t misjudge its length in the dark and impale his own arm. He could see nothing but a vague shape struggling against him, but he could feel hot blood splashing from the wounds his blade inflicted. The thing let out another scream and then it was abruptly gone. Cries echoed up and down the halls from both directions, fading as they retreated. Grimm instinctively found Bayard again, and made sure his back was against the other man’s for the next several moments. |
Grimm instinctively found Bayard again, and made sure his back was against the other man’s for the next several moments. They both gasped for breath. Grimm’s wounded arm throbbed and burned in a most unpleasant fashion. “Cowards,” Bayard panted a moment later, when it was clear that the attack was over. “Bloody cowardly things.” “Indeed,” Grimm said. “Shouldn’t we be running now?” “Absolutely,” Bayard said. “But half a moment. I’ve a light here somewhere.” Grimm waited impatiently while Bayard’s clothing made rustling sounds. “Ah!” he said. “In my weskit. I’d almost forgotten.” A moment later there was a dim source of pale blue light as Bayard removed a lumin crystal the size of a fingernail from one of his pockets and held it up. The tunnel was unsightly. Blood that looked black in the pale light was splattered everywhere—more near Grimm than Bayard. Bayard himself was scarcely mussed from the action. His sword, though, was stained dark to half the length of its blade. “God in Heaven, you’re a sight,” Bayard said, lifting an eyebrow. “There’s more blood than man.” He looked past Grimm to the heavy splatters on the wall. “My word, old boy. You missed your calling as a butcher.” “Tried,” Grimm said. “But I couldn’t manage. |
“But I couldn’t manage. I had to settle for the Fleet.” “Bitterness does not become you, my friend,” Bayard said. His dark eyes flicked around the hallway. “How’s your arm?” “Painful,” Grimm said. “I’d as soon not unwrap the coat from around it until we’re somewhere where we might find bandages.” “Best we move deliberately, then,” Bayard said. “It would be rather funny to watch you run until your heart pumped all your blood out, but I’m afraid Abigail would be cross with me. She might refuse my attentions for hours. Even days.” “We can’t have that,” Grimm said. He shook as much blood as he could from the blade of his sword, and then grimaced and wiped it off on the leg of his trousers not already soaked with the stuff. He returned the weapon to its sheath just as Bayard finished wiping his sword clean with a kerchief and offered the cloth to Grimm. “You might have said something,” Grimm growled. “That outfit’s ruined anyway.” Grimm glowered at him and opened his mouth to say something more, when Bayard abruptly pitched sideways and began to fall. No, that wasn’t it at all, Grimm thought. Bayard was standing perfectly still. His friend hadn’t fallen—Grimm had. He could distantly feel the cold spirestone floor beneath his cheek. Bayard’s mouth was moving, but the words seemed to be coming at him from several hundred yards down the tunnel, and he couldn’t quite make them out. Grimm tried to put a hand beneath him and push himself up, but his limbs wouldn’t move. “Bother,” Grimm mumbled. “This is rather inconvenient.” Bayard leaned down and peered closely at Grimm’s face. |
“This is rather inconvenient.” Bayard leaned down and peered closely at Grimm’s face. The last thing Grimm remembered of the moment was the feeling of being hoisted up onto Bayard’s slim, wiry shoulders. Grimm opened his eyes and found himself in a warm, dim room. The ceiling was made of hardened clay—one of the most common construction materials for the more modest residences within Spire Albion. It hadn’t been painted white, but instead was covered with a colorful and rather fanciful mural that looked like it had been done by a particularly enthusiastic child. It made little sense, containing seemingly random images of airships, the sun, some sort of odd-looking plants that only partially resembled trees, and an image of the moon that was much too large in relation to the sun opposite it. Strange creatures occupied the same space, none of them familiar to Grimm, though he might have seen some of them in his more fanciful childhood storybooks. The room was lit by dozens and dozens and dozens of tiny, nearly dead lumin crystals, collected in jars of clear glass. Their light was a nebulous thing, showing everything clearly and seemingly originating from nowhere. It was a small, spare chamber, sporting a student’s desk and a small and overstuffed bookshelf. He lay on a bed of woven ropes with a thin pad over them, and blankets had been piled over him until they more threatened to smother him than keep him warm. He began to push them away, only to find that his left arm had been bound to his chest. Both arms were wrapped in what seemed to him irrational amounts of cloth bandages. They weren’t white. Instead they had been made from a broad spectrum of every color and texture of cloth imaginable. One of the strips had little pink heart shapes alternating with bright yellow suns. Grimm sat up, wincing at the pain from his arm. He had a number of other cuts on his upper body, apparently, which were also covered in bandages and some kind of pungent sterilizing ointment. He didn’t remember receiving the minor wounds, but that was hardly unusual in combat. There was a foul taste in his mouth, and his throat burned with thirst. |
There was a foul taste in his mouth, and his throat burned with thirst. A pitcher and mug on a tray on the bed’s nightstand stood ready, and he poured the mug full of water and drank it down three times running before his body began to relent. Someone tapped on the door and then opened it. Grimm looked up to see a young woman enter the room. She was dressed … not so much untidily, he decided, as randomly. Her grey shirt was made of ethersilk, patched in several places, and looked as though it had been tailored for a man almost two hundred pounds heavier than she was. Though the shirt was long enough to serve as a gown itself, she wore a green undergown, with rustling skirts that fell to the floor. As she walked toward him, he saw that she wore stockings instead of shoes—green and white polka dots on one foot, and orange and purple stripes on the other. She wore an apron—but it looked to be made of leather, and was burned in several places, a smith’s garment rather than kitchen wear. Her hair had been dyed in crimson and white stripes, and then braided so that it resembled a peppermint candy. One lens of her spectacles was pink, the other green, and the band of her too-large top hat was fairly bursting with folded pieces of paper. She wore a necklace from which depended a glass vial of nearly spent illumination crystals, and she carried a covered tray in her arms. “Oh,” she said, pausing. “He’s awake. Goodness. That was unexpected.” She tilted her head, peering at him first through one lens of her spectacles and then through the other. “There, you see? He’s fine. He’s not mad. Except that he is. |
Except that he is. And I should know.” She carried the tray to a small table against one wall and whispered, “Should we tell him how improper it is for a gentleman not to wear a shirt when there is a young lady present? It isn’t that we don’t appreciate the view, because he’s quite masculine, but it does seem like something one should say.” Grimm blinked down at himself and fumbled for the bedcovers with one hand, pulling them up. “Ah, please excuse me, young lady. I seem to have lost my shirt.” “He thinks I’m a lady,” she said, and beamed at him. “That’s quite unusual, in my experience.” Grimm racked his mind for the proper thing to say in such a circumstance, and found little. “To be called a lady?” “Thinking,” the young woman said. “Now, here is some fresh soup, which doesn’t taste very good, but he should eat it all because the poison thinks it’s even worse.” Grimm blinked. “Poison?” The young woman turned toward him and came close enough to lay a hand on his forehead. “Oh, dear. Is he feverish again? No, no. Oh, good. Perhaps he’s just simple. Poor dear.” Before she could turn away, Grimm caught her wrist in his hand. The young woman … no, he decided, the girl’s breath seemed to catch in her throat. Her entire body went stiff and she breathed, “Oh, dear. I hope he doesn’t decide to harm me. He’s quite good at doing harm. It took forever to clean off all the blood.” “Child,” Grimm said in a low voice. |
It took forever to clean off all the blood.” “Child,” Grimm said in a low voice. “Look at me.” She froze abruptly. After a silent second, she said, “Oh, I mustn’t.” “Look at me, girl,” Grimm said, keeping his voice gentle and calm. “No one is going to hurt you.” The girl flicked a very quick look at him. He saw only a flash of her eyes over the spectacles when she did. One was an even, steady grey. The other was a shade of pale apple green. She shivered and seemed to sag, her wrist going limp in his hand. “Oh,” she breathed. “That’s so sad.” “Who are you speaking to, child?” “He doesn’t know I’m talking to you,” the girl said. The fingertips of her free hand rose to the crystals in the little bottle around her neck. “How can he hear me without realizing something so simple?” “Ah,” Grimm said, and released the girl’s wrist very slowly and carefully, as he might a fragile bird’s body. “You’re an etherealist. Forgive me, child. I didn’t realize.” “He thinks I’m the master,” the girl said, ducking her head and blushing. “How can he be so clever and so stupid all at once? That must hurt awfully. But perhaps it would be more polite if we didn’t say anything. He seems to mean well, the poor thing. And he’s conscious, mobile, and lucid. |
And he’s conscious, mobile, and lucid. We should tell the master that it looks like he’ll survive.” With that, the girl scurried out of the room, nodding to herself, her soft litany hanging for a moment in her wake. Grimm shook his head. Whoever the girl was, she’d been serving her apprenticeship for a goodly while, despite her apparent youth. All etherealists were odd and became more so as they aged. Some were a good bit odder than others. The child was at least as strange as any other etherealist he’d met. He went to the tray and uncovered it. There was a bowl of soup and several flatbakes, along with a spoon that would have been modest had it not been made from dark, glossy wood. He tasted the soup, bracing himself for the bitter taste of most medicines, and found it surprisingly bland but pleasant. He fetched out a stool, sat down at the desk, and devoured the soup, along with the flatbakes and two more glasses of water. By the time he finished, he felt almost like a human being. He took note of a plain robe that had apparently been left for him, and managed to tug it on one- handed and belt it at the waist. No sooner had he finished than there was a heavy thump upon the door to his chamber. “Ow,” said a man’s voice. “Damnation to you.” The latch rattled several times and the man sighed in a tone of impatience. “Folly.” “He doesn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” said the girl in an apologetic tone. “He’s just too brilliant for you.” The door opened, and the girl stepped back hurriedly without meeting Grimm’s eyes. A man entered the room holding a rumpled handkerchief against his apparently bleeding nose. He was a scrawny specimen except for a small potbelly, and it made his limbs look out of proportion, almost spidery. |
He was a scrawny specimen except for a small potbelly, and it made his limbs look out of proportion, almost spidery. His hair was a dirty grey mop, his face covered by sparse white stubble. He was dressed in a suit about two decades out of date, in sober shades of brown and grey, and large, soft slippers made of some kind of creature with green-and-black-striped fur. Too old to be middle-aged, too young to be elderly, the man had eyes that were a vibrant shade of blue Grimm had seen only in the autumn skies high above the mists. The man walked with the aid of a wooden cane tipped with what might have been a weapons crystal from a ship’s light cannon. It was the size of a man’s clenched fist. “Ah!” he said. “Aha! Captain Grimm, welcome, welcome, so good to be able to speak to you when you aren’t delirious.” He glanced aside at the girl and mumbled out of the corner of his mouth, “He’s not delirious, is he?” The girl shook her head with wide eyes that didn’t leave the ground. “No, master.” Grimm was quite unsure how to respond with courtesy to such a greeting, but he settled for bowing slightly at the waist. “We haven’t met, sir. I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.” “Yes, we did, tomorrow,” the old man said. “And no, you aren’t, and the last is a matter for debate, perhaps. What do you think, Folly?” Folly bit her lip and touched her vial of crystals. “He doesn’t realize that Captain Grimm is quite uncomfortable because he doesn’t know anyone’s name.” “Untrue!” the etherealist stated with conviction. “He knows his own name, I daresay, and at least one of yours. He’s had seconds and seconds to transfer that knowledge into his memory. Unless, of course, he remains delirious.” The old man squinted at Grimm. “You’re quite sure that you are lucid, sir?” “At times I wonder,” Grimm replied. Something very young and very full of mischief flickered far back in the etherealist’s eyes, and his face stretched into a wide smile. |
Something very young and very full of mischief flickered far back in the etherealist’s eyes, and his face stretched into a wide smile. “Ah. Ah! A man of modesty, either so false that it may be true or so true that it seems entirely false. I can see why Bayard speaks so well of you, sir.” The old man touched the tip of his cane to the floor far to one side and sank into an elaborate bow of dancelike grace. “I am Efferus Effrenus Ferus, at your service, sir. And that’s Folly.” “Folly,” the girl said, and bobbed a curtsy toward the far corner of the room. “Sweaters,” Ferus said soberly. “Sweaters, dear. And two pairs of socks, one of them wool. Oh, and fetch me a gentleman’s hat of a size no larger than six and then soak it in vinegar.” The girl curtsied again and hurried from the room. Ferus beamed. “Such a sweet child. And she always remembers perfectly. Now, then, Captain.” He turned back to Grimm. “You have questions, I answers. Shall we see if they match?” “Please,” Grimm said. “I appear to be your guest. Have I you to thank for caring for me?” Ferus’s shoulders sagged in evident disappointment. “Apparently they do not match. |
“Apparently they do not match. I was going to say strawberries.” His lips compressed and he shook his head. “You aren’t very good at this game, Captain.” “I take that to mean that you did help me, sir.” Ferus waved a hand. “Bayard did more for you than I did, I daresay. But that said … yes, I was compelled to employ my skills on your behalf.” “Skills, sir?” The etherealist nodded. “Today I am a physician with the cure to a condition hardly anyone ever contracts. If you’d asked me twenty years ago, I’d have told you it seemed a very poor long-term investment with very little commercial viability. But here we are.” Grimm found himself smiling. “Indeed. Here we are. Thank you for your help.” The old man beamed and drummed the end of his cane on the floor. “Just so, just so. Whatever beastie it was tried to eat you, it left a good many dangerous structures behind in your blood—quite rude, sir, quite rude, and most unfair.” “Poison?” Grimm asked. Ferus waggled his hand back and forth. “Yes. No, actually, not even remotely, but for purposes of this conversation, yes.” Grimm frowned. “Ah. Um. Am I in any danger?” “You’re dead as a stone, man!” “I am?” “Yes. No, actually, not even remotely, but for purposes of this conversation, yes.” Ferus nodded at his arm. |
No, actually, not even remotely, but for purposes of this conversation, yes.” Ferus nodded at his arm. “You’ve clouded the issue. I should check your wound to ensure my work was thorough. Do you mind?” “No,” Grimm said. “I suppose not.” “Excellent,” Ferus said. Then he turned and left the room, banging the door shut behind him. Grimm stood for a moment, frowning. Then he shook his head and began to seat himself again. “Ack!” cried Ferus from the hall. “No, stop moving, man! How am I supposed to see anything with you dancing jigs about the room?” Grimm froze in place. “Ah. Is … is this better?” “You look rather awkward, halfway down like that. You aren’t by chance having a bowel movement of some kind?” Grimm sighed. “No.” “Well, try not to until I’m finished.” “Ah, Master Ferus. If you don’t mind my asking, how exactly are you examining me? Surely you can’t see the wound from out there?” “Untrue!” Ferus said. “From out here I can see little else! There, done. I do good work, if I do say so myself.” Footsteps shuffled up to the door and then stopped warily perhaps a foot away. |
I do good work, if I do say so myself.” Footsteps shuffled up to the door and then stopped warily perhaps a foot away. The doorknob rattled again fitfully and then went still. “Bother,” Ferus said. “Confounded thing. Why do you mock me?” Grimm walked across the room and opened the door. Ferus let out a sigh. “Thank you, young man, thank you. Were I your age I’m sure I would learn the trick of it straight off, but the mind, you see. It goes rather stale.” “It’s the least I could do,” Grimm said. “Incorrect!” Ferus proclaimed. “The least you could have done would be nothing! Goodness, I hope you’re brighter than you seem. We’ve really no more time to waste upon your education, Captain.” “No?” Grimm asked. “And why not?” And in an instant the old man changed. His previously animated voice went low and steady. Something shifted in his spine and shoulders, conveying a sense of perfect confidence and strength wildly at odds with his innocuous stature. And most of all his eyes changed: The sparkle in them transformed, distilled itself into a muted fire that met Grimm’s gaze without expectation or weakness. Grimm became abruptly certain that he was standing before a very dangerous man. “Because, Francis Madison Grimm, we’ve come to the end,” Master Ferus said. “The end? |
“The end? Of what?” “Of the beginning, of course,” the etherealist said. “The end of the beginning.” Chapter 9 Spire Albion, Habble Morning I can’t believe you’re going along with this,” Gwendolyn told Benedict. She tried to keep her voice pleasant and neutral. Her cousin eyed her and slipped a half step farther away from her as they walked together toward the duel. “Oh, please,” Gwendolyn said, allowing her tone to become openly cross. “Now you’re just teasing me.” Benedict smiled very slightly. “Rowl seemed insistent.” “Rowl,” Gwendolyn said, “is a cat, Benedict.” “Have you ever tried to stop a cat from doing what it wants to do?” Benedict asked her. “No, of course not. There are no cats in House Lancaster.” Benedict barked a sharp laugh. “That again.” Gwendolyn felt her face heat slightly. “I’ve never seen one there,” she continued, as if he hadn’t interrupted her at all. “The point is, Benny, that if I spent a lifetime thinking they were little more than clever beasts, you can be sure that many others have as well.” “And?” “And word has spread. Everyone in the habble will be watching this duel today. This will be the first time House Tagwynn has impinged upon the awareness of the Great Houses in a generation. Can you imagine what they’re going to be saying about Bridget and her father if she shows up with a bloody cat as her second?” “I can,” Benedict said, his voice maddeningly calm. “Yes, indeed.” “Now, what is that supposed to mean?” Gwen demanded. “Honestly, coz, I know you’re still a recruit, but I can’t very well go explaining everything to you. You’ve seen everything I have. You’ve had the same education I have. |
You’ve had the same education I have. You have an excellent mind—when you bother to bring it in on a consult with your temper, I mean. Use it.” Gwen scowled at him. “I have. It tells me that the name of Tagwynn is in danger today,” she said. “And it’s there because of my own stupidity, and that we can’t allow them to come to harm because of my mistake.” “Yes,” Benedict said. “All true. But take it a step further. What are the consequences of today?” Gwen pressed her lips together for a moment before speaking. “If she loses the duel, the Tagwynns will be both a laughingstock and a highly visible target of economic opportunity. At the very least, their income might suffer. It’s probable that one of the hungrier Houses with interests in that market will find a way to buy out their vattery or legislate them out of business.” “True,” Benedict said. “And if she wins?” “That’s a far worse circumstance,” Gwen said. “If she beats Reggie, she incurs the ire of a major House. ‘Might’ and ‘probably’ transfigure to ‘will’ and ‘certainly.’” Benedict nodded. “House Tagwynn, House Astor, yes, you’ve done the math.” He considered. “Well. Twothirds of it, anyway.” “What do you mean, twothirds?” He held up a forefinger. “You’ve accounted for the Tagwynns.” He held up the next finger. “You’ve considered the Astors.” He stuck his thumb out to one side. |
“You’ve considered the Astors.” He stuck his thumb out to one side. “What about the cats?” Gwen let out an impatient breath … but then she paused. “There are really cats inside House Lancaster?” Gwen asked. “And I’ve just never seen them?” Benedict spread his hands as if displaying that fact’s self-evidence. “But … I suppose it does not necessarily follow that they have not seen me.” “Ah,” Benedict said, his tone pleased. “The light dawns.” Gwen considered that for several steps. “Are they truly that intelligent? I know the little beasts are clever, but…” “It is often very useful for others to think you less intelligent than you are,” Benedict said, his tone amused. “It works particularly well against those who aren’t as intelligent as you in the first place.” Gwen blinked. “Goodness.” “I must admit that I hadn’t thoroughly considered the situation before meeting Rowl,” Benedict said. “It’s just a theory, coz—but it seems sound.” “It … does, doesn’t it?” Gwen said. She looked up at Benedict shrewdly. “You’ve never been known for your acute political intellect, Benny. Most of the House considers you a distant and disinterested observer—not a political asset.” Her cousin looked pained. “And I shall remain so in their eyes, if you please,” he said. “Politics is the purview of scoundrels, tyrants, and fools. I only observe because I prefer not to become their victim.” Gwen snorted. “You’re safe from everyone but me,” she promised. “Oh, dear.” His stomach made a rumbling noise and Gwen smiled up at him. “Hungry?” “I’ve eaten,” he replied. |
“Hungry?” “I’ve eaten,” he replied. “You’re warriorborn, Benny,” Gwen said firmly. “Your body needs more fuel. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He pressed his lips together, and his feline eyes became remote. Gwen let out a mental sigh. She knew how much Benny disliked being born different, and the pains to which he went to conceal those differences. She knew he never moved as quickly or as powerfully as he could have during runs or in combat training. He carried lumin crystals with him and employed them in the darker sections of the habble, despite the fact that his feline eyes had no need of them. He ate on a rigid schedule in the Guard’s dining hall, downing exactly the portions dealt out to each recruit—despite the fact that he could quite literally starve to death on a diet that would be more than adequate for anyone else. Benny was a wonderful, sweet, dear idiot, Gwen thought. “We’re eating before the duel,” she said firmly. “Come with me.” “Gwen,” he protested. “I’m hungry,” she lied smoothly. “And you wouldn’t be so rude as to make a lady eat alone, would you? Come along.” Benedict scowled. “I haven’t any money with me.” “I have lots,” Gwen said cheerfully. “Come along.” “Honestly, Gwendolyn,” he muttered. “You simply cannot take a hint.” “Oh, I am more than capable of it, coz,” she said airily. “At the moment I choose not to. Shall we have those dumplings you like?” Benedict’s stomach rumbled. |
Shall we have those dumplings you like?” Benedict’s stomach rumbled. Louder. He eyed her. “That’s cheating.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gwen said, and gave him what she liked to think of as her very firm smile, the one where she locked her jaw. She spoke through her teeth. “Now. Come. Along.” Benedict glowered for a moment more and then sighed. “You’re going to insist, aren’t you?” “I’m a lady of House Lancaster, Benny. You are a gentleman of House SorellinLancaster. I shouldn’t need to.” She smiled. Firmly. Benedict rolled his eyes, plucked a white handkerchief from his pocket, and gave it a solemn wave. “I yield.” Gwendolyn beamed. “Commendable.” The little stall where a stout, silver-haired old couple named Beech served hot food to order was off to the side of the main market area, out of the immediate swirl of trade and foot traffic. The backs of other stalls formed a little Cshaped alcove where a few simple tables and chairs had been set out, creating the impression of seclusion. Gwen marched up to the stall but found no one in sight. “Hello?” she called. “We’ve come for some lunch!” “We’re not quite ready yet,” called a voice from inside the stall. “Become ready,” Gwen called back, a merry edge in her command. |
“Become ready,” Gwen called back, a merry edge in her command. “I’m glad to pay very well for your trouble.” There was a sigh from inside the stall and then an older man with eyebrows approximately as thick as his wrists appeared from the pantry in the rear. Mister Beech blinked once at Gwen and then said, “Miss Lancaster? This isn’t your usual hour. What are you doing here?” “Securing your profit margin for the day,” Gwen said, smiling and dropping a coin purse on the counter. It jingled invitingly. Neither the sound of the coin nor her smile seemed to displease the vendor. “I’m in need of one of your dumplings before noon.” “Simple enough, miss, coming up. And for the young sir?” “Two more of the same,” Gwen said firmly. “Coz,” Benedict protested. It was, Gwen thought, a decidedly feeble protest, undermined by another rumble from his stomach. “Right away, miss,” said Mister Beech, and he turned to his stove, where a pan of oil awaited, and produced a number of sausages from an insulated cold cabinet. Mrs. Beech appeared from the back, her grey hair held back under a kerchief, stirring vigorously at a batch of dough. She spread some flour on a board and plopped the dough onto it to begin kneading it with swift, confident hands. “I’ll hear no back talk from you, Benedict,” Gwen said, offering him a tart smile. “Or rather, I shall hear none from your belly, for an hour or two at least. Honestly, it’s most unbecoming a Lancaster, grumbling and growling like that.” Benedict rolled his eyes again, but his mouth quirked at the corners. “Fortunately for me, I am not so limited as you poor, pure Lancasters, having the Sorellin bloodline to broaden my mental, emotional, and artistic horizons.” “What’s that?” Gwen asked, and propped a hand to her ear, raising her voice slightly. “I’m certain I didn’t hear you correctly over the sound of your belly howling. It almost sounded as if you were questioning the utter and unquestionable superiority of the House of Lancaster.” Benedict’s smile widened. |
It almost sounded as if you were questioning the utter and unquestionable superiority of the House of Lancaster.” Benedict’s smile widened. “Go play with your crystals and let the rest of us get on with the real work, eh?” “For shame, sir,” said Mister Beech, peering up at Benedict from beneath his bushy eyebrows, his eyes glinting with amusement, “to speak so of the young miss’s family.” Gwen gave Benedict a triumphant smile. “There, you see? The Lancasters have the support of the people.” Benedict laughed. “You’re only taking her side because she’s paying.” “The young sir is wise,” commented Mrs. Beech. “Aye, he is, he is,” agreed the old man—as Gwen counted out a generous number of coins into his palm. She stuck out her tongue at Benedict cheerfully and said, “Thank you both very much.” A rather bookish-looking man of middle years entered the alcove, muttering, “… just don’t see how that’s going to work.” His clothes, though fine, were rumpled and askew, and his violet weskit was an affront to the sensibilities of a generation against the plain brown tweed of his coat and trousers. His hair was brown and overgrown, muddled with strands of grey, and his hands were long fingered and fine. He was writing in a journal with a pen fitted with a glowing crystal, muttering to himself as he did. “Good day, Mister and Mrs. Beech,” he said without looking up. He stifled a yawn with one hand, and then continued writing. “A double of your finest and with some coffee, if you will. Nice and dark.” The pen flew over the page, scrawling out a line of some sort of figures Gwen didn’t recognize. “Good day, Addy,” said Mrs. Beech, her voice warm. “Up all night again?” “The curse of an academically inclined mind, I’m afraid,” the man replied. “Miles and miles of different ways to think the same old useless things.” He never stopped writing as he spoke, and he bumped into Gwen with the edge of his journal. “Ah, pardon me, sir.” “Sir?” Gwen asked in an arch tone. “Yes?” Addy asked, finishing a line with a flourish and beginning the next. Gwen cleared her throat, quite obviously indicating that she expected him to look up. “Out with it, man,” Addy said. |
“Out with it, man,” Addy said. “If you’ve something on your mind, just say it! I’m a bit too pressed for time to dance about!” Gwen’s eyes narrowed and turned steely. How dared this person be so discourteous to a lady? And most particularly to a lady of House Lancaster? “Coz,” Benedict said quickly, putting a hand on her arm. She shook it off. “A moment, cousin,” Gwen said. “I am faced with a distasteful quandary.” “But—” “Benedict,” Gwen said in her sweetest, gentlest voice. Benedict grimaced and took a small step back. Addy, if such was his name, was still writing, all but ignoring her. Intolerable! “Mmmm?” he asked absently. “Quandary?” Gwen’s voice came out cold and precise. “Whether to settle for a tongue-lashing for someone so impolite, or to take offense at this slight and demand satisfaction, as is my right!” Addy blinked several times and only then did he look up at Gwen. “I say. Really? Demand satisfaction?” Mirth bubbled underneath the words, as if he could hardly contain laughter. “You’re considering challenging me to a duel?” “I will have your name first, sir,” Gwen snapped. “Does it matter?” Addy asked. |
“Does it matter?” Addy asked. “Of course it does,” Gwen said. “I would know which House has been so slovenly as to allow one of its scions to wander about Habble Morning without the manners God gave a goat.” “Goats are actually rather gentle, sensible creatures,” Addy replied in a mild tone, “and they rarely burst into duels. Certainly not after an all-nighter.” He sighed. “Miss, should my name matter?” “What?” Gwen asked. “My name,” Addy said. “Are my actions not my own? Should it matter if I belong to a low House or high? Am I any more offensive as a common citizen than as one of the aristocracy?” Gwen blinked several times. His questions were so odd that they might have been phrased in a foreign tongue. Then she said, “Of course it should matter. I judge you no commoner by your clothes, sir, but if you are, I can hardly castigate you for your lack of graces when no education in such matters has been yours.” Addy tilted his head sharply to one side, and his dark eyes glittered. “You would hold me more accountable if I belonged to the aristocracy?” “Of course,” Gwen said. Her tone suggested that the man was an idiot. “Protocol between members of the Houses is the standard by which appropriate respect is given to one’s peers—respect that keeps those Houses from feuds and civil war. It is your duty to behave properly, sir. To those whom much is given, much is required. Of course I expect more of you.” A slow smile spread over Addy’s face. “How interesting.” He looked past Gwen to the two vendors. “How long?” Mister Beech was already moving to draw a brass-wire basket from the heated oil, and he began setting the dumplings out onto square bits of cloth. |
“How long?” Mister Beech was already moving to draw a brass-wire basket from the heated oil, and he began setting the dumplings out onto square bits of cloth. “Coming up now.” Addy nodded at him and turned to Benedict. “All right,” he said. “Would you be so good as to introduce me to your cousin, sir? I think I like her.” Gwen blinked several times. “I beg your pardon?” Benedict drew in a deep breath and eyed Gwen with fond exasperation. “Coz,” he said. “You really must learn to shut your mouth from time to time. You’ll taste less shoe leather.” Straightening his coat, he bowed and said, “Gwendolyn Margaret Elizabeth Lancaster, daughter of Lord Minister and Lady Lancaster, it is my … singular pleasure … to introduce you to His Majesty Addison Orson Magnus Jeremiah Albion, First Citizen and Spirearch of Albion.” Gwen stared at Benedict in shock for a second. Her stomach absolutely disconnected itself from the rest of her vitals and plunged into some unimaginable abyss. She slowly turned her gaze to the pleasantly smiling Spirearch. Then her face began to turn very, very hot. “Miss Lancaster,” the Spirearch said with a small, pleased bow. “What a unique pleasure it has been to make your acquaintance.” Gwen stared at him, appalled. “You don’t … you don’t look like … your portrait.” “I was younger and a good deal angrier when it was painted,” he replied. “I don’t blame you one bit, Miss Lancaster. I haven’t been to a public function since you were a small child, I should think. There’s no reason at all you should have recognized me.” “I … I just … s-sir…” Gwen stammered. She felt her hands twitch, and could only assume it was because the endless hours of instruction in protocol had instilled the proper forms into her very nerves. He smoothly captured her hand and bowed over it. |
He smoothly captured her hand and bowed over it. “Young lady, you are every bit as beautiful as your mother was when she was your age. Ah, breakfast! Or lunch. Lunchfast, perhaps,” the Spirearch said, as the Beeches produced the fresh, hot dumplings and glasses of chilled juice on a serving tray. “Would the two of you care to join me?” “I … we…” Gwen gave Benedict a rather desperate look. Benedict took a moment to smile at her and, she realized, to bask in the expression on her face. He was clearly enjoying the situation with an absolutely sadistic amount of amusement. “We should be delighted, sire,” he replied. “Excellent!” the Spirearch said. “There are fine tables just there, I think.” He picked up the tray, smoothly leaving coins for his own dumpling on the counter as he did. He favored Gwen with a polite smile and a nod in the proper direction. “Ladies first?” Gwen took a slow breath. Then she said to Benedict, “I am a perfect idiot,” and began walking to the tables. The Spirearch lifted an eyebrow and glanced up at Benedict. “That’s Gwennish for, ‘I apologize,’” Gwen heard him say soberly behind her. “After you, sire.” They set to the food in an awkward silence that soon changed to an appreciative one. “My word, that’s good,” Benedict breathed. He obviously tried to restrain himself, but just as obviously was having trouble doing anything but cramming the entire mass of dumpling into his mouth all at once. His food disappeared in large bites. |
Subsets and Splits