Neal Barrett Jr - Treachery of Kings

Finn felt a sudden chill, for he could see the answer in the Bullie's glassy brown eyes.

“No, truly, that makes little sense at all. We can't very well remain aloft unless we can see… “

“An’ what'd you like to do? Set ‘er down there among that poor lot? By damn, if you'd stop thinkin’ ‘bout your Mycer lass, you'd see what be a'happenin’ outside your fuzzy head… “

The moment the sun vanished under a purple haze, two frightening things occurred. First, the dark flowed in so quickly, Finn felt some heavenly scribe must have spilled his ink across the skies. And, with the coming of night, the breeze that had driven them steadily from morning's light suddenly disappeared.

Bucerius’ balloon began to sink like a stone. Finn drew in a desperate breath and held on tight, waiting for the dreadful impact with the ground.

Why hadn't the Bullie mentioned they'd never had a chance at all? That would have been the proper thing to do.

Instead, the fellow grabbed Finn's shoulders, bellowed out instructions that nearly left him deaf in one ear.

In an instant, he was tossing out sandbags as quickly as he could, watching the ground rise rapidly in the dark. Behind him, Bucerius was yanking at his infernal array of lines, shrouds, pulleys and vents, actions which seemed to have no effect at all.

Then, of a sudden, all was well again. They weren't moving fast, and they surely weren't sailing very high, but they were still in the air and not crushed upon the ground.

“Would you mind,” Finn asked, feeling as deflated as a capsized balloon, “telling me what that was all about? I thought we were doomed.”

“That isn't no word in the tongue of my folk. That's a human-person word, be what it is.”

Finn knew better than to argue the point. And, in time, Bucerius explained that surely Finn recalled that the Easterlies blew in the morning and the Westerlies in the night. It was night, as anyone could see, and now they would have to sail low, to catch what wind there might be, wind known, of course, to veteran pilots like himself.

Finn accepted the Bullie's answer, and wondered, not for the first time, if there might not be some better way to navigate the air than hanging below a bag of gas, hoping it would go where you wanted to be. He vowed, when he could, to give the matter more thought. There might be some way to craft a lizard for such a task. He would certainly take it up with Julia Jessica Slagg.

He quickly swept away those thoughts, determined not to bring them up again.

“And when will we reach Heldessia?” Finn wanted to know. “Sometime soon, I presume.”

“If the wind be willing. If it not, it be later than that.”

“Later than what?”

“Later than when we'd be if it wasn't. You wants to run this lovely device, let me be gettin’ some sleep?” “No, I wouldn't care to do that.”

“Wouldn't care for you to try. I got some good years left to be.”

So do I, Finn thought, and if I come home safe, I swear I'll not risk the time I've got on something as foolish as this…

He searched the sky for other balloons of the merchant fleet, but if they were there, it was too dark to see. The ground swept by perilously close below, and Finn could smell the foul stench of the swamp, the fetid odor of stagnant water and rotting vegetation, the scent of some loathsome, unknown creature of the night.

Either that, or the stupefying, deadly emanations from Bucerius, who had eaten great quantities of turnips, whistle beans and mackerel cheese. Finn thought of the jelly sandwich and fatcake he'd left behind, the supper Letitia had packed. Even his favorite foods had no appeal now.

“Sweet Letitia, how I wish I was with you now. Though it's clear you're not as worried, not as anxious or disturbed as I feel you ought to be, I would overlook that if only you were near… “

“What's that? By damn, what you be a'mutterin’ now?”

“Not a thing, Bucerius. I was talking to myself. As you so kindly mentioned before, it's a thing that human persons do.”

“It be one of the things. Not all of ‘em, for sure. You wantin’ some of this cheese?”

“No,” Finn said, holding his breath as the Bullie loosed a ripper again, “but it's kind of you to ask.”

Up, get up, damn your hide, on your feet, now!”

Finn came awake at once, suddenly aware he'd been dozing, and wondered how he'd managed that.

“What is it? Nothing of great matter, I hope.”

“Just hold on to those lines. Don't be lettin’ ‘em go.”

“Something's amiss, I can tell. Whatever it is, I want to know.”

“We be landin’ soon, is what it is. Them lights down there? That's Heldessia. Just south there's the royal grounds.”

“Say, that's fine.” Finn peered over for a better look.

“Isn't fine a'tall.”

“It's not?”

“You listenin’, human person? Not bein’ fine, there's Bowsers everywhere. Place be swarming down there. They already snaggered a balloon, or I'd never spotted ‘em at all.”

“What? Why would they-”

Finn's words were lost as a volley of musket fire rang out in the night. A lead ball thunked into the wicker basket, close to Finn's head. Another whined overhead and snapped a line.

“What do they want? What's going on here!”

“I shoulda remembered, damn me,” the Bullie said. “It's Thursday again. Tuesdays and Thursdays, they be try an’ kill the King…”

Finn had a great many questions, ques tions he felt called for answers at once. Panic, chills, fear of urination, gastric irritation, swept all thought from his head.

Shouts, howls, bellows and barks reached them from below. Discord, clamor, and harsh resonation filled the night. The flare of muskets, the smell of powder, the din of leaden shot stung his eyes, split his ears and burned his nose.

Then, with a terrifying, sound, a sound more fearsome than the rest, the fat sphere above ripped asunder, from the bottom to the top, burst its vaporous innards with a great unearthly fart.

Bucerius roared in anger as the basket gave a sickening lurch, tipped on one side and nearly tossed the pair to the ground.

Finn hung on for dear life. From the corner of his eye, something big, something dark, something more solid than the night rose up at him in a blur. The basket jerked to a stop, snapping wicker, shredding cords, slamming the Bullie into Finn, squeezing him nearly flat.

As he struggled for a breath, Finn saw a chimney rush by, saw the shattered basket fill with brick and soot, felt the clatter and the rattle as they slid down the steep-sided roof.

For another awful moment, they were airborne again. Then, wicker, brick, lines, an avalanche of slate, came to a wrenching halt on the ground. A shroud of fabric settled gently over the Bullie and Finn.

Finn rubbed his stinging eyes, spat a mouthful of soot. Wondered how he could possibly be alive.

“It is no way short of a miracle,” he said to himself. “And even then, I have my doubts”

“Don't be a'gabbin’, keep still,” Bucerius muttered, lifting him easily out of the mess. “You not be entirely livin’ yet, lest we hauling out of here.”

“Thank you, friend. I'm terribly grateful for your help.”

“Take a care, watch it where you step.”

“What? Pots and Pans, what am I stepping on?”

“I fear we be smushin’ a fair lot of chickens. More like a herd. Somethin’ bigger than a flock. Doubt anyone be thanking us for that.”

As if in answer, a florid face, round as a moon, appeared in a window overhead. The fellow shouted and flailed his arms about, cursing in a gruff, unknown tongue, a language that seemed to greatly rely upon spit.