The Ruby Celeste Series - Box Set, books 1 - 3: Ghost Armada, Dire Kraken, and Church of Ife

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  Abraham lifted an eyebrow. “And who might this be?” He stooped in front of the girl, held out a hand. “Greetings, child.”

  “You won’t get a word out of her. She’s mute.”

  “I see.” Old eyes took in the girl’s face. They dropped onto the quarry she clutched in her arms. “And is this—?”

  “The shroud. But I wouldn’t touch it.”

  Abraham looked up questioningly.

  “It vaporised the last guy who tried. Projects a field of some kind.”

  Abraham assessed. “But the child?”

  “She’s been holding it the whole trip. Immune.” Marcette shrugged. “So I guess she’s yours, too.”

  “I see. What do you say, child? Will you join our flock?”

  The girl looked to Marcette. Marcette nodded; the girl gave one simple incline of the head to Abraham, and stepped forward to join his side.

  “Job done,” said Marcette. “I’ll take my payment now.”

  “Yes, of course, of course.” Abraham rose. Half an eye watched the child. The look was almost grandfatherly. He sunk one hand into his robes, frittering with his fingers. “Eight thousand, was it?”

  “Ten,” Marcette corrected. She scowled. “And don’t try to trick me with funny notes. Place like this isn’t hard to find again.”

  “Of course not. Aha.” Abraham smiled. “And may I say, many thanks.”

  Marcette opened her mouth to tell the old man to hurry up, to get over himself and on with handing over her money—but the words were cut off in a gasp. Abraham drew something glinting—there was a slash of white hot pain across Marcette’s neck—he’d slit her throat, the old fucker had slit her throat!—and before she could clutch for it with one hand, before she could draw her pistol in the other and take him down with her—before that, Abraham planted a solid kick against Marcette’s chest.

  She stumbled back and hit the lip of surface inside the Pod.

  Abraham kicked again. Marcette fell, streaking deep red. One arm caught the waste chute, and she prised it open in her scramble.

  Abraham followed her in. At some point her gun had fallen—when had that happened? He stooped to pick it up, then buried a bullet in La Vie’s operating console.

  The Pod began to cant.

  He stepped out, onto New Calais’s walkway.

  Marcette stared, eyes bulging, desperately hot and wet below the neck—

  “Thank you again, Miss de Fayre,” Abraham said. He drifted up as the Pod tilted. “Much appreciated.”

  He wheeled the door shut. Marcette was at forty-five degrees now, the way the Pod was leaning … and then a low thump reverberated through the hull as Abraham planted one last kick, and La Vie fell away.

  He walked back to where the girl stood. Impassive, just as she had been almost every moment since Marcette laid eyes on her.

  “Come, child,” Abraham said kindly. He laid a hand on her back. “Let us go inside. You’ve had a long trip.”

  As Marcette de Fayre’s craft hummed and buzzed and dropped in a dizzying spiral beneath the cluster of islands known as New Calais, Abraham ushered the mute girl forward. She obeyed, silent as ever; and clutched in her arms, the prize Abraham sought: the crimson shroud.

  His.

  Survoix

  (Chapter One)

  1

  Quite how many sky islands Francis Paige had set foot on these past eight months, he could no longer be sure. But there was no doubt: of all, Survoix was prettiest. And if the early October morning helped, curled leaves drifting by pastel houses? Well, that was just fine with him.

  An open square stretched. Patterned cobblestone swirled underfoot. Storefronts with striped awnings lined the edges. Many were cafés. Tables and chairs sat in clusters outside, all intricately curving steelwork. It was not busy yet; a busboy smoked against a wall, folded towel tossed over his shoulder. By the look of him, he was in no hurry.

  At the opposite end of the square was a staggering fountain. Water spouted from arrayed archers and horses. Levels split it, and as Francis’s eyes tracked, he realised paths wove throughout the structure. Up and down and over the pools and slopes, curving around a great central pillar.

  A rotund man in shorts and his equally squat wife were tackling it now.

  “Wow …”

  That was Brie Channing. On Francis’s left, she stared, eyes watery and awestruck.

  “That’s amazing,” she said. “Can we walk through it?”

  This, she directed to Francis. She always did. It was not him that answered, though.

  “Yes. You want to go see?”

  Left of Brie, the trio was completed by Amelie Telford, hair tied up in a tight brown ponytail. It made her look altogether severe—although maybe that was only to Francis; he’d had a solid ten weeks of her temper and hovering now.

  Amelie was the reason the Harbinger had come to Survoix.

  If they could, Brie’s eyes drew wider. “Really?” She turned to Francis. White blonde hair swung. “Do you want to come?”

  Amelie snorted.

  Francis said, “Why don’t you two go? I’ll watch from here.”

  “Oh. Oh, um … okay …”

  Brie looked disappointed. Amelie, meanwhile, could barely keep her happiness down. She pulled Brie by the arm, extracting her from Francis as quick as she could. Brie cast a mopey look back as she fought to keep up. Francis just waved.

  “Rid of them, then.”

  He looked around.

  Natasha Brady had arrived: the tall, thin, black-haired navigator to the Harbinger’s crew.

  “You snuck up,” Francis said.

  “I’m like a cat,” she replied. “Didn’t fancy the fountain, then?”

  “Would you?”

  “Of course.”

  “With her?”

  “Which one?”

  Francis gave her a tired look. “You know very well I mean Amelie.”

  “Could’ve been Brie.”

  Francis shook his head. “Brie’s fine,” he said. “A little bit … clingy, but fine. Amelie jumps down my throat all the time.”

  Natasha shrugged. “Brie might not mind you doing the same to her. If you catch my drift.”

  Francis gaped. “What?” Then: “Wait, no, don’t answer. I don’t want to know.”

  “Just that—”

  “No,” said Francis. He massaged his temples. “You know, I liked you a whole lot better before you started going out with Mikhail. He’s rubbed off on you.”

  Natasha grinned. “Ah, come on, I’m not so bad.” Francis looked sceptical, and she laughed. “You get grumpy easy, you know that?”

  “Maybe it’s because I’ve been stuck with Amelie’s dirty looks and comments all morning.”

  “Well, that or it’s your usual temper.”

  Francis shot Natasha a dark look. Dark enough to give Amelie a run for her money, he thought.

  “Oh, come on, I’m joking. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy you lunch.”

  Francis pretended to consider. “Go on then,” he said at last.

  “Excellent,” said Natasha. “Pick a café.”

  Busboy had just finished his cigarette. He discarded the butt with a precise flick. It landed on a cobblestone, and he put it out with the bottom of a well-shined shoe, kicked it into the space between stones, and slowly lumbered back around and into the café he’d come from.

  “That one?” Francis said. “Looks like he’s hurting for work. We’ll be helping out.”

  Once he and Natasha had been served—a cheese croissant for Francis, a trio of small pastry puffs for Natasha—and were seated outside, Natasha said, “Enjoying the scenery, then?”

  “It’s nice. Are all sky islands around here like this?”

  “Nah,” said Natasha. “Survoix is just very, very upmarket.”

  “The sort of place people might be able to give me advice on a route home?”

  There it was; the usual question. In February, Francis had been kidnapped from his home o
n Vomer’s surface and brought up here to be sold as a ‘willing’ deckhand. The buyer-slash-employer was Ruby Celeste, who instantly saw through the lie—not a tricky task, considering the fight Francis put up when he was brought out. She had then stolen him away. Since, Francis had made his home among her crew: first on the Pantheon, and after that ship was brought down (or fell apart—or both), the Harbinger.

  In the intervening months, Francis had spent much of his time trying to find a way by which he might be returned home.

  So far, he had made less than stellar headway.

  Although air-to-surface travel was possible, it was extremely expensive. Well beyond the means of Ruby Celeste and her crew.

  Natasha dusted pastry off her fingers. “Worth an ask,” she said. Same as always. “Although if I were you,” she went on, “I’d leave it until tomorrow’s reception.”

  “Why?”

  “Amelie’s mum can afford to fly us all out here for a reason,” Natasha said. “She’s connected, and I’d expect at least a few of those people will be here for the wedding too. Never know; treat her right, and she could put us in touch with someone who knows something.”

  Francis thought. “Maybe.” He pulled a face. “I hope she’s friendlier than her daughter.”

  His eyes drifted to the fountain. Brie and Amelie stood in an alcove close to the top. It was hard to make out, but they must have been looking in his direction, because a few moments later Brie lifted a hand and drew an ecstatic arcing wave. Francis lifted his hand to return it.

  “How cute,” said Natasha.

  Francis, flatly: “Ha ha.”

  “I’m serious! The way she is with you …” Natasha watched as Amelie pivoted Brie in the opposite direction. A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “It’s sweet. You’d make a nice couple, I think.”

  “What, navigator isn’t paying well enough, so you’ve set your sights on matchmaking?”

  “Nah,” said Natasha. “No heart-tipped arrows.”

  Francis shook his head. “Where’s Ruby?”

  “If you don’t know, I certainly don’t.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Natasha shrugged. She glanced toward the fountain again. “Good news; our friends are coming back. You want to grab that chair over there?”

  “There’s already one spare.”

  “Yes, but Brie and Amelie makes two.”

  “Amelie can stand.”

  “How utterly charming of you,” said Natasha. “Go on, get it, or I will.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” Francis pushed out of his seat sullenly. “Does Mikhail get bossed around like this?”

  “No,” said Natasha. “He gets worse.”

  “Lucky guy.”

  Brightly ignoring the look Francis gave her, Natasha said, “He really is, isn’t he?”

  2

  The soft flow of people coming through the square began to pick up as Francis’s communicator clock ticked closer to twelve.

  Ten minutes shy, four people he recognised well approached.

  “Afternoon,” said Mikhail. He led the throng. By far the tallest, and strongest of the foursome, he wore a boyish grin. He nodded to Francis, and placed hands on the back of Natasha’s chair. “You lot eaten yet?”

  “Morning,” said Natasha. “We’re well, thanks. And you?”

  “Good,” Mikhail said. “You lot eaten yet?”

  Natasha rolled her eyes. “Charming.”

  “We’ve eaten,” Francis told Mikhail.

  “Knew I could count on at least one of you.” Mikhail winked. “Come on, lads, let’s get inside.”

  “Try not to clear the place out,” Natasha called to her partner’s receding back. “They have other people to feed beside you four, you know.”

  Mikhail returned less than five minutes later, tailed by the two other workhands—Reuben Evans, and Glim Peters—and the Harbinger’s janitor, Herschel Unkovsky. All were fairly large men, and all carried a large plate with more than a few sandwiches piled on, each as thick as a doorstep. They dropped their stash unceremoniously onto the next table, and fell just as unceremoniously into its vacant seats.

  Natasha watched Mikhail eat with the distaste of a person in love.

  “Impressive, I know,” said Mikhail. “It’s a wonder we all keep so trim.”

  “Except Glim,” Reuben said.

  “Hey—”

  “Yeah, except him,” said Mikhail.

  “I’m not fat—”

  “The rest of us are doing a fine job.” And over the sound of Glim’s diminishing protests, Mikhail bumped a fist with Reuben and Herschel.

  Natasha watched as Mikhail finished the final quarter of his wedge of a sandwich in one bite. Before he was finished chewing, the next was in hand as he began to peel the crust off. Cheese smeared with pickle poked out.

  “Amazing,” she said. “Simply amazing.”

  “Take a picture,” Mikhail said. “It’ll last longer.”

  “I’d really rather not.”

  “Where’s Ruby?” Francis asked.

  “Ship,” said Mikhail. It came through a half-chewed mouthful of cheese ploughman’s, so the word wasn’t quite formed. Natasha turned her nose up, affection finally losing the fight with disgust.

  “Doing what?”

  Mikhail shrugged. “Captain stuff.”

  “You’re mighty curious there, Paige,” Reuben said.

  “Some might call it nosey,” Glim added.

  “Not around you, we wouldn’t,” Reuben said to Glim.

  “What do you—?”

  “Insensitive, isn’t it. With that massive schnozz of yours.”

  Mikhail and Herschel roared. Glim groped his nose with assessing fingers.

  “So,” Mikhail said. He swallowed his mouthful, and commenced tearing away the crusts on his next waiting sandwich; this one some kind of fish in mustard-yellow dressing. “Your mum’s wedding tomorrow,” he said to Amelie. “Excited?”

  Amelie shrugged. “Indifferent. It’s not the first time she’s been married.” Easing back in her seat and folding her arms as she turned to peer across the square, she finished morbidly, “Probably won’t be the last, either.”

  “In that case, maybe I should get in the queue now—”

  Reuben’s last word was cut off by Mikhail and Glim both elbowing him in the side.

  “What?”

  “She wouldn’t have you,” said Mikhail.

  “What do you mean? Course she would. Right, Am?”

  Amelie glanced. Turning away again, she said, “She wouldn’t have you.”

  Glim pumped a fist. “Comeuppance!”

  “Well, even if you’re not excited,” Mikhail continued to Amelie, “I am. Wedding in a place like this? Couldn’t want for better.”

  “Fuck me,” said Reuben. “You’ve got soft. Natasha, what have you done to him?”

  “This isn’t my doing,” she answered. “I can assure you, if he got down on one knee I’d—”

  “Deliver an opportune kick to his bollocks?” Glim asked.

  Natasha smirked. “Something like that.”

  “Nothing wrong with a man being in touch with his softer side,” Mikhail said.

  “That’ll be his excuse when he turns up wearing a dress one day,” Reuben said. Herschel nodded sagely.

  “What about you, Francis?” At Francis’s blank shrug, Mikhail said, “Brie? Ever thought about getting married?”

  Brie almost jumped out of her seat. She stammered, “I—oh, um—well …” Her cheeks coloured with pink. Her mouth flapped for new words, found none, and she alternated sideways looks at Francis, and her fists as she balled her sleeves in her palms and tugged. “Sometimes I …”

  “Ignore him,” Francis said. “He’s winding you up.”

  “I’m not,” said Mikhail.

  “Makes a change,” Natasha said.

  “A big one,” chimed Reuben.

  Glim: “Hence why none of us believes what you’re saying.�
��

  Mikhail gave him a sharp kick under the table. Ignoring Glim’s gasp, he said to Francis, “What are your plans for the afternoon?”

  “Same as yours, I guess. Finding an outfit.”

  “Perfect. You’ll be tagging along with us, then.”

  “An afternoon of your quips and jibes. Why not? There’s nothing in the world I’d rather be doing.”

  Mikhail grinned. “Good attitude.”

  Brie tugged Francis’s sleeve. “I thought that we could go together.”

  “The women’s shops are in a different part of Survoix,” Amelie cut in. “I’ll take you.”

  “And I’ll come,” said Natasha. “It’ll be a ladies’ afternoon.”

  Brie looked disappointed. “Oh.”

  “That’s okay,” said Francis. “I’ll meet you after.”

  That brightened Brie’s expression. “Okay!”

  Behind the white blonde young woman, Natasha shook her head, silencing a smirk.

  Fortunately, the derisive noise Amelie made was more than enough to make up for Natasha’s quiet.

  3

  Francis frowned at his reflection.

  Reuben appeared in it beside him. “I think the mirror is for after you’ve tried a suit on.”

  After the workhands had finished their sizeable lunch, and rounded it off with a similarly sizeable selection of frosted cakes, the groups had split.

  “Aren’t you going to give it time to digest?” Natasha protested.

  “No need,” Mikhail said. “Used to it. Come on, Francis. Let’s get pretty.”

  Survoix’s shopping districts were connected by lacelike streets, all paved in the same cobblestone. Spindly trees were set at regular intervals in small squares of earth, miniature fences around their perimeter.

  It had not taken long to find a tailor’s.

  Francis was daunted the moment he looked through the windows. Miles and miles of suits. Mounted on the walls. On spiralling racks. Jackets, shirts, trousers … one wall was set aside for shoes, Francis saw when he stepped inside, all black and gleaming. Then there were ties, hats, cufflinks … under security glass, dozens of expensive watches …