Stormbringer

“Someone called my name.”

  “No,” he whispered, blinking. “I heard nothing.”

  Her eyebrows drew tight together and he chilled when her gaze dropped to his hand hidden in the bag. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, love,” he said, choking the words out. “Most certain.”

  Marion pulled Meggie around, moving from their planned path up the stairs and to their cabin beyond. Instead, he guided Meggie toward the captain and the beleaguered young woman.

  Bran closed his eyes a moment, wishing for stillness, for silence, for peace. Did Marion sense what Jordan was? Had they met before? It didn’t matter as Bran followed obediently, chin dipped down, eyes on the hem of Meggie’s dress and the dangling feet of the stuffed dolly she’d dubbed Somebunny, which she kept wrapped in her free arm. Avoiding all eye contact, the last thing Bran Marshall of House Dregard wanted was to be recognized by the captain he had presented a Conductor-in-training to only a brief while ago.

  To have any chance as someone other than the Maker, Bran needed to leave Holgate unnoticed—whether at the hands of an abductor or otherwise. The Maker never traveled, that was known by all. If discovered, he would be forced back into Councilman Stevenson’s control. But if he shook free of his grim past and survived his association with Marion Kruse long enough to truly know freedom …

  Marion made his way directly to the captain and Bran drew in on himself, becoming as small, as inconspicuous, as an adult could. Moving forward, quiet and unobtrusive, once one of the most powerful men in the New World, Bran focused on being disinteresting and utterly obedient. Still he noticed they were not the only ones weaving their way through the crowd to reach the captain and the Witch.

  The masked man and his sable pet fox also pushed in that direction, arriving at nearly the same time.

  Marion, coldhearted and hotheaded, spoke first. “Captain? And who might this disheveled young woman be?” he asked, thrusting his chin toward Jordan, who stood with her back to them all, staring out the window. “Surely not our Conductor…”

  Bran turned away, hiding his face, and listening.

  “Surely not,” the captain said with a laugh. “But she is the apprentice for Conductor.”

  “She looks a bit rough.” Bran imagined the new voice belonged to the masked man. It was a strong, smooth voice with the quality one expected from an orator or performer—a voice crowds traveled miles to hear.

  A pause—perhaps the captain cocked his head, looking the man over. “Do I have a well-reputed illusionist aboard my liner?”

  “Is there such a thing as a well-reputed illusionist?” the other returned. Bran heard a smile lighten his words.

  The captain chuckled. “Has Fortune graced me with the Wandering Wallace?”

  “Yet another question that only time may tell,” the other teased. “Has Fortune graced you with my presence? We shall see how graced you feel when we eventually part ways. Am I the Wandering Wallace? Most definitely I am!”

  Someone clapped their hands together, approving the announcement.

  “But this Conductor-to-be,” the Wandering Wallace continued, “she seems quite … unraveled.”

  The captain sucked a breath back through his teeth. “She ate something disagreeable and should be feeling better soon. She was provided by the Maker himself. And we all know that the Maker Makes marvelous things.”

  “Hear, hear,” Marion responded, his tone dark.

  “She will complete her training here? Aboard the very ship I ride?” the Wandering Wallace asked.

  “Yes, and quickly, I hope,” the captain said.

  “I have never seen how such a thing transpires,” the Wandering Wallace said. “I have heard rumors, but…”

  “Rumors are simply that—rumors.”

  “Would it be too much to ask…”

  “That you come to watch part of the process? Why, it would be my honor!”

  “I would also be fascinated to witness the process,” Marion said.

  The resulting pause was measured in the rapid throbbing of Bran’s heart. He heard and felt nothing else.

  The captain’s tone changed, stiffened. “Certainly. You and your companions shall join me for supper Topside, so long as the Wandering Wallace promises to entertain us,” he added. Another pause. Bran remained entranced by the carpet running the length of the Artemesia’s hold. “Good! Then find your cabins, settle your belongings, and have a staff member bring you up. Training a Weather Witch to be a Conductor is quite a thing to see!”

  “Of that, I am certain,” Marion replied.

  The captain led Jordan from the window and Bran’s group wound their way to cabin number 145 with little issue and far fewer words. Having few possessions to settle in with (as a good kidnapping seldom allowed one to pack much) they waited for Marion to take them to supper, Bran’s bags and their tragic contents never slipping from his shoulder.

  Philadelphia

  Catrina Hollindale sat with her knees and ankles pressed as tightly together as well-proportioned petticoats allowed in the parlor of her former best friend’s home. Her left hand rested neatly in her lap while her right kept her fan twitching to and fro to better properly punctuate the emotion of her words. “And you have heard nothing from Jordan? Nothing at all?”

  Lady Astraea sat across the small table from her, a teapot (certainly not Revere’s work and, sadly, not even silver) steaming out a blend of floral and herbal scents between them. “No, nary a word,” Lady Astraea confirmed. “Oh. Dear me. I do believe I have allowed it to steep too long…” she murmured, squinting at the teapot. Her mouth tightened and she reached for the pot’s handle, carefully pouring tea into cups for them both.

  Cups of lesser-quality china, not even good ironstone, Catrina noted with disdain. It seemed everything about the Astraea household had depreciated since their fall from high society—everything except the extravagant strands of crystals sparkling all over Lady Astraea in a garish display. It seemed more people wore similar jewels of late—far more than last year or the year prior.

  Lady Astraea continued her apology, “Chloe used to…” She fell quiet and a crease dug into the narrow space between her eyebrows. “Well. I guess I must learn to manage with less. I must learn greater independence as the result of having fewer servants.”

  “Yes,” Catrina agreed, looking around the parlor—empty now of everything but a fallen woman with doubtful taste in jewelry, the remnants of elegant decor going dusty from disinterest, and herself. At least her presence brought a sense of class to the place.

  The estate once bustled with servants. Before, the household seemed to belong more to the staff than the Astraea family, considering their sheer numbers and the way the servants were treated—nearly like out-of-town cousins come for a visit!

  Now there was hardly a maid to be found.

  But, if Jesus Christ could sit among prostitutes and tax collectors then Catrina Hollindale, ranked Fourth of the Nine, could pass a little time with the devastated Lady Astraea.

  “I am certain Jordan will become a fine Conductor and live out an adventurous life in the skies high above us. Had you not Harbored her, things might be quite different now. Surely you knew … Why not turn her over to the authorities?”

  Through her sniffling, Lady Astraea straightened. “She is no Witch, Catrina. That much you must know, as close as you both were. And … Even if she had been—the idea of giving up one’s child … What sort of a parent would do such a monstrous thing?”

  Catrina swallowed and glanced away. “I could not believe it myself,” she assured her. “Though, what is it they say? The best liars maintain the deepest secrets?”

  “She was—is—neither liar nor Witch. We did not Harbor. Things would be far different if they had not falsely accused her. We expected Rowen to ask for her promise that night.”

  The tea went bitter in Catrina’s mouth. She swallowed. “Oh. One cannot be sure of the intentions of a boy like that,” she warned. “Your Jordan may be much be
tter off where she is. You do know Rowen is wanted by the law?”

  “No! I have heard so little true news since the party. You, dear girl, are one of very few who still call upon us. Me,” she corrected. “You are one of very few who still call upon me. And I am so very grateful for your company.”

  Catrina inclined her head and forced a smile before she continued. “I should tell you: Rowen Burchette is wanted for murder. Dueling, to be precise.”

  “Why, whatever would have sparked such a passionate response within Rowen? What could he possibly argue over to get entangled in a duel?”

  Catrina flicked her fan open wide, proclaiming, “I have absolutely no idea. So you have not seen him either? Have received no word of him?” She leaned closer, her fan causing the steam to swirl and dance out from the broad teapot’s spout.

  Lady Astraea shook her head. “I have not seen Rowen since the night Jordan was dragged away. I do hope he is faring well, no matter where he is.”

  Catrina’s golden curls bobbed as she nodded. “I as well.”

  “May both Jordan and Rowen fare well.”

  Catrina nodded again.

  “And may Fate bring them together once more.”

  Catrina blinked, regarding her teacup in silence.

  “And your parents?” Lady Astraea asked. “How are your parents? They’ve been gone so very long, it seems.”

  Catrina immediately brightened. “Oh, they are keeping quite well.”

  Lady Astraea smiled.

  Chapter Two

  I beheld the wretch—the miserable monster whom I had created.

  —MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

  Aboard the Artemesia

  At what seemed the very top of the world the Artemesia’s captain greeted his supper guests with a broad grin and a wave in the direction of two well-stocked tables. One was long and rectangular, the other (only a short distance from the foot of the first) was small and round. Stormlight lanterns lined the larger of the two, their bright and steady glow a testament to the Conductor who created the weather and through his witchery fed the ship its power.

  “Do sit, do sit!” the captain urged them. “The soup is on its way and the worst thing is when hot soup catches a chill.”

  As if at his mention a breeze swept around the ship’s body and ran a soft caress around the edges of both their collars and their shirt sleeves to better hurry them to the table where their Christian names were neatly written on tiny cards. They settled into their places.

  “The Artemesia is one of the oldest ships in the fleet. She’s seen service in both war and peacetime. Some even say she has a personality all her own,” the captain said, stomping his boot down hard on the wood planks. He laughed. “If you ask me, though, I’d say she’s just bits of wood and metal destined to eventually end in a destructive tumble. But for now, she is well captained and well Conducted.” The captain raised an elegantly carved cut-crystal goblet to toast to the company he’d gathered. “To my most illustrious guests: the Wandering Wallace and his remarkable companion Miyakitsu, Marion Erendell—”

  Bran startled hearing the wrong last name used for Marion, but it was sensible he would not travel under his real surname. No wanted man would dare. No escapee from Holgate’s Tanks and Tower would risk being returned. Especially no man who evaded capture for years and had begun slyly harassing the wealthy inhabitants of Philadelphia’s Hill.

  The captain introduced both Meggie and Maude, also under fabricated surnames, and said, “And the most amazing of all my guests to date—the Maker himself, Bran Marshall of House Dregard!”

  Bran’s heart stopped. He swallowed—it seemed an uncomfortably long time for a motion made in so short a space as a throat—and he tried to regain his composure knowing even more certainly that he was a dead man.

  Marion Kruse might not murder him after all—not if Councilman Stevenson found out where he was and got to him first.

  Having the Maker aboard an airship was quite the coup. There would be talk.

  The captain leaned over him, punching his shoulder, and said, “Did you truly think I would not recognize you? Yet have no fear! I understand why young men often go abroad under false names.” He winked in Maude’s direction. Even in her Sunday best it was apparent Bran outranked her. The story of her birthright was written in the less delicate features of her face and the humble way she presented herself. “Some adventure is best to be had with a little less truth to muddy the fun.”

  Seething at the implications, which, although accurate, should not be brought up in polite conversation, Bran forced himself to maintain a smile.

  To be obedient.

  Bread was brought to the table, dense and dark and full of bits of grain. “Lamb’s head soup,” the server announced, ladling the rich-smelling broth out of a large white ironstone dish another servant carried. A fruity-smelling wine was poured for some, and a weak ale for others.

  Often reserved for the Witches, here water was presented for diners as well—giving the impression it was from a well-regarded spring.

  “Ah, yes,” the captain said, noting Bran’s interest. “We are the first to serve Ricker’s Waters straight from Maine. They seem to have curative properties—that is if you ask Hiram Ricker himself, of course.”

  Curative or not, the water tasted remarkably clean and fresh.

  Bran and the others consumed a lovely meal many men would have appreciated both in fare and in the company. But not many men found themselves in Bran Marshall’s predicament.

  The wind trembled across his arm, racing down his sleeve and over his knuckles to cool the soup in his spoon. Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the fob and watch chain that ran from buttonhole to pocket and made his waistcoat sparkle with the sizzle of illumination. The expected boom of thunder was muffled, a nearly omnipresent purr in the distance, held at bay by the power of the ship’s Conductor for the pleasure of the passengers.

  The Maker of Weather Witches, and a relatively obliging hostage, Bran nodded from his velvet-upholstered chair on the broad wooden platform that denoted “Topside” on the airship. He bobbed his head when the conversation’s tone changed significantly and did his best to look as if he listened, while truly, he kept his eyes on the others numbered among the captain’s guests for this evening’s dinner.

  To his immediate right sat Marion, tall and twenty-one or twenty-two years of age, slim and broad-shouldered with a mop of dark curls softening his perpetual scowl. On Marion’s knee he dandled Meggie, Bran’s newly discovered “nearly six years old” daughter. Her mother dead, Bran was practically all she had.

  And vice versa.

  Seeing her in the grasp of a Witch …

  Bran killed the thought, unable to consider all Witches the same now he knew at least one Witch should have been impossible to Make, and that his only daughter—his dear little dove—was a Witch as well.

  The bag hanging off the back of his chair shifted, contents rattling, and Meggie stiffened where she sat as if someone far away shouted for her attention. The soup in Bran’s bowl popped with tiny bubbles and his water effervesced. He choked down the spoonful of soup, chased it with water, and reloaded his spoon as if in self-defense.

  The child, Sybil, might be dead, but her skull gave lively reminders of her past existence. He would give her skull a permanent resting place as soon as he could. He had promised that much and he would keep his promise.

  The bubbles popped, dissipating.

  Leaning forward for a piece of the still steaming hearty brown bread, Bran slid his gaze down the table and around Marion and Meggie to meet the eyes of the plump and previously jovial Maude, his lover and fellow kidnap victim. He mouthed, “I promised to take you on a grand adventure,” in her direction.

  Her lips fell into a sad smile and she inclined her head. This was not what either of them had imagined. Of course, it was only recently that he had imagined Maude returning to his life at all.

  Marion reached in front of him for the salt, knock
ing Bran away with the force of his glare.

  Bran sat back, pulling his bread apart bit by bit and speculating on the couple seated across the table from him: the Wandering Wallace and Miyakitsu.

  The man, long of leg and with the supple grace of a professional dancer, wore a strangely twisted lion’s-face mask constructed of leather and metal, its jaw articulated with tiny springs and gears so it moved up and down in mimicry of his own mouth. He consumed bread, he downed the wine that filled and refilled his crystal goblet, and he had more than his share of the soup that the serving girl ladled into their bowls.

  Bran tilted his head to observe him more discreetly from beneath strands of his own blond hair. He doubted anyone knew what the Wandering Wallace looked like behind the mask and the hood that attached to the crown of its head, trailing down his neck and throat to his collar. Bran could tell little of him, not his facial features, not his hair’s true color or style.

  Certainly not his age.

  The Wandering Wallace carried himself like a man who had seen it all and done most of what he had seen. But experience seldom equated to age.

  His stature and array of haunting masks made the Wandering Wallace recognizable. Few types of people wore masks as regularly, and all of those types made Bran twitch. Seeing people’s faces, identifying them—meant you could find them.

  Bran’s eyes dropped to stare at the Wandering Wallace’s fingers. Hands offered clues to a person’s age or livelihood, much like a person’s neck or the areas around their eyes. The Wandering Wallace’s hands were nearly smooth except for a fine down of light hair on the back of each hand and knuckle.

  Bran glanced at his own hands. At twenty-six, his hands were already much more lined than the other man’s—the other younger man’s.

  His gaze slid away from the Wandering Wallace to Marion’s hand, resting on Meggie’s ribs. Judging by hands alone, the Wandering Wallace was younger than Marion, too. He thought briefly of other hands he’d taken note of—men’s hands—and their ages.

  The bread in his mouth crumbled, dry, and he struggled to swallow. Hands were such telltale and fragile things … especially the hands of a musician.