Ironmaster & Other Tales

By CJ Moseley

From the author of “The Paradox War” trilogy, a new mosaic novel set in a world of Dark Faery tale, magic, and Steampunk mad science.

In 1560, Queen Elizabeth I finally sued for peace with the Faeries that plagued her lands. The new Covenant granted noble titles to those with magic and magic to those with titles. Now it’s the 1980s, and after centuries of mage rule, including a recent 30 years of total war in Europa followed by 20 years of uneasy peace, the world is ready to embrace change.

Over 30 tales of Airship Pirates, Flying Monsters, Alchemical Adventurers, Rocket Ninjas, Chthonic Horrors, Mad Scientists, Occult Detectives, Dog-Headed Cops, Folk-Magicians, Seelie and Unseelie Faeries, Infernal Conspiracies, Sorceress-Queens, and Punk-Rocker Spies, build into the story of a revolution, and a Civil War that will change the destiny of a whole universe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326313791

Book preview

Ironmaster & Other Tales

A Mosaic Novel by CJ Moseley

Ebook Edition 2015.1

Copyright © 2015 by CJ Moseley

Lulu ISBN: 978-1-326-31379-1

You can contact the author at his website http://www.cjmoseley.com or on twitter @CJMoseley

The right of CJ Moseley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Ironmaster & Other Tales is a work of fiction that is, in part, based upon actual historical figures.

All rights reserved.

Contents

Scratch Iron

Ginny Greenteeth

Sky-kraken

The Death of Dangly Dan

Cheirosyphon

Awyr-Ladron Cymraeg

Death of a Gauss-stalker

Black Bread

No Brakes

Berlin Ballistic Blues

The Casting

A Tinker’s Tale

The Beast in the Rock

Tengu and Tama-Tora

Beneath the Burning Sky of Bedlam

Coblynau

Grist For The Mill

Le Bureau D’Assassinat

Twisthall

Beyond the Gates of Gloaming

A Maid’s Tale

A Saint Stephen’s Day Nightmare

The Witch-Eyes

Matilda Night

Who killed Dangly Dan?

The Theriocephalic League

Cognoscenti

Y Brenin Nudd

Regina Venefica

Ironmaster

Radio Free Neptune

A Note from the Author

This ebook is dedicated to the Briarsley Poorhouse kids: Lara, Den, Dom & Ben

Special Acknowledgements:

Mary Parry for lending me ‘The Folklore of Shropshire’.

Indigo Dylis for the Kindle Fire.

Matt Rees for the Cymric language pointers.

Scratch Iron

A Liminal Prologue in Dark Færy Tale

There are those who are attracted to, and have power over liminal things, things that are neither one thing nor the other, but something in-between. Their stories begin, ‘Once upon a time’, and this is that time.

The sun is setting and twilight toys with the world. Neither day, nor night, dusk (or the gloaming as the locals call it) exists between the two, liminal.

Borderlands are strange spaces. They are neither one thing, nor the other. Neither in, nor out, they exist between, thresholds, the start of one thing, and the end of something else.

Pengwernshire is that kind of place.

It is a border county, Merry-Olde-England ends here, and Ancient-Cymru begins, or vice-versa. Pengwernshire is north of southwest England, but south of the northwest. It is the mid-borderland… the middle of the threshold.

A county of dichotomies and paradoxes, today it is a rural county, bucolic and idyllic, although in yesteryear it was the birthplace of industry.

Mines, furnaces, and factories arose across the rolling fields, forests, hills, dales, and along the rivers. Canals were cut, railways laid, and families grew rich. People came from all across both countries, England and Cymru to work and learn there, some got stuck, their children were born neither wholly local nor immigrant, trapped by future-shock and tradition.

It gets worse as we zoom in, North Pengwernshire, is separated from South Pengwernshire by a river, and a gorge.

The Duke of Pengwern rules most of the North, his family, the Sylvas, descend from Norman invaders and have owned the land for nine hundred years, but their influence extends just beyond the river, where they own the small post-industrial town of Briarsley.

Older families rule most of the South, families that have more Brythonic ties, predating the Normans, but that have less political power. One such family owns the village of Twisthall, pronounced ‘Twizzle’ by those that live there.

Nothing but a brook-dale, a small, steep-sided, valley with a trickling stream at its bottom, separates Twisthall from Briarsley.

Along that border, you’ll find miners and foresters living as neighbours. Miners live above the ground, but work beneath it; foresters are similar; they live outside the forest, but work deep within. Both are skilled jobs essential to the war effort and that has kept them from being swept to their deaths in the industrialised Great War that rages across Europa, Africa and Asia, but they are poor commoners, and both appear in faery-tales as often as witches or kings.

Bordering the houses, you will find woods, remnants of ancient forests that once covered the whole island, that are split into wildwoods and forester-cultivated coppices, they cling to the edge of the gorge. It is, perhaps, the most liminal place on the British Isles. It is called Twisthall Edge.

Mists rise from river, and root, to haunt Twisthall Edge.

Under the cover of the rising dark and the twisting threads of mists, night-brethren creep and stalk from their homes. Miners and foresters, too poor to survive, too rich for the poor house, they cling to existence.

Liminal people, making their way, in a liminal time, into the liminal wood. There they hunker down in waist-deep pits, neither above the ground, nor below. They tear the earth apart, poaching the black rocks from beneath the trees. Scratch-miners armed with garden tools collecting coal, it is a crime, of course.

Before the war, they would not have risked this, but the war has thinned the nobility as much as the commoners and those nobles who remain think themselves wise to ignore a little stolen coal, and a few poached game animals, without having to raise wages. This lack of threat makes the scratch-miners believe that it is almost not a crime.

Tonight there is another amongst them.

He is neither noble nor poor, common, but uncommon. Tonight he is just like these other men, except he knows that his crimes would not be ignored.

He comes rarely, but tonight is one of his nights, the moon’s dark drawing him out. The new moon is not one moon, or the other, but tonight’s dark sky sat within another transitional time, and had he known, had he read the papers, or heard the wireless, and seen that other threshold approaching, he would have stayed home.

He slips by the coal-miners, going deeper than most of these night-brethren. He isn’t just after coal. He finds an outcropping of ancient ironstone, and clips the ore from the ground with a pickaxe. He drags the reddish rocks across to his forge, which is little more than a carefully shaped hole.

He scrapes together coal and ironstone, and begins his crime.

He pulls out his bucket bellows and lights the sticks and coals after building the fire and stacking the fuel in a particular, fastidious manner.

He listens to the soft scraping noises of the other scratch-miners working in the darkness. Then, once satisfied they are not going to see him breaking the Black-law, he begins to work his bellows.

The bellows whoop and boom, driving roars of flame through the chimney. The blacksmith works hard, driving the temperature up in the forge.

The stone cracks and pops in the heat, he glances in assessing the orange-red glow within the forge.

Still more to go, he decides.

He bends his back to the bellows again.

Whoop and boom, whoo-oop and boo-oom, on for what seems like hours.

Whoop and — Tan-tarah!

He stops, freezing in place to listen.

All the woods have gone quiet; no pick strikes, no trowel or shovel scrapes. The woods hold their breath.

The brassy hunting horn sounds again in the distance. Here and there, heads pop up above the ramparts of their pits.

A few miners are already running. Their tools abandoned in the pits.

The blacksmith curses and swings the pickaxe into the forge, cracking it open and spilling the glowing heart of it onto the ground.

It was almost ready, damn-it! he grumbles kicking aside the bellows into a bush.

The horn blows again, closer.

The night-brethren run on the ancient poacher trails through the trees. He sees their faces flash in the reflected light of his forge and knows that his face is visible to them as well. Curses hiss through his teeth.

He stoops and douses the flames with soil. Packing it with a boot, before he is running through the woods with the other scratch-miners.

Twigs catch and snag him. His knees, thighs, shoulders, hands, and face scratched, as he races blindly along the ancient trails in the wildwood.

He breaks through some thicker branches; the sharp cracks are loud in the night, and stumbles into a clearing. His foot catches on something, a root, a bole, or a rabbit hole, and he pitches forward.

His hands fly out to brace his fall and plunge into nettles, just before his throat, and face, follow. Stinging venom fills the scratches, blistering the skin white.

He grits his teeth, trying to hold in the scream of pain, which escapes as a slow hiss, ending in a quiet, —it.

He struggles back to his feet, licking, blowing, and sucking on the inflamed bumps of the nettle rash.

In the dim starlight beneath the trees, he can make out the figures fleeing on parallel courses from their pits. Nursing his arms, he pushes on, trying to keep up with the pack.

His ankle complains slightly, a twinge of pain marking each weakened step, but he runs on, his boots helping support his weight.

The trees are thicker again ahead, and he pushes for their dark embrace. He finds a deer path, and his feet instinctively begin to pick up the pace, despite the pain, as he plunges on into darkness.

Old, but well-cobbled, boots slap the hard clay soil in the dark, a drum beat of escape, drowned out in his own ears by his pounding heart and the whistling of his panted breath.

He picks up speed, running with a limp; guided, not by sight, but by the push and nudge of twigs that fringe the deer run. Foot falling in front of foot he plunges on into the absolute darkness of the thick woods.

Then he misses the edge of the path, his foot drops an extra few inches, but that’s enough. Already weakened his ankle cannot help but give.

He pitches sideways, falling through a bush, to a sudden burst of lavender, and then rolling, sliding, and finally lying wrapped and tangled in briars and bushes.

Night air is cold on his flesh through the bramble tears and rents in his clothing, especially cold on the wet blood that seeps from the scratches.

He carefully checks himself, a few cuts and scratches, and a doubly weakened ankle, but nothing worse.

He tries to orient himself, the trees point his way up. He realises he has slid someway down the steep-sided gorge, and is down near the Orichalcum bridge, the shining symbol of the Industrial Alchemical revolution the world over. Orichalcum, the metal that the walls of Atlantis were built from, rediscovered by the Alchemist Abraham Darby and built, by his namesake grandson, into the bridge.

Looking back up the hillside, he can make out the shadows of cloaked figures on horseback, one lifts a hand and the fingers ignite with scarlet and yellow flame.

Nobles.

He spits a silent curse, damn them all, Elf-blooded changelings, and power mad traitors all, damn the Covenant they made with the Otherworld for magic, damn them and their Black-law that made iron illegal.

He guesses the Great War must have reached an end, so, of course the nobles return first. Their magic and money would bring them ahead of the masses.

He hears the nobles riding down on the miners, and then notices one horse has stopped in the path above him. There is no sign of its rider.

He freezes, holding his breath as he scans the steep bank of the gorge-side. There is no sign of anyone coming down to him, so he relaxes slightly. The briars creak softly.

The horse turns its head then, staring straight down at him. Its eyes flash with green flame in the darkness.

That’s no natural horse.

He’s up, limping, stumbling, falling, rolling down, plunging down drops, bouncing from tree to tree as he goes.

The horn sounds again, followed by a snort close enough to hear and he stops, wrapped around the base of a tree.

He listens, expecting to hear hoof-beats pounding down the path. Instead, only silence haunts the hill behind him.

He strains to listen, breath held and heart pounding in his throat.

Then he hears a soft clip-clopping on a path below him somewhere, and a deep voice hollers out, Come out, come out, whosoever you may be, I know thou art about, hidden in a tree.

He freezes at the sound of the voice and reaches into his pocket. His fingers find, and he grips hold of, a thin, metal dagger by its wrapped string handle.

The hooves stop dead, What is this, what do I feel? Is that iron, or—

He dives from the hillside, plunging down blade first through the brush, slashing at the heavy equine neck as he passes it.

Aye, ya bastard! he screams, it be purest steel.

The horse collapses, its form flowing as it falls, until a thin, sickly humanoid lies on the ground in the darkness.

Now, I’m for it — ya Elfin git! he mutters and kicks the dead Pwcha in the head, before limping off along the path, down towards the railway tracks and river below.

He crosses the railway just as a loud horn sounds up above him, too close. He limps along from sleeper to sleeper to hide his trail along the tracks. Hoping against hope that no one —

A noise like a bell rings in the night, a pure tone, alchemical in nature. Carrying elemental fury within the sound, only one weapon makes such a noise.

Toneloques, alchemical pistols. The alchemist’s answer to the flintlock, a bell-like barrel, and a hammer to strike it. The weapon that built the Empire.

He recognises the tone of alchemical fire and throws himself to one side, as the bush beside him bursts into incandescent flame. A second bell, a lower tone that he knows is a Curse-loque chimes close by, skimming the ground in front of him, turning the grass black; it catches him a glancing hit.

Dizzy, he sways on the edge of consciousness.

A voice calls out, was that his name?

Half-fainted, half-dead he drags himself back to his knees. Crawling, stumbling, not quite running, but not quite falling, he heads for the river, but it’s too little, too late; the next shot does not miss.

Ginny Greenteeth

A Dark Færy Tale

Michael was an odd boy.

The other children in Twisthall had decided it. Even his best friend Tim agreed. Every day they talked about such things while they made their way down Twisthall bank.

They’d talk as they walked past the constantly working mines.

They’d have cross words as they crossed Twisthall brook, and climb on figurative high horses, as they climbed the steep hill on the Briarsley side of the brook-dale.

They passed comments as they passed the newsagent’s, and be down on him as they walked down the High street to the town-square.

Passing the war memorial, they were always more concerned with jeering at how odd Michael was, than the brave men who had laid down their lives for their Country and the Crown.

Michael often stopped to read the names of the heroes, and wonder in what act of bravery they had died. Had they died fighting Martians, Ottoman Mechanimals, Prussian Flying-Tanks, or Romanian Werewolves, or, rather less interestingly, simply died of an Italian, German, or French bullet? He’d stand as long as he could, wondering about each name, and how they had died.

Once an old Tinker had joined him, and told him about some of the names. The Tinker had served with them, he knew how each had died; he’d told Michael their stories, at least until a policeman had chased him off, and dragged Michael, by the ear, to school.

Michael liked school, and that made him very odd.

He even read for pleasure, which was almost unheard of, and he often carried extra books home. Ignoring the name calling that came with it.

His parents had also found him odd for the last fifteen years, and so apart from the usual rural chores of mucking pigsties, drawing water from the well, and weeding, harvesting, and fertilising the garden, they left him alone, even somewhat ignored.

Folk even said that the Posenhalls were too in love with each other for the boy’s own good, they hardly noticed if he was there.

During the summer, he would pull his bed close to the window, with a book upon the west-facing window-sill he would read first by the light of the sun, then the dusk, before eventually the gloaming light would become too dim, and tiny night-elves would play games, dragging and changing the letters around, as he struggled to catch them.

He read everything the school library held, books on history, books on alchemy, old battered translations of German and French science, and soldiers’ memoirs from the Great War, and of course, the few magical texts that all schools had available.

Michael dreamed that he might grow to discover he had magic, that the Crown would recognise him as a Baronet (or a more powerful rank in his wildest fantasies), and grant him lands and title, and send him off to attend universities, where he could read books all day and night.

Today was mid-summer and he was celebrating the solstice by reading long into the night. His parents already slept, but he didn’t let their snores distract him.

He read on until the night-elves had danced the letters into confusion, then resolved to sleep until dawn. He settled down, twisted his alarm clock once to wind it, and set it for four-and-a-half hours. He punched his pillows and buried his head, intending to sleep some.

He laid there, in silence, feeling like time had stopped. Something was different, something —

He pulled his head from the pillow and stared out the window at the stars.

Something called him.

It wasn’t a voice, nor was he certain that it was music.

He was not even convinced that he could hear it at all, but that made it even more maddening. He tried to bury his head, slipping it beneath the pillow again, but somehow that made it worse. The calling music seemed louder.

He silently climbed from his bed and dragged on his rough clothes, the call seemed to stop completely as he tied on his shoes, but came back as soon as he opened his bedroom door and stood uncertainly upon the threshold.

He crept down the stairs, and carefully unlocked the back door in the kitchen.

He paused again, unsure in the doorway, looking out into the porch, and beyond over the dark fields.

Again he heard it, now just at the limits of his hearing, a tinkling musical sound, far in the distance, like rain pattering upon musical instruments, he thought he could make out a voice singing softly too, and it tugged on his soul, dragging him at once, out into the night, but also into his own inner thoughts.

He moved past the pigs, their faint night noises drowned out the music, and he moved into the garden, searching about for the source. One of the cats stared at him from atop the pigsty before turning first her nose, and then her tail, up to him as she shimmied away.

He followed the traces of music from the garden to the south, into the field; behind him, the house was dark against the light horizon in the north.

Now the music drew him west, across the fields, and then downhill along the Mwch Warlock road towards Briarsley, then across into the village lane.

On he walked, stopping to listen in the dark every now and then.

He ignored the owl hoots, as he disturbed their hunting alongside the village hall. The tall hedges gathered over the semi-paved track, creating a green tunnel in the daytime, but at night, it was black as the nearby mines, and Michael eased through the darkness like a part of it.

As he walked, following the musical hints, he noticed the sound of the mines getting louder, so he turned away into the fields again, putting the ridge, and a farm between him and the winding engines.

He climbed the low hilltop and looked around him, trying to locate the musical call. He turned, his gaze sweeping the dark farmland to the east and the south, cattle and sheep moved on the rolling hills, dimly lit against the night. The call was not there, his eyes scanned on, darting between the treetops, and where, he imagined, the treeline of Twisthall Edge lay.

He trawled the shadows for a while, taking in the edge of the gorge where the trees clung tightly to the steep sides of the river valley. From here, he could see down the dale, carved by Twisthall brook as it plunged into the gorge, almost to the river below.

In the gorge itself, gaslights lit the opposite bank. The yellow-orange spheres of light picked out the sharp brickwork on the houses, roosted along the wall like gull nests. Michael could see the masts of boats moored along the quays below the Orichalcum-bridge, though the actual bridge was hidden from sight by the trees of Twisthall Edge, it was marked by the clock-faced steeple of Saint Luke’s perched above it.

Some night bird whistled in the air above him, the noise was loud, and cut across his hunting for the music, it whistled six times, or perhaps six birds whistled. Michael didn’t recognise the bird from its call, it was no plover, teal, swift, or lark that he heard. He stood awhile in the darkness, staring above him for a glance at the whistlers, but he saw none. Although, he thought, he might have heard a seventh whistle in the dark.

As he searched the dark skies for the bird he saw, far above, gliding in the dark clouds and approaching from the south, a light, so powerful it lit a sharp yellow cone in the cloud.

Michael watched it, deciding it was a Mail-ship or perhaps, some Navy vessel. It raced on through the clouds, until its running lights were visible alongside the main light. Then it passed overhead, headed north and drew his eyes back across the gorge, as the Saint Luke’s clock chimed midnight.

The last faint harmonies of the bell seemed to settle into the sound of music once more, and drew him down the slope, headed towards the edge of the trees.

As he descended, the sounds grew in clarity and volume.

There was singing, although Michael couldn’t understand the choristers’ words, which joined with soft notes of bowed strings and trilled flutes. As he reached the bottom of the hill, he began to see lamps drifting in the trees ahead of him. He assumed that he was sneaking up on a gypsy camp, and thinking he might see something interesting, he crouched in the bushes and wormed his way closer.

He had hoped for a gypsy camp, but as he got closer, he saw something more interesting still.

The lamps seemed to be little fluffy balls of white light that drifted and bobbed through the trees, all the while making the whistling and humming noises that he had heard. They held his attention only as long as it took him to spy the source of the singing.

The trees gathered around a pool, enclosing it, and hiding it away. On the steep gorge-side, opposite the hill he had just descended, a spout poured spring water into the pool and in the water, a woman was bathing.

Her skin glistened with the iridescent reflected light of the floating puffballs, as she splashed and soaked her long limbs, and dipped and dunked herself in the bath-deep water.

While she bathed, she sang.

Her voice haunted Michael, drawing him, breathless, closer to the pool.

Her song carried him gradually forward, until he stepped free of the trees, into the space where the lights drifted like Will-o-the-wisps above the water. Then, just as he would have been able to see her face (and perhaps, he dimly hoped, some other interesting features), the puffball lights vanished, the music abruptly ceased, and the woman stopped singing.

Michael stood perfectly still in the darkness, the only noise was the water gurgling from the spout and babbling into the pool below, but he fancied he could still hear her breathing, and the soft trickles of water as they caressed her form.

Why camest thou to this place of mine? To spy on me with that face of thine? her voice asked as it rose from the water.

There was something else to her voice, some musical, tinkling noise like glasses toasting marked her ‘t’s.

I’m sorry, I heard music. It… it called me here, Michael whispered.

He heard a soft tinkling just behind his ear, and felt a single drop of water that fell upon his neck. It was cold as it trickled into his shirt, and it carried a shiver with it.

Well, thou hast a mighty gall, to gaze ‘pon my bathing pool, but if called thou were, and called thou came; then I would prefer, to know thy name, she breathed behind his ear.

He could feel the presence of her body in front of him, her head dipping down and around as she spoke, he knew that if he stretched his hands forwards he would brush her moist skin. He shivered again, a different, new shiver. He realised suddenly she was waiting for something, what was it?

Oh, my name… um-Michael, sorry my name is Michael, Michael Posenhall.

And so at last hath his tongue been untied, so now, um-Michael, Michael, Michael Posenhall; does thy stutter something else hide? Perhaps my uncomeliness did thee enthral, she whispered again, now coming from the other ear, although he had not sensed her movement at all.

Uncomeliness?

Oh no, he said, I think you are very beautiful, I don’t know if your face is as beautiful as your voice, but it must be at least as beautiful as your shoulder, and that was very pretty indeed.

She chuckled, a sound that blended with the gurgling and babbling of the pool and spout.

It is long since any called me beauty, for much more am I known for my duty. In truth man-child, didst thou see me so, as a Greek nymph from so long ago? Saw thee not an aged crone, washing laundry all alone? she asked him, her voice drifting across his face, so close he could feel her words upon his lips, driving more shivers into him.

I don’t understand, I saw you bathing, I’m sorry. I should go, Michael said, making to turn away.

Why rush away now, with thy damage done? Does knowest not thou, what prize may be won? her still cool and wet finger drew slowly along his jawline, her long round tipped fingernails gently scratched in the hair around his ears.

The shiver became a shudder, as his legs trembled beneath him, and fire lit his spine.

Would thou giveth of thyself to me? For that which is freely given is law and not one of the courts could disagree; for all is as one, in both love and war. Wouldst thou be forever, mine? As I would be, forever, thine?

Michael moaned something as she ran her fingers down his neck, and across his collarbone. He murmured something affirmative as she slid her nails across his chest, his shirt buttons seemed to fly apart before her hand. Then she paused, her hand and nails stroking across the top of his waistband, waiting for something. He struggled to think, why would she stop this pleasure now? Was she thinking second thoughts? No, he realised she was waiting for him to answer.

Yes, he gasped, as her hand continued.

A while later the lights and music returned, playful and whizzing about the two lovers as they laid entwined with their feet splashing in the pool.

Michael stirred from his stupor as the lights danced by, and rolled to look at his lover in the light. She smiled contentedly back, still tangled with him. There was something strange in her smile, not the ardour or passion; Michael scanned her beautiful seeming face, studying it.

She saw the love and lust, then intrigue, then confusion, and finally fear as each passed across his face. She sighed, Sweet, Michael my love, now you should cry, for in truth Ginny Greenteeth am I.

She grinned, showing him her teeth. Each one stood like a shard of broken bottle-green glass, Michael jerked, trying to pull away, but Ginny was quick, lithe, and strong, and wouldn’t let him struggle from her lover’s grasp.

*

The odd boy’s corpse floated face down in the shallow pool surrounded by dark clouds of blood.

The ancient Færy woman raised her eyes to the lightening sky, then stooped over the corpse and spoke softly to the stream as it flowed from her pool, Sabrina, mother of mine, see my gift so freely given, before the light of dawn-shine, was loved and drowned and heart riven.

As she began to fade with the sunrise, she looked upon her hands, and reflection, and saw the promise of Michael’s vision staring back from the rippling surface.

She chuckled, Come what may for others here, for me this will be a very good year.

Sky-kraken

A Tale of Alchemical-Romance

Well, what about him? Ms. Hildebrandt Drakenfaust asked her companion in her precise Swiss accent, as she gestured with her glass.

Her companion, Lady Samantha Abigail Meredith Twisthall, twelfth Viscountess Twisthall, stole a glance across the first-class lounge of the Air Ship Sabrina; she coughed slightly to disguise the snort of derision that tried to escape as she looked at the gentleman-in-question, and pretended to be listening hard to the string quartet.

Colonel Walrus-face? No, one look in his eyes would tell you that he is a war-hero. Noble and worthy, but haunted by the faces of all the men he has killed, and, no doubt, his long-lost love. Hardly suitable material for a husband, can you imagine the long silences over dinner, besides he must be at least thirty years too old for me. No Hilde, he’s not for me, I’m afraid, she said, her upper-class English accent tinged with hints of Cymric singsong vowels and a smattering of Teutonic gutturals still lingering from the trip.

It is true, I hardly believe he would survive the wedding night, Hildebrandt whispered, and took the stare it prompted, delighting in the mixture of mock outrage and amusement, so what about him then?

Who?

Mr. Top-hat, or for that matter Mr. Bowler sat with him.

Honestly? Well, Mr. Top-hat is obviously a barrister and Mr. Bowler his clerk. I cannot honestly imagine being married to someone who ranks in the Autumn Court; they see only the worst of people. Even beyond that though, look at that face. A face as long as that can so rarely smile, and he has the look of one haunted by a great many childhood illnesses and probably night-terrors. Yes, I imagine him plagued by phobias and neuroses. Why he probably writes horror stories for a hobby, and grim, I imagine, they would be, no — I think not. As for the clerk: well, perhaps, he is a solicitor, for he has some intelligence, but that hair, the bowler hat is a necessary distraction of course, or he would find himself being stared at as some sort of lunatic, and of course he is a colonial, probably one of the old Dutch, perhaps New Jorvic.

How can you possibly know that? Hildebrandt gasped, unbelieving.

Actually, I heard him speaking at the bar, his companion is Sir Phillip L Howard, Lawyer to the Bar of the Autumn Court and from the New England colony, and he is a Mr. Long, clerk to the same, I heard his tall friend call him Frank. I ask you, what sort of a name is Frank Long? Lady Twisthall explained

I think that may count as cheating, okay we’ll put your two lawyers aside, does anyone catch your fancy?

I must admit I am intrigued by him, Lady Samantha pointed with her glass, Admiral Talbot. He seems young, debonair — adventurous even.

Admiral Talbot? Hildebrandt glanced around, taking in the man and noting his two Great-Dane-headed Talbot companions. "Oh, I see. Him I know. He is young, and adventurous. He is a mercenary commander in fact, I can’t tell you the true story of the hat, but I’m told an English Admiral gave it him when he was just a boy, something to do with a shipwreck, or pirates, in the Indian Ocean. I happened to ask the purser about his companions, Lieutenant Turk James Grandanois Talbot and Lieutenant Flora Philip Grandanois Talbot, they are also mercenaries, English Talbots originally now carrying Swiss passports, both are armed, and are highly respected members of the Theriocephalic League, of course."

Of course, and did your conversation with the purser reveal the commander’s name?

Francis or Franz, I think, and some English surname, Robertson — or something. I was warned he was trouble, and to keep you clear of him.

Lady Samantha sighed, Of course you were. Well then, what about Lord Thor over there, he has a proud and defiant look, very muscular, what can you tell me of him?

I don’t… Oh! No, no, he is not for you milady. That is Baron Evan Johnson, Hildebrandt dropped to a whisper, also called Knight Errant Ifan Jones, he is a spy, although whether for, or against, the Crown is a bit of a mystery to those not engaged as spies themselves.

Oh, well now you just intrigue me Hildebrandt, do you imply that you are a spy?

No my lady, I am your bodyguard, as such I make it my business to know of, but not to know, such people. Perhaps, you may find greater diversion with the gentleman across the table from him, he is not known to me.

Who Lord Hairy-Corpulence? Lady Samantha asked shocked.

Yes, I suppose, Hildebrandt laughed.

I think not, his body aside, if such a thing could be moved aside; he has far too much interest in gripping that briefcase. If whatever is so important that one cannot let go of it, or place it with the purser, well, let us just say that: unless it is the heart of his true love, or his wife’s lover, is not the property of a spontaneous lover, and we’ll leave it at that.

Him then, behind Lord Corpulence? Hildebrandt asked.

"Lord Hairy-Corpulence, who Lord Messy-hair or Lord Stick-insect?"

Well, both your nicknames answer my question rather too fully, Hildebrandt laughed again, but I actually meant the one that you’ll probably call Lord Pith-Helmet.

Him? Really Hildebrandt? No, I rather think not. He’s a professor, although I must confess I cannot remember with which college, nor can I remember his name properly, Sentimental? Pedimental? Something like that — have you noticed his servant? Rumours are he made that himself, as he kept losing human servants.

What the short, ginger-haired man with the Mechanimal eye sat beside him eating a banana? Oh my! Is that actually an Orang-utan in a dinner jacket?

It is. The man is a card-carrying eccentric, explorer and inventor, owns a manor near Brighton somewhere. I wish I could remember his name, Lady Twisthall vexed.

But we’ve established it’s something mental, Hildebrandt smiled.

Lady Samantha laughed, nodding.

Perhaps Lord Cavendish? Hildebrandt indicated the famously ‘rather-dashing-boffin’ (as the papers styled him) in his thirties.

Lady Samantha rolled her eyes, That man has more hobbies than is natural in five men, what with all the hunting, shooting, riding, painting, photography, magick and science — I ask you, is there room left for being a good husband?

Why only you could find fault with such a man, but I must confess, since you didn’t mention the musicianship, inventing, drinking, gambling, or womanising, I think you are probably correct.

Now, who do you think they are? Lady Samantha pointed at a pair of men deep in a discussion at a table, one was incredibly tall, the other was also quite tall, but proximity to his companion gave him a short appearance.

The taller man suddenly broke off his conversation and looked around the room, briefly staring back with piercing dark eyes. His companion also turned, following the gaze and passed some comment that caused his companions silver and black beard to twist around a wry grin. The man raised a glass in an obvious toast across the lounge, which Lady Samantha acknowledged with a blush and a nod.

Ah, well if Colonel Walrus-face is too old for you, then both those gentlemen are doubly so. The shorter man is the Earl of Whitstable; his rather elegant companion is the Duke of Tufnell Park.

Lady Twisthall gasped and leant closer to her companion, That’s the Duke of Tufnell?! The Demon-hunter?

Both he and the Earl would deny that last part, if you asked. He is, of course, one of the most powerful mages in all of Europa. It is a matter of record that he was offered the thrones of both Norway and Sweden, during the war, Hildebrandt noted.

Lady Twisthall? a new voice interrupted the conversation, and both women turned to seek the speaker.

Your grace, how delightfully unexpected to see you, I wasn’t aware you were on board, Lady Samantha smiled, looking up at the Lord Edric Sylva the third, Sixteenth Duke of Pengwern, and her nearest neighbour as the aristocracy measure things, she made to stand.

Please, no need to stand, may we join you? the Duke indicated his wife standing coldly behind him, we are returning from Munich, and would be rather glad of some familiar company.

Of course, please join us, Hildebrandt?

Hildebrandt stood at once, and moved the chairs back for the Duke and Duchess to sit. The elderly Duke collapsed into the seat with a long drawn out sigh. His wife glided into position with nothing more than a curt nod to Lady Twisthall, once the two nobles were seated Hildebrandt moved to take position by her mistress’ left shoulder.

How did you find Zurich and the concert you were attending? I hope you found it better than this quartet, the Duke asked.

Beautiful, of course, Lady Samantha answered, Though I have seen better weather on previous visits. The concert was everything I had hoped, but then the Swiss appreciate music in a way that I think the English could learn from.

I have often said the same. The Germans too, I feel, are also our superiors in that regard, regrettably. Perhaps I may try and do something about that, he smiled.

Well, I for one, Your Grace, would be grateful, although I suspect that my maid would rather the English had some failings, so that her own people may enjoy some aspect of superiority, Lady Samantha joked.

The Duke laughed. Indeed, Ms Drakenfaust, is this so?

My Lord Duke, the Swiss are a humble people, we acknowledge the German’s as the greatest composers, the Italians as the greatest musicians and sculptors, and the French as the greatest lyricists and painters, Hildebrandt answered carefully.

And the English? Lady Mary snapped, suddenly coming to life.

Your Grace, the English are the finest playwrights and magicians, upon that, all of Europa agrees. For my own part, I enjoy your music, these strained strings aside, and your art, in each regard you are clearly the second best of Europe, perhaps with your husband’s guidance your country may become truly the first of all nations, Hildebrandt responded politely.

"Ha! A truly diplomatic answer, Ms. Drakenfaust, but I think you seek to flatter our country. The commoners have little love of art or music; have you heard the music they play to each other, and those horrible things that have appeared in the popular charts? Quite ghastly, at least this Quartet seems to understand real music, even if they cannot quite manage to play it. No, I think we have a long way to go before we would rival any Europeans in those regards. Perhaps, when I go to parliament I may have some quiet words with members of the Dawn and Summer Courts and see if we might promote the arts in the education of the masses. A little educated appreciation may do much to quieten the rabble," the Duke declared.

My Lord Duke, are the rumours true then? Lady Samantha asked.

Rumours, my dear? the Duke sat forward, obviously intrigued. What rumours would that be?

Zurich was ablaze with talk that Your Grace is to be made either Speaker for the Crown, First Lord of the Treasury or Speaker for the Noon Court before the year’s end.

The Duke looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment before he laughed pleasantly, My word, don’t things get about, I suppose there is no harm in you knowing that I have been offered all of those positions.

Will you be visiting our son upon your return to Pengwernshire? the Duchess suddenly asked.

Lady Samantha did her best to hide the discomfort that clouded her face, I have not yet made any firm plans, in that regard.

Then you will refuse his proposal? the Duchess asked sharply.

Come Mary, don’t pressure Lady Samantha. Her and young Edric’s engagement is a matter between them, the Duke smiled, before adding, Though I would say you two would be a fine match.

Thank you, my Lord Duke. No offence to your family, or yourselves, but I remain undecided in this regard. The Marquis has many fine qualities, and I was, of course, honoured by his proposal, but I do not yet love your son as he loves me, and such a match is rarely one of happiness to both parties.

Well, I for one think he made the right choice to offer his hand to one so wise. Give him time and he will win you over, I’m sure, the Duke smoothed, as his wife glowered terribly, the Duke then looked briefly around the room, Goodness, if I’m not mistaken that’s Tufnell over there. Mary, we must go and ask him how his trip to Hungary went, if you will excuse us Lady Twisthall.

Of course, Your Grace, she said and stood as they rose from the table and made their way across the lounge.

Hildebrandt returned to the seat the Duke had vacated, That could have gone better, no?

What on Earth were they doing here? Lady Samantha whispered.

Returning from Munich, I believe the Duke covered that, Hildebrandt grinned.

Oh god, what an absolute arse I must have made of myself. I almost died when she asked if I was planning to visit her son, what was I supposed to answer — ‘No, he’s a creepy, little turd of a man and I’d rather die alone than face another moment of his company?’

Isn’t that what you said? Hildebrandt laughed.

Shut up. Oh please, Lady Twisthall begged, let them stay over there talking to Tufnell.

They did join the Duke and Earl at their table, though Lady Samantha was completely aware of the Duchess’ pointed face glancing back at her table. When a steward entered a few moments later and declared that the Observation Deck was now opening, she breathed a sigh of relief and rose.

Come Hildebrandt, I think I might like to see the view, she announced, perhaps a little too loudly, before leaving.

The companions passed along the corridor until they reached the heavy furs and goggles hanging from the walls near the doors that opened upon the deck. Their silent tension began to ease, as they each swaddled themselves in the luxurious furs. Hildebrandt pulled her own pair of goggles from somewhere beneath her skirts and handed Lady Samantha a pair from the wall. They giggled at each other before opening the door and stepping out into the cool, noon air.

The air was frigid, leaving icy fingers of frost across the metal of the bulwarks and patterned the deck with a crisp hoar.

Lady Samantha stopped to stare up at the huge masts, topped with the gently rotating metal parasol affairs that the ship hung from. Her mage senses reached out, and she watched the planetary colours as they streamed and twisted through the various alchemically purified blades, pulling on some, pushing on others, and she listened to the soft, choral song that the ship sang as her master pilot teased her controls. She watched the golden blades flap slightly, and the solar note grew in strength upon the deck, captured less by the blades, and the ship began to descend.

Hildebrandt, are ship’s Captain’s mages? she wondered aloud.

Some are, but the pilots aren’t, they’re remarkable good astrologers. I once dated a pilot in Basel, incredibly talented man, always seemed to know what the right thing— Hildebrandt answered, then paused and looked sharply at her employer. My lady, are you still husband shopping?

No, Lady Samantha started, and then stopped, mulling her thoughts over, Well… perhaps, tell me more of your air pilot,

Giggling girlishly and slipping occasionally the two — more friends, than employer and bodyguard — clutched at each other as they worked their way towards the gunwales.

Hildebrandt expounding upon her pilot’s many amazing talents, and unbelievable physical attributes.

They reached the edge of the deck and for the first time looked upon something other than the deep blue of the heavens.

— sore, which is why you should try before you buy. Oh my!

The women stared out over the incredible vista. Below them fluffy, white clouds cast deep shadows onto the sea. Ahead, on the rich green of crop fields, the same clouds became enormous floating sheep grazing on the hilltops. Just visible, along the interface between the sea and the rolling downs, were the sharp flashes of the white cliffs.

Lady Samantha craned to look around, Look there, a little off the stern, you can see France. Oh and look, the moon is just rising. Hildebrandt, you can see, the crescent is just like a shark’s fin.

The ship was dropping quite quickly towards the coastline ahead, but Lady Samantha lifted her eyes from the scene to glance back towards the rotating, parasol, flashing in the sunlight, she shielded her goggles and felt once again the surge of vision and song. The silver blades, tipped over more steeply now, the entire parasol twisted slightly into a new alignment, and the passengers felt the powerful surge forwards, as the pilot now pushed off the risen moon. The gold rotors tweaked slightly and the ship ceased descending. AS Sabrina was down in amongst the clouds, and it seemed as though they were great islands rising from a slowly rolling jigsaw sea of green and yellow.

The warmer, thicker air at this lower altitude had tempted more passengers onto the deck and most were not wearing the thick furs or goggles now.

Hildebrandt pushed her goggles up onto her hair and shrugged off the thick fur. She then took Lady Samantha’s goggles and coat over her arm as they stared across the fields and now patchy woodland.

It really is amazingly beautiful, breathed Lady Samantha.

Indeed it is. Please, forgive my interruption, ladies.

Lady Samantha turned, gracefully, but with one hand gripping the rail behind her. Hildebrandt turned less elegantly, and her right arm slipped beneath the coats as well, seeking out one of her many concealed weapons. She did not relax when she saw it was the Duke of Tufnell Park and a group of several first-class loungers, although Lady Samantha seemed more than slightly relieved not to find the Duke of Pengwern amongst their number.

Why, my Lord Duke, only your esteemed company could make such a view better. To what do I owe such an honour? Lady Samantha politely responded.

Forgive me Lady Twisthall, I was speaking with the Duke of Pengwern, and I mentioned that I found it unlikely that two beautiful women would be travelling unprotected across Europe by air. To my great surprise, the Duke informed me that you and your companion had nothing to fear from Commoner or Noble. Only then did he tell me who you were. May I say, it is an honour to meet you, and your charming bodyguard, Ms Drakenfaust. I did ask Edric to introduce me to you both, but he refused remarking you would be quite approachable without him, and would not have an attack of the vapours over such a thing as a lack of introductions, he conversed amiably and refreshingly frankly, although his frankness was obviously raising eyebrows in the group behind.

I see. Well, Your Grace, I can understand his reticence, and since you have been so frank with me allow me to amuse you with my own bluntness. Her Grace the Duchess and I do not see eye to eye over the benefits of my marrying her son. Who is, of course, the apple of his mother’s eye, and bears no relation to a piglet biting an apple, nor can she understand the strong desire to make cider that I feel in his presence.

This drew embarrassed laughs from the crowd behind him.

Well, that would certainly explain his reluctance, and having met the boy, I can completely understand your position. Although, I do hear good things of him from the Colleges… Ha-hmm! — but I fear I am allowing myself to be drawn off the point, he laughed, his eyes sparkling with delight.

Ah, yes Your Grace, is it a bet or a demonstration?

He roared with laughter.

You have me already, am I really so transparent? he asked.

No, not at all, Your Grace. This is not unfamiliar territory for me. As you know, I and my magick are quite famous, Lady Samantha purred, so since you have interrupted me, with such —shall we say — presumptuousness, for a parlour trick, would you do me the honour of telling me, is it a bet or a demonstration that you are after. Bear in mind, Your Grace, that I would be within my rights to challenge yourself, for all that it might cost you; a fact that undoubtedly occurred to the Duke of Pengwern when he set you on this path.

I see, again forgive my presumptuousness, it was a bet, but I will leave you ladies be, the Duke said.

Oh no, not so quick, my Lord Duke, you have not had my answer yet, but one more question first, what was the wager? Lady Samantha actually placed her hand upon his arm, to stop him from stepping away.

The wager? Why Cavendish bet Bromyard that even though you are both of a rank, he would not even be able to complete his casting against you. Bromyard, for his part, believes such a thing cannot be possible, as you did not attend a true school, but were only assessed and sent home.

No, my Lord Duke, I referred to the terms of the wager, not the circumstances, which are in my experience always the same, Lady Samantha directed an eyebrow to arch imperiously, it was a look she had practised for long hours in a mirror, she was quite good at it.

Oh, forgive me, wasting your time with such nonsense, they bet their colours, the Duke flustered.

Not at all Your Grace, why I believe you have been touched by the hand of the Duke of Pengwern. He, or his good wife, has placed this idea in all your heads as a message to me. I do not believe you would have behaved so otherwise, and the Duke, as all of his line, is a master of manipulation. I believe it will be better to allow your bet to play. Of course, the Duke may have intended instead to cause the Viscount Bromyard some loss of title, in his challenge with me, so I will waive that requirement of the duel, if you are amenable.

Well, Bromyard?

Of course, why the idea is ridiculous, anyway, Lord Messy-hair responded, nice to have a name to go with the mental description.

Do you require a second? the Duke asked, gesturing towards Cavendish.

No, my Lord Duke, she does not, if you wouldn’t mind, Hildebrandt grinned handing him the furs.

Oh, of course, and Bromyard’s second?

The man shook his head gruffly and Hildebrandt stepped back and took back the coats.

No damage to the ship, agreed? Direct strikes only, Lady Twisthall asked.

Of course, as you say, wouldn’t do to kill a couple of Duke’s over a bet, Viscount Bromyard bumbled.

Then in your own time, sir, Lady Samantha said, her neck and shoulder muscles tensed suddenly into sharp relief and then relaxed, vanishing beneath her perfect skin once more.

Bromyard eyed her suspiciously, I can’t do this, she is clearly not capable of stopping my magic, and she hasn’t even taken a proper stance.

Lady Samantha sighed and changed her position, Well, I was trying to go easy on you, but if you insist on being a fool, here have your rope, do you recognise this stance?

Yes, why that’s Hoffman’s press, damnably tricky defence to get right, are you sure?

Oh, come on Bromyard, she has selected her defence, you must attack, or forfeit.

Oh very well, but I think this is a joke in incredibly poor taste, he moved to cast.

He drew on elemental fire from the sun and elemental air from all about them. Compressing the energy within himself, he felt it change, become lightning within his body, he moved to the second phase, compressing, and accelerating the energy, making it whirl within himself. He eased the power up along his arms and held it in his fingertips, crackling in space. Then he moved, drawing back him arm as though to throw it at Lady Samantha.

She turned her heel slightly and raised her hand, two fingers moving upward, and then she paused.

Lightning suddenly erupted across Lord Bromyard, as he was halfway through his throw. He twitched and danced in the throes of the full force of his own ability, before she deliberately completed the press and extinguished his magick. The press of counter-magick swelled across the deck, engulfing the spectators.

My word, the Duke of Tufnell Park exclaimed.

Lady Samantha, dropped the stance, but magick did not flood back in.

How are you maintaining that? Lord Cavendish asked astonished.

I’m not. Hildebrandt! Lady Samantha called.

Hildebrandt threw the furs to the ground and stepped beside her employer, her hands were each carrying a machine-musket that she pointed about the deck with, before suddenly moving both up.

Sky-kraken! she yelled as her muskets spat fire at something moving over the masts.

A tentacle whipped in under the parasol and scooped up Viscount Bromyard, from the deck.

Another pair of tentacles snaked in from the other side. There was a disorientating pulse of Psycho-electricity. Passengers fell to the deck, stunned, but smiling, some giggling at their own dizziness.

The Duke of Tufnell Park, obviously confused, raised his arms in a first casting position.

Lady Samantha drew breath to cry out to him, but had it knocked from her as Hildebrandt suddenly grabbed her around the waist and dragged her back. Machine-muskets blazed up at the tentacles as they snatched through the air where she had just been and snagged the confused Duke.

He yelled incoherently as the translucent limb dragged him across the deck, through the air, and up beyond the slowly rotating metallic parasol.

Hildebrandt half-carried, half-dragged Lady Samantha back, across the deck, towards the stern and the lifeboats.

The ship shuddered and Hildebrandt staggered, pitching them both forward onto the rolling deck. Lady Samantha slid along the smooth wooden planking, until she was able to grab hold of one of the high-tensile Orichalcum cables that secured the mast to the hull. She wrapped her arms and legs about the huge metal winch assembly and held on tight, struggling to regain her breath. Hildebrandt, slid slowly down the pitching deck until she manage to grab hold of a doorway just as the door swung open and spilled forth two men.

The first through the door and onto the rolling deck was a short, dark-haired man, with eyes like dark caves on a stormy night, beneath a brown mountain peak of a flying helmet. He smiled at Hildebrandt as she gripped the doorway, and she thought she caught sight of primitive people lighting fires in those caves as they began dancing and painting on the walls.

He helped her to her feet, while his taller, lighter-haired, but similarly helmeted, companion raced up the slope of the deck trying to draw a bead on the Sky-kraken with a large Tesla Corporation plasma rifle.

Lady Samantha, she gasped, pointing out across the pitching deck and the screaming first-class passengers.

The man glanced across at the huge cleat, with the Viscountess wrapped around it, and looked up at the tentacle’s and the metallic disc of the Kraken’s upper body and pulled two ornate brass-coloured toneloques from his thick felt coat.

Lady Samantha, is it? Well, we’ll see her alright, we will, don’t you never mind, he said with a Cymric accent, and raced off across the deck firing precisely tuned and aimed sever-shots at any tentacles that dared cross his path.

JT, I need to get a clean shot at the disc, his tall companion called out in the well-rounded vowels of the nobility, he kept pumping the charging handle on the gun while holding it pressed into his shoulder.

Just take the shot, Abe, the Cymraeg man cried back, and raised his sever-locks to cut a tentacle from the air between Abe and the disc.

Abe pulled the trigger and filled the air with an ozone smell and the feeling before a storm. The small ball of plasma shot up through the rigging and a gap in between the flight vanes to strike the silvery disc that made up the main body of the Sky-kraken.

The disc jerked suddenly to the side, whipping tentacles across the decks and causing the Sky-kraken to whistle a hauntingly hollow howl.

Abe twisted the rifle on his shoulder, pumping the charging handle twice as he did so, and sighted with the gun almost upside down, on the slightly more clearly exposed Sky-kraken disc.

Hildebrandt could see that the metallic disc was central to the Sky-kraken’s translucent flesh, the tentacles dangling from the edges and the centre of the disc.

The plasma rifle fired again, this time Hildebrandt got a good look at the impact of the shot, which aggressively flicked the metallic disc inside the creature down and into the windows of the first-class lounge.

The ship trembled with the impact, and they all stared forward at the tentacles writhing in the air, before they caught, looped about, and began tugging on the stays and mast, trying to drag the body free.

Abe threw the plasma rifle to JT; he drew his sabre and raced across the deck, as the bow started sinking quickly. He stopped by the pale, clinging, and gasping form of Lady Twisthall and seemed to stab down at her.

Hildebrandt cried out, No! and shook herself out of her shock, just in time to realise that the sabre had run through Lady Samantha’s corsetry, severing the laces. Lady Samantha Twisthall gasped great gulps of air.

Milady, he bowed, swatting a pseudopodic tentacle aside with the sabre.

She smiled up at