The Song of the Dead

by Carrie Patel

  “We have successfully established a position over the airship Chasseur,” Geist announced. The others cheered – the weapons master hugged the helmsman, and the pair stationed by the elevator panel shared a quick handshake. “Be on the alert, for they will cherch for a way around or above us, und we cannot risk their mid-range guns. Martens,” he said to the weapons master, “focus the cannon on the target behind us. If we must escape, I do not want to have to dodge their attack.”

  The woman nodded and busied herself with the knobs and scopes of the weapons panel. For several tense moments, the battle played out in the turning of wheels, the flipping of levers, and the spinning of dials as the crew of the Glasauge sought to maintain their spot directly over the Chasseur.

  Martens, meanwhile, fired one missile after the next until a bright, violent glow of orange briefly lit the windows. A triumphant cry came from down the hall. The pilot house erupted in cheers and embraces once more.

  “Bravo!” Geist said, clapping the weapons master on the shoulder. “Goot, Martens.”

  Malone released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She didn’t much feel like celebrating the fiery death of a few dozen strangers, especially when the battle was far from over.

  “Four plus,” said the man by the speaking horn nodding to Geist and then Malone.

  “Maintain our position relative to the Chasseur,” he said. “We can pick each of them off so long as–”

  Something screamed past the windows and made a glowing splash in the sea just past them.

  The man with the speaking horn yelled something in the Continent’s motley tongue. But Malone read “behind and above” in his panicked hand gestures.

  Some of their pursuers, at least, were willing to sacrifice the Chasseur.

  Geist was translating these directions into orders for Martens when the floor shuddered and began tilting upwards.

  A massive gray shape loomed in the windows and blotted out the sea below. The sight alone would have been bad enough, but then Malone saw the horror and panic on the faces of the crew.

  Malone gulped a breath. “Are they–”

  “They will knock us out of the sky!” Geist said. Metal shrieked as the Chasseur’s envelope scraped the Glasauge’s hull. “And they will destroy their own ship, the idiots!”

  Another projectile splashed into the ocean. This one was closer.

  “At this rate, they don’t have much to lose,” Malone said.

  Another crewman rushed into the pilot house and grabbed Geist’s arm, pointing at the ceiling. Malone didn’t catch much, but she heard, “Uber, uber!”

  “They’re going to box us in,” Malone said, holding on for balance. “Box us in and bombard us.”

  Geist said nothing, but his sudden pallor was confirmation enough. He issued another string of commands to the crew, most of whom were holding onto the panels and bulkheads around them. They dialed back throttles and spun wheels. They were slowing.

  “You can’t fight them,” Malone said. “There are too many to–”

  “I know when to flee,” Geist said. Sure enough, they weren’t slowing, they were turning and rising. And the Chasseur was sliding past beneath them. The other airships would be mostly behind them now, so they’d only have to worry about enemy fire from one direction.

  So long as they could outrun their pursuers.

  “How fast can the Glasauge go?” Malone asked.

  “Not fast enough. But we will have cover.”

  Before Malone could ask anything else, a luminous mass of storm clouds swung into view. They rose almost from the sea to the upper reaches of the sky, flashing with lightning.

  “It is probable they sink us,” Geist said. “But it is also probable they dissuade our pursuers, no? Onward.”

  The helmsman tipped the throttle forward, and the airship sped on.

  “You may want to find someplace secure,” he said to Malone. “If we make it into the storm then the next moments may be violent.” If it weren’t for their peril, Geist’s understatement would have been laughable.

  She would just as soon have stayed to see how it all played out, but it occurred to her that she ought to check on Lachesse.

  The airship tilted steeply upward just as she reached the stairs. She held on to the railing, squeezing past rushing crew members and making her way down in a careful sidestep.

  The cabin deck was in as much chaos as the command deck above. Already the airship began to rattle and jump with the winds outside. People rushed to and fro, hastily dressing themselves, grabbing supplies, and shouting hurried exchanges. The lounge was empty, but Lachesse was in her cabin, Chernev busying himself at her side.

  Lachesse’s face was pale, but her eyes were open. They widened at Malone.

  “You survived,” Malone said.

  The whitenail’s eyelids fluttered with exasperation. “Skies above, I should hope so. I only took one.”

  Heat rose in Malone’s throat. She felt embarrassed and angry all at once. “You should have told me what you were doing. You’re lucky I didn’t abandon my search to come back for you.”

  Lachesse smiled. “You’re not the fretting type, Malone. I knew you’d do what was necessary. Besides, it all worked out in the end.” Another sharp ascent rolled Lachesse to the edge of her bunk and against the bulkhead.

  “Maybe not for long,” Malone said. “We’re under attack.”

  Chernev glanced discreetly around and nodded, his eyes sober and round. “They come from the Continent,” he said. They dropped several feet at once, and Malone’s stomach lurched.

  “Except they didn’t steal their ships, did they?” Malone asked.

  Chernev grimaced and occupied himself with the contents of his bag. “This is a question for Geist.”

  Lachesse coughed. “What did you learn?”

  Malone summarized the events since their last meeting as briefly as she could, raising her voice around the shouting of the crew and the groan of metal. The Glasauge was bustling and rattling along, but Malone doubted it was intended to maneuver like this for extended periods of time.

  Lachesse raised her eyebrows. “So, Geist released you when he realized he’d given you too much credit.”

  “When he realized I was working with you and not with whoever killed Sharad.”

  “Who is, I presume, still at large,” Lachesse said. Malone was dimly aware of the whitenail staring at her through heavy-lidded eyes. “You have that air about you.”

  “What?”

  “The one you have just before you say something dreadful and disastrous,” said Lachesse.

  Even Chernev was looking on with a sense of foreboding.

  “Something Geist said – our pursuers, they know the Glasauge doesn’t have Roman Arnault. Which means someone on board got a message out.”

  “Or these pursuers made it to Recoletta and caught up,” Lachesse said.

  “Did you see any other airships in pursuit? Before today?” Malone asked Chernev.

  The cook glanced between the two women, seemingly considering whether there was a reason not to answer. “No other ships,” he said, making an effort to speak slowly. “Not since leaving the Continent.” The airship rumbled again. Light streaked by in the distance. The drone of the storm built outside.

  Malone remembered the wide stretches of blank space on the maps in the navigation room. She shook her head. “They couldn’t have followed the Glasauge to Recoletta, found out that Arnault had already left, and caught up to us here, all without getting spotted somewhere in between.”

  “Too great a coincidence,” Lachesse said.

  “And too big a space. What’s likelier is that someone sent a message providing the Glasauge’s location. And revealing that Arnault wasn’t on the ship.”

  “What kind of message?” the whitenail asked.

  “I don’t know.” Malone nodded at Chernev. “But he does.”

  The cook had been fidgeting with the same strip of bandage, winding and unwind
ing it into a loose curl of cloth. He bit his lip but said nothing.

  “Chernev,” Malone said, “if you know something, you need to tell us. Now.”

  He cleared his throat. “Geist–”

  “Is busy trying to keep the Glasauge in the air. And if you want to help me do the same, you’ll tell me how someone could have gotten a message to the Continent.”

  He frowned, bit his lip again, and finally let out a big puff of air, like a man surfacing after holding his breath a long while. “It must be the pigeons.”

  Malone wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “Pigeons?”

  “Naturalleesh. They transport messages. Geist guards – guarded them in his office. For crucial matters only.”

  It was starting to come together. “But someone let them out. The night Sharad was killed.”

  Chernev only hesitated a moment before nodding.

  “Then we must be close to land. To the Continent,” Lachesse said.

  “Ya,” Chernev said. “Stark.” That also explained how the fleet of airships had converged so perfectly.

  The airship shuddered again. This time, Malone felt the rattle in the walls.

  The view outside the window was a boiling gray soup. The Glasauge shook and jounced like a carriage rolling through pocked and uneven streets.

  “Is there a way off this ship? I mean, a way to escape and leave it behind?” Malone asked. It sounded like a foolish question, but Chernev’s eyes lit with recognition.

  “The rafts. But you must be near the ocean to use them,” he said.

  Malone’s mind quickened with a suspicion. “The rafts – where are they?”

  The cook pursed his lips. Lying in bed, Lachesse somehow mustered all of her whitenail authority to glare at him. “Tell her,” she said.

  “The lower deck,” he said. “The orange box by the gran cargo port.”

  Malone sprang from the room and hurried down the narrow corridor. The deck rocked and bobbed underfoot, flinging her into the walls and the panicked crew squeezed between them. The press of bodies clogged the way, but Malone squeezed and elbowed her way to the stairs, ignoring cries of protest.

  More of the crew had crowded onto the cargo deck, but there was room enough for everyone to spread out. They stood around at nervous attention, as though they were all waiting for something to happen. Malone climbed onto a stack of pallets to scan the deck.

  A bright orange crate nestled at the other side of the deck like a beacon in the darkness.

  Malone fought her way to it. It was still shut, and as she laid her hand on the lid someone else grabbed her arm.

  “We wait,” said a man with a crooked nose.

  At least she could be sure no one would tamper with the rafts. “Fine,” she said, “where–”

  A sudden ascent pulled Malone’s guts into her knees and knocked her off her feet. She fell into the person behind her and tried to steady herself against a tangle of flailing limbs. When she righted herself, the man with the crooked nose was holding to the orange crate with a white-knuckled grip.

  They were still rising – Malone felt it in the steady pull of the deck.

  “What’s happening?” she asked the man.

  “Abrupt ascent,” he said. “The winds push us, we rise, and the gas bags must decharge. Or explose.” His eyes were white with animal terror.

  Malone pushed her way back to the stairs. She had to get back to the control deck.

  She pushed her way through the throng as the deck swooped and bounced. Once she got past the stairs, the way was clearer. Probably because most of the off-duty crew had already crowded into the cargo bay. Either way, she heard Geist yelling before she even reached the command deck.

  The pilot house was chaos. The man with the speaking horn was shouting into it, plugging an ear with one finger. One crewman was leaning against a bulkhead, feeling at a bloody spot on the side of her head. Three others were staring at the elevator panel, and it wasn’t clear which of them Geist was yelling at.

  What was clear was that the Glasauge was out of control, and they didn’t know how to stop it. But Malone had a suspicion.

  Something wet drizzled onto the back of her neck. She touched the spot, and her fingers came away red with blood. She looked up. More was trickling through the seam in the plating.

  She climbed the ladder to the engine room. This time, she didn’t care who saw her.

  The engineering deck was strangely calm, the shouts from below muffled and distorted by layers of metal and by coughing, grumbling machinery. The air was thick with leaking steam and engine grease.

  And blood.

  A boot lay still against a backdrop pumping pistons. Malone rounded the corner and recognized Gonzalo, the hapless engineer she’d spied nights ago. His body was still warm, but his pulse had already died, and blood trickled through the grating around his head. An oil-smeared print led deeper into the deck.

  Malone crept ahead. Something buzzed near the other end of the deck. She dimly recognized it as the speaking horn.

  Gonzalo’s more competent counterpart was lying next to a burst pipe. She was breathing, but just barely. Her knuckles were worn red, and a seam had torn at the shoulder of her uniform. There had been a fight, and the victor had moved onward, where drops of blood now flecked the grating.

  The horn buzzed again. Malone pressed forward, following the noise and the trail of blood.

  She moved as quietly as she could, but she needn’t have worried. When she was almost in sight of the speaking horn, a rhythmic clanking began.

  The culprit was kneeling by a boxy apparatus, a wrench in one hand and a hammer in the other. A toolbox lay several feet away, its contents scattered and sliding around on the rocking deck. The woman was hammering one end of the wrench, heedless of the blood on her tools and frantically trying to loosen one of the bolts on the front of the device. Just beyond her was a lever with a bright yellow handle with the words “GAS LEVAGE” written above it. It was toggled all the way to the left, the indicator below it at the end of a vivid band of red.

  The woman looked up at Malone, her brow shining and eyes bright. It was Phelan.

  Malone held her ground and eyed the overturned toolbox. It was slightly farther from Phelan, but not far enough that Phelan wouldn’t get a good crack at her skull before she could grab anything.

  But Phelan was smiling at her with relief. “So many times I wanted to spreck with you. So many times I considered it,” she said. Her words sounded all the more mad for her precise, Continental speech.

  The deck swooped beneath them.

  Malone wasn’t sure where this was going. “I’m here now,” she said, hoping to soothe Phelan and draw her out further.

  She took a careful step toward the fallen tools.

  “Yah,” Phelan said, her eyes fever-bright. “I always desired to ask of him. Now there is so little time.”

  A downdraft pummeled the Glasauge. Malone’s stomach fluttered as the invisible hand of gravity lifted her up half a foot and dropped her back down.

  “You’re talking about Arnault,” she said. “Roman Arnault.”

  “You knew him well, ya?” Phelan said “him” with the kind of throaty reverence that Sato had adopted when speaking about the Library.

  Now was not the time to point out that she had almost killed him on a couple of occasions and had wanted to on many more. “Let’s get to the rafts,” she said. “Then you can ask me anything you want. We’ll have all the time in the world.”

  That seemed to remind Phelan of something, and she renewed her assault on the panel. “No. Time.” She punctuated her words with hammer blows, saying more Malone didn’t understand.

  The airship groaned, and the steady ascent pressed Malone gently into the deck. She eyed the lever, stuck where it was in the red. “Phelan, let me move that lever over. We can–”

  “No!” Phelan looked up at Malone, and for an instant Malone thought the woman was about to rush at her. “Do you not comprend? We m
ust alles elevate. Alles go down.” She shook her head and relaxed. “There is no other way.”

  The slanting, skewing gravity pressed Malone against the bulkhead and slid a fallen hammer a few inches closer to her.

  Phelan grabbed at the panel for balance, and Malone took a small step forward while the woman was distracted. She just needed a few more diversions.

  “What’s the one thing you’ve always wanted to know about him?” Malone asked.

  Phelan sighed loudly, throwing all her weight onto the wrench.

  “There must be something,” Malone said, sliding one foot forward.

  Phelan eased off the wrench. “There is a history that he can recount the complete life of a person from the touch of a hand. Is it vert?”

  Malone was stunned. “You’re talking about miracles,” she said.

  Phelan laid the wrench across her lap and wiped her brow with her other hand. If she would just move it a little farther away, Malone might have a chance.

  “He has a talent to comprend the past,” Phelan said.

  Malone swallowed. “When we find him together, you can ask him yourself.”

  Phelan laughed and shook her head sadly. “The honor–”

  Something distant buckled overhead. Malone winced at the sound, half-expecting an explosion to follow. Slowly, as the Glasauge’s nose began to dip, Malone’s world tilted to the right.

  The hammer slid out of view between a bank of pipes.

  “Phelan, take us down. We’ll die up here.” Malone braced herself against a humming panel.

  “I cannot let them find him!” Phelan said, throwing all her weight onto the wrench again. The bolt came loose with a snap. She laughed with delirious joy and worked faster, unscrewing it.

  “Arnault is just a man,” Malone said, easing forward again. “A very clever, complicated man.”

  Phelan set the wrench at her side and set to work on the bolt with her fingers. She was unarmed. If Malone could take her by surprise, then maybe –

  “He is our sauveur,” Phelan said. “And they desire to assassinate him.”

  Malone stopped. “Who wants to kill Roman?”

  “Geist und the rest, they–”