Bangor spilled out across a hill, sliced through by high-walled streams cutting neatly around its feet and bridged by equally high lines of tree trunks sharpened at their tops to wicked wooden points and interspersed with narrower wooden stakes thrusting down like cruel fangs toward the water.
“There is so much water here we take extra precautions. The Merrow may not make it this far in from the saltwater easily, but considering the friends they’ve made of the other water-based Wildkin? We must be cautious.”
Rowen nodded, noting the wooden towers marking each bridge’s intersection with the land. “Gun mounts?”
She grinned. “Indeed. Sporting a caliber heavy enough to wipe a Merrow ally clean from the face of this earth but not damage the earthenwork walls. Well, not damage them much.”
“I’ve never seen weapons quite like that,” Rowen remarked, noting multiple barrels bound together and mounted to a nearly standard cannon carriage.
“The first few did more damage to our kind than to theirs, but our engineers are working on remedying the issue,” she added with a shrug. “It’s more impressive and faster than constantly reloading, and, as fast as it shoots, precise accuracy matters far less.” She let her hand slip free of him. “It’s a lovely beast of a gun and shows a great deal of promise for future development.”
Rowen raised an eyebrow and considered her a moment. She was everything Jordan was not. Strong, self-assured, powerful, and passionate. She winked at him and stepped to the horn and flywheel. “Approaching Bangor Port. All hands on deck, eyes sharp, hands at the ready!”
They coasted in toward a heavy-looking stone building near the top of one peak, the wood-and-metal bones of the ship’s wings creaking as their fabric billowed, cupping the air below, and they descended in a long, slow spiral to the docks. The last hundred yards the wings shifted, tucking alongside, the ship slowing as it slid by the huge building. There was a pop-pop-pop as shots burst from a system of cannons, and Rowen jumped as something shot toward the ship’s balloon.
Nets carried in hollow cannon shells caught and held the balloon and they sidled up to the dock with a slow groaning of wood and metal meeting.
Bangor
Rowen followed Evie, Toddy, and Ginger Jack out of the ship and onto the dock. Jack had left the mechanical creatures he often tinkered with behind. Sunlight streamed down on them and Rowen paused, noting the difference of the feel of his boots back on something stable and still. He felt a connection to the ground he had never noticed before standing there near the crest of a hill in Bangor.
Evie and the others turned back to watch him a moment, looks on their faces saying they all once did the same. “Come along,” Evie urged. “We are in port until we meet our associate tonight, which is not nearly enough time to explore all there is to offer here.” Evie widened her stance, looking him over. “You are a far finer-looking fellow without that thing you called a beard nesting on your face.”
“Now, now,” Jack warned, rubbing the closely cropped patch of facial hair marking his chin. “You dare not be berating beards, are you, Evie?”
She laughed and reached out, stroking his face so softly Rowen thought Jack would explode with joy. “Of course not, Jack,” she replied. “Merely pointing out that some men know how to wear a beard and some men simply shouldn’t.”
“What is that?” Rowen asked, pointing to the huge granite building behind them.
“Officially?” Evie asked.
Rowen quirked an eyebrow at her.
“Government offices.”
His eyebrow rose higher.
“And we, dear boy, are in search of papers kept in the building’s very bottom.” Evie touched the two items hanging on her belt, asking the rest of them, “Sword and pistol?”
“By my side,” Jack responded with a laugh.
“Mmhm, mmhm. Then let us have at it.”
They entered the building, walking past the watchmen, who turned to look the other direction as they descended a flight of steps to the right.
“It’s very large,” Rowen remarked. “And relatively empty.”
Evie nodded. “Imagine what might be done with such a grand space! It might just become something amazing, like—”
“—a mansion?” Rowen asked, mentally marking out the spots for appropriate furnishings.
“No, something better,” Evie assured. “Imagine a library filling the space.”
Rowen’s brows tugged together. “It would take many books to fill so grand a space,” he muttered, still following the crew.
“Many books would be a fine start for a library.”
They came to a door, on either side of which hung an assortment of stormlights. Evie took one off a hook and handed it to Jack, pulling one down for herself as well.
Rowen and Toddy followed suit and Evie warned, “A brief climb now, Rowen, as we enter the Hill King’s Cavern.”
Rowen’s jaw swung loose as Evie opened the door and began to descend a ladder immediately on the other side of the threshold. Jack followed, then Rowen, barely off the last rung when the door closed above and Toddy began his way down. They gathered there, only their stormlights illuminating the area.
From somewhere in the darkness behind Evie and Jack the sounds of voices and music echoed distantly.
“The area is pockmarked with boulder caves,” Evie explained, raising her lantern so the light stroked the outline of two huge rocks that rested together at one small spot near the floor of Evie’s would-be library. Evie turned and, lantern raised high, began to lead them into the darkness.
Rowen leaned over, saying, “Sorry about hitting you the way I did…”
Jack snapped out a laugh. “Did you see how she’s been petting me and watching me?” he asked instead. “I am feeling no pain right now … All’s forgiven.”
Evie paused, turning back to face the men.
Jack whispered, “She loves doing this…”
Evie cleared her throat, saying, “The strongest of all the elements, water, clears the space around the bigger rocks, carving its way through the ground, and creating this—” With a dramatic spin, she held the lantern out and high, lighting the scant distance between them and a glowing and vibrant space below.
Stunned, Rowen joined them, stumbling down a boulder-strewn walkway to come to a place where the ground evened out, widening between soaring rock walls.
It was all at once dark and bright within the mountainside where the liberally aligned traders plied their trade; both sparkling and grim. Stormlights dotted the walls and little pinpricks of pyrite and quartz threw their light back, tossed it onto the dampness creating a slick sheen on the cavern’s walls, broadening and strengthening the lights.
For a moment Rowen simply stood there, taking it all in. It was like the Night Market of Philadelphia’s Below, but taken to a more vibrant and echoing extreme.
Music reflected off the walls, one tune sliding into another in a riot of sound. Men and women danced between brightly colored stalls hung with tapestries whose patterns made Rowen’s eyes ache. The odds and ends of a dozen different cargo runs lay heaped in glittering piles at the base of the tiny temporary-looking shops, brass pitchers glowing beside gemstone bracelets and gaudy rings, scarves of silk waving in the slight breeze that rose whenever someone walked past. The entire market was alive with possibility.
“These are our people,” Evie said to Rowen. “Your people. For as long as you like.”
A man raised a flagon to him and grinned as they passed by, not caring he had a few less teeth than most with which to strain the foam from his ale. A dog raced by, nearly tripping Rowen as it wove between people before bounding up to a wooden crate where it stood on its hind legs. It danced a jig to the tune a lithe violinist played.
“Keep your eyes in your head and step lively,” Evie warned from his side. “If they sense you’re fresh meat, they’ll take all you have.”
“But you said they’re my people,” Rowen pointed out.
“
Aye, that I did,” she said with a wink. “They’ll roll you faster than your elder brother in a mean mood and you’ll be lucky to leave here wearing a stitch of the clothing you came in with.” She looked him up and down again in that way he found so unsettling. “Or perhaps you’ll find a buxom lass and mind losing your clothing not one bit.” Evie leaned in. “But remember we’re on a schedule. We’re only here one night. Just for rendezvous.”
Jack laughed. “Had you warned him not to strip to his skivvies with a lass because we only had a few minutes, I think our boy Rowen would still have ample time to pull his trousers up and meet us at the ship.”
Rowen bristled at the affront, but Evie was already giving Jack the tongue-lashing of a lifetime.
And Jack responded in kind, hands balled into fists, his mouth fighting to keep back the grin that threatened to impede the sharp words he pushed out as fast as he could breathe.
Rowen shook his head and stepped away from them. They wouldn’t notice if he was gone.
For a minute Toddy followed him, murmuring about the price of this or the condition of that, tugging items from his own pouches and the bags he had slung across his shoulders to show, talking trade. While Toddy was politely debating the finer points of belt buckles, Rowen stepped away from him, too.
He walked past a circle of giggling children playing some game and stopped short, realizing they were passing around a sparkling thundercloud the size of a cat.
Seeing they were being watched, one small boy tossed the cloud into the air and winked, as lightning sparked halfway to the ground.
Nearby a young woman turned to scold them like an angry school marm before returning to whatever deal she was finalizing.
Rowen headed for the violinist and her dancing dog.
Wearing a short and colorful vest over a shimmering blouse and a skirt that seemed made of scarf after scarf, the gypsy sawed away at her violin, her booted feet nearly nailed together, hips frozen in place, but the rest of her fully involved in the making of her strange and sad music. The strings sang wordlessly as she twisted in time to the tune, oblivious to the dancing dog who hopped along, barking in time.
She wove a musical spell, things within earshot slowed from hurried to passive, people languishing, reclining on carpets the nearby rug seller displayed. The salesman smacked at loiterers with a reed fly swatter but no one minded nor moved. Everyone simply existed as background accompaniment for the music of the violin.
One last, long move of her arms and she stopped playing, stooped for a moment like a mechanical doll in need of winding. She straightened with a toss of her head, short dark hair flying back from her eyes, and smiled sadly at the clapping and hooting crowd, her expression matching the song’s mood. She set the violin aside and raised her hands high, clapping out a rhythm and saying, “You know this one, so I beg you to sing along!”
A voice sang out from the wild blue sea
Recognizing the tune, Rowen jumped in, adding a firm baritone to the mix as they sang:
Echoing well down the deep valley
So sweet and soft and feminine
A fine lure with which to snare young men.
A handsome young prince rode to investigate
Hearing her song put the seal on his fate—
Rowen stuttered, his words no longer matching what the pirates sang. His voice faded away and he listened, curious. The song he’d heard and sung so many times with friends of like and higher rank told a far different story than that the pirates told now. A Merrow princess called out from the sea’s depths and a human prince brought her out of the surf to stand beside him.
But in the pirates’ version the princess begged to be released—she only wanted to spend some time with a human, not be dragged onto the sand, where, horrified at seeing a tail where legs should have been, the prince sneered and left her to die, not even having respect enough to return her parched body to the sea.
If all stories had stems growing from fact, which one was true? If human arrogance ruined the relationships between themselves and the Wildkin, perhaps the fault of the war rested more on his side than Rowen expected. Perhaps what Evie had said about the Merrow becoming bastards was more accurate than what Rowen had been raised to believe.
The song over, the dog hopped down toward the hat by the violinist’s feet. He picked it up in his mouth and raced through the crowd, shaking it to encourage the toss of a coin. He paused at Rowen’s feet and shook the hat. Coins rattled and Rowen searched himself for the modest stash of money he’d brought along.
The dog growled, its little body shivering with the noise, a small metal tag engraved with the name ZEEKE hanging from its collar.
“Ah!” Rowen dropped a coin in and the dog turned abruptly away, scratching behind it with its hind feet before trotting off.
Philadelphia
The darkness of night in the Below seeped into a man’s bones and edged toward his soul if he didn’t take care. George tugged his coat collar closer and pulled the brim of his hat down before sliding his broad-knuckled hands into his pockets. He carried light tonight, his pockets holding only a knife and a Philadelphia Deringer, small enough to fit in the palm of his meaty hand. He’d use neither to accomplish his goal if he might avoid it.
He walked past building after building, pausing outside one that bustled with life and noise, his nose wrinkling at the smell of perfume, alcohol, and vomit.
A woman spotlighted in the glow of the open door turned and, spotting him, shouted, “Come here, love, and enjoy yourself!” She tugged up the hem of her dress to show him the curve of her ankle. “Or, better yet, come here and enjoy me.”
Shaking his head, he walked on, muttering.
It was the next building he wanted. A small thing squeezed awkwardly between the riotous house of ill repute and the home beside it, featuring the only fenced yard in the area, the plants that thrived there rambling and overgrown. So late at night, flickering candlelit lanterns tricked his eyes and made the weeds there walk.
He avoided both strange buildings, going for the squashed, yet otherwise unremarkable construction between. Since his meeting with Loftkin he had destroyed three contraptions, little things that struck him as remarkably unremarkable, and certainly harmless but if the Council wanted all steam mechanisms wiped out, George would do his best by them so they would keep his family secret.
Because a good father worked hard to ensure the security of his son.
He pounded on the door.
No response and no wonder considering the ruckus in the building to his left. Inside it someone had started to sing, and what must be a huge crowd for so small a space picked up the words and continued, slurring all the way.
He pounded on the door again, harder.
“I hear you have quite the contraption,” George said to the man who timidly opened the door to his insistent knocking.
He was a meek thing, a slender man of some height, his shoulders broad and a set of modified spectacles in an array of colors, sizes, and densities suspended from a frame that rested on both his ears and the bridge of his nose. “Oh,” he said, adjusting the lenses so he could better see George. “So you’ve heard. It’s no great wonder,” he said. “Funny what people think worthy of commenting on.”
“That’s true enough. I’ve heard it mentioned in quiet servants’ quarters on the Hill and even in the depths of the Below. To have heard so many whispers about the same thing … well … it must be worth remarking upon, I figure.”
The man smiled. “Perhaps. It sprang from an old hobby of mine. If you come back in the morning I will gladly show you my work.”
“Ah, there’s the rub … I won’t be in town come morning. Striking out on a journey of my own. Adventuring being one of my hobbies.”
“Adventuring sounds like a fine hobby. I would show it to you now but—”
George had already pushed his way through the door before his host could say “—the place is a shambles.”
“No problem there,
friend,” he said, taking off his bowler hat. “They say the sign of a clean space is a sign of no imagination, so the sign of a mind cluttered with ideas should be…” He glanced around the room, taking in the piles of drawings and designs, the stacks of parts, some metal, some porcelain, some filled with wires and others with tubes and gears “… likewise cluttered.”
The man stared at him, agape at the intrusion. “I appreciate your willingness to overlook my far less than immaculate living quarters, but I did not invite you in.”
But it was already too late, because the contraption, a walking beast much like a medium-sized dog, had already ambled forward to investigate the new person in its home.
“My god. It is as amazing as they say…”
Steam burbled out of its metal rib cage and from funnel-shaped leather ears, and the whir of gears quieted as it sat watching the new human. It cocked its head and a pink leather tongue peeked out from between its hinged and heavily riveted jaws.
George raised a hand and it lifted its muzzle up to feign sniffing. Or maybe it did not feign sniffing at all, he marveled, hearing how the matching pair of bellows that were only somewhat obscured by the iron ribs sucked in air, filling their leather bladders and a great bit of the space. The air wheezed back out as he withdrew his hand and a fan kicked in.
Its tail began to wag.
“He likes me,” George marveled, trailing his hand along the dog’s face.
“No. He doesn’t,” the other man reported lamely. “He has no emotion. He is a mimicry of life only. He feels no pain or love.”
George’s hand drifted closer to the contraption’s belly.
“Have a care,” the inventor warned. “The metal there tends to be a bit warm because of the heat of its heart.”
“Steam-powered, is it? Heat from the fiery heart causes…” He crouched to better look at the mechanical dog. “… water in the glass gut to boil and produce steam that floods the tubes and pipelines … like veins, I suppose, and…”