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

by Jim Butcher

He aimed words of pain at Wordkeeper. In reply, Littlemouse slapped his ears with her words.

reminded himself that murdering the idiot beside him in an abrupt surge of joyous violence would be in extremely bad taste.

“You have questions, I answers. Shall we see if they match?”

“It’s the least I could do,” Grimm said. “Incorrect!” Ferus proclaimed. “The least you could have done would be nothing! Goodness, I hope you’re brighter than you seem. We’ve really no more time to waste upon your education, Captain.”

“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.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Byron Creedy, Predator’s executive officer. Master Ferus, Captain Grimm has asked me to bring you and your party aboard at your earliest convenience.” The old etherealist blinked and looked up from whatever private thoughts had preoccupied him. He looked the young man up and down, nodded, and said, “Convenient would have been yesterday. Now will suffice.”

Her father had always said that a man could be fairly judged by the quality of his allies and that of his enemies. Captain Grimm seemed to have a number of rather staunch allies, despite his disgraced status, apparently including Lord Albion himself. And despite what had happened to him, his pride was unbowed. If what Kettle said was true, then Grimm was a rather remarkable man—perhaps even the kind of man who could match tacticians of historic brilliance,

“Captain on deck!” Stern barked as Grimm opened his door. Grimm stepped onto the deck to see every crewman in sight stop whatever they were doing, turn toward him, and snap him a perfect Fleet salute. He kept himself from smiling. “Mister Stern,” Grimm said beneath his breath. “Why is it that the crew bothers with formal protocol only when a serving member of Fleet comes aboard?” “Because we like to remind the uptight bastards that on this ship, you’re in command, Skipper. Regardless of what Fleet thinks of you.” “Ah,” Grimm said. He lifted his voice slightly. “As you were.”

Gwen arched an eyebrow at her cousin and turned back to Brother Vincent. “Wouldn’t it be faster to walk in straight lines rather than wandering back and forth like this? This way does not seem sensible.” The monk’s smile widened. “Did anyone forbid you to do so?” “Well, no,” Gwen said. “Why aren’t you walking the way you believe to be sensible, then?” Gwen blinked. “Well . . . it was obviously the way everyone walks here, I suppose.” “Did you wish to avoid offending our sensibilities?” “No. Not exactly,” Gwen said. “It just . . . it seemed the proper thing to do.” Brother Vincent nodded. “Why?” “Because . . . well, look at it. The stones are all worn down where everyone has walked.” “Do you feel you should walk the same path because so many have walked it before you came, miss?” Gwen glanced at Benedict, but her cousin only looked back at her in silence, apparently interested in her answer. “No, of course not. Except yes, in a way. I hadn’t really given it any thought.” “Few do.” Brother Vincent bowed his head and turned to continue leading them down the hallway, and Gwen had the sudden impression, from his body language, that he was a teacher who had just concluded a lesson.

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

“It isn’t my task to save money,” Gwen replied rather tartly. “I’m here to save time.” “Impossible, impossible,” Master Ferus said. “Time is time. We can barely even see it, much less alter it.”

“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.”

“What you feel is the etheric energy that courses through the crystal. But your sensation of it is . . . something your mind was not sure what to do with, when you first encountered it. A wonderful place, the mind, but if it has any kind of disappointing failure, it’s that it always attempts to put new things into the context of things which are already familiar to it. So your mind apparently decided, upon encountering this new sensation, that it might just as well label it ‘cold’ and get on with your day. And you are far from alone—it’s one of the more common reactions to the first direct exposure to an intense field of etheric energy.”

As deaths went, Bridget thought, being asphyxiated by warm, soft, furry little beasts seemed a bit less ghastly than some she had considered lately, but nonetheless she preferred to avoid it.

When one assumed, one quite frequently was correct, but it was hardly a constant.

“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.”

“Were traditions rational, they’d be procedures.”

As a loyal son of Albion, Grimm knew more or less to the second when his tea would be cool enough to drink. He reached for his cup, and the other two moved to do the same at precisely the same time. They all sipped.

If the nature of her foes would speak to the credit of Bridget’s death, then surely the nature of her allies would speak even more loudly and clearly of her life.

“After the way I left, I suddenly find myself wanting very much to go home. But . . . it won’t be the same when I get back. Will it?” “It will be the same,” Grimm said. “You’re the one who has changed.”