The Aeronaut's Windlass (28 page)

Albion pointed a finger at Benedict. “Your sole concern during this operation is the physical well-being of Master Ferus. He is of critical importance to the security of Spire Albion. You are to stay with him at all times. You are to protect him. Whatever happens, he must return safe. Do you understand?”

Benedict nodded soberly. “I do.”

Albion’s gaze moved on to Bridget. “I’m sending you and Mister Rowl because if there’s trouble afoot in Landing, the local cats will know it. They rarely have cooperative dealings with any human, but I believe they may make an exception in your case. You are to serve as Master Ferus’s liaisons with the local cats.”

“I can do that,” Bridget said.

“What about me?” Gwen asked. She was sure that she had kept her impatience out of her voice, but Lord Albion’s eyes smiled again.

“Miss Lancaster, having taken note of your talents and your obvious, ah, determination to stay your course, regardless of how ill-conceived it may be, I am sending you along to be a smoother.”

“A what?”

“Your duty is to smooth the way for Master Ferus’s inquisition. The inquisition must keep moving forward. You are to avoid, overcome, or knock down any obstructions that may block his path.”

Gwen found herself frowning. “I’m not sure I understand how to do that.”

“I’m not sure you understand how to do anything
else
,” Benedict quipped.

Gwen fetched him a quick kick in the ankle with the side of her foot.

“Captain Grimm,” Albion continued, as if he hadn’t noticed, “will be transporting you down to Landing, and will be ready to lend you his support and that of his crew should you have need of them.” He looked back and forth between them. “Do you understand your objectives? Do you have any questions?”

“Um,” Bridget said tentatively. “What it is we’re doing, exactly?” She hurried to add, “Oh, I understand that each of us has a responsibility to help Master Ferus, but we still don’t know what we’re to be helping him
with
.”

The Spirearch regarded her gravely. “Do you know what the phrase ‘operational security’ means, Miss Tagwynn?”

“No.”

“It means that not everyone has all the information,” he said. “That way, if you are spied upon, or captured and interrogated by the enemy, it will not benefit them. You cannot accidentally let slip secrets you have not been told. You cannot be tortured and forced to reveal information that you do not possess.”

Bridget’s eyes opened very wide. “My goodness.”

“I leave it to Master Ferus to decide how much each of you must know to perform your duty adequately,” the Spirearch said. “He will inform you at his own discretion. Until such time as he does so, you have your duties. Is that clear?”

“It seems simple enough,” Bridget said.

“The most difficult things often are,” said Lord Albion. “Pack for the trip, and do it swiftly. You leave within the hour.”

Chapter 21

Spire Albion, Fleet Shipyards

B
ridget held Rowl in her cradled arms as they walked up the spiral ramp leading from Habble Morning to the shipyards on the Spire’s rooftop, and tried to keep her breathing steady.

“Honestly,” Rowl said. “What are you so concerned with, Littlemouse?”

“I’ve never . . .” Bridget said. “I’ve never really been . . . outside.”

“There are many things you have never done,” Rowl responded. “To be frightened of them is of no use to you.”

Bridget glanced over her shoulder, where Benedict was walking with Master Ferus, never more than a couple of strides away from the old man. He’d shouldered his own pack and an enormous duffel apparently meant for Master Ferus and his apprentice, and carried them absently, his eyes sweeping everywhere, even here in Habble Morning.

“I’m not frightened,” Bridget replied. “I’m . . . simply considering the possibilities.”

“Such as falling off the Spire?” Rowl asked.

Bridget swallowed. “Yes.”

“Or some enormous monster flying in from the mist and devouring you?”

“I’m certain the tower’s defenses are perfectly adequate to repel mistmaws.”

“Or being driven mad by the light of the sun?”

Bridget’s fingers immediately went to her neck, where her goggles with their protective lenses hung. “Rowl, my friend, you are at times a perfect little monster.”

Rowl gave his tail a disdainful flick. “I am a perfect everything.”

“You speak with the cats, Miss Tagwynn?” asked the man walking beside her. Captain Grimm, his arm still in its grimy sling, looked like a man who should be collapsing from exhaustion, but his voice was steady, polite, his eyes alert.

“Imperfectly,” Bridget said. “Though, honestly, I think most of them understand every word we say. Except when they don’t, of course.”

He glanced at Rowl, smiling. “An unkind thing to say of a hero.”

Rowl flicked his tail again, his expression unrepentantly smug.

Bridget smiled at that, and rubbed her nose against Rowl’s furry head. “He
is
a hero. And a tyrant.”

The cat looked up at her and yawned.

Grimm let out a short bark of laughter. “Aye, aye. The cat who lived on
Perilous
was much the same. He didn’t take orders well, and we were lucky to have him.”

“This one,” Rowl said, looking at Grimm. “This one seems smarter than most humans, Littlemouse. I have decided that he may stay.”

“Given that it is his ship that will carry us,” Bridget said, her tone dry, “that seems very practical.”

Grimm seemed to infer Rowl’s portion of the exchange, and inclined his head slightly to the cat. “At your service, sir. Ah, the guard station, good.”

Their small group had reached the top of the ramp leading up to the shipyards. A large metal grate had been lowered over the doorway out, and at least twenty Marines stood on guard at it. Gwendolyn Lancaster had evidently taken her duty seriously—she was already there, speaking quietly with a senior sergeant, showing him the letter of authorization from the Spirearch. The Marine did not look pleased with her. Gwen frowned, put one fist on her hip, and said something to the man with a rather tart expression on her face.

The Marine’s weather-beaten face grew redder, but he growled and jerked a hand in a quick motion. One of his men went to the grate and began pulling on a rope that lifted it, opening the way to the shipyards.

Light, nearly as bright as the flash of a discharged gauntlet, poured down the ramp from the outside world. With it came a breath of wind and air that was much colder than that of the habble in which Bridget had grown up. There was a strange scent to it—wood, and burnt wood, and metal, and something else, something sharp and fresh. Bridget’s heart started pounding.

Captain Grimm said something to her, but she wasn’t sure what. They walked up the ramp and into the sharp-scented air and the dazzling light.

It was
bright
, painfully bright, like suddenly understanding a truth she would prefer to be anything else. She had to blink her eyes closed as the cold air hit her in the face, an utter shock of sensation. She had never felt anything like it.

Then she remembered, in a panic, how dangerous it was to let the light touch her unprotected eyes, and she fumbled blindly at the goggles around her neck. It was difficult, with only one hand to use, but she finally managed to lift them to her face and hold them there with her quivering fingers.

The dark lenses reduced the glare of the light and she could suddenly see.

For a moment she wished she couldn’t.

There were structures and airships and people everywhere in the shipyard, but that was of distant, secondary importance. She looked up and felt as though she might simply fall over onto the ground out of sheer disorientation.

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.

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. “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. 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?”