Bram Möller's Arc

Chapter 11 of 63

Bram stepped into the shed with the owl on his shoulder. A stove burned low in the corner. A woman stood beside it in a purple travel coat stitched with gold thread, her dark hair loose from the road. She was not dressed for this country. She turned when the door closed. "You are Möller," she said. Her voice was even. "I am Parisa Shahbanu. I have been three weeks reaching you." He touched his cap. "Ma'am." "I need the last leg of your route. My passage, and a small case. Tonight." "I've one stop left," Bram said. "After dawn." "Now," she said. "By dawn the pass behind you closes again. I cannot be here when it does." Before he could answer, the dock hand shoved the door open and stamped snow off his boots. "Möller. Freeze coming in. Front dropped off the ridge ten minutes ago. You've got maybe an hour before your bag locks to the mast." Bram went back out. The air had changed. It bit at his face through the collar of his cracked jacket. Frost was already forming a white skin on the prototype's envelope. He put his bare hand on the fabric. It was stiffening under his palm. Omondi's bag was not built for this. One hard freeze on the mast and the seams would set brittle. He would lose the envelope. He would lose the route. He thought fast. He still had the brass orchid rigged to the vent line from the pass. Its bloom-shaped valves could bleed hot steam from the burner up through the piping if he reversed the feed. Not lift. Warmth. Enough to keep the skin above freezing until he was airborne. He climbed into the gondola. The princess followed without asking. She set a small locked case at her feet and gripped the rail. "Sit low," he said. He unclipped the owl and set it on the control ring. "Hold pressure steady. Don't let it spike." The owl's brass claws closed on the ring. Steam ticked from its vents. Bram reversed the orchid's feed and cracked the burner wide. Hot steam climbed the brass tubing and hissed into the envelope's underskin. The frost on the fabric beaded and ran. He worked the manual valve with his good hand, watching the skin soften above him. "Cut the line," he called to the dock hand. The mooring dropped. The prototype lifted slow, heavy with cold, then found the air and climbed clean into the dark. Behind them the waystation lights blurred through drifting snow. Ahead lay one stop, a passenger he had not agreed to carry, and a locked case he had not agreed to move. The bag was airborne. The route was still open. Parisa looked at him across the gondola. "How far?" "Three hours," Bram said. "If the bag holds."