Relics, Wrecks and Ruins

Relict: (noun) A widow; a thing remaining from the past. ^{By Alison Goodman}

Five Miles Outside London, 1817

I drew my gig up to the gate of the Royal Celestial Port, my horse shifting at the squawk of the communication box set into the wall of the guardhouse. The very young RCP soldier eyed me through the glass then bent to his transmittere.

“Name, please? Who are you here to see?” The words were barely audible through the battered box.

I gathered the reins in my hands and leaned closer. “Lady Grayle to see Lady Carnford.”

It had been two years since my sister-in-law, Isabel, had last contacted me. Now this abrupt summons to Grayle Celestial Transport company headquarters. It could only mean one thing: my husband was dead. Or at least dying.

“Weapons, please,” the box crackled. A drawer slid open with a tinny clank. “They will be returned upon exit.”

Would I, in fact, be exiting? There was every possibility that I was walking into a trap. I pulled the blaster from my velvet reticule and unclipped the three micro flash grenades from the gold chatelaine pinned to the bodice of my pelisse. When I had dressed this morning, I considered wearing a gown for the sake of occasion and Isabel’s sense of propriety, but sense prevailed. I could not run or fight in long skirts and I had a feeling that both activities were in my immediate future. So, a compromise: my ankle-length, blue, silk pelisse over moleskin breeches, hussar boots, fingerless lace gloves, and a sleek, velvet mameluke cap. If it came to it, a good ensemble to die in.

I could, of course, just turn the horses around and go. But where? If Charles was dead, there was no safe place on Earth.

I placed the weapons in the drawer. They were more for show than anything; the notorious Countess Knife did not need such fripperies to defend herself against footpads and highwaymen, and they were useless against my true adversaries.

Still, I did like a flash grenade.

Through the RCP gate, I could see one of the family’s freight craft upon the grid, ready to make the hop across planet. The Grayle rampant bear was emblazoned upon each of the ship’s three graceful fins, the family’s amended motto along its side: Per Dei gratiam, in terra et in aere. ‘By God’s grace, on land and in air.’

God’s grace: a typical Grayle interpretation of the Landing.

I peered through the glass at the guard. What was taking him so long? Perhaps he did not know who I was. He was young enough to have been a child when, ten years ago, the sixty plague ships from the stars crash-landed across the Earth, nine on the estate of my husband, the Earl of Grayle. The fleet was full of dead and dying Celestials from a faraway planet, pleading for help. Instead of help, however, my husband and his family had waited for all of the visitors to perish from their singular plague, then cleaned out the craft with amber and saltpeter and captured all nine without bloodshed. Voila! An instant transport monopoly in England, and one of a four-pronged oligopoly across the rather astonished and rapidly expanding world.

“Our scan indicates a further weapon. Place it in the tray, please.”

“I suspect you do not know who I am,” I said.

Another man—of higher rank and sourer expression—joined him. The new arrival bent and whispered something in his subordinate’s ear. From the chastened look on the boy’s face, he had just been roundly informed of his ignorance.

“I beg your pardon, Countess Grayle. Of course the wary knife can pass with you.”

Of course she could, since she could kill them in an instant if they tried to disarm me. I stroked my silk-clad forearm where Havarr lay sheathed under three layers of my skin. In my mind, I felt the knife’s sentience check my intent, then sigh and settle back. Nothing interesting to see or slice here.

Not yet, anyway.

Both men saw me stroke my arm and quickly crossed themselves. I had seen it so often that it usually did not register, but today it stung.

I was an abomination, a danger to all; everyone knew women did not have the strength of mind or emotional control to wield a wary knife. Especially a woman of the bon ton born only for decoration and breeding heirs, neither of which I had managed to supply in my marriage. Indeed, my husband had privately stepped away from me soon after I partnered Havarr. What man would wish to consort with a woman who was no longer the weaker sex? To be fair, Charles did not totally abandon me: he made it clear to the world that I was still under the political protection of the Grayle family name.

All name, no family.

Still, I had Havarr. Her abrupt entry into my life three years ago had been a terrible—and glorious—accident.

I had been driving my gig to neighbor’s estate and came across a man sprawled upon the road, thrown from his horse. Sir Paul Denby, one of the Wary Brotherhood. I went to his aid, fearing I was too late, but at my touch, he opened his eyes and grasped my forearm.

“Thank God,” he rasped, red spittle wetting his lips. “My knife says I’ve a minute left. It is willing. Are you?”

“Willing? To do what?”

“Partner it. Say yes or it will be untethered. It will kill everything in its path, including you.”

When the wary knives first emerged from the Celestial ships, the carnage had been horrific. Fifty knives powered by some unimaginable sorcery, flying through the air and dismembering everything in their path. Eventually, it was discovered that the knives had to be tethered to a living being to control them and, one by one, they were captured by brave men willing to risk death for such power. And so, the Wary Brotherhood was founded: thieftakers, peacekeepers, and undefeatable force, sworn to uphold the Crown.

“Yes. I’ll partner it,” I had said. What else could I do?

A second later, excruciating pain blazed along my arm and into my head, slamming all the breath from my body. That is all I remember for I woke up upon the road with Sir Paul dead beside me and a wary knife quiescent within my arm, her sentience a curled kernel of potential inside my mind.

The uproar had been both private and public. It did not seem to matter to my husband, the Church, or the Crown that I quickly controlled Havarr. That was beside the point: a woman with a wary knife was, by nature, a threat to public safety. The Prince Regent politely asked me to retire to the family estate. The Wary Brotherhood was not so polite. They banned me from their membership: a woman had no right to hold a knife or sully their righteous order. Without support from any direction—including my own family—I retired to Grayle Hall. For the past three years I had studied every theory about the Celestials, trained to fight with Havarr, and received those friends who trusted my strength of mind enough to take tea with me and my knife.

Would all that training be enough to save me now?

The older RCP soldier leaned to the transmittere. It let out a mechanical crackle and I heard, “Lady Carnford has arranged for your horse to be stabled. Please go to the main entrance.”

If my horse was to be stabled, Isabel expected the call to last more than half an hour. Or perhaps she did not expect me to leave. I felt Havarr stir along my arm, roused by the quickening of my heart.

Her question formed in my mind. Slice?

I mentally shrugged. Perhaps. Then, added: Probably.

The gate ground open, rattling across its tracks. I flicked the reins and drove through into the sound-protected roadway that led to the main buildings. The transparent walls and curved roof provided a view of the lift-off grid and the bustle of men and carts loading cargo into the ship. It did not, however, shield the unearthly caustic odor of fuel that hung over the area.

Although not generally known, the supply of the Celestial fuel around the world was all but gone. The Royal Society had been frantically working to find a combustible replacement—a way to keep our English ships in the air and perhaps one day fly to the stars—but so far nothing adequate had been found.

At the very end of the safety area stood the scout ship, the manifestation of the fuel problem. It had been an escort to the plague fleet, smaller and with weaponry, but its fuel source was even more incomprehensible. So much so, the engineers and scientists had never managed to spark any kind of life within it. And so it had been left to languish at the port, all its potential deteriorating into ruin.

I felt some empathy.

I drew up outside the front portico and waited for the RCP soldier-groom to go to my horse’s head. Above us rose Grayle Tower. I craned my head back to take in all twelve floors of the neoclassical façade. My sister-in-law waited at the top and I did not know if I would be meeting Forgiving Isabel or Vengeful Isabel. The odds were even.

To outside eyes, I knew I looked composed—it was the Grayle way—but every nerve in my body had coiled into readiness. If Charles was dying, or already dead, then his social and political protection was gone. My time had run out. Vengeful Isabel may have already called the Brotherhood. If she had, then forty-nine men and their forty-nine wary knives would be waiting for me inside, all intent on prising Havarr from my dead abomination hands.

I paused in the tower doorway, listening. The immense marble entrance hall stood empty, the butler’s desk unattended.

All quiet. Rather too quiet.

Seek the others, I ordered Havarr.

She phased out from her skin-sheath, the sudden loss of her weight within my arm a familiar jolt. Her elegant length hovered at eye level—no handle or hilt, just blade etched with its singular starburst design—then arrowed towards the back wall and disappeared through the marble. I felt her phase and solidify, phase and solidify as she swept through the building to the very edge of our energy bond—a radius of about three hundred feet——each shift like a tiny ebb and flow of power through me.

No other wary knives. No Brotherhood.

Yet I felt her unease as she resheathed into my forearm, only one layer under the skin instead of her usual three. Battle ready.

I stepped into the hall and looked up the impressive marble staircase. Shall we see what this is about? I asked. Her tense assent twanged across my mind.

Onwards, and upwards, then.

To add to the strangeness, Isabel stood at the top of the twelve flights waiting for me, impeccably dressed in a garnet silk gown and a delicate lace cap. No footmen and no butler. But then each floor had been empty of staff too. The building had been cleared.

She watched me ascend the last few steps. I expected a comment about my breeches and boots, but she only squinted in sartorial pain and gave a nod of welcome.

“Mathilda.”

I returned the nod, but before I could say anything she added, “Charles is dead. You should have given him the knife.”

Two years ago, at our last encounter, Isabel had demanded that I give Havarr to Charles to ensure his survival and the family’s fortune. A wary knife changed a person, their constitution enhanced in many ways including increased stamina and strength. But there has always been only one way to separate a wary knife from its partner: death. I suppose a good and dutiful wife would have at least considered the demand. I, with a regrettable lack of propriety, told her to piss off.

Now, she observed my silence with pursed lips. “Still the same Mathilda, I see. Come, we have business.” She turned and headed down a corridor, the walls lined with portraits of glowering Grayle forebears.

Although I had not seen Charles for nigh on three years, it still felt like I could not breathe. I pressed my hand to my chest as I followed my sister-in-law, feeling my steady heartbeat. One did not spend twelve years alongside a man without some emotion becoming attached to him, good or bad. In our case, good and then very bad.

Isabel stopped outside her private chamber. Her face—so alike her brother’s with its jutting nose and broad forehead—was composed, but bore the swollen evidence of past tears. If Charles was dead, she should be wearing mourning black. The news had not been released.

“When?” I asked softly.

“Early this morning.”

“His heart?”

She bent her head in stiff acknowledgment.

Charles had been born with the Grayle weak heart. “I’ll not make old bones,” he often said in the early years of our arranged marriage. The prophecy had upset me then, when we were still trying to like each other. Later, when I hated him, it had been a hope and a wish. Now it was a piercing regret. We had lost the chance for anything else: forgiveness, friendship, even perhaps an odd sense of family.

“I am following Charles’s last instructions,” Isabel said, voice clipped.

She opened the door and stood aside for me to enter.

The room had been redecorated since I last visited: the walls papered in the new fad for the botanical, and the old heavy mahogany furniture replaced by a deep blue, velvet chaise lounge and a secretaire in the scrolled and gilded Roman style. In pride of place near the window—and somewhat at odds with the Empire theme—stood a command chair from one of the plague ships, its smooth metal lines and attenuated shape built for the strange, elegant length of its Celestial captain.

The door to the adjoining room opened and an older man, dressed in the sober black garb of law, entered and carefully closed the door behind him. He held a number of wax-sealed packets.

“Countess Grayle, may I present Mr. Dorner,” Isabel said behind me. “Charles’s private solicitor.”

Mr. Dorner straightened his waistcoat with a quick tug upon its hem, and bowed.

“My condolences, Countess. Forgive me for rushing through the niceties, but time is of the essence and we must conclude this business before Lord Grayle’s demise is made public. His Lordship gave me instructions to be enacted upon the event of his death. As you know, his estate, including the earldom and Grayle Celestial Transport, is entailed and will pass to his cousin upon his death.”

I winced at the word entailed. The loss of the estate and title to cousin Gregory, a profligate of the first order, was my fault; I had not produced the all-important heir.

Mr. Dorner held up the packet, showing me the unbroken seal with the Grayle bear pressed into the wax. “If I may, I shall open it and read the contents to you both. It is what Lord Grayle wished.”

I nodded. So, Isabel was to be witness. To what?

Mr. Dorner broke the seal with a flick of his thumb and spread the paper. He looked up. “The document is dated yesterday, my ladies.” He began to read. “I, Charles David Paul Hallam, Earl of Grayle, do state that I am the father of the male child George Charles Paul, borne by Miss Katherine Amelia Holland, of London. I also state that, Mathilda Elizabeth Grayle signed the attached divorce settlement and that after that signature I married Miss Katherine Amelia Holland by special license and do hereby acknowledge her issue as my rightful heir.”

“There is a child?” Isabel demanded.

“Yes, my lady.” Mr. Dorner shot an anxious look in my direction. “There is a son. Born one month ago. A currently illegitimate son.” He cleared his throat and addressed me. “It was Lord Grayle’s dying wish that you sign this divorce document…” he held up another packet “…so that his marriage to Miss Holland is—or should I say will be or, more to the point, will have been…” he gave a small shrug at the awkward grammar of fraud “…legal, thus making the child heir to his estate.”

A son. I knew there had been another woman, but a son? I could not seem to make any sound.

“He has already married her?” Isabel asked, not yet following Charles’s twisted path. “But he is still married to you, Mathilda.”

Mr. Dorner’s pasty skin deepened into a flush. “The ceremony occurred yesterday, but the date has not yet been placed upon the document. It will be written in after the date of the divorce has been affixed.”

“A divorce needs to be ratified by an Act of Parliament,” Isabel said sharply. Ah, she had arrived.

“Lord Grayle has a great deal of influence,” Mr. Dorner said. “If Countess Grayle signs, it will be… will have been… ratified last week.”

Fury finally seared through my numb shock. “No!” Havarr phased out of my arm into the air beside me, twirling into a blur, her battle scream rising in my mind.

Mr. Dorner and Isabel flinched, both of them hastily backing away.

“Mathilda!”

The terror in Isabel’s voice broke through my rage. I drew deep breaths, forcing back the violence of my emotions. Havarr’s scream softened into a hum of disquiet, her battle twirl slowing into a gentle rocking in the air.

“Please, Mathilda. You must sign. For the family,” Isabel said.

“Fuck the family.”

Isabel gaped at the monstrous profanity, but rallied admirably. “Fuck you, too. You owe Charles an heir. You owe the family.”

If I signed, even the small protection provided by my widowhood would be stripped from me. So, yes, fuck the family that had thrown me to the wolves once, and was ready to do so again.

“No. We are done here.”

Mr. Dorner held up his hands. “Please, my lady. There is more.” He hastily crossed to the adjoining doorway.

Good God, he had not brought the child here, had he? I was a walking target—anyone near me could be destroyed too. Before I could voice my consternation, Mr. Dorner opened the adjoining door.

“Mr. Wainright, please join us,” he said.

A wiry man with dark skin appeared at the doorway. Thank God, no child.

The man looked to be in his fourth decade, although it was possible his unkempt state belied his age. His hair was long and tied back in an old-fashioned queue and his dress was a deplorable collection of scuffed boots, oil-stained breeches and worn olive jacket. He studied our tableau for a moment then turned his attention fully upon Havarr: a reasonable reaction to a knife rocking in the air. Even so, his face held no fear. Only keen curiosity.

Mr. Dorner ushered him further into the room, “My ladies, allow me to introduce Mr. Elster Wainright, natural philosopher.”

Mr. Wainright bowed, that keen curiosity now directed at me. “I prefer scientist. Allow me to extend my condolences, Countess.”

The name Wainright was familiar. Yes, I had come across it in my reading. “Good God, you are the freed man who discovered how plague ships maintain fresh air.”

“I am, my lady.”

A marvelous discovery, made even more remarkable since he was self-taught and had been denied membership to the Royal Society. A fellow outcast. Still… “I do not understand Mr. Wainright’s presence at a family meeting, Mr. Dorner.”

The solicitor wet his lips. “Lord Grayle understood that there is no obligation for you to sign the divorce document or indeed any perceivable incentive.” He glanced at Havarr, but did not state the obvious: nor, any way of being forced. “So, he proposed the following. On signature, ownership of the scout ship, and all within it, will pass to you, effective immediately.”

“A wreck?” I stared at him, fighting the desire to slap his plump face. Did he truly think that would prompt me to sign? All the fear I had worked so hard to quash welled up inside me. “I do not think you quite understand the level of danger that is approaching, Mr. Dorner. As soon as my husband’s death is known—and it will be soon, if it is not already discovered—I will be hunted by the Wary Brotherhood until I am dead.” I stopped. Havarr had begun to twirl beside my head again. I drew air through clenched teeth and steadied my mind until Havarr slowed. “I do not need a wreck. I need a bloody army.”

“No, no,” Mr. Wainright said. “She is far from a wreck, my lady. Three years ago, Lord Grayle set me the task to investigate the scout and the possibility of her leaving the Earth. I believe I have found a way.”

“Leave Earth?” The idea was at once full of terror and breathless hope. Could I yet survive this day? “Do you believe you have found a way or do you know, Mr. Wainright?” I demanded.

Mr. Wainright tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well, it is a working hypothesis.” He glanced at my face and added quickly, “A solid one.”

“So, you don’t know.”

“I think it is powered by one or more wary knives and I have not had access to any to test the hypothesis.”

They are here, Havarr said in my mind. She began to spin near my ear.

My pulse leaped. How many?

Two.

I crossed to the window. In the distance, two men on horseback remonstrated with the guards in the gatehouse. Both horsemen wore the extravagantly caped greatcoat and gray beaver hat that were the unofficial uniform of the Brotherhood. A scouting group, or merely the advance guard?

I saw the flash of metal as a wary knife emerged into the air beside one of the horseman then disappeared. Frenzied sprays of red crisscrossed the inside glass of the box. I closed my eyes; they did not have to kill the guards. That poor boy.

We can hold against two, Havarr said in my mind.

Perhaps. But they were only the beginning.

I swung around to face Mr. Wainright again. “Why should I trust you?” In all truth, my options were narrowing down to this man, but too much relied upon his claims.

He straightened. “All I can offer is my word, my lady, as a scientist.” He opened his hand and smiled; a rather mischievous expression that brought a startling youth to his face. “And of course this.”

We all stared at the tiny silver mechanism upon his palm, shaped like a diamond.

Isabel leaned forward. “What is it?”

His long thumb touched the top of it. And then he was no longer standing before us.

“God save us,” Isabel whispered. “He is gone.”

“I am still here, my lady.” Mr. Wainright’s voice rose from the same place he had previously stood.

“Ah, it hides you in plain sight.” I peered at the empty space. “Are you phasing like a wary knife?”

A flicker of light and then the man stood before us again, his hand still outstretched. “I do not believe so. It is a disruption of the light upon the eye, I think.”

“Can you move around with it?” Such a device would be very useful in a fight.

Mr. Wainright shook his head. “Ah, there’s the rub. The human eye is conditioned to the perception of movement and so, at present, it really only works when one is still.” He gave a small sheepish smile. “Or moving very slowly.”

So, not that useful.

They are coming, Havarr reported, her spinning increasing into a blur. They are all coming. Beyond the crossroad.

That was barely ten minutes away. Forty-nine men. Forty-nine wary knives. My time had run out. I must decide: did I sign and save an innocent child from a life ruined by bastardry, or refuse to sign and hug my hurt to me for the remainder of my life? However short that might be.

“Mr. Dorner, show me where to sign,” I said, waving the solicitor into haste. “Mr. Wainright, is there a way to the scout that is not across the lift-off grid?”

“There are tunnels underground, my lady, for transport of cargo. They will take us most of the way to the ship.”

Mr. Dorner laid out the papers upon the secretaire and dipped the quill into the ink.

“You should read it, my lady,” he said.

“In ten minutes, either I will be dead or I will no longer be on this planet, Mr. Dorner. There is no time for legal niceties.” I completed my name with my usual flourish and jabbed the pen back into the inkwell.

“Isabel, we have never been friends, but trust me now. You and Mr. Dorner must go immediately, before the Wary Brotherhood arrive. Do not head out the front gate.”

Isabel nodded. “Godspeed, Mathilda. Thank you for signing.”

Mr. Dorner hurriedly collected the papers and his hat.

He bowed. “Thank you, my lady. I hope…”

“So do I, Mr. Dorner. Goodbye.”

He followed Isabel out of the room, their footsteps along the corridor a quick tattoo of alarm.

I turned to Mr. Wainright who had retrieved his beaver hat and stood watching me. “We have ten minutes Mr. Wainright. Show me the way to the tunnels and the Scout.”

Mr. Wainright led the way down the worker’s staircase, our progress echoing in the deep stairwell. Ten years of service had left their mark upon the gray walls—scrapes, smears, gouges—and the air had a staleness, underpinned by the ever-present caustic stink. Havarr phased in and out above us, checking each floor as we descended.

“Did you know that your knife is the only one with a full starburst etched upon it?” Mr. Wainright asked, glancing up as Havarr hovered a few yards ahead then disappeared again.

“Of course.” In fact I had found illustrations of all the starburst configurations on the other knives and memorized them in the hope that it would make sense one day. “The current theory—from Mr. Bentham—is that the symbol is the name of the Celestial who held the knife.”

We rounded another landing.

“Possible, I suppose,” Mr. Wainright said. “May I ask, does the knife speak to you?”

“In a way. She understands my needs and responds to them.”

“I see. Have you ever asked her about the ships or the Celestials?”

I cast a scornful look at his back. “Naturally, but whatever information she offers is in the language of the Celestials and it does not seem in her ability to translate or in mine to understand.”

We rounded the fourth floor landing.

“I figured as much: the knives are the first logical source of information and we still do not have much knowledge about the ships at all.” Mr. Wainright looked back over his shoulder. “Forgive me for speaking plainly, my lady, but I do not think you will survive long in the ship without my knowledge of its systems. If you will allow, I would like to accompany you.”

The sheer impropriety of the suggestion took me aback. The scandal would be explosive. Still, the man had a point. Moreover, I would place odds that the universe beyond England and Earth would not give a rat’s arse about us inhabiting the same ship.

“I will allow it, Mr. Wainright.” I grasped the worn banister a little harder, steadying myself into the knowledge that I had just agreed to travel the stars with a stranger. “But first we must make it to the scout. Two of the Brotherhood are already here and the rest are on their way. They cannot risk killing me until their new knife candidate is nearby, so we can expect an attempt to disable me or render me insensible. We must aim for the same. They cannot risk untethering Havarr and we cannot risk untethering either of their knives.”

We passed the entrance-hallway level.

“You seem very calm about it,” Mr. Wainright said, his breath coming harder. Twelve flights down was a long way to run, especially if one did not have the benefit of enhanced knife stamina.

“I have always known this day would come.”

It was the truth, but it was also true I was not as calm as I appeared.

We reached the bottom of the stairwell. The air was substantially cooler underground, the walls whitewashed stone with oil lamps affixed in plain sconces.

“Where now, Mr. Wainright?”

He bent to catch his breath from the speed of our descent and pointed to an archway ahead. “That will take us out to the main cargo tunnel.”

The corridor sloped upwards and the sound of industry reached us first. Men’s voices and the grind of cartwheels upon paving. We emerged cautiously into the wide and well-lit underground thoroughfare that serviced the lift-off grid.

A cart pulled by a pony and stacked with bales rumbled past, its driver dipping his head into a quick bow at the sight of us. More carts and workers made their way along the cobbled tunnel towards a wide ramp that clearly led up to the cargo ship being loaded with supplies.

Mr. Wainright turned left, against the tide. I followed him. We kept close to the wall, our progress marked by bows and some bewilderment as the workers caught sight of Havarr flying above us.

“Do you see that ramp at the very end?” Mr. Wainright said, pointing to the dim, deserted recesses of the tunnel. “That leads up to the scout.”

Two are here, Havarr said in my mind.

Ahead, I saw a flash of metal in the air. Another wary knife.

I grabbed Mr. Wainright’s arm. “They have found us.”

We stopped beside a cart full of metal equipment and another stacked with tea chests drawn up side by side. The drivers, in mid conversation, stared at us, then at the knives hanging in the air.

“Leave!” I ordered.

A second wary knife appeared beside the first, both high in the air and slowly rotating. The drivers swung down from their seats and backed away, abandoning their carts and ponies.

Havarr squared up opposite her counterparts, her spin in time with the hard beat of my heart.

“I have an idea,” Mr. Wainright murmured. He ducked behind the equipment cart, leaving me to stand alone against the two men who emerged from a small ramp ahead. The men who had killed the gate guards.

“Countess Grayle,” one of them called, “the Brotherhood has a proposition.” They strode towards me, their greatcoats fanning out behind them. I recognized the tall, thin speaker: Sir John Pelwyn. We used to play whist together in another lifetime.

“Sir John, I know what kind of proposition the Brotherhood is offering,” I called back. “I warn you, stop now.”

The two men halted ten or so yards from me. Their knives still hovered between us.

Sir John held up his hands: a show of conciliatory palms. “Allow me to introduce my knife—Denas—and this is Mr. Seaford and his knife Fencar.” It was the polite Brotherhood greeting: introduce man and knife. Sir John had always been a stickler for the niceties. Mr. Seaford, a great deal shorter and wider than Sir John, bowed. “You must know you cannot keep the knife now,” Sir John added. “We have a way to remove Havarr from you without harm.”

Sir John had been a reasonably good card player, but he’d always had a nervous habit when he strategically lost tricks. A compression of his lips. Right now, his lips had all but disappeared.

“We all know that is not possible,” I said. “You are lying.”

He lowered his hands. I glanced across the carts. No sign of Mr. Wainright. Had he fled?

Behind me, at a safe distance, a crowd of workers had gathered to watch.

“Do you intend to attack me, two men upon one woman?” I challenged, raising my voice so that the spectators could hear. “If that is the case, you have no honor.”

I knew Sir John prided himself upon his good name. He tilted his head: a silent command to his comrade. Mr. Seaford stepped back.

Now the odds were better.

“It will only take one man, Countess,” Sir John said, “and I am sorry for it.”

His knife phased out.

Havarr screamed within my mind, Jump!

I jumped and landed a few feet forward. Sir John’s knife phased back into the air where my right heel would have been. Ah, going for the Achilles. Havarr slammed into Denas, the clang of metal spinning both knives across the cobbles.

Keep Denas busy, I ordered.

Both knives phased. I ran at Sir John. He had not yet moved: a contemptuous immobility.

Right, Havarr yelled. I lunged to my right as Denas phased into the air inches away from my legs, turned and slashed at me. Havarr phased into a block. The force sent a shiver through my mind. She hammered a series of blows upon her counterpart, driving it back.

The crowd started to yell their support. At the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Seaford shift upon his feet, no doubt eager to join the fray.

Time to attack.

Shoulder, I ordered.

Havarr phased. I saw Sir John’s eyes widen; his knife had sensed the attack. He ducked to his left. Havarr missed his body by a hairsbreadth. Denas blocked. Now was my chance.

Two steps, then all my weight upon my left leg. I whipped into a round kick. The full length of my boot sole slammed into Sir John’s jaw. The force jarred up my leg as I landed. He staggered back then toppled to the ground, the shock and my boot heel imprinted upon his face. No man expected a woman to kick him in the face. Lud, they barely knew we could run.

Denas phased out and reappeared above Sir John, hovering above his fallen partner: protection mode. The man was out cold.

Behind me the crowd cheered and whistled, their approbation amplified tenfold in the tunnel.

It was not finished yet. Mr. Seaford, gaping at the insensate Sir John, gathered his powerful frame into righteous indignation.

“I am not such a gentleman as Sir John,” he said, eyes narrowing.

“Neither am I,” a voice said.

Behind him, Mr. Wainright appeared from nowhere, swinging a thick metal rod. The crowd gasped. In reflex, Mr. Seaford spun around. The full momentum of the rod connected with his sneering face. He dropped where he stood. After a stunned moment, the crowd clapped and whistled.

Mr. Wainright peered down at the sprawled man, rod still raised. “Good God, I haven’t killed him, have I?”

I ran to check. If Seaford were dead, his knife would be untethered and kill everyone in the tunnel. The air above him shivered then his knife phased above him, hovering.

Thank God.

“They are both unconscious. We are safe,” I said, delighted and, I had to admit, relieved by Mr. Wainright’s commitment. “An excellent strategy.”

The Brotherhood are on the grid, Havarr said.

The real fight was on its way.

“The others are here, Mr. Wainright! We must go now!”

He dropped the rod, its clanging bounce ringing out behind us as we ran towards the Scout. Towards possible salvation.

“Where are they?” Mr. Wainright asked, gasping between each word. We still had a good five hundred yards to cover before we reached the ramp.

I posed the question to Havarr. She phased out then back above me, bringing bad news.

“Forty-eight, on horseback, near the cargo ship,” I repeated.

“Forty-eight? But with you and those two down there, that makes fifty-one. I thought there were only fifty knives.”

“They have brought an extra man for Havarr when I am dead.”

“Goddamn them.”

We finally reached the scout ramp. The paved incline was not overly steep but it slowed Mr. Wainright’s pace. He dropped back, stumbling. His hat dislodged and rolled down the slope. I grabbed his hand and pulled, his weight a searing drag on my hand and shoulder joints.

“I cannot,” he panted. “Go ahead.”

“Keep moving.”

The top of the ramp was in sight, the view beyond the archway filled with the scout’s huge sled-like landing runners and pocked underside. Would we have enough time to get inside? The Brotherhood could not kill me before their chosen man was close by; the exchange of knife partnership had to be made before actual death. But at any moment, all forty-seven knives could come at me.

We broke out into the shadow of the scout.

Some kind of panic had set in around the cargo ship at the other end of the grid. Men running, ponies galloping, carts tipping over, sending bales and boxes across the flagstones. The Brotherhood had not factored in the effect of their knives flying past the workers. The posse splintered into three groups of horsemen threading their way around the mayhem. I was still beyond the limit of their knife energy bonds, but it would not be long before I was within range.

Gasping painfully, Mr. Wainright pointed to the bottom of the scout. “Door. Over there,” he managed.

We ran to the octagonal opening set into the body of the ship with a set of stairs that were definitely not built for human anatomy—the rise far too high and bent, and the steps too narrow.

Catet, Havarr said in my mind. I did not understand the word, but it felt like home.

“Climb it like a ladder on all fours,” Mr. Wainright instructed. “Like this.”

I followed him up the metal construction, the oddly shaped edges catching at my fingers and ripping my lace gloves. As I hauled myself into the ship, I looked back across the grid. The Brotherhood posse had reformed and was galloping towards us.

Mr. Wainright spread both hands across a panel in the wall and the stairs retracted with a mechanical whine. The octagonal doorway closed behind us.

“Up here,” Mr. Wainright said.

He led the way through a cargo hold, crammed with crates labeled tea, beans, flour, salt. I heard a soft clucking. Good God, a coop of live chickens too. Strips of light—without candle or oil lamp—were set within the walls and illuminated the whole area. A marvel.

“You have found the ship’s power?” I said.

“Not really. Only for some of the basic systems.” He pointed to a door as we ran past. “That is the oxygen garden. And beside it, the water storage.”

He looked up another strange set of steps. “And that is the bridge.”

He made way for me. I felt Havarr’s excitement as I climbed.

The bridge had the dimensions of a respectable drawing room, and indeed, a large fleur-de-lis Aubusson rug had been laid down. A window wrapped around the sloping front, extending to become part of the floor. Two Chesterfield leather armchairs had been bolted down to look out upon the view, replacing, no doubt, the salvaged command chairs. The walls were covered in banks of odd buttons and toggles, but the strangest instrument was a huge frame in the shape of a diamond set across the back wall. I ran to the window. The Brotherhood had passed the cargo ship. By my reckoning they were less than a minute away from launching their knives.

“Do you have any idea what to do?” Mr. Wainright asked, climbing the last of the steps.

I stared at him. “No. I thought you had some theory.”

He gestured to the diamond frame. “That is my theory. I thought you would be able to ask your knife.”

“I don’t understand her language. I told you that!”

He hooked his hands into his hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

Havarr spun beside me, her agitation reflecting my own. I had to try.

What is the diamond? I asked.

Aridyi?

It was a question. Not an answer. But behind it, I felt a gathering within her power. Time to play the odds.

Yes, Aridyi!

It was as if I had finally unleashed a straining hound. She flew into the center of the diamond and spun upon her tip. The frame burst into blue energy around her. Now I understood. Havarr was not only her name, it was her position. She screamed, silent to my ears but blasting through my mind and body. I doubled over. No, not a scream, a command. To the other knives.

“Mr. Wainright, down!” I launched myself at the man and caught him around the waist, crashing full length upon the rug. A scandalous tangle of arms and legs.

Forty-nine wary knives slammed into the air above us. A wave of energy pressed us against the floor. With breathtaking speed, one knife after another locked into the diamond around Havarr. As the final knife clicked into place, the ship roared into life. Every bank of buttons and toggles lit up and I felt the landing runners retract.

The ship lifted into the air, ready for my command.

Dear God, I could feel the ship. Havarr and I were the ship. And all fifty wary knives were now under my control. All of them. When the Brotherhood worked out what had happened, they would be livid.

Ridec pah? And I knew what Havarr asked. Go now?

“Yes, ridec pah,” I yelled.

The ship gathered herself, the power thrumming through the knives. Through me. Something to explore—to revel in—later. Right now, I had a ship to launch.

“Mr. Wainright,” I said, pulling my arms free from under his body, “I advise you to get into a chesterfield. We are about to take-off.”

We clambered up from the rug and flung ourselves into the armchairs. Through the window at our feet, I saw the Brotherhood wrench their horses around and flee in all directions.

“Dear God, it is happening! It is really happening!” Mr. Wainright said, the wonder in his voice almost matching my own.

We launched, the thrust pressing us back into the chairs. The power, the glory of it all closed my eyes for a second. My mind full of speed, trajectory, and a dizzying sense of freedom. I did not know where we were going but, for now, going was enough.

“Are you doing this? Is this you?” Mr. Wainright asked over the rising hum of acceleration.

I gathered all my strength and leaned forward to look out the window again. Below us the scattered Brotherhood dwindled into specks upon the shrinking lift-off grid. Too bad I could not see their faces.

“Yes, this is me,” I said and smiled.