There Will Be Phlogiston (23 page)

“I may have inadvertently startled our guest.” That
was the queer nibs, very softwise, looking every which where but
back at me. Mebbe . . . he’d . . . she’d . . . oh, I dunno . . .
there weren’t no proper word for anyone so betwixt . . . Mebbe
they’d
thought I’d see their glims and freak out again.
Mebbe they’d be right. Cos I was still staring right at them and
couldn’t stop. What with one thing and another and getting fucking
shot, I wasn’t exactly on my best form.

“I’m right bene.” ’Twas a lie.

“Byron Kae,” they said, which also wasn’t no answer
to nowt.

“What’s one of them when it’s at home?”

“Well, it’s my name for a start. Excuse me.” And
they lowered themselves into a proper rum bow, all florid and
flourishful, which was probably meant to be mocking. Except it
wasn’t. ’Twas the sorta thing you do when you’re embarrassed and
trying to hide it, but you ain’t no good at hiding, nor much good
at mocking neither.

That was when I first began to see their strangeness
weren’t nowt at all. ’Twas other stuff what mattered about a
person, and Byron Kae was pure as glass. I began to feel real bad
for having made them feel they wasn’t right, but before I could say
sommat, they’d gone, moving silent-like as ripples over the
sea.

“Our captain. You’ll learn to understand them.”
’Twas the Ruben cove, calling me back from wherever I’d gone. He
was looking all kinds of awkward standing there, hands tucked into
the pockets of one of them long brownish duster things. But even
so, I was glad to see him again. Memory had not told me clankers,
and ’twas even more fun ogling now I wasn’t woozy with pain. “How
are you feeling?” he asked.

I struggled up onto an elbow, which hurt a fair bit,
but ’twasn’t nowt I couldn’t handle. “Reckon I’ve bin better. Where
am I?”

“On
Shadowless
.”

“The what?”

He smiled. “The aethership.”

Oh. Oh. Oh. The ship of ships with her wild and
dreaming eyes. That must’ve been why I couldn’t hear no engines nor
feel no juddering. What a wonder, to be aboard. But I played it
cool. “Yeah, I saw her from the docks.” The pieces was coming
together again. “Afore your fuckwit friend shot me.”

“Yes, I’m so sorry about that. I mean, not that I
can, or should, apologise on behalf of another man, but I’m sorry
it happened.”

He took off his hat, all gentlemanly-like, and stood
there squeezing at the brim for a bit before lowering himself into
a chair.

While he was doing that, I glanced about, focusing
for the first time on where I was. ’Twas a cabin shaped to the
curve of the stern, all done out in honey-coloured wood with
fittings of shiny brass and hangings of plum damask. I never
imagined so much of the swell life could fit into such a dinky
space. ’Twas sorta careful and beautiful at the same time, like
somebody really loved their kip. And the whole back wall was a
window, set with leaded glass in so many colours that the light
came falling through like jewels.

I was snuggled up in a bed tucked into an alcove, so
as your average landlubber wouldn’t go rolling out when the ship
was moving. There was a couple of chairs, with a sort of fancy look
to them and a desk and table all covered in papers and instruments.
’Twas proper piratical and plush as you like.

And cos Ruben was still sitting there looking
sheepish over hanging out with a murderous psycho fuck, I piped up
cheerfulwise: “It could’ve been worse, and this ain’t no bilge.
Truth is, I ain’t e’er seen a ship to match her.”

Ruben smiled and the expression looked good on him.
“She’s an aethership.”

“I thought they was jus’ a bag o’ moonshine.”

He looked a bit quizzical, like he was laughing at
himself a bit but also sorta sincere in secret. “There are more
things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your
philosophy.”

A happy shiver ran over my skin. Truth is, I’m nuts
on a learned fella. Always have been, though it’s not like I’d
previouswise had much opportunity to indulge the inclination. I got
plenty of the everyday sorta knowing, but the ol’ book learning,
well, that’s sommat else, ain’t it?

I been getting through life taking whatever I needed
and whatever I wanted, but words, they ain’t for filching. I know
cos I’ve tried. Somebody has to give them to you, and nobody ever
thought to do it for me. And the not having just made me want ’em
even more.

But I didn’t want to take on, so just lifted up my
brows and went “Oooh la la la,” and Ruben burst out laughing,
though ’twas so deep and warm, I knew like instinctively he weren’t
laughing at me.

“What’s that s’posed to mean then?” I asked when he
was done. “You calling me some kinda bottlehead? ’Sides . . .”

I just can’t help myself. I just can’t.

’Twas the book learning what topped it. I might’ve
stood a chance otherwise. Or mebbe not. I reckon mebbe there’s some
part of Piccadilly designed specifically for the purpose of wanting
Ruben Crowe, and there ain’t nowt I can do about it.

I flashed a little smile at him. I got a fine pair
of dimples, and I know how to use them. “’Sides . . . ain’t it a
bit forward to go round speculating ’bout a cove’s philosophy
before you’ve e’en bin prop’ly introduced?”

Ruben went a little pinkish—which was so fucking
adorable I just wanted to jump all over him and snog him senseless,
banged-up fin be damned. “It would certainly be forward to go
calling you a bottlehead.” Being amused made his voice roll over me
like velvet and kisses. “I think it’s a generalised you, not a
specific one.”

Wow, people saying shit I didn’t understand had
never been more likerous. I guess it augured well for my recovery
cos I felt some interested stirrings in a variety of interesting
regions. “You mean you’re calling everyone a bottlehead?”

He was laughing again, and I was in some kinda
heaven. Mebbe I should get shot more often, eh?

He leaned forward, all deep eyed and intent. “I just
meant there is more to the world than rationality teaches us.”

“You don’t mean the Big Fella? You some sorta black
coat?”

“I used to be.”

I gave him one of my best and wickedest looks. “Did
they toss you out for tempting folks to sinful thinking?”

I thought ’twas a good line, but he was turning
serious all over again, the darkness and the light dancing together
like lovers in his eyes. “No,” he said carefulwise, “it was a
matter of . . . morality I suppose.”

I weren’t that interested in mortality. “So . . .
speakin o’ sin . . .” I snaked the hand that wasn’t bust out of the
covers and let my fingers play against his knee.

“I don’t believe in sin.”

“That’s what ye might call a splendid
convenience.”

“I believe in right and wrong.” He put his hand over
mine to stop its little journey. ’Twas more than disappointing, but
I could feel the deep lines furrowing his palms pressed against my
skin like mebbe he was leaving a message behind: the patterns and
promises of Ruben Crowe, his life and times. “And taking advantage
of strangers is most certainly wrong.”

I pouted. “What if they want to be took advantage
of?”

“Then they probably need reminding that they’ve been
very sick and would most likely faint in the middle, which would
be—” his lips twitched “—nonideal.”

Course, he was right, though I didn’t fancy thanking
him for it. Truth was, even moving my good paw had made me come
over dizzy, and I was grateful when he picked it up and tucked it
back under in the warmth. My eyes was getting all heavy again,
though I’d probably only been awake like twenty minutes. ’Twas
rubbish.

“You need to rest, Piccadilly.”

I heaved a massive yawn. “’S Dil,” I mumbled.

I never did figure how he knew it to begin with.
Mebbe Milord had told him—I’d overheard ’em fighting about me few
times. Ruben being all, “You don’t just shoot people for no
reason,” and Milord saying, “I had a reason,” and Ruben coming back
with, “Being out of range of your knife is not a reason,” and
Milord, a while later, “Do you wish me to apologise?” And then
Ruben losing it and shouting, “I want you to care.” And then
forever of silence before Milord was saying, soft and strange: “I
am not a man fashioned for caring.” And, finalwise, footsteps
leaving.

’Twas a business worth pondering when I didn’t have
sommat better to do.

Even though I was sleepy, I managed to twinkle up at
Ruben. “And ye haven’t said no yet, Preacher.”

I felt the lightest of touches against my hair. “So
I haven’t.”

I was starting to reckon I hadn’t done so bad out of
being shot. I wouldn’t’ve recommended it as a lifestyle choice, but
I’d bed and board, a roof over my noddle, and—putting aside a crazy
wench, a psycho what wanted to kill me, and the queerest of queer
nibs—the promise of the sorta company I’d’ve been mighty glad to,
y’know, keep.

Except it don’t pay to get too comfortable.

I knew that. ’Tis one of ’em lessons sommat about
being human makes you learn a bunch of times. But I thought I’d
already learned it good.

So it shouldn’t have been any shock at all for
sommat to wake me in the middle of the night, and for the sommat to
be Milord, sitting there all speckled in starlight from the window,
twirling one of his chivs betwixt his fingers.

Except here’s the thing.

It’s always a fucking shock when some bugger wants
to knife you.

A couple of physical reactions to this made their
bid for freedom—scream from one end, sommat considerably less
dignified from the other—but I managed to stop ’em. Cos while
yelling might’ve brung some help, I’d probably be too
sticked-in-the-face to properly appreciate it. And what with being
kitten weak and woozy, and fucked in the arm region, I wasn’t in no
good position to be putting up a fight.

Which just left trying to reason with him.

Ha-bloody-ha.

I lay still, and quiet as quiet could be, trying to
breathe to the same rhythm as when I’d been blissfully clueless in
the land of Nod. Mebbe he was just . . . I dunno . . . passing the
time of day . . . night . . . and he’d pack up his scary fucking
cutter and wander off again.

’Twas awful, locked in the dark, shamming sleep.
Waiting every second for the cold benediction of steel.

I seen a fella get his throat slit once. Took him a
second or two to notice. Took him a minute or two to die. But then
the cove what done it weren’t no expert like Milord.

Chant was, he had this double cut, could crash
someone in five seconds flat. If he was feeling merciful. ’Twas
also said he could keep you alive for days if he fancied it. For
weeks. Months. Knowing nowt but pain.

He was moving, quiet as only cats and rogues know
how.

I cricked open a glim, just the tiniest fraction. He
was nowt but a piece of dark, framed in silver. I heard the softest
click
as he put the chiv on the table.

Which mebbe should’ve been reassuring, but then he
bent down and picked up a pillow what I’d probably tossed to the
floor at some point during the night.

There was this sweet little moment when all I could
think was,
Ye’ve got to be fucking bamming me
, but it passed
away too quickwise, and then I was scared again, all prickles and
nerves and sweat under his indifferent glims.

Dunno how long he stood there, watching, blatantly
thinking about killing me. But it felt like for-fucking-ever.

Then he huffed out this sigh and tucked the pillow
under my head, muttering, “Oh, go to sleep, Piccadilly.”

And he picked up his knife again, slid it into its
holster with a swish, and glided away.

I never did figure out why he didn’t do it. ’Twasn’t
the kinda question you asked. Even though it weren’t like no bugger
else’s, Milord had his code, but it weren’t the type of code that’d
draw the lines at killing some poor bastard in his kip while he was
wounded. Probably he’d consider it . . . an efficient use of his
time or sommat. Truthfully, I reckon now what held him back was
Ruben, but I didn’t know that then.

The one what ye might call advantage of this little
nocturnal adventure was it impressed upon me the necessity of
getting better as a matter of some serious fucking urgency. I kept
expecting Milord to come prowling in, having come up with some
exciting new way to snuff me, but mainwise I just saw Ruben and the
moon-touched mort I’d half-hoped was nowt but a fever dream.

Her bedside manner weren’t exactly what you might
call reassuring, and most of the time she was off her fucking head,
but I reckon they kept sending her along, what with women being the
nurturing sex and all that. Though I don’t reckon she had a
nurturing bone in her body.

She told me in one of her lucid whatevers that her
name was Miss Grey, and she gave such a glare when I asked if
Miss
was what they’d said when they’d plopped her in the
fount that I left it at that. I thought it mighty strange that
she’d give a damn about being over familiar when she kept offering
me opiates like she was my personal hedge quack.

Truth is, I done a bit of this and that in my time,
when things ain’t been so great and a shadow of happiness seemed
more important than food or warmth, but there comes a point when
you choose to embrace illusion or chuck it, and I opted to chuck
it. I seen what too much smoke can do to a cove—sorta hollows you
out on empty dreams.

When Miss Grey weren’t getting ratted and lying
cross my bed in a droop-glimmed pile of muslin, babbling about
blasphemous horrors and squamous monstrosities and generally
freaking me the fuck out, she’d sit for bleeding hours at the desk
faffing on with all the fancy brass instruments and squiggling away
on bits of paper, though half the time she weren’t even looking at
what she was drawing.