by Paton, Chris
“I...” Egmont stuttered.
Luise reached up and stroked the side of Egmont’s face, fingers rasping through his beard. “But I know my mother felt the same way about you.” She smiled. “Let us pretend it is as you suggested, for I can think of no better father.”
“Thank you,” Egmont whispered. Taking Luise’s hand, he kissed her fingers, holding them as The Amphitrite slowed for landing.
҉
Resting his elbows on a crate at the water’s edge of the Hamburg dockyard, Schleiermacher wound the ripcord around the spindle on the Severinson telescope. Pulling the cord, he held the telescope to his eye as it hummed. Schleiermacher scanned the sea, focusing on the passengers leaping from the bow of The Regal Giant. Shifting his focus, Schleiermacher zoomed in on an object closer to the dock. As the enhanced charge of the telescope lost power, he called to the rifleman closest to him.
“There is a woman in the water. There,” he pointed with the flat of his hand. “Get her onto the dock and bring her to me.”
“Ja, Herr Schleiermacher,” the rifleman grabbed a companion and they ran to the side of the docks. Schleiermacher watched as they pulled a blonde woman from the water. Removing his jacket, the rifleman draped it over the woman’s shoulders. He and his companion supported her as they walked her over to Schleiermacher.
“Thank you,” Hannah sat down on the lid of the crate the rifleman cleared for her.
“Bring some coffee,” Schleiermacher nodded at the rifleman. “You would like some coffee, Fräulein?”
“Ja,” Hannah nodded. She pulled the jacket tighter around her shoulders.
“What is your name?”
Hannah looked up at Schleiermacher. “I am Hannah von Ense, assistant to Minister Bremen of the German Confederation.”
“Yes, Fräulein von Ense,” Schleiermacher nodded. “I thought so.” He gestured at the men and machines positioned on the dock. “We received your telegram.”
“Ja,” she looked up as the rifleman handed her a cup of coffee. Hannah looked around her at the men and the walkers. She lingered over the sight of the emissaries before turning back to Schleiermacher. “It will not be enough.”
“No?” Schleiermacher removed his hat, rubbing his hand across the wrinkles on his brow.
“No,” Hannah shook her head. “Where is Herr Wallendorf?”
“Direktor Wallendorf is in the command tent,” Schleiermacher pointed along the dock. “I will take you to him.”
Hannah finished the coffee, pressing the empty cup into the rifleman’s hands. She gestured to Schleiermacher. “Lead the way.”
“Are you sure this is not enough?” Schleiermacher steered Hannah between the crates and machines between them and the command tent.
“Ja, I am sure.”
“I will have to take your word on the matter.” Schleiermacher waved at Wallendorf as the old am pushed himself out of his chair. “Here we are, Fräulein.”
“What is that?” Hannah stopped several feet from the command tent. She pointed up at the sky, inland, away from the docks.
“An airship?” Schleiermacher reached for the telescope.
Hannah turned her head. “Two airships. There,” she pointed, “and there. The second one. It is bigger than the first.”
“And farther away, but closing,” the telescope hummed in Schleiermacher’s grip. “The smaller one is preparing to land.” He lowered the telescope. “But we have no airship tower here.”
“What are you looking at, Hans?” Wallendorf’s cane tapped as he walked out from under the tarpaulin.
“Herr Direktor,” Schleiermacher turned to greet Wallendorf. “You remember Fräulein Hannah von Ense?”
Wallendorf blushed as he shook Hannah’s hand. “We have met. A long time ago. Hannah...”
“I am sorry Herr Wallendorf, but we have little time.” Hannah shook as she pointed out to sea. “Your daughter is onboard that ship.”
“She is? Oh, Romney,” Wallendorf’s eyes glistened.
“Ja, but she has changed, Herr Wallendorf.”
“Changed?” Wallendorf raised his voice over the sound of the airship’s propellers beating the air into submission.
“Herr Direktor,” Schleiermacher gripped Wallendorf’s elbow. “I do not know these people.”
“But I do,” Hannah turned to watch as Noonan and Smith lowered Luise in a sling swinging below the stern platform of The Amphitrite.
“Who are they?” Schleiermacher beckoned to a group of riflemen. He pointed at the two men climbing down the rope ladder to join Luise on the ground. “Secure them.”
“It’s all right, Herr Wallendorf,” Hannah watched as a tall African man waved from the airship, disappearing inside the hatch as the airship manoeuvred away from the dock and turned its nose to the east. “They are British.”
“British?” Wallendorf grasped the pommel of his cane.
“Ja, British, but under the circumstances I think we can trust them.” Hannah led Wallendorf and Schleiermacher behind the riflemen as they surrounded the new arrivals.
“Fräulein von Ense,” Luise waved from where she sat on the ground. “We have a problem.” She pointed at the second airship closing on the dockyard.
“Ja,” Hannah jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “And another one out to sea.”
Luise turned to Egmont as he fiddled to attach his brass leg. “We seem to be surrounded, Admiral. Father,” she smiled.
“What’s that, Luise?” Tossing the brass leg to one side, Egmont grumbled.
“She said we are surrounded, Reginald.” Smith bent down. “Here, let me help you with that.”
Turning toward Hannah, Luise pressed her hands on her stomach. “I suggest we set aside our differences, and,” Luise smiled, “I am in need of a doctor.”
“Ja, I agree,” Hannah turned to the rifleman closest to her. “Find a doctor, quickly.” She watched as he hurried inside the command tent.
“Hans?” Wallendorf rested upon his cane.
“Yes, Herr Direktor?”
“It seems these women are taking control of the situation.”
“Yes, it does.”
“What do you suggest, Hans?”
“I suggest we let them, Herr Direktor.” Schleiermacher slipped the Severinson telescope inside a leather case he retrieved from the pocket of his coat.
Wallendorf looked up at the airship as it flew over the dock, casting its shadow over the men and machines below. Turning on his heels, he followed the airship with his eyes as it flew beyond the dock and entered a lazy orbit around The Regal Giant. “My daughter is on that ship, Hans.” Wallendorf gripped his assistant’s elbow. “I am not leaving without my daughter.”
҉
Lena slowed the horse’s gait to a walk, lifting her arm to push thin branches above her head, passing the branch into Stepan’s fingers as she ducked below it. Tightening her grip on the reins, she turned the horse toward a broad wooden dock of sun-paled grey timber. The horse’s hooves clopped onto the dock, stopping at Lena’s gentle tug of the reins. Reaching forward, Lena stroked the horse’s ears. Stepan shifted on the saddle behind her.
“Bryullov trains his horses well,” Lena patted the horse’s neck.
“What makes you think he trains them?”
“Father told me.” Lena twisted her body to look at Stepan. “Apparently, he didn’t trust anyone else.” She turned back to look across the river. “That was what my father liked about him.”
“That he trained his horses, or that he trusted no one?”
Lena tapped the tip of her finger on her lips. “Both. Probably.”
Stepan looked toward the far bank. He tapped Lena on the shoulder. “Look.”
Lena waved at a man on the opposite side of the river. Stepping onto a square pram with a broad wedge-shaped bow, the man waved while he waited for three more men to arrive.
“Cossacks,” Lena smiled. “They will row across to pick us up.”
“And then what, Lena?”
“It has been a long time since I last met Ivan Timofeyevich,” Stepan flicked at dust on his knee. “The last time I saw your father...”
“You tried to kill him,” Lena giggled. “Da, I know the story.”
Stepan took a long, deep breath as the men began rowing toward them.
“Don’t worry, Captain,” Lena slipped off the horse. Massaging her arm she slapped Stepan on the leg. “I will tell him how courageous you were, getting me out of Arkhangelsk.” Lena frowned. “Of course, that might not be enough.”
“Enough for what, Lena?” Stepan leaned forward in the saddle, glancing up at the soft splashes of the Cossack’s oars entering the water.
“Enough to stop him shooting you,” Lena grinned. “This is going to be fun.”
Epilogue
In the mountains above Adina Pur
Afghanistan
June, 1851
Perched on a rock, Hari removed his sandals and pressed his toes into the dirt and grit of the track leading to the mountain lookout above Adina Pur. Sipping from a canvas covered flask of water, Hari watched as The Amphitrite disappeared into the haze beyond the mountains. Hari screwed the lid on the flask and returned it to the satchel Noonan had given him. He fiddled with the kukri at his waist. Hari turned on the rock, staring up the mountain.
“Ah, Shahin,” Hari scratched at the dirt in his beard. “I wonder if you are well, my friend? Are you content with the plump pigeons of London, or do you miss the mountains of home?” Hari took a long, deep breath of mountain air. “Truly, I know what I prefer.” He stretched his lips into a sad smile. “Miss Luise,” Hari closed his eyes. “I must move quickly.”
Scratching the soles of his feet in the dirt, Hari opened his eyes at the rapid whirr of a charging handle. Hari inched his head to the right, stopping as he stared down the long barrel of a Lightning Jezail.
“Hello, Najma,” Hari raised his hands. “You are well, I trust?”
“Nightjar?” Najma looked to both sides. “Why are you sitting here? It is a trap. No?” She pointed at the sky. “Where is the big black bird?”
“The bird is gone, Najma. And, no, it is not a trap.” Hari rested his palms on his thighs. “I came looking for you.”
“Me?” The barrel of Najma’s jezail wavered.
“Yes,” Hari smiled. “Your father said you had not returned. He said you were looking for your brother.”
Najma thrust the jezail forward. “What do you know of my brother?”
“I know he is dead, Najma. I am sorry.”
“Dead?” Najma lowered the rifle. “He is not dead.” She lifted her chin. “He is missing.”
“No, Najma,” Hari pointed at a boulder in the distance. “I found your brother there, behind that boulder. Dead.”
“You would not lie?” Najma started to tremble.
“He had a hawk. Shahin was its name.”
“Yes,” Najma crossed her legs and sat down. She rested the jezail across her lap.
“Shahin was a dear companion of mine. She came with me after I found your brother.” Hari paused. “I do not know who killed him, Najma. Truly, I do not.” He waited as Najma wiped a tear from her cheek. “I can show you where I found him,” Hari stood up.
“Yes,” Najma rested the butt of the jezail on the ground and pushed herself to her feet. She followed Hari along the path, past the mountain lookout to the boulder.
“I will go first, Najma,” Hari placed his hand on her shoulder. “Wolves and dogs,” he explained.
“Yes,” Najma waited as Hari looked behind the boulder. “Is he there?” she looked up as Hari returned.
“Yes,” Hari nodded. “A little.”
Najma pressed the jezail into Hari’s hands as she walked up the path to the boulder. Stopping to take a breath, she walked around it.
Hari turned his back, looking out across the valley of the river Cabool. At the sound of small stones trickling down the path, Hari turned to look at Najma.
“I will take my jezail,” she held out her hand.
“Yes,” Hari handed it to her.
Najma looked at the ground, pushing at the stones with the tips of her sandals. “Thank you, Nightjar.”
“My name is Hari Singh, Najma.”
“No,” Najma gestured at the mountains. “Up here, you are The Nightjar.”
“Yes,” Hari smiled. “I suppose I am.”
Najma leaned on the jezail. “Have you returned for your friend? The Englishman?”
“Yes. Jamie’s sister and I need his help.” Hari held his breath. “Is he here?”
Najma turned to look at the city. “He is in the pit.”
“I must see him, Najma.”
“Yes,” Najma nodded. “It is growing dark. I can take you to him now.” She started walking down the path. “The Shah grows bored with him. He says he costs more than he is worth. That there are not enough battles to keep a djinni.”
“That is good news.”
“Yes,” Najma increased her pace as they reached a steep part of the path to Adina Pur. “I am sure you will be able to talk him into letting him leave.”
“Thank you.” Hari slowed as Najma stopped in front of him. She turned, her eyes blazing in the fading light.
“He said he was going to catch us supper,” the jezail rattled in her grip.
“Supper?”
“Bryullov, the Russian. It was here,” Najma pointed at the lookout post. “We caught the Englishman here. Bryullov walked up the path with his pistol...”
“Yes,” Hari nodded. “Tell me more.”
“He killed...” Najma shook. “He must have killed Kahn, and then he pretended he would take me to Russia.” She waved her hand at the mountains. “Away from all this.” She took a breath and continued down the mountain. “I hope he is dead.”
“He is not here?” Hari jogged to catch up.
“No,” she shook her head. “He left after you did.”
“I see.” Hari was silent as they approached the gates. Tucking his robes around his neck, Hari dipped his head as Najma led him past the guard and the torches casting shadows in the desert.
“Shall I go to the Shah?” Najma stopped in the middle of the street.
“It is not too late?”
Najma laughed. “The Shah likes me, Nightjar. I think he is looking for another wife.”
“That is good.” Hari pointed at the courtyard at the end of the street. “I will go to the djinn pit. You will send for me?”
“Yes,” Najma bowed her head. “Thank you, Nightjar.” Her eyes glistening in the soft lights illuminating the street, she lifted her head, turned and disappeared down a side street.
Hari walked on. Passing a fruit stall he chose a lemon and paid for it. Tossing and catching the lemon as he walked, Hari slowed as he approached the djinn pit. The last of the evening light lit a crack in the thick stone lid. Hari walked over to the pit, held the lemon over the crack and let go of it.
“Hey,” a dusty young voice echoed up the walls of the pit. “Who’s there?” Hari leaned over the lid and pressed his face into the crack. “Hari?”
“Hello, British.”
“Hari Singh? You came back?”
“Truly,” Hari smiled. “I have come to get you out.”
Acknowledgments
Once again, I want to thank Sarah Acton for all her support and constructive criticism. Any mistakes and omissions are, again, purely my own. And Jane for catching some very serious errors in the plot.
August, 2015
Chris Paton
About the Author
British by default, Chris Paton (1973) has English and Welsh parents, and a Scottish surname. But it is his Welsh heritage - something about dragons - that seems to drive Chris' writing. Graduating from Falmouth University in 2015, Chris has a Master of Arts in Professional Writing, and a couple of other degrees that help pay the bills. Chris' favourite books include any genre with a bit of magic, gi
ant squids and spaceships. Chris is a teacher by profession and a canoeist by choice. He lives in Denmark with his wife, Jane. You can find him in Denmark or online here:
www.chrispaton.dk
www.facebook.com/chrispaton.author
www.twitter.com/Aarluuk
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