The Crooked Castle

by Sarah Jean Horwitz

  “Wait,” Bell cried excitedly after Tinka’s retreating figure, “but I am a pilot!”

  “Tomorrow!”

  As Tinka ran off to wrangle his runaway snail, Carmer smiled with relief. He had a feeling Grit was just fine.

  CARMER AND BELL were nearly to the edge of the airfield when Carmer felt a familiar collision with his hat. He sighed with relief, but quickened his pace; Wonder Show workers were coming out of the woodwork to track down the snail balloon.

  “Nice to see you, too,” Grit groused, peeking down over the edge of Carmer’s hat. “And ‘Thanks for coordinating that diversion, Grit. Whatever would I do without you?’”

  “I’m thrilled to see you,” said Carmer. “I’ll be even more thrilled when we’re not trespassing on private property.”

  “We’re not trespassing!” said Bell, loping along. “Well, not anymore. Carmer’s got himself a job!”

  “A what?” asked Grit.

  “Tinka caught us,” said Carmer, and filled Grit in on the details.

  “It does seem odd that he’d ask you to investigate his own ship, if he were up to anything bad. But we were right, there’s definitely something magical going on in that show of his . . .”

  While he and Bell biked back to the Moto-Manse, Grit told Carmer about her capture by Yarlo and the Free Folk of the Wonder Show. They rode slowly, so as not to dislodge Grit from Carmer’s hat. She wasn’t up for a long-distance flight; her wing was still smarting from Yarlo’s ropes.

  The streets of Driff City were eerily empty at night. There didn’t seem to be any theater scene or night markets, and the low-flying airships needed the light of day to fly. It was very different from the nonstop hustle and bustle of Skemantis.

  When Grit was finished with her story—and Carmer had silently congratulated himself on not flinging his hat away in reaction to her sheer recklessness—he considered the other faeries.

  “I don’t understand,” Carmer said. “You seem worried. But I would’ve thought you’d like them—Free Folk banding together like that. And Tinka may not seem likely, but let’s not forget, the queen made me a Friend of the Fae. And I wasn’t exactly anybody’s first pick.”

  “But that’s just it,” said Grit. “I don’t think they have made him a Friend. Only a king or queen can bestow Friendship, and most of these faeries haven’t belonged to a court in ages. I’m not sure Tinka knows about the faeries at all.”

  “So they’re just giving away their magic for free?” asked Carmer, frowning.

  “In my experience,” said Grit, her mouth twisting, “not a lot that comes from the fae is free. Especially for humans.”

  Carmer and Bell dismounted as they approached the lot where the Moto-Manse was parked.

  “Not to interrupt this meeting of the minds,” said Bell as he locked his bike to the horse trailer hitch at the back of the house, “but it sounds to me like the two of you should tag-team this operation. Carmer can take the Jasconius, and Grit, you can keep an eye on the faeries. Cover all your bases.” He scrunched up his face. “I think there’s a mixed metaphor somewhere in there, but you get it.”

  “What about you?” Grit asked. “Have you found someone to fix your balloon?”

  “Actually . . .” said Bell, rubbing the back of his neck, “I was thinking of staying around a little longer . . . if that’s all right with you, little miss.” He grinned at Grit, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he wouldn’t be too sad if she told him to get lost anyway.

  Grit flitted down from Carmer’s hat and poked Bell’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s all right with me, if it’s all right with Carmer.”

  There was an excruciating pause. Grit was really going to have to help him with those people skills.

  “Lucky for you,” Carmer finally said, “it sounds like Tinka could use a detective and a pilot.”

  Bell flashed Carmer his bright smile.

  Grit chuckled and followed them into the house. Carmer’s cheeks were flushed, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t just from the cold.

  7.

  ICARUS

  The young woman with the purple hair said, “I saw your wings.”

  Mikhail Hunt ran a hand over his face, displeased to notice that his fingers were shaking. He blinked vigorously, trying to keep his focus on the beautiful young woman in front of him. The beautiful young woman with black hair, he told himself. A hard look confirmed it. He must’ve really had a lot to drink. Normal broads didn’t have purple hair.

  “Did you?” He was normally a lot smoother in front of the ladies, but it was awfully late, and those fellows at the bar by the docks had been awfully generous to a visiting airman. He was a bit proud of forming words at this point, actually. And it was just his luck he’d run into the best gal—the gal he really wanted to impress, out of all the others he’d met that evening, and all the other girls on the Wonder Show—when he’d been out having too good of a time.

  “I did,” said the woman. “You are a very convincing Icarus.”

  Mikhail was the lead ornithopter pilot in Rinka Tinka’s Roving Wonder Show. It was his best gig in a long time—heck, probably his best gig ever. If only his boss weren’t such a . . . well, boss—always on his case for being late or ruffling the feathers on his costume—it’d be perfect. It also really didn’t hurt his chances with the ladies.

  Some women liked men in uniform, and some women liked men with feathers. Mikhail was eternally grateful for the latter.

  There was something strange about this girl, though. Something strange about sitting on the edge of the docks with her—wow, they really were pretty far out—with their legs dangling over the black water. Her face was as pale as her hair was dark. Almost too pale, with blue around her lips . . . like someone who’d been out in the cold too long.

  “How do you ever manage to flap those wings so fast?” she asked. “With those puny human arms of yours?”

  Some part of Mikhail’s brain remembered to be slightly offended that the well-cultivated specimens that were his arm muscles had just been called “puny” by a waif, but mostly, he hardly noticed the slight.

  “Well, uh.” He tried to explain how he piloted the ornithopter with his legs, as well as his arms, but it was a complicated system, really, and he was not in the mood for complicated. The girl was so pale. Like someone . . .

  Like someone who’s drowned, his brain prompted. A pale hand clamped around his wrist, surprisingly strong. He could almost see her veins popping out against her skin.

  “Can I tell you a secret, Icarus?” asked the woman. She tossed her hair, and the cloak she wore around her shoulders caught the moonlight, scattering it around them like tiny shards of sparkling glass.

  “I’ve got wings, too.”

  8.

  THE HAND IN THE WINDOW

  “Tell me, young man, how well can you fly an ornithopter?” Tinka asked Bell as they walked through the Wonder Show camp the next morning.

  Carmer followed along behind, shaking dew off his trousers and blinking in the early light. He’d nearly had to restrain Bell from setting out as soon as the sun had risen.

  “Well, I mostly learned, uh, unofficially, you know, from off-duty airmen from the base,” Bell explained. The military kept a naval base north of the city with a small airfield; the air traffic (and the soldiers) often spilled over into Driff City. “I grew up working on a passenger liner, and whenever we’d dock in Driff City—”

  “If you’re worried about whether I care if you’ve got an academy education, Mr. Daisimer, I can assure you that I don’t,” said Tinka, stopping short. “I didn’t ask you where you learned to fly. I asked if you can do it well.”

  Bell smiled and tipped his hat. “Frankly, Mr. Tinka, some’ve said I was born to be in the air. Goodness knows, it’s where I’d rather be at any minute.”

  Carmer thought this was rather dodging the question, but Tinka seemed charmed.

  “Another minute,” Tinka said, “and we’ll see how true that is.
And please, call me Mr. Tinkerton—Julius Tinkerton. The stage name’s just for putting on the handbills.” He bounced on his heels and set off.

  They climbed to the top of a hill, where a small wooden tower had been erected—the catapult to launch Tinkerton’s ornithopter. The ornithopter perched at the top, ready and waiting, wings as long as three men head to foot, and looking very much like a large bird of prey. A few men milled about, checking the wings and levers, the handholds and footholds, and the rubber cord that would launch the device.

  Tinkerton gestured toward the tower. “Icarus,” he said, “your wings await.”

  “Icarus?” asked Bell. “But you’ve already got one.”

  “Not for long, if he keeps gadding about and showing up late to performances,” said Tinkerton. “Consider this an audition to be his understudy.”

  “Oh, Mr. Tinkerton, thank you!” The urge to jump in the air was clearly requiring all of Bell’s restraint. “I won’t let you down, sir.” And he vaulted onto the tower and began climbing up the side as easily as climbing a set of stairs.

  Carmer smiled, but his amusement was short-lived; something white and gleaming whipped past his ear. He jumped backward, nearly sending his hat flying off his head, and yelped.

  “There’s no need for alarm, Mr. Carmer!” said Tinkerton, laughing. He bent to pick up the object, which had fallen into the grass, and Carmer saw that it was not a bird at all, but a miniature glider exactly like the one that had flown into Bell Daisimer’s balloon.

  “Self-propelled gliders,” Tinkerton explained while Carmer did his best to look suitably surprised. “They’re no more than windup toys, really, but for sending casual messages around the camps, they’re more than suitable.”

  Tinkerton extracted a slip of rolled-up paper from the small chamber in the center of the device, read the message inside, and tucked it into his breast pocket. He fiddled with the insides of the glider and turned a small crank in a practiced, swift motion.

  “Just the camps, sir?” asked Carmer.

  Tinkerton noticed Carmer staring and handed him the glider to examine.

  “I could’ve sworn I’d, um, seen a glider like this before.” Carmer focused on examining the complicated array of grooves inlaid into the glider. He didn’t feel that he and Tinkerton were at the point in their relationship where it would be wise to confess he’d sort of stolen a prized golden ticket to the show.

  “No doubt you have,” said Tinkerton, “but none as accurate as mine.” He grinned as Carmer handed the glider back to him. “Each ‘messenger bird’ is carefully calibrated for a specific route in each place we make camp. Time-consuming to make, but useful to communicate over short distances. It doesn’t hurt our image that they’re charming, too.” A final twist, and he sent the glider sailing back to the main camp.

  By this time, Bell was fully strapped into the ornithopter and grinning like he was about to walk down the aisle to marry it.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Daisimer!” cried Tinkerton toward the top of the tower.

  Bell gave a thumbs-up, as well as some other signals to the crew that Carmer didn’t know. The catapult was released, and the ornithopter was launched into the air.

  There was a terrifying moment when Bell just hung there, suspended in midair, giant wings extended—and then, with a powerful flap of the ornithopter’s wings that made a breeze stiff enough to nearly knock off Carmer’s hat, Bell was in the air. He ascended, wings rising and falling, steadier with every beat. Bell whooped, and Carmer let out a deep breath.

  “Never seen an ornithopter launch before?” asked Tinkerton with a knowing smile.

  “No, sir.”

  They watched Bell angle the wings to make a turn around the field.

  “That’s not a Frost model, is it, sir?” Carmer asked. He’d studied some of the latest developments in aeronautics on their way to Driff City, mostly to see if he could find any improvements to Grit’s wing, but also to give Bell someone to talk at. Edward Frost’s ornithopter looked the closest in design to this one, but it wasn’t an exact match.

  “A what model?” Tinkerton asked, his attention turned to Bell’s flight.

  “A Frost model, sir,” Carmer repeated. “Edward Frost?”

  “Ah, yes!” Tinkerton nodded and bent to clean his glasses with his handkerchief. “You have a keen eye, Mr. Carmer.” He leaned back on his heels. “But that machine is one of my own. As you and your friend have guessed, the Wonder Show isn’t my only aerial endeavor. And as much as I love it, it’s also not my most profitable.”

  Carmer was surprised, but then again, he supposed it was rather hard to charge admission for a show that people could at least partially see from miles away for free.

  “What makes all of this possible,” Tinkerton said, gesturing to Bell, “is the sale of my patents. I design gliders, ornithopters, steam engines for airships—anything that goes up in the sky that you can legally claim as your own idea, I have. And I’m not the only one. The competition between manufacturers, inventors—even the military—is fierce. Everyone wants their invention to be the next great flying machine.”

  Tinkerton looked up at Bell, circling the field in a graceful glide. He cleared his throat. “This I tell you in the strictest confidence for the purposes of this investigation, Mr. Carmer. It is to remain between you, Mr. Daisimer, and myself. Do I have your word?”

  Carmer nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “There have been a series of . . . accidents, lately,” said Tinkerton, as if it pained him to admit it. “All in the vicinity of Driff City. They started small, at first. Things that could be attributed to human error, or even just bad luck. But then they got bigger. Disabled low-water trips. Jammed pumps. Severe buildup in the boilers that couldn’t be explained.”

  Carmer gasped as Bell performed a particularly daring loop-de-loop. Tinkerton applauded.

  “I had recently put out a new model of condenser,” continued Tinkerton. “I advertised it—quietly, of course—as the lightest and most efficient on the market. In addition to a few aerial enthusiasts—I believed it would be particularly valuable to the growing airplane industry—I had one very large, very important client: the Brendan Company, owner of the transcontinental cruiser the Jasconius.”

  Bell dove from impossibly high above, wings wrapped in tightly as he fell headfirst. All Carmer could think of was the pictures he’d seen of the Jasconius crashing nose-first into Elysian Field and going up in flames.

  Bell pulled up at the last possible second, and Carmer could practically hear the sound of the ornithopter’s straining mechanisms from across the field, but he made it. Thankfully, the demonstration seemed to be enough for Tinkerton. He waved for Bell to come down.

  “The one thing all of these accidents had in common,” said Tinkerton, “was my patents.”

  Carmer couldn’t help but come to the obvious conclusion, but Tinkerton shook his head.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Carmer,” said Tinkerton as Bell flew toward them, beginning his descent. “But my designs were not to blame. I have looked over every schematic. I have tested and retested every model. I have traced every purchase order down the supply line, down to the man who forged the steel, and I could find no evidence to suggest that my inventions were to blame. If I had, would I continue to let them fly?”

  Carmer said nothing at that, but Tinkerton only let out a short, dark laugh.

  “No. The only possible conclusion I can draw is this,” said Tinkerton as Bell touched down, the ornithopter’s wheels carving ruts in the wet grass as it slowed to a stop. Bell removed a gloved hand from the handholds and waved at them enthusiastically.

  “I have a saboteur on my hands.”

  And with that, Tinkerton turned on his heel and stalked back toward the Whale of Tales, his expression stormy enough to take down a fleet of ornithopters.

  WHILE CARMER CONTEMPLATED sabotage, Grit rode her first bicycle.

  “This,” Grit called to Yarlo over her s
houlder, “is the most amazing thing I’ve ever done!”

  Her voice was sucked up by rushing air. She was in no danger of being heard over the whizzing of the rushing bicycles and the motorized velocycles that passed them on either side. She and Yarlo clutched the frame of the bike they rode—unbeknownst to its actual human rider—as they sped along one of Driff City’s many bike paths. Bicycles were all the rage these days, but in a close, crowded city like Skemantis (which also had an elevated railway), it was just as easy for most people to walk. Grit hadn’t known it was possible to move this fast.

  Yarlo was even more daring, using his ropes and the vines that sprang from his wrists to swing from spoke to spoke of the bicycle’s wheels as they turned. Grit wasn’t one for fussing over others—a lifetime of being on the receiving end of that sort of talk ensured that—yet she couldn’t help but worry that if Yarlo fell, or one of his ropes missed their mark, he’d have a one-way ticket to the ground underneath the bike’s wheels. It was dizzying to watch.

  The gray buildings on either side gave way to a stretch of greenery that took Grit’s breath away even more than the rushing wind. Massive oak trees with sprawling tentacle limbs formed a shaded arch over the entire trail for at least a mile. Most surprisingly, the trees were still green, though it was nearly the end of December. A cheery, sun-bleached sign she barely had time to read welcomed her to the Driftside Trailway.

  “This is us,” Yarlo yelled, now perched on the top tube of the bike’s frame above her.

  “What is?” Grit yelled back.

  “This is where we get off!” he said. “Watch out for oncomin’ traffic!”

  “Get off?” asked Grit. She hadn’t thought that far in advance. “But how do I—”

  “Yee-haw!” cried Yarlo, shooting out a vine to wrap around a thin branch of the nearest tree on the path. He was yanked from the bicycle and gone from Grit’s view in less than a second.