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ROMARNY HAD NO OPTION but to depart soon after, as Rod’s uniformed escort arrived but a minute later. Rod was initially annoyed, then realised that every passing minute was a minute more of Jollie’s time wasted, so decided he was glad to commence the return journey. They were escorted back to the train platform, and this time the escort did not fail to stay with them on the train. Worse: two grey-uniformed chaps had been waiting for them, and sat in the same apartment for the entire run back. Rod had to content himself with sitting opposite to Miss Cluely and barely exchanging a word with her. He became lost in his own troubles instead, and the most troubling of them was that Major Mennase may have survived that fall and be at that very moment plotting some terrible revenge. This uncertain fact had been hanging behind him the entire day, and every now and then he'd turn around and collide with it.
His furtive conversation with Romarny had done nothing to help.
As to the two fresh-faced fellows in their compartment – they said not a word but rode in a state of idle alertness. Rod felt their eyes upon him. At each of the stations one of them stepped out and sent off anyone trying for one of the spare seats within. It became the exact opposite of his journey out; sombre and joyless.
These two, plus a small military escort, went with him all the way home. As they strolled up one of the tree-lined boulevards towards Palace Hill, Rodney realised they were going a different way, having already reached a street level with, and to the side, of the royal edifice.
Suddenly Karla stopped. “Well, this is home for me.”
Rod was surprised. Her home appeared to be a collection of old stables, but rather grand ones nonetheless. Probably once the Royal Stables, he guessed, being so close to the palace. It was an odd place nevertheless: the disused dressage yards had been ruined by clusters of tall peculiar machines and structures he took to be smelters or kilns. Smoke arose from several chimneys, one spewing a distinctive green tinge. Within the windows of one block he saw some truly bizarre objects, possibly to do with electricity. And the end of one of the buildings had been entirely reduced to rubble. Evidently not a new event because Karla did not even give it a second glance. Was this the Science Works?
“Goodbye, Miss Cluely,” he said rather formerly, “A pleasure meeting you.”
“Perhaps again soon?” she replied, hinting hopefully.
“Certainly! Perhaps you could show me around some time?” He gestured over her shoulder at the frightening facility beyond the gates and was momentarily startled to see a shadowy figure waiting there. Ah; he now recognised it as that lumpen lass from earlier in the day. What was her name? Punczel? Vuntzen? No; Bunszen! Anyway the dim-witted servant girl waddled forwards until she was right up at the gate, staring, a broom in her hands, evidently waiting for her mistress to return.
“Hello, Winnie.” called Miss Cluely, “I won’t be long.”
She turned back to Rod, her face lighting up at the prospect of another day in his company, “Tomorrow? Splendid! I shall send someone to fetch you after breakfast.”
“Ah, yes. Excellent!” He lingered over their final handshake, then let her go. A backward glance half a minute later saw her still standing at her gates, with the big tool trunk still balanced upon its little barrow. Rod chuckled at the absurdity of it. The thing had not even been opened!
Rod’s party went on in silence (except for that eternal stamp and jingle that soldiers make) through a modestly grand side entrance, up a marble stairway, along a colonnade, into the building again, until finally, and in a state of complete disorientation, Rod found himself back at his room. At this point he finally noticed that the two grey-uniformed fellows had quietly slipped aside at some point. A soldier knocked, and the door was opened.
“Ah. Captain Hoverrim, welcome back.” It was Jyves the butler. “I shall order some dinner at once. Would you care for a drink?”
Oh how Rod loved good service. He positively skipped inside and selected a nice chair to sit upon with a sigh.
“Splendid, Jyves! A gin and tonic, please.”
“No trouble at all, sir. And would you care to examine the papers, sir?”
“Ah? Oh? Why thank you.” Rod took the proffered periodical and stared in dismay at the printed headlines. “Um, I rather fatigued, old chap. Would you be so kind as to read me the pertinent points?”
“No trouble at all, sir.” The butler took it and read, “KITEMAN OF VICARIA STILL MISSING, PRESUMED LOST...” A pause while Jyves read some of it. “Oh it’s all just wild speculation as before. Also on page one: ‘NO PIRATE COULD LAND HERE’ ASSURES ADMIRAL. On to page two: PRINCE LYING LOW, PALACE SAYS ‘NO COMMENT’. Well of course, we never do. Here is something I think you should know: KING SCHEDULES RETURN FROM TRUNCASIA – says he should be back for the Ball, which is good. Now...” he flicked on through the pages, “...to page five with: HERO OF THE FIELD SEEN CATCHING TRAIN WITH SCIENCE GIRL. Damn! That will cause you some grief, sir. Ahhh... what’s this? WAS HE PUSHED? VON HEULENSTEIN FALLS AT STATION. Oh good grief, an entire story out of nothing. Really! Who reads this stuff?” Then, “Oh!”
Rod looked around as Jyves paused. “What is it?”
“Ah, nothing, sir. Just some scuttlebutt.” He folded down the paper. “I’d better see to your dinner.”
“Thank you. Much appreciated.”
“My pleasure, sir. Um, but tell me sir; Miss Cluely? Do you have any, ahhh, passing interest in the girl by any chance?”
“Good heavens, no!” Rod quickly answered. Too quickly, perhaps.
“Good. Good.” A pause. “Best you keep it that way, sir.”
And as Rod turned once again, perplexed and ready to question him, Jyves hurried out. Rod was left to sip his drink, anticipate a decent dinner, and puzzle over that last remark. Indeed, Miss Cluely was a striking lass, very smart and competent, but he really did not have a romantic interest in her.
No. Definitely not.
#
AFTER DINNER, AND AS Rod settled into a pleasant haze of alcohol-induced contentment, Jyves cleared his throat. “Sir, I need to remind you that you are scheduled to meet with Prince Lancieur shortly.”
“Oh yes, that’s right.” Rod heaved himself up, realising he still wore the laboratory clothes he had been loaned.
“Gad! I cannot go in these!”
“No trouble at all, sir. I took the liberty of acquiring you suitable attire for the occasion.” Rod finally looked around. Jyves was waiting with a fine suit upon a hanger. “I hope I guessed your correct shoe size.”
And thus, some twenty minutes later, Rod found himself being escorted by four of those solid brooding Amazons he had encountered the previous evening, back to the suites of Lady Radiata Schriick. He was shown in and directed to the private chambers of Prince Lancieur.
The Prince was already in bed. Either that or he hadn't gotten out of it since morning. Either way he was looking quite miserable. Rodney paused just inside the door, sensing the prince’s mood. Gad he hated this sort of man; prince or no prince! Moping about all day and incapable of getting himself dressed or shaved. Barely a man at all! But Rod had committed himself to this duty. He tugged a little self-consciously at his new suit, cleared his throat and began.
“I hope this is a good time, Prince Lancieur?”
The prince replied flatly, “There’s no such thing as a good time.”
“I see. Um, well you see your wife has asked me to visit you. She’s rather worried about your state of mind.”
Lancieur stirred in the bed and muttered, “She is largely the cause of it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing, nothing!”
He had a plate upon the bed; the remains of a long-cold dinner, and the cutlery clattered as he tugged hard on his quilt. Then he turned defiantly upon Rod. “So, here you are! She’s dragged in yet another red-blooded chap to give me a little pep-talk.” Lancieur thumped pathetically at his bedding with a clenched fist, “Gods! They don’t understand. Nobody Understands!”
Well that was it: Rodney didn’t gladly suffer the insufferable. Sometimes a man needed a stiff talking to! He strode angrily across the room and leaned over the bed, intercepted Lancieur’s vacant gaze. “Try me!” he challenged, “Because I don’t believe in all this modern psychology nonsense, and I don’t believe it is enough to just say to a chap ‘Oh come now, just perk up and be happy’! Now, I want you to tell me exactly what is wrong with your life!” He was actually shouting, inadvertently releasing some of his own pent-up frustrations from the last eight weeks – in fact ever since Miss Emily Bentley had changed her mind.
Lancieur seemed glued to the bed. This may have been because of the way Rodney had his hands pressed into the bedclothes to prevent himself toppling without dignity into Lancieur’s lap, for the bed had been softer than he had anticipated. Swiftly Rod retrieved himself from this peril and instead pulled up a chair.
“You are a bit different, aren’t you,” said the prince at last, almost admiringly.
The question took Rod by surprise. “Oh,” he said, dismissing it with a flick of his hand, “I’ve had people telling me that all my life.”
“But you weren’t of the serving classes, where you? Or a farm-worker or such?”
Another odd question. What was up with this fellow? “No,” answered Rod testily, “I was of the aristocracy, though really just a minor player made more famous than I should have been thanks to my grandfather.”
“Yes, that damn book!” growled Lancieur – which surprised Rod, “Father kept shoving it at me and telling me it was a fine example of how a boy should grow up and blah, blah, blah, but quite frankly I never wanted to rush about and get shot at. Who would?”
Lancieur then glanced aside at the rest of his un-eaten dinner still on its tray by the bed. “I say, would you care for my pudding?”
“No thanks, jolly nice of you to offer. But what is your point, sir?”
“My point is that it’s damn easy to do whatever you want if you can just order up a few dozen artisans to build you some whiz-bang thing when the fancy takes you, but I’m Royalty, damn it! The only bloody heir! Everything is expected of me, except of course what I want to do.” Sighing angrily, Lancieur took up his pudding bowl, peered at the cold glutinous object therein, and went to put it back on the tray.
Rodney was talking, “Ah, I see. So what do you want to do?”
“Damn it all! I want to be a scientist!” The plate hit the tray with a bang and broke. “And don’t think I haven’t told them that a hundred times!”
“Ahhh.” Rodney sprang to his feet, feeling the man’s frustration.
His mind immediately set to work thinking what could be done. There was Von Heulenstein’s Science Works nearby, but he immediately feared for the prince’s safety. So that left crackpot-Frankly ... Oh of course! Prince Lancieur was already emulating his father by giving patronage to Frankly; his own little pet scientist. Except Frankly was... well quite frankly, he was mad. The chances of Frankly teaching Lancieur anything useful were about nil. More likely to electrocute the poor lad.
Rod paused.
Except for that ‘cloud silver’. The development of a lightweight metal could be quite a scientific coup. Lancieur simply had to steer Frankly back to it ... No, wait a minute: Von Heulenstein seemed to have grasped the exact same possibility back at the railway station, except it seemed he thoroughly hated Frankly and had run off in a panic when he had realised that Frankly might have discovered something useful.
Damned peculiar!
“Well?” whined the prince, moodily staring at his slumped and dribbling pudding.
Rodney turned to face his host, trying to get his thoughts in order, “Sorry, I was just thinking... that it is... a truly wonderful idea! Yes, yes it is. It’s what you need to do, and I have a plan that will rush you towards not only a magnificent scientific achievement but also a marketable commodity.”
Lancieur sat up, his mouth hanging open in amazement as if no-one had ever listened to him before. His eyes burned with a new fire.
“Do you really mean that, sir?”
“Yes, I do. I believe that a Man must do something with his days. He must rise to some challenge, climb a mountain that no-one else has yet climbed, or do something that is entirely new, something that his heart compels him to follow!” It was word-for-word from the book, but he suspected Lancieur have never got that far through it.
“Yes. Yes!” Lancieur flung himself from the bed and paced up and down the chamber in his undergarments, shaking with passion, “But what? What?”
“Your mentor has already started you on the right path.”
“My mentor?”
“Doctor Frankly...”
“He’s an idiot!”
“But I thought ...”
“Yes, so did I! One day he turned up, wanted to talk about his ideas. Father was away, I craved a bit of amusement, so I gave him my patronage. He seemed to be pursuing some exciting new ideas, then that single crazy notion of his took hold: the Electro-Thingummy Effect. Argh!”
“Yes, yes, but remember the cloud-silver? That’s the thing you need to study. Frankly might be mad, but give him the money he needs to pursue his dream, and then pursue your own. And into the bargain you’ll come up with a product that will please your father. Surely a lightweight metal would be a boon for airship building?”
Lancieur’s cogs spun faster.
“Better you that Von Heulenstein,” added Rodney as a goad, “And you do rather need to please your father after that bother you endured in Truncasia.”
Lancieur immediately slumped back into his previous gray mood. Rod pushed on.
“Buy Frankly’s notes, sir! Ah; he did keep notes?”
“I believe so, yes. They are all in code, but fortunately he cheerfully told me the key to it one day. The man is quite artless!”
“Then it’s all go, sir! Build yourself a laboratory, hire some assistants, and recreate his process. Make more cloud-silver! Study it! It's the metal of the future.”
The light in the prince’s eyes flared up like a gas-lamp. “Yes! Yes I’ll do it! A laboratory – well I almost have that already. Assistants – yes. Especially women!” Lancieur’s eyes glimmered with a particular excitement, “You know I have to confess, Captain, I’ve seen an absolute beauty down at Von Heulenstein’s labs, dressed in a leather lab-coat and trousers... Rrr-rowl! Do you know what I mean? Eh? Eh?!”
Rod was dismayed, and disgusted. But all he said was, “Ha-hah, yes.”
The prince was very dynamic now, almost bubbling with gusto, “Hmm, yes, leather, and trousers...”
“And cloud-silver.”
“Yes, yes, cloud-silver... I’ll have three of them I think...”
“Three what?”
“Three assistants! All women. In leather!”
Rod was suddenly struck by a terrible thought. Had he just unleashed the dark side of this pouting prince? Was Lady Radiata’s trust in him about to become undone as her husband acted out some shameful adultery? Gad!
As it was, Lancieur was already enthusiastically yanking on a bell rope.
“Ah, tell me,” Rodney said, hoping to remind the flushed fool of his royal responsibilities, “when does the King return?”
“Three days. Plenty of time to get this underway!”
“I wonder if perhaps...”
“No, no! I have the entire idea! I’m setting off for Frankly’s right now! Thank you Captain. I shall not forget this!”
“Don’t mention it,” mumbled Rod hopelessly, “My pleasure entirely.”
“Pleasure? Mmm, yes! ... perhaps four assistants...”
At that point the prince’s butler rushed in, worried. “What is it, your highness?”
“See my visitor out, then prepare the coach. I’m going out!”
#
RODNEY WAS SOON IN another room, having been beckoned in by one of Lady Radiata’s staff. Lady Radiata herself was within, waiting for news.
“So what happened? Tell me, captain!”
“Well ... we had a man-to-man chat, and the Prince is feeling a lot better. He’s decided to pursue some, ahhh... industrial investments, and he’s off right now to purchase the necessary resources.”
Her face fell, “What investments? Where is he going?”
“Ma’am, I think sometimes a man of such delicate constitution should be given free rein to release his passions in a constructive way, if you know what I mean. I beg leave to recommend that you stand back and allow me to supervise him these next few days, for I fear that too many pragmatic restrictions might bring his melancholy swiftly back.”
“Oh ... but the physician says ... d-do you really think so?”
“Trust me, ma’am, I do.”
Rodney was putting on a smooth front, but underneath he was terrified of the consequences of that little ‘man-to-man chat’, especially as it pertained to women in leather trousers. He strongly feared that he had just let loose a hot-blooded fox who would soon be off bothering the chickens in their coop instead of being at home with his vixen, and if the vixen became vexed then Rodney’s goose would be cooked, if not actually tarred and feathered for his troubles.
Suddenly, and in desperation, he saw a possible way out.
“Um, now may I beg leave, Ma’am, to inquire upon a rather more delicate matter? How, um, how are the, ah, marital duties progressing between the two of you?”
Lady Radiata seemed momentary startled by the question, then her voice quickly dropped, “The King would rather like a grandchild, but...” She glanced at herself in the mirror as if she were somehow to blame. Rodney pressed on, realizing he was putting his oar deeper and deeper into someone else’s pudding. So to speak.
“If I may be so bold as to suggest a little play-acting later tonight – when he gets home? I, ah, I have the perfect costume for you.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
#
MR GORO KARAKURI HAD been extremely busy, with his doors locked and the electric lights on. The mechanism was fascinating, quite fascinating, and with breathless excitement he meticulously removed each cover, and then each sliding ring, having wrapped the inner gem in a strip of soft black leather to prevent it jetting away. He had seldom had access to actual windstones before, and this one was unusual, but what bewitched him were the intricate brass sliders, inner wheels, shafts, pins and springs that filled the device’s shell. Once exposed, and before he disassembled further, he freed the jam (ancient grease that had dried in the heat) and rotated each ring fully, noting how many clicks each made and the positions they stopped at.
Curiouser and curiouser.
At this point he spent a good hour measuring the angles as precisely as he could and noting it all down on a chart of his own devising and in his language (as with all his notes). He then completed the dis-assembly and laid all the parts out, drawing and annotating each one. Some parts were badly worn, so he set about fabricating identical replacements. And this lead him, by degrees and late into the night, into a very happy phase of his life. Very happy indeed.
#
GAUCHE FELT ILL BUT forced himself to rise, wash, and join his men for a cold and shuddering ride via the Royal East Tunnel to Naval Skyfield Three. There they took tea in a dank chamber as the light of dawn swelled beyond the looming shapes upon the field. He forced the liquid down and willed it to stay there as the naval officers came and went with their minor reports of readiness, but finally he hurried to the latrines to discharge his troubles. Both ends.
At ten to six they finally received the invitation to board. He stood shakily and lead his cohort out to the tethered corvette. Just himself, Agent Henche, and the two men he most trusted in this game: Jaczi and Blunt.
“I sense you are not well, sir,” Henche murmured once they were out of earshot of everyone else, crossing the crunchy frosted turf together.
“I’m fine, Mr Henche, perfectly alright.”
“I can well handle this mission, sir,” replied Henche with a vocal quality that could almost be mistaken for kindness, “If you wish to retire and recover ...”
“I will be fine!”
“As you wish, sir.”
And nothing more was said of it. They boarded, Gauche took a station within the control pod, the dawn quickened, the tether locks were simultaneously released at the captain’s order, and the sleek airship lifted away, wetting the field with about twenty gallons of icy water. At a hundred feet they met better light; enough to make kick, and the howlers abruptly activated, first moaning softly, then as the sun finally appeared above the clouds their sound and fury crept up the scale. Under good power the corvette swung northwest and began the run to the King’s Hunt. Satisfied, Gauche finally allowed himself to retreat to the officers’ mess, and there he hunched miserably in a cane chair and shivered.
Three hours later he was called forward, being forced awake from pleasant oblivion and reminded at once of his inner torment. Without revealing any sign of his vulnerability he stood and went forward. “Report please, Captain.”
“We’ve had favourable winds, and are currently crossing the first cliffs.”
“Excellent.” Gauche peered forward at a bleak landscape of bare trees and thin snow draped over a convoluted landscape of hills and gullies, atop rugged cliffs where a different layer of plant life clung –dangling fronds and twisted vines dangling a half-mile downward to the Deep, forever green. He’d seen this place many times, but never in full winter.
“What are your orders, Lieutenant Major?” asked the corvette’s captain.
“We’re searching for possible wreckage of a small ship. A hunter.”
“Fire?”
“Possibly.”
“Any notion where it might be?”
“It could be anywhere.”
“Very well, sir. We’ll be thorough and methodical.”
They crossed the cliffwinds, a mere bump and a brief up-surge that gave Gauche a little grief, not enough to cause any embarrassing discharges, then the captain swung the wheel to starboard and got things under way.
“Ensign, order all available men to the observation stations.”
“Yes, sir.” The ensign unplugged one of the speaking tubes and blew his whistle into it, “All crew to observations, all crew to observations. We are seeking the wreckage of a small airship, possible fire. Report all sightings.”
Gauche felt the ship vibrate with the running of many feet, then it settled. Before another ten minutes had passed the boredom began in earnest, and for three more hours they criss-crossed the landscape to no avail.
Until finally a voiced called through one of the tubes, “Fire damage sighted, Captain! Bear left, 15 degrees.”
Twenty seconds later they could all see the burnt patch ahead.
“Bring her about,” ordered the Captain, “hold steady on the breeze and prepare a bosun’s chair for our guest.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Are you ready to go down, Lieutenant Major?” asked the captain, noting that Gauche remained unmoved.
“Ah, not for me,” said Guache hastily, “I will be sending down my chief investigator.” He stood up with caution, swaying half-faint. It was all he could do to go aft and advice Henche of his duty, then rush to the holes.
And so it was, not ten minutes later, Investigator Henche was lowered close beside the wreckage – for wreckage it clearly was. He was accompanied by a crewman in a harness whose sole task was to stay suspended, stoop, and quickly gather rocks into a number of tough canvas bags hanging from his same line. Once this man had estimated Henche’s weight and fetched up the final rock, Henche dismounted from the bosun’s chair and walked carefully to the edge of the burnt patch, then all around it, studying the ground.
Gauche watched from above. Henche was by far and away the best at this sort of thing, but already this looked bad. It was clearly the site of an airship crash. Two huddled lumps lay amidst the still-recognisable blackened frames of the fallen gondola, and a little way off was the charred remains of the balloon’s keel. But any fool could see this.
Henche would see a lot more.
He was upon the ground for almost an hour in all, methodically pacing across the charred earth, stooping now and then to examine who knew what. At one point he definitely picked something up. Then he turned his attentions to the bodies. These he rolled over, rummaged through the clothes, and even leaned close to sniff. There was something revolting about the way the limbs waved stiffly each time Henche moved them. And the bodies did not look right – being thin and stripped, their gore-soaked garments torn and tattered. One entire limb lay a little way off – now almost nothing but bones.
Gauche had to stop watching and take deep controlling breaths.
Finally the captain gently nudged him. “Sir, Mr Henche has returned.”
Gauche came back from his involuntary spell of sleep, still upon his feet.
“Oh, ah, good.” He turned. “Well?”
“It is quite clearly the remains of the... ah...” Henche glanced at the captain, “of the specific ship we were seeking, sir. Two victims. Cause of fire; unknown. Well: a hydrogen fire, obviously, but no clear evidence of how it started.”
“Who ... who are the victims?”
“Two of our men.”
“Which two?”
Henche made a gesture that only his fellow agents would have understood, ‘K’.
Gauche nodded grimly and gestured back, ‘& J?’
Henche shook his fist a tiny amount. ‘No’.
‘M?’ signalled Gauche in a panic, looking ever more drawn.
Henche made no gesture, merely pulled a sodden and singed officer’s cap from under his cape. Gauche recognised it immediately. He actually staggered until he collided with an upright. Two crewmen moved to secure him.
“Are you unwell, sir?”
Gauche swayed, glad of their support, “No, yes I’ll admit that I am. I, I, I wonder if I may ...” And that was as far as he got before slumping to the deck.
He woke some hours later in a small cabin – clearly the ship’s surgery such as it was. The jets were howling. Henche was at his side, otherwise they were alone.
“Where are we? What’s our heading?”
“I ordered our return, sir.”
“No! We need to find Jonswine! If he survived ...”
“Then he would make for the base, yes.”
“He could be there right now!”
“Exactly. But we cannot take this ship to the drop-point, can we, sir? Showing the way in to a bunch of Navy Joes, even hinting it's here would be a serious breach of security. Serious breach. You would be broken, sir, and thrown from the service, but I couldn’t allow that. I have thought it through, and there is another way. Tomorrow I’ll go back in the skiff, just me and Allynkie, if that’s fine with you. He is absolutely loyal, sir, trust me. Now relax and think it through: if Jonswine survived, and if he got to the base, then he’ll be as safe there tonight as he was last night. I’ll get to him tomorrow, we’ll bring him back under cover, and then we’ll find out what happened...”
“What about the bodies? About Mennase?”
“I ordered them recovered, sir. Wrapped and already on board. Not much left of them, I’m afraid. Dog-bears got to them. I’ll get them to the mortuary. No publicity. The captain understands the situation.”
Gauche fought off another wave of nausea. “Good work. Well done.”
“Sir,” said Henche in that compelling way of his, “This could finally give you the information we need to zero in on the Firetail, and if you achieve that...”
“The King will be very pleased.”
“Yes he will, sir. And a fine way to begin your new career, Major Gauche.”
Gauche looked up at Henche, or at least at Henche’s darkened lenses, and smiled. He had misjudged this strange and secretive man. Henche really did care.
Gauche reached up, “Thank you, Mr Henche.”
Henche patted him. “My pleasure, sir. Now get some more rest, alright?”
#
JYVES ARRIVED WITH his usual flourish in the morning. Rodney woke to the smell of coffee and the ruffle of his drapes being drawn. Jyves immediately passed him an envelope. “Good morning, sir. The Lady Radiata sends her regards.”
“Oh.” Suddenly the daylight seemed to dim. Rodney took the envelope, weighing it in his hand as if he could directly divine its contents. He really had gone too far last night. Way too far. He dreaded to look. Grimly he opened it. A card tumbled out, bearing Radiata’s crest. Slowly, as if it weighed a ton, he lifted it. On the card, in an overly feminine script, was a single line:
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Rodney fell back with a grateful sigh.
“Problem, sir?”
“No, no, none at all.”
“Good.” Jyves had the morning paper, and tossed it down distractedly, “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve allowed you a late start, but you now have a visitor, and it would be in your best interests to fetch her in at once before she gets into any further trouble.”
“She? Trouble?”
Jyves sighed. “It’s too much to explain, sir, but you cannot go on meeting her here. Once the King returns, and if he were to learn of this indiscretion...”
Rod was immediately outraged. “Indiscretion!? I promise you, sir, that no indiscretions occurred yesterday! What nonsense is this!? Is it in the papers or something?” He glanced down at the paper, having just enough time to interpret the main headline: INFAMOUS GRANDDAUGHTER IN SECRET ROMANCE?
Meaningless.
“Anyway, whatever it is, I deny it all!”
“No no no no, sir. Her indiscretion, in coming here this morning.”
Rod paused, confused, “We are talking about Miss Cluely here?”
“Yes, yes.” Jyves tugged at his sagging face, then seemed to give up on the conversation. “Look, I shall fetch her in at once. Get yourself decent. Here!” He took up a dressing gown, thrust it into Rodney’s hands, and hurried out.
Rod hurried to the bathroom, and within minutes (well: twenty minutes) had made his way to the small parlour the designers had thoughtfully set into this suite some decades ago. Miss Cluely was there waiting for him, intent on writing within a small notebook she had brought with her. She was accompanied by two of those female guards from Lady Radiata’s orbit, standing as stony-face as ever. Curious. What was the Good Lady up to?
“Miss Cluely, how jolly decent of you to call by,” he began upon seeing his visitor, “I hope I have not kept you waiting?”
She stirred, but kept writing a moment longer before looking up. Today, it seemed, she was dressed more like a lady, sporting a rather fetching green tweed.
“I’m sorry, Captain, to have disturbed you so early.”
Rod glanced at the clock. Gad! It was nine-thirty!
“Please, it is no bother. I, ah, I have just finished breakfast.”
“Good. Then are you available to accompany me to the Science Works? My father approves of your visit,” she added hastily. Rod sensed it was not entirely true; perhaps almost entirely untrue, but he didn’t give a damn. A few hours of her company for the piffling price of accepting a small white lie? It was a bargain!
“I am indeed!”
She glanced at her po-faced guards, then back to him. “Right now?”
“Ah, yes. No reason to delay.” But he did have a reason to delay: breakfast. ... Oh what did it matter? A minute in her company was worth an hour of breakfast! Rod caught Jyves’ disapproving glare but ignored it. Damn it; the fellow was merely a servant!
Then he thought of something mildly important – those laboratory clothes he had so brazenly lent to Lady Radiata late last night. He would have to contrive some sort of lie to cover the fact that they were not here.
“Oh!” he said as if just remembering something, “Ah, when do you want me to remove those clothes? Because there’s been a slight problem ...”
“I beg your pardon!” she interrupted, clearly perplexed.
“Sorry? What have I said?”
“You said ... I’m sure I heard you say...” she gestured dismissively, her face now flushing, “No, I must be mistaken.” She tried to suppress a chuckle.
Jyves at this point helpfully added, “I believe, sir, the words you said were: ‘when do you want me to remove those clothes?’...”
At which point the larger of the two guards began making the sort of noise a species of small mammal might make while copulating. Rod glanced about, increasingly panic-stricken. Was the big bruiser laughing? Surely not?
“.. but perhaps you meant, sir: ‘when do you want me to return those clothes?’.”
“Is that not what I said?”
By now the laughter all around was quite apparent, and he felt himself shrinking as he might do as an eight year old boy suddenly embarrassed by some unintended faux pas. Bravely he boxed on, feeling his own face redden. “...Because, because they were inadvertently gathered up by one of the servants, and...”
“And they shall be returned tomorrow.” finished Jyves in quick control. “Now, sir, if you wish to get going, here is a suitable hat and cane.”
Jyves glanced at the guards and murmured, “By the back-gate, if you please.”
And so Rod, still ashamed of himself for his revealing slip of the tongue, and Miss Cluely, still trying to hide her mirth, were guided out of the palace via a very different route, to emerge via a small armoured door set low on a back wall. In order to reach her street they had to pass close by that same gateway by which he had returned last evening, and damn it all – there was quite a crowd gathered! Hundreds of people, all civilians, and containing them, if that was the correct terminology, were exactly four palace guards in splendiferous uniforms.
The moment Rod came into sight the hubbub tripled. A cheer broke out and the crowd surged towards him. As they got closer it seemed half of the people began trying to hail him, the other half to shake him by the hand. Two of the guards deflected the first man, but the second one connected. Then the third.
Rod did not mind, to start with.
“Thank you, Captain Hofling!” they shouted. “Huzzah!” (Lots of that.) “A small token of our gratitude, sir!” A wrapped parcel was thrust into his hands. Then another, and another. “Please visit my store, I beg of you!”
“Try my soap! It is most efficacious!”
“I have a proposal! Please read it carefully!” An envelope this time.
And before more than a minute had passed, as Rod tried to be polite to everyone, shake a hundred hands and attempt a few words above the roar, his attendants had amassed about forty items – many of which had to be passed on to more guards hastily called forth. And through it all Miss Cluely kept pushing him firmly onwards, a fact it took him a while to realise. Her hand was upon his back, and so very strong!
Rather stimulating, once he realised.
On they pressed, until the crowd had been sated and the last hangers-on had been met, greeted and their ridiculous requests at least acknowledged. Through it all, Miss Cluely kept him moving down the gentle grade towards the Science works and finally, still surrounded by a good 20 children and a few garrulous adults, they squirmed through the gates held slightly ajar by two of Miss Cluely’s staff who had rushed out to confront the commotion.
“Thank you, Berm. Thank you, Vernier,” she gasped with relief once they were within. Rod turned to give his admirers one final wave, then allowed himself to be lead deeper into this strange complex. She directed him around a corner, the crowd was gone from sight, and she promptly leaned upon a buttress and let out a long sigh of relief. “Oh I dislike that so much!”
“Crowds?”
“Yes. Terrifying.”
“I heartily concur!”
However Rod, by this stage, was nervously eyeing the smoking chimneys and strange contrivances all around him within the old stable yards. As he turned about, trying to take in this bizarre place, he spotted that lumpen lass Bunszen, standing there with her broom but with no dirt to sweep it seemed. Where had she sprung from?
Bunszen stood gawking at them in her usual slack-jawed manner.
“On with your work then!” cajoled Karla, “Doing a good job!”
Bunszen’s broom began to swish again, but she did not move on. Karla leaned in to murmur to Rodney, “She’s not very bright.” Then louder, “Alright, Captain Hoverrim, I’ll show you around. Carry on, Bunszen!”
She set off across a withered patch of lawn, pointing out various buildings, and began talking enthusiastically about science and electricity and ‘The Challenges of this New Age’ – almost like her father might speak. Rod finally realised that they were now effectively alone, although still somewhat in public view. He immediately felt worried about their total lack of a chaperone, and vowed to behave completely and utterly like a gentleman. Also – it was time he raised an important matter: one that had bedevilled him all night.
“Um, Miss Cluely.”
“Yes?”
“I... I have to raise a delicate matter with you.”
That stopped her. “Oh?” A little worried, but also hopeful.
“Ah, yes, it has been bothering me since yesterday. I hope you don’t mind me asking.”
“Uh... no, not at all.” Her hope seemed to increase.
“Yes, it is about that, um, small cheese you acquired yesterday.”
All her hope seemed to evaporate. “The... cheese? That little cheese?”
“Yes. Um, do you still have it?”
She unexpectedly burst out laughing. “Captain Hoverrim! If you liked your cheese that much, I fear you will have to go and get some more for yourself! You’re not getting mine!” Then she softened, “However, if I still had it, I’d be most willing to share.” There was a look in her eye right then that caused Rodney’s heart to do a double somersault.
“Ah,” he said, suddenly embarrassed, “Oh well. Um, perhaps I shall indeed acquire some more, and get another one for you at the same time.”
Her eyes dropped and her lovely hands fluttered.
“It was very good, wasn’t it?”
“Oh yes.”
They walked on. After she had pointed out all the facilities he took the chance to ask an entirely different question, “Tell me, your father came here just as I did, yes?”
“Yes, twenty-three years ago. Well, sort of; yes.”
“He’s done very well for himself.”
“He sold ideas to the biggest developers in town. His first inventions did well and they were soon clamouring for his gadgets and drawings and formulas. Within two years the King secured his services and gave him these premises.”
“How very kind of him.”
“Not exactly kindness. The King knows what’s good for business, and he always makes sure business is good for the King.” Rodney took note of that.
“And then you came along soon after?”
“Well, father was an interesting man and my mother was persistent, they say.”
“When can I meet her?”
Karla was silent a long moment and Rodney had a terrible feeling he had just put his foot in it. Finally she said, “My mother sort of disappeared a few years ago.”
“ ‘..Sort of..’?”
“It was arranged. It was... necessary.”
“Good heavens! Is she alright? Where is she?”
“She’s perfectly safe, but we just don’t know exactly where.”
Rodney was suddenly grim, “I wish I could say the same about my father.”
“Your father disappeared too!”
“Yes, but I do not want to dim your spirit with my tale right now.”
She laid a hand on his arm, “I’m sorry to have reminded you of it.”
“No, no, my fault.” He paused, gazing blindly at some tall monstrosity of brass, ceramics and cast iron that was festooned with fat cables wrapped in waxy bindings, but he wasn’t really paying it any attention. Something had eased within his breast – a tension and a burden that had sat within him for eleven years.
“Miss Cluely, since ... since we share such a common experience, ah, it might benefit me a little to unburden my woes. Yes. If you would be interested.”
“You may tell me whatever you wish, sir. I’m not easily disturbed by human frailty.”
“Well then.” He drew a stiff breath and began, “When I was barely twelve, in fact a week after my birthday, I came home to a silent house. Mother was clutching a letter and looking terribly grim. Little by little the story came out, how my father had gone to London but had never arrived. Instructions had been left, a will deposited, and a number of things were missing. No dead bodies or signs of misadventure: Father had simply vanished. We even had a visit from a chap called...” he wracked his memory, “... Sir Locke-Holmes! Yes. He was some sort of detective. Anyway Daddy was gone and the newspapers went wild with whacky explanations. One of them was that he had travelled here! Of course no-one knew how, for it was not the season for launching airships into the Storm’s Domain...”
“The what?” she interrupted.
“The Storm’s Domain. Here. Your world. That is what it has long been called in my world.” He laughed. “Of course it is not, as I now well know, but for us to see a continuous wall of eternal storm clouds, a storm that had been there forever; well you can see how it might have gotten its name. Uh, where was I? Yes: Daddy was gone and there was every kind of rumour in the papers; supposed sightings; it was quite a circus I can tell you. Went on for years, and a terrible trial for my poor mother.”
“And yourself, I would presume?”
“Well yes, but a boy has to take things like a man.”
She had moved closer to him and he had not backed off for fear of insulting her. She smiled up at him in a kindly way. “I understand.”
“You must feel the same?” he asked her.
She nodded and stopped walking altogether, turning towards him once again. It was very pleasant indeed. She seemed to be thinking, or gathering her thoughts or wondering how to begin or something, and he allowed her the time to do so. It gave him a rare opportunity to see just how very feminine she actually was, despite her mechanical aptitudes.
This delicious moment could have gone on for some time, but suddenly a hissing whistling noise began nearby and Karla spun around. It was immediately apparent where the noise was coming from. Steam was escaping from one of the buildings, mingled with shouts and the clang of tools on metal. Rod had heard enough clanging on metal to recognise panic.
“What’s happening?”
She was looking up at the two chimneys that stood above the building, then she shouted, “Oh you dunderheads!” and began running to the main doors, even as four workers came running out of those self-same doors, followed by more steam.
He raced after her. “Don’t go in there!”
She went in there.
He ran faster and plunged in directly behind her. There was steam everywhere, heat, the smell of coal and hot metal, and the throbbing rumble of a boiler.
“Miss Cluely? Karla!”
No answer. Squatting below the worst of the fog he peered into a dim and unfamiliar boiler room. There were coal bunkers, strange machines, brass, pipes, valves, several fat copper tanks and an oddly familiar smell. Fermenting hops?
“Karla!?”
He heard a clanking noise, the regular banging of metal on metal. In the dimness he saw a low door open, inside it a fire roared. Suddenly Karla was rushing towards him. She promptly grabbed him and hauled him vigorously to one side.
“Quick! Pull on that!” She pointed to a pull-chain hanging just beyond her reach, then began unwinding a fire hose from a hook. He reached and pulled down hard on the chain. Above them came a loud mechanical clunk, muffled as if underwater, and suddenly hundreds of gallons of warm water showered down on them both.
She sputtered, uttered an unlady-like word and shouting in a fury, “That is not meant to happen!” She glanced around, spied two buckets, and gave him a brisk order, “Quick! Go quench the fire! I’m going up!” Without hesitation she raced up a metal ladder, giving Rodney a change to appreciate the cut of her mizzen, especially as it now clung nicely to her stern. She turned to look back, sensing his lack of action.
“The fire!”
“Right, right!” Taking up the buckets, and careful not to spill any (for they had fortuitously caught a lot of that unexpected shower), he moved to the red hot mouth of the boiler, set one down and very carefully aimed the other. In it went. The fire howled in anger and the hot coals burst and spat. Steam and filth roiled out and he ducked below it, let it settle, then aimed the second bucket with even more success. Again the firebox hissed in fury, spraying ash and smoking chunks. He let that settle, then staying low, moved in and kicked the doors closed. To be quite sure the fire was well damped he then kicked shut the vent sliders.
All well and good, but he was wise enough to know that they still had to vent off the pressure or it might still blow. Or was it time to beat a hasty retreat?
Wait; Miss Cluely was still in here! He turned. Where were those stairs? Ah! He went up, three at a time. Above he heard an angry scream of frustration.
“Miss Cluely!”
“I’m alright! Here, this way.”
He found her on the second landing, armed with a huge spanner, her clothes still clinging and her face now dirtied.
“What’s the matter?”
“I grabbed the wrong spanner!”
Rodney looked at the handle-less valve shaft she had been trying to turn. Where it had originally been made square it was now mashed into a messy round.
“What does it do?”
“Release steam to the auxiliaries, it’ll save the whole building! Damn it!” And she flung down the spanner in a sudden fit of fury.
“We need to get out!” he insisted, “It’s going to blow!”
“No! I think I know where to ...”
He seized her angrily. “Miss Cluely! We’ve run out of time! Get out!”
To his great relief she nodded. They both turned to contemplate the stairs, just as something went bang. A rushing cloud of steam instantly enveloped their escape route.
“Damn and blast! We’re done for!” he cried.