Sky Song: Overture (5 page)

VI. Ehrendame

A
s morning broke, Baker and I observed the imperial ship through the window in the sleeping quarters. It floated just outside with gold-rimmed propellers that dwarfed those of the Wastrel. For lift, it used a multitude of golden balloons tethered all around the circumference. The engines bore the emperor’s crest, a crescent moon descending on a crown. The ship had to have escape vessels.

“This is that score we’ve dreamed of all our lives,” I whispered. “We’ll steal a rescue bird and be off before anyone has time to react.”

“You’re both lunatics,” said Fitz. I looked over my shoulder to see him grinning behind us. “Which puts me in good company!”

“Hope you don’t mind, but I brought Fitz in on this,” said Baker.

I scoffed, exasperated. “We never agreed on that!”

“I know, but if we’re flying off in someone else’s ship, we’ll need an engineer in case something goes wrong. Nobody’s better than Fitz.”

“I think we should kill everyone and take the big boat,” said Fitz, “Quite a prize that.”

Baker and I just stared at him and I shook my head.

“We stick to the plan,” I said.

Emperor Perceval Claude had a ship that could rival the sun itself. The notion of hijacking her was preposterous. Known as the Crescendo, this vessel was rumored to carry enough guns to ward off two ships on each flank. As she swerved on the wind, we got a look at her carriage from behind. Just as I had expected, smaller sky vessels were docked on perches, and amongst them, was Maive’s bird-faced globe copter.

“Look!” I squawked. “That’s the witch’s ship.”

“Phenomenal firepower,” whispered Fitz. “Look at those guns. Oh, gods.” He made an automatic weapon noise while pantomiming the act of self-manipulation. “Pop pop pop pop pop! Ahhh, spent!”

I glared at Baker, irked by his habit of adopting all the misfits of the Wastrel. He was always rescuing people. Twice in the last year, he came back from leave and beat someone bloody simply for hazing the newest fledgling. That paired with his knowledge of bruises led me to believe that someone back home beat on his mum, and for whatever reason, he was powerless to stop it.

“Let’s do this!” squealed Fitz, patting our shoulders.

I shrugged him off. “Don’t touch me.”

“Or at least wash your hands first,” said Baker.

The plan was simple. Baker and Fitz would hijack the globe copter and I would kidnap the princess and bring her to the back of the ship at Baker’s signal. Easy as pie, right? Baker sounded confident he could pilot the globe copter, and Fitz vouched for him. Our foolhardy plan could go wrong at any time and we would all be killed if we were caught. No matter. I had my lucky nail around my thumb and I wasn’t about to give up our trueborn princess without a fight.

Circular, ornamental and fenced in with cables tethered to those massive golden orbs, the sunny deck of the Crescendo was like a castle courtyard. Duskmen lined the higher platform around the helm. In their double-breasted uniforms with rows of shimmering buttons, they embodied the pristine, militant aesthetic of the new empire. Not one of them was smiling. Seeing them reminded me of our many differences. While they had their coiffed mustachios and elegant customs, we had reverted back to a darker age when a comb and cologne would satisfy the grooming standard.

They only allowed a few escorts to board with Dirk. We jumped the rails dividing our mighty sky vessels, taking the quartermaster, two Hawks and our cloaked princess. Nobody understood my purpose there, but Captain Dirk being the eccentric man that he was often had a flair for the dramatic and having a minstrel accompany him to a hostage exchange was not entirely unanticipated.

I spied the emperor and his son Prince Torren. Somehow the lean, ghoulish Perceval had sired a chubby dumpling boy with the pouty mouth of a flat-faced cat. Maive stood beside them, arms folded. Her skin glowed pearlescent with the faintest hint of lavender in her lips and her eyes.

I found myself quite taken with her attire, a structured dress of silver cogs and clockwork. A system of gears turned along her corset’s metal boning, compelling her brooch to keep time.

I played my fiddle and Dirk removed Molly’s cloak. Our Hawks gasped. Only Mr. Bentley, our quartermaster, had already known about the young lady stowed in the captain’s quarters. She stood before Torren in her best pink satin, her eyes glowing with adoration. She was composed upon hearing my mother’s melody. Part of me wanted to throw down my instrument and strangle the emperor with my bow, but I couldn’t compromise the plan. I was to wait for Baker’s signal.

Molly curtsied and presented her hand to the prince. He kissed it and smiled up at her with cheeks like apples.

“Miss Luftberg,” he said.

“My prince.”

“You are truly she?”

“I am,” she said with a modest smile.

Maive scowled and stepped forwards. She spoke in a loud, clear voice as she said, “How can we be certain, Magnificence?”

“I remember her mother,” said Emperor Perceval. “She is the mirror image of her.” Prince Torren smiled and patted Molly’s hand. I continued to play my little tune. “The ceremony shall commence at three o’clock, followed by a reception. As a member of the former dynasty joins our great house, a civil war is prevented!” The company of Duskmen applauded.

I hoped the wedding would be a short ceremony; I was having the most vivid homicidal fantasies about the emperor’s family and Molly looked like she was going barmy from hearing the same musical phrase repeated over and over on the fiddle.

“And who is this?” asked the prince, gesturing to me.

“This is my minstrel,” said Molly. “She plays beautifully, doesn’t she?”

“She?”

The blood went cold in my face. I heard some confused whispering from our Hawks Pierce and Caleb, but Mr. Bentley shushed them.

“Oh yes! She dresses like the men, but she is a lovely young woman,” prattled Molly, fidgeting with the lace ruffles at her wrists.

Caleb laughed and Pierce elbowed him in the ribs.

The prince came towards me and stared intensely at my face. To my amazement, he smiled wide, his little teeth glistening. “Indeed she is,” he said. “She will be the ehrendame.”

Captain Dirk stepped forwards, murmuring, “My prince, this woman is but a lowly peasant, a minstrel no less.”

“No matter,” said the prince. “Any woman whom both bride and groom fancy may fill the role.” He turned to address me. “You, girl, put down that fiddle and go with the servants. They shall make you presentable.”

I didn’t know what an ehrendame was, but if it involved being made presentable, I did not want to comply. I kept playing right up until a servant girl snatched my instrument away.

Molly shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “Thank you, my sweet, sweet prince!” she said. “I am overcome with joy.” She could barely stand. I caught her by the arms and supported her weight.

I felt the ship rising. More of those golden orbs inflated and surrounded the deck like a bubbly fence. Visibility from the Wastrel was blocked.

“What is this?” Dirk said. “You must remain level with my ship.”

Emperor Perceval laughed, and at first, I thought it was to suggest that all was well. Then the guards seized my captain and twisted his arms behind his back. Emperor Perceval backhanded him with a force that cracked his jaw like a whip. Dirk spit a gob of blood.

“Stop!” Molly cried, exploding into a wild tantrum. The maids ripped her from my arms. There were four of them, all in white gowns, white aprons and lace headdresses. Their faces were monotone and severe, hard and sharp like broken glass. I froze where I stood.

Mr. Bentley drew his pistol, but could not bring it up before the Duskmen brought knives to his and his Caleb’s throats, thrashing them open in one violent motion. Their blood cascaded down their fronts and they fell to their knees. Pierce remained at knifepoint, and the emperor addressed him.

“You will return to the Wastrel, and tell the men that your captain wishes to remain for the ceremony. Any sign of retaliation from your decrepit vessel, and we will execute Dirk and destroy your ship. Understood?”

Pierce nodded. Blue Dusk escorted him to a rope ladder.

“I thought we had an agreement,” Dirk growled.

Emperor Perceval clutched him by the jaw. “You think I don’t know who sank my cruiser? That ship had wedding guests on board, friends of the order. You villains will no longer be tolerated in the skies. Once the insurgency is crushed, our military will focus on eradicating sky piracy from our airspace.

“Besides,” he added. “I know how you pirates can get on your long and lonely voyages. My son will confirm that Miss Luftberg is still a virgin before I determine whether we kill you swiftly or draw it out over the next few weeks.” He delivered a swift kick into Dirk’s ribs.

The maidservants pulled me down below deck along with Molly.

“A bath of milk and roses,” whispered a crone in white lace. She was a wiry old thing with a weak jaw that hung wrinkled about her throat.

“Where is the dress?” asked a frantic young woman, wringing Molly’s arm.

“In the blue room. Clear out the bathhouse and take Miss Luftberg there,” the crone dictated.

“What of the peasant?”

“Take her to the kitchens and have her scrubbed. Then send her to the red room.” The staff dragged me down into the belly of the ship. Two of the maids had nervous round eyes. All the stress and strain of preparing a wedding at sky had fallen on their shoulders, and it oozed out of them.

“Out of the way!” one of them snapped at a kitchen boy, shoving him by the head. Another kicked over a scullery wench. Sweltering heat raged in the kitchen. It was noisy with the clink of crockery and the hiss of boil and steam. The staff here dressed in beige stripes. Their clothing bore stains of animal blood and yellowed sweat. Judging by their haggard and starved appearances, I could tell they were a mistreated bunch.

The maids stripped me of my clothes, starting with my flight cap. As they pulled my grease-ridden shirt away, they gasped when they saw my bruising and the scars on my neck, shoulders and back. As they peeled away the bindings around my chest and removed the rest of my clothing, they saw more scars, and recoiled in disgust.

“Who would do this to a woman?” one of them whispered. I ignored her. She knew nothing of the life I’d lived, and my scars could speak for themselves. I’d been shot in the shoulder, and the mark there was from the barber who cut out the bullet. I’d earned the lashes on my back mouthing off to a knight. On my ribcage I had three brands from a hot poker. That was a test of toughness I passed to join my first gang in Amaranthia. And maybe they could see it, and maybe they couldn’t, but I also had a faint white mark under my lip from when I was robbed. I had many scars, and I was proud of every last one.

The women guided me into a basin of water and lathered me in soap that smelled of cloves. With a pitcher, they repeatedly doused me in freezing cold water.

The crone came down. She pulled at my hair, inspecting it as if I were a horse. I had neglected to cut it over the course of the year. It came down past my chin in the front and the back was rather shaggy. “Hmm. It’s a good color. I’d hate to hide it with a wig. Fiona has a similar color, hasn’t she?”

“She does,” said one of the maids.

“Call her down here.”

They wrapped me in porous linen. A girl who was about Molly’s age came down, having thick blonde locks that fell all the way down to her hips. They had us sit down side by side, and combed my tresses dry. With a pair of shears, they cut the girl’s hair and clamped the locks into hot wax. Then they wove them into braided rows against my scalp. When they were done, I felt a heavy mass on the back of my head. I had long yellow hair and the girl called Fiona was in tears.

“There there,” said one of the maids. “It will grow back.”

“Why did she have to be blonde?” the girl wept, touching her bare nape.

Two maids led me upstairs. They took me into the so-called red room with its curtains and bedspread of rose-patterned brocade. An emerald green dress lay spread out on the bed. The maids brought a corset for me. I was used to discomfort, but this was a whole new level of torture. They cinched my waist to an inhuman measurement then fitted me with a hoop skirt. I was already wearing ten pounds of clothing when they added another twenty with the gown. They secured over a hundred buttons in the back and on the cuffs. The off-shoulder mutton-chop sleeves clung tight, securing my prison of stiffened silk.

They added a choker to cover my scar and showed me my reflection in a gilded mirror. They all smiled, and looked as if they expected me to do the same. I’d never seen my own cleavage before or even known I had any. The sight of myself made me want to retch. It was like seeing my body flayed: exposed, filthy, and yearning for death.

They did not have any shoes that fit me, but I was permitted to wear my boots as long as I walked slowly so they didn’t peek out from the bottom of my hemline.

“Where is Molly?” I asked.

The crone folded her hands at her waist and said, “That whiny brat is still getting ready. The child cries and cries and nothing in the world can console her.”