11

Weaving in and out of the milling market stalls and crowds, I glanced over my shoulder, sure I would see Ashton’s angry face. How long had it been? An hour…perhaps more? Passing a floating stand I felt sure I remembered the man selling his goods in the makeshift airship. My gaze went to the other vendors as they slowly bobbed and sank next to him. I must have been walking in circles. There, the curiosities stall with the small mech-puppets hopping on the counter, I’d seen them before.

So sure I could do whatever I must to save my father, once I actually escaped Ashton’s gaze, I did not think to plan any further than that. How would I even find Signore Collodin, let alone devise a way to transport myself to him? What had I thought would happen after I fled? I knew nothing of this place. Why, only this morning I dressed myself for the first time. My gaze wandering over the men and women of Port Rodale, I didn’t know what to do or where to go.

“What have you done, Charlie?” Pushing aside my guilt over stealing the journal, I gritted my teeth. I had no reason for guilt. It was entrusted to me by my father. He gave me directions; Collodin. That I’d smiled and batted my eyes at Ashton to distract him was simply…well, it was what I had to do and that was that. If only I could convince my churning stomach that what he thought of me did not matter.

The sun, higher in the sky now, shone brighter than anything I remembered. Not even before the quakes had I seen such a brilliant day. I smiled at the long forgotten feel of its rays kissing my skin. Swaying with the breeze, I opened my eyes; pulling the goggles down, I gaped at the blue-tinted landscape of movement before me.

Where the docks with the airships struck awe into me, this part of Port Rodale, the market, seemed strangely familiar. A woman pushed by me, her child in tow, and I took in their frayed clothing and faded wool capes. I ran a hand along the smooth leather of my father’s cloak around my shoulders. Every step I took, it dragged on the wood planks of the gangway. It was too fine. Too noticeable, and I had to get rid of it or call attention to myself.

People rushed past, not even looking up as they brushed against me on the narrow pathway. Assaulted as never before with their nearness, strange scents, and textures of their clothing, a dizziness overcame me and I steeled myself. So different from the leisurely strolls along the grid-arranged avenues at home, here people cared not for vapid conversation or visiting with one another. Gone were the carefully observed distances of genteel courtship and company. Instead everyone jostled and pushed. So busy, so determined to get where they were going.

“As you should be,” I scolded myself.

Pushing on, I wove between a group of women shouting over a basket of oranges. Trying to stay out of the fray, I yelped when a tremendous grinding shook the planks beneath my feet toppling me to my knees. The basket overturned, the orange orbs pelting me as the women froze.

Everyone stopped, the whole of the port market staring rapt at the South tower. Its blades vibrated, shook with a groaning metal whine, and then smoke drifted from the base of the rotor. White and thin, the wispy tendril floated until the whipping rotors caught it up.

I stared with abject horror at the malfunctioning machine. A final rattle followed by a low grinding noise ended with the rotors picking up their unheeded whirling once more.

“It’s white,” a man said with obvious relief. “The smoke is white. Not to worry.”

The tension eased in the surrounding crowd. Men and women shook their heads and a few nervous chuckles sounded before movement and voices rose once again to the noisy market clamor.

I gazed at the still rotating blades of the vast tower and wondered…what if they ever stopped? What if the smoke had not been white, but black? A shudder railed up my spine and I forced my thoughts from calamitous scenarios. Possible disaster aside, I still had no idea what to do or where to go. I cast about for something, anything that might offer a next step. Help me… My pride stung. I had no idea of what I was doing. Ashton’s words came back to me.

Charlie, the Debutante…

Ashton. Had I made a terrible mistake? I shook my head. No. He had tossed my father’s life aside as if ridding himself of rubbish. Perhaps if I made my way back to the slips and docks I could find a way—

“Lost?” A figure stepped in my path, his large bulk blocking my way. I stared at him through the goggles and my mouth went dry.

It was one of the men from before, the group of privateers that ogled our progress earlier.

They’d made Ashton nervous and now I understood why. Hulking and marked with ink on his brawny arms, he leered down at me with hungry eyes. His wind-chapped lips parted with a grin marred by rotten teeth.

“No.” I tried to sidle past him, but he stepped in my way.

“Are you sure?” He smiled and his fetid breath sent a flash of cold sweat across my skin. “’Cause I can show you around.”

“Thank you, no.” I stumbled, my boot caught on an uneven plank, and he grabbed at me. Terrified, I had never been so man-handled in my life, and it left me unable to even scream for help.

“Seems like you need a strong hand,” the man whispered as if we shared a private moment instead of the glares of passersby. “That you do.”

“L—leave me be,” I croaked. “Unhand me at once.”

His brows rose, amused. “Unhand…where’re you from, missy?”

“I—I’m from here.” I tried to wiggle free only to have him yank me closer. Stomach lurching, I cast about, searching for help of any kind.

“I’d wager you’re from some fine family down under the dome.” He leaned in, the tip of his nose resting in my hairline. “Smell like you’ve been all perfumed and pampered yer whole life.”

The opera glasses in my waist pouch clanked against his wrist guard and he looked down. Grabbing the lorgnettes, he held them up, his eyes narrowed. “A tinkerer…but you’re a lass?”

“Please, let me go—” I stilled, my gaze catching the glint of sun off the badge of a nearby lawman. Holding my breath, I willed him not to glance in our direction.

“What’re you…” The privateer followed my gaze, and he too froze. Favoring me with a sneer, he shoved the glasses back into my hands, pushed me aside, and stalked away.

I swallowed hard, my heart racing as I eased out of the lawman’s sightline. Unsure if Lizzie’s prediction came true, if aethergraphs with my image now circulated amidst Outer City’s most dangerous port, I pulled the hood of my father’s cloak down further over my goggles and moved as quickly as I could in the direction opposite the lawman. Not caring where I went, only hoping to avoid detection, I squeezed into the dark corner next to a dribbling water barrel. Hands wringing and feeling thoroughly out of sorts, I watched the throng. My head throbbed and I closed my eyes. Where was the girl who thirsted for adventure? Who cared little for convention and longed to tread the strange lands of my father’s tales?

My father’s tales…

We stepped onto the black sands of the shore, our weapons at the ready, listening to the darkness. And do you know what we did next, Charlie?

The lay of the land, Papa. You watched with keen eyes.

Yes, Charlie. No greater weapon than a sharp mind.

I took a deep breath, forced myself to calm, and then did as I had learned. Movement and motion slowed before me as I noticed instead of simply seeing.

The stalls in the west corner were food. Men argued at a counter drifting under a vast patchwork balloon. Pushing coin back and forth, they each grasped an end of a hunk of dried meat. Next to those, sundries. Two women bantered as they gestured, one with a few rolls of wound yarn, the other a bolt of material. Coming to an understanding, they traded goods and parted with satisfied faces. Across the marketplace a man aloft in his zeppelin called down to someone. He placed a sheaf of herbs in a basket, lowered it, and received a jar of honeycomb−apothecary. All around me people bartered for specific goods or services. There was rhyme to this chaos I just had not noticed before.

Perhaps there was a place to barter for information? I had the lorgnettes, my father’s cloak, I was not without currency. But where? Who would know a tinkerer or how to locate one?

Another vibration rattled through the south tower and I stilled. Pistons, gears, drive shafts…the care and maintenance of those vast towers needed a mech-man or a trained engineer. Surely I would find someone there.

I cast a final glance in the direction of the lawman and headed toward the still smoking tower. The din of the driving rotors grew louder as I pushed past people, the occasional mother scolding her child, and clots of filthy privateers huddled in smoky groups.

When I reached the tower, it did not connect to the walkway at all. It hovered more than fifty feet away with thick, chorded cables snaking out from either side. The anchors of the port. Most likely, a safety measure. The only way to reach the door more than thirty feet above was with a lighter-than-air craft. Staring up at the fish-scale siding, I decided it did indeed resemble an old lighthouse, though with a bit more grace to its lines. Disappointed, I watched the propellers slice through the sky. The consistent chug of the inner steam engine was somehow comforting. It was a sound from home.

A familiar whir and click caught my attention and I turned to see a child looking at me with rapt attention. A single mechanized lens covered one of his eyes, the strap encircled a riot of golden curls atop his head. He smiled at me and the mechanism focused when I waved. Despite the device, he reminded me of little Tommy back home and I wondered how Moira fared and if she ever secured treatment for the cuts to her hands.

The little boy giggled and I noticed the line in which he stood with his mother. Every person in the queue possessed some form of mechanical-aid device. Gloves with metal hinges to work paralyzed fingers, whole arm prosthetics, eye lenses…all of them waiting in front of a small stall just off the rest of the market pathway.

I walked over and peered around the crowd.

An older man, his head encircled with a silvery gray halo of hair, spoke softly to a woman.

She lifted her arm, extended and retracted the arm encased in a mechanized brace, and smiled. “Much better, Mr. Berkley,” the woman commented. She slid a man’s shirt and a canister of dark powder across the counter.

“It’s the damp, Mrs. Pare,” Berkley muttered. “I cannot stress enough the importance of keeping the gear-works dry and well oiled.”

She nodded and moved on with a look that showed she’d heard that same exclamation many times.

A young man, about my age, limped up.

Berkley frowned, leaned over the counter and shook his head. “This is not a leaping leg, Timothy,” he said with a click of his tongue, but he rounded the barrier and peered through his pince-nez at the joint. Reaching into his apron, he produced a tool unlike I’d ever seen before. Brass and wood, it ratcheted as he twisted the bolts on the boy’s knee and ankle.

“I knew you could fix it, Mr. Berkley. I knew it.” Stepping back, the boy bounced on both feet and slapped the old man on the shoulder. He offered over a handful of wooden nails.

“Yes, well…” Berkley muttered as he climbed back into his stall. Small and simple, it was little more than the width and breadth of a horse stall, if that. Yet all he seemed to need were the tools in his pocketed apron and the lone oil infuser on the counter.

He addressed each patron’s complaint, taking what they bartered with no comment.

I wondered if the offerings were truly as random as they seemed or if he had a standing list of things for which he was willing to trade work. Deciding I had no other ideas, I stepped in line. His fingers, though wrinkled with time, were nimble, and before I knew it, I was face to face with the old mechanic. He looked at me, leaned over the counter to peer at my feet, and then favored me with a puzzled look. “What do you need?”

“I, uh, nothing…”

“Then why are you in line?” Berkley looked down his nose and the lenses of his glasses made his eyes appear enormous. His silver hair ruffled in the breeze like duck down.

I stared at him, unsure. “I have something to trade.” I pulled the lorgnettes from my side pocket and offered them.

He glanced at them before fixing me with a narrowed gaze. “Trade for what?”

“I’m not sure, really.” Befuddled and unsure of how much to reveal, I simply stared at him.

Behind me a few groans of impatience sounded.

“You got something to trade, but you’ve no metal parts that I can see,” he said and raised a brow at my cloak.

“Maybe she’s got gears for brains and needs a few knocks to get them going again,” a voice floated from the rear of the line.

Snickers followed.

My face burned with embarrassment. I grabbed the opera glasses, but he caught my wrist, his grip a painful clamp.

“What do you need?” He fixed his rheumy gaze on mine and I stilled. “You came here. You waited. You thought about how to get it…now what is it you’re after, lass?”

I caught the glint of metal peeking out from his ear. Miniscule gears clicked and trembled just inside the shell of his ear. I blinked, curious. “A tinkerer made that,” I murmured.

“Of course, a tinkerer—”

“A tinkerer, not just a mech-man slapping together chunky, serviceable machines,” I interrupted. “A true inventor, someone artful, inspired.”

He considered me with a curious expression. “What would you know of artful?” He pulled the lorgnette from my pinned hand and inspected the knobs and small attachments. Raising a brow, he let out a low murmur, “Something, maybe, after all.”

“Are ya goin’ ta get on with it, Berkley?” A man called up. “The day’s half over and I’ve got to get to Port Healy by dusk.”

“Keep your temper, Stan,” Berkley yelled back. Leaning forward, he pulled me close by my wrist and whispered. “You are recognizable even in those goggles and hood, Charlotte Blackburn,” he hissed.

“What? I—” Panic barreled through me and I struggled to free myself from his deceptively strong grip. He nodded over my shoulder and I followed his gaze to a lawman talking with a group of women.

The parchment of an aether missive fluttered in the women’s grasp.

I could just make out an image of a face on the paper. “Oh, no.”

“What do you want?” He hissed. “Speak up and make it quick before someone in this line recognizes you and shouts about it.”

“C—Collodin. I need to find Signore Collodin, the tinkerer. I have a message from my father.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Berkley pulled me closer. His hot breath smelled of mint tea. “Why would you seek that madman out? Do you know who he is?”

“He’s a tinkerer who knew my father. I must find him.” Fighting the rise of worry, I eased my hand free. “Can you help me? It is a matter of the utmost urgency!”

“Yes, fine.” Berkley regarded me for a moment from behind his lenses. “Meet me at the northern slips. There is a black vessel docked.”

“What?” I looked at him, not sure what he was telling me.

“Go and hide on the craft and wait for me.” He released my hand and reached up, tugging my hood down further over my forehead. “Stay out of sight. There are bulletins with your likeness in the hands of many who would not hesitate to make a shiny coin off of your capture.”

I blinked back tears, my entire body shaking. I nodded, backing up and clutching my father’s cloak tighter. I turned and headed away, unsure if he meant to hide me for his own profit or if he truly intended to help. There seemed no reason to trust him. Nothing in his gruff manner or rough handling of me felt particularly honorable.

My mother’s face flashed before me and I took in a shuddering breath. The last time I’d felt alone and exposed was during her last days in the hospital. My father, unable to watch her die, disappeared into his lab and books, desperate to save her. But I sat next to her and wiped her brow with a wet cloth as I fought to keep the growing earth tremors outside from shaking the basin off my lap. She held my hand, stroked it with her soft skin, and smiled with eyes lined with encroaching defeat.

Faith is more than what you feel, Charlotte. It’s stepping out onto the waves despite the danger. You’re a scared girl, but a strong one, and help comes from the most unlikely of places.

Berkley frightened me, but he’d warned me as well, something he did not need to do. And, I’d seen what he had on his shelf. Jars of useless and broken trinkets, more shirts and rolls of yarn than anyone needed, and bruised fruit past the time of eating. He helped those who needed him, but not for any profit that I could discern. The polished stones in the jar at home flashed in my mind; payment from a grateful boy for baskets of food. I glanced toward the slips. The sails and bulbous shapes of the air-ships cast long shadows on the planks.

No, Berkley was not genteel or even kindly, but perhaps that was not what I needed in this place.