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AT PRECISELY 10 IN the evening, Victor Vicario the Seventh threw the switch, and the newly installed Electric Airship Guiding Lights came on across the top of Vicaria, and also down the cliffs for two hundred yards on each quarter of the compass.
The crowds cheered, and those with miserable children could finally retire for the night. (The wealthy, of course, watched from their windows.) The hardiest of them remained waiting in the cold.
At precisely 11:17 the newly commissioned Eastern Listening Station announced that they could hear the motor of the approaching airship, and at 11:23 the watchmen signalled that they could see its running lights. It crossed the cliffs twelve minutes later and landed at 11:39, twenty-one minutes ahead of schedule.
Rodney was welcomed by rousing cheers and edged stiffly down the ladder to be face-hugged by the Vicarians. Even so, he was glad of it, glad to see the radiant Lady Maybee standing there in her furs, glad to stretch his legs, and very glad indeed to hand over his paltry load of mail, including the Royal Letter. A photographer fussed, he and Vicario pretended for some minutes to hand it over, and finally the moment was captured for posterity.
It was all terribly exciting and emotional, but mostly he just wanted to have a pee and a cup of tea. Not that he pressed either of these demands. After all, he was British.
Finally, however, he had the first of these needs fulfilled, then sat in Vicario’s padded pavilion to partake of the second at his leisure, having three cups in all and a hearty serve of steak and kidney pudding in between. And how splendid it was!
While they chatted, the airship was refuelled, the ballast recalculated, the next load of mail loaded, and the time to depart came upon him all too swiftly. Rod rose, shook hands all around, was once again sandpapered by a dozen men, hooded himself, gloved up and went out to make the return flight. At precisely 1am they lifted away, the motor singing and the flags waving wildly from below. Jollie kept his eye upon the electrically illuminated compass and they took a bearing due east.
“Well that all went swimmingly,” Jollie shouted cheerfully.
Rod didn’t reply. He just patted his new friend on the shoulder, gazed ahead into the utter darkness, and fondled his pistol.
#
ROMARNY GAZED INTO the firebox and listened to the flames mumbling within the chimney, her hands cupped around a mug of milky tea. The clock ticked loudly, but it was not the only thing ticking. Within the pantry, the aetherwave encoder was clicking merrily, cranking out round after round of code. Eventually she got up and peered in the door. The old lady was still up on the planks, busy writing. Finally the device went silent. She finished the last line, tucked away the codebook and came down.
“What did he say?”
“The news is out.”
“Not surprised.”
“The palace has made a statement.”
“As they do.”
“The school is closed tomorrow, funeral at the Cathedral, etcetera, etcetera, but I don’t like this bit:” the old lady spread out one of her strips and turned it to the best light, “Rumour: Greycoats Preparing Something For Tomorrow Night.”
Romarny shrugged and resumed gazing at the fire. “I don’t care anymore.”
“Roamy, I’ve got no truck with that! I told you before!”
“I failed! I screwed up!”
“We will get it back! Havencliffs is only so big. You got a description of the coach...”
“Like that is going to help?”
“We’ve got our Ears all over town working on this...”
Romarny banged down her tea. “Yes, all five of them, counting you...”
“Come on, you’re the Firetail!”
“Not anymore.”
“No-one has cancelled your Call-up. Until there is a new Chairman ...”
“Hanarrahar will make sure of it.”
“Jyves won’t let it happen! Hanarrahar only has one vote.”
“It’ll be her word against mine...”
She stopped. The aetherwave encoder had started up again. The old lady got up and went to decode the punch tape, and finally came back. “Greycoat Action Targeting Ball,” she read.
Romarny was silent. Finally she said, “Why the Ball? What are they planning?”
“I don’t like it. Your Rodney is going to be there.”
“He is not ‘my’ Rodney! And anyway...” suddenly her voice changed, becoming theatrical and satiric, “...I can’t go to the Ball, I’ve nothing to wear!”
The old lady laughed. “Well, perhaps Mr Karakuri has just the thing.”
Romarny lifted her head and turned. “Huh?”
#
RODNEY HOVERRIM WAS nearly home, and he was very happy. Well: ‘home’ in the sense that he was but three hours short of Havencliffs - his current home, and ‘happy’ as in no-one was currently threatening his life and he actually had something to look forward to upon his return: Miss Karla Cluely to be precise.
Behind him throbbed his very reliable British-made Pratt and Whitey aero-motor (notwithstanding its propensity to leak a small quantity of oil), and ahead of him, over the light from the compass, was the first light of dawn.
Jollie was asleep upon the deck alongside him, it being his off-duty, and Rodney was enduring his two hours 'on' in stoic British fashion. His eyes were protected from the sub-zero wind by a splendid pair of Finkster airshipman’s goggles, and the remainder of his face was swaddled in a leather-coated mask of such cunning design that the moisture in his exhalations froze well away from his nostrils – the icicles being easily broken off with a shake of the head over either shoulder.
Damned cold it was all the same, and he maintained the slow and steady series of muscle movements that Jollie had taught him to keep warm and prevent cramps.
Still that glow of dawn remained ahead, but rather odd it now looked. Not really in the right place. He checked the compass. He was still bearing correctly, but now the dawn lights had moved. Odd. Perplexing. He corrected again, then glanced at the compass again.
Off course again? He corrected, again. This was odd. Ahead the vague lumps of light grew bigger, then he realised it was not the light of dawn at all. Was it Havencliffs? But if so it was coming up entirely too soon.
He glanced down at the compass and made another small correction.
Why was he steering so wrongly?
Ah! Because they were moving! The clump of lights were swinging further to his right, and getting bigger. What in the Deep was going on?
“Jollie! Wake up!”
The big man’s voice mumbled from below, “Holy squat-holes, mate. Seems like I’ve only been out for five minutes.”
“Sorry, but there’s something strange off the starboard bow. No idea what it is.”
Jollie heaved himself up, causing the gondola to sway and shiver, and quickly wrapped his face against the cold. “Where?”
“There!” Rod pointed, an action he realised was both useless and unnecessary. The things were patently obvious. Were they airships? Looked like it.
“Where?”
“Right there! There’d be twenty of them, I’d say.”
“Can’t see a thing, mate.”
“Surely you can, sir!”
“Nope. You sure you didn’t have a little dream there?”
“I can see them right now, and I know I am fully awake!”
“Sorry, mate, but I cannot see a damned thing except the compass. Oh, and we’re off course a bit.”
“I know. I’m going to circle them.”
“Sir, you have been affected by lack of sleep and I’m going to insist ...”
Rodney went wild. “I am just fine, sir! It is you at fault! Can you not see them?”
Jollie was silent a long time, gazing to the right. He even squatted out of the wind, took off his goggles and cleaned them, then stood again. Meanwhile Rod kept to his turn. The objects were now but a mile off by his reckoning. Huge nebulous airship-shaped things, each glowing so ghostly pale that he was several times convinced that perhaps Jollie was right: that it was he himself who was suffering hallucinations.
“What do you see?” asked Jollie after some minutes.
“Well, damned if I’m sure now, but they seem to be huge nebulous airship-shaped things, each one glowing as if it is lit by just a couple of candles deep inside.”
“Skywhales! Quickly, shut off the motor!”
“No! If we cannot start it again we’ll be marooned!”
“Then close it off to an idle. Minimum speed! Quickly!”
Rod did so. The stiff freezing wind eased off. They were now barely moving, but – as for the entire journey – there was no way of perceiving their true motion.
Now he looked again at those strange apparitions and finally Jollie’s words caused something to click within his brain. He saw them differently. They were airships, but living airships, slowly pulsing with curious patches of moving coloured light. About twenty of them, tightly bunched as an organised group and with the largest ones to the outside. In the centre of the cluster hung the smaller ones, some probably little bigger than his own gasbag, he guessed.
Quickly he tried to review what he had learned of these remarkable beasts – mainly during his frightful experiences in the laboratory of the now-disgraced Victor Vicario the Eighth. Skywhales, like man-made airships, could only progress during the hours of daylight. These were ‘free-ballooning’ until dawn, as any Varstian airship must do.
“Astounding,” Rod whispered, his brain blossoming with an amazing sense of wonder.
“Whoa!” shouted Jollie right beside him, “I can see them now!”
Indeed, at that moment some of the bigger ones had quite lit up, their light and colour multiplying tenfold. The two men were so startled that the Lizzie swayed.
“I told you! I told you!” shouted Rodney as more of them lit up, more and more until the entire grouping was alight.
“Oh Gods above and below!” laughed Jollie, “I've never seen such a sight!”
“Is it not extraordinary?”
“It is incredible! Gods, I wish I were an artist! I’d rush home to paint this!”
“You must know of this, though?”
“It’s a myth. The oldest of stories! I never believed it. Nobody does!”
WHO ARE YOU?
“Sorry, was that you?”
“What? Yes. I was just saying that nobody has ever believed the old stories...”
WHO ARE YOU?
“There it is again!”
“What? There’s what again?”
“That... that voice.”
“Rod, are you entirely right in the head?”
IDENTIFY YOURSELF. WHAT IS YOUR SONG?
Rod raised his voice and shouted across towards the skywhales. “I’m... I’m Rodney Hoverrim, from Britain.”
SING YOUR SONG.
Rod’s head was spinning, his heart thudding, and all sense of cold had vanished. He had to cling to the wheel to prevent himself toppling into the Deep, so strange was the feeling.
SING YOUR SONG!
“Jollie,” he said urgently, “what’s that song? The little lady sang it at the show the other night. You were there. How does it go?”
“Rod, what’s this to do with anything?”
“She was... it was like: ‘Oh won’t you fly again, my love, come fly again with me-ee-ee, fly across the windy sky,’ or something. Something like that. You must remember it!”
“Why do we need to sing that right now?”
“Just sing it! The whales want to hear it.”
“Rod, you seriously need some sleep ...”
“They’re talking to me!”
Jollie was silent for a good ten seconds, then without a single word of protest he began the song. “Will e’r you fly again, my love? Will e’r you fly to me-ee-ee? Will field of mine ever call you down, will eye of mine you’ll see, my sweet, will eye-ee of mi-ine you’ll see...”
Rod picked it up as best he could, and quickly asked for a repeat. Jollie complied, and altogether they went entirely through it three times, Rod progressively improving. On the final run, with barely a falter, the two of them held the tune well. Jollie found his own rich bass, and Rod managed a passable baritone, only wobbling on the highest notes.
It proved to be rather fun, and at the end of it they laughed and happily patted each other on their heavily padded shoulders.
THAT IS A NEW SONG, boomed the huge voice in Rod’s brain.
“Ah, yes. I’ve only just learned it,” answered Rodney, almost as if this were now a normal conversation. He turned to Jollie. “They heard it! They heard it!”
IT IS NOT THE SONG OF A HUMAN.
“Well, yes it is.”
HUMAN SONGS WANT TO KILL US. YOU ARE NOT A HUMAN.
Rod kept his silence, pondering this. He remembered Romarny’s hasty explanation about eating whale brains – how it gave the hunter chiefs their Whalesense. He, however, had come by it in a quite different manner. He filled his lungs and bellowed across the two hundred yards that now separated him from the beasts. “Yes, well I’m not your regular human. Not ... Not human at all, really. I’m ah, I’m British.”
BRI-TISH. BRIIII-TIIISH...
And to Rodney’s lasting amazement they sang the word ‘British’ for a good ten minutes straight, varying it a hundred different ways and even weaving in the song he had sung to them earlier. By then the dawn was well alight in the east.
“What’s happening?” Jollie would keep asking.
“They’re still singing.”
“I can’t hear a thing, Rod. Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, my good man,” said Rod, rendered quite delirious by this miracle.
Sadly however, as the daylight grew brighter the ghostly pulsing of the whales slowly diminished, washed away by the stronger light of day. They looked remarkably like airships but of perfected design, and with tails like those on fish.
Rodney feared the miracle was about to end.
And indeed it did. The Lizzie was on her third slow circuit, each taking some twenty minutes to compete, when the skywhales suddenly took flight. As if they were all joined as one they turned and jetted away to the south, leaving a foul stench in the air. FAREWELL, BRIIITIIIIISH!
“That, my friend, was the most astonishing thing I have ever seen,” said Jollie, hanging by a strap and gazing after them thoughtfully. After a minute he suddenly said, “You know, if we could fit a decent enough airship with these motors, we could hunt them at night. They’d be sitting ducks!”
Rod gave him no reply, just turned their prow to the sun and eased up the throttle. The Lizzie leapt away and the icy wind once again resumed.
He never forgot that remarkable hour.
#
KING ATTAR SCHRIICK was nearly home, but he wasn’t even remotely happy. Yes; the Truncasia debacle had been successfully squared away. Amazing what a few heads on sticks could do towards persuading a population that all is in order once again. He’d left Theo Brick there with one of his best military men and a goodly fleet of ships. They’d keep things in order until Attar sorted out who to install as Governor there instead of his feckless son.
Damn that Barcuss! Next time he sets foot on my Empire he’ll have hell to pay!
The royal airship settled alongside the palace. Quite routine. Attar barely glanced out his window as the crew did their work. A few distant shouts could be heard, a few quivers felt through the floor as all was tied down and made secure, then his adjutant knocked briskly upon his stateroom door.
“Sir, we’re ready to dismount.”
Attar emerged from the stateroom, trusting his staff to fetch out his effects the moment he was gone. In the companionway the captain himself was waiting.
“Afternoon, your highness. I hope you enjoyed your flight.”
“Yes, Captain, a pleasant enough journey, thank you. See that she’s re-supplied then take her down the fields before the fireworks begin.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”
Two sets of stairs down, two more turns, then the elevator. He entered. His adjutant joined him, carrying his two cases. “Ready, sir?”
“Yes, take it down.”
It was not really an elevator. It swung down on two arms, which then extended to meet the ground where footmen had already unrolled the red carpet. His adjutant opened the door. Attar strode out, still troubled inside. Try as he might, he could not help but recall the hundreds of times Lancieur had disappointed him of late. But at least the boy had made a good marriage. Lady Radiata was from a damn good family. A fertile family. There should be a grandson along any time now.
“Welcome home sir,” said his Principal Adviser Stanislaw Flue, immediately falling into step beside him, “had a good journey I trust?”
“The provisions were excellent. Are we meeting in the usual venue?”
“Sorry sir, upstairs this time. The Ball... ”
“Yes, yes, quite. Alright, let’s get it over with.” The King quickened his pace and his attendants hastened to keep abreast. The way had been cleared into the palace and they were settled in the meeting room within five minutes.
Here were his advisers, courtiers and spies, all nervously awaiting his displeasure and clutching their various files, folders, letters and reports, not to mention newspaper clippings. One of them was Mennase’s man. Mr Gauche? Yes. What a wet fish. He could wait.
“Newspapers!”
Attar always started with the papers. He flicked through them, pausing now and again to read a few paragraphs into an article. Well, well, seemed his unexpected visitor from the Outside had become quite a hit. ‘Hero of the Fields’ and all sorts of glowing exaggerations. Huh! And what was this? An explosion at Heulenstein’s lab (how unusual). Oh, and now the trite gossip. ... What! A romance? That was fast! Who with? Oh!
Attar shoved the papers aside, missing an entire three days.
“Treasurer!”
One by one he worked his way through the reports, keeping Gauche waiting, but finally he could not put it off any longer. “Security!”
Attar took Gauche’s envelope, tore it open and began to read. He got three sentences through it and stopped. Looked up. Looked around. Every face was serious. Every face was braced for something. Attar suddenly bellowed in the way he was famous for, “Leave! Out the lot of you! Except you, Mr Flue.”
Stanislaw Flue waited until the room had cleared. Attar gestured with the crumpled letter. “So, is Mennase really dead?”
“Yes, sire. We still have his body in the morgue ...”
“Well bury it! Wait, wait, wait. Doesn’t he have family somewhere?”
“The Mennases of Easthaven, sire.”
“Oh yes. Do we need their favour for anything specifically at the moment?”
“No really, sire, but it would not hurt to do the proper thing.”
“Alright. Send him home. With my condolences. Now tell me the truth, Stan, how did it happen? Anyone we need to hunt down and punish?”
“It’s all quite strange, sire...” And Flue proceeded to tell the tale. Attar finished reading Gauche’s report as well, then brooded upon it as Flue concluded, “Even Gauche’s best operative couldn’t get anything out of this Outsider, so he must be quite innocent.”
“Nobody is innocent,” growled Attar.
Flue chose his next words carefully, “I think, sire, that considering how very popular he has become, you shouldn’t do anything to displease the People.”
“What the hell is this; a democracy? I’ll damn well displease the People whenever I damn well please!”
“Of course you will, sire.” Flue once again hesitated, wondering how to break the next bit of bad news. “Um, and there has been another death since you have been gone, sire. A rather more public death. It was in the papers, but you didn’t finish.”
Attar lifted his eyes to Flue, braced. “Who?”
“The bishop, sire. Bishop Maple.”
“Good gods! Not old Balthazar! What the Deep brought him down?”
“A hunting accident, sire. Yesterday on his estate. A gun discharged unexpectedly.”
“Well bring the guilty man here and we’ll have him flogged!”
“It was apparently a dog, sire. Stumbled over a prepared gun.”
“Flog the dog then!” Attar sat back, his bad mood greatly enhanced. Suddenly he thumped the arm of his throne, “Gods damn it! Old Balthazar. I can’t believe it!”
“I’m sorry, sire.”
“Is there any other bad news?”
“No, sire. Your son ...”
“Oh, spare me!”
“No it is good, sire. He has overcome his melancholy and is hard at work.”
“Work?”
“Discovering a new metal, Sire. He’s decided to become a scientist.”
Attar roared with laughter, then swiftly fell back into his foul mood. “Gods! What next? Alright, let the boy play for a while if it makes him happy. He’s no bloody use for anything else. I don’t suppose his wife is pregnant yet?”
“Well actually, sire, rumour has it that the bed has been bouncing. Bouncing a lot! And today I was informed that Lady Radiata confided with her maid that she is ‘hopeful’.”
Attar finally smiled. “Well, well, miracles will never cease.” Then his foul mood quickly returned. He rose from his chair and paced the room for some five minutes, occasionally sighing. Suddenly he began clicking his fingers at Flue. “Stan, go and fetch me that audit Mennase did for me last year. The staff audit. It’s going to be damned hard to replace him and I don’t want that drip Gauche in charge. I need someone ruthless!”
“Yes, sire. As soon as I can, but we still need to discuss the Outsider.”
“Oh just give him a medal and see him off.”
“There is a romance going on, sire...”
“Yes, damn it, I know! That’ll just make it all the more difficult.”
Flue put on his most persuasive voice, “Just give him your royal blessing, sire. Approve of the romance, help him along a bit, give him a nice little ship to go on his honeymoon...”
“Damn it why should I?”
“The public...”
“Yes, yes, yes. Alright, alright! But I’m not spending anything on him. I just need some grand symbolic gesture; ‘hooray how lovely isn’t the King a nice guy’, then we shunt him downtown to fend for himself. Better still, think up some sort of mission we can send him on, for a year at least. With her. Any ideas?”
Flue sighed. “I’ll put my mind to it, sire. In the meantime... can we do something for him at the Ball? Something to please the ... ” Flue didn't say the final word.
“Oh just give him the Fancy Hat! That’ll please your precious People.”
“An excellent suggestion, sire. I’ll see to it personally.”
Flue bowed and hurried out, silently breathing a small sigh of relief.
#
PERCY MENNASE STAGGERED determinedly through the snow, clutching his punctured wrist. Anyone listening would have heard him muttering, and anyone watching would have seen him scowl. The pain helped to focus his mind and assist in the planning of a terrible and bloody revenge.
The gun had been pure good luck. He had seen it fall onto an open patch of snow, and it had taken him only five minutes to retrieve it. After that, and to his immense disappointment, his enemies had not landed. He could have finished them both, despite his injuries.
And now he was within a dozen minutes of his training camp where he would find a dose of anesthetine for the pain (not too much, though) and the means of filling and launching an escape balloon. It would be nothing fancy: no gondola with picnic or champagne; just a one-fill buoyancy bag and the simplest of kites. At ten thousand feet he’d cut himself loose and turn towards Haven Towers, and with luck, determination, the remains of the day and the updrafts off the cliffs and a hundred cow paddocks beyond that, he could just about swoop all the way to the King’s Palace itself.
“I’ll get you yet, you bitch! And your boyfriend too!” he muttered aloud.
“That’s good. Very good. And how will you do it?”
“The Ball. I’ll walk right in on the Ball.”
“That’s right. And then what will you do?”
“I’ll shoot him. I’ve got my gun. I’ll see him, and I’ll shoot him!”
“Yes, good. And the Firetail?”
“She’s there in disguise.”
“That’s right. And what will she look like?”
“A metal woman.”
“Right. But you don’t know which one, do you?”
“I’ll shoot them all. I’ll just shoot them all!”
“Yes. That’s right. Just keep shooting.”
“I’ll shoot them. I’ll get them. I’ll get her!”
“That’s right. Just keep shooting.”
“Keep shooting, heh, heh-heh. I’ll keep shooting...”
The voice slowly sank to an indistinct mutter as Henche sat back from the bed, very satisfied. He turned, spent a moment sterilising his syringe, and checked his array of medicines and drugs. The last bottle remained unused. The most powerful stimulant known to man. He just had to get the dosage right on the day. The perfect balance of manic vigour, followed by a most convenient fatality. With luck.
Gently he eased the unloaded gun from Mennase’s sweaty hand and put it with the rest of the prepared equipment. Mennase was now slipping into an ever deeper sleep. The hypnotic session was over. Quietly Henche sat back, eased his fingers up under his mask, and massaged his face. A knock sounded at the door. His fingers quickly pulled down. He stood, adjusted his clothing, and went to it. “Password?”
It was Allynkie, the password was correct, and the man came in furtively, carrying what appeared to be a silver tray of small cakes.
“Hello, Cousin,” said Henche, closing the door, “How did it go?”
“It tests out perfectly.” Allynkie turned the tray over, but the cakes did not fall off. Underneath there was a curious extra layer, and a handle. Henche studied the three muzzles, noting how they left some residue under the tray.
“It still leaves some soot,” he said critically.
“No-one will notice. There’ll be such pandemonium.”
“We must hope so. And the smokeless powder?”
“Not perfect, but he’ll be making enough of his own.” Allynkie turned the tray right-way-up and aimed across the fake cakes, “But the aim is perfect!”
Henche took it and sighted across the notches in the cake icing, noting there were three possibilities. “It fires left, centre, then right?”
“Yes.”
“Tell Cousin Eight that he has done very well indeed!”
#
RODNEY’S FLIGHT LANDED on schedule, to a rousing noise from a modest crowd. The mail was ceremoniously taken down and dispatched. He and Jollie had to endure a tiresome delay while a photographer repeatedly captured the scene. Then they had to endure some forty minutes as Mrs Vivian Fukes of the Evening Bell wrote down a description of their journey (but at least with tea and sandwiches, in a private tent).
Then to Rod’s intense embarrassment Jollie launched into describing the encounter with the skywhales, painting Rodney as delirious and delusional, first shouting at the creatures wildly then insisting that Jollie sing. It seemed that despite his wonder at the time, Jollie was now making out that the things had been ordinary dumb beasts, and that the entire encounter was some sort of comedy routine. Mrs Fukes was delighted by this and wrote it down at great speed, dispatching it almost page by page via pneumatic tube to Haven Towers.
Finally that was done and they were taken to the city. Rodney was ludicrously delighted to finally see his room again, and of course Jyves – waiting undoubtedly with lots of news, ridiculous gifts from the populace and more madness from the daily papers, neither of which he had seen since yesterday.
“Welcome back, sir. I suspect you’ll be sorely in need of a bath.”
“Absolutely right, old chap,” replied Rodney, glancing about the room at yet another collection of bizarre things. “Anything been happening here?”
“You’d be surprised, sir.”
“Nothing would surprise me right now. Try me.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Jyves turned to one of the new objects in the room: a tall elaborately-decorated piece of furniture somewhat like a wardrobe. He pressed a cunningly concealed lever on its side, and at once it began to whirr. The front and sides seemed to come loose, but in reality they were folding themselves down in thirds to lock around the octagonal base. Above them eight inner panels, as delicate as butterfly wings, folded down like the petals of a flower, exposing an entire little universe. There were tall columns like organ pipes, interspersed with little buildings that slowly rotated. Then, to a rising chord of elaborate music, three revolving gems arose from secret sockets, followed moments later by a little metal woman finely dressed in scarlet, purple and pink. This little automaton, the size of a large doll, tilted its head at him, blinked, then raised an arm as if to point one by one at the gems atop their stalks. And as she pointed, each lit up from within: ruby, amethyst and amber. The music surged with each illumination, then once it was all working together the mechanical lady began to slowly dance.
Rodney gaped at it, amazed. Of course it was Mr Karakuri’s gift, but almost completely reworked into an entirely new theme. That man was extraordinary!
“That is extraordinary!”
“Do you like it?”
“Absolutely!”
“Good. He was worried that you would not approve.”
“Oh, I approve very much!”
“Splendid. I’ll ensure that he is informed.”
The music continued, quite spiritedly, and Rod was about to comment upon this when Jyves stepped unusually close and said swiftly in a lowered voice. “Sir, I have a confession to make, and to do so puts me at great risk. If you were to reveal it to anyone else, that would also put someone else at risk, someone for whom I believe you greatly care.”
Rod was surprised. He stuttered a moment, then asked, “Miss Cluely?”
“Miss Romarny, sir.” This was said very softly. Quite furtively, in fact.
Rod was so startled he said not a word.
Jyves seemed to squirm as if this went against his every instinct, then pushed on. “I have to advise you that things are afoot somewhere in the palace. We don’t know every detail. In fact we don’t know any of the details, but it might be possible that a certain... um... gentleman of your acquaintance might still be alive. He might be back. He could try something again, sir, which puts you in constant danger from now on.”
“Gad!”
Jyves gestured for quiet. “Indeed, sir. My, ah... colleagues and I have conferred, and we think it best you depart Havenscliffs as soon as possible...”
“But the Ball!”
Again that shushing gesture, “Quite, sir. I understand it is now important to you.” Jyves glanced at the gigantic music box. “There isn’t much time left to discuss this.”
“Why, is somebody listening?”
“They listen, sir, but cannot see. Or at least, they might be listening.”
“Gad!”
Rod felt all his euphoria melt away, to be replaced at once by jittering unease. He felt the same, in fact, as he had done upon arrival here.
“Leave? Just... slink away?”
“As quietly as possible, sir, without any fanfare. Jollie has been briefed.”
“Gad!”
The cogs in his mind spun and stuck and spun again, rattling and shuddering and achieving next to nothing. Suddenly he turned about, looking for a decent suit for visiting. “I must visit Miss Cluely at once! I... I... We cannot just... Jyves, could you organise some clothes, please. I’ll forgo the bath. Just a sponge...”
“She is preparing for the Ball, sir, and quite unaware of this. In addition, you need to wonder if your continued attentions might put her in danger as well.”
Rod smote the nearest padded chair, then paced the room at once, furious with this turn of events. “Damn and blast! Just when it was getting good!”
Jyves was still trying to shush him down, “You’ll see her soon, sir. It’s all arranged for tonight. I’ve organised a considerable guard, thanks to Lady Radiata, but it can’t be maintained beyond tomorrow.” Jyves almost seemed on the point of tears, “We cannot watch over you indefinitely, sir, and the longer you are here...”
He did not finish.
Rodney glanced around at the walls, angry and worried. Finally he got control of himself and said loudly, “A bath, I think, Jyves. Then we’ll do this bloody Ball business and get that squared away, and then, and then, um...”
“One thing at a time, sir.”
An urgent knocking began on the door. They both startled. Jyves went to it, conducted a shouted conversation through the locked door, then returned, looking ever so flustered, and hastily finished a final furtive few words, “I have appearances I must keep up, sir, details to attend to. I know it’s frightfully forward of me, sir, but can you manage without me for a while? There are already guards at your door.”
Rodney put on his most confident voice. “I’m sure I can.”
#
BUT HE DIDN’T MANAGE very well at all. As he ran his own bath he paced the room, peeking behind every curtain and behind every item of furniture. His fear bubbling in his innards, fear that one of those grey-cloaked henchmen would suddenly burst forth, or even worse: Mennase himself like Bangwo’s Ghost – smothered in blood and howling for vengeance. (Those Larkespeare plays had a lot to answer for!)
Rodney carried his sword with him after that, and kept it by the bath, unsheathed.
#
JYVES WAS GONE A LONG time. The music box slowly ran out of energy and its music became slow and mournful, then stopped altogether. A little later a knock at the outer door startled him from a delicious doze.
He rose hastily and towelled himself off, then stood behind the locked door, listening to the activity. Faintly he heard footsteps hurry nearer, and then the voice of Jyves’ po-faced underling Darthibby, speaking to whoever had been knocking.
“So sorry. My master says that our guest is not to be disturbed. Mr Jyves will be returning forthwith to unlock. I shall send a boy to find him if you like.”
Rodney then caught the word ‘Karakuri’ and relaxed. It was probably just Mr Karakuri’s assistant, come to fetch his master’s mechanical marvel. And it was. A little later Jyves returned, the door was unlocked and the contraption was wheeled away.
With Jyves back, everything seemed to return to normal. Rodney felt his fears melt away. And when Jyves suggested a late lunch, Rodney’s spirits quickly rose. A day with four meals was always a good day.
“An excellent suggestion, old chap! And perhaps a little snifter of something to sooth the nerves?”
“I shall see to it at once, sir.”
But despite his luxurious surroundings and the reassuring influence of Jyves, Rodney still struggled to maintain a normal air. Each arrival, each delivery, each perfectly routine event took on an undertone of terror. Jyves bustled in, and out again. Rodney wondered what he was up to. Did he have a host of duties because of the Ball? Or was he off to check on his sources of information? And how did he get his news anyway? And how long had he been ‘on the inside’? He must have known of Rod’s secret right from the beginning.
Finally Jyves returned to help him into his formal wear.
The moment Jyves pulled off the garment’s dustcover, Rodney protested. “Good Gods, sir. You want me to wear that?”
“It is the very latest look, sir. Trust me in this matter. Now first the stockings...”
And from that moment on, Rodney received a steady stream of instructions on how to behave, and Who was Who, and Who he was to avoid – all of which fell right out of his head minutes, if not seconds later. The dressing proceeded until he felt more like a festive turkey than a man, although the golden buttons were rather spiffing.
“Well there you are, sir, ready for the Ball.”
“I feel like a buffoon.”
“It really is the latest look, sir.”
“What for? A peacock?”
Jvyes ignored this. He seemed impatient. “Sir, I have a great deal to attend to tonight, so I shall have to leave you in Darthibby’s care from here on in. But let me assure you that if you need to be advised of anything, I shall be nearby. Oh, and we’ve stationed a number of guards about the ballroom, disguised as servants. You need not fear a thing.”
“Good. Right. Thank you. And is it alright if I wear my sword tonight?”
“Not a good look, sir. Perhaps for the military men in uniform. But...”
“Damn it all, I’m still going to! This is the very tool with which I defended Lady Radiata upon that evil ship, and that is the only reason I’m even here. My prize; if you will, captured off that harridan. And if anyone objects I shall remind them so.”
Jyves sighed noisily. “Very well, sir. Just don’t ever draw it out. It would earn you a world of displeasure in this town.”
“Agreed, then. Off you go. I’ll be fine.”
#
BUT HE WASN’T. TIME crept by. Outdoors he spied dozens of people flitting through the dusk, probably servants preparing the gardens. One by one he saw lanterns being lit. In the distance some fellows were intently setting up a line of tubes pointing at the sky. Ah, fireworks! Excellent. And a number of large fancy horse-drawn coaches had started moving on the coachway that ran about the palace between the hedges and gardens. He believed it was called the Circle Way or something.
He paced, feeling rather surplus to requirements. Tiredness swept over him again. He sat down to rest. Once again he was roused from a blissful nap before his fill. “Sir,” came Darthiby’s voice, “it’s time to join your coach for the arrival parade.”
“Oh damn it, alright.”
He got up and followed Darthiby along a way he had not been before. After a steady hike of some two minutes, closely shadowed by two of Lady Radiata’s burly brunettes, they arrived at a rear entrance. Here a goodly crowd of guests were gathered outdoors, well attended by impeccably presented servants. Judging by the chatter the guests were all in good spirits. There were a number of marquees set up and it appeared that plenty of food and drink were to hand.
But his eye was instantly taken by a huge looming shape further back. Beyond the stalls; beyond the coach path and beyond several rows of impeccably trimmed trees loomed an airship. And what a beauty! Perfectly stretched fabrics over a perfectly proportioned frame endowed it with a sleek fast shape. Its upper surfaces were painted that familiar silvery colour – to minimize the aggressive effects of the sun upon the hydrogen – while its underbelly was a rich tapestry of decorative colour. Then with a sinking feeling he recognized the Proudmark of King Attar. His inner vision flickered back to the moment when Romarny’s flaming arrow had hit the King’s hunter just five days ago. His breath quickened, and he had to lift his eyes again to his festive surroundings. It did little to help. He turned again to the beautiful airship. Evidently the King was exempt from the usual rules about hydrogen craft over the city.
It was definitely the most beautiful of these behemoths he had yet seen. (And he vowed at once never to send this one down in flames.)
Darthiby had been speaking to another of the palace staff, and now returned.
“My apologies, sir. There is another delay.”
“Any chance of a drink?”
“In the striped marquee, sir.”
Then as Rodney stepped forward, and as several of the other guests recognized him, he heard a familiar cry: “Innaebunne Sausage! Innaebunne Sausage!”
Suddenly hungry, he hurried to Frankfur’s familiar stall, where, it seemed, only the servant classes stood. Didn’t worry him though. He waved a greeting. “Frankie! How are you? One with the works, my good man!”
Then once again Rod found himself digging through his unfamiliar pockets in forlorn hope of finding any change. He'd have to cancel his order, damn!
“Ah, it's Captain Hoverrim. Oh no, sir. No! This one's on the house!” Frankfur scooped up extra onion and dolloped on the sauce, then passed it over on its traditional raft of newspaper. “My pleasure, Captain Hoverrim!” he said for all hear, “You’re everyone's hero!”
Rodney received the praise as graciously as he could.
By the time he had the treat half-finished, twenty or so people in their tuxedos and ball gowns had gathered around him trying to greet him or thank him, ordering an Innaebunne sausage, or in most cases: both. It seemed he had suddenly become a trendsetter. Minutes after he acquired a beer from another of the servants’ stalls, every gentleman was hefting a tankard too. Laughter and good spirits rapidly increased.
Even so he barely got a chance to eat or drink as everyone attempted to engage him in conversation. Apparently the Evening Bell had just published a particularly exaggerated account of his recent run to Vicaria and he was beset by questions and admiration in equal measure.
And free beer.
He was greatly relieved when Darthiby finally slid up to his side. “Sorry to bother you sir, but your coach is now ready.”
Rodney raised a hand for quiet. “Mt friends, thank you for your kindnesses one and all! May I just say that I’ve never before been in such a fine city as this!”
“Hoorah!” shouted the men, “Hear, hear!”
“And to those amongst you who have furnished me with gifts and advice these last few days, may I take this opportunity to thank you most heartily!”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you!”
“And may you all have a truly splendid evening!”
He drained his last tankard, took leave of the happy crowd and unsteadily followed Darthiby towards the Circle Way. Here, it seemed, the same set of coaches were doing a round trip of the palace, collecting the guests here and delivering them to the front.
Something caught his eye. As his coach drew up he looked over the trees at the King’s airship. It was rising smoothly into the sky, trailing two showers of water. He stood awhile, watching as it lifted away with its decorative underbelly glowing richly in the lights of the city. It was perhaps the most breathtaking of all the sights he'd so far seen in this most wondrous of worlds. And lo: what was that? At the front of each windstone burned an intense electric light. So they had made night travel possible. (But only the wealthy, he was sure.) How ingenious.
“Sir,” said Darthiby behind him, “there are other coaches waiting, you know.”
“Sorry.”
With his attention divided he began to mount the coach in front of him until he realized there was already someone aboard: a beautiful young lady wearing a fabulous confection of brocades and lace, and with her hair piled towards the ceiling.
“Oh excuse me miss, wrong coach.”
“Rodney?”
“Karla!?”
“Oh my, you look a fright!”
A hand shoved at him from behind, “Hurry aboard, sir!”
“Sorry. Yes. Done.” The door was impatiently closed behind him and the coach began at once. He was compelled to sit, falling into the bench seat opposite her.
“You look ... I mean you’re... you’re so ...”
She laughed, “I’m about as silly as you!” Her gloved hand fluttered forth and seized his. Their eyes fixed to the other, their breath came short and low.
“No chaperone?” Rodney asked, suddenly realising this detail.
“Father didn’t bother organizing one. Or forgot. Or doesn’t care. Not that we’re going far! Oh I’m so glad you’re home. How was the flight?”
“No problems at all. And how’s your father?”
“I’ve no idea. Haven’t seen him for days. He’s been very secretive.”
Rod was tempted to say something nasty, but restrained himself. Instead he asked, “Is he coming tonight?” quite expecting the answer to be ‘no’.
“Oh, he said he might ‘lurk in the hallways’.”
“But I thought he detested these things?”
“The King requires him to attend.”
“The obligations of business, I suppose?”
She nodded. “There’ll be dozens of important men here tonight – industrialists, investors, customers. Attar will expect Daddy to meet them all.” She laughed tiredly, “I suppose I shall have to be helping him out somewhat, or he’s likely to run away.”
The coach had stopped. Rodney peered out the window, wondering why. A fancier-looking coach was being waved in from the city streets and going ahead of them. The delay seemed to fuel his anxiety once again. He sat, gazing at her hungrily with Jyves’ worrying news echoed in his mind. Mennase was back!
“Karla...”
“Yes?”
“I, um, I have something I have to ask you.”
She sat forward a little, her eyes widened, her mouth dropped open ever so slightly so that all he could think about for the next several seconds was the way her bottom lip seemed to beckon him forward. “Yes?”
“What?”
“You were going to ask me something.”
“Oh, yes.” (Gad! How does one say, ‘Excuse me Miss, I have barely known you a week but would you mind very much if we get married right away, and then I shall drag you away from your entire world because I must flee to who-knows-where because some madman may or may not try to murder me tonight or tomorrow or next week’?)
“Ummm...” he said instead.
The coach began to move again, causing her to sway towards him. As she sat back he impulsively followed, down on one knee awkwardly between the two seats. He had no ring. This was not planned. “...Karla, will you marry me?”
“Yes!” she squealed, “Yes yes yes yes! Yes!” Tears sprang into her eyes.
“Right. Good. Umm, so – straight away, actually. Like: tonight!”
Her divine bottom lip dropped even further and he valiantly fought the urge to dive directly upon it, or directly into her mouth if he could possibly engineer it.
“Tonight?” she squeaked.
“Um, yes. Otherwise,” he made a noise that sounded like a man in extreme pain, “otherwise, you shall have to wait until.., ah, ah, ah, until I return.”
“You’re going away! Why?”
“I cannot tell you. It’s all very hush-hush. Secret mission.” Damn it, no! No more lies. He rushed on to say, “Actually I’m in danger and I have to leave. So please, please marry me ... tomorrow!”
She clutched at herself, confused and frightened and evidently also thinking things through thoroughly. He waited, his lower knee quietly rupturing, then heaved himself back into his seat. This wasn't working. She couldn’t do it, he could tell.
A terrible sense befell him of history about to repeat itself. He braced himself for the worst. This was insane. Damn it, why had he been so rash!?
Then she lunged across and fell upon him, her mouth fixed to his desperately. She kissed him with vigour, then pulled back just long enough to say, “I will not miss this chance! Not this time!” and promptly resumed. It seemed like a vow to herself. He wondered a moment what might had been behind it, before surrendering to his own desires. He grasped her about the middle and kissing her in turn with an equal passion. She sank upon him and he felt the very contours of her lower limbs against his, but it seemed she did not care. Her kisses redoubled and suddenly he felt tears pouring off her face and onto his, mingled with her perfume and cosmetics. She whimpered like an animal while he moaned like an actor upon the stage; an actor whose character is caught between love and all those other things that love always gets entangled up with in a good play; loyalty and duty and war and such. Except this was no play. This was terribly real.
And then he realized that the coach door was open, and several dozen people were looking in, and that a footman was shouting to all and sundry, “Captain Rodney Hoverrim and his companion Miss Karla Von Heulenstein!”
Karla sprang off him like the thistledown she wasn’t and resumed her seat in a perfect reversal of her earlier lunge. She turned and peered at the bright lights and the shocked faces of the expectant masses outside, then grinned lamely and uttered a single noise, much as a little girl might do when caught with her hand inside the biscuit tin. “Heh.”