"I'm sorry, sir," Maxwell said. From the wheel, Gerald was discussing in hushed tones with the old engineer how to manage the ship's descent. "I have no idea how that was missed."
"Stop apologising. Oversight before takeoff was my job, and I failed at it," Gerald replied simply. He had been angry with Maxwell, for the six seconds it had taken to remind himself everything on this ship was his fault, and he should damn well act like it. "Right now, we're two miles in the air, and plan 'A' for a controlled descent is lying on the ground. We need a new plan that doesn't involve burning a hole through my deck."
"We can't open the top hatch unless someone climbs on top of the bag. And since touching the bag right now would cause second-degree burns, you're the only one who could touch the bag," Maxwell said simply. He grinned and gazed up at the lift bag. "And frankly, sir, I don't think you could handle that climb."
"The lieutenant could," Gerald reflected. Maxwell nodded in agreement, chuckling a little. "What's so funny?"
"The perfect solution is a shadow-trained Crafter. We're screwed," Maxwell said, laughing. Gerald rolled his eyes and shook his head. The old engineer had a peculiar sense of humour at times.
"So, I guess I'm stuck redirecting the fire while someone opens the hatch," Gerald said, lamely.
"You can't simply quash the fire without opening it?" Maxwell asked.
"I'd rather not," Gerald said. "Putting out a candle takes more effort than I spent setting this bag on fire in the first place. Killing Gloam-enhanced flame would feel like trying to turn off a distribution line. I'd rather try to melt the Agora," he explained. He took note of Maxwell's confused expression and reminded himself to spend more time with people who aren't Crafters. "It's dangerous enough that I'm willing to entertain pretty much any alternative."
"All right. Could we move the heat-sink to the middle of the deck?" Maxwell asked, speculating. Both of them glanced at the large, black brick near the railing.
"Lucille? Is that feasible?" Gerald asked, louder, to his lieutenant and shadow. She glanced over, and he knew she had been listening to them from a polite distance, while ensuring that no one else was able to.
"Difficult, sir," she replied, as she stepped forward to join them. "We used a pour-weld instead of rivets to hold them in place. Someone was in a hurry to get us in the air," she explained politely, but smirked as she finished.
Point for Lucille, Gerald thought to himself. She continued after a brief pause, "Even our reservoirs couldn't give me enough heat to cut it loose. Which leaves it up to you."
Gerald cringed. "I'd rather not."
"Stab the bag with your sword?" Maxwell asked, in jest.
"My sword..." Gerald muttered to himself, looking down at his waist. The curved scabbard housing the sword was cool to the touch, and would likely flash-freeze skin on contact. Even it, though, would do little by itself to either cool the lift-bag, or keep the open hatch from burning a hole through the ship.
He drew it, with a quick rasp of sliding steel, and laid his fingers on the edge of the blade. He felt the sharp snap of cold as it greedily drank the heat of his fingers, and the furious response of his own will pouring heat into the blade to fight it. He smiled and turned to Lucille. "Lieutenant, your knife please."
She scowled as she drew one of the knives from beneath her coat. Neither of them needed to clarify which knife he wanted. "For the record, sir, I think this is a terrible idea."
Nevertheless, she held the weapon by its obsidian pommel stone and extended her arm towards him. He was surprised at how ready she was to follow his orders, even ones as strange as his recent request must seem.
"Noted," Gerald replied, as he took the weapon from her with his free hand. "On my mark, open the hatch for three seconds," he instructed. He paused and glanced up at the lift-bag. "Err on the far side of three seconds. At least three, less than four."
"That's a small margin of error," Lucille noted.
Gerald laughed in agreement. "Two seconds, and it takes a week to descend. Six seconds, and we fall to our deaths."
"So I shouldn't leave it open out of spite?" she asked, and Gerald smiled to himself. He could keep the bag inflated himself, if it came to that, but it would probably take a year or two off his life.
He turned to look up at the hatch, surprised by how heavy Lucille's cold-stone dagger felt in his left hand. The blade was startlingly thin for its heft, with the curious ripple-pattern in the steel the metallurgists regarded as a mark of quality. Overall, it was substantially better made than his officer's sword, which looked like a bent stick of metal that someone had attached to a handle.
"Ready?" Gerald asked, turning to the hatch controls, looking for his lieutenant. He didn't see her, and began to glance about when a hand set itself on the side of his face, cupping his jaw, and turned his head to the right.
Another hand rested on the other side of his face, and pulled his head down a little, as cool lips pressed against his own. His hands filled with his sword and her dagger, he was too startled to do anything, let alone react, as every thought vanished and his mind fell silent.
For a moment, just a moment, his entire world was reduced to the gentle feel of her cold, wind-swept lips against his own. A heartbeat later, she let him go and stepped away, a mysterious smile lighting up her face.
He smiled, and tried to force his mind to start working again. It took him a moment to remember much more than his name. "So, what was I doing again?" he asked, lamely, only half-joking.
He looked back up at the lift-bag, and shook his head. "Something stupid to impress a girl, obviously," he held the sword up, setting the blade between his face and the hatch. "Ready when you are, Lieutenant."
She nodded, and took the lever in her hands. "On your mark," she said.
He glanced over, and noticed she was still grinning. "Mark," he said as he took a deep breath.
Wielding the flame was a terrible description of Crafting. Soldiers wielded swords, mechanics wielded tools. Someone who could Craft made the flame a part of themselves.
Gerald could see the hatch open through the fire, the cold air below a space to consume. He could feel his body heat, his beating heart, and the brilliant and terrible absence of the sword in his hand. His will reached for the fire, and felt the will that already held the flame in its hands.
He reached for it, and pried its fingers loose. Sharp shock tingled in his arms for an instant, before the fire was as much a part of him as his own hands.
He swirled it about, spinning it in a tight circle around his own body, flinging it into the air as if he were stretching his arms. The maelstrom of bright red fires whirled around him in a blinding torrent that crackled, and howled as he brought it crashing into the sword in his hand.
Half a world away, the gentle vibrations of someone's voice rippled against the fires swirling around him. Through the fire, rather than in his ears, he heard his Lieutenant shouting from the lever. "One!"
He smiled, a rush of power seething through him as the fires poured into the open air. Above him, the Gloam enhanced fire beckoned, promising sweet and seductive strength, beyond even the fires that he could feel like new muscles.
"Two," he heard as if recalling a distant memory. He crashed the fire into the cold-stone in his hands, feeling the metal of the swords begin to warp despite the heat-devouring stone beneath.
Drowning the flame felt strange, and wrong. It was the closest imitation of pain that fire could know, as it drowned beneath the gluttonous weapons in his hands. It screamed and roared in indignation, causing explosions that cracked the air and pounded the lift-bag with blows, causing the thick canvas to ripple like still water after a boulder had crashed into it.
"Three," he felt in the air, and suddenly, the river of fire stopped, and what was still in the air was devoured by the cold-stone blades in his hands.
He hissed, and breathed slowly. The rush of strength, of power, of life, left him. Another quick breath, and suddenly, he was no longer the wrath and fury of untempered flame. He was meat and water, a frail thing of flesh and brittle bone.
He shook his head, and dropping his sword, set his right hand to Lucille's knife, holding the blade gingerly in his fingers until his breathing started to slow, and the hammering heart in his chest faded.
He looked over to Lucille, who had already covered the distance towards him. Despite her calm, level expression, and idle posture, the hands in her coat were clutching knives, and a half-dozen soldiers stood behind her, hands on their still sheathed swords.
He glanced about quickly, and noted that every eye, soldier or crew, was staring at him apprehensively. He acknowledged, in that moment, that he ought to have warned the crew about what he was doing.
Although, as he found Maxwell, Gerald noticed that the old engineer was still and pale, and a Salamander had found its way into his hands. He was terrified, Gerald realised, and the engineer had known the plan.
Most of the citizens of the Everburning City have no reason to ever watch a Crafter work. What they might witness, a few times in their lives, was usually a small display. Lighting candles or pilot lights, or even fuelling machinery, were small and comforting displays of the Craft. What his crew just witnessed, Gerald acknowledged, must have been terrifying.
"Apologies," he said to Lucille, as he handed her the knife in his hand, hilt-first. She took it, and poked at his hair with her free hand.
"That should have taken more of a toll," she remarked, as she inspected his hair. "No new grey hairs, your eyes are still dark brown, and I don't feel the heat-haze yet," she remarked.
She fixed him with a hard stare. "I've seen a man go mad from less. Much less. What else haven't I been told about you?"
Gerald shook his head, and held his hands out placatingly. "Gloam enhanced crafting takes less of a toll. Bloody hard to control, but it does little permanent damage. Almost nothing. It's part of the reason I use it in that bag," he replied, carefully. He glanced around again, at the crew, and asked, "Have I frightened them?"
She nodded in response. Gerald grimaced, and asked, "Any advice?"
She smiled, "Take it with grace." She turned to one of the nearby soldiers, and said, "Now, Corporal."
Lucille stepped to the side as Corporal Cassidy Lancet took a quick step towards him and swung a bucket towards his face.
He barely had enough time to close his eyes, turning his head away only after the spray of water passed. He shook his head, opened his eyes, and with a glance at Lucille, remembered her advice.
He started laughing, and took the towel one of the soldiers offered. Lucille smiled in response, and the soldiers visibly relaxed around him. The engineers, further away, made a great show of having something important to do. Even Maxwell set the Salamander down next to the controls and grinned.
He fished the odd device out of his pocket, and glanced at the dials. "Roughly eight yards per second..." he said as he waited a moment, watching the altitude dial slowly turned counter-clockwise. "And holding. Good. Even with low lying cloud, we have plenty of time to slow our descent."
He looked to Lucille, who was making a dramatic show of putting her knives away. "Lieutenant, would you have the soldiers take lookout posts along the sides of the ship? Have them watch for when we break through the clouds," he asked. She turned, and repeated his order loudly.
The soldiers, who had overheard his request, grinned as they turned to their duties.
"Corporal Lancet?" he shouted as the soldiers began to disperse. The corporal turned back and stood at attention, glancing nervously to the lieutenant, who still stood nearby.
"Sorry, sir, I..." she started, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand.
"Thank you," he said, loudly enough to be easily overheard. For emphasis, he saluted, hand to chest, in the manner the Military had used since the first invasion. "I needed that."
She saluted smartly. "Happy to serve, sir."
He smiled. "Carry on."
He strode over to Maxwell at the wheel, and stepped next to him. "That display of mine made you nervous?"
"Very much so, sir," the old engineer admitted. He looked pale, and was forcing himself to breathe slowly. "No one's really prepared to see that. We all know what Crafters can do, we all walked the Three Mile pilgrimage. But that display was straight out of the horror stories of raging Crafters burning buildings and setting fire to stone walls."
Gerald nodded, solemnly. "Should I have briefed the crew? Before doing that?"
"You think?" Maxwell asked indignantly, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. "It's the problem with your isolated apprenticeship; you think commanding the flame is a normal part of life. So swirling around enough fire to vaporise steel is just a bit of showing off. For the rest of us, it's the stories our older siblings told to keep us up at night."
"You knew the plan, and it still bothered you," Gerald stated, inviting an explanation.
"My concern was that the Lieutenant might panic, and order your execution. After seeing what you can do, I wouldn't bet on the rest of us right now," Maxwell answered.
He mused for a moment, and added, "The bucket helped a lot, though. Seeing you laugh helped take the edge off. And making a show of thanking the Corporal was a good touch. Who's idea was the bucket?"
"I'm honestly not sure."
"If you had to guess?" Maxwell asked.
He thought for a moment. "The Corporal probably brought up the bucket on her own. A smart soldier's response to fire is to bring something to put it out. Hitting me in the face with it was likely Lucille."
"Smart girl, your lieutenant," Maxwell said.
"Agreed," Gerald replied. He made to turn away, then stopped. "Why did you grab a Salamander? Throwing fire at a raging Crafter is notoriously pointless."
"It wasn't to use on you," Maxwell admitted, grimly. "If they failed, I was going to cut the tethers."
The tethers, immense chains made of an alloy substantially more resilient than steel, were all that held the ship to the lift-bag. Gerald's eyes widened, and he felt a new sense of respect for the old Engineer, who was fully prepared to drop the ship out of the sky, rather than let a raging crafter endanger the City further.
"Well said," Gerald replied softly, and glanced at the instrument in his pocket again. "Keep her steady for now; we should see the ground long before we hit it."
At that moment, one of the soldiers near the bow of the ship shouted "Land!"
"Like that," Gerald muttered, and Maxwell smirked as Gerald stepped away, and crossed the deck.
Lucille joined him halfway across, falling into step just behind, and slightly to his side. He reflected on how Mathias would follow his master, and glanced back towards the City.
"What is it?" Lucille asked.
"Worrying about things. Thanks for the bucket, by the way."
"You're already bone dry," she remarked.
"I control heat with my will," he remarked, snakily.
"The heat-haze is also a sign of scourging. Of a Crafter's descent into madness. Some smart Crafters deliberately keep wet hair to allay our suspicions," Lucille remarked.
"I know. It's a coward's practice," Gerald replied contemptuously, with more venom in his words than he expected to have. "You are what you are, covering it up serves no one."
"Well, apart from the reckless arrogance that seems to be more you than a Crafter thing, you don't show any of the symptoms. Which is good, I am moderately fond of you," Lucille said.
"You kiss every boy you're moderately fond of?" he asked, cheekily.
"Only the brave ones," she said seriously, and he nearly tripped over the perfectly flat hull of the ship.
"I..." Gerald stammered. He shook his head as he stepped away, and to the railing. Lucille had a peculiar smile on her face, one Gerald didn't understand. He suspected that she preferred his ignorance.
He reached the bow a few steps after, and glanced down at the nearly dark world below.
The Spire cast a long shadow, throughout the world that the City had reclaimed. Even here, nearly a hundred miles from the Bore, faint shadows stretched from the walls deep into the farmland beyond, and while the land below was dark, it was not invisible.
And the satellites, the hundred-thousand exhaust ports that marked every hundred yards of pipes that carried the fires of the Bore to the furthest limits of the city, burned brightly to mark the walls and causeways that made up the city's immense network of fortifications.
"Where are we?" Lucille asked.
"Don't know. We'll descend to about six hundred feet, and see if we can't find a barracks. Someone there should be able to direct us to whoever we need to report to," he replied casually.
Gerald turned his head to look up at the lift bag, and slowly swept his hand in a circular motion. The bag ballooned out, flaring against the frame holding it in place, and everyone aboard flexed their knees as they adjusted to the decelerating ship.
"Woah," Gerald heard, faintly. He turned to see Corporal Lancet holding a spyglass, staring into the distance.
He strode next to her, and stared out into the night. "What is it?" he asked.
"A section of the wall just flashed, like something exploded out in the distance," she explained, pointing to the wall. "The exhaust ports are dark now, but they should be lit up. "
"I see. What could have caused that?" Gerald asked, loud enough to be overheard. He turned to a member of the flight crew, and beckoned to have the engineer join them.
"A pipe rupture, if I have to guess," The engineer replied.
Gerald nodded solemnly, "Thanks, Emery." He paused for a moment, and turned to regard the Corporal. "As the highest-ranking military officer aboard, do you feel this problem supersedes our original orders?"
She considered for a moment. "No, sir. It's serious, but it's less important than the invasion."
As she spoke, he stared at the string of lights, from exhaust ports that lined the walls and causeways of the City. The long line of fire extended to the wall, as did others in the distance, extending to the wall that bordered the horizon.
"Duly noted, thank you, Corporal," he turned, and shouted to Maxwell, "Follow the causeway to that dark section in the wall, Maxwell. Take us to cruising speed, but use every propeller."
"Sir?" Cassidy asked, and even Lucille stopped to wait for his answer. "We're not going to check-in with command?"
"You haven't noticed?" Gerald asked them both. He pointed to the wall for an explanation. "That's the last wall. There are no lights beyond that point. And look there," he said, pointing to a part of the lightless wall.
It was faint, hard to see without light, but the gap in the wall was unmistakable. "The wall is breached, exactly where you saw that explosion," Gerald said. He pointed to the fields for emphasis. "That was a pipe rupture along the last wall during an invasion."
He turned to the Corporal, and in a voice barely above a whisper, asked, "Does that change your initial assessment, Corporal?"
The Corporal shivered, and wrapped her coat a little tighter around her shoulders. "Abyss below, sir, it does."