A Children's Tale (6 page)

Thorias nodded in agreement and glanced around. The small hospice served as the doctor's home as well as its intended purpose to treat the infirm. He often kept personal amenities stashed about the room. He reached back to a small table nearby and scooped up a tall bottle with an amber colored liquid in it. "Then that would agree with the rest of the story, now wouldn't it? Charybdian Brandy? No? Well, pardon me while I have a quick sip."

He retrieved a small tumbler from another hidden cabinet and poured a little of the brandy into the glass for himself. "Where was I? Oh, RiBeld. Our little friend here was around when RiBeld got their orders. They were sent out to chase down that merchant ship, the 
Marie Celeste
, and bring it down before it reached Northumbrage. They came upon her right before dusk and caught the crew unaware. Seems they meant to board her then scuttle her, but RiBeld's men got a bit carried away with the grapeshot. Tore the 
Celeste
 from here to Iceland. The 
Celeste
 and her crew got wise quick enough though. They fired up some smoke pots to try and cover their tracks into a cloud bank over the mountains. That's when the mercenaries lost them."

Krumer folded his arms over his chest. "Though the 
Celeste
 didn't make it to port at Northumbrage, but instead dove into the snow while trying."

The doctor shrugged and sipped his brandy. "I s'ppose. Little fella didn't see that part. Though RiBeld and his men looked, apparently they lost their victim among the clouds. On reporting back, their employer hired some trackers ... merchant marines ... with some history of taking risky jobs and pulling through."

"Us," Tonks said flatly.

Thorias smiled thinly and raised his glass in a small toast to the answer. "Yes. Us. Now the little fella here was sent along quietly. Hidden among some supplies we took on. Arcady was to keep an eye on us and report back where we were going." 

"And when we found the 
Celeste
." Finished Krumer.

"Exactly."

Tonks scratched a shadow of whiskers on his cheek and spoke in a low aside to Thorias. "Doc, can this little bug understand all we say?"

"Oh, Arcady's a fair grasp of proper English. Doesn't use it when he's scared mind you." The doctor leaned forward a bit and whispered. "Bit of a stutter when he's rattled."

Tonks sighed and looked at the brass clockwork dragonfly. Arcady turned its ruby colored eyes up at the pilot then shifted its weight uneasily. The sound of tiny muffled gears whirred gently in the moment of silence of the room. Tonks cleared his throat, then pushed on with what he wanted to ask. "So, you know who hired RiBeld then?"

With a single nod, the clockwork insect turned to face a blank wall. A glimmer of light shone from within the ruby eyes. The light grew brighter, more intense until a series of moving pictures, colors muted and laced with a touch of static, appeared. At first the scene was of a damp cobblestone road, lined with the characteristic brownstone London buildings, and lit by lamps against an approaching evening. A pair of figures appeared down the lane, then walked to a nearby door and waited. Then the view changed, bobbing gently like a small cork upon water, or as if the person who carried the source of the recording walked forward. Closer, and closer still, the view altered until the pictures angled upwards towards three figures backlit by the gas lamp overhead. Their faces were obscured by the overhead light , however, Arcady had been able to get a long, clear look at what each figure wore and a few obvious personal possessions such as an exquisite pocket watch.

The first mate frowned. "Yet we can't see their faces. Though at least we've idea what they almost look like."

Arcady fluttered his wings. From a hidden speaker a small voice - tinged with an artificial, stiff accent that emphasized the sound of the letter 't' just a little too much - spoke, "It was all I could see. I was in a pocket. It was not much."

Tonks had leaned forward, trying not to be distracted by how Arcady could actually display these images, with a look of concentration on his face. "A might more than that's there, I'd say. That suit and velvet vest, I remember such tailoring from the more finer shops in London. It's expensive and only the more well ta do bought such. Wait, can ya go back a bit ... if ya can do that with what your doin'?"

"Certainly." 

The images halted then moved backwards for a few seconds while the dragonfly rewound the sequence. With a static burst and flicker, the pictures moved forward again. 

The pilot pointed when a bronze pocket watch, etched in gold and silver came into view, then scrambled for a scrap piece of paper and a pencil. "Right there. If you look close you can see it. Hold it right there. I think I can sketch most of that out."

In moments they had a crude sketch of family coat of arms. There, among a field of ivy, was a modest shield with blood drops on which there was a black lion decorated with gold drops. Above that was a blue bar or 'chief' which held three silver scallops. 

Thorias leaned forward, "But whose is it?"

Tonks raised his eyebrows in surprise when recognition came to him. "I only know a' one coat of arms like that. That belongs to the Patterson family."

Krumer looked up in surprise. "As in Ian Von Patterson? Our employer?"

"The one and same."

"Why would he even consider such a thing? Especially being a well - respected industrialist and a gentleman. At least according to the papers."

Thorias cleared his throat. "More of interest to me is how indeed would he know the route the 
Celeste
 would take? Those flight paths are kept under lock and key. Strict security you know."

"Nary a clue. But I can think of those that may know." Tonks said with a growing smile. "RiBeld and his men."

"Preposterous!" Thorias exclaimed. "You'd not get them to talk and besides, you'd have to find one alone."

"Alone I'm still planning about. However the where shouldn't be that hard. They're following us, so we just need to scout around for signs of them and see them before they see us."

The small tin voice emerged from the clockwork dragonfly. "Would this be useful sirs?" With a brief click, another series of pictures displayed on the wall. This time it was navigational charts marked with various routes and timetables. Some of which included today.

Before anyone could speak, the dragonfly shifted his weight and did a close approximation of a rather human-like shrug. "When they were not throwing knives at me, they left me alone in the captain's cabin. I grew bored."

A
n hour later, a steambat biplane sat on a level clearing far upslope from where the avalanche came to rest. The plane was largely in good working order, save for a set of bullet holes torn through the thin layer of rhino hide and canvas that composed the 'skin' of the craft's body. Steam jetted in hot geyser-like spouts through the holes in response to the rise and fall of the pressure from the aircraft's boiler. 

Hard at work with a spanner wrench, a man in black cotton trousers, leather boots and a worn leather coat leaned into an open side panel that exposed the steam engine to the air. The man tugged furiously at the spanner wrench to tighten, or attempt to tighten, one of the pipe fittings collars that had been flush against the engine itself. Recently the pipe fitting had been doing its job well, until it had been struck by a bullet and belt oddly out of shape. Another sharp tug and the fitting moved just a fraction of an inch before the pipe itself ruptured. Steam exploded out of the engine compartment, knocking the pilot across the snow. He landed with a dull thump in the snowdrift, then groaned in pain. Slowly he reached under his coat to clutch at a bloody bandage-covered bullet wound in his shoulder.

Fifteen feet behind the wounded pilot, Tonks peered over the edge of some rocks until only the top of his head could be seen. He watched while the wounded pilot struggled painfully to his feet to slowly walk back towards the steam biplane. Quietly, Tonks slipped over the top of the rocks and walked silently across the snow. Just out of arm's reach, he cleared his throat with a smirk. 

"Afternoon, Sirrah."

The pilot spun, a clockwork-needler pistol in hand. He was surprised to find himself staring into the barrel of Tonks' own revolver. 

"Ah now, none a' that." Tonks said reproachfully.

"Who're ya, eh?" The man demanded in a mild Irish accent.  

"The one who your goin' to be tellin' about why you're here, what all you're up to, and why the
Marie Celeste
is so all important to Archie RiBeld."

"Get bent!" He replied and raised his needler for a better aim.

"I wouldn't if I were you. I might miss. You probably won't with that needle-slinger of yours. But once you've done me in, what'll you do about the rest?"

"Rest a' who?"

A rough voice, touched with a hint of amusement, was heard from the other side of the steambat biplane. "Us."

Krumer walked into view, long barreled Colt pistol in one hand and cutlass in the other. He was dressed as he usually was - short boots, trousers and shirt - but over that he had wrapped himself in a white leather, fur trimmed cloak. On either side of him six more of the
Brass Griffin
's crew, dressed in similar fashion to Krumer, rose from the snow itself near the edge of the clearing.

 "Dahm' yer eyes, ya stinkin' glocky mutcher!" The man swore while he relaxed the grip on his weapon.

"Such language. An here I thought I was bein' hospitable. Well, maybe you'll learn a bit o' manners once we have ourselves a chat, eh?" Tonks stepped forward and took the pistol from the man.  

Tonks nudged the wounded pilot towards the east, away from the clearing and towards where the
Griffin
's longskiff lay hidden beyond the trees. Behind them, Krumer and two of the
Griffin
's crew set to work pulling the blocks from the biplane to move it under cover nearby.

A short ride on the longskiff took Tonks, the Irishman and the rest of the landing crew back to the
Griffin
. Behind them, the steambat was neatly concealed beneath the thickest section of trees along the edge of the clearing. Once aboard, they secured the wounded pilot in a storage closet located in the forward hold - used most often to securely transport coal or other minerals. Despite his arguments to treat the man in his own hospice, Thorias nonetheless took his usual care in tending the Irishman's shoulder wound.

Two hours later, Thorias scaled the ladder from below. On deck he took a deep breath and adjusted his shoulder bag of medical supplies. Arcady flew up into view then circled the doctor in a lazy spin. Over near the main mast, Tonks noticed the pair and nodded a silent greeting. Thorias and Arcady walked over to Tonks while the pilot finished coiling some of the extra lengths of rope for rigging.

"How's Irish doing, Doc? His shoulder wound was bleedin' pretty good on the trip back."

"Natural to expect it, when one doesn't rest from a bullet wound. Though his own ministrations to his wound had been adequate enough, now he'll mend with only a slight scar now instead of a rather ugly one."

"And so you tossed his chances at a good tale or two at a pub." Tonks laughed and tied off the end of the rope to a nearby belaying pin.

"I'm confident he'll embellish. I do wish I had been allowed to work on him in my own hospice instead of an old coal bin of a closet."

"It's more secure there and you know it."

"Perhaps, I doubt though he'd cause mischief. We're miles off ground. Anything he did would put himself in peril." Thorias rubbed his eyes as bright sunlight broke the thick clouds for a moment.

"Can't disagree with you there. Desperate men do strange things, if he's of a mind to. We found a few things aboard his steambat - a medical satchel with a pair o' logbooks, a compass and a few rolls of bandages stood out the most."

Thorias frowned. "I don't follow you. Why are those important?"

Tonks leaned backwards slightly to stretch his back a moment. "The satchel not so much. I'm thinkin' he grabbed it for the bandages. What he didn't count on was them logbooks. Top one was empty. Second had just started to be used by the captain of the
Celeste
. The satchel had been burnt all along one side. I'm no expert mind you, but I know a good burn from a lightning cannon when I see it. Irish down there had been ta the wreck. After our own had visited it I'll wager. Which means he's got to be one of RiBeld's men." 

"Hard to find flaw there, Sirrah. Arcady, did you ever see him among RiBeld's rabble?"

Arcady settled on Thorias' shoulder and nodded. "Yes. I know him from my time aboard. He never saw me but I remember him."

Tonks folded his arms over his chest. "Did he say anythin' about the Captain and others that went a'ground with him?"

The clockwork insect sighed - a rather distinctive sound much like a very tiny bellows - shook his head slowly. "No, he did not speak of any such information."

"Then mayhap he'll need convincing. I'll try my hand at it." Tonks walked toward the ladder and descended below decks.

"I just finished putting him together, Tonks, I'd appreciate it if you not ruin my work!" Thorias called after the pilot.

Below deck and in the forward hold, Tonks drew an iron key from a vest pocket and turned it in the large steel padlock on the door latch. The lock clicked apart and the pilot eased the door open. To call the room a closet was a slight disservice to the room itself. It was small, but not tiny. It was a full five feet wide and fifteen foot deep - the wooden walls permanently stained with black soot marks and deep cuts. Long planks normally lined the walls as shelves but most had been removed save for one that could serve as a bench and sleeping pallet. Normally used for coal or other similar storage, the small room was now occupied by a surly Irish pilot.

"Well, if it nae be the talk'tive one. Come tae show me ya hospitality? Be teachin' me ma manners?"