by Taven Moore
Remora paused, delighted. “Dear Jinn, did you just make a joke?”
“Alas, my sense of humor remains intact.”
Remora grinned up at the tall warrior, feeling a rush of relief. That had been the first sign of something other than the odd mix of irritation, boredom, and unhappiness he had been displaying ever since that business aboard the Swan. She’d taken to labeling that particular emotion ‘duty.’ If he wouldn’t let her help him rescue his brother, she could at least convince Jinn to open up a little. Henceforth, she determined it to be one of her goals that Jinn spend as little time feeling ‘duty’ as she could personally muster.
“Don’t worry, Jinn! This will be marvelous fun, I am certain of it. After all, what could possibly go wrong?”
Feeling remarkably cheered by her new goal, Remora set out at a smart pace to the building, ignoring the faint gurgling sound Jinn made after her latest announcement.
The sign for 221B Baker’s Street hung at a crazy angle and she spared it no more than a cursory glance before pressing onward through the door.
As the shop bells jangled overhead, she froze just inside.
Three men and two shonfra were locked in battle.
Three very familiar men and two very familiar shonfra.
As Jinn wove his way past her, pushing her behind him and drawing his weapon, Remora took stock of the scene.
Behind a waist-high counter stood her cousin Percival, the one with the stutter and the embarrassingly weak chin who loved toast and once talked to her about alchemist weaponry during the entirety of an otherwise dreadfully boring Harvest Ball at her Aunt Ermentrude’s.
Clinging to Percival’s shirt, Montgomery Hackwrench shrieked and battered poor Percy about the head with a pipe held in his tail.
She couldn’t decide which of the other two humans she was more surprised to see—Hank McCoy in his ridiculous Paladin garb or her uncle, both of whom pointed weapons at each other, while Mosley dove around her uncle’s head, screeching and hissing.
Remora pushed Jinn aside, absolutely furious. “What, pray tell, is happening here? Hank! This is most unbecoming; do drop the weapon pointed at my uncle this instant!”
McCoy did not drop his weapon, though he did make a sound remarkably similar to the gurgling that Jinn had made earlier. Perhaps they had some sort of cold?
“This is your uncle?” Hank asked, voice muffled slightly by the leather muzzle covering his lower face.
At the same time, her uncle said, “Remmy! You know this Paladin?”
Remora chose to ignore the fact that as yet, no one in the room had lowered his weapon. “Don’t be ridiculous, Uncle, he’s no Paladin. He’s my captain, the one I told you about. You met him briefly when you collected me from prison.”
Her uncle frowned, re-appraising Hank and clearly not liking what he saw. “You told me you had secured the services of an honest, dependable vessel! This man is a brigand, a liar! I doubt he can even spell ‘honor’!”
Hank objected, opening his mouth to disagree. Remora beat him to it.
“I was more interested in his piloting skills than I was his grammar, Uncle!”
“Thank you,” growled Hank.
“Or his personal hygiene, for that matter,” Remora added.
Hank glowered. “Was that really necessary?”
Remora put her hands on her hips. “Even when you’re not covered in dirty leathers, you have shaggy hair and cheek stubble. I can hardly imagine you are unaware of what a miserable first impression you make. That sort of thing may be dashing in romance novels, but here in the real world, it’s simply untidy.”
Remora put her hands on her hips, frowning at the room. “Furthermore, everyone here is still holding weapons. I demand that someone listen to me at once.”
She turned to the easiest person in the room to bully—her cousin. “Percy, you will put down that weapon immediately. If the situation warranted actually firing that monstrosity, we should all find ourselves in caskets. You know it has a dreadful blast radius.”
Sheepishly, he lowered the weapon.
“Montgomery, now it is your turn. Please unhand my cousin.”
The blue shonfra chittered something at her. She wasn’t entirely sure what he had said, but his tone sounded defensive.
“Well, I’m quite sure you did not know he was my cousin at the time, but I should be quite wroth if you continue to bludgeon him about the head now that you do know. Besides, he is no longer armed.”
Begrudgingly, Hackwrench dismounted from Percy’s shirt, tail uncurling from around the pipe. Remora held out her hand to him and he leaped to her arm and climbed to her shoulder, furred tail draping around her neck.
Remora turned back to find that the rest of the room seemed to have calmed. At the very least, both Hank and her uncle had put away their weapons.
She smiled at them. “There! Much better. Wouldn’t you all agree?”
She took the lack of dissent as agreement.
“Now, will someone please tell me what is going on here?” She rapped the brass tip of the parasol against the floor for emphasis.
No one spoke up. Remora sighed and rolled her eyes. “Very well, if you’re all going to behave in an infantile manner, I shall go first. Jinn and I received a mysterious message while in the marketplace which directed us to this address. Hank, why don’t you go next?”
“Mosley said this place would sell passage to Ardel for those who can’t buy legal fare. He and Snow will be on the next boat out of town.”
Surprised, Remora gaped at him. “Snow is . . . leaving?”
She hadn’t considered that the dresl woman would want to leave. She’d only just arrived, and Remora had barely even thanked her for her bravery and companionship aboard the Swan.
Of course, if that was what Snow wanted, she would not stop her. It was only . . . surprise, that was all. She was surprised Snow wished to leave. Disappointment was certainly not the emotion she was feeling, nor sadness, which would be well out of line.
Remora swallowed once. Surprise, that was all.
“And you, Percy?”
“I just mind the shop, Cous—I mean, Lady.” He shifted his weight slightly, inclining his chin toward her uncle. “Unc—I mean, Lord Brutus, he . . . we . . . ” Percy floundered, and Remora took pity on him. Poor boy, he looked like he expected a beating!
“You process immigrants through the Underground Skyroad?” she suggested.
Percy nodded, clearly relieved. Behind her, Jinn locked the door, then turned to face the room.
Remora turned to her uncle, feeling a little hurt. “Why would you keep that a secret?” she asked. “Why wouldn’t you tell me? You must know I would have helped!”
Hank snorted. “Lady, your ‘help’ is like begging a hurricane to water the flowers,” he said.
Remora frowned at him. “Was that really necessary?” she asked, not realizing she echoed his earlier words until she saw the twinkle of laughter in his green eyes. She merely deepened her frown at him. It could hardly hurt him to show the tiniest bit of respect in front her family, now could it?
“Never mind,” she said, airily, turning thoughts and eyes firmly away from incorrigible airship captains. “Clearly, you sent me the note because you feel I am finally responsible enough to join you. How can I help? I doubt you need funding, but I could develop contacts in—”
“No!” her uncle interrupted, then cleared his throat. “Dear Remmy, I would never put you in so much danger as to involve you here. Never.” He stepped forward and took her thin, pale hands in his own, lifting her wrist to touch his lips briefly to the top, and then to the bottom of her wrist, as he’d done since she was a child.
She laughed and pulled away, as she always did. “But Uncle,” she protested, “why then did you send the note?”
His dark eyes looked pained and he gripped her hands firmly. “Look at me, Remora. You must look at me and you must listen with all your heart, as I may never get another chance to tell yo
u. It is only here that I feel confident there are no ears listening, no messengers ready to take wing back to the Seraphs. They’re hated here, and no snitch could survive these streets. I need you to listen, my love, and take me very seriously.”
Startled at his intensity, Remora nodded, her smile fading. “I am listening, Uncle.”
“You must abandon this quest. Destroy the sourceshard and burn the book.”
14. Entreaty
Remora’s heart froze.
“Uncle . . . I don’t . . . but you were the one who originally gave me the book! You encouraged—”
Her uncle’s pained sigh cut her off, and the line of worry between his brows deepened. Remora looked more closely at his face and realized suddenly how very old he seemed. His black hair was peppered with gray that she did not remember, and his face looked drawn and tired.
He combed a hand through that long hair now, moving aside to seat himself on a nearby barrel. Remora moved to him and took his large hand in her smaller ones, feeling the chill in his fingers.
“Uncle, are you unwell?”
He reached his other hand up to cup the side of her face. “It is only my heart which ails me, Remmy dear. I know it was I who set you on this mad quest, but I had little choice in the matter and I did not know how fraught with danger it was until shortly after you left Westmouth. Things have not gone smoothly in your absence.”
Again he sighed, and Remora truly began to worry. Her uncle was invincible; she knew this to be true from years of unwavering love.
“Come home,” he said finally. “My judgment as your guardian has been called into question, particularly following your rather spectacular exit.”
Remora rolled her eyes. “To be fair, uncle, I did try to leave quietly. It’s hardly my fault someone sent such miserable assassins after me. Honestly, what sort of idiot uses explosive alchemist guns when the target isn’t even in sight? It was like they weren’t even trying to kill me—”
His hand fell from her cheek to rub at his forehead. “Remmy, please, can we not evaluate the effectiveness of your assassination attempts this very moment? We have more important things to discuss.”
Remora blushed. “Apologies, Uncle. You are correct, that was terribly rude.”
His other hand tightened in hers. “I would love to discuss it, only . . . later, please.” He paused. “It’s more than your escape alone which fuels their arguments. Your father was a shrewd businessman, and I am your mother’s brother. Some argue that it should be a Price from your father’s line who maintains the company.”
“That’s ridiculous, Uncle! You are more than capable of handling the company’s business.”
He shook his head. “It is suitability they argue, not capability. These are political games, Remora. If you stood by my side, their complaints would hold no weight. With you gone on some mysterious adventure, they clamor for blood.”
Remora sighed. She truly had not given her father’s business a second thought. The political machinations of her family and the day-to-day minutiae of handling the import and export for all of the eastern human realm was just so . . . boring. Cogsmithing was far more diverting, and the moment she realized Starbirth might be real—well, she truly had not entertained the notion that her absence would have any effect on a business that she had not truly been involved in.
“I won’t be around forever, Remmy. You’ll need to learn the business so that you can take charge after I am gone, or else whatever husband you procure will take that choice from you. I would prefer you not marry simply for business—Remora? What is it? You’ve gone all pale. Is something amiss?”
Remora shook her head and took a deep breath. She had forgotten, or at least put the matter from her mind. Her uncle would be around far longer than she would. Less than six months remained for her. If she followed her uncle home now, it would be an empty gesture. A stopgap before her sudden death. Marriage (business or otherwise) was out of the question.
“I cannot, Uncle.” She could not meet his dark gray eyes, and concentrated instead on their linked hands. “I understand what you are saying, but I simply cannot.”
“Remmy, why?”
She bit her lip. The urge to tell him welled up inside her, and she cruelly shoved it aside. He was the one person in all the world who had ever truly loved her. The thought of seeing his face, of experiencing his horror and knowing the truth . . . her heart quailed. She could not.
Remora leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Here is where you must trust me, Uncle dearest. I cannot go home with you.”
His eyes immediately moved to Hank’s masked face and he leaped up from his seated position, face reddening. “This scoundrel has not touched you, has he? If he has, you need only say the word and Percival shall—”
Remora quickly placed her hand on his arm. “Uncle, please! Calm yourself. I assure you, Hank has been nothing if not—” she paused. Neither “gentlemanly” nor “decorous” truly suited the airship captain’s behavior.
Her pause lasted too long.
Hank scoffed to fill the silence, crossing his arms over his chest. “I haven’t touched her, your royal fussiness, so calm down. Far as I know, she’s just as pure as she was the day I saw her start a bar fight in the Jolly Rooster.”
Remora scowled at him and her uncle paused. “You know, you never did tell me the entirety of that story, Remmy.”
“Nonsense, it’s in the past. It doesn’t matter and hardly takes precedence over our current situation.” Remora tapped the head of her parasol on the floor, hoping the sharp sound might signal the end of that particular conversation.
“The current situation is that despite your entreaties, Uncle, I simply cannot abandon my quest at this time.”
Her uncle looked for a moment as if he might argue, then he sat once again on his barrel, looking older and more tired than ever.
“There is something else that I did not wish to tell you.”
Remora frowned. “Uncle, I really don’t—”
“I was blackmailed into giving you that book and making certain that you received it, the crystal, and any assistance you needed should you choose to embark upon a quest to learn more about it.”
Remora realized her mouth was gaping, and hurriedly shut it.
“Not many that can blackmail a Price into doing anything he doesn’t want to do.” The statement came from Hank, and there was such a hard, lethal edge to his tone that Remora took a step away from him. With his face so utterly hidden by that wretched mask, she could not read his expression.
A chorus of nods and faint noises of grim agreement swept the room, leaving Remora standing puzzled in its center.
“Do please avoid keeping me in suspense.” Remora impatiently tapped her parasol again when it became clear that no one would answer the question.
“A Seraph,” her uncle said quietly, just as a chillingly familiar voice shouted from outside the door.
“Open up,” shouted the gravelly voice of Mack Craft, the one-eyed sky pirate who had planned on selling her to the slave market, “in the name of the Seraph Dame Vakaena.”
15. Madcap Plan
Hank’s eyes flashed to Remora’s uncle. Brutus, that’s what the twitchy cousin with the too-large gun had called him. “Just how many people did you invite to this shindig?”
Brutus’s face paled. “This is not my doing. I was specifically aiming to avoid interaction with Dame Vakaena!”
Hanks’s face flushed with anger. “Is that so? You’re being blackmailed by one of the most powerful beings on the planet and you think the best way to avoid her attention is to lure your niece, the person least capable of subterfuge I have ever met in my life, straight to your secret lair?” His hands clenched into fists. “How in all the Roith’delat’en hells have you managed to maintain something like the Underground Skyroad?”
Twin spots of red appeared on Brutus’s cheeks. “You don’t understand. I had no choice. I needed to warn her—”
“And now
you’ve gotten her, and everyone else, in a freighter’s worth of trouble. Stellar work.”
From outside, Mack’s voice called out again. “Knock, knock. I know you’re in there. You’ve got thirty seconds to come out with your hands up, or I come in with my guns up. Your call, princess.”
Hank snapped to attention. They didn’t have time for this. “Remora, check the time. Call out every five seconds.”
Her eyes widened, but she immediately slipped a pocket watch from her skirts and clicked it open.
“Now everyone shut up.” Hank closed his eyes and began to think, ignoring the gasps of outrage at his demand. What they needed was time, but that’s precisely what they didn’t have. Hank began a methodical catalogue of precisely what they did have, and a plan began to form.
“Twenty-five,” said Remora.
Hank opened his eyes. “You, Brutus. Is there another way out of this place?”
The older man blinked. “Yes. There’s a hidden back door that leads out into the alley. We have an underground hiding cell we use for transients, but there’s no exi—”
Hank waved him silent. “You know how to use that gun you were waving around earlier?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Good. Be prepared to use it.”
“Twenty,” said Remora. Hank’s jaw tightened and he began to talk faster.
“Brutus, I need you to show Jinn the back door, but for the love of starshards, don’t let them know you’re back there. No way Mack would have left the back unguarded. Jinn, I need you to find everyone Craft has stashed back there and target them for our exit. If we tip Craft off too soon, he’ll spring the trap before we’re ready.”
The Shinra warrior paused, looking to Remora.
Hank made a noise of frustration. “Jinn, unless you think she’s got a better idea to get us out of here, clearing that exit is the only way to keep her safe. I need to trust you on this. Can I trust you?”
“Fifteen,” said Remora.
Finally, Jinn nodded.
“You, skinny fellow.”
“Percy,” the shopkeeper squeaked.