That evening many men had eyes only for Jordan of the fallen House Astraea. Scarred by lightning’s ravaging kiss, her hair shorn short and topped with a boater’s hat in blue, she sat stiffly at the lower table and although she was free of tethers and strings her movements were palsied and she focused hard on the simple task of feeding herself.
The Topside staff had changed again, cycling through servant after servant so all could say they had served both the Maker and the Wandering Wallace. There had also been a few servants who were turned away at the elevator, their noses red, voices hoarse. An illness was spreading among the crew.
“Not long until we see port in Salem,” the captain called to Anil, pulling his gaze away from Jordan.
A servant woman whose hands shook as much as Jordan’s did poured wine into the Weather Witch’s goblet, sloshing it enough that Jordan looked up into her face. The woman drew back, ducking her head, and Jordan blinked as she stepped quickly away. Finishing filling diner’s drinks, she was finally allowed to serve the Conductor and his ever-present would-be murderer.
Bran was torn between watching the coffee-skinned servant woman with hair as dark and straight as Miyakitsu’s slipping free of her large cloth servant’s cap and Jordan, as the captain circled her like a predator stalking prey.
Bran thought he’d seen something before in the unspoken body language between the two, and now …
He squinted. Something about Jordan had changed—not just her face, nor her hair. Something cast a pallor across her features, like she’d lost the glow of life from deep within. And it was a change he’d glimpsed in small ways since before they landed in Herkimer.
Yes.
Across the table the Wandering Wallace shifted in his chair and Bran noted he paid close attention to the servant woman carrying wine to the men on the dais.
“I like your new hair, Miss Jordan,” Meggie piped up. “Might I have mine done that way, Mamá?” she asked Maude.
Maude petted Meggie’s curls but said, “Whatever you like, my dear. Only not today nor tomorrow.” She frowned. “And probably not the next day either.”
Bran’s gaze flicked back to Jordan in time to see the captain touch her arm—no, not touch it—stroke it. Jordan didn’t react. She didn’t wince or flinch or glare. She didn’t pull away. She slumped there, shoulders rolled forward, eyes downcast until the captain bent by her ear and whispered. She rose, so like a puppet controlled by unseen strings that Bran caught himself checking her unfettered feet and fingers.
The captain had released her days before from the strings, and whereas Bran might have expected more life from her, now it was rare he even got a glare from her dull eyes. Something had happened. Had been happening. Something out of view of the captain’s supper guests.
Something more dark and damaging than even he, as Maker, had done.
He watched the pair of them walk to the edge of the deck’s platform, the captain striding, Jordan dragging her body along by her feet, head hung, gaze staying just a step ahead of her. She did not push the short strands of hair back from her eyes when they flicked into her face in the slight breeze that teased along the edges of the airship.
She stopped a half step short of the banister.
Captain Kerdin leaned against the banister, watching the roiling clouds that followed the ship. He slouched there, let his spine slip, and looked at Jordan as she stood so stiffly beside him, grinning at her with a look that made something twist in Bran’s gut.
The wind shifted and voices carried to the people remaining at the table. Bran straightened. It was a strange thing to happen—the Conductor controlled air flow so well, what was heard at one part of Topside might appear to be nothing more than moving lips when viewed from another vantage. But the seated diners all heard when the dark-skinned and fine-featured servant woman said, “Bring us down.”
They turned to her, seeing her face so close to the Conductor’s, her lips intimately near his ear.
“Bring us down,” she begged, wrapping her fingers around Anil’s arm. “He is dead. Our son is dead. Bring this whole ship down.”
The sniper tugged at his ear and leaned in to try and catch a conversation the wind wisked away.
Maude clutched Meggie tight and looked to Bran, eyes wide. Bran swallowed, feeling his own eyes grow equally large.
But it was the Wandering Wallace, today masked as an exotic bird with drooping and colorful plumage, who stood, and dashed toward the embracing pair. In his wake a napkin dropped and turned into a robin, flying away.
The sniper stood, the muzzle of his gun moving between the two lovers as he decided what to do. His mouth moved as it seemed he shouted to the captain, begging for guidance, but his words were whipped away by a flick of the Conductor’s hand.
Anil raised his head from where it rested against his woman’s neck. His eyes flashed so brightly they flared from brown to polished bronze.
He raised a hand to halt the Wandering Wallace while the sniper made a choice and set his finger to the trigger. The Wandering Wallace shouted, “Behind you—” and Anil flicked his fingers, letting the wind tear the man from his perch, tossing him overboard. His gun clattered to the deck’s boards.
“Where is the child?” the Wandering Wallace shouted. “I might yet help—where is the child?!”
Marion set a broad hand on the table. “Stay in your places and have faith. If anyone can talk a man onto a particular path, it is the Wandering Wallace.”
Bran swallowed again, but nodded, hoping the drama on the dais was as well-contained as the players’ words, but the drama playing out at the edge of the ship’s Topside deck…?
He refocused his attention there. To Jordan and the captain.
Jordan slapped her hands onto the deck’s well-polished rail, her fingers wrapping like claws around it. From his place at the table, Bran knew they whitened. Jordan pressed her hips against the banister and swayed forward, looking out into the distance. It was not a playful move. No.
It was a calculating move.
“It is too late,” the servant woman wailed from the dais, Anil allowing the breeze to carry her words to the table but no farther. Distantly Bran wondered why. “He is three days dead—too far from this world for Reanimation … Bring us down,” she begged again, her strained voice ragged.
Jordan swayed back and then forward again. This time she paused, fixing her sights on the clouds obscuring the world far below. She swayed back, straightening once more.
Considering momentum and gravity.
Bran stood.
Marion raised his hand off the table and brought it back down with a slap. A demand—a reminder of who controlled whom in the strange gathering. But Bran had seen enough, and with a certainty that chilled his gut he realized why Jordan—who had fought him long and hard and always shown spirit—was no longer the Jordan he had battled so fiercely to Make.
Bran strode forward, swallowing the space between himself and the girl standing so near their world’s edge.
Behind him things at the table shifted, chair legs scraped across the platform, cups settled on the table with a clatter.
But Bran began to run, his arms outstretched.
Still he could hear Anil and his wife. “He would not let me tell you,” she said. “The captain would not let me come, but I found a way.” Her tone toughened. “Now, so close to your end,” she said, “take me with you. I will not suffer life without either my two loves. Bring down the ship!”
The Wandering Wallace—the Reanimator—whoever the hell he was, hiding in the shadows of his masks—said nothing. What could a man say to that?
Jordan swayed back and pitched forward …
… as Bran’s feet kicked up, nailing the railing; he bent at the waist, his hands grasping her arms as his body straightened and he yanked her back from the edge, throwing her onto her rump and landing nearby on his own.
Captain Kerdin straightened.
Bran rose and stuck out a hand to Jordan.
She refused
it and stood.
Bran met the captain’s eyes and, if he’d had any question about what he’d done to Jordan, it was burned away in that instant. Bran reached out to topple the captain, to throw him over the edge of the ship, but a wind tore across the deck and did it for him, Bran’s fingers only brushing the man’s coat as he slid his way, screaming, down the great balloon’s side.
The scream became nothing but the rush of wind and then—
—there was no sound Topside except Bran’s ragged breathing and silence where the tick-tick-click of the Conductor’s wheel should have been.
Jordan looked at Bran, something burning up from the depths of her eyes like hate twisting into a growing cyclone. He realized how very close they stood. And how close he was to the railing and the edge.
And how off-balance.
But the fire in her eyes fizzled and she turned away, staggering one step back.
Bran gasped and grabbed the rail, realizing how easily Jordan might have gotten rid of both her torturers. Dread, a fist squeezing his heart, made him turn to watch what all other eyes were fixed on: Anil and his woman.
New streaks of silver cut through Anil’s hair like the lightning he called from the sky—the lightning that was growing more sporadic as thunder began to growl in the heavens.
Anil was losing control. He was Fading. Fast.
His woman held tight against him, now more a crutch holding him up than an equal partner. Anil tilted his head and regarded his Maker coolly before addressing Jordan. “There is not much I have controlled in my life and my time grows short.”
Jordan stepped forward, one word on her lips. “Don’t.”
“I would be a poor man to leave my love behind in so cruel a world,” he said, “especially when she asks to accompany me beyond it. You are the Artemesia’s Conductor now.”
“No,” Jordan said, the word more a plea than a demand. “I do not even know all the ports…”
“You will set the right course and you will find your way without me—without any of us. Of that I am certain. Do you not see?” he asked softly, his lips brushing the frilled linen cap his wife wore. “You are free now, Jordan Astraea, ranked Fifth of the Nine. Free to captain your own ship. I beg that you return the favor—grant me my freedom—let me end as I wish. Do not make me fight you to earn this one last thing I can control.”
Nodding, she stepped back. They all moved back.
“Summon the storm inside you, Jordan, but find with it joy equal to its power. Put aside hate for something stronger: love.” He tipped his chin down and said to his wife, “Hold tight, my love.”
She tucked her head against his chest.
He wrapped both his arms around her so that his wrists crossed and his palms lay flat on her shoulder blades. “Are you ready?”
She nodded and he closed his eyes, his mouth moving as he began to sing. The rest of them watched as the wind built around their feet, playing with the hem of the woman’s heavy skirt before working its way around them, tearing along faster and faster, in time to the increasing pace of the song, fire riding its edges as it twisted heavenward and then, with a woof, it consumed them both.
Lightning cracked and a burst of brilliant light shot out of the clouds and filled a nearby stormcell crystal, knocking everyone back with its power. Glowing green, it barely steadied before the Wandering Wallace popped it out of its lantern and slipped it into his pocket.
It took a moment before Jordan realized they were falling.
Her short hair tickled around her ears and, feeling everyone’s eyes upon her, Jordan stepped up and took the wheel. Emotion warred across her face—joy at her freedom obtained by Captain Kerdin’s death, fear at the loss of the Conductor, and hate—cold and clawing hate—stiffened her features, glowed in her eyes.
Snarling, Jordan pulled the clouds together so fast they were all briefly blinded by a thick and all-consuming darkness. Thunder rolled, deafening as war drums on the march.
Something warm touched her arm, pulling her out of the cold and swirling heart of the storm. Looking down through the clinging tendrils of black and reaching clouds, Jordan saw the gentle upturned face of little Meggie, her large and shining eyes seeking Jordan’s.
Meggie smiled and the small blue crystal in Jordan’s bustline, the stormcell she had found in Tank 5 in Holgate, warmed against her flesh in something like recognition.
Meggie slipped her tiny hand into Jordan’s free one and Jordan’s face changed, reflecting back the child’s faith. Jordan’s heart hammered.
The lightning tore at the sky as bright as cannon fire at midnight and then it changed—became fireworks and colorful rockets spattering the sky with the most amazing light show. The inky clouds reflected a rainbow’s worth of fleeting colors. The thunder softened, receding as Topside cleared, mist and darkness crawling off the dais and across the deck to creep down the balloon’s colorful fabric like curling ribbons of oil, finally dripping off the ship’s lowest level and dissipating into the sky.
The Wandering Wallace brushed his hands down his waistcoat’s front and then ran a finger along the edge of one sleeve. “Quite an eventful dinner,” he murmured. Then he raised his head and raised his voice to match. “What say we make things official?”
Jordan cast him a wary glance. “What?”
“The captain and his man are dead, as is our previous Conductor and his lady love … It seems to me, milady,” he added with a courteous dip of his head, “that the Artemesia is truly your ship.”
Always one for drama, he paused.
“At least Topside. But there are stacks of cabins below our feet and many staff and crew. Perhaps it is time to … change the status quo?”
She quirked an eyebrow in his direction and turned the ship’s wheel slightly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
“It is simple, really,” he assured her, “securing our position. Shall I demonstrate?”
Marion rose from the table.
“Have no fear, Lord Kruse,” the Wandering Wallace said, raising his hand.
Marion froze at mention of his surname.
Jordan’s head turned slowly in Marion’s direction. “House Kruse of Philadelphia?”
He nodded and Jordan released Meggie’s hand and returned her focus to the sky and the storm brewing all about them.
She nodded. “Yes,” she said vaguely in the direction of the Wandering Wallace. “It is time to shift the status quo. Secure our position,” she commanded him.
The Wandering Wallace grabbed Meggie’s hand, and swinging her arm in time with his, began to rock back and forth, watching her mimick him. Together they skipped across the deck, swinging their joined hands, until they stopped by the ship’s intercom system. The Wandering Wallace leaned in toward her, beckoning her closer. “This is the way I sing to you every night,” he said.
She laughed and rolled her wide eyes. “You sing to everyone every night.”
He looked over her head at Bran and Maude and he winked. “No, little lass. I sing for you.”
Miyakitsu made a show of stomping her way across the deck, her hands balled into fists, her lips puckered as she scowled at him.
“Oh,” Wallace whispered, his mouth’s shape mirroring the single syllable. In a stage whisper he declared, “I’m in trouble now!”
Meggie giggled.
“And of courrrrse,” he said, stretching the words out, “I sing for you, my true love.”
Miyakitsu nodded sharply and unrolled her fists.
“Would you like to help me secure the ship?” the Wandering Wallace asked Meggie.
She nodded.
“Can you whistle?”
She tried, producing a thin wisp of noise.
“Well, that is a fine start. Now, when I spin this flywheel you do that into here,” he tapped the horn’s rim, “and then I shall do my part.”
He cranked the handle and set the wheel to spinning. Pointing encouragingly to the horn, he watched through the eyeholes of his mask as
she whistled her best bit into the contraption. Then he leaned in and whistled the tune by which he was known in alleys so dark and dirty the only way one could recognize a person was by sound or scent.
He stopped the wheel from spinning and straightened, grinning and knowing that in the guts of the ship his men and women were reacting to the cue he gave.
On floors throughout the great airship Artemesia men like Stache the guard, and Jeremiah the powder monkey, and women like the serving girl who was unimpressed with the Wandering Wallace’s napkin-to-bird trick disarmed and rounded up the men and women who were not recognized dissenters and locked them tightly into elegant rooms.
Screams echoed up to Topside as rebellious supporters of the status quo were thrown from windows.
Meggie blinked but Wallace just grinned and swung her arm until she, too, smiled again.
Marion paced between the dining room table and the Conductor’s dais, his eyes darting to Meggie, the Wandering Wallace, and Miyakitsu as much as to Bran and the cloud cover coming under the Conductor’s control. What the Wandering Wallace had just done was beyond Marion’s control—most of what was happening was. But some things he still could manipulate and work. His gaze came to rest on Bran. “In light of what you did with Jordan and the captain, I think we have finally come to the end of our journey.”
Maude stood, pressed her shoulders back, and, tilting her head, stuck out her jaw. Her eyes pinned Marion to the spot. “He saved her, Marion,” she said, her voice strong but soft. “And he’ll do whatever he must to keep Meggie safe, too. Do not do anything drastic…”
Marion snorted, shaking his head. “Of course you think the worst of me. I cannot blame you. But I intend no harm, Maude. The opposite, actually. Your tickets aboard this ship are open-ended. We will be in Salem shortly, where I will disembark and begin a much different journey of my own. It is an election year, I am a young unknown with a freshly forged pedigree and a desire to change our country in the very best of ways. I will make people listen to me.”
Bran stood. “You will bring change legally?”
“I will.”
Maude stepped forward, moving between them to protect her lover. But this time she walked forward until she spread her arms, wrapping Marion in a hug. “You will be a man remembered for great deeds—and a forgiving heart,” she whispered.