by Robyn Bennis
“What about the breach?” Josette asked.
Pesha shrugged. “Vins won’t let us near enough the walls to see. But the fog looks like it’s burning off, if you want to try talking to your ship. I mean, if you think it’s safe.”
It was certainly not safe. And yet …
* * *
“FLARE!”
Kember was at the rail in a second, telescope in hand. “Where away?”
“Six points to starboard,” the lookout said, pointing with his flattened hand. The sky was overcast, but the cloud ceiling was high, and there was excellent visibility between clouds and earth. “Middle of the northwest quarter. Garden behind the cottage. The one with the funny roof.”
She trained her telescope on it. The captain was kneeling on the ground, partially concealed from the street by a pile of unmelted snow that must have been deposited there during the winter.
Kember lowered the telescope and looked back across the hurricane deck, to the steersmen. “Swing the elevators up and down twice, to acknowledge.”
The steersman did it, and the whole ship angled slightly as the elevators moved. On the ground, the captain quenched her flare with dirt and snow. She retrieved signal flags and, not daring to stand up for signaling, lay with her back on the ground and swung the flags in a wig-wag code. It looked absurdly like she was trying to make patterns in the dirt, but absurdity was nothing next to to being caught by the Vins and hanged.
She reported the situation in Durum, asked Mistral to look for signs of a new gunpowder magazine, and asked for news of the siege. Kember responded by ordering Mistral’s control fins waggled in a pre-arranged alphabetical signal. It was a slow method, but had the advantage of not broadcasting to the Vins that Mistral was in communication with someone in the town. Kember used it to report that Garnian artillery had breached the wall, and were now making it more practical to assault. As if to punctuate the message, the four guns of the Garnian battery fired into the collapsed section of Durum’s wall, in their continuing effort to widen the breach and flatten the rubble within it.
When the captain asked about obstacles being built in the breach, Kember replied, None. Twelve shells dropped on work parties last night.
Ensign Kember wasn’t sure, but she thought she sensed a hint of pride in the captain’s acknowledging signal. Then the captain signed off and scurried away into the cottage, before the Vins could catch on to their means of communication.
“You dropped a dozen what, Ensign?” Lieutenant Hanon was awake and standing over her. He must have crept up while she was looking through the telescope.
“Shells, sir. Four and one-half inch spherical explosive shells.” When he didn’t answer, she went on, “To keep the Vins from laying mines or obstacles in the breach. We heard work parties moving in the dark, and dropped twelve bombs at staggered intervals, to make them think twice. It’s all in the log, sir. I would have sent for you, sir, but you asked to not be disturbed.” Had he not heard the shells going off? Or had he heard them and immediately started devising a means of using the situation against her?
“And who actually dropped the bombs in question?”
“Private Tanaka, sir.”
“Have him brought to the hurricane deck.”
After a moment’s uncomfortable silence, Kember pointed to the lookout with her nose and said, “This is him, sir. He’s a cannoneer, sir, but he has lookout duty in the morning watch, except when we’re rigged for battle.”
Lieutenant Hanon was thrown off, but he recovered himself and said in twice as pretentious a voice, “I’m afraid, Private, that as I gave no order to bomb the breach, I will be forced to stop the cost of those shells out of your pay.”
The private was appalled, as was every man and woman on the deck. Twelve shells would cost over a lira, representing several months of Tanaka’s pay.
“You should count yourself fortunate,” Hanon continued, smugly pleased with the reaction he’d caused, “that we are filled with inflammable air, or I would have to account for the loss of ballast, and its equivalent cost of luftgas.”
That was an even more ridiculous notion, and Kember thought Hanon should count himself fortunate the crew didn’t decide as one to toss him over the side.
But the bastard had waited until the captain signed off, so there could be no countermanding the order, no chance of appeal or argument. He’d timed it so that his was the only opinion that mattered, regardless of how ridiculous and ill-informed it was.
Still, she had to try. “I’m the one who gave that order, sir.”
Hanon made a huffing sound. “But I can’t stop it out of your pay, can I? You’re an officer, however lowly. Yet the cost must be recovered somehow. We can’t simply drop the king’s ordinance over the side because we feel like it—because we saw shadows in the night. Not while I’m in command. And whatever you may think, Ensign, I am in command.” He smirked and lowered his volume, until only she could hear him. “And I will continue to show you that I am in command, until the lesson sinks in. Walk with me, Ensign.”
He went up the companionway steps, without leaving anyone else in charge of the deck. Kember wasn’t even sure he knew he was supposed to. She gave Lupien a nod as she went past, though, and the alert corporal got the message.
She caught up to him in the keel, just out of earshot of Private Davies, stationed as relay at the top of the companionway. Lieutenant Hanon turned to her and said, “I understand that this ship constitutes the pinnacle of your meager ambitions, but it’s merely a stepping stone for me. I volunteered for the signal corps because I have no influence, and so cannot gain promotion. Other men in my position might hope for a lucky stroke in battle, but … I have had bad luck, in that regard.” His eyes stared through her, unfocused. “Extremely bad luck. You can’t imagine. I joined the air corps because it’s the only chance I have left to make major.” He refocused and looked hard at her, raising his voice so that it might just be heard by the crew. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you make a damn cock-up of it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Next time, I’ll wake you up when such a decision has to be made.”
That was a tactical mistake, and she knew it as soon as she saw the angry look on his face. “You’ll do no such thing,” he said. “Unless we’re under attack or the goddamn sky is falling, you’ll stand your goddamn watch quietly, as ensigns are meant to.”
“Respectfully, sir, in my opinion—”
“Ensigns aren’t meant to have opinions, either! They’re meant to shut up and pay attention, so that when they’re lieutenants, they can make decisions without the council of some goddamn child.”
She couldn’t stop herself shaking, or stop her cheeks from burning with anger, her scar from throbbing with pain, but at least she managed to hold her answer to, “Yes, sir.”
Hanon turned back to the hurricane deck. Private Davies saluted respectfully as he passed, and then as Hanon started down the companionway ladder, Davies lifted his foot to kick the lieutenant the rest of the way.
Kember was already running for Davies, and reached him just as his foot was flying out. She grabbed him from behind and wrenched him back. Both of them struggled to remain upright, to not fall against the catwalk or over the edge of it, and so plummet through the envelope. And every moment, Kember prayed that the lieutenant would not look back, would not hear the commotion behind him.
Hanon was halfway down the ladder when she saw his face begin to turn back. She gave up on balance and wrenched on Davies again, pulling the both of them down to the catwalk. They landed together on the wicker, which creaked under the strain of the impact.
Their eyes—and the eyes of everyone forward of the boiler—were locked on the companionway hatch, waiting for Lieutenant Hanon to pop his head up, and so catch the spectacle in flagrante.
But he didn’t. The steamjack whined on, the wind whistled by outside, and the lieutenant remained safely below on the hurricane deck.
Kember let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She disentangled herself from Davies, and Private Grey came over to help them to their feet. “That was harrowing,” Grey said, in a voice so small it could hardly be heard.
Davies was not pleased. “Sir, he disrespected you, and him not knowing a damn thing about how to run a proper airship. We can’t just stand by and—”
He was silenced by a smack across the head from Private Grey, which seemed as much a shock to her as to her target. “Ensign Kember just saved your life,” she said, though it was nearer a hiss. “The least you could do is shut the hell up.”
Only then did Davies remember himself. He nodded and said, “Sorry, sir. Thank you. It won’t happen again.”
Kember nodded and went aft, Grey following. “He’s not wrong, though,” she said privately. “If we see combat, that man is going to get us all killed.”
“We won’t see combat until the captain’s back,” Kember said, giving Grey a reassuring nod. “Captain wouldn’t have left him in charge if there was a chance of that.”
* * *
BERNAT SCOOPED A spoonful of watery stew and sipped at it, draining the broth to reveal a gobbet of meat. He looked on it with suspicion. Apart from the dried rations Josette brought from the ship, it was the first meat he’d seen since entering Durum, and he wondered at its origin. He slipped it discreetly back into his bowl and looked across the table to Private Khirklov. “I was at Canard, you know. Did I mention that?”
The private, who had no qualms about the ingredients of the stew, swallowed a spoonful and looked surprised. “With the Shark?”
Bernat grinned and nodded.
“I thought you was just a passenger. Did you fight?”
Beaming with pride, Bernat said, “I made an adequate accounting of myself, though I confess that I’m no warrior. Who knows? I may have even taken a shot at one of your officers.”
“Ha!” The fusilier stuffed another spoonful of stew into his mouth. It dribbled through his missing front teeth as he spoke. “Wouldn’t mind thinking that, Bernie, but you probably didn’t. We were held in reserve for the first attack, and way over on the left for the second.” He wagged his finger in front of Bernat, and gave a gap-toothed grin. “We would’a had you, too, if the guard regiments on the right flank hadn’t collapsed just when they did. Guardsmen are overrated—I’ll tell you that for free.”
Bernat grinned back. “But the right flank wouldn’t have collapsed if the Shark wasn’t there, overrated as guardsmen may be. So I’d say we both did a good and honorable day’s work, eh?” He held up a mug of cider by way of salute.
Private Khirklov did the same. “Aye, we did.” He took a deep draught, finishing off the mug, while Bernat drank half a mouthful from his cup. “What’s the Shark like, anyway?”
Bernat had to look over his shoulder, to confirm that Khirklov was looking at Josette. The Vins seemed to use “Shark” to refer interchangeably to both the airship and its captain, as if they were two facets of a single entity.
The predator in question was currently leaning against a wall by the stairs, staring into space with a vacant look in her eyes, as she’d been doing since she returned from her brief trip aboveground. Most likely she was mooning over Roland, but he didn’t want to contemplate that horrible probability, much less confess it to Khirklov.
“She’s the purest warrior I’ve ever met,” Bernat said, in soft and reverent tones. “Lives only for combat, only to kill Garnia’s enemies. She takes no joy in sport, food, dance, music, and certainly not in men. She ignores them all, thinking only of bloodshed and the cacophony of battle. She lusts only for that, pursues her enemies relentlessly, shows no mercy once they’ve attacked her beloved Garnia. She won’t countenance the slightest whiff of criticism of her army, her faith, her nation, or the nobles who rule over it. Speaking as one of those very nobles, I have often tried to convince her of my own inadequacies, but she won’t hear a word of it, so passionate is her love for her country’s protectors. But I can assure you, it is a chaste love. She remains a maiden, despite no end of potential suitors.”
The comments had the intended effect, inspiring a deeper respect from Private Khirklov. It was the last bit that clinched the matter. The hoi polloi simply adored the notion of a warrior maiden, and though Bernat couldn’t possibly imagine the appeal, he appreciated its utility. “And how did you come to fly with her?” Khirklov asked.
Bernat smiled. “Like so many others, I was drawn into her sphere like iron filings drawn by the invisible force of a lodestone. Just after I met her, I begged General Fieren to allow me to go aboard her ship, as one of her personal bodyguards. I even refused payment, though the general offered me ten florins a week out of his own pocket. That is the depth of inspiration she kindled in me—in both of us. Indeed, in the entire army!”
Though impressed, the fusilier was also growing somewhat confused. He dared to glance at Josette again, though only for a moment—lest he be accused of impiety, perhaps. His forehead and nose wrinkled as he asked, “And … how come she keeps staring at nothing?”
“Meditation,” Bernat said, without delay. “She spent five years at the top of Mount Unmae, you know, training with the warrior monks.”
“Really?” Khirklov asked.
“Look at her brow,” Bernat said. “See the discolored bump there? It’s from breaking wooden planks with her head. Part of her morning exercises. Astonishing to watch.”
“Wish we had someone like that,” the fusilier said, swallowing hard.
“Alas, not every nation can be so lucky.”
* * *
THE PRIMING CAUGHT a spark and the flash spread back to ignite not just the powder in the pan, but the powder the wind had blown into her face. It singed her cheeks and burned in her nostrils, filling them with a rotten-egg stench. The rifle kicked hard into her shoulder.
Out in the darkness, the crack of the rifle was answered first by a shrill yelp, and then by the echo of both sounds off the town wall.
“Josie? Are you all right?”
Josette looked up to see her mother’s head poking down from the false ceiling. She smiled and said, “Quite all right. Just having memory problems.”
“Forgot something?” Her mother came down the stairs and stopped to help Heny replace the false ceiling.
“Remembered something,” Josette said. She thought of offering the details, but her mother was barely paying attention, and a glance at Jutes dissuaded her entirely. Her sergeant gave every appearance of dozing against the wall, but she suspected he was wide awake and listening to their every word.
As if he could read her mind, Jutes’s eyes slipped open and he looked up. “Sir,” he said, as he rose to his feet.
“How are the men coming along on the musket?”
“Just fine, sir. All of ’em can explain the operation good enough to teach someone who already knows the workings of a rifle or a fowling piece, which, as I hear tell, ought to be most of the town. Won’t be no three shots a minute drill, to be sure, but they’ll do well enough.”
Josette nodded and looked to her mother. “Will the town be ready? The assault will come at dawn tomorrow, if it’s to come at all.”
“The town’ll be ready,” her mother said, as she guided a plank into place. “Do we know where they’ll be going?”
“Bernat’s working on it. If he can’t wring the powder magazine out of the Vin, we’ll attack the east gate, instead.”
The last plank was in place, and her mother came down the stairs. “Better if it’s the magazine. Safer for the townsfolk, too.”
Josette smiled. “I agree.”
The smile seemed to disagree with her mother. “What the hell is wrong with you, Josie? And don’t tell me you’re all right. I know you better than that.”
Josette gave a little shrug. “I’m just finding it hard to believe that you’re really working with the resistance, is all.”
“
Well, of course I’m working with the resistance!” her mother said, flustered. “What the hell else would I be doing here?”
“It’s just, you always hated the army. When Father was conscripted, you screamed yourself to sleep every night for a month.”
“That was different! That was…” Her mother hesitated, seeming to catch herself before saying something hurtful—or, at least, something more hurtful than her next words. “The army’s just pointless brutality. Here, we’re actually fightin’ for something.”
Josette felt the old urge to draw her mother into an argument, but she fought against it. “I only mean to say that I’ve held an unfair opinion of you, for a very long time.” She gathered all her strength to say the next words. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s about damn time,” her mother replied. “After all I did for you, after all I sacrificed, after all you stole from me, it’s a blessed relief that now, after all these years, you realize you’ve been treatin’ me unfairly.”
Josette had been in so many battles that she would have had to stop and count them, if asked to give a number, but she had never felt so heroic as she did now, when she resisted the urge to shout profanities. “It’s either theft or sacrifice,” she said in a calm, even tone. “It can’t be both. That money was either meant for me or it wasn’t.”
“It was meant to buy you a future,” her mother said, staying calm through what seemed an equally heroic effort of will. “Not so you could run off and buy a commission in the goddamn army. That money could have made you something, gotten you started somewhere.”
“It did exactly that, so bravo. I’m afraid you’ve made the classic mistake of parents everywhere: burying your own aspirations for the sake of your child, then digging them up and expecting her to take them secondhand.”
“Oh, very clever, Josie. You had years and years to think of that. No wonder it’s cutting.”
“You had years to think of a rebuttal, which I eagerly await.”
Her mother looked at her feet, then up, not quite meeting her daughter’s eyes. “You were smart.”