A Mantle Of Gold (The Kingfisher Histories Book 2)

by R. J. Louis

  “Troubled times,” Travil says with a knowing look. “The eyes.”

  “What do you know?” Thunder says, her own eyes narrowing.

  “People are going missing. That’s all I heard. Taken by people with broken eyes and the smell of burnt skin.”

  “Hmm. That’s... yeah... connected, I’m sure. This is about a boy.”

  “A boy? Do I smell romance on your duster?”

  “Not that, you idiot. You know I don’t—”

  “Of course, of course. But who’s this boy?”

  “I think he might have been with the ship when I... commandeered it. But something is strange about him. Too strange. I need to see Rish. To speak to him.”

  Travil snorts. “After the shit you pulled last time? Please, you’re gonna be lucky to get off Flare with all your fingers, and Erin, I’m not joking. He takes fingers now.”

  “I’d like to see him try.”

  “That’s the thing, you won’t see him. He doesn’t get his hands messy. He lives up in the top suite of his little casino, and he plays with all the strings of his little puppets. He’s got goons and guards and gorgeous servants. You can’t get to him.”

  “This is the city of miracles, Trav. I need a miracle.”

  “You know the only way to get a miracle in this city is to pay for it.”

  “Then I’ll pay.”

  * * *

  Wilhelm walks his own path, he sticks to the docks, ducking his head in salty taverns and places of ill-repute. He finds a few ships leaving for Torrent within the next few days. There’s plenty taking water, and if he can pay more than the cost of Rezir’s greatest need, well, he’ll surely find room, albeit cramped, in a hold.

  It’s a silly game he plays, but that’s politics for you. A dance where the audience’s reactions are also part of the performance. He should at least check the going rate, and he finds the closest vessel, still unloading their cargo, and makes his way on board. The rough-shod crew direct him to the Captain’s cabin between curses and rolling barrels, and he stoops to enter. It reeks of pipe-smoke, a dangerous habit in a sky-ship trader, but not quite so deadly as piracy.

  “Hail, friend,” Wilhelm says from the doorway. The captain, a woman with a sour look on her jaundiced face, looks up tiredly. Clinical eyes take in his cloak and pack as she weighs him more effectively than any scale.

  “We haven’t room for travellers, old man, this city drinks more and more each day.”

  “Aye, of course. But if you did have room for travellers, what would the price be?”

  She sighs, turning from her papers. “May as well come in then.” She beckons to him with one hand while the other fiddles with a drawer beside her desk. “Know I put it around here somewhere.”

  Wilhelm takes a few steps in, and then crumples as a heavy blow smashes into the back of his head. His eyes dim, stars flickering in his vision. As he slumps to the ground, he sees the Captain staring over her desk, with one eye of white and one of black. In his last moments, he sees another person, perhaps First Mate, perhaps simple Voyager, loom over him, their own eyes a matching set.

  The last thing he remembers is the smell of blood and burning skin.

  6 - A Brief Darkness

  “What have you got for me, Erin?”

  “Skyhooks.”

  “Skyhooks? You stopped raiding drunk gangsters and started stealing from the Table now? That’s bloody outlawed!”

  “Easy Trav.”

  “I will not take it easy. You think you can just find those things lying around these days? Nuh. Navy’s been very diligent. You can’t buy a miracle with contraband that hot.”

  “These ones were lost in a naval crash on Evergreen. They’re not stolen. And even if they were, would that really stop you. They’re worth more than their weight in gold.”

  “I—Damn. Yes. Of course they are.”

  “Even spent?”

  “Course, even spent. But even a Skyhook... to see him. It’s not going to be easy.”

  “Skyhooks. Plural”

  “Oh no. I can’t be going around with multiple of those in my stock. That’s practically military surplus. I can take one off your hands, shift that alright, but the others... you don’t need a purveyor of fine fripperies, you need a fence, and a damn good one. Haven’t you got a girl for that?”

  “Yeah. She’s on medical leave, plus we kind of had to leave our last fence in a hurry.” Thunder shakes her head. “Don’t ask. I’ll sort it. Okay. You take one, now, and help get us ship-shape, and I’ll organise contraband cold enough to help get me in the door.”

  “You better not get your hopes up,” Travil says with a sigh. “So, what do you need for... I forget what you called her.”

  “The Kingfisher. I’ll write you out a list, and you bring it to the docks. You’ll recognise her as the one with no fucking sails.”

  * * *

  Darkness falls but briefly on Flare. Sandwiched as it is between the glow of the Dark Star and the Burning Moon. The nights are short and cold, the days fierce. Kendra Stoutheart works over-time preparing the farewell feast for Wilhelm, though she’s as sure as half the crew that the grizzled old Navigator won’t actually be going anywhere. Still, it’s nice to celebrate being alive, after a stint in Evergreen that would put hair on even her chest.

  Jonas watches the skies. He’s pissed off the Wolfpack before, made a living out of it for a while, and he knows they’re not likely to forget. Whether they cop it from both the ‘pack and the official Table navy remains to be seen. He grits his teeth. Saving the day always seems to piss off the people in power more than running around stealing their stuff ever did. You could rob a sky-ship and anger one man, but step out of your perceived place in the world, and everyone starts trying to knock you back down. His fingers rest on the pommel of his new sword, eager to put it to use.

  Molly works on her baby. The Kingfisher’s engine gleams with oil when she’s finished, every piece of it shining in the indigo light of their Widowgas, and as the daylight wanes she wipes grease from her face and climbs up onto the deck, heedless of the appreciative looks of the rest of the crew around her.

  With the First Mate and Captain back from their trips, conferring in the officer’s cabin, I find a quiet place on deck, sweat cooling as the temperature of the day eases, and begin to write, listening to the chatter and cheerful noise of the crew preparing for a feast.

  Bits and pieces of a great table are hauled up from the cargo hold. A few voyagers without other jobs or the luxury of money to waste on shore begin hammering them together, a great ‘U’ shape wrapping around the central mast. As I begin writing my way through the chaos of our time in Evergreen, I smell the rich aroma of Kendra’s cooking wafting up through the ship.

  A rush of cold air cuts through my thoughts, as Jonas, encouraged by a few eager questions, draws the Windblade. Appreciative hoots and hollers echo around as the icy air washes over the deck.

  “Try it out, Jonas,” a voyager cries, and there’s an excited rumble of anticipation as Jonas makes a few lazy swings in the air.

  “I need someone to fight,” Jonas drawls. “No use cutting air. Any of you lot feeling brave?” The rumble of anticipation dies out like the buzzing of a squashed bee.

  “Fight me.” The voice wavers, but it’s unmistakable. Rico steps up from beneath the deck, his straight black hair, usually neat, ruffled wildly by the cold wind.

  Jonas looks up in surprise, an easy smile slashing across his face. “Finally found your courage, boy?” He twirls the wind-blade lazily.

  Rico fumes. “You’re a murderer. We shouldn’t have murderers on our ship.”

  “Come son,” Jonas raises his blade. “That rule would see half our number gone, your captain included. Life and death are too cheap out here by far, but I’ll fight you for my place on the ship, if you want.”

  “The captain never killed me.”

  “Are you so sure about that?” Jonas asks with a knowing smile.

  “I—”
Rico flushes an angry red. “I don’t know. But I know if she did, she did it because she had to. Why did you do it?”

  The crew around is silent now, their excitement at Jonas’s new toy mollified by the harsh words and dangerous air surrounding Rico.

  “I do it because I saw what nobody else around here could.” Jonas’s eyes gleam. “You’ve got a power in you, Rico, and it’s growing stronger. I’m the Warmaster of the ship, and it’s my job to keep us ready for battle... And you, you’re a weapon.”

  “You did it because you thought it was fun!” Rico shouts now. He steps over to the gunwale and pulls a rusted blade from a sheathe affixed there. Several other blades line the hull, spread across the ship for use in emergencies.

  “No. It was never fun,” Jonas says, his eyes darkening. “It was easy.” He levels his sword at Rico and grins. “This is going to be fun.”

  Rico roars, and the pressure in the air grows, before a whisper of ice cuts through it, and they clash together.

  7 - Light and Lock

  Rico has passion, and some unerring, unwavering strength within him, but it is no match for the years of battle training and bloodthirstiness Jonas brings to bear upon him. Three quick slashes, Rico manages to block, ducking and rolling on instinct as the Windblade’s magic shears through the air, sending crew scrambling back. The fourth slash tears through his defence and cuts into him without mercy.

  Rico screams, and a blinding golden light bursts from him. Jonas shouts in pain as it knocks him backwards, tumbling into the half-assembled dining table. Shouts and cries ripple from the crew as the blazing light pulses around them, a shining vortex of spinning energy which whips like a tiny tornado of light around Rico. His skin glows an uncomfortable hue as he sinks to his knees.

  “What the fuck did I tell you, Jonas!” Thunder roars as she and Mudge crash out of the captain’s cabin, their discussion abated.

  “It was his choice!” Jonas says, holding at his hand, which is blistered and burnt. “Kid’s fucking dangerous.”

  “You knew he was dangerous,” Thunder says, stepping toward Rico. Her hat is whipped off her head by the wind ripping around Rico and Mudge snatches it from the air. “You knew, and still you had to poke the fucking bear.”

  “We need to do something, quick,” Mudge says, his eyes on the nearby ships. “What’s happening to him?”

  “Buggered if I know,” Thunder says. “Stay back,” she nods the command to Kendra and Molly, who have just risen from below deck at the sound of the commotion. They both nod, and then narrow their eyes at Jonas. “You too, Mudge.”

  Thunder steps forward, her duster billowing behind her, her crew watching on in awe and fear as the young boy in the eye of the storm looks up with eyes heavy with magic. Captain Thunder’s servos whine as she inches closer, pulling her coat close as if walking towards a raging bonfire.

  “Rico, son,” she says, her voice calm and quiet. I barely hear it, as the wind fritters it away. “Calm down now.” She reaches one hand forward, then pulls back with a hiss, the skin on her fingers searing. “I don’t want to have to do this,” she whispers, though few on board can hear her.

  They see her though, as she reaches into the pocket of her duster and pulls out the pistol. It’s a small, deadly thing, powered by the same Widowgas that powers her augmented body. “Rico,” she calls, louder now. “You need to control it!” She steps back slightly, raising the gun.

  Rico doesn’t respond, his empty eyes stare into hers. If control is something he could reach, it is currently beyond him. Thunder sighs, levelling the pistol at his head.

  “God I hope that wor-” I hear Jonas whisper to Mudge, who stands next to him, the final word cut off with a crack as Thunder fires.

  And Rico disappears.

  Thunder turns to survey the chaos on deck, the broken table, the bewildered crew and officers. Her pistol smokes slightly, a violet tinge to it as it cools. Her words are as stark as the gunshot moments before.

  “Find him.”

  * * *

  Rico comes to on the floor of the galley, his face sweaty, his thoughts an inexplicable mess. He feels feverish, his eyes stinging even in the darkness of the ship. Moments later, voyagers surround him, a crowd of loose-toothed savages, each one as frightful as the other, looking at him as if he is the dangerous one. Time seems to move slowly around him, his thoughts coalescing like thick fog.

  “I—” He stammers, feeling the weight of the crew’s expectation heavy on his shoulders.

  “Rico,” Mudge’s voice is soft. Quiet. “Do you trust me?”

  The words swim in Rico’s head. They don’t take up a lot of room. The emptiness pounds around them like a sea in storm.

  “M-m—” Rico closes his mouth, shutting off the stuttered words. He nods.

  “I’m going to need you to come with me, okay?” Mudge says, taking his hand. Rico lets himself be taken, his balance poor, he stumbles, clenching to Mudge’s tattooed forearm like a drowning voyager. The crew follow, a crowd of minnows. Mudge carries Rico past Captain Thunder, who stands solemn beside the brig. His eyes take in the cramped cell, the iron bars, the heavy lock, and he shivers.

  “Just for a few days, Rico,” Mudge says companionably. “Just until we work out how to keep you from hurting anyone else. Captain knows you’re a member of the crew, just like us.” Rico lets the lie slip sourly into the air without comment. He looks around, half the crew look terrified, the others with faces painted with muted anger. Molly, ever his advocate among the lower ranking voyagers, sniffs slightly, but stands unwavering.

  “We want to help you, Rico,” she says, in response to his pleading look.

  “Aye,” Thunder rumbles, and the crew straighten, as much as is possible with so many in such a cramped space. “And Jonas is also going to be reprimanded for his role in today’s mishap.” She cracks her knuckles, and winces slightly, and Rico can see the pink sheen of blistered skin. His doing. “This keeps you safe, just as it does us, Rico, until we can find out more about you, and your power.”

  “W-Wil—”

  “Wilhelm may know something, or he may have a lead. But I’m also going to speak to the man who put you on this ship, as far as I know. We will find answers, Rico.”

  Rico’s face falls. With a sigh, and as shame and confusion burns within him, he steps willingly into the brig.

  “Where is that old codger anyway?” Mudge asks, deflating the tension with a grin.

  8 - Barrel-Rider and The Big Red

  The band, as it does, plays on. Muttering and murmuring, the crew rebuild the table as true darkness falls, songs of work and play and lewd tavern-maidens litter the deck as food and the not-so-bad-ale are brought on deck. Torches and lanterns cast the ship in a merry golden light, as the burning moon shines on from its lazy orbit. There’s nothing quite like a fight before a party, and this fight is one the voyagers of The Kingfisher will remember for a long time. Unfortunately, the party is memorable for another reason, namely because it doesn’t happen.

  Wilhelm never arrives.

  Of course, once you point a voyager at a mug of ale there’s not much that can come between the two. Thunder lets them drink, and eat, her eyes scanning the docks as the night grows cold, but The Kingfisher’s navigator does not find his way home. She masks the quiet concern behind her eyes, and lets the celebration flow on around her. No longer a farewell party, it is a testament to their survival on Evergreen, to the memories of those they lost to the faeries, and the chaos of the early evening’s fight. A night of story, song and salubrious discussion. Mudge and Thunder share more than a few tense glances, though nobody questions Wilhelm’s disappearance, the common theory is that the old man found a warm bed and a warmer meal, though how many of the crew believe it is hard to tell. Jamala, for her part as his second, hardly touches her food, and spends near as much time looking out over the docks as her Captain does.

  In the morning, a letter arrives, carried by a young messenger-boy of surprising grace.
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  “Erin. You have something of mine, and I have taken something of yours. My hope is that you find your way out of my city, and away from my home. You are not welcome here, and you should have known better. Do not test me. Do not come for him. You should know by now not to doubt me. Consider this a warning, come any closer to Angel’s Fall, and I’ll know. Finish your business on Flare, and leave. Rishad.”

  “You think—”

  “He’s got Wilhelm.” Thunder scrunches the letter in her fist, the dry paper crackling. “He must.”

  “How does he know we’re here?”

  “Rishad has eyes everywhere. And ears... He probably has fuckin’ noses, so good at sniffing out trouble he is.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We’re gonna get our navigator back, and I’m going to pound some fucking answers out of Rishad about our little wonder-kid in the brig.”

  “You really think he knows something about Rico?”

  “He had The Kingfisher before me. If Rico was on board then... then he would have known.”

  “How are we going to get in?”

  “Same way anybody gets into the Angel’s Fall without people asking questions. We’re gonna buy our way in.”

  “With what? Those spent Skyhooks?”

  “Hopefully we can hang onto them, which means sourcing something else, and I was under the impression you were thinking about that.”

  “Aye.”

  “And?”

  “You’re not gonna like it.”

  “Extortion?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not another smuggling job, is it? I’m not having the Evergreen fiasco happen again if I can help it.”

  “No, no. It’s a burglary. Smash and grab.”

  “We’ll have to be careful around here, Rishad’s got eyes.”

  “That’s the best part, it’s not in Rezir. It’s... out there.”