A Study In Ashes Part 31

"And what would be left of me by then?" Evelina snarled.

"Your true face," he said. "As long as I've known you, my dear, you've been an event waiting to occur."

And with that, he left her, locking the door with a sound like doom.

Cornwall, October 5, 1889.

KILLINCAIRN.

1:17 p.m. Sat.u.r.day.

NEXT TIME NICK CHOSE A SECRET HIDEOUT, IT WAS GOING TO have more amenities, like a convenient train station-preferably one with a decent alehouse nearby. Unfortunately, locations where one could hide the hangar for a steamspinner tended to be off the beaten path. Far, far off, where not even the customs boats watched for smugglers.

The railway stop closest to the tiny fis.h.i.+ng village of Killincairn was at Falmouth, and from there it was horseback all the way south along the coast. Nick had missed horses, but this was a long ride in the pelting autumn rain, and in Cornwall that meant bucketing torrents. Nick's coat was soaked right through. He'd stopped to buy some extra s.h.i.+rts with the money the Schoolmaster had loaned him, but he was fairly sure his bags were sodden, too.

He went back to his daydream about the alehouse, because fantasy was more bearable. His perfect tavern would have that good brown stout he'd had at the place a few miles back, and decent bread and cheese-the sharp, crumbly white stuff that went with hot pickled relish. And there would be an inn, with a warm bed and a real wood fire. Oh, yes, a good night's sleep felt just the thing. Not that he was complaining. At least he was free, even if his backside did hurt because he hadn't ridden for a year.

Evelina would be in that bed.

But he couldn't afford to think of her right then, or he would think of nothing else. She was the key to his happiness, but it was as if that key was hidden inside a Chinese puzzle box. He could hold it, but he couldn't get to it without solving the riddle of how to free her from the complex prison Keating had created for everyone she cared about. And if everyone Evelina loved wasn't free, she wouldn't be, either. Loving that way was her curse and blessing, and therefore Nick's.

Of course, puzzle boxes could be solved two ways-with a clever mind, or with a hammer. Nick was starting to vote for the latter.

Nick pulled the horse up and looked toward the horizon. He was fairly sure he was near the road to Killincairn, but he couldn't see the path. Rain pattered off his hat brim, obscuring the view he might have had if it wasn't all buried in a thick gray mist.

Where the blazes am I? He sat pondering a moment, the rain chattering around him. He felt like the last living man in the Empire. He'd seen no other travelers for miles. No birds peeped, but he could hear the ocean in its constant, restless churn. The air was fresh and salty and Nick sucked it in, feeling every lungful expel another particle of Manufactory Three's soot. The mare s.h.i.+fted restlessly beneath him, and he absently patted its neck. I should have stayed in the last town and waited out the storm. But he wasn't able to do the sensible thing. Not when his s.h.i.+p and crew were so close-or at least he hoped they were. The closer he'd got to Killincairn, the greater the magnetic pull to reach it. It strained on him now, as if his breastbone might crack if he didn't keep moving.

Niccolo? He felt the touch of Athena's mind, warm and familiar. Her metal cube was in his saddlebag, no doubt as wet as everything else. She'd been quiet for the last several miles, as if the rain had depressed her, too. Why have we stopped?

"I'm looking for the path."

Do you have a map?

Nick felt the twinge of her impatience, but answered reasonably. "It's too wet for a map."

Is there someone you can ask for directions?

Now he was getting irritated. "I'm not lost. I just don't know where I am. There's a difference."

There was a beat of disgusted silence. Odysseus said the same thing, and look how long it took him to get home.

Nick tried to think of a smart rejoinder, but he was just too damp and cold. But as he sat hunched on his mount, beneath the smells of horse and sea he caught something else-a sharp odor almost like mint. Aether. And the only way aether was detectable at sea level was if something brought it there-like the propulsion system of a steamspinner.

Nick straightened in the saddle, his spirits revived by an urgent excitement. The horse p.r.i.c.ked its ears and whuffled a question. "I need to follow that scent," Nick answered. "There's oats in it for you if you find the road."

He wasn't sure it had understood. He had the power to speak to birds, but other animals were hit and miss on an individual basis. Nevertheless, the horse started forward at a determined walk. Nick loosed the reins and let it go. It couldn't do worse than he would in this fog.

At least someone has a sense of direction.

"You're the magical navigation device, not me."

I fly winds, not mud trails. And I would use a map.

"If you were human, you'd require three porters, two maids, and a Spaniel in a diamond collar just to visit the dressmakers."

I've had thousands of years to develop a sense of occasion.

They found the turnoff a quarter mile farther on. The path snaked over hill and dale, winding toward a cliff overlooking the sea. The hangar sat on the cliff's edge, the doors ready to open and launch the s.h.i.+p to fly free over the waves. The last time Nick had seen the steamspinner, it had only been half built and paid for with gold he'd stolen-along with Athena-from Jasper Keating. He was a.s.suming a lot, he told himself sternly, thinking he'd found his s.h.i.+p and his crew. There were other pirates who might have found his hideout and made it their own. A year was a long time in his world. But Nick couldn't hang on to his caution and felt the bloom of hope anyhow.

The ground rose slightly, the veils of mist parting enough to make out the tough green gra.s.s and red earth. The ruins of an old tin mine rose like ghosts around him, walls and chimneys tumbling down the hill to the cliff. Nick noticed a dark shape detach itself from a crumbled wall in one enormous flap of wings.

Fair winds, Captain Niccolo, said Gwilliam. You've come home.

"Fair winds, Lord Rook," Nick cried, and suddenly everything was all right because a friend had been there to greet him. "You've come a long way from London."

Because you would come as surely as geese fly in autumn.

Fair winds, Gwilliam, said Athena.

The ash rook spread his wings wide, as if in salutation. The lady of the skies has returned!

And then giant black birds erupted from all sides, rising into the mist in a rough-voiced swirl of black. Ash rooks were warriors, armed with sharp beaks and talons, and Nick felt his back p.r.i.c.kle at the rush of feathers as dozens of the flock whooshed overhead, streaming toward Killincairn.

The mare s.h.i.+ed, rearing up, and then Nick was working to stay on his mount. The horse landed, prancing in a tight circle until he got it back under control. When he finally did, and pointed its head the right way again, he saw a lone figure standing at the top of the road, right where it forked-one path toward Killincairn, the other toward the hangar. The figure stood with his feet apart, arms folded, the hood of his long coat pulled over his face. But Nick didn't need to see the man's features; the coat was enough. It was covered with random pieces of metal sewn over every inch of the garment. It was wealth in a world where the steam barons controlled access to anything that might be used to build a power source, and it was protection against d.a.m.n near everything. Nick knew several of those metal pieces bore the mark where bullets had been stopped cold.

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 d.a.m.ned coat was soaked through.

"Where the f.e.c.kin' h.e.l.l 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 d.a.m.ned 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. "d.a.m.n 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 finis.h.i.+ng your d.a.m.ned s.h.i.+p."

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-crus.h.i.+ng bear hug that threatened to crack every rib. He made a m.u.f.fled wheeze and Striker let him go, pounding him on the shoulder.

"d.a.m.n 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 showmans.h.i.+p and guile.

Striker gave a wordless shrug, his eyes rolling skyward. "I couldn't say no to his crew. They missed the b.u.g.g.e.r. 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+pping 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 d.a.m.ned 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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.

"So what do you think?" Striker said, casting a sidelong glance at Nick.

But Nick had lost the power of speech. He began to walk forward, toward the open door and the prow. The s.h.i.+p was enormous, bigger than the Red Jack, and she was of an entirely different design. Her shape was a sleek oval, with fins that swept back like the wings of a stooping hawk. The gondola was snugged tight to the bottom of the balloon, forming a single unit. There was far less chance of an accidental fall, which made him feel better about letting Bacon on board. And a much more comfortable place to bring Evelina.

They walked in silence for the time it took to reach the prow. Outside the bay doors, the iron-gray sea churned restlessly, the rain falling in relentless sheets. The wind caught Nick's wet garments, making him s.h.i.+ver. But he forgot that the moment he saw the name of the s.h.i.+p painted in graceful lettering he knew for Digby's work: Steamspinner Athena. They had re-created the same hawk figurehead that had graced the Red Jack. A feeling of grief for his old vessel mixed with the bittersweet sense that they'd done what they could to keep it alive.

He felt Athena's emotions, a painful urgency to feel the s.h.i.+p around her. Someone in the distant past had locked the air deva inside the metal device that became her prison. It was only as part of an airs.h.i.+p that she could fly again.

"It's better than the plans," Nick said softly. "It's more than we ever thought it would be."

"True," said Striker. "Like I said, we took her out a few times, tried out some new crew. It takes a few more hands to run this beauty. I've been training that boy you saw for an a.s.sistant."

Nick could believe it. "How many does it sleep?"

"Twenty-six, if we want it. We ran with a crew of sixteen, but we weren't manning all the gunports."

Sixteen was double what they had usually had on the Jack. "Let's go aboard," Nick said, all eagerness.

Nick climbed the ladder into the belly of the steamspinner, the saddlebag carrying Athena slung over his shoulder. He could feel the deva's mounting excitement as he ascended, doubling his own sense of awe. As he came through the hatch and craned his neck to see all the way up to the top of the balloon, he felt no bigger than a mouse. Although he had known from the plans the exact measurements of the vessel, it was only now, from this inside view, that he grasped just how enormous it was. Almost speechless, Nick fell into step with Striker, who gave him the penny tour.

"The engines are running because we're distilling aether," Striker explained, raising his voice to be heard over the rumble of the equipment. "Our supplies are down after the last voyage."

Unlike other dirigibles, steamspinners were of rigid construction, the inside of the balloon a honeycomb of gas pockets. Two walkways ran its length-one inside the keel, which traversed the domain of steam engines, propellers, and weapons lockers-and one to the axial corridor that accessed the aether systems. At several points, ladders ran between the two corridors. Up there, an unearthly lime-colored fog surrounded the four double-helix shapes of a complex gla.s.s apparatus. This was the system that separated aether from the surrounding atmosphere, converting it into a distillate that could be stored or pumped directly into the s.h.i.+p's balloon. From where Nick stood below, he could see the weird green light spearing down the vent shafts, giving the gloom of the walkways an underwater mood.

This is very fine, said Athena. I can feel the power like a thunderstorm in waiting.

Electric lights-a rarity in the gaslit world of the steam barons-hung from wires strung above the walkways. Both levels contained a series of gunports for aether cannons. In addition, there were trapdoors in the bottom of the balloon for bombing enemy sites below. Nick calculated the s.h.i.+p was capable of obliterating a small city entirely on its own. The thought sobered him more than he cared to admit. It was a beautiful vessel, but a deadly one-and he was its captain.