There Will Be Phlogiston Read online

  “He just needs tae rest.” The doc was looking as though he was as eager to get away from the asylum as I was. “Now, to the account.”

  “I gots chink.” My voice came out all thin and weak as I tried to show where I’d stashed the swag. But my coat was in a tattered pile on the floor, and when the doc lifted it up to turn out the pockets, there was nowt there. Not even a clipped fucking copper. From across the room, Milord’s smile gleamed for a moment and vanished.

  “Allow me, gentleman.” Suddenly I realised there’d been a hand upon my brow all this time, soft and cool, and I only noticed when it was gone.

  The room was spinning all round again, and the pain was sorta making me feel fuddled and cropsick, and there was too many voices and too many folk and all of them seemed to be a bunch of crazies, so I didn’t figure nowt except a jingling of coins and this sudden swirl of colours so bright I thought I was going to shoot the cat or whatever all over the floor.

  I shut my glims right tantwivy, and darkness came washing sweetly over the pain.

  Ruben told me later I was in a fever for enough days they thought they’d have to get the priest back. I was dreaming of Gaslight mainwise, and the greasy dark of the Stews. Though one time I opened my eyes and saw the woman what I’d stagged before sitting on the edge of my bed with her sleeve rolled up to show a makeshift tourniquet, one end pulled tightly betwixt her teeth, while she was cheerfully shooting fuck-knew-what straight into the vein, easy as you please.

  When she realised I was wakesome, she just pulled her sleeve down and stared at me with her pupil-shrunk eyes, saying, “Shall we trade dreams, Master Piccadilly?”

  And I can remember her voice going on and on about some measureless city in the aether, wrapped in the loathsome rust of the ages where the greatest of the krakens lie dreaming.

  Mebbe I was supposed to die, mebbe I wasn’t, but time was I became conscious of sommat real, and that was being thirsty, and it got worse and worse and worse, til it seemed like ’twas either die or get better, and, as chance or bloody-mindedness would have it, I got better.

  Though when I opened my eyes proper, it kinda seemed like death mebbe would’ve been kinder. I felt weak and sore and kinda wrung out like an ol’ damp washing rag. And when I opened my lips to try and say sommat, all that happened was a sorta crappy croaking noise. Then a hand was holding a glass of water to my lips, and living suddenly seemed like a real sweet proposition cos nowt had ever tasted quite so fucking good.

  I could’ve drunk oceans if I’d been let, and then I’d probably have been sick as a dog, but the stuff kept flowing all careful and patient like I was sommat special to be fussed over. My vision was fuzzy like my glims wasn’t used to looking no more, but while I was drinking, I could see sorta little rainbows reflected on the glass from the tips of the fingers holding it. And when I was done with the water, I peered up into eyes black as the ship I’d been yorking at forever ago.

  And by black I don’t mean dark, I mean black, proper black; black like nowt so as even the pupils and the iris was lost. I ain’t proud of it, but I screamed the fucking place down cos that ain’t how eyes are supposed to be. ’Specially not when they’s attached to sommat sitting right close on the edge of your bed, and you’ve recentwise had some loony wench going on and on about monsters when you was trying to be asleep.

  “Oh . . . oh, please . . . don’t . . . there’s nothing . . . I’m not . . . I don’t . . .” Voice was nice though, smooth and edgeless, sweet as honey. “Let me get Ruben.”

  And there again was that swirl of bright colour, except this time, it sorta resolved itself into a right rum coat of patchwork velvet, wrapped round the oddest-looking creature I ever clapped eyes on.

  I ain’t exactly what ye might call high ’n’ mighty, so most folks look tall to me, but this cove was tall and made up of angles and not particularly graceful with it. Put me in mind of one of ’em birds, all legs and wings, mebbe designed for being in the air not on the ground. They had one of them nowhere faces like mine, like they didn’t belong to nobody except themself, though they was all pale like lily flowers, which I most certainly ain’t. Hair to match the eyes, blacker than black, and tumbling all over the place, right the way down to their waist in bits of plaits and curls, woven with feathers and gold and silver chains and beads strung through it.

  Footsteps sounded on the deck above and next thing I knew, the other fella—the one I remembered a bit too well—came bursting in.

  Ruben Crowe, as I learned later, got chucked out of the church for believing the wrong things about the way God was supposed to work. I ain’t no theologian or whatever, but he did try to spin me a yarn about it once.

  See, there was this book what claimed that instead of being made in the image of God, folks just sorta developed over time, and that made everybody get in a big tizzy over the meaning of the Bible. But here’s the thing about Ruben: he never had any doubts at all.

  “God,” he told me, “lies not in the words of priests or the pages of the Bible. Supreme moral authority—God, if you wish—lies within the conscience of every individual.”

  And that made me feel a bit bad cos I’m pretty damn sure there ain’t much God in me.

  Ruben must’ve seen it cos he nudged the end of my conk with a fingertip (for a serious-sounding cove he ain’t half-cute sometimes). “Even in yours, Piccadilly. Transgressing against legality is not the same as transgressing against morality.”

  Speaking of the almighty, God but them break-teeth words of his got me all hot and wrigglesome. I remember him leaning down for a kiss, rough and sweet, just like him, saying after, “God is good, Dil.” And hell to the yeah, quoth I, when my velvet wasn’t otherwise engaged in his smiling, wordful mouth.

  But, really, ’tis no wonder he ain’t no churchman.

  Even putting aside his taste for swiving (and his talent for it), I don’t reckon the bishops and what ’ave ye would like it much having him wandering round telling folk they was going to be all right and God loved them just the way they was. Cos if you ain’t scared of punishment, what’s to make you do right, not wrong?

  Ruben thought sommat sexy and likerous about the inherent virtue of the divine in the human spirit. Which mebbe explained what he was doing hanging out in the low and lawless places of the world.

  “What about ol’ Milord?” I’d asked.

  And for that, he didn’t have no answer.

  Right now, of course, I was lying there, not knowing none of it. Only that I’d just got the fright of my fucking life.

  “I may have inadvertently startled our guest.” That was the queer nibs, very softwise, looking every which where but back at me. Mebbe . . . he’d . . . she’d . . . oh, I dunno . . . there weren’t no proper word for anyone so betwixt . . . Mebbe they’d thought I’d see their glims and freak out again. Mebbe they’d be right. Cos I was still staring right at them and couldn’t stop. What with one thing and another and getting fucking shot, I wasn’t exactly on my best form.

  “I’m right bene.” ’Twas a lie.

  “Byron Kae,” they said, which also wasn’t no answer to nowt.

  “What’s one of them when it’s at home?”

  “Well, it’s my name for a start. Excuse me.” And they lowered themselves into a proper rum bow, all florid and flourishful, which was probably meant to be mocking. Except it wasn’t. ’Twas the sorta thing you do when you’re embarrassed and trying to hide it, but you ain’t no good at hiding, nor much good at mocking neither.

  That was when I first began to see their strangeness weren’t nowt at all. ’Twas other stuff what mattered about a person, and Byron Kae was pure as glass. I began to feel real bad for having made them feel they wasn’t right, but before I could say sommat, they’d gone, moving silent-like as ripples over the sea.

  “Our captain. You’ll learn to understand them.” ’Twas the Ruben cove, calling me back from wherever I’d gone. He was looking all kinds of awkward standing there, hands tucked into the pock
ets of one of them long brownish duster things. But even so, I was glad to see him again. Memory had not told me clankers, and ’twas even more fun ogling now I wasn’t woozy with pain. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  I struggled up onto an elbow, which hurt a fair bit, but ’twasn’t nowt I couldn’t handle. “Reckon I’ve bin better. Where am I?”

  “On Shadowless.”

  “The what?”

  He smiled. “The aethership.”

  Oh. Oh. Oh. The ship of ships with her wild and dreaming eyes. That must’ve been why I couldn’t hear no engines nor feel no juddering. What a wonder, to be aboard. But I played it cool. “Yeah, I saw her from the docks.” The pieces was coming together again. “Afore your fuckwit friend shot me.”

  “Yes, I’m so sorry about that. I mean, not that I can, or should, apologise on behalf of another man, but I’m sorry it happened.”

  He took off his hat, all gentlemanly-like, and stood there squeezing at the brim for a bit before lowering himself into a chair.

  While he was doing that, I glanced about, focusing for the first time on where I was. ’Twas a cabin shaped to the curve of the stern, all done out in honey-coloured wood with fittings of shiny brass and hangings of plum damask. I never imagined so much of the swell life could fit into such a dinky space. ’Twas sorta careful and beautiful at the same time, like somebody really loved their kip. And the whole back wall was a window, set with leaded glass in so many colours that the light came falling through like jewels.

  I was snuggled up in a bed tucked into an alcove, so as your average landlubber wouldn’t go rolling out when the ship was moving. There was a couple of chairs, with a sort of fancy look to them and a desk and table all covered in papers and instruments. ’Twas proper piratical and plush as you like.

  And cos Ruben was still sitting there looking sheepish over hanging out with a murderous psycho fuck, I piped up cheerfulwise: “It could’ve been worse, and this ain’t no bilge. Truth is, I ain’t e’er seen a ship to match her.”

  Ruben smiled and the expression looked good on him. “She’s an aethership.”

  “I thought they was jus’ a bag o’ moonshine.”

  He looked a bit quizzical, like he was laughing at himself a bit but also sorta sincere in secret. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy.”

  A happy shiver ran over my skin. Truth is, I’m nuts on a learned fella. Always have been, though it’s not like I’d previouswise had much opportunity to indulge the inclination. I got plenty of the everyday sorta knowing, but the ol’ book learning, well, that’s sommat else, ain’t it?

  I been getting through life taking whatever I needed and whatever I wanted, but words, they ain’t for filching. I know cos I’ve tried. Somebody has to give them to you, and nobody ever thought to do it for me. And the not having just made me want ’em even more.

  But I didn’t want to take on, so just lifted up my brows and went “Oooh la la la,” and Ruben burst out laughing, though ’twas so deep and warm, I knew like instinctively he weren’t laughing at me.

  “What’s that s’posed to mean then?” I asked when he was done. “You calling me some kinda bottlehead? ’Sides . . .”

  I just can’t help myself. I just can’t.

  ’Twas the book learning what topped it. I might’ve stood a chance otherwise. Or mebbe not. I reckon mebbe there’s some part of Piccadilly designed specifically for the purpose of wanting Ruben Crowe, and there ain’t nowt I can do about it.

  I flashed a little smile at him. I got a fine pair of dimples, and I know how to use them. “’Sides . . . ain’t it a bit forward to go round speculating ’bout a cove’s philosophy before you’ve e’en bin prop’ly introduced?”

  Ruben went a little pinkish—which was so fucking adorable I just wanted to jump all over him and snog him senseless, banged-up fin be damned. “It would certainly be forward to go calling you a bottlehead.” Being amused made his voice roll over me like velvet and kisses. “I think it’s a generalised you, not a specific one.”

  Wow, people saying shit I didn’t understand had never been more likerous. I guess it augured well for my recovery cos I felt some interested stirrings in a variety of interesting regions. “You mean you’re calling everyone a bottlehead?”

  He was laughing again, and I was in some kinda heaven. Mebbe I should get shot more often, eh?

  He leaned forward, all deep eyed and intent. “I just meant there is more to the world than rationality teaches us.”

  “You don’t mean the Big Fella? You some sorta black coat?”

  “I used to be.”

  I gave him one of my best and wickedest looks. “Did they toss you out for tempting folks to sinful thinking?”

  I thought ’twas a good line, but he was turning serious all over again, the darkness and the light dancing together like lovers in his eyes. “No,” he said carefulwise, “it was a matter of . . . morality I suppose.”

  I weren’t that interested in mortality. “So . . . speakin o’ sin . . .” I snaked the hand that wasn’t bust out of the covers and let my fingers play against his knee.

  “I don’t believe in sin.”

  “That’s what ye might call a splendid convenience.”

  “I believe in right and wrong.” He put his hand over mine to stop its little journey. ’Twas more than disappointing, but I could feel the deep lines furrowing his palms pressed against my skin like mebbe he was leaving a message behind: the patterns and promises of Ruben Crowe, his life and times. “And taking advantage of strangers is most certainly wrong.”

  I pouted. “What if they want to be took advantage of?”

  “Then they probably need reminding that they’ve been very sick and would most likely faint in the middle, which would be—” his lips twitched “—nonideal.”

  Course, he was right, though I didn’t fancy thanking him for it. Truth was, even moving my good paw had made me come over dizzy, and I was grateful when he picked it up and tucked it back under in the warmth. My eyes was getting all heavy again, though I’d probably only been awake like twenty minutes. ’Twas rubbish.

  “You need to rest, Piccadilly.”

  I heaved a massive yawn. “’S Dil,” I mumbled.

  I never did figure how he knew it to begin with. Mebbe Milord had told him—I’d overheard ’em fighting about me few times. Ruben being all, “You don’t just shoot people for no reason,” and Milord saying, “I had a reason,” and Ruben coming back with, “Being out of range of your knife is not a reason,” and Milord, a while later, “Do you wish me to apologise?” And then Ruben losing it and shouting, “I want you to care.” And then forever of silence before Milord was saying, soft and strange: “I am not a man fashioned for caring.” And, finalwise, footsteps leaving.

  ’Twas a business worth pondering when I didn’t have sommat better to do.

  Even though I was sleepy, I managed to twinkle up at Ruben. “And ye haven’t said no yet, Preacher.”

  I felt the lightest of touches against my hair. “So I haven’t.”

  I was starting to reckon I hadn’t done so bad out of being shot. I wouldn’t’ve recommended it as a lifestyle choice, but I’d bed and board, a roof over my noddle, and—putting aside a crazy wench, a psycho what wanted to kill me, and the queerest of queer nibs—the promise of the sorta company I’d’ve been mighty glad to, y’know, keep.

  Except it don’t pay to get too comfortable.

  I knew that. ’Tis one of ’em lessons sommat about being human makes you learn a bunch of times. But I thought I’d already learned it good.

  So it shouldn’t have been any shock at all for sommat to wake me in the middle of the night, and for the sommat to be Milord, sitting there all speckled in starlight from the window, twirling one of his chivs betwixt his fingers.

  Except here’s the thing.

  It’s always a fucking shock when some bugger wants to knife you.

  A couple of physical reactions to th
is made their bid for freedom—scream from one end, sommat considerably less dignified from the other—but I managed to stop ’em. Cos while yelling might’ve brung some help, I’d probably be too sticked-in-the-face to properly appreciate it. And what with being kitten weak and woozy, and fucked in the arm region, I wasn’t in no good position to be putting up a fight.

  Which just left trying to reason with him.

  Ha-bloody-ha.

  I lay still, and quiet as quiet could be, trying to breathe to the same rhythm as when I’d been blissfully clueless in the land of Nod. Mebbe he was just . . . I dunno . . . passing the time of day . . . night . . . and he’d pack up his scary fucking cutter and wander off again.

  ’Twas awful, locked in the dark, shamming sleep. Waiting every second for the cold benediction of steel.

  I seen a fella get his throat slit once. Took him a second or two to notice. Took him a minute or two to die. But then the cove what done it weren’t no expert like Milord.

  Chant was, he had this double cut, could crash someone in five seconds flat. If he was feeling merciful. ’Twas also said he could keep you alive for days if he fancied it. For weeks. Months. Knowing nowt but pain.

  He was moving, quiet as only cats and rogues know how.

  I cricked open a glim, just the tiniest fraction. He was nowt but a piece of dark, framed in silver. I heard the softest click as he put the chiv on the table.

  Which mebbe should’ve been reassuring, but then he bent down and picked up a pillow what I’d probably tossed to the floor at some point during the night.

  There was this sweet little moment when all I could think was, Ye’ve got to be fucking bamming me, but it passed away too quickwise, and then I was scared again, all prickles and nerves and sweat under his indifferent glims.

  Dunno how long he stood there, watching, blatantly thinking about killing me. But it felt like for-fucking-ever.

  Then he huffed out this sigh and tucked the pillow under my head, muttering, “Oh, go to sleep, Piccadilly.”