Behemoth

noon, and make sure you look sharp.”

Deryn swallowed. “Aye, ma’am. I’ll be there. End message.”

As the beastie scuttled away, she closed her eyes and softly swore. She didn’t even have a dress uniform to wear, not since yesterday. Deryn had taken off her jacket before she’d jumped onto the Dauntless’s trunk, but her only fancy shirt was still bright red from the spice bomb. Even after two washings, one whiff of the shirt was strong enough to make a dead horse sneeze. She’d have to borrow one of Newkirk’s, and that meant making adjustments with her sewing kit.…

She groaned, then headed toward her cabin at a run.

As Deryn descended the gangway hours later, the rumble of Clanker engines sprang to life around her. In the airship’s shadow Newkirk, the bosun, and a dozen riggers were loading themselves onto a squadron of walkers in the shapes of donkeys and water buffaloes. They were headed to the markets for supplies, and looked to be in a hurry. If the Leviathan didn’t leave the city by late afternoon today, the Ottomans would have every right to impound it.

The officers hadn’t let on where the ship was going next. But wherever they were bound, Deryn doubted she would be seeing Istanbul or Alek again, not until the war was over.

She watched Newkirk for a moment, envious of his disguise. The whole party was dressed in Arab robes to keep the Young Turks from spotting them and starting up another protest. If only she could be doing proper ship’s work instead of diplomacy … or whatever Dr. Barlow was up to.

The lady boffin waited a hundred yards from the Leviathan, on a stretch of empty airfield past the mooring tower. She was dressed in her finest traveling coat, twirling a parasol and standing beside a small hay-filled box. One of the last two eggs sat inside it, shining like a huge pearl in the sun. So Dr. Barlow’s secret cargo would at last be delivered to the sultan.

But why take a spare middy along?

As Deryn drew near, Dr. Barlow turned and said, “You’re a bit late, Mr. Sharp, and looking positively unkempt.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Deryn said, adjusting her collar. Her shirt fitted all wrong despite a mad hour of sewing. Worse, it still smelled of Newkirk—the bum-rag hadn’t bothered to wash it since yesterday. “I had to borrow this shirt. Mine was still a bit spicy.”

“You possess only one dress uniform?” Dr. Barlow clicked her tongue. “We shall have to remedy that, if you’re going to continue assisting me.”

Deryn frowned. “Assisting you, ma’am? Frankly, I never fancied myself much of a diplomat.”

“Perhaps not. But this is what comes of making your self useful, Mr. Sharp. You were invaluable during the battle of the Dauntless, while the ambassador and his lackeys were quite hopeless.” Dr. Barlow sighed. “Soon I shall be afraid to leave the airship without your protection.”

Deryn rolled her eyes. Even when dispensing compliments, the lady boffin always managed a mocking tone. “I hope you’re not expecting to be attacked again today, ma’am.”

“One never knows. We are not as welcome here as I might have liked.”

“That’s right enough,” Deryn said, still hearing the anger in the protesters’ voices. “But I’ve been meaning to ask you, ma’am. What’s a behemoth?”

Dr. Barlow looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Wherever did you hear that word, Mr. Sharp?”

“It was just something they were shouting yesterday. The Young Turks, I mean.”

“Hmm, of course. That is the name of the Osman’s companion creature, and thus part of Lord Churchill’s unfortunate appropriation.”

Deryn frowned. “But krakens don’t have names. No beastie does, unless it’s a whole ship.”

“‘Behemoth’ is not a proper name, young man, but a species. You see, this creature is not a kraken at all but something altogether new. And a military secret, so perhaps we should drop the subject.” Dr. Barlow tipped back her parasol to look into the sky. “I believe this is our airship.”

Deryn shielded her eyes against the high sun, and saw a peculiar craft coming into view. “It’s quite … conspicuous, isn’t it, ma’am?”

“Of course. Guests of the sultan are expected to arrive in style.”

The Clanker airship was less than a quarter of the Leviathan’s length, but was as fancy as a wedding cake. A fringe of tassels fluttered from its airbag, and canopies of billowing silk covered the gondola, as if some Ottoman prince had decided to go soaring on his four-poster bed.

The craft was held aloft by a long cylindrical balloon with several funnels leading up into its belly, each fed with hot air by a blazing smokestack in the shape of a monstrous head. Propellers thrust out on long and jointed arms, some pointing up, some down, the two largest pushing the craft forward. The prow was carved in the shape of a falcon’s hooked beak, and wings unfolding like straight razors were carved into the gondola’s sides.

The craft’s propellers turned and twisted, until it had settled gently on the scrub grass of the airfield.

As a short gangway unfolded from its gondola, Dr. Barlow closed her parasol and pointed it at the egg box. “If you please, Mr. Sharp.”

“Invaluable, that’s me,” Deryn said, lifting the box with a grunt.

She followed the lady boffin up the gangway to an open platform surrounded by a low railing, like the top deck of a sailing ship. The propeller wash swirled about them, ruffling the veil tucked into Dr. Barlow’s bowler.

The crew were all dark-skinned men, but they weren’t wearing desert robes, like the Africans that Deryn had seen from the elephant’s howdah the day before. Instead they wore silk uniforms and tall turbans of brilliant red and orange. Two of them took the egg box from Deryn, lashing it fast to metal cleats on the deck.

One of the men wore a tall conical hat, his eyes protected by piloting goggles. Some sort of mechanical beastie perched on his shoulder, like an owl with big eyes and a wide-open mouth. A tiny cylinder sat on the machine’s chest, a metal stylus scratching against its spinning surface.

The man stepped forward and bowed to Dr. Barlow.

“Peace be upon you, madam. I am the Kizlar Agha. Welcome aboard.”

The lady boffin replied in a language Deryn didn’t recognize, one made of softer sounds than German. The man smiled, repeating the same phrase as he bowed to Deryn.

“Midshipman Dylan Sharp,” she said, bowing in return. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Agha.”

Dr. Barlow laughed. “Kizlar Agha is a title, Mr. Sharp, not a name. He is the head of the palace guard and of the treasury. The most important man in the empire, after the sultan and grand vizier. A carrier of important messages.”

“And important visitors as well,” the man said, raising a hand. The smokestacks belched fire, sending ripples of heat through the air.

Deryn’s nose caught the sweet smell of burning propane. She shuddered and clenched her jaw, turning to grip the rail as the airship lifted into the sky.

“Are you unwell, Mr. Sharp?” the Kizlar Agha said, leaning closer to her. “Airsickness seems a strange malady for an airman.”

“I’m quite all right, sir,” Deryn said stiffly. “It’s just that hot-air balloons make me a wee bit nervous.”

The man crossed his arms. “I assure you, the Imperial Airyacht Stamboul is as safe as any airbeast.”

“I’m sure it is, sir,” Deryn said, but her hands still gripped the railing. The smokestacks belched fire again, roaring like an angry tigeresque.

“We had something of a battle yesterday,” Dr. Barlow said, putting a cool hand against Deryn’s cheek. “And alarms and excursions again last night. Mr. Sharp has been quite busy, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, yes. I heard of the Young Turks pestering you,” the Kizlar Agha said. “Revolutionaries are everywhere now. But they will not trouble us at the palace, nor in the sky.”

The craft had cleared the airfield fence now, and the protesters at the gate looked as small as ants below.

While Dr. Barlow and the Kizlar Agha talked, Deryn stared down at the city, trying to ignore the air wrinkling with heat around her. The tangled streets of Istanbul were soon beneath the Stamboul, the metal flash of walkers glinting through the veil of smoke. Gyrothopters flittered past, looking as delicate as