The Ships of Air (The Fall of Ile-Rein)

  “Normally they charge a lot of money to stay here,” Tremaine told her, stepping into the dining room. She knew there were even better suites available, forward on the deck above the Promenade, just below where the captain and the chief engineer had their quarters. Those were the ones meant for members of the royal family.

  Pressing the switches for the lights as she went, Tremaine found two more unobtrusive panel doors that led into equally lavish bedrooms, with two double beds each and accompanying vanities and chests of drawers in the same cherrywood. There was also a smaller plainer bedroom that might be the maid’s quarters though it was probably better than any of the Third Class rooms, and a large bathroom with gleaming taps and walls that looked like alabaster but probably weren’t. She was momentarily stymied by the fact that all the beds had been stripped to the mattress covers; going off in search of the laundry, wherever it was in the bowels of the ship, was not high on her list of what to do next. But by opening all the doors and drawers she discovered a cabinet in the maid’s room with neatly folded linens, towels and silk bedcovers, all in red or gold to match the curtains and carpets. They weren’t musty because the seals on the cabinet doors were nearly airtight, and as she piled them into Dyani’s arms the faint faded scent of lavender laundry soap puffed up from the folds. It was odd; the people who had carefully cleaned up after this suite’s occupants on the ship’s last voyage had probably never imagined that the next time she left port would be to carry refugees away from a devastated Ile-Rien.

  In the sitting room everyone was finally starting to settle down. Ilias had shown the others how to get hot water out of the bathroom taps and Giliead was in there tending Gyan’s head wound; Arites, deprived of paper and writing implements by the Gardier, was walking around muttering to himself, probably trying to memorize details; some of the men had just curled up in corners and gone to sleep. Tremaine found herself standing in front of the mural on the dining room wall, a surrealist mix of curves and angles. One of the men whose name she thought was Kias—big, olive-skinned, with frizzy dark hair falling past his shoulders—asked, “What is that supposed to be?”

  “I don’t know,” Tremaine replied honestly. Her last dose of strong coffee had worn off far too long ago and the world felt distant and strange. The surrealist mural didn’t help that sensation.

  There was a knock at the door and several people flinched. “What now?” Tremaine grumbled and went to answer it.

  Ilias followed her into the foyer, saying under his breath, “Did you steal this room too?”

  Ilias had maintained that Tremaine’s method of getting the Ravenna diverted to the Institute’s use was stealing; that he was technically correct just made it worse. “How very helpful.” Tremaine glared at him, then opened the door.

  It was an older woman, slender, her graying dark hair neatly arranged and her face bare of cosmetics. She wore a plain but well-tailored blue-gray wool suit. Tremaine thought she might be one of the Institute’s secretaries or administrators but didn’t recognize her. The woman lifted her brows and said calmly, “Oh, it must be Miss Valiarde from the Viller Institute. They said you’d be somewhere with all these young men.” She smiled admiringly at Ilias, who was leaning against the other wall, displaying more bare chest and arms than one usually got to see in Ile-Rien since the ballet, the opera and the more interesting demimonde theaters and dining establishments had shut down for the duration. He smiled engagingly back at her. Tremaine suspected the Syprians were going to prove popular, at least among the Rienish on board. “We’re just trying to keep track of everyone,” the woman explained, “so we can get all these poor people into rooms. I’ll note down that you’re in charge of this suite….” She wrote rapidly on the clipboard she carried.

  Gratified as she was to actually be recognized, Tremaine had a sudden qualm at being “in charge” of anything at the moment. “What do I need to do?” she asked, shifting to lean casually against the door and cover the broken lock with her body.

  “Just make sure the dead-lights—the metal covers over the portholes—stay fixed in place. There’s plenty of freshwater for drinking but do have everyone use the saltwater taps for bathing. And here.” She pulled one of the ship’s map booklets from her pocket and showed Tremaine two areas marked in pen. “If anyone needs medical attention, Dr. Divies is set up in the ship’s hospital with the army surgeon, and some volunteers are going to try to serve a hot meal in the First Class Dining Room in a few hours.”

  Tremaine took the booklet, finding herself smiling. “They’re ambitious.”

  The woman caught her meaning and smiled back. “Yes, if there’s any delay, it’ll be because they’ve mislaid themselves in those huge kitchens.” She checked her notes again. “Also, try to conserve the linens as much as possible. Getting the laundry operational is rather low priority at the moment. Oh”—the woman tucked her clipboard under her arm and extended a hand—“I’ve forgotten to introduce myself. I’m Lady Aviler.”

  Tremaine automatically shook the extended hand. The expensive but tastefully plain just-what-one-should-wear-to-an-evacuation clothing, the confident beau monde manner combined with the polite leer at Ilias all made sense; she was a member of Ile-Rien’s nobility. The Aviler family had been highly placed in the Ministry as long as the Fontainons had been on the throne. She couldn’t remember if it was Lady Aviler’s son or husband or brother who had been minister in charge of the War Appropriations Committee. How had the woman ended up on the ship? Had she been in the group picked up at Chaire? And more importantly, did she know the orders Tremaine had brought to transfer the Ravenna to Colonel Averi and the Institute were forged? “This is Ilias,” she managed, hoping to distract her.

  Lady Aviler gave him a pleasant nod and a warm smile. “How very nice.”

  As Lady Aviler continued briskly up the corridor, Ilias leaned out to watch her. “Get back in here,” Tremaine snapped, anxious to shut the door again. She was paranoid about her trick with the orders being uncovered. Not that it had been terribly well covered in the first place, but she hadn’t had any time. And really, she told herself, at this point there isn’t much they could do about it. Except, of course, throw her in the brig with Ixion and the Gardier. But the main thing was that it would be embarrassing and she knew it would tell too many people more about how her mind worked than was good for anybody, especially her.

  Ilias stepped back in, giving her a wry look. “She was nice.”

  Tremaine grimly shut the door, heading back into the sitting room. “Sure she was.”

  Gyan was back out in the main room again, his head wound tended, resisting Halian’s attempts to make him sit down. He demanded, “Do we know where we’re headed, if the Gardier are still out there?”

  Gardier. Oh, damn. Tremaine rubbed her forehead, trying to massage away the pounding headache. She needed to know what was going on out there too. “I’ll go up and find out.” She started for the door again.

  Giliead stopped her, taking her by the shoulders and steering her back into the room. “No, you’ve done enough. You’re about to fall down.”

  “I am not,” Tremaine protested, stumbling.

  “Yes, you are.” Ilias took over, taking her arm and hauling her back through the dining room. Kias was still staring at the mural. “When’s the last time you slept?”

  “Don’t ask hard questions.” Tremaine rubbed her eyes. She wanted to say that she had to get back up to where the decisions were being made. The Viller Institute’s money and authority meant nothing now, and she had only a toehold with the people who were running things. If she didn’t hold on to it, she would lose even that.

  Ilias steered her into the maid’s room, and Tremaine gave in and collapsed on one of the narrow beds. The mattress was still bare but it was wonderfully comfortable. She was asleep in moments.

  Ilias looked around for a blanket and Dyani handed him one out of the cupboard. She paused to run her hand over the dark red fabric, saying, “All the dyes match. And
the weaving is so tight. How do they do that?”

  “You should have seen their city,” Ilias told her, covering Tremaine with the blanket. Her tousled hair and the shadows under her eyes made her look vulnerable and soft. When awake she was anything but, no matter what she seemed to think of herself. “And that was after the war with the Gardier.”

  Dyani took a deep breath, looking down at Tremaine worriedly. “These people are so powerful. If they can’t fight the Gardier with ships like these, how can we?”

  Good question, Ilias thought grimly, but he squeezed her arm, and said, “We’ll think of something.”

  Arites ducked his head in to whisper, “Halian wants to talk to you.”

  Ilias grunted an acknowledgment, having an idea of what Halian wanted. He stepped out past him. “How’s your shoulder?”

  “Good, see.” Arites pulled the charred torn fabric of his shirt apart so Ilias could see the little round wound. “The wizard weapon sent a bolt right through me—there’s a hole just like this on my back where it came out, but Gerard made the bleeding stop and a little later I saw the hole had closed up, like this.”

  Arites sounded rather pleased and enthusiastic about the whole thing, but then as far as Ilias could tell he had been born open-minded. Ilias absently flexed the arm he had broken in the wreck of the Swift. “Yes, they’re good at that.” The problem was, if everyone didn’t keep quiet about it when they got back to Cineth, Arites might end up sentenced to a curse mark.

  Ilias returned to the main room, seeing everyone was settled in the beds or collapsed in the padded chairs that looked almost as comfortable. Thunder rolled outside, distant and ominous; he could hear the wind trying to bore into the heavy metal hull, but not a hint of a draft came through. There was only the familiar sway of the deck underfoot to tell him he was on a ship.

  He looked for Giliead and Halian and after a moment heard their voices out in the hall. He found them just outside the door, leaning against the dark wood walls of the little vestibule. The wizards lights out here, like those inside, were set back into the ceiling behind mist-colored glass ovals so they weren’t harsh and bright. There was a carpet on this floor too, a gold-and-brown one with a pattern that dazzled the eye as it stretched the length of the corridor as far as Ilias could see, which was a pretty damn long way. By ducking his head a little he could tell it curved upward as it grew smaller with distance, until it vanished into shadow. He could hear voices speaking Rienish somewhere down there and saw a few men come out of a door, look around in confusion, then retreat.

  Giliead saw he was looking at the curve in the floor and said ruefully, “It’s hard to believe.”

  Ilias nodded, knowing what he meant. A building this large, especially constructed of metal, would have been enough of an amazement; that this was a living ship was almost incomprehensible.

  Leaning against the opposite wall, Halian said in a low voice, “So? Can we trust these people? And I don’t mean our friends, I mean the ones who give them their orders.”

  So Ilias was right, and it was time for this conversation. He glanced at Giliead, who just looked thoughtful. Ilias leaned in the doorframe next to him and said slowly, “Everything’s as they said. I saw their city. There were places that had been torn apart and burned to the ground by the Gardier. The man who took Ixion away with Gerard is another wizard.” Ilias held out his arm, showing them the faded bruises. “When the Swift sank I broke this, and he healed it.”

  Giliead took his arm, looking it over carefully. Ilias continued, “But they have traitors, people who have sworn themselves to the Gardier like the one who betrayed us on the island. Some captured Ander and Florian and nearly killed them before we came back here.”

  Halian nodded, impatient. “That’s to be expected in a wizard’s war like this.” He stepped closer, his face serious. “I know you weren’t there long, but did they seem the kind of people we could ally with?”

  Ilias stared at the floor. He didn’t like this all being on his head; he didn’t want to mix what he wanted with what Cineth, let alone the whole Syrnai, should do. In his gut he thought the Rienish would make good allies; better than the Hisians, who made treaties only for the pleasure of breaking them and thought everybody who looked odd was a wizard. He told himself it wasn’t just because the Rienish, like the woman who had come to the door, never saw his curse mark for what it was and that he liked being looked at like a man again. “All I can tell you is that they treated me well.” Glancing up at Giliead, he added, “And it wasn’t like the places here that fall under wizard’s rule.” They had both seen what could happen to a village or town taken over by a wizard: the people cursed into obedience and treated like slaves. There were towns past the Bone Mountains in the dry plains where wizards had held sway for generations, and the inhabitants were little better than cattle.

  Giliead eyed Halian. “You’re thinking of what to advise Nicanor and Visolela.” Nicanor was Halian’s son by his last marriage and now lawgiver of Cineth with his wife Visolela. It would be their decision whether to recommend the alliance to Cineth’s council or not, and whichever way it decided, the rest of the city-states in the Syrnai were likely to follow.

  “We need an alliance.” Halian pressed his lips together. “What they’re doing now is just helping shipwrecked travelers, no more than any other civilized people would do. But when the Gardier return for vengeance we’ll truly need their help.”

  Ilias shook his head regretfully. “They haven’t been able to help themselves. When we left, their cities were falling,” he said, trying to be honest. “But their god-thing can fight the Gardier in ways we can’t. We’d be better off with their help than without it.”

  Halian looked at Giliead. When the cities of the Syrnai sent a representative to foreign lands, it was usually a Chosen Vessel, but they all knew this was different. “You agree?”

  Giliead nodded, as if he had already made the decision sometime ago. “Yes.”

  Ilias took a deep breath. He had gone with Giliead to the Chaeans and to other lands, but he had the feeling that going with the Rienish would take them even further.

  Halian leaned back against the wall, his face grave. He knew what this decision could mean. “Then we need someone to speak for us with them. Would Tremaine be a good choice?”

  “She’d fight for us.” Ilias snorted. “And I don’t think she knows how not to fight dirty.”

  Giliead’s mouth quirked. “That’s true.”

  “All right.” Halian stepped back, nodding to himself. This wasn’t his first wizard war by a long stretch; Ilias just hoped it wasn’t the last one for all of them. Halian already looked worn down and older than Ilias was used to thinking of him.

  Giliead must have had the same thought. “Get some rest,” he suggested.

  Halian nodded wearily, clapping Ilias on the shoulder as he went back into the room. Ilias and Giliead looked at each other, then Giliead jerked his head down the hall, back toward the stairs. “I want to see what they did with Ixion.”

  Ilias nodded. He was tired, his head hurt from the storm and his scars ached, but he was too keyed up to sleep. Besides, it was their job to make sure there were no curses lying in wait so the place was safe for ungrateful bastards. As they started down the corridor, he said, “I’m going to kick the shit out of Dannor.”

  “He’s an idiot,” Giliead agreed grimly.

  Dannor wasn’t really an idiot and they both knew it, but Ilias was tired of his word being disregarded as worthless because of the curse mark. All his other years of experience at finding and killing wizards aside, a sane person might think that someone who had actually been cursed and survived would be the best judge of what was safe and what wasn’t. It’s not as if you didn’t ask for it, he reminded himself. He took a breath, trying to look at it in perspective. “He was right.”

  Giliead gave him a sour look. “If you say that again I’m going to kick the shit out of you.”

  Caught by surprise, Ilias glow
ered back at him. “You think?” he said dangerously. They stopped, facing each other, but just then two Rienish women came into the corridor, and they had to step apart to give them room to get by. By the time the women had passed, glancing at them with nervous curiosity, the mutual urge to relieve their feelings by pummeling each other had faded. Still glaring at each other, they reached the room with the big staircase again and started up.

  At the first landing Ilias stopped to get a better look at the Rienish-style painting mounted on the wall, forgetting his pique entirely. It showed a woman in a midnight black gown slashed with bloodred silk, a glitter of icy gems on her breast. She was sharp-featured but beautiful, with red hair coiled elaborately around her head. She was seated surrounded by a group of young men all in dark rich clothes, with long hair and beards. He had come across this kind of art when he had gone to Ile-Rien with Tremaine, Florian and Ander, and it was different from any type of painting he had ever seen before. “Look how they do this. It makes the people seem so real.” He stepped closer to look at the brush-strokes.

  Giliead put a hand on his shoulder and drew him back, adding matter-of-factly, “There’s curses in that.”

  “Really?” Ilias fell back a wary step, startled. “Tremaine said the paintings didn’t use curses.”

  “The ones in those rooms she took us to didn’t. This one is different.” Giliead held his hand over it, not quite touching it, frowning in concentration. “It doesn’t feel dangerous. I don’t think it was meant to be a trap. It’s very old. Maybe it was painted by a wizard and his curses just…leaked into it.”

  “Oh.” Relieved, Ilias stepped close again to examine the woman’s image. “Maybe that’s the woman the ship is named after.” She looked like someone that would make Visolela feel threatened and defensive, so Ilias immediately wanted to like her. He jerked his chin toward the men gathered around her. “She had a lot of husbands.” Warrior-husbands. They all wore swords, strange-looking ones with long narrow blades and rounded guards to deflect the sharp points. No one had worn swords when he had been to Ile-Rien, but he knew all the warriors must have been away fighting the Gardier.