The Aeronaut's Windlass

  “Yes, sire,” she said, her throat dry. “They will.”

  Chapter Ten

  Spire Albion, Habble Morning

  Bridget felt sure that she was going to be sick and throw up in front of half the habble.

  “Littlemouse,” Rowl said in a low, stern tone from her arms. “Straighten your back. Lift your chin. Show no fear. Give your enemy nothing.”

  “That’s very good advice, miss,” said the master of arms in a similar tone, though speaking the human tongue. He was a tall, spare man, the threads of silver in his hair standing out sharply against his all-black outfit. They were waiting in the common area of the market of Habble Morning, near the dueling platform, and the grizzled warriorborn man had just finished ringing the chimes.

  “You speak Cat, Mister . . . ?” Bridget flushed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

  “Esterbrook, miss,” he said with a polite slight bow. “I don’t speak it well but I understand enough. All wise folk do.”

  “I like him,” Rowl said from Bridget’s arms.

  She smiled faintly and tried to follow Rowl’s advice. “I apologize if I do something improperly, Mister Esterbrook,” she said, “but I’m afraid I have little experience in these matters.”

  “Wise folk don’t,” Esterbrook said calmly, giving her another smile. “It’s simple enough, Miss Tagwynn.”

  “I’m unclear as to what role a master of arms plays in a duel when it’s being fought . . . unarmed.”

  “Oh, my part doesn’t change,” Esterbrook said. “My office is filled by several of us old soldiers, with one of us covering each day of the week. My job is to do everything possible to make sure everyone lives. I seek to resolve the cause of the duel before any blood is shed, and then I ensure that the protocol of the duel is followed and that no one interferes in what happens.”

  She frowned. “Who would interfere?”

  “His second, perhaps,” Esterbrook said. He glanced at Rowl. “Or yours.”

  Rowl gave a contemptuous flick of his ears and looked away.

  “And . . . if someone does not follow the rules?”

  “I’ll stop him,” Esterbrook said. “It is within the rights of my office to take any steps necessary to do so, up to and including the taking of life.”

  Bridget blinked. “Goodness.”

  “Duels are serious business, miss,” Esterbrook said quietly. “Though these arrogant sprats growing up these days don’t seem to think so. They shouldn’t be entered into lightly.”

  “They shouldn’t exist at all,” Bridget said.

  Esterbrook seemed to think about that for a moment. Then he shook his head. “They . . . serve a purpose, if they’re kept within a strict structure, and if death doesn’t result too often. There’s something to be said for having the means to directly confront someone who has wronged you—for there to be a reason for these glib-tongued louts to show an ounce of courtesy and to guard their words.”

  “Ah,” Bridget said, flushing slightly. As the glib-tongued lout in question, she was currently on the receiving end of this facet of the habble’s law. “I’m not sure everyone would agree with you. We’re a civilized society, are we not?”

  Esterbrook blinked. “Since when, miss? We’re a democracy.”

  “Just what I mean. We have dispensed with violence as a means of governing ourselves, have we not?”

  “The heart of democracy is violence, Miss Tagwynn,” Esterbrook said. “In order to decide what to do, we take a count of everyone for and against it, and then do whatever the larger side wishes to do. We’re having a symbolic battle, its outcome decided by simple numbers. It saves us time and no end of trouble counting actual bodies—but don’t mistake it for anything but ritualized violence. And every few years, if the person we elected doesn’t do the job we wanted, we vote him out of office—we symbolically behead him and replace him with someone else. Again, without the actual pain and bloodshed, but acting out the ritual of violence nonetheless. It’s actually a very practical way of getting things done.”

  Bridget blinked several times. “I’ve never thought of it that way,” she confessed.

  “It is one of the only things we respect about your people,” Rowl put in. “Though, of course, cats do it better.”

  “Quite possibly,” Esterbrook agreed. “Ah. Here comes the physician. And your esteemed opponent, it would seem.”

  Bridget looked around them. People were appearing from all over the market in response to the chimes—dozens of people, in fact. And only a moment later, she was quite sure that dozens had become hundreds. She felt her throat turning very dry, to go along with her fluttering stomach and her racing heart.

  Fear was really quite tedious. She wanted to be rid of it as soon as possible.

  A small man with silvery hair carrying a physician’s valise and wearing a very sensible, no-nonsense suit approached Esterbrook, and the two exchanged handshakes. Esterbrook introduced the man to Bridget, though a few seconds later she had completely forgotten his name. The crowd continued to grow. At lunch, on a weekday? Hadn’t these people anything better to do with their time? Bridget frowned at the crowd and restrained herself from rubbing Rowl’s ears, which the cat would have found undignified in public.

  Reginald Astor appeared out of the throng, along with not only his second, but half a dozen other men of the same general age and rank. He was dressed just as she was, in a plain grey training uniform. They approached as a group, Reggie swaggering in the lead.

  Beside her, Bridget felt Mr. Esterbrook grow tight with coiled tension, something she sensed on a level below conscious thought—it was, she thought, almost the same sense she felt from a suddenly angered cat.

  “Master of Arms,” Reggie said, throwing the warriorborn man an exaggerated bow. “It’s about time we did this, isn’t it?”

  Esterbrook narrowed his feline eyes but inclined his head in respect. “I am indeed the master of arms. My name is Elias Esterbr—”

  “Details,” Reggie said. His eyes were focused intently on Bridget. “There she is, the little trog with her little scavenger.”

  The idiot couldn’t have known that it was a word the cats considered a deadly insult. Rowl catapulted up from his resting place in Bridget’s arms toward Reggie, and it was all she could do to keep hold of the suddenly furious cat.

  Reggie reconfirmed his idiocy by bursting out in laughter, though at least his second had the wit to take an alarmed step back. “Goodness!” he said in a merry voice. “Is the kitty upset with me? It’s not as though I’m launching a suit to have the vicious little thing drowned.”

  “Rowl,” Bridget hissed in Cat. “Settle down.”

  “I heard him,” Rowl snarled.

  “And he will be dealt with,” Bridget said, “in the proper order of things. First he is mine.”

  Rowl let out a spitting snarl of frustration and then settled down again, though his body remained quivering-tight with tension.

  “Mister Esterbrook,” Bridget said, looking from Rowl to the man. “I am ready to begin, sir.”

  The warriorborn nodded. “In accordance with Spire law, I beseech you both to resolve your differences in some less dangerous and destructive manner. No matter how well managed, loss of life and limb remains a possibility of any duel. I now ask you, Mister Astor, if you will retract your grievance and avoid the dangers inherent in a confrontation?”

  “She insulted the honor of my House,” Reggie said loftily. “She will apologize for it or I will have satisfaction here and now.”

  Esterbrook turned to Bridget. “Miss Tagwynn, will you offer such an apology?”

  “Let me be clear that I never offered House Astor an insult, Mister Esterbrook,” Bridget said. “Nor did I insult Reginald. I simply described him in accurate terms. If he finds himself insulted by the truth, it’s hardly my concern.”

  A low, quiet round of chuckles went through the crowd.

  “But in any case,” Bridget said, “I stand by what I said
. Truth does not become untruth simply because its existence upsets the scion of a High House.”

  Esterbrook’s eyes glinted and he nodded once. “Let the record show that neither combatant finds a way to resolve their differences peaceably. We will therefore proceed to contest. Mister Astor, is your second present?”

  “Yes, here, of course,” Reggie said, beckoning his cousin Barnabus forward.

  “Miss Tagwynn, is your second present?”

  “I am,” Rowl said, in Cat.

  Esterbrook nodded seriously, and another murmur ran through the crowd, a mixed sound of amusement, disgust, confusion, excitement, and other things Bridget couldn’t quite make out.

  “Point of order!” Reggie said, in a voice meant to carry to the entire crowd. “This is a violation of duel protocol. Miss Tagwynn has arrived without a second.”

  Esterbrook looked at Reggie with a blank expression. “Oh?”

  “The law states,” Reggie continued, “that a duelist’s second must be a citizen of a habble in good standing with the law.” Reggie sneered at Rowl. “And as I see no such person here, I can only conclude that Miss Tagwynn did not bring a second. I insist that she be prosecuted for acting in contempt of Spire law, and her House fined appropriately.”

  Bridget’s stomach plunged. It happened only on rare occasions, when someone felt the need to punish a House that had not left itself vulnerable in any other way, but when fines were levied for violations of Spire law, they tended to be outrageous. Even the smallest of the fees that could be forced upon her father would quite literally beggar him.

  “Master Astor,” Esterbrook said, and to Bridget’s surprise, his own voice was pitched to carry as well. “When it comes to supporting the letter and spirit of the law, your dedication and zeal are selectively remarkable.” He reached into his coat and produced a folded writing sheet. “I have here in my possession an affidavit, reviewed and notarized by Judge Helena Solomon. It states that one Rowl, heir apparent of House Silent Paws, has with the rest of his House pledged his support to His Majesty, Addison Orson Magnus Jeremiah Albion, First Citizen and Spirearch of Albion. Further, the affidavit states that he resides within Habble Morning and that no outstanding fines or warrants have been levied against him. As such, he is, in fact, a citizen of the habble, in good standing.”

  “What?” Reggie said. “House what?”

  Esterbrook diffidently offered him the writing sheet.

  Reggie snatched it and stared, reading. His cheeks turned bright red, and the crowd began to murmur again.

  Bridget’s gaze fell on a plain, rather dumpy man standing not too far away, in the first row of gawkers. Unlike the others, he was not speaking to anyone else. There was something familiar about him, something that reminded her of her primary schooling days, but she couldn’t pin down the proper memory. His greying hair was shaggy, his suit years out of style, and if he hadn’t been the only person in sight who appeared absolutely calm and undistracted by Esterbrook’s pronouncement, she might never have taken notice of him. She felt his eyes meet hers. A glitter of mirth passed through them, and he gave her a wink.

  Bridget blinked. That was rather bold of him, whoever he was. Was he one of her father’s business associates, someone she’d met when she was much younger? She was sure she would have remembered. And why was she gawking at the man when, she realized, one of the most important legal precedents in the Spire’s recent history had just been made? Cats had been declared citizens of the habble. Apparently with all the rights and—much more critically—the responsibilities that status implied. Cats and humans had enjoyed a long-standing arrangement— but one that was entirely unofficial, and which either side could violate without necessarily creating enormous repercussions. But Esterbrook and his proclamation had just changed that balance immensely—and perhaps not, Bridget realized with dismay, for the good of all involved.

  “This is not . . .” Reggie sputtered. “Cats are not eligible to . . .”

  “According to the law, sir,” Esterbrook said calmly, “they are. Have you any other complaints to make before we proceed, sir? Or perhaps you have changed your mind, and would be willing to simply abandon this fruitless course.”

  Reggie narrowed his eyes, his gaze locking onto Bridget and Rowl. “You’re making a mockery of a noble tradition, beast-man.”

  Esterbrook’s feline eyes narrowed to slits, and there was a hint of a growl deep in his chest when he spoke. “I simply execute the responsibilities of my office, Master Astor. If that displeases you in some fashion it is not my concern.”

  Reggie’s friends took note of the growl and gathered in close around him.

  Just then there were footsteps behind Bridget, and Gwendolyn Lancaster and Benedict Sorellin appeared from the crowd. They were both dressed in civilian clothing, Gwen in a pearl-grey dress, vest, and jacket, and Benedict in a simple, rather dismal black suit. Both of them, Bridget noted, were wearing gauntlets, the thick copper wire of the weapons’ cages wrapping around their left forearms.

  “Are we too late?” Gwendolyn asked. Bridget had no notion whatsoever how the prim little noblewoman managed to load so much arrogance and confidence into her seemingly fatuous tone. “I do hope we haven’t missed the display of courage and grace that this little event promises to be. Goodness, Reggie, here you are. With six friends.” She gave Astor a blindingly white smile and counted them, moving her hand in a seemingly unconscious gesture. “One, two, three, four, five, six.”

  Gwendolyn, Bridget noted, used her gauntlet-clad left hand to count. The copper cage glinted in the noonday light.

  “I thought two were all that were needed for a duel,” Benedict said, his tone weighted with exaggerated confusion.

  “Indeed,” Gwendolyn replied. “Reggie seems to have become befuddled.”

  “I can help,” Benedict said. And then his manner changed, the false drama vanishing. He simply stared at them, no expression at all on his face. “Come, boys. Let’s the five of you and I leave Reggie and his second to this business. I’ll buy you each a round and you can decide which fight you want to watch.”

  “Which fight?” Gwen asked. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “They have a choice,” Benedict said. “Watch Reggie fighting Bridget. Or me. Fighting them. One will take a great deal less time than the other.”

  “Sorellin,” Esterbrook growled, his tone full of gentle reproof. “I’ll have no brawling here.”

  “Sir,” Benedict said with a nod. “It won’t be a brawl, sir.”

  Esterbrook seemed to consider that for a moment, and then nodded. “Very well, then.”

  Bridget thought, with some satisfaction, that Reggie’s crowd of hangers-on looked rather nervous. They were trying for arrogant, but the way they had all unconsciously moved a few inches back from Benedict was rather telling.

  “You can’t threaten me, Sorellin,” Reggie snarled.

  Benedict blinked several times. “Reggie, my old friend, I wouldn’t disturb your business today for the world. You know exactly where you reside within my personal regard. I would never harm a hair on your head.”

  “I might,” Gwen put in cheerfully. “I’ve got this lovely new gauntlet and I’ve never actually used it on anyone.”

  Esterbrook cleared his throat.

  “Oh, piffle, I didn’t use it on you, only near you,” she said to him. “But, Reggie, let me be perfectly clear. You sought this duel, and you’re going to have it. You and your second, and your friends can watch like everyone else. There will be no distractions, no moments of confusion, no mysterious objects flung from the crowd. Just you on the platform.” She smiled even more widely. “Do you understand?”

  “Miss Lancaster,” Esterbrook said in a heavy tone. “I am quite sure that the young man has no intention of dishonoring the House of Astor this day with any such action.”

  “Unless,” Bridget added, “he’s . . . perhaps afraid of me.”

  Gwen glanced up at Bridget, her eyes shining. “Unless that
.”

  “Enough,” Reggie growled. “Master of Arms, commence.” He turned to his friends and said, “Go watch with the Lancasters. Make sure they don’t interfere.”

  Gwen turned to Bridget, nodded firmly up at her, and said, “If you find it quite convenient, make him cry. There’s such a nice turnout for it.”

  Bridget found herself letting out a brief breath of a laugh, and she suddenly found the sickness in her stomach diminishing.

  “Just breathe,” Benedict advised her. “Relax. Let him make the first mistake. Believe me: You can count on Reggie for that.” He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze with his fingers and smiled at her.

  Then her friends turned to Reggie’s pack of bullies, and they all departed in a group with Gwendolyn and Benedict, all of them smiling politely at one another and walking as if they expected the others to leap upon them in the instant they lowered their guard.

  Esterbrook looked around at the crowd for a moment and shook his head. He muttered something under his breath about the Great Houses and their theater, and then turned to Bridget. “Miss Tagwynn,” he said. “As the challenged party, you may decide which of you will take position on the platform first.”

  “Very well,” she said. “Where will Rowl stand?”

  “On the ground beside the platform. Only the two seconds and myself are permitted within ten feet of it. That’s the rule.”

  “I will not be able to see from there,” Rowl said. “You should change the rule immediately.”

  Esterbrook grunted and thought. Then he turned and picked up one of the large chimes in its heavy metal frame. It must have weighed three hundred pounds if an ounce, but the rather lean-looking man moved it as if it had been a living-room chair, putting it beside the nearest corner of the platform. “There, sir cat,” he said. “So that you can see. Does that suit you?”

  Rowl considered the chime gravely and then calmly leapt onto it. He took a few steps about before sitting down and saying, “It will, suffice. Barely.”