Stephen Hunt - The Kingdom Beyond the Waves

Damson Beeton frowned. The wolftakers of the Court of the Air lived by a similar code. ‘Now that sounds worryingly familiar.’

‘You will have the opportunity to hear it again,’ said the Catosian. ‘Very shortly.’

They entered a round chamber with polished wooden decking but no natural light, recessed gas lamps hissing gently with a yellow radiance. Steps on either side led down to pits where retainers tended transaction engines and monitored illuminated dials. Dressed in aprons similar to those worn by Greenhall engine men, the staff regulated their machinery’s pressure by working wheels set along racks of copper pipes.

At the end of the chamber stood Abraham Quest and Robur, a handful of fencible officers in attendance — some obviously Catosian, others more of his academy sweepings. Quest turned, smiling, when he noticed Cornelius and the other two prisoners from Dolorous Isle. ‘A little different from the last tour I gave you, Compte de Speeler.’

‘All in all, I preferred the orchids,’ said Cornelius. ‘Even the ones that ate your mice.’

‘You three were coming close to uncovering my real game,’ said Quest. ‘So close that I thought I would spare you the trouble of breaking into my airship works and the undignified business of sneaking around my premises.’

‘Or the trouble I was taking to update the whistler network with my last report,’ said Damson Beeton.

‘You mean the Court of the Air doesn’t know about me already? You needn’t underplay your organization’s curiosity about my ambitions,’ said Quest. ‘I appreciate the interest the Court has been taking in my activities, wholly predictable as your people’s predations are.’

‘I’ve been called a lot of things in my years,’ said Damson Beeton, ‘but never predictable.’

‘Please,’ said Quest, ‘no false modesty. I am one of the few people in the world to grasp the amount of transaction-engine power it takes to model the whole of Jackelian society, to structure the quiet but deadly interventions of your wolftakers. How does the House of Quest and myself appear in the maths turning on the Court of the Air’s transaction-engine drums, I wonder?’

‘Leakage,’ said Damson Beeton. ‘Pure leakage.’

Quest’s lips tightened into a thin smile. ‘Well, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. I have been putting my own theories of transaction-engine modelling to good use.’

‘Using deceased steammen components, perhaps?’ Cornelius said.

‘You’re not even warm,’ said Quest. ‘No, I used my transaction-engine rooms to model the pattern of what should be the behavioural norm for my employees. Here’s what came up as abnormal-’ Quest gestured at one of the workers in the pit and a Rutledge Rotator spun into operation on the wall. The image pixellated into a row of coffins, heavy armoured affairs gleaming black, with silver sigils sketched across them. The angle of the picture altered to show human heads visible at the other end of the metal coffins, mouths gagged with the same style of restraining mask Damson Beeton had been wearing. The old woman hissed as she recognized some of the faces.

‘Normally I admire persistence,’ said Abraham Quest. ‘You can accomplish so much with simple persistence. Give it enough time, and the wind can wear away mountains with a breeze as gentle as a whisper; but the Court of the Air’s tedious desire to infiltrate my concerns has really grown into something of an irritation for me now.’

‘You really think you can do that to the Court’s agents with impunity?’ asked Damson Beeton.

‘I’ve already had a taste of your reprisals. One of your sleeper agents managed to escape my attentions. He tried to eliminate me when he discovered I had captured your colleagues, but in one of life’s little ironies, I was pushed out of the way of his killing shot by your employer.’ Quest laughed, and looked across at Cornelius. ‘Would you save me again if the opportunity arose? It is interesting, is it not? For all the havoc you inflict across the border running around wearing a Furnace-breath Nick mask, when you had to act on pure instinct, your first reaction was to save life, not take it. I would say there’s hope for you, yet.’ Quest pointed up at the image of the restrained agents. ‘I’m sure there will be repercussions, damson. Wolves prey on sheep; wolftakers prey on the wolves, but who preys on the wolftakers? I do believe you will find the Court of the Air’s position in the ecos has just changed.’

‘You think you’re the top of the food chain now?’ said Damson Beeton. ‘Circle preserve us all, then. What do you intend to do with our agents?’

‘Your colleagues are alive,’ said Quest. ‘Albeit a little limited in capacity, currently. I didn’t want to find out their level of proficiency in the worldsinger arts the hard way, so I devised the hex boxes as a way to curtail the Court’s witchery and sorcerer’s tricks. I modelled the hexes on a transaction engine too — another first, I believe. They are very complex. I doubt whether there are many agents in the Court capable of breaking them. As to your colleagues’ fate, I am sure I can find a good use for them. As bookends, perhaps?’

A retainer in an elaborate blue uniform came up to Quest, whispering something in the mill owner’s ear. Quest looked at Robur, nodded, and the mechomancer descended into one of the instrumentation pits, both his hands reaching out to yank down a lever. As he threw the lever, the entire room started to tremble, the wall behind Quest lowering to reveal an arc of armoured glass stretching from the floor to the ceiling. There was only darkness behind the glass, but it was getting lighter, the growing illumination accompanied by a massive crunching sound beyond their room.

Septimoth covered his sensitive ears with his glove-covered talons. ‘That noise …’

‘Pneumatic pistons,’ said Quest. ‘Extremely large ones.’

With a heavy jolt their chamber was raising itself from the earth, the dark rock face outside falling away as they passed iron tubes pushing back the Ruxley granite in gushes of steam. Then they were raised clear of all obstructions, left with a view of a line of fertile green hills outside the glass. On the opposite slope, the rocky crest of a hill was flowering open to give birth to a monstrously large airship — three globes bound together in a steel frame, the under-structure of a Jackelian man-o’-war hanging embedded into her hull units. To the side of them a second hill was opening, releasing another giant aerostat into the sky, gusts of smoke from the pneumatic engines billowing out underneath the craft. With a start, Cornelius realized they were standing on the bridge of a third such vessel.

In front of the sheet glass, two ship’s wheels had risen from the floor, retainers in striped airship sailors’ shirts taking the wheels, while an elaborately uniformed man — the captain of the vessel — paced behind the elevator and rudder helmsmen. Cornelius shook his head. The skipper should be nervous. They had just declared war on Jackals. The House of Guardians maintained an absolute monopoly over their power in the skies. The RAN flew alone, as guarantor of the realm’s freedoms. No other nation had celgas. No other nation had an aerial navy — and the Jackelian state would severely punish anyone who dared to try to alter that happy equilibrium.

‘You have gone too far this time,’ said Cornelius.

‘These three vessels are high-lifters,’ said Quest. ‘You’ll find our journey has only just begun.’

‘Jackals has dealt with science pirates before,’ noted Damson Beeton. ‘Underwater raiders like Solomon Dark and aerial menaces like the Marshal of the Air. If you think these three oversized toys of yours are a match for the hundreds of airships the RAN has on her lists, you will find yourself sadly mistaken. The first city you attack, the four fleets of the navy will be mobilized to hunt you down.’