The Song of the Dead

by Carrie Patel

  They sped through the gap but clipped their aft end on one of the ships. Jane tossed this way and that, thankful again for the restraints.

  “Made it?” Roman called up.

  “Almost.” A maze of ships rose ahead of them, but they were clear of the Kennedy and its guns.

  Another wave threw them against the side of a passenger boat. “I’ll try to get us out of here,” Jane said, feeling a return of the old nausea.

  “Do,” said Roman. He sounded as queasy as she felt.

  But she kept her gorge down until they were clear of Salvage’s flotilla and had ridden past the worst of the storm. When at last the floating city was a dim blur on the horizon and the waves had calmed to a gentle rocking, Jane pulled off her restraints, opened the aft door, and vomited into the ocean.

  Fresh air had never tasted so sweet. She swallowed it in deep, slow breaths and splashed water on her face and neck. When she ducked back inside, Roman had opened cabinets and compartments all around the interior and was consolidating their contents in a pile.

  It was disconcertingly small.

  “Looks like they kept this stocked, but not for long journeys,” he said. “I’d estimate several days’ water if we’re careful, about as much food if none of it’s spoiled.” He looked up at her. “It’s not too late to turn around. Ride out the storm, then surrender ourselves to the almirante. I imagine they’d be sympathetic, especially if you tell them about the mutiny.”

  All this trouble, and he’d consider going back? “But then they’d know why the mutineers seized you. Who you are, and what you mean to the Continent.”

  He smiled sadly. “Better than dying out here, isn’t it?”

  And then she got it. It wouldn’t be better – not to him, of course. Left to his own devices, he’d just as soon make this lifeboat his coffin as return to captivity.

  But he wouldn’t bring that death on her.

  Fortunately, Jane remembered seeing the gull earlier in the day. She laughed with delight. Roman’s brow furrowed.

  “As long as we keep this thing pointing east,” she said, flicking the dome of the console compass, “we’ll make it. We’ve just got to last another day or two on our own.” She stretched her arms and legs until she felt a satisfying twinge in her limbs.

  Roman settled into one of the seats, suddenly absorbed in the mechanism of the straps and clasp. His face was a mask of false concentration.

  She pulled him into a deep, long kiss. She hadn’t known she was going to do it, but as she ran her fingers through his hair and her tongue over his, she realized she’d been thinking about it since they got clear of Salvage. He tasted terrible, salty and sour and in need of a good scrubbing, but she didn’t care.

  At that moment, all she wanted was more.

  She was reaching for the buttons on his shirt when he pulled away.

  “What?” It was the only word she could think of over the throbbing ache.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said.

  She wasn’t certain it was, either, but she’d have been perfectly happy to figure that out once she’d calmed the molten honey in her belly. This was the first time they’d truly had a moment of solitude and safety. It seemed right to enjoy it.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen when we reach the Continent,” she said. “I–”

  “That’s why we should keep our wits about us.” Roman kissed her forehead. “Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more, but…”

  But he couldn’t meet her eyes.

  “I understand,” Jane said. It was the kind of thing one was supposed to say in situations like this.

  He winced. “We should try to rest. Save our strength.” He was already reclining on the row of seats, turning his back to her.

  Jane settled into a corner by the helm. Unfortunately, sleep was the furthest thing from her mind.

  She shifted and stretched, trying to get comfortable. But something was pressing against her chest, something hard with sharp edges.

  Jane remembered the book and pulled it out of her chemise. Now that they were clear of the storm clouds, the moon was just bright enough to illuminate the cover with its field of stars.

  She flipped to the first page.

  Chapter 19

  A Little Death

  Lachesse was alone in the lounge when Malone found her, a half-empty caffee cup on the table next to her. She took in Malone’s story with preternatural stoicism, but Malone detected a nervous tightening of the muscles beneath her layers of cosmetics.

  “You saw only two?” the whitenail asked.

  “In the dark,” Malone said. “No telling how many others are tucked away up there. Or elsewhere on the ship.”

  “Have you told anyone else about this?” Lachesse asked.

  “You’re the first.”

  “Good. Tell no one else.”

  Confusion tickled at the back of Malone’s neck. “But Geist–”

  “Will do what, exactly?” Lachesse blinked her painted eyes at Malone. “If he starts looking for them, then whoever planted them may get desperate.”

  “So we move fast. Confine everyone to quarters, have Geist and his most trusted people search the ship.”

  Lachesse dismissed the idea with a flick of her wrist. “As you said, we’ve no way of knowing where they all are. And it only takes one to bring down the entire ship.”

  A current of frustration surged through Malone. She had to fight to keep her voice down, to force it through a jaw rigid with annoyance. “We can’t just stand around and do nothing. Geist knows his people, he could tell us–”

  Lachesse’s laugh struck a sharp, discordant note. “Inspector, the man has a murderer among his crew, and he told you almost nothing about it. I wouldn’t be so quick to trust him, much less his handling of the situation.” She raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought the last year in Recoletta would have instilled in you a healthier sense of suspicion.”

  “I’ve got enough suspicion to go around. It’s this waiting and hoping the bombs don’t go off that bothers me.” She shook her head. “I’ve got to start taking them down. As many as I can find. There’s a window that opens in the mess, and another–”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Lachesse said in a tone that raised Malone’s temperature. “Setting aside for a moment that you’ll end us all if you drop one–”

  The hairs along the back of Malone’s neck bristled. “I’m sure I can manage.”

  “– you’re forgetting that you don’t even know how many there are,” Lachesse said. “And if our culprit is circumspect – as, indeed, one would have to be to execute a plot of this nature – he’ll notice if a few of his bombs suddenly go missing.”

  “It’s better than doing nothing,” Malone said.

  “Nothing is what’s happened so far, and we’re all still alive,” Lachesse said, her voice as smooth and firm as polished steel. “Besides, I’m hardly suggesting we do nothing. But instead of tipping our hand, we should seize the advantage you so fortuitously found and learn just who we’re up against. And why he’s biding his time.” Lachesse paused, waiting.

  Clouds were gathering outside. Malone couldn’t see them except for the way they blotted out the stars. “Biding his time,” she said. She had the sneaking suspicion the old whitenail was onto something.

  “Indeed,” Lachesse said, placing a long-nailed finger against her cheek. “It’s why these bombs haven’t gone off yet that interests me.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Malone said. She was starting to respect Lachesse’s cleverness, but the woman had an unfortunate taste for theatrics. Almost like Sundar had.

  “Someone placed those bombs and, I take it, engaged in a fair bit of planning and subterfuge to accomplish that. Yet if they’d only wanted to frustrate Geist’s mission, they would have triggered them already.”

  “They’re waiting for something specific,” Malone said.

  “Something that hasn’t happened yet,” said Lachesse. />
  “Retrieving Arnault,” Malone said, understanding quickening her pulse. “Someone didn’t want him brought back to the Continent.”

  “Or someone wanted him dead,” Lachesse said.

  “But that still doesn’t answer it,” Malone said. “Not completely. If someone wanted to sabotage Geist’s mission, they could have destroyed the Glasauge at any point on the journey over.”

  “Perhaps they wanted to make it back to the Continent first,” said Lachesse.

  “And if they wanted to kill Arnault, a bomb is a lot of trouble where a bullet or knife would do.”

  “But far more anonymous. And that’s assuming our culprit could get close enough to Arnault to use the other methods you mention.”

  Lachesse had a point. If Arnault possessed the kind of “key” Lachesse had described, Malone couldn’t imagine Geist would take any chances with him.

  “And somehow Sharad fits into all of this,” Malone said.

  Lachesse leveled her gaze at Malone. “Perhaps he found the bombs first. And told the wrong person.”

  Malone missed the days when people simply murdered each other over money and sex. She held up her hands in surrender. “I won’t tell Geist, and I won’t tamper with the bombs. Not until we know better what’s going on.”

  The whitenail nodded her satisfaction. “Now, I think we’d better redouble our efforts to get into Geist’s office.” Lachesse plucked her caffee cup from the table and peered into it with a dispassionate eye. “He’ll have records. Files on his staff, something that would tell us who everyone is, and maybe who stands out from the crowd.” She set her cup down and began fidgeting with one of her rings.

  “Let’s just hope it’s something we can read,” Malone said.

  “Leave that to me,” Lachesse said.

  “We still haven’t solved the biggest problem – how to get into Geist’s office. And now, without drawing extra attention to the engine room,” Malone said. But Lachesse said nothing, and when Malone glanced over, the whitenail had twisted a large opal off one of her rings, revealing a small compartment within. “What are you doing?” Malone asked.

  Lachesse tapped some kind of white powder from the ring into her caffee cup and secured the opal once more.

  Dread prickled up Malone’s neck. “Is that–”

  The whitenail raised her cup and tossed the concoction back before Malone could finish. She grimaced as she swallowed. “Skies above, that tastes worse than I’d feared.” She coughed. “Though, I hardly expected to use it on myself.”

  A chill zipped through Malone’s spine. “What have you done?”

  The old woman shuddered. “I’ve done what’s necessary. Dear me, but you look aghast. Upset, even.” Wrapped up in her heavy fabric and jewelry, Lachesse suddenly seemed smothered by it. She coughed again, and the back of her hand came away speckled with blood. Lachesse regarded it impassively. “That should be most convincing.”

  Malone caught her by the shoulders just as she began to sink to the ground. Her own palms were cold and clammy, but Lachesse felt like a hot coal wrapped in silk. Malone eased her into a chair. “You’re dying, you old fool.” The idea upset her more than she wanted to admit.

  Lachesse’s eyes rolled wildly and refocused on Malone. “I should hope not.” Her voice was fading, but the verve was still there. “Not if you move quickly.”

  Malone felt her own pulse speed. Her blood warmed with urgency and something like affection for this crafty, brave old woman. “Tell me,” she said, her mouth dry.

  “Chernev has medicines.” Lachesse winced and clenched her blood-speckled hand over her chest. “But you wouldn’t know. You would go to Geist.”

  A distraction, and as urgent a one as anybody could devise. Malone squeezed Lachesse’s hand. “Just hold on.”

  Lachesse murmured something, but it was too faint to make out. Her cup fell with a heavy thud.

  Malone was already sprinting down the corridor, calling for Geist. She found his cabin and hammered on the door. “This is an emergency!”

  Other doors opened, and heads poked out in various states of concern, confusion, and consternation. Malone pounded the door again. “She’s dying, Geist!”

  The door opened, and Geist himself stood before her in an oversized dressing gown, blinking the sleep from his eyes. “Who–”

  “Lachesse, she had some kind of fit. Coughing blood, elevated temperature, fainting. She’s in the lounge – you’ve got to hurry.” Malone didn’t even have to try to get the panic into her voice.

  Geist tightened the sash around his waist. “Fetch Chernev at once and tell him to bring his bag. I shall meet you there.” Geist rushed toward the lounge. Leaving his door unlocked.

  Malone tried not to pay too much attention to it and hoped the bystanders wouldn’t give it much thought, either. She hurried around the bend toward the cook’s cabin.

  He was already standing in the hall, looking for the cause of the commotion. Unease creased his brow as he met Malone’s eye.

  “Get your bag and go to the lounge immediately,” Malone said. “Something’s happened to Lachesse.”

  At the sound of the whitenail’s name, the cook’s doubt evaporated into alarm. He muttered something to himself and reached back into his cabin for a scuffed leather satchel. When he emerged, he was all business.

  He rushed toward the lounge, forgetting about her in an instant.

  But the other crew members – those who had been asleep – were still watching bemusedly and had zeroed in on her as the likeliest source of answers.

  Not that she had any to give.

  She made her way down the hall and into the washroom, hoping her dishevelment would make that a believable-enough destination.

  The door on the other end opened into the opposite corridor – the one with Geist’s cabin. And, hopefully, the key to Geist’s office.

  No one was standing in the corridor, but a handful of people were still peering out from their cabins, waiting for the chaos to transform into something more actionable.

  So she’d give them something actionable.

  “You,” she said, pointing to the nearest crew member. “Get fresh towels to the lounge.” It seemed like a reasonable enough request, and it would at least draw their focus away from her. “The rest of you, clear the corridor. Lachesse is… unwell.”

  A collective gasp ripped down the corridor. The unlucky woman Malone had singled out bit her lip and frowned, and everyone else disappeared back into their cabins, as quickly as if Malone had announced she had the pox.

  Of course, if these people really did believe she and Lachesse came from a land of disease, then she had done just that for all intents and purposes.

  The remaining crew member cleared her throat. “I-I am a pilot. I know nothing of medicine.” Her face was ashen with dread.

  “Then clear out of the way,” Malone said.

  The woman disappeared into her cabin without another word. Malone only hoped the crew didn’t take Lachesse’s sudden malady as a reason to purge them both from their ship.

  But the corridor was clear, so she pushed those worries aside for the time being and slipped into Geist’s cabin.

  It was as small as all the others, and Geist had little to store in it besides clothes – all two sizes too big – and a few grooming implements. She rifled through shelves and under the bed, but could only find Geist’s personal belongings. If he were going to keep something important –something he used frequently – where would it be?

  Somewhere easily accessible but not too obvious. Malone checked the pockets of his folded shirts, inside his shoes, under his pillow, hoping all the while he didn’t have the damn thing tucked under the dressing gown he was wearing.

  Her gaze fell on his shaving kit. Of course – something he used every morning.

  She peeled it open and sure enough, between the comb and the razor, was a polished key. She pocketed it and left, closing the cabin door behind her.

  The corridor w
as empty, and the voices of Geist and the cook, low and urgent, carried from the lounge. Malone desperately wanted to know how Lachesse was faring, but if she missed the chance to get into Geist’s office then the whitenail’s sacrifice would be for naught.

  Something rumbled in the distance – thunder. Malone hadn’t heard that sound since leaving Recoletta.

  She continued up the stairs and to the command deck. The officers in the pilot house were talking animatedly with one another. They hadn’t noticed her.

  She hoped they’d stay busy long enough for her to get into the office. She headed toward the door, not looking back at the pilot house and not breaking her stride. Experience had taught Malone that the best way to go unnoticed was to act as though she belonged.

  She reached the door without incident and tried the key in the lock, praying for a fit. She twisted it one way and the other and heard a click like the music of angels.

  As Malone slipped inside she saw one of the officers in the pilot house just beginning to turn. It wasn’t clear if he’d seen her or not, but she’d find out soon enough.

  She locked it behind her, just to be safe. For now, there was work to be done.

  Like everything on the Glasauge – everything but the envelope and its massive gas bags – Geist’s office was smaller than she would have guessed from the outside. Yet as with the rest of the airship, every space was put to use. There were latched shelves set into the walls and hinged compartments in the floor.

  And somehow Malone had to find a lead as to who on Geist’s crew might plant bombs and murder his compatriots.

  She checked the shelves first. She found books, most of them unintelligible. A thin logbook that looked like a list of ciphers. She tried the next shelf. More books.

  Yet as she worked her way through the office, she smelled something odd. Her blood ran cold at the memory of the explosives she’d found the last time she went sneaking around, but this odor was different. Muskier.

  In the corner she found a narrow hutch fronted with wire mesh. The inside was lined with straw, feathers, and an unmistakable spackling of bird droppings.