From Haven to Hell

by Rebecca Diem

  “We found work with on a trading ship with one of the merchants who used to sell their goods to us. I took to the pilot’s life well.” Trick stood at the window, “The Tradists have their money and their tariffs and their rules. But they can never take the joys of flying through the air, nor the sweetness of music. Up there, all the indignities of life seem smaller.”

  “What happened to him? Your father,” Clara asked.

  “Oh, he found his luck again. He finally settled down with a lovely widow in the Scottish Highlands. She has grandbabies from her first husband that keep them well and occupied.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely. So it was a happy story after all.”

  “We make our own fortunes, Clara. That’s the lesson in it. You need not depend on others to seek your own happiness, although I suspect you are familiar with such ideas.”

  Clara met his eyes and smiled, “What of the Captain? However did you fall in with his sort?”

  Trick let out a deep belly laugh, “I met him when he was just a scrap of a lad. Nought but 14 years on him, maybe 15. Big shock of fiery hair and the temper to match it. We were both commissioned to the same ship, see, and one night—” he cut off suddenly, looking behind her.

  “Oh, do go on. Really, Trick. Tell me more about my fiery shock of hair.”

  Clara spun to see the Captain leaning against the doorjamb, hair tied back in a neat plait that defied Trick’s description. In that moment, Trick’s bright face rivalled the shade.

  “I, uh, I do believe I have some business to attend to in the – in the storerooms. Yes. Urgent business. Must go straight away,” said Trick, patting his pockets in a show of industry as he headed for the door. The Captain merely followed him with his eyes, not moving from his position as Trick squeezed past him. With a final wink at Clara, Trick ambled down the hall, whistling as he went.

  Clara frowned, “He was only telling me a story. I asked him to.” The casual amusement with which he regarded her was becoming rather annoying, particularly in light of their previous exchange.

  “And you were curious about me?”

  “No, I – he was telling me his story, you just happen to be part of it. Besides, it’s not as though you are forthcoming on the subject.

  “I am an open book, Clara,” he said with a smile, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the sofa across from her. She shifted back in her seat. His long legs practically filled the space between them.

  “First, I find I must apologize once again. I was in a cross mood, and you did not deserve it. Your secrets are your own, I had no right to pry into your affairs. I do trust you, Clara. And I hope that trust is shared.” He leaned back and spread his hands wide, “Now, what stories is he telling about me?”

  “You interrupted his story. How did you meet Trick?”

  “We were part of the same crew.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Is that it?”

  “You asked how we came to meet, that is an accurate account.”

  Clara narrowed her eyes, “Very well.” She rose to leave, but the Captain laughed and reached out to stop her.

  “Wait, I am sorry. If you wish, I will tell you this tale, but –” he took her hand with both of his and looked up into her eyes, “I do hope you will share more of yours with me one day.”

  Clara sat down and folded her hands in her lap. With a roguish grin, the Captain Duke began his story.

  “Well, there were six crates of potatoes, and I thought no one was watching the cart…”

  By the time the bell rang for the midday meal, they were both wiping tears from their eyes and clutching their ribs from laughter.

  “All these years, he’ll certainly never let you forget it.”

  “Oh I have a few tales to tell of his exploits, but perhaps we’ll save those for another telling,” he laughed. The Captain Duke cleared his throat, “Perhaps on our journey when we try this plot of yours.”

  Clara brightened, “Yes?”

  “It’s likely best if we keep it from the others for a little while; tell only those whose participation is essential. I need more time to judge the reaction from the other pilots. It’s a… delicate situation at the moment.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ve almost finished examining the protocols. It will work, Captain. I promise you.” She paused. “What changed your mind?”

  “I did some reading.” He let out a deep laugh, “In truth, I have faith in your enthusiasm for the idea. But dinner first, perhaps?” He extended an arm in a mock bow, which Clara accepted gracefully as they exited the room.

  The Captain Duke squeezed her hand as he tucked it into his arm.

  “Thank you,” he said, stopping in the hallway and turning towards her.

  “For what?”

  “For reminding me why I chose this life.”

  He looked so earnest. Open. Happy. The reasons for his change of heart were unclear, but she was pleased by it nonetheless. Caught off guard by his sincerity, Clara finally gave into the urge to touch the bright strands bound in a plait that hung over his shoulder. She realised that he needed her companionship as much as she desired his own. An odd compulsion rose within her to be held by him. She wanted to feel his arms around her, to confide her every fear and aspiration, and to listen with rapture to his own. She took a breath and steadied herself. Instead, she gave his hair a playful tug and squeezed his arm in return.

  “The pleasure is mine, Captain.”

  The two continued their progress down the hall, laughing all the way, neither of them aware of the angry eyes concealed behind a half-closed door that bore witness to their growing familiarity.

  Chapter 8: In which our heroine befriends a spider

  Clara was flushed with excitement. She had spent hours in the library over the last few days to refresh her knowledge of the current trade regulations between her training sessions with Cat and Mouse. She was more than sure of her knowledge; the deceit would be the hardest part. It was one thing to play at being a lady of refinement. She had extensive training in the matter, though she had thought it to be of little use until recently. And that ruse had the additional benefit of playing to type. The men on board that other ship wanted to believe in the fictitious damsel. As an Inspector, she would need to exude authority. She would need to show no uncertainty lest their targets see through the ruse. She wasn’t entirely certain if she could pull it off, but she was more than up to the challenge.

  Clara dressed herself in the new clothes sent over from the village and stared at her reflection in the mirror, running her hands over the fine grey coat. The clothing was perfectly suited to her purpose. Mrs. Cottingham was truly the master of her field. But something was off. The situation was not helped by the growing insecurity that marred her features. She tried to assume a look of confidence, but her efforts came off as haughty and childish. A knock at the door interrupted her affectation.

  “Are you ready?” Nessa called, entering the room.

  Clara met her friend with a look of desperation. “Nessa…”

  “Oh come now. You’ll do just fine. Here,” she said as she picked up a brush. “Allow me.” Quickly and without mercy, Nessa brushed out Clara’s long dark hair and pulled it back into a tight French braid, tucking the end into a roll at the nape of her neck. The look was professional and austere. Intimidating.

  “Better,” said Clara, lifting her chin. “I wish you would come with us.”

  “Nonsense. I have much to do here to get things ship shape. I’m feeling much improved, I want everything to be ready to go as soon as the Captain gives his say-so. That means packing up the inventory and checking the books.”

  “Very well, but remember to rest.”

  “Yes, yes, and you remember to enjoy yourself. You are more than capable of pulling this off. Not that I remember your first attempt at playacting your way out of trouble, but the results speak to your talents.”

  Clara gave her friend a long hug before hurrying to the d
ocks.

  They took one of the smaller airships, just the Captain, Clara, and a few of his most trusted crewmembers. Only two were aware of their true intent: Anderssen and Peg. The rest believed that the Captain Duke had invited Clara to join him on a social invitation. They flew to Whitehaven, a port on the coast that had grown around the area’s mines. It was not part of a major settlement and had no official Tradist post, so they hoped that they would find an easy time of it.

  After they arrived, the Captain, Anderssen and Peg outfitted themselves in their new uniforms, deep blue jackets with brass buckles. The Captain Duke had his long, red hair tucked securely beneath a cap. For this venture, he would act as Clara’s assistant. She stood at the helm of the airship before her team, black leggings tucked into tall leather boots. Her long, grey coat was fitted tight to her waist before flaring out in a new, peculiar fashion that mixed feminine and masculine styles.

  The Captain Duke smiled and gave her a sharp salute, “Inspector Clarington, we are ready.”

  “Thank you. Gather the documents and prepare to disembark.”

  He laughed and she glared.

  “Here, use these,” he said, pulling a pouch from his satchel. It was a pair of spectacles.

  “My eyesight is perfectly fine.”

  “As is mine,” he said. “Try them.”

  Clara put them on. She could see no differently than before. She moved them up and down, but there was no change.

  “Why on earth do you have a pair of false spectacles?”

  “I have my reasons. Trust me when I say they greatly improve any deception.”

  “Well, thank you then.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes. Ready as I’ll ever be.” Clara adjusted the spectacles on her nose and lifted her chin. She was rewarded by a slow grin from the Captain.

  “Absolutely heartbreaking. They’ll be eating from the palm of your hand.”

  She shooed him away and resumed her stern composure. It was time for action.

  An hour later, Clara was leaning against the side of a tavern, kicking at pebbles. They still had found no likely candidate on which to practice their ruse. No merchant traders had docked this afternoon and Clara was growing frustrated. Anderssen and Mags had abandoned their jackets in the warm afternoon sun. Clara gently padded the perspiration from her brow. The Captain had left them to go and speak with the Portmaster, high above in a tower at the middle of the tallport stretching a hundred feet into the air.

  Whitehaven’s docks were spread out like a pinwheel, each of the three levels hosting airships of all shapes and sizes. Some were heavy transport ships, but none were currently loaded. Many were leisurecraft for the classes who could afford to travel the English coast. Postflyers zipped in and about, couriering their letters and parcels. The central tower contained an elevator for heavier goods, but many of the crates were conveyed to their destination by means of a mechanical track that twisted about the pillar. A staircase followed its path, the two twisting about the tower but never meeting. The new technology had left its mark on the town, with nearly every street filled with mechanized conveyances jostling for space. The coastal port had every manner of luxury good, with airships visiting from far off lands to the east and the west.

  Clara was fanning herself in the shade when she spotted a ship passing overhead.

  “Peg, what is that ship?”

  “It’s a trade ship, all right. From the Caribbean, by the looks of it.”

  “Excellent, it’s exactly what we’ve been looking for. Now where is the Captain?”

  “I don’t see him. We should wait for his return.”

  “Oh, but this is the perfect opportunity! He must have seen its approach, surely he will come find us. Anderssen, you take the satchel. We’re going to do this.”

  They buttoned their jackets and climbed up the broad circular staircase to the level above and walked briskly down the spoke to where the ship had docked. Clara took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and approached a tall woman who was standing near the gangway.

  “Excuse me, pilot. I need to speak to your captain.”

  “Well, that would be me,” she said, turning. Clara was momentarily stunned. The woman had coffee-coloured skin and black hair that was pulled back in neatly matted locks. Small ringlets curled around her face and her smile was bright and friendly. Clara had not anticipated a female captain, and she chided herself for holding to old prejudices.

  “I beg your pardon, Captain. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Inspector Clarington.”

  “Captain Buchanan, at your service. What may I do for you, Inspector?”

  “We have orders to collect samples of all tradable goods,” she said, handing over the formal document procured by the silent Anderssen. “The Association of Merchant Traders is performing quality inspections. We will only need to collect a small amount of your stock. You will be issued a receipt for the goods, of course.”

  Clara’s heart raced as the woman examined her credentials with a furrowed brow. They had been carefully copied, she reassured herself. No one could possibly suspect them. After a long moment, the woman looked up with a hard stare.

  “Well, the Association may rest assured that I only deal in stock of the highest quality. You may board.”

  Clara’s heart leapt but she maintained her cool composure, “Thank you, Captain Buchanan.”

  She turned to shout orders to her crew while Clara turned to hand the documents back to Anderssen. Peg cleared her throat.

  “Inspector Clarington. The Cap– your assistant has returned, Ma’am.”

  The Captain Duke was hurrying down the dock toward them. They paused to wait for him to catch up.

  “Is everything in order, Inspector?” he asked as he neared.

  “Certainly,” she said with a smile. Then she watched his face freeze as Captain Buchanan turned to face them once more.

  Something was terribly wrong. Clara tensed, preparing herself to fight or run as the situation required. She was stunned when Captain Buchanan began to laugh.

  “Well, well. This is a new one,” she said, staring at the Captain Duke.

  He turned a shade paler than Clara thought was possible, “Marie, how are you?”

  Clara narrowed her eyes and looked between the two captains.

  “I think you all had better come aboard,” said Captain Buchanan. Clara raised an eyebrow, but the Captain Duke gestured that they should follow.

  “I presume that you are familiar with my ‘assistant?’” asked Clara archly, once they were settled in a large office. The windows had been tinted against the glare of the sun. The cabin was cool despite the afternoon heat, dressed in bright colours. The three of them were sitting in woven chairs as one of the pilots brought in a cool, refreshing tea. Captain Buchanan sat with one ankle crossed over her knee. Clara’s bearing was stiff and straight with ankles crossed in modesty. The Captain Duke shifted nervously in his seat between the two women. It seemed to Clara that Captain Buchanan was taking far too much enjoyment from the situation.

  “Indeed I am familiar with the good Captain Duke. It is you who interests me. Not an inspector, I presume.”

  Clara was reluctant to break the ruse. But the Captain leaned back and smiled.

  “This is Clara, a new pilot of mine. Please accept my apologies, Marie. We meant no disrespect.”

  “Very well, Olivier. But you will explain what in the heavens you are up to this time.”

  Clara’s eyebrows shot up and she snuck a sidelong glance. Olivier?

  “Ah, I see you are still a man of many secrets.”

  “I prefer ‘Captain.’”

  “As do I, but what are formalities between old friends,” she asked, showing her teeth.

  Clara had the distinct sense that this was not a woman to trifle with and she had never been more curious about the Captain’s mysterious past. Of course the first airship they met would be pirates. Still, she was determined to make an ally of this woman. She could
be useful to the success of their endeavour.

  “Please, the fault was mine, Captain Buchanan. If the Captain will permit me to explain, I would very much enjoy your feedback on our little ruse,” she said with as much goodwill as she could muster.

  “Drop the act. You smile like sugar but your eyes cut like steel,” said Captain Buchanan. “I’ll admit it, you nearly had me. It was a good attempt. Your first, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  The Captain Duke was silent. Clara glanced at him, and he gestured for her to continue.

  “We… experienced some difficulty with a Tradist ship a few weeks ago. It was heavily armed. Far more than we were prepared to deal with. With some creative thinking, we managed to escape and secured a good amount of grain for our efforts. With these inspections, we may be able to collect the goods without as much risk to our crew.”

  Captain Buchanan was silent, sipping at the cool tea. The Captain Duke leaned forward.

  “They nearly took Nessa.”

  “She’s safe now,” said Clara, seeing a flash of distress cross the other woman’s face. “She suffered a concussion and some scrapes and bruises. But she is recovering.”

  “Nessa—What happened? How did you escape?”

  “Clara dressed herself as a debutante and convinced the sergeant he had made a terrible mistake. And convinced him to throw a dozen sacks of grain into the bargain.”

  “I’m impressed. You must be an excellent liar.”

  Clara frowned. A stillness fell over the room. The tension was palpable as the woman looked her over. Clara sat straight in her chair and gave no indication of her racing heart.

  Then, Captain Buchanan smiled. “I like you, Clara. But in the future, do not attempt any of your ruses on my ships.” She rose and extended a hand. Clara stood to shake it.

  “I am Marie Buchanan, Captain of Ariadne.”