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

by Nicholas J. Ambrose

  A diminutive man in a plain shirt scurried up. Tape measures hung around his neck, trailing all over.

  Mikhail spoke before the tailor could. “Sorry, buddy; no time for the full works. We’re just here for something off the rack.”

  Some of the tailor’s steam left. He nodded, looking mildly disappointed, and said he would be at the back if anybody needed him. He returned to his counter with low shoulders, and commenced watching the four men with eagle eyes.

  Francis broke from his fugue. He turned away from the mirror. “Can Ruby afford this?”

  “No,” said Mikhail. He sifted through a spiral of hanging trousers. “Lucky for us, Amelie’s dear mum is footing the bill.”

  Francis lifted the price tag hanging from the lapel of a nearby jacket. “Can she afford this?”

  “Seriously?” Reuben said. “Did you notice where she lives?”

  “I reckon he’s been busy,” said Glim. “If you catch my drift.”

  Francis asked, “What do you mean?”

  “All morning, alone with two women—”

  “One of whom hates me.”

  “—two very nice women—”

  “One of whom hates me.”

  “—situation like that, I know the sort of sights my mind would be on.”

  “Says a lot about your character, really,” Francis said drily.

  “Go easy on him,” said Reuben. “Glim’s on a vow of celibacy imposed by the rest of the world.”

  “Helped by his face,” Mikhail said.

  “I’ll have you know, I’ve had more than my fair share of women.”

  Reuben smirked. “All right, ‘one’ then.” He put down the shirt he’d been checking over. “And is ‘woman’ really the right word? I thought it was the family mungrot.”

  “Mungrot?” Francis asked. “What’s that?”

  “Like a dog.”

  “Oh.” Then: “Eurgh.”

  Glim said, “We didn’t have a mungrot.”

  Reuben: “No. Not after you’d finished with it.”

  Mikhail laughed. Glim decided to give up, because apart from shooting daggers at Reuben, he resumed checking the tags on the rack of shirts he stood at.

  “You going to sort out a suit, then?” Reuben asked Francis.

  “Oh. Yeah, of course.”

  Between Mikhail and Reuben, both shirt racks were out. Glim was working his way through trousers, and Herschel manned a free mirror on the opposite side of the store, holding two shirts up to his chest one after the other.

  Francis wandered to a rack of trousers. Plain black; dark grey; lighter grey; and relegated to barely a sixth of the stand’s hanging space, pinstripes.

  “Should I go for black?”

  “Go for whatever you like,” Mikhail said. “Just make sure everything matches.”

  Black it was, then.

  “I’ve never shopped for a suit before.”

  “Neither has he,” said Reuben, nodding to Glim.

  “Mungrots don’t care if a man looks nice or not,” Herschel said, ambling back over.

  Reuben pulled a shirt off the rack by its hanger. He held it up, appraised it, and said, “Perfect.” He headed for the trouser rack Francis was at. “Mikhail, how long does it take to pick out a shirt?”

  “A while.”

  “He wants to brush up nice for Natasha,” said Glim. “That whole spiel about being excited for the wedding. I reckon he’s planning something.”

  “How wrong you are.”

  “Tell you what, though,” Glim said. “Women love a man in a suit.”

  “Since when are you the expert?”

  “They do. Herschel, you’ll back me up, won’t you?”

  Herschel looked torn.

  “Come on, man.”

  “I’m saying nothing.”

  “For crying out … all right, fine. Just wait until tomorrow. So long as Micky, there—”

  Mikhail looked up so sharply Francis thought he heard his neck crack. “What did you just call me?”

  “—so long as he doesn’t pick up something that makes him look like more of a pig smeared in shit, and so long as Francis does the same, tomorrow night Natasha and Brie will be glued to them.”

  “Brie is always glued to me—”

  “Seriously, what the hell did you just call me?”

  “And what is it with everyone and Brie today? Just because we spend time together, doesn’t mean—”

  “Evans. You’re with me on this. He just called me Micky, didn’t he?”

  Reuben said, “Easy.” To Francis, he continued, “Chill. We’re just having a laugh with you.” He plucked out a pair of dark grey trousers, assessed, then stowed them back in their original place. “Anyway, what’s the problem? She’s pretty enough. Probably not my first pick for Miss Harbinger, but she’s not bad-looking.”

  “I just don’t get why everyone keeps bringing it up. You guys, fine, but today Natasha dropped it into conversation.” Francis shook his head. “Out of everyone, it feels like the only person who has actually dropped the subject is Brie.”

  “You two are together a lot, that’s all.”

  “So are the four of you.”

  “Yes, but all of us are straight.” A new pair of trousers came out. Reuben decided he liked these ones. He laid them over the shirt he’d picked up, and moved to the jackets. “And unless I’m very much mistaken, so are you. As Brie is quite clearly interested, and you’re so often side-by-side … Two and two, man.”

  “You’ve come up with five,” Francis said shortly.

  “Looks a lot like a four to me.”

  Francis simply shook his head, and tried to hurry his slow hunt through trousers. Best to, or at the rate everyone else was moving, Francis would be dead last. Even Mikhail had finally chosen a shirt.

  Just as Francis finally found his size, there was a commotion outside. It was muted by the glass door and windows, but in the shop’s relative silence it was clear enough: a man shouted, “Hey!” Francis looked up at the window just in time to see a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, sprinting past holding a briefcase.

  A second later, the boy was followed by a well-dressed man. He was running, too, black hair bouncing with his footsteps, but though he was lean, he could not match the young boy’s spry bounds.

  “Stop!” he cried. “Thief!”

  Francis looked alarmed. “Should we do something?”

  Mikhail dumped his shirt onto the nearest rack. Shouting, “We’ll be back in a few!” to the tailor, who still watched with beady eyes, he sprinted for the door, thrust it open, and was out.

  Francis asked, “Should we follow?”

  Reuben exchanged a look with Herschel and shrugged. “He did say ‘we’.” He discarded his own things, and jogged to the door.

  Glim said glumly, “I just ate.” Still, he sprang into action, and Francis followed after.

  People stared where they stopped. Francis wove past a stationary couple.

  His feet pumped madly—and still he slipped instantly into last place.

  Reuben, Glim, and Herschel were faster. Beyond them, the well-dressed man—and past him was Mikhail, whose legs pistoned like his life depended on it. He closed the space—the boy looked back; alarm contorted his face before he put on a renewed burst of speed. But Mikhail outmatched him, and as Francis dodged another watchful person standing by, he saw Mikhail take a great flying leap—

  And then the boy disappeared under him.

  As Francis slowed to a walk and approached, he heard the boy’s shouts. Francis did not know the language, but the gist was clear: he was not happy to have been caught.

  The well-dressed man jogged to Mikhail’s side.

  Mikhail plucked the suitcase free from the squirming body beneath him. The boy’s yells grew louder.

  “This yours?” Mikhail asked.

  “Yeah.” The man breathed heavily. “Yeah, that’s mine.”

  “Here you go.”

  By now Francis and the others had
congregated. The watchful passersby were slowly wheeling back into action, though many sets of eyes remained on the cluster and the shouting boy.

  “How about the kid?” Mikhail asked. “Need him escorted somewhere?”

  The well-dressed man shook his head. “No. No, that’s okay.”

  “All right.” Mikhail stood. He clasped the boy by the shoulders and lifted him in one easy movement, setting him onto his feet. The boy tried to pull away and run, but Mikhail held him firm. He bent down to eye level, face close. “I hope this experience has taught you a little something.”

  The kid looked ready to spit in Mikhail’s face.

  Mikhail released him, and he darted away, rounded the corner, and disappeared.

  “Thank you,” said the well-dressed man. “Really.” He clutched his briefcase in his arms, as though afraid anything other than hugging it might herald the thief’s return.

  “No problem,” said Mikhail. “Can’t beat a good run.”

  “Is there anything I can do to thank you?”

  “Thank us? Nah. Just keep a better hold next time.”

  The man nodded. “I will. Thank you, again. All of you.” He removed a hand and shook with Mikhail, and the others. A thank-you was delivered to each. Even Francis, who had lagged behind everyone.

  Once the man had parted their company, the workhands and Francis wandered back down to the tailor’s. Normality had befallen the street once again: no one stopped or stared; everyone was in motion, and accented conversation wended through the afternoon.

  “Thieves in a place like this, eh?” Glim said. “Who’d have thought?”

  “Get ’em everywhere,” said Mikhail. “Maybe more, here. Place like this has a lot worth nicking. Anyhow, come on. That mousy bloke will think we’re not coming back and put our things away, and we’ll have to find them all over again.”

  “Shit, guys, Mikhail’s right,” said Reuben. “You saw how long it took him to find that one shirt. If he has to look again, we’ll be here forever.”

  4

  As predicted, Francis took almost longest to figure out his suit. Almost; Mikhail won out just minutely. Fortunately, all jabs were sent to him and him alone: the only words to Francis from Reuben, Glim, and Herschel were helpful ones.

  At last, when everything was paid for, the five left the shop. Each clutched a great bag filled with neatly piled clothes, a pair of highly polished shoes, and cufflinks. Glim had been eyeing the watches, but Mikhail reminded him who was footing the bill, and he slunk away.

  “He was pleased to be rid of us,” said Francis.

  “Cheerful one, wasn’t he?” Mikhail said.

  “Only because we didn’t want a proper fitting done,” said Reuben. “He’d have been sunny as summer if that was the case.”

  “Probably,” said Francis. He checked the time on his wrist-bound communicator. Just shy of three. “Where now?”

  “Ship,” said Mikhail. “Offload this stuff, then we can have a relaxed afternoon.”

  A long-legged woman in a business suit and black sunglasses passed.

  When she was out of earshot, Glim said, “I’d rather sample the local culture.”

  Reuben said, “Amen. Herschel, you in? Francis?”

  “I’ll give it a miss. Thanks.”

  “Same here,” said Mikhail.

  “Yeah, but you have to. I don’t think Natasha would want to hear about the blind woman you somehow managed to conquer.”

  “Be funny to watch, though,” Glim said.

  Herschel nodded sagely.

  5

  The Harbinger was parked on Survoix’s edge, a ten-minute walk from the tailor’s. It was only one of many in a vast parking bay that was, with its many great trees and benches, just as pretty as the rest of the island.

  Many of the ships were grand and showy. Belonging to the residents, probably. Separating them were smaller vessels: tourists and visitors. As Francis passed by, he counted at least three other ships in the Harbinger’s SkyHugger class.

  “You definitely not coming with us, then?” Reuben asked when the five were once more in the ship’s confines.

  Francis shook his head. “Good luck, though.”

  Glim grinned. “Don’t need luck.”

  “All right, a miracle, then.”

  Reuben hissed. “He’s done you.” To Francis: “Catch you later.”

  “See you.”

  Residential quarters were on the Harbinger’s upper full floor, arranged around the command centre, kitchen and cafeteria, and rec room. Several routes snaked the tight arrangement.

  Francis’s room was separate from the workhands’, in a branch he shared with night-shift technicians Owen Good and Wren Beckers, Darrel Stitt, the ship’s doctor, and Vala and Stefan Daly.

  He first planned to leave the bag of clothes on the bed. But going by the duvet and pillows, in their usual mess, his new suit might suffer the same fate. And much as he did not like Amelie, there was no way he’d show up to her mother’s wedding and reception in a creased suit. No way. It would be hung, nice and neat. Separate from the rest of his clothes, even: entirely on the opposite side of his cupboard’s hanging rail. Just in case, somehow, rimples were contagious.

  By the time he was done, he figured the workhands had probably set out again. Mikhail too. He wouldn’t go wherever it was the other three were in their usual attempt to meet some of the local women, but he’d probably source out Natasha.

  Francis pondered.

  Was Ruby on-board?

  She was usually in the ship’s command centre. Deciding it was the best place to start looking, Francis headed its way.

  Indeed, Ruby was inside when Francis poked his head in. She sat at the very front, her tricorne discarded, thick red curls draping her back. She was alone.

  Francis knocked on the open door.

  Ruby looked around. Her face lifted at the sight of him.

  “Afternoon,” said Francis. He wandered in.

  “Hi, Francis,” said Ruby. She smiled, and tucked a curl behind her ear. “How’s the day?”

  “It’s nice. Warm; nothing like October back home. You should probably get out and enjoy it.”

  Ruby grinned. Beneath her blue eyes and spray of freckles, Francis had noticed: her teeth were slightly uneven. Only a little, and only really visible when she smiled the way she was now. He wasn’t even sure when precisely he’d realised it.

  “I’ve been out already,” Ruby said. She swivelled back to the workstation. “But thanks.”

  “You’ve been out?” Francis asked in surprise. “When?”

  “Earlier. Picked up my garb for tomorrow.” Typing now, she cast a brief glance back. “I trust you’ve done the same?”

  “Yep. I’ve just finished hanging it up.”

  “Good. A little part of me was concerned you’d take similar care of the suit as you take with the pantry.”

  Francis didn’t need the grin Ruby shot back to know she was joking. Still, it was fair. The pantry was Francis’s responsibility, and like most things he was in charge of—bed; cupboards; the single drawer of his desk—it was a disordered jumble. Even he had to muddle his way through it, and he went down several times a day to collect ingredients for Samuel Wyler, the ship’s hulking chef.

  Francis sank onto the nearest seat. Sideways, he leaned back against the side wall and swung legs back and forth.

  “How does it look?” Ruby asked.

  “Hm?”

  “The suit.”

  “Oh. Um … like a suit, I guess. What did you get?”

  “A dress.” She paused to input some instruction. “And a kind of veil.”

  “How do they look?”

  The backs of Ruby’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Like a dress and a veil, I guess.”

  Francis tried to picture her. Both dress and veil were black—or maybe white? The colours popped and changed in his head.

  “It’s going to look really weird,” Francis said. “Seeing everyone dressed up properl
y. I mean, really properly.” His lips pulled sideways as his imagination worked. The image didn’t want to click. “I’m going to look really weird.”

  “You’re going to look weird? The last time I wore a dress was … I don’t even know when.”

  “But you have, right? The first time I wore a suit was today.” Francis shook loose his reflection from when he’d tried it on. “Everyone will see right through me.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Polite.”

  “You’ll look fine. And if you’re worried, just stand next to Mr Peters.”

  “You sound like one of the workhands.”

  “I shall have to spend less time with them in the future.”

  Francis laughed.

  “We caught a thief today,” he said.

  “You did?”

  “Uh huh. A kid ran past the tailor’s with some guy’s briefcase. Mikhail caught him and gave it back.”

  “That was very nice of him,” said Ruby.

  “I helped out,” Francis said. “Sort of.” He paused. “I chased, anyway.”

  Footsteps sounded up the corridor. They were quick, a sort of half-march, and a few seconds later—

  “Francis! Hi!”

  Brie appeared. She was slightly out of breath, and her hair bounced.

  “Hey,” Francis greeted. “Get your clothes?”

  “Yes!” She flicked hair back across her shoulders; left, right, left again. “Natasha and Amelie helped me pick! Do you want to—?”

  “Afternoon, Brie,” Ruby said.

  Brie jolted. She had not even seen Ruby. “Oh! Um, hi, Miss Celeste. I didn’t realise … I was just wondering if Francis …”

  “Wanted to see your dress?”

  “Um …”

  “Why don’t you show it to me tomorrow?” Francis said. “When we go to the wedding.”

  Brie brightened. “Okay!” She paused. “Um. I think I saw Samuel coming on-board …”

  Francis checked his clock. “Probably best I find him and see what he wants me to collect from the pantry.”

  Ruby paused her tapping to check her own clock. “Alas, I’d say it is.”

  “Poor me,” said Francis, pushing up. “Still hard at work, even when everyone else is on a break.” He amended, “Mostly,” as Ruby turned and locked eyes with him.