by Alexis Hall
Having, at last, extricated myself from the conversation, I changed from the cooler of my two coats into the warmer of my two coats, assembled an overnight bag, replenished my supplies of ammunition, and set out for the Hippocrene.
The Hippocrene, for those unfamiliar with the present geography or past history of Khelathra-Ven, began its life as a spring and attached stable whereat the erstwhile kings of Leonysse would house the winged horses whose service they would sometimes acquire by means of peculiar virtue, beauty, wit, or skill at arms. Over the years the structure was expanded upon and added to, providing as it did a convenient location for all those wanting to enter the city by air. Eyries and perches were built for the various winged beasts on which foreign dignitaries would arrive and, later, as the arts and sciences governing aerial travel became better understood, great hangars and landing sites were constructed in order to accommodate the enchanted edifices and aeronautical machines that fresh generations of sorcerers, engineers, and sorcerer-engineers would bring into use. So it evolved over time into its modern form, a sprawling expanse covering much of the heath to the northwest of Athra, where one might book passage on a commercial dirigible, charter a wyvern, or, as was the case on this occasion, make contact with an exiled member of the Steel Magi.
My feelings, on ascending a stone tower to a rooftop landing platform and finding Ms. Haas waiting for me, were, to put it indelicately, mixed.
“Hurry up, Wyndham,” she called out. “We’re almost late.”
“You left me to be arrested.”
She smiled radiantly. “And look how well it went.”
“I could have been indicted for murder.”
“Oh, come now. Lawson and his ilk may be bumbling, flat-footed, addlepated, goose-witted, dunderheaded nincompoops”—it may surprise my readers to learn that she did, in fact, use the words “bumbling,” “flat-footed,” “addlepated,” “goose-witted,” “dunderheaded,” and “nincompoops”—“but even they would be unlikely to conclude that you had pierced a man’s flesh repeatedly with your canine teeth and drawn the blood from his veins without leaving any stain or blemish upon your person, and then either found some way to accelerate the cooling and decomposition such that he appeared to have been dead for two days or else returned to the scene of your crime somewhat after the event, despite having already been arrested once in the interim. You were, on balance of probabilities, safe.”
My feelings were becoming, frankly, less mixed, and not in the positive sense. “And the necromantic ritual?”
“The secrets of necromancy are well guarded, and it should be abundantly clear to anybody that you are not privy to them.”
“You understand that it is also an offence to assist in such an undertaking.”
“But you were no help at all.” She adjusted the straps on the aviator goggles she had donned during my incarceration. “On the contrary, your tedious moralising is frequently quite the opposite.”
“Which you could have told the Augurs if you hadn’t abandoned me.”
“We were in a hurry. A hurry, I might add, to do something that was your idea. I needed to secure our flight and I had every confidence in your ability to extricate yourself. Confidence that has now proven justified.”
In a strange way this did, in fact, reassure me. To a wholly objective observer it would doubtless have appeared that Ms. Haas had signalled a complete failure to understand, or even acknowledge the validity of, any of my concerns with her behaviour. But for one who knew her as I was coming to, there was a sincerity to this overly rational exegesis that was the closest thing she ever came to sentiment. Thus, I allowed myself to be mollified.
Sensing victory, Ms. Haas continued. “In any case, it is good to have you back, Captain. Welcome to the Clouded Skipper. Quite magnificent, isn’t she?”
I would not myself have chosen so theatrical a word, but it was, in this context, apt. I had seen a number of flying machines in my time, both military craft during my years amongst the Company of Strangers and civilian vessels in my university days, but none of them had quite prepared me for the Clouded Skipper. We were to travel inside a sizable cabin fashioned from solid iron, a sturdy structure into which—on closer inspection—doors and portholes had been seamlessly worked. But the great marvel of the vehicle was the vast mechanical butterfly that perched atop the cabin. It was mostly black, fashioned from finely wrought panels of interlocking metal detailed with such meticulous fineness that I could see individual hairs on its legs. Its wings were a still greater marvel: innumerable tiny scales that iridesced eerily in the moonlight, minute variations in their temper and finish creating patterns and eyespots as though it were a living creature. So impossibly delicate was their construction that they seemed almost to tremble in the breeze, as if a stray touch or careless breath might destroy them, but they possessed also the majesty of steel and the unyielding character of iron, which gave them a strength that I felt I could trust implicitly.
“Ms. Haas,” I said, somewhat startled. “How did you gain access to one of the creations of the Steel Magi?”
“It’s a long story and not entirely mine to tell. All you need to know is that the captain is no longer a magus of the order, and that I once helped him with a personal matter.”
I did not wish to press the issue, but my cautious instincts rebelled against the notion of placing myself in the power of a man who had been expelled from a secretive mystical order for crimes of undisclosed magnitude. “If I might ask,” I asked, “why precisely is he no longer a magus of the order?”
My companion patted me consolingly on the shoulder. “That is most certainly not my story to tell. But you can rest assured that the transgressions for which Blessing was stripped of his status would in no way contravene the rather idiosyncratic grab bag of superstitions you call your principles. If anything, they were foolishly commendable. Or perhaps commendably foolish.”
This did not alleviate my concerns.
“Oh, buck up, Mr. Wyndham. I’ve done far worse myself. Just this week, in fact. I mean, only this evening I left a completely innocent man to be arrested for murder.”
“And almost immediately afterwards started making jokes about it.”
“You see”—she grinned at me—“I’m simply awful. Yet here I am rushing to the rescue of an innocuous fishmonger who has been unfortunate enough not only to draw the attention of a heartless, ruthless, self-serving fiend but also to be hunted down by a vampire.”
I did not think it appropriate for Ms. Haas to be making such intimations about Miss Viola, who appeared to be making a genuine effort to better herself, but I did not get the opportunity to marshal any arguments in her defence for, at that moment, the door of the passenger cabin swung open and a gentleman appeared, who I took for our pilot. He was dark skinned and shaven-headed, dressed in ornate robes fashioned from an inconceivably fine mesh of steel rings.
“You got me out of bed,” he began, in tones more resigned than angry, “and told me I had to be ready to leave immediately. Then you made me wait for your friend. And now you are standing around outside my Skipper arguing with each other. Please board the vessel or let me go back to sleep.”
We boarded the vessel. The furnishings within were sparse but not uncomfortable: low benches bolted to the wall and upholstered with soft fabric designed to be pleasant to sit upon and not too terrible to be hurled against in the event of turbulence. Towards the rear of the chamber a pair of hammocks were available for use on longer journeys, and behind those a discreet door concealed a convenience of personal necessity. Woven steel baskets held supplies of dried fruit for the sustenance of passengers, along with canteens of water secured in pockets of netting. It seemed altogether a terribly civilised means of undertaking a long voyage.
My companion vaulted immediately into one of the hammocks and stretched out, looking every bit as comfortable as she did on the chaise at 221b Martyrs Wa
lk. Having never quite shed the habit of reserving the supine posture exclusively for sleep, I settled myself onto a bench and gave serious consideration to a dried apricot, for while I had taken umbrage at Ms. Haas’s willingness to prioritise her dinner over the life of an innocent woman, our commitment to the more moral course of action meant that I had not eaten since luncheon.
Meanwhile, our pilot had taken up a position by the windows at the front of the cabin. “Welcome to the Clouded Skipper, the only ship in Khelathra-Ven whose pilot has the misfortune of owing Shaharazad Haas a favour.”
At this, she opened an eye. “Not so. A great many aviators owe me favours. There’s Klaus Ludendorff, Jacques Pun, Nikolaj Fortescue-Blake, and, of course, Davina Wright, to name but four.”
“Davina is currently attempting a solo flight across the Dread Wastes of Bai, Jacques hates you, Fortescue-Blake couldn’t fly an ornithopter across a millpond, and Klaus Ludendorff has been dead for three years.”
“Just some of the many reasons that you were my first choice.” She gestured languidly in my direction. “By the way, this is Mr. Wyndham. It’s his fault we’re here.”
I half choked on my apricot. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. . . . um.”
“Ngoie,” he supplied. “Blessing Ngoie.”
“I most sincerely regret that it was necessary to impose upon you at this rather unfortunate hour. A young woman’s life is in danger.”
He folded his arms. “You know, Shaharazad, if you had mentioned that earlier I would have argued a lot less about helping you.”
“Yet further proof”—Ms. Haas swung smugly in her hammock—“should any be required, that it is always best to assume I am right about everything.”
“You are impossible.”
“I prefer the term ‘extraordinary.’”
I was briefly concerned that my companion’s weakness for badinage would delay us yet further on our errand of mercy but, to my great relief, the conversation ended there. Mr. Ngoie lifted his hands and a cascade of coruscating filaments tumbled down from the ceiling to entwine him. He closed his eyes and, by some invisible act of will the secrets of which are, to this day, unknown outside of the Steel Magi, urged the vessel into the sky.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Blackcrest Mountains
The flight north from Athra was more comfortable than it had any right to be while still not being, by any stretch of the imagination, at all comfortable. The passage of the Clouded Skipper was remarkably smooth, testament to the unrivalled skill of the Steel Magi. But although we were spared the constant shaking, bumping, and droning of engines that so often accompanies aerial travel I was still, in essence, trapped in a chamber approximately the size of our sitting room with a man wired to a giant butterfly and a woman who, when denied a private space in which to indulge her personal vices, retreated into an almost trancelike state of self-absorption.
Having brought a pistol and a change of clothing but no reading material, I had nothing to occupy my mind for the first leg of the journey save unproductive and unanswerable anxieties about the practicability of our current endeavour. The more I reflected on the logistics of the matter, the more convinced I became that we would reach Vedunia too late to be of assistance. I began to imagine that we would arrive to find Miss Beck a corpse and Miss Viola already transformed into the defiled bride of the Contessa. I voiced these concerns to Ms. Haas.
“Mr. Wyndham.” She sighed. “You astound me. By some miracle you have managed in one breath to be both tedious and melodramatic. Besides, if there is anyone who will take well to becoming the debased and lascivious courtesan of a demonic noblewoman, it’s Eirene.”
With which comment she returned to whatever private reflections I had stirred her from, and I did my best to catch what sleep I could before the sunrise. When I awoke a few hours later I saw through the window that we were approaching the northern edge of the sprawling, thorn-choked forest that covered what had once been Leonysse.
By noon we had reached the foothills of the Blackcrest Mountains and would, if all went well, have passed over them into Lothringar before sundown. Our first indication that all would not, in fact, go well came a few hours later in the form of a sudden, although not wholly unseasonable, darkening of the sky from the northeast. As a consequence of the uncanny smoothness with which the Clouded Skipper traversed the skyways it was difficult to be certain when the pilot was making corrections to its course and bearing. But, in this instance, our change of direction was sharp enough to jolt me from my seat and cause Ms. Haas to raise her head blearily.
The metal tendrils that held Mr. Ngoie partially uncoiled, allowing him to drift gently to the ground and turn towards us. His expression was eminently scrutable. “There are pirates coming. I told you there would be pirates coming.”
“And I told you,” said Ms. Haas, bestirring herself from the hammock, “that we would deal with it.”
“And how exactly do you intend to deal with it? The Skipper is not a warship. Her defences are limited.”
“But mine are not.” Ms. Haas strode to the doorway, producing a silver whistle on a long chain from beneath her suede-and-fleece jacket. “I intend to call forth a winged steed from the shores of distant Aldebaran, ride it out into the tempest, locate the chief miscreant, and shoot him, her, or them in the head, thus dispersing both the storm and the pirates. I shall then return the beast to the stars, before it decides to exact payment in blood, and we can proceed to Vedunia, where Mr. Wyndham will get to rescue a lady from a vampire.”
I should perhaps take this moment to explain a little more about the nature of the threat we presently faced. Readers will, of course, have heard tell of piracy on the high seas, and many will doubtless have heard also of the sky-pirates of the Blackcrest Mountains, especially since they were made so famous by Ms. Francesca Vandegrift-Osbourne’s celebrated novel Treasure Peak; or, The Mutiny of the Admiral Newton: An Adventurous Tale for Young Folks, illustrated with woodcarvings by Lady Quinella Thrumpmusket. Although many aspects of that most diverting book have been exaggerated or, indeed, fabricated for the purpose of Ms. Vandegrift-Osbourne’s narrative, several of its more pertinent details are, at least, broadly accurate. The pirates really do operate out of lairs in the Blackcrest Mountains, whence they prey upon passing ships carrying trade between the world’s northerly and southerly powers. The book is also correct in its characterisation of the pirates as travelling primarily by storm, although they will sometimes make use of captured vessels in order to transport goods and cargo. The winds upon which they habitually fly are conjured by a cadre of sorcerer-priests who trace their origins back to the earliest days of the mountain folk, long before the coming of the church.
Much like the highwayman, the gentleman thief, and (in some more recent literary treatments) the vampire, the sky-pirates are often imbued in the popular imagination with a certain romance. It would be convenient to say that this portrayal belies the real cruelty and violence of which they are capable, but this, too, would be an oversimplification. I have, over the course of my adventures, had occasion to interact with the sky-pirates in a variety of different contexts and have found that they, like most people, possess an equal capacity for both good and ill. And while I, of course, condemn the methods by which they sustain themselves, given their circumstances, living in a high and barren place on the fringes of a world that rejects them, it is not clear to me what actions they might reasonably take for their own betterment. Of course, regardless of the complexities that may underpin their lives, my first encounter with the sky-pirates of the Blackcrest Mountains, in which they made a spirited attempt to murder me and everyone I travelled with, did not present them in the most flattering light.
“That,” replied Mr. Ngoie, “is a terrible plan.”
“Too late. I’m doing it.”
Ms. Haas flung open the cabin door, exposing us to a sudden burst of wind that swept s
everal apricots out of their basket, onto the floor, and out into the yawning void beyond. Placing the whistle to her lips, she stepped out also, dropping precipitously from view. While over the years I became increasingly accustomed to Ms. Haas taking such actions, I never quite lost the habit of fearing on every occasion that she had, at last, overreached herself and simply perished. That these fears proved always unfounded may go some way towards explaining why it has taken me so long to accept that my dear friend, the sorceress Shaharazad Haas, is, alas, no more.
I started up and stumbled across the room, bracing myself on a handrail as I scanned the horizon for any sign of either my companion or our enemies. To my considerable relief, it was the former I espied first, astride a strange creature with webbed feet and membranous wings, rising sharply to confront the oncoming storm. The confrontation was swift in coming, for the pirates and the meteorological phenomenon on which they travelled moved quite literally like the wind. There was just time for Mr. Ngoie to become once more enwreathed in the complex harness through which he appeared to control the Clouded Skipper and for me to take up a position by the door, my pistol at the ready, and then all was darkness and rain and lightning. It was almost impossible to make out anything in the tumult, just hazy figures swooping and pinwheeling, growing somewhat less hazy as they approached our ship.
At least a dozen of them came at us, descending, and for that matter ascending, from all directions, but three seemed especially intent on breaching the door. Steadying myself as best I could, I fired on them. I wounded two, the shock of injury causing them to lose command of the winds that buoyed them and sending them careening away into the tempest. The last, a wild-haired, calico-clad gentleman, rushed me as the hammer of my firearm clicked on an empty chamber, and only a sideways leap at the last possible second spared me a skewering from his wickedly serrated sabre. Recovering my footing, I cast about for a weapon suitable for close quarters and saw nothing but my walking stick. This I seized, just in time to knock aside a cut the pirate had aimed at my right shoulder. The exchange caused considerable damage to my cane, suggesting that as a long-term strategy for survival I would do well to consider alternatives.