A Study in Darkness (2 page)

They turned, drifting down and to the right in a slow arc. “They’re leading us to the
Hind
,” Nick said in reply to Striker’s questioning glance.

Athena followed the flock, earning a curse from the helmsman when his careful steering was utterly ignored. Nick and Striker watched the roiling cloudscape, the mountains and pillars of cottony mist a strange and eerie wilderness.

Then Nick’s pulse began to speed, and a grin split his face. There, a little way ahead, was a shadow in the mist. The rooks swooped near it in perfect, silent formation until a rifle cracked, the sound muffled by the atmosphere. They scattered in a burst of black wings, darting safely away.

And then the
Hind
tore through the mist and came into view. Her balloon was sky blue striped with gold, the gondola slung below a heavier craft built for hauling cargo. The prow bore the figurehead of a leaping deer leafed with gold. A rich ship, then, flying the cobalt colors of the steam baron known as the Blue King. That was his treasure she carried.

“Got her,” Nick growled. His muscles tensed, as if his body was already leaping through the sky to take his prize. They watched as the ship passed between cloud banks, as elusive as a will-o’-the-wisp.

“That’s an aether ship,” Striker said, his dark face rumpled with concentration. “We can play with things that go boom.”

Nick understood. Like the
Jack
, their quarry used aether distillate to keep it aloft. It would have to, with a cargo load like that. Aether systems were finicky but didn’t explode as easily as the more inexpensive hydrogen balloons. That didn’t mean they couldn’t be sunk or burned, but they were
less likely to take every other ship in the sky along with them.

“Tell Beadle to ready the attack. We’ll get close and give them a shot across the bow.”

Striker flashed his teeth in a savage smile, and smacked a fist into his palm before striding off to find the first mate.

“Go,” Nick said to Athena, and the single word began a dance they’d done a hundred times before.

At your command, my captain
, said Athena.
The hawk stoops to pluck this pigeon from the air
.

“You’re gloating,” Nick said, unable to stifle a laugh of exhilaration.

All the best pirates have a proper sense of theater. Surely you’ve heard of Captain Roberts?

“As if I could avoid it.” Nick braced himself as the ship banked, sweeping down in silence. The motion was powered by the deva alone, relying utterly on her command of wind and air. The clouds parted below them once more, and he pulled out his spyglass and counted gun ports, estimating just how much damage the
Hind
could do. Then he scanned the deck for lookouts. Their glasses were trained everywhere but at the
Jack
—a gray-on-gray apparition still mostly hidden in the clouds.

There were many ways to catch a ship—flying false colors, pretending to be in distress, or even masquerading as one of the floating pleasure gardens where sailors took their ease. Nick preferred the honest approach—steel and shot first, blood if necessary, and fire if nothing else prevailed.

There was a gun affixed to the
Red Jack
’s deck—a piece of cold black iron mounted on a swivel. Striker had devised much fancier weaponry, but Nick held that back, keeping the element of surprise for when it was most needed. “Mr. Royce,” Nick ordered. “Please extend our felicitations.”

They waited, biding their time until Athena brought the ship closer. The clouds thinned at the lower altitude, but still a scarf of mist hid the enemy ship for a moment, then slithered slowly away. Beadle swept his arm downward in a silent command.

The gun belched and the ball of lead flew from a plume of
stink and smoke. The gunner’s trajectory played true, sending their greetings across the nose of the
Hind
. A cheer went up from the
Red Jack
’s crew, celebrating Royce’s skill.

The next move depended on the
Hind
’s captain. He could strike his colors and surrender, or he could retaliate. Nick watched through the spyglass, one foot planted against the side as the deck tilted with the motion of Athena’s dive.

And then the
Hind
turned to put its side squarely to Nick’s ship, and the gun ports opened, showing the muzzles of half a dozen cannons. They would be small, light guns designed for use on airships—even aether distillate could only do so much to compensate for weight—but they could still blast a ship out of the sky.

“They’re not in a mood to chat,” Striker said, switching on the engines that drove the propellers. The accelerating churn of gears and pistons seemed deafening for an instant, but they no longer needed silence, and the deva could take advantage of the extra power.

“Mr. Beadle.” Nick slid the spyglass shut, part of him glad of the looming fight. “Show them what we’ve got.”

“Hands to gun deck!” roared Beadle. But the order was needless—the crew was already in motion, scrambling below.

The
Hind
’s guns fired, but Athena bounded upward, skipping over the volley of cannon balls as lightly as a child hopping over a puddle. Beadle, Striker, and Nick—staggering a little with the sudden motion—threw open a locker and grabbed weapons. Then they braced themselves against the rail, ready to shoot. Striker held a monstrous weapon—a blunderbuss three times as large as any Nick had ever seen—filled with all manner of metal scrap, ideal for discouraging a mob of attackers.

Nick heard the shouts and rumbles as the
Red Jack
’s crew readied the air cannons below. His stomach churned with a combination of excitement and terror, raising a slick of sweat under the linen of his shirt. His hands tightened on his rifle, and then he gave a nod as Athena dropped in the sky, bringing the
Hind
into view once more. Beadle rapped on the deck—three solid blows with the butt of his rifle, to give
the signal to the gunners below. Circling overhead, the ash rooks gave a raucous cry, eager for their meal.

The
Red Jack
opened fire, air cannons spewing, but it wasn’t balls of lead they shot. Tightly sewn sacks exploded in midair, and a rain of twisted metal clattered to the deck of the
Leaping Hind
, flipping and skittering as soon as each piece hit the sanded wooden surface. They ran like beetles in a crazy zigzag over the deck, faster than any insect. These were Striker’s invention, and the answer to how a crew of eight could overpower a cargo vessel twice the
Jack
’s size. Thousands of the clockwork devices scampered over the deck, driven by a magnetic hunger to find anything made of iron—guns, propellers, boilers, engines, and above all, the aether distillate pumping device.

As the clockwork hailed down, half the cargo ship’s crew had no idea what to do. The other half dove for the scampering devices, voices loud with panic. A few of the things were smashed by boot heels, but most found their destination, clamped on, and unsealed the glass vials of corrosive acid inside their clockwork bellies. The devices died by their own poison, melting in minutes, but so did whatever they fastened onto. The engines of the
Hind
failed first, with a gasp, whistle, and then a messy explosion as the metal housing of the boiler gave way. The chuffing propellers whirled once, twice, and then stopped.

Nick was breathing hard, his pulse racing. The sudden silence of the enemy ship was eerie, as solemn a thing as the hush of a sick room. Then the
Red Jack
drifted closer, approaching near enough to inspect the damage, but not so close that the two enormous balloons would touch. Nick stayed perfectly still, waiting until the light in the aether pump winked out. A gust of cold wind struck his face and he could smell the stink of the acid-eaten metal, taste it on the back of his tongue. The
Hind
would gradually descend to earth, steered only by emergency sails and whatever airmanship skills the crew possessed. It was a slow enough affair that there was no need for loss of life—unless they fought back.

Time ticked past, maybe five seconds, maybe a minute,
but it seemed an eternity of suspense. Nick clenched his jaw, hoping the other captain would take the easy road and surrender.

But the
Hind
slowly wheeled, using the little propulsion it had left to turn its guns on the
Red Jack
once more. “Don’t do it,” Nick muttered under his breath as Athena danced out of harm’s way. Surely the other captain could tell what was in store?

Apparently not, because the cannons roared in that same instant. Three of the guns exploded, fatally damaged by Striker’s devices. As the smoke cleared, it was plain to see the volley had blackened the port-side gun deck, blowing chunks of the wood away. If she had been in water, the
Hind
would have sunk.

But this time, one of the balls clipped the
Red Jack
, tearing away a slice of her tail. A wave of anger swamped Nick, the scream of the wood as painful as if it had been his own flesh. “Fire!” he roared.

Striker lit the fuse of his enormous weapon, and it thundered, recoiling halfway across the deck. It released a second rain of metal into the air, this one made up of old nails, small shot, and scrap meant to rend flesh. Nick and Beadle fired as well, but theirs were the grappling guns, sending claws deep into the
Leaping Hind
’s side. The prey was caught, and Athena rose in the air until the towing cables snapped tight. She pulled a little ahead, simultaneously angling away from the threat of the
Hind
’s cannons and keeping the crippled ship aloft. The bosun immediately began affixing pulleys to the lines.

And now it was time for Nick to play his part. The gunners were back on deck, readying baskets that would be lowered down to haul away booty. Nick exchanged his grappling gun for a brace of pistols and jumped to the rail, one hand on the rigging as he balanced over a thousand yards of empty sky. Four men would board the enemy ship, but they would not board alone.

“Gwilliam!” he called, and the flock of huge black ravens circled closer.

The ash rooks—for that was what they called themselves—
were a disconcerting sight. They loved shiny things, adornments most of all, and traded their service for glittering loot. And like Striker in his metal-clad coat, they wore as much as they could carry without impeding their mobility. One of them landed beside Nick, his huge, sharp claws easily grasping the thick wood. This one had what looked like a crested helmet and a chain of enameled metal around its throat, and Nick recognized it as the ravens’ king. It gave a long, rattling croak.

You are ready at last, wingless one?
Gwilliam said, touching Nick’s mind the same way Athena did.

“I may be wingless, but I am not flightless.” Nick felt a lift in his heart, the excitement before a moment of daring. His body ached with the need to prove his strength and speed.

The bosun had fastened a wooden bar to the pulley on the grappling lines, and Nick grasped it with both hands. In a moment, he had launched himself from the rail and slid down the grappling cable, releasing the brake to rocket through the air at stomach-churning speed. The sky opened beneath him, and with a rush of sheer joy, he was lost in the mist, the wet fingers trailing over his skin and hair. And then his view of the
Hind
opened up below, a picture of men and rooks and the aftermath of the exploded boiler. The birds harried the crew of the
Hind
, using beak and claw to ensure Nick landed safely. He slowed his descent, leaping lightly to land on the enemy deck. Striker, Digby, and Royce followed.

They drew their weapons the moment their feet touched a solid surface, wasting no time leaping into the fray. The fight was near the center of the ship, the combatants clustering together in their eagerness to bash heads. Nick ducked as a blue-coated officer swept his sword through the air, then dodged again to avoid the sweep of an ash rook’s wing. And then he was in the thick of it, firing once, twice, and then drawing his knives when the risk of shooting his own men became too great.

There were perhaps twenty crewmen on the
Hind
, all clad in blue and white. One came at Nick with an ax, and he twisted aside only to feel the wind of the blade’s passage
kiss his cheek. He drove his fist into the man’s gut, aiming upward to the ribs, and the airman flew backward, crashing hard against the disabled aether pump. Someone crashed into Nick’s back, driving him to his knees, and the next sweep of the ax would have split his skull if Gwilliam hadn’t appeared from the sky, claws raking the airman’s face. As the man cowered, Nick delivered a boot to his head, knocking him cold.

Someone fired an aether gun, blasting a smoking bite from the rail. Nick swore. Aether weapons were experimental and unpredictable. Striker made them, but Nick hadn’t expected to find one in enemy hands—especially not one powerful enough to blow pieces out of the airship’s hull. A misplaced blast at the balloon could make the difference between floating gently to earth and dropping like a stone. Unexpectedly—for the sake of the
Jack
and the
Hind
alike—Nick’s priority became getting that gun out of the fight.

He grabbed the ax from the unconscious airman, holding it in his right hand; a knife was in the left. There were men down already, their blue and white uniforms stained with red. The boiler and the blunderbuss had taken their toll, as had the rooks—but now the enemy was falling at Nick’s hands as he worked his way through the mob. Another crewman raised a barrel over his head, meaning to throw it into the struggling crowd, but Nick kicked his knees out from under him, sending him crashing to the deck. The barrel bounced and rolled away, nearly bowling Digby over. Nick brought the butt of the ax handle down on the barrel-thrower’s skull, making sure he didn’t get up for a while.

The aether gun fired again with a sound like tearing silk, earning a storm of angry caws from the ash rooks. Black feathers fluttered through the air. Nick forced his way out of the eye of the maelstrom, struggling for room to move and to see what fool had the weapon. Pistols fired, men screamed, and the stink of gunpowder and burned flesh made it nearly impossible to breathe. He had barely broken through to the edge of the fight when he met the captain, easy to identify by the miles of gold braid on his coat. The uniform identified him as a captain of the Merchant Brotherhood of the Air
and, like his officer, the captain wore a sword—probably meant more for show than for use. But he also had a pistol, and he held that with the ease of an expert shot.