Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (16 page)

“I thought so.” Henry managed to look only momentarily smug. “Al, if this is about the Italian invasion — tell Iskinder from me he needs to get the hell out of there.”

“What have you heard?”

“Nothing more than you have, I’m sure. But Ethiopia — they don’t have much of any army, they can’t afford one. I don’t see how the hell they can hold off anybody, never mind a modern army like Italy’s.”

“I know. But if it was your country —”

Henry nodded.  “And this is Iskinder. Just tell him — tell him if he needs a place, needs a job, he can always come to me.”

And that was generous, probably unnecessary, and the only thing Henry could do to help. Alma touched his shoulder again. “Thank you, Henry. For everything.”

“I just don’t want to have to explain to Floyd that you’ve destroyed his fancy seaplane. Promise me you won’t get it torn up.”

“I won’t even scratch our pretty paint job,” Alma promised, and moved away.

T
he rest of the afternoon passed in a blur as Alma did her best to finish her arrangements without attracting undue attention and without shirking her duty to Odlum and the Catalina. As always, there were half a dozen latecomers with questions, one of whom might even be a serious buyer, and she spent nearly an hour with him trying not to look over her shoulder for the harbormaster. She needed to get the Cat fueled up before they left, they weren’t going to find a fuel truck on duty when they came down here at midnight — the buyer was giving her an odd look, and she quickly collected herself, forcing herself to concentrate.

“So sorry, signor, could you say that again…”

Maybe she should send Mitch, she thought, as she showed the man off the Catalina with properly effusive farewells. He could sign a company check, and Pozzi’s English was perfectly good — but no, it made the buyers happier to see Mitch there, confirmation that she knew what she was doing. She glanced surreptitiously at her watch. The day’s show was almost over, anyway. She needed to go now if she was going to get it done.

She walked to the end of the gangway, looking down the length of the dock, and almost groaned aloud. Of all people, there was Count von Rosen walking toward the Cat, a neatly rolled umbrella tucked under his arm.

“Mitch!”

He came down the gangway to join her, frowning as he saw her expression.  “What’s — oh.”

“You talk to him, will you? I’ve got to get the fuel taken care of for tonight.”

“Sure thing,” Mitch answered, and she hurried away.

Pozzi wasn’t in his office, but the junior harbormaster was willing to fuel the Catalina after the gates were closed for the day.

“An unexpected client,” Alma said, and shrugged as though it happened all the time.

“A pity it happens today, with the ball and the holiday,” the harbormaster agreed, with merely ordinary sympathy, and she bit her lip to keep from offering too many explanations. She signed the check and handed it over, and the harbormaster wrote out her receipt and slid it across the counter. “And we will have that all taken care of, Signora, don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” she said, and let herself back out of the office. To her relief, the crowds were thinning, and Mitch was still standing at the foot of the gangway, looking almost sleepy. Von Rosen must have gone, she thought, making her way along the dock, and Mitch straightened at her approach.

“All set?”

“It’s all taken care of,” Alma answered. “I got the forecast, too, and Henry was right about leaving tonight. Tomorrow evening’s going to be a lot like this morning, but we’ve got a nice window to get us south of the front.”

Mitch nodded.  “Good.”

“Did von Rosen say anything?”

“Just hello. He didn’t really stop.”

“That’s good,” Alma said.

“You really don’t trust that guy.”

Alma paused, considering. “I don’t,” she said at last. “It’s not just that he doesn’t like dealing with a woman, and he got better about that, anyway. I just — I don’t know, Mitch, I don’t like him.”

“What does Lewis say?”

Anyone else, Alma thought, anyone else who said that would make her want to slap them silly, but she knew perfectly well what Mitch meant. She had absolutely no precognitive gifts — was about as sensitive as a brick. Lewis and Stasi were the ones with the Sight, and they were the ones to handle the question.  “Nothing,” she admitted. “He said after the opening party he didn’t feel anything odd about him, and — he’s been busy with Henry and the Dart, and it didn’t seem that important. I don’t suppose Stasi’s said anything?”

Mitch shook his head. “Not a word. Well, at least we’ll be out of here tonight.”

Alma winced, even though she doubted his voice could have been heard more than a yard away. “Let’s not make any announcements.”

“Sorry.” Mitch gave her a crooked grin. “At least we’ll get to enjoy some of the party.”

Alma snorted. “Sure.”

December 31, 1935

T
he closing ball was held at another palazzo, this one within sight of the airfield itself. It was older than the first, Alma thought, the stone of the outside walls plain and darkened with weather; inside, the floors were flagstone, not mosaic, and the fireplaces at each end of the ballroom were big enough to roast an ox. There were tapestries on the long walls, two stories tall and covered with strange elongated knights and ladies and very old-fashioned animals; between them, the plaster was painted a soft peach that seemed to glow in the light from the chandeliers. There were real candles on the mantels, filling enormous silver candelabra, and above them in the shadows hung smoke-darkened shields and swords and spears.

“This is different,” she said, in Lewis’s ear, after they’d made their way down the receiving line and emerged into the ballroom proper.

He nodded. “Like something out of the Middle Ages.”

An orchestra was playing somewhere above them, and Alma shaded her eyes with a gloved hand, looking up into the lights until she found a balcony to one side. The orchestra was up there — hadn’t she read something about that once, in a novel, musicians relegated to their own gallery? The music drifted down, a gentle waltz, and she shook herself. “Do you want to dance?”

“Sure.” Lewis took her arm, and they eased themselves onto the dance floor, finding the spot where they could make the circuit at their own pace and not worry about the better dancers around them. Mitch and Stasi swept past, perfect and elegant as they turned around an invisible axis. Stasi was in black, as usual, though this dress was cut so low in the back that Mitch’s hand rested on bare skin. It was more daring that Alma herself could manage, and besides, she liked the security of lingerie — and the intense focus on Lewis’s face when it came time to take it off for bed. It was a pity this evening wouldn’t end that way. But it was for Iskinder, and for Jerry, neither of whom would call for help unless it was vital. She only hoped it was something they could fix.

The waltz ended, and the dancers applauded politely. Alma let Lewis lead her away from the dance floor, and accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.  She’d have to be careful, she thought, but she didn’t want to attract attention by not drinking. “Where’s the buffet, I wonder?”

“Through there.” Lewis tipped his head toward one of the arches.

“Might as well eat.” Stasi had been to the shops that afternoon, picking up the makings of a picnic basket, bread and dried sausage and cheese, but it wasn’t a lot for a long flight, particularly when they were already tired. “I wonder if Stasi got us any coffee?”

“Did you go through everything you brought?” Lewis asked. He steered her to one of the small tables, incongruously draped in spotless white tablecloths. They ought to be brighter, Alma thought, red or green or gold, like the tapestries and the painted walls.

“Not quite all of it. But we could use more.”

“I’ll bring you a plate,” Lewis said. “The tables are filling up fast.”

He was right. Alma seated herself at the table, smiling as another waiter hurried to bring a fresh glass, and let him take the first away half empty. Mitch and Stasi were nowhere in sight — still dancing, she assumed, and couldn’t blame them. Let them have all the time they could, just in case… She shook herself hard. There was no reason to think they were flying into danger; it would be awkward to have to explain if they were caught, but that was all.

“Al.”  Henry dropped into the chair opposite her without waiting for an invitation. “You got everything settled?”

She nodded. “Tiny’s at the plane now, getting some extra sleep. We’re fueled up, and the harbor tower closes at sunset. We shouldn’t have any trouble getting out.”

“I got the latest forecast before I came over.” Henry slid the slip of thin paper across the table.

“Thanks.” Alma scanned the typing — no change from before, a brief window of calm in Palermo before more rain, clear weather to the south and east below the trailing front — and folded it into a packet that she could slip into the top of her glove. “You were right, going now makes more sense.”

“And I’d rather do a daylight landing in a strange harbor,” Henry said. “Anything else you need me to do?”

“I don’t think so.” Alma shook her head. “Just tell anyone who asks that we’re on a job. Frankly, I’m hoping no one will bother to ask.”

“It’s never that simple,” Henry said.

T
he buffet was crowded, as though everyone at the party had decided now was the time to grab supper. Lewis hovered on the edge of the crowd, trying to figure out the best point of approach — not the Soviet tactic, he thought, watching one of the young pilots elbow his way past a man in impeccable formal dress, but there had to be a way to get to the food. He shook his head at a waiter offering more champagne, and moved away, wondering if the approach was any easier from the other side. Or maybe at one of the secondary tables. No one would care if they ate pastries before they had more solid food.

“What a mob,” Stasi said, coming up beside him to slip a hand onto his elbow. “I don’t suppose you’ve gotten anything to eat, darling.”

Lewis shook his head. “I thought maybe I’d try for some of the desserts. Al’s holding down a table for us.”

“I don’t think we’re going to have much luck with that,” Mitch said. He looked different tonight, Lewis thought, sharper — younger, even. You could see the ace in him as he turned to survey the crowd, and for just an instant Stasi’s expression slipped, rueful and worried and well aware that there was nothing she could do. And then she’d recovered herself, linking arms with both men, a starlet’s smile curving her scarlet lips.

“But you can get me some champagne, darling. It would be kind of you.”

Mitch didn’t seem inclined to move away, so Lewis looked around for a waiter. He waved to the nearest one, and handed Stasi the glass. She accepted it with a smile and took a long drink, leaving a lipstick mark on the glass.

“Segura!” Ernst Udet loomed out of the crowd, his hand lifted in greeting. “I hoped I’d have a chance to catch you before everything shut down. And this is — Mr. Sorley?”

“That’s right,” Mitch said. “I don’t believe you’ve met my wife?”

Stasi offered her hand with another brilliant smile, and Udet bowed deeply over it. The pretty girl who had been with him at most of the events was nowhere to be seen; instead, his companion tonight was a dark-haired, heavy-browed man in well-tailored white tie, a cluster of swastika-emblazoned medals on his lapels. 

“May I present Reichsminister Hess, Mrs. Sorley?”

Stasi let him take her hand as well, still with that perfect, practiced smile, and Hess clicked his heels and bowed sharply. Lewis kept his own face expressionless. He knew who Hess was: Hitler’s right-hand man, his Minister without Portfolio, and with Göring here, that made two of Germany’s tip-top brass. He shook himself, trying to deny the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t much like what he’d heard from Jerry about the current German government, but Jerry had his own axe to grind, and so far, at least, German rearmament hadn’t started any trouble. You couldn’t really blame them for wanting to get out from under the terms of the Versailles Treaty.

“The Sorleys and Mr. Segura are all with Gilchrist Aviation,” Udet said. “Showing Consolidated’s flying boat.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Hess said, extending his own hand, and Mitch shook it warily.

“An honor, sir. Are we to take it that the German government is taking an interest?”

“No, no, no, not at all,” Hess answered. “Otherwise I would have been here for the entire event. I’ve only just been able to slip away — I flew in yesterday evening. But aviation is a personal interest of mine.”

Lewis took the offered hand, and was abruptly overcome with sensation: a pinpoint of cold burning the base of his fingers, the back of his neck crawling. He managed to keep his face from changing, completed the handshake with an inoffensive mumble and took a step back.  What the hell? He didn’t dare look at Stasi, focused instead on Hess himself, still smiling cheerfully at Mitch and chatting about flight times and fuel loads. A waiter appeared, and Udet handed out champagne to all of them. Hess accepted his with barely a glance, and Lewis caught a glimpse of a silver band on his left hand. Not a wedding ring, it was too deeply carved to be a wedding ring, leaves and jagged symbols, and surely no wedding ring would carry a skull and crossbones as its symbol, but that — that was what he’d felt. He risked a glance at Stasi, but she seemed oblivious, batting mascaraed eyelashes at Udet. The ring — he had touched it when they shook hands, and it felt like the curse tablet he’d handled six years ago, like every other magically-attuned object he’d had to deal with since, the sharp spark of power leaping from skin to skin. Like and not like: there had been the unmistakable snap of power, but with it was something more, something worse, the shadow of bone-burning cold. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted, and he repressed a shiver.