once it had seemed so light. 'I can feel it, the place you came from. But I don't have the power of the stones to channel through the blade to break across to it.'
'Power is not channelled through the blade,' said Ganby, sadly. 'It is channelled through the one that wields it. And you have everything that you need to wield it, save the belief that you can. That you deserve it.'
'But that's the thing. I'm not sure I do. I certainly never asked for this.'
'Yes, your ancestor was tutored as a princess of battle from the age she could first walk,' said Ganby. 'I am sorry to ask so much of you so quickly, Purity Drake. Time will bring you what you need.'
Purity looked out of the back room's window, the iron moon gazing back down, a rusty squinting eye. 'How much of that do we have left?'
'There will be enough time and enough battle, both.'
Purity nodded. Yes. There was an entire continent full of monsters to practise her new maths-blade against.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Molly picked herself up from the jolting deck and shouted to be heard above the roar of the re-entry flames outside. She might just have a way to stop them burning up above Kaliban! 'Coppertracks, can you join cables with the ship?'
'The craft is steamman enough for us to share our minds.'
'Starsprite,' Molly called, 'make yourself ready.'
A silver cable extended like a tentacle from the wall. 'My skin is hardening outside, a shield of ablative polymers forming. It feels better now. We're finally clearing the mesosphere for the stratospheric envelope. I can see it. Do you think my mother knew this would happen? Do you think she loved me just a little?'
'Coppertracks has a trick for you that you can't call upon by instinct,' said Molly, watching the ship's cable snake towards a port opening in her steamman friend's chest. 'Your turn, old steamer. The sail-rider rig we cut Duncan out of at Tock House; show your young relative here the schematics for it. Starsprite, when you have the plans, peel off part of your hull to form the rig's sail triangle.'
The fire inside the crystal dome of Coppertracks' transparent skull began wheeling in eccentric patterns while the transfer was in progress, the steamman giving a little whistle of alarm from his stacks at just how fast the newly born craft was absorbing his wisdom. Fast then faster, then it was over. Above them, the roof of their pear-shaped capsule started to flow downwards, stopping just short of their heads, their porthole elongating and moving in front of the craft's nose – quicksilver sails lashed by the wind-shear growing into existence outside; one sail above them, two smaller stabilizer canopies to either side. As soon as her new wings had fully formed, the young craft began to roll, arrowing down in a spin.
'How do I control myself?' screamed the craft.
'Form the sail rider's control bars and pulley system inside here, down by your nose,' ordered Molly. She glanced at Duncan Connor. 'This calf of a craft might not have a clue about how to make a landing, but how about one of the wild boys of Dennehy's Circus?'
Duncan looked pensively at the control bars, guide lines and deflexor handles forming in the front of the young ship. Outside the porthole, the brilliant red arc of Kaliban's continents and waterless seabeds curved out before them. 'This is a wee bit higher than any sail rider ever attempted a touchdown from.'
Molly tried to ignore the rattling of the newly formed struts as Duncan climbed over the scattered supply bales to slide into the control rig. She screened out the nervous mutters of Lord Rooksby – was that a Circlist meditation he was repeating? – disregarded the cold, angry eyes of Keyspierre and his daughter. Duncan Connor had possessed skill enough to land his burning rig in Tock House's garden, the only survivor of the Army of Shadows' annexation of the Jackelian skies. And here they were now, tumbling down over the enemy's old home. It was a calculated risk, but she wasn't going to give up now. Not after coming this far.
Molly turned as a crack sounded behind her. Commodore Black was rummaging through the supplies, emptying the contents of each crate onto the floor. Then he found what he was looking for and with a grunt of satisfaction pulled out a bottle of medicinal whisky. 'Let us say a thanks to the board of supply's clerks back in Highhorn, for they saw fit to outfit us with the very thing to calm our nerves. Along with-' his hand swept the debris of his scavenging '-this other junk.'
'Jared, those are supplies we need,' said Molly. 'Compasses, pistols, tinned food, blue skin paint so that we can pass for native Kals.'
'No, lass,' said the commodore, unstoppering the bottle. 'This is what we need. A toast to Duncan and his skill, swooping here and there like a blessed hunting hawk. I've had my fill of being treated like a wave-tossed cork by fate. Fired out of uncommonly sized cannons, living in the belly of steammen vessels crossing the celestial darks, cast away like a plummeting stone over the enemy's stronghold.' He took a swig from the bottle and offered it to Keyspierre but the shiftie scientist looked disgusted. 'No? Suit yourself. Ah, it's good. This'll put hairs on your chest. No, it's the solid land for me from now on. My boots firmly on the ground, even if the land is that of wicked Kaliban.'
Rooksby yelped as they started to roll again, Duncan grunting and pulling the craft back on course. His face was beaded with sweat and his lips pulled so tight he was drawing blood with the force of his concentration.
'Your piloting is magnificent,' announced the young Starsprite. 'It is like having an organ for atmospheric flight inside me. I can feel what you are doing. How you're using the side sails to brake and turn us. But we're going to pass through a wall of turbulence at the borders of the troposphere, I can feel it flowing ahead of us.'
Molly had to stop herself from yelling as the battering outside renewed itself with fresh vigour. As if sensing the fear inside her passengers, Starsprite formed a series of pews topped with railings to hold onto across her deck. Molly clutched at one until her knuckles stood out on the back of her hands like white stones on a Spumehead beach. Then they were slipping towards smoother currents, the shaking abating.
'Can you not increase the size of the main sail triangle?' called Duncan from his position in the nose.
'I do not have enough material,' replied the craft. 'I know the proportions of the sail are wrong but my hull is already as thin as I dare squeeze it.'
'We're gliding too heavy for a brake and tug landing,' said Duncan, banking the craft. 'I'm going to try and spiral us down, long wide figures of eight all the way to the ground. Keep your eyes open for a straight stretch of sand for our final glide in.'
Molly moved to the front and stared out of the elongated porthole. She could see the face of Kaliban, the carving no bigger than her thumbnail. Lord Starhome had been as good as his – her? – word, after all; dropping the expedition down on top of the monumental carving like a sycamore seed sinking to the ground. Shadows of canyons and mountains crisscrossed the land below – if summits were visible at this height, they must be on a scale that dwarfed the craggy ranges of the Jackelian uplands. Molly closed her eyes and waited for the jumbled headache of Kyorin's memories to cast adrift a suitable landing zone. There. To the south of the carving, long undulating dunes of dust-thin sand. She could see them in her mind's eye, blowing and shifting in front of a sierra eroded by the fierce sands into a forest of toadstool-like capstones.
Molly pointed out the stretch to Duncan. 'Place the tail of your last loop in the shadows of the carving's chin, there's sand enough to skim down for a long, low landing.'
Duncan grunted in affirmation, not taking his concentration away from the porthole for a second. 'Aye, I see it, I see it.'
Molly's head was throbbing now. It was painful, accessing the jumble of memories that Kyorin had dumped into her. Increasingly so, each time she tried it. What, she wondered, did the pain mean?
Someone was behind her. Jeanne and her father. The young shiftie seemed fascinated by the crimson vista circling in front of the transparent material of the porthole. 'Those lines out there. They are the same canals the steamman presented at the Royal Society.'
Who had told her? Coppertracks was humble about his achievements and Lord Rooksby had no reason to talk about his rival's findings.
Molly nodded, warily.
