The Aeronaut's Windlass (The Cinder Spires, #1)

by Jim Butcher

“The heart of democracy is violence, Miss Tagwynn,” Esterbrook said. “In order to decide what to do, we take a count of everyone for and against it, and then do whatever the larger side wishes to do. We’re having a symbolic battle, its outcome decided by simple numbers. It saves us time and no end of trouble counting actual bodies—but don’t mistake it for anything but ritualized violence. And every few years, if the person we elected doesn’t do the job we wanted, we vote him out of office—we symbolically behead him and replace him with someone else. Again, without the actual pain and bloodshed, but acting out the ritual of violence nonetheless. It’s actually a very practical way of getting things done.”

Fear was really quite tedious. She wanted to be rid of it as soon as possible.

“In the academy, we were taught that it has never been conclusively—” “I went to the academy, too, thank you,” Grimm said. “The academy is where knowledge begins—not where it ends.

“Mister Journeyman,” Grimm called, without turning his head. “Aye, Captain?” “You stay.” An incredulous, absolutely acidic epithet split the air. “I believe the phrase you used was ‘jumped-up wollypog’? If you are too valuable to show proper deference and courtesy to my XO, you are certainly too valuable to risk in a firefight with Auroran Marines, Journeyman. That’s how it is.” The engineer’s ongoing curses faded into the background as Grimm began to trot forward, and his men came with him.

What kind of fool was she to let herself be taken prisoner and used against her own Spire by its enemies? And right in front of Benedict?

“By the way, we’re at war as of an hour ago. I didn’t think it was worth waking you for.”

“We were most certainly not rescued,” Gwen said. “Not by aeronauts and most specifically not by a man who was cast out of the Fleet for cowardice.” “This should be interesting,” Benedict said. “What did happen, then, dear coz?” Gwen sniffed. “My plan embraced the necessity of cooperation to overcome greater numbers. We kept the enemy pinned in place until the proper amount of force could be brought to bear against them. We were the anvil to the hammer of our reinforcements.” “Is she serious?” Bridget asked Benedict. “Sweet Gwen lives in a very special world,” Benedict replied soberly, even kindly. “Apparently it looks only somewhat like the place in which we mere mortals reside.”

Albion cleared his throat. “Master Ferus. If you please, could you possibly share the reason you need the good captain’s vessel?” “To find the Enemy, of course,” Ferus said. “There’s mischief afoot.” “Ah,” Albion said. He did not say it with much enthusiasm. “Is there anything more specific you can tell me?” Ferus considered that. “Doorknobs are extremely complex technology.” Albion nearly failed to suppress a sigh.

“It seems simple enough,” Bridget said. “The most difficult things often are,” said Lord Albion.

“This one,” Rowl said, looking at Grimm. “This one seems smarter than most humans, Littlemouse. I have decided that he may stay.” “Given that it is his ship that will carry us,” Bridget said, her tone dry, “that seems very practical.”

“Etherealists are, in many ways, simply etheric engineers.” “Etheric engineers cannot call lightning, sir. Or fly.” “No?” Grimm asked. “But they can design etheric weaponry, such as gauntlets, long guns, and cannon, can they not? Can they not design an airship and send it aloft into the sky?” “True,” Bridget said. “But those are . . . they’re weapons and ships. Of course they do that. They design and build devices to a function. It’s what they do.” “My point is that an etherealist does the same sorts of things, miss. It’s just that he skips the troublesome part in the middle.”

“Oh, they’re talking to me again,” the girl told the jar. “Why must people always talk to me when I leave the house?”

“You have said nothing untrue,” he replied. “You have also said nothing that is complete. There is more to the world than what a review board publishes about an officer or aeronaut, Miss Lancaster.

“Miss Lancaster, spirestone is heavy. Fire is hot. And the captain does his duty. No matter what it costs him. Understand?”

“So. You repelled an assault by Auroran Marines . . . with one hand.” “My crew did the majority of that.” Bayard made a little ah sound. “Naturally. While you stood about offering critique, I suppose.” “It’s as if you know me.”

The human Gwendolyn blinked at him several times and then said, “When on earth did he leave? How did he leave?” Littlemouse nodded at him and said to human Gwendolyn, “He is a cat, Miss Lancaster. Asking such questions is an exercise in futility.”

“Littlemouse,” he said, “if the human platform fails, will we not fall to the surface?” He could hear her heart speed up, and her hands became somewhat clammy against his fur. “Nonsense. I’m certain it will do no such thing.” But she began to walk slightly faster.

Troll.

it managed to appear squat and thick, as if determined to resist the sheer idea of any assault, much less the actual attack that might spring from such a notion.

“I know all of those words, and yet when strung together like that I have no idea what they mean.”

“No rooms,” the innkeeper said, his jaw setting stubbornly. Gwendolyn Lancaster narrowed her eyes. * * * They decided to take their dinner in their suite, rather than shouldering their way into the Black Horse’s common room.

God in Heaven, she really doesn’t realize what she’s like when she’s bearing down on some poor soul, Bridget thought. Aloud, she said, “Cats don’t react well to, um, to . . .” She faltered and looked over at Benedict, silently pleading for help. “Gwenness,” Benedict said. Gwen lifted an eyebrow. “In what way, precisely, did you mean that remark, coz?” “In precisely every way,” Benedict replied. “Your diplomatic efforts so far have consisted of instigating a duel, threatening detachment of Fleet Marines with charges of treason, throwing away a tidy little fortune in bribes, and abruptly discharging a gauntlet into an otherwise nonviolent situation.” “But—” Gwen began. “Twice,” Benedict said mildly. Gwen regarded him steadily and gave her next bite of fowl a particularly stiff jab of her fork.

“Money is a madness, a delusion-illusion. It’s not made of metal, really. It’s made of time. How much is one’s time worth? If one can convince enough people that one’s time is an invaluable resource, then one has lots and lots of money. That’s why one can spend time—only one can never get a refund.”

Rowl leaned down to peer at Folly. “She seemed no more ridiculous to me than most humans.” At that, Folly looked up and beamed a smile at Rowl. “Oh. He doesn’t know that that’s the kindest thing anyone’s said about me since the master called me a gnatcatcher.” “And now we’re back to being very odd,” Bridget said.

Rowl looked around calmly for more foes to defeat, but he’d run out of enemies with which to amuse himself.

a flood of silkweavers poured from the hole in the ceiling. They were all more or less the same size as the first group of the creatures—but there were more of them. Not dozens. Not scores. Hundreds. Hundreds and hundreds of them, pouring out like water in a chorus of shrieks, a rattling thunder of clashing serrated jaws, swarming down the already hanging silk lines like inverted aeronauts. Like fleets of them. It was just possible that there were too many for Rowl to exterminate alone.

A chittering tide of silkweavers boiled along behind them.

Such a lovely visual

their pursuers were no fewer in number, but fewer could approach them at once, and that was very nearly the same thing, for Folly’s purposes. Though, now that she considered it, Folly had never regarded herself as the sort of young woman who had purposes, precisely. That was potentially a troubling development—not nearly so troubling as being torn to pieces by thousands of silkweavers, of course, but it was a matter upon which to deliberate—assuming, of course, that she survived the next few moments.

So because it was right and necessary to do so, she simply imagined a thousand different complex, unique little paths for her baby lumin crystals, all at once. Well, she shouldn’t exaggerate, really, since that was boastful. There were nine hundred and eighty-seven crystals on the floor. So she modestly imagined nine hundred and eighty-seven patterns, one for each little crystal, to show them how to use the energy she was feeding them.

Gwen smiled briefly. “How, um . . .” “Pointlessly trivial?” Ferus suggested quickly. “I was going to say ‘interesting,’ ” Gwen said in a mild tone. “And that’s as close to diplomatic as she gets,” Benedict noted.

“Are you insane?” screamed another patron, a younger man in another separate knot of younger men. “That thing will kill us!” “Oh, God in Heaven, man, do gather up your scrotum and fight!” Gwen snarled. Benedict blinked.

“Come on, then!” Ferus snarled. “What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?”

She primed her gauntlet, and the crystal on her palm glowed and crackled with power, sending a wash of tingles up her arm to the elbow—but it hadn’t really been designed for illumination, and the light from it seemed to spread out and accomplish nothing practical. All it really did was to leave her blind to anything more than a few feet away. But at least, she supposed, its glow managed to make her into a much better target than she’d been a moment before.

Second, that this woman, whoever she was, was dangerous. The hairs on the back of his neck simply crawled. The woman narrowed her eyes abruptly, and for a wild instant Grimm wondered whether he might have been weary enough to have accidentally spoken his thoughts aloud.

It should be remembered at this point that its been hinted that she CAN hear thoughts, or somehow glean their meaning.

“Are you the same Francis Madison Grimm as he who took command of the Perilous all those years ago?” Grimm stiffened. Was that damned ship and the choices he made upon it to haunt him for the rest of his days? Yes, it was, he supposed. That was part of the price he had paid to do his duty. “The same,” he said. “Oh, Captain,” Madame Cavendish breathed. “I have often wished to meet you.”

Could she be connected to the Perilous incident more personally?

“Mister Stern,” Grimm said. “What is that covering you from head to toe? For a moment I took you for my shadow.” “Soot and engine grease, Skip,” Stern said, grinning. “I take it you amused yourself thoroughly this evening.” “Indeed I did, sir. All went well.” “I am relieved to hear it—but I can’t have one of my aeronauts wandering about looking like a tunnel rat. Clean yourself up.” Stern grinned, and his teeth were a very white contrast to the soot. “I’ll do that, sir, right away.” “Good man,” Grimm said, and began striding toward the archway leading into Habble Landing. Sorellin looked back over his shoulder as the small sailor scampered up the gangplank. “What was that about, Captain?” “Accounts payable,” Grimm replied.

Hehehehe

Master Ferus knows some things most of us don’t, I daresay. There is ample reason to hope.” The warriorborn frowned. “I’m not sure how comforting that is, sir. Master Ferus is . . . I do not wish to sound disrespectful, but the man is . . .” “One grip shy of a steering column?” Grimm suggested. “Ten degrees short of a compass? Aviating without goggles?” Sorellin’s expression flickered through surprise and amusement before he schooled it to neutrality again. “A bit eccentric, sir.”

“There is madness and madness, Master Sorellin,” Grimm said. “Ferus and Folly are quite odd, and I take considerable comfort in that fact.” “Sir?” “In my experience, the worst madmen don’t seem odd at all,” Grimm said. “They appear to be quite calm and rational, in fact. Until the screaming starts.” He glanced up to find Sorellin staring at him, frowning. “Let me put it this way, sir. If ever you meet an etherealist who does not seem odd, you will have ample reason for caution. An etherealist who speaks to things that are not there and cannot track the day of the week is par for the course. One who is perfectly well dressed, calmly spoken, and inviting you to tea? That is someone to be feared.” ■ ■ ■ Chapter 41 ■ ■ ■ Spire Albion, Habble Landing, Ventilation Tunnels Do permit me to pour you tea, Sergeant Ciriaco,” Cavendish purred.

“I suppose it is logical.” Bridget sighed. “But I feel no obligation whatever to like it.”

Folly nodded seriously. “Everyone begs everyone’s pardon, but I’ve never seen a pardon. Is it near the spleen?”

“It’s a tradition,” Grimm said. “Were traditions rational, they’d be procedures.”

“What was his name?” Grimm asked quietly. “Moberly,” the guildmaster said quietly. “Harris Moberly.” Grimm nodded. “How old?” Felix grimaced. “Twenty.” Grimm nodded. “Family?” “Wife, brother, mother,” Felix said. “Wife’s expecting.” Grimm made a soft sound and shook his head. Felix nodded. He eyed Grimm. “You know.” “Wish I didn’t.” Felix let out a wry chuckle. “Drink?” “Obliged.”

it tears holes and holes and holes everywhere inside one’s head.” She shuddered. “And she doesn’t realize how one must find other things to fill in the holes or else one simply falls into them—and falls and falls and falls.”

What had changed things? What had made the difference? She had. All by herself. When the enemies of Spire Albion were in the walls, the great-great-granddaughter of old Admiral Tagwynn had refused to have a nice lie-down, and it was as simple and as profound as that.

She felt certain that in a drama, a heroine would have immediately devised a plan to sacrifice herself boldly for her companion. She’d rush out into the hall and fling the crystals back to Folly, and then run in the opposite direction, screaming, and drawing all the silkweavers after her. She would put up a bold fight, but ultimately die gallantly while Folly brought terrible retribution upon the surface creatures—and then finished the mission, mourning her fallen friend in the aftermath. Heroines in dramas, Bridget felt, really ought to have more sense.

And abruptly and all at once, they rose into the air in a cloud of glowing motes. Folly appeared among them, striding forward, flickers of light dancing along her candy-stripe hair, her mismatched eyes blazing.

😍😍😍😍

Folly’s voice rang out, cold and hard. “We don’t like it when people try to hurt our friends.” And the entire cloud of crystals flew at Sark like bullets loosed from a gun.

“I don’t talk to puppets,” Folly said. “They can’t talk back. Not really. They just dance on their strings.”

The cats didn’t kill the silkweaver so much as they spread it evenly over several dozen square yards of tunnel. Bridget almost felt sorry for the beast. Not quite, but almost.

Rowl turned to Littlemouse and said, “If it matters, someone is still alive in there. I can hear them.” Littlemouse blinked at him for a moment in that charmingly witless way she had, and then blurted out a translation of his words to human Benedict. Human Benedict’s eyes snapped to Rowl. “Where?” Rowl leaned his head toward the temple and said, “Am I an oracle? No, I am not. Inside.”

Grimm took a quick head count and began to give the order to move out, when he paused to see one last phantom appear out of the haze. For a moment he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. Then the phantom stepped closer, and he could see. Bridget Tagwynn trudged out of the haze, covered so thickly in dust that she might have been an animated statue. She moved slowly, her face locked in a rictus of determination. Sir Benedict’s limp form was draped over one of her shoulders, his arms swinging loosely where they hung down her back. She held one arm wrapped around the back of his thighs, keeping his weight balanced. In that hand, she clutched a dust-covered volume. In the other arm she carried the limp form of a dust-covered cat, presumably Master Rowl. One of her booted feet left partially bloodied prints in the thin layer of dust on the ground, but she had not let the injury stop her. She simply walked, putting one foot steadily in front of the other in small, deliberate, balanced steps.

How many times must I read this book before this moment no longer makes me cry?