Stephen Hunt - The Court of the Air

The King waved his hand and Master Saw stepped back.

‘He would not have been my first choice for a champion,’ said one of the King’s mu-bodies. Oliver started. The King’s ability to inhabit multiple bodies and engage in simultaneous conversation was disconcerting. ‘Or even have featured at the bottom of the list.’

Oliver frowned. ‘But that steamman said he was deactivate. How can he be dead and help us?’

‘The word has many connotations for the people of the metal. Steamswipe’s soul boards have not been returned to the ancestors. He sleeps, his higher mental functions held in suspension, as punishment for his crimes.’

Oliver’s frown deepened. What kind of defective creature was the King trying to foist on them?

‘It was a crime of honour,’ said the King’s drone, noting Oliver’s expression. ‘He violated the code steamo of our knights. Cowardice. Steamswipe was one of seven knights we dispatched into the jungles of Liongeli on a vital undertaking for the people. His nerve broke and he abandoned his brothers to die there, choosing to save his own oil at the expense of his duty, his mission and the lives of his fellow warriors.’

‘Just the steamman I want watching my own back when things get difficult,’ said Oliver.

‘The Loas move in their own way,’ said King Steam. ‘But they know what is at stake — for all of us.’

Oliver shrugged. Well, why not. He already had most of Jackals’ constabulary, army and order of worldsingers waiting to push him off the gallows, not to mention the Court of the Air hunting Harry down while the Lady of the Lights’ mysterious foe was scouring the land to assassinate him. Why not add an unreliable steamman likely to bolt at the first sight of trouble to their fate-cursed party? It could hardly make things any worse.

High in the ceiling a hatch parted and a claw lowered a limp body to the throne room’s polished floor. There were mutterings of discontent from the courtiers and palace officials as architects moved around the warrior, adjusting his machinery, returning him to life. Steamswipe’s eyes started to glow, dimly at first, then fiercely — until finally a transparent lid slid down from his brow, protecting his vision. The creature’s four arms vibrated as sensation returned to them, two skeletal hands and two fighting arms, one a murderous-looking double-headed hammer.

His head inclined, taking in the King and the surroundings of the royal chamber. ‘How long have I been in suspension?’

‘A little over two hundred years,’ said King Steam.

‘Not long enough to atone,’ said Steamswipe.

‘The winds could grind the mountains of Mechancia to fine sand and still not enough time would have passed for you to atone, Steamswipe,’ said the King. ‘Nevertheless the cogs have called you. How will you answer?’

‘Is there a sword that will accept me?’ asked the warrior.

‘That remains to be seen,’ said King Steam. ‘More to the point, will you follow the call of the Steamo Loas? Will you wear the colours of the Free State and follow the code with whatever minor vestige of honour you still possess?’

‘If the Loas ride me,’ said Steamswipe, ‘I shall not refuse the call.’

‘Then that is answer enough,’ said the King. ‘We shall adjourn to the Chamber of Swords and see whether there are also arms that will bend to the will of the Steamo Loas.’

Oliver gripped onto the King’s marque of office as the steamman monarch, escort, Steamswipe and — seemingly — half the court, departed the throne room for a stately procession through the mountain stronghold. Some of the sights he saw left Oliver baffled — vast halls with row upon row of steammen seated behind machines, as still as statues and staring into space; forests of glass spheres with arcs of energy leaping and chasing each other across the globes; chasms of grinding clockwork crunching and turning, rolling like an old man’s tongue circling a boiled sweet.

Now deep inside the palace, the King led the party into a round room, small enough that most of the courtiers and hangers-on had to remain in the corridor jostling for a better view. There was an opening to another round room beyond, connected to the first in a figure of eight pattern.

‘Move forward, knight,’ commanded King Steam. Oliver watched the warrior advance into the centre of the next room, the clank of his four legs echoing off the walls.

‘There’s nothing here,’ whispered Oliver.

‘Wait and see, young softbody,’ cautioned one of the King’s mu-bodies. ‘The arms choose the champion, just as the times select the steamman.’

In the second room hatches popped open and the white walls slowly began to rotate. Instruments of destruction extended from the open spaces: swords, rifles, maces, things Oliver did not even recognize, all curves and blades — retracting and extending in an oddly delicate dance.

Oliver noticed Master Saw muttering and shaking his head next to the disreputable Stave. The knight commander clearly did not approve of the spirits’ choice in this matter, that a convicted coward should defile the chamber of arms with his presence.

‘Holy weapons,’ said the royal drone. ‘Look, Oliver soft-body. The Ace of Clubs, once wielded by Trinder Half-track in the war with Kikkosico near seven hundred years ago. And there, Grindbiter — the long gun — capable of tearing the pips off a Quatershiftian marshal’s uniform at close to a mile’s range.’

Oliver bit his lip. Steamswipe was pacing nervously in the centre of the room. None of the weapons were stopping. Would the knight be allowed to accompany Oliver if he failed this rite? Or would the master of the orders militant have his way and the centaur-shaped fighter be returned to millennia of suspension?

Steamswipe extended one of his manipulator arms beseechingly towards a curved blade but the weapon was drawn back inside the darkness of the moving wall.

‘Stokeslicer,’ moaned the warrior. ‘By the beard of Zaka of the Cylinders, will no weapon support my claim as a knight?’

‘Your voicebox disgraces the chamber with its sound,’ said Master Saw. ‘Even weapons which you have mastered would sooner stay deactivate rather than feel the iron of your fingers corrupt their grip.’

Whether in response to the knight’s plea, the commander’s scorn, or the slow procession of its own path, the wall stopped rotating and a single hatch remained open, revealing a snub black package trembling on a metallic stalk.

‘Armoury master,’ said the King. ‘Do you recognize the weapon which offers itself?’

‘I do,’ replied a steamman. ‘It is Lord Wireburn — the Keeper of the Eternal Flame.’ Gasps of amazement sounded from the courtiers. The armoury master addressed the crowd. ‘The last time this weapon selected a knight is almost beyond the recorded history of the true people, it was-’

‘I remember,’ said King Steam. ‘It was, as you say, a long time ago. Well, it seems we have a champion and the champion has his arms.’

‘Your Majesty,’ said Steamswipe, giving a small bow before the King. ‘What is to be my penance? Am I to return to the jungle to try and recover what was lost forever?’

‘No, Steamswipe,’ said the King, pointing to Oliver and Harry. ‘You are to accompany these two friends of the people and give aid to them in their journey. Protect their lives as if they were your own.’

Steamswipe turned his vision strip towards Harry and the young man sitting by the King’s tracks, the glass of his visor burning red. ‘These two — two — hairless monkeys? Your Majesty, say this is not true. By all that is sacred, say that you jest.’

‘We have not made you activate to play parlour pranks on you, knight,’ rumbled King Steam. ‘Your duty is to see that our two softbody friends do not come to harm.’