14. The Northern Pacific Goldline Express

The Dust-driven engine clanked and hummed, its wheels churning up the tracks a good bit faster than Lappeus was comfortable with, but he affected a pose of nonchalance in the club car. While the three-car train with its specialized engine certainly made travel between the city and the mining towns far easier, the tall pines zipping past the windows troubled the former constable more than he would ever admit. Not so his boss. Herr Founder Villard lounged in a vast easy chair, swirling his scotch in a crystal glass before having another swig of it, as if before his own hearth in the parlor of his mansion on Pittock Hill.

Villard Hill, Lappeus corrected himself silently. Though all Concordians older than the Cataclysm tended to use the original designations for places, after the fire and the rebuilding, their generous benefactor was persistent in encouraging people to use names which better reflected the city’s rebirth. Lappeus remembered when it had been the Pittock Mansion, but when the City Council decreed the grand castle of a home the official residence of their newly elected leader, Villard renamed it almost as fast as he’d moved in. Lappeus smiled, recalling that election. First one was easy. Everyone loved him, the grand old bastard, investing so much in rebuilding the city. After that, all he had to do was pay for the booze and the muscle. Lappeus had been instrumental in directing the many voting press gangs in subsequent elections.

“Vat causes such an enigmatic smile, James?”

Lappeus glanced over at his employer. Villard’s white mustache stretched ear to ear in a cheerful smile, his eyes bright, cheeks rosy in the lamplight of the car. Damn if the sumbitch don’t always look like Santa Claus without his red hat, Lappeus thought, and his own smile turned to a grin. He tossed back the last of his glass and held it up for a refill. The coolie attendant plucked the glass from his fingers and in seconds replaced it full of smooth scotch, then stepped back to stand at the ready by the bar. Traveling with Villard on the Goldline route did have its perks. “Oh, just thinkin’ about election season comin’ up soon,” Lappeus drawled. The car jostled a bit as he drank, and he pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket to dab his graying beard.

Villard chuckled. “Indeed it is. Do you haff sufficient men to attend ze polls zis year?” He beckoned for a cigar, giving Lappeus a questioning look.

Lappeus held up a hand to indicate he was fine, and carefully pondered the query. “I believe so. Are we runnin’ the Voting Train again this year?” Giving the loggers the day off, and a train with fully-stocked open bar to transport them to the city, had proved immensely successful. Lappeus hadn’t even needed the ballot-counters he’d hired at the office next to the depot; the drunken louts had unanimously voted to retain their liquorous benefactor as the Chief Officer of Concordia.

“Vy not? It seemed popular last time.” Villard puffed the rare tropical tobacco and watched the cloud slowly dissipate in the closed car. “I haff been remiss in thanking you, James. Vere it not for your keen attention, Humbert might have swindled me far more.”

Lappeus inclined his head. “Well, the Oro Fino didn’t get to be the finest variety establishment in Concordia through inattention to the books.”

Villard laughed. “You are a man of many talents! Saloonkeeper, theatre impresario, gambler und pimp...und now ze best lieutenant I haff ever had.”

Lappeus pretended to be insulted, pointing the hand holding his drink at his boss. “Henry, you wound me! I far prefer the term ‘consort coordinator.’” He grinned at Villard’s continuing chuckles, then turned serious. “I am glad you’re gonna take a look at the books. I’m not entirely sure I estimated the whole dollar amount of the little bastard’s perfidy accurately.” Less than a week ago, Lappeus had confirmed his suspicions of embezzling in the St Helens camp, when he’d compared the various ledgers detailing the operations of both the logging and mining efforts run by the Columbia Concordia Venture, major funnels of cash flow for the Northern Pacific empire. The regional accounts manager, one Berthold Humbert, had been skimming profits before turning them over to the monthly collection agent. Lappeus was still annoyed that the agent, Smythe, hadn’t noticed any discrepancies. He suspected Smythe had been bribed. Ah, well, he’ll talk soon enough. Been hung up in the trees for, what, fourteen hours now? He checked his watch. Fifteen. I’ll have Fitzit and Groom haul him down tomorrow morning and see what he has to say for himself. Of course, it was possible the agent simply wasn’t bright enough to catch on, and in that case, he ought to be replaced anyway.

Villard nodded. “Ze Helens mine is our top producer right now. Of course I am happy to take a look.” He puffed thoughtfully on the cigar. “Vat did you do vit Humbert?”

Surprised, Lappeus shrugged. His boss rarely asked for details after an order was given to “take care of” a business matter. “Took him by kraken over the smokin’ crater atop the mountain an’ dropped him in.”

Villard seemed keenly interested. “Did he break, or burn?”

“Looked like he burned afore he even hit the magma.”

“Vitnesses?”

Lappeus grinned again. “Of course. His secretary.”

Villard nodded, satisfied. “Goot.” The terrified clerk would be extra careful in his daily tallies from now on, and might even whisper warnings to whomever Villard appointed as the new accountant. Noting his lieutenant’s shifting in his chair, Villard said, “Ve vill pause to inspect ze engine bearings at Yale Camp. Time enough to stretch your legs there before ve head up ze mountain.”

Lappeus agreed with a nod. The conversation turned to whoring. Villard enjoyed stories from the back rooms of the Oro Fino Variety Hall almost as much as Lappeus enjoyed telling them. It was one of many mutual interests. Lappeus had stashed some prime flesh in the servants’ car, knowing Villard would want a bedwarmer or two during their stay at the lodge.

When the train slowed for its scheduled route inspection at the tiny station at the south end of Yale Lake, Lappeus noticed a clerk running up to the car door even before it stopped. He joined the Northern Pacific guardsman at the door, one hand gently touching his six-shooter on his hip beneath his coat. Dust-pistols might be all the rage, but the former professional gambler preferred the accuracy of his old Colt. The young man who breathlessly asked to speak to Mr Villard wore a telegraph operator’s cap. Lappeus relaxed, and stepped down from the car, forcing the clerk to back up. Villard disembarked, and took in the scene at a glance. “Vat is ze matter?”

“Oh, sir, Mr Villard, sir – there’s an urgent telegraph for you from Concordia!”

“Let me haff it.” The clerk immediately placed a small note in the Founder’s broad hand. Lappeus waited, amused by the clerk’s nervous wringing of his cap. Poor kid’s probably never even spoken to his boss before. That’s right, kid. You’d best be respectful.

Villard frowned, eyes still on the paper. “What’s the problem?” Lappeus asked.

Villard answered slowly. “James...I zink perhaps best if you stay here.” He looked at the telegraph clerk. “Send word to Rubgelt. Tell him Lappeus vill deal vit it. Und send an order to ze railyards, to at once ready ze Goldline Number Two und come vit all speed here to pick up Mr Lappeus. Go.” The young man mangled a salute, not sure whether to do it with his cap off or on, then ran stumbling back to his office.

Lappeus glanced around at the tiny station, displeasure growing in his belly. Get off here? Return to Concordia? Christ, that’ll be another three hours hangin’ about this Nowhere Depot ‘til the next train arrives. The sky appeared more overcast than usual, portending chilling rain, and the Yale Camp Station was barely a log cabin and a plank platform.

Villard took him by the shoulder and they walked alongside the cars while the engineer supervised the Dustcrafter mechanics checking the moving gears of the burner array. “I know vee vere looking forward to some good steak by ze fire at Helens Camp, my friend, but I fear zis is important enough to send you back.” Lappeus waited, chafing at the thought of less pleasant orders than showing his boss the crooked ledgers in the comfort of the mountain lodge. Villard glanced around once to make sure no one was within hearing, and said quietly, “You recall zat matter of ze missing element from ze Crater?”

“I thought we’d decided it was lost?” Lappeus asked, surprised.

Villard cut the misty air with one hand. “Nein. My operative returned to ze city a few days ago. He reported zat ze Krakenpilot of ze expedition vas unnaturally close to Autumnson...and ze last sighting we had of ze kraken, it vas badly wounded but flying nort’vest. Since ze element vas not recovered from ze crash site at ze Crater...”

“How in the hell did they lose a kraken?” Lappeus muttered, disgusted.

Villard shrugged. “Their orders vere to examine ze remains of ze expedition fully. Vit hostiles in ze area, zey did not haff resources to pursue ze wounded beast, vich vas spotted during ze journey out. However, its description matched zat of ze expedition ship, und since Autumnson may haff been alerted by some misstep of ze agents vit him...”

Lappeus snorted. “Never figure how anyone can tell the damn monsters apart. Just a bunch a’ wigglin’ tentacles and ugly eyeballs, all of ‘em.” He considered the possibilities. “You really think it made it home? Without anyone noticing?”

Villard began counting items off on his fingers. “Autumnson vas perhaps, shall ve say, involved vit ze Krakenpilot, who is also missing. Three days ago, ven I visisted Autumnson’s sister to see if perhaps her brutter had tried to send her ze element by Carrier, who should I find zere but Dr Vonken. Vonken vas several times seen in ze company of Autumnson before ze expedition departed.”

“Vonken...the surgeon Coldspark. He started that petition for factory safety standards,” Lappeus recalled. His dark brows bunched in a deep scowl. His men had persuaded the other major backers of the reform drive to let it die, but Vonken had thrown out the agent who’d attempted to bribe him. “Yeah, I remember him. Didn’t know he was involved with the element thing.”

“He may not be. But someting is afoot. He has been visiting ze Autumnson home. Last night I had Rubgelt search his laboratory. Zey had Letriver vit zem but found nutting.”

Lappeus nodded, his thoughts following his employer’s easily. “You think maybe Autumnson sent the element to his house, and Vonken is working with it there to evade detection?”

“Possibly. He has erected a quarantine. Unfortunately, zat may not be a bluff.”

Lappeus shook his head, partly in admiration. “Coldsparks don’t catch plagues, do they? Slick. Very slick. But what about Autumnson’s family? A sister, you said? Have there been any sightings of the kraken or the Pilot?”

“Someting killed vun of my best spies at zat house,” Villard said grimly, “und neitter Vonken nor ze sister vere zere at ze time. Possibly it vas vun of Vonken’s constructs, but who knows? No vun has seen a vounded kraken or any sign of its Pilot, so zey may simply haff just gone to ground, or died on ze way home. But I vant you to look into every connection to Mikael Autumnson. Every angle. I do not trust Vonken.”

Lappeus nodded. The engine whistle blew. “I’ll take care of it,” he assured Villard.

The old man smiled and patted his shoulder. “You alvays do. Thank you, James.” They walked back to the door of the club car, passing the bunk car where the steward could be seen through the windows, making up the sumptuous beds in one of the well-appointed compartments. Lappeus grimaced. Dusk was near, and he’d much rather have spent the hours afterward rolling in his bunk with one of the young ladies he’d brought along especially for this trip. The thought of Villard spending his energy atop the little lotus flower instead of him soured the taste of fine liquor remaining on his tongue, but there was nothing to be said about it. Villard needed him to go take care of what might be a serious situation, and Lappeus excelled at such assignments. There would be other little Chinese girls. Hell, they were practically a dime a dozen in Chinatown. He shook his boss’s hand as Villard paused at the steps. “If there’s aught goin’ on in that house, Henry, I’ll root it out.”

“I haff every confidence in you, old friend.” Villard smiled. “Zis should not take me more zan a few days to sort out. Oh, und James...” He looked back from the doorway of the train car. “Draw yourself an extra bottle from ze storeroom. I vill telegraph from Yale Camp to autorize it.”

Mollified, Lappeus nodded, and tapped his hat in salute as the train pulled out. In mere minutes it accelerated to cruising speed, disappearing up the line, into the thick forests of the mountain’s lower slopes. Lappeus strode into the station, plopped into a seat by a broad plate window, and called loudly for service. A barmaid rushed from the back area, and in broken English asked what he wished to drink. Lappeus ordered a shot and a beer, eyeing the shapely rear of the young woman and the pretty way her long black braid swung when she hurried off to fulfill his request.

Maybe a few hours’ wait isn’t such a bad deal. Idly, he fingered the badge upon his vest, the colors of the Northern Pacific Concordia Division recognized anywhere in Columbia as signifying its wearer was authorized to do, or take, whatever was needed.

James Lappeus knew exactly what he needed right now, and felt no guilt in taking her.

13. Strength Is in His Form, Dismay Goes Before Him

Holly berated her negligence upon discovering the fire had died out in the turret bedroom. She’d sat with Betsy until well after two in the morning, finally retiring to her own bed when she realized she was falling asleep sitting up. She hastened to the bed and gently touched the pale cheek of her tiny houseguest. Asleep, thank heavens, and warm enough. She was glad she’d tucked the thickest down comforter over Betsy last night. At once, she set to sweeping out the grate and building a new blaze in the copper-backed hearth. Her back protested as she stretched. Flames finally began to lick at the pine logs, and she wished for a moment that smug Dr Vonken was here to light a comforting fire without all this labor. Unquestionably smug, yes. But unlike most men, at least he’s useful. As if she’d sent out some silent summons, the door-chimes sounded below. Holly peeked out the window and saw a sleek, bronze-segmented velocipede curling up into a ball like a giant pillbug on the gravel drive. Curiosity arose; she’d always wanted to ride one of those. Father and Mikael both had told her there was no ladylike manner to sit astride one. She glanced at Betsy; the girl slept soundly, and her breathing seemed more even than yesterday; less harsh and wet-sounding.

Vonken said she won’t survive, she thought, and scowled. So what if he’s a Coldspark and a surgeon? That doesn’t make him infallible. She jumped when a now-familiar voice shouted from below: “Blast it, woman, aren’t you up yet? Unlock the door – or do you wish that girl to receive no care from me?” Looking down, Holly saw a frowning mouth below the curling moustache and dark goggles. The doctor wore his official green tunic and carried a fat Gladstone bag. He saw her, and thumped his cane on the ground in annoyance. Holly grinned beneath her protective plague-mask, and went leisurely down the stairs.

“Any trouble from our patient last night?” Vonken asked without preamble, striding past her and mounting the staircase immediately.

“She seems a little better this morning. I watched over her until...”

“Not the girl. Your other guest.”

Holly hurried up after him, irritated yet again at his lack of any manners whatsoever when alone with her. The thought made her pause a step. Oh, Mikael would be livid if he knew I was entertaining a man alone in the house, without even Mrs Bottleby around! Remembering that the only ones who might notice or care now were the Athertons in the next estate made her feel a bit sad. “Quiet all night. And don’t expect me to serve him breakfast!”

Vonken stopped inside the turret bedroom door long enough to set his bag and cane upon the vanity, and to remove his dark lenses. He blinked in the morning light, though it was filtered through the thick swaths of lace at the windows. In just that instant, he looked less intimidating, somewhat unsure of himself, and suddenly Holly wondered who he’d been before the Cataclysm had brought him strange powers and, seemingly, distinct weaknesses. Then he turned sharp blue eyes on her, and the hardness of his gaze made her draw herself up and return it ounce for ounce. “Breakfast would be a marvelous idea, thank you. Porridge for her, more of that tinned crab for the Pilot, and one egg hard-cooked with toast and jam for myself. And tea.” Vonken walked to the bed and checked the pulse of the sleeping child, leaving Holly fuming.

“You expect rather a lot, Doctor,” she said, and he glanced back, unconcerned. He continued to examine Betsy, pulling down the thick blankets in order to press a stethoscope to the tiny chest; Holly noticed how he warmed the instrument with crackling sparks between his palms before he pressed it to her skin. He listened carefully while Holly stood silent.

Finally he tucked the instrument in a pocket of the long tunic, frowning. “She sounds less congested.”

Holly approached, tamping down a flutter of hope. “That’s...that’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s unlikely. Perhaps her drier surroundings have eased her lungs somewhat.” Vonken looked over at the hearth. “Did you build that yourself?”

“I have no servants at present,” Holly said, her pride at having learned the technique from a book on surviving in the wilds tempered by her embarrassment at her impoverished circumstances.

“It’s wrong, unless you’re trying to set the bookshelf on fire.” Vonken stood to face the fireplace, and muttered under his breath, twisting his hands before him; Holly watched the logs rearrange themselves, the fire burning green a moment before settling into a healthy yellow-orange, fascinated despite herself.

“Why ‘Cold’spark? Much of what I’ve seen you do involves warming things,” she pointed out.

Vonken sighed. “I know you must have touched my wards. Didn’t you notice the chill of the lines?” He stepped closer; Holly watched his hands, wary. He held them out before him, fingers turned in toward each other, and bright green arcs of energy wove a cage between his hands. He waited until Holly tentatively reached one hand toward him, then suddenly clasped it between his own, making her squeak in surprise. “Feel that? My hands are cool to the touch, are they not? To me, it always feels thus.”

Holly gulped, but the greenfire wasn’t burning her, despite its fearsome appearance. She stared at the aetheric sparks coursing up her arm, feeling her nerves stuttering, until she had to pull away. Vonken ceased the display. Holly shook her fingers lightly, tingling from tips to wrist, but he hadn’t hurt her. He gave her a thin smile, and she blurted out, “What’s it like, being a living conductor of the aether?”

He looked startled, then snorted a laugh. “I see you’ve read about the aetheric studies done by Faraday and Van Camp.” Betsy made a soft sound, perhaps a muffled groan, and turned in the bed. Lowering his voice, Vonken said, “If it’s not too much of an imposition, Miss Autumnson, that breakfast really would be helpful now.”

Holly bit her lip, feeling mildly insulted, then nodded. “All right, but I shall ask you, in the future, Dr Vonken, to take your meals before you visit, as it is something of a strain on my diminished coffers.”

“As long as Villard thinks you ignorant, I’m sure your pension will be paid,” Vonken said, then pulled a twenty-salmon piece from a pocket and tossed it at her. “For your troubles.”

Holly stared at the coin, at him, and then angrily cast it upon the floor. “You really are the rudest man I have ever met!”

Vonken frowned. “First you’re mad at me for straining your household budget, now you’re insulted I’m willing to contribute to it for a bite of breakfast? Blast it, girl, make up your mind!”

“I am twenty—“ She caught herself with a blush. “I am old enough to have left behind the name of girl, Dr Vonken, and I’ll thank you to remember you are depending on my help right now, and my hospitality! I am not a domestic; I am a grown gentlewoman and a scholar, and I demand you show me more respect!”

Vonken came closer, a puzzled frown on his brow. Holly stood firm, glaring back. Vonken’s gaze roamed down her form and up again, but he didn’t seem to linger at any point, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet. “What makes you think I haven’t? You should know more about my general demeanor, Miss Autumnson, before you fling around that sort of judgment. I care nothing for social niceties—“

“Clearly,” Holly muttered, but fell silent at his deepening frown. In the soft grey light through the window-lace, his eyes looked dark as the sea.

“...And I am sorry if I have given offence. But I have already been up for several hours concocting more Vitae veritae to try and coax some answers out of that wretch upstairs, and before I even attempt that quite likely useless endeavor I must do what I can for this child. I have had a miserable night, after a very destructive visit by the City Watch –“ At Holly’s surprised reaction, he held up one finger for silence. “—and in truth, the one thing I need more than anything right now is a hot meal, so please, please, could you just mix up some milk and oats for me, if you don’t know how to cook anything more substantial? And tea. Strong, hot tea. Unless you would like to interrogate our guest while I tend to the cooking?”

Holly shook her head. She couldn’t meet his gaze. Vonken nodded, and turned to the bed. Holly asked, “You will...you will try to cure her?”

“There is no cure,” he murmured. “But I will do what I can to better her chances of fighting through this.”

She thought about his acerbic comments regarding other Coldspark healers, and didn’t say a word. Betsy continued sleeping, so Holly picked up her skirts and went down to the kitchen. She was able to get the stove fire burning more quickly than on her previous attempts, and soon had tea steeping, an egg boiling, and was hunting through the pantry for jam. The sparseness of the shelves made her wince. Maybe I should have accepted that coin. Perhaps he really is just inept at common courtesies. He did come by as he’d promised, and he’s tending to Betsy first, though surely he’s itching to get upstairs and question that Pilot further. Well, and aren’t you anxious to find out if he knows anything? What if that is Mikael’s expedition Pilot? What if Vonken can determine what happened?

I should be present, she realized. She remembered to stir the cut oats into the milk, which was beginning to steam, and went back into the pantry to locate the tiny vial of vanilla essence. Cook had always put vanilla in her porridge, when she was tiny. She paused, looking at the small brown vial, thinking of happier days. Warmer days, when the sky was blue, and they had real summer, instead of these days of cold greyness and even colder blackness; days when her father would tromp around the house in a merry mood to gather up his children and show them the latest wonder brought by his ships from Singapore, from India, from Sri Lanka or Otaheite. Only a few drops remained in the bottle now. Holly measured two of them into the thickening porridge. No reason this child shouldn’t taste something rich and rare, especially if... Shaking off the gloom, she checked the label on the jam jar. Strawberry. All right, Doctor. If you’re actually going to work with me, you may have the best Autumn Hill still has to offer.

When she carried the laden tray into the turret room, she stopped in surprise at the scene in the bed. Betsy sat up, many pillows propped behind her, a smile of utter joy brightening her face, and Vonken was... Is he playing pat-a-cake with her?

“And one for the ships, and one for the trains, and one for the Watch all out in the rain...well, no, let’s leave them out in the rain with no cake, hm?”

Betsy giggled, and her happy eyes shifted to Holly, causing Vonken to turn. His smile faltered a moment, then changed to one more sedate as he noticed the full tray Holly bore. “Ah, wonderful! Nu gaan we iets goeds hebben.”

Holly recognized just enough from her study of the Dutch books to reply, “Well, I hope this is ‘good things.’ I did my best, though I’m no cook.”

“Your efforts are appreciated,” Vonken said, ignoring his own plate to lift a spoonful of porridge to Betsy’s lips. She swallowed, and looked up at Holly sharply.

“That’s good,” Betsy exclaimed, “not like no porridge I had before!”

Holly laughed. “Just a bit of vanilla, sweet. Like my old Cook made for me, when I was little as you.” She sat on the opposite side of the bed, and took the bowl and spoon from Vonken, gesturing for him to help himself to his own food. He did, giving her a curious curl of his lip beneath that impeccable moustache.

“Perhaps you do your skills too little credit,” he said, cracking the egg and dousing it liberally with pepper and salt. “Mm. Vanilla, hm?” Holly shrugged, feeling a smile spreading despite her worries. “But why did you not prepare anything for yourself?”

She honestly hadn’t thought about it. “I’ll...I’ll eat something once the little one here is tended to.”

“He made me take a horrible syrup,” the girl complained, scrunching up her face. Holly looked at Vonken.

He shook his head. “Just a nutritive concoction. I doubt this child has eaten an orange in her life.”

“It was awful! All sour!”

“Well, we just want you to get better, dear,” Holly said. “Here, can you hold the spoon yourself?...Good, see there? A little stronger today.”

At Vonken’s warning glance, Holly shot him back a cold glare. He shrugged, wiping toast crumbs from his lips with a linen napkin. “Well. Thank you for the meal, Miss Autumnson. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go up and tend to the needs of our guest.” He took the bowl of shredded crab meat and a cup of tea, and without waiting for any answer, left the room.

Holly chafed to go up to the attic, but told herself Vonken would likely make sure the Pilot was fed and other physical necessities seen to before he’d begin the questioning. She concentrated on observing Betsy’s pallor, her energy: was that just a bit of color in her cheeks? A touch more life in her eyes? She knew she might be fooling herself, wanting to see progress where there was none, but at least the girl did seem happier today. When she’d finished the porridge, drunk a little of the weak tea Holly had brewed separately for her, and wobbled off the bed to use the water-closet with Holly’s aid, she lay back in the bed again looking quite content. Holly tucked the blankets around her, adjusted the logs in the fireplace, and returned to the bed to find the child already asleep once more.

Sleep is healing, she reminded herself, trying not to worry. She felt Betsy’s forehead, which was warm but not hot like yesterday, and dry instead of clammy. Has the fever broken? That’s a good sign, surely? Uncertain what to think, she gathered up the used dishes, and paused when she noticed Vonken’s teacup sitting on the nightstand. Why, yes. A good hostess would make sure the Doctor had his tea. With a smile, she tiptoed from the room, and carefully ascended the narrow stairs to the attic.

The old boards creaked loudly, but Vonken didn’t turn to look, busy weaving his hands in some sort of aether-conjuring gesture in front of the marble-black eyes of the Pilot. Holly came closer with tentative steps, noticing the Pilot sat in a chair opposite Vonken without any sort of restraints. Shapes slowly writhed under the dirty rags the creature wore; when the brownish-pink tip of what could only be some sort of cephalopod arm emerged for a moment from under the tunic, she shuddered. She stood just behind Vonken’s chair, noting his stiff posture and the way he continued to hold both hands in front of the Pilot, as if ready to grab him fast, and said nothing which might break his concentration. The Pilot swayed in his chair as if gently buffeted by wind or waves, but didn’t seem likely to rise, his head lolling.

“What was your last flight out of Concordia?” Vonken asked. The Pilot stirred slightly. Vonken repeated the question, and incoherent mutters arose from the strange mouth. Holly thought she saw a parrotlike beak past the thin lips, though it was hard to tell for certain with those tiny wormlike hairs the poor wretch had in place of a moustache. Vonken tried again. “Tell me your name. Focus. Speak clearly.”

“Riii... Rit...lee. Ock...shazer.”

Vonken sighed. “Poor bastard’s too altered to form our speech anymore. This will take all day.” He glanced back at Holly. “You needn’t be here. I know his appearance puts you off.”

Holly dragged her gaze away from the Pilot. “I brought you your tea.”

“Oh... Thank you.” He took a sip of it, set it on the floor by his chair, and gave a questioning quirk of his brow to her. Holly straightened her shoulders, and took hold of the back of Vonken’s chair to show she wasn’t leaving. Was that a smile he showed for an instant, before turning back to the Pilot? “All right, Ridley is it? What was your last voyage out of Concordia?”

“Ahh...aye...”

“Take your time. Form your words right.”

The Pilot’s mouth twisted and strained in ways that made Holly cringe to see. How could anyone give themselves over to such horrible changes? “Ayyye...fl...flew...too Wastelands,” he said, the last word so definite it made Holly draw back.

“Was Mikael Autumnson with you?”

The Pilot nodded, and Holly felt a chill. “What happened?” she blurted out. Ridley the Pilot strained to answer, a series of fumbling sounds spilling out of his mouth, and Vonken frowned and waved one hand in a cutting-off gesture to silence him.

“Since he is currently in my hands, would you very much mind if I did the questioning?”

Holly contained her anxiety as best she could, clutching the chair tightly. After a moment of silence, Vonken started again. “Is your kraken dead, Ridley?”

Ridley nodded, and tears sprang to those gleaming black eyes. “D-dearie...”

“I understand,” Vonken said. “I’m sorry. I truly am. We need your help, Ridley. Tell us what killed your Dearie.”

The Pilot became agitated, hands moving oddly as if trying to grab the air, gaze unfocused, mouth-tentacles waving. “Zzhot. Zhot tem all. Fire.”

“Someone shot your passengers?”

“Fire!” the Pilot cried, his head jerking around, eyes wide. “Fire!”

“All right, all right, hush,” Vonken said hurriedly, a spark of coldfire trailing from his fingers; he brushed it against the cheek of the Pilot, and Ridley calmed somewhat. “Let’s go back a bit... You sailed out of Concordia in June with a crew of explorers and, if I recall right, two guards provided by the Northern Pacific Airway Exploration Company, correct?” Ridley nodded. “How far into the Wastelands did you travel?”

“Far,” Ridley murmured, a drowsy look overtaking him. “All dead below...dead on ta ground...” The way he ground his teeth, or whatever was inside that gulping mouth now, when he pronounced it grrrrouuund sent prickles along Holly’s skin. She instantly pictured the scarred, barren lands southeast of Columbia, far inland, where a great eruption from beneath the region of steaming lakes had blown so much ash across the country that Mikael had told her he’d seen “nothing but crude cement, where the ash had been mixed with rain, so thick that only the dead tops of trees can be seen, like masts in a ship’s graveyard above a dull sea...”

“Did you reach the Crater?”

Ridley nodded.

“And when you reached it, did Mr Autumnson and his crew descend to explore?”

Holly tensed. Ridley struggled to speak. “Tey...went down...soldiers. Indians...came. Fought.” He shook his head, mouth wriggling in remembered emotion. “Dearie...scared tem. Ate one, an tey ran off.” Suddenly he grinned. “Run off like rabbits, dinn tey! Dearie allus liked a snack...”

The clearer words, with a hint of some variety of low-caste English accent, startled Holly as much as the man’s obvious pleasure at how his beast had eaten a human. Even if it was one of those Dust-altered savages...how hideous. Uncomfortable as she was, however, she wasn’t willing to leave. Not when it seemed answers might be at hand.

“Good for Dearie,” Vonken said. “So, the way was relatively safe for the company to explore. What happened then?”

Ridley shrugged. “Tey all...went down. Lookin at rocks or summat. Dearie an I, we kept our eyes open. Day, night, day, night. Indians come back once, took one o’ ta guards, but Mikael said let em go so we dinnt hunt em down.” He sighed. “Mikael said, ‘More afoot ten I can say, Ridley; you just tend to Dearie an let me worry.’ But I was worried.” Holly realized she was holding her breath, and let it out. Vonken leaned forward, his shoulders tense.

“What was Mikael worried about?”

The Pilot suddenly focused on him, an earnest expression turning his strange features more humanlike. “Ta Company, a’ course!”

“Of course,” Vonken echoed softly. “Do you know what he was searching for in the Crater, Ridley?”

“Zheecret.”

“Yes. I’m sure. But do you know what?”

“Tey wanted it,” Ridley exclaimed, sitting upright; Holly jerked back instinctively. The Pilot’s strangled-sounding voice rose to a shout. “Bastards, tey knew Mikael wasn’t goin’ ta give it, an tey zhot him, tey zhot him, tey zhot all of tem, an fire, fire in ta cabins, fire, fire, fire!” He jumped to his feet, but immediately his legs wobbled and he fell over. Holly backed away, alarmed, as Vonken quickly spat words and wove aetheric netting over the thrashing Pilot. His tunic ripped further, and she saw plainly the squid-arms waving like angry snakes, protruding from his chest and stomach.

Not even half human anymore, she thought, sickened. Vonken wrestled the Pilot back onto the cot, through he flailed arms both manly and beastly and moaned loudly, speech forgotten again. “Down! Down, man, stop!” Vonken shouted, but Ridley didn’t listen, fighting against the sizzling bonds which the Coldspark frantically wrapped around and around him. “Damn it!” Vonken swore, and his head rocked back as if hit; a flash of greenfire surged from his palms, striking the Pilot, and Ridley choked and slumped.

Holly snatched up a broken rod of rusting steel from the floorboards nearby, afraid she’d have to jump into this struggle, but the Pilot didn’t move again. Vonken pushed himself off the motionless body, his ribs heaving under the tight green tunic. He seemed dizzy, one hand blindly reaching for the chair. Holly caught his arm at once, and helped him sit. “Don’t...don’t worry,” Vonken muttered. “He should be...out for a while.”

He seemed breathless and a bit stunned. Holly looked at the unconscious Pilot, bound tight in numerous coils of sparking aether. “My god, how strong is he?” she gasped.

“Well, stronger than I first imagined,” Vonken managed, sounding none too bold himself.

“Will that hold him?”

“Yes. I think so.” She whirled to stare at him, and Vonken winced. “I didn’t...want to tell you, but when I came up here, he’d untangled the bonds I set yesterday.”

“How?”

“Krakenpilots are...something different. The beasts themselves are so brimful of Dust energy...that the Pilots who partner with them soak up all that power, as time goes on...”

“Mikael wrote that,” she said, whole passages of the odd book her brother had written popping into her head. She hadn’t considered the full implications of the chapter on the Dust-powers of the kraken...until now. “Oh hell.”

“Succinctly put, my dear.” Vonken sighed. “Not...to worry... That blast was only a bit below what I used on the deep-crabs yesterday.”

Holly felt even less safe at that. “And he’s still alive?”

“He’ll sleep it off. Probably won’t recall a thing. Harmless, as long as we don’t agitate him too much...perhaps the next round of interrogation should be done under heavier sedation...” Vonken tried to rise, his legs shaky. Holly wedged her shoulder under his left arm, and he looked bemusedly at her. “Were you going to beat him senseless with a knitting needle?”

She followed his gaze to the steel rod still in her hand. “Oh...well...I suppose it wouldn’t... Wait. This is broken off something.” She spotted a damaged bicycle wheel with similar long spokes. “That’s odd...it’s been awhile since I was up here, but...could he have broken this?” The strength required alarmed her; she kicked at the wheel center, and was rewarded with a pain in her toes. “Ow. A metal spoke...” She looked up at Vonken sharply. “Would inserting something like this in one of your aetheric wards interfere with it? Enough to disarm it?”

Vonken took it from her, frowning, his breath still ragged. “Doubtful; if it was thicker, perhaps, with copper wire wrapped ‘round it...”

“An aetheric magnet?”

His look was approving. “If it was powerful enough, possibly... I think our friend here may have simply spent all night unraveling the knots I put on him. Can’t imagine what he’d need this for...perhaps it was broken off in his tumble with Blinky.” He nodded to a ventilation window he’d boarded over; shards of wooden blinds and glass still scattered across the attic floor, along with broad dark stains Holly would rather not contemplate. He tossed the broken spoke aside. “Let’s...lock the door, to be safe, shall we?”

“Let’s,” Holly agreed. Vonken gently disengaged her hands from his clothing, and walked, albeit unsteadily, down the attic stairs. Holly bolted the door behind them. “Are you all right?”

Vonken gave her a weary smile. “Perfectly. I am accustomed to being a lightning-rod.” He looked on the verge of collapse.

“You used your own energy.”

“Well, I hadn’t...time to ask...your permission...”

Holly snorted. “Oh, how utterly typical. The next time you need to...do whatever it is you do, to charge your aetheric battery in such an emergency, I insist you use whatever resources are available, including myself! What if one of Villard’s men burst in here right now? Look at you. Useless.”

Vonken laughed weakly. “You’d cosh them over the head with some heavy diamond statue, I don’t doubt!”

“No diamonds here. And I’m wondering about your reasoning ability, Dr Vonken.” She shook her head, watching him slowly pulling himself along by doorframes. “Oh, good lord. Lie down. You can use Mikael’s room, it’s the one you’re about to fall into anyway.”

“Yesterday...I was insufferably rude...to not explain the risks of taking core energy from you before I saved your life,” he wheezed, lurching into the dark bedroom. “Today, you berate me for not simply yanking it out of you. I am sorely tempted, my dear...to make an unkind comment regarding your sex.”

“Stuff it,” Holly said, and felt a giggle of relief bubbling up. She’d never spoken so rudely with a man, not since she and Mikael were children. She felt a rush of warmth when Vonken flashed her a bright grin, but then he nearly collapsed on the rug before reaching the bed. She ducked under his arm, and staggered with him two more steps til he could fall onto the blankets. He groaned. “Sorry,” she said.

“Go check on Betsy,” he muttered, eyes already closed. His gloved fingers fumbled with the buttons at his tight collar. Holly’s quicker touch deftly undid them down to his chest, and he sighed, sinking into the soft bed. “If I’m not up in an hour, wake me.”

Holly nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her. She hesitated, watching his breathing smooth out, his muscles relaxing. When she’d decided he was asleep, she stood and took a step toward the door. Drowsy words floated back to her: “Such...a pity...you’re alone, my dear...such an excellent...partner...you’d make.” She stopped, squinting at him in the gloom, but his eyes remained shut. After a minute, he began to snore softly.

She wondered, How long has it been since anyone has seen him asleep? Slowly, she came closer. He’s almost handsome...when he’s not all arrogant and smiling smugly. She watched him for a few more slow breaths. His sleek, straight hair caught a ray of lamplight from the hall, gleaming like mahogany. Without that moustache, he’d look quite young. Almost no lines on his face, she realized. How old was he, in the Cataclysm? What must that have been like, surviving that horror, and discovering he could control the very aether like...well, like a lightning-rod, or a scientist’s aether generator? What must his life be like?

He seemed suddenly sad to her. She wondered if his gloves helped contain that restless energy; whether they protected others from his powers, or simply separated him from the common mass of man. She bent closer, studying his face. His skin was too smooth, too young. His straight brows and perfectly curled moustache looked as though they’d been combed and set in place...not unusual for one of the young toffs who also sported the latest fashion plates wherever they went, but a bit odd for a man who claimed not to care about the standards of Society. She pulled down the plague-mask and brought her cheek closer, until she could feel his breath on her skin. She was surprised to find it warm, and chided herself: Did you expect a Coldspark to be a man of ice? He is still just a man, for all that.

“If I’d known my moustache was that attractive to you, I’d do something about it now,” he murmured, and Holly jerked back, abruptly aware of how close their lips were. She blushed. Vonken cracked his eyelids open, and slowly smiled.

“Who said anything about you was attractive?” Holly spat out, and strode to the doorway. “By your own admittance, you know nothing of modern standards of beauty!”

“Oh...I never said that.” He shifted a little atop the covers, and closed his eyes again. “If you want to be useful, you might brew more tea for when I awake. One hour, if you please, Miss Autumnson.”

“To hell with you, Vonken,” she muttered under her breath, but his words stopped her again before she walked out.

“Darius. If you’re going to curse me, at least make it personal.”

She fumed a moment. “Are other Coldsparks this aggravating?”

“None even hold a candle, my dear.”

“I am not your dear.”

He smiled. Holly left, and checked on Betsy. The child slept soundly, unaware of the scene which had transpired over her head. Holly smoothed down the girl’s hair, considering all the Pilot had said. After some worried minutes, she stole back into Mikael’s room. Vonken’s chest rose and fell gently, but she didn’t believe his innocent act anymore. She stood by the bed, about to demand he sit up and talk with her properly about all this, but then he sighed and turned his head into the pillow, and she doubted her conviction. She watched him another full minute. A quiet, unhappy noise came from deep in his throat; the sound of someone dreaming, and not of pleasant things.

Uncertain, she asked, “Vonken?” He didn’t respond. She tried again: “Dr Vonken?” His breathing didn’t change. She touched his shoulder. “Darius...?”

“Hmmm.”

“Why would the Company guard have shot everyone? What secret did my brother find out there?”

“Hmm mmmm.”

“Are you really asleep?”

He sighed deeply, and she was on the verge of launching into more questions, but then he murmured, “Be...right there...stay down. Stay down, they won’t find you.” A frown crossed his face, and he made another worried sound, lips closed.

He’s not faking. He’s dreaming. What awful things must haunt him? Sobered beyond her need for immediate answers, Holly withdrew, closing the door most of the way for good measure, and tiptoed downstairs to find herself some morsel to eat. She fixed a bowl of porridge, and ate slowly without appetite, gazing out at the dark fir trees against the perpetually grey sky. She thought of the blazing rocks screaming down like cannonballs, cutting into the land in a way not even the bloodiest soldier in the War Between the States could have imagined. The sky seemed calm now, but clearly something horrible still lingered in the Crater. Something brought down during the nightmare that Darius Vonken relived in his dreams...something which had indirectly killed her brother, and now she felt as though it reached out for her, with cold, slithering arms, worse than any kraken.