The Court of the Air

smell out threats. A row of steammen knights stood to attention in its shadow, metal centaurs with heads like barb-beaked hunting birds. They might as well have been statues, so still did they stand duty — only the flags on poles clipped to their backs crackling and moving in the breeze. Its passage already approved, the walking platform jounced through the opening and into the citadel.

Oliver stared at the large open halls they passed, full of kneeling steammen singing the same machine noise hymns he had heard while he drifted in and out of his fever-wracked consciousness.

‘They sing in praise of our ancestors,’ announced Architect Goldhead, following the direction of Oliver’s gaze. ‘It pleases the spirits to hear their achievements and lives honoured by the people. Are not all of our achievements built upon the shoulders of those who have preceded us in the world?’

Oliver remembered the corpses of steammen knights rising out of the mud in Jackals. ‘I believe I might owe them a vote of thanks myself.’

‘Yes indeed, Oliver softbody. The capital has been abuzz with word of what happened to you and your companion on the border. The last time the Loas intervened in the affairs of fastbloods so directly was … well, a very long time ago. I fear it augurs difficult times ahead.’

The words of the Lady of the Lights drifted back to Oliver. We are fast moving beyond the point where a little extrawattle and daub around the edges is going to keep the rooffrom leaking. Oliver said nothing. Did a warm room in Seventy Star Hall and his quiet lonely life of reading books really seem so bad now? Surely boredom was better than having the weight of the world dropped down on his shoulders?

Their walking platform came to a halt by a pair of tall red columns and the architect stepped off the steamman transport — beckoning Oliver to follow him. Beyond the columns was a chilly open hall, its floor a soft golden wood — surely precious material in these harsh rocky climes.

‘Your companion and Master Saw are to give a demonstration,’ whispered Architect Goldhead, his voicebox at its lowest volume. ‘A display of the fighting arts.’

In the middle of the hall stood the disreputable Stave, facing a three-legged steamman with dozens of skeletal arms, many tipped with blades, maces and bludgeons — wrapped in cloth for the sparring match. Young steammen in nursery bodies sat silently at the other end of the hall, curiously waiting to see how this soft-looking animal would match up to one of their own race.

‘Master Saw is the Knight Marshal of the Orders Militant,’ said the architect. ‘To spar with him is a great thing — your friend must have impressed Master Saw at his meetings with the court.’

‘Or annoyed him,’ said Oliver. ‘He probably stole King Steam’s crown.’

Architect Goldhead seemed shocked by the suggestion. ‘Surely not. It has been whispered that your friend is a worldsinger, that he can fight in witch-time.’

‘Watch and see,’ said Oliver.

Master Saw tipped his needle-nosed head towards Harry and the wolftaker gave a small bow back. What followed was almost too fast to watch — both man and steamman speeding into a single blur of spinning fury, blows striking out, blocked and returned in a dance fought at a tempo at the edge of human comprehension. The metal soldier fought in a frenetic windmill style, his weapon limbs arcs of destruction. Harry seemed to be using his animal suppleness to bob, kick and punch, giving ground when the steamman advanced — yet hardly seeming to retreat an inch — circling and flowing around the soldier.

After a minute of watching the bout it seemed hardly to be a combat at all — the two contestants so synchronised in their forms it was more like a piece of choreographed dance; more art than violence. Mesmerised by the display, when the peal of a bell sounded, Oliver jolted upright. It was the end of the bout. The young man would have been hard pressed to say afterwards if it had lasted two minutes or thirty. Harry was sweating so much he looked like he had been swimming when he bowed to the steamman, while steam was rising off Master Saw’s overworked boiler which glowed red with the additional energy he had been consuming.

Master Saw dipped his helmet-like head. ‘The form of water; a good choice when fighting metal.’

‘So I was taught, knight marshal. Although fire beats water.’

Master Saw raised his bandaged weapon limbs. ‘Even the knights steammen do not use flame weapons in a sparring match.’

Harry Stave spotted Oliver and walked over to where he was standing. ‘Lad! You had us bleeding worried for a while. They only let me see you the once and you were in a right old state.’

‘It seems your lack of faith in our ability to heal your friend was unfounded,’ said Architect Goldhead.

Harry glared at the metal creature and led Oliver to the side of the hall where they could not be overheard. ‘I found a human doctor who works on the traders hurt on the mountain paths, landslides and falls, but he was a leaafer — struck off back home without a doubt. I figured you would have a better chance with shiny skull and his friends, once I convinced them you didn’t want metal limbs.’

‘I’m okay now, Harry.’

‘Good lad. I’d rather not have to face your father when I move forward on the Circle and explain to him why I let his son die on the lam with old Harry.’

‘Why are we here, Harry? What does King Steam want?’

Oliver glanced around the hall. So, the king could be any of the steammen; maybe even a couple of them at the same time, watching from different viewpoints.

‘Something has got this lot spooked,’ said Harry. ‘They’re hiding it, but not well enough for it to escape notice. I don’t doubt their merry monarch knows what’s going on. I’ve seen various officials of the court like old master knife-arms over there, but not King Steam. He’s a slipthinker, Oliver. He can move between bodies, control hundreds of them at the same time if he has a care to. I think he’s been playing games with me. Steammen keep on coming over to me and striking up conversations — cooks and soldiers and the like. But it’s as if they are continuing the same chat. I reckon some of them have been His Majesty.’

‘I don’t think they mean us harm. Not right away at least,’ added Harry. ‘Otherwise they could have left us back at the border to the mercy of the redcoats and the slave hunters.’

‘Can we trust them, Harry?’

‘They are Jackals’ oldest ally. I don’t pretend to understand how their minds work, but until they give us reason to suspect otherwise, I reckon it’s safe to give them the benefit of the doubt.’

A courtier approached the pair, rolling forward on a single drum-like wheel. ‘Your presence is required by King Steam.’

‘About time,’ said Harry. ‘I’ve been kicking my heels in your palace for a week.’

‘Not you, Harry softbody,’ said the courtier. ‘It is the other mammal whose presence is required.’

‘You are bleeding having a laugh, aren’t you?’ Harry protested.

‘I have my orders and they are quite explicit. I am sure no snub is intended.’

‘And I am sure none is taken,’ spat Harry. ‘Go lad, but watch yourself. King Steam was sitting on his throne when Isambard Kirkhill was pushing our monarch off his; the old steamer is as sly as a box of monkeys.’

Oliver followed the courtier deeper into the royal citadel. The steamman moved at a slow, stately pace, perhaps hoping those they passed would notice his position in the direct service of the monarch. Together they reached their destination. Oliver felt the chill as he entered the new hall; looking up he saw there was no roof. They were standing on a flat bluff carved into the side of the mountain. In the middle of the floor sat a small figure. Shorter than a grasper, it might have been an iron toy, unremarkable except for a more noticeable likeness to humanity than most of the steammen Oliver had seen. Was this King Steam, or was the guiding mind of the metal race trying the same kind of mind games that the wolftaker thought were being played against him?

‘King Steam?’ said Oliver. ‘That is to say, Your Majesty?’

The golden cross-legged figure gave the barest nod of its head. ‘Sit, Oliver softbody.’

With no chairs, Oliver followed King Steam’s lead and sat opposite him, like a child waiting for school assembly to start — although the steamman did not look like he was about to read a fable from the Circlist book.

‘You are not too cold out here, I trust?’ asked King Steam. His lips actually moved when he spoke — no voicebox.

‘I am fine at the moment — Your Highness.’

‘I like to sit and watch the na-hawks wheel over the mountains,’ said King Steam. ‘Do you think there is any truth to be revealed in their flight?’

‘The truth that comes with a clear mind, perhaps, Your Highness.’