Romulus Buckle & the Engines of War (24 page)

The zeppelin
Khartoum
, wheeling above, obviously unhappy with the appearance of a first-rate warship, had fired up her boilers with great blasts of white steam from her exhausts, and had dropped to four hundred feet to shadow the Tinskin behemoth.

Buckle stumbled on the steps. It was difficult to take his eyes off the Tinskin zeppelin as it swept off to the south, the great length of its underbelly ending in a bank of gleaming propellers and revealing the bright sky behind its rudder. Buckle studied the black emblem of an eagle clutching a snake looming on its straw-yellow flank and experienced a mixture of awe and anger. He had never seen a Tinskin airship up close before—it was an awesome construction—but he was also infuriated by the clan’s lack of decorum; it was brutally indecent to dispatch a warship on an ambassadorial mission.

Buckle did not know a great deal about the Tinskins, but Balthazar had once told him that intimidation, veiled thinly if veiled at all, was the primary grease of their negotiating tactics. The Tinskins were a military clan, operating dozens of well-outfitted zeppelins in the skies to the far south, and their suzerainty over those lands made them haughty, overbearing, and aggressive. “Bring a Tinskin to the negotiating table,” Balthazar
would say, laughing but with a serious blue coldness behind his gray eyes, “and treat him as a poisonous snake whose venom you need for an antidote.”

But the Crankshafts needed the Tinskins, especially if the Spartak clan remained aloof from the proceedings. And the Tinskins would be well aware of it.

Within the towering pine doors of Pinyon Hall, the great public chamber of the citadel, servants dashed about with decanters and chair cushions. The ambassadors were still sequestered, making their own last-minute preparations. Buckle marched alongside the huge pine table that dominated the center of the rectangular chamber, thirty chairs on each side. Narrow glass windows in cast-iron frames soared up three stories on each flank, all the way to the heavy timber crossbeams of the roof, allowing sunlight to flood the hall. It was the best lit room in the citadel, and there was no need for lanterns or candles during daylight hours.

Balthazar’s ready chamber was located behind a small door at the head of the hall. Four Gallowglass attendants—three men and one woman, none of them peacocked enough to be the ambassador—emerged from an adjoining corridor and stopped, eyeing Buckle with a muted hostility. They wore light-green tricornered hats and fine dark-green cloaks clamped at the throat with gold frogs, but despite their finery, their faces seemed tavern lit, bull eyed, quick to take offense, oozing a street-hardened brawn.

Buckle offered the Irish nary a sideways glance, walking straight on to Balthazar’s door, where he delivered a rap of his knuckles to the wood. The eyes of the Gallowglasses bored into his back, and he felt a touch of relief when Balthazar’s voice boomed from within.

“Enter!”

He stepped into the chamber, a medium-size compartment with a low timber roof. A crackling fire burned in the stone hearth on the left wall, its yellow glow lost in the gray light flooding in through the large window at the front; a seven-foot-tall grandfather clock hugged the wall opposite the fireplace, the tight click of its pendulum mechanism beating behind the quiet. The large desk had a lantern on it, the oil wick lit—strange for that time of day, but not if it had been brought in by someone emerging from one of the pitch-black secret passages that abounded in the stronghold. The pirates who had built the place had been overly fond of secret chambers and passageways—even after thirty years of occupation, the Crankshafts would stumble across new ones now and again.

Balthazar stood behind the desk, leaning on his hands, his black evening coat bunched about his armpits, peering down at a set of papers. To his left stood Ryder, his only natural-born child and the eldest (not counting the unknown ages of the half-Martians), who had inherited the short, burly form of his father, though he was well squared in his dress cavalry reds.

Balthazar’s hoary head jerked up. “Romulus. Good of you to make it.”

“Hello, Father,” Buckle said, shutting the door behind him.

“Hello, brother,” Ryder said.

“Good to see you, Ryder,” Buckle answered. Although his relationship with Ryder had always been a cool one, he did feel a healthy connection to his brother. There had been a surly competitiveness between them as boys, but once they had outgrown the eye-spitting and fistfights, with maturity, they found common ground. Buckle had shown an early affinity for daring and zeppelins, but Ryder had eschewed such wild pursuits, preferring rather to develop himself into a cavalry officer, and one of
Balthazar’s most capable diplomats. Buckle had won his captaincy early—by taking the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
as a prize—and Buckle knew that it irked Ryder to watch his more flamboyant brother achieve such glories.

Ryder’s right arm was in a sling; he was still recovering from the wound he had received—a sword thrust to the ribs while defending a doorway—attempting to shield his father the night he was abducted by the Founders at the Palisades Truce. It had pained Ryder greatly to be left behind, unable to participate in the raid to rescue Balthazar from the City of the Founders.

“It was Max in the ambulance wagon, was it?” Balthazar asked, his face tight.

“Yes, Father,” Buckle said. Seeing the worry in Balthazar’s eyes for his daughter almost hurt Buckle more than when he held her, bloody and near death, in his arms.

“Are her wounds grave?” Balthazar asked. Buckle noticed Balthazar’s left hand twitching—not in a convulsive, uncontrollable way, but a rapid rubbing of the fingers.

“Aye. Sabertooths. She lost a great deal of blood.”

Balthazar nodded, his gaze angled toward the floor. He pulled at his white silk tie with a thick finger—Buckle knew he hated it. “Well, she is in Doctor Lee’s capable hands now.”

“And Surgeon Fogg is with her as well,” Buckle added.

“I shall check in on her immediately after the proceedings,” Balthazar said. He drew his ornate pipe out of his pocket and clamped it between his teeth, making no attempt to light it. It was something he did when he was upset.

“Martians are resilient, Father,” Ryder offered.

“She is only half-Martian,” Balthazar said softly, turning to look out the window with its murky glass that overlooked the back of the citadel, the town, and the snowy foothills beyond.
The daylight was softening, preparing for its long fade into night. He cleared his throat. “That I relented—that I let you go on that damn fool mission up into the mountains…”

“I found what I was looking for,” Buckle said. He reached into his pocket and placed the silver Founders phoenix collar pip on the oak table with a solid little
click
.

The sound made Balthazar turn around; both he and Ryder stared at the pin. Ryder made a low, barely audible whistle and picked it up, scrutinizing it in a shaft of sunlight.

“Ripped from the collar of a frozen corpse, an officer, trapped in the ruins of a Founders zeppelin—the one we shot down over Tehachapi—a zeppelin disguised as an Imperial war machine,” Buckle said.

Balthazar looked at Buckle and then to Ryder. “So it was the Founders who attacked us at Tehachapi.”

“I owe Katzenjammer Smelt an apology,” Buckle said, even though he could not believe that
he
was saying it. It actually pained him to say it. “He was telling the truth, after all.”

“I still would not trust him,” Ryder said.

“Have I taught you nothing, Ryder? One can trust one’s ally without exposing one’s back,” Balthazar said. “We were fools,” he growled. “Falling for the Founders’ deceptions, lock, stock, and barrel. They bomb us and we raid the Imperials in return. The cutthroat dogs!”

“And we did a fairly good job of it, did we not?” Ryder added. “We limped over to New Berlin and tore the Imperials up nicely.”

The three men stood in silence, the profound
ticktock
of the grandfather clock suddenly loud in Buckle’s ears. Balthazar switched his cold pipe back and forth between his teeth a few times, stopped, and looked at Buckle. “Anything else?”

“Just this,” Romulus said, pulling the Founders papers he had liberated from the wreck out of his pocket and laying them on the table. The thin parchments, yellowed and brittle from frost, were covered in handwritten notes. “I found these in the wreck, but they are nothing more than provision and navigation records.”

“Have Silas look them over,” Balthazar said to Ryder.

“Yes, Father,” Ryder answered, carefully folding the papers into his uniform pocket.

Balthazar set his jaw. “Our only hope against the Founders is a grand alliance, an alliance we must forge this very day. We have near a full house: Alchemists, Imperials, Brineboilers—even the Gallowglasses. And the Tinskins have just arrived.”

“I saw their war zeppelin on the way in, aye,” Buckle said softly, picking up the Founders pip and tucking it back in his coat pocket.

“Infamous buggers,” Ryder grumbled.

“It looks as if Spartak has not responded to our invitation, however,” Balthazar said.

Buckle felt a knot rise in his throat. “We need Spartak with us. We are better off without the Tinskins. We can manage without them.”

“Not if they join the Founders, we cannot,” Balthazar replied sharply, then softened his tone. “Both Andromeda Pollux and Katzenjammer Smelt are here in person, at my request; their presence adds a great weight to the proceedings. Together, we should be able to manage the Tinskins.”

“Lady Andromeda has a calming effect,” Ryder added. “And that is no small advantage, considering who is out there. This whole thing could quickly get out of hand.”

Balthazar sat at the desk and rubbed his eyes. It surprised Buckle that Balthazar took the seat—he never sat down in times
of crisis. He was still his old self—the lion—but he looked tired, frailer than Buckle remembered. He looked smaller.

“Obviously we cannot trust the Tinskins much,” Balthazar said. “The Imperials possess excellent warships, but they are few in number, decimated as they are, as are we. The Alchemist machines are capital, but they are groundlings. The Gallowglasses have many airships, but they vary immensely in quality, mostly on the lower end, and their discipline is poor. The Brineboilers are militarily insignificant, but to deny the Founders their chemicals would be no small thing. It is also vital that we win the support of the All Blacks with their coal. But we need Spartak’s Grand Fleet to stand any chance at all. We need Spartak.”

The grandfather clock bonged, counting its way toward five o’clock.

Balthazar collected his official papers on the desk and thrust the stack to Ryder, who tucked them in a leather valise. “Well, boys, time to take tea with the vipers,” Balthazar said.

VALKYRIE SMELT

B
ACK IN THE MAIN CHAMBER
of Pinyon Hall alongside Balthazar and Ryder, Buckle felt oppressed. The lofty ceiling and airy space of the towering chamber made no difference. Politics involved endless talking, a polite chat with hidden daggers. A spider’s game. He would rather be fighting the kraken—at least it was an honest foe.

“Fellow ambassadors and friends, you honor me with your presence here today,” Balthazar said, throwing his arms open in a sweeping gesture. He looked big again. “Please be seated. I am afraid we have things both heavy and fearful to discuss!”

The ambassadors and their small retinues, clustered uneasily in separate groups of vastly different fashions and colors, moved to the table. The three other members of the Crankshaft clan’s contingent stood waiting alongside Balthazar’s chair: Rutherford Washington, the clan’s hoary old chief ambassador, in an expensive black suit and tails; Orlando Churchill, pirate king turned respectable—and fabulously wealthy—merchant and mayor; and Silas Greenbriar, fingers stained with ink, the clan historian.

“I am sure that most of us are well acquainted, but please allow me a moment to make some brief introductions,” Balthazar said. “I am most honored to welcome Andromeda Pollux and the Alchemist clan to our parley table.”

Lady Andromeda was on the immediate left of Buckle. She sat comfortably in an ornate brass-and-iron wheelchair powered by a small steam engine. Buckle thought she looked weak, her cheeks and forehead crow’s-footed with pink marks from the shrapnel that had cut her during her rescue from the Founders’ prison, but her dark violet-black eyes were clear and resolute. Caliban Kepler was at Lady Andromeda’s back, big as an ox in his double-breasted white riding coat. General Scorpius was also there, the copper astrolabe on his breastplate agleam in the sunlight.

Andromeda nodded graciously to Balthazar, and then looked at Buckle; he saw both kindness and sadness in her glance as she smiled at him. She was so genuine that it seemed she could never lie—a powerful attribute. Buckle received a strong sense that Andromeda had something to say to him, but this was neither the time nor the place for it.

“We are also honored to welcome Mace Mardigan and the diplomats of the Gallowglass clan,” Balthazar said.

Buckle followed Scorpius’s glare across the table to the Gallowglass ambassador.