by E. C. Jarvis
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
She smiled as she passed the weapon back to him, and he gave her the gun. Holt immediately took it from her hands and put his dagger in its place, giving Kerrigan a grim glare as the three of them ascended the steps leading upward.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The smell of a cigar brought Cid around from a fitful slumber. He rolled over and stretched his legs out, only to smack his toes against something sharp. With a grunt, he sat up, a hazy ache wobbling around his brain as his eyes adjusted to the dim, early-morning light. The protruding hook from the window seemed to be the source of the pain in his toe.
“Bloody thing,” he muttered as he kicked it. His back ached from sleeping across a train seat.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Saunders said quietly from somewhere behind. Cid turned to see the Lieutenant hunched over his knees, a cigar in his hand, long lines of blue smoke curling up from the orange burning tip. He turned the cigar over and over in his fingers, not actually smoking it, small flecks of ash falling from the tip with each roll.
“Who’s on watch?” Cid asked.
“The Friar.”
“Gods help us.”
“We don’t have a lot of choice. He said he’ll bang a stick on a metal strut for noise if he can’t run back to warn us of an impending attack.”
“Do we have weapons?”
Saunders sighed and lifted his head, nodding towards the bundle on the seat opposite, which Cid hadn’t noticed. There were a few pistols and one long rifle, a handful of bullets strewn about the place, and what looked like a heavy walking cane.
“The cane?”
“If we run out of bullets, it might do to beat someone to death. It’s pretty hard wood.”
“That’s both resourceful and disturbing.”
“I haven’t had a chance to sort through it all yet. Didn’t want to wake the two of you,” he said, pointing at the pair of feet sticking out from a seat farther down the carriage. Cid presumed they belonged to Sandy.
He nodded, then a flat silence fell in the space between them. He didn’t want to think about the harrowing things Saunders must have seen going through those dead bodies in the station to retrieve the weapons, but his mind subjected him to the imagery anyway. No wonder the poor man looked about fit to pass out. He wanted to say something comforting or supportive, but neither came to mind.
“You can work on the engine when it’s light. I removed the bodies,” Saunders said as he moved the cigar to his lips then changed his mind, returning to just rolling it around.
“You going to actually smoke that?”
“Haven’t decided yet. I quit… I promised my girlfriend I wouldn’t smoke again.”
“Ah. Maybe you shouldn’t, then.”
“I’m not even sure I have a girlfriend anymore. If they’ve told her I’m dead…” Saunders growled to himself quietly and ran his fingers through his hair, then flicked another pile of ash onto the floor.
Cid searched his mind again for something supportive, or helpful, or meaningful. Even a basic coherent sentence might help. When nothing of use came to mind, he gave up and sat tapping his fingers on his leg. “Did it look damaged?” he asked eventually when his mind managed to think of the train engine without a pair of dead bodies hanging around in there.
“What?”
“The engine? The train?”
“Oh. I didn’t really see. Sorry.”
“Well, if I can make an airship fly with an engine, a basic steam train shouldn’t prove too much of a bother. And if you can go through half the crazy stuff we’ve survived through and come out alive, then getting your girlfriend back should be a walk in the park.” Cid stood and picked a pistol out of the pile, hooking it into his belt. Saunders stubbed the cigar out on the floor and lay back on the seat, closing his eyes. If he didn’t know better, Cid could have sworn he saw a smile on the Lieutenant’s lips.
Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten. A cool breeze blew the smell of the still smouldering airship across from the field, mildly masking the unpleasant stench of dead bodies wafting up the platform from the station. Cid found Friar Narry sitting on a step leading down to the main road. The elderly man appeared to be rocking back and forth on his hefty rump and muttering incantations.
“Friar?”
Cid frowned when Narry didn’t respond, and after a minute of waiting politely, he gave up. It didn’t seem like a wise thing to interrupt a priest during meditation. As he headed to the train engine, he made a mental note to tell Saunders that putting Narry on watch wasn’t such a great idea.
The driver’s cab was indeed empty. The inside was painted dark green and dotted with shining silver rivets. He did his best to ignore the dark red splotches and stains on the floor, walls, and across the machinery, but it sent a flutter through his stomach every time his eye roved over a bloody patch.
He turned his attention to the controls. Various valves and switches sat in a closed position. Several of the pistons appeared bent out of shape. Whether by accident or by some form of sabotage, he didn’t know, and while not impossible to fix, it would certainly take some time and effort. Not to mention tools and materials he doubted were in good supply anywhere nearby. He leaned against a wheel and rested his forehead against his arm.
“How is she?” Narry’s voice made him jump.
“Huh?”
“The engine. Is she well? Will she run?”
“I’ll bloody make her run if it’s our only option to get out of this Godsforsaken place.”
“Good. I have faith in you. Anything you need?”
“Tools. Metal. A forge. A soldering iron. Breakfast, coffee, a bath, fresh clothes. A week off with a comfy bed.”
Narry chuckled, the smile hidden beneath his big, bushy beard. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“If you manage even half of that, I’ll never doubt my faith again,” Cid said. He turned his attention back to the train. The firebox was cold, as he had expected, and devoid of coal. He stuck his head out the window and glanced back at the uncovered coal bunker. “Bugger,” he said when he couldn’t see a pile of coal sticking out the top. “Bugger,” he said again once he’d climbed up and found only a small pile of coal lining the bottom of the bunker. “Fucking scavengers.”
He looked around for Narry, hoping to ask the man to forget the long list he’d just spouted at him and pray to the Gods for it to rain coal, but the Friar had disappeared from the platform.
“Bugger.” Cid thumped his forehead against the side of the train, and a satisfying clunk echoed. He headed back along the platform, his feet dragging with every step, shoulders hunched over. He had no idea how they were going to get out of Sallarium City, but they weren’t going to travel far without any fuel to power the engine. As a ridiculous thought entered his mind, he laughed into the side of the engine, his hot breath steaming up the dark green paintwork. He jogged down the platform, all the way to the end of the train, and looked out across the brightening horizon.
Beyond the train track, the fields had become an airship graveyard. The hull of the Eagle still smouldered, a line of black smoke rising into the atmosphere. He had no idea where the Admiral and his Marines had gone, if another ship had picked them up already and taken them back towards the coast. He wasn’t even sure it mattered. He looked over the crashed messes of wood and metal laying strewn about. It was difficult to tell from this distance which of the wreckages belonged to their former pirate airship—the one which had carried them home from Eptora. He wasn’t even entirely sure the ship had still been following them when the battle began.
After scanning the nearest wreckages and giving the Eagle a thorough glance over, his eye roamed towards a small lump far behind the Eagle. A growl of frustration rumbled in the back of his throat; it was typical that what he wanted would be the farthest away. Nevertheless, he was as sure as he could be that it was the ship he wanted, the lack of a distinct canopy laying above or beside
the ship the only thing differentiating it from the other piles of mess out there.
“Bugger,” he said again, knowing he couldn’t make it all the way over there and carry the engine back all by himself. He doubted he could convince Saunders to make such a trip when it wasn’t in the orders given by Kerrigan. The Friar would no doubt offer help, but Cid didn’t want to drag him all the way over there, not when the chances of the engine having survived the crash seemed slim.
He cast one last long look across Sallarium City. The Hub could no longer be seen, and the center of the city was a long way off, hidden from view by lines of buildings. Larissa would have arrived there by now—at least, he hoped—and when she was done doing whatever she was doing, she would return, her heart full of hope that she could just climb aboard the locomotive and set off to their next destination without a hitch. She was counting on him, as ever. He sighed and turned back to the train, resolving to at least try talking with the Lieutenant.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Larissa found herself blocked by two sets of broad backs as they emerged from the cab station into the street above. The two men stood side by side, scanning the area for any would-be attackers. She pushed up on her tiptoes to try peering over their shoulders at the outside world, a desperate longing for home flooding over her body. Instead, her eye was drawn to the Colonel’s shoulder, a patch of dark red staining the material of his shirt. He turned slightly with a grimace on his face, and as he noticed her perusal of him, he forcibly wiped the grimace away.
“Which direction?” he asked.
“That way,” she said, pointing to the left.
“Which establishment?” Holt asked without turning to look at her.
“Greyfort’s Clothing Emporium. It should be just up…” She pushed up onto her toes again, straining to see down the street. Though daylight was beginning to break in the sky, it was still dim outside. Where she expected to see the large, ornate lettering above her old workplace, the sign was no longer there. Two bolts remained where the sign had once hung above the shop, and the windows were coated in some kind of blackened substance, blocking the view inside. It was clearly abandoned.
“Oh.” She sank back down again out of view and rested her forehead against Holt’s shoulder. They’d come all this way for nothing, it seemed.
“We should still go in,” Kerrigan said. “Get some rest.”
“Agreed,” Holt said.
“All right, is it safe?” Larissa asked as she pulled away from Holt.
“As far as I can tell, there is no immediate danger. The greatest risk is from the brothel, though at this hour, most of the clients should be finished.”
“Brothel?” She pushed herself between the two men. Kerrigan let out a grunt as she shoved him, which she would have no doubt apologized for if she weren’t too busy staring at the building opposite. It was hideous. Where once the street had been lined with beautiful shop fronts, retailers of all sorts of fine wares, an antiques shop, a charming café selling fine teas and dainty cakes, all were now either gone and boarded up or replaced by truly awful sights.
The shop opposite—a former clock and clockwork machinery shop—had been replaced by a seedy looking establishment named Cosby’s. Gas lamps illuminated the sign, scrawled in black and fake gold lettering. The windows had a reddish tint, and the view beyond them was obscured by sets of thick red curtains. In the alley to the side of the building, an almost nude woman balanced on a pair of high heels while throwing up onto the cracked cobblestones. Her pale ginger hair fell past her shoulders as she hunched over, serving as a catching net for what emerged from her mouth.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t go back tonight?” she whispered in Holt’s ear.
“As much as I admire your stamina, I need to rest.” He set off across the street, not bothering to wait or listen to any further argument against his action. She sighed, knowing he was right. Her own body was suffering; the healing ability seemed to have become sluggish, as a wound she’d sustained in fighting in the tunnel remained unrepaired and painful. Her head throbbed with an indescribable pain, and as she cast one last glance back down the stairwell, catching Kerrigan’s attention, she decided going through that journey again would have to wait until they had all rested.
“Miss.” Kerrigan gave her a forced smile. He stretched one arm out, gesturing for her to lead the way. Holt had disappeared behind the former clothing shop, acting as the dutiful scout.
She approached warily, paying more attention to their surroundings than she had ever done before. They were within walking distance of The Hub, the building which had stood for hundreds of years, the building that had exploded with her inside. Where once it had held such promise for a bright future, now all that remained was a pile of rubble, a few lengths of steel jutting skyward. The destruction of the central dome had seemingly led to the downfall of the entire city. Her home was now nothing more than a den of criminals and outcasts with nothing left to live for. She didn’t notice the tears clouding her eyes until the door to Greyfort’s opened as they approached, the trill shop bell ringing out.
Holt stood holding the door and glaring menacingly at the bell. His lack of perception with the bell told her that he was indeed flagging. His usual strength and clarity of mind, sharp eyes which noticed everything with an uncanny ability, were suffering from the entire trauma. She’d almost forgotten the fact that he’d technically been dead not long ago. It was yet another mystery to be unravelled. She couldn’t stop the tears from falling as she stepped inside the shop, Kerrigan following. The door closed, plunging the inside into darkness. If she’d lost her ability to heal, how was she supposed to heal Holt again if he suffered another downturn from the Anthonium poisoning?
Nearby, Holt struck a match. He plucked a candle stub from the floor beneath the fireplace mantle and stuck it back into the holder, setting the flame alight. The shop was mostly empty, abandoned. Her heart sank further still. Where once there had been racks of clothing, all shapes and sizes for men and women, all that remained were a few empty poles and hangers. She had been dreaming about finding some well-made clothes to provide for their whole group, something to replace the tattered outfit that had somehow made it all the way back from Eptora without falling completely to shreds, though it looked as though it wouldn’t last much longer. As perilous as their journey ahead promised to be, the thought of carrying on naked was not something she wanted to face.
Kerrigan sank to his knees and prodded the coals in the fireplace.
“No fires. The smoke will draw attention,” Holt said.
Kerrigan fell down onto his backside and grunted as he gripped his shoulder.
“You’re hurt,” Larissa said, finally realising the fact. She sat down in front of him and lightly pulled his fingers away from the wound.
“It’s nothing,” he said. His face had turned pale, and his shirt was stained all the way across.
“Let me look.” She pulled open a few buttons and tried to open the material. It was difficult to see in the dim light, and in the end, she had to unbutton the shirt completely in order to pull the material away from his shoulder. He slumped against the fireplace as she inspected the wound, dark red blood oozing from a hole in the middle of his shoulder.
“Can you heal it?” Kerrigan asked her, a frown on his face.
She shook her head silently, her lower lip quivering with the silent admission. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him out loud. Instead, she pulled her sleeve up and showed him the unhealed wound on her arm.
“Oh…this is not my lucky day.” His head thumped against the fireplace, and he tugged the shirt back across his chest with his free hand. “I was planning on cauterising it with a hot poker,” he said quietly, gesturing slightly towards the fire. “But not if it will draw attention to our presence here. I don’t think the three of us can handle another fight any time soon. If ever.”
Larissa squeezed her eyes shut and ground her teeth together. The whole trip had been an utter
waste, and to top it all off, Kerrigan was in an awful state. If she lost both him and Holt for the sake of nothing, she wasn’t sure she could carry on after such a loss.
“Can we remove the bullet if I use a knife?” she asked through shuddering breaths, not really enamoured with the thought of cutting him open and digging around inside his body to find a bullet. She was no surgeon.
“You’d need something to sterilise the blade, or I’ll be just as likely to die from infection. It’s likely enough as it is. I can almost see the filthy hands of one of those thugs loading the bullets into the chamber.” He glanced down at his own dirt-covered hands, then grunted in frustration. “A hot bath wouldn’t go amiss, either.”
Larissa’s own hands were filthy. Nails cracked, skin stained with an unpleasant mixture of blood and mud. She glanced around the shop, a flood of memories washing over her of days spent sorting through clothes and filling out ledgers. Her favourite customers who always left generous tips—had any of them wondered where she’d gone? Had they all presumed her guilty after reading the false reports about her in the papers? Had Mister Greyfort cared that he’d lost his only member of staff? He probably cared more about losing his richest customer. As soon as she thought of the Professor, she shook her head. So much had happened since leaving, and she was as changed in herself as the home she’d left behind. She was simply unrecognizable any longer. To think, it had all been a lie; Greyfort had known about her father all along and had seemingly been paid to hire her.
“Greedy bastard,” she said out loud.
“I’m sorry. I was kidding about the bath,” Kerrigan said.
“No, I didn’t mean you. I meant the man who used to run this shop. My former employer, he was…” Her mouth hung open, unable to finish the sentence.
“He was…”
“Wait here,” she said, scrabbling to stand up. Kerrigan didn’t look like he was fit to argue with her. She grabbed the candle and raced into the storeroom at the back of the shop. A few boxes remained stacked up at one end, though the room had once been piled high with stock. The small station used to make minor repairs to shoes and buttons still remained. She clambered over the boxes and stumbled toward a panel on the wall, the panel where Greyfort kept his private stash of items. He’d thought she hadn’t know about them. She’d seen him often enough with a bottle of liquor pressed to his lips when he thought she wasn’t looking.