Brotherhood of the Strange (Kingship, Tales from the Aether Book 1) (7 page)

The thug with the tattered bowler hat sat quietly reading a three-day-old newspaper, apparently satisfied guarding a girl weighing no more than nine stone was not a task that required much concentration. His dirty, smelly clothes were ruining a white floral patterned wingback which had been a favorite of her mother’s before she moved to the country. In point of fact, Cordelia could not find blame with the man’s cavalier attitude regarding her newly enforced captivity. She had fallen apart as they led Degory away, demanding that her father leave, but her conviction gave way to sobs as the emotion of the evening took over. Upon leaving, Edward had left this nameless hired gun to, as he put it “keep her safe” till he returned. The realization she was a prisoner in her own home, at her father’s behest nonetheless, was nothing short of intolerable. For almost twenty minutes she sat on the sofa. The same sofa where she had tended to her dear beloved uncle’s arm less than an hour earlier. Wave after wave of grief-filled tears finally subsided to quiet shivers. Through it all, the burly, fragrant guard simply read, scarcely looking up at his prisoner. Cordelia still found it difficult to believe the actions of her father. He had never been what she would consider affectionate, but this was behavior unbecoming a gentleman of his high London stature. He had allowed a weapon to be pointed at her, and she feared he would lose little sleep had it been discharged. Even now, his motives and course of action were a mystery to her. Obviously he planned to return, the single guard could not watch her forever. When that would be she could not even hazard a guess, and her fear for Degory was increasing by the minute. She had never seen her uncle this afraid before. In her heart, though it pained her to admit, her uncle was in real danger because of her father.

Glancing over at the Japanese vase on the mantle Cordelia was reminded of her uncle’s mandate to her. Fortunately, no search of her apartment had been made, though she guessed Edward would remedy that upon his return. She dared not go near it now, though everything in her small frame screamed the information therein must remain safe. Her gaze turned toward the door where the guard who was ruining her mother’s chair sat. Needing to act, she hadn’t the foggiest idea on how to proceed. The thug was three times her size. Even if were he not, Cordelia still would have been at a loss on how to handle him. Before this evening, fisticuffs had not been a skill she would have ever thought necessary. Nor was her upper-class London attire, requisite to the task. Still, there had to be a way. Clearly she was of superior intellect to a simple ruffian. It would be that intellectual edge that would allow her to best this detestable man. A plan began to form in her mind. A plan that, if successful would allow her to escape without resorting to violence.

“My pardons, sir,” she began in as weak of a voice as she could conjure. “Would you be so kind as to allow me to play some music? After the events of this evening I feel the need to quiet my nerves.”

Lowering the newspaper the thug looked suspiciously at her. “I don’t care what you do as long as I can see you.” He motioned to the phonograph on the end table near her, “Play whatever you want.”

Cordelia rose and crossed not to the phonograph, but to the parlor where Degory had hidden. She had no sooner touched the latch to the door when the man stood and demanded, “Miss, where are you going? Your phonograph is there.”

“Oh yes I know, sir,” came the quick, planned reply. “I wish not to listen to music but to play some myself. I do so enjoy it, particularly when I am feeling a little overexcited.”

“I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”

She opened the door. “And where, good sir, would I go? You can see for yourself the room is small and has no other means of exit.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he entered and scanned the small room. There was little in there but a piano, a hutch, and a glass cabinet filled with a menagerie of clockwork birds. The third story window offered no egress to the streets below. Apparently satisfied the lithe girl could cause him no more trouble in here than in the drawing room, he shrugged and resumed his post by the stairwell door.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Cordelia took her seat at the piano. Needing something to play she glanced at the open sheet music already in place, Beethoven's “Ode to Joy”. That would suffice, though Cordelia found the choice a little ironic given the present circumstances. Truth be told, she had played this piece so often in her youth she had little need of any scribed reminders to guide her dexterous fingers across the keys. As she played, the thug relaxed, again picking up his newspaper and disappearing behind it. This was exactly what Cordelia had been hoping for. Continuing to play, the final workings of her plan found their place in her mind. Glancing down she looked at the brass and wood box that held the machinery which allowed the old family heirloom to act doubly as a player piano. She had built it herself and even improved upon the design after seeing a beautiful Chase and Baker model on display in the city. Fortunately, the device was fully wound and had a punch roll already mounted. Playing the last notes to Beethoven’s opus, she reached down and flipped the switch that activated the player box. The scroll began to turn and, within seconds, Debussy’s “Clair De Lune” began to emanate from the piano. The keys rose and fell with each sound as though some ghost were occupying the space where Cordelia had just sat. Knowing the piece was only a few minutes long, the young lady began to hurry. The newspaper still occupied the thuggish guard, which was the crux of her plan. Should he tire of reading, and his gaze fall upon her in the next few minutes, all would be for nought. Approaching the cabinet where the mechanical menagerie was kept, Cordelia chose a small brass hummingbird from the two dozen avian devices. She had built all of them, mostly for her own amusement and interest in clockwork technology. Some had been part of her thesis at Oxford, their minute machinations had paved the way for the creation of Degory’s arm. The bird she chose now had been crafted while she was doing her medical rotation in the Royal London Hospital in White Chapel. The beak of this clockwork hummingbird was in fact a syringe, one capable of injecting medicine, usually powerful sedatives, into unruly or lunatic patients from a safe distance. Though it had been used by her and lauded by the hospital staff on numerous occasions, the shear cost and intricate construction ensured mass production would never be achieved. A hastily measured dose of powerful opiates was loaded into the beak-shaped syringe and the bird wound. Cordelia then placed it on the piano. Noticing the news from three days ago still shielded her from unfriendly eyes, she also retrieved her hydrocrystalophone from the same cabinet. Called a glass armonica by many, it was a curious musical instrument consisting of stacked crystal bowls lying on their side. These rotated via a gear and spring mechanism. With the judicious application of moistened fingers, the device produced ghostly, ethereal sounds. Like the piano, Cordelia was a more than competent player and had cleverly designed her birds to be operated and controlled remotely with the sounds of the instrument. It was this accomplishment that had earned her a seat on the Oxford Board of Clockwork Design, no small achievement for a woman as young as she. Cordelia switched on the device, moistened her fingers in the included reservoir of water, and began to play as the piano ended its rendition of Debussy’s masterpiece.

The tones of the hydrocrystalophone were so different from the familiar sounds of a piano that the thug lowered his paper to see the source of the new sound. Any concern at seeing his captive playing some form of rare instrument was eclipsed by his observance of a mechanical bird flying towards him. He leapt from his chair and with a gruff voice shouted his surprise.

This shook Cordelia and she almost lost her nerve, hitting a wrong note and nearly sending the hummingbird crashing into a wall. Choosing not to respond, she regained control and flew it towards her target. The thug took a swing at the bird but the diminutive size, combined with Cordelia’s skill, bested him as it weaved past his arm and impaled itself in his thick, sweaty neck. The concoction of opiates acted quickly. The thug took several steps towards Cordelia, each one becoming more uncoordinated than the last. Trying to draw his pistol, he fell to his knees before collapsing into a deep unconsciousness on the carpeted floor, the plasmatic weapon only half drawn.

Cordelia stood there for a full two minutes shaking near uncontrollably. This evening had brought more violence in one hour than she had seen in her whole life. Finally, she was able to regain her composure. Checking the pulse of the man she had just sedated revealed it was slow but steady. The mixture she had given him would most likely keep him unconscious until morning. Cordelia still had no idea when her father would return and felt the accompanying haste. She had never been one for travel, and was unsure of what she’d need while away. Running to and fro throughout her chambers she began to pack in a most erratic manner. She packed her hydrocrystalophone and an assortment of birds including the valuable little hummingbird. Her medical bag was a must, as well as her bag of clockwork tools and parts. Only after those items were made ready did she look to her attire. London weather was unpredictable enough but Cordelia had no idea what to expect when traveling to the aether-suspended uplands. Knowing she needed to travel light she limited her wardrobe selections to a mere two steamer trunks and one hat box. A carpetbag consisting of a lady’s personal items as well as Degory’s sword cane were added to the pile. She freshened up and changed into a new red and orange dress. In lieu of washing and redoing her hair she selected a leather lady’s top hat sporting a magnification monocle from her wardrobe. She then packed several more. Retrieving Degory’s letter and placing it in her clutch, she paused and then added a stack of five pound notes she kept in a cookie jar. All this luggage had to be placed in the lift out in the hall and taken to the ground floor. When this was accomplished, Cordelia was faced with two stark decisions. The first lay in a cage in her sleeping chambers. Her pet owl Oscar was waiting to be let out for his evening flight. It pained her to even consider leaving him behind. Though most owls would be more than capable of fending for themselves when left to their own devices, Oscar was special. Cordelia had rescued him after he had been hit by a steam carriage. The accident had cost the owl a wing which Cordelia had replaced with a clockwork equivalent. The owl was a loyal companion who relied upon Cordelia to maintain the technology, much like her uncle. Degory admitted he was increasingly uncomfortable around it since his own medical misfortunes. Knowing the bird caused him distress, she had placed the cage in her sleeping chambers away from his view. Though her uncle clearly had much on his mind upon arrival, if he noticed Oscar’s absence he never commented upon it. Though completely impractical in her current situation, her emotions got the best of her and Oscar’s cage was added to the pile of luggage on the curb outside. Her second choice was whether or not to arm herself with the plasmatic pistol her captor had on his person. Cordelia had never fired a weapon before, and was honestly unsure if she could bring herself to use it on another human being. In the end, she decided against it, rang for a full sized coach, and left her apartment behind. As her cab pulled away, Cordelia was feeling scared yet proud of how she had handled the situation. However, in her haste, she never noticed the black steam carriage parked in a nearby ally, nor felt the eyes watching her every move. Neither did she pay attention when it pulled out and followed her horse drawn cab into the cool London night.

Orange and purple were such opposite colors that, when they converged, as they so often did in the brilliant conflagration of sunset, it made a harmony of such divergent beauty that Wingnut consistently found herself outside of the engine room during that time of day to fully soak in its beauty. She had done this often with her husband, Augustus, in what now seemed to be another life. These sunsets reminded her of him. She still remembered the feeling of his arms around her as they would take in the ambiance of the sun resting for the day. She missed him, even now, more than seven years later. The well-worn jumpsuit she always wore and a handful of tools on the belt were the only tangible reminders of him. The life and possessions they had acquired together in marriage had also been lost in the crash that had so abruptly taken him from her. Despite it all, it was times like these she still felt close to him, and the daily wearing of his jumpsuit had brought a closeness of memory neither time nor death could vanquish. Wingnut wiped away the tears that came less frequently lately. She didn’t want to ruin this special moment they were sharing.

The Kingship had been heading south by southwest for the past two days. The storm they had descended through moved on and it looked as if the old adage of “Red sky at night, sailors delight” was holding true. She stood on the wingdeck, the open air deck of the vessel above the engine room, the highest part of the Kingship unless one wanted to climb to the top of the now lazily turning propellers or the rudders, both of which extended on pylons aft of the wingdeck. The metal hatch to the engine room was open, and the sound of boilers, furnaces, and working mechanics emanated from below. Wingnut breathed the warm air, and smelled deep earth for the first time in days as the purple and orange sunset blazed across the hull, setting its bronze features aglow. Below, the Black Forest of Germany stretched out as far as the eye could see, its darkness made darker by the approaching twilight. A few rocky craters, some several miles in diameter, could be seen, mute evidence this area had contributed its share to the countless uplands that dotted the sky. The century and a half since the Great Calamity had not yet been enough time for nature to wholly reclaim the scars with the dense foliage of this mystical and ancient forest.

The ship was descending towards the town of Oppenau. The once small town had become a hub for trade since the Great Calamity due to the large number of uplands that drifted within the area. It boasted a sizable, sprawling marketplace and several warehouses. Gothic steeples and Bavarian manors stretched towards the sky, greeting the descending Kingship. The architecture was old and beautiful, and it was one of the many places the crew looked forward to revisiting. Their trade circuit brought them here a couple times a year allowing them the opportunity to make several warm friends and valuable business contacts. It had been Winston who had first suggested coming here a few years ago. The family of his late wife Evelyn, “God rest her soul,” Wingnut said aloud as she mused upon the subject, had lived here for generations. As Evelyn and Winston never had children of their own, the old Scot rejoiced in doting on his numerous great nieces and nephews who swarmed him whenever they landed. He would do just about anything to make them laugh, even going so far as to wear his kilt
over
a pair of lederhosen while he played Germain folk songs on his bagpipes.

The propellers came to a rest. Winston used the maneuvering steam thrusters to make adjustments while the vessel descended as the ship’s levitite crystals mounted on their iron screws pushed just close enough together to make the Kingship drift safely towards the earth below. A whistling sound came from the open hatch. Someone, probably the captain, was calling on one of the speaking tubes. With one last look at the sunset, and a nod to her husband’s memory, the Kingship’s engineer climbed back down into the vessel’s inner workings to answer. She pulled the speaking tube to her mouth, “Engine room,”

The voice of Vance, tinny from traveling through the hundred plus feet of pipe from the bridge, spoke, “I’m sure you know, but we’re a few hundred feet from the ground, Winston wants to know if we’re set for landing.”

She quickly double-checked all of her pressure gauges, sisters of which were to be found on the bridge itself. “Cap’n. Everything’s holdin’ steady. Will we be moorin’ or landin’?”

“Landing. The tower is full of other vessels and the Von Fersches want us to land in their field by the market.”

“Well that’ll sure be makin’ things easier. I’m divertin’ more steam to the landin’ struts in case they decide to stick.”

“Thank you, Wingnut, bridge out.”

Shaking her head, she placed the speaking tube back into its cradle. Why the captain could not use the perfectly good telephone was beyond her. He was a good man and a good captain but could be so bloody old-fashioned sometimes.

With the right amounts of steam channeled to the necessary sections of the Kingship she then turned her attention to the rapidly growing list of parts and supplies the vessel needed. The encounter with the pirates had damaged a few systems when they made their impromptu plunge dropping over four thousand feet. As she had predicted, that caused the gears and screw system to jam up. It had only been with the aid of the prodigiously strong Afa that they were able to get things moving again and arrest the vessel’s descent before the ground did it for them. Surely that was why Vance sent him up to the engine room in the first place, despite the large man’s aversion to overly confined spaces. It seemed the captain always thought his plans through very well, despite his sometimes casual attitude, and he often knew the capabilities of those who sailed with him better than they knew themselves. He had made his share of command mistakes well enough in the past, and Wingnut was pretty sure he was terrified of making any mistake that could bring one of his crew to harm, most particularly her.

The gearbox and chain that controlled the landing struts sprang to life, and by the sound of it, was proceeding smoothly. A few seconds later the ship gave a slight start as she touched down on solid land. Wingnut brought the fires in the furnaces down to a minimum and secured the various systems in safe mode. She locked the levitite drive to prevent the ship from simply floating away. If the screws were left unsecured the crystals were sometimes able to slowly push themselves apart causing the vessel to unexpectedly ascend. She’d seen it happen to other vessels and would be damned if it would happen to her ship.

Satisfied the Kingship was comfortably resting, Wingnut added a few more items to the list then got into the lift that passed from the engine room through the connecting dorsal to the main deck below. She emerged to smell the scent of cinnamon and other spices. “Blast that git of a captain! Does he have to keep smokin’ that pipe right here?” Though the comment was meant only for her, Afa heard it as he emerged from his stateroom quarters. He was dressed in the best London could offer and carried a black bowler hat under his arm. The finery of the West starkly contrasted his Polynesian heritage and tattoos.

Clearly having overheard her comment, the man calmly stated, “The spices I have provided for the captain are far less detrimental to his health than the tobacco he so often used to ingest.”

Afa was right, he usually was. Wingnut appreciated the man’s quiet, somewhat stoic attitude, even though it was the opposite of her own. “I know, and blessed be your name for keepin’ him alive the longer. But still, this ship’s big enough for him to pick a smokin’ spot other than where I pass by a dozen times a day, don’t ya’ know!”

If Afa had any more pearls of wisdom, he did not get the chance to voice them due to Vance’s emergence from the library into the aft of the corridor where the two were standing. He too was dressed well; a gray frock coat brought out the small amounts of matching color in his otherwise dark hair. In one hand was an old dusty logbook, one of the many onboard relics of the ship’s glorious past, and in his other was his pipe which was quickly stuffed into one of the pockets upon seeing her. Wingnut knew her gaze told volumes by his actions and figured more words would serve little purpose.

“Ship’s all secure Cap’n,” she said instead.

“Good,” came the reply.

Motioning to the clothing he and Afa wore she enquired, “What’s with the finery? Who we tryin’ to impress?”

It was Afa who replied, “The Von Fersches have graciously invited all of us to dinner this evening. It seems polite to dress for the occasion.”

Vance added, “It’s too late to get any business done today anyway. The markets and warehouses are all closed. I figure we can take advantage of this evening and relax off ship. Winston’s chomping at the bit to go, but wanted to wait for the rest of us.”

“Well,” she said thrusting the list of parts needed for the Kingship into Vance’s face, “maybe we wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to do business today if some captain, whom we shall not name, hadn’t caused a bloody delay by nearly crashing the ship!”

Ignoring her comment Vance calmly gave the list a quick look, “This seems reasonable. You know I trust your judgment with what the old girl needs.” He handed the list back to her, “You’ll be able to get most of this tomorrow. In the meantime, how does some homemade bratwurst sound?”

“Sounds fine with me, though I wouln’t mind hittin’ the beer house a wee bit later, don’t ya’ know.”

Vance smiled, “I may join you. Now go get ready.”

Wingnut gave her captain a hard stare, “What do ya’ mean get ready? I’m as ready for dinner as any of you fancy pants.”

Afa silently smiled and politely excused himself, allowing for an exchange that was nearly as old as Wingnut and Vance’s relationship. The captain placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her square in the eye, “Molly,” he began. Wingnut knew he only ever used her Christian name when he wanted to drive a point, “Go change for dinner. You spend all your time covered in grease and baggy jumpsuits.”

“You know why I wear this,” she said softly but with an edge Vance knew far too well.

“Yes I do. And it’s a wonderful reason. Sometimes though, you need to put the mourning to rest and let the beautiful woman out.” He gave her well done up hair a flip and smiled. “Other than your hair of course.

Wingnut bit her lip. “God bless him” she thought , the captain was trying, trying his best to undo her loss, and he was the type of man who would keep trying. “Okay,” she replied meekly, “Give me a few minutes”.

“Take all the time you need, I imagine Burd is still attempting to conceal as many pistols as he can in his evening attire.” It may have been a joke, though with Burd you never could be sure. Whether it was the intention of the captain to be funny or not, Wingnut was smiling when she entered her quarters.

Wingnut’s room was one of eight staterooms reserved for high ranking dignitaries in years past. The crew had opted to use these staterooms rather than the smaller and much less opulent crew quarters located on the deck below. That is, with the exception of Winston. When he had joined them, he refused the use of one when offered by Vance, instead sequestering himself away in his old quarters. He had mumbled something about the staterooms being too dammed pretty and he was just happy to finally have his room to himself. Apparently life on the Kingship used to be far more crowded, Wingnut mused. To her it always felt satisfying she now lived in a room that had once been frequented by kings, presidents, emperors and maharajahs during the Kingship’s heyday. Each room was lavish, though not overly large. Beautifully furnished and decorated in the finest of Victoria I’s era, Wingnut had added her own touches inspired by both her Celtic heritage and her love of machinery. The crest of Tullamore, her home town, hung on the wall, matching the one she had embroidered into her jumpsuit. It, along with the several photographs of her and her late husband Augustus, made this room a haven of memories, bittersweet though they were.

She quickly undressed and cleaned herself up in her small bathroom. Looking over at the claw-foot tub she briefly considered treating herself to a full bath. Now that they were landed, using excess water would not be an issue. However, Wingnut knew the others were waiting for her so she resigned herself to a quick shower. In short time her damp hair was done up in its usual ringlets and the rest of her bore a beautiful dark gray gown and silver corset. After some judicious application of makeup, Wingnut took one last look in her looking glass, then took a moment to handle Augustus’s favorite adjustable wrench. It had been on the tool belt of her jumpsuit the day he had died. From that day till this one, she had held it in her hands at least once a day and her eyes closed as she remembered the man who was her husband. Though she knew every contour, every nick and rust spot of that old tool, the knowledge she could glean from it went far deeper than that. Holding that wrench gave Wingnut a window to the past, a past where she was so naive and happy. She could feel Augustus’s strong hands grasping it, feel the joy he felt as he worked on the engines of the vessels of his father’s fleet, the thoughts he had of his wife as he worked. Truth be told some of those thoughts made her blush as the memory of those desires often turned to action for the newlywed couple. A tear began to form in the corner of her eye. “Silly girl,” she sniffed. “Don’t wanna be messin’ up your makeup before dinner now do ya?” She put down the wrench and left her quarters to find the crew waiting for her by the exit door just off the bridge. Offering her his arm, Captain Vance Williams escorted Molly Clocker out into the warm summer’s night.