Кейт Форсит - Relics, Wrecks and Ruins - Anthology of Speculative Fiction Short Works

Would I, in fact, be exiting? There was every possibility that I was walking into a trap. I pulled the blaster from my velvet reticule and unclipped the three micro flash grenades from the gold chatelaine pinned to the bodice of my pelisse. When I had dressed this morning, I considered wearing a gown for the sake of occasion and Isabel’s sense of propriety, but sense prevailed. I could not run or fight in long skirts and I had a feeling that both activities were in my immediate future. So, a compromise: my ankle-length, blue, silk pelisse over moleskin breeches, hussar boots, fingerless lace gloves, and a sleek, velvet mameluke cap. If it came to it, a good ensemble to die in.

I could, of course, just turn the horses around and go. But where? If Charles was dead, there was no safe place on Earth.

I placed the weapons in the drawer. They were more for show than anything; the notorious Countess Knife did not need such fripperies to defend herself against footpads and highwaymen, and they were useless against my true adversaries.

Still, I did like a flash grenade.

Through the RCP gate, I could see one of the family’s freight craft upon the grid, ready to make the hop across planet. The Grayle rampant bear was emblazoned upon each of the ship’s three graceful fins, the family’s amended motto along its side: Per Dei gratiam, in terra et in aere. ‘By God’s grace, on land and in air.’

God’s grace: a typical Grayle interpretation of the Landing.

I peered through the glass at the guard. What was taking him so long? Perhaps he did not know who I was. He was young enough to have been a child when, ten years ago, the sixty plague ships from the stars crash-landed across the Earth, nine on the estate of my husband, the Earl of Grayle. The fleet was full of dead and dying Celestials from a faraway planet, pleading for help. Instead of help, however, my husband and his family had waited for all of the visitors to perish from their singular plague, then cleaned out the craft with amber and saltpeter and captured all nine without bloodshed. Voila! An instant transport monopoly in England, and one of a four-pronged oligopoly across the rather astonished and rapidly expanding world.

“Our scan indicates a further weapon. Place it in the tray, please.”

“I suspect you do not know who I am,” I said.

Another man—of higher rank and sourer expression—joined him. The new arrival bent and whispered something in his subordinate’s ear. From the chastened look on the boy’s face, he had just been roundly informed of his ignorance.

“I beg your pardon, Countess Grayle. Of course the wary knife can pass with you.”

Of course she could, since she could kill them in an instant if they tried to disarm me. I stroked my silk-clad forearm where Havarr lay sheathed under three layers of my skin. In my mind, I felt the knife’s sentience check my intent, then sigh and settle back. Nothing interesting to see or slice here.

Not yet, anyway.

Both men saw me stroke my arm and quickly crossed themselves. I had seen it so often that it usually did not register, but today it stung.

I was an abomination, a danger to all; everyone knew women did not have the strength of mind or emotional control to wield a wary knife. Especially a woman of the bon ton born only for decoration and breeding heirs, neither of which I had managed to supply in my marriage. Indeed, my husband had privately stepped away from me soon after I partnered Havarr. What man would wish to consort with a woman who was no longer the weaker sex? To be fair, Charles did not totally abandon me: he made it clear to the world that I was still under the political protection of the Grayle family name.

All name, no family.

Still, I had Havarr. Her abrupt entry into my life three years ago had been a terrible—and glorious—accident.

I had been driving my gig to neighbor’s estate and came across a man sprawled upon the road, thrown from his horse. Sir Paul Denby, one of the Wary Brotherhood. I went to his aid, fearing I was too late, but at my touch, he opened his eyes and grasped my forearm.

“Thank God,” he rasped, red spittle wetting his lips. “My knife says I’ve a minute left. It is willing. Are you?”

“Willing? To do what?”

“Partner it. Say yes or it will be untethered. It will kill everything in its path, including you.”

When the wary knives first emerged from the Celestial ships, the carnage had been horrific. Fifty knives powered by some unimaginable sorcery, flying through the air and dismembering everything in their path. Eventually, it was discovered that the knives had to be tethered to a living being to control them and, one by one, they were captured by brave men willing to risk death for such power. And so, the Wary Brotherhood was founded: thieftakers, peacekeepers, and undefeatable force, sworn to uphold the Crown.

“Yes. I’ll partner it,” I had said. What else could I do?

A second later, excruciating pain blazed along my arm and into my head, slamming all the breath from my body. That is all I remember for I woke up upon the road with Sir Paul dead beside me and a wary knife quiescent within my arm, her sentience a curled kernel of potential inside my mind.

The uproar had been both private and public. It did not seem to matter to my husband, the Church, or the Crown that I quickly controlled Havarr. That was beside the point: a woman with a wary knife was, by nature, a threat to public safety. The Prince Regent politely asked me to retire to the family estate. The Wary Brotherhood was not so polite. They banned me from their membership: a woman had no right to hold a knife or sully their righteous order. Without support from any direction—including my own family—I retired to Grayle Hall. For the past three years I had studied every theory about the Celestials, trained to fight with Havarr, and received those friends who trusted my strength of mind enough to take tea with me and my knife.

Would all that training be enough to save me now?

The older RCP soldier leaned to the transmittere. It let out a mechanical crackle and I heard, “Lady Carnford has arranged for your horse to be stabled. Please go to the main entrance.”

If my horse was to be stabled, Isabel expected the call to last more than half an hour. Or perhaps she did not expect me to leave. I felt Havarr stir along my arm, roused by the quickening of my heart.

Her question formed in my mind. Slice ?

I mentally shrugged. Perhaps . Then, added: Probably .

The gate ground open, rattling across its tracks. I flicked the reins and drove through into the sound-protected roadway that led to the main buildings. The transparent walls and curved roof provided a view of the lift-off grid and the bustle of men and carts loading cargo into the ship. It did not, however, shield the unearthly caustic odor of fuel that hung over the area.

Although not generally known, the supply of the Celestial fuel around the world was all but gone. The Royal Society had been frantically working to find a combustible replacement—a way to keep our English ships in the air and perhaps one day fly to the stars—but so far nothing adequate had been found.

At the very end of the safety area stood the scout ship, the manifestation of the fuel problem. It had been an escort to the plague fleet, smaller and with weaponry, but its fuel source was even more incomprehensible. So much so, the engineers and scientists had never managed to spark any kind of life within it. And so it had been left to languish at the port, all its potential deteriorating into ruin.

I felt some empathy.

I drew up outside the front portico and waited for the RCP soldier-groom to go to my horse’s head. Above us rose Grayle Tower. I craned my head back to take in all twelve floors of the neoclassical façade. My sister-in-law waited at the top and I did not know if I would be meeting Forgiving Isabel or Vengeful Isabel. The odds were even.