Stephen Hunt - The Court of the Air

‘I doubt I will fit my magnificent architecture through it,’ said Steamswipe. ‘I am intended for war, not crawling through the ducts of your flotation vessel like a softbody rodent.’

They waited a couple of minutes and were rewarded by a pop in the aerostat’s rigid envelope, then a hatch was lowered down by a hand crank next to the engine. Inside Harry stood in a chamber piled with barrels of expansion-engine gas, glass-lined wood branded with the silhouette of blow-barrel trees, their vapours safely sealed and stored.

‘The purser would have checked forward storage this morning,’ said Harry, closing the loading ramp behind them. ‘We can clear some of these barrels and make a hiding space in case any of the jack cloudies come in here for fuel during the voyage.’

Oliver opened his pack and checked the food was still there.

‘You won’t need that,’ said Harry. ‘This isn’t a passenger liner, it’s a Guardian Smike-class hauler. She hasn’t got the range to be exploring the lakes of Liongeli, Oliver. However many miners they’re taking out of here, they’re taking them as main cargo. And that means a landing somewhere in Jackals.’

‘Let us make a concealment position among the barrels,’ said Steamswipe. ‘I have a feeling it would be a mistake to discharge the Keeper of the Eternal Flame inside this hold.’

Harry looked at the blow-barrel tree silhouette on the barrels. ‘Very perceptive. And I will forgo my daily pinch of mumbleweed, given how I remember most skippers’ fondness for the strap when they catch a cloudie with a pipe on board.’

Their nest amongst the cargo constructed, the three of them waited an hour before the shouts outside warned them the airship was about to launch. The floor trembled as the vessel was drawn down the launch rail and onto a turntable to match the wind direction. Then the rail claws fell back and Oliver’s stomach dropped as the ship began to lift. It became hard to hear each other talk over the rise and fall of the engine’s noise — their whispers needed to become shouts. They might arrive at their destination deaf, but at least the racket would make it almost impossible for any sailor passing by to hear them moving about in the fuel store.

Shortly they had stopped rising and it became colder on board. The main gondola and crew compartments might have been heated, but now Oliver understood why — be it summer, autumn or spring — the jack cloudies who had landed at Hundred Locks came into town wearing thick woollen jumpers with roll-necks tied around their striped sailor’s vests like belts. Shivering, Oliver and Harry broke open the blanket rolls from their packs and took turns warming their hands on Steamswipe’s boiler stack.

Despite the chill and the din Oliver finally managed to drift off to sleep in the early hours of the morning. Harry opened one of his eyes. The young man was breathing deeply, his breath misting the icy air. Steamswipe and his weapon were in their approximation of sleep too, thoughtflow. Leaning over, Harry eased out the wooden case that had been given to Oliver by the reverend in Shadowclock. Checking the narrow corridor outside their fuel store was empty, Harry made his way through the duralumin-framed passage, canvas spheres of celgas brushing his head where he forgot to duck.

At the end of the gantry he opened the wooden door to the small forward head, a simple affair, little more than a seat with a flap opening out to the sky. The disreputable Stave opened the lid of the case. Both pistols were still inside, glinting malevolently. Even without their finely etched scenes, the ivory handles and precious metal plating, the brace would have raised a sack full of clinking guineas in any gunsmith or pawnshop in Jackals. You did not have to be a sorcerer to feel the press of their song, feel the draw of their wicked spangle. Harry shivered, slapped the lid shut, tossed the case into the head and jerked the flush.

As the flap opened, the case tumbled into the sky and Harry watched it disappear into the clouds. It was an expensive hunch, but it was not as if Oliver could have hit the side of a barn with either of those two marksman’s pieces.

‘Next time, preacher,’ Harry whispered to the clouds, ‘you can save your bloody gift-giving for Midwinter.’

Captain Stone of the RAN Heart of Oak pushed the cutlass hanging from his dress uniform back. The damn thing was always getting under his feet, but it was required dress for tonight. Half the high fleet looked like they had assembled in the ante-room outside the dining gallery of the governor’s mansion — the northern fleet, the eastern fleet, even a few stiff blue trousers adorned with the single yellow stripe of the western fleet. It was one of the captains of the west who moved through the press and approached him. Haredale. They had been midshipmen together on the Skysprite .

Haredale nodded politely. ‘Stone.’

‘Haredale.’ Captain Stone indicated his fellow officer’s hair, shorn to stubble on the side and wedge-high on top. ‘Going native?’

‘It’s all the go in Concorzia,’ said the colonial officer. ‘Half the fleet officers of the west are sporting ’em.’

‘How are affairs abroad?’ asked Stone. ‘I heard there were some tensions — not just among the natives.’

‘The colonials are taking more settlers now, genuine ones as well as the convict labour, heh. They are a damn volatile mob — transportees, the first families and the locals — always scrapping, but nothing the navy can’t control. The shadow of a ship of the line always sends ’em scampering for the woods. How is the fleet of the south? I heard you had some trouble down there recently.’

‘The RAN Bellerophon ?’ said Stone ‘Let’s just say there is the story the First Skylord released for the Dock Street pensmen — and there are the rumours from the poor jacks we got back alive. If it was up to me I would close the whole bloody border, but parliament would have every jinn importer in Jackals banging on their door, so that isn’t going to happen. These days it’s rare for us to take a flotilla out without having to chase off some humpy raiding party coming out of the arids and into the uplands.’

Haredale pushed a finger under his high collar and pulled the cloth loose. ‘Which the caliph claims are bandits, of course.’

‘Bandits my rear end,’ said Stone. ‘Too well supplied. Too sophisticated for some tent-dwelling sand shaman. The caliph’s hand is over every raid. Mark my words, it won’t be long until we have half the upland Guardians calling for us to flatten a few palaces in Bladetenbul and give Cassarabia a bloody nose.’

‘As long as it keeps the fleet of the south out of mischief,’ said the colonial captain. ‘You passed the damn order’s tests then?’

‘A greater load of stuff and nonsense I have never had to sit through,’ growled Stone. ‘Half the officers of the blue kicking around the county waiting their turn for a truth hexing. How many feybreed have they turned up in the service? They’re tacking against the wind this time.’

‘Admiralty House should never have agreed,’ said Captain Haredale. ‘And it takes the governor of Shadowclock to throw us a do to send us off now the order has had its pleasure. Have you even seen an admiral or skylord back at the citadel since they ordered the high fleet home?’

‘There’s no danger from the Admiralty Board,’ snorted Stone. ‘Not unless parliament are worried they might prick someone with a quill. They would have better luck having us cleared by an alienist. The Bellerophon’s captain was clearly mad — not a feybreed.’

‘Never liked the man,’ said the colonial officer. ‘Ran an unhappy ship. Too damn keen to resort to the cat, rather than trusting his middies to keep discipline. Not surprised he went out barking.’