The Aeronaut's Windlass (58 page)

Leather cords. She should know what to do with this problem. Part of growing the great sides of meat in the vattery was harvesting the leather casing that grew around them as they matured. Her father could strip a skin from a side of meat with several long, deft cuts and a few expertly applied tugs. Of course, they didn’t tan the leather into usable form there, instead delivering the skins to a tanner with whom they had an arrangement, but all the same . . .

Bridget blinked again. Of course. The skins had to be stored in a tub of very watered-down solution to prevent them from drying out. Skins shrank considerably as they dried—and expanded once more upon being wetted down.

Bridget began twisting her wrists again, this time in earnest. It burned, and she did not care.

“Oh,” Folly said. “She’s making it worse. She should stop.”

“No,” Bridget said. She felt trickles of blood slither silently over her palms and across the pads of her fingers—and knew it had to be soaking into the leather bonds as well. “Folly, I need you to tell me when the bonds have been thoroughly soaked.”

Folly stared at Bridget with her odd, mismatched eyes, and shivered. “Oh, goodness. Um. The left needs more, wouldn’t you say?”

“Fine,” Bridget said, and focused on twisting and wrenching her left wrist especially. It took an eternity of self-inflicted torment, but finally Folly said, “She should try it now.”

Bridget nodded her thanks. Then she closed her eyes and bowed her head forward. And then, very slowly, she began to apply pressure to her wrists, straining against the bonds.

It hurt, hurt terribly, and not simply in her wrists. Her arms and shoulders ached with the strain she began to put on them. Bridget was a strong girl, strong enough to toss a hundred and fifty pounds of meat onto her shoulder and carry it from the vat to the cutting table without pausing to rest or put it down. She had never felt that it was really a terribly impressive thing to be able to do, since her father, Franklin, could toss one up onto each shoulder and walk along with them without breaking the rhythm of a working song. But for whatever her far less significant strength was worth, she pitted it against the Auroran bonds in a contest of endurance, determination, and slow power.

And though it spread fire up and down her arms, the bonds began to stretch.

It took her several tries, several painful, straining moments, but finally she rested and felt her wrists wiggle loosely. She stretched the moistened bonds one more time, and then managed to wrench her hands loose.

“Oh!” Folly said, her tone gleeful and quiet. “Oh, that should be in a play! That was amazing!”

Bridget winced as she got a look at her raw, bleeding wrists and forearms. “Well,” she said. “It’s a good start, at least.” Then she leaned down and started picking at the knots on her ankles with determination. “Give me a moment and I’ll get yours, Folly.”

“Will it make any difference, do you think?” Folly asked.

“We shall know when we are victorious,” Bridget said.

“Or not.”

“When,” she said firmly. After all, a few moments ago Bridget had been bound, helpless, and alone in the dark. Now she was able to move, she could see, and she was working with a friend and ally.

What had changed things? What had made the difference?

She had. All by herself. When the enemies of Spire Albion were in the walls, the great-great-granddaughter of old Admiral Tagwynn had refused to have a nice lie-down, and it was as simple and as profound as that.

Bridget looked up at the etherealist’s apprentice and showed her teeth in what she felt was a very Rowl-like, predatory smile. “There’s no way to know what’s going to happen, Folly. But we’ll bloody well be on our feet when it does.”

Chapter 48

Spire Albion, Habble Landing, Nine-Claws Territory

R
owl hurtled down the ventilation passageways that led toward the central dominion of the Nine-Claws, taking no heed for silence. Speed was everything.

Littlemouse was in danger, doubtless a prisoner, and the humans could not be trusted to handle her rescue with appropriate violence. They might be willing to leave someone alive, and Rowl was not prepared to tolerate incompetence where his personal human was concerned. He had just gotten her properly trained.

The first of the Nine-Claws’ sentinels heard him coming and emerged from the shadows to intercept him. But Rowl, kit of Maul, had been fighting for his position since the time he could walk. He was large and he was strong, he was young and he was swift—and he was in no mood to tolerate such niceties as protocol.

Rowl let out a war cry and left the first sentinel with both eyes, half his whiskers, and an entire ear undamaged once he permitted him to flee. Then he hurtled on. The scent of blood on him was enough to make the next pair of sentinels wary, and Rowl’s hiss sent them leaping aside. They took up pursuit behind him—but were careful to keep their distance.

The prince of the Silent Paws scattered guardians from his path and collected a trailing tail who raced along behind him, their scents ablaze with wariness, chagrin, and, of course, curiosity.

There was nothing like playing to their curiosity when it came to catching the attention of cats.

Rowl ran an entire circuit of the Nine-Claws’ central chamber, gathering up every cat within dozens and dozens of pounces of the tunnels in question, and by the time he snapped to a halt in front of Naun’s central chamber, there were a hundred warriors and hunters following him.

The entire group tumbled to a sudden halt, with the Nine-Claws gathering in close to be able to observe Rowl with their own eyes—even, Rowl noted, pleased, the guardian who had been luckless enough to be the first in his path.

Two of the largest warrior cats stood before Rowl, blocking his way forward. Rowl was through with diplomacy. He padded toward them, his fur bristling, his tail lashing, and made his displeasure known with a sudden hiss.

One of the warriors flinched, and Rowl discounted that one immediately from his consideration. He stalked around the other, back arched, blood on his claws.

“I will speak to Naun now,” Rowl snarled. “You will escort me to him.”

“Naun has not said th—” the warrior began to say.

Rowl struck.

The warrior let out an earsplitting yowl and reeled away, spinning madly and pawing in desperate pain at the rake Rowl had fetched him across one eye.

Rowl whirled to the other guard, who skittered a half pounce away and came to guard, his own back arched.

“I will speak to Naun now,” Rowl said, in precisely the same tone of voice he had used a moment before. “You will escort me to him.”

The warrior looked unhappily from Rowl to his wounded companion. Then his fur abruptly settled and he looked away, lashing his tail left and right. “It is this way,” the Nine-Claws said. “Follow me, stranger.”

Rowl promptly pounced on the warrior’s back and set his teeth in the back of the cat’s neck, a death grip if he chose it to be. The cat sent up a kit’s yowl and flattened to the ground.

Rowl spoke though his teeth were engaged, as it was a cat’s prerogative to do. “I am Rowl, kit of Maul of the Silent Paws of Habble Morning, and I am in no mood for insolence. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Rowl,” the warrior hissed.

“Run and tell your chief that I come,” Rowl snarled, and sent the warrior on his way with a sharp nip and a cuff to his ears. The other cat shot off into the chamber ahead of him, and Rowl padded after him, as if in no great hurry whatsoever.

Cats gathered around him, just as before, and Rowl could feel the eyes on him, including those of dozens of kits. Good that he had accomplished most of the rough business before he entered the chamber. Kits were silly things at the best of times, and they would certainly have been imitating him in an instant had he engaged the other warriors before their eyes.

All kits needed to learn about blood between cats and what it meant, and what made it necessary—but while they huddled in a chamber full of frightened tribe members was an ill place indeed to begin their education. For that matter, he was pleased Littlemouse hadn’t seen it happen. She had such a high opinion of the cats’ ability to manage conflict without violence. She had never gotten it through her gentle head that there was a time for a soft paw and a time for red claws. The burden of a chief, or a chief’s kit, was to know one from the other.

Rowl entered, trailing a third of the warriors of the clan, while the other two-thirds gathered around Naun’s meeting area. As he sauntered into the center of the chamber, Rowl saw Naun sitting up upon his table, staring down with unreadable eyes. The warrior Rowl had berated was crouched in front of Neen, Naun’s kit, speaking quietly, his fur flattened. Neen, for his part, looked outraged.

The cats he had wounded entered, the first tattered but in essence whole. The second might lose the eye Rowl had scratched. Bad luck for both of them. They padded gingerly around Rowl to join their compatriot near Neen.

Clan Chief Naun studied the wounded warriors with steady eyes, and then drew himself up and wrapped his tail around his paws, hiding his claws. It was generally considered either a posture of peace or one of veiled fury. Naun had excellent control. Rowl wasn’t sure which it signified.

“Chief Naun,” Rowl said, not waiting to be addressed. “Urgent matters bring me to your territory.”

“Warriors,” Neen yowled to the chamber. “This creature has drawn the blood of our kin. Tear it to shreds.”

A low growl rose around the room. Rowl felt a surge of something like alarm. He might not be able to fight the entire populace of the Nine-Claws warrior caste with only his own teeth and claws, though it was difficult to be certain. He did not let his . . . concern . . . show, of course. Such things were not done. He faced Naun and came to a halt, wrapping his own tail around his paws, in mirror of the Nine-Claws chief.

Something like a twitch of amusement might have shaken Naun’s whiskers. Then he growled, far down in his deep chest, and the room became silent and still.

“I will hear the Silent Paws stranger,” Naun growled.

“Father!” snapped Neen.

Naun’s head turned toward his kit. His eyes stared, level and unblinking.

Neen let out a low growl.

Naun regarded his kit for a moment, then turned to Rowl. “Your words will mean little to me,” Naun said, “if I do not know that you see clearly what troubles my realm, young Rowl.”

Rowl yawned. “Your people have been hunted like prey, O Naun,” he replied.

At that, the chamber again filled with growls of outraged pride.

“Hunted!” Rowl snapped, rising and spinning toward the Nine-Claws nearest him. Offended or not, Rowl had defeated two of their warriors, one of them the chief’s personal guard, without taking a scratch in return. They shied away from him. “Hunted!” Rowl said again, turning back to Naun. “Or why else have you gathered your kits into this chamber, all together, like a brood of tunnel mice? You hope to protect them.”

Naun’s eyes narrowed to slits. Then his tail tip twitched once, an acknowledgment. “And?”

“Your people fear the silkweavers and their brood,” Rowl continued. “These are no wild creatures of the surface. These are weapons. They are under the control of a human. A human who threatened you with the death of your kits should you not cooperate with its aims.”

“He knows nothing of our ways!” snapped Neen, rising and padding out toward Rowl. “Nothing of what our people may gain!”

Rowl twitched his whiskers smugly at Neen. “Ah,” he said. “They have offered you both cream and claw, then. What was the bribe, should your people remain uncommitted to the human war?”

“New territory!” Neen snarled. “New tunnels and halls in which our folk can hunt, our tribe can grow! Halls free of the human plague!”

Rowl regarded Neen with pure contempt. “So said a human to you? It must therefore be true.” He flicked his tail at Neen as he would at an annoying kit and said, “You are no warrior. You are no hunter. You are an idiot.”

“Father!” Neen said, whirling to Naun. The fur of the prince of the Nine-Claws bristled with outrage. “Will you permit him to say such things of our clan?”