The Kingdom Beyond the Waves

by Stephen Hunt

  The commodore grew more frustrated, each small victory overturned as the lock altered its state. ‘Oh, you beast. You dark piece of work, built to play with my skill and break my hopes upon the sharp crags of your wicked construction.’ He was distracted by the distant howls from the arena next to their prison pit; a grim reminder of their fate if they failed to break the lock. ‘What are they, now? Blessed wolves howling at the moon, or thunder lizards? Can they not keep quiet? Must I crack this infernal device while listening to their song too.’

  ‘Their chains are fed with wild energy,’ said Ironflanks. ‘To torture the creatures and goad them into a killing fury before a contest. I saw many of my order sacrificed in such a way the last time I was held here.’

  ‘Are the odds not unequal enough already?’ moaned the commodore. ‘Poor old Blacky and his brave legs made slow by the years and what meagre crumbs of comfort I was able to salvage while living with my friends in Tock House. Thunder lizards do not need goading to feast on my weary bones … every mortal creature we’ve come across in Liongeli has already been clicking its jaws in fierce anticipation of the walking meal wearing the skipper of the Sprite’s uniform that they’ve found.’

  Time was running out beneath their feet, an hour turning into two, then three. When the commodore’s hands were shaking and cramped, T’ricola took over and began to play the system, her bony craynarbian manipulator arms twisting and turning the mechanism with swift decisive strokes where the commodore had instead teased it like a musician playing his instrument. She was still attacking the lock when the cage heaved and began to rise out of the oil pit.

  ‘No!’ T’ricola cursed. ‘We’re so close. It’s still night, the sun hasn’t even broken the horizon yet.’

  ‘You would think that toad-faced prince would be a late riser,’ whined the commodore. ‘Soaking himself in the oil of his own people, a nice bath for his wicked steel bones before he takes it into his head to throw us into his deadly arena.’

  Yet still their prison rose. Past the cages filled with rotting corpses and the bones of craynarbian tribesmen who had strayed too close to the siltempters’ territory. That was not to be their fate. They had a far more active demise than a slow starvation in the petrol mists awaiting them.

  As soon as the package had been slid through the feeding hatch of their cell, the voice of one of their captors – not Robur, this time – came out of the speaking trumpet.

  ‘Open the box.’

  Cornelius unbolted the lid of the crate. What choice did they have? A viewing slit in the cell door opened to ensure he and Septimoth were following instructions. Inside the crate there was a mess of leather straps and buckles and two large gloves, padded and oversized.

  ‘Put the gloves on the lashlite first. Then strap the harness around the lashlite’s wings.’

  Cornelius hesitated and a female voice behind the viewing slit barked at them. ‘Do as you are instructed. A rifle ball in the head is your alternative.’

  Septimoth held out his arms and Cornelius sheathed his friend’s talons inside the large gloves, then began strapping on the harness.

  ‘I am insulted,’ said Cornelius. ‘Am I so insignificant that you don’t have a set of manacles for me?’

  ‘You are just a man,’ said the voice outside the cell. ‘A one-armed freak with your artificial limb deactivated. Your large friend is quite another matter. We don’t want him attempting to fly away, or shredding us to pieces with his formidable-looking talons.’

  ‘They have the measure of you,’ said Septimoth, his beak twisting into an approximation of a smile as Cornelius worked the harness buckles around his body.

  ‘Just how tight do you want to be trussed?’

  When Septimoth’s wings and talons were made safe, the cell door opened, an officer with a pistol beckoning them into a corridor where more soldiers waited with rifles. They wore the cherry uniforms of the House of Quest’s fencible regiment and their commander was Robur’s so-called ‘daughter’.

  ‘So, you have joined the family business after all,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘We could have rescued Robur ourselves,’ said the Catosian, ‘assaulted Darksun Fortress from the air. But such an action would have attracted attention. You were already operating across the border in Quatérshift with a high degree of efficiency. Convincing you to rescue Robur from the Commonshare was the obvious choice.’

  ‘A part you played extremely well,’ said Cornelius. ‘And I do understand why you played me for a dupe. I’m sure the First Committee would have been most curious as to why one of the city-states of the Catosian League had declared war on them just for the sake of kidnapping a single prisoner.’

  ‘It was not the reaction in Quatérshift we were concerned with,’ said the officer. Another cell door opened, a figure weighted down under the armour of a hex suit emerging into the corridor. ‘It was her people …’

  ‘Damson Beeton!’ Cornelius only just recognized her under the mass of the midnight-black shell, silver sigils traced across every inch of the metal. Whatever sorceries the Court of the Air had taught her, she wouldn’t be practising them in that sheathing, customized to nullify her talents. ‘Sink me, are you all right?’

  Her eyes gleamed angrily from underneath her visor. ‘What, apart from being shot full of shellfish toxin, kidnapped, imprisoned, and made to stumble around sweating under enough armour to keep a steamman knight happy?’

  ‘Yes, apart from that.’

  ‘Just dandy,’ she spat.

  ‘Good, because I’m afraid I’m going to have to release you from my service. Moonlighting on my time is a serious offence.’

  ‘That’s no way to treat an elderly woman,’ said Damson Beeton. She looked at Septimoth, bound tight under the harness with his heavy gloves hanging by his side, then at Cornelius without even a set of manacles. ‘They’ve got the measure of you, then.’

  ‘Oh, I have it on reliable authority that we are all on the same side,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Take these hex plates off me, dearie,’ said the housekeeper, ‘and I’ll show these Catosian dolly-mops whose side I am on.’

  ‘Enough of your prattle,’ said the Catosian commander. ‘Follow us.’

  Cornelius stared at the rifle muzzles pointing at them, then at his friends; a lashlite who couldn’t fly, an old woman who could barely walk under the weight of her mobile prison and himself: a one-armed freak. Perhaps they were going to be displayed as a carnival attraction?

  They were guided through long corridors and chambers carved out of the rock. In one of the chambers, stacks of supplies were being loaded into a capsule by the lock of a miniature atmospheric system and Cornelius revised his estimate of the size of the complex. If they needed an airless transport system to move victuals about, the place might go on for miles. He glanced up. Walls of rough granite towered above them, held in place by iron girders and massive mining pins.

  ‘Ruxley granite,’ said Cornelius. ‘We must be at Ruxley Waters. We’ve made it into your airship works after all.’

  Robur’s ‘daughter’ shot him an angry glance.

  ‘The works’ hangers extend back into the hills,’ said Damson Beeton.

  ‘I would say they have been excavating a little more than a few aerostat chambers,’ said Cornelius. ‘To see this place, you’d think Quest believed that another coldtime was returning and he was digging himself an underground hold to see out the centuries of winter.’

  They climbed a set of stairs that had been carved into the rock, passing dumb waiters carrying up copper cylinders marked with the celgas symbol. There looked to be far more canisters of the strictly controlled celgas than Abraham Quest should have had access to. At the top of the stairs, a window in a narrow corridor looked down on a chamber containing an engineering-frame hung with models of various airships – some based on the Jackelian aerial navy, others blue-sky designs, outlandish shapes of connected hulls with battleship-like under structures. A rotating propeller driven by a compact
steam engine was simulating a powerful wind down the length of the test frame.

  Damson Beeton turned her head to and fro despite the weight of her hex helmet, drinking in all the sights the airship works had to offer. Stolen celgas. Unauthorized airship designs. Military forces far beyond the company limits allowed to fencible regiments. There was enough evidence down here to see Abraham Quest and his staff take the drop outside Bonegate for the amusement of the Circleday gallows crowd a dozen times over.

  The granite walls gave way to narrow wooden corridors, as if they were walking along the inside of a steamship. At one point they had to form into single file to cross a wooden gangway across a cavern, rope nets covering store rooms below, the space being loaded high with sacks and crates by a column of Quest’s workers.

  Prods from the fencible soldiers’ rifles kept them moving, apart from a brief halt when a squad of retainers came striding across their path. They all looked of an age in their green uniforms. There was a flicker of inquisitiveness in their eager eyes as they passed by the motley prisoners, but they kept on marching in a disciplined formation.

  ‘Young,’ noted Septimoth.

  ‘From his academies, no doubt,’ said Damson Beeton. ‘The homes for street children and urchins that the House of Quest sponsors.’

  ‘They look more like soldiers than poorhouse sweepings to me,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘I’m sure their training is superior to that of the army’s regiments,’ said the housekeeper. ‘A better deal than parliament’s silver shilling and the taste of the lash more often than the taste of grog rations.’

  ‘The cadets are trained by the free company,’ said the Catosian, the pride evident in her tone. ‘At least, in matters pertaining to military instruction. They want for nothing when it comes to honing their bodies and their minds.’

  ‘Philosopher-kings,’ whispered Cornelius. ‘He has raised an army of philosopher-kings.’

  ‘I doubt that Quest found much time for tutoring them in philosophy,’ said Septimoth.

  ‘You are wrong,’ said the officer, watching the last of the column of cadets pass by. ‘Without a perfect mind to drive it, a perfect body is reduced to barely competent muscle. A soldier must understand what is worth dying for and what is worth living for, and the distinction between the two.’

  Damson Beeton frowned. The wolftakers of the Court of the Air lived by a similar code. ‘Now that sounds worryingly familiar.’

  ‘You will have the opportunity to hear it again,’ said the Catosian. ‘Very shortly.’

  They entered a round chamber with polished wooden decking but no natural light, recessed gas lamps hissing gently with a yellow radiance. Steps on either side led down to pits where retainers tended transaction engines and monitored illuminated dials. Dressed in aprons similar to those worn by Greenhall engine men, the staff regulated their machinery’s pressure by working wheels set along racks of copper pipes.

  At the end of the chamber stood Abraham Quest and Robur, a handful of fencible officers in attendance – some obviously Catosian, others more of his academy sweepings. Quest turned, smiling, when he noticed Cornelius and the other two prisoners from Dolorous Isle. ‘A little different from the last tour I gave you, Compte de Spééler.’

  ‘All in all, I preferred the orchids,’ said Cornelius. ‘Even the ones that ate your mice.’

  ‘You three were coming close to uncovering my real game,’ said Quest. ‘So close that I thought I would spare you the trouble of breaking into my airship works and the undignified business of sneaking around my premises.’

  ‘Or the trouble I was taking to update the whistler network with my last report,’ said Damson Beeton.

  ‘You mean the Court of the Air doesn’t know about me already? You needn’t underplay your organization’s curiosity about my ambitions,’ said Quest. ‘I appreciate the interest the Court has been taking in my activities, wholly predictable as your people’s predations are.’

  ‘I’ve been called a lot of things in my years,’ said Damson Beeton, ‘but never predictable.’

  ‘Please,’ said Quest, ‘no false modesty. I am one of the few people in the world to grasp the amount of transaction-engine power it takes to model the whole of Jackelian society, to structure the quiet but deadly interventions of your wolftakers. How does the House of Quest and myself appear in the maths turning on the Court of the Air’s transaction-engine drums, I wonder?’

  ‘Leakage,’ said Damson Beeton. ‘Pure leakage.’

  Quest’s lips tightened into a thin smile. ‘Well, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. I have been putting my own theories of transaction-engine modelling to good use.’

  ‘Using deceased steammen components, perhaps?’ Cornelius said.

  ‘You’re not even warm,’ said Quest. ‘No, I used my transaction-engine rooms to model the pattern of what should be the behavioural norm for my employees. Here’s what came up as abnormal—’ Quest gestured at one of the workers in the pit and a Rutledge Rotator spun into operation on the wall. The image pixellated into a row of coffins, heavy armoured affairs gleaming black, with silver sigils sketched across them. The angle of the picture altered to show human heads visible at the other end of the metal coffins, mouths gagged with the same style of restraining mask Damson Beeton had been wearing. The old woman hissed as she recognized some of the faces.

  ‘Normally I admire persistence,’ said Abraham Quest. ‘You can accomplish so much with simple persistence. Give it enough time, and the wind can wear away mountains with a breeze as gentle as a whisper; but the Court of the Air’s tedious desire to infiltrate my concerns has really grown into something of an irritation for me now.’

  ‘You really think you can do that to the Court’s agents with impunity?’ asked Damson Beeton.

  ‘I’ve already had a taste of your reprisals. One of your sleeper agents managed to escape my attentions. He tried to eliminate me when he discovered I had captured your colleagues, but in one of life’s little ironies, I was pushed out of the way of his killing shot by your employer.’ Quest laughed, and looked across at Cornelius. ‘Would you save me again if the opportunity arose? It is interesting, is it not? For all the havoc you inflict across the border running around wearing a Furnace-breath Nick mask, when you had to act on pure instinct, your first reaction was to save life, not take it. I would say there’s hope for you, yet.’ Quest pointed up at the image of the restrained agents. ‘I’m sure there will be repercussions, damson. Wolves prey on sheep; wolftakers prey on the wolves, but who preys on the wolftakers? I do believe you will find the Court of the Air’s position in the ecos has just changed.’

  ‘You think you’re the top of the food chain now?’ said Damson Beeton. ‘Circle preserve us all, then. What do you intend to do with our agents?’

  ‘Your colleagues are alive,’ said Quest. ‘Albeit a little limited in capacity, currently. I didn’t want to find out their level of proficiency in the worldsinger arts the hard way, so I devised the hex boxes as a way to curtail the Court’s witchery and sorcerer’s tricks. I modelled the hexes on a transaction engine too – another first, I believe. They are very complex. I doubt whether there are many agents in the Court capable of breaking them. As to your colleagues’ fate, I am sure I can find a good use for them. As bookends, perhaps?’

  A retainer in an elaborate blue uniform came up to Quest, whispering something in the mill owner’s ear. Quest looked at Robur, nodded, and the mechomancer descended into one of the instrumentation pits, both his hands reaching out to yank down a lever. As he threw the lever, the entire room started to tremble, the wall behind Quest lowering to reveal an arc of armoured glass stretching from the floor to the ceiling. There was only darkness behind the glass, but it was getting lighter, the growing illumination accompanied by a massive crunching sound beyond their room.

  Septimoth covered his sensitive ears with his glove-covered talons. ‘That noise …’

  ‘Pneumatic pistons,’ said Quest. ‘
Extremely large ones.’

  With a heavy jolt their chamber was raising itself from the earth, the dark rock face outside falling away as they passed iron tubes pushing back the Ruxley granite in gushes of steam. Then they were raised clear of all obstructions, left with a view of a line of fertile green hills outside the glass. On the opposite slope, the rocky crest of a hill was flowering open to give birth to a monstrously large airship – three globes bound together in a steel frame, the under-structure of a Jackelian man-o’-war hanging embedded into her hull units. To the side of them a second hill was opening, releasing another giant aerostat into the sky, gusts of smoke from the pneumatic engines billowing out underneath the craft. With a start, Cornelius realized they were standing on the bridge of a third such vessel.

  In front of the sheet glass, two ship’s wheels had risen from the floor, retainers in striped airship sailors’ shirts taking the wheels, while an elaborately uniformed man – the captain of the vessel – paced behind the elevator and rudder helmsmen. Cornelius shook his head. The skipper should be nervous. They had just declared war on Jackals. The House of Guardians maintained an absolute monopoly over their power in the skies. The RAN flew alone, as guarantor of the realm’s freedoms. No other nation had celgas. No other nation had an aerial navy – and the Jackelian state would severely punish anyone who dared to try to alter that happy equilibrium.

  ‘You have gone too far this time,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘These three vessels are high-lifters,’ said Quest. ‘You’ll find our journey has only just begun.’

  ‘Jackals has dealt with science pirates before,’ noted Damson Beeton. ‘Underwater raiders like Solomon Dark and aerial menaces like the Marshal of the Air. If you think these three oversized toys of yours are a match for the hundreds of airships the RAN has on her lists, you will find yourself sadly mistaken. The first city you attack, the four fleets of the navy will be mobilized to hunt you down.’

  ‘Do you really believe my vision is so limited?’ said Quest, sadly. ‘I helped design half the vessels serving with the Jackelian navy today – I know their weaknesses and their strengths – I could give them quite a run for their money, if that was my intent. But it is not. The Leviathan here and her two sister ships are not vessels of war, they are vessels of exploration.’