Her son had publicly disowned her and turned his skills to helping his rightful Emperor regain control of outlying provinces. As Kaleva stepped up to him, he executed a passable bow. “The machine is ready to do your bidding, Your Imperial Majesty.”
Kaleva tucked his hands behind his back, and stared down through the breaks in the clouds to the city of Sousah. It was set on a hillside above a river, with the ports clustered on a blue bend. Thousands of brightly polished tiles on all the roofs gleamed up at them, and the Emperor got a visceral thrill thinking of all the citizens below going about their daily lives, not even guessing everything was about to change.
The Imperial Guards finally brought Ezefia up on deck, and at the Emperor’s direction placed her down next to him. Under the sunlight, her bronze skin looked remarkably pale. The tracks of dried tears on her face were all that there were to tell that she’d been crying.
Her eyes darted over the edge of the airship to the city below. “My love, you cannot do this . . . an innocent city—”
“Innocent?” Kaleva leaned down and stared into her lying, deceitful face. “I think not. Your lover was from there! Don’t think I didn’t hear that accent in his voice—and then Sousah’s Prince declares for the Rossin bitch!”
Ezefia closed her eyes for a moment, but when she spoke her voice was as calm as his sister’s had sometimes been. “Kaleva, I know how del Rue works on your mind. I know how he can make anything seem reasonable, and I surely know best of all how much it hurts when he withdraws his influence. Please don’t let all of that warp you into killing innocent people. Del Rue could have come from anywhere. He is far older than you—”
For an instant—just the briefest of ones—he saw her coming off the airship for the first time only months ago, and how beautiful she had been. Even though it was an arranged marriage, they had treated each other as best they could.
Then his hand arched back, and he slapped her hard across the face. The sound of the blow echoed across the deck and it left a scarlet mark on Ezefia’s cheek. The Emperor had to squeeze his jaw tight to regain control of himself because for an instant he imagined picking up her chair and throwing it over the side.
Instead, he turned to Vashill and managed to choke out, “Is it ready?”
“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” the tinker said, not showing an ounce of reaction to his ruler’s display of temper. If he had not been such an excellent maker, then he might have prospered in diplomacy.
“Then let us begin,” Kaleva replied, folding his hands once more behind his back and drinking in the last normal moments of the city beneath.
The tinker jerked his head at the Imperial Guard assigned to the machine. Two on the far side worked levers, while on the side closest the Emperor, another two began to spin a crank. The machine ground gradually to life.
It really was a miracle of the art of tinkering. Kaleva almost forgot his rage watching the pistons and cogs work their magic within. It was no wonder that Vashill had not given it a case of some kind—it was quite a spectacle—but nothing like what was to come.
Rain began to fall on Sousah. The clouds around the airship were light, and stretched; they contained not a drop of water. Instead, rain was coming from the machine that Vashill had created. It poured through the pipes, the rain sieve, then it fell from the Winter Kite on the city below.
The inventor’s brow was furrowed, his dark bushy eyebrows knitted together. He held out his hand and gestured to the captain, who relayed the order “Ahead, slow” through the communication funnel. The airship engines whined only faintly, and the vessel began to move. All the time the rainmaker chugged on, sending droplets down on the folk below.
The Emperor leaned over the gunwales of the ship and watched like an entranced child. The water droplets looked so innocent, and he imagined all those citizens below glancing irritably up at the sky at this unexpected scattering shower.
Except it wasn’t rain. The machine had no reservoir of water; this liquid it made all by itself. Vashill stepped away from his creation for a moment to take his place—albeit a little hesitantly—at his ruler’s side. With a wave of his hand, he placed it directly underneath the nearest spout, and then pulled it back.
It still amazed the Emperor; the small puddle of liquid that Vashill held in the palm of his hand was different grades of gray; spilling to inky black in the deepest parts.
“It is as I demonstrated previously,” Vashill said, unable to keep the smile from his face. “The weirstone liquid is completely harmless at this stage, it is only when it comes into contact with geist-infested areas that its power is released.”
The inventor held his hand over the edge and tipped the contents free, as if he were loath to waste even the smallest drop.
“Kaleva!” Ezefia moaned, twisting her arms against her bonds. “You cannot do this! Releasing geists on your own people when you spent years working with the Deacons to stop this sort of thing!”
The Emperor stared at her, and for the shortest spell her words made sense—like sunlight penetrating fog. He remembered his first footstep on this continent; how happy he had been to begin his great work with his sister, Zofiya, at his side and the Arch Abbot at his back. It had been a glorious time. The Emperor’s mouth lifted slightly.
Then however, the mist enveloped him again. It was worse because he had remembered; their treachery was more diabolical when compared to that recollection.
The Emperor held out his hand. “Spyglass,” he snapped. One of the Imperial Guards slapped a long brass form into his palm.
He raised it to his eye and trained it on the city beneath. The rain was falling steadily as the airship tracked across the sky, while the relentless hammering of the machine went on and on—almost as constant as Ezefia’s struggles.
Through the polished glass, Kaleva watched the folk scamper about. They were moving faster under the unexpected rain. Few looked up, but if they saw the airship it didn’t matter. The only one with the airship technology was the Imperial Fleet, so there was no danger of retribution; there was only death for those below.
As the Emperor watched he could feel his impatience rising within him like he’d eaten something bitter. He shifted restlessly, jerking the spyglass from side to side. The only results seemed to be inconvenience for the population.
“Vashill,” he growled out of the corner of his mouth, “I didn’t engage your services so you could make my enemies wet.” He jerked the spyglass from his eye and rounded on the tinker. “You promised vengeance from the sky and all we have done is perhaps wreck any picnic plans they might have.”
Ezefia, still tied to the chair, was not doing a very good job of concealing her delight. The Imperial Guards around were all very studiously avoiding looking in his direction; their eyes were fixed on distant points.
Vashill should have blanched, stammered and definitely feared for his life; instead he straightened and looked the Emperor full in the face with his clear gray eyes. “Imperial Majesty, if you would just raise your spyglass one more time, I believe you will begin to see the liquid’s effect.”
Kaleva paused, contemplating if he should just have the man’s head removed, but curiosity got the better of him. He pressed the glass to his eye and scanned Sousah again.
The machine had finally ground to a halt, and all was silent about the Winter Kite, but down below something was happening. The citizens were no longer looking up.
With mounting excitement, Kaleva saw a flickering in the streets; a shimmer of color blinking off in one spot and then appearing in another. It started off slowly, but then the gleams of blue color and light began to flash on and off throughout the city. The Emperor found he was holding his breath.