The Aeronaut's Windlass (67 page)

“Killing,” Mirl answered. “Burning.”

Bridget’s gaze shot to Captain Grimm. “Why would they do that?”

“Why indeed,” Grimm replied, his eyes narrowing.

“We must help them, Captain,” Benedict said fervently.

Grimm studied the young man for a moment before nodding. “We’ll do all we can. Creedy, I know everyone is exhausted. But we’re moving out.”

Chapter 56

Spire Albion, Habble Landing, Temple of the Way

R
owl, having defeated the army of silkweavers virtually unassisted, sat and watched as the humans floundered about in the wake of the battle.

Littlemouse, who was by far the most important human present, helped human Folly to her feet and spoke to her in a low, worried tone. That was ridiculous, of course. Human Folly could stand, and could speak, and so the odd girl was obviously well enough. Human Folly looked rather frantic for a moment, until Littlemouse placed several small lumin crystals into the other girl’s hands, at which point the etherealist’s apprentice cupped them as if they were more precious than kittens.

Grim Ship-Trees was visiting his fallen and wounded warriors. Rowl approved of that. Even now, Naun was making the rounds of the wounded and fallen Nine-Claws warriors. The clan chief finished the task and prowled over to Rowl, his bloodied battle spurs clicking on the ground.

“Rowl.”

“Naun.”

“You slew as many as I did,” Naun noted.

“Did I?” Rowl asked airily. “I was not keeping track.”

Naun’s tail lashed in amusement. “The threat to my clan is gone. You were instrumental in making that happen.”

“You are welcome,” Rowl said.

Naun stared silently for a moment. Then he said, “You spared the life of my kit, when you had more than sufficient reason to kill him.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Out of respect,” Rowl replied. He lifted his right rear leg and peered at the bloodied blade on it. “His battle spurs are excellent.”

“Hardly used,” Naun growled. “Keep them.”

“Neen will not like that,” Rowl noted.

“Neen will earn his spurs again. Perhaps this time something will sink in.”

“I wish you luck with that,” Rowl said. “If you will excuse me. The spurs chafe.”

Naun flicked an ear in farewell. “Convey to your father my respects. His envoy is welcome in Nine-Claws territory.”

“I will,” Rowl replied.

Naun rose without further remark, and departed.

Rowl turned back to watching Grim Ship-Trees, and noted that the man was in the midst of detailing a few of his healthy warriors to help the human healer take the wounded to something more like safety.

If he could smell the distant smoke in the air like Rowl could, he would be moving more quickly. But that was the way of humans. Like their minds, their senses were not particularly sharp, and if that wasn’t bad enough, they spent an inordinate amount of time ignoring them or dulling them even further with their drink and their alleged music and their soap. So, no matter that they were standing in the only habble in all of Spire Albion filled with flammable buildings, and that the entire place might turn into a gigantic oven and cook them all. There were human matters to fuss with before moving out to take action.

Years of living near humans had taught Rowl that there was no point in trying to hurry them, and had made him even more patient than he was puissant. They would be ready when they were ready. Meanwhile, he prowled over to Littlemouse, made himself comfortable, and started working on the laces of his new battle spurs. Knots were uncivilized creations. His thumb-paw was really not well suited to undoing the length of leather cord that kept the cuffs securely on his legs, which was why a pair of squires was generally required to secure the cuffs in the first place.

“Rowl,” Littlemouse asked, in Cat. “Would you please allow me to assist you?”

“Yes,” Rowl said promptly, and lay down to relax while Littlemouse saw to the knots with her indecently long and precise fingers. Each creature had something it excelled at, he supposed. Humans could manage knots easily, and cats could do everything else.

Littlemouse undid the knots and carefully slid the wide leather cuffs off of his legs. Rowl did nothing as undignified as sigh with relief once the tight, restricting things were gone, but a lesser cat than he might have done so. He felt quite filthy. The foolish silkweavers had not drenched him in their vital fluids as they had some of the slower warriors of Naun’s clan, but his fur was certainly speckled with the stuff, and it smelled.

Rowl yawned and regained his feet before butting his head against Littlemouse’s knee.

Littlemouse knelt down to rub the spot behind his ears, which he allowed might also be a particular expertise of human-style fingers.

“You were so brave just now, Rowl,” Littlemouse said. Her voice was very soft and warm. “You saved us.”

It would have been unseemly to wriggle with pleasure at her tone, so Rowl restrained himself to rising and arching his back under her hand so that it went all the way down his body, and possibly wiped off some of the filth. “I know,” he said.

“How did you convince the Nine-Claws to help?” Littlemouse asked.

“I saved their clan chief’s kit.”

“From what?”

“From me,” Rowl said. He stretched and flicked his rear legs one at a time until he felt that the fur was somewhat less disarranged. “I would knock down a Spire for you, Littlemouse.”

Littlemouse made a squeaking sound and scooped him up in her clumsy human arms and gave him a smothering hug.

Rowl leaned his cheek against hers and purred. After all,
he
could hardly be called unseemly if a human, even so exceptional a human as Littlemouse, got carried away in a fit of affection.

And besides, her sleeves were cleaning his fur.

The moment lasted until the tall younger warrior beside Grim Ship-Trees called, “Everyone else form up on me! Let’s go!”

And at last, only a nap or two after the last fight had ended, they finally began to move.

*   *   *

T
he smell of smoke grew stronger and stronger as the humans huffed and puffed down the cramped streets of Habble Landing. Rowl loped along beside them, amused. Of the entire group, only his Littlemouse was moving steadily, clomping along in the same boots she wore while running with the Guard. Evidently all that senseless fleeing about had done its work to prepare her for this evening. She was moving very well compared to everyone else in the little group. Not as well as a cat, of course—that was simply not possible. But better than the other humans, even the half-soul.

Rowl looked at human Benedict curiously. He had always seemed markedly less clumsy than other humans to Rowl, but that had all but vanished. His legs were moving unevenly, and he was gasping for air just like the rest of them. He must have been weary—though weary or not, he had wits enough about him to lift his nose to the air and inhale, finally noticing the smoke scent that had been obvious to Rowl since before they had begun their run.

Rowl heard something and focused on the sound.

“Littlemouse,” he called. “Gauntlet fire ahead.”

Littlemouse dutifully relayed the message, or tried to. The first man she told to pass it up the line to the captain was wheezing too hard to make himself understood by his fellow humans. Littlemouse shook her head, picked up her pace, and ran ahead to Grim Ship-Trees to inform him.

The humans spread out as they approached the temple and slowed their pace to a more cautious stalk—if one could even truly consider it a stalk. To Rowl, they sounded like the clump and clutter of a steam engine, except for Littlemouse, who, to her credit, sounded only as loud as a particularly clumsy, lame kitten.

Rowl had no such concerns. He would be seen only if he wished to be seen. He darted ahead.

There was a great deal of smoke billowing out of the Temple of the Way—probably due to all the fire he could see glowing within it. A number of humans had apparently tried to form a line, where they would have presumably passed buckets of water along to one another so that whichever human was most foolish could throw it at the fire. Metal buckets lay scattered everywhere, along with several corpses of the humans who had attempted to use them.

As Rowl watched, a human leaned out of the shelter of the wall around the temple, appearing in the gateway, and loosed a gauntlet blast, burning a blazing trail of tiny cinders through the pall of smoke. He quickly ducked back, just as several other blasts hammered against the stone of the wall near him, sending chips of rock flying. The humans of Landing, it would seem, were not taking the killing of their own lightly.

Rowl broke into a sprint, covering the open ground between the rest of the habble and the temple’s territory at his best speed. From there, finding a convenient stone projecting slightly from the wall made it possible for Rowl to jump to the top and take stock of the situation. There were half a dozen humans inside the temple’s wall, all of them armed, all of them positioned to pop up from concealment and fire gauntlets at anyone who approached.

Rowl took note of their positions and leapt lightly from the wall, rushing back to Littlemouse. He told her in rapid tones what he had seen, and Littlemouse relayed his words to Grim Ship-Trees as the group approached the temple.

Ship-Trees nodded once, his expression hard.

“Why burn a Temple of the Way?” human Creedy asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Why burn a library?” Littlemouse answered. “There must have been something of value in it. Something that would prompt the Aurorans to make sure that it all burned by leaving men behind to ambush the bucket brigade.”

“If they aren’t letting anyone in,” human Benedict said, “they aren’t letting anyone out, either.”

“They aren’t going to get away with it,” Ship-Trees said in a very quiet voice. “Long guns, I believe, Mister Creedy. We’ve an extra with Mister Stern down. Can you use it?”

“Tolerably well, sir,” human Creedy responded.

“Then you and the others will provide covering fire while I lead the charge.” Ship-Trees glanced around. “Sir Benedict? I would appreciate your aid in this entry.”

“Of course, Captain Grimm,” human Benedict said.

“Mister Kettle, you’re with me,” Ship-Trees said. Then he turned to eye Littlemouse. “Miss Tagwynn, if you are willing, you will accompany Sir Benedict.”

Littlemouse swallowed but nodded firmly. “I will.”

The captain turned to the rest of his warriors and said, “The rest in two columns, following us. Get through the gate and blast any hostile targets you see. If the man in front of you falls, keep moving and take the shooter before his gauntlet can cycle.”

“Mister Rowl,” Ship-Trees said, turning to the cat. “I do not expect you to engage in undue risk in a firefight, but your senses are far better than ours. I would take it as a courtesy if you would accompany us, to see and hear anything we might not realize is happening. Will you do this?”

Rowl regarded Ship-Trees, amused. He would enter the temple—or not enter it—precisely when, and where, and as he pleased, or else what would be the point in being a cat? But Littlemouse was going, and that meant that he would go as well, to guide and protect her. Obviously. But even if she hadn’t been going, Ship-Trees had consistently showed courtesy and respect above and beyond that of most humans. The very act of it was a statement of respect in itself. Rowl may well have helped him in any case, so he gave Ship-Trees a slow nod.

“Thank you,” Ship-Trees said. “The rest of you, column up by twos. Keep it tight, people. Give the long guns as much room to shoot in as possible.” Then, without further ado, he drew his sword and began loping toward the temple, leaving four men armed with the odd-looking human weapons behind him.

Rowl raced to catch up with Littlemouse, who was running in a strange, jerky motion, as though her body longed to break into a mad sprint toward the danger—or away from it. Her best speed would have left the weary aeronauts behind, though, so she kept the pace slow and careful. Then it was all the sound of boots striking the floor in rhythm, and the scent of sweating human, and the kindling glow of gauntlets being primed.