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His food disappeared in large bites. Gwen had just offered the most appalling insolence to the monarch of Spire Albion. She felt as if whatever she’d had at breakfast that morning might come up, and barely touched her own dumpling. “The food here is better than anything I could get in the manor, without waiting for hours,” the Spirearch acknowledged. “The Beeches moved up to Habble Morning from Habble Landing ten years ago. I offered them a position on my staff, but they preferred to make their own way. I like that.” Benedict nodded, but he didn’t stop chewing. “So, Master Sorellin,” the Spirearch said. “I’m surprised to see you back this year, after what happened last spring.” Benedict shrugged a shoulder. “It hardly left a scar.” “Too bad,” the Spirearch said, his eyes sparkling. “I’m told young ladies swoon over them.” Gwen lifted her eyebrows. “Benny? Whatever is he talking about?” Benedict suddenly looked uncomfortable and kept his eyes focused on his food. “Benedict was serving a year with the Guard,” the Spirearch said. “I sent him as part of a small team down to Habble Risen to track down a missing shipment of weapons crystals. The thieves who had them declined to yield up their prize.” Gwen’s eyes widened. “You were in battle?” “It wasn’t a battle,” Benedict replied quickly. “Just a scuffle over getting through the door of their hideout. Hardly worth mentioning.” “A scuffle in which a Guardsman was badly wounded,” the Spirearch said. “And in which your cousin killed two armed men who were beating one of his fellow Guardsmen with clubs. |
“And in which your cousin killed two armed men who were beating one of his fellow Guardsmen with clubs. After that, he pushed six more back through their own front door despite all they could do to hold it against him. One of them stabbed him in the arm for his trouble.” “It wasn’t much of a wound,” Benedict said. His face looked flushed. “He saved a number of lives,” the Spirearch said, “including those of his companions and most of the thieves—never mind the havoc that could have been loosed if those crystals had flooded the black market.” He blinked and looked at Gwen. “He received the Order of the Spire. I assumed you knew.” “To my knowledge, he never said anything about it,” Gwen said, staring hard at Benedict. “This is the first I’ve heard of the matter. You told me you hurt your arm in a sparring match, Benny.” Benedict ducked his head and picked up the second dumpling. The first had vanished with unseemly haste, despite his efforts to slow down. The Spirearch smiled. “Miss Lancaster—may I call you Gwen?” “Of course, sire.” “Excellent. But you must not call me ‘sire.’ Addison will do nicely.” Gwen hesitated. “Sire…” The Spirearch waved his hand. “I know the protocol. But it was created two centuries ago, when Gregor the Strong united the habbles and formed the Council— when he still had active executive power and an army to back it up.” “Sire … Addison, sir,” Gwen stammered. “You are still the Spire-arch.” He laughed. “The monarchy was a necessary evil at one time, Miss Lancaster. Now I’m largely obsolete, and quite content to have it that way. Your father and the Council manage the affairs of the Spire by consensus, and all the habbles are represented in a fashion that at times borders upon being fair. |
Your father and the Council manage the affairs of the Spire by consensus, and all the habbles are represented in a fashion that at times borders upon being fair. The only armed forces we need within the Spire are the Guard—and they generally coordinate humanitarian efforts. I don’t rule, Miss Lancaster; nor did my father or grandfather. I just try to help my people when they need it.” “You are the Spirearch, sire,” Gwen insisted. “All the nobility honor you. All are honored to serve you.” “Merciful Builders, but you’re young,” he said with a whimsical smile. “Wait until I issue some sort of proclamation that cuts into their bank accounts, and I suspect they’d honor me with a mob and clubs.” He shook his head. “It’s tradition, true, for young nobles to volunteer to serve in the Guard, a mark of status. But it’s an arbitrary one in many ways. If I attempt to push past my boundaries, I expect some other activity might suddenly replace the Guard for highprofile service to the community.” “Not everyone feels that way, sire,” Benedict said quietly. “Not all of us see you as a relic.” “Not the Lancasters,” Gwen added. “Perhaps not,” the Spirearch said thoughtfully. “But be that as it may, I’m interested, Gwen, in why you wish to join the Guard.” “I am the only child of my father’s line,” she replied. “And as such may be excused from such duty with no loss of honor to you or your family. No one would think ill of you for avoiding your term of service.” Gwen lifted her chin slightly. “I would, sire.” The Spirearch sat back in his seat and eyed her for a moment. Then he said, “I will show you no favoritism whatsoever, Miss Lancaster, despite your importance to your father’s house. You will be given assignments like any other recruit. Some of those assignments might carry you into danger. More young men and women than I care to remember have been hurt or killed in the line of duty while following my commands. |
More young men and women than I care to remember have been hurt or killed in the line of duty while following my commands. Do you understand?” “Yes. I do, sire.” He finished the last few bites of his dumpling with a pensive frown. Then he turned to Benedict. “The same goes for you, Master Sorellin. I choose those best suited to the tasks at hand based upon their ability. You’ve been put into harm’s way in my service and might be again.” “Yes, sire,” Benedict said, as if the Spirearch had stated that water was wet. Addison nodded and said, “We’re to have about forty new recruits this year, and as many returning veterans. I’ll see you both at the palace at the end of the training cycle to take your vows and sign your contracts.” “Of course, sire,” Gwen said. “Sire…” “Miss Lancaster,” the Spirearch said reprovingly. “Addison,” she said, and then added, “sir.” He smiled, mostly with his eyes. “Yes?” “Had I known who you were earlier…” “You would have been well within your rights to react in precisely the same way, Miss Lancaster,” he said firmly. “Please excuse me for my rudeness. It’s very seldom I get to be impolite for fun— and I’m afraid I have a rather depressingly low sense of humor. I trust you will forgive me.” She felt her cheeks heating up again. “Of course, sire.” There was a sudden deep, hollow chime. Someone was ringing the bells at the center of the habble’s common area, near the marketplace. Benedict tensed. Then he popped the second half of his second dumpling into his mouth in a single bite. Gwen pushed her dumpling toward him automatically, and he scooped it up in what was clearly an unthinking, instinctive reaction. |
Gwen pushed her dumpling toward him automatically, and he scooped it up in what was clearly an unthinking, instinctive reaction. “Ah,” the Spirearch said. “I believe I saw something in the notices about a duel to be fought today. I may have heard that the situation has the potential to be quite messy and ugly for those involved. You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you, Miss Lancaster?” His voice was calm, even whimsical, but there was something in his words that carried the hint of steel. “I suspect you know very well that I do, sire.” His teeth showed briefly. “Then I suspect that you plan to see it to the end.” “We do,” Benedict said in a quiet voice. The Spirearch nodded. “A great many eyes are on what you do today, Miss Lancaster —among them my own.” Gwen swallowed. The great chime tolled several more times and then fell silent. The Spirearch glanced toward the source of the sound and nodded in what was undeniably a dismissal. “The Tagwynns are good people. House Lancaster has always had my respect, miss. I expect today’s events to vindicate that respect.” Gwen could recognize a command when she heard it, and her heart suddenly beat a little faster. This situation was no longer a simple mess caused by her lack of judgment. The attention of the Spirearch meant that it had ramifications for her House as well. “Yes, sire,” she said, her throat dry. “They will.” Chapter 10 Spire Albion, Habble Morning Bridget felt sure that she was going to be sick and throw up in front of half the habble. “Littlemouse,” Rowl said in a low, stern tone from her arms. “Straighten your back. |
“Straighten your back. Lift your chin. Show no fear. Give your enemy nothing.” “That’s very good advice, miss,” said the master of arms in a similar tone, though speaking the human tongue. He was a tall, spare man, the threads of silver in his hair standing out sharply against his all-black outfit. They were waiting in the common area of the market of Habble Morning, near the dueling platform, and the grizzled warriorborn man had just finished ringing the chimes. “You speak Cat, Mister…?” Bridget flushed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.” “Esterbrook, miss,” he said with a slight polite bow. “I don’t speak it well but I understand enough. All wise folk do.” “I like him,” Rowl said from Bridget’s arms. She smiled faintly and tried to follow Rowl’s advice. “I apologize if I do something improperly, Mister Esterbrook,” she said, “but I’m afraid I have little experience in these matters.” “Wise folk don’t,” Esterbrook said calmly, giving her another smile. “It’s simple enough, Miss Tagwynn.” “I’m unclear as to what role a master of arms plays in a duel when it’s being fought … unarmed.” “Oh, my part doesn’t change,” Esterbrook said. “My office is filled by several of us old soldiers, with one of us covering each day of the week. My job is to do everything possible to make sure everyone lives. I seek to resolve the cause of the duel before any blood is shed, and then I ensure that the protocol of the duel is followed and that no one interferes in what happens.” She frowned. “Who would interfere?” “His second, perhaps,” Esterbrook said. He glanced at Rowl. “Or yours.” Rowl gave a contemptuous flick of his ears and looked away. |
“Or yours.” Rowl gave a contemptuous flick of his ears and looked away. “And … if someone does not follow the rules?” “I’ll stop him,” Esterbrook said. “It is within the rights of my office to take any steps necessary to do so, up to and including the taking of life.” Bridget blinked. “Goodness.” “Duels are serious business, miss,” Esterbrook said quietly. “Though these arrogant sprats growing up these days don’t seem to think so. They shouldn’t be entered into lightly.” “They shouldn’t exist at all,” Bridget said. Esterbrook seemed to think about that for a moment. Then he shook his head. “They … serve a purpose, if they’re kept within a strict structure, and if death doesn’t result too often. There’s something to be said for having the means to directly confront someone who has wronged you—for there to be a reason for these glibtongued louts to show an ounce of courtesy and to guard their words.” “Ah,” Bridget said, flushing slightly. As the glibtongued lout in question, she was currently on the receiving end of this facet of the habble’s law. “I’m not sure everyone would agree with you. We’re a civilized society, are we not?” Esterbrook blinked. “Since when, miss? We’re a democracy.” “Just what I mean. We have dispensed with violence as a means of governing ourselves, have we not?” “The heart of democracy is violence, Miss Tagwynn,” Esterbrook said. “In order to decide what to do, we take a count of everyone for and against it, and then do whatever the larger side wishes to do. We’re having a symbolic battle, its outcome decided by simple numbers. It saves us time and no end of trouble counting actual bodies —but don’t mistake it for anything but ritualized violence. And every few years, if the person we elected doesn’t do the job we wanted, we vote him out of office—we symbolically behead him and replace him with someone else. |
And every few years, if the person we elected doesn’t do the job we wanted, we vote him out of office—we symbolically behead him and replace him with someone else. Again, without the actual pain and bloodshed, but acting out the ritual of violence nonetheless. It’s actually a very practical way of getting things done.” Bridget blinked several times. “I’ve never thought of it that way,” she confessed. “It is one of the only things we respect about your people,” Rowl put in. “Though, of course, cats do it better.” “Quite possibly,” Esterbrook agreed. “Ah. Here comes the physician. And your esteemed opponent, it would seem.” Bridget looked around them. People were appearing from all over the market in response to the chimes— dozens of people, in fact. And only a moment later, she was quite sure that dozens had become hundreds. She felt her throat turning very dry, to go along with her fluttering stomach and her racing heart. Fear was really quite tedious. She wanted to be rid of it as soon as possible. A small man with silvery hair carrying a physician’s valise and wearing a very sensible, no-nonsense suit approached Esterbrook, and the two exchanged handshakes. Esterbrook introduced the man to Bridget, though a few seconds later she had completely forgotten his name. The crowd continued to grow. At lunch, on a weekday? Hadn’t these people anything better to do with their time? Bridget frowned at the crowd and restrained herself from rubbing Rowl’s ears, which the cat would have found undignified in public. |
Bridget frowned at the crowd and restrained herself from rubbing Rowl’s ears, which the cat would have found undignified in public. Reginald Astor appeared out of the throng, along with not only his second, but half a dozen other men of the same general age and rank. He was dressed just as she was, in a plain grey training uniform. They approached as a group, Reggie swaggering in the lead. Beside her, Bridget felt Mister Esterbrook grow tight with coiled tension, something she sensed on a level below conscious thought—it was, she thought, almost the same sense she felt from a suddenly angered cat. “Master of Arms,” Reggie said, throwing the warriorborn man an exaggerated bow. “It’s about time we did this, isn’t it?” Esterbrook narrowed his feline eyes but inclined his head in respect. “I am indeed the master of arms. My name is Elias Esterbr—” “Details,” Reggie said. His eyes were focused intently on Bridget. “There she is, the little trog with her little scavenger.” The idiot couldn’t have known that it was a word the cats considered a deadly insult. Rowl catapulted up from his resting place in Bridget’s arms toward Reggie, and it was all she could do to keep hold of the suddenly furious cat. Reggie reconfirmed his idiocy by bursting out in laughter, though at least his second had the wit to take an alarmed step back. “Goodness!” he said in a merry voice. “Is the kitty upset with me? It’s not as though I’m launching a suit to have the vicious little thing drowned.” “Rowl,” Bridget hissed in Cat. “Settle down.” “I heard him,” Rowl snarled. “And he will be dealt with,” Bridget said, “in the proper order of things. First he is mine.” Rowl let out a spitting snarl of frustration and then settled down again, though his body remained quivering-tight with tension. “Mister Esterbrook,” Bridget said, looking from Rowl to the man. |
“Mister Esterbrook,” Bridget said, looking from Rowl to the man. “I am ready to begin, sir.” The warriorborn nodded. “In accordance with Spire law, I beseech you both to resolve your differences in some less dangerous and destructive manner. No matter how well managed, loss of life and limb remains a possibility of any duel. I now ask you, Mister Astor, if you will retract your grievance and avoid the dangers inherent in a confrontation.” “She insulted the honor of my House,” Reggie said loftily. “She will apologize for it or I will have satisfaction here and now.” Esterbrook turned to Bridget. “Miss Tagwynn, will you offer such an apology?” “Let me be clear that I never offered House Astor an insult, Mister Esterbrook,” Bridget said. “Nor did I insult Reginald. I simply described him in accurate terms. If he finds himself insulted by the truth, it’s hardly my concern.” A low, quiet round of chuckles went through the crowd. “But in any case,” Bridget said, “I stand by what I said. Truth does not become untruth simply because its existence upsets the scion of a High House.” Esterbrook’s eyes glinted and he nodded once. “Let the record show that neither combatant finds a way to resolve their differences peaceably. We will therefore proceed to contest. Mister Astor, is your second present?” “Yes, here, of course,” Reggie said, beckoning his cousin Barnabus forward. “Miss Tagwynn, is your second present?” “I am,” Rowl said, in Cat. Esterbrook nodded seriously, and another murmur ran through the crowd, a mixed sound of amusement, disgust, confusion, excitement, and other things Bridget couldn’t quite make out. “Point of order!” Reggie said, in a voice meant to carry to the entire crowd. “This is a violation of duel protocol. Miss Tagwynn has arrived without a second.” Esterbrook looked at Reggie with a blank expression. |
Miss Tagwynn has arrived without a second.” Esterbrook looked at Reggie with a blank expression. “Oh?” “The law states,” Reggie continued, “that a duelist’s second must be a citizen of a habble in good standing with the law.” Reggie sneered at Rowl. “And as I see no such person here, I can only conclude that Miss Tagwynn did not bring a second. I insist that she be prosecuted for acting in contempt of Spire law, and her House fined appropriately.” Bridget’s stomach plunged. It happened only on rare occasions, when someone felt the need to punish a House that had not left itself vulnerable in any other way, but when fines were levied for violations of Spire law, they tended to be outrageous. Even the smallest of the fees that could be forced upon her father would quite literally beggar him. “Master Astor,” Esterbrook said, and to Bridget’s surprise, his own voice was pitched to carry as well. “When it comes to supporting the letter and spirit of the law, your dedication and zeal are selectively remarkable.” He reached into his coat and produced a folded writing sheet. “I have here in my possession an affidavit, reviewed and notarized by Judge Helena Solomon. It states that one Rowl, heir apparent of House Silent Paws, has with the rest of his House pledged his support to His Majesty, Addison Orson Magnus Jeremiah Albion, First Citizen and Spirearch of Albion. Further, the affidavit states that he resides within Habble Morning and that no outstanding fines or warrants have been levied against him. As such, he is, in fact, a citizen of the habble, in good standing.” “What?” Reggie said. “House what?” Esterbrook diffidently offered him the writing sheet. Reggie snatched it and stared, reading. His cheeks turned bright red, and the crowd began to murmur again. Bridget’s gaze fell on a plain, rather dumpy man standing not too far away, in the first row of gawkers. Unlike the others, he was not speaking to anyone else. There was something familiar about him, something that reminded her of her primary schooling days, but she couldn’t pin down the proper memory. His greying hair was shaggy, his suit years out of style, and if he hadn’t been the only person in sight who appeared absolutely calm and undistracted by Esterbrook’s pronouncement, she might never have taken notice of him. She felt his eyes meet hers. |
She felt his eyes meet hers. A glitter of mirth passed through them, and he gave her a wink. Bridget blinked. That was rather bold of him, whoever he was. Was he one of her father’s business associates, someone she’d met when she was much younger? She was sure she would have remembered. And why was she gawking at the man when, she realized, one of the most important legal precedents in the Spire’s recent history had just been made? Cats had been declared citizens of the habble. Apparently with all the rights and—much more critically—the responsibilities that status implied. Cats and humans had enjoyed a longstanding arrangement—but one that was entirely unofficial, and which either side could violate without necessarily creating enormous repercussions. But Esterbrook and his proclamation had just changed that balance immensely—and perhaps not, Bridget realized with dismay, for the good of all involved. “This is not…” Reggie sputtered. “Cats are not eligible to…” “According to the law, sir,” Esterbrook said calmly, “they are. Have you any other complaints to make before we proceed, sir? Or perhaps you have changed your mind, and would be willing to simply abandon this fruitless course.” Reggie narrowed his eyes, his gaze locking onto Bridget and Rowl. “You’re making a mockery of a noble tradition, beast-man.” Esterbrook’s feline eyes narrowed to slits, and there was a hint of a growl deep in his chest when he spoke. “I simply execute the responsibilities of my office, Master Astor. If that displeases you in some fashion it is not my concern.” Reggie’s friends took note of the growl and gathered in close around him. Just then there were footsteps behind Bridget, and Gwendolyn Lancaster and Benedict Sorellin appeared from the crowd. They were both dressed in civilian clothing, Gwen in a pearlgrey dress, vest, and jacket, and Benedict in a simple, rather dismal black suit. |
They were both dressed in civilian clothing, Gwen in a pearlgrey dress, vest, and jacket, and Benedict in a simple, rather dismal black suit. Both of them, Bridget noted, were wearing gauntlets, the thick copper wire of the weapons’ cages wrapping around their left forearms. “Are we too late?” Gwendolyn asked. Bridget had no notion whatsoever how the prim little noblewoman managed to load so much arrogance and confidence into her seemingly fatuous tone. “I do hope we haven’t missed the display of courage and grace that this little event promises to be. Goodness, Reggie, here you are. With six friends.” She gave Astor a blindingly white smile and counted them, moving her hand in a seemingly unconscious gesture. “One, two, three, four, five, six.” Gwendolyn, Bridget noted, used her gauntlet-clad left hand to count. The copper cage glinted in the noonday light. “I thought two were all that were needed for a duel,” Benedict said, his tone weighted with exaggerated confusion. “Indeed,” Gwendolyn replied. “Reggie seems to have become befuddled.” “I can help,” Benedict said. And then his manner changed, the false drama vanishing. He simply stared at them, no expression at all on his face. “Come, boys. Let’s the five of you and I leave Reggie and his second to this business. I’ll buy you each a round and you can decide which fight you want to watch.” “Which fight?” Gwen asked. “Whatever do you mean?” “They have a choice,” Benedict said. “Watch Reggie fighting Bridget. Or me. |
Or me. Fighting them. One will take a great deal less time than the other.” “Sorellin,” Esterbrook growled, his tone full of gentle reproof. “I’ll have no brawling here.” “Sir,” Benedict said with a nod. “It won’t be a brawl, sir.” Esterbrook seemed to consider that for a moment, and then nodded. “Very well, then.” Bridget thought, with some satisfaction, that Reggie’s crowd of hangers-on looked rather nervous. They were trying for arrogant, but the way they had all unconsciously moved a few inches back from Benedict was rather telling. “You can’t threaten me, Sorellin,” Reggie snarled. Benedict blinked several times. “Reggie, my old friend, I wouldn’t disturb your business today for the world. You know exactly where you reside within my personal regard. I would never harm a hair on your head.” “I might,” Gwen put in cheerfully. “I’ve got this lovely new gauntlet and I’ve never actually used it on anyone.” Esterbrook cleared his throat. “Oh, piffle, I didn’t use it on you, only near you,” she said to him. “But, Reggie, let me be perfectly clear. You sought this duel, and you’re going to have it. You and your second, and your friends can watch like everyone else. There will be no distractions, no moments of confusion, no mysterious objects flung from the crowd. Just you on the platform.” She smiled even more widely. “Do you understand?” “Miss Lancaster,” Esterbrook said in a heavy tone. |
“Do you understand?” “Miss Lancaster,” Esterbrook said in a heavy tone. “I am quite sure that the young man has no intention of dishonoring the House of Astor this day with any such action.” “Unless,” Bridget added, “he’s … perhaps afraid of me.” Gwen glanced up at Bridget, her eyes shining. “Unless that.” “Enough,” Reggie growled. “Master of Arms, commence.” He turned to his friends and said, “Go watch with the Lancasters. Make sure they don’t interfere.” Gwen turned to Bridget, nodded firmly up at her, and said, “If you find it quite convenient, make him cry. There’s such a nice turnout for it.” Bridget found herself letting out a brief breath of a laugh, and she suddenly found the sickness in her stomach diminishing. “Just breathe,” Benedict advised her. “Relax. Let him make the first mistake. Believe me: You can count on Reggie for that.” He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze with his fingers and smiled at her. Then her friends turned to Reggie’s pack of bullies, and they all departed in a group with Gwendolyn and Benedict, all of them smiling politely at one another and walking as if they expected the others to leap upon them in the instant they lowered their guard. Esterbrook looked around at the crowd for a moment and shook his head. He muttered something under his breath about the Great Houses and their theater, and then turned to Bridget. “Miss Tagwynn,” he said. “As the challenged party, you may decide which of you will take position on the platform first.” “Very well,” she said. “Where will Rowl stand?” “On the ground beside the platform. Only the two seconds and myself are permitted within ten feet of it. That’s the rule.” “I will not be able to see from there,” Rowl said. “You should change the rule immediately.” Esterbrook grunted and thought. Then he turned and picked up one of the large chimes in its heavy metal frame. |
Then he turned and picked up one of the large chimes in its heavy metal frame. It must have weighed three hundred pounds if an ounce, but the rather leanlooking man moved it as if it had been a living-room chair, putting it beside the nearest corner of the platform. “There, sir cat,” he said. “So that you can see. Does that suit you?” Rowl considered the chime gravely and then calmly leapt onto it. He took a few steps about before sitting down and saying, “It will suffice. Barely.” “Excellent,” Esterbrook said. “Miss Tagwynn?” “I’ll go first,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.” “As you wish, miss,” Esterbrook said. And a moment later Bridget found herself standing upon a platform looking out over the crowd that had gathered to watch the duel. There were … more people than she had ever seen in her life in any single place, and she absolutely could not let herself think about the number of eyes that were upon her. She might simply scream. So instead she took Benedict’s words to heart and started breathing in a slow, steady tempo, focusing upon her surroundings and her opponent. Reggie climbed onto the platform at the opposite corner, his second standing on the ground just behind him. As he stood up, the crowd let out a cheer and began clapping and shouting and whistling. The sound was enormous, terrifying, like the rumbles of thunder that sometimes reached down into Habble Morning during the fiercest thunderstorms of spring. “Littlemouse,” came Rowl’s voice from behind her. “Remember who you are. This creature wants to take it from you. Do not let him.” She turned to give the cat a glance and a quick nod. |
Do not let him.” She turned to give the cat a glance and a quick nod. Then she turned to face Reggie again. Esterbrook hopped lightly up onto the platform and went to stand in the center of it, holding a simple red kerchief in his right hand. The symbolism of the color of the cloth was not lost on Bridget. The color of blood. This was a place of blood and pain and death, and any of them were a possibility in the next few moments. Focus. She had to focus. She kept breathing and systematically blocked out everything but herself, the platform, Reggie and the cloth. Esterbrook restated the circumstances of the duel for the public, and that Bridget had chosen to face her challenger in unarmed combat. Reggie was smirking at her. It was meant to be a smug, confident expression, but … she fancied she could see something darker and uglier hiding within his eyes. He might not even know it was there, she realized—but he hated her. Or at least he hated something that, at this moment, happened to be Bridget-shaped. Reggie had been trained. He knew how to fight this way. She’d been training, too, but she knew so very little. Victory isn’t about the quantity of what you know, Benedict had assured her during the past days, but the quality. She hoped he was right. Esterbrook raised the kerchief. |
Esterbrook raised the kerchief. In a moment he would drop it. When it touched the surface of the platform, the duel would begin. Just breathe. Focus. Concentrate. Breathe. He released the kerchief. And a sudden low, urgent shriek went through the air, piercingly loud. The crowd froze. Bridget looked around in confusion, only to see Reggie standing, looking upward, with his mouth wide-open. Esterbrook’s expression was, for an instant, one of disbelief. Then, as the sound droned on and on, rising and falling in a slow ululation, his expression turned grim. Thunder, louder than even the storms of spring, began to rumble through the very stone of Spire Albion. For some reason her eyes settled on the man in the crowd who had winked at her earlier. His face contained neither confusion nor fear as he stared up at the translucent vaulted ceiling of Habble Morning. His expression was full of a cold, steely rage. He turned at once, sharply, while everyone else was still looking around, and began stalking through the milling crowd, moving swiftly and in a straight line, as if by some effort of sheer will he made the folk of Habble Morning find other places to be than in his path. Bridget found herself standing beside Esterbrook, though she had no recollection of stepping forward. “What is this sound?” Bridget asked him, shouting over the racket. |
“What is this sound?” Bridget asked him, shouting over the racket. “What’s happening?” “Air-raid siren!” Esterbrook shouted back. “The first in twenty years! You need to take shelter, Miss Tagwynn! Spire Albion is under attack!” Chapter 11 Spire Albion, Fleet Shipyards Creedy!” Grimm called as he made his way over the mist-shrouded gangplank from the airship dock in the Fleet shipyard atop Spire Albion, and onto Predator. “With me!” “Captain on deck!” called Kettle, down in the hold. “Mister Creedy to the deck!” “My cabin,” Grimm said with a grimace, and headed that way. “Aye, sir,” Kettle said. Then in an astonished voice he said, “Captain. Your clothes … Sir, you’re wounded.” Grimm sighed and looked down at the borrowed outfit Ferus had lent him. It was not, strictly speaking, an actual suit, having been made from two or perhaps three vaguely similar suits, none of them particularly fine. He’d rigged his wounded arm into a sling. “Aye, aye, summat came out of the vents and tried to make a meal of me in a side tunnel. My own fault for taking a shortcut.” “Bloody hell,” Kettle said, clearly angry. “Doesn’t Habble Morning employ verminocitors anymore?” “No permanent harm done,” Grimm said, giving Kettle a quick wink. “How many men are on shore leave, do you know?” “We’ve a quarter crew aboard,” Kettle said. “The boys are off seeing some duel happening in the market today. Couple of highborn sprats going bare-knuckle, ’twould seem. There’s a group bet against a bunch of those rascals from Glorious.” “I hope they make out,” Grimm said. “They’ll need to, after what Itasca did to our accounts.” “Never fear, sir,” Kettle said. |
“They’ll need to, after what Itasca did to our accounts.” “Never fear, sir,” Kettle said. “The boys will be fine.” He finished folding the long web of ethersilk he’d been untangling, secured it with leather ties, and then stowed it in one of the lockers beside the base of the rigging— despite the fact that the masts and spars were currently missing from the ship’s upper deck, not yet having been replaced. “Let me get the door for you, sir.” “Thank you,” Grimm said. Kettle opened the door to his cabin and Grimm stepped in, turning to pass his sheathed sword to Kettle. “See this cleaned for me, would you? Bit hard to manage with one hand.” “Aye, sir,” Kettle said, accepting the weapon and shutting the door behind him. Grimm settled down in his chair. His wounded arm ached quite uncomfortably, though Ferus assured him it was healing. Folly had presented him with a small jar of rather sharp-scented unguent, and he was supposed to apply it to the wound every time he changed the dressing. Something else he would have to ask for help with. Mister Bagen, the ship’s doctor, would doubtless find it tedious and complain interminably about the haplessness of wayward captains. Creedy knocked and entered when Grimm bade him do so. The tall young officer had to duck his head a bit to keep from bumping it on the ceiling. “Sit, sit,” Grimm said. “You look like you’re apologizing for something, just standing there.” Creedy smiled faintly and settled on the bench along the cabin’s wall, opposite the bunk. “Kettle says you were injured, sir.” “Some damned creature came out of the vents, I suppose,” Grimm replied. “Worse attacks have happened.” “Bad luck,” Creedy said. “We’ve had a bit of a run of it, haven’t we?” “I suppose that depends on how one regards it,” Grimm replied. “We had a rather good bit of luck in surviving an engagement with a Cortezclass and Itasca, after all. We’re here to tell the tale.” “That’s true, sir,” Creedy said. |
We’re here to tell the tale.” “That’s true, sir,” Creedy said. He bit his lip. “You were gone overnight. I hope you don’t mind that I granted the men liberty.” “They’d have hung you from a spar and taken it if you hadn’t,” Grimm said. “Keeping a quarter crew aboard was the right decision.” Creedy looked slightly relieved and nodded. “Good.” He glanced up at Grimm and said, “Captain … I don’t want to overstep my place, but…” “Go ahead. Ask. Pour us a drink while you’re at it.” Creedy looked relieved to be given some orders to follow while he spoke his mind, and he drew glasses and bottle from their usual places. “Sir, I’ve been taking a survey of the damage.” “How accurate was Journeyman’s estimate?” “Spot-on, sir,” he replied, somewhat reluctantly. “The blighter is insubordinate, but he knows his job.” “Yes, he does,” Grimm said, accepting the glass Creedy offered him. “Sir,” Creedy said, “the estimate for repairs is … considerable.” “I’m aware,” Grimm said. “I’m afraid that … times being what they are, there might be those in the High Houses who might begin to put pressure on you to sell.” “Really?” Grimm said. “Well, I suppose they have the right to make offers.” “I’m afraid they might be more aggressive than that, sir,” Creedy said earnestly. “If they get out of line, I’ll just slap them around and threaten them until they stop,” Grimm said. At that Creedy all but spat out some of the drink he’d just taken. He managed to choke it down and after a moment managed a chuckle. “My sister told me you had an odd sense of humor, sir.” “I suppose I do,” Grimm said. “But … joking aside. What are you going to do with her, sir? I mean, I don’t know if you’ll be able to get a loan, not in these times. |
I mean, I don’t know if you’ll be able to get a loan, not in these times. If you won’t sell her and you can’t repair her … what?” Grimm studied the young man for a moment. Creedy seemed almost painfully earnest, and Grimm had always thought well of the young man’s family, but … Rook had obtained a description of Predator’s wounds sooner and more thoroughly than he should have. Someone had talked, and while Grimm had no reason to suspect that it was an act of malice in general, or Creedy’s act in particular, it was perhaps best to employ a modicum of caution. “Let me worry about that, XO,” he said. “There are several possibilities to explore, and I’m going to examine them all. Meanwhile, we stick to Journeyman’s proposal for refitting her. I saw to having the death benefits paid before my, ah, little adventure in the ventilation tunnels. We’ll replace her spars and her web out of what’s left of our current funds, as well as the bulkheads and the number three gun emplacement. There’s enough money to do that much, and it will be your concern. I’ll secure the new crystals we’ll need.” “Sir, uh. I thought we might take on a cargo.” “Cargo?” Grimm asked. “In her shape?” “No need to strain her, sir,” Creedy said quickly. “But … a short run could yield some quick, modest profit.” “A short run…” Grimm frowned. “You mean down to Landing, don’t you?” “There’s always cargo coming and going from the lower habbles, sir,” Creedy said. “In barges. In scows,” Grimm said quietly, “and on windlasses. Predator is an airship, Commander.” “With all due respect, sir,” Creedy said, looking down, “she isn’t. Not right now. Not until you’ve secured the funds to mend her.” “I’ll consider it,” Grimm said, and managed to avoid growling as he did. |
Not until you’ve secured the funds to mend her.” “I’ll consider it,” Grimm said, and managed to avoid growling as he did. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention.” “Sir,” Creedy said, “it might take you several years of work to earn it that way, but it would be honest work at least. There’s no shame in it.” “And no joy, either,” Grimm said. “Not for me, not for the crew, and not for Predator. You can’t expect a cat to change his fur for you because you think it would be better.” Creedy blinked at that. “I … I don’t understand.” “A ship is more than wood and crystals and ethersilk, Byron,” Grimm said. “Some thick-skulled vat counters have always said it was nonsense, but the men on the ships know better. Airships aren’t just vehicles—and the men who treat them like more than that get more out of them.” “In the academy, we were taught that it has never been conclusively—” “I went to the academy, too, thank you,” Grimm said. “The academy is where knowledge begins—not where it ends. You’re a solid man. You’ll understand in time.” “If you say so, sir,” Creedy said dubiously. “I do,” Grimm said. “But for now, why do we not consider ways we might—” He stopped abruptly. There was a faint, faint sound, something he had heard before, hauntingly familiar. Then he placed it—a highpitched humming, like an etherwasp gliding effortlessly on an etheric wind, but louder, wider, deeper. It was the distant war cry of an Auroran destroyer—if he remembered correctly, the Ciervo. But that would mean … Grimm bolted to his feet and flung open his cabin door. He stomped onto deck, bellowing, “General quarters! General quarters!” Creedy came out after him, gave him the briefest of stunned looks, then whirled and started ringing the ship’s bell. Grimm hurried to the speaking tube and shouted, “Journeyman! |
Grimm hurried to the speaking tube and shouted, “Journeyman! Get your drunken ass out of that chair you think I don’t know about and run up the main crystal! Get us off this dock and bring up the shroud!” Journeyman didn’t reply, but only seconds later the planks of the deck began to quiver and vibrate as Predator’s main power crystal stirred to life—and less than a minute later she let out groans and squeaks of protest from her battered timbers and began to rise. “Kettle, the lines!” Grimm bellowed—but he didn’t need to do it. Kettle was already taking an ax to the heavy lines that secured Predator to the dock, cutting the wounded ship free. Meanwhile, Ciervo’s war cry grew louder and louder and louder. Around the shipyard, vessels of the Fleet began to call general quarters as well, the alarm bells ringing in strident cadence. Somewhere in Habble Morning, immediately below the shipyard, an air-raid siren began to wail. And then the enemy was on them. Ciervo—Grimm was sure of it now—appeared out of the mists above in a screaming dive that took her streaking down past the shipyard at a steep attack angle. Her guns spat thunder and howling light into the docked airships and into the shipyard itself, detonations flinging men and equipment about like tea leaves whirling in a stirred cup. And behind her, following her same dive, were half a dozen more vessels like her. Fire began falling from the far side of the shipyard, marching toward Predator in a swath of hellish destruction. Even as Grimm watched, Chivalrous, a heavy cruiser three times his own ship’s size, vanished into a cloud of fire and light and screams of anguished ship and crew. Other ships were struck, though the heavier vessels, even without their shrouds up and active, were only minimally harmed by the light guns of the enemy destroyers. The oncoming fire destroyed a merchant ship named Tinker only a hundred yards from Predator. Then another merchant vessel called Surplus blew into flaming splinters only fifty yards away, in the neighboring slip. Splinters and bits of metal—and worse —flew past Grimm in a deadly cloud, some of the pieces so close that he heard them go by. Grimm planted his feet as he felt his ship wallowing up off of her dock, lifted his chin, and wondered whether he’d realized the danger in time to stop the Auroran squadron from finishing what Itasca had begun. The fire of the final ship in the column fell upon Predator … And shattered into light and whistling shrieks against his ship’s now-active shroud, the light blinding without his protective goggles. |
The fire of the final ship in the column fell upon Predator … And shattered into light and whistling shrieks against his ship’s now-active shroud, the light blinding without his protective goggles. Grimm held himself perfectly still, as if his entire field of vision had not at all been converted into a tapestry of dancing colors, and then the screams of the diving vessels faded abruptly as they plunged past the edge of the Spire and on down into the mists below. Grimm blinked his eyes until he could see again, and scanned the misty sky around the shipyard. He saw what he’d been afraid he would see, and turned to Creedy calmly. “Form a shore party to bring the crew back to duty,” he said. “Tell Kettle that he’s acting armorer. Crew to be armed with gauntlets, sidearms, and tunics immediately.” Creedy only stared at Grimm, stunned. His eyes flicked around the shipyard, where dozens of fires had begun to blaze, consuming the costly wooden structures that had been erected to expand upon the original spirestone design. People were screaming and dying. “Creedy!” Grimm snapped. “Sir.” He repeated his orders. “Aye, sir,” Creedy said, blinking, and set about them. Given a task, Grimm thought, Creedy was excellent at seeing it through. Within a moment he had dispatched Kettle with an armed shore party, and put Journeyman in charge of distributing weapons to the crew and preparing more for quick issue when Kettle returned. “I don’t understand, Captain,” he said when he was finished. “Why arm the men?” Grimm pointed at a bit of debris floating lightly on the wind. A stray current of air or ether sent it gliding down to the deck of Predator. It was a small rectangle of ethersilk. He picked it up and held it out to Creedy. The square of silk stirred and rippled in the shipyard’s etheric eddies, moved just as it might by wind, though in a slower, more graceful manner. |
The square of silk stirred and rippled in the shipyard’s etheric eddies, moved just as it might by wind, though in a slower, more graceful manner. “Is that…?” Creedy began. “The etheric sail from a boarding rig,” Grimm confirmed. The flag-size squares of ethersilk were used to help propel and guide the flight of a parasail. With decent etheric currents, a well-managed parasail, and a bit of luck, a man could climb, descend, and alter course. In the Fleet, such rigs were used in boarding actions, with Marines leaping from their airship and using them to glide down to the enemy vessel. Grimm held up a few broken cords fastened to the ethersilk and said, “It would appear that they frayed and snapped when the rig opened. Whichever poor bastard was using it as part of his gear is on his way to the surface now. The Aurorans always were cheap about the equipment for their Marines.” Creedy finally understood and stared up into the pale mists overhead. The sun was a dull circle. Some days the top of Spire Albion could see open blue sky. Today the typical blanketing mist had reduced visibility to a few hundred yards at best. “You think there are enemy Marines on the way?” “This isn’t a full Fleet assault,” Grimm said. “The Spire’s batteries were surprised by that dive, but you can be sure they’re ready now. If the Aurorans intended to seriously assault Albion, their battleships would have blanketed the shipyard batteries with fire the instant their own ships had completed their pass.” “Then this was a raiding force?” Creedy asked. Grimm frowned, looking at the yards. The Fleet vessels had not reacted as swiftly as Predator and her crew, but they were now in the process of leaving the shipyard, gathering together two hundred feet above the Spire, concentrating their armor and firepower. Albion’s home fleet consisted of a corps of twenty Roc-class battleships, absolute leviathans a hundred times the mass of Predator— and correspondingly sluggish and slow to respond. They were accompanied by a screen of lighter vessels, around fifty cruisers and destroyers of various tonnages. All of them had sounded general quarters and were under way. |
All of them had sounded general quarters and were under way. Grimm watched the Fleet lurching into motion, which he suspected to be futility in action, and jerked his chin up toward the mists above them. “You’ve got to admire how well the Aurorans managed that pass of the Spire, and in mist like this. But those destroyers can’t lock horns with the home Fleet, or with the Spire’s batteries. They damaged or destroyed a few lighter ships, but they couldn’t possibly have hoped to inflict serious harm to home Fleet.” “You think the attack was a distraction,” Creedy said. “Why do it otherwise?” Grimm nodded overhead again. “I suspect there’s a troop transport up there, dropping its complement.” “Merciful Builders,” Creedy said, his eyes widening in understanding. “They knew the Fleet would mobilize. They wouldn’t have any choice.” “Precisely,” Grimm said. “If they can get a body of troops into the Spire, God in Heaven only knows what mischief the Aurorans could manage. And as we speak, every Marine in home Fleet is aboard his ship. Up there. Where he can’t defend the Spire.” “We’ve got to tell Fleet,” Creedy said. “I’m an exile, and you’ve been habbled, Byron,” Grimm said quietly. “All I have is a theory and an old piece of ethersilk. Even if we could get word to him, do you think Admiral Watson would stand down?” Creedy’s face looked pained, frustrated. He nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful. Then he said, “The men are a fine crew, but they aren’t professional soldiers—and a regiment of Auroran Marines will outnumber us three to one. They’ll tear us—That is, we’ll never defeat them.” “We needn’t defeat them,” Grimm said, “but only slow them down. Bayard has a crooked mind but it works perfectly well. |
Bayard has a crooked mind but it works perfectly well. He’ll realize what’s happening before long.” “Yes, sir,” Creedy said quietly. “What are we to do?” “Gather the crew, arm them, and defend the Spire, Mister Creedy,” Grimm said. “Make ready to repel boarders.” Chapter 12 Spire Albion, Habble Morning To shelter, then,” Benedict said, turning to Gwen as the sirens wailed. “Back to Lancaster, I think.” Gwen stared around at the rising panic spreading through the market. “I … Yes, the house is supposed to be under a structural strongpoint of some kind, but…” Bridget hopped down from the dueling platform and caught Rowl as he jumped up into her arms. The cat’s eyes were very wide, his head jerking back and forth as he tried to track all the frantic movement. “My father,” Bridget said. “I need to get to my father.” “Wait,” Gwen said, catching Benedict’s wrist as he was turning to go. There was something in her that was screaming for attention, and she had to take a moment for the thought to crystallize. The young man arched an eyebrow and looked down at her—but he waited. Then there was a hideous sound, as if a thunderbolt could scream in anguish and rage. Part of the translucent ceiling of Habble Morning suddenly burned with a light brighter than any mistshrouded noonday sun. The very floor beneath their feet shook with it, and a pall of dust fell from the ceiling high overhead. A second later there was another shrieking impact, and another, making the spirestone of Albion toll like a titanic bell. Dust fell in a choking haze, and the screaming redoubled. Pieces of masonry that in the past had been used to repair the not-quite-invulnerable spirestone fell, some of them larger than a man. Gwen took note of them and simply lifted her chin. The stones would fall where they fell. Panicked flight might as easily carry her beneath a falling mound of masonry as save her from it. |
Panicked flight might as easily carry her beneath a falling mound of masonry as save her from it. Her father had always said that when one most wanted to panic was when one most needed to think clearly, so despite the falling stone, Gwendolyn Lancaster stood quietly. Then she spoke in a slow, firm tone, realizing the truth of the words even as she said them. “We are members of the Spirearch’s Guard. We don’t run from trouble. We run toward it. We should report for duty.” Bridget blinked at that, and her expressive face showed a flicker of fear, then resignation, and then annoyance. “Oh, bother. I should have remembered that myself.” Benedict smiled with tight lips. “Ah. I had rather hoped to get the two of you stowed in some nice safe strong room, but … you’re right, of course. We should.” “Benny, don’t be tiresome,” Gwen said. “Where do we go?” Again the Spire shook with thunder, and more rock fell. Screams began nearby, highpitched and terrible. Gwen could not be sure whether it was a man or a woman or a child. “There,” Benedict said, nodding toward the source of the sound. “Our first duty is to protect and aid endangered citizens. Follow me.” The three of them and Rowl started forward through the panicked residents and dustfilled air, Benedict’s tall, lean form leading the way. A waterfall of shattered stone roared down abruptly, only a few yards away, and Gwen absolutely could not believe how violently loud the impact sounded. Small chips of stone flew out, one of them stinging as it struck her hip. |
Small chips of stone flew out, one of them stinging as it struck her hip. She saw Bridget flinch, and a tiny spot of blood appeared on her right cheek. They ran perhaps fifty strides, the screaming growing louder, and suddenly from out of the haze of shattered stone the shape of a mound of rubble appeared. Someone was pinned beneath a large piece of masonry. Some of the dust had been matted into scarlet mud. He was clearly in agony. “Benedict, lift the stone,” Gwen said. “Bridget, help me slide him out.” “Wait,” Benedict snapped. “If he’s bleeding under there, the rock could be holding the injury shut. We have to be ready to stanch it immediately when we get him out. We need cloth for bandages.” Gwen nodded sharply and promptly reached for the hem of her skirt and started tearing it into strips. “Bridget,” she said. Bridget knelt down and started to do the same thing, while Benedict crouched beside the trapped man. Then Gwen’s cousin let out a swift curse. “It’s Barnabus Astor under all this dust,” Benedict said. “Bad luck,” Gwen noted, still tearing. “If there were any kind of justice, it would be Reggie there.” Between the two of them, Gwen and Bridget managed to reduce the outermost layer of Gwen’s skirts into strips and folded pads. Once it was done, Benedict nodded and said, “Bridget, haul him out when I lift. Don’t dawdle.” “I won’t,” Bridget said seriously. Then Benedict turned to the fallen stone, a mass the size of a small coffin, dug his fingers beneath one edge, and heaved with the entire power of his lean frame. |
Then Benedict turned to the fallen stone, a mass the size of a small coffin, dug his fingers beneath one edge, and heaved with the entire power of his lean frame. For a second nothing happened. The muscles in Benedict’s back and shoulders swelled out and shook. But then there was a groan and the rock shifted ever so slightly. Poor Barnabus let out a shriek of new agony, and then Bridget was dragging him out from beneath the rock. There was blood, Gwen noted, what seemed an entirely unnecessary amount of it. A few weeks ago she’d have had no real idea what to do about it, but their first long day of weapons training had been composed entirely of lessons in how to deal with injuries like this one. Gwen slammed a thick pad of cloth over a spurting wound in Barnabus’s leg, then wrapped strips of cloth around it, tightened them, and tied them off. The young man let out another breathless gasp of agony as she jerked the knots tight. “That will do to get him to safety,” Benedict said, panting. “Bridget, I’m going to pick him up. I want you to get his wounded leg up onto your shoulder. Keep it elevated, eh?” “Of course.” Thunder roared again, and stones began to fall nearby. There was a low, deep groaning sound from overhead, and Benedict’s face went white. “Hurry!” He scooped Barnabus in his arms and Bridget immediately braced the wounded man’s leg on one of her shoulders. To Gwen’s great alarm, rocks began to fall more rapidly all around them. “We’ve got to get out of the atrium! There, a side tunnel.” “Go, go, go!” Benedict shouted, and began to half run, half shuffle toward the relative safety of the smaller tunnel. Just as they slipped into its cool dimness the tower groaned again, and suddenly a section of masonry the size of an average home crashed down onto the space they’d just vacated. The noise was deafening. |
The noise was deafening. The dust became a throat-closing, choking pall. “Farther in!” Gwen gasped, and they continued their retreat down the dim side tunnel, into what rapidly became blackness. Finally they reached a turn, and once they’d rounded the corner the air suddenly grew sweet again, the gentle current flowing down the tunnel evidently dispersing the dust, and they came to a halt. “Light?” Benedict asked, coughing. Gwen reached up to the small crystals on her earrings with the fingers of her right hand and willed them to life one at a time, just as she would have done to discharge a gauntlet. The tiny crystals winked alight. It wasn’t particularly bright light, but contrasted with the blackness it was dazzling. Benedict lay the wounded man on the ground and examined his injuries. “Bother,” he said quietly. “Barney, old man, I’m afraid you’ve sprung a few leaks.” Barnabus answered through the pained clench of his teeth. “Normally that only happens when I’ve been engaged in epic drinking.” “We’ll put some corks in you, then, until we can get you to a physician.” Bridget turned to Gwen and started ripping at the second layer to her skirts, while Benedict examined the bandage Gwen had put in place. Evidently he thought it sound, because as Bridget handed him more cloth, he moved on to other injuries and began stanching them in turn. Gwen ran out of skirt before Barnabus ran out of injuries, leaving only one thin layer of skirts between her legs and the cold air of the habble. “Come on, then,” Benedict said. “Keep the bandages coming.” “I hardly think so,” Gwen said. “Benny, take off your shirt and we’ll rip it to bits.” Benedict shot her a glance, then eyed her last layer of skirts and grunted understanding. He slipped out of his jacket and weskit, and stripped off the shirt beneath in a single ripple of motion, passing it back to Bridget. Gwen sometimes forgot that her cousin was, like all warriorborn, a particularly athletic-looking, masculine specimen of a man lined with hard, lean muscle. The effect was impressive. |
The effect was impressive. Bridget blinked at his unclothed torso in such shock that his tossed shirt fell through her hands as if they’d suddenly gone numb. “Oh,” she said. “My.” Gwen arched an eyebrow and felt herself smiling. So it was like that with Bridget, was it? Well. God in Heaven only knew that Benedict deserved someone’s affection. Amongst the families of the High Houses in general, the warriorborn were considered … unseemly —and best put to use as armed retainers or bodyguards—and certainly not as members of a House. Gwen nudged Bridget with an elbow. The girl blinked again, shook herself, and went back to tearing cloth as the air-raid sirens continued out in the habble’s main atrium. “Hang in there, Barney,” Benedict said as he worked. “I know it hurts, but I think we’ll keep your body and soul knitted together.” Barnabus answered with a faint, pained grunt, his eyes closed. “I still don’t understand why this is happening,” Bridget said. “Airships attacked the Spire? Whose?” “The Aurorans, most probably,” Gwen answered. “But why would they do such a thing?” “Economics, mostly.” “What?” “The government of Spire Aurora is greedy, corrupt, and inefficient,” Gwen said. “Taxes are quite high. Each habble struggles against its neighbors to claim funding and favors from their government, and the actual business of government is generally neglected. As a result, their enterprises suffer and do not grow—while their population does. So once every generation or so, the Aurorans become aggressive. |
So once every generation or so, the Aurorans become aggressive. Their Fleet gobbles up outposts, and in the past entire Spires, plundering their wealth to keep their own Spire going, and getting a lot of their own people killed to reduce the pressure on their population.” Bridget sounded baffled. “They want to go to war … for money?” Gwen snorted. “You’ll never hear them say that. They always manage to find or contrive a rationale. But in the end they are nothing more than glorified pirates. Tension has been building between their Armada and our Fleet for a year or so—mostly raids on Albion merchantmen, and small-scale engagements with Fleet ships.” “Didn’t think they’d move this soon, though,” Benedict put in. “I don’t think anyone did.” From the darkness just outside the little circle of light Gwen’s earrings cast, there was a quiet, rather unnerving feline sound. Bridget tensed and looked down the tunnel. “Rowl says someone is coming.” “Thank God in Heaven,” Gwen said, peering. “Perhaps it is some of the Guard.” She called, “Hello? Who is that, please?” A few moments later, eight men in uniforms of the Spirearch’s Guard stepped into the outskirts of Gwen’s light. Two of them were carrying a stretcher, its occupant covered by blankets. Another, wearing the weapon-crystal insignia of a junior officer, touched a finger to his brow and said, “Miss.” “Lieutenant,” Gwen said. She didn’t recognize the man, but that was hardly unusual. The Guard had several dozen outposts throughout the Spire, with most of two thousand individuals serving. “I’m quite glad to see you. We’ve a wounded civilian here. Can you help us?” “Sorry, miss,” the man replied. “I’m afraid we’ve duties of our own to attend to.” “Gwendolyn,” Benedict said. |
“I’m afraid we’ve duties of our own to attend to.” “Gwendolyn,” Benedict said. Gwen shot Benedict a glance. He never called her by her full name. He was waiting for her to look, his face calm, but his eyes were intent. “I’m sure the lieutenant regrets the need to fulfill his duty. It’s nearly miraculous that he is in motion at all this soon after a surprise attack.” Gwen frowned at her cousin. Then Benedict flexed his left wrist, his gauntlet hand, in a slow circle, and with a cold shock Gwen realized what he meant. The attack had happened only moments ago. The four of them had been involved in it, had seen it happening, and yet they’d barely had time to duck into the tunnel for safety and apply rapid field dressings to poor Barney Astor. Yet here stood a full squad of the Guard, already armed and organized and carrying a casualty on a stretcher. And, Gwen noted, wearing large field packs as well. No one could have thrown that together in mere moments, not in the terror and confusion currently raging through the habble. Not unless they’d known the attack was coming. And who would know better than the enemy? An enemy wearing Guard uniforms, operating in secret —an enemy who would have no compunction in killing anyone they came across in order to maintain their disguise. Someone like herself, for example. Gwen’s heart started pounding so loudly she fancied she could hear it. Benedict gave her a microscopic nod, then deliberately closed his eyes and turned back to the wounded man. Closing his eyes. He’d done that on purpose, so that she could see it. |
He’d done that on purpose, so that she could see it. Why? Ah. Obviously, yes. Gwen pivoted back to the false Guardsmen, raised her left hand, and discharged her gauntlet into the officer’s face from less than five feet away. Chapter 13 Spire Albion, Habble Morning, Ventilation Tunnels There was a truly blinding flash of light. When one discharged a gauntlet, the light was bright enough to clearly show the bones of one’s hand through the seemingly translucent flesh. The force of the gauntlet’s blast screamed into the echoing expanse of the tunnel, smashing into the officer like a blazing sledgehammer. It flung his abruptly limp body to the ground as if he’d been bludgeoned with an enormous club. Then Gwen willed away the light of the little crystals on her earrings and plunged the tunnel into blackness. She couldn’t see a thing but a blinding swirl of colors —and her own eyes had been at least partly shielded from the light of the gauntlet’s discharge. The false Guardsmen who had been able to see the crystal directly would be in even worse shape. Absolutely no one would be able to see in the sudden contrast of brilliance and pitch-blackness. No one but one of the warriorborn. Gwen dropped to the floor as a sudden sound she had never heard before, a snarl indistinguishable from the coughing roar of a large hunting cat, burst forth from the blackness. There was a quick, scuffling sound of boots pressed sharply against the stone floor, an exhalation, and then a cry of pain in the darkness. There were more scuffling sounds, a voice shouting something in Auroran, more screams, and then the flash of a gauntlet gave her a burned-picture image—two men were already on the ground, and Benedict was locked in grips with a third man, whose gauntlet had gone off while Benedict, fighting barehanded, held it aimed at a fourth enemy. That flash image gave Gwen only an instant to understand where her cousin stood, and an even briefer time in which to act. She aimed her own gauntlet wide of Benedict’s position and triggered another shot, sending a blast in the general direction of the disguised invaders. She had no idea whatsoever whether she’d hit friend or foe, but thought it a very good idea not to remain in the same place, in case any of the Aurorans had the same idea she’d had. |
She had no idea whatsoever whether she’d hit friend or foe, but thought it a very good idea not to remain in the same place, in case any of the Aurorans had the same idea she’d had. She rolled to her left until her shoulder fetched up rather painfully against a cold stone wall. There were the sounds of more movement in the darkness, scuffling noises, blows struck—and then a short, sharp gasp. Bridget. God in Heaven, in the frantic moment of danger, Gwen had forgotten about their companion. “Stop, Albion!” snarled a voice in a heavy accent. “Or the girl dies.” Light rose again, this time from one of the intruders, holding up an illumination crystal. Four forms lay on the ground, utterly still, and as Gwen blinked her eyes, struggling to peer into the new illumination, she saw Benedict holding a fifth man by the throat all but entirely suspended from the ground, with his boots barely resting on the floor. There was blood on her cousin’s hands and splattered across his naked chest. The invaders holding the stretcher had dropped it. There was not a casualty beneath its blankets—instead it had been stacked with leather satchels set with fuses. They’d had only a brief introduction to the devices in their munitions lectures, but Gwen knew enough to recognize a military-grade explosive charge when she saw it. Only a few feet to her right, one of the invaders stood behind Bridget. He held her throat in one hand, and with the other had trapped one of her arms behind her. Fresh burn marks on his uniform at one shoulder suggested that the second blast of Gwen’s gauntlet had found a target. Bridget’s eyes were wide and furious, her neck bent at an angle that suggested she was in pain. Her captor stared at Benedict over Bridget’s head, the light of the crystal gleaming off of his feline eyes. “Put him down,” growled the enemy warriorborn. Benedict bared his teeth, but her cousin released the fifth man, who slid to the floor like so much limp vattery meat, and let out a low groan. Gwen took time to note that the remaining invaders were now spread out, the nearest two kneeling so that those standing behind them had a clear field of fire. |
Gwen took time to note that the remaining invaders were now spread out, the nearest two kneeling so that those standing behind them had a clear field of fire. All of them held gauntlets aimed and ready—several of them pointing directly at Gwen. She, unfortunately, did not have her own gauntlet aimed at them—and she rather thought that if she moved her left arm at all, she’d never know it when they fired. “Three men in three seconds,” the Auroran said to Benedict in a low, flat tone. “Not terrible. But I’d have taken you if the little girl hadn’t gotten lucky with the second shot.” Benedict lifted his left hand, his gauntlet’s crystal smoldering with light. The Auroran smiled very slightly and drew Bridget a little more fully between himself and Benedict. “How sure are you of your aim, Albion? Fire and my men will kill you and your little girl. And once you’re dead, I’ll kill this one and move on.” “Shoot him, Benedict,” Bridget grated. “He smells. I would rather—” The Auroran flexed his fingers slightly, and Bridget’s words abruptly ceased. He put his lips close to her ear and said, “The men are talking.” “If I stand down,” Benedict said, “you’ll kill her anyway. What reason do I have not to at least take you with us?” “My word,” the Auroran said. “You go down. That’s how it is. But you can save them. Stand down and I’ll tie these others up and leave them unharmed.” Benedict stared at the other warriorborn for a silent moment. Then he said, “Give me your name.” The Auroran inclined his head. “Diego Ciriaco, master sergeant, First Auroran Marines.” “Benedict Sorellin, Spirearch’s Guard,” Gwen’s cousin said. |
“Diego Ciriaco, master sergeant, First Auroran Marines.” “Benedict Sorellin, Spirearch’s Guard,” Gwen’s cousin said. “Benedict Sorellin,” Ciriaco said, “you have my word.” “Remember my name,” Benedict said. And then he lowered his gauntlet, an oddly calm expression on his face. “Will,” the Auroran told him. Then he turned to his fellow Aurorans and said, “You will fire on my command.” Gwen abruptly realized that while her gauntlet was not pointed at any of the armed men facing them, it was pointed at something else. “You will not,” she snapped in a sudden cold tone, doing everything she could to copy her mother’s furious, imperious voice of command, the one she used only on special occasions. “If anyone fires or harms any of us, I swear to God in Heaven that I will discharge my gauntlet into your explosives. It would not be the end I had hoped for, but it will be quick, and if I die defending Albion from Auroran invaders, I should not count my life wasted. Can you say as much, Mister Ciriaco? Can your companions?” There was a moment of utter, crystalline silence. Then Ciriaco let out a low hiss and snarled, “Hold fire.” Benedict’s teeth shone in a hard smile. “In that case, sir, perhaps I could offer to accept your surrender. My terms will be a great deal more generous than those you offered me. Release the young lady, lay down your arms, and you will be taken as prisoners of war.” Ciriaco snorted. “Only to be tortured for information by your masters? I prefer the explosion, sir.” “Then we are at an impasse.” Ciriaco grunted an acknowledgment. “True enough. But that balance will inevitably change. Someone will be along.” “I assure you, sir,” Gwen said, “I will have no compunctions whatever about blowing up any number of your fellows who might have the appallingly bad taste to interrupt us.” The warriorborn stared at her, his face unreadable. “Conversely, miss, if more of your own people appear, your threat seems rather diminished. |
“Conversely, miss, if more of your own people appear, your threat seems rather diminished. How many of your own folk are you willing to kill along with all of us?” “Even in a draw, the advantage is mine,” Gwen said. “While I keep you pinned here, you cannot complete whatever objective it is that you have been given. You do not hold a winning hand.” He showed his teeth. “Yet. How long, do you think, before your people sort out enough of this mess to send armed patrols through the side tunnels? Hours? A day?” He nodded toward the unconscious form of Barnabus Astor. “How long does your wounded man have before he succumbs? I know when to expect my people. And I know that they’ll be armed. It shouldn’t surprise me at all if in the next moment, a long gunner shot you dead from far down the tunnel and out of your sight before you even realized the danger. Time is on my side, miss, not yours.” Gwen felt a cold sensation in the pit of her stomach. “Surrender,” Ciriaco said in a hard voice. “Save who you can.” He eyed Benedict. “Surely you see. Tell her.” “To the best of my knowledge, sir,” Benedict said in an apologetic tone, “no one has ever been able to tell my dear cousin anything. At all.” The Auroran’s expression darkened as he turned back to Gwen. “There is no path to victory for you here.” She showed him her teeth. “Yet,” she said with a certain vicious satisfaction. |
“Yet,” she said with a certain vicious satisfaction. “We shall all, I think, wait and see.” Chapter 14 Spire Albion, Habble Morning Grimm combat. hated personal Aboard an airship, combat was a tide, a storm, a force of nature. Men died, yes, and it was horrible and it haunted him—but they died at the mercy of forces so powerful that it hardly seemed a merely human agency could be involved. Most often one never saw the face of the enemy, only his ship, hanging like a model in the sky, often looking quite serene and beautiful. That was an illusion, of course. Pain and death were the reality. But battle was a distant thing in airships. Detached. Clinical. One pitted one’s mind and skill and the heart of one’s crew against another captain doing precisely the same thing. One saw what the enemy did to one’s own ship, but only rarely did one have a clear, horrible view of what one had perpetrated upon the enemy. Most important, a good commander could make decisions that protected his crew and brought them victory, the ship moving at his will like a single, enormous living being. Personal combat was a very different world. Kettle returned with the majority of the crew within moments, and Mister Journeyman was waiting to issue weapons and tunics lined with ethersilk. The tunics were old, the silk harvested a generation ago at the very latest, and they would be of use only against an indirect blast from moderate range—but they were the best Grimm had been able to find for his men, and they were a great deal better than no armor at all. “We’re ready, Captain,” Creedy said. The large young man had donned his sword and gauntlet. “Where should we go?” “Where there is need,” Grimm said. “It stands to reason that…” He paused as Kettle approached with his sword, its sheath lashed to a baldric. |
“It stands to reason that…” He paused as Kettle approached with his sword, its sheath lashed to a baldric. It took a bit of consideration to settle the belt across Grimm’s chest so that his sling wouldn’t tangle in it, and so his unwounded right arm would be able to draw the weapon. “Captain,” Creedy said. “What are you doing?” “I’m not about to send the crew somewhere I’m not willing to go, XO,” Grimm replied. “Thank you, Mister Kettle.” “Captain,” Kettle said. “Your gauntlet?” Grimm wiggled his left arm in its sling and sighed. “I could scarcely aim the thing, I’m afraid.” “Captain,” Creedy said. “You’re wounded. You shouldn’t go.” “Nonsense,” Grimm replied. Creedy ground his teeth. Then he turned to Kettle. “Mister Kettle?” “Sir?” Kettle asked. There was, Grimm thought, a certain amount of skepticism in the honorific. “As our dear captain is determined to put himself in unnecessary danger, I am tasking you with the personal responsibility of watching over him. I don’t want you more than a step away from him until this is settled. Clear?” Kettle’s expression relaxed, and for a second something almost like a smile graced it. “Crystal, sir.” “Bah,” Grimm said. “I could order you not to do so, you know.” “What’s that, sir?” Kettle asked in an overloud voice. “I couldn’t quite hear you. My ears, the explosions, you see, sir.” Grimm eyed him, but Kettle remained amiably, apologetically deaf. |
My ears, the explosions, you see, sir.” Grimm eyed him, but Kettle remained amiably, apologetically deaf. Creedy’s expression was set into a stubborn frown. Grimm looked around and noted other crewmen observing the exchange, and sighed. “Fine, fine.” He gave them both an irritated glare, but his heart wasn’t really in it. “As I was saying, it stands to reason that the boarders won’t attempt to land on the Spire’s roof in the shipyard. There are Marines here on duty, batteries, ships, crews. Had they intended an open assault, they’d have landed already.” “Where, then?” Creedy asked. “Do you think they’re headed for Landing?” A fair question. The enterprising inhabitants of Habble Landing had spent a generation investing in wearing a hole in the spirestone outer wall of their habble, and then constructed an airship port of their own, out of wood, on the exterior wall of their level of the Spire. Where before there had been only two entrances to Spire Albion, the roof and the base, there were now three. Transport times of goods throughout the many habbles of Spire Albion could be cut in half, and the craftsmen and merchants of the Spire had been swift to take advantage of such an opportunity—and now Landing possessed nearly as much wealth as Morning. “Perhaps,” Grimm said. “But even there, they’d have a real fight on their hands to get in. I believe they’ll go in another way.” “The ventilation tunnels?” “Precisely. They’ll get as many of their Marines into the tunnels as they can and set them about the business of weakening Albion from within.” Kettle whistled through his teeth. “The mouths to those tunnels aren’t but maybe four feet by four, and right on the side of the Spire. No ledges or nothing, Captain. Hell of a difficult target for a Marine flying a parasail.” Grimm started walking toward the gangplank. “Industry and determination, Mister Kettle, can transform the difficult into the routine,” Grimm said. “We can assume they’ll move from the ventilation tunnels into the side tunnels, and from there proceed to their objectives. |
“We can assume they’ll move from the ventilation tunnels into the side tunnels, and from there proceed to their objectives. There are a number of possible targets for them to assault within Habble Morning, and they may try for the shipyards as well. Our mission is to keep them bottled up in the side tunnels. We needn’t hunt them down —I daresay our own Marines will be happy to do it once they return.” Grimm looked over his shoulder and saw his crew following him, some of them still buckling their swords and gauntlets into place. Kettle had found most of them in a remarkably short time—eighty-seven men, only nine short of her full complement. It seemed they had all been together, and rather nearby, to place their bets on that duel. How many, Grimm wondered, would still be alive when the sun set? “Mister Creedy, pass the word to the officers, if you please. Make sure every single one of them understands our goal and that I expect it to be met regardless of what happens to the officers or myself. They are to inform the men in their squad the same way.” “Aye, Captain,” Creedy said, and immediately turned to begin walking backward, speaking in terse tones to the first of the crewmen behind them. “Mister Journeyman,” Grimm called, without turning his head. “Aye, Captain?” “You stay.” An incredulous, absolutely acidic epithet split the air. “I believe the phrase you used was ‘jumped-up wollypog’? If you are too valuable to show proper deference and courtesy to my XO, you are certainly too valuable to risk in a firefight with Auroran Marines, Journeyman. That’s how it is.” The engineer’s ongoing curses faded into the background as Grimm began to trot forward, and his men came with him. They descended a spiral ramp that led from the shipyard to Habble Morning, fighting against confused traffic heading in the opposite direction. The habble was in chaos. The bombardment from the Auroran destroyers had not struck the habble directly, but enough of the energy had transferred through the spirestone to dislodge a significant amount of masonry used to buttress and repair the Spire’s roof. There were screams and the scent of smoke on the air. That was terrifying. |
That was terrifying. If an enemy was lurking, he could be fought— but if smoke began to fill the habble or its tunnels, it could kill every one of his men without a blade being drawn or a gauntlet discharged. Members of the Spirearch’s Guard rushed here and there, rescuing those who had been trapped in the rubble or tending to the injuries of the wounded. It was a dutiful reaction to the crisis, but not a well-ordered one. They moved in small groups of three or four, with no obvious coordination. No one was attempting to direct or calm the traffic on the atrium’s streets, as far as Grimm could tell. “Sir!” Creedy said, pointing. Grimm swiveled his gaze to the far side of the habble— where flickers of brilliant white light played intermittently against the far wall, changing the buildings between into black outlines. “Firefight,” Grimm said. “Good eyes, XO. Shall we greet our guests?” Without waiting for an answer, he set out at a rather slow if steady lope. His arm hurt abominably, but there was nothing for it. Habble Morning occupied the entirety of the Spire, most of it beneath a vast atrium nearly two hundred feet high, and it was the next-best thing to two miles from one side of the great cylinder that was Spire Albion to the other. They had to hurry, but arrive with enough breath to aim steadily and ply their blades. The run was like some kind of appalling dream. Most of the buildings seemed little damaged, but occasionally one would appear that had been crushed by falling masonry. The wounded lay on the spirestone floor or wandered dazed through the streets. Grimm ground his teeth against the need to stop and help a small child who had obviously suffered a broken arm. The poor waif was in agony, but not in danger—which might not be true if the invaders managed to set enough of Habble Morning on fire, or blow up vatteries or water gardens, or murder the Spire Council— though Grimm had mixed feelings on the sort of loss that might constitute—or any of a number of other acts of war that could have been under way. Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed while they ran— an eternity during any battle. |
Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed while they ran— an eternity during any battle. By the time they reached the spot Creedy had seen, Grimm had assumed that it would most likely be over. He was mistaken. As they approached, they could hear the howling discharges of gauntlet fire. Grimm came to a panting halt just around the corner of a large house, one of the original dwellings from the Building, made of spirestone seamlessly fixed to the habble’s floor. The firing came from the other side. “Stern,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady and calm. “Get a look; come back quick, no dawdling.” “Captain,” said a slender, dark-haired man a good many years younger than the average crew member of the Predator. Stern had been a grubby midshipman in the deployment that had ended Grimm’s career, and had (against Grimm’s express instructions) followed him from the Fleet onto Predator. He had remained small and thin as he grew into an adult, and could move as quickly and quietly as any warriorborn when he needed to do so. Creedy was blowing hard after the run, his face red. “Captain,” he gasped. “Are we where I think we are?” “Lancaster Vattery,” Grimm said. “They’ve come for the crystals.” “God in Heaven. If the Aurorans destroy them…” “Then Fleet will have to fight a war without replacement crystals or additional vessels,” Grimm said. Which was, he reflected, saying something very nearly the same as “losing a war.” Stern came hurrying back to the group. “The vattery is made of spirestone,” he reported, “so there’s no blasting a way in. Lancaster retainers are holding the door so far, but there aren’t enough of them to keep it much longer.” “And the enemy?” Grimm asked. “Captain,” Stern said, his voice worried. “They’re the Spirearch’s Guards.” “Nonsense,” Grimm said promptly. |
“They’re the Spirearch’s Guards.” “Nonsense,” Grimm said promptly. “Likely they’re Aurorans wearing false uniforms. How many?” “I made it two dozen—but they’ve taken up positions, sir. They’re shooting from cover.” Creedy blinked. “What? If they want to destroy the vattery, they should be storming the door. Shouldn’t they? Every minute they’re here makes it more likely that they’ll come under attack themselves. Why wait?” “Mmmm,” Grimm said, and narrowed his eyes, thinking. “Why wait?” Then he felt his lips bare his teeth in a smile. “Why indeed. Because they are waiting. Perhaps they’re expecting reinforcements. Stern, where are they positioned?” “There is a masonry wall around a little garden between the vattery and the house, Captain. It’s been chewed up by gauntlet fire, but they’re using it for cover.” Grimm nodded once. “Creedy, take two squads and flank them from the far-side rear, if you please. I’ll take the rest and make sure that the enemy is too busy looking at the near-side front to notice you. Don’t dawdle now.” The XO nodded, pointed to two other officers, and beckoned. He started away at a run, and the others followed. Grimm turned to the rest of the crew and said, “These boys are better at this kind of fighting than us, but there are a hell of a lot more of us than there are of them. |
Grimm turned to the rest of the crew and said, “These boys are better at this kind of fighting than us, but there are a hell of a lot more of us than there are of them. So we treat this exactly like a boarding action. Aggression, aggression, aggression, and stay together. God in Heaven be with you.” He led his crew to circle the house and enter the field opposite from where Creedy’s team would appear. When Creedy got there, he and his men would be behind the Aurorans’ cover, blasting away at invaders trapped against a stone wall. They would wreak havoc on the foe. Of course, it also meant that the Aurorans would have a very strong defensive position against Grimm and his men, but there was no helping that. The howl of gauntlet fire filled the air, the light flashing swift and bright in a thick, deadly curtain of energy. Grimm drew his sword, lifted it, and cried, “Albion!” The crew’s weapons leapt into their hands, and they roared, “Albion!” in furious unison. Grimm rounded the last corner, followed by seventy howling aeronauts, and sprinted toward the Auroran position. Chapter 15 Spire Albion, Habble Morning, Lancaster Vattery Two seconds. Grimm and his crew had two whole seconds of surprise and confusion in which to advance on the enemy. Two seconds was a great deal of time when measured in units of life and death. They had covered perhaps half of the open ground before the Aurorans managed to gather their wits and an officer began barking orders, redirecting their aim. The glow of a couple of dozen weapon crystals lit the dimness, shining like spotlights, and they began to pour fire into Grimm’s crew —mostly from gauntlets, but also from several long guns. Grimm’s men returned fire as they ran—wildly inaccurate, for the most part, but anything that helped make the Aurorans flinch or seek cover was desirable. Then it was horrible sound and blinding light and the feel of spirestone beneath his boots as he ran, sword aloft. Two seconds more. By the end of it, twenty of his men were down, most of them screaming, some horribly still. Others had been hit in their ethersilk tunics, and though they staggered as they ran, they kept going. |
Others had been hit in their ethersilk tunics, and though they staggered as they ran, they kept going. Grimm saw the blast that hit him, slamming home into his ribs. For an instant he faltered, looking down—but the suit the old etherealist had lent him was evidently lined with ethersilk of the highest quality. The blast had felt like little more than a stiff punch, unpleasant but hardly deadly, and though it had burnt and torn the outer layer of the suit’s coat, the silk beneath was unmarred. And then Grimm had reached the blast-pocked walled garden. The wall was more decorative than functional, being only about as high as his stomach, except where gauntlet blasts had lowered it in gaps to only a couple of feet high. Grimm stomped his boot down onto one such gap and leapt into the garden and past the rank of men defending the wall, making room for the men coming behind him. He saw a pale face before him and whipped his sword in a quick strike, felt it hit. Then there was a flicker of steel, and he ducked beneath one of the inward-curving talonlike blades of the Auroran Marines, and parried a second blade of the same kind. Then Kettle bounded through the gap in the wall, sweeping one large boot into the teeth of the man defending the opening as he did. The helmsman landed, his gauntlet hand stretched out behind him, and put a blast into the head of another defender. And after that it was frantic motion, reflex, and terror. Steel flashed, gauntlets screamed, and his crew fought to press into the garden, to put enough men through the wall to make the weight of numbers decide the matter. The Auroran Marines disagreed. These were hard-bitten men, professionals who were trained to excel in the mayhem of battle. They recognized the danger of losing the wall, of being surrounded by a numerically superior force, and they fought savagely, viciously. Grimm found himself driven back, Kettle by his side, while the crew kept trying to follow the pair of them in—only to be cut down, mercilessly and precisely, by the Auroran long gunners or the blades of the enemy Marines. Grimm felt the momentum shift, felt the gathering determination of the Aurorans as they realized that they outclassed their opposition. In a few seconds more, he judged, the attack would be repulsed—leaving himself and Mister Kettle subject to the attentions of enemy gauntlets. And then Creedy’s squad arrived. |
And then Creedy’s squad arrived. They didn’t shout. They ran in relative silence, their footsteps masked by gauntlet fire, by howls and screams, and took up position along the opposite wall of the garden. Creedy made it happen with excellent discipline. He made sure every man was at the wall, gauntlet lifted, arm braced, aimed and ready to fire before he gave the order. The Aurorans, fully focused on repelling Grimm’s assault, suspected nothing until the moment Creedy’s first salvo felled nearly half of them. Grimm lunged forward, driving his sword into the breast of an officer whose silk had absorbed the blast that struck him. Kettle, at his side, intercepted a wild swing from another foe with his own blade, bellowing, “Albion!” As he did, his fellow aeronauts surged forward with a roar, copper-clad blades in hand, vaulting the low wall or leaping through the gaps, swamping the stunned invaders in their numbers. The surviving Aurorans lasted rather less than two seconds. “Creedy,” Grimm said a few moments later. “Report.” “Eleven dead,” Creedy said in a subdued, solemn voice. “Two more who won’t last long. Seventeen incapacitated by their injuries and as many walking wounded, sir. I’ve sent those wounded who can move back to Predator, with word to send Doctor Bagen at once.” Grimm grunted. “The Aurorans?” “Three live. They might not survive their injuries.” “Have Bagen see to them the moment he’s finished with our own. I should think that the powers that be will want to speak to them, eh?” “No doubt, sir,” Creedy said. “I’ve put some of the older, calmer hands to guard them.” “Good man,” Grimm said. “Send someone to the vattery and let them know that we’re not trying to murder them.” “I thought there might be nervous men with gauntlets inside, so I went myself, sir,” Creedy said. Grimm felt his lips quirk. |
Grimm felt his lips quirk. “I see that they didn’t blast you,” he noted. “No, sir,” Creedy said, his tone serious. “Armed retainers of Lancaster, sir, former Marines, very good discipline. They’re staying at their post, and their commander has gone to secure the household.” From outside the garden, where the wounded had been laid out together, there was a low, groaning scream of pain. Grimm looked up wearily from where he sat on a bench in the garden itself. There was a small burbling brook and a pool there, along with several dwarf trees and abundant green ferns, quite beautiful but for all the blood and corpses. The dead men stank of offal and excrement, the way they always did. It seemed undignified for a man’s last remnants to be so foul, but that was the way of it. Grimm tried to ignore the smell and the motionless forms alike. There were always unpleasant consequences to a battle. He rose wearily, straightened his back, cleared his throat, and looked into the middle distance. “That was work well-done, Mister Creedy. In the battle and after. I’ve known men who didn’t have half as much composure or sense in their first close-quarters action.” Creedy hesitated awkwardly before replying. Captains did not say such things to their junior officers in Fleet. Creedy frowned at nothing in particular, which also happened to be in the middle distance. “Sir,” he said. “Yes, I don’t like it either,” Grimm replied. “But as I cannot put you in for a combat ribbon or a commendation for unusual competence under fire, we must make do.” “I … Yes, sir.” Grimm nodded. |
“But as I cannot put you in for a combat ribbon or a commendation for unusual competence under fire, we must make do.” “I … Yes, sir.” Grimm nodded. “When time serves, I shall buy you a drink and we’ll not speak of it again.” “I…” Creedy nodded. “I should think that perfectly acceptable, Captain Grimm.” “Good,” Grimm said. “That’s done. As soon as Bagen gets here, gather the men and get ready to move. There are a great many more Aurorans out there somewhere, and we’ll need to be ready to respond.” “We captured four of their long guns intact, sir. Shall I issue them to the men?” Grimm nodded once. “Excellent notion. Give one to Mister Stern. He’s a fine shot. Have him pick a squad to use the rest.” “Aye, sir,” Creedy said, and left to see to it. “Captain,” Kettle said from where he’d been standing, silent and discreet, a long step away. His tone was a warning. Grimm turned to find a tall man approaching in a black suit tailored almost exactly to the lines of a Marine’s uniform. He wore a blade and a gauntlet, and his short brush cut of hair was grizzled. Even before Grimm saw his eyes, he’d pegged the man as warriorborn from his lean build and grace. “Captain Grimm, I presume,” the man said. “Aye,” Grimm replied. “You’ve the advantage of me, sir.” The tall man offered his hand and Grimm shook it. “Esterbrook,” he said. |
“Esterbrook,” he said. “First armsman of House Lancaster. I’m glad for your intervention, Captain. Four to one are stiff odds.” “The Aurorans seemed to think so,” Grimm replied. “Six of you held off two full squads of professional Marines. Impressive.” “Brief,” Esterbrook said. “Otherwise you’d need to use words like ‘tragic’ or maybe ‘noble sacrifice.’ Thank you.” Grimm found himself smiling up at the man. “What can I do for you, sir?” “Lord and Lady Lancaster were in the residence and saw much of what just happened. They wish me to convey their thanks and their condolences for your losses, and to inform you that they have already sent for their personal physicians and that they’re preparing space in the house for your wounded. You needn’t fear that your men will lack the best care available.” Grimm felt something ease in his gut that he hadn’t known had been paining him. “I … Please, sir, convey my heartfelt thanks to the Lancasters.” Esterbrook nodded. “Will.” He looked around and then at Grimm again. “You’re Francis Madison Grimm? Captain of the Perilous?” Grimm felt his shoulders tighten. “Former acting captain, sir. I am he.” “I heard the Admiralty broke your sword. For cowardice.” Kettle made a growling sound. Esterbrook glanced up, arching an eyebrow at Kettle. But then he turned back to Grimm, clearly waiting for an answer. “They did, sir,” Grimm said. |
“They did, sir,” Grimm said. Esterbrook showed his teeth. “But you’ll charge a dug-in position of Marines. With one arm in a sling.” “It was necessary to do it,” Grimm said. “We all serve, sir. Some with more glory than others.” Esterbrook seemed to consider the multiple meanings in Grimm’s answer and said, “Right. The Admiralty has its head up its nethers again.” Grimm arched an eyebrow and said nothing. Behind him Creedy shouted out an order, and the remaining aeronauts began to gather together. Bagen had arrived, as had two other men with the distinct confidence and focus of physicians in a crisis. His men were being cared for. He felt his chest ease as if it had been suddenly cut free from tight leather bonds. Esterbrook looked at the gathering men and said, “You’re moving out?” “I can’t imagine that the crystal vattery was the enemy’s only target,” Grimm replied. “And I do not think the men we took down were operating alone. They seemed to be waiting for some other support to arrive.” Esterbrook nodded. “What I thought, too. I’d offer to send a few men with you, but…” “Others may yet attack the vattery, and your duty is to the Lancasters,” Grimm said. “Albion must not lose the vattery. I’ll leave a squad with you to help secure it until the Marines or the true Guard arrives.” Esterbrook ducked his head once. “I’m grateful to you, Captain. I have wounded of my own. |
I have wounded of my own. Where are you headed next?” “I intend to patrol the perimeter of the atrium and —” With no warning whatsoever, a ginger tomcat sailed over the garden wall and sprinted toward them. Kettle let out a brief sound of surprise, his hand darting toward his sword on reflex. The cat hurtled up to Esterbrook and slid to a halt with a long, chewy-sounding burble of throaty sound. Esterbrook blinked down at the cat and held up a hand. “Wait, wait, slow down.” The cat seemed to bound back and forth in place, stiff legged, as if he could barely keep himself from breaking into another sprint. The stream of agitated feline sound continued. “The beastie’s gone mad, sir?” Kettle asked. “Not mad, I think,” Grimm said. “Mister Esterbrook, can you understand him?” “I only speak a bit,” Esterbrook said. “‘He’s … there,’ ‘danger.’ ‘Help.’ Those I understood.” He shook his head. “What danger? Who needs help?” “Wait,” Kettle said. “I know they’re clever beasts, but … you mean the things actually talk?” The cat turned two frantic circles and then darted over to the corpse of a fallen Auroran Marine in his stolen uniform. He stopped to make sure they were all looking at it and then deliberately swiped at the dead man’s chest, hissing. “More of them?” Esterbrook asked. “Like that one?” The cat made another sound that Grimm could have sworn was an exasperated affirmative. “Merciful Builders,” Kettle breathed. “Is the man serious?” “My bosun on Perilous kept a cat aboard,” Grimm said. “The little monster was not to be underestimated.” He looked up at Esterbrook. |
“The little monster was not to be underestimated.” He looked up at Esterbrook. “Is this creature known to you?” “Yes,” Esterbrook said at once. “He is. His name is Rowl.” “Then it would appear I know where I’m going next,” Grimm said calmly. Rowl whirled to look directly at Grimm, wide eyes intense. Then he let out another mrowling sound and darted back toward the wall of the garden. He leapt to the top and paused to look back over his shoulder. “Mister Creedy!” Grimm called. “We’re moving out!” “Aye, sir!” Creedy said. “Where are we headed, Captain?” Rowl leapt down and darted into the dimness, pausing thirty yards later to look back. Grimm started moving, Kettle at his side. “At the quick march, Mister Creedy. Follow that cat.” Chapter 16 Spire Albion, Habble Morning, Ventilation Tunnels Bridget had never really given much thought to what it might be like to be held prisoner with her captor’s hand quite literally threatening to choke the life out of her, but she felt quite sure that she would never have imagined that the experience would primarily be tedious. At first she had been racked with confusion and fear, but in the standoff that came after she had been taken, she felt increasingly humiliated, insulted. What kind of fool was she to let herself be taken prisoner and used against her own Spire by its enemies? And right in front of Benedict? The Auroran warriorborn Marine Ciriaco held her back firmly against his chest, with one arm wrapped around her stomach and the other hand lightly holding her throat. Initially she had thought that she might be able to take him off guard and throw him, but at the slightest shift in her weight, Ciriaco’s hand would close and shut off her air entirely. After several minutes of tense silence, Bridget turned her head enough to see part of Ciriaco’s face. “Just so you know,” she said, “you’re holding me uncomfortably. |
“Just so you know,” she said, “you’re holding me uncomfortably. My back is going to start cramping. When it does, I’m not going to be able to hold still.” “I’m sure you’ll be missed,” the Auroran replied calmly, giving a little twitch of the fingers around her throat by way of demonstration. Benedict, his eyes locked on the Auroran, let out a low and utterly inhuman-sounding growl. “Careful, boy,” Ciriaco drawled. “If you let it out right now, it’s not going to end well for any of us.” “I’m quite serious,” Bridget said. “Sir, if my back starts to cramp and I begin to spasm and you kill me for it, my friend will most certainly come for you and matters will devolve.” From where she still lay on the floor, aiming her gauntlet at the explosives, Gwen said, “One might even say ‘explosively devolve.’” The Auroran grinned at that. “Damnation, but I admire women with spirit. But it’s been my experience that prisoners who do anything at all are prisoners who are trying either to escape or to kill me. So you don’t get an inch.” “There’s another option you haven’t considered,” Bridget said. “And what is that?” “Take me. Leave your explosives here and depart.” “Nonsense,” Gwen said. “Miss Lancaster,” Bridget said in a very cross and rather loud tone, “would you please stop helping me. Your only solution necessitates, as its linchpin, the deaths of everyone standing in this tunnel. Why not let me take a pass at finding something a bit less sweeping?” Ciriaco let out an almost musical chuckle Bridget could feel along her spine. “I’m listening. Why would I do such a thing?” “Because it salvages as much as possible from the situation,” Bridget said. “I need those explosives.” “You don’t get them,” Bridget said in a frank tone. “In very nearly every scenario that might play out here, you do not retain the explosives. If our reinforcements arrive, you do not get them. |
If our reinforcements arrive, you do not get them. If your people arrive and someone doesn’t make a perfect shot before my associate knows it is happening, you do not get them. If no one shows up, you do not get them. If my back cramps up and the chain of events progresses as we expect, you do not get them.” The Auroran made a rumbling sound. “But consider: If you retreat and take me with you, you have the means to prevent my friends from opening fire—the threat to my life. Nor will you be pursued—if you leave the explosives, they will have little choice but to remain with them to prevent you from using them for their intended purpose.” “If not the explosives, then what profit do I have from this proposal?” “You get to survive the hour,” Bridget said. “Your men survive. You get to escape into the tunnels and fight another day.” Ciriaco grunted his acceptance of the statement. “And what do you get?” “You don’t get to blow up whatever you’d planned to blow up,” she replied. “And both of my friends survive the hour.” He growled. “And what do you get, miss?” “Raped and murdered, likely,” she said. “But as that decision will hardly be up to me, there seems no point in dwelling on it. I’m a bit new to this sort of thing, Sergeant, but it seems to me that standing around hoping for some soldier who might or might not come along to be perfectly stealthy and to make a perfect shot at the correct target on his first attempt seems to be a course of action with a very low probability of success—especially when any failure or incorrect decision on his part means that everyone dies in an explosion. By contrast, my proposal guarantees your immediate survival and gives you hope to survive the future, to possibly negotiate better terms for a surrender, or even to escape Albion altogether.” One of the other soldiers evidently spoke Albion, because he looked from Bridget to Ciriaco and said something in a tense voice. The warriorborn Marine snapped out a brief, savagesounding answer. “By all means, discuss it,” Bridget said. “The more we talk, the more likely we’ll find some sane way to end this.” And, Bridget thought, it would give Rowl more time to find another solution. She only hoped he had better sense than to stage some sort of one-cat surprise assault. “Sergeant, surely you must see that—” Ciriaco’s fingers tightened again, shutting off her air, and he said in a mildly irritated voice, “You people can’t get enough of the sound of your own voices, can you? I’m thinking.” “She doesn’t say it well,” Benedict said in a low, hard voice. |
I’m thinking.” “She doesn’t say it well,” Benedict said in a low, hard voice. “But she’s right. Whatever your mission was, you’ve little chance of accomplishing it as planned now. And the longer you stay here, the more likely it is that something bad happens to all of us.” “Something tells me,” the Auroran said, “that you aren’t going to just stand there while I walk away with the girl.” “That will depend,” Benedict said. “On what?” “What happens to her,” he said. “Treat her with respect and release her unharmed, and we’re all just soldiers.” “And if I don’t?” Benedict was quiet for a moment before he said, “It’s personal.” Bridget, who had not been able to breathe during this exchange, slapped the fingers of one arm against Ciriaco’s steely forearms, as if tapping out of one of Benedict’s holds in training. “Hmm?” Ciriaco said. Then, “Ah, yes.” His fingers loosened, and Bridget sucked in a lungful of air. The motion shifted her weight by some minuscule degree. And, so quietly that she almost thought she’d imagined it for a moment, Ciriaco made a sound of pain. Bridget froze, considering that. That was right; the Auroran had taken a gauntlet blast to the shoulder. She could still smell the stench of charred cloth and what might have been burnt flesh. The wound had been significant enough that he had feared to challenge Benedict to battle. In fact, now that she considered it, the hold Ciriaco had on her was hardly an efficient one. A few weeks of training did not make her an expert, but she knew that he could have been holding her locked quite easily with his right arm, freeing his gauntlet hand. Instead, his left arm was wrapped around her midsection—and not particularly tightly. Why not? Obviously because he could not. He might not be able to lift his arm at all. |
He might not be able to lift his arm at all. That would explain why he wouldn’t allow her to shift her position. His left arm might be a good deal less strong than he would like her to believe—and she was tall enough that if she altered her posture, the fingers on her throat would not have as sure a grip. Granted, the fingers of his right hand held her windpipe like a vise, and were perfectly sufficient to the task of killing her—or to dissuade her from testing the strength of his left arm. There might be a way for her to escape, she realized. But it all depended upon the Auroran’s resolve. How willing was he to kill her? “Albion,” Ciriaco said. “Do not for one second think that I’m afraid of your taking things personally.” “If you’re not afraid, let go of the girl,” Benedict said. “I’m fearless,” Ciriaco replied in a dry tone, “not stupid. And as smart as it would be to accept her offer, it isn’t going to happen.” Bridget turned her head toward him again. “Why ever not?” “Because I am a loyal son of Aurora,” Ciriaco said. “And I have a duty. I’ll fulfill it or die trying.” After a moment he said in a softer tone, “And, miss, however this turns out—if we’d taken you, I’d have gutted any man who tried to lay a hand on you. If it had to be death, I’d have given it to you clean and quick.” “To be clear, you are not a rapist,” Bridget said, “but you are a murderer.” “You seem to have it surrounded, miss,” he said. He sounded entirely sincere—which made any attempt to exploit his weakened arm something best left to a moment of desperation. Though her back began to twinge again, and she feared that moment was rapidly drawing nigh. The two groups fell into a tight, withering silence for a moment more. And then the rather eerie voice of a cat echoed through the dim hallway. “Littlemouse,” Rowl said. |
“Littlemouse,” Rowl said. “Help comes.” Ciriaco tensed at once at the sound, looking up and down the hallway as though seeking its source, but even the remarkable eyes of the warriorborn were not able to see into blackness from a small and relatively well-lit area. “This may be your last opportunity, Sergeant,” Bridget said. “Walk away.” Ciriaco made a growling sound in his chest. “Cats are a vicious little plague, but they don’t frighten me either, miss.” Several of the other Aurorans spoke in their home Spire’s tongue, a quick, terse exchange, which was ended when Ciriaco growled the same phrase he’d used a moment before. Then his eyes widened and he snapped out another order. The Aurorans looked at one another, but lowered their gauntlets and started backing out the way they’d come. “Stay with me, miss,” Ciriaco said in a low tone. “Albion—you, step over by your little friend on the ground. We’re going.” Benedict narrowed his eyes, but then his nostrils flared, and he nodded as if in understanding. He took several steps until he stood over Gwen. “Remember,” he said to Bridget, “our first lesson.” Bridget blinked at him. The first thing to learn, as he had often repeated while instructing her, was how to fall. Of course … that hadn’t been the first lesson, had it? It seemed rather suicidal, but … perhaps Benedict’s judgment in these matters was better than her own. So though it made her heart race with sudden, quivering terror, Bridget moved. She braced her feet and clamped her hands down onto Ciriaco’s right forearm, bending forward with all of her strength, much as she would when tossing a side of beef forward and over her shoulder. And several things happened very quickly. First, something like a collar of fire closed around her neck. Ciriaco was no novice of battle—instead of being thrown over her shoulder, he took a smooth pair of steps, circling around her, and as a result he was only lifted a few inches clear of the floor. |
Ciriaco was no novice of battle—instead of being thrown over her shoulder, he took a smooth pair of steps, circling around her, and as a result he was only lifted a few inches clear of the floor. As soon as she felt his weight pivoting away from him and onto her own legs, Bridget pushed her body back as hard as she could—and slammed his wounded shoulder between her body and the spirestone wall. He let out a startled snarl of pain, and the deathly grip on her throat loosened. A crackling lance of etheric energy burned across Bridget’s field of vision and struck one of the Auroran Marines square in the head. He went down in a heap of motionless limbs. The first bolt was followed by three more half a heartbeat later, and though two failed to score, the other struck an Auroran in the thigh, sweeping his leg from beneath him and slamming him to the floor. Bridget had no chance at all in pitting her muscles against the warriorborn’s stony strength. Both of her arms did not serve to overpower his single limb. So she kept slamming her body against his wounded shoulder, seized upon a single one of his fingers with both of her capable hands, and bent it back savagely. Ciriaco screamed a furious word, and then Bridget found herself flying forward though the air, until she struck the far wall of the tunnel. It was a rather startling experience, particularly the sudden stop. Her arms and legs stopped working properly, and as she bounced off the wall she felt herself falling, and she couldn’t breathe. She wound up on the floor, and then the two crystals the Aurorans had been using for light winked out, leaving nothing but blackness broken only by dazzling flashes of etheric light. The floor seemed quite cool and comfortable for some reason, and she was content to remain there. The flashes of light ceased their bickering, and a moment later she felt Rowl’s nose gently nuzzling her cheek. She made the effort to move her hand and assure him that she was all right. Then she heard voices and light sprang up in the tunnel. A great many men with weather worn clothing, weather worn faces, and odd, heavy-looking tunics had appeared. They were all armed with gauntlet and blade but for four who carried long guns, their copper coils gleaming, their overheated barrels giving off trickles of steam as they boiled away the water from their little storage tanks. One man appeared from their midst, and Bridget picked him out immediately as their leader. |
One man appeared from their midst, and Bridget picked him out immediately as their leader. He was of only average height, his suit was rather mismatched and patchy, and one of his arms was held in a sling, but there were the marks of gauntlet fire on the suit, and he was sprinkled with blood that did not appear to be his own. The man moved with an absolute surety of purpose, with unbroken focus, and the men around him deferred to him with an obvious, silent respect that could not have been expressed in words. He took a quick look around and said, “Excellent shot, Mister Stern.” A slender little man holding a long gun touched a finger to an imaginary cap. “Baker made the good shot, sir. Legged him. We’ve got a prisoner to talk to.” “Good work. See to him.” “Aye, Captain.” The man turned and approached Bridget. Rowl immediately stepped up onto Bridget’s chest, sat, and regarded the man with narrow eyes and a low growl. “Excuse me,” he said to the cat. “But you did wish me to help her, did you not?” The cat’s eyes narrowed further. The man extended his hand to Bridget and asked, “Can you rise, miss?” Bridget made a hushing sound of reassurance to Rowl, took the man’s hand, and slowly rose, gathering Rowl into her other arm as she did. “Yes. Thank you, sir.” It hurt to speak. The man inclined his head politely. “My name is Grimm.” He looked over to where a tall and very handsome younger man was helping Gwen to her feet. “Mister Creedy, detail a squad to secure those explosives, if you please.” “Aye, Captain,” said the tall young man. Bridget suddenly felt a bit dizzy, and then Benedict was at her side, one of his hands beneath her elbow, offering her gentle support. “The Aurorans,” she asked him. “What happened?” “They took your advice— minus the part where they abducted you, for which I cannot help but feel grateful,” Benedict replied. |
“What happened?” “They took your advice— minus the part where they abducted you, for which I cannot help but feel grateful,” Benedict replied. “I was going to lift him and throw him like you told me,” Bridget said, “but it didn’t work. I’m sorry.” Benedict blinked. “Is that what you thought … No, no. I caught the scent of Captain Grimm and his men coming once Rowl returned, and thought a cross fire was imminent. I meant for you to fall.” Bridget blinked. “Oh. It’s … In retrospect, it’s rather obvious when you phrase it in that manner.” Benedict lifted her chin gently with a couple of fingers and peered at her neck. “I must admit, though —he certainly didn’t see it coming.” He poked at her throat gently with his fingertips. “Ow,” Bridget said calmly. “A physician should look at this,” Benedict said, his voice worried. Gwen had gone to Barnabus’s side and looked up from the wounded man. “Him, too. He seems to be unconscious.” She rose and went to Grimm. “Captain, can you spare any men to help us with our wounded?” “Of course, miss,” Grimm said, inclining his head in a little bow. “I’ll have them taken to where my own men are being treated at House Lancaster, if that suits you.” Gwen arched her eyebrows rather sharply and said, “I suppose that will do.” “Mister Creedy,” Grimm said. “You will take a squad to get the civilians to safety and the prisoner and confiscated material to a secure location. I will continue the sweep and meet with you back at House Lancaster. Mister Stern, take point again, if you please…” And as quickly as they had come, most of the aeronauts and their captain departed. The tall young man saw to the loading of the explosives back onto their stretcher, and men to carry them, and made sure the captured Auroran wasn’t going to bleed to death or bolt. |
The tall young man saw to the loading of the explosives back onto their stretcher, and men to carry them, and made sure the captured Auroran wasn’t going to bleed to death or bolt. Then he turned to them and said, “Ladies, sir, if you could come with me, please. We shouldn’t linger here until we’re sure it’s clear of more of the enemy.” Bridget still felt somewhat confused. “Benedict,” she said, “I’m sorry but … I don’t understand. Is the fighting over?” His expression darkened. “No,” he said quietly. “I think it’s just getting started.” Chapter 17 Spire Albion, Habble Morning, House of Master Ferus Folly sat up in her bed in the little loft over the master etherealist’s library, covered in a cold sweat, her heart racing, her breath heavy. She sat there dully for a mute moment. Terror left a sour miasma in the air around a person—not something one could smell, even if she had the sharpest of noses, but she always felt that she could detect its stench, for some reason. “Teacher,” Folly called. “It would seem I’ve had the dream again.” “Did you catch it?” the master called back. “If you didn’t, I should say that the dream has had you.” Folly sat up and looked around her little loft. Her stacks and stacks of jars full of little-used illumination crystals—she would never understand the phrase “burnt out” in reference to the crystals that no longer responded to an average human will—gave the entire place a soft aqua glow. She turned to check her dream catcher. Between two stacks of glass jars was a funnel web woven of individual strands of ethersilk. Folly checked the web and the small etheric cage at the narrow end of the funnel, built of a neutral crystal in a frame of copper wire. Really, Folly thought, it was quite a good thing that she was an etherealist’s apprentice, because she would have made a remedial spider. The funnel web had dozens of sagging strands, and several of them had even parted completely, their loose ends floating away from her fingers as she brushed them near. It was lopsided, the curl of the spiral didn’t close in a steady curve, and there were several obvious lumps in the design, where her knots and glue-work had been clumsy. But, she thought, that didn’t mean that it was necessarily a bad web, especially for someone who had never had the same opportunity to learn afforded every spider. |
But, she thought, that didn’t mean that it was necessarily a bad web, especially for someone who had never had the same opportunity to learn afforded every spider. And the little crystal in the etheric cage was glowing with sullen, flame-colored light. “I am a successful selftaught spider, I think,” she called down to Ferus. “I always hoped you would grow into one,” Ferus said. His chair scraped on the floor, and footsteps approached the ladder to the loft. The ladder groaned as he came up it and eyed the trap. “By the Builders, Folly. What a marvelous little gnatcatcher you are!” Folly smiled and bounced a little as he spoke, reaching for the cage. The small assembly promptly retreated from her outreached hand, and the crystal seemed to strain against its copper cage, buzzing and vibrating against the metal like an angry wasp. She blinked several times and took her fingers away from it, reminded of the unpleasant relationships enjoyed between some spiders and some wasps. “Ah!” Ferus cackled. “Ah, you did it. I thought as much!” “I just told you that I did it, teacher,” Folly pointed out. “Not you,” Ferus said in a testy voice. “I was speaking of the Enemy.” Folly tilted her head and regarded the little copper framework. “There’s an Enemy?” “God in Heaven, yes,” Ferus said. “I’m sure I told you. I distinctly remember doing so.” “Perhaps that was tomorrow, teacher.” “It may be,” Ferus said. “But yes, quite. Enemy, capital E.” “If one is to have an Enemy, one might as well have a respectable one. |
Enemy, capital E.” “If one is to have an Enemy, one might as well have a respectable one. And this dream? It is an Enemy sending?” “I rather suspect it was more of a Folly taking,” Ferus replied. “Give it to us; let’s have a look.” Folly considered the problem for a moment, then carefully reached her hand down on the far side of the copper cage. She moved her hand toward it, and it began to buzz again, moving away. She herded it over to the edge of the loft, and Ferus caught it handily as it leapt away from her. “Excellent,” he said, his tone pleased. The old etherealist leaned down to peer at the crystal. “Let’s see what’s been on your mind, eh?” His eyes glittered brightly and then the old man fell silent, staring. Folly rose from her bed, took off her nightclothes, and put on clothes that felt right for today: a red stocking, a grey stocking with blue speckles, a plain dress of yellow cotton, and a dozen brightly colored scarves that she tied in a row down each arm, using her teeth to finish the knots. Then she strapped on a pistoleer’s gun belt, minus the unreliable weaponry, and filled the holsters with small mesh sacks of dim little etheric crystals instead. They were not used to being carried that way, but it would be a good learning experience for them, she thought. She completed the outfit with several more scarves that went around her neck and wound a long knitted scarf about her head. It was hot, but she thought it suited today, and she felt ever so much better once she had finished dressing. She had time to dress and to sit down and begin telling all of her little crystals good morning when the master let out a long, slow breath and lowered the etheric cage with its sullen crystal heart. He looked awful. His face was grey, his eyes sunken. “Teacher?” Folly said. She moved to the edge of the loft and crouched beside him, reaching out to touch his head, which was fever-hot. “What did you see?” “A sending indeed,” he said. |
“What did you see?” “A sending indeed,” he said. “This was no dream, no etheric echo, my girl. I believe it was a message.” Folly blinked. “A message? Sent by ether? Is such a thing possible?” “A moment ago I would have said that it was not,” he replied, his eyes still far away. “But it would seem that someone has worked out how it might be done— though just as clearly they had no idea that they might be overheard.” “You think I’ve been eavesdropping in my dreams? I trust that is not an assessment of my character, teacher.” “No,” he said slowly. He often spoke so when his mind was fully focused on some task. “No, child. Your nightmares of late—you’ve been hearing their whispers for what? Two weeks now?” “About that, yes,” Folly said. “But, teacher—how is it that I heard them and you did not?” “That is an excellent question. I will give it consideration.” He took a slow breath and then said, “By the way, we’re at war as of an hour ago. I didn’t think it was worth waking you for.” “I may have missed this … dream message, otherwise,” Folly said seriously. “I suppose it would be disorienting to have an Enemy but no war.” “Let us not make assumptions,” the master said. “Then I will make a question or two, if you do not mind.” “Rarely.” “You say this was a message. To whom was it sent?” “Points for grammar, Folly. Mmmmm.” Ferus rubbed at his chin. “Another etherealist, almost certainly.” “Are there any others in Habble Morning?” Ferus shook his head. |
“Another etherealist, almost certainly.” “Are there any others in Habble Morning?” Ferus shook his head. “Not for … a great many years now. The nearest is Bernard Fezzig down in Habble Solace, I think. But he’s utterly mad, you know.” Folly carefully straightened one of the hundreds of jars of exhausted crystals that had inexplicably become slightly misaligned. “The poor man.” “It happens to the best of us,” Ferus said, and slid back down the ladder, bouncing the trapped etheric message in one palm. He had, Folly noted, forgotten to put on his clothing that morning, except for a pair of thick black socks and his sleeping cap. “I have an intuition.” “Is it a fine one?” “I think we shall need that grim captain.” “Captain Grimm?” “Don’t correct my grammar; it’s an aesthetic choice of word order. But yes, that fellow whose arm had been infected.” “What shall we need him for?” “He seemed capable. And polite. And it’s so rare to meet someone who is actually polite for the proper reasons.” He paused. “Is it cold in here?” “You need to put on your warm robe, teacher,” Folly suggested diffidently. “Ah, yes, I knew I’d forgotten something, child. Thank you.” The master picked up a robe—there were several he’d absently discarded over the past few weeks strewn about the library floor—and put it on inside out. But he was very busy thinking; Folly could tell from the set of his jaw. He was doing very well just to get his arms into the proper holes when he was in that state of mind. Folly finished touching each jar of little crystals and then carefully climbed down the ladder. It wasn’t until she was halfway across the room that she heard a sharp, heavy crashing sound from the front hall. Ferus’s head whipped around toward the sound, his eyes glittering fever-bright, flicking left and right at random distances. He lifted one hand to point, and his voice was a silken snarl. “Folly, by that wall, down low.” Folly hurried to obey. |
“Folly, by that wall, down low.” Folly hurried to obey. When the master scanned that many futures that rapidly, and spoke in that voice, one really had to be quite stupid to do otherwise. She dropped into a low crouch, kept her feet beneath her in case she needed to run, and reached into her holsters to give her little crystals reassuring pats, in case they had become frightened. Ferus nodded and absently held out his right arm. The crystal on the head of his cane let out a soft chime as he sent out a current of etheric energy from his fingertips, and then the implement sailed gracefully across the room and into his hand. Just as it did, the doors to the library crashed open, and three men wearing uniforms that closely approximated those of the Spirearch’s Guard entered the room. They carried all manner of soldierly equipment, including gauntlets and blades. One held an ax that he had just used on Ferus’s fine wooden door, and his companions both advanced with their gauntlets raised and glowing. They discharged the gauntlets within a second of one another, and brilliant energy flooded the room, a torrent of destruction meant to rip the old man facing them to shreds. Folly winced, and experienced something she felt quite sure was pity for the poor fools. Ferus simply lifted his cane, and the crystal at its tip drew in the deadly bursts of etheric energy as a sponge soaked up water. He held the cane forth, and the crystal continued to drink down etheric force from the weapons crystals of the enemy gauntlets, yanking the power from them in one long, continuous burst. Gauntlets were not designed for that kind of steady discharge of energy, and they began to shed heat almost instantly. The copper wires that served as a cage for the weapons crystal, encasing the user’s forearm, smoldered, heated, and began to glow. The two men let out pitiable screams and fell, scrambling with leather straps and buckles that scored the fingertips of their right hands even as they tried to unfasten them. The third man looked at the other two and showed a spark of intelligence. He stripped his gauntlet rapidly, dumping it on the floor. But then he ruined his brain’s hard work by drawing his copper-clad sword and advancing on the master, holding his ax in one hand, the sword in the other. Ferus gave his head an impatient shake, lifted his cane, and sent a single, flickering dart of searing light across the room. It flew in a sinuous, erratic pattern, winding around a column and beneath a table and slithering through several stacks of books before hammering into the broad side of the ax’s heavy, copper-covered steel head. |
It flew in a sinuous, erratic pattern, winding around a column and beneath a table and slithering through several stacks of books before hammering into the broad side of the ax’s heavy, copper-covered steel head. The bolt melted a hole three inches across through the steel, sending out an enormous burst of sparks and flares of flickering fire, and the man yelped and dropped the weapon, turning to stare with wide eyes at the master. Ferus said calmly, “You are trespassing, sir. Begone. While you still can.” With each word, a brilliant, tiny wisp of light like the first flickered out of the crystal and began orbiting around the master’s white-fringed head in a beautiful, deadly crown of etheric fire. The man licked his lips and then looked behind him. His wounded companions had managed to rip the gauntlets from their arms, and had drawn their short, straight swords. He turned back to the master and bared his teeth. “Don’t,” Ferus said, his voice softening. “Please don’t. There’s too much pain on that path.” The two men on the floor gained their feet. The third man took a deep breath. “Folly,” the master said. “Close your eyes.” Folly did, at once. There was a guttural shout from the intruder. There was a volley of hissing sounds and a chorus of shrieks. Then screams. And silence. And the smell of burning meat. Folly swallowed and rose slowly. |
Folly swallowed and rose slowly. She cracked open one eye, and then the other. The master hadn’t said she had to keep her eyes closed indefinitely. He was unharmed. He stood in the same spot, his head bowed, the crystal of his cane now dark again, resting against the floor as though the implement had grown too heavy for him to hold. Folly did not look at what was left of the intruders in their disguises. It was disturbing, and she was at the limits of her skills as a spider already. She needed no further bad dreams. She carefully did not let herself cry, though she wanted to very much. It pained the master to see her cry, and she would rather be burned to death herself than to give him pain. He’d had so much of it already. She reached his side and touched his arm gently. “Are you all right, teacher?” She watched his hollow, weary eyes stare for long heartbeats at the scorched not-men who now littered their library floor before he answered. “What have we learned today, Folly?” “That one ought not to use etheric weapons against an etherealist?” “While what you say is very true, I was hoping for a different context.” “Ah,” Folly said. She considered for a moment and said, “Someone sent these men here to kill you, specifically.” “Good. Continue.” “They had to know where you lived. Therefore someone who knows you, or knows of you, is responsible for them.” “Correct,” the master said. He lowered his voice to a preoccupied mumble. “I confess, I did not catch the faintest glimpse of this future.” Folly frowned suddenly, wrinkling her nose. She knew she could not actually smell it, but her mind told her that she could feel the stench filling her nose. |
She knew she could not actually smell it, but her mind told her that she could feel the stench filling her nose. Fear hovered around Efferus Effrenus Ferus, master etherealist. “You know,” Folly said. “You know who sent them.” “I think so.” “Who is it, teacher?” “An old friend. A friend who has been dead for a decade.” Folly considered the words for a moment before saying carefully, “That does not seem probable.” “Oh, aye,” the master said. “It’s utterly mad. But there it is.” “Teacher, I don’t understand.” “There’s no rush,” he said in a very soft voice. “You will soon enough.” Folly bowed her head a little. “Teacher?” “Yes?” “What shall we do now?” “Fetch my dueling suit, if you would,” he said. “Also three feathers and a tack hammer. Ready my collection. Oh, and pack a bag.” “A bag?” “A bag. With … food, clothing, books, that sort of thing. We’ll be leaving the habble.” Folly blinked several times. “What? We will? To go where?” “First we’ll go see the Spirearch and get him to give us the grim captain,” he said. “And then?” Something dark and hard rose for a moment in the master’s eyes, and the look made Folly shiver. “And then,” he said quietly, “we shall visit an old friend.” Chapter 18 Spire Albion, Habble Morning, Spirearch’s Manor Twelve hours after the fighting ended, Grimm wanted nothing so much as a bath and his bunk on Predator. He ached for them, in fact. |
He ached for them, in fact. When he was this weary, his sleep would be too deep to be disturbed by dreams of the men he had lost in the fighting. He could put off, for at least one night, being haunted by the faces and limbs that had been crushed, scorched, and mangled by the first battle of what could be a long and costly war. Instead of resting, though, he and Creedy followed a slim, aging, gentlemanly sort of fellow named Vincent from the entry hall of the Spirearch’s Manor down a hallway with polished wooden walls and floors, decorated with some of the finest art in Spire Albion. According to the engraved brass plaques beside each piece, there were paintings from the giddy days of the New Dawn, two centuries before, sculptures from the Olympian master McDagget, and other pieces, some of them attributed to relatively unknown artists currently working in Spire Albion. They were exquisite, Grimm thought. He approved of the taste of whoever had decorated the hall. They were shown into what appeared to be a study, also furnished entirely in wood and lit with candles rather than lumin crystals. There was a large desk with five chairs set neatly in front of it. Vincent nodded to the chairs and said, “If you will wait here, sirs, he will be with you shortly.” “Of course,” Grimm said. He and Creedy sat while Vincent departed. It was perhaps a matter of two or three minutes before a door in the rear wall of the study opened and the Spirearch came into the room. He was a man of no impressive height and what might charitably be called a scholarly build—but Lord Albion’s eyes were sharp and hard, and he moved with a brisk, no-nonsense sort of energy as he approached them. Grimm and Creedy rose at once to meet him. Albion came around the desk to offer his hand to Grimm. “Captain Grimm,” he said. “I hear extraordinary things about your service to the Spire in the face of the surprise attack.” “Sire,” Grimm said, bowing his head slightly. “This is my XO, Byron Creedy.” Creedy mumbled something Grimm couldn’t understand, and shook the Spirearch’s hand with a kind of numb shock on his features. “Well,” Albion said, “I know how tired you both must be, so sit, sit, and I’ll be as succinct as possible.” They sat, while Lord Albion rested a hip against the edge of his desk, looking down at them with calm assessment clear in his eyes. “I’m afraid you made a serious mistake today.” “Sire?” Grimm said. |
“I’m afraid you made a serious mistake today.” “Sire?” Grimm said. “You proved yourself extraordinarily capable, Captain,” Albion said. “I can hardly let something like that go unremarked.” “I don’t understand, sir,” Grimm said, frowning. “Captain, your clarity of thought in the face of unexpected disaster is a rare quality. It’s a poor reward for such heroism, but I’m afraid that I must insist upon continuing to use you for the good of my Spire.” Grimm was quiet for a moment. He wanted to sink into a tub of hot water and soak away the violence and fear of hours of skirmishes with Auroran Marines. He wanted to sleep. Hadn’t his men given enough? “Sire,” he said in a measured, quiet voice. “I have already offered such skills as I have in the service of Albion. The Spire made it quite clear to me that I was not needed.” “The Perilous incident, yes,” Albion said. “I’m familiar with what happened. Or perhaps I should say, I am familiar with both the history of what happened and with what actually transpired. You didn’t have to accept your discharge quietly, Captain. But you did.” “It was what was best for the Fleet, sire,” Grimm said. “An arguable point, I think,” Lord Albion said. “But your sacrifice was without doubt a good thing for the Fleet, if not for you personally.” “I didn’t join Fleet to serve myself, sire,” Grimm said. “The best never do.” Albion gave Grimm a faint smile. “But your previous difficulties are irrelevant, Captain. The Spire Council is, as we speak, voting to declare a state of war with Spire Aurora. |
The Spire Council is, as we speak, voting to declare a state of war with Spire Aurora. The Spire needs every capable commander it can get.” “I hardly think the Fleet will welcome me back in any capacity, sire,” Grimm said in a voice that came out diamond-hard, though he hadn’t meant it to. “No one wants to work with a proven coward.” “I do,” Albion said. “I’m not talking about returning you to the Fleet, Captain. I want you for myself.” Grimm blinked. “Sire … what I did today was what any competent, professional commander would have done in my place. It does not qualify me for a position in your personal service.” “Perhaps, Captain, judgments about what qualifies a given individual for the Spirearch’s service might best be made by the Spirearch,” Lord Albion suggested, his eyes sparkling with quiet humor. Grimm shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “Sire … I’m no diplomat, so with your leave I’ll just say it, and beg your pardon ahead of time if this comes out sounding unpleasant or disrespectful.” Creedy’s eyes widened slightly, but he stayed as silent as a stone. Albion arched a brow. “Oh, by all means, Captain, speak.” “I don’t like it here. Spending more than a few weeks in this dreary old mausoleum makes me feel as if I can’t breathe. I don’t understand how any of you can stand it day in and day out. I’m an aeronaut, sire, living on a deck since I ever could remember. I belong in the sky. I belong on my ship. It’s the only place that feels … right. Thank you for your offer, but I don’t want another job.” “I understand,” Lord Albion said. “But you proceed from a false assumption. I don’t want your service as an adviser on my staff, Captain.” He folded his arms and narrowed his eyes slightly. |
I don’t want your service as an adviser on my staff, Captain.” He folded his arms and narrowed his eyes slightly. “I want an airship helmed by a captain I can trust.” Grimm and Creedy traded a surprised look. “Sire?” “I have need of a ship to serve as transport and support for a mission for my Guard,” Albion said. “I’ve decided that I want Predator, along with her captain and crew, to fill that position.” “What if they don’t want to do it?” Grimm asked. Creedy made a choking sound. “I can be a very persuasive person,” the Spirearch said. “You have no legal authority to do that,” Grimm said. “You’re right. But I mean to see it done all the same.” Perhaps it was the fatigue, but Grimm found himself growing genuinely angry. “Sire,” he said stiffly, “Predator is not for sale. I am not for sale.” That brought a wolfish flash of a smile from Lord Albion. He pointed a forefinger at Grimm and leaned forward slightly. “Exactly, Captain. Exactly. You’ve served Albion as a privateer for eighteen months now. This would be no different.” “That’s … very generous, sire,” Grimm said cautiously. “Perhaps, though, you have not been made aware of Predator’s state of repair. She’s in need of refitting. It may be some time before she’s skyworthy.” Decades, perhaps, Grimm thought. “She’s running on nothing but her trim crystals.” “I’m not an aeronaut, Captain,” the Spirearch said apologetically, “or an aeronautical engineer. |
“She’s running on nothing but her trim crystals.” “I’m not an aeronaut, Captain,” the Spirearch said apologetically, “or an aeronautical engineer. What does that mean, precisely?” “She can only go up and down,” Creedy said in a helpful tone. “And she has to do it very slowly.” “Ah,” Albion said, brightening. “As it happens, that is precisely what I need your ship to do.” Grimm narrowed his eyes. “Meaning what, exactly?” “I’m sending a team to Landing,” the Spirearch replied. “It needs to be done quickly—before dawn, if possible. I’m sure that your ship is adequate to—” Grimm rose, his heart pounding harder and louder as his anger grew. “Sire,” he all but snapped. “With all due respect, there is ample transport to Landing. Send them down in a barge or a windlass.” Lord Albion’s head drew back slightly, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Captain, I am not sure why the idea upsets you so.” “My ship isn’t a barge. And she’s bloody well no windlass,” Grimm snarled. “And while I’m alive she never will be. Not for the Fleet, not for the bloody Spire Council, and not for you, sire. Thank you for the offer, but I cannot help you. If you will excuse me, please. I must see to the needs of my wounded and dead. Creedy.” Grimm turned to leave and Creedy lurched up out of his chair to follow, his face pale. Albion sighed audibly. Just as Grimm reached for the door, he said, “That’s a shame, Captain. |
Just as Grimm reached for the door, he said, “That’s a shame, Captain. I wish we could have worked something out. Do you perhaps know someone in the market for new lift and trim crystals for a ship Predator’s size? It seems I’ll have some spares on my hands.” Grimm froze with his hand on the doorknob. He tilted his head and then turned slowly, inexorably back toward the Spirearch. Albion gave him a feline smile. “Do this work for me, and you’ll be making the trip down to Landing with top-ofthe-line replacements from the Lancaster Vattery. I’m told your engineer can have them installed and calibrated within a week.” “You … would do that?” Grimm breathed. “In exchange for what?” “This job,” Albion said. “One job. Take my team to Landing. Provide whatever support you can for them while they are there. Bring them back here when they’re done.” “One job,” Grimm said. “Frankly, Captain, my hope is that you will see the advantages of my offer and will be inclined to work with me on an ongoing basis. But if you want nothing to do with me after this, so be it. Keep the crystals and go your way.” “If I did, you’d be throwing away a fortune.” Lord Albion shrugged. “I prefer to think of it as an investment in the future, Captain Grimm. What say you?” Grimm exhaled through his nose. The anger was still burning, but smoldering alongside it was … Hope. Unattainably valuable replacements for Predator’s damaged crystals, waiting to be installed. |
Unattainably valuable replacements for Predator’s damaged crystals, waiting to be installed. His ship rising above the mists again, to sail in the blinding light of the sun. His crew’s livelihood secured. And yet Predator would be bound to no one but her captain. Freedom. Grimm realized with a sudden shock of purely mental impact that nothing on earth could convince him to turn down such a deal. “I say…” Grimm began, slowly. Then he sighed. “I say that you are a manipulative son of a bitch, sire.” “Each and every day of the week,” Lord Albion replied, nodding. He met Grimm’s eyes. “And I don’t turn my back on my people, Captain.” He hadn’t said, The way that Fleet does, but it hung unspoken in the silence after his words. Albion lifted his hands, palms out, as if signaling the end of a bout, and regarded Grimm with a frank gaze. “It’s as simple as this: I need you, Captain. The Spire needs you.” Grimm clenched his right hand into a fist for a moment, and then relaxed. “Mister Creedy.” “Captain?” “Return to Predator. Inform Engineer Journeyman that he has work to do. Make ready to sail to Landing.” Chapter 19 Spire Albion, Habble Landing Major Auroran Renaldo Marine, Espira, walked calmly through the cramped, crowded streets of Habble Landing dressed in local clothing, carrying a crate marked with the logo of one of Landing’s water farms. Though there was much excitement and the buzz of talk and rumor in the habble, evidently the authorities of Habble Landing had not yet realized the extent of his battalion’s incursion into Spire Albion, and no checkpoints or patrols had yet been established. He could still move about in relative freedom. The initial assault had come off with as much success as any combat mission could reasonably expect. |
The initial assault had come off with as much success as any combat mission could reasonably expect. He had yet to hear from the assault teams striking Habble Morning, but his Marines’ months of training in the precision maneuver of parasails had paid off handsomely. Already better than four hundred of the five hundred men under his command had made contact and begun to concentrate, and there had been reports of fewer than twenty men who had failed to target one of the Spire’s many ventilation ports properly. It looked as though, barring bad luck, he would have more than enough men to attain his objectives, and if he was able to see the most daring raid in the history of any Spire to completion, his fortunes in Spire Aurora would be secured for life. Espira wove his way through the hectic streets of Landing. Most habbles in every Spire had modified the original spaces as designed by the Builders, adding in fortifications, additional housing, more vatteries, whatever was needed—but the inhabitants of Landing had done so to an extent that was little better than madness. They had actually divided their habble’s vertical space in half, in effect creating two duplicate levels of the same habble, one stacked atop the other. It meant that the normally spacious ceilings of a basic habble had been turned into close, looming things, and they made Espira feel as if the ceiling were slowly coming down on top of him. If that madness was not enough, they had then filled both of those spaces to overflowing with more masonry and wooden construction than Espira had ever seen. The streets had turned from broad walkways into cramped, narrow affairs, where no more than three men could have walked beside one another. Houses and businesses were pressed together wall-to-wall, and the doorways were by necessity narrow ones. One literally could not walk twenty steps on the streets of Landing without brushing body-tobody with a fellow pedestrian. This wasn’t a habble. It was a warren for rats. And yet … there were expensive wooden doors on nearly every home. In places, entire homes had been constructed of wood—and they did not look particularly lavish, either, being built with a sturdy, bland functionality that suggested the residences of craftsmen and tradesmen. Yet the amount of wood that went into building a single such residence would have sold for enough money to keep a man in food and drink for a lifetime. Rats, indeed. Greedy, gnawing, thieving rats. Let them flaunt their wealth. |
Let them flaunt their wealth. Things would change. He stalked through the narrow streets and wound his way down an alley between two buildings to an old, rotting wooden door. He paused to knock at it, three measured strokes followed by two quick ones, and it opened at once. Her batman, Sark, stood on the other side of it. The fellow reminded Espira of a hunting spider—he was warriorborn, tall, gaunt, with long, slender limbs and hands that seemed a little too large for the rest of him. His hair was black and short, and covered his face, head, neck, and what showed of his hands in a sparse, spidery fuzz. Sark had the feline eyes of his kind, one of them set at a slight angle to the other, so that Espira could never be sure precisely where the man was looking. “What?” Sark asked. His tone suggested that he would rather have killed Espira than spoken to him. Espira had not become the youngest major in the history of the Auroran Marine Corps by allowing himself to be intimidated by hard men. “Is she here?” Espira asked Sark. “Why?” “There’s a problem.” Sark looked at, or slightly past, Espira and made a growling sound. Espira lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. “This is above your pay grade, Sark. Unless you’d prefer to explain to her why you turned away the man who came with a warning of a threat to her plan.” Sark didn’t move for a moment, as still as any spider who senses that prey is coming near. Then he made a throaty sound and stepped back from the door, leaving it open. Espira walked in boldly and pressed his crate of vegetables into Sark’s hands as though the man were a common servant. Sark accepted the burden, but his crooked eyes narrowed. Espira could feel them crawling over his back as he walked past the batman and down the gloomy hallway to the copper-clad steel door to her chamber. |
Espira could feel them crawling over his back as he walked past the batman and down the gloomy hallway to the copper-clad steel door to her chamber. He knocked and waited rather than entering. He was bold, not suicidal. After a moment, a woman’s voice said, “Come in, Major.” Espira opened the door, which moved easily and soundlessly on its hinges, and entered the room beyond. It was a luxurious chamber, a sitting room by design. Lumin crystals glowed in wall sconces. A large sculpture of Spire Albion resided in one corner of the room, with walking space all around it. Opposite the Spire was the graceful shape of a large harp nearly five feet high. A trickling fountain that had been carved into one wall made quiet whispering sounds, and the water fell into a small pool filled with floating flowers and small, slithering forms that could only barely be glimpsed beneath its surface. She sat in one of two chairs near the pool with a serving table placed between them. She was preparing two cups of tea, her motions calm and precise, somehow ritualistic. She wore a dark blue, conservative gown, well fitting, elegant, and expensive. She was neither young nor old, her lean, predatory features were intriguing, and something in the reserve of her movements whispered that a searing sensuality might lurk beneath her perfectly composed surface. It was her eyes that made Espira uneasy. They were the cold, flat grey of the mists that covered the world, and she rarely blinked. Espira made her a proper and polite bow. She remained still for a moment, and then nodded to the second chair. Espira approached and sat. “I pray you will forgive this intrusion, Madame Cavendish, but it was necessary to speak to you.” Instead of answering, she passed him a cup of tea on a fine ceramic saucer. He accepted it, of course, with a smile, and bowed his head in thanks. |
He accepted it, of course, with a smile, and bowed his head in thanks. Madame Sycorax Cavendish was a very proper woman. Anyone who behaved toward her in any other fashion, so far as Espira could tell, did not survive the experience. So he smiled, waited until she had taken up her own cup, and sipped tea together with her. The tea, he noted, was his favorite—Olympian mint, and braced with the perfect amount of honey. Obviously his visit had not taken her by surprise. She’d had no way to know he was coming; yet, dammit, she’d known anyway. Her flat eyes watched him steadily over the rim of her teacup. He suppressed a shudder. “Renaldo,” she said. Her voice was extraordinary, mellow, warm, and soft, the kind of voice that could give rest to weary convalescents— or gently lure an aeronaut to his doom on the surface. “You know I enjoy your visits. Is there something I can do for you?” She would not be pleased by his news, but there was no helping that. “Our command post has been discovered.” Her cold eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Oh?” “A verminocitor stumbled across it in the pursuit of his duties, I’m afraid,” Espira said, keeping his tone neutral, simply reporting objective facts. “He was captured before he could escape and warn anyone of our presence.” Madame Cavendish arched an eyebrow. “Captured?” Espira pressed his lips together for a second, then nodded. “The Verminocitors’ Guild of Landing requires them to work in pairs. He claims that he was working alone, that he didn’t want to split the contract with one of his fellows.” “And he volunteered this information?” “His story didn’t change, even after vigorous inquisition,” Espira said. “But we are too close to our goals to allow some small mischance to undermine us now. |
“But we are too close to our goals to allow some small mischance to undermine us now. We need to be sure.” “I see,” she said. She took another small sip of tea, her expression thoughtful. “You would like me to determine his veracity.” “In essence,” Espira said. “Better safe than sorry.” “One might say,” she murmured, her voice silken, “that more foresight would have prevented this unfortunate event from coming to pass.” He’d seen men die just after the woman used that particular tone of voice. Espira took a moment to consider his reply carefully. “One might also say that the view behind us is always clearer than that before. There are always unforeseen problems. The most vital skill a commander can possess is to recognize them when they appear and adapt to overcome them.” Madame Cavendish tilted her head, as if considering that statement. “I suppose that is a practical mind-set, for a military man,” she allowed. “Thus you have sought out the support of an ally to adapt to this adversity.” “Indeed, madame,” he said. “You know how highly I regard your judgment and your skills.” The barest hint of a smile haunted one corner of her mouth. “Major. I know precisely what you think of me.” She resettled her fingers on her teacup and nodded slightly. “Very well. I will assist you.” “You are most gracious, madame,” Espira said, rising. “Time is of the essence, so —” Madame Cavendish’s voice came out in two pulses of dulcet music, and the lumin crystals in the walls flickered a sullen scarlet in time with them. “Sit. Down.” Espira’s heart abruptly leapt into his throat, a thrill of something like distilled panic flashing through his belly. He arrested his momentum and clumsily—quickly—took his seat again. |
He arrested his momentum and clumsily—quickly—took his seat again. Madame Cavendish’s mouth widened into a smile, and she said, as if explaining to a child, “We’re still having tea.” Espira’s mouth felt very dry. “Of course, madame. I pray you, please excuse my … enthusiasm.” “I should think most successful soldiers bear the same burden,” she replied, still smiling. They sipped together for a few more minutes, the silence deafening. Then Madame Cavendish put down her cup and saucer and said, “I trust you have arrangements in place to dispose of the remains, once I am finished.” “I do.” “Wonderful,” she said. She picked up a matching serving plate artfully arranged with a number of foods appropriate to the setting and offered it to him with a smile. “Do have a scone, Major. I made them myself.” Chapter 20 Spire Albion, Habble Morning, Spirearch’s Manor Gwendolyn Lancaster took the lead as they followed the Spirearch’s batman deeper into the manor. Barely half a day had passed since the Auroran attack, but a good many things had changed— not the least of which was that she and Bridget, along with the rest of the recruits, had exchanged their training uniforms for the functional livery of the Spirearch’s Guard—a simple white shirt with dark blue trousers and jacket, the arms and legs seamed with gold piping. “I cannot but think that this seems ill-advised,” Bridget said from behind her. “A war has begun. Have we therefore somehow mystically acquired the knowledge we need to serve in the Guard?” “I should say it is a practical act, Bridget,” Gwen replied. “We have, after all, already faced the enemy and triumphed.” Bridget sounded doubtful. “‘Triumph’ seems … an awfully evocative word when compared to what actually happened.” “We met the enemy with deadly force, foiled their designs, and survived,” Gwen said. “And were rescued by those aeronauts.” “We were most certainly not rescued,” Gwen said. “Not by aeronauts and most specifically not by a man who was cast out of the Fleet for cowardice.” “This should be interesting,” Benedict said. “What did happen, then, dear coz?” Gwen sniffed. “My plan embraced the necessity of cooperation to overcome greater numbers. We kept the enemy pinned in place until the proper amount of force could be brought to bear against them. |
We kept the enemy pinned in place until the proper amount of force could be brought to bear against them. We were the anvil to the hammer of our reinforcements.” “Is she serious?” Bridget asked Benedict. “Sweet Gwen lives in a very special world,” Benedict replied soberly, even kindly. “Apparently it looks only somewhat like the place in which we mere mortals reside.” Gwen turned and gave her cousin a narrow-eyed glare. “In function, which part of my description is inaccurate?” At that, the tall young man frowned. After a moment he shrugged and said, “The part where you make it sound like that was your plan all along, instead of something you desperately improvised on the spur of the moment.” “Of course I improvised it on the spur of the moment,” Gwen snapped. “They ambushed us.” “But…” Bridget said. “Gwen … the fight started when you discharged your gauntlet into that officer’s face.” “It is hardly my fault if they did not ambush us more effectively than they did,” Gwen replied. “And if they had, or if I had not done what I did, none of us would be here right now.” She walked a few more steps before saying, “And in any case, we did keep our heads in the midst of a great panic, and we saved poor Barney’s life. Which is what trained members of the Guard are supposed to do, I believe.” “That is certainly true,” Benedict said with a note of approval in his voice. “I should say as well, coz, that I have never seen you flinch in the face of adversity, but one can never tell how a given person will react to real combat. You more than lived up to my expectations. Nerves of steel.” “Thank you, coz,” Gwen said in a more subdued voice. She didn’t turn to look back again. The flash of her gauntlet’s discharge kept playing back through her thoughts. The Auroran officer had been taken completely unaware by her sudden blast. There had been a slightly confused expression on his face, as if he hadn’t quite heard the last phrase she’d said, and wished her to repeat it. She hadn’t realized until much later how young the man had been. In the panic and concern for Barney, in the dust and the blood, she had seen a man in a uniform. But in her mind’s eye, she had gradually discerned that he had been little older than she was, and certainly no older than Benedict. |
But in her mind’s eye, she had gradually discerned that he had been little older than she was, and certainly no older than Benedict. A young officer, perhaps one of the elite new crop of the Auroran Marine Corps, chosen to lead a small team on a straightforward but important support mission, bringing explosives to an assault team at a critical target. In the eyes of the men who planned the attack, it must have seemed an ideal assignment for a bright young prospect—simple, unlikely to lead to direct combat, in which an officer with an agile mind would be far more valuable than one experienced in battle, especially if he had the watchful eye of an experienced noncommissioned officer like Ciriaco to guide him. Surely to some commander it seemed a fine mission to set a new rising star upon his ascendancy. And Gwendolyn had wiped the life from him as swiftly and as surely as the darkness swallowed shooting stars in the night. She wanted to feel remorse over it, to regret what she had done. It seemed to her that it was the sort of thing a decent person should feel. But when she sought for such emotions within herself, she mainly discovered a profound relief that she and her companions were still alive. But she couldn’t stop thinking about his face. The blast had left a ruined mass where his face had been. She’d had to shoot him there, of course—there’d been no way of knowing whether he wore ethersilk beneath his false uniform. She kept seeing his face in that brief, fatal flash, kept putting words into his mouth that had matched his expression. Beg pardon, miss? Could you repeat that, please? What on earth are you doing? Whatever would she have said in reply? Why, making a corpse from someone’s beloved child, sir. She hadn’t eaten since. Lord Albion’s batman reached the end of the richly appointed hallway and knocked on the door. At a word from beyond the door, he opened it for Gwen and her friends and bowed slightly, waving them in. |
At a word from beyond the door, he opened it for Gwen and her friends and bowed slightly, waving them in. Gwen swept into a room that was decorated and arranged like a small private study, but which was, in fact, something much more. Oh, certainly the desk and the lights, both lumin crystal and candles, were studious enough, as were the bookshelves, packed thick with many more volumes than they had been designed to hold. It was the subject matter of some of the titles that made it seem otherwise —the histories of Albion written by Dagget and Deen were common enough, but the set by Montclaire that had been outlawed two centuries before, due to the scandalous rumors they had spread about the first Spirearch of Albion, were another matter. One rather thick volume was titled Means of Execution Through the Ages, and was placed with an elegant balance of nonchalance and availability at the eye level of anyone entering the room. As threats went, it was nearly subliminal —and perhaps it was placed there for that very reason. Behind the desk, in a case, were miniature replicas of each and every airship in the Aetherium Fleet of Albion, from the mighty battleship Dreadnought, the size of Rowl, down to the tiniest destroyer, Energetic, no larger than Gwen’s smallest finger. There were several spaces in the case that had recently been emptied. Those spots showed a lack of fine dust where the bases of the models had rested. The ships destroyed in the Auroran attack, perhaps? Opposite the replicas’ case, behind the desk, was a large section of wall that had been papered with a variety of maps, from large-scale renderings of the known world down to ancient copies of the schematics of Spire Albion. Gwen had seen similar maps in her father’s study. They were continuously updated, hyperaccurate charts of both geography and etheric currents, the ones used by the Fleet and kept in secret storage by ship captains, with orders to destroy them should the ship be in danger of being taken. All in all, Gwen thought, for a monarch who had claimed to be rendered obsolete by the tides of history, Lord Albion seemed to be following the game rather closely. This was no study. In every way that mattered, it was a throne room. Two men occupied the room. One of them was the Spirearch, obviously, seated behind his desk, looking as affable and unthreatening as he had the first time she’d met him. The other was the outcast officer, Captain Grimm. He stood in the corner nearest the miniatures with one arm in a sling and his back against the wall. |
He stood in the corner nearest the miniatures with one arm in a sling and his back against the wall. He was dressed in the very clothing he’d worn when his men had come charging down the tunnel, though perhaps his coat was stained with even more blood. Lord Albion rose, smiling, as they entered. “Ah, the heroes of the truly desperate hour. Had that group managed to carry their explosives to their companions, Albion might have suffered a crippling and permanent loss in the form of our largest crystal vattery. Please be seated.” Gwen and Bridget stepped into curtsies, which Bridget had not quite gotten the hang of. Benedict swept into a polished bow, and then each of them sat down in one of the five chairs in front of the Spirearch’s desk, with Rowl settling on Bridget’s lap. “Sire,” Benedict said. “How may your Guard serve you?” “You could start by leaving out the honorifics,” Albion replied. “At least while we’re in here. I know I’m the Spirearch, and you obviously do as well. That seems to me sufficient, and it will save time.” Benedict said, “Ah.” But he frowned as he settled back in his chair. “In that case, how may your Guard serve you?” “By waiting a moment,” Albion said. “I’m expecting two more.” Not half a minute later, the doorknob to the study rattled. It made a few fitful clicking sounds, and then a man’s voice sighed audibly. “Blast and curse the confounded things. Folly?” The door opened and a rather odd old man entered. He was dressed in a bottlegreen suit that looked as if it had fit him properly at some point in the last few decades. It had an odd sheen on it, as if … Gwen arched an eyebrow. God in Heaven, the man wasn’t wearing a silk-lined suit. |
God in Heaven, the man wasn’t wearing a silk-lined suit. He was wearing a suit made entirely of ethersilk, with what had to be multiple layers of the expensive material. A girl with the bearing of a servant or apprentice followed him into the room, her eyes on the floor. She was dressed in a collection of castoff clothing worn in very odd ways, and her eyes were rather unsettling, one a greyblue, the other a fiery greengold. She carried a jar of what looked like common, expended lumin crystals, which she held as one might an infant. The other hand was stretched out behind her, dragging a pair of small children’s wagons in a little train. Both had been filled to overflowing with all manner of apparently random articles. “Addison!” the old man cried, hurrying in. He peered owlishly at Grimm, standing in the corner. “Ah!” he said. “Exactly who I was looking for! I need this man.” Lord Albion lifted an eyebrow. “Yes,” he said, drawing the word out a bit. “That’s why he’s here.” “That was deucedly clever of you, Addison,” the old man said. “However did you manage it?” “You told me about him yesterday, Master Ferus,” said the Spirearch in a patient voice, “and advised me to secure his services.” The old man’s head rocked back. “Really? Are you quite sure?” “Entirely,” Albion said. “There were only so many experienced, independent captains with damaged ships willing to take you to Landing to choose from.” “Extraordinary,” Ferus muttered. “And you’re sure he’s the proper one?” “I am. Master Ferus, this is Captain Grimm. |
Master Ferus, this is Captain Grimm. Captain, I believe you have met Master Ferus?” “I have indeed,” the outcast replied. “Hah,” Ferus said. “Aha, Captain. I told you, did I not, that you and I would meet today?” “As I recall it, you did.” “I thought as much,” Ferus said, nodding. “Very well, then. Shall we get going?” Albion cleared his throat. “Master Ferus. If you please, could you possibly share the reason you need the good captain’s vessel?” “To find the Enemy, of course,” Ferus said. “There’s mischief afoot.” “Ah,” Albion said. He did not say it with much enthusiasm. “Is there anything more specific you can tell me?” Ferus considered that. “Doorknobs are extremely complex technology.” Albion nearly failed to suppress a sigh. “Do you think Landing is in danger?” “Of course it is. We all are.” “It’s not impossible,” Grimm said quietly. “Except for Morning, Habble Landing is the largest center of commerce in the Spire. If the Aurorans have more explosives and use them on the docks, it would cause chaos. I’m not an economist, but a very significant portion of Spire Albion’s interhabble trade passes through Landing at some point.” “Seventy-five percent,” the Spirearch provided. “God in Heaven,” Grimm said. “Is it that much?” “Every habble charges for passage through its portion of the transport spirals,” Albion said, nodding. |
“Is it that much?” “Every habble charges for passage through its portion of the transport spirals,” Albion said, nodding. “Transport by barge or windlass is cheaper, faster, and safer. By bypassing some or all of the tariffs, a merchant can as much as double his profit margin.” “And if the shipyard at Landing were destroyed? How much harm would it do the Spire?” “Incalculable,” Albion said. “Eventually the shipyard at Landing would be rebuilt —but the economy would be crippled or paralyzed in the short term, and our capacity to support a war effort would certainly be greatly reduced until it was functioning again.” “Excuse me, si—Ah. That is, excuse me,” Gwen said, trying to sound properly respectful while utterly ignoring the propriety of the Spirearch’s title. It felt clumsy and wrong, like trying to sing with a mouthful of breakfast. “I don’t understand. If the Aurorans wanted to destroy the Landing shipyards, why not just do it with their ships?” “Presumably,” Grimm said, “because the only ships fast and quiet enough to slither in past our patrols are their destroyers. Their weapons are destructive, but relatively light. It would take them time to pound the Landing yard to splinters, and the Landing defense guns and our Fleet would object. It takes armored capital ships to accomplish something like that. Their larger guns will destroy the target far more rapidly, and their armor and heavy shrouds will enable them to stay until the job is done.” Bridget frowned. “I thought the Aurorans who entered the Spire had been defeated and captured.” “Would that they had,” Albion said quietly. “The ships that strafed the Morning shipyards managed to evade the Fleet, but Captain Bayard got Valiant in close enough to the enemy formation to confirm the presence of an Auroran troop transport.” “I don’t know what that means,” Bridget said. “Auroran troop transports carry a full battalion of their Marines,” Benedict said quietly. “Around five hundred men.” “How many have been accounted for?” Gwen asked. “Forty-nine,” Albion replied. “Those taken in the attack on Lancaster Vattery and several men who evidently attempted to parasail into the vents and missed their target. Their bodies were found on the surface.” Gwen imagined men, their parasails tangled and collapsed, screaming as they fell nearly two miles through the mist, faster and faster and faster. |
Their bodies were found on the surface.” Gwen imagined men, their parasails tangled and collapsed, screaming as they fell nearly two miles through the mist, faster and faster and faster. She tried not to shudder. “I … see.” “I’m not sure I do,” Benedict said. “What is our part in this to be?” Albion spread his hands. “You three are, I am afraid, a remainder, as it were.” “Sire?” Gwen said. “Oh, bother, I’m sorry. Excuse me?” Lord Albion rose and took a couple of the large maps down from the wall behind him, revealing a to-scale rendering of the entire Spire. “Spire Albion,” he said. “Ten thousand feet high, two miles across. There are two hundred and fifty habbles, of which two hundred and thirty-six are occupied. As many as four hundred and fifty heavily armed enemy Marines are in here with us—somewhere. Do you remember how many Guardsmen are in active service, Miss Lancaster?” “A little more than three thousand,” she said. Albion nodded. “Mister Sorellin, do you know how many Marines serve in Home Fleet?” “A full regiment,” Benedict replied. He glanced at Bridget and added, “Fifteen hundred, more or less.” “Precisely,” Albion said. “Forty-five hundred bodies to protect two hundred and thirty-six potential targets.” He spread his hands. “I’ve been forced to dispatch them all up and down the Spire.” “But why?” Bridget asked. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to fight the Aurorans with all of them? I mean, it seems to me that forty-five hundred men could see to five hundred foes.” “We do not yet know where the Aurorans are, and our numerical advantage means nothing until we do,” Albion replied. “More important, some enemies are far more dangerous than mere soldiers, however formidable. |
“More important, some enemies are far more dangerous than mere soldiers, however formidable. Right now rumors are spreading, and fear spreads with them. Fear kills. Before all else, order must be maintained—and that means reassuring the citizens of Albion that they are protected.” “And you’re sending us to protect Habble Landing?” Gwen guessed. “In a way,” Lord Albion said. “The Auroran Fleet knew precisely from which angle to attack Morning’s shipyards to minimize the effectiveness of defensive fire. They sent their troops into the Spire, and they evidently know its tunnels and vents well enough to remain hidden, at least so far. They knew exactly where to find the Lancaster Vattery, and their uniforms were all but identical to ours.” Gwen frowned, thinking. “No one of those things seems particularly important but … when you put them all together…” Lord Albion smiled at her, clearly waiting for her answer. “There’s a hidden hand in this,” Gwen said. “Someone who knows the Spire.” She blinked. “Someone who lives here.” “Top marks,” Lord Albion said. “There is a traitor among us. Perhaps even within my Guard.” Rowl looked up at Bridget and made a sound. Bridget translated, “That is why you are sending kits to do a hunter’s job.” Albion looked at Rowl and nodded. “Precisely. I need to send someone I can trust. When this operation was being planned, none of the trainees had reported for duty. The enemy’s operation pattern suggests intimate knowledge of the workings of the Guard and Fleet alike.” “What about me?” Benedict asked. Albion waved a vague hand. |
Albion waved a vague hand. “Oh, come now. It isn’t you, Sorellin.” Gwen thought that her cousin didn’t know whether to look relieved or somewhat insulted, but he managed to nod at Lord Albion. “So you’re sending us?” Bridget asked. “Um. To do what? I only ask because it seems that it will be easier to follow your orders if we have actually heard them.” Lord Albion’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ve dispatched a number of small teams of recruits on various errands, to various habbles. I’m sending you to Habble Landing with Master Ferus so that you may assist him in his inquisition.” “Ah,” Gwen said, nodding. “If I may be so bold, what are you to be looking for, Master Ferus?” “You apparently are,” Master Ferus said. “And I’m all but certain I’ll know it when I see it.” Albion did smile that time. “Landing has more residents and more people constantly coming and going than any other habble in the Spire. It’s a hotbed for information and black-market trade. If there is anything to be learned about our guests or of the viper in our midst, it will be learned there.” “Ah,” Ferus said in a more subdued voice. “Yes, precisely. I will also be gathering information.” Albion pointed a finger at Benedict. “Your sole concern during this operation is the physical well-being of Master Ferus. He is of critical importance to the security of Spire Albion. You are to stay with him at all times. You are to protect him. |
You are to protect him. Whatever happens, he must return safe. Do you understand?” Benedict nodded soberly. “I do.” Albion’s gaze moved on to Bridget. “I’m sending you and Mister Rowl because if there’s trouble afoot in Landing, the local cats will know it. They rarely have cooperative dealings with any human, but I believe they may make an exception in your case. You are to serve as Master Ferus’s liaisons with the local cats.” “I can do that,” Bridget said. “What about me?” Gwen asked. She was sure that she had kept her impatience out of her voice, but Lord Albion’s eyes smiled again. “Miss Lancaster, having taken note of your talents and your obvious, ah, determination to stay your course, regardless of how illconceived it may be, I am sending you along to be a smoother.” “A what?” “Your duty is to smooth the way for Master Ferus’s inquisition. The inquisition must keep moving forward. You are to avoid, overcome, or knock down any obstructions that may block his path.” Gwen found herself frowning. “I’m not sure I understand how to do that.” “I’m not sure you understand how to do anything else,” Benedict quipped. Gwen fetched him a quick kick in the ankle with the side of her foot. “Captain Grimm,” Albion continued, as if he hadn’t noticed, “will be transporting you down to Landing, and will be ready to lend you his support and that of his crew should you have need of them.” He looked back and forth between them. “Do you understand your objectives? Do you have any questions?” “Um,” Bridget said tentatively. “What it is we’re doing, exactly?” She hurried to add, “Oh, I understand that each of us has a responsibility to help Master Ferus, but we still don’t know what we’re to be helping him with.” The Spirearch regarded her gravely. “Do you know what the phrase ‘operational security’ means, Miss Tagwynn?” “No.” “It means that not everyone has all the information,” he said. “That way, if you are spied upon, or captured and interrogated by the enemy, it will not benefit them. |
“That way, if you are spied upon, or captured and interrogated by the enemy, it will not benefit them. You cannot accidentally let slip secrets you have not been told. You cannot be tortured and forced to reveal information that you do not possess.” Bridget’s eyes opened very wide. “My goodness.” “I leave it to Master Ferus to decide how much each of you must know to perform your duty adequately,” the Spirearch said. “He will inform you at his own discretion. Until such time as he does so, you have your duties. Is that clear?” “It seems simple enough,” Bridget said. “The most difficult things often are,” said Lord Albion. “Pack for the trip, and do it swiftly. You leave within the hour.” Chapter 21 Spire Albion, Fleet Shipyards Bridget held Rowl in her cradled arms as they walked up the spiral ramp leading from Habble Morning to the shipyards on the Spire’s rooftop, and tried to keep her breathing steady. “Honestly,” Rowl said. “What are you so concerned with, Littlemouse?” “I’ve never…” Bridget said. “I’ve never really been … outside.” “There are many things you have never done,” Rowl responded. “To be frightened of them is of no use to you.” Bridget glanced over her shoulder, where Benedict was walking with Master Ferus, never more than a couple of strides away from the old man. He’d shouldered his own pack and an enormous duffel apparently meant for Master Ferus and his apprentice, and carried them absently, his eyes sweeping everywhere, even here in Habble Morning. “I’m not frightened,” Bridget replied. “I’m … simply considering the possibilities.” “Such as falling off the Spire?” Rowl asked. Bridget swallowed. “Yes.” “Or some enormous monster flying in from the mist and devouring you?” “I’m certain the tower’s defenses are perfectly adequate to repel mistmaws.” “Or being driven mad by the light of the sun?” Bridget’s fingers immediately went to her neck, where her goggles with their protective lenses hung. “Rowl, my friend, you are at times a perfect little monster.” Rowl gave his tail a disdainful flick. |
“Rowl, my friend, you are at times a perfect little monster.” Rowl gave his tail a disdainful flick. “I am a perfect everything.” “You speak with the cats, Miss Tagwynn?” asked the man walking beside her. Captain Grimm, his arm still in its grimy sling, looked like a man who should be collapsing from exhaustion, but his voice was steady, polite, his eyes alert. “Imperfectly,” Bridget said. “Though, honestly, I think most of them understand every word we say. Except when they don’t, of course.” He glanced at Rowl, smiling. “An unkind thing to say of a hero.” Rowl flicked his tail again, his expression unrepentantly smug. Bridget smiled at that, and rubbed her nose against Rowl’s furry head. “He is a hero. And a tyrant.” The cat looked up at her and yawned. Grimm let out a short bark of laughter. “Aye, aye. The cat who lived on Perilous was much the same. He didn’t take orders well, and we were lucky to have him.” “This one,” Rowl said, looking at Grimm. “This one seems smarter than most humans, Littlemouse. I have decided that he may stay.” “Given that it is his ship that will carry us,” Bridget said, her tone dry, “that seems very practical.” Grimm seemed to infer Rowl’s portion of the exchange, and inclined his head slightly to the cat. “At your service, sir. Ah, the guard station, good.” Their small group had reached the top of the ramp leading up to the shipyards. A large metal grate had been lowered over the doorway out, and at least twenty Marines stood on guard at it. Gwendolyn Lancaster had evidently taken her duty seriously—she was already there, speaking quietly with a senior sergeant, showing him the letter of authorization from the Spirearch. |
Gwendolyn Lancaster had evidently taken her duty seriously—she was already there, speaking quietly with a senior sergeant, showing him the letter of authorization from the Spirearch. The Marine did not look pleased with her. Gwen frowned, put one fist on her hip, and said something to the man with a rather tart expression on her face. The Marine’s weatherbeaten face grew redder, but he growled and jerked a hand in a quick motion. One of his men went to the grate and began pulling on a rope that lifted it, opening the way to the shipyards. Light, nearly as bright as the flash of a discharged gauntlet, poured down the ramp from the outside world. With it came a breath of wind and air that was much colder than that of the habble in which Bridget had grown up. There was a strange scent to it—wood, and burnt wood, and metal, and something else, something sharp and fresh. Bridget’s heart started pounding. Captain Grimm said something to her, but she wasn’t sure what. They walked up the ramp and into the sharp-scented air and the dazzling light. It was bright, painfully bright, like suddenly understanding a truth she would prefer to be anything else. She had to blink her eyes closed as the cold air hit her in the face, an utter shock of sensation. She had never felt anything like it. Then she remembered, in a panic, how dangerous it was to let the light touch her unprotected eyes, and she fumbled blindly at the goggles around her neck. It was difficult, with only one hand to use, but she finally managed to lift them to her face and hold them there with her quivering fingers. The dark lenses reduced the glare of the light and she could suddenly see. For a moment she wished she couldn’t. There were structures and airships and people everywhere in the shipyard, but that was of distant, secondary importance. She looked up and felt as though she might simply fall over onto the ground out of sheer disorientation. |
Subsets and Splits