Cherie Priest - Fiddlehead

“And if the cloud roams…?”

“Can’t tell you much about the weather, ma’am,” Troost replied. “All I know is that word out of the city says it’s fair and calm, but clouds are coming up from the southwest, so you never know. Might be a storm in the Gulf pushing up a breeze. Let’s hope not, eh?”

She murmured, “You hope. I’ll pray.”

“Pray into one hand, shit in the other. You tell me which one fills up first.”

“That’s unnecessary.” She frowned.

“It’s a reminder, that’s all. Get out there and do your jobs, and don’t count on any help from above, unless it comes in the form of an airship.”

Henry stuck the map into his coat, jamming it down into a pocket. “And it’s our job to stop this caravan? The pair of us? Against a contingent of special Union forces?”

“A Pink and a Marshal against a squadron?” Troost grinned, and it only looked a little forced. “I almost feel bad for them. Now, let’s get you on the move so that I can get on the move.”

Maria asked, “You’re taking Sally and Caleb out? Tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m getting them as far from the blast zone as I can. Orders right from the top, from Uncle Grant this time.”

Henry said, “I was under the impression he hadn’t been too helpful so far.”

Troost started to roam the room, packing up small items and throwing them into a satchel. “He’s a sad old drunk who’s sitting in a nest of vipers, but he’s not a bad sort—and I don’t know what convinced him, but I can make a guess or two. Uncle Abe implied that Miss Haymes showed up to give him a heart-to-heart in person. But you know how it is with telegrams. You have to guess at half the detail.”

Maria tapped her fingernail on the table beside the telegraph key. “So, Henry, how fast can that carriage of yours run? It seemed a bit slow-going on the way here—not that I’m complaining, of course.”

Troost announced, “I have a better idea.”

Henry grinned. “I told her you might,” he said, as Troost passed him a small packet of paper.

“Take this down to the dirigible docks on Missionary Ridge. Henry, you know the place?”

“I can find it.”

“Got you a two-seater reserved. It’ll be cold flying—and I expect that might be hard on a delicate magnolia like yourself, Miss Boyd, but—”

“Hush your ridiculous mouth.”

“—but if you’re living on the Chicago lake, I figure you’ll survive the discomfort. Now, the craft’s reserved under the name Henry Fisher, courtesy of the Texas Rangers. I ran it that way because your stars ain’t too different, and if I’d put it under the Marshals, they’d have put me under arrest. Sorry, but you’ll have to fib it as a brown. How’s your Republican accent?”

“Passing fair,” he drawled.

Troost leaned on the table and gave him a critical eye. “Tell ’em you’re from the islands. Say Galveston. The vowels aren’t as long, and most Texians only halfway consider the Gulf part of their country anyway.”

“Got it.”

“Miss Boyd, you’re traveling as Mary Wilson. I tried to think of something more bland than that, but I failed. I hope it’ll do.”

“It’ll work just fine, thank you. How did you come up with all this so … so quickly?”

Henry flashed Troost a look that suggested he’d like to know, too, but Troost didn’t feel like sharing. “Tricks of the trade,” he said, and that was all. “Now get a move on. Every mile they go is another mile you have to chase them.”

“God knows what we’ll even do when we catch them,” Henry sighed.

Maria said, “We’ll tell them the truth. It’s all we’ve got.”

“Sadly, it’s the best we’ve got. Troost, thanks for all your help.”

“I’d say ‘anytime,’ except I wouldn’t mean it. Stop those fellows before they do something we’ll all regret—them most of all. When I get to the District, I’ll try to arrange papers from Uncle Grant to make explanations for you. Until then, just make sure they don’t shoot you if you get caught.”

“That was part of the plan already,” Maria assured him.

“You know what I mean. Now, make a run for it, make it good, and start practicing your story.” Then he gazed hard at Maria, as if she’d given him an idea. Maria didn’t like the feel of it, almost as if he was staring right through her … and perhaps he was. Then he snapped his fingers and said, “You remember your old friend Hainey, Miss Boyd?”

Calling the air captain an “old friend” was a little much, but she let it ride. “He’s a difficult man to forget.”

“I might be able to drag him into this. Might need to, in fact. I can’t be everywhere at once—I’m good, but I’m not that good—so I’ll need somebody…”

“Somebody as good as you?” she supplied.

He balked at answering. “As good as me? I don’t know about that. But I’ll fire up the taps and see if I can’t flag him down. I’d love to have some help in the District, and I could do much worse than him.” Before Henry could volunteer them, Kirby clarified, “Not you two. You’re headed south. You won’t have time to fly back and save the day if it needs saving. Neither will I, I don’t expect. We can’t spread ourselves that thin. So I’ll see who I can press into service. If everything shakes out all right, I’ll see you in the District in another few days. If it don’t … I suppose I’ll see you all in hell.”

The steep slopes of Missionary Ridge were cold and treacherous—muddy from the rains of the past few days, and slowly freezing as the temperature dropped yet lower and a blustery wind kicked up from the west. Spitting hints of rain slapped against the windscreen as Henry drove, and flicked inside the open cab to sting Maria’s cheeks. She huddled deeper in her coat and burrowed as far as she could back in her hard seat, despite the discomfort. She could feel the gears shift and yank, and the frame behind her shoulders rattled as the car tugged against the road’s slick, unforgiving ruts.

The dock itself was perched high atop the tree-covered ridge overlooking the city, outside the wall and far enough away to provide a generous view.

“Tennessee likes to say their wall is one of the wonders of the modern world,” Henry told her through chattering teeth. “I don’t know if that’s true, but”—he drew the vehicle to a halt and set its brake so it wouldn’t roll—“it’s a sight to behold all the same.”

“Agreed,” she said, through lips so numb she could scarcely form the word. Without the wind rushing in the windows, the world seemed somewhat warmer; but as soon as she opened her door and stepped to the ground, she found the currents were almost worse up there in the scenic elevations.

She wished for a good umbrella, something that would fend off ice and rain alike.

On second thought, it was just as well she didn’t have one, as it would not survive the weather—or so she concluded when a fierce gust shoved up against her side, peppering her cheeks with needle-cold shards of sleet.

“Flying in this weather won’t be any fun.”

“Won’t be very safe, either, but we don’t have much choice.” Henry tucked his own coat closer and made a beeline for the ticket house, a long, narrow building with four counter windows ready to do business.

While he handed over his papers and sorted out the arrangements, Maria eyed the dirigible offerings. She counted three big transport ships, far too large for their needs—and almost certainly too big for them to fly as a pair—but they had closed-in cabins with enormous glass shields, so she wished for one all the same. Two others were middling-sized, though one of those looked too bedraggled to fly. And she thought she spied several smaller crafts behind a tall wooden fence, the tops of their domes peeking above the barrier, bobbing against one another in the wind.