Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [35]
Yasmeen hauled herself up to the porthole’s steel ring—and paused to look back once, like a sentimental fool.
The moment she turned away, her lady exploded.
If not for his sister, Archimedes would have abandoned everything at the boardinghouse and kept running. But there were letters in his belongings that connected Zenobia to him, the directions to her home written clearly—and Temür Agha’s guard wasn’t anything like the bumbling assassins he’d sent before.
Everything he needed fit into a single sack. He lay the converted glider on the bed and scribbled a letter to his sister. They’d already determined the safest location if she needed to flee. As soon as he was able—if he was able—he’d contact her there.
With luck, he’d be able to board The Swan tonight and convince the captain to leave immediately. After selling the sketch at the Ivory Market, he’d sail to Morocco and satisfy his debt with Temür.
With enough luck, that would be the end of this, and the rebel would call off his assassin.
Archimedes extinguished the lamp and moved to the window, his gaze searching the docks below. He didn’t see the woman, but there were too many shadows to be certain.
He looked to the harbor. The Swan’s deck lamps were lit. Probably best to run to the airship now rather than to wait—and if The Swan had an early start, Yasmeen’s anger might have cooled by the time she caught up to him.
Perhaps she was already looking. Lady Corsair’s decks were ablaze with light, as if she’d woken the entire crew and planned to—
No. His heart skidded to a stop. Not ablaze with light. Just ablaze . . . and he’d left Yasmeen drugged and hidden in a closet.
Dear God.
The explosion came in a great flare of light. Archimedes shouted, shielding his eyes. The window cracked. The walls shuddered. And then he was flying down the stairs, onto the docks, joined by men, women, all running, half of them still pulling on their clothes. Even in Port Fallow, an airship catching fire was a disaster that brought help, not the vultures. On the water, ships unfurled their canvas sails, moving away from the burning, floating debris that had once been the finest skyrunner on the seven seas. Above, airship engines started, huffing great bellows of steam, dropping their tethers and fleeing the heat and sparks.
Pieces of burning envelope fluttered through the air like confetti. The south dock was ablaze. Archimedes raced down the flaming boards, eyes watering from the intensity of the heat and smoke and he’d left her drugged and helpless.
“Yasmeen!” He shouted over the noise of the engines and cries for help, but the sound was lost beneath the roar of the burning ship. Desperately, he searched the glowing water. “Yasmeen!”
The end of the dock collapsed. Hands gripped Archimedes’ shoulders in an unbreakable hold, yanked him backward, then dragged him when he struggled. He froze when a burning timber crashed into the boards where he’d been standing. He looked back, recognized the giant man.
“Eben Machen?” His voice was hoarse from screaming her name.
The mad pirate’s fingers hardened painfully on his shoulders. “Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste.”
“Yes.” A fool, about to die, but he still had hope. This man was a friend to her. “Yasmeen. Oh, God. She was—Did she survive? Did you see her?”
Hope vanished when Mad Machen shook his head. Archimedes couldn’t mistake the despair in the pirate’s eyes when he looked at the burning ship. It quickly hardened into a mad resolve. He let go of Archimedes’ shoulders, slapped his arm.
“We’ll haul out the boats and search the water. We’ll find her.”
They didn’t find her. They found bodies, so many bodies— all burned beyond recognition but for scraps of cloth, prosthetic limbs, a few gold teeth. No one that fit Yasmeen’s size and shape.
The ship was still burning when it sank beneath the surface. Archimedes dove again and again into the water, trying to fight his way inside before it sank too deep. He tried past the rising