The Song of the Dead

by Carrie Patel

Otherwise, it was empty.

  Before she could ponder this further, someone hammered on the door. She jumped.

  “Malone, I know you are there. Please to come out now,” Geist called from the other side, his voice a calm counterpoint to the heavy blows against the door.

  If he knew she was here, she might as well get what she came for. She moved to the desk as the pounding continued, louder and heavier by the moment. She checked the drawers. Pens, wax stamps, a box of matches.

  “I comprend your curiosity, but I am becoming malhumored,” Geist called out. “Come out now, pleece.” His tone was still measured and calm, but there was an edge to his voice that she hadn’t heard before.

  She tried the next drawer. A sheaf of papers. This was more promising.

  More pounding. “Lachesse is recovering. She is safe. As are we all, but that may not be so unless you open this door.”

  Malone had heard her share of threats, but with Geist it was difficult to tell if this was a threat or a simple observation of fact.

  Regardless, whether or not he killed her would have very little to do with whether she opened the door now. But if she could figure out who was planting bombs and slaying his crew, she might – just maybe – have a chance.

  So she focused her attention on puzzling through the papers in the desk. She had become so accustomed to hearing and seeing foreign words that it took a moment for her eyes to pick out the word “crew” amidst the unreadable terms on the first page.

  Her pulse raced, and she flipped to the next page. The pounding on the door resumed with a heavy, rhythmic quality. Geist and his people were trying to break it down.

  She quickly scanned what appeared to be a list of terms. None she recognized, unfortunately, until she hit “GINTNER, ZOYA MARIA.”

  The placard she’d found wasn’t a title, she realized. It was a name.

  She flipped ahead to another page bearing the same name. Clipped to it was an image – not a painting, but a black and white apparition of reality, just like the image of Roman that Geist had shown her – of a woman with wide, dark eyes and dark hair, her expression as still and serious as a corpse’s.

  Malone had never seen her before. And she was pretty certain she’d seen everyone on the ship, even if she didn’t know their names.

  The pounding outside continued. The hinges jingled like pocket change, and a dent rose from the center of the door.

  She flipped back to the crew list and scanned the names. There were nearly a hundred of them, and she didn’t see one she recognized. She checked twice, but she couldn’t find Sharad, Chernev, or Valenti.

  And she couldn’t find Geist.

  The door groaned and rattled as Geist and his followers – whoever they were – smashed it from its hinges.

  Malone turned quickly through the rest of the pages and their accompanying images. They depicted men and women of all ages and physiognomies, but none she recognized. The capitan – what she presumed to be the captain – was a woman with a hooked nose and a matronly build.

  The door flew open in a crash. Geist burst in, six crew members crowding behind him in the tight space.

  His face was as impassive as ever, but his eyes burned with rage. He tugged back the sleeves of his dressing gown – one, Malone realized, that had never been made for him – and smoothed back a stray lock of hair.

  “If I had known you would be such trouble, I would have left you in Recoletta,” he said, as evenly as though she had made him late for his train.

  “If I’d known you’d stolen this airship, I might have stayed,” Malone said.

  “Regrettable for us both,” he said. He made a chopping motion with his hand, and four of the crew next to him rushed to Malone’s side. Two held her arms while the other two patted her down. “Tell us about your plans here,” he said.

  “I should ask you the same.”

  A fist came from her left and struck her jaw. Not the worst she’d had, but enough for her to know that Geist meant business.

  “I shall rephrase,” said Geist. “Why did you break into this office?”

  “You left it locked.” This time, the punch came from her right and landed hard enough for her to taste blood. She spat a red gob onto the floorboards. “You’ll ruin your woodwork.”

  Geist smirked. “I respect your kraft, but you are alone here.”

  At least he didn’t seem to know Lachesse had been in on it. That, or he was waiting for her to slip and give the old woman up. Either way, if she was going down, she wasn’t taking anyone with her. Not even Lachesse.

  The newfound loyalty surprised her.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You comprend that I must have trust in the people on my ship. I can show you mercy, but you must tell me all.”

  Malone had heard lines like that before. “You lied about who you are. How can I believe anything you say?” she asked.

  He rubbed his goatee. “You might as well take the chance.”

  She knew the tactics well enough to know that Geist would kill or spare her based on whatever internal calculation of risk he’d already made, regardless of what she said.

  “Go to hell,” Malone said.

  He lowered his head and made a circling motion with one finger. Three pairs of hands seized her from behind and marched her out of the office. Malone didn’t fight them – she didn’t have anywhere to run. Geist led the way down the corridor and toward the stairs. The on-duty crew watched with the darting, surreptitious glances of schoolchildren seeing another being led away for punishment.

  And from the quick, embarrassed way they averted their gazes from hers, Malone knew punishment was forthcoming.

  They wound down the stairs. Malone couldn’t see anything past the first curve of the corridors on the stateroom level, much less the lounge on the other end. But all was quiet.

  They continued down to the storage deck. It was empty except for the crates and pallets, and by Malone’s guess it would be lighter by one person by the time this business was finished.

  Malone’s escort marched her to the middle of the deck. Geist waved them – and the two with him – away, and the floor shuddered as they trooped a dozen feet behind her.

  Geist turned to her. “I give you another opportunity to declare yourself. Anything you spreck, only I shall hear.”

  She’d already told him to go to hell. She thought of all the things she could say. Why did he care whether a Recolettan knew he and his people were not the assigned crew of the Glasauge? Why had he interrupted her first execution if he was just going to put her through another now?

  “You brought me to find Arnault. Now, you’re going to kill me over this?”

  Geist’s expression was pained. “I bear you no malintent. But I cannot have treachery on my ship.”

  It was hardly fair that this should all fall on her shoulders. With a word, she could have Lachesse brought down to share her misery. After all the old woman had put her through, it would have been easy enough.

  Yet she had no desire to inform on Lachesse, and she couldn’t figure out if it was because of what the old whitenail had said about doing what was necessary to protect the city, or because of the tightness she’d felt in her chest when she saw her begin to slip.

  Perhaps she could have figured it out if she’d had more time.

  Geist shook his head. “I can at the very least offer you an end that will be much quicker than the slow strangulation your compatriots inflicted on you.” He snapped his fingers, and four rough hands gripped her again and shoved her toward the aft end of the deck. One of the crew jogged ahead and began spinning a wheel on the bulkhead. He pulled it, and a widening rectangle of gray sky appeared.

  “I apologize if this seems overly elaborate, but the firing of weapons in a space such as this is not recommended,” Geist said. “And I have no inclination to execute you in the manner that your collaborator executed poor Sharad.”

  Alarm bells went off in her head.

  “My collaborator?”
she asked.

  “Do not play the imbecile. You did not kill him.” But he seemed certain that she knew who had. And if he believed that person was Lachesse, then he’d already have her out here.

  She wondered exactly what she was being accused of. “I don’t know who killed him,” Malone said.

  But Geist only shook his head sadly. One of the others shoved her onto her knees.

  The sky was an iron gray blurred with clouds. The sea below was an oily black, shining with reflected moonlight. The vista was more magnificent and terrifying than the one she’d seen hemmed in by the lounge’s windows. A cold, moaning wind pulled tears from her eyes. It smelled like a storm was approaching.

  Geist stood close enough that the wind was cracking apart the careful shell of his hair and just far enough to be prudent. “I do not know the customs of your land, but if there are any final words you wish to spreck, or any words you wish sprecken over you, I will oblige you as I can.”

  Malone had one card left to play. It would either earn her Geist’s gratitude or cement his notion of her treachery. Then again, he was already convinced of that.

  “You do have a saboteur on your ship,” she said. “I don’t know who it is, but they’ve rigged the envelope with explosives.”

  He stared at her, unblinking despite the wind.

  A surge of annoyance warmed her face. “Go check if you don’t believe me. But please do it before you throw me out.”

  Geist’s eyes were riveted to her face as though it held a pattern he was afraid he might miss. “Und who are you thinking planted them?”

  “That’s what I was searching your office for.” That, and a clue as to what might have set Sharad and his murderer apart. But that seemed like the lesser problem at the moment.

  And he was looking above her at the other crew, saying something in that mongrel language that Lachesse had managed to decipher. As clever as the old whitenail was, maybe she would live to see the Continent. Malone found she didn’t begrudge her that.

  But Geist wasn’t nearly as grateful as he should have been. So Malone turned to regard the sea that would swallow her. She would die with both eyes open.

  And, as her vision adjusted to the inky blackness, she saw something almost directly below her, a dull shadow breaking up the shimmering surface of the water. It was large and ovoid, almost like the envelope of the Glasauge.

  No, exactly like it.

  “Are they with you?” she asked.

  Geist, who had been engaged in a rapid-fire back-and-forth with the others, raised a hand for silence. He leaned forward, one hand on a crossbar.

  “Directly below us. That’s another airship,” Malone said.

  Several tense seconds passed. Geist swore. He said something with the quick, decisive cadence of an order. Malone felt herself hauled back from the door. One crewman slammed it shut and spun the wheel.

  The others were moving with quiet, efficient urgency. Geist knelt in front of Malone and gripped her shoulder. “You broke into my office. Why?” He was watching her intently. Malone had the sense that he would decide much based on her answer.

  “To learn who your people are. I thought there might be something that would distinguish Sharad’s killer. And whoever planted those bombs.”

  Geist’s face betrayed nothing. His scar was a slash of darkness across his face. “Your collaborator in this – it was Lachesse.”

  There was no point in denying it now. “Obviously.”

  He cursed under his breath. “Then it seems we have a most dire misunderstanding. I will explique when there is time, but for now I hope you will accept my sincerest apologies.”

  He rose and offered a hand, but Malone stood on her own. The others had already left the cargo bay, and from the decks above, Malone heard stamping feet and shouted orders. Geist hastened toward the stairs.

  “What’s going on?” Malone asked.

  “We are under attack.”

  * * *

  Malone followed Geist to the pilot house, and no one moved to stop her. In fact, no one seemed to notice – the crew was too busy issuing orders and making quick adjustments to the ship’s machinery with shaking hands.

  “Who’s attacking us?” she asked.

  “I must explique at another, calmer time. But let us say for now that there are others from the Continent who want Roman Arnault, as well.”

  A bell rang, and the airship angled nose down. Malone grabbed a metal crossbeam for support. “But you don’t have Roman Arnault.”

  “Ya, und I am afraid they are knowing this,” Geist said. He barked an order, and one of the crew pulled a metal horn from the wall and repeated Geist’s words into it. The Glasauge leveled out.

  Malone worked through the implications. “They’re going to shoot us down.”

  “They will try.” He exchanged a few quick words with the man standing by the horn. He turned to the woman standing next to a panel of levers and knobs – almost all of which were painted red – and said, “fewer!” Or something that sounded like that.

  The woman twisted a key and pulled a lever. Something distant rumbled beneath their feet, and everyone in the pilot house held their breath.

  The man with the speaking horn listened to chatter coming out of the other end and shook his head. Whatever they’d been waiting for, it hadn’t happened.

  “This one snuck beneath us under the cover of night. A risky move, but now they are close. There will be more ships waiting at a distance. We must destroy this one before it signals the others,” Geist said to Malone.

  Malone thought of the explosives she’d found in the envelope. She didn’t want to announce their presence in front of so many of the crew, but entering a battle with them aboard could be a disaster.

  “Geist,” she said, leaning close and lowering her voice as much as she could amidst the din. “Those explosives. We should–”

  He cut her off with a chopping motion. “Ya, I placed them there.”

  Malone looked around. The younger crew members – the man by the speaking horn and the other at the elevator panel – flinched, but the helmsman and the woman at the weapons panel didn’t react. Either they hadn’t heard, or they already knew. “But why–”

  “I have no time for your questions, Malone. I have a battle to fight.” Geist issued another rapid stream of orders to the woman at the weapon controls. The floor shuddered again, followed by a tense silence and another exchange on the horn.

  It was another miss.

  The chatter grew more urgent. Malone only caught a few familiar-sounding words, but the pale knuckles and sweat-beaded brows spoke clearly enough.

  Suddenly, the sky flared with light. Malone squeezed her eyes shut against it as the sky, the sea, and the inside of the pilot house were momentarily bathed in a blinding, white glow. Within seconds, it faded to a pale ember floating some distance to the right of the Glasauge.

  “This is the signal,” Geist groaned. A flurry of curses erupted from the other crew. Geist cut through them with a bark to the weapons master. She unloaded another bombardment. It was another miss.

  A trail of light shot past the windows. It was distant, but close enough to raise the hairs on Malone’s neck.

  “The cannons,” Geist said, his voice tight. “They are puissant, but inexact.”

  “Good, then,” Malone said.

  “Except they need only hit one of us, but we must hit many of them. See, they converge already.” He pointed out the window at a small, dark shape just starting to blur the horizon. Another missile burned below them, disappearing into the distance beyond.

  “At least one more is behind us. This one is closer, I think.” Geist snapped an order to the weapons master. She peered into a scope at her console and rotated a handle around a set of bold hash marks. Malone felt something grind into place through the decking.

  The weapons master shouted down the corridor, and another shout echoed back.

  Geist raised his hand. “Fewer!”

  The wo
man pulled another lever down, and the Glasauge bucked. The airship was still heaving when a cry rose from the aft end of the command deck. Without understanding the words, Malone knew it was a miss.

  Another missile streaked by. This one was close enough to draw a startled curse from Geist. Malone’s heart leapt at the thought of the explosives swinging and bouncing along with the rest of the craft, but it gave her an idea.

  “Is the first airship still below us?” Malone asked.

  “Ya, und dodging everything we drop!”

  “Can we descend to a point just above it?”

  Geist shook his head. “Then bombardment becomes impossible. If we destroy them from so close, we will only be saving these others the trouble.” His gaze flickered upwards, toward the envelope and the explosives nestled there.

  “But if we get close, then maybe the others will stop shooting at us,” said Malone.

  Geist’s lips moved as he thought it over. “It is perilous. We must maintain a position above them to avoid their light guns.” Another projectile slashed a bright line across the sky. “But at this moment, perhaps it is the lesser risk.” He called out an order to the bustling pilot house. To the crew’s credit they didn’t hesitate, but set about their adjustments with their eyes a few degrees wider and their mouths frozen into rigid lines.

  The Glasauge angled down, and Malone held to the bulkhead for stability. As the sea rose into view, her stomach climbed into her chest. Yet despite feeling as if she were about to fall into the forward windows, the gradual slide of scenery betrayed nothing more than a slow, steady descent. The enemy airship ahead was slowly rising above them, but it wasn’t firing again. Not yet.

  There was something surreal about the battle unfolding around them. The floating behemoths weren’t built for speed or agility, so they maneuvered around one another with slow, dignified grace. And yet each change in altitude or course came from a flurry of orders, confirmations, and adjustments. The missiles that streaked past them punctuated the long, tense moments of waiting, pulled them back into real time.

  At last they leveled out, and the room let up a collective sigh of relief.

  A man jogged and stumbled from the aft end of the deck to jabber something at Geist, who smiled.