Clarissa was uncomfortable.
The wool scarf safety-pinned to her monastery cloak itched. The hat left her head feeling like a piece of rigging that someone had tied a mass of rope to. Her gloves were so stiff her hands were already tired from gripping the stair rails, and the safety harness dug into her legs as she walked.
She did like the goggles, however.
Clarissa's trek up the stairs had already started to make her sweat, mostly from how hot she felt beneath her extra gear. But Anita had personally approved every choice just a few minutes ago, and had inspected the harness thoroughly before she let Clarissa wear it.
"Hopefully it's comfortable," Anita had said while adjusting the harness straps on Clarissa's legs. "Because wearing clips is mandatory about a day after we pass Volante. Once you get too far from one of the big isles, there ain't a lot of rock to pull you one way or another. We'll get you fitted for a pair of clingy boyfriends this evening."
"Clingy boyfriends?" Clarissa had laughed, when Anita had first named them. She still found the name funny.
But as Clarissa reached the door, she began to wonder what exactly Anita had meant. She shoved the latch up and pushed at the door until it begrudgingly began to swing.
The wind pushed at her hard, and the bitter chill that accompanied it seemed determined to rip the warmth of her body straight out through her breath. Clarissa shivered, grit her teeth, and forced herself out the doorway.
To her immediate relief, as soon as she was outside the wind died off, though the chill didn't entirely dissipate. Clarissa pushed the door shut, set the goggles over her eyes, and took a look around.
And for the first time since the journey began, really got to see the forests of Volante.
This high up, the forest seemed to stretch out forever, as if like the endless blue, she could follow that green horizon and never reach the end. The trees themselves, Clarissa realized breathlessly as she stared, were astonishingly tall. Hundreds of feet tall, some must stretch to a quarter mile. And all of them bowed in the direction the Ravens' Child flew, as if pointing the way.
She tore her eyes away from the sight and looked for Leslie. He wasn't hard to find, the big man was the only thing moving on the deck. He was standing next to a gargantuan metal contraption, with a tube nearly thirty feet long.
"Leslie!" Clarissa shouted. The ship's gunnery officer turned his head and gave Clarissa a short wave. She took a step towards him, and his relaxed greeting changed to a dire warning, as he shouted at her to stop.
"Clip-in!" Leslie bellowed.
Clarissa stopped, stared at him in confusion, and waved her arms. Leslie shook his head and reached for a clip attached to one of the bars protruding from the nearby machine. He took one off, showed that it was attached to his belt, and then pointed at a piece of railing on his other side.
Clarissa looked around, and saw for the first time that there were a series of long rails along the deck. It surprised her, since she didn't remember seeing these rails when the ship had been docked at the Monastery. But she put away her surprise and took one of the clips off her belt and attached it to the rail.
Once she did, she walked towards Leslie, who was once again waving her over. As she approached, Leslie returned to oiling a massive iron wheel, dipping a rag into a bucket and then rubbing the metal down thoroughly.
"Clarissa," Leslie said. "Were you sent up here to keep me company?"
"Captain said another set of ears would be a good thing," Clarissa said.
"Suspect he told you that I have a habit of doing maintenance when I should keep watch?" Leslie asked. Clarissa nodded, guiltily, but Leslie didn't look upset at the revelation. "Can't say he's wholly wrong. Also can't say he gives enough time to maintaining the ship. But the Captain is subtle and sly, suspect he wants two people on watch without worrying either of us too much. And if he has two of us on watch, it's probably because he's gotten fleet reports from Volante about pirates being spotted around here."
"Pirates?" Clarissa asked. "But they'd have to be in airships. And with weather like this we could see them coming from Olencia."
"They'd hide in the forest. No airship in the skies is taller than some of these trees, it's the perfect place for an ambush. And since we're on the Monastery Job, Captain is particularly keen to avoid any trouble," Leslie said. "And so, I keep an ear out, and tend to our best way of dealing with trouble if we run into it."
"Is this the Banshee?" Clarissa asked. She leaned forward to look at the machine, both confused and a little frightened by it.
"It is. Monastery metallurgists made her. She's so much of a weapon we cover her up when we're at port. Rather not let anyone on that we have the most advanced piece of artillery under the sky," Leslie explained, as he moved over to another piece of the gun.
"Why do you call the gun 'The Banshee'?"
"Old folklore calls them a spirit whose scream heralds death. And she ain't a weapon we use, less me mean to kill with it," Leslie said.
"Didn't you fire some kind of paint round at that pirate hunter earlier?" Clarissa asked.
"Even that warning shot could have killed someone," Leslie said. He cursed under his breath and kept rubbing the metal. "Never liked the Monastery job. Don't get me wrong, I like travelling with you, and the Monastery pays in the kind of favours kings would ransom cities for. But I don't have the foggiest idea what that black box is that we're travelling with. And I don't like not knowing."
"The captain doesn't share it with you?" Clarissa asked.
"Nope. Says it ain't something most in the monastery know. And I can tell by the expression on your face that you don't know yet, either," Leslie said, and he stared at her for a long, quiet moment. "That actually makes me feel better."
"Why is that?"
"If the monastery keeps it secret from its own membership, it has to be serious. Makes not knowing a little easier to bear," Leslie said. He gestured to a part of the Banshee and held out a rag. "Come here and make yourself useful."
Clarissa crouched down beside Leslie and looked at the gear he was oiling. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"Mostly keeping the dust off. Cleaning also helps keeps me from thinking too much," Leslie said, getting quieter and quieter as he spoke. "Have to say, kid, you've been taking to airship life pretty well so far. Anita says you were the best assistant she's ever had in the engine room. Thinking about giving up the Monastery life?"
"What!" Clarissa asked, surprised.
"Wipe down that gear, would you?" Leslie asked. He pointed to a part of the machine near Clarissa's left hand and tossed a rag onto her lap. "Use a bit of grease, helps keep the threads from rusting up."
"I, no, I haven't been thinking about it much," Clarissa admitted. "Just been trying to be useful so far."
"Imagine that's what impressed Anita so much. Just saying, if you find the monastery ain't the path you want to walk, I'm willing to ask to find you a place here, least until you find the winds for your own sails," Leslie said.
"Thanks," Clarissa blushed and tried to look busy.
Clarissa couldn't find the courage to speak any more, and Leslie seemed comfortable with the silence that followed. Asides from pointing to specific parts of the cannon, or gesturing to the jar of grease, Leslie carried on with his own inspection completely comfortable with not speaking.
As she worked, she watched Leslie. The ship's gunnery officer possessed an odd studiousness to his work, nothing at all like the whirlwind of nearly manic activity that Anita put into working the engine. Leslie was organized, relaxed, and methodical. He'd unscrew a nut or bolt, carefully inspect it, scrape off any rust, grease it, and set it back in its place with an almost academic rigour.
Leslie sat up straight and tall as he worked and somehow kept his clothes untouched by the grease he used. It was easy to see the nobleman's bearing, even on a ship's deck, wearing a sleeveless shirt in this cold wind, repairing what might be the cannon of a pirate ship.
"Leslie, you said you were a nobleman?" Clarissa asked.
"I was. I was born Leslie Cadrail von Madrigan, fourth son of the von Madrigan family, a minor house in the wilds of Calmoor. Much like your monastery life, there was a lot of schooling. And as the fourth son, I was allowed to indulge my own interests more than my older siblings," Leslie explained.
"Leslie Cadrail von Madrigan."
"No 'von' in my name anymore, just Madrigan. I was cast out, and lost my claim to the title," Leslie said. "The family wasn't impressed when I took up boxing and started participating in tournaments."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Clarissa said.
"I'm not. Not of that. It was the proudest my father had ever been of me. Letting peasants strike a nobleman wasn't something they could allow, not with the nobility in Calmoor. But I had won a tournament or two by then, and Dad was just happy I had finally found something I loved doing." Leslie laughed, but sadly, as if trying to change what he was feeling by force of will. "I only saw the estate one time after that, and it was accompanied by whistles and clacks."
"Whistles and clacks? Like airships?"
"Yes," Leslie said, and like earlier, he seemed to have no desire to speak again.
Clarissa kept working, and the minutes passed as swiftly as the trees below. The sun was close to being cut off by Volante before Leslie closed the lead to the grease tin and tucked it away in a small supply box near the gun.
And it was just as Leslie put the tools away that Clarissa began to hear an odd sound. A short, rapid clicking sound, rhythmic like an engine, but different from anything Clarissa had ever heard from the Child.
Then Clarissa looked at Leslie's face and was frightened.
The small smile he had always seemed to wear was gone. His jaw was clenched, his eyes wide and angry, and hand clutched the rag so hard he had begun to put his fingers through it. He had stopped what he was doing, holding as still as the machine beside him, his head slightly tilted to the wind.
"Whistles and clacks," Leslie murmured to himself.
Clarissa unclipped herself, and crouching low, made her way to the side rail. She clipped herself in hastily, and stared out into the trees, looking for anything out of place.
If she had seen anything, she expected something white, or pale blue, similar to the Child's lift bag. But what came out of the forest was altogether new.
A pair of green and brown balloons rose out from between the trees, carrying what looked less like a ship and more like a tree fort. The ship was a single, thick deck of wood, a platform carrying dozens of people, propeller engines, and small cannons. The people on that flying raft, Clarissa couldn't bring herself to call it an airship, were jeering and shouting excitedly. Some already had swords in their hands, and grey smoke was already billowing from their engines.
"Leslie!" Clarissa cried out. "Bandits! Or pirates, or something! Over here!"
Leslie turned from his own observations, and disregarding the safety rails, sprinted across the deck. He slid under the last bar until he stopped at the side rails next to her, then rose to a crouch and looked out at the ship.
"That's a skimmer, basically a flat deck with a motor on it. Simple to make, it isn't meant for rigorous journeys, or really ever going very far," Leslie told her. He took a spyglass out of his pocket and pointed it at the vessel rising out of the trees. "Seven guns, little barrel-loading six pounders. No danger, unless we let them aim at the propellers. But if they take a few shots at the lift bag, we'll have problems."
Leslie stood up and unclipped himself. He then turned around and walked back towards the cannon. "Come with me. I need to prep the Banshee. You can report using the speaking tube."
"I, shouldn't I be going below?" Clarissa asked.
"Soon. They're too far away to use those cannons, and they won't if they think they can catch us. They'll be after the prize, and too greedy to see the threat," Leslie said, as they crouched under one of the safety rails.
Clarissa ran over to one of the pipes sticking out from the deck and opened the over the fluted end. She leaned over, and said, "hello?"
Almost immediately, the captain's voice sounded out like a trumpet. "Clarissa, what is it?"
"Bandits, sir! A skimmer, on the right side of the ship!" Clarissa called out.
She looked back at Leslie, who was already pulling several levers. Steam spat out from the deck, and the gears around the cannon's housing whirred to life. As the Banshee began to turn, Leslie turned to her and shouted, "Tell the captain 'four o'clock, one mile out'."
Clarissa repeated Leslie's message. She fidgeted uncomfortably, feeling like she was going to split herself into pieces. Fear and excitement were making a mess of her insides, and she wanted to both hide in a corner and throw something at the oncoming skimmer.
She very nearly missed the captain's response. "Understood. Mercy and I are on the way. Hang tight for a minute."
"Clarissa!" Leslie shouted.
When Clarissa turned around, Leslie looked grimmer — and angrier — than he had before. And in his hands was a tube of metal, pointed at the tip, about as long as his arm. It took Clarissa a moment to realize it was one of the Banshee's shells. "Tell the captain there's three of them."
Clarissa spun around, to see another two pairs of lift balloons rising from the trees.