Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

The man met Nick’s eyes, ignoring the shackles. “Ever been on a flying ship?”

Nick choked on a sudden longing for open air, for the feel of a cloud kissing his skin. That was where his magic lived, the very stuff that called his Blood. His answer came out clipped, almost hostile. “Yes, but it seems a long time ago now.”

The rifle poked him again, and Nick’s fist clenched. The chains clanked, the cold metal speaking his anger. And then someone cried out. Nick’s attention was instantly back on the spire. He sprang toward the window, stumbling in the chains. He grabbed the window frame to break his fall, but it wasn’t his own fall that he cared about. “Damn it to hell!”

Keeler was already plunging to his death.

WITHIN THE HOUR, Nick had traded his place by the window for a view from the church roof. The assignment remained the same: to untangle their precious equipment from the harness of the airman who by now was surely dead.

He’d asked for a rope, along with a small pocket knife. The fact that no one had agreed to a safety line for Keeler spoke volumes about just how expendable the prisoners were. Ropes and prisoners were a bad mix, to say nothing of blades. However, it was clear the airmen didn’t have the patience for a third attempt, and that forced a change of rules. Nick was to keep trying until he got the prize—but he got his equipment and now he stood by the door to the rooftop.

“Don’t think you’re going to try anything,” growled his guard. “I’m right here, and there’s a man at the door on t’other side.”

Nick simply nodded and held out his wrists. They’d had to remove the iron shackles from his feet to climb the narrow, winding steps that led all the way up there. Grudgingly, the guard produced a heavy key and rattled the locks, exposing Nick’s chafed wrists to the blessed air. As the irons fell away with a clatter, Nick immediately felt a hundred pounds lighter, his perception as sharp as if a blindfold had been stripped away. He felt the first stirrings of his magic, weak from long exposure to the iron chains but still alive.

“Don’t get any ideas,” the guard warned. “There’s nowhere to go.”

He was right about that much. The roof doors were simply small access points for maintenance. There was little place to stand beyond the opening. The roof sloped on the right down to a narrow gutter, and over that edge, somewhere below, was what remained of Keeler. Nick decided right then he wasn’t going to look down.

On the left was a sharp rise to the ridge. The spine of the roof was decorated with a long line of wrought metal decoration turned to verdigris. The roof itself was overlapping sheets of lead and copper that reflected back the warmth of the sun. Nick surveyed the roof dubiously. No wonder Keeler had trouble climbing—the slick metal offered few footholds, especially at that angle.

“Only a lizard would keep its grip up here,” the guard mumbled. So far he hadn’t put one booted foot outside the stairwell.

“I’m fine with heights,” Nick replied.

The guard’s only reply was the rattle of the rifle. Fool , thought Nick. With so many obstacles on the roof, it would be almost impossible to get a clean shot—unless the guard ventured onto the roof himself and, from the pallor of the man’s face, that wasn’t going to happen. Nick turned his attention to the task at hand, and threw the loop of his rope toward the metal filigree on the roof ridge above. On the third try, it caught.

Nick knew better than to trust his weight to the metalwork, but it might catch him if he slipped. Until the Jack had gone down, he had scoffed at things like safety lines, but that last fall had taught him caution. There had been too much time on the way down to think. So, hand over hand, he began the careful ascent of the roof, placing each foot firmly as he went. The wind ruffled the long tangle of his hair, carrying the clean scent of pine and meadow. For that moment, balanced between flight and falling, Nick was a prisoner no more.

As he reached the roofline, he could see for miles. Closest to them was the ruin of a monastery, the high arches supporting only half a roof. A little farther along there were pleasant houses with chickens scratching around the doors and gardens arranged in tidy rows. He saw the silver arc of a river, rolling fields, and a tousled blanket of trees. He spied a ribbon of railway tracks heading south, with crows circling above them in search of anything good to eat. Best of all, the sky opened up all around him—wide-open freedom that he’d lacked for almost a year. And there was birdsong—few had ventured near the great furnaces, but here they chattered with abandon.

Yes, that’s the place!

You don’t say?

Huge worms! The good ones!

I like a good worm. Better than grubs any day .

Birds weren’t always profound, but at least they were cheerful. He balanced at the peak, unhooking the rope and lightly gripping the curling metalwork. He closed his eyes for a moment, tasting the breeze. He knew there were guards in the staircases and at the foot of the walls. Although airships couldn’t maneuver easily near the forest of spires along the roof, there was a small zephyr-class vessel patrolling the sky, watching his every move. Nevertheless, he could feel the potential magic in the air.

Athena . A pang of loss hit him so hard he thought his chest might cave in. He’d kept her safe, but where he’d buried her was a mystery now. He would have to find out where the ship had gone down and retrace his journey—though now he knew better than to travel the roads alone.

And where was he now? He guessed north of London, but not so far as Sheffield. They were in the Scarlet King’s territory, and his lands tended toward the northwest. And there were train tracks just over there. There would be a train, and a journey south, and then life again. He would find his crew and get Athena back, and then he would find a ship.

And Evelina . In a wave of dangerous vertigo, the memory of the nights he’d spent with her hit him like a broadside of twenty-pound shot. Nick’s eyes snapped open. In a few seconds, his imagination had carried him into a future he had no idea how to reach. But the details didn’t matter. Fate had given him a chance, and he wasn’t going to waste it—because once he had his deva and his ship and his woman, he was going to have his revenge.

He savored that thought a moment, letting it melt on his tongue like a sweet. He wasn’t a political man, but the Scarlet King had thrown down the gauntlet when he’d clapped Nick in chains. No one did that to the Indomitable Niccolo and lived to tell the tale.

But first things first. What was so important that men were being sacrificed to get it off this roof? He inched along, drawing parallel to the point where the airman had slid to a stop behind the tower. The man was half hidden in a tangle of propeller and harness, arms and legs sprawled like a carelessly tossed doll.

With one end of the rope wound around his waist, Nick worked his way down the roof, keeping the line tight. He took his time, not letting his sense of newfound freedom make him reckless. When he reached the twisted wreck of the personal flight device, he realized it had been a kind of winged propeller, held on by a shoulder harness and powered by a small engine that strapped about the waist. Nick was no maker, but experience told him winds would have been a problem. A strong gust had probably pushed the airman into the spires, fouling him between roof and tower. Dark Mother of Basilisks . The force of the whirling blades had cut the airman nearly in two.

Nick turned away a moment, appalled. Then he pulled out the pocket knife and began sawing through the straps of the harness. The leather gave way easily, and soon Nick was able to push the propeller assembly aside. It slithered off the roof, barely catching on the gutters before falling to the ground. A lone, ragged cheer wafted up. Someone was pleased that Nick was making progress.