Page 50 of The Affair of the Mysterious Letter
“I could have been indicted for murder.”
“Oh, come now. Lawson and his ilk may be bumbling, flat-footed, addlepated, goose-witted, dunderheaded nincompoops”—it may surprise my readers to learn that she did, in fact, use the words “bumbling,” “flat-footed,” “addlepated,” “goose-witted,” “dunderheaded,” and “nincompoops”—“but even they would be unlikely toconclude that you had pierced a man’s flesh repeatedly with your canine teeth and drawn the blood from his veins without leaving any stain or blemish upon your person, and then either found some way to accelerate the cooling and decomposition such that he appeared to have been dead for two days or else returned to the scene of your crime somewhat after the event, despite having already been arrested once in the interim. You were, on balance of probabilities, safe.”
My feelings were becoming, frankly, less mixed, and not in the positive sense. “And the necromantic ritual?”
“The secrets of necromancy are well guarded, and it should be abundantly clear to anybody that you are not privy to them.”
“You understand that it is also an offence to assist in such an undertaking.”
“But you were no help at all.” She adjusted the straps on the aviator goggles she had donned during my incarceration. “On the contrary, your tedious moralising is frequently quite the opposite.”
“Which you could have told the Augurs if you hadn’t abandoned me.”
“We were in a hurry. A hurry, I might add, to do something that was your idea. I needed to secure our flight and I had every confidence in your ability to extricate yourself. Confidence that has now proven justified.”
In a strange way this did, in fact, reassure me. To a wholly objective observer it would doubtless have appeared that Ms. Haas had signalled a complete failure to understand, or even acknowledge the validity of, any of my concerns with her behaviour. But for one who knew her as I was coming to, there was a sincerity to this overly rational exegesis that was the closest thing she ever came to sentiment. Thus, I allowed myself to be mollified.
Sensing victory, Ms. Haas continued. “In any case, it is good to have you back, Captain. Welcome to theClouded Skipper. Quite magnificent, isn’t she?”
I would not myself have chosen so theatrical a word, but it was, in this context, apt. I had seen a number of flying machines in my time, both military craft during my years amongst the Company of Strangers and civilian vessels in my university days, but none of them had quite prepared me for theClouded Skipper. We were to travel inside a sizable cabin fashioned from solid iron, a sturdy structure into which—on closer inspection—doors and portholes had been seamlessly worked. But the great marvel of the vehicle was the vast mechanical butterfly that perched atop the cabin. It was mostly black, fashioned from finely wrought panels of interlocking metal detailed with such meticulous fineness that I could see individual hairs on its legs. Its wings were a still greater marvel: innumerable tiny scales that iridesced eerily in the moonlight, minute variations in their temper and finish creating patterns and eyespots as though it were a living creature. So impossibly delicate was their construction that they seemed almost to tremble in the breeze, as if a stray touch or careless breath might destroy them, but they possessed also the majesty of steel and the unyielding character of iron, which gave them a strength that I felt I could trust implicitly.
“Ms. Haas,” I said, somewhat startled. “How did you gain access to one of the creations of the Steel Magi?”
“It’s a long story and not entirely mine to tell. All you need to know is that the captain is no longer a magus of the order, and that I once helped him with a personal matter.”
I did not wish to press the issue, but my cautious instincts rebelled against the notion of placing myself in the power of a man who had been expelled from a secretive mystical order for crimes of undisclosed magnitude. “If I might ask,” I asked, “why precisely is he no longer a magus of the order?”
My companion patted me consolingly on the shoulder. “That is mostcertainlynot my story to tell. But you can rest assured that thetransgressions for which Blessing was stripped of his status would in no way contravene the rather idiosyncratic grab bag of superstitions you call your principles. If anything, they were foolishly commendable. Or perhaps commendably foolish.”
This did not alleviate my concerns.
“Oh, buck up, Mr. Wyndham. I’ve done far worse myself. Just this week, in fact. I mean, only this evening I left a completely innocent man to be arrested for murder.”
“And almost immediately afterwards started making jokes about it.”
“You see”—she grinned at me—“I’m simply awful. Yet here I am rushing to the rescue of an innocuous fishmonger who has been unfortunate enough not only to draw the attention of a heartless, ruthless, self-serving fiend but also to be hunted down by a vampire.”
I did not think it appropriate for Ms. Haas to be making such intimations about Miss Viola, who appeared to be making a genuine effort to better herself, but I did not get the opportunity to marshal any arguments in her defence for, at that moment, the door of the passenger cabin swung open and a gentleman appeared, who I took for our pilot. He was dark skinned and shaven-headed, dressed in ornate robes fashioned from an inconceivably fine mesh of steel rings.
“You got me out of bed,” he began, in tones more resigned than angry, “and told me I had to be ready to leave immediately. Then you made me wait for your friend. And now you are standing around outside mySkipperarguing with each other. Please board the vessel or let me go back to sleep.”
We boarded the vessel. The furnishings within were sparse but not uncomfortable: low benches bolted to the wall and upholstered with soft fabric designed to be pleasant to sit upon and not too terrible to be hurled against in the event of turbulence. Towards the rear of the chamber a pair of hammocks were available for use on longer journeys, and behind those a discreet door concealed a convenience ofpersonal necessity. Woven steel baskets held supplies of dried fruit for the sustenance of passengers, along with canteens of water secured in pockets of netting. It seemed altogether a terribly civilised means of undertaking a long voyage.
My companion vaulted immediately into one of the hammocks and stretched out, looking every bit as comfortable as she did on the chaise at 221b Martyrs Walk. Having never quite shed the habit of reserving the supine posture exclusively for sleep, I settled myself onto a bench and gave serious consideration to a dried apricot, for while I had taken umbrage at Ms. Haas’s willingness to prioritise her dinner over the life of an innocent woman, our commitment to the more moral course of action meant that I had not eaten since luncheon.
Meanwhile, our pilot had taken up a position by the windows at the front of the cabin. “Welcome to theClouded Skipper, the only ship in Khelathra-Ven whose pilot has the misfortune of owing Shaharazad Haas a favour.”
At this, she opened an eye. “Not so. A great many aviators owe me favours. There’s Klaus Ludendorff, Jacques Pun, Nikolaj Fortescue-Blake, and, of course, Davina Wright, to name but four.”
“Davina is currently attempting a solo flight across the Dread Wastes of Bai, Jacques hates you, Fortescue-Blake couldn’t fly an ornithopter across a millpond, and Klaus Ludendorff has been dead for three years.”
“Just some of the many reasons that you were my first choice.” She gestured languidly in my direction. “By the way, this is Mr. Wyndham. It’s his fault we’re here.”
I half choked on my apricot. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr.... um.”
“Ngoie,” he supplied. “Blessing Ngoie.”
“I most sincerely regret that it was necessary to impose upon you at this rather unfortunate hour. A young woman’s life is in danger.”
