by Kin S. Law
“I knew it. Take me to him!” Clemens demanded. The urgency in his voice betrayed his stoic Asiatic features for just a second. Clemens cared for Samuel, as a friend, a comrade, perhaps….
“You were adopted,” I concluded aloud. The statement seemed to stun Clemens, but only for a moment. “It was not a lie told at the Jilted Merman. This man is your adoptive father.”
“In a manner of speaking. Someone who saves a Chinese man’s life might as well be a father to him,” he admitted freely.
“Chinese is it? It was Chinese or Japanese; I hadn’t decided.”
“The hair? I know; it works to my advantage.”
“Oooh, I love the hair, very dashing.”
“Hey!” Albion protested now. “No stalling.”
“Nothing gets past you.” Drat!
“Where is Captain Sam?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, leaning forward to peer into his dark eyes with my blue ones. Clemens looked straight back, and those deep wells did not even quiver or glance at my front spilling out.
“What do you want with him?”
“That is the business of Her Majesty Victoria the Third, Queen of the United Kingdom, Empress of–”
“Yada, yada, yada,” Clemens interrupted again.
“Beg pardon?”
“It’s a Yankee expression. From the Yiddish, I believe. It means I don’t want to hear the rest.”
“How rude!” It was British, actually, from ‘yatter-yatter.’ I was not about to tell him.
“How much an enormous waste of time! Either tell me what your business is, or I toss you in the longboat and leave you adrift in the Atlantic.”
“Is this where we are? Why, I thought we were on some civil pirate airship, not some centuries-old seafarer!” His stoic expression made it clear my jibe was ineffective, though so was his threat. Something about the way he threatened threw me. I felt like he would not harm me, not if he did not need to. Gentle imprisonment spoke volumes. Maybe a gentle hand was called for?
“All right, Master Pirate. I will concede to your persistence. What follows is all I shall tell you, and that shall be the end of it.”
“And what I will do with the information is my business,” he finished for me.
“Touché ,” I agreed. Just what I expected.
“Out with it.”
“Your Captain Clemens consorts with a very dangerous crowd, Albion Clemens,” I breathed. I felt a great weight come off my shoulders. “I was extraordinarily surprised. You understand there is a million-quid bounty on his head?” That much I had gathered from the more businesslike custom at the Jilted Merman. There had been talk of the bounty, but not much hope in collecting. The elder Clemens might as well have dropped off the map. “What were you doing telling me who you were? Did you not expect a slew of bounty hunters coming down upon you like a swarm of vultures?”
“I’ve heard of the bounty. What I don’t know is who wants my Captain Sam, nor why. If I have to crack a few skulls to get the down-low, I will.”
There—the idioms again! What strange things to say, for a man of the East.
“Right,” I continued, aware of our sudden closeness to each other. We had both unconsciously leaned in to hear, separated only by the bars of the cell. I could feel his breath on my face, warm and scented with tea.
“All I can tell you is that your Captain Sam is connected to a laboratory explosion in Oxford. The building was destroyed by a contraption producing great heat and a sound much like thunder. This weapon, we believe, was also used to steal the Houses of Parliament not too long ago.”
Clemens whistled.
“Captain Clemens is also connected to an item of import, though I am unsure how or if it relates,” I finished. This last I had garnered through a missive from the sometimes unreliable Arturo, who had sent me a telegraphed missive. The sky was practically abuzz with the news of the item, but only Arturo C. Adler had connected it with Samuel Clemens and this Steamboat Man airship business.
“Something of great value,” said the Thief of Tibet. My, the man had a lot of aliases, and they came tumbling into mind when one spoke to him.
“Indubitably. You can rest assured the bounty was not offered by any of Her Majesty’s agencies, at least with her knowledge. I am the primary venue of investigation, and as such, I doubt the Queen is deploying any stratagem against my interests.”
“Spare me the power play. What is the name of the item?” Clemens demanded.
“I believe you may have heard of it—”
“If I have, I wouldn’t need you—”
“—on a bit in the Jilted Merman—”
“—stalling, take me for a fool—”
“—have the nerve!”
“—that dress!”
“The Laputian Leviathan.”
“Ah,” Albion Clemens murmured, leaning back in his chair. “You’re barmy. The Leviathan is a myth.”
“Do I look like I’m mad? Would the Queen send—”
“An Inspector fresh from her first collar, into the breach with naught but two peashooters and a bit of pluck? Someone who is expected to be outlandish, by her chauvinistic colleagues? I believe so,” Clemens pointed out. “Nobody would miss her.”
“Why you scruffy, no-good highwayman! Let me out this instant!”
“Maybe when you learn to swear a little better,” he concluded, getting up to leave. “I think I’ll tap into my contacts a little, see if there’s any truth to your case. I’ll let you know what I find. Maybe someone is hiding something clever behind the Leviathan name. Could just be the item you’re looking for, but of course you’ve thought of that.”
“Harumph,” I grunted, spinning to leave only, of course, my cell was a bit impregnable at the moment.
“By the way,” Captain Albion called from the door, “Only the Yard teaches your type of gun forms. It works in the tightness of London’s streets, good for clearing corners, especially if you have a partner crouching under you. Most loners or pirates, they’ll stand with their side forward for a smaller target. It’s how I knew you were a copper.”
With a slam of the door, I was left to stew in my own self-pity, wondering how in the hell I managed to cock this mission up.
6
Albion Doesn’t Like Getting Hanged
After the fruitless talk with Inspector Hargreaves, I emerged on deck approximately an hour after we docked the longboat with my airship. She was a beautiful grand dam, my Huckleberry, voluptuous and streamlined, her bow hovering gently over the quiet Atlantic. I loved that name, prairie-blown with the flavor of the West, entirely unbefitting this very Eastern fellow. No balloon flew above. She didn’t need one, with pressed helium and lift running through her veins.
“I trust you are bearing me away from the unpleasantness at all speed. How is the Inspector?” came a voice from the deck. Of course, I had left the ginger writer with my crewmen.
“The Inspector is well. Contained, for the nonce. And you will be glad to know we have just cleared Emsworth.” I had gathered that much with a peek into the bridge. I dared not enter it right now—there were pressing concerns, and no doubt what lay inside was just waiting for me to open the door. Instead I had stepped clear of it and the windows, emerging on top of the forecastle deck.
I thought Blair must be feeling out of sorts, but his fingers were dancing over the balustrades of the forecastle. That bit of carpentry housed the bridge and two great ballroom stairs under the magnificent mainsail. Elric Blair must have been itching to photograph it.
So far my new friend had only seen one other member of the crew, a large, middle-aged fellow with considerably more belly than verbosity. Cockney Alex, as we fondly called him, had hoisted the bundle of Inspector as easily as one might a sack of potatoes. I trusted Blair wouldn’t try anything stupid, and indeed he had done his best to look harmless.
“All right there, Master Blair?” I said, now striding on deck in a cloud of buccaneer coat. It was actually the same coat
, but it took on a more swashbuckling flair now I was back aboard my own ship. “You were welcome to come inside.” I extended the words in friendship.
Dark goggles protected my eyes from the crisp Atlantic wind. With those on, I always felt more in the role of captain. I went to stand near Blair, peering at the starlight, though dawn lined the horizon silver.
“Ah,” said Blair.
I am sure Blair was staring at my waist, where the dim light picked a large, dented cutlass. A slight on my part. Blair’s voice was steady, but his hands fidgeted as if they longed to document everything. I wondered if he was unsure of how to ask for pen and paper. What were the pirate conventions? Did we even have any for paper men? How would one be keelhauled through thin air? I had gone through much the same thing when first I met an airship pirate. The memories brought a smile to my lips and a touch of envy for the green paper man to my heart.
“Do you need anything? Refreshment? Surely a Briton wouldn’t refuse a spot of tea,” I offered now, extending a hand to a stair leading into the bowels of the dirigible.
Blair nodded, probably having had enough of the chill deck. As he passed the edge of the rail I saw his backside clench almost imperceptibly. So it was heights, then. Well, my parlor would help with that considerably.
“Am I to understand you are extending me the hospitality of your ship?” asked Blair.
The enclosed stair into the ship seemed to have fortified his courage. Now he was asking for hospitality, and by the rule of the sky it meant I would not harm him. It simply wasn’t done. There were fearsome forces who exacted a terrible price on those who went back on a promise of hospitality. “I do not know much, but I know a captain’s word is worth something even in these treacherous skies.”
“Have you been talking to Inspector Hargreaves? She does have a low opinion of us. Rest assured I extend you the safety and hospitality of The Huckleberry,” I replied. I had never needed fear to do the right thing.
“Is that her name then?” Blair asked.
“I’m sorry. I should have invited you with me,” I said. “You will see Vanessa Hargreaves is very well treated, if you care to look.”
“In your brig? I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.” We both laughed at this, and I was glad some of our earlier camaraderie remained. Shaw or Clemens, Blair or a cutthroat in the employ of the Lewis brothers, this was very much the honest paper man from the pub I had met earlier. Maybe a bit over his head, perhaps.
While we spoke, I led Blair down a rather narrow passage. The Huckleberry’s passages were tighter, more packed together, with shut wooden portals every few feet along the paneled walls. I doubted Blair had seen very many other airships, but if he had the oddest things would have been the ceilings and floors. They had been strung with piping, all along behind thin wire grilles, and some lines had been hung with the oddest objects. A sackcloth doll, a paper windmill, and what seemed like a string of teeth. Some of them had been placed before even my time, and we dared not move them. Before long we reached a door.
“Come, this is Auntie’s galley,” I said, showing Blair through to a wider room with curving, spacious bulkheads.
We had reached the bow of the ship, in a long mess where benches had been nailed to the floor before some dining tables lit with generous gas lamps. Tchotchkes and knickknacks covered every other surface. On the whole, everything seemed slapdash and crowded, yet possessing of the odd quality of organization only known to the well-loved village sandwich shop.
“Did you get many photograms?” I asked from behind a low counter. Blair jumped, startled.
He was peering at a stack of yellowed recipes pinned to the wall with a snake-like dagger. Beside it, a feather boa curled round a bust of Shakespeare. Behind the counter, I found a batch of tea I had steeped earlier for Hargreaves and began pouring it through the air from one pot to another. The aroma was heavenly. Blair looked on, clearly intrigued.
“Ah, not really,” answered Blair, to my question about the photograms. He hadn’t taken off his coat, though the chamber seemed pleasantly humid and well heated, like a maiden aunt’s comfortable parlor. “I wasn’t sure it was proper.”
“Afraid I’d keelhaul you? Can’t be done. Best you’d do is hang, sort of…no ocean to drown in, or barnacles to break stuff like arms on.” There, one question grimly answered.
“The sentiment isn’t particularly comforting,” he managed without looking too pale.
Just as I figured, Blair had reached the conclusion that stealing a longboat, and learning to type and replace ink ribbons with his toes should he fail, was too tall an order. I reappeared with two large mugs of tea.
“You have my solemn word I will not harm you so long as you reside aboard my airship,” I reminded him. Of course, the compact of hospitality, like parley, were rules cutthroats held more sacred than others, but it wouldn’t do to have news of that going around. So a reminder was all I could do.
“Thank you,” said Blair. Carefully, he took a sip of the drink. “Mischievous Hermes, god of pens! The stuff is marvelous!” He took a deeper gulp, unsure of the smoothness flowing down his throat. “Tea? This stuff brings me back to the first time I had tea, at my mum’s knee in our rundown flat opposite Fenchurch station.”
“Good, isn’t it?”
“Seven hells it’s good! What is it?”
“Hong Kong milk tea. The smoothness comes from pouring it back and forth, I’m sure you saw. It mellows the tanins,” I said, doing smackings of the tongue to indicate the back of the palate.
“I’m afraid I rather had a mistaken idea of you, Captain,” Blair said, breath steaming up everything in front of him. “Evil would immolate at the very first scent of this holy beverage.”
“You’ve a way with words. That’s good,” I said. “I may have a use for your talents soon.”
“Mmm?” he answered, busy draining his cup.
“Ever forge papers to enter a machine city port?”
Blair choked, spurting tea over the lip of the cup. I went on.
“You are, of course, free to leave The Huckleberry whenever you want. My hospitality extends to any port of your choice. My advice in your shoes would be to find the nearest, which would be either Brighton or Le Havre, depending on your preference. Or, you can stay, help, and likely find a story or two aboard.”
“Hold on,” Blair said, getting his bearings in the aftermath of the wit-waking beverage. “You mean to say we’re over the Channel? Still within English jurisdiction?”
“Yes,” I said.
“But you’re a wanted criminal! No offense,” he protested, peering about quite foolishly.
Of course, the bulkheads showed no sign of the Navy or the Royal Air Service ships in pursuit. The large galley windows offered a splendid view of the sunrise, which lit Blair’s falsely colored hair. I turned my mahogany eyes on his blue ones. Those, at least, were quite real, and I could see my own reflection framed in them. “All right,” he submitted. “You’re obviously a dab hand at this business, as you’ve no rope on your shoulders. What could I possibly offer you?”
I wasted no time.
“It relates to my conversation with Inspector Hargreaves. She’s offered me some insight into my business in Portsmouth. I suppose we should start with this.” I briskly produced a photogram from my pocket, the same one I had just shown Hargreaves of a white-haired, American gentleman, from the frontier west, no less, in a rather sharp suit.
Blair perused it. “His face is not known to me,” he said finally.
“Bollocks,” I cursed. “With your paper contacts, I was betting you might have seen this face before.”
“I take it this man might be responsible for something particularly infamous? Captain Clemens, sketches of many men cross our presses, and I am simply one journalist.”
“No ‘captain,’ please. Albion will do,” I protested. I went on to explain. “This man is the real Manchu Marauder and the real owner of this ship. I am currently on a quest to recover him. His n
ame is Captain Samuel J. Clemens, and this is his pressed-helium steam dirigible, the pirate ship Huckleberry.”
I may have imagined it, but the ship seemed to dip in acknowledgment, giving a slight shudder all about us.
“The names are unfamiliar. I know of you, and your ship, naturally by the mouths of airmen, but as your description fit the general pirate accounts, this is the first I’ve known of the actual names of her captain,” Blair summed up. Now he must be thinking, the captain has no use for me. I shall be run off the plank for sure. Somehow, he showed no fear, rather, a craftiness I hadn’t felt since…
“But I have contacts on the ground who might be of use!” Blair continued. “And I can forge papers a damn sight better than I can play at highway robbery.”
“Are you quite sure? You would be aiding and abetting pirate activities. They might hang you.”
“I believe I am well hanged, at least in the eyes of the press,” he supplied.
Indeed, he may as well have been hanged. I knew his articles hadn’t been getting much traction, and even the job with Clives and Staples was likely a long shot. He had about as good a chance of surviving up here, in the care of a literal cutthroat, as down on the ground with the editorial breed.
“My work is considered…subversive,” Blair went on.
“Progressive would have been my choice,” I said.
I rubbed my temple. Now that I had a chance to think about it, I knew Blair’s work in more detail than was convenient. He was not popular with editors or politicians.
“I told my editor I would deliver a piece on the cutpurses of England. What greater cutpurse is there than the Bandit of Budapest, the Crook Cathay, the Kleptomaniac of Kyoto?”
“All right, I get your point!” I protested. “Blue blazes, how many names have they for me?”
“I threw in a few of my own,” he admitted. “Pyongyang Purloiner came to mind.”
“Let’s not go there today,” I said, standing up. “What say you? Stay on with us, until your article is written? I daresay there’s a mystery in it. My Captain Sam appears to have taken something of extreme value, at least according to the cheeky rozzer down in my brig. He also seems to be involved in the theft of a major British monument, if you believe such a thing can be done.”