Stephen Hunt - The Court of the Air

‘Can your people survive?’ asked Oliver. ‘Beyond the feymist curtain?’

‘Not in any form recognizable as that which presently makes us what we are,’ said King Steam. ‘Much the same as for your kind, Oliver softbody. But we have other … avenues of flight open to us, if it comes to it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Oliver.

‘Not on my account,’ said King Steam. ‘I have lived too long and seen too much. But you must not let it end. It is a heavy burden to carry, young fastblood, and I only wish I could help you shoulder it — but wishing will not make it so. The darkness of the Wildcaotyl is about to fall. Darkness so perfect and complete it will sweep away everything that supports your people and mine. At any cost, at any price, we must fight it.’

‘You said I was the scheme of defence,’ said Oliver. ‘The scheme of offence …?’

‘There is an ancient piece of battlefield lore,’ said King Steam. ‘Sometimes the best defence is a good offence. Your counterpart fares badly. Your presence on the board is still a secret, which is a benefit that is not afforded to the scheme of offence. I could buy Jackals with the price on her head; in fact, I fear that is rather what the servants of the Wildcaotyl intend.’

‘Can’t you help her?’

‘I am afraid I have only just become aware of your counterpart’s existence,’ said King Steam. ‘And frankly, things are not looking good for her. Which reminds, me, it is time.’

On the other side of the hall a door slid open and a large tracked steamman emerged — a glowing crystal crown topping its compound-eyed skull. The small child-like body went silent and Oliver realized that King Steam’s focus had shifted to this new body. Two spheres on the steamman’s neck vibrated as it boomed: ‘More appropriate to the dignity of my role, Oliver softbody?’

‘Indeed, Your Majesty.’

A spear of steam hissed into the chilly air from the king’s stacks. ‘Jump on the front then, young fastblood. I have a function to attend and a council to call.’

‘Are you sure Your Majesty?’ asked Oliver. ‘You wish to have me riding you like the children used to ride old Rustpivot back home?’

‘Rustpivot is still working at Hundred Locks? Ha, the old steamer. Oliver softbody, I am quite certain my courtiers will be scandalized. Which is precisely the point.’

Oliver climbed on King Steam’s prow and the monarch’s tracks rumbled forward, out of the hall and down a spiral ramp hewn out of stone. At the bottom of the ramp two centaur-like steammen knights flanked the monarch and they all thundered through the passages of the mountain, the din of metal hooves resounding down the palace walls. They slowed briefly to cross a busy corridor and a couple of steammen — each with single telescope-like eyes — jumped on the rear of the king’s body. For a moment Oliver thought they might be being disrespectful — bumming a lift from the monarch. But then he realized they were attendants, part of the ruler’s own slipthinker intelligence.

At the end of the corridor they burst into the throne room and a steamman retainer banged a crystal staff on the polished marble floor. ‘His Highness King Steam, protector of the Free State, monarch of the true people, guardian of …’

‘Enough!’ boomed King Steam. ‘We are here to honour the fallen, not list the latest titles my courtiers have dreamt up this week. Let the soulkeepers advance.’

The assembly of steammen in the throne room parted — near the front of the crowd Oliver saw Harry standing next to his opponent from the training bout, Master Saw. Out of the cleared passage came a line of skeletal steammen on tripod legs, bearing a sheet littered with the body components of one of the metal creatures. The only recognizable part was a steamman skull, corded cables dangling like dreadlocks from its scalp. The head of the skeletal funeral bearers advanced in front of King Steam.

‘Do you bear one of the people?’ asked the King.

‘We do.’

‘Can you commend his name to the people?’

‘The controller gave his life for the people,’ intoned the steamman soulkeeper. ‘We praise Redrust’s true name to Steelbhalah-Waldo.’

The funeral bearers sang in their strange machine voices, a binary hymn that echoed around the throne room. This was the only time the steamman’s true name could be revealed to anyone other than the king. During his death rites.

As the metallic chanting died away King Steam swivelled to face the courtiers and citadel officials. ‘What are left of our brother’s memories have been shared, what are left of his precious components have been dispatched to the chamber of birth. His place of falling is unknown to us, so let his deactivate shell stay not buried, but pass into the furnace of Mount Pistonfuda. Who keeps his soul boards?’

One of the funeral bearers stepped forward holding two crystal panels aloft on a purple cushion. ‘I hold his soul.’

‘Hold it well,’ boomed King Steam, ‘when you carry it though the halls of the dead.’

At the end of the throne room a wall began to rise into the ceiling, revealing an open cavern, millions of rows of crystal boards plugged into slots in the cavern face — mile upon mile of steammen dead lit by flickering red arc lights.

‘Perhaps there was a little truth to your imaginings of my mountainous form after all,’ one of King Steam’s mu-bodies whispered to Oliver.

In front of them the steamman funeral bearer began to convulse, his tripod legs shaking and trembling; then the creature stopped, his bearing changing. He seemed to swell and become more erect than the design of his form allowed.

‘Which Loa rides this body?’ the king demanded.

‘Krabinay-Pipes,’ cackled the funeral bearer, and seizing the contents of the cushion he took the soul boards and disappeared scampering into the half-light of the steammen hall of the dead.

‘Krabinay-Pipes is a crafty fellow,’ said King Steam to Oliver. ‘But he will find the controller his resting circuit in the hall. Now, where is the voice of Gear-gi-ju?’

A copper-plated steamman emerged from behind a pillar, dipping his skull in a bow. ‘Your Majesty.’

‘What say you on the matter of our two softbody visitors?’

‘We have been casting the cogs for days, Your Majesty. Hundred of seers until we grow faint from lack of oil and the Loas grow irritated from our questioning.’

‘As diligent as ever,’ said King Steam. ‘But in the matter of the old foe, how have the cogs landed?’

‘We cannot protect either of the two softbodies after they leave Mechancia,’ said the mystic. ‘They are safe as long as they remain in the capital. Once they leave, we may take no further part in their immediate affairs. Salvation rests in the young fastblood’s power alone, not ours.’

A sinking feeling hit Oliver. No help from Jackals’ oldest ally?

‘There is more though,’ said King Steam. ‘Something else. I can sense it behind your words.’

‘ One of the people may offer assistance to these two soft-bodies. One alone.’

‘Name him,’ ordered the king.

‘By your command, Majesty. His name is Steamswipe.’

A gasp of disbelief swept the press of steammen in the throne room. Master Saw stepped forward from the ranks of centaur-like fighters. ‘This cannot be, the council of seers is surely mistaken?’

‘There is no mistake,’ said the mystic. ‘Much as we would otherwise, try as we might to find an alternative answer, the cogs only reply with a single name.’

‘He is deactivate, he is disgraced,’ said Master Saw. ‘If it is to be just one, let me go — or one of my knights.’

‘It is to be Steamswipe,’ said the Gear-gi-ju reader. ‘The cogs have spoken.’