Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles (6 page)

More notes she couldn’t put down in her notebook. Denisov had made himself clear on that. Risking his displeasure was dangerous. They had miles to go before reaching Medinat al-Kadib, so she had to stay as inconspicuous as possible. Avoiding him seemed the best policy.

They appeared to be in agreement on that point. Thus, she took her supper alone in her cabin rather than join the crew or even take a meal at the captain’s table. Though, did mercenary airship captains maintain such regimented protocol? There weren’t exactly senior officers aboard the ship, and though there was a hierarchy, distinctions such as rank didn’t seem to matter as much as in the navy. For all she knew, Denisov ate with the rest of the crew. Or he dined alone in his stateroom.

As Daphne took a sip of her beer—it had the distinct malty flavor of a Belgian Trappist ale—she pictured him in his cabin. She hadn’t actually seen it, but she could well imagine what it looked like. He’d have charts and maps, the furniture bolted to the floor so it wouldn’t slide around.
Would he have books? What sort of books? Curios from years of traveling or prizes taken from piracy?

She forced herself to concentrate on eating her meal, but her thoughts kept returning to Denisov. Every time they spoke, small fragments of his history and who he truly was emerged, sparking her interest—beyond the academic.

He likely did eat alone. For all the rough camaraderie he shared with his crew, there was something very … isolated about him. He was the only Man O’ War on the airship, a fact that automatically made him different from everyone else. Yet, more than that, in his terse words, he revealed a greater separation. Almost a sense of loss.

A
failure
, he’d called himself. A failure to Russia. His words had been bitter, sharp. Revealing a wound that hadn’t fully healed. What had happened? What had driven him to turn rogue and live as a perennial outcast, always hunted, always solitary.

Oh, for God’s sake. He’s a smuggler, a soldier of fortune. Not an exiled prince with a tragic history.

That had always been her weakness: ascribing nobler motivations to those who didn’t merit them. Her anthropological work was a deliberate antidote. Seeing people for who they really were, all the good and all the bad. No one was a paragon. And, with a few exceptions, no one was a true villain, either.

And when they practice deliberate deception? What are they then?

She pushed the thought from her head, and concentrated on finishing her supper. Despite the quality of the food, it was a grim affair. A single gas lamp shed jaundiced light over the jumble of debris littering her tiny cabin, and turned the miniscule porthole into a yellow mirror reflecting the cramped little chamber.

With the last of her meal consumed, restlessness surged through her. She couldn’t spend the whole of the evening trapped in here. She’d grown up at dig sites, and as an adult she was more often doing fieldwork than sitting in her office at the Accademia. Even in Florence, she had a habit of taking long rambles in the evening, crossing over the Ponte alle Grazie and heading up into the hills surrounding the city.

The
Bielyi Voron
wasn’t a sizeable ship, but it was certainly big enough that she could avoid Denisov. Besides, the man was massive. He couldn’t sneak up on her. The planks beneath his feet shook with each step, as though he were some massive god from the beginning of time, building mountains and scooping out oceans with his bare hands.

Grabbing her tray, she walked it back to the galley. It took several tries for her to find it, but at last she did, and a wary-eyed boy took the tray from her. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen. The impulse to ask him about his history felt like an itch beneath her skin, so she quickly left the galley.

Bracing wind met her as she reached the top deck. Full night had fallen, and with it, the temperature likewise dropped. The idea of going back down to her cabin to retrieve a coat didn’t appeal, not when she could fill her lungs with the cool, fresh, evening air, and take her fill of the jeweled night sky. Flying during the daytime was wondrous, but being airborne at night was a waking dream. One she was determined to savor.

She walked further onto the deck, passing a few members of the crew but not, thankfully, Denisov. She wanted to enjoy these moments, and his presence deeply unsettled her. For so many reasons. Now, she could relish the unique experience of flying at night. Its lulling peace.

A burst of fire a mile away on the starboard side tore through the stillness. And then another. The airship rocked slightly from the concussive blasts.
What were they?

Crewmen suddenly swarmed the deck. Yet none of them spoke. Eerie, how there were so many of them but they kept silent. Many of them were extinguishing the lamps and dimming the illumination devices in the panels lining the hull. Plunging the ship into utter darkness.

But the explosions on the starboard side continued. The fire flared, and half a moment later, she heard and felt the jolt. The flares of light dazzled her eyes. She couldn’t make out what was causing the detonations.

“British and Russian airships,” said a deep voice behind her. “Another territorial pissing match.”

She whirled to face Denisov. In all the controlled chaos, she hadn’t heard or felt his approach. He came to stand beside her and together they stared out into the darkness.

Naturally, he could see what she could not. But in a moment, her vision adjusted, and she could just make out two British airships facing off against three Russian vessels. They unloaded their ether cannons on one another, lurid blossoms of fire bursting in the night sky. Ether-enhanced Gatling guns made rough, choppy sounds. The noise of wood shattering apart also tore through the air.

Something on one of the British ships caught fire. Crewmen seemed to work fast to put out the blaze, but it was clear the airship had suffered a bad blow.

Men were out there, dying. She couldn’t see them, or hear them, but no crew could take that much bombardment without suffering loss of life.

Daphne’s heart pounded in time with the ether cannon. Her mouth dried.

“I’ve never observed actual warfare before,” she croaked. Oh, there had been some local tribal leaders’ disputes that had resulted in spilled blood, but nothing on this industrialized scale.

Though she couldn’t make out Denisov’s expression, his words were flat. “It’s just a skirmish. Hopefully, it’s enough.”

“Enough for what?” she asked, appalled.

“To get away unseen.”

Thus the reason why all the lights aboard the
Bielyi Voron
were extinguished. With the British and Russians engaged in combat against each other, the rogue ship would appear to be nothing more than a patch of darkness in a cloudless sky, and not worth noting.

Not so cloudless. The formerly clear sky was rapidly dotting with gray, billowing clouds.

Which, to a sharp-eyed observer aboard one of the other airships, would throw the
Bielyi Voron
into perfect silhouette.

Denisov seemed to know this. When Levkov appeared, the captain ordered, “Get us out of here. Fast. But don’t fire up the turbines too much, or they might spot us.”

“Aye, Captain.” Gone was Levkov’s typical surliness as he hurried to obey Denisov’s command.

The turbines whirred faster, and the wind picked up as the airship hastened to put distance between itself and the ongoing battle.

She felt the tension in her chest ease. They could steal away, with no one the wiser. Though she was a British citizen, somehow she doubted that would matter if a British airship got a rogue Man O’ War’s vessel in its sights. And Denisov had made clear that the Russians would hunt him down and kill him if given the chance.

But they wouldn’t get that chance. Not tonight. The
Bielyi Voron
was disappearing into the night, and everything would be fine.

“Blyat,”
Denisov cursed.

“What is it?”

“We’ve been spotted.” He pointed into the darkness. “One of the Russian ships pulled away from the battle. They’re coming after us.”

Squinting, she just made out the large, dark form of the enemy airship. It looked a good deal bigger than the
Bielyi Voron
, which could slow them down. But it had larger turbines and ether tanks, too.

“We can outrun them,” she said, hoping to convince herself. Then realized she spoke to no one, as Denisov was already striding across the deck toward the pilot house. Instinctively knowing that the safest place to be was with him, Daphne hurried after him.

“We
can
outrun them, can’t we?” she pressed.

“That’s the
Zelyonyi Oryol
.” The way he said the ship’s name made it clear that outrunning it was impossible. In the pilot house, he consulted with a dark-skinned man, speaking to him in a strange combination of a West African dialect and Russian. Daphne could make out every fourth word, words like
storm
and
protonic charge,
but even that didn’t quite make sense. The African man hastened away to obey whatever order he’d been given.

“If we had anyplace to hide,” Denisov said to her, “we might have a chance, but we’re in the middle of the damned sea. There’s nowhere to take cover.”

With a sinking feeling, she realized he was right. A vast stretch of water offered no concealment.

Just as the understanding hit her, the ship rocked violently. The Russian ship was firing on them. Not expecting the jolt, she staggered and toppled toward the floor.

In a blur of movement, iron-hard arms scooped her up and set her on her feet. She pressed her palms against Denisov’s forearms, the heat of him racing up through her limbs and mingling with the icy fear coursing through her veins.

But she felt herself steadied, and a moment later, stepped away.

“Go below,” he commanded.

“Please, no.” She didn’t like the frightened tone of her voice, but, by God, she had good reason to be afraid. A massive Russian airship was determined to shoot them out of the sky, and if one could permit oneself a moment of fear, it would be now. “Huddling alone in that tiny cabin, wondering what was happening but not knowing … that’s worse than facing the danger head-on.”

He was silent. Her eyes had adjusted somewhat, and she could make out the hard, sharp contours of his face, the glint of his eyes. She thought that he’d sneer at her, and shove her below decks, but after a moment, he said in a strangely gentle voice, “All right. But stay close.”

“I’m certainly not planning to caper around the deck,” she answered.

A low, surprised chuckle rumbled up from his chest. “Save the capering for later. When we shake off our pursuer.”

“I didn’t think we could. They’re faster, and we’ve no place to hide.”

“All true. But,” he added, and she could have sworn that he winked, “I didn’t survive this long as a wanted man without having a few outrageous schemes.”

S
HE FOLLOWED HIM
as he strode to where the helmsman stood at the wheel. Despite the urgency of the situation, the crewman steering the ship betrayed no outward sign of fear, guiding the vessel with the same unflappable calm as if taking a pleasant afternoon flight. But the
zing
of ether rifles’ fire and shuddering caused by the enemy’s cannon made their flight anything but pleasant.

She struggled to keep herself as outwardly calm as any of the
Bielyi Voron
’s crew, even though her insides quaked.

“Steer us into those clouds ahead,” Denisov commanded to the helmsman.

“Aye, sir.”

“We can hide ourselves in them,” she deduced.

Yet Denisov shook his head. “Any Man O’ War could see through a cloud of that density. It’s hardly cover.”

“Then why—” But she silenced herself. Now wasn’t the time to question Denisov or his intentions.
He
was the air combat veteran, not she.

The ship plunged into the bank of clouds. Cold vapor surrounded them immediately, smelling faintly of sulfur and saline. It formed an eerie shroud, and she could barely make out the prow of the ship and forms of the crew through the mist. Yet she wasn’t as cold as she ought to be. Because of Denisov. She stood close enough to him to feel the heat radiating from his body. Despite the cold, and the peril pursuing them, he seemed to grow even warmer as the hazard increased. As if the threat and the need to fight fed the heat within him—a furnace fueled by danger.

She glanced over at him. Yes—his eyes seemed to gleam with a new light, and she could almost sense his eagerness for combat as much as the heat spreading out from him.

But he wouldn’t lead them into a fight, would he? Not with the odds against them so great?

The African man returned, holding a brass-hinged box in his hands. With him was another crewman, who carried what appeared to be an iron mortar. “I have them here, Captain.”

“And not a minute to spare, Akua.” Denisov took the box from the other man and headed toward the rear of the ship. Daphne, Akua, and the other crewman trailed after him as he climbed a set of steps to the poop deck. She fought for balance, gripping the rails on the steps, as the helmsman kept up evasive maneuvers, the ship veering from side to side like a deliberate drunkard. The clouds were thick on all sides, and the sound of enemy gunfire continued to tear the air apart.

Her only constant was Denisov, and she followed the massive breadth of his shoulders and the dark shadow of his long coat flaring out behind him as he moved with purpose.

Crewmen attending the aft-mounted ether tanks gave him respectful distance as he paced to the railing of the poop deck. He removed a contraption of intricate brass from the wooden box.

“Set the mortar up there,” he directed Akua and the crewman with the weapon. “I want it at forty-five degrees.”

The weapon was positioned near the railing, but what held Daphne’s attention was the device that Denisov handled. It was spherical, consisting of various rings of brass, with a crank at one end. The captain pressed a latch and the sphere split apart. He took a handful of brilliant blue gems from a compartment within the wooden box, placed them inside the brass sphere, then latched the device shut.