Paragaea by Chris Roberson

last years making his way across the face of Paragaea, learning its customs and languages, and making a life for himself, in one respect, at least, he was still a man of a different age, and the notion of sailing through the air rather than on waves had never sat well with him.
    â€œPerhaps Hero just needs to be held, like a swaddled infant,” came the rumbling voice of their companion, from the far side of the common area.
    Leena turned, and smiled, but the smile was empty and forced. She'd traveled with Balam for some time, but even now, on seeing him, she still felt deep within a brief thrill of terror. Seated just a meter away in another bolted-down chair, the large black-furred jaguar man, outlaw prince of the nation of the Sinaa, idly tapped the emerald dangling from one ear, baring his saber-teeth in a knowing grin. He wrinkled his catlike snout in Hieronymus's direction, laughter rumbling faintly in his barrel chest.
    â€œI'll remind you of the time we took a spill in the Inner Sea, Balam,” Hieronymus shot back, with dark humor. “What was it you cried out, when first your precious fur touched water? ‘Save me, mommy, I'm wet!' or something like that, wasn't it?”
    The toothy grin froze on the jaguar man's face, and he narrowed his amber eyes.
    â€œThat was different,” Balam answered, his voice lowered. “We could have drowned.”
    â€œWe were so near the shore that the water was only knee deep!” Hieronymus shot back, punctuating the statement with a bark of laughter.
    The jaguar man crossed his thick arms over his chest, and lowered his eyes.
    â€œI don't like water,” he said sullenly, refusing to meet Hieronymus's gaze.
    Leena closed the door, and stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. She'd not had to deal with any such nonsense back in Baikonur. The flight engineers, technicians, even her fellow cosmonauts had all taken their tone from the chief designer, who'd not had much patience for fun and games. Here in Paragaea, where the stakes so often seemed so much higher, one's life so often on the line, her new companions seemed instead to treat everything as a game. It was not an easy transition to make.
    â€œWhere is our employer?” Leena asked, looking from Hieronymus to Balam and back again. “I thought it our charter that he was never to leave our sight?”
    There came the sounds of suction and gurgling plumbing from beyond the bulkhead, and Hieronymus pointed to the privy door.
    â€œHe's in the head,” he answered, “and we're not paid enough for me to follow him in there.”
    The door handle rattled, and a heavyset, red-faced man entered the room, drying his hands on a cloth. He was dressed in the high fashionof Laxaria: waistcoat, cravat, and piped trousers, with the medallion of his guild membership hanging from his breast pocket like a pendant. Tucked under his arm was a brass-reinforced leather case, the hasps locked and the handle chained to his left wrist.
    The red-faced man looked at Leena with a broad, toothy grin and spoke a few words in the dialect of the Sakrian plains. Leena caught her name, and the word that suggested successful completion, but little else.
    â€œHis Lordship wants to know if we're safely away,” Hieronymus translated into English, the only language he and Leena shared.
    â€œTell him yes,” Leena answered, addressing Hieronymus but keeping her eyes on the heavyset man, her face a polite mask. “We are airborne, and should be clear of the city in moments, and on our way to Lisbia.”
    Hieronymus spoke a few short syllables in Sakrian to their employer, who seemed immediately to deflate with relief. The red-faced man crossed the cabin, gave Leena an avuncular pat on the shoulder, and then arranged himself on a low couch set along the bulkhead, laying the case gingerly across his ample lap. He reached up and drew back the shutters covering the port, and looked out as