Heart of Steel (26 page)

“The nanoagents,” Archimedes realized.

“Those,” Hassan said. “But it began earlier: the war machines that were sent west.”

“The kraken, the megalodons, the giant eels,” Yasmeen put in. “All created when the European navies began to put steam engines in their ships, the better to take the war to the Horde empire—so the Horde created monsters drawn to the engine vibrations. The
gan tsetseg
, the mechanical flesh, the towers, the boilerworms . . . There is too much to name, and I'm certain that even I have not heard of it all. But all of it was theirs, all of it designed to strengthen the empire and protect the royal family.” She turned to Hassan, still disbelieving. “She destroyed the stable? She killed them all?”

“Yes. Perhaps a few were left. It's impossible to be certain.”

All of that knowledge, the brilliance, the centuries of work . . . but Yasmeen couldn't be sorry. That was too much power in the hands of one man.

“But of course, the truth is hidden,” Hassan said. “Temür has made certain the rebels know, but to most of the empire, the Khan's magicians were only a story to begin with, so the tale of their destruction makes no difference. The truth about the Pretender and the sack of Constantinople has been squashed as well, and instead, Temür Agha crushed a rebellion.”

“And now you hope to crush him,” Archimedes said.

“I don't hope for that, no.” Hassan shook his head. “If God wills it, Temür will understand that it is best for all if he steps down. For as long as he governs, the people of Rabat will not
see
the difference between his rule and the Horde's—and they will always fear. But if one of our own governs in his stead . . . ? They will have hope.”

“And if he's killed?” Yasmeen asked.

Hassan closed his eyes. “I cannot think of that. I pray that when the tower comes down, he will see that Rabat cannot be truly free until he has gone.”

Until he has gone.
If he had the wrong sketch, then Yasmeen would help him along.

The older man sighed again, and Archimedes met Yasmeen's eyes. She nodded. Yes, they had almost stayed too long—and Hassan was likely looking forward to his midday rest. She'd discovered almost everything she wished to know, anyway.

Almost. “Why don't you drink the wine? Do you fear poison?” The corners of Hassan's eyes creased with his smile. “No. It is because the sin is greater than the benefit.”

Yasmeen recognized those words. “So you have also taken up the old religion—as Kareem al-Amazigh has.”

“As Temür Agha did,” he corrected gently. “When trying to restore a city after two hundred years of occupation, one can't simply erase everything the Horde has put into place—there would be chaos. The Horde's support will be gone, and so we searched for new rules of governing, new policies . . . and the economic rules from the Qur'an were very good, very fair. They resonated with us, as they do the people—as does the faith. But I will admit, we are feeling our way. Much of the scholarship was lost, and there is still conflict in our hearts.”

“You could appeal to the scholars in the Far Maghreb,” Archimedes suggested.

“We have. They will not return from the New World as long as Temür is still governor.” He smiled again. “Until then, I will follow my conscience—and drink tea fit for camels rather than wine.”

Chapter Ten

Archimedes followed Yasmeen out of Hassan's stateroom,
before spinning around and entering again. Curious, she stopped to wait for him, then had to laugh when he came back out with the bottle of wine in hand.

Yes, they could put it to much better use. His grin wide, his long stride carried him close, but she didn't back away. She loved to look at him—his wicked smile, his active expressions, his handsome features. She
wanted
him close.

If only his longing would grow deep enough to kiss her.

She felt his breath instead, the dip of his head as he bent to her ear. “Did you find out everything you wanted to know about Temür Agha?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“Good.”

He didn't move. She was listening for others; so was he. His gaze roamed her face, fell to her lips. “When I kiss you, I don't know if I'll stop.”

She didn't want him to. Her heart pounded as his mouth moved across her cheek, hovered over her lips.

“Now, I breathe your breath, and it's sweeter than any kiss I've ever had.” His thumb dragged over her bottom lip. “When I'm finally inside you . . .”

He trailed off, his eyes glazing as if imagining it. Yasmeen did, too—the heavy thrust, the slide of sweaty limbs. Opening her mouth, she bit the tip of his thumb, and with a flick of her tongue, tasted the salt of his skin. His eyes met hers, and the world stilled.

A door opened farther down the passageway.

He drew back, pushed his fingers through his hair. His breathing wasn't steady. “I'll see if Ollivier has those notes ready.”

“Don't drink anything.”

“I won't.”

She looked down the passageway. “If Bigor's in the wardroom, I'll talk to him about tomorrow.”

“We'll go in before dawn?”

“Yes.” They'd reach the pass by the middle of the night. Using the darkness for cover, they could slip in—or they could wait a day. She didn't want to wait. The more quickly this expedition finished, the more quickly they'd fly to Rabat.

Archimedes stopped at the next cabin, knocked. Yasmeen continued aft. Amidships, she met Deflowered Henri, who paused and fidgeted, mouth flapping like a fish as she passed. She'd seen that look before on young aviators: anxious to speak with her, but lacking the position to address her without being acknowledged first.

Because she could still remember his feet twitching on a tavern table, his stiffened toes spreading wide—and because the memory still amused her to no end—she stopped. “Yes?”

Bright red, he said, “Is it true you only gave your crew fifty percent, ma'am?”

It was true. “Why?”

“Last year, your girl Ginger said she earned three livre. But the engine stoker's boy says he's heard only a fifty percent split between
Lady Corsair
's crew. Even Guillouet gives us seventy, so I told him that couldn't be true. And as she's dead, I won't stand for him calling her a liar.”

The boy was defending Ginger's honor. That was sweet. “Ginger's still alive, Henri. She's with a friend of mine in London. If you like, I can pass on a message for you.”

“No.” His blush deepened. “Thank you, ma'am. I just wanted to know, so I can tell the stoker what you said.”

Was it so important? Interesting. In Yasmeen's experience, if the boys on a ship were discussing earnings and percentages, then the rest of the crew was, too. She might as well set straight whatever rumor was flying around.

“I gave them fifty percent,” she said and watched his face droop. “But she did earn three livre last year. Most of my crew earned five each.”

“Truly?” His eyes widened. “And Ginger said that if they lost a hand or an eye, you paid for a replacement, too.”

“Yes.”

“I
told
him that. He said: But she can't replace their lives.”

Yasmeen hoped she didn't run into this stoker's boy anytime soon. “That's also true. Now go on, before the captain finds you talking with me and thinks you're staging a mutiny.”

Face suddenly pale, he ran off. Yasmeen grinned. Young boys were so serious. It was only a bit of humor at her own expense, but he must have taken her at her word.

She continued down the passageway. The wardroom lay all the way aft, two decks above the engines. Already huffing along, it wouldn't be long before
Ceres
arrived at Brenner's Pass. She hoped Guillouet had experience with the mountain winds.

Before she had a chance to knock, Laurent opened the door, obviously on the way out. He stopped suddenly, brows lifting.

“Is Mr. Bigor in?”

Stepping back, he gave a little jerk of his chin, inviting her in. A man of few words, apparently. He held the door open for her, then Dubois followed him out.

A designated cabin for officers to dine and take their leisure—or on a private ship, the senior crew, purser, and surgeon—the wardroom was larger and better appointed than the berth deck and mess. A small shelf held a selection of leather-bound books. Several comfortable chairs and a writing desk sat on one side of the room; the dining table filled the other.

All of them had been pushed aside to make space for the marines' equipment. Yasmeen's throat tightened. Eleven, twelve years ago,
Lady Corsair
's stateroom had often looked the same.

Though they'd been hired for defense on this expedition,
mar-souin
s had specialized in aerial and water infiltrations during the war. Brass diving suits were mounted along one wall. Collapsible gliders were folded next to them. Crates held other gear, weapons. They'd carried their own arsenal and equipment, not relying on the airship's—apparently, that still held true.

Bigor sat at the table, a small chest open in front of him. He stood as she entered, gestured for her to sit.

A stack of personal effects lay next to the chest, and one by one, Bigor packed them inside. Letters, a rag doll, a ferrotype photograph of a woman and a baby . . . the chest was full of Durand's belongings, she realized. Bigor was preparing to send them off—probably to the woman in the photograph.

“I'm sorry about your man,” she said softly.

Jaw hard, he nodded. “It's not often we have a chance to say good-bye.”

“I know.” And that was better than nothing.

“We might have all been the same if not for your bullets. Thank you.”

She nodded her own acknowledgment. There was nothing to say. It hadn't ended up being enough—but he was likely counting his every shot, too. Wondering if he'd just pulled the trigger one more time, maybe he'd have killed the zombie who bit Durand.

“Only one letter left to add now—mine.” He closed the chest, but didn't lock it. “He has a wife in the Antilles.”

“You'll send her a good story, I hope.”

“He has many worth telling. But today, I'll probably put his name on a few of your bullets.”

So that his wife could hear that Durand had died after saving his comrades; that they only lived because of him. “That's fine.”

He gave another sharp nod, but this time, it seemed rough around the edges. “You don't expect it to be this. The war, yes. You fight for a reason and shoulder a burden of responsibility, duty—and of doing things I'd never want my wife and children to know. In the war, they send a letter home that only tells the family that he fought with honor, he fulfilled his duty—and it's truth. But I'm still doing things I don't want to describe in a letter, and when I go, a good story is all I can hope for. And like Durand's, it will probably be sprinkled with lies.”

The lies didn't matter to Yasmeen; she'd built her reputation on bits of truth she'd chosen other people to know, and that would be all anyone knew of her when she died. But responsibility and duty . . .

Only a few months ago, she'd looked at Nasrin and pitied the
gan tsetseg
for the chains that bound her. But Yasmeen had her own; her airship gave her freedom but had bound Yasmeen with duty and loyalty to the men and women that served it. She'd willingly borne those chains—and when the links snapped, it had been a physical pain.

Yet to never feel their burden again was unimaginable. To never feel the wind in her face,
her
wind. To never feel her engines beneath her feet. To never feel pride in her aviators, to know a job well done. She would be willing to bear those chains and risk the pain again—for the right ship, the right crew.

She thought of Archimedes, and an unfamiliar ache bloomed in her chest. Would she be willing to risk the same for the right man? One who knew her now, better than anyone else ever had. But that wouldn't be risking pain; it would be risking her heart, exposing her belly. Yasmeen didn't know if she could do that—even if, like Archimedes, she wanted to.

And she didn't.

Bigor locked the chest. “But you aren't here for Durand.”

“No. It's about tomorrow, and the pass. Mr. Fox and I have been discussing strategy—and we agree that our first priority is avoiding notice from the Horde outpost.”

He nodded once—his default response for any statement, apparently. “And you need me to put it forth to Guillouet.”

“Yes. Hassan has already heard and approved it, but the captain might want another opinion.”

Bigor undoubtedly understood the rest: Another opinion, as long as it wasn't hers or Archimedes'. He nodded.

“The Horde outpost is directly across the valley from the old fortress. We plan to come in the early morning, before dawn—sailing straight through, and using the gliders so that
Ceres
doesn't have to stop and hover. But once we're in the fortress, we won't be able to see if the Horde has noticed and if they're coming.”

“So you want us to stay on
Ceres
and keep watch.”

“Yes.” If the Horde came, it wouldn't matter if two were at the fortress, or five. But three skilled men on
Ceres
might make all the difference. “If she sails farther down the valley, she can hide out of the Horde's line of sight, but you'll still be able to see if they begin to cross the valley. If they do,
Ceres
can fire her engines and reach us before the Horde. With the three of you on watch, Mr. Fox and I won't have to keep looking out the windows—and we'll go through the fortress more quickly. We'll be picked up after nightfall on the second day. The new moon will help conceal the balloon—and if we need the cargo lift, it'll be there.”