Romulus Buckle and the Luminiferous Aether (The Chronicles of the Pneumatic Zeppelin #3)

by Richard Ellis Preston Jr.

“The First Consul has agreed to see you over lunch in the triclinium,” Lady Julia said. “You are fortunate that I spoke up on your behalf, for his first reaction was to have the automaton melted down and the three of you jettisoned into the sea.”

  XXII

  THE TRICLINIUM

  Lady Julia, Cressida, and the soldiers led Buckle and Sabrina along a maze of corridors into the private interior quarters of the Atlantean elite, or at least Buckle assumed so, counting how many purple-robed guards they passed along the way. Buckle tried his best to shake off worrying about Welly and Penny Dreadful, who had been separated from them. There was no way on earth the hated automaton was going to be brought into the presence of the First Consul—both Lady Julia and Cressida had been adamant about that—and Buckle had been compelled to leave Penny behind with Welly as her protector. Although from what he had seen of Penny’s ability to fight, it was more likely she would be protecting Welly if it came down to it. The boy and the robot would be placed in comfortable quarters and in complete safety, Cressida had promised, and Buckle had no choice but to trust her. But if they were truly in danger it was because he had brought them here.

  Buckle and Sabrina, passing two more hulking guards in purple robes, were ushered into a spacious dining chamber with a green carpet and one wall entirely of glass, its frames supported by white statues of Roman gods cast in poses akin to Atlas, appearing as if they supported the weight of the shimmering sea above and beyond the windows. A rectangular table with wide benches on three sides occupied the middle of the space, sumptuously set with serving plates of white ceramic loaded with foods both colorful and bizarre. Five servants in white togas stood at the ready, lined up in front of the window-wall with towels folded over their forearms.

  Two men awaited them in the room and the first, an average-sized fellow wearing a plain toga similar to Lady Julia’s stola except his purple trim was laced with gold thread—had his nose in the air. Though the man’s short, balding physicality was unimpressive he overcame it through the way he held himself, the power of his presence, the serious angle of his eyes, leaving no doubt that it was he and only he who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders as the Atlantean First Consul. Buckle sensed a tightness in the man, a thread so taut it hummed under his regal straightness: under the calm façade he was harried, anxious, cornered.

  At the First Consul’s side stood another man, taller and broader with the wide shoulders and narrow waist of an athlete, a magnificent body type which would have been more pronounced had he not been wearing a splendid set of Roman armor; a gold breastplate covered his chest, two frogs on the shoulders bearing the knots of a large red robe, and he held his cheek-plated helmet in the crook of his left arm, the tall crimson brush as high as his chin. His face was pale-skinned with deep crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and he radiated more worry and less pomposity than the First Consul.

  “May I introduce Octavian, First Consul of Atlantis and pater familias of the Aventine House,” Lady Julia said.

  “First Consul,” Buckle said as he made a deft bow. “It is an honor.”

  “And this is Marius, our Master Equitum,” Lady Julia added.

  Buckle nodded to Marius and returned his attention to Octavian. “First Consul, I am Captain Romulus Buckle of the Crankshaft clan. I—”

  “If you are a captain then where is your air machine?” Octavian asked.

  “It is close by,” Buckle replied.

  Marius strode forward, drew his sword in a flash, whipping it up so the blade kissed Buckle’s throat.

  “Bastards!” Sabrina whispered. Her hand was on her sword handle but she too held herself motionless, for the tips of the Atlantean guard’s harpoons pressed at her back.

  Buckle held still, trying to look bemused as he listened to the low hum of the aether tubes overhead. “A little overdramatic, wouldn’t you say, First Consul, considering we are your guests.”

  “Guests?” Octavian smiled. “You came uninvited, if my memory serves.”

  “Tell us why you are here,” Marius asked, his voice as cold as the glimmering steel under Buckle’s chin.

  “As envoys of—” Buckle started.

  “A lie!” Marius blurted. “You are no envoys. Where is your Ambassador?”

  “My Master Equitum is a very good judge of character,” Octavian said. “I’d like you to clear things up before we sit down to eat. Tell us why you Crankshafts, the very son of Balthazar himself, running a Founders blockade no less, appear to us so suddenly and with a Founders scarlet and a banned automaton in tow.”

  “I’m no Founder,” Sabrina snarled.

  “You were not spoken to, scarlet,” Marius snapped.

  Buckle locked his gaze on Marius. “I do not negotiate at the point of a sword.”

  “All negotiations take place at the point of a sword, one way or another,” Marius replied.

  “I’ll concede that point,” Buckle said. “I’d even nod if I didn’t risk cutting my own jugular in the process. I can tell you that my original intent was to come here to find my sister, Elizabeth Crankshaft. The Founders abducted her and the evidence led me here.”

  “We are not harboring this sister of yours,” Octavian said. “There are no Crankshafts here.”

  “Aye, well,” Buckle replied. “Upon discovering that you were under blockade by the Founders I decided it was a good time to request that you join my father’s Grand Alliance, all in the name of mutual self-preservation.”

  “Ah, yes. Balthazar’s great secret eastern alliance. That sounds a little more believable, hmmmm?” Octavian said. “What do you think, Marius?”

  Marius lowered his blade from Buckle’s throat.

  The First Consul nodded to the guards, who eased back on their weapons. “Now that we have cleared that up, allow me to formally welcome you to the Aventine house, the greatest house in all of Atlantis. Shall we eat? I am famished.” He clapped his hands together and the servants scurried out two side doors on the left which offered steamy glimpses of a busy kitchen.

  “I would like to say—”

  Yes, yes, Captain,” Octavian blurted dismissively. “Please sit. I prefer to handle negotiations over good food—a full stomach keeps the mind settled, don’t you think?”

  Buckle didn’t move. “With all due respect First Consul, if I may—”

  “You may not,” Octavian snapped. “Your unexpected arrival has come at a time most inopportune, Captain, and I am going leagues out of my way to accommodate you. Now, sit down.” Octavian swung his arm across the table in dramatic fashion; Buckle noticed Octavian’s forearm was sculpted with dense, ropy muscle, quite unexpected for a politician of the elite class.

  “As you wish, of course,” Buckle replied, and took a seat at the table, Sabrina tucking in beside him.

  Octavian smiled, his irritation vanishing as he took his seat. “Ah, much better,” he enthused. Marius took up a station at Octavian’s back, joined by Lady Julia and Cressida. “I hope you brought your appetite with you, Captain,” Octavian said, rubbing his hands, “along with your political maneuverings.”

  A female wine-pourer carrying a large jug entered, deftly delivering peach-colored wine into golden goblets, of which there were seven. The five servants returned and served three white plates, the first to Octavian and then to Buckle and Sabrina.

  Buckle realized the contents of his plate were moving. It was a pile of small octopus tentacles, freshly cut from their owners, still sucking and twining in a pool of thin black sauce.

  “Fresh salted octopi tentacles in anemone sauce,” Octavian said with a grin, lifting his fork. “Knocks the palate wide open.”

  “Are you expecting more guests?” Buckle said, motioning toward the four unattended goblets before he used his fork to prevent a squirming appetizer from wandering off his plate and into his lap.

  If Octavian heard Buckle’s question he did not acknowledge it. “One cannot help but be civil when holding a glass of fine Sargassum wine. Marius, have
some wine.”

  “I am on duty, First Consul,” Marius replied.

  “You are always on duty!” Marius growled. “Sit down, Marius, and take the damned edge off!”

  Marius gritted his teeth and took a seat on the bench to Octavian’s right, landing with a crunch of squeaking leather and clanking armor.

  “Ah, you prefer the sweet mulsum, do you not, my dear general,” Octavian said. “Philo! Chilled mulsum for the Master Equitum!”

  “Of course, First Consul,” an older servant said, snapping bolt upright and nodding to the wine-pourer, who hurried out of the room.

  Sabrina lifted her fork—a tentacle wrapped tightly about the tines—and gave Buckle a disgusted look. Through the windows behind her, Buckle saw a Founders submarine churning past in the distant depths of the sea, its yellow portholes and tubular mass just visible. “First Consul, if I may—”

  “Ah!” Octavian replied, raising his hand as Philo placed a goblet on the table in front of Marius. “Wine is served first.”

  The wine-pourer returned with a glass bottle and began pouring pale yellow liquid into Marius’ cup.

  “I want it so full it can’t hold another drop!” Octavian said.

  The wine-pourer carefully loaded the goblet with so much wine that surface tension was the only thing preventing it from overflowing. Buckle noticed the wine, lit up as it was under the luminiferous aether, appeared to have hundreds of tiny sparkling creatures swimming on the surface.

  “Philo!” Octavian ordered. “It would appear that our guests are unaccustomed to food from the sea. Bring the next course now. They will certainly be more comfortable eating mammals.”

  “Yes, First Consul, Philo replied, and hurried into the kitchen with one servant in tow.

  “If it is undercooked again I’ll send the chef to the Latifundium fringe for the rest of her miserable life!” Octavian shouted after Philo. “Tell her that!” He glared at Marius, who, calm and stoic, seemed quite accustomed to being glared at. “Don’t sip at it like a sick old woman, Marius,” Octavian grumbled. “Show me the seven.”

  Marius threw back his head, his throat working as he drained the goblet. When finished he banged the empty cup on the table.

  “Ha!” Octavian laughed, much amused before he glared at Buckle and Sabrina. “You two! Follow suit.” He tilted his goblet to his mouth, gulping loudly.

  Buckle turned to look at Sabrina but she, head back and cup upended, was already more than halfway through her wine.

  Suppressing a grumble, Buckle swallowed his drink as fast as he could, suspecting that the First Consul was a man who measured others by how effortlessly they could imbibe alcohol. The wine wasn’t bad at all, the flavor light and full of fruit. Traces of mandarin spice traveled in a thousand sweet flickers across Buckle’s tongue in way that felt physical but he did not want to think about what might be swimming in the wine. When he emptied the goblet he saw seven pearls set in the bottom.

  Octavian slapped his empty goblet on the table. Sabrina slapped her empty goblet on the table.

  Buckle slapped his empty goblet on the table and cleared his throat. “First Consul, it is important to talk. Our shared situation is perilous. You are under blockade and we—”

  Philo returned with two large silver serving trays which he laid on the table.

  “Please,” said Octavian, “help yourselves to some edible dormouse. You’ll eat nothing tastier in your life, I assure you, and they are land-bred. An ancient Roman delicacy, you see.”

  Buckle peered at the small, skinless rodents roasted on skewers. With the heads and legs still attached, they looked like nicely cooked squirrels, the skin crispy and brown over the meat underneath, dripping with greasy juices. The creature’s long, pock-marked tail was also well done, wrapped around the skewer. It smelled good, like peppered and salted venison. Sabrina ripped the tentacle off of her fork, stabbed an edible dormouse and laid it on her plate.

  “Sir, about our shared situation,” Buckle said.

  “Our shared situation?” Octavian repeated as if the words stabbed him, watching the wine-pourer as she refilled the goblets, the jug gurgling with each pour. “Our situation is not shared, Captain. Do not dare presume our situation is shared. You have no idea of what Atlantis is capable of or what our condition is.”

  “Fair enough,” Buckle replied. The wine generated a pleasant warmth in his nostrils.

  Sabrina leaned in close to Buckle’s ear. “I don’t know what an edible dormouse is,” she whispered, “but this is a rat.” She shoved her knife under the rodent and slid it to the opposite side of her plate, leaving a juicy streak as she tucked it up against her pile of still-quivering tentacles.

  Octavian looked at Buckle as if he had just popped into the room. “Tell me once again who you are exactly, Crankshaft?”

  “I am Romulus Buckle, captain of the Pneumatic Zeppelin and son of Admiral Balthazar, leader of the Crankshaft clan.”

  “And remind me of what you want and why you risk so much to come here,” Octavian asked.

  “The Founders threaten us all, First Consul,” Buckle said, deciding not to bring up his search for Elizabeth again. “The Crankshafts and many other clans have formed a grand armada in the spirit of mutual defense and I come here today to ask you to join our alliance.” Not exactly the specific truth of the matter but there was no doubt that the Grand Alliance would benefit greatly from having the Atlanteans on their side. “And I see that you are already under duress.”

  “Atlantis is not under duress,” Lady Julia blurted. Her voice was even and steady and cold but she was lying. Buckle noticed a close resemblance between her face and that of Octavian’s; small forehead, wide-set eyes, square chin. “We hold our own.”

  “Of course,” Buckle said gently. The Atlanteans were in trouble. And he wasn’t sure, but he got the feeling that the unannounced arrival of his Crankshaft contingent had made things worse.

  “So you hire a mercenary to run the blockade, kill one of our finest gagools and bring that vile, murderous, demented robot in here with you, eh?” Octavian said.

  “I am truly sorry about the loss of one of your Guardians,” Buckle replied with sincerity. “It was an act of self-defense. As for the automaton, we had no knowledge of the machine’s history.”

  “If the Crankshafts wish to negotiate they should do so properly and send an official ambassador,” Lady Julia said.

  “Julia, that is enough,” Octavian said, but not without affection.

  Lady Julia lowered her head. “My apologies, father.”

  “My daughter is high spirited and sometimes forgets her station, but she raises a good point,” Octavian said. “Where is your ambassador? All I see is low-ranking intruders bumbling in unannounced, on foot, and in the company of mercenaries.”

  “Our ambassador was dispatched to Spartak along the way, First Consul,” Buckle said.

  Octavian sighed. “No matter. There you have it. Atlantis does not takes sides nor join confederations of any sort. You may have your war, Captain Buckle, but keep us out of it.”

  Buckle noticed both Octavian and Marius casting furtive glances toward the opposite doorway. They were expecting someone—whomever the four extra goblets were for—and they were nervous about it.

  “From the looks of things outside you are already neck deep in it,” Sabrina said.

  Octavian turned his gaze directly on Sabrina. “And how do you, a red-haired Founders woman, count yourself among the Crankshafts?” he asked.

  “My blood is that of the Founders, aye,” Sabrina answered, barely covering her exasperation. “But my heart is Crankshaft.”

  “The snake becomes a hawk?” Marius said. “I don’t think so.”

  Buckle didn’t like the Atlanteans pushing at Sabrina. How were they so sure she was a Founders child? Redheads were rare, yes, but they certainly existed in bloodlines outside of the city. “It would be great folly to throw your lot in with the Founders,” Buckle said.

  Mariu
s threw his shoulders back, the result of his spine stiffening.

  Octavian’s eyes flashed. “Atlantis throws its lot in with no one.”

  “It appears to me the Founders are attempting to coerce—”

  “Coerce?” Lady Julia bristled.

  “Atlantis throws its lot in with no one,” Octavian repeated.

  “You throw your lot in with no one, First Consul?” a deep voice boomed from the doorway. “Yet here you sit, breaking bread with a Crankshaft.”

  Buckle jumped to his feet as two people stepped into the opposite archway. The first, the speaker, was a mountain of a man with black and silver hair and a white scar that ran diagonally across his heavy face. The blow that caused the injury had sunk deep but the weight of his brows, the depth of his small eyes, the huge bridge of his nose must have saved him from blindness, even death. He wore a black suit with a notched red collar and a red cape, black-lined, pinned at the shoulders.

  But Buckle barely saw the man. Beside him, a slender, familiar form stood, wearing the black uniform and silver lace of the steampipers. She had bright red hair and beautiful Asian-influenced face, her nose smattered with freckles.

  If Buckle hadn’t known that Sabrina was beside him in that moment he would have sworn that he was looking at her now. “What the?” he gasped.

  “She is Odessa, my twin sister,” Sabrina whispered.

  XXIII

  THE VICAR

  Octavian glared at the big man in the archway. “I shall host whomever I wish in my own house, Vicar. And how dare you be late!”

  Marius stood from his seat, never taking his eyes off the Vicar.

  The Vicar strode in with a smile and Odessa matched his every step. “Now, now, Octavian,” the Vicar said. “This is no way to treat one’s honored guests.”

  “You are not ‘guests’,” Lady Julia hissed low, but Buckle heard it.

  Though he could not take his eyes off Odessa, Buckle did not like what he was hearing. Octavian and the Founders man, this Vicar, knew each other. The Founders had gotten there before them. Octavian might have already cut a deal with the Founders.