The Aeronaut's Windlass (27 page)

But she couldn’t stop thinking about his face.

The blast had left a ruined mass where his face had been. She’d had to shoot him there, of course—there’d been no way of knowing whether he wore ethersilk beneath his false uniform. She kept seeing his face in that brief, fatal flash, kept putting words into his mouth that had matched his expression.
Beg pardon, miss? Could you repeat that, please? What on earth are you doing?

Whatever would she have said in reply?
Why, making a corpse from someone’s beloved child, sir.

She hadn’t eaten since.

*   *   *

L
ord Albion’s batman reached the end of the richly appointed hallway and knocked on the door. At a word from beyond the door, he opened it for Gwen and her friends and bowed slightly, waving them in.

Gwen swept into a room that was decorated and arranged like a small private study, but which was, in fact, something much more. Oh, certainly the desk and the lights, both lumin crystal and candles, were studious enough, as were the bookshelves, packed thick with many more volumes than they had been designed to hold. It was the subject matter of some of the titles that made it seem otherwise—the histories of Albion written by Dagget and Deen were common enough, but the set by Montclaire that had been outlawed two centuries before, due to the scandalous rumors they had spread about the first Spirearch of Albion, were another matter. One rather thick volume was titled
Means of Execution Through the Ages
, and was placed with an elegant balance of nonchalance and availability at the eye level of anyone entering the room. As threats went, it was nearly subliminal—and perhaps it was placed there for that very reason.

Behind the desk, in a case, were miniature replicas of each and every airship in the Aetherium Fleet of Albion, from the mighty battleship
Dreadnought
, the size of Rowl, down to the tiniest destroyer,
Energetic
, no larger than Gwen’s smallest finger. There were several spaces in the case that had recently been emptied. Those spots showed a lack of fine dust where the bases of the models had rested. The ships destroyed in the Auroran attack, perhaps?

Opposite the replicas’ case, behind the desk, was a large section of wall that had been papered with a variety of maps, from large-scale renderings of the known world down to ancient copies of the schematics of Spire Albion. Gwen had seen similar maps in her father’s study. They were continuously updated, hyperaccurate charts of both geography and etheric currents, the ones used by the Fleet and kept in secret storage by ship captains, with orders to destroy them should the ship be in danger of being taken.

All in all, Gwen thought, for a monarch who had claimed to be rendered obsolete by the tides of history, Lord Albion seemed to be following the game rather closely.

This was no study.

In every way that mattered, it was a throne room.

Two men occupied the room. One of them was the Spirearch, obviously, seated behind his desk, looking as affable and unthreatening as he had the first time she’d met him. The other was the outcast officer, Captain Grimm. He stood in the corner nearest the miniatures with one arm in a sling and his back against the wall. He was dressed in the very clothing he’d worn when his men had come charging down the tunnel, though perhaps his coat was stained with even more blood.

Lord Albion rose, smiling, as they entered. “Ah, the heroes of the truly desperate hour. Had that group managed to carry their explosives to their companions, Albion might have suffered a crippling and permanent loss in the form of our largest crystal vattery. Please be seated.”

Gwen and Bridget stepped into curtsies, which Bridget had not quite gotten the hang of. Benedict swept into a polished bow, and then each of them sat down in one of the five chairs in front of the Spirearch’s desk, with Rowl settling on Bridget’s lap.

“Sire,” Benedict said. “How may your Guard serve you?”

“You could start by leaving out the honorifics,” Albion replied. “At least while we’re in here. I know I’m the Spirearch, and you obviously do as well. That seems to me sufficient, and it will save time.”

Benedict said, “Ah.” But he frowned as he settled back in his chair. “In that case, how may your Guard serve you?”

“By waiting a moment,” Albion said. “I’m expecting two more.”

Not half a minute later, the doorknob to the study rattled. It made a few fitful clicking sounds, and then a man’s voice sighed audibly. “Blast and curse the confounded things. Folly?”

The door opened and a rather odd old man entered. He was dressed in a bottle-green suit that looked as if it had fit him properly at some point in the last few decades. It had an odd sheen on it, as if . . .

Gwen arched an eyebrow. God in Heaven, the man wasn’t wearing a silk-lined suit. He was wearing a suit made
entirely
of ethersilk, with what had to be multiple layers of the expensive material.

A girl with the bearing of a servant or apprentice followed him into the room, her eyes on the floor. She was dressed in a collection of castoff clothing worn in very odd ways, and her eyes were rather unsettling, one a grey-blue, the other a fiery green-gold. She carried a jar of what looked like common, expended lumin crystals, which she held as one might an infant. The other hand was stretched out behind her, dragging a pair of small children’s wagons in a little train. Both had been filled to overflowing with all manner of apparently random articles.

“Addison!” the old man cried, hurrying in. He peered owlishly at Grimm, standing in the corner. “Ah!” he said. “Exactly who I was looking for! I need this man.”

Lord Albion lifted an eyebrow. “Yes,” he said, drawing the word out a bit. “That’s why he’s here.”

“That was deucedly clever of you, Addison,” the old man said. “However did you manage it?”

“You told me about him yesterday, Master Ferus,” said the Spirearch in a patient voice, “and advised me to secure his services.”

The old man’s head rocked back. “Really? Are you quite sure?”

“Entirely,” Albion said. “There were only so many experienced, independent captains with damaged ships willing to take you to Landing to choose from.”

“Extraordinary,” Ferus muttered. “And you’re sure he’s the proper one?”

“I am. Master Ferus, this is Captain Grimm. Captain, I believe you have met Master Ferus?”

“I have indeed,” the outcast replied.

“Hah,” Ferus said. “Aha, Captain. I told you, did I not, that you and I would meet today?”

“As I recall it, you did.”

“I thought as much,” Ferus said, nodding. “Very well, then. Shall we get going?”

Albion cleared his throat. “Master Ferus. If you please, could you possibly share the reason you need the good captain’s vessel?”

“To find the Enemy, of course,” Ferus said. “There’s mischief afoot.”

“Ah,” Albion said. He did not say it with much enthusiasm. “Is there anything more specific you can tell me?”

Ferus considered that. “Doorknobs are extremely complex technology.”

Albion nearly failed to suppress a sigh. “Do you think Landing is in danger?”

“Of course it is. We all are.”

“It’s not impossible,” Grimm said quietly. “Except for Morning, Habble Landing is the largest center of commerce in the Spire. If the Aurorans have more explosives and use them on the docks, it would cause chaos. I’m not an economist, but a very significant portion of Spire Albion’s interhabble trade passes through Landing at some point.”

“Seventy-five percent,” the Spirearch provided.

“God in Heaven,” Grimm said. “Is it that much?”

“Every habble charges for passage through its portion of the transport spirals,” Albion said, nodding. “Transport by barge or windlass is cheaper, faster, and safer. By bypassing some or all of the tariffs, a merchant can as much as double his profit margin.”

“And if the shipyard at Landing were destroyed? How much harm would it do the Spire?”

“Incalculable,” Albion said. “Eventually the shipyard at Landing would be rebuilt—but the economy would be crippled or paralyzed in the short term, and our capacity to support a war effort would certainly be greatly reduced until it was functioning again.”

“Excuse me, si— Ah. That is, excuse me,” Gwen said, trying to sound properly respectful while utterly ignoring the propriety of the Spirearch’s title. It felt clumsy and wrong, like trying to sing with a mouthful of breakfast. “I don’t understand. If the Aurorans wanted to destroy the Landing shipyards, why not just do it with their ships?”

“Presumably,” Grimm said, “because the only ships fast and quiet enough to slither in past our patrols are their destroyers. Their weapons are destructive, but relatively light. It would take them time to pound the Landing yard to splinters, and the Landing defense guns and our Fleet would object. It takes armored capital ships to accomplish something like that. Their larger guns will destroy the target far more rapidly, and their armor and heavy shrouds will enable them to stay until the job is done.”

Bridget frowned. “I thought the Aurorans who entered the Spire had been defeated and captured.”

“Would that they had,” Albion said quietly. “The ships that strafed the Morning shipyards managed to evade the Fleet, but Captain Bayard got
Valiant
in close enough to the enemy formation to confirm the presence of an Auroran troop transport.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Bridget said.

“Auroran troop transports carry a full battalion of their Marines,” Benedict said quietly. “Around five hundred men.”

“How many have been accounted for?” Gwen asked.

“Forty-nine,” Albion replied. “Those taken in the attack on Lancaster Vattery and several men who evidently attempted to parasail into the vents and missed their target. Their bodies were found on the surface.”

Gwen imagined men, their parasails tangled and collapsed, screaming as they fell nearly two miles through the mist, faster and faster and faster. She tried not to shudder. “I . . . see.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Benedict said. “What is our part in this to be?”

Albion spread his hands. “You three are, I am afraid, a remainder, as it were.”

“Sire?” Gwen said. “Oh, bother, I’m sorry. Excuse me?”

Lord Albion rose and took a couple of the large maps down from the wall behind him, revealing a to-scale rendering of the entire Spire. “Spire Albion,” he said. “Ten thousand feet high, two miles across. There are two hundred and fifty habbles, of which two hundred and thirty-six are occupied. As many as four hundred and fifty heavily armed enemy Marines are in here with us—somewhere. Do you remember how many Guardsmen are in active service, Miss Lancaster?”

“A little more than three thousand,” she said.

Albion nodded. “Mister Sorellin, do you know how many Marines serve in Home Fleet?”

“A full regiment,” Benedict replied. He glanced at Bridget and added, “Fifteen hundred, more or less.”

“Precisely,” Albion said. “Forty-five hundred bodies to protect two hundred and thirty-six potential targets.” He spread his hands. “I’ve been forced to dispatch them all up and down the Spire.”

“But why?” Bridget asked. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to fight the Aurorans with all of them? I mean, it seems to me that forty-five hundred men could see to five hundred foes.”

“We do not yet know where the Aurorans are, and our numerical advantage means nothing until we do,” Albion replied. “More important, some enemies are far more dangerous than mere soldiers, however formidable. Right now rumors are spreading, and fear spreads with them. Fear kills. Before all else, order must be maintained—and that means reassuring the citizens of Albion that they are protected.”

“And you’re sending us to protect Habble Landing?” Gwen guessed.

“In a way,” Lord Albion said. “The Auroran Fleet knew precisely from which angle to attack Morning’s shipyards to minimize the effectiveness of defensive fire. They sent their troops into the Spire, and they evidently know its tunnels and vents well enough to remain hidden, at least so far. They knew exactly where to find the Lancaster Vattery, and their uniforms were all but identical to ours.”

Gwen frowned, thinking. “No one of those things seems particularly important but . . . when you put them all together . . .”

Lord Albion smiled at her, clearly waiting for her answer.

“There’s a hidden hand in this,” Gwen said. “Someone who knows the Spire.” She blinked. “Someone who lives here.”

“Top marks,” Lord Albion said. “There is a traitor among us. Perhaps even within my Guard.”

Rowl looked up at Bridget and made a sound.

Bridget translated, “That is why you are sending kits to do a hunter’s job.”

Albion looked at Rowl and nodded. “Precisely. I need to send someone I can trust. When this operation was being planned, none of the trainees had reported for duty. The enemy’s operation pattern suggests intimate knowledge of the workings of the Guard and Fleet alike.”

“What about me?” Benedict asked.

Albion waved a vague hand. “Oh, come now. It isn’t you, Sorellin.”

Gwen thought that her cousin didn’t know whether to look relieved or somewhat insulted, but he managed to nod at Lord Albion.

“So you’re sending us?” Bridget asked. “Um. To do what? I only ask because it seems that it will be easier to follow your orders if we have actually heard them.”

Lord Albion’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ve dispatched a number of small teams of recruits on various errands, to various habbles. I’m sending you to Habble Landing with Master Ferus so that you may assist him in his inquisition.”

“Ah,” Gwen said, nodding. “If I may be so bold, what are you to be looking for, Master Ferus?”

“You apparently are,” Master Ferus said. “And I’m all but certain I’ll know it when I see it.”

Albion did smile that time. “Landing has more residents and more people constantly coming and going than any other habble in the Spire. It’s a hotbed for information and black-market trade. If there is anything to be learned about our guests or of the viper in our midst, it will be learned there.”

“Ah,” Ferus said in a more subdued voice. “Yes, precisely. I will also be gathering information.”