Stormbringer

by Shannon Delany

  She had done it.

  She had called down a storm. She had found her own trigger and identified it. Her trigger had never been pain or sorrow.

  Her trigger was blinding rage.

  Hate.

  Now she needed to control it.

  The lock on her door clicked and the door opened, a young boy with a fresh pitcher stepping into her room as two guards pressed forward, filling the space between the door’s frame.

  A stormlight lantern was slung from the boy’s forearm and he set the pitcher on the stand and adjusted her lantern so it flared on again. “The moment you start to Draw Down, call for water,” he suggested, his dark eyes large and sparkling in the light. “It will keep you free of the headaches. When the body loses too much water, the brain suffers.”

  He reached down and retrieved her wayward cup, filling it for her. “Drink,” he said, taking her right hand and gently folding her fingers around the cup.

  She did—not because he told her to, but because her mouth gave her no choice—her body compelled her to drink. When she finished with one cup, squinting over the edge of the glass at him, she asked, “Who are you?”

  “No one important,” he returned with a broad and gleaming smile. “But some call me Jeremiah.”

  “And some call you Powder Monkey,” Mouse said with a snort. “Our names,” he motioned with a crooked thumb to himself, Stache, and Jeremiah, “and your name, Witch, matter not one whit. We matter only because of our jobs.”

  Jeremiah agreed with a modest dip of his head and handed her the pitcher.

  “Wait,” she called as he stepped toward the door, “what is a powder monkey?”

  Jeremiah flashed his smile again. “The one they send to help load the cannons. I’m small and quick.”

  “We have cannons aboard?”

  He laughed. “Every airship has cannons,” he said. “You have to have something to protect the ship.”

  “Protect the ship from what?”

  “Pirates.”

  He squeezed out between the guards and the door closed before she could ask anything else.

  Philadelphia

  The boxes arrived the same morning and were presented to the councilmen while they took the first of many breaks for food, drink, and conversation. Seated behind the long table that served as their main base of operations, fresh tea steaming in their fine porcelain cups, the whir of gears and clicking of cogs signaled the arrival of an automaton. The hum of mechanics drew their attention to the large walking doll and the silver platter it carried. It strode to the middle of the table and, leaning, carefully set the platter down.

  Seated at the edge of the room, waiting to address the Council, Catrina Hollindale balanced a cup and saucer in the palms of her gloved hands.

  “Here now, what is all this?” Councilman Loftkin demanded, snaking a hand out to draw the etched silver tray across the mahogany table to him. He snorted, looking at the set of petite burgundy boxes—ring boxes—that faced him, each with a tag carefully written out in a delicate script. “Why, these aren’t for us at all,” he muttered. “These are for our wives.” He tugged one box free and poked a finger into the folded tag to open it. He announced, “‘In an election year we appreciate the fine job you do in supporting the success of our people by being a complementary support to your husbands, the wise and wonderful councilmen.’” He drew back, chuckling. “Well. I daresay I agree with the sentiment. Shall we see what precisely is within the boxes, gentlemen?”

  They nodded, passing the ring boxes around until each man had his mate’s gift in hand.

  Catrina straightened, focused.

  Not one was left on the tray. “Hmm,” Loftkin remarked. “I take it that whoever sent these keeps up well with the shifting membership of the Council. There is not one left for old Morgan Astraea’s wife now that he’s no longer a member.”

  “There is also not one for Stevenson,” Councilman Mendelheim added. “Oh,” he said. “Not that it matters much to the way my day shall progress, but I’m curious to know—as Councilman Stevenson is still away at Holgate on Weather Working business, do you suppose he too will receive a gift for his wife?”

  Shrugs and indifferent nods were their responses as they carefully undid the delicate ribbon holding each lid tight to the top of each box and opened them. Tied onto a small satin pillow within was a ring for each of the wives set with a beautiful bloodred ruby that seemed to catch fire.

  Councilman Loftkin held his wife’s ring box high, turning it in the light.

  Catrina blinked, looking down at the ruby ring adorning her own finger, its band snug over her lace glove and slightly loose on her naked finger. She was never without it. It was the only worthwhile gift her uncle had given her.

  The men appraised the rings carefully, noting and commenting in turn on the delicacy of the band and the setting’s design (Catrina’s own was delicately crafted), mentioning the finely carved shapes that graced either side of the crown (Catrina’s sported a tiny fox on one side and a lion on the other) that held each ring’s rectangular cabochon (the same shape as Catrina’s gem).

  Her eyelashes fluttered, her mind racing.

  “Who are these things from?” The newest among them, Councilman Yokum, asked the question also on Catrina’s lips.

  “Does it matter?” Loftkin responded. “They are lovely gifts. And I daresay it will save me from spending more on another adornment for my bride of oh so many long years,” he added with a laugh.

  “I think it must matter,” Yokum insisted. “What if these are intended as bribes?”

  “They are poorly devised if they are bribes,” Loftkin scoffed, flipping the tag over and tugging the pillow out of the box. He peered into the box’s bottom, into the lid, turned it over, untied the ring from its ribbon, and scowled at the interior of the band. “They are absolutely unmarked by any maker. If they are intended as bribes the one committing bribery traditionally announces himself as the benefactor in some way. Otherwise how would the one being bribed know on whose behalf to act?”

  Yokum pursed his lips. “You seem to know quite a bit about how bribes work.”

  The older man reddened at the sly accusation. “It is common sense, Yokum, nothing else. I guess I should not be astounded by the fact such a thing escaped you,” he added with a sniff and a tip of his chin.

  “So what do we do with these?” Yokum asked.

  “We have had anonymous benefactors in the past,” Loftkin pointed out. He blew out a breath. “You, Yokum, can do with yours whatever the bloody hell you wish—I could tell you where you might as well stick yours, but I doubt it would sparkle nearly as nicely where the sun does not shine … For me, though, I shall be placing it on my wife’s finger this evening over a nice dinner.”

  “Hear, hear,” the others agreed. The boxes were again closed, the ribbons not as well nor so delicately tied, but done nonetheless, and the gifts put away.

  “We have a guest with us today, gentlemen,” Loftkin said, setting his box aside. “The young Lady Catrina Hollindale, ranked Fourth of the Nine.” He extended his hand, motioning for her to rise and address them.

  Catrina stood, holding her teacup and saucer before her, and cleared her throat.

  “Why, yes, of course.” Loftkin snapped his fingers and the automaton clicked its way to Catrina, bowed, and, taking the cup and saucer from her, stepped away with all the humility expected of an automaton.

  “Good Council,” Catrina began. “I come before you today to beg your mercy on behalf of a young man whose father is well known to you all. I beg you desist in your hunt for Rowen Albertus Burchette, ranked Sixth of the Nine and whose father serves your military with great ability.”

  Loftkin snorted. “I am sorry, my dear. Rowen Burchette, who was embroiled in a duel that he himself initiated, to defend the supposed honor of a Harbored Witch, the same Rowen Burchette who shot and killed Lord Edward?”

  Instead of lowering her head, Catrina raised hers higher, tipping h
er chin up so she peered down her nose at the seated men. “The same. He was drunk the night he made his challenge.”

  “Imagine if we excused the behavior of every drunk,” Loftkin muttered, shaking his head.

  Leaning forward to catch the eye of the man at the table’s center, another Councilman teased, “From what I hear of your Saturday evenings, Councilman Loftkin, it might be to your advantage to do so.”

  “Ha. Ha.” Loftkin pressed his fingers together and peered over their tips at Catrina. “And do you have any other reason as to why we should rescind the hunt for this … this … murderer?”

  Catrina pressed her lips together and clasped her hands. “Because, good sirs, sometimes it is better to have someone on your side rather than have that person against you, and showing mercy may create that effect in this case.”

  Loftkin laughed outright and Catrina’s face reddened.

  “Dear girl,” Loftkin began, “if you believe that Rowen Burchette—the boy best known for his clothing and hair—”

  “—and lewd jokes and riotous parties,” Councilman Mendelheim added.

  Loftkin nodded. “So I have heard. The boy is no hero or leader of men. Miss Hollindale, you are quite mistaken if you believe we should feel threatened—”

  “—or frightened—”

  “—by the idea of a lad of eighteen, this Rowen, coming after us because we are hunting him … The hunt shall continue.” Loftkin stood, waving her away with a dismissive gesture. The automaton stepped forward, its intent clear. “You are greatly naive if you believe we fear Rowen Burchette.”

  Catrina turned to follow the automaton to the exit, beneath her breath promising, “I would never suggest you feel threatened by Rowen…”

  Aboard the Artemesia

  Maude and Meggie were allowed to leave the room on their own recognizance when the Artemesia was secured in New York City, and Marion rested on the room’s bed, his feet up, arms behind his head as he stared past Bran and out the distant window. “What would you do if you were I, Maker?”

  Bran turned toward him and made a request. “Not Maker. Please. Not anymore. Just Bran.”

  “Why call you by your Christian name? It might give people the wrong impression—the impression we are friends. And that, dear Maker,” he snapped, “is quite far from the truth.”

  Bran sighed.

  “Still, I am curious. So I shall play along. Do tell me, Bran, what would you do if you found yourself in my situation?”

  “You have other options. This, kidnapping us—and whatever grim thing might come next—is not your only choice.” The circles under Bran’s eyes were heavy and lined with fine grooves that spoke of little sleep.

  “Do tell me, Bran, what numerous options are still available to me now that I am aboard an airship with one of the most well-ranked men in the United States as my captive? Where do you see this multitude of choices?”

  “You wish to wound me, to punish me—in that you have already succeeded.”

  “So said Brer Rabbit to Brer Fox.”

  Bran continued, knowing Marion was at least halfheartedly listening. “You have ruined my ability to maintain my livelihood. From anyone else’s perspective it appears I have abandoned my post. You have most likely encouraged a hunt to be initiated. When they find me, regardless of the damage you do, they will strive and succeed in making your efforts look paltry by comparison. The Councilman does not take lightly the disappearance of a man of my rank. You have, by association, destroyed Maude’s ability to find employment. No household will employ her now she’s gone off without reporting in. And my daughter … Meggie will never again know who to trust. She will live out her life looking over her shoulder and wondering who might try and uproot her happiness. So if you were seeking some long-reaching punishment, you have done more than achieve it.

  “But if your goal is to do more than to ruin a trio of lives—if your calling is something grander—something higher—then you must adjust your course as surely as this airship shifts to avoid running aground in the mountaintops.”

  Marion glanced down and Bran held his breath. Something had made an impact.

  “Rather than being the criminal the honest men dog and drag through the dirt with their righteous accusations, be like the men you seek to depose—find, establish, and hold your power legally so none may question your ascent,” Bran suggested. “Do not give them more reasons to destroy you—they are politicians, they naturally desire to do that—lend them no aid through the committing of a greater illegal act against my family. Be as our country’s leaders are: upright and merciful.”

  Aboard the Tempest

  Rowen woke to a pounding on his door. Outside in the corridor the long, thin man he’d heard called Toddy stood. “Good Queen Bess wants to see you,” he said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

  “Queen Bess?” Rowen rubbed at his eyes, puzzled.

  Toddy rolled his eyes. “Queen Bess—Captain Elizabeth?”

  “Oh. Oh.” Rowen pawed at his head, briefly trying to rub his hair into some semblance of order.

  Rowen followed Toddy back through the winding halls. They came to a long room filled with slender tables and matching benches. Men lined the benches, bent over small bowls of steaming food, bickering. At the end of one long table sat Elizabeth or Evie, depending on how well one knew her. Seeing them enter, she stood, waving Rowen in her direction.

  Leaving Toddy, he strode across the room to join Evie. She set her hand on his arm. “Go get yourself something to eat from the galley and we’ll talk.” She pointed to a nearby door and window and he obeyed.

  From the window he could see a wooden table at the end of which a fierce-looking female snapped down a knife, slicing into some fruit he didn’t recognize. She was a fleshy tree stump of humanity, built with short legs, heavy hips, a sagging bosom and jowls that reminded him of a prize-winning dog he had once seen. He hadn’t found the dog visually appealing, but he had seen it work a troublesome escaped bull back into its pen and appreciated its power as he appreciated this cook’s skill. The fruit she handled was covered in spikes and—Rowen’s nose wrinkled—pungent. The woman’s brows knit together as she handily whacked off both its stem and butt while the fruit spun between her hands, and she swept each piece into a bucket by her feet with a wet slap.

  She grunted while she worked, but it was not the sounds nor the looks that held Rowen’s attention—nor even the odd fruit which was quickly being peeled and pared down—it was her sharp and efficient movement, her economy of motion. Had she been a warrior on the field of battle she would have made quick work of an enemy. As a dancer such skill would have translated into a methodical grace. But as the cook on a pirate ship? She was unmatched. A greasy, thick-fingered, knife-wielding, flour-covered goddess.

  “Eh,” a man grunted from the opposite side of the window, shoving a wooden trencher towards Rowen. He grabbed it, mumbling a “Thank you” as the other man shoved a spoon into it.

  What “it” was Rowen wasn’t quite certain. Lumpy and thick it had a color that was somewhere between beige and ivory. It was studded with bits of something—he raised the bowl as he turned and took a deep whiff—spiced apples and raisins? His stomach rumbled in response and he decided, hungry as he was, he would make the best of whatever food was provided. He glanced up and made his way back to the table where Evie sat, watching with amusement as she kicked another crewman further down a bench so Rowen was seated at her left hand.

  Then, as he began to shovel the porridge into his mouth, Evie opened her mouth and began to disappoint him.

  She explained that rescues were not always possible or prudent and seldom cost-effective. She suggested he put the wind to his back and move forward with her crew. And she leaned over, placing a hand on his shoulder as if that would relieve what twisted and turned in his stomach, gnawing at his guts. Mentally he measured the distance from this ship to where the Artemesia might be and realized he had no idea where their ports were or how he could reach Jordan
.

  And knowing the little he did about how she was being treated, he felt sick. Not quite finished, he pushed his trencher away.

  Evie glanced at him and then rose, saying, “Come along. There is a little left to see of the Tempest before you face your assignment.”

  Rowen stood, still stunned by Evie’s attempt to dissuade him but she set a hand on his shoulder and steered him out of the dining hall.

  Never had he been around a woman who was so willing to put her hands on him. On his arms, on his face, on his chest and his stomach. She had no sense of appropriateness. No sense of decorum.

  He glanced down at the captain and realized it wasn’t far down to glance at all. She was nearly his height in those thigh-high boots of hers. The only other woman who had been so willing to put hands on him had been Catrina. And a few of the women of less repute at the local tavern … but that was to be expected. Jordan would have never been so free with her touch. Why was it that the touch he wanted most was the one he got least?

  Young men of his rank grew up knowing what was appropriate in settings like churches, taverns, gentlemen’s clubs, and tearooms. That was not to say that because they knew what things were deemed appropriate and inappropriate that they actually acted in accordance with those expectations …

  But, had there been a chapter in Gertrude’s Great Book of Ultimate Etiquette on how to behave aboard a pirate vessel, Rowen’s instructors had either chosen to forgo it or it had been taught on one of the days he’d remained in his room nursing a hangover.

  In the hall not far from the galley, a man with a face pockmarked in stunning black spots removed his hat and gave a curt incline of his head to the captain. She continued moving Rowen along, only leaning in long enough to whisper, “Powder blowback,” in his ear as explanation for the man’s odd marks.

  She stepped out ahead of him then, saying, “As much as I enjoy putting my hands on you and making you do as I wish, I fear I am more apt to lead than to follow, and so, at this point I do hope you keep pace with me as I show you the rest of my ship and set you to your assignment.”