The Gospel According to Verdu (a Steampunk Novel) (The Brofman Series) (8 page)

But, he thought to himself as he eyed the warning signs coming from Candice’s general direction, it seemed to be in his best interest to get his butt over the side of the ship and down to the honeymoon suite at the Musser Point Inn. The sooner the better.

“I think I’ve a mind to check out the feed ’n’ seed store in town on the way, see about getting you some more mustard seed.”

“
Melon!
” Candice roared. “Oh, for all that’s good and holy, I’m going with you. This is too important to foul up again!” She pushed him in the direction of the ramp leading off the ship. Captain Endicott smiled as he resisted only slightly. He loved getting her good and exasperated with him from time to time. It was good for her blood flow.

Candice and the captain walked to the Musser Point General Supplies Store, which was situated between the base of the airship tower and the main road that wound through the village of Musser Point. Unappealing from the outside, the shop hosted more products, supplies, and gadgets than Candice could have imagined would fit in such a compact place. The scent of engine oil, dust, and candies drifted through the tightly packed rows of airship parts, fishing nets, hardware, housewares, outerwear, and chemicals. A variety of mismatched and wrinkled paperboard boxes lined several of the shelves, their labels old and faded to the point that the contents remained a mystery. Every inch of the store was
a little this
squeezed next to
a bit of that
. The lighting, not exactly dim, but subdued, lent tranquility to the shadows in the corners of the place, and a sense of vitality to the brightest spot in the room, a long U-shaped counter under a skylight, where a large wood-and-brass cash register gleamed in the sunlight. Standing next to it was a thin, balding man with an even thinner mustache penciled onto his lip. Not looking up from his work, he flicked his fingers over a rack of penny candies, tidying and sorting the dozens of sweets on the long counter as he mumbled a greeting to the pair.

“Seeds,” Candice said in a tone that she hoped would convey her desired assortments, quantity, and haste.

Still lingering over the candy, the clerk said, “Assuming you don’t want salted and roasted—which would be in aisle four—you can follow me to aisle ten.” The man palmed the last candy into the front pocket of his apron and turned on his heel to the back of the store, not once looking into the face of either Candice or the captain.

He led them past dusty barrels of gods knew what and an assortment of hoe, rake, and ax handles to a tall cabinet filled with a hundred little drawers, all arranged in neat columns and rows. The shopkeeper waved a hand negligently at the top rows. “Three-penny scoops,” he said, and pointed to the middle section. “Five-penny,” he added, and then said, “Eight per scoop for the rest.”

“Do you have mustard seed?” Candice asked.

“No,” he said, still not looking up.

“Fantastic,” she said as she turned and walked back to the entrance of the shop. “Maxwell, buy the lot! Every. Last. Seed!” she ordered over her shoulder. The shopkeeper finally looked up, interested and greedy eyes sensing a weighty sale.

“Is she serious?” he asked.

Captain Endicott sighed and nodded his head. “As a shark attack. Start scooping. We don’t want to keep the old girl waiting, do we? Lives could be lost, maybe even ours.”

Fenimore Dulal sobbed and giggled by himself for several days in the open brig cell. The Kite’s Republic intelligence officers wondered if the issuers of the orders to take the Madman—which was what they called him when the commander was not listening—to a quiet spot north of Kotal and pitch him over the side to undertake a secret mission were just a bit crazy themselves. However, after five days, the storm of emotions roaring through him seemed to blow itself out.

Fenimore emerged from his isolation belowdecks and took up a position standing at the bow of the ship. At mealtimes, he sat alone in the mess hall, and the crew was happy to leave him that way. He ate very little, and said nothing. Not only had mirth and sorrow left his eyes, so had compassion and any kindness or glimmer of life.

In a very real but easily overlookable way, Fenimore was broken. The man who left the Musser Point Inn was gone, buried in the avalanche of betrayals he felt, covered in the pile of stones thrown by his own psyche. As his lips stayed still over his teeth, his mind shouted insults at him: he had protected no one, he valued no love, he tainted every life he touched, he deserved to lose everything. On some level he knew that there was a field of life to be mown in Tugrulia, a forest of bodies that would be felled on his way to Verdu. Beyond that, he realized that he might find himself ultimately forced into betraying his very best friend. His orders were clear: find out what the Tugrulians knew about the Republic’s objectives there. In other words, discover how much Verdu had told his captors about his and Fenimore’s spying.

Kite’s Republic wanted Verdu—if he had become an asset to the empire and was spilling secrets—silenced. At best, that meant getting him away from his captors. If he had been compelled to talk, then the republic would want to know what information had made it to the Tugrulian leaders. At worst, Verdu could have freely given what he knew. That would make it impossible for Fenimore to return with his friend, and his duty would be vengeance.

His head swam with what-ifs: how likely was he to be able to get Verdu out of the clutches of the Hierarchy? What if he had switched sides? Fenimore hated to think about that possibility, but what if? Could he kill a man closer to him than a brother?

Fenimore, as he stood watch in the bow of his transport airship, thought about the inevitable slaughter to come. He tried to find his way through it, and each step of his mental preparations pushed his humanity farther away from his conscious self.

At twilight, a midshipman stalked up behind Fenimore as he stood watching the miles of empty ocean below. The young man shuffled his feet for a moment and waited, then cleared his throat to catch the Madman’s attention.

“Pardon me, sir. The commander says that we are close, sir. We should cross over into Tugrulian air two hours past dark. We will drop you in then.”

Fenimore grunted in the midshipman’s direction, his eyes betraying neither emotions nor any thanks for the report. The younger man carried on, “The commander says you’re welcome to any provisions you need and you have your pick of the armory—yours for the takin’—all you want.” The young man’s nervous tone had turned to one of envy. “I’d cash in there,” he added, mostly to himself.

Fenimore grunted again, then said, “Show me.”

“Aye, aye,” the lad said with enthusiasm. He trotted to the closest ladder and slid down one level with Fenimore following him step for step. After several twists and turns, the pair entered the ship’s armory, and the midshipman began to point out the wide array of weapons available. “Here we’ve got your classic standard-issue republic SRE-23K, the finest tasing sidearm of our generation, but who’s gonna be satisfied with that? Over here’s a Bragg and Morrichai Flash-38. It’s weighty but it can actually blast a hole in a stone wall thicker than a man’s arm is long. I have seen that demonstration personally. I’d have me one of them to mow through what-all comes before me. Yonder is a collection of Gracks; we got the long-arm, the mid, and the peewee. There’s trip wire flash-bangs, too, if you want to set a few warning perimeters. Last but not least, there is, to the back there, a Doc Reviere’s Pneumatic Launch Incendiary and Packet Dispersal System. It’s a backpack setup and very snappy, if I do say so myself.” The lad stood smiling like a carnie barker who had just made a convincing pitch for the common folk to take a gander at the exotic tattooed lady.

Fenimore remained unimpressed with the gadgets and max-kill devices the midshipman was touting, and looked around for a few more practical and less attention-drawing weapons. The lad seemed a bit let down that Fenimore didn’t select anything huge or shiny from the rack but instead rummaged through the bins below. He picked out several boot knives, a handful of small brick-shaped explosives, an assortment of clockwork timers and fuses, a few ropes with grappling hooks and a launcher, a compass, and a pair of sturdy leather gloves. He stuffed the few items into a canvas bag and turned to leave. The midshipman snorted, apparently thinking Fenimore had not chosen wisely.

Fenimore spun whip fast and grabbed the younger man by the neck, pushing him hard into a rack of Dr. Browner’s Electrofying Projectile Guns, pressing one of his newly acquired boot knives into the young man’s throat. The lad held his hand up in surrender, his eyes as big as pie plates. More unsettling than the knife was Fenimore’s voice when he finally spoke; it was as calm as if he were conversing about the afternoon’s weather.

“You think it makes it easier, boy? The whizbang and the popguns? That it makes a difference when you use the latest and greatest that the republic has to offer? Blood gets on you, whether you kill up close or from miles away. And then you have to do it again, and again, and the tiny droplets slowly cover you bit by bit until that’s all you can see in your reflection—the stain of every life you’ve ever snatched. So you go on and enjoy your little toys and gadgets, and we’ll talk again if ever you
do
any killing.”

Fenimore nicked the midshipman on the underside of the chin ever so slightly with the point of his blade as he took a step back. He slid the blade into his boot and, still looking at the younger man, said with a maniacal half smile, “Besides, what kind of idiot do you think I am? Using one of your high-gloss zappers would be a sure sign I’m a Kiter spy.” He stepped toward the midshipman so that they were again chest to chest and made a disapproving sniff, startling the lad. “The Tugrulians have been cutting one another’s heads off for centuries, so a good knife is the discreet weapon of choice. Forgive me for offending Dr. Browner, but where I’m going, his gizmos just don’t blend. Besides, I hate a weapon that depends on batteries.”

Without another word or change of expression, Fenimore turned on his heel and danced out of the armory whistling a bawdy saloon melody, as if he’d just enjoyed a pleasant ice cream with the young serviceman, rather than scaring the stuffing out of him.

The lad, still shaking slightly from the knees, tried his best to straighten up and muttered to himself, “Here’s to you finding one of those Tugrulians who wants to take
your
head, you loony.” He, in an effort to calm himself, turned to the racks of weapons, running his fingers over the glass tubes and various wires and brass levers. “There, there, my lovelies. He didn’t mean it.”

The oily bit of charcoal-smudged cloth floated down the stone face of the Palace of Kotal and landed in the dusty street of the market square. Just another piece of soiled refuse, another drop in a scummy sea of rubbish caught in the late-afternoon tide of merchants packing up their goods and heading home to family. Ahy-Me waited a few moments, casually scanning the men working hard in the elongating shadows. When she was sure the cloth was well overlooked, she walked toward it and, about six feet shy of the spot where it lay, dropped her small basket, first one handle and then the other, allowing the contents to fall to the ground with sufficient english to scatter broadly around her feet. She sighed, and took on the air of one bothered by the tedium of the spill. She squatted on the ground, picking up the various lost items as well as the small cloth, harrumphing as she went.

She stood, casually brushed herself off, and continued walking toward the market’s main gate. Outside, she stopped in a deep shadow and rummaged around in her basket, a motion that looked for all the world as if she was organizing and balancing its contents. It was all she could do to not pull the dirty white cloth up to eye level and devour the words written there. She prayed that Verdu had sent her a plan, a list of instructions for how to free him. If not that, she hoped for a message that assured her he was whole and staying strong, a confirmation that the Pramuc and the others, too, were, to the best of his knowledge, alive and well.

Her training was overcome by her curiosity and need. She squatted down and balanced the basket on her knees, spreading the cloth flat but out of sight from any passersby, well below the lip of the basket. Glancing around, she saw no one was paying any mind to her and her wee basket. She started to read:

What the hells
. . . , she thought to herself, and the roar of Pranav Erato’s thoughts cut through her own like giddy lightning.

BRILLIANT!
He shouted in Ahy-Me’s head so loudly that she flinched and sent the contents of the basket flipping into her lap
. Grab that rag and get back here. NOW!

Seconds later, the only sign of Ahy-Me’s passing in the market was a small overturned basket hidden in the shadows and a trail of dusty footprints sprinting away from the gate.

chapter 8

Binding

Silently calculating the estimated yield per acre with and without soil amendments for beans and comparing them to melons, factoring in the differences in proteins and other vital nutrients, Candice’s temper was held in check as she walked into the lobby of the Musser Point Inn. On the one hand, she could not blame Chenda for taking her time leaving her honeymoon. Never having had one herself, she fancied that it was, as a once-in-a-lifetime event, something that one would not likely rush to end. However, as a practical matter, Chenda and Fenimore, no matter how adorable and beloved a couple, were keeping Candice’s shipment of seeds from getting to the Tugrulian resistance. As every freshman geology student at Kite’s Republic University quickly discovered, one never was tardy for Professor Mortimer. The scars from the tongue-lashing were lifelong, and, perhaps, just once, fatal.