The Aeronaut's Windlass

  It seemed a shame to waste so much of one’s time—and to miss so much sleep—in such a fundamentally stupid activity. If they’d only asked Rowl about it, he could have explained it to them.

  Benedict began to show Littlemouse how to make him fall to the floor. What was the point of learning to do such a thing slowly, and obviously with considerable cooperation from Benedict? Did Littlemouse think that a foe would behave in such a way?

  Rowl sensed a pressure change in the air against the fur of his flank and his whiskers, and lazily tilted an ear in that direction. There was a whisper of motion, utterly inaudible to anyone but a cat, with all the commotion the humans were making to cover it, and Mirl emerged from the shadows.

  “Rowl,” said the black-furred female. Mirl was a small cat, but swift and intelligent. She was one of Maul’s Whiskers, his spies and hunters. Only a tiny ring of green was visible around her large, dark pupils, and the only way to see her in the gloom was by the dim shine of her eyes.

  “Mirl,” Rowl replied lazily.

  Mirl prowled to his side and sat, studying the humans. “What are they doing?”

  “They mean to teach Littlemouse to fight,” Rowl said.

  Mirl considered them gravely. “I see. Have they begun yet?”

  “They seem to think so,” Rowl said. “What news from my father?”

  “He sends his greetings and says that you are to do your duty or he will notch your ears.”

  Rowl flicked his tail and yawned. “I know what I am to do. Is that all?”

  Mirl twitched her ears in an amused flick, but her tone became more serious. “He says that Longthinker has confirmed the reports of the Silent Paw scouts.”

  Rowl moved his eyes to the smaller cat. “The new things in the air shafts?”

  Mirl blinked her eyes in affirmation. “So say the Shadow Tails, and the Quick Claws, and half a dozen other tribes beside them. Cats have gone missing in other habbles as well—but none have seen what took them.”

  Rowl made an irritated sound in his chest. “That seems cowardly.”

  “To me,” Mirl said, “it seems skillful.”

  “That as well. Are we then at war?”

  “Not yet,” Mirl said. “Maul says that first we must know whom we would war against.”

  “What does Longthinker say we face?”

  “Longthinker . . . is not sure.”

  Rowl looked at Mirl sharply. But he said nothing. His tail lashed back and forth restlessly. Longthinker was not cat, but he was clever, wise, and honorable. If he did not know what threat now stalked the Silent Paws and other tribes in their own home tunnels, it must be something strange indeed—or something new.

  “Please tell my father,” Rowl said, “that I advise a declaration of war immediately—without restriction. We will be better served by immediate aggression than by too much caution. Let us hunt and destroy them before they have a chance to nest.”

  “I will tell him your words,” Mirl said. She twitched a carless whisker. “He will not heed them.”

  Rowl ignored that last remark with the disdain it richly deserved.

  Mirl sat beside him and watched the humans flopping about. “I have seen such a thing before.”

  “This fight-teaching?” Rowl asked, his tone dubious.

  “In the Temple of the Way, in Habble Landing,” Mirl said.

  “What were you doing all the way down there?” Rowl asked.

  “My duty as a Whisker,” Mirl replied loftily. “They did something resembling this, only there were more of them and they wore different kinds of clothing.”

  “Did they look this foolish?”

  Mirl tilted her head thoughtfully. “Many did. But others seemed less foolish.”

  “In what way?”

  “They moved less poorly. Not so well as a cat, of course.”

  “Of course,” Rowl said.

  “But they were much less clumsy than most humans.” She used a paw to comb the fur of one ear. “Perhaps it works.” They both watched Littlemouse take a particularly hard fall. “Eventually.”

  “They are rather slow, humans,” Rowl mused. “Do you really think it has potential?”

  “She hardly need be much less clumsy to make another human look so,” Mirl said. “Whom is she to fight?”

  “A young male. He aimed words of pain at Wordkeeper. In reply, Littlemouse slapped his ears with her words. Now they plan to fight.”

  “They plan to fight?” Mirl said, mystified. “Why does she not go find him in his sleep and fight him then?”

  Rowl yawned. “I have no idea. But he will not find her in her sleep. If he tries, I will rip out his eyes.”

  “Sensible,” Mirl said. “Though a human is no easy prey. Not even for the mighty Rowl.”

  “A proper Whisker should not make so much noise,” Rowl growled.

  Mirl rose and bowed her head in a mirror of the human gesture. “Yes, mighty Rowl.”

  Rowl fetched her a swift rap on the nose (though not with his claws extended), but Mirl avoided it with lazy grace, her eyes dancing with laughter. She sauntered off, flicking her tail mockingly. “You are almost as handsome as you think you are, you know.”

  “You are too quick and too clever for your own good,” Rowl replied calmly. “Keep your wits about you in the tunnels. I would prefer it if you did not go missing.”

  “Don’t make a foolish mistake that gets you killed while protecting your human,” she replied.

  “Will I see you again soon?”

  “Perhaps,” Mirl said. “It depends on my mood.”

  Then she glided back into the dark the way she had come.

  Rowl watched her go, the insufferable female. He stared after her for a moment, his tail lashing thoughtfully. Insubordinate—but quick. And beautiful. And never, ever boring.

  Perhaps he would compose a song for her.

  Once “fighting” practice was over, things that mattered could be done. Rowl took his customary place in Littlemouse’s arms and accompanied her to breakfast in the marketplace.

  The marketplace was a sea of stalls and small buildings set in the center of the habble, surrounding the Spire Lord’s manor. About a quarter of the stalls were made of Spirestone, originally placed there by someone the humans called the Builders. The remainder were made mostly of brick, their doors and vending windows now covered with hide stretched over frames. Some of the more well-to-do shops used wood from the jungle-covered surface, painstakingly transported up miles of Spire.

  Littlemouse carried him toward the stall that smelled the best and was one of the few that were occupied this early in the day. Human Benedict seemed to know the owners of the stall personally, for they greeted him by name each morning. It was probably due to his hunger— the half-soul’s body burned hotter than other humans’, almost exactly as hot as a cat’s, and he had to eat more frequently than other humans. Rowl waited while Benedict ordered for everyone and paid with the small pieces of metal the humans valued so dearly.

  Once that was done, the food was made, and the humans went to a nearby table to eat. Rowl took his seat beside Littlemouse, who placed a roll of bread and meat in front of him. Rowl tore it open with his claws and waited for the little gouts of steam to clear. It did not matter how delicious the food tasted—burning one’s tongue was an undignified experience and he did not intend to repeat it.

  “What do you think of the training, Rowl?” Benedict asked politely, after the human had wolfed down one of the rolls whole.

  Rowl eyed Littlemouse. In his judgment, she did not seem to have made up her mind whether or not to favor these two humans with her loyalty, but she clearly regarded human Benedict as a potential mate. It would be discourteous of him to jeopardize her chances of propagating her species. “It seems painful,” he said to Littlemouse. She translated this into the human tongue, smiling wryly.

  “It can be,” Benedict said. “But in an actual fight, you might be injured and need to function anyway. Little pains now could sa
ve a life later.”

  “Cutting Reggie’s throat in his sleep could do so as well,” Rowl said, and eyed Littlemouse. She rolled her eyes, translating that, and human Gwendolyn promptly began choking on some of her food.

  Rowl calmly took a few bites from the cooler edges of his dumpling.

  “Quite a direct soul, isn’t he?” Gwendolyn managed after a few moments.

  “You have no idea,” Littlemouse said.

  “There is a good reason to limit the conflict to something less . . . decisive,” Benedict said, addressing Rowl directly. “Reggie is a member of a large and powerful family. The man who will be his second is also an Astor, of a cadet branch of the House. If anything permanent happens to Reggie, the second will report it and they might seek vengeance.”

  “I would think they would be glad to rid themselves of a fool,” Rowl replied.

  Human Gwendolyn made a snorting sound and took another bite of her breakfast.

  “To a degree,” Benedict allowed. “But if they tolerate harm to a member of their House, others might see it as a sign of weakness.”

  “Ah,” Rowl said. “That makes at least a little sense.” He considered the situation gravely. “But Littlemouse does not have a large House to take vengeance on her behalf should Reggie do something permanent to her.”

  Benedict seemed uncomfortable when Littlemouse translated that. “There is . . . a certain amount of truth in that. But it is not in the interests of anyone in the Habble for duels to be lethal. Pressure could be brought against House Astor if such actions were taken.”

  “If he kills Littlemouse,” Rowl asked, “would the House of Lancaster then war upon the House of Astor?”

  Benedict and Gwendolyn exchanged a long look. “I . . . don’t think so.”

  “Then this pressure you speak of is a paw without claws,” Rowl said. “It will do nothing to truly prevent his action.”

  Gwendolyn abruptly leaned across the table, looked hard at Rowl, and said firmly, “If any such thing happens to Miss Taggwyn, Master Rowl, I will personally challenge Reggie with gauntlets and blow a hole in him large enough for a cat to leap through. You have my word on that.”

  “Not only have I already lost the duel,” Littlemouse murmured, “but I’ve been killed as well. Why are we wasting breakfast on a dead woman?”

  Rowl looked up at Littlemouse and said, not unkindly, “You were already fool enough to become involved in this. It is time to let wiser heads than yours sort it out. I promise that once I am sure that you are not blindly walking into your own death, I will let you lose the fight on your own.”

  Littlemouse scowled at Rowl.

  “What did he say?” Benedict asked, blinking back and forth between them.

  “That he wants a bath,” Littlemouse said in a decidedly threatening tone.

  “Really, Littlemouse,” Rowl said, nibbling another bite. “You must at some point begin to grow out of these childish outbursts.”

  “Oh,” Littlemouse said, her face flushing. “You can be so infuriating.”

  “You are only angry because you know I am right,” Rowl said, in the tone one ought to use when one knows one is obviously correct and the other is entirely wrong.

  Footsteps approached through the gloom, and Rowl looked over to see the Reggie’s associate approaching the breakfast table. He watched without moving, but settled his feet into a good place to allow him to throw himself at the enemy’s eyes should he attempt anything harmful.

  A few seconds later, Rowl’s humans became aware of the human approaching. He came to a stop at their table and lifted his chin. “Benedict. Gwen. Miss Tagwynn.”

  Rowl narrowed his eyes.

  “Good morning, Barnabus,” human Gwendolyn said in a chill tone. “You’re going to support him, are you?”

  The human Barnabus shrugged, apparently unfazed. “The challenge was formally given and accepted, Gwen. He means to see it through.”

  “That doesn’t mean that you have to be the one who seconds him,” she replied.

  “He’s blood,” Barnabus said simply. “Besides, if I don’t, some hothead will.”

  Benedict shook his head. “He’s got a point, Gwen. I’m sorry you got dragged into this, Barney.”

  Barnabus shrugged. “Miss Tagwynn, may I ask who is serving as your second?”

  “Me,” said humans Benedict and Gwendolyn at the same time.

  And even as they did, Rowl let out his most violent and raucous war cry, and hurtled at human Barnabus’s eyes.

  The human was taken utterly off guard. He flung up his arms and fell backward. Rowl landed with his weight on the human’s chest and rode him all the way to the Spirestone floor. The human fell even more clumsily than Littlemouse did, and hit with a huff of expelled breath, briefly stunned.

  Everyone there, in fact, looked briefly stunned.

  Rowl sat calmly on his chest, leaned over close to human Barnabus’s face, and snarled, “I am Rowl, kit of Maul, lord and master of the Silent Paws—and I am her second.”

  Littlemouse translated this in a startled, jerky voice. Human Barnabus stared at Rowl with wide eyes and then looked back and forth between him and Littlemouse, listening.

  “You can’t be serious,” Barnabus sputtered in response.

  Rowl batted him sharply on the nose with enough claw to draw a few drops of educational blood and let out another growl. “Pay attention, human. Littlemouse will meet the Reggie in unarmed battle in the market, in the light of noon, seven days hence.”

  Barnabus stared some more, eyeing the cat and then Littlemouse’s translation. “Benedict,” he said a moment later. “Reggie picked an idiotic moment to indulge his taste for duels, but this is beyond the pale. A cat as her second? What will people think?”

  Benedict pursed his lips thoughtfully. “If it were me? I’d probably think that Reggie was one of the scum of the Great Houses, throwing his weight around against someone like Miss Tagwynn. But I think you’re missing the point, here, Barney.”

  “And what point would that be?” he demanded.

  “Him,” Benedict said, and pointed at Rowl.

  Rowl lashed his tail, never looking away from human Barnabus’s eyes. He held them for a moment, then rose and calmly prowled back to his breakfast.

  Littlemouse asked, in cat, “This is what Maul wants?”

  “Obviously,” Rowl said. He might have sounded smug—not that he didn’t deserve to feel that way, of course. The human Barnabus had been entirely at his mercy.

  “I’m sure I don’t understand,” Barnabus said, staring at the cat.

  “I’m sure you don’t, either, sir,” Littlemouse said. “But you will. In one week.”

  Chapter Seven

  Spire Albion, Habble Morning, Ventilation Tunnels

  Grimm strode toward the Spirearch’s Manor, his booted steps striking the stone floor with sharp, clear impacts, and reminded himself that murdering the idiot beside him in an abrupt surge of joyous violence would be in extremely bad taste. “Perhaps her time has come,” said Commodore Hamilton Rook. He was a tall, regal-looking man, provided one desired a monarch whose nose was shaped like a sunhawk’s beak. His black hair was untouched by silver, which Grimm was certain was an affectation. His face and hands were weathered and cracked from his time aboard his ship, a battlecruiser called Glorious, a peer of Itasca, if not even remotely her rival. He was refined, well educated, exquisitely polite, and an utter ass.

  His Fleet uniform was a proper deep blue accented with an unseemly amount of golden braid and filigree, and bore three gold bands at the end of each sleeve. “What say you, my good Francis?”

  Grimm glanced aside and up at Rook. “As ever, I ask you not to call me Francis.”

  “Ah. The middle name then, I suppose? Madison?”

  Grimm felt the fingers of his sword hand tighten and relax. “Commodore, you are well aware that I prefer Grimm.”

  “A tad stuffy,” Rook said disapprovingly. “Might as well call you ‘Captain’ all d
ay, as though you still had a true commission.” Extremely bad taste, Grimm thought. Appallingly bad taste. Histor ically bad taste. No matter how joyous.

  “I had hoped your recent successes might have made you less insecure,” Rook continued. “And you haven’t answered my question. My offer is more than generous.”

  Grimm turned down a side corridor out of the main traffic of the day in Habble Morning. “Your offer to pay me a quarter of her worth to break my ship into scrap? I had assumed you were making some kind of stillborn attempt at humor.”

  “Come now, don’t romanticize this,” Rook said. “She’s been a fine vessel, but Predator is outdated as a warship, and undersize as a ship of trade. For what I’m offering you, you could secure a merchant vessel that would make you several fortunes. Think of your posterity.” Grimm smiled faintly. “And the fact that you would secure her core crystal for your House’s inventory is beside the point, I suppose.” Crystals of suitable size and density to serve as a ship’s power core were grown over the course of decades and centuries. Core crystals were not expensive; they were priceless. In Spire Albion, all current crystal production was under commission to the Fleet, leaving a set number of core crystals available to private owners—most of whom would not part with them at any price. Over the past two centuries, the Great Houses had been steadily acquiring the remaining core crystals.

  Certainly they could be had from other Spires, but so far as Grimm knew, no one in the world could match in power or quality the crystals the Lancasters produced.

  “Of course it would do no small amount of good for the standing of our House,” Rook replied. “But it’s an honest offer nonetheless.”

  “No,” Grimm said.

  “Very well,” Rook said, his voice tightening. “I’ll double it.”

  “No. Twice.”

  The larger man took a step in front of Grimm and stopped, glaring. “See here, Francis. I mean to have that crystal. I’ve seen the damage report your engineer turned in. You were lucky to make it back to the Spire at all.”

  “Was I?”

  “You need entirely new power runs, a new main lift crystal, and at least three new trim crystals! I’ve seen your accounts. You’ve nowhere near enough money to afford them.”