The last riots were the worst. They swept across the tent city like great waves, driven by tides of discontent, and then washed into Hardacre as though the walls didn't even exist.
THE CITY OF HARDACRE 955 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL
Without David and Margaret, the Habitual Fool felt empty, for all that it was full of newcomers. Those two had dominated the place, without ever realising it, perhaps wanting to do precisely the opposite. Three days since they had chosen to, escape… no, not escape, it wasn’t as if they’d been held prisoner. Whatever it was, they’d already caused ripples. Buchan and Whig had heard from spies of their flight from Drift.
But by then they'd had their own problems: the Old Men had come in the night, tearing through the Habitual Fool like death. Buchan and Whig had lost three of their crew to them, but had managed to survive the night, though not without wounds. Each had had to bear long hours receiving stitches and being reassured by a local doctor and historian that the Old Men’s bites and scratches did not carry a contagion, and that they were not likely to awaken hungry for blood.
The Old Men had stolen the last of their maps of the far north — those not stolen by David — and a jacket that had belonged to David and been left behind, as it had grown too small.
To Buchan, the loss of the maps had been a devastating blow. They marked the coordinates of death zones; without them, navigating the north was likely to lead to conflagration.
“What do we do here?” Buchan said. “We’ve spent fortunes preparing for this journey. We’ve lost everything, and now, even this is taken from us.”
Whig sighed. “Maybe it’s for the better. I’ve never liked the cold.”
“Standing next to David must have been very unpleasant for you.”
“Standing next to what he has become, yes. But you must admit that there’s steel in him, and Margaret, too. They may have left us, but it doesn’t mean we can’t help.”
Buchan leaned forward. “What do you suggest?”
“The Old Men still hunt David. We ignored his warning, and managed to survive; perhaps it’s time something hunted them, and in the hunting, of course we might just find David, too. After all, it’s David they want.”
“And just how do you suggest that we do that?”
Whig grinned and patted the blades at his belt. “The old-fashioned way, of course.”
Buchan laughed. “Old-fashioned ways for old-fashioned men. I like the way you think, man.”
“The Old Men haven’t hidden their tracks. After all, they know no one would be stupid enough to hunt them.”
“Until now. Do you think we can kill them?”
“Probably not, but chances are we’ll all be dead by spring anyway.” Whig unrolled a map of the north. “Buchan, get our crew ready. We’ve miles to go and blood to spill.”
This was taking forever. The Warden of the Air was going through every piece of paperwork more carefully than Buchan thought they really deserved; Buchan would have felt panicked, except he knew that every single bit of that documentation was absolutely legitimate.
Buchan said, “We really are in a hurry.”
“You know, you’re the first ship we’re letting up after the incident,” answered the Warden
“Yes, I heard of the murders,” Whig said, squeezing Buchan’s shoulder tightly, whispering at him to calm down.
“Wouldn’t have known it was happening, if those bodies hadn’t fallen in the main square. By then the Langan was on a full head of steam. Those that followed her did not return.”
“We’re aware of all this,” Whig said.
“More than aware, it’s coloured our decision to leave the city,” Buchan said; a half-truth, which was better than nothing. “We’ve had enough of the violence of this city. Too much death.”
“I do not doubt that, Mr Buchan and Mr Whig,” the Warden of the Air said, sounding very much like he did doubt that. Buchan knew he was outclassed; the man was unflappable, years of dealing with Drifters would do that. “Seems there were some folk desperate for the sky. My job’s to challenge such desperation.” He tapped his clipboard. “Though all this looks all right.”
“That’s because it is. We’ve nothing to hide,” Buchan snapped. Nothing to hide except their destination.
“Enough of that!” Whig said, squeezing Buchan’s arm gently. “Enough of that, or we’ll never get to sky.”
Buchan relaxed. “My dear Warden. We are just good men, wishing to engage in honest business. Do any of us look like monsters?” He gestured to Whig and then to Watson Rhig, captain of the Collard Green. Rhig was nearly as tall as Whig. They knew each other, as it turned out, sharing a distant relative — one who had died in the First Cuttle War, an admiral of the first airship corp. Without that connection Buchan doubted that Rhig would have agreed to have joined in their flight north.
Rhig finally spoke. “I can vouch for these men,” he said. “As a captain of some high standing, I can say that I would not be in their employ if their actions were not legitimate.”
The Warden nodded. “If you can vouch for these men, then so be it. Your flight is approved. May the skies be safe for you.”
The Collard Green found its way into the sky, rising over the city. “To the Underground?” Rhig asked.
Buchan shook his head, smiling as one of his men passed him a plate filled with food. Hearty, warm and very filling. The Collard Green 's kitchens were well in order.
“No, my good man. We head north, where the Langan Twist was last seen travelling. We've a friend who is in trouble, who may have deserted us, but who we in turn refuse to desert. So, finally,” Buchan said. “Finally. Good captain, follow that airship if you please. We’ll chase it to the ends of the earth!”
“And what do we do if we catch it?”
“Kill or be killed, I would suggest!” Buchan reached for a leg of cold chicken, and grinned. “Ah, Whig. I know what it is to be alive again!”