Stephen Hunt - The Court of the Air

The wooden floor began to vibrate as the device’s transaction engine drums started rotating, steam now visible venting outside into the evening. A flight of startled egrets lifted off from the orchard in search of a more tranquil night’s rest.

‘Molly softbody,’ said Coppertracks. ‘Your assistance in my exploration is now required.’

Molly looked sceptically at the thing. ‘You’re sure it’s safe?’

‘I assure you, Lord Hartisburgh is an expert in his field and this is the very latest thing.’

‘He is not a surgeon, though, Coppertracks.’

‘Dear mammal, few surgeons could afford such an expense as this machine. Now, please, if you would submit some of your system juices I shall begin the analysis.’

Molly rolled up her sleeve as one of the diminutive drones climbed up on a bench, a syringe clutched in its pincer-like iron hands. ‘My system juices are precious to me, Aliquot Coppertracks. It’s not oil I can drain into a saucer for you to skim Gear-gi-ju cogs across the floor. Your rich merchant friend’s machine looks a little unstable to me.’

‘Hardly that,’ said Coppertracks, watching his mu-body drawing blood from Molly’s arm. ‘Its basic design is similar to the blood machines the constabulary use to establish citizen identity when they are sealing a district off for a crime sweep. Your system juices contain a unique biological metric that allows Greenhall to register your birth file. The metric also allows them to estimate your potential for criminal tendencies as well your pre-disposition to plagues — even your latent prospects for worldsinger talents.’ Coppertracks fed the blood into a glass container and it started to bubble, then drained away down into the machine.

‘Ah well,’ said the commodore, looking askance at the analyser as it banged and thumped on the floor. ‘At least you showed the sense to borrow the machine from your club. I would hate to see our funds eaten away procuring one of these blessed things for your studies.’

‘The Royal Society is not a club,’ said the steamman slip-thinker. ‘It is a organization for the furtherance of philosophical enquiries of the most fundamental and useful sort. Nobody there sits in leather chairs and puffs away on mumbleweed pipes, I can assure you of that.’

Molly pushed a handful of cotton gauze against the syringe mark on her arm, a tear of blood showing through the fabric. ‘A serious kind of place, then.’

‘Indeed, young softbody, indeed.’

Behind Coppertracks the device’s tape printer began winding out a reel of results with a gentle smacking sound from the print hammers. The interior of the steamman’s transparent skull sparked with excitement as he scanned down the tape, then forked angrily in a surge of energy as the implications of what he was reading sunk in.

‘Aliquot?’ said Nickleby.

‘What is it, Coppertracks?’ asked Molly.

‘My poor young softbody friend. By Zaka of the Cylinders’ beard, it is small wonder that they wish you dead.’

‘Out with it now,’ said Commodore Black. ‘Blessed Circle, what have you found with that fool machine of yours?’

Coppertracks dangled the tape from his iron fingers. ‘What have I found? Why my dear friends, I believe I have discovered why someone wrote a transaction engine ripper to scour Greenhall’s records. I have discovered why so many wealthy corpses have been turning up across Jackals drained of their vital system juices. And I have discovered why young Molly softbody must die!’

It was strange, Captain Flare considered, that the palace — once so opulent that even the ambassadors from Cassarabia would marvel at its giant chandeliers, its hundred Circlist chapels and private topiary gardens — had been reduced to the shell of a prison quite so perfectly. The room the Special Guardsman sat in, going over the arrangements for the coronation, had once seen intricate waltzes, glittering receptions, feasts of eel and river crab from the Gambleflowers and venison from the hunting lodges. Now its bare walls were decorated only by mould, washed off once a month by a staff that had centuries ago been reduced to a handful grudgingly paid for by the functionaries at Greenhall.

It was one of Greenhall’s junior administrators who was taking up his time now. The one commodity they were always generous with was their attention when it came to matters of centralised control.

‘The royal carriage is being renovated for the progress,’ said the civil servant. ‘The people will expect to see the prince firmly manacled to the holding cross in each town, fresh face-gags to be supplied at each stopover.’

‘With equally fresh fruit to throw at the boy, perhaps?’ suggested Flare, only half facetiously.

‘The citizens can bring their own rotting food, captain,’ said the administrator. ‘Now, I understand you have expressed reservations at the length of the royal progress.’

Flare nodded. ‘You cannot expect the Special Guard to visit half the towns in Jackals with the field strength your people have suggested. We have other duties to fulfil as well.’

‘What could be more important than your ceremonial duties as warders of the monarchy? The people are looking forward to a good show — there hasn’t been a coronation for nearly half a century. Let all our free people enjoy the shock of horror they feel, seeing a nearly crowned king with his arms still attached, reminding them he might yet use those corrupt limbs to snatch back the reins of power and reimpose the tyranny.’

‘Warders of the monarchy,’ spat Flare. ‘Hoggstone just wants an excuse to wine and dine the voters with his state-sponsored circus. Protect the people from the human sheep you keep locked up in the royal breeding house? I would have to go to the history books to find the date of the last act of royalist-inspired violence against anyone in Jackals. You want ticks on the ballot paper, not protection from the prince — the King.’

‘Greenhall serves no single party,’ said the administrator. ‘We serve the people.’

‘I am sure that sounds very impressive when you say it in Usglish,’ said Flare.

‘The people expect a couple of weeks of revels,’ retorted the functionary. ‘And we, captain, expect you back at the capital by the end of the month. There will be massive crowds vying for a position in Parliament Square, waiting for the surgeon royal to sever the boy’s arms and crown him the new king. It will be a glorious occasion, captain. There’s hardly an aerostat packet, canal boat passage or coaching billet into Middlesteel left to purchase in the whole of Jackals. I would not want to be the one to report to the House of Guardians any impediment to the start of the carnivals. Good Circle, man, fey powers or no, the people would rip you apart — there would be riots.’

Flare shook his head wearily. ‘I predict an early election this year.’

The two Special Guardsmen at the end of the chamber clicked their heels as the doors were flung open, the gust from the corridor catching their scarlet capes and lifting the administrator’s papers from the table. It was one of the worldsingers — one of the new acolytes. What was his name? Blundy.

‘Captain,’ said the worldsinger. ‘I have an urgent matter to report.’

Flare looked at the administrator. ‘If you would excuse us — it seems the guard has some business other than carnivals to discuss after all.’

‘I am sure what the gentleman from the order has to report will also be of interest to Greenhall,’ said the administrator.

‘This is urgent, captain,’ said the worldsinger, approaching the table.

‘Oh, very well,’ said Flare.

‘It is the King, captain.’

‘Alpheus?’ said Flare.

‘No, the old king — Julius. I was on the detail transferring his body to the undertaker at the royal breeding house. The taxidermists from the state museum didn’t want a repeat of what happened with Queen Marina’s body.’