Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3) (13 page)

‘There’s the
Beastie
!’ bellowed a burly man standing by the door. His bushy black beard waved in the wind as if it was trying to escape his cheeks and chin.

Places were taken. Gloves donned. Ropes set. All to a frenzied rhythm.

‘What the hell is goin’ on?’ Lurker shouted in Lilain’s ear.

Lilain crept forward through the bustle, hands wavering for balance, and spied the ship in the water. It was a schooner—the quick kind—with few sails and a clockwork engine for coastal runs. She had seen them in the docks of Chicago, and knew very well the kind that sailed them. This one was painted grey, with slick tin-plated sides for cutting through the waves. It even had a cannon or two for good measure.

‘Smugglers!’ she hissed, only as loud as she dared. ‘Look!’ She waved him forward and pointed to the boat. Lurker was as unsteady as a newborn calf, tottering over the decking as if the ocean would jump in through the door at any moment.

They watched as the
Beastie
and the
Belle
aligned themselves; the strangest coupling a storm had ever seen. Ropes were flung into the air and lowered to the deck a hundred feet below. It was a precise exercise—many times practised—but that didn’t mean it was safe. The ropes had iron hooks at their tips, and even though the schooner had taken in every scrap of sail, it still had plenty of spars and rigging to catch on, or skulls to perforate. Lilain took a breath as she watched the ropes swing and dance in the wind.

Apparently, Higgis had seen her fair share of hooks gone wayward. She pointed the airship’s nose into the wind and let the ropes hit the water first. When they were thrown against the hull of the
Beastie
, they were hauled in by the sailors, who looked like termites through the driving rain; scurrying to and fro, looping the hooks through the eye-holes of ropes of boxes and crates. A lantern flashed three times from below, and more shouting filled the hold. Rough hands were put to levers, and a huge, grinding clockwork machine hidden in the rear of the hold began to rattle. There was a groan as the ropes snapped taught; then they began to rasp against their pulleys. The
Belle
lurched to one side as the weight was added. Lilain and Lurker quickly grabbed for a bulkhead to avoid being pitched into the ocean, their sea-slick hands grasping cold, shuddering metal. As Merion would have said, it was all entirely unpleasant.

‘What on Maker’s earth are you pulling up? The whole ship?!’ Lilain yelled at the nearest crew-member, a young man with a shaved head and a bright red waistcoat. He looked almost as new to the
Belle
as they were.

‘None of a passenger’s business!’ he shouted, before turning away.

Lurker shifted forward to grab him, nearly lifting him off his toes. ‘Answer the lady!’ he roared, scaring the colour from the lad’s face. ‘What are you idiots bringin’ up?’

‘Guns…’ He was mumbling, so Lurker shook some volume into him. ‘Guns!’ hissed the man, eyes flicking to the rest of the crew, knowing he was blabbing.

Lilain’s palm met her forehead yet again. ‘And we’re the ones who said we were in guns!’

‘Stand to!’ The order cut through the noise. Lilain poked her head out of the doorway, braving the spray. ‘The crates are off the deck,’ she told Lurker, before wiping her face. The prospector let the lad go, and watched him scurry off up the stairs.

The
Belle
slowly levelled as Higgis got the measure of the weight. It was short-lived satisfaction.

‘Stop the winch!’ screamed the bearded man. ‘Stop it!’

Feet pounded the deck and shouts raised as the winding machine was brought to a screeching halt. It was already too late; a vicious wave had rocked the schooner sideways, twisting a crate into the rigging and sticking it fast. The
Beastie
and the
Belle
were mortally entwined.

It quickly got worse. Lilain had to hold Lurker back against the bulkhead so he couldn’t see. The schooner was now listing. The wave had hit it hard, breaking its back and rolling it onto its side as more waves came crashing down. Tonne after tonne of iron-grey water pounded the
Beastie
’s decks, wiping them clean of men and cargo in the space of a panicked breath. Their cries were drowned by the roar of water and engines. The
Beastie
went silently to her death, capsizing on the next wave. The sea buried her with no ceremony.

‘Bloody hell!’ the bearded man yelled, eyes wide. Before he could say another word, the
Belle
lurched violently to one side and his grip was torn from the strap he clung to. He was thrown from the doorway and tumbled through space until he was swallowed by the dark face of a cresting wave.

‘Shit!’ Lurker dived for the floor. Lilain followed, fingers gripping the holes in the decking and holding fast.

‘Captain!’ one of the crew bellowed into the grille as he fought desperately to stay aboard. The storm had a taste for flesh now. ‘Carlt’s gone!
Captain!
’

The roar of the struggling engines was deafening. The
Belle
was lashed to an angry sea, helpless, sinking closer and closer to the waves with every passing moment. Lurker had spied something on the far wall and was crawling towards it. Lilain clung on, watching with slitted eyes, struggling to see through the spray and the stink of battling machinery.

Lurker made a dash for the bulkhead as the
Belle
swung around, throwing the full weight of her engines at the problem. Lilain saw what he was after: a battered old wood-axe hanging from a bolt. It took several unbearably long seconds for the prospector to seize it and slide back down. Without a word, he begin to hack at the ropes screeching in the pulleys above him. Lilain grasped his ankles as he swung again and again, leaning at a treacherous angle.

Several of the other crew members saw what he was doing. Pushing their panic aside, they drew what knives they had and began to slash at every rope they could find. They were thick bastards, but fervour bested them, and with sharp cracks they snapped one by one, their frayed ends ricocheting off the metal ceiling.

There was a horrific moment as the
Belle
lurched free, tipping them all to the back of the hold before it lurched up into the stormy sky. Every soul aboard was tossed head over heels. There were shouts as skulls and limbs were introduced to sharp corners and bulkheads.

It was then that the whole airship seemed to exhale, as the waves receded beneath them and were lost in grey cloud. At last, they headed to open sky, cargo-less, but alive.

Lilain patted Lurker’s cheek as she pushed herself up from the floor. The old injuries of Fell Falls were still as sore as ever, but now she had new ones to worry about. She winced as she rubbed the angry lump on the side of her head. Lurker had fared no better, but he’d kept hold of the axe; it was currently embedded in the metal deck. One of the crew hadn’t been so lucky. In the fall he had driven a knife through his thigh, and was screaming at the top of his lungs.

Lurker rolled over and hoisted himself up, using the axe as a crutch. He growled, fiercer than any bear Lilain had ever heard; and a letter sees her fair share of the live ones before they end up on tables, entertaining scalpels.

A few of the crew came to help, patting him heartily on the back, despite his injury, and murmuring gratitude. The doors were closed, and relative silence fell, save for the screaming of the poor lad with the knife in his femur. Everyone present took a moment to stare at a wall, shake their heads, or run their hands through their hair; whatever a man or woman must do to distill the glimpse of death’s jaws into something more manageable.

The sound of Higgis’ boots on the metal stairs shattered the silence.

‘Who’s missing?’ she asked.

‘Carlt. Fell out the door,’ said Scamp, standing at Lilain’s shoulder.

Higgis took a moment to work her gums before slapping her hand on the railing and heading back up the stairs. Her orders floated down after her. ‘Get us ship-shape. And get that man to Nibs.’

Lilain and Lurker shared a look before following Higgis to the upper deck. Gunderton met them outside their cabin door. Despite all the lurching, the screaming, and the thunder of engines and storms, he looked sleepy eyed, half-asleep even.

‘What’s all the ruckus?’ he asked, around a yawn.

Part of Lilain wanted to slap him, mostly to see what he’d do, but she refrained.

‘Are you serious?! The
Belle
nearly just sank in the sea, and you were sleeping? We could have used the darned help!’

‘Sank, eh?’ Gunderton shrugged, blinking his dark eyes. ‘I’ve slept through worse,’ he replied as he walked away. ‘Besides, I knew you could handle it.’

Now Lilain did want to slap him, but this time Lurker held her back. They watched him shut his door with a thud, and shook their heads. ‘You know, sleep does sound like a good idea.’

Lilain flicked him in his sore rib. ‘Maker, do I miss Merion.’

SECRETS

30th July, 1867

T
he morning was sharp and cold, with no promise of the warm day to come. Merion could see it in the thin shard of crystalline sky he could see between the soaring buildings.

He shifted against the stone, pulling his cloak around him for the tenth time in the last hour. He had barely slept, curled up in a hollow between a pub and a hat shop; one of which had a plumbing problem. He had collapsed there in the early hours and promptly dozed off, putting trust in the defence of plain sight. Sure enough, he had survived the night, mostly because he had camped in a well-to-do part of the city. No thuggish fishmongers or thieving butchers in sight.

He found himself chuckling privately as he watched the early risers come and go. A few spared him filthy looks, and somehow he enjoyed them, revelling in the character he played; the hooded boy, the forgotten wastrel. Anonymity at its best. He had swapped sweltering prairie for the cold cobbles of home, and he was still a stranger. Alone is a strange thing to be, in the heart of a city.

At the very least, the fun of it managed to distract him from the dull ache in his frozen backside, the pang in his empty gut, and the woozy liquor of exhaustion. He had barely snatched three hours sleep, and yet dawn had already come and gone. He had to shift himself, but his muscles weren’t answering him.

A man is not moving if he isn’t moving forwards
. His father’s words, still keeping him company after all this time. Merion had wondered whether his unprompted gems of wisdom would ever die away, or whether they were too deeply embedded, and there to stay. Deny them as he might, they always seemed to be right on the coin. Maybe when it was all over, his father’s ghost would leave him be; its job of guiding him done. Merion snorted to himself, and looked down to his side, mouth open and ready to speak. He stopped as he realised. There was no faerie sitting there. Just blank stone, water-stained and weathered. Merion grimaced, and pushed himself into the day. His back clicked in several places before he felt human again. He hoisted up his bag and set off, continuing on his journey.

Soon, he was striding down a busy thoroughfare. It may have been early, but as always the paperboys were out, rousing London from its slumber with their bellowing. The latest headlines had always been the alarm clock of the city.

Merion sauntered past their skinny ranks, eyeing their grubby hands and the papers they held, his ears well and truly pricked.

‘Queen arrested!’

‘Traitorous Queen ousted from palace!’

‘Imprisonment or death for Victorious?’

The young Hark shook his head beneath his hood. Each step Dizali took was bolder than the last. To kill a royal? An ancient Queen? That bordered on madness. He wondered what his father would have done, upon hearing such news. Break Dizali in two with his bare hands, no doubt, and save them all the trouble. He smiled to himself; a little thing, made of pride. It lingered on his lips for just a while, until reality set in. The Bulldog was gone. It was all down to him now.

London was a blur as he trod the streets. He let his feet guide him, half-closing his eyes and almost sleepwalking his way through the city. He spent the morning like this, only stopping once to eat. He strode northwards on a course he hadn’t taken in months.
Towards home
.
Or what was left of it
.

When the sun was slipping from its zenith, he finally found the griffin and broadsword statue by a fork in the road. Merion followed the wheelruts left, in the direction of the mighty monster’s gaze. Trees lined the edge of the winding road, and with little difficulty, cut him off neatly from the bustle of the city. Within a hundred yards, Merion would have thought himself deep in the country if he hadn’t known better. He felt a stirring in his heart; smelling those old trees, watching their pollen float on the warm breeze.

After another half an hour, he found the gates. Behind them, across the vast grounds, soared Harker Sheer. His insides soared at the sight of its rooftops and chimneys. He had waited so long.

Merion tucked himself behind a tree. There were three lordsguards wandering idly in circles in front of the gates. Their uniforms and armour bore no sigils, no coats of arms. Their guns rested on their shoulders, but he could tell they were poised like mousetraps, ready to spring. Merion ducked into the bushes and crept deeper into the trees, aiming for the western gardens. He walked along the tall iron fence, treading as silently as he could among the loam and leaves.

It was fortunate that he had spent his entire life roaming those iron bars, making music from them with sticks, climbing trees with a faerie and seeing which branches might offer the prospect of escape; just in case he ever needed to, of course. Merion smiled wryly to himself as his fingers flicked over the cold bars. He had found more than enough of these branches, and memorised them all.

He soon found one of his favourites: an old oak, too heavy for its age, starting to sag and splinter. It was rooted directly opposite the steps where his father had died. Even though it was behind the fence, one of its branches rested against the iron spikes, reaching almost to the ground. Merion laid hands on the old wood, and patted it. He should have taken this route the morning he had seen his father on a porcelain slab, and been told of Wyoming. He jumped up to straddle it, and began to shuffle along until the fence could help him upright. With a simple swing and a jump he was in Harker’s grounds, creeping onwards through the trees, towards the steps.