Around the World in 81 Days

My master arrived early on the afternoon of July 20th, 1889.

I’d expected him to summer in Oxford, repeating a course in elementary teleportation, so his sudden and unannounced appearance was a shock.

“I’ve made a wager,” said Jack, handing me his coat and taking the stairs in five bold strides. He was up to his room before I could formulate a greeting.

Suppressing my embarrassment, I stored his items and hurried upstairs. I found Jack standing before his open closet, analyzing the contents as one might inspect a game of chess.

“Shall I draw a bath?” I asked, quickly clearing my half-eaten sandwich from the table. Jack’s eyes flicked to the crumbs I’d left on the floor, then back to his jackets. He looked as though he had not slept in days.

“Nonsense. We leave within the hour.”

“Leave, sir?”

“Leave,” he repeated, reaching a conclusion in his wardrobe. “Pack two changes of clothes, one for heat and one for cold, my father’s coat, a scarf, and my mud boots. We shall want apparel for all seasons.” He turned to scan his desk, and I leapt to clear the discarded newspapers.

“Très bien,” I said, and then corrected myself. “Very good, sir.”

“We are catching the 5:35 train to Dover, and the 8:55 balloon to Calais,” Jack continued.

“I see,” I said, not really seeing at all. I kicked my dirty laundry behind a chair, then rushed to gather his requested attire. “And shall we be staying in France very long?”

“We move on as quickly as we can. We are traveling around the world, and I must make it back to Oxford by the start of fall semester.” He nodded once at his desk, then moved to his bookcase. “Take three sheaves of writing paper, three pens, one thousand pounds, my grandfather’s watch, and my pocket knife.”

I stumbled, and dropped the clothing.

“Around the world?”

“Around the world.” Seeing, perhaps, that my confusion would only slow him down, he glanced at the clock and stated, “Have our things ready within 30 minutes. I shall explain everything on the train.”

Soon I found myself, dizzy and sweating, aboard the 5:35 London Railroad to Dover. Jack sat quietly, staring out the window at the clear summer evening, while I fidgeted in my seat. Our small luggage, packed with the barest assortment of travel items, sat beside me.

“As I’ve explained,” Jack continued, watching the chimneys of London disappear into the distance, “I’ve made a wager.”

I have nothing good to say about Jack Carrington.

Mr. Carrington is rash, prideful, and entirely without regard for his betters. Orphaned at 15, he is the last of a once proud line of Scottish nobility entirely Anglicized from a century of London living. To my everlasting regret, the Oxford Arcane Academy admitted him upon his 20th birthday, and he has blighted the campus ever since.

Tall, pale, and ill proportioned, Jack admittedly sports a certain wan handsomeness which, in conjunction with his self-important demeanor, attracts the attention of the baser women of Oxford. Like everything else, he finds these inexplicable admirations beneath him, preferring instead to play cards with his few friends in local taverns.

It was at such a tavern I found him on a bright summer morning on July 19th, 1889. He was summering at Oxford to repeat my introductory Teleportation class. Unfortunately for himself, his peers, and his professors, Jack had not demonstrated any remarkable work of magic since he started in my classes. I derive a certain amount of justified satisfaction in failing Jack as needed.

I took my usual seat by the window, surrounded by a cadre of bright and exceptional students to whom I had taken a liking. It so happened that Jack and his group had taken the table next to ours. They sat in remote silence, focused on their cards as minor stakes passed to and fro.

The conversation at my table proceeded quite pleasantly for a quarter of an hour. But as we delved into the finer points of high level arcane Teleportation, Jack couldn’t help but speak up.

“Teleportation is not the only way to travel,” he offered abruptly from the safety of his table.

The students around me smirked. It was well known that Jack had failed the basic principles of Teleportation.

“Teleportation is the fastest and safest method of transportation,” I said to the room. “It is nothing less than instantaneous point to point arcane travel across any distance. For those with the skill to master it, it surpasses all other modes of traversal.”

“Fastest perhaps, but not safest,” replied Jack, still playing cards. He dealt another hand. “Teleportation is highly risky for even the most proficient of mages.”

“For those of us that have perfected the art, it is no more risky than a stroll to the nearest pub.”

“Not true,” said Jack, his back to me. “Professor Vyas attempted to teleport to India last year, and she is still missing. Mundane infrastructure is far preferable for all members of the populace, and most arcane students prefer it.”

“Mundane infrastructure? Like trains and steamers? They are flimsy, dangerous contraptions that crawl upon the earth at a snail’s pace. Besides, a Leviathan would catch and destroy any sorcerer who dared cross the open ocean. Though, a particularly poor arcane student might have a head start. Say, one who could not even pass an introductory teleportation course?” A few chuckles rang out among my companions.

“Are you insulting me, sir?”

I pushed forward. “I will gladly insult any student with more pride than sense. Don’t be pigheaded. It would take a year to reach India and return here, when all the delays and breakdowns are accounted for.”

“Nonsense. A discerning passenger could complete a trip to India, and continue forward across the globe to Oxford before Fall Term begins. Only a fool would think otherwise.”

My face flushed, and I turned to Jack. He still played cards, though his partners were growing agitated.

“Are you calling me a liar?” I asked.

“Shortsighted, with too much confidence in your personal field of work.”

“Shortsighted?” I snorted. “That’s rich, coming from a Carrington. Your father’s rash impulses killed him.”

Gasps rose around me, and Jack froze in his cards. Sensing I had gone too far, I tried to redirect. “But perhaps you’d like to put money on your idea?”

Jack’s voice was cold. “I would.”

“Very well,” I said. “One hundred pounds that you could not travel around the world and return here before the start of Fall Term without the use of teleportation.”

“Twenty thousand pounds. This trip will cost a great sum of money. If I am to travel across the world, I will do so at your expense.”

I nearly choked. The sum was more than a dozen times my annual salary. This stuck up prat was well off, but twenty thousand pounds would surely ruin him. And If I lost (which seemed impossible), where was I to get the money?

Still, this was the opportunity of a lifetime. In class, Jack’s arrogance prevented him from admitting fault, even when wrong.

“Twenty thousand pounds,” I agreed. “And if you fail, you shall never take a class at Oxford again.”

“Agreed.” Jack finished his hand, though his partners were white with discomfort, encouraging him low voices to renege at once. The game completed, Jack stood, gathered his coat and winnings, and made his way to the door. He paused to glance at the calendar on the wall.

“Today is July 19th. I shall return by the start of fall term, October 7th.” He took a moment to calculate. “The trip shall be made in 81 days.” With that he donned his hat and strode out of the tavern.

We crossed the Channel in a hot air balloon and arrived in Paris with the sunrise. After some discussion with the conductor, I learned that the next train to Munich left at 12:05 that day. Jack handed me his signet ring and a sealed letter, and asked that I deliver them to Tellson's Bank. The remaining time would be mine to wander the streets I had once called home.

I left him on a bench in the Gare du Nord station, examining a train map of Europe he had purchased from a novelty vendor.

I arrived at Tellson’s bank some minutes later, wiping the crumbs from a hastily eaten croissant off my jacket. An elderly man led me into his office, and I stood at attention as he bent over Jack’s letter. Moving at a glacial pace, he matched Jack’s arcane signature to the one on record, then sorted through dusty files. I fidgeted in annoyance.

Finally, the old man looked up from his desk. “You are Mr. Carrington’s butler?”

“Yes, I am.”

He looked skeptical, but continued. “Then you are aware of his financial situation?”

“What do you mean?”

Wrinkled fingers turned the paper towards me. “Your letter requests the immediate disbursement of 5,000 pounds. But Mr. Carrington does not have 5,000 pounds in his account.”

I reddened. “I assure you he does!”

The old man sighed, and gestured to a pile of unopened envelopes. “It’s not in his accounts now, but perhaps he’s had some change of fortunes. Today’s adjustments have not yet been sorted. Return here this afternoon when I have gone through them.”

“But our train leaves at twelve!”

The banker shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll get to it by then, perhaps not. Return when you are able.” He dismissed me with a vague wave of his hand.

I started into Paris, walking quickly to clear my head. The error must be the banker’s. Jack would not send me to collect money that did not exist. With this conclusion reached, I put the problem from my mind and opened my eyes to Paris.

Cobblestones shone slick with morning rain, and red-eyed clerks and businessmen bought bread from eager bakers. My feet led me southward, along the spacious Boulevard de Sébastopol, so named for Napoléon III's victory at the port of Sevastopol some decades earlier. Imposing stone structures of great beauty lined the avenue, proclaiming to all the world the greatness of the French state.

On the banks of the Seine, I purchased another croissant and watched a juggler practice his craft. The morning crowd was small, but the performer attacked his work with an elegance and mastery reserved only for French street artists. After the performance, I approached the man.

“Wonderful act!” I exclaimed, handing him a pence. “Do you use magic in your juggling?”

“Of course!” replied the juggler, fingering the foreign coin. His face paint exaggerated his grin. “No man can juggle a dozen balls with one hand.”

I laughed and clapped the juggler on the shoulder. “Twenty years ago, I watched Pierre du Rie juggle a dozen balls in each hand. Without the use of the arcane! But, then again, Pierre was a great master.” The juggler scowled at me, and I backtracked. “Though your act is very impressive too.”

“There’s nothing wrong with arcane augmentation. With more practice, I will achieve feats The Great Clown never dreamt of.”

Embarrassed, I tipped the juggler another pence and jogged across the river to the Île de la Cité.

Running low on time, and not wanting to disappoint my master so early into our journey, I made my pilgrimage to Notre Dame brief. With a single circuit outside her walls, I said a quick prayer to Saint Christopher, patron saint of athletes, bachelors, and travelers (of which I am all three). Then, as her famous bells tolled 10 o’clock, I worked my way back west.

Soon, I caught a glimpse of my objective: that iron pinnacle, the Eiffel Tower, which had been inaugurated in May of this year. I had heard many conflicting accounts of the structure, so I was eager to see it with my own eyes. It was indeed a strange sight among the fine mansions and government buildings of Grenelle. However, I did not find it as blighting as so many other Frenchmen had. As I wandered underneath its latticework columns, I could not deny the skill of its construction. After all, if I was to appreciate the sights of the world I mustn't scoff at a new national landmark upon my native soil.

Besides, it was comforting to know that, no matter where I traveled, I would see no taller structure. This was the tallest building in the world, or so they said.

Holding these images of my native Paris close at heart, I tipped my hat to the tower and hurried my way north.

I returned to Tellson’s Bank at 11:00. The elderly banker squinted at me, then nodded and gestured me in. He returned to his desk and removed a wallet.

“Here you are. You’re lucky, I just processed the change and was about to step out to lunch.”

“You were mistaken then?”

“Not at all. Yesterday, your master had barely enough money in his account to cover your own salary. But this morning a large infusion of cash came through. It seems Mr. Carrington took out a loan against an expensive piece of property in London.”

My mouth fell open. “The Carrington estate?”

The banker shrugged. “How should I know? In any case, the terms of the loan were quite hasty. And beneficial. For the Bank. If he cannot repay his loan in 90 days, we will foreclose on the house.”

“Impossible!”

“I’m sure your master has a better sense of his finances than you do. He must have come across some fantastic investment opportunity.” He chuckled. “Or be quite desperate. In any case, here are your 5,000 pounds. You can run along.”

“How much money is left?”

“Some. You can ask your master. I’m not at liberty to disclose.”

I stood stupefied until the banker cleared his throat. Then, remembering my place, I bowed, retrieved the wallet, and stumbled out of the bank.

Back at the train station, my master had sketched a route on the tourist’s map. He, evidently, had no intent of seeing the sights of Paris. As I approached, he turned the map for my benefit.

“From Paris, we will take the train to Budapest, stopping only in Munich to take on coal.” he said, pointing to each city in turn. “From there we either head south to Constantinople, then on through the Indian subcontinent, or north across the great Russian wasteland. Then China, Japan, and the New World.” He tapped England on the map. “We will return to Oxford by October 7th.”

I stared dumbly at the sheet of paper, and handed Jack the wallet. He took it, and looked at me with vague annoyance. I knew he was waiting for a response, but the banker’s words drove all other thoughts out of my mind. I was about to ask Jack about his finances when I regained myself. I was Jack’s butler. I may have entered into his service in unusual circumstances, but I was not to question him.

I redirected my attention to the map. “Sir, how do you propose to cross the great Atlantic and Pacific Oceans? We may be able to risk a short journey, but a Leviathan is sure to scent your training on the open sea.”

Jack rolled up the paper, still watching me closely. “I have a lead.”

I knew there must be more to this proclamation, but I held my tongue.

Rain began to fall as we boarded our train, first in a light mist then in heavy sheets. One by one, electric streetlamps flickered on as we rolled by, and the City of Light bid us farewell.

The train rumbled forward through the dreary wetness, disciplined and steady as a practiced runner. From our compartment we watched the lights of Paris twinkle off into the distance, to be replaced with the occasional passing flurry of quiet villages. Dinner was served, and then the lamps of the train dimmed. The sun, invisible behind thick clouds, set against the horizon.

As the train rumbled through the darkness, I marveled that the French people could allow such a loud and boisterous contraption to gallop across their countryside. The world had changed.

Once, in my youth, I had spent a weekend in Orleans before the tracks were laid. As I hiked across the fields, each town was more remote than the last, and better for it. In the town of Sainte-Montaine, I ate fresh eggs and bacon at a cafe that had been owned by the same family for 16 generations. Though suspicious of my unshaven face, the huge proprietor bragged of his dynastic friendship with each of the other local families. His family had bought bread from the baker's family since the reign of Louis XIII. Of this town, only two had ever been to Paris, despite the modest distance.

There's something to be said for familiar isolation.

With such memories to comfort me, I fell asleep.

“Europeans only.”

I held my German passport higher, but the host barely glanced at it.

“I said Europeans only.”

“I am European, sir,” I repeated.

“No matter what you wear, you most certainly are not.”

White-skinned patrons sat in twos and threes all around me, eating Bavarian breakfasts in the heart of Istanbul. Two young ladies shared a plate of sliced meats and stared. They giggled as the host scowled down at me.

Keeping my face impassive, I turned and left.

I made the 11-minute walk to the water in 10 minutes. The owner of the Uskudar Cafe raised an eyebrow at my European dress and seated me as far from the Turkish patrons as he could. I put my back to them, ordered my food, and focused on my breathing.

When breakfast arrived, I separated the olives, cheese, eggs, and bread into different quadrants on the plate, then placed the coffee in the center of the table.

Slowly, my nerves returned. I counted the ships in the channel, then counted my heart rate until it reached its usual interval. The view stretched from Topkapi Palace at the opening of the Bosphorus to Kuleli Military School to the east. The scene calmed me, as it always does. I took a moment to clean my spectacles.

Perhaps it was time to return to Europe. My days were busy on the continent, as long as I signed a contract before the employer saw my face. I took a pen and notepad from my pocket and began organizing my options.

I returned to my apartment that afternoon, eager to compare my travel outlines with train schedules. I had just laid my papers before me when a knock disturbed my planning. At the door, a red capped messenger bowed and handed me a letter. He explained the great urgency of the sealed envelope, demanded payment with greater urgency, and fled the scene.

Regretting that such an organized afternoon should be interrupted, I took my letter opener and unsealed the parchment. To my surprise, the missive was stamped with the seal of the Royal Oxford Academy of Arcane Studies. Frowning, for I wanted little to do with such a disreputable organization, I unfolded the text and began to read.

Two weeks prior, a valuable artifact went missing from the Oxford laboratories. Later that day, a wealthy student named Jack Carrington fled the grounds and returned to his home in London. After interviewing groundskeepers and the student's acquaintances, the Academy had reason to suspect Jack of theft.

Jack had not stayed in London long. Instead he announced the beginning of a self-imposed odyssey: a trip around the world in 81 days. He was expected to either pass through Istanbul, where I now resided, or use the patchwork Russian rail to cross Siberia.

If I could catch the student and return the artifact to the Academy, a reward of 800 pounds would be mine. An arrest warrant would be available at any British government institution within the next few days. The letter was signed by Professor Skimp, of the Teleportation Department at Oxford.

A sketch of the artifact fell into my lap, a bronze cube covered in minute arcane runes. The magical script made my skin crawl.

I laid the parchment flat on my table and read it again, my curiosity piqued. I usually clashed with Arcane establishments due to the nature of my work, so Oxford must have been desperate to contact me.

I sat for a quarter of an hour, sifting through the relevant information. I had little desire to work for an arcane institution, but I was growing agitated in idleness. And, depending on the details of the case, I might have the opportunity to embarrass the arcane world. I could not miss that chance.

I folded my travel notes and placed them on my bookcase, then hesitated for a moment. Arcane criminals were unpredictable, and it would be better to take no chances. With great care I removed my Quran from the shelf, revealing the hidden pistol. If Carrington was as dangerous as my last target, I would need it.

Over breakfast in the dining carriage, I fell into conversation with a German industrialist in an odd green suit. This aged businessman, who was returning from trade talks with the French government, extolled the work ethic of the German people between large cups of coffee. As he talked of his homeland, and as the caffeine took hold, he grew more excited until he was nearly standing on his chair. Being a short man, this produced quite the spectacle.

“The world is united in trade!” the German proclaimed. “The French import coal from the Germans, who trade sugar with the Belgians and rubber with the British! Where once we squabbled over clay and soil, now we bid on prices of grain and wine! The violence of the past is a thing of the past! We are hurtling towards a wondrous future, where disagreements will be settled at the bargaining table, not the battlefield.”

“Do you really believe war is over?” I asked, ignoring the strange looks the little man was getting. “The Bulgarians and Ottomans are at each other’s throats, and Britain has never spent so much on guns as this year.”

“Let me tell you something, young man,” said the German, returning to his seat (for the waiter had just served his 6th cup of coffee). “I was born in the Grand Duchy of Hesse. My son was born in the German Confederation. My grandson was born in the German Empire. And each child within the same house! I hope that my great-grandson will be born within some larger confederacy of nations, a bringing together of people that will span the whole continent.” He flung his arms out to demonstrate the breadth of his dream. “Our esteemed chancellor Bismark is weaving a diplomatic web so tight that no country should dream of warring upon another. Why, if Italy were to declare war on Germany, where would they buy their springs?” He gestured expansively. “We are all connected by commerce, my friend. Commerce, and railroads! Soon, it shall be trivial to travel great distances by train and steamer alone!”

“Truly?” I inquired, smiling at his enthusiasm.

“Truly!” said the German, with an air of confidence that permitted no opposition. For my master’s sake, I was happy to agree.

After breakfast, I bid the energetic German luck in his business ventures and returned to my master. We spent the day speeding across the countryside, watching the towers and smokestacks of German industry pass us by. While I paced up and down the length of the train, Jack was content to sit by the window, meditating on the strange bronze cube he had brought from Oxford.

Munich and Budapest and had taken different paths throughout the past century. While the German confederation banned all forms of magic, the Austro-Hungarian Empire embraced the new practice. It is perhaps because of this disregard of mundane technology that our train broke down some miles outside Budapest center, and we needed to proceed on foot.

The hot air clung to me as I carried our luggage through the white roads of Budapest. Our knot of travelers slowly dispersed throughout the streets, and soon we walked alone among the tall stone mansions of Kelenföld. Budapest had given up gas and electric streetlights for faerlight, but the arcane instrumentation was poorly done. Lights flickered between blinding white and sickly rainbow, casting our journey into garish hues.

“Sir,” I said, struggling with the luggage, “perhaps we can find some lodging in a nearby neighborhood. When I was younger, poor families were happy to take me in for a pittance.”

Jack frowned. “I hardly think that would be appropriate.”

“It might help conserve funds for our journey.”

He spun to face me. “And why would that be necessary?”

“Well, sir, at the bank they mentioned something about a loan…”

Jack’s eyes blazed. “My finances are none of your concern, Armand. Put it out of your mind.”

My master strode ahead through the empty street. Remembering my vow to his father, I took a deep breath and hurried after him.

We crossed the Danube on an iron bridge and reached the train station shortly after 1:00 A.M. Finding it deserted, my master turned down a darkened alley following a sign for a hotel. Sweating under the heat and weight of our baggage, I struggled to keep up. By the time I reached him, he had returned to the street, his brow darkened.

“We have our hotel for the night,” he said, “but will need to find another way forward. Six hours ago, Bulgaria declared war on the Ottoman Empire.”

Despite the warm evening, we spent a cold night in the Folyó Szálloda hotel. In the morning, my master offered to fix the broken temperature rune, but the surly innkeeper said nothing and thrust breakfast onto our tables. We hunched over our meals in the crowded basement, listening to the conversations of fellow travelers between bites of cold sausage, fried bread, and jam. From what little I could understand, the hotel was packed with others whose travel arrangements had been interrupted by the war. I recognized several guests from our train the night before.

We had reached the first hurdle of our journey. Travel between Europe and the Ottoman Empire would be impossible. Some part of me wished my master would give up here and return us to London, but I knew the stakes of the wager. Forward was the only option.

It seemed my master had the same opinion. Even before I finished eating, Jack put his napkin on the table and stood up.

“We are to split up and search the area for opportunities,” he said. “We should meet back here at noon.” With that, Jack turned, worked his way through the crowd of seated patrons, and ascended the stairs to the outside.

Burning my mouth on the rich Hungarian kávé, I finished my meal and exited into the morning heat. Without a guide or knowledge of the local language, I chose a direction at random and walked as quickly as I could. I wandered the streets, first down to the crowded train station, then north along the Danube river. Pink and yellow buildings passed in a blur, and my clothes became soaked with sweat.

Eventually, I followed a throng of housewives to a large brick building, a neo-Gothic blend of eastern and western architecture that Budapest manages so well. I entered into the vast interior, and so into a world of scents and sounds. Stalls and vendors filled every inch of the structure, selling candies, mounds of paprika, Tokaji wine, kolbász sausage and salami. Levitation runes lifted wooden signs into the air. A huge market, and all of Budapest here to buy their groceries. I tried to fight my way back outside, but the crowds forced me deeper within.

As I passed between two spice stalls, a small hand gripped my belt and pulled me out of the crowd. I stood in an alcove with a well-dressed child of no more than 8, out of the way of the mass of people.

“Lost?” He looked up at me from under a large brown cap.

I nodded, and tried to compose myself. “A bit. Do you speak English? Français?”

“English.” He gestured around us. “This is Nagy Vásárcsarnok, central market.” He grabbed me by the coat and turned me, pointing towards the exit. “There is train station.” He turned me again, pointing towards a different exit. “There is tourism things.” Finally, he spun me towards a cluster of steaming stalls. “Lunch.”

I swayed in the heat, dizzy from the spinning. “Thank you. I’ll head back to the train station now. I’ve had enough of Budapest for the day.” I reached for my wallet to give the boy a pence, but found that he had already gone. And so, it seemed, had my wallet.

I returned to the train station in sweat and disgrace. Thin clouds covered the sun, giving the city a sick, stifled look. The pickpocket had stolen two pounds, three shillings, and ten pence. A week ago I would have thought this a small sum. Now every pence reminded me of Jack’s loan.

.

As I turned the corner to the hotel, I became aware of a strange rattling sound, much like an electric threshing machine. There stood my master with a tall, dark-skinned man dressed in servant’s clothes, examining a small carriage. It was from this carriage that the sound emitted. A crowd of onlookers stood at a cautious distance. Some appeared ready to leap behind cover.

My master turned as I made my way through the group, checked his watch, and frowned. I was, evidently, late. Then, he returned his attention to the contraption.

“Prepare our things, Armand. I’ve found a way forward.”

Dripping with sweat and bursting with curiosity, I ventured a single question. “What is it, sir?”

Jack responded simply. “An electric automobile. We leave as soon as we are packed.”

We reached Bulgarian Varna on a clear morning, and so entered into a country at war. The automobile was loud, bumpy, and slow, but it was steady. With my master’s updated electric rune to keep it powered, it ran all through the day and night.

We kept to rural paths in order to avoid unnecessary delays and detection, stopping only for bread and cheese at small inns or farms. The border crossings into Romania and Bulgaria were completely deserted. All the better, for I doubt our driver had his papers in order.

Halil was a tall man, stick thin and of clear Turkish descent. A head taller than Jack (a tall man himself), Halil wore an impenetrable smile that never faded through miles of dusty road or uncomfortable conversation. His English was adequate, and certainly better than my Turkish. However, many conversations ended in uncomfortable silences.

“How did you acquire this automobile?” I asked as we bumped past a wheat field.

“Stole it from my master. I’m a chauffeur,” replied Halil happily.

“Why did you move to Budapest?” I ventured, as we navigated the rocky slopes of a Romanian hill.

“Fled from the law,” grinned Halil.

“Why do you want to return to the Ottoman Empire now?” I wondered, as we reversed out of a sparse wood.

“To kill Bulgarians,” smiled Halil.

I consider myself an open-minded man. But something about Halil’s responses prevented me from asking more. And he offered little about himself, focusing entirely on the task at hand. Once or twice I tried to bring my concerns to Jack’s attention, but I only found him lost in quiet contemplation.

By the time we rolled into Varna, Halil had stowed his fez and taken on a brown cap not dissimilar to the pickpocket’s in Budapest. He wore it low to cover his dark features.

The signs of war were everywhere as we entered the seaside town. Officers on horseback moved through the narrow streets, herding small knots of soldiers towards the train station. Women and children wandered through the village without clear direction, following their fathers or simply watching the spectacle.

Lost in the alleyways, we found ourselves packed into a crowd of soldiers waiting for orders. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, they began to pepper us with questions (in Bulgarian), obviously curious about our vehicle and motive. What started as playful banter turned quickly into grim-faced men asking angry questions.

Jack remained silent and Halil smiled happily on, but I turned to the crowd and began to shout “Tourists! Tourists!” in an attempt to diffuse the situation. A stocky man grabbed me by the collar and grunted some accusatory Bulgarian, pointing at our chauffeur. What could I do? I shoved him away and shouted “Tourists!” at him. I don’t know Bulgarian!

As the crowd, already agitated from an emotional day, began shouting back, an officer on horseback pushed through the platoon. A stocky man with a thick mustache, he stopped next to the automobile and looked disapprovingly down towards us.

“Who are you, and why are you blocking my men?”

Jack, turning to look at the Bulgarian for the first time, answered calmly. “We are tourists here to see Varna. Our chauffeur must have taken a wrong turn.”

The officer glowered. “Are you aware there is a war?”

Jack looked vaguely annoyed. “Will that affect my trip?”

The officer started and flushed. He raised his hand as if to strike my master, and I quickly moved myself between them. After a tense moment, he lowered his hand and shook his head. “English,” he said in disgust.

He barked orders to his men, who begrudgingly pressed against the stone buildings to let us pass. Slowly, and with the eyes of a battalion of fighting men on us, we drove down towards the water.

The seaside was quieter - a few empty shops and homes along a stretch of white beach. Beyond, the Black Sea lay still, perfectly reflective of the blue sky and large clouds that migrated overhead. A cool wind tossed the trees overhanging the sand. Halil slowed our pace as we drove, and for the first time in many days I felt relaxation overtake me. Though the beach was empty now, I could see why much of the Balkans made their way here in the summer.

We drove south, with the sea on our left. As we approached Varna Port, I pointed out a large rubble ruin overlooking the water. Jack merely nodded, eyes fixed on ships at dock, but Halil happily explained. “Ancient Roman ruins. Baths and a kale.” He paused, finding the right word. “A fortress.”

I nodded, looking at the piles of brick and stone. “You know Varna well?”

“I was born here.”

“You were born here?” I said in surprise. “I thought you were Ottoman!”

Halil’s smile grew wider. “I am. I was born in 1871. Varna was part of the Ottoman Empire then. I was 6 when the Russians tore it off and called it Bulgaria. Both my parents died in the fighting. It should not be Bulgarian. It should be Ottoman again.”

My master stirred, speaking for the first time since we saw the sea. “It was Bulgarian before that, and before that Byzantine, Roman, Thracian, and Macedonian under Alexander the Great. Even the Persians laid claim to it once. Should the Ottomans claim it now?”

Halil grinned, undaunted. “I am Ottoman. I was born here. That is enough.” He shrugged. “Besides, Bulgaria attacked, not us. It is clear to me.”

The automobile fell into silence and I turned to look at the ruined fortress. Children played upon the stones as if they were a park. This city had millennia of history, of fighting, wars, and trading of nations. But then, I supposed, so did everywhere. Perhaps it was a good thing my master kept us moving at such a quick pace. If not, it would take a lifetime to follow every distraction we passed.

We followed a wide turn in the coast and entered into the marina. Two dozen wooden docks held perhaps a hundred ships, ranging from tiny fishing boats to steam powered barges. The arrival of our strange contraption attracted the attention of several meandering old salts, who looked up from their ropes and sails in annoyance. We stashed the car behind a small warehouse and left Halil to guard it.

The Black Sea was our only path forward now. Overland travel would be blocked by the war, and Jack had ruled out a route through Russia. Our objective was to hire a boat to smuggle us deep into Ottoman territory, where we could continue our journey.

This was the only ship journey we were likely to make. While Leviathans sought out and destroyed any magical practitioners on the open ocean, no Leviathans had ever been seen in the Black Sea. Besides, the beasts could not cross the Bosphorus. The gap was too narrow for such immense creatures, and the Ottoman government had installed spikes and gates to prevent even the small ones from passing.

As we perused the waterfront, Jack seemed to be searching for someone specific. Many a sailor nodded in greeting, and Jack politely nodded back, but they exchanged no queries or offers. For 20 minutes we wandered up and down the creaking docks, and I grew increasingly agitated.

Finally, near the end of the last dock, Jack stopped beside a tiny fishing boat low in the water. I am no seamen, but to my eyes it could have passed for derelict. A single shabby cabin partially enclosed a weathered table, while fraying nets and ropes lay about a sea-stained deck. The mast, at least, looked sturdy, and the sail was fresh. The ship could be piloted by one man alone, but it could easily hold us all.

And there sat the pilot. The owner of the boat, a tiny, crater-faced man sucking on a wooden pipe, perched on a stool in the cabin. He silently watched us approach and maintained unblinking eye contact all the way. As Jack moved forward, the captain was the first to speak.

“Was that your automobile?”

I was relieved to hear English from this sailor’s lips. His voice was rough and pitted, like his face and his ship.

Jack nodded. “It is.”

The old man kept his eyes locked on Jack’s. After a long puff from his pipe, he said, “That’s a rare thing, an automobile.”

Jack stared back. “We are looking to book passage.”

“Are you now?”

“To Trabzon.”

This was the first I had heard of my master’s destination, but the name meant little to me. Perhaps it hosted a railway junction of some sort? If the old man was surprised, he did not show it.

“That’s a long journey. And into Ottoman territory. You know we are at war with the Ottomans?”

“I do.”

“So they may be liable to see a ship like mine as an attack.”

“A ship like yours?” said Jack with British aplomb. “I should think not.”

The pilot did not rise to the insult. Another smoke. Another puff. Still, the unblinking eyes.

“It would be dangerous.”

“I can pay.”

The captain stared, then slowly shook his head.

“I want the automobile.” Jack tensed, but the man continued. “My grandson should like to play with it. He loves engines.”

“An automobile is highly valuable. It’s worth much more than a boat trip,” said Jack.

The man shrugged. “You are free to walk away.”

Color flushed into Jack’s cheeks. After another tense moment, he turned on one heel and walked down the dock. With one last glare at the old man, I followed my master.

When I caught up with Jack moments later, the flush had left his face and his voice was even. We walked at a brisk pace back to Halil and the automobile.

“Get our things ready. That captain will be a good guide.”

I furrowed my brow in confusion. “Sir?”

“He had his eye on our vehicle since we drove in. Let him think he’s lost his treasure for a few minutes. Right now he’s wondering if he pushed too hard. Then, when we come back to his ship, he’ll be eager to agree. Indeed, there’s a larger hurdle to overcome.”

Amused, I followed Jack and relayed the good news to Halil.

But the hurdle came quickly enough. As we approached the boat, luggage and Halil in tow, the sailor leapt to his feet and brandished his pipe.

“What’s this then? A Turk spy?”

Halil merely smiled back. “The automobile is his,” said Jack. “If you want it, you will have to take us all.”

The old man paced and grumbled, chewing his pipe and casting dark glances at Halil. Jack gave him a moment, and then signaled me to start loading the luggage.

“We’ll want to hurry,” my master said in a low tone. “Your tantrum is attracting attention. The man is no spy, but your peers may be suspicious.”

Suddenly aware of the eyes around him, the sailor glared at the three of us in turn. Then, making up his mind, he grabbed some supplies from the dock. Once we climbed on board, without his help, he untied his boat and hoisted the sails. We caught a light breeze and pushed off from European soil.

The first leg of our journey was complete. Europe behind us, we now voyaged into stranger lands.

I saw the breaking of the Bosphorus with my own eyes.

As I sat at the Uskudar cafe, I reviewed a map of Europe and sketched out my quarry’s options. The war meant Jack could not catch a train ride from Bulgaria to Istanbul. He could not go south across the Mediterranean without attracting the wrath of a Leviathan. Which meant he could either take the Siberia railway, attempt to slip through the front of the war, or hire a ship to take him across the Black Sea.

It was a delicate thing, and without understanding the mind of my quarry I could not deduce his intent. As a rich man, he could certainly bribe his way onto a boat or past a checkpoint. And as a proud Englishman, he might scoff at subterfuge or at fitting in with refugees. Would he rather risk cold, war, or waves?

It was wonderful to have work again, and a clear problem to solve. But as I sipped my coffee and considered my options, I became aware of a commotion south in the channel. At first it seemed like boats were parting, moving aside in preparation for a larger ship to take the waterway. Then I noticed that many ships careened into the shore, breaking with one large wave that carried them. Even the docks along the water seemed to be heaving up and moving aside.

I stood to look, and many other patrons leapt to their feet, knocking over chairs and pointing down into the Mediterranean. Now it appeared a tidal swell was working its way north, throwing ships aside like toys. As people began to run for higher ground, the wave, which at first seemed to move with glacial slowness, passed by Topkapi Palace, sending tens of thousands of tons of liquid across the beaches. As it approached, I realized that its apparent pace was merely an illusion due to its size. The mass was approaching faster than any train.

The cafe patrons pushed towards the exit, but I stood transfixed by the vision. With a sudden twang, an underwater cable snapped. Four more cracks, like artillery shots, echoed across the canal and joined the sounds of chaos. Birds took flight. The Leviathan barrier had been breached.

The swell, some 15 feet high, reached the cafe, dashed up the rocks, and exploded over the small retaining wall. I was sprayed out of my stupor and clutched the cafe door for support. As the water receded, I grabbed the owner by the arm and held him fast against the current.

A collective gasp rose from the mass of people in the street. The wave grew for a moment, and seven immense blue spines, each the size of a ship’s mast, emerged from the channel. I became aware of a huge fleshy shape, nearly the size of the strait itself, just underneath the water. Black blood oozed like oil in its trail as it scraped against the passage walls.

“Leviathan.” whispered the cafe owner in Turkish. “Thank Allah it is low tide. I pray that no one was killed by its passing.”

I nodded and looked back south. A few smaller ships had been tossed up on the beaches, but otherwise the damage was minimal. The cafe owner was right. Istanbul could handle such a surge at low tide. A Leviathan crossing at high tide would be disastrous.

And now I knew where Jack was going.

The journey to Trabzon was to take four days in good weather, and at first good weather we had. A strong wind pushed our tiny craft steadily into the sea and rolled small clouds across a blinding sky. As we sped across the water, we raced the shadows of these clouds over the waves.

Land fell off quickly behind us, and soon we saw nothing but ocean in all directions. Despite this isolation, sea birds followed us day and night, clearly recognizing the fishing ship for what it was. I spent much of my time sitting on the prow of this ship, taking in the sea breeze. There’s nothing in this world like a strong wind to clear the head. As I sat there, meditating on the speed, the strain of the last few days seemed to blow away. I felt like an old house, whose windows had been thrown open and rooms had been aired out. Light and wind cleared me of all cobwebs. I was returning to my old self, an energetic vagabond before fate placed me into the Carrington debt.

Our captain, who refused to give his name, sailed with a steady hand and a dark mood. He puffed his pipe and muttered under his breath, directing most of his ire towards his unwanted passenger, Halil. He spoke in mostly Bulgarian, but his intent was clear enough. He seemed to be regretting his decision, and was unsure if he was ferrying enemies of his country. More than once, he looked like he wanted to push Halil off the side. I even saw him open a hidden compartment to check on a pistol before turning away.

Halil, true to his smiling self, remained cheerful and seemingly ignorant of the antagonism. He sat and talked with me, Jack, and even the captain, or stretched his long legs by walking up and down the ship. More than once he offered to help with the ropes, but he was aggressively denied.

My master remained as calm and unperturbed as ever. He sat in the cabin and stared at the receding water, nodding at conversation but offering little of his own. He seemed more anxious than normal. Indeed, there are few seas where an arcane student can safely travel without fear of attracting a Leviathan. At all times, he kept the strange bronze cube from Oxford close at hand.

Jack and the captain slept within the cabin at night, while Halil and I made the best of a spare sail on the deck. The air was clear and warm, and sleeping outdoors brought me back to my travels as a youth, before Jack’s father saved my life. I approached the captain the second morning, and offered to sail through that next night. He showed me the ways of the boat, of the ropes and rudder and mast, and that evening Halil and I talked pleasantly as we kept course in the slight breeze.

The fourth day dawned red. The rising sun illuminated rain clouds that had snuck up in the night, and by noon they fell upon us. We crammed into the cabin for shelter against an unseasonably icy wind.

By one o’clock the sea had become rough. Jack sat implacable, but the rest of us grew agitated. Halil’s smile started to slip, and we shivered with spray and precipitation.

“We should cut South and hug the coast,” ventured Halil, “for some protection from the wind.”

The captain glared. “Closer to the Ottoman shore, is that it?” he spat. “Do you want us to be spotted?”

“What does it matter?” I asked. The captain’s attitude was wearing on me, and the bleak day robbed me of my patience. “We’re a fishing ship. Let us be spotted. We hope to port at Trabzon this evening anyway.”

The captain met our glances, then, grumbling, adjusted the sails. The boat turned, and a rope tore loose in the gale. Halil ran to secure it, but the captain pushed the Ottoman aside and shouted something in Bulgarian. Halil tumbled and his arm struck the sharp metal edge of the cabin. I moved to help him up, but he waved me away and clutched at his bleeding hand.

As he got to his feet, something in Halil’s smile changed. His eyes grew dark and angry, and he responded to the captain in Turkish. The captain scowled and paled, but said no more, and Halil returned to the cramped comfort of the cabin. When the captain re-entered the covered area, he kept his eyes on the floor and pushed past us. As we watched, he retrieved his firearm from the hidden compartment and put it in his belt. With the weapon on his side, he met each of our eyes in turn, then returned to his post behind the wheel.

The wind continued to build, blowing us ever eastward. Soon the ship was lashed with rain, and strange balls of yellow lightning circled overhead. The captain ordered me back to the sails while he manned the wheel. Halil came to help, despite his injury and the shouts of the captain. By the time we came within sight of land, we were soaking wet and freezing cold. I thought fondly of the heat of Budapest. What I wouldn’t give to stand in the warm markets of Hungary again, smelling the sweets and spices. My thoughts drifted over the past few days as the storm intensified.

“Would you like me to subdue the captain?”

Halil’s question shocked me awake. His smiling face hovered inches from mine, black hair dripping in the rain. Trying not to convey my surprise, I looked across the whitecaps and shook my head.

“He has a firearm.” Halil continued. His grin looked quite mad in the stormy sea, and the fire in his eyes had not subsided.

I merely shrugged, doing my best to stay calm. “We are nearly to Trabzon. Just a few more hours, and we can leave the captain to his grumbling.” I stared out to sea, avoiding Halil’s gaze, and hoped that would be the end of it.

It was not.

“We should be rid of him.” Halil’s smile looked feral in the storm.

In that moment, as the ship tossed from wave to wave and rain streamed across the deck, I was reminded just how big the Ottoman was. His lanky frame seemed as tightly wound as the ropes that kept the sail in place. I thought back to the pleasant conversations of our automobile trip, and wondered at the tiger lurking underneath.

As I opened my mouth to answer, the ship shook, as if we had struck a rock. I stumbled and swung out to sea on the loosened boom, but Halil grabbed me and pulled me back. Moments later, the ship twisted and rose, and the sea rose with it, ten, twenty, thirty feet, on an immense swell, and then the vessel and the water came crashing down. The deck cracked, and the sea began pouring in.

My master was on his feet now. Bronze cube in hand, he ran to the side of the listing ship and leaned far over. The captain, bleeding from the fall, had drawn his pistol and looked about in bewilderment. Halil, ignoring the turbulent ocean, stalked towards the Bulgarian, murder in his smile.

As we watched, a shape larger than any whale lifted from the water beneath. It was a tangled mass of blue and gray flesh, twisted and rotted and scaled in turn. There was no front nor back, nor fins nor face, but only huge gray tendrils and, now emerging from the writhing ocean, a black eye as large as our ship.

“Leviathan!” shouted Jack. He twisted the cube in his hands, and it burned red, sizzling the rain and Jack’s flesh. He turned and threw it away from the writhing creature, then grabbed me and leapt into the water. The last thing I saw, before the churning sea enveloped me, was Halil and the Captain struggling for control of the pistol aboard the sinking ship.

I watched the chaos in the water and thought I had lost my quarry.

After the breaking of the Bosphorus, I hurried down to the Istanbul docks to find a ship for hire. This Leviathan was to be my White Whale. If I could follow it through the Black Sea, it would lead me straight to Jack.

The docks were in a state of disarray from the giant’s passing, but no serious damage had been done. Twenty smaller crafts lay tossed up on the boardwalk, with dozens of hardy sailors pulling them back down to the water. Many other citizens simply stood and stared across the Bosphorus, marveling in the wake of this disaster. A group of soldiers stood around one of the snapped Leviathan cables, examining the frayed edges. At a glance, I identified the shimmering heat of arcane runes. The Leviathan gate had been sabotaged by an arcane practitioner. Had it been the Bulgarians, intent on denying the Ottomans the sea? Or somebody else?

Istanbul’s sea gate had long stood as a guard against Leviathans entering the Black Sea. This was the only ocean in the world where magical ships could operate freely, without fear of Leviathan, and the Ottoman Government exacted a small but important tax on these vessels. With the protective barriers breached, and a Leviathan loose in the waters, these ships would need to be converted and the tax would end.

I found one such arcane ship tossed up on the boardwalk, its captain gazing blankly out to the sea. The ship, called the Trança, was a small pleasure vessel with an arcane motor. Little more than a glorified rowboat with a cabin, it would be fast and sleek on these tranquil waves. And it would be nearly worthless now - no sane seaman would risk the wrath of a Leviathan by taking a rune-marked ship to sea.

The captain felt the same way, and I was able to acquire the vessel for a pittance. Together, the captain and I pushed the ship back into the water, and I hopped aboard. I was relieved to leave Istanbul behind me, but wished that I had time to collect some things from my apartment. Besides my wallet, I only carried my pistol and notepad.

For two days I sped across the waves, gambling that Jack’s draw would be stronger than the draw of my boat. The last thing I wanted was to pull the Leviathan back to my small arcane engine. I followed the oily residue of the Leviathan’s wounds, not daring to sleep, and missing my Turkish coffee desperately. Instead, I meditated on my target and sailed in a trance, as I had learned to do in sleepless nights back in Egypt.

When the storm came, the trail nearly disappeared. Waves crashed around me, and the wind tossed froth aboard my tiny vessel. But my eyes discerned the oily residue of the Leviathan’s blood, growing fresher with every passing hour. I pushed forward with all the strength I could muster, hoping that the monster preferred magicians to arcane engines. If the Leviathan changed its mind, it might come for me instead.

Finally, I spotted them off the shore of Trabzon. The black ooze pointed directly to a tiny light twinkling out in the darkness. It disappeared and reappeared behind great surges of water for some minutes as I cautiously approached. Then, as I watched, it was swallowed up in a chaotic froth the likes of which I’d never seen. Through the tempest, I could just make out a writhing mass of black flesh and misshapen tentacles.

I shuddered. The Leviathan had them, and my journey was all for naught.

Fearing that the beast would come for me next, I changed course and beached my craft on the nearby shore. But just as I dragged my boat onto the land, I spotted two bedraggled men caught in the breakers. I hesitated for a moment, weighing the waves, then charged into the violent sea and dragged the men out. Choking and shivering, the three of us crawled to the safety of the chestnut trees. As we caught our breath, I examined the pair closely.

The boy was in his early twenties, dressed in the gentleman’s shirt and black pants of an English lordling. He was tall and extremely pale with cold, nearly unconscious from his efforts. His right hand was burned quite severely, as if he had grabbed a hot metal stove. The seared pattern on his palm was strange, but I could clearly make out magic runes.

The other man was short but athletic, perhaps in his early thirties. He had the build of a boxer, and he was not exhausted despite his grueling swim. He had somehow retained possession of a small piece of luggage which he had perhaps used as a buoy. Now, he paced around the boy, anxious and talking to himself in French. By his dress, demeanor, and actions, I surmised he was a butler.

I assessed the situation. I would not be able to confront them here and drag them both back to civilization. Jack would not cooperate, and I would have to kill the butler. Instead, I resolved to attach myself to them, then bring them in using the local constable once I acquired an arrest warrant in a British port.

“We should find shelter before your master freezes,” I said to the butler in French. “There’s a town a few minutes walk from here. We should go now.”

Absently, the butler nodded his head, and continued to pace. It was only when I repeated my concern that he stopped, and turned towards me as if seeing me for the first time.

“Merci!” he cried passionately, grabbing me by the hands. “I cannot thank you enough! I could not have passed the breaking waves without your help!”

“We should go,” I continued. “Your master needs a warm fire.”

The butler agreed emphatically, and helped his master to his feet. The boy grimaced but stood firm, and allowed us to help him through the trees.

“What is your name?” I asked the butler.

“Armand Allard.” He said. “And this is my Master, Jack Carrington.”

I nodded solemnly, as if I did not already know.

The three of us sat, and talked, and shivered in the stone house. The owner, a middle-aged woman named Aysun, served us black tea and sesame bread with polite disinterest. By her actions, foreigners washed up on her shores every day.

Our savior, the man who pulled us out of the waves, introduced himself as Friedrich. He was a small man with a slight jaw, jet black hair, and pale green eyes behind thin glasses. Despite his stature, he carried himself like a king in miniature. By his skin and features, he was North African, perhaps Egyptian.

He explained he was a bureaucrat from Germany off to the British Raj to deal with some discrepancies in shipping. He, like ourselves, was waylaid by the Balkan war and sought a speedy way to India.

“The Ottoman government commandeered all trains for military use. I rented a boat and made my way east, only to be held up by this storm.” Friedrich’s spectacles fogged from his tea, reflecting the small fireplace.

“And it’s a good thing you were!” I exclaimed. “Surely we would have drowned without your help.”

“I can only hope that Halil and the captain are safe as well.” said Jack, eyes distantly watching the fire. “I had no idea we were placing them in danger.” We had not seen the pair in the surf, though Jack had insisted on searching despite his weakened state.

As our host brought us another round of drinks, I stole a glance at Jack’s hand. The palm was badly burnt. Friedrich followed my eye.

“What happened to your hand, sir?” the Egyptian asked.

“It was burned in an arcane accident.” responded Jack.

“The wound looks fresh.”

“It is. It occurred some minutes ago, before the Leviathan took our ship.”

“I see. I have some small skill at tending wounds. Perhaps I could take a look?”

A flicker of distrust passed my master’s face, and then was gone. He offered his hand. Friedrich held it, and examined it closely. We sat in silence for several minutes, Jack resolute under the scrutiny, Friedrich bent over his arm with gleaming glasses. Only I fidgeted, waiting for the verdict. I know that hands are important to the arcane crafts.

Friedrich completed his examination, and rubbed his glasses absently with his shirt. “The sea cleaned the wound well. It will heal, though the arcane marks will fade into scars. I’ll ask our host for some bandages.”

Jack nodded. “I mentioned a Leviathan in the Black Sea, and you were not surprised. Are the waters compromised?”

“They are. I was at the Bosphorus when it happened, four days ago. An immense Leviathan broke the sea gates and crossed east.”

I must have gasped, for both men looked at me. Friedrich’s eyes were hard and cold. Jack’s were calm.

“Sirs!” I exclaimed. “What terrible news! The Black Sea was the last great sea unmolested by those monsters. As if the war wasn’t bad enough. Was anybody hurt?”

“I am not sure.” Friedrich replied. “There was certainly damage, but the destruction was slow enough that it was easy to avoid.”

“Monsieur,” I said to Jack. “Was it you that brought him on? Or perhaps that cube that you carry? It would have to be a powerful signal to lure a Leviathan through the gates! It’s …” I stopped abruptly, as Jack shot me a warning glance.

“An arcane artifact may have lured a Leviathan,” mused Friedrich. He leaned forward. “Do you still have it with you?”

“No!” I said. “We threw it overboard!”

But as I spoke, Jack reached into his jacket and produced the cube. It was cold again, but it glowed malevolently in the firelight. The bronze runes matched the red burns on Jack’s hand. The three of us admired the strange object for several moments.

“What is it?” For the first time since he had pulled us out of the water, Freidrich seemed excited. His green eyes sparkled with interest.

“Insurance. And quite unique.” Jack explained, turning the cube in his good hand. “When inactive, it is completely inert, emitting no magical aura whatsoever. But when activated it emits a powerful signal to drown out all others. Leviathan are drawn to it, and they ignore all other magic in the area. It returns to its owner after an hour, and then must recharge over the course of a day. Thus, it may buy an arcane student such as myself an hour’s respite if a Leviathan approaches.”

“May I see it?” asked Friedrich.

“Perhaps another time,” replied Jack. He placed the cube in his pocket and returned to drinking his tea.

After a long silence, Freidrich spoke again. “It would greatly interest me to hear how an Englishman and a Frenchman nearly drowned off the shore of Trabzon.”

And so, I explained the bet and our journey so far. Friedrich listened politely, asking a few pointed questions but otherwise saying nothing. I expected a challenge on the premise, but received none.

When I had finished, Friedrich looked at us each in turn. “It seems, then, that our meeting here will be mutually beneficial. I am headed to India. That indeed may be the next stop on your journey. Perhaps we could travel together for some time?”

I nodded my emphatic agreement, glad to gain a traveling companion who spoke the local language. My master also agreed, and we drank to the arrangement.

“But how are we to get there?” I asked, once the toast had been made.

“There is someone in Trabzon who I have come to see,” replied Jack.

At this moment, our host came and refilled our tea. She spoke briefly in Turkish, and Freidrich nodded, perplexed. He then turned to us.

“She asks about our travel arrangements to the dig site. Do you know of what she speaks?”

I shrugged in confusion, but my master responded. “Tell her we shall require horses in the morning. Tonight we will sleep here.”

The ride was not long, but it was arduous. I am not a horse lover. In the circus, the ringmaster tried to combine my act with the equestrians, but I spooked the horses, and the horses spooked me, and that was the end of it. By the looks of things, Friedrich was no more comfortable than I, though he rode with a stiffness that suggested some sort of military training.

Master Jack, of course, rode with all the ease and grace of an English gentleman raised on polo.

The dusty trail took us up through the hills of Trabzon, coated in olive trees and thin bushes. As we crested the low ridge, I took one last look at the sea that had almost drowned us yesterday. It was a clear, cool morning, without any indication of the turbulence of the previous night. I pointed out the view to my companions, but Friedrich only briefly scanned the horizon and my master rode steadily on without looking back.

“What are we expecting to find at the dig site, sir?” asked Friedrich.

“Something of use,” responded Jack. My master was unusually taciturn, perhaps suspicious of our new friend. “But, I’ll make no promises until I see it for myself.”

We rode for most of the day, stopping twice to eat the bread, goat cheese, and honey our host had graciously provided, and arrived at the mansion in early twilight. The strange building stood alone on a rocky outcropping overlooking an abandoned dig site. The ground had been segmented into squares by yellow yarn, and was pockmarked with shallow holes. Broken strings struggled in the light breeze, and discarded shovels rotted with rust.

The mansion was not much better. As we dismounted and approached the door, I remarked on the strangeness of the building in such a place. Friedrich nodded.

“It’s of Dutch style, but hastily constructed,” Friedrich said. He pointed out something around the porch that escaped my notice, then continued. “Most of the windows have not been open in months, though the first floor still gets some use.”

“You are very observant!” I said, impressed. “I would have never noticed such a thing.”

Jack knocked thrice on the door, then stepped back. His clothes had dried, but he still looked somewhat worse for wear. His black coat and pants were speckled with mud, and his burnt hand was tightly wound in a bandage. When we next reached civilization, I needed to find him a new outfit, though I dreaded the fee.

We waited in silence for several moments until the sound of heavy footsteps heralded the owner’s approach. It took the man another minute to open all the bolts and locks, and then he flung the door open as if in a fury.

The man who stood in the doorway was one of the biggest I’d ever seen. Sweat ran down his jowls and into a rich maroon suit. His face was contorted in rage, as if he expected his worst enemies at the door. Seeing only three strangers, he was momentarily confused. But he must have followed my eyes to his gut, for his first words to us were (in a heavy Dutch accent, but otherwise perfect English), “What? You think there’s nothing to eat in Anatolia?”

Taken aback by his gruff attitude, I was ready to respond in kind before my master stepped in.

“We are looking for the manager of this site.”

“You’ve found him!” boomed the man, almost shaking with anger. “And why, pray tell, have you come calling on the manager of this site? Looking to close me down?”

Jack remained impassive. “We are here to see your work.”

The heavy man threw up his hands in an outrage. “Now? After six months of silence? Has the company not received my letters? My discoveries?” He looked as if he wanted to shake Jack to pieces, then thought better of it. “The digs in Egypt have continued. The digs in Dholavira have continued. Why has the money stopped here? I cannot pay my workers without funding! Is it because a British college cannot stand such a find by a Dutch archaeologist?”

He strode back and forth glaring at us, but Jack made no reply. The man took a moment to collect himself, and then, rather like a petulant child, added, “I suppose you’d like to come in.”

We went in. The Dutchman closed the door and followed.

The inside of the house looked much like the outside; Dilapidated, underused, and hastily built. We entered a small library and made ourselves comfortable on a dusty leather sofa. The only light came in through a broken window. The man paced irritably, though without some of the fire of his original outburst. He glanced at us from time to time, then poured himself some jenever in a dirty glass.

“You’d like to see them, of course? You’re not going to shut me down without seeing them. They are incredible, if you can get them to work.” He held up his hands, as if expecting an interruption. “And they work, they work. You can get them to work. I don’t know why they didn’t work in Oxford. They work for me. Or they would if I didn’t eat so much.” He smacked his stomach and laughed awkwardly, then wilted under Jack’s cool gaze. I stifled a chuckle.

“We’d like to see them,” said Jack.

The man put down his undrunk glass and fidgeted anxiously, waiting for us to stand. Then, he led us through a dark hallway and down a flight of stairs into a dry cellar. Sunlight filtered through wooden slats above, reflecting off motes of dust and illuminating large boxes half-covered in tarps.

We waited patiently, and the man became more and more nervous as he searched through the crates. I marveled at the effect Jack was having on the Dutchman. To make other men fuss and sweat through inaction was a great skill indeed.

Finally, the Dutchman found what he was looking for. He waddled over to a clay urn as large as a man, removed the lid with great effort, extracted a faded rug, and laid it on the dusty ground. He then gestured at the carpet, as if this answered all our questions.

More confused than ever, I glanced at my companions. Friedrich, behind his circular spectacles, seemed to have suddenly understood. His green eyes pierced the unassuming fabric. Jack looked more eager than I’d ever seen him. Usually the picture of calm, his face was flushed as he bent down to examine the rug more closely.

“I don’t know why they didn’t work,” repeated the Dutchman, wringing his hands.

“They didn’t work,” said Jack, almost to himself, “Because you sent them to the wrong department.”

Suddenly, I understood. “Aha!” I blurted out. “Sir, you came across these as a student at Oxford!”

“A student?” asked the Dutchman in sudden disbelief. He looked at me. “Then you aren’t here from the Board?”

“What Board?” I asked. “We’re traveling around the world!”

A stoney, confused silence followed. Jack turned his cold glare on me, and the fat man flushed and then redoubled his earlier vitriol. I wilted as I realized what I’d done.

“A mere student!” shouted the Dutchman, raised to new levels of outrage. “Not from the Board at all! Cads! Thieves! Thinking to make off with what you can, as it pleases you. I’ll have none of it! These are my findings! I’ll throw you out! You won’t get a single broken pot! Kolere! Pest!” And here he slipped into a string of Dutch expletives I recognized from my time on the merchant ships.

“They didn’t work,” repeated Jack, cutting in sharply. “Because you sent them to the wrong department.”

Our host was beside himself, but at last Jack’s point got through. Quivering with unrealized violence, his curiosity got the better of him. “What do you mean,” he sputtered, his face a violent purple, “The wrong department?”

Jack turned his stare away from me and onto the Dutchman. “You sent your carpets to the College of Teleportation, thinking they would be best to analyze such a relic. There, the carpets wound up in the hands of a Professor Gabriel Skimp, who specializes in Teleportation.”

“What of it?”

“Professor Skimp has a vested interest in downplaying the importance of all transportation magic except for Teleportation. When the carpets did not work immediately, he dismissed the artifact as bogus, wrote a letter rescinding funding for your operation, and gave the carpet to his least favorite student - me - to study.”

The Dutchman looked incredulous. “This is a more fanciful story than your original lie!”

Jack stood up straight in the dusty cellar. “Sir,” he continued sharply, “I told no lie. I am not, and have never claimed to be from the Oxford Board of Antiquities.”

The Dutchman started to sputter, but Jack continued on. “When I studied the carpet at Oxford, I determined the true origin of its failure. The craftsmen of the Persian Empire wove these levitation runes, likely in the 6th century BC. The carpets were used to transport noblemen and philosophers across the empire, stretching from Macedonia to the great Indus River in India. In order to make them useless in enemy hands, the carpets only fly within the ancient bounds of the empire. Oxford was never Persian, and thus the carpets would not work there. Professor Skimp, of course, dismissed my findings.”

There was a long pause. Friedrich, staring at the unassuming tapestry, murmured, “A true magic carpet.”

The Dutchman licked his lips and spoke. “So, you believe me then? They aren’t worthless rugs? They are the magic carpets of Persian legend?” His fire had run out again, and he wrung his hands anxiously.

“The carpets fly,” my master said simply. The Dutchman sagged heavily and leaned against a crate, as if a great tension was let out of him. Jack continued. “What’s more, I intend to prove it. I am currently engaged in a wager against this same Professor Skimp who shorted you your chance at glory. I am to travel around the world in 81 days, without the use of teleportation. If I succeed, my journey will likely be the subject of some publicity. Should I use one of your magic carpets to complete my voyage, then I am sure your work would be funded and praised by Archaeological societies world-wide.”

Jack let the moment hang in the air. The Dutchman stood for several minutes, his face fluctuating between rage and confusion. Finally, to my great surprise, he let out a booming laugh.

“What a story! What a story! But what do I have to lose? The carpets are worthless to me now. Take one. Take two! But when you get to Oxford, you give this Professor of yours a thrashing!”

We took three.

I stood before the ragged carpet and considered my options.

First, the carpet simply would not fly. My quarry and I would proceed on another, more scientific path. I would not need to trust in unresearched arcane relics and Jack would not make his trip around this world. But as his entire journey was probably a misdirection, his success mattered little.

Second, the carpet would fly perfectly and deliver us, whole and unharmed, to the Indus River and possibly beyond. However, a magic carpet is not a steam train, with precise engineering and logical systems. Even if it did fly perfectly, there was always the chance that it would, without warning, cease to fly and go limp with its passenger hundreds of feet in the air. I’d seen too many magical artifacts unexpectedly fail to discount this possibility.

Third, the carpet would fly, somewhat. There are many degrees between failure and flight, but nearly all of them end with death.

I stood in the dust on that cool summer morning, staring at a limp piece of fabric at my feet, and desperately hoped that the carpet would not fly.

Armand bubbled with positivity, evidently oblivious to the unfortunate probabilities in front of us. “My dear Friedrich!” he cried jovially. “You look pale as a sheet. Are you afraid of heights?”

I repeated my inner mantras and tried to stay calm, but my hands shook as I cleaned my spectacles.

“Not at all, sir. I simply wish there was an easier way forward.”

“What could be easier than a magic carpet?” said Armand.

Jack calmly circled his carpet. “You pulled us out of the ocean, sir. I owe you a great debt. I would hate to leave you stranded here, but you could always buy a horse. I would be happy to give you the funds to do so.”

I was sorely tempted, but my path was clear. I could not arrest Jack here, in the middle of the Ottoman Empire. If it came to blows, Armand would likely overpower me despite my firearm. And I could not march them hundreds of miles to a British Jail. Once we arrived in the Raj, I would acquire an arrest warrant by telegraph and borrow several police officers to subdue the pair. Until then, I needed to stay with Jack.

“Your offer is generous, sir, but I am afraid the company needs me urgently in Lahore.”

The Dutchman watched anxiously. His anger of the day before had vanished, replaced with a restless energy. He paced back and forth, explaining the mechanisms and eager to see us off.

“You just sit on the center, though kneeling is better, and grab firm hold of the sides. Pull up the front to go up, and push down to go down. You twist to go the direction you like. Hovering is tricky, but you must push down while angling your hands up. Like this. That’s all there is to it.”

“How fast are they?” I asked.

“About the speed of a galloping horse, once you push them.”

“Is there a preferred altitude?”

“They seem to go faster when you get higher, but we could not verify that.”

“Do they run out of power over time?”

“They use levitation runes, so it seems unlikely.”

“Why is kneeling better?”

The Dutchman threw up his hands in frustration, as if such an important activity could be over-analyzed. “Better balance. Try it for yourself. You’ll learn better that way.”

Armand leapt eagerly upon his carpet, and Jack sat upon his own. They both looked at me.

“Where should we land?” I asked, not moving.

“Paardereet! A flat area! I’ve been answering questions all morning. Are you riding or not?”

Armand smiled gently at me. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. He says it will come naturally.”

I was not assuaged. This was why I hated magic: too little data, too much trust. Magic is supposed to “come naturally,” to be felt and intuited, not be measured or analyzed. Ludacris. Unbidden, images of Alexandria during the bombardment came to my mind. The caustic smoke. The screams.

I could feel myself shaking.

Saying a silent prayer to Allah, I knelt upon the carpet and moved until I was precisely centered. I dried the sweat off my hands, and tried to clear my head by counting the timeworn threads. I adjusted the tassel until each lay perpendicular to the rug. Then, somewhat calmed, I grabbed the edges of the carpet.

And I was off.

The initial jolt nearly knocked me off the carpet, and in my panic I steered into a sharp climb. Wind whipped in my eyes, and the sun blinded me. By the time I regained control and leveled the carpet out, I was several hundred feet above the ground, hurling at great speed through empty air.

My hands were soaked with sweat and I shivered desperately. I watched in terror as my spectacles slowly slid down my nose. Could I let go of one side to push my spectacles back up? Would the carpet plummet out of the sky? Was kneeling a mistake? My flight had pushed me back a bit, off center. But I was frozen. There was nothing but air around me. Was I losing my grip? I was losing my grip!

And then I heard a laugh.

Armand, casual and smiling, appeared beside me. His eyes watered in the wind, but he turned, let go of one side of the carpet, and waved. His carpet did not plummet out of the sky. Taking the risk, I released my grip and adjusted my spectacles. The carpet slowed slightly, but nothing more.

Armand pushed steadily ahead, looking about in wonder. Jack came up beside him, and the two kept a steady pace for some minutes. Gradually my panic returned, until Armand again slowed and came alongside. His face was gentle.

“Friedrich, if you are not afraid of heights then you should admire the view.”

I realized that in these long minutes, that I had not looked about. With great effort and a churning stomach, I peered over the edge of the carpet.

Rolling green hills extended to the horizon, dotted with towns and groves of trees. Behind, the ocean seemed a sheet of blue silver, reflective of the clear sky. To the east, below the rising sun, wide rivers cut shallow valleys into low mountains. I could see far and wide, an entire landscape and culture all within my view.

My heart calmed. My breathing slowed. It was wonderful to be above it all, and to see the world so clearly, to observe and catalog every mote of data. As if it were a giant map, with nothing hidden. I was the eye of Allah, piercing every secret, reading every contour and every tree. Nothing could surprise me. The journey was revealed.

“Friedrich,” said Armand, “Would you believe you are smiling?”

I will never forget those days of flight.

By day, we flew straight into the east, hundreds of feet above the ground, soaring with the warblers and robins. When the sun set, we slept in quiet groves or welcoming farming villages. The people of Anatolia treat their guests well. We never paid for food, and received many simple but fine gifts. By our third day of travel, we were laden with long scarves and heavy coats with which to endure the wind. On our fourth day, a fine old shepard, blind with age, gifted us sheepskin bedrolls. We spent the next night under a warm summer sky.

Friedrich, despite his initial fears, grew to love the heights. As we flew, he pointed out the strangeness of the landscape, ancient ruins, dry riverbeds, and golden wildflowers. I suspect that knowledge is a comfort for him, and the unknown sets him on edge. Once he realized he could see perfectly from the air, he sought to go higher and higher.

On our first flight, I am ashamed to say that Jack reprimanded me severely. My loose tongue had almost cost us with the Dutchman, and I bore my master’s cold disapproval badly. As Jack admonished me, I recalled my debt to his father with shame. For several days Jack flew ahead of us, riding stiffly as one might ride a horse and favoring his uninjured hand. But with each passing sunrise, his stance became more casual, and he spent more time listening to us talk and commenting on our surroundings.

One morning we dined on wild boar in a remote hunter’s lodge. When Jack learned that the hunter’s daughter was mortally sick and unable to travel by horseback, he offered to fly her to the nearest doctor. Jack took her aboard his magic carpet, leaving Friedrich and I to rest.

“The nearest city is several hour’s flight away,” observed Friedrich, sitting on a fine bench the hunter had carved. “Jack is wasting a day with this flight.”

I laughed. “It would be impossible to stop him. Jack would gladly give his own life to save another’s. To add an additional day to this trip is well worth the risk.”

“You seem very certain of your master’s charitable nature.”

My smile disappeared. “His father’s death made an indelible impression upon him. Upon both of us.”

Friedrich raised an eyebrow. “What happened to his father?”

I realized that I had overstepped, and stood, brushing the twigs from my furs. “Perhaps I’ll tell you another time. I’d like to stretch my legs before Jack gets back.”

Friedrich let the matter rest. Jack returned that evening with the girl and medication, and we spent a warm night in the hunter’s lodge.

By noon on the fifth day, we reached the Caspian Sea. We followed its southern coast and made camp in a green cove surrounded by ancient trees. On the seventh day, we entered into the long rocky deserts of Persia. For several days, we sped over this desolate landscape, rationing our food and water as best we could. Even so, we were parched and hungry by the time the great Himalayas loomed up in front of us. We paused under the midday sun by a cold stream to refill our canteens.

Our traveling trio looked quite different when we had left Trabzon, mere days ago. The sun had darkened Jack’s and my skin, and all three of us had exchanged our European garb for the more appropriate Persian furs we had received.

“How will we know when we reach the Indus?” I asked, rinsing the dust from my face in the icy water.

“When our carpets lose their flight,” said Jack simply.

Friedrich looked concerned. “Would it not be more prudent to stop and seek directions soon? Arcane artifacts are famously unpredictable. We should not risk our lives to gain a day or two of travel.”

Jack shook his head. “You are welcome to land and proceed on foot when it best suits you. I, however, have made a gentleman’s wager, and both my honor and twenty thousand pounds rely on speed. I am already behind schedule, and I cannot afford to lose another day. Armand and I will continue until the magic in these carpets fail.”

Friedrich, having come so far with us already, could do little but agree.

The weather turned sour the next day. Low clouds rolled in from the mountain peaks to our north, and by late morning we flew through banks of fog. Through the breaks, we could see the landscape rapidly change from rocky waste to grassy hills. By that evening, we camped on the edge of a vibrant rainforest.

Friedrich fidgeted with anxiety. He had grown accustomed to the expansive views of the carpet, and the clouds robbed him of his vision. Again he repeated his concerns, and again Jack stressed the necessity for speed. We camped that night, hungry and disquieted, under a heavy blanket of mist, insects, and birdsong.

We awoke to a warm rain.

“Well, we must certainly proceed on foot now,” said Friedrich. “I spotted a village yesterday some miles back. It would take no more than a few hours to reach it, assuming the path is clear.”

“I will be proceeding by air,” said Jack, “but I will be sorry to see you go.”

“Surely you do not mean to fly in the rain?”

“I do.”

Friedrich removed and cleaned his spectacles again. “It seems far too risky. Do the carpets work in the damp?”

“I assume they must.”

“Will the weather turn worse? Imagine it should storm, and lightning strikes us. Will there be a place for us to land? What if we should cross the Indus in a fog, and fall to the earth?”

I put a hand on the man’s shoulder. He was shaking slightly. “My friend, there is nothing to fear! The carpets will fly, and we will be with you every step of the way.”

Friedrich merely shook his head and turned away. By the time we were ready to leave, he had made up his mind to come with us.

I feigned confidence as we began our ascent, but I too was concerned for our flight. Only Jack seemed unaffected. Soaked with rain, he gripped the sides of his carpet as any other day and rose into the mists. I followed and slowly circled above Friedrich, who remained on the earth. After a few moments, he too lifted off.

The rain stayed with us, but the carpets seemed no worse for the damp. The fog, however, was a serious concern. Mere minutes after we began our flight, we completely lost sight of the ground. I tried making a casual remark to Friedrich, but he seemed deaf to my words. I could see him flit in and out of the fog, teeth gritted, desperately searching our surroundings for something solid. As he squeezed his carpet tighter, he moved faster.

“Hey there!” I shouted after him. “Slow down!” He nodded but did not adjust his course.

Jack and I sped after the man. White mist enveloped us, and rain soaked our skin. We struggled to keep up, but the banks of fog occasionally obscured him. Once, a massive tree loomed out of the gray, and Friedrich pitched into a sharp climb to avoid it. Jack and I were forced to do the same.

“Slow down!” I shouted again, now seriously concerned.

“We have to get above the fog,” came a breathless whisper from above. “We have to get a vantage point.”

“Slow down!” I repeated. But the panicked man only proceeded faster. I glanced at Jack. My stoic master knitted his brows in concern.

I do not know how long this chase went on. Friedrich sped ever upward, ever eastward, dancing in and out of our vision. Once, for several minutes, I lost sight of both Jack and Friedrich altogether. I flew across an empty gray canvas and nearly capsized without any sense of up or down. I thought I saw a yellow light, like the ball lightning in the Black Sea storm, and heard a strange voice chanting in the distance. As it intoned, the wind twisted me ever higher. But when I strained my ears it was gone.

Then Jack caught up to me, and together we called out for Friedrich. It was only by chance that a momentary break in the fog revealed him far above us, and we were on the scent again.

After a long while, we caught up with him. It was cold now, very cold, and the warm rain had turned to ice. Friedrich’s spectacles were completely fogged, and the man was shivering. I considered leaping aboard his carpet to commandeer it, but the risk was far too great. Who knew how high we were?

“Friedrich,” I whispered through chattering teeth. “We have to go down.”

The man seemed exhausted. He numbly nodded, but merely repeated, “I can’t see. I can’t see. I can’t see.”

At this moment, the carpets shuddered. Some electric tension went out of them, and all upward movement ceased. We held our breaths.

“We’ve crossed the Indus,” said Jack quietly.

We began to glide. Our carpet’s movements became stiff and unresponsive. I tried to slow, but instead began a rapid, twisting descent. With effort, I pushed the carpet forward and regained some control.

“Keep up the momentum,” said Jack, taking the lead. “If you stop, your carpet will plummet from the sky.”

We slid silently through the clouds. Friedrich, no longer able to keep his mad rush, bent over his carpet like a beaten man. He breathed slowly, and muttered to himself in Arabic. I moved close to comfort him, when suddenly his head snapped up.

“Look out!” he choked.

A wall of stone loomed in front of us. Jack twisted his carpet up, and I followed, but Friedrich veered to the left. Jack and I smashed over the lip of the cliff and tumbled roughly onto the snow, but Friedrich’s carpet tore on an outcropping and ripped, and the man fell into the fog.

I awoke to cold, damp darkness. The ground was hard, but I was covered by a thin blanket of animal fur. Shivering, I eased myself up and rubbed my aching head.

The room was small, illuminated only by white moonlight through a shuttered window. Wind howled outside. In the gloom, I perceived another shape sitting beside me.

“Sir?” I ventured.

“Here, Armand,” replied Jack. The shape turned towards me. I could sense that he was shivering too.

“Sir, where are we?”

“In a Hindu monastery.”

I glanced around our barren room. “Are we … guests?”

“Prisoners.”

My head swam. I clutched in the darkness to remember anything, and then …

“Friedrich!” I cried. “His carpet ripped on the cliffside. Did he …?” My voice trailed off.

Jack’s voice remained steady. “He fell into the clouds.”

We sat silent for some time, listening to the wind.

At great length, Jack spoke again. “After we crashed into the mountain, you hit your head and fell unconscious. We lay in a crevice of snow and rock, and I bandaged your wound as best I could. Soon, I heard voices approaching through the mist. Three men dressed in red robes came upon us. We spoke no common language, but they helped carry you up great winding steps to a large stone complex. They gave me vegetable soup and tea, and laid you down on a cot to rest.”

“I almost remember,” I said, rubbing my head. It was all a fog. “I seem to recall the lights, and the warmth.”

“By the time night fell, we were communicating in basic signs. I tried to explain our method of arrival, and our need to get to Lahore as soon as possible. I took a map out of our luggage, which had survived the crash, but as I did the Leviathan Lure tumbled out. When the monks saw the cube, they immediately became hostile. They carried us away to this cell and locked us in.”

I moaned. “More bad luck! Sir, if we are delayed long you will not be able to make it back to Oxford in time!”

Suddenly, another shape stirred in the room. A pile of rags, barely illuminated by moonlight, sat up and murmured “Pardon me - did you say Oxford?”

The voice was feminine and dreamy, as if the speaker had just woken up from a deep sleep. I was too stunned to reply. Jack, however, responded with politeness. “Yes, madam. Royal Oxford Academy of Arcane Studies. I will be starting my third year there as a student.”

The voice continued, musing. “Ah, Oxford. Grandfather of innovation, grandson of invention. Dusty ancients, living museums, and intellectual jungles, all wrapped up in an ivory tower. I was a professor there, once upon a time. Did you know that?”

Even Jack hesitated at this. “I confess I did not.”

“It’s quite true. I suppose I still am a professor there. I don’t know quite how long I’ve been gone. It seems quite a while, but it’s hard to tell. I’ve nothing to write with.” From her voice, the speaker was natively Indian, but had learned English under the Raj. “They let me out every day for meditation. They are trying to purify me from the arcane, like squeezing water from a cloth. I keep trying to tell them I cannot cast magic since the accident, but,” she sighed, “they don’t believe me. They hate magic here. Isn’t that sad? That’s why they took away your Leviathan Lure. You know there’s only one Lure in all the world. How lonely…”

Jack paused, then asked. “Professor Vyas?”

The voice laughed musically. “Oh! Please call me Saanvi. Do you know me? Did I teach you?” Her hands reached out to feel Jack in the darkness.

“No, Professor. But I have heard of you. You were the head of the Teleportation Department before Professor Skimp. If I recall correctly, you attempted to teleport to India last year, but instead disappeared.”

Saanvi sighed again. “Oh yes. The accident. I’m afraid I was quite off course. I wound up here, and a little there, and something,“ that light laugh again, “something popped inside my head. Like the bottom going out of a tea kettle. I can’t even produce a basic heat rune now. If I could, it would be a bit warmer in here.” Another laugh. “But you’ve got to stay cool to stay warm sometimes. I like your coat.”

By now, I had recovered a bit from my shock. “Madam,” I said, “My name is Armand Allard. Allow me to introduce my master, Jack Carrington. Mr. Carrington is currently engaged in a trip around the world, and twenty thousand pounds are at stake. We must find a way out at once.”

“Oh, there’s no way out,” said Saanvi. She laughed softly again, and then sighed. “We’re locked in here tighter than a yolk in an egg.”

The door opened at daybreak. Three monks walked in, accompanied by a chill morning air. I quickly sized them up. I had certainly beaten bigger men during my days as a boxer, but they moved as if great muscle and agility lay under their red robes. The man in front, a heavyset teenager with a deep scowl, might be a particular challenge. I prepared to lunge, but Jack steadied me with his hand and a shake of his head.

The teenager spoke some harsh words in a language I did not understand. I replied in some equally harsh words in a language that he did not understand. The men moved forward to grab us, and Saanvi murmured, “They’d like you to go with them. But I think you understood that.”

In the cold light of day, I got my first look at Saanvi. She was younger than I expected, perhaps in her early 30’s, and of Indian origin. Despite her year of captivity, she seemed relatively healthy and fit. She was dressed in clean brown robes and a shawl, under which her large brown eyes stared dreamily. Her short brown hair partially covered a white scar that ran down her scalp to her left temple.

I stared at the woman in puzzlement. She seemed too young to be a professor, and foreign professors were rare. Female professors were rarer still. Besides all that, she spoke and moved in a strange, ethereal manner that seemed like benign madness. How had she become the head of a prestigious Department at Oxford?

The pale light revealed our living quarters, which appeared less desolate in the morning sun. The ground, though hard, was covered in animal skins. Our Persian furs lay folded in the corner. Our luggage, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Saanvi rose and went outside. Jack followed, and after a moment so did I.

The morning was clear and crisp. Cold sunlight illuminated snow-capped mountains to the north while jagged hills cascaded down to the south. The monastery itself was built into a rough cliff. It comprised three stone buildings, little more than windowed white cubes around a square courtyard. The fourth side of the courtyard emptied into the air.

A dozen red-robed monks sat in quiet meditation around the temple grounds. Our guards led us to an older man with a wrinkled brown face and thin whiskers. Saanvi knelt before him, and Jack followed suit. The surly teenager pushed me to the ground when I hesitated.

The old man spoke, keeping his eyes closed. After some time, Saanvi translated.

“Master Chetas welcomes you to his monastery. He hopes that you will find peace here, and choose a life of sannyasa. You should spend your time casting off all worldly needs and rejecting any evil pursuits of power. He knows that you are sorcerers, or at least traffickers in arcane goods. He hopes that you should renounce such methods, and instead replace them with peaceful meditation.”

Jack nodded respectfully. “Please thank him for his hospitality.” I suppressed a scoff, but Jack continued on, “And ask him if we may leave freely.”

Saanvi smiled, then translated.

“He says that you are guests, but you should not leave until you have rejected the arcane arts. If he were to encourage you to leave, then you would bring more corruption into the world below. He hopes that you will understand.”

Jack bristled. “I am a citizen of the British Empire, an Anglican, and a gentleman. By what right does he keep us prisoner?” Again Saanvi translated.

“As a sādhu, Master Chetas claims no jurisdiction over man or beast. However, he has a divine mandate to keep the world free from evil. He invites you to stay here and improve yourself. He knows that you will not refuse his simple hospitality.”

“We most certainly will,” I cried, leaping to my feet. “How do we get off this cliff? I see no stairs.”

The large teenager struck me hard in the head, and the world went white with pain. I hit the ground. When I could see again, Saanvi was smiling at me in distant confusion.

“There’s no way out of the monastery,” she said. “There are no stairs down. You would have to scale the cliffside like a monkey, fly like a sparrow, or fall like a stone.”

Slowly, I returned to my knees. Chetas continued speaking, apparently leading a meditation, but Saanvi no longer translated.

Once it was clear that my glares produced no effect, I moved to a sitting position. Jack followed some minutes after. We sat there for perhaps an hour, listening to the droning voice of Chetas and shivering in the mountain air. It took all my effort not to leap upon the sādhu, but I could sense that Jack did not want a violent escape.

Finally hot vegetable soup was brought, and I drank it hungrily. The monks bowed to Chetas, then returned to their work about the monastery. When our meal was finished, Chetas bowed deeply to us, and the surly teenager brought us back to our cells. They kept Saanvi for questioning.

“Absurd!” I shouted, pacing about our small room. “They have no right to keep us prisoner, nor to judge your arcane abilities. We must escape immediately, or you will never win your bet!”

Jack nodded. “We must be ready to leave at a moment's notice. Look for weaknesses in our guards, or distractions in their attitudes. When I give you the signal, we will flee as quickly and quietly as possible. I do not know exactly when the moment will come, but be ready for anything.”

I do not do well in confinement. I am an active man by nature, and enjoy long walks, runs, or swims. Open air does me a great service. I was imprisoned once for vagrancy in Switzerland, and the week of captivity weighed heavily on my nerves. I paced the room in agitation while Jack sat quietly. How he could rest in such circumstances was beyond me.

In the afternoon, Saanvi returned to us and we ate our second meal of vegetable soup. Jack questioned her calmly as to the workings of the monastery and Saanvi told us everything she knew in her serene voice. It was home to perhaps two dozen monks who maintained no communication with the outside world. The monks got everything needed from the mountains. Our luggage was being kept in an adjacent room, until Chetas could determine what to do with it. Our room was kept locked by a heavy outer bar, but no key.

Saanvi was surprisingly blasé about her captivity. She seemed to lack any real motivation to escape, and held no ill will towards her captors. I could not imagine being so indifferent to incarceration. Jack, however, included her in his plans for escape, and Saanvi made no objections.

Afternoon lapsed into evening, and our cell grew dark. The sounds of activity outside gradually died, until an evening prayer finally carried it away. My nervous energy had run its course and I completed my evening exercises in silence, but sleep would not come. Saanvi had been stuck here for a year. How long would we remain? I tried to imagine spending day after day trapped in meditation and confinement. Nothing was more antithetical to my impulses.

“Sir, did you see a light in the fog yesterday?” I asked Jack, suddenly remembering the strange events of the day before. “And hear a voice? It sounded like a mage chanting a spell.”

Jack frowned in the darkness. “I heard nothing. It may have simply been the wind. Get some sleep, Armand. We do not know what tomorrow will bring.”

Restless, I covered myself in furs and tried to close my eyes.

I must have drifted off eventually, for Jack shook me lightly awake. The room was dark. Moonlight entered through the shuttered window, and the red glow of a torch danced on the walls. I was about to question my master when I heard the sounds of movement outside. The torchlight shifted, and we heard the bar on our door open. Jack nodded, and I quickly got into position beside the opening. As the door creaked open, I prepared to pounce on our visitor.

It was Friedrich.

I was surprised to be alive.

My accident had deposited me on an exposed outcropping hidden by fog. The magic carpet was in tatters. Jack and Armand were gone. Even worse, my spectacles had been lost in the crash. My pistol, at least, remained intact. As I lay there, shivering in the cold and recovering from my panic, I considered my options.

First, I could abandon my pursuit, attempt to descend the cliff, make my way through the dense Indian jungle with no supplies, and try to find my way back to civilization.

Second, I could ascend into the foggy Himalayas without food, shelter, or spectacles, find my quarry, and leave with him. Once we arrived in a Raj stronghold, I would acquire the necessary arrest warrant from the constable and take Jack in.

I am no stranger to difficult discussions and ambiguous situations. As a detective, discovering the unknown and clarifying the complicated brings me great satisfaction. However, I do not enjoy when the facts are impossible to obtain.

When we boarded our carpets, there was no way to predict our outcome, no insight I could glean from the facts at hand. My feelings reversed when I took to the air, and could see further than I ever had in my life.

Then came the rain, and the clouds. I am no stranger to fits of panic. An attack gripped me when hunting the Mad Minstrel of Kiev. Another took me for no reason at all in the dead of a hot Prussian night. But my ascent into the fog, without any detail or point of reference, shook me to my core. I was returned to the bombardment of Alexandria, with arcane smoke boiling around corners and tearing the city to shreds. I am ashamed to say that I panicked beyond reason.

Following Jack and Armand into the clouds would mean going further into the unknowable. Descending into the jungle at least gave me something to grasp, to see, to analyze, and to solve. But could I abandon my quarry after so much trouble?

These were the thoughts that passed through my head in the minutes after my crash.

I was on the verge of descending, and leaving this whole case behind me, when I heard voices somewhere above. The language was Indo-Aryan, though I could not understand it. Something about the tone gave me pause, until I heard Jack speaking. He was nearby, and he sounded hurt.

Cautiously, I scrambled up the cliffside. I am not blind without my spectacles, but the slick rock was blurred and uncertain before me. After several anxious minutes of ascent, I arrived on a small perch overlooking a simple Hindu monastery. I was about to reveal myself to the various crimson clad monks in the courtyard when I heard the sounds of commotion, and Jack and Armand were dragged roughly across the square, tossed in a cell, and barred in.

Despite my reservations, I could not leave them now.

The night on my perch was cold, but my furs kept me comfortable enough. I am a light sleeper, but I do not toss and turn - if I did, there’s a good chance I would have rolled off the cliffside. I woke up regularly throughout the night to observe the monks, their shifts, and their routines. The fog cleared by daybreak, and I was relieved to get an unobscured view of my surroundings. I watched Jack, Armand, and a northern Indian woman dragged from their cell and brought before a leader, then returned an hour later. And I watched how roughly they were treated, which monks slept where, and what sort of men they were.

By the time night fell again, I had enough information to work with. I would have liked to observe longer, but hunger and weakness were beginning to overtake me.

The moon was waning that night - enough to see by, but hopefully not enough to be seen by. Some hours after sunset, I crept silently down from the ledge. A single monk meditated in the courtyard, looking out from the cliff onto the hills below. I considered pushing him from the edge or knocking him unconscious, but the risk of discovery was too great. Keeping low, I inched across the courtyard until I reached Jack and Armand’s cell. Keeping my pistol ready, I raised the bar as quietly as I could and opened the door.

Armand pounced on me. His hug raised me high into the air and I was afraid my pistol, caught in his embrace, would go off.

“Friedrich!” he exclaimed, quite forgetting our circumstance. “We thought you had fallen!”

Jack put a hand on his butler’s shoulder to calm him, and nodded at me. “I am glad to see you again, Friedrich. Let me introduce you to Professor Saanvi Vyas of Oxford College. She will be accompanying us out.”

The woman smiled distantly at me, then rose as if she would have stayed if not for Jack’s invitation. A professor at Oxford? There was no time to process that now. I hurried the three of them out of their cell when I heard a cry of alarm. Whether from my movement, raising the bar on the cell, or Armand’s exclamation, the meditating monk had heard us. He shouted again and then rushed into one of the buildings.

“He’s shouting for the others to capture us. He seems quite upset,” translated the Professor, sleepily. She yawned.

“Quickly,” I said, raising my pistol and scanning the courtyard. “The cliff is less steep on the eastern edge. If we hurry we can get a head start, but we must be careful when climbing down.”

Jack shook his head. “My luggage is locked next door, and I cannot leave the Leviathan Lure behind. Armand, retrieve it and the carpets. Professor, if you would follow me.”

I began to argue, but Armand moved swiftly to the building nearby. As he approached it, the door swung open, and a large young man stared blearily out.

“Bonsoir,” said Armand and struck the man on the chin with a powerful blow. The youth went down instantly, and I couldn’t help but admire Armand’s form. How did this man become a butler? He disappeared into the room, then reappeared a moment later with the luggage, a rolled-up carpet under each arm, and a massive grin. He took great pains to step on the unconscious monk as he left.

I followed Armand to the cliffside, then looked back at Jack. He led Saanvi gently by the hand. The professor walked as if in a dream, looking around in idle amusement. I cursed as six monks entered the courtyard, hoping that Jack would leave her behind. Why would he risk all of our lives for somebody who didn’t even care about being saved? I rushed forward and grabbed Saanvi, then dragged her towards the cliff.

“Sirs, we cannot carry the carpets down the cliffside,” I said, glancing at the monks running towards us. “Let us leave them. We need to descend as quickly as possible!”

Jack instructed Armand. “Lay the carpets out, we will use them to descend. There are only two of them, and they will need to carry all four of us.” He grabbed the professor by the hand, and they held one carpet between them. “Armand and Friedrich, you will have to share. Hold each other, hold the carpet, and leap out over the cliff.”

Panic gripped me again.

“We are past the Indus!” I recoiled at the fear in my voice and tried to steady myself. “We do not know if the carpets can carry two adults!”

Jack looked at me somberly. “This is the opportunity presented to us. I believe they will continue to glide, and take us down to the valleys below.”

Armand squeezed my hand. “Monsieur, we have to choose between an uncertain fate and certain imprisonment.” The monks were closing in. “For my part, I choose a leap of faith. But we need to leap together.” He smiled.

Despite my panic, Armand’s smile calmed me. I gripped his hand and held the carpet aloft with the other. He did the same. Somehow, I nodded. My life was Allah’s now.

We ran off the cliff, and leapt.

The carpet held us.

We did not fall.

We flew.

The carpets took us farther than any of us had guessed.

They lost altitude only slowly throughout the night. By sunrise we were miles away from the mountains, gliding high over endless farmland and villages.

We followed Jack’s compass and Saanvi’s knowledge of the area. She had evidently grown up near Lahore, our destination. She retained her far-off, dreamy attitude, enjoying the ride but no more impressed by it than our unusual furs.

Jack prohibited us from landing - we would fly until our carpets could carry us no further. Despite my exhaustion, I had no protest. This would likely be my last carpet ride for a long time. Hopefully, I would not need to put my faith in the arcane again.

By the time evening fell, we had a good bearing. Our carpets had fallen halfway to the ground and we still rode several hundred feet in the air. Armand and Saanvi rested, while Jack and I directed our respective carpets. I gained another measure of respect for the man, as I watched him fend off sleep. Shortly after two in the morning, we spied the lights of Lahore and made our way towards them. Villages became more frequent as roads and canals converged on this “Jewel of Punjab.”

At sunrise we glided into the city. A vast unruly web of stone buildings, domes, and minarets spread out before us. Our carpets, now losing height by the second, barely scraped over the massive arched gates of the city. We came crashing down in an empty bazaar just as the first call to prayer rang out. I answered it and praised Allah for our safe flight.

“We must hurry to the train station,” said Jack, brushing himself off and helping Saanvi to her feet. “Leave the carpets, we do not need them anymore.”

I was exhausted from nearly 48 hours without sleep. I also needed time to find a constable and acquire the arrest warrant. “Jack, perhaps we should rest. We need to recover from our flight.”

Jack only nodded. “Unfortunately, Armand, Saanvi, and I must be off as quickly as possible. But I understand you have reached the end of your journey, and can resolve your shipping concerns with the Raj here. I will never forget what you have done for us, and, should you find yourself in England, you would be a welcome guest.”

Blearily, I remembered my cover story. To Jack, I was a shipping clerk traveling to Lahore. “Yes,” I said, recovering. “Yes, I have reached my destination. My offices are not far from here. I will check in there, and then say goodbye at the train station.” And so I stumbled off into Lahore, ignoring Armand’s shouts.

I needed to find a constable quickly, acquire a warrant, then apprehend Jack before his train left. But what time did his train leave? In a state of exhausted confusion I hurried through the tangled brown streets, looking for a policeman. Stone buildings loomed on either side, carved at obtuse angles along narrow alleys and branching corridors. Domes, minarets, and vaulted arches greeted me at every dead end. The world was blurred without my spectacles. I felt my pulse racing, and strove to keep it in check. I tried to count the streets, but my brain seemed slowed by molasses.

By now, the people of Lahore were filtering into the streets. Men and women in loose clothes crowded around me, but none seemed to know English. Nobody could direct me to the local police, nor any representative of the British crown. They stared at me with disapproval, a foreigner in a strange outfit speaking gibberish. As I raced from booth to booth, vendors pelted me with aggressive sales pitches for spices in a language I did not understand. My cheeks burned. Fatigue clouded my mind, and the cobblestones reeled up with every step I took.

Then, I heard the train whistle.

It was not far off. Arrest warrant or not, if Jack boarded that train without me, all was lost. I ran in the direction of the whistle, and a handful of shop owners read my pantomime well enough to point me in the right direction.

Lahore Junction railway station was built like a castle, meant for repelling rebellions like the Alexandrian revolt that had nearly claimed my own life. Gasping for air, I burst onto the platform just in time to see Jack in the window of the train as it chugged forward. Three Indian security guards called after me in both Hindi and English, but there was no time to explain. With immense effort I matched pace with the train, grabbed hold, and leapt aboard. I forced open a door and pushed past an angry ticket collector until I reached Jack’s cabin.

Jack and Armand looked surprised to see me, but Saanvi just gave me that dreamy, wide-eyed smile. “What about your business in Lahore?” asked Jack.

“Further… investigation … needed.” I panted, weaving my way to a seat. “I’m requested … to go through files … in Calcutta.”

And with that I fell promptly asleep.

The journey to Calcutta took three days. Jack had purchased a private cabin for the four of us (at significant expense), and we spent the first day eating and sleeping. We were all exhausted from our travels. It had been weeks since Jack and I last took a train, and the comforts seemed immense. Still, it was hard to relax knowing how expensive the tickets had been. I again thought with dismay of Jack’s reckless loan.

Saanvi took to her new freedom with seeming indifference. She had been imprisoned for a year, and yet wandered passively about the train as if in a dream, making conversation with strangers over the colors of their hats or her favorite types of birds.

“What happened to her?” I asked Jack over dinner on the first day. We were traveling through low hills, and Saanvi had neglected her meal to instead wave hello at every passing peak. “She was a professor at Oxford, but now she seems … distracted.”

Jack nodded and poked at his lentil stew. “Strenuous and high intensity magic can be extremely taxing on the brain. When it goes wrong, the mind can become scrambled and confused. As a defense, the psyche retreats to a previous form. It seems Saanvi’s teleportation went awry. Luckily, the damage is almost always temporary. With proper treatment, or a sudden shock, she will return to her old self and resume her post.” He sipped his tea. “Saanvi was once the head of the Teleportation department. Her position has since been taken by a certain Professor Gabriel Skimp, with whom I have my wager. If she should return to Oxford, and to her senses, then she would regain the department for herself.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is teleportation magic so dangerous that even a specialist such as Professor Vyas could fail?”

Jack frowned. “The circumstances are strange, to be sure. I recall certain rumors regarding the ritual, but nothing was proven.”

“Rumors, sir?”

Jack waved his hand in dismissal. “It was nothing concrete.”

The next morning Jack poured over his maps, and Friedrich, initially reserved, became more animated in the planning. We would arrive in Calcutta on the 37th day of our journey, and were therefore nearly halfway complete. However, Jack explained, we had traversed only a quarter of the distance needed. I was shocked.

“Sir!” I exclaimed. “I did not realize we were so far behind. How can we possibly achieve your wager at this pace?”

“We will simply have to move faster.” Jack responded. He pointed to the map, and traced the longitude and latitude lines. “We cannot afford to waste time in Calcutta, and a path must be found to Hong Kong as quickly as possible. Travel across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans should be speedy, which only leaves crossing the American continent. I am told their railroad system is nearly as robust as Europe’s.”

“Sir, how are we planning to cross the great oceans? Your arcane aptitudes are likely to draw Leviathans, and I would not put my faith in the Leviathan Lure after our last encounter.”

“A German inventor named Ferdinand von Zeppelin has prototyped a flying balloon capable of great speeds. I learned about it some weeks before we left, and I would not have agreed to this bet if it had not started operation. It is meant for this express purpose - ferrying the arcane across the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. One balloon travels between Hong Kong and San Francisco. The other between New York and London.”

“That sounds very expensive,” said Saanvi mildly. “But I should quite like riding on a balloon. I imagine it would be like riding on a cloud. Only slower.”

“It is expensive,” said Jack. I grimaced as Jack continued. “Nonetheless, it will be quite worth it to win my bet. Before I left London, I booked passage aboard the September 3rd zeppelin from Hong Kong to San Francisco.”

“Will you be in Hong Kong on September 3rd?” asked Friedrich, raising an eyebrow.

“We must,” replied Jack, taking a small piece of paper from the luggage. “I acquired the schedule before we left London. If we do not arrive by September 3rd, then we will have to wait for the next balloon three weeks later.”

Trusting in my master, I spent these fleeting days walking up and down the train, talking with the passengers, and watching the countryside. We sped across the vast fertile Punjab fields, which grew wheat, rice, and sugarcane for the immense Indian population. Rural villages and towns dotted the way, but we rarely stopped. We took on coal overnight at Delhi. I was tempted to explore the city, but exhaustion overwhelmed me.

I awoke to the plains of Uttar Pradesh, fed by the sacred Ganges river. Farms gave way to dense vegetation and jungle by the time we stopped in bustling Patna. Here Saanvi wandered off the train, and Friedrich was just able to find her and bring her back by the time we continued on. She would need careful supervision until her senses returned.

On the morning of the third day, we entered West Bengal. I marveled at the British engineering needed to build the rail on such wet and marshy soil. We sped over rivers, tea plantations, and bamboo villages. A brief thunderstorm passed overhead, and again I witnessed that strange ball lightning that I had seen on the Black Sea and in the Himalayan fog. The orb passed quite close to my window, then disappeared into the clouds. I mentioned the phenomenon to Friedrich.

“It looked like a yellow ball of light?” he asked.

“And it moved quite strangely, as if following us,” I replied.

Friedrich sat in silence for several seconds, looking out the window. “It’s possible,” he said, “that we are the target of a magician’s scrying spell.”

“Scrying?”

“The arcane art of spying at great distances. Do you know who might be watching us?”

“Not at all!” I exclaimed. “Except, perhaps … the man with whom Jack made his bet?”

Friedrich cleared his throat. “I may be mistaken.”

“In any case, I’ll let Jack know,” I said, rising from my seat.

“Better not to bother him,” said Friedrich quickly. “I believe he is resting. Let me discuss with my friends in Calcutta first to confirm. No reason to cause him undue stress before then.”

I nodded, and seated myself again. I didn’t want to bother Jack with baseless hunches.

Finally, by noon on the third day, we entered Calcutta.

We disembarked to sticky heat and a beating sun. Everywhere, men, women, and children clothed in the British fashion ran to and fro. Calcutta is the capital of British India, but even so I was surprised by how English everything looked, from the wide promenades to the colonial buildings. Three main streets extended in different directions from the train terminal, each with large offices and residential manors on either side. Horse-drawn carriages pulled European businessmen, dodging between rickshaws and barefoot Indian children.

Jack asked the conductor for lodging recommendations, and rented a carriage to take us to the Great Eastern Hotel. As we sped down the lane, I chuckled at our sudden return to normality. Despite the trials of our past month, and the strange nature of our journey, we looked like any other group of European businessmen. Other Englishmen passed us in their own carriages and tipped their hats politely, while shirtless Indians gave us barely a glance.

We reached the Great Eastern by teatime. It was an imposing white building of three stories, wedged between “Cuthbert & Harpers” and a British East India company office. Several Indians in formal British attire bowed as we came in.

The main hall was built of lacquered white and brown wood, with large ferns and two crystal chandeliers. Jack arranged rooms, and purchased Friedrich a room “for as long as he stayed in Calcutta” despite his protesting. Jack explained that his debt to Friedrich, for pulling us out of the Black Sea and for rescuing us from the Himalayan monastery, could never be fully repaid.

Shortly thereafter, Friedrich excused himself to check in with his office while Saanvi left to purchase appropriate clothing from the hotel, on Jack’s credit.

Jack was spending money he didn’t have.

Jack and I sat in the grand ballroom drinking tea and eating biscuits among a dozen other English men and women. I marveled at how much we stood out. Instead of sitting upright like a proper English gentleman, Jack slouched over the table and slurped his tea like a Persian villager. His unshaven stubble matched my own, and a stranger might have thought we were two friends enjoying an afternoon meal instead of a nobleman and his butler.

When he finished his tea, Jack stood and brushed himself off. “I’m off to withdraw additional funds. Please wait here for the others until I return.”

I could not hold my tongue. “Sir, how much money is left in your account?”

Jack froze. His icy gaze fell upon me. “That is hardly an appropriate question for a butler.”

“Sir, I swore to your parents to keep you safe. I cannot do that if you are destitute.”

“Enough,” snapped Jack. “You go too far. If you are unhappy in my employment, then I will release you.”

I gasped. “I could not possibly leave! Even if you could not pay me, I owe my life to your family.”

“To my father, not to me.” Jack stood silent for another moment, then let out a quiet sigh. His face softened. “There are no alternatives. I need additional funds to win this wager. If I lose, then I lose everything - my honor, my wealth, and my education. We will discuss no more of it.”

Jack’s face regained its hardness. Before I could respond, he strode out of the room.

I sat there, miserable, fidgeting with my teacup and considering Jack’s plight. Perhaps he was right, and there were no alternatives. Jack had gone all-in on this wager. There was nothing for it but to win.

Perhaps an hour passed, and Jack returned. We sat in gloomy silence, not meeting each other’s gaze. When Saanvi arrived in a startling pink dress, Jack returned to business.

“Armand,” he said, “Saanvi. We have no clear path from here to Hong Kong. We cannot risk a steamship, and there are no railroads between here and the eastern orient. However, I am certain we will find a way forward. We shall split up and canvas the city. Learn from the people. Keep your eyes open. Seize any opportunities. Let us report back by dinner time tonight. Remember, we must be in Hong Kong by September 3rd.”

As the three of us rose to our feet, I cast a worried glance towards Saanvi. Her strange manner had been entertaining for the past few days, but her airy passivity worried me. I thought there was a decent chance she would wander off, distracted by some butterfly or pretty bird. The three of us entered the street at the same time, and each took a different direction. Consumed by concern, I doubled back and began following Saanvi at a distance. With her lurid pink dress, tailing her was an easy task.

Calcutta shimmered with magic. Better magic that I ever saw at Oxford. Better than when I was a child. Bigger. Stranger.

When I was young, the mud on this street squished between my toes like treacle tart filling. But the British had since covered the road in a thousand gleaming cobblestones. I bent down and put my ear to the earth. The mud was still there, bubbling underneath, and the stones were local. They seemed happy to be put to such good use. I smiled, and reassured them that there were no hard feelings.

A horse almost trampled me.

The carriage driver shouted at me to get out of the road. I waved back at him, glad for his concern. Ever since the mishap, I had lost a bit of caution. How kind that a stranger would help me find it.

I asked the carriage driver if he knew the fastest way to Hong Kong. He replied that it wasn’t his carriage. I thanked him, and stepped aside to let him pass. I liked his horse. It was a big, brown horse, just like my eyes. I walked after them. The carriage driver turned and saw me following. He sped up. I sped up. He sped up again.

It turns out horses are faster than me.

I followed a singing robin through wide streets until my feet splashed into the Hooghly river. Shops and people crowded the water like pigeons after breadcrumbs. The mud here was more like the grip of a tired octopus, less appetizing than the mud of the road. Children splashed in the river, and a steamboat chugged upstream.

I swam out to the boat.

The pilot turned hard to avoid crushing me in his paddle wheel, and shouted down. I asked him if he knew the fastest way to Hong Kong. He said that it wasn’t his boat. I wanted to ask him about his wonderful hat, but his boat continued on.

It turns out boats are faster than me. Bigger too.

I floated down the river, watching the clouds dance like newborn angels. All around me, my pink dress spread out like a poppy flower. Armand waved from the shore. He looked worried. I waved at him, and he jumped into the water. Jack said to split up so I swam to the opposite shore. Only one of us needed to be in the river.

A stray dog led me back to the railroad station, and I remembered what I was doing. I asked the train conductor if he knew the fastest way to Hong Kong. He said it was not his train, and that I needed to get off the train. I didn’t have a ticket, and my wet dress was making a mess.

I didn’t chase after the train. I know trains are faster than me.

A sweet smell drifted over the tracks, and I followed it to a local market. There, I got some mishti doi from a fat vendor. He asked me for money. I asked him the fastest way to Hong Kong. He seemed angry so I offered him half of my mishti doi. I said it always makes me happy. He ran after me, bouncing like a bowl of mishti doi.

It turns out I am faster than the fat mishti doi vendor.

The vendor chased me all the way to my old neighborhood. I ate most of my mishti doi, and gave the rest to a stunted tree. It wouldn’t be able to eat it, but it would appreciate the gesture. I followed a staggering man into an opium den. I knew this place. I used to come here.

The Chinese owner asked me if I wanted anything. I asked him if he knew the fastest way to Hong Kong. He asked me how much money I had. I said none, but that Jack had a lot. He thought for a while, as the inviting fumes danced around us. He said he was sending a shipment of opium by hot air balloon to Hong Kong. He said if we paid a lot, we could come on board.

Armand staggered in. He was soaking wet and covered in mud, with a hoof shaped bruise on his arm. He said we should leave the opium den immediately. I said I had found a way to Hong Kong. He looked surprised, and said he had not.

It turns out I am faster than Armand.

The arrest warrant had not come through. There were two possible reasons for this.

First, some bureaucratic mishap. Calcutta was, of course, on the opposite end of the world to London. It’s possible that the warrant was not prioritized in daily communication, or that the file simply could not be found.

Second, no arrest warrant existed because Oxford did not want this situation made public. I was to bring Jack in without the help of the authorities.

I telegraphed my contact at Oxford asking for clarity, and left the legal office confused and concerned. The more time I spent with Jack, the less sure I was of my client’s story. Had Jack really stolen the Leviathan Lure? He surely guarded it well enough. But I now believed he planned on returning it. And while at first I had doubted the veracity of his journey, I was now fairly certain that he really had made such a bet.

Was he only “borrowing” the Lure long enough to complete his fantastic trip? Would he return it when he arrived at Oxford? Even so, borrowing without permission still constitutes theft. It was doubtful that the College would lend out such a device to assist a student in a barroom wager.

As I approached the Grand Eastern Hotel in time for dinner, I tried to gather the most likely explanations for the facts at hand. Jack, having engaged in a foolhardy wager for a huge sum of money, stole the Leviathan Lure from Oxford college with the intention of returning it. Given his noble upbringing, he likely thought there was little harm in this breach. Oxford College, embarrassed at the transgression, wanted Jack caught and punished without involving the law. Expulsion and a fine were likely waiting for Jack back at Oxford, though he may not know it. But any fine would be dwarfed by the amount he would forfeit upon losing the wager.

But why hire me? Was this crime really worth my services?

Given this hypothesis, my course remained the same. Despite any personal misgivings, I had made a promise to a client. Jack must be caught and the stolen item must be returned, regardless of Jack’s wager.

Without an arrest warrant, I would need to attach myself to Jack for a little longer and wait for an opportunity.

At least I had acquired a new set of spectacles. The world was once again clear, even if my mind was not.

I arrived last to the table at dinner. Jack, Armand, and Saanvi were already eating in the Grand Ballroom. Judging by the other patrons, the meal was to be a blend of traditional English food and Bengal cuisine.

“How was business?” asked Armand, between spoonfuls of lentil mulligatawny soup and oysters on the half shell. He devoured his food like a man without etiquette training, and I again wondered how he became Jack’s butler.

“Disappointing,” I said, meticulously dissecting my beans. “Given my delays, the problem had already been resolved. A simple mistranslation that resulted in a huge shipping error. I would have thought that Jardine, Skinner and Company would have better translators on hand. The British have been operating in the area for over 200 years.”

“Just because you’ve been doing something for a long time, doesn’t mean you are good at it,” posited Saanvi. She chewed thoughtfully on some steamed vegetables. “More time to get better could also mean more time to get worse.”

I tried to ignore her mud-speckled pink dress. “That’s … true. But it is disappointing nonetheless.”

After the appetizers, the waiters brought out a large lamb roast. The meat was flavorless in comparison to the rich Indian dishes, but Jack seemed to enjoy it. “What are your plans now?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, trying to sound casual, “it is time I returned to Europe. I’ve been away for far too long, and I need to have strong words with the administrator who sent me here. If it’s not too much trouble, I was wondering if I could continue to accompany you. I’m sure I could find no speedier way forward.”

“Fantastic!” exclaimed Armand. “What news! And here I thought we were saying goodbye.”

Jack reacted more calmly. “You saved our lives, and my wager, in the Himalayas and on the Black Sea. I would be most glad for you to accompany us for the remainder of the journey. In fact, I will be paying for your travel and lodgings from this point forward.”

This was most unexpected. I tried to protest, but was met with flat refusal.

Over dessert of mango lassi and bread and butter pudding, I broached the subject of our continued journeys. “Do we have a path forward to Hong Kong?”

“We do,” explained Jack. “Professor Saanvi spent her youth in Calcutta, and cleverly sought out the Bengali underworld. She has procured us passage aboard a hot air balloon made for smuggling Indian grown opium across China to Hong Kong.”

And I thought this journey could no longer surprise me.

After dinner, Jack and Saanvi went to their rooms while Armand invited me for drinks at the bar. He had a mischievous, conspiratorial smile as he ordered us both wine, and then bourbon. He kept looking at me and chuckling to himself. It was unnerving, but I kept up polite conversation.

After our third drink, Armand leaned close and whispered, “I know why you are really coming with us.”

I bristled. “What do you mean?”

Armand smiled, “Sir! There’s no need to play games with me. All these excuses? The coincidences? The company business and mistranslated order forms? They may fool Jack, but not me.”

Had he seen through my charade? If he had, then I needed to act quickly, arrest warrant or no. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

“Oh, Friedrich. You don’t need to lie to me. You’re here for Jack.”

My hand moved towards my concealed pistol. Armand continued. “It’s obvious! You don’t have any business dealings in India. You don’t have any business dealing anywhere, except with us.” Armand chuckled and drank from his bourbon. Then he toasted me. “You’re from the university. You’re here to make sure he completes his wager without cheating!”

A great weight fell off me. Armand must have seen it, for he loudly exclaimed “Aha! Judging by your reaction, I’ve hit the nail on the head! What fun!” He clinked my bourbon glass. “Don’t worry though. I won’t say a word to Jack, wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. It will be our little secret.”

“Our little secret.” I replied weakly. I released the concealed pistol. “Thank you Armand. It will be our little secret.”

We stood in the middle of an opium field, surrounded by thousands of red blooms. Indian workers bent over their crops, collecting the bulbous flowers and hauling them in great canvas bags to a nearby wooden building. The air was hot and humid, but the wind blew in sudden gusts, rippling the fields and keeping us cool.

Before us lay the strange airship, the Máquè, tied to the ground with groaning ropes. It looked like a Viking longship, with immense canvas balloons attached to front and back. Flame runes shot heated air into the envelopes, which strained to lift the contraption. Workers moved to and fro, loading the hull with wooden crates. More crates hung from webbed ropes on either side of the craft. As a whole, I doubted the airship would stay together, much less fly.

It had taken the entire morning to fill the vessel. Now, Jack paid the sickly-looking Chinese proprietor two hundred pounds each for our passage. He smiled sweetly, and coughed horribly. The amount was extortionate. This was not a passenger vessel. We were going with smugglers.

Our hosts were two men, an older Indian father named Danesh and his mixed race son of perhaps twenty named Pabok. Danesh’s arms were scarred with burns, and he spoke fluent English. He smiled blandly at us, rubbing his pistol as if it were a cat. Pabok, on the other hand, scowled with distaste, clearly unhappy to take passengers. He was short, but solidly built, much like myself. We were told he was a self-taught sorcerer. And that he “made the airship go.”

“Keep your pistol handy,” I whispered to Friedrich. “I don’t trust these men.” By the way Friedrich watched the smugglers, it seemed he agreed.

By noon the ship was ready, and I went to find Saanvi among the poppies. She was lying on the ground, dirty pink dress splayed around her, poppy flowers in her hair. She smiled serenely as I approached. “Wishes do come true, Armand,” she said.

“Madame?”

“Yesterday, I said I should quite like flying in a balloon. Today I am. Funny how things go.”

“It is thanks to you, Madame. Thanks to you.”

I helped her to her feet, and brought her back to the ship.

We entered the Máquè’s hull in silence. Danesh and Pabok boarded after us, hoisted the cargo door closed, and then lashed it shut with frayed ropes. They both went above to make final preparations, leaving us in the dark hold.

Sunlight filtered into the crowded space through cracks in the walls, illuminating dozens of large wooden crates and canvas bags. Poppy petals and mud plastered the walls and floor. Out of the wind, the smell of opium overwhelmed me. A few dirty cots lay piled between two boxes, clearly lifted straight from an opium den. A steep wooden ladder led up to the deck.

Already my head was swimming from the fumes. Friedrich, Jack, and I looked at each other, wrinkling our noses. Saanvi merely glanced around, smiling placidly. Her large brown eyes rested on each detail in turn.

“Perhaps we should sleep on the deck, no?” I asked. The others nodded.

Above deck, Danesh and Pabok moved between tarp-covered crates, untying the ropes which held us to the earth. The two massive balloons buckled and strained in the wind, and soon the ship was rocking back and forth, eager to take to the skies.

Finally, Danesh and Pabok moved to the stern and bow of the vessel. They counted down together in Cantonese, then simultaneously untied the final two ropes. The Máquè lunged into the air, and then pivoted wildly as a gust of wind took it. Jack, Friedrich, and I tumbled from our feet, and I heard a loud thud from below deck where Saanvi remained. Crates shifted and strained against their anchors, and wooden planks protested with the weight.

The ship lurched again, and the deck tilted obscenely. Overwhelmed with nausea, I tumbled to the railing. My leg fell over the side, and I watched in horror as the ground sped away from us. I clutched at a loose rope and held on.

Slowly, the ship leveled and the spinning stopped. Keeping careful hold of the rope, I got up and brushed myself off. Friedrich and Jack talked quietly at the other end of the Máquè, while Danesh moved about the cabin securing loose lines. Pabok sat in the center of the deck, legs crossed and apparently meditating. I sheepishly gave my rope to Danesh, then joined Friedrich and Jack.

“Quite a start!” I exclaimed, a bit embarrassed, “but none the worse for wear. Pabok at least seems relaxed.”

“He’s weather-witching,” murmured Friedrich. “Guiding the wind currents and keeping us stable.”

I peered over at the sitting Pabok. The air around him seemed to shimmer.

Jack nodded. “Weather-witching is a rare talent. It’s not taught at Oxford.”

“Rare in Europe, but not in Asia,” replied Friedrich. “Europeans have a tough time with some of the meditative arcanum. Too unstructured for Western thought. Oxford mostly focuses on runecraft and clairvoyance, as the students there cannot handle broader studies.”

“Those are the more precise magics,” replied Jack stiffly.

“Yes, they are.” said Friedrich. “And better for it.” He realized he had insulted Jack, and seemed ready to let the matter drop.

“Conjuration and the meditative arcanum are difficult to control, and therefore difficult to teach,” said Jack.

“For Western Universities, yes. But for some of the Oriental schools of thought, conjuration and meditative arcanum fit more naturally into the curriculum.”

Sensing the tension, I tried to change topics. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Friedrich. You are not ethnically European. Is Friedrich your christened name?”

Friedrich paused and cleaned his glasses. He stood silent for some time, and I became aware again of the wind and creaking boards. As I began to regret my question, he spoke.

“I was born Faisal Hassan in Damietta, Egypt. I became an accountant for the Suez Canal Company at 11, calculating prices and weights and averages. I …” He paused again, as if unsure of what to say. Jack and I waited patiently. Keeping his eyes on the horizon, he continued. “My employer, Omar Ghulam, joined the ʻUrabi revolt against British rule in 1879. He … died in the British bombardment of Alexandria. I nearly died with him. That was the first time that arcane gas was used in battle. It destroyed the city and ended the revolt.”

I suddenly remembered Friedrich’s fits of panic in the fog outside the Indian jungle.

Jack’s face remained passive, but he flexed his scarred hand. “The bombardment of Alexandria was unfortunate. It made headlines, and most decent Englishmen stood against it.”

Friedrich continued as if Jack had not spoken. “After the bombardment, I realized that I could not stay in Egypt. I moved to Bremen, then Dresden, then Essen, and changed my name to Friedrich. I speak 6 languages, and am highly proficient with numbers. Still, I had a tough time gaining employment once interviewers saw the color of my skin. Ultimately, I was forced to …” He paused, coughed lightly, then said, “I was lucky to join the Krupp Company. They have been good to work with.” Friedrich put his glasses back over his eyes. “I think I’ll go below for a bit.”

Once Friedrich left, Jack and I stood in silence for some time. I peered over the railing at the endless fields and rivers below. Humans, horses, and carts moved as almost imperceptible specks. The lives of these people were so different from my own. My life had been different from Jack’s, and Friedrich’s was more different still. I thought of Saanvi, who grew up here, and of our scarred Danesh and surly Pabok. Of the opium den owner from whom we bought passage. Of the Dutchman, and the monks, and of Halil and the captain, and of the excitable German I met on the train. The German had spoken of a web of commerce, drawing us all closer together. Flying over the fields of Bengal, it was hard to see.

My life has been strange and exotic, but I always thought of it as somewhere in the midpoint of human experiences. That the range of lives was within the bounds of what I had seen and done. Yet, after all I had seen, it was clear I was on the far end of one tiny spectrum, and that my travels barely scratched the surface.

“I wonder how many people live down there,” I mused into the wind.

“They say,” replied Jack, “that more people live in Asia than in the rest of the world combined.”

Our journey aboard the Máquè was not unpleasant. We slept on the deck in the mild Indian nights, with the creaking of boards and scent of opium to lull us to sleep. I rarely dream, but those nights I dreamt of leading Jack to a guillotine in front of a crowd of jeering prisoners. I did not wake when the blade came down, but only stood bewildered as the crowd dispersed and only I was left.

I was having second thoughts. By night they tormented me, though in the light of day I swore to stay my course.

All this time, Pabok sat meditating in the center of the ship, guiding the breeze and sending us on our way. He took a single hour break at noon each day to eat and chew opium gum. During these respites, he glared at us and fidgeted with annoyance, often complaining to his father in Cantonese. Danesh remained calm, but he kept to himself. Though he spoke passable English, he merely smiled and nodded when we engaged him, taking his meals separately and busying himself around the ship.

Suspicious of our hosts, I investigated every inch of our ship. I learned the ropes and pulleys, estimated the tons of opium on board, and organized our sleeping area. To stay calm, I counted patches on the two great canvas balloons that kept us afloat.

At all times, I kept my pistol close at hand. Danesh kept his firearm close as well.

Jack had acquired a set of cards in Calcutta, and we spent much of the days engaged in small games of chance. Jack was a betting man. We wagered a pence at a time until he won my small change. We tried a four-player game of whist with Armand and Saanvi, but Armand lacked the patience and Saanvi lacked the understanding. She won her first three hands through sheer luck before we decided it was best to return to a two-player game.

“Where did you learn your exercise routine?” I asked Armand on the afternoon of the third day. I watched the Frenchman run circles around the hold, stopping only to perform sets of pushups and sit ups. Occasionally, he turned and launched flurries of punches into nearby opium sacks, sending dust flying.

“Here and there,” said Armand, smiling and wiping sweat from his brow. “I have been many things in this life, Friedrich, including a boxer, circus performer, and soldier, though the last did not agree with me. One summer I even delivered pastries to noblemen across Paris using a bicycle!”

“And how did you become Jack’s butler?”

Armand’s smile faded. “That is not so pleasant a tale. Six years ago, I worked for a textile factory in the outskirts of London. The building caught fire one evening as Jack and his parents walked by, returning from the opera. Jack’s father raced into the flames to pull out workers, and I, inspired by his courage, followed. Together we rescued a dozen men before I succumbed to the smoke and fell unconscious. Jack’s father dragged me from the factory and went in again. He never came out. Jack was 15.”

I nodded. “He sounds like a brave man.”

“I believe he was. Jack’s mother nursed me back to health, and I swore to her that I would repay their family however I could. She died of illness some months later. I’ve worked in the Carrington home ever since. I owe Jack’s father my life, and I intend to repay his son.”

“Losing both parents at 15. Jack must have been traumatized.”

Armand shrugged thoughtfully. “Perhaps, but not in the way you might think. The aristocrats spoke of his father’s honorable sacrifice, and transformed the man into a gentleman martyr. Ever since, Jack has cared little for his own life. He is too reckless, too eager to take risks, and too proud. He places so much value on image and his honor. I …” Armand suddenly grimaced. “I’ve said too much. Forgive me.”

But before I could inquire further, Jack called into the hold. “Danesh informs me that we are nearing Hong Kong. He requests that we come up on deck and assist with the ropes.”

We found Danesh, Saanvi, Jack, and Pabok on deck. Pabok had abandoned his usual post, and the wind spun us slowly, tilting the ship with more force than we had felt since our initial departure. The mage stood in the center of the ship, arms crossed and glaring. He rocked from side to side, as if waiting for something.

We hung perhaps a thousand feet in the air above a massive bay of water. To our south, islands sprung from the sea. In all other directions, rice paddies, wooden fishing villages, and lush green hills dotted the coast.

Something was amiss. Cautiously, I felt for my concealed pistol.

Armand, however, was glad for the physical activity. Danesh directed us to tie a few ropes and move some crates, then motioned us aft to secure a line. As we took the rear of the ship, he joined his son in the middle.

“Do you have any money on your persons?” asked Danesh.

Slowly, I turned around. Danesh and Pabok stood side by side, staring at us. Pabok’s hands were wreathed in blue flame.

Danesh continued his vacant, easy smile. “I will repeat. Do you have any money on your persons? Or is it all in the hold with your things?”

Armand frowned in confusion and made to speak, but I drew my pistol and stepped forward. I leveled the firearm at Pabok, who took a step back in fear. He looked at his father, who remained passive.

“Your gun will do nothing here,” continued Danesh. “And if you kill my son, the Máquè will fall out of the sky.”

“I don’t think so,” said Saanvi, completely oblivious to the delicacy of the situation. “But we would have a tough time steering.”

There was a pause. I could sense Armand move in front of his master, and tense for action. I scanned the deck. It was crowded with boxes, ropes, and crates, but all of it was extremely flammable. There would be cover in a fight, but unless I could kill Pabok in a single shot we would have serious problems. My aim was good, but the ship moved erratically in the wind.

“This can be easy,” continued Danesh. “Lay down your weapon, and tell me if you are carrying any valuables. We will drop you off at Hong Kong, without them.”

“You’ll drop us off the side of the ship, more likely,” shouted Armand, spoiling for a fight. “Is this how you got those burns on your arms, Danesh? Playing robber with your sorcerer son?”

Danesh bristled, losing his smile for the first time. “This is your final warning. I - ”

I took the shot. The bullet pierced Pabok’s neck and he reared back, sending a spray of blood and blue flame across the deck. His father drew a pistol from his own coat, and I took a suppressing shot before grabbing Jack and leaping for cover. Armand pounced forward and grappled with the bleeding Pabok. Flame boiled up Armand’s arms, igniting his shirt instantly. Armand grunted, but held his grip on the wild sorcerer.

“Stop!” shouted Saanvi, who still stood in the open. “Stop, you are burning him!”

Pabok’s face was a mask of rage and pain. The blue flame spread wildly across his body, scorching his clothes to ash and igniting the deck for meters in all directions. His skin bubbled. It was no longer clear if he was master of the fire, or engulfed by it.

“Stop!” screamed Saanvi. I had never heard her so upset. “Stop it, now!”

Danesh lept for cover, and fired his pistol. The bullet ricocheted off the deck, sending a shower of wooden shrapnel into Jack’s leg. He winced and fell behind me, but did not cry out. I lined up another shot as the ship twisted in the wind. Fire cascaded across opium crates, filling the air with sickly smoke.

Armand began to scream. But he did not let go.

“Stop” screamed Saanvi, hysterical. “Stop, stop,

STOP

The word thundered with sudden arcane power. Images flashed before me: a boulder falling from a cliff, a wooden drawbridge slamming shut, a ship’s mast cracking and smashing into the sea. With this word from Saanvi, the blue flame engulfing Armand and Pabok went out, though the deck still raged with flame. Armand took two steps back, his arms smoldering. Pabok, bubbling and charred, stumbled after him, then fell as a burnt corpse.

“Saanvi,” gasped Armand, turning towards his savior. “Saanvi.”

A shot sounded, and Saanvi grunted. Blood blossomed from her torso. Jack lunged out of cover on his wounded leg and grabbed her, trying to shield her with his body. As Danesh pointed his pistol at Jack, I stepped from behind the crates, aimed, and fired. Danesh tumbled lifeless from the ship.

Jack looked up at me, breathing heavily. I nodded and then turned to the flaming ship, analyzing our remaining options. I could not fall apart now.

All of our lives depended on it.

I struggled to control my mind. I was sane again, myself again. But for how long?

Blood flowered from my stomach, streaking my ridiculous pink dress red. I fell to my knees, overwhelmed, every corner of my psyche crying to crawl back into the pit and stay there. Images flashed in my head. Flames licked opium crates, and the sweet smell of poppies filled the air. I could go back, I could return, I could, I could …

Friedrich grabbed me roughly. “Put out the deck fire. Now, before we burn alive, or the balloons catch.”

“I can’t,” I gasped, “I can’t, not fast enough.”

“Can you fly? Teleport us out of here?” He still held his pistol, and his green eyes blazed like glaciers behind his spectacles.

I shook my head. Blood seeped from my stomach, where I desperately held my wound. “Not in this state, not like this, not … dying.”

Jack hobbled up to me, and put his hand on my shoulder. His left pant leg was torn to pieces, and blood oozed from his flesh. “Runework then. We can do some light runework. A levitation rune perhaps?”

“On this ship? It’s far too big. It would never hold.”

Friedrich’’s eyes scanned the ship, darting from object to object like a hawk. He pointed. “There. That crate, the one covered in rope. Put the runes there. What do you need?”

Jack answered for us. “Ink, writing implements, chalk.”

Friedrich nodded. “Use your jacket to staunch her wound, then see to Armand.” He strode past the corpse of Pabok and disappeared below deck.

The fire spread rapidly as Jack removed his jacket. He tied it tight around my waist, and bundled the extra fabric over the bullet hole. It seemed to do little, but he gave me a stiff nod, then hobbled as quickly as he could to Armand.

“Armand,” he said quietly. “My poor Armand.”

Armand’s arms were horribly burnt. His right hand was a mass of bleeding ash. Still, he managed a grim smile as Jack helped him to his feet.

Pain overwhelmed me as the opium smell awakened distant memories. I felt like a speared boar. It would be so easy to lose myself again …

Friedrich reappeared on deck, holding pens and ink. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me towards the crate, then gave us the writing instruments and hurried to Armand. As Jack and I set to work, he wrapped Armand’s arms in the bedding from downstairs. Flame spread across the deck, turning the ship into an inferno.

The forward balloon failed. Engulfed in flame, it withered and lost all cohesion. For a brief moment it flowered like a red poppy, shimmering and beautiful.

Then the ship dropped out from under us. The deck tilted to near vertical, with our end still held by the aft balloon. Crates tumbled and screamed off the ship. Jack and I grabbed the runed crate, and Friedrich wrapped one arm around a rope and another around Armand. The ship began to sink with gut-wrenching speed, but the remaining balloon prevented a total free fall. It too, however, was consumed by flame and ready to fail.

A pair of seagulls circled overhead. They watched the chaos as a man might browse a market stall. Nothing good to eat here.

“How much longer?” shouted Friedrich. With the strength of a demon, he pulled both himself and Armand up the deck towards us. I tore my eyes away from the gulls. It was so hard to focus.

We had completed three runes, and the crate was lighter, but still far from floating. “A few minutes at least,” shouted back Jack.

“We have 30 seconds,” roared Friedrich over the flames. His green eyes watched the remaining balloon.

“20 seconds!” Friedrich grabbed a rope that trailed the crate, and tied it around Armand. “You must hold on.” He said quietly to the injured Frenchman. Armand nodded, nearly unconscious with pain.

“10 seconds!” He pulled a small knife from his coat, and looked at us each in turn. We had finished the fourth and fifth runes.

“Hold on!” he shouted, cutting the rope that held the crate to the deck. A moment later, the aft balloon failed, and the ship dropped away entirely in brutal silence. Despite myself, I watched the Máquè tumbling aft over stern beneath us, falling with nauseating speed. My stomach pulsed with blood, and the world became fuzzy.

Then, we began to sink.

“Keep writing those runes, by Allah!” shouted Friedrich. He held onto Armand, while Jack and I feverishly continued writing. We accelerated as gravity overwhelmed our work. I finished the sixth rune. Jack the seventh. The Máquè hit the water below and exploded into fragments. I finished the eighth and ninth runes, as much in blood as in ink. The water rushed up to meet us. Jack finished the tenth, and I could feel our fall slowing. We were now 100 feet in the air. Now 50.

As I finished the eleventh rune, our crate slowed to a crawl, paused inches above the water, and then slowly dunked us in.

“Now,” Friedrich said, “we watch for Leviathan.”

I lost consciousness.

I awoke to the sound of rain.

I lay on a cot in a small wooden room. Raindrops pattered on the roof and the window. My clothes had been changed, and I could see my pink dress hanging over a chair. It had been cleaned of blood, but the bullet hole through the center remained. My stomach ached, and I dared not look beneath my sheets.

But there was something else …

With a flush of adrenaline, I noticed my passing thoughts. Cogent observations floated by. Reasonable conclusions. I prodded my mind as a man might prod a sleeping tiger. Unbidden, my last moments of sanity flashed before me. My teleportation ritual with Professor Skimp. Strange phrases. Dark words. Smudged lines.

I pushed the thoughts away. My psyche was weak, still injured. But it was healing. The shock aboard the Máquè had brought me back.

Armand sat in a chair beside me, nearly dozing. His arms were covered in bandages, and his right hand lay in a sling. He held a pen awkwardly in his left, and wrote in his diary. The words were scratched and elongated, like an artist’s first work.

He heard me stir, jolted awake, and turned with a large smile.

“Is everybody safe?” I asked. My head felt light.

He smiled still larger, and nodded. “Everybody is safe..”

“Are we in Hong Kong?”

“Yes, we are.”

“And are we safe?”

“Yes, we are safe.”

“The rain is lovely.”

“Yes, it is. It’s been raining all afternoon.”

“Your hands…” I said, unable to hold myself back.

His smile grew sad. Slowly, he showed me his right hand. He was missing his ring and pinky finger, as well as the last joint of his thumb.

“Oh, Armand,” I said, tears springing to my eyes.

Graciously, he held up his ruined hand to stop me. “If it were not for you, I would not be alive. Your magic overpowered Pabok’s, and quenched his flame. Without you, the fire would have consumed me whole. I will need to learn to write with my left hand, that is all.”

“Some people do it all their lives,” I said. He chuckled.

“Your skin,” I said, slowly. “It looks fully healed. It’s smooth and discolored, but beyond that, fresh as woven silk. It looks as if it’s been healed for … Have we been here long?” I sat up, despite the pain. “What day is it? Did Jack miss the zeppelin? Has he lost his wager?”

Armand shook his head gently. “It is September 4th, but we have not missed the zeppelin. The vessel was delayed for repairs, and departs this evening. When we reached shore, Jack hurried to find a doctor for you. He found one in Carlos Silva, an arcanist from Brazil here on holiday. He saw to our wounds. Jack stayed with us until we were stable. I think he would have rather missed his flight than abandon us to a doctor’s table.”

Tenderly, I pulled back my sheets. My torso was not even bandaged. Instead, a shiny mark the size of a shilling just above my navel was the only reminder of the injury. That, and the dull ache.

“Incredible,” I whispered. “It’s very difficult to cure a thing like this with magic. There are usually lasting impacts for healing so quickly, the body can react poorly, and the arcanist should not leave the patient for too long.. And … it can be very expensive.”

Armand winced. “Jack paid for it.”

“But they could not save your fingers.”

“No. By the time we reached shore, it was too late. They were gone.”

“So we did reach shore then? Of course we did, what am I saying? But there was no Leviathan?”

“Oh,” responded Armand, eyes gleaming. “There was a Leviathan.”

“What do you mean?”

“We bobbed in the water for some minutes, hoping for a fishing ship to pick us up, when we noticed the telltale swell of a Leviathan approaching. Jack activated the Leviathan Lure, swam to the wreckage of the Máquè, and threw it in. Not a minute later, the beast reared up and consumed the wreckage.”

“And then it came for us?”

“No, Mademoiselle. That is why Jack took his risk and swam to the Máquè. Once the monster had a bellyful of 26 tons of opium, he wanted nothing else.”

Armand smiled at me. And, despite all the hardships of the past few days, we began to laugh.

Jack and Friedrich arrived some time later with food. Jack had bought fish and chips at a nearby British hotel, while Friedrich served us dim sum, fish balls, and barbecued goose. We talked and joked as we ate, and Jack helped Armand feed himself.

“Now that you have regained yourself, madam,” said Friedrich, “will you be teleporting back to Oxford?”

I probed my mind, gently, then winced as if touching a hot stove. “No, I don’t think so. My plaster has not yet set. If I were to strain myself now, I’d fall to pieces again.”

Jack nodded. “I had assumed, and so I bought you a ticket aboard the zeppelin with us.”

“That’s very kind. I’ll pay you back once we get back to England.”

“Nonsense. It is my pleasure.”

That evening, as the rain lessened, we headed into the street and caught a rickshaw to the docks.

Hong Kong seethed with people. Much like in Calcutta, British sensibilities clashed and sometimes compromised with traditional oriental styles. Our puller took us down dark cobblestone streets lit by red lanterns, past Chinese street vendors selling whole ducks or exotic tea, and across wide boulevards lined with arched western buildings. My head reeled with the sensations.

By the time we arrived at the docks, night had fallen. The lights of a hundred great sailing vessels twinkled in the bay like their own constellation of stars. We veered into a wide open pier, and there I beheld the LZ Bismarck.

The zeppelin looked like a gigantic beetle, with a shiny black carapace and a thousand spindly legs holding it down. It shifted from side to side in the breeze, as if eagerly awaiting its release. Faerlight lamps shone rainbow in the foggy drizzle, illuminating the zeppelin like oil on water.

The Máquè was a flea compared to this beast.

Our rickshaw took us down the long pier and under the massive airship to a small staircase leading up into the zeppelin’s hull. Two dozen well-dressed men and women of every age and ethnicity waited in line, making eager conversation. Turbans, emerald necklaces, hissing cats, ivory canes, colored monocles, antique flintlock pistols proudly worn - these were the ornaments of an elite group: Sorcerers and wizards with the need and means to travel aboard an experimental flying craft.

The air hummed with magic, and I could feel my strength return. As we had arrived, a tall Middle Eastern man with a yellow snake around his neck waved us down. His conversation partner took the opportunity to escape, and the snake man hurried to our rickshaw to help us unload our luggage.

“Specialties?” He asked in an excited tone, dripping with a Persian accent. “What are your specialties?”

“A butler, sir,” said Armand.

“A butler!” replied the snake man, enthusiastically shaking Armand’s bandaged hand. Armand winced in pain. “Wonderful!” He turned to Friedrich, “Then you must be …?”

“A trade contractor,” replied Friedrich stiffly.

“I see. Then perhaps…?”

“Merely a student of the arcane, sir,” said Jack.

“Fantastic! And you, miss?”

“A professor of teleportation. What is your snake’s name?”

The man shook my hand vigorously. His full attention was on me now, the others forgotten. “I named him ‘Snake’ after the English word for … well, you know. A professor of teleportation taking a zeppelin instead of teleporting? There’s a story here, I can smell it!”

“Your nose does not deceive you. Last time I teleported, I went mad.”

I had expected an awkward pause, but received only a clap on the shoulder.

“Excellent! Happens to the best of us!” He lowered his voice conspiratorially and leaned closer, gesturing to the eclectic crew boarding the airship. “And the best of us are here.”

Snake licked my arm.

I had acquired Jack’s arrest warrant in Hong Kong.

The paper sat heavy in my pocket as I wandered the LZ Bismarck. I found myself touching it in conversation, much as a thief would feel for a stolen watch. It weighed on my mind more than our cramped quarters or strange travel arrangements. I had hesitated on the streets of Hong Kong when Jack was within sight of a British prison. Now, I found myself aboard an overcrowded airship where an arrest would be dangerous. Armand would not let me incarcerate his master. And I could barely conceive of carrying out such an act.

My indecision tormented me, and I sought distraction anywhere I could.

The zeppelin was filled with noise: the low hum of the engine against the high pacific air currents, the creaking of wooden frames and straining fabric, the clinking of dishes as the ship swayed to and fro, the exotic conversations of the magicians on board. The din was impossible to escape, even with the ear plugs provided every evening.

The ship, though billed as luxury, was far more cramped than a typical steamer. Though the craft was enormous, the vast majority was taken up by a large hydrogen balloon. Our living space was relatively small. It held 28 bedrooms for 41 guests, each room little more than a cot and desk. The bedrooms had no windows and restrooms were shared. The dining room ran 60 feet along the port side of the gondola. A reading room and lounge ran mirrored on the starboard. These rooms hosted the only windows, dizzying, angled panes of glass through which the only semblance of the outside ventured in.

Except for those windows, we could have been deep underground, or in the outer reaches of space. Our world was fully contained and closely regimented by the crew.

I was not frightened by the vehicle. It had been organized and scientifically tested, with visible systems working in perfect concert - in short, totally unlike the magic carpets that had so disturbed me. Twelve large hydrogen cells within the greater envelope provided lift, while 4 powerful electric propellers drove us forward. Our strange quarters were merely a tiny hanging cabin beneath the huge black bulk. Runelifted life jackets were stowed underneath beds. They would carry us slowly to the Earth in case of emergency, although landing in the ocean would still be a death sentence for any magicians.

When I pointed out that hydrogen was flammable, the cook merely shrugged and said “There has never been an accident.”

They had never transported this many mages before, either. It was not their maiden run, but it was one of their first.

“Do you know about the man in Room 6?” asked Cyrus the snake man over jam and toast one morning. He cornered me early, before any of my companions were awake, apparently reveling in my distaste for the arcane.

“The one who never leaves his quarters?” I asked, not taking my attention from The Histories of Runecraft. I never would have read such a frivolous tome a year ago, but my life was saved by runes in Hong Kong. A basic knowledge might be valuable.

“The one who never leaves his quarters,” Cyrus responded, eyes glittering. Snake slithered onto the table, and helped himself to my eggs. “Have you seen his bodyguards?”

“I have.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think they are no bodyguards.”

“Oh good!” exclaimed Cyrus with glee. “Then you have been paying attention.”

I made no reply. Snake gently placed his head on my open book and pulled the volume down. I sighed, removed my spectacles, and cleaned them with my napkin.

I could feel Cyrus’ smile from across the table. “And what is your assessment? As a trade contractor?”

I froze. One hand immediately went to the arrest warrant in my pocket, and Cyrus gave a girlish giggle. Cautiously, I caught his eye.

There was no malice in his face. Merely a mischievous, conspiratorial grin. Somehow, he knew that I was no trade contractor, and that I was lying to my friends. And now he was either blackmailing me for information, or merely teasing me. But which?

I cleared my throat. “The man in room 6 is a prisoner. His name is Edward Emmet, from the United States. I acquired the passenger list from the cabin boy. He is wanted for murder in San Francisco.”

Cyrus’s grin deepened. “And do you know his keepers?”

A long pause fell between us. Passengers trickled into the dining room, eager for tea and breakfast. If I proceeded now, I would reveal myself. But, by the look on Cyrus’ face, he already knew.

Quietly, I continued. “His keepers are two brothers, Henry and Horace Doyle. Twins. One guards room 6 at all times, while the other eats or sleeps. They are mercenaries, known for capturing and bringing in Arcane criminals.”

“A mercenary like you?”

I said nothing.

“Well,” Cyrus continued, leaning back in his chair. “It’s quite fortunate that you recognize them. They recognize you. And they wanted to chat. If you could visit Room 6 after breakfast, they would most appreciate it.” He motioned to the waiter. “More eggs for Friederick, please. I’m afraid my pet has eaten them all.”

When the eggs arrived, Cyrus gave an exaggerated bow and left. I ate my meal in silence, using my book to shield myself from Armand as he entered the room. Then, two minutes after eight, I made my way to Room 6.

Horace stood at the entrance. The American towered over me, six and a half feet of broad shoulders, square jaw, and barely concealed muscle. He nodded professionally, then rapped three times on the door. After a few moments his twin, equally gigantic, opened the door and beckoned me in.

The small room smelled of opium. A wiry young man lay chained on the bed, eyes glassy and mumbling to himself. Henry loomed over me, smiled unpleasantly, and shut the door behind us. Without enough room to sit, we stood.

“Morning Faisal,” he said, using my birth name.

“Henry. Does that man need to be in chains?”

The ugly smile vanished. “He killed six in Nagasaki without rising from his chair. Turned their blood to lead. I’d damn well prefer he were dead, but chains will have to do for now. More importantly, he’s stuffed with opium.” He scratched his ear, where an old scar twisted the cartilage. “Are you traveling with Jack Carrington?”

“I am. He’s my prisoner.”

“Looks more like he’s your friend.”

“Some of us treat our prisoners like humans.”

Anger flashed across Henry’s face, but he took a breath and tried to calm himself. “Look, Faisal, we’ve all been doing this a long time. Us longer than you. Sometimes it’s easy to get turned around.” He shrugged awkwardly. “I’ve been there. But Jack is a wanted man. Oxford wants him arrested. And if you’ve taken the contract then you should arrest him.”

“I prefer a subtler hand.”

The anger stayed this time. “Look, don’t be like this to me. Remember Kiev? The Mad Minstrel? We worked the same contract, but backed off when we realized you got there first. We even helped you track him down, swapped clues, and all we asked was to stay in touch.” He took a step closer to me. There was nowhere to go in the tiny room, and Henry’s pent up rage was building. “But you didn’t stay in touch, you cold bastard! You disappeared for months, and now you’re running around with a known fugitive on a balloon from China to the States.”

“It’s none of your concern.”

“None of… none of our concern?” Henry grabbed me by the shoulders and lifted me against the wall. “You absolute bastard, the only reason I’m even warning you is because Horace wanted me to! You’re aiding and abetting a criminal! That’s illegal, and we could bring you in along with him.” A sharp rap on the door. “We’re fine!”

“Jack Carrington is my prisoner. I am bringing him to London where he will await trial. I have no quarrel with you.”

Henry’s face contorted, purple muscles flexing in his jaw. Slowly, he put me down, but did not release me. He brought his teeth close to my eyes. “If I don’t see Jack in manacles by the time this zeppelin lands, then all professional niceties are off. Both of you bastards are coming with us.” His white knuckles released my shoulders, and he awkwardly straightened out my jacket. “Look, I’m trying to be reasonable Faisal.”

When I said nothing, he sighed deeply and knocked twice on the door. Horace opened it, gave me the same professional nod, and stepped aside. I bumped into Saanvi as the door closed behind me.

“It smells of opium in there, Friedrich.” she said, large brown eyes running over my rumpled outfit. “Having a party?”

I frowned, straightening myself. “Merely speaking with some old friends.”

“Old friends.” She sighed and patted me on the cheek. “How delightful.”

After seven long days of confinement, the lights of San Francisco approached over a darkening horizon. I almost shouted with relief. My quarters aboard the zeppelin were far better than my Himalayan prison, but the effect was the same. I was trapped, with nowhere to go and nothing to do.

While others packed their bags, I paced to and fro along the slanted windows, watching the California coast approach before it was lost entirely to night.

Our flying machine glided over the brilliant city and across the Bay, slowly descending as we approached the Oakland pier. Electric lamps illuminated rows of colorful Victorian houses. Workmen stopped and pointed up at our strange craft. I waved and called down, until I remembered my small confines and the magicians I was disturbing.

As we passed over the wharves, Friedrich pulled me away from the windows. He kept one hand beneath his coat on his firearm.

“We may have a problem.” His normally severe face seemed more drawn than usual.

“Surely nothing we can’t handle!” I said, too thrilled by our imminent arrival to be concerned.

Friedrich said nothing, and led me to his room where Jack and Saanvi waited patiently. He closed the door behind us. The four of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the tight quarters. Saanvi smiled placidly.

Friedrich removed his spectacles and began to clean them. Then he cleared his throat, and addressed Jack. “I have reason to believe, sir, that there are some on board who would do you harm.”

I tensed instantly, but Jack said nothing. Friedrich continued. “I overheard a conversation during dinner this evening between the two American twins. I believe they have been sent from Professor Skimp to delay or arrest your progress. It seemed like they were waiting for our disembarkment this evening to attack.”

“The giants?” I asked.

“Yes. We should avoid a direct confrontation.”

“I could take them.” I offered.

“What do you suggest?” asked Saanvi.

Friedrich replaced his glasses. “We should disembark early. Use the liftruned life jackets to leap from the windows and drift into Oakland before we land. There, find a hotel, disappear for the night, and catch the first train out tomorrow morning.”

I scoffed. “Flee? There’s only two, and we have four.” I stretched out my burned hand. “I may be missing some digits, but three fingers can punch as well as five. Besides, you still have your pistol! And we have two skilled magicians with us!”

Friedrich shook his head. “We must avoid a confrontation. I believe they could tear us to pieces. Besides, I have no desire to start a brawl aboard a flammable balloon filled with wizards.”

“I’ve never run from a fight, and I don’t intend to start now.” I said. “I think we should jump them, before they get any ideas.”

“I highly recommend flight, sir,” said Friedrich, now directing his attention to Jack.

“Absurd,” said Jack.

The word cut through the air like a knife. I’d never heard so much venom in Jack’s voice. Both Friedrich and I were stunned into silence. Jack coldly met first Friedrich’s gaze, then mine. I looked away.

“Absurd,” repeated Jack. “I have made a gentleman’s bet with Professor Skimp. He would not sully his honor by sending ‘thugs.’ There is some confusion.”

“Sir…” began Friedrich, but Jack cut him off.

“Furthermore,” he said, turning towards me. “I have no intention of leaping from a moving vehicle or starting a brawl like a common criminal. It is beneath me. And I would hope, Armand, it is beneath you.”

My face flushed. “Sir…” I began, but Jack continued on.

“You have mis-assessed the situation. And I see that I will have to clear it up.” And with that, Jack opened the door and walked stiffly out.

Friedrich and I looked at each other. “Get four lifejackets ready,” he said quietly to Saanvi, and we both hurried after my master.

Passengers crowded the viewing areas. Magicians of all shapes and sizes looked down on the Oakland harbor, some 200 feet below. Servants, baggage, and strange animals crowded the space. Cyrus caught my eye. “Wonderful view, isn’t it?” he called out.

We pushed through the crowd to Jack, who had made his way to one of the American twins. The other was nowhere in sight. Jack held himself with the calm air of a British aristocrat while the American towered over him, glancing about awkwardly.

“I’ve received a rather concerning report from one of my traveling companions,” said Jack, back rigid, “and I’d like to clarify some things.”

“Alright,” mumbled the American, obviously flummoxed. He caught Friedrich’s eye and grimaced.

“Were you sent here from Oxford?”

“Well … sort of.”

Jack was taken aback. “For me?”

“Yes, well, we weren’t here for you initially, but, you were here, and it just sort of happened. Look, wouldn’t you rather have this conversation on solid ground?” The giant man looked around for his twin. By this point, Friedrich and I flanked Jack in the crowd, and we were attracting attention. A small circle formed. I glared at the American, who stood at least a foot above me.

“Now would be appropriate,” responded Jack. “Why are you here for me?”

“Look, I … ” He floundered for a moment, then, suddenly angry, he pointed at Friedrich and addressed Jack. “Look, are you this guy’s prisoner?”

“Certainly not.”

“Fine!” roared the American. The cabin fell quiet, and all eyes went to us. The American flushed crimson and turned to the crowd. “Look, he’s a criminal!” He turned back to Jack and grabbed him hard by the shoulder. I tensed, ready for my master’s command. “I’m taking you in.”

Jack’s eyes blazed. “Remove your hand, sir.”

“Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.”

“Remove your hand.”

The American sighed in exasperation. Then, with the force of a train, he punched Jack in the jaw. My master went limp, and the world went red. I leapt at the giant.

“Hey!” he yelled, dodging my first punch as the crowd began to shout. “This is an arrest! He’s a criminal!”

“A lie!” I shouted, landing a solid hit on his left arm. He released Jack, and Frederich caught my insensate master. I circled the American, arms up, readying my next strike.

“Horace!” shouted the twin, rolling up his sleeves. “I got a tiny Frenchman here who thinks we’re boxing!”

“We must leave,” whispered Friedrich. I turned my head to reply, and the American punched me in the ear. I stumbled back into the mages, as the world reeled. The American lunged to finish me off, but I ducked and he smashed Cyrus in the face instead. Snake hissed angrily.

“Damn!” Henry shouted, “Sorry!” Ignoring the apology, Snake leapt forward and bit the American’s shoulder.

“He’s not venomous,” burbled Cyrus apologetically, blood coursing from his nose. Henry tried to pry off the reptile, but suddenly Snake wrapped tight around his neck. “He’s just a constrictor!”

“Get ‘im off!” cried the American, spinning and grabbing feebly at the yellow serpent. I took the opportunity to punch Henry in the jaw, but the blow only seemed to make him mad. “Quit it!” he yelled at me over the din of the crowd. Crew members rushed into the room as the crowd surged forward to help the choking man. Hands groped at Snake, and Henry was yanked in every direction.

I lined up another punch when a gunshot rang out and a window shattered. The other twin pushed his way through the crowd, brandishing a revolver where all could see it. At the same time, the strangled twin landed a solid kick to my face, breaking my nose and sending me to the floor.

Friedrich helped me up as men and women swarmed around the choking man. “Time to go?” asked Friedrich.

Rage still beat through me, but I could not risk Jack being shot. “Time to go,” I mumbled, dizzy from the pain.

We pushed through the crowd, the American shouting after us. Cyrus, face bloody, gave me a wink.

“I could take him,” I said, stumbling into a wall, “In an open ring. Size isn’t everything.”

We met Saanvi in the hallway. She had her own liftruned lifejacket on, and gave us ours. She had bundled our luggage in lifejackets as well, and she towed them behind her in a floating line. “I heard a gunshot,” she said.

“Nothing to worry about, but we only have 30 seconds to get off the zeppelin,” said Friedrich. “Follow me.”

I quickly got my life jacket on and placed one on Jack, who was mumbling his way back to consciousness. A purple welt sprouted from his chin. Together, we made our way towards the lounge on the other side of the zeppelin.

The crowd was shouting louder now, and I could hear the twins bullying their way towards us. The captain’s voice called for order, but the twins screamed over him.

A few mages stood in the lounge, talking in hushed tones. When they saw our life jackets, a young man asked “Are we going down?”

“Only some of us,” replied Saanvi sweetly, as Friedrich threw a chair through the window. The night wind howled in.

“Stop!” shouted a uniformed sailor, running into the room at the head of a small mob. The twins pushed at the back, trying to force their way through the group.

Friedrich drew his own firearm, and tossed his bag out into the night. “Jump!” he shouted. Saanvi jumped into the darkness with our bags. Friedrich leapt after her. Both disappeared from view.

I wiped my bloody face with my hand, made a rude gesture at the Americans, and leapt into the darkness with Jack.

Damp, cool air suddenly replaced the bright noise of the cabin. Our jackets caught us as if we were suspended by ropes, and we slowly floated down, watching the airship glide silently past. Beneath us, the lights of Oakland spread out like campfires in the wilderness. Above, the stars of all God's creation shone steadily. I was struck by the sudden peace of a temperate night and an open sky.

Moments later, the twins appeared at the broken window and stared out at us. One drew his revolver and aimed, but the other pulled his arm down. A minute later, and they were indistinct as the zeppelin chugged away.

Flat wooden roofs came up to meet us. Jack and I descended faster than Saanvi and Friedrich, who held onto each other and their bags for stability. As we passed them, I flashed a great bloody grin. Saanvi returned it happily, and even Friedrich gave me a grim smile.

“Of all the ways we’ve fallen on this trip,” said Saanvi, “This is my favorite.” She looked utterly relaxed.

We fell to earth on a muddy street some blocks from the Oakland harbor. Two swaggering drunks watched our descent, then fell to pieces as first Friedrich and then I missed our landings and stumbled face first into the mud. The drunks, rosy cheeked Caucasians with bright blonde hair, merrily helped us up. To my great surprise, they spoke Swedish to one another.

“Hello!” I said in their native tongue. “What brings you to San Francisco?"

They caught each other’s eye, and burst out laughing anew.

“Gold!” said the taller one.

“But we stayed for the drink!” said the shorter, a handsome Swede of perhaps 40.

“And the girls!”

“Is there any gold left?” I asked, as Armand and Jack came around the corner. Our long descent had somewhat resuscitated Jack, but he stumbled as he walked.

“Who knows?” replied the handsome Swede. “We never looked!” The two burst into childish giggles again, and I smiled at their boyish camaraderie.

The zeppelin had nearly moved out of sight beneath the houses, and Friedrich gently touched my arm. “We should get off the streets,” he said. “Just in case.”

“Gentlemen,” I said, smiling broadly. “We need a place to stay. Can you recommend a nearby hotel? Perhaps slightly off the road?”

The tall one was about to speak, when the handsome Swede elbowed him sharply in the side. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” he asked in Swedish.

The tall one nodded sagely. “Ja, ja.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” I said, “but perhaps you forget I can speak Swedish?”

They clutched each other again, first giggling, then howling with laughter.

And so, Friedrich, Armand, Jack, and I spent the night sleeping in the servant’s quarters of a palatial but nearly derelict mansion overlooking the bay. The Swedes explained that they had acquired the place from a wealthy widow who died heirless. Now, they rented out the rooms to travelers. It brought in enough money, they said, that they planned to never work again. And they always let pretty girls stay for free. My companions paid full price, of course.

I met another of these “pretty girls” the next morning, as we headed out the door to the train station. Sarah Harris was nearly as tall as Jack, with wavy blonde hair tied in a ponytail. To my great delight, she was dressed almost exactly how Americans are portrayed in our picture books: denim jeans, a white cotton blouse, and a large cowboy hat. I watched as she put on leather boots and slung two revolvers around her waist.

“Why are you clapping?” she asked in a slow American drawl. Her thin face watched mine, concerned.

“Please tell me you shoot banditos,” I said.

“Sometimes,” she replied cautiously.

Sarah was a born and raised cowgirl from Arizona. She had left the family farm to seek fortunes in California ranging from the citrus fields of Los Angeles to the gold creeks of Yreka.

“Don’t ask me what I did,” she said roughly. “And I can carry my own damn bags!” she growled at Friedrich as we said goodbye to the Swedes and headed out the door.

I gleefully grabbed Armand’s arm. “Our very own American!”

Sarah had saved enough money for a railroad trip to New York. She explained the situation grudgingly as we walked to the train station.

“My daddy was a gunslinger, when such a thing was needed, and he always taught me that women shot better than men. The only fight he ever lost was to Anne Oakley, so he says, but we never really believed him. He was a liar, through and through, but we loved him. Anyway, I became a pretty good shot, and I thought I would be defending our family ranch from Indians and the ghosts of Confederate soldiers and such.” She sighed, then spat on the muddy street. Jack’s lip curled, though Armand and I were enraptured. “Turns out the west wasn’t as wild as the stories my daddy told, least not in Arizona, so I had to go out looking for trouble. I found some for a while, but even that trouble’s faded away. Cut through here, unless you want to wait in line with the rest of the city folk.” Sarah led us between two slanted buildings, around a chicken coop, and into the Oakland rail yard. We crossed three sets of railroad tracks before making our way to the passenger platform. A well-dressed businessman frowned at us, but Sarah growled in return and the man retreated.

Friedrich and Armand went to buy tickets while Sarah continued her story. “Anyway, I got a letter from my brothers last week that the bank had foreclosed on our farm, and that they won’t take no for an answer. My brothers are lily-livered chickens, but I told them to shoot any bankers who show up and I’ll get things sorted. Bank headquarters is in New York, so that’s where I’m going, to make them see reason, with iron if I need to.” She patted her revolvers. “No banker’s gonna take my family’s farm, even if my brothers don’t know the rear end of a cow from a husk of corn. ‘Sides, New York’s the biggest city in the world, and maybe they got work for me.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “London is far larger than New York. London has a population of 5 million, while I believe…”

“I don’t want to hear it, you posh limey Brit!” Sarah shouted in sudden anger. “I’m gonna be sharing a train with you folks for the next eight days, and I don’t want to hear nothing but good things about our destination!”

Jack fell silent, while I stared in awe at this beautiful product of the American dream.

“The American twins are not on the platform,” said Friedrich, returning with the tickets.

“More’s the pity. I should like a fair fight on solid ground,” said Armand. His face was a puffy mess from his brawl aboard the airship the previous night.

I examined the details of the ticket. “We arrive in New York the day before the zeppelin departs.” I observed. “That’s cutting things quite close.”

Armand shrugged. “What could be more reliable than a train?”

A comfortable silence descended as we waited for the doors of the 9:00 a.m. train to open. The wooden machine had been sitting on the tracks since we got there, as cleaning and engineering crews made sure she was ready for her long journey. It looked like a children’s vibrant toy, with each passenger car painted with bright greens and reds. Open windows revealed rows of seats and fine wooden paneling.

Jack had been quiet since his miscalculation aboard the zeppelin. Perhaps he could not comprehend how Professor Skimp would risk his honor to sully their bet. Perhaps he could not believe that another man would lay hands on him without warning. Or perhaps he was just beginning to understand these points all too well.

I had no doubt that Professor Skimp would stoop to such levels. As my memories returned, troubling details re-emerged about my teleportation to India. I was eager to speak with the professor directly, but I still did not wish to teleport back to Oxford. My head was not ready for that.

At 9:00 precisely, the locomotive sounded the whistle, and the doors opened. We went in and quickly found seats among the rows of padded benches. Sarah sat near us, placing her own bag next to her to discourage unwanted suitors.

I opened my window and peered out at the station. The scents and sounds of a distant sea drifted in. Gulls cried. The peak of Mt. Tamalpais broke the fog like a lighthouse breaks a crashing wave. I inhaled the salt air and felt it work its magic upon me.

At 9:30, the train whistle sounded again, and a few minutes later the doors closed. The town of Oakland fell steadily behind, and we ascended into rolling green hills. Trees shimmered in the cool wind. Cows lazed in the rich grass like vagabond kings.

“A shame we couldn’t have stayed longer,” said Armand, as if reading my thoughts.

I dozed on the bench, leaning my head against Armand’s shoulder as he stared out the window. Sarah snored loudly behind us. Jack and Friedrich sat coldly side by side, each refusing to meet the other’s gaze. I’d never understood men like those two. One all honor, the other all business.

Why not dedicate your life to something more enjoyable?

I heard the twins before I saw them: Two sets of heavy footsteps, entering from the rear of the cabin as twilight fell over California’s Central Valley. Jack stared out the window next to me, while Saanvi and Armand napped in the row behind.

I drew my weapon, turned, and stood.

Henry’s eyes went from the barrel of my pistol, inches from his forehead, to my own face. He looked more disappointed than scared. “Man,” said Henry quietly, “What are you doing?”

Horace loomed behind him, both of them completely blocking the exit to the rear of the cabin. Behind them stood a small American man, about my height, dressed in beige. He stared at my weapon in annoyance. One hand fingered the revolver around his waist, and the other rubbed the brass star on his chest. A United States Marshal.

In his own left hand, Henry held up an arrest warrant for Jack Carrington. It was identical to the one in my own pocket.

What was I doing?

“Easy,” said Henry loudly, as the passengers suddenly woke to the drawn weapons. “Easy, relax. There’s no need for trouble. Legal business, everybody can stay seated. And that goes double for you, Frenchie.” Armand had taken a second to process the events, but now he sat at full alert clenching his ruined hand into a fist. He would have lunged at Henry had Saanvi not held him back.

“Now everybody,” said Henry, presenting the arrest warrant to the cabin like a lawyer presenting evidence to a jury, “That man sitting there, looking out the window, is a fugitive. This paper proves it. It’s an arrest warrant for Jack Carrington, and he’s wanted for stealing. Now, I have a U.S. Marshal here who can verify this claim and is willing to take the man into temporary custody on board this train until we get to New York.”

The train car was silent.

“You had better lower than gun, son,” said the Marshal to me.

Was I still holding my gun? My world was fringed in white, and blood pulsed in my ears. Slowly I lowered my weapon and stepped back. I shook my head, trying to clear the fog.

What was I doing?

Jack, who had been sitting and watching the almond trees fly by, stood and faced Henry in the aisle. “I resent the implication, sir. I am no thief. Last time we met, you assaulted me.”

Henry met Jack’s gaze evenly. “Look, Mr. Carrington, I’m sorry about that, but in my line of work you can’t take chances. Now I have since been better informed, and I’ve been told that you are a gentleman and a man of honor.” He offered Jack the arrest warrant. “Here. Look it over, and see if you find anything amiss.”

Jack took the paper. “I am not used to baseless accusations,” he said coldly. His eyes went to the document.

Jack stared at the warrant for a long time. I could not say how long, for my heart beat heavily in my skull, but I knew that the sun had set by the time he spoke again. The entire cabin watched in silence, as his face slowly flushed red.

Finally, Jack folded the paper and handed it back to Henry. Jack cleared his throat, and spoke with a waver that I had never heard before. “This seems to be in order.”

“Sir!” exclaimed Armand, in shock. Saanvi gasped. I could do nothing but stand in silence.

“This seems to be in order,” Jack repeated, “but I have committed no crime, nor stolen any object. However, if the government needs to be assured of these simple facts, then I am honor-bound to oblige.” He nodded to Henry. “You may lead me to the brig.”

Henry smiled, and held out his hand. “Glad you could see the right of it.” Jack did not shake it, and Henry coughed awkwardly and rubbed his bruised neck. “This way then.”

The Marshall and the twins led Jack to the back of the cabin. Armand and Saanvi leapt to their feet to follow, and the group made no move to stop them. At the door, Saanvi turned to look at me, confusion written across her large brown eyes. “Aren’t you coming?”

When I made no reply, she disappeared after them.

I must have stood for a long time. Whispered conversation broke out as I stared blindly at the door. I found myself counting the windows. With great effort, I removed my spectacles and began to clean them. Then, I met Sarah’s gaze. Even without my glasses, I could feel her utter disgust.

“Your friend is arrested, and you stand there sweating?” She scoffed. “What are you doing?”

With this prompting, I stumbled after them.

I made my way through several passenger cars to the back of the train. I passed through the crew’s quarters, the kitchen, and then finally into the caboose. In this dark room, heavy wooden boxes crowded to the ceiling. A small cot and chair were laid out in the corner, and there sat Jack, manacled by the ankle to a wooden beam. Henry, Horace, the Marshal and Saanvi stood around him, while Armand paced furiously near the entrance. I moved past him and approached.

In his hand, Jack slowly turned over the Leviathan Lure. The runic burns on his palm shone crimson in the lamplight.

“This is the item Oxford claims I have stolen,” said Jack. He did not meet the eyes of his audience, and spoke almost inaudibly over the rumbling of the train. “The Leviathan Lure. A singular artifact. Only one has ever been made, and the secret to making it was lost with the death of its creator. I took it from the Oxford laboratory the night I entered into my agreement with Professor Gabriel Skimp. I did not have the time to request it’s official release.”

“Then you admit you stole it?” asked Henry, surprised.

“I did not steal it,” said Jack.

“No,” Henry chuckled, “you just took it without asking.”

“I did not steal it, because it is mine.”

Jack looked up and met Henry’s eyes. Henry squinted in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“The Leviathan Lure was crafted by my mother shortly before her death. It then passed to me. I had loaned the artifact to the University for research, but at no point did it leave my legal ownership. I have stolen nothing.”

Saanvi nodded slowly. “Then Professor Skimp lied to the police. He wants you arrested to delay you, so he can win your bet. But you’ve done nothing wrong.” She turned to the Marshal, “Sir, you must release him!”

“Hold up, now!” cried Henry. “That’s a nice story, but you’ve got nothing to prove it. And besides, we’re not a judge and jury. We take you in, and you can talk all you want at somebody who can do something about it.”

The Marshal nodded. “Sorry ma’am, but that’s the way the law works in the States. He’s got to speak with a judge to get this sorted. He’s going to be here for a couple of weeks, minimum, so we can process him and then get him shipped to England to stand trial. I can’t just let him go because he asks for it.” He smiled apologetically. “Even if I believe him.”

I stepped forward out of the shadows, and cleared my throat. “Quite the contrary, Marshal. You have no right to hold him.”

The group turned towards me, and the Marshal cast a baleful eye on me. I recognized his look from so many conversations with the white Europeans back home. Men who had denied me jobs and lodging for the color of my skin. “What did you say, boy?”

I tried to focus. “The arrest warrant you have is admissible only in British territories. It contains no extradition clause nor application in foreign nations. And, as of 113 years ago, the English Crown has no sway in the States.”

The Marshal looked me up and down in the dim light. “How do you know so much about the particulars of this warrant?”

Struggling to control my shaking hand, I opened up my jacket and produced my own copy. “Because I have also been tasked with bringing in Jack Carrington.”

Armand stopped pacing behind me. Saanvi’s mouth dropped open. As the Marshall read and re-read the warrant, Jack’s gaze, cold as death, pierced me. I could not meet it.

“He’s right,” said the Marshal. “I can’t keep this man locked up. It’s an English warrant, and the English don’t have jurisdiction here, or else my great granddaddy died for nothing.”

“Look…” started Henry, but Jack interrupted him.

“I submit to this arrest,” said Jack, his eyes still drilling into me. “No matter the legal nuances, I will not flee like a common criminal. I am a citizen of the Crown, and, if requested, I will arrive back in England a prisoner. I refuse to be arrested the moment I set foot on British soil.”

“You’ll lose your bet,” I said quietly.

Jack said nothing.

The Marshal looked from me, to Jack, to Henry, and then threw up his hands. “I’ll never understand you Brits. Fine. Stay chained up in the caboose if that’s your fancy. But from this point on, keep me and the US law out of it.” He left the cabin.

The six of us stood in silence for a moment. Henry looked over my head at Armand. “Are we going to have any trouble, Frenchie?”

Jack answered for him. “You will have no trouble from me or either of my friends. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I should like to get some rest.”

One by one, they left the cabin. Saanvi brushed past me, looking hurt and confused. Henry clapped me on the back, and Horace gave me a professional nod. Armand left last. I still had not faced him since I revealed my own arrest warrant.

Only Jack and I remained in the cramped room.

“Jack …” I started, but he cut in.

“Thank you for pulling me out of the surf at Trabzon. Thank you for saving my life in the Himalayas, and for taking charge of the situation aboard the opium ship above Hong Kong. I am now, and will forever be in your debt. However, you have lied to me about who you were, and why you accompanied me. If you ever need money, or a connection while in England, please send a telegraph to Armand. Otherwise, I do not wish to see you again. Goodbye Friedrich.”

I stood frozen for several seconds, unable to believe the finality of his words. Then I bowed stiffly, turned, and left.

Armand waited for me in the kitchen. His normally jovial face was contorted in rage.

“Armand … ” I began.

Then the world went white, and I was on the floor with blood pouring from my nose.

“I trusted you!” Armand shouted, standing over me. “We all trusted you. We flew together, Friedrich. We traveled half the world together! I can’t believe … I can’t … ” He shook his head, his eyes brimming with tears. “I can’t believe you lied to us. I thought you were my friend.”

His mouth worked as if he had more to say. Then he turned and left me bleeding on the floor.

I returned to my seat and watched the darkness fly by.

Armand sat down next to me, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and left. For several hours he paced the aisles muttering to himself in French. Eventually, he returned to his seat and fell into a restless sleep.

I tried to close my eyes, but visions passed before me. Yellow lights danced in the darkness. Shadows rose up and collapsed like breaking waves.

My sanity was cracking once again. I tried to sit back and separate myself from the confusion. Become a mute bystander.

A street urchin wasting her life in a Calcutta opium den.

Never again.

At two in the morning we entered into the Sierra Nevada mountains, winding through canyons like Theseus through the labyrinth. Rocky peaks silhouetted the stars, while sentinel trees judged our straining vehicle. As we took Donner pass, Friedrich made his way past me into a car to the front of the train. He saw me, as I saw him, but he did not meet my gaze. Armand slept through it all.

I needed to do something.

In the morning, I brought Jack some tea.

“Good morning, Jack,” I said.

“Good morning, professor,” he replied. He sat like a statue reading a copy of the Oakland Tribune. His leg was still shackled to the wooden beam.

Horace watched us warily from over a cup of steaming coffee, but said nothing. I smiled at the big American, passed Jack the tea, and took a seat on the floor.

“How did you sleep?” I asked.

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“Very well. Is the manacle bothering you at all?”

“Not at all, thank you for asking.”

Jack was all niceties. We drank our tea in silence for a few moments.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said, “about Gabriel Skimp.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Horrible man,” I continued.

“He is a fellow professor of yours.”

“He’s a cheat, a liar, and an amoral opportunist,” I said. “And perhaps worst of all, he’s an ass.”

Jack bristled. “Nonetheless, he is the man with whom I have entered into a gentleman’s bet.”

“It takes two gentlemen to make a gentleman’s bet, but never mind. I’m not speaking about your silly wager.” I saw the blood in Jack’s cheeks rise. “I’m talking about my own experience.”

Jack regained himself. “Your experience?”

“My experience. One year ago, a few weeks before the start of term, Skimp encouraged me to visit home. His interest confused me. He had always been quite rude to me, and jealous. I was the head of the Teleportation department, a position which he had worked nearly two decades to achieve. He blamed me, but his failure was his own. He had antagonized Oxford’s chancellor, and I was the only remaining option.

“In any case, Skimp said that I had enough time to take a short vacation to India before the start of term if I teleported there and back.

“Well, I was feeling a bit homesick through the mild Oxford summer, so eventually I relented. Three weeks before school was to start, I drew up a teleportation circle and began the ritual. Skimp offered to help and I had no reason to suspect him.

“As I’m sure you know, the teleportation from Oxford to India is one of the longest in the world, and requires an exactness finer than the point of a pin. The ritual took approximately four hours, and Skimp acted as my second.

“But as we reached the climax of the ritual, with the runes charged and the ley-marks set, Skimp began to flounder. Nothing overt of course. A missed word here, a smudged mark there, a coughing fit as we spoke the destination. I took over more and more of the channeling for myself, and my mind began to strain.

“The next few moments are fuzzy. With the whole of the ritual held within my psyche, Skimp began a counter-chant, changing the destination. It was too late to go back, so I tried to split my mind and finish the ritual while protecting myself. But it was too much. My mind broke, I found myself in the Himalayas, and you found me a year later witless and unable to escape.”

Jack listened in rapt attention. He sat bolt upright, white as a sheet, knuckles clenching his tea and newspaper.

“Of course, I can prove nothing.” I continued. “I know that, and I’m sure he knows that. Courts generally hate arcane cases anyway, and the legal precedents have not been set. But when I walk into Oxford before the start of Fall term, I will be walking straight to Skimp and confronting him. And I want you by my side. Not sheepishly handing him your life’s worth, packing your bags, and leaving with your tail between your legs. But proudly proving to him that you won, despite his foul play and despite your own honor.”

“My honor…” began Jack.

“Is not everything,” I cut in. “Skimp has caught you in the perfect trap. And if you submit, then you are proving to the world that bad people can win. Perhaps worse, you are proving that being good is a weakness. You, Jack, are a good person. And yes, you are honorable, but you are also proud. If you let your pride blind you, then you will be handing twenty thousand pounds to one of the most dishonorable scoundrels I have ever met. And we will all lose. Every one of us, from Armand, to you, to me, to even Friedrich, will lose to Gabriel Skimp, Department Head of Teleportation at Oxford University, criminal saboteur, overreaching ass, and all around bad person.”

I stood, dizzy from the effort of speaking. “I will be back in one hour to break you free. Until then, enjoy your tea.”

At this last, Horace leapt to his feet, red faced and angry.

“Relax,” I smiled. “I’m leaving. But I’ll be back in an hour. Call your twin.”

I closed the door to the caboose as Jack discovered the quill I had hid underneath his tea cup.

My first stop was Armand. I moved in beside him as he sat fidgeting by the window.

“At eight o'clock, we will break Jack out.” I said, as confidently as I could.

“Quel soulagement,” replied Armand, visibly relaxing. “And he will come?”

I nodded. “He will. You said that you could take one of the twins in a fair fight?”

“Of course! Such sloppy form! I could easily beat such a man.”

“I do not doubt it. Prepare yourself, and I’ll be back shortly.”

Next, I sat down beside Sarah. Despite the sun on her face, she lay open-mouthed and snoring. I grabbed a cornmeal muffin from the breakfast tray and set it in front of her, then placed my hand on her shoulder. “It’s a beautiful morning, Sarah.”

She startled awake, banging both knees on the table and almost punching me in the face. The muffin dropped on the floor, and I picked it up and handed it to her.

“Goddamnit, why did you have to shake me like that?” She holstered her guns. I had not even seen her draw them.

“How did you sleep?”

“Fine, until the end.”

“How much is the mortgage on your family’s farm?”

“What a question to wake up to! About $1,200, why?”

Around 250 pounds. “And you are going to New York to look for work?”

“That and to rough up some bankers. Why all the questions?”

“I have a job for you that will pay $1,200.”

She squinted at me. “That’s a tad suspicious, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“The employer is quite wealthy.”

“Well, I’ll think about it. What’s the job?”

“Escort Jack Carrington to New York.”

“That’s the Brit that got arrested yesterday? No thanks, I don’t cross with the law so publicly.”

“You don’t need to worry, the law is no longer involved. He is now being held by two American mercenaries in the caboose.”

Sarah rubbed her chin, “Well, that’s certainly a pretty penny for not too much work. I’ll have to think about it.”

“Don’t think too long,” I said standing up. “We need you at eight o'clock. And one last thing - I don’t want anybody killed. Only use those guns if you have to.”

Sarah nodded and started on her muffin.

That was two down. I steeled myself for the hardest.

I found Friedrich sitting alone in a cabin near the front of the train. He looked as though he had not slept. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his broken nose was caked with blood. He absently polished his glasses and stared out the window at the desert flying by.

“Good morning, Friedrich,” I said, sitting beside him.

He did not look up, but merely smiled fleetingly and then returned to his glasses.

We sat side by side for some time in silence, each collecting ourselves. Then, I put my hand on his shoulder.

“Friedrich,” I said. “Tell me everything.”

And he did. From his life as an orphan on the streets of Egypt, to his part in the ʻUrabi revolt, to watching his friends die in poison fog during the British bombardment of Alexandria. He told me how he made his way across Europe looking for work, but how he was turned down everywhere for his name, race, and religion. How he eventually became a private eye and mercenary traveling between the Arab and Christian worlds. And how he met Jack and Armand, and kept the truth from them.

Friedrich took the arrest warrant out his pocket and held it on the table in front of him. He shook his head slowly. “I didn’t want things to end like this. But I didn’t know how they needed to end. Jack is a wanted criminal by English law, despite all else. I had him in my grasp, but…” Friedrich paused, unable to continue.

“But you were friends. With him and Armand both.” I finished. Friedrich nodded, closed his eyes, and began to cry. We sat together in silence, as the tears dropped onto the piece of paper.

“I think,” I said after a time, “That all your life you have been surrounded by people who did not understand you. Then, out of nowhere, you find people that accept you for who you are. And you fear you have betrayed them.”

I gripped both of Friedrich’s shoulders and turned him towards me. The small man could not meet my gaze. “You have not betrayed them. You have struggled with yourself, but at every turn you have stood by their side. But if you leave them now, you will betray them. They need your help. Just as you need theirs.”

I hugged the crying man, then stood. “We are breaking Jack out of the brig. Meet us in the second class cars at eight o'clock. I will see you there.”

I closed the door, and stumbled exhausted to my seat. It was too late to back down now. The only thing to do now was watch the desert roll by and wait for eight o’clock.

At 7:55, I re-entered the second class cars. Armand paced up and down the aisle, while Sarah calmly cleaned her revolvers. The well-dressed young man sitting next to her eyed her disassembled weapons, but said nothing.

Armand quickly approached me. “Are we ready?” He asked.

I smiled and nodded. My head felt faint. “We are.”

“Good,” he said, flexing his fists. His wounded hand had healed since his fight with Pabok, but it was still missing a few digits. Armand followed my eyes and shrugged. “It is the arm that matters, not the hand.”

“There’s wisdom in there somewhere,” I responded, patting him on the shoulder.

The Marshal entered from the back of the cabin. He paused for a second, then approached Armand. “The boys in the caboose let me know you are attempting a jailbreak.”

“We are freeing an innocent man from wrongful oppressors.” Armand responded. I nodded in agreement.

His eyes fell to Sarah’s guns. “Alright then.” the Marshal continued. “I said I was staying out of it, and I’m staying out of it. But I don’t want any bodies, you hear? If I have to write up a report for this, it would take all day.”

I smiled broadly in response, and the Marshal shook his head and pushed past us. As he opened the door to leave, Friedrich walked in. He was pale, and his skin glistened with sweat. I could see he was shaking.

Armand’s face darkened as Friedrich approached. For a few seconds, I was afraid he would faint. Then, the Egyptian spoke.

“I am here to …” he said haltingly, then cleared his throat. He looked around the cabin, unable to meet Armand’s gaze. “I am here to…” he started again, fumbling a small cloth from his pocket and removing his spectacles. For a moment, he stood frozen with each item in hand. Then, clenching his jaw, he returned his spectacles to his face. He met Armand’s stare. “I am here to help.”

Armand rolled his chin from side to side. His nostrils flared like a bull’s. Finally, he grunted an assent and turned away.

Friedrich reached out a hand. “Armand, I need to explain …”

I touched Friedrich lightly as Armand walked into the next cabin. “Jack will want to hear your story as well.” I said. “And he’s expecting us.”

At eight o'clock, Sarah, Friedrich, Armand and I entered the caboose.

Jack sat calmly on his chair, leg manacled to the wooden beam. He held his own arrest warrant, and he appeared to be carefully scrutinizing it. Henry and Horace flanked him, and watched us enter the crowded car. They towered above us with weapons drawn, muscle tense and ready for a fight. Even from here, I could sense the protective talismans woven into their tan jackets. I would not be able to not touch them with magic.

“Look,” Henry bellowed, “this has gone far enough! Jack is our willing prisoner, and we have a legal right to defend ourselves, and him. You come any closer, and we won’t hesitate to shoot you all. And you,” he said, aiming at Friedrich, “are never getting another job again. I’ll see to that!”

“It’s four against two!” shouted Armand, stepping forward and putting his hands up in a boxer’s pose. He was seemingly oblivious to the revolver pointed at his skull. I blanched.

“Damn it, I’m not kidding,” shouted Henry, face purple with rage. “If you think this is a fair fight, think again. We’re the goddamn Doyle twins. You think this is our first rodeo? We’ll crush you like ants. You’re nothing! Just a bunch of goddamn criminals.”

“Put up your fists,” said Armand, and took another step forward.

Henry fired his pistol directly at Armand’s face.

Quicker than lighting, Sarah drew both pistols and fired. The air in front of Armand sparked and the gun exploded out of Henry’s hand. Henry howled in pain.

Sarah had shot the bullet, midair.

It was magic.

Armand leapt at Henry, punching him once in the gut and once in the face. I saw a tooth fly through the cabin as the huge man staggered back, gripping his mouth. “Horace, the guns!”

Horace dropped his own weapon, and made a quick sign with his hands. His leather gloves glowed as Sarah’s and Friedrich’s pistols dissolved to ash.

Armand attacked Henry with a fury, driving the American towards the back of the caboose. Horace turned to help, but Friedrich wrenched an oil lamp from the wall and threw it at the silent twin. It exploded onto his coat, igniting the fabric as Sarah grabbed a wrench and leapt forward. The wrench bounced off Horace’s skull with a metal clang, and arcane lighting danced through Sarah’s arm. She grunted in pain, but kept hold of the wrench and struck again. Friedrich charged Horace, keeping him off balance as Sarah delivered blow after blow.

I focused my mind, stilled the bleating thoughts, and telekinetically wrenched open the cargo door at the back of the caboose. Sunlight, desert dust, and a riot of pounding tracks rushed in as the train charged forward.

Henry and Armand circled each other at the back of the cabin. Wind whipped at their clothes as they fought, Armand dodging each punch with the technique of an expert boxer. The furious American had lost all sense of the melee around him, and focused entirely on his small opponent. Each of Armand’s jabs was like a wasp stinging a bear. But they were taking their toll.

Sarah’s wrench came down again, but this time Horace caught it. Groaning, he channeled arcane electricity through the tool, blasting Sarah insensate against the wall. His clothes aflame, he swung the wrench at Friedrich who tumbled to the floor. Silently, Horace turned and threw the wrench at me. It caught me hard in the stomach and I fell, gasping for breath.

At the back of the caboose Henry roared and lunged at Armand, forcing the Frenchman to leap backwards. Armand tottered on the edge of the open caboose door, arms flailing as the tracks thundered by. Henry struck again, but Armand grabbed the handle of the cargo door, swung outside the train, and yanked the American’s arm. Henry tumbled outside the caboose and fell behind in a cloud of dust.

Armand swung back inside, smiling broadly, but before he could find his balance Horace smashed him in the face. Armand instantly fell limp inside the cabin.

Horace ripped off his flaming jacket and tossed it outside. He stalked towards Friedrich, who scrambled to escape. Eyes sparking with rage, Horace lifted Friedrich by the neck and pulled a knife from his belt.

Both Armand and Sarah lay unconscious on the floor, and I gasped for air, the world shimmering before me. I watched helplessly as Horace brought the knife to Friedrich’s throat. Friedrich struggled to escape, and I realized this was all my fault.

Then Jack tapped Horace on the shoulder. “Sir, I should tell you that if you harm any competition on the job, then your contract is void.” He offered Horace the arrest warrant. “If you’ll just direct your attention here.”

Confused, Horace turned and looked at the paper. He squinted at the writing, still holding the knife inches from Friedrich’s neck.

“Right here,” said Jack, and tapped the warrant helpfully.

A blue pulse of energy emanated from the paper, blasting Friedrich from Horace’s grasp. The American flew thirty feet out the cargo door and landed with a crash in the desert.

Jack straightened his coat, helped Friedrich to his feet, and allowed himself a small smile.

When Sarah and Armand regained consciousness, the five of us sat some time in the caboose. We tended each other’s wounds and talked quietly among ourselves. Sarah’s right arm was veined with electrical burns, and, as usual, Armand was bruised and beaten. His right eye was swollen shut, and his lips were puffy and sore. Even so, he could not stop smiling.

“Well!” Armand said, “I think we’ve all earned a good rest!”

“First,” said Friedrich, “I should like to explain myself.”

Jack, Armand, Sarah, and I gathered on the cot and listened. As he spoke, Friedrich made no excuses. He told his story from beginning to end, first with cold calculation and then growing into fiery passion. As he told of his experience yesterday, he pulled his hair out in dismay.

At the end of his story, he pulled his arrest warrant from his pocket and tore the paper in two. He let both halves drop, and held out his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“By attacking Henry and Horace, I have ended my career. Once they walk out of the desert, they will ensure that no institution or government hires me again. And yet, I accept this burden willingly. If only to see you to the end of our joint journey.”

Armand looked ready to embrace the poor man, but Jack silently stood. The two stared at each other. “Why?” asked Jack, simply.

“Because you have accepted me for what I am. And I cannot turn my back on that. Even if you cannot forgive me.”

“Forgiveness is not given like charity. Forgiveness is earned. And this is the fourth time you have saved my wager.” Jack extended his scarred hand. “I regret what I told you before. You have stood by us despite your better judgment. Your company is welcome, Faisal.”

The rest of the journey went peacefully enough.

The Marshal asked us once about the Doyle twins. But when Saanvi simply said they left the train alive, he shrugged and went about his business.

The open spaces of the American deserts slid by like phantoms: low rolling hills covered in sagebrush, cacti tall as trees, distant mountain ranges which shimmered and danced in the heat. By nightfall we came to Flagstaff, a forested oasis in the middle of the great barren expanses. Again, I saw that strange yellow orb that had been hounding us during our trip, dancing some distance away from our carriage. I mentioned it to Jack, but he merely nodded and said nothing more.

Over breakfast the next day, Sarah and I sat and chatted about her life in Arizona. She pointed out the hawks circling overhead and the native flowers. As we sped into the Rockies that evening, I spotted my first American bison. Sarah grew quiet and wistful when she saw the lone beast, moving with speed in the opposite direction of the train. The creature was gone within a minute, lost behind a rocky outcropping.

“Does he remind you of home?” I asked.

“That shaggy beast? Naw. He reminds me of my daddy.” She sighed and slouched back in her seat. “My daddy’s stories. There used to be millions of bison all across the US, and my daddy would hunt them with the indians. Eat their meat, wear their furs, trade their horns with the Chinese who laid these railways.” She shrugged. “Or so he says. He was a liar.”

“Millions of them? Do they live to the north?”

“Used to, ‘til people like my daddy killed them all. Only a few thousand left.” Sarah tapped listlessly against the glass. In the distance, snowy mountaintops glowed with the sunset. “When people think of the Wild West, they think of horses and cowboys and Indians. But I think of the bison. Fading away, like everything else. Damn hairy beasts. Nothing lasts I guess.”

I slept through our night in Denver as the cold mountain air crept into the cabin. In the morning, with fresh coal and supplies, we barreled out of the Rockies and onto the Great Plains. Our winding journey became a headlong rush in the straightest line a compass could draw. Grassland as far the eye could see, dotted with occasional farms and villages. It reminded me of the fields of France, a thousand years before men arrived and completely flat.

I met Faisal on one of my daily walks.

“How’s your nose?” I asked.

“Healing,” said the Egyptian. When I started to apologize, he held up his hands. “No, I needed a good shock to wake me up. The only problem,” he said with a smile, “is that my spectacles don’t quite fit. Now that the swelling has diminished, they keep sliding down. I’m afraid you somewhat rearranged my nose.”

I was horrified. “I’m sure somebody in Oxford can fix the break! I’ll pay for it, of course.”

“No, no, please. I deserved it. And perhaps a crooked nose is good for business. It makes me look rougher. I’ll get my spectacles adjusted.” To close off the conversation, he added, “Perhaps you’ll join me for lunch?”

We reminisced about our trip over rather tasty ham sandwiches and carrot soup. As we talked, I prodded into Faisal’s struggle.

“It must have been very hard,” I offered, “to keep all that a secret.”

“Secrets are important in my line of work,” he said. “But it is a hard thing to keep a secret from a friend.”

“An end to secrets, then?”

“An end to secrets,” he agreed. “At least between us.”

After lunch, I stretched my legs again. Saanvi stopped me on my third circuit of the train.

“Is everything alright?” she asked. She was playing cards with a stranger, an attractive middle-aged man who seemed annoyed at our interruption.

“I am not accustomed to long confinement, and this train ride is somewhat worse than my time aboard the zeppelin. It’s hard to get in a good exercise routine.”

“Worse than the zeppelin, but better than your trip to the Himalayas?”

I blanched, remembering Saanvi’s year long imprisonment. “Of course, yes! My apologies, you had it so much worse than I!”

“That wasn’t quite me trapped in the cell.” Saanvi turned to her new companion. “I was imprisoned in a fanatical monastery in northern India for a year. Luckily, I was insane at the time.”

The man struggled with a response for a moment, then simply said “I believe it is your hand, Ma’am.”

“It is indeed.” She played three cards, and the man chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. “Beginner’s luck,” she said, collecting the pennies on the table. “Perhaps we can deal my friend in?”

“Games are more for Jack than for me. I’ll continue my walk.”

“Have you seen Jack?” asked Saanvi.

“Yes. He’s sitting in the rear of the train, watching the scenery.”

“What scenery?”

“An excellent point. I’ll check in on him now.”

I found Jack where I had left him, and took the seat beside him. He stared out the window, his lunch untouched, and flexed his hand. The burns of the Leviathan Lure still shone clearly from his palm.

“Is everything alright, Sir?”

“Everything is fine, Armand,” he replied. He turned and smiled. “Though I’m afraid I must apologize.”

I jumped to my feet. “Sir!”

“Please sit down. I want you to know I mean this.”

Shaking, I settled back into my seat.

“Armand, I have not been fair to you, nor kind. Throughout our journey, you have proven yourself as a noble and loyal man. You have stuck by my side through everything, and saved both my life and my wager.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “You have more than repaid your debt to my family.”

I sputtered in disbelief, and Jack continued. “I know that the life of a butler has not been easy for you. It is constraining for a man of action such as yourself. You came into it unwillingly, bound to me by my father’s sacrifice and your own sense of duty. You have done your duty, and you should not pay for my pride. I set you free. You have your own life to live.”

“Sir,” I choked, “I couldn’t possibly consider my debt repaid until you successfully reach Oxford.”

Seeing my extreme discomfort, Jack nodded. “Very well. Once I have paid off the rather substantial debts incurred from this trip, I shall be splitting the prize money with you, Saanvi, and Faisal. I want you to know, truly, that we have undertaken this journey together as equals. As friends. And once we reach England, you may leave my service with a clear conscience.”

I did not know what to say. True, the life of a servant was strange to me. But I had been Jack’s butler for six years, and I had forgotten everything else.

Jack allowed me a moment to flounder, then smiled and extended his hand. I took it.

“Excellent,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d rather like to talk with Faisal. Perhaps the four of us could sup together tonight?”

Jack left me sitting in a state of utter bewilderment.

We reached Omaha that night, and dined together just as Jack had offered. Sarah sat nearby, warily watching passengers get on and off the train. Over roasted chicken, corn, and beer we reminisced of our trips and adventures. Near the end, a flushed Jack gave a toast.

“Soon, we shall be in New York, and upon the zeppelin carrying us to England. I want to say that this journey has been a pleasure. I’ve seen more and learned more than I ever knew the world contained. This trip could have been a painful trial. Instead, it has been a joyous odyssey, because of those I have brought along the way. To friends, adventure, and victory.”

We toasted, downed our glasses, and each retired into a rather pleasant sleep.

Over the next three days, we made our way farther east. The landscape became hillier and more wooded, and the towns more frequent. Our stops increased, and our pace slowed. As we neared New York, the lands turned to swamp and marsh, and the energy in the train increased. On the night the September 16th, we crowded around our windows for a first glimpse of “The Metropolis,” straining our eyes into the dark. Even Jack, who had previously disparaged New York, seemed eager.

Our train emerged over a forested cliff and we crossed the Hudson on an iron bridge and there it was - glittering, gaudy, and growing in the evening light. Gothic skyscrapers, brick tenements, and electric lanterns covered the island of Manhattan. It seemed a wall of industry and humanity, out of place in a country that looked so empty mere days before. Ships crowded the wharfs, and boats sailed the river. I caught a glimpse of that “New Colossus,” Lady Liberty herself holding aloft her glowing lantern. The view took my breath away. I swelled with patriotic pride knowing that France had gifted this monument to her revolutionary sister-in-arms.

We arrived on the platform as the sun set, collected our things, and took refuge from the hubbub under a flickering street lamp. Crowds of humanity passed us by, along with horses, carriages, and even electric cars. I thought of our ride in the Balkans, and wondered if Halil had survived the Black Sea. It all seemed very long ago.

“You are sure you won’t take me up on my offer?” asked Jack. Between Jack’s British accent and Sarah’s empty holsters, I could not tell who was more out of place.

“I’m sure, Mr. Carrington.” She sounded annoyed. “I got you to New York, as we agreed.”

“I could likely get you a scholarship. The arcane skill you demonstrated in your gunplay on the train was impressive, particularly without formal education. Oxford would be happy to have you.”

“Maybe they would, but I wouldn’t be happy going. I got all the learnin’ I needed from my daddy back in Arizona. I tried two weeks of grade school and that was enough for me. After that, my daddy just kept me on the ranch so I didn’t start no more fights. So, no, Mr. Carrington. Appreciate the offer, but no thanks.”

Jack sighed. “Very well Ms. Harris. We’ll meet at the bank tomorrow morning to get your family’s farm sorted out. If you ever change your mind, you can send me a telegraph.”

We gave Sarah a grateful farewell and watched her trudge down the platform into the crowd. Her blonde hair bobbed up and down through a sea of black hats before she was finally lost to view.

“I’ll miss that girl,” said Saanvi. “She carries the new frontier on her shoulders.”

“I’d like to check in with the zeppelin tonight,” said Jack. “Armand, perhaps you’ll accompany me? Faisal and Saanvi, could you find a hotel and meet us at wharf 60 when you are done?”

The pair nodded assent and disappeared into the crowd.

The wharves were nearby, so Jack and I walked along the crowded cobble streets instead of hailing a cab. Straight streets, so unlike the twisting boulevards of Paris or London or any city of the Old World. I supposed that when you build from the ground up, you may as well build straight. But as I peered down endless boulevards and alleyways, I wondered if something was missing.

We made our way along the bustling dockyards. Sailors dashed to and fro, or smoked and watched their peers do the heavy lifting. The younger men strained to impress their elders, while the experienced salts moved with a slow and deliberate rhythm. The cities might be different, but it seemed to me that sailors were the same the world over.

As we approached Dock 60, a sense of dread stole over me. I could hear frightened shouts and smelled something strange even above the chaos of New York. Something was wrong, and I hurried forward to investigate.

I was the first, then, to discover the enormity of our trouble. I pushed my way through an agitated crowd and saw a great smoking hulk on the pier. At first it seemed to be a ship in drydock, ignited and destroyed through some terrible accident. But then I noticed the melted iron frame, the strange fabrics, and the number of magicians standing around me.

The zeppelin had been burned. And above the flaming wreck danced a ball of yellow light.

After an unfruitful day of investigation and dead ends, I laid out our options in my spacious room in the Fifth Avenue Hotel. As I presented, my spectacles continually slid down my broken nose until I finally removed and placed them on my end table. One by one, I wrote items on a large piece of parchment paper.

Airship. Below, I wrote Zeppelin, and then crossed out the word and wrote Destroyed (Sabotage?).

“Jack,” exclaimed Armand, “I’m sure Skimp is trying to slow you down, or possibly even kill you. Every time I’ve seen this yellow ball of lightning, disaster follows. You must call off this bet.”

Saanvi nodded. “He is quite likely scrying on us.”

“Never mind the sabotage,” said Jack. “Skimp’s malefaction would not result in his forfeit. We discussed no such clause. In any case, if the bet were nullified I would go bankrupt. I need to win to repay my sizable loans.” Jack gestured towards the parchment. “The authorities will deal with any wrongdoings. I am only glad that no one was hurt as a result of the fire. Let us focus on the matter at hand.” I nodded and continued.

Ocean. I crossed out the word and wrote Leviathans.

“Unless the Leviathan Lure could help us?” I asked.

“Unfortunately not,” explained Jack. “After activation, the Lure attracts Leviathan for approximately one hour, after which it teleports back to its owner. Then it must recharge for twenty four hours before it can be used again.”

“So once a day, it can buy us an hour’s reprieve from Leviathan,” I said.

“Not enough for a ten-day journey by boat,” said Saanvi.

“Can the lure be altered?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” said Jack, “though we don’t have enough time to test it. And under no circumstance would I use it aboard a steamship with hundreds of other passengers. Nobody else should suffer for my rash wager.”

I paused, then wrote (Adjust Leviathan Lure?) next to Ocean.

“Very well,” I said.

Next I wrote Teleportation, and quickly crossed it out. (Forfeit Bet). I stared for a moment at the word. “I don’t suppose…”

“Under no circumstance,” said Jack coldly. I nodded and moved on.

I underlined Airship, Ocean, and Teleportation. “These are the primary three options that one would use to cross the Atlantic. Sea travel and teleportation are impossible. Therefore, we must fly through the air. And since the only commercially available airship has been destroyed, we must find or build a private airship.” Under Airship, I wrote Acquire or Construct.

“Build an airship?” asked Armand, flabbergasted.

I nodded. “It can be slower than a zeppelin. If we left tomorrow, we would have 18 days to get Jack to Oxford.”

“If we left tomorrow,” repeated Jack.

“Yes. The longer we take to acquire the airship, the faster it needs to be. I propose we split up, each taking a different quadrant of the city, and meet back here in the evenings.” Heads nodded. “I should also point out,” I continued, “that acquiring or constructing an airship will likely be … extremely expensive.”

We all looked to Jack, who merely nodded.

“Well then!” said Armand, leaping to his feet. “Let us begin!”

The people of New York are fascinating. Here live an ecosystem of all the races and cultures we have seen on our journey so far, layered with the hard working-rudeness so special to the city. Each man and woman walks as if his or her world was the only world. If you get in the way of a carriage, you are blocking the progress of humanity as a whole.

It took me one day to get into the offices of the New York Times, and another to find somebody who might be helpful. Prescot Murtins, associate journalist, specialized in fringe arcane experiments and studies. Even better, he was young and unmarried. I talked my way into his room with bagels and coffee and sat at his desk before he arrived. Amused, he agreed to help me in exchange for Jack’s story.

Together, we combed letters, records, and telegrams like medics canvassing a battlefield. I sat with the editors at lunch, and listened to them pick the most sensational stories of the week, or embellish the boring ones. There’s no breed in the world like a newspaper man, except for maybe a Greek muse. Both thrive on conflict - the bloodier, the better.

I analyzed each lead as it was discovered. John D. Rockefeller commissioned a mechanical bird the size of a horse, but it exploded during its first flight and killed the pilot. Andrew Carnegie commissioned an anti-Leviathan ship, which was swallowed whole by a Leviathan in transit from Morocco. Jay Gould imagined a chain of personal hot air balloons, but these were slow and unwieldy unless the wind was on his side. I supposed he had not thought to hire a weather witch, or perhaps the cost would simply be too great. And, of course, there was the story of J.P. Morgan and his arcane submersible, powerful enough to fight off any Leviathan who approached. After two successful voyages last year, he had not been seen again.

By this point, most of the newspaper staff followed my investigation with great interest. By dinner, Prescot’s desk was piled high with rumors like an overladen dinner tray, and I had received six different invitations for late night drinks. My job therefore complete, I walked the damp streets of Manhattan and arrived back at the hotel by ten o’clock.

“Any luck?” asked Armand. He paced the marble lobby like a parent outside an operating room. An annoyed janitor watched the trail of mud he left in his wake.

“Not yet,” I smiled. “But I think we’ll have something tomorrow. Good night, Armand.”

The next morning, I made my way to the nearest newsboy, gave him a penny, and took a copy of the New York Times. The headline read “Playboy Brit Bets Fortune on Trip Around the World,” with an artist's rendering of Jack pouring over a map. I skimmed the article - highly sensational, as expected - and found what I had been looking for. At the bottom of the page, was an editor’s note: “If you have any leads on how Mr. Carrington can safely cross the Atlantic, please contact Saanvi Vyas in the lobby of the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

As I folded the newspaper, Jack emerged from the building. I went to meet him.

“Perhaps you’ll stay with me in the lobby today,” I said, handing him the paper. “I think you’ll find it most productive.”

Jack and I arrived at the warehouse at 9:27 in the morning. It was a large, cast iron building tucked between two bustling textile factories. Small groups of Poles, Jews, and Italians, already dirty from hours at the loom, stood around in self-segregated groups. They watched with exhausted disinterest as I knocked on the warehouse door. After several minutes of waiting, we tried the door handle and, finding it unlocked, made our way inside.

Jack scrawled a quick faerlight and held it up against the dusty darkness. We found ourselves in a large, nearly empty warehouse. Shadows lurched from overturned crates, fragments of scrap metal, and piles of tarp. Rats and cockroaches scattered from the rainbow light.

“Jack,” I said, “I must again repeat my concern that…”

“Who’s there?” rumbled a voice from somewhere in the darkness. “Show yourselves! I’m armed!”

“Jack Carrington,” replied Jack. “I’d like to speak with you about your airship.”

“There’s no airship here!” said the voice, unconvincingly. “This workshop is private property. No solicitors!”

Jack and I looked at each other. I felt for my pistol. “We’re not the police, sir,” I called into the darkness. “We’re customers.”

Slowly, a man emerged from the gloom. He was short and dressed in dirty workman’s clothes, with strange glass goggles that covered his broad face. His features were sub-saharan, with darker skin than my own. I noticed a variety of runes seared into his outfit, and on his leather gloves. “I don’t know you,” he said suspiciously.

Jack handed him a copy of the New York Times with his own story on it. “We’re potential customers. And you are Elijah Freeman? An inventor? Several gentlemen have mentioned your name, but we had great difficulty tracking you down.”

“That’s because this warehouse isn’t registered to me.” Elijah took the Times and glanced through the article. “So you’re the British playboy on a trip around the world? I saw you in the paper. Shame about the zeppelin. Fine piece of craftsmanship. Stupid to use hydrogen. Should have woven levitation runes instead.”

“I prefer ‘English gentleman’ to ‘British playboy,’ but yes. I need to be in Oxford by 8am on October 7th, before the start of term. Can you help me?” Elijah took the paper under one arm, and paced into the darkness, chewing on one gloved hand. “I can pay,” Jack continued.

“And you’re not reporters?” Elijah asked from somewhere in the warehouse. “Not police?”

“I swear it.”

“Kekeli!” shouted Elijah, and half a hundred ceiling-mounted faerlamps exploded into light. Pests ran for cover under tarps and into piles of refuse. I blinked into the sudden rainbow hues. “Ach!” grunted Elijah, ripping the goggles from his face and rubbing his eyes. “I always forget to take those off first.” He stumbled towards a large desk laden with papers, seated himself, immediately stood again, and started rifling through unmarked files. I winced at the disorder. “Come!” he shouted.

We approached the desk. He found the papers he was looking for, sat, stood in nervous anticipation, and then guided Jack to the chair and sat him down. “Alright!” Elijah said, leafing through the files in hand until coming across some specific scrawled notes. Runes gleamed alongside English shorthand. “Customers, customers, customers.” He cleared his throat. “Name? Ah, Jack Carrington, right. Cost, we’ll discuss that later. Here, what is your intent in hiring me?” He produced a lead pencil from thin air and waited expectantly.

“As I mentioned, we must be in Oxford by October 7th. I am an arcane student and so cannot cross the oceans. We have heard you had an airship.”

“Good! Very good.” Elijah scribbled furiously. “And does it need to be an airship?”

“Well, we cannot teleport, if that’s what you are asking.”

“No, no, but does it need to …” He extended his arms, “Fly? Or can it … ?“ He spun in a circle, bouncing his hand up and down. “You know?”

Jack and I looked at each other. “I’m not sure what you mean,” said Jack, flexing his injured hand.

“I don’t have an airship,” said Elijah. “Not anymore. It …” He drew his hands together and then pulled them apart while making a strange crunching sound with his teeth.

“Exploded?” I offered.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, pointing at me. “Well, no, but close enough.”

I suppressed a sudden urge to organize his desk.

“Was this the Rockefeller Falcon?”

“No!” Elijah shouted. “No! My design, but Marie added too much,” again, wild gesticulations, “you know, oomph. No, my version had the right amount of oomph, but not enough … you know, up. It went down. But no fire! Not at first. The next version, the one you probably heard about, it’s gone. Too much up.”

“So you cannot help us?” I asked, eager to leave this madman to his mess .

“No!” Elijah poked me hard in the chest, “Wrong!” Another poke. “I can help you! But only if you do not need to fly!”

Jack stood. “Sir, I must reach Oxford by any means necessary, excluding teleportation. I would be eager to see whatever you can offer.”

“Good!” Elijah beamed. “Very good! Follow me!”

Elijah dropped his notes to the floor and led us to the center of the warehouse, where he stopped beside a massive, tarp covered object. He smiled wryly, then yanked the tarp off in one dramatic flourish.

The object revealed was perhaps the strangest I had ever seen. It was a flat metal disk, measuring 25 feet in diameter and 5 feet tall, something like an oversized hockey puck. Its surface was devoid of rivets or plates, and at first glance seemed to be textured like tree bark. On top a hatch was opened, allowing entry.

Elijah stepped forward, and rubbed the metal lovingly. Where his hand moved, the strange texture glowed to life.

The entire object was covered in runes. I stepped back in horror, while Jack gaped in awe.

“Come in!” Elijah motioned, pulling up a step stool and hopping lithely on top of the circle. I steeled myself against a growing dread as he helped us up, and then disappeared down into the dark hatch. Cautiously, we followed into the interior of the object.

I could barely believe my eyes. We had entered into a large, circular room padded entirely in red cushions. Several luxurious mattresses and fabric seats were tied to the floor. We could easily stand - while the object seemed only five feet tall from the outside, it was at least eight on the inside. At one end of the vehicle, a wide glass window allowed for exterior viewing. Two large panels on the walls were exposed to the metal frame, and these areas were covered with the most intricate runework I had ever seen. My hands shook, and I began counting the pillows.

“This is incredible arcanecraft,” breathed Jack in bewilderment.

“Yes!” exclaimed Elijah, “But! Does it work?”

“Indeed, how does it work?” I asked, attempting to regain myself. “The inside is lovely, but how does it get us to England?”

Elijah smiled and again made the strange motion - spinning in a circle and bouncing his outstretched hand. When Jack and I remained silent, Elijah groaned in frustration. “You know,” he said. “Skipping!”

“Skipping?” I asked.

“Yes! Skipping! Along the surface of the water. Skip, skip, skip!” He spun again.

“Like a river rock,” murmured Jack.

Realization dawned on me. “You don’t mean that we are to cross the Atlantic ocean by bouncing across the water?”

“Yes!” said Elijah. “You’ve got it!”

Panic gripped me. “What about the Leviathan?”

“Too fast!” giggled Elijah. “They can’t catch up!”

“Does it even float?”

“It should!”

“Should? Have you tested it?”

“Not yet! But it should work.”

“No,” I said, falling backwards into a plush chair. “Absolutely not. Not only is it unproven, it also sounds … completely horrific. Bouncing across the Atlantic for days?”

“Three days!” said Elijah, apparently unconcerned by my protestations. “It should only take three days.”

“That’s fast,” mused Jack. Elijah nodded fervently.

“Jack,” I pleaded, “You can’t seriously be considering this. It’s a death trap. A padded death trap, but a death trap nonetheless.”

“How much would it be?” asked Jack.

“Well,” said Elijah, relishing in the moment. “It’s not complete. Yet. I need more materials, and a bit more time.”

“How much more time?”

“Two weeks?”

“If you had help?”

Elijah shrugged. “Depends on the help. A week perhaps?”

Jack did the calculations. “A week would work. Two would not.”

Elijah nodded. “Well, if you can pay for the materials, and the help, and you are willing to come … then you’ve paid your passage! But I keep the ship.”

Jack held out his rune-scarred hand. I shuddered as Elijah gripped it. They shook, and Jack continued. “Send for the materials you need, and I will pay. An arcane professor and I will assist with runecraft. If it takes three days to cross the ocean, and two days to travel from our landing point to Oxford, and we build in one extra day for unforeseen difficulties, then we must depart by October 1st at the latest.”

Elijah’s eyes gleamed, and he saluted sloppily. “Jack, you won’t regret this!”

But I knew that we would.

Jack and I started work immediately, rolling up our sleeves and carving rune after rune in the dinghy warehouse. The mental exercise strengthened my mind and cleared my senses. I returned to bed each night bubbling with new ideas.

Elijah was a modern Archimedes. And clearly mad, though his break occurred across a most useful fissure. Forgotten bits of wonder littered his workshop, like so many discarded scraps of paper. On our first day of crafting, I opened a drawer looking for a ⅜ inch chisel and found a tiny apple tree, no larger than my hand. I picked a marble sized fruit, and another grew instantly in its place. When I asked Elijah about it, he could not remember crafting it.

The Skipper, as we named the craft, stood far beyond anything I had seen at Oxford. The runecraft covering its body was so minute and precise that it seemed to have been done by a machine. Perhaps it was. Elijah had little memory of making it. The runes weaved themselves into syllables, words, and stanzas which could be read in seven different directions. Elijah could not explain the reasoning, but he immediately knew which rune should be carved next.

Levitation runes negated the bulk of the Skipper’s weight, while folding and pocket runes expanded the space within to livable proportions. Several phrases related to water, salt, and air echoed through the writing, but I could not discern their purpose. Then came the nearly extraneous lyrics, creating air, heat, and even fresh water for the occupants. When I asked Elijah why he bothered to fit these complications in, he just responded “It looks better this way,” and left it at that. There were even runes to aid in the comfort of the pillows inside!

If a Leviathan devoured the craft, it would be a worse tragedy than the destruction of the Mona Lisa. After the first day, I stopped trying to unravel its secrets and instead just enjoyed the lyrics. They played through my mind like a personal orchestra.

Jack and I found time to talk each day between mind-bending calculations and muscle-straining runecraft. I told him tales of my youth in India, and he spoke of his parents and his education. His love of Oxford shone through every subdued word, and expressed regret on wagering his academic future on this bet. He was particularly interested in my time at the ivory institution.

“It’s a story that took much longer to live than it will to tell,” I explained as we ate ham sandwiches atop the Skipper one morning. “Just remember that every moment was a lifetime to me. I grew up parentless in Lahore, stealing and begging to survive. It was a wild time, but filled with great joy and accomplishment. Each rooftop chase and daring pickpocket was like another chapter of the Mahābhārata, a story to be told, a parable to be learned. An older child, perhaps eleven or twelve, taught me magic in exchange for mishti doi. I was very good.

“Eventually, I got on the wrong side of the street gangs in Lahore, and fled to Calcutta. Friendless, I turned to opium to soothe my fears. Soon, my problems seemed like distant dreams. Until, of course, I fell into debt with the opium dens.” I indicated the white scar on my forehead. “They gave me this cut as a reminder of my debt. In order to repay it, I stole a golden watch from an old British man at a coffee shop. But instead of selling it, I sat and obsessed over it for three days, refusing to eat or sleep.”

I took another bite of bagel and continued. “It was afflicted with the thief's despair curse, a nasty bit of magic. Luckily the old man found me before I wasted away. Wracked with guilt for cursing a child, he nursed me back to health. His name was Professor Cavendish, and once he saw my arcane gifts he teleported back to Oxford with me. I grew up running around those hallowed halls, climbing the roofs, and generally getting into quite a lot of trouble. But eventually, I was ‘civilized.’”

Jack nodded. “I’d heard rumors that you were the ‘Gargoyle Orphan.’ But I didn’t believe them.”

“I’d better spread more rumors then. In any case, Professor Cavendish continued to train me, and my skill improved. He lobbied for my academic position when I turned 25. He died 11 years later, leaving his position open. Professor Skimp should have been promoted, but he had made too many enemies. Instead, I became Cavendish’s successor as head of the Teleportation Department. And so I remained until Skimp’s treachery.”

“And how are you feeling now? Are you well enough to teleport back to Oxford?”

I nodded. “I believe so. But I certainly won’t abandon you now, not when I could still help.”

Jack was about to respond when Elijah banged on the Skipper with his wrench. “Are you done talking? Good! Because some oaf wrote an alef where they should have written a tsadi. Fix it!”

We finished our bagels and returned to work.

And so, the days wore on. Faisal and Armand brought us food and coffee, coordinated deliveries, and desperately sought alternatives. Faisal anxiously paced the warehouse, watching from a safe distance as if the Skipper might explode at any moment. Even Armand seemed worried, though the excitement of the moment was not lost on him.

At Faisal’s insistence, Elijah crafted a mundane inflatable dinghy. While the liferaft itself would not attract the attention of Leviathan, magic users such as Jack, Elijah, or I would. Therefore, it was only to be used in the last resort. A Leviathan would surely attack the Skipper first before consuming a small dinghy with a few magic users, buying us at least another hour of safety.

In any case, Jack and I did our best to follow Elijah’s instructions. He worked us hard, but Jack was a fast pupil, and we were both eager to learn. Elijah was fascinated by the Leviathan Lure. If he had more time, he said, he could unlock its secrets and apply them to the Skipper.

I reminded him, of course, that we wanted the opposite effect.

Each day of work seemed longer than the last. On the third day, Elijah made Jack redo a 64 line stanza which took him six hours. We were drawing closer to October 1st, and I was sure we would not have time to test or make adjustments to the Skipper before it launched. The runecraft was impressive, but would it work? That was the question on all of our minds, Elijah’s included.

Faisal tried to convince Jack to give up the race, but Jack refused. Whatever lessons he had learned from the Doyle twins, he would rather risk death than surrender now. But he did not want anybody to die for him.

Jack took us all aside on the final night. He explained the very real risk of this final leg of the journey, and told us he had only purchased passage for himself. When we began to protest, he said that he would only let us on board on one condition: the moment Jack requested it, Faisal, Armand, and I were bound to teleport away. On no account should any of us go down with the ship, or wait behind as he and Elijah attempted final repairs.

“Remember,” he said. “If the Skipper should cease functioning, it will attract Leviathan like nothing else on the seas. I will activate the Leviathan Lure to distract any monsters while we do repairs. After the hour is up, the Lure will return to me and it will need to recharge.

“If the hour is up, and the Skipper still does not move, then Saanvi should immediately begin casting a teleportation circle. Faisal, Armand, and Saanvi will use this to escape, while Elijah and I will stay behind to attempt repairs. If repairs are unsuccessful, then we will attempt to escape in the inflatable dinghy and hope that the Leviathan are distracted enough by the Skipper to ignore us.”

We all protested, of course. But Jack allowed no compromise. “This is the only condition upon which I will allow any of you to come. I’ll not allow anybody else to be put at risk for my rash behavior. If you do not agree, then you are staying behind in New York.”

Eventually, we relented, and Jack made us swear on our Gods. Though if the moment came, I was not sure what any of us would do.

We left the warehouse before sunrise, with six horses pulling the Skipper on a large wooden wagon. Elijah partially activated the levitation runes to reduce its weight and, as the vehicle was unregistered under the American Arcane Experiments Board, we traveled in as much secrecy as possible. They say New York never sleeps, but 4:30 on a Friday morning seems to be an exception.

The seaport docks were shrouded in a cold mist as we unloaded our cargo onto the cobblestones. The Skipper hovered inches from the ground, humming slightly while we pushed it towards the water’s edge. As we loaded her with supplies, an old man carrying a whale-oil lantern emerged from the gloom.

“Say now,” he said, shuffling up to us. “You’d better do your business quick and take that thing away. You’ll attract a monster sure as spitting. My boat’s docked on Pier 14, and I don’t want anything breaking her on the way to you.”

“Of course, of course,” said Saanvi, “we’ll be faster than a stone down a well.”

The old man circled the Skipper suspiciously, squinting at the runes. “Say now, what is this thing? Some sort of wagon? Where’s your ship anyhow?”

“It’s a Skipper!” giggled Elijah, poking his head out of the hatch. The inventor was almost beside himself with excitement. “First of its kind! Skips across the ocean! Fastest thing in the world!”

The old man started in surprise. “Say now! You’re not planning on putting this thing in the water are you? There’ll be a dozen Leviathan crawling up the Hudson the second this contraption tastes salt.”

“Not to worry!” said Saanvi. “We’ll be gone before you know it.”

The old man turned white. He looked at each of us in turn, then ran into the mist shouting “Help! Help! Police!”

“We really should be gone before he knows it,” said Saanvi, looking sadly after the old man.

We threw our remaining luggage into the hatch and quickly climbed inside. Faisal gave a longing look outside before Elijah slammed and locked the door.

We quickly took our padded seats, and tied ourselves in place using elastic cords. Elijah sat immediately before the window, a variety of glowing runes exposed in the metal in front of him. He removed his gloves, wiggled his fingers excitedly, and then began to activate several runes at a time.

Jack and Saanvi seemed calm enough, but Faisal looked like he was going to throw up. I held his sweaty hand, and smiled at him. He nodded back. I could see he was focused on his breathing. Hopefully too focused to see the anxiety on my own face. The confined quarters and elastic cords irritated me more than the arcane work at play. I fidgeted in my seat.

A metallic clang rang out from the side of the Skipper, and we turned in the air slightly. A furious policeman appeared at the window, shouting something I could not understand.

“Maybe we should explain ourselves,” I offered.

“We’d have to explain it to a judge, and then your master would lose his bet,” called Elijah over the growing hum of runes.

“What do you mean?”

Jack stepped in, “Using magical devices in the water around Manhattan is strictly illegal. Luring a Leviathan into the Hudson would be extremely damaging to the bridges and docks. It’s happened twice before, but Elijah assures me there’s no risk to anyone but ourselves. We’ll be away before a Leviathan can scent us.”

“Three times!” said Elijah, “But they won’t talk about the third. Hold on, we’re nearly there!”

Two whip cracks exploded around the room, and the policeman jumped back in surprise. Even to my untrained nerves, I could feel the hum of runecraft all around me. The Skipper, which had been floating listlessly until now, suddenly lifted another foot off the ground and pointed straight out to sea. All I could see out of the viewport was mist. The policeman clanged on the vessel again.

“Off we go!” shouted Elijah. He dramatically activated the final rune.

We lurched forward several feet, then plummeted off the side of the pier and into the water.

I screamed as our view of mist was replaced by the blackness of the sea.

“One moment, one moment,” said Elijah, fiddling with the runes. He activated another, and we began to spin. A wooden pylon appeared and then disappeared from sight. Jack ripped off his cords and sprang across the cushions to the back of the vessel. He produced chalk from his pocket and began scrawling on one of the exposed engine plates.

“What a pretty fish,” said Saanvi placidly, as our viewport again spun to black sea. We were still sinking. “How long would it take a Leviathan to smell us?”

“Quiet!”

“Try delta aug delta,” said Saanvi.

“Nothing!”

“Delta aug omega?” suggested Jack.

Another whip crack, then the whole vessel began to shudder.

“Seats!” shouted Elijah. Jack rushed back and hurriedly buckled himself in. “Off we go!” Elijah cried again, this time with somewhat less confidence. But when he activated the rune, we surged forward in the murky water.

“Up,” yelled Faisal. “For Allah’s sake, up!” The muddy seafloor loomed before us, and Elijah frantically activated a handful of yellow runes beneath the window. The craft began to tilt up, pushing through the water like a fish.

We gained speed as we made our way towards the surface, and I was forced into my seat by the acceleration. Our unsecured luggage rolled and tumbled to the back of the Skipper.

“Get ready for breach!” shouted Elijah.

We exploded out of the water, lifted a few feet, and then smashed back down onto the surface with a teeth chattering bang. We were now gaining speed with shocking rapidity. The force pressed me into my chair, and I could see Elijah struggling to reach for the controls.

“How can you see?” yelled Faisal over the din. Our viewport still only showed mist.

Uncharacteristically, Elijah made no reply. As our velocity increased, I began to feel the skipping motion. We took to the air for a moment, then bounced off the ocean and took to the air again. With each leap, our altitude grew. I began to laugh wildly, despite myself.

“Ship!” cried Faisal. Elijah twisted the controls and the Skipper turned to the right, narrowly missing a large wooden sailing vessel. Moments later we burst out of the mist, only to see the gigantic Statue of Liberty directly in front of us.

“Turn!” shouted Faisal.

“I see it you ninny!” responded Elijah. We twisted mid-flight, skimming over the sharp rocks that ringed Liberty Island before landing hard on the other side.

We gained speed towards the narrow channel, bursting past other ships as they headed out to sea. Elijah struggled to keep his hands on the runes, and to keep the Skipper straight. Each skip now lasted several seconds, and the crashes against the water less rattling. Faisal scanned the viewport wildly, but could find no other obstacles. I reached over and shook him on the shoulder, grinning wildly. Moments later, we burst through the channel and found ourselves skipping on the open sea.

I hollered with excitement as the horizon lightened with the first suggestions of the sun.

If we stopped, death would come in a Leviathan’s jaws.

Travel aboard the Skipper was both so much worse and so much better than I imagined. At speed, each skip lasted between one and two minutes. The time in the air seemed almost pleasant, but as the viewport tipped down and the water rushed up, the agony of suspense tortured me. I counted the seconds between each jolt, trying to find a pattern in the timing where none existed.

But the jolts were less severe than I had feared. When we hit the water, our own sensations and the view from the window seem strangely misaligned. The violent crash of foam and sudden change were deadened within the Skipper. Some magic on Elijah’s part.

Sometimes, when the Skipper impacted a wave at too steep an angle, we found ourselves fully underwater. Our speed dramatically slowed, and we chugged through the infinite blue for up to a minute before breaching again and gaining speed. The empty water closed in like fog around us, and I saw phantom Leviathan in every play of light and shadow. If a Leviathan were near when we slowed underwater, it would surely be able to catch us. Such a chance was highly improbable, but this did not keep it off my mind.

Jack asked how much these underwater trips slowed us down, but Elijah merely shrugged.

Arcane uncertainty drove me mad. The Skipper’s engines shut off three times on the first day. The first two times, the repair was made within a minute. The third time, Jack scrambled out the hatch and threw the Leviathan Lure far from the ship to draw any monsters away from us. He wore leather gloves to protect himself from the heat of the Lure, and to prevent another injury. Repairs took nearly an hour, and Jack told Saanvi to ready the teleportation circle. Luckily, they got the ship working by the time the Lure returned to Jack.

The fourth failure terrified us all. The ship died completely - no engine, no sound, no lights, and no buoyancy. We sank like a stone into the ocean, and the vessel turned on its side. The light of the surface disappeared and the water crushed around us. I could see nothing. Elijah had to climb up the cushioned floor to reach the control panel and make adjustments. Though the Leviathan Lure was ready for use again, there was no way for Jack to leave the vessel and throw it while we were under water. Repairs only took a few minutes, but the acceleration to the surface took nearly half an hour. Every second of our ascent was agonizing, as we could only see directly in front of us out the view port. At any moment, a Leviathan could come from any other angle and obliterate us. Armand assured me that this sudden death would be better, but I would rather see my doom coming.

After lunchtime, Jack took the controls while Elijah got some rest. As Jack eased himself into the pilot’s seat mid-skip, he asked how to stay on the correct course.

“We’re going east, aren’t we?” replied Elijah, annoyed. “The sun rises in the east, so follow the sun in the morning, and go away from the sun in the evening.”

Jack screwed up his brow in confusion. “We are going to England, preferably London. Charting from New York to London requires more than just ‘east.’ If we go east, we’ll land in Africa, or perhaps the Iberian peninsula.”

The Skipper smashed into the water, and Elijah smashed into the padded ceiling. He picked himself up and made a show of yawning. “I’m not a navigator. I just built the ship. You figure it out.” And he retired to a cot and strapped himself in, instantly falling asleep

I was sure I was about to see Jack lose his temper for the first time, when Saanvi took him gently by the arm. Together, they found a map among our supplies, and took the greater part of an hour performing light runecraft on it between skips. When their work was complete, our current location and heading shone visible on the map as a small blue cone. I’d seen such magical maps created for overland caravaneers, though this was likely the first time it was used for sea travel. Even such a small magical trifle would attract a Leviathan.

Jack frowned at our progress, sharply turned the Skipper northeast, and held the course through the rest of the day.

Armand was exhilarated by the unusual travel. He relished in the speed and enjoyed unstrapping himself for the bumps as a test of his gymnastic prowess. He bounced around the ship for several hours on our first day, until bruised, exhausted, and happy, he fell into a deep sleep. Saanvi and Jack also slept for a few hours the first night, though I could see Jack’s sleep was restless.

I prayed to Allah for our safe journey, but I feared an unseen death.

By the morning of the third day, we were clearly behind schedule.

The constant breakdowns slowed us significantly, and considerably stressed our little crew. Twice, Jack convinced me to start the teleportation circle, but both times repairs were completed in time and we aborted. I felt as unstable as a unicycle on a merry-go-round.

As the day progressed, the Skipper seemed to be tiring. Each jump was slightly shorter than the last, and our progress slowed. Jack, Elijah, and I poured over the runes in the cabin, but could find nothing amiss. There simply seemed to be less power to wring from the engines.

Jack took over the controls that night, while Elijah and I did what we could. But we both went to bed disheartened, and without anything to show for our efforts. We were all exhausted. In my half-sleep between skips, I saw Armand shake Jack, who was slumped over the controls. He had fallen asleep in his seat.

When dawn broke, I checked our map. We were somewhere north of the Azores, about a day behind schedule. At our current rate, we would arrive in the British Isles that night, or perhaps early the next day, with almost no time to get to Oxford.

We just needed to be sure we did not accidentally beach ourselves in Ireland, and so leave ourselves without a way of crossing to England. Our navigation system was so rudimentary that this was a real possibility.

We had all stopped talking about the timing of these final few days, but I’m sure we all did the mental calculations. The wager would be tightly won, if it was won at all. We needed luck now, or at least to hope that our bad luck was behind us. And we needed the Skipper to regain its original speed.

Just before noon, we entered a large fog bank. Elijah relied on the map alone for navigation.

“If we were to strike a ship,” said Armand, peering out of the misty viewport, “it would be like a cannonball hitting a bale of hay. They would be utterly destroyed.”

“What would happen to us?” asked Faisal.

Elijah giggled. “The same thing that would happen to the cannonball.”

Jack shook his head. “I’ll not risk any more lives for my foolish bet. We’ll have to slow down until the fog clears.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” said Elijah. “If we hit a ship, we would be mostly unharmed. I built the Skipper to survive deep ocean pressures. The only risk would be if the exterior runes were scuffed.” Elijah screwed up his face in sudden thought. “The exterior runes…”

Without warning, Elijah brought the Skipper to a violent halt. Armand, who had been unstrapped, smashed into the padded front of the vehicle. Before we knew it, Elijah opened the hatch and stepped on top of the floating ship.

Jack raced to grab the Leviathan Lure, and pulled himself up the ladder. The rest of us quickly followed, only to see Elijah leap off the side of the Skipper and into the open ocean.

“Stop!” shouted Armand. “What are you doing?” Jack activated the Leviathan Lure and threw it far in the opposite direction of Elijah, who now bobbed up and down in the icy water. Elijah took a deep breath of air and disappeared beneath the waves.

“What is he doing?” asked Armand in consternation. The four of us peered over the side of the Skipper, but the water was as opaque as a crystal ball. Moments later, Elijah re-emerged.

“Grab chisels, hammers, whatever you can find! Quickly!”

“What’s the problem?” asked Faisal.

“Barnacles!”

Faisal looked down skeptically. “Barnacles? That doesn’t seem possible.”

“Tell them that!”

We grabbed our tools and leapt into the water. There they were, rocky barnacles, rainbow algae and strange bryozoans fouling the runes. Glowing sea anemone grabbed at my fingers and stuck to my hair.

“How could barnacles grow on a ship moving at this speed?” asked Faisal. He paced on board in case the rope ladder should fail, and kept a careful eye on his watch.

“Arcane energy has a strange effect on sea life,” replied Jack. “I suspect these creatures are drawing power from the ship itself.”

For the next hour, we held our breaths and swam beneath the ship, breaking off what life we could. Armand attacked the marine refuse with pent up energy despite his missing fingers, and was the only one of us not exhausted and shivering within minutes.

“Time’s up,” called down Faisal at the hour’s end.

“There’s still barnacles down here!” replied Armand, chipping away as best he could.

“Better barnacles than Leviathan,” said Elijah. “Out of the water!”

Faisal helped us up one by one and we staggered into the cabin. Jack took the driver’s seat as his Leviathan Lure returned to him. The Skipper hummed to life, and we listened anxiously. Once we were strapped in, Jack throttled the ship back to full speed.

“You know,” I said, “That’s the first time I ever swam in the ocean.”

“As a child, I would swim off the coast of Wales,” said Jack. “But once I began my arcane training, we switched to lakes and pools.”

“Very nice, very nice,” said Elijah, “How’s the ship?”

We all sat and listened as we sped along. After a few moments, Elijah unbuckled and began fiddling with the engine runes.

“Faster,” said Jack simply.

“But not fast enough,” murmured Elijah.

“Can we scrape off more barnacles?” offered Armand.

“Not until the Leviathan Lure is recharged,” said Jack. “And we should save it for emergencies in the future.”

We sat in silence for some time.

The fog persisted as we moved east, and the world slowly darkened. Elijah took over the controls, and, one-by-one, we fell asleep.

By the time I awoke, the ship had slowed to a crawl. We skated over the top of the water like an exhausted taboganner, riding waves to their peaks and then crashing heavily down. Elijah looked out at the morning fog with bleary eyes.

The others woke up soon after, and we shared worried glances. Finally, Faisal gave voice to our concerns. “Are we moving faster than a Leviathan?”

“No,” said Jack. He stood by the window and examined the map. We were somewhere south of Ireland, perhaps 50 miles from the Welsh coast. “No, a Leviathan could catch us at this speed. One is probably following us now,” He turned towards Elijah, “Stop the Skipper. I’ll activate the Lure. We’ll do what we can with the barnacles on the ship.”

Elijah nodded solemnly, and the Skipper slowed to a halt in the water. Large waves tilted us back and forth as we made our way above deck. Jack threw the Lure far into the mist.

“There!” shouted Armand. He pointed where the Lure fell, and we saw a swell of water shifting. “Was that a Leviathan?”

A horrible silence fell upon us. Faisal glanced anxiously at the fog around us, then gritted his teeth. “Just an ocean current,” he said. He removed his spectacles and handed them to me. “Let’s get to work.” Without hesitation, he leapt into the water.

Armand leapt after him, and the two began peeling barnacles from the ship’s hull. Elijah paced back and forth for several seconds, eyeing the black waters. He crossed himself, and then jumped in. I was about to join them, when Jack held me by the shoulder.

“Saanvi,” he said, “I’d like you to stay on board. Keep an eye on my watch and ready the inflatable life raft. Then, prepare the teleportation circle.”

“Jack, I…”

He held up a hand. “You made a promise to your gods. Do not dishonor us both by going back on your word.” With this, he removed his jacket and leapt into the freezing water.

Fear washed over me as if I had plunged into the water myself.

I made my way back into the cabin on unsteady legs and found the rubber dinghy. Using the runes provided, I filled it with air as the others attempted to clean the hull. Then, with 15 minutes to spare, I started the teleportation circle.

I knew I could not convince Jack to come with us. He would rather die here than forfeit his bet while there was still the most remote chance. He might be able to fix the runes before a Leviathan came. The best I could do was save myself, Armand, and Faisal and leave Jack with a clear conscience.

With the incantation begun, my mind was blissfully split. I sat on the floor, chalk runes around me, chanting the triplet and long verses needed. The problems of the moment slipped away. My troubles and worries disappeared, supplanted by a thrumming universal rhythm that rocked through my skin.

I reached the final stanzas and held them as the others came below deck. Far away, the voices of Jack and Faisal rose and fell in anger. Distantly, I hoped the others would subdue Jack and drag him with us.

But they didn’t.

Jack brandished the watch angrily, and the lure sizzled back into his gloved hand. He shoved Faisal and Armand into the circle. I felt their presence enter into the ritual. It was time.

As if through smoke, Jack smiled at us.

“I’ll see you in Oxford,” he said.

I nodded and, through silent tears, completed the ritual. The Skipper began to whirl around us, flickering like a candle in a strong wing. But as it did, Armand suddenly leapt out of the circle. Faisal reached for him, but it was too late. Elijah, Jack, Armand, and the Skipper snapped out of view, and we were gone.

I stumbled out of the teleportation circle, tripped on a pillow, and fell to the padded ground. A whip-crack echoed through the cabin, and I felt Saanvi and Faisal teleport away. Elijah gave a surprised grunt of approval. I lay sprawled for several seconds, then slowly looked up at my master.

Jack’s face was a tangled mess of emotion. The muscles on his jaw twisted and contorted as his skin turned blood-red. His lips peeled back in a silent, feral snarl. I met his gaze, and did not flinch.

And then, he began to cry. He held out a hand and helped me up, then pulled me into a tight embrace.

“I didn’t mean for you to die.”

Elijah, with uncharacteristic social grace, excused himself to check on the dinghy.

We held each other for several seconds, before I pulled away and looked Jack in the eyes. “Nobody’s going to die.”

Elijah cleared his throat. “You two go above deck and get the dinghy ready. I’ll continue steering the Skipper, and see if I can adjust the runework. I might be able to get some extra power. At the first sign of Leviathan, you let me know.”

Jack and I held each other for one more moment. Then I nodded sternly, and he did the same. Together, we dragged the rubber dinghy out of the open hatch and onto the top of the Skipper.

The raft was a small thing, circular with two wooden planks running across it for comfort. We grabbed the remaining food and water, as well as a few odds and ends - Jack’s pocketbook, our diaries, our Persian furs, and Saanvi’s magical map. Any more, and the raft would be overladen.

“If Elijah cannot fix the Skipper, and we have to escape on the raft, how much time will we have?” I asked.

“The Leviathan should go after the Skipper first. Once they have torn it to shreds, they will come for us. So, it depends entirely on how long Skipper lasts.”

“And the Leviathan Lure?”

“It will need at least a day to recharge.”

“Then I’m sure Elijah will be able to fix the runes. It’s our only way forward.”

Jack said nothing. I shivered and tried to think.

When we finished with the raft, Jack called over to the hatch. “The dinghy is ready. Should we try the engine again?”

In response, the hatch slammed shut.

Alarmed, I ran over and attempted to open it, but I could find no purchase or handle. “Elijah!” I shouted. “Elijah, is everything alright?”

Runes began to shiver across the Skipper like lightning. We hurried to the viewport and peered inside. Elijah sat smiling at the controls, waving up at us. I banged on the window, and Elijah’s voice, metallic and distorted, echoed from within.

“Hello boys, hate to spring this on you but I didn’t think you’d agree. You seem like decent folks, so I’ll give you a running start. I’m going to be your Leviathan lure for the next hour. The Skipper might be able to take a Leviathan’s jaws and come out the other side unharmed. I designed it to withstand extreme pressure, and I can’t think of anything more extreme. Might even scrape the barnacles off!”

He laughed jovially while I yelled at him to open the hatch, then shook his head. “I can’t hear you, Armand, though I can see you’re trying to break the window. Go ahead! If you can do it, then a Leviathan sure will be able to. Listen, I’m going to shut off the levitation runes and re-wire all power to the forward thrusters. I’ll sink like a stone, but maybe I’ll be able to outrun the critters. And maybe I’ll get lucky, and the water pressure will break the barnacles off. In any case, they’ll come to me and ignore you for a bit. Now get in that dingy and start rowing! Luck may favor you still.” He gave a casual salute. “It’s been a pleasure boys! Maybe I’ll see you in Oxford one day!”

With that, his hands danced over the controls. The Skipper shuddered, hummed into life, and then fell into the ocean like 10 tons of steel. Icy water rushed up at us.

“Elijah!” I shouted into the waves. “Elijah!”

But he did not re-emerge. We treaded water for several seconds, and then I felt some great mass shift in the water beneath me. In a sudden panic, I hoisted myself up on the raft. Shivering, I helped Jack up as well.

We stared at the black water for some time. Then, I took the oars and began to row into the fog.

My master sat on a plank, hunched against the cold. He did not shiver, but his eyes seemed glassy and distant. I grabbed one of the Persian furs and threw it over him, then returned to the oars.

Silence fell between us. I rowed as hard as I could for several minutes, checking our direction against the map.

Finally, Jack spoke. “You cannot row to England, Armand.” His voice was hoarse and dull.

“We can try. Perhaps we will get lucky.”

“A Leviathan will get us once it is done with Elijah.”

I shook my head. “Perhaps Elijah is right. He may live after all. Maybe his contraption is Leviathan-proof!”

“He’ll die. And so will we. For a wager.”

My master was not himself. I watched his hunched form rise and fall with the ocean swells, but I did not know how to console him.

“Perhaps you would like a turn at the oars? To warm yourself up?”

“There’s little point, Armand. The oars simply are not fast enough.”

I dropped them and leapt to my feet. “The wind perhaps? We could fashion a sail.”

“It’s just a breeze.”

“Jack!” I shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Jack, you can’t give up.”

He did not meet my eye. “We are doomed, Armand. How many others have I doomed? Were Halil and the Captain killed in the Black Sea? Did Danesh and Pabok deserve their end in the skies above Hong Kong? Did Henry and Horace survive their fall from the train? Was any of this worth it?”

I slapped Jack.

His eyes turned to fire. My master leapt to his feet, towering over me. He was wet, shivering, and pale. His body was exhausted from the strain. But his flame had not yet gone out.

I fought against the impulse to grovel. Instead I held my ground and met his gaze as best I could. I prayed I had the strength to save his life, as his father had once saved mine.

Jack stood over me for several seconds, rage burning across his face. Then, a seagull called somewhere in the mist overhead. We both looked up, but could see nothing.

“Listen,” I said, “that seagull is a sign. We are near our journey’s end. If we only had some way of getting up to him, then he could show us the way home.” I managed a weak smile.

Jack’s eyes slowly cleared. He looked around the raft. “Armand,” he said. “Bring me the ink and quill.”

I leapt to our luggage and began searching. “Do you have an idea?”

“For saving our lives, perhaps. But not for getting to Oxford.”

“Good enough!” I cried, handing him the materials. He set to work writing runes on the rubber craft.

“Won’t that attract Leviathan faster?” I asked, concerned. Jack said nothing, but continued his work.

The raft began to move oddly. It spun, tilting from side to side in the water. With each tilt, Jack leapt to the opposite end and placed a rune.

Then, we began to levitate.

We lifted unsteadily into the air, 5 feet, 10 feet, 20 feet, and Jack slowed his writing. The impromptu aircraft was unsteady, and we constantly adjusted to avoid capsizing.

“There,” he said, falling to the floor exhausted. “This will not get us to land, but it will keep us safe. At least until our fresh water runs out.”

I could have leapt with joy, but it would have capsized the raft.

And so, we floated through the fog. As the hours passed, the water beneath us began to churn. Huge shapes shifted over one another, tentacles and reptilian flesh boiling and writhing. Leviathan crowded to Jack’s scent, gargantuan monsters desperate to reach us. As far as we could see in the mist, the ocean turned to foam. The noise of the chaos chilled me to my bones.

Jack added another few feet to our height.

Darkness came on, and we huddled under the furs for warmth. It was impossible to sleep in the cacophony, but we dozed off and on. The night seemed everlasting, the darkness impenetrable, the damp fog eternal. The only light was a distant yellow glow that flitted in and out of the fog. Perhaps Professor Skimp was spying on us again, gloating in his victory.

Just when I feared I would go mad, the sun began to rise.

“It’s October 5th,” said Jack.

“Forget the bet,” I said. “I’ll be happy if we get out of this alive.”

Jack and I drank from our canteens and ate dried biscuits in silence. We floated throughout the day, and the fog persevered. I checked the map, but we were no closer to shore than we were yesterday.

“Perhaps you could add some sort of propulsion?” I asked. Now that we floated in the air, the oars were useless.

Jack shook his head. “Not without unbalancing our raft.”

Hours later, I offered. “The fog will clear soon, and then a ship will come by .”

Jack looked at the churning sea. “Perhaps. But how can it get to us with the water coated in Leviathan?”

As darkness fell, I asked “Maybe Saanvi could teleport here, and rescue us?”

Jack grimaced. “I hope she does not try. If she were off by even a foot or two, she would fall into the water or unbalance the raft and plunge us all to our deaths. It’s impossible to teleport with such precision.”

We fell into an uneasy sleep, woken by strange noises. Once, we were even sprayed with hot steam from some mutated blowhole and nearly lost balance entirely. I sat up with Jack as he applied more runes to the craft.

“Danesh and Pabok tried to kill us,” I said into the darkness.

Jack paused in his work.

“They tried to kill us, and we killed them.” I continued. “It doesn’t weigh on my conscience, and it shouldn’t weigh on yours.”

Jack said nothing, but stretched his scarred hand.

“And the Doyle twins chained you to a pole in a train. We had every right to use force to free you. Besides, I’m sure they made it out of the desert just fine. They are resourceful.”

“And Halil and the Captain?”

“If they had any sense, they swam to shore like us. The Leviathan went after the lure, not them. They could have gone. If they didn’t, it was only because they were too consumed by hatred for each other to survive. It’s not your fault.”

“Quiet.”

“It’s not your fault,” I insisted.

Jack leapt to his feet, tilting the raft dangerously. “Quiet! Do you hear that?”

Confused, I fell silent. I listened for several seconds.

“Yes!” I shouted. A voice called somewhere in the darkness. “Yes! We’re here! Help! We’re here!”

I yelled as loud as I could into the fog. Someone was out there, shouting back..

“He’s calling our names,” said Jack, mystified. A dark shape appeared above us.

“We’re here!” I shouted. “It’s Jack Carrington and Armand Allard! We’re here!”

And Faisal floated out of the mist, aboard a flying carpet.

I pulled Jack roughly onto the carpet. He had taken my sudden appearance with his usual British calm, and crawled low beside me. Armand, on the other hand, bounced around the floating dinghy, cheering in celebration.

“Is that raft steady?” I asked. The water below writhed with Leviathan. I had never seen anything like it.

“Not at all!” Armand replied cheerfully. He bounded one more time, nearly overturning the impromptu craft, then steadied himself. He grabbed the baggage, and wobbled over to where I hovered.

“Leave the luggage,” I said. “We don’t have much power left.”

Armand paused, and looked at the carpet doubtfully. “Can it carry three people?” He asked. “I could stay behind, and wait for …”

“We’ll just have to take it on faith,” I interrupted.

The Frenchman hesitated for a moment, then dropped the luggage, and climbed onto the carpet. “If we start falling, I’ll jump in the water. I can swim well, and I’m not magical. The Leviathan won’t come after me.”

The three of us crammed onto the little flying rug as I slowly lifted from the floating dinghy. The carpet was sluggish to respond, and lurched unevenly from our weight. Armand eyed the fall through the mist. “But perhaps I’ll wait until we’re a bit farther from the monsters.”

“Nobody is jumping,” said Jack.

Cautiously, I accelerated east.

Armand grinned broadly through wind and chattering teeth. “Alright Faisal, explain yourself. How did you get here?”

“As you know, Saanvi and I teleported to Oxford mid-day on October 4th. We went directly to Professor Skimp’s Office to confront him. Saanvi suspects that he meddled with the teleportation ritual that drove her mad, and that he’s been interfering with our own trip around the world.

“He was not in his office, but Saanvi had no compunctions about breaking the lock. Inside, we found scrying tools - he has indeed been tracking our progress. A silver pedestal in the center of the room showed your images atop it. We watched in horror as Elijah left to draw off the Leviathan, and then in relief as you devised your floating sanctuary. We deliberated over your unsteady position and brainstormed some way to help.

“Then, I remembered the magic carpets. When we talked with the Dutchman in Trabzon, he mentioned that he had sent a few magic carpets to Oxford, but that they did not work. Jack, you had correctly deduced that they did not work because, one, Professor Skimp had a vested interest in promoting teleportation, and, two, they were designed to only work in the borders of the old Persian Empire.

“Armed with this knowledge, we stormed across campus. I broke into storage and retrieved the carpets while Saanvi assembled some top students who had arrived before the start of term. Nearly all of the students know about the bet. It made gossip rounds months ago.

“They worked through the night, and mid-day yesterday adjusted a single carpet to work on a temporary basis. I took that carpet and a locator compass tuned to your signature, and sped across England and the ocean to find you. And here I am.”

“Incredible!” said Armand “If only we’d had such a carpet the whole time. It would have made this trip much easier.”

I shook my head. “Saanvi warned me that we were destroying the carpet by making such adjustments. By subverting the protections against taking the carpet out of Persia, the fabric is literally coming apart. I only hope that we make it to shore before it disintegrates completely.”

As if in response, the carpet shuddered and fell several feet.

We flew in silence as dawn broke. Armand and Jack rested as much as they could, and I was reminded of our harrowing flight from the Himalayan monastery to Lahore. We were just as sleep-deprived now, but perhaps better able to endure the strain.

The fog burned off some hours after sunrise and we flew in peace across blue skies and a silver ocean. Shortly after noon, I spotted land. The carpet had slowed significantly by then, and gaining additional altitude was impossible.

“Where are we?” asked Armand, squinting against the sun. I spotted sandy beaches and green ridges, but the water was streaked with coal dust. Along the coast to the north, smokestacks issued black miasma against the clear sky. Dozens of steamers plodded in the sea around us.

“Swansea, Wales,” said Jack. “I recognize the mining operations. It’s a copper town. My family would travel through it to get to the Pembrokeshire coast.”

“Does Swansea have a train station?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Jack. “Though there are only a few trains a day.”

“We’ll just have to make one,” said Armand. “You need to be in Oxford by 8am tomorrow morning.”

Jack grimaced, but said nothing.

Our carpet finally unraveled several hundred feet from shore, breaking into a thousand burning threads. We plummeted into the icy water and struggled through the surf to a sandy beach stained with coal runoff. A well-to-do gentleman and lady on horseback watched us passively as we emerged from the pounding waves. Jack stumbled towards them, and the man pulled his horse back in disgust, lips curling.

I was seized by the symmetry of the moment. The man on horseback was no older than Jack, prim and proper, dressed in a fine black coat and hat. He sat rigid upon his saddle, sneering at this strange beggar who emerged from the waters. Three months ago, this could have been Jack. But now Jack was tanned and unshaven, with salt-worn clothes and a harrowed face. As he regained his native soil, he was no longer recognizable as an English gentleman.

“Are there any more trains for Oxford today?” shouted Jack as he neared the pair. The horses reared back in surprise at the noise.

The man sneered down. “There are no trains from Swansea to Oxford, sir. You would need to travel to London first, then connect to Oxford.”

“Any trains to London then?”

“No. The last train left the station half an hour ago.”

Armand groaned, but Jack continued unabated.

“How much for your horse?”

“Excuse me?”

“How much for your horse? I’d like to buy your horse.”

The man laughed coldly, and turned to his partner in amusement. “This is a noble Hacknet, descended directly from Darley Arabian. She trained under Andrew Steward for three years, for both stamina and showmanship. She won silver at the Royal Show last year. I doubt you would be able to command her, much less purchase her.”

“150 pounds?”

“Sir, please don’t embarrass yourself. You do not have 150 pounds on you, and my horse is priceless to me.”

“200 pounds? I can write you a check.”

“A check?” The gentleman’s eye bulged in disbelief. “Do you really think I would accept a check from a bedraggled, misbegotten … ”

“Are you Jack Carrington?” the female rider suddenly cut in. Her eyes sparkled as she looked him over.

Jack did not show his surprise. “I am, madam.”

“My brother mentioned you! You made the bet, at Oxford.” She turned to her flummoxed partner. “This is the man I was telling you about! The brave man on the trip around the world. Oh, do lend him your horse Adam, please! The bet is nearly up!”

“But,” sputtered Adam, “But Lily, what do you mean? This man is Jack Carrington? Look at him! He’s a common beggar!”

“Oh, get off your high horse!” shouted Armand, rushing forward. Together, Lily and Armand badgered Adam off his steed.

Jack mounted easily, and turned the Hacknet in a tight circle. The horse moved with a showman’s flourish. “My butler, Armand, can handle the finances.”

“Don’t worry about the payment,” said Lily, thrilled to be involved. “Just return the horse! Her name is Shiva!”

Jack nodded at Lily and Adam in turn. “Thank you very much, Madam, Sir. My friends will handle the details.” He turned towards us. “Armand, Faisal, thank you for everything, but I must ride as fast as I can now.” We nodded understanding, and he tipped an imaginary hat towards us. “I’ll see you in Oxford.”

Without any more ritual, Jack sped up the beach. Adam watched in disbelief as his horse disappeared over the dunes.

“He needs to be in Oxford tomorrow morning?” he choked. “That’s a two day ride, at best. He’ll never make it.”

I burst off the beach and onto the road. Riders and carriages moved across the packed earth, giving me curious looks as I took my bearings.

I stood upon the main highway from Swansea to Cardiff, built upon the remnants of the old Roman road connecting Moridunum and Isca. Though the villas were gone, the cobblestones still remained. Saying a silent thanks to the old empire, I turned away from the factories to the north and pushed Shiva hard to the east, into the plains and farmland.

A sharp ocean breeze cooled us both as I tested Shiva’s limits, alternating between a gallop and a hard trot. Before long, her chestnut hair became lathered with sweat, and her harsh breathing rasped through the cool air. I settled to a fast canter and encouraged her forward, dropping my furs behind me to reduce the extra weight.

Shiva was a good beast, intelligent and charming in her own way, with large brown eyes that roamed the landscape dreamily. Her training and pedigree were excellent, but she was easily distracted. She would take me far, but I would need to change horses at least twice to make this journey, possibly more. We needed speed, and I could not exhaust her before I had secured another mount.

I also needed to make sure I did not exhaust myself. I had not had a full night’s sleep since we left New York five days before. The countryside passed in a haze. Only the rushing air kept me from falling out of the saddle.

After an hour of travel, we paused for breath in the town of Bridgend. Side by side, Shiva and I drank hurriedly from the Ogmore River, which ran clear from the low Welsh hills to our north. A child passed with an apple cart, and I tossed him a shilling as I remounted Shiva.

“Thanks, sir!” said the child, handing me three apples.

“And I thank you,” I replied, biting into the fruit. My family and I had stopped in this very place when heading to the coast every summer. Throughout the week-long journey, we often stayed with various noblemen known to my parents. In fact, one was just a few hours east of here.

Struck with a sudden idea, I called out to the boy. “Do you know if the Marquess of Bute is currently residing in Castell Coch? Or has he left for the season?”

The child nodded assent, and I pushed Shiva into a gallop again. I had my destination.

As we sped through the village eating our apples, I checked my father’s watch. It was 2:17pm. I had nearly 150 miles to travel. A cold fear stole through me, but I snuffed it out, refusing to do the calculations. I would simply ride as far and as fast as I could, doing all in my power to reach Oxford by eight o’clock the next morning. I resolved not to check my watch again.

I pushed Shiva hard those next few hours, likely harder than she’d ever been ridden in her life. We flew over packed dirt roads, through green fields and farmlands dotted with sheep. At several points I watched her head loll, and her pace slow. But both my and her training won out, and she continued to fight for strength as we approached Castle Coch.

Shiva and I sped up the wooded lane, rushing past gardeners and workmen before they could stop us. There, pacing the grounds with his architect, stood John Crichton-Stuart, 3rd Marquess of Bute, and one of the wealthiest men in Britain. He had inherited the castle in 1848, and had been renovating it in the Gothic Revival style ever since.

I leapt from my horse and hit the ground hard, tumbling and falling to my knees. “Lord Bute!” I called quickly, as valets and butlers rushed forward to stop me.

The large man turned in surprise. “Good God!” he said. With my filthy clothing and unshaven face, I’m sure I must have seemed like a vagabond. To his credit, he took a step forward instead of recoiling.

“Lord Bute,” I said again over the heads of the men who now stood between us. I rose to my feet and dusted myself off, standing tall despite my abhorrent appearance. “How goes the wine harvest this year? I still have the bottle of ‘77 you gave my parents.” I could hear Shiva breathing heavily behind me. Her strength was finished.

The man squinted at me, then pushed his way through his servants. Suddenly, his eyes opened wide. “Jack?” He asked. “Little Jack Carrington?”

I bowed. “Yes sir. I am sorry to be coming on such short notice, and without invitation.”

“Why Jack, I haven’t seen you since you were a boy!” He shook my hand enthusiastically, then stepped back. His twinkling eyes appraised me, lingering on my rune-scarred hand, but I saw no judgment in his face. “My boy, what happened to you? Would you like to come in? The interior is complete, and this year’s wine harvest has been excellent.”

“Sir, I would very much like to come inside, and it pains me to refuse the invite. It pains me greater still to ask a favor.”

“Anything boy, anything. Although I suppose I shouldn’t call you boy any longer, you’re taller than I am! I remember when your parents would visit on your way to the coast. You would run around the vineyards picking grapes.” His eyes became distant. “I suppose I last saw you at your father’s funeral. He was very brave to head into that fire. A true English gentleman. You should be proud.”

“Sir, I require a horse. A fast riding horse if you can.”

Lord Bute eyed Shiva. “Yes, I see that. Are you in any sort of trouble?”

“Not exactly sir, but if I do not reach Oxford by tomorrow morning then I will have lost twenty thousand pounds.”

The lord nearly jumped in surprise. “Good God! Even with the fastest horse in the world, you’ll never make it.”

“Nevertheless, I mean to try.”

Lord Bute nodded solemnly, then turned to a valet. “George, bring Osiris here at once, saddled and ready. And grab some food and water, as well as my riding coat. The man is shaking, though with thirst, hunger, exhaustion, or cold I do not know.” He took me by the shoulder and led me to a nearby bench. “Jack, you cannot make that ride.”

“Sir, I have no choice. I must attempt it, on my honor.”

“It will take some minutes to bring Osiris around. Tell me what you can.”

I talked as quickly as I could, and by some miracle the man believed me. His eyes were wide and wondering when the valet came trotting up, Osiris in tow. The horse was a beautiful brown Arabian, strong and proud though somewhat small. He eyed me suspiciously, and tossed his silver mane.

“Don’t be deceived by his small stature,” said Lord Bute, helping me onto the steed. “Osiris is the fastest horse I know. Look here, on the saddle. I had a man from Wrexham Stables carve these runes. They’ll help with his stamina, keep him from feeling his exhaustion. You’ll be able to push him harder than a normal horse, but don’t forget about your own limits. We’ll take care of Shiva until you return. When was the last time you slept?”

I avoided the question. “Sir, I cannot possibly repay you for what you’ve done for me.”

“Just bring Osiris back in one piece. He is proud, and a bit anxious in fog, but invaluable once you win his trust.”

“I will. Thank you for your hospitality. I must be off.”

Lord Bute shook his head. “God speed.”

I turned and raced down the lane.

Osiris was fast, but he was unruly in my unfamiliar hands. As we sped past the outskirts of Cardiff, he slowed or changed his gait without warning. Even with these distractions, we made excellent time and arrived in Newport at sunset. I slowed Osiris as we entered the town, but we did not stop to drink in the waters. The Usk River had long since been polluted with runoff from the Welsh coalfields and factories.

As we walked through the cobbled streets, I felt exhaustion overwhelm me. My thoughts returned to my childhood, of traveling through a Newport unafflicted with smokestacks and smog. I thought of my parents, and of our long carriage rides through the night. I remembered sleeping in my mother’s arms, as we rumbled over green hills …

A church bell struck eight, and I fell from the saddle onto the hard street. I lay there for a few moments, dazed, while pedestrians trod silently past. The clouds lit reds and yellow in the sunset. Unconsciously, I calculated the journey. It was 100 miles to Oxford, nearly three times the distance I had already covered. I would have to travel twice as fast to reach it in time. No horse, not even Osiris, could maintain such a pace.

For a moment I despaired, and then Osiris stood above me, green eyes looking down in concern. I regained my composure and banished the calculations from my mind. Though my legs felt like lead, I mounted again and we pushed through Newport and into the dark countryside.

The full moon illuminated my path. Wooden barns, stone walls, and looming trees flew by in the stark night. The air was still, Osiris’s hoof beats the only sound. Occasionally, a lighted carriage rumbled on. Perhaps inside was a well-dressed young family, sleeping soundly, off to the coast to make some happy memories. But I was speeding in the opposite direction as fast as I could, clothed in saltworn rags.

Time passed as if in a dream. I’m sure that I fell asleep in the saddle once and Osiris, sensing a shift, slowed. I woke to find us strolling along the road, the horse breathing in ragged gasps. It could have been a moment, or an hour, but I dismounted, fed Osiris an apple, and watered him in a nearby stream.

I did not check my watch.

I remounted and pushed Osiris again, but he was beginning to flag. We passed through the town of Lydney, where a night shift of coal miners marched up to the fields. They gave me suspicious looks as I hurried by.

On the outskirts of Gloucester, Osiris was at last worn out. He staggered as he trotted, and I brought him down to a walk. He fought me, struggling to increase speed, but I chastised him and kept him calm. I had no doubt that this horse would rather die than admit defeat, and I had no intention of squandering Lore Bute’s gift.

We entered the lamp-lit city, driving straight for the industrial center which had risen up in the past decade. Bleary-eyed workmen meandered through the streets, making their way to an early morning shift. Bakers unlocked shops to begin their work.

I stopped and dismounted in a twisting alleyway. Noise and light echoed from an old tudor-style tavern with high wooden windows and a white facade. I tied up Osiris, patted his steaming flank, and headed inside.

The scent of warm beer assailed me. Half a dozen bodies sat at nearby tables, enjoying morning drinks and talking in boisterous voices. Some of the patrons had clearly been up all night, while others had just awoken. The bartender, a spindly man with thin black hair, appraised me disapprovingly.

“I say it can’t be done!” shouted an elderly man to the group. This proclamation was met with murmurs of agreement and knowing nods. The lone voice of dissent came from a burly constable, who sat, hat removed, and brandishing a newspaper.

“And I say it can!” he shouted, taking a pound from his pocket and placing it on the table. “Jerry,” he called to the bartender, “you still taking bets?”

The bartender nodded. Without removing his eyes from me, the bartender took the pound from the constable and went to a large chalkboard. The board was divided into “For” and “Against,” with various names and figures in each column. Beside it, a newspaper hung nailed to the wall.

“Excuse me,” I rasped into the tavern. My voice, harsh with exhaustion, barely carried through the room. Still, my appearance certainly attracted their attention. The bar went silent as all eyes went to my wretched form. “I’m sorry to intrude. I should like to buy a horse.”

“This isn’t a stable,” replied the bartender sternly. “I think you should find a different establishment.”

“Hold up, hold up,” said the constable. He stood to his full height, and came closer to me. “What do you need a horse for?”

“I need to get to Oxford, quickly. No stables are open at this hour. I can pay.”

The constable brought his face inches from mine, then looked me up and down, “What’s your name?”

I hesitated, then replied, “Jack Carrington.”

A gasp ran through the room.

“He’s lying!” shouted the old man.

The constable suddenly sprung forward. He hurried me over to the chalkboard and placed me next to the newspaper. It was the New York Times. My own face was on it.

“It’s him!” shouted the constable. He slapped me on the shoulder and smiled broadly. “Jack, you’re a celebrity! Taverns from Edinburgh to Cornwall are taking bets on you. And, it just so happens that I’m on your side!” He rubbed his hands together greedily, then pointed to the chalkboard. “I’ve got 10 – no, 11 – pounds riding on your success. You want a horse? Use mine! It belongs to the city, but I don’t think they’ll mind. Just bring it back here.”

“Wait a second,” cried the old man, but the constable shooed me out of the tavern with a loaf of bread in hand, and led me to his steed, a giant black horse which looked me up and down in confusion.

“This is Napoleon,” he said, helping me take the rune-marked saddle from Osiris and mount it on the police horse. He lifted me up, and I took the reins. I pulled back from the tavern in a daze and turned towards the main street.

“Napoleon will get you there, with plenty of time!” cried the constable as I trotted off. “After all, you’ve got all day! He’s strong, and loyal as a dog, but he has a tendency to leap before he looks. Ride him slow, and don’t tucker him out. Just bring him back tomorrow, on the 7th.”

“You idiot!” shouted the old man, who was finally able to get a word in. “It’s the 7th today. He needs to be there in three hours.”

The constable’s face fell. He stood in shock for a moment, as I quickly rode away. “Hey there!” he cried. “You can’t ride to Oxford in three hours.”

“I’ve got to try,” I said.

“Wait!” he yelled, starting to lumber after me, “Give me back my horse!”

“I will,” I shouted, breaking into a gallop. “As we agreed! “Tomorrow!”

I rode hard out of Gloucester, taking the East road across Wotten Brook. Trees crowded around as the sky began to lighten, and the path became thinner and less managed. My exhaustion changed into a bleary trance when the first sun rays broke through the fall canopy. I would not fall off Napoleon as I had fallen off Osiris.

Napoleon lived up to the constable’s praise. He moved with purpose, eager to obey my every command. We sped through the morning light, passing copses of ash and elm between rolling farmlands.

In a daze, I entered the market town of Northleach. Farmers and tradesmen, freshly woken from their slumbers, moved about the sleepy village. I trotted forward, barely knowing where I was, when I heard a strange sound.

I looked about, startled, and there loomed the gothic Church of St Peter and St Paul. Blinking, I tried to process the noise. It was the bells. They rang once, twice, three times, four… I counted with heart in my throat and ears throbbing. Five times, six times, seven times they rang, and then, like the tolling of a funeral procession, the bells of the Church rang an eighth time.

It was 8am, October 7th, the start of Oxford term, and I was still 30 miles from the university.

I had lost my bet.

I slowed Napoleon to a walk as the echoes of the bells died around me. No sense in tiring the beast out now.

My mind was white, empty, and on fire. I could not think, but I could feel my skin prickling with heat.

I had lost my bet.

I dismounted Napoleon, patted him on the snout, and walked beside him. I fed the horse an apple, and took one for myself. My mind refused to process the event. It seemed impossible that, in the end, I would fail.

When I looked up next, Northleach was behind us. We had walked for some time, me in a daze, Napoleon loyally at my side. I found a small pond and watered him, and took some comfort on a log.

“Should we return you to your master?” I asked, stroking his side. The beast, of course, made no reply. I considered turning back for a time, but ultimately steeled myself for the remaining journey. I could reach Oxford before night, perhaps, and there tell Saanvi of my failure. If not tonight, then tomorrow. Time was no longer a concern.

And I was no longer a student.

Time. It had been my unforgiving companion for months, urging me forwards. Now, the voice became silent. Unbidden, wasted moments from our travels flitted through my mind, but I banished all recollection. There was nothing for it now but to continue on and make the most of things.

As of this moment, I was nearly forty thousand pounds in debt. The bank would take my family estates just to pay off the loans I had taken to fund this trip. I would go bankrupt trying to pay Professor Skimp for his wager, and still be unable to cover the balance. I would have nothing left. No family, no funds, no education, no honor. I thought of Armand, Faisal, and Saanvi. How disappointed they would be to find out all our agonies were for naught. And Armand would believe he had failed my father.

But that failure was mine alone.

Time ticked by as I sat, until Napoleon nuzzled me on the shoulder. I stood, stretched, and mounted him again. It was time to continue.

We wandered through the countryside, taking the best roads we could to the east, feeling our way towards Oxford. The English farmland passed us slowly, and the sun sped across the sky. At noon, I did my best to bathe in a stream. In the early afternoon, I sat and ate a mutton stew with some young farmers in a dingy tavern. I was at home in England, and yet I felt a stranger. The men and women I passed gave me strange glances, and I did not blame them. Three months ago, I would have rather died than go into public dressed like a beggar. Now, my appearance matched my finances. I barely recognized my reflection in the windows as I rode by.

Twilight fell as I entered the town of Oxford. Students and their parents prowled the streets, pulling luggage and talking in small groups. Despite my strange appearance, nobody looked at me. Oxford has seen stranger things than a pauper on horseback.

I pondered whether to sleep in my apartment overnight, or go straight to Professor Skimp. I had not truly slept in days, and some rest would do me good before I faced my fate. But, such a pause would only delay the inevitable. I straightened my back and headed into the University.

As I rode, I noticed a strange energy forming in the air. Students and workmen ran about in excitement, and teachers huddled in conspiratorial twos and threes. Something odd had happened here.

And soon I realized what. The smell of smoke and arcane energy saturated the campus. I rode Napoleon past the History and Math departments, and saw my destination surrounded by a large and anxious crowd.

The Teleportation department was destroyed. The three story stone building had been blasted apart, columns melted from heat and roof scattered across the ground in a thousand pieces. Huge marble blocks littered the road, illuminated pink by the setting sun.

I stood frozen in wonder until I heard a familiar voice.

“Jack!”

Saanvi ran up to greet me, smiling broadly. Her hair was burned, her face dark with soot, but her large brown eyes gleamed with excitement. When she saw my sorry state, she helped me off Napoleon and led me to a bench, sending two students to get food and water. I felt nearly beyond speech with exhaustion, but I managed to croak, “It is good to see you, Saanvi. What happened here?” The world swam before me, but I could sense a crowd gathering around. Saanvi spoke, patting my back to keep me awake.

“Welcome to Oxford! You look terrible. Have you been riding all day?” Despite her concern, that smile never left her face.

I managed a weak smile in return. “Since yesterday morning. Saanvi, what happened?”

She glanced at the smoking ruin as if seeing it for the first time, then back at me.“Oh, to the building? After Faisal left to rescue you, I returned to Professor Skimp’s office and began to rifle through his things. Notes on the most fascinating list of seemingly unrelated topics. Scrying rituals to observe your progress from afar. Blueprints for the Bosphorus Leviathan wall, and notes on how to best disassemble it. Telegraphs to international detectives and mercenaries. Payments to a weather witch to send fog and storm across the Black Sea and India. Correspondence with a Himalayan monastery. Payments to a gangster in New York to sabotage the zeppelin. Even notes on how he disrupted my teleportation to India last year.”

My mind reeled. Saanvi continued, smiling at the gathering crowd. I could hear whispers as the students recognized me.

“Yesterday evening, just as I finished collecting my evidence, Professor Skimp entered the room. He accused me, rightfully so, of breaking and entering, and I accused him, rightfully so, of attempted murder. In a desperate attempt, the professor conjured flame to destroy both the evidence and me. I responded in kind. I won’t bore you with the details, but there was a bit of a confrontation. In the end Skimp was subdued and the building was destroyed. Professor Skimp is currently in custody, until the authorities can figure out what to do with him.”

I could feel consciousness slipping away. “I’m glad that Professor Skimp will get what he deserves, and that you have gotten your revenge. But my own outcome is the same. I’ve still lost my bet.”

Saanvi smiled broadly, and clasped me by my shoulders. “You don’t understand, Jack. After the fight yesterday, they had to shut down the school. They’ve delayed the start of term until tomorrow. You traveled around the world and returned to Oxford before the start of fall term. You’ve won.”

The world turned white, and I fainted.

What is there left to tell?

Professor Skimp goes to trial next week. With the evidence burned, and the lack of legal precedent regarding arcane cases, his fate remains unclear. But Oxford has already removed him as a professor. Saanvi reclaimed her old job as Head of the Teleportation Department.

Skimp is refusing to pay the wager, of course, citing the ambiguity of the wording. Luckily, the students who bet with him are more honorable than their professor. They remember the accurate phrasing of the wager as “before the start of fall term,” and they are collecting the sums to pay Jack.

Jack spent three days in a hospital recuperating from his adventure, and missed the start of term altogether. However, he is now back in classes and exceeding his previous year’s achievements. Saanvi claims that he is making excellent progress in Teleportation. She reversed the failing grades that Professor Skimp gave him as nothing more than a schoolyard rivalry.

In order to finance our trip, Jack borrowed fifteen thousand pounds from the bank. After Jacks’ winnings come in and he has repaid his debt, he will have earned just five thousand thousand pounds, which he has promised to distribute among the four of us. Saanvi suggested that we all take a holiday somewhere exotic, but Jack and Faisal have had enough of travel for now. Perhaps I’ll go somewhere with Saanvi for Winter break. We skipped Africa entirely on our journey, and I would like to see where Faisal grew up.

Faisal’s concerns about his work have proven unfounded. In fact, the publicity from our journey has led to an influx of new offers. Yesterday, Saanvi teleported him to America to have a face-to-face with the twins. I’m told there was much shouting, but Faisal apologized for his coldness, and in the end the group shook hands. He’s heading back to the States next week to help them with a case, and he’s recruited Sarah Miller to help. He promises to visit us often.

Saanvi enjoys telling her students (and the press) of her adventures. While the rest of us have remained mostly silent, Saanvi has no reservations about transforming our tales into fantastical parables for any willing ears. The campus, and the entire country, are desperate to learn more, and Saanvi has the Royal Navy watching for any sign of Elijah’s Skipper.

As for me? Once these journals have made their way to Professor Skimp’s courtroom, I think I’ll visit Paris once again. My last visit was far too rushed. In addition to the remaining wager money, Jack has given me a healthy bonus and told me to spend it. And I shall, wandering the twisted streets, eating buttery croissants, and watching jugglers perform their craft.

But I’ll not stray too far from London, in case Jack needs me again.

In case he makes another bet.

The End