The sun was a wonder. It let her mind free, her thoughts walking the lonely paths where she was sure the Manifest should have been. There were things she knew without having gone through the learning, like what the Three’s Wardens were for and why you should absolutely not get in between one of them and their prize. Pakhet knew about dragons, and fairies, and magics linked to systems that healed the sick. As a guardian for the last bastion for healing the sick, Pakhet felt she was a hospitaller of sorts.

  Right there in the absence of a full Manifest were instructions on how to behave or what she should do. It was why she’d run at Evanne moments after she’d been quickened, but also why she’d run away. The parts that were supposed to tell her how to be brave were all gone, and she’d never learned it the way everyone else did.

  Which was, you know, fine. Pakhet was a cat larger than any horse she’d seen, and generally people didn’t fuck her about. Except Evanne, who’d hit her in the face despite having no fangs and a tiny size. Then fed her and made sure she didn’t have to be brave. That she could just be one who scratches.

  Pakhet stretched, yawned, and stayed invisible, but remembered Evanne.

  And remembered her some more, because come to think of it, she hadn’t seen the minuscule creature the entire day. The bard was always on deck, chipping in, playing songs, or telling people all the good things inside them they somehow couldn’t see. But not today. Pakhet rose, stretched again, and scritched her claws against the metal decking. It made a pleasant sound, the kind of thing that said, If I wanted to, I could peel this metal apart.

  There was a series of scattergun shots from below deck. Pakhet cocked her head, no longer sleepy, because they didn’t sound like the steady fire rate you’d get from a practice range. These were urgent, as if someone put two in someone’s chest there, then one in their head there, before moving to the next person who needed it.

  She eyed the sky. It was mostly clear. She eyed the deck. It was also mostly clear, which was unusual at this time of day.

  Something is up.

  The tiger found a door, then padded down the metal steps to the dark below. Her eyes were very good in the dark, which meant she stopped in a doorway before the twelve men and women hurrying toward the gunfire could run into her. They didn’t look familiar, but there were so many humans on this ship and so little time for laying in the sun, Pakhet hadn’t spent the time to get to know them.

  No time like the present.

  She followed them. They went down, and down some more, until they were nearing the bottom of Dancing in the Storm. Pakhet could smell blood, and that sharp peppery smell of someone using a scattergun. There were people talking further ahead. She caught the tail end of a conversation, where a woman said Fuck and a man shouted Finish the mission!

  Then the corridor exploded. A man tumbled back into Pakhet, which caused her to snort in surprise and become visible for a moment. He saw her, screamed, flailed about, scrambled to his feet, and ran back the other way, eyes on Pakhet the whole time. He then fell to his death, because there was no floor, or walls, or much of anything up that way. The explosion had torn out a chunk of the Storm’s belly. There was burnt blood and hair on the wind, and the parts of many dead people.

  A few moaned. Pakhet didn’t feel there was much extra value she could add here, so she curled back on herself and padded back to the sunlight above.

  It probably won’t be long before someone comes up here and tells me what’s going on. Pakhet watched the skyline, because she was pretty sure when random things happened in the world, a dragon was usually involved. There was but one dragon she knew of, and he’d flown off in a huff because he wasn’t as magnificent as Pakhet.

  We can get over that together, once he acknowledges my sleekness.

  She was deliberately visible, because it was unlikely anyone would find her if she wasn’t. Sure enough, a man who she was sure she’d seen beating metal with another piece of metal in a pointless and noisy fashion found her. She supposed he was of a larger size for a human, but it was difficult to tell. He sidled up, wringing his apron, and she stifled the urge to yawn.

  “Hello, great cat.”

  “This is starting well.” The tiger thought about smiling, but that would also have made the man scream. “Out for a stroll, or is something on your mind?”

  “There has been a, uh.” He looked over his shoulder, but there was no one there. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  Ah, shitballs. “There was an explosion. A part of the ship fell out. People died. It is clouding over and might rain.” She felt the tip of her tail twitch, and let it. It was good to let agitation be seen by all interested parties. “I hoped you were one of the people who might know what’s going on. Where is Evanne?”

  “Missing.” Pakhet gave the man a narrow stare, so he stammered on. “I, uh. There are people on the ship who weren’t here before. They are saying the queen betrayed us and killed Evanne, and now it is up to us to look after ourselves. They say it is safe to the north.”

  “It is safe here. This is a battleship the likes of which this world has not seen for eight hundred years. Anything short of a full battalion assault will fail in fire and misery. It is also warm here.”

  “Uh.” The man strangled his apron some more. “They look like they’re in charge now.”

  “Where is the oracle?”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  “Then they’re not in charge. He’s the only one who can tell the ship what to do.” Pakhet yawned then. She couldn’t help it; it had been so long between them, and she was getting bored. The man’s skin colour shifted, which was a neat trick even she couldn’t do, but she didn’t know if it was good or bad. “If you want to do something useful, find the oracle and bring him to me.”

  “Won’t he know where you are?”

  “Two things.” She sniffed the air. Definitely rain. “First, he is not a very good oracle. Second, he doesn’t like doing what he should. If he did, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.”

  “Will he know what to do?”

  “He will have an opinion.” Pakhet snorted. “When you come back, feel free to bring snacks.”

  “What’s all the fuss about?”

  Pakhet turned from the view of the landscape below to find the oracle standing before the aproned human. “There are dissidents aboard your ship.”

  “I know.” He sounded irritable. “They’re like lice.”

  “Perhaps you should get a delousing programme going.” The tiger huffed. “Where is the dragon?”

  “Myryntir’s on his way.” The oracle joined her at the railing. “We also have two Artifices incoming.”

  “A minor inconvenience, surely.”

  “The ship isn’t battle ready.”

  Pakhet gave him a little side-eye. “This is a warship, is it not?”

  The oracle wobbled his hand in a 50-50 gesture. “More like a one-stop shop for all your needs. It’s a city. It flies. It also has, uh, had weapons. They don’t work yet.”

  “How long until they work?”

  “You know any fairies?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Long time, then.” The oracle shivered. “Some systems are self-healing, but we have problems tip to stern.”

  I shouldn’t get involved. I should mind my business. I should leave, next chance I get. Still, the man with the apron seemed nice, and Evanne liked him. Pakhet caught sight of Myryntir on the western horizon. She gazed east, and sure as rain, there were two blazing specks drawing closer. Her Manifest was incomplete, but she was sure they meant nothing good. The tiger looked to the aproned man. “You should get belowdecks.”

  “I can help.”

  “You can also die. I promise it would be a vexing experience.”

  He had an expression that she labelled as stubborn but headed toward a hatch anyway. The oracle looked toward the dragon. “You care for them?”

  “They bring me food.”

  Myryntir made better time than the Artifices. He landed in a great gust of air right beside the tiger, all crackling energy and wide wings, and peered down at Pakhet. //WHAT COMES?//

  “It’s a long story. The short version is we have dissidents aboard. Evanne is missing. The oracle is worthless.”

  “Hey!”

  “The ship’s weapons are down. Artifices come with reinforcements. And it’s up to you to save the day.” She gave an encouraging nod.

  //WHAT’S AN ARTIFICE?//

  “We’re screwed,” the oracle said.

  An Artifice screamed closer. Pakhet shivered into invisibility and loped sideways. The oracle ran for the hatchway. Myryntir looked surprised, then roared as twin fangs of fire raked his flanks. He blasted a hot crackle of energy after the banking Artifice but hit nothing but air. He bunched, roaring like Khiton might after stubbing a toe, and launched in pursuit, all dragony wrath. The deck shifted a micron as he took off, because dragons brought a lot of force to any problem.

  The second Artifice landed on deck, but didn’t shift the deck, because it was just a machine. It was larger than the Artifice that picked a fight with the dragon. It had a black glass dome at the front. A yawning side door disgorged troops. Pakhet waited until the last man was out, entered behind him, and padded her way to the flight deck. There was a human and a Vhemin there. She turned visible, and said, “Boo.”

  The human screamed, jerking in panic, and tried to free himself from his harness. The Vhemin was smoother for sure, clearing her seat and drawing a wicked-looking short blade. Pakhet backed toward the cargo door, and shimmered invisible. The human failed to free himself from his harness, shifted tactics, raised an actinic lance from his side, pointed it nowhere near Pakhet, and pulled the trigger.

  He succeeded in cutting his Vhemin comrade in half in a sizzling crackle of hot death. He also cut into the control console. Pakhet picked up the pace, exiting the Artifice as it gouted flame from the rear. She turned her easy lope into a panicked run as the machine spun on the deck. It ripped up metal and people, and sprayed body parts both cooked and raw to the four winds.

  The reinforcements, now roughly twenty percent of their previous number, generally panicked and screamed. A few tougher-looking individuals tried to restore order, one enterprising woman laying about her with a kosh in a valiant show of leadership before the Artifice’s final death spin turned the drives on her and reduced her to free particles.

  It then disappeared over the side, removing a problem from Pakhet’s life.

  The remaining Artifice slashed the sky overhead. Myryntir landed on the deck about fifty metres away. Pakhet turned visible. “What are you doing?”

  //I’M NOT SURE. IT IS DIFFICULT TO CATCH ON THE WING.//

  “You’re a dragon!”

  //I’M NEW AT THE JOB.//

  A man rushed the dragon with a spear, which Pakhet knew to be a futile gesture, but there didn’t seem to be an opportunity to interrupt. He ran the tip into the dragon’s leg. The spear skidded off dragon hide, but Myryntir noticed him, raised the leg, and crushed him. Pakhet said, “That’s the spirit. I can see you’re really getting into it now.”

  //ARE YOU GOING TO HELP?//

  “I am helping. I have destroyed one Artifice and am providing you moral support.”

  //I NEED SOMETHING MORE TANGIBLE.//

  Pakhet lifted a clawed paw and slashed the air. “You do it like this.”

  The Artifice returned for another strafing run at Myryntir. The dragon raised his clawed hand like Pakhet had done, swatting the Artifice from the sky. To Pakhet it seemed an accidental win, but she’d take it. The Artifice crashed into the deck with force enough to knock men and women from their feet. The machine slid through a patch of remaining interlopers, knocking a soldier at Pakhet. Conveniently, the man tumbled into Pakhet’s still raised paw, impaling himself on her claws.

  She shook her paw, trying to dislodge the man, and spattered a woman running at her with gore. The woman stumbled. She wiped blood from her eyes, just as the man fell from Pakhet’s claws. His blade bounced, and the sword caught the rays of that lovely sun. It bounced pommel first, and for just a split second of time the blade’s tip pointed at the heavens. This provided the woman a tripping hazard, which she took, and impaled herself on the blade.

  //YOU’RE SHOWING OFF.// Myryntir took a breath, and spat crackling blue-white energy in a cone. Men and women turned to charcoal in an instant.

  Silence. Pakhet licked her paw. “Now who’s showing off?”

  //WHERE IS THE WOMAN THAT LOOKS LIKE A HUMAN AND VHEMIN MET IN A BAR?//

  “Evanne is missing.”

  “She’s not missing, she’s just not here.” The oracle joined Pakhet, pointing southward. “She’s about three klicks that way.”

  //WILL SHE STOP THE ARTIFICES?//

  “Her mission has a wide remit.”

  //THEN YOU GET TO HER. I WILL GET HELP.// The dragon bunched, then leaped into the sky.

  Pakhet looked to the oracle. “I’ll need snacks for the trip.”

  Which is how Pakhet came to be eating a human’s leg aboard a charred deck. “So, does anyone have anything to eat?” She looked at the chewed leg. “Something better cooked, I mean.”

  “We’re wasting time,” the oracle said. He pointed to the aproned man. “You’re in charge. Don’t fuck it up.”

  “You’re coming with me?”

  “Unless you know another way to find Evanne.”

  “Perfect. You can carry the snacks.”

  “No problem.” The oracle beamed. “You can carry the armour.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Evanne woke with a groan, mouth full of mud. She was face-down in the stuff. It’s better than not waking at all. Get up, Half-Made. She got her hands beneath her, slipped, ate more mud, swore, and finally rolled over with a wet splat. Great. Now I have mud in my mouth and all over my clothes. The sky above threatened rain behind tarnished grey clouds. Evanne was cold but had only minor aches and pains. It’s better than I deserved. What the hell happened?

  They’d fallen from the sky. She remembered the explosion well; shoulder-barging the door had saved them, but she’d taken the brunt of the blast against her side. It knocked her silly and that was the last thing she remembered before here, wherever here was.

  She lay at the edge of a lake, if you were generous. The water was surrounded by a protective huddle of tall trees and was perhaps half a klick across. Lily pads were scattered near her feet, and a frog eyed her from atop one, croaking a lament to all stupid people who fell from the sky.

  In the middle of the lake were the remains of the … room? … they’d come down in. It looked twisted all to fuck, and that got her on her feet fast. “Tarragon? Aunt Morgan?” She looked about. “Uncle Heser? Meri?”

  Nothing. She felt her heart skip when she saw a tangle of wheat-pale hair near the water’s edge about fifty metres away. Evanne ran, slipping in mud, scrambling for purchase. She found Tarragon half in the water, hand in a death grip around Requiem’s scabbard. Evanne rolled her over, smoothing hair from Tarragon’s face. “Love?”

  The once-fairy was out, but her chest rose and fell. Alive, Three be merciful. Evanne hauled her from the water, impressed the woman kept her grip on the sword. She really likes that blade, but it won’t keep her warm. We need clothes. A fire. Evanne looked at the wreck in the middle of the lake, said, “Fuck it,” and strode out among the lily pads. The water was cold but not dank, and she dived in, smashing her way to the wreck with powerful strokes.

  The room was inserted into the water like a straw. Evanne helped herself inside, cutting her hand on bent metal. She hissed, swore again, and got inside. It was full of muck and water. And by the Three’s grace, no bodies. Evanne slipped inside and dived. She found her guitar and scattergun, but everything else was trash and ruin, so she emerged, and swam back to Tarragon.

  The frog continued to watch her, but silently now. That’s weird.

  She wiped water from her face, looking about. Tarragon still lay propped against a tree, but quiet had settled over the lake. A man emerged from behind the tree Tarragon lay against. He reeked of Vide, black leather and all. He had a short, curved blade, and pressed it against the once-fairy’s throat. “Give us the scattergun.”

  “No worries.” Evanne strode toward him, and tossed the weapon to him, but wide.

  The assassin, slightly surprised, snatched the weapon from the air about the time Evanne made it to him. He’d overreached, knife away from Tarragon’s throat, and kept his look of surprise right until Evanne’s fist caught him in the side of the head.

  He sliced her, cutting into her jacket, carving skin, and making her angrier. Evanne kicked him in the groin, punched him in the throat, twisted the arm with the knife, broke it, took the knife, and stabbed him in the neck. She panted, teeth bared, glaring. “Anyone else?”

  No takers, apparently. She dragged the body into the trees, where she stumbled over the Vide’s pack. It was slim but contained some essential supplies. Jerky. A kit with flint and tinder. And—score!—a hip flask. There was also a garrotte and backup knife, which Evanne tossed aside. She foraged, coming back to Tarragon with dry wood, some berries, and a smile. The once-fairy was still out, her lips blueing. Evanne put her jacket over Tarragon. The ancients’ material felt like leather but had already dried. It was warmer than Tarragon’s clothes, gladiator armour or no.

  It was short work to build a fire. Evanne set her guitar near the flames to dry the strings and waited.

  She woke at a snap from the fire. Evanne had slumped sideways as she passed out. The fire was larger than she remembered. She scrambled up, fists bunched.

  “Ah, you’re awake.” Meri emerged from the tree line. “Did you leave a spare corpse back there?”

  Evanne lowered her fists. “He threatened Tarragon.”

  “A fool, then.” Meri sat by the fire. “I found some fruit trees. There are pears and apples. And whatever this is.” He held a small fruit with an orange rind.