Stormbringer

by Shannon Delany

  He rose to his full height and looked down at her, frowning. “Not a blessed soul stone here. When the Hub men reclaimed the stormlights … They take all of ’em?”

  Laura opened her mouth to explain, but a noise behind them stopped her.

  “Why, whyever would you want to know that, John?”

  Laura stepped back, her hand flying up to snare John’s arm in warning. In the doorway stood Lady Astraea, the foreign fire back in her eyes and her features their cruelest-looking.

  Chapter Three

  Bravery is being the only one who knows you’re afraid.

  —FRANKLIN P. JONES

  Aboard the Tempest

  Laughing, Rowen and Elizabeth turned back to the ladder to descend, but she stopped him, resting a hand on his arm. “Look,” she said softly. “We have steam power secreted away and we are working on obtaining a thermo-acoustic engine. But this is the other advantage we have.” She pointed off the ship’s port side, her finger aimed at the mountains they’d crested, rising like the purple spine of a sleeping dragon.

  The sun was sinking behind the glowing ridge, orange and yellow threatening to set the mountain range’s back afire as color saturated the mountains, filtering through the distant trees until the colors blurred and blended and the entire sky grew soft with the promise of coming night.

  Elizabeth sighed, her arms swinging at her side. “They never get to see it, you know? The airships. We get the occasional fart of black smoke from the engines, but, like any gas, it passes.” She winked. “I whisk it away if another ship is near and bring in clouds. But their airships—their Conductors—control the weather and almost never get free of the clouds they build long enough to see either sunrise or sunset. Imagine.”

  Rowen tore his gaze away from it, his chest tight. “I’d rather not.”

  Elizabeth cocked her head, peering at him with sparkling eyes. Then she punched his arm.

  “What the hell was that for?”

  She grinned at him. “Buck up! Your girl—it is a girl, right?” she asked, quirking one eyebrow. “I mean, you said Jordan and that might be a man’s name…”

  He did not answer, but watched as she sputtered on.

  “But your name’s Rowen, which might be a girl’s name, and, love being what it seems to me what it is (which is rather annoyingly indiscriminate—not that there’s anything wrong with that) it seems to me I best not presume that your Jordan is female.”

  His left eye pulsed in his skull.

  “Or male.”

  His eye twitched again.

  “Or human. Or even reallll,” she squeaked out before bending over, consumed by laughter. She stayed frozen like that a moment, doubled over and wheezing between giggles, and he wondered how this woman could possibly be an effective pirate captain.

  Trading hostess.

  He snorted. “Jordan is most certainly real. And human. And quite definitely female.”

  Straightening, she grinned at him again. “Well, all of that is quite a relief!” She wiggled the toes of one boot and pointed to it, saying, “It’s small, and it’s a good thing.”

  “What? Your foot?”

  “Aye,” she said. “Easier to get it back out of my own mouth.” She winked at him, saying, “Your real, human girl, Jordan, is most likely propping her feet up and relaxing aboard the Artemesia. Most likely enjoying herself.”

  “That’s highly doubtful.”

  “Why, she doesn’t enjoy travel by airship?”

  “Likely not, as she’s the source of power for it.”

  Elizabeth winced. Her gaze dropped to the deck and her lips pressed together, sliding back and forth across her face. “Oh.” She hooked her fingers into her belt and swayed a moment before her eyes settled on the rope ladder attached to the deck near her feet. She cleared her throat. “I was thinking…”

  He took a breath and made a conscious effort to be more positive. Rubbing his ragged beard, he asked, “Do you believe you should? Be thinking? Might you not strain yourself?”

  Her head snapped up, and catching his overly dramatic expression of concern, she snorted. “You seemed … worried coming up the ropes. There is an alternative for the descent…”

  “The only alternate method of descent I can fathom is over the edge of the ship,” he said. “Given that option, I’ll climb.”

  “There is another way.” She gave a little cough. “There are other methods of down—and up.” She fluttered her eyelashes.

  “You were testing me.”

  “I must test you to better know your abilities. You are part of my crew now.”

  “For now,” he corrected. “I have other goals.”

  “Of course. Come with me.”

  At the far end of Topside, behind Tara-the-dummy, was the lip of a broad tube with a cap securing its top. Elizabeth slapped it lightly with her palms. “We don’t generally use this,” she explained. “It’s more of a safety precaution to get us from Topside to the other gun decks as fast as we can.”

  “Other gun decks?” he echoed.

  She winked again. “Perhaps you’ll never need to know. But,” she redirected his drifting focus back to the cap with a tap of her fingers, “we’d best go.” She grunted, pulling the heavy metal cap back on its hinges. Stepping inside the broad tube, she rested her feet on one of four rungs he could see. “I’ll disappear, you count to three, climb down to the last rung, pull the cap shut,” she touched a handle that was attached to the cap’s concave interior, “let go, and step off.”

  He noticed there were several other capped tubes dotting the Topside deck. He leaned over the mouth of the tube, his hands tightly gripping its edge as he squinted into the dark beyond her feet. “I think not.”

  She rolled her lips together and furrowed her brow. “It’ll all be over in just a moment.”

  “That phrasing is supposed to reassure me?”

  She patted his hand and descended another rung. “Count to three, step in, close the lid, and step off.”

  He shook his head. She nodded in return and went down another rung. “Count to three, step in, close the lid, and step off.”

  He glanced from her face back to the rope ladder all the way across the deck.

  Stars began to glitter faintly in the sky and Elizabeth peeked over his head to see them better. She sighed again. “That, too,” she commented. “They miss that, too.” Then she said, “Rowen.” She winked. “Count to three, step in, close the lid, and step off,” she instructed, clapping her hat to her head. Disappearing into the dark of the tube, a final pair of words reverberated back to him: “Be brave!”

  He blinked. They were the words he had so frequently said to Jordan each time he tried to widen the horizons of her life with his bolder experiences.

  Be brave.

  So he had no choice but to follow the instructions he’d previously given. How could a man expect anyone to follow his words if he himself did not?

  He stepped inside, feet cautiously fumbling down rung after rung, handle firmly in his hand, the lowering cap squeezing out the remaining light as he made his descent.

  Be brave.

  His left foot swept down finding no more rungs. The lid snapped shut above his head, sealing.

  “Come down already,” Elizabeth’s voice echoed from somewhere in the darkness below.

  Rowen took a deep breath and stepped off.

  He was not proud of the fact he screamed. Like a girl, he thought as he snapped his jaw as tightly shut as his eyes already were. His rump and back connected with the tube, knocking the breath out of him. His hair blew back as he rocketed down, fast as a cannonball mid-flight.

  His eyes peeled open at the brush of cooler air cutting across him, and light shocked his senses nearly as much as landing in the old strawtick mattresses did. He lay there a moment, stunned. And trying to get his lungs working again.

  Elizabeth stood over him, laughing so hard she was crying.

  He rolled slowly into a seated position. “I thought I wa
s going to die,” he said with a chuckle.

  “I heard,” she wheezed out.

  He rubbed his head, trying to fix his hair. “But, to your credit, I didn’t die.”

  “I see that.”

  “This is all…” He rose, looking around. They stood in a small and absolutely unremarkable room. A wooden floor and four wooden walls butted together with only two doors to break the monotony. “You said the tube led to the gundeck?”

  She nodded. “The Aft Gundeck, more precisely. Many airships line parts of their exterior with stacks of cabins. The view of the storms is spectacular and the right people pay a pretty penny for those rooms. As a trading vessel we aren’t expected to have as many exterior cabins, so most of ours…” She stepped over and pulled open the nearest of the two doors, stepping through.

  Rowen followed.

  Cannons lined the wall before them, wedged into place with triangular blocks and pins. Their thick black snouts were mere inches from the closed gun flaps. On them were stamped initials: S.F.

  Elizabeth stepped forward and gave one an appreciative stroke. “Our heavy horses,” she said with a smile. “I know you had little time to observe the beauty of our ship as you were welcomed aboard, but the Tempest’s exterior is painted to look like cabin windows thanks to an artist who, like many of his ilk, does not necessarily agree with our government.”

  Rowen nodded. “Nicely done.”

  “I do many things nicely,” she said, straddling the gun and winking at him.

  A door snapped shut as someone else entered the room behind them. A throat cleared and Elizabeth stood up and tipped her hat.

  Rowen turned to see who had joined them.

  Two men stood side by side.

  The shorter of the two—a year or two older than Rowen and with red-gold hair—was already talking, and viciously disinterested in Rowen’s existence. The man wore an unremarkable shirt, trousers, and boots. Across his chest was a belt with two pistols unlike any Rowen had ever seen before strapped to it. “… So what was that light show all about, eh, Evie?” he asked Elizabeth. In his hands he worked something metal back and forth. “Seemed a bit unnecessary, do you not think?”

  Elizabeth—Evie—pursed her lips and looked down at the shorter man.

  “Just who exactly were you trying to impress, eh?”

  The other man, long and thin and all arms, legs, and Adam’s apple, cleared his throat again, jabbing an elbow toward Rowen.

  The shorter of the two stopped worrying at the mechanical thing he held and gave Rowen a glance and rolled his eyes. “I asked who, not what, Toddy. That there’s not a person but a walking tree trunk.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes crinkled at their edges. “Do you not have something of mechanical import to tinker with?”

  “Tinkers tinker,” the man said with a squaring of his shoulders. “I am an engineer.”

  “Then is there not an engine you should be near, engineer,” she teased.

  He bristled, stepping back. “No more fireworks. We do not wish to have attention drawn to us. Especially considering our current cargo.”

  She frowned but nodded, watching them both go.

  The door shut once more and she announced, “The illustrious Ginger Jack, ship’s engineer and constant thorn in my side.”

  “Seems like a … passionate relationship you two have.”

  “What? Ha!” She laughed, but color rose in her cheeks and she would not meet his eyes. “Nay. Not Ginger and I.” She shook her head.

  “This is quite a different world. I must admit, on Topside I was quite worried seeing Tara. I thought you’d done something utterly insane—reprehensible—like made a person into some puppet simply to fly your blasted boat!”

  For a moment she was absolutely still, watching him, her breathing shallow, eyes sad. “Oh, Rowen. You’ve never been on another airship before, have you?”

  Rowen staggered a step, bracing himself against a cannon at the insinuation. “No. I need to get to Jordan,” he insisted. “And fast. I had no idea things were like that.”

  “The people on the top never know what it’s like for those on the bottom—ignorance is bliss.”

  Philadelphia

  It was Catrina’s uncle who opened the door to the family home for her.

  She sniffed. “Whyever do you not let the servants do that much at least?”

  He closed the door behind her and bolted it. Brushing his hands down his shirt’s front to neaten it, he responded, words slurring, “We all should endeavor to do something at least. And you, dear niece, have done more than enough already.”

  “Good God. Here. You want to do something? Take my shawl. You are constructed wholly from drama and a guilty conscience, are you not?” She undid her shawl and thrust it at him. “And here. My hat.” She slipped free her hatpin and laughed when he jumped back and flailed his arms wildly at her attempt to jab him with it. “Oh, but you are so amusing. Absolutely worth the hassle of keeping you around.”

  Tentatively, he reached for the hat and snared the pin as well. “People would wonder if both your parents and uncle were gone,” he whispered. “A lady must have a chaperone…”

  “And how you benefit from that fact!” Glaring at him, she stalked from the foyer to the hall. That only the echo of their footsteps returned to her ears was not lost on her.

  “I dismissed the servants for the evening.”

  Catrina spun to face him. “But I am hungry!”

  He raced to get around her, saying, “I can surely make you something to eat…”

  She blinked at him and tossed her head. Perfectly spiraled gold curls bounced around the crown of her head, interspersed with satin ribbons. “Let us see if that is so.” She pointed in the direction of the kitchen.

  With determination she strode forward as he scampered ahead—a bit unsteady on his feet as always. But that was easily explainable when one realized where much of the monies she allotted him went—to drink. It was an expenditure she did not discourage.

  He held the kitchen door open and, skeptically, she stepped inside, giving a little sniff. “Well, perhaps you will succeed in finding me something to eat.”

  “I do my best to keep you happy.”

  “That is wise, indeed.”

  He rushed about the room, going from cabinet to cabinet and examining the assortment of meats, cheeses, and herbs strung and suspended from the ceiling’s open rafters.

  “Perhaps a bottle of wine?” she suggested.

  To anyone else it seemed an innocent enough suggestion. But Gerald paled. “From the cellar?” he asked, his voice more squeak than manly baritone.

  “Why, of course. I just so happen to have the key!” She dug into the narrow space at the top of her corset just between fabric and skin to where a perfectly-sized pocket had been secreted away. “Perhaps there is something on ice that might interest me.” She smiled, seeing his Adam’s apple slide down and back at her suggestion. “Here. You do the honors.” She handed him the key, and, shaking, he stuck it into the lock and opened the door. “When is the next delivery of ice?”

  “Monday next.”

  “Oh, good.” Descending the four steps into the wine cellar, she turned left and came to the set of ice blocks that formed a frozen table, sawdust packed around them and sprinkled across most of what rested atop them.

  Most.

  She stepped closer, the smile on her lips stretching to a nearly painful grin as she leaned in to inspect the faces peeking out from the wood shavings. “Well, hello, Mother. Father. Did you miss me?” She turned toward Gerald, who stood as stiff as her parents but by the door. “Come here,” she demanded. “Take a good look. This is exactly why it is important you keep me happy—that you do not question my decisions nor disagree with me over … anything. Not which boy I wish to pursue nor what hours I keep…” She paused. “And never, never threaten to tell the authorities the truth about my nature. Never suggest you would hand me over rather than be accused of Harboring. A loving famil
y would never!”

  He looked away and, darting forward, she grabbed his face, fingers sinking into his dark brown beard as she forced him to meet her eyes.

  “Because betraying me betrays our cause. You understand?” Her grip fierce on his face, she moved his head up and down in a slow nod. “And soon enough everyone will know what I am. And they will all be thankful for each move I made because they will understand I did it all for them, Gerald. All for the Witches and every type of slave there is. I am the one they have waited for. I am the one prophesied. And they will love me when they realize.” She released him and clomped her way up the stairs. “They will love me. Unlike my dear, departed parents.”

  At the top of the steps she paused, her hand on the doorframe. “Oh, Gerald. You look positively dreadful. Perhaps a drink to calm your nerves?”

  He nodded, brushing past her and heading straight for the cabinet where the liquor was stored.

  Aboard the Artemesia

  Bran sneaked another look at Jordan Astraea, trussed as she was in the thin leather lashings that connected her wrists and ankles to four key parts of the airship Artemesia as part of an initial Conductor’s training exercise.

  He’d Made her into a Weather Witch, forced her to become something both she and he knew she never should have been, but he had never witnessed the next stages of a Witch’s evolution. What a Maker did was never discussed. Nor was this. He had never dined where one was being trained.

  It did nothing to improve his appetite.

  Her long, dark hair was pulled into a simple twist that wrapped into a bun held tight near the nape of her neck.

  Her butterfly-wing pendant hung suspended and glittering from a black velvet band around her narrow neck.

  The memory of a song drifted to Bran and for a moment it played in his head, rivaling the violinist’s haunting tune, as he watched her.

  Her eyes were dark as the raven,

  You’d think her the queen of the land

  With her hair bound high behind her

  Swept up in a black velvet band.

  But she was no queen of any land. When he realized this, the tune spiraled, deflating, every note falling flat as it died in his head. Here was no queen. Here was nothing but a slave of the lowest order. A slave of his Making.