All The Turns of Light (39 page)

“Old Kingdom Royal Recipe, just the thing for mending aching hearts, and quite a bargain at 50 pence a pint,” said Mrs. Primsbite. “I suppose it’s an acquired taste.”

“Well, well, well,” Mug said, buzzing up between Meralda and the penswift. “What have we here? The consumption of alcoholic beverages by on-duty officers? Mrs. Primsbite, make a note of this reckless behavior, won’t you? I can see the headline now–
Mage Ovis Stumbles Across Great Sea, Tipsy On Smuggled Liquor!”

Donchen, still in the passageway, knocked at the half-open door. “Mage, Mrs. Primsbite. May I enter?”

Meralda wiped her chin with her sleeve. “The thaumic elasticity is back to normal,” she said, smiling at Donchen. “Oh, come in, don’t be daft.”

He smiled and sauntered inside. “As I suspected it would be.” He caught Meralda up in a brief but fierce embrace. “I always thought it would be Mug who drove you to drink,” he said.

Meralda feigned indignation. “Why Donchen. In the last two weeks I’ve been possessed by unmagic, filled with the power of the vortex, and been forced to battle giants out of Vonat legend. I believe I’ve earned a sip of–what was it, Wedding?”

“Old Kingdom Royal Recipe.” She frowned at her flask. “Forty proof, sadly. My provisions are running low.”

“I’ve also had mean tricks played on me,” Meralda added. “Tracking spells hidden on certain rings, for instance.”

Mug groaned. “She’s never going to let you forget that,” he said, aiming his eyes at Donchen’s.

Donchen shrugged. “I regret the deception, but not the decision to employ it,” he said. “After all, we’d have never found you in the Arc had I not been able to follow my ring.”

“Utterly irrelevant,” Meralda said with a wink. “I shall never forgive you.”

“It was all my idea anyway,” Mug said. He brought his new flying birdcage close to the porthole and regarded the Arc with all of his eyes. “Pity we can’t use the Delighter to knock that ugly thing right out of the sky. When are we leaving? We’ve got four fans running. Surely that’s enough, with the coils.”

“Tomorrow, at first light,” replied Meralda. “Seventeen more days at sea.”

“Well, let’s hope they’re seventeen calm days, and that we never see that ugly thing again,” Mug said.

Meralda bit back her reply. Of course we’re coming back, she thought. It’s a threat to Tirlin. I can’t pretend the Arc isn’t there, or just go off fishing.

“She’s brooding again,” Mug said. “I’m off to find a poker game,” he said. “Mrs. Primsbite? Care to go deeper in my debt?”

“Bah,” replied the penswift, rising. “I won the last two rounds. Come and see me when you get a chance, dear. You too, Donchen.”

The penswift followed Mug out the door.

“Yvin has decided to tell the Hang everything,” Meralda said. “He said it was only right, that everyone is threatened by the Arc.”

Donchen nodded. “He is a good man,” he said. “I believe my countrymen will find his forthrightness admirable.”

“He’s asked me to find a way to establish communications from here to the Palace. He didn’t say so, but I think he plans to install a permanent base here. Serviced by a fleet of airships larger than the
Intrepid
.”

Donchen was silent for a moment. “Have you been asked to return?”

“Not yet.” She squeezed his hand. “But that’s inevitable.”

Donchen shrugged. “I’ve always fancied a life at sea,” he said. “And of course cooks are always in demand.”

“I won’t ask you to do that.”

“I won’t ask you either,” he said. “I’ll just show up.”

“Bridge to Engineer,” squawked the speaking tube. “The number four fan is operational. We’re descending to take on water. Loading ramp in five, please acknowledge.”

Meralda sighed. “It’s always going to be like this, isn’t it?”

“Possibly,” agreed Donchen. He drew Meralda in for a kiss.

“Captain to Engineer,” said the speaking tube. “Acknowledge.”

Meralda rushed for the speaking tube, smiling all the way.

~~~

From the private journal of Mugglesworth Ovis, Decembre 22, 1969

We took to the skies again seventeen days ago, racing through the permanent storm that surrounds the Arc with high hopes and no small number of nervous glances shared among the bridge crew.

This poor airship. I have no idea how she withstood the ripping, tearing winds. We lost the right flying coil to a fire, two fans to lightning, and three gas bags to a hailstorm that also put a chunk of ice through the glass on the bridge. We emerged from the storm barely able to hold five hundred feet off the Sea, and despite Meralda’s round-the-clock work on the coils, our airspeed was no better than sixty for three whole days.

But we didn’t sink, and we didn’t stop. Mistress restored one-quarter function to the burned coil, the skies turned blue and calm, and we made for Sheng Zhen even after the last fan failed.

On the fifteenth day out, the forward spotters sighted flotsam in the waves. The Captain ordered the
Intrepid
down to fifty feet, and a terrified trio of Hang fishermen were coaxed out from under their capsized wreck of a boat after Donchen took Amorp’s Horn and convinced them the
Intrepid
was not filled with sky devils bent on consuming their flesh.

With guidance from the rescued fishermen, the Captain turned the airship north. On the sixteenth day, a line of tiny reefs was spotted and the fishermen rejoiced, reporting their village was a mere score of miles away.

When the first gull crossed the sky in front of the
Intrepid
, the Captain broke out a crate of champagne. Mrs. Primsbite showed a deft hand at consuming it, going so far as to catch up a shocked Captain Fairweather in a brief dance about the Salon.

When the first dark sliver of land showed on the eastern horizon, a band began to play in the Grand Salon, and the party lasted well into the night. I am happy to report a sudden reversal of fortune on the part of both Mrs. Primsbite and Beastie, who are both indebted to me for a combined total of twenty-six crowns and nineteen pence.

We make our first landing on Hang soil in the morning. The rescued fishermen put our position at roughly five hundred miles from Sheng Zhen, but only forty miles from a big city I won’t even try to name or spell. They’re sure we can effect repairs and restock there before hurrying on to the City of Hanging Flowers, as they call Sheng Zhen.

So we made it. Made the Great Sea crossing, made history.

We’ve lost, and we’ve gained.

The airship flies on.

Clear skies and fair winds, until we meet again.

THE END

OTHER TUTTLE TITLES

Dead Man's Rain

The Mister Trophy

The Cadaver Client

Hold the Dark

The Banshee's Walk

The Broken Bell

Brown River Queen

The Five Faces

The Darker Carnival (coming April 2015)

All the Paths of Shadow

Saving the Sammi

Wistril Compleat

Mallara and Burn: On the Road

Passing the Narrows

The Far Corners

Frank invites you to visit his webpage!

www.franktuttle.com

Send Frank email!

Email Frank

Curious about Frank's other books? Here's a sample from BROWN RIVER QUEEN, Book #7 in The Markhat Files series. Enjoy!

BROWN RIVER QUEEN

by Frank Tuttle

Hammers fell by the hundreds. Lumber wagons rumbled past, either filled to bursting with building materials or freshly emptied and rushing back to the sawmills and the foundries for more timbers and nails. Saws bit deep into kiln-dried pine planks, filling the air with sawdust and the steady scratch-scratch-scratch sound of honest working men earning an honest day’s wage.

Me?

I sat, fundament firmly in the chair I’d placed on the sidewalk. While I sat, I watched a pair of honest working men earn their honest day’s wage by hanging and painting my sturdy new door.

The workmen, a father and son outfit who shared, but did not revel in, the name Wartlip, were less than appreciative of my audience. For what I was paying them, I decided they could bear the unwelcome scrutiny.

My new door is a beauty. It’s white, with a fancy round glass window worked in at eye level. The thick glass of the window is reinforced with a number of steel bars crossed so that worthies such as myself can peek through them, but objectionable materials such as crossbow bolts or the sharp ends of swords will be caught before ruining, for instance, my favorite face. The inside of the oak door conceals a solid iron plate, which means Ogres can spend their days trying to kick their way inside and get nothing for their troubles but twelve hairy bruised Ogre toes.

Right below the window is a bright brass placard which bears the legend ‘Markhat & Hog. Finders for Hire.’

And right below that is the traditional finder’s eye, etched into the brass so that patrons who might have missed the recent rush toward universal literacy can still get close enough to my well-manicured hand to cross my palm with money.

I’m Markhat, founder and senior member of the firm. Miss Gertriss Hog, who bitterly proclaims she does most of the actual work these days, was out doing most of the actual work.

I took another sip of my ice-chilled beer and eyed my new white door critically.

“That top hinge creaks a bit.”

The elder Wartlip muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath.

The Wartlips, like every tradesmen in Rannit these days, had all the work they could get and then some. With half the city lying in various degrees of ruin, anyone who could grasp a hammer suddenly claimed to be a master craftsman and demanded the exorbitant fees to prove it.

I’d waited three days past the appointed date for the Wartlips to show. I wasn’t letting them walk away until my office had a door again, because I knew getting them back to Cambrit Street would be the work of a lifetime.

So they grunted and shimmed and frowned and banged until the door swung without creaking and shut without slamming and opened without a yank or a kick.

I counted out coins. The Wartlips had been adamant about coin. “We ain’t takin’ none of that paper money,” the elder Wartlip insisted, shaking his finger at me for emphasis. “Who’s to say it’ll be any good, come tomorrow?”

I hadn’t argued the point. Rannit had nearly fallen to a trio of foreign wand-wavers intent on toppling the Regency and installing some alleged heir to the old Kingdom crown barely a month ago. The invasion had failed, thanks in no small part to my own heroic efforts, but nerves were still shaken and emotions were still raw, and the Regent’s fancy new paper money was viewed by many with open suspicion.

So I counted out five coins, tossed the younger Wartlip a smaller one all his own, and bade the Wartlips a cheery good day.

They and their tools were loaded in their patchwork wagon and headed downtown before I even managed a wave.

Three-leg Cat sidled out of the alley between my place and Mama Hog’s. He gave the door a good hard glare, sniffed it tentatively, and then planted his ragged butt down before it and set about licking his remaining front paw with a feline air that managed to convey his utter disregard for doors far and wide, even closed ones that stood between him and his food bowl.

“Oh, go on in,” I said, working my new latch. The door swung open without even the faintest ominous creak, I remembered to grab my chair, and Three-leg and I headed indoors for breakfast and meditation, respectively.

* * *

I was deeply immersed in profound meditation when the very first knock sounded on my unsullied new door.

Three-leg Cat beat me too it, eager to head out and impose his unique brand of feline terror on the alleys and stoops of Cambrit Street. I took advantage of my new peeping window to see who was calling before I worked the latch.

Outside, wrapped in a mainsail’s worth of black silk against the midday sun, was Evis himself, peering back at me through his tinted spectacles. The halfdead don’t love sunlight the same way I don’t love being bathed in red-hot coals.

“Hurry, please,” said Evis, as I fumbled with the lock. “I can’t pay you if I’ve been baked to cinders on your doorstep.”

I managed to swing the door open. Three-leg Cat darted out, heedless of the halfdead at the door. I’ve noticed most animals shy away from Evis, which I believe pains him deeply.

I stood aside and motioned Evis in. He glided into the comfortable shadows of my office, not quite running but not ambling either. I closed the door quickly and resolved to fashion some sort of shade for the window-glass. Even that much light would be a nuisance for Evis and his dead-eyed kin.