. . . stop the war.â
âHow many Caskentians died to fuel that box of yours?â I yelled. She surely had it on her person.
âThousands.â I hoped Iâd misheard her, but I feared I had not. âYouâd . . . vain!â
âThen make it to the Waste, if you can!â I yelled back. âDonât risk our hides.â Donât risk Sheridan.
I squeezed his arm then passed the rope to his grip. Heâd known sailor knots before he knew his letters, so it took him mere seconds to secure the rope to his belt. I gingerly moved past him so I could look around at Starling. The wind and my own accursed stiffness dropped me to a knee. The iciness of the floor stabbed through the cloth.
âYouâre not going to survive . . . night. Winds . . . Even if you did . . . send Daggers after you. Keep you quiet.â
I forced away more grief as I wondered at the fate of my aether magi.
Mrs. Starling stood with her back to the clattering hatch, secured by her own rope. Her body was bundled thick like an autumn bear, the broad straps of the wing suit forming an X over her chest. Over her shoulders, the wings had opened slightly and seemed rigged to her arms by a series of pulleys. A full leather helmet, the goggles glassed in green, covered her head. She poked around some other crates, looking for something. A way to keep the hatch open, I imagined. She couldnât risk it crunching her or the wings.
âWith Corrado gone, thatâs one fewer,â I said.
For a moment, I mistook her high laugh for the wind. âIâm the Clockwork Dagger! Corrado . . . assistant . . . damn poor one. Your boy, on the other hand . . .â
âMy boy?â I snapped.
â . . . Reputation among docks and crews . . . Clever. Curious. I see one of your men brought Corradoâs wings. Give . . . Sheridan. Barely . . . petrol to make the flight. He can come with me . . . train in the palace.â
I wanted Sheridan to live out his potential, but I also wanted him to keep his soul . I looked at Sheridan. He seemed dumbstruck. God help me, was he actually considering this?
Mrs. Starling continued, âBesides . . . Captain. Feel . . . ship . . . something wrong, not just headwind . . . crash soon . . . he . . . wear wings. Escape.â
Faint light shone on Sheridanâs smooth face, his slim body. He was still very much a child. âSheridan?â I whispered. When had I last called to him by his first name?
âNo!â He shouted to be heard. I released a breath deeper than my lungs. âIâm crew of the Argus . I will not abandon ship.â He met my eye and murmured, âI wonât abandon you , Captain.â
â . . . Very well!â Mrs. Starlingâs voice rang out. â . . . No second chances . . . Good as damned.â
There was a hard clang, then another. I looked around. Mrs. Starling had grabbed a length of rebar and was stabbing it onto the hatch. I knew sheâd succeeded to hold the maw wide open when the wind truly howled through and around us, the chill like death. Loose ropes and detritus blew about. An old, desecrated portrait of Queen EvandiaâÂstored down here for agesâÂflapped past me and toward the hatch.
When I looked around again, Mrs. Starling was gone.
âSheridan?â I bent close to his face. âYou can leave with those wings. Go on your own.â
âNo, sir.â His gaze was hard.
âWeâve lost our ballast. The Argus is venting gas. Weâre going to crash. The hatch is open nowâÂâ
âSir. No. I canât.â
âYou can, damn it.â
âNo, Captain, I canât .â His voice softened. I leaned closer. âAfter we spoke, I sneaked into the wardrobe boxes and
Back in the Saddle (v5.0)