The Song of the Dead

by Carrie Patel

  Jane took his face in her hands and kissed him. After a moment’s hesitation, he yielded.

  “You are a brave and maddening man, and I love you,” she said.

  He kissed her again, this time matching her ardor with his own.

  The curtain drew back. Light and sound wafted into the compartment. Jane and Roman pulled away, staring at the table and biting back mischievous grins as the steward stammered apologies and cleared the table.

  So much for any hope of privacy.

  The curtain slid shut again. Jane looked back at Roman and for a moment saw only the whites of his eyes and his gleaming teeth in the semidarkness.

  “If that’s the story behind your ancestor,” she said, “then what does anyone want with the vault now?”

  His smile faded. “Over time, people began telling a happier story of what Faraj Arnault did. Unfortunately, that means they’ve forgotten that whatever remedy he left behind is a danger.”

  Gooseflesh prickled her skin. “You think what’s in there could still kill?”

  “I think he sealed his laboratory for a reason. And I’ve never been an optimist.”

  And yet the talk of old, mysterious technologies reminded her of another.

  She found the book and showed it to him.

  “With so many old stories about stories, I was wondering how you tell which ones are real,” she said.

  Chapter 21

  Collision Course

  The ride on the storm-tossed sea was a blur of heaving waves, cold spray, and vomit. Malone hunkered down in the life raft with a dozen or so other shivering bodies, helpless to do anything but wait.

  Hours passed. Gray morning blurred the sky, and a whistle split the air – two short blasts and one long. One of Malone’s fellow passengers answered back in kind, with one long and two short. Somewhere in the distance, an identical call shrieked over the dying storm.

  A light crested the waves. Then a prow. The other survivors let forth a ragged cheer, and soon they were being pulled aboard, wrapped in blankets, and plied with mugs of warm water and hot caffee, which Malone discovered she liked only marginally more than the room-temperature variety. Still, the heat felt good.

  Then they were headed off toward another orange fleck bobbing in the distance.

  Malone took stock of the crowd with her. Her fellow survivors seemed to be doing the same, questioning one another in low, concerned voices, answering with the shaking of heads and squeezing of shoulders.

  She’d lost track of Lachesse somewhere in the fall, the crashing waves, and the scramble to the rafts. She’d told herself that the whitenail must have been pulled into one of the others, but she wasn’t among the shivering, huddled shapes now.

  Malone went to the front of the boat to wait.

  Eventually, they drew close to the next life raft and hauled its bedraggled passengers aboard – men and women in the poorly sized airship uniforms, shrugging into blankets and embracing waiting comrades and cups of caffee.

  The last person to climb aboard was Geist. He met Malone’s gaze and shook his head.

  Malone went to the back of the boat to watch the sea. Just in case.

  Her third cup of caffee was cold by the time Geist approached her.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “The jump was risky for us all. We lost eleven persons. But none would be here now without your rasch action.”

  “And hers.” But she hadn’t been fast enough. It was a familiar and painful feeling. And it was impossible not to think about Sundar at the library and the inspectors at the train station, all of whom would have been alive if she had figured out what was happening just a little faster.

  Geist only nodded. For a few minutes, they stood in blessed silence. Malone was glad, at least, that he didn’t offer any soothing platitudes about Lachesse or her death or what it meant. She was pretty certain the whitenail would have considered it empty nonsense.

  Malone thought back to the explosives. “You always intended to destroy the Glasauge, didn’t you?”

  “It is a most practical way to feign death. Though I was hoping to do it in a more controlled manner.”

  “But you stole it. And dressed your band of thieves in other people’s uniforms.” She should have felt more satisfaction than she did at piecing things together.

  “You make it sound easy.”

  It was remarkable, really. But something was still missing. The purpose of Geist’s journey – his motive for crossing the sea, the reason she was still alive and Lachesse now dead. She thought back to her final, brief conversation with Phelan. “You always meant to kill Roman Arnault. Not to save him.”

  Geist hesitated before he answered. “That is also vert.”

  “Why did you lie?” She wasn’t angry yet. Just curious.

  He blinked at her, owlish in his bemusement. “You told me you tried to save him. You went to the gibbet for his sake.”

  “So you told me what you thought I wanted to hear.”

  “Naturalleesh.” He shrugged.

  A shrill, quivering melody sang through her blood. It was more than just the caffee. “Why do you want to kill Arnault?”

  Geist stared into the depths of his own cup. “One wishes for something starker to drink, no?” He drained it and set it at his feet. “This will have to suffice.” He reached into his jacket – the dry one he’d been given after coming aboard – and produced a long cigarette and a metal box as long as Malone’s thumb and twice as wide. He turned his back to the wind and struck a flame from the box, lighting the end of his cigarette.

  He took a deep drag, closing his eyes and sighing in a way that was almost obscene.

  “We could not risk the flamme on the Glasauge. Forgive me, this is a long-delayed plaisure.” He blew a stream of smoke from his nostrils. His eyes were still closed when he resumed talking. “I told you that Roman Arnault possesses something belonging to the Continent. Perhaps it is more vert to say that he himself belongs to the Continent. Und his ancestors, und whatever children he may sire, all are our heritage.”

  “You’re talking about the vault,” Malone said. Arnault had explained that it – whatever it was – wouldn’t open without him.

  Geist’s eyes snapped open. He blinked through the smoke. “You know of this?”

  “Now would be the time to tell me more.”

  He took another puff. “Roman is very special to the Continent. His ancestor developed a cure that saved us from a devastating disease.”

  Something clicked in Malone’s brain. “The ‘Pesteland.’ This disease afflicted us too.”

  Geist hesitated again, but nodded. “Ya. Und more gravely.”

  “Then why would you want to kill Roman?”

  “Because the people venerate him.”

  Malone had seen that much in Phelan’s strange devotion to a man she would never meet. And yet there had to be more to it.

  Geist leaned on the railing in a gesture that seemed unnaturally informal for him. “His family has been in power for centuries, guarded in their manor outside Nouvelle Paris. When he and his parents disappeared years ago, there were those of us who rejoiced. Perhaps, at last, we could resolve our own problems instead of depending on these inbred aristocrats.”

  “But nothing changed,” Malone said. This much, at least, was familiar.

  “No. For one, he had several cousins of the same line.” He tapped ash onto the railing, watching the grains blow away.

  “So why not leave Roman in Recoletta?”

  “I gladly would have. But things worsen here – there are new tensions with Salvage and new questions of how to deal with the buried cities, especially after your conflicts.” His lips puckered around his cigarette, as if the very topic were distasteful.

  Warning bells rang in Malone’s head. “What do you know about our conflicts?”

  “Mostly what the man Sato told us. That the buried cities are in a state of disaster, led by corrupt and dangerous politiques.” He flicked another speck of ash over the rai
ling.

  That sounded like Sato, all right. “You never told me you knew him.”

  He shrugged. “I did not know him personally. Und you did not ask.”

  “Let me guess. He also told you Roman was back in Recoletta.”

  He squinted at her through the smoke. “Your tone – I cannot comprend if you are joking. But ya, of course he told. No one esteemed him at first – for a time, everyone was telling histories that the missing Arnault was a beggar, a highwayman, or some other romantic nonsense.” He waved the smoke away with his free hand. “But Sato’s story eventually won him much influence.”

  This was sounding all too familiar. “Did he start trouble here, too? Is that how you came to oppose the Arnaults?”

  Geist was quiet for a moment. “It was a longer process. But as I said, he was influential for a time.”

  “I’ll bet he enjoyed that,” Malone said. For all Sato’s railing against Recoletta’s rulers and elites, she’d seen few people relish the theatrics as much as he had.

  “Ach, I am thinking so.” Geist’s eyes flared at some private memory.

  But that still didn’t explain Geist’s excursion to Recoletta. “What changed? Why come for Roman now?”

  “He became the last of his bloodline. The last Arnault, the last one capable of opening the vault.” Geist took a deep drag on his cigarette and stared out at the horizon. “The Continent is too tied to the past. Sometimes I envy your people. Your buried cities. You at least had the ability to start fresh.”

  Malone had never thought of things that way and wasn’t sure that anyone else in Recoletta would, either. “Sometimes an imagined history is a greater burden than the real thing.”

  He laughed. “How true. Whatever we do not have, we invent.”

  “So,” Malone said, “what now?”

  “Now, we go to the Continent. Und we try to intercept Arnault before he reaches Nouvelle Paris. For I am not thinking Arnault traveled so far to live on the boats.”

  Malone couldn’t imagine that Jane would have, either. But she remembered the maps she’d seen of the Continent, broad and dense with cities. There was no telling where on it Roman and Jane might be. Assuming they’d even reached the Continent yet.

  Geist seemed to read the question in her eyes. “My people say Salvage passed just south of us. Into the same sturm. The closest cities would be Nantes-Neugeboren und Renaissance du Rochelle.” He traced a line in the air with his cigarette.

  Malone tried to make sense of this new tangle of syllables. “How far are these… places from each other?”

  Geist shrugged. “A hundred und twenty kilometers. Perhaps more.”

  The distance meant no more to her than the names. “A hundred what? More than two hours’ walk?”

  He laughed. “Assuredly.”

  “Fine. It’s a lot of ground to cover.”

  “I hoped to be better prepared. I would have notified my colleagues here if not for the loss of my messenger pigeons.” Geist sniffed.

  Malone waved the concern away. No point in dwelling on how things might have gone more smoothly. “The question is, what would they do next?”

  “They would undoubtedly surrender themselves to the nearest constables,” Geist said. “Such constables would then escort them to Nouvelle Paris under heavy guard.” He frowned, picking a speck of tobacco from his lip.

  But something about the idea didn’t feel right. Jane was too cautious. Too distrustful of authority. Not that she could blame the young woman. “Jane will want to move carefully. Quietly. She’ll get the lay of the land before she lets Roman reveal himself to anyone.”

  Geist laughed. “Are all laundresses such masterminds in the buried cities? Besides, Roman will hardly have to reveal himself. If the family resemblance is as strong as I am told, then people will recognize him.”

  Malone chewed on the question. “How would someone keeping a low profile get to Nouvelle Paris?”

  He rubbed his goatee. “There are many methods. Overland, one can go by foot or by carriage. But there will be boocoo stops und boocoo villages. Faster and easier is by airship.”

  “Like the one we were on?” Malone asked.

  He held one hand out and made a balancing motion. “A little different. Made to carry passengers, not soldiers. Und made for shorter distances.”

  Malone thought it over. There were still a million places Jane and Roman could be, including a watery grave somewhere in the middle of the sea.

  But if they’d wanted to flee, there were other refuges beyond the buried cities they could have sought. Yet Salazar’s account had them headed toward the floating city.

  And as much as Malone wanted to believe otherwise, she couldn’t imagine Jane – the one who had shot Augustus Ruthers, stirred up the masses, and destroyed Recoletta’s fragile peace – being content on a rusting flotilla or in some foreign wilderness. No, if she’d come this far with Arnault, she wouldn’t stop until she’d reached the Continent’s seat of power.

  “They’re on one of the airships,” Malone said. “Or they will be.” Depending on when, exactly, they’d arrived.

  Geist frowned. “Are you so certain?”

  “Of course not. But we’ve got to bet on something if we’re to have any chance of intercepting them.”

  He examined the dwindling nub of his cigarette. “I will beg your pardon, but that is still the problem. Four airships leave daily from Renaissance du Rochelle to Nouvelle Paris. Five more from Nantes-Neugeboren. The journey is nearly fifteen hours. Once they are airborne, we cannot identify Arnault or his associate, let alone intercept them.”

  “There must be ways to contact the airships if they’re going to be airborne that long,” Malone said.

  “Messages coded in lights,” Geist said. “But these means are not available to us.”

  The plan was still forming in her mind, but only Geist and the other Continentals would know if it would actually work.

  “You said you’re a wanted man here – that you stole an airship.”

  “Indeed.” Geist’s tone was measured and careful.

  “If someone spread the rumor that you had been spotted at the stations – whatever you call them – at Nance and Rennysense…”

  “Renaissance du Rochelle.”

  “If someone spotted you there, any airship en route from either city would be searched. Maybe grounded, right?”

  “Maybe possible. Certainment, the passengers would be interrogated. Identified,” Geist said, realization dawning on his face.

  “You said Arnault would be recognizable here,” said Malone.

  “Ya.” Geist smiled, sucking at the end of his cigarette again. “Und the gendarmerie will show up in force to await his arrival. This means they will reach Nouvelle Paris, but we can do little to prevent that much. This, at least, will be easier than searching every arriving airship.”

  “You said you have supporters,” Malone said, catching some of his confidence in the plan. “Once you know when and where he’s arriving, you can create a distraction and nab him in the confusion.”

  Already Geist was planning – Malone saw it in his eyes.

  “I want one promise,” she said.

  “Ya?” It wasn’t an agreement.

  “Arnault’s yours,” Malone said. She wasn’t happy about handing him over, but as there was little she could do to stop Geist, she might as well trade him. “But I’m taking Jane back to Recoletta.” At least someone might still face justice.

  “This is fair,” Geist said. He didn’t mention that Arnault was not hers to give, and he didn’t have to. “It is a worthy trade.” He tossed the butt of his cigarette into the water. “It will be a shame to return from the dead so soon,” he said. “I was looking forward to a little anonymity.”

  She was asleep when they reached the Continent. As so often happened, she hadn’t realized how tired she was until she lay down. Once she did, it was as though only seconds passed before the jostling of the boat and low, urgent voices jolted h
er awake.

  They were moored in a sheltered cove. The others were unloading themselves and a few basic supplies. Geist was overseeing the action, a cigarette in one hand and caffee in the other, in much the same state as she’d left him.

  A wall towered over them and stretched along the coast. The sun was veiled in gray clouds, but Malone had the sense that it was early afternoon.

  She ran her fingers through her hair – which was stiff with salt and greasy with oil – and straightened her borrowed clothes. They were a rumpled, stained mess, but at least they were dry.

  Geist approached. “Come. Martens rides already for Renaissance du Rochelle und Valenti for Nantes-Neugeboren. We have many kilometers to Nouvelle Paris.”

  Malone followed him onto an old, barnacle-encrusted dock and then land. It felt good to have solid ground under her feet once more. “What’s our plan for getting around?” she asked Geist.

  “We must be prudent. The Continent knows my face. Und those of my associates.” He gave her a businesslike smile.

  “I can’t buy train tickets for everyone.”

  He seemed to miss the joke. “This is not necessary. We will take the cycles.”

  Before Malone could ask what those were, they’d passed through a door in the wall and into a wide, rolling meadow. There were no immediate signs of habitation – no buildings, no rising tendrils of smoke, not even a footpath – but tree-topped hills blocked the horizon in the near distance. And propped against the wall was a row of waist-high contraptions with two thin wheels and a mechanism of gears and chains.

  No sooner had they reached the other side than Geist and his crew turned to one another again with resigned, doleful expressions. They embraced, exchanged kisses on the cheek, and muttered low, fervent words of farewell.

  Malone was still examining the wheeled contraptions, discerning with rising apprehension where a person might sit on such a device, and just how far forward the handlebars would pull them, when a man with straw-blond hair approached, wrapped her up in a quick hug, and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  “Mercy,” he said. Before Malone could say anything, he had melted back into the crowd, only to be replaced by another man, another embrace, another expression of awkwardly sincere gratitude.