Tin Swift (21 page)

The
Swift
leveled out. If any other airship was flying right now, they’d be above the clouds. Flight with no visibility among the craggy and treacherous peaks of the mountain range was plain suicide.

And Hink was on the shiny side of positive that none of the rock rats who skiffed these mountains would be fool enough to risk their life flying blind.

Still, Mr. Seldom walked the interior of the ship, breathing tube clattering against the overhead beams as he gripped the bars and took a long, hard look out each window.

He pulled down his breathing mask. “Clear sky,” he announced.

“Good,” Hink said, glancing at the compass set in the console before him. “We’re going down through again in short order. I’m going to hot-flume it over to Turnback Junction, then duck under the clouds at a crawl.”

“You want lanterns?” Ansell asked.

“No. I’ll bring her in blind.”

“Crazy,” Guffin muttered, placing his mask securely over his nose and mouth.

“What’s that, Mr. Guffin?” Hink asked.

Guffin pulled the mask down. “I said you’re crazy.” He placed his mask back over his mouth, then pulled it down and added, “Captain.”

“And yet you signed on with my crew,” Hink said. “Not sure that speaks against your reasoning or mine, Mr. Guffin. Let’s take her down easy. Keep your eyes peeled for shadows.”

Hink knew his crew hated flying blind, but Hink had always been good at it. He knew this range and could fly it on compass alone.

But he was surprised to discover that even though his eyes showed him flat gray clouds with more gray wisping through it, he knew the shift of wind, and could feel the space around the ship. If there was another steamer nearby, he’d feel it like a hot exhale on the back of his neck.

More witchery. Or maybe the same. Right now, he wasn’t going to argue its usefulness.

Guffin had taken to swearing again. Alphabetical, in French. Ansell was humming a slow song.

Mr. Seldom walked up behind Hink and glanced at the compass, then swung back to take a heading on the maps. They were low enough that they were surrounded by clouds. But not quite low enough to be battered against the peaks.

Old Jack’s wasn’t too far off. All they had to do was pray for a south wind to guide them true.

“Do we need to remain buckled, Captain Hink?” Cedar Hunt asked after a while of drifting level.

“We’re on an even keel,” Hink said, “but I’d rather you hold tight. Hard winds make threading these cliffs a tricky proposition. Might find ourselves knocked askew with no notice.”

Mr. Hunt seemed to take that suggestion with more than a lick of
salt. He unlatched and started rummaging through some of the shifted contents near him and the womenfolk.

“Something one of my men can provide you with, Mr. Hunt?” Captain Hink asked, perturbed that he hadn’t listened to his advice.

“Just making Miss Small more comfortable.”

And that’s when Hink realized the soft sound on the edge of his hearing wasn’t the wolf whining. It was Miss Small moaning.

“We’ll be on solid ground soon,” Hink said. “Just a little farther now.”

He didn’t know why his heart had suddenly sped up, nor why he felt anxious for the wind and glim to hurry and bring them quickly and safely to Old Jack’s.

Could be just the thought of Miss Small in pain bothered him. Could be Molly was right about his feelings.

Could be he couldn’t afford to worry about that right now. Not flying this kind of terrain.

He poured his concentration into flying. Watching for the rise and fall of cliff and valley, skirting the edge of plains and urging the ship to hold on and hold strong until he got them down safe and whole.

He was so wrapped in the shift of the
Swift
’s bones, the drag of rain on her skin, the press and burn of glim and coal, that he didn’t even notice Mr. Seldom standing beside him until he put his hand on the wheel.

“Ladyfinger Falls.” Seldom pointed.

The glitter of white among the shadow of the cliff was the clear marker that Turnback Junction was just below. Hink nodded. He’d been flying by instinct, flying by feel, more of his thoughts upon the ship around him than on the destination he was headed for.

He could have missed that marker. Could have traveled the wind until there wasn’t glim to keep her afloat or land her soft. It was a startling realization.

Lost in a mountain range with winter coming on and almost no supplies was no way to end a flight.

“Mr. Seldom,” Hink said, his voice sounding odd, as if he’d forgotten to use it for days instead of just the handful of hours they’d been in the air. “How far out would you think we are from Old Jack’s?”

Guffin stopped swearing: Chinese, now, and Ansell stopped singing. Both men looked over at him like he’d just turned into a toad.

He was the captain. He’d never once asked Seldom where he was in the air in all the years they’d run together.

The Irishman didn’t hesitate. “Twenty miles due northeast. Don’t think the rain’s going to let up.”

Hink nodded. That’s what he’d thought too, but he needed to hear another man’s judgment. “Then see to it the torches are ready. And see to our passengers’ comfort in any way you can.”

Seldom paused a moment.

“Yes?” Hink asked.

“Two bells rang about five miles back.”

Two bells meant they were nearly out of fuel. He’d need to coast the
Swift
and make the wind and steam last as long as he could.

“Thank you, Mr. Seldom.”

“You losing your mind, Captain?” Guffin called out. “’Cause I’ll fly this tub if you ain’t right-headed.”

“I’m plenty right in the head to know I’d never turn the wheel over to you, Mr. Guffin,” Hink said. “We’re cutting speed. Earn your keep and mind the gears.”

Hink chewed on the inside of his cheek to try to keep more of his thoughts out of the ship, and into the flying of her. Every time he felt his mind slipping, wandering off like it was dreaming itself into the wind, he’d shift his grip on the wheel, wipe his face, or bite at his lip.

Twenty miles seemed to crawl by below. It was heading into evening now, and raining hard. There hadn’t been enough sunlight in the whole day to stretch a thimble’s shadow.

“We’re close enough,” Hink finally said. “Seldom, Lum, light the
torches and set them strong. There’s a hell of a lot of rain. We don’t want to be missed.”

Seldom and Ansell each grabbed up three torches from the overhead rack near the doors and lit them. Greasy fire that stank of creosote lit up the interior of the ship, flickering glint and glow across the walls.

Then each man opened a door on the side of the ship, latched harness lines to the hand bar and stepped out on the running board to set the torches tight in the exterior clamps.

Three torches on each side was a sign to Old Jack that the ship coming in was friendly, broken, and willing to pay for repairs and shelter.

Seldom and Ansell ducked back into the ship, dripping with rain. They shut the doors tight. All of the crew looked out the windows. They needed to see a torch go up to say they could land. If there wasn’t a torch somewhere in the hidden tumble of stone and flats of the maze Old Jack called home, they’d have to move on.

Old Jack only had two ways to greet a ship. A torch to wave it in to land, or a cannon to drop it from the sky.

“There!” Ansell pointed. “Torch at eleven o’clock, Captain.”

“Good eyes, Mr. Ansell.”

A second, third, and forth torch lit up, creating a square. That was where they’d need to land and lash.

“Reverse engines, men,” Hink said. “Bring our lady down soft and easy.”

There wasn’t much steam left in the boiler. They’d been drafting glim vapors for the last five miles at least. Which meant there was no easy way to put the ship down. But Hink intended to get her rested with the least amount of injury to her, and to those on board.

The wind let off a bit, but the rain was aiming to make it a dangerous proposition. None of Old Jack’s landing fields were generous in size. Though the
Swift
was a small vessel, Hink didn’t envy a captain of a larger vessel trying to touch down in this port.

With more pitch and yaw than he’d like, Hink tucked the
Swift
down, her patched landing gear rolling, then catching at the rocky soil.

“Lash her tight, men. We don’t want to dive the cliff by morning.”

Guffin, Ansell, and Seldom were already out the door before the ship had more than a heartbeat on the ground. Usually Hink would be right behind them, making sure his ship was secure.

But instead he stood there, transfixed, his hand on the wheel.

The sensation of the ship around him was still there, but not as strong as when he was in the air. He felt Molly dousing the flumes, and the cooling of the boiler and pipes like a slowing heartbeat, as if he were breathing from a hard run and sleep was waiting just around the corner for him.

“Captain Hink,” Cedar Hunt said, from close enough that Hink knew he’d been standing there a while, “I think you’re wanted outside.”

Hink let go of the wheel, one hand at a time, his fingers lingering just a second longer against the smooth wood before he was no longer touching the ship. The feel of her around him, the sensation that he and the ship were tied together closer than skin to bone, slipped away with the contact.

He turned. For a moment, he was just a man again. Hot in his damp clothes, weary on his feet, and much more tired than he usually was after a flight.

Whatever the witch had done to make him aware of the ship, it took something out of a man to endure it.

Mrs. Lindson stood near Miss Small, who sat, her eyes closed, at the rear of the ship. The wolf was untied and pacing in front of them.

He didn’t see Molly.

The rain spit like gravel against the ship, and over that, he heard his name.

“Captain Hink, you’ll come out of your ship with your hands up, or I’ll blow that bucket out from under your feet.”

Hink would know that rusted voice anywhere. It was Old Jack.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Cedar asked.

“No need,” Hink said, unbuttoning his coat and pulling a small bag that might hold tobacco or coins out of his pocket.

“I just need to make between Old Jack and I, an understanding.” He drew his revolver, then strode out the door.

G
eneral Alabaster Saint paced in front of the tent. Mr. Shunt had insisted that they erect a space for him apart from the barracks, the mess hall, the hangar, and General Saint’s quarters.

They had done so, and just after dawn Mr. Shunt had set about his task.

Private Bailey was the first man to enter that tent. He screamed for an hour. At the end of that hour, he had been carried out, weak and exhausted. And with a new hand attached where before there had been nothing but a stump.

A hand that worked as if it were his own. Except for the dull silver stitchwork around the wrist, and the slightest clicking sound when he curled his fingers into a fist, it would pass for a living thing.

“Does it please you?” Mr. Shunt asked from the shadows inside the tent door.

“Will he survive it?”

Mr. Shunt spread his hands. “Some will not. The strong become stronger.”

“Will he survive it?” Alabaster Saint asked again.

“That one?” Shunt narrowed his eyes and lifted his head as if he could see through the walls of the barracks where Bailey rested. As if he
could see all the way through the man to the nightmares beneath his skin. “Yes.” He exhaled.

“I will be pleased when all the others are done.”

General Saint turned on his bootheel and strode off to his office. “Lieutenant Foster, to me,” he barked.

Foster fell into step behind the general.

A third of the Saint’s militia had been crippled from the war. Men who held a grudge against the war made for excellent fighters against the standing rulers.

The general waited until Lieutenant Foster had shut the door before turning.

“I do not trust that man,” the Saint said, pacing. “You will see that there is a gun on him at all times.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Report to me when he has finished his task.”

“Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Foster turned toward the door, then hesitated. “Sir? I suggest you put Sergeant Pearson on duty.”

“Why is that, Lieutenant?”

“To allow me to be repaired next.”

Saint frowned. “Plainly, Foster.”

“I’ll let him have at my foot. By the time he’s through the men, I’ll be out of my cot to hold a gun to his head while he repairs your eye.”

“Did I say I was going to let him repair my eye, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

Foster did not move, did not shift his steady gaze. He knew Alabaster as well as any man who walked this earth. He knew just how much the Saint would sacrifice for the chance to have his vision back full again.

“Fine. Tell Pearson to stand your place,” Alabaster said. “You’ve just earned yourself a ticket to the front of the line, Foster.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Foster opened the door. The hoarse yell of the soldier under Mr. Shunt’s mercies carried on the thin morning air.

Foster tipped his head up and smiled slightly before shutting the door behind him.

General Saint finally settled behind his desk and scanned the map spread out across it. Twenty spies, and still no message. If Mr. Shunt could find Marshal Cage, then they would have no problem capturing him, nor any hesitation in destroying him. All they needed was a scent to go on.

The low rumble of an airship coming up from the south slipped past the edge of his hearing. He waited until the fans came closer, the echo off the mountains rolling so that it sounded like four ships were arriving instead of just one.

A knock on his door rapped out.

“Enter.”

A young soldier walked into the room. “Airship coming in, sir.”

“I can hear that, Private. Who is it?”

“It’s the
Powderback
, sir.”

That was one of Les Mullins’s ships. He’d sent Mr. Mullins out to gather information on Marshal Cage.