The Aeronaut's Windlass (8 page)

“I’m sorry,” Bridget said. She rose, still holding the cat in her arms, and raised her voice slightly, enunciating the words. “You. Are. An. Ass.” She smiled faintly. “Sir.”

Gwen felt her eyebrows climb toward her hairline.

“You . . . you cannot speak to me in such a way,” Reginald said.

Bridget and the cat regarded him with unblinking eyes. “Apparently I can, sir.”

Reginald’s eyes flashed with anger. “You shouldn’t even be here,” he snarled. “Your House died decades ago. You and your father are nothing but the last few scraps of meat clinging to a rotting bone.”

Something shifted.

Gwen couldn’t tell precisely what had happened, but the air was suddenly thick. Bridget’s face never moved. Her eyes didn’t narrow; nor did she bare her teeth. She said nothing. She did not so much as twitch a muscle. She only stared at Reginald.

It was the cat, Gwen realized. The beast’s eyes seemed to have grown larger, and the very tip of his long tail had begun to flick left and right in slow rhythm. The cat stared at Reginald as if he were preparing to spring upon him with murder in mind.

When Bridget spoke, her voice was hardly louder than a whisper. “What did you say about my father?”

Gwen rose hurriedly. Reginald was a practiced duelist, and while most such confrontations ended in only mild injuries, it was quite possible for one or both participants to be killed when tempers were hot—and she was abruptly certain that the heavy silence now gathered around the cat girl was a thundercloud of undiluted rage.

An insult like the one Reginald had delivered was ample grounds to demand satisfaction, though she was certain the ass hadn’t deliberately set out to provoke the reaction. If, however, Bridget was as upset as Gwen suspected, that might be exactly what he got—and Reggie, for all his oafishness, was more than competent with both blade and gauntlet. Bridget was very nearly as bad with blades as Gwen was, and her gauntlet work was atrocious. A duel could not end well for her.

“Excuse me,” Gwen said, walking over to Bridget as though nothing at all were happening.

Bridget’s eyes and those of the cat both flicked toward Gwen at the same time.

Goodness, that young woman was tall. She had at least a foot on Gwen. “We haven’t been introduced,” Gwen said pleasantly. “I’m Gwendolyn Lancaster.”

Bridget frowned faintly. “Bridget Tagwynn.”

Gwen cocked an eyebrow. “The House of Admiral Tagwynn?”

The corner of Bridget’s mouth twitched, perhaps in irritation. “The same.”

“How wonderful,” Gwen said, a slight edge to her tone. “He was the finest naval commander in the history of all of Spire Albion. In fact, the Spire might not be here at all if not for his courage and skill. You come from one of the greatest families in our history.”

Bridget frowned again. Then she ducked her head in a small, awkward bow. “Thank you.”

“She comes of a footnote in Albion history,” Reginald said, his voice sullen. “What has her family done for the Spire lately? Nothing. Their house grows meat, for Heaven’s sake, like a common trog.”

Bridget’s eyes went back to Reginald. “You say that as if it is an insult, sir.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Reginald demanded.

“That I would rather be a common trog than an ass of House Astor, sir.”

Reginald’s face turned bright red. “You dare cast an insult into the face of my House?”

“Not its face,” Bridget said, arching an eyebrow. “Its ass.”

“You vile little trog,” Reginald said. “You think that because you’ve been to the Spirearch’s Manor, because you are in training for the Guard, that you are worthy of such an honor? You think you can yap and taunt your betters because of it?”

“I’m not sure,” Bridget said. “I’ll let you know once I meet someone better than me.”

Reginald’s eyes blazed, and with a snarl he ripped one of his gloves from his belt and flung it hard at Bridget’s face.

Bridget never moved—but Gwen did. She snatched the glove out of the air and turned to face Reginald. “Reggie, no.”

“Did you hear that bloody slab?” Reginald snarled. “Did you hear what she said about my House?”

“And what you said about hers,” Gwen said. “You started this, Reginald Astor.”

“Stay out of this, Gwendolyn. I demand satisfaction!” His furious gaze went back to Bridget. “Unless the famed courage of the House of Tagwynn has dwindled away to nothing along with its bloodline.”

Bridget’s frown deepened and her mouth opened slightly. She glanced aside at Gwen and said, “Miss Lancaster . . . did this man just challenge me to a duel?”

“Hardly a man,” Gwen replied. She looked up and met Bridget’s eyes. “And yes. He did.”

“Lunatics,” Bridget breathed. “Must I accept?”

“If you don’t,” Gwen said, “he can litigate. The Council could assess a punitive fine against House Tagwynn.”

“Could?” Reginald said. “Would. I guarantee the High Houses would rule harshly against such a display of disrespect to one of the leading Houses of Albion.”

Bridget looked at Gwen again. “Is that true?”

“Courts are never certain,” Gwen said. “But . . . it probably is.”

“But I never insulted the Astors. Only him.”

“He’s the heir to the House, I’m afraid,” Gwen said. “The Council may not make that distinction.”

Bridget closed her eyes for a moment and muttered beneath her breath, “When will I learn to keep my mouth shut?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Gwen said.

“We’re barely holding on as it is,” Bridget said. “If . . . if we were fined, my father would have to sell the vattery.”

Reginald barked out a harsh-sounding laugh. “Which is why insignificant little nothing Houses should show more respect to their seniors. You should have thought of that before you spoke.”

The cat’s claws made scratching sounds against the sleeve of Bridget’s shirt. She put a hand on the beast, as if restraining it.

“Apologize,” Reginald snarled. “Now. And I will forget that this happened.”

Bridget paused again before she spoke. Then she squared her shoulders, faced Reginald, and said, “But I wouldn’t.” She glanced at Gwen. “How does this work? Do we fight right now?”

Gwen blinked up at the large girl. “You . . . actually intend to accept his challenge?”

Bridget nodded her head once. The cat made a low, eager growling sound.

Gwen sighed. “It doesn’t happen here. You’ll need a second, someone to accompany you, help you prepare, and to schedule the duel. You’ll also need a Marshal to adjudicate it.”

Bridget blinked. “That . . . seems like a needlessly complicated way to do something so adolescent.”

“There are excellent reasons for it,” Gwen said.

“I see,” Bridget said. “How do I accept his challenge?”

Gwen wordlessly held out the glove.

“Ah,” Bridget said, and took it.

Reginald nodded tightly, and gestured at one of the young nobles beside him. “This is Barnabus. He will be my second. Have your second contact him. Good day.” He spun on a heel and marched away, into the palace, taking his entourage with him.

Bridget and Gwen watched them go. After a moment Bridget said, “I didn’t need your help.”

“Pardon?” Gwen asked.

“Your help. I didn’t need you to come over here and make things worse.”

“
Worse?
” Gwen asked, startled. “In what way did I make things worse?”

“I didn’t ask you for your help. When you got involved his idiot pride was at stake. He was forced to start defending the honor of House Astor for fear of showing weakness to a Lancaster.” Bridget shook her head. “If you weren’t there, all I had to do was stop talking. It would have left him with nowhere to go.”

“I was trying to
help
you,” Gwen said.

Bridget rolled her eyes. “Why do all you people in the High Houses think that you are the only ones who can possibly manage matters that are none of your bloody business? Did you even consider the fact that I might not
want
your interference?”

Gwen folded her arms and scowled. She . . .

She hadn’t, had she? Not for one second. And of course Reggie had been more stung by Bridget’s words, because he wanted Gwen, and resented being humiliated in front of her. Gwen hadn’t thought things through. She’d simply charged into the situation, attempting to pour oil on troubled waters—only she’d set the oil on fire instead.

As a result, it looked like someone was going to get burned. She couldn’t leave things in that state, not when she’d helped put them there. She couldn’t bear it if anyone were hurt because of her foolishness—well, perhaps if it was Reggie, and if he wasn’t hurt too badly, but she’d feel awful if anything happened to Bridget.

“You might have a point,” Gwen said quietly. “But that doesn’t matter now.”

“Why on earth not?” Bridget asked.

“Have you the faintest idea of what is involved in a formal duel?”

“Two fools.”

Gwen found herself smiling faintly. “Other than that.”

Bridget seemed to withdraw into herself. She hunched down a little, as if trying to hide her height. She frowned down at the cat, stroking its fur. “Other than that . . . no. I have no idea.”

“Reginald does,” Gwen said quietly. “You might not want my help, Miss Tagwynn—but as of now, you most assuredly need it.”

Chapter 5

Spire Albion, Habble Morning

B
ridget regarded the nobleman uncertainly. “I’m not at all sure about this, sir.”

Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster stood facing her, in the gloom of what could only loosely be considered early morning in Habble Morning’s marketplace, outside the training compound of the Spirearch’s Guard. He was a tall man, as tall as her father, but lean with youth and a natural inclination. Benedict gave her a smile that he probably meant to be reassuring, but it showed a little too much of his larger-than-average canine teeth. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he said. “You aren’t sure and you need to be. Come on, then. I need to assess what kind of physical strength you have. You’ll not hurt me, Miss Tagwynn, I assure you.”

“It seems . . . improper,” she said, frowning. Of course she wouldn’t hurt him. But even had that been her intention, Benedict’s golden, vertically slit eyes showed him to be warriorborn, with the blood and the strength of lions in his limbs. “Are you quite sure this is sanctioned by the Guard?”

“Normally, open-hand combat is taught after your initial training course, but there’s no regulation that says you’ve got to wait that long to learn. As long as it’s your time you’re spending, and not the Guard’s.”

“I see,” Bridget said. “That seems equitable. How should I attack you?”

Benedict’s face remained serious, but his eyes suddenly sparkled.

Bridget’s stomach did an odd little shuffle-step, and she looked down straightaway.

“Just come at me,” he said. “Try to pick me up.”

Bridget frowned but nodded at him. “I see,” she said. She took several steps closer to the young man and said, “Excuse me, please.”

“Don’t say ‘excuse me,’” Benedict chided. “You won’t be saying ‘excuse me’ to Reggie on the dueling stage—”

Bridget bent, faintly irritated by his tone, got a shoulder beneath Benedict’s stomach, and dragged him up off the floor. He wasn’t much heavier than a slab of red meat from one of the large vats back home, and she lifted him, held him there for a moment, and then continued the motion, tossing him over her back and onto the cinderstone floor behind her.

She turned to find him sitting on the ground, staring at her with his mouth slightly open.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Was that acceptable?”

“You . . . uh,” Benedict said. His golden eyes glinted in the gloom. “You’re . . . rather fit, Miss Tagwynn.”

“I work for a living,” Bridget said. She regretted the words almost instantly. She hadn’t meant them as an insult to him, implying that he did not, but a prickly scion of one of the great Houses of Albion could readily interpret them that way.

But no anger touched his eyes. Instead his face spread into a slow, delighted smile. “Oh, Maker of Ways,” he breathed, and the sound flooded out into a bubbling laugh.

Bridget liked the way his laugh sounded. She found her mouth tugging up into a small smile. “I beg your pardon, sir?”