Stormbringer

  “My assignment,” Rowen murmured.

  She laughed. “Why, yes. I do not kidnap handsome young men to simply be my boon companions.” She stopped suddenly and, so close behind her, he bumped up against her. “Well, not of late at least,” she corrected. “So, like any good sailor you must be assigned a proper duty.”

  She turned and, not for the first time that day, appraised him with open interest. “You appear to be physically fit, so I expect you will be capable of nearly any physical task I assign. And I expect with clothing like what you boarded wearing—although it is a bit worn—that you came from money and have some small bit of a proper education. Though I hold less stock in book learning than I do in real-world experience,” she admitted, “I’d wager you have a decent head on those broad shoulders.”

  He merely watched her. She had stolen him and kept him from his heroic mission and now would assign him some petty job, trapping him aboard her ship forever. He might never see Jordan again. He stared at her, hoping to stare her down. “I cannot stay here.”

  She shrugged. “We are too far above ground for you to go.”

  She turned on her heel and strode forward, pointing as she went, and announcing with each thrust of her arm the designation of each room. “You’ve seen the galley,” she pointed back the way they’d come, “the kitchen as your kind would say. To our left we have the library, to our right, the chart room, and here, the water closet.”

  He raised an eyebrow and she grinned.

  “Water closet, privy, waste room, whatever you prefer. The place one goes to thoroughly relieve oneself while aboard ship. In the days of water passage you’d just swing your bum out over the water and let fly. But those who are Grounded,” she pointed down toward the distant ground, “tend to frown upon plummeting poop.” She wrinkled her nose. “Poor senses of humor, the lot of them.” She winked. Rowen was equally disgusted as he was intrigued. “Nowadays, of course, if you were to make a water passage and put your bum out bare to the air you’d—”

  “—have it chewed off.”

  “Aye.” She grinned. “Bastards the Merrow’ve become.”

  “Have become?” he asked, his eyes wide. “They’ve always been that way. They’re savages. Little better than beasts.”

  “Let me guess,” she said, crossing her arms, cocking her hip, and tilting her head to examine him again. “Strong jawline, firm mouth, broad brow, and sharp eyes … You were ranked Sixth of the Nine? Military, aye?”

  He squared his stance and nodded.

  “Then, you, m’dear, have been fed the same line of lies the rest of the Grounded have been.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Merrow—they couldn’t give two shakes of a fin about our kind. They never cared for us or bore animosity against us. Not until the last couple generations. My pappy used to tell such tales of them…”

  “And who was he to know?” Rowen demanded.

  “A fisherman. He worked the waters as his livelihood. He knew the truth.”

  “And that fisherman pappy of yours … did he ever tell you marvelous tales of the one that got away—a fish so huge it could be saddled and ridden, or so large it could swallow a man whole? One he had on his line—or in his net once but…” He laid the back of his hand across his forehead and swayed on his feet, “alas and alack, the beast busted free?”

  She snorted. “Of course he told tales of the one that got away and he exaggerated—all men do.”

  Rowen blinked. “All men?”

  “Yes, all men,” she said with a smirk.

  Rowen blinked again and pushed past the jab. “Then perhaps, before you accept his word on the Merrow as gospel truth, perhaps you should recall that he was in the habit of … embellishing.”

  She straightened. “Oh, love,” she whispered, her tone low, her voice staying deep in her throat. “I wish you hadna’ gone and done that. Casting aspersions on my pappy’s character—that’s nearly the worst you can do,” she said, slowly shaking her head. She seemed to make a decision then and, sighing, she raised her hand, and pointed down the way they had yet to travel. “Continue another three doors down and turn left. Yell: Ginger! And you’ll meet the one who will handle the details of your assignments while aboard this ship.”

  “You’re leaving? Now?”

  “Yes. I just remembered I have so many things of greater importance to do than dealing with you directly.”

  She brushed past him, not caring how harshly she smacked into his shoulder as she left him behind.

  “Huh,” he muttered, brow furrowing. “Three doors down…” Hesitantly he made his way toward his future aboard the airship Tempest.

  Philadelphia

  The Council chambers of Philadelphia were not only used for the business of governing. “She is a hearty servant from sturdy stock,” Councilman Loftkin said. “I would keep her myself except that our household is overflowing at this point and I resent the idea of sending a past staff member packing to something as dark and grim as the Below.”

  “Of course, of course,” Councilman Yokum said. “She is a lovely-looking girl. And sturdily built. You do not shy from hard labor, do you, child?”

  “No, sir,” the girl said with a proud smile. “Never have shied away from work of any sort. My hands are steady and strong as my desire to make good in life. I work hard, sleep little, and listen closely so I serve well.”

  Yokum chuckled. “That is wondrous. And you are certain you will not keep her?” he asked Loftkin.

  Loftkin smiled like a man who had already devoured too much of a good thing. “No, no. I simply cannot. And knowing she goes to a good home … and that perhaps this gift may help to bridge the unfortunate gap between our approaches of leading this Council towards a better and brighter day … That will set my mind greatly at ease.”

  Yokum grimaced. “I must always vote my conscience and represent the voices of my constituency first and foremost,” he said. “So if this is your way of bribing me into boldfaced agreement with your policies … You had best take her home or cast her out.”

  “No, no! I would never wish to bribe you into agreement. I am only offering you a token of my regard—a present I cannot keep myself and yet wish to not see wasted. If it allows you to see that I hope someday we might have a meeting of the minds, so be it. But if you think it means anything else…” He shook his head. “You misread me.”

  Yokum dropped his head in a sharp nod. “I appreciate the gesture. And I truly hope that the day will come when we can both better understand each other’s positions and forge a brighter future for our country. Together. But understand I will not fall silent and let my people be run over to appease your views. And certainly not because you give me a fine gift.”

  “I do not expect you to. It is very important that the issue troubling us both be voted on and this bill made into law before our citizens are set to cast their votes for the election.”

  “I am fully aware that is your belief, Councilman Loftkin, but I do not think that voting such a bill into law strengthens anything but our own position in government. What does it do for the betterment of our people—for the good of our citizenry?”

  “You said it yourself—it strengthens our position.”

  Yokum’s mouth hung open a moment. “And by strengthening our position we better their lives by…” He watched as the Councilman stared back at him. Yokum bobbed his head, trying to lead his fellow into saying whatever next bit was in his mind.

  “We are their leaders. We need to remain secure. It’s really quite simple.”

  “No. No, it’s not. Our positions in government must be tenuous enough to make us work hard while being secure enough to do our jobs without fear. The balance of power must be in all aspects of government. Checks and balances. What you suggest shifts the power and gives incumbents an unfair advantage.”

  “We know the system. We should remain. To oust us too soon…”

  “Why, when you say know the system, do I hear use the s
ystem?”

  “Because you see trouble where there is none.”

  “Or is there no trouble if I simply go along with your plan? Vote the way you wish?”

  Loftkin folded his arms over his chest. “It would be easier if you trusted in my experience and insight, yes.”

  “Then I apologize, Councilman Loftkin, because the first thing I was taught was to not trust politicians.”

  “And yet…” Loftkin gestured the length of his fellow and then raised his arm to encompass the Council chambers.

  “Yes,” Councilman Yokum admitted, “I have become the thing I dare not trust. What delightful and damning irony.”

  Chapter Seven

  Time hath a healing hand.

  —JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN

  Aboard the Artemesia

  Bran had become quieter, slower. He spoke more softly, more carefully. For some women it would have been a welcomed change. But to Maude it seemed all the passion—all the life—had been leeched from Bran Marshall.

  He often sat in silence in the small shared room, paging through his journals and shaking his head.

  Sad and somehow lost.

  Maude found him by the window, staring out at the clouds that nearly always cloaked their craft. He slumped in a chair he’d dragged across the carpet, his shoulder bag on his lap, the bowl-shaped thing he refused to show her a lump obscured by the bag’s thin skin of fabric. His left hand rested on the curve of it, his right palm flat to the window’s glass.

  At his feet his journals were strewn, discarded.

  “Might you talk to me about it?”

  He startled, caught up in his own thoughts and surprised by her appearance. “Talk to you about what?”

  “The thing in the bag that makes you so sad—”

  His right hand dropped to better shield the shape that rested in his lap.

  “—or anything. About your journals. Why are they…” She bent and scooped them up, tucking them against her bosom as if they belonged there, close to her heart.

  “There are pages missing,” he said, stricken. “Important pages. I have no idea how or when they were mislaid, only that … if they are found by the right people … or perhaps the wrong people, yes, I think it must be those—the wrong people … they will have every conceivable reason to board this ship. And a few less than conceivable reasons, too.” He lowered his head. “If they find those pages … nothing will stop them from coming here. And if they come here, they will find us.”

  She heaved out a sigh and crouched at his side. “There is nothing to be done for that. They will find them or they won’t find them. They will seek out this ship, or they won’t. They will find us, or they won’t. These are all things outside of your control. There is naught to be done except be as prepared as we might be for discovery by those who would separate or harm us.” She snorted out a laugh—a harsh and bitter sound. “By others who would separate or harm us,” she corrected, looking over her shoulder at where Marion sat across the room, watching them as intently as a hawk above a field freshly cleared of grain.

  Her fingers rested lightly on his leg and he twitched the bag and its mysterious contents away from her reach. “I don’t need to know,” she whispered, cocking her head to the side to peer up at him from beneath her eyelashes. “Tell me or don’t tell me. It makes no nevermind to me in the end. But the way you feel? This constant and clawing grief you’re holding tight to?” She reached up and stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. “That matters more than nearly anything. You matter more than nearly anything,” she whispered, her eyes narrowing. “Let me help you.”

  He dragged out a sigh. “I cannot. Not here…”

  “You cannot what here?” Marion asked from beside them.

  Maude jumped, clutching the journals even more tightly.

  Bran shifted the bag off his lap, turning to address Marion.

  If he looked small beneath the taller man’s shadow already, seated there he seemed even less. He faltered under the glare of Marion’s gaze.

  Marion swooped down and snatched the bag from Bran’s side. “Let’s see just what this great mystery is, shall we?”

  Maude looked back and forth from one to the other of them, from the younger, bolder, and embittered man who had stolen them from lives they were less than happy with to the slightly older, quieter, and yet equally embittered man she had grown to love. “No,” she demanded, reaching for the bag, “you must not!”

  But Marion simply swung his arm up and away holding the bag out of her reach. “You forget yourself, madam,” he snapped. “You are nothing more than my dear, dear guests. You still exist because, for some godforsaken reason, I wish it that way. For now. So do not expect that you may tell me what to do or not do. Not here. Not now—not ever.”

  She stood there, as close to face-to-face as a woman a good bit shorter than him could, her upper lip raised in a defiant snarl, her brow lowered.

  “Now, let us just see what the good Maker has been keeping from us. Or shall I play this from a different angle and say there should be no secrets between friends? Would you prefer that, Maude, that I pretend things are different between us? That we are friends?” he said through a sneer. “Because I have needed to be many things in my brief period of freedom from your lover’s torture, but I’ve only recently been forced to be an actor.”

  Maude ignored him, instead signaling to Meggie, who stood nearby, sniffling at his words. “Come here, little dove. He means none of it,” she insisted, leaning over to drop the journals and wrap the child in her arms.

  Marion’s gaze dropped from Maude’s belligerent expression to that of the child, whose nose and eyes streamed as she tried to hiccup her sadness away.

  “He means none of it,” Maude repeated, hoping her eyes were as fierce as her tone.

  He hesitated, his gaze on the Maker’s daughter. His voice caught and he denied and confirmed nothing, but said, “Let us see what so much fuss and stress is about,” and reached a hand into the bag.

  He withdrew Sybil’s skull, and for a moment appeared as startled as the women standing between him and the Maker.

  Then he laughed, just a brief chortle, but it rolled out of him as he held the skull aloft. “Poor Yorick, I knew him well.” He puffed out a breath and his eyes narrowed, his gaze dropping to Meggie and bouncing to Maude and Bran and back to the skull as if he debated something, measured something. “No,” he whispered, the shocked expression of his rounded mouth spreading into a slow smile. “A child’s skull, isn’t it? A child’s skull.”

  He tested the weight of it. “You’re toting around the skull of a child. My god. I thought you couldn’t be more disgusting. But you proved me wrong. What is this, some sick prize?” He leaned close to Meggie and whispered, “Good thing you’re no Witch, isn’t it? Heads would roll.”

  Maude only clutched the girl tighter to her.

  “Or was it a friend of yours that Daddy found not sharing well with his little dove?” He snorted at the thought. “Who was she, Bran? Or don’t you know? There’ve been so many of us, I’d wager. We must all blend together. Do you remember the Conductors you Make…”

  Bran looked away.

  “Do you remember the one Topside? The one so burnt out already that he’s dying? Do you remember his name? You are what killed him, you know?”

  Meggie’s sniffling and hiccupping doubled in intensity and Marion froze again. His gaze fell back onto Maude, and it was cold as the first bite of winter. “Take her somewhere else.”

  “No,” she whispered. “We will not leave. We will be witnesses,” she said through a closing throat.

  “What the hel—” But he stopped the word and just looked at her as if she’d gone insane. “I won’t…” He tossed out a sigh of exasperation and shook his head. “He will come to no harm. Go now. Such discussions should not…” His eyes fell on the child with her hair as pale as moonlight. Or frost on a window. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “Such things should never be said before
a child.”

  “You said we are like brother and sister,” Meggie whispered between sharp inhales. “That we share the same Maker.”

  Marion nodded. “Take her now before I say something I’ll wish I hadn’t.”

  Maude nodded, spun quickly to plant a kiss on Bran’s cheek, and then hurried her small ward from the room.

  “If she’s smart, she’ll find a way to leave,” Bran whispered, turning back to the window. “I am amazed she has stayed this long.”

  “Oh, she’s quite smart, that one,” Marion assured him. “But she won’t go anywhere. Even to save the child. She’s in love. It is the one time in their life when a man can easily outwit a woman—when they are blinded to their needs by their desires.”

  He changed the position of the skull in his hands, cradling it instead of holding it loosely in his palm. “Who was she, Maker?”

  “Don’t call me that,” Bran insisted with vitriol. “I wish for little more than to leave that life behind me. If I could have survived without ever being that, I would gladly go back in time and do so. Be Bran Marshall of House Dregard and nothing else. Just a man.”

  “And leave all the glory of creation behind?” Marion stifled a laugh. “You were one of the greats. A man without peers! Only your father could hold a candle to your name and he—”

  “—killed himself.”

  “What?” Marion drew up short. “What do you mean he killed himself?”

  “He stopped being a threat to my reputation when he realized what sort of monster he’d created and so he loaded his pistol, held it up to his head, and he pulled the trigger. Surely that gives a clear enough description of killed himself to appease even you.”

  Marion squinted at the older man. “I … I did not know. I am … sorry.”

  “He died long before he pulled the trigger. Some things kill a man well before his brain spatters a wall. Do not ask for any other specifics, please. We kept it from the public record, but it should be shared with you, who believe there is no cost or responsibility we feel for our actions.”