Deep Roots Read online

  At that, Emerald blew a raspberry.

  Rivka strode down the hall, her chin held high, gremlin purring contentment on her shoulder.

  Final Flight

  I stood at the rudder wheel of my airship Argus, in command of a ship I did not truly control. We flew north, destination unknown. A soldier stood several feet behind me. His pistols remained holstered—­he wasn’t daft enough or desperate enough to fire a weapon in the control cabin of an operating airship—­but he had already proven adept with his fists. My co-­pilot, Ramsay, was currently getting patched up, as the sarcastic commentary he had offered was not kindly received.

  Throughout the cabin, tension prickled beneath the surface like an invisible rash we couldn’t scratch. Everyone stood or sat rigid at their posts, gazes flickering between their gauges, the windows, and the soldiers in our midst. These were soldiers of our own kingdom of Caskentia, in green uniforms as vibrant as the sprawling valley below. They had occupied the Argus since that morning.

  This was the second time in as many weeks that my airship had been commandeered. The previous time, rebellious settlers from the Waste had claimed it by force. I rather preferred them. Wasters made for an easy enemy after fifty years of intermittent warfare. This occupation by our own government was ugly in a different way.

  My fists gripped the wheel as if I could leave impressions in the slick copper. The futility of our situation infuriated me. I couldn’t stop the Wasters before. And now I couldn’t stop this, whatever this mysterious errand was.

  My son, Sheridan, was on board somewhere. I needed him to be safe, not snared in any more political drama. The Wasters had used him as a hostage to force my hand; I didn’t want these soldiers to do the same.

  “Captain Hue, sir.” My co-­pilot saluted as he entered the control cabin. I assessed him in a glance. Bandages plugged his swollen nose. Blood still thickened his thin brown moustache.

  “You are well enough to resume your duties?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve felt worse after a night of leave.”

  Ramsay knew his job; if only he could control his fool lips. I stepped back to grant him control of the rudder and leaned by his ear. “Corrado said this would be over in days. Bear through.”

  I saw my own frustration mirrored in his eyes, and in the other crew as I walked from station to station. I muttered what assurance I could and exited the control cabin. I needed to find my boy.

  I limped down the hallway, my stiff knees like smoldering coals of pain. An engineer fresh from the outdoor engine car saluted as she passed by. The stench of enchanted aether-­helium clung to her like a cloud and made me woozy for all of a breath.

  I started upstairs. Agony compounded with every step. I gritted my teeth. I glanced up at the sound of distinctly heavy boots coming downstairs. Another Caskentian soldier in a green greatcoat and jodhpurs marched toward me. Behind him came Julius Corrado, a man who was no gentleman and deserved no respectful designation.

  I’d known Corrado years ago as a smarmy airship port warden, the kind who demanded extra bribes and acted like he’d done me a grand favor. He had aged as well as an apple left out in summer sun—­his face and jowls wrinkled and lumpy—­though the fine threads of his dapper pinstriped suit would have made him presentable to Queen Evandia herself.

  This morning he’d flashed a Clockwork Dagger’s pin as he requisitioned my ship in the Queen’s very name. An urgent mission, he said. My Argus was perfect, he said.

  Perfect because we were almost fully staffed and in better condition than most of the ships currently on moorage. I took pride in my old gal. We had spent the past few days replacing blood-­soaked carpet and repairing other damage from the Waster skirmish so that we could resume our usual passenger route.

  Corrado gave me one of his insipid smiles. “Off duty, Cuthbert?”

  My fists balled at my sides. As a younger man, fancying myself a pugilist, I might have been fool enough to take the punch, but I now had to think of my Sheridan, and two dozen crew besides.

  “Off duty as much as a captain ever is.”

  “I’m on the way to join my man in the control cabin, just to keep an eye on things. Have you seen Mrs. Starling about?”

  “No.” Damned if I cared. I needed to find my lad. He was most likely in the promenade, and failing that, up in the gas bag access where he liked to read.

  “I’m sure she’ll turn up soon. She’s always up to something.” With a tip of his black trilby, he continued downstairs. I grimaced as I headed upward. The Wasters had pummeled me when I resisted their takeover of the Argus; my legs had taken the worst of it. Now I moved like an old man. I felt like an old man for the first time, despite years of white hair and wrinkles.

  Most of the lights in the promenade were shut off, though sun shone through the long row of port-­side windows. The view beyond showed the greenery of Caskentia. Set dining tables wore white tablecloths as if to masquerade as squat ghosts.

  I heard Sheridan’s voice, still high as a girl’s, and stopped in the doorway.

  “Yes, m’lady, I’ve officially been yeoman electrician on board for years, but I work where I’m needed.”

  “Well, you’ve done a fine job on this automaton band. These figures are far older than you, but they’re in fine condition.”

  It took me a moment to find the speaker, as Mrs. Starling wore a black mourning gown from nape to ankle and stood in a shadow between windows. In that attire, she’d blend in anywhere in Caskentia. Widows and mourning mothers were legion.

  “Thank you, m’lady,” said Sheridan.

  “Are you reading these books now?” I heard the flutter of pages. My sense of alarm blared like klaxons. I knew nothing about this woman but her name and that she traveled with Corrado. I assumed no innocence on her part.

  “I’ve read them before, m’lady. They’re favorites of mine.” My Sheridan, never without books. When he first came aboard at age nine, I berated him for reading on duty. I did not hold with nepotism.

  “It’s rare to find a boy your age who can read, much less one who favors Dhalgren’s poetry or histories of Caskentia.”

  “I credit my mother, m’lady. She was fond of books.”

  “Such a tragedy to lose your mother at such a tender age. You were what, nine, when she succumbed to pox?”

  He hesitated, and my own breath caught in surprise. How had she known that? My crew wouldn’t have gossiped about such an intimate detail.

  “Yes, m’lady,” Sheridan said slowly.

  Just weeks before, I read in the paper of Caskentia burning whole villages to contain the spread of pox. Ill and healthy, immolated together. It was a firebreak strategy, a damn fool one. By Caskentia’s “death village” logic, Sheridan should be dead, too, even though he never contracted the dreadful illness from his mother.

  Caskentia. Logic. Those words shouldn’t be used in the same sentence.

  It’d shock my crew if I said such things aloud. I displayed absolute loyalty to Caskentia, but I was no fool. I did whatever was necessary to manage my business—­my ship—­and take care of Sheridan. I paid bribes to officials at every moorage. I simpered and groveled, and in the privacy of my berth, washed away the foul taint with a tawny port.

  Maybe that’s why this requisition of my gal Argus was especially aggravating. All my posturing had been for nothing.

  “Mothers are often our best teachers, though your father’s role in recent years is not to be ignored. You’ve raised an intelligent son, Captain Hue.” She still faced away from me. Had I been so loud in my approach?

  Sheridan scrambled to his feet and saluted me. “Sir!” He wore a crimson crew uniform over his lanky form. A scab still stood bold across his neck. I refused to let my mind linger on the memory of a Waster holding a blade to my boy’s throat.

  I acknowledged Mrs. Starling with a curt nod, which she r
eturned. She had to be near my own age, her hair threaded in silver.

  “He’s a bright boy and an asset to my crew,” I said. I stood the same distance from her as I would from a snake. “Corrado wondered about your whereabouts, Mrs. Starling.”

  Her tight smile acknowledged my lack of subtlety in getting rid of her. “I suppose he needs my help, as usual. I should get down to the control cabin. Captain.” She swept by me. I waited until the doors swung shut before I turned to Sheridan. He straightened his books then hurriedly stooped to reassemble the bellows mechanism for the trumpet automaton.

  “How long had she been here?”

  “A few minutes, sir. She surprised me.” He didn’t look impressed by that; he looked unnerved. Good. He needed that fear.

  “I don’t know who that woman is. I don’t know what she is, but she’s with Corrado. You know what happened the last time we had Clockwork Daggers aboard.”

  Sheridan nodded. The Queen’s spies were either covert heroes of the realm or chief arbiters of Caskentian corruption, depending on who was doing the talking. My opinion was not favorable in light of recent events. The Wasters’ takeover of the Argus had been complicated by an on-­board rivalry between Clockwork Daggers as they argued over the fate of a meddlesome medician, one Octavia Leander.

  All of which resulted in that damned Waster holding a blade to Sheridan’s throat as they commandeered my ship.

  “Did Mrs. Starling hint at our destination?”

  “No, sir. By the way, they had us load two large wardrobe boxes when they came aboard, but their personal bags were quite light. A soldier stays near their berths, too.”

  Good lad. I offered an approving nod. Queen Evandia had her Daggers as spies; I had my Sheridan. “You had best get that automaton together. You’re on shift soon, Mr. Hue.”

  “Aye, Captain Hue.” He had never called me “father” or any such synonym. He’d been a chubby toddler screaming, “Captain! Captain!” after me when I would leave him and his mother at the dock.

  My gaze traced that nick on his throat as I turned away.

  I stopped in the hallway at the juncture of the downward stairs and the corridors to berthing. A large cage against the wall abounded with the twitters and metallic clicks of dozens of mechanical birds; they were another of Sheridan’s projects, and a source of great joy for our commercial passengers.

  Away from prying eyes, I allowed my body to sag as I leaned on the wall.

  “We’ll be back on our boring route soon, old gal,” I murmured to the Argus, giving the panels a pat.

  Up until the Waster attack, I thought the Argus was the safest place for Sheridan. Now? I didn’t know. The fight between Caskentia and the Waste had continued in fits and starts for decades—­recent events on the Argus were proof of that—­and certainly the full war would resume by spring.

  Another year, and Sheridan would be of age for army conscription; I’d already saved up funds for the hefty bribes to keep him off the rosters.

  And now Mrs. Starling inquired after him. I dared not assume she made pleasant maternal chitchat to pass the time. No.

  Gravity helped my stiff legs down the stairs and toward the control cabin. I didn’t know how to do it, but I needed Corrado, Starling, and their ilk off of my Argus as soon as possible.

  No good could come of having a Clockwork Dagger aboard my ship.

  The night passed, then another day. We continued along the same heading north through Caskentia. Marshes and farmland patched the valley below, the ocean out of sight to the west. At starboard, the high wall of the Pinnacles grew bolder and bleaker with snow. Beyond that fearsome natural border sprawled the desolate plains of the Waste. Hell, if ever there was one.

  The next morning, with me at the rudder, Corrado directed us toward a specific location. We were on the far eastern edge of the North Country, a stretch of rolling plains and isolated farms. Not a place to expect a mooring mast, but by God, there was one. It stood like a steel lighthouse. At its feet lay a black slate of rubble freckled with soldiers in Caskentian green.

  I stared down through the wide cabin windows. This looked like a pox-­ridden death village. The yonder green hills added a splash of color to what otherwise resembled the desolate black print photograph that had accompanied the newspaper story weeks before.

  Soldiers assisted as we moored the Argus to the top of the mast.

  Corrado motioned to me. “Your crew is to stay aboard with the exception of your three aether magi. They’ll leave the ship now. Our soldiers are rounding them up.”

  Jaws dropped across the cabin.

  “The hell they are.” Spittle sprayed from my lips. “Do you know what you’re doing? Aether magi are more accurate than any dial in monitoring our helium and aether mix, and if we’re forced to go down, their ability to float obj—­”

  “I’m well aware of what aether magi do, but they are disembarking nevertheless. If any of them attempt to hide on board, we’ll know.” His voice brooked no argument. “You conducted thorough maintenance in the past week. Your airship can fly perfectly well without them.”

  Leaving our aether magi behind was like heading for a mountain hike on a winter day without a good coat. The weather might look fine for now, sure, but it was a damned fool risk to take.

  “We can’t tarry. We need the magi away while we’re still upwind,” murmured Mrs. Starling from where she stood in the navigation portion of the cabin.

  Corrado nodded. “The magi will be driven to Vorana, where your ship can meet them once our errand is done.”

  “How far will we need to fly without them?” I asked between clenched teeth. On the ground directly below the control cabin, soldiers escorted my three magi into the village.

  “As far as needed,” snapped Corrado. A soldier stood wary at his side.

  Mrs. Starling whispered something to another of their men, who immediately left.

  “These are my crew,” I said. “If you’re idiotic enough to send them away, grant me a chance to give them a proper farewell.”

  My co-­pilot shot me a look of warning. His swollen face acted as testament to what would happen if I was too lippy.

  Mrs. Starling thoughtfully hummed. “Yes, Captain. Say your farewells.” She looked at the rest of the crew. “We will disembark for mere minutes. Your captain will be with us. Lest you get any ideas about an early departure, I want you to note the anti-­airship gunnery below.” She punctuated that with a prim smile.

  I looked between her and Corrado. Who was really in charge here?

  Stairs curled down the mooring mast. No smoke rose from the ruins, though the strong stench of ashes told me it was razed recently. I counted at least two dozen troops below, and full crews on the gunnery. Why in bloody hell was the Caskentian army guarding this place? What were we doing here?

  My magi awaited near a wagon, their hastily packed belongings stuffed in the back. A soldier from my ship watched over them.

  “Captain!” cried a magus. They gathered around me.

  “Sir!”

  “What the hell—­”

  I raised a hand. “You know I’d never force you off the ship, had I my druthers. I’m not that stupid.”

  I met their bewildered and angered gazes. “I can’t blame you if you take on other jobs in Vorana, but here.” I reached into my pocket and offered gilly coins to each of them. “If you still want on with us, I’ll look for you at the Hotel Nennia. Damned if I know when we’ll get there, though.”

  “Where’s the boy?” called Mrs. Starling as she came up behind me.

  “I couldn’t find him,” said one of the soldiers who’d been aboard the Argus.

  “Boy?” I snapped, whirling around. “You can’t mean—­”

  She scowled and made an abrupt motion to another soldier. “Go aboard. Hurry. There’s a thirteen-­year-­old boy—­”


  I stepped forward, fists clenching.

  Mrs. Starling faced me, expression cool. “Your son is bright and his potential shouldn’t be stymied. He’ll depart with the magi. I have a great opportunity in mind for him.”

  “He’s my son, you—­”

  Corrado blocked me with his body. We stood eye to eye. “It’s for the best, Cuthbert. This mission we’re undertaking . . . it has risks.”

  My mouth opened and closed. I wanted my son with me. I wouldn’t trust Corrado and Starling with so much as a piece of pie. “Why? What’s this opportunity for him? Where are we going?”

  “I’ll answer the latter as soon as we leave.”

  The soldiers’ boots drummed up the metal staircase of the mooring mast. The Argus hovered at the top, the long silver underbelly of her gondola exposed and vulnerable. I rubbed my jaw. No aether magi aboard. No idea if there were mooring masts at our destination; airships didn’t land on the ground, they crashed. No clue what they planned to do with Sheridan. No way to fight back unless I intended suicide.

  “For Caskentia’s sake, we must hurry.” Mrs. Starling bustled toward the center of the village, motioning us forward; I hung back, an eye on the mast.

  She advanced to an area thick with building debris. It wasn’t until I was up close that I recognized it contained a macabre basket weave of charred bodies. Hundreds of ­people, surely. The way the blackened skeletons stacked at the crumbled outer walls . . . good God. Had they been alive when the fire was set, and clambered to escape? I’d seen the aftermath of firebombings in the war, but never bodies concentrated, tangled, like this.

  Scorched bones and rubble snapped under Mrs. Starling’s feet as she plowed forward, ash puffing in the air as if she stomped through spilled flour. With one hand, she hitched her skirt to knee level as she paced in a small circle, grimacing.

  “Oh, bother,” she said, sighing. “I can sense it, but where . . . Ah, here we are.” She brushed debris aside to pick up an iridescent white brick.

  “The box held up well,” said Corrado.