A Latent Dark (29 page)

The Girl-Shaped Door

Chapter 20

“What can you see?” John asked.

The two men were on their stomachs in the damp green grass, peering through a small clearing. There was only one field glass between them and James was using it, adjusting the delicate dial with rough fingers. John fidgeted nervously with a stalk.

 “Looks like a mop-up operation,” James said. “If there was any action here it must have happened earlier.”

John took the metal cylinder and placed it over his eye. At first he saw nothing, until James reached over and flipped the cover from the front.

Through the tiny portal, John saw acres and acres of black earth, white plumes of steam and smoke. Tents smoldered, creating jagged cliffs and valleys throughout the black landscape, stretching all the way to the forest edge. At least three quarters of Lassimir were nothing but charcoal and ash.

Burned to a crisp
, he could hear Lyle Summers sneer in his mind.

The Bollingbrook Militia was everywhere, questioning survivors, arresting others. Among them stalked Holy Guard, pulled from the Grande Cathedral itself to aid in the operation. John witnessed a group of captives being herded onto a small boat. It launched from the huge flotilla that pressed up against the docks, merging with the pier. A makeshift gallows stood near a large, wide grave. Bodies dangled from ropes.

A dozen aerolores, their power cells spent, hung tethered in the air like giant sleeping cloud gods. The dark skin of their gas bladders rippled in the gentle breeze from the river.

Soldiers stood in a wide block formation, beetle-black armor glistening in the sunlight that speared through the smoke and clouds. They were listening to a fat man who was dressed like some exotic bird. He sauntered up and down their ranks, bulging from his general’s outfit, sword bouncing at his hip. He was giving a speech as he lumbered between the soldiers, his face sweaty beneath the enormous commander’s hat.

“That man in the fancy uniform,” the priest said. “He’s the Chief Constable from Bollingbrook.”

“Police?”

 “A lot of the military enlisted in law enforcement after the Crusades. He made quite a career for himself out of it, but he never let anyone forget about his role in the wars.”

James took the spyglass to see for himself. “Reliving his glory days,” he said.

“I think a lot of them are,” John said. “Bollingbrook did very well for itself during the wars. For some of those men, all they know is violence and authority.”

“He looks like a wild turkey,” said James. It was an observation, not meant to be a joke, but the priest smiled anyway.

“He takes himself pretty seriously. Political aspirations.”

“Who’s that man in white?”

John snatched the spyglass back without thinking and pressed it to his eye. It took him a second to find the spot James had been looking. When he saw it, he almost swore. A man in a white linen suit emerged from the forest, following an overgrown path. He seemed either oblivious or indifferent to the bodies that were being removed from the burnt out tents.

“That,” John said, “is the man looking for Skyla.”

“So maybe she was here,” James said.

“Maybe.”

John pulled the field glass down from his face and looked to where the man had come from. A white plume of smoke drifted up from the trees a quarter of a mile away. He nudged James and pointed.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I think that we should wait and see.” James watched Lyle return to the wide flotilla and speak to a few soldiers. They then followed him back up the ridge to the forest.

“What if Skyla’s in there?”

“If she is,” said James. “Do you think he’d have killed her already?”

“I didn’t get the sense he wanted to kill her. He spoke about trying to cure her, use her—whatever that means. He mentioned Rhinewall.”

“Rhinewall?” James said, surprised.

“Yeah, why?”

“She had a pair of goggles that seemed to be the sort of arcane gadgetry you’d see from a place like that. I even mentioned that I thought she—” He went silent and then looked back through the spyglass. “Why would she go there of all places?”

“You know much about the place?”

 “Enough to know that they probably provided some of the parts for those aerolores. Next to Arist, you can’t find a better Tinker’s Guild than Rhinewall. The entire city has been cut off for years, few go in or out, and no couriers have passed by the Wilds in ages.”

“Well,” John said. “If he does bring her out, we’ll know where they are going. Or we could go there now and try to get there ahead of them.”

James grunted, still scanning the area through the metal tube. “Once they refuel those ships, they’ll be way ahead of us.”

The priest was already up. “We’d better get moving then.”

*

Marley sighed as he threw down his dishrag. He looked out the front window and scowled. The preacher was back, this time with soldiers. He opened the door and the Reverend Lyle Summers tipped his hat at Marley with a grin.

“May I come in?” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time. Got a ride waiting for me.”

Marley opened the door without a word and the preacher trotted into the room with a soldier, covered head to toe in armor. Marley caught a glimpse of two more guards waiting at the front door before it closed.

The Reverend pulled out a bar stool and sat on it, tossing his wide-brimmed hat onto the counter. The soldier stood silently behind him with a rifle in one hand. The long, stained bayonet extended from the barrel as if the soldier were carrying a halberd.

“What’s on tap?” Lyle Summers said, slapping energetic hands on the counter.

“Got
nothin
’,” Marley said.

The Reverend wilted dramatically. “Well that’s just too bad. I was absolutely parched,” Lyle said. “Surely you’ve got something for me and Charlie here. We’ve traveled a long way. Everyone says that this is the place to be.”

“They do, do they?” Marley said.

The soldier stood as though carved out of obsidian. Marley disappeared under the counter and came back with a glass. It was filled with a deep red liquid.

“What’s this,” the Reverend asked.

“Pomegranate,” Marley said, sliding it to the Reverend. “Enjoy it because we won’t be getting anymore.”

“Yes,” the Reverend said, considering the crimson liquid. “I imagine business will be a little slow for awhile… until the survivors come back out of the woodwork and resettle, that is.”

The bartender was silent. His eyes followed the Reverend’s fingers as he twisted the glass in front of his face, studying it.

“It’s good is it?”

“It’s the best,” Marley said flatly.

“Looks delicious,” The Reverend placed the drink back onto the counter. “Let me get to my point. The locals tell me that you used to have some hired help. A girl named Skyla.”

Marley continued to clean the area obsessively, giving no hint that the Reverend was saying anything of interest. Through the windows, Marley noticed more soldiers arriving.

“Can’t help you,” he said, grumbling. “Sorry.”

Lyle gave another dramatic sigh and sunk one of his hands into his pocket. He pulled out a long black feather and began twisting it in his fingers. The glass began to bead sweat onto the counter. The Reverend pretended not to notice.

“I found this outside your establishment,” he said, staring intently at the feather. “It matches another one I have... Right here.”

He pulled a second feather out of his jacket pocket. He held the two side by side like a set of champagne flutes.

“Now, Mr. Marley.” He grinned. “That is your name isn’t it? That’s what your friend Dale said, anyway. ‘Go ask Marley. The girl worked for him.’ He certainly remembers her and her little pet.”

Marley paused with his hand on the brass rail that ran along the edge of the bar. He felt a flash of warmth along the back of his neck. The redness traveled around the scar on his head and met the flush in his cheeks. Lyle’s grin widened.

“There was a girl,” said Marley. “But she only stopped by for one night. Ran off the next morning. Still owes me for the room. Dale must be mistaken.”

The Reverend put the feathers down and looked at the ever-reddening face of the barkeep. “Was he, Mr. Marley? I’ve known men who will lie to get between a woman’s thighs, but few of them think about what they say after the sin is done.”

Marley shot him a glance as recognition flashed across his face. The soldier shifted his weight uncomfortably, his boots heavy and thick on the floorboards.

“Why, once he met that little Jezebel in town he spilled his secrets about as fast as she spread her legs.”

Marley thought he saw the soldier stiffen. The pauldrons he wore which betrayed his breathing quickened their rhythm.

“Did I tell you that we almost caught your Skyla back in Bollingbrook, Mr. Marley?” the preacher said, studying his face. “She screamed like a little banshee when Charlie here tried to catch her. That damned crow managed to distract him though—shame really.”

He looked back at the glass and then perked up as if he had forgotten his manners.

“Oh,” he said. “Have you met Charles here? At ease, son. Take that blasted helmet off. You look like a gargoyle. Have a seat.”

Charlie removed the helmet with relief and leaned his slender rifle against the bar. Marley saw with surprise that he was only a boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen. His blond hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. Charlie placed the helmet on the counter beside the white fedora.

“I’m sorry about that remark, Charlie,” The Reverend said. “I get a little worked up sometimes. You understand.”

Charlie only nodded, his mouth slack from the heat. He tolerated the Reverend with dutiful submission. He stared at the glass of juice. Marley took a step toward them and froze when the Reverend shot him a glare that seemed to freeze time.

“Your cousin is a fine young woman Charlie,” the Reverend said. “In fact we never would have gotten those trade codes without Sarah’s sacrifice.”

He looked at Marley, whose face was tomato red. The air in the pub became thick and stale as the three men faced one another; Lyle and Marley locked stares while Charlie Wilcox peered longingly at the glass.

“Oh,” Lyle said. “I went and did it again, didn’t I? I always get ahead of myself, old age being what it is. Your archers sure can do their share of damage to airships, but they seem to ignore something as ordinary as a simple carrier pigeon.”