The Native Star Read online

  She certainly heard Hembry’s ringing cry of astonishment: “You? A Warlock? What the hell is a Warlock doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Never mind about that,” Stanton said as they walked back to where Emily was. “You need a Warlock. Here I am. I can get your Cockatrice flying again, on one condition. We go with you.”

  “What?” Hembry’s voice was a betrayed bray. Frowning, he snatched the straw hat from his head, threw it on the ground for emphasis. “No sir! I ain’t taking passengers. This ain’t a pleasure trip!”

  “It isn’t going to be any kind of a trip,” Stanton said, “unless you take us.”

  Hembry snorted. He crossed his arms and pressed his lips together as if he was done with conversation entirely. But he did speak again, and when he did, his voice was hushed and his eyes kept darting back and forth as if spies might be hiding in the hairy vetch.

  “Listen, you folks don’t know what I’m aiming at,” he said. “Like I say, this ain’t a pleasure trip. This is a rebellion.”

  “Rebellion?”

  “Yeah,” Hembry said. He reached into his other back pocket, pulled out a plug of tobacco, and took an angry chaw. “I got me a little message for President Ulysses S. Grant and all them thievin’ fat-cat Replug-uglican cronies ’a his. And I aim to deliver that message right there at the opening of that grand goddamn centennial they’all spent so much of my tax money on.”

  “What kind of message?” Stanton asked. Hembry lifted his chin.

  “A message that honest folk won’t stand for it no more!” he shouted. He gestured around himself broadly. “Look at my land! Used’ta all be planted in corn—corn I used in my own still, for my own customers, just like my pappy did, and his pappy ’afore him. But Grant’s crooked whiskey-ring boys took it all away from me. Busted up my business, sent thugs to skeer my wife and young’uns … I haven’t dared plant so much as a pea for the past five years. So I took my last thousand dollars … the whole of my life’s savings … and I bought this here machine. I’m gonna fly into that exposition, and I’m gonna stand in front of President Ulysses S. Grant, and I’m gonna spit in his eye! If that ain’t my right as an American, I don’t know what is!”

  A smile broadened over Stanton’s face with every word Hembry spoke. When the old man fell silent, he clapped Hembry on the shoulder.

  “Ebenezer Hembry,” he said, “that has to be the most wonderful plan I’ve ever heard.”

  The complete sincerity with which Stanton said it surprised Emily. Hembry heard it, too. The excitement of finding a kindred spirit brightened his features. He seized Stanton’s hand in a grimy clasp.

  “No foolin’?” he said.

  “No foolin’,” Stanton said. “Now look, how much corn syrup can you get your hands on?”

  Stanton and Hembry worked all afternoon and well into the night. After the sun went down and the shade of the oak tree was no longer quite so necessary to her comfort, Emily wandered back up to the top of the rise so she could be far away from whatever magic Stanton would have to work to revitalize the Cockatrice’s muscles. Stretching out on a mattress of soft vetch, she pillowed her head on her arms and looked up at the stars for a long time, dreaming of infinite spaces and ancient memories.

  When she felt a hand on her arm many hours later, she thought she must be dreaming, for everything was so still and dark. The only light came from a low-hanging sliver of parchment-colored moon on the eastern horizon. From somewhere came the acrid smell of burning tobacco.

  It took her a moment to realize that someone was straddling her, pinning her body to the ground, fingering the silver safety pin that she’d hidden inside her sleeve.

  The someone was a girl.

  A blond girl.

  Emily lifted her hands in defense, found that they were bound with a stout leather cord. Rose pressed a revolver hard against her temple.

  “You think you can play the games, eh?” Grimaldi hissed through clenched teeth. “This time, you will not escape.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Cynic Mirror

  “Come, carissima mia.” Rose jerked Emily to her feet. “Come and meet the gentlemen who have bought you.”

  Down the hill, beneath the oak tree, stood a half dozen men. They had suspended their lanterns from the tree’s broad limbs, and the light illuminated a strange process.

  “What are they doing?” Emily stumbled as Rose shoved her forward down the hill.

  “I do not know the scientific term,” Grimaldi said. “But in Italian, it is avvolgendo nel bozzolo. Wrapping things up.”

  Each of the strangers had a large cylindrical object strapped to his back that was connected by a flexible rubber hose to a handheld nozzle. They were using these devices to wrap a glistening cocoon around the struggling Hembry, spinning silk around him like cotton candy. The old man’s astonished eyes peeked out over the top of his confining wrappings.

  When Emily came into the circle of lantern light, she saw that Stanton was already bound tightly. His eyes, gleaming green, found Emily’s and held them. But Emily had no time to read the warning there as a man stepped forward to greet her.

  He was a well-preserved man of advanced age, as white-blond as the moonlight. He wore a suit and waistcoat of a foreign cut. An acrid cigarette burned between his fingers.

  “I am sorry we must be introduced in this fashion.” The man’s voice was thickly accented in Russian. “I am called Perun.”

  “You hide behind an alias,” Stanton barked. “Perun is the name of the Russian god of thunder. What is your real name?”

  “Real names are not important, Mr. Stanton.” Perun lifted his cigarette to his lips, not looking at him.

  “These are the Sini Mira, Emily,” Stanton said. “Eradicationists. You can’t—”

  Perun made a small gesture, and one of the large men who had just finished mummifying Hembry raised his wand and wound sticky threads around Stanton’s head and mouth. Stanton struggled furiously against the confinement, sounds of anger muffled by the silk wrappings.

  “Behave, Mr. Stanton, or I will direct him to cover your nose, as well.”

  Stanton subsided slightly, glaring at the Russian.

  “Mr. Stanton is correct, I do represent a group called the Sini Mira. However, his opinion of us is colored by many prejudices which are neither fair nor accurate. We are scientists.” Perun took a deep drag off his stinking cigarette, tapped ash. “I cannot tell you more until we can reach a place of safety. You will come with us now.”

  “What are you going to do with Mr. Stanton?” she said.

  “Oh, please!” Grimaldi rolled Rose’s eyes. “Really, it becomes quite annoying, Miss Edwards!”

  “If you do not resist, Miss Edwards,” Perun said, “we will not hurt anyone.”

  “And if I resist?”

  Perun shook his head. He sighed. “We are not brutal, nor are we unkind. But you do not understand how important the stone in your hand is. If you did, you would know that any stubbornness will put you and your friends in grave danger.”

  “We’ve already been in grave danger from this body-jumping bounty hunter you hired to catch us.” Emily gestured toward Rose, and the vicious Manipulator who possessed her. Rose’s body looked even worse for wear now; her eyes were desperate as a trapped animal’s and there were swollen, painful scrapes on her face where Emily had beaten her with the carpetbag. Emily shifted her eyes back to the white-blond Russian. “You see how he hunts, don’t you? The girl he’s riding right now … he’s killing her. You hired a monster like that, and I’m supposed to believe you have my best interests at heart?”

  “We could not allow him to hand you over to the Maelstroms. As I have said, you do not understand how important the stone in your hand is.”

  “Tell me, then,” Emily said. “Make me understand.”

  “Ah.” Perun exhaled a curl of blue smoke that glowed in the very first light of dawn. “That would be a story that would take millions of years to tell
in words.”

  The echo sent a chill down Emily’s spine. Those were Komé’s words. The words the Holy Woman had spoken in her dream.

  Perun saw the recognition on her face and nodded with satisfaction.

  “You have experienced the consciousness of the earth. We call her mat syra zemlya, the Great Mother. She has bestowed a rare gift upon you, Miss Edwards, and an even rarer duty—a duty you share with the Holy Woman. A duty she has surrendered her physical existence to serve. We, too, have come to serve, and you will find us no less dedicated.”

  “How do you know all this?” Emily’s throat was dry.

  “I will tell you all about it when we reach a place of safety. I will tell you everything you wish to know.”

  Perun bent his head closer to hers.

  “And I can tell you even more than that,” he murmured in her ear. “You have heard the name Lyakhov, have you not?”

  Emily trembled, the sound of the name sending little explosions through her brain.

  “That’s not my name,” she said softly.

  “You are correct, it is not,” Perun said. “A daughter would be more properly called Lyakhova.”

  Emily’s eyes flashed up.

  “You knew my mother?”

  Perun seemed to choose his next words carefully. “I can tell you where you came from, Miss Lyakhova. Who you really are. These are things you have always wished to know. The service of mat syra zemlya is not without reward.”

  Emily looked over at Stanton. His eyes gleamed warning; he shook his head as violently as his restraints would allow. In the rising light of dawn, the Cockatrice shone dull gray.

  “All right.” Emily quickly shifted her gaze back to Perun to avoid Stanton’s eyes. “I’ll go with you. But you have to let Mr. Hembry and Mr. Stanton leave. Let them take the Cockatrice. I want to know that they’re safe.”

  “You will go with us in any case.” Perun’s voice was cool and firm. “I have no need to bargain with you.”

  “You want me to trust you? There’s nothing you can say in a million words that will speak louder than a single action.” Her voice became softer. “Please.”

  Perun looked at her. He breathed smoke in and out. Finally, he gave a curt nod.

  “For you, Miss Lyakhova, I will do this,” he said.

  Reaching inside his coat, Perun retrieved a small vial. Tucking the cigarette between his lips, he squinted against the rising smoke as he unscrewed the top. Stepping over to where the men lay captive, he dripped liquid from the bottle on each of them. The silk floss sizzled and hissed, individual strands becoming a gleaming, brittle mass that crumbled easily. Stanton jumped to his feet but Rose’s revolvers swung up, staying his movements.

  “It’ll be all right, Mr. Stanton,” Emily said.

  “If she’s going, I’m going,” Stanton said.

  “You arrogant, stubborn, troublesome Warlock!” Grimaldi spat furiously, advancing on Stanton. Rose shoved the revolvers into Stanton’s belly, teeth bared. “Who do you think you are? Who do you think holds the guns? If you do not do as you are told, I will blow your guts through your body and give to Miss Edwards the heart she has become so silly over.”

  “Stop, Grimaldi.” Perun’s voice rang out. “The Warlock may leave. I have given my word on it.” He paused. “But under no circumstances will he be allowed to come with us. The secrets we possess are too deep, too vital, too closely held to risk allowing a Warlock—particularly a Warlock like Mr. Stanton—to learn of them.”

  “And what do you mean by that?” Stanton growled.

  “You think we don’t know about your background?” Perun exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “Your years at the Erebus Academy? You may call yourself a credomancer now, but that’s not what you were then.” Perun’s jaw rippled with distaste. “There is an old Russian saying. ‘A serpent changes his skin, but not his fangs.’”

  “You’re worried about my fangs, but you’re going to let me leave in a twenty-ton biomechanical flying machine?” Stanton balled his fists. “What’s to stop me from flying it right back at you?”

  “You are free to do whatever you like, Mr. Stanton. The spider silk we used to bind you can just as easily be used to snarl the wings of that machine and bring you down. Or I will just shoot you between the eyes. I am a very good shot.”

  Perun and Stanton looked at each other for a long time.

  “Go, Mr. Stanton.” The words caught in Emily’s throat. “I told you, I have to find a different way.”

  “No, that’s not what you said …” Stanton took a reluctant step backward, prodded by Rose’s revolvers. He looked at Emily, shaking his head. Hembry was already gone, having scrambled into the Cockatrice and taken refuge within its deep passenger compartment.

  “Come on,” Hembry called. “Get in, you durn fool!”

  “Emily …” Stanton said.

  Emily clenched her fists, the tight leather bindings cutting into her wrists. She stared at the ground.

  “Go,” she whispered.

  She didn’t see Stanton climb into the Cockatrice; she did not lift her head again until she heard the sound of metal sliding against metal. Then she looked up and saw the Cockatrice beginning to move, silver wings lifting like a glittering sheet, each feather ringing and chiming. The gleaming snakelike tail uncurled sinuously, slithering along the ground. The proud enameled head rose, the beak opened slightly. Red eyes, set deep under a jutting brow, began to glow.

  The Cockatrice gathered its two legs under it, lifted its wings high, then brought them down with a mighty flap as it sprang up from the ground in a powerful rush. The smell of hot oil and metal and sweet burning sugar filled the air. The machine soared upward, rising into the pink mist of dawn. Perun watched it go, drew in a deep breath.

  “Men,” he sighed. “Prepare yourselves. He will be back.”

  “No!” Emily whirled on the Russian, but Rose held her fast, an arm looped through Emily’s bound arms, a gun pressed to the side of her head.

  “I have given him the chance for your sake, Miss Edwards.” His tone made Emily’s chest turn to lead. “But I am afraid he will not take it.”

  Around them, men began to scramble. They went to where their horses stood waiting, fastened their barrel-shaped weapons tightly to their animals’ saddles with clips and buckles. They drew rifles from saddle holsters, chambered rounds. Perun and Emily watched the Cockatrice swoop up sharply, then bank like a swooping eagle, swinging back in a graceful arc.

  “Goddamn it, Mr. Stanton,” Emily whispered through clenched teeth. “No.”

  One of the men handed Perun a rifle. The Russian lifted it to his shoulder, sliding the bolt home with a loud clack, and drew a bead on the approaching Cockatrice with its blued-steel barrel.

  “No!” Emily screamed, at Stanton and the Russian both. She struggled furiously against Rose’s grip.

  “Make another move, Miss Edwards,” Grimaldi whispered in her ear, “and you won’t live to see him die.”

  Licked you once, Emily thought, ferocity charging her. Guess I can lick you again.

  She dropped to the ground; the pistol blasted by her ear. Bouncing back to her feet, she brought her bound hands down over Rose’s head, jerking the leather tight around the girl’s throat. Rose’s hands flailed, revolvers shining. Emily pulled tighter.

  The Cockatrice dived toward them, metal feathers ringing. Emily could see Stanton, leaning out over the edge of the open passenger compartment, his hands outstretched. The men of the Sini Mira dropped to the ground as the Cockatrice plowed over them. Only Emily and Rose remained standing … and Perun, training his rifle on Stanton.

  Stanton’s hands came down, clutching at the fabric of Emily’s dress. Emily lurched, her shoulders screaming with pain as her feet left the ground. The leather bindings around her wrists burned as Rose was pulled up with her; there was the sound of tearing fabric.

  Then another sound—the crack of Perun’s rifle. Stanton faltered, grunted. Emily felt one of his hands g
o limp and slack, and she slid down, her heart and stomach tumbling with the drop. Stanton had her by one hand.

  There was a high whistling noise. The stringy silk floss of the Sini Mira devices fluttered around them, whisper-soft. The strands slapped against the side of the Cockatrice, hundreds of them, making a pitter-pat sound like rain. The silk tangled around wings, legs, tail … around Emily, around Rose, pulling them down …

  Stanton was halfway out over the side of the passenger compartment now, his hands clutching at Emily’s skirt. He got two good handfuls and pulled up hard, his face wrenched with pain. Emily could see blood spreading over Stanton’s shirt, staining his breast red. Warm gory drops spun in the rushing wind, splattering against her face.

  There was a screech of metal, and several jolting shocks. The sticky string was taut and glossy and shiny as twisted steel. The horses below scrambled for purchase, struggling to keep themselves from being lifted along with the Cockatrice.

  With one large heave, Stanton managed to get Emily into the passenger compartment, dragging Rose behind her. The girl was limp, her face reddish-purple; she did not move.

  “I’ll bust us loose!” Hembry, at the controls, felt around in the space under his feet. “Packed these just in case!” He pulled out a small crate that was packed with egg-shaped items cradled in wood shavings. The crate bore the familiar Baugh’s Patent Magicks logo on the side and an advertisement of the contents: Explosive Exterminating Egg. Extreme Mantic Potency Against Gophers, Moles, and Sundry Burrowing Vermin Guaranteed.

  He pulled out one of the brass eggs and depressed a button on the top.

  When Stanton saw what Hembry was holding, his eyes went wide.

  “No!” he screamed, his hand scrambling for Hembry’s. “Don’t! No magic!”

  But Hembry had already dropped the egg over the side.

  “Emily, get down!” Stanton cried. But it was too late. The egg exploded with a white flash of light. The explosion corresponded with a sudden upward lurch of the Cockatrice as the bulk of the restraining ties were severed; the rest tore free with a twinging noise. But even as the Cockatrice was freed and began to gain altitude, the explosive magic that had freed it veered upward as well. A dense, pearly cloud of magical power buffeted the Cockatrice, and Emily’s hands, still bound by leather, were roughly seized by the force of the stone’s attraction to it.