He’d seen columns like that before. Usually on the far horizon. Spears in the sky bidding him to go around. Had seen the bodies and ships of those who’d flown too close to them, too. Broken husks, cracked in so many pieces they looked as if they’d fallen down the rocky side of an endless canyon. Half-frozen and half-mashed.
Never had he seen one so close it filled his view, dwarfed his vision and his hope.
“What–” Pelkaia began, but he cut her off.
“That’s a cloud suck. A god’s tower. That’s death.”
“Captain!” Coss struggled toward them, the growing winds already swirling clockwise over them. “The watchers are gaining again.”
Detan looked to the watchers, standing between them and Petrastad. Looked to the cloud suck, standing between him and Ripka. Made his choice.
“Right,” he said, bracing himself, straightening his spine. “Pelkaia. Use what you’ve got left and block the watchers’ view of us. Throw up a mirror of the cloud suck, right in their path if you can. We’re going the long way around, and we don’t want them following. We’ll have enough problems without ’em on our heels.”
“Just blow the cursed–”
He slammed a chock-plug in to brace the wheel and turned, grabbing the front of Pelkaia’s shirt in one fist. She gasped, startled, as he jerked her forward to stare eye-to-eye with him.
“I said no.”
“Think you can intimidate me, too? I’m not my crew, Honding. I know the make of you. Now blow that skies-cursed ship.”
The crew went quiet, every last eye on the deck glued to Detan and their captain. He felt them all. Felt them probing at him, wondering. Wondering if he’d blow more than the watcher vessel, if Pelkaia pushed him just right. Wondering if they could bash his head in before he got the chance. Detan cleared a rough catch in his throat and lowered his voice to a raspy whisper. “No innocents.”
“You think they are?”
“You think Ripka wasn’t?”
She swallowed, catching his meaning. Watchers were just doing their jobs. Doing the best they could to keep their cities safe, never mind their masters.
“We clear?” he said.
“As these skies.”
He released her. She spat at his feet. They stared at one another, nothing in all the world except Pelkaia’s storm-grey eyes tinged with green, her skin of selium peeling in the rain, her thin lips twitching with all the foul words she held back. To put up a mirror to scare off the watchers would be to lose the sel involved in its making. That’d be it. The whole of their reserve. A fortune lost to the storm. To running. She knew it. He knew it. He didn’t dare look anywhere but at her cold, hard stare.
Detan refused to say another word. Just stood steady, and waited for the crest of her anger to break. Her cheeks twitched. She reached up to drag her fingers through wet hair.
“Won’t be any hiding the Larkspur after this,” she said.
Detan turned his back on her, gripped the smooth controls of the ship he’d planned to steal all that time ago.
“Then I suggest you practice putting on Thratia’s face.”
She stomped off, Coss trudging at her heels. Detan shut them out of his mind. Shut the howl of the wind and the cursing of the crew away. Shuttered aside the cold on his skin and the weakness suffusing his bones. Damped the white ember of rage blossoming in his chest.
When he opened his eyes again he was centered, calm. Only Tibs’s voice mattered now. Tibs’s voice, and the feel of the wind.
Tibs marked a course, and Detan began to steer around the rising storm.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The watchers were suicidal. Either that or so frothed with anger at having been played by a couple of conmen and a doppel that they couldn’t see the danger. Didn’t much matter the reason. It only mattered that, as Detan steered the bucking Larkspur through troubled winds, the watchers’ inferior craft dogged their heels.
“Are they trying to get themselves killed?” he called to Tibs above the whip of the winds.
“Are we?”
Detan grimaced and re-squared his stance, gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles went white. Maybe he was as mad as the watchers, but at least Detan figured he had a good reason. His options were limited, after all. He either turned around and got himself arrested in Petrastad, or risked the storm to reach the Remnant. Neither path had a particularly sunny outlook. He told himself he was doing it for Ripka, New Chum, and the hope of Nouli. Told himself the risk was worth it, that it’d be all right in the end.
Didn’t matter what he told himself. The storm was the storm, and every new gust threatened to cartwheel them through the clouds.
The cloud suck towered on his left, the mighty edifice of wind and rain and lightning indifferent to his struggles. Detan wrinkled his nose at it in defiance. Couldn’t ever count on the weather to have any manners. The wheel gave a shiver, just to shake his nerves up some more, and the nose of the ship jerked upward.
Someone let out an undignified squeal. The podium shuddered as a deckhand rolled into it. The wheel jerked from Detan’s hands and spun, slamming into a half-pulled chock peg. Wood cracked, split down the middle, shards scattered across the deck. He grabbed for the wheel but the ship swerved to larboard, dipping as the wheel forced the wings to bank.
His heels kissed the sky as his ass became acquainted with the deck. He swore, pain exploding in his backside, teeth jarred by the impact. Scrambling, slipping, he hauled himself half-upright and fumbled for the wheel. A gust rocked the ship, tossing him. He missed, grabbed the little cherry red wheel instead. It was tough, whoever had made it hadn’t wanted it pulled without real effort, but Detan’s weight hauled down on it as he scrambled to his feet, not realizing what he held.
The ship dropped. Hard.
“Close it off!” Tibs screeched. With a curse Detan grabbed the main wheel and yanked it over, setting the Larkspur straight again. He got his wits together enough to realize what he’d done and cranked the cherry wheel back until it wouldn’t turn anymore. Too late to do much good. He’d purged one of the buoyancy sacks. A neat trick, if a sel-sensitive were prepared for it, ready to take control of the sel and push it out with enough force to speed the ship along. But none of them had been ready for it. And now the ship was sinking.
“Jettison!” he yelled loud as he could above the winds.
Crew scrambled. Barrels of water and coils of rope and sacks of cloth were heaved to the sea. The cabin doors were yanked open, every scrap of inessential materiel thrown to the yawning black. The ship settled into an unsteady neutral. Detan shook so hard he had to set a fresh chock in the wheel to keep from vibrating them into a turn. That was too damned close.
He rose to his toes and peered over the top of the podium. A wind-whipped deckhand staggered to his feet, looking like he’d kissed the wrong end of a porcupine.
“You all right?” Detan called above the winds.
The deckhand shook his head to clear it and prodded at his newly purpled cheek. “Whole enough.” He tested the tie-line hooked to his belt that held him to the ship. “Still secured.”
“Wonderful.” Detan beamed at him. The deckhand beamed back. “Now don’t touch my fucking podium again.”
The deckhand blanched, cut an awkward head-bobbing bow, and scuttled back to whatever his position was.
“Good for the morale,” Tibs drawled.
“When being charming will wiggle us away from this storm, then I’ll put the manners back on.”
Detan wound up the starboard propeller, hoping the extra propulsion would force them to turn despite the winds. He’d rather use the stabilizing wings to ease into the turn at a gentle bank – or, pits, even the sails – but with the winds gusting he didn’t dare take the ship off a neutral attitude. If cloud cover washed over them again, he’d bet his new boots they’d be in the water before he could find the horizon again.
“West thirty degrees,” Tibs called.
The propeller’s gear
wheel groaned in his hand as he heaved it around. Even the fine gear ratios of Valathean engineering had a hard time gaining traction against these winds. A gust rocked the starboard, swung up out of nowhere, and the ship slewed, drawing startled yelps all around.
Detan glanced up on instinct, and regretted it as soon as his vision cleared the podium’s top. The Larkspur’s ponderous turn kept it level, but the deck was scattered with crew who’d been knocked over by the gust, dragging themselves back to their feet. A few crew had latched themselves into the auxiliary cranks on the propellers, adding their muscle to his when the wheel he controlled signaled them to heave-to. Their extra strength was, no doubt, the only thing standing between Detan’s manipulations of the ship and the force of the storm winds.
The cloud suck loomed off the prow. Wasn’t close enough for Detan to make out much detail, thank the clear skies, but it was close enough to make his skin crawl. Crackles of lightning tore through its heart, great swathes of grey-black cloud twisting around an eye bigger than the whole of Petrastad. He couldn’t see the top of it, it reached so high. The whole of the massive system bled out into a smear of steely grey. No stars peaked through those clouds. His stomach clenched.
He’d heard stories of ships that got caught too near those towers. The currents were strong enough to sweep up anyone who wandered near. Sweep them up and smash them against the ceiling of the sky. What was left of those ships, if any remains were ever found, was scattered in unrecognizable bits in too large a radius to search, some of the wood frozen solid from the great heights. The corpses fared worse.
“We’ll make it,” Tibs said, as if he could hear the direction of Detan’s thoughts. Maybe he wasn’t full of shit. Already they’d banked far enough away from the great tower that the strength of the winds began to slip, to ebb. The wheel jerked less beneath his palms, the wings trembled only slightly. A gust of hail scattered the deck, bouncing off the hardened wood and bewildered crew. A thumbnail sized chunk of ice pinged off Detan’s head and he yelped. Tibs chuckled.
“Shoulda brought a hat.”
“Shouldn’t have let a wiry scab make off with my hat.”
“Ain’t yours.”
“Fits me just fine.”
“If by fine you mean it looks clownish on that pinhead of yours, then sure.”
“You dustswallower–” He cut himself off as a ripple of panic spread across the deck. Crew members who’d been attempting to recover the cloud of selium before they’d entered the storm crowded the larboard rail. Some held hands to their mouths in mute shock, others waved arms over the edge in direction.
Curious as a cat in a cave, he made sure all the wheels were chocked before scurrying over to join the crew at the rail. His tie-line trailed out behind him, growing taut as the captain wasn’t meant to stray far from the podium when the skies were rough enough to require tying in. He made it to the rail, the rope tugging his belt behind him, leaving him open to a rather chilly gust down the backside.
Below, farther than he’d be comfortable jumping, the watcher craft was in trouble. It shimmied and slewed in the winds, the tattered remains of its sail whipping in all directions as the winds gusted up and over. Watchers scurried to and fro across the deck, not guided by a practiced hand, everyone trying to do whatever they felt was more pertinent in the moment. Detan winced. Any captain blind enough to lead a craft out into a storm like this without a prepared crew should lose his post, if they didn’t lose their life for the error first.
He clenched the rail, leaning as far forward as his tie line would let him. The Larkspur’s presence – a stable shadow above the craft – was outright ignored by the watchers. They had bigger troubles than an empress’s ransom in selium and a rogue doppel to capture.
The sel Pelkaia’s sensitives had tried to reclaim drifted through the air, pearly shimmers blending with the clouds like oil slicks. Whatever cohesion had existed within the cloud was lost to the storm and the tug-of-war game Pelkaia’s people had played with the watchers. Her crew continued on, trying to recapture what was left, but Detan knew it to be a lost cause. His strength may have been enough to gather it all up, but he wasn’t about to take that chance.
“Looks bad.” Tibs sidled up to Detan’s side, his tie-line pulling the back of his coat into a puffed-up tent.
“Don’t think they’ll make it back to Petrastad. Or the Remnant, if they can even find the heading.”
“Don’t think they need to.”
Tibs jerked his chin to the west, and Detan squinted against the wind to see what he meant. Somewhere down there in the water was a darker splotch. Oblong and ragged, one of the smaller members of the Remnant Isles pockmarked the white-capped sea, the only refuge the watchers had to hope for this far from the coast. That spit of land, where the weather would keep on being rough and food would be scarce. Or the Larkspur.
He sighed. And those watchers were probably having such a pleasant evening until he sauntered into their tower. Detan surveyed the deck for the lean, familiar frame of Pelkaia. He spotted her near the main mast, inspecting the damage. Coss was hooked in beside her, coiling a rope.
“Ho, captain!”
She glanced up, saw him waving at her, and went right back to what she was doing. Stubborn woman. Ignoring the exhaustion turning his legs to jelly, he sauntered toward her, careful not to tangle his line, and stopped when he was close enough to lean his weight against the creaking mast.
“Pelly, our courageous leader. How about showing off a soft spot on that old heart of yours and bringing our new friends aboard? It’s us or the water, I’m afraid, and I think they’d much rather be our prisoners than the sharks’.”
“Leave them for the sharks. Maybe they’ll get indigestion from my stolen selium.”
Coss flinched, but kept his head down, fussing with a knot.
Detan lowered his voice and leaned forward, angling his body to cut off Pelkaia’s view of the mast. “They’re innocents.”
“They would have killed me for my birthright. That strike you as innocent?”
“Ripka would have killed you, too.”
“She changed.”
“She had time to. Time you’re not giving those boys in blue floundering below. You save them, maybe you might win some hearts. Or are you only out to spill blood in this war of yours?”
“I didn’t start this war.”
“Just because you didn’t start this war doesn’t mean you can’t change how it’s fought.”
Coss’s head jerked up and he stared at Detan like he was seeing him for the first time. Wasn’t right to look at a soul like that, like you could see every bit of them exposed right out on the deck. It sent shivers straight down Detan’s spine. Pelkaia pursed her lips and started to protest, but a cry from the rail overrode her words.
Detan abandoned them to their repairs and hurried back to the rail, flicking his tie-line behind him to keep from becoming entangled in one more thing. He could hear Pelkaia and Coss hurrying after him, but he ignored them. He peered over the edge, and his stomach sank.
The watcher craft was badly damaged, slewing in a slow spiral toward the sea. They’d turned it around enough that it might make it to the black mass of an island, but steerage was clearly out of their hands now. One end dipped precariously, the other reached toward the clouds. The watchers’ cries were drowned out by the wind and the rain, but he could imagine them all the same. Could imagine their fear.
Sel leaked from a crack in the sinking end of the ship, the crew of Pelkaia’s Larkspur dutifully reining in what little they could reach. Detan sucked his teeth, stiffened his spine. The watchers had tied in – he’d seen that truth for himself – and they were heading straight toward a small spit of land. Some would survive. Some would be in need of medical care. Care the crew of the Larkspur could provide.
Before Detan could act, Tibs turned tight on his heels and stalked to Pelkaia’s side.
“We’re landing,” he said with a voice like calm winds. Like iron. “W
e’re going to help those people.”
Her lip curled. “Those watchers.”
“Last time I checked, watchers were people.”
“Captain–” Coss said. She snapped a fist up to silence him.
Detan held his breath. He could see the tension in Tibs’s shoulders, the tendons straining at the sides of his narrow neck, his fists held low and tight. Not a threat. Not exactly. You’d have to know Tibs well to see the anger building, the storm about to break.
“Captain,” Detan said, forcing his voice to be chipper. Tibs didn’t so much as twitch an eyebrow as Detan strolled over to his side and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It has occurred to me that many of the solutions to your present predicaments may be found in coming to the aid of the watchers below.”
She tipped her head, but her gaze remained locked tight on Tibs. “The solution to all my problems could be found in throwing you both off my ship.”
“Ah, well. While your proposed solution offers a certain ruthless charm, allow me to recommend a less messy path.”
Her hand raised in threat of a gesture. He swallowed, certain that if he allowed her to complete that motion she really would sentence them both to being tossed to the sharks.
“Hear him out,” Coss said. Her arm froze mid-motion. She said nothing.
He cleared his throat. “It has occurred to me that the Larkspur is in need of weapons and selium. Both items sure to be aboard the watcher craft, though admittedly in lesser quantity now than when they set off upon their merry chase.”
“Do you suppose I have forgotten why the Larkspur is in need of those things?”
“I’m supposing the why doesn’t matter. The need is there. You have a solution to a problem.”
Tibs said, “I suggest you take the Lord Honding’s idea to heart.”
“Lord?” Pelkaia said, but Coss slapped her on the back in feign of comradely affection, and cupped his hands around his mouth.
Coss called to the watching crew, “Man stations! We’re going down to that hunk of island to rebalance our scales!”
Break the Chains Page 22