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The Aeronaut's Windlass, Page 25

Jim Butcher

  Folly tensed when the monk spoke to her, and cradled her jar of little crystals close to her chin. “Oh, he spoke to me. Ought I tell him that I understand? No, of course not, he knows now, because I asked you about it.”

  “There,” Master Ferus said, with a pleased smile. “Now, about that tea?”

  Brother Vincent studied the etherealist’s apprentice for a speculative moment, then smiled at Master Ferus and said, “This way.”

  The monk led them to a modest dining hall featuring low, round tables made of copper-clad iron surrounded by sturdy cushions instead of chairs. Gwen was unsure of the dignity of such . . . novel seating, but she managed to sit down upon one of the cushions with what she felt sure was acceptable grace, and within moments they were sipping at cups of hot, excellent tea, sweetened with scandalous portions of honey. Rowl had a small bowl of his own. The cat wasn’t satisfied until Bridget had spooned twice as much honey as anyone else had into it.

  Once they had all sipped (or lapped), Brother Vincent nodded and turned to Benedict, who sat at his right. “Very well, then. Tell me.”

  Benedict made a round of introductions, and gave a concise account of the events of the past days, including the purpose of their own visit to Landing.

  “In short,” he said, “we need a place to stay that is free of any undue influence of the guilds. It was my hope that the Walker could be convinced to allow us to operate from here, Brother. It’s the most secure place we could ask for.”

  “Walker?” Gwen asked.

  “The foremost brother or sister at the temple,” Brother Vincent said, smiling. He turned back to Benedict and shook his bald head. “I’m sorry, son. The laws of our order are precisely that. The Wayist temples do not take sides in political disputes of any kind.”

  “But this is your home,” Gwen blurted. “If the Aurorans conquer Albion, they conquer you along with it.”

  “The Temple of the Way in Spire Aurora operates quite peacefully,” Brother Vincent said in a mild tone. “We would deeply regret the loss of life that such a conquest would necessitate. We would help the wounded and the bereft in any way that we could. We would peaceably protest any inhumanity perpetrated by either side, and accept the consequences of that protest. But we are neither soldiers nor warriors here, Miss Lancaster. That is not our path.”

  “I don’t remember asking you to fight anyone for me, Brother Vincent,” Gwendolyn replied. “I have recently discovered that I have something of a knack for it.”

  “Should we permit you to use the temple as the base of your inquisition, it would create the impression of partisanship with the Spirearch. We deeply respect his authority and his restraint, but the purpose of our temple is to serve all humanity—not merely the inhabitants of one Spire.”

  Benedict smiled without much humor. “Which is the answer I expected you to give, Brother. Perhaps you have a suggestion as to where we might stay in relative safety. It’s been a while since I was last here, and even then I didn’t know the habble as well as the order does.”

  Brother Vincent took a long, slow sip of his tea, his eyes narrowed in thought. “If you’re searching for an entirely honorable proprietor in this habble, I hope you brought considerable supplies to sustain you.” He returned Benedict’s faint smile with one of his own. “It’s all the money, I think. It does strange things to some people.”

  “Surely some must be better than others,” Benedict said.

  “Some certainly appear to be,” Vincent replied. “Whether the truth matches the appearance is another matter. I have often heard it said that anything in Landing has a price—especially loyalty.”

  Gwendolyn lowered her cup and stated, “We don’t need an honorable innkeeper, Benny.”

  Her cousin blinked at her. “We don’t?”

  “Not at all. We simply need one who sells his loyalty with adequate integrity.” She turned to Brother Vincent. “Is there an innkeeper who, when bought, remains bought?”

  The monk raised his eyebrows. “A mercenary innkeep?”

  “It is the quickest way, and we are in something of a hurry,” Gwen said.

  Vincent seemed to muse over that for a moment before saying, “Giving you even so little a thing as our advice strains the neutrality the order has worked hard to cultivate.”

  “What if we were not asking Brother Vincent?” Gwen said. “Suppose we ask my cousin’s old teacher Vincent for a recommendation?”

  “Sophistry,” the monk said. “And threadbare, at that.”

  “We’re simply having conversation over tea,” Gwendolyn pointed out firmly. “It isn’t as though the Spirearch has written requesting your aid.”

  Brother Vincent pursed his lips. “I must carefully consider the impact my actions might have on the order and other followers of the Way.”

  “While you’re at it,” Gwen said, “perhaps you should consider the impact your lack of action might have on the Wayists of Spire Albion— along with all of their neighbors. Surely they are included in the rolls of the humanity you say you wish to serve.”

  Brother Vincent blinked several times. Then he said in a mild tone, “You don’t take hints terribly well, do you, Miss Lancaster?”

  “Perhaps I’m choosing not to hear them,” Gwen replied in a honeyed tone.

  Something that looked suspiciously like a newborn smile suddenly danced in the monk’s eyes.

  Gwendolyn smiled brightly back at him.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Spire Albion, Habble Landing, the Black Horse Inn

  Bridget walked along a bit behind Benedict, whose eyes constantly scanned the streets around them as they walked from the temple to the inn Brother Vincent had named. She really shouldn’t have been chattering at him on the way there. After all, it was his duty to watch for danger and protect Master Ferus from any attack. How could he do that effectively while she was hanging all over him?

  “What did you discover, Folly?” Master Ferus was saying to his apprentice.

  The oddly dressed girl frowned for half of a minute before she spoke. “Frozen souls.”

  “Ah!” Ferus said, raising a finger. “Yes, near enough. Well-done, child.”

  Folly beamed and hugged her jar of crystals to her chest. “But why haven’t I ever felt anything like that in our study?”

  “It is primarily a matter of density,” Ferus replied. “One needs more than a handful of trees to see a forest.”

  Folly frowned at that. “It seemed as if . . . they spoke to one another?”

  “Nothing quite so complex as that, I think,” the etherealist said. “Some sort of communion, though, definitely.”

  Bridget cleared her throat and said tentatively, “Excuse me, Master Ferus?”

  The etherealist and his apprentice turned their eyes to her. “Yes?” he asked.

  “I do not mean to intrude, but . . . what are you talking about?”

  “Books, my dear,” Ferus replied. “Books.”

  Bridget blinked once. “Books do not have souls, sir.”

  “Those who write them do,” Ferus said. “They leave bits and pieces behind them when they lay down the words, some scraps and smears of their essential nature.” He sniffed. “Most untidy, really—but assemble enough scraps and one might have something approaching a whole.”

  “You believe that the library has a soul,” Bridget said carefully.

  “I do not believe it, young lady,” Ferus said rather stiffly. “I know it.”

  “I . . . see,” Bridget said. “Thank you for answering my question.”

  “You are welcome.”

  They kept going, following Benedict, and eventually came to the inn on a well-traveled portion of the streets leading to the gallery outside the shipyard. A sign hanging outside featured, as many of them did, the drawing of a fantastic animal that supposedly existed long ago—most of the inns in Habble Morning were so decorated, Bridget knew. The lettering beneath proclaimed the building to be the Black Horse Inn.

  They went in
and found the usual for such a place—a common room where food and drink were served, in essence a small pub or restaurant. The ceiling was really quite low. Benedict had to duck his head a little to avoid bumping it against the heavy beams supporting the second floor. The air was thick and smoky, too. Several men and women sitting huddled at the tables were holding pipes that smoldered with whatever weed they burned within them. Which was, strictly speaking, against the guidelines laid out by the Merciful Builders in the High Manual. Apparently they had viewed smoking as a serious sin.

  But then, Habble Landing did have something of a reputation as a place of disinclination to piety. It was, after all, the home habble of the Wayist Temple, and had only a few small chapels to God in Heaven. Here the guiding principal was the interest of business. And apparently at the Black Horse Inn, business was excellent.

  There were three score people at least crowded into the common room, occupying every table. Two women were weaving as rapidly as they could through the room, carrying food and drink to the tables and taking away empty plates and cups. Back in the kitchen, dishes rattled and voices spoke loudly but without heat, evidence of a business operating at its full, focused speed.

  “A moment, a moment, ladies and gentlemen,” called a roundcheeked man in a rather plainly made jacket of silvery-grey raw ethersilk. Only after he’d said that did he take a look at them. Bridget saw his bright, rather closely set eyes take in Gwendolyn and Ferus’s excellent (and expensive) clothing at a glance, and he came forward, rubbing his hands together to smile broadly at them. “We’re quite busy, as you can see, but we’ll clear you a table in a moment.”

  Benedict’s stomach made a noise audible even over the chatter of the room. “Wonderful,” he said.

  “We also have need of lodging, sir,” Gwendolyn said. “We’ve been told your establishment can serve our needs.”

  The innkeeper rubbed at his neck. “Ah, miss. I see. We’ll be happy to get a hot meal into your bellies, travelers, but I’m afraid my rooms are all spoken for.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Gwen said, smiling. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”

  “Well, miss,” the innkeeper said, “times being what they are, what with an attack and maybe a war and so on . . . we’ve no rooms to rent, I’m afraid.”

  “They’re full right now?” Gwendolyn asked. “Every one of them?”

  “I’m sorry, but they are,” the innkeeper lied. It was patently obvious from the expression on his face. Perhaps, Bridget reflected, turning down money was not something an entrepreneur of Habble Landing was emotionally equipped to take in his stride. But why wouldn’t he simply rent her the rooms, if that was the case? Ah, it doubtless had to do with . . .

  “Who is renting them?” Gwen asked brightly. “Perhaps I could make some sort of bargain with that person?”

  “That’s not any business of yours, miss. Meaning no offense, but I don’t go blabbing about my customers or their business.”

  “I’m sure we can reach some kind of understanding,” Gwendolyn stated.

  “No rooms,” the innkeeper said, his jaw setting stubbornly.

  Gwendolyn Lancaster narrowed her eyes.

  They decided to take their dinner in their suite, rather than shouldering their way into the Black Horse’s common room. One of the women from downstairs delivered it on several stacked trays. The food came in hot and fresh, on the best plates the Black Horse had to offer, along with genuine silverware and several rather expensive bottles of mistwine.

  Once the food had been set out on the room’s small table, the serving women left, and Folly shut and latched the door carefully behind them. The etherealist’s apprentice looked wan, as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Once the door was closed, the girl immediately hurried to the corner of the room farthest from it and settled down on the floor, holding her little jar of crystals carefully.

  “Coz,” Benedict said, opening the first bottle of mistwine, “I’m afraid you may have a thing or two to learn about bargaining for the best possible price.”

  “It isn’t my taskto save money,” Gwen replied rather tartly. “I’m here to save time.”

  “Impossible, impossible,” Master Ferus said. “Time is time. We can barely even see it, much less alter it.”

  Benedict poured the wine into their glasses calmly, despite his stomach’s rumblings, before he seated himself and began to fill his plate. His motions, Bridget noted, were not hurried—but she could see the cords in his neck standing out with the effort of his restraint.

  “Not time, then,” Gwen said, “but trouble. Yes, we paid five times the price—”

  “Ten times,” Benedict interjected gently.

  Gwen waved her hand. “The point is, we aren’t wasting hours running back and forth to the temple until we find another inn.”

  “Point, child, a fair point,” Master Ferus said.

  “Littlemouse,” said Rowl rather pointedly from the floor, “where should I sit?”

  Bridget calmly cleared a little space on the table, put some roasted fowl on a small plate, and lifted Rowl up to the table to sit before it. The cat made a pleased, throaty sound and began nibbling away. “If I may ask,” Bridget said hesitantly, “what is our next move?”

  “Exploit the environment,” Master Ferus said around a mouthful of beef. “The room below is an excellent place to sample the local climate for signs of unusual activity. Sir Sorellin, perhaps you would be willing to employ your talents to go down and listen? Pretend to be drinking, but don’t become impaired.”

  Benedict swallowed hurriedly and cleared his throat. “Master Ferus, I fear that the Spirearch’s orders prevent me from doing any such thing. I’m to stay within arm’s reach of you.”

  The old etherealist blinked. “Oh, I suppose your orders could be interpreted that way, couldn’t they.”

  “Interpreted literally,” Benedict said. “I’m afraid so.”

  “That being the case,” Ferus said, “I will accompany you. It will add verisimilitude to have someone who is genuinely drunk at the table.” He shook his head sadly. “Death is light as a feather, duty as heavy as a Spire, what?”

  “Ah,” Benedict said.

  “Master Ferus, is that wise?” Gwen asked.

  “It’s an ancient proverb, handed down from the time of the Builders,” Ferus replied. “Chronologically speaking, it is wisdom of the highest order.”

  “Not the proverb,” Gwen said. “You, inebriated. It seems to me that you might have more difficulty pursuing your mission if you are drunk.”

  “I should far rather be drunk than eaten, Miss Lancaster,” Ferus said in a serious tone. “As should we all. Very well, that’s settled.”

  Gwen blinked.

  The etherealist took a slow sip from his glass and nodded owlishly. “Master Sorellin and I will confront and destroy several more bottles of this rather excellent mistwine, and see what news can be passively gleaned. Meanwhile, the rest of you will go with Rowl and Bridget to make contact with the local cats. If anything out of the ordinary is happening in Habble Landing, they’ll have noticed it.”

  Rowl looked up from his food to say, “He said my name first, Littlemouse. He has an excellent sense of priorities.”

  Bridget eyed Rowl and then looked back at the old man. “Master Ferus, forgive me, but I’m not sure exactly how long it might take to make contact. Cats are not known for their forthright hospitality when it comes to meeting strangers.”

  “I’ll help,” Gwen said calmly.

  Bridget sighed. “I . . . think your help, in this particular endeavor, might be counterproductive.”

  Gwen frowned. “In what way?”

  God in Heaven, she really doesn’t realize what she’s like when she’s bearing down on some poor soul, Bridget thought. Aloud, she said, “Cats don’t react well to, um, to . . .” She faltered and looked over at Benedict, silently pleading for help.

  “Gwenness,” Benedict said.

  Gwen lifted an eyebrow. “In what w
ay, precisely, did you mean that remark, coz?”

  “In precisely every way,” Benedict replied. “Your diplomatic efforts so far,have consisted of instigating a duel, threatening detachment of Fleet Marines with charges of treason, throwing away a tidy little fortune in bribes, and abruptly discharging a gauntlet into an otherwise nonviolent situation.”

  “But—” Gwen began.

  “Twice,” Benedict said mildly.

  Gwen regarded him steadily and gave her next bite of fowl a particularly stiff jab of her fork.

  “I don’t mean to insult you, Gwen, but . . . cats don’t react well to the kind of pressure you bring to bear,” Bridget said, “especially not when they’re dealing with . . .”

  “Invaders,” Rowl muttered.

  “. . . newcomers,” Bridget finished mildly.

  Gwen rolled her eyes and said, “Very well. I shall keep myself out from underfoot, then.”

  “It’s just for the first meeting,” Bridget said quickly.

  Benedict frowned at Bridget. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

  “She isn’t,” the etherealist said. “Folly will be with her.”

  Bridget glanced at Folly. The girl was bouncing her little jar of crystals gently, and singing them a very quiet lullaby.

  Benedict arched an eyebrow and said, “Ah.”

  “It’s all right,” Bridget said. “Fewer people mean less noise. Rowl will be able to hear potential threats well before they can come near enough to harm us.”

  Rowl groomed one of his front paws modestly.

  “Right, then,” Master Ferus said. “That’s settled as well. Go forth; good hunting, Sir Benedict, let’s get drunk.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Spire Albion, Habble Landing Shipyards, AMS Predator

  Grimm descended from the deck to the engineering section just as the engineers were carefully opening the crates marked with the crest of the Lancaster Vattery.

  “Ah!” Journeyman cackled, rubbing his broad, callused hands together. The stocky, balding engineer was sweating despite the pleasantly cool afternoon. They had grounded the ship and throttled down her core crystal only about half an hour before, and the excess heat shed by the ship’s power conduits had not yet dissipated. Currently electricity was running only to the lumin crystals and the kitchen. “Finally! Carefully now, man, if you crack one of my new crystals I’ll hoist you up on a spike!”