by E. W. Pierce
Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER 1 The Cogs of Commerce
CHAPTER 2 Due Diligence
CHAPTER 3 Things As They Seem
CHAPTER 4 The Taste of Defeat
CHAPTER 5 Dancing
CHAPTER 6 Official Channels
CHAPTER 7 Diplomacy
CHAPTER 8 All Aboard
CHAPTER 9 Settling Accounts
Clockwork Scoundrels 2: An Isle in Mist
Join the Crew!
About the Author
Engine World
CLOCKWORK SCOUNDRELS
E. W. Pierce
Copyright © 2015 E. W. Pierce
All rights reserved.
Cover Design by Carolina Fiandri - CirceCorp Design
CHAPTER 1
The Cogs of Commerce
Probably it was stupid, coming back. After all, last time they’d nearly ended up in prison.
Captain Melanie Locke stood at the airship’s prow, one scuffed boot up on the rail, faded leather duster billowing about her legs, as the Misty Morning coasted into the sky docks of Waldron’s Gate, capital city of Alterra. The ancient ship casually slipped into an empty berth well-separated from the rest and there hunkered in shadows deep enough to hide her worn decks and mask her peeling paint. There was no disguising the trio of mast poles though, an unsightly remnant of another, earlier, age of flight. Jagged and warped, and bleached white with age, they rose from the deck like the ribcage of a beached leviathan.
The ship’s current means of propulsion, an ornery steam engine housed in the ship’s bowels, gave a final cough of thick gray smoke and then fell into a kind of rumbling slumber. They’d keep the engine warm and ready, just in case.
Mel tied off a green ribbon and then lowered the gangplank. The ribbon was the traditional sign that a ship was accepting commissions. Today was the end of the season, the single biggest day for commerce as merchants hastily booked passage before winter closed the docks. Which meant that some merchants couldn’t be picky when hiring a crew. Today was finally a chance at some legitimate work for Mel and hers.
The ribbon hung limp, looking sad somehow, scarcely bothering to stir in the faint breeze. As she waited for the day to begin, Mel wondered if that wasn’t some kind of omen.
The sky docks were alive with traffic: porters disembarking ramps, pulling hand carts stacked with crates and iron-banded barrels; richly-attired merchants waiting to talk to their captain of choice; clusters of girls in colorful dresses giggling whenever one of the broad-shouldered sailors of the skies passed by. An enterprising young man was doing brisk commerce out of a food trolley at the boardwalk’s head, and occasionally the strains of music could be heard. Even amid all the bustle and commotion, there was a tangible atmosphere of celebration and cheer.
The Misty Morning sat apart from it all, an obvious outcast to the celebration. The crew busied themselves elsewhere, leaving the deck to Mel. She leaned on the rail, fuming.
Word of her expired license must’ve reached Waldron’s Gate. All the choice contracts would go elsewhere. She might get a deal moving low-value bulk if she was patient, but it was an uneven proposition. Only the most desperate merchant would try an unlicensed ship and risk seizure and penalty, and so far, the day had been short on desperate merchants.
Slow, cautious footsteps approached from behind. She knew without looking that it was Taul Kemmel, first mate and ship’s tally-master. None other risked approaching her on commerce days. "Taul," she said in greeting.
“Sir.” Taul had been a Parliament Guard in the long ago and retained some habits from those days. At least he’d dropped that saluting nonsense.
“Not much in the way of commerce, is there?”
“Winter comin’, is all.”
“Must be.”
He cleared his throat.
Mel sighed. “How much this time?”
A long inhalation.
That bad? Doubt took root in the space between his breaths. Would today be the day they realized she didn’t know what she was doing? That she put on a brave face and pretended at confidence for their benefit?
“Five hundred.”
“Five … ” Where was she going to come up with that kind of coin? They’d been down to necessities—parts and food—for some time. She didn’t need to be tally-master to know that five hundred was drastically more than they had.
Further up the dock, the cogs of commerce spun on, oblivious. Anger blossomed, burning away the more complicated feelings. She spun on Taul. “What’s Kile done to my ship this time?” Chief Wrench Kile Filmore was forever complaining about something corroding or rusting. It was his responsibility to keep the ship flying, but Mel thought he often asked for things they didn’t really need.
Taul was substantially taller than Mel but somehow her anger always seemed to put them on an even level. “Maintenance, is all. Drive shaft's corroded, rudders need balancing, the rear uplifters have maybe forty miles left on them.”
“Forty miles will get us to Rust Bucket.”
Taul grunted.
Rust Bucket was the airship graveyard, a vast brown field full of broken hulks left to rust in the sun. The graveyard didn’t exist on any map, allowing Alterra’s citizens to persist under the false notion that creations from the Ministry of Manifestation lasted forever. Perhaps that was true for things that spent their life close to the ground, but the sky was another type of reality. Hostile winds, a chill deeper than the harshest winter, water in its many, deadly forms—all conspired against a ship’s natural lifespan. Even the wealthiest captains, the type who’d scrap a perfectly good ship and order a new one built, had probably put into Rust Bucket for emergency repairs a time or two.
Parts could be had at Rust Bucket, but even second-hand scrap cost money. And she didn’t have the coin for replacement parts. Yet.
"Guess it's time to venture landside and rustle up some commerce."
"Is that wise, sir?"
Mel gave him a reassuring grin. "I'm sure they've forgotten all about that little misunderstanding."
Taul frowned. His blue eyes shifted, tracking something moving down the dock.
A thin man in a long coat hustled along the boardwalk, hood turned up despite the heat of the morning. A luxurious suitcase swung wildly at his side.
“Curious,” Taul said.
“Not customs.” The man glanced over his shoulder every dozen steps or so. Definitely not customs. Nobody seemed to be following the man.
They met him at the top of the gangplank. Hunched over, gasping for breath, he looked to be perhaps fifty, one of those carefully constructed types who precisely positioned each hair. At least he had been. Mud splattered the legs of his tailored suit and the wind had blown his coiffed silver hair so that it stuck up at odd angles. He wore a thick layer of gray scruff on his chin. If he’d been on the run, it’d been for some time. He looked like trouble.
On the other hand, he smelled like money. “You seem to have lost your hat.” Likely his wits, too—she wondered if their tall hats kept them from escaping.
The man squinted up through tiny spectacles. He summoned up four measured words interspersed by wheezes. “Are … you … Captain … Locke?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Jarvis … ” There was a searching pause. “Hillman.”
“Help you Mister Hillman?”
Jarvis straightened, cautiously glancing over the rail. The normal commotion of commerce continued, his passing seeming to go unnoticed. “I need to arrange shipment.”
"That so?"
"It is really quite urgent, Captain Locke." Another furtive glance.
"As it happens, the Misty Morning is the fastest ship in the sky." On account of h
er usually empty holds, but she didn't need to bother him with such details.
“Indeed? Erm—might we conclude our commerce someplace a little more private?”
Mel smiled indulgently. She introduced Taul and led them to her personal quarters within the quarterdeck.
Dust motes swirled in the square of sunlight coming through the back windows. Blankets spilled onto the floor from the narrow cot. Her footlocker was open, the arm of a shirt draped over the side. Unfurled charts piled atop the small desk, partially buried by scraps of paper. Lists, of all kinds—repairs needed, favors owed, dwindling supplies, the crew’s debt and credit accounts. She even had lists of lists.
Mel would have tidied up a bit, but she hadn’t really expected the green ribbon to draw anyone up the ramp. Most of her business deals were concluded in dark alleys or the shadowy corners of drinking holes.
She smoothed the blankets more or less straight and kicked the chest closed. The chair screeched harshly as she settled into it. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Jarvis glanced between the bed and the locker, settling on the latter, his case balanced on his knees.
Taul closed the door and remained standing.
“Before we begin, Mister … ”
“Erm, Hillman.”
“Right. I should warn you that we’ve got a full charter already. You look like a nice man, but I can’t just bump another patron to make room for your product without compensating the first. Do you take my meaning?”
“Quite, Captain. Only I do not imagine that will be necessary. You see, I only wish to transport myself. At once and with all haste.”
Taul looked like someone who’d stepped into a pile of disgusting and was considering how best to remove the filth without touching it himself. He waved his hands behind Jarvis’ back, shaking his head and trying to get her attention.
She ignored him. “Why not take a commercial ship? We don’t have much in the way of amenities.” There could only be one reason, of course—commercial airships required papers. If Jarvis was a wanted man, and she suspected that he was, then she risked having her ship impounded by taking his commission.
Jarvis rubbed his chest, a pained look on his face. “Commercial ships don’t go to White Peaks.”
Mel whistled softly. As a general rule, no airships went to White Peaks. Treacherous winds dashed the foolhardy against the cliffs long before they could reach the tiny valley town nestled amid the mountains. There was too little commerce there for the risk. “Look, Mr. Hillman … ”
“I can pay.” He reached into his cloak, depositing a leather sack onto the desk with the heavy, satisfying clink of coin. Behind it came three more, squatting on the desk like grotesquely over-ripe fruit. Jarvis loosened the drawstrings of one bag and dumped a small pile of gold into his palm. “Quite handsomely.”
Mel tried to calculate how much coin was now sitting on her desk but her mind boggled and quit. Jarvis spared her the wondering.
“Two thousand, Captain Locke. Count it if you wish.” His smile was that of a man who’d revealed a winning hand in a flourish and knew that he had you.
She resisted the urge to reach across the table and slam his face onto the desk. There was a reason she didn’t play cards. “No.”
“No?” Jarvis blinked, the stupid smile folding in on itself. Even Taul looked surprised.
“Two thousand isn’t enough to replace my ship when I crash it bringing you into White Peaks. I’m good, no question. But that’s not nearly enough for the risk.” Each word was an icy dagger plunging into her heart. Two thousand represented a lot of things—repairs, a renewed license, food. “You’d as well ask us to take you into the Fog.”
Jarvis’s face drained of color. “The Fog?”
“A joke, Mister Hillman.” The Fog was the nebulous border encircling Alterra. Said to be the domain of the Imp, there were all sorts of stories about what slithered and scampered in that mist-thickened country. While she might consider flying him to White Peaks, no amount of money would send her into the Fog. Again.
No, White Peaks wasn’t worth the risk for two thousand. On the other hand, she could just take the money. Throw him over the side and fly off with enough coin to replace every part of the ship’s steamwork engine, with more leftover besides. The idea was more than a little tempting. Time was, she would’ve just slipped the pouches into her pocket and went off without a second thought. But that was another lifetime. She’d closed that door long ago and vowed never to reopen it, under any circumstances. The price was too high.
But she was tempted.
Jarvis settled the matter for her. “I can pay more.”
Mel was a seasoned professional when it came to the time-tested ways of negotiation, and her dislike of playing cards aside, she prided herself on having an unreadable face. But now that mask splintered, disbelief showing through. “More?” The word came out as a strangled gasp.
“Two thousand now. Ten thousand more when we arrive. Enough to buy you a new ship, I should think. A far superior one.” He looked around the cramped quarters with obvious disdain.
Mel let the criticism of the Misty Morning slide, something she never did. “Twelve thousand?”
Jarvis spread his hands on the desk. “Is that enough?”
Taul was leaning heavily against the door, his face ashen. With seemingly great effort, he lifted his eyes to meet Mel’s and shook his head.
Duly noted, but it was her ship. “You have yourself a deal.”
“I have two conditions, Captain. One: we depart immediately.”
“Done.”
“And two: no questions.” His fingers tightened around the suitcase until the knuckles were white.
CHAPTER 2
Due Diligence
The Misty Morning climbed toward the clouds with all the speed she could muster, leaving the clockwork spires of Waldron's Gate behind. Her holds empty, the Misty Morning was practically buoyant, pushed ever upward by a trio of mismatched propellers. Brass pipes discolored an unappealing shade of green protruded from the back of the ship, trailing a gray line of steam through all that blue.
Mel stood at the railing behind the command deck, goggles fogging at the drastic temperature change, watching for sign of pursuit. It looked like they'd slipped away unnoticed. Her newfound streak of luck remained unbroken. Mel’s duster beat against her legs, a sound like a pair of hands giving a slow, mocking clap.
Twelve thousand. It was an unfathomable amount of money. She’d laid her hands on more before—much more—but events always had a way of conspiring against her, ensuring she couldn’t actually keep the money she’d rightly earned. That such outcomes were usually of her own making wasn’t lost on her, but in life you really only had two choices: either play the cards you’re dealt, or sit back and let the game play itself. And she was much too impatient to sit idle while money was on the line.
“What are you hiding?” she whispered to the wind.
She’d sent Taul to collect Jarvis once she thought they'd reached an adequate height to make a strong impression. She entered the command cabin to wait. Perched atop the quarterdeck and enclosed by windows, the command cabin granted views to all points of the compass. Dee Filmore, Kile’s wife, glanced up from the pilot's chair as Mel unwound her scarf, greeting her with an enthusiastic “Cap'n”.
Tufts of low clouds passed.
Taul joined them. Wool cap in place, faded gray scarf covering his mouth and nose, his round, scopic goggles whirred as he focused on Mel. Jarvis entered on his heels, shivering and cursing. He kicked the door closed.
“Is there a problem, Captain?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. The bit of stubble on his chin was wet with spit. Or vomit, judging by his horrific breath.
“The case—let’s see it.”
Jarvis hugged the suitcase to his chest. “You have no right.”
“Taul, explain to our friend Captain Right while at sky.”
“Captains can impose whatever rules they deem necessary t
o ensure the safety of ship and occupants. It’s quite common,” Taul added conciliatorily.
“Neither I nor my case impose danger to this ship nor anyone upon it.” Spittle flew from Jarvis’ mouth. “Now, good day!”
Taul stepped in front of him, blocking the door.
“The case, Mr. Hillman,” Mel said as Jarvis tried to first dodge around Taul and then force his way through the much larger man. “If that’s your real name. Refuse and you have leave to depart my ship.”
Jarvis wheeled around. “And so I shall! I should’ve known better, putting in with smugglers, with thieves.”
Mel’s open-handed slap spun Jarvis onto the deck. She stood over him and now her hands were fists. “Call me a thief again.”
Sitting with his knees against his chest, rubbing the growing red mark on his face, Jarvis stared but said nothing.
“That was ill-done,” Mel said by way of apology.
“I shan’t forget this, but I will allow you to see me to my destination under the terms of our original agreement.”
He still thought he was in charge. Some men were foolish in that way. “Taul?”
In a blur, the first mate ripped the case from Jarvis’ hands. Jarvis gave a surprised squawk and tried to get up. Taul forced him back to the deck with a firm but gentle shove. “Just need a peek, is all.”
“Give me that.” The outrage had drained from his voice. He sounded like a child, whining about not having enough toys. “Please, it’s mine.”
Mel set the case down and, kneeling, thumbed open the latches. She paused, suddenly unsure she wanted to see what was inside. What would be worth throwing away twelve thousand credits, a fortune by any standards, and moving to the most desolate part of Alterra?
Nestled in the purple velvet-lined interior was a clockwork man as long as her arm. She’d had similar toys as a child, though the intervening thirty years had further refined the core design. Where her toys had been blocky and angular, this was sleek and smooth. The face was burnished silver, seamless in design, with a thin line for a mouth. Its eyes were closed, hidden behind delicate eyelids. As she recalled, the lids opened when you righted the toy.