them, won’t we? The pilot will need to fly, right, so we’ll have to stoke the fires for the furnaces?”
Now Books leaned out, his eyebrows drawn together. “You’re volunteering to do work?”
Akstyr subtly twitched his fingers to sign, Magic here even as he said, “I was going to volunteer you to do it, actually.”
“I see,” Books said.
“There’s no need for that.” Buckingcrest patted the wall. “An internal combustion engine runs the propellers, not a brutish steam monstrosity, and she uses a fuel blend that we invented ourselves. It’s a company secret, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t give you more details, but Harkon will handle refueling, should it be needed.”
“Of course,” Books said, though he signed, If this is a trap, I’m going to kill Maldynado.
“What’re you doing?” the tattooed man asked from behind Akstyr. He must have seen Books’s flying fingers.
“I thought I saw a mosquito.” Books slapped at the wall. “Got it.”
Akstyr stifled a groan. Sicarius’s training might be useful in fights, but someone needed to teach this group how to lie better. “I’ll just go out and get our cargo,” Akstyr said.
Harkon watched him like a parched alcoholic watching someone sip brandy. Akstyr had a feeling this flying adventure wasn’t going to go smoothly at all.
Chapter 10
Akstyr leaned against the wall in the navigation room, watching with some amusement as Books tried to coax flying instructions out of Harkon. Their tattooed pilot was making Sicarius seem talkative. Books had a journal out and scribbled a note every time the man flipped a switch or pushed a lever. Akstyr wondered if Harkon knew they planned to oust him as soon as possible. The dirigible was heading east, over the foothills beneath the mountains that held the dead shaman’s mine, and it probably didn’t matter if the pilot knew of that destination, but they needed to figure out something to do with him before they headed to the Scarlet Pass.
Harkon yawned, and Akstyr thought it might be a good time to go exploring.
“Anyone want something to eat?” he asked.
Both men waved negatives. Akstyr stepped into the corridor, wishing the navigation cabin had a door he could shut. He hoped Harkon was too busy to look over his shoulder. Hands in his pockets, Akstyr strolled to the trapdoor. With a little fiddling, the handle ring popped up, and he pulled the square slab open. Lighter than he expected, it almost flew all the way open to clang against the floor, but he caught it first and eased it down. A narrow ladder led into a dark compartment. The hum of an engine had grown louder. Right spot, he thought.
Akstyr crept down the ladder and crouched in the darkness. The cabin held none of the heat he associated with furnaces and boilers. In the dimness, he could make out vertical pipes running up the walls. Soft clanks emanated from the rear of the compact compartment, and a dark waist-high shape-the engine? — squatted in the center of the floor.
Before risking a light, Akstyr closed his eyes and stretched outward with his senses, trying to detect traps or dangers about the engine. The presence he had felt earlier remained, but nothing about it changed as he probed with his mind. The engine, or whatever powered it, didn’t seem to have intelligence or awareness, not like a soul construct. Maybe it was no more than a simple artifact, crafted to power the dirigible.
“Let’s take a look, shall we?” Akstyr muttered and lifted a hand.
A flame flared to life above his fingers, and the shadows receded. The light illuminated the engine, a squat steel shape punctuated with brass rods and shafts. Pipes ran out the back and disappeared into the wall behind it.
Akstyr took a step toward the engine, but halted when something stirred in the darkness lingering behind it. His flame flickered, and four reflections winked back at him from the shadows. Eyes.
Street rot, he hadn’t thought to check for people.
A metallic clack sounded. A gun being loaded? Akstyr’s concentration broke, and his light disappeared. He spun and raced up the ladder rungs.
Something clicked off the wall beside him. A crossbow quarrel instead of a bullet. Not that big of an improvement.
At the top of the ladder, Akstyr yanked his legs up and rolled into the corridor. “Books!”
He slammed the trapdoor shut and groped about for a lock. There wasn’t one. Clangs rang out from below-someone climbing the ladder.
“Books,” Akstyr hollered again and pulled out his short sword. He wished he had a pistol. “Are you-”
Something shattered in the navigation cabin, and the vessel tilted, dumping Akstyr against a wall.
The trapdoor flew open. A man’s head popped out, a black bandana wrapping his hair. He lifted a crossbow. Akstyr kicked the weapon out of the man’s hands with enough force to hurl it to the ceiling. He aimed a second kick at his attacker’s head, but the stowaway saw it coming and had time to duck. By luck more than design, Akstyr managed to snatch the falling crossbow from the air after it bounced off the ceiling.
He aimed it at the opening and eased backward, finding the door to the cargo bay with his heel. He risked taking a hand off the crossbow to try the latch. If he could get inside, he could use the doorjamb and wall for cover. Someone had locked it.
“Cursed ancestors,” Akstyr growled.
A metallic canister spun through the trapdoor opening and clanked down at Akstyr’s feet. It was one of the smoke grenades he had brought on board. The conniving bandits were attacking them with their own weapons.
Green smoke hissed into the air. Akstyr held his breath and squinted his eyes against the haze, but he didn’t let go of the crossbow.
Something stirred the smoke near the trapdoor. Akstyr fired.
The quarrel clanged off metal instead of thudding into flesh, but someone cursed and ducked out of sight. A curse on his own lips, Akstyr plucked the grenade from the floor and darted toward the trapdoor. Acrid smoke stung his eyes and his nostrils puckered, but he held on long enough to drop the canister through the hole.
He leaped over the trapdoor and slammed it shut. For lack of a better way to secure the entrance, he stood on top it. The smoke would irritate the men below, but probably wouldn’t hurt them or make them pass out. Too bad. He wished Amaranthe had given him some of the knockout gas too.
Through bleary eyes, Akstyr checked the crossbow. It was a twin-loader with one quarrel remaining.
A thump sounded in the navigation cabin. From his position in the corridor, Akstyr didn’t have a good view, but he glimpsed Books’s face being smashed against a console.
“Not good,” he muttered, but if he went to help, the two thugs below would escape.
As if to validate his thought, the door rose an inch beneath Akstyr’s feet. He braced himself against the wall and bore down.
“Stay down there, you prick suckers!” he hollered.
“Mountain!” That was Harkon’s voice, not Books.
Furious poundings battered the trapdoor beneath Akstyr’s feet. A few more acrid green fumes escaped through the cracks.
After a moment of indecision, Akstyr decided he ought to be skilled enough by now to handle a couple of smoke-choked gutter rats.
He slid off the trapdoor. More thumps sounded before the men realized their doorstop had moved. The trapdoor flew open, clanging against the metal deck. A cloud of smoke wafted into the air. Akstyr shot at the first person to come into view. This time, the quarrel didn’t miss. It sank into the man’s throat, and he tumbled off the ladder.
The other stowaway hung a couple of rungs lower and was too busy gaping at his falling comrade to notice someone creeping up on him. Akstyr dropped the empty crossbow, reached in, and hauled the man out. That he could do so surprised him-he hadn’t realized how much strength he’d gained in the last nine months.
Akstyr shoved his foe against the wall and pressed his sword into the tender flesh at the base of the throat. Tears and snot streamed down the man’s face.
