Pinion (28 page)

Who
were
these people? For the first time in her life, Gashansunu wondered if she had made a potentially fatal error.

Then came in the magicians, the astrologers, the Chaldeans, and the soothsayers: and I told the dream before them; but they did not make known unto me the interpretation thereof.          —
Daniel 4:7

McCurdy continued to argue with Ottweill’s men. The bosun’s tone was desperate, as he obviously longed to be in the skies doing something,
anything
besides standing here in disputation. The doctor himself was not present, admittedly a blessing, but the gloomy little man in charge was uninterested in McCurdy’s pleas.

“I do not care what your captain says, you’re to lay down your arms and be coming with us,” the interloper said. “I’ll not be telling you this again.” The forest of rifle barrels around his head aimed toward the stockade. “Be bringing John Brass with you.”

“I am in Her Imperial Majesty’s service—,” McCurdy began.

Boaz whispered into the momentary silence of the bosun’s indrawn breath, “Jump off the stockade.”

The man paused, glanced at Boaz, then said, “Shore party down the back side,
now
.”

They jumped, tumbled, fell as a ragged round of firing whistled overhead in response.
Not an ordered volley, then
, Boaz thought as he caught his balance ankle-deep in mud,
just overexcited tunnel rats
. The human voices in his head agreed, saying,
That won’t matter so much if we’re dead
.

“To the ropes,” shouted the bosun.

They scrambled away from the stockade before the defenders could gain the rampart and start shooting again at fatally close range. De Koonig had injured his leg, and was being helped along by Pratt and Shaw. All ran toward the knot of sailors escaping from the burning airship.

“Chief,” Boaz said, loping beside McCurdy. “It is not so wise to race toward a burning reservoir of hydrogen.”

“British tars, my Brass,” McCurdy gasped. “Our safety is in their numbers.”

Indistinct shouting erupted behind them. Ahead, two of the sailors manning the lifeline caught a descending third who screamed all the way down. The rest turned to face McCurdy’s party, most armed with short knives or improvised weapons.

The bosun declared himself before fresh violence could erupt. “Bosun George McCurdy of
Erinyes
, circling up yonder. The fort behind is held by English civvies who have conceived us as enemies.”

“Leading Seaman Patrice,” replied one of the sailors. “Of
Notus
above.” They both looked up at the smoke billowing from the listing airship. “She’s in distress, sir,” he added unnecessarily.

“Keep bringing them down,” McCurdy told him. “My lads, face the stockade, weapons ready. Mr. Patrice, any sailors you can spare will be of great assistance.”

“What about the hydrogen?” Boaz asked.

McCurdy and Patrice both stared at him. The seaman wasn’t surprised to see the Brass, which was logical enough as
Notus
had put in at Ottweill’s camp when Boaz was first there.

Someone bellowed above. They all glanced up to see a series of objects falling. “Clear,” shouted Patrice. His men scattered as a small rain of chests, books and cloth smashed into the churned mud.

The screaming man staggered to Boaz. The Brass realized this was no sailor. He was bloody, begrimed and had a look of shocked panic in his eyes, but still bore a certain spare elegance. Even his draggled, ruined suit displayed a former glory under the rents and stains.

“Who the blazes are you?” the newcomer demanded in a voice ragged with panic.

The rescue party was re-forming around them to bring more men down from the stricken ship. Two of the naval ratings scooped up what had been thrown overboard. A few sailors joined McCurdy’s men in forming a defensive perimeter to face the hostiles on the stockade.
Erinyes
continued to circle above, her helplessness apparent even from the fracas on the ground.

“I am Boaz of the Brass folk. I am no subject of your Queen’s, but I claim friendship with Angus Threadgill al-Wazir of your Royal Navy.” ::
you owe them no loyalty
:: rumbled the Sixth Seal in his gut. The al-Wazir–Paolina voice protested that.

The civilian had drawn breath to continue the argument, but he stopped cold at that statement. “You know al-Wazir?”

Something small smacked into the ground between them. “Yes.”

“We will speak, later.” He looked up the hill. “Are those English guns being pointed at us?”

“I should think so,” Boaz replied. “Your men inside the Wall have taken a great dislike to visitors.”

“Ottweill survives!”

“The mad doctor? Unfortunately, yes. I have tried to convince him that his project is fruitless, for the Wall is not a solid thing to be dug through, but rather a shield to contain billions of tons of spinning brass required to balance the Earth and tune its rotation.”

“We will
definitely
speak later.”

Boaz turned his attention to helping organize the defense. The newcomer began to aid the cleanup in the descending tangle of codebooks, ship’s logs and other materials. More men came down the line, some bearing navigational instruments or similar valuables.

A grubby little man with three freshly missing fingers landed after a few minutes. “Sayeed is taking her back up for risk of a gasbag burn-off. ’Ware a ballast dump.”

The rescue lines were cast away. One last heave from above sent a scattering of small objects to the ground. Then
Notus
dumped her ballast tanks, drenching the lot of them with fouled water. Boaz was just as glad in that moment that he had not been created with a sense of smell.

The airship shot upward, trailing smoke and a last spray of water.
Erinyes
widened her circle, moving away from her stricken sister.

McCurdy woke to his task and began shouting again. “Eyes on the stockade. Won’t do us good to stare up if the doctor’s men are going to shoot us down like dogs on a chain.”

A sallow man who’d been among the last down the lines sent scouts down to the lower edge of the open, muddy firing field to look for possible refuges. Every second man was told off to stand ready for attack from the stockade, armed with such weapons as could be mustered from the ragged group.

Bells clanged above.
Notus
drifted badly to the port now, and the smoke had grown denser. Then the forward portion of her gasbag erupted in a pale, almost invisible explosion that was more felt than heard by those on the ground. Her bow dropped precipitously, sending men to fall screaming through the afternoon sky.

The midsection of the gasbag blew next.
Notus
’ hull broke at that, the fore shearing away to tumble in a further spray of bodies. It landed in the trees at the east edge of their clearing, perhaps half a mile away. The aft still clung to her stays and the mizzenmast that connected her to the remains of the burning gasbag.

Those last cells did not blow. The remains of
Notus
spiraled in slowly, drifting toward the Wall so that her final flight ended against a rock out-cropping several miles distant.

Soaking wet, bloody, injured, the surviving crew stared into the eastern distance as the smoke rose above the scattered ruins of their airship. The sallow man who’d been giving orders to the crew of
Notus
looked at the gentleman in the suit. “Mr. Kitchens? What should we do?”

Erinyes
beat low above, circling now, her engines straining.

“Do not put Lieutenant Ostrander in charge,” Boaz said. He could only imagine what the unstable young officer might order.

Kitchens looked to Boaz and McCurdy. “Who’s Ostrander? Commanding above?”

“Master of
Erinyes
, sir,” the bosun said reluctantly.

“A difficult man at his best,” Boaz added, to a grateful look from McCurdy.

“My warrants do not extend to his vessel,” Kitchens said somewhat mysteriously. “I have no standing with those on the captain’s list.”

“Meaning what?” Boaz asked.

Kitchens gave him a slow look. “It means that unless someone from
Notus
’ command made it down, the man in charge up there is the senior surviving naval officer on this field of battle. Harrow here, and your chief from
Erinyes
, are each loyal to their ship and master, but Harrow’s captain is now presumably dead, while your Lieutenant Ostrander appears unfit for duty.”

McCurdy made a small noise, as if he’d thought to protest, then swallowed his pride along with his words.

“You are all fools,” Boaz declared. “How your throne came to rule half the flatwater kingdoms of Northern Earth is beyond me.” He pointed at Kitchens. “
You
are in charge of these men, for there is no one else to do the deed.
I
will aid you until affairs have settled a bit; then I am off on my own mission. Now let us find our way out of this killing field.”

The sailors followed their scouts downhill in a large, fractious party while
Erinyes
circled low to keep the men on the stockade otherwise occupied. When they gained the safety of the trees, McCurdy and Harrow called for a camp to be made. Boaz stole a quiet moment with the man Kitchens at the edge of a tangle of lianas.

“I am Boaz of the Brass,” he said, introducing himself with a bit more of the formality these English were said to prefer. “I am not accounted an enemy of your people, though the doctor’s men upon the stockade will tell you differently.”

Kitchens took Boaz’ offered hand. “I am Bernard Kitchens, clerk in the
Special Section of the Admiralty, on extremely detached duty. We have much to discuss, though this is not the time.”

“I think not,” Boaz answered. He studied the English clerk carefully. The man had a fevered gleam in his eye, but seemed in possession of his senses, to the degree that any human ever was.

::
this is not our mission
:: the Seal grumbled.::
our purpose lies elsewhere
::

I am not your servant
, Boaz thought. The voice was loudest when the world was quiet, and quiet when the world was loud. The Brass touched the man’s sleeve. “You come dressed differently than all of them, ready to kill but regretting it. You are no soldier nor sailor nor working man. What are you doing down here along the Wall?”

“Looking for Ottweill, and al-Wazir.”

The Brass did not mince his next words. “Ottweill I have seen just this morning at the diggings. Al-Wazir was taken by the Chinese in Mogadishu a month ago and must surely be dead.”

“Then I have failed him,” Kitchens said. “It was I who sent him back to the Wall, to see to Ottweill’s safety.”

“You are the spymaster?”

“No, no. I arranged his training and transmitted his orders. The true purpose was ordered from much higher up.”

Purpose
, Boaz thought.
Everything was down to purpose
. The will of man, walking freely in the world of God. “Well, for my part,” the Brass said, “I am very sorry to see the chief at an end.”

“Dozens more men met their end today,” Kitchens replied. “It is not even nightfall yet. I should see to a parley with those fools upon the stockade, so we Englishmen do not all kill one another and save the Wall from so much trouble.” Gathering up his much-abused attaché case, the clerk strode away into the viridian shadows of the forest.

Boaz looked up at the smoke still drifting in the sky and wondered if
Erinyes
would ever come to ground, or remain aloft until Lieutenant Ostrander was but a skeleton at her helm.

The stockade stood above him. In another place it might have loomed, great tropical hardwood logs trimmed to points at the top in order to provide firing rests between each pair, their faces scarred and splintered from prior battles. Here the Wall behind it left the stockade with little more dignity than a child’s toy.

A handful of men stared down at him, rifles sloping nearly into aiming. “You h’aint no h’officer,” said a twitching fellow.

“I am from Admiralty,” Kitchens said, clutching his salvaged attaché
case and wishing his suit retained any scraps of dignity. “Here on a mission from the First Sea Lord and the Prime Minister’s office.” Which, while not strictly true, was more impressive than confessing to being a clerk. “I am to ascertain Dr. Ottweill’s safety and whether the tunneling crew needs further assistance.”