Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3) (10 page)

Calidae retraced her paces through the warrens of Clovenhall, her route now embedded in her mind, thanks to a surreptitious practice, post-dinner. She walked casually; not sneaking but strolling. That way, it would be easier to claim trouble with sleep, or natural curiosity. Maybe even an upset of the stomach that only a walk could cure.

Padding down the grand stairs into Clovenhall’s atrium, she turned away from the main door and chose one better suited to her needs. The corridors were still empty. A few servants were tending to balls of bread dough in the kitchens; half-kneading, half-dozing. They bowed to her, and she nodded.

Calidae escaped into the night through the servant’s door and soon found herself on a wet gravel path leading around the mansion. She let her memory guide her, imagining she was walking the carpets. She followed the walls, careful to stay nonchalant, almost bored, should anybody be peeking from the windows; many of which still glowed despite the silence, weaving a patchwork of yellows and oranges through the mighty stone.

Turning a corner onto a dark section of the grounds, she stopped to play at tying a shoe before gazing up at the stars. Imperceptibly, her eyes moved back to the windows. Only two glowed in this part of the northeast wing; one high up in the spiralling tower above her, and another several floors from the topiary bushes. Even in the dark, Calidae could see the thick bars crossing the window-frame.

She plucked two small stones from the path as she straightened up. She yawned and stretched, and as she brought her hands down she flung one of the stones up at the window. The lump of gravel tapped against the glass; a snap of twig in the darkness. Calidae stared at the night sky as if still stargazing, one eye watching the window.

She was about to throw the other stone when she noticed a twitch in the curtains. A small face, black in the contrast of the bedroom lanterns, peered out through a crack. It looked man-shaped, at least. Calidae stared up, and hoping he could see her, nodded slowly. The face vanished from behind the curtain. With a grunt she walked back the way she came.

Inside, Calidae was halfway up the stairs when a voice stopped her.

‘It’s late to be taking walks about the place.’ It was gruff, undeniably Empire. She turned to find Hanister lingering on the carpet below, plucking at his teeth with something silver and sharp.

‘I can’t sleep,’ she replied quietly. ‘It’s strange, being back in a proper bed.’

‘I suspect so, after all that roasting desert,’ said Hanister. ‘I went out there once, when I was younger. Iowa, hot as hell.’

‘Fascinating.’

‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘Your face.’ Hanister was certainly not backwards in coming forwards. Perhaps he was trying to rattle her. He should be so lucky.

Calidae raised her chin. ‘Not that it is any of your business, Mr Hanister, but no, it does not. It did, but no longer. A kind woman’s salve, fresh sea air, and time saw to that.’

Hanister grunted, eyeing her. ‘So, this boy. What’s his name?’

‘Tonmerion Hark,’ Calidae hissed. She barely needed to act it; the boy was still hers, when all of this was done. She refused to forget it.

‘Hark, yeah. Him. Must be a big lad, to beat a Brother down with nothing but a stool.’

‘Not as big as you think. He was rushing.’

‘Interesting that he didn’t finish you off,’ Hanister hummed.

‘Perhaps there is a shred of decency in him after all,’ she sighed. ‘Now if that will be all…’

‘For now, Miss.’

‘My Lady.
’

Hanister grinned and bowed. ‘Milady.’

Calidae flashed him a smile and carried on up the stairs. She walked slowly and carefully back to her room, not wanting to seem in a hurry. No doubt there were other eyes watching from the corners of Clovenhall.

Once the door was shut and locked, she let out a slow breath. When her heart had calmed, she looked at her hands in the dim light of her room. If she looked hard, she could still see the blood, dripping onto ruby grass, dancing in the light of the Bloodmoon.
Gavisham’s blood
.

Calidae slapped her hands together.

THE CLOUDY BELLE

29th July, 1867

‘I
hate flyin’,’ Lurker grumbled for the third time since leaving the grand steps of the Ivory House that morning. ‘Ain’t natural.’ To Lurker, flight was just hot air and hope, all bundled into something with sharp propellors and a lot of metal.

‘You said that already,’ said Lilain, hands stuffed into her britches. Long Tom the Third was slung over her shoulder, chinking softly against the belt of bullets that kept the rifle company. ‘And if you say it one more time, I’ll throw you in the Potomac.’

‘Good. Then I can swim to the Empire instead.’

Lilain shot him a look wrapped in ice. ‘Enough of your darn moanin’, John Hobble. I won’t hear another peep out of you. It’s bad enough you hecklin’ me to stay and watch the execution.’

‘Don’t you want to see them child-killers hang?’

‘I do, but I ain’t waiting around for another two weeks to see it done. We’re needed now, and time’s a-wasting.’

Lurker tugged at the brim of his new hat. ‘Apparently so.’ The sting of Merion’s departure was still sore.

‘We’ve been through this. Merion has no doubt cooked up another one of his schemes, and going by the success of his last two, then he’ll be needing our help. Especially if he’s with that high-born harlot Calidae Serped. I ain’t that proud to not give it, abandonment or not.’

‘You never know.’ Lurker waved a hand. ‘Third time lucky, they say.’

Lilain tutted. ‘Come on. We’ve got a job to do.’

They were on the hunt for an airship, and even in a busy capital like Washingtown, that was harder than it sounded. They had already been denied by five different captains. Since the attempt on Lincoln’s life, and the breakout of war in the east, the Empire had fallen out of favour, and trade across the Iron Ocean had diminished. Sugar and chocolate from the southern Americas seemed to be far more interesting, and closer too. Besides, the Endless Land had its own war to worry about. The western frontier still burnt with the fire of the Buffalo Snake’s anger, and most of the airships that clamoured around Washingtown’s docking towers were carrying powder, guns, and supplies for the western forts.

As they walked they craned their necks, watching the swarms of airships and airskiffs battling for space in the sky. The droning of the engines made it impossible to keep their voices low. ‘Surely one of these darn windbags’ll be able to take us!’ Lurker hollered.

Lilain was busy staring at the markings of the lumbering great craft floating above them. ‘Well if none of the passenger or trader ships’ll take us, maybe some of the cargo or salvage runners will. Might cost us a pretty florin, though. Weight’s everything to them.’

Lurker jingled his pockets. Prospecting might have been thin in the capital, but generosity had flowed. Lincoln had not only furnished them with new clothes and supplies, but a fistful of coin each to help them on their way. Lurker had lost count of how many times he’d bowed and thanked the man. He scrunched up his face and grunted, keeping his voice low.

‘Well, for once, we ain’t short of wealth. Where was Lincoln back in Fell Falls, hmm?’

Lilain just shrugged in reply.

An hour of walking led them to the tallest of the docking towers, where all sorts of air-vessels came to congregate, like misshapen barnacles on a submerged mast. The huge feat of construction easily dwarfed the unfinished Spike a mile or two behind them. For now at least. Lurker had to tip his hat to stare up at its peak. He stared at a fat zeppelin as it tried and failed to dock, having trouble in the breeze. Its tail swung dangerously close to a nearby airskiff, and he couldn’t help but shudder. ‘It ain’t right to fly,’ he said. ‘If it was the Maker that forged us, he didn’t give us wings for a reason.’

Lilain whacked him on the arm. ‘Technology is a marvellous thing, Lurker. You’d best embrace it or you’ll get left behind.’

‘Behind suits me just fine. Least it’ll be quiet.’ Lurker’s gaze stayed fixed on the zeppelin. It had never been the habit of industry to settle for small and simple. He wondered how such a thing stayed aloft. His eyes took in her two-dozen silver engines, the blur of her mighty propellers, and her sleek green hull ribbed with red metal struts and spines. It was like an iceberg of the sky; short on grace, yet full of power. It seemed a precarious sort of arrangement.

As he gawped at the airship, Lurker felt a shiver up his spine; that old familiar feeling of eyes on his back. Unwanted and unwelcome. He sniffed, tasting the air. ‘Is it me, or do you get the feelin’ we’re bein’ watched?’ he asked, voice barely audible over the roar of engines above.

Lilain bent to tie her bootlaces while she took a sly look around. The crowds were thick and tightly compressed, full of strange people from distant lands. Lurker stared about suspiciously. Maybe his old habits were getting the better of him.

‘A man in a hood,’ whispered Lilain. ‘Beard. To your back and left. Definitely not from around here.’ Lurker flicked her a thumb to let her know he’d heard. He didn’t dare turn to look. She got to her feet and joined him in staring up at the sky.

Clearing his throat, Lurker dipped a hand into his jacket and pulled out his knife, fresh from the sharpener’s wheel. He handed it to Lilain. Long Tom was no use in close quarters, and close was all the crowd could afford them. He put a hand to the Mistress, sitting in his belt.

‘Let’s walk on and see what he does,’ Lilain suggested, nodding to a wide board at the far end of the street, covered with posters, notices, and scraps of paper. ‘You go ahead. I’ll hang back.’

He agreed with a blink and she walked ahead to examine the board. Lurker rejoined the flow of the crowd and moved past her, turning right and then into another alleyway, making sure she saw him. He tucked himself against the wall and waited, pretending to roll a cigarette. The Mistress waited patiently by his side, pining to be of use. Lurker patted her in reassurance.

A swift peek around the carved white stone of the wall told him he was not the target. The man was nowhere to be seen. In fact, he had barely moved, still slouching against a lamp-post, hood down and silent. It was only when Lilain moved that he stood up straighter. Every step Lilain took was echoed several yards behind her. Every turn anticipated. The man was a professional, that was for sure.

Lurker ducked into a hollow doorway and let Lilain pass. She was already holding the knife against her chest. He sniffed as their follower passed, tasting foreign scents. Tobacco. A hint of whisky. Threads from another shore. He smelled like Merion; like Empire dirt, and rain.

Lilain was clever. She left the main thoroughfare between the tall warehouses and sauntered through the narrower streets, playing casual. Lurker hung back, fondling the pistol’s handle, ready to draw. He wondered whether the hooded man had come to exact Dizali’s revenge, or to silence a pair of loose threads. It didn’t really matter; he would still end up with a bullet in his brain. Lurker had left his sense of mercy to die in the desert a long time ago.

The man was closing the gap, smartly so, taking more of the flagstones with each stride, arms still firmly kept in pockets. Lurker followed suit, stretching his legs.

‘Pardon me, madam,’ barked the stranger, voice echoing off the stone of the alley. Empire and no doubt about it; a London accent like Merion’s, but rougher on the ears. Lurker kept moving as Lilain turned, her expression nonchalant. Her knife was now hidden in her pocket.

‘Yes, sir?’ she replied.

‘I just wanted a word…’

The moment the man’s hands left their pockets, Lurker pounced. He surged forward, seizing his arms and slamming him up against the wall. There was a muffled grunt as his face met the stone. The man was strong; Lurker could feel it in the hardness of his muscles. He grit his teeth and strained to keep the stranger still. He was about to slam him against the wall again, to see if that knocked any sense into him, when the man dropped to his knees. He slid out of Lurker’s grasp like a snake, bending the prospector’s wrists into a sharp angle and throwing him against the stone. Lurker blinked as lights burst behind his eyes. His wrists were aflame. The hands that held them were like steel. Lurker was not used to being bested. He didn’t like it one darned bit.

Lurker felt a tug at his belt. There was a sharp click as something cold and metallic was cocked. He felt the man freeze. People tended to do that when a gun barrel was pressed against their temples.

‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let him go,’ hissed Lilain. ‘Nice and slowly now. No more neat tricks.’ She was standing side-on, arm outstretched, finger itching on the trigger.

The man stayed silent and still.

‘Are you deaf as well as dumb?’ Lilain jabbed him with the gun one more time. The man released his hold and stepped backwards with his hands held to the sky. Lurker hoisted back his hood with one hand and socked him squarely in the jaw with the other. Whoever he was, he was tough as nails. He took the punch like a tree-trunk, barely flinching. Lurker’s hand ached more than he would have liked.

A short crop of dark hair clung to the man’s grubby scalp. His beard was bushy, and tangled at the edges. His eyes were so dark they bordered on black, and they stared unflinchingly down the barrel of the Mistress. He wore simple clothes; no sigils or coats of arms in sight, especially not a tiger and eagle. He had no gun; just a long jacket with a hood. He looked part waif, part stray dog, and altogether dangerous. He was far from what Lurker had expected from Dizali. If anything, he felt like he was looking into a strange mirror.

‘On your knees!’ ordered Lilain. The man flashed some teeth in annoyance, and then dropped to his knees.

‘And hands behind your head.’ Lurker took Lilain’s knife and waved it in the man’s face, trying to elicit some hatred, some emotion, instead of the blank stare he wore.

Lilain prodded him with the Mistress again. ‘Who are you?’

‘And what do you want?’ added Lurker.