The Aeronaut's Windlass (51 page)

“We could ask the Verminocitors’ Guild, I suppose.”

“An excellent thought,” said Master Ferus, as he came back along the deck toward them. “If there’s anything odd afoot, or an enemy force in the habble, they’ll be in the ventilation tunnels and crawl spaces. The verminocitors will be the next-most-likely group to have spotted something.”

“After who, sir?” Grimm asked.

“The cats, of course,” Ferus said. “Your ship is quite insouciant.”

Grimm found himself frowning. “Is she?”

“Terribly,” Master Ferus said gravely, “but I believe she understands the importance of cooperation.”

“Ah,” Grimm said.

“Well, I must see what I can do to ensure that brave young Lancaster’s sacrifice was not a vain one,” Master Ferus said. “Master Sorellin, perhaps you and I could make inquisitions of the verminocitors.”

“But, sir,” Sorellin said, “Bridget and Folly are still out there.”

“Folly is quite capable of taking steps to protect them both, if need be,” Master Ferus said, “and time is of the essence. But I suppose if you prefer to search for them . . .”

“I’m not supposed to leave your side, sir,” Sorellin noted.

Master Ferus flipped his hand in an impatient gesture. “Did the Spirearch place me in command of this mission, or did he not?”

“You may have heard about my issues with authority,” Grimm said. “Master Ferus, I believe it may have become too risky for you to roam about Habble Landing without taking extraordinary precautions. And certainly I believe Master Sorellin is correct in not wishing to leave your side.”

“Ah?” Ferus asked. “And why is that?”

“I met someone outside the Black Horse while we were getting the doors open,” Grimm replied. “A woman who struck me as extremely odd and somewhat dangerous. She did not look like the normal sort out and about at that time of the night; nor did she behave in a manner consistent with a genuine passerby. She was accompanied by a warriorborn man. They seemed to be entirely too interested in seeing the results of the situation inside the Black Horse, with entirely too little interest in speculating upon what had happened. I suspect that they may be Auroran agents, or employed by them.”

Ferus narrowed his eyes. “Odd, you say? Why so?”

“If she is indeed connected to the Aurorans, an agent here in Albion, she would have to have ice water in her veins and be somewhat addled to be standing in plain sight at the scene of an attack,” Grimm replied. He added rather delicately, “The woman seemed at least as odd as yourself, sir, meaning no offense by it.”

“Oh, none taken,” Ferus said. He considered the crystal at the end of his cane gravely. “Inevitable that at least one Auroran operative would have talent. I had hoped it would be otherwise, but . . .” He shook his head. “You are a man of uncommonly acute instinct, Captain Grimm. What else can you tell me about this person?”

Grimm pursed his lips. “She seemed unnaturally concerned with manners, sir. I gathered the impression, in fact, that if I had slipped up, she might have become violent, or asked her companion to do so on her behalf.”

“Of that I have little doubt,” the etherealist replied, his expression distant.

“She said her name was Cavendish.”

Ferus grimaced. “So she’s calling herself Cavendish now.”

“Sir?” Grimm asked. “Do you know the woman?”

“Most thoroughly, I suspect,” Ferus replied.

“Then you must surely see the wisdom in keeping you here in order to protect you,” Grimm said. “If she was involved in an attempt on your life once, why not do so again? More directly this time. Should a warriorborn assassin surprise you inside the habble, even Master Sorellin could be hard-pressed to defend you.”

“I see your point, Captain,” Ferus replied.

“That said,” Grimm continued, “I find it interesting that only hours before an Auroran attack upon Spire Albion, I should be assaulted in the ventilation tunnels by creatures unknown—creatures that left poison in my blood, much as silkweavers would. You helped me then. Assuming you are capable, perhaps you could help Miss Lancaster the way you assisted me.”

Ferus frowned, and his eyes began darting here and there. “Yes . . . yes, we really ought to do whatever we can for Miss Lancaster. So be it. You and Sorellin will go.”

“Um, sir,” Sorellin said. “Still not supposed to leave your side.”

“Ah, but I will be here, and quite safe surrounded by the grim captain’s ship and crew,” Ferus said, smiling. He tilted his head to one side and eyed Grimm. “Correct me if I am wrong, but I seem to remember saving your life, Captain. Did I not?”

Grimm sighed. “You did, sir.”

“And does that not oblige you to me in some way?”

“It does.”

“You must trust me in this. I know precisely what I am doing.” The old man turned and began to walk with a determined stride toward Doctor Bagen’s infirmary. Then he paused, looked back at Sorellin, and said, “I say, dear boy, could you get the doorknob for me? I never could learn the trick of the blasted things.”

Sorellin gave the etherealist a perfectly bland look. Then he smiled amiably, if wearily, and strode off after him, returning a moment later.

“Shall we speak to the verminocitors?” Grimm asked him.

“What, now? In the middle of the night?”

“A silkweaver matriarch has killed some of their neighbors tonight,” Grimm replied. “Word will have spread by now. I doubt any of them will sleep for some time.”

Sorellin grunted and nodded, and the pair of them started down the gangplank. Halfway down, Grimm looked up to see Stern returning to
Predator
. The wiry young man was dressed in disgraceful-looking tattered rags, and covered in grease, oil, and soot. When he saw Grimm coming down the ramp, he stepped aside to let his captain pass.

“Mister Stern,” Grimm said. “What is that covering you from head to toe? For a moment I took you for my shadow.”

“Soot and engine grease, Skip,” Stern said, grinning.

“I take it you amused yourself thoroughly this evening.”

“Indeed I did, sir. All went well.”

“I am relieved to hear it—but I can’t have one of my aeronauts wandering about looking like a tunnel rat. Clean yourself up.”

Stern grinned, and his teeth were a very white contrast to the soot. “I’ll do that, sir, right away.”

“Good man,” Grimm said, and began striding toward the archway leading into Habble Landing.

Sorellin looked back over his shoulder as the small sailor scampered up the gangplank. “What was that about, Captain?”

“Accounts payable,” Grimm replied. “Do you know where the guild has its headquarters?”

“If they haven’t moved them,” Sorellin said.

“Then lead on, sir.”

The warriorborn took the lead, and as he did, Grimm took note of the young man’s appearance. “You seem to be somewhat the worse for wear, sir. Did you take part in the fighting?”

“Some,” Sorellin said. “Though it was Gwen who made the difference.”

Grimm nodded. “What is her condition?”

“The bite wound was not severe, but it was poisoned. She has what might be a broken wrist,” Sorellin replied, his tone wooden, but steady. “She also took a severe blow to the back of her head, and has been insensible ever since. Her head is swollen. The physician wasn’t sure if her skull had been cracked or not.” He showed his teeth in an unpleasant smile. “To think of all the times I ribbed her about having a hard head and a stiff neck. Now she’s barely breathing.”

“Hold fast, Master Sorellin,” Grimm said. “I’ve seen men who recovered from severe concussions in a day or two. Mister Bagen knows his trade—and Master Ferus knows some things most of us don’t, I daresay. There is ample reason to hope.”

The warriorborn frowned. “I’m not sure how comforting that is, sir. Master Ferus is . . . I do not wish to sound disrespectful, but the man is . . .”

“One grip shy of a steering column?” Grimm suggested. “Ten degrees short of a compass? Aviating without goggles?”

Sorellin’s expression flickered through surprise and amusement before he schooled it to neutrality again. “A bit eccentric, sir.”

“Hardly,” Grimm said. “He’s mad.”

Benedict frowned for a moment. “Truly?”

“Every etherealist I’ve ever met has been,” Grimm said, as they passed into the Spire proper. “Something about the energies they work with. It affects each of them uniquely, as far as I’ve been able to see.”

“Is that why he’s so odd about doorknobs?”

“I assume so,” Grimm said. He nodded toward the two piled wagons. “I’ve seen him demand a number of strange items from his apprentice for no sensible reason I could detect, and add them to that collection of his—the one he insists on taking everywhere with him. And you’ll note that his apprentice seems unable to directly address anyone else, apart from Master Ferus.”

“She’s mad too?”

“She seems a pleasant enough child,” Grimm said. “But yes, presumably.”

Sorellin considered that for several steps. “Sir . . . is it quite
safe
to be around such folk?”

“If they were safe, I suspect the Spirearch would not have sent them into the Enemy’s teeth the way he has,” Grimm replied. “None of us on this mission are particularly
safe
to be around, Master Sorellin, yourself included. Of course they aren’t safe. The real question is whether or not they can be trusted.”

“And . . . do you trust them, sir?”

Grimm considered the question for half a block before he said, “The Spirearch has extended his trust. I am willing to do so as well.”

“Even though they’re mad.”

“There is madness and
madness
, Master Sorellin,” Grimm said. “Ferus and Folly are quite odd, and I take considerable comfort in that fact.”

“Sir?”

“In my experience, the worst madmen don’t seem odd at all,” Grimm said. “They appear to be quite calm and rational, in fact. Until the screaming starts.” He glanced up to find Sorellin staring at him, frowning. “Let me put it this way, sir. If ever you meet an etherealist who does
not
seem odd, you will have ample reason for caution. An etherealist who speaks to things that are not there and cannot track the day of the week is par for the course. One who is perfectly well dressed, calmly spoken, and inviting you to tea?
That
is someone to be feared.”

Chapter 41

Spire Albion, Habble Landing, Ventilation Tunnels

D
o permit me to pour you tea, Sergeant Ciriaco,” Cavendish purred.

Major Espira adjusted his cup on its saucer, controlled himself from raising his voice in alarm, and said, “Madame, I pray you will forgive the sergeant, but he has duties to which he must attend.”

“Ah,” Cavendish said. “Duty must be the soldier’s primary concern, of course.”

Cavendish had returned to the Auroran staging area with her pet monster wheeling a little cart behind him. The cart had produced a small folding table, chairs, a tablecloth, and tea service, complete with a bubbling hot pot of water ready for steeping. Sark now loomed over one side of the table where Espira sat across from Madame Cavendish, while Sergeant Ciriaco stood behind and slightly to one side of his chair, watchfully facing Sark.

Espira ignored the spatters of blood on the floor and walls of the tunnel in which the little table sat. This was where Cavendish had tortured the luckless verminocitor. Ciriaco, with his enhanced senses, would not be able to ignore it. The smell of blood and terror was doubtless responsible for a great deal of the sergeant’s tension.

“Go ahead, Sergeant, and see to the men,” Espira said. Ciriaco was a good man, but in his present frame of mind, the warriorborn was too bluntly spoken to survive tea with Cavendish.

“Major . . .” Ciriaco said, hesitant. Espira looked back to see the man shift his weight, eyes warily locked on Sark.

Sark, for his part, didn’t seem to be looking at anyone. The grizzled warriorborn simply stood, relaxed, as if the presence of a wary, armed, and dangerous warriorborn Marine were of no greater consequence to him than the color of the cloth he’d spread over the little table a moment before.

And as long as Cavendish was there, it wasn’t.

Espira suppressed a shudder.