The Aeronaut's Windlass (32 page)

Rowl followed the conversation Grimm had with the visitor. It seemed largely to be concerned with inexplicable human madness, though he understood the anger and raised voices that signified what might have been a bloodletting. As so often happened with the fickle beasts, it did not develop into a proper battle, and the visitor left in apparent defeat.

Shortly after that, there was some activity between the tall second in command, and a human operating several long levers with colored cloth on the ends. They were apparently signals of some kind, because the humans peered down at something below them for a time, after their flags waggled. What they saw seemed to satisfy them. The ship, which had been motionless, finally descended toward a wooden platform that, apart from minor details, looked almost precisely like the one they had just left.

Rowl found that disappointing. It seemed a great deal of trouble for him to spend half a lifetime bored up a ship-tree to gain very little in the way of an interesting change of environment. But such things were to be expected when dealing with humans. He would remain patient until they fumbled past such foolishness. Was he not, after all, a cat?

He descended the ship-tree. It was rather less enjoyable than the climb had been. It was an activity better suited to humans and their spidery fingers. He would have to see to it that there was a human prepared to climb up and carry him down with proper dignity next time. Perhaps it would be an opportunity to test the capability of human Benedict. Clearly he was unworthy to be the mate of Littlemouse, but perhaps with the right guidance some kind of adequacy could be nurtured.

Rowl returned to the little room where Littlemouse and her companions were drinking their stinking water, and leapt up to grip the handle upon its door, hanging from it long enough to make it come open. Then he prowled in and shut the door again with a press of his shoulders.

The human Gwendolyn blinked at him several times and then said, “When on earth did he leave?
How
did he leave?”

Littlemouse nodded at him and said to human Gwendolyn, “He is a cat, Miss Lancaster. Asking such questions is an exercise in futility.”

Rowl leapt up onto Littlemouse’s lap and nuzzled her cheek affectionately. He liked Littlemouse. She was far less stupid than most humans.

“The ship is landing,” he told her. “We should go see what this new habble looks like at once.”

He waited for Littlemouse to repeat what he had said to the other humans. Honestly. He sometimes felt that humans simply had to be
deliberately
obtuse. What was so difficult about understanding civilized and excellently enunciated speech? His father had often opined that, in fact, humans really were exactly as foolish and helpless as they seemed—or that life was simpler if one assumed it to be true, at any rate. But Rowl was not yet sure.

A moment later, an acutely unpleasant sound of metal striking metal sliced across the deck. It was one of those human noises that had been, he felt sure, created for no purpose whatsoever but to annoy cats.

The sound did seem to galvanize the humans, though. Littlemouse and her companions rose and began fussing about the way humans often did. The humans who operated the ship did the same, and after a pointless delay for the humans to collect all their toys and keepsakes, he was finally able to take his rightful place in Littlemouse’s arms and herd them all in the proper direction.

They descended from the ship onto a wooden platform that seemed to simply hang in open air from the side of the Spire. He had to give humans credit where it was due—they did seem to have a knack for building interesting places for cats to explore. They walked over the creaking wooden planks, their steps echoing.

“Littlemouse,” he said, “if the human platform fails, will we not fall to the surface?”

He could hear her heart speed up, and her hands became somewhat clammy against his fur. “Nonsense. I’m certain it will do no such thing.”

But she began to walk slightly faster.

Littlemouse and her companions joined a rather large herd of humans who were standing around doing nothing interesting or profitable. They stayed there interminably, only occasionally taking a step forward. Honestly. Was it any wonder their clan chief had finally begged Rowl’s father for the guidance and support of the Silent Paws?

At last they funneled through a relatively tiny opening in the wall of the Spire along with a column of similarly placid humanity, and took their turn wasting even more time by talking to armed humans who were not even so important as to have large hats. And only after all of that indecipherable human ritual was complete to their satisfaction did they enter Habble Landing.

Rowl reminded himself that cats were eternally patient, and that he would not simply explode if he did not fling himself from Littlemouse’s arms and go exploring. Which was not to say that he
could
not do so if he wished, because cats were also their own masters. He decided that his patience was practically legendary—which was fortunate for Littlemouse, or Rowl would already have taken care of this problem or mystery or whatever it was while she was still milling about in the line to talk to the armed humans at the entrance to Habble Landing, thus robbing her of the glory of success.

Though, now that he thought about it, he was the most important member of the party. Any glory gained was rightfully his in any case.

He decided to tolerate the situation for the present. But if the humans became unmanageable, he might have to take steps. And who could blame him? Not even his father would assert that it was practical to manage
five
humans. It was a well-known fact that humans became more addled than usual when running in herds.

Habble Landing was fascinating. For one thing, the ceiling was only half the height of other habbles he’d seen. It was still far above even Littlemouse’s head, but the more enclosed space reminded him of the ducts and ventilation tunnels that were traditionally the territory of his people. And it was
thick
with humanity. Habble Morning was considered to be a well-populated habble, but Habble Landing absolutely teemed with people by comparison. Hundreds and hundreds of them were coming and going through the hole in the Spire wall. Dozens of humans who were selling trinkets and keepsakes (all of which Littlemouse would say were absolute necessities for a human) were lined up along the walls in neatly arranged stalls—and this wasn’t even the market area.

Voices filled the air, so many of them that it was impossible to pick out a specific conversation—taken as a whole, the voices created a low murmur that sounded a bit like the sighing of air through a junction point in the vents. Scents were thick, too—foul smells that always came with humanity, savory smells of various foods, and absolutely fascinating scents he could not identify.

“Goodness,” human Gwendolyn was saying. “Have you ever seen so many people coming and going?”

“It would be a lovely setting for slipping an enemy agent into the Spire,” human Benedict agreed.

Human Folly was apparently frightened of something, though she was in no danger that Rowl could see. Her heart beat very quickly, and she stank of nerves strung tight. She kept her eyes on the floor and stayed within inches of the senior male of the group, Master Ferus. The older man’s eyes were almost closed, as if he wanted an observer to think he was nearly sleeping, but Rowl could see them flicking around in an almost feline fashion, taking in the sights just as he was.

“Master Ferus?” human Gwendolyn asked. “Where should we go, sir?”

“Hmm?” Ferus said. “What’s that?”

“Lodging, perhaps?” Littlemouse suggested.

“Ah, excellent, yes.” He glanced back at human Benedict. “Young man, do you know of a decent inn?”

“I believe there are a great many of them in the habble, but I stayed at the Guard house while I was here,” human Benedict said in an apologetic tone. “I do know that we should be able to hire a runner who can assist us.”

Human Gwendolyn frowned. “Should we not stay there as well? This is an official inquisition for the Spirearch, after all.”

“We can’t make it official, and we can’t stay at the Guard house,” Littlemouse said. “If there is a traitor amongst the Guard, and we march in and announce our intentions, we might as well blow trumpets everywhere we go.”

“Quite right,” Master Ferus said. “Quite right. A runner, then.”

Human Gwendolyn seemed to take that as a command. She nodded and strode off through the crowd. Rowl waited with infinite patience. There were many things to see and smell. One human vendor had a great many little creatures in little cages. Some of them had wings, and some scales, and some fur. Rowl managed to sort out scents to their owners and studied them thoughtfully. Then a gentle stir and shift in the direction of the ventilated air announced the arrival of afternoon, as the sun began to warm the other side of the Spire, and brought with it a deliriously savory scent of cooking meat.

Rowl whipped his head to one side to stare in the direction from which the scent came—and noted, as he did, that human Benedict had wit enough to smell it, too, and was showing exactly the same interest. The human’s stomach made growling, grumbling sounds.

Human Gwendolyn returned shortly, in the company of a rather scrawny little human kit. The little human’s hair was a mess, its face was dirty, its clothing ragged, and Rowl, who found humans drearily like one another most of the time, could not tell whether the apparent runner was male or female.

“This is Grady,” human Gwendolyn announced. “He has graciously consented to guide us to an inn.”

“Aye, aye,” said the little human. “Just come with me, ladies and gents, and we’ll get you squared away with a clean bed and a hot meal.”

“Good, good,” said the oldest human. “Proceed.”

“Yes, sir!” said the little human. “Right this way!”

They followed the little human from the gallery that led to the shipyard, and into a side tunnel, where he produced a medium-size lumin crystal and made everyone utterly blind to anything happening more than a few paces away. Humans were inconsiderate that way. Rowl could see perfectly well, after all. It was hardly his fault if humans couldn’t tell the difference between mere dimness and true darkness.

Which was ironic, because they were, as a whole, among the dimmest creatures he knew.

They walked a short way through the side tunnel and then exited into a long, narrow street where the human buildings crowded in close on every side and thrust up from the floor all the way to the ceiling in many cases—but the building heights were uneven and jagged overall, like so many broken teeth. The street was only dimly lit, and there were considerably fewer humans walking along it than they had seen near the shipyard.

Rowl found that . . . inconsistent. The presence of danger brushed along his fur as the little human led Littlemouse and her companions down the street, and Rowl found himself gathering and releasing his muscles. He could not pinpoint any particular threat and yet . . .

Littlemouse, wise enough to look to a cat for guidance, noticed Rowl’s reaction almost immediately. Her own posture became tenser, her eyes flicking around, searching for any threat just as Rowl did.

Suddenly Rowl heard soft footfalls behind them, and he turned his ears quickly to listen in that direction.

“Littlemouse,” he said quietly. “We are being hunted. Behind us.”

She looked down at him, but did not swivel her head to look over her shoulder toward their pursuers. Excellent. Such a gesture would have alerted the hunters to the fact that their prey had sensed them. Littlemouse was so clever—for a human, of course.

“Benedict,” Littlemouse said quietly. “Rowl thinks someone is following us.”

Human Benedict frowned at her, but did not ask questions. Instead, Rowl saw his nostrils flare, and he began to use his eyes, looking around him, though he did not turn his head.

“Damn,” human Benedict said a moment later. He took a step forward, drawing even with Master Ferus, and tapped human Gwendolyn on the shoulder. She turned to look up at him, but didn’t stop walking. Human Benedict leaned down to speak quietly to her. “Coz, I’m afraid we’ve been marked.”

Human Gwendolyn frowned. “Marked?” She looked down at herself. “Did someone put something on my dress?”

Human Benedict let out a breath through his teeth. “Marked, coz, as prey. We’re being paced and followed.”

“By whom?”

“Footpads, most likely,” human Benedict replied. “There are several gangs that operate in Habble Landing.”

Human Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “I see. And which person has marked us, specifically?”

“To your left,” human Benedict said. “About ten feet behind us, dark brown coat, black hair, about twenty. He’s keeping track of us by watching our reflections in windows as we pass them. And there’s another one ahead of us, on the right, in that slouchy hat.”

“I see,” she replied. “What is the usual course of action for dealing with such things?”

“Avoid them.”

“We’ve already failed at
that
,” human Gwendolyn said, her tone irritated. “What else?”

Human Benedict sounded a bit flustered. “Coz, how should I know? I’ve never been marked by footpads before.”

She considered that, and nodded. “I see.”

Then, without hesitating for more than the time it took to take a step, human Gwendolyn turned, raised her gauntlet, and discharged it.

An almost invisible bolt of force and heat howled through the air and slammed into the stone wall of a building’s front side, not two feet from the head of the footpad pacing them from behind. The light made Rowl duck his head to shield his eyes, and the force of the blast threw chips of stone from the wall, sending them skittering around the street.

The footpad (and perhaps a dozen other humans who happened to be nearby) let out a shriek and flinched back, staring at the smoking, scorched gouge in the stone. He lost his balance and fell to the ground and onto his rear. The entire street, in fact, froze in its tracks, everyone staring at little human Gwendolyn.