Page 3 of Stalk the Sky

Merrik heaved yet another sigh. “Really?”

“Yep.” Fieran grabbed either side of the ladder as if to climb down, then pressed his boots on either side of the ladder as well. With one last smirk at Merrik, Fieran loosened his fingers just enough that gravity sent him sliding down the ladder rather than climbing it.

The cold wind raked through his hair and tugged at his clothes. The rush of falling and the exhilaration of the sea spreading out so far below bubbled up inside him so that he couldn’t help but give a whoop. The endless ocean was a bit like the trackless sky. Dangerous. Beautiful. Something to be both loved and feared in equal measures.

Soon he would get back in a flyer and feel this same heady thrill each time he took to the sky. Five days without flying was far too long.

All too soon, he had to tighten his grip with both hands and feet, slowing himself just enough that he landed lightly on the metal platform at the top of the gondola. He stepped aside, giving Merrik room to land just as easily, their footfalls so light that one of the Escarlish airmen bustling farther along the catwalk didn’t even glance their way.

Fieran led the way through a hatch onto the walk that surrounded the outside of the gondola, not quite ready to give up the fresh air for the narrow passages inside.

As he dropped down another level onto a lower walk, he found Tiny, the half-troll, half-human pilot, hunched over the rail near the stern. Despite being perfectly fine while flying an aeroplane, Tiny got horribly airsick on airships. He’d learned the hard way to vomit over the stern instead of into the wind on the bow.

Tiny pushed away from the rail, making a valiant effort to straighten and give Fieran a proper salute, despite the green cast to his gray skin.

Fieran suppressed his sigh and quickly saluted back. Was it bad that he was already regretting his promotion? For those golden weeks of training, he had been just one of the guys for the first time in his life. Not a prince. Not the son of famous parents. Not someone to be treated as anything special.

Now he was back to the way things had always been. The weight of a title—or of command in this case—rested on his shoulders and separated him from others.

At least the gulf between a first lieutenant and second lieutenant wasn’t that wide. They were all officers. He could maintain his friendships, even if his friends had to salute him occasionally.

As soon as his salute was acknowledged, Tiny returned to his spot gripping the rail.

Fieran gave him a pat on the back as he edged by. “Hang in there, Tiny. We’re almost to Dar Goranth and solid ground.”

Tiny just gave a miserable nod in return.

Merrik hurried past Tiny as well, giving him a sympathetic look but staying well clear.

A few yards past Tiny, Fieran and Merrik reached the door to the officers’ mess, which was on the other side of the airship’s kitchens from the mess for the noncommissioned airmen.

Inside, the thirty-odd men remaining in his squadron after training and the battle in the skies over Bridgetown had gathered around the various tables. A few plates were piled in the center of some of the tables while several flyboys were finishing the last bites of their breakfasts.

At least the mess was considered neutral territory. No saluting of officers or coming to attention required. Meals would be chaos if everyone had to spring to their feet and salute every time a superior officer walked in.

Fieran headed for the table near the bank of portholes where his friends had gathered. Pretty Face—the disgraced seventh son of an equally disgraced Escarlish nobleman—lounged on the bench, his legs stretched out underneath the table. Across the table from him, blond-haired, beanpole-thin Elijah Lake scowled and tried to find a spot to stick his own equally long legs without bumping into Pretty Face.

Beside him, Stickyfingers, their resident ex-thief, had a set of lockpicks and a padlock in his hands, and he appeared to be teaching Pip—their half-dwarf, half-elf female mechanic—how to pick locks. She had a second padlock and another pair of picks in her hands as she followed Sticky’s instructions.

“Why are you learning to pick locks?” Fieran halted beside the table, peering over Pip’s shoulder. “You can just move the metal with your magic and unlock any lock that way.”

“Because it’s fascinating.” Her dark brown curls tumbling over her shoulders, Pip gave a shrug, swiveling and craning her neck to glance up at him. “You never know when you might want to be more subtle than just tearing apart a lock with magic.”

Fieran raised his eyebrows at Stickyfingers. “You’re a bad influence on the squadron.”

“Says the elf who was wandering about on top of the airship a moment ago.” Stickyfingers shrugged, then held up a lockpick and padlock. “I can always teach you after Pip is done.”

Fieran shook his head, waving the offer away. “No need. I already know.”

Stickyfingers squinted up at him, his brow furrowing beneath his shock of brown hair. “You do? But you’re a prince. And…not…”

“Delinquent? Felonious?” Pretty Face supplied.

Sticky flexed his fingers on the padlock like he was contemplating chucking it at Pretty Face’s head.

“My Uncle Edmund taught me.” Fieran needed to get the focus back on the conversation before things devolved.

“Ah.” Stickyfingers nodded.

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