by E. C. Jarvis
As his body shivered, the wet rope slipping through his wet fingers, a slight shimmer caught his eye in the clouds in the distance.
“Shit.” He stared at the clouds, watching for the break between them, waiting to see the vision a second time, praying silently to all nineteen Gods that it was just a mistake. Perhaps he’d swallowed too much seawater and it had gone to his head already. As he neared the bottom of the airship, the distant sky disappeared, replaced by the mismatched wood of his bucket. Adding speed to the slow ascent by rope, he finally grabbed the side and hauled himself on deck.
“How does it look? Did it work? Shall I turn it off now?” Sandy yelled at him with excitement as she pulled an overcoat over her shoulders to shelter from the rain. He didn’t answer. His body shook with the cold, and with the rope still tied around his waist, he jogged across the ship in bare feet, wearing nothing but his undershorts and an overcoat, to the opposite side of the bridge. He grabbed the spyglass from Simms at the wheel as he went.
“What’s up, LT? Don’t tell me you dropped something down there, cos we’ve got no hope of getting it back,” Eddy said as he stood beside him. “Fuck…is that what I think it is? Wait…what is that?”
In the distance heading directly toward them, he saw an airship. His heart raced with panic and confusion. From what he could remember of the pirate airship he and Kerrigan hunted months ago, the ship looked just like it, except it had no balloon canopy. Instead, the propellers were both turned upwards, pointing towards the heavens and whirring around at an incredible speed. There was no billowing of black smoke pouring from the chimney stack and no discernible way of knowing how the thing stayed up in the sky.
“What the fuck is that?” Eddy asked again.
“I think that is our pirate airship.”
“The one with Kerrigan?”
“I believe so.”
“How is it flying?”
“Gods only know.”
“Shit. Do you think Kerrigan is still on board, or do you think it’s the pirates, or—”
“I don’t know, Eddy. I think it’s best to assume that they’re not friendly until we know better.” He tried to scan the deck of the ship with the spyglass, but the rain was too heavy and they were still too far away.
“Tobin?” Sandy asked.
“What, Sandy? I’m a little busy.”
“The illusion, did it work?”
“Yes, but now is not the time.”
“Actually, it’s very much the time, because it’s still on. If your friends have seen us, and the chances are they have, they’ll be looking at an Eptoran reconnaissance ship. If I turn it off now, it will look a little odd, don’t you think?”
“Shit. Then keep it on.”
“And is that such a good idea? Do you think these pirates like Eptorans or not? I mean, if they have weapons—”
“If they have weapons and they want to attack, there is very little we can do about it, whether we look like an Eptoran ship or the flying bucket that we truly are.”
“So what should we do?”
His mind raced with options, none of which led to a good outcome. What indeed? That ship was the last known location of the Colonel, and those people were responsible for the death and destruction back in Aditona, not to mention the mess they caused in Meridina. Somehow, he had to get on that ship and find out the truth, but as he looked at his rag-tag crew and pile-of-shit ship, the task seemed impossible, if not entirely risky for everyone.
“LT?”
“What, Eddy, what?”
“Whatever we’re going to do, we best do it fast. Those guys are moving at a speed I’ve never seen before. I didn’t even know airships could go that fast.”
“All right, get me my trousers.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Cid counted the steps down to the bottom of the airship. There were six steps down to each of the three levels. That made for exceptionally low ceilings, and he had to walk with a crick in his neck to avoid the low-hanging beams and hooks haphazardly dotted about the corridors and rooms below. No doubt Larissa could walk around down there without much trouble, but the rest of them would likely end up with a permanent hunch by the end of the journey home, if ever they could make it that far.
On the lowest deck, at the farthest end of the walkway, was a small room tucked away. He pushed the door open and found it would only open partway, as something on the inside was blocking it. He grabbed a lantern from the corridor wall and bent his body through the gap. Inside was a great mound covered with a yellow silk cloth which looked oddly similar to the horrid colour of his shirt. He perched the lantern onto a hook, which swung with the movements of the airship, sending shadows bouncing around the walls, then grabbed the cloth and pulled it back.
Underneath, he found a large and familiar-looking machine. An engine. It was bigger and more cumbersome than the one from the plane, so much so that he wondered how the people Elena had convinced to sneak it onto the ship had managed to do so, let alone how they’d squeezed the bloody thing into such a tiny room. However they’d achieved it didn’t matter. What did matter was that it was there and all he had to do was make it work.
He scratched the top of his head, finding an overly long mess of hair with his finger, then remembering the lump of Anthonium in his hand. The stone was a far larger sample than the one Larissa had once worn as a necklace. Somehow, he didn’t care about the risk of the poisonous effects of carrying the thing around. After all the trouble he’d seen, it seemed difficult to generate the appropriate amount of fear that should come from holding onto a volatile substance. Perhaps his senses had truly been dulled by the turmoil and hardships they’d been through.
He bent down to inspect the machine, looking at the casing for the pistons and marvelling at the intricacy of the design, when something tucked beneath caught his eye. A rather innocuous-looking wooden box was wedged further back. He reached out and pulled it forwards, unfurling the gold-rimmed catch. When he saw what was inside, something in his chest hurt. It was a toolkit. An array of spanners and wrenches, screwdrivers, clamps, bolts, gauges, and sitting neatly on the top were a brand new set of goggles.
He blinked at the box. If ever a woman could have done one singular gesture to melt his stubborn heart, this was it. She’d read him so completely and given him the best possible gift he wouldn’t dare ask for. He was a kid again, getting his first adjustable wrench as a gift for Saints’ Day. He was a teenager, landing the perfect job at the Hub straight out of school. He was in a citadel, listening to the mourning chants of the priests and feeling at peace. He was every kind of happiness he’d ever experienced before and more. If only Elena were there with him, he’d leave the sodding engine, sweep her off her feet, and shut them both into a private room for a few hours and bugger anyone who might have objected.
He was so engrossed in admiring the tools and considering where to start work on the engine—and secretly thinking about all the naughty things he would one day do in a private room with Elena—that he didn’t notice the door creaking open again.
“Mendle.” Holt’s grim voice cut through his thoughts like a dull axe to the brain.
“Holt.” He turned, pivoting around on his backside. Holt loomed over him, his dark blue eyes seeming pale and pasty, but there was no mistaking the look of grim intent behind them. “What do you want? Where is Larissa?”
“The Anthonium.” Holt held out his hand, the fingertips inches from Cid’s nose.
Cid’s own fingers instinctively curled around the stone. “What do you want it for? It’s needed for this.” He pointed at the engine.
“Just hand it over.”
Cid rose to his feet, his other hand curling into a fist “Piss off. If you think I’m just going to do whatever you tell me to just because you pulled me out of that dungeon in the palace, you’re mistaken. I’m not your servant or your soldier. There is only one person who can tell me what to do.”
“Holt?” Larissa’s voice came from t
he corridor. Cid couldn’t see her through the angle of the blocked door. The expression on Holt’s face flicked from stoic determination to something soft and almost kind for the briefest of moments before his eyes narrowed and jaw set firm.
“This has nothing to do with you. Go away,” Holt barked back at her, not even turning around. “Give me the stone, Mendle, before I smash your fucking head in.”
“You’re not yourself, Holt.” Cid back stepped, catching his foot on a lump of metal and clunking his head on the lantern.
“Holt, please talk to me,” Larissa pleaded, and Cid could see her pulling on Holt’s arm.
He shrugged her off and bent down, grabbing a spanner from Cid’s toolbox. “Last chance, Mendle.”
“Cid, give me the Anthonium,” Larissa said as she shoved her way underneath Holt’s arm.
“It’s needed for the bloody engine. We’re going to be days behind Covelle without it. Might as well not bother.” He shoved it into her hand and grabbed the spanner from Holt. “Get out of my bloody workshop, you maniac.”
“Fine.”
Holt and Larissa disappeared, heading down the corridor. Cid kicked the door shut, bothering his injured ankle in the process.
He slumped back down to the floor and threw the spanner into the toolbox. If there weren’t a fleet of Eptoran warships following, he would drop a rope over the side, climb down, and head straight back to the palace. If he couldn’t be appreciated or listened to by his own people, he could at least have one last shot at happiness with Elena before her grizzly sister called for the executioner. But those warships were following and there was no way of sneaking down without someone seeing. They probably had orders to shoot on sight if anyone did anything unexpected, and as miserable as he was, he wasn’t quite suicidal. Not yet, anyway.
“I’ll find a bloody merchant ship when we get home and come straight back. Bugger the President. Bugger Daltonia. Bugger the Gods. And bugger you, Holt.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Larissa headed up a flight of steps to the mid-deck and found the nearest empty room. It was dark below deck and the small lantern in the room didn’t do much to brighten the place. It was even darker inside and had an odd smell. The room was empty save for a table at one end covered in vials and dishes and a morbid-looking selection of syringes. As the ship caught a thermal drift and bobbed upwards, sending the lantern into a swing, the floor became illuminated, showing her an unsightly smattering of blood. She spun around and bumped straight into Holt’s chest as he stood in the doorway.
“Not here,” she said.
“Here is appropriate.” He gripped her shoulders and gave her a firm push back into the room, slamming the door shut behind them. He immediately turned to the table and picked up each instrument in turn, examining it carefully before putting it back.
“You left me,” she whispered, “again.” Holt didn’t answer, didn’t even turn to acknowledge her. She wasn’t sure why she’d started with that—they had so many other important and urgent things to focus on—but it was out there now, hanging in the thick air of the cabin, and, from his lack of reaction, it seemed doomed to remain unresolved.
“Holt, you promised you wouldn’t leave me, and then you did. I thought you were dead. I thought—”
“This isn’t relevant to our course. Give me the Anthonium.” He lit a candle on the desk and placed a dish into a mesh nest above the flame, then turned, holding out his hand to her.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to melt it down.”
“Melt it? Whatever for?”
“It needs to be liquid if I’m going to inject it.”
“Inject it...” A memory raced through her mind of her father shoving a syringe into Holt’s arm just before he disappeared.
“So you can physically disappear? Again? What are you doing to do this time besides leave me again?”
“You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t. I’ve never understood you, this…this whole fucking mess. I don’t understand a single thing that’s happened since I left home and I’m sick of even trying to work it all out. You can’t have the Anthonium. It belongs in the engine. If you’re so hell-bent on leaving, just do it already. I’m done crying over you, Holt.”
“Larissa.” Holt’s voice dropped; he said her name through gritted teeth and she noticed his hands balling into fists. Her pulse increased and she felt the vein on her neck start to throb, but not with fear nor terror—something more akin to anger. If he lashed out, she was ready. He could pummel her over and over and she would barely feel a thing and heal in no time. He’d get tired long before she got seriously hurt.
“What?” She squared her shoulders and taunted him with the Anthonium, showing it in the palm of her hand. “You want it? Come get it.”
He launched forwards, crashing into her with the full force of his body. They toppled backwards, smacking into the floor. She gripped the Anthonium and tucked her arm under her body, scrunching herself into a ball while he grabbed and pulled, trying to get to the stone. The silence of the room was replaced with unintelligible grunting and growling as they rolled about together.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” he snarled in her ear as he pinned her frame with his entire body.
“You’ve lost your mind. Get off me!” She curled in further, then lashed out with her knee, catching him right between the legs. Holt grunted and placed his hand on the ground beside her head, his face contorted in pain. She kicked again and rolled away, pushing up to her knees when she could. “What’s happened to you?” she asked in a breathless whisper.
“I need it,” he said, still curled on the floor, facing away from her, his voice low, dejected.
“But why?”
“To live. To finish what I started, before it’s too late. I cannot be the man you want me to be, not now.”
She stared down at him, watching the rhythm of his breathing as it slowed and his shoulders slumped. “You need the Anthonium to live?” She turned the lump of rock over in her hand.
“Covelle injected me with high doses to show the effects to the Empress. I recall telling you it’s deadly.”
“Yes.”
“Deadly enough to hold onto the stuff, let alone have it floating around your body. Unless you know the right formula. He’s been injecting himself for years, probably long before he met your mother.”
“I guess that’s why I was immune.”
“If I don’t get more, I won’t make it across the ocean. I can already feel my strength fading.”
The air in the cabin turned unpleasantly warm. Larissa felt her arms grow heavy, as though someone had strung lead weights to her wrists. She shuffled forwards on her knees and placed the Anthonium on the floor at her side. Holt didn’t move; he still faced the door, his laboured breathing telling a far grimmer and more depressing tale than his words could ever describe.
Imago shimmered into view at her side, the white, almost see-through sheen of the large cat’s glossy, hairless skin brushing against her forearm. She shuddered at the sensation of someone running their nails down her skin. Imago lay his chin upon Holt’s side, then wobbled away from view again. She placed her hand on the same spot where Imago had rested his chin and, to her surprise, Holt covered her hand with his.
“I’m sorry,” he said. It was simple, straightforward, and unmistakable in its intent. No more than two seconds passed before her head raced to psychoanalyse it. Had he only said it because he was dying? Would she ever have gotten an apology from him otherwise? Was he apologising for leaving? Or for the manner in which he had returned? Maybe he was sorry for not being honest with her about his intention to kill her father much sooner. Or was he simply sorry for everything?
“I’m sorry too.” She cringed as soon as she said it. She had no idea precisely what he was apologising to her for and had even less of a clue what she was saying sorry to him for. A slight squeeze on her hand wiped the cringe away, giving her a remi
nder that not everything had to have a deep and well-thought-out reason.
She looked down at him, the mop of black hair on his head now dotted with a few greys. Probably as a result of the poisoning, she assumed. His face was still covered in a smattering of facial hair which never seemed to fully develop into a beard. She ran her other hand over his shoulder and down his back, gently stroking and soothing, as though she could wipe away the pain and suffering of the last few days, or weeks, or months, or even years. She remembered the skin beneath his shirt, the lines of his muscles, the scars that told a thousand stories she would probably never hear and the ones from the stories she knew all-too-well.
How strange it seemed that this fate was so similar to the Professor’s. Perhaps she truly was cursed, doomed to find men who could only love her just enough, never so much, and then to lose them to horrific and tragic deaths. Her bad luck in love was not unlike her poor mother’s experience. She felt Holt’s chest rise significantly as he took in a deep breath and rolled over onto his back, still gripping her hand with his. He reached his other hand up to her face and wiped her cheek.
“I thought you were done crying over me,” he said.
She managed little more than a weak smile in response. She hadn’t even noticed the tears flowing down her face until he wiped them away. “There must be an answer. There must be some solution—”
“No.”
“But this can’t be it. Perhaps my father will know the formula to undo this.”
“Still so naive.”
“I like to think I’m hopeful.”
“If you want to catch up to your father, you’ll need the Anthonium for the engine. If you do that, I won’t survive long enough for you to catch him and ask the question.”