The Gospel According to Verdu (a Steampunk Novel) (The Brofman Series) (28 page)

Fenimore pulled Ahy-Me’s hands away from her face and wiped the tears from her cheeks. The wetness had pulled dust off her face in streaks, leaving her looking like she had cat’s whiskers. He smiled at the strangeness of the moment and vowed silently to himself to tread carefully, as the woman before him was, for good or ill, part of his life now.

“I think we are going to need to have a long talk,” he said.

Captain Endicott called it a revolver and said that Lincoln should, for the time being, never be without it. Lincoln wasn’t sure about carrying a gun, not this one at any rate. The revolver was not as flashy as he’d hoped it would be, and it was a little heavier than he thought it should be. That, and it was
ancient.
The captain spun some lame story about how a gun with bullets was far superior to a Dr. Prego’s Kilowatt Fibriott 2300, as “bullets never need batteries, son.” Lincoln was cut off before he could mention that perhaps the five shots the revolver was capable of were somewhat limiting in a similar yet different way, but the captain was hearing none of it.

“I hope you never have need to draw that sidearm, son. I really do. And for the love of the gods and all that’s holy, quit looking down the barrel! You’re gonna shoot yer own face off.” The captain took the gun as gingerly as possible from Lincoln’s hand and dropped it into the holster hitched around the young man’s hip.

Lincoln
liked
the holster. At least the warm brown leather that cut across his midsection looked cool. He’d read stories about gangsters and thieves who simply tucked their guns into the waistband of their trousers. On the night Captain Endicott gave him the sidearm, Lincoln tried stashing the revolver in the back of his pants while he was standing alone in the
Brofman
’s crew quarters. Sadly, he realized that a man with a backside shaped like a fishing pole could not reasonably tote anything more exciting than suspenders. He also tried tucking the gun in the
front
of his waistband, and it fell with a clatter onto the floor as he turned to check himself in the mirror. Undaunted, he tried again. This time, the gun disappeared
into
his trousers, the cold metal sliding down the length of his pants leg and landing inside his boot. Grabbing the grip to pull it out, Lincoln heard the distinct click of the gun’s hammer striking, and he recognized how close he had come to shooting himself in the foot. His face flamed with embarrassment, and he thanked the gods that his crewmates were nowhere near.

It was then that he realized the wisdom of the captain’s not giving him any bullets on that first day. Captain Endicott must have known that Lincoln would be fiddling with his new toy all night and eventually would make a careless mistake. He scolded himself, but learned a valuable lesson: this was no game.

As the gunrunners began delivering and installing hardware on the
Brofman
, the reality of what was about to happen became all too clear. The ship’s rails were suddenly sprouting sharply angled metal hooks—cradles for various weapons. Boxes of ammunition were being ferried on board and lowered into the cargo holds. The ship was transforming in a way that broke his heart. His home, the place where he felt more happiness and sheltering companionship than anywhere else in the world, was preparing for a fight.

He and the other deckhands had been scrubbing engine parts in the bright sunlight of the deck as the weapons were installed. It was a boring, dirty job that required the fellows to feel each tooth and crevice in every cog and piston, working out every bit of soot. Then each part needed to be dried and oiled and delivered back to the overhaul mechanic in the engine room.

Lincoln, as acting first officer, was in charge of this project, and it was beginning to wear on him. Stanley and Spencer were constantly goofing off. If he took his eyes off them for a second, they would get distracted and bring parts out of the soap-filled washing bins without properly cleaning every nook and cranny. They splashed each other with the wash water. They squirted each other with the oil can. They twirled the drying rags into rat tails and snapped them at each other, targets around the ship, and even at Lincoln. After two days of this, Lincoln lost his temper.

“That’s enough!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “You two have been messing about for too long. You don’t listen—
ever
! Do you not see what kind of shape we are in?
Do you?
” He dropped his voice and put a hand on each boy’s shoulder. “Look around you. Germer nearly died. Dr. Mortimer has been taken away. Fenimore’s gone. Verdu never came back. The gods know where Chenda is. Things are grim, fellas, real grim. We’ve been here for days and ain’t in no position to help nobody”—he raised his voice once more, causing the other boys to jump—“until we get this ship flyin’ again!”

He grabbed a soot-smudged cog that had been lain out on one of the drying racks, and wagged it before the eyes of the two rapidly reforming goof-offs. “You’re gonna get us all killed with your carelessness. See? Gunk on a cog like this could flummox the whole engine—stop us cold and sink us into the sea. No one would ever hear from us again, and no one to miss us neither.” He tossed the cog back into Stanley’s suds bucket and glared at him. “We’s the only ones who cares about us now. Just us. You best start takin’ note of that fact.”

Spencer, always a bit shy and mousy, trembled behind Stanley, who blushed red, a tone that clashed violently with his orange hair and brown freckles. Both looked ashamed of themselves.

“Do it. Again,” Lincoln growled. “And get it right this time. We needed to be finished with this an hour ago. Shut your gobs and get it done. Now.”

He spun on his heel and marched back to his own washing station and began swabbing a collection of heavy rods with a dauber soaked in oil. He glanced up at the deckhands, who were staring at him like he was some kind of mad dog. “Now,” he said to them calmly as he continued to work. Both boys jumped a little and recommitted their hands to the assigned task.

Just inside the wheelhouse, Captain Endicott, who had silently watched the interplay between the young members of his crew, nodded his head in satisfaction. His boys were just about ready to go.

After the first five minutes in the sedan chair, Verdu knew he would never complain about the pain of his leg brace again. The two gorilla-shaped soldiers who carried the ostentatious red-velvet chair needed some dance lessons, or at least a little instruction in how to step at the same time with the same foot. Verdu’s legs dangled above the ground, and he was helpless to direct his carriers as he held on to the sides of the chair. He bounced along, trying not to get airsick.

For the first time in months, Verdu was leaving the palace. Nameer had arranged for a visit to the market as a further tutorial in Tugrulian royal behavior. The councillor worked night and day to spin a yarn that convinced the emperor to allow this little excursion outside the palace walls. The emperor, however, insisted that Verdu stay within the gates of the market grounds and under the supervision of a triple arrangement of guards.

The market square, watched by Verdu for so long from his former cell high in the palace, was a public place, freely accessible to merchants and their customers. There were three main gates into and out of the market that could, however, clang shut at a moment’s notice. It was customary for guards stationed along the short tunnels leading through the walls at each gate to keep a watchful eye on who was coming in and going out and to look for suspicious behavior.

In addition to the marketplace guards, Verdu was under the watch of a triple contingent of soldiers sent to supervise his outing. Really, though, his bad leg was the only security needed to keep him from dashing out one of those gates and into the labyrinth of the city. Not that he was willing at this point to run away. He was in the market to look and act like a royal prince. Nameer had convinced the emperor that his might would be enhanced if the people were acquainted with Verdu’s face before he was tried and executed. The emperor could show that not even royal heirs were above his majestic wrath, a sentiment the vengeful monarch saw sense in.

In truth, however, Nameer needed Verdu to be seen for his own sake. He needed a rumor campaign started that would introduce the heretofore unknown heir to the people. One look at him would show the people he was regal, strong, handsome, and perhaps what a ruler ought to be.

It did not take long for heads to turn in the marketplace. With the luxurious sedan, the armed guards, and Nameer walking along on foot beside him, Verdu felt like a parade float.

“Bananas! Sugar dates and pineapples!” sang a short and fat merchant at the edge of the first row of stalls. Verdu made a quick double hiss through his teeth, and the gorilla men stopped—perhaps more suddenly than expected. Verdu caught himself just before he toppled out of his open-topped sedan. He recovered by tossing his loose hair back with his left hand, a flip gesture of vanity.

Verdu reached into a bag of coins wedged between his hip and the wall of the sedan, money provided by Nameer, and began walking a large gold coin over the backs of his fingers from index to pinky and back again. Sunlight reflected off the strolling coin and shimmered in the eyes of the squat fruit merchant, who followed the fluttering sparkle like a fish follows a lure.

“Best dates and figs in all the market today! Come and see! Dried and fresh! Direct from Cauble Island—paradise for your mouth. You will see! Come into my stall and taste for yourself!” The merchant backed away again into his stall, arm extended in invitation, making short bows but never taking his eyes off the gold.

Verdu made a show of covering a small yawn, declining the invitation with a flick of his free hand. “Equal parts dried dates and fresh figs—as many as this will get me.” The gold leaped from Verdu’s fingers, and the merchant snatched it from the air, eager as a trained dolphin.

“Certainly, sir,” the merchant said to the shiny coin as he dropped it into a little pouch around his neck. He shuffled into the stall to fill Verdu’s order.

“No,” Verdu called after him.

The man stopped and looked back at Verdu—looking him full in the face for the first time. “What’s that, sir?”

“Not
sir
,” Verdu said, his tone firm and correcting. “One addresses a prince of the blood as
Your Highness
, or are your manners so lacking that I should take my business elsewhere?”

The merchant was facedown and groveling in a heartbeat. “Oh, forgive me, Your Highness, it is not often—we are but humble—please forgive—”

“That’s rather enough, my good man,” Nameer said, waving the man to get up off the dusty cobbles. “The servile flattery is appreciated, but I believe His Royal Highness Kotal Verdu would rather have the fruit he paid for.”

The merchant, all blood drained from his face, staggered to his feet and started scooping figs and dates into squares of cloth. His hands shook as he tied the bundles closed. The squat fellow walked out of his stall bowed over with hands outstretched, mumbling flattery in Verdu’s direction as he presented the round bundles to the prince.

The sight was so comical that Verdu bit hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Finally, just to put the man out of his misery, he took the packets from his outstretched hands and set them beside him in the sedan chair. “Thank you,” he said to the merchant, and he hissed for the pole bearers to walk on. They moved to the next spot in the market where the show would be repeated: money as an introduction, a name for confirmation, polite acceptance to close. Verdu saw from the corner of his eye the head of the merchant snap up to watch him in wide-eyed wonder. The merchant, in the end, was delighted. He would be telling the story of how he had met a prince today to every customer he had.

Verdu was satisfied, too. Glancing at Nameer for confirmation, which he got, Verdu felt he had acted the part well: pretention plus gold equaled respect. Suddenly he was really royal.

From the shadows of the nearest gate, just behind the guards who were watching the morning shoppers entering the market, Fenimore thought that Verdu played the part just a little too well. A snarl of disgust escaped his lips. Not being able to speak Tugrulian did not hinder his understanding of what he had seen. His friend Verdu, who despised the empire and all it stood for, was now embracing the part of a royal prince. He could feel Verdu’s pride.
Pride!
It hardly made sense to him, and it felt like a betrayal.

He wondered if it had just been an act for all those years. Could Verdu have been spying on the Republic? After all, Fenimore was spying
for
the Kiters, so it
was
possible. Fenimore could not reconcile any of his thoughts about his closest friend, and dared not try to get any closer to find out more. With his hair slicked and tinted black, and a paste of stain on his skin, he could pass for Tugrulian, so long as no one looked him in his eyes. The gray irises were a dead giveaway—emphasis on the dead.

Fenimore turned and circled around the outside of the market, away from the direction Verdu and his parade were traveling. He saw Ahy-Me in an open area against the wall farthest from the palace proper. Stalls had been cleared away to make room for a crude raised platform. It was rather small, with barely enough space for five or six people. A great wooden block, well stained with blood, sat in its center. A crew of men was busily pasting up posters behind the platform. He had no need to understand Tugrulian to know what was being advertised: an execution was coming, and the guest of honor would be Candice Mortimer.

Fenimore took Ahy-Me by the arm and led her away from the market to one of the tunnels leading out to the city of Kotal. They walked in silence, Ahy-Me following two paces behind her male companion, as was befitting a proper Tugrulian couple. In a thinly populated area of town, the pair went into a darkened alley to discuss what they had seen.

“Du saw dis posting for Dr. Candice, yes?” Ahy-Me asked.