Gwynn Place, page 5
“They left in a hurry,” Andrew observed. “Let us find the field master at once.”
But there they found only disappointment. “The crew transferred to a large long-distance vessel, milady,” he said, pushing his rain-speckled goggles up on the brim of his hat, the better to see her with. “They weren’t here but twenty minutes at most.”
“Was a young boy with them?” Claire asked, trying to steady her voice. “About eight years of age, well dressed?”
“Aye. Bit of a temper, that one. His father had to march him aboard in the midst of a tantrum. I think he wanted to pet one of the cows, daft little scrap.”
“That was not his father,” Claire informed him in clipped tones. “He is my brother, Viscount St. Ives, and he was kidnapped by those miscreants. Have you not had a pigeon from the field master at Windsor, asking you to watch for just such a person?”
“No indeed, milady.” The Jersey master’s eyes were wide at the magnitude of his assumptions. “I’m dreadful sorry. We had no idea.”
Claire mastered her temper and did her best to be civil to the man whose carelessness might yet cost Nicholas his life. “Perhaps you might tell me where the larger ship was bound? For her crew appears to have abandoned Contessa altogether.”
“Yes, milady. It will go for auction, I suppose, being abandoned.”
“The course, sir.”
He brought out his ledger and turned the pages with maddening precision. “The big ship was Il Doge, registered in the Duchy of Venice.”
“And bound where?”
“Venice, milady,” he said, as though surprised she had not deduced the same. “Though I advised them against lifting today. There’s a grandmother of a storm expected to hit about four of the clock, and they’ll fly right through it if they hold their logged course.”
What if the ship should go down in the storm? Oh, Nicholas!
“Thank you, sir,” Andrew said when he saw that Claire was breathing deeply and beyond speech. “If you will provide us with a copy of their course, we will be on our way.”
Fifteen minutes later, they lifted. Andrew gazed at the sky outside the viewing ports with concern. “This is going to be a challenge, my dear,” he said. “But if we are forced down, let it be because they are, too, and preferably in Geneva, where we know the lie of the land.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Claire pulled down her goggles. “I will go aft, and trust you to keep us afloat on this course as long as possible.”
The clunk of a pigeon’s arrival pushed every thought from her mind. “Nicholas!”
“Or his shirt,” Maggie said to Lizzie as Claire ran down the corridor.
Her hands shook as she opened the door in the pigeon’s belly and pulled out, not the shirt she half expected, but an envelope of thick, creamy, expensive paper. It was sealed with an ostentatiously large and drippy red wax seal.
The pillar and lion of Venice.
“I’m betting that’s not an invitation from the Queen,” Lizzie said with some trepidation as Claire brought it into the navigation gondola.
“A ransom demand?” Michael said, hardly daring to breathe the words into the air.
Claire slid her finger under the seal, unfolded it, and read it aloud.
Saturday, the 15th of February, 1896
Sir Andrew Malvern, greetings from his grace the Doge of Venice.
“How did he know where to send the pigeon?” Lizzie whispered.
“Shh!” Maggie hushed her.
This letter is being sent simultaneously to your home in London and to your airship in hopes that it may reach you with all dispatch. I am bidden to inform you that his grace is in possession of the person of his young lordship, Viscount St. Ives, who I am given to understand is Lady Malvern’s brother. He is quite safe, and with your guarantee of cooperation, I trust will remain so.
Claire choked, and the letter shook in her fingers. Gently, Andrew took it from her and continued to read.
His grace the Doge wishes to discuss with you the sale of the exclusive rights to your extraordinary invention known as the Helios Membrane. He invites you to a meeting in Rocamadour, which, as a holy pilgrimage site, is considered politically neutral and a sanctuary to all parties. His grace is confident that the presence of the viscount will assure your willingness to negotiate the most satisfactory terms.
We will expect you tomorrow at about the hour of five.
I remain, sir, his grace’s obedient servant,
Paolo d’Acosta, Minister of Transport
Duchy of Venice
“And we believed the greatest threat might have come from poor innocent Egypt,” Andrew said, his voice gone hollow with horror. “They are nothing but honorable compared to the Duchy, as we have seen proven once again.”
“The Doge must be horrid,” Lizzie said. “I’ll never forget that other minister of his. He kept sea creatures in an underwater dungeon.”
“I doubt said minister has forgotten you, either,” Andrew assured her. “You set all his krakens free.”
“As would anyone with a heart or a conscience,” Maggie put in.
“And now we must set my brother free,” Claire croaked. “Lizzie, set a course for Rocamadour. It is in the south of France near Toulouse. Mr. Acosta is being disingenuous in telling us it is a holy site. While it may be neutral, it is also a clifftop fortress, approachable only on one side—or from the air.”
“We will reach it much sooner than tomorrow at five, Claire,” Andrew said. “We are nearly halfway there already. What is your plan?”
“I do not know yet,” she confessed. “But they seem to believe us to be in England still. All we have in our favor is the element of surprise.”
“And an arsenal of lightning weapons,” Michael said.
“Yes.” Claire’s face took on an expression that the South Bank gangs would have recognized all too well. “We have that, and soon they will know it.”
Chapter 6
Somewhere over France
His anxious gaze on the boiling, greenish-black sky outside, Nicholas clung to the sill of the viewing port. No ship, large or small, could hold out against a storm like this. The captain must be mad to force them through these clouds. While safety might wait in the afternoon skies above them, getting that far could see them killed. One lightning strike could tear a hole in the fuselage that could never be repaired.
The door opened and an aeronaut in full flight gear brought in a sandwich and a bottle. No tray, no cutlery, no glass.
“Thank you,” Nicholas said politely as he took the food. “Do you speak English?”
“A little,” the aeronaut said.
A blast of wind made the entire vessel shudder, and the man sucked in a breath through his nose. He glanced at the door, his feet already carrying him halfway across the room.
“Where are we going?” Nicholas asked.
“To Rocamadour.”
Which was not very helpful. Nicholas had no idea whether Rocamadour was a city or a country or a place on the moon.
“Are we going to be all right?” Nicholas bit into the sandwich. Cheese, cut thick. “Why are we flying through the storm?” he asked with his mouth full.
The aeronaut opened his mouth to reply, when the wind sheared and the ship plummeted through the clouds. Nicholas screamed as he was wrenched off his feet and slammed against the ceiling of the cabin. Cheese and bread and whatever liquid had been in the bottle flew about the room like frightened birds. Shouting what sounded like “Ave Maria—Ave Maria—” the aeronaut grasped the doors of the sleeping cupboard, but before he could do anything to help himself, the ship pulled out of her dive.
As she leveled, everything landed on the floor in a heap.
The aeronaut cursed at great length and with energy. Had not Nicholas been trying to extricate himself from under him, he might have asked for a translation.
“You hurt?” the man finally got out.
“I do not know,” Nicholas gasped. “I do not think so.”
They helped each other to their feet, half expecting to be flung against the ceiling again at any moment. For the first time, Nicholas actually wanted a security line, instead of using every trick he could think of to avoid one. The ship emerged from the clouds and seemed to gather herself, then thrust forward, sailing a few hundred feet above the treetops. Rain lashed the viewing port in runnels, and a watery twilight had descended though Nicholas was sure it was too early for the sun to have set.
“That was terrible,” he managed.
“Si. Yes. I must return to my post.” Without a backward glance, the man flung open the door and departed, slamming it behind him.
Nicholas had no doubt that someone—the captain, the navigator—was about to get an earful from the aeronaut. Everyone aboard save for those in the navigation gondola must have been thrown into the air with the same violence.
Whatever had been in the bottle was now soaking into the carpet, smelling of oranges, and half the sandwich was missing. But Nicholas was a practical child. He picked up what bread and cheese he could and stuffed it in his mouth, dusty bits and all, for who knew when his next meal would be? He needed to stay alert.
Still chewing, he tried the door handle.
And the door swung open.
He swallowed the last of the sandwich with a gulp. Had it been locked at all, or had he merely assumed it would be? Never mind. Now was his chance, while the crew were distracted by the storm and the aeronaut assigned to him busy with his duties—or shouting at people.
Had Clary received the pigeon into which he’d put his collar? Had she understood and followed it back to Contessa? Of course she had. He had faith in his sister. So, his next task would be to send another pigeon, so that she could follow it to Il Doge. Athena was fast—maybe not as fast as Il Doge, for she was smaller, but if Clary avoided the storm she would make better time than they. And she would not be distracted by sudden dives out of the air and the spectre of certain death.
The thump of boots in the main corridor brought him back to himself with a thrill of fear. He wrenched on the nearest door, which did not yield. But the key was still in the lock. He turned it and slipped inside just as a group of crewmen thundered past, heading for the engines. He was glad he had not been in the engine room during the dive—imagine the rain of wrenches and bolts and heavy iron objects!
Were they gone?
“Tu chi sei?”
His heart nearly stopped in his chest as he whipped about.
A girl of his own age stood at the window, a bottle similar to the one given him in her hand. She flung it at him and he had to admire her aim, for it glanced off his shoulder.
“Stop it!” he commanded, rubbing the injured part. “That hurt.”
“You’re English,” she said in some surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been kidnapped,” he said. “Why else would I be here?”
This seemed to stump her. Then, “I suppose I have been, too. They said they were taking me to my father, the ambassador, but I haven’t seen a sign of him and nobody will tell me what is going on. Or at least, they pretend not to understand me when I ask.”
“I’m Nicholas.” Manners dictated that he bow, so he did.
“I’m Kitty.” She curtsied, very prettily. She was dressed very prettily, too, in a ruffled white pinafore over a blue velvet dress and a lot of lacy petticoats. Her stockings were torn, but her button-up boots had once been as shiny as his own. “Why did you come in here?”
“I escaped my room,” he said, rather proudly. “I was going to the communications cage, but some men were coming, so I ducked in here.”
“The communications cage? Whatever for?”
“To send a message. To my sister.”
She eyed him as if he were mad. “They let you have pen and ink?”
“Of course not, silly. But if you send a pigeon to a ship, it will come back to yours. I want my sister to follow the pigeon to us, and rescue me.”
Kitty’s eyes widened. “I never knew pigeons did that.”
She had clearly not seen as much of the world as he, despite being the daughter of an ambassador. “What ambassador?” he asked.
“Papa? To Rome. Why?”
“I don’t know. Have you been there?”
“No, never. I stay at home with Nanny and go to lessons. Usually. This is my first time in an airship.”
Good heavens. How could there be anyone left in the world who had never been on an airship? But never mind. He had an urgent errand.
“Please excuse me,” he said. “I must go send the pigeon.”
“I am coming with you.” She caught up a grey wool coat and a matching tam, and put them on swiftly. “After you send it, we must hide.”
“Of course,” he said. That went without saying.
She slipped her hand into his as they ran down the corridor. Shouts echoed from up in the fuselage, presumably aeronauts checking that nothing had been damaged or bent in their plunge toward the earth. Voices came from behind doors, raised in temper, and pots and pans clashed somewhere forward, where presumably unimaginable chaos reigned in the galley.
Nicholas pushed aside a fallen piece of paneling and there was the door to the communications cage. “In here.”
The cage was much bigger than any he’d seen before, and much better equipped.
“They must send a lot of letters,” Kitty said, gazing up at the racks of pigeons. “If you don’t have pen and ink, what are you sending to your sister?”
“I sent my collar before. But now I don’t know.” He rather needed everything else he had on. Perhaps his undervest? But that would mean disrobing in front of Kitty, which would not only be embarrassing, but unpleasant, too, for it was freezing in here. The wind whistled and buffeted them, coming from the external port on the other side of the racks.
“What are those?”
Kitty pointed to his right, where whatever had been stored there had had a trip to the ceiling as well. Two cargo pigeons the size of traveling trunks lay on their sides, doors hanging open, their contents spilling out. He looked more closely. What was inside?
“Is that a head?” Kitty said behind him. “A horse’s head?”
Horror cascaded through him. Who put the decapitated head of a horse in the parcel post? And what captain would permit such a thing aboard his ship?
Then he saw what she meant. The horse’s head was made of some silvery metal, with several moving parts, pistons, and cables. It was more the idea of a horse, like a sculpture, only more practical. “Look, here is its leg.” He pulled it out of a different cargo pigeon’s cavity. It had been bent at the knee so that both front legs would fit inside. “And a cannon!” The cannon seemed to be part of the chest assembly, which took up another pigeon’s cavity all by itself, and which was too heavy to move.
These must be very powerful cargo pigeons. He had never seen any so big—only the kind that delivered letters and small packages.
“A metal horse?” Kitty said. “Why would anyone mail a metal horse when real ones are so much nicer? Of course, you can’t mail a real one.”
Real ones probably couldn’t manage a cannon, either, but Nicholas was not about to say that to a girl to whom he was not related. Mama had warned him more than once not to talk about his tinkering upstairs in the playroom. It didn’t fuss Clary a bit, but Mama was sensitive about inventions and their tendency to embarrass the family.
“I suppose a real horse would object to the cannon,” Kitty observed, startling him with his own thoughts. Perhaps there was no one to tell her she oughtn’t. “I say, look at its hocks and hooves. They’re made of knives.”
“Don’t touch,” he said hastily.
“I won’t,” she assured him, then ran an eye down his coat. “But if you needed something to cut with, you could use one of the blades to send a sleeve or something to your sister. So she would know it was you.”
He turned to look at the knife-like assemblies now sprawled on the floor where they’d pulled them out. Then at the empty pigeon with its cavernous storage cavity. A prickle ran down his arms. Not from the cold wind.
From an idea.
She followed his gaze. “You can’t send only a sleeve in one of those. They’re far too big.”
“Help me turn it upright.”
One on either side, they turned the pigeon the proper way up, on its belly. The ignition mechanism was larger, of course, but it worked the same way the smaller ones did. If he—
The sound of boots approaching at a dead run made Kitty suck in a breath. “Someone’s coming!”
“Inside, quick!”
They flung themselves into the pigeon’s cavity, Kitty squashed up against him in an effort to pull her feet inside. They couldn’t close the door without being seen, but at least it was on the far side, out of the line of sight of the men who came in, shouting and stomping and kicking bits of the metal horse out of the way. One must have stubbed his toe, for he let out a howl of pain, which only made the shouting worse.
“They are going down to moor in a field.” Kitty put her mouth to his ear to whisper. “They must send a message to the minister to tell him they won’t make it to Rocamadour until morning.”
“You speak their language?” he whispered back in amazement.
“It is the tongue of Venice, but close enough to Roman words,” she said, as if it were obvious.
But then, she was the daughter of the ambassador to Rome, even if she had never been there. Of course she understood Italian tongues. How he wished he had found her earlier, so that he might have learned what Il Doge’s business was with him.
“What is Rocamadour?” he whispered.
“It’s—”
But with a snap and a roar of air, a pigeon was released. There ensued a lot of clanking and scraping, almost as though someone was trying to pick up the pieces of the horse.
If the aeronauts put the pieces back in the cargo pigeons, they’d be discovered.
But with a shout, which Kitty translated as “Leave it! We have better things to do,” they departed, slamming the cage door behind them.
