The Aeronaut's Windlass (73 page)

Spire Albion, Habble Landing, Former Shipyard

B
linding light from the explosion that had consumed
Predator
left a glowing blur in place of Grimm’s normal vision. He shielded his eyes and blinked them rapidly, searching for his ship. The sight that greeted his eyes was almost unthinkable.

The
Mistshark
, her work done, had deployed her port-side web and was heeling over neatly. In a moment she would spread her webs wide to catch the etheric currents and begin gathering speed, heading west by southwest—directly toward Spire Aurora.

Grimm shook his head and lowered his eyes to the ground before him.

The heavy timbers of the shipyard jutted out from the spirestone for perhaps five or six feet, and then ended abruptly in edges as rough as broken teeth. Beyond that was nothing but wind and mist and emptiness where bustling industry had been only moments before.

The Landing Shipyard was gone.

And
Predator
was gone with it.

Gone.

Grimm tried to rise but made it only as far as his knees. He felt his shoulders slump, and his skull suddenly seemed an unbearably heavy burden for his neck. The world started to spiral downward. He put one hand out to the spirestone wall to prevent the world from whirling him to the ground.

Predator
was gone. Home was gone.

Journeyman and his engineers and his contractors had been on the ship. So had been Master Ferus. So had been Miss Gwendolyn.

Everything had been aboard
Predator
.

Voices spoke to him, but meant little. Hands helped him to his feet. He stood, though he saw no convincing reason to do so anymore. A bright purple blur still marred his vision, the residue of the flash that had consumed his ship, his men, and his future.

“. . . away from the opening, sir,” Kettle was saying, his voice rough. “
Mistshark
might still fire on us.”

“No, she won’t,” Grimm heard himself saying in a thin, wooden voice. “The shipyards, the gun emplacements, and merchant vessels bearing supplies to Albion are all legitimate targets of war. Calliope’s done all she came to do at this point. Now all that’s left is to get away with it. She’ll run.”

Kettle’s hand stayed firm on his arm. “Then come away from the opening, sir. Lest your feet slip and you fall.”

Grimm felt something like anger at the careful phrasing in the pilot’s voice. It was a distant thing, far away, but he felt it, like a heat moving up his spine. It had power enough to lift his head and let him stare at the pilot. “Precisely what are you suggesting, mister?”

Kettle’s steady grey eyes flickered with unease—and then flooded with a kind of profound relief. “Oh, Skipper. Nothing, sir. Nothing at all.”

Grimm regarded the man’s expression and suddenly felt everything rushing back together behind his eyes, an explosion played backward, that left his mind and will restored to some semblance of working order. There was pain, of course. There was horrible, horrible pain, a grief that he knew would, at some point in the near future, leave him a gibbering wreck.

But for the time being, his men needed him. He might not have a ship anymore, but he still had a crew. They were looking to him now, in this moment of despair and doubt. So he straightened his coat, turned his back on the horribly empty sky behind him, and faced his men.

“Well, Mister Kettle. We seem to have done all the damage we can. I’m not sure what my accounts will look like after paying death benefits to the families of the fallen, but you can be assured that I’ll compensate you all as best as I am able, as well as putting a good word in one or two ears who still might be friendly to me in Fleet. Experienced hands will certainly be needed in the weeks to come. I think none of you should lack for paying work.”

“Skip?” Kettle asked, his tone uncertain.

“For now, of course, we will locate Doctor Bagen, Mister Creedy, and our wounded and see to it that they have the finest care available. I believe that is their group coming along the lane now, in fact. And naturally we will lend our assistance with the firefighting effort here in Habble Landing.”

“Oh,” said the etherealist’s apprentice. “Oh, my goodness.”

“Mister Kettle,” Grimm said, “please delegate a crew of four to assist the good doctor in relocating the men to a hospice of some sort. The rest of us will proceed to the fire containment effort, and join . . .”

Bridget blinked owlishly, staring past him. “Captain Grimm,” she asked, her tone confused and curious, “I’m fairly new to this sort of thing, but . . . are you sure we oughtn’t get on your ship?”

Grimm stared hard at Miss Tagwynn. Then at Kettle, studying the man’s expression. Then the face of the etherealist’s apprentice, Miss Folly, and the countenances of his crew.

Then he stiffened his spine into proper alignment, adjusted his hat, and turned, very calmly.

Rising up out of the mists, no more than a hundred feet from the opening in the wall of Habble Landing, was the absolutely beautiful, entirely flawless, pristine, and very real shape of
Predator
.

Grimm stared at the ship as she rose, steady and stately, until she hovered at the same level as the opening in the Spire’s wall. Her shape blurred for a moment, but he cleared his throat, blinked his eyes once, and that illusion passed. She was whole. Her shrouds had held.

“God in Heaven,” he whispered. “Thank You for Your grace.”

There was a stir on the ship, and Mister Journeyman appeared from belowdecks. He peered around and let out his breath in a low whistle when he saw the broken remains of the shipyards that still clung, here and there, to the outer wall of the Spire.

“Mister Journeyman!” Grimm bellowed.

The engineer straightened his back like a schoolchild caught in the middle of some mischief, and threw a hasty salute toward the Spire. “Skipper! There you are!”

“You, you, you . . .” Grimm began. He ground his teeth and called, “What have you done to my ship!”

Journeyman repeated his salute. “Beggin’ the captain’s pardon, sir, but we got her all hooked up and took her for a test dive.” He coughed and said, “It seemed like the thing to do, sir.”

“Ah. A dive on lift and trim crystals alone, with no pilot,” Grimm said. He took a breath and asked casually, “How’d she do?”

Journeyman waggled a hand. “Could use some fine-tuning,” he replied.

“Very good,” Grimm said, nodding, and folded his hands behind his back. “Should you
ever
do such a reckless and muzzleheaded thing with my ship again, there will be hell to pay, Mister Journeyman! Am I clear?”

Journeyman’s face went a bit pale. He braced to attention and snapped off a salute. “Yes, sir!”

“
Predator
is not your personal play toy, placed there by God in Heaven for your amusement!”

“No, sir!”

“Do you hear me, Journeyman?”

“I do, sir!”

“Good. Now get my ship in close enough to throw us some lines so that we can belay you and get the planks down! Move, Journeyman!”

“Yes, sir!” Journeyman said, snapping off a last salute, and dashed back belowdecks, roaring out orders.

Grimm spun on the rest of the crew, to find them grinning at his back.

“Miss Folly,” Grimm asked, ignoring them for the moment. “Can you confirm the location of Master Ferus’s collection?”

The oddly dressed young woman’s eyes slipped out of focus for a moment and then she frowned indignantly, muttering to her crystal, “It is moving away from the Spire rather rapidly. That horrible puppet woman has them on that ship.”

“Can you follow her, miss?”

Folly frowned. “If the master’s collection doesn’t get too far away from us, I believe I could follow them.”

Grimm nodded once, rounded on his men, and raised his voice to an authoritative roar. “What are you pack of apes gawking at?” Grimm snapped at them. “We have men suffering from silkweaver poison. Doctor Bagen cannot help them, but the etherealist can. To do so, he needs his gear, currently sailing away from us on the
Mistshark
, along with the Auroran Marines who have caused so much harm to our fellow Albions.”

A round of growls, led by Kettle’s deep-chested snarl, rose up among the men.

“I mean to take
Predator
after
Mistshark
, run her down, hammer her until she surrenders, and get Master Ferus his equipment so that he can save our shipmates. Given the losses we’ve taken, we’ll be running short on hands, but make no mistake—we will speak with our cannon nonetheless. Any man who wishes to stay behind will not be censured.”

Kettle glanced around at the crew, taking the measure of their stances and expressions, and nodded once. “We’re all in, Captain.”

“Then make ready to belay the ship and secure our loading ramp into position as soon as Journeyman warps her in.”

“Aye, Skipper!” Journeyman said. “You two with me and the rest of you into two lines on either side of the hallway!”

Grimm let the pilot take charge of the situation and turned to Miss Folly and her companion. “Miss Tagwynn? How are you feeling?”

The tall young woman blinked her eyes closed and open and then managed a slight nod. She still leaned slightly against the etherealist’s apprentice for support, but now cradled Master Rowl in both arms. The cat was awake, though distant, his body limp, his eyes focused on nothing. “Better, Captain.”

“You’ve done enough,” Grimm said. “I’ll be sending the most grievously wounded men to the care of a hospice. You will go with them.”

Miss Tagwynn pondered his words for a moment before she shook her head and said, “No, thank you, Captain. I will remain with Sir Benedict.”

“I am the captain of that vessel,” Grimm said gently. “We will be going into battle, and you have no training or experience that would make you useful to our cause. The decision is not yours to make.”

The young woman nodded, and said, “I am certain you can have me beaten until I am not capable of boarding the ship, sir.” Then she looked up and met his eyes. Her gaze was steady, penetrating, and eerily feline. “Is that what you mean to do?”

Grimm felt his mouth twitch at the corner. “No, Miss Tagwynn. It certainly is not. But if you are to insist on coming along, I will have your word that you will accept my orders as the voice of God in Heaven Himself once you are aboard.”

“Very well,” she said.

Grimm nodded to her. “What you did, back at the temple. That was quite remarkable.” He felt a smile touch his eyes. “Sir Benedict is a fortunate man.”

“He would have done the same for me, sir,” Miss Tagwynn assured him.

“Of that I have no doubt.”

Behind him, Journeyman had gotten
Predator
close enough to toss a pair of lines to Kettle and the crew. The men began taking them up, and working together to carefully pull the ship into position at the opening in the outer wall of the Spire. It would take only a few more moments to get the loading ramp into position.

Mister Creedy came shuffling up to Grimm and saluted wearily. The strain on his face, from carrying one of the wounded, was evident. “Captain,” he panted. “What did I miss?”

“Next payday, schedule a bonus month’s pay to Mister Journeyman and his engineering team,” Grimm replied.

Creedy blinked. Then he glanced past Grimm, to the shadow of
Predator
hovering where the Habble Landing Shipyard had been only moments before, and his jaw dropped open. “God in Heaven,” he breathed.

“It was the
Mistshark
,” Grimm said simply. “The Aurorans and that Cavendish woman are aboard her. We’re going to run her down and take her.”

“We’re short on crew,” Creedy said. “We’ll be light on guns.”

“Yes,” Grimm said.

“
Mistshark
is larger and more heavily armed than
Predator
.”

“Yes.”

“Very good, Captain,” Creedy said. “What are my orders?”

“Get the wounded aboard and secured; then report to me on the bridge.”

Creedy nodded sharply, and turned to go. He paused. “Captain . . . if
Mistshark
is already away, how are we to catch her? She’s the fastest thing in the sky.”

Grimm felt his mouth stretch into a wolfish smile.

Chapter 63