Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

Ah! said Athena. She did not need to say more.

Despite himself, Nick started to laugh and urged the horse into a trot. It was as if the long months in Manufactory Three suddenly ceased to matter. He’d made it here now, where he was supposed to be. There was something left of his old life he could reclaim.

The figure didn’t move a muscle until he was almost on top of him, and then he raised one hand and pushed back his hood. Striker’s spiky brown hair lay plastered against his skull, and Nick wondered how long he’d been there if that damned coat was soaked through.

“Where the feckin’ hell have you been?” Striker snapped, breathing a little too hard. His second in command narrowed his eyes angrily, glaring at Nick.

“Nice to see you, too,” Nick said calmly, doing his best not to grin. It was just so damned good to see his friend’s grumpy face. “I knew you were hard to kill.”

Striker cut him off, his voice tight. “I made it. So did Digby, Beadle, Poole. Royce, Knaur, and Smith didn’t.”

That sobered Nick, swift as a knife cut. “Damn it all, Smith was just a boy.”

Striker didn’t respond, but then he’d probably seen the lad die. “Where were you?”

Nick wiped a trickle of rain that was now leaking through his hat. “When I parted company with the ship, I must have gone down a mile or two from the rest of you. Landed in the wrong place, apparently, because patrols picked me up. Before I knew it, the Scarlet King had me taking the waters in one of his spas.”

Striker rolled his eyes, playing along with his sarcasm. “I knew you were just larking about out there while I was stuck finishing your damned ship.”

Nick swung out of the saddle, stifling a groan as he moved. He stood facing Striker a moment. The man was still scowling. Taking a gamble, Nick grabbed him anyway in a rough embrace.

Striker tensed, as if not sure what to do, and then started to laugh. It was a rare, fat sound that had every bit as much power as his glare. Nick laughed, too, until he found himself in a bone-crushing bear hug that threatened to crack every rib. He made a muffled wheeze and Striker let him go, pounding him on the shoulder.

“Damn your eyes, it’s good to see you, Nick!” Striker looked away for a moment, eyebrows drawn sharply together while he swallowed. Then he took a quick breath and carried on in a voice almost like his own. “You need to see your steamspinner. She’s a beauty like no other. Floats like a whisper and is deadly as a falcon.”

“I know Athena is eager to see it.”

Striker’s eyes widened. “She’s here?”

Nick patted the saddlebag as he slung it over his shoulder, unable to stop a grin.

“Then let’s get to it.” Without another word, Striker started leading him down the path toward the hangar. Nick followed with the long-suffering mare.

“The plans worked?” Nick had stolen the drawings for the ship from Dr. Magnus. They had been the inspiration that had launched Nick and Striker on their piratical careers.

“Perfectly. I added more aether pumps so the ship could run without Athena,” Striker said.

“And you’ve flown her?”

“Across oceans,” Striker replied, pride shading his words. “Last spring we went to Devil’s Island with the Black boys and snatched Captain Roberts out from under the Frenchies’ noses. That was something, but took a wee bit longer than expected. There were repairs to be made. Didn’t get back into these airstreams until late summer.”

Nick’s jaw drifted open before he snapped it shut again. “Captain Roberts?” He was a pirate’s pirate, a storybook blend of showmanship and guile.

Striker gave a wordless shrug, his eyes rolling skyward. “I couldn’t say no to his crew. They missed the bugger. I’m not sure why. Now he keeps popping up like a weed, wanting to share a drink. Just because you rescue someone from certain death, it doesn’t mean you want to be friends. We just got rid of him again last week.”

“Is he up to something?”

“He’s a bloody pirate. What do you think?”

Nick coughed to stifle a laugh. “You’ve got some tales to tell me.” Devil’s Island was a French prison off the coast of South America, believed to be impenetrable. Striker must have worked some magic of his own to manage that rescue.

“There’s a tale or two. Spent the last three months picking off supply ships coming in from the Continent and put away a nice little stockpile of spare parts. The air traffic has gone wild.”

Nick’s stomach tightened. For every one the pirates captured, dozens more made it to their destination to build the barons’ armies. It wasn’t good news. “Have you done any business with the rebels?” The Schoolmaster hadn’t seen Striker, but he wasn’t the only possible contact.

“No. Since we returned from the Americas, we’ve been working the supply routes. We haven’t been into London. There’ve been more patrols since the air battle that destroyed the Jack . Not as easy just to slip in and make some deals. I stopped in Truro and ran into old Harvey. He says all the pirates are complaining about the London situation. We’ll have to start shipping cargo in by boat, but that takes some organizing.”

“I heard about the air patrols,” Nick said. Then he noticed Striker was moving with a slight limp. “Hurt yourself?”

“When the Red Jack went down. It’s the damned weather here. I think my joints are starting to rust.”

“Were the others hurt?”

Striker’s dark face twisted in a fond grimace, not quite admitting that he liked his crewmates. “Digby had to get a new fiddle, but they’re all healthy enough. Poole is one sharp lad.”

“You’ve been in charge?”

“As much as anyone. Call me the keeper of the madhouse.”

They were drawing close to the hangar, which looked like an enormous barn. The ash rooks had gathered there, roosting under the eaves like a welcoming committee. “When did they arrive?” Nick asked.

“They turned up outside the Athena about a week ago, squawking their heads off. Of course no one knew what they wanted, but eventually we gave in and followed them. They led us back here.”

“I crossed paths with Gwilliam in London.”

“That fits. He must have guessed you would be on your way back.”

As surely as geese fly in autumn . Then Nick saw a small wirehaired dog chasing one of the smaller rooks and yapping at the top of its lungs. The rook was obviously in control, sailing in lazy circles just out of the mutt’s reach. The dog didn’t put weight on one of its hind legs, so the best it could manage was a determined bounce in the direction of its tormentor. But when the dog saw Striker, it left off at once and dashed toward him with a gamboling run. It bashed into his ankle with tail-churning enthusiasm.

“This is Bacon,” Striker said, lifting the mutt under one arm. “He’s decided to stay with the crew.” The man squinted at Nick, as if defying him to point out how the Striker everyone knew was hardly the cute dog type.

Meanwhile, Bacon looked at Nick with bright black eyes, panting enthusiastically. Hiding his amusement, Nick presented his hand for a sniff. “Welcome aboard.”

They’d reached the hangar and Striker pulled open one of the double doors with his dog-free hand. A young lad poked his head out, and Striker gave him orders to take the horse to the inn at Killincairn and see that it was well tended. The boy left with a curious glance at Nick.

“The barmaid’s boy,” Striker explained. “He likes the engines.”

It wasn’t dark inside, as Nick had expected, because the bay doors that opened over the sea were drawn back. Striker had designed the doors as overlapping panels that slid back into a circular aperture, the mouth exactly at the edge of the cliff so the pilot could dock the steamspinner directly inside.