The Court of the Air

Despite the chill and the din Oliver finally managed to drift off to sleep in the early hours of the morning. Harry opened one of his eyes. The young man was breathing deeply, his breath misting the icy air. Steamswipe and his weapon were in their approximation of sleep too, thoughtflow. Leaning over, Harry eased out the wooden case that had been given to Oliver by the reverend in Shadowclock. Checking the narrow corridor outside their fuel store was empty, Harry made his way through the duralumin-framed passage, canvas spheres of celgas brushing his head where he forgot to duck.

At the end of the gantry he opened the wooden door to the small forward head, a simple affair, little more than a seat with a flap opening out to the sky. The disreputable Stave opened the lid of the case. Both pistols were still inside, glinting malevolently. Even without their finely etched scenes, the ivory handles and precious metal plating, the brace would have raised a sack full of clinking guineas in any gunsmith or pawnshop in Jackals. You did not have to be a sorcerer to feel the press of their song, feel the draw of their wicked spangle. Harry shivered, slapped the lid shut, tossed the case into the head and jerked the flush.

As the flap opened, the case tumbled into the sky and Harry watched it disappear into the clouds. It was an expensive hunch, but it was not as if Oliver could have hit the side of a barn with either of those two marksman’s pieces.

‘Next time, preacher,’ Harry whispered to the clouds, ‘you can save your bloody gift-giving for Midwinter.’

Captain Stone of the RAN Heart of Oak pushed the cutlass hanging from his dress uniform back. The damn thing was always getting under his feet, but it was required dress for tonight. Half the high fleet looked like they had assembled in the ante-room outside the dining gallery of the governor’s mansion — the northern fleet, the eastern fleet, even a few stiff blue trousers adorned with the single yellow stripe of the western fleet. It was one of the captains of the west who moved through the press and approached him. Haredale. They had been midshipmen together on the Skysprite.

Haredale nodded politely. ‘Stone.’

‘Haredale.’ Captain Stone indicated his fellow officer’s hair, shorn to stubble on the side and wedge-high on top. ‘Going native?’

‘It’s all the go in Concorzia,’ said the colonial officer. ‘Half the fleet officers of the west are sporting ’em.’

‘How are affairs abroad?’ asked Stone. ‘I heard there were some tensions — not just among the natives.’

‘The colonials are taking more settlers now, genuine ones as well as the convict labour, heh. They are a damn volatile mob — transportees, the first families and the locals — always scrapping, but nothing the navy can’t control. The shadow of a ship of the line always sends ’em scampering for the woods. How is the fleet of the south? I heard you had some trouble down there recently.’

‘The RAN Bellerophon?’ said Stone ‘Let’s just say there is the story the First Skylord released for the Dock Street pensmen — and there are the rumours from the poor jacks we got back alive. If it was up to me I would close the whole bloody border, but parliament would have every jinn importer in Jackals banging on their door, so that isn’t going to happen. These days it’s rare for us to take a flotilla out without having to chase off some humpy raiding party coming out of the arids and into the uplands.’

Haredale pushed a finger under his high collar and pulled the cloth loose. ‘Which the caliph claims are bandits, of course.’

‘Bandits my rear end,’ said Stone. ‘Too well supplied. Too sophisticated for some tent-dwelling sand shaman. The caliph’s hand is over every raid. Mark my words, it won’t be long until we have half the upland Guardians calling for us to flatten a few palaces in Bladetenbul and give Cassarabia a bloody nose.’

‘As long as it keeps the fleet of the south out of mischief,’ said the colonial captain. ‘You passed the damn order’s tests then?’

‘A greater load of stuff and nonsense I have never had to sit through,’ growled Stone. ‘Half the officers of the blue kicking around the county waiting their turn for a truth hexing. How many feybreed have they turned up in the service? They’re tacking against the wind this time.’

‘Admiralty House should never have agreed,’ said Captain Haredale. ‘And it takes the governor of Shadowclock to throw us a do to send us off now the order has had its pleasure. Have you even seen an admiral or skylord back at the citadel since they ordered the high fleet home?’

‘There’s no danger from the Admiralty Board,’ snorted Stone. ‘Not unless parliament are worried they might prick someone with a quill. They would have better luck having us cleared by an alienist. The Bellerophon’s captain was clearly mad — not a feybreed.’

‘Never liked the man,’ said the colonial officer. ‘Ran an unhappy ship. Too damn keen to resort to the cat, rather than trusting his middies to keep discipline. Not surprised he went out barking.’

‘Still,’ said Stone, ‘dropping fins on Middlesteel. We’re fortunate they haven’t stuck us with worldsinger political officers like the Special Guard.’

‘That would never stand,’ said Haredale. ‘There’s only room for one skipper on a ship. They might as well fit us all with one of those hexed necklaces of theirs and keep us all on a lead.’

At the end of the room two grand doors were swung open by redcoats, revealing a long high table filled with platters of steaming meat and flagons of wine.

‘Winds of Thar, there’s a spread for you,’ said the colonial captain. ‘Best we avail ourselves before we get back to our weevil bread and salt jerky, heh?’

The milling officers of the fleet began to move into the larger chamber, failing to notice the thuggish crop of stubble on the faces of the redcoats flanking the entrance, or their badly buttoned tunics.

At the head of the table the governor waited for the officers to take their seats and then the chubby statesman raised a heavy crystal glass. ‘Officers of the fleet. I know you sailors normally avoid passing through my city walls due to our sad lack of taverns, but as you can see, my staff have been happy to waive the rules for this evening’s entertainment.’

There were some hoots down the table.

‘The results from the order have now been reported to the Admiralty and handed into the House of Guardians — sadly, none of you would make celgas miners and so the fleet has reluctantly decided to keep you on!’

That raised more whoops of merriment.

‘I think that proves what we all knew all along.’ The governor raised a news sheet freshly couriered from the capital. On the front page was an etching of an aerostat captain fainting into the arms of a couple of stripe-shirted aeronauts, an exaggerated figure of a worldsinger thrusting a truth crystal towards the officer and the speech bubble from the sailors bantering: ‘Does the feymist carry the skipper away?’ — ‘No,’ tis the odour of an early election that makes him swoon.’

‘It proves, gentlemen, that one bad apple does not spoil the barrel.’

Now the captains cheered.

‘So, as a small token of recognition for the service you have done protecting Shadowclock, let me thank our neighbours from the citadel and the aerostat fields to the north in a manner befitting as fine a bunch of jack cloudies as ever crewed a stat — with a raised glass of grog. Shadowclock’s celgas may float your vessels — now may our hospitality lift your hearts before you scatter to the four corners of Jackals and her possessions. To the Royal Aerostatical Navy!’

‘To the navy!’ the table chorused.

Seated in the middle of the table, Captain Stone passed Haredale a plate of boiled ham slices. Plenty of honeyed fat, just the way the Jackelians liked it.

‘You not drinking, Stone?’

‘Touch of sand belly,’ said Captain Stone. ‘Ship’s surgeon has me on powders. Just a taste of wine, jinn or blackstrap has me retching like a newborn.’

Filling up on water — the apothecary’s remedy had made him as dry as the skin of a sand nomad’s tent — Stone made his excuses and left in search of the rest room. He cursed his luck; ruing the day he had stepped out of the choking dust and tried that skewered stick of lamb in the shade of the border market.

After his gut had cleared, Stone realized he was sweating. He checked the pocket of his tunic for one of the parcels of powder and swore as he realized he had taken the last one before he left the citadel for the governor’s mansion. A bit of cool evening air then, even if it was the fog-shrouded miasma that hung over the hills of