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She looked up and felt as though she might simply fall over onto the ground out of sheer disorientation. There was no ceiling. There was no ceiling. She looked up, and up, and up, and up, and there was simply nothing overhead, nothing but a light, fine veil of mist that rose into infinite distance above her. She felt an irrational conviction that she was balanced on a precipice, and that a single misstep might betray her and send her body flying up into the void. She jerked her eyes back down to the floor. She fought away a sudden, overwhelming impulse to throw herself prone and hang on to the solid spirestone floor for dear life. “Easy,” she heard Captain Grimm saying. “For some, the first time is a shock, Miss Tagwynn.” “I’m sorry,” she managed to say. “I don’t mean to make a scene. Normally I am quite composed.” “You’re doing better than I did,” Grimm said. “I lost my breakfast, and couldn’t make myself look up again for days.” “What did you do?” “I kept trying until I looked up,” he said. “It got better. Don’t be hard on yourself, miss. It will pass.” “I think it is very interesting,” Rowl said in a calm, pleased tone. Bridget choked off something that might have come out a laugh or a sob. She wasn’t sure which. She still felt dizzy, sickened, but clearly this problem wasn’t going to solve itself. The sky wasn’t going anywhere. So she took a deep breath and forced herself to lift her eyes again. |
So she took a deep breath and forced herself to lift her eyes again. She could see a burning orb, outlined in the mist. The sun. She had never seen it like this, without it being filtered and diffused through the translucent sections of spirestone around the habble. It burned like no candle or crystal she had ever seen. “That’s…” she breathed. “That’s lovely.” Grimm glanced up and then smiled. “A bit of a dingy view,” he said. “When time serves, you should see what the sky really looks like.” “You mean,” Bridget asked, pointing, “up there?” She turned to find Captain Grimm staring up and smiling serenely. “Up there. Up in the deep blue sky. If you think the sun is beautiful, wait until you see it without all the mist. And the moon. And the stars. There is no beauty like that of the stars on a clear night, Miss Tagwynn.” “But,” she said, “isn’t it dangerous? To see such things? I thought men who did went mad.” “Oh, you’ll need goggles during the day; it’s true,” Grimm replied. “Airships sail in etheric currents, and they interact oddly with sunlight. If one doesn’t protect one’s eyes from them, it can do strange things to one’s mind.” Bridget glanced ahead of them at Master Ferus. “Is that … is that why Lord Albion’s man is so … so odd?” “He’s an etherealist, Miss Tagwynn,” Grimm replied. |
“Is that … is that why Lord Albion’s man is so … so odd?” “He’s an etherealist, Miss Tagwynn,” Grimm replied. “For most of us, etheric currents flow around us, like a stream of water flowing around stones. But for some folk, etheric energy doesn’t go around—it courses right through them. They draw it to them.” He shook his head. “Goggles are sufficient for the likes of you and me, miss, but there’s no protection for a man like Master Ferus.” “He’s mad?” Bridget asked in a quiet voice. “So is his apprentice, though less so,” Grimm said. “Master Ferus is the fourth etherealist I’ve met in my lifetime. They’ve all been mad. The only question is whether or not it shows.” “Oh,” Bridget said. “I do not mean to pester you with more questions, Captain, if you have duties to see to.” He shook his head. “By all means, miss, ask. I am to provide you with my support, after all. Presumably sharing what modest knowledge I have falls into the purview of that duty. Ask your questions.” “Thank you. The etherealists—can they really do what the stories say?” asked Bridget. “It depends on which stories you’ve heard, I suppose,” Grimm said. “The usual, I think,” Bridget said. “Burnham’s Tales. The Stories of Finch and Broom.” Grimm smiled a bit and spread his hands. “Well. |
“Well. They are perhaps a touch overblown.” “But etherealists really can do such things?” Bridget asked. “Call lightning with a word of power? Make a mystic gesture and fly?” “Try not to think of it that way,” Grimm said. “Etherealists are, in many ways, simply etheric engineers.” “Etheric engineers cannot call lightning, sir. Or fly.” “No?” Grimm asked. “But they can design etheric weaponry, such as gauntlets, long guns, and cannon, can they not? Can they not design an airship and send it aloft into the sky?” “True,” Bridget said. “But those are … they’re weapons and ships. Of course they do that. They design and build devices to a function. It’s what they do.” “My point is that an etherealist does the same sorts of things, miss. It’s just that he skips the troublesome part in the middle.” Bridget found herself smiling. “Oh,” she said. “Is that all he does?” Grimm winked at her. “Are they dangerous?” she asked. He was silent for a moment before he said thoughtfully, “Anyone can be dangerous, Miss Tagwynn. Etherealist or not.” He smiled at her, but then his face sobered. “But between the two of us, I think they are capable of more than we know. For myself, I think it wise to keep a very open mind.” They had walked down the length of the shipyard as they spoke, and had come to a large boarding ramp that led up to an airship. |
For myself, I think it wise to keep a very open mind.” They had walked down the length of the shipyard as they spoke, and had come to a large boarding ramp that led up to an airship. “Captain Grimm,” Bridget asked, “is this your vessel?” “Aye,” Grimm replied, unmistakable pride in his voice. “This is Predator, Miss Tagwynn. I take it you have not been aboard an airship before?” Bridget shook her head, staring up. “I’ve never even seen one.” Predator was, Bridget thought, rather impressive. The main body of the ship seemed to be a large and oddly contoured half tube suspended between three rounded towers that rose up at either end of the ship and in her very middle. Folded along her flanks were a number of bundled rods of some kind that looked like they could be folded out, and old-style canvas cloth hung from them —sails, she realized, made to be extended horizontally, along the ship’s flanks. Other masts had been folded against her belly, which was held clear of the stone of the shipyard by heavy struts that supported the vessel’s weight. And, she saw, two more masts on the ship’s main deck rose up above the ship, their yardarms spread, with more sails reefed against them. Running up the length of both masts were large metal rings that encircled twisted lengths of ethersilk sail—the ship’s etherweb. Most airships she had read about had steam engines in place as their secondary propulsion system. The only ships that favored sails were those operated by the fleets of very poor Spires—or by scoundrels, such as pirates, smugglers, and the like, who were willing to dare the dangers of the mists rather than sail in open skies. Positioned all around the vessel, at the bases of the masts, she could see large reels lined with the netlike woven ethersilk webs that harnessed the etheric currents that would drive airships faster than any other transport in the world. She understood the principle simply enough. The more webbing one let out of the reel, the more etheric energy it could catch, and the faster it would drive the ship forward. Of course, the web had to be charged with electricity in order for it to function, so airships were limited in the amount of web they could charge by the strength of their power cores. And there were the weapons. The gun emplacements protruded bulbously from the ship’s deck, the copperbarreled cannon snouts nosing out from a costly rotating ball assembly that would allow the gun crews to swing the cannon forward and aft as well as up and down. She had no way to judge how large the weapons were in comparison to others of the breed, but they certainly looked formidable. One of the gun emplacements, Bridget noted, was simply missing. |
One of the gun emplacements, Bridget noted, was simply missing. There were a number of freshly cut boards around it, suggesting that it had been damaged in some fashion, necessitating the removal of more wood in order to provide a stable platform to replace the missing assembly. And the entire ship, she realized, was made of wood, so much wood that it beggared her imagination. She remembered how proud her father had been when they had been able to afford the polished wooden service counter at the vattery, and how careful he was to clean and maintain it. It had cost a week’s profit for enough wood to build a counter ten feet long and three feet wide. And Predator, Bridget realized, was a dozen times that length, and as high as a two-story house. All of it wood. There were men on the ship, moving all over it. Men carrying crates and bags up the boarding ramp, men on lines hanging down the side of the ship, applying oil to her hull, men atop the towers, men climbing the masts and working with the reefed sails, men scrubbing down the deck, men inspecting the weapon emplacements, men coiling costly ethersilk webbing more neatly onto its reel. There was a small army aboard this vessel, Bridget realized, each of them performing some kind of specific task. And it was a good thing there were so many of them. They might not have survived the confrontation in the tunnel without the aeronauts, whatever Gwendolyn seemed to think. “If you will excuse me, Miss Tagwynn,” Captain Grimm said. “There are many things to which I must attend before we can leave.” Bridget inclined her head. “Of course, sir.” He nodded and bowed slightly at the waist. “Someone will be down momentarily to show your party where to go.” He ascended the ramp, weaving between several men carrying various burdens without missing a step. Rowl was staring up at the ship, his eyes intent, tracking motion, his ears pulled to quivering attention, straight forward. “Littlemouse,” he said. “That looks interesting.” “Not too interesting, I trust,” Bridget said. “Airships are quite dangerous, you know.” “Dangerous,” Rowl said, contempt dripping from the word. |
“Airships are quite dangerous, you know.” “Dangerous,” Rowl said, contempt dripping from the word. “For humans, perhaps.” “Don’t be foolish,” she said. “There could be any number of hazards in there. Machinery, electrical wiring, weaponry—if you go exploring, you might find something that could hurt you.” “If one doesn’t, one is not truly exploring,” Rowl replied. “But since you worry so badly, and since I know you will not stop speaking of it, regardless of how foolish you sound, I will remain near you—to make sure that you do not run afoul of hazards aboard the ship, of course.” “Thank you,” Bridget said. “But those tall … shiptrees, standing up on top.” “We call them masts,” Bridget said. She had to use the human word for them. The tongue of the cats had the occasional shortcoming. “Ship-trees,” Rowl said in an insistent tone. “Those interest me. I will climb them.” “All the way up there?” Bridget asked. She felt slightly dizzy just thinking of the view from the mast tops. “It seems unnecessary.” Rowl turned his head and gave her a level look. Then he said, “I sometimes forget that you are just a human.” He flicked his ears dismissively and looked back up at the masts. “A cat would understand.” “Just so long as the cat doesn’t fall,” she said. Rowl made a growling sound, an expression of displeasure that needed no special skill to understand. Bridget smiled. She couldn’t help it. The little monster was so full of himself that she couldn’t help but tease him from time to time. She hugged Rowl gently and rubbed her nose against the fur on his head. |
She hugged Rowl gently and rubbed her nose against the fur on his head. Rowl growled again—but with much less sincerity. Suddenly there was a presence beside her, and Bridget looked up to see that the etherealist’s apprentice was standing next to her. The girl with the oddly colored eyes stared up at the ship— but not, Bridget noted, at the features to which her own eyes had been drawn. Instead, the girl seemed to stare intently at the featureless planks of Predator’s flanks, and left Bridget with the slightly unsettling impression that the girl’s mismatched eyes were peering straight through the wood. “Oh, my,” the girl said, ducking her head enough to make it clear that she was speaking to the jar of expended lumin crystals she still held cradled in one arm. “Have you ever seen one like that?” “Beg pardon, miss?” Bridget said politely. “Oh, they’re talking to me again,” the girl told the jar. “Why must people always talk to me when I leave the house?” Bridget blinked several times at her response. What did one do in such a situation? It seemed unthinkable that they should stand together looking at such an impressive creation and not carry on some sort of polite conversation. “I … I’m afraid I don’t know your name, miss. We are to be working together, it seems. My name is Bridget Tagwynn, and this is Rowl.” The girl smiled and said to the jar, “This is Bridget Tagwynn and Rowl, and we’re to be working together.” Bridget frowned. The girl’s response had not been rude, precisely. It had simply been so disconnected from the situation that etiquette utterly failed to apply. “May I know your name, please?” The girl sighed. “She wants to know my name, but I’m simply awful at introducing myself. Perhaps I should tattoo ‘Folly’ on my head and then people can just read it.” “Folly,” Bridget said. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Folly.” “She seems very sweet,” Folly told the jar. |
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Folly.” “She seems very sweet,” Folly told the jar. “I’m sure she means well.” Rowl said, “This girl has too many things in her head, I think.” Folly replied, “Oh, the cat is right. All the things I’ve forgotten plus all the things I haven’t. I keep forgetting over which ones I need to throw a dust tarp.” Bridget blinked again. Before she left the vattery, she could have counted on one hand the number of people she’d met who actually understood Cat. She glanced down to find Rowl staring into infinite distance, exhibiting no reaction. Bridget knew the cat well enough to know that he had not been surprised. Gwendolyn and Benedict caught up to them, finally, with Benedict staying close to a bemused Master Ferus’s side. “… simply saying,” Benedict said, “that perhaps you could have gained the guard’s cooperation without resorting to threatening to arrest him for impeding an inquisition.” Gwendolyn frowned. “Ought I have threatened to charge him with treason, do you think? That one bears the death penalty.” Benedict gave his cousin a rather hunted look. “Gwen, you … I don’t even … I can’t possibly…” He shook his head, mouth open for a second. A very small smile touched Gwen’s mouth, and her eyes sparkled. Benedict sighed and shut his mouth again. “Touché. I’ll stop telling you how to do your job now, coz.” “Thank you,” Gwen said. Bridget smiled slightly at the exchange, and even Rowl seemed amused. Not a minute later, a very tall young man, dark haired and square jawed, descended briskly from the ship and approached them dressed in an aeronaut’s leathers, his goggles hanging around his neck. He came to a stop before them, gave them a bow, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Byron Creedy, Predator’s executive officer. Master Ferus, Captain Grimm has asked me to bring you and your party aboard at your earliest convenience.” The old etherealist blinked and looked up from whatever private thoughts had preoccupied him. |
Master Ferus, Captain Grimm has asked me to bring you and your party aboard at your earliest convenience.” The old etherealist blinked and looked up from whatever private thoughts had preoccupied him. He looked the young man up and down, nodded, and said, “Convenient would have been yesterday. Now will suffice.” Creedy arched a brow at this answer, but he bowed his head and said, “Then if you would all please follow me? Welcome aboard Predator.” Chapter 22 AMS Predator Gwendolyn Lancaster looked around Predator with what she felt was well-earned skepticism. It seemed that in following the orders of the Spirearch, she had fallen in with scoundrels. Oh, granted they had been fierce enough in battle—and granted that they had, in fact, quite possibly saved her life. Probably, even. But after asking a few questions of passing crewmen, she had determined that the help of Captain Grimm and his men had gone first to the Lancaster Vattery. Possibly that had been coincidence at work, but Gwen’s father put precious little store by such notions. The crystals her family’s vattery produced were quite literally the most valuable resource in the world, the most expensive piece of equipment one could purchase. It seemed to strain coincidence that the captain of a ship in dire need of replacement crystals should happen to wander by the vattery. It seemed an equal stretch that he should then proceed to rescue the heir apparent of House Lancaster, purely by happenstance. She supposed that a military-minded man might have deduced that the Lancaster Vattery would be a prime target of attack—but if Grimm had managed to piece all of that together in the chaos of the attack, he was the tactical equal of old Admiral Tagwynn himself, and Gwen hardly thought that the Fleet would have cast out a captain of such ability. Of course, coincidences happened, and this could be one. But if it was not coincidence, then it meant that Captain Grimm had known enemy movements and intentions. It was possible that she was doing a courageous and capable man a grave disservice, but a determination to protect the vattery was something that had been fed to her with her mother’s milk and drilled into her during every hour of every day that had passed since. As theirs was the only crystal vattery in the Spire capable of producing core crystals, there simply was no alternative but to take every precaution possible. So while she felt a regret that perhaps Grimm deserved better of her, she faced her duty squarely, and kept a quiet, calm eye upon the man. She mounted the steps to the airship’s bridge—the conning tower at the forward end of the ship. The roof of the tower had a small raised platform at the rear, where the ship’s steering grips were. |
The roof of the tower had a small raised platform at the rear, where the ship’s steering grips were. The pilot would stand upon it, with the clearest view of anyone aboard of what was in front of the airship. The captain and his executive officer stood on the deck in front of the pilot, enjoying a similar view. Gwen supposed clear sight of the ship’s surroundings would be quite vital in wartime. At the moment, the view was rather pedestrian. The mists had thickened as Predator cast off from her pier, and the ship currently hung in cloudy limbo, the sun only a dim suggestion somewhere far above. The dull black walls of Spire Albion stretched out ahead and astern of the airship on its left (or “port”) side. A pair of heavy lines were fastened to a long tether cable that ran down the side of the Spire, in order to prevent winds from causing the ship to drift away from the tower. A pair of long poles set out to the side of the ship kept winds from pushing it into the tower, too. They had already been under way for a quarter of an hour, and the black stone of the Spire rolled slowly upward as the vessel sank down into the mist, heading for the shipyards of Habble Landing. The pilot, a rather hardlooking man whose name was Kettle, took note of her presence first, and cleared his throat loudly. Captain Grimm and Commander Creedy looked back at Kettle, and then at her. They glanced at one another, and then Creedy came over to her wearing a polite smile. “Miss Lancaster,” he said. “How may I be of service to you?” Gwen straightened her dark blue uniform jacket and said, “I wished to ask you a few questions, sir, if that is quite all right?” “Certainly, miss.” Gwen nodded. “Are you the same Byron Creedy who lately served on the battlecruiser Glorious?” Creedy’s friendly expression suddenly became very closed. “Indeed, miss. I had that honor.” “Were you not habbled by the Fleet review board for conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman?” A muscle along the young man’s jaw twitched, and Creedy gave her a brief, stiff nod. “I see,” Gwen said. “I may be required to place the success of our inquisition and our very lives in your hands, Commander. |
“I may be required to place the success of our inquisition and our very lives in your hands, Commander. I need to know what kind of man you are, and whether or not you will be there to help if I should call upon you.” “Thus far, miss,” he replied in a very precise, polite voice indeed, “the captain and crew of Predator have been there to help you even when you have not called. Or so I judged the situation we found in the tunnel.” “Forgive me, sir,” she said. “But we have little time and I fear I must be direct and plain. You were cast in disgrace from the active service rolls of the Fleet. Your captain was exiled from the service entirely. Many of your crew members have similar service records with the Fleet. It is quite the collection of men in disgrace.” “Perhaps, miss,” Creedy said with a coolly lifted chin, “you would prefer to travel the remainder of the distance to Landing without enduring the disgrace of our company.” “Byron,” said Grimm in a gentle, firm tone. Creedy glanced over his shoulder, let a breath out through his nose, and then turned back to Gwen to speak in a low, hard voice. “Miss, if I were you, I would have a care what you had to say about the captain in front of any of his officers or crew— myself included. None of us particularly care to hear ill spoken of the man, and none of us will care who your parents are if you insult the captain. Do I make myself understood?” Gwen arched an eyebrow at him. “Have I said anything that is untrue, Commander?” “You have said nothing untrue,” he replied. “You have also said nothing that is complete. There is more to the world than what a review board publishes about an officer or aeronaut, Miss Lancaster. Guard. Your. Tongue.” And with that, he gave her a rigid bow and strode off the bridge. His boots thumped solidly on the deck and the stairs as he left. When Gwen turned back to the front of the ship, she found Grimm standing two feet from her. |
When Gwen turned back to the front of the ship, she found Grimm standing two feet from her. The man had not made a sound to give away his approach, and Gwen had to force herself not to flinch as she found him facing her. He was, she thought, a rather striking man. He wasn’t beautiful. His features weren’t balanced. He had a rather heavy brow, which gave him a slightly brutish look—one that was belied by the glitter of intelligence in his dark eyes. His cheekbones were sharp and wide, and contrasted with his thick jawline. His mouth was narrow, though whether that was its natural form or simply his current expression, Gwen couldn’t say. He was of unimpressive height, but well muscled, and he had the look of a man who could do heavy work for hours without tiring. His hands were blocky, square and strong, and he carried himself with the rigidly proper posture of the Fleet, despite his disgrace. It was the blood on him, she thought, that made her uneasy. He had not yet changed out of the clothes he had worn in battle, not even the sling that cradled one of his arms. “Captain Grimm,” she said calmly. “Miss Lancaster,” he replied. “Why were you provoking my executive officer?” “Because I’ve always found that people’s reactions are more honest when they’re tired, and I wanted to test his before he went to his bunk.” He seemed to consider this for a moment and then nodded. “And you’re speaking to me now for the same reason, I take it.” Gwen gave him a tight smile. “Something like that.” The captain grunted. “You’re too young to be that ruthless.” “My nanny and several instructors told me the same thing,” she said. “Your men still think well of you after the battle, Captain. That’s remarkable.” “Do you think so?” Gwen shrugged. |
That’s remarkable.” “Do you think so?” Gwen shrugged. “There are many Fleet captains whose men would sour on them if they suffered the casualties your crew did in battle.” “There are many Fleet captains who are idiots,” he replied. “Your men do not seem to have been fazed.” “It was a fight that needed to happen,” Grimm said. “They understand that. I didn’t kill those men. The Aurorans did. They understand that, too.” “All the same,” Gwen said. “I asked around about you, Captain Grimm. I have some questions for you as well.” “I’m certain that you do, miss. Please proceed.” Gwen nodded. “What can you tell me about the Perilous incident, Captain?” Grimm’s weary expression never flickered. “I have nothing to say about it.” “That’s what everyone seems to think,” Gwen said, nodding. “The records of the inquisition afterward have been sealed. Not even my father’s influence could acquire them.” “It’s done,” Grimm said. “It’s in the past, and best left there.” “So the Admiralty seems to think,” Gwen said. “A Fleet captain dead in midcruise, his executive officer beaten into a coma. Three young lieutenants left to bring a warship and her crew safely home through pirate skies. Lieutenants Grimm, Bayard, and Rook, to be precise.” Grimm regarded her impassively. “To this day, no one is sure what happened on Perilous,” she told him. “But she came home with heavy losses—and when the dust cleared, Lieutenants Rook and Bayard had been promoted to lieutenant-commander, while Lieutenant Grimm was summarily drummed out of the service for cowardice in the face of the enemy.” His voice turned dry. |
“But she came home with heavy losses—and when the dust cleared, Lieutenants Rook and Bayard had been promoted to lieutenant-commander, while Lieutenant Grimm was summarily drummed out of the service for cowardice in the face of the enemy.” His voice turned dry. “I am somewhat familiar with the tale, miss.” “It gives me serious concerns,” Gwen said. “Are you a coward, Captain?” The man stared at her with those shadowed eyes for several moments before he said, his voice very soft, “When needed, miss. When needed.” Gwen tilted her head. “I’m not sure what to make of that answer, Captain.” “Good,” he said shortly. “Mister Kettle, if you would send for me a quarter of an hour before arrival.” “Aye, Captain,” said the pilot in a laconic tone. Grimm gave her a short, brief bow. “Miss Lancaster,” he said. Then he turned and walked wearily down the steps to the deck. Gwen watched him cross to the center tower and enter his cabin. The man did not seem much like a scoundrel to her. Nor did he seem to be a coward. She frowned thoughtfully, until she felt the weight of the pilot’s gaze on her. She looked up at Kettle and said, “Do you believe what they said about him at the court-martial?” Kettle grunted and peered ahead for a moment, and Gwen thought he had simply declined to answer. She had turned and begun to leave when he said, “Miss Lancaster?” She paused. “Yes?” “I didn’t know him when he was in the Fleet, miss, but…” Kettle took a slow breath, his lips moving slightly, as if composing his answer before he spoke. Then he nodded and turned his eyes to her, his expression intent. “Miss Lancaster, spirestone is heavy. Fire is hot. And the captain does his duty. |
And the captain does his duty. No matter what it costs him. Understand?” Gwen regarded Kettle’s unshaven face for a slow breath and then nodded slowly. “I believe I’m beginning to. Thank you, Mister Kettle.” “It’s nothing, miss.” “How long will it take us to reach Landing?” “Another hour of travel. Then we wait in line for a berth. Few hours, probably. We’ll ring the ship’s bell when we arrive.” “Thank you,” Gwen said, and she turned to leave the pilot to his duties. Interesting. Her father had always said that a man could be fairly judged by the quality of his allies and that of his enemies. Captain Grimm seemed to have a number of rather staunch allies, despite his disgraced status, apparently including Lord Albion himself. And despite what had happened to him, his pride was unbowed. If what Kettle said was true, then Grimm was a rather remarkable man—perhaps even the kind of man who could match tacticians of historic brilliance, the kind that made coincidences happen, rather than letting them happen to him. Perhaps he had saved her family’s vattery and her life because he had believed it his duty to do so. Or perhaps not. Time would tell. Chapter 23 AMS Predator Grimm’s dreams were unpleasant, and concluded in a hectic racket that eventually resolved itself into the sound of someone knocking firmly at the door to his cabin. Before he’d had time to realize that he was actually awake once more, his legs had already swung out of his bunk, and he was sitting up by the time he muttered, “In.” The door opened and Stern leaned his head into the cabin. “Begging your pardon, Captain.” Grimm waved a dismissive hand. “We’re there already, Mister Stern?” “Still waiting for a berth,” the wiry young man replied. |
“We’re there already, Mister Stern?” “Still waiting for a berth,” the wiry young man replied. “But you’ve got a visitor from the Fleet, sir.” Grimm gave the young man a sharp glance, and then a brisk nod. “I’ll be out momentarily.” “Aye, Captain,” Stern said, and shut the door again. Visitors from Fleet? Now? At least Grimm had been able to wash himself down at a basin of water before he slept. Now he rose, dressed himself as best he could in clean clothing, and awkwardly tied off a fresh sling for his wounded arm. He raked a comb through his mussed hair several times, scowled at himself in a small mirror, and eyed the stubble of a beard that marred any chance he might have of presenting himself in an officer’s proper condition. Of course, he wasn’t an officer of Fleet anymore, was he? Grimm shook his head, tried to shake off the bonedeep exhaustion he still felt, failed to do so, and went out of his cabin anyway. “Captain on deck!” Stern barked as Grimm opened his door. Grimm stepped onto the deck to see every crewman in sight stop whatever they were doing, turn toward him, and snap him a perfect Fleet salute. He kept himself from smiling. “Mister Stern,” Grimm said beneath his breath. “Why is it that the crew bothers with formal protocol only when a serving member of Fleet comes aboard?” “Because we like to remind the uptight bastards that on this ship, you’re in command, Skipper. Regardless of what Fleet thinks of you.” “Ah,” Grimm said. He lifted his voice slightly. “As you were.” The crew snapped out of the salute with near paradeground precision and returned to their duties. A dapper little figure in the uniform of a Fleet commodore swaggered across a boarding plank laid out between Predator’s deck and that of a Fleet launch, hovering alongside Grimm’s ship. The man hopped down onto the deck and shook his head in bright-eyed amusement. |
The man hopped down onto the deck and shook his head in bright-eyed amusement. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?” “Bayard,” Grimm said, stepping forward and offering the other man his hand. “Mad,” Bayard said, trading grips with him. “Good God in Heaven, man, I knew Predator had been injured, but … Were you talking to strangers again?” “To Captain Castillo of Itasca, briefly,” Grimm replied. “I took my leave before the conversation could go any farther than it did. What are you doing here, Alex?” “We heard that you’d been injured again while playing hero during the attack, and Abigail insisted that I look in on you.” Grimm gestured to his arm. “The rumor mill is performing to specifications, I’m afraid. I already had this when it started.” “I remember,” Bayard said. “So. You repelled an assault by Auroran Marines … with one hand.” “My crew did the majority of that.” Bayard made a little ah sound. “Naturally. While you stood about offering critique, I suppose.” “It’s as if you know me.” Bayard’s teeth shone in a sudden smile. “And you had no further injuries—from a critically pilloried crewman, perhaps?” “A few scrapes and bruises. I’m well.” “That will ease Abigail’s mind greatly,” Bayard said. “Now, about that brandy.” “What brandy?” “The excellent brandy you’re about to pour me in your cabin, naturally,” Bayard said in a cheerful tone —but his eyes were quite serious. “I see,” Grimm said, nodding. “I suppose if it gets rid of you more rapidly, it’s a worthy investment. This way, Commodore.” Bayard grinned. “And to think that they call merchant captains uncivilized.” Once inside the cabin, Grimm shut the door behind them and turned to his old friend. “All right. |
“All right. What’s this really about?” Bayard made a half circle out of the fingers of his right hand and frowned down at them in puzzlement. “That’s odd. There’s no drink there.” Grimm snorted. Then he went to the cabinet and came back with a couple of small glasses of brandy. He offered one to Bayard. Bayard took it, lifted it, and said, as he ever did when they drank together, “Absent friends.” “Absent friends,” Grimm echoed, and the two of them drank. “It’s official,” Bayard said after. “The Spire Council has declared a state of war with Spire Aurora.” Grimm frowned. “Inevitable, I suppose.” “Inevitable and ugly,” Bayard said. “We’re already sending out word to call in our ships in First and Second Fleets alike. The Admiralty, in its wisdom, has decided to remain in a defensive posture until we have concentrated our entire Fleet presence.” Grimm felt his eyebrows rising. Aerial warfare was the very soul of sudden and overwhelming violence. A commander who surrendered the initiative to the enemy was a commander who might well be obliterated by a surprise offensive at the time and place of the enemy’s choosing before he could ever give the order to engage. “What?” Bayard flopped down onto Grimm’s narrow sofa. “Exactly. This raid has rattled old Watson rather badly, I’m afraid.” “Why?” “Because the enemy set this attack up to manipulate him and they succeeded. They jerked him around like a puppet on strings. If some poor fool hadn’t been randomly wandering by the Lancaster Vattery…” Bayard lifted his glass to Grimm. Grimm rolled his eyes. |
Grimm rolled his eyes. “… Watson’s response might have cost Albion its most precious resource.” Bayard sloshed down a bit more brandy. “So he is proceeding with utmost caution in order to avoid falling into another such trap.” “Unless, of course,” Grimm said, “they’re trying to manipulate him into sticking one of his feet to the floor and piling up all our ships in one place.” “Exactly.” Bayard sighed. “Every element of First Fleet is currently sailing in a giant circle around the Spire to watch for trouble, like some kind of bloody carousel. Several of us tried to talk sense into him, but you know old Watson.” “He’s a rather brilliant defensive tactician,” Grimm said. “I agree,” Bayard said. “The problem is that he’s an inept defensive strategist. We should be dispatching ships to hammer the Aurorans hard in their home skies, force them to think defensively. The damned fool’s encouraging them to take the initiative.” Grimm frowned down at his drink and said, “What does this have to do with me?” Bayard scowled. “Don’t give me that. You’re Fleet, Mad. Same as me.” “The Fleet rolls say otherwise.” “There’s a war upon us,” his friend replied. “This is no time for petty grievances. We need every skilled captain we can get. I want you to come back.” “I have been dishonorably discharged. I can’t come back.” “You’re an experienced combat commander,” Bayard countered. “And you’ve won more than a little respect for your actions at the Lancaster Vattery. The prime minister of Albion himself watched you defend his home, his people, and his livelihood through his study window. If you come back to Fleet and offer your services, I think the winds are right to make it happen—and there happens to be a captain’s slot I need to fill in my squadron.” Grimm looked up sharply. “Valiant,” Bayard said simply. |
“Valiant,” Bayard said simply. “I need a flag captain.” Something lurched inside Grimm’s chest, something that he’d forgotten over the past decade—the voice of a much younger, much less experienced Francis Madison Grimm, determined to win command of a Fleet ship of his own. He wasn’t sure whether it felt like fireworks exploding in his chest or the vertigo of a drunken tumble down a flight of stairs. “You’re insane. I never commanded a Fleet ship.” “Yes,” Bayard said, his voice hardening. “You did.” “Not officially,” Grimm spat. “Not on paper. And no officer, no matter how popular or favored, is given a bloody heavy cruiser as his first command.” “Rules are made to be broken,” Bayard replied. “What they did to you wasn’t right. I don’t see how reversing that injustice could be wrong.” “I’m working for the Spirearch now,” Grimm said. “I know. But this is your chance, Mad. To make it all right. Come back to Fleet command with me. Offer to rejoin.” Grimm narrowed his eyes. “You want me to go to them. You want me to go to them with my hat in my hands and ask them to let me back in, pretty please, your lordships.” “War, Mad,” Bayard said, leaning forward. “This is bigger than me. It’s bigger than Hamilton Rook and his family. It’s even bigger than your wounded pride. |
It’s even bigger than your wounded pride. We need you.” “Then I look forward to being notified, in writing, of the clearing of my name and the restoration of my rank and standing in Fleet,” Grimm said. Bayard’s face became furious. “Dammit, Mad. You have a responsibility. A duty.” “You’re right about that much, at least. But my duty to Fleet ended years ago. I have other responsibilities now.” Bayard simply stared, anger radiating from his every pore. Grimm met his gaze without hostility and without yielding. After a moment, Bayard seemed to deflate. He made a disgusted sound and finished off the brandy in a gulp. “Damn your pride.” Grimm finished his own glass and let the liquor burn down his throat, half-afraid that the turmoil in his chest might set it alight. “Alex … what you’re asking me to do —I won’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t.” Silence fell. “Abigail said as much,” Bayard said finally. “But I had to try.” “Thank you,” Grimm said. “Truly.” Bayard moved one shoulder in a shrug, set his glass aside, and rose. “I also wanted to give you some advance warning—your XO is about to be put back on active duty. They’re calling in everyone they’ve habbled and every reservist they can from the merchant fleet.” “I suppose that’s hardly surprising,” Grimm said, rising with him. |
They’re calling in everyone they’ve habbled and every reservist they can from the merchant fleet.” “I suppose that’s hardly surprising,” Grimm said, rising with him. “How is he?” Bayard asked. “He’ll do,” Grimm said in a firm tone. “When?” “A week at the longest,” Bayard said. “I’ll make adjustments,” Grimm said, and the pair of them walked back out on deck together. “Please give Abigail my regards.” “You’ll need to have a meal with us soon,” Bayard said. Then he grimaced. “Wartime permitting.” “I should enjoy that.” “This … arrangement you have with the Spirearch,” Bayard said. “Will it last?” “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” “Then I reserve the right to speak to you on the subject again.” “My answer shall not change.” “No. I don’t suppose it shall.” Bayard glanced up, and then tilted his head a bit to one side. “Captain,” he said. “What is that at the very top of your forward mast?” Grimm looked up, following Bayard’s gaze to where a small, solid form was outlined against the sunlit mist. “Apparently,” he said, “it is a cat.” Chapter 24 Spire Albion, Habble Landing Rowl found the view from atop the foremost of the two ship-trees to be less exciting than he had assumed it would be. Oh, he could see over the ship itself well enough, though based upon his understanding of the vessel’s name, as if it needed one, he felt that its master should have been thanking cats for the obvious inspiration, at the very least. Perhaps there was an arrangement to be reached here. Certainly, if they named something after cats, even the dimmest of humans must understand that there was recompense to be discussed. The vessel itself had proved to be interesting. He had seen Littlemouse safely ensconced in a small room with a cup of hot drink, which tasted terrible but which she insisted upon having frequently in any case. After that, he had gone exploring. |
After that, he had gone exploring. There were many hallways and rooms upon Predator, as well as a number of things that needed chasing and catching. Probably not eating, though, unless he was truly hungry. Rowl felt sure that Bridget’s fragile feelings would be crushed if he denied her the pleasure of sharing her meat with him. There was certainly a place for a cat on a construct such as this, provided he didn’t mind the company. Once he had inspected the vessel, he had promptly climbed the ship-tree, but the only things of interest to be seen from there were the humans moving about the ship, and honestly, it would be a long and dull day indeed before they proved more than momentarily interesting. A smaller ship, possibly also bearing a name inspired by his people, came alongside Predator. A human of significantly less clumsiness than most came aboard, a small male, and despite its diminutive stature, it moved with a warrior’s confidence and wore a very large and fine hat. Such hats often signified humans who considered themselves important, which was adorable for the first few moments and trying ever after. The visitor had, however, entered the ship as if waiting to be permitted on another’s territory, which was the proper way to do things. Rowl had begun to approve of the human Grimm, who had thus far acted with less than utter incompetence in every aspect of his life. If Grimm was able to command such respect even from humans with very large hats, he might make suitable help, and even humans were wise enough to realize that good help was the most elusive of quarries. Rowl followed the conversation Grimm had with the visitor. It seemed largely to be concerned with inexplicable human madness, though he understood the anger and raised voices that signified what might have been a bloodletting. As so often happened with the fickle beasts, it did not develop into a proper battle, and the visitor left in apparent defeat. Shortly after that, there was some activity between the tall second in command, and a human operating several long levers with colored cloth on the ends. They were apparently signals of some kind, because the humans peered down at something below them for a time, after their flags waggled. What they saw seemed to satisfy them. The ship, which had been motionless, finally descended toward a wooden platform that, apart from minor details, looked almost precisely like the one they had just left. Rowl found that disappointing. |
Rowl found that disappointing. It seemed a great deal of trouble for him to spend half a lifetime bored up a ship-tree to gain very little in the way of an interesting change of environment. But such things were to be expected when dealing with humans. He would remain patient until they fumbled past such foolishness. Was he not, after all, a cat? He descended the ship-tree. It was rather less enjoyable than the climb had been. It was an activity better suited to humans and their spidery fingers. He would have to see to it that there was a human prepared to climb up and carry him down with proper dignity next time. Perhaps it would be an opportunity to test the capability of human Benedict. Clearly he was unworthy to be the mate of Littlemouse, but perhaps with the right guidance some kind of adequacy could be nurtured. Rowl returned to the little room where Littlemouse and her companions were drinking their stinking water, and leapt up to grip the handle upon its door, hanging from it long enough to make it come open. Then he prowled in and shut the door again with a press of his shoulders. The human Gwendolyn blinked at him several times and then said, “When on earth did he leave? How did he leave?” Littlemouse nodded at him and said to human Gwendolyn, “He is a cat, Miss Lancaster. Asking such questions is an exercise in futility.” Rowl leapt up onto Littlemouse’s lap and nuzzled her cheek affectionately. He liked Littlemouse. She was far less stupid than most humans. “The ship is landing,” he told her. “We should go see what this new habble looks like at once.” He waited for Littlemouse to repeat what he had said to the other humans. |
“We should go see what this new habble looks like at once.” He waited for Littlemouse to repeat what he had said to the other humans. Honestly. He sometimes felt that humans simply had to be deliberately obtuse. What was so difficult about understanding civilized and excellently enunciated speech? His father had often opined that, in fact, humans really were exactly as foolish and helpless as they seemed —or that life was simpler if one assumed it to be true, at any rate. But Rowl was not yet sure. A moment later, an acutely unpleasant sound of metal striking metal sliced across the deck. It was one of those human noises that had been, he felt sure, created for no purpose whatsoever but to annoy cats. The sound did seem to galvanize the humans, though. Littlemouse and her companions rose and began fussing about the way humans often did. The humans who operated the ship did the same, and after a pointless delay for the humans to collect all their toys and keepsakes, he was finally able to take his rightful place in Littlemouse’s arms and herd them all in the proper direction. They descended from the ship onto a wooden platform that seemed to simply hang in open air from the side of the Spire. He had to give humans credit where it was due—they did seem to have a knack for building interesting places for cats to explore. They walked over the creaking wooden planks, their steps echoing. “Littlemouse,” he said, “if the human platform fails, will we not fall to the surface?” He could hear her heart speed up, and her hands became somewhat clammy against his fur. “Nonsense. I’m certain it will do no such thing.” But she began to walk slightly faster. Littlemouse and her companions joined a rather large herd of humans who were standing around doing nothing interesting or profitable. They stayed there interminably, only occasionally taking a step forward. Honestly. |
Honestly. Was it any wonder their clan chief had finally begged Rowl’s father for the guidance and support of the Silent Paws? At last they funneled through a relatively tiny opening in the wall of the Spire along with a column of similarly placid humanity, and took their turn wasting even more time by talking to armed humans who were not even so important as to have large hats. And only after all of that indecipherable human ritual was complete to their satisfaction did they enter Habble Landing. Rowl reminded himself that cats were eternally patient, and that he would not simply explode if he did not fling himself from Littlemouse’s arms and go exploring. Which was not to say that he could not do so if he wished, because cats were also their own masters. He decided that his patience was practically legendary—which was fortunate for Littlemouse, or Rowl would already have taken care of this problem or mystery or whatever it was while she was still milling about in the line to talk to the armed humans at the entrance to Habble Landing, thus robbing her of the glory of success. Though, now that he thought about it, he was the most important member of the party. Any glory gained was rightfully his in any case. He decided to tolerate the situation for the present. But if the humans became unmanageable, he might have to take steps. And who could blame him? Not even his father would assert that it was practical to manage five humans. It was a well-known fact that humans became more addled than usual when running in herds. Habble Landing was fascinating. For one thing, the ceiling was only half the height of other habbles he’d seen. It was still far above even Littlemouse’s head, but the more enclosed space reminded him of the ducts and ventilation tunnels that were traditionally the territory of his people. And it was thick with humanity. Habble Morning was considered to be a well-populated habble, but Habble Landing absolutely teemed with people by comparison. Hundreds and hundreds of them were coming and going through the hole in the Spire wall. |
Hundreds and hundreds of them were coming and going through the hole in the Spire wall. Dozens of humans who were selling trinkets and keepsakes (all of which Littlemouse would say were absolute necessities for a human) were lined up along the walls in neatly arranged stalls—and this wasn’t even the market area. Voices filled the air, so many of them that it was impossible to pick out a specific conversation—taken as a whole, the voices created a low murmur that sounded a bit like the sighing of air through a junction point in the vents. Scents were thick, too—foul smells that always came with humanity, savory smells of various foods, and absolutely fascinating scents he could not identify. “Goodness,” human Gwendolyn was saying. “Have you ever seen so many people coming and going?” “It would be a lovely setting for slipping an enemy agent into the Spire,” human Benedict agreed. Human Folly was apparently frightened of something, though she was in no danger that Rowl could see. Her heart beat very quickly, and she stank of nerves strung tight. She kept her eyes on the floor and stayed within inches of the senior male of the group, Master Ferus. The older man’s eyes were almost closed, as if he wanted an observer to think he was nearly sleeping, but Rowl could see them flicking around in an almost feline fashion, taking in the sights just as he was. “Master Ferus?” human Gwendolyn asked. “Where should we go, sir?” “Hmm?” Ferus said. “What’s that?” “Lodging, perhaps?” Littlemouse suggested. “Ah, excellent, yes.” He glanced back at human Benedict. “Young man, do you know of a decent inn?” “I believe there are a great many of them in the habble, but I stayed at the Guard house while I was here,” human Benedict said in an apologetic tone. “I do know that we should be able to hire a runner who can assist us.” Human Gwendolyn frowned. “Should we not stay there as well? This is an official inquisition for the Spirearch, after all.” “We can’t make it official, and we can’t stay at the Guard house,” Littlemouse said. “If there is a traitor amongst the Guard, and we march in and announce our intentions, we might as well blow trumpets everywhere we go.” “Quite right,” Master Ferus said. “Quite right. |
“Quite right. A runner, then.” Human Gwendolyn seemed to take that as a command. She nodded and strode off through the crowd. Rowl waited with infinite patience. There were many things to see and smell. One human vendor had a great many little creatures in little cages. Some of them had wings, and some scales, and some fur. Rowl managed to sort out scents to their owners and studied them thoughtfully. Then a gentle stir and shift in the direction of the ventilated air announced the arrival of afternoon, as the sun began to warm the other side of the Spire, and brought with it a deliriously savory scent of cooking meat. Rowl whipped his head to one side to stare in the direction from which the scent came—and noted, as he did, that human Benedict had wit enough to smell it, too, and was showing exactly the same interest. The human’s stomach made growling, grumbling sounds. Human Gwendolyn returned shortly, in the company of a rather scrawny little human kit. The little human’s hair was a mess, its face was dirty, its clothing ragged, and Rowl, who found humans drearily like one another most of the time, could not tell whether the apparent runner was male or female. “This is Grady,” human Gwendolyn announced. “He has graciously consented to guide us to an inn.” “Aye, aye,” said the little human. “Just come with me, ladies and gents, and we’ll get you squared away with a clean bed and a hot meal.” “Good, good,” said the oldest human. “Proceed.” “Yes, sir!” said the little human. “Right this way!” They followed the little human from the gallery that led to the shipyard, and into a side tunnel, where he produced a medium-size lumin crystal and made everyone utterly blind to anything happening more than a few paces away. Humans were inconsiderate that way. Rowl could see perfectly well, after all. |
Rowl could see perfectly well, after all. It was hardly his fault if humans couldn’t tell the difference between mere dimness and true darkness. Which was ironic, because they were, as a whole, among the dimmest creatures he knew. They walked a short way through the side tunnel and then exited into a long, narrow street where the human buildings crowded in close on every side and thrust up from the floor all the way to the ceiling in many cases— but the building heights were uneven and jagged overall, like so many broken teeth. The street was only dimly lit, and there were considerably fewer humans walking along it than they had seen near the shipyard. Rowl found that … inconsistent. The presence of danger brushed along his fur as the little human led Littlemouse and her companions down the street, and Rowl found himself gathering and releasing his muscles. He could not pinpoint any particular threat and yet … Littlemouse, wise enough to look to a cat for guidance, noticed Rowl’s reaction almost immediately. Her own posture became tenser, her eyes flicking around, searching for any threat just as Rowl did. Suddenly Rowl heard soft footfalls behind them, and he turned his ears quickly to listen in that direction. “Littlemouse,” he said quietly. “We are being hunted. Behind us.” She looked down at him, but did not swivel her head to look over her shoulder toward their pursuers. Excellent. Such a gesture would have alerted the hunters to the fact that their prey had sensed them. Littlemouse was so clever—for a human, of course. “Benedict,” Littlemouse said quietly. “Rowl thinks someone is following us.” Human Benedict frowned at her, but did not ask questions. Instead, Rowl saw his nostrils flare, and he began to use his eyes, looking around him, though he did not turn his head. “Damn,” human Benedict said a moment later. |
“Damn,” human Benedict said a moment later. He took a step forward, drawing even with Master Ferus, and tapped human Gwendolyn on the shoulder. She turned to look up at him, but didn’t stop walking. Human Benedict leaned down to speak quietly to her. “Coz, I’m afraid we’ve been marked.” Human Gwendolyn frowned. “Marked?” She looked down at herself. “Did someone put something on my dress?” Human Benedict let out a breath through his teeth. “Marked, coz, as prey. We’re being paced and followed.” “By whom?” “Footpads, most likely,” human Benedict replied. “There are several gangs that operate in Habble Landing.” Human Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “I see. And which person has marked us, specifically?” “To your left,” human Benedict said. “About ten feet behind us, dark brown coat, black hair, about twenty. He’s keeping track of us by watching our reflections in windows as we pass them. And there’s another one ahead of us, on the right, in that slouchy hat.” “I see,” she replied. “What is the usual course of action for dealing with such things?” “Avoid them.” “We’ve already failed at that,” human Gwendolyn said, her tone irritated. “What else?” Human Benedict sounded a bit flustered. “Coz, how should I know? I’ve never been marked by footpads before.” She considered that, and nodded. “I see.” Then, without hesitating for more than the time it took to take a step, human Gwendolyn turned, raised her gauntlet, and discharged it. |
“I see.” Then, without hesitating for more than the time it took to take a step, human Gwendolyn turned, raised her gauntlet, and discharged it. An almost invisible bolt of force and heat howled through the air and slammed into the stone wall of a building’s front side, not two feet from the head of the footpad pacing them from behind. The light made Rowl duck his head to shield his eyes, and the force of the blast threw chips of stone from the wall, sending them skittering around the street. The footpad (and perhaps a dozen other humans who happened to be nearby) let out a shriek and flinched back, staring at the smoking, scorched gouge in the stone. He lost his balance and fell to the ground and onto his rear. The entire street, in fact, froze in its tracks, everyone staring at little human Gwendolyn. She stepped toward the footpad, her gauntlet’s crystal still glowing in her palm, and raised her voice to a pitch and volume that would carry it to the entire street. She pointed the forefinger of her right hand at the stunned footpad and said, her voice hard, “You.” The man just stared at her. “Run home,” human Gwendolyn said. “Do it now. And inform your masters that we are not prey.” Her words echoed around the stone building fronts for a few seconds. Then the footpad’s mouth twitched a couple of times. He gave a jerking, frantic nod, scrambled to his feet, and dashed away down the street and out of sight. Rowl turned his eyes back to human Gwendolyn, impressed. That was precisely how one should deal with a would-be predator. Human Gwendolyn’s instincts and response had been practically non-incompetent. “Maker of the Path,” human Benedict swore beneath his breath. “Coz, you just discharged a gauntlet on a crowded street.” “And stopped us from being attacked by thugs,” human Gwendolyn replied. “No one was hurt. Honestly, coz, we have no time for this sort of nonsense.” She took a step forward and knelt down to stare in the eye the little human who had led them there. |
Honestly, coz, we have no time for this sort of nonsense.” She took a step forward and knelt down to stare in the eye the little human who had led them there. “Grady,” she said in a sweet tone, “why did you bring us here to be attacked?” “I didn’t!” the little human said, his face bloodless. “I wouldn’t! I won’t, miss!” “You just happened to bring us down a crowded chute full of men seeking targets to mug? Is that what you want me to believe?” The little human swallowed. Then he said, “I know another inn, miss. Right by the gallery, out in the open. I could take you there if it pleases you.” “Fool me once, shame on you,” Gwendolyn said. “Fool me twice, and I may feel inclined to blast you purely on principle.” The little human stared at her, agog. “Boo!” Gwendolyn shouted, and stamped her foot. Grady turned and sprinted off. “Are you certain you don’t want to blast the ground at his feet as he runs away?” Benedict asked, his voice dry. “Don’t be tiresome, Benny,” Gwendolyn replied. “If we can’t trust one runner, we can’t trust any of them. There’s no guarantee that the next time it might not be Auroran agents instead of simple thieves waiting for us. Present me with options.” Benedict frowned for a moment and then shrugged. “There’s one place we can go where I feel certain we can at least get honest guidance, if nothing else.” “Excellent,” Gwendolyn said. “Let us proceed.” “This way,” Benedict said, and they started walking again. After a moment or two, human Benedict turned to look directly at Rowl. “Thank you,” he said. |
“Thank you,” he said. Rowl yawned, feeling rather pleased with himself for having saved his humans from footpads, and said, “It is what I do.” Chapter 25 Monastery of the Way, Habble Landing Bridget walked carefully through the cramped passages of Habble Landing, trying to pay attention to any other sources of potential danger— but she felt as if she’d been sent to the store without anyone telling her what she was supposed to buy. What would danger look like? She supposed that if it was overt and obvious, just anyone could see it coming, but she had no idea of what an ambush might resemble before it actually began to happen. She saw no one in a great black cape, or twirling a waxed mustache, which all the villains in the theater seemed to have, though she supposed true villains would rarely do one the courtesy of identifying themselves and declaring their intentions in a forthright manner. It was one of the things that made them villains, after all. She kept one eye on Rowl constantly. She would never admit it to the little bully aloud, but he probably had a much better idea than she of what might prove a threat. He was already even more insufferably pleased with himself than usual today, having warned them of the footpads. If she admitted it to him, he would never let her forget it. Rowl, for his part, looked and sniffed and flicked his ears this way and that, taking in all the sights and sounds of the busy, even maniacally industrious habble. The crowded labyrinth of vendors’ stalls and counters near the airship docks had been only a foretaste of the habble proper. There were more shops in operation in one quadrant of Landing than in the entirety of Habble Morning! And they had divided their vertical space in half, so that there was a whole second level above them presumably filled with even more enterprise. Entire lengths of cramped street were dedicated to specific crafts and businesses. There was a street of tinkers and smiths, the air hot and filled with the sound of metal on metal. There was an entire street of papermakers, the smell of their labors so appalling that Rowl buried his nose beneath Bridget’s arm until they were past. There was a street of vatteries, next to the street of tanners, next to the dye makers, and absolutely everyone seemed to be in a great hurry, passing their slower-stepping group with grumbles and dire glares. The people were just as dazzling in variety. She’d always assumed that Habble Morning was the most cosmopolitan habble of the Spire, the absolute hub of Albion culture, but though visitors weren’t precisely unheard-of there, there was simply no comparison to be made. |
She’d always assumed that Habble Morning was the most cosmopolitan habble of the Spire, the absolute hub of Albion culture, but though visitors weren’t precisely unheard-of there, there was simply no comparison to be made. In the space of ten minutes, she spotted half a dozen different groups of foreigners moving through the streets of Landing. She saw a group of ruddy-cheeked Olympians in their traditional green-andgold garb, most of them wearing the device of their home Spire’s laurel wreath upon their breasts or pendants or rings. Not five steps later, a pair of women with the golden-brown skin marking them as Nephesians strolled by wearing long, sweeping skirts in half a dozen fine, pattern-slashed layers of different colors. They were followed by a tall warriorborn man with the nearly black skin and ice-blue eyes of an Atlantean, wearing an airship captain’s coat of indigo, and not long after that she spotted a crew of rather small, lean, worn-looking men and women whose faces were marked with the fine, swirling ritual scars of Pikers. “Is this your first time out of Habble Morning, Miss Tagwynn?” Benedict asked her. Bridget jerked her eyes away from the Pikers rather guiltily. “Is it so obvious?” “Totally understandable,” he said. “After all, something like seventy percent of the residents of Spire Albion never leave their home habbles at all.” “I should think it would reduce one’s chances of being preyed upon by footpads,” she observed. Benedict grinned. “Oh, of course. Crews like that never pick on anyone from their home habble. Too easily identified to the authorities. And their leaders would never allow it.” “Leaders?” Bridget asked. “They aren’t just … like, packs of marauding ventrats?” “Naturally not,” Benedict said. “Far too messy and chaotic, and therefore easily stopped. Everything they do has to be coordinated and carefully organized.” “Organized robbery?” “Among other things, yes,” Benedict said. “Smuggling, the sale of dangerous intoxicants, trafficking in weapons, in medicines, in flesh.” His eyes darkened slightly. “All controlled and precisely applied by the guilds.” Bridget blinked. “The guilds? |
“The guilds? Like the Vatterists’ Guild?” “I doubt it’s much like the Vatterists’ Guild in Habble Morning,” Benedict replied. “All of the guilds are in competition here, and most of them engage in one kind of shady activity or another. Some are worse than others, but as a rule, if someone gets his head broken in Habble Landing, it was because one of the guilds decided it needed to be done.” “It would seem to be a great deal of trouble to manage a group of men who would do such things,” Bridget noted. “Indeed it is.” “Wouldn’t it be simpler for them to … just do honest work?” Benedict showed his teeth. “Probably. But there will always be those who seem to think that simply taking what they need through strength is easier and more enjoyable than working to create it. Certainly it leaves them more leisure time.” “I don’t understand,” Bridget said. “Why would guilds that behave this way be permitted to exist?” “Any number of reasons,” Benedict said. “If there is a law, someone will work to break it. That’s human nature. The guilds have a certain code of conduct to which they adhere that makes them a somewhat less appalling proposition than independent criminal activity. They are the devil we know.” He pursed his lips. “And they are extremely powerful.” “Not more powerful than the Guard, surely.” “More focused than the Guard,” Benedict said. “Much harder to find than the Guard. And of course, they aren’t burdened by the restrictions of Spire law. Atop that, they also control a number of legitimate businesses, and through their influence can significantly alter habble politics. They command a combination of fear, respect, money, and professional craft that makes conflict with them a difficult and dangerous proposition.” Bridget frowned, thinking about that. “Then … pardon me if my understanding falls short, but did not Gwendolyn just issue a rather blatant public command to these powerful and dangerous men?” “Yes,” Benedict said placidly. “Yes, she did.” “Oh, dear,” Bridget said. |
“Yes, she did.” “Oh, dear,” Bridget said. “That seems … less than ideal.” Benedict shrugged, his feline eyes constantly sweeping the streets as they walked. “Perhaps. Perhaps they’ll respect it as a show of strength. Men like that tend to refrain from unprofitable enterprises such as preying upon victims who can fight back—and the Lancasters can certainly do that.” They turned down a final cramped street, and as they did, Bridget could actually see the tension go out of Benedict’s lean frame, and his face relaxed into a smile. “What just happened?” Bridget asked. “This is safe territory. We’re close now,” Benedict said. “The guilds won’t operate in this portion of the habble.” “Why not?” “They’ve been taught that it is more trouble than it’s worth,” Benedict said. They passed through a last bit of street crammed with buildings and suddenly emerged from the warren into the open space of a standardheight habble ceiling, stretching out fifty feet overhead. The rest of the habble’s buildings simply ended, the twin levels connected by a heavy deck and several large wooden stairways, as if their designers had simply forgotten to carry the conversion of the original space beyond the point they had just passed. Before them stood a solid wall of masonry ten feet high, set with a single heavy gate of bronze-bound wooden beams. In front of the gate sat a man in a rather odd-looking saffron robe, the material loose-fitting around the upper arms, but bound in by wraps on his forearms. His pale head was shaved entirely bald, and he sat with his eyes closed, his legs crossed, and his palms resting lightly on his knees. A simple rod of copper-clad metal about three feet long rested on the floor beside his right hand. “Oh,” Bridget said. “Is that a monk of the Way?” Rowl stirred in her arms and looked up at the man, the cat’s ears focused forward and his tail twitching with interest. “Oh, I can’t do this,” Master Ferus said. “Sir Benedict, would you mind?” “Of course, sir,” Benedict said. He raised his voice a little and said, “This is Brother Vincent. |
He raised his voice a little and said, “This is Brother Vincent. He has gate duty because his handwriting is terrible.” Brother Vincent smiled without opening his eyes. “Sir Benedict. Have you come to teach or to learn?” “Shall we find out together, brother?” Benedict asked. Brother Vincent smiled and did not open his eyes. Benedict promptly unbuckled his sword belt and stripped off his gauntlet. He held them out to Bridget and asked, “Do you mind?” She blinked and then assured him, “Not at all.” It took a bit of juggling to hold Benedict’s weapons and Rowl at the same time, but she managed. “Thank you, miss,” Benedict said. Then he turned and began stalking toward Brother Vincent on cat-quiet feet. “What is happening here, precisely?” Gwendolyn asked Master Ferus. “Tradition,” Ferus replied, watching Benedict with bright eyes. She frowned. “Meaning what, precisely?” “Isn’t it traditional for a Lancaster to know something about tradition?” Master Ferus asked acerbically. Folly gave a little curtsy to no one in particular, and then told her jar of crystals, “The monks take their guardianship of the temple very seriously. They won’t allow anyone to enter casually. One must prove to the monks that his desire to enter is sincere.” Gwendolyn lifted one delicate eyebrow. “And how does one—” Silent as darkness itself, Benedict sprang upon Brother Vincent. “Oh,” Gwendolyn said. “I see.” Bridget had never seen the warriorborn move so quickly, but somehow the monk was already on his feet, and the two men met in a flurry of blows and counterblows that made Bridget’s heart skip several beats. She could barely see what they were doing, they moved so quickly, and it was laughable to think that she might be able to anticipate what might happen next. |
She could barely see what they were doing, they moved so quickly, and it was laughable to think that she might be able to anticipate what might happen next. By comparison, her own knowledge of unarmed fighting was, she could see now, a pebble beside a Spire. And then something terribly complex and lightning-quick happened, and Benedict wound up with his face pressed against the spirestone floor while Brother Vincent held one of the warriorborn’s arms straight out and up behind him at what seemed an extremely uncomfortable angle. The monk stood over him with one foot braced against his back, until Benedict grimaced and slapped the floor twice. Brother Vincent obligingly released his arm, and the younger man lay quietly for a moment before gathering himself and rising to his feet. He rolled his shoulder several times, wincing. “What was that?” “It would seem,” Brother Vincent said, “that you have come to learn, young knight.” “I was fairly sure of that five minutes ago. You never showed me that combination.” “Didn’t I?” Brother Vincent asked, smiling. “Goodness. Such an oversight. But I’m sure I haven’t forgotten to show you anything else.” “I’m sure you didn’t forget, brother,” Benedict replied, his tone wry. “I think you just want me to come visit more often.” Brother Vincent smiled and clasped Benedict’s shoulder with one hand for a moment. “It took time to soften your skull enough for ideas to slip in, but you proved a good student eventually. It is good to see you, son.” Benedict smiled and the two exchanged a bow. “Brother, we’ve come to the temple for help.” Vincent’s dark eyes became troubled. “You know that we do not involve ourselves in politics, Sir Benedict.” “Nor would I ask you to do so,” Benedict said. “Perhaps you could spare a cup of tea and a few moments of conversation?” Brother Vincent studied Benedict’s face for a moment before his gaze turned to take in the young man’s companions. Bridget felt slightly uncomfortable beneath that gaze. It seemed as though the man could see a great deal more of her than he had any right to. Brother Vincent’s stare lingered on Master Ferus the longest, and he sighed. |
Brother Vincent’s stare lingered on Master Ferus the longest, and he sighed. “Then the rumors are true. War again.” “And the walls have ears,” Benedict said. “Of course, of course,” Vincent said. “I’ll get someone to cover my post. Do bring your companions inside.” Benedict nodded, and beckoned the rest of them. Bridget walked over to him and passed his weaponry back. “That was amazing,” she said. “That was typical,” Benedict said, smiling. “Amazing would have been if I’d beaten him.” “How do you know him?” “He was my mentor when I first came, several years ago,” Benedict said. “I was considering joining the monks at the time.” Gwendolyn made a slight sniffing sound. “Ridiculous, Benny. You’d look wretched in saffron.” “It’s not my best color,” Benedict said gravely, nodding. “He mostly wore purple back then,” Brother Vincent said cheerfully. “Purple?” Bridget asked. “Bruises,” Benedict clarified, smiling. “I was the kind of student who sometimes had difficulty listening.” “A teacher can always find other paths,” Vincent said. “Ladies and gentlemen, won’t you please come inside. Welcome to the Temple of the Way.” Chapter 26 Spire Albion, Habble Landing, Temple of the Way Gwendolyn watched Bridget hand her cousin’s weaponry back to him and carefully did not smirk. For goodness’ sake, Gwen had been standing just as close to him, and with empty arms as well, and yet Benny had turned to the girl with the cat almost instinctively when he began to disarm himself. |
For goodness’ sake, Gwen had been standing just as close to him, and with empty arms as well, and yet Benny had turned to the girl with the cat almost instinctively when he began to disarm himself. Benedict had expressed to Gwen his determination to avoid entanglements with a wife in no uncertain terms on any number of occasions. He had even been something very nearly rude to Mother when she had pressed one too many partners upon him at a dance two years ago. It was not as though there were no young ladies interested in him. Oh, granted, none of the highest tier of eligible ladies would have considered a union with a young warriorborn, even if he’d been a full member of House Lancaster—well, perhaps if he’d been the heir, she supposed. But the ladies of the lesser Houses could very well better their position through a union with Benedict. There was also, she thought, always That Sort of Person, who would gladly seek a tryst with one of the warriorborn simply for the thrill of something so outré. Benedict was of course a fine-looking young man. He had been pursued by any number of young (or youngish) widows when he came of age, but he had ignored them all with steady, polite reserve. Now he spoke quietly with Bridget and the Wayist monk, and Gwendolyn felt immensely pleased for him. She had known Bridget long enough to feel certain that she had no designs on Benedict for the sake of his endowments, monetary or otherwise. And while Bridget seemed to have very little in the way of social graces, such things could be learned. Anyway, courage and integrity were more important, and the girl had those in excess. The name of Tagwynn still carried weight in some corners of the habble, too. Mother could be convinced to bless such a union. Of course, Benedict would be sure to make a hash of things if left to his own devices. Thank goodness he had someone to smooth the way for him—when the time was right, naturally. Gwendolyn smiled in satisfaction and followed the monk into the temple with the rest of her group. She was entirely unprepared for what she found in the interior of the temple. She had expected a rather simple arrangement— and indeed it was, in the extreme. |
She had expected a rather simple arrangement— and indeed it was, in the extreme. But the monks had transformed the courtyard behind the temple’s heavy gate into a garden so lush and thick that even those in her family’s estates simply could not compare. Every square foot that could be spared, she saw, had been devoted to planters of masonry filled with rich black earth transported painstakingly from the surface. Each planter supported a fine net of silken threads above it, spangled with small lumin crystals that glowed like a thousand stars, bathing the whole of the courtyard in rich silver radiance. Beneath the woven nets of light grew fruit trees, grapevines, rows of vegetables and grains—as well as flowers, small trees, ferns, and leafy bushes she could not identify. Foodstuffs growing from the filthy soil of the surface, rather than in a proper water garden treated with nutrient-bearing vatsand. The very thought was somewhat nauseating. Why do such a thing? The smell of the place was simply shocking. It filled the air with a riot of scents, sharp and pungent, rotten and sweet, and above all, very, very alive. The air itself seemed different, thick and swollen with moisture. The impression of the whole was that of rampant life, growing as wild as the deadly green hell covering the surface of the world, and she felt her heart speed up in an immediate, irrational reaction of instinctive fear. Her rational mind told her that clearly there was no danger here. Any number of monks were moving quietly through the plants in their saffron garb, trimming and tending and weeding. Insects buzzed through the air, many of them striped with yellow and black. Bees? Goodness, she hadn’t known anyone had been able to successfully transplant a colony to Spire Albion. As far as she knew, only the Pikers had managed to successfully manage beehives, and their nearmonopoly of the honey and mead market provided the cornerstone for their economy. Well. If this garden could support something as fragile as bees, surely the place couldn’t be all that threatening, regardless of how nightmarish it might look. |
If this garden could support something as fragile as bees, surely the place couldn’t be all that threatening, regardless of how nightmarish it might look. She took a breath and steadied herself, and pressed forward through the vegetation, following her cousin and Brother Vincent. There must have been two hundred feet of the bizarre gardens between the gate and the temple proper, which rose up to a height of four stories and was built of excellent masonry. The building looked nearly as square and as solid and as fixed as if it had been made of spirestone by the Builders themselves. Despite its height, it managed to appear squat and thick, as if determined to resist the sheer idea of any assault, much less the actual attack that might spring from such a notion. Two more of the monks, armed as Brother Vincent had been, stood at the main doors of the temple, and watched in stoic silence as Gwendolyn’s group followed their guide within. Gwen expected the inside of the temple to match its stony exterior, but to her surprise she found that it was warmly lit and decorated with paintings and banners bearing proverbs in Wayist script. Some of the paintings, though they depicted iconic figures of the Wayist faith, had been masterfully produced. In their own way, they were a match for the collection they’d seen in the Spirearch’s Manor. The floor was made of stone blocks, but was painted a deep green color, except for a brown path that wavered back and forth down the hallway. So many feet had walked upon the painted path that in its center, the paint had worn away and the stone itself had been worn down along with it. With the others, Gwen found herself naturally following the depression along the hallway, the soles of her feet an inch below the proper level of the floor. “The meal room?” Benedict asked. “It seems simplest,” Brother Vincent said. The monk looked over his shoulder and smiled at Gwen. “You seem surprised, miss.” “It’s … very lovely in here, really,” Gwen found herself replying. “It’s not at all like it appears to be on the outside.” “Is anything?” asked Brother Vincent with a small smile. “Here we go,” Benedict said beneath his breath. Gwen arched an eyebrow at her cousin and turned back to Brother Vincent. “Wouldn’t it be faster to walk in straight lines rather than wandering back and forth like this? |
“Wouldn’t it be faster to walk in straight lines rather than wandering back and forth like this? This way does not seem sensible.” The monk’s smile widened. “Did anyone forbid you to do so?” “Well, no,” Gwen said. “Why aren’t you walking the way you believe to be sensible, then?” Gwen blinked. “Well … it was obviously the way everyone walks here, I suppose.” “Did you wish to avoid offending our sensibilities?” “No. Not exactly,” Gwen said. “It just … it seemed the proper thing to do.” Brother Vincent nodded. “Why?” “Because … well, look at it. The stones are all worn down where everyone has walked.” “Do you feel you should walk the same path because so many have walked it before you came, miss?” Gwen glanced at Benedict, but her cousin only looked back at her in silence, apparently interested in her answer. “No, of course not. Except yes, in a way. I hadn’t really given it any thought.” “Few do.” Brother Vincent bowed his head and turned to continue leading them down the hallway, and Gwen had the sudden impression, from his body language, that he was a teacher who had just concluded a lesson. She felt her back stiffen slightly. “Brother Vincent,” she said, in what she felt must be a tempered, yet iron tone. “Are you trying to trick me into becoming a Wayist?” She couldn’t see his face, but from where she stood she could see his cheeks round out as he smiled. “In the void, there is no distinction of east and west.” Gwen blinked slightly at that. “I know all of those words, and yet when strung together like that I have no idea what they mean.” The monk nodded. “Perhaps you are choosing not to hear them.” Gwen sighed in exasperation. “Benedict?” Her cousin turned to walk backward for a few paces and smiled. “He’s like that, coz. |
“He’s like that, coz. I don’t know what he means, either. It’s his way.” The monk carefully did not turn, and Gwen suddenly felt that the man might be laughing at her. So she sniffed once, lifted her chin firmly, and started walking in a straight line down the hall, Wayist custom be damned. She tripped on the irregular surface a few seconds later, and all but fell. After that she lowered her chin enough to make sure she could watch where she put her feet. “Pardon me, Brother,” Master Ferus said a moment later. “But might I trouble you to show us the collection, if it isn’t too much trouble? My apprentice has never seen it.” Brother Vincent’s face lit up as if the etherealist had just offered to cook him a fine meal. “Of course, sir. It’s on the way, after all.” Master Ferus beamed. “Excellent. Attend, Folly.” “Yes, master,” the apprentice said. “Collection?” Gwen asked. “What collection?” Vincent’s eyes gleamed. He stopped at a very large, very heavy door, and opened it with a gentle push of his hand. The enormous thing swung open wide silently and smoothly to reveal an immense chamber beyond. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a quiet, vibrant tone. “The Great Library of Spire Albion.” Gwen felt her eyes widen. The Great Library was huge—it must have taken up three-quarters of the space of the entire temple all by itself. |
The Great Library was huge—it must have taken up three-quarters of the space of the entire temple all by itself. The ground floor was filled with shelving and worktables, and every inch of shelf space was crammed with books— books of every size and shape and color. Why, the collection here beggared the one at her academy—that had been a library of nearly three thousand volumes, and it wouldn’t have taken up a tenth of the space of the ground floor of the library— and there were three tiers of shelves circling the outer wall of the library above the ground floor, each accessed by balconies and multiple series of staircases. More monks moved around the upper floors, dusting and tidying the shelves. All in all there were more books in the library, Gwen felt sure, than she had seen in the entirety of her life outside it. A dozen saffron-robed monks were seated at the tables, copying volumes by hand, while younger initiates carried paper, sprinkled sand over pages to dry the still-wet ink, and performed any number of other tasks to support the effort. Gentle music drifted through the air, from a pair of monks playing wooden flutes in elegantly interwoven melodies. Gwen stared for several silent seconds and then realized that she was attempting to calculate the approximate value of the books, based solely upon their materials. The paper for each book was representative of more wood than its volume would suggest. House Lancaster had a library of several hundred volumes, but it was one of the wealthiest Houses in all of Spire Albion. Habble Morning’s academy had nearly a thousand volumes collected over two centuries, some of them quite old and valuable. But this place … The Great Library could scarcely have been more costly, in a purely monetary sense, if its walls and floors had been coated with gold. But that was, she supposed, in keeping with the rest of Habble Landing. Entire buildings had been made of wood here, in their mad division of their working space. She had known the local economy was vigorous, but she’d had no idea that the level of commerce taking place here dwarfed that of Habble Morning itself. All that construction would have required milling of the wood, resulting in mountains of sawdust. Perhaps that had been the source of raw materials for the paper in the volumes before her. That might have lowered the price —but all the same, the books represented a genuine fortune, amongst a group of men and women who were known for their pathological avoidance of excess or material gain. It also went a great way toward explaining why the monks so strongly discouraged casual visits to the temple, she supposed. Her own family’s vatteries weren’t precisely open to the public, either. |
Her own family’s vatteries weren’t precisely open to the public, either. “Oh,” Folly breathed out loud. The oddly dressed girl was staring at the library with round eyes. “Oh, is that…?” “Oh, yes,” Master Ferus replied. “I’ve never … never felt this in our library, master.” “Felt what?” Ferus asked. His voice was gentle but his eyes, thought Gwen, were rather sharp. Folly was silent for a moment before she said, “I am not sure.” “Think on it,” Ferus suggested. He turned to Brother Vincent and asked, “Might she remain here, quietly, while we take tea, Brother? I give you my word that she will give you no offense.” Brother Vincent bowed at the waist. Then he stepped aside and murmured something to one of the apprentices before moving back toward the group. “Miss, please do not touch any of the volumes without consulting with one of my order.” Folly tensed when the monk spoke to her, and cradled her jar of little crystals close to her chin. “Oh, he spoke to me. Ought I tell him that I understand? No, of course not—he knows now, because I asked you about it.” “There,” Master Ferus said, with a pleased smile. “Now, about that tea?” Brother Vincent studied the etherealist’s apprentice for a speculative moment, then smiled at Master Ferus and said, “This way.” The monk led them to a modest dining hall featuring low, round tables made of copper-clad iron surrounded by sturdy cushions instead of chairs. Gwen was unsure of the dignity of such … novel seating, but she managed to sit down upon one of the cushions with what she felt sure was acceptable grace, and within moments they were sipping at cups of hot, excellent tea, sweetened with scandalous portions of honey. Rowl had a small bowl of his own. The cat wasn’t satisfied until Bridget had spooned twice as much honey as anyone else had into it. Once they had all sipped (or lapped), Brother Vincent nodded and turned to Benedict, who sat at his right. “Very well, then. |
“Very well, then. Tell me.” Benedict made a round of introductions, and gave a concise account of the events of the past days, including the purpose of their own visit to Landing. “In short,” he said, “we need a place to stay that is free of any undue influence of the guilds. It was my hope that the Walker could be convinced to allow us to operate from here, Brother. It’s the most secure place we could ask for.” “Walker?” Gwen asked. “The foremost brother or sister at the temple,” Brother Vincent said, smiling. He turned back to Benedict and shook his bald head. “I’m sorry, son. The laws of our order are precisely that. The Wayist temples do not take sides in political disputes of any kind.” “But this is your home,” Gwen blurted. “If the Aurorans conquer Albion, they conquer you along with it.” “The Temple of the Way in Spire Aurora operates quite peacefully,” Brother Vincent said in a mild tone. “We would deeply regret the loss of life that such a conquest would necessitate. We would help the wounded and the bereft in any way that we could. We would peaceably protest any inhumanity perpetrated by either side, and accept the consequences of that protest. But we are neither soldiers nor warriors here, Miss Lancaster. That is not our path.” “I don’t remember asking you to fight anyone for me, Brother Vincent,” Gwendolyn replied. “I have recently discovered that I have something of a knack for it.” “Should we permit you to use the temple as the base of your inquisition, it would create the impression of partisanship with the Spirearch. We deeply respect his authority and his restraint, but the purpose of our temple is to serve all humanity—not merely the inhabitants of one Spire.” Benedict smiled without much humor. “Which is the answer I expected you to give, Brother. Perhaps you have a suggestion as to where we might stay in relative safety. |
Perhaps you have a suggestion as to where we might stay in relative safety. It’s been a while since I was last here, and even then I didn’t know the habble as well as the order does.” Brother Vincent took a long, slow sip of his tea, his eyes narrowed in thought. “If you’re searching for an entirely honorable proprietor in this habble, I hope you brought considerable supplies to sustain you.” He returned Benedict’s faint smile with one of his own. “It’s all the money, I think. It does strange things to some people.” “Surely some must be better than others,” Benedict said. “Some certainly appear to be,” Vincent replied. “Whether the truth matches the appearance is another matter. I have often heard it said that anything in Landing has a price—especially loyalty.” Gwendolyn lowered her cup and stated, “We don’t need an honorable innkeeper, Benny.” Her cousin blinked at her. “We don’t?” “Not at all. We simply need one who sells his loyalty with adequate integrity.” She turned to Brother Vincent. “Is there an innkeeper who, when bought, remains bought?” The monk raised his eyebrows. “A mercenary innkeep?” “It is the quickest way, and we are in something of a hurry,” Gwen said. Vincent seemed to muse over that for a moment before saying, “Giving you even so little a thing as our advice strains the neutrality the order has worked hard to cultivate.” “What if we were not asking Brother Vincent?” Gwen said. “Suppose we ask my cousin’s old teacher Vincent for a recommendation?” “Sophistry,” the monk said. “And threadbare, at that.” “We’re simply having conversation over tea,” Gwendolyn pointed out firmly. “It isn’t as though the Spirearch has written requesting your aid.” Brother Vincent pursed his lips. “I must carefully consider the impact my actions might have on the order and other followers of the Way.” “While you’re at it,” Gwen said, “perhaps you should consider the impact your lack of action might have on the Wayists of Spire Albion— along with all of their neighbors. Surely they are included in the rolls of the humanity you say you wish to serve.” Brother Vincent blinked several times. Then he said in a mild tone, “You don’t take hints terribly well, do you, Miss Lancaster?” “Perhaps I’m choosing not to hear them,” Gwen replied in a honeyed tone. Something that looked suspiciously like a newborn smile suddenly danced in the monk’s eyes. |
Something that looked suspiciously like a newborn smile suddenly danced in the monk’s eyes. Gwendolyn smiled brightly back at him. Chapter 27 Spire Albion, Habble Landing, the Black Horse Inn Bridget walked along a bit behind Benedict, whose eyes constantly scanned the streets around them as they walked from the temple to the inn Brother Vincent had named. She really shouldn’t have been chattering at him on the way there. After all, it was his duty to watch for danger and protect Master Ferus from any attack. How could he do that effectively while she was hanging all over him? “What did you discover, Folly?” Master Ferus was saying to his apprentice. The oddly dressed girl frowned for half of a minute before she spoke. “Frozen souls.” “Ah!” Ferus said, raising a finger. “Yes, near enough. Well-done, child.” Folly beamed and hugged her jar of crystals to her chest. “But why haven’t I ever felt anything like that in our study?” “It is primarily a matter of density,” Ferus replied. “One needs more than a handful of trees to see a forest.” Folly frowned at that. “It seemed as if … they spoke to one another?” “Nothing quite so complex as that, I think,” the etherealist said. “Some sort of communion, though, definitely.” Bridget cleared her throat and said tentatively, “Excuse me, Master Ferus?” The etherealist and his apprentice turned their eyes to her. “Yes?” he asked. “I do not mean to intrude, but … what are you talking about?” “Books, my dear,” Ferus replied. “Books.” Bridget blinked once. “Books do not have souls, sir.” “Those who write them do,” Ferus said. “They leave bits and pieces behind them when they lay down the words, some scraps and smears of their essential nature.” He sniffed. |
“They leave bits and pieces behind them when they lay down the words, some scraps and smears of their essential nature.” He sniffed. “Most untidy, really—but assemble enough scraps and one might have something approaching a whole.” “You believe that the library has a soul,” Bridget said carefully. “I do not believe it, young lady,” Ferus said rather stiffly. “I know it.” “I … see,” Bridget said. “Thank you for answering my question.” “You are welcome.” They kept going, following Benedict, and eventually came to the inn on a welltraveled portion of the streets leading to the gallery outside the shipyard. A sign hanging outside featured, as many of them did, the drawing of a fantastic animal that supposedly existed long ago —most of the inns in Habble Morning were so decorated, Bridget knew. The lettering beneath proclaimed the building to be the Black Horse Inn. They went in and found the usual for such a place—a common room where food and drink were served, in essence a small pub or restaurant. The ceiling was really quite low. Benedict had to duck his head a little to avoid bumping it against the heavy beams supporting the second floor. The air was thick and smoky, too. Several men and women sitting huddled at the tables were holding pipes that smoldered with whatever weed they burned within them. Which was, strictly speaking, against the guidelines laid out by the Merciful Builders in the High Manual. Apparently they had viewed smoking as a serious sin. But then, Habble Landing did have something of a reputation as a place of disinclination to piety. It was, after all, the home habble of the Wayist Temple, and had only a few small chapels to God in Heaven. Here the guiding principle was the interest of business. And apparently at the Black Horse Inn, business was excellent. There were three score people at least crowded into the common room, occupying every table. Two women were weaving as rapidly as they could through the room, carrying food and drink to the tables and taking away empty plates and cups. |
Two women were weaving as rapidly as they could through the room, carrying food and drink to the tables and taking away empty plates and cups. Back in the kitchen, dishes rattled and voices spoke loudly but without heat, evidence of a business operating at its full, focused speed. “A moment, a moment, ladies and gentlemen,” called a round-cheeked man in a rather plainly made jacket of silvery-grey raw ethersilk. Only after he’d said that did he take a look at them. Bridget saw his bright, rather closely set eyes take in Gwendolyn and Ferus’s excellent (and expensive) clothing at a glance, and he came forward, rubbing his hands together to smile broadly at them. “We’re quite busy, as you can see, but we’ll clear you a table in a moment.” Benedict’s stomach made a noise audible even over the chatter of the room. “Wonderful,” he said. “We also have need of lodging, sir,” Gwendolyn said. “We’ve been told your establishment can serve our needs.” The innkeeper rubbed at his neck. “Ah, miss. I see. We’ll be happy to get a hot meal into your bellies, travelers, but I’m afraid my rooms are all spoken for.” “I beg your pardon,” Gwen said, smiling. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly.” “Well, miss,” the innkeeper said, “times being what they are, what with an attack and maybe a war and so on … we’ve no rooms to rent, I’m afraid.” “They’re full right now?” Gwendolyn asked. “Every one of them?” “I’m sorry, but they are,” the innkeeper lied. It was patently obvious from the expression on his face. Perhaps, Bridget reflected, turning down money was not something an entrepreneur of Habble Landing was emotionally equipped to take in his stride. But why wouldn’t he simply rent her the rooms, if that was the case? Ah, it doubtless had to do with … “Who is renting them?” Gwen asked brightly. “Perhaps I could make some sort of bargain with that person?” “That’s not any business of yours, miss. Meaning no offense, but I don’t go blabbing about my customers or their business.” “I’m sure we can reach some kind of understanding,” Gwendolyn stated. |
Meaning no offense, but I don’t go blabbing about my customers or their business.” “I’m sure we can reach some kind of understanding,” Gwendolyn stated. “No rooms,” the innkeeper said, his jaw setting stubbornly. Gwendolyn Lancaster narrowed her eyes. They decided to take their dinner in their suite, rather than shouldering their way into the Black Horse’s common room. One of the women from downstairs delivered it on several stacked trays. The food came in hot and fresh, on the best plates the Black Horse had to offer, along with genuine silverware and several rather expensive bottles of mistwine. Once the food had been set out on the room’s small table, the serving woman left, and Folly shut and latched the door carefully behind her. The etherealist’s apprentice looked wan, as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Once the door was closed, the girl immediately hurried to the corner of the room farthest from it and settled down on the floor, holding her little jar of crystals carefully. “Coz,” Benedict said, opening the first bottle of mistwine, “I’m afraid you may have a thing or two to learn about bargaining for the best possible price.” “It isn’t my task to save money,” Gwen replied rather tartly. “I’m here to save time.” “Impossible, impossible,” Master Ferus said. “Time is time. We can barely even see it, much less alter it.” Benedict poured the wine into their glasses calmly, despite his stomach’s rumblings, before he seated himself and began to fill his plate. His motions, Bridget noted, were not hurried—but she could see the cords in his neck standing out with the effort of his restraint. “Not time, then,” Gwen said, “but trouble. Yes, we paid five times the price—” “Ten times,” Benedict interjected gently. Gwen waved her hand. “The point is, we aren’t wasting hours running back and forth to the temple until we find another inn.” “Point, child, a fair point,” Master Ferus said. “Littlemouse,” said Rowl rather pointedly from the floor, “where should I sit?” Bridget calmly cleared a little space on the table, put some roasted fowl on a small plate, and lifted Rowl up to the table to sit before it. The cat made a pleased, throaty sound and began nibbling away. |
The cat made a pleased, throaty sound and began nibbling away. “If I may ask,” Bridget said hesitantly, “what is our next move?” “Exploit the environment,” Master Ferus said around a mouthful of beef. “The room below is an excellent place to sample the local climate for signs of unusual activity. Sir Sorellin, perhaps you would be willing to employ your talents to go down and listen? Pretend to be drinking, but don’t become impaired.” Benedict swallowed hurriedly and cleared his throat. “Master Ferus, I fear that the Spirearch’s orders prevent me from doing any such thing. I’m to stay within arm’s reach of you.” The old etherealist blinked. “Oh, I suppose your orders could be interpreted that way, couldn’t they?” “Interpreted literally,” Benedict said. “I’m afraid so.” “That being the case,” Ferus said, “I will accompany you. It will add verisimilitude to have someone who is genuinely drunk at the table.” He shook his head sadly. “Death is light as a feather, duty as heavy as a Spire, what?” “Ah,” Benedict said. “Master Ferus, is that wise?” Gwen asked. “It’s an ancient proverb, handed down from the time of the Builders,” Ferus replied. “Chronologically speaking, it is wisdom of the highest order.” “Not the proverb,” Gwen said. “You, inebriated. It seems to me that you might have more difficulty pursuing your mission if you are drunk.” “I should far rather be drunk than eaten, Miss Lancaster,” Ferus said in a serious tone. “As should we all. Very well, that’s settled.” Gwen blinked. The etherealist took a slow sip from his glass and nodded owlishly. “Master Sorellin and I will confront and destroy several more bottles of this rather excellent mistwine, and see what news can be passively gleaned. |
“Master Sorellin and I will confront and destroy several more bottles of this rather excellent mistwine, and see what news can be passively gleaned. Meanwhile, the rest of you will go with Rowl and Bridget to make contact with the local cats. If anything out of the ordinary is happening in Habble Landing, they’ll have noticed it.” Rowl looked up from his food to say, “He said my name first, Littlemouse. He has an excellent sense of priorities.” Bridget eyed Rowl and then looked back at the old man. “Master Ferus, forgive me, but I’m not sure exactly how long it might take to make contact. Cats are not known for their forthright hospitality when it comes to meeting strangers.” “I’ll help,” Gwen said calmly. Bridget sighed. “I … think your help, in this particular endeavor, might be counterproductive.” Gwen frowned. “In what way?” God in Heaven, she really doesn’t realize what she’s like when she’s bearing down on some poor soul, Bridget thought. Aloud, she said, “Cats don’t react well to, um, to…” She faltered and looked over at Benedict, silently pleading for help. “Gwenness,” Benedict said. Gwen lifted an eyebrow. “In what way, precisely, did you mean that remark, coz?” “In precisely every way,” Benedict replied. “Your diplomatic efforts so far have consisted of instigating a duel, threatening detachment of Fleet Marines with charges of treason, throwing away a tidy little fortune in bribes, and abruptly discharging a gauntlet into an otherwise nonviolent situation.” “But—” Gwen began. “Twice,” Benedict said mildly. Gwen regarded him steadily and gave her next bite of fowl a particularly stiff jab of her fork. “I don’t mean to insult you, Gwen, but … cats don’t react well to the kind of pressure you bring to bear,” Bridget said, “especially not when they’re dealing with…” “Invaders,” Rowl muttered. “… newcomers,” Bridget finished mildly. Gwen rolled her eyes and said, “Very well. I shall keep myself out from underfoot, then.” “It’s just for the first meeting,” Bridget said quickly. |
I shall keep myself out from underfoot, then.” “It’s just for the first meeting,” Bridget said quickly. Benedict frowned at Bridget. “You shouldn’t go alone.” “She isn’t,” the etherealist said. “Folly will be with her.” Bridget glanced at Folly. The girl was bouncing her little jar of crystals gently, and singing them a very quiet lullaby. Benedict arched an eyebrow and said, “Ah.” “It’s all right,” Bridget said. “Fewer people mean less noise. Rowl will be able to hear potential threats well before they can come near enough to harm us.” Rowl groomed one of his front paws modestly. “Right, then,” Master Ferus said. “That’s settled as well. Go forth; good hunting. Sir Benedict, let’s get drunk.” Chapter 28 Spire Albion, Habble Landing Shipyards, AMS Predator Grimm descended from the deck to the engineering section just as the engineers were carefully opening the crates marked with the crest of the Lancaster Vattery. “Ah!” Journeyman cackled, rubbing his broad, callused hands together. The stocky, balding engineer was sweating despite the pleasantly cool afternoon. They had grounded the ship and throttled down her core crystal only about half an hour before, and the excess heat shed by the ship’s power conduits had not yet dissipated. Currently electricity was running only to the lumin crystals and the kitchen. “Finally! Carefully now, man. If you crack one of my new crystals I’ll hoist you up on a spike!” Grimm cleared his throat calmly. Journeyman squinted over his shoulder. |
Journeyman squinted over his shoulder. “Ah,” he said. “That is, I will report you to … to … the proper person in the chain of command, who will make decisions about discipline that are not mine to make.” “Always good to maintain discipline in your section, Chief,” Grimm said pleasantly. “Even in a civilian vessel.” Journeyman flicked Grimm a quick salute and snorted. “Preddy’s a warship, Skipper. We all know that.” Grimm shrugged a shoulder. “When need be, Chief. Are the new parts up to spec?” Journeyman waved a hand vaguely at the far workbench, where eight green-white crystals the size of a man’s head sat in an orderly row in a long crate, like eggs in a nest. “Those are the new trim crystals, and they’re first-rate. You can still smell the solution from the vat on them.” Grimm glanced at Journeyman sharply. Trim crystals of varying quality were often to be found, but never new ones. New trim crystals tended to be more efficient and more sensitive to varying degrees of current, and then gradually degraded with use. A ship with new trim crystals was slightly but significantly more maneuverable than one without—which was why they were universally snapped up by the Aetherium Fleet as rapidly as they were produced. “They’re new?” Journeyman gave Grimm a gap-toothed grin. “Bet you a fancy silk suit on it, Skip.” Grimm shook his head slowly, partly in answer to Journeyman and partly in slowly dawning realization of the amount of debt into which he had been placed. Predator would have been nimble even if the Spire arch had provided used lift crystals—with new ones she could dance with the finest in the world. The last crate finally came open with a groan, and the engineering crew carefully broke it down around the last crystal, an enormous, oblong shape the size of a bathtub, its emerald surface faceted so finely that except for a few glitters of light upon it, it looked round and smooth. The lift crystal would socket into the suspension rig, the ship’s structural foundation, and when they were in flight, all the weight of Predator would be spread across the crystal’s surface. “Gorgeous,” Journeyman crooned, approaching the crystal with his hands outstretched. “Oh, you beautiful thing. |
“Oh, you beautiful thing. Come here. Come here.” Grimm arched an eyebrow. “Ought I leave the two of you alone?” Journeyman sniffed haughtily and then knelt down beside the crystal, running his hands over its surface. He muttered to himself, then started pulling probes and gauges from his tool belt. He popped a pair of engineer’s optics over his nose, flicked several different lenses into place, and squinted at the crystal’s surface, prodding and muttering. Grimm gave him several minutes to study the lift crystal before he cleared his throat again. “Mister Journeyman?” “Been some kind of mistake, Skip,” Journeyman muttered. Grimm leaned forward. “Mistake? How so?” Journeyman hooked up a set of probes to a power outlet and touched them to the big crystal. Radiant spirals of light began to flow through the crystal just beneath where the probes touched. Journeyman eyed the spirals through his optics, then flicked them out of the way with an annoyed hand and did it again, this time watching a gauge to which the probes were attached. “Yep. Definitely a mistake.” “What’s wrong with it, Chief?” “Oh, not a damned thing, Skip,” Journeyman said. “Brand-new, and one of their Mark IVs to boot. Efficient as hell.” Journeyman, Grimm reminded himself, was a genius with etheric technology. That was why they had managed to return home to Albion with an almost completely nonfunctional lift crystal in the first place—Journeyman had rigged the trim crystals to carry a load for which they had never been designed, and more or less burned them out in the process. He was a damned fine engineer, but at times Grimm wished he could be a bit less of a genius child entirely absorbed by his toys. “Then what’s the mistake, chief?” Journeyman turned to squint at Grimm. |
“Then what’s the mistake, chief?” Journeyman turned to squint at Grimm. “This is a battlecruiser’s lift crystal, skip, or I’m a shiny new wollypog ensign.” Grimm grunted, frowning. Capital ships used multiple heavy crystals to maintain their altitude, and the crystals tended to be denser and more complex, which made them more energy efficient. The sheer mass of the large ships’ structure and armor demanded nothing less. If what Journeyman said was true, that lift crystal could easily keep a ship thirty-five times Predator’s mass aloft. They’d have to be careful of how much power they fed to the crystal, or its raw power might tear it free of the suspension rig entirely. It was altogether possible that Predator might be able to climb faster than she could dive with a crystal like that to lift her. “What kind of altitude could she take us to, chief?” Journeyman scratched his ear with one broken-nailed finger. “Seven, maybe eight miles? Way higher’n we could breathe without tanks, anyway. For all practical purposes, she won’t have an operational ceiling. And she’s real efficient at lower altitude. Won’t have to dump a quarter of the power we used to from the core into this sweetheart to keep us in the air.” One of the engineering crew let out a low whistle, and Grimm felt himself in heartfelt agreement with the sentiment. The largest part of a ship’s power budget was allotted to its lift crystal. Less energy spent on keeping the ship afloat meant more power that could be used for other systems. They could get more speed out of the etheric web by charging it more highly, increase the density of Predator’s shroud, and fire her cannon until their copper barrels melted. The Spirearch had given them parts of such quality that, when combined with her exceptional core crystal, Predator was about to become the fastest airship in Albion’s Fleet, as fierce as any military vessel in her own class, with the ability to pour fire from her cannon that a cruiser might envy. It didn’t mean that Predator could take on a true armored warship like Itasca. But she would be far more elusive and difficult to bring down with a lucky shot—and any ship lighter than Itasca would get a very nasty surprise if it engaged Grimm’s little ship. “I love you,” Journeyman said to the lift crystal. |
“I love you,” Journeyman said to the lift crystal. He kissed it and spread his arms across its surface in an embrace. “I love you. You big, beautiful beast, I want you to marry me. I want you to bear my children.” “Chief,” Grimm said reproachfully, but his heart wasn’t in it. Addison Albion had come through on his promise to a degree that Grimm could scarcely encompass. Grimm tried to calculate the cost of the Spirearch’s largesse, and realized that he couldn’t. Crystals like that weren’t for sale. They were priceless— and they would make his ship into something far more swift and fearsome and efficient than she had ever been before. The Spirearch had known that Grimm had no intention of taking service to him, but he had sent these crystals anyway. How did one, in good conscience, pay back a debt that by its very nature could not be calculated? How could Grimm turn his back on such a gesture of faith and walk away after a single errand? If there was a way to do so, he certainly did not see it. Lord Albion, Grimm decided, was something of a judge of character. “How long until you’ve got them all installed, chief?” he asked. Journeyman looked up from the crystal and squinted around the section, evidently gathering his thoughts. “Trim crystals won’t take but a day,” he said. “They’re standardized, and we can swap them out pretty quick. This lovely beast, though…” He rubbed his hands over the lift crystal’s surface again. “This might take some time. |
“This might take some time. Our suspension rig can handle her, but not until I make some modifications.” “How long?” “And then there are the power runs,” Journeyman said. “We’ll have to install some resistors to reduce the current or those trim crystals will have us spinning upside down in midair the first time Kettle tries to bank. And we’ll have to lay new runs to the web nodes, so that we can feed more current to the web.” “How long?” “And there’s the Haslett cages to consider, too. I’ll have to calibrate them to account for the increased efficiency, and the core’s cage, too, to let us run up a thicker shroud.” “Chief,” Grimm said, keeping his patience with effort, “how long?” Journeyman shrugged. “A month, maybe?” If Grimm knew his engineer, he’d still be fussing over and massaging his new crystals into increased performance six months from now. “There’s a war on, chief. How long for the quick and dirty necessities, just to get us moving?” Journeyman’s face wrinkled as if he’d just caught a whiff of something foul. “Skipper,” he protested. Grimm let a hint of calm, cool steel creep into his voice. “I’m a captain. Humor me. How long.” The engineer scratched at the back of his neck, muttering. Then he said, “Maybe a week?” “Run ’round-the-clock work shifts,” Grimm said. “And if you can find any bonded local engineers, we’ll hire them on.” Journeyman stared at Grimm as though Grimm had just suggested that the engineer should prostitute his mother to pirates. “In my engine room? Skip!” “Do it, chief,” Grimm said. “That’s an order.” Journeyman muttered a bit more savagely under his breath. “A few days, then. For that, you get the most pathetic, slipshod, half-assed, rickety, unreliable, accidentprone potential disaster in the history of the airship.” “I have every faith in you, chief,” Grimm said, turning to go. |
For that, you get the most pathetic, slipshod, half-assed, rickety, unreliable, accidentprone potential disaster in the history of the airship.” “I have every faith in you, chief,” Grimm said, turning to go. “Draw funds as you need them and get to it.” Chapter 29 Spire Albion, Habble Landing Four weeks ago, Bridget had lived a quiet and sensible existence, she thought. She worked with her father, took care of their customers, and often visited her poorer neighbors, bringing gifts of meat that hadn’t sold and needed to be eaten. She attended school every other day, and occasionally ventured to the market to purchase what their home and business needed. She had been to the amphitheater half a dozen times to attend musical concerts, and gone biweekly to services at the Church of God in Heaven. And now, she thought, she was wandering through a strange and possibly dangerous habble, her only companions a cat who regarded himself as the world’s preeminent being, and a rather reedy girl who kept up a steady, muttered conversation with her jar of used crystals. What if she got lost? What if she came upon more footpads? What if she found the enemy before she made contact with the local cats? At least in Habble Morning she’d had the implied authority of her uniform to hide behind. Now she wore only her regular clothes. Granted, the wide sleeves of her blouse concealed the gauntlet on her left hand almost completely—but she’d scarcely had time to learn to discharge one without killing someone by accident, much less doing so by conscious intention. She doubted her ability to hit a target more than three or four feet away if it came to a genuine combat situation. She wasn’t sure whether that made her better off than if she was completely unarmed, or worse. Rowl rode on her shoulder, his head held at a high, cocky angle, as though he had recently conquered the place, laying a benign gaze upon his realm and subjects as their little party walked through one of the wider and more crowded tunnels of the habble’s first level. The cat’s nose never stopped twitching, and his ears flicked around alertly. “Honestly, Rowl,” Bridget murmured. “Are you certain you’re watching for the local cats?” “Even the sharpest eyes cannot see what is not there, Littlemouse,” Rowl replied serenely. “Keep walking. Over toward those cooking places.” “I bought you a dumpling not half an hour ago,” Bridget protested. |
Over toward those cooking places.” “I bought you a dumpling not half an hour ago,” Bridget protested. “Those smell good to me, and I want to smell them some more,” Rowl said. “Any other cat worth the name would feel exactly the same way. Perhaps we will see them there.” “And perhaps as long as we’re there, you’ll have another bite?” “Perhaps I shall.” “I should make you carry your pay around yourself.” “Metal circles,” Rowl scoffed. “They are a human madness. A human should deal with them.” “He’s right,” Folly put in, from where she walked so close to Bridget’s flank that Bridget feared to turn toward her too quickly lest she strike her with an elbow in the process. “Money is a madness, a delusion-illusion. It’s not made of metal, really. It’s made of time. How much is one’s time worth? If one can convince enough people that one’s time is an invaluable resource, then one has lots and lots of money. That’s why one can spend time—only one can never get a refund.” “I see,” Bridget said, though she didn’t. “Well, in any case, shall we go over there?” Folly leaned down and whispered to her jar, “She spoils the cat.” “A privilege I do not give to just anyone,” Rowl said smugly. Folly suddenly stopped in her tracks and let out a harsh hiss. Bridget turned to the other girl as pedestrians nearly walked into her back and began to pour impatiently around her. The etherealist’s apprentice was standing with her back ramrod-straight, her mismatched eyes very wide. “Folly?” Bridget asked. “It’s here,” Folly said in a whisper. “It’s watching. We would tell Bridget about it if we could.” They were getting a few glares and mutters now as they slowed the foot traffic around them. |
We would tell Bridget about it if we could.” They were getting a few glares and mutters now as they slowed the foot traffic around them. Bridget didn’t mind glowers and low curses —but she found herself very much concerned that their disruption of foot traffic called a great deal of attention to the two young women. It was quite the opposite of operating covertly. She took Folly’s arm firmly and guided the girl onto a side path. “Folly?” she asked. “What’s here? What’s watching?” “Bridget doesn’t know about the grim captain’s visitors,” Folly said, her eyes darting around. “But they’re looking at us right now.” Bridget blinked. “Captain Grimm’s visitor? Do you mean that commodore?” “The one with the very large hat,” Rowl added helpfully. “She doesn’t understand,” Folly said to the jar. “These came before that, when the master treated the grim captain, on the day before they met.” “I’m a bit confused,” Bridget said politely. “Master Ferus treated Captain Grimm before meeting him?” Folly whispered to her jar, “If she keeps repeating everything I say, this is going to take much more time.” She glanced around them and slowly exhaled. “There. I think … I think yes, there. We’re alone now.” “Folly, I need you to help me understand,” Bridget said. “Are you talking about Aurorans?” Folly blinked several times and then said, her tone thoughtful, “She brings up an excellent point. Possibly. I feel awful, and I think I’ll sit down.” The etherealist’s apprentice sat down on the ground as if entirely exhausted, her knees curled up to her chest, her eyes sunken. She leaned her head back against the spirestone wall. |
She leaned her head back against the spirestone wall. “Miss Folly,” Bridget said, “are you quite all right?” Folly patted her jar as a mother might a restless child and said, “It’s all right. Bridget doesn’t know how hard it is to hear things. Tell her that we’re just tired and we need a moment.” “I see,” Bridget said. She tilted her head, studying the other girl thoughtfully. She’d regarded Folly as someone who must have fallen into some kind of premature dotage, but … her answers were canny enough, if phrased quite oddly. Folly had said that she would have told Bridget something if she could, though by the simple act of saying as much, she had accomplished it. “I noticed,” Bridget said, “that Master Ferus seems to have difficulties with doorknobs.” “She doesn’t know that the master is far too brilliant for such things,” Folly said, nodding. “And you,” Bridget continued thoughtfully, “seem to have difficulty speaking directly to others.” “Oh, she uses her eyes and what’s behind them as well,” Folly said to her jar with a weary little smile. “That’s two in one week. Perhaps I should write down the date.” “Remarkable,” Bridget said. “Miss, I am very sorry if I said anything to offend you or if I haven’t paid attention when you meant me to hear something. I didn’t understand.” Rowl leaned down to peer at Folly. “She seemed no more ridiculous to me than most humans.” At that, Folly looked up and beamed a smile at Rowl. “Oh. He doesn’t know that that’s the kindest thing anyone’s said about me since the master called me a gnatcatcher.” “And now we’re back to being very odd,” Bridget said. “But I shall try to make allowances for it, since we’re to be working together.” Bridget felt Rowl’s paw tap her cheek, and she turned her head in that direction. The side lane where they’d stopped was dimly lit, even by the standards of Habble Landing. It reminded her of the tunnel where the footpads had lurked. For a second she didn’t see whatever Rowl had warned her about—but then there was a flicker of light, and she saw a pair of greengold eyes staring at them from the shadows, and around them was a grey-furred shape. |
For a second she didn’t see whatever Rowl had warned her about—but then there was a flicker of light, and she saw a pair of greengold eyes staring at them from the shadows, and around them was a grey-furred shape. A cat. Bridget made a basket of her arms and Rowl leapt down to them, and then to the ground. The ginger cat ambled calmly down the alley toward the other feline. Then he sat down a few feet away from the other cat, ignored him entirely, and began to fastidiously groom his paws. The stranger cat emerged from the gloom and sat down a bit closer to Rowl. Then he, too, promptly ignored the other cat and began grooming. “Oh,” Folly asked her jar. “Do you think Bridget knows if that is … cat diplomacy?” “They’ve never explained it to me, but it’s more of a power struggle, I think,” Bridget replied. “I’m fairly sure it’s about establishing which of them is the least impressed by the other.” “I wonder what is being established.” “A more capable cat is never impressed by a less capable cat.” “Oh,” Folly said. “I see what she’s saying now. They’re seeing which of them is the proudest.” Bridget sighed and nodded. “Or at least which has the biggest ego.” “By ignoring each other,” Folly said. “Yes.” Folly frowned down at her jar. “I don’t know all about cats, like Bridget, but it seems to me that this could be a prolonged contest.” “It often is.” “I wonder what we should do to hurry things along,” Folly said to her jar. “Hurry two cats?” Bridget asked, smiling at Rowl. “No. The cats didn’t come to our habble looking for our help, Miss Folly. This is their custom, their way. We shall wait.” “We shall wait for three hours, apparently.” Folly yawned to her jar of crystals. |
We shall wait.” “We shall wait for three hours, apparently.” Folly yawned to her jar of crystals. “One learns patience, working in a vattery,” Bridget said. “It doesn’t matter how much one wants a batch to be done. It won’t happen any faster. It’s the same with cats.” Folly leaned down to her jar and whispered, “I don’t think cats grow in vats, but we shouldn’t say so aloud, for that might hurt her feelings and be unkind.” “You know what I meant,” Bridget said, “though that was very amusing.” The other girl smiled downward, clearly pleased. “So few people understand my jokes. Usually they just give me very strange looks.” “I’m the girl who associates with cats,” Bridget said. “Please believe that I know precisely the look you mean.” Bridget checked on Rowl again, but the two cats remained locked in their war of mutual indifference. “I’ve been thinking about what the Spirearch said earlier. About the nature of Master Ferus’s mission.” “She means ‘secret mission,’” Folly said to her jar. “Did he tell you what he was up to?” Folly traced a fingertip along the outside of her jar. It might have been Bridget’s imagination, but the tiny crystals inside seemed to give off the faintest glow of light where Folly’s fingertip touched the glass. “Bridget doesn’t understand the master very well,” she said. “He guards knowledge like a banker guards coins.” “So you don’t know exactly what he’s looking for, either.” Folly smiled faintly without looking up. “He gave me a few pennies. They’re quite frightful.” Bridget frowned. “But surely it isn’t difficult to deduce that he means to locate the Auroran infiltrators and foil their plans.” “Bridget’s logic seems sound,” Folly said. “I was thinking almost the same thing.” Bridget nodded. “We’re seeking the help of Albion cats to thwart the Aurorans. But they’ve been so successful at keeping their movements concealed that we still have no idea exactly where they are. |
But they’ve been so successful at keeping their movements concealed that we still have no idea exactly where they are. That seems a remarkable accomplishment, to descend through the vents of half the habbles of a Spire without being observed by a cat somewhere. They must be doing something to make sure they go unseen. Do you think it possible that the Aurorans are also using cats as scouts, Folly?” The etherealist’s apprentice ducked her head a little at the mention of her name. The pitch of her voice dropped to a bare, low whisper. “Not cats. Not cats.” “Not cats,” Bridget said. “It’s something else, then. Something that frightens you.” “It’s a terrifying penny,” Folly said to her little jar. “I’m slightly mad, but not a fool. If Bridget knew, she’d be as afraid as I am.” Bridget felt a chill run neatly up her spine and leaned toward Folly, speaking more quietly. “You mean … something from…” Her mouth felt quite dry and she swallowed. “From the surface?” It wasn’t unheard-of for the creatures of the surface to gain access to a Spire. In fact, the smaller beasts did so regularly. A Spire contained literally hundreds of miles of ventilation tunnels and ducts, water channels, cisterns, sewage channels, and compost chambers. Metal grates were regularly installed where they could be, but constant contact with the outer atmosphere degraded their cladding and eventually left them vulnerable to iron rot. Cats did far more to protect the residents of any Spire than humans realized, by hunting and killing such intruders. Granted, the lovely little bullies would have done so in any case, and not simply for food, but because they loved the hunt. Most folk tended to assume that cats preyed solely upon rodents and the like, which was certainly true, but in fact by working cooperatively, a tribe of cats could stalk and bring down prey considerably larger than themselves. Sometimes, however, something too large and too dangerous for cats to handle managed to enter a Spire’s tunnels. |
Sometimes, however, something too large and too dangerous for cats to handle managed to enter a Spire’s tunnels. That was why every habble employed verminocitors, men and women who hunted such predators professionally, who maintained and repaired the defensive grates, and who tracked and killed nightmarish interlopers before the beasts could begin hunting the people of a Spire. But those were wild creatures. If, somehow, the Aurorans had managed to train something from the surface to fight with their military … There were many stories and books and dramas written around the concept of some misguided soul attempting to tame the creatures of the surface, to train them to do their will. Such fictional figures universally met an identical fate: agony and death at the hands of their would-be pets —generally after a great loss of life. Wild beasts could not be tamed. They could not be controlled. That was, after all, what made them wild. “They don’t belong here and they want to destroy us,” Folly said to her jar, her eyes sick, but her tone matter-offact. “All of us. They don’t care what Spire we call home.” “Well,” Bridget said. “If the Aurorans truly are playing with that fire, it’s only a matter of time before it burns them.” “I once had a dream of the world,” Folly said. She gave Bridget’s face a quick, flicking glance before looking down again. “And it all burned.” Bridget felt a shiver gather at the nape of her neck, and she said nothing. She looked away, back toward Rowl, waiting. Chapter 30 Spire Albion, Habble Landing, the Black Horse Inn Benedict fetched their drinks when the bartender waved at them, and Master Ferus seized his rather large mug of beer with obvious enthusiasm and began tilting it back at once. “Goodness,” Gwen said, shaking her head. “I’m quite certain that a gentleman does not simply attack a drink so.” Ferus lowered the mug and wiped foam from his upper lip, beaming. “No, indeed, he does not. Fortunately I am absent any of the qualities that make a gentleman, and thus need not bother with the gentlemanly approach.” He waved his empty mug at the bartender and said, “Another, Sir Benedict!” Benedict, who had just sat, gave the old man a rather lopsided smile and then rose again, without complaint, to make another trek across the room and back. |
Fortunately I am absent any of the qualities that make a gentleman, and thus need not bother with the gentlemanly approach.” He waved his empty mug at the bartender and said, “Another, Sir Benedict!” Benedict, who had just sat, gave the old man a rather lopsided smile and then rose again, without complaint, to make another trek across the room and back. He came back with one enormous mug in each hand, and set them both down before Ferus. The old etherealist beamed and said, “A man who plans ahead. Foresight, always foresight, it’s the first trait of any formidable person at all.” “I just hoped to be able to sample mine before I had to get up again,” Benedict said, and sipped demonstratively at his own drink. “How is your tea, coz?” “Perfectly tepid,” Gwendolyn answered, but she added a dollop of honey to it in any case, stirred it, and sipped. Even scarcely warm tea was tea, thank goodness, and something that felt very normal amidst all the strange events of the past few days. “Master Ferus … my word.” Ferus lowered the second emptied mug, coughed out a quiet, rather unobtrusive little belch, and smiled at her. “Yes, child?” “I take it that you are not obliterating your good sense for no reason whatsoever.” He narrowed his eyes at her and gave Benedict a shrewdly conspiratorial glance. “Doesn’t miss much, does she?” “Despite what everyone tends to think, no,” Benedict agreed in a polite tone. “I think she rather enjoys letting everyone believe she’s too self-absorbed to notice anything that’s happening around her.” “It’s either that or let them think I’m some vapid twit. Like Mother,” Gwen said. “I simply can’t bring myself to stoop that low.” Ferus nodded sagely. “No, not a bit like your mother. Can’t have that.” He took the third mug in a comfortable grasp and smiled. “In fact, you are quite right, Miss Lancaster. There is a method to my madness. Well. To this particular madness, at any rate.” He took a deep draft from the third mug, though at least he hadn’t finished it in a single gulp. “And what would that be?” Gwen prompted him. “You must understand something of what we do,” Ferus said, “or this will seem like foolishness.” “We? |
“You must understand something of what we do,” Ferus said, “or this will seem like foolishness.” “We? Etherealists, you mean?” “Precisely,” Ferus said, with another politely suppressed belch. “A great deal of what we strive to achieve happens as … as an instinct, I suppose one might say. We touch upon forces that others cannot sense.” “You mean the ether.” Ferus waved a hand in a rather exaggerated gesture. “That’s simplifying a monstrously complex concept to its barest core, but yes, that will do. We sense etheric forces. Most people do, to some degree, though they rarely realize it.” “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Gwen said. “In fact, you do,” Ferus replied. “That gauntlet you’re wearing, for example.” “Yes?” “What do you feel in it?” “Nothing in particular,” Gwen replied. “The crystal is a bit cool against my palm, but it always is.” “In strictest point of fact, miss, it isn’t,” Ferus said. “If you found yourself a thermal meter and compared the crystal’s temperature to that of your skin, you would find them to be almost precisely the same.” Gwen frowned. “I assure you, sir, it is quite cool.” “It isn’t,” Ferus replied. “What you feel is the etheric energy that courses through the crystal. But your sensation of it is … something your mind was not sure what to do with, when you first encountered it. A wonderful place, the mind, but if it has any kind of disappointing failure, it’s that it always attempts to put new things into the context of things which are already familiar to it. So your mind apparently decided, upon encountering this new sensation, that it might just as well label it ‘cold’ and get on with your day. And you are far from alone—it’s one of the more common reactions to the first direct exposure to an intense field of etheric energy.” “The crystal on my gauntlet tingles,” Benedict said, nodding. “A bit like when you’ve fallen asleep on your hand and the blood comes rushing back in. Though I’d never heard it explained in quite those terms before, Master Ferus.” “That sounds like nonsense,” Gwen said. “Something is cold or it isn’t, sir.” “Ah!” Ferus said, pointing a finger at her. |
“Something is cold or it isn’t, sir.” “Ah!” Ferus said, pointing a finger at her. “I had no idea you had an interest in philosophy! Splendid!” “I beg your pardon,” Gwen said. “I never mentioned philosophy.” “Didn’t you?” Ferus replied. “You just heard Sir Benedict confirm that his experience with a weapons crystal was significantly different from your own. There is but one reality; that is true—but the two of you experience it in slightly different ways. The older you get, I should think, the more you will come to understand that the universe is very much a looking glass, Miss Lancaster.” “Meaning what, precisely?” “That it reflects a great deal more of yourself to your senses than you probably know.” “Rubbish. If I look at a blue coat, I see a blue coat. The fact that I’m looking doesn’t change that.” “Ah,” Ferus said, raising a finger. “But suppose that what you see as the color blue is the same shade that Sir Benedict sees when he looks at something you would call green.” “But that doesn’t happen,” Gwen said. “How do you know?” Ferus replied. “Can you see with Sir Benedict’s eyes? And if you can, I should love to know the trick of it.” Gwen blinked several times. “So you’re saying that it’s possible that when I see blue, he sees green?” “Not at all. He sees the color blue,” the etherealist said. “But his color blue. Not yours.” Gwen frowned. She opened her mouth to object again, thought about it, and put her teeth together. “And if Benedict does, then perhaps everyone else does, too?” Benedict smiled down at his cup. “It would do a great deal to explain the aesthetic tastes of House Astor, you must admit.” “Ugh,” Gwen said with a shudder. |
“It would do a great deal to explain the aesthetic tastes of House Astor, you must admit.” “Ugh,” Gwen said with a shudder. “Yes, those people simply cannot coordinate their wardrobes properly.” “Now then,” Ferus said, after another pull from his mug. “That’s something perfectly simple and relatively minor—colors. What if other fundamental aspects of life seem quite different to others? What if their experience of heat and cold is different? What if they sense pleasure or pain differently? What if, to their eyes, gravity draws objects sideways instead of down? How would we know the difference, eh? We’ve all learned to call the same phenomena by certain names from the time we are quite small, after all. We could see things in utterly unique and amazing ways, and be quite ignorant of the fact.” “That sounds remarkably slipshod,” Gwen said. “I’m sure that God in Heaven would not have created the world and its residents in such a ramshackle fashion.” “Ah!” Ferus said, beaming. “There, you are a philosopher already! A great many reasonable folk who have gone before you have put forth a similar argument.” “The real question, of course,” Benedict said, “is why on earth it matters. After all, we seem to have a common frame of reference for blue, and when she says ‘blue’ I know what she is talking about, even if my blue is her green.” “It matters because it is philosophy,” Ferus replied with an expression of sly wisdom. “If all philosophers took questions like yours seriously, Sir Benedict, they’d find themselves straight out of a career, now, wouldn’t they?” Gwen sipped at her tea, frowning some more. “But … I’m not saying that I agree with your proposition, of course, Master Ferus, but let us suppose that you are correct, for the sake of argument.” “Let us suppose,” Ferus said. “Then it would mean that … for all practical purposes, each of us lives in our own … universe-Spire, would it not? Perceiving all of it in our own fashion.” “Go on,” Ferus said. “Well,” Gwen said, “if that is the case, then it seems quite remarkable to me that we’ve managed to establish any kind of communication at all.” Ferus arched an eyebrow. “Quick study, Miss Lancaster, very quick. |
“Quick study, Miss Lancaster, very quick. Indeed. When we connect with our fellow mortal souls, something quite remarkable has happened. And perhaps one day, if we all work at it diligently and manage not to exterminate one another, we may even be able to see through one another’s eyes.” He beamed. “But for now, we’ll have to make do with making good guesses, I suppose. Food for thought.” He finished the third mug in another pull and waved for more. Benedict cleared his throat. “Master Ferus, I’m afraid we’ve wandered from the original point.” “Have we?” “Why are you getting drunk?” her cousin prompted gently. “Ah!” Ferus said. He held out his empty mug to Benedict. “Would you mind terribly?” “Your turn, I think, coz,” Benedict said easily. Gwen sighed, and fetched another pair of mugs for the etherealist. “Lovely,” Ferus said, and gulped some more. “Perceptions of etheric energy change from mind to mind, just as you and Sir Benedict demonstrate with your weapons crystals. And if one changes one’s mind, that also changes the nature of those perceptions. This will allow me to perceive those energies in ways in which I would not normally be able to do so.” “You’re getting drunk,” Gwen said slowly, “so that you can experience etheric energy differently?” Ferus held up his mug and said solemnly, “Think of it as goggles for one’s mind, instead of one’s eyes.” Benedict sipped at his drink, frowning. “You think you’ll be able to sense the Aurorans’ weapons crystals?” Ferus waved a hand. “No, no, there are so many of those things about, it would be like searching for a needle in a barge-load of needles.” Gwen turned her teacup idly in her hands and said abruptly, “You think there’s another etherealist here, don’t you? And you think that … by changing your mind, it will be easier for you to find him.” Ferus nodded, though the gesture made his head wobble a bit. “Top marks.” He put away another mug, and this time his finishing belch was rather louder. |
“Top marks.” He put away another mug, and this time his finishing belch was rather louder. “Extrapolate.” Benedict suddenly smiled. “If you could sense him, he could sense you. So you are also changing your mind to make that more difficult.” Ferus slurred his sibilants severely. “Astute, sir, sincerely astute.” He peered down toward the bottom of his mug. “Though I confess, I have not changed my mind quite this thoroughly in some time.” “Why?” Gwen asked. “I mean, why do you believe there’s another person like you here?” “It’s complicated,” Ferus said. “Or I seem to remember that it is, at any rate.” “The Auroran Fleet,” Benedict said thoughtfully. “Their attack was precise. As if they’d had some kind of beacon to show them exactly where to dive through the mists. Could an etherealist manage such a thing, sir?” “I daresay,” Ferus said. Gwen set her teacup aside. “And have you … changed your mind sufficiently to locate this person?” Ferus eyed her and then his mug, unsteadily. “It would seem not. But it’s likely a question of distance, methinks. If we get closer, I’ll have a better sense of it.” “And that’s why you’re contacting the local cats,” Gwen said. “To give you an idea of where to start looking.” “Time,” Ferus said. “There’s no time for a search pattern.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and Gwen thought that he suddenly looked several years older, and several years wearier. “There’s never enough time, you know.” Gwen traded a frown with her cousin. “Sir?” Ferus shook his head. |
“Sir?” Ferus shook his head. He took a swallow from the mug and put it down again. “Time to slow down now, I think.” Gwen nodded, and felt somewhat relieved. “Too much of such an indulgence can be dangerous, sir. What now?” “Now?” Ferus sighed, without opening his eyes. “Now we wait.” “Is that wise, sir?” Benedict asked politely. “You do say that we’re short on time.” “We always are,” Ferus said. “At the moment it is all we can do, I’m afraid. Best get comfortable.” Gwen and Benedict traded another look, and Gwen nodded firmly. “In that case,” she said, “I shall ask for properly hot tea.” Chapter 31 Spire Albion, Habble Landing Shipyards, AMS Predator The door to Grimm’s cabin opened a few inches and Kettle said, “Skipper, something you’ll want to see.” Grimm blinked his eyes open, long-accustomed reflexes swinging his legs out of his bunk and his feet to the floor before he was able to focus his gaze. Night had fallen and the cabin was lit only by the light of a few large lumin crystals that were hung around Landing’s shipyards, shining wanly through the small windows. He felt as though some kind of gum were squeezing his eyelids shut, but he knew it was nothing more than simple weariness. He must have been asleep for less than three or four hours for his body to feel so reluctant to get out of his bed. “Skipper?” Grimm felt an irrational surge of annoyance at the pilot and promptly clubbed it into submission. Kettle hadn’t slept much more than Grimm had, and the man wouldn’t have woken him if it wasn’t important. “I hear you, Mister Kettle. I’ll be out directly.” “Aye, sir,” Kettle said quietly, and closed the door. Grimm fumbled a lumin crystal to life, quickly washed himself from a basin of tepid water, and dressed. Captains did not arrive to address a crisis looking like an unmade bed. They were always calm, confident, and neatly turned out. |
They were always calm, confident, and neatly turned out. If an enemy battleship was about to unleash a full broadside on a ship, the captain would face it with his hat straight and his cravat crisp and square. Anything else undermined the faith of a crew, increasing the chances of casualties, and was therefore unacceptable. That said, a captain knew very well how time-critical any number of issues could be. On a Fleet ship, Grimm would have had a personal valet to manage a good many things and save him considerable personal time on a given day—but Predator, as a private vessel, could not afford the luxury. The upshot being that it took him nearly four minutes, instead of three, to cleanse himself, dress, buckle on his sword, tug his hat on firmly, and appear on the deck. His arm ached restlessly without its sling, and he could have done with a shave, but all things considered, it could wait until morning. “The time, Mister Kettle?” Grimm asked as he emerged. “Sixth bell,” Kettle replied. “Three o’clock, sir.” Grimm strode to the ship’s starboard rail and scowled up into the misty night sky at the vessel that was making its descent to the landing slip beside Predator’s. She was a large armed merchantman, a third again Predator’s size, flying a Dalosian flag this night. She’d been painted smugglerblack all across her hull, though there were sharp white marks painted on her decks to show the way to her crew in darkness. Like Predator, she had masts for raising sail when the use of her web was not possible, though Grimm knew her sails to be stained storm-cloud grey and smudged with black smoke. A blazon of garish red paint at her prow named her the Mistshark. “There, you see, sir?” Kettle growled. “What’s she doing here?” “Whatever it is,” Grimm mused, “I think we can safely assume it is unlikely to make our sleep more restful.” “Could be we have a problem with that new number three gun, skipper,” Kettle suggested darkly. “Maybe it goes off completely by mistake. Blows that bitch clean out of the sky. Terrible accident, sincere regrets, we all go to the funerals.” “Now, now, Mister Kettle. You know I would never condone such an action.” He glanced aside and added in a whimsical undertone, “At least, not when it could be traced back to Predator.” He narrowed his eyes, scanning the decks of the Mistshark for familiar faces. |
You know I would never condone such an action.” He glanced aside and added in a whimsical undertone, “At least, not when it could be traced back to Predator.” He narrowed his eyes, scanning the decks of the Mistshark for familiar faces. “Still, you know she took that slip intentionally. Make ready a side party if you would. She’ll be here to gloat in a moment.” “There could be a horrible accident with a gauntlet,” Kettle growled. “If you please, Mister Kettle,” Grimm said, keeping a firm note of reprimand in his tone. “Side party, aye, aye, Captain,” Kettle said, and stomped off, muttering under his breath. Grimm nodded and went back to his cabin. He picked up his nicer bottles of liquor, his cutlery, his gauntlet, and a number of small, valuable objects, placed them all in his heavy cabinet, and locked it. Then he made the bunk neat and turned up his crystal lamps to their brightest levels. By the time he had finished, he could hear men on the deck of Mistshark shouting. Her captain would be on the way. Grimm went back out on deck and eyed the other ship. A lean woman of an age with him but half a foot taller was coming down the gangplank onto the pier. “No,” she said firmly to the burly one-eyed ape of a man walking beside her —Mistshark’s first mate, Santos. “I absolutely forbid it. Unless you can find a way to make it look like it was someone else’s ship that had the accident.” Santos spat out a curse, scowling, and put his hands on his hips. He glowered at his captain and then up at the deck of Predator. The woman took notice of Santos’s reaction, and turned on a low, heavy bootheel to gaze up at Grimm. Her expression turned into a perfectly amused smile. She wore an aeronaut’s dark leather pants, a white blouse with roomy sleeves, and a tailored vest bearing intricately embroidered designs. |
She wore an aeronaut’s dark leather pants, a white blouse with roomy sleeves, and a tailored vest bearing intricately embroidered designs. She swept a hand up to her head and doffed her cap, giving him a formal bow, her arms spread at her sides. Grimm scowled. When she straightened again, the woman replaced her cap and said, “My dear, dearest, lovely Francis. You look absolutely delightful.” Grimm folded his arms and continued to scowl. The woman laughed. “Francis, I do hope that in your usual charmingly predictable and courteous way, you have prepared to receive me. I’m coming aboard. With your permission, of course.” “Kettle keeps asking me to let him shoot you, Captain Ransom.” “But you never would,” Ransom replied, smiling. “Not Francis Madison Grimm of the Albion Aetherium Fleet. Even though he isn’t.” Grimm gave her a sour smile. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Ransom put a hand to her chest and made a sad face. “Oh, sweet Francis. You wound me with your lack of enthusiasm.” “I shall certainly wound you if you try to take anything that isn’t yours while you’re here.” “Everything’s mine, Francis,” she replied in a merry tone. “The only question is whether or not it knows it is yet.” Grimm jerked his head toward Predator’s gangplank in a peremptory gesture, and walked toward it without ever quite turning his back entirely on Captain Ransom. The woman strode down the pier and around to Predator’s gangplank with steady, quick strides, and came up the ramp like a visiting monarch. “Side party,” Kettle snarled. “’ttention!” Tension indeed, Grimm thought. Half a dozen armed men, three on either side of the gangplank, snapped to attention, and every single one of them kept his hand on his sword, his gauntlet primed and gently glowing. Kettle faced the gangplank and gave his best glare to Captain Ransom as she came up to the deck. |
Kettle faced the gangplank and gave his best glare to Captain Ransom as she came up to the deck. “Sweet Kettle,” Ransom said. Something quite predatory came into her smile. “Does your knee still ache when it rains?” “Aye,” Kettle snarled. “And I make it feel better by breaking the noses of mouthy, sucker-punching, welching, treacherous Olympian bi—” “Mister Kettle,” Grimm said, his tone hard. “Captain Ransom is my guest. You will maintain courtesy and discipline aboard my vessel or I shall terminate your contract. Do I make myself perfectly clear?” Kettle looked over his shoulder at Grimm sullenly. He grunted. Then he turned and snapped off a textbook salute to Captain Ransom. Ransom returned it genially. “Permission to come aboard?” “Granted,” Kettle said through clenched teeth. Grimm stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Conditionally, Captain Ransom. I believe you are familiar with my terms.” Ransom beamed and unfastened her gauntlet. Kettle stepped forward, warily, to accept it. Then she unbuckled her sword belt and passed that over as well. “Satisfied?” “And the knives in your boots, if you please,” Grimm said. She reached down and withdrew two slender copperclad blades from the tops of her boots, smiling without a hint of shame or repentance as she surrendered them. “I only put them there to give you an excuse to gaze at my lower half, Francis.” “How thoughtful,” Grimm replied, his tone disinterested. |
“I only put them there to give you an excuse to gaze at my lower half, Francis.” “How thoughtful,” Grimm replied, his tone disinterested. “What’s that at the small of your back?” Ransom reached behind her, and every man in the side party rattled their swords to make sure they’d come clear of their scabbards if need be. Her smile widened and she produced a small silver flask. “A lovely drop I picked up in Ethosia. You’d like it.” “Fool me twice, shame on me,” Grimm said. “You won’t be needing it.” She rolled her eyes and passed the flask over as well. “Don’t you touch a drop of that flask, Kettle.” “No worries there,” Kettle growled. “I know where it’s been.” Ransom ignored the comment loftily. “Anything else, Francis?” She bobbed an eyebrow at him. “Should I strip out of my clothes as well?” “That shall not be necessary,” Grimm replied stiffly. Ransom winked at him. “I do so appreciate the courtesy that is always shown me when I visit the secondfastest ship in the sky.” Grimm felt a flicker of utterly irrational annoyance at the mention of the race, and had to fight to keep from clenching his jaw. “It is how decent, civilized people behave, Captain Ransom. Though I suppose that to someone of your level of moral fortitude, it must seem remarkable.” She barked out a quick laugh. “I would say you’d scored a touch, Francis, if I had the least shred of desire for your good opinion.” She strode across the deck breezily. “Don’t bother to show me the way to your cabin, Captain. I’m sure I’ll find it in the same place.” Grimm watched Ransom walk away, and permitted himself a slow exhalation and a narrow-eyed glare. Kettle stepped up next to him, his eyes wary. “That woman,” Grimm said quietly, “drives me quite insane.” Kettle grunted. “Why’d you marry her, then?” Grimm followed her to his cabin and shut the door behind them. |
“Why’d you marry her, then?” Grimm followed her to his cabin and shut the door behind them. He leaned his shoulders back against the door and folded his arms over his chest, mostly to use his right arm to support his wounded left. “All right, Calliope,” he said. “What are you going to make me regret this time?” She tossed her hat casually onto his writing desk, settled onto his bunk, and stretched out along it with a smug assumption of the space. “Perhaps I missed you. Can’t I pay an old friend a social call?” “Friend,” he said, his tone carefully devoid of emotion. “Empirical evidence suggests that you cannot.” She smiled, the expression impish, her green eyes sparkling in her strong, square face. Had an artist painted Calliope, no one would accuse her of extraordinary beauty, but somehow it was present in any case—in the way she held her head, the glitter in her eyes, in her sheer physical confidence. A still-life image of her was something of an oxymoron. Calliope was never still. Even when she was seemingly motionless, he could see her mind at work, sorting ideas, seeking solutions, cataloging the space around her. To see her beauty, one had to see her in motion. “You’ve grown so cynical since the Admiralty cashiered you for obeying orders, Francis,” she said. “It’s most unbecoming.” Grimm simply stared at her. Calliope rolled her eyes. “I’m almost certain that I remember you having a sense of humor sometime in the murky past, at the dawn of history.” “We used to have a lot of things,” Grimm said in a neutral tone. “What do you want?” “I want to make you an offer. An easy job with an excellent profit margin.” “How believable,” Grimm said. “But I’m afraid I’d rather not lose another year’s earnings to your amusements.” “It isn’t about money,” she replied. “Since when?” Grimm said mildly. |
“Since when?” Grimm said mildly. “I’m doing quite well for myself now,” Calliope replied. “Why, not a month ago we stumbled upon a damaged Cortez-class merchantman. She’d had a battlecruiser escort, but apparently it went haring off in pursuit of some dim-witted band of amateur pirates who had made a mess of attempting to take her. Her entire belly was as naked as a newborn. Took the ship and her cargo, sold them, and ransomed back her crew. I’ve enough money to bathe in at the moment.” Grimm snorted and opened his door. “I believe I’ve heard enough. Good day, Captain Ransom.” “No,” she replied, her eyes hardening. “You haven’t heard enough. Not yet. Hear me out. Give me one minute. If you don’t like the offer, I’ll go.” Grimm twisted his mouth into a frown. “We’re done here.” Calliope sat up, her brows knitted, her gaze intense. “Mad,” she said very quietly. “Please.” Grimm stared at her for several seconds. Then he shut the door again. “One minute,” he said. “Due to a clerical error, I find myself double-booked,” she said. |
“Due to a clerical error, I find myself double-booked,” she said. “I’ve half a load of vatsand bound for Olympia and the other full of medicine bound for Kissam. I can’t make both deliveries in time. Help me out by taking the Olympia run, and I’ll split the net profits with you.” “In theory, I should think a ninety-ten split would be more reasonable,” Grimm said. “You want ninety percent of my cargo?” Calliope asked. “Ten percent and a solid reputation is a great deal more than nothing and a broken contract,” Grimm said. “Theoretically.” She narrowed her eyes. “There’s no point in trying to argue with you over this.” “None whatsoever. I’m not the one who needs help.” She pressed her lips together and then nodded once. “You leave me little choice, it would seem.” “In fact, I leave you none at all. I’m not available. That battlecruiser you mentioned gutted Predator. It’ll be days before we can put sky under her again.” Calliope frowned. “What? She’s not skyworthy?” “Yet,” Grimm said. Those green eyes slipped into calculation and seemed to reach some sort of conclusion. She rose abruptly and reached for her hat. “Then I suppose I should seek help elsewhere. I’m sure someone would like the work.” Grimm nodded and opened the door for her. Captain Ransom strode out of the cabin and over to the gangplank, where Kettle warily returned her effects. |
Captain Ransom strode out of the cabin and over to the gangplank, where Kettle warily returned her effects. She glanced back over one shoulder at Grimm, just for a second, and then departed the way she had come. Kettle came over to his side. “What did she lie about?” Grimm shrugged. “I’m not certain. All of it, likely. Said she had an easy-money job for us.” Kettle snorted. “Precisely.” “And you told her no,” Kettle said, rather carefully. “Of course I did.” The pilot sagged a little with evident relief. “Ah. Fine. It’s never good news when she shows up.” Grimm found himself frowning thoughtfully. “No. No, it isn’t.” “Sir?” “Mistshark arrives just as the Spire comes under attack?” Grimm asked. “Are we to think it a coincidence?” Kettle grunted. “What do you mean?” “The Spirearch sent us down to Landing to smoke out an enemy force,” Grimm said. “And it just so happens that by chance, the fastest ship in the sky is docked in the Landing Shipyard?” Kettle scowled. “Predator only lost that race because Santos sabotaged our main Haslett cage.” “Regardless of how it happened, she won,” Grimm said. “She claimed the fame and glory. Such renown is a marketable commodity.” Kettle’s frown deepened. |
Such renown is a marketable commodity.” Kettle’s frown deepened. “You think she’s enemy transport?” “I am disturbed by the presence of inordinate levels of coincidence,” Grimm said. “I want eyes on Mistshark at all times, reporting anything, no matter how trivial. See it done.” Kettle nodded. “Aye, sir.” Grimm narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “And after that … send Misters Journeyman and Stern to my cabin, please.” Kettle’s concerned frown twisted up into a little smile and his eyes glittered with a sudden malicious light. “Ah. Yes, sir. I’ll be delighted to.” Chapter 32 Spire Albion, Habble Landing, Ventilation Tunnels Major Espira seized the sword from the hand of the Auroran Marine braced at attention in front of him. He held up the weapon and inspected it minutely before snarling, “You’ve allowed the copper to wear through, right there, Marine.” He held up the weapon a few inches from the Marine’s eyes, so that the tiny spot of brown-red rust was clearly visible. “The iron rot’s already begun. Can you see that?” “Yes, sir,” the Marine said. “Why do we clad iron and steel with copper, Marine?” The man’s cheeks colored slightly. “To prevent iron rot from destroying the weapon, sir.” “Excellent. You do know. And once the iron rot sets into the steel, how long will it be before it spreads from this point and turns the entire thing to rust?” “A few days, sir. Give or take.” Espira nodded. “This weapon will not kill whom you need it to kill if it shatters on the first stroke, or snaps when you attempt to draw it from the scabbard. I don’t mind if your carelessness kills you—but it might also kill your brothers in arms, myself among them, when you fail to fulfill your duty.” The Marine swallowed, staring ahead, and said nothing. “Well? |
“Well? What have you to say for yourself, Marine?” “No excuse, sir,” he replied. Espira passed the weapon back with a sharp motion and said, “Report to the armorer, scour the rust off, and seal the bare spot with lead. Once that is done, you will perform maintenance on every spare weapon in the armory—and you will do so with flawless attention to detail. Understood?” “Yes, sir,” the Marine replied, saluting. Espira glared all the way down the line of Marines from Second Company’s first platoon. “In fact, why don’t all of you prepare your weapons and gear for inspection? Again. When I return in one hour, each and every man of you will turn yourselves out like Auroran Marines, or God in Heaven bear witness, I will send every one of you up the ropes.” The faces of more than twenty hard-bitten professional soldiers went pale in a single wave of acute unease, and Espira let the silence weigh heavy before he said, “Dismissed.” The Marines all executed a drill-ground right face, despite not being ordered to, and marched quietly and efficiently away from the intersection chamber and back down the length of ventilation tunnel to their designated bivouac area. “Barely looked like a real spot to me, Major,” rumbled a deep-chested voice from behind him. Espira turned to find Sergeant Ciriaco standing a few feet away, having approached in total silence. The warriorborn Marine threw him a crisp salute, which Espira returned with equal precision. “Sergeant. Once upon a time, the first sergeant I worked with taught me to keep nervous men focused on their mission with familiar routine and fear of my wrath if they deviated from it.” The other man relaxed, smiling a bit. “Did he? He teach you anything else?” “Only to never expect him to arrive in a timely fashion,” Espira said, not quite allowing himself a smile. “Where is Lieutenant Lazaro?” Ciriaco’s feline eyes glinted with buried rage. “Dead, sir.” Espira tilted his head. “How?” “He ignored my advice and made a bad call,” Ciriaco said. “Ran into what he thought were civilians tending wounded after the air strike. |
“Ran into what he thought were civilians tending wounded after the air strike. He tried to bluff his way past them instead of shooting them and moving on with our payload.” “Why?” “One of them was a pretty girl. Looked like a porcelain doll. He was young, sir.” Espira frowned and nodded. Chivalry was a virtue held in high esteem in the upper echelons of Spire Aurora. It took young officers time to learn how seldom it could be indulged in combat. Unfortunately, actual combat could often be abruptly, lethally parsimonious in the matter of how much time it gave young soldiers to learn. “What happened?” “They caught on to him, and the little doll lit up his face with a gauntlet from about two feet away.” Espira grunted. “Damn. The boy had promise. At least it was quick. The vattery?” The sergeant shook his head. “Waited for the strike team to rendezvous but they never came, and we never got the explosives to them. Some kind of reserve Fleet officer with far too much initiative assembled a militia, brought it into the tunnels, and intercepted us. I presume the vattery team is dead, sir.” “Bah,” Espira said. “It was only a side errand, and a sensible gamble, but it would have been a nice feather in our caps to have destroyed that damned crystal shop of theirs.” He tilted his head, frowning at Ciriaco. “Are you shot, Sergeant?” “A bit,” Ciriaco said. “It’ll pass. Damn fool Lazaro. Lost half the squad.” He squinted down the hallway after the departed platoon. |
Lost half the squad.” He squinted down the hallway after the departed platoon. “Would you really send them up the ropes, sir?” “Half a tithe of my strength? Don’t be absurd. But at the moment, they need something to fear more than a Spire full of angry Albions.” Ciriaco’s nostrils flared and his eyes shifted to one of the other tunnels leading off from the intersection chamber. “That why she’s here?” “Mind your tone, Sergeant,” Espira said to the larger man. “You’re one of the finest soldiers in Spire Aurora—but we all have our orders.” “Yes, sir.” Espira nodded, and then followed the sergeant’s glance to the darkened tunnel. Madame Cavendish’s batman, Sark, stood at the entrance to the tunnel, a sober, frightening figure in black, his walleyed face locked into an expression of perpetual boredom. No one with half an ounce of brains in his head would mistake him for anything but a lethal sentry. Espira had been blocking it from his attention deliberately, with constant attention to the men—but now that all voices had fallen silent, he could hear it again: a high, pitiable, hopeless keening sound that came drifting brokenly out of the darkness. “Ren?” Ciriaco asked in a whisper. “A verminocitor stumbled onto the base,” Espira replied, equally quietly. “We caught him, but not his partner. He says he was alone. She is here to verify his story.” “Knives?” the warriorborn guessed. Espira shook his head and suppressed a shudder. “She took nothing with her.” “She’s a mad beast,” Ciriaco said. “She is our mad beast,” Espira corrected him. “Be glad she is on our side.” The warriorborn narrowed his eyes, staring intently at Sark, and rolled one of his shoulders stiffly, as if it pained him. “No, sir, Major,” he said. “I don’t think I will.” Just then footsteps sounded in the black hallway, firm and decisive. |
“I don’t think I will.” Just then footsteps sounded in the black hallway, firm and decisive. A moment later Madame Cavendish emerged from the darkness. She paused at Sark’s side, and her batman handed her a small towel. It was only then that Espira noted that her nails and fingertips were wet and scarlet. The sobs in the tunnel continued unabated. The etherealist calmly discarded the cloth and walked over to Espira. Sark loomed in her wake. “Major,” she said, “we have had a stroke of luck. He was indeed working alone, though he believes there will be a search for him in the next twenty-four hours or so.” “Disappear the body, ma’am?” “God in Heaven, no,” she replied. “That would only make the Verminocitors’ Guild turn out in increasing numbers, searching more and more tunnels to find one of their own. Take the body and leave it where it will be found in the next few hours. Then there will be no search.” Espira nodded slowly, struggling to keep his face neutral. He looked down at the darkness from which weak sounds of despair still drifted. “He’s alive, ma’am.” “What is left in that tunnel is a technicality,” Cavendish said. “But it wouldn’t do to have him found with sword strokes and blast wounds in him.” She mused for a moment and then smiled. “Send him up the ropes.” Espira felt his throat tighten again, and his stomach twisted at the idea of doing that to any man, much less a hopeless, broken one. “Ma’am?” “No more than a minute, or there won’t be enough left to be identified,” Cavendish said. She paused and then said, her voice harder, “Do you understand, Major? Do you know how long a minute is?” Espira ground his teeth but said, “Yes, ma’am.” “Very well. Do your best not to interrupt my preparations again, won’t you, dear? |
Do your best not to interrupt my preparations again, won’t you, dear? I’m expecting guests, and I must be ready to receive them.” With that, she turned and began walking calmly away. Sark watched them in silence until she was several paces away, and then he turned to follow her. Ciriaco waited until Sark was gone to let out a low, leonine growl. “We work with the materials we are given, Sergeant,” Espira said. The sobbing continued in the darkness. “Ren,” Ciriaco said quietly, “don’t order me to send a living soul up the ropes.” “Of course I won’t, old friend,” Espira said quietly. “Break his neck. Send up the corpse. Dispose of it as Madame Cavendish specified.” Espira could feel Ciriaco’s gaze on him, and then the warriorborn Marine sighed and nodded. “Yes, sir.” Chapter 33 Spire Albion, Habble Landing Bridget had nearly fallen asleep when, a number of hours later, both boredlooking cats abruptly whipped their heads in the same direction, ears pricked forward as if they’d heard something—although Bridget hadn’t, beyond the normal muted noises of later hours in the habble. After a moment frozen, both cats simultaneously rose, stretched, and yawned. “Folly, wake up,” Bridget said. “It’s time.” Folly blinked her eyes open from where she’d been dozing with her head against the wall and looked around, apparently disoriented. “Whose time is it?” “Shhh,” Bridget said, listening intently. “Adequate?” Rowl asked the other cat. “So it would seem,” the strange cat replied. “Introductions?” “Appropriate.” Both cats turned at the same time and sauntered toward Bridget and Folly, walking exactly shoulder-toshoulder. Folly peered sleepily at them as they approached, and whispered to her jar, “I wonder which of them won.” Bridget felt her eyebrows lifting. “I … I believe it was a draw,” she whispered back. |
“I … I believe it was a draw,” she whispered back. “This is a formidable member of his tribe.” She sighed. “Just our luck, when we’re in such a rush, to meet someone who could ignore Rowl for so long.” “Ought we stand up?” Folly asked her jar worriedly. “Won’t it be seen as disrespect if we do not?” “A human who is sitting down is a human who cannot possibly pounce on a cat faster than the cat can spring away,” Bridget replied. “Stay sitting. It’s more polite.” “Oh, Bridget makes it perfectly sensible,” Folly said, smiling. “I’m so glad I wondered aloud.” Rowl prowled over to Bridget and settled comfortably in her lap. “Oh,” said the strange cat. “They belong to you. I had wondered why they waited about.” “This one belongs to me,” Rowl said, leaning his head up to nudge the underside of Bridget’s chin. “That other one works for me.” “With you,” Bridget said, beneath her breath. Rowl flicked a careless ear. “It’s the same thing.” He turned to the strange cat and said, “I am Rowl, kit of Maul of the Silent Paws. This is Littlemouse. That one has not yet earned a real name.” “Her name is Folly,” Bridget put in, saying all but Folly’s name in Cat. “No real name,” agreed the other cat. “I am Neen, kit of Naun of the Nine-Claws.” “I have heard of the NineClaws,” Rowl said. “They seem perfectly adequate.” “I have heard of the Silent Paws,” Neen replied. “I find nothing overly objectionable about them.” “The humans of my habble sent Littlemouse here to ask for help from cats.” Neen lashed his tail thoughtfully. “That seems overly intelligent for humans.” “I thought the same,” Rowl said. |
“That seems overly intelligent for humans.” “I thought the same,” Rowl said. “Littlemouse, ask.” Bridget stared calmly at Neen, matching the cat’s enigmatic, confident expression as best she could. “If it is not too much trouble, I would like to speak to your clan chief.” Neen tilted his head and returned her stare. “It almost sounds like a cat.” “It sounds precisely like a cat,” Rowl replied, some of the hair along his spine rising. “Littlemouse is mine and I will thank you to remember it.” Bridget ran a hand down Rowl’s spine in just the way he most preferred and hastened to add, “I know that this request is unusual, Neen, kit of Naun, but it is very important to the Spirearch, Lord Albion, and it may be that only the Nine-Claws can help us. I beg your indulgence in this matter, and will accept whatever decision you make in it.” Neen lashed his tail left and right for a moment before rising and saying, “It is Naun’s place to decide, I think. Remain here. Naun will see you. Or he won’t. Farewell, Rowl’s Littlemouse.” Then he turned and vanished into the shadows. “Goodness, so abrupt,” Folly muttered. “Cats are not to be rushed,” Bridget said. “On the other hand, it’s rather difficult to slow them down, once they’ve decided to start.” She traced Rowl’s ears with her fingertips and said to him, “I take it we should wait.” “You should,” Rowl said approvingly, turning in a circle and then lying down in her lap. “I, however, am weary from all that diplomacy. I shall sleep.” The Nine-Claws kept them waiting for all of half an hour. Then a pair of large male cats appeared from the shadowed hallway. They sat down at the very limits of Bridget’s vision, where the yellow-gold gleam of their eyes was the thing she could best see. “Folly,” Bridget said. She touched Rowl’s back lightly, and the cat lifted his head at once. “Of course,” he said, and yawned. |
“Of course,” he said, and yawned. “Now they are quick.” “It’s as though they have no consideration for others at all,” Bridget said in a dry tone. “I suspect that they do not,” Rowl growled. “But this is their territory. We must show them…” He shuddered. “Respect.” Bridget nodded firmly and said to Folly, “Let Rowl walk first. Stay even with me, shoulder-to-shoulder, and try not to look at any specific cat for more than a second or two —it makes them uneasy. Very well?” “Don’t worry,” Folly said to her jar. “I’m here to protect you.” “Yes, thank goodness for that,” Bridget said, rising as Rowl climbed out of her lap. She offered a hand to Folly and hauled the slender apprentice etherealist to her feet. Rowl looked back and up at them, his expression enigmatic, then turned and prowled forward. They followed the pair of male cats into darkness that rapidly swelled and swallowed them. Bridget would have been blind if not for Folly and her jar of expended lumin crystals. There must have been several hundred of the little crystals in the girl’s container, each producing a faded remnant of its original glow. Any one of them could have barely produced light enough to be seen from the corner of one’s eye—but taken together, they cast a very soft, nebulous radiance that at least allowed Bridget to follow the cats without walking into a wall or tripping over debris on the tunnel floor. The pair of warriors—they could be nothing else, given their size, their silence, and their arrogant demeanor—led them into the ventilation tunnels of the east side of the Spire. While the Builders had created Spire Albion in the shape of a perfect circle, each habble was laid out as a square fitting within that circle. The extra spaces, at the cardinal points of the compass, were filled with a variety of supporting structures—cisterns, ventilation tunnels, waste tunnels, and the like. Cats generally preferred the smaller ventilation tunnels for habitation. Bridget could barely squeeze into one of the little tunnels and still wriggle forward, and she devoutly hoped that Naun would meet them in one of the larger tunnels or intersection chambers. |
Bridget could barely squeeze into one of the little tunnels and still wriggle forward, and she devoutly hoped that Naun would meet them in one of the larger tunnels or intersection chambers. It took them only a few minutes to reach a large intersection chamber where, apparently, the Nine-Claws had decided to receive them. It was a roomy space, with ceilings that stretched up out of the meager light of Folly’s jar, forty feet wide and perhaps twice as long. Eight ventilation tunnels intersected at this point, and the moving air of the Spire’s living breath swirled around the chamber, a constant, droning sigh. The far side of the chamber featured several pieces of wooden furniture, including a footstool, a wooden chair, a high barstool, and an impressive, darkly stained table. They were lined up in that order as well, obviously as stairs leading up to what amounted to a dais. A score of warrior cats were arrayed on the various pieces of furniture or on the ground at their feet—up to the large table, where a single, heavily muscled tomcat of purest black sat with his eyes mostly closed. On the barstool, just below the level of the table, sat Neen, with a bored expression, though his tail lashed left and right in agitation. “He has his own furniture?” Rowl demanded, under his breath. “Oh. That is simply outrageous. What is he doing with those? Cats have no need for such things.” “Why do I suspect you’re going to want me to buy some for you?” Bridget asked. “That is not the point.” Rowl sniffed. “We will discuss such matters later.” Bridget kept herself from showing any teeth when she smiled and looked carefully around the large chamber. There were a great many cats looking on. In the wan light Folly held, she could see little of them but for indistinct shapes and the flicker of reflections of green-gold eyes. Hundreds of them. “Oh, my,” Folly whispered. “There are certainly more cats here than I have seen in the duration of my life. |
“There are certainly more cats here than I have seen in the duration of my life. And oh, look. Kittens.” Bridget arched a brow sharply, and turned her head to follow the direction Folly was pointing out to her jar. She did indeed spy several tiny sets of eyes, many of them coming closer as the curious kittens crept forward, noses extended, their ears pricked toward the visitors. That was odd. Cats did not expose their kittens to humans. Even Bridget and her father, with their strong relationship with the Silent Paws, had seen kittens no more than half a dozen times in her life. And now the Nine-Claws had received them in the very same communal chamber where their kittens were being cared for. In fact … “This is all of them,” Bridget breathed to Rowl. “This is the entire clan. Kittens and all.” Rowl narrowed his eyes and made a quiet sound in his throat. “Impossible. Too many tunnels must be watched and guarded and held against encroachers.” But even as he said it, Bridget saw his eyes scanning the room, taking an approximate count of their hosts. “They’re nervous,” Folly whispered. “Banding together for safety.” “Cats don’t do that,” Bridget said, or began to say —but she stopped herself. Cats absolutely operated in groups to hunt and defend territory more safely. But they certainly did not ever allow themselves to appear to be doing such a thing. Such a lack of independence would be seen as unacceptable. Even a “team” of cats working together tended to be a loose coalition more than anything, and lasted no longer than was necessary. Clan chiefs like Maul or Naun maintained their position through a dense, complicated network of one-on-one relationships, through building a general consensus, and when necessary through the exertion of personal pressure where possible, and force when necessary. |
Clan chiefs like Maul or Naun maintained their position through a dense, complicated network of one-on-one relationships, through building a general consensus, and when necessary through the exertion of personal pressure where possible, and force when necessary. Getting half a dozen cats to agree upon almost anything was the next-best thing to impossible. Getting several hundred to move together, to abandon their individual territories, to share a single living space was … … unheard-of. Literally. From all she knew of cats, Bridget would never have believed such a tale if someone had told it to her. What in the name of God in Heaven was happening in this habble? Rowl strolled forward through the chamber as if there weren’t enough potentially hostile cats surrounding them to smother them all to death beneath their sheer weight. As deaths went, Bridget thought, being asphyxiated by warm, soft, furry little beasts seemed a bit less ghastly than some she had considered lately, but nonetheless she preferred to avoid it. Rowl, generally speaking, knew very well what he was about—but when his natural ability and confidence failed, the results tended to be the sorts of events one felt obligated to write down in one’s diary. She hoped, rather fervently, that this would not be one of those occasions. Rowl went straight to the lowest stool and mounted it as calmly as if it had belonged to him, and the cats who sat there were forced to give way awkwardly at the last moment or else find themselves bowled over. Rowl proceeded up the pieces of furniture until he reached the high stool upon which sat Neen. Once he had reached that, Rowl calmly took a seat beside his counterpart and faced Naun attentively. Naun watched this display with narrowed eyes, and the tip of his tail twitched once or twice. Then he eyed Neen. Neen idly lifted a paw, cleaning it fastidiously. He was not precisely ignoring his clan chief—but he was, Bridget felt, walking near some sort of boundary. Naun’s voice was a deep growling tone. “You are Rowl of the Silent Paws.” “I know that,” said Rowl. After a moment he added, “Sire of the Nine-Claws.” Naun growled in his chest. |
After a moment he added, “Sire of the Nine-Claws.” Naun growled in his chest. “Arrogant. Just like the other Silent Paws who have visited my domain.” “I know that, too,” Rowl said. “You know why I have brought these humans to you.” “Yes,” Naun said. His green-gold eyes flicked to Folly and Bridget. “They believe we owe them some sort of service.” “Sire of the Nine-Claws,” Bridget said, taking a small step forward. That drew the eye of every cat there. Bridget felt rather abruptly severely unnerved by the attention of so many consummate predators, however small each of them might be individually. She swallowed and kept her voice steady. “Lord Albion, the Spirearch, sent us to request your aid in a matter in which we believe only the NineClaws can help us.” Naun peered at Bridget and tilted his head this way and that for a moment. “Is that some kind of trick, kit of Maul? Like when the humans make those hideous dolls appear to speak?” “It is no trick, sire,” Rowl said easily. “This is my human, Littlemouse.” “And it speaks,” Naun mused. “As I told you,” Neen noted. The elder Nine-Claw eyed his kit and considered his own front paws for a moment, as if deciding whether or not he needed to choose one with which to reply. Rowl feinted at Neen’s nose with one paw and the other young cat flinched. Instantly every warrior cat in the place was on its feet, and Bridget felt almost certain that she could actually hear the mass of fur upon spines suddenly springing straight up. The air whispered with hundreds of low sounds of feline warning. Bridget found herself holding her breath. Rowl ignored the chorus of angry growls with a certain magnificent indifference to reality, looking at Neen in strict disapproval. |
Rowl ignored the chorus of angry growls with a certain magnificent indifference to reality, looking at Neen in strict disapproval. “Respect your sire,” Rowl said severely. “Or you will oblige him to teach you, here and now, when he obviously has greater concerns before him.” Neen blinked at Rowl several times. He took note of the room, and all the cats staring at him, and abruptly became disinterested, looking out at nothing in particular, his eyes half closing. There was a long silence. And then Naun let out a low sound of amusement, and his ears assumed a more relaxed, attentive angle. Bridget felt her pent-up breath slowly easing out of her again, as several dozen of the watching cats joined their clan chief in sharing their amusement. “You have courage, Rowl Silent Paw,” Naun noted. “Or you are mad.” “I know that, too,” Rowl replied. “Will you hear Littlemouse’s request?” “Littlemouse,” Naun said, his gaze traveling up and down Bridget’s large frame. “A fine name for her.” “She grew more than was expected,” Rowl explained. “It was most inconsiderate, but what can one expect?” “Humans rarely concern themselves with the needs of cats,” Naun agreed. “And those who do are rarely to be trusted.” Rowl lifted his chin. “Littlemouse, kit of Wordkeeper, is exceptional.” Naun studied Bridget with unblinking eyes for a time. Then he said, “Rowl, kit of Maul, you are a welcome guest in my domain.” Rowl tilted his head sharply to one side. “Whatever do you mean, sire?” Naun’s unreadable eyes, for an instant, were hot with rage. “The Nine-Claws are no friends to humans. No matter to whom they belong.” The older cat turned to stare hard at Bridget. “Littlemouse, kit of Wordkeeper, you and your companion are unwelcome here. You will depart immediately. |
You will depart immediately. You will not return to these tunnels; nor will you attempt to make contact with my clan. Should you refuse to abide by either of these commands, your lives are forfeit.” Bridget opened her mouth, startled. “But … sire, surely if you would only hear me out.” “I know why you are here,” Naun snarled, rising to all fours. “I know you seek to enlist our aid as eyes and ears in the coming conflict, but you will not have it. The war is a human war. It is not a cat war. The Nine-Claws will not care if your enemies slaughter every last man, woman, and child—it is all the same to us. We will go on as we have with whatever batch of humans rules this habble.” Bridget bit her lip. Well. That was unacceptable. She couldn’t simply return and explain to Master Ferus that the cats had said no, and what might be his next idea? Miss Lancaster would surely not simply abide by that conclusion. But what could be done? Within this setting, Naun’s word was law. And though most people thought cats to be little more than vicious little vermin, good mostly for killing even worse little vermin, Bridget was perfectly aware that cats were willing and able to bring down human beings if they chose to do so. Naun could absolutely make good on his threat. If Naun so ordered it, none of them would leave this chamber. Even so, Bridget had a duty to perform. She had no intention of failing in it. |
Subsets and Splits