Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air

by Melissa Scott

  “Through there.” Lewis tipped his head toward one of the arches.

  “Might as well eat.” Stasi had been to the shops that afternoon, picking up the makings of a picnic basket, bread and dried sausage and cheese, but it wasn’t a lot for a long flight, particularly when they were already tired. “I wonder if Stasi got us any coffee?”

  “Did you go through everything you brought?” Lewis asked. He steered her to one of the small tables, incongruously draped in spotless white tablecloths. They ought to be brighter, Alma thought, red or green or gold, like the tapestries and the painted walls.

  “Not quite all of it. But we could use more.”

  “I’ll bring you a plate,” Lewis said. “The tables are filling up fast.”

  He was right. Alma seated herself at the table, smiling as another waiter hurried to bring a fresh glass, and let him take the first away half empty. Mitch and Stasi were nowhere in sight — still dancing, she assumed, and couldn’t blame them. Let them have all the time they could, just in case… She shook herself hard. There was no reason to think they were flying into danger; it would be awkward to have to explain if they were caught, but that was all.

  “Al.” Henry dropped into the chair opposite her without waiting for an invitation. “You got everything settled?”

  She nodded. “Tiny’s at the plane now, getting some extra sleep. We’re fueled up, and the harbor tower closes at sunset. We shouldn’t have any trouble getting out.”

  “I got the latest forecast before I came over.” Henry slid the slip of thin paper across the table.

  “Thanks.” Alma scanned the typing — no change from before, a brief window of calm in Palermo before more rain, clear weather to the south and east below the trailing front — and folded it into a packet that she could slip into the top of her glove. “You were right, going now makes more sense.”

  “And I’d rather do a daylight landing in a strange harbor,” Henry said. “Anything else you need me to do?”

  “I don’t think so.” Alma shook her head. “Just tell anyone who asks that we’re on a job. Frankly, I’m hoping no one will bother to ask.”

  “It’s never that simple,” Henry said.

  The buffet was crowded, as though everyone at the party had decided now was the time to grab supper. Lewis hovered on the edge of the crowd, trying to figure out the best point of approach — not the Soviet tactic, he thought, watching one of the young pilots elbow his way past a man in impeccable formal dress, but there had to be a way to get to the food. He shook his head at a waiter offering more champagne, and moved away, wondering if the approach was any easier from the other side. Or maybe at one of the secondary tables. No one would care if they ate pastries before they had more solid food.

  “What a mob,” Stasi said, coming up beside him to slip a hand onto his elbow. “I don’t suppose you’ve gotten anything to eat, darling.”

  Lewis shook his head. “I thought maybe I’d try for some of the desserts. Al’s holding down a table for us.”

  “I don’t think we’re going to have much luck with that,” Mitch said. He looked different tonight, Lewis thought, sharper — younger, even. You could see the ace in him as he turned to survey the crowd, and for just an instant Stasi’s expression slipped, rueful and worried and well aware that there was nothing she could do. And then she’d recovered herself, linking arms with both men, a starlet’s smile curving her scarlet lips.

  “But you can get me some champagne, darling. It would be kind of you.”

  Mitch didn’t seem inclined to move away, so Lewis looked around for a waiter. He waved to the nearest one, and handed Stasi the glass. She accepted it with a smile and took a long drink, leaving a lipstick mark on the glass.

  “Segura!” Ernst Udet loomed out of the crowd, his hand lifted in greeting. “I hoped I’d have a chance to catch you before everything shut down. And this is — Mr. Sorley?”

  “That’s right,” Mitch said. “I don’t believe you’ve met my wife?”

  Stasi offered her hand with another brilliant smile, and Udet bowed deeply over it. The pretty girl who had been with him at most of the events was nowhere to be seen; instead, his companion tonight was a dark-haired, heavy-browed man in well-tailored white tie, a cluster of swastika-emblazoned medals on his lapels.

  “May I present Reichsminister Hess, Mrs. Sorley?”

  Stasi let him take her hand as well, still with that perfect, practiced smile, and Hess clicked his heels and bowed sharply. Lewis kept his own face expressionless. He knew who Hess was: Hitler’s right-hand man, his Minister without Portfolio, and with Göring here, that made two of Germany’s tip-top brass. He shook himself, trying to deny the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t much like what he’d heard from Jerry about the current German government, but Jerry had his own axe to grind, and so far, at least, German rearmament hadn’t started any trouble. You couldn’t really blame them for wanting to get out from under the terms of the Versailles Treaty.

  “The Sorleys and Mr. Segura are all with Gilchrist Aviation,” Udet said. “Showing Consolidated’s flying boat.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Hess said, extending his own hand, and Mitch shook it warily.

  “An honor, sir. Are we to take it that the German government is taking an interest?”

  “No, no, no, not at all,” Hess answered. “Otherwise I would have been here for the entire event. I’ve only just been able to slip away — I flew in yesterday evening. But aviation is a personal interest of mine.”

  Lewis took the offered hand, and was abruptly overcome with sensation: a pinpoint of cold burning the base of his fingers, the back of his neck crawling. He managed to keep his face from changing, completed the handshake with an inoffensive mumble and took a step back. What the hell? He didn’t dare look at Stasi, focused instead on Hess himself, still smiling cheerfully at Mitch and chatting about flight times and fuel loads. A waiter appeared, and Udet handed out champagne to all of them. Hess accepted his with barely a glance, and Lewis caught a glimpse of a silver band on his left hand. Not a wedding ring, it was too deeply carved to be a wedding ring, leaves and jagged symbols, and surely no wedding ring would carry a skull and crossbones as its symbol, but that — that was what he’d felt. He risked a glance at Stasi, but she seemed oblivious, batting mascaraed eyelashes at Udet. The ring — he had touched it when they shook hands, and it felt like the curse tablet he’d handled six years ago, like every other magically-attuned object he’d had to deal with since, the sharp spark of power leaping from skin to skin. Like and not like: there had been the unmistakable snap of power, but with it was something more, something worse, the shadow of bone-burning cold. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted, and he repressed a shiver.

  Somehow he got through the brief conversation without making a fool of himself, answered Hess’s polite questions and Udet’s exuberance, but he couldn’t suppress a sigh of relief when they finally moved away. Stasi was looking at him curiously.

  “Are you all right, darling?”

  “Fine.” The line at the buffet had diminished, and he forced a smile. “I should get Al some supper, she’s been waiting long enough.”

  “I’ll tell her you’re coming,” Stasi said, “and then we can talk.”

  There was rarely any fooling Stasi. Lewis nodded, and turned toward the long table. He filled a plate at random, exerting himself only to be sure he didn’t pick up any of the soft, smelly cheese that Alma hated, then found his way back to her table, Mitch trailing behind him with another filled plate.

  “Sorry about that,” Lewis said, setting his plate in front of Alma, and she waved the words away,

  “Stasi said you were talking to an actual Reichsminister.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you see?” Stasi asked. She pitched her voice low enough that she couldn’t be heard by anyone who wasn’t leaning over the table with them. “Come on, darling, this could be important.”

  “I didn’t s
ee anything,” Lewis said. “It’s nothing to do with — our new job. It was just — didn’t you feel it? When you shook hands?”

  “Feel what?” Mitch asked, frowning now, and Stasi shook her head.

  “I’m wearing gloves, darling, and that’s not Mitch’s talent. What was it?”

  “A ring,” Lewis said. “He was wearing a ring. Silver, like a wedding ring or maybe a signet, only with a silver skull and crossbones on it instead of a stone, with carvings all around the band. I touched it, I think, and it — it was full of power. Full of magic. And I didn’t like the feel of it.”

  Mitch looked as though he wanted to turn around and stare, but Stasi laid a hand on his arm and he subsided.

  “But not directed at us,” Alma said. “Was it directed at anyone?”

  Lewis considered the question, trying to push past the unpleasant sensation to focus on its purpose. “I don’t — no, I don’t think so. It just was.”

  Alma started to press her fingers to her lips, then remembered her makeup. “Well. We’re not the only Lodge in the world. Not by a long shot. And there are plenty of groups that work with what you and I would consider darker forces.”

  Lewis nodded reluctantly. One of the things he’d had to learn since joining Alma’s Lodge was that not everyone agreed on what was and wasn’t acceptable practice. He trusted Alma implicitly, but he’d met other people that he didn’t think had a lot of common sense. And this…This just felt wrong.

  “He’s part of the German government,” Mitch said, and sounded genuinely shocked.

  “That doesn’t mean the government knows he’s part of a Lodge,” Alma said. “Or would approve of it if it did. I imagine there are people in our government who are Lodge members, Theosophists and the like. If it’s not directed at anyone — if it’s not directed at us —”

  Mitch nodded. “I know. What can we do?”

  “We tell Jerry when we get to Alexandria,” Alma said. “He’s bound to know someone who’d find it useful knowledge.”

  “And we tell Henry,” Mitch said. “And we write Bullfinch and company once we get back to the States.”

  Alma nodded. “Agreed.”

  “I can take care of that, darling,” Stasi said. “In the meantime —” She gave another brilliant smile, any tension she might have been feeling utterly invisible. “In the meantime, let’s enjoy this lovely party.”

  It was getting on toward midnight, and the party was growing more lively, a few jazzy numbers creeping into the orchestra’s repertoire. Mitch applauded the end of a lively foxtrot, but turned his back resolutely on the next number. Stasi tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and he led her through the arch that led to the cloakrooms and to the entrance to the enclosed courtyard garden. The garden itself looked like something out of a Renaissance painting, with a quartet of small trees pruned into lollipop shapes at the center. Wrought-iron lanterns hung at intervals from them and in the arches of the loggia, the candles casting dim circles of light. Shapes moved in pairs between the raised beds, and Mitch took a step sideways, bringing them deeper into the loggia’s shadows.

  “We shouldn’t be gone long,” he said quietly, and Stasi turned into his embrace, twining long arms round his neck.

  “I wouldn’t count on it, darling.”

  Mitch stiffened. “What do you see?”

  “Nothing.” It was too dark to see her clearly, but he could feel her smile. “I just think anything serious enough for Jerry to cable you — well, it’s not likely to resolve itself quickly.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right.” Mitch rested his cheek against her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume. “But we’ve only got a week, and that’s all he’s getting.”

  “If he needs more —”

  “He’ll just have to handle it,” Mitch said.

  “I could join you,” she said. “The children could see Egypt — it would be educational—”

  “Or I could come back, and Al and Lewis could do whatever Jerry needed,” Mitch interrupted. He closed his eyes for an instant, memorizing her scent, her arms around his neck, the warmth of her body pressed against his. “If it even comes to that. You said yourself you don’t know.”

  “True.” Her voice was no different, but he thought he felt her soften a little against him.

  “I won’t leave you for any longer than I have to,” Mitch said. It probably went without saying, but he wanted to say it anyway, put it into words so that she had to hear and believe.

  “I should hope not, darling! I’ve enough to do with the children.” She leaned up to kiss him, a brush of lips against his own and then a firmer touch, so that his own lips parted beneath hers.

  “I don’t really want to go,” he said after a moment, a bit breathless, and felt her smile against his skin.

  “Excuse me.”

  The voice spoke from the loggia behind them, and Stasi slipped out of his grasp, putting herself to rights with a single swift movement. Mitch turned, not bothering to hide his scowl. “Yeah?”

  It was the Count von Rosen, as impeccably dressed as ever, perfect white tie and tails and no sense, apparently, that he might be interrupting something private. Or maybe he knew exactly what he was doing, Mitch thought, meeting the cold eyes.

  “I am sorry to interrupt your farewells, but I want a word with you, Mr. Sorley.”

  Mitch spread his hands, and used the gesture to put Stasi half a step behind him. “Talk.”

  “You and the rest of Gilchrist Aviation are leaving tonight for Alexandria,” von Rosen said. He kept his voice down, but the words were very clear. “You’ll take me with you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Mitch said. Stasi laid a hand on his arm, silent warning.

  “If you don’t, I will inform everyone here of your plans. And that would, I expect, be rather more than awkward.” Von Rosen’s smile was a chess player’s, putting the king in check.

  Damn, damn, damn. Mitch blinked deliberately, doing his best to look slow and sleepy rather than furious. “Go ahead. I don’t reckon it’ll make any difference.” Except it would; they wouldn’t be able to leave tonight, would have to go in the morning, and that would shave another day off the time they had with Jerry, never mind requiring explanations they didn’t really want to make —

  “If it wouldn’t make any difference, you wouldn’t be leaving like this,” von Rosen said. “In secret, leaving your wife behind to cover for you. Look, all I want is a ride to Egypt. I don’t care what your business is, and I won’t interfere with it. But you will take me with you.”

  The hell. Mitch swallowed the words along with the urge to hit the man. Though if he did — he could probably drop von Rosen, but then what? Tie him up and leave him in a corner, except that he didn’t have anything useful for tying except his and von Rosen’s neckties, and once the man got loose or someone found him, they’d be in even worse trouble than if he’d just told the world what they were doing. “You’ll need to talk to Alma,” he said, and turned away without waiting for von Rosen’s response.

  Alma glanced at Lewis’s watch for the third time, wishing Mitch would hurry. They needed to leave before the crowds started collecting for the fireworks, because a group moving against the tide would be too noticeable, and it was after eleven already. By the door, Henry shifted from foot to foot, as though he wanted to pace but didn’t want to draw attention; beside him, Lewis was still as stone, perfectly at rest and perfectly ready. And then she saw them, Mitch and Stasi moving together through the crowd, Mitch glowering. She stiffened. Von Rosen was with them, his thin face unreadable, matching Mitch stride for stride. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Henry stop and straighten, and Lewis shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, and then made himself relax.

  “Al,” Mitch began, and von Rosen interrupted.

  “Mrs. Segura. I know you are planning to leave for Egypt tonight, and if you want to get away discreetly, you are going to take me with you.”

  “Why?” Alma kept h
er voice cool and distant.

  “Because if you don’t, I will create enough of a stir that you won’t be able to get out of Palermo tonight. And by tomorrow everyone will know where you’re going.”

  “I don’t know how much of a problem that is,” Mitch said, his voice tight. “I reckon we could manage.”

  Stasi fitted a cigarette into her holder, her hands perfectly steady, and Henry lit it for her automatically. “I’m wondering why he wants to go so badly. Surely there are easier ways to get to Egypt than trying to blackmail his fellow pilots.”

  Alma thought von Rosen colored at that, and she nodded. “That’s a fair question.”

  “I have business in Africa.”

  “There are commercial flights,” Henry said. “And steamships. Lots of easier options.”

  “If you make a fuss, so will I,” Alma said. “That’s not going to do either one of us any good.”

  “What if I offered to pay for fuel?” von Rosen asked.

  “Convince me I can afford to take you,” Alma said. “Then we can talk payment.”

  Von Rosen hesitated. “I came to the airshow to buy a cargo plane. The person from whom I was supposed to purchase it never showed up. I can’t find him, and I can’t waste any more time on him, and I need to get back to Africa. As soon as possible.”

  “Can’t your uncle help you out?” Alma asked, and thought she saw him flinch.

  “My late aunt’s husband and I don’t see eye to eye on this matter. He would try to stop me from going.”

  That was something in von Rosen’s favor, if it was true. If. Alma said, “You’re Swedish, right? What does he care what one man does in Africa?”

  She saw Henry stiffen, as though he’d suddenly put something together, and von Rosen said, reluctantly, “Göring doesn’t want anyone interfering with Germany’s Italian alliance.”

  Henry nodded. “Libya, Ethiopia — Mussolini’s got ambitions, all right —”

  “Henry,” Alma said, and he stopped abruptly. She looked at von Rosen. “You’re not German. You’re not his responsibility.”