The Aeronaut's Windlass (36 page)

“You are welcome.”

They kept going, following Benedict, and eventually came to the inn on a well-traveled 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. 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.

“No rooms,” the innkeeper said, his jaw setting stubbornly.

Gwendolyn Lancaster narrowed her eyes.

*   *   *

T
hey 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. “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. 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.

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

G
rimm 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. “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 Spirearch had provided used lift crystals—with new ones she could dance with the finest in the world.