Maledictus Aether (9 page)

“
Drink up,” he states, sitting on the coffee table and
watching me. I gulp down the rest, shaking my head and making a
face at the flavo
ur as I
screw the cap back on and hand it to him. I feel clawed feet press
themselves against my knees, making me look down to a very
worried-looking lizard.

Painfully, groaning with the
strain, I reach down and pass my fingers over his scales, trying to
soothe him. The beast crawls into my lap and curls up between my
thighs, keeping a watchful eye open. I continue to pet the
creature, looking back to the man sitting nearby.

“
You’ve been
completely out for two days,” he informs me, and my eyebrows
skyrocket. “Then again, the pain-induced shock would’ve killed any
other man with a flesh-and-blood heart. The Captain’s not due back
from Aeon for another hour or so, but he’ll be pleased to see
you’re awake – as will the crew.”

I nod, clearing my throat
painfully as I try to find my vocal chords, and he continues while
I remain silent.

“
You know the rules as well as any other man on this ship,”
he starts, making
me look
back to the man. Fulke is leaning forward on his perch,
scrutinizing me. “You knew about the whipping – so why did you do
it?”

I smile at him, the burning in
my back numbing with the effect of the rum as it begins dulling the
pain.

“
Th
is airship’s
defences are no match for the Fleet’s Tesla Bolts,” I reply, and
his eyes widen. “I could not explain that, and we were short on
time. I did what had to be done, and if I was given the choice to
do it again, Fulke, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

He shakes his head at me, and carefully I pick up Orin and
place him on my left shoulder, where he can do little harm to the
lashes on my back. The lizard settles himself, and I somehow manage
to pull myself to my feet – with Fulke’s help, of course – and he
helps me walk out of the cabin and onto the deck, where I look up
to the sun high up in the dark blue
sky and smile. The fact that I am walking around with
bandages wrapped around my chest, and nothing else save for my
trousers and lace-up calf-high boots, is lost on me.

One of the crewmen notices me,
shouting at the others in the near vicinity, and one runs off the
ship to possibly go fetch another crewmember. I look away from the
sky and to the pirates, who stand in silence there a moment. We
watch one-another, the group of pirates and the Automechanoid
leaning against the Quarter Master to keep his balance, before the
men and women break out into cheers.

“
I’ve never
seen a man willingly sign up for a lashing,” Fulke mutters beside
me, shaking his head. “You are very much like your father – too
brave for your own good.”

I look at him, and notice his
smile.

“
Then again,
that’s exactly what pirates want in a Captain.”

At the sound of those words, I
return his smile.

“
Thank you,
Fulke,” I say, my voice ringing with sincerity. He nods, the sound
of heavy footsteps approaching fast.

“
Welcome to
the trade, Kennedy; we’re glad to have you on board,” he states, a
moment before a now-familiar man comes to a grinding halt by the
guardrail, one foot still on the gangplank.

For a moment we stare at one-another, his expression
holding that same, infinite sadness that I do not understand,
before it seems to mo
uld in
on itself and shift to one of open relief.

“
He shouldn’t
be up, Fulke,” the pirate states sternly, and the Quarter Master
shrugs a shoulder, grinning.

“
He’s quite
persuasive, when the need arises,” he states with a nonchalant
grin. “Besides, he’s been asleep for two days – give the man a
chance to take in a bit of sunlight.”

The Captain rolls his eyes,
stepping forward so that there’s enough room to fit another man
between us – his bulk hiding the sun from my eyes and giving him a
halo of light, making me squint up at him regardless.

“
Are you sure
you’re well enough?” He inquires, and cautiously I test my
shoulders, moving my arms around a little. It stings, but the
stitches will hold.

I tell him as much, and he
nods, looking relieved.

Captain Davis begins walking back to his quarters,
gesturing with a nod that we should follow. I remove my hold of
Fulke’s arm, walking on my own with a bit of di
fficulty – but no more than you would expect,
really, the pain I feel now nothing compared to the initial
lashings.

What I ha
ve told
Fulke is true, as well – I would do it again in a
heartbeat.

“
While you
were unconscious, I’ve gone into Aeon to run a few errands,” he
says, the Quarter Master shutting the door behind us as we enter,
effectively cutting us off from the rest of the world. The Captain
leads us to the couch my unconscious body occupied, where I
gingerly lower myself to give my aching lower back a
break.

As I sit I hear the groan of
protest of metal, and I make a mental note to look into it later.
For now, I turn my undivided attention to the man that gave me a
grander purpose in life.

“
I’ve spread
the word that there’s room on an airship for a crew, as well as
gotten the necessary hands and the majority of tools for building
your ship,” he continues, lowering himself onto the couch beside
me. Orin slithers down to my lap again, settling in comfortably and
quietly asking for me to pet him – which I do. “The final decision
of who will be your crew will fall to you, though most that have
come up thus far are seasoned flyers and trustworthy.”

“
We a
re building a
ship from scratch?” I inquire, leaning forward slightly. He nods,
and I cannot even hold back the smile that takes over my features,
stretching from ear to ear.

“
You will be its designer, as you know airships better than
most on this
Skyland, and
draw up a list of required material,” he informs me, and I bite my
lower lip, excited. My mind is already racing, drawing up ideas
from my past experience on the
Charybdis
and
the
Calypso
.

“
Some of the material will need to be imported,
will it?” I ask, and he nods again.
“So, how long does that usually take?”

“
A few weeks;
about a month.”

“
So... I woul
d have
time to run a few errands?”

He watches me closely,
frowning.

“
Such as?” h
e
questions, and I give the man a wry smile.

“
I want to go visit someone landside,” I tell him, and I can
see the protest build itself. I continue before he can stop me
right th
en and there. “Also,
I think it is high time someone reminded the world that my father’s
work did not die with him – and you?”

The Captain scowls at me,
crossing his arms.

“
You’re a
wanted man, Kennedy; they’ll arrest you in a heartbeat,” he warns,
and I laugh lightly.

“
Please, give me a bit of credit,” I chuckle, shaking my
head. “This
is not my first
ride, Captain.”

• VI
  –
  Fugitive
  

Whe
n I step off into
London, I cannot help but smile a little at the familiar – yet
foreign – sight before me. The wood-and-stone buildings hugging the
streets and the men and women wearing their furs and silk. Around
their necks, more often than not you will find a silver cross
hanging from a chain or beads as the noblemen and shopkeepers
silently announce their beliefs.

None spare me a glance as I
walk amongst them, the sound of hooves hitting the cobble as
carriages wheel by on the street. In their eyes, I’m but a young
man on his daily commute, as any of them are.

The sky promises rain overhead,
henceforth the scattering of umbrellas held in gloved hands and the
one I carry despite the fact that rain has never really bothered me
in the first place.

I ha
ve taken the
liberty of borrowing one of Fulke’s shirts, with sleeves long
enough to cover my left arm – as it is my main identifying factor
and, in London, it is better to be the same as everyone else – with
gloves pulled over my hands. The disguise I have donned is
completed with a tailcoat, very unlike my father’s.

Following the path, I notice a town crier waving a bell and
shouting to be heard over the sound of his own tool of the trade,
as well as the horses. Most around him watch him as he stands on a
c
rate to deliver his news,
and I am not afraid to admit that I pause too, curious the way
anyone else is.

“
A fugitive by the name of Cephas Kennedy Watkins II is
wanted for treason against the High Court and Her
Majesty the Queen of England!” he
hollers, and this makes a few heads turn, looking at their
neighbours in startled gasps and gossip. I watch on, curious to
hear what else he has to say. “The man is twenty-two years of age,
with a prosthetic left arm and legs–!”

I pull away then, having lost interest, and continue on my
way with him rattling off a physical description of who I am. The
stitches on my back are pulling a bit painfully, but regardless of
that I forge on, reaching my destination – a steel smith with a
sign that announces the name:
Elyn’s Steel Crafts and Prosthetics
.

When I push open the door, the
bell hanging overhead announces my entry to the young woman at the
service counter, reading a book. She looks up as I glance around,
hand reaching to my head and pulling off my hat before shutting the
wooden door behind me and barring London from the shop.

Two large windows allow natural
light to spill in, and the walls are covered with some of the
finest steel crafts I’ve ever seen – from prosthetics to mechanical
parts, and even a few pieces of steel and wood furniture that
dominate the room. The woman allows me a moment to look around
before I approach her, where she offers me a kind smile.

“
Welcome to
Elyn’s Steel Crafts and Prosthetics,” she announces merrily, and I
return her smile. “What can we do for you today, sir?”

“
I a
m here to see
Elyn,” I tell her, and here she nods, pulling out a sheaf of paper
from underneath the desk and consulting it, looking up at me
expectantly.

“
Certainly. What’s your name?” She questions, and here I
pull out my father’s pocket watch from the inner pocket of my
borrowed tailcoat, and place it on the counter between us,
the
Alitis Gladio’s
symbol facing the crossbeams on the
ceiling.

The woman glances down at the
golden watch, and her brown eyes widen at the sight just before
looking back up at me. I pocket it once more, answering her
question while doing so.

“
I a
m a friend,” I
state, though her expression brings me to believe that she does not
quite believe my story. “We have never met, but her brother was...
well, he knew me.”

She nods.

“
What’s your
name, sir?” She asks, cautious. I sigh.

“
Walters,” I
tell her. The name seems to spark another bout of recognition in
her. “Davis Walters.”

She nods, slipping the papers
back under the desk.

“
Follow me, sir,” she states, and begins leading me out
through a door to the back of the shop. I follow her, noticing her
glancing warily over her sho
ulder at me when she believes I am not looking. I do not
call her out on it, but instead follow her to an open-spaced room
with the windows thrown open, where a steel forge is hard at work
and a woman is hammering against a sheet of red-hot steel, the
sound almost deafening in the large room. There are tools scattered
everywhere, and I pause mid-step to look around while the woman
approaches the steel smith.

“
Elyn
, a Mr Davis
Walters is here to see you,” she announces, and at the sound of the
name her hammer pauses in mid-air, just before the smith turns her
head to face the girl.

She i
s beautiful in a
fierce sort of fashion, with icy dark hazel eyes and sandy hair
spilling out from a horsetail tightened at the top of her neck. She
wears thick leather gloves and an apron of the same fabric, her
clothes beneath light yet almost skin-tight – to obviously avoid
trailing in the hot coals – and a pair of goggles over her
eyes.

Her eyes then find mine, and
narrow.

“
Thank you,
Gloria,” she says, throwing the steel into an acid bath. Her tone
clearly excuses the girl from the scene, almost sounding like a
silent order, and with a nod Gloria slips back out, almost glad to
have left by the looks of it.

Elyn steps up to me and grabs
me by my shirt, pulling me forward. She has the advantage of
height, about half a head taller than I am, and the full force of
her fury is turned to me through the thickness of heat-stained
brown glass.

“
Last I recall, Captain Walters was a lot older than you
are,” she hisses, her gloved fingers tightening on the cloth. I
wince as a part
of my skin is
pinched, but do not make a sound. “If you don’t want me throwing
you into my forge to help make the next blade that comes out of
this shop, you’ll tell me who you are and why you’re
here.”