Romulus Buckle & the Engines of War (36 page)

Kellie hopped off the bed and trotted up to Valkyrie’s knees, tail wagging. Valkyrie looked down her nose at the dog. Kellie hopped up on her back legs, stretching her paws up onto Valkyrie’s thighs.

“As long as your cloak-and-dagger conferences do not impede the efficient running of this sky vessel, then I shall
ignore the insult implied by my exclusion,” Valkyrie said. She knelt and rubbed the dog’s ears roughly, in the way a person who is familiar with dogs knows how to rub them.

Valkyrie’s unguarded, kind reaction to the animal surprised Buckle. The silly dog had broken the ice.

“You have an affection for dogs, I see,” Buckle said. He considered people who disliked dogs to be lacking in fundamental humanity.

Valkyrie patted Kellie on the head and stood up in one smooth motion. “A dog would run into a burning building to save you. A horse would run itself until its heart bursts for you. One can rarely expect such loyalty from another human being.”

“There is truth in that,” Buckle said. “And what do you expect from me?”

Valkyrie’s eyes flashed with both challenge and humor. “I see in your eyes the same thing you see in mine, Captain—distrust.”

“Not a good condition between a Captain and his second,” Buckle said. He did like Valkyrie’s straightforward style, even if it was somewhat off-putting.

“No,” Valkyrie answered slowly.

Buckle smiled. He could tell that his grin caught Valkyrie off guard, just a touch, by the slight rise in her yellow eyebrows. “It is as it must be, then, is it not? At least, for starters.”

“Yes.”

“I have faith in you regarding your care of my airship,” Buckle said. “Just resist any urge to tinker with it.”

“I do live my life to tinker,” Valkyrie replied.

“As for the rest of it, well, my faithful dog is an excellent judge of character—and you seem to have made a smashing impression on her.”

“I see,” Valkyrie replied, narrowing her eyes. “I do feel it is important to inform you that I do not agree with my father’s decision to allow you to keep possession of the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
, Captain. However, that said, I am your most humble junior officer and I shall act in perfect accordance with my duties.”

Like her father, she considers me a pirate and a thief, Buckle thought. Well, he allowed himself some empathy regarding their position. Had somebody taken the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
from him—in a raid that would later turn out to be unprovoked and misguided—he supposed that he would be rather prickly about it as well. “I understand your position, Princess, and I would expect nothing less,” Buckle replied. “May I offer you a drink?”

Valkyrie looked at the open rum bottle. “I think not, Captain. Thank you.” She pointed the toe of her polished boot and nudged the glass shards on the floor. “I am not one for rum in the morning.”

“Yes,” Buckle said. “I am supposed to have tea coming, and I am getting grumpy about it.”

Valkyrie planted her fingers on the logbook. “May I deliver my engineering report?”

“Deliver away.”

“All systems at the ready. We are fixed to depart as soon as your ambassador arrives. There was a considerable amount of repair work done to the superstructure and piloting gondola. Your injured chief engineer—Max, I believe her name is—had installed an ambitious refitting schedule. I have inspected the ship, and I must say, you Crankshafts have very competent repair crews, Captain.”

Buckle nodded.

A rap sounded at the door.

“That had better be my bloody tea,” Buckle grumbled. “Enter!”

The door opened, propelled by the back of the blond-haired Howard Hampton as he balanced in his hands a silver tray holding a teapot, five china cups and saucers, a bowl of sugar cubes, a decanter of fastmilk cream, napkins, and five silver spoons.

“Ah!” Buckle said, hurrying forward to take the tray from Howard. “Good work, Howard, lugging all this all of the way up here!”

“Thank you, sir. No need, but thank you, sir.” Howard beamed.

“Princess Valkyrie, this is Howard Hampton, cabin boy and gunner’s mate.”

“My lady,” Howard said, dramatically bowing to Valkyrie.

“Thank you, Howard Hampton, cabin boy and gunner’s mate,” Valkyrie said kindly. “But you need not bow to me aboard a warship.”

“Yes, yes,” Howard muttered, almost bowing again, nervous. “Do you need anything more, Captain?” he asked.

“No thank you, Howard,” Buckle replied, glancing at the clock on the bulkhead. “This is quite sufficient. Go on.”

“Sir,” Howard said, and he bowed to Valkyrie. “Thank you, Princess.”

“Thank you, Howard Hampton,” Valkyrie replied as the cabin boy scurried out the door.

Buckle placed the rattling tray on the table. “Would you join me in a cup of tea, Princess?” Buckle asked. “It will be almond, if we have any left, that is.”

“Tea most certainly, Captain,” Valkyrie responded.

“Please, allow me,” Buckle said, placing two cups in their saucers on the table and lifting the teakettle by its carved
wooden handle from its crocheted trivet, feeling the heat rising from the metal along the back of his hand.

“And if you please, Captain. You need not address me as Princess aboard a warship. “My acting rank here is lieutenant, and that will be quite sufficient as long as I am aboard.”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” Buckle said, pouring the steaming brown tea into two cups. “Do you take milk or sugar?”

“A dollop of milk. Never sugar.”

“Sweet enough, are we?” Buckle said. It was a standard Crankshaft response to a woman who refused sugar in her tea, but in the instant it passed through his lips, he knew it was the wrong thing to say—far too familiar. “My apologies,” he followed up quickly, offering her the cup and saucer with a folded napkin and spoon. “Less than appropriate, considering the present company.”

Valkyrie took the teacup in her long fingers. “You need not walk on eggshells around me, Captain. We are shipmates, if only temporarily, and I do not wish for my crewmates to feel as if they must act differently around me. That would be distracting and impede efficiency, do you not agree?”

“Absolutely,” Buckle replied, dumping milk and sugar into his tea.

“Pardon me, Captain,” Valkyrie said. “But you have forgotten my milk.”

“Forgive me, Lieutenant,” Buckle said, leaning forward to pour fastmilk cream into her cup, where it swirled, turning the black liquid a milky chocolate brown.

Buckle reached for his cup, his mouth watering. Hot tea in the early morning was one of his favorite things.

A rap hit the door, a loud bang rather than a knuckle tap, and Windermere was on his way in just as the bosun’s whistle rang out somewhere amidships.

“Captain!” Windermere announced. “Ambassador Washington is aboard. We are ready to cast off.”

Valkyrie traded her tea for her pickelhaube.

Buckle set his cup down. No time for tea now. “Prepare to up ship,” he ordered.

FUNERAL PYRES AT DAWN

“B
RING HER AROUND
,
DUE WEST
,” Buckle ordered on the bridge of the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
as he rose into the soft blue-purple clouds of the predawn sky.

“Due west, aye,” Helmsman De Quincey answered, turning the rudder wheel hand over hand.

The huge sky vessel groaned comfortably, finally free from a month in the repair dock, her hydrogen cells engorged, the airfield a sweep of orange lantern dots beneath her. Buckle felt the smooth tremble of the propellers as they wound up, felt the forward surge of their energy through the deck, and heard the rising rumble of the steam engines far behind. The
Pneumatic Zeppelin
smoothly gained speed as she passed over the Devil’s Punchbowl; Buckle looked ahead through the slightly distorted glass panes of the nose dome, watching the wide, white sweep of the Mojave Valley plain as it unfolded far away toward the western horizon. The dusky peaks of the San Gabriel Mountains encircled them to the fore and flanks, brightening against the cloudy sky as the sun awoke behind them in the east, somewhere directly behind the stern.

Buckle could still see an airfield windsock hanging limp on its docking tower. Casting off before daybreak was good because
the world almost always lay motionless then. It was still dark, but the atmosphere was lighting up fast, rapidly shifting into shades of lighter and lighter gray blue. There was no need for lanterns anymore.

Howard Hampton appeared at Buckle’s side, between Kellie and the chart table, with a silver tray and a steaming teapot. “I thought you might still wish a cup, Captain.”

Buckle beamed, taking the cup and pouring the bubbling black liquid out of the pot. “I declare you are a lifesaver, Hampton. Thank you, kind sir.”

Howard Hampton beamed so widely Buckle feared his lips might crack.

Buckle dumped two lumps of brown sugar into the tea—he was too busy to bother with the cream—and his nod sent Hampton marching happily away. Buckle sipped the brew; it was almond, sugar bitter, and lip-scaldingly hot, and it tasted like peace and quiet.

Of course, such tranquillity could not last. When was he ever given a moment’s peace aboard his own ship?

A few seconds later, Meagan Churchill shouted from the aft corridor. “We have been sent a flag message, Captain.”

Here it comes. Buckle tensed, tea ruined, ready for bad news.

“It is Admiral Balthazar, wishing us all the best of luck, Captain!” Meagan reported.

Buckle relaxed again. It seemed he was to be spared for once. “Aye! Thank you, Miss Churchill.” Meagan Churchill, the lovely fawn, was at her new station alongside Jacob Fitzroy in the signals cabin. Long hours, spent huddled together, two attractive kids—Buckle figured human nature would run its course and the two would be sharing a bunk before the month
was out. He did not want to have to explain that one to Holly. He would let Sabrina do that.

Buckle peered down at the citadel through the floor observation window, which was partially blocked by Kellie’s tail: the heavy stone walls, built in a hexagon into the natural ridges of the boulders, looked geometric compared to the sprawling, low, brownish town around it, where the irregular streets were interrupted by the India-rubber factories, and the cottages on the fringes expanded in all directions, though mostly west onto the plain.

It was then that Buckle saw the smoke, unmistakable gray-black columns of wood smoke, rising from the citadel courtyard, and the meaning of it struck him in the heart. The torches had lit the pyres of the dead—his four dead, his crew members lost to the kraken—in the center of the courtyard. Balthazar was overseeing the ceremonies in Buckle’s place, comforting the mourners and the bereaved families—a role Buckle was already too familiar with—accepting the sobbing hugs of the mothers, the brave handshakes of the fathers, the grim, wet eyes of husbands and wives, and the blank stares of uncertain children.

The names would be read: Henry Stuart, mechanic; Martin Robinson, signals; Hector Hudson, skinner; and Carmen Steinway, skinner.

Right on cue, the ballast officer, Nero Coulton, the ship’s resident awful poet, recited a verse from Elkhorn’s
Dead Mates
and thankfully not one of his own barely rhyming disasters.

A zeppelineer mourns those who fell

With a sadness sharp and deep;

He spits at hell and bids farewell

And lets the dear departed sleep.

“Up ship, three thousand feet,” Buckle ordered, swallowing his sadness, taking the poem to heart. They needed altitude to clear the San Gabriels.

“Currently at one thousand feet, Captain,” Sabrina announced. Her voice was distant, bodiless.

“Up ship,” Windermere said, nudging the elevator wheel.

“Up ship, aye,” Nero repeated, hands on his hydrogen and ballast wheels.

Buckle barely heard his crew. He was lost in a memory, standing in the courtyard of the Tehachapi stronghold, his head wrought to putty by despair, his mouth bitter with the stink of the smoking ruins all around him, vainly searching for his sister, Elizabeth, whose body had disappeared under the rain of bombs the night before.

Elizabeth had loved Elkhorn.

“You cannot shout and caterwaul around in the council chamber,” Elizabeth said, holding open the heavy timber door Buckle had just stormed out of. “Getting all riled up like that is counterproductive.”