Skyshaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 3)

by Dean F. Wilson

  Blackout burned. Fires started in every corner, in every nook, in every metal ruin of a landship. Buildings collapsed and trucks overturned, and many of the Regime soldiers began to abandon their posts and vehicles, dropping their guns and fleeing, or raising their hands, or raising their white flags.

  “That's everything on Rommond's list,” Alakovi said. Several of her Vixens entered the room; some cheered, while others stood there silently.

  “He didn't list the Treasury HQ,” Taberah replied.

  “Deliberately.”

  “But they need to be taken out.”

  “He knows what he's doing, Taberah.”

  “Well, he's not up here,” she replied. “And he's not responding to my calls.”

  “If you take out their HQ, there'll be no chance of turning them to our side.”

  “Turning them to our side? Do you hear yourself?”

  “They'll join us if we offer the better deal.”

  “The Regime is still more powerful than us, Alakovi.”

  “Then why did the Treasury's fleet flee?”

  “Because we feigned power.”

  “Then we can feign some more.”

  Taberah shook her head. “I think we should take out the Treasury while we still have a chance.”

  Alakovi grabbed her by the arm. “No, girl. You don't get to make that choice. Only Rommond does. You never learned that lesson, did you?”

  “Rommond keeps making mistakes,” Taberah replied, reefing her arm from the Matron's grip. “He keeps missing opportunities.”

  “He made a mistake letting you on board,” Alakovi said. “He keeps making that mistake.”

  “Take it up with him,” Taberah barked.

  “No,” the Matron said. “I'll take it up with you.”

  More Vixens flooded the room. Soon Taberah found that none of Rommond's other crew were there, not even Cantro. The Vixens stood with arms folded and eyes grim. They blocked every exit.

  21 – THE GRAND TREASURER

  Rommond turned to face a familiar figure. The sound of a metal cane preceded the man who held it: Solsan Winceward, the Grand Treasurer. He wore a velvet black suit, with his coat tails almost reaching to the ground, and around his neck he wore a huge golden chain, and on his fingers many large golden rings. Gold might have been worthless now, but it reminded everyone of who the real power in the old world was.

  The Grand Treasurer was never seen without his top hat, which towered above him. The richer the man, the taller the hat. It was no wonder then that so many never wore a hat all.

  Winceward stopped suddenly and planted his cane in the ground. It was black with a golden knob at the top and a golden band at the bottom. It made a tremendous sound when he walked, and no doubt this was its intent, for he had no need for a walking stick at all. He waited for the echo of it to die out before adjusting his golden spectacles to glare down pitifully on the poor man before him.

  “Rommond,” he said, followed by a tut, as if he had just caught a child stealing from the rich. He held his thin, curling black moustache between his thumb and index finger, and began to curl it anew, like the minting of a new iron coil.

  “Don't pretend you didn't know it was me,” the general replied. “Your cane announces your arrival. My bombs do the same.”

  “And look at the damage you have done,” Winceward said, glancing about. “You have cost this city quite a pretty penny, not to mention the loss of lives.”

  “Do you treasure lives now?”

  “We always did, Rommond. That's why we didn't fight the Regime.”

  “I thought it was because they let you cling to some semblance of power.”

  “Power is nothing without the people that grant it,” Winceward said, “and who will pay their taxes when they are all dead?”

  “So they are a means to an end.”

  “Everything is a means to an end.”

  “I thought for you money was the means, and the end.”

  “You always were too smart for your own good. It will be the death of you.”

  Rommond reached for his gun, but several Treasury snipers shot it from his hand.

  “Do try and co-operate, Rommond,” Winceward said. “We want that head of yours fully intact.”

  The Treasury mob swelled. Larger men, with muscles instead of guns, seized Rommond and tied his hands. They dragged him after the Grand Treasurer, who led them into the Treasury headquarters, and into a dimly-lit cellar, the kind of place that Rommond would have conducted an interrogation.

  So this is mine, he thought.

  “You owe us quite a lot,” Winceward said. “All those loans you received. We never saw a penny from them, did we? Not a single coil.”

  “Yet you still gave them.”

  “You know quite well that I only approved the first one. There are others in the Treasury that are more generous than I. How foolish of them.”

  He glanced to his aide, who turned around and ushered in several guards. They pushed and shoved an old lady, who was tied and gagged. It was the Baroness Ebronah, and as she was hounded forward, she tripped and stumbled over her voluminous skirts.

  “Some want things to go back to the way things were,” Winceward said, gesturing towards Ebronah, who raised her pointed chin to him.

  “Surely things were better then,” Rommond replied.

  “For some, yes,” Winceward admitted. “But for me, no. When we were royalty, every city was its own kingdom, and every kingdom had its crown. In the Treasury there is only one crown worth wearing.” He tipped his top hat and gave a sickly smile.

  “You might benefit now,” Rommond said, “but when you stop being useful to the Regime, they will replace you like they are replacing all of us. Our civilisation means nothing to them. The Iron Emperor wants racial purity. And you are far from pure.”

  “Have you even met the Iron Emperor?” Winceward asked.

  “No,” the general replied. “I don't need to meet the Devil to know I must oppose him.”

  The Grand Treasurer laughed. “The Devil. What a convenient image you've painted. But he hasn't painted it like that. If you go past the Iron Wall, you'll see. If you go to Ironhold, you'll see. There he is not just a god, he is the only one. What he says, others do. Unquestioning loyalty.”

  “A cult,” Rommond spat.

  “And what is the Resistance? Some dare not question the illustrious Rommond.”

  “I don't lead to death and ruin.”

  “Are you sure? Look what you've done to this city. You've caused more destruction than the Iron Empire ever did. You're a menace to society, Rommond, a menace. Everywhere you go, things turn to dust. Have you never thought of retiring?”

  Rommond smiled. “No.”

  “That's too bad. I'm afraid we must retire you, put you out to pasture, so to speak. People who don't pay their debts end up paying with the only thing of value they have left: their lives. And with the hefty reward the Iron Emperor has put on your head, I think that is the only way to settle your accounts.”

  Rommond looked at Ebronah, who continued to aim her pointed chin at Winceward.

  “If I must die, then so be it,” Rommond said, “but the Baroness has nothing to do with this.”

  “Don't insult my intellect, Rommond. She might have given you her own money, but that still undermines everything we have done to establish and restore order to this city.”

  Rommond shook his head. “Ever the politician.”

  “You should have tried it, Rommond. It suited General Leadman in Copperfort, did it not?”

  “He's a traitor.”

  “He's an opportunist,” Winceward said. “A realist, even. You're still living your fantasy, fighting a war you cannot win. You see everything as black and white. For me, there are no enemies. Everyone is a potential ally. Everyone can be a friend of the Treasury.”

  “So long as they pay.”

  Winceward's mouth twitched, and his wiry moustache shuddered. “So long as they pay.”


  They heard a scoff from the Baroness.

  “And you,” Winceward said, turning to her. He prodded her with his cane. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  She humphed and turned away, which did more to irritate the Grand Treasurer than any verbal response. It seemed that she would not give him the time of day. Rommond hoped that she would not end up giving up her life instead.

  Winceward took it out on Rommond, striking him across the face with his cane, knocking one of the general's teeth out. Blood dribbled down Rommond's face, and he breathed heavy, but he would not cry out. He focused his pain in the glare he gave the Grand Treasurer; he transmuted it into hate.

  “Will you talk now, Baroness?” Winceward asked. “He's not so pretty without all his teeth, is he? Then again, maybe it reminds you of someone. What was your old husband's name? Rodford? Wasn't he a gentle soul? Too gentle to lead us.”

  Rommond knew this would upset her. Rodford had served as the first Grand Treasurer after the demons came and ousted the old royalty, after they slayed the ageing kings and queens. He really was a gentle sort. He invoked the ire of his then newly-founded organisation by donating money to the poor. Treasury money. Rich people's money. No wonder they turned on him when the chance came.

  “If you think you can hurt me with words,” the Baroness said, her voice shaking, “then you are wrong, Winceward. You have always been wrong. That is the only reason why you rule the Treasury now, in this wrong era, in this wrong world. Tell me, what is there to buy under the Regime's repressive rules? The Iron Emperor has outlawed anything worth purchasing. Can you hang a painting on your wall if it is not of him? Can you buy a sculpture for your courtyard if it is not of him? The books burn in towers, and the libraries fill with propaganda. What do you save your money for, Winceward? A rainy day? When will it rain again here? When will it snow? A better tomorrow? We are old, Winceward. There are not many tomorrows left. What of the future? What of it? One day, perhaps one day soon, there will be no future for us. What do we leave behind? Children? No. My children are dead, and what others I would have had, would have been demons, had I not used the amulets. What then? Works? No. There are no more writers or artists in our time. Art is another child of humanity, and it is dead. He made sure of that. We leave behind nothing, Winceward, no legacy. You are not quite as old as I, but if you get to my age, you will not be counting coils; you will be counting regrets. By then it will be too late. What fortune you have built will be spent by others' hands. Truly, it will only be spent by his hands, that demon king in the east, who made us all turn in our gold for iron.”

  To Rommond's surprise, Winceward was silent throughout this speech, and it seemed to move him, as it did the general, as it did many of the other Treasurers and guards inside the room. It seemed that they were still human after all.

  But there was still money to be made. The price was Rommond's head.

  22 – A DEBT TO BE PAID

  Rommond was brought to the guillotine, which was already red with the blood of others, of so-called traitors. Ebronah's husband had been one of them, yet he had always been loyal to the people, loyal to the poor.

  “How fitting,” Winceward said, as Rommond was strapped in place, “that you should lose your head. Is that not what happened to Brooklyn also?”

  Rommond growled and struggled in his bonds.

  “You know,” the Grand Treasurer continued, “I would have thought they'd have wanted you intact, that they might have paid more for the whole body. But you really angered them. Your head on a pike is all they want. That is one work of art they will proudly present to the world. You never know, Rommond. You might even feature in a museum one day.”

  Rommond could only see Winceward's shiny black boots, with the strip of gold around the heel. He could barely twist his head to see Ebronah there, who tried not to look. He wanted to say his last goodbyes. He had not seen her in years. What a sorry reunion it had been.

  “Let me take his place,” she volunteered, though her voice wavered.

  “No,” the general said. “This is my debt to pay.”

  “You can borrow it from me,” she said.

  “I've already borrowed enough.”

  “For once,” Winceward said, “I agree with Rommond. His borrowing days are over. Indeed, for these last few years, he has been living on borrowed time. You might have a hefty fortune, Baroness, but your life is not worth more than Rommond's head. What you made in eighty years, we will make tenfold in eighty seconds.”

  The guillotine blade was pulled into place. Rommond heard it shake in its frame. He shook in sympathy with it. Ebronah shook in sympathy with him. The Grand Treasurer felt no sympathy at all. In his eyes there were no tears, only lust and greed.

  “It's nothing personal, Rommond,” Winceward said. “Business is business.”

  How Rommond had heard those lines before, from the mouths of those trying to kill him. It was personal to him. It was personal to the Iron Emperor.

  The seconds counted down, and Rommond gulped hard. In moments he would not get to gulp again. He thought about his life. Forty-two years. He had lived a good one, even if those last few years were marred by pain. Now it would all be over. He could see Brooklyn once again.

  There was a click, and then an explosion rocked the room, which quickly filled with smoke. Shouts followed, and people lashed out blindly at their assailants. By the time the smoke cleared, the Treasury's guards were knocked out on the ground, and Rommond had been freed from the guillotine.

  Then it became clear who had rescued them: the Regime. Rommond shook his head in disbelief as he saw the dozen troops, rallying behind an officer. A familiar officer: Jacob.

  “That's him!” Jacob shouted. “That's Rommond, the Resistance leader!”

  “What the hell are you doing?” the Grand Treasurer asked.

  “We received intel that you are smuggling that traitor out of the city.”

  “Does it look like it?”

  “It looks like you've arranged the assassination of our informant,” Jacob said, pointing to Ebronah. “The Baroness has always been a spy for the ... Iron Empire.” Rommond could tell that Jacob had almost said Regime. He had to be careful. He had to wear the uniform on his tongue as well.

  “This is madness!” Winceward bawled. “I've received commands straight from the Iron Emperor himself. We were just about to behead the general.”

  “Save it for the courts,” Jacob said. “The day we trust Treasury scum is the day the Iron Emperor falls. Long live the Iron Emperor.”

  This was followed by a series of hails from the guards, and a very half-hearted hail from Whistler. Soasa gave none at all.

  The Regime troops hauled the Grand Treasurer out into the corridor, rumpling his suit, which cost more than the clothes of everyone else then present. Winceward waved his cane in protest, yelling taunts and threats, which did not cost a thing.

  “Keep an eye on him,” Jacob said. “We'll look after Rommond.”

  The soldiers gave a firm salute, then turned their backs on their commander. At that point Soasa ignited a stick of dynamite, cast it into the corridor, and slammed the door shut. They heard a series of shouts and cries, followed by an immense explosion, which shook the chamber. Those soldiers would not turn their backs again.

  Jacob untied Rommond, while Whistler untied Ebronah, before recoiling as she tried to greet him with a kiss.

  “Did you miss me?” Jacob asked the general.

  “You're full of surprises,” Rommond said, rubbing his wrists.

  “The good kind,” Whistler added with a smile. Jacob grinned at him.

  “Yes, the good kind,” the general said, shaking his head in disbelief. He was certain he was done for. He almost did not mind. “How did you even know I was here?”

  Jacob shrugged. “We asked around.”

  “You asked?”

  “You'd be surprised how well that works … when in uniform.”

  “And if that doesn't wor
k,” Soasa said, “I can ask my way.”

  “I see I sent the right team,” Rommond acknowledged. “A smuggler, a saboteur, and a spy. A perfect trio.” He ruffled Whistler's hair. The general was so happy, and so relieved, Jacob almost expected him to ruffle his hair too.

  But there was no time to celebrate. There was still much work to be done. Rommond brought Ebronah aside.

  “With Winceward dead,” he said, “who will take his place?”

  “That will go up for a vote.”

  “So it isn't about blood?”

  She cupped his face, as she might have done so many times with her husband. “We're only royalty in memory now, sweetheart.”

  He held her hands, bringing them together almost like a sign of prayer. “Can you win that vote?”

  “I never thought about it.”

  “Then think about it now,” Rommond said. “You've always been one of our strongest supporters. Think of what you could do as Grand Treasurer.”

  * * *

  They called a council immediately, and the rich and powerful used their secret routes to enter the Treasury Chambers, which were as ornate as anyone would expect them to be. The ceiling was twenty feet high, with immense chandeliers made of glass hanging from it, and floral carvings and designs made into the coving. Tapestries hung from the walls, and huge red curtains stood like sentinels on either side of the colossal windows, which were so finely made that they had largely withstood the assault on the city. The room was so ornate it was essentially a work of art. It was a surprise that the Regime had let it stand at all.

  “The tide is turning,” Ebronah announced to the well-dressed crowd, many of whom judged her with their spectacles or monocles. “If the Treasury is about opportunity, then we cannot ignore this one. With proper funding, the Resistance can win this war, and we no longer need to serve as puppets to the real power of the Iron Empire. We can restore things to the way they were.”

  There was discussion in the crowd, with some approving nods, and some disapproving glares. They seemed evenly divided. Some reminisced about the past, while others spoke of stability, which was not something the Resistance seemed to offer. Others said they had already supported the Resistance in the past, and Blackout had fallen to the Regime anyway.