by Zoë Archer
He held the necklace out to her. “Take them. Find your own way to al-Rahim’s compound, give him the jewels. See what happens. Or,” he went on, merciless, “these pretty stones are mine, and I’m the one to get your parents free. Your choice, professorsha.”
For a moment, she said nothing. Then, her words barely a whisper, “Mikhail—”
“Choose, goddamn it,” he growled.
She tipped up her chin. “I choose you.” Holding his gaze, she said, “I’m the one who’s deceitful, but you’ve never been. Not once. You’ve always been honest … about everything. Who you were. What you wanted, and how you’d get it. The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve only spoken the truth. And I knew I could rely on you.”
He shoved the string of gems into the pocket of his coat. They felt cold and dead. “Get in the jolly boat.”
It looked as though she meant to say something more, then changed her mind. Quickly, she strode to the waiting boat. When she stumbled a little climbing into the vessel, Herrera took her hand and steadied her.
Merely watching Herrera touch her made jealousy burn low in Mikhail’s gut. He despised and resented this, too.
Just hate her, damn it. Clean and simple.
But damn him, he couldn’t. She had faith in him, and it resonated like a longed-for sunrise. For years, he’d told himself he didn’t give a cockroach’s arse what anyone thought of him, and for the most part, he didn’t. But her opinion mattered.
“Captain?” Herrera called.
He stalked over to the jolly boat and swung himself over the side. After fastening his harness, he gave Herrera a nod to signal it was time to leave. The vessel rose up into the air. Though Daphne’s gaze never left him, he kept his own fixed pointedly at the rocky horizon.
It didn’t make any goddamn sense—this hurt. He should be inured to this kind of deceit. And if it had been just about the money, all he’d have to do was toss her overboard or abandon her in the middle of the blasted desert, then take his profit.
Yet here she was, hands gripping the sides of the jolly boat, watching him with her green, remorseful eyes. Eyes he couldn’t let himself stare into, or else he’d find something he didn’t want, didn’t need.
After several silent minutes flying in the jolly boat, the Bielyi Voron came into view. His weapon-laden ship. The purpose for which he was created. He had to remind himself: he was built for war, and whenever he tried for anything more, disaster struck.
They reached the ship, the jolly boat taking its usual place in the cargo hold. Hardly had the small vessel settled than he leapt out. Levkov waited for them. Mikhail tossed the necklace at the first mate, who caught it with one hand, then gaped at it.
“Put that in the strong room,” Mikhail commanded.
At once, and without complaint or demand for explanation, Levkov hurried to put the jewels into safekeeping. Once, Mikhail had danced to Daphne’s tune, letting her keep what he’d believed was a strongbox of gold in her cabin. But even that gesture had been hollow, because there hadn’t been any gold. Just as there hadn’t been any diamond mine. But the star sapphires—those were his now. His only recompense for this whole debacle of a mission.
After Levkov had gone, Mikhail strode out of the cargo bay. Daphne seemed to hesitate for a moment, but he heard the unmistakable sound of her boots on the planks, following him.
Instead of heading straight to his quarters, Mikhail took a different route. His crew seemed to sense his black mood, for they all scurried out of his way as he passed. Finally, he reached his destination. He flung open the door, stepped inside the long chamber, and studied the racks and racks of weapons there: ether pistols and rifles, filled ether tanks for replenishing the firearms, plasma grenades, cases of bullets.
He began pulling guns from the racks, stacking them up on the table in the center of the armory. Every weapon would have to be checked and rechecked by the crew. All of it had to function at peak capacity tomorrow. Hell, they might need some of this today.
Sensing Daphne’s presence in the doorway, he said without looking up, “The Bielyi Voron’s strong. So’s her crew. But I’m not going to doubt al-Zaman. Al-Rahim’s compound is probably better fortified than the tsar’s palace, and a rat couldn’t breach that place’s cellars.”
“And al-Rahim has those two Man O’ Wars working for him,” she added.
He did glance up then, and she visibly restrained herself from stepping back from the heat of his glare. “I haven’t forgotten about Olevski. Or that French rogue.”
“One Man O’ War against two, and an impenetrable fortress.” She eyed the guns stacked up on the table, and the other weapons in the armory. “This might not be enough.”
“It won’t.” He checked the sights on a rifle, then set it beside the others. “Which is why we need an ally.”
“The British won’t help us. But if not them, then who?”
He gave her a brutal smile. “Khalida.”
FINDING A NOMADIC warlord wouldn’t be difficult for a Man O’ War and his airship. They had an advantage that earthbound men didn’t have: the sky.
“Al-Rahim’s compound is to the south of the city.” In the pilot house, Mikhail, Daphne, and Levkov studied a chart of the area, showing Medinat al-Kadib and the wide stretches of desert surrounding it. “Here, where there are ridges and mountains to help with the defenses.”
“If Khalida and he are enemies,” Daphne said, “they’ll keep far enough away from each other to maintain their territories. They’d use the city as neutral ground between them.” She pointed to a region north of Medinat al-Kadib. “I’d wager my field compass she’ll be found here.”
Again, he didn’t want to be impressed by her intelligence and tenacity, but the feeling rose up in him like an old illness. She hadn’t even argued against the idea of going to Khalida, showing her trust in his judgment, in him. He wanted this uncomplicated. Instead, he got twists and turns, and a hell of a lot of conflicted emotion he didn’t want.
Locating a warlord wasn’t nearly as thorny. Mikhail had the helmsman steer the ship northward, and they passed over the minarets, towers, and crowded buildings of the city before reaching the broad expanse of the desert.
He stood on the forecastle, Daphne and Levkov flanking him. Hot, dry wind swept up from the desert floor, and everything looked as seared and barren as he felt. Colorless.
“Don’t know how anyone or anything could live out here,” grumbled Levkov.
“It’s pure,” Daphne countered. “Stark, but beautiful. Nothing extraneous. And there is life. It merely operates on a contained scale.”
Mikhail’s vision caught these details: snakes and lizards darting amongst the rocks, wheeling birds searching for prey, straight-horned antelope. All scrabbling for existence in a land that gave them little to work with. “Hard way to live, though.”
“Every place has its threats,” she murmured. “Home can be a rocky, barren plain, but if it’s home, and all you know, you come to love it.”
Levkov muttered something about philosophy not saving your arse if you’re dying of thirst, but both Mikhail and Daphne ignored him. Each word from Daphne’s mouth felt like the bitterest pleasure.
Better, and easier, to focus on the task before him. Bare and empty as the desert seemed, seeing it from the sky gave a different perspective. “There,” he said, pointing to the ground. “Tracks in the earth. Looks like they were made by horses and camels, some tetrol-powered vehicles, too. People use these routes.” Through the shipboard auditory device, he instructed the helmsman on altering the ship’s course to follow the routes.
Soon, they spotted people riding in a small caravan. The sight of an airship’s shadow made them all look up, shielding their eyes, and watch the Bielyi Voron fly overhead. As the ship continued on its course, it passed watering holes and a small group of tents. The occupants could be coming or going from Khalida’s own encampment, but it meant that the ship was traveling in the right direction.
“Mo
re caravans,” Daphne noted. “They’re approaching from different directions, but they’re all converging on the other side of that ridge.”
The airship continued on its course, going over the ridge, and there they found their destination. Khalida’s encampment. It formed its own small-scale city—a collection of over a hundred tents, some of them fabric, while others were collapsible metal structures. Cattle milled in pens, tended by both humans and automatons. Smoke from cooking fires rose in columns. There were men and women not only on horseback, but a few riding mechanized camels, the iron-and-brass beasts adorned as ornately with tasseled reins and blankets as their living counterparts.
Gyrocopters buzzed in patrols around the encampment—small craft made of wood, leather, and canvas. When they spotted the airship, they formed a protective line in front of the camp. The men flying the gyrocopters brandished extremely long rifles he recognized as jezails. Only these jezails were equipped with ether tanks. Courtesy of Khalida’s British allies, no doubt.
Daphne stiffened in alarm when she spotted the gyrocopters. “They can’t fly as high as an airship, can they?”
“But their ether-powered bullets can still hit us.” He strode from the forecastle, Daphne following, heading for the cargo bay and the jolly boat. “Time to head down there and practice our diplomacy.”
“Or our sprinting.”
“We talk fast.” He went below decks. “But I never run from a fight like this.”
OVER THE COURSE of her life, Daphne had walked directly into situations that weren’t in and of themselves safe. The most recent having been setting foot in the tavern in Palermo, searching out a notorious rogue Man O’ War to take her to the Arabian Peninsula. But circumstance had forced her to it. Safety meant staying curled up beneath her desk at the Accademia, hoping that the perils of the world might simply pass her by.
Safety also meant stasis. And the ceding of power. Neither option was acceptable.
Outrageous as Mikhail’s gambit was, she knew it was their best hope for success. So, wordlessly, they took the jolly boat to the very edge of Khalida’s encampment. The moment the vessel lowered to the ground, heavily armed men and women surrounded them. Sunlight danced across pistols, rifles, and swords, all of them pointed at her and Mikhail. The faces of the people encircling them were likewise hostile.
Both Daphne and Mikhail lifted their hands.
She said, “We’ve come—”
“Silence,” a man in a blue headscarf barked. He jerked his sword and immediately, three men stepped forward and roughly removed all weapons from her and Mikhail’s possession. There went her revolver, her knife, and Mikhail’s ether pistol. Her satchel was searched, as well. They were now completely unarmed. Though Mikhail himself was a weapon, a fact revealed by the wary gazes of the encampment’s guards whenever they glanced his way.
Much as she expected this reception, cold fear congealed in the pit of Daphne’s stomach. When crossed, tribal warlords weren’t quite known for their tolerance or sense of humor. She could only hope that Khalida proved the exception to this custom.
“Did you think you could walk into our camp and go unrecognized?” Blue Headscarf sneered. “Our guards spoke of an Englishwoman and a giant man who looked like a djinn.” He grinned viciously. “I should present Khalida with your heads as a gift, ferengis.”
“And deprive her of the pleasure of killing us herself,” Mikhail answered.
“The man of metal talks sense, Hassan,” said a woman wielding a curved jambiya knife. “You saw her last night when she learned the astrolabe had been stolen. She swore to cut their throats and drink their blood.”
The grisly image turned Daphne’s pulse into a frantic tattoo. Yet she said, “Think how angry Khalida would be if we haven’t any blood left to drink.”
Hassan didn’t look pleased by this logic, but he was clearly more concerned about his chieftain’s wrath than getting vengeance. “Bind their wrists,” he commanded, and several of the guards hurried to obey.
Daphne bit back a curse as her arms were ruthlessly pulled back and her wrists manacled. Mikhail looked unimpressed as one of the men snapped fetters on him. Clearly, he could snap them as if they were made of pasteboard, but he seemed to be humoring his captors.
Awkwardly, Daphne was dragged out of the jolly boat by some of the guards, and she stumbled slightly before gaining her balance. Mikhail suffered no such indignities. He stepped easily out of the vessel, and as he stood to his full height, he dwarfed everyone around him. Mutters rose up from the guards. Bound as she was, Daphne still felt gratitude that Mikhail was on her side. More or less.
Escorted by their well-armed guards, they were led through the encampment. It was the largest of its type she’d ever encountered, blending the ancient and the technologically innovative in a complex fusion. The bleats of sheep mingled with the hiss of wheeled, steam-powered ovens tended by elderly women. A child watched them from atop a mechanized donkey. Some of the people hurled insults, while others simply stared with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
They reached an enormous tent. Five guards were posted outside, and Hassan snapped at them to step aside so he might present their chieftain with a prize. The guards hurried to obey, one of them pulling back a gauzy curtain to permit them to enter.
It took several moments for Daphne’s eyes to adjust from the brightness of outside, but when they did, she barely held back a gasp. She’d seen well-appointed, even sumptuous tents. Simply because one led a nomadic existence didn’t mean that one couldn’t have luxuries. But Khalida’s tent far surpassed anything she’d witnessed before. Silks of every hue, shot through with gold, draped from the central support posts. Thick, ornate carpets covered the ground, and atop those were low couches strewn with pillows. A mechanized silver fountain, studded with jewels, stood to one side, and there were ornately inlaid tables heaped with every delicacy Daphne could name, from honey-soaked pastries to roast pigeons to ice cream in chilled goblets.
She and Mikhail were herded toward the far end of the tent, where a woman reclined upon a divan. Despite the fact that she’d never met the warlord, Daphne recognized Khalida at once. She appeared to be somewhere in her mid-forties, with henna designs painted on her cheeks and forehead. Silver embroidery richly covered her black robes, and her hair was covered by a dark wrap, held in place with a leather fillet. A jeweled, curved blade jutted from the silver sash at her waist, and bandoliers crossed each of her shoulders. Her kohl-rimmed eyes were sharp and merciless as a hawk’s as she watched her visitors approach, a slight smile curving her mouth.
Half a dozen young, handsome men sprawled nearby, many of them with their robes partially open to reveal muscled chests. One of the men handed Khalida the stem of a hookah pipe, and she drew on it as she continued to study Daphne and Mikhail. It was not unlike being contemplated by a lioness, wondering when the predator would strike.
Daphne carefully kept her eyes trained on the ground, though she observed as best she could through her lowered lashes.
Hassan made a deep obeisance. “Lalla, I have brought you—”
“The Emperor and Empress of Japan.” Khalida exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I know who they are, Hassan.”
He flushed and bowed again. “Humblest apologies, lalla. Shall I fetch your goblet of gold and amber, that you might have a vessel to collect their blood?”
The warlord waved her ring-adorned hand. “Later. For now, I want to simply look at the two … lunatics? Imbeciles? I cannot decide what they are, only that it was decidedly foolish of them to steal from me. Most foolish, indeed.” The softness of her tone instilled far more terror in Daphne than if Khalida had yelled and raged. “My gravest concern is how I will kill you, for I have so many ways that would be excruciating, and it is difficult to pick precisely the right one.”
“We’re here of our own free will,” Mikhail said.
“Perhaps you are imbeciles,” spat Hassan. “Or wish to spare yourself the agony of wondering when and how
my chief will end your lives.”
Mikhail barely spared Hassan a dismissive glance. “I’ve got an airship, Khalida. I could be halfway to Iceland by now.”
“That would’ve been the wiser choice,” the warlord said drily. “My assumption is that you did not come here to return my astrolabe.”
“Al-Rahim has it now,” Mikhail said.
At the mention of her rival’s name, Khalida’s face twisted, and she spat upon the ground. Fury blazed in her eyes as she shot to her feet. “You stole my prize for that camel’s turd?” There was a hiss as she drew the knife from her sash. She strode to Mikhail and put the dagger to his throat. “Man of metal or not, you can still bleed.”
“It’ll take a stronger blade than that,” he answered.
“Let us test that,” Khalida snarled. She pressed the blade tight to his neck. At first, nothing happened, but she gave the dagger a hard shove, and a droplet of Mikhail’s blood finally appeared. Khalida grinned brutally. “This may go slowly, but I’ll enjoy it more.”
Daphne could no longer keep silent. “Al-Rahim has my parents captive, and the only way I could secure their release was by stealing the astrolabe.”
Without removing the blade from Mikhail’s neck, the warlord asked, “And this concerns me how?”
“Because,” Mikhail said calmly, “al-Rahim knew that you’d lose face with all the tribes if someone took the damn thing. And having a British citizen be the responsible party would strain the alliance you’ve got with those tea-drinking bastards. He gets the prize, comes out top dog, and you’re left with the crumbs of former glory, alone with your useless playthings.” He flicked a dismissive glance toward the handsome young men, who sulked in response.
“Hassan,” Khalida said, “fetch me the sharpest scimitar. Let’s see how much punishment this metal man’s neck can take.”
Hassan eagerly darted away in search of the weapon.
Was Mikhail deliberately goading Khalida? There was brash and confident, and then there was mad.