Curio (36 page)

Blaise scanned the sky for the airship. The Clang coasted about four yards from where he spun and dipped at the mercy of his damaged wing. Musket fire whizzed through the air around him, and the boom of the large cannon cracked the atmosphere.

Gritting his teeth, he reached behind his back for his wing. Pain lanced his shoulder joint, but he yanked the wing out, gripping the framework with wind-whipped fingers.

He made for the Clang, forcing his left wing to beat. If he reached the open stern, the propulsion of his pack and a well-aimed dive would land him in the ship.

Black smoke poured from the first boiler, trailing the airship, which plowed on toward the teardrop hub. So much for Gagnon's ballistic orbs—an airship collision would bring this locus down.

Too late to change his course. Blaise thrashed his way closer to the deck. Every time he dipped into the Clang's slipstream, the current shoved him backward. Sweat and steam coated his body only to evaporate in the chill air. With a yell, he beat his wing as hard as he could, rising above the airstream and surging the final distance to the stern. He let go of his left wing and pushed the button to retract the right, bent at the waist, and dove.

The deck zoomed by. Blaise flailed, his left hand catching a grip. A cry escaped his lips as the weight of his body wrenched his shoulder. He hung from the grid at the bottom of the opening, his feet treading air.

Metal fingers gripped his wrist. Blaise groaned as he was hauled upward, the edge of the grid scraping him chest to waistline.

Myver got his hands under Blaise's arms and tugged him onto the floor. The tock gaped at Blaise's chest.

“Sir, you're leaking, er, that is to say . . . are you de-animating, sir?”

Fire burned in Blaise's shoulder joint, but the long, bleeding gashes on his chest that drew Myver's concern were shallow. He pushed himself into a sitting position, head spinning with pain and the unfamiliar sensation of a stable floor after the buffeting of the wind.

“I'm fine, Myver. Mostly animated, thanks to you.”

The tock offered his hand to help Blaise stand. “Glad to hear it. I saw you take out that ugly little cannon. Splendid, sir!”

“Little good it does us now.” Blaise got to his feet and cradled his left arm with his right.

Myver stood, arms dangling at his sides, eyes fixed on Blaise's face. Frantic noise from the bow of the ship swirled around them. Blaise's head cleared.

The cinderite. The bin behind the tock was empty.

“We're out of fuel?”

Myver nodded.

A shout rang out from the quarterdeck.

“Brace for impact!”

CHAPTER

22

W
hit stumbled, a patch of floor whizzed toward his face. An exclamation sounded from a long tunnel behind him.

“Stupid potion head,” a voice above him said. Someone dragged him up and hauled him toward a flight of stairs.

“Come on, City Boy.”

Whit followed; his feet floated up the steps. He couldn't feel ground beneath him. But that was fine. Everything was fine. He had what he needed. No stripes clawed at his back, and no monster gnawed at his empty insides.

“Run,” the other boy told him.

Whit ran.

The street ahead lay open and bare, inviting him to sprint for miles. His legs pumped. Faster. Faster. Were his feet touching the ground?

Ahead, the dark-haired boy looked over his shoulder and dove for an alley. Whit followed, coming to a stop against a wall where the boy—he knew him, didn't he?—waited.

Between gulps of air, the kid questioned him.

“How bad is it, man?”

“How bad is what?” Whit heard his own voice answer.

“How bad are you rolling?”

The conversation made no sense so Whit turned to go. Something pulled at his memory and he stopped, half-turning back to the boy. How did they know each other? The answer waited just beneath the surface. But going there meant pain. He didn't want pain, though it was already there. He winced. Fingers dug into his shoulder. The boy jerked him.

“Whit?”

“Yes?”

“Whit, we've got to move.” The boy's face shoved into Whit's. He couldn't tell if the kid whispered or shouted. “We've got to get back to the meeting place. You're not safe out here like this.”

Why argue? They hugged the backs of buildings and skulked through alleys. The other boy kept looking over his shoulder. Whit looked too. Every time he turned around his eyes flew to the watchtower looming behind them. When he looked ahead once again he felt the shadow of the tower falling on him, no matter where they were. His feet no longer glided but snapped to the pavement beneath him as though magnetized.

Cold seeped into Whit's awareness. He jammed his hands in his pockets. Maverick—the name plunked back into his brain—pointed to the back of a building across the street.

“If I bring you in there, you gotta be solid, okay, man? They're not gonna be happy with me for showing up dragging your tanked head.”

Whit nodded. The empty street beckoned. He could run home if he wanted. Run so far he wouldn't feel the tower at his back. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and focused on Maverick.

“You got it together?” Maverick gritted the words out between his teeth.

“Yeah. I'm good.” It was true. The strange, numb energy faded. Whit recognized Marina's brother, and reality hammered his senses.

After double checking their surroundings, Maverick stepped off the shaded sidewalk and out into the open road. Whit followed. The watchtower summoned with an invisible hook in the back of his skull. Whit ignored the pull and concentrated on Maverick's skinny back.

No awning or trees shielded the rear door of the one-story building. Maverick knocked three times in quick succession, then once. He shifted from one foot to the other and scanned up and down the street behind them.

The door swung open, and Maverick snagged Whit's sleeve and stepped inside, yanking Whit behind him. Inside, the light from the gas fixtures pushed on Whit's eyeballs. He blinked while voices cursed and questioned Maverick.

Marina slid up next to him, and Whit shook his head. His thoughts still struggled to line up in order.

“Where am I?” He thought he whispered it to Marina, but across the room a man in a delivery uniform answered.

“Nowhere.”

Maverick was talking fast. Whit heard “potion,” “Cagey,” and “totally tanked.”

“I didn't have a choice,” Maverick said to the occupants of the room. “If I let him go off like that, he'd end up in a facility and likely spill it all to the Council.”

“So this was your plan?” a woman screeched at Maverick. “Bring him here so he can expose us all?”

Whit zeroed in on the speaker and started to defend Maverick until the woman in the next seat over caught his eye. He'd seen her before. She perched on the edge of her chair, her rounded shoulders slumped forward. She looked at Whit, recognition widening her eyes.

The other ration dispensary worker from the Foothills Quarter. What was she doing here? The woman shifted in her seat and winced. Realization hollowed Whit's gut. She'd been striped, recently.

Marina and Maverick were pulling on Whit's arms. They led him through the gathering of twenty or so people and out to the front of the building.

“What's going on?” Whit looked from Marina to her brother and back to Marina.

“Shh, Ration Boy. We're taking you home.”

Once they stepped out under the awning at the front of the building, Marina and Maverick darted to the edge of the protective shadow, eyeing the road and buildings around them. After a couple of checks, Maverick motioned for Whit and Marina to follow. Out in the street he placed himself between his sister and Whit, despite Marina's disguise. They walked, heads down, for a couple of blocks before the train station came into view.

“I can take the train back,” Whit said.

“We have no idea how strong this mix is,” Marina said around her brother.

Maverick sighed. “I didn't think he'd do that, Whit. I mean, there's always a chance with a dealer, but we've bought from Cagey before. I thought that'd count for something.”

“You shoulda taken him to the mamas, Mav. Why you gotta show off, you stupid potion head?”

Maverick didn't answer her.

Weight dragged at Whit's limbs, and the sweat on his back made his shirt stick to his stripes. Home and his bed called, but even more, he wanted to feel the absence of fear Cagey's potion allowed. Why had it only lasted a few short minutes? Whit balled his hands into fists. That wasn't right. But it had only been a swallow of potion. What would it feel
like to take more? The next time he'd know what was going on, and he could control his thoughts better.

“Here's the truck,” Maverick said, pointing to a tall black vehicle parked at the end of an alley between two buildings. It looked like an older version of the trucks that carried vegetables from the farms in the east.

After a quick perimeter check, the three of them slipped down the dirt track. Maverick and Marina set to work readying the vehicle. Whit shadowed them as Maverick explained the workings of the steam engine. When the fuel tank was fully pressurized, the truck whirred with motion not unlike a train gathering momentum. They piled in, and Whit dropped to the floor between the two seats in the cab. Marina pointed out gauges, explaining air pressure and temperature. When the truck rolled forward, he craned his neck but couldn't see much out of the windshield. Marina pushed his head down.

“Look, if we're caught, that's it, okay? Don't do anything to attract attention.”

Whit folded his arms around his knees and scowled at a lock of Marina's hair that had escaped her bowler and blew in the breeze from the open window. “So what was going on back there?” He hooked a thumb in the direction of the meeting place.

Marina exchanged a glance with Maverick.

“Fine.” Whit dug his fingers into the wool of his trousers. “Don't tell me anything. I risk my life for you, but you two don't owe me a thing.”

“You're a grumpy potion head, you know that?” Marina fired back.

They bumped along in silence for a while before she spoke again.

“We're planning to steal potion from a dispensary in the Foothills Quarter.”

Maverick swore.

Marina shrugged. “He's right. He did risk his life to bring us potion, and he nearly got caught. And then
you
got him high on Cagey's poison.”

“I want in,” Whit said before he thought about the words.

“Of course you do.” Maverick took a sharp turn and Whit grabbed the back of the seat to keep from sliding across the floor.

“Wait a minute.” His brain caught up with Marina's words. “Foothills Quarter? That's where I live. And what's going to happen to the people who don't get their ration that day?”

“Oh, so now it matters, huh?” She shot him a look. “Relax, we're not planning to let everyone in your quarter suffer. Eleatha's our inside woman. She worked at the dispensary. She says that on any given day there are rations left over after everyone picks theirs up in the morning because deaths, arrests, and runaways haven't been entered into the records. The extra rations end up going back to the Council tower.”

“Eleatha? I've seen her at the dispensary. Why did she get striped?”

Marina studied her hands. “For giving away one of those extra rations. I guess she convinced them it was a mistake, but she lost her position.”

“Won't they know she's in on it? They'll execute her for ration dealing.”

“Not if she comes with us.”

“She's willing to become a refugee?”

“Why not?” Marina tugged her frock coat tight over the loose shirt she wore. “Her husband is dead and her son is grown and works in the agro domes. She says she's got nothing to lose.”

Whit didn't respond. He did have something to lose. A lot to lose. The cab of the truck seemed to shrink in on him. What was he doing? In less than two weeks, he'd broken the law, been striped, broken the law again, gotten involved with refugees, nearly been caught, bought potion from a dealer, and now he was contemplating robbing a dispensary. All because of Grey. Because he'd known her as long as he could remember. Because her father treated him like a son. What would Steinar Haward think of Whit's actions, if he were still alive?