The Ships of Air (The Fall of Ile-Rein)

by Martha Wells

  “Ma’am, there’s another problem.” Basimi stopped her before she could step out the door.

  How soon I grow to hate those words. She reluctantly turned back to him. “What?”

  “I was pretty sure this was a fuel gauge, and it looked like it was showing empty.” Basimi tapped one of the dials. “I sent Molin back to bang on the tanks, and they sounded hollow. It means the Gardier didn’t refuel at the Walls. They must have meant to do it in the morning.”

  “Great,” Tremaine said under her breath. The Gardier didn’t seem to have very good fire prevention methods in place inside their airships. All their wards seemed to be meant to protect the things from outside attack. Not letting a fueled airship sit around at its mooring tower was at least a sensible precaution. But it’s killing us. If they could get the crystal’s cooperation, they needed a vehicle to take them back to the point where they had passed through the etheric gateway, so they would be close enough to the Wall Port spell circle. But an airship with no fuel was useless. “Check. Find fuel.”

  She started down the passage, but found Dubos and Molin waiting for her outside the map room. Dubos gave her a fatherly smile, or what she supposed was a fatherly smile, since Nicholas had certainly never looked at her in such a fatuous way. He said, “We need to talk sense, Miss. Now we both know you can’t be giving orders to us in a matter of life and death. If you want to be in charge of your native friends there, that’s fine, but…” He shook his head, his expression of benevolent kindness inviting her understanding.

  Tremaine thought it over, absently rubbing her jaw. As she saw it the problem with telling people you were going to kill them was that sometimes they believed you, then you had to do it before they could counterattack. And she had acquired a loose tooth sometime in the past hour. I’m just so tired. She nodded slowly. And Arites is dead, and he was funny and nice and I liked him, and he liked me. “How many times have you opened an etheric world-gate?”

  Dubos’s benevolence faltered just a little. Molin’s eyes flicked to him and away. Right. I know whose idea this was. It’s always the polite ones you have to watch out for; at least the bastards are being honest about their feelings. She continued idly, “I’ve forgotten how many times I’ve opened gates with Gerard. I did it once by myself with the sphere. When I say once, I mean just there and back. Which makes me the closest thing to a sorcerer we’ve got, and we’re going to need one to make the crystal take us home.” She jerked her head toward the control cabin. “Oh, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not in our world, and we’re not in the Syprians’ world. I think I know how we can take control of the airship back from the crystal without destroying it—since it’s our only way back, that might be a bad idea—and I was going to get Giliead—that’s my brother-in-law—to help me, but you’re right, I should just bow out now, before I make a mistake.” She shrugged. “So. Basimi’s waiting.” She gestured helpfully toward the control cabin. “Have at it.”

  She could feel their eyes on her back as she went down the passage. She stopped in the main room, threading both hands through her hair and swearing in frustration. She needed to settle Dubos and Molin quickly. But the ability to cut off the crystal’s control of the airship was her only advantage at the moment. She sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them that the only person on board with any chance at all of communicating with the crystal was Giliead. Ilias came into the room, his face grave and tired. She asked, “Did you find a bucket?”

  He looked at her for a moment, his brow creasing. “The others are looking. But there’s something you and I and Gil have to do first.”

  “What?”

  “We need to do the rites for Arites. So he won’t be a shade.”

  Tremaine stared over his shoulder a moment, then shook herself a little. The image of the dead stowaway boy Giliead had found came to her, haunting the empty children’s playroom. “Yes, I see. I have to be there?”

  “You need to learn how to do it,” he told her firmly. “So you can do it for us if you have to.”

  Tremaine clapped a hand over her eyes. She wished he hadn’t put it quite that way, but it made it impossible for her to refuse, which was probably his intention. “All right.”

  Ilias led her back down the narrow passage to the crew cabins. Giliead was waiting for them in the open doorway of the cabin nearest the cargo hold, his expression sober.

  She looked inside to see Arites laid out on the bunk. His face was relaxed, but the bloody wound in his chest allowed for no sentimental illusions; it had been a violent and painful death.

  Tremaine had seen more dead bodies than she could count in the Siege Aid Society and the bombings of Vienne, and she had caused a few deaths herself, from the one in the mental asylum to the Gardier attempting to escape the Isle of Storms by airship. This was the first one that felt like a kick in the gut.

  Giliead stepped into the cabin, and Ilias gave Tremaine a gentle push to get her to follow him, saying, “If someone dies at home, you scatter three handfuls of earth on the body. If they die elsewhere, or at sea, or if you find a stranger’s body, you use three locks of hair. It’s usual to get three people, but if you’re alone, you just use three locks from your own head.”

  Tremaine nodded. “Is that all? What do you do…afterward. With the body.”

  “A pyre, or a burial, or give it to the sea.” Ilias shook his head slightly, as if it truly didn’t matter. “If we can get him back with us, we’ll do that. But if we can’t, it’s all right, as long as we do the rites.”

  Giliead took out a horn-handled belt knife, found a braid that had come loose and cut an inch of hair from the end. Then he took a handful of Ilias’s hair and did the same. Ilias was still looking at Arites and didn’t react to the tug and snip.

  Giliead handed Tremaine the knife, and she realized this was a truncated version of the actual ceremony. There was obviously a specific order in who cut whose hair, but it wasn’t important she learn it. If one of the others was with her, she would have someone to show her the order; if she was alone, it wouldn’t matter. She cut a lock from under her ear and gave it to Giliead.

  Chapter 16

  Adram was out on the broad third-floor balcony, looking over Maton-devara. He had taken in this view often, but it never failed to strike him anew. It had once been an elegantly designed city, with spacious stone buildings looking down on a thriving port. It was still a thriving port, but the temporary structures housing the labor and the Service workers crowded the streets until it resembled a hive more than a place of human occupation. It was teeming with people in the ubiquitous brown uniforms or the drably colored clothes of the civilians, and the cool morning air was heavy with the odor of diesel fumes. He lifted an ironic brow, leaning his forearms on the carved scrollwork of the railing. He had seen slums that were more attractive.

  “Adram, there you are.” It was Benin, and even though the chief Scientist was the closest thing he had to a friend here, Adram made sure his sardonic expression had changed to a noncommittal smile before he turned. It was wasted on Benin, who was too excited to notice. “Adram, we are about to capture a Rien raiding party.”

  “What?” he demanded, badly startled. “Where?”

  “Here!” Benin drew him away from the balcony, into the wide arch of the doorway, as if he feared someone passing below might overhear. “We’ve had contact with our presence aboard the Rien ship, but it had no way to convey their exact location until they reached the Barrier post. It wasn’t able to warn us of the attack the Rien made on the compound—”

  “An attack on the post?” Adram frowned. “How can that be?”

  “They were able to destroy the airship on patrol, then infiltrate the native city without our watchers noticing.” Benin’s expression was sour. “I’d like to blame the inadequacies of Command’s defenses, but it’s more likely they used that device. They were already in the compound, aboard the airship docked there, before there was a hint of anything wrong, apparently. At lea
st, that’s what I understand from our presence. None of the men at the post escaped.” He gestured excitedly. “But the avatar aboard the airship gated back here, and it must have a party of Rien aboard. This is our opportunity. They must have one of the devices with them, or they couldn’t have infiltrated the post’s perimeter without warning.”

  Adram nodded, thinking hard. “Yes, this is a fantastic opportunity,” he said slowly. Fantastic for him. “Can you get me assigned to the search group?” At Benin’s startled expression he hastily amended, “I know Command is to be trusted, but I know you want to be sure the device is brought to you….”

  Benin smiled knowingly. “I was hoping you would volunteer. Frankly, I trust no one else. Command can order the Service not to destroy it, but I don’t trust them to obey such orders in the heat of battle.” He clapped Adram on the shoulder, a rare gesture from a member of the Aelin’s high rank.

  Adram nodded in relief. “You won’t be disappointed in me. Though…what if the Rien have already destroyed the device? They may do so to keep it out of our hands.”

  Benin looked grave. “It’s a possibility that concerns me. But you must make sure at least some of them are captured alive, so they can tell us all they know of it.” He snorted wryly. “With that, at least, Command should have no difficulty. Questioning recalcitrant prisoners is the favorite duty of men like Disar. I suppose it’s the only pleasure left to him.” This remark was treading uncomfortably close to treason, and Benin threw a penetrating look at Adram.

  Adram kept his face sober. “You can trust me.”

  Benin nodded, clapping him on the shoulder again. “I know I can. Come on, I’ll get you assigned to the search.”

  Chapter 17

  Florian’s first indication that things had gone horribly wrong was when Kias grabbed her arm.

  They were crouched in the rock below the lower-level approach to the Gardier’s camp. Florian was keeping one eye on the slim form of Birouq, the young soldier who had taken the place of the Gardier sentry, and the other on the dark outline of the airship’s mooring tower. After Kias and Arites had killed the Gardier and dragged him away, Birouq had stepped into the man’s place, so any observer above wouldn’t notice the missing sentry. It was too dark to see much, but Kias was at her side, and Arites had moved off to cover the other half of the approach from the city below them.

  She had bit her tongue in anxiety when the searchlight had started to sweep the compound and swore in relief when the sphere burned it out a moment later. I just wish they’d let me use the sphere, she thought, shifting uncomfortably as she knelt in the gravel. It likes me; they didn’t need to risk Gerard on this. He was the most powerful sorcerer they had left; he might be the most powerful sorcerer all of Ile-Rien had left, if the Gardier had destroyed the people trapped behind the barrier in Lodun. It should be her job to take the risks in the field, leaving Niles and Gerard to protect the ship. But she was all too bitterly aware that no one would risk sending her as the sorcerer unless they thought it was a suicide mission, just as the rescue party to the Isle of Storms had been. How does Tremaine do it? she thought in frustration. Being half-mad helps, but she’s made them realize she can do the job.

  Kias stirred beside her, and she felt him brush her shoulder as he turned back toward the steps down into the deserted Wall buildings. “What is it?” she whispered. She didn’t know him as well, but like all the Syprian men she had met, he treated her with a combination of chivalry and casual acceptance that made him easy to be around.

  “Somebody’s moving down there.” He stood up suddenly and she heard his sword clear leather. She looked worriedly toward the post on the rise above them, afraid the Gardier would see the abrupt movement. Then something whistled past her head just as Kias yanked her out of the way. The darkness was suddenly populated with shouting shadows; she staggered as someone slammed past her. Gardier, she thought in shock, scrambling to retreat and finding her back against the rock. Then she heard the clash of metal and saw the outline of an upraised sword.

  Kias struggled with one of those shadows and suddenly went down. Florian leapt forward, throwing herself down on him and gasping out her concealment charm. She looked up, her throat tight with terror, to see two tall figures standing over them. She couldn’t see their faces in the dark; there was nothing to tell her what they were except the odors of sweat, blood and filthy leather. More figures, dozens more, streamed up the stairs from the upper section of the city. It had been completely deserted earlier as she and the others had crept up it, she was sure of that.

  The moment stretched, then one of the men muttered something in a language she didn’t understand, and they joined the yelling mob heading up toward the post. Florian let her breath out with a shudder.

  In the dark and confusion the charm worked better than it ever had for her before; people veered around them without even pausing. In the heavy dark she couldn’t see Arites or Birouq and with Kias unconscious she was afraid to call for them and break the charm. Kneeling beside Kias, she touched his head gently, feeling wetness on her fingers in the tangle of his braids, and groped for a handkerchief to press against the wound. He stirred, groaning, and she whispered hastily, “Don’t move!” She started to tell him about the concealment charm, then bit her lip, realizing he might think of it as a curse. Better not, she thought.

  He lay still. She heard shots and screams from the post above and swore under her breath. What happened? She couldn’t believe it had gone so wrong.

  Then she heard voices calling in Rienish and more gunfire. The men who had burst through here like a hurricane were suddenly fleeing back down into the city in ones and twos. This was rapidly followed by the most welcome sound in the world, the whoosh-thump of an electrical generator exploding.

  “Thank God,” Florian breathed.

  “What was that?” Kias demanded, sitting up.

  “The sphere—it’s destroying the post.” The gunfire had stopped as well. The sphere must have turned the Gardier’s own mechanical disruption spell against them again.

  “We need to get up there.” Kias struggled to his feet, and she gripped his arm to keep him upright, dispersing the charm with a gesture. He staggered, clutching his head.

  “Who’s down there? Birouq?” Someone called from above in Rienish.

  “It’s us,” Florian called back. “What happened?” An electric torch flashed and Kias winced away from it, but Florian saw men in Rienish gray fatigues. She helped Kias sit down on the rocks, then blundered after the soldiers.

  “What happened?” she asked again.

  The one with the torch shook his head, answering, “Natives from the port attacked the place before we moved in, set off those spell wards.”

  “And I think we lost the damn airship,” someone with an Aderassi accent said.

  “Lost it?” Florian repeated, startled. She peered up past the outcrop. There was just enough reflected light for her to make out the top of the pyramidal mooring tower; the giant dark shape that had been attached to it was simply gone. Oh, no. “Where’s Tremaine and the others?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. Just stay down here until they say the area is secure.”

  One of them tossed her an electric torch; switching it on, she found Birouq’s body on the paved flat. The light revealed the bleak sight of a dark stain on his chest; she thought it must be a stab wound. She searched, increasingly worried, but couldn’t find Arites anywhere.

  Stepping into the passage again, Tremaine breathed in relief, mostly that it was over. She doubted the little ceremony would bring her any peace, but maybe it was too soon to tell.

  Ilias shook out his hair, looking relieved himself. “Should we go try to put the wizard crystal in water now?”

  “Oh.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose to cover her expression. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?” Ilias repeated, puzzled.

  Giliead eyed her with one brow lifted. Tremaine couldn’t stand that steady regard, considering what
she was going to have to ask him to do at some point. She stepped into the cargo hold, gesturing at the crates in the corner. “Let’s see what’s in these.” She grabbed the net that held them in place, trying to pull it off.

  Still looking thoughtful, Giliead moved her out of the way and started to unhook the webbing. Ilias glanced around the hold, then picked up a leather bag that lay near the wall, saying, “This belonged to Arites. He’d want you to take care of it for him. It’s got his writings in it, the ones he didn’t leave on the ship.”

  Tremaine backed away from his attempt to hand it to her. “Why would he want me to take care of it?” From what she had understood of Ilias’s explanation of Andrien family relations, Arites had been a free agent.

  “Because you’re a poet too,” Ilias pointed out patiently.

  She accepted the bag reluctantly and Ilias went to help Giliead, heaving the first loose crate down from the stack. Poet, Tremaine thought. It was another slight mistranslation of Syrnaic, since it was what the Syprians called anyone who wrote. Her plays and magazine writing had been a part of her life left behind when the war started. But she found herself taking a seat on the deck and opening the bag.

  Inside was a roll of the rough Syprian paper, tied with leather string. Pushing it aside she saw there were a few sheets of the ship’s stationery in the bottom, with Arites’s wooden pens and a little carved stone bottle of ink with a cork stopper. There was also a collection of trinkets: copper earrings incised with Syrnaic characters, smooth bone counters painted with primitive little figures of animals and people, woven strips of cloth in a range of warm colors. She pulled out a handful, wondering.

  “He brought those to trade for Rienish things,” Ilias explained, glancing up from the crate he was prying open. “There should be some in there. He has lots more back on the ship.”

  She dug further, finding the cache of souvenirs. There were buttons, a box of matches, a watch crystal, a wine label and a few battered sepia postcards, one showing the Queen Ravenna Memorial, another the Opera House at Givarney, a third the Summer Palace in Parscia. He had gotten a good deal for the postcards she decided, tucking them back into the bag. The places they depicted might not exist much longer. She unrolled the scroll to find it covered in messy Syrnaic handwriting. “He was writing a chronicle of all this, wasn’t he? What happened on the island, the trip to Capidara.”