The look his fellow captain shot him over her shoulder matched her tone. “No—an explosion in the gas refilling station. These dirigibles are like your ships . . . not without their risk.”
By the size of the devastation, the Emperor’s fleet must have suffered considerable losses. It was in his mind to make a quip about sea vessels at least not exploding—but it seemed in far too poor taste. He had wondered why he had not seen Sorcha lighting her cigars for the last few days. It had not just been his sweet attentions, then.
The new repair facility was not built far from the scene of the previous one, but space in this ancient city was obviously at a premium. The lowering sun bounced off the shapes of several dirigibles tied up in the facility, and to Raed they looked very menacing. He suddenly wanted to get off this floating exploding death trap, and he was very glad that he hadn’t known of this danger when he’d set foot on it. It would have considerably dampened his ardor for Sorcha. And yet, he shot her a wicked look. Maybe not.
“You have to come in slow, so the watchtowers have enough time to alert the ground crew,” Revele explained. “We’re lucky there seem to be several moorings.”
She yanked on a cord hanging beneath her console, and somewhere a bell began to ring. Leaning out, curious despite it all, he watched her crew scurry to drop the ropes from the gunwales. Summer Hawk began to slow, the kind of gliding entry into port that any sea captain would have been proud to achieve. Below, more men could be seen pouring out of the huge buildings.
“What are they?” Raed asked. “Those are the biggest buildings I’ve ever seen.”
“Hangars for the dirigible repair,” Merrick replied, before the busy air Captain could. “One of the Emperor’s greatest achievements.”
Raed bit his lip on the comment that surged forward. Summer Hawk was gradually pulled downward; a combination of the Captain venting some of the dangerous gas, and the ground crew cranking the ship closer with their winches.
“Captain.” Sorcha stood stiffly at the portal, not meeting anyone’s gaze. “If I can trouble you to keep the Breed horses in your hold for as long as you are able, and then return them to the Mother Abbey?”
Merrick wasn’t fooled. His partner had risked her life to save Shedryi and Melochi, and the tautness of her back said this request cost her more than she would admit.
“Certainly.” Revele snapped a salute, which might not have been necessary at this point. They circled lower in stiff silence.
When they were only a few minutes from the ground, Captain Revele pointed to a locker in the rear of the cabin.
“There are uniform coat jackets in there. If you get your people into them, you should blend in with my crew. They are usually quick to head for the attractions of Vermillion after I have dismissed them. After that, you are on your own.”
Raed grinned at her. “That’s just the way we like it.”
NINETEEN
The Price of Redemption
It was one thing to return home covertly—it was another altogether to find yourself already a fugitive.
Merrick held the poster up so that she couldn’t avoid it seeing it. His eyes were wide in utter disbelief. “Rogue? Sorcha, what in the Bones have we done?”
Understandable. Certainly, it had to be a shock to be declared a rogue Deacon only two weeks out of the novitiate. He had a right to be upset. She wasn’t feeling that good about it either.
Taking the poster in her hand, she stared at her own features on it with a deep sense of unreality. Both her face and that of her partner were on it, and the headline above screamed, WANTED. Beneath was an account of their “crimes” in Ulrich, which included the slaughter of a peaceful Priory and the summoning of geists to torment the population.
She hastily screwed up the poster and threw it into the shadows. “Obviously we missed one traitor back there, and one weirstone. Once we explain to the Arch Abbot, it will be fine.”
“We better move quickly.” Raed touched her shoulder, making Sorcha jump. “We can’t rely on Captain Revele not to report us once she sees that.”
Merrick’s distress was flooding across the Bond. “The posters are everywhere,” he muttered. “Come daybreak, we’ll be in real trouble.”
“Come, now.” Raed glanced at Aachon, while trying to ignore his dark look. “We’ve all been fugitives for years and managed just fine.”
If only there were time to stop for a cigar in a corner, time to stop and consider how this was all going to fall. Instead, Sorcha had only moments. “You think the Empire has really been trying hard to find you?” She smiled slightly.
“I’m the Young Pretender,” he replied, tucking his thumbs into his belt. “I have a sizable sum on my head.”
“If they really wanted you dead, you would be dead.” The slight droop of his expression might have been amusing in a less dangerous situation. “But a rogue Deacon—let alone two? Now, those get people’s attention.”
Aachon made an unconscious growl in his chest. He knew well enough that was true.
“They will send out a Conclave to hunt us,” Merrick whispered, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice it fully.
The Young Pretender could not have any idea what that meant. Even for him, there had never been a Conclave formed—it was something only Deacons gone mad warranted.
“I say we go straight to the top while we can.” Sorcha felt strength flood into her, despite the situation. This was what a partnership was supposed to be. She remembered it from before Kolya. Trust, belief and a well of power. She’d missed that. “Once we have explained ourselves, finding the Grand Duchess will be much easier.”
“My prince!” Aachon shouldered himself between the Pretender and Sorcha, as if by physicality he could sever the power he thought she had over him. “I gave my word to your father that I would protect you; going to the Mother Abbey is neither sane nor safe. I cannot allow it.”
Raed’s hazel eyes never left Sorcha’s face. “We are in Vermillion, my friend—nothing is safe. The time for caution is past—we must needs be daring.”
Aachon folded his arms and glared at the Pretender without a word. Sorcha wondered how difficult it would be to tie the big man up and leave him in a corner somewhere. Tough, was the conclusion she came to.
“What has running got me, old friend?” Raed said, gesturing around him. “This is my first time in Vermillion—the city that should have been mine. I have been running for years. It is time for something new.”
Sorcha guessed his protective first mate would blame her. Two days locked in their cabin; everyone knew about it. They would think she was some witch who had thrown a spell around their captain. If only they knew that the opposite was much closer to the truth.
That was the Young Pretender’s gift; she’d seen it before but never really appreciated it until this moment. Many tried to manipulate others with lies or pretty stories—Raed, however, offered up the truth so completely that it took people by surprise. An honest man in a dishonest world could be a very powerful thing.
While Raed presented his argument to Aachon, Sorcha contemplated the real problem: how to get inside the Mother Abbey. Phasing and using Voishem would have been her first choice if it had been any other building—but like all Order structures it was well protected against such powers. It would not be easy to use other methods either. Even in winter, with many Deacons settled into outlying Abbeys, there would still be more than a hundred staying within the confines of the complex. Not all of them were of Merrick’s rank, of course, but they would still be Sensitive enough to spot two rogue Deacons clambering over the wall.
Sorcha was slightly distracted by Nynnia whispering to her father. Kyrix had made a miraculous recovery. A prickle in the back of the Deacon’s mind was disturbed by that, but if the two of them were using weirstones or some other proscribed magic, Sorcha did not have the time to investigate it.