Stormbringer

by Shannon Delany

  She cried out as her left hand was wrenched violently to the side and bread flew from her hand, bouncing across the floor, between the brass banisters, and over the ship’s edge.

  The captain groaned, growling in her direction, “You’re not anticipating the ship’s moves—you have to feel her, know what she wants, begin to use magicking to convince her that what you want is the better thing!” He shook his head and stood. “Because there’s one thing and one thing alone that this bitch of an airship wants! And that’s the ground.” He slammed his fist onto the table, rattling the dishware.

  “It seems far more like riding an entire team of horses all at once rather than merely steering a ship,” Marion muttered. His eyes left Bran only long enough to alight on the captain and dig his gaze into him.

  “Or saddling a whole school of fish with Merrow on your tails,” the captain laughed. “But that is precisely why we are here and they,” he cast a look to the edge of Topside, his gaze going east, toward the Western Ocean, “are down there. In the briny depths. You couldn’t pay me to captain a Cutter. And those poor fools who thought Clipper Ships would be enough? Merrow chum. It’s no wonder Baltimore fell.” He raised a cut-crystal wineglass and motioned they all, even Jordan with her modest pewter tankard, do the same.

  Hesitantly she obeyed, watching the weak wine in her tankard slosh. Her hand was pulled left, then right, then forward as different bits of the Artemesia steered their would-be Conductor. Her tongue stuck out between her lips in concentration and Bran realized this young woman of once fine family no longer cared much about her looks or her beautiful clothing.

  She cared about survival.

  She cared about not being hurt anymore.

  Jordan moved forward with the pull of her leather leashes as the ship’s wings rose up beside its bloated balloon and she snatched up a second roll and waited. There was a shift in the wind that allowed her hands close enough that she could snatch a sip of drink and tear off a bite of bread. She chewed quickly, there being no art or grace to her eating, but rather a sense of grim determination. Her gaze flicked across each of them with cool disinterest and then flitted away to skim the odd bits of technology that made up the Artemesia’s Topside.

  Bran watched, torn between obeying Marion’s subtle commands, observing Jordan, and observing the ship’s current Conductor, who moved like a mechanism himself not far beyond her.

  He should remember the Conductor’s name, having Made him. But he did not remember his name any more than he might remember one cog more than any other in a crate filled with its duplicates.

  The captain cleared his throat and glanced over Jordan’s head and to the Conductor. “New York City before nightfall, yes?”

  A soft grunt answered, the Conductor’s hands sending flywheels spinning. The Conductor leaned heavily against the main wheel—the one used for steering—and gathered himself.

  “Not long, not long,” the captain said, peering into his soup bowl.

  “Not long for New York City?” Meggie asked, her eyes glittering. Surely she had heard of New York City—only during her short lifespan having surpassed Philadelphia in population.

  Marion bounced her on his knee once and she settled, her large eyes downcast. He began, “A child should not—?”

  “—speak unless spoken to,” Meggie whispered.

  But the captain smiled at her. “True, true, child,” the captain agreed. “But, in answer to your question, I meant not long for this world.” His thick eyebrows slid together. “If you grasp my meaning.”

  Meggie’s head tipped to the side but Marion bounced her again and said, “Speak not unless spoken to. Is that not the proper way for a young lady?”

  Her tiny mouth drew into a pout.

  Maude spoke, but softly. “What the good captain means, I do believe, is that our Conductor is not at all well.”

  “Very true,” the captain agreed. “A good, good thing the Maker saw fit to provide us with a new trainee. Your timing was impeccable,” he declared. “It seems some things are meant to be.”

  Bran ducked his head, trying not to think about the multitude of dark things he’d done to boil down to such impeccable timing, especially considering Jordan should have been impossible to Make into a Weather Witch. She was an anomaly—at least he hoped she was …

  God, let her be an exception and not the rule …

  He looked away from his bowl of soup, away from the table of diners, and off to the clouds that seemed to mimic his own rumbling gut. The darkness coalesced, spinning and bubbling like a murky swamp and only occasionally illuminated by a flash of lightning.

  “I expect a week—a month at most—from this particular Conductor. He was much more energetic when he first came to us a year past. A trade, you know? Worked six months on another ship prior to coming aboard as ours.”

  Only a year and a half of service. Bran worked to keep control of his stomach. To be Made and Burn Out after only a year and a half of service—to only have a year and a half of life left in you …

  All eyes were on him. Not just Marion’s, Meggie’s, and Maude’s, but also Jordan’s.

  He looked down, surprised that Maude’s hand rested on his arm. He hadn’t felt it. He barely felt anything beyond a swimming darkness tugging at him like the clouds slowly dragging each other into shape like hands pulling taffy.

  “Most of them last a bit longer,” the captain said, rubbing his stomach with an appreciative hand before reaching for another piece of bread. “Some don’t last nearly so long. Ah, well. We all have to die eventually, now, don’t we?”

  Bran felt the heat of her glare pierce through her eyelashes as Jordan forgot about the leather binding both ankles and feet, putting her at the ship’s rough mercy as she knocked items off the table without a care for decorum. “You see it now, do you?” she asked, her voice rising in volume and pitch with every word. “You see what your tinkering with lives does? How you doom people—entire families?”

  Bran barely began to form the word “no” before the long-legged man in the meticulously detailed leather lion mask flicked his eyes to the captain and the Wandering Wallace stood, leaning across the table to pluck a coin from Meggie’s ear as the captain sprang up with a growl and knocked Jordan unconscious with the butt of a tankard.

  The Wandering Wallace winced as Jordan collapsed, her head clanking into her soup bowl and spilling its contents across the table and down her front. But the Wandering Wallace kept one hand extended, a living blinder to Meggie’s vision, and with his other produced a silk flower.

  With a flourish.

  The child saw nothing.

  Jordan lay like a broken puppet, the animation that enlivened her body lost. Her guards stepped forward and undid her tethers.

  Bran put down his spoon, no longer caring enough to even feign hunger. Dragging his gaze from Jordan’s limp form, he contemplated his bowl.

  Marion bristled beside him.

  But the Wandering Wallace smacked his hands together, calling for their attention. Bran supposed he never had trouble getting attention.

  He watched the masked man beckon to the slender black-haired beauty beside him.

  Whereas he could not determine the Wandering Wallace’s age, Miyakitsu seemed to be approximately Jordan’s age. Somewhere between sixteen and eighteen. But with features like hers—the planes of her face so mild, low, and foreign, with gentle curves as if her profile had been washed by a river for centuries—it was hard to judge.

  Graceful as a green willow, she stood. Her eyes darted to the Wandering Wallace.

  He nodded. From within the holes in the mask, his eyes smiled, welcoming her. “My lovely assistant, Miyakitsu!”

  Around the table a smattering of applause echoed, the most eager of which sounded from Meggie’s small hands.

  “It is my duty to remind you all before I truly begin this evening’s spectacle that the things you will see—things that will astound and amaze—things that will dazzle your eyes and turn yo
ur brain to butter—these things are not magickal in nature—no, not a single one! Every bit of trickery that you see performed by both myself and the lovely Miyakitsu is nothing but simple sleight of hand and basic illusion embellished and made more elaborate through our methodology. Neither of us are Witches nor Magickers nor Conductors. Not anything of the sort! And, so, though there is plenty of magick in this world, we utilize none of it!”

  The captain leaned across the table toward Bran, whispering, “He does the finest legal disclaimers ever.”

  Bran nodded and watched the mysterious man and his woman as they easily took command of Topside to entertain the guests.

  “This evening we have brought with us an intriguing trick from the Old World.” From a carpetbag at the feet of his chair he removed an ornate box. “This box will help us show how truly flexible the amazing Miyakitsu is.”

  Miyakitsu stretched her arms over her head and bent back at her waist until her fingertips walked their way to her ankles. She kicked out her feet, heels flying over her head, and she popped back into a lithe standing position, her colorful silk robe with its ocean wave design barely fluttering.

  Meggie was already clapping.

  “I will obscure Miyakitsu’s beauty—but only momentarily,” the Wandering Wallace promised, “because I cannot bear much time without the sight of her. Sit, my darling girl.” She withdrew her chair from its place at the table, sat, and rearranged her silk gown across her lap quite modestly for a contortionist.

  The Wandering Wallace stepped up behind her and said, “Gather up your hair, my love—up off your dainty neck.”

  She swept up the long black locks and twisted them together, piling them high atop her head. She settled her hands in her lap and smiled as he rested the edges of the box on her shoulders so that her head was inside, her eyes peering out the opening.

  He leaned on her shoulders, grinning at his audience, his chin resting on the top of the box as he explained. “It is said that owls can turn their heads all the way around. I, myself, have never seen such a thing. But I have seen Miyakitsu do what owls are only rumored to. Shall we watch her do it?”

  Meggie’s voice came out, a shocked whisper. “Twist her head all the way around?”

  The Wandering Wallace nodded.

  Her eyes wide, she asked, “Does it hurt?”

  Miyakitsu shook her head, a silent no.

  Meggie smiled then shouted in a voice far bigger, fiercer, and deeper than Bran thought she had within her, “Do it!”

  “Watch carefully,” the Wandering Wallace instructed, placing his hands on either side of the box. “Are you ready, dear heart?”

  She nodded and he began to twist the box around just above her shoulders.

  Meggie squealed, watching as Miyakitsu’s head turned to her right. She turned, twisting her neck … The side and back of the box hid her head then, her face only reappearing as the hole in the box came back to the front, carrying her head again to its proper position.

  Meggie screeched and they all clapped as the Wandering Wallace removed the box, declaring, “I must make sure all the parts still work!” He looked at Meggie, tapped the chin of his mask, and asked the child, “What are the five senses?”

  She screwed up her face in thought, answering, “Sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch?”

  “Very good!”

  He clicked his fingers by both of Miyakitsu’s ears.

  Miyakitsu twitched away from each noise and the Wandering Wallace wiggled his fingers close to her eyes, making her blink in response. “Now smell,” he said, reaching for a piece of bread. He waved it under her nose, her nostrils flared and she nodded. “Taste?” He tore off a tiny piece of the bread, setting it on the tip of her pink and pointing tongue.

  She smiled, nodded, chewed and swallowed.

  Finally he leaned forward and admitted, “My favorite test—touch,” and he leaned in, his mask obscuring much of the view, but Meggie giggled, knowing they kissed.

  The captain laughed. “Spectacular! I have heard you also sing, Wandering Wallace. You must delight the ship with song tonight after my man delivers the evening’s news.”

  “I would be honored to do so.”

  From behind Bran came sounds of movement. Of heavy boots moving on the deck. He peered out of the corners of his eyes and watched Jordan’s guards sweep in, one picking her up unceremoniously and throwing her across his shoulder like a sack of rice. They carried her away, Bran staring as the three-walled elevator again sank into the ship’s deck, taking her back to wherever Witches were kept.

  Meggie did not notice Jordan’s absence until Captain Kerdin plucked the hatpin from Jordan’s hat, and then the elevator carrying her was gone—the child was still too absorbed in watching Wallace.

  Captain Kerdin shook his head, his jaw clenched and disappointment clear, his gaze flickering to the Conductor who kept the ship afloat in the heavens, his days numbered.

  What happened if a Conductor died mid-flight? Would the crew and passengers simply hope the wings fully extended and had the strength to glide them to a safe landing?

  Meggie glanced around. “Where has the lady gone?”

  “What lady?” the captain asked.

  Meggie pointed to the vacant seat at the smaller table.

  “Oh. The Witch,” he said. “She went home.”

  “But…” Meggie’s expression squeezed in, and her lower lip pushed out. “I did not tell her good night.” She squeezed Somebunny tighter.

  The bag at Bran’s back rattled again and he knew without looking that his drink was starting to bubble. He slipped one hand into the bag and one out to Meggie, his eyes widening as a pulse of some strange power shot through him from the bag to his daughter.

  Meggie sniffled and blinked.

  In the sky above, lightning darted and sparkled.

  “I’m certain we will all see the young lady tomorrow evening for supper, as the captain is a generous man,” the Wandering Wallace assured them.

  The captain coughed but nodded, murmuring agreement. “Of course. I would be honored to have you return for supper—”

  “—and entertainment for us all,” the Wandering Wallace promised with a wink. “An open invitation, then?” the Wandering Wallace asked, his lion’s-head mask tipping up so his eyes locked with those of the captain.

  There was barely a moment of hesitation from the captain. “Why yes, of course! An open invitation from this most generous of captains for dinner Topside for all you fine folks!”

  “Excellent,” the Wandering Wallace said.

  Meggie sniffled once more and Bran stroked her hair, Marion watching. “Be at ease, little dove. We have faced many changes recently,” Bran said, his eyes snapping up to meet those of their captor, “but we will face them together and be brave.”

  Chapter Four

  Power, alas! naught but misery brings!

  —THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY

  Holgate

  There had not been a single time since Councilman Stevenson had taken over the Weather Workers and the maintenance of Holgate that a town watchman’s appearance at his door had been a good thing.

  Compounding the issue was the fact the Tester had popped by earlier and remained in Stevenson’s apartments, reclining on one of his finer sofas. And flexing his metal contraption of a hand open and closed like a predatory bird testing its talons. A miserable man, he commented on everything—even criticizing the color palette of his apartments.

  Stevenson rubbed his forehead and glared at the watchman. With the loss of his prize stallion, King’s Ransom, he very much wanted to be gone from here—to be back in Philadelphia, even if it meant sharing space with his young bride. “What do you mean the Maker is gone?”

  The watchman looked down. With a creak, the Tester leaned back on the plush divan, stretching against it and kicking his boots out before him so their black tips peeked from beneath his long gray and silver robe’s hem, and said, “I thought it quite easily comprehended, myself. Not
much more there than a verb and a noun to ponder.”

  Stevenson ignored him. “Might he be in town?”

  “No, good sir. And his little girl’s gone. And Maude, his woman.”

  Halfway through the watchman’s explanation, Stevenson’s eye began to twitch. “His books?”

  The watchman rubbed his beard in thought, his scar puckering the flesh as he rubbed it. “Desk’s a mess, and there’s some broken glass. Some other strange things, too.” He glanced to the side and then back down as if worried something would suddenly appear.

  “What other strange things?” Stevenson asked, his eyebrows pulling together as he followed the man’s paranoid gaze.

  “Bizarre butterflies…”

  “Butterflies!” Stevenson drew back, rolling his eyes.

  “Demonic butterflies, you ask me,” said the watchman. “Damned things are everywhere, flying into your face, your eyes especially—Lord, how they like the eyes!”

  The Tester laughed and then dropped his face back into its standard droll expression. “Open a window. Swat them,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Crush them, drop a book on them, stomp them with a boot. Demonic butterflies!” he said with a laugh.

  Stevenson leaned in and sniffed the man’s breath. “Your dental hygiene is suspect, but you do not appear to be drunk…”

  “I am quite sober, sir. And the Maker is quite gone.”

  “Clothing?”

  “Some’s taken, yes. But there is good news, as well.”

  “Oh. Excellent well. Do tell me this good news.”

  “Your stallion?”

  Stevenson nodded.

  “King’s Ransom?”

  “Yes, yes, we have previously established that my stallion is named King’s Ransom—what news of him?”

  “He’s been found, my lord, and in fair condition.”

  “Found where and in whose possession?”

  “Here, my lord. But the man riding him escaped. We suspect he boarded a ship.”

  Stevenson frowned. “But the stallion is penned, tended, and under guard?”