Relics, Wrecks and Ruins

by Aiki Flinthart

  My pulse leaped. How many?

  Two.

  I crossed to the window. In the distance, two men on horseback remonstrated with the guards in the gatehouse. Both horsemen wore the extravagantly caped greatcoat and gray beaver hat that were the unofficial uniform of the Brotherhood. A scouting group, or merely the advance guard?

  I saw the flash of metal as a wary knife emerged into the air beside one of the horseman then disappeared. Frenzied sprays of red crisscrossed the inside glass of the box. I closed my eyes; they did not have to kill the guards. That poor boy.

  We can hold against two, Havarr said in my mind.

  Perhaps. But they were only the beginning.

  I swung around to face Mr. Wainright again. “Why should I trust you?” In all truth, my options were narrowing down to this man, but too much relied upon his claims.

  He straightened. “All I can offer is my word, my lady, as a scientist.” He opened his hand and smiled; a rather mischievous expression that brought a startling youth to his face. “And of course this.”

  We all stared at the tiny silver mechanism upon his palm, shaped like a diamond.

  Isabel leaned forward. “What is it?”

  His long thumb touched the top of it. And then he was no longer standing before us.

  “God save us,” Isabel whispered. “He is gone.”

  “I am still here, my lady.” Mr. Wainright’s voice rose from the same place he had previously stood.

  “Ah, it hides you in plain sight.” I peered at the empty space. “Are you phasing like a wary knife?”

  A flicker of light and then the man stood before us again, his hand still outstretched. “I do not believe so. It is a disruption of the light upon the eye, I think.”

  “Can you move around with it?” Such a device would be very useful in a fight.

  Mr. Wainright shook his head. “Ah, there’s the rub. The human eye is conditioned to the perception of movement and so, at present, it really only works when one is still.” He gave a small sheepish smile. “Or moving very slowly.”

  So, not that useful.

  They are coming, Havarr reported, her spinning increasing into a blur. They are all coming. Beyond the crossroad.

  That was barely ten minutes away. Forty-nine men. Forty-nine wary knives. My time had run out. I must decide: did I sign and save an innocent child from a life ruined by bastardry, or refuse to sign and hug my hurt to me for the remainder of my life? However short that might be.

  “Mr. Dorner, show me where to sign,” I said, waving the solicitor into haste. “Mr. Wainright, is there a way to the scout that is not across the lift-off grid?”

  “There are tunnels underground, my lady, for transport of cargo. They will take us most of the way to the ship.”

  Mr. Dorner laid out the papers upon the secretaire and dipped the quill into the ink.

  “You should read it, my lady,” he said.

  “In ten minutes, either I will be dead or I will no longer be on this planet, Mr. Dorner. There is no time for legal niceties.” I completed my name with my usual flourish and jabbed the pen back into the inkwell.

  “Isabel, we have never been friends, but trust me now. You and Mr. Dorner must go immediately, before the Wary Brotherhood arrive. Do not head out the front gate.”

  Isabel nodded. “Godspeed, Mathilda. Thank you for signing.”

  Mr. Dorner hurriedly collected the papers and his hat.

  He bowed. “Thank you, my lady. I hope…”

  “So do I, Mr. Dorner. Goodbye.”

  He followed Isabel out of the room, their footsteps along the corridor a quick tattoo of alarm.

  I turned to Mr. Wainright who had retrieved his beaver hat and stood watching me. “We have ten minutes Mr. Wainright. Show me the way to the tunnels and the Scout.”

  #

  Mr. Wainright led the way down the worker’s staircase, our progress echoing in the deep stairwell. Ten years of service had left their mark upon the gray walls—scrapes, smears, gouges—and the air had a staleness, underpinned by the ever-present caustic stink. Havarr phased in and out above us, checking each floor as we descended.

  “Did you know that your knife is the only one with a full starburst etched upon it?” Mr. Wainright asked, glancing up as Havarr hovered a few yards ahead then disappeared again.

  “Of course.” In fact I had found illustrations of all the starburst configurations on the other knives and memorized them in the hope that it would make sense one day. “The current theory—from Mr. Bentham—is that the symbol is the name of the Celestial who held the knife.”

  We rounded another landing.

  “Possible, I suppose,” Mr. Wainright said. “May I ask, does the knife speak to you?”

  “In a way. She understands my needs and responds to them.”

  “I see. Have you ever asked her about the ships or the Celestials?”

  I cast a scornful look at his back. “Naturally, but whatever information she offers is in the language of the Celestials and it does not seem in her ability to translate or in mine to understand.”

  We rounded the fourth floor landing.

  “I figured as much: the knives are the first logical source of information and we still do not have much knowledge about the ships at all.” Mr. Wainright looked back over his shoulder. “Forgive me for speaking plainly, my lady, but I do not think you will survive long in the ship without my knowledge of its systems. If you will allow, I would like to accompany you.”

  The sheer impropriety of the suggestion took me aback. The scandal would be explosive. Still, the man had a point. Moreover, I would place odds that the universe beyond England and Earth would not give a rat’s arse about us inhabiting the same ship.

  “I will allow it, Mr. Wainright.” I grasped the worn banister a little harder, steadying myself into the knowledge that I had just agreed to travel the stars with a stranger. “But first we must make it to the scout. Two of the Brotherhood are already here and the rest are on their way. They cannot risk killing me until their new knife candidate is nearby, so we can expect an attempt to disable me or render me insensible. We must aim for the same. They cannot risk untethering Havarr and we cannot risk untethering either of their knives.”

  We passed the entrance-hallway level.

  “You seem very calm about it,” Mr. Wainright said, his breath coming harder. Twelve flights down was a long way to run, especially if one did not have the benefit of enhanced knife stamina.

  “I have always known this day would come.”

  It was the truth, but it was also true I was not as calm as I appeared.

  We reached the bottom of the stairwell. The air was substantially cooler underground, the walls whitewashed stone with oil lamps affixed in plain sconces.

  “Where now, Mr. Wainright?”

  He bent to catch his breath from the speed of our descent and pointed to an archway ahead. “That will take us out to the main cargo tunnel.”

  The corridor sloped upwards and the sound of industry reached us first. Men’s voices and the grind of cartwheels upon paving. We emerged cautiously into the wide and well-lit underground thoroughfare that serviced the lift-off grid.

  A cart pulled by a pony and stacked with bales rumbled past, its driver dipping his head into a quick bow at the sight of us. More carts and workers made their way along the cobbled tunnel towards a wide ramp that clearly led up to the cargo ship being loaded with supplies.

  Mr. Wainright turned left, against the tide. I followed him. We kept close to the wall, our progress marked by bows and some bewilderment as the workers caught sight of Havarr flying above us.

  “Do you see that ramp at the very end?” Mr. Wainright said, pointing to the dim, deserted recesses of the tunnel. “That leads up to the scout.”

  Two are here, Havarr said in my mind.

  Ahead, I saw a flash of metal in the air. Another wary knife.

  I grabbed Mr. Wainright’s arm. “They have found us.”

  We
stopped beside a cart full of metal equipment and another stacked with tea chests drawn up side by side. The drivers, in mid conversation, stared at us, then at the knives hanging in the air.

  “Leave!” I ordered.

  A second wary knife appeared beside the first, both high in the air and slowly rotating. The drivers swung down from their seats and backed away, abandoning their carts and ponies.

  Havarr squared up opposite her counterparts, her spin in time with the hard beat of my heart.

  “I have an idea,” Mr. Wainright murmured. He ducked behind the equipment cart, leaving me to stand alone against the two men who emerged from a small ramp ahead. The men who had killed the gate guards.

  “Countess Grayle,” one of them called, “the Brotherhood has a proposition.” They strode towards me, their greatcoats fanning out behind them. I recognized the tall, thin speaker: Sir John Pelwyn. We used to play whist together in another lifetime.

  “Sir John, I know what kind of proposition the Brotherhood is offering,” I called back. “I warn you, stop now.”

  The two men halted ten or so yards from me. Their knives still hovered between us.

  Sir John held up his hands: a show of conciliatory palms. “Allow me to introduce my knife—Denas—and this is Mr. Seaford and his knife Fencar.” It was the polite Brotherhood greeting: introduce man and knife. Sir John had always been a stickler for the niceties. Mr. Seaford, a great deal shorter and wider than Sir John, bowed. “You must know you cannot keep the knife now,” Sir John added. “We have a way to remove Havarr from you without harm.”

  Sir John had been a reasonably good card player, but he’d always had a nervous habit when he strategically lost tricks. A compression of his lips. Right now, his lips had all but disappeared.

  “We all know that is not possible,” I said. “You are lying.”

  He lowered his hands. I glanced across the carts. No sign of Mr. Wainright. Had he fled?

  Behind me, at a safe distance, a crowd of workers had gathered to watch.

  “Do you intend to attack me, two men upon one woman?” I challenged, raising my voice so that the spectators could hear. “If that is the case, you have no honor.”

  I knew Sir John prided himself upon his good name. He tilted his head: a silent command to his comrade. Mr. Seaford stepped back.

  Now the odds were better.

  “It will only take one man, Countess,” Sir John said, “and I am sorry for it.”

  His knife phased out.

  Havarr screamed within my mind, Jump!

  I jumped and landed a few feet forward. Sir John’s knife phased back into the air where my right heel would have been. Ah, going for the Achilles. Havarr slammed into Denas, the clang of metal spinning both knives across the cobbles.

  Keep Denas busy, I ordered.

  Both knives phased. I ran at Sir John. He had not yet moved: a contemptuous immobility.

  Right, Havarr yelled. I lunged to my right as Denas phased into the air inches away from my legs, turned and slashed at me. Havarr phased into a block. The force sent a shiver through my mind. She hammered a series of blows upon her counterpart, driving it back.

  The crowd started to yell their support. At the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Seaford shift upon his feet, no doubt eager to join the fray.

  Time to attack.

  Shoulder, I ordered.

  Havarr phased. I saw Sir John’s eyes widen; his knife had sensed the attack. He ducked to his left. Havarr missed his body by a hairsbreadth. Denas blocked. Now was my chance.

  Two steps, then all my weight upon my left leg. I whipped into a round kick. The full length of my boot sole slammed into Sir John’s jaw. The force jarred up my leg as I landed. He staggered back then toppled to the ground, the shock and my boot heel imprinted upon his face. No man expected a woman to kick him in the face. Lud, they barely knew we could run.

  Denas phased out and reappeared above Sir John, hovering above his fallen partner: protection mode. The man was out cold.

  Behind me the crowd cheered and whistled, their approbation amplified tenfold in the tunnel.

  It was not finished yet. Mr. Seaford, gaping at the insensate Sir John, gathered his powerful frame into righteous indignation.

  “I am not such a gentleman as Sir John,” he said, eyes narrowing.

  “Neither am I,” a voice said.

  Behind him, Mr. Wainright appeared from nowhere, swinging a thick metal rod. The crowd gasped. In reflex, Mr. Seaford spun around. The full momentum of the rod connected with his sneering face. He dropped where he stood. After a stunned moment, the crowd clapped and whistled.

  Mr. Wainright peered down at the sprawled man, rod still raised. “Good God, I haven’t killed him, have I?”

  I ran to check. If Seaford were dead, his knife would be untethered and kill everyone in the tunnel. The air above him shivered then his knife phased above him, hovering.

  Thank God.

  “They are both unconscious. We are safe,” I said, delighted and, I had to admit, relieved by Mr. Wainright’s commitment. “An excellent strategy.”

  The Brotherhood are on the grid, Havarr said.

  The real fight was on its way.

  “The others are here, Mr. Wainright! We must go now!”

  He dropped the rod, its clanging bounce ringing out behind us as we ran towards the Scout. Towards possible salvation.

  #

  “Where are they?” Mr. Wainright asked, gasping between each word. We still had a good five hundred yards to cover before we reached the ramp.

  I posed the question to Havarr. She phased out then back above me, bringing bad news.

  “Forty-eight, on horseback, near the cargo ship,” I repeated.

  “Forty-eight? But with you and those two down there, that makes fifty-one. I thought there were only fifty knives.”

  “They have brought an extra man for Havarr when I am dead.”

  “Goddamn them.”

  We finally reached the scout ramp. The paved incline was not overly steep but it slowed Mr. Wainright’s pace. He dropped back, stumbling. His hat dislodged and rolled down the slope. I grabbed his hand and pulled, his weight a searing drag on my hand and shoulder joints.

  “I cannot,” he panted. “Go ahead.”

  “Keep moving.”

  The top of the ramp was in sight, the view beyond the archway filled with the scout’s huge sled-like landing runners and pocked underside. Would we have enough time to get inside? The Brotherhood could not kill me before their chosen man was close by; the exchange of knife partnership had to be made before actual death. But at any moment, all forty-seven knives could come at me.

  We broke out into the shadow of the scout.

  Some kind of panic had set in around the cargo ship at the other end of the grid. Men running, ponies galloping, carts tipping over, sending bales and boxes across the flagstones. The Brotherhood had not factored in the effect of their knives flying past the workers. The posse splintered into three groups of horsemen threading their way around the mayhem. I was still beyond the limit of their knife energy bonds, but it would not be long before I was within range.

  Gasping painfully, Mr. Wainright pointed to the bottom of the scout. “Door. Over there,” he managed.

  We ran to the octagonal opening set into the body of the ship with a set of stairs that were definitely not built for human anatomy—the rise far too high and bent, and the steps too narrow.

  Catet, Havarr said in my mind. I did not understand the word, but it felt like home.

  “Climb it like a ladder on all fours,” Mr. Wainright instructed. “Like this.”

  I followed him up the metal construction, the oddly shaped edges catching at my fingers and ripping my lace gloves. As I hauled myself into the ship, I looked back across the grid. The Brotherhood posse had reformed and was galloping towards us.

  Mr. Wainright spread both hands across a panel in the wall and the stairs retracted with a mechanical whine. The octagonal doorway clo
sed behind us.

  “Up here,” Mr. Wainright said.

  He led the way through a cargo hold, crammed with crates labeled tea, beans, flour, salt. I heard a soft clucking. Good God, a coop of live chickens too. Strips of light—without candle or oil lamp—were set within the walls and illuminated the whole area. A marvel.

  “You have found the ship’s power?” I said.

  “Not really. Only for some of the basic systems.” He pointed to a door as we ran past. “That is the oxygen garden. And beside it, the water storage.”

  He looked up another strange set of steps. “And that is the bridge.”

  He made way for me. I felt Havarr’s excitement as I climbed.

  The bridge had the dimensions of a respectable drawing room, and indeed, a large fleur-de-lis Aubusson rug had been laid down. A window wrapped around the sloping front, extending to become part of the floor. Two Chesterfield leather armchairs had been bolted down to look out upon the view, replacing, no doubt, the salvaged command chairs. The walls were covered in banks of odd buttons and toggles, but the strangest instrument was a huge frame in the shape of a diamond set across the back wall. I ran to the window. The Brotherhood had passed the cargo ship. By my reckoning they were less than a minute away from launching their knives.

  “Do you have any idea what to do?” Mr. Wainright asked, climbing the last of the steps.

  I stared at him. “No. I thought you had some theory.”

  He gestured to the diamond frame. “That is my theory. I thought you would be able to ask your knife.”

  “I don’t understand her language. I told you that!”

  He hooked his hands into his hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Havarr spun beside me, her agitation reflecting my own. I had to try.

  What is the diamond? I asked.

  Aridyi?

  It was a question. Not an answer. But behind it, I felt a gathering within her power. Time to play the odds.

  Yes, Aridyi!

  It was as if I had finally unleashed a straining hound. She flew into the center of the diamond and spun upon her tip. The frame burst into blue energy around her. Now I understood. Havarr was not only her name, it was her position. She screamed, silent to my ears but blasting through my mind and body. I doubled over. No, not a scream, a command. To the other knives.