The Wind Merchant (24 page)

“Won’t someone spot The Fox?” Callie asked.

“Doubt it. She’s based on a popular model,” Ras said. “Besides, it beats getting struck by…what did you call it?”

“Lightning.”

“That’s it. I doubt the ship would react well to it.” Ras locked in their course and pulled out a tube from underneath the console. He extracted a map from its container and pressed it firmly to the dash to keep the wind from whipping it away.

Callie closed her book and stood. “Anything nearby?”

“Well, we’re coming up on
Crispin
, but Bravo Company downed it before attacking Merron.” Ras said, pointing to a big X over the illustration of a city. Ras moved over slightly to let Callie investigate.

“Look, there’s a little dot next to the X,” Callie said, leaning in close. “
New Crispin
?”

“I don’t know. Let’s see…” Ras mused over the map. “We’re maybe half an hour away if the wind’s with us.”

She held up the brass orb and compared it to the compass. “Looks like it’s right on the path. Can we at least check it out?”

“
New Crispin
it is,” Ras said.

With a new course plotted, they were able to rest easy for the remainder of the afternoon. Callie took breaks from reading to fashion a holster for Ras’ new wrench. She had called the holster dashing when he first tried it on, which, unbeknownst to her, was a salve to his tattered ego.
 

The sun began to disappear beneath the roiling clouds as they approached a structure of several dozen vessels cobbled together. The mostly empty docks, if they could be called such, led to a settlement whose sole source of illumination was its engines.

“Why is this even here?” Callie asked.

Ras looked down at the Energy level indicator. “The air is rich here. I’m guessing even after they lost their city, wind merchants made this out of some wreckage so they could still pull big hauls,” Ras said. “But The Collective isn’t around anywhere to buy their Energy.”

“That’s good for us, I suppose,” Callie said. “I’m kind of regretting reading
The Demons of Bogues
now. This place looks like a ghost town.”

“If it was abandoned, it would have to have been recently. The scoop engines are still keeping it up,” Ras said. “Might still be worth a scavenge while the storm passes.”

The Brass Fox’s engines shut off at Ras’ command and the ship glided silently into an empty slip. A young man escaping his teenage years appeared from somewhere Ras didn’t notice, wearing an odd looking checkered hat with ear flaps. He stood, ready to catch the rope.

“Hello,” Ras called out, genuinely surprised to be met by a dockhand. “What’s the docking fee here?” He cradled the rope, ready to toss it to the teenager. No response. “Excuse me, hello?” he asked, snapping his fingers to draw the young man’s attention. It looked like he was staring up at the balloon. Ras turned and called back, “Callie! Will you toss this rope to me? The dockhand is having a staring match with The Fox.”

“The…
The Fox
?” The young man finally spoke as though pulled from his trance.

“Ah, there you are. Here.” Ras tossed the rope to him. The young man made no effort to catch it. “Oh, no, let me,” Ras deadpanned and hopped down to the makeshift dock, which prompted the boy to burst into a full sprint away from Ras.

“He’s back! He’s back!” the young man cried out, fleeing.

Ras picked up the rope and tied it to the dock. He looked at Callie, who walked down the newly extended gangplank. “What in Atmo is he talking about?” Ras asked.

Callie shrugged. “Free parking?”

They walked along the docks and Callie handed Ras the duffle bag she carried. It held Elias’ grapple gun and his newly holstered wrench. “You might as well make sure whatever cabling you need will fit.”

Ras tilted his head in agreement. “Good call.” He extracted the grapple gun from the bag and placed the sleeve of it over his arm. It wasn’t entirely out of fashion for wind merchants to wear them while off of their ships, and it protected his wrench-struck shoulder. The combination of an armored arm and large wrench made him look like an odd mix of mechanic and knight errant.

“For as empty as this place is, I think the deckhand might have been the King of
New Crispin
,” Callie said. Leaving the docks, they made it to the outskirts of the town to find absolutely nobody on the platforms they passed. They looked back to realize that the only other ships in the docks looked abandoned or in terrible disrepair.

The whole situation made Ras want to turn around and head out. They could find grapple gun charges somewhere else, and passing wind merchants were usually willing to make trades. He was about to voice his opinion when Callie stopped him by placing her hand on his arm.

“Wait, do you hear something?” She tilted her head. “Music.”

Due to wind-whipped ears, Ras strained to hear what sounded like the faintest of piano music in the distance. It stopped abruptly, replaced by the sound of dozens of boots coming down the curving path toward them.

The light of handheld Energy lamps began giving a green glow to the area, their reflections bobbing off of shop windows and the light grew in intensity as the footsteps became louder.

“Should we run?” Callie asked, concerned.

“I’m not opposed.” Ras turned to head back to the ship.

“Veir!” A voice shouted, accusatory and questioning at the same time. “Hold it right there!”

Ras looked at Callie, whose face was lit by the flickering lamps. He took a deep breath and turned to see the materialized mob.

“At least they don’t have pitchforks,” Callie said under her breath.

“What’s a pitchfork?” Ras whispered.

A man with a white beard and bald head hobbled ahead of the crowd of thirty. He leaned on a crutch to help him manage on a peg leg. He held a lantern in his other hand and stopped ten feet away from Ras and Callie, prompting the rest of the group to halt as well. He studied Ras for a moment, then turned back to the crowd.

“You knucklehead, that ain’t him!” he called out, prompting the teenaged dockhand to emerge from the group.

“But he called her The Fox!” the young man said.

“Had you considered he might have been referring to the red-head?” the older man countered.

“Hey!” Callie said.

“No offense, miss.”

They think I’m my father.
Ras shook his head. “You were hoping for Elias Veir and
The Silver Fox
.”

“Aye,” the one-legged man said with a renewed vigor, “Know ‘im?” he asked, adjusting his crutch.

“
Knew
him,” Ras corrected. “My father died ten years ago.”

Gasps escaped from the crowd, and the bearded man’s shoulders slumped. “That’s…that’s a right tragedy, son. Your father was a fine, fine man.” He turned back to the crowd and bellowed, “Tonight we drink to the life, legacy, and memory of Elias Veir!” This elicited cheers. He turned to Ras and asked, “What’s your name, boy?”

“Erasmus—”

“And to Erasmus Veir! May he be even half as great as his father!” The crowd cheered and began shuffling back up the road.

“Yeah, already got that one covered,” Ras muttered.

Callie nudged him. “He didn’t mean it like that.”

Ras looked down at the grapple gun and suddenly felt ten years old, wearing a wind merchant costume and pretending to be his father. He trudged up the street, coming alongside the bearded man. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Oh, pardon my rudeness, Erasmus. Around here people just call me Pop,” he said, shifting his weight so he could offer his hand.

Ras accepted the shake, and was pulled off balance by Pop’s eager fist pumping. “Easy enough.”

“And young miss, I do apologize for earlier,” he said. “The boy is known to be uncouth.”

“It’s all right. My name is Calista.”

“Lovely name, if I may say so,” Pop said.

“Where are we going?”

“The Silver Fox, o’ course.” He smiled broadly. “We named the tavern after his blessed ship on occasion of him savin’ the city.”

Ras looked at Callie and raised an eyebrow. “
Crispin
?”

“Oh, no,
New Crispin
,” Pop said, “But I bet if your dad had been around for the first tussle, you’d be standing on a much finer city.”

The tavern was the only building lit up in the dark town. Draped above the outside entrance was
The Silver Fox
’s original dirigible canvas with the hand painted logo of The Silver Fox that Emma had designed for Elias.

As Ras approached the insignia he searched for every time his mother paraded him to the docks to meet Elias, he pointed up with a look of confusion.

Pop explained. “During the attacks, a cannonball went straight through, puncturing the ballonet. I’d never seen a pilot make it through losing their balloon.”

“How’d he do that?” Ras’ boyish grin broke through.

“Well, all he had was his Windstrider scoops, so when he dropped below the clouds we thought we lost him. But he used what was in his collection tank to stop the dive by fueling his engines. Then he skimmed by the Convergence below us to act as a scoop booster to shoot back up through the clouds, balloon-less!”

“How’d he land?” Callie asked.

“
New Crispin
caught him,” Pop said. “Nobody liked that bakery anyway…”

They walked underneath the relic and into the tavern, finding the rustic, two-story interior of an old transport with a hearth built in the center, complete with crackling fire. Tables with mismatched wooden chairs were scattered around the hearth, and lining one side of the room was the large wooden bar. In the back, a man with a shaved head and dark glasses plinked away at a piano.

Applause erupted inside as soon as patrons realized the guest of honor had entered, but it was quickly subdued as those that had been outside informed others that the newcomer wasn’t their returning hero.

“Gil!” Pop shouted to the piano player, “Something jaunty!”

“Yup!” Gil obliged, and the piano began filling the tavern with music.

Ras could feel the stares subside as Pop escorted them to the bar.

“Krantz, this is Eli’s boy, treat him right,” Pop said to the barkeep, a serious looking barrel-chested man with a beard and slicked-back hair. Pop looked back at Ras. “Ten years ago, huh?”

“More or less,” Ras said.

“So he didn’t make it back to you from here?” It was more an observation than a question.

Ras shook his head. “I didn’t even know my father had been to
New Crispin
.”

“Then you’re in for a treat,” Pop said, gesturing for Ras and Callie to each pull up a bar stool. They obliged.

Krantz had already prepared two drinks and slid them along the bar.

Callie sniffed at the beverage, then recoiled, crinkling her nose. “Am I allowed to ask what’s in this?”

The woman sitting on the stool next to Ras with long blonde hair spoke up, “He won’t talk to you unless you take a drink.”

The bearded barkeep grunted what Ras assumed to be an agreement.
 

The blonde woman laughed. “But even then, he’s laconic,” she said, prompting him to narrow his eyes at her, then let slip a grin. She blew him a kiss.

Ras took a swig of his drink and was surprised to find it lacked any alcohol but instead had a sweet, fruity taste—the kind that Emma used to surprise him with during the hot summers in his childhood. “You sure you didn’t mix these two up?” Ras asked, pointing at their drinks.

Krantz stared at him. He was probably ten years Ras’ senior. “Yup,” he said as he cleaned a glass with an old rag. “That’s what your dad ordered. Pirates were likely to strike at all hours so he wouldn’t let himself get caught off guard.”

“How’d you know my dad?”

“Flew with him once during the first raid,” Krantz said.

The lights dimmed, and Pop made himself comfortable on a small stage composed of a couple crates sitting next to the hearth. He clanked his tankard with a ring on his right hand to quiet the crowd. Gil stopped playing and the room fell silent.

“Now, I know about six months back we had our 10th anniversary of emancipation, and we had a big to-do of it, but there’s someone here that hasn’t heard anything about this, which I find a crying shame. Erasmus Veir, would you wave your hand?”

Ras sheepishly obliged and heard every wooden chair creak as people turned to look his way.

“I’m afraid I have some very sad news indeed,” Pop said. “According to Erasmus, Elias didn’t make it home after his three months under our care.” Murmurs spread through the crowd. “So I think it’s fitting to tell his story to commemorate the man who gave us so much. Most all of you know it, but we could all use a reminder from time to time, I’d like to think.”

Ras settled into his stool. He was practically able to recite the tales from the scuffles with sky pirates around Verdant, but this was his one opportunity at hearing this tale, and he wanted to relish it.

“As most know,” Pop began, “the banner of India Bravo is enough to send most men back to their own engine wash, let alone her entire fleet of miscreants, who had set their eyes upon
New Crispin
.”

“Did he say India Bravo?” Ras asked Krantz, who just shushed him and pointed at Pop.

“India and
New Crispin
had an uneasy agreement that none of us much liked, but once
The Winnower
was built and set up over the Origin, Ms. Bravo realized that Convergences were becoming far more valuable than ever.

“So the evening before the fireworks began, in flies The Silver Fox. Now, we don’t oft get travelers around here, and especially not wind merchants since The Collective doesn’t have many a person to do business with in these parts. We house mostly tinkerers, traders, and the like, so a wind merchant was a treat. Elias Veir was his name, and right over there is where he sat.” Pop pointed a finger directly at Ras, then winked.

“Most wind merchants are natural storytellers due to the nature of what they see in their trade, but it’s bad luck and bad manners to ask for a tale, especially when they are taking a respite from the skies. But Elias was kind enough to regale us with the tales about the Cliffs of Quinn, the Tunnels of Lacercie, and the time he squared off against the Red Band sky pirates.” Pop paused, then said, “Erasmus, do you know those stories?”