Bone Jack

“I do admire your optimism,” Itzal said “I want you to know that.”

“Shut up,” Ben said through a hard-pressed frown.

“Real trophy optimism. You’re a sunspot worthy of admiration.”

Ben growled.

A ballista bolt thrummed through the air over his head. He ducked far too late to save himself if it hadn’t been too high to hit him. It wasn’t, however, too high to shiver into the deck. With a shattering noise deep as thunder, the ballista bolt broke splinters into the air. This one missed any sailors. The first several had not. Itzal had never known how he’d react to the sight of puddles of blood still warm and men crying with pain. He now knew that he did not like it.

“Those are not warning shots, sir,” Tyro said. He had no smile now.

“No, they are not,” Captain Younes agreed.

“Return fire, sir?” Tyro said, making it clear by his tone that he had mixed feelings about the suggestion.

“I would like to avoid starting a war with Galzuu Khan, if I can help it.”

“That’s the Aimshigtai,” Tyro nodded to the closest of the three dreadnaughts. “I know her skipper, if he’s the same man. Ulaan Od. Cap’n Od were a decent fellow, when I met him. Apt to reason and such gentlemanly activities.” The dreadnaughts fired at almost lazy intervals on the Riot. The dreadnaughts’ decks rose up at least twice the height of the Riot, and they knew they had the advantage. They probably wouldn’t even care if Captain Younes turned tail and retreated.

“We’re in over our heads,” Captain Younes said, and he started shouting orders to turn the Riot about and leave.

“Skipper, a word,” Ben said, moving into close conference with the now angry-eyed skipper. They spoke for a few seconds too quietly for Itzal to here. Whatever Ben said in those first seconds turned his calm face into a face made of angry chevrons. It also made him shout, “Belay that—maintain course,” before turning back to say something hushed to Ben.

Itzal wondered what it was that Ben had said to change Captain Younes’ mind. Itzal inserted himself into the conversation, hoping for a hint. Alas, they’d moved on to other subjects.

“It does not matter if we could reason with Captain Od if we are here and he is steadily blowing my ship to bits,” Captain Younes said.

“If we could…send a message somehow,” Ben said. He cast about the deck with his eyes, as if he thought he could find some sort of instant messaging system that would send a few words to the other ship. “Perhaps if I write a message on a bit of canvas and lash it to a ballista bolt…”

Captain Younes snorted. “And you went to school?’

“No. Yes. Of course not,” Ben said. “There needs to be some way I could talk to him.”

“Beg pardon, I’ve got a suggestion,” Itzal said. “I mean, not of a way you could talk to him, but I know a way you could get a message across the prairie. Or…well, a way to get me over there.”

“You can’t run through the razor grass,” Ben said. “Nobody would survive that. It’s—” he started.

“I don’t mean that. I’ll go through the air.”

“Eh?” Ben said.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It’s a question of physics. I’ve been doing the calculations. I’d need a length of rope. A good, long one. It’d have to be long enough to reach from that upper spar of the aft mast to the upper spar of the mast in the middle—what’s that one?”

“The mizzen,” Captain Younes said. He had a flicking-about look in his eyes like he was making calculations as well. “You could not get up enough speed, even if the Riot were facing away from the Aimshigtai.”

“I’d need to slingshot off the lower spar there,” Itzal said. He pointed at the lower spar of the aft mast. “Down, and around,” he drew the course he intended to fall, straight down from the top spar of the mizzenmast, down in an ark toward the deck. When the rope, tied to the top of the aft mast, met the lower spar, all of the momentum he’d built up on the fall from the mizzenmast would transfer to a smaller orbit. He’d pick up speed, and the angle would change, and he’d be able to let go at a point in the arc when he could slingshot toward the Aimshigtai.

If everything went right. Things might not go right, though.

“You’re proposing getting yourself over there,” Ben said. Itzal nodded.

“Forgive me if this sounds untrusting,” Captain Younes said, “but can we trust Mr. Dantzari to negotiate terms for us?”

“Maledict Lilywhite did,” Ben said.

Captain Younes made a sound that might have been described as a grunt, only it was far more refined and specific than one. The suggestion now had Captain Younes smiling. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was the sort of smile that a gambler, who is actually a cheater, has when they enter a new game. “Mr. Dantzari, I have no idea if that would work,” Captain Younes started taking off his coat. “But the math checks out. I would like to see it tried, simply for the show of it. Braun!”

He called for a length of rope, and he called for a few other things. He called for the topsails to be brought in, for one thing, to give Itzal as much space as he could. Then Captain Younes started climbing the rigging up to the aft mast with his end of the coil of rope.

For a few seconds, Ben spoke to Itzal about what to say to Captain Od. Itzal made note of it.

“And…” Ben said, as if trying to find something he wanted to say. He seemed unable to think of it. He gripped Itzal’s shoulder for a moment. He left it at that.

Itzal started up the mizzen.

Just getting the rope into position took the entire crew. There were ropes and beams blocking the way every few feet. But the crew was clever about this sort of thing, and the rope traveled up to Itzal and Captain Younes almost as fast as they got into position.

Itzal watched lithesome Captain Younes straddling the top beam of the aft mast, looking clean in a white silk shirt. He tied a good knot, then waved to Itzal.

Itzal stood atop the beam of the mizzenmast. He had to correct constantly to keep his balance. The muscles in his legs twitched every which way. The wind whipped around him. His trinkets clinked around his ears.

It all felt far more real than when he’d been running the numbers. The deck looked far away—the rushing grass all the further. It all felt so loud and sounded so rumbling.

Itzal did not feel at all sure about what he was about to do.

He swallowed.

Down on the aft mast, Captain Younes sat with one knee up, like someone watching a show. He had a smirk on. It wasn’t exactly mean. Just cunning.

Like Captain Younes had said: the math checked out.

Itzal breathed deep and slow. The cold wind had dust in it. He thought about that.

Making it more of a hop than a dive, Itzal went off the end of the mizzenmast’s beam. For a moment he fell straight down. When he started curving with the swing of the rope, he straightened his body against the rope. His toes pointed up, and he held his hands high above his head. It helped pull the rope taught.

The fall had a gentleness, like standing somewhere on a windy day. He fell backwards, and watched the crisscrossing of familiar ropes as if he merely lay on his back on the deck.

His speed increased. While it did, all gentleness went away. He shook and rattled. The rope pulled as if a group of men wanted to take it from him. He tightened his grip.

The deck of the ship came into sight over him. First it edged in from the top, then dominated half his field of vision. Then it was all he saw.

Then the real speed started. The group of men feeling in the rope was joined by all their horses. The wind grew to a gale around his ears. The sky swooped back into sight.

Timing it instinctively, he let go of the rope with his feet. He swung his body the extra length and weight to increase the speed of the swing.

The rope zipped back away from the deck and started on upward. The rope passed its highest point, now much lower than where Itzal had started. It started its swing back around again, now traveling at enormous speed.

At an angle just past the highest, Itzal let go the rope.

Which felt at first like tripping at the top of a hill. Fortunately he knew how to correct when he tripped.

Rotating in the air, Itzal got his feet under himself. He would have time to feel surprised later. Or he wouldn’t, and that would be a whole different puzzle. At present, he needed to orient himself and decide how he would land without hurting himself. Now he’d gotten into the air, he wasn’t entirely sure he could remember how to cloud walk the right way.

He’d risen higher than twice the height even of a dreadnaught’s masts. The wind blew around him harder than ever. It somehow felt less agitating. Something to do with having no stable ground under foot to compare it to, probably. He had nothing, in fact, to do for a few seconds but to enjoy the view. He could see for miles. The remaining wisps of cloud broke up before the winds, and the winds chased a thunderstorm way away eastward. The few chinks in the cloud made gauges of light here and there in the fluttering grasses.

Passing the apex of his flight, Itzal gave serious consideration to his landing. He got his legs underneath him, for one thing. Then he started remembering scaling up cloud walking.

It had started in his chest. That he remembered. It had started in his chest, with a storm that he held inside… Yes, that had been it. A storm in his breath.

Ganzorig, lieutenant of the Aimshigtai, supervised the bombardment of the Riot. He had heard of the Riot and her cunning young captain. Captain Younes seemed the type to fly a slandersmith pennant as part of some scheme. Ganzorig didn’t recognize the family suggested by the mouse on the pennant, but the colors and shape and crossed swords were the unmistakable signs of a slandersmith. Whether he had a slandersmith on board on not—and Ganzorig suspected he didn’t—the standing orders in the prairies surround Khuurai Dalain was to chase away all comers. Ganzorig felt confident that Captain Od would agree, if he hadn’t gone on a whaling trip the day before and left Ganzorig in command of the Aimshigtai and, by extension, the border patrol.

“These show peculiar determination,” Ganzorig said. The Riot had yet to either turn off its course or to return fire. Ganzorig kept the bombardment at a minimum. He had no interest in destroying the Riot if he didn’t have to.

Something odd happened on the deck of the Riot. Someone jumped from the mizzen, swung around crazily, and slung into the air. The person started a long arc high into the air.

“That’s a sight,” someone near Ganzorig said.

“Coming this way,” someone else said. “The bird-monkey will come down on the deck.”

“He’s far too high to make a safe landing,” Ganzorig said. The body passed over the sun. “Is this some kind of ruse? Are they sending us a corpse?”

“Perhaps they think it will turn our stomachs,” said one of the other sailors. “Have they never been in a battle?”

“No. Look. The bird-monkey flails about. He is far from dead.”

“He’ll be dead in a moment,” Ganzorig said. He traced the course the body followed to the point on the deck where it would fall. “Clear the deck, there!” he shouted, pointing. “No reason to let this strange missile hurt anyone.”

The crew cleared that point on the deck for a wide space, all of them looking up toward the body.

Then a strange thing happened. It was like every part of a thunder-clap except the noise, and every part of a burst of heavy wind except the movement of air, and every part of an explosion except the destruction and heat. Whatever it was, it started in the body. And, though it seemed insubstant and insensible, it buffeted the assembled crew. They stumbled back a few steps.

In the middle of the strange feeling, the body fell to the deck. It fell with a thump that resounded, and it fell square and solid on its feet.

“Blimey,” the person muttered. It was quiet, but in that moment no one else had anything else to say, so everyone heard it.

“Seize that man,” Ganzorig bellowed. And the crew made the attempt.

“You may try,” the person said. “I’ll come willingly, if that would make it easier for you.”

Taken sideways by that, the crew looked to Ganzorig for instructions.

Clamping down on his potential impatience, Ganzorig gestured to bring the person up to the high command deck of the Aimshigtai.

“Should we continue bombarding?” someone asked in Ganzorig’s ear.

“Hold,” Ganzorig said. “For now.” The person nodded and passed the word.

The crew brought the falling person from the Riot close to him. Ganzorig went to sit in the wooden chair set up for long voyages. He lounged back, waiting.

The person stood before Ganzorig. He had some contradictory movements in him. The set of his shoulders and his slow blue-eyed gaze had no fear in it. But his hands shook, only just enough to see if you looked for it. The person seemed aware of it and folded his hands under his sleeves and in front of his belly.

He couldn’t have been too old. Ganzorig didn’t have a good eye for these pale-skinned westerners, but this one seemed barely old enough to have started shaving.

“A pretty trick,” Ganzorig said. “I have heard of no such thing outside of books of legends and myths about Bone Jacks and ancient heroes.” Ganzorig took a bite of an orange he’d been working on for the last quarter of an hour. “Before you have anything to say, let me explain to you that you are only alive still because you have piqued my curiosity. Perhaps you will live for as long as I am still curious. Perhaps you will not.”

Rather annoyingly, the person looked everywhere around the deck except at Ganzorig. The person looked at the flags flying off the back of the ship—Galzuu Khan’s standard was one, as was the standard of his grandfather. Ganzorig and Od were cousins, and any ship under their command had to fly their grandfather’s standard. (A point of some irritation, but never mind.) The man looked at the crew and at the bamboo-ribbed sails and at the other two dreadnaughts, and just about everywhere but at Ganzorig.

“Come,” Ganzorig said, more than half grunting it. “Treat with me, while you still have a tongue.”

“I can help you shed Khar Orgos,” the man said.

It was hard to tell in Ganzorig’s stoic face how that impacted him. It left him silent for a few seconds. Then, through a frown, Ganzorig gave a few quiet orders to cease the bombardment and signal to all ships to hold position.

“We will discuss this,” he said to the messenger. They went below decks. A quarter of an hour later the Aimshigtai signaled to the Riot that they were to follow the dreadnaughts to Khuurai Dalain.

“Hmm,” Captain Younes said from the Riot. “I suppose that means we ought to abandon the rescue plans.”

“Pity, far as I’m concerned,” Tyro said. “That were going to be an admirable plan of rescue. The lads was all over smiles about it, weren’t you, lads?”