Areo held
his breath as the guard passed, and then ducked into the doorway. The room was
dark, and he could barely see. Inside, the musty smell of Delorean Skiffs
filled the spacious area. They hung from the ceiling: slim, one man boats with
a bladder built into the wood, filled with volygen. The gas kept the skiff in
the air, while low profile clockwork propellers and sails helped it move. Areo
clambered into the nearest and began untying it. He looked toward the door. He
would be owed a full specter from the dock boys if he succeeded. If he didn’t…
that would be bad. Very bad.
His fingers, trained from years
of sea knot tying quickly dismantled the poorly knotted tethers. As the once
taut tethers fell to the floor, Areo began cranking the clockwork propellers,
leaving the sails down. The Delorean rose up to the level of the roof, and as
Areo passed it he reached into the Control Balcony and released the
counterweight. The roof panels slid back with a bang, and the Delorean shot
through into the bright island sunlight. Areo whooped and flicked a switch on
the propeller box. The clockwork began a clattering purr and the ship shot out
over the white city.
Areo suddenly saw what he knew
were coming: patrol Deloreans, piloted by armored soldiers. Areo twisted the
wheel and the skiff keeled to one side. A moment later a phoenix ballista
chugged, the thunder-paste coated tip barely missing the keel of Areo’s
Delorean.
Now he was scared. He had been
dared to do it by one of the fishmonger’s sons,
and they had promised him a specter if he could land the Delorean on the
deck of their father’s fishing ship. A specter was a lot of money, and it would
give him enough to buy the first six volumes in the classic Philosophy of Pragmatism, by Andréus. Of
course, that wouldn’t be a prudent buy if his flaming corpse was crashing into
the icy Granite Sea.
Another bolt flashed by, and
Areo slid a catch back. Volygen hissed out, and the Delorean dropped a few
feet. Areo glanced at the controls on the mechanics box, trying to find the
accelerator. He clicked a switch and the propellers abruptly clicked to a stop.
The Delorean drifted. Areo cursed and jerked at the brass controls on the
mahogany box. Without warning, the propeller box dropped away from the ship,
crashing through the roof of the house below. Areo gaped at the hole where the
engine had been, but his wonder was cut short as a phoenix bolt crashed into
the side of the skiff with tremendous force, smashing the volygen bladder and
exploding into a brilliant blue sheet of flame, setting the sails aflame.
Listing, the fatally wounded craft spun, spiraling in an elliptical path. A
moment later a second bolt struck the hull, blowing pin fragments across the
city. Areo yanked at the controls, but the craft could not respond.
A moment later, sails aflame,
billowing smoke, chased by three large
patrol Deloreans and covered in flaming thunderpaste, Areo’s Delorean
crashed through the window of the Harbor Master’s window and into his sitting
room.
Areo coughed and looked up.
Stunned faces stared back: high society housewives gathered around a table
where a fancy tea was being served. There was silence, except for the crackling
flames on the hull of the ruined craft as Areo stared back at the group. He
gave a weak smile and an obviously fake laugh as smoke filled the room, ruining
the lace doilies and polluting the salmon cakes.
“Why,” he said, “Hello there.”
Areo had heard of people being
dragged before the Magistrate, but had thought of it as a figure of speech.
It wasn’t.
Areo was thrown to his knees
before the Magistrate as two of the Delorean pilots stood over him, hands at
their sabers. Areo looked up, only to have the back of his head buffeted
back down.
The magistrate stood and walked
toward Areo, long and rail thin, with gold and violet robes swirling around his
red slippers.
“Areo Braeso Jev, you are
accused of stealing property belonging to the Heirs, engaging in armed combat
with soldiers of the Thrones, and damaging property with value up to thirty
specters. How do you plead?
“I was in Terenoc.” Areo
said. For his pains he got a hard hit across the back of his head.
“Very well, you irredeemable miscreant,” the magistrate spat. Because
of your age I am prevented from locking you in the quarries for the next ten
years, I must fine your father.
“My age?”
“You are seventeen, are you
not?”
“Yes.”
“Twenty-five specters.”
There was a sudden commotion at
the door, and Areo twisted his head to see his father, Cyszik, pushing into the
room. Cyszik, unlike his son, was tall, muscular, and blond. His skin had been
hardened and lined by the sea, but his face was still ruggedly handsome. He
towered above the guards at the door, staring at his short, dark haired son
kneeling before the magistrate.
“You are the boy’s father?” The magistrate demanded.
“Yes. What did he do?”
“He ruined half of my city,
that’s what he did.”
“A Delorean, a roof and a window
are not exactly half a city.” Areo muttered. The guard struck at Areo, but Areo
dodged the blow.
“I have the money.”
“How much is the fine, Areo?”
Cyszik demanded.
“Twenty five.”
“Lions?”
“Specters.”
There was an explosion of
breath.
“What? How could you do this!
You know I don’t have that much.”
“I do.”
“What?”
The guards, magistrate and
Cyszik stared at Areo.
“I have the money.”
“Where?”
Let me tell my father, and then
I’ll tell you where I have it kept.”
“Only a moment.”
Areo walked to Cyszik’s side,
bent his head down to Areo’s mouth.
“Please, father. If you help me
I swear I’ll never get in trouble again. Just have the Ventrice ready to leave. Please.”
“You had better be right.”
Cyszik growled, before turning on his heel and striding away.
“My father has some urgent
business to attend to. I have the money hidden here, so if you’ll please follow
me, Honorable Magistrate. With your guards, of course.” Areo added.
“I do not think it is wise…” one
of the guards began.
“I am the magistrate, soldier.” The magistrate snapped. To Areo,
“Then show us.”
Areo led them out of the
palace and down the street, a few people staring at the odd procession, a
seventeen year old boy leading one of the premier magistrates, as well as two
guards, uncertainly eyeing their guide.
Areo’s mind was working
furiously as he took the magistrate down
the street. If he did not find the right place, he would still owe the
magistrate the reparatory costs, and have wasted his time, but if he got too
much, the magistrate would trump more charges, in order to force Areo to find
more money. By the time Areo saw his target, his mind was made up.
“Gamblers!” He screamed. The shocked guards whipped blades from
their sheaths, but he was crashing through the door already. The piratical
denizens inside looked up from their games, then bailed out as two guards and a
magistrate crashed through the already open door. Stacks of coins crashed to
floor as the gamblers, scrambling to avoid the nine year sentence mining iron
ore, dashed for the exits. Areo dropped
to his hands and knees, snatching the black platinum specter coins, counting
hurriedly under his breath. When he reached what he thought was close enough to
the total he shoved them at the still stunned magistrate and hit the streets.
Areo reached their brineraker with
a flying leap from the roof of an adjoining house, hitting the deck heavily and
inexpertly, thinking as he did that he probably should have just ran up the
gangplank. It was the moment, though, and sometimes the moment told him to do
things that really didn’t make sense.
Cyszik gave Areo a quick glance.
“I don’t like being in trouble
with the law.”
“We live on the sea.”
“Harbormasters have long
memories.”
“I led them,” Areo said, “to
enough money to make fifty solid gold statues of the harbormaster. I doubt
he’ll remember anything but the day of his good fortune.”
Areo’s father was quiet, and
didn’t say anything else.
