The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  ‘Ain’t natural at all.’

  ‘I told you to pipe down,’ Lilain chided him. ‘It’s perfectly safe.’

  ‘Safer than a ship,’ Gunderton added. He had been silent since their friendly chat in the alleyway. They had almost forgot he was there. His hood had been hoisted back up, and he walked with his arms crossed; a trait Lurker had always mistrusted.

  ‘You’re cuttin’ it fine,’ Higgis remarked as they approached.

  ‘It wasn’t easy to find,’ said Lilain. She watched Higgis’ gaze wander up to the large steel ‘9’ hanging from the iron tower and then back to her; a condescending glint in her green gaze.

  ‘Right,’ drawled the captain, before jacking a thumb over her shoulder. ‘No baggage?’

  The trio shook their heads. They had all they needed in their pockets and packs.

  ‘Then follow me.’

  Up and up they wound, their boots beating a disjointed rhythm on the spiralling iron steps. Lurker swore he could feel the darned tower quivering in the breeze, which seemed to get stronger every step they climbed.

  Through the criss-cross patchwork of the girders, he stared down at Washingtown, spread out below them like an intricate model, cut down the centre by the lazy shimmer of the Potomac. Behind them, the Ivory House sat like a pearl in a green oyster, and Lurker found himself sighing. Even though the solemnity and ceremony of the place hadn’t suited him in the slightest; even though the beds were too soft and made his back itch; even though the city noise kept him awake and made him pine for the stars and silence of the desert, he had found a kind of calm there. It was a calm he hadn’t felt since he’d had a home and a wife, and after the turbulence of the last few months, that was something to be missed. He found himself sniffing deeply, trying to drink in the last scents of the Endless Land before the bloated beast above his head whisked him away from it.

  At the peak of the tower, the breeze was refreshingly cold, but it gusted in a way that made Lurker’s leather hands squeak against the iron railings. Lilain seemed to find it all rather amusing.

  ‘The big bad prospector, afraid of heights,’ she tittered, looking back over her shoulder. Higgis had told them to wait while she went to check on their cabins.

  ‘I ain’t afraid. I just don’t like it is all. If man was supposed to stand this high, we’d have stilts for legs.’

  Gunderton piped up. ‘It’s called technology. Progress.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Lilain chimed in.

  Lurker still didn’t trust the man as far as he could throw him, and at that moment he would have happily lobbed him a fair distance.

  ‘I’ve seen enough strife caused by technology and progress over the years. Don’t mean they’re good things.’

  Gunderton didn’t seem to have an answer and Lurker sniffed again, victorious.

  Higgis came striding back along the walkway as if she were marching along nothing but a wide street, and not a shaking, spindly arrangement of cables and wooden planks. Lurker could feel himself sweating under his hat, which was constantly trying to escape his head and hurl itself back to earth.

  ‘Come aboard then, and mind your step,’ Higgis smirked, noticing Lurker’s downward-sloping face and tight grip on the railings.

  ‘You first, Lil.’

  ‘Ever the gentleman!’ Lilain took to the walkway with purpose. A few long strides, and she was standing in the doorway of the airship, beckoning. With Lurker still hanging back, Gunderton was shoved forward next. He followed Lilain’s act with ease.

  Lurker muttered to himself. He put out a ponderous boot and felt the walkway wobble. He sniffed, cursed inwardly, and forced himself to take a step. And another. And another, until he was across, and Lilain winced at the tight grip of his hand. As soon as he felt the gentler sway of the airship under his soles, he tugged the brim of his hat and complained no more.

  ‘Welcome to The Cloudy Belle, finest ship to float out of Missipine,’ Higgis announced.

  “Finest” was not the first word that came to their minds. The cramped interior of the airship’s gondola was sorely in need of a lick of paint and a cloth. Lurker didn’t care too much about cleanliness and appearances, but it was the scrapings of rust he could spy that made him swallow against a dry throat.

  There was a stench to the place; of motor oil and the reluctance to shower. It was a bustle of activity. Men and women rushed about the corridors, wielding spanners and crates. Short, tall, thick in the waistline, or skinny like a pole, they all wore red waistcoats. It was a simple uniform, and a clever way to determine authority and rank. The more faded, ripped, and stained the waistcoat, the longer its owner had flown with the Belle, and the more they got to throw their weight around.

  Lurker stood with his arms crossed, wondering who exactly he would be working with. He didn’t like the look of any of them. Maybe they should have just paid the hundred florins. Lilain and Gunderton stood either side of him, quiet and ponderous.

  The ship was a hunk of scrap, pure and simple. It was a wonder it was afloat at all. Lurker half-expected the thing to come crashing down in the river, never mind the Iron Ocean. He cast a look over his shoulder at the jittering walkway, still wobbling in the echoes of their footsteps. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

  ‘What a lovely ship,’ said Lilain.

  Higgis’ eyebrows couldn’t decide whether to scowl or scrunch into something to accompany her lopsided grin. She sucked on her cigarette and nodded. ‘She’s a beaut, ain’t she?’

  ‘Our cabins?’ asked Gunderton.

  Higgis pinched her thumb and finger between her lips. The whistle was piercing. ‘Scamp!’

  A thin waif of a man scampered around a corner, true to his name. Higgis snapped her fingers. ‘Take these two to their cabins. One and four.’

  ‘Aye,’ Scamp replied, in a voice that had failed to break. Scamp bent a finger at them and led them down the walkway, pointing out important bits of the airship. ‘Toilet. Another toilet. Captain’s cabin. And there’s the mess. And here you are. One cabin here, and one over there. Pick whichever you want.’

  He left them to it. With a wrench of the door handles, they discovered what sixty florins had bought them.

  It might have been worse. There could have been a gaping hole in the floor, after all.

  Two bunks sulked on either side of the tiny room as if they’d had an argument and hadn’t spoken in years. There were mattresses at least; marginally stained. Bolts studded the walls like iron pimples, and rust seemed to be the only wallpaper on offer.

  Lurker looked to Lilain and growled deep in his throat. ‘Still a chance to change our minds.’

  ‘We don’t have the time,’ said Lilain.

  Gunderton was also growling. They could hear him clearly over the rattle of the engines. Apparently he had done no better with his cabin. To his credit, he tugged the hem of his hood and sauntered inwards. His only goodbye was the slam of his door.

  ‘I don’t like that man,’ murmured Lurker.

  ‘You don’t like anybody.’

  ‘That ain’t true. I like Merion. And Jake, wherever he’s got to. That’s about it.’

  ‘Charming.’

  After slinging his coat across his mattress, Lurker went to stare out of their grubby little porthole. The city shone with afternoon glow, even through the murk.

  ‘I won’t be working very hard, I’ll tell you that.’

  Lilain checked the Mistress’ chambers, flicking the metal wheel round and round. ‘I don’t think you’ll be wrong in doing that. Captain Higgis has played us, good and simple. Sixty florins lighter and all we’ve bought is a filthy little floating hole.’ She wiped her finger across the nearest shelf, wrinkling her nose. ‘But at least we’re pointing in the right direction. Maker, I feel like Merion, pining to go east.’

  ‘Me too. Even if he did leave us behind.’ The method of the young Hark’s departure was a sore subject. They had barely spoken of it since the night of the Bloodmoon. Lurker scratched one of his
scars under his hat. ‘Though I’d rather we were goin’ by boat—’

  Lilain cut him off. ‘And I’d be chuckin’ several shades of insides over the railing every five minutes.’ She was growing bored of his grumbling.

  The sharp cry of a buzzer sounded, blaring out of tiny grills and pipes in the corner of every cabin. A thud followed, and a scraping as the cables were pulled in over the hull.

  ‘Fancy watching?’ Lilain asked.

  Lurker just grunted.

  The cockpit of The Cloudy Belle was a cramped place, but well maintained compared to the rest of the airship. Cogs and levers sprouted from every available surface. Stacks of paper commanded the rest. The vast windows reached almost to the doorframe, flooding the room with sunlight. In front of the central console and a chunky wheel, slouching in an opulent red leather chair that was perhaps a little flea-bitten at the edges, sat Higgis. She worked like a concert pianist; hands flicking over the heads of the levers and teeth of the cogs. A gentleman with a ginger moustache and braided hair sat on her left. A woman with a shaved head and strange tattoos perched on her right, manning a big map with strange lines scrawled all over it. It was no map that Lurker recognised.

  ‘And we’re away!’ Higgis announced, spying shadows over her shoulder. Gunderton had crept up, too, and was leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed, as seemed to be his habit.

  The airship might have been a flying box of rust, but she flew like a dream. Higgis was an expert pilot, bending the ship away from Tower Nine and pointing her firmly at the big blue canvas of the eastern sky. There was barely a cloud in sight; just a thin haze of heat and the fog of eager industry.

  ‘How long will the journey take?’ rumbled Gunderton.

  ‘Two days, probably one and a half. That’s if we don’t run into any storms.’

  ‘Captain don’t like storms,’ yawned the man with the moustache. Lurker eyed its twisted ends, oiled and sharp.

  ‘Neither do I,’ he said, and Lilain flicked him on the arm.

  ‘What takes you to London?’ asked the other woman. Judging by the fade of her red waistcoat, she was possibly the first mate. It was practically a greying pink.

  ‘A number of things,’ answered Lilain. ‘Business, mostly. We’re in guns.’

  Higgis’ fingers paused for a moment. ‘Guns?’

  The first mate turned and looked them each up and down. ‘All of you?’

  Lilain nodded. ‘All of us.’

  ‘Don’t look like the business sort, if you don’t mind me saying,’ Higgis said, around her cigarette. Her head was wreathed in its smoke.

  ‘We’re new to it,’ added Lurker.

  Higgis sighed in a way that said she knew when secrets were in the air.

  ‘We’re shipping jam.’

  ‘Jam?’ Lilain asked.

  ‘Speciality jams and preserves. Some lord here in the Endless Land has found interesting berries and fruits in the wilderness. Wants to try his luck in the Empire.’

  ‘Tastes like shit,’ commented the ginger man.

  ‘You ‘ad some, Smythe?’ Higgis snapped.

  The moustache twitched. ‘Sneaked a bit during loading.’

  The captain suppressed what looked like a smirk, but then nodded her head to the doorway. ‘Engine room. See to it.’

  ‘Aye.’ Smythe produced a wrench from his pocket and shuffled out of the cockpit.

  ‘And as for you, Mr Lurker. I got a few jobs for you.’

  Lurker sniffed. ‘Actually, Captain, seein’ as our cabins are so darn fancy, I’d rather just go take a nap. It’s been a long day.’

  He could see the grin on Lilain’s face in the corner of his vision. He reached forwards and deposited a coin purse on the vacant seat. ‘You’re lucky we’re still givin’ you sixty.’

  ‘Tread carefully, prospector,’ said Higgis. But nothing followed. The first mate gave them an irritable scowl.

  Lurker tipped his hat and ducked under the cockpit door, and with Gunderton and Lilain in tow, he went to have a good old-fashioned lie down.

  *

  The new buzzer was a rude one, that was for sure. Its harsh screaming was made more unpleasant by the tin pipes and rusty grills that gave it voice.

  Lilain woke with a start. She sat bolt upright, blinking furiously, thanking the Maker they hadn’t been given bunk beds.

  ‘Whassat?’ Lurker rasped, wrenched from his dreams; no doubt of goldmines and magpies. He sniffed the air. ‘Salt.’

  ‘No idea,’ said Lilain. She moved to their porthole and looked out.

  ‘Waves,’ she murmured, voice still thick from sleep. ‘Closer than I’d like.’

  ‘Lemme see,’ Lurker’s stubbly cheeks squashed in next to Lilain’s. She could see the dread on his face, and when his nose met the window, she saw it deepen.

  ‘What in darned hell is goin’ on?’

  ‘I’m going to see Higgis,’ Lilain said. But Lurker was already at the door before she could get her boots on. He barely waited for her to catch up.

  It was then that they noticed the swaying of the ship, and the howling roar of wind and sea spray over the drone of the engines. They were at full power; the shuddering bulkheads and decking was proof of that. Hands held against walls to steady them, they made their way to the cockpit.

  Higgis was in the middle of a flurry of curses, muttered low and wrapped in smoke. Her fingers flew over the controls, tapping and clicking like punctuation to her stream of expletives. Something was clearly wrong. Lilain didn’t have to be an airship captain, or any one of the grim-faced crew standing behind her chair, to see that.

  A stormy view greeted them through the huge windows. It forced Lilain’s stomach into a sickening knot. The Cloudy Belle was unimaginably low in the dark sky, perched but a few feet from the towering waves of the Iron Ocean. The storm was in full swing, and the slate-grey sea surged and swelled, frothing and crashing. Now and again some of the waves even managed to lick the hull. Lilain could hear the whump of frothing water, and it made her heart miss a beat every time. Rain and salt-spray clattered against the thick panes. Every inch of the Belle groaned as the thrust of her powerful engines fought with the storm-winds. Unintelligible squawking poured from a square grill amidst the controls. It was all so deafening in such a small cage of metal and glass.

  ‘What’s goin’ on?’ Lilain demanded, yelling over the furore.

  Nobody said a thing. They just swayed with the rocking of the ship, knuckles bleached and every muscle tensed.

  ‘Are you mad, Higgis?’ Lurker bellowed.

  Smythe flashed him a scowl. ‘Pipe down back there! It’s all under control!’

  If this was control, Lilain couldn’t even begin to imagine what chaos looked like. She could feel the colour draining from her face. She didn’t mind flying, but there was a limit, and for her that was somewhere around where it came to mixing flying with swimming.

  Lightning seared the sky, momentarily turning the boiling sea into a vast landscape of ruptured marble. Then, darkness, as their eyes fought off the afterglow. Thunder rolled in the lightning’s wake, making every bone in Lilain’s body shudder.

  ‘There!’ Higgis blurted, her hand mashing the big red button next to the metal speaker. ‘Shut up and listen up! Two degrees starboard! Half a mile! Get the ropes ready!’

  ‘Ropes?!’ Lilain blurted, nearly falling as Higgis drove the throttles forward and sent the Belle gliding down the face of a rearing wave. The dark blue and grey waters rushed past the window, a blur of froth and cold anger. Even some of the crew bared their teeth and winced at the manoeuvre.

  Within moments, they were driving upwards again, engines blasting any water that dared to come too close. The wheel juddered ferociously in Higgis’ hands as she turned it left, right, left, right, constantly battling the wind.

  ‘We’re picking up cargo!’ the captain yelled, finally replying to Lilain’s hollering.

  ‘Couldn’t we have done this in an actual port?’

  ‘Our ca
rgo don’t stay in port very long!’

  ‘So you were late?’ shouted Lurker.

  ‘You could say that!’

  Lilain smacked a hand to her forehead and clung on to a metal shelf as Higgis brought the Belle to a halt in the sky, letting the ship hover over the seething ocean.

  Grabbing Lurker’s collar, Lilain hauled him back into the corridor and to the nearest set of steps. They spiralled downwards into the darker belly of the Belle—the hold—where other crew members raced back and forth, lugging rope and brushing seawater out of the wide doorway. If the cockpit had been deafening, this was a hellish cacophony. Lilain and Lurker stood with their backs to a bulkhead, staring out at the ocean with grim faces. It was all far too close for their liking.

  ‘There’s the Beastie!’ bellowed a burly man standing by the door. His bushy black beard waved in the wind as if it was trying to escape his cheeks and chin.

  Places were taken. Gloves donned. Ropes set. All to a frenzied rhythm.

  ‘What the hell is goin’ on?’ Lurker shouted in Lilain’s ear.

  Lilain crept forward through the bustle, hands wavering for balance, and spied the ship in the water. It was a schooner—the quick kind—with few sails and a clockwork engine for coastal runs. She had seen them in the docks of Chicago, and knew very well the kind that sailed them. This one was painted grey, with slick tin-plated sides for cutting through the waves. It even had a cannon or two for good measure.

  ‘Smugglers!’ she hissed, only as loud as she dared. ‘Look!’ She waved him forward and pointed to the boat. Lurker was as unsteady as a newborn calf, tottering over the decking as if the ocean would jump in through the door at any moment.

  They watched as the Beastie and the Belle aligned themselves; the strangest coupling a storm had ever seen. Ropes were flung into the air and lowered to the deck a hundred feet below. It was a precise exercise—many times practised—but that didn’t mean it was safe. The ropes had iron hooks at their tips, and even though the schooner had taken in every scrap of sail, it still had plenty of spars and rigging to catch on, or skulls to perforate. Lilain took a breath as she watched the ropes swing and dance in the wind.