Captain Gravenor’s Airship Equinox (Steampunk Smugglers) (3 page)

“They are leaving us?” she asked, picking up the spyglass
from where it had rolled next to the base of the wheel.

“No need for all of us to be out here.”

As if on cue, he saw a puff of white smoke drift up from her
hand. At first, he was grateful the spyglass hadn’t been damaged, but then he
thought of what the signal meant. “Bloody hell. Here come the Blockaders.”

The Red Kite airship tacked, turning back toward them.

“Get back to camp,” said an amplified voice from above.
“We’re armed.”

One of these days, the Blockaders would get their mailed
fists on the technology that the Red Kites used for their heater cannons, but
for now, they was far from assured a fair fight. Underneath his feet, Brecon
felt the deck shift.

“Are we going to get lift?”

“I’ve never tried it like this.”

He heard deep, rattling chugging as the Blockader airship lumbered
toward them. The deck rocked again, and Philadelphia caught his arm. He widened
his stance, bracing himself as the airship tried to break free from the inky
rainwater holding them hostage.

“You didn’t drop anchor, did you?” she asked.

“No, I was too busy deflating the balloon when we came in.”
They rocked violently. He grabbed for the wheel. Her arms were clutching his
bad arm like it was a life preserver now. He couldn’t see her face but her
breath came in sharp pants. She was terrified.

In an attempt to distract her, he asked, “Why are you so
frightened of the Blockaders? Most people consider us the villains.” The deck
lurched again. He swore and pushed up the trap door to get at the pedals. She
bent to lever them up and he began pressing against them, hoping the balloon
would inflate more quickly.

Above, he heard an shrieking whirr as cannon shot flew by.
The Blockaders hadn’t even announced themselves or called a warning. Perhaps
Gladstone’s retirement hadn’t softened them as much as the free traders had
hoped.

He saw red streaks cross the sky, just underneath the
filling balloon. The deck lurched violently.

“Lash yourself to a railing,” he ordered.

“With what?” she shot back, flinging herself against him.

A barrage of cannon fire blasted overhead. Even if the water
finally gave way, they were going to ascend directly into a cannon ball. And
the two fragile human bodies aboard had no protection. No wheelhouse, no
quarters below. Just them, growing increasingly more exposed as the balloon
lifted.

He heard mingled cries from above as crew on both airships
were hit. Then, a screeching whirr began again, increasing in intensity.  He
toppled over as something hit the deck in front of the platform. Gas blew in a
windy hiss from the balloon.

We’re going to die.

No, not if he could help it. He shouted an order. “Jump!”

~
*~

CHAPTER TWO

Brecon dived off the platform as Philadelphia tumbled down
the steps in front of him. His feet tangled in the pedals and he felt his ankle
wrench, but then he was on the deck, his hands clutched at the edge of a very
large hole.

He heard the screams of dying men overhead, then the entire
world shook. A ball of orange red fire exploded to the west. The Blockader airship,
hitting earth.

“Come along! We’re taking on water!” the woman called.

The balloon deflated as gasses leaked from the holes. “Do
you know how to tread water?”

“Yes, do you?”

“Yes.” He came alongside her, against the railing, trying to
judge how much room was between the hull and the earthen wall of the old
basement.

She grabbed his hand. “I’m not willing to die this way.”

“We just need to float long enough to be found. The free
traders didn’t go down.” At least he didn’t think so. A soft landing might have
escaped his notice, with the balloon impeding his vision.

He felt something clunk against his foot and bent down to
pick it up. His spyglass. He tucked it into his belt then put his arms around Philadelphia
and lifted her to the railing. She pulled her legs over the side as he joined
her.

“Ready?”

“Into the unknown.”

“Stay close, but not too close, I don’t want to hook you
again.”

“Right. Three, two, one.”

Together, they pushed themselves off the railing and into
the water. It wasn’t much of a fall, really, since the airship was little more
than a large rowboat in design.

She coughed as a splash caught her in the face.

“Don’t swallow,” he advised. “I don’t like the smell.”

“This isn’t rainwater,” she spluttered. “Someone is using
this as a refuse cistern.”

He swam a few feet forward, reaching for the basement wall,
then lifted his spyglass from his belt and raised it into the air. It still
puffed white smoke. Whatever caused the reaction hadn’t been eliminated from
the downed airship, then.

Philadelphia swam to him, then scrabbled against the wall,
trying to find something to anchor herself with.

“I wouldn’t do that. We don’t know how stable the wall is
and we don’t want it to collapse.”

She sighed. “Good point.”

He heard chugging move their way again before a dark shape
obscured the sky completely. He tucked his spyglass back into his belt as
something dropped into the water between them and the sinking airship. Swimming
forward, his hands touched wicker. He felt along it, judging it large enough
for one person.

“Climb in,” he ordered.

“Is it safe?”

“Is this?” he countered.

She reached for the edge of the basket. He found her rather
shapely bottom under the foul water with his good hand and gave her a push. She
fell over the side.

“Hold onto the center rope and give it a tug. They’ll pull
you up.”

She righted herself and pulled hard at the rope, then stared
into the gloom above as she began to rise.

“Thank you,” she said. “I will not let them leave without
you.”

“Very funny.” He waited, treading inky water, wondering how
the Red Kite crew would react to pulling a strange woman from below. She wasn’t
one of them and had a sharp tongue that would not serve her well among
dangerous strangers. How would she persuade them that she wouldn’t betray the
organization?

At least, though they might be a band of thieves, they
weren’t murderers.

A couple of minutes later, the basket dropped again and he
climbed in, then tugged the rope that would return him to the skies. As soon as
his feet hit the deck he called for the captain.

“We can’t leave my airship below,” Brecon said tersely. “It
has technology we don’t want to share with the Blockaders, and they’ll come for
their downed airship soon.”

The captain sneezed hugely and rubbed his nose on his
sleeve. “We can’t fly over the countryside towing a dead airship.”

“It’s small. Can’t we pull it out and throw it on a wagon?”

The captain shook his head. “I’m taking us back to camp. You
can discuss the matter with Captain Red Kite when we get there.”

“The Blockaders will come for their airship soon. We need to
fix this now.” Brecon clenched his good fist, and felt the ghost of his lost
fist do the same.

Philadelphia stepped forward and put her hand on his
shoulder. “It should be safe enough until morning, unless they have some sort
of detection device for your airship. All the BAE men must have perished, so no
one knows to look for an experimental airship nearby.”

Brecon glanced over the rail. Every part of him railed
against leaving his hard work behind, but she was right. As long as they were
back by daylight there was little chance of it being spotted. The balloon was
not inflated, courtesy of the cannonball, and it was painted black.

He nodded. “We are in your hands, captain.”

The other man sighed wearily, and he noticed the bloody tear
in the man’s sleeve. These men had battled for his life. The least he could do
was allow them to go back to camp and tend their wounds. The captain went to
his wheelhouse and gave the orders.

Brecon sat down, his back against the wheelhouse, and
watched the faint figures of men climb the ratlines in the light of the
lanterns. Fire was never wise around hydrogen. He wanted to convert the lamps
to electrical ones, but the Red Kites didn’t have money for the extra batteries.
They were a young smuggler outfit. Most of their money went to the heater
cannons that were their trademark and their salvation from the Blockaders.

A mint and camphor-scented body dropped down next to him.
Philadelphia’s head tapped against the hull as she leaned back. “What will they
do with me?” she whispered.

“Captain Red Kite has a sheen of Robin Hood to the mystique,”
Brecon said. “You needn’t worry.”

She shook her head, but didn’t say anything else.

“Are you afraid you shall try to off yourself again, once we
hit land?”

“I wanted an escape from my life,” she said in a sepulchral
tone. “I believe I have found it.”

He couldn’t help his grin. “Yes. I believe you did.”

Half an hour later, they landed in a field behind the
crumbling sandstone farmhouse that was Red Kite headquarters. The surrounding
acres were fenced off as pasture land, and the hilly country kept anyone from
seeing activity in the center of the property. Brecon had heard rumors that the
late owner of the property had gifted it to Captain Red Kite in her will, but
he had no idea, nor any curiosity, about the history. It didn’t pay to know too
much about smugglers.

“A small operation,” Philadelphia murmured, after they had
climbed down the ladder and were escorted off the field. “Is this part of a
larger family, like the Owlers?”

“Do not ask questions. I take it you’ve never associated
with free traders?”

She used both hands to smooth back her tangled hair. “Of
course not. I led a most retired life.”

“And yet you know about the Owlers?”

“My brother was the sheriff of Newgate Prison,” she said.
“He used to mention top crime families at dinner, so yes.”

Brecon had ever had a taste for the wrong sort of female,
but this was pushing the thing too far. “Newgate Prison?” he repeated, thinking
of Terrwyn and what he’d heard of her stay there, the child she’d borne to one
of the overlords. For all he knew, the sheriff himself.

A crewman gestured to them and Brecon pulled Philadelphia to
the ladder. “Climb down. I’ll be right behind you.” He unhooked a section of
the rail just above the ladder attached to the hull to make it easier, then let
her disappear into the dark before he followed.

“Now what?” she asked once he had joined her.

“I need to tell Captain Red Kite what happened to my aircraft.
Then you need to ask permission to stay.” He touched her elbow, gently steering
her toward the faint light of a candle in the farmhouse window. Though they
were far away from other humans, the Red Kites were still a cautious lot, which
was wise because they couldn’t hide themselves from the air.

“Are there any women here?”

He laughed dryly. Little did she know. “Yes, three or four.
There is a dormitory for them. I am sure there is a spare bed.”

“That would be wonderful.”

He heard the exhaustion in her voice. “You need medical
attention as well.”

“There is a doctor?”

“In the old way of things, we have a multi-talented barber.
I’m sure he can take care of the wound I inflicted upon you.”

“It is little compared to the wound I planned to inflict
upon myself.”

“Nonetheless. You don’t want it to become infected.”

When they reached the back door, loud boots stomped up the
porch behind them and a large, gloved hand reached around Brecon and hauled the
door open. “I’ll go first.”

He let the captain through, knowing that since he was kin to
Captain Red Kite, his word would hold more weight regardless of who spoke
first. Smugglers were a tribal lot, holding their illicit knowledge among
family members. Only his skill had allowed him into the group. Otherwise they
would not have been welcoming.

He captured the door and held it for Philadelphia, wondering
for the first time what her fate would be in the Red Kite camp. Should he have
brought an outsider here? Surely they would have no trouble with a defenseless
woman.

He glanced at his bedraggled charge. While her carriage was
upright, her dress sagged around the torso thanks to various damages, and the
hem was muddy and ripped. She had a trail of slime oozing down her right side.
Her chin thrust out as he assessed her. Proud, stubborn, unbroken. That was
what he would have said of her. How could such a magnificent creature have
wanted to end her life?

Two men stepped into the hallway and crossed their thick
arms over hard-muscled chests. Brecon hadn’t noticed the summer heat until now,
having spent the afternoon in a dank pit and the evening in the sky, but now he
noticed the dark rings of perspiration on the identical twins’ shirts. He
wished he could shed his own jacket but he, unlike these two lieutenants, did
not have an informal relationship with the captain.

“Bring the woman,” one of the twin lieutenants growled.

Brecon took Philadelphia’s elbow and pulled her into the gap
the twins created.

The front room was illuminated by a gasolier. Chairs pushed
up against the walls surrounded a large rectangular rug, stolen, so it was
said, from Windsor Castle. In the middle of the room was a hard-backed arm
chair covered in green velvet. Next to that was a three-tiered table on which
sat a silver tea service and a selection of slim finger sandwiches on a plate.

Close to him, Brecon heard the telltale sound of a stomach
growling. He bit back a grin, since he was as hungry as his companion.

One of the twins put a beefy hand to his back and he
stumbled forward onto the rose medallion in the center of the rug. Philadelphia
stumbled too, since he still had her elbow.