Clockwork Scoundrels 2: An Isle in Mist Page 5

  Thadon didn’t back down. “I think we’ve heard enough o’ your lyin’ tongue, Miss Locke.”

  “It’s Captain Locke, stumpy.”

  Thadon’s cheeks flushed. His hand strayed to the baton stuffed into his belt. Yes, he was the type to hit a woman. Lucky him, Mel was the type of woman to hit back.

  Flanagg saved them both the opportunity. “Please, both of you. That is quite enough.” He seemed completely out of sorts, his eyes rapidly darting around as though looking for some hidden solution to this predicament. “I tire. Thadon, escort me to my quarters, if you would be so kind.”

  Thadon scowled but dipped his head in submission. “Aye, Lord Seer.”

  “Captain Locke,” Flanagg continued. “I enjoy your company but can’t allow trespasses against my people to go unmarked. I am afraid that this is where our company must part. Return to your sky bridge and fly away. I am a patient man, but do not come back to Fosis. It would go badly for you.”

  “Fine.” She spun on her heel without a backwards glance. Crew fell in around her. They were quiet, but it was a tense kind of silence, and she knew just what was on their minds. Retribution. It would have to wait, now wasn’t the time.

  Jarvis carried Sildrian in his arms. His silvery limbs flopped lifelessly. Despite Hindral’s convictions, the clockwork man looked dead. Mel’s stomach twisted over. It was by her order that he had been down there, trolling the river for the shiny stones. Sildrian was crew, and his welfare was her responsibility.

  They ascended in that same fuming silence. She could tell from the long, angry glances over the side that the crew was building to a fury, stoking the smoldering embers of discord into something much more dangerous: hate. Mel could feel their emotions pulling on her too, could almost hear them whispering of dark deeds. Closing her eyes, she fought to find the quiet place at her center. It was hard, like swimming upriver with blocks tied to your ankles. She wanted to be angry. Pit, she deserved to be angry. Nobody laid hand to her crew.

  She couldn’t find the quiet. Someone was going to hear words from her, she knew. Someone that didn’t deserve it, most like. She felt like a boiler, rumbling with pressure, the gauge peaking past the warning zone. The pressure had to be relieved, somehow, or she’d blow her top.

  Taul didn’t say a thing as he helped them aboard and tied off the raft. His face was mostly hidden under goggles and scarf, but she could tell by his body language—the hunching of shoulders, the quick, furtive movements—that he’d seen it all through the looking glass and he, too, was angry.

  Good.

  They gathered in the common room. Despite the heat below decks, none bothered stripping off coats or hats. Some didn’t even bother sitting—Sam paced, fists clenched at his sides, and Ton-Ton was in the pantry, taking down the canned goods and neatly restacking them. Mel forced herself into a chair and unwound her scarf. It felt like giving up, admitting defeat. But she had to set a proper example.

  Hindral was in the kitchen, preparing a pot of cafei. He was whistling softly, almost under his breath, as though nothing was amiss. And on the surface, Mel supposed nothing was. They were all alive, that was something. She wished it could be enough.

  “Hindral, when you’re done there, maybe you can rouse our boy.” The words came out hard and jagged, meant to cut. Unintentionally, but again, the pressure had to come out somehow.

  He nodded gamely, loping over with a glass of water, not giving any indication he’d even noticed her tone.

  Jarvis had laid Sildrian on the table. Standing over him, Hindral dumped the glass onto Sildrian’s face.

  The clockwork man came awake nearly at once, coughing and sputtering. “What are you trying to do?” He coughed, wiped at his face and eyes. “What is the meaning of this? Where…” Sildrian looked around. Eyes widened as understanding came. “Oh no. We have to go back.”

  “Back? We’re lucky to have gotten away in the first.” Pressure was building behind her eyes, spreading into her forehead. Pounding with each beat of her heart.

  Sildrian jumped off the table. Glancing at the faces around him. “Well don’t just stand there! We need to go back, before it’s too late!”

  “Before what’s too late? Our chance at escaping this befouled air?” Mel laughed darkly. “That ship has shipped. Thanks for your help on that account. Now we can wander the Fog until our food and water runs out. And then we’ll all die. The end. How’s that for a bedtime story?”

  “Captain, please—I’m begging you. We need to go back. It might not be too late to save her.”

  “Her?” Mel slumped back in her chair, unsure if she felt like laughing or screaming. “Let’s see if I have the facts: you failed at the thieving because of some fairie girl?”

  “I didn’t fail, Captain. The Stout came before I could try.”

  “That’s not what they’d have us believe.” Sildrian’s satchel had been stuffed with crystals, overflowing onto the bridge. Framed, but why?

  “Who was this girl?” Taul crouched, putting him at eye-level with Sildrian.

  “Her name is Freda.”

  “Somebody important?”

  “To me.” His eyes were shining. “They’re going to hurt or. Or make her disappear.”

  “I don’t care if she’s the Crown’s own daughter.” Mel stood. “We’re not going back.” Least ways, not yet. They would go back, under cover of dark. But not tonight. They needed cool heads if they were going to steal into Fosis and make off with some crystals without rousing the Stout.

  “But… I have feelings for her.” He said this with urgent importance, as though it might explain away some great mystery of the world.

  “Bugger your feelings. They’ll be dead, along with all of us, if we don’t get some of those crystals.”

  A wave of emotions swept over that metallic face, like liquid silver rippling. He set his mouth and his eyes blazed. She wondered just how desperately he wanted to swing out those pistols of his and blast her off her feet. “Good. Now that you’re feeling like the rest of us, you can try sleeping on your anger. I’m sure you’ll like it. Makes for a comfortable bed.”

  CHAPTER 8

  When Cold Winds Blow

  Icy winds whipped the moon-soaked deck of the Misty Morning. The ship rocked gently as it hovered in place, timbers creaking and moaning. Nobody was at the controls, though Taul was in the command cabin. Somewhere. The lights had been out for exactly twenty-seven minutes and fifteen seconds. It had been an inexorable wait, the seconds somehow seeming to stretch to match the glacial pace of his ticking bomb in this frigid air.

  Hunched in the shadows of a pair of barrels lashed to the deck, Sil had promised himself he would wait exactly thirty minutes from the time the light went out before making his move. But he could bear the wait no longer. Each passing second it felt like some part of his internals came unraveled. If he lingered here any longer, surely his mind would come apart in a spray of bolts and springs. There was a modicum of comfort in that thought though. Madness would be an end to the suffering.

  He sprung across the deck, running fast and low. The raft bobbed beside the starboard railing. Thick shadows collected in the raft’s interior, beckoning. Sil climbed the railing and leapt into the raft. There was a soft thunk as his boots struck wood. He grasped the rope and frantically worked the knot.

  “Going someplace?”

  Sil’s heart leapt into the back of his throat. He spun.

  A dark shape separated from the shadows at the back of the raft. A flame sparked. Yellow light played off the figure’s scopic goggles as he lit the cigarro dangling from his lips.

  “Taul.”

  “Sildrian.” He inhaled sharply, held his breath, and sighed with obvious relief. “Going someplace?”

  “Indeed. Thought I would go about on patrol.” Dear heavens, was that a lie he just told? He supposed that, strictly speaking, it wasn’t. He did mean to circle about and see if he could discover what came of Freda. And rescue her, of course.

 
; “A patrol, is all?” The end of the cigarro flared red.

  “No. That is not all. I think you know what I intend to do.” Rope still in hand, he angled his body so that it was behind his back. His fingers went to work.

  Taul didn’t answer. He exhaled.

  “I suppose Captain Locke put you up to this?”

  “She thought you might try for the raft, is all.”

  “And that is her, then? Asleep at the controls?” The knot loosened noticeably.

  “I was afraid how much longer you might make me wait. Toes are getting cold, is all.”

  “Why is she so set against me? Even now, after all that we’ve been through. She does not trust me.”

  The raft bobbed as Taul shifted on the bench. “You play her wrong. If she didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be here. She feels responsible for what happened.”

  “It was her idea.” All at once, the knot dissolved, resolving back to simple rope. He kept a tight grip on the line so the raft’s bow didn’t start to drift.

  “She’ll do anything to protect us. Even things that look untoward in the light of day.” He puffed smoke, watched it fade away. “It’s not easy being the one everyone looks to, is all.”

  Sil fell silent. One knot was undone. There was the other though, the rope nearest Taul. His pistol would make short, if loud, work of that one. But that didn’t account for his unwelcome guest. There could be no more stalling. “Taul. Please. I like you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “But you will, if I don’t stand aside.”

  Sil produced his free hand from around his back, only the hand was gone, swiveling away on the wrist hinge.

  Even in the dark, there was no mistaking the motion. “I see,” Taul said quietly.

  “Kindly step back onto the ship, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “I haven’t forgotten the last time you pointed one of those at me.” His voice was matter-of-fact, dryly reciting history.

  “Step out then. I’d hate to ruin your good shoulder.”

  Taul chuckled. “And what do I tell our captain?”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  “No I won’t. I’m not leaving.”

  Sil’s insides suddenly constricted painfully. He was caught in a workman’s vice. And look, here comes the anvil to smash his face in. “Taul, please. I don’t want to shoot you.” But he would. He wasn’t sure before, but now that the moment was upon him, he knew that he could.

  “Put aside the gun. I’m coming with you, is all.”

  Sil’s gun lowered of its own accord. “Truly?”

  Taul took a final, savoring draw of his cigarro and then mashed it on the bottom of his boot heel. “I had a love, once.”

  “This isn’t some trick? I’m warning you…”

  “No trick.” There was a soft shink as he produced a long, serrated knife. Moonlight danced along the edge. The knot disintegrated in one quick, savage blow, and then they were adrift. “If we’re quick about it, mayhap Mel will never know.”

  Sil was skeptical about that, but Captain Locke was a concern for the future. A wave of relief crashed over him, driving him to sit. He had been willing to go alone. This was better. “Thank you.”

  The engine rumbled to life and then they were speeding through the night, the Fairie lights of Fosis glittering below.

  They brought the raft down outside of Fosis, into the Fog. It was slow going, dodging tree branches that suddenly emerged from the gloom. It would’ve been faster to land in Fosis and walk, but they risked encountering Stout on patrol.

  The dwarves had marched Freda into the Fog, Taul explained on the way down. He’d seen it all from above, through the looking glass. Three had gone in, and some long minutes later, only the dwarves had returned. Freda was still in the Fog.

  Sil tried not to linger on how much time had passed since she’d gone in—two hours, forty-two minutes, six seconds—or calculate her probability of surviving so long. But although he was alive, he was also a machine, and he couldn’t help but think on such things. It would’ve been easier to stop the spinning of his own heart.

  Probability suggested she was long dead. He stubbornly clung to hope, even while he recognized the futility of it.

  The raft nestled into a dry creek bed lined with moss-covered stones. Taul levered a few of them into the raft to keep it from floating away and then they moved on.

  The Fog limited visibility to mere feet. Taul frowned at the shifting mists. “It’s even worse down here.” His voice sounded muffled, pressed upon. “They took her someplace north of town, is all. Only…” He spun in a circle. “Which way might that be?”

  “Follow me.” Sil hurried through the brush, leaping the rotting corpses of fallen trees. As it was, he perfectly knew which way was north. His confidence faltered after a dozen steps. North and south had changed directions. He turned around, nearly running into Taul. Retreating to the creek bed. Now east was north.

  It was the Fog, of course. It had hampered their ability to navigate the skies. Why hadn’t he realized it would be the same—or worse—on the ground?

  Frustration welled up. A new possibility sprung to mind, perfectly realized: two corpses, one tall and dark, the other short and silvery.

  Something rustled through the brush nearby. Sil could hear indistinct voices, little better than faint murmuring. Nobody should be in the Fog, not at this hour.

  They followed. As they closed the distance, a blue light brightened the Fog, thinning it.

  Abruptly the Fog ended, and for a moment, Sil thought they’d stumbled back to Fosis. But no, this was a different kind of clearing. Smaller, and altogether more sinister.

  Spears had been shoved into the ground in a rough circle twenty feet wide. Fit to the end of the spears and burning brightly was the blue fire of the Fairie stones. The spears were spaced three feet apart and the Fog collected in the gaps. Not only the Fog: dark shapes moved in those pockets, straining to reach the clearing’s center. The crystals blazed with light, but the outermost ones were flickering, like a flame caught in a breeze. Soon they would go out, one by one, and the darkness would come rushing in.

  Six short men in dark robes stood in a half-circle around three wooden poles staked into the middle of the clearing. Not men, but dwarves. They were chanting monotone words in a disquieting sort of harmony that put a shiver down Sil’s spine.

  Though he could not see who was tied to the stake, there was no question in his mind. Freda.

  Taul’s knife whispered as he pulled the blade. He locked eyes with Sil and nodded.

  The dragon pistols clicked into place.

  Sil charged forward, running low. He closed to a dozen paces.

  The dragon pistols snarled, spitting fire.

  The two hooded figures at the center went down in a cloud of red. Abruptly, the chanting cut off mid-word. Cloaks flared as the dwarves spun around. They had blades under their robes and they pulled them out.

  The dwarves no longer blocked the stakes from sight. Freda hung limply on a chain clamped around her wrists. Her face was dirtied with dried blood. She stirred at the noise, blinking open confused eyes.

  Sil pumped his forearms, reloading.

  The dwarves closed ranks, standing between him and Freda. The one in the center threw back his hood. Thadon, commander of the Stout. His face was contorted, the forked braids of his beard bobbing as he ground his teeth. “You.”

  A knife came whistling through the air, flashing like a silvered fish in a river. It embedded in Thadon’s chest and quivered there. The dwarf blinked at the knife. He touched it with a shaking hand and then collapsed.

  The remaining dwarves charged with frenzied battle cries. Sil’s pistols puffed smoke. Two more went down.

  The last dwarf leapt at him, his sword arching out. Sil threw himself backward. The sword’s tip traced a line of fire across his cheek.

  They crashed to the brush. Rolling, kicking. The dwarf came up on top, crushing the breath from Sil’s lungs. He squi
rmed, trying to bring his guns to bear, but the dwarf was too heavy.

  Grunting and spitting in Sil’s face, the dwarf worked his sword arm free and levered himself up to deliver the final blow.

  Taul appeared behind the dwarf. He plucked the blade from the dwarf’s fingers, spun it around, reversing the grip, and plunged it through the dwarf’s back. The dwarf startled and slumped to the ground.

  Freda was alert when Sil came to her. She winced as he worked the gag free of her mouth.

  “Better?”

  “Yes.”

  Taul rattled the chains. “No way to cut these. There’s a lock here. Where might be the key?”

  “Thadon,” she said. “He has the key.”

  Taul frowned at the bodies littering the clearing. “Gone. With my favorite knife.”

  The light dimmed as one of the Fairie Fire went out. The roiling black shapes in the mist pushed toward the center. The entire ring of crystals dimmed dangerously before restoring.

  Taul eyed the shadows. “We haven’t much time.”

  “Stand still a moment.” Sil clambered up Taul’s back.

  “Mind the shoulder, is all.”

  Taking careful aim, Sil unloaded on the stake where the chains were moored. Splinters flew. The gouge was deep, but the bolt holding the chains ran clear through the stake.

  Another crystal winked out. The creatures of the Fog pushed close enough that Sil could hear the snapping of their teeth.

  Freda whimpered. “Hurry, Mister.”

  The dragon pistols bit through the stake. The upper half toppled, tumbling into the Fog.

  Taul grasped the chains and pulled them free of the jagged end. Sil jumped down, landing beside Freda in a crouch. Her hands were still bound together by the manacles. She slipped them around his neck and sobbed against his chest. “You came.”

  Sil slipped free of her grasping hands. “We need to leave this place. Can you walk?”

  She nodded. The chains pooled around her feet, a black iron tail seven feet long.