Instead of the thunderous report she had grown used to, this was shorter, a higher-pitched crack, accompanied by the sound of breaking metal and the screams of men close-by. Smoke still enveloped her but she opened her eyes to see anyway. As the passing air tore the smoke away, she heard a deep groaning and splintering of wood. She looked forward—the gun had burst! The gun crew lay dead or maimed on the deck around the ruin of the platform and, as she watched, the damaged timber supports on the port side collapsed, the split and broken bronze cannon barrel thundered to the deck, and it began to roll. She realised the ship had drifted into a shallow bank to port and now the gun barrel rolled that way, the broken stubs of its trunnions thudding and gouging the deck as it did. Captain Moorie stood with his back to the rail, transfixed by fear, until the cannon barrel rolled over him and took him and a twelve-foot section of the quarterdeck railing over the side, tearing loose more of the port side wing rigging as it fell.
She looked aft across the quarterdeck and saw its surface gouged by debris from the exploded gun, saw the helmsman trying to hold the tiller steady as blood streamed down his face, and then her heart seemed to skip a beat.
Kak’hamish was down!
“Oh, no! Ohno-ohno-ohno,” she cried as she pulled at the line tying her to the railing. Nathanial dashed over to the Martian’s still form and gently rolled him over. Corporal Tolni joined him by the time Annabelle had scrambled to them.
Kak’hamish’s eyes fluttered open. He looked down at the red stain spreading across his abdomen and he sighed. “Not what I wanted,” he said, his voice weak. His eyes turned to Tolni. He pulled Nathanial’s pistol from his waist sash and thrust the grip toward the corporal. “Your duty now,” he said.
“While I live, no harm shall come to them,” Tolni said. He took the pistol. “While I live,” he said again.
Kak’hamish shuddered and his eyes closed.
“Is he gone?” Nathanial asked.
Annabelle felt his throat, felt a pulse, although weak. “No, merely unconscious, but we must stop the bleeding.”
Nathanial pulled off his shirt and ripped it in two. Annabelle hesitated only for a moment, then pushed the wadded cloth over and into the hole in Kak’hamish’s abdomen. They rolled him and did the same with the smaller hole in his back, although the blood stain on the deck was now quite large.
A shadow fell across the quarterdeck. They all looked up and saw Eclipse, two hundred feet above them, drifting with the wind but with men swarming on the spars and outriggers, mending the damage. Their own helmsman had fallen unconscious by the tiller and Lady Zumaat coasted in a broad, shallow banking dive.
“The ship,” Annabelle ordered. “You must look to the ship. There is no one else. Leave Kak’hamish to me.”
Nathanial looked around for a moment, his eyes wild, and then he seemed to grow calm. “Corporal Tolni, I have a plan. Do you trust my judgment?”
“Well…no, sir,” the corporal said apologetically.
“Trust him,” Kak’hamish whispered.
3.
fluid dynamics, Nathanial thought to himself. That’s all this gliding business was, just fluid dynamics. Compression and flow, velocity and direction.
Damned complicated fluid dynamics, that was certain, but physics all the same. And when they stopped gliding—well, that’s when old Newton kicked in with a vengeance, didn’t he? Yes, damned if he didn’t.
“Corporal, tell them to make sure the leading edge of the wing is as strong as they can make it.”
“Yes, sir,” Tolni replied and shouted an order to the sidemen. Most of them were on the port outriggers already, trying to lash together enough of a wing to take a strong dive, just one strong dive. Once the helmsman was revived and bandaged, he’d been able to keep them on a steady course to the east, and Nathanial had the trimsman keep the kite in a shallow enough dive they maintained their speed but put as little strain on the port wing as possible. The helmsman and trimsman were the closest men left to officers on the ship, and they were frightened enough to take orders from anyone with a plan. Yes, a plan…
Eclipse would dive under them and then make a slight bank to the left to put their gun under their port wing. Lady Zumaat would bank to the right, as Moorie always had, to pull the port wing out of their gun sight. Eclipse would follow the bank right, to keep the wing in its sights…
“He’s gaining on us quickly,” Tolni said, looking back over the stern rail.
Nathanial looked back. Eclipse had rested dead in the air for fifteen or twenty minutes, repairing her rigging, but now that she was under way, she came on like a meteor.
“They’ll slow, once they are in position,” Nathanial said. “If they come in too fast, the shot will be difficult. With our gun gone, they have nothing to fear.”
He looked to Annabelle and Kak’hamish, both now lashed to the railing by the trim station. The broad stain of blood Kak’hamish had left when they dragged him over now made Nathanial’s chest turn cold. Too much blood, he thought.
“Better bring in those sidemen. I don’t want to lose any of them over the side.”
Tolni shouted the order and some of the crew came back, but others looked over their shoulder at Eclipse, shouted an answer, and kept working.
“Why aren’t they coming inboard?” Nathanial asked.
“They say there is still time to give you a strong forward wing. You need the wing, don’t you?”
Nathanial nodded, for the moment too moved to speak. Men imperilled their lives out there, dangling three thousand feet above the surface of the world with nothing but a slack line under their feet and a spar against their belly. Just thinking about it made him dizzy. They gambled their lives on no better prospect than the hope a plan, his plan, might work. They did not even know its details.
“Let’s make sure the helmsman knows the signals,” Nathanial said to give him an excuse to look away from the dangling sidemen. “There will be no time for a translation once it starts.”
Tolni needed to know as well, as he would bark the orders down to the trimsman as soon as Nathanial signalled them. The trimsman could not look away from his plumb bobs and spirit levels before the manoeuvre started, and once it did he could not afford to turn his head, lest he lose his sense of balance and orientation.
“He slows, Mister Stone,” Tolni said after a minute or two of additional practice. “He will be in position any second.”
“Get the sidemen in, and no arguments.”
Now they scrambled inboard and slipped into the rope loops Nathanial had ordered secured to the rail at the ship’s waist. Tolni took his place at the front of the trim station rail and tied his own rope, and Nathanial did the same at the aft port corner rail, where he had a clear view down and to the left.
Above and behind them, Eclipse began its dive. This dive was shallow, the warship overtook them slowly, almost leisurely.
“Tolni, start our own dive,” Nathanial called, and Lady Zumaat nosed over and picked up speed. Nathanial looked over his shoulder; the port wing held.
Eclipse dropped its nose into a steeper dive and began overtaking them. As it grew closer Nathanial could make out movement on the kite’s deck, then individual figures, and finally faces as Eclipse came even with their altitude no more than sixty feet astern. The gun crew stood well behind their piece, save the gunner who crouched beside it, his hand on the lanyard. The gun’s barrel was elevated perhaps thirty degrees.
On the other side of the gun stood a tall figure in dark grey robes, layers and layers of robes, all of them rotting and tattered, the long sleeves and skirts trailing in the wind. The man’s head was shaven, the first Martian Nathanial had seen to do so, his eyes deep-set, his arms folded across his chest. The man’s eyes locked on Nathanial’s and as Eclipse sank below the level of the stern, the man raised one hand in salute.
Nathanial raised both of his arms and held them straight out to the side. The robed man frowned, unfamiliar with this greeting. Eclipse slid slightly to t
he left, Nathanial’s right, and the gunner made his lanyard taught.
Nathanial tilted his arms to his left, and Lady Zumaat banked in that direction. Below them Eclipse started to bank in response. Nathanial brought his arms sharply back the other way. The robed man saw the gesture, turned and shouted, but it was too late. Lady Zumaat banked back and just as Eclipse levelled to fire, Nathanial pulled his arms sharply into his body.
Lady Zumaat’s nose shot up until the kite stood at nearly a forty-five degree angle. Its wings groaned and protested but held. Nathanial now looked almost directly down on Eclipse, saw its broad, round foredeck and quarterdeck with a narrower catwalk between, saw the fore gun on its pivot mount as it fired, and the cutshot rattled off the stern of Lady Zumaat and brushed past Nathanial’s arms. The merchant ship’s wings shuddered, the linen rippled as he saw it do before, and the air spilled out the front, driving the ship back and down just as the lifters lost half their efficiency at this steep angle and the merchant ship went from an apparent weight of thirty tons to two hundred and fifty.
Nathanial watched the upturned faces grow in size as their looks turned to horror, and then the stern crushed the foredeck of Eclipse with a splintering crash, carried it down with the massive falling kite, and in a second had turned the smaller vessel directly nose down.
Nathanial gave no more orders; the trimsman knew what to do, if he was able. He shifted lift to the back, left the bow fall, and then when the deck came level, went to full lift. The Eclipse’s quarterdeck, now perpendicular to the ground, shot past Nathanial, not ten feet away, and its stern rail snagged and shattered Lady Zumaat’s rudder, showering Nathanial with splinters, but then it was gone. Lady Zumaat righted itself and continued to rise on full lift.
“Level the ship,” someone said.
He said it, but the sound seemed to come from far away. He looked over the rail and over a thousand feet below he saw Eclipse hurtling straight down toward the surface of Mars, its angle so acute the lifters had no effect, no ability to recover. It continued accelerating until finally it hit the ground, disappearing into an enormous cloud of dust.
He turned away, pulled the rope loose, and made his way forward to where Annabelle cradled Kak’hamish’s head on her lap. Tears stained her cheek, tracing long black tracks through the caked grime of the powder smoke. Nathanial knelt by them.
“You are injured, Nathanial,” Kak’hamish said weakly, and Nathanial saw his friend’s mouth had filled with blood and run down his jaw. Nathanial looked at his left arm and saw a long splinter, perhaps eight inches long, that had pierced the middle of his forearm.
“It is nothing,” he said. “How do you fare?”
“I am dying, but I fare well. If Gillsa lives, give my body to her. She will take it to the desert.”
“Don’t speak,” Nathanial said.
Kak’hamish smiled. “If not now, when? You must go to Siruahn. Tell them what you know of the plot. Tolni?”
“I am here, sir,’ the corporal answered, and knelt beside them as well.
“Tell the council. When you do, give them this. They will know what to do with it.” He touched the small leather medicine bag around his throat and tried to pull the thong free but lacked the strength.
“I will do as you ask, sir,” Tolni said.
“Good. Annabelle and Nathanial, the council will argue about what to do with you, but in the end they will treat you fairly. They are fools, but then all men are. I think you will find a few good fools there, which is all a wise person can hope for. Now, fare you well. We will not speak again.”
Nathanial looked at him but said nothing, did not know what to say.
“A question troubles you,” Kak’hamish said.
“Why, Kak’hamish? Why did you go into the desert to die? I would like to know.”
“Nathanial, my very good friend—the world is not an open book.”
And he was gone.
Chapter Eight
“A Dolorous Duty”
1.
annabelle sewed the canvas bag herself, using a torn sail cover and the thick twine and needle the sailmakers used. The last step was to sew the flap shut over his face. She leaned and kissed his forehead before she did so, but she did not weep again. He certainly would not have wept for himself. He had lived to see them clear of all hazards, at least so far as they knew, and by his lights he had died a good death. No, he would not have wept; he would have smiled.
While she sewed, the surviving crew treated the wounded and made repairs, as well as they could. The rudder was the most difficult job, but after an hour the helmsman pronounced Lady Zumaat fit to make at least an easy glide. By then they had drifted at least ten more miles east in the light wind. Now they made their way due west in a shallow glide, searching the ground for sign of the skrill rider who had helped them and fallen in the effort. After twenty minutes they found her, and managed to bring the kite in for a gentle landing near where she tended her mount.
A dozen crewmen hung from ropes as the kite drifted toward the ground, and when they touched down they pulled the kite to a halt and placed the long-tined anchor fork among a pile of rocks. Nathanial and Tolni climbed down the boarding ladder while Annabelle rode the cargo sling down with Kak’hamish’s body. She did not bring her crutch, but Nathanial and Tolni to either side helped her.
The Martian woman stood and turned to them, and Annabelle recognised the swirling tattoos on her face immediately.
“I…do you speak Koline?” Annabelle asked.
“Yes,” the woman answered.
“Are you Gillsa?”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry. Kak’hamish is dead. He asked us to entrust his body to you.”
“So he found his sleep among his own. They drove him out, but he never forgot them,” Gillsa said. Annabelle waited for an elaboration but the Martian woman simply stood, unblinking.
“Will you be able to travel?” Annabelle asked. “Your skrill is injured.”
“He mends.”
Annabelle looked around at the desolate countryside. “We thank you for helping us. I don’t…we will leave you food and water. Is there anything else we can do to help you?”
“No.”
They stood for a few long awkward seconds, but Annabelle could think of nothing else to say. She began to turn away but then stopped and reached into the pocket of her jacket. “I think this may have been done for you,” she said and took out the beautifully carved skrill horn, with the designs which mirrored the woman’s face.
Gillsa took it and looked at it closely for a moment. “So, he finished it,” she said. “It is good. There is blood in the design. His?”
“No, not his. He gave it to me and I used it against an enemy…I’m very sorry. I should have cleaned it but there has been no time.”
Gillsa looked up. “You used it on an enemy? Did you kill him?”
“Yes, I did—use it I mean, and no, I did not kill him.”
Gillsa shook her head but smiled and handed it back to Annabelle. “Next time, kill.”
Annabelle hesitated, and then took it from her and smiled in return. “Thank you. I shall.”
2.
EXCERPT 48.
“Beyond the Inner Worlds: The Journal of Professor Nathanial Stone” (Published July 2011, by Chadwick Press).
Tuesday, October 15th 1889.
Has it been only four days since the battle with Eclipse? It seems half a lifetime. And yet we are now airborne and, according to the ship’s captain, no more than six hours from Shastapsh. As a courier vessel preceded us with a dispatch from me and another from Corporal Tolni—which benefited greatly from Annabelle’s assistance with spelling—I expect the officials will be present to greet us. This should save a deal of trouble, as I didn’t fancy wandering through a strange town looking for the British legation and then trying to explain how we just dropped into the desert and made our way through hordes of desert nomads, flying raiders, murderous usurpers, and Worm priests, and
could we please come in for a cup of tea and perhaps a bite? Especially as the coveralls we were left with after Peregrine’s destruction have fallen completely to rags and we now, of necessity, wear Martian raiment of an exotic and decidedly uncivilised appearance. Why, they would be as like to bundle us off to a lunatic asylum as give us the time of day.
Kak’hamish was right about the Siruahn Council, as he was right about so many things. There was indeed a great deal of argument and debate over what to do about us, about Lady Zumaat, her, crew, Onxym Haat, Jed-An’s three surviving guards, the Charoni Princes, the Royalist underground, and some more people I hadn’t heard of. It was all quite confusing, but in the end was sorted out more-or-less to everyone’s satisfaction.
They declared Lady Zumaat a hostile vessel and so seized her as a prize, but when it was pointed out she had already been seized from the plotters, and had actually put paid to a ship packed full of blood-thirsty revolutionaries, they decided instead to sell the ship at auction and divide the proceeds—as prize money—among the surviving crew, which I thought quite generous, especially as I came in for an officer’s share. After fees, special charges, taxes, and commissions were subtracted, there wasn’t as much money as I had expected, but the ship was rather badly beat up, and having a little silver in the pocket is better than none.
As to Annabelle, Tolni, and I, they presented us with very nice medals of appreciation, sent a courier boat ahead with our dispatches—as I mentioned before—and then packed us up in this compact little wind-wing. It’s slightly smaller than Eclipse, but every bit as fast. The quarters are cramped, compared to those on the dear old Lady Zumaat, but we shan’t need them for long.
The most puzzling aspect of the entire affair was the business with Kak’hamish’s medicine bag—or at least that is how I always thought of it, incorrectly as it turns out. As requested, we presented the bag to the Council after explaining the great service our late friend had done them, literally giving his life to thwart the attempt to overthrow them and establish an absolutist prince over them. They expressed gratitude for his sacrifice, rather as one normally expects elected officials to do when confronted with the sacrifice of unknown foreigners—let us say “with polite interest”. Then they opened the bag and damn me if they were not struck dumb. Inside was nothing but a heavy golden ring, but it turns out it was the seal of the city of Siruahn, missing for over twenty years, ever since they violently overthrew and chased out their last prince, a fellow named Hamishaan III. That would be the stupid young tyrant Kak’hamish spoke so ill of, and apparently with excellent reason.
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