Novel - Airman (27 page)

Rosy was attempting to run when Conor crashed into him, driving both boots into the man’s shoulders. He heard something snap, and the man rolled, howling, down the rocky slope. The rest jumped to their feet and ranged about him in a ragged circle. None attacked, sizing up their opponent.

These men cannot understand the principles of my rig, thought Conor. Therefore I am a ghost, or a creature. That will not last long. Soon enough they will see for themselves that my wings are fabric and my chest heaves with exertion. Then they will shoot me dead.

Or perhaps not. No guns were drawn yet, though there were plenty of blades.

Of course. There will be no gunplay here. The reports would bring the Wall Watch down on us, and these brigands are not here to arrest me.

One of the five remaining men stepped forward a pace, brandishing an ice pick.

“Gibbus de dymon,” he said, then removed the dagger from his mouth and spat. “I said give us the diamonds, Airman.”

Diamonds. The dropped pouch! He had left a trail. “Billtoe,” growled Conor, his voice coarsened by deep hatred.

The prison guard quailed. “Who are you? Why me personally? I never wronged no parlayvoo.”

Billtoe will be first to fall, thought Conor. At least I will have that. His hands flashed to twin scabbards at his hips, drawing two battle sabers.

“En garde,”
he said, and lunged forward. A breeze caught the glider, elongating his stride, and Billtoe, who had thought himself at a safe distance, was suddenly face-to-face with the Airman.

He tried a trusted move, employed in a dozen bar fights, a sly dig with his ice pick, only to find the weapon batted aside.

“Shame on you,
monsieur
,” said the Airman. “Bringing a kitchen tool to a swordfight.”

Conor slashed down and out, his blade biting deep into Billtoe’s thigh. The guard squealed and grabbed the wound. He was no longer a threat. Both hands would be employed trying to keep the blood inside his leg.

Even now I do not wish to kill him, Conor realized. There is only one man I could kill.

He heard a rustling behind him as two men advanced.
They are too cautious. The strange uniform scares them.
A fortuitous breeze snapped his wings, and Conor added to its force by leaping directly upward. The two men passed below, and the Airman descended on them with boots and blades. Both were soon dispatched. Neither dead, but certainly nursing a reluctance to participate in moonlight ambushes.

Two men left. One was quaking, and the other was circling warily, biding his time, watching for weakness. It was Pike, and he did not seem inclined to retreat.

“You go ahead, matey,” he said, propelling his comrade toward Conor. The unfortunate man had barely time to squeak before Conor knocked him senseless with a casual blow with the saber’s guard.

“Jus’ you and me, Airman,” said Pike, sporting a careless grin. He studied Conor, took in the stance and the muscle and the weapons dangling from fist and belt. “To hell with this,” he said, reaching for his pistol. “I’ll take my chances with the Wall Watch.”

Conor drew faster, exchanging the sword in his right hand for a revolver. “The guards can hear my shot or none,
mon
sieur
. The choice is yours.”

Pike was already committed to his action, so Conor buzzed a shot past his ear to regain his attention. The guard fell to his knees, temporarily deafened, gun tumbling from his fingers. “A warning shot. The next one will put a hole in you.”

It was useless to speak. Pike could not hear, and combed the grass with his fingers till he found his weapon.

“Drop that pistol,” said Conor. “I have the advantage over you.”

But Pike could not or would not hear and lifted the barrel, his intention clear. Conor shot him in the shoulder, the copper-jacketed slug bowling the guard diagonally over the ridge, screeching like a barn owl.

Gunshot and screeching, and at night too. Noises certain to attract the attention of the Wall Watch. Conor jumped over the ridge, squatting behind it. On the Wall above, three lights were extinguished. This was protocol. At the first sign of disturbance, the guards plunged themselves into darkness to avoid becoming targets. Next half a dozen flares came arcing over the Wall, painting the bay with harsh red light.

It was time to leave. Quickly now, before the flares dipped low enough to light the skiff. Conor collapsed his wings and ran, doubled over, to the small boat. There was no time for careful folding of the glider, and several of the craft’s ribs snapped as he shoved it under the seat.

No matter. Wooden ribs by the stack in the tower. My own ribs are more difficult to replace should they be splintered by gunshot.

He pushed hard into the gunwale, scraping the keel across the stone and sand until the water took its weight. Shouts behind him now as guards poured from a fortified gateway, hurrying along the coast path. Some on horseback. The baying of hunting dogs echoed across the flat sea.

Dogs! The Watch wasted no time leashing their hounds.

Conor leaped into the skiff, his momentum pushing it to sea and safety. He tugged the mast from its bracket, laying it flat across the planks. Less of a profile from shore. Cold water splashed over the prow, spattering his face, and he was glad of it. He could hear his heart beat in his ears like great hollow drums in the distance.

I wish to be a scientist. Doing injury holds no pleasure for me.

Not even Billtoe? Did you not enjoy that cut?

Conor ignored the question. He would deal with the workings of his mind on another day.

You will be a scientist again. In America. A new life, new inventions, home, friends, and perhaps another girl that does not remind you of Isabella.

Conor turned his mind to rowing. He could not even contemplate girls without a vision of Isabella blooming in his mind.

So, the ocean. Conor felt confident that he was safe now. The robust little craft bore him away on the current. The skiff had served him well. Already Great Saltee was little more than a dark, wedged hump, receding. Billtoe had called him Airman. That would be a short-lived title.

The glider lay on the planks, its wings folded awkwardly like those of a broken bird.
No matter. It is over now. The mysteri
ous Airman will fly no more.

The Martello tower was visible on the Irish coastline, a lantern burning in an upstairs window. A beacon to guide him home. Conor smiled. Linus has forgiven me, he thought.

And then,
I hope there is hot chocolate.

CHAPTER 17: TANGLED WEB

Two hours later, Arthur Billtoe sat on a fruit box in Marshall Bonvilain’s office, trying to hold the flaps of his wound together. His trousers were soaked and small gouts of blood pumped between his fingers in time with his heartbeat.

Marshall Bonvilain entered the room, and the gouts pumped faster.

“Sorry about the fruit box, Arthur,” said Hugo Bonvilain, sitting behind his desk. “But the brocade on my chairs is worth more to me than your life, you understand.”

“O-of course, Marshall,” stammered Billtoe. “I am bleeding, sir. It is quite serious, I think.”

Bonvilain waved this information away. “Yes, we will come to that later. For now, I wish to talk about this creature.” He took a notepad from his desk drawer and spun it across the desk toward Billtoe. It was Pike’s notebook, open to a dynamic sketch of the Airman. “They are calling him the Airman, and he can fly, apparently.”

In cases like this, Billtoe had learned that it was always best to plead ignorance.

“We was taking a walk, and he sprung himself on us. Amazed, I am.”

“Hmm. So it was all a coincidence? You just happened to be at Sebber Bridge, making yourselves a target for the Wall Watch, when this Airman descended from the heavens?”

Billtoe nodded eagerly. “That’s it exactly. You have gone straight to the nub of the matter, as usual.”

“And did Mr. Pike do his sketching before or after he was shot? I don’t see how he could have done it at either time.” Bonvilain leaned forward, his bulk casting a shadow on Billtoe. “Could it be that you are lying to me, Arthur Billtoe?”

Blood pulsed between the guard’s fingers. “No, sir, Marshall, never.”

Bonvilain sighed, obviously enjoying his game of cat and mouse.

“You are weaving yourself a tangled web. I think it’s best if I tell you what I think you’ve been up to, and then when I am finished speaking, you color in any details I might have missed. How about that, Arthur?”

Billtoe nodded as if he really had a say in the proceedings.

“So, firstly there’s you giving me ideas for flying and salsa beds. Then there are reports of a flying man digging up things in the salsa beds. Things which Pike tells me are diamonds.”

“Pike is raving,” objected Billtoe. “Bullet fever.”

Bonvilain raised a finger. “No time for lies, Arthur. You’re bleeding, remember? And I have not finished speaking.”

“Sorry,” mumbled Billtoe.

“Now, you are far too ignorant and shortsighted to have thought up this diamond scheme yourself . . .”

“Exactly,” said Billtoe, relieved. “Ignorant and shortsighted, that’s me.”

“So you must have been manipulated by whoever supplied these ideas. Now, I know of only one person on Little Saltee with a fascination for flying.” And here Bonvilain’s easy manner was replaced by cold, hard danger. “Be careful what you say here, Billtoe, because if your answer displeases me, you will not live long enough to die of that leg wound. . . . Were these ideas Conor Broekhart’s?”

“Who?” asked Billtoe, genuine confusion writ large on his features.

“Finn. Conor Finn.”

Whatever blood was left in Billtoe’s face drained from it. He had always known this moment would come. Only one card left to play. “Yes, Marshall,” he said shamefacedly. “He sold his ideas for blankets and such. It seemed a harmless deception.”

Bonvilain grunted. “Until he escaped on that coronation balloon. With your help, I’ll warrant.”

“No, sir,” said Billtoe, squeezing the flaps of his wound together. “Finn is locked up in the mad wing, just as you ordered. No escaping for Conor Finn.” Billtoe paused guiltily. “Though he may look a tad different than he did last time you saw him. The years have been hard on the poor lad. What with the bell work and the beatings that you ordered. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t even recognize young Conor Finn.”

Bonvilain laced his fingers, squeezing them until the tips were white, then rolling the knuckles along his forehead. He knew what had happened; of course he knew. It was his own fault.
Conor Broekhart should have been tossed out the window years ago, not kept alive on the off chance he would be needed to control his father. What tangled webs we weave. . . .

Bonvilain admitted to himself that he had liked the idea of having a witness to his genius. How much more agonizing must Conor Broekhart’s imprisonment have been, knowing his father believed him to be a murderer.

The marshall smiled tightly. No, it had been a good plan. Incredible circumstances had scuppered it. An Airman, if you please. How could a man prepare for eventualities that had not yet been invented?

Conor Broekhart might be a genius, but Hugo Bonvilain was ingenious. This situation was a test of his mettle. It would involve some quick thinking, but already the germ of a new plan was sprouting roots in the marshall’s mind. There would be murder involved, but that was not really an issue, except it could very well be murder at a high level; and when indulging in such murders, one must seem completely blameless. European royal families did not approve of commoners disposing of their monarchs. And royal disapproval generally took the form of approaching warships and annexation. Hugo Bonvilain did not intend to share
his
diamonds or
his
seat of power with anybody, especially not with Isabella’s close friend Queen Victoria of the British Empire. The Bonvilains had been striving for too many centuries to reach the very position that he was in now for him to pack his satchel at the first sign of worthy opposition.

Bonvilain remembered the night his father died. He had been raving from the leprosy that he had picked up on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and much of what he had said was gibberish, but there were moments when his eyes were as clear as they had ever been.

We have been pruning,
he’d said to the young Bonvilain.
Do you know what I’m saying to you, Hugo? For centuries we have been prun
ing the Trudeaus. They breed like rabbits, God blast them, but we have set the crown on the right head, keeping the Saltee Islands independent. You must finish the job. You are the last in the line of servants, and the first in a line of Bonvilain masters. Promise me, Hugo. Promise me.

And the dying man had clutched at his son’s forearm with bandaged hands.

I promise,
Bonvilain had said, unable to look at the wasted remains of his father’s face.

It occurred to Bonvilain now that he had been rocking in his seat, knuckles to forehead for several moments, which might appear strange. He leaned back, tugging straight the red-crossed, white Templar stole over his navy suit. “That’s my thinking position, Arthur. Any objections?”

“No, Marshall. Not a one.”

“Glad to hear it. Anything else you care to tell me about our Airman?”

Billtoe fished inside his head for some pertinence that the marshall would appreciate. “Um . . . erm . . . Oh! He speaks French, calls a body
mish-yoor
.”

Bonvilain slammed the desk with both fists, bouncing his writing set into the air.

French. That clinched it. He had in a moment of miscalculation revealed his Francophobia to Conor Broekhart. It seemed as though the boy had a sense of humor. Best to dispose of him as soon as possible. The last thing he needed was a vindictive airman flying around stealing his diamonds and undermining his plans.

“So, Arthur, you maintain that Conor Finn languishes in his cell?”

Billtoe swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Apart from the
languishing
bit, which I am not certain on, yes. He is in his cell.”

“Good. I would like to speak to him.”

“What? Now?”

“Yes, now. Does this pose a problem for you?”

“No, there is no problem.” Billtoe’s features were drawn with pain and desperation. “Except that I’m bleeding, Marshall, quite badly. This wound needs closing, or I might not survive the ferry to the prison.”

Bonvilain glanced at the fireplace. Flames crackled orange and blue in the hearth, and a model broadsword, used as a poker, hung from a hook by the coal scuttle.

“You’re right, Arthur,” he said brightly. “It is time to seal that wound.”

Bonvilain boarded the ferry with Captain Sultan Arif, his most trusted officer. Billtoe cowered in the stern, every now and then poking at the scar of fused flesh on his thigh, seeming surprised each time the contact caused him pain. He passed out during the short trip, and each time woke up blubbering like a babe and blurting the word
barrel
.

Bonvilain found that he was not in the least anxious now that he had considered the night’s developments. In fact he felt invigorated by the challenge of maintaining his position, or even improving it. After all, Conor Broekhart was a youth with a kite. Hugo Bonvilain was a military strategist with an army behind him. Apparently, young Conor was reluctant to commit murder, whereas Bonvilain regarded murder as a time-honored and valid political tool.

The marshall leaned close to Sultan Arif ’s ear. “There may be some poisoning later. Ready your potions.”

Sultan nodded casually, toying with his splendid mustache. “Yes, Marshall. May I ask who we
may be
poisoning?”

“Myself, I regret to say,” replied Sir Hugo.

Sultan seemed unsurprised. “There will be others, I take it?”

“Oh, yes,” Bonvilain confirmed, his gaze distant. “There will be others.”

There was a prisoner in Conor Finn’s cell, but it was not Conor Finn.

“And who, pray tell, is this?” asked Bonvilain, pointing to the terrified wretch huddled in the corner, away from the lamplight.

Billtoe knew he was rumbled. “Don’t kill me, your worship,” he begged, dropping to his knees and grabbing the hem of Bonvilain’s Templar stole. “Please spare me. I don’t know how the blighter escaped. One minute he was there, the next gone. Some form of magic. Perhaps he ’ypnotized me.”

Bonvilain did not kick him off immediately, enjoying the groveling. “What I don’t know yet, Arthur, is if you were actually Finn’s accomplice.
You
helped him escape, and
you
were his smuggling contact.”

“Oh no, sir, Marshall,” gibbered Billtoe. “I never done no colluding. I don’t have the depth of thought for that.”

“I’m not so sure. This substitute scheme of yours might have worked with any other prisoner. You were unfortunate to lose this particular one.”

“That’s all it was, sir. Bad blasted luck, not an ounce of cooperation with the prisoner in it.”

Bonvilain decided a display of anger was called for; after all, Sultan was watching. “You lied to me, Billtoe,” he shouted, his voice echoing in the tiny cell. “You stole my diamonds!”

The marshall whipped his stole from Billtoe’s fingers, then delivered a mighty kick that sent the guard tumbling over the bed and into the wall behind. A muck plate cracked and fell. Billtoe lay in a heap like a spilled sack of laundry.

“Well struck, Marshall,” said Sultan. “On the point of the chin. He rolled like a cartwheel. Should I finish him off ?”

“No,” replied Bonvilain. “Something more poetic, I think. Perhaps our friend Arthur needs some time to reflect on his shortcomings.”

He was distracted by a strange glow from the rear of the cell. Billtoe’s forehead had knocked some mud from the wall, and strange ghostly scribblings shone behind. Curious, Bonvilain stepped closer, bending to examine the markings.

“Coral, I imagine,” he mused. “Old Wandering Heck would have loved this.”

But the markings were man-made. Diagrams and equations. Someone had tried to cover up these markings with mud, but the mud had not bonded completely with the damp surface beneath. A glider was plainly visible on the wall. Bonvilain tapped it with a gloved finger. “Hello, Airman,” he whispered. “It seems I provided you with your laboratory.”

He drew a pistol from his belt and rapped the wall with its grip. Another plate of mud cracked and fell, revealing that the glider had been launched from the roof of a tower.

“And you have left me your location. And more valuable secrets, I shouldn’t wonder.”

On the floor, Billtoe moaned. “Am I to be executed now, sir. Is that my fate?”

“Not at the present time,” said Bonvilain, stretching. “I have use for you, Arthur Billtoe. Your immediate fate is to clean the dirt from these walls, then transcribe every mark you find underneath.”

“Oh thank you, sir,” said Billtoe, tears of relief dripping from his nose. “I shall have one of the inmates get to it immediately. Top of my list.”

“You misunderstand, Arthur,” said Bonvilain, catching the guard’s lapels in his fist, wrenching the very coat from his back, tumbling Billtoe farther to the back of the cell. “You will not be supervising this task as prison guard; you will be performing it as inmate.” Bonvilain turned to the young man who had occupied the cell for almost a year. “What is your name, boy?” “Claude deVille Montgomery, Yer Majesty,” answered the youth promptly. “Though me nears ’n’ dears call me Spog.”

Bonvilain blinked: life never failed to surprise.

“Old Billtoe there said to answer Conor Finn if anyone, specially yerself, ever got around to asking, but that was only if he didn’t get around to pulling me tongue out, and as you can see . . .” Spog opened his mouth wide to reveal two teeth and a gray tongue.