The next cabin up was a reproduction in miniature of Doc’s laboratory. There was room for only two tables, and they were currently clear of equipment; the walls were heavily laden with racks of gear and cabinets, everything lashed down or locked in place. “The men we’re chasing are flying Valkyries, which are very durable cargo planes that can be outfitted with guns and bomb racks. The Changeling’s planes are probably armed.” He pointed to the world map occupying a section of wall. He tapped Neckerdam. “But the Valks have limited range. To get to Cretanis, they’ll have to put in somewhere north, probably Acadia, to refuel.” He tapped Nova Scotia. “Then northeast, either to Hel or Nordland.” He touched Greenland and Iceland in turn. “Then they can reach Cretanis.” He touched the British Isles. “The Frog Prince can take it in one hop.”
“So to speak,” Harris said.
Doc led them forward. The next door opened into what looked like a small bedroom, including a rug, two sofas, and windows to either side with pull-down window shades. “Joseph, none of the sleeper compartments is large enough to accommodate you, so you should take this cabin. The sofas fold out into beds, or you can use the deck.”
Joseph tossed his duffel onto one of the sofas.
The next cabin was a narrow galley, including a stove, sink, closed pantries, and cabinets stacked with plates. Harris saw that the cabinets had slots instead of doors, with dishes inserted through the vertical slot and lowered into place via a horizontal slot, so they would not come spilling out in rough air. Doc and his audience breezed on through.
Next was something that looked to Harris like a train’s sleeper car: right and left of the aisle were three rows of curtained bunks, above and below, a total of twelve bunks. The curtains varied in color, some red, some gold, all looking like velvet or velour.
“Sleeping cabin,” Doc said. “The landing gear is hidden away behind the bunks.” He pitched his bag into one of the lower starboard bunks. “Choose yourselves a place to sleep. There’s another cabin like this one forward, if you prefer.” Alastair took the bunk farthest forward.
Harris chose an upper bunk on the port side. He was surprised to see that his bunk had a little fan in a corner bracket and find that the mattress was actually comfortable. “First class,” he said.
Doc said, “It’s supposed to be a luxury craft.”
The next cabin forward had several small sofas and tables, windows to either side, hull doors to either side, even a talk-box on one of the tables. “The main salon,” Doc said. “And water debarkation. From the doors you step down on the water stabilization wings.”
Next up was another sleeper-car cabin. Gaby picked a bunk and left her bag there. The door forward out of this cabin opened into a narrow hallway between small cabins right and left. “Jakes port, wash-stall starboard,” Doc said. “I don’t recommend you wash up in rough flying weather.” He pointed to a tiny circular staircase leading up. “That goes up to the cockpit, and the door forward goes into another private sleeping cabin.”
Jean-Pierre took his bag into that forward cabin.
“Pretty cool, Doc,” Harris said helpfully. “I’d order one if I could save enough out of my allowance.”
“I’ll remember that. Everyone, prepare yourselves for takeoff.” He climbed the stairs out of sight.
Jean-Pierre called, “Takeoff is best from in here. Come in.”
Harris and the others filed on in. Jean-Pierre’s was the cabin Harris had seen from the outside, with the oversized window forward; it provided an unimpeded view of the tarmac in front of the plane, and the cabin’s sofa and chairs were set up to provide the best view possible.
Jean-Pierre was fiddling with ice, glasses, and bottles from a corner cabinet. “Sit. What are you drinking?”
Harris took one of the chairs. “Nothing, thanks.”
Alastair, Gaby, and Joseph took the couch; Alastair and Gaby accepted uisge. Jean-Pierre handed them the drinks. He switched out the cabin light and took the other chair just as the first starboard motor shuddered and coughed into life.
“No seatbelts?” Harris asked.
“It’s supposed to be a luxury craft,” Jean-Pierre said in deft mimicry of Doc’s voice. “No crashing allowed.”
“Ah. Comforting.”
The other three engines sputtered into life, one after another. Harris was surprised at the noise they made. He’d flown in jets, but the shuddering roar of this prop plane was new to him. It vibrated his bones.
The Frog Prince lumbered into motion, bobbing a little, moving slowly and awkwardly through a series of turns until it stood at one end of an airstrip.
The pitch of the engines became louder, more insistent. The plane picked up speed. Harris felt the ride get smooth as the front of the plane came up off the ground—and suddenly they were heading skyward at an angle that put Harris in mind of stalls and sudden, uncontrolled descents. He tried to keep his voice from squeaking: “Just how good a pilot is Doc?”
Jean-Pierre laughed. “Only fair, like me. Fortunately, Noriko’s our pilot. She could fly a paper kite through a shotgun blast and bring it out unhurt.” Harris heard ice clatter as the man took a drink. “In just a moment she’ll give us the View.”
On cue, the Frog Prince heeled over to port. Harris saw the lights of distant towns disappear to the right. Then Neckerdam moved into view from the left.
The island was a concentrated mass of light. Harris was surprised at the amount of red, green, and blue light scattered among the white-yellow glow he expected. He could make out the clusters of skyscrapers, fingers of light reaching optimistically for the sky.
“Damnation,” Harris said.
“There’s the Monarch Building,” Gaby said.
Harris almost didn’t spot it. It was a column of glowing windows with four broad white bands across it—the ledges filled with statues.
Then the plane’s turn put the island out of sight to their right. They stared at more distant lights on the coastline stretching away south . . . and then they were pointed out over the water, nothing ahead but stars above and moonlight on the waves below.
Jean-Pierre sighed. He rose and turned the cabin light back on; Harris blinked at the sudden glare.
“I’ll be up for a while, studying the papers from the Aremorcy safe,” Jean-Pierre said. “If anyone is foolish enough to join me, I’ll be in the lounge. To the rest of you, I say, warm dreams.”
“Thirty-five names,” Harris said. “All of them with ‘Eliminated’ written out to the side, with a date. They go back about twenty years. Gaby’s name is at the very bottom, in longhand instead of typed, and it says ‘Transferred.’ The date is right—it’s the day we brought her back.”
Jean-Pierre looked over a sheaf of papers at him. The two of them occupied the plane’s lounge; they were alone. “I think I have more of that file here. The name above Gabriela’s, was it a Carlo Salvanelli?”
“That’s right.”
“See what you make of this.” Jean-Pierre shoved a stapled stack of papers at him. “It looks like it came off a printing press.”
“No, a laser printer.” Harris held it close and could see the faint rough edges to the printed letters. “That’s like a printing press individual people can own. My friend Zeb has one.”
The papers were miniature biographies. Each one corresponded to one of the names on Harris’ list. Some were short, others ran several pages.
Gaby’s record, the shortest one, listed her name, profession, birthplace, and interests. Harris skimmed through the others. “Weird people,” he said.