Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [114]
On the quarterdeck, Yasmeen lowered her spyglass and told the aviator at the helm, “Take her in directly between those machines, at the height of its shoulder. Follow the path of the river into the city.”
“Ma’am? Between the machines?”
“Yes.”
Archimedes said, too softly for anyone to hear, “Are we out of the tentacles’ range?”
“No.” She glanced at him. “No one has begun shooting yet. They likely won’t start for a sugar sloop.”
“Even one with a Huguenot cross emblazoned on her balloon?”
A French symbol. That was unfortunate. “Do you think your luck is still holding up?”
“Well enough.”
Hassan came onto the quarterdeck, peering across the city to the water in the distance. “So they have begun a siege.”
“Yes.”
He sighed. “Let me go to the bow so that they will see that I am aboard.”
After sharing a glance with Yasmeen, Archimedes went with him. Yasmeen ordered the engines cut, and slowly, they sailed toward the city.
The great machines rose on each side. Though far enough away that Yasmeen couldn’t have hit them with a thrown rock, their sheer size made it seem they passed at an arm’s length.
And it was, she supposed. The machine’s arm’s length.
A shout rose from the starboard bow. And there she was. On a path from the city wall to the machine, zombies began to fall in the wake of a small figure robed in black. Moving with astonishing speed, Nasrin cleared the half mile between the wall and the machine’s squat base in the space of ten breaths. Leaping up, she caught the edge of a ladder with gray fingers, flipped up onto the rolling tracks. She climbed to the torso, the shoulders, simply pushing with a foot, a hand, and launching herself higher with each push, so swiftly that she all but flew to the machine’s shoulder.
The crew looked to Yasmeen, wild-eyed, as if waiting for her order. A few had started toward the gun stations.
“Attention!” she shouted. “A lady boards us. You will treat her as such. If you cannot stand as gentlemen, leave this deck.”
Or die.
On the machine’s shoulder, Nasrin flicked her wrist. Several of the men cried out as her hand detached and streaked toward them, trailing thin chains of mechanical flesh. Disembodied gray fingers gripped the gunwale. Nasrin leapt, the chain winding swiftly back into her arm. Within moments, the seam of her wrist sealed, and she climbed over the side of the ship with infinite grace. Her gaze touched Yasmeen, held for a long second, before moving to the men at the bow.
“Hassan, my friend,” she said in Arabic, her voice like honey in spiced tea. “Have you been treated well? You appear sickly, as I have never seen you before.”
Yasmeen curled her fingers to hide the trembling of her hands. The fate of this entire crew likely rested on his answers.
“Very well, Nasrin. The food and cold climes have not agreed with me.”
“And are these friends?”
“Yes. Very good friends to me.”
“And are you still friend to us?”
“Always. To Temür and to Rabat.”
“I am pleased to hear that, Hassan.” Her gaze moved to Archimedes. “Mr. Gunther-Baptiste. It is also good to see you in full, rather than peering at me through a peephole in a crate.”
“You must forgive me,” he said, grinning. “In the New World, men are taught that peepholes are the only proper way to catch a glimpse of a beautiful woman.”
“Then you must have spent every moment aboard looking through a peephole.” She looked to Yasmeen. “Is he yours, sister?”
“Every man aboard is, Lady Nasrin.”
“Then I will call every man aboard a friend. You may enter our city without fear.” On silent feet, she came up to the quarterdeck. “I will show you where to tether your ship. Will you tolerate the company of an old woman while we fly?”
Yasmeen would, gladly—but even if she wouldn’t,