Hoverrim the Hunted: Stonewind Sky, #3

By Ged Maybury

After the catastrophic conclusion to "The Heart of Varste" Rod finds himself in the worst possible trouble: trapped between two women! The physically frail Firetail and his frigidly furious fiancée (oh, and they're in a crashed airship; with king Attar howling for his head … and other stuff.)

Forced to flee further, Rod is advised to go into hiding. Fortunately the Firetail has friends in low places and Rod is soon an entirely new man: 'Mr Lorange'. Not that a disguise can keep him out of trouble for long. Surprise Twists! Madhouse Capers! A Genius Dwarf! And following like a bloodhound comes the very sinister 'Mr Henche'.

But does Henche actually have a different agenda, and is Rod actually part of the evil scheme? And who is the doe-eyed Miss Alabaste? Is she as innocent as she seems? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ged Maybury
• Release date: Mar 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386785378

Ged Maybury

Ged Maybury is an Australasian author of children's and YA novelist, with 14 books conventionally published (not counting this series) and a lot more in the pipeline. Finalist - NZ Children's Book Awards 1994: “The Triggerstone” Finalist - NZ Children's Book Awards 2001: “Crab Apples” He began 1994 in his favourite genre: Science Fiction, later adding comedy and slice-of-life, and finally returned to his sci-fi roots with Steampunk. This series is aimed at young adults and anyone else who likes an engaging adventure, but as far as any full-on “adult” content goes: well that's just not his thing. (Okay – there's a bit of it.) He was born in Christchurch, New Zealand, and grew up in Dunedin; dux of his school; blah-blah-blah … Went into architecture, ended up in the performing arts and has been writing plays, poetry and books ever since. He also has earned some notoriety as a Cosplayer and Costumer, Steampunk Sculptor, Performance Poet and Story-teller. Occasionally he writes plays and films. Even more occasionally they get produced. WORLD-FIRST: Maybury lays claim to the world's first custom-written theme-song to a book. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HRQ29QkfKNE He currently lives in Brisbane, Australia. He has a blog and a Wikipedia entry, and is on Facebook.

Book preview

PROLOGUE:

Cliff–Hanger Ending

THE FIRETAIL STOOD leaning on Rodney, indifferent to Karla’s bitter scowl, and gazed about at the wreckage of the Night Storm. After several long seconds, during which Rodney fervently prayed she had a solution to their current woes, she spoke six crushing words.

Talk about a cliff-hanger ending.

Her words hung dead in the air. There was no reply; no jest to save them from despair; no magic doorway into the cliff-face; not even the trilling of a bird. And just to drive home their misery, the sun suddenly faded into an icy cloud that ascended swiftly from below. Rodney, with the dead-handed assistance of Miss Cluely, hastily built a crude tent and they all crawled inside, shivering. Miss Cluely immediately set about inspecting Romarny’s dressings. The bandage, once exposed, was spotted with old blood, but not soaked.

No major bleeding, murmured Karla, That’s good. She lifted her dull eyes to Rodney. Captain Hoverrim, she said stiffly, fetch some water, if you don’t mind.

Numb, and feeling as broken as the Night Storm, Rodney went into the chill fog and scrambled carefully through the chaos until he chanced upon a dented brass tank, still attached to its piping. He extracted it and took it back. It furnished a meagre gallon of water, enough to soak off the inner layer of bandage and give each of them a drink. Romarny was the thirstiest, by far.

Although in obvious pain, she refused all offers of an injection, then insisted on having her own honey-based potion spread directly on the stitches, and afterward lay grimacing while a new pressure pad was applied. It consumed the last of their clean bandage.

Rod then explored their peculiar island once more, this time finding the flattened remnants of the galley and some military rations.

On the return journey he noticed that one of the ship’s windstone nacelles was tangled in the wreckage, its open front now jammed tight with fabric it had sucked from the ship’s skin. Thus choked, it lacked the power needed to break loose from the crashing ship. (The other three, he guessed, had long gone to the Deep.)

Everything was drenched. There was no hope of lighting a signal fire, his only plan.

After a miserly lunch, he fell into a dark frame of mind, unable to think of any way out of this predicament saner than strapping everyone to that windstone and letting it fly. He drifted several times into a delicious sleep, only to return abruptly to the same nightmare.

Shortly after, as he once again tried to get to sleep, he heard Romarny getting up. He was about to inquire, then guessed it was merely a call of nature. Odd that she was taking the carpet bag, but she would have had her reasons. And anyway: nothing mattered any more.

He peered out after her, noticing that the cloud had dissipated and the wind was still. Far off he caught a narrow view of The Deep. He guessed it was around 3 pm, maybe four.

Karla remained asleep. She had wept a lot that morning, and loudly, before finally succumbing to her exhaustion. He eased himself down, hoping once more for oblivion, and had to quietly admit to himself that he was feeling no more spirited than Karla.

However it was his masculine duty to at least maintain the appearance of being hopeful, even if his heart held none at all.

He lay back, mired in his miserable meditations, until he was startled fully awake by a very peculiar noise that echoed around their cliff-bound aerie. For several seconds he tried to identify it, then with a rush of horror he realised it had been the ray-gun!

Careful not to rouse Karla he went out, deeply worried. Sickened by the thought of what he might find, he looked around. Beyond their narrow cleft the shadow of Havencliffs stretched far out into the void, the westering sun creating partial wisps of rainbow all around it, but in all the sky there was nothing to be seen except a few cliffbirds riding the updrafts.

It was damn cold, now.

But oh hooray! There was Romarny well down the slope near the edge, sitting like one of those crackpots at Aunty Hetty’s retreats, wrapped in her blanket and gazing westward. He approached warily, seeing that she held the ray-gun in her lap. It was still smoking slightly.

Had she just tried to end her life but lost her nerve at the last moment? Gad, he had to say something quickly!

Firetail?

Yes?

Um, may I ... may I join you?

Sure.

Um, I, ah, I’ve never said so, but I should thank you for all you have done for me.

She didn’t turn, just murmured, Thank you. Her voice was shrunken, almost dead.

And... and may I say that I’m sorry I failed you. I could have done better...

No, sir, I was going to apologise to you.

Huh?

I failed you both. He shouldn’t have got me.

Well nobody’s perfect.

Suddenly her old fire came back, But I’m not nobody! I’m the Firetail!

Silence. Rodney had nothing to say to that. Instead he contemplated the ray-gun that she still held, and it worried him deeply. Despite the fact that they faced an almost certain doom, her suicide was something he could not allow. What if he told her that he loved her? Would it be enough to turn her heart,not towards him necessarily but at least away from death?

After a hesitant moment he raised the courage to speak, Ah, Romarny. Please, please do not end your life. I’ve been meaning to tell you that ... until he noticed she was laughing.

Really, Rod, she chuckled, despite the pain she obviously felt, give me some credit! I’m not about to finish myself, at least not until all hope really is gone.

"So... there is some hope?"

A slender hope, yes, but I was keeping it secret in case it didn’t work out. You see I’m half expecting a friend along any minute and this’ll be an excellent way to signal her. I just tested it on the lowest setting and ... ah! Here they are now! Calmly she raised the device and pointing it (off-target) towards a black airship that had only just hove into view. But she did not fire, for the ominous-looking craft was already bearing towards them.

Rod's heartbeat quickened. He barely dared breath. It was definitely coming in!

Wake up that fine woman of yours, Rod. We’re heading for The Deep!

CHAPTER ONE

Enter the Black Ship

ROD GAZED A SECOND longer at the black ship, then hurried to the tent, although ‘hurry’ was not the best word to describe his motion, for any haste upon this perilous platform could send him plunging. Miss Cluely, he called ahead, we’re saved! Come out!

He reached their crude shelter just as she did come out, her eyes red from all her weeping and her voice very strange. What is it?

Then her eyes lifted past him. Impossible. She sort of choked, No, no! Then her face ran wet with tears. Rod merely took it as an expression of relief.

Where’s the physician’s bag? he urged, still watching the ship, Fetch it out!

She stood in dilemma then bent into the tent, Um, Wait! Wait here, I’ll fetch it! He heard the catches on the case being snapped shut. She came forth with it. Are you taking that ... sword thing? she asked, sounding quite odd.

Oh yes, thank you! He dived under the rough shelter himself and fetched it out in a trice. That was everything. Come on! He pointed the way, It’s perfectly safe.

It was damned hard to get her to hurry, but hurry they had to. Their rescuers were upon them! The skill of the pilots was to be admired for the snout of their ugly ship was already nudging overhead, its sides only yards from the rock on either side. Its howlingstone jets were constantly on the move, swiveling down, left and right, and even forward to keep position. And what a damned peculiar ship it was. The cabin extended half the length of the underbelly, remarkably like a lake-boat in shape. From where he stood he could see directly into the front windows of its control room, and what a rum-looking crew they were. With a sinking heart he realised he was about to contend with another bunch of pirates.

They in their turn had spied Karla and himself, being the only things moving on the wreckage, and it set off quite a controversy. Rod heard it clearly enough, for they had slid open some of their windows. Back off! urged one of them suddenly, They’re navy!

And if they survive and go tell, where’s that gonna put us? growled another voice. A woman’s voice, and very commanding.

Ahoy! she then called, leaning out a side window, How many are you?

Three, shouted Rodney, confident this would secure their passage at once. Not so.

What rank are you?

We are not navy! he shouted back, suddenly realising the pirates had seen Karla’s clothes and were going to panic! He’d have to contrive an explanation for that, and fast!

What name was your ship? came the next question.

This is... was, actually it’s not my ship...

Please! Have a mercy! interrupted Karla beside him, We have an injured woman here! It’s serious! We need to get her to a hospital!

Ain’t no hospitals where we’re going, least not what you’d be used to, said one of shady men while yet another voice was heard to mutter, They ain’t navy. Navy don’t have no wimmin innit. Seemed a third one had joined the first two.

The female voice immediately bellowed, Get back to ya post!

You got any money? hailed the first voice straight after this.

I’ve got a ... a good twenty! Rodney shouted back, not wishing to reveal his true sum, "Now can we please come aboard?"

He had paid little attention to Romarny during this exchange, but at this point he recalled that she had described these people as her ‘friends’. Damned strange friends, and why wasn’t she speaking up? He glanced around and there she was: standing hunched, and wrapped so closely in her blanket that her face was in shadow. She had pulled Karla to her and was having a hasty conversation – whispered instructions by the sound of it.

Karla glanced several times at the pirates, apparently lost for words and frightened. There was no sign of the ray-gun. It was back in the bag. Romarny now seemed but a meek woman waiting with the luggage while the man did all the work.

Something was terribly amiss, but what?

As if party to his thoughts she glanced at him right then, her eyes full of warning. Rod knew well enough to play along. He suddenly feared they rescue was about to backfire.

He tried again, with greater urgency, You have nothing to fear! We’re utterly at your mercy. And I mean it about the money; you may have it all if you give us passage!

Alright, alright, Mr Fancy-chops, replied the woman, get aboard!

Thank you ever so much! You’ll never regret it, I assure you.

The ship continued easing forwards until the very bottom of their control pod was a foot or so above the outer edge of the wreckage. If there had been any wind, the entire manoeuvre would have been impossible.

They opened all the windows on the doorway side to allow Rodney a hand-hold as he crept to the very limit of his available footing. He passed in his sword through the window, then swung around the door-frame in such a way that from one brief moment his feet danced across the void. Once secure, and with one of the crew gripping his leathers from behind, he turned about and reached out, first for the carpet bag, and then for Romarny. She slipped in easily but still so unusually demure, and with barely a gasp of pain, then to his amazement she sidled up against him in an extremely intimate way.

You’re my husband, she murmured in good British, as if uttering the most intimate of endearments, Roderick Stilton, from America. We met in London. This was accompanied by the point of her dagger nudging his ribs from within her covers.

Point taken, but how was Karla going to react to this news?

Speaking of whom: his vacant-eyed former fiancée was now hauled aboard. Her feet had barely left the wreckage before the pirates began edging back. The noise went up an octave. Orders and estimates flew swiftly between the crew, too fast for Rod to understand. Instead he tried to take in his new surroundings. It was a minimalist control room compared to the Night Storm’s, more like that of the Ribcage. There were three crew: two large surly men and the woman – clearly their captain. The fourth crewman, presumably at a station to the rear, or below, or both, was calling directions via speaking tube. It was deliciously warm.

By the time Rod had taken all this in, the scene of his miraculous survival had all but gone from sight, yet those towering black cliffs were still alarmingly close.

AS THE TENSIONS EASED, Rod began assessing these thugs. They, in turn, were assessing him. The bristly chap eyeballed him severely. This grim soul wore large gold earrings and his long yellow hair was done into two thick plaits, as was his moustache. These were by no means the only decoration visible. He sported a colourful embroidered waistcoat (without shirt) and there were tattoos on his arms. He also wore a big knife and an industrial-strength scowl.

The other man, a bald giant who favoured fur, remained at the wheel. He and the woman exchanged the odd word, almost like a code, and Baldy constantly tinkered with the settings. They were still trying to get away from the cliffs.

At about this time, and as soon as they were clear of serious danger, Rod and his companions were hustled without ceremony through the rear doorway and into the main cabin. He found himself in a long windowless room with outward-sloping walls that were barely more than a series of flimsy-looking panels that curved like the sides of a boat, and as on a boat the floor dipped amidships then rose at the aft end. The ceiling, however, curved down even more; it being the main body of the airship having to maintain the grand circles of its frames. In the centre of the room it would have been necessary to crawl. This was where most of the cargo was dumped; mostly mailbags, plus numerous sacks and rolls, and many dozen brown paper packages tied up with string. The outer edges of the floor were clear for walking, and here Rod finally perceived that the walls were in fact a series of hatches, each equipped with two coils of ropes. Mooring lines. Also of note: dozens of thin iron bars ran vertically from ceiling to floor, because of course the floor did not support the ship but hung under it. It was one of the few places Rod had seen iron used in an airship.

So was this a mail service? Jolly odd if it were!

No time for more. The pirate woman came aft, bellowing an order towards the rear where, Rod finally noted, there was some sort of closed-in cabin.

Tab, shut it all off! Let’s get home!

A sullen voice answered, Aye, aye.

A noise had been present in the ship this whole time, but it was not until it began to fade that Rodney finally noticed it. It had been a dull mumbling roar, very much like that of a well-burning fire within an iron stove. Rod put this together with the interior warmth and finally realised how this was all done – they heated their hydrogen for extra lift! How daring, and dangerous!

But stay put, Tab! We’ve got extra weight aboard. Might need a touch later.

Aye, aye, came that insolent voice again. Rod shivered.

Right. Time to explain Karla’s uniform and a few other things. He braced himself to face off with this hard-boiled woman who had all the confidence of the Black Bitch but without the evil glint and notably better dressed. Well, introductions, I think, he began with forced cheer, offering his hand, then swiftly dried up, realizing that he was heading into treacherous territory. He was saved when Karla interrupted, gesturing first at Romarny.

This is my teacher, Miss Fromage.

Mrs Stilton, corrected Romarny firmly, turning her head to project the word to Rodney while continuing to cling, Remember, Karla dear? I’ve become married.

Her clinging was disturbing in more ways than one. It was so unlike Romarny for one. For another: a certain part of him suddenly felt rather keen to partake in certain aspects of marriage, but he quickly suppressed that idea. Anyway – that was his cue.

And I’m Roderick Stilton, from the ‘Outside’ as you folk call it... he gestured meaninglessly towards the door, "I’m an... uh, a traveler, here to see your wonderful world. From America, actually. Have you heard of it? It’s one of the Colonies you know."

He had been to the Americas for three weeks just last summer, at the gravityship port of Boston, and he was ready to flesh out his tale if necessary.

Meanwhile Karla finished the hasty fabrication she had begun, And oh excuse me for being such a woolly-head: I’m Miss Clue..liss: her pupil. Then she giggled and added, She’s teaching me sewing! Rodney glanced at Karla, perplexed. So unlike her!

Their interrogator just scowled, So what was the name of your ship again?

Rod had no chance to answer. Karla, having successfully established that she was of unsound mind, now sank to the floor in a dead faint. He let her fall, not only because he was so stunned by this sudden turn of events, but also because he feared any sudden move on his part would stress Romarny’s stitches.

What’s with her? asked the big chap, She got that brain-crazy thing or something?

Romarny, meanwhile, spoke urgently to Rodney, Open it, quickly! She might have taken something. Rodney knew exactly what she was talking about, and his stomach lurched in a panic. He stooped and eased the medical case from Karla’s relaxing fingers, then opened it for Romarny to see. She immediately snaked a free hand from her coverings and took up the syringe that lay loose. It was half full of some mysterious milky liquid. Foolish girl!

Rod’s stomach plunged again. Why? What has she taken?

Morphia’s milk.

What’s that?

It’s made from Suck, the female captain interrupted bluntly as she stepped forward to also examine the syringe, but you probably don’t know what that is. She held it up to accurately gauge how much had been injected.

Oh, ah, yes, I’ve heard of it, he answered, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

Miss Captain returned the syringe to its clip, taking the opportunity to check through the rest of the case’s contents, Seems she only took a third at most. Count yourselves lucky.

Why so?

Otherwise she’d be dead. She looked down. "Let her sleep, but be warned: she’ll wake up with the Craving. Whatever you do, do not give her anymore!"

Rodney’s inner rage boiled up suddenly. Then why was it even in there! he shouted, dismayed to realise that as soon as Karla had found herself alone she’d attempted to kill herself. Damn and blast! How had he missed such darkness in his fun-filled fiancée?

Ex-fiancée.

It’s a medicine, the captain snapped back, and it has its place!

Rod then recalled that Karla had drawn up a dose of the same stuff last night, after he had brought up the matter. Since then Karla had quadrupled it to a fatal dose, only saved by his timely shout of salvation.

Gods that had been close!

The female skipper was still flicking through the contents. Although all the dressings were gone, most of it remained untouched. Good, she murmured at one point, there’s lots more. (More Morphia’s Milk? Rod could only guess.)

She looked up at him suddenly. Do you regard this as a trade-able item?

Well, um, I’m not sure. Actually this wo... my wife here is wounded. Um, she, during the crash a jagged piece of some metal or wood or something, cut her deeply in the, ah, he waggled a finger over his own belly, Ka-Miss Clueliss here sewed it together this morning. Gods you should have seen the blood! Her clothes... quite ruined. She’s, ah... he gestured at the blanket without adding more, We’re all very distressed, and I wonder if I might beg for some bedding?

He turned to his supposed wife, Would you like to lie down, my dear?

Romarny slumped deeper into his side as if in answer. He did not know if it was in pretence or for real.

Captain, I wonder if... sorry, but I don’t know your name?

Just call me The Skipper, and this is my ship the Horny Whale. She turned to the hairy lunk who had spent all of this time scowling suspiciously, Vim, find something soft for our guests to rest up on, and break out some food. Oh and stop twitching for the money! We’ll get it soon enough!

THE BELL TINGLED ABOVE the door of Stravi’s Grand Emporium of Curios and Treasures. Mr Stravi himself was out the back, trying to get a little warmth into his bones from the meager coal fire they kept alight in the kitchen, otherwise thoroughly absorbed in his third reading of the Morning Clarion. The news was all about the Calamitous Royal Ball.

He heard the bell, tossed down the newspaper, glanced at his wife who showed no signs of getting up (as usual), and struggled to his feet with a groan.

Just a minute, he called towards the bead curtain that separated them from the shop. Moments later the hand bell on the serving counter took a vigorous shaking.

Hold your horses, hold your horses...

He shuffled through the curtain and stopped in amazement. There was a man standing at the counter, and what a curious apparition he was. For one thing he wore his hat indoors, for another he wore darkened spectacles somewhat like the goggles favoured by those that flew racing kites, but most disturbing of all; his face was obscured by a strange mask.

Can I help you? asked Stravi nervously.

I am reliably informed that two days before the ball you were visited by the infamous Britisher: Captain Hoverrim.

Er... no, no I don’t recall that.

The stranger leaned his gloved hands upon the counter and moved his frightening visage closer to Stravi, Do not lie to me, Mr Stravi, or you might suffer the King’s displeasure.

It was at this point that Mr Stavi became aware of the other two shadowy figures in the shop, each wearing the all-too-familiar uniform of the Department of Security and Intrigue. He quickly changed his tune.

Oh, the Britisher! Now I remember him!

That’s much better. Now tell me, what was he specifically interested in?

Er ... um ... he ... he purchased a copy of Worthering’s Grand Compendium of Illustrated Fables for Children; 1869 edition I think it was. That was all.

The stranger ignored Stavi’s nervous laughter and reached inside his leather coat. Stravi’s bones seemed to shiver inside of him, but to his relief the hand brought forth a simple roll of parchment. And did he by any chance also purchase one of these?

The stranger unfurled a familiar page and Stravi’s blood stopped in his veins.

N-no, no he didn’t. A-a-actually, I have only ever sold one of those, and-and-and that was years ago. Hah! Years ago!

Indeed? The stranger’s goggled eyes lifted to the high shelf where Stravi always kept the next copy ready. Really; you’ve only ever sold the one?

"I... er, that is, I... we, hah-hah, we do sell reproductions of that painting. I mean, purely as an entertainment."

And where do you get these so-called reproductions?

We, we, we bought them! Years ago – a job-lot. All but one of them are gone now: all sold out. Never saw the fellow again.

The stranger’s gloved hand moved like a snake, seizing Stavi by the lapels, I think you’re lying, Mr Stravi. See this? The other glove held up a little bottle. "This is a very interesting poison. It does not kill you, it just eats away at your brain until you finally do the job yourself. But what makes it particularly interesting is that you will feel so light and carefree that you will happily answer any question. In fact, you will be compelled to tell the truth. Have you heard of it, Mr Stravi? Do you know what it is called?"

N-n-n- yes. ‘Veraci Potion’. But it is a-a-a fiction, surely? A myth?

On the contrary. But if you wish to doubt it, sir, I’ll happily administer it to you right now. You’ll certainly believe in it then...

Behind the bead curtain, Mrs Stravi had heard enough. Shaking in terror she tiptoeing hastily to the back door, grabbed up her shopping bag and shawl and slipped silently outside. Across the tiny yard she went and ducked into the woodshed. Reaching high and easing aside two loose bricks, her shaking hand groped for the waxed tube of parchment she had not set eyes on for some twenty years – so long in fact that she had quite forgotten how it looked.

Stupid old fool! she whispered as she hastily hid it deep in her bag, I should never have listened to him. Never! She peered out. The yard was still empty. No time to lose! Twenty seconds later she was in the back alley, hurrying fearfully in the direction of the old royal stables and glancing back repeatedly.

"Now, let’s go and make some real money, shall we?"

RODNEY SAT BESIDE HIS ‘wife’ and his former fiancée, who both lay upon a collection of clean well-packed sacks of something that was at least halfway soft. It seemed Romarny was quite worn out and once again lay asleep, but not without having eaten heartily.

But alas for poor Karla. She tossed and turned, mumbling incomprehensibly and occasionally bursting into song – fragments of childhood ditties and such. At one point she shouted ‘Open the valves! All the valves!" and flung her arms about wildly.

Furthermore she was sweaty and dishevelled, but Rodney did little to open her garments for air. True, he could have unbuttoned her jacket entirely but he feared arousing the attentions of the pirate men; men he could not trust to act with restraint in the presence of an unbuttoned woman, as he could. (Barely, but he could!)

Speaking of those ominous crewmen, the hairy one called Vim had settled himself in a similar manner, upon some sacks further to the rear. Although the fellow seemed relaxed, Rodney could still see that Vim was awake and watchful.

The Horny Whale continued to sink. Rodney could feel the air pressure building up on his eardrums and had to swallow now and again to relieve the pain. It seemed the crew were steering their ship in a descending spiral within the afternoon shadow of Havencliffs, and this gave Rodney a clue as to how they managed the remarkable feat of ascended from the Deeping to Havencliffs and return. And besides, thinking about it distracted him from the various horrors of the previous twenty-four hours.

Here are the ideas he entertained:

As a ship climbed into the atmosphere the air pressure fell for every thousand feet climbed, and thus its gas bag would swell. In his ship, a semi-rigid construction with a flexible envelope, this swelling was a problem. Either the envelope had to begin from the ground partly-filled and saggy, and fill out to a sleek shape at the height of its ascent, or else it would soon burst. A tightly stretched envelope represented the upper limit of flight. To climb above this limit all ballast had to be dropped and hydrogen vented to prevent the delicate inner bag from rupturing.  Even then, a new limit is soon reached.

During descent the problems reverse: the bag shrinks and the envelope gets floppy, rendering it uncontrollable under power. Heating and cooling add to the problems, and without good design and constant management it always results in catastrophe.

In his own little ship he had a ‘ballonet’: a secondary air bag to keep the envelope trim; but in a fully rigid ship there was no need. The gas cells could expand and contract without loss of lift, all safely protected from the wind within the streamlined hull.

Even so, each ship had a vertical limit. No normal airship could ascend and descend between a skyland and the Deeping. (For that matter, neither could a gravityship, but for an entirely different reason.)

So this is how Rodney guessed it was done:

These ruffians cast off in the morning, shedding a little ballast. Ascending into the rays of the morning sun the ship’s hydrogen bags heat up under the black-fabric envelope, supplemented as needed by their own internal heater. Perhaps, and with incredibly bravery, the aeronauts even steer themselves into the morning cliff-winds for an elevator ride up and finally over the eastern rim of Havencliffs.

Then the afternoon descent – exactly as he was now experiencing.

Ideally they would have no need to carry much ballast or vent excess hydrogen during the whole flight; but oh the risks! A cloud over the sun at the wrong moment and the venture would fail. Thus, Rod surmised, after many trials and errors science had contrived an effective insurance against sunless moments: a heat source of such advantage that it outweighed its own weight, so to speak. Did they burn petroline? He shuddered at the thought. No; surely they’d use one of the heavier oils extracted from rock-oil. There were many to choose from. The burner, something very compact, was undoubtedly housed inside a fire-proofed cabin – there at the back of the ship and operated by that unknown crewman.

He glanced around. There was no decoration, no individual cabins, nothing that would add excess weight. Did they even carry cargo upwards, or was it only a one-way service?

Gad! He suddenly remembered that he was bound for the Deep, and despite having a rational mind that should have known better, he suddenly recalled all the popular stories of strange races of people without heads who had eyes in their chests and mouths in their stomachs; of a creature who was half a horse and half a man; of a strange race of people who hopped about on one leg and had a foot so large they could use it as a boat. Plus of course: lakes of poison, man-eating plants, etcetera.

Then he had a truly terrifying thought: he might never get a decent cup of tea again!

HIS THOUGHTS WERE INTERRUPTED when The Skipper came aft. She strode directly towards him where he rested with his charges, asking without preamble or ceremony, Well, how is she?

The question applied equally to both women. He looked from left to right, deciding who to answer for first. Since Karla’s progress was quite apparent (at this point she was mewing like a cat), he replied, She ate well, and now she is getting some much-needed rest.

The Skipper strolled closer and her abrupt manner seemed to soften. She squatted alongside Romarny. So, have you two been married long?

Ye-no. Very recent, actually.

And you’re on your honeymoon?

Ye-no. More a sort of study tour. Miss Clueliss is... our... well sort of like our maid, except she is also studying... things.

She certainly seemed to know what to do with Morphia’s Milk.

Poor girl. The crash ... she became quite distraught, as if her whole live was over. He did not say why, of course. Besides, he would have cried the moment he started.

I’ve seen it before, the skipper said, Women invest so much in getting their future happiness laid out ready to wear, and don’t cope at all well when the dog chews it up.

It was an odd thing to say, but Rodney let it pass. The skipper was peering at him intently, and it was somewhat un-nerving. Then she came out with something quite unexpected and disconcerting.

And your wife: she wears an interesting bracelet. Did you give it to her?

Instantly Rodney’s mind spun across the last ten days, trying to recall the bracelet in question. This wily woman must have spotted it when Romarny put forth her hand as the syringe was discovered. Or was it on Romarny’s other wrist? Gad, he could not rightly remember! His whole tissue of lies could unravel upon this single point.

The Skipper was waiting. He had to say something.

It was a family heirloom, from my grandmother, in London.

A nod. And you say she was injured just this morning?

Yes, quite a cut. We put in twenty or so stitches.

Whereabouts?

Right on her stomach. She was lucky she didn’t get gutted.

Right about here? asked The Skipper, pointing close to Romarny’s middle. He nodded, distracted by his own rushing thoughts.

The finger instantly plunged down. Romarny’s eyes popped open, she folded in the middle like a jack-knife and shrieked from the unexpected pain. Rodney tried to spring into action but he was already too late.

What're you doing? he cried, Stop it!

CHAPTER TWO

Unto the Deep

BELATEDLY HE SEIZED The Skipper’s wrist and strained to minimise her attack, but she had the advantage of height and weight, whereas he was working from the side.

Listen up, whoever you are! she snarled at him, "Tell your ‘wife’ here that she just needs to get over it! She poked again, directing the next burst of invective directly at her helpless victim, I married Sven and you missed out and that’s just how it is, baby! Oh and thanks for coming to the wedding; NOT!"

It was all delivered with forced restraint: a whisper of extreme rage.

The poking suddenly stopped. The Skipper wrenched away her hand and stood, scowling down at them both, still in a vile temper. Her angry gaze flicked to Rodney and pinned him down for several seconds, "And whoever you are, you’re a lousy liar."

She strode away, then stopped and came back a few paces. "And if you really are married then all I can say is: good luck to you both!"

She stomped away again, tossing back just one more word, Pathetic! Moments later she vanished from view into the control room. It seemed they were in the midst of a turning manoeuvre at that moment and she had to get back. For a few glorious seconds the late afternoon sun lanced through the ship from port to starboard, then vanished. The moan of the howlers immediately went up by a fifth.

Pathetic! Karla echoed beside him, "Pathetic pathetic pathetic pathetic pathetic!"

Romarny was panting, grimacing strangely. He guessed that the pain was still lingering. Quickly he took her hand and gazed into her eyes, his face full of worry and apology for not protecting her. I insist I inspect your stitches, he said softly, and even if it is all still intact I’m going to go forward and give that vixen a thorough telling off! In fact if I were not a gentleman I’d have her whipped!

Oh poor Romarny. Now she was convulsing! Rodney got up to start shouting for help when she tugged him down, laughing painfully, Oh for heaven’s sake relax, Roddy. That’s just Rosa for you. You’ll get used to it. It was in his language.

"Huh.., what? You know that harridan?"

Yes. Told you we were old friends. Now keep you voice down.

Is that how she normally greets you?

Romarny shrugged, She’ll get over it.

What exactly was it all about, anyway?

Just a little difference of opinion over a certain chap.

Sven?

Romarny sighed, Sven.

"You were going to marry him?"

Please, it’s no longer important.

"I don’t understand; she got Sven and she’s still angry with you?"

I didn’t make it to the wedding.

Well, that could be considered...

I was in jail.

Oh.

Don’t worry, I didn’t commit the crime. It was just a good way to distract a few people for a few days while they planned my execution.

"Execution?"

Really, Rod, too many questions. That was then; this is now. We’re alive and that’s what counts. Then to Rodney’s surprise, she burst into tears.

What is it? What’s the matter?

She didn’t answer, just got on with the crying. Then just as abruptly she stopped.

Nothing’s the matter, Rod. I just have to be strong. Now, keep up the charade. Once we’re off this ship we can relax a little. We have to try and get to the Pink Palace. And ask for Doctor Foster, no-one else. Her voice was growing weaker. He had to strain to hear her.

Rod felt his panic rising. Where are we landing?

Crucible, she turned her head as if listening to the ship, and don’t argue with Rosa, but give her a good haggle. She’ll respect you for it. She lay back, her eyes closed.

Rod became ever more panicky. If these are your friends, why are you still hiding?

Her voice dropped lower, That one called Tab. Have you seen him yet?

No. He glanced uneasily toward the rear of the ship, noting that Vim was still watching them, He’s still down the back.

If he gets wind of who I am, he’ll try to kill me.

Why?

Tell you later. Just don’t say a word to him. Give him no clue.

She opened her eyes, glanced that way, then fell back panting, and promptly fainted. Rod wanted to shout for help, but didn’t.

It was all up to him, now.

Vim went