Alan Campbell - Iron Angel

“There are a hundred of these arrogant bastards out there,” Jones explained to Harper. “Cohl’s mercenaries fight with weapons coloured in shades between black and white. The Black Sword and his counterpart, the White Sword, are the most skilled warriors in each one of the two disciplines of Kiril and Yen, while those in between kill one another for better weapons and thus better ranks.”

“I see you’ve watched Adelere’s play,” the White Sword remarked.

“I watched Edgar Lovich play you onstage!”

“Badly, I fear.”

“And you killed him because of that?”

“Alas, someone beat me to it.”

“What do you want?” Jones said.

“Just let the thaumaturgy work without interference.”

The flames had now risen to the arconite’s shoulder, and the great bone giant stood wreathed in green and black fire. In this unnatural light, Pilby’s face seemed much harder than it had previously looked. His laconic smile evinced an utter lack of fear, a confidence in his own abilities that exceeded arrogance. “Many entities, mortal and immortal, sought to prevent the release of this arconite into the world,” he said. “That has failed, so now they must try to control it.”

“And which of them do you serve?” Jones said. “Rys, I suppose?”

Pilby gave a nod.

Ersimmin the pianist had been watching all of this from a few yards further back along the passenger deck. “Preposterous,” he called, walking over. “Your weapon isn’t even white. Ivory, I’d guess. Compare the shade to my own.” He drew his sword.

Pilby’s eyes flicked to the other man’s blade, then back to meet the pianist’s gaze. “Yours is a fake,” he said.

“No,” Ersimmin said, “it isn’t.” He lunged at the smaller man.

Steel clashed.

Pilby foiled one attack, then a second, but the third thrust took him in the neck.

The self-proclaimed First of Cohl’s Shades gurgled once, then crumpled to the deck, his lifeblood pouring out between the fingers now clamped over his throat.

Ersimmin picked up the fallen sword and compared it to his own, examining both weapons closely. Finally he nodded to himself. “His blade is darker. Old Pilby was labouring under a misapprehension.” He slipped a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped his own sword clean of the other man’s blood. “This business can get confusing, what with so many weapons of a similar luster in circulation. One can never really be sure one has achieved true mastery.”

“Then you’re the White Sword?” Harper said.

The pianist gave a curt bow. “I’m more confident of that title now, although I can’t be certain until I have faced the remainder of Cohl’s Shades. I’ve heard of one Kirillin warrior who has collected twenty-two blades already.” He shrugged, and appeared to stifle a smirk. “Almost as many as myself.”

Jones helped Harper up. “How many of you bloody mercenaries are on board?” he asked. “I suppose Lovich was another one?”

“Hardly.” Ersimmin snorted. “He was just a terrible actor with a painted blade-an embarrassment to all of Cohl’s Shades. There was no need for me to challenge him to a fight.”

Harper inhaled deeply from her bulb. So this was the man who had ordered Hasp to kill Lovich? She was about to demand answers from him when her Locator shrilled.

Ersimmin eyed the device in her hands. “King Menoa foresaw difficulties, so he hired me to protect this mission and to allow you to do your job, Miss Harper. Can you stop this sabotage?”

“I don’t know,” Harper admitted. And, truthfully, she didn’t know if she wanted to stop the sabotage. The loss of an arconite would be a tremendous blow to Menoa. In a small way it would be revenge for what had happened to Tom. But if she failed Menoa now, she might never get close to him again. And she could not predict what the automaton would do if it were freed from the king’s influence.

A whisper of steel. Jones had drawn his own rapier from its sheath and now swept it in an arc from his hip towards the pianist’s neck. Ersimmin parried, before lashing out a fist at the side of the older man’s head. Jones ducked, striking the other man hard in the chest with his elbow. The pianist recoiled. Jones pushed his blade deep into the other man’s heart.

Ersimmin’s body slumped to the deck atop Pilby’s corpse.

“Arrogant bastard,” Jones muttered. He put one foot on Ersimmin’s pelvis and heaved the bloody sword free of the other man’s chest.

For a moment Harper stared at him in shocked silence. “Don’t tell me you’re …”

“The White Sword?” Jones picked up the pianist’s handkerchief and wiped his own blade clean. The metal shone a dull stony colour. “No. I suppose I’m actually somewhere in the mid-greys.” He grabbed both Ersimmin’s and Pilby’s discarded weapons and tossed them over the side of the ship into the lake below.

“Aren’t you supposed to hold on to those?” Harper asked. “In order to ascend the ranks?”

The old man grunted. “I’m just in it for the money. The moment you possess a pure white or black sword, then every one of Cohl’s Shades comes after you. Besides…” He hefted his own grey blade. “This one is just as sharp as the others.”

Edith Bainbridge stepped forward, raising her chin. “Mid-grey!” she shrilled. “This puts an entirely new perspective on our arrangement, Mr. Jones.” Her eyes became small and hard. “I was under the impression I had hired a grand master of Kiril, and yet you appear to be little better than a common cutthroat. Mid-grey indeed! You have misled me, sir.”

Jones shrugged. He glanced up at the automaton and then turned to face Harper. “I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “But I can’t let you stop this process. It seems that Pilby and I unwittingly shared the same contract. Had Ersimmin not slain him, there would have been no need to reveal my identity.”

“You’re Rys’s agent?”

He directed a nod to Edith Bainbridge.

“He works for me,” the small woman said. “And I work for the god of flowers and knives.” She smiled. “You Mesmerists think the human race exists to be used, moulded to any purpose that suits your warped ideology. Unlike you, dear, I chose not to abandon my own race.”

“We won’t hurt you,” Jones said. “Provided you do not interfere with our plans.”

“You brought a thaumaturge aboard? Who is he?”

Jones looked peevish. “Honestly, we don’t know. If Rys is behind this sorcery, he didn’t mention it to us.” He shrugged. “But then he said nothing about Pilby, either. It matters not. The thaumaturge’s actions suit our purpose, and so we will not interfere.”

The Sally Broom had by now steamed some sixty yards out from the base of the cliffs and was heading in a wide curve away from the automaton. A ribbon of froth bobbed up and down in her wake, carried by the swell of the grey lake waters. High above them the arconite appeared to be in a state of great agitation. The castle-sized skull stared down at the engine in its own chest, where the colourful fires now blazed. Flames of green and black danced deep within the machinery, illuminating gears, pistons, and blood vats. With a mighty creak and thump of metal, the arconite raised one huge hand and beat it against its ribcage. Gulls burst from nests within the titan’s shoulders and neck, their alarm cries shrill and distant.

“You don’t understand,” Harper said to Jones and Edith. “If the arconite is released from Hell’s influence, it will become independent, unpredictable. We’ll be put in grave danger.”

“Carrick,” Jones said, “would you be so kind as to inform the Sally ’s captain of our predicament? I’d suggest to him he might want to increase our speed and move us directly away from the automaton.”