Into the Queen's Domain: Stonewind Sky, #6

By Ged Maybury

While Romarny goes west to save Captain Zak, Rod and a scratch-team of eccentric scientists fly east in a purloined pirate ship powered by Tezlah technology and an all-women crew to face a new kind of terror: the 500-year 'Midgeon Swarm'.

Who are these invaders? What do they want? Can Rod save Varste, or is everyone's trust in him misplaced? 

There's no turning back. They must bravely fly Into the Zone of Madness!

Meanwhile in Britain, Romarny's royal plea gets royally screwed. Alone on the streets of London, our forlorn former-Firetail is desperate for a plan; any plan, as Zak's trial approaches its terrifying conclusion. Meanwhile, Queen Victoria III is making plans of her own.

Has our feisty Firetail finally met her match in a game she must not lose!?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ged Maybury
• Release date: May 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386632214

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

CHAPTER ONE

Cruel Wind of the Gods

RODNEY HOVERRIM’S FATHER lurched backwards in alarm. He was facing a gun.

I’ve heard quite enough, traitor! snarled Ironsides Shockton, advancing a few steps, Isaac Hoverrim, I’m personally arresting you for high treason against Her Majesty the Queen and Our Glorious British Empire!

Rod gasped in dismay, utterly lost for words. He recognised Shockton of course, but what had instantly addled his mind was trying to deduce how Shockton got into the cupboard in the first place! Part of the answer arrived moments later. Beyond the mouth of their concisely carved cavern, and even before the portcullis had entirely raised itself, a military gravityship slid into view bearing British flags. By Rod’s estimation it was a small frigate, but of very advanced design. The throb of its boilers and pistons grew louder as it eased closer, moving with remarkable precision, and a dozen aerials leapt the gap and came forward on the double to assist their master. Shockton did not even glance their way.

So you thought you could steal our secrets and sell them to the enemy, Hoverrim? You thought you could obstruct Science and foil Britain’s Eternal March to Greatness? Well you were wrong, sir! Your despicable crime did not go unnoticed and now that Britain has finally recovered from your treason, I’m here to see that justice is served!

Rod believed that his father was about to be summarily executed, and at this point cried out in dismay, NO! He was otherwise quite helpless, unarmed and now surrounded by aerials with rifles, three of which were now aimed at him.

With Isaac covered, Ironsides Shockton relaxed, holstered his pistol, and turned to Rod. And who are you, sir?

Captain Rodney Hoverrim, sir, formally of the Doonsbury Dragoons. And I was proud to serve Her Majesty in the South African War, sir! Proud of it!

Entirely true, but his voice still shook.

Shockton merely grunted, then a look of suspicion crossed his face. You entered the Storm’s Domain just three months ago, correct?

Yes.

Yet here you are – already reunited with your father!

Purely by chance, sir! As you must have heard, my father was only now catching me up on his news.

"I heard a full and frank confession, my boy, that’s what I heard! Shockton glanced down the cavern at his ship, blocking much of the dawn as members of the crew secured a gangway. As soon as it was safely down, four crisply uniformed aerials raced along it and came to attention on the edge of their makeshift dock, eyes on Shockton who was at that moment concluding his engagement with Rod. Anyway, Her Majesty has no beef with you, young Hoverrim, so step aside! We have a duty to discharge."

Please don’t kill him!

Sir, you insult me! I am merely the policeman here! It’s up to the Hightest Court of Britain to decide his fate, not me. Shockton switched his steely expression onto Isaac, And I suggest you submit to my arrest as a gentleman, sir, or be dragged home like a dog!

Isaac Hoverrim’s pained eyes swung to Rodney but not a single word was exchanged. He then nodded at Shockton and turned to face capture, his voice dead. Alright, let’s go.

Father, you cannot!

But Isaac was already walking. He neither spoke nor looked back. It seemed, to Rodney, that something in the last minute had died within his dear father. That alone was terrifying.

As it happened, however, Isaac soon stopped. Coming off the un-named ship was an official in a truly splendid set of clothes. By their colour and cut, and by his age, bearing and noticeably non-British ancestry, Rod made an educated guess that he was the local king, El Toro d’Oro; ‘Theodoro’ as Isaac had once called him in passing.

Behind this splendour came a much older chap in far more mundane garb, who Rod had no trouble in recognising. It was Hans Klooster, the Language King! As Theodoro advanced towards Isaac, now seemingly paralysed midway, Klooster kept back, his face a stiffened mask as if trying to detach himself from the drama. Rod guessed that the old fellow had been brought along as a translator; just doing his job.

Indeed, Klooster did nothing at all during the scene that followed. On the other hand, it seemed that Isaac and Theodoro knew each other extremely well. They met midway, already engaged in a loud and spirited conversation, fair shouting in fact, so that Rod had no trouble hearing it even from twenty paces away. Some of it was in the Varstian language Rod understood, and some in another, presumably local, version. Using a little conjecture here and there and three or four words he guessed at (since many of the Varstian languages had common sounds and meanings) Rod took it as follows:

Theodoro? gasped Isaac, suddenly recognising this dignitary. 

I’m sorry, my friend ... began the King of Salvadoria.

"How could you?!"

The king began streaming tears as he tried to explain, "My friend, my dear Zakko, I could not! ... My People. ... War! They threatened me with war, Zakko! How could we defeat a ship like that? We’d be laid to waste, they’d destroy this entire city and arrest you anyway. If only you had told me, my friend! Why didn’t you tell me? He was frightfully expressive: shaking his hands; popping his eyes; his voice rising and falling as if this were an opera; and his tears were so free! I’m sorry, Zakko. You’ve been so good to me, I still love you like a brother and I will die in a torment of guilt, but my people have to come first, Zakko! My beautiful Salvadoria! Please understand!"

Then he lunged forwards and seized Isaac in a fierce embrace. The soldiers did not know what to do. The rifles wavered, then lifted. The embrace was over within five seconds. Theodoro stood back suddenly and pointed angrily towards the gangway.Now get out of my kingdom before you bring me any more trouble!

Isaac, seemingly so dead moments before, now seemed like a man on the other side of death and already in Hell. With a face twisted by a hundred dread emotions but unable to utter a word, he lurched for the gangway. Then, after some five or six steps he spun around, uttered a howl of torment, and resumed at a rush that surprised them all. He thundered aboard and turned along the pathway marked out by even more armed aerials. Then he was gone.

Rod was shaking in dismay. He watched, helpless, as the soldiers formed up and marched back aboard, with Ironsides Shockton shouting orders in their midst. The last thing the old trooper did was to pause and glare back at Rodney. Don’t do anything rash, young Hoverrim, he bellowed dangerously.

Thrumming, the ship edged away even as the gangway was swung aboard, then it swiftly ascended and vanished from sight. With his own howl of dismay, Rod sprinted to the opening and looked into the sky. Seeing a gravity ship perform such manoeuvres was positively terrifying. It had never before been possible!

He saw it level out at a thousand feet, then slide away to the west, sideways. The tail end came about, gained a little speed, and was obscured by clouds only a few seconds later.

He turned from the sight and swore a savage oath at Ironside Shockton, the British Empire in general, and the Gods in particular, finishing with, "I hate you all!"

Then: silence. It was a lovely morning. The lower slopes of Salvadoria spread out from his feet like a perfect landscape painting, although here and there he could spy anxious people looking into the sky in terror. The birds resumed their song. A pleasant zephyr tickled his muttonchops. But it was as if the Gods were taunting him. His soul boiled with a rage he’d never known before.

Boot-steps approaching from behind. Rod turned to look, still shaking uncontrollably. It was King Theodoro. Astonishing! In his despair, Rod had just rushed past a King as if he were not even there. Now, seeing him there alone and equally traumatised, Rod didn’t know whether to hate him for colluding with the British, or love him as a soul-brother who had just lost a precious friend. Hate won that battle momentarily, then a better reason prevailed. Besides, this was not a good time to punch anyone’s king.

"Sir, we must pursue them!"

Theodoro just stared at him a moment, then burst into tears again. Some instinctual part of Rodney wanted to embrace the man, but he knew that he too would subsequently be reduced to an emotional wretch. No time for that!

I’m sorry, sir, but I must go! Rod ran past the crying king, straight towards the ‘Bluebottle’, and that was when he noticed the bomb neatly draped over the saddle – very much like a two-part saddlebag. Totally familiar! Rod looked. Its timer was ticking.

In its final minute?!  Uttering a very British oath, he dragged it off and sprinted for the mouth of the cavern. Theodoro said something but Rod offered neither pause nor explanation. Any delay would be fatal. Back at the opening he was confronted by that same peaceful scene, but he had to throw it! He got ready ... and Gods be cursed! Directly below him was an little olive grove at the back of tiny house and looking up at him was an entire family!

Bugger it! 

But damn Death too!

He’d trained in explosives. This had to be the standard-issue arrangement, and it was! In the interests of protecting certain soldiers from the stupidity of others, it had a secret switch. The very face of the clock, in fact, if pressed down and held, would stop the mechanism. He pressed firmly. (The spring had been made quite strong.) To his relief it sank in, but how long did he need to hold it? His training had never mentioned that. No, wait: ‘To the count of twenty’; that’s right. Except the sweep-hand on the clock had a bare ten seconds to run!!

He glanced down at that family. How fast could one count to twenty? How stupid could the explosives manufacturers get? How far would it go if he threw it right now? Could he split the difference? How many thoughts could a panicking mind have?

Stay back! he shouted at the Salvadorian king.

Under his fingers he felt something go click. The timer had stopped! He sank to his knees, shaking with delayed reaction. Footsteps. Theodoro was right beside him.

What is that?

A bomb. Rod set it down gingerly as the king rapidly backed off. The worst moment had arrived: he had to take his fingers off the switch. Please go back, sir, further back! I think it is safe, but of the two of us, you are the King of a Splendid Nation and I ... he wanted to sound rather grand, but all he could come up with was, ..I’m no-one special.

No! Let it loose! We shall die together, for we have both failed our dear Zakko!

Rod had to admit it: these Salvadorians really were drama queens, but feeling increasingly confident now that the bomb was well and truly de-activated, he did the king’s bidding. Nothing. But to be sure it was entirely safe he located the battery, broke off the cap and wrenched out the wires. Then ran.

I really have to fly! 

His hatred of Shockton had grown immense in that last minute. No warning, nothing! Destroy the device – understandable; but two innocent men? What a BASTARD!

Rod was back at the Bluebottle. Where was the key? Where had Zak put it? Ah: there on the tea table. Oh, how curious, his father had attached his own keys to the giant key. Rod recalled him doing it, fidgeting as he finished his astonishing tale not ten minutes ago.

Right!

In went the key, even as Rod recalled that Zak had requiring him to sit upon it to keep it steady. Could he ask a King to do the same task? No, probably not. But if he turned it swiftly enough ... So he tried. Success! Done hastily, he could beat the momentum of the entire vessel. Pause, then another swift action. Once again the bizarre bell wobbled on its chocks but did not topple. And so he proceeded. After four cranks Theodoro arrived at his side.

Are you Rodney, then? His son? The accent was strong but Rod got it all.

Rod cranked the key again with a grunt. Yes.

Zakko wrote to me about you. He was so delighted to have encountered you. ‘By the grace of all the Gods!’, as he put it.

Likewise, I suppose.

Rod kept his breath for winding the clockwork. Theodoro, unbidden, steadied the machine (to little effect but Rod appreciated it nevertheless). It is a terrible thing, added Theodoro, his voice still choking upon his torment. Rod feared another outbreak of un-manly grief, so he pretended to be using all his breath for winding the huge spring inside this thing. Theodoro pushed on. Seemed he urgently needed to know something.

"Did he commit a terrible crime? he asked, What exactly did he do?"

The conversation proceeded in short bursts, syncopated to the loud turning of the key.

He stole this, answered Rod, And rode it here.

Ah.

Theodoro gazed at the floor a moment as if puzzled, his breath still fluttering, a few mores tears fell, then he abruptly hardened as if determined to dislike his former friend, He told me his airship had crashed; that he’d been washed ashore on The Farthest Shore. A huff of anger. "He lied to me! And so this was his evil secret?"

Yuh.

Theodoro, his face still streaked by his earlier tears, peered closely at the cobbled contraption. There were, of course, few clues as to how it worked. So this is Britain’s greatest treasure? he persisted. "This?"

"Sort of, yes. [crank!] Top-secret device. [crank!] Treason, they say, to steal it. [crank!] But he had his reasons!"

Theodoro sounded genuine, and genuinely distressed, as he subsequently declared, "If I could do anything to change this, sir, I would! Your father was a wonderful man, a wonderful friend!" this triggered another round of weeping. Rod now realised that the poor wretch had been forced by Britain to make a truly terrible choice; his kingdom, or his friend. No wonder he was so wretched. This dastardly plot may have been waiting in the wings for weeks!

Rod felt an immense wave of fellow-feeling, but this was not a good time to give in to it! One final heave and the key went tight.

Done! Stand back!

Inside the machine, a huge coil of spring-steel was wound tight and a four-foot disk of brass, with a rim of magnetised iron, was ready to spin up to speed. Rod managed an ironic smile: that rim of iron – replicating the special iron-rich blood circulating endlessly in the brain-disk of a skywhale (at least the kind that any Briton knew) was known in the old speech as a ‘hover-rim’, and was in fact the origin of his family name.

Well: It was time for this Hoverrim to take a spin!

He scrambled up and pulled the release. The gears began to whirr. Stowing the key in a notch that seemed made for it, Rod gazed at the dials, particularly the rev-counter. Nearly there, nearly there ... Suddenly he reached down, grabbed Theodoro’s hand and shook it, Nice to meet you, sir!

Theodoro shook with great passion, pouring out yet more tears. We’ll sing great songs to your memory, sir!

Rod was barely listening. He had a machine to master and twelve minutes to find a fleeing British gravityship and make trouble or join his father on the gallows for his efforts.

Please, sir, I must away! I’ll get him back!

Away, then! Fly, Brave Rodney, fly!

HE’D FLOWN IT ONCE before for all of two minutes, but that brief introduction was enough to get immediate mastery. Straight down the length of the cavern, a relatively tiny distance, and into the light of day. The sun was barely up. He oriented quickly and turned west. The motion of this thing was bizarre to say the least. It tilted oddly, not quite as an airship does, and several times he feared he was about to be tossed down and dashed to death. Having whalesense probably helped, a little. Still, it was a nausea-inducing experience at every turn.

And how to make it climb? For a long while he could not! Instead he had to weave around trees and buildings, and on two occasions he found himself tilting at windmills, but for every other moment he kept the sun to his rear and held the control full forward.

Where was that damned gravityship? Where was his father?

IRONSIDES SHOCKTON stood on the bridge of the HMG Victory, watching the vast wall of cloud ahead. He glanced at the instruments, Steady on this point, Captain. All well?

Aye, sir. Seems we went smoothly there.

Your manoeuvres were exemplary, Captain.

Honoured to serve, sir.

I’m going to visit the prisoner. Fetch me if there are any unexpected problems.

Aye, sir! Captain Hammerbrand’s eyes had never deviated from straight ahead. He was approaching the Eternal Storm, and it still frightened him. Always had, always would.

Shockton descended four companionways, deep towards the throbbing heart of the ship. Men saluted him. He merely nodded back. Finally he reached the brig, but it was no ordinary brig. Quite luxurious compared to some, but secure nonetheless.

They let him into the anteroom, then locked him in.

Isaac?

What? Isaac Hoverrim, behind bars in the inner cell, did not look up. 

I just want to know why you did it.

I thought you heard?

Shockton snorted. "You expect me to believe that? Merely a concoction, sir, to dress things up for your boy. Another pack of lies!"

Why would I lie to him!?

Because you hoped, one day, he would return to Britain and spread a sympathetic, sugared-up tale of how you ran away from your own murderous rage – rather than the truth!

And what do you think the truth is?

That you are a traitor; that you stole Britain’s best-kept secret, and you came here to give it to the Enemy!

They are not our enemies. It was uttered in a level tone, firm and factual.

They damn-well are so! Everyone is our enemy until we teach them otherwise!

Silence. The rumbling ship, seemingly so utterly steady, quivered, Five seconds later it lurched upward as if merely a rowboat upon a windy lake. It was a sickening sensation.

The Stormwall, said Shockton, looking up as if able to see the towering thunderstorms above them, Say your last goodbyes to Arkovarste, traitor.

Isaac turned further away, his voice a mere mumble against the rising noise of the engines and stabilisers, Screw you, sir, and to Hell with your entire Empire!

Shockton strode to the cell bars and gripped them as if he were the one raging against injustice, I will personally ensure that you regret those words, Isaac Hoverrim!

You can’t take anything else away from me, sir, except the thing I no longer want anyway. The words were flat, already dead. The ship heaved upwards once again, then sank sickeningly. Suddenly there was a ruckus just outside.

Mr Shockton, your presence is requested on the rear deck immediately!

What? Why?

We’re being pursued, sir!

Hoverrim looked up, surprised. Hope flickered across his pale grey face.

AT ANY OTHER TIME ROD would have been delirious with delight, anticipating his first glimpse of a British gravityship in full flight – especially one as dramatically improved as this. But today, no. Suddenly it felt like Britain was his enemy.

Damn it! Why was he doing this? The truth was: his father had committed a crime. Nothing as heinous as murder, true, but perhaps he deserved this after all. Perhaps this was correct. Justice being served. But damn it again; this had been entirely too swift! The arrest of Isaac Hoverrim had seemed like a crime in itself; snatching a man from his home and his work and his entire life! That was the aspect of it that so soundly riled Rodney.

And what was he going to do when he caught up? Right then he did not know. He would give chase, and if he caught up with that ship ... well he’d work something out, somehow.

And strewth it was cold!

Rod turned his mind to the matter of trying to get this oddball contraption to go higher. He wished he had his smoking weed with him. That would help him concentrate. But no, he’d have to deduce it for himself. To his intense frustration the control handle made perfect sense for every desired motion upon the horizontal plane. He could swoop left or right, come to a stop, even reverse. It went sideways just as easily as forwards, but gradually, thanks to its shape and the tail fin set on the rear quarter, it naturally re-aligned itself.

All of these things he was already well-versed in, even though he’s been aloft for a bare few minutes (three and one quarter minutes in fact, for there was a timer-clock set into the minimalist control panel, plus a rev-counter and compass) but ascent defied him.

Perhaps the control post just needed more force than what he was giving it? Angrily, he stood tall and pulled on it with all his strength. Yes! He was finally ascending! So he sat again, hoping he could hold the setting, and his ascent slowed and stopped.

Surely not! What a stupid thing! And once again he stood and pulled on it. Up again, yet he had sensed no change in the control rod. He held it like that anyway, straining, and eventually gained about two thousand feet. Exhausting! And all the time his gaze was fixed ahead, looking for any hint of that frigate.

Tired of the straining, he sat back heavily. At once it noticeably dipped in the sky.

What the hell!?

Then he figured it out: It was his very weight upon the seat that was controlling it!

To test the idea he eased upwards, taking most of his weight upon his legs. After some ten seconds, he deduced from observations to left and right that he was ascending once again.

Huzzah, problem solved, but why had his father designed it so? It seemed quite absurd. A secret control perhaps?  No time to ponder it further. Dead ahead he had seen light glinting off polished metal! Fixing on it, he strained to see more details against the dark clouds, for he and his quarry were rapidly approaching the Great Stormwall of Varste.

Then he caught a whiff of coal smoke. No mistaking it. He was gaining, but at great personal cost. The wind of his motion was cutting through his suit, one chosen that morning for the balmy climate of Salvadoria and not a fifty mile-per-hour gale at higher altitude. He glanced down. Five minutes remaining. (Less, really, if he wanted to land safely.)

What was his plan? In truth he had none. This was merely a reckless pursuit driven by an over-stimulating state of emotion, and in the frigid blast it seemed his hot temper was giving way to a cooler head. Yet he could not give up! In the last few days he had come to know his father like never before, and despite the man’s numerous faults he also had a generous side, an easy confidence, authority, charm, intelligence and a free-wheeling attitude to the business opportunities presented by this New World. He was, in a nutshell, an absolute brick!

They are not getting you that easy! he hissed through clenched teeth, trying by sheer force of will to push his lumpen chariot to greater speed. The British frigate was now quite clear in his view – a curious sleek thing compared to what he had previously known of gravity ships. There were no airscrews. It had one narrow slanted smoke stack. The deck cannons (he could see two on the stern) were housed under smooth domes with only the barrels exposed, and all else had the same smoothed quality.

It was not going so very fast. He was gaining rapidly! One mile to go. Did they even have a lookout covering their rear, and for that matter; would a single man flying a metallic pimple even be noticed against the sun?

He glanced down. Two minutes left. There was no turning back! He would have to land, and undoubtedly be arrested for his troubles, and probably end up joining his father in the brig, but that was still going to be a thousand times better than abandoning him altogether.

Here it came: the Stormwall! Cloud roiled around him and the temperature plummeted. He could still make out the British ship, but only just. Had it slowed a little? Perhaps.

This was wild! Rain buffeted him, then a drubbing of hail came right after. It hurt! He hunched against it, hoping it would soon abate. Yes; suddenly clear air, and dead ahead his target! It was visibly rocking in the updrafts.

He spoke to his steed, urging it onwards. The gap closed. He deliberately located himself within the bigger ship’s slipstream and felt his own speed pick up. Excellent! And the air was warmer too. He smelt bacon and eggs, toast, and freshly made tea. Gad; the entire venture would be worth it if all he got for his troubles was a decent British breakfast!

Finally they saw him, and with just thirty yards to go. He saw a suddenly flurry of action on the deck. Well-padded men began shouting to each other, but most of them were merely standing, glancing forward awaiting orders not forthcoming.

Yes, go on, Rod shouted into the fragrant turbulence, "wake up you dozy plonkers! Did you think a Britisher would give up that easily?!" And he began to plan his final approach. He lifted for a few seconds, veered slightly towards the emptiest part of their rear deck, and reminded himself to put extra weight onto the saddle to force his vessel down.

But it was not going to be easy. The storm was buffeted them both, and men were now running about in a very un-military state of pandemonium.

A voice hailed him, Rodney! Desist at once, or I shall be forced to arrest you too. It was Ironsides Shockton bellowing through a loud-hailer.

Rod replied, knowing full-well he could not be heard, Then damn-well arrest me!

Twenty feet to go, then Gods be cursed! Another burst of turbulence shot through the eternal storm and his target heaved up as if trying to bat him out of the sky. He flinched away. The larger vessel had missed him by a bare yard!

And lo: there was its nameplate: Victory.

Stay still! He raged at its flank, aware of the worried faces peering at him from above. He could clearly hear their voices, smell machinery as if he were in the same room, and literally feel the throb of the Victory’s engines. Suddenly he veered away! The curved cliff of riveted steel had just lunged at him. Inches to spare! Entirely too close for comfort!

He urged his bell-like steed to climb once more and as irony would have it: right then an alarm bell sounded. Down went his eyes. His twelve minutes were gone! Quick! He jerked the control sideways, hoping for one last go, and for an agonising moment he saw the open deck right alongside him. Then the Cruel Wind of the Gods made another play. The two vessels swayed apart, the bigger one rising faster, and Rod once again saw the steel cliff climb high beside him, so close in fact that they actually collided with a brief bang. He yelled a curse that was lost in the maelstrom, then bounced away wobbling severely. He felt certain for one heartbeat that this was ‘it’, but with remarkable mechanical integrity his machine corrected itself and began a slow moaning descent. He had no more control!

A furious and very pungent curse rent the air, heard by neither man nor beast.

IRONSIDES SHOCKTON returned to the brig a few minutes later, asked to be let in, and settled into one of the lounge chair in the tastefully appointed anteroom. He said nothing for a while, his face like a mask, avoiding Isaac’s urgent gaze.

His prisoner could bear it no longer. What was that about? he suddenly demanded, Was it Rodney? Is he aboard?

That was nothing ...

I heard a collision ...

You heard a hatch being slammed shut.

There was a pursuit ...!

False alarm, snapped Shockton, a canvas tore loose in the wind, and the idiot watchman saw it as spectre pursing us. I had him demoted.

Silence. Finally Shockton turned to see how well his lies had worked. Isaac Hoverrim was at the bars, glaring back. You had better not be lying, Commodore, because if Rodney is not aboard and if he is not safe, I will kill you if I can!

Shockton was equally virulent, I will see you hanged for that insolence, sir, let alone anything else you have done!

I want to know if that was Rodney! An absolute shout.

Rodney Hoverrim is none of my concern! Shockton bellowed back, "My orders were to bring you to justice! No-one else! Shockton eased back and finally smiled. And it seems to be a case of ‘mission accomplished’, don’t you think?"

The Queen ordered this?

"The Queen has better things to do than drag home criminals. That is why she appoints her best people to take care of trivia. Shockton leaned forward and took up the table bell. He shook it vigorously. Tea?" he asked, sending a supercilious glance at his prisoner.

RODNEY WAS RIDING IT down, and he wondered when the spindizzy would fall below the critical speed and all its effect would abruptly die. Because he knew – from that moment on – he would undoubtedly die with it. All he knew for sure was that he was still in the storm, and disoriented. Had he been spun around? It was hard to tell.

Ah; the light was growing. There! The sun appeared almost dead ahead, penetrating deep under the Stormwall. He was facing east as he suspected, and still gliding. Some faint memory elbowed its way into his chaotic brain – something about gravity ships descending at a 45 degree angle, but he could not remember who had said it. No matter, he was still alive and every sign was pointing to a single slim chance. Into the light now, feeling a tiny bit of warmth after what seemed like an hour in that freezing madness.

What was below? Where would he finally fail and die? For that matter – what lay beneath the Stormwall? Eternal swamps? Hillsides stripped bare of all life and soil by a million years of rainfall? And what could possibly live there?

Or for that matter: who?

And anyway, he would likely be dashed to his death sooner than have to worry about his manners if they offered him a cup of tea (for which he would have been most grateful of at that moment, it needs to be said).

Yes he was beneath the storm, but his father was now entirely out of reach, going home.

Gad! Treason! – The death penalty!

Feeling all hope sliding away, he lifted his eyes to the dark wrack above him and shouted, I tried, Dad, I tried! And I hope that bastard Shockton tells you so! then he dropped full into the sunshine amidst a shower of rain. Any moment now ...

His eyes fell upon his gauges even though he didn’t really want to see them. The needle of the rev counter was exactly on the red line. He dragged in a ragged breath, ready to make his final speech to an uncaring sky, when – Pop! Snap! Ping! Bang! Little hatches were flicking open across the upper surfaces of his gravitator disk. He’d noted the blisters before, puzzled over their purpose, but had delayed any questions since his father had been intent on a far bigger tale. Never did ask.

His Whalesense felt it immediately: the Bluebottle had been fitted with windstones and they had just reached kick-light. One by one they howled to life. He was not dead yet!

You beaut! he bellowed into the sky, You bloody genius! Ha-hah!

He felt the gears still whirring under his backside, and with wild hope he imagined they were already running faster. If his guess was right the little windstones were directing their forces onto the outer rim of the spindizzy, now driving it around instead of the clockwork which had been entirely disengaged. Saved!

His eye jumped back to that one critical dial. Yes! The needle was still flickering on the red line. It was holding! Rod’s hopes spiralled into the sky. Four little windstones, mere gadgets for the wealthy and in no way capable, even combined, of propelling an airship, yet in this cunning configuration they were quite enough to keep this unique craft in the air!

Dad! I love you! he shouted wildly into the sky as he turned west once more, You’re a bloody marvel!

But his pursuit now seemed hopeless. It always had been. He was battling heavy rain, and ahead he saw nothing but darkness. Within a mile he would certainly lose kicklight, for the Stormwall was five miles full across. The sun never shone in there. It was a world of storm, lightning strikes and perpetual rain. He’d been lucky to catch this much sunshine so far in from the edge. And even as he though all this, he sensed one, and then another, of his life-saving windstones cutting in and out. He would never make it. Not unless he landed and re-wound the clockwork.

Damn it, damn it, damn it!

He began studying the landscape below, slowing realising how very cold he had become. In fact he was shivering violently. Not a dry square inch of clothing had escaped the storm. A painful realisation was creeping over him like a dank fog: even if he reached the end of the Salvadorian Peninsula he would still face a journey of more than a hundred and fifty miles northward to reach the nearest corner of the British Skyles – the St Agnes Cluster. He’d be in the shadow of the storm for hours. No warmth. No food. No shelter. Just a biting wind chilling him deeper to the bone.

He said he would die trying, and he literally would.

He glanced up at the tortured clouds above him. Up there, he knew, the Victory was still steaming hard, everyone upon it would be dry and warm, with bellies full of solid British fare and (almost) entirely safe from lightning strikes. Even if he was decently dressed, warm, fed and equipped, by the time he landed, rewound, and got through the Stormwall, the Victory would be fifty miles ahead. He’d never overtake it again.

Bugger!

He sank heavily upon his saddle, shivering and miserable, letting his tiny ship settle slowly towards the land below. To his surprise it was not a dismal place, nor bereft of life. The landscape looked healthy. Although seamed by a dozen waterways and dotted with lakes, it was nevertheless a veritable jungle. But did people live there? There were no signs of any farms or houses. He swept his gaze eastward until he could see a break in the rumpled green carpet. It was a definite edge with farmland beyond. There were tiny red-roofed boxes for houses, with smoke rising from their chimneys.

Life. Warmth. Comfort. Food. Everything he needed right then, but he eschewed it all and flew dejectedly back towards Salvadore City, thinking at a furious pace. He would need his flying