Deep Roots (13 page)

I recognized the rapid patter of shoes coming downstairs from deck A.
Sheridan.
I wavered on my feet and caught myself on the railing as he came into view. I didn't know if I should shake his hand or throttle him.

“The smoke room,” I said, motioning my son downstairs again. The double doors clacked as we entered. The space was empty. Even the cabinets behind the bar were vacant, the liquor locked away in our bartender's absence. “Where did you . . . ?”

“I heard a soldier asking after me. I hid where they never thought to look—­Corrado's berth.” I shook my head at his cleverness. “I broke into his wardrobe box, then Mrs. Starling's. They have two wing suits. The real deal.”

We'd seen some suits in action back in summer. They were a newfangled invention out of Tamarania, a sort of backpack with broad, fold-­out wings. I called them a stylish form of suicide.

Suddenly, everything made sense. “Corrado ordered us to fly to the divide in the northern pass. Now I understand why. With the wind behind them, the petrol in those wing suits would be adequate to fly them to Caskentia's encampment on the far side. They'd manage the shears better than an airship.” I rubbed my bristled jaw. “You should know what happened in the village, Mr. Hue.” I recounted the events from the ground.

“Captain, in the really old stories they say the Waste is called the Waste because Caskentia's magi cast a blood spell a thousand years ago that made the land infertile and the settlers sick. It sounds like Mr. Corrado and Mrs. Starling intend to recreate that.”

How many villages had been burned in the name of pox containment? Had they even
had
pox at all, or were they all deemed a sacrifice—­an offering—­for this enchantment?

The
Argus
was being offered for the cause, too.

I hated Wasters as much as anyone. They damn near killed my Sheridan. But I knew what I felt standing near that atrocious box. Could I wish that darkness on anyone, Waster or Caskentian? Even if it ended the war?

Even if it did bring about lasting peace, Sheridan wouldn't be alive to enjoy it.

As I mulled possibilities, a bell toned from down the hall. The engine-­car-­personnel shift change was done. Inspiration struck. My head jerked up.

“Aether gas,” I said. Mechanics stationed in the engine cars required full gas masks to stay conscious amidst the enchanted gas.

“Sir?”

“We need to subdue the soldiers without gunfire. Get our spare gas masks—­”

“Oh, yes! Saturate the filters in aether, force them to breathe through the masks. It'll work, sir!” He almost bounced in excitement. “I'll inform the rest of the crew—­”

“No.” I stopped him with an outstretched hand as I thought on my discussion with our navigator. “We need to ask them first. If we succeed and survive, life afterward will not be easy.” Sheridan looked at me blankly. I sighed. “This is sedition, Mr. Hue. We're not merely subverting the command of a Clockwork Dagger, but Queen Evandia herself. Recollect the so-­called traitors we often see hanged near ports. Many of them die on hearsay alone. How will we be judged?”

“Oh.” His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. “What if we do as they ask and fly to the divide? Is there
any
chance we could make it home, sir?”

“Mr. Hue, anything is possible, but I've heard drunken airship crews in taverns across Caskentia boast many things, and I have never heard anyone claim to have flown that far into the northern pass and back to Caskentia at this time of year. Dragon sightings are more believable.”

“I see, sir.” He looked fearful but resolute. “I'll quietly consult the crew.”

I clasped his shoulder. “As will I. God willing, we can regain full control of the
Argus
before it's too late, Mr. Hue.”

F
or all that there were fewer soldiers aboard, they seemed damned near everywhere. They didn't interfere, however, as I made my usual rounds. Wherever privacy allowed, I briefed my crew on the situation. All agreed to fight our occupation. I returned to the control cabin to wait as Sheridan set the plot in motion.

High winds rattled the
Argus
, though they favored us for now. I stared out the broad windows of the bow and into the bleak night. The deep, jagged crevasse stretched before us. Snow glowed beneath moonlight.

A soft noise carried from the hall. Had our insurrection begun? It took all my will not to turn. I didn't dare drag the soldiers' attention with me. A long minute passed.

Then, chaos. More crew dashed in, their movements flurried like a startled flock of gremlins. Yelling, “Get him, get the gun!” “Down!” “Pin him!” “Get the mask on!” A soldier's arm swung out and sent two men flying. Other crew fell like dominoes. More screams. A bullet pinged. My red-­attired crew lunged atop the soldiers in a tangle of limbs.

I stood, my legs stiff as if I was turning into a statue. I glanced around. Essential crew positions were still manned.

My crew untwined themselves and stood. I spied the soldiers, their bodies slack. Leather gas masks covered their faces, their visages bug-­like. Each mask was quickly removed as other hands worked to secure the soldiers' arms and legs.

“Report! Where'd that bullet go?” I snapped.

The trajectory had taken it through the ballast board, just feet away from Ramsay at the rudder, then through the upper portion of the elevator board, where it again ricocheted. All vital equipment. Ballast was water stored as a weight to counterbalance the loft of gas; we would drop some ballast if we needed to quickly ascend. The elevator controls kept us level.

One of my crew didn't move. Yee, my off-­duty watch officer. Blood and brain spattered the floor. The bullet had made a full circuit of the cabin to strike her in the back of the skull.

Grief rocked me, but I had no time to linger on our loss. “Where are the other soldiers? Corrado? Starling?”

“Captain, sir!” A mechanic saluted me. Her nose was bloodied flat, her voice tinny. A soldier lay hog-­tied at her feet. “The two swaddies in the berths went down easy, but Corrado and Starling put up a fight on the stairs. Not sure what happened to them.”

“Soldier in the hall's out, too,” said a steward.

Where was Sheridan? Did we have any other casualties? I gritted my teeth. First things first.

“Correct our heading, Ramsay.”

Never was I as proud of my crew as at that moment, the way we fought wind shears to steadily bring the
Argus
around. Icy peaks looked sharp enough to pierce the old gal's belly. The wind clawed and buffeted us as we came broadside, then we took it dead-­on. The Waste now astern, we pointed toward the green valley of home, still hidden by countless ridges of mountains.

Our elevation was too high.

I stepped closer to the ballast board, just beside my helmsman. The readings looked the same as before, frozen beside the massive dent of the bullet. I looked to Ramsay, who like me had decades of experience on airships.

“The ballast . . .”

“Aye, sir. Damage must have triggered our ballast to release. We're losing water slow-­like, but . . .”

In the valley, we kept our maximum elevation at five hundred feet. Here in the pass, at this elevation and with less pressure on our gas bags, we had to take even more care. If we kept rising, our lift gas would expand and we risked gas bag ruptures. Of all the voyages to not have our magi.

“Vent gas as needed. Push us to maximum knots. God willing, we'll make the foothills before our depleted bags force us down.” As if the odds against us were not terrible enough.

Leaving the cabin in Ramsay's capable hands, I hurried down the hall as fast as my legs allowed. A good number of crew had gathered at the bottom of the open stairwell. The secured, unconscious soldiers had been dragged downstairs and to one side.

“Captain!” called the chief cook. “The Dagger's here.” He pushed aside some of the other men to reveal Corrado by their feet.

He had attired himself in thick coats to survive the deep cold of mountain flight. His mouth gaped, his eyes shut. One of my nearby crew held the wing suit. The heavy unit of slick, curvaceous brass had tall sticks attached to either side that resembled shuttered umbrellas. Heavy leather straps and buckles dragged on the floor.

“Why haven't Corrado's limbs been secured?” I asked.

“I didn't know to take the mask off again right away, sir,” a man said, his voice raspy as he shakily saluted me.

“Aether suffocation.” I shook my head in disgust. “More merciful than he deserved. You . . .”

“I'm sorry, sir. I didn't think he would die that fast.”

He wavered on his feet and I braced him by the shoulder. He was terrified of me, but more terrified of what he had caused. “Corrado was going to kill you, kill all of us. He deserves no grief.” His face remained blank, my words unable to pierce his shock. He was a rare Caskentian, to be so unacquainted with death. I turned away. “Where's Starling?”

“She fled toward the hold, sir!” called one of my new hires, a woman steward. “She wore one of them wing suits, too. Mr. Hue and some of the others were right behind.”

Mention of Sheridan caused my breath to catch. I motioned to the lollygagging crew. “Keep guards on the soldiers. The rest of you, with me.”

We rushed through the crew section, passed our berths, and entered the darkened hold. Large parcels of freight filled the space along with our usual stores. Sheridan hunkered behind a box larger than him, with two other men close by. Farther back in the hold, I heard a distinct and familiar rattle.

“Secure yourselves!” I yelled and lunged to grab the steel ribbing of the wall.

The freight ramp opened with a roar and high whistle of wind. The beleaguered
Argus
shuddered and groaned at the pressure change as cold bludgeoned us. I gripped two security straps fastened to the wall. I quickly looped one through my belt and knotted it, then used the other to hop over to Sheridan as if rappelling. Out of my sight, the metal mouth of the ramp clanged, the wind clattering it shut in bursts. A glance confirmed that the rest of my crew had found handholds and ropes.

“Captain?” called Mrs. Starling. Her voice was faint over the wind and clamor of metal.

“Corrado's dead,” I yelled. “We're flying back to Caskentia.”

“Idiot! Sabotaging . . . best effort . . . stop the war.”

“How many Caskentians died to fuel that box of yours?” I yelled. She surely had it on her person.

“Thousands.” I hoped I'd misheard her, but I feared I had not. “You'd . . . vain!”

“Then make it to the Waste, if you can!” I yelled back. “Don't risk our hides.”
Don't risk Sheridan.

I squeezed his arm then passed the rope to his grip. He'd known sailor knots before he knew his letters, so it took him mere seconds to secure the rope to his belt. I gingerly moved past him so I could look around at Starling. The wind and my own accursed stiffness dropped me to a knee. The iciness of the floor stabbed through the cloth.

“You're not going to survive . . . night. Winds . . . Even if you did . . . send Daggers after you. Keep you quiet.”

I forced away more grief as I wondered at the fate of my aether magi.

Mrs. Starling stood with her back to the clattering hatch, secured by her own rope. Her body was bundled thick like an autumn bear, the broad straps of the wing suit forming an X over her chest. Over her shoulders, the wings had opened slightly and seemed rigged to her arms by a series of pulleys. A full leather helmet, the goggles glassed in green, covered her head. She poked around some other crates, looking for something. A way to keep the hatch open, I imagined. She couldn't risk it crunching her or the wings.

“With Corrado gone, that's one fewer,” I said.

For a moment, I mistook her high laugh for the wind. “I'm the Clockwork Dagger! Corrado . . . assistant . . . damn poor one. Your boy, on the other hand . . .”

“My boy?” I snapped.

“ . . . Reputation among docks and crews . . . Clever. Curious. I see one of your men brought Corrado's wings. Give . . . Sheridan. Barely . . . petrol to make the flight. He can come with me . . . train in the palace.”

I wanted Sheridan to live out his potential, but I also wanted him to keep his
soul
. I looked at Sheridan. He seemed dumbstruck. God help me, was he actually considering this?

Mrs. Starling continued, “Besides . . . Captain. Feel . . . ship . . . something wrong, not just headwind . . . crash soon . . . he . . . wear wings. Escape.”

Faint light shone on Sheridan's smooth face, his slim body. He was still very much a child. “Sheridan?” I whispered. When had I last called to him by his first name?

“No!” He shouted to be heard. I released a breath deeper than my lungs. “I'm crew of the
Argus
. I will not abandon ship.” He met my eye and murmured, “I won't abandon
you
, Captain.”

“ . . . Very well!” Mrs. Starling's voice rang out. “ . . . No second chances . . . Good as damned.”

There was a hard clang, then another. I looked around. Mrs. Starling had grabbed a length of rebar and was stabbing it onto the hatch. I knew she'd succeeded to hold the maw wide open when the wind truly howled through and around us, the chill like death. Loose ropes and detritus blew about. An old, desecrated portrait of Queen Evandia—­stored down here for ages—­flapped past me and toward the hatch.

When I looked around again, Mrs. Starling was gone.

“Sheridan?” I bent close to his face. “You can leave with those wings. Go on your own.”

“No, sir.” His gaze was hard.

“We've lost our ballast. The
Argus
is venting gas. We're going to crash. The hatch is open now—­”