“That’s the spirit. See you in a tick.” Atwell hung up.
***
From his airship high above, Benedict Caine surveyed the sprawling compound of the Marquis of Bixbury; an expansive manor house, manicured gardens, and a large stable bordered on one side by a series of fenced-in fields. When he raised his spyglass toward the Hummingbird, Poleax Longworth was sashaying across the deck in thick leather gloves, chest-high rubber waders, and a clothespin, which was clamped over the bridge of his nose. “That rapscallion is up to something,” Benedict muttered. “Make it up to me, my foot.”
Junior’s Stratustarian touched down inside the well-trodden pasture beside the stables. The structure was dark, but Caine knew better than to expect a flawless execution on Junior’s part. His men rappelled to the ground and began to creep toward the building, where a dozen prized stallions lay at rest… or whatever horses did when they weren’t running around.
As Junior’s men crossed the pasture, Poleax’s ship came down on the opposite side of the building, whose doors opened onto the unfenced portion of the grounds.
Benedict slapped his forehead. “Blimey codwagger. Parsons, get me Poleax on the line.”
It was too late. Junior’s crew, perhaps thinking Poleax knew something they didn’t, flooded through the stable and opened its front doors. A stampede of confused, testosterone-flooded stallions burst onto the open plains. Poleax’s crew, still getting into position, scrambled after them. Without bit or bridle, however, the horses proved tricky to catch.
“Use ropes from the ship, you dolts,” Benedict said to himself. “Make lasses, or whatever you call them.”
They didn’t. When Parsons brought the radioman above, trailing wire behind him, Caine held out his hand. He kept his eyes locked on the chaos below until he felt the bell-shaped receiver on his palm, then lifted it to his lips. “Poleax? What in heaven’s name are you and those blundering buffoons doing down there?”
“We’re trying to catch them, Ben.”
“Well you’re making a bloody fiasco of it, aren’t you? Those fences on the other side of the stables are there for a reason.”
“What’s that?”
“The fences. They’re there to keep the horses contained, you numbskull. Not to mention all the tack and harness probably hanging in the stables. You’ve plenty of rope aboard the Hummingbird, haven’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Then I suggest you start using it.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” The line went dead.
Across the yard at the manor house, a light went on in one of the windows.
“Crumbs and crumpets,” Benedict cursed. “That’s the end of that.” He nearly called the whole thing off right then, but decided to let Poleax’s crew work a little longer.
Poleax organized several two-man teams, one man holding each end of a long strand of rope. He then sent them toward the horses from different directions, hoping to corral them. The horses seemed unable to see the ropes, much less be contained by them. The animals ran through them like racers at a finish line, dragging their bearers behind them.
More lights came on inside the Marquis’s manor. A side door opened and half a dozen men spilled out into the night, pulling on their trousers and hefting rifled muskets. That was when Benedict decided it was time to go. He held out a hand. No one put anything into it.
He looked over to find the radioman disappearing belowdecks, taking up armfuls of wire as he went. “Come back here, uh… Parsons, what’s that man’s name?”
“Stedman, sir.”
“Stedman,” he shouted. “Get back here with that radio.”
Stedman returned and handed Benedict the receiver.
Benedict began shouting into it. “Poleax, you blithering twit. Tie a slipknot in the rope and fling it round the horses’ necks. That’s the way to… lasser… a horse. Poleax? Hello?”
“Haven’t called anyone yet, sir,” said Stedman. “It’s the Hummingbird you want?”
“Confound it. Yes of course it’s the Hummingbird I want.”
Stedman called. They waited.
“What’s the hold up?”
“No one’s answering, Commodore.”
“Try again.”
Stedman tried again. There was no answer the second time either.
In the pasture behind the stables, Junior’s men were scrambling aboard the Stratustarian, even as the great behemoth left the ground. Meanwhile, the Marquis’s men were approaching the stables, torches lit and weapons raised. The Hummingbird’s crew were scattered across the fields now. To Benedict’s surprise, a few of them were actually beginning to catch the stallions. The clever ones had figured out how to use their ropes the right way, and were leading captured animals up the wide gangplank to the ship.
A musket blazed in the night, yellow spark and white flame. Shouts filled the air. Poleax’s men returned a volley, flintlocks by the handful. One of the Marquis’s men fell, clutching his chest.
The crack of cannon fire nearly sent Benedict overboard, a chest-pounding boom that made the muskets’ pops sound puny by comparison. A bay window on the manor house caved in. The turret above it toppled over like something made of blocks. The Marquis’s men dove to the grass, covering their heads and turning back to gaze at the destruction. A celebratory shout went up from the Hummingbird as it left the ground. The airship followed the Stratustarian into the night sky, leaving behind a significant portion of its crew and more than half the horses.
“You can’t be serious,” Caine breathed, numb with disbelief. “Parsons…”
“Yessir?”
“Did that just happen?”
“I believe it did, sir.”
“Get us out of here. And tomorrow morning, reassign Stedman to the Moonmist.”
It was well-known among the fleet’s crew that being reassigned to the Moonmist was Commodore Caine’s premiere method of punishment. Worse than being dismissed outright, it meant a perpetual term of service under the command of his daughter Misty.
Stedman went pale. “No… please, sir, I didn’t—”
“Get out of my sight, Stedman. I’m in no mood to be groveled to. A true radioman might know a thing or two about placing calls that are answered in a timely fashion.”
Chapter 6
Supper was getting cold, and so was Gertrude Caine. “Your father isn’t at home. Where the devil has he gone?”
Vivian unfolded her napkin across her lap and sat up in her chair, wishing she possessed the power to blend in with it like a chameleon. Misty and Lily sat across the table, the latter still pink-faced and sniffling as she stroked Mr. Freckles, the orange cat in her lap. Vivian said a silent prayer, wishing for her mother to call on one of her sisters first.
“Vivian? Did you hear what I said?”
Vivian shut her eyes. “I heard you, Mother. It is rather impossible to get everyone together for dinner anymore, isn’t it…”
“That goes without saying,” Gertrude said. “And it isn’t what I asked.”
“If I knew where Father was, don’t you think I’d tell you?”
“No, as a matter of fact I do not. What I think you would do is to try to finagle your way out of it by answering a question with a question, as you have done just now, thereby leaving the burden of proof to be determined by my opinion of you. Which, at the moment, is rather low.”
Vivian caught Misty’s smug grin and glowered back at her. There was no fooling Mother. “Father and Junior and Poleax went to Bixbury to steal some horses. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“I most certainly did. This is the first I’ve heard of it at all. Horses? What in heaven’s name does your father want with horses?”
“What does he ever want with anything, Mother?”
“A profit, I’ll wager,” said Misty.
“Very good,” Vivian said. “A regular savant, this one.”
“Sod off.”
“Girls. Just because your father is away doesn’t mean
it’s free reign to tear each other’s heads off.”
“I’ll tear Viv’s tits off and make her wear them for earmuffs,” said Misty.
Mother rubbed her temples. “Alright. Forget it. Mr. Davies, please have my daughters’ dinners delivered to their rooms. Mine as well, while you’re at it. I’ve had enough of this family for the time being.”
The butler lifted his dark brow and nodded. “Yes, milady.”
“Goodnight, girls.”
Gertrude Caine shuffled off, leaving the three sisters alone in the dining room to sit in silence. Vivian knew better than to be drawn in by her mother’s feigned irritation, however. Mother was far too unflappable to let something so small bother her so much. It was a testament to her cunning that a woman who hardly batted an eye at cannon fire and robbery could make her children believe a tiff at dinner was enough to faze her. Something was going on, and Vivian was going to find out what it was.
“We’ve got to follow her,” Misty said.
“I can see I’m not alone in my suspicions,” said Lily.
“Nor am I,” Vivian admitted. “Right then. Let’s not all crowd in at once. A thing like this requires finesse.”
***
Alexander Atwell’s breath smelled of expensive alcohol, his collar of exotic perfume. Jonathan guessed he hadn’t paid a chip for either of them. Nor had he financed the whitewashed castle he lived in, the expansive property surrounding it, or the army of servants who kept it all intact. Everything that had once belonged to Alexander’s late parents was now his alone, only child that he was.
Atwell released Jonathan from a long embrace and held his childhood friend at arm’s length by the shoulders. Despite the moisture in Jonathan’s clothing from the drizzle coming down outside, Alexander hadn’t spared him a second look before wrapping him in one of his customary greetings. “I’ve missed you, old bean. So good of you to offer a helping hand.”
Jonathan refrained from pointing out that Alexander had made his request for help almost impossible to refuse. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“Right this way.” Alexander led Jonathan through the house’s echoing grand foyer and past several luxurious rooms, every one of them updated to give the castle a homier feel. They came to a side door, which opened onto a hangar-like garage filled with vehicles of every kind and color.
Jonathan had been to Alex’s house many times. There seemed no end to his family’s wealth—and since his parents’ death, no shortage of ways by which he seemed intent on pacifying himself with it.
“It’s this old thing,” Atwell said, kicking the rear tire of an antique motorcar, a roadster with a blue-jay paint job. “I’ve had a bit of trouble with it, and I was wondering if you might take a look.”
“I’m no automobile mechanic, I’m afraid,” Jonathan said.
Alex laughed. “Oh, listen to you. Always the humorist. Come round here.”
Alex circled to the front of the vehicle. One of the headlights was shattered, the fender dented and scratched, the grill mangled. On the floor lay a long, thin heap with a large picnic blanket thrown over top of it.
A chill ran down Jonathan’s spine. “What is that?”
“It’s what I wanted you to take a look at,” Alex said, his smile fading.
“Is that a… a person?”
“If you include the more provincial among us, then yes, I suppose it is.”
“Gods, Alex. You killed someone?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions, old bean. After all, I’m not certain she’s entirely dead.”
Jonathan blinked at him, then rushed to the heap and threw off the blanket. A woman lay beneath, eyes closed, breaths so shallow Jonathan could hardly tell she was alive at all. Her clothes were damp and mud-caked. She shivered when the blanket came off; whether a twitch or a chill, Jonathan couldn’t tell.
“Why didn’t you take her to a hospital?” he screamed. “There’s one just down the road, isn’t there?”
“I’m afraid I’m quite drunk,” Alex said.
“And what good did you think it would do to drive in this condition to begin with?”
“That’s just it, you see. I was hoping you could use your newfound influence to sort of… clean all this up.”
“What kind of power do you imagine I have?”
“You’re a man of the cloth. I’ll wager your testimony ought to be worth its weight in gold chips. Which I am more than willing to pay, of course. Not to mention I thought you might see fit to consecrate the body before she joins the great beyond.”
Jonathan was hysterical. “This is not a body. It’s a woman. When you first called, you thought I was a pilot. What did you suppose I could do for you then?”
“Why, fly her to the hospital, of course.”
“Alex, come on. This is… even for you, this is… I’ve gotten you out of some pretty big jams, but…”
“So you’ll do it, then?”
“Do what? I’m not a priest. I’m a sky marshal captain.”
“Dear gods, man. How many hobbies have you picked up in the last five years?”
“It isn’t a hobby. It’s my job. It’s how people who don’t have money pass the time.”
“Like a dare, you mean?”
Jonathan ignored him. “Madam. Madam, can you hear me?”
The woman opened her eyes, but didn’t speak.
“I’ll have to move you. Can you tell me where it hurts?”
She flicked her gaze onto him. When she moved her lips, what came out was only a whisper. “Every… where.”
Alex was still trying to figure out what a job was. “No? More like an allowance then, is it?”
“For cripes’ sake, Alex. Shut up and help me with her.”
“Are we burying her already?”
“Lift her into the back seat of the car. Not this one. The red one over there.”
The woman groaned when they hoisted her up. They laid her along the wide bench seat in the back of an apple-red sedan. Jonathan bundled the blanket beneath her head to make her as comfortable as he could. “Get me the keys.”
“What, to my father’s favorite auto?”
“Frankly, right now I wouldn’t care if this motorcar belonged to the Regent himself. This poor woman needs help. Give me the keys and get in.”
Alex went over to a box on the wall and opened the engraved wooden door. Inside were row upon row of keys on small metal rings. He wiggled his fingers until he came to the right one. “Ah. Here we are.” He returned and handed the key to Jonathan.
“Right. Now get in.”
That was when Jonathan realized Alex wasn’t coming. He could see it on Alex’s face; a half-scared, half-stubborn look of resistance. Jonathan had neither the time nor the energy to scold Alex for his cowardice. The look he shot back at his boyhood friend said everything it needed to.
The car started up like a charm. Jonathan peeled the tires and sped out into the rain, leaving behind the friend whose lack of sense had often baffled him, but whose loyalty had never faltered. Jonathan thought of the crown jewels still aboard the Maelstrom, and of the dying woman in the seat behind him, and of his crew, whose loyalty he hadn’t yet earned, and who would almost certainly doubt his return if he stayed away for more than a few hours.
***
Mandrake Hollow was not a happy place for Junior Caine, Poleax Longworth, or the crews of their respective airships. Benedict had the crews of both the Hummingbird and the Stratustarian lined up like convicts at a prison welcoming. He strolled from end to end with his hands folded behind his back. Every man and woman present did their bravest not to flinch whenever Caine came near.
“That was the most magnificent cock-up I’ve ever witnessed in my life,” Caine said.
“Thank you, sir,” said Poleax, nose still pinched shut with a clothespin.
Caine yanked off the clothespin and tossed it away. “Perhaps if you weren’t plugged up like a drainpipe, you might’ve listened better and this whole disaster could’v
e been avoided.”
No one spoke. Off to the side of the formation stood a pair of tall brown stallions, bound by rope to a large boulder and stamping restlessly.
“There were twelve of these blasted creatures in that stable,” Caine continued. “How many did you get?”
Poleax stiffened. “We captured four, sir.”
Caine shot the horses a glance. “Yet I see only two.”
“Yes, well… two jumped overboard while we were aflight. These other two spent the remainder of the trip bucking and screaming and laying doodies all over my deck.”
“I beg your pardon… did you say two horses jumped overboard?”
“That’s right. One of them just leapt for it. The other followed a few minutes later. Can’t see very well in the dark, I imagine.”
“And after the first one leapt to its death, did it not occur to you that perhaps you ought to have restrained the others?”
“Oh, I doubt they were hurt. We were over the lake when they jumped, and not very high up. I’m sure they swam out fine.”
“You’d better hope so.”
“With all due respect, Ben… I don’t know horses from whores.”
“No you don’t. I can vouch for that. And I dare say you’re too ham-handed to manage a consort with either.”
Poleax cleared his throat and steeled himself. “Whilst I do apologize for my ill-preparedness, I must remind you that my inclusion in this venture was not by choice.”
“Yes, well I shan’t make that mistake again. Wait a minute. Not by choice? Who said it was anything else? Junior told me—” Caine twisted his head around to look at his son, like a snake adjusting to a new target. “Junior. So that’s the way we’re playing it…”
Junior shook his head. “No. Father, it isn’t.”
Caine smiled, a thing pleasant and insidious all at once. “Say, there, son. How would you like to bring your crew on a hunting trip with your old Dad?”
Chapter 7
Alexander Atwell’s apple-red sedan charged down the rain-soaked road, sliding and fishtailing and squirting mud through the tires. Jonathan leaned into it, gripping the wheel and driving the machine forward with every ounce of concentration he could muster. Behind him, the woman moaned. He came to a straight section of road and stomped on the gas.
At last the hospital was in sight, a three-story brick structure with keystone windows. Jonathan was almost there when a slick tearing sound shook the whole motorcar. The ground shot up in front of him like a mountain giving birth. He slammed on the brakes, sending the vehicle into a skid toward the sheer earthen wall in its path.