by Ash, Sarah
We’ve travelled all this way, endured seasickness, weevil-ridden rations, and terrifying storms, just for this moment.
***
“Stop!”
Altan Kazimir skidded to a halt at the foot of the stair leading to Linnaius’s laboratory as the two imperial guardsmen on duty blocked his way. “What’s wrong?”
“Ah, it’s you, Professor.” They saluted and stood aside. “There’s been an incident. Someone broke into your laboratory.”
“They what ?” Kazimir stumbled and almost fell up the stone steps in his haste to see what had happened. Righting himself, he ran on, wondering what awaited him.
There was no doubt about it; the lock to the laboratory door had been forced.
Kazimir stared in disbelief at the damaged metalwork and found himself wishing—in spite of his rational education—that he had been gifted with the same supernatural abilities as his predecessor Linnaius. When the Magus had been in residence, an invisible barrier kept the contents of his laboratory safe—and several mischievous and ingenious magical booby-traps had scared off the foolhardy who dared to try and enter without Linnaius’s permission. He had even fallen foul of one of the Magus’s cunningly devised traps himself and the memory was not a pleasant one.
And now the Emperor is waiting for me to bring the new fuel to the competing sky craft pilots so that the competition can begin. He’s placed his trust in me. I can’t let him down in front of so many eminent guests.
He gingerly pushed the door which opened with a low and sinister creak—and then froze on the threshold.
Suppose the intruder has left some unpleasant surprise behind? A booby trap?
“Are you up there, Professor?”
Kazimir let out a little squeak of surprise. He turned to see Guy Maulevrier ascending the stair, flanked by the two imperial guards who had been stationed at the foot of the stair.
“S-someone’s broken in,” stammered Kazimir.
“So these gentlemen of the guard have just informed me.” Maulevrier looked vexed.
“Were you on duty?” Kazimir turned to the guards, more than a little intimidated by their height and the immaculate smartness of their brass-buttoned uniforms.
“We came to relieve the night watch, Professor,” said one. “And it was only then that we noticed the door was ajar. We didn’t want to disturb anything inside until you arrived.”
“And the palace night watch heard nothing, saw nothing?” Kazimir raked his fingers through his hair, tearing out two or three strands in his agitation.
“They would have raised the alarm, if they had. The intruder must have been quite skilled at sneaking in and out to have slipped past them.”
“Well, let’s not dawdle,” said Maulevrier. “The pilots are eager to make their craft ready for the race. We mustn’t keep his imperial majesty waiting.”
Kazimir shot him a resentful look. As if I need to be reminded . . .
Inside the laboratory, very little appeared to have been displaced or disturbed. Kazimir stared around at the books, still precariously piled high, Linnaius’s treatise open at the place he had left it the night before. He had expected to find broken shards of glass beakers, spilled chymical potions, cupboards ransacked, the signs of an intruder’s desperate search.
He hurried on toward the inner chamber where he had left the precious fuel in the locked cupboard specially reinforced with double metal doors in case of accidents “of the explosive kind”.
That lock had also been broken.
“Oh no, no,” Kazimir heard himself muttering aloud as he opened the double doors, fully expecting to find the phials of the precious fuel missing.
“Well?” Maulevrier was right behind him, peering over his shoulder, uncomfortably close.
Kazimir reached in. His fingers made contact with the sleek, cold glass of the stoppered phials.
“They’re all still here,” he said, puzzled. His suspicions were in no way allayed.
“Perhaps the thief was looking for something else.”
Kazimir held first one phial and then the other up to the daylight, examining them. There was no evidence that they had been tampered with and the precious fuel he had spent so long refining from the volatile Azhkendi firedust crystal still gave off a faint glimmer, betraying its potent alchymical nature. He checked the labels. All was in order. The two phials left ready at the front contained the fuel used to power the Prinsessa Margret. The more volatile formula that had propelled the Prinsessa Karila into the bank of the lake had been moved to the very back of the cupboard.
“Or the thief was disturbed and made his getaway, empty-handed,” he heard himself saying, although more in self-reassurance than rational explanation.
The click of military boots briskly climbing the stair made them both look round; moments later, Colonel Lindgren appeared.
“Is all well, Professor? The Emperor is very eager to get the competition underway while the weather holds fair.”
Kazimir heard a hint of censure beneath the colonel’s polite tone.
“Y-yes, Colonel.”
“Then let’s go.”
Kazimir hastily followed him; in his agitation, he stumbled over the doorstep and felt Maulevrier steady him.
“Perhaps,” Guy said easily, “it would be better if I carried the fuel, Professor? You’ve had a bit of a shock this morning.”
“A shock?” To Kazimir’s relief, Lindgren’s keen ears missed nothing. The colonel stopped and turned around to confront the two academics. “Ah, but wait a moment, Doctor Maulevrier; you have a horse in this race—it wouldn’t be right for you to be seen carrying the fuel. People might suspect . . .” And he held out both gray-gloved hands, nodding to Kazimir to give him the phials.
“Touché, Colonel.” Guy gave a good-natured laugh as Kazimir, secretly relieved, handed over the volatile liquid.
“So—unlike the cadets from Paladur—you’re not going to pilot your flyer yourself, Doctor Maulevrier?” the colonel said as he walked briskly back toward the contestants.
“Indeed no; I have a poor head for heights,” Maulevrier said with a self-deprecating smile.
“So, who is the pilot? One of your students?” The question was lightly asked but Kazimir thought he detected a keen edge to Lindgren’s affable tone. Surprised, he glanced at the colonel, wondering if he had detected something unusual in the composition of Maulevrier’s team.
“My students are here to help fuel and maintain the craft; it’s their pride and joy—after all, they built it. But my pilot is newly returned from the colonies; he’s been involved in the spice trade and has plenty of experience of navigation at sea.”
“And his name?”
“Lorens. Karl Lorens. Have you heard of him?”
Lindgren gave a terse shake of the head as they rounded the corner of the West Wing of the palace and came out onto the wide gravel carriageway where the competing teams were making their final checks and preparations. Maulevrier’s students were busy, just as Maulevrier had said, tightening nuts and checking straps. The sea-faring pilot had his back to them, busy, no doubt, in checking the controls.
“Well, I must say these two sky craft make an impressive sight.” Lindgren nodded in approval, first at the university team, then at the young men from Paladur Military Academy. He glanced up to the terrace; Kazimir followed his gaze and saw that the Emperor was beginning to show signs of impatience, fidgeting with his immaculately white gloves as he exchanged pleasantries with the ambassadors.
“I think it’s time to get this contest underway,” Lindgren said softly to Kazimir and gave a swift hand signal to the imperial military band. A crisp roll on the drums and a fanfare from the trumpets drew all the audience toward the balustrade.
***
“The winning craft must be seen to leave the ground and fly—unaided—the length of the grand parterre, then land near the Dievona fountain,” Colonel Lindgren announced, making a gesture toward the distant landmark at the far end of the p
ark. “The first to do so successfully will be named the winner of the contest and awarded the Emperor’s gold medal.”
Toran squinted into the clear sunlight, assessing the challenge. The green lawns, the grass clipped and watered, would make a soft landing if the Aiglon came down before reaching the finishing line.
“Professor Kazimir will now add the special fuel to the engines of the two competing crafts, observed by the impartial judges selected by the Emperor.”
Branville stood, arms folded tightly across his chest, frowning as the Emperor’s representative, Professor Kazimir, carefully poured the aethyrite into the Aiglon ’s fuel tank. Toran watched, trying to quell a niggling sense of unease. Was it the glint of the spring sunlight or did the opaque silvery liquid exude a slight shimmer? He had not noticed anything unusual during the trials the cadets had conducted with his prototype—although its efficacy had necessitated many last-minute alterations and modifications to the cogs and pistons. And the assurance that the black swan pleasure craft that graced the palace canals were now safely using the new fuel to power their little engines was in no way reassuring.
The professor’s hands shook as he tipped in the last drops, hastily wiping away the residue with a fine linen cloth. Colonel Lindgren, who had been looking on to ensure the procedure was carried out correctly, escorted him over to the rival craft which stood on the far side of the gravel drive. A shadow loomed over Toran and, glancing up, he saw Branville glowering down at him as he and Lorris carried out their final checks.
“Making us their guinea pigs,” he muttered. “I don’t like it. Not at all.”
“At least our opponents are forced to comply with this condition as well.” Toran nodded toward the rival flying craft. “We’re up against the brains of the Tielborg University Faculty of Mechanical Arts. We must look like raw schoolboys to them.”
Clustered around the rival machine were a group of students, all busily completing the final checks on their flyer, supervised by their team leader. The man who was to pilot their craft stood a little way off, observing the frantic activity with what seemed like detached amusement. He was tall and lean, with deeply tanned skin, and Toran could not help but think he looked more like an experienced sailor than an academic.
A sudden unwelcome sensation flared within him, setting his nerves jangling: fear of failure. He wished—not for the first time—that Gerard was there to support them.
“The contestants will shake hands,” announced Lindgren. “Then they will start their engines. Princess Karila will then give the signal for the race to commence.”
Toran and Branville walked out to meet their opponents. The pilot introduced himself as Karl Lorens. Even though he said nothing other than his name, there was a distinctly devil-may-care confidence in the nonchalant way he sauntered back to his craft as its inventor came forward to acknowledge them.
So this was Doctor Maulevrier. “When you get to Tielen, stay well away from Guy Maulevrier.” Bernay’s warning echoed in Toran’s memory. “He’s a man who doesn’t like to lose. If he offers help—in the most charming of ways—just don’t accept.”
He looked at the man who had called Gerard Bernay a cheat and had brought about his disqualification from the competition. He had imagined a sallow-faced fellow with a hungry, mistrustful gaze but found himself shaking hands with an affable-looking man in his mid-thirties, sandy hair cropped short in the military style favored by the Emperor.
“Two pilots? Your flyer can lift two men into the air?” The question was asked with the unmistakable inference that it could not. Branville shrugged and grinned back at Maulevrier. Toran knew that wolfish grin well by now; Branville was spoiling for a fight.
But his attention was distracted by the rival team’s craft, fully revealed as the students stripped away the protective covers.
There was no doubt about it; the Tielborg University flyer, the Svala , bore a remarkable similarity to the one he had seen and studied in Bernay’s plans. The one that had been disqualified. And Toran had no doubt in his mind as to which man had come up with the design the first. Faced with the indisputable proof that Gerard’s hard work and ingenuity had been usurped, he heard himself saying out loud, each word cold and clear, “I’ve seen that flyer design before. On the drawing board in Gerard Bernay’s office last autumn in Paladur.”
“And how would you know Gerard Bernay, young man?” Guy Maulevrier’s expression was unchanged, his confident smile as bright as before.
“Bernay’s my mentor,” Toran said, aware that Branville was scowling at him but carrying on, nonetheless. “He taught me a great deal. He’s a very talented ingenieur.”
“I can’t argue with that fact,” Maulevrier said lightly. “But I hope your instructors at the academy were aware that he left the university in disgrace.”
“Disgrace?” Branville’s shadow loomed over Toran; he had obviously been listening. “A scandal?”
“I’m afraid that Gerard Bernay’s morals were in no way equal to his talents as an ingenieur.” Maulevrier’s voice dropped as though he were about to confide an unpleasant truth. “He forced himself on one of the younger students.”
Toran heard the assertion but the violent and disturbing images it conjured up stirred first feelings of shock and then utter disbelief. “Surely not!”he heard himself saying. It had to be a lie. A false allegation. “The Gerard Bernay I know is not the kind of man to do such a thing.”
“Ah, but how well do you really know him?” Maulevrier gave him a pitying glance. “The young man concerned was uncommonly good-looking, fair-haired, not so unlike you, now I come to think of it; Bernay obviously favors your type.”
This was taking things too far; the sly insinuation made Toran clench his fists to stop himself from punching Doctor Maulevrier.
“And you, Doctor? What’s your type?” Branville said with an unmistakable leer; he put one arm protectively around Toran’s shoulders. “This one’s already spoken for.” Toran was so surprised that he didn’t react to Branville’s teasing as he would normally have done—with a shove and a string of expletives. Maulevrier’s smile froze and his eyes narrowed. He gave a brief nod of farewell and turned away to return to his students.
Toran heard Branville swear under his breath and, gazing up at him, saw that his dark gaze was still fixed on the Tielen ingenieur.
“How dare he?” he heard him mutter, his fingers tightening on Toran’s shoulder.
“You came to Ingenieur Bernay’s defense,” Toran said, still surprised. “I thought you hated him.”
Branville swiftly withdrew his arm. “Let’s show ’em what we can do, Arkhel.”
And before Toran could reply, Branville grabbed him around the waist and hefted him into the front seat. Toran, caught off-guard, was so surprised that Branville was strong enough to sweep him off his feet, that he forgot to upbraid him for using his family name instead of Caradas.
“Start her up, Lorris!” Branville shouted as he clambered in behind Toran. Toran nodded to Lorris who had been hopping nervously up and down at the side, waiting for his signal. Branville’s excitement was infectious; Toran felt a very different energy radiating from his co-pilot who was seated so close behind him that he could feel his breath, hot on the back of his neck. Branville was actually enjoying himself. After weeks of sullen moods and rude or disparaging remarks, Elyot Branville was revealing his true self. Toran sensed that he relished the challenge and the danger.
The engine shuddered once or twice then chugged into life. The whole craft vibrated in rhythm with the beats of the pistons
“On my mark, pilots!” said Lindgren, his voice sharp and commanding, as if on the parade ground. He drew his saber and positioned himself where both teams could see the blade glinting in the sunlight.
The Emperor’s daughter, a slender, fair-haired girl, had appeared at his side on the terrace. She looks just like Clarisse, Toran thought, distracted by a sudden longing to see his younger sister again. But as Eugene turned to
the princess and placed a white handkerchief in her hand, Toran pushed all thoughts of family from his mind, intent on listening to the hum and chug of his engine. He could feel every vibration and beat as if it was an extension of his own body and when the white handkerchief fluttered, his heart fluttered too.
Colonel Lindgren’s saber slashed the air like a bolt of lightning.
“We’re off!” yelled Branville in Toran’s ear. Toran tugged on the lever that opened the throttle. Lorris gave a yelp and leapt out of the way as the Aiglon careered forward. The noise from both engines was deafening. The wind—as they gathered speed—became a roar, drowning out the cheers of the onlookers.
They zoomed down the long drive over the white gravel. Toran risked a swift glance at their opponent and saw—to his astonishment—the rival sky craft lift into the air.
And they were still on the ground.
“Now, Toran!” Branville’s shout startled him. His heart pounding, he pulled the lever that released more fuel into the engine. Branville adjusted the rudder so that the nose of the craft pointed toward the heavens and suddenly they were rising, skimming above the gravel drive, gaining on the the rival craft.
Toran let out a whoop of elation. “This aethyrite —it’s amazing!”
“There’s the fountain. I’ll circle around toward that far lawn.” Branville’s voice was hardly audible above the rushing sound of the wind and the growl of the engine.
“Have we won?” Toran could see the wide bassin below, more a small lake than a fountain, could see their pale reflection in the rippling waters passing above the statue of the goddess like a white bird.
“Less power,” Branville shouted. “Or we’ll overshoot.”
Toran employed the lever to reduce the steady flow of fuel to a trickle and slow the pistons. But still they flew on. The Dievona fountain was already behind them and the graceful curve of Swanholm Palace was dwindling into the distance. And an ominous puttering sound began to issue from the engine.
***
Nils Lindgren shielded his eyes against the sun as he watched both flyers rise into the air, and approach the finish line at the Dievona Fountain. Around him he heard the onlookers gasp in awe as the noisy engines chugged past, flying down the long white gravel drive.