The Gospel According to Verdu (a Steampunk Novel) (The Brofman Series) (20 page)

“They don’t look like physicians,” Verdu said, as he eyed each one.

“They aren’t.” Nameer pulled the blanket away from Verdu’s lower body, revealing his lamed left leg. Verdu tried hard to not look at the badly healed flesh, but the men all around him stared, their brows furrowed in concentration. They began whispering to one another, and one pulled a cloth measuring tape from his toolbox.

“Let me make introductions all around,” Nameer said. He started at the head of Verdu’s bed on the left. “This is Spago, the emperor’s jeweler, then Va-Legos the court engineer; the royal tinkerer Yamto and his assistant, Misrac; the carriage maker Pi-Roos, and steam mechanic Kona Grap. Tendall represents the tanners and cobblers, and Qatal is the emperor’s watchmaker. They are going to take a few measurements and then come up with something to help you leave this room. You see, my wayward prince, you need to be seen around the palace.”

With a nod of Nameer’s head, the tradesmen bowed deeply and began measuring and examining Verdu’s crippled leg. They worked quickly, consulting with one another, nodding, and scribbling notes on bits of paper. They asked Verdu to move his toes, and how far he could bend his knee. Verdu obliged, and the men seemed quite pleased to wander off, quietly debating among themselves. As the last reached the door, he turned back to Nameer and Verdu. “Tomorrow at the latest,” said the jeweler, and he closed the door behind him.

Verdu collapsed back against the pillow and eyed Nameer suspiciously. “You said there was a way that I could walk out of here. Was that the truth of it, or are you just teasing me, tempting me to stay alive until your work is done and I can be executed by the Hierarchy?”

“I spoke the truth. I have been assigned to be your representative, and so I shall be.” He eyed the stack of Tugrulian lawbooks on the low table across the room. “Did you read those?”

“No, I thought just to make Bateem’s life difficult for a time,” Verdu said, his voice tinged with cynicism. “I leafed through a bit, but it’s nearly impossible to follow Tugrulian law. Justice here seems to be nothing more than a series of decrees that dictate then countermand one another.”

“True,” Nameer said approvingly. “That is the foundation of Tugrulian law: the word of the emperor, the representative of the One True God, is all that need be consulted. His decree is final—but it also lives on as tradition. What the emperor allows is also looked on as law. For example, a woman is caught alone with a man other than her husband, and the husband beats both of them to death. The emperor takes no action against the man, so it becomes law by allowance: if a wife cheats, the husband may kill the adulterous couple with his bare hands. Do you see?”

Verdu nodded, yet still looked puzzled. “But
I
didn’t beat my wife to death.”

“True,” Nameer said, allowing himself a half smile. “You took part in a plot that led to the collapse of the Dia Orella, killing many of your cousins, uncles, and others. Your writings incite subjects of the emperor to attempt to rise up and overthrow the government. However”—Nameer paused to let his smile broaden —“you are a prince of the blood.”

Verdu waited for the explanation and blinked at Nameer. “And . . . ?”

“It is tradition, as you already know, that the princes of the blood often feud and grapple for better position in the line of succession. They often kill one another, and take a few bystanders with them. The emperor has always allowed this. It is
law by allowance
that princes of the blood may kill for the throne.”

Nameer leaned in closer. “It is arguable that you were merely seeking to enhance your position—a murderous act that is allowed for one such as yourself.”

Verdu looked in horror at the councillor. “
This
is your plan—to say that what I
wanted
was to leap ahead in the line of succession? That I
want
to be emperor of Tugrulia?”

“That is all that will save you: you either have to make a case for coveting the throne, or the throne is going to put your head of a pike.”

“Six days. It’s the best I can do,” the repairman said. He looked over the scorched deck of the
Brofman
and then turned back to Captain Endicott. “It really should have burned the whole ship. The damage to the hull is minimal and the engine parts are readily available, but it’s gonna take time. We have to take the whole kit apart and clean the gritty smoke residue from each piece, or the old girl will just tear herself apart. A little grime . . . ,” he said.

“Wastes a load of time,” Captain Endicott said, finishing the old Air Corps mechanics’ motto. If frustration were a color, his would have looked like the inside of a blast furnace. “I can give you three of my men to help—will that make it any faster?”

“Perhaps, but my apprentices know how I work best, and they are trained well for rebuilds. Tell me about this fire
su-press-shun
system your cook developed. Sounds like something we could have used during the war.” The mechanic looked expectantly at the captain, mentally taking notes and seeing fattening bank accounts.

“I’ll be sure to have Kingston and Germer give you full detailed plans with a bow on ’em if you can get my girl here repaired any faster.” Captain Endicott was willing to bargain away anything for what he needed right now. He was even willing to risk Kingston’s wrath for rousing Germer from his recovery bed too soon. Yes, the man nearly died, but the Captain’s world, his family, was falling apart. First Verdu, then Fenimore and Chenda; now his heart, Candice. His ship was a wreck, his crew was injured, and he was near crazed with wanting to make it all go back to the way it was.

The mechanic put a grimy hand on the captain’s shoulder and rubbed it reassuringly. “Yer my only job right now, see? I’ll do my best and my quickest, but gotta step back and let me get under way.” He waved his apprentices onto the deck, each carrying a crate or two of assorted basins, bottles of chemicals, engine parts, tins of grease, tools of various sizes, and bushels of rags. The young men trotted down the stairs, and a few moments later the sounds of the
Brofman
’s engine being dismantled began.

Captain Endicott stood alone on the deck. It was not often that a man as heavy and solidly built as he felt as fragile as a sun-bleached sand dollar, as if the push of one finger could break him into powder. He was not used to sorrow, and he despised it. He had run through his options over and over: find another airship, get help from Kite’s Republic, sail on with a sea ship of some sort, and on and on, but the best he could come up with was to fix the
Brofman
and fly into Tugrulia. The rub was all this wasted time. He was enraged that he kept falling farther and farther behind the loved ones he sought to find and protect. At dawn he’d been fifteen minutes behind Candice, now it was six days. He prayed that by nightfall it would not be
forever.

He started to tremble at the thought and then took hold of his quaking, turning it into a personal jump start. He stamped his boot on the deck. “Kingston! Lincoln! The rest a ya! GET UP HERE!”

Captain Endicott paced back and forth across the deck as his crew assembled. He turned to them. “We need to visit the gunrunners,” he said softly. The other men looked at one another worriedly, but none questioned the captain’s orders. They could see the look on Captain Endicott’s face as he signaled Lincoln to follow him and stalked off the broken airship, and they knew better than to stand between a man with white-hot fire in his eyes and the path of his fury.

chapter 14

The tangled web we weave

Ahy-Me watched Fenimore perform his calisthenics through one of the thin curtains that separated the cave into a few semiprivate areas.

He’s at it again
, she thought to Pranav Erato, who was deeper down in the cave system.
He’s stopped and started a dozen times over the last two hours.

Fine, let him exhaust himself; it will make our ministrations a little easier
, his thoughts drifted back to her. Although he was running at his top, gangly speed, the voice of his thoughts was calm and not winded at all. Ahy-Me marveled at his control; she would have huffed and puffed her thoughts back to him had it been her jogging along.

So, tell me again what is going on with Fenimore?
she asked.
What vicious weed has taken root in his character this way?

He has done something that has tipped him away from being the man we knew. He has forgotten some part of himself, and is now channeling his gift from the gods . . . oh, how can I say it?
Undiluted
may be the word. From what I have observed, he is a soldier without any orders. He’s struggling against his fierceness, his discipline, his mission, and his sense of order
. Pranav Erato’s thoughts took a slightly lighter tone.
In short, the lad’s gone round the twist!

Ahy-Me watched as Fenimore took up shadowboxing, the light of the small fire behind him casting a ruddy glow on the damp cave wall, his shadow an inky void of flailing fists and vicious kicks. Every few punches, his head rocked from side to side, as if he was shaking his head to say no; his hands would dip, as if to rest or resign the competition against his own shadow; then he would snap back to guarded punches again. The struggle under the surface was breaching his skin.

I thought being the Pramuc’s Companion was more of a title—not a gift
, she thought to the pranav. She could feel him approaching; he would soon be back in the cave and she would no longer be alone with the crazy one. It had made her rather nervous that he had left her to keep an eye on Fenimore while he went to gather his supplies. But when she protested, he promised that all would be well and that she would be just fine for the short time he would be out, and,
Oh, by the way, there is a blowgun with a powerful sleeping potion by the door. If he gets out of hand, just shoot him
.

Ahy-Me always felt comforted by the spiritual leader of the Tugrulian resistance, especially when he left her a blowgun.

She started speaking her greetings aloud just before Pranav Erato’s delicate appendages came bouncing through the cave opening. She turned to watch him approach, and was grabbed from behind by Fenimore, who had moved lightning fast.

Fenimore let go of her so quickly she nearly fell to the ground. He backed into a corner of the cave and squatted down, his eyes scanning left and right, over and over, as if looking for an approaching enemy.

Gods above! Fix him!
she thought at Pranav Erato.

He winked at her.
I will do my best, but I think we may need the other Companions to help us get him back to rights. For now let us try for not letting him get anyone killed unnecessarily. Especially himself.

Especially ME
,
she pointedly replied.

Of course, my darling one.
Pranav Erato walked to the back of the cave and settled his limbs in a jumble next to the low fire.
Ask him to join me, would you?
His eyes twinkled with the joy he always exuded, and, frightened as she was, Ahy-Me could not help but want to be a part of anything the pranav did.

“Please, Fen-ee-more, come to de fireside vith da pranav. He vishes some time speak vith du.”

He turned toward her, and she thought he looked more shark than man, predatory, which left her feeling like prey. In a single lithe movement he slinked toward the fire. Never taking his gaze off her, he dropped to a flat-footed squat across from Pranav Erato. His gray eyes were frighteningly empty. She was grateful when he blinked away from watching her, and she had the urge to make a run for a mousehole in the wall. She forced herself to answer her master’s beckoning call with a few steps toward the fire.

Pranav Erato rummaged around a small canvas sack with one hand while a long, bony finger from the other hand floated toward Fenimore’s knee. As the finger touched the other man’s leg, he sent his thoughts:
Fenimore, I am glad to see you so fit. As you know, I don’t much like to speak aloud underground. It is acceptable that we speak this way?

Fenimore flinched at the touch, but nodded once in agreement.

I am sure you have many questions—

“What I have is a mission, one I am counting on the resistance to help me with. If you and your followers won’t assist me, then you are of no use to me—just another obstacle.”

Calm yourself, my dear Soldier. We are all here together to make sure your mission is fulfilled. Let us take a moment to plan, to share information.

First of all, please tell me where Chenda is. I wish to know of your time after you departed Tugrulia.

Fenimore’s head snapped back and his eyes flinched closed. “I don’t want to talk about her. Not part of the mission. Not.”

The pranav cast a worried glance at Ahy-Me, who shrugged.
At least tell me that she is well?

“She was when I left her. There was a note. I told her to stay.” He snarled. “She should do as I asked.” He looked at the pranav. “A wife should obey her husband, yes?”

You do realize you married the Pramuc, right? I would bet she set out after you about five minutes after she knew you were gone.