The Beckoning Void
Author: Michael Gallant
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

This book is a work of fiction. As a historical fantasy set in an alternative version of the Victorian age, some things may appear familiar, but any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Except for the things Connolly says about the Confederacy and Sir Richard Francis Burton, which I will stand by.

Copyright 2021 by Patrick LeClerc

Cover art and design by Getcovers.com

Editing by Taya Latham who is a joy to work with

Published by Ink and Bourbon Publishing, which is Patrick and a bunch of his imaginary friends trying to look professional. Like when you tried to play baseball as a kid and didn’t have enough people so you had an invisible runner at first base. Patrick used to claim his invisible man stole second, and has continued that philosophy into his literary career.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without permission of the author

The Beckoning Void

Patrick LeClerc

Chapter 1

Professor Carmody checked everything for the hundredth time. He felt the weight of the book in his valise, touched the pocket with the reader, the set of interconnected lenses and filters that would scan the work for hidden messages, and shrugged his shoulders to check the lie of his holster. Adjusting the hang of the Webley Bulldog revolver, he made his way up the broad staircase to the station platform, gaze flickering over the nearly empty space, wary of any threat.

This late in the day, the crowd was sparse. In fact, one couldn’t really call it a crowd at all. A few laborers returning from work, a few laundresses or cleaning women. People whose day started early and ran late, who took a long journey by rail from poor lodgings to the center of the city where the pay was better. A few drunks or vagrants huddled in the corners, out of the weather, careful not to call attention to any porters who might have them thrown out into the night.

The emptiness was one of the reasons he had chosen this train. It would have been too easy for someone to approach him in the press of the afternoon. Now he would be able to see a threat coming.

His nerves had been on edge since his contact had given him the book. Unearthed in the ruins of an ancient library, the agent had recognized it and sent him an urgent cable asking for a meeting in Vienna. He shivered at the memory of the hunted look in the man’s eyes, the fear lurking just beneath the calm he tried to project, the relief as the terrible burden of the book passed from his hands.

Now it was Carmody who felt that burden. Felt hostile eyes upon him wherever he went. Felt the unclean malice that seemed to radiate from the tome itself. Soon, he told himself. Soon he would be back in London and the Society would take the vile thing and place it beyond use. Just a train trip and a quick flight across the Channel and he’d be free of it.

He heard a grunt and the sound of something heavy being dragged up the steps. He whirled, his hand moving toward his Webley.

Halfway down the wide stairway, a young woman was struggling with a heavy trunk. He looked around. There was no one else in view. He thought it strange to see a young woman alone at such an hour. Not something that was generally done, at least not by a respectable young lady, and this one was too well dressed to be a scullery maid or laundress.

He hesitated for a moment, his habitual sense of chivalry at odds with the suspicion of the past few days. He pushed the fears aside. He was bigger and stronger and armed. Surely she posed no threat.

“Pardon me, miss,” he said, tipping his hat. “Could I offer you some assistance?’

“Why, thank you so much, sir,” she replied. “It’s quite heavy.”

Carmody noticed that she was very young—and very attractive. Her hair was done up in loose blonde curls and she smelled of lilacs. The exertion of struggling with the trunk had given her fair skin a pleasant flush. He smiled at her, his fears ebbing away.

He bowed and pushed his valise around so that it hung behind him, out of the way as he bent over and lifted the trunk. It was heavy, heavier than he had expected. By the time they reached the top of the steps, he was breathing hard.

“I truly cannot thank you enough, sir,” said the woman.

“Call me Professor Carmody.”

“Margarethe Schilling,” she replied. “And thank you, again, Professor.”

“Not at all,” he replied, smiling broadly and trying to conceal how winded he felt. He noticed that she was clenching her hands, her eyes flickering to the shadows as she craned her long, white neck,

“Looking for someone?” he asked.

“No, no,” she said, a bit too quickly. “No one at all.”

“I am surprised at one so young as yourself traveling alone,” he said. “I thought you might be looking for your companion.”

She took a deep breath, looked around once more, then cast her eyes down. “Can I trust in your discretion, sir?”

“Absolutely, miss,” he replied.

“I am looking for someone,” she admitted. “But I am praying not to see him. I am fleeing, good sir.”

“Fleeing? From what danger, miss?”

“From a life of shame, sir. Shame I cannot bear any more,” she said, a catch in her voice. Carmody leaned closer, hanging on her words.

“My family was in debt,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. She hesitated for a moment, and then her words came bubbling out in a torrent. Secrets held down too long by an act of will that finally cracked and split under the strain. Carmody had seen the like before. When someone accustomed to hiding an ugly truth found a sympathetic ear, the temptation to release that burden was too great. He’d heard more than a few confessions that way. “The banks were going to take it all. My-my father’s business that he had spent his life building. Our home. Everything. We would have been thrown out on the streets. I had nothing else to offer. I...I was forced to sell myself. To protect my family. But...but I can bear it no longer. Tonight, I saw the chance to escape. And I must be on the next train, before they catch me. Can you help me, sir? I— I have nothing to repay you with. Except...”

“Perish the thought, my dear,” said Carmody. He felt a deep pang of sympathy. Such a pretty young girl, such a terrible decision forced upon her. He looked at her big, blue eyes and saw innocence and sorrow. Damn all bankers anyway. “I shall see you safely onto the train, and I would not think to ask for recompense.”

“Thank you, sir. You are my savior,” she looked up at him, her lower lip trembling. His breath caught in his throat. “I shall never forget your kindness. My train is this way.”

They walked through the wide, echoing station toward the outbound trains, encountering fewer and fewer travelers as they neared the indicated platform. As they passed an empty ticket booth, Carmody heard a shuffling step behind him and then stars exploded behind his eyes and a blackness engulfed him.

Margarethe spun to face the dark figure.

“Took you long enough,” she said. “I thought I was going to have to take him all the way to bed.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” said the man, stepping close and planting a kiss on her waiting lips. “Old Carmody here has worn the Queen’s uniform and the Old School Tie. Treats all young women like nuns, mothers, or damsels in distress. Provided they look middle class or better. You can always depend on a gentleman. You, by the way, were marvelous, as always.”

“You are too kind,” she said, dipping into a curtsey.

The man slipped the leather cosh into his pocket and leaned over the limp form of the professor. “Caught the old boy just under the brim of his bowler hat,” he said. He took the valise off Carmody, looked inside, then nodded, satisfied. “Here, help me get him up. I think we can...yes. That will do nicely.”

They lifted the professor under his arms and dragged him over to a bench. The man arranged the insensible form to look as though he had fallen asleep, tipping the hat down over his eyes. He took a newspaper from Carmody’s valise and spread it on his lap.

“There we are. The financial section. That would put anyone to sleep.” He slung the valise over his own shoulder.

“Will he be all right?” the woman asked.

“Probably,” said her companion. “He’s breathing fairly normally. In a perfect world, he’ll wake up with only scattered memories of this evening. Too embarrassed to go to the police.”

“If he doesn’t wake up?” she asked.

“Fortunes of war, my dear.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. “You more than earned this.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Until I see you again.”

“I shall count the seconds.” He flashed a roguish smile and vanished.

Chapter 2

The crowded Theatre Royal Adelphi erupted in applause. Emelia DuMond curtseyed deeply as the curtain descended, basking in the adoration of the audience. She was born for this.

No, she corrected herself. She was reborn for it. Emma O’Grady had been born to scrub floors and take in laundry. But once she had shed that husk, Emelia had sprung forth fully formed, like Athena from the head of Zeus. Witty, sophisticated, and charming. Able to change emotions like costumes, and, more importantly, to evoke those emotions in others. She had discovered a talent for imitation, making the other laundry girls laugh at her impressions of the wealthy clients, and saw in that talent a way out of poverty. She observed and perfected mannerism and accents and learned the secrets that the upper class spoke freely in her presence, taking no more notice of servants than of furniture.

As she made her way to the wings, a stagehand spoke to her. “Mister Dickens wishes to see you, miss.”

“Thank you, William,” she replied. She wondered what Charles could want. It was unusual for him to call on her at a show. Especially one he hadn’t written. Nor was it opening night or some other occasion where he could be expected to congratulate her. They had known one another for some time, as he was a patron of the theater, but eventually their relationship had come to revolve more around his other passion: the occult.

She opened the door of her dressing room and found the author standing stiffly, fidgeting with the top hat in his hands.

“Charles,” she said with a radiant smile, giving the man a kiss on his cheek. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Emelia, my dear,” he replied. “I’ve come on behalf of the Society. It is a matter of grave concern.”

“Sit, Charles, please,” she said, dropping onto a stool. “And please, do unburden yourself of this urgent matter.” Her smile took on a wry twist. “It must be truly dire for you to forget to compliment my performance.”

The man reddened. She knew how highly he valued propriety and manners, and for a gentleman to show up in the dressing room of an actress without a gift or even flattery was not the done thing. Behind her amused smile she felt a quiver of concern.

“I apologize, my dear. I forget myself. You were stunning, as always.”

“You are too kind.”

“But let me offer a sorry excuse for my haste. Dr Carmody is in hospital in Vienna. He was attacked. Worse even than that, he was in possession of a book which was stolen. A book of great eldritch power. I can only assume it is in dangerous hands.”

Emelia’s smile vanished. “There’s no chance this was random coincidence? A mundane robbery?”

Dickens shook his head. “Nothing else was taken. Whoever attacked him knew what they were after. And he was distracted.”

“Distracted?”

The author shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. It seems that there was a woman.”

“Dr Carmody was robbed by a woman?” she asked with an incredulous smile.

“By her accomplice. The woman was a wh—a lady of easy virtue. Probably didn’t know anything of the book or the plan. Just used to cloud his judgment while he was set upon.” Dickens began to twist his hat in his hands, then realized what he was doing and set it down on her dressing table with care. “I’m surprised the doctor was taken off guard. The man is normally a committed professional.”

“I’m sure the young lady was skilled in distraction,” Emelia replied. “And many committed, professional men tend to underestimate a pretty young woman and lower their guard.”

“A mistake I hope never to make with you, my dear.”

“What would you have me do?”

“You’ve a talent for investigation, and, as a celebrated actress, the perfect cover. I’d like you to go to Vienna and see what you can discover.” He handed over a packet. “Here are letters of introduction to the proprietors of several theaters in Vienna, as well as money and bank drafts should you need more. I would suggest you hire an airship and a pair of bodyguards and use the rest to loosen lips.”

“Did Dr Carmody tell you the name the young lady gave him?”

“No,” said Dickens. “I think he was embarrassed at the whole affair and didn’t think it important. Why?”

“Well, the name she gave is probably an alias, but it’s a thread to pick at. A place to start. If she was hired to distract him, she might know who hired her. And she might be willing to divulge that information for money.”

“You think so?”

“Charles, darling, we already know what else she’ll do for money. Providing us with a name seems like a reasonable request. And I think right now this is our best lead.”

“Already you impress me, my dear,” said the author. “As always.”

Emelia took the packet. “I shall find a ship in the morning. It’s been years since I’ve seen Vienna.”

As the author took his leave, a young woman entered the dressing room.

“Let me help you out of that makeup, miss.”

“Thank you, Kitty.”

“Was that really Charles Dickens?”

“In the flesh.”

“What a wonder” she exclaimed. “How did you come to know him?”

“He saw me in a play years ago and cast me in one of his own as a result,” Emelia replied. “He’s quite the devotee of the theater.”

“I think he’s taken a fancy to you,” said the other woman, unpinning the actress’ hair. “He looked so nervous waiting for you.”

“If so, I would not be the first actress who caught his eye,” Emelia said with a smile. “But I’ve known Charles for a long time. I think this was purely a business meeting.”

“If you say so, miss.”

Emelia thought for a moment as she watched the other woman work in the mirror. Kitty was very skilled with makeup and costumes. And a woman traveling with a maid would cause less comment than one traveling alone. “Kitty, would you have any interest in taking a trip?”

“Me? To where?”

“I have to travel to the continent, speak to some theaters there. It’s the opportunity Charles extended me. If you’d like, I would be delighted to have you travel with me as my maid. Help me with wardrobe and makeup, lend me a thin veneer of respectability. After all,” she added with a twisted smile, “I am a woman who allows an author into her dressing room unchaperoned. I must be protected from my impulses lest I scandalize my public.”

“It would be grand to travel,” said Kitty, her face lighting up. “I’ve never been across to the continent.”

“That’s settled then. I will, of course, cover your expenses, and pay you for your services. I’ll speak to the theater manager if you’re concerned about that.”

“Thank you, miss. I’d be delighted.”

“I should be thanking you. You are without equal in makeup and wardrobe. I may need to make a good impression.”

Chapter 3

The slanting rays of the setting sun poured in through gaps in the rotted shutters of the ancient cottage, illuminating swirling eddies of dust. The fireplace was cold. Part of the thatched roof had fallen in. A scatter of leaves skittered across the floor as a breeze found its way around the warped door.

Count Roderick sat on a rickety chair in the dimly lit hovel, sizing up the three men opposite him. Rough men. Dressed like brigands, but with a very unbrigand-like sense of purpose about them. Each of them had a hanger or messer and a hefty dagger at his belt, and two had long pistols at their sides. That didn’t concern Roderick overly. For his own part, he wore his sabre at his left hip and a revolver at his right. The count felt that the naked display of weapons might serve to discourage violence. He also had a dagger up his sleeve and a derringer in the pocket of his jacket, in the event he was asked to remove his weapons to demonstrate his peaceful intent. Demonstration was a fine thing, he believed, and his intent was generally peaceful, but flexible.

It was the eyes of the men that concerned him. Hard eyes. Not the cold, hard eyes of a murderer, but the kind of hard eyes that burned with the flames of a fanatic. Dangerous men.

But they were dangerous men with money, and he had debts. Pity the elder count hadn’t been granted the sense to run an estate. The man had been a gifted soldier, skilled with a horse or a sword or a pistol, and with an eye for ground, a head for tactics, and a way of commanding men.

That much had earned him a title from the Emperor of Austria-Hungary. But for all his sterling qualities, he had a blind spot for money and a mercenary’s devil may care attitude toward tomorrow. Couple that with a rapacious appetite for fast horses, beautiful women, drink and cards and the end result was that when he died, he left his estate—and therefore his son—in debt up to his eyeballs.

Roderick didn’t really blame his father. The man had been a simple soldier who had landed unexpectedly in luxury and took full advantage of it. He’d have done the same. Probably could have in different times, for he had inherited his father’s charisma and martial prowess. The young man, however, had the misfortune to be born into a period of peace.

So here he was, conducting clandestine meetings with shady, probably mad cultists in a cold, drafty cottage instead of attending victory balls in Vienna.

“You have the book?” asked the first ruffian. A lanky fellow with a face like a corpse but not as joyful.

“I do.” Roderick reached into his satchel and handed it over.

In truth, he was glad to be rid of it. The thing made his flesh crawl. It was old, filled with symbols and scribbles in some language he couldn’t read but found disquieting. The leather binding reminded him of human skin and the ink was the rusty brown of old blood. He told himself that this was just silly superstition. That he was a man of reason living in an enlightened age, but the blood of an Irish father and Romani mother provided fertile soil for the seeds of eldritch horror to take root.

The cultist leaned over it, the fire in his eyes burning hotter. He reached out and touched the spine, tentatively but with restrained desire, stroking it with a trembling hand. The others peered over his shoulder.

Like virgins on their first visit to a brothel, thought Roderick.

“I’m impressed,” said the leader. He placed a purse upon the table. “I’d have thought Dr Carmody would have defended this with his life. And was ever vigilant.”

The count shrugged. “I enlisted the help of a lass I know who excels in distracting even the most vigilant of men. And making them much less capable of defense.” He looked into the purse and frowned. “This is half what we discussed. I did bring you the whole book. I’m fairly certain of that.”

“When our leader receives it, the rest of your payment will be sent to you.”

Count Roderick’s frown deepened. That wasn’t the agreement. He considered the situation and figured that the reduced payment had a great deal to do with the fact that they had more weapons than he did. The fact that they were willing to hand over any payment at all was likely because he had enough weapons to make completely stiffing him not worth the risk.

He thought for a long moment. Accepting such treatment was bad for business. On the other hand, they did have him outnumbered three to one, even though the one was him, which he figured brought the odds pretty close to dead even. Still, even a fair fight was something best avoided until you could find a way to make it unfair in your favor.

He was still debating with himself when the corpse-faced man interrupted his train of thought.

“This woman. If she knows of our plan, she must be eliminated. Unless you’ve already done so.”

That was a step too far. The count was well aware that sometimes one couldn’t make an omelet without murdering some witnesses, but these men grated on his nerves. They were too direct, too sure they could impose their will on him. Him! Like so many fanatics, they were simple blunt instruments, intent on bludgeoning the world into the shape they wished and entirely lacking finesse. Nothing wrong with a good old blunt instrument, when the time called for it, but he’d be damned if he was going to be beaten into shape. And “eliminating” Margarethe would be a criminal waste of a perfectly good prostitute with a captivating smile, a real sense of panache, and one of nature’s finest sets of tits. May as well burn the Sistine Chapel.

The count leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs and rolling his neck. His frown disappeared, replaced by a Cheshire cat grin.

“Sorry, boys,” he said. “I’m afraid this simply isn’t the done thing, as my dear old dad would say. I’ll be taking that book to your boss myself, and we can discuss things like ‘payment in full’ and ‘professional courtesy.’”

“You expect us to agree to your terms?” said the man, his words grating like the stone door of a tomb.

“Don’t see that the opinions of three dead men should concern me overly.”

As the cultist’s brows lowered in consideration of this statement, Roderick was on his feet, his chair crashing over. He drew his sabre and slashed in one fluid motion that left the man gurgling blood from a cut throat.

As the second brigand scrabbled for the pistol in his belt, the count stepped sideways and brought his blade down on the man’s skull, splitting it to his eyebrows and dropping him twitching on the floor.

The last cultist drew his hanger. He parried Roderick’s first slash on the short, heavy blade and made a savage counter. The count slipped back out of range, letting the weapon swish past, a victim of its own momentum, before lashing out with his own lighter, more nimble blade, shearing through the muscle and tendon of the man’s sword arm as it passed. His next cut opened the man’s belly. The cultist folded up and crumpled to the floor.

The count stepped away from the fallen as the survivor cursed him in a strange tongue.

“Sorry, old boy, but you’re not getting the full effect, insulting me in that gibberish.”

“The Old Ones will feast on your soul,” muttered the man between groans.

“Unlikely, unless they find themselves some better disciples,” Roderick replied. He kept his eye on the man, who was still struggling to rise despite the terrible wound spilling blood and viscera. Can never be too sure you’ve killed a fanatic, he thought. One reason he’d taken care to hack the man’s sword arm before giving him the killing blow. A skilled swordsman can kill easily enough, but a smart one disables first, preventing a determined enemy from seizing a moment for revenge.

The man was feebly pawing at the pistol in his belt with his left hand, but his strength was fading and the weapon was placed to be drawn with the right, and was slick with gore, so he was making poor headway. The count decided the cautious thing would be to put his back to the wall and wait until the enemy finished bleeding out. Shouldn’t be long.

“Good choice, by the way, going for your sword,” he told the man. “I was hoping you’d reach for the pistol, like your friend did. Most men who have a gun do. But it’s a poor choice when the fight’s this close. Takes too much skill and time to draw, cock, aim, and fire the thing, and it’s no bloody use in defense. No, the sword was the way to go. Gave you a fighting chance, anyway.”

“You’ll die for this,” said the man. “My master will never forgive this betrayal.”

“Not so sure,” Roderick replied. “Now, let’s be honest. You were leaning in the direction of betrayal yourselves, what with the short payment and the demands for the blood of my trusted asset. When I do bring him the book, he’d best make things square.”

“You think he’ll overlook this?” The man’s voice was weaker, barely a whisper

“I do. And that is what separates a man of imagination such as myself from simple minions like you and your friends. What man would be foolish enough to deliver himself to your master after betraying his men? My willingness to show my face will put that suspicion to rest. And with your inflexible fanaticism and enthusiasm for force, it will be easy to spin a tale of you lot trying to fight your way past the authorities upon being discovered with this clearly dangerous object. Being the loyal agent that I am, I fought my way clear, using my connections and cunning to ensure its safe delivery and shedding a tear for you brave fellows who fell to make this victory possible.”

The wounded man shuddered and subsided, almost melting into the floor as the life passed from him and the muscles ceased to move. The count wiped the blood from his sabre and sheathed it, then gave himself a good once over to make sure he hadn’t been cut. Often in the heat of battle, a man might not notice a wound. He felt the euphoria of a fight survived beginning to fade. He was quite proud of this performance. Three to one isn’t nothing, even if they weren’t real soldiers, and things could easily have gone the other way. He took the purse and book and returned both to his satchel.

His smile turned grim as he left the cottage. Bringing the book directly to his client was dangerous, especially since he’d done what he’d done, but he did need that payment. Bankers wouldn’t respond well to the plea that his criminal contacts had reneged on a deal, and the really difficult thing about bankers was that he couldn’t just take a sabre to them. And if he didn’t deliver the book, he’d have abandoned a contract, which would tarnish his reputation as a man who could get things done outside of legitimate channels.

No, the thing to do would be to uphold his end and insist the client do so as well. That would send the message. People would know he was both reliable and not to be trifled with. As far as his cover story, he knew a constable who would be more than happy to take credit for defeating a group of brigands. That should lend credence to the story he would tell his client and leave a lawman in his debt, which was never a bad thing.

Perhaps a visit to Margarethe would be in order. After all, he had just saved her life. Perhaps she’d be willing to express her gratitude. If the story of his heroics wasn’t sufficient, he did have half the promised payment. He was sure he could haggle the final price up from his client for suitable expenses. Probably should charge the bugger extra just for the lesson in how to treat his agents.

Chapter 4

Emelia sat in the lounge of the skyport, across from the airship captain Little and the chief engineer MacGregor. She tried to contain her excitement at being placed in charge of a mission. She had done good service to the Ghost Society in the past, but always in a limited capacity. Either playing a role in some other agent’s scheme or wheedling information from a suspected operative. Now Charles had given her a mission and funds and left the details to her. That spoke of his confidence in her abilities. She was eager to prove herself and show the rest of the Society that she was not just an actress capable of playing a supporting part, but a skilled agent who could plan and execute and lead as well as any of them. Beside her, Kitty sat and tried not to gape at the surroundings.

“Gentlemen, I must thank you for seeing me.”

“The honor is all ours, Miss DuMond,” drawled the captain. He was a black man of middle years, his hair and beard dusted with grey. He wore an old United States Navy officer’s coat, distinguished by a number of stripes on the cuffs. Emelia wasn’t as familiar with U.S. ranks as she was with those of the Royal Navy, but she guessed he’d been at least commander, if not captain.

“I have need of a ship, and yours comes highly recommended. I shall be frank, this job will require discretion and stealth. There may be an element of risk. I’ve been told that yours in the ship for the job.”

“I don’t know who would have told you that,” said the captain. “I can assure you I run a respectable vessel.”

“But it can be said that the captain has a passing familiarity with danger and subterfuge,” the engineer said with a wry grin. “And a distinguished career in the Navy. The American navy, but still.”

“If I may be so bold, Captain Little,” asked Emelia. “How did a man such as yourself come to serve as an officer in the United States Navy?”

“A man such as myself,” the captain said, smiling a little. “I admire your delicacy, Miss DuMond. It’s true that the Navy is generally not inclined to give commissions to Negroes. I got mine for delivering them a rebel ship during the blockade.”

Emelia leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “Would it be an imposition if I were to ask you to tell me that story?”

The captain demurred. “I don’t want to bore you with ancient history.”

“I would be delighted to hear it, I’m sure,” she said. She could see he wanted to tell the tale. It would be a rare man indeed who wouldn’t want to impress a pretty woman with stories of his heroics, and it would tell her about a man that she might have to depend on in a perilous situation.

“If you want to spend your afternoon listening to an old man’s boasts, I suppose I could share.”

“If she starts to yawn, stop,” advised the engineer.

“This is why I have you around, Mac,” he replied. “Give me technical advice I might not pick up on.”

“I live to serve,” said MacGregor.

“If you must know,” the captain said, turning back to Emelia, “I was born a slave. In South Carolina. First state to secede. Back before the war, whenever there wasn’t no work on the plantation, my master hired me out to work on the docks. No point in leaving his property sittin’ idle. Worked out for me, though. I learned a lot about ships and airships. Eventually got some work as a wheel man. Never got the title of pilot, even though I was doing the job. Anyway, during the war, I was on the Planter. A Confederate transport airship. Did some time moving troops and goods. The captain and the white officers were all used to having slaves around. Well, we always been there, guess they figured we were just part of the machinery. Didn’t figure on us thinking for ourselves. So they trusted us, and got in the habit of leaving us on board when they went off duty. One night, when all the white officers had gone, us colored crewmen got all our families aboard, and I put on the captain’s coat and a big straw hat he always wore. We took off at dawn, made it past the sentries, since I knew the signals and was able to pass as the captain from a distance, especially with his big stupid hat. We made it out to the Union blockade and turned the ship over to them, along with a load of rebel supplies. I worked with the Navy after that, since I knew the area around the port. Knew the air and sea defenses. Was acting as a captain by the time the war ended. Used my prize money from the Planter to buy the Phoenix. So I suppose a little risk and subterfuge ain’t exactly outside my wheelhouse.”

“The Phoenix?” asked Emelia.

“Because it’s given me a new life from the ashes of the old,” replied the captain.

“And because it’s likely to end in a ball of fire,” added the engineer.

“Pay no attention to Mr. MacGregor,” said the captain. “It’s his job to worry about that kind of thing. But if anyone can keep a ship in the air, it’s him.”

“You are too kind, Captain,” said the engineer. Despite his work in the engine room, the man’s shirt was spotless, his waistcoat and jacket meticulous, his tie straight, his whiskers might have been trimmed with the guidance of a square and a level. If he took the same care with the machinery, Emelia had confidence in the vessel.

“Would you care for a tour, Miss DuMond?” asked the captain.

“I would be delighted,” she replied.

They ascended the docking tower via the elevator, a newfangled model of polished wood and gleaming brass, and Emelia stepped onto the deck of the Phoenix. It was like being on a sailing ship, but one suspended beneath an enormous airbag. Masts and rigging ran up to the rigid canvas balloon rather than sails, but the gondola was surprisingly spacious. Every surface was scrubbed and polished, even where wood showed it’s age, and no speck of dirt was tolerated. Kitty trailed along behind, looking about in wonder and delight.

“It all about weight, not size,” said MacGregor. “The more weight we carry, the more lift we have to generate. With a ship at sea, it’s all about displacement. The Phoenix’s gondola doesn’t need to have the strength that a naval ship does to resist waves or pressure or be watertight, so we can make it lighter.”

“I see,” Emelia said, walking around and looking the vessel over. “How many people can you carry?”

“She has a crew of ten,” said the captain. “Up to six passengers in comfort. More if we take less cargo and they don’t mind sleeping in the hold.”

“Just six?”

“Limitations of lift,” said the engineer. “That why airships are good for transporting a few people quickly, or delivering things like messages, but they won’t replace cargo ships or fighting sail anytime soon.”

“And what do you use for lift?” she asked, looking up at the canvas .

“That’s the beauty of this ship,” said MacGregor, a smile cracking his stern face. “The bag is actually divided into a series of bladders, and each is able to take any number of gasses. We can fill them with helium, which is safe and stable but costs a king’s ransom, we can use hydrogen, which is cheap and easy to get but which is liable to burst into flame, or in a pinch we can use the engines to blow hot air or steam into the outer envelope, which is highly inefficient but better than crashing.”

“How long to get to Vienna?”

“Not quite a day,” said the captain.

“Excellent,” she said. “I would like to hire you and your vessel, captain.”

“Just yourself, miss? Or will you have anyone with you?’

“My maid will be accompanying me, and I will be hiring some bodyguards,” she replied. “Two, I think.” That would leave space for two more passengers, if she needed to spirit someone out.

“You haven’t hired them yet?” asked MacGregor.

“I wanted to see what the passenger limit was first.”

“If you haven’t anyone in mind, there’s a sabre tournament in town this evening. An old friend from my army days is competing. If you would care to accompany me, you can see if his skills are still up to snuff. I can vouch for his character. Chances are you’ll find more than a few men who can fight and are looking for work.”

“That sounds lovely, Mr. MacGregor,” she said with a smile. “I look forward to it.”

“Excellent,” said the captain. “Jensen! Chan!” he called. “Take Miss DuMond’s bags and show her to her quarters.”

“Aye, captain,” said a blond mountain of a man whose accent suggested he was Jensen. Beside him was a ship’s boy. An ordinary enough sight to see.

Until the pair drew closer and Emelia saw that Chan was not, in fact, a boy. Chan was a young woman dressed in loose trousers and a short sky-blue jacket over a linen shirt like every other airman on the ship, a long knife in her belt, her black hair cut short. The woman smiled broadly at Emelia, sketched a salute, and seized a bag. “This way, miss.” Jensen hefted her trunk over one shoulder without apparent effort.

The two crewmen carried her bags, and she followed them down the steep stairs to the passageway that ran down the middle of the lower deck to a small but neat cabin.

“Here it is, miss,” said Jensen. The big Dane set her trunk down at the foot of one of the two narrow beds. In addition to the beds, the cabin contained a small desk and stool, and a round window allowed plenty of daylight. It would serve, Emelia thought. Considering there was hardly room for anything else. Small as it was, it managed to feel light and airy.

“This is the best cabin,” said Chan. “The two to either side have two hammocks each, no desk. Just room for a chest.”

“Your hired guards can take those,” said Jensen. “You can put them together or split them up and keep the second room for a spare if you like. Your young lady can stay with you, or take one of the other rooms. You paid for them. The infirmary is all the way forward, captain’s quarters and wardroom to the stern. Crew quarters amidships, and one deck down is the engine room, the cargo hold, the galley, and the head.”

“If there is anything you need,” said Chan, “just ask one of us. We’re a small crew, so there’s no purser, but we’re all friendly.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” said Emelia.

After they had stowed the baggage, Chan took the women arounds and introduced the crew. Apart from the captain and Mr. MacGregor, there was Lt Jackson, like the captain an American and a Navy man, but where Captain Little was avuncular, Jackson was stern and formal. The ship’s surgeon, Dr. Morse was polite but distant. The regular airmen were a diverse bunch. Apart from the big Dane, Jensen, and Chan, the only woman of the crew, there were two Londoners, Hope, a young man who radiated enthusiasm in everything he did, and Hawkins, tall and lean and sour of expression. Emelia noted that his quick and deft attention to duty belied his surly moaning and decided it was largely a front. She managed to win smiles from Chavez and Sabatini by greeting the men in Spanish and Italian. It was second nature to her by now. She knew the small things that would shift people’s impression of her into a more favorable light.

“You speak many languages,” Chan observed.

“Part of my vocation,” Emelia replied. “I must apologize that I do not speak yours.”

“If you wish, I can teach you a few words. I will warn you, it is more different to your own than Spanish or Italian are.”

“I would like that. I am always open to new experiences.”

“Ting qilai hai bucuo.” Chan smiled. “That sounds good.”

Chapter 5

Count Roderick returned to his family townhouse in Vienna, pondering his next move. The book was tucked in his satchel, along with the portion of payment the cultist had given him. Well, given might be stretching things, but they’d had an agreement. Perhaps he should just forget the job, keep the partial payment and move on. Maybe even offer the book back to that professor, for a price. Assuming the fellow woke up. Fanatics muttering curses were clearly not anyone he wished to deal with. Killing the first bunch might not improve his relationship with them, either. It had been the right thing to do, he reasoned, in that it sent a message and demonstrated clear and immediate consequences for trying to change the terms of an agreement, and because they had been getting under his skin.

Still, he had made a deal with these people, regardless of how distasteful they might be. And he couldn’t help but think how unprofessional it would be to turn around and sell back what he had in good faith taken money to steal. What would that say about his character? Assuming the professor did wake up. Probably would. Roderick hadn’t hit him all that hard.

He needed to think, and the family townhouse was the best place to do that. It had always been the place that had felt the most like home, more than the great estate in the country that served as the family seat. There had never been the money for the staff to run the sprawling country house, or to maintain it properly, and he’d always felt that it was just a cold, drafty pile of stones. A place to fly a banner and hang a coat of arms, but no place to live. There was good hunting and fishing to be had, and the stables were always kept in fine order, but all his happiest memories were of the comparatively modest townhouse.

It was in the city, which was always exciting, with its restaurants and theaters and culture. It was warm and comfortable and well stocked with food and drink. And it was where his father had entertained his friends and his mistresses. Roderick had gotten on splendidly with both groups.

The old count’s friends had been soldiers, prize fighters, horse breeders, and gamblers. They had spent most of their time playing at cards or billiards, and Roderick’s father lost magnanimously and kept them well supplied with drink. His earliest memories were of the smell of brandy and cigar smoke and laughter. The mistresses were actresses, courtesans, the more rebellious daughters of minor gentry. That was the sort of thing that would have gotten a lesser man in a great deal of trouble, but the old count’s reputation with a sword or a pistol kept anyone from pressing the issue. His father had indulged the women’s tastes in fine food and wine and culture and had smiled at their attempts to civilize the old mercenary.

It has surely been a drain on the family fortunes, but it kept the old count happy and had given his son some of the best education he could have hoped for.

From the men, young Roderick had learned rough humor and the masculine rituals of honor, courage, and how to brag while seeming not to. How to win with a wide enough grin not to drive the losers away or stoke their anger, and how to lose with enough grace that the mockery remained superficial, affectionate. He learned how to verbally spar with men and make them closer friends.

The women had taught him manners, charm, and shown him that wit can be wielded like a rapier as well as a hammer. How to be comfortable with men of action and women of refinement.

It wasn’t until he was older that he realized that the house was never called upon by other members of the nobility. That the count’s supposed peers might deign to make an official visit to the bleak pile of rocks that was the seat of power, but never to the warm heart and soul of the family.

That had been a lesson as well.

As he reached the top of the steps, his servant, Josef, met him at the door.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” said the man, taking the count’s hat and coat. “There is a gentleman to see you.”

“Gentleman?” asked the count.

“From the bank, my lord.”

“Ah.”

“I’ve had him seated in the library.”

“Well done, Josef,” said the count. “If you’d be so good as to bring us some coffee.”

The servant glanced at the count’s riding boots, sabre, and pistol, and looked as though he meant to ask something, then said, “At once, my lord.”

Count Roderick walked into the oak paneled library. A fire crackled in the hearth. The room was one of Roderick’s favorite places. The shelves of books always felt like the walls of a fortress, holding back the cold, ugly ignorance of the world outside. A painting of the old count hung above the fire. Roderick remembered his father seated in the great chair, a whisky on the table beside him, encouraging his son to read. “Read everything,” he had said. “Don’t let anyone tell you what is or isn’t important. No knowledge is useless, and you can never tell what will save you some day. I never expected to be where I am. Likely your path will have some twists of its own.” Roderick smiled at the memory. It had been good advice. Most of his father’s advice had been good. So long as it didn’t deal with money or cards or women.

A slight man sat in one of the huge leather chairs, his hands folded atop a valise on his lap.

“My lord,” said the man. He remained seated, Roderick noted.

“Herr...”

“Breymann, my lord. Heinrich Breymann,” replied the man. “Of the Erste Bank.”

“Good afternoon, Herr Breymann,” said the count. He unbuckled the belt with his sabre and revolver, hanging it over the back of his chair before sitting. The gesture wasn’t a threat, exactly, but the count wanted to make a point to this clerk that he was an officer in the Imperial Army, not some shopkeeper to be bullied. “How may I help you?”

“I regret to inform my lord, that the payments for the loans your father took against some of the family properties are quite delinquent.”

The count was well aware. He was also fairly certain that even an organization so bereft of humanity as the bank wouldn’t send someone around just to remind him of his unpaid debt.

“I have received your correspondence, I’m certain,” he replied. “Is there some reason that this matter couldn’t be resolved by my secretary? Ah, thank you, Josef. Would you care for coffee, Herr Breymann?”

“Thank you, my lord, but no. I had expected to see you earlier and have other business when we have finished here. I am already regrettably tardy.”

Josef froze halfway to the small table between the men, the tray in his hand trembling just a little. Refusing hospitality was transgression enough, but to imply that the business of a nobleman and officer of the Imperial army was somehow an annoyance delaying more important work was outrageous. Roderick glanced at his valet and saw the man’s expression was professionally blank. The mere twitch of an eyebrow the only indication that he had noticed the affront.

Count Roderick, for his part, did not pour the scalding coffee over the banker’s head and then beat the man senseless with the pot, but only just. After a moment, his smile widened. He took a cup from the tray, added a cube of sugar and took a sip.

“Thank you, Josef. Excellent as always. Leave the tray in case Herr Breymann changes his mind.”

The servant set down the tray and vanished without a sound.

“Now, Herr Breymann,” said the count, keeping his tone cordial, “what urgent business here is keeping you from your other duties? I do apologize if I kept you waiting. As a mere captain, I cannot always control the hours of my service.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed one foot over the other knee, calling attention to the dusty riding boots.

If the clerk noticed, he made no sign. “My lord, these debts are long past due. It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that if the accounts are not brought current by month’s end, the bank will have no choice but to seize the collateral you father tendered.” He took a stack of papers from his briefcase and laid it on the table beside the coffee service. “As you can see, that would include the castle at Cisnadie, the hunting lodge, and this house.”

The count closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to remain calm.

“I would remind you that my father’s estates were granted to him for valiant service to the Empire.”

“And we are all grateful for that service,” said the banker. “But the late count saw fit to borrow money against those estates, and his promise to repay that money is no less a duty. The bank did lend the late count a significant sum, and the irregular payments made to date have not even covered the interest.”

Count Roderick seethed. His right hand itched, longed to reach for the weapons behind him. But, against all decency, the law would not allow him to kill a banker. Maybe if he just shot the fellow in the leg, or beat him with the flat of his sabre? No, once he started, he would never be able to stop and then it would be murder. No point in trying to send Margarethe after him, either. This kind of man wouldn’t rise to the occasion for anything but bullion. The bank would never have tried this when his father had been alive, partly out of respect for the man’s heroics and partly because the old count would have thrown this man through the window and damn the consequences.

“I see,” he said pleasantly. “Tell your employer that they shall receive the payment by the end of the month. Now, do me the honor of taking a cup with me, to show that we are in peaceful agreement.”

The banker hesitated, but then nodded, probably realizing he had pushed the count as far as was prudent. The nobleman poured coffee for him.

“Milk? Sugar?” he asked.

“No, thank you, my lord.” He accepted the cup. “To your health, and the memory of your father.”

“As my father would have said, ‘Pog mo thoin’,” replied the count, smiling as he drained his cup. The banker’s face cracked into a forced, nervous smile. He drank the coffee quickly, seemingly eager to be away. “Josef will see you out.”

Not much chance that the officious little prick speaks Irish, he thought as Josef ushered the banker out.

Roderick swore softly as he settled into his chair and contemplated the fire. He was still a captain, and during a time of war, a man could rise by how well he could ride or shoot, by his leadership and swordsmanship and courage and exploits. In a peacetime army, the officers’ mess was a social club. One was judged by how often one bought his round, and the quality of one’s kit, how well a man looked on parade. All well and good for the private soldier who was issued his gear, but an officer was expected to buy and maintain his uniform, his weapons, and, above all, his horse.

Well, now it looked as though he’d have to wring some more money from the cultists. Even the full payment wouldn’t be enough.

But they hadn’t demonstrated any talent for the subtle details of seizing power, so maybe they needed a skilled agent for more than just the occasional book theft. An idea formed.

“Josef!” he called when he heard the door close behind the departing banker. “Come here, please. Bring a pen. I have a list for you.”

As unpleasant as these fanatics might be, they clearly had money, and associating with them couldn’t stain his soul more than dealing with the bank.

Chapter 6

Emelia attended the fencing match with the Phoenix’s engineer. Kitty came along so that Emelia wouldn’t be seen alone with a man. She looked forward to seeing Mr. MacGregor’s old army comrade in action. He seemed a man of sound judgement, though only time would tell how that played out.

The event was hosted by the London Fencing Academy. Chairs and tables occupied half the great room and waiters circulated among the guests bearing drinks and finger sandwiches. The crowd was largely gentry, military men and their wives, or women about whom they weren’t telling their wives. The other half of the room was roped off for the bouts. A number of judges stood around the perimeter.

“Have you attended one of these before?” asked MacGregor.

“No, I’ve not had the pleasure. I did learn a bit of fencing, like most actors. Foils mostly.”

“This is a bit different. This is military sabre. The fighters aren’t confined to a strip, and there’s no priority of attack. You get hit, your opponent scores a point. Both of you get hit, nobody scores. Nothing is off target, but limbs are worth one point, head and body are worth two. The fight is to five points.”

“You are an enthusiast, I take it,” she said.

“I was a decent swordsman when my beard had more red than grey,” he replied. “I still follow it.”

They sat through several bouts before MacGregor nodded and said, “Here he is.”

Two men entered the circle. The first was unremarkable. Medium height and athletic of build, he saluted the judge and then his opponent and took a solid, workmanlike stance. The other was massive. Six and a half feet tall and broad shouldered, legs like tree trunks, the sabre like a toy in his vast hands. For all his bulk, he moved with the grace of a jungle cat, saluting with a flourish and settling into an aggressive, forward leaning guard.

“He certainly is an impressive specimen,” said Emelia.

“That he is,” replied MacGregor. “But he’s not our man.”

“You think I should hire the little fellow?”

“Connolly isn’t little, as such. He looks small next to Ross, but everyone does.”

“But do you see the way that big man moves?” she went on. “He must be strong as a bull, but he moves like cat.”

“Care to wager a bottle on it?”

Emelia felt the certainty in the engineer’s tone. But she couldn’t see how the smaller man could possibly win. Maybe he could beat a big, slow man, but this fellow had reach and speed and precision. “Done,” she replied. It was Charles’ money anyway.

When the judge gave the word, the big man glided swiftly forward, making a few quick cuts at the smaller man’s head. Connolly backed away and parried, not meeting the great smashing cuts directly, but taking them on his blade at an angle, deflecting them aside. Despite not seeming to move quickly, he kept just out of the big man’s reach, floating at the edge of measure. After several parries, his blade licked out and struck the big man’s sword arm.

The judge called a halt and both men returned to their sides of the ring. The big man shook himself, rolled his neck and set his stance. Again, when the match resumed, he moved in with deft and forceful blows.

Emelia sat up straight her seat, observing Connolly. He didn’t appear to move much at all. Just small, conservative motions. She saw how he would lean back just enough that a cut would miss, then step in and land his own counter. He never attacked deep, never committed to cutting past the other man’s greater reach, content to land blows on the big man’s wrist and forearm before returning to a guard before the man could counter. It didn’t look impressive, until you really studied the way he fought, then the almost scientific ease with which he turned aside every blow and landed the few cuts he chose to make became clear. She began to feel that while MacGregor might win his wager, she’d have the chance to hire a master.

“He seems very skilled, miss,” whispered Kitty, leaning close.

“He does,” replied Emelia. “Not flashy, but very, very skilled.”

Connolly was up four points to none, holding his point extended in a modified hanging guard when the large man—Ross, MacGregor had called him—made a feint and beat to smash the smaller man’s weapon aside and drive in for the kill. The feint was convincing, drawing the start of a parry, and the beat was swift and strong, but somehow Connolly evaded it with a twist of his wrist. As Ross’ sword met nothing and went wide to the left, the smaller man finally made a decisive attack, dashing past the big man on his right side, bringing his sabre around in a lightning fast cut to the side of his head.

As the blunt sabre struck his mask, the massive fencer stopped, swore, and shook his head, then switched his weapon to his left hand and held out his right. Connolly took it and both men exchanged words she couldn’t hear, then moved away as the judge awarded the bout to Connolly.

“It seems I owe you a bottle, Mr. MacGregor,” said Emelia.

“It was an understandable error, Miss DuMond. Ross looks like a hard man to beat. I have the advantage of knowing Connolly from the old days. Seen what a demon he is with a sword. That doesn’t mean I won’t accept a bottle of whiskey. Speyside, if you please.”

They turned back to the ring as two more fencers came on.

“Wait,” asked Emelia. “Is that a woman?”

“I think I can say with confidence that it is,” replied MacGregor.

The fencer in question was clearly female. Shorter than her opponent, she had the strong, graceful build of a dancer. Her long black hair was tied back out of her face. There was a sparkle in her almond eyes and a devil may care smile on her lips.

“She’s stunning,” Emelia said. “Are there many women who fence at these competitions?”

“Not that I’ve heard. There’s a woman competing in America, but mostly in mounted broadsword. Goes by ‘La Jaguarina.’ But I haven’t seen her. She may be just an exhibition performer, like Annie Oakley doing sharpshooting.”

“Who is this woman?”

“According to the program, her name is Alyah Abdullah-Brooke, which hints at an interesting backstory. Certainly moves like she knows what she’s doing.”

Emelia could only nod. The woman saluted, donned her mask and took up a guard. When the judge gave the signal to begin, she moved forward with a sinuous grace. Her opponent, a tall man, tried to use the greater length of his arm to cut before she could come into range, but she danced at the limit of his reach. Then, cross-cutting like a Pole, she got the man chasing feints before darting in and striking only to pirouette away before he could counter.

“That was impressive,” said MacGregor.

“Amazing,” breathed Emelia.

The rest of the bout went the same, the woman besting her counterpart five points to none. She doffed her mask with a flourish and offered her hand, which he took grudgingly.

They watched a few more bouts before MacGregor sat up a bit straighter as he scanned the scoreboard across the room. “Well, that should be interesting.”

“What should?”

“It seems the winner comes down to Connolly or Miss Abdullah-Brooke. That will be worth watching.”

Emelia nodded then leaned forward intently, impatient for the bout to begin.

“Care for another wager?” he asked.

“I rather think not,” she replied. “My instincts have already cost me one bet today. I shall have to content myself with the excitement of watching the bout.”

The two fencers entered the ring and saluted, then donned masks and came en garde. At the judge’s signal, they began to cautiously advance. Connolly came on with a deliberate economy of movement, the young woman circling him like a stalking panther, her sabre making swirling passes as she sought an opening, or tried to create one as he responded to her movement. She made several swift attacks, feinting and dashing in to cut. He put each cut aside and countered, but not quickly enough to catch her before she could leap back out of range.

For all that both wore masks and padded jackets and wielded blunt practice sabres, it looked more like a fight than sport. Emelia had learned enough fencing to appreciate technique, but both of them were clearly masters, and she couldn’t follow a great deal of it.

After one extended, whirling exchange, flashing blades striking sparks, moving too fast for Emelia’s eye to follow, Connolly halted and raised his left hand. The judge stopped the action and he touched his right shoulder, indicating a hit. The judge awarded the point and the young woman bowed before both returned to their starting points.

“I didn’t see that blow land,” said Emelia.

“Nor did I, but it must have. She’s like greased lightning anyway, so maybe the judge didn’t see it either. Connolly’s not one to give away a point for free, but he wouldn’t want to sully a win by an unacknowledged touch.”

The bout continued, both fencers scoring points with quick touches to the sword arm or hand of the other, neither able to land a decisive blow to the body or head.

“She’s much faster than he is,” she said to MacGregor.

“Aye. That she is.”

“But she’s not landing any more touches than he is.”

“No.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but he just refilled his pipe and struck a match.

“Why isn’t she?”

The engineer took a moment, puffing to get his pipe going before he spoke. “Connolly isn’t as fast, but he’s more precise. His form is better. His guard is tighter, so he doesn’t have to move as far to parry. You can survive being half as quick if you only have to move your blade half as far. And if she draws him out with a feint, she doesn’t draw him as far out, so he can recover quicker.”

“You think he’s better?”

“From an academic standpoint he is. But from the standpoint of who’s more likely to survive a fight, they’re as close to even as I’ve seen. Connolly may be more efficient. His form looks like he stepped off the pages of Hutton’s manual. But the girl is so much faster and trickier that it’s a wash. Mind you, it’s not as though he’s slow or she’s sloppy, compared to average swordsmen. But when you compare them to one another, their strengths stand out.”

“If you had to fight one of them, which one would you choose?”

“The only way I’d fight either of them would be with a rifle from a long way off,” he replied with a smile.

As they spoke, Alyah kept attacking and Connolly kept backing and making tight parries. The young woman made a lightning-fast double feint and sprang forward with a cut. Rather than retreating as he had been, the man thrust into the attack, catching her cut on the forte of his weapon and deflecting it aside as the tip of his blade struck her chest.

The director of the match called a halt and awarded Connolly the point. He gave a crisp salute and removed his mask, red faced and sweating as he offered his hand with a grin. After a moment in which Alyah stood still, chest heaving with exertion, every line of her body speaking of stunned disappointment, she doffed her own mask and took the proffered hand.

“Oh,” muttered Kitty. “I hoped she was going to win.”

Emelia was surprised at the sympathetic pang of disappointment she felt and noticed that she had been on the edge of seat, her breathing a shade faster than it should have been, her fingers stiff from the strength with which she had been gripping the edge of the table. She glanced at MacGregor, but he hadn’t seemed to notice, his attention on the bout and his pipe.

* * *

Michael Connolly approached the table and stopped, gave a bow that was just a bit more than a nod, and spoke in an American accent. “You wanted to see me, miss?”

Emelia looked the man over. He was of average height, now that she saw him away from any giants. He carried himself with a confident grace. She was surprised to see that up close he seemed older than she had thought. There were fine lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth and a dusting of grey in his hair. His padded jacket was open at the throat and he held his mask and sabre under one arm.

“I do,” she smiled. “My Name is Emelia DuMond. I’m looking to hire a good man with a sword.”

Connolly grinned. “I’m a man who’s good with a sword, if that’s what you mean.”

“Don’t let what he thinks of as humor fool you,” said MacGregor. “You can count on him in a fight, and he’s trustworthy. For an Irishman.”

“Mac!” said Connolly, recognizing the engineer with a sudden smile. “Good lord, she’s already hired you? By those standards, I’m a good enough man.” Connolly reached over and took MacGregor’s hand. “How’ve you been?”

“Perfect in every way. Yourself?”

“Living the life of Reilly,” said the swordsman.

“Working for anyone right now?”

“Not as such. Doing some training for the local militia.”

“Why aren’t you commanding it? At your age, you should have eagles on your shoulders. Or at least an armful of stripes.”

Connolly looked away with a self-conscious grin. “Ability can maybe get you stripes,” he said, “but keeping ‘em calls for political skills. Been a corporal half a dozen times. A sergeant once or twice. But I tend to revert to my natural state. I think I just look better with a clean uniform, uncluttered by rank.”

“You had a troop of cavalry when I met you,” said MacGregor.

“On the Frontier,” said Connolly. “Colonial powers are happy enough to let me lead troops, so long as they’re dark enough. But I’ll never see a regular commission.”

“Did you have a problem with native troops, Mr. Connolly?” Emelia broke in.

“No problem with the troops, miss. But when an empire raises native troops, they’re seldom doing it for the betterment of the natives. My company were fine soldiers, but they were bleeding to keep the Union Jack flying over India and the shareholders of the East India Company in profits. I’d rather wear a private’s coat and a clean conscience.”

“So you’re saying a man whose trade is violence has a hard time finding employment on the side of the angels?” asked MacGregor.

“See, that kind of smarts is why you were in the engineers and I was just cannon fodder.”

Emelia smiled at the banter between the two men.

“So, what do you need a good swordsman for?” Connolly asked her.

“I need a bodyguard. I’ll be traveling first to Vienna and then likely into the wilds, and dealing with some potentially dangerous people. I see you can fight. And you’ve been a soldier, so I assume you can ride and shoot and follow orders.”

“I ride well. I shoot well enough.”

“He shoots very well,” said MacGregor.

“Can’t shoot as well as you do.”

“No,” agreed the engineer. “But that still leaves a lot of room for very well.”

“Fair enough,” said the swordsman. “As for the rest, following orders shouldn’t be a problem, so long as they’re reasonable.”

Emelia raised a perfect eyebrow. “Reasonable?”

“Don’t let Connolly’s instinct for self-sabotage sour you,” MacGregor interjected. “He’s loyal, he’s trustworthy. He’s got an independent streak, but for this kind of mission that’s a plus.”

Emelia’s lip curled into something between a smirk and a smile. “I’ll take your word, Mr. MacGregor.” She turned back to Connolly. “So that we’re clear, we’ll be traveling by airship over the Alps. Mr. MacGregor is the ship’s engineer. It’s likely to be dangerous.”

“I’m in.” The man stuck his hand out.

“You don’t want to know the pay?” she asked

“I assume there is some,” he said. “Does it include room and board and reasonable expenses? Plus a bit of profit?”

“Of course.”

“You’re buying tonight?”

“Whatever you care to order, Mr. Connolly.”

“That’s fine, then.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Connolly, but the eagerness makes me question if there might be something you’re trying to get away from.”

The man grimaced. “Nothing that will follow you or cause problem on the mission. I’m bored. I’m getting old. Too old to march in the rank and file and too stubborn and opinionated to get promoted out of ‘em. I’m rotting away drilling yokels, and sooner or later age or drink is going to get me. I’d rather spend my remaining days doing something worthwhile.”

“Oh, come now,” Emelia said, smiling. “You sound as if you need two sticks to get around. I saw you fight just now. You’re not old.”

“Perhaps not all that old, if I had any respectable skills,” he conceded. “Old for a soldier. A ranker anyway. I can still fight, but not the way I could last year. I’m past my peak, looking at a long, deep valley.”

“I have a feeling you’ve some time yet.” Emelia took the man’s hand. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Connolly. And while I am flattered that you feel honored to die in my service, I do hope to disappoint you. I pray you survive to have many more adventures.”

“How many fighters are you looking to hire?” he asked.

“You’re the first,” she replied. “I’m looking for one or two more. That’s why we’ve come to this fencing competition. To scout for talent.”

“Take my advice and hire the girl,” he said, sitting and signaling the waitress.

“You’re comfortable with that?”

The man shrugged. “She’s the best of the lot. Apart from me. Maybe better than me on an off day. If you want the best fighter, pick her. If you want somebody to look intimidating and scare off foes before it comes to fighting, pick the big Canadian, but if you expect real trouble, she’s your best bet.”

“We think alike, Mr. Connolly.” Emelia smiled. “I’ve already sent a message to her.”

As she finished speaking, the young woman approached the table. She had washed up and changed out of her fencing gear into loose trousers and a simple linen shirt under a short Hussar jacket in blue wool heavy with braid. Her skin was olive, her eyes dark, and her shining black hair was pulled back and bound with a simple ribbon. She moved with a deadly grace, languid confidence, and restrained power, as though a thing could be compared to both liquid and spring steel.

“You sent for me, miss?” she asked Emelia. There was politeness, but not deference, in her stance and her tone.

“I did,” Emelia replied. “Please, have a seat. I am in need of some guards. I was impressed by your skills. I’ve already hired Mr. Connolly, and I would like to make you the same offer.”

The woman looked at Connolly, nodded, and turned back to Emelia. “So long as you are paying me the same as you are paying him, I am interested.”

“Agreed,” said Emelia with a twisted smile, extending her hand.

“That was a tactical error, my dear,” said MacGregor, shaking his head at Alyah.

The woman speared him with a steely glare. “You do not think I am worth the same pay?”

“Not at all. It’s just that not two minutes ago Connolly here drove the worst bargain in the history of hired swords.”

“I assume it includes food, drink, and lodging?”

“And a bit on top,” said Connolly. “I was very clear on that.”

“So long as the bits on top are the same, I am at your service.”

“Congratulations, my dear,” MacGregor said to Emelia. “You have managed to find the finest swords and worst capitalists in Britain.”

“Not just Britain,” said Alyah.

“No,” agreed Connolly, raising his glass. “To the worst capitalists in the world.”

Chapter 7

Count Roderick took a deep breath and steeled himself as the two guards led him down a dimly lit passage. There was a great deal to be worried about. The men who lead him were dead eyed automatons. They spared no effort in speech, no expression, just radiated a cold menace. They had left him his sabre and revolver, which wasn’t really reassuring. He’d expected to be disarmed, so he’d hidden a few surprises about his person, but the fact that they hadn’t taken his weapons meant they weren’t concerned that he was armed in the presence of their leader. That either spoke to extreme naivete or tremendous confidence.

And he was alone, in the heart of the fortress of a mad cult. A single sword was not likely to make a difference, but it still unnerved him that they didn’t appear to worry about it. In the interest of making an impression, he wore his full Hussar captain dress uniform: red trousers, green dolman heavy with braid, fur trimmed pelisse over his shoulder like a cape, even the tall shako perched on his head at a jaunty angle. The uniform might not have any real power or authority here, but it could give these people a moment’s pause before attacking an Imperial officer. If nothing else, he’d die looking damned dashing.

If the guards were impressed, they hid it well. Have to give them credit for discipline, at least.

They entered a vast hall. Sunlight streamed in through windows high up in the walls, and a cold breeze filtered its way through the weathered wood of the ancient frames.

The castle had been built centuries ago. Much of it carved into the rock of the mountain itself, with battlements built around a leveled courtyard atop the peak. Like so many in these mountains, it had provided shelter from bandits and served as a stronghold from which to sortie forth and fight the Ottomans, the Magyars, and probably the Imperial authority and tax man. Count Roderick felt a pang of envy. Let that bean counter Breymann hike up here and see how far down the mountain he’d bounce when flung from the battlements. He smiled at the thought.

The hall was ancient and familiar, but the decorations new and strange. The walls were hung with tapestries, but not faded relics of bygone glory. They were new. The colors were dark and crisp, vibrant and saturated. The typical family crests and motifs had been supplanted by lurid images of monsters. A kraken crushing a ship in its tentacles. A stylized squid. A sea jelly with countless, unblinking eyes. A starfish clearly embroidered by someone who had never seen one but had been horrified by tales of them as a child.

Likewise the furniture—the chairs and tables, the great chandeliers, the brass and silver and gold utensils and vessels—all seemed foreign. Sinuous and twisted, their forms were odd. Not European, but not recognizably Oriental or African either. The hall also contained nautical ornaments. Anchors, ropes, a ship’s wheel.

The whole impression was one of a band of foreign pirates who had been shipwrecked and made their stronghold in a castle deep in the Carpathians.

At the end of the hall, on a massive chair of twisted and bleached wood, sat a man clad in black robes embroidered with symbols the count couldn’t identify. They seemed like letters, but not Roman or Cyrillic. For a moment Roderick thought the flowing, sinuous shapes might be Arabic, but even that wasn’t alien enough to describe them. The man himself was unremarkable. Medium height and build, his head shaven, neither handsome nor ugly, his pale face blank of expression.

Until the count looked into his eyes.

They were black. Not just dark, but the inky black void of outer space. There was a sliver of white around the outer edge, but no definitive change between pupil and iris and not even the gleam of reflected light. To look into them was to stare into the abyss.

A superstitious part of his brain, one steeped in Celtic myth and Romani lore, buried deep beneath layers of logic and reason and modern education, screamed for him to draw his revolver and blow a third hole between them.

Count Roderick fought down this urge and bowed slightly. “Your excellency.” He didn’t know how one addressed the head of a mad cult, but it would be hard for anyone to object to that, he reasoned.

“What audacity causes you to demand an audience with the Divine Conduit himself?” asked the man who stood to the right of the throne.

So ominous was the presence of the prophet that the count had hardly noticed the other man until he had spoken. He was tall and thin, and his eyes burned with the fires of a fanatic. A heavy, forward curving blade hung at his belt. He radiated arrogance, malice, hatred. A dangerous man, but at least a man of mundane, human danger. Manageable danger. The count knew that you could steer a fanatic, if you couldn’t convince him. The prophet was something beyond his understanding.

“I have something for him,” replied the count. “Something I felt was best delivered in person.”

“You were hired to do a job,” the man replied. “Not to dictate terms. Why did you not hand the item over to our faithful?”

“With all due respect, that was the plan, but the ‘faithful’ made two errors. The first was to attempt to alter the terms of the arrangement, and the second was to attract the notice of the authorities. After that, I felt that this job was better undertaken by a man of skill, rather than blind obedience.”

“You dare to—”

“Silence, Gorka.” The voice of the prophet wasn’t loud, but it carried. Like the hammer of a pistol being cocked, it trumped other sounds. Any who heard it would know that this was where authority dwelt. Where danger dwelt. “The methods are unimportant. What matters is the Book.” The voice was flat and without inflection, but the weight of reverence landed on the word ‘book.’

The count reached into his sabretasche and produced a package wrapped in brown paper. The nearest guard took it and walked to the throne, dropping to one knee and presenting it to the prophet. The prophet gestured and Gorka took the package, tearing away the paper.

“What insolence is this?” Gorka demanded. The prophet glanced at the object in his subordinate’s hands, then turned his cold, lifeless eyes on the count. He said nothing, but his expression asked the same question as his advisor.

“That, your excellency, is my official photograph,” replied Roderick. “I do quite like that one. Captures the whole air of command.”

“Do you find this amusing?” asked Gorka, shaking in rage. “Do you presume to waste the time of the—”

“If you would care to look past the very handsome young officer in the photograph, which I understand is not easy, you will see something of interest on the table behind him.”

“The Book!”

“Indeed. Now, given the reaction the last time I attempted to deliver it, I thought it best to come to an agreement before bringing it to you. You can clearly see that I have what you want, and I will credit you the intelligence to guess that I alone can tell you where it is. I am quite at your mercy here, but if I were to perish, the location of the book dies with me. If, however, you wish to honor our agreement, I shall see it brought safe to your hands.”

“The secret could be torn from you.” The advisor’s voice was like a dagger drawn across a whetstone.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Roderick, grinning widely. He felt the thrill of a duel, felt his heart speed up and his eyes grow sharp at the outrage of this sycophant. This was almost as good as the clash of swords, almost as sweet as the banter that preceded a romantic conquest. This was when he felt most alive, dancing on the knife’s edge. “I can be quite loquacious. I might say anything. And I tend to become confused and babble when tortured. You’ve looked long and hard for this book, and while my death would be inconvenient to me, I’m sure the loss of the book would be rather more annoying to you.”

Gorka ground his teeth and made to speak, but the prophet raised a hand.

“All that matters is the Book,” he repeated. He looked to the guards. “Leave us.”

Without objection, the guards streamed from the room, leaving the prophet, his advisor, and the count alone in the empty, echoing hall. Roderick felt this spoke of perhaps too much confidence, but something about the prophet made him feel that the man had no need of mundane soldiers to keep him safe.

“What do you propose?” asked the prophet.

“Well,” drawled the count. “A good start would be the rest of my promised payment.”

“So be it.”

“And if you take my advice, you have great wealth here, and many strong arms. What you could use are weapons, allies, and diplomacy. Someone who can walk in the right circles and facilitate your consolidation of power. Your faithful minions are loyal, no doubt, but they are without finesse. An axe is a fine thing when it’s called for, but there are times when a rapier might be more suited. Keep your axe at hand, but let me be that rapier. For the right price.”

The prophet looked into the count’s eyes for a long moment. Roderick looked back, hoping to read something there, but saw only the void. He shivered to think what the prophet saw in his.

“Very well,” said the prophet finally. “You shall have your gold. Return with the Book. And you shall serve as my blade. Gorka, as my right hand, shall wield you. I have spoken.”

Chapter 8

It did not take long for the two new bodyguards to gather their belongings and meet Emelia at the Phoenix. After they had seen the ship and been shown their berths, MacGregor invited them all for a drink at the big table in the wardroom. As they took their seats, he reverently opened a new bottle of whisky.

“Not hoarding the good stuff for yourself?” asked Connolly.

“Figured you deserved a dram since I won it betting on you.”

“Trading on inside information?” said Connolly, accepting the offered glass.

“Having knowledge and failing to use it goes against every principle of engineering. At that point, you may as well just be a scientist.”

“Where do you two know one another from?” Emelia asked. “I know you said you met in the army, but there must be a story there.”

“We met in India. On the Northwest Frontier. Near Afghanistan,” said MacGregor.

“Long time ago,” added Connolly. “Twenty years?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Jesus.”

“I was in the Royal Engineers, doing aerial surveying and building bridges in that godforsaken country. Connolly here had a Company commission. Led a troop of irregular cavalry.”

“Like leading Ali Baba’s Forty Thieves,” Connolly smiled. “First class scouts, damn fine horsemen. Thieves to the bone. Steal the horse from under your saddle if you looked away. God, I miss ‘em.”

Alyah studied his face. “Khan Ali?” she said.

“What?” Connolly asked.

“You are Khan Ali?”

Connolly let out a laugh. “That’s what my men called me. Closest they could get to ‘Connolly.’ How’d you know that?”

“I think you met my father.”

“Age is a hell of a thing.” He shook his head. “Was he one of my cutthroats?”

“One of the cutthroats on the other side,” she said with a wide grin. “I think you have him to thank for that scar.”

“Really?” drawled MacGregor. “That’s a tale, now.”

“I did get that from some brigand with a tulwar,” said Connolly, rubbing a scar above his right eyebrow. “That bastard was your father?”

“He always bragged he struck down the great Khan Ali,” Alyah replied. “Now I know his boast has some substance.”

“He didn’t strike me down. We crossed swords, and he got the better of it. I killed two of his fellows that day before he and I fought.”

“He credited you with ten,” she said. “Before he defeated you.”

“It was only two. And he didn’t defeat me, he cut me. And escaped. I’d have caught him if it wasn’t for the blood running into my eyes.”

“It seems the young lady takes after her father,” said the engineer.

“If he’d been half as good as she is, I’d be dead,” said Connolly.

“So your father was an Afghan brigand?” asked Emelia, turning her curiosity on the other woman.

“Could be worse,” said MacGregor. “Could have been a Tory MP or a railroad baron.”

“My mother was English,” Alyah said. “Her father was in the diplomatic corps. She was bored and restless and adventurous. How she met my father depends on who you ask. Officially, she was kidnaped, forced into marriage, and held as his wife for six years, until she was rescued. I do not think that is really what happened. I was young, but in my memory, they seemed quite happy together. I think she was taken with him and went willingly. But that would have been far too much of a scandal for the family to ever admit.”

She took the whisky bottle, refilled her glass, and put it to her lips before going on. “When my mother was ‘liberated’ by the British, I was away with my father. I stayed with him for some time. For my safety, he told everyone I was his son, and I grew up as a boy for a while. Up to a point, children are children, nobody questioned that I was a boy, and that meant I got to learn to ride and shoot and use a sword. I rode with a band of raiders for a time. When I was eventually captured, they discovered my secrets, both that I was a woman and half British. My mother heard that a young woman bandit had been captured. She intervened and took me in, scandal or no. But by that time I had been ruined for polite society. English or Afghan. I had tasted too much of the freedom of a bandit to be some warlord’s third wife. Since I had grown too much to pass as a boy, the life of a brigand wasn’t an option, and I was too rebellious and...insufficiently pale,” she said with a smirk, “to serve high tea for society ladies.”

“So you became a free lance?” asked Emelia.

Alyah shrugged. “I am very good with a gun or a sword or a horse. There is always someone who will pay for that. The regular army would not take me, and I grew tired of doing traveling shows. Going around like an exhibit, the way Cody parades Indians and so on. So I made my way as best I could.”

“Welcome to our little band of misfits,” said MacGregor, raising his glass.

“And you?” Alyah turned the question on Emelia.

“I am an actress. I need to follow up on some opportunities in Vienna. And see where they lead.”

“And you are not using your skills to serve as a spy?” asked Alyah.

“Your mind leaps quickly to that conclusion,” said Emelia, trying to keep her voice light as wariness crept into her mind.

“An actress would not need such a ship and such blades as us,” she replied. “And you spoke of danger and travel into the mountains. We have both traveled in dangerous mountains, and I have not met any evil-minded theater critics there. Perhaps the great Khan Ali has vanquished such perilous foes?”

“All manner of dangers, but I don’t recall any critics,” said Connolly.

“Perhaps you don’t realize just how cutthroat the theater can be,” said Emelia.

Chapter 9

Count Roderick sat in the deep leather chair in the drawing room of the old plantation. Light poured in through the tall windows, the high ceilings helping the room feel airy despite the heat of the afternoon. Now that the supply of free labor had gone, the owner, a Mr.Bartlett, made his fortune selling weapons. The count didn’t know if the man had been the owner before the war had changed everything, or if he’d just taken advantage of the new reality to buy the vast, elegant home. He doubted the man had been a soldier, though he was of an age to have fought in the American Civil War. He had the soft, oily look of a capitalist or a politician. Maybe he’d been a supply officer, Roderick allowed, financing blockade runners and skimming to pad his pockets at the expense of the troops.

Bartlett took a bottle from the cabinet behind him and poured two glasses, handed one to the count. Roderick had expected brandy, but the liquor tasted a bit like whisky, only sweeter and less complex. No peat, no smoke. Not even the hint of sea air you’d get from a decent Islay. His host leaned back in his own chair and took a cigar from the humidor on his desk.

“Cigar?” he asked.

“With pleasure, sir,” Roderick replied. He thought it might make the booze more interesting.

“What do you think of the bourbon, sir?” drawled the American. “Made with corn rather than barley. Goes down smoother than that Irish stuff.”

“Indeed,” the count tried to sound as though he thought that was a good thing. He lit the cigar and drew on it. That was good at any rate. Americans did tobacco well, even if they didn’t understand whisky.

“I understand you are looking to purchase a large order of firearms,” said Bartlett.

“You understand correctly, Mr.Bartlett. My client finds himself in need of a significant number of standardized weapons.”

“You, sir, are in luck. With the recent unpleasantness behind us, and the South back in the bosom of the Union, the army finds itself in possession of a large stockpile of weapons for which they have little need.”

The count frowned. “I heard they are replacing old rifled muskets. Converting the best of the lot to trapdoor breechloaders. My client isn’t really interested in the worst of the older, obsolete weapons.”

“Ah, I see you are a man of learning. It’s true, the major armies are all looking towards modernizing their weapons. Repeaters, breechloaders, metallic cartridges. We are in a period of revolution in the science of war. It’s a privilege to live in such times, sir. But, forgive my candor, as you don’t seem to be representing a government with a standing army that has both the need and the means to purchase the newest weapons, the Springfield rifled musket should be perfect for your needs.”

“How so?” asked Roderick with a crooked smile. He was genuinely interested in hearing the man explain how a slower, less accurate rifle was just the thing he wanted. Not that he cared about the cultists getting the best weapons, but he had his reputation to think of. If you took a man’s gold, you did the job he paid you for. Even if that man was stark raving mad.

“If you will be so kind as to excuse my frankness, sir,” said Bartlett, “I assume you are outfitting colonial soldiers or something similar. Now, an army of savages will have trouble maintaining a supply line of metallic cartridges. Black powder paper cartridges are easy. You upgrade a flintlock to a percussion cap, give every man a rifle, and paper cartridges with a Minie ball, and now you can shoot as fast as a musket but more accurate and reliable, and they can keep their antiquated ammunition. I can sell you a dozen muzzleloading Springfields for the cost of a single Henry that the average darkie won’t be able to maintain in the field anyway.”

Roderick kept his expression neutral. He was picturing Bartlett shot full of arrows or with an assegai through his chest. He had an instant dislike of anyone who used the word “savages.” True, he was a noble, but not far removed from common stock, and being the half-Irish son of a mercenary had made him an outsider in the Austrian court. Not that he really identified with a Zulu or a Comanche, but in a fight with an overfed, arrogant white man in a suit and tie, his heart was always with the savages.

“Even back during the recent unpleasantness,” the man went on, “the North could field a lot of repeating lever guns, and they were superior, I’ll be the first to admit. But even when the Confederacy captured a few of them, they couldn’t produce the cartridges. Never were able to use them in any kind of numbers. You need an industrial base to feed a gun like that.”

The count conceded that the man did have a point. Better to buy a hundred rifles that they could supply with powder and ball than a dozen repeaters that they couldn’t.

Bartlett must have seen something in his expression, but misinterpreted it. “I can include some breechloading Sharps carbines for the officers or cavalry. The old percussion lock style so you can still use paper cartridges, but you can shoot quicker. That way you can have your white officers better armed than the native troops, just in case you have a situation like the Brits did in India a few years back. Throw in some cap and ball revolvers if you’re interested.”

The count thought for a moment. Yes, the weapons were obsolete. But not all that obsolete. They had been state of the art ten years ago and used by both sides in the American Civil War. And the Americans had managed to kill half a million of each other with them, which was impressive for a people who couldn’t distill a proper whisky. And it would make for easy logistics with every man having an actual rifle that used the same ammunition rather than the patchwork of weapons they had now. It was a step forward.

“I think you have a deal, Mr.Bartlett. How long until you can have the shipment prepared?”

“For what you want, a week. I assume you will want to inspect the merchandise?”

“Of course. I’d like to test a few of the weapons.”

“Will you be doing the shooting yourself, sir? I understand you’re a military man, but as a cavalry officer, how comfortable are you with full length infantry rifles?”

The count smiled. “We are quite observant in the Austrian army. We find that even in the cavalry, one sometimes encounters an enemy beyond the reach of a lance or a sabre.”

Chapter 10

The Phoenix docked at the skyport in Vienna. As the crew began securing the vessel and making plans for resupply, Emelia DuMond emerged from her cabin, pulling on her gloves. Connolly and Alyah stood up from where they had been seated at the ship’s rail, looking out over the city and the wide, slow curve of the Danube. They had decided that whatever claims the waltz made, the river was clearly brown.

“Are we going ashore, miss?” Connolly asked.

“Yes,” answered Emelia. “If you two would be so good as to accompany me. I have an important errand.”

“Right,” the man replied, buckling on his sword belt. “What’s the job?”

“I’ll check in at the theater, then we have to look at some brothels. I’m looking for a pretty young prostitute. Blonde, a bit shorter than myself. Probably goes by the name of ‘Maria’ or ‘Margarethe’ or similar.” She checked her bag as she ran down the description Dr Carmody had given her.

Alyah raised an eyebrow, turning to Connolly. “That would have surprised me less had you said it.”

“It seems she has a very specific type,” he replied. “I don’t judge.”

Emelia looked at the pair. “I thought I had hired you for swift swords, and yet I get a sharp wit as well.”

“No extra charge,” said Alyah.

“Here I thought it was because we’re so damned good looking,” said Connolly

“Probably best if you do not try to charge extra for that,” said Alyah.

Emelia shook her head. It was good that they could banter together like that. There wasn’t any rivalry between them as she had feared.

She took her parasol, checking the handle to be sure it was secured. A sharp tug would draw forth a slender blade. It was a short smallsword blade, no real edge but a wicked needle point. Quick and deadly in a moment of surprise. She was a competent fencer and fancied her chances against a single assailant, especially one who wasn’t expecting it, but knowing how Dr Carmody had been waylaid, she felt it prudent to bring the two fighters along.

The small party walked through the Viennese streets with confidence. Emelia expected to draw attention. She was relying on her celebrity to open the doors she needed open, so she had taken the time to let Kitty work her magic and be sure her hair and makeup were perfect, her dress the height of fashion. The two guards were hardly subtle. Connolly looked like the soldier of fortune he was, but Alyah would draw stares for her beauty, physical grace, and Eurasian features, even without the heavily braided Hussar jacket and sabre at her hip. Good, thought Emelia. It would be harder to waylay a group that was the center of attention. She wasn’t all that concerned about making inquiries about a prostitute in her official persona. The whiff of scandal could only enhance her reputation as an actress

Connolly watched her work with appreciation. Apart from being objectively beautiful, the woman was charming, witty, spoke more languages than he could name, and had a way of making anyone she spoke to feel as though they were the most interesting person in the room—and somehow managing that without making everyone else in the room resent it. He and Alyah followed in her wake as she chatted and flirted and laughed and drank her way through the drawing rooms and theaters and restaurants of the city. It seemed though, that she always laughed more and drank less than those with whom she met. Charming as she was, the old soldier recognized the calculation beneath it.

It wasn’t long before she had an address, and an appointment made through a trusted contact. The theater was filled with people who understood discretion and weren’t going to judge an actress for meeting a prostitute. She led the way to an apartment above a dressmaker’s shop in an unremarkable middle-class neighborhood. They climbed the stairs quietly. The place was well maintained, so the boards didn’t creak, which said a lot about the priorities of the tenants.

Without discussion, Connolly and Alyah moved to either side of the door, standing close to the wall. Emelia smiled at that.

She stepped forward and knocked softly on the door.

“Kommen,” answered a musical voice.

Emelia pushed the door open and walked in. It was like stepping into another world. Far from the sensible, conservative decor of the hallway, the room was luxuriously carpeted in a deep red, walls papered in a pattern of red and black with a silver thread running through it, lamps burning low and shaded, the windows hidden behind heavy drapes. The whole atmosphere did not hint at seduction, it reeked of it. Emelia thought it as subtle as a Bulwer-Lytton romance.

But, she thought, knowing the expected audience, the aesthetic was probably perfect.

A petite, attractive blonde sat on a divan, looking from beneath lowered lashes. Her smile widened and she arched an eyebrow.

“I had not expected a woman,” she purred.

“Does that change anything?” asked Emelia.

The woman shrugged. “Had I known, I may have quoted a lower price.”

Connolly and Alyah walked in and stood to either side of Emelia.

The woman’s smile didn’t falter, though her other eyebrow did rise.

“If you want to bring friends, however, I must charge a bit more.”

Emelia was impressed at her composure. This woman was a professional. Despite the surprise and the fact that she was now outnumbered by people whose intentions she must have found suspect, she betrayed no trepidation. She simply radiated eagerness and a sly humor at the situation. Talent knows talent, and the woman was quite the actress.

“Unfortunately, this call is for business, not pleasure.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive.”

Emelia smiled. “So I find. But I need to speak to you about a friend of mine you had...business with. Don’t concern yourself with my associates. They don’t speak German.”

Margarethe’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t seem like a scorned wife. And if you are, any vengeance you take on me won’t really solve anything.”

“It’s nothing so mundane,” replied Emelia. “Perhaps you remember Dr Carmody. Medium height, English, spectacles, no chin to speak of. He was in possession of a book which was stolen from him—”

While she had been speaking, Margarethe leaned back languidly on the divan, her right hand dropping behind a cushion. Alyah sprang forward, grasping the woman’s wrist and wresting a Volcanic pocket pistol from her hand.

“A wise choice for such an occasion,” said Alyah, examining the weapon.

Margarethe recoiled from Alyah’s grasp, drawing herself back into the corner of the divan.

“No one here wants to harm you,” said Emelia. “But that book is very dangerous. In the wrong hands it could mean death and destruction on a scale you would find hard to comprehend.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“I’m not surprised. I’m sure you were just hired to distract the good doctor, and had no part in the violence done to him,” said Emelia, gently. “I just need to know who hired you.”

The woman didn’t reply.

Emelia crouched down and looked Margarethe in the eyes. “The people who want that book will use it to usher in a new age of darkness. Tear open the veil and let in the dread gods of forgotten past, slaking their thirst with a sea of blood and ascending a throne of skulls, and it will never be enough. The cult think they can control the horror, but it will consume us all. Believer and infidel, saint and sinner, old and young. All of humanity will be destroyed in a darkness that will cover the earth and last a thousand years.”

The young woman’s mouth dropped open. She looked into Emelia’s eyes but Emelia projected only conviction. She knew the vision those words conjured was madness. Impossible. But she used every ounce of will to emanate sincerity, belief in the messenger. She saw in the Margarethe’s expression that something resonated. Touched some deep, primal part of her mind. The actress tried to show enough faith in her words that they would take root in the mind of anyone listening.

It seemed to have an effect. Margarethe’s eyes widened and she suddenly looked away

“There is no way he would be involved in such a scheme,” she said, but there was doubt in her voice.

“I’d hazard he was hired to do a job. Much the same as you were. And as we all have been. Just a go between to procure the book. I doubt he knows why any more than you do.”

Margarethe’s already fair skin turned a whiter shade of pale.

“And you,” Emelia continued. “You alone can help me put an end to this threat. All you need to do is give me a name.”

Margarethe’s lip trembled. “But if what you say is true, will they not find me and punish me for helping you?”

Emelia thought for a moment. “I can give you money and a letter of introduction to a theater troupe. I don’t know if you’ve acted on stage, but you’ve acted in far more demanding circumstances. If you can fool a man when you’re in his arms you can fool an audience. It’s a ticket to a new life. And you would be doing an incalculable service to mankind.”

The woman frowned.

“I know this is hard to believe,” said Emelia. “But ask yourself, what has he done to secure your loyalty? Money, I’m sure, and promises, but has he taken you away from all this? Has he done anything to earn the risk you take for him?”

“No,” said Margarethe at length.

“I am offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. And the security of distance.”

“But if he should ever find me...”

“I can tell you are quite the actress,” said Emelia. “It would be no effort at all for you to spin a tale of how you were threatened, bribed, told hideous lies about him, how you doubted those words but felt powerless without his strong arm to defend you. As one actress to another, you know you can do that.”

Margarethe hesitated a moment before speaking. “Count Roderick von Szeben. He’s a captain in the 9th Hussars.”

“My thanks,” said Emelia. She took a thick envelope from her valise and handed it to the young woman. “Your money, train tickets to Munich and letters of introduction.” She turned to Alyah and switched back to English. “You may return the lady’s pistol.”

The three companions departed. As they walked away from the door, Alyah asked. “Did she tell you what you needed to know?”

“She did.”

“How did you convince her?” asked Alyah.

“I offered her a job and a way out of her current situation.”

“That why she pulled a gun on you?” Connolly inquired.

“Never said it was a good job.”

“Well, she seemed to accept it in the end,” said Alyah.

“I can be quite persuasive.”

“Not sure what you told her, but she went white as a ghost,” said Connolly.

Emelia shrugged. “Most things sound frightening in German. Now, let’s be on our way. We finally have a name we can track down. ”

Armed with that name, Emelia set off to discover what she could of this Count Roderick. Alyah and Connolly tagged along, idly waiting while she spoke to people often in languages neither of them understood. They were along ostensibly to keep her safe from threats, but there seemed to be little need. The actress appeared to know everyone in the city and was welcomed warmly wherever they went.

Emelia searched the taverns near the barracks until she found a pair of Hussar officers drinking in one. Both were young men. Lieutenants if she read their rank correctly. They had the same build, the same mustaches. They could have been brothers. One was a bit darker and the other had a dueling scar on his left cheek, but beyond that, they were hard to tell apart. She nodded to Connolly and Alyah who took up a table near enough to observe, but not too near, and approached the table.

“Excuse me,” she said with her broadest smile. “Are you men in the 9th Hussars?”

They looked up, then both men sprang to their feet.

“We are, mein Fraulein,” said the first, bowing and clicking his heels. “How may we be of service?”

“I was wondering if you gentlemen could help me find a...friend of mine,” she said, leaving the word open to interpretation. “He’s a member of your regiment. Such splendid uniforms.”

“Please, take a seat,” said the first man. “We would be happy to help you find a brother officer so lucky as to have such a beautiful friend.”

“You are too kind,” she said, sitting. A waiter appeared and she graciously allowed them to buy a bottle of what soldiers might consider an expensive champagne for the table.

“And what might your friend’s name be?” asked the man with the scar.

“Roderick von Szeben,” she replied. “I believe he is a captain.”

The two men exchanged glances. “Seems like old Roddy’s doing well for himself,” said the darker man with a note of surprise.

“How so?” she asked with a twisted smile and a raised eyebrow while refilling the men’s glasses.

She settled back and listened. This was too easy. Young men, especially soldiers in the presence of drink and an attractive woman, will take every opportunity to talk, make every effort to make themselves look better and any other man look worse. They gossiped like washerwomen. Worse than washerwomen, she corrected. She would know, she’d been a washerwoman. All she had to do was keep the booze flowing and look fascinated by whatever they said.

“Oh, Roddy’s a fine soldier,” conceded the man with the scar. “Just a bit short on funds.”

“Why, the man is a count, is he not?” asked Emelia, aghast. Let them think this was an opening.

“He is, yes,” said the darker man. “But his father left the estate in debt. Bills piled to the rafters, so I’ve heard.”

“Couldn’t keep away from the tables,” added the other.

“Or the bottle. Or the women.” The first man shook his head sadly. “And the old count wasn’t born into the title.”

“No. He was...what? English? Scottish?” asked the other.

“Irish. Was a mercenary. Oh, he did some service to the Empire, got himself a title, but never mastered the running of it.”

“Makes you feel sorry for Roddy,” said the scarred soldier. “Son of a foreign sellsword on a cash poor estate, trying to keep up appearances.”

“Excellent horseman though,” said his comrade.

“No doubt,” agreed the first. “Fine swordsman as well. With a bit more money or influence, he’d be a major. But as it is, when we’re not in the field, he’s off trying to make ends meet.”

“Fascinating,” said Emelia, taking a dainty sip from her glass and refilling theirs. “Do tell me more.”

* * *

The party of three returned to the Phoenix from their mission and Emelia retired to her cabin to think. Kitty was already asleep, snoring softly in the small cot. Emelia lit a small gas lamp on the desk, pulling closed the curtain that divided the room in two. She didn’t want to disturb the other woman’s sleep, and she needed to plan, not answer questions. She took out a small notebook and pen, then opened a chest and took a glass and a flask from it and poured herself a measure of poteen. It was out of character, and not something a world-renowned actress would drink, but it was familiar and helped her focus. Helped to strip away the layers of artifice she had constructed and allowed her to connect more closely with the hungry, clever, ambitious laundry girl she had been.

It was a past she was happy to have left behind, but she knew that it had shaped her, given her the drive she needed to succeed. She didn’t resent her humble beginnings. A lady raised on champagne and cognac wouldn’t have had the same grim determination and drive as one who had learned to ration a portion of illicit pot still poteen.

She took a sip and felt it blaze a fiery trail down her throat to sit warm and reassuring in her stomach. She poised her pen, then began to scribble facts and notes and impression she had gotten from those she had spoken to. Around her, the sounds of the Phoenix crew working and laughing, Kitty’s gentle snoring, and the creak of the wood and steady hum of the engine created a cocoon of sound, a comfortable reminder that she was surrounded by people and things of science and human genius. The works of mankind’s achievements, holding back the dark emptiness of the ancient void.

The sounds also helped to provide a distracting background that kept her from focusing too closely on a single detail. Now, at the beginning of an investigation, it was important to see the whole, not the minutia. That focus would come later. Now she needed to see broad patterns. Privacy had been a rarity in her youth, and she had learned to think with distractions, and to use them.

So what of this count? She asked herself. Could he be a member of this cult?

Almost certainly not, she decided. Likely hired as an agent. The man is a noble and a soldier, but he’d never shown any interest in the occult.

So why would he work for them?

Money. He was not from an old, established family. His father was a foreign mercenary. A Wild Goose, exiled from Ireland, who fought for the Austrians. Well enough to be rewarded with a title. Not so unlike Alyah and Connolly.

She thought for a moment about the relationship between the two fighters. They showed less rivalry than she had feared, more camaraderie. A closeness she wasn’t used to, especially between men and women who weren’t romantically linked. She wondered if there were such an element. They were certainly both attractive. He radiated a handsome confidence that stopped short of brash, cocky swagger, and he wore a smile that was a bit roguish but carried a trace of kindness. He projected the physical prowess of youth tempered with the wisdom of experience. And the woman. Emelia took a sip of poteen and let out a long breath. The woman was breathtaking. She moved like a panther, lithe, the embodiment of sinuous grace and power. With that shining black hair and the open, bantering smile, and the sparkle in those eyes...

She stopped herself. Easy now. Be professional. These are your guards. Your employees. Their job is to keep you safe and complete the mission, and anything that breached professionalism would endanger that.

She envied the two fighters’ closeness—and recognized it as something she lacked. She had countless acquaintances, colleagues, a string of casual lovers, but no one with whom she was free to drop her carefully crafted facade.

There. That was the key. She knew that a wandering mind lubricated with alcohol would lead her to the answer. Everyone wanted something, or was afraid of something. Understanding that was the key to understanding what they would do. She had always been an outsider and craved true connection, so she had honed every social skill she could. Connolly feared the infirmity of age, and so he sought a grand and glorious death before he grew too frail to achieve one. And he insisted on complicating things by only wanting to fight for a noble cause. Alyah wanted to be valued for her skills, not seen as an oddity because of her sex or mixed blood. The two could be trusted to the end of the Earth so long as he had a chance to die well and she was treated like his equal in combat. MacGregor needed control. Precision. Of his machines, of his appearance, of his marksmanship. Captain Little valued freedom, and there was no man more free than the captain of an airship.

So what did Count Roderick want? What did he fear?

His father had left him a title and estates. Many the offspring of a soldier of fortune could never dream of such. While that was true, for Roderick it was a mixed blessing. The estates weren’t productive. A skilled manager might have turned a profit, but the elder count had been more interested in gambling, drink, and women, with little thought for tomorrow.

Again, not an uncommon trait in a soldier. Hard to plan for a future you don’t expect to live to see. The man probably would have gotten on with Connolly.

Young Roderick inherited a title and debts. He got a commission in a Hussar regiment, and by all accounts was a born horseman and sabreur. Had he been born a generation earlier, he could have earned promotion and riches, like his father. But he has been cursed with an era of relative peace. What he wanted, acceptance and the respect due his station, was beyond his grasp. He was still an outsider, no old family traditions, no money to buy his way into the social circles of the Imperial court, no battlefield heroics to usher him into those rarefied echelons. He was so close, so very close, but still relegated to the fringes. Still just the son of a foreign mercenary. It was probably worse that he could see so clearly what he couldn’t have.

In a peacetime army, an officer was judged by his social standing, the quality and appearance of his kit, and how lavishly he spent at the officer’s mess. Roderick would have little income from his estates and was probably living on his pay from the army, which was low. He must feel looked down on for his humble blood, for his light purse. That had to rankle, especially as he was rumored to have all the sterling qualities of a soldier.

So, Emelia’s train of thought chugged along, like other people she could name, with no skills suitable for polite society, he had hired himself out for those he did possess. As well as being a skilled fighter, he did have a deep knowledge of Viennese society, both the upper and lower strata, which would have made him very valuable to the cult.

And the cult had money. That much she knew. And money was Roderick’s best and quickest way to respectability. Pay off the old count’s debts, throw lavish parties, purchase a higher commission. Attract a wife from a suitably blue-blooded family.

Yes. Money could get him all the things he wanted, the things that had been just outside his grasp for his whole life. The things he saw men who were less brave, less skilled, less charming enjoy.

The things he knew he deserved.

Could he be bribed to turn his coat? The Society had funds. Charles would certainly advance her what she asked for. If money were the answer, that was easy enough.

“Doubtful,” she muttered aloud after a sip of poteen. He wanted to be respected as a noble. That meant maintaining his honor. He had a reputation to think about.

A reputation that wouldn’t be marred by association with a mad doomsday cult?

Emelia shrugged. Perhaps a bit, but he probably felt it would be soiled more by being known as a traitor to a mad death cult than a trusted associate of a mad death cult. From all she’d heard of him, he seemed to set a great deal of importance on honoring his word. Might have been handed down from his father. After all, a mercenary won’t be judged too harshly for his choice of employer, but he will be for betraying that employer.

Maybe he could be seduced, she thought. She considered his official portrait and mused that she’d had worse assignments. Well built, handsome, artfully windblown curls, rakish moustache, devil may care look in his eyes. But no. While she was certain she could charm him into bed, she doubted it would gain her much advantage. He was unlikely to be starved for female attention. Not the type of man who would let down his guard or betray his employers for something he probably didn’t have to work all that hard for on a regular basis.

Not bribery or seduction, then. What did that leave? Burglary, trickery, or force.

Not burglary. She didn’t know where he would have the book, and even if she could sneak into his townhouse or his castle in the country, that was too much to search. Force would be a difficult thing while he was in Vienna. She had confidence in her little gang of cutthroats, but an apparently unprovoked assault on a nobleman wasn’t likely to be overlooked.

But what if he were to leave the city? Would he deliver the book to the cultists, or would they come to collect it?

Probably he’d prefer to go to them. If reputation was a concern, the last thing he’d want to advertise was that he had to stoop to acting as a hired agent for a group of disreputable religious fanatics. She knew the group and its devotees well, and they were not good company. Hardly a good fit for the capital.

So how would he get the book to them? He’d have to leave the city, which meant the railroad, a coach, or an airship. She looked to see what contacts she had who could keep tabs on the various ticket offices. When she knew how and where he was headed, then she could plan her next move.

Chapter 11

Roderick smoked a cigar and watched as the airship pulled away from the Charleston docking tower, the air already shimmering with heat just an hour after sunrise. He had chartered it to take the cargo of weapons on ahead before he would return to Vienna to retrieve the book. He wasn’t entirely comfortable letting them out of his sight, but it would probably be best for a member of the Austrian nobility not to be connected with a shipload of illegal arms. The government would take an interest in any shipment of military rifles headed off into the hinterlands, so bringing them to the capital first was out of the question. Probably safe enough. He had bribed the airship captain well before sending him on his way. The man was an honest smuggler. So long as you paid for the job, you could be sure it would get done. The count appreciated that kind of service.

They’d be fine, he told himself for the hundredth time. The captain was a smuggler, surely, and had probably been a blockade runner, but he was a businessman, and if he did double cross Roderick and his employers, there was a clear trail back to Bartlett, so he felt sure the arms dealer wouldn’t want to invite trouble.

As far as the cargo, they were good guns. State of the art not long ago. They were certainly a leap forward from what the cultists had now, and God knew you didn’t need the most modern weapons to win a battle. Hadn’t the Zulu wiped out a British army a few years back with nothing but spears and a can-do attitude? Modern Breechloading Martini-Henry rifles hadn’t saved those redcoats, now, had they?

Chapter 12

Emelia gathered a small group in the wardroom. They sat around the big table under the low ceiling and listened to the creak of the ship and the hum of the engines.

“So what have we learned?” asked Connolly. “Other than the fact that you can even sound charming in German, which I’d not have thought possible.”

She inclined her head at the compliment. “You and Miss Abdullah-Brooke have spent hours honing your proficiency with the blade. I have put the same effort into my own set of skills.”

“Those would be changing a man’s mind without bashing a hole in his skull first?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, we found the young lady, and then we talked to a few soldiers, so what secrets did you unearth?” asked Connolly.

“I found a name,” said Emelia. “Count Roderick von Szeben. He, very likely with the help of young Margarethe, waylaid a colleague of mine and stole a book. Inquiries at the local rail and airship yards have told us that he has made several trips out into the mountains, likely where he has met the people for whom he stole it.”

“These would be the dangerous theater critics of whom you warned us?” asked Alyah.

Emelia couldn’t repress a crooked smile. “They are a dangerous cult. The book is holy to them.”

Alyah shrugged. “If it is but a book, allow the heretics their heresy.”

“It’s a bit more dangerous than that,” replied Emelia.

Alyah seemed unimpressed.

“Fanatics with holy books have caused the odd crisis in the past,” Connolly pointed out.

“And what of this count?” asked Alyah. “Is he a member of this cult?”

“Doubtful,” Emelia replied. “I assume he’s been hired as an agent.”

“So why would he work for them?”

“Money.”

“I thought he was a count,” said Alyah. “Does that not mean he has castles and vassals and so on?”

“He’s not from an old, established family. His father was a Wild Goose.”

Alyah’s brow furrowed.

“An Irish soldier of fortune,” supplied Connolly. “To become a successful Irish war hero, you have to get defeated fighting for Ireland then go into exile and the employ of some other army where you can win glory.”

“Accurate enough,” said MacGregor, refilling his pipe.

“Quite,” said Emelia. “In any case, the elder count served the emperor and was granted a title and estates, which he passed down to his son.”

“There are Irish freebooters who passed on less to their offspring,” Connolly commented.

“Fair enough,” Emelia replied. “But the estates don’t produce much, and the elder count left him deeply in debt. And while he’s a decent horseman and swordsman and a dashing officer filled with elan and charisma and all the rest, he’s found it hard to rise in a peacetime army. Hard to win fame and fortune with no enemies to fight.”

“Then he’s not trying hard enough,” said Connolly. “Plenty of fighting to be found if you know where to look.”

“He has the book? Are we sure he hasn’t already handed it over?” asked MacGregor

“Probably he still has it. The local constabulary supposedly located and wiped out a den of brigands recently, who sounded much more like cultists than simple bandits. I would guess they were the count’s contacts, and either they failed to make the meeting and exchange or failed to meet his terms.”

“If they tried to double cross him, why wouldn’t he want to turn on them? Sell the Book back to your people?”

“If he had wanted to, I think he would have by now. No, I think he believes he can still force the original deal on his terms. My sources say he’s booked passage on an airship to a remote area for the second time recently. I’d guess he made a deal on the first trip and now he’s off to deliver the book.”

“Well, he’s got brass ones, that’s for certain,” said Connolly.

“He is not known for a lack of confidence.”

“Neither was Custer, and see where that got him,” replied Connolly.

Chapter 13

Emelia heard a respectful knock on the door of her cabin.

“Yes?”

“Message for you, miss,” came the voice of airman Hope.

“It’s all right, miss,” Connolly’s voice followed. “I’m with him.”

Emelia was surprised. She’d not have expected treachery from one of the crew, but Connolly had prepared for it anyway. It seemed she had hired guards who took the job seriously.

“Come in,” she called.

The young airman handed over a paper. “Telegram came in just now, miss.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hope,” she replied.

The young man made a clumsy bow and backed out the door.

“Seems like the boy’s smitten,” said Connolly.

“It’s darling until they’re old enough to shave,” replied Emelia. “Then it’s a bit of a burden.”

“A useful one at times, I’d wager.”

She shrugged. “We make do with the advantages we are given.” She opened and read the note. “Excellent.”

“What is?” asked Connolly after a moment.

“My contact at the airship terminal sent this,” she said with a grin. “It seems Count Roderick has booked passage om the airship Falke into the Carpathians. And while he checked his baggage, there was a valise he seemed overly protective of.”

“This contact of yours,” said Connolly. “I just wonder. Is he old enough to shave?”

* * *

Emelia addressed the group assembled in the wardroom.

“The book is on the airship,” said Emelia. “Can we intercept it?”

“We can catch it,” said the captain. “How do you want to explain boarding a passenger vessel?”

“Who controls that area?”

“The Austrian Empire. It’s near the frontier, but still Austria,” replied MacGregor.

“There’s been some trouble out there though, hasn’t there?” asked Connolly. “Hungarian separatists making noise?”

“There has.”

“That’s it, then,” said Emelia. “Captain Little, do you have an Austrian flag on board?”

The captain smiled. “We have every national flag of Europe on board, plus the United States and the East India Trading Company. And a Hanseatic pennant, just for old time’s sake.”

“Perfect. We’re an Imperial airship on patrol, and we’re searching for a suspected spy bringing information to the separatists.”

“What are you going to do for uniforms?”

“We can scrounge something that looks close enough. Mr. Connolly, you don’t speak any German, by chance?”

“Not unless you need me to order a pint. Which is noch ein Bier, bitte, in case you were wondering.”

“I am grateful for that knowledge, but we’ll need a bit more,” Emelia replied. “Mr. MacGregor?”

“Sorry, lass.”

“Anyone?”

“Jensen has a bit,” said the captain. “He’s Danish, so it’s close. His accent isn’t perfect, but he can understand. I can get by, but it’s not pretty. And I don’t exactly look Austrian,” he added with a smile.

“All right.” She nodded, chewed her lip. “I’ll have to take command of our little boarding party.”

“Hate to bring this up,” said Connolly, “but you’re prettier than most Austrian army officers.”

“I’m an actor. Trust me. Now let’s see what we can scrounge for uniforms.”

Chapter 14

Roderick leaned on the rail of the airship, taking a deep pull on his cigar. This was good. He had taken passage on a completely legitimate passenger ship. The book was safe in his valise, nothing contraband anywhere on board, no reason in the world to worry. Out here, among strangers, he kept it close on his person. Soon he’d hand it over, and, along with the guns, would have given the cultists every reason to be generous. With that payment, he would be free of his father’s debts. He’d have the means to advance in the army and society. The hypocrites who sneered at him for being a penniless son of a mercenary would start fawning for his approval.

He’d never trust that, never mistake it for real respect, but it would do. And someday, when he passed the estate down to his heir, it would be an established, honored title. So what if it was made possible by dark deeds done in the shadows? What noble fortune hadn’t been, if you looked back far enough? And after a generation, the stain would be washed away by wealth and class. No one would sneer at his son for lack of breeding.

Come to think of it, once he had the estates in order, then it might be time to think about producing a legitimate heir or two. Find a respectable wife, tie his fortunes to another family of aristocrats, get some blue blood into the line. Couldn’t give up on Margarethe and her ilk, though. Probably make her his official mistress.

He turned up the collar of his coat against the morning chill. He was in civilian dress this time. It wouldn’t do to give the other passengers a reason to remember him and the downside—perhaps the only downside—of his Hussar uniform was that it was memorable. He still had a revolver under his arm and a dagger up his sleeve, even if his sabre was in his baggage. That, coupled with own natural charm, should be plenty of protection on this simple journey.

Chapter 15

Connolly looked at the group and gauged their chance of success. Even odds, he figured.

He and Jensen were outfitted as Austrian Army privates. He was wearing his blue cavalry trousers and a white fatigue jacket from the ship’s stores. The colors were right, even if the cut wasn’t quite. He had a rifle and bayonet, but not the one the Empire would have issued. They both wore kepis blackened with boot polish rather than the correct shakos, but they probably looked military enough to a civilian.

Emelia, however, was transformed. He’d had little confidence when she’d first proposed the plan, but seeing her made him think they might pull this off. She wore the captain’s summer white navy jacket, which looked impressive, even if the braid on the sleeves was totally out of place, along with a pair of borrowed blue trousers. Somehow the curves of her figure had vanished, and her hair was bound and tucked up under her kepi. She had added a thin mustache and a fussy little beard that seemed just the kind of thing a young and arrogant lieutenant would wear. She looked a bit like a young George McClellan. Hopefully she’d be more decisive.

More even than the look she created, she moved and spoke like a man. A young one certainly, but if he hadn’t seen her prior, he’d never have suspected she was a woman. She walked with the exaggerated precision of a new officer trying to look efficient and competent but secretly worried that his men will see through him. Connolly had seen enough new officers to recognize the look. He smiled and decided to trust in the actress and their chances.

What concerned him was that the commands would be in German, and he didn’t speak it. He just decided to act like a thickheaded recruit and follow Jensen’s lead. Emelia knew enough not to give him a direct order. If she gave any order, he would just bark “Jawohl, mein Herr!” and do what Jensen did. He rehearsed the phrase again.

The deck crew had been outfitted as best as they could manage, and the Austrian flag flown.

Well, he told himself, they’d done all they could, now it was time to play his role to the hilt and trust in his companions. Nerves always stirred right before an action. Most of being a good soldier was managing those emotions.

Routine helped. He methodically loaded his rifle.

He heard a challenge in German answered by the other vessel. Which then cut steam and slowed. The Phoenix turned toward it.

“Well,” said Emelia, “here we go. Ready, gentlemen?”

Jensen nodded.

“Jawohl, mein Herr,” said Connolly.

The actress smiled at him, a twinkle of mischief in her eye.

“Sehr gut, mein Freund. Sehr gut.”

The other ship hove to, and the Phoenix deck hands threw a gangway across. Emelia nodded at it. Connolly blew out a long breath and focused, then marched across, trying to look as martial as possible while crossing a swaying plank a thousand feet in the air. When they reached the other ship, he and Jensen stepped off and stood to either side as Emelia came aboard, radiating officiousness as she swept her haughty gaze across the assembled crew.

The captain stepped forward, bowed and asked something. Emelia barked a reply. Connolly thought it sounded gruff and menacing, but it was German, so it was hard to tell.

The captain paled, gobbled for a bit, tried to appease. Emelia held his eyes with the cold, implacable sternness of a high-born aristocrat who had never been questioned and now commanded some bruisers with rifles. The man flinched.

At that moment, a different man spoke. It wasn’t loud or imperious, but it carried. Connolly couldn’t understand the words, but the tone was a confident drawl.

He looked the man over, from his artfully windblown hair to the carefully trimmed mustache above a smirk. The man was military. Definitely an officer. Senior lieutenant, maybe a captain, he guessed. Cavalry for sure. From a fashionable regiment. He leaned against the cabin, a thin cigar in the corner of his mouth. Count Roderick, if Connolly had to guess.

Emelia turned toward the man and gave a sharp command. He answered and they spoke for a moment. Connolly tried to follow the exchange based just on body language and tone. He wasn’t entirely sure who was winning.

The man looked Emelia up and down, taking in the details of the fake uniform. His smirk widened. Connolly saw him push himself forward off the cabin and noted that despite the ease of his stance, he was balanced and ready. As dangerous as an unexploded shell.

Connolly cleared his throat. The man turned toward him. He kept his rifle muzzle politely elevated, but at a point just past the man’s left ear. He shook his head. The man hesitated a moment, then gave a shrug.

The man was a soldier, he’d spot the inaccuracies in the uniforms, and he clearly knew this wasn’t a legitimate search. He seemed smart enough to see this for what it was. But he also appeared smart enough to know that truth can be poor armor against a Minie ball at close range. Connolly nodded, complimenting him on his astuteness.

Emelia barked an order—German was good for that—and Jensen stepped forward and reached into the man’s valise and pulled a book from it. One of the other passengers began to move, but the count cleared his throat and the man stopped.

Connolly was impressed at just how well everyone was communicating, despite the fact that so little of it was verbal and the rest in a language he didn’t speak.

Emelia took the book from Jensen, then spoke to the count. Probably leaving him with an admonition that obscure eldritch tomes were considered an offensive weapon, and cautioning him not to be found with one again.

“Touché, cherie,” Roderick said softly.

Connolly understood that and saw the tiniest crack in Emelia’s reserve before it snapped back into place. The woman gave an order to her men and turned and marched back over the gangplank. Connolly and Jensen followed.

It wasn’t until the plank was withdrawn and the Phoenix sailed away without taking fire that Connolly allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

“I’ll be honest,” he said. “I didn’t really think that was going to work.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” said Emelia. “It all about committing to your character. People see what they expect to see. They fill in the missing details. You can wear the wrong hat so long as you project the right attitude and hardly anyone will question it.”

“I don’t think the count was taken in.”

“No,” she replied. “He wasn’t. But we had him in a spot where there wasn’t much he could do about it.”

“Didn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d just admit defeat and move on, though.”

“No, he didn’t.” She smiled. “I expect we’ll be seeing more of him.”

Chapter 16

“The Book has been what?” demanded Gorka.

“Stolen,” replied Roderick. “Well, stolen under the guise of confiscation. Your enemies are resourceful.”

“If this is the Imperial government...” began the prophet.

“It is not, your excellency. These people were imposters. Believe me when I say I know what Austrian army uniforms are supposed to look like. These were like the costumes of a traveling theater troupe. Good enough to fool bumpkins, but not a real soldier.”

“Are you a failure, then, or a charlatan? How do we know you didn’t sell the Book to our enemies, or that you even had it in the first place?” said Gorka.

“Had I done that, would I have come here, placing my own favorite skin in your clutches? As far as my work, you did receive a significant delivery of military arms, did you not?”

“We did,” replied the prophet. “In that you have served us well. The strength of our Faithful is greatly increased. And I sense no falsehood in your tale. But the Book must be recovered.”

The count felt a chill at the way the prophet spoke of sensing falsehood. He hadn’t actually lied to these fanatics. Yet. Not as such. But he liked to keep that option open. He had faithfully discharged his duties to the letter. But he was hardly a convert. He wasn’t comfortable with the idea that this madman with the unnerving eyes might be able to see his intent.

“Well, it’s on an airship now, and they have quite the head start,” he said. “If I knew who they were and where they were headed, perhaps I could set something up.”

“You think we would trust this to you?” asked Gorka.

“I think the rest of your faithful will have a difficult time working with any subtlety, which is what this calls for.”

“Silence.”

Gorka and Roderick both chose to heed the emotionless command.

“The people who took the Book are almost certainly agents of the Ghost Society.”

“That bunch of writers in London?” asked Roderick. “The ones who run around playing at detective? Debunking psychics and mediums? Exposing seances and so on?”

“That is the face they show the world. The truth is that most of their efforts are involved in far more serious work. They have opposed our Order for centuries. The names change. The players change. The struggle does not.”

“What are a bunch of playwrights going to do?” asked the count. “Send a group of...”

“Actors?” sneered Gorka. “A theater troupe to fool bumpkins, perhaps?”

“Well, damn me,” said Roderick. He recovered quickly. “If they are headquartered in London, they’ll have to head north, through the passes. Stop in Vienna, maybe Munich. I can catch them there.”

“No. We shall take them in the sky. Before they can make their escape,” said the prophet. “The passes are few. We can catch them unawares.”

“In what, if I may be so bold?” asked the count. “Unless you have a fleet of airships I somehow failed to notice.’

“There is a large cargo ship tethered at the village of Drochia right now. We have troops. And thanks to you, those troops are well armed. We shall take the ship. It is big enough to carry a significant force, and the small skiffs they use to ferry cargo and crew between ships can be used to deliver a boarding party.”

“Do any of your faithful have experience in running an airship?” asked Roderick. “Or fighting a boarding action?”

“The crew will serve us,” said the prophet with calm certainty. “You will see the men are ready and well drilled. Gorka will be in command. We shall take the village and make an example of those who would not serve the Void. Keep the airship crew alive but compliant.”

“As you command,” said Gorka.

“Your excellency,” replied Roderick aloud. Balls, he opined silently.

Chapter 17

Emelia and Kitty sat by the rail, watching as the two fighters practiced with their sabres. There was little else for her to do, and she had to admit that she found the athletic contest exciting. Connolly was fit and agile, and Alyah had the sinuous grace of a cat. Emelia had to admit to feeling a bit of envy toward the other woman. While she had learned the rules of society and how to best use her charm and wit to exploit and subvert them, Alyah just ignored them. She made her own way, plying a trade that was almost exclusively the domain of men and daring anyone to comment on it. And she was good enough that she probably didn’t have to prove it to anyone twice.

“He’s very handsome, miss,” said Kitty, leaning close.

“He is that,” Emelia replied. “And she is magnificent. Moves like a dancer but has the strength to counter his.”

“I would love to be able to do that,” said the maid.

“I just wish I had seen it as an option,” said the actress. “It’s nice to be able to beguile men, but belting them with a sword at need would be a satisfying alternative.”

Alyah stepped back and removed her mask, shaking out her hair. “Tell me something,” she said between gulps of air.

Connolly removed his own mask, wiped the sweat from his forehead. “What?”

“I am much faster than you are.”

“That you are,” he replied. “Better looking, too. But I’m a better dancer.”

“So why are you so damned hard to hit?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me why you’re so hard to overpower, even though you’re half my size.”

Alyah thought for a moment and nodded.

“You’re fast and accurate and deceptive, but your form isn’t clean,” he said. He shifted into an outside guard position. “When I’m here, I close out this whole side. I reduce your available targets, so I know where you have to go. I can defend the attack because I know where it has to come. Anything happens over there,” he gestured to his right with his chin, “isn’t my problem. I know it’s a feint. I just reduce my enemy’s options. As far as my own attacks, from this guard I can cut your head or your wrist or your flank, or I can thrust at your chest. I could cut your forward knee as well, but that leaves me open to a counter, so I don’t do that unless you’re already off guard.”

“I see.”

“Now, you’re a lot faster, but when you’re on guard, your blade is in the center, so you have to respect a threat from either side. Which means I can feint to one and then attack to the other when you react. If you don’t react, I just turn the feint into a true cut.”

“But if my blade is centered, I can cover any line equally fast.”

“If you’ve already closed off a line, you don’t have to worry about it. I don’t need to cover every line, because I’ve already taken one or more out of play. Try and leave me the opening you want to leave me and ignore the rest. That’s how I can parry the cuts you throw at me even when you’re faster. I know where you have to go and where you can’t.”

She considered this for a moment.

“Try it,” he said. “Get into an outside guard. Like that. Now move your hand out to the right, keep your point between my eyes. If I cut anywhere over here,” he made a few slashes at her right side, “I run into your blade. Even a cut to your head you can stop by barely moving your sword. My only option is over here,” he made a slow swing at her chest, coming in from her left. “And when I do that, you’re ready for it. Also, the knuckle guard protects your hand better when you’re in that position. I can’t make a sneaky jab at your sword hand. If you’re in the center, I can. It won’t kill you, but if I can cripple that hand, I’ve put you out of the fight.”

“That makes sense,” Alyah admitted.

“There are a handful of guards they teach in the manual, but the outside guard and the hanging guard are the only two I’ve found worth using,” said Connolly. “You can use the inside guard and close off attacks from your left, but that leaves your arm too exposed, unless you’re inviting an attack so you can pull something tricky.”

“So you restrict yourself to the guard with the point up and the guard with the point down?” she asked with a smile.

“My mind was never sharp, even before age and drink had done their worst. Keeping it simple is just me knowing my limits.”

“You must have been something to see in your youth. Back before gunpowder and the printing press.”

They tried a few more exchanges, with Alyah working from the various guards.

“That’s it,” said Connolly. “Do you feel like the parries are easier?”

“I do. Now that I know your secret, expect to get beaten like the imperialist dog my father always said you were.” The sparkle in her eye and the grin took the sting out of the words.

“Now, then. Fair’s fair. How do you move like you do? I know youth is part of it, but I’ve fought young agile enemies before. Fighting you is like trying to hammer fog into a shape.”

The woman thought for a long moment. “It is not easy to explain. Stand on guard. Now, feel your weight. Feel gravity pulling on your body. See how you feel when everything is in balance.”

Connolly fell into a guard, knees bent, poised on the balls of his feet, back straight.

“When you make your attack, instead of pushing off with that back leg, just pick up your front foot and fall forward.”

“All right.” He did so. “What am I supposed to feel?”

“Patience. Now do the same, but before you step, shift your weight forward. Move not by pushing off that back foot, but by tensing the muscles of your legs, shifting forward, still in balance, then move the foot and let gravity pull you forward. Finally, do not leave that left foot behind. Let it come forward with you at the end. Do not finish in a lunge with all your weight forward. Finish in balance. That allows you to move again without having to correct. If you miss or if I step to the side and evade, you have not lost your balance. It is hard to explain. And it will feel odd and slower when you first try it, but as you move your whole body in balance, not just pushing with your leg or swinging your arm, but letting yourself flow as one whole, it will make sense.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Very well,” she said, stepping forward. “I see that I must explain this in your cold, simplistic, methodical European fashion. Put down the sword. It will be easier to understand if you feel what I am doing.” Alyah stood facing Connolly. “Grab my jacket, like you want to throw me. Get a good handful of sleeve. Yes. Just like that. Now, shove me around a little.”

Connolly held onto the woman’s jacket and pulled her back and forth.

“Now, you can feel where I am. How I am balanced?”

“Yes.”

“If I try to pull away, like this, or push back, like this, you can feel it and react.”

“With you so far.”

“But now just try to move me around. Push, pull. However you see fit.”

Connolly outweighed the woman by a few stone, of that he was sure, and while she was fast, he felt certain she wasn’t stronger that he was. He made a gentle attempt to shove her back up against the railing.

Somehow, she shifted her weight, or moved her feet or made some other subtle change, and though he had two fistfuls of jacket, he couldn’t feel her. Couldn’t tell where she was going or what she would do next. It was like wrestling an empty coat. He pushed forward. And then she turned her right side forward into him, her left hand dropping on his right arm, her left shoulder falling away. His right hand, still clutching the jacket, drew him forward, off balance. She stepped in, bumping his shoulder with all her weight, and sent him stumbling to the side, scrambling to recover his balance.

“See? I used my mass, not just my strength. I can do the same with a sword. Fall into the cut, let gravity and weight pull the blade through the target, not just the strength of my arm. Just then, I could have trapped your hand when I did that and twisted your wrist as you lurched forward, but I didn’t want to risk you falling badly and breaking a hip at your advanced age.”

“I appreciate the concern, truly,” he replied. “Now how do you do that?”

She shrugged. “Ancient hidden wisdom. Oriental mysticism. You white men would not understand.”

“Catholic Irish are only grudgingly qualified as white. And you’re probably just a witch. You don’t only move like a cat, you can change your weight the way they do. Make themselves heavy when they don’t want to be picked up, make themselves light when they want to leap.”

“Perhaps that is my secret.” She grinned wickedly. “But now, if I can combine your cold European scientific theories of angles and geometry with my inscrutable Eastern witchcraft, I shall be the deadliest blade in the world.”

“So long as you’re not letting it go to your head.”

“You can be the second deadliest blade,” she offered. “For a while, at least. As long as those brittle bones hold out.”

“The lady is too kind,” he said, taking an exaggerated bow.

Chapter 18

Emelia was too excited to sleep. Soon they would be back in England, the book would be turned over to the Ghost Society, and she would have shown everyone that a laundry girl could run an operation as well as any agent.

Well, no, she amended. She wouldn’t show anyone that, since she would be damned before she’d show anyone that she’d been a laundry girl. But they would see an actress do what the soldiers and scientists and men of letters could not. That would have to be enough.

She tried to keep a grip on her excitement. They were still a long way from home, and there was still a great deal that could go wrong. So many leagues yet to travel. But she had chosen her people well and come up with a brilliant plan and executed it. That was certain. Now, with the end so near, she could almost taste it, her thoughts were racing, her heart beating faster. Sleep was not in the cards tonight.

She would sleep when the book was safely handed over. She got out of bed quietly, pulled on a robe over her nightdress and went topside. Maybe the night air would help clear her thoughts.

The night was chill this high up, but the air was clear. The stars were hard and bright and seemed closer than she usually saw them. She was used to seeing the sky above a city, where the smoke and lights of humanity blurred and softened the keen edges of the night.

She leaned on the rail and looked out at the stars, listened to the creak of wood and rope and canvas, the rumbling of the engines. Breathed the cold, sharp air. This was good. Such a far cry from the single room she’d shared with her mother and sisters, thick with coal smoke and the stink of the tanneries, the only rumbling that of her empty belly.

Never again.

While there was much about the future that was uncertain, of that she could be sure. She would never go back to that.

She heard a footstep behind her. Chan approached with two mugs.

“Troubling sleeping, miss?” asked Chan.

“Call me Emelia,” she said.

“Thank you. You may call me Jun.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you,” Chan blushed and lowered her eyes. “I noticed you out here while I was on watch, and now that I’ve been relieved, I brought some tea. I put a little rum in it. That might help you get back to bed.”

Emelia smiled and accepted the mug. “Thank you. Yes. I couldn’t sleep. Too much thinking. I came up to look out at the stars. Didn’t know how pretty they’d look from up here. Away from the city.”

“That’s one of the best things about serving on an airship,” said Chan. “That and the freedom.”

“How long have you been sky sailing?”

“Forever,” Chan replied, staring off into the middle distance.

Emelia wasn’t sure what to say to that. She sipped at her tea, felt the warm burn of the rum down to her stomach. “It seems like a good life.”

The other woman nodded. “It is. I imagine being an actress must be exciting.”

“It has its moments,” said Emelia. “It was my way to live as I pleased. The freedom to be whoever I wanted. I like creating my own reality. Even if it’s only for a short time.”

Chan leaned on the rail beside her, shoulder to shoulder. Emelia felt the warmth of the other woman’s body against her. It was a nice change from the chill night air.

“We all have the power to create our own reality,” said Chan. “But it’s harder to change between them once you’ve chosen. When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a pirate queen. This is as close as I’ve gotten.”

Emelia looked at Chan, seeing her in profile as she looked out at the stars. There was a smile on her lips.

“You’ve made a good start.”

“Did you ever play a pirate queen?”

Emelia shook her head. “I’ve never played a pirate. Closest I’ve done is a young woman carried off by a dashing pirate.”

“But not a pirate queen?”

“Sadly, I must confess, I have never been carried off by a pirate queen.”

Jun Chan turned to face Emelia, leaning her shoulder against her. “There are still many hours until dawn.”

Emelia smiled. “And here I find myself alone in the dark of night, defenseless against a dashing pirate queen.”

“Future pirate queen.” Chan leaned in and kissed her. “Surrender.”

“Or be boarded?” asked Emelia, before returning the kiss more deeply.

Chapter 19

Roderick paced the deck of the captured airship, wondering just how deep he had gotten himself. The cultists had captured the village and the ship easily. They had taken to modern infantry drill extremely well. Not that it should have surprised him. Infantry drill was just learning to execute a series of simple commands, and these men were easily led. And they finally had some uniformity of appearance as well. Getting true uniforms would have been expensive and involved a lot of tailoring, but he’d gotten a deal on a shipment of surplus French infantry kepis in red, so every man had a bright red hat. Made it easy to tell friend from foe, easy to keep track of the men since it showed up so well and looked smart enough—even if they had removed the bursting grenade badges and replaced them with their own ridiculous one: The World’s Least Convincing Starfish.

Mechanical precision and a lack of individual thought might be unnerving traits in a human being, but they were a boon in a line infantry recruit. Loading and firing a rifle by the numbers was just simple repetition. Keeping pace and maintaining their place in the line was easier for dull men than free thinkers. Even the bayonet was a simple weapon, relying on reach and the men to either side. Just thrust the point at the enemy, and if he blocks it, hope the man to your left or right gets him. It lacked the flash and versatility of a sabre, but it was ruthlessly effective in a group.

Most of the cultists would have made poor officers. Poor skirmishers or light cavalry even. That required thought and initiative. He’d see if any of the men showed any aptitude for that. An army needed a few men who could think on their feet for reconnaissance and ambush and special circumstances, but troops of the line could get by just doing as they were told.

Thinking about military matters kept his mind off the scene at the village.

He was no stranger to violence. He had fought in battles. He’d seen men die. He’d killed men. Heard the cries of the wounded and the dying. Seen and smelled blood and viscera spilled. That was part of the job. A means to an end. But these men enjoyed it.

That didn’t make them unique. Plenty of men enjoyed it, or got caught up in the moment, drunk on the heady mix of fear and rage and excitement, the power that came with taking a life. Took things too far. Some of them became addicted to the feeling. He understood that. He didn’t particularly enjoy it himself, but he could see how some men could.

These men were different. Give them a target and they would viciously attack it, focus all the hate they had for everything, every wrong, real or imagined, and pour that savagery into it. Wreaking a horrible vengeance. Losing themselves in the haze of murder and torture. But then, when that ghoul Gorka told them to stop, they did. Like a dog called to heel.

That was unnatural. A berserk fury wasn’t something a man should be able to turn on and off at will.

It had impressed the airship crew well enough, he admitted. It turned out a man didn’t need to see too many people tossed into a bonfire before he decided to rethink his options and start doing as he was told. Roderick wasn’t sure which faces disturbed him more. The dead eyes of the cultists, containing just the tiniest spark of primal rage waiting to be stoked into life, or the naked terror in those of the crew.

He peered out into the fog instead. The cult might be madder than a barrel of monkeys, but their gold was good. The sooner they had the book back and he was done with all of this, the better. At least the first payment was headed to the bank. This one last task should grant him freedom from both the prophet and the money lenders.

For all the talk of “Piercing the Veil” or “Summoning the Old Ones,” how different were they from any other band of murderous zealots? Cromwell or the Teutonic Knights? Everyone’s god was righteous and just, and everyone was willing to burn peasants at the stake to prove it.

He dismissed out of hand the madness he’d overheard about summoning the gods. If their gods were real—hell if anybody’s gods were real—they didn’t seem to be too keen on turning up. He didn’t expect these madmen to be any different. The danger they possessed was in how readily they’d slit a throat, not that they might tear a hole in reality, whatever a bunch of seance-busting writers might think.

The ship hovered high in the clouds, waiting. He had drilled the men for the attack, even though he thought it was a poor plan with too much that could go wrong. The airship had two gliders for evacuating the crew in the event of a catastrophe, like lifeboats on a sailing ship, and one larger, powered skiff for delivering goods or passengers from the ship to anywhere docking wouldn’t be feasible.

Each lifeboat could carry five armed soldiers plus a pilot, and the big skiff could carry fifteen. The lifeboats were designed to get to the ground, so they could only glide, but they were silent. The skiff was powered and could climb as well, but it was loud.

He heard the faint thrum of an engine in the fog below. He spun on his heel and strode wordlessly to his command.

The men, guided by hand signals and whispers, filed onto the boats. The two gliders launched, arcing out to sweep in from both flanks above. The count pulled out his pocket watch, waited for five minutes, then gave the signal to the pilot of the skiff, who started the engine and cast off.

Chapter 20

MacGregor peered out into the fog. He wasn’t happy about flying through this. The pass was wide, though. And he did have his locator. It was experimental technology, but he should be able to detect a mountain. Probably even before they hit it. Captain Little had a sense for piloting that he couldn’t explain. The man saw things. Currents in the clouds, maybe. Always seemed to know how fine he could cut it. The engineer trusted the captain, but he always felt that a man could never have too large a margin of error.

Connolly and Alyah walked the deck, straining eyes and ears into the mist. Alyah straightened and cocked her head to the side.

“Something,” she said.

“Other than wind?” asked Connolly.

“Something of metal and gears,” she said. “Some infernal European device.” She drew her revolver.

“An engine,” said MacGregor. “Stand ready, I’m off to get my rifle.” He dashed to his cabin.

Connolly grabbed the nearest crewman, the big Dane, Jensen. “Get the crew ready. We may have company.” The man nodded and moved off to pass the word, snatching up a boarding axe as he went.

Soon, Connolly heard the sound of an engine from above and ahead. He drew his Colt, checked the hang of his sabre and moved toward the bow.

“Bahaar Dehko!” shouted Alyah. Connolly, no stranger to cries of alarm in Hindi, turned to see a shadow approaching through the fog on the starboard side. Alyah fired her revolver at it as it resolved into the form of a glider full of armed men.

He glanced around quickly and saw a similar form closing in from the port side, just aft of amidships. He leveled his weapon at the center of the mass of men on the craft and fired again and again. He saw one shadowy form jerk and fall sideways as the rest crouched, trying to take cover. Their movement threw the light and temperamental craft off course, sending the glider into an unplanned bank that dropped it below the Phoenix. Connolly allowed himself a grim smile

His elation faded as he saw grapples land and catch on the gunwale.

There was no time to reload. Connolly drew his sword and raced to the railing, trying to hold them off before they could gain the deck and use their numbers.

The first boarder had a cutlass in his hand, but as he was still pulling himself over the gunwale, he was unable to make much of a defense. Connolly evaded a clumsy parry and drove the point of his sword into the man’s neck. The man gave a choked cry and dropped his weapon, slipped from the railing, and plunged into space, leaving a gout of blood on the gunwale.

Connolly ran from point to point along the port side of the ship, slashing at arms and heads that showed above the rail, forcing the attack back before it could develop. Behind him, he heard Alyah’s shouts as she did the same on the starboard side, Jensen’s roaring as he wielded his boarding axe, and the slow, regular report of MacGregor’s breechloader from the poop deck. Maybe they could hold them back, discourage them, make the price in blood too high.

But there were so many of them. As he cut at a hand that gripped the gunwale, he heard MacGregor’s shout.

“Astern!”

Connolly turned and saw an attacker pull himself over the rail and get his actual feet on the actual deck. Connolly charged the man before any of his comrades could join him. The boarder took a swing with his cutlass, but Connolly caught the blow on his pistol and thrust his sword through the man’s chest.

He looked around, panting with exertion, and saw the few remaining enemy falling back. He wiped his brow on his sleeve, then fought to keep his balance as he felt the ship shudder.

“To the bow!” Jensen shouted, hefting his axe.

From the bow, he heard a barked command, then the crash of a volley. A musket ball snapped past his ear. Jensen grunted, doubled over and crumpled to the deck.

Connolly made his way forward. When he got around the mast his heart sank. While they had been fighting off the boarders on the waist of the ship, a skiff had grappled itself to the bow. Armed men swarmed across.

Too many. At least a dozen. Perhaps twenty. Against two veteran swords, one marksman with a breechloader, and some half-trained crewmen. Worse, these men looked professional. They didn’t scatter where he and especially Alyah could use their mobility to engage them in detail, but formed up like marines, in ranks with bayonets fixed. They didn’t stop to reload after their initial volley, but pressed forward, intent to squeeze the defenders to the stern and overwhelm them.

Oh well, he thought. Have to die sometime. He took a deep breath and moved toward the bow. He had long ago accepted the idea of selling his life. Now he just wanted to see how well he could haggle over the price.

He closed on the advancing enemy, Alyah to his right, breathing hard, though not as hard as he, a wide grin on her face, her bloody sabre slicing curves in the air before her. The boarders moved in briskly, just slow enough to keep the line, to let the second rank spread out as the deck widened, not letting gaps open, not leaving the formation behind. The sight of a pair of defenders, even ones with blood on their steel, who had driven off the first assault didn’t seem to worry them all that much.

See if we can correct that.

He took up a careful stance, sword and pistol both forward. Alyah prowled beside him, looking for an opening.

As the enemy came on, Connolly deflected a bayonet thrust from the first man, then whipped the blade around to cut the man’s forward wrist. He stepped rapidly back as the foe’s comrade stabbed at him and the man in the second rank thrust the point of his bayonet forward. The injured man was able to retreat back into the second rank while the formation ground forward.

Connolly tried to plan his next move when he heard the sharp report of a shot from behind and one of the enemy fell with a bloody hole in his forehead. MacGregor must have moved up. No way he could have made that shot from the poop.

Alyah chose that moment to charge. Connolly didn’t think it was enough of a breach, but she must have.

The woman sprang forward, swinging her sabre at the head of the man next to the one MacGregor had shot. He raised his rifle in a clumsy parry. She ducked and slashed her curved sword across his abdomen. As he folded over and slumped to the deck, spilling blood and entrails, she darted low beneath the thrust of the next man, under the points of the bayonets, in among the enemy, slashing at legs and bellies.

Connolly followed, pushing into the breach. He saw one of the enemy turn to strike at Alyah with the butt of his weapon. He knocked aside the weapon of the man to his left with the empty revolver and slashed at Alyah’s attacker, taking him in the back of the neck as he turned. Then he was in the midst of them, slashing, blocking, striking with his pistol and the knuckle guard of his sabre, feeling the flow of the fight, reacting by instinct honed by experience, sensing the time to press and the time to hold up, taking the fight to his foes.

Now that they were in close, the formation began to fray, the dressed ranks falling apart. Men tried to shorten the grip on their rifles to bring bayonets to bear or swung the heavy weapons like clubs, getting in one another’s way. Some drew the cutlasses from their belts as the fight closed in.

Connolly deflected a thrust from a bayonet with the forte of his sword and drove forward, sliding the guard of his sword along the rifle to put his point in the man’s eye. He blocked a cutlass slash with his sabre, punched his revolver into the elbow of the man’s sword arm, and cut him when he staggered away. He blocked another cut with the pistol, but it skittered off and caught him in the shoulder. The blade turned as it struck and failed to bite through his heavy jacket. It was enough to hurt, but not enough to stop him or make him drop the weapon. He fought on, pushing ever forward, letting the rush of blood, the exhilaration of the fight fuel him.

Ahead of him, Alyah was a whirlwind of steely death. Her sabre was longer and lighter than the cutlasses and quicker than the bayonets of the enemy. In a fight this close, even those advantages shouldn’t have made up for the numbers, but the woman was a demon. She was a fox in the hen house, a cat among a flock of pigeons, moving like lightning, slashing left and right, leaving a trail of carnage. He saw her dodge without thought, leaning out of the path of a blade, then gliding back in to slash her foe. Her keen sabre left grievous wounds with the edge, but she made skillful and tricky use of the point when she could. She caught the barrel of a rifle with her left hand and slashed first the arm and then the throat of its wielder.

He moved in her wake, preventing the enemy from surrounding her and stabbing her in the back, although he wondered if she needed even that much help.

It couldn’t last. Of that much he was sure. But it didn’t have to. This was a fight that would be remembered in song, if there was anyone left alive to sing about it. A better death than many.

The enemy fought hard, battling on despite the butcher’s bill, fighting when any sensible man would have run or surrendered. He saw a man sprawled on the deck, his left arm severed above the wrist by Alyah’s sabre, struggle up onto his knees, releasing his rifle and drawing his cutlass with his remaining hand. He made a slash at Connolly’s legs, but the old soldier dodged backward and split the man’s skull with his counter.

The two pressed onward, wreaking havoc. It began to dawn on Connolly that as bad as the odds seemed, they were moving forward, driving into the enemy, forcing them to give ground. He knew if they let the attackers have a moment to regroup, a moment to breathe, they’d be finished, so drive on he did. Behind, he heard MacGregor’s rifle again and again, adding to the carnage whenever the engineer had a clear shot. He dodged a bayonet thrust, cut at the wielder, but the man backed away and caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head with the forestock of his weapon. Blinking the stars from his vision, Connolly got a bind on the musket with his sword and drove forward, hoping to use his point, but the man kept retreating. Connolly kept his sword on the man’s musket, pressing forward, not giving him the space to bring his bayonet into line. As the enemy backed until he ran out of deck, he lowered his shoulder and plowed into the man, bulling him back over the rail, off into oblivion.

Then they were at the bow. The remaining enemy retreated back to their vessel. The skiff’s crew had already cut the grapples and drawn back the gangplank, and the boarders had to jump to safety. One lost his footing on the bloody deck, his foot slipping as he leapt. He missed the skiff, his hand just brushing the rail as he plummeted downwards, his thin cry swallowed in the mist. For one mad moment, Connolly thought Alyah was going to murder her way across onto the skiff and clear it of foes, soaking the deck with blood. In that moment of wild exultation, he’d have followed.

But the enemy crew were shoving off, reversing away. The survivors of the boarding party held position at their own rail, bayonets and cutlasses ready to meet any assault Alyah and Connolly might make. The small craft backed away and was swallowed in the mist.

Connolly leaned on the rail, panting. He saw MacGregor move forward, working the action of his rifle to eject a brass casing. He calmly took another from his pouch and slipped it into the chamber. The engineer peered into the mist, his weapon at the low ready. Connolly stared at the man. He was still immaculate. His waistcoat was buttoned. By God, the man’s tie was straight.

Connolly himself was soaked with sweat and gasping for air. His muscles trembling with fatigue and spent adrenaline. He tried to set down his sabre, had to grasp the forte with his left hand and work it out of his cramped right. He couldn’t get enough air. He fumbled with trembling fingers at the buttons on his collar. He felt he couldn’t breathe, his vision was blurry, and there was a disconcerting hollow fluttering in his chest.

With difficulty, he got the collar of his jacket open, dragging in air in huge gasps.

Oh, what an irony, he thought, to survive a battle like that just to have his heart give out.

Alyah, for her part, was ebullient. Her face shone and she gave an ululating cry and shook her bloody sword in the direction of the retreating enemy. She turned a huge smile on Connolly, then grasped him in a tight embrace, laughing.

“What a battle!” she said. “When have two blades won such a victory against so many?”

Connolly could only nod. When the woman released him and bounded back to the rail to shout more defiance into the mist, he sat against the railing, pale, shaking, and sweating, unsure if he was going to vomit or pass out or just fall over dead. He took his canteen, fumbled it open with shaking hands. He took a swig, managed to swallow some, then poured more over his head and face.

“You alright, lad?” MacGregor asked, concern on his face.

Connolly settled on another nod, not confident of his ability to speak.

“You should learn to shoot,” the man went on. “At our age we shouldn’t fight hand to hand with more than six men at a time.”

Connolly finally managed a shaky smile. “There were more than six?”

“Well, that is more than you have fingers,” replied the engineer. “The army never taught you to count?”

“Not an essential subject,” Connolly said, panting still. “Not for other ranks, anyway.” He started to feel he might live. Might not even vomit.

“The girl is a force of nature,” MacGregor observed, watching Alyah grin as she cleaned the blood from her sabre.

Connolly nodded. “Scary, that one. I used to be able to move like that.”

“You used to be fast. And you still have some fight in you,” said MacGregor. “But you never moved like that.”

“We lose anyone?” he asked.

“Jensen’s down,” said the engineer in his grim brogue. “Doctor’s with him now. Chavez and Hawkins were slightly injured from splinters or ricochets, but they should mend.”

Connolly nodded. Probably should have said something, but there wasn’t much to say, and he was trying to use his breath to stay upright.

“Something that you may find to be of interest.” MacGregor gestured at the detritus on the deck. “Springfield rifled muskets. All of them. With standard issue bayonets. Not exactly what you’d expect from a group of pirates.”

“Some bandit chief get a good deal on army surplus?”

“Och, aye. Happens all the time. Probably ran down to the telegraph office at the base of the Carpathians to wire Washington and see if President Grant was looking to sell some second-hand rifles.”

“Fair enough.”

“Does explain why they only fired one volley. Muzzle loading takes too long, and paper cartridges probably don’t do well up here in this mist.”

Connolly made what he hoped might pass for a thoughtful expression while he concentrated on breathing. It seemed to be working. The color was bleeding back into the world, replacing the pale, vertiginous grey of impending collapse.

“Speaking of guns, how’s that revolver of yours? Colt didn’t build shields, you know.”

Connolly pulled back the hammer. The cylinder rotated. The weapon didn’t look too damaged. “Probably fine. I parried a Confederate sabre with one of these at Brandy Station and fired it afterwards. Once my hand stops shaking, I’ll see if this still shoots true.”

MacGregor sighed. “Engineering would be easy if we didn’t have to design things for people who aren’t engineers.”

“Maybe if the designers realized that a lot of combat happens outside. In the weather. And is violent and unpredictable by nature.”

“You soldiers think the height of human ingenuity was the stone axe.”

“Never had to clear a misfire from a stone axe. And anyway, I’m sure primitive craftsmen spent enough time bitching that warriors were always chipping the axe heads by actually hitting the enemy with them.”

MacGregor shook his head. “Take that revolver apart and clean it. I’ll inspect it before you put any more rounds through it. Don’t want you blowing your hand off and blaming some poor gun designer.”

Emelia approached, a revolver in her hand. MacGregor gave a small bow. Alyah saluted with a bloody sabre. Connolly thought about standing up.

“They’ve retreated?” she asked.

“The ones who still could,” said Connolly.

“Run like dogs to lick their wounds,” said Alyah.

“Well done,” said Emelia. “I suspected you’d driven a bad bargain back in London, but now I am certain I’m not paying you enough.”

“That, at least, is an easy problem to solve,” said MacGregor.

Chapter 21

Count Roderick looked at the wreckage of his troops, grinding his teeth. He didn’t trust himself to speak yet. Didn’t trust himself even to look at that bastard Gorka beside him.

He’d known it was a terrible plan. Told the man it was a terrible plan. Refused to lend his authority to such a plan. Even told the snide whoreson that if he was so sure of that plan, he ought to lead it. That should have at least shamed the man into leading the stupid charge if it didn’t make him reconsider it. Then he’d have still been stupid, but brave and stupid was at least worthy of some respect by soldiers.

But no. The man had sneered. Looked down his stupid hawk beak of a nose at him—the only bloody real soldier they had, the professional military advisor to the prophet—and said “The faithful need fear no mortal weapon.” Which was clearly a lie, given that many of the men had died and many of those who came back did so badly mauled by what Roderick was pretty damn sure had been mortal weapons. If the survivors murdered the both of them right now, he wouldn’t have blamed them.

“You have failed the Prophet.” Gorka’s tone was cold.

Roderick’s head snapped around to glare at the man. He was about to ask how he dared speak in that fashion to those who had bled for him—or maybe hurl him from the ship, he hadn’t quite decided—when one of the survivors spoke.

“Forgive us, father.”

Roderick turned back to stare in shock at the cultists. Bloodied, tired, spent, the men had tears running down their faces. No rage, no grief for their fallen brethren. Just the pain of a child who has disappointed his parent.

“The power of the Old Ones can only shield those whose faith is strong,” said Gorka. “But take heart. Perhaps you who have returned did so because yours was strong enough. There will come another chance to prove yourselves worthy to take your place in the New Order.”

At this, the men cheered.

Roderick turned away in disgust.

He had seen men fight and kill and die for honor, for greed, for base emotions like lust and anger and hate. He had seen men follow a lie or a vision that had no place for them. That was all terrible, but this was worse.

Religion was the greatest con ever forced on humanity. Convince them to do your bidding, however impossible or depraved it may be, and if they fail, it was because they didn’t believe enough. Worse, if they succeeded, all the reward was promised after they died. A priest or prophet could command anything, lay the responsibility at the feet of a god, and answer to no one. He had never had much stomach for it. And there had been no emphasis on piety in his childhood home, not with a father driven from Catholic Ireland and a mother called infidel and forced out of a land soaked in blood by Ottomans, Hussites, and the Teutonic Order.

It was all a lie. A worse lie than patriotism or honor or love. And he knew it was a lie, because no god, new or old, could possibly sanction something so simple and so vile.

He steeled himself. What wasn’t a lie was money. And power. And those he would have when this was over. In this life. When he got that damned book back.

And the next time, he would do it his way. Not even tell that bastard the plan until the thing was in his hand. And he wouldn’t do it with mindless sheep whose only useful trait was loyalty. He would do it with allies he could trust. Honest thieves and whores and assassins.

Chapter 22

The Phoenix rose above the mist, and the clear skies revealed no imminent threat. The crew were hard at work cleaning and repairing the ship. There wasn’t much damage. A splintered rail, a few lines cut by shot or steel. The enemy had left only the dead and dying. Any who could retreat or be dragged away by their comrades had been.

Connolly, Alyah, and MacGregor sat at the rail, cleaning and inspecting their weapons. Emelia sat down beside them with a pot of coffee and a tray of mugs.

“Well,” she said. “What is your opinion of that bit of excitement?”

“Drove ’em off,” said Connolly.

“Whole crew did an exemplary job in defense,” said MacGregor.

“We sent a horde of black souls to Shaitan and made the survivors run like cowards to shake in their boots in terror of honest steel in brave hands,” said Alyah.

Connolly took a sip of coffee. “I like her version. If you’re writing a report, use that one.”

Alyah saluted him with her mug.

“Do we think these are just bandits, or is this more likely an organized opposition?’

“Well financed and organized,” said the engineer. “All of them had U.S. Army surplus Springfields and bayonets, and the whole leather rig with the cartridge boxes, cap pouch, and bayonet scabbard. Took the ‘U.S.’ buckle off, but it’s all uniform issue. Guessing a minor warlord brokered a deal with an arms seller. Not the kind of thing you see with common pirates.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing you’d hire Count Roderick for,” Emelia mused.

“He is probably upset that you took his book and wanted to return the favor,” said Alyah.

“Probably didn’t have enough Navy mess jackets to fake an Austrian boarding party,” said Connolly.

“Sometimes you solve a problem with a razor, sometimes with an axe,” replied Emelia. “Depends what you have at hand. Either will work, one’s just messier.”

“When the axe fails, what’s next?”

“Probably a cannon,” said MacGregor.

“You only say that because you like cannons.”

“Nothing wrong with cannon, lad.”

Alyah whistled as she carefully ran her whetstone along the edge of her sabre, squinting at her work and then making another long stoke. Emelia watched for a moment, then spoke.

“Why are you doing it that way? I’d heard soldiers talk about not putting too fine an edge on a sword.”

“Flesh is easy to cut,” said Alyah, turning the weapon and inspecting the edge, “but cloth is not. If the blade is not sharp enough, the edge will not cut through anything but light clothing. A dull sword will bounce right off a heavy wool coat or a thick turban.”

“Saw that in the Crimea,” confirmed MacGregor.

“But a fine edge is easy to nick or fold or chip if you parry. Or get parried or hit a buckle or button or something hard. So I keep the first eight inches or so, near the point, razor sharp, because that is the part I cut my enemy with. Then the middle third of the blade sharp-ish, mostly in case somebody tries to grab it, and the last bit, near the guard, almost blunt, so I can parry with it and not damage the blade. Large armies do not put that much care into maintaining a thousand swords. They put a passable edge only and then teach the men to cut only at the heads or hands of the enemy and use the point against a heavy coat. A true sword fighter can do better.”

Connolly nodded along in agreement as he began disassembling his revolver. He felt good. The breathlessness has passed, and the relief of a battle survived washed the world in a happy glow. The coffee tasted better, the jokes were funnier, the air cleaner. Tomorrow his joints and muscles would present their bill, but for now he could ride the heady current of having passed through the crucible. Again.

“I have to say, you won an amazing victory. So few against so many,” said Emelia.

“Well, the few were us, and the many were not,” said Alyah.

“So I gathered. But how can anyone, even as talented as present company,” Emelia smiled, “stand against those odds?”

“Experience,” said Connolly. “These men were soldiers, or bandits maybe. Soldiers are usually just skinny kids. Hell, I was just a skinny kid when I first enlisted. Most don’t fight very many battles, or train hard enough. Not enough to get used to it, to learn to control the emotions. The average line infantryman is a young man, inadequately trained, running on emotion. He’s full of fear or anger or excitement. He doesn’t see attacks and think how to defend them, doesn’t look for his opponent’s weaknesses or mistakes. He makes a mad slash or thrust with all that fear or anger behind it and hopes for the best. There’s no feint-disengage-cut-parry-riposte with him. Just a wild attack or a fearful swipe of a block. Now, if he’s fighting in a company against another company of skinny kids with a bellyful of fear, then it all works out, and the side with the most men—or the stubbornest, sometimes—can win. Most battles aren’t won by skill with a blade.

“But when you put that poor bastard up against some old fossil like me who has seen and practiced all those cuts and parries a thousand times, who can think, not just react, and who can use that fear and excitement as a tool, not be used by it, or some wild bloody whirlwind of death like Alyah here, who’s put more hours into learning how to sharpen a sabre than he’s put into using one, he’s got no chance. Best he can hope for is with enough numbers one of his friends distracts her and gives him a shot at her back, or one of us twists an ankle or my heart gives out. That last was a possibility.”

“You sound almost like you sympathize with them.” said Emelia.

He shrugged. “Not really sympathize, as such.” He replaced the cylinder in his revolver, turned it to see how it moved. “It’s more...understanding.”

“And you can still fight them?” She wrinkled her brow. “Hack a man to death even though you understand him?”

He shrugged again. “I’m a simple man. They came to fight, so I fought. I don’t take it personally, but I do take it seriously. Can’t go easy on the enemy or you wind up dead. And right now, feeling alive and unhurt, I can afford to be charitable.”

“I’d also like to know precisely why they wanted to kill us,” said MacGregor.

“For the book,” said Emelia.

“Men do not fight or kill for a book,” said Alyah. “Maybe for the gold or the power a book will bring. Maybe for the cause it will further. Maybe for the glory of victory. Maybe just the thrill of the fight. And some men just enjoy killing. The motives of the leader who sent them are not the motives of the warrior.”

“I did feel better about boarding slave ships or fighting the rebs than I did doing Company work,” said Connolly. “The tribesmen we fought were just trying to defend their land and weren’t thrilled by British rule.”

“And they wanted their neighbor’s horses,” said Alyah. “I loved my father, but he was no patriot. He was a brigand, and proud of it.”

“Fair enough. But stealing horses is nobler than stealing people.”

“These men want to steal the world,” said Emelia gravely.

“That might qualify as worse,” mused MacGregor.

Doctor Morse, the ship’s surgeon, walked out onto the deck, drying his hands. He pulled a flask from his pocket

“How’s Jensen?” asked MacGregor..

The doctor sighed, shrugged. “Holding on. He’s strong.”

“That’s good,” said Emelia.

The doctor gave her a flat stare for a long moment. “No. It’s not. He has a gunshot through his belly. Not a damn thing I can do about that besides close it up and hope. Wash it out, stop the bleeding, but there’s no way to combat the fever that’s going to set in. Being strong just means it’ll take longer for him to die. If he were weak, he’d be at peace by now.”

He unstopped the flask and took a long pull.

* * *

Emelia stared over the rail for a long while after the doctor went below.

Jensen was dying. Dying an awful death. Because she had hired the Phoenix.

She knew that her work was dangerous and that it was in service to a greater good. She had told everyone she hired that it would be dangerous. Although Jensen was a part of the Phoenix’s crew, so Captain Little had made that decision for him, but it was not as though she had deceived anyone.

Still, she felt the weight of his dying on her shoulders. It was new to her. She had risked her own life, and she had taken a few, but she had never had a man die in her employ, on her orders.

She decided she didn’t like it.

Lieutenant Jackson approached, interrupting her musing.

“The captain would like to speak with you, miss.”

Her heart sank. She had brought a lot of violence down on his ship and his crew. “At once,” she replied. “I assume he is waiting in his cabin.”

“No, ma’am,” said the man. “He said to come to the wardroom with your guards in ten minutes.”

“Tell the captain I shall be at his service.”

She took a moment to steel herself before going to find Connolly and Alyah.

As usual they were at the rail, bantering about, oh, probably murder of some sort. She again felt a twinge of envy at the closeness they shared. She approached.

“Miss DuMond,” said Connolly.

“Mr. Connolly.” She smiled. “I’m afraid I must ask you and Miss Abdullah-Brooke to accompany me. I have a meeting with Captain Little.”

“What about?” asked Alyah.

“Very probably about the new holes in his ship and his crew,” said Connolly.

“That was not our doing,” she replied. “And we punished those responsible. What more could he ask?”’

The man shrugged. “Perhaps that we didn’t invite the attack in the first place. But I’m merely speculating.”

Alyah shook her head sadly. “Some men are impossible to please.”

“Well, captains are protective of their ships.”

Emelia smiled with grim amusement. “If you fail in your quest for a noble death, Mr. Connolly, I’m sure the two of you could find employ as a music hall comedy act. I can put a word in the ear of some theatrical agents.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, if the dying doesn’t work out.”

“Just think,” said Alyah. “In battle you can die but once. You can die a thousand deaths on the stage.”

“Do me the courtesy of taking the meeting seriously,” said Emelia. “We are due in the wardroom in five minutes.”

As she walked away, she heard them speaking.

“I think we may be in trouble,” came Alyah’s voice.

“Nah. We were in trouble when the enemy came over the rail. Now we’re just going to get yelled at.”

“Spoken like a man of experience.”

“Been yelled at a time or two. At least this time I have no stripes they can take away.”

* * *

They entered the wardroom. Captain Little sat at the head of the table, flanked by Jackson and MacGregor. Dr. Morse sat leaning back in his chair, his head resting against the bulkhead. They all stood when Emelia entered.

“Good evening, Miss DuMond,” said the captain. “Thank you for meeting with us.”

“The pleasure is mine, Captain,” she replied.

“Please, have a seat. Coffee?”

“Thank you, but no.”

The captain leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the overhead. “I believe we need to discuss the particulars of our contract.”

This wasn’t a surprise, thought Emelia. At least he seemed calm. Perhaps there was a way to smooth this over. She certainly hoped so. London was a long walk.

“I will begin by admitting you said there was some degree of danger.” His South Carolina drawl was like molasses. It could lure you into thinking everything was fine. Cordial. Comfortable. But Emelia sensed the anger beneath. “However, I believe some of us may have interpreted that ‘degree’ more broadly than others. I expected a bit of subterfuge. Maybe some smuggling. Dancing at the edges of the law. My crew and I are not strangers to that.”

Emelia waited. She thought she knew where he was going, but best to let him get there on his own. Let him show his objections, so that she could gauge the severity before she responded.

“Maybe it was my fault for not asking more questions about the exact nature of the danger. I did not expect to be attacked by an airship and boarded at the points of bayonets.” He leaned forward in his chair. “My people are not marines. They are not navy bluejackets. They are honest airmen. They are brave, and they are tough, but they are not trained for combat.”

His voice was still low. Slow and mellow. No heat in his tone. But she could feel the intensity below the surface.

“I have a man in the infirmary, dying in agony. I have two more hurt. I have holes in my ship. Now, I need to hear you say it. Did you know this was the danger you were expecting?”

Emelia drew a deep breath. “Captain Little, I assure you I did not foresee this type of violence. I expected, as you did, some trickery, the bending of some laws. It would not have surprised me to have to talk my way past the police. I was prepared to be ambushed on the streets of Vienna, which is why I hired my two associates. I was ready for a bit of burglary. I had no idea they had an airship, or had trained and armed themselves to this extent. I promise you, had I known, I would never have asked you to put yourself and your crew in such peril.”

“I normally try to stay out of my clients’ affairs, but at this point, I feel I have to insist. What are you doing, and who exactly are we opposing?”

Emelia thought for a moment. The truth was a long tale, and a difficult one to believe.

“They are seeking a book. An ancient and dangerous book. A book that contains powerful secrets that we cannot allow to fall into the wrong hands.”

“What could be so dangerous about a book?” asked the captain.

“A book can contain many dangerous things,” said MacGregor. “Imagine if this book has the plans for the next steam engine. Or Gatling gun. Or dynamite.”

“Is that what this is, Miss DuMond?” asked the captain.

“Something like that,” she replied. “But nothing so simple. Bear with me, this is hard to accept. They are a cult. This book is their Bible. Their Qur’an. They think that with it, they can remake the world.”

“That hardly makes them unique,” said MacGregor.

“They have gone by many names over countless centuries, but what they call themselves is often translated as Disciples of the Void, or sometimes The Order of the Void, although a closer translation would be ‘students’ or ‘those who listen.’ The original title is in a language that died from common use with the fall of Babylon. They have appeared from time to time, risen up to threaten civilization over the ages. Always defeated but never destroyed, they scuttle back into the shadows like roaches when the light pours into a room.”

“And they’re hiding out in the Carpathian Mountains?” asked Dr. Morse without taking his eyes from the planks above.

“Have you ever wondered why so many of our darkest legends come from the wilds of this area?”

“I did have a suspicion it might be because every bastard in history from Attila to Genghis Khan to the bloody Ottomans have murdered their way through the region.”

“And I’m sure the blood and terror they all spread over the ages has created a fertile soil for a nihilistic death cult to thrive,” said Emelia.

“More primitive and violent European superstitions,” said Alyah, shaking her head sadly.

Captain Little smiled despite the situation. “Girl, you just as quick with that sass as your sword.”

“I see the opening and I hit it,” she replied.

“You may be teaching her too well,” said MacGregor looking at Connolly.

“I’m learning more than I’m teaching,” replied Connolly. “Now I’m stuck trying to figure how to explain that just because we believe in ghosts, fairies, and banshees doesn’t mean we’re a superstitious people.”

Emelia breathed a sigh of relief. Intentional or not, the fighters had brought down the temper of the room. Now it felt like a discussion among friends, not an inquisition.

“Why do they want this book anyway?” asked the engineer.

“They think it will tear open the veil between worlds and allow them to call forth supernatural horrors from the void. Not sure if they think they can control them to do their bidding or if they hope to serve their masters in a new order.”

“You think any of this is real?” asked the doctor, leaning forward off the wall to look her in the eye. “This is petty superstition. False idols and pagan rituals.”

“I think they believe it,” said Emelia. “And I know that the attacks, the children gone missing, the villages that have disappeared, wiped from the map with no survivors, and the bullets and bayonets that we just faced are real enough. Does it really matter to the victim whether a fanatic is worshiping a false god or a real one?”

“A lot of blood has been spilled in the name of religion. Don’t see how this one is any less dangerous,” said Connolly. “Even ones that just disagree on the dogma, not the God. Being wrong didn’t make Cromwell any less dangerous.”

Dr. Morse speared the soldier with a withering glare. Emelia hurried to speak before the meeting turned into a theological debate.

“They have done things that are not explained by science or logic. Their rituals have begun to change them. They are no longer men as you or I understand it.”

“Preposterous,” scoffed the doctor. “What proof do you have of that?”

“None of them tried to surrender,” said Connolly. “Even the ones who were bleeding to death. That’s not natural.”

“Fanaticism is no proof of the unnatural,” said Dr. Morse. “And they retreated.”

“Aye. From us,” said Alyah. “To lick their wounds like beaten dogs.”

“That they did,” allowed Connolly. “But retreating to fight another day is one thing. These men, even the ones that were badly wounded, kept on trying to fight. Not a one asked for quarter. Alyah lopped one of the buggers’ arms off at the elbow and he just drew his sword with the one he had left.”

“I’ve seen a lot of limbs lopped off,” said the doctor. “And I’ve seen men react many different ways.”

MacGregor took the pipe from his mouth. “Did you examine any of the dead, Doctor?”

“I did not,” said the man. “My work was with the living.”

“Fair enough,” replied the engineer. “But you admit you didn’t look at them?”

“And why, pray tell,” asked the doctor, “would I want to look at dead men?”

“Because if you haven’t looked, you don’t know what you might have seen. And, more to the point, you don’t know what you don’t know. I did examine them. I would encourage you to do the same before passing judgment.”

* * *

Connolly and Alyah carried one of the dead raiders into the infirmary, placing the corpse on the exam table. MacGregor stood back by the wall, his arms folded. Dr. Morse had his coat off and his sleeves rolled up.

He stepped forward and looked down at the body. At first, he thought the ashy complexion was just the pallor of death, but as he looked more closely, he saw that the skin had a grey cast to it, made more obvious by the lack of blood. He looked at the man’s back. After death the blood pools in the low points and could produce a dark color. If the man had been lying face down, that might explain it. But no, the skin at the back was even darker, showing the bruise-like shade of dependent lividity.

“All the dead had this discoloration?” he asked.

“They did,” said the engineer. “It’s more obvious now that they’re dead.”

“It wasn’t something I noticed while fighting them,” said Connolly.

“I don’t think you would,” said the doctor, leaning close and looking over the corpse. “When flushed with the blood of life, they’d look much like any other man. A bit darker, perhaps, but not enough to draw attention. Without it, where you or I would be white, these men are grey. And it’s not the brown pigment of the African or Oriental, it’s...grey.” He ran his fingertips over the flesh. “And it feels...oddly textured. More like the skin of a ray than a man.” He took a pair of shears and cut off the dead man’s shirt.

“Sweet Jesus,” he breathed.

“Rather the opposite, I’d guess,” said MacGregor, still leaning against the wall. “I noticed that when I was checking their gear.”

Patches of the man’s skin were covered in...something. “These...nodules,” said the doctor. “They don’t seem to be a rash or boils or even a cancer or leprous rot. Maybe a fungus...” He felt the small hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise. Despite years of study and education rooted in the cold, stark, tangible realities of science and logic, some primitive part of his brain was shrieking an alarm.

The growths were concentrated under the man’s arms, around his groin, on his scalp behind his ears, and with a few beginning to erupt over his chest. “They seem to be developing near the lymph nodes,” Dr. Morse said. “Like an infection or an allergic reaction...” He took a scalpel and sliced off one of the protrusions. It was hard and crusted, like a barnacle, but inside was a viscous, oozing putrescence. Once released, it stank of rot and corruption. Like a week-old corpse vomited from the belly of a whale.

“What in God’s name?” Dr. Morse drew back.

“I’d hazard nothing in God’s name is that vile,” said MacGregor, lighting his pipe. “I looked at several of the bodies, just to be scientific. They all have the same look, to a greater or lesser extent. I would hypothesize that this is a progressive condition.”

“I’ve seen enough. This is unnatural. At the very least, these men are infected. Get those bodies off the ship. Don’t just toss them over the side or we could be spreading a plague over the countryside. Burn them, and then toss the ashes. Wash the deck and everything these men touched with lye soap. Boil anything that will tolerate it.”

“And Miss DuMond’s theory of eldritch forces?”

“I’m not convinced this is dark magic,” said the doctor. “But I am convinced that it needs to be stopped and eradicated. Maybe it’s like rabies and changes the behavior of those it touches. That would explain some of the way these men acted. But whatever the cause, we can’t let it spread. And if they pass this corruption on willingly, through some sacrilegious rite, we have to destroy this Order. For the good of the world.”

Chapter 23

Roderick returned to his room in the mountain complex and began to sketch out a plan. He did all he could to avoid the cultists. Partly out of guilt from having helped lead them into the jaws of death—that was Gorka’s doing, but an officer must bear the blame of anything that happens to his men, even if it’s because of a damnfool order from higher up—and partly because he couldn’t stand the sight of them. Either he was imagining it or they were becoming even more slack jawed and dead eyed since he met them. And the crawling, fawning devotion they showed to a piece of human filth like Gorka, well, that just sickened him. Who a man followed told you a lot about him, Roderick’s father had always said.

When, as a contrary and rebellious youth, he had asked what it said about the elder count that he had followed anyone who’d pay him, the man had replied without anger. “It tells you that we needed the money. No shame in that. Do the job you promised to do. Do it to the best of your ability, but be sure you get paid.”

Well, that was hard to argue with. And these fellows had paid.

So let’s finish the job, he thought.

That ship had to be in need of repairs and probably had some wounded. Which meant they’d need to put in to port. That meant Vienna, or possibly Munich. Well, he could go to Vienna, and he had contacts in Munich. He could wire them and have someone keep an eye out at the skyport. And then, armed with his charm, his brains, and his steel, he would get the book back.

So long as he remained unencumbered by vacant eyes and empty heads.

Chapter 24

Emelia watched the sun set on this long, long day. Connolly and Alyah traded their usual banter. Talking about India or Afghanistan or some other adventurous past they had shared. Kitty stood nearby but said nothing, listening to the stories of far away with the intensity of a young woman who had never been ten miles from London in her life before this voyage. That was fine as far as Emelia was concerned. She didn’t really feel like making conversation.

Captain Little approached her place on the ship’s rail. She had been expecting that. She steeled herself.

“Miss DuMond?”

“Captain.”

“I spoke with my two men of science and learning, Mr. MacGregor and Doctor Morse, and much to my surprise, they both give some consideration to your story.”

“Yes?”

“Well, Doc thinks it’s the plague or hydrophobia or some such thing, but they both agree that this group is a danger and should be stopped, and if you represent the best chance of that, we should assist you in any way we can.”

“And you, Captain?”

The man sighed, leaned forward on the rail, staring out into the distance. “I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my life. But I’ve seen a lot of snake oil and faith healers and fire and brimstone preachers who turned out to be charlatans as well. Now you don’t strike me that way, but you have to admit, what you’re asking me to believe ain’t exactly the most rational thing I ever heard.”

Emelia saw that he was working his way toward an answer. She held her tongue and let him get there.

“I have this crew to think about. I have my ship. Means a lot, but not just because it’s mine. Because it’s my livelihood. Can’t feed my family or leave anything to my kids if I lose it. But then I think of what kind of world would I be leaving them if you are right.”

He was silent for a long time.

“I risked a lot to escape slavery. Bring my family out. Then I risked a lot to help the Union, because that was the way to end slavery for everyone. It was a hard choice. Risk is easy when it’s just for yourself. You risk it all for your family. But to risk everything for people you don’t even know, well, that’s a hard choice to make.”

He turned and looked Emelia in the eyes. “That don’t mean it ain’t the right choice. You have the support of the Phoenix for the duration of your mission.”

“I thank you, Captain,” she said. “I shall make every effort to spare you and your crew any unnecessary danger.”

“You tell me what you need, and I’ll worry about how to reduce the risk.”

“How do you think the crew will take the news?”

“I already asked,” he said. “I may be captain, but they ain’t slaves. I gave them all a chance to cash out. None of them took it. I think some of them are sweet on you.”

As the captain strode away, Connolly turned to Emelia. “Looks like you worked your magic on yet another audience.”

Emelia shrugged. “The skills are the same. Acting is just putting on a convincing front to get the audience to have a reaction. As a spy, usually that reaction is to trust me and want to make me happy. I can act fascinated or smitten with them, which encourages them to brag and they tell me of their plans so I can be breathlessly infatuated with their brilliance. And as an actress, my movements aren’t questioned, nor am I considered a threat like a diplomat or a soldier would be. I learned to read people well, and to slip into accents and mannerisms to blend in where I choose, to earn confidence. And actors are expected to mix with all classes, so it brought me into the circles of men who saw the threats posed, not just by governments, but by the arcane and occult organizations that would usher in a dark new age. That’s how I became involved with the Ghost Society.”

“You believe that?” asked Connolly. “I thought that was just some intellectuals exposing parlor tricks.”

“I do.” replied Emelia. “I know it sounds outrageous, but I have seen evidence with my own eyes.”

“Go on.”

“Five years ago. I was appearing in a small production of The Frozen Deep. Charles—Mr.Dickens—had actually co-written it with William Collins, but he was very much involved in its production. In any case, they were trying to stage a trial run in a small theater up in the North of England. Work out the issues before premiering it in London. In any case, there were...disturbing disappearances.” Emelia paused and looked at her hands.

“People thought it was a hoax to create talk about the production or to enable the theater to shut it down without having to pay back what they owed. It was quite the scandal. But I can assure you, it was no hoax. Human sacrifice. Kidnaping. It turned out Charles was there following up on suspicions of the Ghost Society. We met and he introduced me to the Society after some men attempted to kidnap me.”

“What did you do?” asked Alyah.

“I am no fighter,” said Emelia. “But I am quite good at showing people the face I want them to see. I listened to the mad ravings of the man who held me and acted as though they were a revelation. Took him by surprise. The man was quite insane, but what he wanted was not just power, but an acknowledgment of that power. To have someone hang upon his words.”

She looked up, a glint in her eye. “I fooled him into thinking I was in his thrall, and when he let his guard down, I escaped. I ran into several agents of the Society who apprehended him and they were impressed with my performance. Charles recruited me, casting me in plays as well as working for the Society. In a way, he has been my benefactor in both careers.”

“Would you rather do this than just work on the stage?”

“It is one thing to dismiss these odd tales as superstition. It is another entirely to turn your back once you have seen sanity’s mask torn away.”

The rest of the group fell still at that.

“Seems I made a good choice in employers,” Connolly broke the silence as he reached for the whisky bottle once more. “Probably be exciting at least.”

“It will be that,” Emelia said. “It may be more. It may be hopeless.”

“Nothing like a hopeless cause to make a good final mission.”

“I would prefer to think I have a few more missions in me,” said Alyah.

“You very likely do. But I lack your youth. Spent a lot of mine foolish.”

“And the leopard does not change his spots,” Alyah said with a grin.

Chapter 25

Agony woke Connolly in the grey light of dawn the next morning. His body presented its bill for the efforts of the day before. Every joint ached. He rolled onto one side, then the other, but there was no position that didn’t seem to make things worse. Getting up and moving around was the only way things would loosen up, but that would hurt even more at first. He swung his legs over the edge of the hammock, stifling a hiss as pain shot through him. He quietly dressed and headed up to the deck.

He climbed the ladder, gritting his teeth as he went, and made his way to the small stove where the watch kept a pot of strong tea and a kettle at all times. Strong enough to help fight off the lure of sleep. He took a small box from his pack, shook some dried willow bark into a mug, then poured the hot tea over it, letting it steep. The day after a fight was always bad. Hadn’t ever been this bad. But, to be fair, he hadn’t ever been this old. Hadn’t fought that hard in a long time, either.

He eased his aching body down onto a seat by the rail and looked out over the side. Mist filled the valley below, leaving just the mountains visible in the distance, like islands in a sea of fog. The air was chilly but clear this high up. The sky was brightening, even though the sun hadn’t come up over the peaks yet. Once the mist burned way, the day would be warm, but for now, Connolly turned his collar up and huddled over his mug. The heat from the cup seeped into his hands, soothing the stiff fingers.

“You’re up early.”

He turned and saw Captain Little approaching the railing, the collar of his coat turned up against the morning chill, a mug of coffee in his fist.

“Hurt too much to stay in bed,” Connolly replied. “Had to get the joints moving. Hell of a thing, getting old.”

“I hear that,” said the captain. “Beats the alternative.”

“Fair enough. And it’d be a pity to miss this dawn down below. Much nicer topside.”

The captain shrugged. “It’s a little chilly up this high. But I always love watching the dawn from the deck of a ship.”

Connolly nodded and took a deep draught of his tea. He could feel the ache and swelling start to ease.

“And where’d you pick up terms like ‘below’ and ‘topside?’” asked the captain. “Thought you was a soldier.”

“I started out as a Marine. Mostly because I couldn’t get into the Navy.”

Captain Little laughed. “Damn. You make me choke on my coffee. Couldn’t get into the Navy. How much of a screw up were you? I was a slave and I got into the Navy. The Confederate Navy at that.”

“Well, they probably should have had higher standards. I mean, you did steal a ship.”

“That got me into the Union Navy.”

“Fair enough. Maybe I should have tried that.”

“Typical white boy. Got no initiative.”

Connolly shrugged. “I just wanted to get out. Out of the old neighborhood. Out of the slums. Out of Boston. I’d go down to the docks and watch the ships come and go. I didn’t see ships. I saw freedom. So when I got old enough, I tried to join. They told me they needed men with skills for the Navy. All they’d seen me do was get into fights, so they sent me to see the Marine recruiter. I got to go to sea, at least.”

The captain chuckled and shook his head. “Thought you was in Afghanistan with MacGregor.”

Connolly shrugged, took another drink of his tea. “I did a tour in the Marines. Got sent to the West Africa Squadron. Helping the Royal Navy with the blockade of the slave trade. Intercepting slave ships. Met some Brits who convinced me to try the East India Company. Said a man with my experience could be an officer. No way a Boston street rat who wasn’t sure who his father was had much chance at making lieutenant in the Marines, so I shipped out and joined the Company army. They gave me a commission and that’s where I met Mac. Got to lead a troop of irregular cavalry.”

“When’d you fight for the Union?”

“The day I heard the rebs fired on Fort Sumter,” Connolly replied. “I resigned my Company commission, came back to America, and joined the Army. My Company experience was enough to get me into the cavalry, with sergeant stripes, but not enough to be an officer. Still not good enough to lead white troops.”

“White troops are overrated,” said the captain.

“Clearly. I mean, have you seen some of ’em?” Connolly finished his tea. “Is there any more of that coffee?”

“Back in the wardroom. What you been drinking?”

“Willow tea. Helps with the aches in the old joints.”

“You ever think it might be time to look into some work that leaves you able to walk the next day?”

“You sound like Mac,” said Connolly. “Fighting’s all I’ve ever been good at. I always felt the world needed a punch in the mouth. From the day the landlord’s men burned our cottage, I’ve wanted to hit somebody. Then the bullies on the streets of Boston, and the Yankee elite who looked down on me for being Irish and Catholic and not knowing who my dad was. Figured the world was all just an unfair place where the rich hired the strong to grind the weak and poor into the mud. So I wanted to punch everyone. Soldiering seemed obvious. As I got older and maybe a bit wiser, I’ve been trying to make sure I’m punching the right people. That I’m not one of the hired hands grinding the poor. But it’s still just applied violence. And I am good at it. I lie awake nights in dread of the day I won’t be able to do it anymore.”

“Age comes for everybody,” said the captain. “But it probably comes for soldiers sooner than most of us. ’Cept maybe coal miners and cane cutters.”

“There are harder jobs,” said Connolly. “The factories, mills, shipyards, and mines. And when there are no jobs, poverty ages you worse than anything else. But I concede that mine is a profession that doesn’t get easier with age.”

“As a man who seen at least as many years as you have, I can agree that getting old ain’t pretty, but ain’t no rule says you have to keep trying to play a young man’s game.”

The soldier smirked. “I know. I guess what I really fear is growing old before I really make a difference. And having to live with that long after I’ve missed my chance scares the hell out of me. I started out fighting for me, but then I discovered I wanted to fight for people who couldn’t fight for themselves.”

“You helped end slavery and preserve the Union,” said the captain. “Probably not as much as I did, but I’m sure you showed up and did your part. That’s not enough? Sit on the porch in your old age with a bourbon and a cigar and tell the youngsters how you won the war?”

“Not if the government loses the peace,” Connolly muttered.

The captain shrugged. “If you countin’ on the government doin’ the right thing to make you feel like you done somethin’, you may as well get used to disappointment.”

Connolly took a long sip and nodded. “That may be the wisest thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

“What you plan on doin’ if you do survive this mission?”

“Guess I’ll just have to find another worthy cause to die in. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Worthy causes aren’t as easy to find as you’d think.”

“Sometimes they find you,” said Captain Little. “Just keep your eyes open so they don’t pass you by.”

Chapter 26

“You propose what?”

“I will go to Vienna and get your book back,” replied Roderick.

“Why should we trust you to go off alone?” asked Gorka. “What need do we have for you at all? We have men and guns and an airship.”

“Much of which is because of me,” said the count. “Yes, you have plenty of muscle. But without finesse what good will that do you? It would be an easy thing to blast those thieves from the sky and send them to earth in a fiery wreck, but good luck finding the book in the ashes. To take the book by force, you need to come to grips, and in a close in fight, they’re very good. Even if you did overwhelm the fighters, do you think that actress will just hand the book over?”

“We are not in the habit of giving the infidels much choice.”

“That’s where you’re blind,” Roderick retorted. “There’s always a choice. She could destroy the book rather than let it fall into your hands. Especially if she knows she’s doomed either way. Maybe she’d trade it for her life, but you can’t convincingly offer that. I could, but not with a pack of fanatics slavering behind me.”

“You put your trust in a crooked tongue before the might of the faithful,” sneered the advisor.

Roderick smirked in return. “I assure you, old boy, my crooked tongue has gotten me further with women than any amount of force or faith.”

“Enough of this bickering,” said the prophet. “We have hired the count for his ability as an agent. Let us use the tools that we have been provided.”

Gorka scowled for a moment, then gave a curt nod.

“And you,” the prophet turned his empty eyes on the count. “You would do well to remember for whom you work. You have done valuable service, and you have been compensated. I understand your methods have value, and we can tolerate them so long as they produce results.”

“I could hardly ask for more,” said Roderick.

“Then we will transport you back to Vienna and trust in the Void to bring you success.”

The count gave a crisp bow and clicked his heels. I’m sure that will work out, he thought, trying to ignore the hairs standing up on his neck. After all, who doesn’t trust the Void?

Chapter 27

Emelia saw airman Hawkins walk past, wearing his customary scowl and a bandage on his forehead. That made her think of Jensen, busy dying belowdecks.

Well, there was nothing to be done.

Or was there?

She went to her cabin, rummaged through her things until she found a map. She unrolled in on the desk and pored over it for a long moment before she set off for the infirmary.

She knocked on the door and heard the doctor’s gruff reply. “Come!”

She pushed the door open to reveal the small room with two narrow cots. One was vacant. On the other, under a thin blanket, lay Jensen. His face was pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. His eyes were closed and his breathing slow, a low moan on each exhalation.

Then the smell hit her. Blood and vomit and excrement and the cloying stench of sepsis, with the sting of antiseptic fighting a valiant but doomed struggle. The doctor lurched up from his chair as she entered. His jacket was off, his sleeves rolled up, a bloodstained apron over his front.

“Miss DuMond! I apologize for the state of this place,” he began to usher her out of the ward.

“Not at all, Doctor,” she said. “This is not a library. This is a workplace. One would not expect a bakery to be free of flour.”

The man sighed and ran a hand through his tangled, sparse grey hair. “It’s not the scent of biscuits though, is it?”

“How is he?”

“Dying.” He walked over to where Jensen lay on the cot, looked down at the man’s face. “Taking his time about it, but dying nonetheless.”

“How long has he got?”

The man shrugged. “A day or two. I’ve seen men last three or four, but that’s rare. And I hope to spare him that.”

“Is he in much pain?”

“For the moment, the morphine is doing its job.”

“So there’s nothing further you can do for him?”

“There’s nothing to be done for him,” he snapped. “The kindest thing to do would be dose him until his breathing stops.”

“If there were a way to treat him, can you keep him alive for a day?

“A fifty-seven caliber soft lead Minie ball tore through his lower abdomen at close range,” said the doctor. “It punctured God knows how many loops of intestine, spilled the contents into his body, and caused more fever than a tuberculosis ward in Appalachia. I saw a lot of this during the war. There’s no treatment under Heaven that can fix that.”

“Perhaps not,” Emelia replied, “but the man I’m thinking of does not place himself under Heaven.”

* * *

Captain Little looked at the map spread out on the table in the wardroom.

“How long to get us there?” asked Emelia.

The captain rubbed his chin, looking at the chart. “I assume you mean ‘get us there alive’,” he drawled.

“If at all possible,” she said.

“These mountains are high, the passes are narrow. The air up that high is thinner. It’s harder to support the weight of the ship. And the winds and fog and rain, hail, and whatever else Providence sees fit to throw at us are notoriously hard to predict.”

“The issue at hand, Captain, is that Jensen is dying. There is a man here,” she pointed to a dot on the map, “who may be able to save him. Since he was injured in my employ, I would like to make every effort to do so. I will cover any cost incurred in extra fuel, extra time, or any damage to the vessel. I bow to your expertise as to whether this can be done and what level of risk we would be taking on.”

A long silence stretched out as the captain studied the map. Emelia struggled to keep her breathing controlled, to slow the fluttering of her heart. She had put her best case forward, now she had to let the man convince himself.

“I’d be a bad captain if I risked my crew unnecessarily,” he said. Her heart sank. “But I’d be a worse one if I let a man die because I was afraid to make the call.”

Emelia felt a weight lift. Felt the sick feeling in her stomach lessen.

“I’ll talk to Mac,” said the captain. “He has some new device to help take soundings in the fog. I guess we’ll see if his instrument is up to the task.”

For a moment she wished Connolly had been in the room. She hated to see a straight line go by unscathed, and he would have been just the man to do it. It wasn’t the kind of thing she could get away with to the captain in her role as employer. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t smile to herself.

Chapter 28

Roderick returned to Vienna, stopping at his townhouse before calling on Margarethe. Josef greeted him as usual and took his coat.

“My lord, there is some correspondence for you. I have set out your coffee in the drawing room and placed the papers on the small table. Will you be dining here this evening?”

“Thank you, Josef,” the count replied. “No. I have business in the city. I expect to be away until fairly late.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Roderick looked at the servant for a moment. Josef had been his valet since he was a boy. The man had been a loyal family servant, followed the elder count to war. His devotion was unquestionable. But it was an honorable devotion. The loyalty of a soldier to his officer. Not the obsequious groveling that the cultists showed their prophet. A devotion to a duty of which the man was proud. Roderick respected that.

“I’m sure I do not tell you often enough, Josef,” he said. “Your services have been invaluable. I know these are trying times.”

“Thank you, my lord,” replied the man.

“You received the bank drafts?”

“Yes, my lord. You will find the deeds on the table with the other correspondence.”

“Excellent,” said Roderick.

“I concur,” said Josef with a smile.

Roderick smiled back at the man. It would have been a blow to a man who had served the family for so long to see the estates sold off. He couldn’t put Josef through that.

That was the difference between a proper master and servant relationship and that damnable cult. A leader owed as much duty to his followers as they did to him. Roderick needed the money not just for himself, but for his—somewhat diminished, he’d be forced to admit—household.

He went into the drawing room and sat in his favorite chair, poured a cup of Josef’s excellent coffee, and began to look through the stack of letters.

The papers from those bastards at the bank were all in order. That was good. Most of his father’s debts would be clear. It wasn’t winning a battle, but he had saved the estate. There really should be a medal for heroic restraint in the face of bankers.

He smiled when he saw an envelope from Margarethe. Have to pay her a visit while he was here. No reason not to mix business with pleasure.

As he read the letter, his smile evaporated. She was leaving. Someone had gotten to her, told her of the people with whom he was dealing, offered her money and connections to escape the life she led here.

He read her description of the woman who had spoken to her, read that she was an actress, and thought of the fake Austrian officer who had confiscated the book he had painstakingly stolen. The act was good, the uniform scrounged from spare parts, but enough to fool the unschooled, and the attitude perfect, but he would have bet his right arm that the young lieutenant was a woman. Now he was fairly sure it was the same person who had spoken to Margarethe.

Someone had tracked the stolen book, somehow discovered her involvement, and used that knowledge to discover his identity. That was unfortunate. For a moment he thought that the cultists had been right not to trust Margarethe, but he dismissed that quickly. It wouldn’t do to think like the cult. That was a dark path that would end in surrendering his will to them. If Gorka came out in support of the theory of gravity, Roderick wouldn’t accept it. If Margarethe had turned on him, it was because he hadn’t done enough to secure her loyalty. It was his failing, not hers.

Didn’t mean he didn’t want some payback. But he’d pay the right people back. Poor little Margarethe and her fabulous tits were just caught in the middle.

The fact that an actress had approached her was something. The fact that the actress was well financed enough to buy her a way out meant quite a bit more. Actresses, especially pretty ones—and she was pretty enough even with a goatee—attracted attention. She was also talented and had means, which meant she was likely well known, not merely some talented understudy. Someone in Vienna would know who she was.

That would simplify his problem of discovering the identity of his adversary—which would lead him to the book. And he knew just the people to ask.

Chapter 29

“How does this thing work again?” asked Connolly.

MacGregor stood beside him at the bow, slowly turning the crank on something that looked like the result of an illicit affair between a coffee grinder and a blunderbuss. He had a map and a notebook on a small desktop he had clamped to the rail.

“It’s an acoustic locator,” replied the engineer.

“So you said,” Connolly agreed. “Doesn’t help me understand it.”

“You are familiar with echoes, lad?”

“Yes.”

“Sound travels in waves. Like ripples in a pond. When those ripples hit something, they reflect back. That’s how an echo works. Sound waves bouncing back.”

“All right.”

“So if you were to send out sounds, and measure the time it took for them to come back, you could tell how far away something is, could you not?”

“Sounds like you could.”

“Well, that’s what this thing is doing.” MacGregor paused, wrote some numbers in his book, made a mark on the map. He lifted a speaking tube. “Come two degrees starboard, Captain.”

“So you listen for mountains?” asked Alyah.

“In a sense,” he replied. “But this just measures the time. Some things reflect sound back very well, some absorb most of it. It travels differently in different conditions, like fog or rain or snow. And wind can play hell with it.”

“So how do you depend on it to go through these mountains?” asked Connolly.

“You know, on a battlefield, when the enemy are advancing?”

“I’ve a passing familiarity.”

“And you’re holding your volley, because you’re not sure you can reload in time?”

“I do.”

“And the gunsmoke or fog or the bastards advancing through a wheatfield or some such leaves you unsure how far away they are?”

Connolly nodded, remembering the fear of waiting, straining his eyes and ears for a sign of the enemy, fighting the urge to run or fire or just scream.

“So what do you do?” prompted MacGregor.

“Watch for a shape in the fog, listen for the sound of the enemy and hope you have enough warning to make your shot count.”

“And while you wait?”

“Try to look stoic and fearless to reassure your men while you concentrate on not pissing yourself.”

The engineer smiled without much mirth. “Right now, we’re fixated on maintaining clean trousers.”

* * *

The Phoenix came out of the clouds above a small castle perched high among the peaks.

“Is that where we are headed?” asked Alyah.

“It is,” smiled Emelia.

“Looks a bit forbidding, don’t you think?” asked Connolly.

She shrugged. “I always thought it looked like a storybook castle.”

“All your storybooks written by Edgar Allan Poe, were they?” he asked incredulously.

Emelia shrugged. “Mary Shelley did gothic horror earlier and better.”

“Heresy.”

She smiled. “You’re wrong, you know. I am, however, pleasantly surprised by your interest. I hadn’t taken you for a literary man, Mr. Connolly.”

“Ah, well. A man needs something to fill the hours between drinking and fighting.”

“I do apologize. That was a bit condescending.”

“Not at all.”

“It’s a big word, lad, but it means she was talking down to you,” MacGregor explained.

Connolly gave him a flat stare. “Whatever would I do without you?”

“Don’t mention it, lad. I live to help.”

The soldier turned to see Alyah grinning ear to ear. Emelia kept her smile more subdued, but he was sure only out of long practice.

“Pay no attention to him, Mr. Connolly,” Emelia said sweetly. “I am pleasantly surprised to see that you have hidden depths.”

He smirked. “Just more places to put the alcohol.”

“Jollity aside, we’ve made it. Mr. MacGregor, do we have a signal lamp handy?”

“Yes, Miss DuMond. Let me get it.”

“I’ll announce us to the doctor.” She took the lamp and flashed a message, then waited for a response. “He’s worked for the Society before. I will warn you he’s a bit...eccentric. And his methods are unorthodox. But I’ve seen him work miracles in the past.”

“And you’re sure he’ll help?”

“I won’t say I’m sure, but I am confident. For one, we have worked together and remain on good terms. Second, he knows the Society will cover any expenses. Third, he will consider it a challenge, and he never turns down a chance to try a new procedure. And finally, it’s a lonely castle. He’ll want news and company. And I,” she flashed a smile, “am very good company.”

* * *

Emelia returned to the infirmary.

“How is Mr.Jensen?”

“Still dying in agony,” muttered the doctor.

“We’ve arrived. My associate has agreed to see him.”

“Unless he just walked on water and fed a crowd with three loaves and three fishes, there’s not a damn thing he can do.”

“It can’t hurt to have him take a look.”

“No,” Dr. Morse sighed. “I suppose it can’t.”

“I’m sorry to have put you in this position,” she said.

He shook his head. “No. It’s not your fault, miss. I’m just realizing that I couldn’t outrun my demons.”

“I’m sorry?”

“After Appomattox, I thought I was finished treating battle wounds. I was happy to be a ship’s physician, treating the odd accidental cut or broken bone, keeping the crew free of scurvy, and treating them for the clap after a night of ground leave. I should have known that as long as I claim to be a doctor, the nightmares would find me.”

“If there is anything I can do for you, Doctor—”

“It’s alright. I have a prescription for the nightmares,” he said, patting the pocket where he kept his flask. “Physician, heal thyself.”

* * *

Emelia and a party from the Phoenix disembarked in the courtyard of the castle. Connolly and Alyah came along as guards. Two crewmen carried a litter on which the wounded Jensen lay.

They were greeted by Dr. Zoll, a tall, spare man with a stern expression and a ragged dueling scar extending from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. Beside him stood a younger man, impeccably dressed, handsome and smiling. Behind them were a small group of servants.

“Doctor Zoll,” said Emelia, stepping forward and embracing the man. “Thank you so much for agreeing to see us.”

“Miss DuMond, the pleasure is mine.”

“Ours,” said the younger man. “Forgive Friedrich’s oversight.” He took Emelia’s hand and kissed it.

“My associate, Professor Welch,” said Zoll. “He is a naturalist. I find his work compliments mine quite well.”

“Enchanted,” she replied. “This is Captain Little, of the Phoenix, Doctor Morse, the ship’s physician, Mr. MacGregor, chief engineer, my protectors, Mr. Connolly and Miss Abdullah-Brooke. Kitty, my maid. Airman Jensen is your patient.”

“I see.”

Dr Zoll moved forward and leaned over the man on the litter. He checked the man’s pulse with long, thin, skeletal fingers.

“I had the surgery prepared as soon as I received your signal,” he said. He turned to Dr. Morse. “Doctor, would you care to scrub in and assist me? I would be grateful for an extra pair of trained hands.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” replied Morse. “I’d like to see this thing through.”

“Excellent. Follow me, Doctor. Miss DuMond, Professor Welch will entertain you and your companions while we are in surgery.”

“My thanks, Doctor,” Emelia replied.

The two physicians departed, followed by the stretcher bearers.

“And now, if you would accompany me to the drawing room, I believe it’s time for tea,” said Professor Welch. “And you can delight us with tales of your adventures.”

* * *

“My dear, I cannot tell you how pleased I am that circumstances have brought you here. I’m sorry your comrade is injured, of course, but it’s so delightful to see you. We seldom have company, especially of such beauty.”

“You are too generous, Professor,” said Emelia. “And I cannot accept credit. Without Kitty, I should look like I had been swept from the gutter.”

“Nonsense,” said Welch. “But I must say,” he turned his gaze to Kitty, “you are an artist with hair and wardrobe. If it were not the height of poor hospitality, I would steal you away from her.”

The young woman blushed. “Thank you, sir. It’s nothing. It’s no effort at all to make Miss DuMond look beautiful.”

“Perish the thought, my dear,” the man replied. “Michelangelo worked with marble not clay, but that in no way diminished the effect of the artist’s hand.”

The drawing room was filled with overstuffed chairs, paneled in dark wood, and covered in lithograph prints of animals and botanicals, along with a few landscapes. There were no ancestral portraits or weapons, which seemed odd once the lack was noticed. The place was decorated more like an English country house than a castle. Servants appeared with trays of tea and sandwiches.

“How long have you been working together with Doctor Zoll?” Emelia asked.

“Well, I’ve been with the doctor for two years now, but it’s more accurate to say we work in parallel than together. He is a gifted surgeon with a brilliant medical mind, while I am a naturalist.”

“Forgive a humble soldier,” said Connolly, “but what exactly does a naturalist study? And don’t say ‘nature.’ I have MacGregor if I want that kind of abuse.”

Welch smiled. “He sounds like quite the wit. However accurate that description might be, I can see how it might be unsatisfying. As a naturalist, my field of study includes animals, plants, and the environment, and the way they all interact.”

“Like Darwin?”

“Precisely!” said the professor. “I see you are a man of letters as well as a soldier. I had thought at our first meeting that Miss DuMond chose her guards simply on the basis of attractiveness.” He turned to Alyah. “And I must point out, my dear, that hussar jacket is perfect for you. As though you weren’t already stunning, it flatters your figure like a lover’s poem.”

Emelia was surprised to see the woman blush. Professor Welch forged ahead, barely pausing for breath.

“Darwin’s work has been revolutionary. I, a mere mortal, must be content to labor in his shadow. My latest area of specialization has been the evolving characteristics of humans as related to migration.”

“What do you mean?” asked Alyah.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, all humans are of common stock. We originated in Africa. As individual groups of humans migrated away, certain mutations caused the so-called races that we suffer under the categorization of to this very day. Pale skin would clearly have been maladaptive under the African sun, so any individuals with that particular mutation would not have thrived, and therefore not propagated it. In colder, cloudier climes, a lack of pigment wouldn’t be such a detriment. I have not found evidence that it is an advantage, but it may be a beneficial adaptation in some circumstances that I have yet to discover.”

“It does seem to make voting and holding land easier,” said Captain Little.

“Alas, the laws of man are not the province of my field of study. The laws of nature are strict enough without human interference.”

“Won’t argue with that,” replied the captain.

“But to continue the thread of argument, much as dispersion and isolation among various populations resulted in the cascade of mutation which seems to differentiate us, my theory is that the greater mobility afforded by locomotives, steam ships, and lately air travel will blend the races of man back into a homogenous state. Tribes and nations will no longer be islands, sharing the same limited bloodlines. Humanity will once again be a single whole, and stronger for the change.”

“I wouldn’t expect a warm welcome for that theory back in South Carolina,” drawled the captain.

“Can’t even convince the Brits that they and the Irish are the same race. Don’t see how it will work with people who look even less like they went to Eton,” said Connolly.

“It is not a seamless transition into polite society,” said Alyah with a smile.

“But there are tiny sparks of hope for harmony across the races,” said the professor. “In fact, Mr. Connolly, during the great famine, was there not a donation from the Choctaw Nation?”

“True. While the landlords were evicting us and the government was exporting grain to England while Catholic Irish children starved, a tribe of Indians made the effort to scrape together what they had to help us. But look how they were repaid. If I’d stayed in the Army, I’d probably be helping steal their land and forcing them onto reservations. Just a hired gun for the engine of Manifest Destiny. A land of opportunity and freedom. For all who are white and Protestant enough.”

“Ah, yes. Again with the limits of the popular imagination. Science, we must be thankful, cares nothing for one’s beliefs. But often, it would seem those beliefs care far too much about the practice of science. One reason for pursuing studies on top of an isolated rocky spire so far from centers of culture. I confess, I do miss the theater, but I do not miss the mob.”

* * *

The party sat for dinner at a long table. Dr. Zoll took his seat at the head of the table. Dr. Morse entered, looking pale, and dropped into his chair. He seized the glass of wine in front of him and drained it in one swallow, his hand shaking.

“Is everything all right, Doctor?” asked Emelia.

The ship’s surgeon shook his head. He reached for a bottle and refilled his glass.

“Your liver won’t thank you for that, Doctor,” said Zoll as the other man downed the wine.

Dr. Morse fixed the other physician with a dead stare, deliberately pouring a third glass and draining it without ever breaking eye contact.

“So how is Mr. Jensen?” asked Emelia, the soul of diplomacy.

“The man’s prognosis is encouraging,” said Zoll. “Ah, here we are,” he added as servants appeared with the first course.

“The surgery was a success?” said Emelia.

“The procedure was entirely satisfactory,” replied Zoll. “Now we must monitor his recovery. I am optimistic.”

“It was quite the wound,” said Connolly. “If you can save a man hurt that badly, I’m impressed.”

“The doctor is a brilliant surgeon,” said Professor Welch, reaching over to squeeze Zoll’s hand. “He is truly a pioneer in the field. If anyone can save your friend, it is this man.”

An unexpected blush came to Zoll’s gaunt cheek and he smiled at the professor with actual warmth. “Alan is too kind. I am still fumbling my way forward. But I am learning with each procedure. My methods are still in the experimental stage.”

“Bloody unnatural is what they are,” muttered Dr. Morse.

“Unnatural?” Zoll scoffed. “Spectacles are unnatural. Crutches are unnatural. Fitting a man with a wooden leg is unnatural. What is natural? Natural is dying of infection from a broken tooth.”

“There’s a long way from a wooden leg to sewing pig intestines into a man’s guts,” replied Morse.

“I agree,” said Zoll, driving his point like a fencer seeing an opening. “A wooden leg is a paltry effort. A pale imitation of what was lost which goes some small way to restore a fraction of function. What I am working toward is the promise of full recovery. To make a man whole. As he was before.”

“Men aren’t like MacGregor’s bloody engines, where you can just take out a broken spring or worn gear and put another in its place.”

“Are they not?” challenged Zoll.

A silence settled over the table. Dr. Morse sat stone-faced. His jaw worked for a moment.

“When I was a young man, I was a man of great faith. That faith sustained me through my studies and my practice. It sustained me for the first year of the war. It kept me right up until Antietam. Until I looked at the pile of arms and legs I had sawn off. Lying in the sun outside the surgery tent. I admit, that shook my faith in an almighty and benevolent God who could allow that. I took solace in the bottle. That got me through two and a half years that God could never have. I thought I had seen the depths of horror. Until today.”

“You would prefer we leave these legions maimed and limbless?” asked Zoll. “Rather than turn to religion or drink to dull the world’s tragedies, I have chosen to turn to science to correct them.”

“This is a Faustian bargain, sir. There will be a price to be paid for such hubris.”

“I have paid a good deal already for my choices,” said Zoll, bristling. “The world may not be ready for my discoveries. Yet. But humanity will surely benefit. In time, my work will be accepted as the gift it is.”

“With respect, Doctor, I must disagree,” said Morse. He pushed his chair back from the table. “I will not be so crass as to impugn your character while abusing your hospitality. I shall return to my berth on the Phoenix. I will thank you on behalf of airman Jensen. I bid you good evening.”

The doctor took his leave. The silence stretched out as the servants brought in the next course.

“I rather like my bloody engines,” muttered MacGregor.

“We all do, Mac,” said the captain. “We all do.”

The servants continued to present the meal. As the man served the soup, Emelia smiled up at him and politely thanked him. She made a point to acknowledge servants and staff, because, propriety be damned, she hadn’t forgotten whence she had come. It also helped her to keep her skills of observation sharp, but more importantly, it took them by surprise, leaving them with an impression of a smile that outweighed any overheard secrets they could sell. Once you start treating people like furniture, you forget they have eyes and ears and grudges. The man was black. Emelia thought nothing of it. Dr. Zoll had servants of many races. Until he ladled the broth into her bowl, and she saw that his right hand was white, a thin, puckered scar circling his wrist where the dark and light skin met.

“Yes,” said Zoll, noting her attention. “Samuel was a patient of mine. Quite successful. With what I am learning here, we could change the world for the better.”

The servant smiled and gave a quick bow.

Emelia recovered quickly. “Astonishing. Truly a breakthrough in medicine.”

Dr. Zoll inclined his head. “Simply the advanced application of the best prevailing theories. Building on the works of Pasteur and Lister.”

“If you had studied the works of Arabic and Indian physicians for the last five centuries, you would have saved yourself a great deal of trouble,” said Alyah.

“Ah,” said Zoll. “You speak of Rhases and Avicenna and the students of the Ayurveda.”

“Al-Razi and ibn Sina, but yes,” she replied.

“I have read extensively on the works of Eastern medicine. Much of it is quite advanced, and much has actually been incorporated into the European universities. They learned much while we obsessed over Aristotle and Galen. Another thing for which we have the Church to thank. But I have stood on the shoulders of giants, and I have discovered some very effective treatments to combat infection. The recovery time has been greatly reduced, as has the incidence of postoperative infection. I shall prepare a course of treatment for Mr. Jensen. I have every expectation of a swift recovery.”

“That kind of treatment could have saved a lot of lives in the war,” said Connolly. “Lots of men survived the wound but not the fever afterwards.”

“Precisely. I hope to mitigate the complications of treatment as much as to push the boundaries of it.”

“Once again, I thank you, Doctor,” said Emelia. “Is there any way we can repay your service and your hospitality?”

“I am satisfied with the opportunity to practice on such a case,” replied Zoll. “And I am certain the professor is pleased to have such a charming guest. A welcome change from my own reserve.” He favored the professor with a thin smile.

“Your conversation, while sparse, is enthralling for its erudition,” said Welch. “I’m sure Friedrich is happy I have someone else on whom to inflict my incessant small talk.”

“Never,” said Zoll.

“However,” Welch turned back to Emelia, “if I could beg a favor.”

“Please do, Professor.”

“I recently acquired a copy of a play which was popular a few years ago. I’ve read it but always regretted never being able to hear it performed. If it were at all possible, and I realize it’s quite the imposition, I would be deeply in your debt if you could perform a reading.”

“Alan,” Zoll reproached the younger man, “I’m sure our guests are weary from their journey.”

“Not at all, Doctor,” said Emelia. “I would be delighted. You have the script handy?”

“I shall get it immediately after dinner. I’m sure you’re familiar. It’s a comedy. Our Boys.”

“Oh, Gilbert is always a delight,” she replied. “But I would ask a small favor in return.”

“Anything.”

“If you would be so kind as to join me and read the male parts.”

She saw his eyes light up like a child on Christmas.

“Nothing would make me happier,” he said.

Emelia was surprised, but the request made her happy. Acting was something she did every day, but this was what she called acting “without malicious intent.” It was a pleasure to do it just to bring joy to someone, especially a man like Professor Welch, who clearly loved the theater. She even saw a hint of indulgent warmth creep into Dr. Zoll’s expression. The surgeon probably didn’t care one way or another about a Gilbert comedy, but he did enjoy seeing the other man happy. That made her smile.

Chapter 30

After dinner, and the impromptu performance over the coffee, Professor Welch showed the party from the Phoenix to a suite of rooms.

“This wing has been prepared for your comfort while your companion recovers,” he said. “There is a bedchamber with a washstand for each of you, and you will find the drinks cabinet in this sitting room well stocked. There is a bath chamber down the hall. We’ve recently perfected the hot water system. The servants can explain the controls or simply draw you a bath should you desire it. If you need anything, there is a bell that will summon the servants. I do hope you enjoy this humble hospitality we can offer.”

“I’m sure it will be perfect for our needs, Professor,” said Emelia. “I know you will have made every effort to make it as comfortable as possible.”

“Simply because we live on top of an isolated mountain in this grim forest is no reason to deny ourselves the comforts of civilization,” said the man. “Friedrich would be happy to live among bare stones and faded tapestries, but I can be persuasive. Enjoy your stay, and I hope to see you all at breakfast. So long as it’s a late breakfast. I find the sunrise far too ghastly to wake up to.”

“Good night, Professor,” Emelia said, smiling. The man bowed and left.

The sitting room was paneled in dark oak wood and filled with stuffed leather chairs. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Here again, the walls were covered in prints of animals and plants.

“I’ll admit,” said Connolly, “when I saw this castle, I expected it would be drafty and full of cobwebs and suits of rusty armor.”

“I think it would be, if not for Professor Welch,” said Emelia. “He’s not much for cobwebs and armor. Dr. Zoll would be happy to work in the London sewers if he had a well stocked laboratory.”

“I’d think Welch would want to be out in the fields and forests, harassing the wildlife and taking notes.”

“He has done quite a bit of field work, but he is devoted to his creature comforts.”

“Do you think Jensen has much chance?” asked Connolly.

“I hope so,” said Emelia.

“It was an ugly wound,” said Alyah. “I have seen men take days to die from such a wound, but I have never seen one rally.”

“If anyone can save him, it’s Zoll,” said Emelia. “I’ve seen him do the impossible before.”

“I do not think Doctor Morse shares your confidence,” said Alyah.

“Doctor Morse is...” Emelia hesitated. “Traditional. He has learned the established principles of medicine, and he has practiced them for years. Much of what Doctor Zoll does is...experimental. He pushes against the boundaries of accepted science.”

“He seemed to prickle Doctor Morse on his religion as well,” Alyah observed.

“Religion is often a sore point for Doctor Zoll,” Emelia said.

“If the choice comes to dying or having the good doctor sew pig parts into me,” said Connolly, “I give you permission to let him at it. What about you, lass?”

Alyah shifted. “Pig organs would not be my first choice. My father raised me as a Muslim.”

“I’ve seen you drink whisky.”

“I did not say he did a good job.”

“Fair enough,” Connolly laughed. He strode to the liquor cabinet. “Care to have your soul corrupted a bit more?”

“Curse you, diabolical Ferringhi,” she replied. “I shall prove how incorruptible my soul is by enduring the drink and emerging victorious.”

“Such courage,” he replied. “Any for you, Miss DuMond? Captain? I won’t insult you by asking, Mac.”

“I wouldn’t say no,” replied Captain Little.

“Please,” said Emelia. “As I was saying, it’s a tragedy that Doctor Zoll isn’t able to share his successes. If the medical schools would read his works, they could advance the state of health and save countless lives. But the church and society can’t come to terms with the way he conducts himself, so he’s exiled to this inhospitable mountain. Maybe someday his results will be published. But for now, it must be hard not to be allowed to contribute in his field.”

“When the world doesn’t want you to do what you are best at because you don’t fit their idea of what that should be?” asked Alyah. “I have no idea what that would be like.”

Captain Little raised his glass. “Girl, sometimes we all on our own little mountain, doin’ our best.”

“It still seems short sighted,” said Connolly. “I know institutions don’t want to change, and the church is always an anchor, but you’d think that they’d see the value of a new treatment, even if the methods are a bit odd.”

Emelia, the captain, and Alyah all exchanged glances.

She looked at Connolly, saw the guileless expression of a man who saw the world in clear and simple terms, who had never had any reason to present himself as anything other than what he was. A soldier. Maybe one who wanted to defend the innocent, use his strength for good. One who saw cruelty and injustice and tried to combat it. A knight in dented armor. He wasn’t naive, exactly, she thought. Assured. That would be the word she would choose.

“Exactly, Mr. Connolly,” said Emelia. “It’s for his odd methods that he has to practice his trade on top of this mountain.”

Chapter 31

“Her name is Emelia DuMond,” said the young woman, propping herself up on her elbow, the covers falling away. “She’s English. She was touring theaters in Vienna recently. Making inquiries.”

“That name is familiar,” said the count, slipping an arm around his companion. Her name was Lili, at least as far as the stage knew her. She wasn’t Margarethe, he thought wistfully, but she was a pretty young actress who would know what he needed to know. She was also defenseless in the face of a roguish grin and a Hussar uniform. Not that it made her unique.

“It should be,” she replied. “She’s toured the world. Her visit is all the local actors and theater managers have been gossiping about. Everyone has been trying to slide into her good graces. Everyone hoping some of that fame rubs off. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her.”

“Regrettably, the yoke of my duty has kept me from the theater in recent years.”

“Pity,” she said. “I would like to see more of you.”

“Have you ever worked with this DuMond woman?”

“Hardly.”

“So she wouldn’t recognize you?”

“We’re not exactly on the same level,” she said. “Most of the time I work as a magician’s assistant. Smiling and showing enough bare skin so the rubes don’t watch the trick too closely.”

Roderick was aware. That was one reason he’d come to her.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, pulling her closer. “You probably just haven’t had the chance to shine.”

“And are you my benefactor?” she asked with a seductive smile, pressing her body against him. “To give me that chance?”

“Now that you mention it, I may have just the role for you, my dear.”

Chapter 32

“Where do we go from here?” Connolly asked.

“Back to Vienna,” answered Emelia. “Doctor Zoll says Jensen is healing well. Well enough to travel, at least, and that Doctor Morse can oversee his recovery.”

“Is the good doctor on board with that treatment?”

She shrugged. “While he may be traditional, I’m sure he can see that the procedure is working. Jensen has developed no infection and grows stronger by that day. I doubt Doctor Morse would let his feelings jeopardize the health of his patient.”

“And the mission? Don’t you have to get that thing back to London?”

“In a perfect world, yes,” she said. “But the cultists clearly know the Phoenix and have an airship. They will be on the lookout for us, and I’d rather not risk another attack. The way to London is long. Vienna is close. I can telegraph the Society and have an agent meet us there so I can hand off the book. Then we can very publicly part ways with the Phoenix and see that they fly away unmolested. I’ve brought the crew enough risk this trip. If neither I nor the book is aboard, they’re less likely to be in danger.”

“Why not just burn it?” asked Alyah. “If it is as dangerous as you say, and if the enemy is that determined, why not just put it beyond their use?”

“The Ghost Society has experts who wish to study it. They say that it can tell them much about the cult, and about the next time the circumstances will be right for the ritual. It would allow them to be better prepared in the future.”

“That seems a risk,” replied Alyah. “If it is dangerous and sacred to this secret group, could they not have disciples infiltrate the ranks of these ‘experts’?”

“Their strengths do not seem to lie in subtlety.”

“They knew your man Carmody had the book. They discovered who we were after we stole it. Perhaps they have many simple spear carriers, but some of them seem to be deceivers.”

Emelia frowned. She felt a chill despite the warmth of the fire and the comforts of the suite. “There’s something to that,” she said. “I thank you. I suppose if I hire guards to keep me safe, I should heed their warnings.”

“Not every shadow hides a threat,” said Alyah. “But every shadow should be treated as though it might.”

Chapter 33

Now that Roderick had a name, learning about Emelia DuMond was not difficult. She had been in Vienna, supposedly in preparation for a show. He found a photograph of her in a theater review, and although the disguise she had used on the airship had been executed well, he could easily see the resemblance to the ersatz lieutenant who had confiscated his book. She was prettier without the carefully trimmed imperial, but it was clearly her. If further confirmation was needed, it came in the form of congratulations from a pair of his fellow officers who had spoken with her on his good fortune with the ladies.

Which meant she probably knew a great deal about him. He didn’t doubt that the other Hussars would defend him on the battlefield, but he knew enough not to expect them to show much resistance in the face of an attractive woman. A bottle of champagne and the flutter of an eyelash would undo them in ways shot and sabre could not.

Hard to fault them, he mused, looking at the picture. She was captivating, and the army simply didn’t prepare young men to deal with that.

A few discrete enquiries revealed that she had arrived on the Phoenix, a passenger airship of British registry, and further digging through some very dry documents at the Imperial Airship Registry gave him the name of the captain and officers.

The captain, Little, was American, and a Negro, which was unusual enough in and of itself, but Roderick learned a bit of his history. A man who escaped from slavery and stole a Rebel airship was exactly the type of man you’d hire to help you pull off a heist under false pretenses. That kind of thing called for careful planning, quick thinking, and balls of steel.

The engineer, MacGregor, had been in British army service in India, and the Brits used airships for reconnaissance and signals, so he probably knew a thing or two about keeping a vessel in the air in hostile mountains.

The rest of the crew seemed to have little enough in the records, but Roderick doubted that a captain like Little would fill his vessel with the cowardly or the easily bribed.

He moved the stack of papers on his desk and picked up some English language sports programs. It seemed that Miss DuMond had hired her bodyguards at a sabre tournament in London, and Josef had been diligent enough to find the papers that detailed the contestants and their backgrounds. The man was a marvel.

The count read over the entries. A Michael Connolly had won the match, and seemed to fit the description of one of her guards. Solid but unremarkable record. Another American. Civil War veteran. No surprise there for any fighting man of the right age. Sergeant, so a career ranker, not a wealthy man with a commission. But here was something. Served as an officer in the East India Company forces in the Fifties. A soldier of fortune before returning to defend the flag of his homeland. Roderick thought for a moment. The man would be a reliable soldier. Professional. But he had fought for a foreign flag for money, and now he fought for prizes, which meant he might be amenable to an offer. Although, he’d given up his pips to save the Union, so he had some principles under the mercenary shell. Could go either way. Not that different from Roderick’s father.

The other guard was a woman, and there the program was...unhelpful. She had won several competitions, but her previous life was either a colorful fiction designed to stir up interest or she was an Asiatic brigand queen who had given up commanding the next incarnation of the Golden Horde and the tribute and marriage offers that would come with it in favor of life on the fencing circuit. Well, he supposed, that sort of thing could get boring with time, so why not?

Between the lines of sensational claims designed to draw jaded gamblers to see something new, he did detect some actual accomplishments. She had faced and beaten several legitimate swordsmen with whom he was familiar. Well known fencers who wouldn’t take a bribe to throw a bout. And he didn’t see any hint of her working the traveling shows and circuses. She probably knew a thing or two about using a sword. Although the ad copy for the tournament couldn’t decide if she were Indian or Afghan or the other type of Indian. Could be Spanish trying to conjure some exotic persona for the ring for all he knew.

What was certain about DuMond and her little ragtag band of plucky heroes was that they had stolen the book by fraud and then bested the cultists in a stand up fight. So they’d done well with both bluff and steel.

He pushed aside the coffee pot and took a bottle of brandy from the cabinet. After pouring a generous amount, he sat in his favorite chair, rolling his neck to ease the stiffness of long hours hunched over the papers. Now he had to think. To see the weaknesses of the enemy. They won the first few rounds, but they had been working from the advantage of knowledge. He had not previously had any idea with whom he was at odds. Now that had changed.

He thought about the kind of people he faced. They were outsiders. People on the fringes. People who, without the advantages of status or privilege, had been forced to rely on brains and skill and original thinking. They were tricky. They were skilled. And they were daring. He smiled. He liked all that in a person. Even an enemy.

But in addition to the strengths of the outsider, they had the weaknesses. And they surely wanted what every outsider wanted. To be an insider.

And that was something that their masters would never give them. Not for something as simple as a job well done. That was something only wealth and power could get you.

And that was his to offer.

He hoped he could persuade them. It would be such a waste to kill such interesting characters.

Either way, dealing with them would be better than listening to the prophet or steering Gorka or drilling those dumb brutes.

Whatever happened, this would be fun.

Chapter 34

While the Phoenix was in dock for resupply and repair, Emelia took Alyah and Connolly ashore. “Ashore” seemed an odd way to put it, she thought, but “aground” was even worse. She’d have to ask one of the crew what they called it. She wanted to gather the news, put her ear to the ground, see if any word of the airship actions had come to the capitol.

She had thought about staying aboard ship, but she needed to know the lay of the land, and she had no equal in gathering information. In any case, she reasoned, it would be just as easy to attack the ship as to attack her in public. A large crew of rough looking men near the dock would cause no concern, and there would be few witnesses. In the city, her modest celebrity would ensure that any move against her would be witnessed, and she had two of the world’s deadliest blades by her side.

“I’m heading to meet my contact,” she told them. “Make yourselves ready for a walk into the city.”

“Right,” said Connolly. He picked up his swordbelt and made to buckle it around his waist.

“The Hotel Imperial in Vienna, where I hope to meet our contact, has a somewhat restrictive attitude toward weapons, so it might be best if you could carry something concealed.”

The soldier looked at the belt with the three-foot sabre and heavy single action Colt Army revolver. “That’s going to be a trick.”

“Nevertheless, I think we must be prepared to make do without weapons more suited to a battlefield than a bar.”

Alyah frowned. She held her sword and considered it, as though trying to think of some way to fit a cavalry sabre up her sleeve.

“You have nothing more discreet?” asked Emelia. “No pocket pistol? Sword stick?”

“We are warriors,” said Alyah. “We are prepared for battle, not subtle and dainty murder in genteel drawing rooms.”

“Well, that would be an oversight,” replied the actress. “As I spend a great deal more time in genteel drawing rooms than battlefields. I will admit that since we’ve met, that may not be the impression that has come across, but please, do your best. If you find you have no weapons that you can conceal, I may have something to lend you. We should leave soon, so take a moment or two, then see me.”

* * *

They made their way to the bar in the Hotel Imperial. After the opulent, airy lobby with its marble columns and soaring ceiling, the bar was dark and intimate. A place for quiet meetings and secret trysts. It was close to the opera house and the Imperial Theatre, so considering the number of aristocrats who sought dalliances with actresses and singers, the staff was discrete enough. Coupled with the fact it was exclusive enough that a party of mad cultists with steel in their fists and corrupting boils over their bodies probably wouldn’t get a reservation, Emelia felt it was a good choice

Alyah had a dagger in her boot and a borrowed derringer in her sash. Connolly had borrowed some brass knuckles from airman Sabatini and begrudgingly slipped a small pepperbox revolver into his pocket, but he wasn’t happy about it. It was large enough to dig into his hip when he sat, and he had left one of the chambers unloaded under the hammer because he felt having one less round in the weapon was preferable to accidentally shooting his balls off. He didn’t feel that it would be useful in any case. The rounds were small and underpowered, and the barrel was so short that he felt it could only be accurate if he braced it against something solid, like his target’s breastbone. Emelia had encouraged both of them to dress in their finest.

“Not really trying to lie low then, are we?” asked Connolly.

“If I wanted to lie low, I’d go as someone else,” replied Emelia. “Which would be easy enough, but then people wouldn’t talk to me. Here, there will be plenty of people who will be tripping over themselves to get my attention. And when I talk of airships and travel and possible danger, anyone with a story or a rumor of any incident will be desperate to regale me with the details. It will be easy enough for my contact to blend into the throng and for me to slip him the book. And being at the center of a crowd will make it harder for pickpockets or assassins to pull off something sneaky.”

“So why do you need two bodyguards?” asked Alyah.

“It never hurts to be a bit cautious. And I am expected to travel with an entourage. What could be better than a dashing swordsman and a deadly young woman whose beauty is exceeded only by her skill with a blade?”

Alyah blushed. Connolly shrugged. “I’m a decade or so past dashing. True, Alyah here will attract attention, but I’m not much to look at.”

“That is because you insist on playing Connolly the aging soldier when you should embrace Khan Ali, the terrible swift sword of the Northwest Frontier,” Alyah said, grinning. “Grow your beard and find a turban. I can show you how to wear it.”

“With my Irish complexion that might be hard to pull off.”

“Being the color of clotted cream hasn’t stopped Burton or Gordon from playing at the Oriental Adventurer,” Emelia pointed out.

“Gordon’s an arrogant prick and not even Burton believes half his own stories,” said Connolly.

“He did discover the source of the Nile,” said Emelia.

“Probably looking for a brothel.”

“That wouldn’t be out of character,” the actress admitted.

“And his book on swordsmanship is rubbish,” Connolly went on.

“Oh, say how that kind of thing would not have been tolerated in your day,” urged Alyah with a grin.

* * *

Emelia sat at a table in the center of a throng of admirers. Alyah had to appreciate the way the woman could read people and charm them, flattering and giving just enough attention to keep them talking. She had often been the center of attention, but as a novelty. Not truly accepted by soldiers because she was a woman, or by polite society because she was a warrior. Except, perhaps, now. Connolly treated her with the respect of a true companion. The way her father’s fighters had when they thought her a young man and apprentice brigand. Connolly was the first to do so since she had grown breasts. MacGregor was like a doting uncle. The captain a wise grandfather. It was strange to feel so much closeness to people she hadn’t known for very long. She hadn’t realized that she missed it.

And Emelia had called her beautiful. She hadn’t heard that often. Never from a woman at least, and men were poor judges of beauty. Men equated beauty with desirability, and most men had a low bar for that, which became lower the longer they were in the field. She intimidated some men and intrigued others, but she never thought she beguiled them.

Emelia was beautiful by any objective measure. So much so that she didn’t try to diminish Alyah as an object of interest, as so many other women did.

She heard a cough and saw Connolly at the bar. He nodded toward a man who was walking toward Emelia’s table. Alyah carefully shifted in her chair, making sure her pistol was easily accessible.

* * *

Alyah watched Count Roderick approach the table with a cocky swagger. The crowd parted as he drew near, like scavengers sensing a lion.

“Good evening, Miss DuMond,” he said, bowing. “Count Roderick von Szeben, at your service.”

“I am charmed, my dear Count,” Emelia extended a hand, which he kissed. “Please, have a seat and tell me to what I owe the pleasure of your acquaintance. This is my companion, Alyah Abdullah-Brooke.”

“Enchanted, Miss Abdullah-Brooke. By all accounts, you’ve quite a reputation with a sabre. I fancy myself a bit of an enthusiast as well.”

“Perhaps we could arrange a bout,” said Alyah.

“I look forward to it.”

He looked at a young aristocrat seated nearby. The man quickly stood and offered his chair. The count nodded and smiled. Or bared his teeth, at least. Taking his seat, he leaned back and said with a smile. “I was recently privileged to catch a performance of yours. Most impressive. I confess to being ignorant of your prior roles, but I have to say, you certainly made me a believer. Such a transformation. Sitting here, I can hardly believe you are the same person, so fully did you embrace your character.”

“My thanks, your excellency,” she returned the smile. “I am so pleased to have my performance meet your approval. I admit, I wasn’t entirely certain you enjoyed it.”

“Oh, I always respect talent, even when the script isn’t quite to my liking. And you could have used a better supporting cast, but one does what one must.”

“I thought they did quite well, considering their experience. And I am sure, as a dashing cavalry officer, you can relate to times when your troops haven’t met your expectations.”

Alyah turned from the actress to the count to see the effect of this latest cut. To her surprise, his grin widened. He inclined his head in a brief nod, the same way Connolly did when acknowledging a touch. The man was an enemy, and a dangerous one, but she found his apparent enjoyment of the rivalry almost appealing. She reminded herself that a tiger might be majestic and impressive, but it would still tear out your belly given a chance.

“I wonder if we might share other interests,” the count said to Emelia.

“Perhaps,” she mused. “Could it be we share a taste in books?”

“I imagine we share a knack for acquiring them. Perhaps we have clients who might be looking for the same thing?”

“I certainly hope not. I would hate to see the disappointment on your face when I present such a thing to my client. It would be a pity to see such a charming, roguish smile vanish.”

“I simply wondered whether your client was compensating you as well as your talents deserve. I can assure you that mine is very generous.”

“While I am grateful for your concern, I feel I must decline. After all, I have given my word, and once a woman loses her reputation, what does that leave?”

Count Roderick sighed, shook his head, and stood. “With that, I must take my leave. I look forward to our next meeting, and while I do hope it can be on friendly terms, I am sure it will be interesting.”

“Farewell, then. Or should I say au revoir?”

“Auf Wiedersehen, mein Fraulein.” He gave a bow and departed.

* * *

Connolly picked up the whisky glass from the bar. He raised it to his lips as a man sat on the stool beside him.

“Whisky, my good man,” said the voice. “Irish if you have it. Scotch in a pinch. I want to taste peat smoke.”

Connolly turned at the voice. Beside him a man leaned on the bar. He was of medium height, lean, and poised.

“Mr. Connolly, I presume?” said the man.

Connolly downed his whisky and looked the man over, from his artfully windblown hair to the carefully trimmed mustache above a smirk.

“And you are?” he asked, as though he had no idea.

“Count Roderick von Szeben,” replied the man, making a bow that was just this side of a nod. “I have a bit of a proposal for you.”

“I’m flattered for the offer, but I’m engaged at the moment.”

“So I gathered,” drawled the count. “But I think I can make you a better offer.”

“Now what would that do to my reputation, d’you think? Who’d hire a man who’ll just turn his coat every time someone makes him a better promise?”

The count’s smile broadened. “I thought you might say that.”

“Then what more is there to say?”

“Let us discard this pretense,” said Roderick. “You know for whom I work, and I know the same about you. I must complement your efforts so far.”

“Thank you,” replied Connolly. “Can’t say your employer’s other people impress me all that much.”

“I won’t argue that. But that brings me to my point. I just ask that you share a drink and hear me out.”

“I do listen better with a glass in my hand.”

“You and your friends are skilled. Most of these cultists are not. They have zeal, but not a tactical brain among them. Men like us could turn them into something, carve out our own barony afterwards.”

“Men like us?” Connolly asked with a smile.

“Men of action. Men who are resourceful and bold. Men who understand the trade of soldiering.”

Connolly let his gaze wander over the other man’s tailored clothes. “You have a title. You were an officer. Might still be one, on half pay, selling your skills. I’m a humble Boston street rat who has managed to pick up a few tricks in my long, not very distinguished service.”

The count took a moment, sipping his whisky before speaking. “I’m a son of the Irish diaspora. I’d hazard a guess you’re the same. Son of a soldier in exile, following in his footsteps.”

“I’ve no idea who my father was,” replied Connolly, amused at the nobleman’s attempt to paint them as cut from the same cloth. “Not sure my mother was entirely certain either. She always told me he was a soldier, and if blood is anything to go by, he probably was. He wasn’t around to stop us being driven out by the landlord and fleeing the famine to America. He didn’t teach me any skills suitable for polite society. Like how to fight gangs of bullies on the streets of Boston. Had to work that out myself. Yours did manage to pass down a title.”

“My father was a Fenian rebel turned Wild Goose. Did good service to the Emperor and was rewarded for it. Yes, he did leave me a title, but that amounts to a few old stones, a province of mulberry trees and a pile of debt. To the rest of the court in Vienna, I’m the son of a bog trotting freebooter.”

“At least you have a generation of distance.” Connolly motioned for another whisky. “Maybe we do have something in common. Did your father ever make his way through Kilmaley? We might be long lost half-brothers.”

Roderick’s smile became fixed for a moment, no longer reaching his cold blue eyes.

“I won’t say I’ve had a hard life,” said the count. “Just that you and I are more similar than either of us is to some scion of an ancient house.”

“Fair enough.”

“While this verbal sparring is certainly riveting, consider my offer. Whatever you’re being paid, I’m sure my employers can double it. And they are going to expand their power. The new lands will need rulers. This is a time when a decisive man can carve himself a kingdom.”

“Even if that means a village needs to be sacrificed now and then?”

Count Roderick looked the other man up and down.

“That’s a United States cavalry coat, is it not?”

“And if it is?”

“I just wonder how a man justifies Sand Creek and the Washita but becomes squeamish over some poor Slavic peasants who’ve gotten the sharp end since the days of Attila.”

Now it was Connolly’s eyes that went cold. Roderick noticed and his grin widened. He saluted with his glass and tossed it back, then called for another.

“There’s a reason I’m not in the Army anymore,” said Connolly. “Been trying to make a living as a soldier without selling my soul.”

“Ah, I see, the heart of a cavalier beats in the breast of a bog trotting freebooter. No future in that, my lad. Do the work of the angels all you like, they’ll never accept you as one. Never treat you like an equal. You imply I don’t know what my soul is worth, and you’re wrong there. I do know. I know it’s the most valuable thing a man has. Which is why it’s the only damn thing you or I have that rich men will pay good coin for. Life is a simple choice for us. I can assure that you receive money, land, power, the finest clothes and food and spirits, throngs of beautiful women, men who will jump at your order. Or you can keep your clean conscience and hope that it and a threadbare blanket will keep you warm at night.”

“The cold never bothered me all that much,” said Connolly. “I’d ask how you look at yourself in a mirror, but it’s obvious you enjoy that. Probably more than is healthy.”

For a moment, the count’s smile faltered, morphing through smirk and sneer to snarl, and then it was back. Serene and gently mocking perhaps. The change was so brief that it could have been just a trick of the flickering gas lamps, except Connolly knew it wasn’t. He knew that it was a temper sparked and swiftly controlled. He knew the years of practice that had honed that control. He did feel a kinship to the count at that moment. Not enough to lower his guard or extend a hair’s breadth of trust, but he did understand the anger of being looked down on—and the need not to show it.

“Touché,” said Count Roderick. “I’ll be honest. I’d sooner have you as a capable ally than a worthy foe. It would just make everyone’s life easier.”

“Now that,” grinned Connolly, “is not a talent I’m known for.”

“Pity,” said the count. “Slainte.” He downed his whisky and pushed back from the bar. “We’ll cross paths again, I have no doubt. One way or another.”

* * *

The count walked out of the tavern, shaking his head with a tinge of regret. He had hoped, without much confidence, that he’d be able to turn one or more of them to his side. It would have been nice to bribe them with the prophet’s money. He found it frustrating that he was on the side of mindless sheep and power-mad head cases and not the side of clever women and competent soldiers. He felt that nothing would be better than working with such a group as them.

Well, maybe seeing Miss DuMond’s dress slide off to the floor of his chamber would be better, but he was forced to admit that was unlikely at this point. She got under his skin in a way few others had. Beautiful women with a weakness for a dashing figure in a Hussar uniform weren’t difficult to find, but she was different. She was a challenge. The way she traded verbal cuts and thrusts with him, the knowing smirk, the raised eyebrow, the coy inflection that gave her barbs a subtle double meaning all brought him to a boil. While he was confident she found him attractive, she wasn’t in awe of him, and for some reason that made him want her even more. She was fun. Not that dalliance ever wasn’t fun, but she was fun on a whole different level. The same way that fencing was always pleasant but fencing a master was a joy.

He could turn his coat, he thought, but that thought was fleeting. He’d given his word, taken their money and spent it. Can’t just ignore one’s obligations. Not and keep any kind of reputation. He might be new nobility, might share more blood with that drunken pirate Connolly than the peers of the Empire who looked down on him, but by God he would not disgrace his position by disloyalty. He would make his father—and Josef—proud, pay his debts, and hold his head high in the regiment. He couldn’t throw that all away just to tumble an actress, however tempting that might be.

Could take a moment to imagine it, though.

He walked out of the hotel and turned into an alley.

“Took yer time,” growled a burly man.

“I did,” replied the count. “I was trying to save you some work.”

“And?”

The count gave him a cold smile. “Go do what you do best.”

* * *

Alyah watched the count leave, then moved to where Connolly stood at the bar.

“What did you think of that?”

He shrugged. “I think the man was trying to buy us off. Cheaper to use gold than blood, especially if it’s not your gold.”

“So he offered to hire you as well?”

“He did. You?”

“I think he finds me exotic,” she said with a smirk. “I think he wants to take us out of competition. But mostly, I think he wants to bed Miss DuMond and figures it will be easier if we are not shooting at one another.”

“I like your eye for assessing the lay of the land,” he replied. “You’re probably not wrong. I would hazard most men who meet Miss DuMond want to bed her.”

“She is out of his class,” said Alyah, signaling for a drink. “She is better looking and far more intelligent. I am sure she sees right through him.”

“Well, that’s her job and she’s good at it. And we men seldom lack the confidence to aim above our class.”

“Do you want to bed her?” she asked.

“When I met her, like anyone else, my mind hopped into bed. Because that’s where she wants your mind to be. Not out noticing all the clever things she’s up to. It’s how she disarms her rivals. And her allies. Easier to control the situation if she’s the only one focusing a whole brain on it.”

“But you see that. So she does not have you beguiled?”

“I’m more of what you’d call a realist. She’s stunning and all, but she’s an actress. How much of what she shows is an act? And I’m a worn-out ranker old enough to be...well, her uncle if not her father, so I’ve no delusions.”

“Perhaps the great Khan Ali has wisdom born of many years after all.”

“He has insight born of many failures.”

“Different words for the same thing.” She tossed back a whisky. “Back to the count. Do you think his offer is real? Could he be trusted?’

Connolly shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I trust him, but I think it’d be in his best interest to buy us off. We’ve proven tough to kill. And I don’t think he’s a cultist. He’s just hired to do a job, and if he can do it with less bloodshed, why not?”

Alyah noticed a change in the atmosphere of the crowded room. She turned to the door and saw a half dozen burly men shouldering their way in, their rough clothing and unshaven scowls a contrast to the upper-class patrons. She reached out and squeezed Connolly’s shoulder with her left hand as her right closed on the hilt of her boot knife.

It took but a moment to see that they were shoving their way toward Emelia’s table, and less than that to see she would never reach them in time.

Without a word, she drew her knife and hurled it at the lead man.

It’s difficult to kill a man with a thrown knife, but easy to distract him.

The weapon took the man in the shoulder, causing him to twist and cry out. The rest of his comrades stopped and piled up behind him, looking about for the source of the attack. Patrons began to shout and surge back away from the men. A serving girl shrieked and dove under Emelia’s table.

The actress herself spun to see the commotion, her hand concealed in the folds of her skirt. As one of the thugs resumed his menacing advance, she leveled a pocket pistol and shot him twice in the center of his body. The man gasped and fell to his knees. She stood, backing away, and pulled the small sword from the handle of her parasol.

Connolly and Alyah surged through the crowd, making for the group of toughs. He grabbed a bar stool and advanced, the legs extended forward like he was making a bayonet charge. He figured he was less likely to miss with it than the pocket revolver and more likely to actually drop his man. She snatched a bottle off the bar with each hand.

A large man with a jagged scar across his face and a cudgel in his fist met Connolly’s advance. A man of experience, he grabbed at the leg of the stool, intent on yanking it aside and smashing the soldier with his club. Things began well for him as he caught one of the spars between the legs, but swiftly declined as Connolly twisted the stool, trapping and wrenching his arm, driving him to his knees.

Connolly kicked the man in the stomach. He drew back his barstool and waded into the remaining men, swinging it like a felling axe.

Alyah approached the group from the flank as they focused on Connolly’s assault. She darted in and struck at a short, squat fellow with an eye patch. Focused myopically on the man with the barstool, he failed to avoid her attack. She smashed the bottle against the back of his head, then stabbed him in the neck with the broken shards.

Emelia parried a knife thrust from a tall, lean ruffian and riposted, sending her blade through his biceps. He screamed and dropped his weapon, clutching his bleeding arm. The actress grabbed her valise from beneath the table and retreated, keeping her point extended toward the enemy to discourage pursuit.

Connolly pushed on, driving his foes back and knocking men to the floor with great sweeps of the stool. Alyah menaced them with two bloody bottles, reduced to necks and shards.

“Time to go!” shouted Emelia, backing toward the kitchen.

“Take the lead,” said Connolly to Alyah. “This might be a trick to drive us into an ambush.”

“Haan, Sahib,” she said. She hurled the broken bottles at the enemy before turning and rushing to the kitchen, picking up a club from the floor as she went.

After leading Emelia and Connolly through the kitchen and its bewildered staff, she paused at the door to listen before opening it and moving through in a crouch, weapon at the ready. Emelia followed, sword in hand. Connolly played rearguard, administering bruises and broken bones to any who followed too closely. As he reached the door, he took one final swipe of the barstool to drive back the horde, then slammed the door and jammed the battered remnants of the stool beneath the handle.

The three dashed down the alley and made several quick left and right turns until they were confident there was no pursuit.

“Everyone alright?” panted Connolly.

“Quite,” said Emelia.

“I am unscathed,” said Alyah. “And the great Khan Ali?”

“No worse than I was this morning.”

“Good. Let us make our way to the Phoenix,” said Emelia.

Alyah frowned. “That seems to have been too easy.”

“I confess, I had expected better of the count,” said Emelia. “My informant either hasn’t shown yet, or he’s run off. I’ll have to make contact again. I hope I can set up another meeting.”

“You still have the book?” asked Connolly as they hurried along the alley.

“Yes,” she patted her valise, feeling the reassuring weight of the object.

“I merely ask because the count’s not an idiot, and he’s seen brute force fail before.”

“It’s fine,” said Emelia. “He thought to bribe us, and when that failed, he relied on his thugs.”

“Does he seem like a man who would tip his hand that he’s near, and then have us attacked when we’re on alert?”

“It’s fine,” the actress repeated. “I have it safe right here.” She opened the valise and drew out a large square shape wrapped in brown paper. Her brow furrowed and she tore the paper away.

Connolly and Alyah looked at Emelia and saw her expression change. “That bastard,” she muttered, staring at the framed daguerreotype photograph of a handsome Hussar captain. “That clever, clever bastard.”

* * *

In a hotel room a mile to the east, Roderick handed a flute of champagne to the young actress.

“Brava to a stellar performance,” he said.

Lili blushed and smiled. “It was nothing.”

“On the contrary.” He grinned broadly, downing his own glass. “Not only did you perform opposite the famed Miss DuMond, you so embodied your role as to fool her. And switched the parcels with no one the wiser. I would love to know how you managed that.”

“I told you, I worked as a magician’s assistant,” she said. “It’s all about misdirection. I carried the package under the drinks tray, and when the confusion started, it was natural to seek shelter under the table. From there, swapping out the packages was easy.”

“My dear, you are a marvel,” he said, stowing the book away in a satchel. “Allow me to increase your payment.”

The girl had done an excellent job, and it wasn’t as though it was his money. Count Roderick was in the mood to be generous. Fortune smiled on him. Perhaps the lovely Miss DuMond would want to deal now that he had the book. And he relished the thought of seeing that bastard Gorka’s expression when he delivered the book back into the hands of that mad prophet, with no loss of his followers, no uncomfortable notoriety, just a few schillings paid out to a talented actress and a few thugs. The actress he’d keep in his circle as a contact. The thugs, whatever was left of them, he’d pay off and ignore.

He knew that he could succeed, so long as he didn’t have any fanatics getting in the way.

Chapter 35

Emelia returned to her cabin on the Phoenix, angrily tossing the count’s framed portrait onto the narrow bed. Kitty helped her remove her cloak and hat.

“Things went poorly, miss?”

Emelia bit back a retort. This was no time to unleash her Irish temper, and Kitty did not deserve to be a target. She forced a tight smile. “One could say that.”

Kitty picked up the portrait from the bed, examining the framed image. “Is he an admirer? He must think a lot of you. This is an expensive gift. He’s very handsome.”

“Yes,” replied Emelia testily. “He’s also charming, witty, and holds a title. If we were living in a Regency novel, he’d be the ideal prospect for a husband. In the actual world where we are forced to live, he is a handsome, witty, charming bastard who has just stolen a valuable and dangerous object for the second time. He is...inconvenient.”

* * *

Alyah took out her sabre and began to clean it.

“God knows it got dirty as hell in that scabbard,” said Connolly.

She gave him a steely look from beneath lowered brows.

“In that case, let me see to mine as well,” he said.

“We were beaten,” she said, making a tiny stroke with her whetstone, smoothing a spot he couldn’t see.

“Happens,” he said. “And we were there to guard Miss DuMond, which we did.”

“That count outsmarted us.”

“He outsmarted her,” Connolly corrected. “Our job is not to be outfought.”

“He used strategy,” she pressed on. “Strategy is our job.”

“Fair enough. We can take some blame for that if it makes you feel better.”

“I dismissed him,” she said. “I thought he was too pretty, too full of himself to be a threat. I looked only for the tiger, not the serpent with a honeyed tongue.”

“And who among us hasn’t?”

She gave him a long stare. “Perhaps my father cut your head deeper than I thought.”

“Look, there’s none of us perfect. I underestimated the man myself,” Connolly admitted. “I should have seen him coming. I thought he was just an entitled aristocrat. The kind who got his rank by connections not ability. I never stopped to think that he’s as much an outsider in the Austrian court as we would be. Well, maybe not quite so much, but still. He’s got the skills and edges of an underdog. They looked down on him, so he had to be better. Same as you. The title and the posh accent threw me off.”

“Next time I meet him,” Alyah said, peering at the edge of her blade, “I shall meet him with steel, not words. Make him fight like a warrior, not a soft-handed courtier.”

“You’re not taken with the man?” he grinned. “Dashing, charming, handsome. Shares your taste in unnecessarily elaborate cavalry jackets.”

“I have already said, I have no eye for the honey-tongued serpent,” she looked up at him. “Only for the tiger.”

Chapter 36

Roderick took a passenger airship to the closest point he could to the cultists’ stronghold, then went the rest of the way by horseback. He didn’t want a ship’s crew knowing where he had gone, and he certainly didn’t want to bring anyone close enough to the order. Either they’d see too much, or Gorka would have them killed because he thought they’d seen too much. No point in more senseless bloodshed.

He enjoyed the journey. He had purchased a good horse, and it had been too long since he’d been in the saddle. The weight of the book in his saddlebag and the memory of Lili gave him a warm feeling. Soon he would have his money, Gorka would be humiliated again, and he’d be free to take his rightful place in society. And he hadn’t had to kill the lovely Miss DuMond or her little band of plucky misfits. He felt the thrill of beating them without having made the world that much less interesting by removing them from it.

As he neared the fortress, he heard a horse neigh. Followed by movement in the forest around him. He reined his mount, placed his hand on his revolver and waited.

“Halt where you are!” came a gruff voice. “Oh, Captain! The prophet has been awaiting your return.”

Two cultists stepped from the brush on the sides of the trail, rifles in hand.

“How many are there of you?” he asked.

“Twelve, Captain,” said the first man. “The rest are mounted, just beyond that ridge.”

Well. They had listened after all. A mounted picket along the main trail. Enough men to delay an enemy and either charge them or send back word to the main fortress. These fellows might be soldiers yet.

“Excellent,” he said. “You men are doing a fine job.”

“Thank you, Captain. Would you like us to escort you to see the Prophet?”

“No,” Roderick replied. “Keep watch on this road. I know the way.”

“Yes, Captain!” the man gave something like a salute.

Maybe they weren’t just a bunch of mindless fanatics after all, he thought as he rode the rest of the way to the fortress. Still mad, but maybe there was enough material there to make decent troops out of them.

Once he reached the fortress, he brought his new horse to the stables, noting that they had been repaired, and were well stocked and maintained. Picking the least dull recruits for his little cavalry squadron had been the smart move.

After that, he made his way through the fortress directly to the prophet’s chamber. He wasn’t going to have his triumph filtered through Gorka. The guards outside the chamber snapped to attention as he approached.

When the door was opened and he stepped inside, he found the prophet seated at his desk, poring over astrological charts. He sighed. This was why they needed him. Somebody had to look at maps of the real world, and drill soldiers with real guns if these fellows wanted to gain any actual power.

“Your excellency,” said Roderick, bowing slightly.

“Captain,” said the prophet in his flat voice.

“I brought you something.” He pulled the book from his sabretache. “As I promised.”

The prophet was on his feet, halfway across the room before Roderick had the book out. The change in the man stunned Roderick. The normally calm, deliberate movements were gone as the man paced swiftly forward, focused on the book with the intensity of a leopard stalking its prey. Every muscle was tense with anticipation, with desire. A desire bordering on lust. Not the lust of a lover, but of an addict. A need. The face that had always been blank now split in a grin, lips drawn back from glistening teeth.

The hair stood up on Roderick’s neck. He remembered the time he had been out hunting in the winter and ran into a lone wolf. One whose hunger had overridden its caution, who was desperate enough to stalk an armed and mounted man. His hand flexed, wishing for the feel of a weapon.

“Gorka!” shouted the prophet as he reached the count, snatching the book from his hands.

The prophet held the book in trembling hands, leafing through the pages. Gorka strode into the chamber, his frown deepening as he saw Roderick.

Then he turned toward the prophet and saw the book. His frown changed to a hungry grin. “Is…is it true? Has it been returned after all this time?” His voice quivered as he spoke.

“This is the Book,” said the prophet with reverence. “It has returned to us, the chosen disciples.”

The way the two men stared and pawed at the stained and musty block of ancient parchment made Roderick uneasy. He thought about asking if he should leave and give them a moment alone with it, but he felt that it might be too much sacrilege even for him.

“You have done well, Captain,” said the prophet. “Go to your quarters and rest. Gorka and I shall discuss our next task.”

“How soon does the hour approach?” asked Gorka.

“Soon,” answered the prophet. “We must prepare.”

“There is a village nearby,” said Gorka. “We should be able to get all we need there.”

“Planning a run for supplies?” asked Roderick.

Gorka looked at him with a grin of malicious glee. “In a manner of speaking.”

Chapter 37

Emelia couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned for what seemed like an eternity, then gave it up. She got out of the narrow bed, pulled a coat over her nightdress, and went out onto the deck, careful not to wake Kitty.

There was a great deal at stake. She understood that. She’d known it when she’d taken the assignment, but now she felt the weight of it all on her shoulders. The cultists were brutal but unimaginative. Easy enough to out think. Count Roderick was not. And now, he had re-stolen the book, and her contact had let her know he had once again taken an airship off into the mountains. Other than following him there, she had no immediate plan to get it back.

The fate of the world hung in the balance, if Charles was to be believed. The fate of the Phoenix and its crew and Kitty and her two guards was what she felt more keenly. For the good of the one, she had to risk the other. She knew that. Knew it, but didn’t feel it. Jensen’s brush with death brought that home in a stark, visceral way that simply knowing a fact couldn’t.

But they were all good at what they did. Skilled. Resourceful. Surprising. And they felt like a family. That was something new for her. She felt close to them. Truly close. Not close like she felt to her acquaintances in the theater or her critics or audiences or even the lovers she had taken. All those people had been happy to be near her, to share the spotlight of her wit and beauty, to feel the reflected fame.

It sounded arrogant to put it that way, even to herself, but she knew there was truth to it. Most of the people who had flocked around her had done so because of her success. She’d been just as witty when she’d been a starving laundry girl, and no throngs of admirers had appeared then. Something in that made her distrust people, question their intentions.

But the crew around her now didn’t seem blinded by her fame. They went into danger for her and one another, took risks and shared peril as well as success without a second thought. They gave honest advice when she asked and gave her credit when they thought she had done well. That feeling was something she wanted to sink into. It felt like what she imagined when people spoke of home or family.

It also filled her with a dark, cold fear, sitting in her belly like a lead weight. She was their leader, and however much she had wanted to be able to claim that, it meant that her decisions would affect them. That the warm, safe, close feeling was hanging on her decisions.

For the first time in a long time, she began to fear she might not be worthy of the challenge. That she might fail. Might be responsible for the deaths of these people who had given her so much.

As she hunched against the chill air, letting her thoughts run, she saw Mr. Connolly walking the deck. She raised a hand in greeting.

“Evening, miss,” he said as he walked over.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said.

“Figured as much.”

“Could I speak with you freely for a moment? And get your honest answer?”

“Always.”

She took in a long breath and blew it out slowly. “You’ve been a soldier for a long time.”

“I have.”

“And you’ve led troops.”

“From time to time.”

“You cared for your troops. I can see the way you act with the crew here and the way you talk about your men when you were in India.”

“Can’t lead men and not care about them,” he replied. “Well, you probably can, just not very well.”

“So how do you order them into danger? Knowing they might be hurt or killed? And how do you deal with it when they are?”

He looked out at the stars for a long moment. “It’s not an easy thing to explain.”

She smiled and took a flask from her coat. “Here.” She handed it over. “I’ve found this to be the second-best way to loosen a man’s tongue.”

He took it with a grin. “Been a ranker long enough to get used to second best.” He opened it but paused and took a sniff before he drank. He looked back at Emelia. “Not what I expected from a refined thespian like yourself.”

“I learned to drink when I was a poor Irish laundry girl,” she replied. “Which was also when I learned to think my way out of trouble, so I turn to a dram of the old stuff when I need to remember who I was.”

“Who we were made us who we are,” he said, taking a sip. “Och, that’s the stuff. Must have looked long and hard to find poteen that cheap.”

“If you’re going to do it, do it right.”

“True enough.” Connolly hesitated, looking out at the stars as he began to speak. “The first thing I’m tempted to say is you don’t get in the ring if you can’t take a punch. It’s true, but it’s not fair and not of any bloody use to you now. And I know you can take a punch. But you do need to understand the rules of the game. Can’t win a fight and never get bloodied. But the reluctance to let your people get hurt – the worry, the dull, empty ache you feel when they do – are all good things in a leader. They’re what keep you from throwing away lives. Make you double check every decision. Judge what might happen if you’re wrong. Not every officer can do that. That’s when you get your Cardigan or Custer or Pickett or Burnside. Throwing men at a wall of shot and steel, sure that balls and discipline will carry the day. And sometimes it does.” He took a long drink and looked at Emelia. “But then it doesn’t.”

He returned the flask. “A good leader takes the time to assess the risks and accepts the consequences when they’re wrong. What you did for Jensen shows me you’re a leader. I knew you were clever when you bluffed that book off of Roderick with our little charade. But I only discovered that you were a leader after Jensen got hurt and you spoke up in that meeting. You owned the blame that he was hurt, and you did right by him. That’s why these people will follow you.”

“That’s what scares me,” she replied.

“And it should. That kind of loyalty is a gift. And a curse. But know that you did what good leaders do. You took as much risk on yourself as you could, and took responsibility for the consequences.”

“I always wanted to lead. To have my own little command. Prove I could do it. To be in charge after living so long with my life controlled by others. I never knew the cost until I felt it.”

“None of us do, lass. If we knew how much it hurt to lead, none of us would ever do it. At least, none of the good leaders would. It’s easy to be a terrible leader.”

“Trying to reassure me, are you?”

“I live to comfort,” he replied. “But giving honest, unpleasant insight to a leader is why God put sergeants on this earth.”

“I’m pleased He did, Mr. Connolly,” Emelia said with a smile. “And hearing that helps. I do hope you will continue to whisper unpleasant truths in my ear.”

“That’s not something I’ve heard often from women,” he said.

“It’s not something many men have tried on me,” she smiled back. “Pleasant lies are more common.”

“I’ve met enough officers who prefer those as well.”

“So you’ve met many generals who wanted to hear how pretty they are?”

He shrugged. “Custer did. Pickett probably did.”

She laughed. “I hope you were tactful and gentlemanly with them.”

“I am the soul of tact,” he said. “And give the man his due, Custer was pretty.”

“As pretty as I am?”

“Not nearly,” he responded. “Although, when the setting sun caught his curls just right...”

She laughed again. “I see that you are in fact the soul of tact. Good evening, Mr. Connolly. And thank you.”

“My pleasure, miss.”

As he walked away, Emelia felt both better and worse. It did help to know that other leaders before her had struggled with the same doubts. The part of her that appreciated pretty lies had hoped for a simple cure. Well, she thought, pretty lies will always lead you into trouble. Hard truths are like poteen. They remind you of what’s at stake and show you what you need to do.

What she needed to do was get that book back, rely on the expertise of the people she had chosen, and do her damnedest to keep them safe.

Chapter 38

Count Roderick held his expression as he tried to let the scene wash over him. The screams, the smoke and flames, the blood. It could have been worse, he told himself. He’d seen worse. This was no orgy of rape and pillage and slaughter.

In a way, that almost made it worse. Almost. The cultists had discipline. Well, not really discipline as normal men understood it. They had more than that. A cold, implacable sense of purpose. These weren’t soldiers or bandits with their emotions running high after a battle, all the fear and rage and aggression of combat being channeled into some act of wanton destruction because they couldn’t turn it off. He’d seen that, even felt it himself, and it was understandable—if ugly. What he saw here was...unnatural.

The raiding party had surrounded the small village before dawn and attacked at first light. The villagers had made some defense, but it was over quickly. A few escaped, but all who fought or resisted in any way were killed. And then the wounded were killed. The same treatment was given to those too old or too young to make the journey back to the temple. But not in rage. Not in the heat of passion. The cultists slaughtered their victims like they were livestock. Coldly. Efficiently. Just a blade across the throat. The count found their methodical approach worse than if they had done it in cruel glee.

Oh, soldiers had a long and glorious tradition of treating the enemy not as people, but as animals. That’s what made killing easy, and some men can only do it if it’s easy. Or only let themselves enjoy it if they can convince themselves it’s not real murder. It’s an even shorter leap if the targets are the wrong color. Or the wrong faith. As much as that bloody paladin Connolly tried to sit on his high horse, the American army had done a number on the Indians. Like the Brits had in India. And Africa. It certainly helped that they were a different race. Or religion. If they do happen to look too much like you, then you can convince yourself that it’s your god who doesn’t think they’re worthy of being people. That was the fig leaf that allowed Cromwell’s pious thugs to butcher their way across the old count’s homeland. Roderick understood that. He’d never had that problem. He knew the enemy were people, but some people just had to die if they were fighting him or standing in his way, and it didn’t really bother him. He cared for certain individuals but didn’t feel much charity to the human race as a whole. It’s not like they’d shown him any great quantity of it. But he didn’t hate the world the way these cultists seemed to.

“The men showed fine discipline today, did they not?” asked Gorka.

The count turned to the man. He thought of him as a lieutenant, even though Gorka called himself acolyte. Roderick didn’t trust the fellow at all. He was far too committed, far too dedicated to the whole thing. A zealot. Can’t reason with a zealot or buy him off. You can steer him, but only with care.

“Quite impressive,” he forced the reply out.

“The guns you purchased have made a difference,” continued the cultist. “The prophet will be pleased.”

The count managed a nod in reply. He watched the cultists round up the survivors and herd them into a line. They had fired the village but had barely looted and took nothing that would slow them down. That was just unnatural behavior for any army or warband. He began to wonder, not for the first time, if this had been a huge mistake.

Think of the reward, he told himself. Wealth and power, wealth and power. You’ve seen death and horror before. Hell, most of life is just a distraction from death and horror.

Meanwhile, the cultists marched the villagers out of the burning village, using the butts of their rifles to force wailing women past the tiny corpses of children deemed too young for the journey.

Things like this happen all the time, all over the world, he told himself, trying to drown out the sobbing of mothers, the howling of the dogs.

Then the rain came.

Chapter 39

Emelia woke with the sunlight streaming in through the porthole. She dressed and made her way to the deck. She felt better. Connolly’s words and a few hours of sleep had made a difference. They knew generally where the count was headed, and they knew the kind of men they faced. She had faith in the skills of herself and her companions. She doubted there was a foe that she couldn’t out think, Captain Little couldn’t out fly, MacGregor out plan, or Connolly or Alyah couldn’t outfight. And the whole crew of the Phoenix pulled together as one. Not because of iron discipline, but because they all cared about one another. If she had to face a grave, existential unnatural threat to the world’s very existence, she could think of no better group with which to do it. She only hoped they had enough time until the conditions would be right for the ritual the cultists intended to perform.

As the Phoenix approached the mountains, Hawkins up in the crow’s nest spotted a plume of black smoke. He called down the sighting.

“That’s a burning village,” said Connolly, peering into the distance.

“You’re sure?” asked Emelia.

“Seen it a time or two,” he deadpanned. “The first was when the landlord’s agents fired our cottage and turned us out during the famine. I was ten. Still tried to fight them. Would have landed a blow if ma hadn’t held me back, but they’d probably have killed me.”

“That’s terrible,” said Emelia. She’d been too young to have experienced it, but her mother had told her tales of the Famine. “Not shocking, but terrible.”

He shrugged. “It was. It was also a useful education in the inherent injustice of the world.”

“Get ready for a refresher,” said MacGregor, peering through his telescope.

Captain Little brought the Phoenix over the ruined village. The crew threw down a ladder and the landing party descended.

The rutted dirt tracks that passed for streets were deserted but for bodies. Strewn haphazardly where they had died. There were a few men of fighting age, and the rest either very old or very young.

The kind of people who were of little use to a captor. Connolly swore and shook his head. He’d seen it before. Too old or too young or too infirm or too defiant to make a good slave and you got the sharp end. If you looked like they could get labor out of you without much trouble, you were taken captive. Which fate was worse was open to debate.

He and Alyah scouted the vacant buildings, hoping to find survivors, but there were none. Just a few more bodies, sprawled where they had been cut down in search of refuge. The houses had been plundered, but haphazardly. Things of obvious value had been overlooked or actively smashed and desecrated. Someone had set fires, but the rain had put most of them out before they could grow into a raging inferno of destruction. As it was, most of the buildings had some blackened walls, gaps in their roofs, and puddles of ashy water on the floors, swirling in sooty eddies around the sad, broken detritus of shattered goods and shattered lives.

Neither warrior spoke, exchanging hard glances instead. There was nothing to say. They had seen this before, in other places, other times. The details changed but the sick, impotent mix of anger and despair never did. This was the other side of war. The one without flags and medals and dress uniforms and parades and regimental bands playing “Garryowen.” This and the piles of amputated limbs outside the medical tents that still haunted Dr. Morse’s nightmares.

They finished scouting the ruins and returned to the base of the ladder. Emelia and MacGregor stood by, she a bit pale, his normally stern expression now pure granite. Two crewmen armed with captured rifles stood by, looking ill.

“Any survivors?” asked Emelia.

“Not here,” said Connolly. “But there are always survivors. Chances are they took off into the forest, planning to return once the invaders were gone. Probably went back into hiding when they saw our ship. The last visitors did this. Couldn’t trust we’d be any different.”

“I wish we could talk to them,” she said. “They might need help. And it would be nice to hear any information they have about the cultists.”

“Chances are they are nearby,” said Alyah. “They may be watching right now.”

“She’s right,” agreed Connolly. “If you want them to come out, show that you’re not the enemy. Start burying some of these bodies. That’s not something a conqueror would do. Have Doctor Morse set up shop in that old barn. Some of them might be hurt. Hard looking adventurers with guns and swords won’t look very inviting. But you can be charming and the doctor can be helpful.”

“That makes sense,” said Emelia.

“If nothing else, we can set up camp here,” said MacGregor. “I can see if the raiders left any clues.”

“We will scout the edges of the village and the forest for tracks,” said Alyah. “A group of armed men and captives must have left some sign. They will not escape our steel so easily.”

Chapter 40

Gorka stood beside the prophet and watched as the Faithful herded the sobbing prisoners into the cells.

“Stop,” said the prophet. “Put the women in there. Take the children to the next floor.”

The high acolyte turned to him, an eyebrow raised.

“This will increase their fear. Their sorrow. That energy will help thin and stretch the Veil in preparation for the ritual. And it will help prevent them from scheming. If they know we have their children, but not where, they will be more worried. More easily cowed.”

Gorka nodded. The prophet saw such things. Things that made sense when he explained them, but that Gorka never would have thought of on his own. It was clear the man was a conduit for wisdom from Beyond. He envied that confidence, that assuredness.

“Patience,” said the prophet, reading Gorka’s longing. “For now, I need your eyes open to this world. The Kiss will bestow wisdom, but when the Void is clear in your sight, this shadow world becomes clouded.”

“May I ask then, why the soldiers of the Faithful have received it?”

“Because of them the Void requires only obedience, not initiative. They do not need to see this world clearly, just well enough to follow the divine commands. They can see the infidels as forms of shadow, as a part of a corrupt whole that must be cleansed. But to lead, one must see the enemy clearly. That is why I need you. And our agent, von Szeben.”

“That man is a mercenary,” said Gorka. “He does not share our faith.”

“That is true. But he has the clarity of sight that we need. You, however, have both clear vision and unshakeable faith. That is why I require you, both to guide our faithful and to monitor our agent. I must withhold the Kiss for now. Rest assured, your humble patience in service to the Void will be rewarded beyond your dreams.”

Chapter 41

Alyah heard the man before she saw him. She dropped down on her haunches, placed her thumb on the hammer of her rifle and waited. A young man dressed like a local emerged from the forest near the edge of the hamlet. Clearly one of the village’s survivors, not a cultist. She whistled low to catch Connolly’s attention, then nodded in the villager’s direction. When she saw him ready his weapon, she called for the man to halt.

DuMond and MacGregor walked toward the young man while Alyah and Connolly kept watch. The man probably wasn’t a threat, but plenty of people had died from the improbable.

“Hello!” called Emelia. “We mean you no harm.”

“What is your business here?” asked the man.

“We seek the men who attacked this village,” she replied. “We are prepared to render aid to any of you who might remain. If you have any information about the attackers, it will help us defeat them.”

“If you truly mean that, then we would be in your debt.”

“Come, let us feed you and see to your injured.”

The man approached, saw the blanket-covered bodies, the newly dug graves. “I thank you for your efforts, but that is something we should do.”

“As you wish,” said Emelia. “If you require any help, you shall have it.”

* * *

The surviving villagers trickled out of the forest. For the most part, they were young men who had been away when the attack came, tending the flocks of sheep and goats or hunting. A few young women emerged with baskets of wild berries. Children who had run away once the violence began tiptoed back among the ruined buildings. All of them had lost family, all found the remains of loved ones to mourn. Each also had family who were still missing, carried off by the raiders. They were all tired and hungry and a few were injured.

The Phoenix sent down provisions, and Dr. Morse set up a makeshift infirmary.

As they sat around the fire, sharing food, the young man who had ventured out of hiding first paused to thank the crew.

“It is the least we could do,” said Emelia. “But if you would have us find and destroy these marauders, anything you could tell us would be helpful.”

He stared into the flames for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was flat, bare of all emotion. “They came in an airship. That’s why, when we saw you, we thought they had returned. Ships sometimes pass by and stop, offer to buy or trade for food or supplies. Have something repaired. Maybe just a chance for the crew to walk on the earth. But these men came like the Huns of old. Shooting and slashing their way through the village. Breaking things just to see them break. Killing just to see something die. They took nothing except captives. And they cared little for that. Any who resisted were cut down.” He looked up, met Emelia’s eyes. “If there is any way in which we can avenge this wretched day, there is no force on this Earth that will prevent us.”

Connolly spoke to Emelia. “We have a load of captured rifles. I’ve trained troops before. If we give these villagers some weapons and teach them how to fight as a group, we’d be helping them and gain some allies.”

She nodded. “That’s not a terrible idea. Although I’d rather not send more innocent villagers into danger. Not after all they’ve already lost”

“Danger has a way of coming to the innocent whether they look for it or not. Best they be ready.”

* * *

“Better,” said Connolly. “Still not good enough, but better.”

He walked the line of ragtag villagers, each holding a rifle that had exchanged hands at least three times. It had required considerable repetition, but they could now perform the entire loading drill without pointing the muzzle at any of their comrades.

A few of them had experience using guns for hunting, but none had learned to fight as part of a group. To use cover, to rely on the soldiers beside them, to reload before the enemy could return fire or charge. If you shot at a deer and missed, it ran away. If you shot at an armed foe and missed, he’d do his best to kill you. Even if you shot at him and didn’t miss, his friends would try to kill you. That was the whole point of an infantry company. No one was ever alone with an empty weapon. They had comrades to either side, with guns and bayonets to keep the enemy away. A new recruit learned that safety wasn’t in flight, it was in the company. That no one has to fight alone.

“We won’t count on defeating the enemy with one volley, and if you don’t have time to finish reloading before nightfall or the start of winter spoils your aim, you’ll need to make do with the bayonet.”

He took a rifle and held it extended before him. “For instructional purposes only, we will imagine there’s a bayonet on the end of this. I want you to learn the drill before you try it with the blade fixed, because there are only a dozen of you and we can’t afford the losses if you try to learn with a sharp object.”

The villagers imitated him. He walked down the line, correcting.

“This is a simple but effective weapon,” he said. “It’s just a point. You can’t cut with it, and don’t try and swing it like a club. All it does is stab. But it’s very good at stabbing. From the guard, just thrust it forward, and lean your weight forward. Like this.”

They all made several thrusts.

“Excellent. That’s half the drill. The other half is parrying when someone does the same to you.” He assumed a guard. “Again. Stupid simple. From the guard, if they thrust to the left of you rifle, you parry left.” He moved his weapon to his left. “If they thrust to the right, parry right. Notice I don’t have to move it very far.” He stood before one of the better recruits. “Poke me with that weapon. Pretend you have a point on the end.”

“I do not wish to hit you.”

“You won’t,” Connolly said with a smile. “But try.”

The man drove his weapon forward. Connolly moved his rifle just a few inches to his right, deflecting the thrust aside and lining up his own weapon for an attack.

“See how small that parry is, and how well protected I am? See where my own bayonet would be?”

He paired the men up, just out of reach of each other in case they missed a parry, and had them practice until they were as good as a first day recruit was going to get. Chances are the training would fall apart in the heat of battle, but at least they had a base to build on. They’d done it right a few times, maybe that would come through.

“That’s enough for today,” he said. “Go get some rest. We’ll have you ready the next time you see those bastards.”

He dismissed the villagers and walked over to where the rest of the party had been observing.

“Troops are shaping up,” said MacGregor. “Not quite Aldershot, but coming along.”

“They’re less likely to all get killed the next time they see those cultists than they were yesterday,” Connolly said.

“Truly inspiring words,” said Emelia with a twisted smile. “Shakespeare rolls in his grave, wishing he could have made the ‘St Crispin’s Day’ speech that much more concise.”

“Worthy of the great Khan Ali,” said Alyah. “Now I see why my father held your troops in such esteem.”

“When you hire an aging sergeant with aching joints and a liver in the sunset of its career, you learn to fight efficiently,” Connolly replied. “You don’t learn all that wasted effort that the young find so exciting.”

“Joking aside, you did spend a lot of time with them. I thank you. I had not bargained on a drill instructor when I hired a bodyguard,” said Emelia.

“If you take a job, you do it right,” he said. “And I have my many sins to atone for.”

“Sins, Mr. Connolly?” asked Emelia. “That’s a strong way to put it.”

“I’ve had a long career as a soldier, and it wasn’t all pretty.”

“Fighting is not a pretty trade,” said Alyah. “But I have not heard any terrible stories of you, even from your enemies.”

“I never did anything like...this.” He gestured around the ruined village. “But I was part of something wrong, and I should have known better.”

“You took a job as a soldier and you fought,” said Alyah.

“To help the Company plunder half a continent.”

“It was not you who set out to conquer India.”

“I was a cog in the machine. A small one, to be sure, but without all the small cogs, it couldn’t have worked. A soldier might not think he’s fighting for the same cause as his employer, but he has to admit he is. Maybe he has his own reasons, but at the end of the day, what he’s doing is advancing those ends, whether he means to or not. The men who burned our cottage weren’t rich Ascendancy landlords, just their lackeys. I should have known better.”

“You did your job well and with honor,” said Alyah.

“But that doesn’t justify what the job I did well was,” he replied. “Use that logic and you start praising Lee or Jackson or Forrest for being good generals, or at least brave ones, and overlooking the whole treason thing.”

“How would you have them remembered?”

“I know every man fights for his own reasons. His home state, his family. Chasing honor or glory or just seeking a way out of his old life, like I was when I first enlisted. But at some point, he needs to own up to what cause he’s pushing. The army officers who resigned and went to fight for the Confederacy swore an oath to the nation, then broke it and fought against it. I’ve got no sympathy for them. None for the officers and even less for the rank and file.”

“How so?”

“Look, the officers came from the genteel southern aristocracy. They lived like English country barons, owned plantations, and held slaves. They had a life of luxury because the profits are pretty damn impressive when you own your workers outright and don’t have to pay ’em, plus you can breed them and sell the kids like livestock. Factory bosses in the North would love to get away with that. Now, if society changes, and that goes away, they lose their easy life. So I understand why they wanted to fight to preserve it.

“Oh, they’re wrong, of course, and their whole system is an abomination, but it’s hard to get people to give all that up for something so intangible as the good of their fellow man. So they avoid thinking about it, make up terms like ‘peculiar institution’ and ‘body servants’ and try not to use honest ugly words like ‘slave,’ and play at being cavaliers. They had to be beaten, but I’m a man of the world enough to understand why they fought.

“But there were never enough cavaliers to fill the regiments. So they turned to the poor whites. Men who scratched a pitiful existence off tiny plots, probably couldn’t find work because the wealthy owned people who’d do it for free. Lived like tenants back home in Ireland. But unlike the Irish, who you could only push so far before they burned down a landlord’s home or shoved a pike through a revenue agent, these shoeless cousin fuckers flocked to defend the system that kept them in squalor and poverty. Bowed and scraped to the privileged few instead of leading ’em to the guillotine.

“And why? For the simple promise that no matter how low or wretched they were, they’d always have somebody to look down on. So long as they were white, they’d never be the bottom of the barrel. And for that promise they joined the army to fight for the Glorious Cause, defending a society that despised them, and fought and bled and killed and died for it. Dressed in homespun uniforms dyed butternut brown because they couldn’t even afford real grey broadcloth like the gentry. They charged shoulder to shoulder up Cemetery Ridge into the hungry mouths of cannon, just to show the world they were better than black men.

“So, no. I don’t feel a shred of sympathy. Because for the empty promise of being the second most oppressed men in the world, they stood up for the oppressors.”

Connolly looked off into the distance for a long moment. “And after sitting on my pedestal and handing down judgment, I have to admit that I didn’t spend my years in the East India Company championing the poor and downtrodden. I’d like to do a bit of that while I still can.”

“You are right, of course,” said Alyah. “But also wrong. So sure of your reasoning. Your Western logic. A thousand warriors fight for a thousand reasons. You did not fight for the Company or for Britain. You fought because Allah made you with a sword and a horse in mind. As He did me. And my father. My father was a brave man and a man of honor. But he did not fight the British for his nation. He had no nation. India is not a nation. Nor is Afghanistan. There are a dozen princes and warlords and kings and queens of as many races and nearly as many faiths. Do you wonder why the Gurkha helped you fight the Sikh, or why the Maharatha helped you fight Mysore?”

“We pillaged a continent,” he said, his voice grim.

“That is true. And you played your part. But so did many others. And each for his own reason. And surely the masters of the Company made fortunes. But so did many natives who supported or allied with them. My father fought for many masters, and sometimes for none. And he respected you. He was proud to have crossed swords with you, and he would be pleased to know that you and I have spilled blood together. Your desire to choose a worthy fight is laudable, but for many, the fight chooses them. Judge them not by their choice of side, but by their actions. The men who did this,” she gestured at the ruined village, “are filth. Unworthy and accursed, and every one that our blades strike down makes the world a brighter place. But beware the pride of your certainty. That is the first step on a dark path.”

There was a long silence. MacGregor took his pipe from his mouth. “No counter, lad?” he asked Connolly.

“Here I thought I’d learned something in thirty years of soldiering,” replied the man. “Only to have my ignorance exposed at this late date.”

“Do not feel shame,” said Alyah. “Your beliefs are just the product of your barbarian upbringing. And you have the wisdom to see the truth when it is shown to you. Perhaps if we were to build a madrasa or two in your benighted homeland, we could enlighten your people.”

“While we are speaking of teaching,” said Emelia, “perhaps you could give me some instruction on swordplay. It seems we may be called upon to fight, and most of my training is for the theater, by which I mean I do very well when the script calls for my opponent to lose.”

“That’s wise,” said Connolly. “I’m sure we could find some time.”

“If Khan Ali is too busy teaching the villagers to fight like a machine in his methodical European fashion, I could show you how to use the sword like a true warrior. To use your natural advantages of quickness and intelligence rather than the brute strength and stodgy ritual of the official military manual.”

“I think I would appreciate that,” replied the actress.

“And I shall continue to beat my new company into shape with brute strength and stodgy ritual.”

“This is why we work so well together,” said Alyah. “Without your stodgy ritual we would be but a band of brigands, and without me to show you when you are wrong, you would always believe you were correct. And there is nothing more dangerous than a white man who does not doubt he is correct.”

Chapter 42

Later that evening, Emelia stepped into a cleared space in an old barn that had largely been spared from destruction. She had dressed for instruction in a light shirt of linen and loose-fitting trousers and carried a foil.

Alyah looked her over. “How much swordplay do you know?”

“I’ve had some classical fencing instruction and stage combat,” replied Emelia.

“So not much,” Alyah said, smiling. “All right, stand en garde and I shall see what we have to work with.” She picked up the other foil and took up her stance. She glided fluidly around the actress, who shifted and moved her blade through the guards to cover the changing lines of attack, then reversed and made a swift movement that laid the foil against Emelia’s backside.

“You are used to fencing someone who stays in front of you,” she said, circling. “In the real world, threats can come from anywhere.”

“I see,” said Emelia, rubbing her behind.

“First lesson. Keep your eyes on mine. Keep me in front of you. Move when I move.”

She began to circle around Emelia like a wolf, her eyes seeking a weak spot, a poorly guarded flank. The actress gamely moved to counter. Left, right, back, keeping her focus on the other woman’s face. The eyes of a hunter, the gently mocking smile, the slight raising of an eyebrow when she did well. When she didn’t, the foil would lick out, lightly stinging her on the hip or backside or thigh. Alyah didn’t aim high, because a novice student might react poorly to a high cut and lose an eye.

Soon, Emelia’s breath was coming hard and a sheen of perspiration formed on her brow. But Alyah remained implacable, moving with a feral grace—languid, powerful, predatory. Her smile never faltered, her balance remained perfect.

“Well done,” Alyah said at length, lowering her weapon. “Your footwork is getting better. Now a quick lesson in how to hold the sword.”

Alyah moved in close and took hold of Emelia’s right hand. Emelia felt the touch like an electric shock. Strong, sure fingers adjusted her grip on the handle of the foil and slightly altered the position of her arm.

“Like that. Keep your grip loose, but not too loose. Like you are holding a bird. Not so tight as to crush it, nor so loose that it can escape.”

Emelia nodded, saving her breath. As Alyah leaned close, she felt overwhelmed by the woman’s sheer presence. She could feel the other woman’s breath on her face like a soft summer breeze. “And your stance,” said Alyah. “Is good. Perfect for a fencing salle. But in combat,” she put her hands in Emelia’s shoulders and turned her body just a bit more forward, “if you stand like this, you will not be so confined to just forward and back. Here.” The actress felt strong, gentle hands on her hips, rotating her stance. “Move your foot this way. Open your legs just a bit more.” Emelia’s heart quickened. “Your hair is coming loose,” said Alyah, reaching up and brushing a lock of it back from Emelia’s forehead. “It is very pretty this way, but you should tie it back more securely if you plan to do anything physical.”

She was right there, inches away, her smiling lips slightly parted. Emelia leaned forward and kissed her lightly.

Alyah stiffened. Emelia backed away.

“I’m so sorry—,” she began.

“No. No,” replied the other woman. “I am flattered. But I am not...I do not...”

Emelia was mortified. She felt the hot flush on her face. “I am so sorry,” she repeated. “I presumed far too much. Please accept my apology. I just felt—”

“I understand,” said Alyah. “I take no offense. You are not the first to make that mistake.”

“I didn’t mean to presume.”

“I know you did not. Please, do not apologize. You have nothing to be ashamed about. And your secret will be safe with me.”

She turned suddenly. Emelia made to speak, but Alyah put one finger to her lips. She quietly slid the sabre from its scabbard on her belt and began to glide toward the door in a fighter’s crouch.

She stopped. Stood upright and called out.

“The step of the great Khan Ali was said to be as quiet as the wind.”

Connolly moved to the doorway, his own sabre in his hand. “The wind literally howls in Afghanistan. That’s almost insulting.”

“What brings you stomping about at such an hour?”

Emelia hadn’t heard anything. Alyah must have ears like a lynx.

“Thought I heard something out this way. Sounded like steel and shuffling footwork. Figured I may as well do my job as a guard and check it out.”

“I was giving Miss DuMond a lesson in swordplay,” Alyah replied.

“Good,” he said. “Can’t hurt to be ready for a fight. Like as not we’ll get into one soon enough.” He turned to Emelia. “She’s a good one to learn from. There’s a lot she can teach you. Even showed an old dog like me a few new tricks.”

“I will take my leave,” said Alyah. “I do not think there is much more I can show you tonight.”

“I should go—,” Emelia began.

“No,” replied Alyah. “You should work with Khan Ali for a bit. While I am a wizard with a sabre, there are things he is better at explaining. And his instruction is more suited to beginners. As well as children, the aged, and the infirm.”

“You wound me,” said Connolly. “If my old ears could hear you, I would take offense.”

“Mr. Connolly, I couldn’t ask—”

“Not at all, Miss DuMond,” he said with a bow. “It will be a pleasure to work on swordplay with someone who understands etiquette and respect.”

“My thanks,” Emelia said, forcing a tight smile. “But I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“You should keep practicing,” said Alyah. “And you should burn off that energy. Otherwise you will dwell on it.”

She gave the actress a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder and turned to go. “I shall leave you to it.”

“She have a good foundation?” asked Connolly.

“Yes. Very classical.”

“So no real surprises?”

“I would not say that,” said Alyah.

* * *

Emelia walked back to her quarters. Sore, aching, bruised, but wiser.

She worried that she may have damaged her relationship with the woman. Probably not. Alyah hadn’t seemed outraged or scandalized and declined very politely. Emelia had to admit, she had read the situation very wrong. It was an embarrassing mistake for someone in her profession. She hoped they’d be able to work together without this hanging over them.

Thinking of Alyah still gave her a weightless feeling in her chest. She bit her lip and took a deep breath until the feeling passed. She’d have to get this under control. She wasn’t one to fall head over heels in love. This wasn’t the first time she had a sudden infatuation, or even her first time having one with a woman, although that was less usual. The only really novel thing about it was being rejected.

Perhaps some time operating on her own would help clear her head a bit and dull the wistful pang that emerged with thoughts of the other woman. Best not be led into temptation. There was important work to be done.

She arrived back at her temporary quarters in an empty house that had escaped the fire and glanced around at the remains of a meager life, one not very different from her own modest beginnings. The cultists had servants at their fortress. That much was certain. Someone to do the laundry and cook the meals and haul supplies up that mountain. She smiled. She played a damn fine laundress. And it would be so satisfying for an overlooked washer woman to be the instrument of their downfall.

So. Plenty of peasant clothing to be had. Kitty’s skills in makeup could add the mark of years of toil that would be expected of a peasant, and acting the part would be easy. If anything, playing a washerwoman wasn’t even really acting, just remembering. She spoke the local language with a bit of an accent, but she could cover that by talking in a fearful mutter when confronted.

She woke Kitty and explained her plan. The younger woman just nodded and began. She darkened Emelia’s skin as though she had labored for years in the hot sun, added fine lines and wrinkles and dark circles beneath her eyes, then pulled her hair back in a simple braid before tying a scarf around it.

Emelia looked in the mirror and saw her mother. Saw a version of herself as though she wore the mark of worry and poverty and hunger and toil. Saw herself as though she had spent her years trying to keep her children from starving rather than treading the stage.

“Kitty,” she said. “You are a marvel. Now, please just go to bed and pretend you don’t know I’ve gone. I’m sure the others will be upset, but this is a task I am best suited to perform alone.”

“Please be careful, miss.”

“With the job you have done here, how could I fail?” Emelia embraced the other woman. “Keep your hopes up. Everyone here is a master of their craft. Together we cannot but succeed.”

“Bless you miss,” said Kitty. “May God keep you safe.”

After changing into a simple dress and apron, she checked the holster set up. She had it rigged so that the Adams revolver would rest on the inside of her leg, just below the knee, where the skirt would hide it. Content with this, she spent some time finding the best way to conceal a stiletto, her derringer, some lockpicks, and a pencil and paper. Amateurs always forgot about a pencil and paper. Few spies had ever shot their way out of trouble, but many had sent messages that had toppled empires. As an afterthought, she took a small telescope from her larger traveling case and tucked it in her satchel.

She then took a moment to compose a note. Obviously, she had to let the rest of them know what she was doing, but they wouldn’t like it, and she had no desire to argue with them. She had to do this alone. None of them could pass as barefoot servants. Connolly would get all chivalrous and protective. MacGregor never approved of entering any stronghold that hadn’t been shelled. Maybe Alyah...no. The woman was a warrior, not a spy, and Emelia couldn’t afford a distraction.

She would scout the fortress and then call in the assault force. That was the rational order of things. Maybe she could sabotage the cultists’ plans, or, if not, at least she could discover the weaknesses and locations of the enemy defenses. Perhaps even free the captive villagers. Anyway, right now they were blind and she would need to be their eyes. Even if the brawny arms didn’t like it.

She thought for a moment and wrote:

Dearest Comrades,

I have gone to spy out the enemy stronghold, a duty to which I am best suited. I ask that you await my report. I shall signal by heliograph at noon each day until I return. My signal should be visible from the bell tower in the village. Reply with a single flash, as I cannot be sure other eyes will not see you.

If a day passes with no signal, you must carry on as you deem best.

With my undying respect and affection,

Emelia

That seemed all there was to say. Well, all that could be said in such a note. She stole into the house where the warriors had set up quarters. Connolly was in his bedroll, snoring. Alyah’s was vacant as she was on guard. Emelia crept up and placed the note on the pillow.

She felt a pang of regret. Easy now, she thought. It was definitely time to get away and do some work alone. Away from this distraction. She drifted silently out of the house. She had a job to do. Dealing with her feelings would come later. Once the cult was destroyed and the book back in safe hands, then she would see if her feelings remained. If the mission failed, there would be nothing left worth worrying about. If it succeeded, there would be time to examine her feelings. To get over Alyah.

Or maybe, just maybe, she thought, to get under her.

* * *

The village was dark and quiet but for a fire burning near the fresh graves and a single figure staring into the flames. Emelia approached and saw her suspicions were correct: it was the young man who had vowed vengeance.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said.

He nodded, not speaking, no change in the flat, dead stare as though he searched in the fire for an answer that would never come.

“I hear you are a skilled hunter,” she went on. “That you know the land around here very well.”

No response.

“I could use a man like you. If you want revenge.”

The man looked up. For the first time, she saw something like life in his features. His eyes burned, but maybe that was just the reflection of the campfire.

“I want nothing else,” he said.

“Excellent,” she replied. “Help me sneak into their fortress. I will scout, disguised as a servant. I will find their weaknesses, and you can carry messages back to my comrades. And together, we will free your families and destroy this cult.”

“Then you have my blade and my life,” he said, climbing to his feet. “I am Vladimir.”

“Emelia,” she replied, extending a hand. “Now. Let us go get you a disguise.”

* * *

Vladimir led the way through the forest to an ancient fortress. It had been built high on the side of a mountain and he explained that the dungeons were rumored to extend deep into the living rock. It had been abandoned for years, treated as haunted by the locals, the crumbling stones inhabited only by crows and nightmares.

But then the cult had moved in, he said. Once more, smoke rose from the drunkenly leaning chimneys and light flickered behind the paneless windows. Much of the rambling fortress seemed to remain vacant, the new inhabitants keeping to the side where the old, steep road led up to the gatehouse. The far side of the fortress perched on the very edge of the mountain, approachable only by climbing, and was lightly watched—if at all.

Emelia was dressed as a local villager, her skirt tied up to help her move through the undergrowth. Her guide carried one of the captured rifles along with the belt and equipment and the red kepi with its alien badge. He looked enough like a cultist to pass as one from a distance. If they were challenged, he would claim she was a prisoner, which might be convincing, or could at least buy her enough time to do something useful.

When they reached the back of the fortress, the scrambled up the steep rock of the mountainside to the worked stone wall of the fortress proper. Vladimir climbed it with ease, finding hand and foot holds in the crumbling rock. He reached a yawning gap of a window, clung for a moment to the wall below, listening, then pulled himself inside. After a moment, a length of rope slithered down and he motioned to Emelia to climb. She did so without much difficulty.

Once she was inside, the pair crouched silently in a drafty passage. Emelia studied the wall, noting the crumbling mortar. She chose a lighter colored stone in the wall below the window’s opening. She worked it free.

“Here,” she said softly, indicating the cavity. “This will be our message stone. If I signal you, that means I’ve put a note behind it. You can leave replies in the same place.”

He nodded. “I shall remain close and watch. If you leave a message, place a stone on the sill of the window. Then I will know to retrieve it. I shall report to your comrades in the village.”

“I cannot thank you enough for your service.”

“You can,” he said as he prepared to climb down the rope. “You can rescue the villagers and you can send these black souls to Satan. I only ask that you send for me before the time comes for slitting throats.”

Chapter 43

Connolly woke to a boot against his bedroll. He began to reach for his sword when he recognized Alyah looking down at him.

“She has gone,” said the woman.

Well, that clarified exactly nothing.

“Who?” he asked. He figured that was a good start.

“Miss DuMond.”

He struggled out of his bedroll, grabbed a boot. “Was she taken?” he asked. “Any sign of violence or an intruder?” Hard to believe she’d just wander off.

“She left us a note.” Alyah held out the paper.

Connolly took the note, squinted at it, then held it at arm’s length until the letters were clear enough to read. Damn this getting old.

“I see your lips have stopped moving, so you must have finished,” said Alyah.

“She’s gone off to scout on her own.”

“Alone. Without bodyguards. Which is how we are to earn our salt.”

“Well, give me a moment to get dressed and we’ll see if we can’t find her.”

“I shall go and tell Mr. MacGregor. He may have some means to help us.”

“Some infernal European device?” asked Connolly, pulling on his second boot and reaching for his swordbelt.

Chapter 44

Emelia waked quietly along the passageway toward the front of the fortress complex, where she assumed most of the people were. She picked up an empty water jug she found on the way. People would be less likely to ask her to do something if they thought she already had a task.

She noted each side passage, each room that she passed. When she had time, she would add these on the map she had sketched of the compound, knowing they’d need more information before they could plan to either steal the book or bring the whole cult down. She hoped she could free the villagers and help Vladimir avenge his people, but until they had the book, the whole world was at risk. That had to be the priority.

She smelled cooking. She pushed onwards, keeping her eyes down and her ears open, mentally filling in the great blank spots on her map.

Emelia found her way to the more populated portion of the fortress. She began to pass individual cultists or captive servants. She took care to scurry past the men, projecting an air of fear and urgency.

She followed the voices to the kitchen. The kitchen was always the heart of any building, the center for gossip and the best place to judge the temper and feel of a place.

The feeling here was of fear. Palpable, visceral fear. There was no babble of conversation that she was used to even in the busiest kitchen. Not even the expected grumbling as women stirred and chopped and scrubbed. Just a silent, furtive pall over the entire vast room, broken only by the sounds of the work or hissed whispers.

Emelia saw a young girl crying in the corner. She approached and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Hush, little one,” she soothed. “Crying will bring the guards. If you need help, please just ask me.”

“I’m scared,” said the girl between sniffles. “They took mama, but I don’t know where she is.”

“Tell me her name and I will try to find her,” said Emelia.

“Her name is Sofia,” said the girl. “Mine is Amira.”

“I have friends who are going to help us. But I need your help. Can you help me if I tell you how?”

The girl nodded.

“I need you to stay safe. Don’t speak to the guards. Never look them in the eyes. Keep your eyes on the floor when they pass. They won’t notice you. And always carry something. If you don’t have a chore, just carry a basket or bundle or a plate. If you are carrying something, they will think you’re doing a job for someone else, maybe their leader, and they won’t want to stop you, because if they stop you, he would be angry and they are afraid of him.”

“They are afraid?” the girl asked. “But they are big and strong and cruel.”

“They are more afraid than you know. Afraid of so much.” Emelia knelt and looked the young girl in her big, dark eyes. “I will tell you a secret about men. Some of them are filled with fear, like anyone else. But when they are afraid, they do not cry, they hit. They shout. They try to give that fear to others.”

“Can you give away your fear?”

“No,” replied Emelia. “You can give fear to someone, but that never makes your own go away. It just makes more fear. That’s how you can tell a brave man. A brave man is kind. He keeps his own fear to himself and fights it. The crueler a man is, the more he is filled with fear that he cannot fight alone.” She stroked the girl’s hair. “Watch how they act. Then you will know how much fear they have. As you grow older, you will learn to see what they fear. And when you know that, you can use it.”

“Are you afraid?”

“A little,” admitted Emelia. “But I can be brave because I know I have friends who can help me. And now that you are my friend, I feel even less afraid.”

Chapter 45

In the burnt shell of a house in the center of the village, the two fighters were joined by Captain Little, Dr. Morse, and Mr. MacGregor. The ship’s officers sat in mismatched chairs around a large table that had been dragged into the vacant room. It was one of the few houses large enough for a conference that still boasted a roof and wasn’t being used to house the villagers or animals. And it was only missing one wall, which allowed an unobstructed view of the main road.

“Miss DuMond is gone? You’re sure about that?” asked the captain, still processing the news Connolly had just quietly shared.

“She is, sir,” said Connolly.

“We searched the area around the village,” said Alyah. “She left no tracks, but the ground is rocky and many feet have already passed over it.”

“And all you found was this note?”

“Yes.”

The captain looked the note over and then looked at Kitty, who stood to the side, pale and shivering in the corner.

“Any chance you could shed a little light on the subject of your mistress’s disappearance, miss?”

“No, sir,” she stammered.

“You didn’t see her leave? While you shared quarters with her?”

The woman shook her head.

Captain Little sighed in exasperation. “We’re not going to do anything to you, miss. There’s no reason to be scared of us. We just want to be sure Miss DuMond is safe.”

“You may have noticed the odd hazard in these parts,” said MacGregor, his sarcasm at odds with the wrinkle of concern between his eyes.

“Leave the girl alone,” came a voice.

The assembled party turned to see Vladimir walk into the square. “The lady is in the fortress of the enemy. She has gone to spy out their defenses.”

“How do you know this?” asked Alyah.

“I took her there,” he replied.

“You did, did you?” asked Alyah, turning to face him.

“Easy, lass,” said Connolly, recognizing the menace in her tone.

“She’s in disguise,” blurted Kitty. “As one of the captive villagers. She means to scout the fortress. She swore me to silence.”

“She is alone? With no guards?” Alyah asked.

“She can pass for a prisoner,” said Vladimir. “You could not.”

“Is that so?” Alyah’s voice took on an edge.

“Easy.” Connolly repeated. This one wasn’t a suggestion.

Alyah hesitated for a second, then nodded at Connolly. “Haan, risaldar,” she muttered.

“We can’t do anything about that now, and we couldn’t go blundering in without any knowledge of how many of them there are or how it’s laid out, so it’s probably for the best,” said Connolly. “In the meantime, we can keep drilling the villagers and preparing for an assault.”

“Did Miss DuMond give any indication of how long she intended to be away?” asked Captain Little. A hard edge of anger lingered under his polite drawl like a mine under placid waters.

“She and I have arranged a place to hide messages. I shall watch and when she signals that there is a massage, I shall steal in and retrieve it.” Vladimir reached in his satchel and pulled out a captured red kepi. “I can approach through the forest and pass among them for long enough to exchange messages. When she has discovered how their defenses are laid, then you can attack.”

“Lucky for us you have that all worked out,” said Alyah. Her hard stare remained on Vladimir.

“It’s all right,” said Connolly. “Take a walk with me, lad.” He threw an arm over Vladimir’s shoulder and led him out of the building.

“Now,” he began, gently. “I know you’ve lost more than we can imagine. And I know you want to rescue your people and pay back the filth who did this. I understand how you decided to help Miss DuMond. I have plenty of confidence in her. This is what she does.” Connolly kept his voice soft. Kindly. “And when she sends word, we’ll be ready, and I promise you, we will unsheathe the terrible swift sword of vengeance.” His grip on the young man’s shoulder turned to iron. “But I need you to understand, we cannot work in the dark. Not me, not Alyah, and not your friends we’ve been training. Lack of information has killed more soldiers than cannister shot. I will not have people under my command die because somebody didn’t pass along a vital piece of information.” He fixed an icy glare on Vladimir’s face. “Are we clear on that, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

Chapter 46

Emelia made another note on her map and tucked it back into her pocket. It had taken two days, but she had a count of the villagers, the locations where the adults—mostly women with a few old men and a few youths—were held, where the children were held, and of the barracks, guard rooms, stables, and armory, as well as the apartments of the leaders, who she saw not at all. All cut into the rock around a central courtyard that was open to the stars. High up and naked before the sky. As she knew it would have to be, for their ritual to work.

She had only a rough idea of the enemy strength, but she noted what she could, as well as her uncertainty. Connolly would want to know what she had, and how accurate.

Amira proved helpful. The girl had taken to passing unnoticed with alacrity. She brought Emelia information, helped her fill in the gaps. Told her what the guards were saying when they thought nobody was around. In return, Emelia had found where the girl’s mother was held, and they had managed a moment of brief contact. Surely there was a special place in Hell for men who would tear children from their mothers’ arms.

She made her way to the message stone and concealed the map and note behind it. Vladimir’s last message, received the night before, was that the Phoenix and her comrades were waiting, ready to strike. They left the details vague, in case the message was intercepted, but she trusted them.

She placed a stone on the sill of the window, then took a deep breath and blew it out as she began to retrace her steps back to the kitchen. So much depended on this. So many lives hung in the balance. She had wanted so much to run a mission, to be the master of her own fate. She hadn’t been prepared for the responsibility of so many lives.

Chapter 47

“Better,” said Connolly, inspecting his charges. “Not good, but better. Get back to your position and let’s try it again.”

The villagers were shaping up. They had learned to move in line and by bounds. How to fire together in a volley and alternating while half loaded and how to use the bayonet as part of a group. Now he was teaching them how to advance up a street or passage and fire by files.

“Do you expect them to become soldiers?” asked Alyah.

Connolly shrugged. “Well, I’m not wasting time on the spit and polish, and the more they go through the motions, the easier they’ll do it when it matters.”

“But this drill?”

“If we do attack the fortress and they have to advance or retreat down a passage, this will come in handy,” he said. “Assuming they remember any of it once they smell powder smoke. Keeps their minds too busy to worry, at least.”

“You enjoy this,” she said. “I know you think it is necessary, and it might be, but admit that you are happy doing this. As happy as if a child were drowning is a barrel of whisky and you had to jump in to save them.”

He grinned at that. “I won’t deny it. It feels like something worthwhile.”

“You may be right,” she replied. “Here is an evil to vanquish and people to protect.”

“I thought about what you said before, and I think this might be what I need to do.”

“I am pleased you found wisdom in my words,” she said. “I had not expected a simple barbarian to see it so quickly. But what, precisely, did you discover?”

“I spent my youth dealing with bullies. People who took what they wanted because they were bigger or stronger. From the landlords in Ireland to the gangs of street rats in Boston. My whole life was shaped by a desire to strike back at the world’s bullies. It took me a while to realize it. Then I saw that, as a soldier in a colonial army, I had become the enemy.”

He paused, gestured to the villagers. “But here, these people are being crushed under the heel of a bunch of colossal brutes, and if I can give them the tools to hit back, well now, that would be something to have accomplished.”

They watched as the men advanced up the single street of the town in a column of twos. On his command, the first pair stopped and simulated firing, then stepped to the sides to reload. The next rank advanced five paces beyond them and then fired. Once the whole column had passed, they fell in at the rear. In theory, they could advance this way indefinitely. In practice, he had never seen more than two volleys before the whole formation became a mob. But two volleys was often enough, especially in a tight space. After that, blinded by smoke, and noise, driving forward with rage and fear and steel points would decide the day.

And God help them if it came to that.

Chapter 48

The prophet looked up from the pages of the ancient tome and spoke.

“The walls between worlds are thin, but not yet fragile enough to bring the Great Ones across. It is, however, possible for a demonstration. A small taste of what is to come.”

The acolyte’s face twisted into a smile. The man shivered with anticipation.

“Our enemies move against us,” continued the prophet. “Our faithful need a sign of our might, and the infidels need to see what their fates will be.”

A woman scuttled into the chamber, her eyes downcast, shoulders hunched as she tentatively placed a tray of food on the table and then bowed and scrambled out the door.

Gorka sneered after her. “Such...insects,” he said. “I cannot wait to be free of them.”

“Patience,” said the prophet. “For now, we need them as livestock. Beasts of burden. In time, their lifeblood shall feed the ritual. The stars will be right in a mere two days.”

Gorka bowed his head. “Forgive my impatience. I await the day of our deliverance.”

* * *

Emelia hurried away until she found a quiet corner. She looked around furtively before taking out her pencil and paper and scribbling a quick note. If they only had two days, they’d have to move soon. She hoped to be able to devise a plan to free the villagers, but even if that were not possible, the ritual must not be allowed to proceed.

She concealed the note in the folds of her skirt and made her way to the message stone. She kept her head down and gave any cultists she passed a wide berth. If they looked at her at all it was with contempt. They were quick to bark orders or deliver a cuff or a kick, but for the most part they were easy enough to evade, as they paid the prisoners little attention.

That had its advantages, namely in the unguarded conversations they carried on in the presence of the servants, but it also meant that they couldn’t be befriended or seduced for information. They wouldn’t ever speak to her or the other captives except to give commands.

She made her way to the unused passage by the old window. She waited for a moment, listening carefully. When she was sure she was alone, she knelt and pried loose the stone. She seized the note within, read it, and replaced it with her own.

She hurried back to the kitchens, the task before her clear. She had less than two days to discover a weak point in the fortress, a point of entry for a force large enough to challenge the cult.

Chapter 49

The crew of the Phoenix sat around a makeshift table and ate dinner.

“Looks like your troops are shaping well,” said MacGregor.

“That it does,” agreed Connolly.

“You have found your calling,” said Alyah with a smile. “Your baby birds are ready to leave the nest and fly.”

“Try not to get them all shot up,” grumbled Dr. Morse. “I’m trying to retire my bone saw.”

“That’s why I’m training them,” replied Connolly. “How else will they know not to stand in the way of bullets?”

“As far as I can recall, the army mostly trained men to do exactly that.”

“Who was it who trained the villagers we buried?” asked Alyah.

The doctor said nothing, refilling his wineglass.

“It is good that you have given them hope and a means to resist the next time they are attacked,” said Alyah.

“You think there’ll be a next time?” asked Chan.

“There is always a next time,” said Alyah.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the table.

“This give you an idea what you’ll do when this is over?” asked Captain Little. “Assuming you fail to die heroically?”

Connolly shrugged. “I’ll probably see if Miss DuMond needs my services long term. This feels like a chance to strike a blow for good. Maybe protect some people who need it or teach them how to protect themselves. What about you, lass?” he asked Alyah.

“I shall probably stay beside you, to shield you from your encroaching frailty and dementia,” she said. “And I have found this adventure exciting and the company good. But next time I shall not let you set the price for our service.”

“Words of wisdom,” said MacGregor.

“Maybe Miss DuMond will hire the Phoenix again,” wondered Chan.

“Think she will, Captain?” asked Hope.

The captain paused for a long moment. “Well, she won’t find a better ship. But I’m not sure that’s the best idea for us.”

“We’ve had worse jobs,” said MacGregor.

“Have we?” asked Dr. Morse.

“Tell you what,” Captain Little interrupted. “If she asks, we’ll leave it up to Jensen. Anybody has a reason to regret this job, it’s him.”

At that moment, one of the guards at the perimeter of the village called out and Connolly and Alyah sprang up, hands on their weapons. Soon Vladimir marched into view.

“I have a message from the lady,” he said, handing a folded piece of paper to Connolly.

“Thank you,” Connolly said, opening it. “Sit and eat.” He read in silence for a moment.

“What is it, lad?’ asked the engineer.

“It’s a map,” Connolly replied. “Labeled and annotated. Where the prisoners are. Where the guards are. Estimates on numbers.”

“Sounds like just the thing we need,” said MacGregor.

“Does it say when we may begin slitting throats?” asked Alyah.

“Not as such,” said Connolly. “But I would think very soon.”

“I will ask her,” said Vladimir. “I too, look forward to that hour.”

Chapter 50

Count Roderick leaned on the battlement and looked off into the forest, brooding. It looked as though things were going well for his employers, but the longer he spent in the fortress, the less happy he was about that. Now that they had the book, they were all busy planning some ritual. “Parting the Veil” the prophet called it. He only knew he didn’t want anything to do with it. Maybe he could come up with an urgent errand for the cult that required his attention. That was one thing about being a successful agent, these fools tended to trust his judgement.

A movement in the trees caught his eye. A deer perhaps? No. It moved like a man, and as he focused, he saw a flash of red.

“One of ours?” Roderick muttered.

But why would a cultist be skulking so near the fortress? Perhaps a disguise, then, a vengeful enemy clever enough to wear a red cap while scouting the area. God knew there were plenty of blind approaches to this old, ruined mountain fortress. They only had so many men to guard it, and they naturally concentrated on the side where the road ran up to the main gate. It had taken all of Roderick’s powers of persuasion to get those idiots to station some cavalry down the road to give warning if any significant force showed up.

The count smiled as he watched the red cap move through the trees. This was soldier’s work. This would be interesting. He thought about assembling a squad but decided against it. It was only one man. He was confident he could deal with one man, and if he did it alone, he could do things his way—and Gorka wouldn’t need to know unless Roderick chose to share.

The man crept closer to the stony outcropping below the fortress wall, keeping to cover as much as he could. He was approaching a vacant side, far from the front gates or the sally port. Not near any doors at all. But the ancient, weathered stone and crumbling mortar of the walls on that side left many holds for a decent climber.

Roderick figured where the lowest window on that side ought to be, then, checking his revolver and adjusting the hang of his scabbard so it wouldn’t rattle or strike on the stone, set off to meet the intruder.

* * *

Vladimir made his way through the forest. He halted at the edge of the trees, watching the windows and battlements high above, looking for movement. When he saw none, he crept up to the base of the rock. The fortress, long abandoned, was poorly maintained, the trees growing too close to the wall for true defense. Its remote location did make it difficult to bring an army to besiege it, he thought. Probably why the Turks had never taken it.

He slung the musket over his back and secured his long knife. Soon, he hoped to wash it in the blood of these oppressors. He removed his shoes, the better for finding footholds, placing them in his pack. His thick wool stockings would keep his feet warm enough as he began climbing to the window. He had grown up chasing goats in these mountains, so the climb wasn’t difficult. The greatest danger would be if one of the ancient stones came loose, so he tested each hand and foothold before trusting his weight to them.

He made his way up the wall, strong fingers finding purchase on the rough stone. He paused for a moment below the window to listen before pulling himself over the sill and into the dim passage.

* * *

Roderick heard the muffled grunts of effort outside the window. He concealed himself in an alcove in deep shadow and watched as a man pulled himself inside.

It clearly wasn’t one of the cultists. His eyes were too lively, his movements too sure. He looked like a local. One of the villagers who had stolen a red cap, perhaps. Was he a spy? Or was he just a wronged man out for revenge?

Could be both, he decided. Both would fit nicely.

Once inside, the man crouched, silent and still, and listened. Roderick held his breath. The intruder moved his weapons from his back, where they had been out of the way for his climb, to the front, where they could be easily reached in a fight. Roderick noted the long knife as well as the stolen musket and hanger. The man pulled shoes from his pack and slipped them on.

Roderick remained motionless until the man turned away and began doing something with one of the loose stones below the window.

What are you up to, my lad? he wondered

* * *

Vladimir, sure that he was alone and now ready for action, turned his attention to the wall. He sought for a moment before he found the message stone. He carefully worked it out of it's place and laid it on the floor as quietly as he could, then retrieved the message within. He took Connolly’s return note from inside his shirt and placed it in the cavity. He picked up the stone to replace it when a hand clamped over his mouth in an iron grip and he felt a sharp agony in his back. He tried to struggle, to scream, to clutch at the hand that held him, but blackness seeped into his vision and his strength drained away.

* * *

Roderick held the young man tight against his torso, not giving the intruder room to turn or grab a weapon, and twisted the knife until the struggles subsided.

It took longer than he remembered.

It always did. It didn’t matter if you’d killed a man before. Something dulled the sharp edges of memory. Feeling the life go out of a man was always surprising, but it was a familiar surprise, as if that made any sense. It was as though the mind didn’t want to remember, but the body did.

“Easy, lad,” he breathed in the young man’s ear. “Just let go. There we are.”

He eased the limp body to the floor. The young man’s musket and hanger were definitely captured from a cultist. They were from the lot of surplus Roderick had purchased. He had a red cap with the stupid starfish badge the cultists used. That didn’t mean much. They’d lost a few men at the village and a fair number attacking the Phoenix. Could have come from either. The rest of his clothing was local peasant dress. The knife at the man’s belt was local as well, but long and sharp and well suited for slitting throats of enemies. Well, do unto others before they have a chance to do unto you, he’d always thought.

Now, what is it you were so eager to hide? he wondered. He retrieved the note and read:

Received your map. Preparing to move. Will await your next message. If no contact by Friday, we will assume the worst and take steps.

Godspeed.

He took the other note, the one the young man had taken from the cavity. This one was in a delicate hand. A flowing script.

Make yourselves ready. They plan to perform the ritual in two days. I shall try to discover the hour.

Well, well, well. Roderick tucked the message back into place and replaced the stone. No need for Gorka to see that quite yet. And if the boy’s contact did come looking for it, best not to tip them off. Maybe he could even lie in wait and see who showed up.

Now, to go show the prophet that his fortress was beset by spies and gain a bit more credit in those damned uncanny eyes.

He hoisted the corpse over his shoulder and set off for Gorka’s chamber.

Chapter 51

The guards flanking the door of the advisor’s chamber snapped to attention at the count’s approach.

“Captain—” one began.

“No time for that, my good man,” said Roderick cheerily. He raised a boot and kicked the door open. “Gorka! Brought you a present, old boy!”

The acolyte spun toward the count, his face twisted in rage. It was then Roderick saw the prophet himself was seated to the right of the desk. Perfect. The prophet always made the hair stand up on the back of neck, but few things were quite as delicious as showing up Gorka in front of his master.

“What is this outrage?” shouted the high acolyte.

Roderick heaved the corpse off his shoulders onto the man’s desk. The thump was satisfying, making pens dance and knocking an inkwell smashing to the floor. He saw the stunned, speechless anger on the face of the cultist and couldn’t remember the last time he’d has this much fun with his trousers up.

“Found this fellow sneaking in the back side of the castle. Crawled through a window. I would hazard a guess that he’s a spy, and he had somehow acquired one of the very fashionable red hats your men wear. Simple military advisor that I am, I thought this important enough to demand your immediate attention. I did also detail a squad of men to scout the forest around the castle in the event that this fellow wasn’t operating alone.”

Gorka’s mask of rage morphed into one of serious concern as he looked at the body. He peeled open an eyelid, rolled up the man’s sleeve, turned the head left and right and looked at the sides of his neck.

“This is not one of our faithful,” he whispered.

“That was my guess, as most of them use the front door,” replied Roderick with an insolent grin. “He looks like a local peasant. Best case, he’s a lone actor out for revenge for the attack on the village. Worst case, he’s a scout for a more organized group preparing an attack.”

“Who could know of our presence?”

“I do vaguely recall having to fight a number of little actions against other parties interested in your holy book,” said the count. “If I may refresh your memory, there was the failed attack on the airship that you ordered. The one where that little half-caste girl slaughtered half your boarding party.”

“You presume a bit too much,” said Gorka. “There may come a time when your service does not excuse your lack of proper respect.”

“What I presume is that none of your other followers were able to get your book back or caught any spies, so perhaps I felt at liberty to speak frankly.”

“Enough,” said the prophet in his flat, quiet tone. Roderick felt the chill in his spine. Gorka fell silent. The prophet looked at the corpse on the desk. “This creature is not one of us. He has not received the Kiss from Beyond. Gorka. You must review the faithful. Make certain there are no more imposters. Count Roderick. You have done well to stop this man. Draw up a plan to improve our defenses. I shall commune with the Void and see what wisdom it holds.”

Roderick nodded and clicked his heels, turning to leave, happy to be out of the presence of the prophet, made tolerable only by exposing Gorka’s failures.

Chapter 52

“We have to do something,” said Alyah. “It has been too long since we’ve had word from her.”

“It’s been a day,” said Connolly.

“A day of nothing,” she said. “No message. No signal. And Vladimir has not returned. Each day that passes makes the information she sent less reliable. Makes it more likely she or that villager has been captured. We should have heard back before now.”

“Miss DuMond sent that map,” replied MacGregor. “She’s infiltrated the fortress. I’m sure she has a plan.”

“Which will be complex and take time and rely on her ability to charm people who are blinded by fanaticism. We, we thieves and bandits and pirates, like myself and the great Khan Ali, can lead these villagers in a raid on their stronghold. Guile and deceit are fine things, but now it is time for boldness and the slitting of throats and the freeing of prisoners.” She looked at Connolly. “This is what you and I were put on this Earth to do.”

Connolly shrugged. “Well, it’s not like I’ve been a success at much else.”

“The villagers aren’t soldiers,” MacGregor pointed out. “Despite Connolly’s instruction. They may be ready to make the next attacker pay a price, but assaulting a fortress is different.”

“Their families have been stolen. Stolen by cultists to be sacrificed to an evil god. If they are men at all, they will join us.”

“And we’ve both led troops of ‘not really soldiers’ before,” Connolly agreed. “And it's not an assault. It's a raid.”

“They have the rifles from the boarding party,” Alyah said. “The same as the enemy.”

“Not much ammunition,” said the engineer.

“Bah!” she said. “It is not as though they will have much chance to reload. A handful of rounds and a bayonet. Let them give a volley and then end things with honest steel.”

MacGregor thought for a moment. Then he nodded his head.

“I still have faith in Miss DuMond, but it can’t hurt to open a second front. And I have something you might find useful.”

He went off and came back with a strong wooden box. Alyah opened it and saw six metal spheres, each the size of an apple, with a cap at one end.

“Hand grenades?” asked Connolly.

“The latest hand grenades,” replied MacGregor. “These are Austrian. Friction primers, like on modern artillery. No more messing about with a burning match trying to light a fuse in combat. Grab the finger ring and pull. The chain will come free and activate the primer. After that, you have, in theory, five seconds to get rid of the damn thing. I wouldn’t bet on more than three, though.”

“Are they safe?” asked Connolly.

“Yes, in the context of hand grenades,” replied MacGregor. “They’re safer than the old slow match type. Be careful you don’t pull the chain until you mean to and then throw it expeditiously. Not a good idea to be within five yards of it when it goes off. Not the best idea to be within ten. Best be beyond twenty unless you’re a betting man. Try to be behind cover.”

“All right,” said Connolly. “If we hear nothing by tomorrow, we attack.”

“Insh’Allah,” said Alyah. “I shall await the dawn.”

Chapter 53

Count Roderick watched the message drop for a long, dull stretch before his patience was rewarded. A servant woman stole quietly along the passage, looked around and then, when she appeared certain no one was watching, removed the stone, took out the message and placed her own.

He wondered how the enemy had managed to recruit one of the captive peasants to do such work, but then something familiar about this woman struck him.

Could it be…

She read the note and smiled. It wasn’t a simple Slavic peasant smile. It was the knowing and worldly smirk of a trained professional. He felt his own grin in response.

So now we add a servant girl to the repertoire along with Austrian lieutenant.

He studied the actress as she retrieved the note. He considered confronting her. He was armed, and she was alone. It wouldn’t be much work to overpower her and find out what she had planned. But he decided against it. If he did capture a spy, the prophet and his twisted lackey would surely find out, and they would foul everything up. She might find escape difficult, but she was a good enough actress to lie convincingly and knew enough to understand that even the truth wouldn’t make the situation any easier, not with men like Gorka. She’d tell them lies, and then she would probably be dead and certainly wouldn’t be pretty when they’d finished, which was an unacceptable waste for no real gain.

He waited as she replaced the loose stone and slipped away. After a moment, he emerged from his hiding place and took her message from behind the stone. This was something he would handle himself. It made far more sense just to let her keep leaving messages. Maybe he could even forge some replies. Steer the enemy to lead them all into a trap instead of just eliminating one. That was the sort of thinking you could never get from a fanatic. He reminded himself again just how lucky they were to have hired him.

He hesitated for a moment. The woman was getting under his skin in a way few others had. She was beautiful, granted, but she was hardly alone in that. He had never wanted for the company of beautiful women. This DuMond woman was different. She had bested him once by trickery and had assembled a group who made force the difficult option. She was a challenge. She was fun. Maybe he could still turn her. She would be an invaluable asset to his employer, true, but he’d have to keep her at a distance from those dumb brutes. More importantly, she’d be an asset to him. He wanted to work with her, to scheme and plot and connive. Together they’d be unstoppable. Once he was free of his duty to these fanatics and their coin released him from the shackles of the banks, then a pair such as he and Miss DuMond could rob society blind and be loved while they did it.

That was the prize, but could he do it? Could she be turned? There had to be something she wanted, something he could offer.

Well, he knew she was here, and she didn’t know that he knew, so that was a point for him. He set off in the direction she had gone. If he followed and observed her closely, he’d find what she was up to—and find a handle to twist.

But gently.

Chapter 54

“What’s troubling you?” asked Connolly. “It’s not like you to doubt Miss DuMond’s plans. I was a skeptic for a bit, but she’s been pretty much right so far.”

Alyah was silent for a moment, looking off into the distance. “She kissed me. That night when I was teaching her swordplay. Just before you came in.”

That...well, didn’t really explain things. “Other than the fact she has good taste, I don’t see what that says about her.”

“It says she failed at what she is supposed to be the best at.” Alyah turned to face him. “All my life, people have seen me and made assumptions. Thought they knew things about me because they see a foreigner. An exotic Asiatic. A curiosity. A woman who fights with a sword. They assume I am an oddity for an exhibition. I have grown used to these assumptions. One of those is that a woman who does something that is usually the province of men must want to be a man, must have the desires of a man.”

Not having any idea how to respond, Connolly was silent. A trick it had taken him years to perfect.

“A month ago, I would have laughed. She is not the first to have made such a mistake, and she is certainly the prettiest. But when I joined up with this group, for the first time since I was just a child, everyone has treated me like an equal. Taken me for what I am, not what they think I represent. I did not expect you to respect me as a fighter or MacGregor to think me intelligent or the captain to find me witty. But you have. No one has called me ‘exotic,’ or talked to me like a servant or an infant or a concubine. I felt like I had gone home. To a family. Do you have any idea what that is like?”

“Can’t say I do, lass.”

“Until Miss DuMond kissed me,” she was silent for a moment, then shook her head. “And yes, it was just a mistake, but it was a mistake in the thing that is her specialty. To see her fail so badly to read a person—a person she has been so close to over the past weeks—would be like watching you fail with a sword or MacGregor with his machines or the captain with his ship. Her job is to know people better than they know themselves and thus outwit them. To use their desires to make them blind. Well, she let her own desire make her blind to what I am. So at the moment, my faith in her intuition is less than absolute.”

“I understand why it was such a blow,” said Connolly. “Seeing someone who’s been so good at reckoning people’s thinking miss one so wide. But there’s none of us perfect. You may not have seen me fail with a blade, but your father did. I think our Miss DuMond has as sharp and tricky a mind as any spy or diplomat or general. I think that just maybe she let her heart convince her head of something because of how much she wanted it to be true. And I bet she’s not used to being rejected.”

“What would you do if she made an advance on you?” asked Alyah. “One you neither invited nor expected.”

“Naturally, I would resist, but I fear I might lack the strength to defend my virtue before such an assault.”

Her face broke into a grin. “Ah, the great Khan Ali admits to a weakness.”

“Oh, I admit to many,” he replied. “But it’s not often that I’ve been forced to fend off the advances of beautiful women. I’d probably get better with practice.”

Chapter 55

Emelia heard footsteps approaching as she walked down the corridor. She looked about and, seeing no place to hide, slipped into character.

She hunched beneath the weight of the jug she carried, made herself smaller. Began to shuffle rather than walk with a confident stride. She flinched as two cultists appeared around the corner, ducking her head to avoid their gaze, shrinking against the wall as they strode past.

“Make way!” snarled the bigger of the two.

“Sorry, lord,” she mumbled in her most frightened and servile tone.

When they had gone, she straightened and glared after them.

As she resumed walking, Emelia heard the sound of clapping. She spun to see Count Roderick standing in the doorway of a vacant storage chamber.

“Brava,” he said. “One of these days I shall have to see you perform on a proper stage.”

Emelia’s heart sank. She forced a smile, her most alluring one. “I could arrange some very good seats if you see your way clear to letting me go.”

“Oh, if only life were so simple.” He stepped into the corridor. She felt the menace radiating from him. She took stock. Her pistol was too hard to get at quickly. She did have the stiletto in her sleeve, but the count was a fighter. He moved like Connolly and Alyah, poised, relaxed, but set like a coiled spring. She’d have no chance in a fight. “Why don’t you bow to the inevitable and come with me? I’m sure the prophet could use a woman of your ability.”

“There are uses I’ll not be put to, if you please.” She backed away, moving into another dusty room. She saw no point in trying to outrun him in a fortress full of his allies. Perhaps she could lure him into a close space where she’d have a chance to use trickery if strength or speed wouldn’t serve.

“Wealth and power,” he said, following. “Beyond your dreams.”

“Oh, I’m quite the dreamer,” she said. “Occupational hazard.”

“They are going to win,” he said. “And I’d much sooner see you take your place with us than be destroyed. You’re far too charming.”

“You’re not wrong,” she said. “But you do understand what these men want, don’t you? If they succeed, they will bring about a new dark age.”

“Fairy tales to frighten children and peasants,” he said. “You can’t believe that. Not a woman of the world like yourself. Not in this enlightened age. I’ll grant, they are a bit off putting, but so were the Ottomans. And the Huns. And the British, come to think of it. Don’t even get me started on the Prussians. These people are the next great empire.”

“I’ve seen enough that I’ve begun to believe in fairy tales,” she said. “The enlightenment of which you speak is just a thin veneer. Below it lies the roiling current of superstition and fear and hate. And these men aim to use that to tear a rift in the world, let all the horror of the old tales through.”

“You do realize how that sounds?” he asked. “I understand. My father was Irish and my mother Romani, so I understand the deep, inherited superstition. The romance of it. But they are nothing more than another band of dangerous men with a bellyful of religious fervor.” He shrugged. “Not saying that isn’t bad enough, but I remain unconvinced of the impending apocalypse.”

“I assure you, my dear count, they don’t want to rule the world, they want to destroy it.”

“And what would it profit them to do that?” he advanced slowly, his grin widening.

“Perhaps a better description would be to make it over in the image of their mad gods. But that would destroy all that makes it worthwhile,” Emelia backed further into the room, trying to gain space to run of fight if it came to that.

“Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, I believed you. Why is it you feel the need to save the world from these men?” He kept moving forward casually, the smile still on his face, his body relaxed, but the shadow of menace and power lurked just below the surface. “What has the world given you?”

“I’m quite fond of the world. It’s where all my favorite restaurants are.”

“Ever the wit,” he said. “I’m certain we can find you a place when these madmen have won their little victory and paid me off.”

“You really think this is like any other contract, don’t you?” she asked. “You think you’re just a soldier of fortune, like Connolly fighting for the East India Company because of the pay and the commission. These men are not like that. You saw the attack on the village. You saw babies torn from their mothers.”

“Worse has been done under the flag of every nation I can name. Including the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack.”

“These men are different,” she persisted. “Look into the eyes of their prophet and tell me I’m wrong. I see your hesitation. You know I’m right. They need to be stopped, and I am going to stop them. It would be easier and more pleasant to try it with you, but with you or against you, I will stop them.”

He stepped closer. “And you think I’m going to stand by and let you? Or don’t you think I’ll do something about it?”

He was right in front of her now. Close. So close. She could feel the weight of his gaze and the waves of confidence coming from him. She looked him up and down. Tall, broad shouldered, all cocksure swagger and lethal grace. This close, he smelled of leather and horses and brute strength. His sword swinging at his hip, the calculated nonchalance of his stance oozing confidence and power. She felt the pressure of the blade up her sleeve, knew it wouldn’t be enough.

“Come on then,” she said, struggling to keep the tremor out of her voice, “if you think you’re tough enough.”

He was. God, she knew he was, but there was no way she was going to admit that, or do anything but resist to the last of her strength.

“Join us,” he said. “Join us and take your place beside me. There’s nobody else here half as talented. You could have untold power. I’ll even put in a good word for your friends on that airship. No reason they should throw their lives away.”

“Ah, well,” she said, her Irish lilt coming back into her voice, cutting through the polished, practiced accent. “I’d be a bad one to give untold power. Go straight to my head, sure and it would. You’d not like me near so much if I had that kind of power. But why not join us? If it’s money you need to settle your debts, I can see that you get it. You already admit I’ve got the prettier team. These fanatics are beneath you.”

“No argument there,” he said, taking another step closer. By God, so close. “But I’ve taken their money and given my word. What kind of man would I be if that didn’t count for something?”

“What does your word to these people mean? You saw that village.”

“My word means something to me,” he said, his roguish grin vanishing. “Regardless of to whom I give it. I’m a soldier and a count. My father won that. I’ll not drag it through the mud. I tell you again, I have given my word, and I will honor it.”

“Why? Why do you care for an oath you swore to a cause so vile? What has the Austrian nobility done for you? What’s stopping you from joining us? Joining me?”

“Ah, my dear Miss DuMond,” he said with a sad smile. “There are things that matter. I gave my word, and what would I be without that? I could not love thee dear so much, loved I not honor more.”

Damn it, that was unfair, quoting Lovelace. She took a deep breath, let it out with a shiver.

“Then we are at an impasse.”

“So it would seem,” he replied.

“Will you turn me over to your master?”

“No,” he said. “That is something I did not swear to do. And that is a stain I will not carry on my soul. I don’t subscribe to your fairy tales, but they are brutal men, and I shudder to think what they might do to you. But neither will I surrender to you.”

“I’m going to stop them,” she insisted.

He shrugged. “If you can.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean to do?”

“Beat you at your own game. Not by turning you over to them, but by countering your every move until you’ve lost. And when you realize that you have, you will discover I can be magnanimous in victory.”

“You think you can stop us?”

“Time will tell. The board is set. I trust that the game will be interesting.” He gave Emelia a small smile and a smaller bow, then stepped back out into the corridor.

Chapter 56

The small party crept up the rocky slope, keeping to cover. Connolly kept his mind on the mission, trying not to think of the hundred reasons this wouldn’t work. He did have to admit the villagers were better at this than he’d expected. They moved quietly, and each man had a decent rifle with a bayonet and a dozen rounds. They’d used up another five rounds apiece getting used to the weapons, which meant they were probably as well trained as the average new infantryman in most of the armies he’d served in. They were still a bit shaky and slow on the reloading drill, so it was just as well they didn’t have the ammunition to do very much of that.

They did have the bayonets, which were deadly and simple to use, and every man had a big heavy knife. Alyah had been right. A few volleys and a mad rush, that would be how this would likely go.

He carried a Spenser repeating carbine, a colt revolver, and his sabre, as well as three of the grenades. Alyah carried the other three, as he didn’t trust high explosives in the hands of the villagers. She also carried a Remington rolling block carbine, a break open revolver, and her own sabre.

Connolly and Alyah moved five paces ahead of the group. He had changed his boots for moccasins, and she moved like a cat anyway, so it was a very stealthy approach in the cold grey light of false dawn.

The gate of the ruined temple was in view. A troop of cultists encamped before it. The raiders had bypassed a troop of cavalry further down the valley, but there was no way around these men.

Connolly crept back to the villagers and spoke low.

“Prime your rifles. But keep them on half-cock and keep your fingers away from those triggers. We’ll try to get a little closer, but if the enemy spot us, I want our weapons ready.”

When they had all finished fitting the caps on their rifles, Connolly resumed moving.

The enemy sat at ease in a clearing around the stone steps that lead to the ancient gates. A low wall of stone has been stacked in front of their position, just high enough for a kneeling man to fire over. A lone sentry stood at the wall, awake but the butt of his rifle was on the ground, his arms wrapped around it, leaning his weight against it. He was hunched against the early morning chill, the collar of his wool coat turned up round his ears. A second sentry stood at the top of the steps, near the great doors. A dozen other men sat near the fires, cooking and tending to their gear.

Connolly held his own rifle ready as he advanced, taking step after slow, careful step. Every yard his troops closed before engaging improved the chances they’d actually hit something with a volley and be able to close before the enemy got too many rounds off in return

The little command was perhaps twenty yards from the stone wall when someone’s foot dislodged a loose stone and sent it rolling and clattering down the mountain.

Connolly cursed and froze, clinging for an instant to the futile hope that the sentry wouldn’t hear.

The man started, snapped his head upright and scanned the slope. For a brief moment Connolly thought that maybe he’d miss the shapes crouched behind cover in the dim light, but he shouted a warning and began to ready his rifle, heaving it from the ground to his shoulder.

He never made it. Alyah’s Remington barked and the man fell back, blood and brains spraying from the back of his head. The rest of the cultists sprang up, rushing for their weapons.

“Ready!” Connolly shouted, looking at his command as the men pulled the hammers of their weapons to full cock. He came up on one knee and sighted in on the sentry at the top of the stairs, resting his left elbow on his upraised knee. He squeezed the trigger and shot the man center mass, the heavy Spenser bullet punching a hole the man’s chest. The cultist crumpled and rolled down the steps.

“Aim!”

A dozen rifles were leveled. Connolly worked the lever of his carbine, chambering another round.

“Fire!”

There was the crash of a volley, then a single late shot as one of the villagers who tried to fire with the rifle at half cock realized his error and drew back the hammer and fired. As the cultists raced for the wall, one flopped over unmoving and a second spun and dropped, clutching his shoulder. Not terrible shooting for new recruits.

The cultists were at the wall now, readying their rifles.

“Prepare to charge!” Connolly shouted.

The villagers fixed bayonets.

“Alyah!” he shouted. “Pin them down!”

Connolly fired the Spenser’s seven round magazine dry. Alyah’s breechloader boomed. The cultists gave a scattered, poorly aimed volley and ducked behind the wall for cover while they scrambled to reload.

“Now!”

Connolly and Alyah each pulled a grenade from their pouches. Connolly grabbed the ring on the end of the chain and pulled. They heaved the bombs over the wall and dropped flat.

A twin explosion ripped through the air. Connolly felt the ground rumble against his chest and heard the cries of pain and confusion from beyond the wall.

“Charge!” he shouted.

He leapt to his feet and drew his revolver, but the villagers had already surged past him. He saw one cultist rise, bloody and shaking, above the wall and try to bring his rifle to bear, but before he could, a villager leapt, clearing the wall like a hurdler, driving his bayonet into the man’s chest and bearing him to the ground. The vengeful farmers swarmed over the low wall, falling on the disoriented and stunned cultists and exacting a terrible vengeance with bayonets and rifle butts.

By the time Connolly and Alyah reached the wall, the fighting was over, even if the killing wasn’t.

Connolly made no move to stop it. These men had seen their village massacred. They were in no mood to show restraint. Fortunately for the cultists, they were too angry to get creative or cruel. They bayoneted any survivors, but the kills were clean and quick, lacking the torture he’d seen often enough from an oppressed people when the tables were turned. Just an excess of anger and fear released as violence.

Chapter 57

“They did what now?” asked Captain Little.

“Connolly and Miss Abdullah-Brooke took a squad of villagers and went off to save the captives,” said MacGregor.

“I was under the impression that Miss DuMond had a plan.”

“It seems the fighters and the villagers became impatient. In fairness, we haven’t heard from her in a while, and time is short. The villagers weren’t likely to wait much longer. We’d be cutting it fine if we delay. And the raid could provide a distraction while we move in.”

Captain Little grunted. “How long until they reach the fortress, you think?”

MacGregor smiled as a scattered rattle of musketry carried over the hills.

“My best estimate would be right about now, Captain.”

Chapter 58

The prophet assembled a squad of his guards in the courtyard. The stars were not quite right, not for the great ritual, but they were close. Close enough, perhaps that he could bring across some small thing, something that would restore the faith in his minions. That would strike fear into the hearts of his foes.

In the center of the circle of glyphs lay the corpse of the spy the count had killed.

“This unbeliever has violated our sacred temple,” he said. “It is only by a lack of faith that you could be so blinded as to allow this. The Countless Eyes of the Old Ones shall pierce any subterfuge, but only for those who believe.”

Two guards entered, dragging in one of the captives from the village. An old man, not useful for much. No more labor to be wrung from him. Perfect for this purpose.

The prophet opened the Book, reading from it in the ancient tongue. He walked slowly around the circle, stopping at each of the five points to recite the proper verse. The alignment of the stars was imperfect. It was like trying to fasten two boards by driving a peg through two holes that were almost lined up, but not quite. It could be done, it just took more force and wouldn’t be as strong or as pretty.

The old man saw the body and cried out. He struggled, but the guards held him back. “Release him,” said the prophet. The man stumbled to the dead boy’s side, falling to his knees and wailing over the body.

Good, thought the prophet. He felt the thin membrane separating the world shiver against the barrage of emotions, the energy of grief and fear and anger.

He chanted as he drew the heavy, curved sword from his belt. His chanting rose in volume and the circle of faithful joined in response, the words creating a discordant cacophony of sibilant and guttural and piercing sound. A screech of friction as they were dragged across the ear.

The prophet’s blade flashed and he struck the old man’s head from his shoulders.

Blood guttered from the severed neck as the body fell across the young man’s corpse. The glyphs took on an unholy, sickly green radiance.

Above the bodies, the air shimmered and seemed to billow out, like a curtain with something struggling behind. The fabric of reality stretched and thinned, a dark shape bulged, straining, then burst through, flopping to the floor of the chamber like something birthed from the womb of a mad goddess.

The thing was a shapeless mass of tentacles, the height of a man and as wide as it was tall, glistening with ichor, writhing like a creature plucked from the sea and dragged into the alien world of air. A foul stench wafted from it.

The prophet looked on the form in awe, his eyes wide in wonder. “Such a terrible beauty is born,” he whispered. Raising his voice, he addressed the assembled cultists.

“Look upon this marvel! Look at how Faith has torn asunder the weak and decayed barrier that keeps the True Gods from returning!”

He turned in a circle, his uncanny eyes making contact with those of every follower. “This creature knows its brethren. It will be drawn to the blood of the infidel, aching to destroy and rend and devour. But those who have received the Kiss from Beyond need have no fear. Look upon your salvation!”

The thing engulfed the corpses, its dripping pseudopods questing beneath its bulk. Sounds of bones breaking and flesh being rasped and slurped away filled the air. As it finished, it seemed to have grown both larger and more solid, less ethereal, more anchored to this earth. Its form was ever changing and hard for the eye to behold and the mind to comprehend, but it seemed that the shifting form had taken on some of the color of flesh and blood, its hide morphing between the turgor of youth and the wrinkles of age.

Of the two villagers, there remained but a dark stain on the cobbles.

Chapter 59

Alyah looked over the battlefield with a grim smile. The villagers had done well. A dozen cultists lay dead. One villager had fallen, shot down in the advance, and two more were wounded. Still, a good day’s work and a step toward avenging their dead.

Connolly was organizing the remaining men now. Looking to their weapons and seeing to the injured and making certain that after the red haze of combat, the heady rush of fear and bloodlust, they were again settled down to the cold business of soldiering.

Her smile grew warm at that thought. The man was a corporal. He couldn’t help it. He would always be a corporal. Skilled and deadly, but always fussing over his troops like a mother hen.

She on the other hand, was a brigand, and she knew she would always be a brigand. She left the organizing to him and checked her rifle, then stalked silently up the great steps.

The doors were massive and ancient but solid. And locked. She swore, then moved down the steps to the sentry who had been at the gate, the one Connolly had shot through the chest. He lay sprawled face down halfway down the steps. She kept her weapon pointed at the back of his head and stepped very deliberately on his hand, leaning her weight on it. Never take a dead man’s word for it, her father had told her. When he didn’t react, she felt comfortable he was dead and rolled him over, searching him for a key.

Nothing. She wasn’t surprised, really.

“Check the officer for a key,” she called to Connolly.

Time was of the essence. The gunfire would have been heard by the cavalry they passed, and by any guards inside. The longer they were held up at the door, the more time the enemy would have to trap them.

She looked around at the worn, crumbling stone facade of the temple. Maybe.

She slung the rifle over her back, checked the hang of her sabre and began to climb, her strong hands and soft boots finding easy holds in the crumbling mortar. She reached a point a foot above the huge doors, where she had seen a gap in the stones. She cautiously raised her head and peered into it, grinning as she saw that it went clear through.

It wasn’t very large, but it was enough for her to lean in and look down into the temple. The space behind the doors was a vast empty hall, strewn with rubble. In that space, a half dozen cultists were hastily deployed in a firing line, their attention on the vast portal.

Alyah didn’t want to shout and alert them, so she picked up a pebble of crumbled mortar and tossed it at Connolly.

He turned as the pebble struck him and when he saw her, she pointed through the gap, then drew her finger across her throat. They probably should have worked out a signal beforehand, but if he couldn’t figure out that meant enemy inside, then he was no brigand.

He nodded and gestured to the villagers, making sure their weapons were loaded and readied them to rush the doors. No shouting, no questions. He would have been a good bandit.

She drew the two remaining grenades from her pouch, pulled the chains and tossed them in, one after the other, then ducked down and clung to the stone facade. The explosions shook the wall, and she clung tighter as old mortar shook from the joints in the stones.

The first blast shook the massive doors, and the second blew the left-hand door off its bottom hinge, leaving it hanging drunkenly from the remaining hinge. The villagers rushed the gate, fired a volley through the gap, then wrenched the splintered door wide and poured through, finishing their grim work with the bayonet.

Chapter 60

Emelia waited until her hands stopped shaking before leaving the room. Waited for her heart to stop fluttering like a captive bird in her chest and for her breathing to steady. She still had a job to do.

Now it was a more complicated job, to be sure, but it still needed doing.

The element of surprise was lost. And how had Roderick discovered her? Had he found the message stone? Discovered Vladimir? She hoped the boy was safe. She felt the dread for another innocent life weigh on her heart.

At least Roderick hadn’t dragged her to the prophet. She had no delusions about how that would go. She had heard of the man, heard how his uncanny eyes could seemingly see into your soul. She had spent her whole life learning to deceive others, but didn’t want to test that.

So why hadn’t the count handed her over?

He must have some spark of decency left, she decided. He was working for the enemy, but he hadn’t sold his soul. Not yet. And he did seem to care what happened to her. Or maybe he just wanted to be what happened to her. It might have been ego as much as decency that kept him from turning her in.

She still felt certain he was acting only as an agent, that he wasn’t devoted to this cause other than fulfilling his obligations for service. He was a just a man doing a job. Then she thought of what Connolly had said about that. It’s never excuse enough to do your job, you had to own what the job was.

She did regret not being able to turn him. He was skilled and subtle and cunning. He could charm and he could fight. He could be an asset. It was ironic that it was his sense of honor that kept him on the side of the unspeakable while his less reputable skills made him an attractive ally.

So he would work against her, but he wouldn’t give her away. At least not yet. Not until he had to.

How much did she trust the count? Well, not really at all, she decided, but she had to keep on with the mission and hope for the best. She would just have to watch her back and not use the established message system. She had to assume it was compromised.

Emelia flinched as the faint sound of gunfire echoed through the stone walls of the room. It was hard to tell in these warrens, but it sounded far away. Connolly and his little army must be moving on the fortress.

She hurried along the passage. It seemed there were fewer cultists than usual. After a time, she spied Amira, skulking along a hallway near the kitchens. Emelia looked left and right and saw no one else nearby.

“What are you doing, little one?” she asked, crouching down beside the girl.

“They are all going toward the courtyard. I heard them talking about it. I was going to follow and listen. So that I could tell you what they were doing.”

If the cultists were moving to the courtyard they must be preparing the ritual. And if her comrades were making their move, then everything was coming to a head, sooner than she had expected.

Emelia looked at the young girl’s face, saw the courage in those eyes and thought she would cry. “Oh, you brave, sweet girl,” she hugged Amira. “Thank you for telling me. I will follow them. You should return to the other children. Tell them help is coming.”

“I will,” said Amira. “Help save Mama.” With that she turned and ran off.

Emelia blew out a long breath. What was just a little more responsibility added to her burden?

Chapter 61

Roderick heard the scatted firing and swore under his breath. The enemy were coming. That much he knew, but not how or where. He doubted there’d be more notes passed at this late date.

He forced himself to think like a soldier. If he had an airship and wanted to destroy a temple full of mad cultists, what would he do?

Fly over and drop a few barrels of dynamite to crack open the roof. Follow that with some incendiary shells. Surround the place with peasants with muskets and shoot down anybody who tried to escape the flames. Roderick glanced out a window at the burgeoning light. Come over the mountains early. From the East. Straight out of the sun.

He grinned. He had just the thing for that. He grabbed a passing cultist. “You! Come with me. We need to haul some crates to the East tower.”

“The Favored One has called the faithful to the courtyard.”

Roderick looked at the man. Were they getting stupider? This one had no spark of thought left in his eyes, just a blazing hate and a slack gullibility. Well, he decided, you work with the tools you’re given.

“And he has instructed me to prepare the tower for the ritual. By hauling the Sacred Crates up there.”

“So shall it be,” said the man, bowing and falling in behind him.

Stupid can be frustrating, Roderick thought, but it makes them easy to steer.

Chapter 62

“Strong work, lads,” said Connolly. “Sound off if you’re injured. No? All right, reload and get ready to move. Every man should have a loaded rifle and a fixed bayonet. Prime ’em but keep ’em on half cock.”

The men scrambled to obey. Connolly detailed two wounded men to stay by the gates, load the spare rifles, and keep watch. “That cavalry squadron we passed might come looking after all the shooting. If they do, try to hold them off. If they take cover and shoot it out, good. Just delay them until we get back with the captives. If they charge,” he handed each man one of his grenades, “wait until they reach the steps then pull this ring and toss these.”

Alyah climbed down and studied the map. “That way.” She indicated the right-hand passage. “The cells should be there.” Connolly nodded.

“Right,” he said. “Form up. Column of twos. Remember your drills. If we see the enemy, the front two men fire and step aside, back to the wall and reload, the next two pass through, firing if the threat is still there. After you reload your rifle, fall in at the end of the column. Keep moving.”

Alyah had wondered why he had spent so much time drilling these men. Hadn’t thought he could make them soldiers so quickly—and they still weren’t, not really. But she had to admit they were at least fighting as a team. They hadn’t turned into a mob when blood was spilled and the smell of gunpowder and fear took over. Maybe they could execute the firing drill. Better that than the first two firing then panicking as they faced an enemy with empty rifles, or rushing forward, blocking the shots of the men behind.

The little band was soon in formation. Ten villagers plus the two adventurers, lined up in column of twos. Alyah took point.

“Stay five paces behind me,” she told the villagers. “I shall scout the way ahead. Keep your muzzles up as long as I am on my feet front of you. Do not shoot me in the back. If I raise my hand, stop.”

She drew her revolver and crept forward. The villagers moved behind, as quietly as they could, rifles pointed at the ceiling. Connolly brought up the rear, five paces behind the villagers, straining his ears for sounds from behind and frequently looking back as well as keeping his eye on his little command.

They moved onward, deeper into the passages. Alyah paused at the first intersection, listening intently, then peered around the corner. Seeing nothing, she moved onward. As she neared a corner at the end of the passage, she heard voices and booted feet. She held up a hand and crept back to the villagers, kneeling in front of one of them, near the left-hand wall.

“Here they come,” she whispered.

The two villagers in the front rank leveled their rifles. Alyah aimed her Remington down the passage. The other ranks waited tensely, gripping their weapons but keeping them elevated.

A squad of cultists rounded the corner at a jog, rifles held at high port, no bayonets fixed. Alyah pulled the trigger and her Remington barked. The leading cultist jerked as the bullet tore through his chest. An instant later, the two villagers fired. The men flattened themselves against the walls of the passage, fumbling cartridges from their pouches. The second rank stepped past them, presented their weapons, and fired. By the time the third rank had discharged their rifles, the enemy had turned tail and retreated back around the corner.

“Cease fire!” called Connolly. “Well done. Now, form up. We’re not done yet.”

The hallway was filled with powder smoke, acrid smelling and blue tinged. Three bodies sprawled on the floor.

Alyah resumed her advance, then stopped at the corner and listened. Hearing nothing, she risked a quick look. The hallway was empty, save for a long smear of blood. She motioned the small band forward. One of the cultists groaned. A villager drove a bayonet into the man’s chest. The other two were clearly dead. A Minie bullet at close range did horrific things to a body.

Alyah looked and saw that they were ready to follow, then rounded the corner, stalking forward with as much noise as a sunset. She crept up to the next branch. The blood trail led to the left. According to Emelia’s map, the cells were to the right. Alyah listened for a long moment, straining for the sound of nervous intake of breath, of shifting feet on the stone, of the rattle of gear. When she heard nothing, she again stole a quick glance in both directions, then turned back to Connolly.

The man moved up to join her. She leaned close and breathed in his ear.

“The enemy went left. Our goal is to the right.”

“I say we go right,” he replied. “How about you?”

She nodded. “Just making sure we are of one mind.”

“Aren’t we always?” he asked with a grin.

The little band proceeded down the corridor to the right, then down a stone stairway to a hallway lined with cells. At sight of their captive family members, the villagers broke ranks and rushed to the bars, hands reaching through to clasp each other as cries of relief filled the room.

Alyah, standing guard with Connolly, glanced over to see the soldier frown at the commotion. “Give them a minute,” she said. “They are just farmers. You cannot expect more discipline at this moment.”

“At least they’re making a lot of noise,” he replied. “That should save us the trouble of finding the rest of the guards.”

She shrugged. “There is but one way in and we guard it. I do not think there are enough cultists in the world to defeat us in a five-foot-wide hallway. The only worry is that we will only be able to kill them one at a time.”

“That’s hardly sporting,” he said. The frown relented as he looked at the tearful reunion once more. “We’ll give them a minute.”

* * *

Gorka heard the distant echoes of gunfire somewhere deep in the temple. He cursed. Now was not the time. They were so close. These infidels could not be allowed to interrupt the ritual.

He assembled a squad and rushed toward the prophet’s chamber.

As they went, they saw a shadow dashing along the corridor. One of his men sprang forward, seizing the shadow, now revealed to be a struggling child.

“Not sure how this one got out, Acolyte,” he said. “I shall return it to the cells.”

Gorka looked at the child. A girl. He felt the waves of fear coming from her as she squirmed in the man’s grip.

“No,” he said. “Bring her to the courtyard.”

“Yes, acolyte,” replied the man.

Chapter 63

“I had expected more guards,” said Connolly.

“I asked one of the women,” said Alyah. “She overheard them speaking. Most of the ‘Faithful’ have been called to the courtyard.”

“Well, that makes getting these people out easier, but they must be preparing something awful.”

“What shall we do?”

He thought for a moment.

“Our first job is to get these people out,” he decided. “Once we get the villagers to the gate, you and I can see what we can do about the cult. But these men came to rescue their families, and that’s what we promised we would do.”

“I agree.”

After a moment, one of the villagers approached. “The children are not here,” he said.

Alyah swore and looked at the map.

“They are probably in these cells.” She pointed to the drawing. “Up the stairs to the left.”

“We must free them,” said the man.

Alyah looked at Connolly. He sighed. There was no way he could give any other command.

“All right!” said Connolly, turning to the villagers and putting enough edge in his voice to get their attention. “There’ll be time for tears later. Let’s get this cell open and get out of here. Then we go get the children.”

“There is no key!” said one of the villagers. Jaromir, Connolly remembered. Always remembers the names of the men you lead. “And the iron is too strong! We cannot break them down with musket butts or hack through them with bayonets!”

“Here.” Alyah pulled a paper cartridge from the man’s pouch. She tore it open, poured the charge into the keyhole of the lock, and stuffed the paper in to pack and seal it, leaving a tail hanging out. She then wrapped a thick cloth around the body of the lock. “Get back as far as you can,” she told the occupants of the cell.

Alyah ordered the villagers back, struck a match, and set it to the tail of paper hanging out of the lock, then dashed back up the corridor.

There was a loud bang as the powder went off. She rushed back and found the front face of the lock blown off, the tumblers and bolt a twisted wreck, easily pulled out. Four pairs of eager hands wrenched the door open and the captive villagers streamed out.

But Connolly was done making allowances for tears. He stepped forward.

“This is a good defensible position. You men, hold here. You four, come with us. We’ll go get the children, then we all make our way out together.”

“Why don’t we all go with you?” asked Jaromir.

“We cannot move quickly or quietly with such a large group. Stand guard here. We shall be back soon with your children,” said Alyah.

The small party moved out, Alyah and Connolly in the lead. They went as quickly and quietly as possible, guided by the map.

It wasn’t far, and while they heard distant noises from elsewhere in the fortress, they met no guards. Eventually they heard the sound of quiet crying. The villagers began to surge forward.

Alyah held up a hand. The men stopped, restlessly shifting beneath her glare. Connolly raised an eyebrow.

Ambush? she mouthed.

He shrugged. Not like they could stop now. She grimaced and moved forward.

They made their way up a narrow stairway—perfect for an ambush, but none came—into a hallway. There was a door perhaps five yards along it with a padlock. The crying seemed to be coming from behind it.

Alyah paused for a long moment, eyes and ears straining for any sign of danger, any hint of a trap. When she detected none, she crept forward and examined the door.

It was a simple wooden door, if a stout one, not like the iron barred cells downstairs, and the lock was crude. She pressed her ear to the door and still heard nothing but quiet sobbing. No telltale noise that would indicate a cultist hiding among the captives. She motioned the party forward.

Connolly raised a questioning eyebrow. She shrugged, indicated the lock. He nodded. Alyah drew her sabre and stood to one side of the door, Connolly to the other. He motioned for one of the villagers, who stepped forward and brought the butt of his rifle down on the crude lock. Connolly kicked the door open. Alyah darted inside, Connolly on her heels.

Both warriors stopped and stared.

They had seen battles. They had seen blood and death and heartbreak and defeat. They had seen wounded comrades die by inches. They had lost friends and seen the tears in the eyes of families.

This was worse. War, even the most brutal of wars, had a logic, a purpose. However brutal and callous that might be, men committed horrific acts for a reason. For this, there could be none.

A dozen children huddled in fear in the bare room. The older children held and sheltered the younger, looking at the door with wide, frightened eyes. Eyes that had seen the unspeakable. A few blankets lay on the filthy stone floor. A bucket of grimy water stood in the center of the room.

“Jesus,” muttered Connolly.

The villagers pushed past into the chamber. The children rushed to familiar arms, sobbing now with relief rather than fear. Connolly and Alyah stepped outside. This was not a moment they wished to intrude upon.

“Why?” asked Connolly as they waited in the hallway. Killing the children who were too young to labor would be an atrocity, but one that had some logic. Keeping them separate but alive could claim none.

“Do not seek a reason for the cruelty,” said Alyah. “The cruelty is the reason. These cultists have surrendered their souls to a foul cause and must be purged from the earth.”

Connolly just nodded, then organized the adults and children as best he could so they could return to the others.

* * *

Gorka knocked on the door of the prophet’s chamber.

“Enter, Gorka,” came the expressionless voice.

The acolyte came in and bowed.

“Forgive me, Favored One,” he said. “But I fear intruders have breached the sacred walls. We must send the troops to repel them.”

“I need the Faithful in the courtyard,” replied the prophet. “Especially those who have fallen deepest under the spell of the Void.”

“But if the enemy find their way to the courtyard before the ritual is complete—”

“Fear not. Have not the Old Gods already sent the first of their kind? The creature can sense the unclean blood of the faithless. Even now it hunts them.”

“May it soon devour their unclean flesh,” intoned the acolyte.

Chapter 64

Connolly surveyed his ragtag command.

“Let’s move out. You men.” He counted off four of his armed followers. “Take the lead. Head back the way we came. Fire and advance if you meet guards. Captives in the middle. You six and the two of us will guard the rear. If they catch us, we fall back, firing by teams. If that happens,” he said, looking to the vanguard and the captives, “don’t wait on us. You make for the exit, we'll buy you the time to get there.”

Alyah watched the passage as the villagers scrambled to obey. Soon the little party was moving, Connolly fussing over them like a mother hen. She grinned. She had grown used to seeing him as a hired sword, a fighter among a band of equals. It amused her to see how being in charge of a mob of amateurs brought out this side of him. She remembered a mother cat she had as a child. After a litter of kittens had begun to crawl, the frazzled animal had spent its day catching them and returning them to the blankets where she nursed them. The sleek and deadly hunter had become a nursemaid.

“What are you grinning about?” he asked. “Thrilled to be deep in the fortress of a cult of madmen with some half-trained farmers and a score of dependents?”

“I am grinning at this transformation in you.” She smiled wider. “How this little band has brought out your maternal side.”

The man reddened. “This is my ‘stern and efficient commander’ side,” he replied. “Now set an example for the troops and keep a sharp eye out.”

“Haan, maan,” she said, sure he knew enough Hindi to catch ‘Yes, mother.’

“Go,” he said. “Dheeth ladakee.”

She saluted and took her place at the rear of the column. He was right. She was an insolent girl.

* * *

“She’s ready to go, Captain,” said Jackson.

“Outstanding,” said Captain Little.

“How do we expect to approach, sir?” asked MacGregor. “The Phoenix is fast, but she’s a big target.”

“We’ll come in low. Use the mountain as cover until we get close, then come up over the ridge and we’ll be on top of them before they know it.”

“I admire your confidence,” said the engineer.

“That’s good, since a lot of it relies on you. We need a lot of lift ready to go and a lot of ballast to keep us low until the last minute. Get your slide rule, Mac, we have figures to wrangle.”

* * *

Alyah, Connolly, and the villagers had gone roughly two-thirds of the way back to the gates when they heard... something... racing down the corridor behind them. A dragging noise, accompanied by a wet slap, like bare feet on the tile floor of a bath house. The corridor was dark beyond the reach of their lantern, but the sound was increasing in volume.

“Rearguard, take up firing positions,” said Connolly. “The rest of you, get a move on. Get out. Don’t wait for us. We’ll meet you later.” He hung his lantern on a hook in the passage and moved back to the group.

The villagers readied themselves. Connolly looked them over, saying their names beneath his breath. A good leader knew the names of his people. Rorik and Andrik knelt and leveled their rifles, Laszlo, Dimas, Jaromir, and Karel stood ready, muzzles elevated, bayonets fixed, waiting.

Alyah slipped a cartridge into the breech of her rifle and stared into the darkness. “Don’t the guards need light as much as we do?” she asked in a low voice.

“I’d have thought,” replied Connolly, readying his own weapon.

Beyond the pool of lantern light, the noise grew, but there was nothing to be seen. The villagers shifted uneasily.

“Steady, lads,” said Connolly. “Wait until you have a target. When they come into the light, fire, then fall back behind the last rank and reload. Second rank, keep your rifle up until the men in front pass you, then take your shot. Just like we practiced.”

The sound was now a roar. Still nothing showed down the passageway. Then the stench hit them.

The smell was a palpable thing. Almost a physical assault. It reeked of death and rot and fear, magnified a thousandfold. He remembered a battlefield, years ago, where the body of a horse lay in the sun for a day, swollen with decay. As they advanced, some hayseed recruit poked it with a bayonet. This was similar but far, far worse. As the glare of the midday sun is to a candle.

Then, into the light came a thing of madness and horror. It filled the hallway from one side to the other and reached almost to the ceiling, a writhing mass of tentacles, rolling forward, slapping down on the flagstones with crushing force, heavy and whiplike, flinging gobs of slime and decay as it moved.

Connolly looked at his troops. Several were praying. Andrik swore and spat on the floor. Karel had tears streaming down his face. Laszlo made the sign of the cross. He realized he was mumbling a Hail Mary under his breath. He wondered when had been the last time he had done that. Subconscious reflex. The product of a Catholic childhood, long forgotten but still buried somewhere in his mind.
“Fire at will!” he shouted.

Rorik and Andrik, to their credit, fired their rifles, then turned and dashed back past the others. Maybe they stopped to reload, but Connolly wouldn’t swear to that. Laszlo and Dimas fired as well, filling the corridor with smoke. The... thing came on as they fell back. Jaromir fired his rifle. Karel threw his down and turned to run, bu t a tentacle whipped out and wrapped around his chest, jerking him back into the writhing coils. Jaromir thrust his bayonet forward as the bulk of the thing rolled over him. With a clear shot now, Connolly fired the Spencer dry as he stepped backward, working the lever feverishly. Alyah’s Remington boomed once, then she drew her pistol and fired at the creature.

The Spenser’s hammer dropped on an empty chamber. Connolly tossed it aside and drew his sabre. As the thing reached for him, he slashed at the grasping limb.

The blade bit and the abomination let out a hideous, piercing shriek, jerking the tentacle back.

“Saints preserve us!” he yelled madly. “Give it steel!”

“What?” shouted Alyah, holstering her empty revolver.

“Cold iron!” Connolly shouted. “Fairies and ghosts and creatures from beyond hate the touch of cold iron!” He continued to backpedal, cutting at each pseudopod that lashed at him, a spark of hope building as his long-honed skills began to overtake his terror.

It was fast and it was strong, God knew that. But not as fast as the tulwars of Afghan brigands or the sabre of that mad grey bastard Forrest, and he’d fended them off. The thing kept rolling its bulk forward, so he was forced to back rapidly as he parried. He heard Alyah shouting and slashing away to his left.

The thing drove them back and suddenly the walls to either side vanished and they were in a large open chamber. There was a crash of musketry. At least some of his command must have stayed to fight, he thought.

The rifle fire didn’t slow the creature, but it took notice, surging forward toward the source of the volley. Connolly was knocked aside by the bulk of the thing, sent rolling along the stones. He scrambled to his feet to see the writhing mass, now pouring ichor from a dozen cuts, crash into the line of riflemen. Alyah stood on the other side of the chamber, likewise ignored by the creature. He heard the screams of his men above the keening wail of the beast.

“Use your steel!” he shouted. “Iron will hurt it!” He bellowed and charged.

Alyah and Connolly reached the mass of tentacles, slashing madly. He heard shouting on the other side of it. Somebody was alive.

He saw a tentacle lash out at Alyah, but she ducked and cut into the thing’s attack, dragging the edge through it and severing the hideous appendage.

The shrieking reached an ear-splitting crescendo. The beast shuddered and recoiled from the blow. It turned and barreled off down one of the side passages, leaving behind only spilled ichor, a revolting stink, and the still twitching tentacle that Alyah’s sabre had sliced from it.

And destruction.

Connolly blew out a long breath and leaned against a wall. “Cold iron,” he mumbled seeing the severed appendage. “The fairy tales were right. The creatures of the other world fear the bite of cold iron.”

“Superstitious Ferringhi barbarian,” Alyah muttered, shaking her head.

Connolly shook himself and surveyed the wreck of his command.

Alyah stood panting but steady, her sabre black and dripping. Laszlo huddled against the wall, giggling and rocking. Andrik stood dazed, his rifle in one hand and a long knife in the other. Rorik lay broken and twisted, one arm torn free of its socket. Dimas was nowhere to be found. Makes sense, thought Connolly. He’d seemed smarter than the others. He knew Jaromir and Karel lay dead in the hallway but he staggered back up the passage to be sure.

When he reached them, it wasn’t hard to be sure.

“What in the name of Allah was that?” Alyah asked when he returned.

“Nothing in the name of Allah or God or Jesus. Or even of Odin or Zeus,” he replied. “That thing is what this cult is using the book to bring here. Not sure how or why, but we can’t let them succeed.”

“Well, they have already brought it here, so where does that leave us?”

“We know they’ve brought one. Maybe more, but it can’t be many or they wouldn’t be sending poor bastards with swords and guns to do their dirty work.”

“How do we stop them?”

He shook his head. “Still working on that.” He looked to the surviving villagers. First things first. “Andrik!”

The man looked at him, jarred from his trance.

“Take Laszlo and lead him out of here. Get to the village. Tell the people about that thing. But tell them that we drove it away with steel. Arm yourselves with bills, scythes, axes. Anything made of iron that cuts. Don’t go looking for trouble, but if it finds you, be prepared.”

“Yes, sir.” said the man.

“We’ll try to end this here. At its source.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“No. I thank you. You’ve done more than I could have hoped. You and your comrades are why your families have a chance to live free. Go to them. Maybe Laszlo will recover. But regardless, take care of him. He stood and bled with us today.”

They got Laszlo on his feet. The man would be led. He couldn’t utter a rational sentence, just giggled and twitched, but he followed. Didn’t lash out. Connolly accepted that. It was enough for today.

Andrik slung his rifle, put his arm around Laszlo and led him off toward the gates.

Connolly and Alyah looked at one another. Then he retrieved his rifle, examined it, pulled the magazine tube from the stock, and began to reload it.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

He shrugged. “What I want to do is get a fast horse, leave this place, and never look back. But what I want doesn’t matter now. We can’t leave this open sore. What are we going to do? We’re going to cauterize this festering boil.”

“I would like nothing better,” she replied. “Well, unless you have a second fast horse. Then that is my favorite plan. But if not, it will be an honor to accompany you on this insane errand. My question is more how.”

“Something will come to me, I’m sure,” he said. “MacGregor was supposed to convince the Captain to bring the Phoenix.”

“And do what with it?”

He thought for a moment. “What was it that woman said? About a ritual?’

“That the guards said the stars would be right for the ritual in the great courtyard today.”

“Let's see the map. Now, where is this great courtyard?”

They looked at the crude sketch. “That has to be right here,” said Alyah, pointing. “These doors open to it. From the hall, the barracks, the powder magazine...”

A smile spread across his features.

“Say the last one again,” said Connolly. “Do it all incredulous, with that charming accent of yours.”

Chapter 65

In the courtyard, the prophet and the high acolyte winced. A screech of agony ran through them like a saw dragged across their skulls. They felt the pain and confusion of the creature, felt the bitter wounds and the maiming slice, the maddening violation of a limb torn away, exposing the ragged nerves and tender flesh beneath its protective hide to the harsh alien atmosphere.

“Gorka,” said the prophet. “They have defiled the sacred creature. Near the front gates. Go. Feel the pain, let it draw you to them. Avenge this desecration. I must begin the ritual. The stars will not be right again for a thousand years.”

“I can ask for no greater honor,” said the acolyte. “I shall return with the tongues and eyes of the infidels.”

The prophet took the man’s head in his hands and pressed his lips to the acolyte’s forehead. A scalding, ecstatic burning sensation ran from the point of contact through Gorka’s veins. He felt strength and anger and hate well up in him. He drew his heavy sword, felt a dark, burning power run into his arms, felt an aching need to smash the blade into the soft, warm, yielding flesh of the unbelievers.

“I bestow the Kiss of the Void,” said the prophet. “Go now. Be the conduit of retribution.”

Chapter 66

Connolly and Alyah looked at one another.

“That’s it!” they said in unison.

Connolly looked out the door of the ancient temple. A squadron of cultist horsemen were approaching.

“Damn!”

He swiftly ran through options. “We won’t have time to get to the magazine and blow it ourselves. Not if we have to fight through the guards. Especially if there are any more of those...things. Get to the tower. Signal the Phoenix. Tell MacGregor that they have a roomful of powder just off the courtyard. He’ll know what to do. Where to put a shot. I’ll hold these bastards here at the door.”

“No!” she shook her head. “We fight together!”

“There are too many. Even for us.”

“Then we both go to the ship!”

“Captain Little will need time to maneuver when he sees the signal. They aren’t going to give us that time. That time will have to be bought.”

“With blood?” she asked.

“With steel,” he corrected.

“You go! I’ll hold them.”

He shook his head. “You’re faster. You can get to the ship quicker. And you have years of glory to win. I’m done. Let me have this. This glorious last stand. My chance to finish my story this way.”

Alyah looked into his eyes, then gave one curt nod. She grabbed him by the jacket, pulled him close, and kissed him fiercely.

“I shall find you again. Even if I have to look in Hell.”

She turned and sped away.

Connolly watched her leave, a wistful regret seeping into his determination. “Well, damn,” he muttered, turning back toward the doorway and unslinging his carbine.

He chambered a round, remembering the feel of her body pressed against him, the taste of her lips on his. He hadn’t known she’d felt that way. Would have been nice to know yesterday, he thought, when there was time to do something about it. “Good show,” he grumbled. “Should have known I could mess up a perfectly good heroic death. Hard to feel a sense of noble sacrifice with disappointment in my trousers.”

Still, this was an evil that had to be stopped. He thought of the cultists, how they tore children from their mothers and threw them in cages, how eager they were to sacrifice the innocent to give their masters more power, power they wouldn’t even share in. How they worshiped a stinking, shapeless mass of hate and greed and insatiable hunger, dripping slime. How they called it into being and served it. Content to be foot soldiers to an apocalyptic cause, all for promises they had to know were empty.

Not even foot soldiers, he told himself. A mob playing at soldiers. Soldiers were at least a band united by discipline and shared hardship. They only thing that united these people was seething hateful resentment and those stupid red hats.

This had to end. Here. Today.

And they could do it. Emelia and MacGregor and Captain Little and Alyah. Provided he gave them the time. That he could do. He was a veteran soldier in a strong position with a good rifle. Most of his adult life had prepared him for this.

Keeping to the shadows, well back from the open doorway, he knelt and rested his left elbow on his knee. Settling the carbine in his shoulder, he leaned into it, centering his mass behind the weapon so the recoil would come straight back, not push the muzzle off target. He watched the enemy dismount and begin to fan out. He found the man issuing commands and drew a careful bead on the center of his chest.

Chapter 67

Alyah bolted up the stairs, her jaw set and a lump in her throat. Maybe, if she was fast enough, if the captain could pick her up in time, and if MacGregor was the shot Connolly swore he was, and if the man could hold out long enough—maybe they could blow this place and still pick him up.

Her heart jumped as she heard the sharp bang of his rifle. Then a second shot, followed by a more distant rattle of return fire from outside the temple. The sounds continued, slow deliberate reports from inside as Connolly sniped at the enemy and a steady crackle of muffled shooting in return.

That was good, she told herself. The slow fire meant he was keeping them at a distance, and the shooting from outside meant they weren’t rushing in, content to trade shots instead. Connolly was buying time with lead. Good. Lead bought more time than steel.

She pressed on, each shot ringing out like the tolling of a clock’s bell.

* * *

Roderick peered over the parapet at the top of the temple’s tower, scanning the bright horizon for a ship. It should be there, he reasoned. Hard to hide something that big in a sky that clear. Something would show itself—either a dark speck against the pale blue or maybe the sun on the white of the balloon. He heard the gunshots from below and cursed. Those frustrating bastards were inside the temple. And while the cultists had the numbers, they really weren’t...agile thinkers, was the most diplomatic way he could put it. As much as he hated to say it, his enemies were good. Connolly may be an aging, drunken mercenary with delusions of shining knighthood, but he was an excellent soldier. The mad half-caste woman was Death incarnate with a blade. Little was exactly the kind of skilled and clever captain who would work miracles with a ship, given a chance. And MacGregor would probably give him that chance. If any man could keep a ship airborne, it was that bloody Scotchman. All steered by that damned actress DuMond.

Wait. There! A flash of white against the green. From this high up, the forest was a deep emerald carpet. The ship was staying low, minimizing the chances they could be seen from the towers. He approved. A tidy bit of stealth, one he had barely caught. Even so, it would be a tough shot at a moving target and only possible from a limited number of positions, unlike if they had come from above, with the whole wall open to them.

The count allowed himself a bitter smile. Bunch of bloody misfits. Dreamers, drunks, women, and darkies, and he had a feeling they had more chance of stopping his employers than a regiment of Horse Guards.

No real surprise. After all, he was a just a generation away from a free lance, and he was the only hope of stopping them. The same way a good mongrel dog will whip a purebred in a fight six days out of the week. He wondered what that fat idiot of an arms dealer Bartlett would think about that.

Speaking of Bartlett, it was fortunate at least that the man had some more exotic merchandise. And that he’d thought to buy it. He turned to the man who stood beside him.

“Help me get those crates open and set up those brackets.”

The cultist sprang to obey. They manhandled the case down and pried the lid off.

The count’s smile broadened. Congreve rockets. Just the thing to turn an airship into a fireball. He looked back out at the distant speck. Of course, the things were just about accurate enough to hit the wide side of a barn two times out of ten from inside the barn. Fine for launching at a fort or a besieged city or maybe even a distant Zulu impi, but he would need that ship to come a lot closer if he wanted any chance of hitting it. And he wouldn’t have much chance for a second salvo.

If they wanted to support the landing party, who were scrambling around somewhere in this Godawful pile, they’d have to come closer. He began to set up the launch frames when he heard more gunfire from below.

“Damn them!” he turned to the cultist. “Get to the prophet. Or the high acolyte. Tell them to delay the ritual. The enemy are in the complex. If they make it to the courtyard, there’ll be no controlling this mess.”

“No, Commander,” said the man, stone faced. “The stars are right. The time is appointed.”

“Stars? It’s barely time for bloody breakfast!”

“The stars are right, even when hidden by the sun,” said the man, his affect flat and calm as the surface of a lake on a still day. Or a fetid swamp, which was more likely the state of his mind, thought the count.

“Fine. Get down there and see that they increase the guard around the courtyard. The enemy is here and must be held off. I’ll worry about the airship. You lot hold off the fighters on the ground.”

“Yes, Commander.” The man threw a crisp salute, snatched up his rifle and rushed off down the steps.

Roderick sighed. He really wished that DuMond or Connolly had accepted his offer. It was hard having the only brain on his side.

* * *

Alyah was two thirds of the way up the steps when she heard a door open and shut and feet pounding down the stairs.

There was nowhere to hide on the spiral stairs, so she drew her sabre and crouched close to the right side, the inner curve of the spiral. The man coming down was moving fast and would likely be against the outer curve.

Soon, a cultist appeared, coming down around the curve. His eyes widened as he saw the woman, but only for a second before she thrust the point of her blade into his throat, cutting off a shout of warning before it could form. She caught the body with her left arm and eased it to the stairs.

If she’d had a third hand, she realized a moment too late, she might have caught his rifle as well.

* * *

The cultist cavalry officer lay dead at the foot of the steps. Connolly hit a second man before the cultists could recover from their surprise, but they impressed him by quickly dispersing and returning fire from cover. They were out in the bright sunlight and he was in the darkness, but they could still aim at the doorway. A few bullets struck chips from the stone doorway and more whistled into the room, smacking against the far wall or ricocheting off the floor. He dropped to his stomach and rolled to his left, out of the direct line as he worked the lever of his Spenser.

He kept a steady but slow fire on them, shooting at any man who moved toward the steps. He didn’t really care if he hit them, though that was nice, so long as he kept their heads down. Every minute he could delay them here was more time for Alyah and the crew of the Phoenix to do what needed to be done. For their part, he had to admit the cultists were fighting fairly smart, most of them keeping the doorway under fire while individuals made small advances, dashing to cover and working their way forward.

So, Connolly thought, here they are, acting like good soldiers. But good soldiers need to be trained, and training involves repetition, which lends itself to patterns. He had been a soldier long enough to spot those. He watched the enemy, and when he was sure he knew which one would make the next rush, he shifted his aim to the rock that man crouched behind. After a moment, the man sprang up to move and Connolly pulled the trigger. The man was halfway to his feet when the shot tore through his chest and he flopped back down, sprawling on the rocky ground.

That gave the rest pause. Made them more careful. Slower. Less likely to get shot, but buying more precious time.

* * *

Count Roderick heard the sound of a rifle clattering down the stairs. Could that idiot have dropped it in his haste? Possibly. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t suspect these fools of. But he hadn’t lived as long as he had by failing to take precautions. He slipped back into the shadows, crouching down behind the crates of rockets and kept his eye on the door, his ears straining for a sound.

The woman burst through the door, a bloody sabre in her hand. That answered the question of what happened to his underling. She rushed to the battlement and looked out, scanning the horizon. Roderick eased his revolver from his holster. Suddenly, she tore off her scarf and began to wave it.

The count smiled and lowered his weapon. Maybe that airship was going to come into range after all.

* * *

Alyah dashed through the door to the top of the tower. She looked around but saw no one among the mad turrets and spires of the temple. She ran to the parapet and looked to the sky, but saw nothing. She swore and scoured the horizon. On the second pass, she spotted the Phoenix in the distance, not high in the sky where she expected it, but low above the trees, the white canvas of the gas bag bright against the green of the forest.

She pulled a bright scarf from her neck and waved it. The ship turned toward the tower, approaching quickly, gaining speed as it drew near.

She heard another shot from below.

Not quickly enough. It would take precious time for the ship to get close enough to the tower to pick her up, then to move to where they could attack the powder magazine.

She dug out her copy of the map of the temple. Unfolding the paper, she found the door of the magazine. She drew her dagger and pierced her smallest finger, then pressed it to the spot on the map.

* * *

The count waited, considering his options. The woman was clearly signaling the ship, which would bring it closer, true, but there was no way to discretely set up and launch a rocket. The girl would notice him. If he shot her from cover, like a wise man, given how dangerous she was, the ship would notice and either bombard the top of the tower or take evasive action and be hard to hit.

But if he waited until the young lady boarded, then took his shot as they sailed away...well they’d be close, no one would be on the tower to observe him and he would have a good chance to hit them.

And if they weren’t picking her up, but landing instead?

In that case, he would light one of the rockets where it lay and dash for the stairs, emptying his revolver at them to give himself cover and blow everything on the tower to Hell.

But it probably wouldn’t come to that.

* * *

“Someone on that tower!” called Hawkins from the crow’s nest.

“Ours or theirs?” asked the captain.

“Looks like that woman swordfighter,” came the reply.

“Looks like or is?” asked MacGregor.

“Hard to tell. She’s not slicing anyone up.”

Captain Little shook his head.

“Answer the captain!” shouted Jackson.

“It’s her, sir. She’s waving a scarf.”

“That’s it then,” said the captain. “Mr. MacGregor, give me full power.”

“Aye, sir.”

“We come in low, close to the wall before we rise up. Chan, Jensen, be ready to cut that ballast on my command.”

MacGregor pulled the lever, increasing the steam to the engine and the Phoenix accelerated toward the fortress, her keel just clearing the trees. He noticed Sabatini make the sign of the cross. Chan looked over the side, then back at the approaching cliff and took a deep breath. The engineer adjusted his already straight tie. put his hands in his pockets, and started whistling “Loch Lomond.”

The wind increased as the Phoenix picked up speed. MacGregor concentrated on the purr of the engines and the thrum of the propellers. Now they were closer, he could make out Miss Abdullah-Brooke on the parapet. No sign of Connolly and the little band of irregulars or Miss DuMond.

The stones of the cliff on which the fortress stood grew closer and sharper.

“Captain?” asked Hope, a tremor in his voice.

“Steady, lad,” said MacGregor. “The captain will give the command when the time comes.” Although he was cutting it damned fine, he thought.

“Ballast...,” said the captain.

The crewmen stood to the gunwales, taking hold of the lines that held the bundles of heavy stones along the hull.

“Aweigh!” Little shouted.

The ballast dropped away and the Phoenix lurched upwards. The captain spun the elevator wheel at the same moment, pointing the nose up, adding to the lift.

MacGregor felt his stomach drop as the ship vaulted skywards.

* * *

Emelia walked out into the courtyard with her burden just as the young girl was dragged to the center of the circle. The girl wailed as two cultists forced her to her knees in front of the prophet. Great, wracking sobs. Emelia could feel the fear coming off her in palpable waves. She saw the stone beneath the girl’s knees was already stained with blood. Around them, a ring of cultists swayed and chanted.

“Sweet Jesus, no,” she muttered and started forward. She looked up to the sky, desperately hoping to catch sight of the Phoenix, but saw nothing.

Nothing but a strange shimmer, a wavering, thinning of the blue firmament.

“No, no, no,” she dropped her basket and moved forward, reaching into her shawl.

A rough hand grabbed her arm.

“Your turn will come,” snarled a cultist. She strained to pull away, a fist crashed into the side of her head. Sparks flashed in her vision. “Be still, filth.”

The blow staggered her and she collapsed to one knee. The man still held her left wrist in a grip like a vise. The weight of the revolver called to her, but she knew that if she attracted more attention she wouldn’t be able to get close enough to the prophet to stop him. She looked desperately to the sky. Help would have to come from above.

* * *

As the Phoenix came near, Alyah rolled up the map and stuck the dagger through it. She leaned out over the wall, cupping her hands and shouting.

“Powder magazine! Marked in red! Go now! Pick us up after!” She hurled the dagger with the map on it. Her heart caught in her throat as it hit the mast and bounced off—but landed on the deck. She sighed in relief.

She saw MacGregor stoop and pick it up. Unfolding the map, he examined it and nodded.

“Go!” she shouted.

As the ship turned away, she sank down in relief, her elbows on the parapet.

* * *

Damn them, Roderick swore. If that was their intent, then things could go badly indeed.

New plan, he decided. Wait for the ship to pull away, shoot the girl in the back—tragic waste that it was—then launch rockets at it until either it exploded in a ball of flame or they managed to blow the magazine. After which, depending on how events unfolded, he would either bask in the glory of his employer’s approval and raise his price, or he would have to find another employer.

Above all, he reminded himself, one must be flexible.

He raised his revolver.

* * *

Connolly heard orders shouted in a foreign tongue and men scrambling up the stairs. The covering fire ceased for a moment and he saw a man charging up the steps, pistol in one hand, sabre in the other. He took aim and shot the man, who staggered but kept coming. He fired again, hitting the cultist in the head and dropping him, then the carbine was empty.

He tossed the weapon aside and drew his revolver as the first of the cultists reached the door. He shot the first man who fell just inside the doorway. The next pair paused at the opening to fire their pistols into the dark room. The shots went high. Connolly remained on the floor and returned fire. Two more went down bleeding before the hammer clicked on an empty chamber, and then he was on his feet, drawing his sword.

The cultists tried to force their way in, naked blades in their hands. But coming in from the bright sunlight, they were blind in the shadows of the temple, stumbling on the bodies of their fallen, and Connolly slashed and cut at them as they pressed forward, trying to keep them in the doorway, keep them in one another’s way, cramped and hampered. He took one man’s sword hand off at the wrist, slashed the throat of another, and sent the next stumbling back pouring blood from a deep cut just above his knee.

Eventually, one of the cultists rushed in, barreling forward and slashing with his sabre. Connolly parried the blow to the left, stepped out of the man’s path to the right and slashed him across the neck as he passed.

The man took a few stumbling steps and fell, spluttering and gurgling blood, but he had opened a path for his fellows. The cultists surged through the doorway, finally able to spread out and use their superior numbers.

* * *

Alyah heard the faint click of a pistol’s hammer being drawn back. She dodged to her right just as a shot struck chips of stone from the parapet where she had been.

Spinning, she saw Count Roderick peering over the sights of a weapon with a touch of surprise in his eyes. She sprang toward him, whipping out her sabre and slashing at his hand.

The count scrambled back and fired again, but the sword swept the gun from his hand as he did so. She came on, slashing right and left, sorry that it hadn’t been his hand as well. If it weren’t for the crates in front of him, she’d have had him, but he gained enough distance and the time it took her to leap over the barrier gave him the chance to draw his sabre.

The man adopted the hanging guard. Connolly would have been impressed at his form. He balanced lightly on his feet, his hand at the height of his shoulder, and the point aimed at her eyes. Most disconcerting, though, was the fact that his face broke into a grin.

“Very well,” she said, returning the grin. “Let us see if a Ferringhi lapdog to a band of madmen can fight like a warrior.”

* * *

Roderick was stunned when the woman dodged his first shot. And more so when the weapon was struck from his hand before he could fire a second. He got his own sword out as she came on, cross-cutting like a Polish hussar. Who moves like that? he wondered.

The woman cleared the stack of crates between them, her blade never stopping, then lashed out in a cut at his head. He parried and threw a cut at her sword arm, which she caught on the guard of her sabre and drove her point at his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he had faced someone this skilled.

He put the thrust aside, backing and circling to his right. Despite himself, he felt his disappointment vanishing, his grin widening.

Maybe this wasn’t going to be easy anymore, but by God it was going to be fun.

* * *

Connolly parried a cut, but his foe moved forward, trying to force a bind. Drawing on what Alyah had taught him, he backed away from the rush, slipping to the side, feeling the man’s momentum slide past, and then slammed his hip into the man, throwing his weight into the cultist, forcing him off balance and cutting him as he staggered away.

He kept moving back and circling, trying to keep the enemy in front of him, preventing them from spreading out and using their numbers. He kept his guard close and made only quick cuts in response, not wanting to commit to a decisive blow which might drop one man but allow the others to swarm him before he could recover his weapon to guard. He deflected a blow with his empty revolver, slashed open the sword arm of the man who gave it. The man dropped his sword and stumbled away, but more came on.

* * *

Alyah slashed and thrust, parried and dodged. The man was fast, and he was efficient. Like Connolly had taught her. No wasted movement, letting his cuts flow from his parries.

“I must say, my dear,” he said between cuts. “You’re quite the swordsman.”

“Woman,” she corrected through clenched teeth, slashing at his head.

“My sincerest apologies,” he said, deflecting the blow and returning one of his own. “It really is too bad that you and your friend Connolly had to choose the other side. I assume that he is the one I hear down below, holding off my heathen hordes.”

She didn’t reply, letting her blade speak for her.

“Or is he more than a friend?” ventured the count. “Yes. I see it now,” he went on as she redoubled her attack. “Too bad. It would be a pretty picture. A life of domestic bliss. Raising a brood of violent, dangerous, but fatally principled youngsters.”

Alyah snarled, threw a feint at his head then slashed at his knee.

He bought into the feint but slipped his leg back at the last moment and cut at her sword arm. “Oh ho! Nearly got me there.”

She put his cut aside, stepping in and to the right, cutting at his flank.

“It must be terrible to be parted from your lover,” he grinned. “Before perhaps you even had a chance to consummate your relationship.”

Alyah remembered what Connolly had said. Training became unconscious. A well-trained swordsman can become predictable. She feigned a cut at his head, drawing the high parry, then twisted her wrist as she made the cut, her sabre slicing across the raised right arm, shearing through sleeve and flesh and bone. She shifted her weight into the attack, pulling the blade through.

The count stumbled back, clutching the bleeding stump.

“Now,” she said softly, “you can tell me how it feels to be parted from your lover.”

* * *

Emelia tore her gaze from the sky back to where the prophet stood in the center of the courtyard. At that moment, the young girl’s sobs cut off with a choked gargle as the prophet jerked his dagger across her throat.

Emelia screamed.

“Silence, dog!” snarled the cultist, slapping her with the back of his hand.

The already palpable wave of fear and pain that surged from the circle intensified, and the rippling in the sky responded, tearing like gauze as the bright blood spattered on the obscene glyphs carved into the stones of the courtyard.

* * *

Captain Little steered the Phoenix toward the courtyard, staying low to use the cover of the walls and minimize the number of sentries who might get a shot at them.

Duncan MacGregor moved the swivel gun to the forward starboard rail and prepared his shot. He methodically measured a double charge of powder, then took a solid iron ball with a greased patch and rammed it down. He prepared a second charge, powder and incendiary shell in a canvas wrapping, set close at hand but secure in the shot chest. He inspected a friction primer, screwed it into place, then chose a second and set it down within easy reach.

A scattered hail of musketry greeted the Phoenix as she rose over the wall. MacGregor winced as he heard the rounds strike. He paid attention to the sound, cataloguing the hits. For now, he heard only the wood of the hull or the canvas of the air bag. He kept his ears straining for any sound of a hit on metal, for any hiss of escaping steam or any change in the sound of the engines.

Captain Little knew his business. His approach kept the Phoenix out of the line of fire as long as he could, exposing the ship only at the last moment. Probably not long enough for the cultists to reload and get off another volley. He steered toward the courtyard, toward the door marked on the drawing Alyah had given them. MacGregor looked again at the crude sketch, the marked door. He peered over the rail as the ship sailed above the courtyard.

There!

That was it. Just where she had indicated and built like a magazine door. Heavy oak, banded in iron.

There was some commotion in the courtyard, cultists running about, but he paid them no mind. The only thing that mattered was the shot. The target.

He looked along the sights of the gun, watching the door, gauging the movement of the ship. When he was able to hold the portal centered in his sight picture, he waited for the movement of the ship to steady, then focused on the front sight, watching it come into stark relief.

He pulled the lanyard and the gun roared, smoke obscuring the target.

He didn’t bother wasting time looking to see if he’d hit. Waiting for the smoke to clear gave the enemy more time to shoot back. He picked up the incendiary round, powder, and shell wrapped in a canvas bundle, cradling it like a newborn. Hope ran a swab into the barrel, quenching any remaining embers, and MacGregor slid the second shell into the muzzle.

Only then did he look back at the target as the smoke cleared. The door had been reduced to splinters, just a bit hanging from twisted hinges. He allowed himself a smile.

The Phoenix banked, listing to starboard, rising ever so slightly as the loss of weight from expended powder and shot made the craft more buoyant.

The cultists milling about weren’t scrambling to load and aim muskets at him, as he’d expected. They were arranged in a circle, going through some odd ritual. Their dedication impressed him. Even the old ladies from Fife who hushed him as a boy when he fidgeted in church wouldn’t have kept their eyes on the texts while cannon blew the doors off the kirk.
The air above the circle of chanters rippled. Like heat boiling off the Indian desert. The sky tore itself open. As though the very heavens were just a huge canvas, rent asunder to reveal a cold, yawning void, filled with swirling color and discordant, piercing music. From the depths, a…thing emerged.

Its form defied logic and reason. Unnumbered tentacles radiated out from a writhing mass of unholy flesh covered in dripping, rasping maws.

It was the kind of thing Poe or Verne might have seen in a laudanum nightmare.

* * *

Beyond the jagged tear in the heavens, Emelia saw a yawning void, black at first and then filled with swirling colors of a madman’s nightmare. A howling wind surged with discordant music, as though a piper in his death throes pressed on, determined to finish his song.

A...thing pulled itself through the rent in the fabric of reality. Impossible tentacles slithered through, gripping the edges of the border between the planes and dragging a shapeless bulk through.

The cultists looked up in rapt, euphoric astonishment. Their chants grew silent.

Emelia tore her gaze away from the nightmarish spectacle above and focused on the man who held her arm. His attention was fully on the sky above, his jaw slack, staring reverently at the horror he had helped to call forth into this world. She remembered what Alyah had said one time, about how Afghan brigands would silently kill a sentry. Her right hand closed on the hilt of her stiletto. She carefully drew the slim blade, watching the man, but he made no reaction, fixated on the abomination above.

She paused, took a breath, and struck with all her might, letting her rage and pain drive the blow, slamming the point in to the hilt behind and below his right ear.

The blade went in easier than she expected. There was resistance, but not much. It felt like skewering a raw potato. The man did not cry out, just as Alyah had said. His entire body stiffened and shuddered for a moment, then dropped, twitching and convulsing, to the ground. The blade stuck fast and was torn from her grasp.

Emelia looked down at the body in surprise. So little noise, so little blood. A life extinguished so easily. She looked around. No one seemed to have noticed, all eyes locked on the heavens. The cultists stared as though transfixed, no thought for anything but the unholy creature that hung in the sky above them.

She flexed her wrist and winced. It hurt where the guard had grabbed it, but she could still move it. She felt the growing lump on her head. They brutalized the defenseless with ease, but fell readily enough to those who struck back. Well, then. She would strike again.

Emelia began to stalk toward the prophet, forcing herself not to look up, to focus on the objective. The man. Or the thing that had been a man. He stood with his arms spread and his eyes to the sky, oblivious to the crowd around him. And the small corpse lying forgotten at his feet.

This ends now, she thought.

Chapter 68

MacGregor swallowed a curse as he peered over the sights of the gun at the horror in the sky. Beside him, Hope was pointing and gibbering.

“Pull yourself together, man!” MacGregor commanded. “D’ye soil your knickers every time you see a heathen abomination?”

Hope shook himself and rammed the charge home.

“That’ll do, lad,” muttered the engineer as he stuck a skewer through the touch hole, piercing the powder bag. He set a friction primer in place and readied his lanyard.

He took a moment to scan the courtyard, peering through the sights as he waited for the ship to steady itself.

His heart was hammering in his chest and something deep in his subconscious ancestral mind was screaming, but Duncan MacGregor was a man of science and logic and he had a job to do.

The gaping hole that had been the door of the powder magazine filled his vision, shutting out everything else. The front sight post became clear in his vision. The cold wind and jarring sounds from beyond the void washed over him unheeded as he pulled the lanyard.

Smoke obscured his view of the target, so he didn’t see the shell hit, but a moment later a deafening roar erupted as the stored powder exploded, showering the courtyard with shards of stone.

The shock wave shook the Phoenix.

* * *

Connolly kept backing, keeping the enemy in front of him, parrying everything they threw at him, and lashing out in quick counters when they gave him an opening. Enough to keep them wary, to mark a few. Spin this fight out longer until Alyah and MacGregor could make their move.

He heard a bellow and the soldiers parted. From one of the side passageways, a tall man strode forward, tearing a sinister looking blade from its scabbard as he did. Connolly noted that it looked like an Ottoman yatagan—heavy, weighted toward the point, curving slightly forward, and with no guard to speak of. It was a weapon of attack. Good for chopping, not fencing. Brutal in the cut, but not a nimble weapon. The snarl on the face of the wielder and the mad fire in his eyes suggested that he had chosen a blade that suited him well. As he came closer, Connolly saw what looked like a fresh brand on his forehead, as though one of the strange starfish badges the cultists wore had been heated on the fire and pressed to his skin.

The soldiers stood aside as the man moved in, his steps quickening until he sprang forward with a vicious slash.

Connolly parried the blow, feeling the impact of the heavy blade up his arm. He was ready for the second cut and put that aside as well. He nearly countered, but saw that the enemy made no effort to return to a guard after his cut, making another wide looping hack. He abandoned his riposte for a parry, backing as he did so. Landing a counter on this fanatic would be simple enough, but it would cost him his head.

He backed away as the man made several more mighty blows, then shifted out of the way of a cut from the left, waiting for the follow up from the right. He caught the slash on the strong of his blade, near the guard, at just the right angle. The heavy blade slid down his sabre, striking sparks, biting into the brass knuckle guard and shuddering to a stop in the angle between blade and hilt.

Keeping the enemy’s blade engaged, he thrust his point forward, taking the man through the throat.

The cultist gave a strangled grunt, the madness in his eyes burning brighter as he spat blood and froth and curses. His sword dropped from his hand as he spasmed in death, but the momentum of his lunge carried him forward, crashing into his killer. Connolly stumbled backward, his foot slipping on the bloody tiles. He went down, the dying cultist falling atop him.

The man's face was just inches from his, and he watched the fires of hate dim in the mad eyes, the sneer fade to lax expressionlessness as life drained away, leaving an empty husk.

He heard the man’s fellows close around him. He was pinned beneath the weight of the dead man. His sword was stuck, buried in his foe to the hilt, his revolver empty. His options were few.

He struggled to reach a weapon or push the corpse off him. He wasn't done, dammit. He had more fight in him. More to do. More to give.

Then the world exploded.

* * *

Debris from the walls of the temple hurtled through the air, peppering the alien horror like the blast of a shotgun. The dull whumph of the fireball behind it engulfed the thing, and it gave an unholy shriek as the flames spread across its form. It writhed in agony, lashing out in all directions. A section of fortress wall was smashed to rubble. A tentacle wrapped around a small tower and constricted, tearing it from its foundations. A pseudopod slammed down on the engraved runic circle, crushing half a dozen cultists into a bloody pulp.

A massive, burning tentacle lashed out, swiping at the Phoenix.

The blow struck the canvas bag above the ship and spun the vessel like a child’s toy. The deck pitched as the Phoenix listed hard to starboard. MacGregor slid toward the side, dropping to the deck and bracing against the rail. Hawkins, up in the crow’s nest, plummeted to the courtyard. Hope stumbled toward the rail and would likely have followed but Chan, keeping her feet with a line in her left hand, caught the back of his belt with her right and jerked him to a halt.

The tentacle slithered, coiling around the ship, clinging blindly, madly as the ragged gash in the heavens slammed shut. More grasping appendages sought purchase on the vessel, clutching and rending it in mindless rage.

* * *

The tower shuddered as the shock wave slammed into it. Roderick, still staring at the blood pouring from his maimed limb, was knocked to the floor. Alyah stumbled, but kept her feet. For a moment, all was still, then the whole tower began to shift, the floor beneath her boots taking on a vertiginous tilt.

She looked to the courtyard and saw the Phoenix in the grip of some creature out of nightmare. Countless tentacles whipped out from a shapeless mass, covered in malformed eyes and screaming, rasping mouths. Shimmering in an ever-changing spectrum of colors, dripping viscous slime, and now burning as flames licked over it. It was like the beast they had fought in the tunnels but a thousand times worse.

The tear in the sky was gone, the roaring unnatural wind fading, the creature burning and dying—but its death throes would surely crush the ship and all souls upon it.

No.

She had lost enough today.

She looked around frantically, ignoring Roderick as he huddled against the parapet, clutching his bleeding stump. Her eyes fell upon the rockets the count had been setting up.

Ha! Allahu akbar! Her father had always taught her that He will provide the weapon for His faithful if they show courage.

She ran to the nearest launcher, struggling to keep her footing on the sloping floor of the tower. She had heard of these weapons and knew they were inaccurate, but the thing was huge and Allah would guide her aim. She looked over the weapon, saw the fuse and the matches set nearby.

She knelt and sighted along the rocket.

Begone, Shaitan!

She lit the fuse.

The rocket surged from the launch frame, screaming through the air. It swerved and spiraled in flight. She held her breath as she watched its path. For one horrible, sickening moment she thought it would miss, but it veered back and smashed into the center of the creature.

For a moment, nothing happened, then an explosion deep within the center of the beast blew an enormous hole in it, and the flames which had been licking over its surface bloomed into a conflagration, engulfing it.

* * *

Captain Little clung to the wheel as the ship spun, the gondola swaying drunkenly. The ship was dropping, the bags were damaged, they were losing lift. He turned the wheel to raise the elevators, trying to bring the nose up, reduce the rate of descent. He doubted he could pull out of the fall, but maybe he could soften the crash.

He looked up. The bag vented gas from a huge, jagged rent and flames licked over the surface.

“Mac!” he shouted. “Flames above!”

“Aye, Captain!” replied the engineer. He struggled to his feet on the pitching deck and made for the engine controls. He stole a look at the sky. The...thing was burning now, writhing and contracting. The piercing scream changed pitch. He remembered the battle of the Alma. A piper of the 93rd Highlanders had been shot and fell forward onto his pipes, the weight of his dying body squeezing the air from the instrument, no more intent, just the doleful dying wail, like a withered husk of promised glory.

He reached the control room and hauled on a lever, diverting steam from the engine directly into the bag. The vapor extinguished the flames and helped expand the ruptured bag, slowing the descent.

* * *

“Ha ha! Shabash!” shouted Alyah. “Back to the pit with you!”

Her triumph was cut short as the floor tilted beneath her dramatically, the tower shifting under her feet with a grinding of stone. The mortar joining the ancient stones started to give way and they began to slip and slither from their places like the early stages of an avalanche. The tower broke at an angle, the top third of it sliding off its base.

Alyah felt her stomach drop as the top section slipped free and dropped straight down. It struck the cobbles of the courtyard like a driven pile. She felt the impact shudder through her body, her jaw cracking shut painfully. After a second where it balanced on its new base, it toppled over with a stately grace.

Alyah felt the tower leaning further over as it fell. She rushed to the parapet, bracing one boot against it and one on the floor, watching the ground approach as she rode the tower down, judging her moment as the speed of its fall increased.

A heartbeat before the tower’s battlements smashed onto the courtyard, she sprang off, leaping as far from the wreck as she could, tucking her body and rolling as she hit the ground. She winced at the jarring impact on her shoulder and hip, but kept her head protected from the worst of the battering. As she rolled to a stop, the dust cloud from the wreckage engulfed her.

* * *

The blast knocked Emelia to the ground. She rolled as she landed, tumbled across the cobbled courtyard like a leaf on the wind. She put her arms up to protect her head, taking bumps and buffets to her elbows and knees. She felt her ankle bend the wrong way, sending a burning lance of agony running up her leg.

When she finally slid to a halt, she stared up at the sky for a long moment. The deafening roar was fading. The familiar blue of the sky bleeding back as the swirling, glittering kaleidoscope of terrible beauty faded. She propped herself up on one hand and looked to where the creature had been.

It was a shapeless mass, blazing and collapsing like a Chinese lantern whose flame has touched the paper. It sank to the ground, dissolving as flames of impossible hues consumed it. A keening wail lingered before trailing off to silence.

She pushed herself up onto her knees and surveyed the courtyard. It was littered with wreckage, both human and otherwise. Burning bits of wood and unnatural slime lay among the fallen. Bodies sprawled everywhere. Some deadly still, some writhing and moaning. A few knelt or sat upright, sobbing, muttering. One cackled madly, rocking back and forth, hugging his knees. It seemed as if the minds of the cultists snapped with the destruction of their god.

Her ears rang, the world around her nothing more than muffled sound. Her head felt fuzzy, her thoughts slow and ponderous, her emotions felt all flattened out, muted. It was like that moment after a funeral, when the tears have stopped and the sharp pain that at least lets you know you can still feel has washed away—but the void still yawns, aching and empty.

She saw the prophet.

He was on his knees. His hands hung limp by his sides. He stared at the space where the thing had been, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. The book lay open on the ground before him, next to the limp body of the young girl.

Emelia reached beneath her skirt and drew her revolver. She climbed to her feet, took a step toward him, and winced as her weight came down on her bad ankle.

Emelia welcomed the pain. She clung to it. The one thing that felt sharp and clear and real. The one thing that was a blazing red in a world gone grey. She took a deep breath and limped to where the prophet knelt, hissing through clenched teeth with every step.

As she reached the man, she realized he was speaking, just too quietly for her tortured ears to detect. He looked up at her approach. His face was slack with shock.

“The Void,” he murmured. “Today I was to become one with the Void.”

Emelia saw the emptiness in his eyes, the wide abyss of loss. An entire world view crumbling as the bedrock of conviction washed away. She felt her resolve waiver. Then her eyes fell on the tiny corpse before him, the spreading pool of blood staining the sacred book.

“Well, sure if it isn’t your lucky day, then,” she said, pointing the Adams at the center of his forehead and pulling the trigger.

* * *

Captain Little winced as the Phoenix crashed into the courtyard. The impact threw him against the wheel, but he was able to keep his feet. While the grating crunch of the hull’s timbers cracking was like a clawed hand dragged down the length of his very soul, it wasn’t the explosive collision he had feared. He had half expected the ship to be smashed into matchsticks. Instead, it skidded to a grinding halt.

For a moment, all was still. The thrum of the engines trailed off and stopped. Captain Little heard nothing except the creak of rigging.

Then he heard groans. Looking around, he saw some of his crew. Lt. Jackson crawled from under a pile of debris on the deck. Chan sat on the deck, cradling her arm as Hope helped her tie a sling. He reached for the speaking tube.

“Mac,” he croaked into it. No answer.

“Mac!”

“Here, sir,” came the tinny reply.

“Status report.”

“The engines seem sound. I shut ’em down until we can be sure they won’t set the rest of the ship on fire. And the steam tank is empty. This chamber’s intact, but the hull sounded bad.”

Little switched the speaking tube to the infirmary “Doctor Morse.”

“Captain.”

“You all right down there.”

“I’m alive and so’s Jensen. The place is a shambles.”

Captain Little nodded. The whole ship was a shambles. That would have to wait.

“Lieutenant Jackson!”

“Sir!”

“You all right?”

“Yes, sir.” The man took a step, but his leg collapsed beneath him. “Think I may have broken my ankle, sir.”

“Call the role, Lieutenant,” he said. “Make sure we’re all alive.”

“Hawkins went over the side, sir,” said Hope.

The captain shook his head and swore beneath his breath. “All right. Let’s see who’s hurt, then distribute arms. We go find him.”

“I don’t think he could have survived, sir.”

“I didn’t ask what you thought,” snapped Captain Little. “I said we’re going to go find him. And any of our people down there.”

* * *

The crash of the tower shook Emelia as she stared down at the prophet’s corpse. She stumbled, pain shooting up her bad ankle. She turned to see the ruined, tumbled stones surrounded by a plume of dust.

A shadow loomed up through the swirling cloud, lurching forward, wheezing and coughing. She raised her revolver, taking aim at this new horror.

She hesitated a moment, her finger on the trigger. There was something familiar about the stumbling shape. A harsh croak emanated from it.

“I’d sooner you didn’t,” came the hoarse gasp of Alyah’s voice. “I have been shot at enough for one day.”

Emelia stared for a moment before recognizing the woman. She was covered in a layer of dust, her lustrous black hair, normally tied back neatly, was now a loose, tangled nest of grey, her magnificent blue and gold Hussar jacket torn and trailing strips, the color unrecognizable. She still retained her sabre.

“You’re here? And alive?” said Emelia, her shoulders slumping in relief. “Thank God.”

Alyah looked at the death and destruction around them. “As He works His mysterious ways.” She coughed for a long moment and spat a dark glob onto the ground. “I think I have swallowed half of a tower.”

“With practice, it gets easier,” said Emelia, without thinking. In the stress and horror of the moment, that felt like the funniest thing she had ever heard. Her shoulders shook and she broke into a jagged, hysterical laughter.

Alyah gaped at the other woman for a moment, then the mad laughter took hold of her as well.

“Just close your eyes and think of England,” gasped Emelia. She fell forward, leaning on Alyah. Both women swayed helplessly as the strain of the day, of the death and madness and alien horror burst through the dam of control and rationality. It was not the laughter of the music halls, but of Bedlam. The laughter of those who have seen the true nature of existence, the mad, uncaring entropic absurdity of the universe, the futility of trying to find order or purpose in it, and the realization had to pour out either as howls of laughter or as broken, wracking sobs.

The laughter trailed off, leaving them both swaying, raw throated and heaving, clinging to one another, grateful for any support, any rock of sanity and human touch as an anchor in the maelstrom of insanity.

“I couldn’t save her,” said Emelia, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Alyah didn’t know who she was talking about. She was sure there were many people they hadn’t managed to save on this dreadful day. It didn’t really matter who it had been. She held the actress tightly and whispered. “You saved the world.”

Emelia shook her head. “I promised I would save her. She believed in me. And they cut her throat.”

“And they would have cut many more,” replied Alyah. “But for you.”

“Thank you,” said Emelia, squeezing the warrior. “I owe you all so much. The world owes you. You and Mr. MacGregor and Captain Little and Mr. Connolly.” She paused, pulled away and looked around. “Where is Mr. Connolly” she asked, dreading the answer.

Alyah looked round dazedly. Gestured vaguely at the ruins of the temple. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

“I’m so sorry,” said Emelia.

“He stayed to hold off the enemy while I signaled the Phoenix,” she said. “Like a hero of the old tales.”

“Like Cu Chulainn at the ford,” whispered Emelia.

Alyah just nodded. If Connolly had been here, she’d have made some cutting remark about the myths of those ancient European barbarians, but it died on her lips. That was the humor she had shared only with him, and making such jokes to someone else seemed like being unfaithful.

“Did you see the ship?” asked Alyah.

“I saw it before the explosion and that...thing.”

They looked around as the dust cleared. The white of the bag, now stained and only half inflated, caught Alyah’s eye.

“There,” she said pointing. “Across the courtyard.”

They began a stumbling walk toward it. Emelia limping, leaning on Alyah for support. As they approached the grounded Phoenix, they made out several figures.

“Ahoy!” shouted MacGregor. He halted, cradling his breechloader. Behind him were a handful of crew, all armed with captured rifles or pistols and cutlasses.

“Are you all right?”

“I think so,” said Emelia. Alyah didn’t bother to answer.

They walked toward MacGregor, who led them back to the wreck of the Phoenix.

“Are you hurt?” asked Chan, concern in her eyes despite her own arm in a sling.

“I hurt my ankle,” said Emelia, her voice flat. “Alyah fell off a tower.”

“With a tower,” Ayah corrected. “I fell with a tower. And made a spectacular dismount.”

“Is your arm alright?” Emelia asked Chan.

“It’s painful, but it should heal.”

“What happened?”

“She saved me from falling over the side,” said Hope.

“Had I known how heavy you were, I might not have,” replied the woman with a grin.

“Connolly’s not with you?” asked MacGregor.

Alyah shook her head. “He was holding the front door against enemy reinforcements. I heard his firing while I was trying to signal you.”

“We can check the front gates,” said the engineer. “See if there’s still a way in. Maybe we can find him.”

Alyah just nodded.

“Anyone else alive?” he asked.

“Not that I know of,” said Alyah. “On our side at least. The villagers and the prisoners we freed all made it out. Except for a few who died fighting that abomination. Some of the enemy must have survived, but the heart has gone out of them.”

“It’s as though they were animated by their devotion to that bloated...thing, and without the malice it spewed, all sense of purpose has deserted them.” said Emelia.

“We’ll make for the village and take stock,” said MacGregor.

They reached the Phoenix. Captain Little was staring at the ship. Beside him, something was wrapped in a bloodstained blanket.

Emelia looked at the assembled crew, looked at the faces, matching them to the names in her memory.

“Hawkins?”

Captain Little nodded. “Thrown over the side when that thing struck my ship.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. There was nothing else to say. There should have been. Maybe if she had anything left, there would have been.

“I wrecked my ship,” said the captain. His tone was without heat. Almost conversational.

“You saved the most important part.”

He turned to look at her. She nodded toward the surviving crew.

He sighed. Nodded. “My thanks, Miss DuMond.”

“There’s plenty we can salvage, Captain,” said MacGregor. “She can rise from the ashes again.”

The captain clapped him on the shoulder. “Maybe, Mac. Maybe. Have to get everyone out safe first.”

“Can we fly the ship?” asked Emelia. “I mean, can it be repaired well enough to get us out of here?”

“Not in this state,” said MacGregor. “Maybe we can get her airworthy with some time and materials. But not quickly.”

“Can’t stay here,” said Captain Little. “We have injured people, and there are too many of those madmen around.”

“Long walk back to anywhere,” commented MacGregor.

“They had horses,” said Alyah. “Near the front gate. We passed cavalry on our way here. They would have made for the gate when the shooting started. I heard Khan Ali fighting them.”

“Well, then, we best go get some horses,” said the captain. “Mac, take a few able-bodied crewmen. Hope and Sabatini should be enough. Scout the gate. See if you can find Connolly or any horses.”

“Aye, sir.”

“I will come,” said Alyah.

“I shall feel safer for it,” said MacGregor.

The small party clambered over a shattered wall and made their way to the great gates. As they approached, Alyah paused and scanned the scene. The steps were littered with the bodies of cultists. The stone above the massive gates had crumbled and collapsed, blocking the passage and covering part of the steps.

“Looks like he got a lot of them,” said MacGregor. His expression was flat, but Alyah heard the hard edge in his voice.

Alyah looked down at the edge of the woods below the gate. Sure enough, there were horses moving among the trees.

“Those are going to be a job and a half to catch,” muttered Hope.

“I was raised in the saddle,” said Alyah. “I am only concerned that they may have left men to guard them.” She set off toward the trees. “Wait here and be ready. Do not frighten the horses.”

The cultists had left horse holders, as cavalry commonly did when fighting dismounted, but they all acted stricken, like the cultists in the courtyard. Staring blindly, wandering in circles. One was prostrate, beating his head on the ground. She thought the kindest thing might be to shoot them, but then she decided she had no desire to show them kindness.      The horses were not touched by the madness, and she had no difficulty in leading them out.

They returned to the Phoenix to find the captain already organizing the remaining crew. Dr. Morse moved among the injured, taking stock.

“So you found some horses?” asked the captain. “Good.”

“These are not the first horses I have stolen,” said Alyah.

“Good thing we have an expert,” replied Captain Little.

“And Mr. Connolly?” asked Emelia.

“Buried by the collapse of the gates,” said MacGregor.

“Shouldn’t we try to find him?” asked Emelia. Guilt twisted a knife in her belly. So much had been lost this day. So much sacrificed for this victory.

“Can’t move those stones,” said MacGregor. “Not with anything we have here. And blasting them out would just cause a bigger collapse.”

“We cannot risk the crew for an extended search,” said Alyah. “There are more of those cultists around and sooner or later some of them will shake this off and be out for revenge.”

“They seem to have lost heart when we killed their god,” said Chan.

“The Romans did that to the Christians, but that didn’t keep them down long,” said Alyah.

“They surrendered everything of themselves to the cult,” said Emelia. “Their humanity. Their minds. Their very souls. They became empty vessels filled with hatred for everything on this plane. When the connection was severed, that purpose deserted them. Left them empty husks. All they feel now is the ache of abandonment.”

“For how long?” asked MacGregor. “And will they take out that disappointment on us?’

“The prophet is dead, but if Count Roderick isn’t, he might be getting things organized,” said Emelia. “Or maybe not. He’s a mercenary, not a cultist, so he might just leave, but he has an odd sense of duty.”

“He is dead,” said Alyah. “I killed him. Well, I cut his hand off and then a tower fell in on him, so he is dead. Probably dead.”

“But you never actually saw the body?” asked Emelia. She felt another, illogical pang of loss. He had been an enemy, but so full of life. Such a huge presence. He had seemed immortal. The world was a less exciting place without him. Even if it was a bit safer.

“I do not need to see the body. He was on that tower before it was a pile of rubble. He is dead.”

“You survived,” said the captain.

She shrugged. “I am very, very good.”

“Get everyone mounted,” ordered the captain. “See if you can’t make a litter for Hawkins.”

“Wait a moment,” said Emelia. She limped back to where Amira’s body lay.

It wasn’t fair. Amira hadn’t deserved this. Well, none of the villagers had, but she felt the girl’s death the most. Amira had been innocent. Again, that didn’t make her unique. Here or anywhere in the world, but it should matter for something. And more than that, she had been brave, and she had done everything she could, and it still hadn’t been enough. And her last words to Emelia hadn’t been a plea to save her, but to save her mother. She saved her care for someone else, even at the end.

It just wasn’t right. Maybe they had saved the world, but what was the point in saving a world that would allow this?

“I couldn’t save her, but I won’t leave her to the crows. We can bring her back to the village. At least her family can bury her.” She gently lifted the small corpse and held it over her shoulder.

“Least we can do,” said the captain.

“What about the book?” asked MacGregor.

“Throw it in the fire,” said Emelia. “It’s done enough damage.”

“But you said there were experts who needed to study it?” said Alyah.

Emelia was silent for a moment, looking at the tiny corpse in her arms. “Fuck the experts.”

Nobody felt the need to reply to that.

Alyah bent and picked up the book. It was open, and blood stained its pages. For a simple thing of ink and paper, it made her flesh crawl. She found herself holding it with just the tips of her fingers, out at arm’s length, like one might hold a captured scorpion. She walked over to where a cart burned, ignited by the blast from the magazine, and tossed the book into the fire. She felt a pressure in her chest ease as the pages curled and blackened; dark, acrid smoke poured from the ancient parchment as the flames consumed it.

“This is my fault,” said Emelia. “This failure falls on me.”

“We saved the world,” said MacGregor. “Or didn’t you notice the unspeakable abomination that isn’t devouring it all right now?”

“I failed. It was the crew of the Phoenix and you and Alyah and Connolly who destroyed that thing.”

“You hired us. Led us here. Believed in a band of misfits and outcasts and renegades that no respectable person would have trusted to sweep the floors. And inspired us to succeed. Without you, this victory would not have been possible.”

Emelia looked out at the rubble of the ruined temple. “This doesn’t feel like a victory.”

“On the contrary,” said MacGregor. He took a flask from the pocket of his waistcoat, took a sip and passed it to the actress. “It feels like every victory I’ve known. The rush of fear passes, leaves you empty. Numb. Companions gone forever, others hurt, maybe never to recover. All you can feel is regret for what you couldn’t do, what you wish you could go back and do differently. And a relief that you’ve survived. But then you feel worse for being grateful to be alive and whole when so many aren’t. You have to take solace in the fact that we ended a great evil here today. Saved a lot of other people from what they would have unleashed.”

“Then victory is a terrible feeling,” said Emelia, taking a drink and passing the flask to Alyah.

“Second worst feeling in the world,” said Alyah, taking the flask. “Next to defeat.”

About the Author

PATRICK LECLERC MAKES GOOD USE of his history degree by working as a paramedic for an ever changing parade of ambulance companies in the Northern suburbs of Boston. When not writing he enjoys cooking, fencing, and making witty, insightful remarks with career limiting candor. In the lulls between runs on the ambulance—and sometimes the lulls between employment at various ambulance companies—he writes fiction. You can find more of it at http://inkandbourbon.com/