that you’re the person in
question."
"Foretelling interests me." Casaubon dug into the capacious pockets
of his full-skirted coat and brought out a handful of roasted chicken-wings.
Picking what remained of the meat from the bones, he said: "I’ll give you a
shilling to help carry my gear, and we’ll talk about it."
Lucas stood up off the balustrade. Patience
exhausted, the afternoon sun fraying his temper, he said: "Oh, really! There are
limits to what a prince will do!"
The big man looked down at the cards, and at the
heap of small coins at Lucas’s elbow. Through a fine spray of chewed chicken and
spittle, he remarked: "Are there? What are they?"
Lucas stared, silenced.
"Sir?"
A thin brown-haired woman in a frock-coat walked
across the sand. Behind her, silver highlights slid across an airship’s bulging
hull. She snapped her fingers for a porter to follow: the man staggered under
the weight of a brass-bound trunk. Two other men followed, carrying a larger
trunk between the two of them, their boots digging deep into the sand. The woman
made a deep formal bow.
"Ah– Parry! Here." The stentorian bellow beside
him deafened Lucas.
"I’ve summoned a carriage, Lord-Architect. Now, are
you sure that—?"
Casaubon stood. He bulked large above Lucas, easily
six foot four or five inches tall. He waved a dismissive hand at the woman.
"Parry, don’t fuss. Go back, as arranged. And try to keep the Senate from bankrupting me while I’m gone, won’t you?"
The woman, sweating in woolen frock-coat and
breeches, gave a long-suffering sigh. "Yes, Lord-Architect."
One carriage rolled up, and the porters began to
load it from the luggage piled up around the airship’s steps. Case followed
case, trunk followed trunk, until the metal-rimmed wheels sank inches deep into
the sand. The precise woman snapped her fingers and beckoned another of the
nearby carriages.
Casaubon strode over to supervise the loading,
mopping at the rolls of fat at the back of his neck with a brownish kerchief.
Two of the men struggled to raise a square chest. He motioned them aside,
squatted, and straightened up with it in his grip. He heaved it up on to the
cart.
"Oof! We’ll need another cart. Parry, you’re about
to miss your ship."
The thin woman glanced over to where crews were
loosening the anchor-ropes of the nearest airship.
"I’ll manage," the big man forestalled her. "My
friend here will call another carriage."
The woman made a hurried bow, looked as though she
would say more, heard a hail from the airship, and turned and strode away.
Casaubon stared after her. Ponderously regretful, he shook his head, and then
turned back to Lucas.
"Won’t you?"
Lucas, a step away, hesitated. He scratched at his
thick springy hair, and tugged the linen shirt away from his neck. The heat of
the afternoon sun cleared promenade, sand-flats and streets; litters vanishing
into cool courtyards, and men and women into cafes and bars. No one now to be
inveigled into a game of Shilling-the-Trump, and risk sunstroke.
He put a hand into his breeches pocket, and brought
it out closed. "I can only think of one way to tell if this is a waste of time."
Lucas opened his hand. On his palm, heavy and
intricate, glittering with sharp sun-sparks, lay a golden bee.
Falke shuddered as he walked through humid heat,
arms tight about his body. One hand clenched, frustrated, lacking the sword that
a Rat-Lord would kill him for owning. He flinched as wet petals brushed his
face. Great single-petaled roses shone ebony in the gloom, each bramble and leaf
and bud outlined in mirror-silver.
Their touch glided through his skin: substanceless.
"Here!" the brown Rat called from ahead.
Falke pushed sopping hair out of his eyes, staring
into the sewer-tunnel. Every noise–brushwood shoved aside, a stone kicked, the
sharp sound of water dripping from the brick roof–thrilled through him. The
reflexes of his illegal
question."
"Foretelling interests me." Casaubon dug into the capacious pockets
of his full-skirted coat and brought out a handful of roasted chicken-wings.
Picking what remained of the meat from the bones, he said: "I’ll give you a
shilling to help carry my gear, and we’ll talk about it."
Lucas stood up off the balustrade. Patience
exhausted, the afternoon sun fraying his temper, he said: "Oh, really! There are
limits to what a prince will do!"
The big man looked down at the cards, and at the
heap of small coins at Lucas’s elbow. Through a fine spray of chewed chicken and
spittle, he remarked: "Are there? What are they?"
Lucas stared, silenced.
"Sir?"
A thin brown-haired woman in a frock-coat walked
across the sand. Behind her, silver highlights slid across an airship’s bulging
hull. She snapped her fingers for a porter to follow: the man staggered under
the weight of a brass-bound trunk. Two other men followed, carrying a larger
trunk between the two of them, their boots digging deep into the sand. The woman
made a deep formal bow.
"Ah– Parry! Here." The stentorian bellow beside
him deafened Lucas.
"I’ve summoned a carriage, Lord-Architect. Now, are
you sure that—?"
Casaubon stood. He bulked large above Lucas, easily
six foot four or five inches tall. He waved a dismissive hand at the woman.
"Parry, don’t fuss. Go back, as arranged. And try to keep the Senate from bankrupting me while I’m gone, won’t you?"
The woman, sweating in woolen frock-coat and
breeches, gave a long-suffering sigh. "Yes, Lord-Architect."
One carriage rolled up, and the porters began to
load it from the luggage piled up around the airship’s steps. Case followed
case, trunk followed trunk, until the metal-rimmed wheels sank inches deep into
the sand. The precise woman snapped her fingers and beckoned another of the
nearby carriages.
Casaubon strode over to supervise the loading,
mopping at the rolls of fat at the back of his neck with a brownish kerchief.
Two of the men struggled to raise a square chest. He motioned them aside,
squatted, and straightened up with it in his grip. He heaved it up on to the
cart.
"Oof! We’ll need another cart. Parry, you’re about
to miss your ship."
The thin woman glanced over to where crews were
loosening the anchor-ropes of the nearest airship.
"I’ll manage," the big man forestalled her. "My
friend here will call another carriage."
The woman made a hurried bow, looked as though she
would say more, heard a hail from the airship, and turned and strode away.
Casaubon stared after her. Ponderously regretful, he shook his head, and then
turned back to Lucas.
"Won’t you?"
Lucas, a step away, hesitated. He scratched at his
thick springy hair, and tugged the linen shirt away from his neck. The heat of
the afternoon sun cleared promenade, sand-flats and streets; litters vanishing
into cool courtyards, and men and women into cafes and bars. No one now to be
inveigled into a game of Shilling-the-Trump, and risk sunstroke.
He put a hand into his breeches pocket, and brought
it out closed. "I can only think of one way to tell if this is a waste of time."
Lucas opened his hand. On his palm, heavy and
intricate, glittering with sharp sun-sparks, lay a golden bee.
Falke shuddered as he walked through humid heat,
arms tight about his body. One hand clenched, frustrated, lacking the sword that
a Rat-Lord would kill him for owning. He flinched as wet petals brushed his
face. Great single-petaled roses shone ebony in the gloom, each bramble and leaf
and bud outlined in mirror-silver.
Their touch glided through his skin: substanceless.
"Here!" the brown Rat called from ahead.
Falke pushed sopping hair out of his eyes, staring
into the sewer-tunnel. Every noise–brushwood shoved aside, a stone kicked, the
sharp sound of water dripping from the brick roof–thrilled through him. The
reflexes of his illegal
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