Hearts of Smoke and Steam (11 page)

I
f the hole in the nose of the airship was any larger than Sarah herself, it wasn't by much. She hugged herself to the shaft of the harpoon as tightly as she could, willing herself to be as small as possible, but it would only take the slightest brush of metal against flesh to peel her off the shaft and send her broken body tumbling down.

As she passed through from light into darkness, she felt light pressure against her shoulder, but there was no flash of pain or damage. Her eyes popped open as the spear began to tilt upwards, her feet sliding off from the small flange she had been standing on. She tried to hold on, but her arms, already tired, could no longer hold her as she swung downwards.

Sarah was falling through the air, and worse—she was dropping directly back toward the hole she had come in through. The idea that she could have made it this far only to end up falling
back
out of the ship was as ridiculous as it was likely.

She slammed into the hull at the edge of the void, her legs crashing into the metal sheeting of the deck with a bang while her torso hung out over open space.

For the first instant she was too stunned by the fall to react—it was all she could do to try and hold herself in place, and not slip out of the ship. Cold air rushed by her face, the wind clutching at her like a thousand pairs of tiny hands, all of them intent on dragging her outside. As she slid forward, Sarah realized just how precarious a position she was truly in—only the weight of her legs was keeping her from sliding out of the ship, and it was only just enough.

Sarah felt Wickham's mask dangling down from around her neck, blowing and twisting in the breeze as she slipped slowly forward with every breath. If she was going to pull herself to safety, she had to do it quickly.

Her hands reached behind her, scrabbling for purchase against the smooth metal of the deck, but her thick gloves, so useful for punching villains, were unable to find any grip.

Desperate for any way to drag herself back from the edge, she clamped her fingers tightly around the sides of the hole. Her gloved fingers slipped off as she pulled, but with concerted effort she was able to shove herself backwards until the daylight slid out of view.

Sarah rolled over onto her back and fought back a rising urge to be sick by taking a few deep breaths. Above her she saw the tip of the harpoon she had ridden up to the ship. It was safely locked back into the cruel-looking device that had been used to launch it against the ferry, ready for its next moment of mayhem.

The harpoon launcher itself was massive—easily twice as long as the shaft it launched, but the springs, gears, and other mechanisms were all exposed, the large mainspring locked back into place. She wondered who had invented it.

Thinking of the spear reminded Sarah of Emilio, and she said a little prayer for him, hoping that he had managed to make it onboard as well.

Underneath her, Sarah could feel the wind thrumming and rattling against the metal of the hull. The surface was cold and hard, and something was sticking uncomfortably into her back.

When she sat up to take a look around at her environment, she saw that there were hinges on either side of the “floor” that she had landed on. What had been bruising her was a latch. She looked down and saw that the entire floor was actually a large hatch, held closed by a mechanism that seemed uncomfortably frail.

She stood up, but was still forced to hunch over. The space was dark and stuffed with machinery, the walls just large enough to allow someone to slip around to work on the devices while the ship was flying, if the need arose.

She headed toward the back of the ship. With every step, the ship's engines and the hum of the propellers became louder and louder.

Without warning, the ship lurched underneath her feet. Sarah's head banged painfully against a metal rod hanging down from the ceiling in front of her. At the bottom of it were a series of mirrors that twisted back and forth, focusing on a porthole cut into the floor of the ship. It was obviously a viewing system of some kind, the mirrors designed to carry the image up to another part of the ship. She moved, hoping that whoever was responsible for controlling the craft hadn't seen her face reflected in them.

Taking a moment to rest against the wall, Sarah examined the craftsmanship all around her. The framing had been constructed from strips of metal bolted together, creating a complicated scaffolding from which everything hung.

The structures made everything appear unfinished and insubstantial: more the “shape” of a machine than a machine itself. Compared to the solid, chunky, and deeply crafted designs of Darby, the work here was almost ethereal, as if it had been built by a very talented spider who spun his inventions together like a web.

But as impressive as it was, what Sarah needed most was a way forward. Peering down the hull, she saw a shaft of light trickling down a few yards ahead. As she pulled herself closer, she saw that the illumination came from a hatch cut into the ceiling. She searched around, but there were a number of barriers between her and the exit, and there didn't seem to be any way to actually climb up to it.

Sarah had almost given up before she suddenly noticed that the scalloped “ribs” that rose up the walls were designed to act as ladders. She grabbed one of them and gave it an exploratory tug. When it seemed sturdy enough, she started to climb upwards to the hole. “A very clever spider indeed,” she remarked to herself.

When she reached the hatchway, she carefully poked her head up through it. The new space was gloomy, but not too dark, as there were glass plates sealed into the walls at regular intervals. It was also larger than she had imagined—the dimensions of a good-sized ballroom.

The gas-bag rose up through the center of the room, the thick canvas curving up from the floor to form a broad, sloping ceiling above them.

Her eyes continued to adjust as she peered around, and with a shock she saw the squat form of a man standing right behind her!

Before she could dive back down the hatch, a pair of rough hands grabbed her shoulders and yanked her up. Her knees banged painfully against the edge of the hatch as the stranger pulled her through.

Sarah found herself flung against the “wall” of the ship—essentially a series of metal struts laid out against some kind of treated canvas. The wall rose up and held onto the bag with a series of rope hooks that were laced through the grommets that had been stitched into the canvas.

She looked up at the man who had thrown her and saw a familiar smile. “Look what we have here—it's a flying rat.” The Bomb Lance had removed his frame, and was holding some kind of gun in his hand. The weapon looked complicated, but the shining metal barb that stuck out of the business end of it sent a simple-enough message. He smiled when he noticed Sarah looking at it. “Did you bring yer special gun as well, girlie?”

Sarah could feel the weight of the useless weapon in the pocket of her coat. “Yes,” she said meekly. She had come all the way up here to try and stop this man, only to be taken prisoner by him within minutes of her arrival.

Murphy laughed, and turned to speak to someone she couldn't see. “Look at her, Monsieur. You wouldn't think such a little mouse could be so dangerous, but she managed to knock down both myself and Lord Eschaton.”

“Size, she iz not important,” said a voice from within the darkness.

Sarah turned to look for the man the Bomb Lance had referred to as “Monsieur.” She saw his silhouette at the other end of the gondola, and realized that by calling her “little,” Murphy was having a joke at the other man's expense. The man was tiny, perhaps an inch or two shorter than she was. He hunched over in a way that made him appear to be someone of advanced age.

“I am not unawawe of ze barbs of ze Bomb Lance.” The man spoke with a heavy French accent and a lisp. Even so, he punctuated his words with sarcasm. “But you should always wemember who it was who constwucted your new hawness.”

As he stepped into the light, Sarah was shocked to see just how old the Frenchman truly was: his hair was pure white and stuck out from his head in thick tufts, revealing patches of bright pink skin underneath. His shoulders were deeply drooping, and his hand clutched a cane, which he leaned against heavily. She could just make out, underneath his fingers, that the head of the cane was a sliver globe. His eyes were covered by a pair of thick spectacles, held in place by a leather cord.

His clothes were bunched and ill-fitting on his withered frame—a strange mix of a leather apron, suspenders, and thick rubber boots. There was also a large belt strapped around his waist, from which hung a variety of tools and gadgets, some of them familiar, others twisted and strange.

The wizened figure walked over to her with an odd gait that landed firmly between a hobble and a run, as if he were in a terrible hurry even though he was constantly on the verge of falling over. The cane banged on the metal deck with every step, and the objects attached to his belt jingled as they swayed. After each movement he had to pause as he pushed his cane out in front of him before taking another step forward.

When he had covered half the distance between himself and Sarah, the wizened figure stopped and yelled back in the direction he had come from, “Fwancis, please bring ze ship back around.”

“Oui, oui, Monsieur
.” When she followed the source of this voice, Sarah saw that there was a platform in the front of the room that sat high up off the floor in front of a large glass window. Numerous panels, handles, and dials sprouted up from the deck to form a control panel in front of the ship's operator.

Standing in front of the bouquet of devices was a small bear of a man with the demeanor and build of a boxer. He wore a pair of grease-covered overalls and a bowler hat so tight around his head that it seemed almost screwed on. The band around the hat brim showed off colors of the French flag—red, white, and green.

From his accent, Francis was clearly American, although the French theme was continued in the large silver brocade patch of the fleur de lis sewn onto the arm of his white shirt. “Bon,” the old man replied, and turned his eyes back to Sarah.

“So little girl, what iz eet that you thought you would accomplish by invading my airship? And where, may I ask, is your fweind who caused Mr. Muphee zo much twouble down below?”

“I honestly don't know.” Sarah replied.

The Bomb Lance narrowed his eyes and waved his gun menacingly. “Watch it there, girlie. Yer full of tricks, but I'll skewer you before I let you put any more holes in me, or blow me around again with that gun of yers.”

Sarah ignored the Irishman and took a small curtsey in the direction of the old man. “We haven't been properly introduced, Monsieur. My name is Sarah Stanton.”

“Ah yes well, you must forgive Mr. Muphee, madame. He has been wendewed incapable of mannews by an unfortunate act of birth.” The Frenchman bowed his head slightly. “You can call me le Voyageur.” He took another step closer to her and slowly examined her with his eyes. “But zis costume?” He lifted up his cane and pointed it at her. “You fancy yourself a hero?”

Murphy chuckled. “She thinks she's a Paragon, like her father.”

His reply was as loud and angry as he could muster, and his voice quivered as he spoke. “I did not ask you, you Irish simpleton, I asked
her!”

“I call myself the Adventuress.”

The Frenchman laughed. While everything else about the man was ancient, his laughter still had the haughty, mocking quality of a schoolyard bully. “Oh, I am sure your fazer must be very pwoud of you.”

Sarah could feel her cheeks blushing with a mix of shame and anger, but knew she needed to stop herself from responding to their taunts.

“And now you have nothing to say. Maybe zat is good since I need you to tell me where ze heart of your mechanical man is. I assume you did bwing it wiz you.”

Sarah's breath caught in her throat. She had left Tom's heart back on the boat with Emilio's sister! And if the woman's brother hadn't survived the journey, how would she ever find her again? “It's still on the ferry,” she replied.

“Zat is unfortunate. Lord Eschaton will be vewy disappointed if we do not bring back his pwize.” He closed his eyes and slowly rocked back and forth on his cane. When he opened them again there was a smile on his lips. “I am sowwy if I am being wude, but now, young lady hero, ze time has come for us to say good-bye.” He looked up at the control booth. “Fwancis. If you could be so kind, I think that Mr. Muphee may need your help escorting zis young lady
off
of my airship.”

Sarah's eyes opened wide. “What?”

“Le Ciel Noir
is an attack ship, not a passenger cwaft,” he said in a deeply condescending tone. “You were not invited, and I have discovewed you have nothing I want. In fact, my dear girl, I think zat everywone will be most pleased zat you have been taken care of.” The Frenchman grabbed a nearby lever and gave it a good pull. Down at the far end of the gondola, a trap door fell open. As it slammed down into place, a set of stairs and a railing sprang up from the flat surface, locking into place with a sharp snap.