Stephen Hunt - The Court of the Air

Sitting in his bed in the hall Oliver saw things he had only dreamed of while a prisoner of his registration order at Hundred Locks: processions of steammen mystics dancing and whirling at dusk, the fearsome gun-boxes — house-sized steammen carefully climbing the stair paths on two legs, massive cannons ready to repel any invaders foolish enough to assault this mountain fastness.

On the third day he was judged well enough by the king’s surgeon to see Harry. Architect Goldhead led Oliver through the halls and onto a bodiless walking platform waiting outside — its stacks well adapted to the high altitude, leaving a thin ladder of smoke trailing in the cold air as it trotted Oliver and his minder through the steep streets of Mechancia. None of the mountain paths seemed crowded and the walking platform rarely had to sound its whistle, steammen stepping easily out of its way when they saw the transport coming. Mechancian society did not appear as mixed as that of a Jackelian city to Oliver’s eyes, but they still passed the occasional craynarbian or Jackelian trader; coal men mostly, wrapped in warm fur coats with trains of mules spilling black coke dust from their heavy panniers. Their jogging transport had to squeeze through many of the narrow streets, whitewashed buildings on either side rising as high as the walls of a canyon — red pagoda-style roofs elevated into the drifting ribbons of fog. Steammen at some of the windows waved as they passed.

‘Is Harry close?’ Oliver asked the architect.

‘He is still at the palace,’ replied the steamman.

It was freezing in the exposed walking platform and Oliver dug his hands into his fur coat’s pockets. No wonder so much of the Steammen Free State’s territory consisted of these mountains on the roof of the world — there were few other races in Jackals that would willingly abide in these craggy heights.

Their path broadened away from building-flanked streets, taking them out to a weighty suspension bridge crossing the air to Mechancia’s royal citadel. An ivory river of fog flowed underneath the iron bridge. On the other side two shield-stone doors on rollers stood open, protected by a gun-box, its nose a stub-cannon dipped down to smell out threats. A row of steammen knights stood to attention in its shadow, metal centaurs with heads like barb-beaked hunting birds. They might as well have been statues, so still did they stand duty — only the flags on poles clipped to their backs crackling and moving in the breeze. Its passage already approved, the walking platform jounced through the opening and into the citadel.

Oliver stared at the large open halls they passed, full of kneeling steammen singing the same machine noise hymns he had heard while he drifted in and out of his fever-wracked consciousness.

‘They sing in praise of our ancestors,’ announced Architect Goldhead, following the direction of Oliver’s gaze. ‘It pleases the spirits to hear their achievements and lives honoured by the people. Are not all of our achievements built upon the shoulders of those who have preceded us in the world?’

Oliver remembered the corpses of steammen knights rising out of the mud in Jackals. ‘I believe I might owe them a vote of thanks myself.’

‘Yes indeed, Oliver softbody. The capital has been abuzz with word of what happened to you and your companion on the border. The last time the Loas intervened in the affairs of fastbloods so directly was … well, a very long time ago. I fear it augurs difficult times ahead.’

The words of the Lady of the Lights drifted back to Oliver. We are fast moving beyond the point where a little extrawattle and daub around the edges is going to keep the rooffrom leaking . Oliver said nothing. Did a warm room in Seventy Star Hall and his quiet lonely life of reading books really seem so bad now? Surely boredom was better than having the weight of the world dropped down on his shoulders?

Their walking platform came to a halt by a pair of tall red columns and the architect stepped off the steamman transport — beckoning Oliver to follow him. Beyond the columns was a chilly open hall, its floor a soft golden wood — surely precious material in these harsh rocky climes.

‘Your companion and Master Saw are to give a demonstration,’ whispered Architect Goldhead, his voicebox at its lowest volume. ‘A display of the fighting arts.’

In the middle of the hall stood the disreputable Stave, facing a three-legged steamman with dozens of skeletal arms, many tipped with blades, maces and bludgeons — wrapped in cloth for the sparring match. Young steammen in nursery bodies sat silently at the other end of the hall, curiously waiting to see how this soft-looking animal would match up to one of their own race.

‘Master Saw is the Knight Marshal of the Orders Militant,’ said the architect. ‘To spar with him is a great thing — your friend must have impressed Master Saw at his meetings with the court.’

‘Or annoyed him,’ said Oliver. ‘He probably stole King Steam’s crown.’

Architect Goldhead seemed shocked by the suggestion. ‘Surely not. It has been whispered that your friend is a worldsinger, that he can fight in witch-time.’

‘Watch and see,’ said Oliver.

Master Saw tipped his needle-nosed head towards Harry and the wolftaker gave a small bow back. What followed was almost too fast to watch — both man and steamman speeding into a single blur of spinning fury, blows striking out, blocked and returned in a dance fought at a tempo at the edge of human comprehension. The metal soldier fought in a frenetic windmill style, his weapon limbs arcs of destruction. Harry seemed to be using his animal suppleness to bob, kick and punch, giving ground when the steamman advanced — yet hardly seeming to retreat an inch — circling and flowing around the soldier.

After a minute of watching the bout it seemed hardly to be a combat at all — the two contestants so synchronised in their forms it was more like a piece of choreographed dance; more art than violence. Mesmerised by the display, when the peal of a bell sounded, Oliver jolted upright. It was the end of the bout. The young man would have been hard pressed to say afterwards if it had lasted two minutes or thirty. Harry was sweating so much he looked like he had been swimming when he bowed to the steamman, while steam was rising off Master Saw’s overworked boiler which glowed red with the additional energy he had been consuming.

Master Saw dipped his helmet-like head. ‘The form of water; a good choice when fighting metal.’

‘So I was taught, knight marshal. Although fire beats water.’

Master Saw raised his bandaged weapon limbs. ‘Even the knights steammen do not use flame weapons in a sparring match.’

Harry Stave spotted Oliver and walked over to where he was standing. ‘Lad! You had us bleeding worried for a while. They only let me see you the once and you were in a right old state.’

‘It seems your lack of faith in our ability to heal your friend was unfounded,’ said Architect Goldhead.

Harry glared at the metal creature and led Oliver to the side of the hall where they could not be overheard. ‘I found a human doctor who works on the traders hurt on the mountain paths, landslides and falls, but he was a leaafer — struck off back home without a doubt. I figured you would have a better chance with shiny skull and his friends, once I convinced them you didn’t want metal limbs.’

‘I’m okay now, Harry.’

‘Good lad. I’d rather not have to face your father when I move forward on the Circle and explain to him why I let his son die on the lam with old Harry.’

‘Why are we here, Harry? What does King Steam want?’

Oliver glanced around the hall. So, the king could be any of the steammen; maybe even a couple of them at the same time, watching from different viewpoints.