Novel - Airman (33 page)

They did not hear a splash.

Conor flew his machine through the sky above Great Saltee. A savage crosswind sheared across his bow, tilting him to starboard, and he noticed a congregation of lights by the third tower. Lights meant guards.

The lights below winked out one by one, and Conor’s stomach heaved with dread.
I am the target now.
For a moment there was nothing but shadowed activity from the third tower, then dots of fire flashed and a hail of shot erupted toward the heavens. A second later, Conor heard the scream of the bullets and their frustrated cry as they passed below.

Pure panic bubbled in Conor’s chest, and he almost jumped bodily from the machine.
Wait. Wait. I must pass Bonvilain’s tower.

The engine was stuttering, missing beats like a failing heart, losing its battle with the skies. Both wings were in tatters now, the wind’s claws ripping strips of muslin from the frame. Below Conor’s toes, the pedal had broken free from its stanchions and jiggled uselessly.

Almost in position. A few more yards.
A second swarm of bullets blasted toward him, and Conor felt the highest missiles tugging at the landing gear, sending the wheels spinning. He was in range now. Time to say good-bye to
La Brosse
. All evidence of his flight would soon be destroyed.

Conor knew that the marshall would never have allowed him to reach Great Saltee alive, so the trick was to persuade Bonvilain that the Airman was finally dead. This was a challenge. As a master of deception, Bonvilain was not an easy man to deceive.
But he knows nothing about flight. In the heavens, I am the master.

Conor wore his glider harness with one extra strap that connected him to his flying machine. The rest were, as usual, buckling him to his glider, which lay folded across his back, ribs slapping against his flying jacket, ripples running along the fabric. Linus had repaired it for him, and it was stronger now than it had ever been.

One more flight, old friend.

It was difficult reaching down in all the confusion; it was difficult figuring which way
was
down, so Conor ran his hand along his own body, finding the strap at his waist. He yanked it upward, freeing the buckle, and the aeroplane rocked loosely around his torso but did not fall away, as they were still bound together by momentum and gravity. The bullets were splintering the wood around his legs now; if he did not separate, his invention would become his coffin.

With a practiced motion, Conor reached for the spring-loaded lever at his side. One swift tug, and the glider’s wings deployed. They spread themselves wide against the stars like some great night bird, acting like a powerful brake, lifting Conor clear of the doomed aeroplane.

He watched it go, dipping into the shoal of glinting bullets. His historic invention obliterated completely. Nothing left but burning fragments and a crushed metal heart.

The engine exploded, blew itself into fist-size pieces, which spun into the darkness.

Gone. No place in history for
La Brosse.

Far below on Great Saltee, a haze of gun smoke shrouded the Wall, and through it Conor saw the muted glow of electric globes.
They turned the lights back on because they believe them
selves safe.

Conor hung in the sky, finding his bearings. Bonvilain’s tower was marked out by the rectangular glow of an open door. Isabella and his parents were inside that tower, in mortal danger. It could be that he was already too late.

Into the lion’s den, thought Conor, then dipped the glider’s nose, aiming for the light.

Marshall Bonvilain stepped over the threshold into the dining room, his face an exaggerated picture of regret. Behind him the last flames of destruction flickered out in the sky. From below on the Wall came the sounds of high-spirited congratulation, and the hiss of steam rising from glowing gun barrels. “A great pity,” the marshall said, chin low. “That man had so much to teach the world.”

The gathering had been morose before; now the humor had switched to irate. Bonvilain took one look at the mood writ on his guests’ faces and realized that a crisis was fast approaching. “There was no other way, ladies . . . Declan. As marshall, I could not permit an assault on the Wall.”

Isabella stood by the fireplace, flushed cheeks contrasting with a high-collared ivory dress. Bonvilain was unsettled by her expression, as he had not seen this look before. Ever since the coronation, Isabella’s confidence had been growing; now she had the temerity to glare at him. And just after he had supposedly saved her life! I sincerely prefer the old Isabella, he thought. Confused and grief-stricken is how I like my monarch.

No one was talking, and they were all treating Bonvilain to the same disgusted stare. They have been conferring, Bonvilain realized. While I was on the balcony.

“Are we all distressed?” he asked innocently. “Shall I close the window?”

And still no one spoke. Bonvilain realized that the queen was working up the courage to deliver a lecture. “I think I shall sit for this,” said the marshall calmly, dropping cross-legged to a cushion. “Else my legs may give way. You have something to say, Majesty?”

Isabella took a step forward, her dress almost disguising the shake in her legs. “The sweep found something, Marshall. In my father’s chamber.” These were her first words of the evening.

“Oh really?” said Bonvilain brightly, but inside he was discomfited. In his position, there was no such thing as a good surprise.

“Yes, Marshall, really.” Isabella took a small leather-bound book from her bag and held it close to her heart. “This is my father’s diary.”

Bonvilain decided to brazen it out. “Why, that’s wonderful, Majesty. Something to connect you to King Nicholas.”

“Not so wonderful for you, Marshall,” continued Isabella, clutching Catherine’s hand for support. “My father was very suspicious of your activities. He wrote how you abuse your power to build a personal fortune. How you cultivate a network of spies on the mainland. How you are suspected of complicity in dozens of murders. The list goes on.”

“I see,” said Bonvilain, while plotting in his head.
It will be difficult to make them take the poisoned wine now. Already they do not trust me.

Isabella’s legs were no longer shaking, and her tone was regal. “Do you see? I think not, Marshall. Did you know that my father planned to see you in prison? Did you know that he planned to completely revise the power structure on the Saltee Islands? To inaugurate a parliament?”

Bonvilain managed to maintain his bland expression, but he knew that a crisis was upon him. Typical, he thought. Murder one enemy, and three more spring up in his place.

“May I read something for you?” asked Isabella.

Bonvilain nodded. “It is not my place to allow or forbid, Majesty.”

“I shall take that as a yes,” said Isabella with a curt smile. She released Catherine’s hand to open her father’s diary. “‘Hugo Bonvilain is a scourge,’” she read. “‘His power is formidable and he abuses it at every opportunity. When I have proof of his crimes, he will spend the rest of his life staring at the same cell walls he has condemned so many to suffer within. But I must be careful; nothing is beneath the marshall, and I believe if he knew of my plans then he would take whatever steps necessary to thwart them. I do not fear for my own life, but Isabella must be kept safe. She is my heart.’” Isabella’s voice almost broke at the end, but she reached for Catherine’s hand and finished strong.

Bonvilain clapped both palms on his knees. “Well, that’s damning stuff,” he said. “Obviously the text is a forgery, planted by one of my enemies.”
I must make them drink. How to do it? How?

“I know my father’s hand,” said Isabella firmly.

“I have no doubt of it, but an expert forger can deceive sharper eyes than ours. Have the book verified by an expert of your choice. I insist on it. This book is a grave insult to my life’s work, and I will have my name cleared.”

“I have not finished,” declared Isabella. “You are removed from office immediately. Declan . . . Captain Broekhart will take your place.”

Bonvilain kept the rage inside him corked up tight. “Declan would certainly make a fine marshall. I thoroughly approve, but surely I deserve an opportunity to—”

“Enough!” ordered the queen, in a tone that brooked no argument. “You will remain here under house arrest until your affairs can be investigated.”

Bonvilain silently cursed himself. He had provided the queen with the perfect forum to launch her attack. He had some men hidden in a secret compartment behind the wall, but it was difficult to reach behind a tapestry and pull a hidden lever under such scrutiny.
Everything rests on the poisoned wine. If it were just the queen, I could force it down her gullet, but Declan Broekhart would run me through with that darned ceremonial sword, and if his wife’s stares were daggers, I would be dead already.

A great relief shone in Isabella’s eyes, and her shoulders dipped as the tension drained from her body. The prospect of this confrontation had terrified her since the diary’s discovery.

She had planned every word in her speech, and finally, victory was hers, and her father’s. “And now, Hugo Bonvilain,” she said, “I think we should do what we are here to do. We should raise a toast to our beloved Conor Broekhart.”

Bonvilain bit his lip.
Oh thank you, spirits of irony. The gods have a sense of humor after all.

Bonvilain’s expression was peevish. “I hardly think . . . Under the circumstances . . .”

Catherine stepped forward and plucked the special bottle from the ice bucket. “I realize that you invited us here in a transparent attempt to toady to Isabella and Declan, but we wish to honor our son, and you will raise a glass with us.”

“This is ridiculous,” grumbled Bonvilain. “But I, of course, will not cause my queen displeasure.”

He stood and slouched, and while Declan opened and poured, Bonvilain muttered under his breath and threw hateful stares. The picture of a beaten bully, and certainly not a schemer on the verge of his greatest coup.

They held their crystal glasses aloft, Bonvilain’s at half-mast. With Catherine’s smile of approval, Isabella gave the toast. “To Conor, my best friend. My prince and savior. Look after my father.”

Tears sparkled in Catherine’s eyes, and Declan actually moaned. Bonvilain tried not to laugh, but it was difficult.
Look after your father? You can look after him yourself, if I have my way.

Bonvilain waited for his guests to drink, but they did not. He abandoned his surly expression for a moment to glance at their faces. Each one regarded their twinkling glass with dawning suspicion.
Perhaps this wine is poisoned. Perhaps this is why Bonvilain invited us here.

There was only one way for Bonvilain to allay this suspicion.
Ah well, there goes my evening. It’s the water closet for me until morning.

“To the Broekhart boy, how I miss him,” he said, quaffing half of his glass in a single swallow.

“To Conor, my son,” said Declan. “Heaven is lucky to have him.” And raised the glass to his mouth. But before he could do more than wet his lips, something dark detached itself from the night outside and pounced on Hugo Bonvilain. Something dark with wings.

Conor hurtled through the window, a creature of the night, crashing into Bonvilain, tumbling them onto the low table. Crockery and cutlery flew, and both men were instantly entangled in swathes of gold-embroidered tablecloth. Only Conor’s wings remained exposed, and he must have resembled a giant moth, attracted to the cloth’s bright pattern.

Declan reacted quickly, throwing his glass aside and wrapping his fingers around the grip of his ceremonial sword. Ceremonial, but razor sharp nonetheless.

It is the Airman, he thought. Come to kill the queen.

The situation with Bonvilain must be set aside until this common enemy was dealt with. He grabbed a hank of tablecloth, bent low, and used his weight and strength to spin the warring pair from the table. They rolled across the floor, still battling, though Bonvilain’s blows were growing weak and ineffective. The Airman drove his fist repeatedly into his enemy’s face, until Bonvilain’s eyes lost their focus.

Declan reached for the collar of the intruder’s jacket but was too slow. The Airman spun around, speaking urgently. “Did you drink? Have you raised the toast?”

A strange question for an assassin to pose, thought Declan. But no time for distractions; put him down, then ponder his questions.

He swung his sword, intending to render the Airman unconscious with the flat of his blade, only to find it almost casually batted aside by his enemy’s forearm.

“The toast. Did you drink?”

Something in the man’s attitude unsettled Declan, as though he were about to make a terrible mistake. The face, or perhaps the voice. Something. He held back from striking, uncertain now of his strength of purpose.

Catherine had no such doubts. She saw nothing of the Airman’s face. From her angle there was only her husband and the man attacking him. She hitched up her skirt and planted a solid kick square in the Airman’s side, following it with a dashing blow from a handy flower vase.

Conor staggered sideways, dripping water and wearing daffodils. “Wait,” he gasped, shrugging off his harness and wings. “Don’t . . .”

But he was given no respite. Isabella pulled a samurai sword from its presentation case and adopted a fencing stance before him. “
En garde, monsieur
,” she said, then launched a blistering attack. Conor’s saber barely cleared its scabbard in time to parry the first thrust.

“Isabella,” he gasped, completely disoriented. “You must stop.”

The queen was in no mood to stop anything. “I will stop when you are dead, assassin.”

Conor managed a lucky counter riposte, which bought him the second he needed to find his balance.

Isabella had improved as a fencer since their lessons with Victor, but Conor could still see the bones of his teachings. “You have studied Marozzo well,” he gasped. “Victor would be proud.”