The Aeronaut's Windlass (16 page)

“Point of order!” Reggie said, in a voice meant to carry to the entire crowd. “This is a violation of duel protocol. Miss Tagwynn has arrived without a second.”

Esterbrook looked at Reggie with a blank expression. “Oh?”

“The law states,” Reggie continued, “that a duelist’s second must be a citizen of a habble in good standing with the law.” Reggie sneered at Rowl. “And as I see no such person here, I can only conclude that Miss Tagwynn did not bring a second. I insist that she be prosecuted for acting in contempt of Spire law, and her House fined appropriately.”

Bridget’s stomach plunged. It happened only on rare occasions, when someone felt the need to punish a House that had not left itself vulnerable in any other way, but when fines were levied for violations of Spire law, they tended to be outrageous. Even the smallest of the fees that could be forced upon her father would quite literally beggar him.

“Master Astor,” Esterbrook said, and to Bridget’s surprise, his own voice was pitched to carry as well. “When it comes to supporting the letter and spirit of the law, your dedication and zeal are selectively remarkable.” He reached into his coat and produced a folded writing sheet. “I have here in my possession an affidavit, reviewed and notarized by Judge Helena Solomon. It states that one Rowl, heir apparent of House Silent Paws, has with the rest of his House pledged his support to His Majesty, Addison Orson Magnus Jeremiah Albion, First Citizen and Spirearch of Albion. Further, the affidavit states that he resides within Habble Morning and that no outstanding fines or warrants have been levied against him. As such, he is, in fact, a citizen of the habble, in good standing.”

“What?” Reggie said. “House
what
?”

Esterbrook diffidently offered him the writing sheet.

Reggie snatched it and stared, reading. His cheeks turned bright red, and the crowd began to murmur again.

Bridget’s gaze fell on a plain, rather dumpy man standing not too far away, in the first row of gawkers. Unlike the others, he was not speaking to anyone else. There was something familiar about him, something that reminded her of her primary schooling days, but she couldn’t pin down the proper memory. His greying hair was shaggy, his suit years out of style, and if he hadn’t been the only person in sight who appeared absolutely calm and undistracted by Esterbrook’s pronouncement, she might never have taken notice of him. She felt his eyes meet hers. A glitter of mirth passed through them, and he gave her a wink.

Bridget blinked. That was rather bold of him, whoever he was. Was he one of her father’s business associates, someone she’d met when she was much younger? She was sure she would have remembered. And why was she gawking at the man when, she realized, one of the most important legal precedents in the Spire’s recent history had just been made?
Cats
had been declared
citizens
of the habble. Apparently with all the rights and—much more critically—the responsibilities that status implied. Cats and humans had enjoyed a long-standing arrangement—but one that was entirely unofficial, and which either side could violate without necessarily creating enormous repercussions. But Esterbrook and his proclamation had just changed that balance immensely—and perhaps not, Bridget realized with dismay, for the good of all involved.

“This is not . . .” Reggie sputtered. “
Cats
are not eligible to . . .”

“According to the law, sir,” Esterbrook said calmly, “they are. Have you any other complaints to make before we proceed, sir? Or perhaps you have changed your mind, and would be willing to simply abandon this fruitless course.”

Reggie narrowed his eyes, his gaze locking onto Bridget and Rowl. “You’re making a mockery of a noble tradition, beast-man.”

Esterbrook’s feline eyes narrowed to slits, and there was a hint of a growl deep in his chest when he spoke. “I simply execute the responsibilities of my office, Master Astor. If that displeases you in some fashion it is not my concern.”

Reggie’s friends took note of the growl and gathered in close around him.

Just then there were footsteps behind Bridget, and Gwendolyn Lancaster and Benedict Sorellin appeared from the crowd. They were both dressed in civilian clothing, Gwen in a pearl-grey dress, vest, and jacket, and Benedict in a simple, rather dismal black suit. Both of them, Bridget noted, were wearing gauntlets, the thick copper wire of the weapons’ cages wrapping around their left forearms.

“Are we too late?” Gwendolyn asked. Bridget had no notion whatsoever how the prim little noblewoman managed to load so much arrogance and confidence into her seemingly fatuous tone. “I
do
hope we haven’t missed the display of courage and grace that this little event promises to be. Goodness, Reggie, here you are. With six friends.” She gave Astor a blindingly white smile and counted them, moving her hand in a seemingly unconscious gesture. “One, two, three, four, five, six.”

Gwendolyn, Bridget noted, used her gauntlet-clad left hand to count. The copper cage glinted in the noonday light.

“I thought two were all that were needed for a duel,” Benedict said, his tone weighted with exaggerated confusion.

“Indeed,” Gwendolyn replied. “Reggie seems to have become befuddled.”

“I can help,” Benedict said. And then his manner changed, the false drama vanishing. He simply stared at them, no expression at all on his face. “Come, boys. Let’s the five of you and I leave Reggie and his second to this business. I’ll buy you each a round and you can decide which fight you want to watch.”

“Which fight?” Gwen asked. “Whatever do you mean?”

“They have a choice,” Benedict said. “Watch Reggie fighting Bridget. Or me. Fighting them. One will take a great deal less time than the other.”

“Sorellin,” Esterbrook growled, his tone full of gentle reproof. “I’ll have no brawling here.”

“Sir,” Benedict said with a nod. “It won’t be a brawl, sir.”

Esterbrook seemed to consider that for a moment, and then nodded. “Very well, then.”

Bridget thought, with some satisfaction, that Reggie’s crowd of hangers-on looked rather nervous. They were trying for arrogant, but the way they had all unconsciously moved a few inches back from Benedict was rather telling.

“You can’t threaten
me
, Sorellin,” Reggie snarled.

Benedict blinked several times. “Reggie, my old friend, I wouldn’t disturb your business today for the world. You know exactly where you reside within my personal regard. I would never harm a hair on your head.”

“I might,” Gwen put in cheerfully. “I’ve got this lovely new gauntlet and I’ve never actually used it on anyone.”

Esterbrook cleared his throat.

“Oh, piffle, I didn’t use it
on
you, only
near
you,” she said to him. “But, Reggie, let me be perfectly clear. You sought this duel, and you’re going to have it. You and your second, and your friends can watch like everyone else. There will be no distractions, no moments of confusion, no mysterious objects flung from the crowd. Just you on the platform.” She smiled even more widely. “Do you understand?”

“Miss Lancaster,” Esterbrook said in a heavy tone. “I am quite sure that the young man has no intention of dishonoring the House of Astor this day with any such action.”

“Unless,” Bridget added, “he’s . . . perhaps afraid of me.”

Gwen glanced up at Bridget, her eyes shining. “Unless that.”

“Enough,” Reggie growled. “Master of Arms, commence.” He turned to his friends and said, “Go watch with the Lancasters. Make sure they don’t interfere.”

Gwen turned to Bridget, nodded firmly up at her, and said, “If you find it quite convenient, make him cry. There’s such a nice turnout for it.”

Bridget found herself letting out a brief breath of a laugh, and she suddenly found the sickness in her stomach diminishing.

“Just breathe,” Benedict advised her. “Relax. Let him make the first mistake. Believe me: You can count on Reggie for that.” He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze with his fingers and smiled at her.

Then her friends turned to Reggie’s pack of bullies, and they all departed in a group with Gwendolyn and Benedict, all of them smiling politely at one another and walking as if they expected the others to leap upon them in the instant they lowered their guard.

Esterbrook looked around at the crowd for a moment and shook his head. He muttered something under his breath about the Great Houses and their theater, and then turned to Bridget. “Miss Tagwynn,” he said. “As the challenged party, you may decide which of you will take position on the platform first.”

“Very well,” she said. “Where will Rowl stand?”

“On the ground beside the platform. Only the two seconds and myself are permitted within ten feet of it. That’s the rule.”

“I will not be able to see from there,” Rowl said. “You should change the rule immediately.”

Esterbrook grunted and thought. Then he turned and picked up one of the large chimes in its heavy metal frame. It must have weighed three hundred pounds if an ounce, but the rather lean-looking man moved it as if it had been a living-room chair, putting it beside the nearest corner of the platform. “There, sir cat,” he said. “So that you can see. Does that suit you?”

Rowl considered the chime gravely and then calmly leapt onto it. He took a few steps about before sitting down and saying, “It will suffice. Barely.”

“Excellent,” Esterbrook said. “Miss Tagwynn?”

“I’ll go first,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”

“As you wish, miss,” Esterbrook said.

And a moment later Bridget found herself standing upon a platform looking out over the crowd that had gathered to watch the duel. There were . . . more people than she had ever seen in her life in any single place, and she absolutely could not let herself think about the number of eyes that were upon her. She might simply scream. So instead she took Benedict’s words to heart and started breathing in a slow, steady tempo, focusing upon her surroundings and her opponent.

Reggie climbed onto the platform at the opposite corner, his second standing on the ground just behind him. As he stood up, the crowd let out a cheer and began clapping and shouting and whistling. The sound was enormous, terrifying, like the rumbles of thunder that sometimes reached down into Habble Morning during the fiercest thunderstorms of spring.

“Littlemouse,” came Rowl’s voice from behind her. “Remember who you are. This creature wants to take it from you. Do not let him.”

She turned to give the cat a glance and a quick nod. Then she turned to face Reggie again.

Esterbrook hopped lightly up onto the platform and went to stand in the center of it, holding a simple red kerchief in his right hand. The symbolism of the color of the cloth was not lost on Bridget. The color of blood. This was a place of blood and pain and death, and any of them were a possibility in the next few moments.

Focus. She had to focus. She kept breathing and systematically blocked out everything but herself, the platform, Reggie and the cloth.

Esterbrook restated the circumstances of the duel for the public, and that Bridget had chosen to face her challenger in unarmed combat. Reggie was smirking at her. It was meant to be a smug, confident expression, but . . . she fancied she could see something darker and uglier hiding within his eyes. He might not even know it was there, she realized—but he hated her. Or at least he hated something that, at this moment, happened to be Bridget-shaped.

Reggie had been trained. He knew how to fight this way. She’d been training, too, but she knew so very little.

Victory isn’t about the quantity of what you know
, Benedict had assured her during the past days,
but the quality.

She hoped he was right.

Esterbrook raised the kerchief. In a moment he would drop it. When it touched the surface of the platform, the duel would begin.

Just breathe. Focus. Concentrate. Breathe.

He released the kerchief.

And a sudden low, urgent shriek went through the air, piercingly loud.

The crowd froze. Bridget looked around in confusion, only to see Reggie standing, looking upward, with his mouth wide-open. Esterbrook’s expression was, for an instant, one of disbelief. Then, as the sound droned on and on, rising and falling in a slow ululation, his expression turned grim.

Thunder, louder than even the storms of spring, began to rumble through the very stone of Spire Albion.

For some reason her eyes settled on the man in the crowd who had winked at her earlier. His face contained neither confusion nor fear as he stared up at the translucent vaulted ceiling of Habble Morning. His expression was full of a cold, steely rage. He turned at once, sharply, while everyone else was still looking around, and began stalking through the milling crowd, moving swiftly and in a straight line, as if by some effort of sheer will he made the folk of Habble Morning find other places to be than in his path.

Bridget found herself standing beside Esterbrook, though she had no recollection of stepping forward. “What is this sound?” Bridget asked him, shouting over the racket. “What’s happening?”

“Air-raid siren!” Esterbrook shouted back. “The first in twenty years! You need to take shelter, Miss Tagwynn! Spire Albion is under attack!”

Chapter 11