Fires of Hell: The Alchemystic

by Maureen L. Mills

  Besides, I couldn’t get the image of Captain Rollins, lying so still in the dust and dog feces, out of my head.

  I’d spent the evening laughing with Obadiah and other airmen, drinking raki, letting the seyhane owner’s oldest son, all of fifteen years old and who’d known me since he was six, practice his flirting on me. As I’d been enjoying myself, Captain Rollins had bled out his life, alone, not three alleys over.

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” I whispered, hoping he could hear me, wherever he was. “I should have been there. Maybe I could have saved you like you saved me. Maybe not, but I should have been there with you, nonetheless.”

  * * *

  Dawn turned the forest of mosque spires a flaming pink and the haunting call to prayer, the aggam, drifted over the city, one call echoing another, before Obadiah made his way back to the Mercury. The bruise-like circles under his eyes spoke of a difficult night.

  I gathered my notes from the navigator’s table to take back to the engine room. “Did the police find out anything?”

  Obadiah shook his head, slumping into the chair I had vacated. “They didn’t seem all that interested in the fate of an English businessman.”

  “But they’ll keep looking, won’t they, Obadiah?”

  He covered his eyes with a trembling hand. “I don’t know, Melly. I simply don’t know.”

  “But—”

  “Get to your bunk, Amelia. Sleep yourself out. You look like you took a pair of fists to your eyes.”

  “You’ll sleep, too, won’t you, Obadiah? I can’t look any worse than you.”

  “I intend to as soon as Lieutenant Whitcomb returns.”

  I left him staring out the glass sides of the bridge at the barges ferrying goods and a few hardy passengers across the Sea of Marmara, took my notes and dragged myself down the ladder and across the deck to the stern, where the engines resided. Thank goodness we were not scheduled to depart for another two days. Time enough to recover from this night, at least physically, though the emotional toll would be harder to pay. Time enough for the authorities to find Captain Rollins’ murderer.

  I crawled onto the thin mattress snugged on a narrow ledge above the workbench in the engine room, slid shut the curtain that blocked the light from the furnace if not the noise, and gave thanks to whatever god was listening that the grumbling of the coal fires covered the sound of the occasional hitch in my breathing.

  After a time I slept, and when I woke I heard the leonine roar of the engines at full power as we steamed at top speed back toward England.

  I whipped back the curtain to see Benjamin Tibbett, his fine, sandy hair straggling limply about his large ears, shoveling coal pellets into the furnace’s hopper.

  How could we leave Constantinople? What about the captain? What about his killer? We had clues to follow: two missing cigars; a dirty, brass uniform button; and a note with the words “Russian’s Cap 2300 hrs.” written on it.

  If such clues could lead to the culprit, it appeared I was the only one who cared.

  Chapter Two

  “We must go back to Constantinople!” I insisted for the fourth time. Perhaps fifth. I had lost track.

  Lieutenant Whitcomb was fast running out of patience. I could tell by the twitch at the corner of his eye and the tightness of his gaunt face. Most airmen hired by Winged Goods were on the slender side—each pound saved on crewmen meant one more pound of paying cargo—but Lieutenant Whitcomb was skeletal even by airmen standards.

  His bony fingers clenched at his sides, and he turned away from me, gazing out the wide expanse of glass that shunted the wind away from the airship’s bridge while allowing a full view of the surrounding skies.

  “The Turkish authorities concluded Captain Rollins was killed by common footpads. Almost impossible to find. End of story. Now it is our task to bring his body home to his widow and family to bury before he grows too ripe in the summer heat!” Whitcomb’s voice rose toward the end, and he flushed as he realized his composure had slipped enough to allow the admission to a woman of such crass realities as corpse-rot.

  “The Turkish authorities are mistaken! If footpads killed Captain Rollins, why did they not take his money or his pocket watch?”

  Lieutenant Whitcomb’s knuckles went whiter, if possible. “They were interrupted in their thievery by you and Chief Engineer Butterfield.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, again, that we had neither seen nor heard anyone leaving the scene—and we would have if we’d come upon the murderers in the midst of their theft—but Lieutenant Whitcomb whipped around to face me once more and held up an ascetic’s hand. “No, Everley. No more. I forbid any more talk of conspiracies or investigations while you are under my command. Are we clear?”

  “At least let me search his cabin. Perhaps I could find some clue as to why he was—”

  “He was killed by street thieves who wanted his money. What more do you think you, a woman, could find out? And not a proper woman at that. You are a guttersnipe, no matter how cultured your accents. If Obadiah were not so fond of you, I would have left you in Constantinople for your insubordination. Perhaps you could have found work in a Turkish harem.” He sneered at me down his long, narrow nose.

  My mouth dropped open in shock. Did he not know I had joined the Mercury’s crew partially to avoid that sort of fate? It would have been a natural progression, considering Maman’s occupation.

  However, one glance down at the odd amalgam of clothing I wore clarified the source of his comment. Men’s trousers to allow me to climb the ladders and lines. An abbreviated light leather corset over my hip-length chemise to protect my womanly figure, which, while not ample, still needed some support. A man’s waistcoat over all to provide the pockets and loops in which I kept the tools of my trade to hand. Practical in the heat of the engine room, but rather scandalous outside it, to be honest. I’d stormed out of the engine room without the uniform coat I usually donned as a nod to modesty.

  I had to stifle an inappropriate spurt of laughter despite the fury the Lieutenant’s uncalled-for insinuation triggered.

  Idiot. Blind idiot. But I could see the strain in his too-pale face, and knew he teetered very close to the edge. I did not wish to be the one to tip him over. He would most likely take me down with him, one way or the other. Officially, he was my commanding officer, and while the command structure of Winged Goods was laxer than that of Her Majesty’s Navy, I’d still be punished for outright mutiny. They’d dock my wages, at the least. Or transfer me to one of the heavy-hauling vessels ferrying coal in an endless loop from the Welsh coalfields to London.

  I’d suffocate from boredom, and my chances of advancement within the company would be ruined. I might even lose my position. Although I possessed enough skill to assist the engineer on any ship in the Empire and felt confident I could hide my pyromancy, I was also a woman. Suitable to marry a reasonably successful tradesman, perhaps a lawyer or doctor, but not acceptable to hire for a position on an airship.

  I thought as a girl of twelve that I had forever escaped a future of selling myself for a living.

  Besides, how else was I to return to Constantinople, but aboard the Mercury? Unemployed assistant engineers could not afford passage on a train to Constantinople, let alone on an airship. And I intended to return. I had to convince the Turkish authorities to reexamine Captain Rollins’ murder.

  My salute was a touch sarcastic, but Lieutenant Whitcomb kept silent, perhaps aware he had breached lines that should never have been crossed. More likely, he simply wished me out of his presence as soon as possible. He gave me a curt nod of dismissal, and I was all too happy to escape his sanctimonious presence.

  I returned to the engine room, fuming almost as much as the coal fires. Perhaps more, since I’d recently improved the scoops providing airflow to the firebox, and the engines produced much less smoke than they used to.

  If I let my fury lapse, sorrow for the captain’s loss might overwhelm me. I detested crying—such a weak, useless activ
ity. I especially hated crying aboard ship, as my distress was difficult to conceal in the cramped conditions. Anger was a much safer emotion to display. The other crewmen could respect fury where they would not tears.

  Obadiah looked up from the fuel-efficiency figures he was recording at the workbench. “Leave the lieutenant alone, Melly. Whitcomb is doing the best he can under the circumstances.”

  I stomped the two steps it took to cross the cabin and checked the engine’s dials and gauges. “The best would be to go back and find the captain’s murderer,” I snarled.

  Sighing, Obadiah ran a hand through his sparse hair, standing it on end. “The lieutenant is not the sort of man who can easily carry the weight of command. As a second officer, aye, he does a fine job; none better. But without a captain to give direction, he tends to founder. Regulations require us to return to the home office as quickly as possible on the death of the captain, therefore, that is the lone action Whitcomb is capable of taking.”

  “Still,” I said, unwilling to concede the point so easily, “how could delaying a single day, perhaps two, be so impossible to countenance?”

  “He has the safety of the crew to consider. If Captain Rollins’ death was the result of some Turkish faction’s growing dislike of the English, any one of us might have been next. Besides, in this heat, another day or two would make for a ripe-smelling corpse. Now quit sulking and stoke the furnace. The new coal graining appears to burn faster than the old. Hotter, too, so crank down the feeder. Come check my figures when you’re done.”

  He slanted me a look that meant my temper had bled over to affect the furnace fires. He had never spoken of my peculiar talent directly until last night. But I always knew he knew what I was. How could he not, when we lived in such close proximity both to each other and to the constant blaze that powered the Mercury?

  I suppose to consciously acknowledge the existence of my unnatural abilities came too close to flouting the Queen’s long-standing decree that all phlogs be registered, tested, and surrendered to the crown as “public servants.” Slaves sold to the highest bidder in order to finance the pacification of India, more like.

  I grabbed the shovel from the coal box and swung the hopper door open. Heat blasted from the furnace below as I tossed pelleted coal into the funnel-shaped device. Sweat streamed down my face and trickled between my breasts, but I was used to that.

  I adjusted the feed dial to its lowest level and crouched to peer in at the flames. The fire danced merrily on the small chunks of coal, seeming to greet me with friendly waves, untroubled by the death of the captain aboard whose ship they also served. I poured my anger into the flames, watching them lick higher and more fiercely than ever as they leapt onto the new fuel. Fierce as my sorrow. Fierce as my anger.

  * * *

  The flight home took five days, steaming straight through with no stops but to take on more coal and water. Whitcomb may have been an obnoxious prig, but he knew how to wring the most speed out of the Mercury.

  I mostly stayed in the engine room with Obadiah, switching off twelve-hour shifts tending the engines. The other twelve hours a day I spent on ship and engine maintenance, eating, and, occasionally, sleeping. The schedule was standard procedure on rush flights, and since almost all of our voyages were rush flights, I was used to the long hours.

  I broke from routine but once.

  My shift in the engine room ended at midnight. I told a yawning Obadiah I was going to scrounge a cup of tea and toast before hitting my berth, but instead of turning into the tiny mess tucked into the corridor off the engine room, I waved to Henry as I passed. The elf-locked old African dipped his chin in reply, never pausing in his task of closing down the galley for the night. I smiled as I stepped out onto the deck, knowing Henry would never tell where I’d gone, if only because of his disdain for most speech of any kind.

  Coal dust streaked my face, masking the paleness of my skin in the stygian darkness far above any city lights that happened to be aglow at this hour. Not that I’d expect many cities or lights in France’s rural Loire Valley.

  I hurried to the short passage leading to the commander’s quarters in the forecastle, holding my breath as I passed Lieutenant Whitcomb’s chamber. Thank goodness he rated a real wooden door instead of the lighter curtains the stern cabins possessed. Thin though it was, the door would block out the slight thud of my boots against the decking and the glow of the shrouded lantern I appropriated from the base of the ladder to the bridge.

  Captain Rollins’ door was locked, as expected. As the pampered offspring of a well-to-do courtesan rather than a street rat, I had little skill in picking locks. But Reuben Dodd, currently at the helm, had come from rougher circumstances, and had shown me a few techniques since he’d first joined the crew eight years ago. The lock on the captain’s door was intended more for privacy than protection and was therefore of a simple design. Or so Reuben had told me. Fortunately, nothing had ever gone missing from the captain’s cabin. I liked Reuben and would have been sad to see him dismissed for thievery.

  I clipped the lantern to one of the straps dangling from my waistcoat, wishing I had a miner’s headlamp from the Welsh coal yards. My own lantern swung and spun, and I was forced to stand very still to keep the beam of light pointed even vaguely at the keyhole.

  Taking out the two thin tools I’d constructed of scrap metal that afternoon as Obadiah snored away in his cabin, I inserted them into the brass locking mechanism on Captain Rollins’ door and joggled the lock’s pins.

  After a few moments, the barrel turned smoothly, and the door clicked open. Sighing with relief, I slipped inside.

  A pale wash of moonlight from the windows on either side of the triangular room threw a subtle, grey light onto the three pieces of furniture it contained: desk, washstand, and berth; the last wedged into the nose of the ship, giving the bed an odd, curved form.

  On the berth lay Captain Rollins’ body, dressed in his finest uniform and covered to the chest by a sheet, the slash on his throat masked by a crisp cravat.

  I had known he was here. Where else would Whitcomb have put him? Seeing him, however, lying so still and ashen, was a different matter entirely than merely knowing where he lay.

  People said dying was like going to sleep. They lied. Captain Rollins didn’t appear to be wrapped in peaceful slumber. I knew precisely what that looked like.

  Sometimes, when I was tiny, Captain Rollins would steal a precious few days away from his wife and son to spend in Paris with Maman and me at our maison de rendevous. In the early hours past dawn, after all the gentleman merrymakers had gone home and the female entertainment had retired to their beds upstairs, I’d creep from my nursery, slip into Maman’s chambers—when she left her door unlocked—and watch her and Captain Rollins sleep in Maman’s brocade-draped bed from my nest of blankets on the dark-red silk chaise in front of the fire. Always by the fire.

  Years later, when I could no longer hide my pyromancy, he’d taken me aboard the Mercury as an engineer’s apprentice, saving me from death at the hands of an angry mob, or enslavement by Her Majesty’s Phlogistologist Corps. As the youngest crew member, I’d delivered my share of breakfast trays to his cabin, rousing him for his turn at the helm.

  Even in sleep, Captain Rollins exuded a vitality that was entirely absent in this still form before me. Now, I heard no snoring, saw no twitching of limbs as if he were ready to leap into motion on the instant. No out-flung arm or leg to claim the whole of the space the bed or berth allowed.

  He more resembled a wax figure from Madame Tussaud’s collection than the beloved captain I knew.

  The citrus tang of Captain Rollins’ shaving soap and the sharp scent of the lavender sachets he used to keep moths from his uniforms stirred memories of the all times he’d called me here to quiz me on mathematics or to hand me a book in which I might, as he put it, “find some interesting tidbits”.

  I’d spent many an evening here, going over plans for a new pumping system to inflate the
hot air gasbag that controlled our altitude, or to discuss the way current political disputes affected the best routes to take.

  He’d even, at times, attempted to give personal advice, albeit it a roundabout manner and with much stammering. It was at his suggestion that I disguised myself as a male in foreign ports, and kept close to the airfield and in the company of trusted crewmen. He felt a keen responsibility for my safety. I imagine he would have felt a failure if, after having rescued me from a career as a courtesan, among other things, I fell prey to some rogue’s blandishments.

  He’d always taken such great care with me.

  I closed my eyes and turned away. My mission was not to mourn the man, but to find out how to avenge him.

  I went to the desk next to the berth—one of three aboard the Mercury large enough to be classified, however vaguely, as a bed. The others were in Lieutenant Whitcomb’s cabin and the spare cabin, which housed the chief engineer when not occupied by diplomats, spies, and other eminent personages in need of speedy and discreet transport.

  The pigeonholes above the desk held charts and books. I riffled through each one, holding the books upside down and shaking them. Nothing fell out; nothing seemed out of place.

  I went through the desk drawers next, with similar results. I found nothing but what I expected, his only secret a hidden bottle of very expensive brandy.

  I replaced the brandy and slid out the drawers built into the base of the berth, rummaging through Captain Rollins’ linens.

  At the very bottom, under a tidy collection of pressed and starched cravats, I found a leather wallet containing a stack of large-denomination bank notes from at least six separate nations and a small, cloth-bound book. I’d expected the money. After all, we set down in as many as five or six different countries each week.