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Captain Cornelius Witherspoon had hated his name since he was a boy. "Cornelius" was the kind of name bestowed by distant parents to commemorate a dead great-uncle, or had been in his case. He'd been his parents' last child, a surprise baby born in the year his father turned sixty-seven to his equally surprised wife, twenty years his junior and mother to two of Cornelius's four siblings, all of whom had already left home by the time their youngest brother made his first appearance in the world. He could have withstood the "Witherspoon," despite the teasing from his schoolmates, but with the "Cornelius" attached, he may as well have walked up to the other children and begged them to mock him every day.
"It will make you stronger, son," his father had said, but his father had died when he was ten, and his mother had not waited twenty years to follow him, but merely a respectable ten. At twenty, he was alone save for two sisters and one surviving brother, none of whom he knew well. He was closer with his nephew, who'd been blessed with the surname "Smith" and given the equally gentle "James" for his given name. Cornelius was madly jealous but James had also been his dearest companion during the summer breaks from school, instigator of impromptu adventures as they trod through secret jungles (the glen of trees at the back of James's backyard) and forded raging rivers (the stream two streets away from Cornelius's childhood home). The best times were when one or the other had a large box at hand, and on those adventures, they soared through the air together in their imaginations, fighting the wars for King and country. Cornelius's happiest memories were of his days playing with James. They put on outrageous names, and short ones. James became Mighty Jim, and Cornelius gratefully became Friend Neil, though these were names spoken only to each other in secret.
James was a year older, and when he'd finished school, he'd signed up for the Royal Navy's airship corp. Cornelius waited that one year and did the same to the dismay of his mother.
"You'll be killed."
"I will not. I'm going to learn to fly."
"You could be a lawyer like your father, or a librarian like your uncle. You read enough."
There were more words, and some tears, but he had already signed the papers and she was not going to persuade him to change his mind. James sent him letters every month talking about his adventures. Cornelius didn't want to lock himself up in a library or worse, a courtroom. Not when the sky awaited him.
The airship corp advertised well. Every young airsailor dreamed they'd finish training and be up amongst the clouds within a month. Cornelius had read James's letters, though. He knew what he was in for those first hard years. The very clever were shunted towards intelligence work. The somewhat less clever were put on the officer track. Everyone started the same, no matter what: mucking out the dragon pens for three years.
Cornelius had taken his nephew's advice and invested in good nose plugs before his deployment. They helped a bit with the smells of the waste, of the sulfurous odors permeating the dragon pens, and soon, of himself and his fellow recruits. Cornelius found he didn't mind after a while. The other airsailors fled the dragon pens as soon as their work was finished, running to shower or swim or both. Cornelius stayed, making friends with the dragons, as much as anyone could befriend a dragon. Great beasts they were, stunning to see in flight, magnificent to see in battle, stupid as bricks the rest of the time. Everyone talked about how dragons spoke just like humans, but Cornelius's oldest brother had owned a parrot who'd been fifty years old when he'd first snapped at Cornelius's curious fingers, and he'd been ten times smarter than any dragon Cornelius ever met. The only words any dragon ever cared about were "Mealtime!" and "Hyup!" which was the command to fly. Half of them didn't even recognize their own names.
But dragons responded well to scratches along their scales, especially in places their claws couldn't reach, and if their breath was smoky, it was because of the charcoal they gulped, not because they stuffed pipes with tobacco and blew it in the faces of their subordinates as they toured the troops. Cornelius would rather lounge against the side of a dragon while he read a new book than spend time in the common lounge with the other recruits, making nice with the officers in hopes of fast-tracking his way out of the pens.
He enjoyed being by himself, but being with a dragon was second best and would do. He went to his next posting obediently, helping to man the ground crew of an airship base, loading and unloading cargo and tending to the dragons as they rested in their stalls. When it came time to reenlist, he didn't even consider resigning. James had taken his last pay and gone back to his own life, ready to marry and start a family. This was one adventure Cornelius would remain on alone.
And now twenty-five years had passed, and he was in command of his own airship. True, it wasn't a great warship like he'd once imagined. His was a supply ship, manned by five airsailors and tugged through the skies by two ornery old dragons. The dragons had official names and designations, and his port dragon had been given an honorary commendation for her valor in the Battle of Odaire long ago. Cornelius called them Sally and Tony. Sally's commendation hung on the wall in her stall. She scuffed it regularly, turning and looking for a comfortable place to rest on the scrap metal pile that covered the floor, and Cornelius regularly polished it up again.
"Get some sleep," he told her tonight, scratching her on the spot behind her ears. "We start a long journey in the morning."
Cornelius himself ought to be getting some rest, but he liked to oversee the loading of his ship. Junior airsailors hauled and lifted the many crates they'd be carrying this trip. The King's Empire stretched across all three continents, and this supply was destined for troops on the Western continent. It would be a long journey, though one he didn't expect to be eventful. Haulage runs seldom were.
He'd been captain of the Invictus for four years, after losing his last ship in a fiery raid on a distant base that had, thank heavens, left himself and his men uninjured even as they'd shouted among the flames to get the dragons free of their traces. He'd seen this ship through hurricanes, plasma storms, and three short battles. It was an honor and privilege to fly her, even if it was not quite the adventure he'd imagined in his boyhood.
As the last few crates loaded, he noted a few younger airsailors scurrying aboard to take a peek around on their own. None of them would be allowed to get up there on a ship themselves until their second tours at least. He wouldn't deny them the stolen preview at what they had to look forward to; he'd done the same during his time among them.
When morning came, he was dressed, shaved, and ready. His bag was already aboard as he spoke to the men who'd be serving on this mission, and he spared a kind word for Sally and Tony as they were strapped into their harnesses.
Cornelius boarded his ship, and went aloft to the top deck while his men worked below, securing the loose equipment and stoking the engines that would help them navigate and to keep them from freezing in the high atmosphere. He left them to their tasks, taking the reins in his hands for liftoff.
This was the best part of his job.
"Hyup!"
The dragons ascended into the sky.
Paolo slept fitfully in the nook he'd found in the cargo hold of the stinking dragon ship. His arm ached, but the bullet had only grazed him. He was lucky, although even inside his dreams, the pain followed him, warning him of infection, fever, poison in the blood if he didn't treat his wound.
In the broadest sense of the law, Paolo was a thief. He had a job, or he'd had one, but the wages for a job someone with his family name could hold could never pay his portion of the rental price on the room he shared with three other men while also keeping him fed. Paolo was an immigrant from the Western continent, brought to Eastland as a child when his parents had fled the war. Some war. The first thing he'd learned when he'd come to Eastland was that the Empire was always at war with someone. It had gone to war against the mean little country next to their own mean little homeland, but now both countries were under the auspices of the Empire as vassals. Vassals and their emigrants weren't citizens, and they didn't have to be paid more than a pittance here in the motherland. If you wanted to eat, you either stole the food or found a second way to make money that the laws didn't oversee.
Paolo's roommates had found their own ways of staying fed. Joey sold dreams, via powders, tinctures, or dried leaves, whatever he could deal. Ira traded and sold items no longer in the possession of their original owners, often acquired with Paolo's help. Karl sold himself, trading his warm mouth to anonymous airsailors in exchange for enough coins to eat for another day.
The disparity was criminal, he thought and had said, but the law said only citizens had to be paid proper wages, and that law turned everyone else into criminals instead.
The worst part about his present predicament was that he hadn't technically been stealing at the time he'd been seen by the police. There was a restaurant that threw away its scraps along an alley he knew well, and while the bin was locked to keep out gutter chirpas, the lock was easy to pick and relock once Paolo had browsed for a meal. Sometimes he was very lucky and scrounged enough there to feed himself for days. It wasn't thieving, it was relocating garbage, but the police had shined lights on him early this morning and he'd run. Never run, he reminded himself. They always chased you when you ran.
They'd caught him and pulled his working papers from him with his name – he'd been on his way home from today's job digging graves for a penny each – and this wasn't the first time he'd been caught. That wasn't why they'd beat him while they had him in custody; that had been for fun, and he knew it as well as they did. He'd gotten loose by a miracle, and he'd run, and they'd shot him as he ran, but he'd kept running and he got free.
Free to die, he'd realized. He couldn't return to his rented room. He'd probably already brought the law's attention onto his friends. They had his working papers, but he was a wanted man now and even in his hands, his papers would do him no good. His parents were gone. The only family he had left were some cousins who lived in the old country.
Exhausted, hopeless, he'd wandered the streets, ducking into corners to hide from the police all day until his feet found him at the docks, staring at their airships loading for parts unknown. He'd stolen one last thing in Eastland: the striped shirt and dark pants from an airsailor who enjoyed Paolo's desperate mouth but who didn't expect his fist while he stood there in his addled afterhaze.
He woke after his half-sleep, mouth still sour from the taste of the airsailor's seed. The crates rattled but held where they were strapped in place as his stomach told him they were lifting off. Paolo's head spun at the sudden altitude change, his ears popping as he gulped. He'd never flown before. His mad plan hadn't allowed him to consider that he would be trapped nearly twelve thousand feet in the air for the better part of three weeks. Terror bit at his throat, and an awareness of the ground falling away below them as they climbed. He felt the jerks as the giant beasts flapped their huge wings, buffeting the ground below with sudden stinking air flows. From far away, he heard the soft tinkling of bells.
He needed medicine, and food, and water, and he had no idea where to find them on this swaying ship in the sky.
Voices came closer, the airsailors performing their cargo checks for the liftoff. Paolo curled into a tight ball, hiding deeper in the pocket of safety he'd found, hardly daring to breathe as the men came close. He might still wear one of their uniforms, but he could never pass for an airsailor, not in the light.
"All secured," said the airsailor closest to him, and the footsteps moved away.
Panic exhausted him again, and he drifted into another half-sleep, shaking himself awake. Food. Medicine. He needed both or he'd die long before this ship touched down again.
He forced himself to wait, and forced himself not to sleep again, going to far as to prod his wound to jerk himself awake. In the shadowed space he'd found, he ripped off one arm from his stolen shirt and used it to tie a rough binding over the injury.
They were flying away from the sun, which lengthened the day. His parched mouth vexed him, and he was cold. The crew area would be heated against the great chills this high up, but cargo was cargo and wouldn't complain. At last, the high windows darkened. Paolo crept out from his safe place, and made his way through the cargo hold.
His luck held. Not three crates away, he found one marked with the ancient medical symbol of the holy swans. It was held shut with a lock, but Paolo was good with locks, and his picks had come aboard with him. In a matter of minutes, he was digging through antiseptics and had found a bottle of anti-infective tablets. The writing on the side was tiny but Paolo had never been allergic to anything he'd taken before and he had few other choices, dry swallowing three sulfur-tasting tablets and pocketing the bottle for later. His throat ached, and his arm stung as he treated the wound with antiseptic, but he knew both were for his own good. He was still covered in a layer of dirt from his last job. He had to keep his wound clean.
Another crate held food: hard rations for the troops, but a gift for Paolo. Tears slipped down his face as his fingers fumbled the lock open and began stuffing packets into his shirt and pants. He tore one open, ravenous and not caring about the taste of the bland mix of vitamins and protein.
No water. Only a fool would ship water ten thousand miles away save what the crew needed for themselves.
He appreciated his luck, and crawled back into his hiding hole, letting himself fall into the sleep of the utterly despairing.
The first day held bright. Cornelius took his dinner with his crew as he always did aboard the ship. Officers and crew rarely mixed, but he'd come up from the ranks. He knew it did them good to see what their future could hold, even if some of the boys were still dreaming about captaining a warship some day.
"The Invictus isn't much to look at," he said, finishing his coffee after the meal. "She was a troop carrier back in the fourth war, or so they tell me. Good thing we're all up here," he said with a smile, and the men smiled back. It did well to be polite with the officers. He remembered that, too.
Cornelius felt his smile slip, just a bit. Since his boyhood, he'd never mastered the art of friendly conversation. James had been an easy companion. The other airsailors he'd met over the years had been less so. Cornelius had trouble making friends among his peers, and he wasn't permitted to be too chummy with his subordinates lest the chain of command grow murky. Nor was he the type to see a handsome face and get up with activities that would make the command structure even more precarious. Some of his men did, of course, and good for them. A few of his fellow captains did, and he felt this wasn't a good use of their command, but tradition held. For many a fresh-faced young man, that sort of attention led to early promotion, although Cornelius believed merit was a finer judge.
These men might be aboard this ship with him, but they were not his companions in any sense. The other airsailors never were, or could be. His haulage runs brought him into the sky, and he loved that, would never surrender the high air and clouds until the day they forced him to retire. It gave him a mild pang in his heart to know his closest friends had scales and wings.
He left the men in the dining room and went for a quick tour of his ship to reassure himself everything was in order. The engine room smelled of coal, and there was some dust on the floor. He made a mental note to check in the morning. If it had been swept up by the evening watch, he wouldn't remark on the lapse. He checked the cargo hold to confirm their crates were stored appropriately. None appeared to have slid out of place. The strap on a rations crate was askew. Cornelius saw to it himself. He'd have to remind the men to be more careful. A loose crate in the sky could cause a lot of trouble.
Something smelled off.
Cornelius was long used to the odors from the engines and the dragons, and the strange freshness that blew in from the outside high above the cities they passed below. There was a new odor, faint on the air, like the ghost of fresh dirt. He couldn't identify it but his senses alerted him that something wasn't right.
He left the cargo hold and returned to the engine room. The engines were steel and safely contained, but he'd known ships to go down in flames from a single spark that flew ill and burned the wooden frames to ash. He diligently checked all the enclosure points, double-checked the fuel supplies in case something was amiss in the coal chute, and checked the temperature readouts on the panels, giving the gauges a good thump with his fist as he'd learned to do early on in case the needle was stuck.
The engines were safe. It wasn't that.
He climbed above deck in the bracing cold, grateful for his thick coat. The dragons flew out in front, peaceful with their huge wings extended, catching the air currents in a long glide. They might flap once an hour or even less often in the right winds. They seemed fine. Jenkins had veterinary training, and Cornelius could ask the lad to climb the traces and check the dragons in their flight if he felt anything was wrong.
Something was amiss on his ship. His nose knew it, though the breeze had carried the scent away from him now. Worry followed him back into the belly of the ship. While he greeted the men with a grim smile, concern followed him into his own cabin, and wrapped itself around him in his bunk.
Paolo had taken the medicine in time. He knew he wasn't feverish although he shivered in the thin cold. His wound didn't throb with infection and he thought he'd treated it in time. He was thirsty, though. His tongue was thick in his mouth. His eyes felt dry and stiff. He needed water, or he would die.
The hour seemed very late. He risked emerging from his hiding place, teeth chattering until he stopped the sound with his tongue stuck between them. In the almost total darkness, lit only by thin starlight peering through the windows up high, he made he way to the cargo hold door. He stood with his ear against it, hearing nothing save his own heartbeat. They must all be in bed now, he thought and prayed. The door was unlocked. He turned the latch and let himself through, nearly gasping in the sudden warmth of the heated crew area.
He'd have to find a coat or a blanket before he returned to his shelter. The thought of returning to the cold cargo hold was too terrifying without something to cover him.
He stepped lightly through the ship, gazing at closed doors. This must be the crew cabins. He spied a set of stairs leading up and crept silently towards the main level, where he found the galley. He didn't dare take any of their food, or his thefts would be noticed. Large barrels of water stood secured along one side. One was already tapped. His fumbling hands found a tin mug and he splashed a full cupful into it, gulping the tepid water down too quickly, knowing he'd get belly cramps and not caring as he poured himself a second mug.
"Stop right there!" shouted a voice. Paolo dropped the mug from numb fingers, watched the precious water stain the wooden deck.
He turned, hands raised.
The airsailor who'd found him looked even younger than he was, red-haired with a fuzz of mustache above his upper lip that was more hopeful than grown. He had a belt knife in his hand. The airsailors were trained to use their knives and some firearms, but Paolo had grown up on the street. He could use both better. If he could get free, he could take the weapon. He could fight, and he could run, but there was nowhere to run, and he was so tired.
The youth reached up to the string that hung along the top of all the corridors, yanking it hard. Tiny bells rang out all over the ship. Moments later, the other airsailors appeared in the doorway, some with knives, some wiping sleep from their eyes.
"Stowaway, Captain!" said the first one, as a grizzled middle-aged fellow moved through them, stout in a coat pulled over his dressing gown.
The captain looked at Paolo, who fought back tears. Stowaways were extra ballast, were criminals of the air or sea.
One of the other airsailors, one with sandy blond hair, said, "Regulations say stowaways are to be thrown overboard." He looked a bit too eager for Paolo's liking.
"We're over the ocean, sir," said a third. This one looked to be about Paolo's age, with hair as dark as his and scars on his neck.
The blond airsailor said, "Maybe he can swim."
He couldn't help it. The tears started. "I'm sorry. I'll do anything to stay. Please don't throw me overboard." The words came out in a mumble, filled with sorrow and regret. He'd spent yesterday digging graves for poor dead souls. Now he wouldn't have one himself, only the grasping cold of the water closing in over his head.
The Captain waved down the knives and entered the galley. His stern face glared under his graying beard. "Where did you get that uniform?"
"What?"
"You are wearing the uniform of a sailor. You're clearly not one. Did you kill the owner?" His stern voice would not permit any denial, like a father demanding to know who stole the last sweet from the tin.
Paolo shook his head, consumed by a new terror. "No! I didn't kill him! I swear."
"Then how?"
"I, ah," he couldn't meet the man's eyes. "He'd already removed them. Sir," he added, since a well-timed 'Sir' couldn't hurt.
The Captain raised a bushy eyebrow. "He was sleeping?"
"No, sir. He was relaxing." He held the gulp that wanted to form in his throat. Everyone knew about the airsailors. There was a reason Karl had been the best-paid of his roommates. It wasn't a secret. Maybe their habits would be his salvation. "After he tupped me." The gulp came anyway. He'd been willing to give the sailor a suck. He'd have to be willing to give more to the ship's Captain and crew if he didn't want to find out the distance to the sea the fast way.
"I see," said the Captain. His eyes took in Paolo critically, raking over his body.
Paolo tried not to cringe, wondering how he was being sized up. If the Captain judged him as good-looking as whatever sailor he'd been planning to use for his own this trip. If Paolo would be given to the whole crew instead. He'd never been with men that way, only on his knees twice when he'd been desperate, and used his hand once with a mate who could have been more, he'd thought and hoped back then. He could face giving himself up. Better a raw throat or sore arse up here than freefall and the embrace of the sea.
The Captain turned away. "Bring him to my cabin."
Paolo heard one of the airsailors snicker, but he was silenced by his chums as the red-haired fellow and the blond took his arms. He hissed as his wound was jostled. "This way."
The ship wasn't large. The Captain's cabin was on the top level, with only the thin wood of the hull between him and the sky above. A small window with real glass had been installed in the ceiling, letting starlight inside tonight. His room held a sturdy bunk, a table with a wash basin and hairbrushes, a writing desk, and a thin wardrobe, plus an enclosed oil lamp that looked to have been hastily lit when the bells rang out. The deck was covered with a thick rug of knotted rags, and thick quilts of similar manufacture covered his bed.
"Leave us," said the Captain.
Paolo held his tongue, but inside, he was grateful. It wouldn't be all the crew, not tonight. He wouldn't let himself hope to get through the entire trip without having to service them, but now he had space to think. The galley had stores of lard. He could beg for some. Karl said lard or oils worked to ease things when one of his customers wasn't satisfied with a suck.
"Remove your clothes."
He might need to beg now. He opened his mouth, but fear stole his breath. He'd suggested this trade himself. It was far better than a watery death. His fingers were clumsy from terror as he removed the ruined shirt and dropped it to the floor where the Captain gestured. He had trouble with the fastenings to the trousers, and he was wearing nothing under them. The Captain stood against the lighted lamp, his face cast into deep shadows. Paolo couldn't tell if he was enjoying the sight. He prayed that he was attractive enough for this, that the Captain would do what he intended, and Paolo would live.
He dropped the trousers to the pile, and bowed his head. "Sir," he said, through a throat nearly too thick to choke words out.
"Sit on the bed."
Paolo took the three steps over, feeling as though he was walking into prison. He took a breath. No. He had to make himself cheerful. If he whined, or begged, or cried, either he'd inflame the Captain's passion into something far more harsh, or he'd find himself marched outside still in the nude.
He forced a smile onto his face as he turned to sit. "Anything you ask, sir," he said with a brisk pleasantry. The Captain came closer, then went to his knees. Paolo hid his surprise. Karl said some of the airsailors were like this. He prepared himself, wondering if he should try to enjoy it, or pretend to if he didn't.
The Captain's hand found his wounded arm, then untied the bandage, holding the bloodied fabric between his fingers before tossing the rag away with the rest.
"This isn't as deep as I feared." He turned to the wash basin, and dipped a cloth there in the water. Then he knelt to his work, cleaning out the wound with fresh water while Paolo squirmed from the sudden pain at the touch. "We'll need to disinfect it to be safe."
"I put on antiseptic," said Paolo.
The Captain gave him a quick glare. "From the stores? Those are intended for our troops, young man, not stowaways." He sighed as he finished cleaning away the last of the dried blood. "That was a good thought." He stood up, and went to the wardrobe. Instead of fine suits, Paolo saw one change of uniform and several stacked boxes of supplies. "Technically Jenkins is the medical officer, but I wouldn't trust him with anything with fewer than four legs or two wings." He came back with a bottle much like the one Paolo had dug out, and applied fresh liquid that assaulted his nose with a sharp tang. The disinfectant didn't sting as much as before.
"Now, lie down."
The nerves returned, but the hands that moved over his body were clinical rather than sensual, prodding his fresh bruises and scrapes. "Does this hurt?" he asked, pressing in on Paolo's shin.
"Yes, but not sharply."
"Good. No break then. Here," he said, handing over the antiseptic cloth. "You should be able to reach the rest of your scrapes. You could use a bath, my lad, but we didn't bring that much water."
Paolo dabbed at his injuries, wincing as the antiseptic moved into broken skin.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I can clean myself up for you before we," he coughed. "Whatever you'd like, sir."
The Captain stared at him in confusion, then in understanding. A soft expression moved over his face, visible even in the low light. Paolo recognized it from somewhere long ago, but too many years had passed and he couldn't put a name to the look. Not lust, he knew, which was odd. Paolo lay naked before him, willing if not eager.
"How old are you, lad?"
"Not a lad. I'll be twenty next spring."
"Oh, twenty? That old, eh?" he asked, with a gentle charm. "What's your name?"
This was his moment. He could become anyone. He could pretend to be Karl, or Ira, or give the name of the greengrocer who threw away all those nice plums last winter, knowing his garbage would be picked through by the wretched and hungry.
"Paolo."
"Paolo, no one is going to harm you. You have my word. Not a man here is going to lay a hand on you," he let out a short cough of his own, "that is, unless you ask him nicely and you both agree. You're not being kept alive to serve as ship's doxy. Despite your means of coming aboard, you're now my guest."
Paolo shivered even in the warmth of the darkened cabin. "I don't understand." He knew what the price was for stowing away. It should be his life, but could be his body. Guest?
"Not entirely a guest. You're aboard now, and my ship can't haul layabouts. You'll be working with the rest of us. You can shovel coal and clean the midden and cook the meals like everyone else. Agreed?"
He lay in the nude with a man who could order his death, or who could climb into this bed with him and rut into him without regard. Instead, the Captain was offering him work.
"Agreed," he said in a small, awed voice.
"Excellent. Now, get out of my bed. I'm tired and need some sleep. The carpet is fairly soft. I'm afraid there are no spare racks in the crew quarters."
"The carpet will be fine," he said quickly, still in shock. He moved from the bed to the floor. To his surprise, the Captain removed a heavy quilt from his bunk and draped it over him.
"Get some rest, Paolo." He puffed out the lamp.
Paolo rested, feeling the sway of the ship as his fingers moved into the weave of the plush rug. His body warmed readily under the thick quilt until he was as snug and warm as though it were summer in his childhood home by the sea.
"Sir?" he asked in the darkness.
"Yes, what is it?"
"What is your name, sir?"
The Captain let out a small snort. "Apologies. I should have introduced myself. Captain Cornelius Witherspoon. You should refer to me as 'Captain Witherspoon' while you are on duty."
"Yes, Captain."
"Paolo?"
"Yes?"
The silence lengthened. Paolo thought the Captain had fallen asleep between words. In the deep darkness, he said, "When we are alone, you may call me Neil."
Cornelius couldn't explain why he'd told Paolo his childhood nickname. Something about the lad reminded him of his own youth. Not James, who was ever confident and ready with a rogueish smile. Paolo might be his nephew's opposite: trembling, terrified, clearly impoverished, and ready to go to his knees in exchange for his life. A sharp, deep wave of pity had come over him, looking over the lad's injuries, new and old. Cornelius had seen battlefields, had watched war-dragons incinerate entire platoons, but this boy held terrors of his own locked in his past. Cornelius wanted to draw him into his arms, and protect him from further hurt, just as he hoped to protect his men from the same nightmares he carried from his own history. Cargo hauls weren't just to resupply the troops. They kept the lads under his watch safe in the air.
A strange. thrilling plan had formed in his mind as he'd seen to Paolo's wounds. Paolo could be trained to serve aboard the airship. Cornelius could sign his enlistment papers when they docked, and bring him onto the crew. Then the lad would have a job, and a future, high above the world, away from anyone who would beat him.
When morning came, Cornelius dug into his wardrobe, finding his bags. He always carried a spare regular uniform, not a Captain's fine blues, in case he needed to spend a watch shoveling coal himself. At times, he'd been aboard when one or more of his men took ill, or died, and 'all hands' was not merely a turn of phrase. "Here," he said to Paolo, showing him the uniform. "You can probably still wear the trousers you stole, but that shirt is ruined. This one might be a mite loose on you, but it will do."
In the daylight, he could see the fading bruises covering Paolo's skin. He made an effort not to glance at the lad's groin. No use in making him nervous about Cornelius's intentions just as he was winning his trust.
"Thank you." Paolo tugged on the trousers first for modesty's sake, then shrugged into the billowing striped shirt. "Captain, I can't thank you enough," he stammered.
"You're welcome. Tell me, how did you come about your injuries?"
He watched Paolo's face sharpen. "I'm afraid to, sir."
"Neil," he said, coaxing him gently.
Paolo shook his head, whether to deny the familiar name or the truth of his wounds. "You'll think worse of me."
"Did you kill anyone?"
"What, no! I swear it."
Cornelius nodded. He hadn't thought Paolo was a killer last night, and he didn't think so in the daylight. "Was there some girl or some boy that you pushed your affections on? The way you assumed I'd be pushing mine on you," he added, with a touch of embarrassment.
"Never."
"Did you betray Eastland to her enemies?"
Paolo blinked in confusion. "I wouldn't know how."
"Then I shan't think badly of you, Paolo. What happened? How did you get shot?" At his shocked face, he said, "I can recognize a gunshot wound, my lad."
"Sir, um, Neil," he said, clearly uncomfortable. "The police were chasing me."
"What did you do?"
"They thought I was stealing. I wasn't. It was just the garbage bin. The restaurants on Gavron Street throw out what they can't sell even as Chef's Surprise. If you pick off the spoiled bits, it's not bad eating."
Cornelius had seen children and other wretches in the slums of lands he'd visited subsisting on the refuse tossed away by others. It broke his heart each time, and he always found his pockets lighter, handing out coins to the young hands and praying their parents wouldn't beat them for it later while demanding to hear what they'd done to get the money. "It's a hard world," he said. "This isn't the first time they've chased you."
"No. I did steal food. Whatever I needed."
"Why didn't you find employment? A resourceful lad like you could surely find a suitable job."
Paolo laughed, the first time Cornelius had heard him do so, and it was a broken, sorrowful sound. "My family name is Helapar. No one like me can get a suitable job."
He wasn't wrong. The laws in Eastland were clear about the working conditions available to those who didn't have an Eastlander birthright. Cornelius thought it was a pity, but otherwise, he'd not thought about it much. "I see. Well, you have one now. For the duration of our voyage, you will be a member of this crew. In exchange, you'll have passage, room, and board, although I'm afraid the 'room' is the floor of this cabin, unless you'd prefer to go back to the cargo hold."
"No, sir. Neil," he said quickly, and Cornelius didn't blame him. The cargo hold was frigid in the high air. They didn't dare keep the water barrels back there in case they froze and burst. "The rug is fine. Very comfortable."
He doubted that last part, but needs must. "Welcome aboard the Invictus, Paolo Helapar. It's time for your training to begin.
Paolo was introduced to the other members of the crew. Forester was the red-haired lab who'd caught him. He'd had the night watch, and was heading to sleep now. Galwin was the blond who'd wanted to toss him over the side, who served as their cook. Jenkins was the dark-haired fellow older than the others, who doubled as the medic and vet for the dragons. Payman ran the engine room, ordering the others to their tasks. Like Forester, Klein was also on his first flight. He'd take over the night watch on their flight home.
"He doesn't have a commission, Captain," said Galwin. "This is highly irregular."
"I intend to sign his commission when we arrive to port. The matter is settled. Mr. Helapar is starting at the bottom like the rest of you lot did."
"Midden duty," said Klein eagerly. Paolo discovered quickly that was the job of the junior-most member of the crew. It was not a pleasant task, but a necessary one, and one far nicer while they were over the ocean. The head filled up during the crew's voyage, and was dumped into the sea as they passed.
"Here," said the Captain, and handed him two small white items. Paolo looked at them curiously. "Nose plugs." Paolo tried not to think about where they had been, but they did help.
He expected Galwin to be cruel to him when it came his time to help with the meal preps. ("After a solid wash," the man had told him.) Instead, while he wasn't the most pleasant companion Paolo had ever met, he was efficient in chopping up the rough vegetables and slicing the tougher meat, and spent time showing Paolo how to do both without losing a finger. "I don't want the crew complaining about supper because you bled into the stew pot," he said with a smirk, but he helped Paolo discern when the boil was right, and how much salt to add, and he gave him an approving smile when he tasted the dish at the end.
Payman was harder on him, but Payman was hard on everyone. Paolo knew the proper use of a typical shovel. Often those had been the only jobs he'd been able to find. The coal shovels were shaped differently, and the dust got into his nose, but sneezing as he shoveled into the belching furnace was bad for everyone. His bad arm ached with the effort. He wouldn't complain, though. The cold, gray-green waves below were enough incentive to shut his mouth. That didn't mean he had no questions.
"I don't understand," he said to the Captain at night. He'd kept the 'Sirs' and 'Captains' during the day, but couldn't bring himself to be familiar with the man off-duty. "I thought the dragons were flying us."
"They are. Sally and Tony give us the lift and the pull, but they can't steer, and they can't keep us warm."
Paolo chuckled. In the red-orange light of the oil lamp, he saw the Captain's mouth twitch into a smile under his beard. "They're named Sally and Tony?"
"Not officially. That's what I call them. Sally flies port, Tony flies starboard."
Paolo had seen the glittering gems on their collars, green and red. The lamps on their traces were lit at night, covered in glass the same colors. "Why those names?"
"They seemed like good names."
The following day, Cornelius brought Paolo with him to the bridge in the fore of the ship. Paolo struggled to see through the high glass windows, foggy with condensation and getting covered with insect strikes. Cornelius showed him the view anyway, the panorama he got to watch as they flew.
"These are my instruments," he said, showing the lad the spyglass, the compass, the charts, and the all-important clock with five hands for timing their movements through the sky. "This is how we know where we are, and where we should go next." The reins were up top, used to take off and land, and to make sudden changes in course during a battle, but the helm was here, gradually guiding them into the proper direction.
Paolo kept staring out at the dragons. "They're enormous. I used to see dragons fly overhead, but you can't tell when they're so far away."
"They are magnificent. A bit stupid, sadly. Would you like to meet them?"
"But, we're in the air?"
"So are they. Convenient, isn't it?"
Paolo was clearly frightened at the prospect of climbing to the top deck. Cornelius reassured him they did this all the time. "It's a spectacular view. I'll make sure you don't fall."
For a moment, pure terror crossed his face. He'd accepted that Cornelius didn't intend to toss him to the waves or onto the oncoming ground as they approached the Middle Continent. Part of him still worried, and Cornelius felt awful that the lad still had that threat rattling around in his head.
"Come on," he said, and took Paolo's hand, pulling him to the stairs. They ascended together, shivering in the needle-like cold as they opened the hatch. Cornelius had his coat, but Paolo wore a thinner jacket standard to the men's uniforms. "Here, I've got padding." He shed his coat and gave it to Paolo, helping him put it on over his shoulders. "Now look."
The sky was gorgeous today, full of fluffy clouds and distant birds. The scientists said whole species had changed their migration patterns due to the regular travels of the airships and their beasts of burden. Odd, to think his little supply runs could have done such a thing.
"Look out there," he said, pointing past Sally. In the distance, the dark coastline of the Middle Continent could be seen edging the horizon. "We'll be over land by tonight. Be sure you clean out the midden early today."
"Yes, Captain."
"This way," he said, and led Paolo out to where the thick planks, leather straps, and sturdy chains connected the dragons with the hull of the airship. There was a walkway, large enough for a man. Jenkins came out here every third day to check on the dragons' health.
Paolo's face was caught in a rictus of fear. "I can't walk on that."
"It's safe. I promise." Cornelius had forgotten how frightened he'd been the first time he'd tried walking out to the dragons all those years ago. He'd been sure he'd slip and plummet to his death. The kindly steersman on duty had pointed out the safety ropes, and he did the same now. Cornelius fastened the hook securely to his belt, and fastened the hook of a second rope to Paolo's belt. "There."
He led the way out along the thick main plank that jutted between the dragons. Sally was a blue beauty, her scales iridescent in the sunshine. He reached her flank and patted her. "Good girl," he said in a hearty tone. "Good girl." Sally turned her head, several yards away, and looked back at him with her large, simple eyes.
"Good girl!" said Sally.
"Good girl!" said Tony, from his traces beside her.
Paolo let out a nervous laugh. He reached out and gently patted Tony's green-brown flank. "Oh, it's smoother than I thought." He stroked the scales. "And he's warm."
"Famously so."
"Do they ever fire off? Or what do they call it?"
"'Fire off' is right. Good memory. These two won't. Tony's flame burned out years ago. Sally still has some fire in her, but she's getting up in age." He had to have at least one firing dragon on his flight in case of trouble. They had guns, but a dragon's flame solved far more problems than a lead shot could. He'd be sad to see this pair go. They were gentle old beasts. He patted her again.
"Good girl Sally!"
"Yes, you're a good girl." He pulled out the lumps of charcoal he'd brought, and tossed one to each. Normally he loved to watch them snap their treats out of the air. Today he watched Paolo's face and it was just as nice a view.
Paolo was dead asleep when he heard the crash. Heart in his throat, he bolted upright from his bed on the floor. The airship's sway, so comforting these last several days, now became a thick yaw back and forth, shifting deck and hull. His eyes were drawn to the oil lamp, but like the washbasin, it was bolted in place. The Captain's pens rattled in their box inside his desk, and all around them, the wood creaked ominously as the bells sang out. Another crash shook the ship.
"A storm?" he asked, awake now.
"Not a surprise after those gray clouds we saw earlier." The Captain had thrown on his great warm coat over his dressing gown, and hurried out of the cabin. Paolo, who'd taken to sleeping in a long shirt, draped his own thin coat over himself and followed.
In the engine room, Forester was watching the gauges with concern. "I think everything's normal, Captain." The phrase was a question pretending to be a confident statement.
Captain Witherspoon brushed him aside and checked, banging his fist on the console with a loud thump. The gauges jumped and moved. "They stick, lad. You have to jar them." He peered at the numbers. Paolo came closer to see. He'd been given a rough course in reading them from Payman, who appeared in the doorway moments later.
"How are the engines?"
"Hot but steady," said the Captain. "Forester, stay here. You and Payman keep an eye on the coal. Tell Jenkins when he gets up here to get to the bridge. I'm going up top. Paolo, with me."
Paolo saw the glances the men gave him at the familiar name, but didn't stop, following the Captain back to the cabin where they both tugged on trousers. The men told jokes to each other quietly that the Captain had taken Paolo as his boy, using the stowaway to warm his bed as Paolo had offered in front of them all that first night. Explaining the truth to them wouldn't work. They'd never believe him, and if he acknowledged he'd heard them the taunts would be directed at him instead of whispered where they thought he was unaware.
Captain Witherspoon slapped an oiled hat on his head. They hurried up the stairs to the top deck, opening the hatch to pouring rain and the distant yellow, orange, and green glimmers of lightning strikes far off, but not far enough for Paolo's liking. The storm rumbled around them and the winds tossed the ship dangerously. Paolo yelped as he fell to his knees. The Captain hauled him up again.
"Thought as much," he said, and pointed to the dragons' outlines in another flash. Instead of the calm soaring they typically flew with, both beasts flapped their wings madly, tugging each other away from the center.
"Poor idiots," said the Captain, and took up the reins. Over the storm, he said, "Paolo, I need you to hold them steady."
"What?"
"The reins, lad. Take the reins." He shoved the leather straps into Paolo's hands. Paolo held them tight, tugging the way he'd been shown. As he watched, the Captain clipped the hook to his belt and made his way along the center beam, heedless of the lashing rain and wind. His voice was small in the tumult of the storm, but Paolo heard him shout: "Aye my beauties! You've got to calm yourselves!" He climbed all the way forward to where the traces attached to their shoulder harnesses, shouting and soothing. In clips of light, Paolo watched him stroke their shoulders, and scold them lovingly.
"Fly away!" said Sally, her deep voice unnaturally shrill.
"Nay, fly straight. You as well, my lad. Straight and true."
Paolo held the reins, giving a tug each time a huge head moved away, and the Captain spoke to them. At every crash of thunder, Paolo was sure the dragons would spook and pitch them both over the edge.
At last, the Captain managed to calm the dragons. Sally flapped her wings, jerking them forward, and Tony followed. The wind still blew, and the lightning struck far too close to them for comfort, but the Captain seemed as calm as if it was a clear summer day. "Good boy. Good girl." He felt them lumps of charcoal, and they snorted in thanks.
He started the climb back, and again, Paolo worried for him, fearful he'd fall, that his line would snap, but Witherspoon was as surefooted as a long-haired goat. He took the reins from Paolo's hands. "My thanks. They just needed a kind word, but someone had to keep an eye on them back here, too."
Paolo flung his arms around the Captain's neck. "I thought we were lost." He realized his error a moment too late. "Sorry, Captain."
"It's fine. Your first storm is frightening. These two fools have been through plenty, but they forget every time. Don't ask me about when the victory parades set off firecrackers." He shook his head, sending rain everywhere. "Let's get below deck."
They returned to the engine room, where things had settled to normal. The Captain checked on Jenkins, and let him know he'd need to check out the dragons in the morning after the storm. Then he announced that in honor of Klein, Forester, and Helapar's first storm, they could open the brandy. This let to whoops of delight among the crew, who each got a dollop of spirits in his tin mug. Paolo had never tasted brandy. He'd tried cheap gin once and hated it. The brandy was a bit better, but numbed his tongue, and he didn't finish, giving Forester his extra shot instead.
Back in their cabin, Paolo tried to settle himself. The storm still shook the ship though their flight was much smoother now that the dragons had been calmed.
"Are you all right, lad?"
"Never liked storms."
"I hated them too when I was young. Now it's practically a lullaby." They lay there quietly for a moment. "Paolo, I don't wish for you to take me wrong on this, but my bed is plenty big. There's room for you, if you're worried about the storm."
The old fear came back, but it passed. Night after night, he'd slept in the Captain's room and not been abused in any way. He had no doubt that if the man intended him harm or dishonor, he'd have exercised those privileges that first night, and if not, on one of the many nights since. "Are you sure?"
"We can make room."
Paolo gathered his quilt, pulling it with him onto the bed, and climbing in beside the Captain. Neil. It seemed more appropriate to use the name, settling their bodies next to each other as the ship swayed around them. The rainy night had been freezing cold, but the bunk was warm. Neil didn't wrap an arm around him, or try to pull him close. He remained chastely on his back on his side of the bed.
In a way, those rumors about warming the Captain's bed were true after all, Paolo thought sleepily, and listened to the patter of the rain until he fell back asleep.
Life aboard the airship settled into the same usual rhythms it did mid-flight. The men were used to their work stations, and were comfortable enough in their tasks that they accomplished them quickly and efficiently. The engines were kept at a solid temperature, not burning too much of their coal, not leaving them to limp and drag behind the dragons like so much baggage. He'd worried that his crew would not accept Paolo and that he'd need to keep the lad a virtual prisoner to ensure his safety, but his heart swelled with pride seeing how much they'd all taken to him. Young airmen rarely had the chance to train a new fellow one on one, and they all were taking the opportunity in good spirits. Even Payman seemed to be out of his regular gruff mood, explaining the basics of the engineering system to their newest recruit. Jenkins took Paolo with him when he examined the dragons' health, explaining the signs to look for trouble in their eyes, and the rumbles to worry about deep inside their fiery guts.
"Jenkins said he watched a dragon explode once." Paolo's worried look had returned. "Does that happen often?"
"Fortunately no. But when a dragon's got a sour stomach, sometimes all it takes is a cannonball to the side to turn them into a bomb. These two aren't any danger unless we get attacked midair, and even then only Sally's got fire left. Tony won't explode. Poor old thing will just plummet to his death and take us with him if we can't cut his harness free in time."
Paolo didn't seem any happier, and Cornelius didn't blame him. War was hell, they said, and he could believe it watching the flaming wreckage of an airship falling from the sky.
After their duties were finished, Cornelius liked to catch the last of the daylight at his writing desk.
Paolo could write his own name, and a few words, but he'd never be a writer. He sat watching as Cornelius composed letters to his nephew and his sisters, watching the pen move over paper like magic, as fascinated by the writing as Cornelius was fascinated by his past.
"You never went to school?"
"There was a 'marm on our street. For a turnip, she'd teach us our letters." He pictured a scrawny child, learning to write with a burnt stick on a dusty slate.
"What's the writing like where you're from?"
Paolo gave him a look. Cornelius was getting used to this light scowl midway between exasperation and insubordination, with a touch of veiled contempt. The shaking youth who'd been caught stowing away wouldn't have dared, though perhaps he would have felt the same while hiding his irritation better. The other men asked him the same kinds of questions, not always in a friendly fashion.
"It's not like this," he said at last, the irritation melting. Cornelius gave him the desk and chair, and offered paper and pen. Paolo bent over the blank sheet for a while, staring off into thought. Then he began to draw. Cornelius felt his heart drop a bit, seeing one of his expensive sheets be wasted on stick figures.
After a few moments, the stick figures formed a pattern. Little men, marching on a twisted path over the page, almost telling as story as they moved along. He couldn't make sense of it, though he felt there was sense inside the letters he couldn't read. He wondered if Paolo had felt this way, making the long journey to Eastland and arriving in a land where the words were all jumbles.
"What does it say?"
"It's a story my mother used to tell me when I was little. Big-Head and Little-Head were enemies. They fought every day from sunup to sundown." He pointed as the figures danced. "Then came the Hawk, clawing at them both. They fought him together in a might battle. Now they are friends." The last image was the clearest: two scrawls hand-in-hand.
Cornelius squinted, trying to see the words, but understanding remained beyond him. "Thank you for showing me."
"You're welcome."
Paolo basked under the gentle compliments from the rest of the crew as he served dinner. Galwin had assisted him this time, letting Paolo do most of the cooking. "It's good experience," he'd said, and helped get the pot to boil. "Once you sign up, you can put in as a cook. They're always looking for men willing to stand at a stove all day, and it's less hazardous than artillery duty."
"I'll keep it in mind," Paolo had said, and nothing else. He'd never done much cooking before. He'd never had enough food in front of him to do anything more exciting than try to toast it on a stick to burn off the worst parts before he ate.
Now he sat at the table, his mug sloshing with water, his tin plate heaped with stew he made, and he couldn't remember when he'd last felt this pleased and happy.
Naturally it couldn't last.
A low BOOM echoed. The cutlery and plates fell to the deck as the whole ship turned to one side. Paolo clung to the table, which was bolted to the deck, and watched as a heavy pan fell unsecured from the stove and clanged the Captain on the forehead. Witherspoon fell stunned to the wall that was now the floor.
"Captain!" someone shouted, and it might have been him. The ship rocked again, righting itself and jerking along.
"We're under attack!" said Klein, who was the fastest onto his feet and to a porthole.
"Captain's down," said Jenkins, checking his eyes and his pulse.
Paolo asked, "Is he…?"
"He's alive." The ship was rocked by another blast. Jenkins threw himself over the Captain to keep him from being thrown.
Payman barked, "Stay with him, Jenkins. I'll take the bridge. Klein, Forester, to the cannons. Do not fire unless I tell you."
"I'm senior officer," said Jenkins. Another blast, this one deafeningly close.
"And you're the only one who can make sure the Captain is all right. I'm steering us out of here, not taking us into battle."
Jenkins looked like he wanted to argue, then went back to his work. "Galway, I want clean, damp cloths." He looked at Paolo. "You've driven the dragons, right? In the storm?"
He nodded.
"Get up top, lad. I'm busy here."
Paolo gave one last look to the unconscious Captain. Then he scampered for the stairs and the upper hatch. From a distance, he saw a terrifying thing: a war-dragon, smaller than Sally and Tony but far younger, sleeker, and deadlier. Atop its back was a rickety structure that was more weapon than ship. He didn't know if they were enemies, pirates, or madmen. All he knew was that they were trying to kill him.
He grabbed the reins, his arms yanked to and fro by the terrified beasts as they tried to fly in different directions again. The Captain called them stupid, and he might be right. How had he tamed them during the storm? "Hey," he shouted. "Calm down, you great beauties!" He tugged on the reins, alternating pulls with loud exhortations to the dragons. "Sally! Be a good girl, Sally!"
"Sally!" she screamed, neck straining as another burst of fire came close.
Paolo had an idea. He didn't know if it would work, but he also didn't know if it wouldn't, and if he couldn't get the dragons under control, they'd all die anyway. "Hyup!" he shouted, tugging on them to go up. 'Up' was a direction both could agree on, and they flapped their giant wings, tugging the airship higher and higher. Ice-cold air pierced his hands and sank into his lungs, but he gasped, "Hyup!" again, pulling them far above the attacker below. The smaller dragon couldn't follow.
They leveled out above the clouds in a strange twilight. The sun was setting, but from his perspective the horizon was well below them, and thin light barely broke up through to them. The dragons were calmer now. With shaking fingers, he lit their night lamps, red and green, and gave them gentle pats on the side.
"Good boy. Good girl."
This was too cold for a man to survive. He went down the stairs and closed the hatch. On the bridge, Payman said, "Good idea. Those ruffians can't travel this high up. Neither can we for long, to be true. You get light-headed. But we can outrun them easily enough now." He clapped Paolo on the back.
"Thanks." He wanted to ask about the Captain, but held back.
Payman saw his concern plain on his face. "I think Jenkins and Galway took the Captain back to his cabin if you want to check in."
"I will, thank you."
He breathed on his hands to warm them as he went back to their cabin. Witherspoon was in bed, Jenkins checking his eyes with a candle's light. He was sitting up, though, and smiled when he saw Paolo.
"Sorry to frighten you, lad. Nothing to worry about. Just a bump on the noggin."
Jenkins scolded him. "That's plenty to worry about, sir. Head injuries are dangerous."
"It'll take more than a cookpot to kill me. I had worse than this falling out of trees as a boy."
"That doesn't make it any better, sir." Jenkins snuffed out his candle. "Helapar, you'll stay with him tonight. Watch for any signs of trouble. Wake him every so often. If he gets sick to his stomach, or won't wake up, fetch me immediately."
"And you'll do what?"
"Take your coat and become Captain myself," said Jenkins. "Whether or not Payman likes it." He gave his patient a quick smile. "Sadly for my career prospects, you're probably fine." He tilted his head to Paolo. "Pity. First thing I'd do as Captain is make Helapar here our new steersman. He drove the dragons into the clouds, and may have saved us all."
"I expected as much," said Neil, but his eyes were grateful as Jenkins left them alone. Paolo came to sit next to him on the bed. Without speaking, they clasped hands and sat together in relived silence with each other's presence for comfort.
The Invictus was over the Western Ocean, five days from landfall and another day to their destination. They were a day behind schedule thanks to the storm and the raid both taking them off-track. Sally and Tony had been spooked far worse than usual, and Cornelius had the sad feeling that was because both were losing their eyesight and couldn't judge the threats as well as they once could. They'd be examined once the ship returned to Eastland, and he was certain both would be sent to pasture.
Pasture life for dragons wasn't kind. Old dragons too wounded or sick to fly, or who'd simply grown old in the harness like this pair, were sent to the enormous pens in the farmlands to the south. There they'd be fattened with corn until they were plump as melons, and then, the swift chop. Dragon meat and dragon hide were worth more than dragons who couldn't be used for the war effort. Cornelius was a career military man, and ate anything put in front of him as a rule, but he politely refused to eat a creature who'd saved his life and rumbled "Good boy" as it soared through the heavens.
He found himself spending more time on the top deck, climbing out to visit his dragons. Paolo rotated among his duties, and joined him sometimes. They'd stroke the beasts, feed them treats, and talk a bit about their separate lives, or else sit here, high above the world and simply enjoy the icy breeze on their faces in a silence more fulfilling than any small talk Cornelius had ever engaged in at at Admiral's Gala. They had reached an understanding for the nights, and the bunk was indeed big enough for two men, with or without a storm. The close presence of a young man in his bed awakened parts of him he'd long since thought cooled to ash, though he continued to treat Paolo with nothing but honor and courtesy. An old man's dreams were better left unspoken. Far more interesting were their conversations by daylight, here high above it all, as if they were alone in the world.
"How old were you when you left home?" he asked, and Paolo considered the question. He was wrapped in Cornelius's great coat once more, covering him from the chilly air.
"Five? Maybe six? We didn't count years the way they do in Eastland. Everything was measured in seasons." His accent thickened when he talked about his childhood, filling each syllable with a pleasant lilt. In most conversation, he spoke with the same broad vowels as any other resident of the city's gutters, though he aimed for a more refined tone when he was on duty. When Cornelius had met him, he'd assumed he could tell everything about the lad in a glance. Now he understood there were at least three layers in the young man, no doubt far more. It was the strangest friendship of his life, learning about Paolo day by day, and he enjoyed every moment.
"And you still have family there."
"I hope so. I haven't seen them in so long."
He pushed forward. "I ask because I'd like to see your home while we're in port. I assume you want to visit the old place and see your family. We'll be there for a week to rest the dragons before our return trip. If you wouldn't mind, I'd be honored if you would show me around."
A new sorrow had come into his young friend's eyes. He glanced out, and Cornelius knew he could see the ocean from here. No matter what Cornelius told him, Paolo still held a small fear that he would be tossed overboard, to die amid the waves or broken on the rocks as they passed over solid ground. "Captain, I don’t wish to return to Eastland. I want to stay in my homeland."
Now the sorrow was shared. Cornelius had allowed himself the fantasy that his new companion would take his commission as offered, and join Cornelius on these dull voyages across the world. If there was some question, he'd even played with the thought of adopting Paolo as his heir, giving him the regrettably mockable Witherspoon name along with the respectability that came attached. Cornelius had never married and had no children of his own. Referring to Paolo as his 'son' felt wrong in his mouth even without speaking the word, but it was a word that could help them both navigate the world of Eastland together between times they would navigate the skies. He would not let himself even think of other words he might like to use better.
But it was not to be.
"Are you sure? I can offer you." Everything, he thought, but that was a lie. "A solid job with a decent pay packet. On your next flight, you could even have your own rack." He wouldn't make his other suggestion now and sound like a desperate old fool.
"You've been very kind to me. I appreciate the generous offer. But I am wanted by the police. If I return, I'll be sent to prison."
"I could speak on your behalf."
Paolo shook his head, his dark curls moving in the high wind. Cornelius wanted to put out his hand and tidy them, stroke one behind Paolo's ear, but he resisted as he resisted the same each night, watching him rest in blissful peace. "I've never been free there. I have a chance at being free back home. Not much of one, but a chance."
"I understand."
He made an excuse not long after to end his shift up here. Paolo hurried off to his next job. He'd paid his passage with labor, the same as them all. Cornelius wanted to say that hadn't bought him his freedom, too, but the words died inside his mouth.
He thought about what he should say, how they could keep up their pleasant conversations, here or together at night. He felt he ought to apologize, though he didn't know for what. He remembered his adventures with Mighty Jim, back when he'd believed the world could be harnessed like a dragon by a bright enough lad willing to take the initiative. He'd harnessed what he could, earning his place here among the clouds. Once there had been jungles and rivers in his imagination, and anything had been possible. He wanted to tell these things to Paolo, try to explain the inexplicable. But Paolo was a good, hard worker, and had offered to take the night watch from Forester for the last leg of the trip.
"I am the juniormost member of the crew," he said with a shy grin to the others. "I think I've had enough training now to try."
Jenkins looked to the Captain for confirmation. Cornelius nodded his approval. "Mr. Helapar has shown he can mind the engines. It's good experience."
"You can have my bunk in the daylight," said the grateful Forester.
Paolo didn't mind the night watch. It was warm in the engine room, and he kept himself awake with occasional walks through the rest of the ship, sometimes spending long stretches of time staring out of the window on the bridge, watching the dragons in their half-sleep as they glided through the evening sky. He'd been terrified of them from a distance. Now their twinned dark bulks, lit only by the night lanterns and the moon, were as comforting as the curve of his mother's smile.
He would miss this ship. He would miss the sky. He daren't take up Neil's kind offer. As soon as he set foot on Eastlandian soil, he'd be a wanted man. Even if he escaped imprisonment this once, he would spend his life waiting for the law to catch him up with all its little traps.
He hadn't seen his homeland in over a decade. He barely remembered his cousins' names, and had little idea where to find them once they arrived. Nevertheless, he would rejoin them. The war that had raged in his youth had moved on to new borders. It was safe enough there, safer than back in Eastland. Anywhere would be, could he only find the means to go.
Neil barely spoke to him now that Paolo had made his intentions clear. He hated to see the hurt look on his benefactor's face. In the dreams that followed him into waking in the early morning, he embraced the Captain as though he were falling through the air and the man's sure grasp was his only hope, but in dream-logic, as their hands touched, they floated together and Paolo had never been so at peace. Dreams were foolish, and he didn't dare speak them any more than he dared go back to Eastland. Safer to sleep in another man's empty bunk as the thin light filtered through the one window in the crew cabin, his nose filled with the absent smell of unwashed young men rather than the sweet, fresh air that covered Neil's hair as he slept.
Nights passed in their own fashion, not with the same hours as daylight. Time alone with his thoughts. Time for old regrets and new ones, and the rumble of the restful dragons outside, and the roar of the coal within. Cloaked in these shadows and the shadows of his heart, Paolo flew across the border of his homeland in the dead of night, and knew not when he came there.
All hands were called on deck for the landing. Paolo wasn't of much use now. Neil would drive the dragons to their berth while Jenkins steered and the men secured the ship.
"Chew on this," said Galwin as they secured the galley.
Paolo took the thick, dark stem from his hand. "What is it?"
"Blueroot. Chewing helps your ears as we descend." He showed Paolo his own teeth, stained a light shade of green with the piece in his own mouth.
Paolo recalled how his ears had ached at takeoff. He placed the root into his mouth and took a chew. The flavor was bitter mixed with a tingling aftertaste, like spiced tea. "Thank you."
Even with the blueroot, his ears popped when his stomach swooped at their drop. He wound up in the bridge, gazing out at the approaching docks past the dragons, who beat their mighty wings in unison before turning in a gentle dive. Everything below him looked like nothing more than tiny toys, then grew as he watched the world swell beneath them.
"Steady on," said Jenkins. "You'll want to hold onto something."
Paolo grabbed hold of a beam as they dropped suddenly, and again, finally hitting the ground with a jarring thump.
His legs were shaky under him. "We made it?"
"Of course we made it. Easy landing. Try doing that under fire in a hurricane."
Paolo would be leaving soon, and he'd never have another chance to ask. "You're older than the other lads. Why are you on a cargo ship instead of off in the war?"
Jenkins stared at him curiously. "This is the best job in the Royal Navy, mate. Stay in the sky, less likely to get your arse blasted off."
For some reason, Paolo had hoped there was more to it, but he supposed if Jenkins did have some deep dark secret, he wouldn't share it with a stowaway. "Fair enough."
He helped unload the ship with the others, untethering the crates from the hold one by one and loading them onto rollers to be eased down the gangplank. It was back-breaking work, as hard as anything he'd ever done back home for less money than he could use to buy bread for a day. The payment for this job was far greater. None of the airsailors at the dock gave him a second glance. He was one of them. He could be one of them. He could change his mind still, sign his name, and stay by this kind man's side.
At the edges of the base, he saw the familiar rambling corners and alleys of all docks, saw shadows, women or men it didn't matter from this distance, waiting for the airsailors to finish their work and come seeking a warm body.
The world was the same, no matter where he went.
He finished unloading the last crate. Already the other men had signed off, ready to enjoy a few days of leave before reporting back. Only Jenkins remained, rubbing down Sally with a cloth and chatting with someone who looked like a proper veterinarian. Neil was nowhere to be seen. That was better, Paolo told himself. No long goodbyes.
Outside the base, everything in this city was bright and loud. The staid Eastlander influence near the base crashed against the local colors. Faces looked like his, and they looked like the faces back in Eastland: tired, hungry, resigned to the life they were living.
His pockets held a few coins in Eastlander currency, courtesy of the airsailor he'd robbed of those pockets. In the sky, the money hadn't mattered. Now it was all he had to live on until he sorted out his bearings and figured out how far it was to the nameless village by the sea he only remembered from scraps of childhood memory. In his plans, the task had seemed easy. Now he knew he had no idea even where to start.
People hurried by, ignoring him. A flash of his future came to him: crowded into a tiny room with other men, forced to steal or forced to his knees, unable to feed himself with honest work here any better than he did back in Eastland.
"Aren't you hard to find?" said a voice right behind him. He turned. Neil wasn't wearing his uniform now, but a faded set of clothes that looked to have been new and fashionable twenty years ago. He fit in well with the array of clothing surrounding them on the street. Paolo was the one who stuck out in his borrowed striped shirt. The Captain must want his garb back.
With an effort, he said, "Neil. Hello." Genuine pleasure crossed the man's face. "I walked off with your shirt."
"You can keep the shirt if you want. I wouldn't recommend it, though. The locals don't love to see the uniform." His eyes went far away, as if reading through an old book, explaining the reason why to him in thin, spindly print.
"I didn't know how to say goodbye."
"I was hoping you wouldn't have to yet. I'm here to ask one last favor of you. It's dangerous, but I've made up my mind."
Paolo considered for half a moment. He was home now, or close enough. He'd given this man his work, and warmed his bed in the most innocent sense of the word. His debt was paid. But he also knew that anything Neil asked of him, save one, he'd do without question. Even his first offer from that first night, made in terror and desperation, he'd give freely and joyously now. His heart broke to think of never seeing this man again. Even the smallest favor meant some short measure of time in his company. He may have denied himself the comfort of their previous closeness, but he could not bear to part from him now that there was a chance to linger a while longer.
"Name it."
Cornelius had spent those last several lonely nights in deep thought, often rising from his bed to climb alone to the top deck, sitting in his coat and nightshirt, watching the dragons fly in their sleep. Returning to Eastland with them meant their eventual deaths, just as Paolo believed the same for himself. Cornelius loved his homeland. He loved the sky more. He was loyal to the King. He was more loyal to his men and his dragons.
The choice had been simple. The plan was somewhat more complicated, but eased by his own position. He and Paolo walked back onto the base together after sunset. The Captain of the Invictus wouldn't be stopped, and an airsailor in his company was hardly worth batting an eye.
"Checking on my damn dragons. The blue one's had a cough," he said, but they never asked, and later, they'd be able to repeat his words.
Paolo went to check on Tony in the giant fireproof stall where he was being kept. Cornelius found Sally with her nose deep in a pile of coal and hay, chewing happily. "Eat up, my girl," he told her, patting her side. "You've earned your meal." The Western continent boasted great grasslands to the north, roamed still by wild dragons grazing their fills. The wild ones never got this big, not in these modern days, but a tame dragon was used to being fed rather than foraging.
He rested at her side, slouching against her like when he'd been a lad. He felt the rumble of her digestion. After a while, Paolo joined him, sitting with his back to Sally's belly, a hand against her. "He's fed."
"Good. She'll be done soon. I want her to have a good feed." Sally snorted in her food bin, and he scratched her side with tender nails.
Excitement warmed him as much as the smoky breath of the dragons in their pens and his snug coat. It had been a long time since his last true adventure. James would be terribly jealous. Cornelius had written his final letter to his nephew early today. He could only imagine his expression when the ship returned to Eastland with his bundle of letters.
As soon as Sally finished her meal, Cornelius pulled down the bridle hanging on the side of the stall and called to her. The leather straps fitted over her face. She bowed her head as he attached the groom's saddle. He left her there, dressed for flight, and hurried to Tony's stall. Paolo had managed the bridle but was at a loss for the saddle. "I'll show you," said Cornelius. "Like this."
His hands finished the work, trembling now with eagerness like a young man awaiting his wedding night. A far different pleasure awaited him, as much as he might idly wish.
"Are you sure you want to come with me? I can drive them both."
"It'll be easier with two," said Paolo. Cornelius made a step with his feet, helping him up into the saddle. His nervous smile beamed down at Cornelius, sitting astride a dragon for the first time. He was terribly handsome, like some hero from a story, and Cornelius wasted a precious second watching him. If Paolo was to leave as soon as this gambit finished, he wanted to fix this memory in his mind, to be placed next to the sight of dark curls on their shared pillow.
Cornelius tore his gaze away. He went to the gate and unlatched it. "Follow me out." He hurried back to Sally's stall, leaving the gate open wide as he climbed into the saddle. He nudged her out of the stall, ungainly on her feet. The dragon pens were held in a large building with thick walls and a thin roof. The door had been left open. Cornelius gave a pleasant wave to the airsailors on duty, who merely waved back. It wasn't their job to know why the Captain was exercising his beasts.
He waited until Tony had waddled from the building. The moon was low on the horizon. Seemed like a good a direction as any. "Hyup!" he shouted, and he heard Paolo's matched command. Sally beat her wings and lifted off, pulling them into the air, away from the ground, away from the base, and into the warm, tropical night.
Beside them, several yards away, Paolo held onto Tony's reins.
"All right, Paolo?"
He watched the lad's face for signs of air sickness, but he saw only exhilaration. "Never better!" he shouted back, and Cornelius believed him.
They flew on for over an hour before Cornelius eased them down in a secluded area far from the city, and from the prying eyes that might come looking later. He'd let the dragons have their rest here, and press on before morning. He didn't know where they'd go, he only knew as the miles rolled away under them, he was finally where he belonged.
Paolo brought Tony in beside Sally. With wobbly knees, he helped Cornelius guide them in under the cover of the high trees. "Get some rest, my beauties."
"Good boy!" said Tony, and Paolo petted him.
"Good boy," he agreed.
The elation in Cornelius's heart ebbed. "Thank you. It's a long walk back to the city. Unless your destination is this way?" Paolo hadn't said where his home was, only that it was near the ocean. The coastline of the Western Continent meandered far around from here.
Paolo rubbed Tony's neck. "Where are you going?"
"I have no idea. It's a glorious feeling." He was light-headed with his sudden dereliction of duty. He wanted to sing with joy but for one oncoming sorrow.
"I was thinking. You don't know this country well. Neither do I but I know the language. I don't know where my old village is, or how to get there, or if anyone is left there who remembers my name if I did. And you need a second rider. I could stay with the dragons. With you. I owe you so much." The words were halted, confused, and disjointed.
Cornelius shut his eyes. "I wish you meant that. You wanted to come home, and here you are. You owe me nothing you have not already repaid a thousand times with your friendship."
"I don't mean it that way. I owe you." He gestured at Tony and Sally, already curling for some rest. "You showed me the sky and your only demand was that I see it beside you. I can't repay that." He stepped closer, and took Cornelius's hands in his. "I know where my home is now. It's in the sky, with you."
"I don't have a plan. It's mad, and dangerous." He shook his head. "I can think of nothing more I want than for you to come with me, but if the Royal Navy catches up with us, we'll be executed for theft, Paolo."
Paolo squeezed his hands. "Then let's make sure they never catch us, Neil."
Cornelius found himself moving into Paolo's arms, and he sank into the embrace gratefully, joyfully, his heart flying free as the wind.