The Aeronaut's Windlass (68 page)

Then the man in the gateway popped his head around the corner again. The long guns behind them howled, sending streaks of heat and light sizzling by within an arm’s length of the column. They slammed home into the stone of the gateway sheltering the enemy soldier—but these were no mere gauntlet blasts. Long rifles were an order of magnitude more powerful than a gauntlet, and instead of blowing chips of stone from the wall, they blew
stones
out of the wall, and sent them flying in every direction. Three more blasts struck only half a second later, and rock flew out in a shower as a square yard of stone wall—and the enemy crouched behind it—vanished in a torrent of radiant energy and a rumbling scream of breaking stone. The long guns began to yowl repeatedly, blowing holes in the wall near the positions Rowl had described to Ship-Trees.

Ah, that was what covering fire meant, then. It meant that
his
humans would shoot at the
other
humans and make them cower while the true threat came racing toward the front gate, along with all of his humans and his half-soul.

As they drew near the gate, Rowl took it upon himself to make things easier on the poor creatures he’d been rescuing all day, under the theory that an ounce of prevention would be worth a pound of cure. He darted ahead of Ship-Trees, exploded through the gate moving as low and fast as a cat could, and let out the defiant howl of his battle cry as he did.

Human voices shouted in surprise, and a wild gauntlet blast blew apart a brick planter several yards behind him while another splashed harmlessly onto the spirestone floor wide of him.

Grim Ship-Trees and half-soul Benedict came through the gate at almost the same instant, running, gauntlets primed. Both men unleashed blasts at their opponents without slowing down, and Ship-Trees dropped one of the enemy with a shot to the sternum that knocked the man down and cracked his rib cage with an audible snapping of bones. Littlemouse and human Kettle came in on their heels, also firing.

Littlemouse’s bolt came nowhere near threatening another being with harm, but before more blasts could be loosed, the enemy warriors were lifting their hands over their heads and dropping to their knees. That would have made it significantly easier to dispatch them all, but for some reason, Ship-Trees and the other humans stopped fighting.

Rowl puzzled over that for a moment as the rest of Ship-Trees’ warriors came rushing through the gates. Human Kettle took charge, took away the enemy warriors’ gauntlets and blades, and bound their arms—which seemed to Rowl like an excess of preparation for cutting their throats. Over the next several breaths, it occurred to Rowl that the humans were not
going
to cut anyone’s throat. What was the point in all the fighting with gauntlets if they were only going to stop fighting the moment the outnumbered fools decided the fight was over?

Rowl flicked his tail in exasperation. Humans.

This close to the fire, the heat was palpable, and the heavy smell of smoke was almost nauseating. The fire was a constant growling rumble from the interior of the temple. Now that he had time to look about, Rowl spotted several very still forms in crimson-stained saffron robes lying here and there in the gardens, like particularly morbid beds of flowers.

“Maker of Paths,” human Benedict breathed, sweeping his gaze over the corpses. His eyes shone with unfallen tears. “O great Maker, show me the Path, for I am lost and cannot find my Way.”

Rowl prowled over to Littlemouse and leapt up into her arms, the better to be able to see through the crowd of humans.

“Skip,” human Kettle said, nodding to Ship-Trees. “Four prisoners, none seriously wounded. They say the rest of the Aurorans are already gone. They volunteered to stay behind, and won’t say anything about their mission or where their officers are going.”

Ship-Trees grunted and shook his head, staring at the burning temple. “Burning a library. Damned waste.” He turned to one of his warriors and said, “Go inform Mister Creedy of what happened and ask him to direct the firefighting brigade here at once.”

“Aye, Skip,” said the man, and hurried off.

“These guys could save us a world of hurt if they start talking. You want me to persuade them, Skip?” human Kettle asked. He slammed one knob-knuckled fist into his opposite palm.

“No time,” Ship-Trees said. “The Aurorans are already on the move. Why burn a
library
?”

“A diversion,” human Kettle suggested. “To draw us away from their real target?”

“It’s going to get plenty of attention,” Ship-Trees admitted. “But . . .” He narrowed his eyes. “What if this wasn’t a diversion? They only sent thirty men for the bloody Lancaster Vattery. They brought their whole force
here
. Why?”

“This entire infiltration and attack?” human Benedict asked, his voice tight and bitter with pain. “Just to burn books?”

“Books are knowledge, and knowledge is power,” Ship-Trees said.

“More power than a crystal vattery?” human Kettle asked dubiously.

“Someone seems to think so,” Ship-Trees said, his voice thoughtful.

Rowl heard a faint sound and snapped his head around to the proper direction in which to direct his attention. A moment later he heard the sound again—a voice, weak, choking on smoke.

Rowl turned to Littlemouse and said, “If it matters, someone is still alive in there. I can hear them.”

Littlemouse blinked at him for a moment in that charmingly witless way she had, and then blurted out a translation of his words to human Benedict.

Human Benedict’s eyes snapped to Rowl. “Where?”

Rowl leaned his head toward the temple and said, “Am I an oracle? No, I am not. Inside.”

Human Benedict stepped up next to Rowl and tilted his head to one side with his eyes closed. They snapped open again a moment later. “He’s right. We have to do something.”

“The smoke could easily kill you,” Ship-Trees said. “Never mind the fire.”

Human Benedict clenched his jaw. And then he turned and sprinted into the burning temple.

“Benedict!” Littlemouse cried. She dropped Rowl like a sack of stale tubers and went running after him. As she did, a full quarter of the roof at the rear of the temple gave way with a rumble of falling stone and a thundercloud of rising sparks dancing madly in the whirlwind.

Rowl’s heart went absolutely berserk, beating so hard that it threatened to stop up his throat. The building was on
fire
. What was Littlemouse thinking? Such things were deadly. Had she no consideration at all? Who was going to give Rowl his favorite ear rubs if Littlemouse were burned to char and ash? The very thought made him want to crouch against the ground and curl into a little ball.

It was a truly shocking discourtesy. He should let her be burned up if she was going to treat him in so cavalier a fashion—except that the very thought of Littlemouse being all burned up made Rowl’s fur begin to tangle with itself.

Without any further hesitation, the cat growled and rushed forward into the burning building.

Chapter 57

Spire Albion, Habble Landing, Lumber District

M
ajor Espira stood wiping the blade of his sword on a white cloth as his men prepared to burn the wealth of this overstuffed den of rats to ashes.

Gauntlet fire howled around him from nearly every direction as his men held a perimeter against the Albion citizens and odd Guardsmen who had realized that battle was upon them. There were thousands of Albions in this rat maze of a habble, and the fight at the temple, brief as it had been, had been intense. His force had been brought down to a total of fewer than three hundred and fifty men.

There would be even fewer after they fought their way out of the lumber district, but the more quickly they moved, the fewer he would lose. Though his men were outnumbered incalculably by the locals, his Marines were organized and moving together, not reacting in a confused herd. The most difficult and dangerous part of the mission—the wait—was over. Now it was all straightforward knifework, and no one knew fighting like his Marines.

He stood in the middle of a street of shops, trying to ignore the presence of the Cavendish creature and her pet monster. Sark loomed near her, always near her, his presence a silent and constant threat. The warriorborn man was wounded and dripping blood, but moved as if he had not noticed that his forearms and belly looked like so much shredded and bloody meat beneath his tattered clothing. The woman clutched a book, the one book they had removed from the Great Library, open to one of its early pages, her finger tracing the lines, her eyes intent as she read, as if she stood in a reading room, and not a combat area with the cries of the wounded and dying all around her.

“Sergeant,” he called. “How long?”

“Setting the fuses now, sir,” Ciriaco replied.

Espira nodded and continued wiping the blade of his sword, though he knew on a rational level that he’d cleaned the blood from it long since. It gave him something to do besides wait for the proper time to give the next order.

And besides, he liked having a weapon in hand when Cavendish and Sark were so near.

The corpse of the young man who had blundered into Espira and surprised him, probably a carpenter’s apprentice, lay inside one of the shops nearby. The boy had been no older than fourteen years—and probably younger. Sheer chance that he’d started up from a sleeping pallet on the floor behind a counter just as Espira had walked past in the gloom. After that, it had all been reflexes, and a gurgling scream that Espira knew he would not be able to wipe away. Now the boy’s body was covered in sawdust and awaiting the fire that would take the guts out of the busiest economy in Spire Albion.

The charges were being set in small kegs, piled with sawdust from the leavings of the mills and carpenters and wood-carvers who worked this district of Habble Landing. They weren’t standard demolition powder kegs, but incendiaries—a hellish mixture of fireoil, firepowder, and sticky jelly that would explode and then cling to anything it touched, burning fiercely. They were most often used to set fire to airships in close engagements, and Espira had seen their vicious efficiency at destruction with his own eyes.

“What do you think, Sergeant?” he asked. “Did the engineers get it right?”

“Sun’s about to come up,” Ciriaco replied, nodding. “Warm up the east side of the tower, which’ll draw the air and send the fire spreading toward it, just like a chimney, but sideways. Once it starts hitting those supports, that second level of theirs will collapse right down into this one. The Albions’ll be too busy to pay us any attention at all.” A Marine corporal came running up and spoke briefly to Ciriaco.

“Major,” the sergeant reported, “charges set, fuses ready at sixty seconds.”

Espira tried not to think about the men, women, and children he was about to condemn to death by fire and asphyxiation. This area was the heart of Landing’s economy, a viable target of war—and if the Albions had ignored the wisdom of the Great Builders with regard to flammable construction within a habble, that could hardly be blamed upon Spire Aurora.

Espira looked around at the wooden buildings, the wooden walkways, the wooden supports and beams, representing more wealth than any dozen habbles of his home Spire. Their greed and vanity were their weakness, and would be their undoing. He was simply lighting a match.

“Order the men to form up and begin moving out by squads,” he told the sergeant. “Advance party to fire freely and clear the way, standard firing rotation.”

Ciriaco had known what orders would come next. He nodded and started bawling them out even as Espira gave them, then moved out to oversee the withdrawal. Explosions began, small and scattered, as the Marines commenced throwing ceramic grenados packed with gunpowder and sulfurous ash to cover their escape with vicious shrapnel and clouds of thick, choking smoke.

“Madame Cavendish,” Espira said, keeping his tone calm and civil. “Excuse me, please.”

Her eyes snapped from the page up to his, coldly furious, and one of her eyes twitched in a steady rhythm. She stood stiffly, clearly in pain, and a tear and a modest stain of blood on the bodice of her dress suggested a wound sustained when she and Sark had stayed behind to deal with the group of Albions who had attacked them.