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Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 01

By: Ian_Ironwood



CHAPTER ONE: 

TUDLEY HOUSE

Edward did not like the looks of the old country manor, no matter which angle he saw it. It was dark and dreary, and it had been years—decades!—since anyone had maintained the place. A Tudor style, two-story affair, the decrepit pile of bricks was covered in vines and dirt. The lawn had not been tended, the windows were caked with coal soot from the Bloomfeld plant a mile away, and the once-stately slate roof looked like the hide of a dragon after a particularly rowdy fight with a vengeful knight. There was an air of misfortune and misery that hung over the place, as if great misdeeds and missed opportunities had accumulated over the years in layers as thick as the dust.

Edward should have had a home like this himself, he thought with a sigh. Only not so dreary. His college friends, the cream of the realm's aristocracy, had such places to spare: the accumulated inheritance of generations. This home could have been magnificent under his care, he knew, a worthy estate for a country gentleman or industrious peer. It was precisely the sort of thing he aspired to—had aspired to for years, actually. Only Edward Lane was without inheritance of any significance.

That wasn't quite true—his father had been a Brigadier in the Lancers, a career military man furthering the Empire in distant lands. Edward had only met the man three times in childhood, when he was home on leave and condescended to visit his wife and children. The last time Edward had been twelve years old, and had been very impressed with the gentleman, his uniform, his thick mustache and his commanding manner. He had seemed invulnerable, eternal. Then he had returned to foreign parts for the final time, succumbing to some tropical disease when Edward was fifteen, leaving a tiny pension for his mother and no sort of inheritance for his children. His salary as Brigadier wasn't extravagant, but it was sufficient to send his only son to a decent school, and one of his leftenants overseas, a prosperous aristocrat whose life his father had saved, had generously ensured that Edward receive a decent education by getting him into college and paying him a small stipend until he earned his letters.

There are limits to such generosity, though, and upon graduation Edward found himself without a home (his mother had died, his sisters had married), without money, without title, and without prospects. Having become accustomed to the life of the aristocracy, he had clung to the coattails of his college friends for a few years, pretending to an affluence he did not have, before he decided to take up a trade. And while he was intelligent enough to take the bar, canny enough to con himself a commission in the Army, and witty enough to continue sponging off of his college friends indefinitely, he was too lazy or proud to do any of these things. So he had condescended to take up a trade: gentleman burglar.

He was well-prepared for his new profession, having had a love of great art and jewelry since he'd been exposed to it. He was also adept at a number of subjects that are not generally taught in the finer colleges, such as picking locks and pockets, dissembling around suspicious servants, and lying to the face of police detectives, all thanks to the tuition of his mother's half-brother, a Celtic n'er-do-well named Uncle Pete. Pete had occasionally arrived at their house unexpectedly, stayed for an unspecified duration, and vanished without explanation. 

But when he did linger for more than a day or so, he doted on his nieces and nephews. From the first time Pete had picked his pockets at nine, Edward had been fascinated with such sleight-of-hand and demanded to learn how it was done. Pete had been tickled to have such an apt pupil, and thereafter he would impart some bit of underworld knowledge to his beloved nephew. It had made him quite a name in school. He had become known as "Eddie The Dodger" for the adept way he seemed to be able to acquire things, from examination answers to the odd wallet. Always quick with a joke or a smoke, Edward had used his petty notoriety to insert himself into a social group far above his means—and he had Uncle Pete to thank for it.

Edward had a touch of the man's abhorrence to hard work, but didn't share his penchant for gambling, women and drink, which meant that he retained far more of his ill-gotten gains than his uncle ever had. But when Edward had confided his despair at having any prospects to the man, Pete had taken him on a seven-house burglary spree before sitting him down with a mutual friend, a squint-eyed fence named Lyle. Lyle had a better appreciation for Edward's potential than Pete, recognizing his education and social contacts gave him access to great troves of treasure. So he embarked on his career that very day, and hadn't looked back since.

The key to his success for the last three years had been his patience and willingness to acquire lesser pieces from less well-guarded premises, avoiding risky situations at all costs. The result had been a string of unconnected robberies of low stature. His biggest take had been the reason he was now in the countryside: a magnificent antique gilded jewelry box belonging to the mother of one of his old classmates. It had been worth more than all of the junk jewelry within it, some three hundred pounds, but some pieces of sentimental value had caused the wealthy matron to pursue the theft with all the powers at her disposal. That made the city too uncomfortable, and so Edward had decided to pursue a few scant leads in the countryside. At the top of the list was this Tudor manor: Tudley House.

He had no idea who the original Tudley had been, nor much about the current owner, one Lord Trey, a distinguished gentleman who spent most of his time abroad pursuing his varied interests—and a lot of native womanhood, by all accounts. He hadn't been in the realm, much less at Tudley House, in more than four years. But his sources had mentioned the trove inside as being right up his alley. Odds and ends from Lord Trey's adventures, some original Tudor-era artwork (which was a long way from Edward's tastes in art, but no matter), and some even earlier pieces the distinguished old family had collected. Tudley House may have been a mausoleum, but it was one stuffed to the rafters with loot.

Edward had taken the train to Bloomfeld—his resources did not permit a more stately and expensive airship, and the truth was Bloomfeld had no proper mooring tower for one— and a room at the village inn for a few days, indulging in the inexpensive but comfortable digs and visiting a few acquaintances in the area. It gave him a solid reason for being this far from his normal haunts, and a nascent interest in birding had made a tromp through the back country behind the manor a reasonable thing. Slipping unnoticed through the foliage that afternoon had been simple. The three hours of clandestine surveillance had been boring but rewarding for all of that. A caretaker seemed to live in the carriage house, and a maid left for the village just after dusk, but beyond that there didn't seem to be anyone about Tudley House this fine autumn evening.

He waited a further two hours past dusk before he made his way to the back kitchen door. He found it pleasantly unlocked, although the hinges were in deplorable state, and so he stopped to thoughtfully oil them to silence before proceeding. The dark stone rooms of the pantry and kitchen smelled of stale flour and moldy cheese, and a careful hand on the stove and a glance at the rubbish bin told him that the maid had cooked at least two sparse meals today.

Satisfied, he climbed the narrow stairs up to the buttery, stopping to sneer at the poor vintages stored therein (but making an exception for an unexpected bottle of Port that he consigned to his bag for celebration later) before making his way out to the front of the house. He moved carefully and quietly, cursing the squeaking floorboards in his mind as they betrayed him. Still, he heard nothing else in response, and proceeded more boldly forward to the parlor where he expected to begin his spree. The big wooden double doors seemed more intimidating than inviting, but he soldiered on, turning the tarnished brass handle with a decisive click.

"Hullo!" came a voice in the darkness, making him nearly jump out of his skin. His heart began beating furiously. "Is anyone about?" The voice was female, though he couldn't determine the age or class.

"I . . . It's just . . . me," he finally choked out, his throat dry. He hadn't seen any signs of life within, but unless the woman was a ghost—which he didn't believe in, despite the current fad for such things—he was nicked. As Uncle Pete said, a swift tongue can get you out of more dodges than swift feet. "Where are you?" he asked, putting on his best confused aristocratic idiot expression.

"I'm here, in the chair," the voice said, a touch of gravel in it. "Come join me."

"It's . . . well, is there a lamp?"

"I wouldn't know," the voice said, bemused. "And it would do me no good if there was. I am blind."

"I . . ." Edward said, his voice in his throat. Perhaps he wasn't nicked after all! Thinking quickly, he struck a Lucifer from his pocket, splashing the barest bit of light into the room—and causing a cascade of macabre shadows to rush forth. He thought he glimpsed the woman's shape in the gloom, slumped in a great over-stuffed chair next to the fireplace, where the tiniest of embers glowed. But more importantly he saw a candlestick on the mantle. The Lucifer went out, burning his fingers, before he gained it, but he had another, and in a moment there was enough light to see, dimly. He found three more candles and lit them, and the light was almost passable. "That's better," he sighed. "I'm afraid I'm no friend of the darkness."

"Either am I," the woman quipped, drolly, and then added the briefest of laughs. "Now who are you?"

"I? I'm nobody. Edward, Edward Lane," he explained, one of the prefabricated explanations he'd prepared falling out of his mouth like the honest truth. "I'm a birder, and such a novice at the art of woodsmanship that I'm now hopelessly lost. I followed a stream expected to eventually encounter a bridge before nightfall, and thus a road and beyond that a house, but then I smelled the chimney smoke and followed my nose here. I didn't think anyone was about, and planned on spending the night until I could orient myself in the morning." It was a plausible explanation—the best ones were—and decorated with enough of the truth to pass as such.

"Well, welcome, Mr. Lane, to my home. I apologize that I'm such a poor hostess—I don't often receive visitors, and the maid has retired home for the evening. Still, it wouldn't be Christian of me to deny you shelter on a night like this." She nodded towards the tall, narrow window to her right. A brisk autumn shower was already starting—which Edward had planned on, to erase any incidental footprints his visit might leave. 

"I appreciate your kindness and generosity," he said, bowing—and then realizing she could not see the courtesy. "And whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

"I am Elizabeth, Lady Trey," she said. "Although counting it an honor would likely be overstating it. And you are welcome to whatever little cheer I have. In truth, I welcome the diversion. It makes a welcome respite from my usual mode of evening entertainment."

"And that would be?" I asked, curious.

"Sitting in the dark, alone, and drinking gin," she said with a wry chuckle, raising her glass to him. "It is ever so much better to be sitting in the dark with someone else and drinking gin. Cheers."

"Cheers," he echoed, absently. "Is Lord Trey not about, then?"

"Lord Trey is at his estate in Beumonde, where he oversees his ... interests," she said, emptily. "I have not had the pleasure of his company in four years. Please, have a seat," she said, interrupting herself. 

"I'd love to," he said, "but if you permit me, let's stir the fire and take the chill off, shall we?" It was depressingly cold in the room, he noted, and Tudors had a justly-earned reputation for draughtiness. Lady Trey was enwrapped in several quilts, and while the air before her mouth did not quite turn to vapor, it was a near thing. She nodded and Edward proceeded to stoke the fire to the point where the flames provided more illumination than the feeble candlelight. When he turned back to face his impromptu hostess, he gasped. Wit the augmented light he could see her face clearly for the first time.

"What is the matter?" Lady Trey asked. "Did you burn yourself?"

"No," Edward said, shaking himself back to reason, "I was just . . . startled. You are very beautiful. And much younger than I thought."

The laugh that came from the fair face and unseeing—but nonetheless gorgeous—blue eyes shook Edward for its hollowness and lack of mirth. 

"Beautiful? Young? I feel neither—and none has dared say such things to me since I lost my sight."

"That is a tragedy," Edward murmured. "You are quite stunning."

Lady Trey dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "My maid brushes my hair twice a day, and helps me wash. Apart from that I am quite plain in my toilette."

"I beg to differ, madame," Edward countered.

"Well, you are gracious to say so. But I've already invited you in to stay the night, further flattery is unnecessary, Mr. Lane. But I do bid you join me in a drink."

Edward poured a second glass from the pitcher of gin and lemonade set near to Lady Trey's hand on a well-appointed table, then took a seat on the settee opposite her. "Cheers," he repeated, sipping the cool drink. By the size of the pitcher and what remained, Lady Trey was at least two sheets to the wind at this early point in the evening. And there was still plenty left.

"I cannot help but wonder that you aren't concerned for your safety, out here alone," he mused.

"Do not be," the woman said, shrugging. "Sometimes I pray some ruffians will break my house and end my torment in some spectacularly savage manner. But we are too remote and humble to attract a better class of ruffian. Besides, Hampton, my groundsman, can hear me scream from here. "

"Now, now," Edward soothed. "I can see how your situation would drive one to melancholia—or drink, for that matter—but to wish for a premature end is, if I may say, unChristian."

"Oh, I'd be content if some hideous wretch broke in and ravished me," she said, just flamboyantly enough to let Edward know the level of her toxicity. "Indeed, I've prayed for it. Is that not also unChristian, Mr. Lane?"

"Well, I'm hardly a vicar," Edward chuckled, warming to the woman. "And I would not presume to judge such . . . flights of fancy. They're quite common. Propriety keeps me from mentioning a few of my own . . . wilder dreams. Perfectly normal."

"Does that mean you're here to ravage me, then?" she asked, an eyebrow cocked.

"I wouldn't presume on my hostesses' hospitality—and I assume madame is jesting."

"I haven't seen my husband in four years, Mr. Lane," Lady Trey said, sadly. "And he wants nothing to do with me. The last time I felt the touch of a man . . ."

"Oh, dear," Edward said, taken aback. He had thought her just a bawd—but there was true misery in her voice. "Is your husband blind, as well, then?" he asked, sincerely.

"Flattery again!" she said, shaking her head. "What an absolute  rogue you are, Mr. Lane! My groundskeeper has grandchildren and smells of manure. My maid is more a jailor than a confidant. Yours is the first other human voice I've heard in a year, since I stopped attending services. And you fill my ears with honey."

"I speak only the truth," Edward sighed. "While I respect your infirmity, if I had no knowledge of it I assure you I would spare no expense or trouble to make your acquaintance across a crowded ball room."

"Where you would never see me. The blind are not known for their dancing. More the pity—I loved to dance, before my accident. You have a kind and . . . virile voice, Mr. Lane. "

"Flattery!" Edward accused. She laughed at his joke, the first pleasant laugh he'd heard from her lips since he'd arrived. "But I'll allow it only if you accept that I have a face like an overdone kidney pie. "

"As long as your voice is handsome, that is agreeable," Lady Trey said. "Then we can agree to this fiction together, and proceed with the ravishment."

"Another drink, first," Edward demurred, pouring for them both.

"So you think me . . . pretty?" the woman continued. 

"As lovely as a doe at dawn," Edward assured.

"Honey-tongue. Pray continue. Pretty enough to court?

"Of a certainty," he avowed.

"Pretty enough to wed?".

"If I had the station and expectation, you'd make a lovely bride for me."

"Pretty enough to . . . bed?" the woman asked, hesitantly.

Silence hung in the air, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Edward tried hard to gauge the woman's emotions—the eyes were not as telling as they were with other women, and he had difficulty judging how serious she was. He was on dangerous footing, here, and he knew it. But he was bold, at need, and this was such an occasion where boldness, not timidity, seemed to be called for. 

"You are a striking woman," he began, hoarsely. "And I would be a liar if I said I was unmoved by your beauty . . . in a most uncomfortable way. Were you unwed, I would ply you with drink and flattery far beyond the feeble praise I've made here, and steal kisses at every moment."

"Go on," Lady Trey said, breathily.

"I would not stop until I had you alone, and I would do my utmost to put you in a compromising position at the first opportunity." He hoped that sufficed. The poor, lonely woman was starved for attention—for simple conversation—and if he was planning on depriving her of her valuables, the least he could do was cater to her whim. "I would make passionate love to you day and night. I would cast aside all propriety and insist you perform like a doxy until we were both satisfied." 

He wasn't certain, but he thought he heard a moan emit from the heap of quilting. He elected to continue out of nothing more than a perversity to stir the passions of this woman. "I would teach you things to our mutual pleasure that a dockside whore would balk at for a purse of gold."

"Yes, yes!" Lady Trey said, closing her eyes. "That is entirely what I want!"

"Yet—"

"How, a 'yet'? " she asked, in frustration.

"You are wed," he pointed out. "And to a peer of the realm. Propriety dictates that such liberties are . . . sadly . . . forbidden. The scandal . . . "

"And what scandal there would be if lonely, blind, pitiful Lady Trey be discovered in such a position?" she asked, dryly. "In truth there are maybe four aristocrats in the county who even know my name, Mr. Lane. Even the villagers rarely speak of me. There is no scandal where there is no reputation to break . . . and I am unnoticed. As far as my 'dear husband' is concerned, the night I lost my sight was the last night he cared to speak to me, much less touch me. And as far as my eternal soul is concerned, I tell you that I fear no damnation from such an act. My soul has been bound for perdition for years, I assure you. One more sin—or a lusty dozen—more or less will make no matter before the Throne of God. I've accepted my damnation, Mr. Lane, and not only willingly break my marriage vows, but actively seek to do it."

"Well," Edward said, quite at a loss, "If I might ask—purely for the sake of conversation, I assure you—what form of vow-sundering ravishment plagues your tormented soul?"

"For the sake of conversation," Lady Trey said, amusedly, "let us say that the scenario you've described lives up to it quite nicely. I wish to be treated like a whore, Mr. Lane. I was but twenty when I wed, and my 'dear husband' was artless in the marriage bed. I barely knew what was happening before it was over. After my accident, my native urges did not vacate me with my sight. On the contrary, deprived of literature and art, boredom and ennui made my carnal longings that much more acute. But what could I do with them? People look upon me with pity or scorn, and neither one often leads to such illicit pleasures. I have been denied the pleasures of marriage, Mr. Lane. Of even a poor marriage. The most common peasant wife enjoys a more fulfilling life than I. And while my sight and usefulness is limited, I cannot help but think that, in the darkness of the bedroom, such infirmities are moot."


Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 01



" 'All cats grey at midnight'," Edward quipped, quoting his Uncle Pete while sipping his drink.

"Precisely. A useless ring, a dusty old manse, and a bothersome title are poor recompense for this denial. And all in an effort to make me 'comfortable'. So I ask you, Mr. Lane," she said, nearly quivering, "would you care to bed me?"

"I . . ."

"Make me your whore, Edward," Lady Trey's voice commanded, firmly.

"It's just . . ." he stumbled.

"For the sake of God, do not force me to beg!" she finally exploded.

Edward was quite out of his element, here. He had plenty of experience with the carnal arts—since two of his fences were also pimps, he'd celebrated a hefty haul with an all-night indulgence a time or three. And he'd seduced his share of the aristocracy, too, as well as their servants. But this situation was unique, in his experience, and the dangers were subtle.

But there was no denying the effect of Lady Trey's plea on his manhood. 

Quietly, he rose, setting his drink on the table. He placed another few logs on the fire and stirred it while he thought. Then he returned to Lady Trey's chair and studied her face, which was collapsed in an expression of despair.

"If you're going to be my . . . whore," Edward said, quietly, "you will be spared nothing."

"I ask nothing less," she said, simply.

"There will be no screaming for help," he instructed. "There will be no denial . . . of  anything. Every depraved act will be mine to do to you at will. Agreed?"

"For the love of God, yes!" she almost yelled.

Edward grinned and silently unbuttoned his trousers, finally releasing his thick cock to the open air. It hung there, unseen, in front of her face and he felt a lewd charge surge through him at such a brazen display. 

"Say the words," he commanded. " 'Cock.' 'Cunt'. 'Fuck'. 'Frig'."

"Hard, long cock, wet juicy cunt, long glorious fuck, and . . . frig me, dear?"

He stifled a chuckle at that. "How about . . . suck?"

"Suck?" she asked, curious.

"It's something the dockside whores do," he informed her. "It's when you take . . . oh, well, easier to show you, I suppose," he said, and grabbed the back of Lady Trey's head and pulled it forward. 

She resisted the sudden touch and startled—then his cock clumsily touched her face and she transformed. Hungrily, greedily, she took it between her lips, once she knew what it was, and for the next few moments Edward was the recipient of a lifetime of pent-up passion. She was clumsy and inexperienced, and several times she was more forceful than Edward's manhood would have preferred, but the enthusiasm was so great that minor issues of technique were incidental to the experience. Edward reveled in the pure carnal satisfaction of the moment, and noted that his hostess' sightless eyes were blissfully closed as she passionately serviced his weapon with her aristocratic lips.

He was proud of his prick, of course, not just for its size—a full seven and a half inches—but for its form. He had a pretty penis, his friend's sisters and scullery maids had often said. Well-proportioned and formed, it now delighted at the deft tonguing it was receiving. It was all he could do to avoid ending the evening prematurely, so ardent was Lady Trey's fire.

"Am I doing it right?" she asked, when he pulled away.

"Exceptional," he confirmed with a smile. "If I didn't know any better, I'd swear you were an airship station whore servicing the five-fifteen from Luxley."

"Greater praise I've never heard," she giggled drunkenly. "I cannot believe I actually put a cock in my mouth!"

"You almost had more of the experience than I intended," he confided, idly rubbing his length in front of her in a way that would have been lewd, had she been able to see him. As it was, it was twice lewd for her blindness. "Any more and I'm afraid I would have spilled my seed prematurely."

"Is it . . . healthful to do such a thing?"

"Not if you are to get properly rogered," Edward quipped. "But as far as swallowing the ejaculate—well, by all scientific accounts, it is not only completely untoxic, but many foreign lands see it as positively beneficial! There are whole barbaric lands where such a thing is not just common, but expected. Or so I hear."

"Then why spare me?" she asked. "Unless . . . that would end your play for the evening."

"Oh, I'm virile enough," Edward bragged. "Two, three, even four courses in a night, if I'm of a mood."

"Then spare me nothing!" Lady Trey demanded, passionately. "Push your cock into my mouth until you release fully—I beg of you! Just swear to me that you'll continue our interlude . . . or not . . . but I have never tasted a man's seed, and if the residue on your instrument is this delightful then spare me not the rest!"

"Well, if you're certain . . ."

"Are you always so polite with your whores, Mr. Lane?" she asked, sensing his hesitation. "When I invited you to use me, and swore that I would expect no less, I figured that you would be more . . . robust about the matter."

"Fortune favors the bold," Edward said with a sigh as he pulled Lady Trey's head back to his cock. For fifteen delightful minutes she pleasured him with her mouth, learning what aroused him the most along the journey. At some point her left hand stole out of the quilting and wrapped around the base of his shaft while she practiced tormenting the head with strong suction and an agile tongue.

Taking her wish to be treated whorishly at her word, when he found himself once again close to climax he abandoned all pretense and grabbed her blonde locks, using them to propel his pecker deep into her mouth and into her throat. She struggled minutely as he did so, but soon abandoned herself to the depraved act. Edward fucked her face with long, glorious strokes, and she reveled in every moment.

"At last," he gasped, "I arrive!" and pumped a massive torrent of seed into her mouth. Lady Trey struggled at first, but then complacently accepted his offering, swallowing heavily.

"That," she said, as his cock slipped from between her lips, "was wonderful! I never knew one could perform so on a cock!"

"Not many can," Edward sighed, "and all too few do. Most wives find such sports . . . distasteful."

"They are idiots, then," she sighed, contentedly. "If I had known . . ."

"Oh, there are greater pleasures than that ahead of us—though I won't mind revisiting the practice. Until then, there is still something that lingers high on the agenda."

"And that would be?"

"Your cunt, my lady," Edward said, kneeling before her chair, his cock still out and beginning to dangle as it enjoyed the post-orgasmic repose. "It needs tending."

"But did you not just climax? Surely you will need a few moments to recover."

"That is not the only way a whore's cunt can entertain," Edward said as his hands found Lady Trey's slippered feet—and began climbing upward. She gasped at the shock of the cool air as much as the stranger's touch on her limbs. But instead of drawing away, she spread her legs lewdly, reclining in the chair in such a way that her fundament was much closer to the edge of the seat. Edward's hands slipped up her knees to her thighs, under her night dress, and was gratified to learn that under all of those quilts Lady Trey still maintained a girlish figure—and had seemingly forgotten her underthings.

Her golden triangle slid closer and closer to Edward, who allowed his fingers to tug and play at her pubic hair. Her skin was shot through with goosebumps as he touched whole realms that had forgotten the feel of manly hands. Lady Trey's spine writhed as he began his spiraling descent towards her womanhood, stroking first her knees, thighs, and belly while she shook and gasped. The pungent aroma of her arousal filled the room. Mixed with woodsmoke and the smell of gin, it was a heady odor, but one Edward found enchanting. He used one of his deft fingers, so used to picking locks, to fondle her mound of venus with all the skill he possessed. Then he bent his head and suddenly began licking her folds.

Edward's experience with cunnilingus had begun while still in school, on one of those fortunate holiday outings he'd taken with his far more affluent mates. This one was to the seashore, where William Dover's father, the wealthy Baron of Gorey, had a holiday estate the size of a small village. The luxurious quarters and dozens of servants had made a profound impact on young Edward's ideas about good living, particularly when a comely lass three years older—the maid responsible for the guest rooms—had caught each others' eye. The maid had seen Edward as a ticket out of her servile surroundings, and had succeeded in seducing the boy in short order. Once she learned of his diminished estate, she contented herself with showing him how to pleasure her properly. Edward had used that arcane knowledge on his host's youngest daughter three nights later, and had won an admirer for life on that account.

Since then he had practiced the art whenever the occasion warranted, although he rarely licked whores. Now Lady Trey had full benefit of his education, and she thrashed and writhed as his tongue pleasured her in a way no man had ever dared. Edward, mindful of his audience, did his best to ensure a long and delicious course before she came upon his tongue—and when she did eventually have a cataclysmic orgasm, he expected her to cry for him to stop. When she didn't—but put her left hand on his head and pushed him further into her nexus—he redoubled his efforts, sucking and licking and feasting on this neglected womanhood as if he were a starving man at a Christmas banquet.

Over and over again he pleasured her, until he lost count of the number of times she had called on Providence and released a fresh gush of juices into his thirsty mouth. She was sweet and clean, tasting like a ripe pear. Her golden fleece was soon soaked with his saliva and her effusions. Only when his jaw ached as much as his prick did he finally relent.

"It's better for women, as I understand it," he said as he caught his breath.

"Oh, God in heaven, that makes up for many injustices to my gender!" she declared with a beatific sigh. "I have never . . . even with my husband . . . even by my own hand . . ."

"Well, I can't say I'm finished yet," Edward sighed, rising on his haunches until his cock, erect and throbbing once again, lay nearby her seething, sopping cunt. Her juices had thoroughly wetted the skirt of her night dress, perhaps even staining the chair, and the smell of sex clung to the quilting like a pall. Edward lined up his cock with her opening and pushed forward boldly, filling her half way before he stopped and re-adjusted his stance. Then he was buried in her sweet, hot confines to the balls, and Lady Trey could not have been happier. 

"OH, God yes, fuck me, fuck me, Edward, fuck me like a common whore and make me your tart!"

Edward didn't comment—he was focused on plunging her tight recesses as fully as possible. While the angle left something to be desired, the unbearable pleasure of being surrounded by her buttery folds was too enticing to consider changing. He was taking his pleasure, now, taking it unmindful of her own—but despite his inattention, Lady Trey seemed to be drinking in the delicious thrusting like a woman dying of thirst. Her left hand clung to his neck as the blind woman sought to push her cunt harder and harder against his staff, sinking it deeper and deeper into her. Her mouth found his, finally, and they kissed, the taste of gin mingling with the taste of lust on their combined tongues.

How long he thrust into her, he did not know. Her passion, her desperation fueled his own need to possess this blind beauty, and if the Imperial Guard had burst into the room with one of their magnificent rolling iron fortresses, Edward would not have likely noticed. He hammered away at Lady Trey's neglected pussy until his knees ached and his back protested at the angle, but even as one roaring climax after another washed over her, he persisted in his duty. Only when she slid down enough to entwine both legs about his buttocks and force him fully into her did he finally succumb to temptation and fill her with spunk.

He withdrew and nearly collapsed in her lap in one movement, so exhausted was he by his effort. She stroked his hair and cooed wordlessly as she, too, recovered from her reverie. It was only when Edward felt something cool and metallic touch the skin of his neck did he start.

"What the hell?" he called in surprise. Lady Trey suddenly looked guilty, and hid her arms under the quilt. Confused and curious, Edward traced a line down her right sleeve until his hand discovered that her arm . . . ended just below the elbow. Not quite ended, he revised, as he felt the smooth, cool metal that continued, down to dainty metallic digits. 

Lady Trey raised her right hand slowly into the gloomy night, revealing a slender, feminine, but utterly mechanical prosthetic.

"You have found me out," she sighed. "My other infirmity. My sight was not all I lost in the accident. My 'dear husband' had the kindness to have this made for me. Pure silver, at least on the outside." While she talked the hand whirred as the fingers moved. "He got the best clockwork maker in the city to build it. You remember the old Celtic story of King Nuada? The one who had a silver arm?"

"I tended to stick with Classical literature," Edward demurred. "But I think I've heard the name."

"Nuada was king of all the Celtic lands. Until he lost his hand in battle. Under Celtic law, he could not be king anymore. But his smith forged a brilliant silver hand in recompense for his loss. My husband tried to do the same. Now that I am . . . no longer fit to be a wife, he's grafted this obscene toy to my stump in an effort to make up for . . . everything. He thought it was pretty."

"It is," Edward admitted, his mouth slack with wonder. And indeed the device was a work of art in its own right, a delicate tribute to the master who created it. The fingers had been polished smooth, but the back of the hand and the palm were etched with elaborate geometric patterns.

"It's an abomination," Lady Trey pronounced, flatly. She held up her left hand in comparison. As dainty as her silver hand was, it seemed clumsy and awkward compared to her natural hand. "I despise it. But it has its uses. Seduction, however," she said, wryly, "is not one of them. It inspires pity—moreso than my blindness. And it inspires a horrid fascination I'd just as soon be without."

"So . . . how did it happen?" Edward finally managed to bring himself to say. 

"If you want that story, Mr. Burglar," she said, straightening up and reclaiming her dignity by smoothing down her quilts and the skirts under them, "then you will have to return tomorrow night."

"Burglar?" Edward said, trying to interject the proper note of confusion and denial in his voice.

"A gentleman would have knocked, even if he was certain no one was home," Lady Trey explained. "And come through the front door. A burglar, on the other hand, no matter how polite, would only use the back door and try to enter silently. Unfortunately for you, my hearing is adept since I lost my sight. I'm certain you're some kind of aristocratic rogue, down on his luck, and found Tudley House an easy mark. My husband's absence is well known, and my presence here . . . not so well known. The truth is, Mr. Lane—if that is your name—that I've been wondering how long it would be before such a lure proved irresistible. Not to the local footpads—they'd never try something like this. But a clever fellow from the city, he might."

"Madame, I assure you—"

"Don't bother lying, Mr. Lane, I can hear it in your voice," she dismissed. "I don't fault you for it. For all I know, this house is scattered with gold and jewels—for all the good they would do me. No, here are the conditions of your parole: you will sleep here, tonight, in my bed. In the morning you will pleasure me again the way you did a while ago. By dawn's light, however, you must escape back to whence you came, before my maid arrives. Return again at dusk, and make me your whore again tomorrow night. Afterwards, I will tell you the whole dreary story, and let you pick your choice of whatever shiny bauble strikes your fancy from my husband's collection. Or . . ."

"Or . . .?" Edward asked, tacitly accepting her pronouncement without actually admitting he was a thief.

"Or I can show you something really worth stealing. Something to make you as rich as an Earl, a dozen times over. Wealth, boundless adventure, a journey to the ends of the Earth. You won't find it by ransacking the house, though, I warn you. So you will return tomorrow and fuck me soundly, and then we shall see about your future, Mr. Lane. Is that agreeable?"

"How could a man ask for anything more?" Edward said, quietly. 

What had he gotten himself into?



Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 02



Chapter Two: The Ape In The Jar

Edward had never had mixed feelings about anything so strongly in his life as he did concerning the prospect of returning to Tudley House. He had not only been "made", as his Uncle Pete would have said in underworld jargon, but his "mark" had his real name -- and knew what he was about. It was scant comfort that Lady Trey could not identify him from a proper police line-up. He knew with certainty she would be able to finger him the moment he opened his mouth. He had been lucky, he knew, to escape at all -- much less after such a pleasant and unexpected sexual encounter. To return was folly of the highest sort, the kind of misadventure only gullible fools would indulge in and seasoned professionals would shun. As he paced his small room in the village inn the next afternoon, he knew going back to Tudley House was the quickest route to ending his professional career -- not to mention his liberty -- before he had truly hit his stride. Best to catch the next train back to the city, or perhaps the Northlands, or even deplete his meager savings for the first airship headed to a foreign land.

And yet . . .

The mystery of the amazing silver hand beckoned to him, a tantalizing enigma. What odd occurrence had cost Lady Trey both her limb and her sight? There was a tale there, he knew, and his mind would not let go of that. All promise of reward or plunder aside, Edward's curiosity was piqued in a way it had never been. Even if he boarded a stratoliner bound for the Americas, and spent the rest of his life as a cobbler in some Godforsaken wasteland, the mystery would haunt him.

On the horns of a dilemma, he mentally summoned his best counselors in such matters. First, he tried to imagine what his Uncle Pete would say. While utterly pragmatic in how to break a house or crack a safe or any number of other skills essential to his trade, Pete was a Celt, and prone to lapsing into mysticism about such choices. Edward could just see him, broad unshaven face bleary with drink, nodding thoughtfully, weighing the situation carefully . . . and then finally pronouncing that a man who speaks to strange ladies is bound for adventure, riches, and an early grave, or something equally as helpful. Pete might have been a professional, but he ran his personal life with all the class of a crooked game of cards. Fortune had often made him Her fool, and he'd suffered accordingly.

That led him -- briefly -- to what his late, unlamented father might advise. That was much harder for him to visualize, owing to his short acquaintance with the man, but Edward could easily imagine the Brigadier would have long disowned him in shame for his turn in life. Something as complex as a blind noblewoman with a mechanical hand, a lusty nature and a mysterious secret would hardly be an issue. Nor would his Mother have anything useful to contribute, out of disinterest and lack of comprehension.

That brought him back to what his closest friend from school, Gideon Becker, might advise. Gid had befriended Edward their first year at college, and the two had been the nucleus of a popular knot of students for years. Gid was dashing, in a way Edward aspired to be but always feared he just couldn't manage; handsome, rich, adventurous, and damned with the best luck in the realm. His father, the Earl of Warrenton, held a strong interest in a number of air and ocean shipping companies, munitions, and a substantial amount of property, none of which Gid cared the slightest about. He was as happy passing out drunk behind a dockside brothel as he was sleeping in luxury.

In a way he was as much a vagabond as Edward. Only instead of turning to petty crime in the face of poverty, Gideon had rebelled against his family's aristocratic life and turned to crime that was anything but petty. He had used his honorary commission as a Captain in the Warrenton Fusiliers -- a purely ceremonial title -- to secure for himself the same rank in one of the mercenary armies that plied their trade in Africa, Asia, and the Americas for -- and sometimes against -- the interests of various Empires.

He had used the proceeds of his booty and the sale of an estate to purchase at auction an old airship liner from his father's own company, and then had converted it into a ship of war. The last time Edward had gotten a letter from his chum, a year ago, the rogue was part of a rag-tag airship squadron in some squalid civil war in the Americas. Gid was born to adventure and danger -- but he was also born to a substantial fortune. He would have been the first to encourage Edward to return to Tudley House -- if for no other reason than the adventure of taking another man's wife. The intrigue and the mystery would have quite overwhelmed him.

Edward continued to ponder his decision through tea, which he took by the river at a quaint little stand, through half of the Bridgeport Standard which he found abandoned there, and well on into supper (roasted lamb with potatoes and rosemary) at the inn -- after which he informed his host of his desire to check out on the morrow, and paid the shot in advance.

Dusk found him near the train station, but as the Evening Star made a rare appearance in the clear autumn sky he was walking briskly through the moor towards the manor, the tools of his trade packed in a leather messenger bag on his shoulder. Whatever came, he was as prepared for it as he was able to be.

He watched and waited for almost two hours until the maid and groundskeeper retired, then slipped in the back door as he had the night previous. As he did so he could not help but feel as if he were headed into a trap -- a conclusion, his reason insisted, that had no ready evidence to support it. There had been no signs of additional population at the manor, no police carriages or gangs of vengeful villagers outside. Edward reasoned that an attempt to capture him would entail something like that, and he was reasonably certain that nothing of the sort had occurred. Tudley House was as quiet as a tomb.

Of course, he had been reasonably certain that Tudley House was deserted the night before, too, and he did not forget how that had played out. A burglar lived and learned, or he didn't live free for long.

The back door opened silently, and Edward took one last deep breath, fought a war with his doubts one last time, and then ventured boldly into the darkness -- and directly into a chair the maid had apparently left near the back door. The resulting shout of surprise and string of curses that followed was only eclipsed by Edward stumbling into the pantry table and upsetting several large metal pots and pans. Stifling any further curses, he produced a torch from his bag and proceeded in a more dignified fashion.

"Considering your lack of stealth, Mr. Lane, I'm amazed you chose the profession you did," Lady Trey said dryly when he entered the parlor. Unlike the previous evening, the fire was well-stoked, and Lady Trey had managed to light a single candle for his benefit from it. Instead of being swaddled in quilts this evening, she was dressed in a stunning silk and satin gown in emerald green -- which complimented her lovely hair perfectly -- with a large emerald stone set within a silver necklace around her graceful neck. Her silver hand held a silver goblet as gracefully as any ingénue.

"When I'm planning to rob a house, I tend to be quieter," he conceded. "When I come to bed a lady, I am usually preoccupied with other things than stealth."

"Touche," Lady Trey said, amused. "And I must pass along the gratitude of my maid. Someone has mysteriously oiled the hinges on the back door, which she has been after my groundskeeper to do since I came here."

"Household chores are a specialty of mine," Edward chuckled, embarrassed.

"Well, I certainly have a few chores that need tending to. A little wine, first, perhaps? You must think me a horrible lush, after witnessing my disheveled state last night."

"You were not expecting callers," Edward observed. "You can hardly be blamed for that. If I were in your situation . . ."

"You would drink yourself to death as well?" she finished. "Do not be so certain, Mr. Lane. Such adversity brings out depths hidden within your soul. You can find reserves of courage you never knew you had, and feel despair in a manner you never dreamt possible." She took another sip, and then felt her way along the mantle until she found the wine bottle. "You will have to fetch your own goblet, I'm afraid. I do not often use the crystal. My unfeeling hand has a tendency to crush such delicacies."

Edward found the sideboard and located a beautiful crystal goblet only slightly covered in dust. He fished out his handkerchief to clean it, then took the bottle from Lady Trey's hand and poured a healthy amount. While he fetched it, he took the opportunity to startle her by stealing a kiss from her mouth while he poured.

"Oh, my!" Lady Trey said, sighing, when he broke away. "You startled me. I am . . . unused to such things."

"That, my lady, is a tragedy," Edward said, sincerely, sipping his wine without tasting it, then repeating the kiss with more deliberation and feeling. Now that he was not about to be arrested by surprise, and had received such a gracious welcome, he was warming to the Lady Trey. She was, indeed, very beautiful, and well formed. He had explored her body in intimate detail until dawn last night, and apart from her infirmity she was passing lovely. More, she proved intelligent, witty, and -- her misfortune notwithstanding -- a generally agreeable person, as well as a passionate lover. That fact alone, quite apart from the stimulating danger of bedding another man's wife (and an aristocrat, at that) in his own home before stealing his valuables, had lent Edward an unaccustomed feeling of boldness this evening.

Lady Trey embraced him fully as their lips collided, pressing her body against his intimately until he could feel every button of her gown pressing against his chest, so tightly did she hold him. Her lips sought his with a feverish passion, nearly overwhelming his more languid approach to the matter. They kissed as such for many, many minutes, and each tick of the clock on the mantle seemed to enflame her passion that much further. At last she broke her face away from his, an uncomfortable demeanor coming over her.

"I . . . I must apologize, Mr. Lane," she said, quietly. "It has been years since anyone has kissed me at all, much less with such ardor."

"As I said, a tragedy," Edward repeated, putting his arm around her head and pulling it into his chest. "You are a beautiful flower which has not only been kept in the darkness, but deprived of the life-giving water of love, as well. It is my pleasure to at the very least relieve you of your boredom and sate your lusts."

"Say not that you are moved from pity," she said, warningly.

"Pity?" he asked. "No. A sense of lovingkindness, on the one hand, and a far more . . . base urge on the other. If pity I feel, it is for your poor husband who has voluntarily deprived himself of the pleasure of your company."

"Speak not of him, either," Lady Trey said, hoarsely. "I would not ruin such a beautiful moment."

"Then let him be banished . . . and let you, my lady, be ravished. I am yours to command, this evening, and will indulge you in every embrace my poor skills can muster."

"Then let me sit, good sir," she said, beaming breathlessly, feeling her way to the settee, "and if you indeed obey me as you say, then you will lick me splendidly, until I spend myself to oblivion!"

As she sat she sensuously pulled her skirts past her ankles, revealing soft dancing slippers of green, past her shapely calf and lovely knee, past her beautifully-shaped thighs until it came to rest well around her waist, revealing all of her feminine glories for him. Edward in haled sharply -- last evening's tryst had deprived him of this enchanting view due to circumstance, but tonight he drank in the erotic effect while he finished his wine.

"Divine," he whispered, his trousers painfully confining his rampant prick. "Simply divine. The goddess Venus did not have the gracefulness of your limbs, Lady Trey."

"Nor did Homer have your skill with words, Mr. Lane," she said, seductively. "Yet I pray you will use your mouth in its superior capacity -- come, I am dripping a torrent! I have abused my poor button mercilessly since last evening, on top of our lusty coupling. I ache for you, Mr. Lane. Come sooth my pain, I beg you!"

Edward fell to his knees before her, finding her dampened cunny open and inviting. She convulsed as his breath disturbed the delicate strands between her thighs, and he took a moment to repeat the effect by blowing warmly against it, sending the thatch of golden hair flying gently and the spine of the woman it belonged to writhing enticingly. Grinning to himself he buried his face in the crux of her limbs and began an adamant lapping that inspired long, lusty moans from his hostess.

She had bathed today, he knew by the softness of her skin and the sweet scent that wafted up from under her skirts. Lavender and oleander, and something herbal, fresh and clean. It was enchanting and heady when mixed with her own feminine musks, and he licked her slit from bottom to top in long strokes of his tongue to enjoy every intoxicating breath. Lady Trey could not contain herself under the force and fury of his ministrations, and forced her fanny farther into his face by pushing her bottom forward on the seat, while drawing her feet up to steady herself. That gave Edward unimpeded access to the entirety of her fundament as well as her sweetly weeping womanhood. He brought his hands into play, squeezing her bottom firmly and passionately as his tongue danced across the ship of her lust from stem to stern.

"You are driving me absolutely mad!" she declared lustfully, her flesh-and-blood hand entwining in Edward's dark hair, pulling his lips to embrace her clitoris. "Do not torment me further, Sir -- I have been waiting for this long enough!"

Smiling into her pussy, Edward did as he was bidden and suckled her clitoris hard between his lips, employing his tongue to great effect over the engorged surface of her magical button. He maintained a steady pace, increasing the frequency gradually in proportion to how hard she pulled his hair. He drove her to a screeching crescendo of pleasure, until she was making more animal sounds than human. When she had reached her peak Edward allowed her to calm down for a moment before returning to his pleasant duty, and then began the process again. Five times did he take her to climax, until she was coated with a sheen of perspiration that matted her lovely hair to her forehead.

"Such bliss," she gasped, after the fifth climb to heaven, "you must stop, you must, if only for a moment."

"As you wish," Edward chuckled, rising to his feet. "But you, madame, have your own duties to attend to . . ."

"Yes, yes, give me your cock to suck!" she hissed, excitedly. "All day I have longed to feel it stretching my lips, gliding past my tongue. Such a deliciously dirty pleasure, you must think me a libertine!"

Edward wasted no time in withdrawing it from his flies, although its stiffened state made it difficult to maneuver. He put his hand on Lady Trey's shoulder and nudged her forward, and once again her hot, wet mouth enveloped his member and brought him instantly to a state of absolute pleasure.

For a woman newly come to the art, Lady Trey was proving an avid fellatrix. She suckled him roughly, passionately, consuming his cock as though it were lust incarnate. Edward gamely allowed her to persist despite the occasional brush with her teeth, for such dangers are gladly suffered by a gentleman in the pursuit of pleasure. When he found himself rocking his hips forward, throwing his shaft as deeply into her throat as the lady was capable of bearing, he slowed to a stop and, regretfully, withdrew.

"Our first fuck shall be here," he said, hoarsely.

"Take me, I am ready!" Lady Trey directed, spreading her thighs eagerly.

Instead of mounting her directly, he flopped onto the settee himself and covered her neck and mouth with kisses, relishing in the soft, supple state of her lips after such play. She, in turn, hungrily devoured her own sweet nectar from his lips, moaning with great urgency. She was near to begging for him to mount her when he instead pulled her over to face him, forcing her to swing one leg over and impale her soft, wet cunny on his enraged spear in one motion.

Lady Trey's head shot back and she howled like a wild creature as Edward's staff filled every inch of her. Her sightless eyes were wide with surprise and delight as he placed his hands upon her hips and forcefully encouraged her to start the gyrations that were essential to the production of all human life. While obviously new to the sport, she took to the positioning with great enthusiasm, placing her hands upon his shoulders to balance while she plunged her randy cunt up and down on him.

"I— I never -- I never considered-ed this-s . . . position," she said, heaving and panting, her hair flying wildly like some forest nymph's. "Your cock is so deep within me . . ."

"And this way I can molest your gorgeous bubbies properly," Edward said in a growl of lust. He pulled down the front of her gown as far as he was able, revealing both of her beautiful breasts down to the perfectly pink nipples. As good as his word, he drew them into his mouth to such and chew upon them ferociously, inspiring pleas and cries of pleasure from Lady Trey as she rode his pole towards climax. When he had satisfied his lust for her breasts, he released them, wet with his saliva, into the cool night air, causing them to crinkle and contract anew. Then he blew gently on them while moving his hands to Lady Trey's hips, where he contrived to pull her and push her about to his own satisfaction.

The noblewoman did not seem to mind the direction -- indeed, she was beside herself with rapturous moans of pleasure as Edward ground her clitty between their pubic bones like a grain of wheat in a mill. When she had taken as much of his passion as she could stand, he redoubled his efforts -- by standing solidly upright, impaling her dripping pussy on his fleshy spike and fucking her in the air.

Such variations on the arts of love were foreign to Lady Trey's understanding even before her accident -- but Edward's sudden and unexpected move, and the sensation of being utterly free of support (save Edward's proud cock) was unnerving -- and exciting at the same time. She squealed like a kitten getting her tail stepped upon for the first time, clinging to Edward's neck tightly as she writhed her soaking pelvis brazenly against him.

Edward found her a slight burden -- despite her metal hand, she was light as a feather, and he took advantage of her slender build to pump her madly in mid-air, to their mutual delight. While a little unnerving to have her cling to him so tightly, her silver hand clasped over his shoulder, she also reacted splendidly to his vigorous pounding. Her randy crevice seemed to beg him to fill it over and over again, and he was inclined to oblige it. Lady Trey was singularly tight and snug around his cock, and every spasm she was subject to clenched her muscles tightly around his length in a glorious manner.

When his straining legs and knees could take the imposition any longer, he fell back upon the settee suddenly, impaling Lady Trey quite soundly with the force of her own petite mass. Quite to her amazement, he manipulated her body to turn facing away from him, without unseating her from his cock. The new angle and freedom of movement inspired the lady to whole new levels of delight as she bounced her bottom up and down gloriously, swallowing his cock with her cunt like it was a hot sucking mouth.




Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 02



Finally, he could take no more, and grabbing Lady Trey's hips once again he fucked her savagely until he released his fountain of creamy foam deep within her neglected pussy. Sated, he collapsed, his new lover curled up about him upon his lap, where they both drifted into a dreamy state.

* * *

Afterwards, as they curled up on the settee before the fire in languid repose, sipping the last of the wine, Edward stroked her face and shoulders and arms until he came upon her prosthesis. He had barely noted it during their fevered coupling, but now he had the opportunity to admire the device up close. He was fascinated by its complexity as well as its utility, and he knew that the precious metal, alone, would have cost nearly a thousand pounds to fashion. The whirring mechanism within must have cost ten times that.

"So, my lady, are you ready to share your story?" he asked, softly. "I cannot contain my curiosity any longer -- now that my lust is sated for the moment."

"Do you really wish to know?" she asked, an edge to her voice. "Or are you merely indulging me for the sake of my charms . . . or my fortune?"

"Apart from your beautiful charms, I have thought of little else since we parted at dawn," he assured her.

"Then come with me," she said, pushing him firmly. "Let us retire to the library, and I will tell you the entire sorry tale."

Following his hostess through the darkened halls, his torch in hand and his clothing restored to a semblance of order, Edward was led to a very large room -- far larger than his flat in the city -- where books lined the walls from ceiling to floor. There were several tables within the room covered with books and papers and apparatus that he was unfamiliar with, and they in turn were covered with dust.

"I rarely enter here," Lady Trey said, sadly. "This is where my husband conducted his research, when he still had a mind to take a wife."

"He's a scientist, then? A philosopher?"

"He is a fool," she said, bitterly. "While he proclaimed his love for me often, when I was young, beautiful, and gullible, the only thing he truly adores is his research. Lord Reginald Trey, you see, is enthralled by the innermost secrets of Nature, herself. He focuses his efforts on the arcane realm of Biologia, the Science of Life. And within that sphere he pursues an obscure course of study: for he pretends that all life is scored like a musical symphony, from the smallest atomi to the largest of creatures -- Man among them."

"That has been a popular theory," agreed Edward, carefully. "Some Austrian monk made some observations . . . something about peas?"

"I know not the details of the heresy," Lady Trey said, shaking her head. "I was interested, at first, because my new husband was. But he discouraged my interest as interference in masculine affairs and frequently forbade me to join him in his researches, contending it was not a proper pursuit for a lady. I cannot tell you of the ungodly things he kept in the cellar -- monkeys, apes, dogs, creatures from all parts of the Earth. Here he would take just the barest sample of them and make assays with some contraption he had constructed -- a bizarre structure with many great glass jars and bottles and such. And he would dissect them to study their entrails like some pagan fiend, or subject them to all manner of tortuous trials while yet living.

"While he forbade me entrance here, I took it as my wifely prerogative to intrude -- it was my home too, after all -- and try to glean what, exactly, Lord Trey was doing. I loved him, you see, even if he paid me scant attention in return for my loyalty. A devoted wife properly takes an interest in her husband's work. I cared not what it was -- only that it fascinated my new groom, and I wanted to understand it. Biologia has never been a passion of mine, so the study was . . . challenging. I've always been more partial to ancient history, legends, and lore, subjects somehow 'more suitable' to my sex's sensibilities.

"But I persisted. Reginald had actually made some intriguing discoveries, employing all manner of advance apparatus, and he frequently called upon his peers in the sciences to join him here to inspect his work. For nearly a year after we wed this old hall was alive with students, philosophers, technicians, and attendant tradesmen. I, myself, was quite proud of him and his accomplishments. He was particularly fascinated by the wide diversity of creatures on certain island chains, and strove to collect samples from all over the world for close inspection. I did my best to be a good wife and gracious hostess, and I asked every question I could to inform myself more completely in these matters.

"Then one night after I had retired — alone, and not for the first time — I heard noises emanating from this very room. Horrible noises, as if some savage beast were being slowly ripped to shreds. Reginald was not in bed -- he often worked late into the night, claiming that his experiments were too critical to leave for the night. I indulged him -- he was my husband, why would I not? As frustrated as I was with his vocation, I would never try to deprive him of it, no matter if I, myself, was already suffering from inattention.

"But that night I ventured forth, concerned. I had clutched a foil in my hand, as I had practiced with the weapon in my youth and had been marked an accomplished fencer by my master and my brothers. Betwixt the horror of the clamour and my sleep-addled mind, I suspected something foul was afoot.

"When I reached the door to the library, it was ajar, and I essayed within to determine the nature of the commotion, my impotent toy held forth resolutely. It was here," she said, feeling for the edge of the largest table in the library, "Right here, upon this very table, where a large glass vat half the size of a man was sitting. There was a liquid inside, one that bubbled evilly, and it was open at the top but usually covered. A vile odor issued from it, and filled the room with acrid fumes. I had always wondered at its utility, but Reginald could never bring himself to explain. Everything was always 'too complex' for my feeble female mind. But this night I saw with my own eyes for what use it was employed.

"Floating within a massive bottle made of glass was a half-dead ape, a large and brutish creature from Asia. It was submerged up to its shoulders within the tank, leaving only his head protruding. It made the most hideous, pitiful moans, and as I was a Christian I took pity on its pain, though it only resembled a human being. Indeed, it's animal nature made it's plight all the more unbearable. I cannot abide to see a creature suffer needlessly, and it became apparent just why Reginald was so reluctant to include me in his research. If that be science and progress, then it is built on suffering most foul!

"But that evening," she continued, "I came in here and saw it. And it saw me. And when it saw me, it issued the most lamentable keening -- which disturbed my husband. He and a nineteen year old . . . 'student' from London were engaged in a tryst in the far corner. At the time I do not know what horrified me more -- seeing them there in a position that only I, by rights, should bear in relation to him, or knowing that they carried on thus while that poor creature was dying in pain in the same room. In my shock and disgust my foil fell to the floor, alerting my philandering husband to my presence, over the keening of the ape. Regardless, my shrieking upset the creature, and our combined clamour summoned my husband and the poor girl in a disheveled state."

Lady Trey hung her head in bitter regret as she continued. "I know not what happened, only that there was an accident -- one of us upset the balance of the table, and the massive glass crock came crashing down. Unfortunately, the girl and I were both in its path, so when it shattered asunder, we bore the brunt of the fall. I was the . . . lucky one. The liquid engaged my eyes and destroyed my sight, and the shards of glass cut off my hand as they fell, but I was not otherwise scarred. The girl was not so fortunate. A large sliver of the jar passed through her throat, killing her instantly. The last things my eyes ever saw were my distraught husband, standing half-naked, over the bloody body of his lover, the dying form of the miserable ape, and a million speckled shards of glass illuminated by the firelight. Then all was black. And so has it been, evermore."

Edward did what he could to comfort the woman, but the depths of Lady Trey's misery were profound, and no mere physical embrace could lessen them.

Eventually she waved him off, dried her tears, and steeled herself to continue. "He was wracked with guilt, of course," she said, in a gasp. "The girl's family was paid a substantial sum, and my infirmity was told off as a regrettable 'laboratory accident'. He never did admit his infidelity, though it was the last thing I witnessed with my eyes. Instead he made me 'comfortable', vacating this dreary old estate for his foreign lands, imprisoning me in a cage of cold stone and gold. The servants were mine to command, he said. Nothing I desired would be refused. Reginald even commissioned the most adept clockworkers to fashion this hideous replacement," she said, raising her silver arm in the gloom. "Then he abandoned me. "

"How could a man not be moved to pity from such a tale?" Edward murmured.

"Stay your pity, sir!" Lady Trey hissed. "I did not tell you my woes to inspire pity. No, I told my tale to you because you must need understand my situation to appreciate the urgency of my desires. I have a commission for you, Mr. Burglar. After four long, dark, weary years, you are to be my deliverer."

"How so?" Edward inquired, cautiously.

"Quite simply: I wish something burgled. And I'm willing to pay handsomely for it."

"My lady—" Edward began, the protest already on his tongue.

"Stay!" Lady Trey insisted. "Do not protest your innocence. Nor your abilities. Nor your character. By Jove, if a woman cannot judge the depths of a man's character after taking him abed, then she is a fool. And after four years of darkness, I am a fool no more. You are an honest thief, Mr. Lane. And just the sort of man I need."

"What is this bauble you covet so highly as to pretend you are in need of a housebreaker?" Edward asked, carefully. Uncle Pete would have been proud -- there was a way among the criminal fraternity to ask such delicate questions without seeming to do so -- and without admitting anything admissible before the crown magistrate.

"A stone," she answered, simply, making a gesture with the fingers on her living hand, "about so big. A mere stone, milky white, like quartz or marble, but of a feel more like jade . . . or so it is said. Two and a half inches long, two wide, and no thicker than your finger. Smoothed by time and some river bank -- the Styx, itself, if legend is to be believed."

"Now that is intriguing," Edward acknowledged. "My Lady, that name is filled with ill omen."

"As I told you, Mr. Lane, I favor the Classics, the ancient legends and lore, over the novelties of Science. Before my sight was stolen, I was quite a different person, I assure you. I read Latin and Greek, French and Italian. I had the same tutors my brothers did, and they schooled me in all of the curriculum, including the aristocratic arts. I used to be a fine judge of horseflesh, for instance. And I was more adept than my brothers at fencing and archery. But the stories and myths of the ancient world, they intrigued me the most.

"I do not remember the day, nor even the book, but I do recall being fascinated with the Stone of the Fates. Have you heard of it?"

"I'm assuming it's oval, milky-white, about two inches by two and a half," Edward suggested.

"Indeed it is," she nodded, smiling into the darkness. "And it enjoys many other names. But the reason it was known in Constantine's time as 'the Stone of the Fates' is that it was pillaged from an Egyptian tomb by the Arab, brought to Egypt from the farthest shores of the Black Sea in antiquity as a gift to the royal court. Legend says that the stone was the 'eye' the three blind Fates, the Stygian Witches, used in the story of Perseus. Are you familiar with the myth?"

"Somewhat," Edward admitted. "They had but one eye and one tooth between them, correct?"

"Indeed. From what researchers can determine, the Graeae, as they were called, were indeed three priestesses of some dark and ancient god in some ancient, long-forgotten village near the shores of the Black Sea long before the birth of the Nazarene. Blindness was a prerequisite for the position, and the sisterhood was seen as a powerful oracle in ancient times. The stone, you see, had special properties. When held to the forehead of someone whose eyes were closed, they are able to sense the world around them as if they had sight. Better than sight, perhaps. At least, that was the legend."

"And who has this mythical stone now, Lady Trey?" Edward asked.

"After the Saracens removed it from the temple, it was spirited away to Morocco, where many a Mohammedan sage studied its properties. Al Mansour of Toledo wrote about it in 1435," she recalled from memory. "A Moorish prince used it to sneak through the Christian lines in the dark of the new moon, thus gathering intelligence on the Castillians and managing a rout the next morn. The Stone next appears in 1499, in the possession of Count Diego de Arbol Y Sol, who claimed it as spoils after looting the palace of one of those Moors exiled to the New World by King Ferdinand. He bequeathed it to his daughter, who married a minor Russian noble. It was inherited by her son, Ivan, and passed down within their family for a few generations. Then their family fell out of favor at court and was sent to exile themselves. The present owner is one Count Piotr Ivanov Cherensky, who lives in Paris."

"For a moment, I though you were considering sending me to Russia," Edward said with obvious relief. "Is the Count aware of the stone's properties?"

"Indeed," she nodded. "As a youth he would blindfold himself, utilize the stone, play at swords with up to three opponents at once, and best them all. But he saw the stone only as a curiosity, not the tool it . . . could be."

With such a stone, Edward knew, some of the misery Lady Trey bore from her infirmity might diminish -- he could see why she would pursue such an artifact so resolutely -- and with such desperation. "I will give you money to prepare, and far greater reward upon your triumphant return, should you accept the commission. But I cannot impress upon you adequately how madly I burn for this magical bauble!"

"Have you any detail on where and how it is housed?" he asked, in a low voice. "Purely for the sake of professional interest."



Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 03



Chapter Three: Uncle Pete and the Parisian Whore

The next several days were busy for Edward, but he found he enjoyed the direction in scope and purpose that thieving on behalf of another provided. Lady Trey had given him three hundred pounds in "operating capital", as she had put it, to finance his expedition to Paris, and he had pilfered another three hundred in miscellaneous valuables on his way out of Tudley House. Being conservative in nature, Edward husbanded his resources carefully, electing to take passage on a barge crossing the Channel, rather than a more expensive -- and better documented -- ferry or airship. Once in English Calais, he chose to travel by train in favor of a carriage ride, both for expediency and comfort. 

Of course Edward was no stranger to the City of Lights, having been a frequent visitor immediately after graduation, when he had appended his fortunes to the coattails of his more affluent friends who made Paris their alternate home. Nearly every aristocratic family in England had a flat, a home or an estate in proximity to Paris, and Edward had spent three months gently visiting his schoolmates, one after another, never staying long enough to be considered a burden. 

He had "worked" in the city a few times before, revisiting those same homes under the pretense of renewing acquaintanceships and then re-revisiting them during the dark of night in order to liberate them of their valuables. They were no more difficult to loot than English estates and, he had to admit, their wine cellars were as alluring as their treasuries. 

The biggest problem with "working" too long in Paris was not the possibility of being apprehended en flagarente delecto by the Parisian constabulary -- it was in crossing the powerful Parisian demimonde. 

The criminal underworld in France was thick with regional and cultural subdivisions, but in Paris the demimonde was likewise filled with political radicals, would-be ideologues, revolutionaries, religious fanatics, ethnic clans, immigrant gangs, the dregs of exile and other lunatics who were kept in line only by the dominance of the nameless organization that ruled there. While Edward was far removed from the squalid tussles betwixt tentament gangsters and knife-wielding Roma clans, he was also aware that thefts in his arena were likewise considered under the jurisdiction of the Parisian criminal world -- and subject to both tribute and retribution, should the occasion arise. 

Technically, no one who had pretensions of looting more than a hundred pounds of booty in Paris could do so without providing a tribute payment no less than ten percent of fair black market value of the loot. To do otherwise risked inciting the wrath of the Parisan demimonde, according to Uncle Pete and other professionals he had chanced to discuss the matter with. 

But to do so aforehand was to invite the kind of attention to his craft he usually avoided. And deciding upon fair market value for a magical stone that allowed the blind to see would be problematic. 

But Edward also knew he would probably need some support amongst the locals, if he was to carry off this larceny. So after securing a room at a moderately priced but still respectable hotel, he dove into the disreputable suburbs of Paris, every footstep taking him deeper and deeper into neighborhoods filled with fatherless urchins, decrepit buildings, and seedy brothels that catered to the wicked tastes of the human mire capable of supporting their service. It was a stark reminder of the life he was studiously avoiding, but unlike a normal gentleman who might wander into such places and fear for his life and purse, Edward strode with the confidence of a seasoned criminal.

He found the place he'd been seeking with little difficulty -- the secret signs, ignored by those not initiated into the criminal fraternity, were all over the dismal little tavern he sought. He went through the open door into the gloomy depths, trading the damp coolness of an autumn drizzle for the cloyingly smoky atmosphere of the taproom. The surly-looking keeper gave him a professional scowl as he threaded his way around passed-out customers, binging tradesmen, and pickpockets taking their ease before hitting the Parisian nightlife for the evening's trade. 

There, at the back of the moldy old building, sat Uncle Pete. Slept Uncle Pete, more accurately, for the large man's unshaven face was pressed into his arm as he reclined across the deeply scarred tabletop, a near-empty bottle of ignoble vintage near to his elbow, and a lusty snore emitted from his open mouth. Edward took the opposite chair and signaled for the keeper to bring him another bottle. Procuring Pete's enthusiasm and assistance would be easier with the lubrication of drink.

"Wake up!" Edward said, feigning irritation. "What are you going to do about my daughter, you lecherous scoundrel?!" Edward bellowed in the older man's ear after the bottle and a cheap glass cup had been provided. Pete snorted, stirred, and almost returned to repose when Edward repeated his jest. "My daughter is three months gone with child, now, and says you're the sire!"

"I never touched her, Sir!" Pete said automatically, his eyes springing open only after he had emitted his protest. Recognizing that he'd been fooled -- there was no irate father in evidence, after all -- he first resorted to anger and then to joy when he recognized his beloved nephew.

"Eddie!" he boomed, his lilting Celtic accent filling the entire tavern. "What brings you to this shithole?"

"I'm here on business," Edward said, quietly. Had he used the term "Trade" or "Work", he would have meant something different, but "business" implied that a criminal was at the onset of a job, not at the conclusion. "I already have a mark, and what's more unusual, I have a patron."

"Patron?" Uncle Pete asked, intrigued. "Now that is strange. Someone from London?"

"I'll keep the details to myself, thank you, as I've been paid in good coin for discretion in the matter. But I'm likely to need advice, if not assistance, on this business, so I naturally thought of my dear old Uncle Pete."

"And God love ye for the consideration, lad," his Uncle smiled, blearily. "I'm a bit down at the moment and could stand the trade, more's the truth. Last real job I had was a month or more, and weak tea at that. So who is this mark? And what's the prize?" Pete wasted no time in uncorking the bottle and pouring a generous amount for both of them.

"First, I want to secure your services," Edward said, somewhat formally. "Just to keep the loose talk at bay. I know you'd mouche the moment you were out of brass, so I'm paying to ensure your cooperation. And your silence. This must not get out."

"Of course, lad," Uncle Pete said, solemnly, as he licked his lips in anticipation. "Maybe three, four quid? Just enough to get me by . . ."

Edward produced a crisp ten-pound note and carefully laid it in Pete's hand. By custom, the act of acceptance confirmed Pete was his man until the job was completed. Pete's fingers closed over the note, his eyes wide with appreciation.

"That is some patron of yours," he said, reverently examining the note. "What does he want? The fookin' lint out o' Napoleon's navel?

"Nothing so difficult -- nor disgusting. An exiled Russian nobleman who lives at a country estate, not far from here."

"That bloody narrows it, doesn't it?" Pete asked, wryly, as he drank the wine like a parched man drinks water. "You know how many Russians are enjoying the bitter bread of exile in Paris since the new Czar came to power?"

"This one is from the previous round of pogroms, actually." Edward explained. "His Excellency, Count Piotr Ivanov Cherensky. He's Russian by heritage, Parisian by Fortune's grace. "

"Cherensky, Cherensky," Pete said to himself as he thought. "Don't know him, myself. Have to speak to Leck the Pole -- he's a pimp I know, knows all about those Russian noblemen. Provides them with all manner of diverse entertainments and rarified perversions." Pete made a mental note to himself, which involved much muttering, before returning to the matter at hand. "So what's the booty, lad?"

"That's restricted, Old Man -- I'm to find one piece in particular, and take whatever else I fancy for my trouble."

"That's not going to sit well with the demimonde," Pete cautioned. "Lest you fill their pockets afterwards."

"I had not forgotten," Edward nodded. "And it shall be attended to. But now you're on my shilling, Pete, so go forth and gather what intelligence you can on Cherensky. I will be visiting friends here for a fortnight or so, and I'm staying at the Hotel d'Bretegne while I'm here. Pray leave a message at the desk to my attention -- I'm using my real name, for the moment -- and I shall meet you here to discuss it."

"I am forever at your service," Pete bowed, the picture of servile humility. Edward knew, of course, that Pete's loyalty would run out the moment the coin did, but he was an honest criminal to that point -- and Edward liked to pretend that Pete had enough affection for him to not go out of his way to see him nicked, or worse.

As he walked back to his more-affluent section of the city, he stopped at a café not much removed in state from the tavern he'd just left. The girls who seemed to hover around it were less afraid of the light of day, however, and were younger by half a decade or more than the whores in the slums. 

Edward was feeling the satisfaction he experienced at the onset of any bit of business, and now that Uncle Pete was on the job he felt as if he was making progress. That, and the comfortable wad of banknotes in his pocket, courtesy his blind benefactress, had filled him with a sense of potency and physical randiness he hadn't felt since he'd left the clutches of Lady Trey.

He took a table under the soaked awning of the café, and a boy came by within moments to take his order for coffee. In truth he wasn't fond of the robust but haphazard way the French prepared the beverage, but the chill -- and the depressing lack of tea in Paris -- demanded something hot and wet while he surveyed the erotic possibilities his ignoble purse could afford him.

There seemed to be four ladies working the café, he noted. One was a red-headed Celtic lass, with pale skin and a constellation of freckles about her face; two were brunettes, native Parisians or girls from the country who came agonizingly close to being pretty; and one blonde of indeterminate origin who seemed more irritated and less approachable than the others, despite her practiced pretty smile.

Edward sat and enjoyed his coffee while he debated with himself. He had already discarded the idea of a liaison with the blonde, as he did not like her demeanor -- and the memory of his passionate and strange coupling with the golden-haired Lady Trey made such a quick comparison unseemly. 

The Celtic lass, likewise, he rejected, due to the pronounced way her teeth protruded from her mouth when she opened it. That ran counter to the operation for which Edward was anticipating employing a maid. No doubt the girl was skilled at her craft, but the gawkish nature of her countenance put Edward off. 

As it was between the two brunettes, who lacked much to distinguish between them save the hue of their coats, Edward ordered a second cup of coffee from the boy and quietly switched tables to the table bearing the woman in the brown coat -- arguably the more attractive of the two, and the one who fit Edward's fancy better. Her name was Annette, and she spoke passable English -- enough for Edward to abandon his horrid French in favor of his mother tongue. After a polite discussion of the dismal weather, an inquiry as to her availability and limitations, and the briefest of haggling about the price, a bargain was struck. Edward left the shot and a generous tip on the table and followed the mademoiselle's round fundament through the rain and into the back stairs of a hotel three grades more common than the Hotel d'Bretagne.

"So, what does monsieur desire from petite Annette?" the French lass asked, as she unlocked a room Edward assumed was her studio. It was clean enough, he was gratified to see, if small and stark. There was bed that was the whore's workshop, a table and basin, and a hook on the wall where Edward hung his coat. There was also a chair, made of sturdy wood but with a cushion of soft purple velvet that had seen much better days. "Shall I warm monsieur's body with mine?" she asked, flirtatiously, as she rubbed her bubbies against his chest like a cat begging for cream. Her breath smelled of sweet strawberry preserves and bitter coffee. "Or shall we fuck immediately?"

"Just a bit of fellatio, if you please," Edward said, enjoying the view of Annette's lithe body under her delicate lace garments. "I trust you're well-versed in the art?"

"Oh, mais ouis!" Annette assured him, nodding vigorously. "Annette can use her mouth in ways no English whore could imagine!"

The lass couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen -- eighteen at the latest -- but she had already begun adopting the jaded demeanor of an old professional, seductively asking to see the money before she took off more than her coat. Had her face been a bit more pleasing -- her eyes seemed buggish, so large were they, and her chin was far longer than fashion dictated as attractive -- she might have had hopes of attracting the attention of a minor aristocrat, or public official seeking a mistress. She might have made an ideal bourgeoisies wife, and could yet end her life as such, Edward decided. But she seemed enthusiastic about her trade, a capacity which Edward had always admired in a whore. Annette gently caressed his face and allowed him to kiss her sweet-smelling neck before he let her push him gently into the chair.

"Just fellatio?" she asked, her face the picture of innocence. "Are you so certain, monsieur, that you do not have time or coin to explore petite Annette's other charms?" As she did so, the whore slowly extended her leg like a dancer, making a graceful arc with it until, shockingly, her knee was close by her cheek, while her alternate leg still stood straight as a ruler, stretching her pantaloons enticingly against her furry cleft. "Annette has many talents worth your money -- though monsieur is so handsome, Annette hates to charge him at all!" She added a near-perfect whore's pout, her lip extended fetchingly and her eyes wide and drooping with feigned sadness. Edward had to smile at her earnestness, and tenderly swept a stray lock of sable from her eye. 

"As tempting an offer as that is, mon chere, I make a point of never fucking a woman while I'm planning an endeavor -- I find it clouds my judgment and impairs my instincts. The calm I seek lies between these beautiful lips, not your . . . flexible knees. But after my work is done, if you please me I shall be happy to reserve your sweet cunny and tight arse for an entire evening."

"Then I shall do my best to be . . . memorable," Annette said, batting her eyelashes with flirtatious exaggeration. She pushed him gently into the chair and gracefully knelt between his knees, rubbing his bulge thorough his trousers and cooing admiringly. She wasted no time in freeing it from his flies, and after inspecting it briefly (there was plenty of the Spanish Disease about, of course) she began to delicately nibble on the head, her wide eyes glancing up at him while her tongue tickled his glans.

"Yess," Edward hissed, leaning his head back in the chair luxuriantly as her lips delicately surrounded the head of his cock and began suckling on it delightfully. In truth, he found the practice of fellatio not only greatly calming to the mind, but positively unmatched in terms of inspiring creative thought. He had not lied to Annette -- when he was planning a major job, he made a practice of avoiding pussy (his unexpected tryst with Lady Trey an unavoidable exception) because, he reasoned, with pussy there came complications. But the simple, honest act of having his cock professionally sucked was about as uncomplicated and rewarding an investment as he could ask for.

Annette's dark hair tickled his thighs where it dangled and fell through his flies, but he was focused far more intently on how ardently the eager young whore sucked his cock. She had grasped the shaft of his prick with her left hand, whilst using the right to continuously brush her wild strands of hair out of her face so that he could witness the resplendent sight of his cock pushing into and out of her mouth. Annette studiously checked to ensure that her actions were pleasing by the simple expedient of watching Edward's expression -- but he doubted she would find anything amiss there. Her dancing tongue, so much more deft than Lady Trey's unpracticed sucking, delighted his enflamed cock while her hand steadily pumped him towards a creamy oblivion. 

"Is monsieur enjoying himself?" she asked, hospitably, when she had taken him to the brink of rapture -- and then stopped. "Annette is not like English whores -- she does not rush you to the petite morte, thinking of nothing but money . . . she takes her time and enjoys the meal!"

"Vive la France!" Edward, agreed in an intent whisper, as her lips and tongue descended once more the torment his prick with pleasure. He felt her other hand steal under the waistband of her pantaloons -- the little brunette tart was frigging herself! "Let me see?" he asked, placing a hand on her head to slow her motion. She was startled and gave a yelp around his prick, then embarrassed for being caught by her patron, but when she realized Edward wanted her to continue, she jumped up to fetch something from her handbag before returning to her submissive pose between his knees.

"If you do not care to fuck me, monsieur," she asked, a wicked grin on her face, "then perhaps you will allow me to pleasure myself with my new vibrateur. . . all the girls are mad for them right now!" she confided, with teenaged enthusiasm. 

Edward was intrigued. "Might I see it?" he asked. She nodded vigorously, and presented the instrument for his inspection with all the ceremony of a feudal ritual. He was not unfamiliar with the French passion for dildoes -- nearly every lady wife and her chambermaid in Paris had one of the illicit instruments tucked away in her bedding -- but this was something else entirely. He saw that the head, a simple design that did not try to mimic the variations of the male member beyond the most elementary form, was of highly polished brass, while the body of the engine was beautifully finished rosewood, sanded and varnished to a glass-like smoothness. At the base there was an elaborate brass fitting, as ornate as a music box.

"It works like this," Annette explained, after he examined it. She turned the base several times, producing a small clicking sound, before it was wound enough, and then she activated a switch on the base. The faux phallus immediately produced a small whirring noise. "It is . . . how you say? Rouage d'horloge . . . clockwork! Oui, it is a clockwork vibrateur . . . the most amazing, wonderful contraption the French ever invented!"

"So . . . what do you do with it?" Edward asked, failing to see the device's purpose or utility beyond that served so admirably by an ordinary dildo.

"Well, monsieur," Annette confided naughtily as she pushed the instrument into her pantaloons and, he assumed, against the slit of her cunny, "When I place the baton just so . . . and activate it . . . OH!" Annette yelped as she flicked the switch with her thumb. "It produces the most divine vibrations against my . . . my clitoris . . ." she gasped. "It makes the work go much more quickly!" With that the randy young tart returned to her duties servicing Edward's prick. The familiar motions were now punctuated with gasps and moans as Annette pleasured herself, a situation which Edward approved of heartily -- never had he seen a woman become as aroused as the little whore had with her device. And the sensation of her expressions of lust while employed sucking his cock produced a delightful sucking which, if erratic, was none the less welcome for its novelty and renewed enthusiasm for the task.




Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 03



In fact, Annette had worked herself into such a fevered pitch with her wand that she nearly reached a climax -- which Edward had intended upon sharing the moment she arrived -- when the clockwork mechanism that inspired her so wound down and had to be attended to.

"It only works for about ten minutes or so," Annette lamented as she hurriedly turned the base, her face flushed with excitement and exertion. "Then you must rebobinage! It can be so frustrating!"

"No doubt!" Edward gasped, entirely in sympathy with Annette. The randy little whore had brought him -- again! -- to the very precipice of pleasure before being interrupted, and it seemed as if his loins seethed with the expectation of release. Annette wasted no time in returning the vibrateur to the valley betwixt her thighs, and then once again returned her plump lips to the tip of his rampant cock.

This time, there were no interruptions. Edward was so close to exploding that he could only survive a dozen or so breathless strokes of fair Annette's lips, and the whore in turn was on the verge of a cataclysmic release as the little device tickled her cunny to the point of distraction and ecstasy. Edward put a steadying, guiding hand on the back of her head but the whore was enrapt in her own erotic world, pumping his shaft between her lips as she humped against her intimate engine. Just as she abandoned herself to the throes of joy, Edward made his own contribution of an exquisite torrent of sperm, which Annette hungrily consumed as she returned to the mortal plane.

Edward allowed Annette to continue her licking and cleaning as long as she was game, and only reluctantly returned his flagging cock to his trousers as she finally stood -- daintily belching from the exertion and consumption of his robust load. 

"That was truly splendid," he sighed. "Who makes such wonderful toys?"

"There are several clockworkers who make these clandestinely," Annette explained, putting hers away lovingly in a velvet bag. "They are very expensive -- mine cost me twenty francs -- but worth every sous! The Church has condemned them, of course, but the nuns seem to be among the most devoted patrons."

"No doubt!" Edward chuckled. "Money well spent -- I enjoyed it immensely." Edward tipped the girl generously, silently thanking Lady Trey's own generosity for making the fellatio possible. If his purse held, he would be back to visit Annette again to repeat the experience, and he promised as much before taking his leave. It seemed an extravagant indulgence, he sighed to himself as he raised his umbrella against the afternoon's rain, but in truth he felt ready to break into Versailles if asked after his incredible orgasm. And coming to Paris without indulging in fellatio with a Parisian whore would be like going to Scotland without visiting a distillery.

Indeed, in the absence of anything better to do the next day, after calling on old school acquaintance who had a business in Paris, Edward found himself at the same café, looking over the same girls, and eventually in Annette's room again enjoying the fruits of her newfound pleasure. Despite her pleas he refrained from fucking her on principal, although he did, at her insistence, give her furry pussy and arse a thorough inspection with his fingers after she spent on her device.

When he returned to the hotel, he had a message waiting from Uncle Pete, indicating some success in his inquiries and a time that evening in which to meet. Edward indulged in a cab for most of the way, his feet tired from the walk, and had the coachman deposit him three blocks away from his rendezvous with his uncle.

"Very interesting fellow, that Cherensky," Pete said in hushed tones after they had greeted one another and ordered a bottle of vin ordinaire. "His family was exiled for plotting to overthrow the Czar, but the charge is widely discounted as purely political in nature. But there was, apparently, ample enough warning for Cherensky's father to get most of his wealth out of Russia before the order came to arrest them. Monsieur Cherensky lives in an old manor house just north of the city, near Saint-Denis, where he has a reputation for . . . unusual taste in friends. He considers himself quite the cosmopolitan, and has a small coterie of admirers and friends in and out of the government. He has three or four parties a year, and dines with company weekly. He can also be found in a few of the more fashionable salons on Tuesday and Wednesday nights, which suggests to my . . . source that he has a mistress of note he sees on those days. 

"But the château . . . that is where the fun begins, lad," Pete said, mirthlessly, as he sketched the grounds on a piece of foolscap with a carpenter's pencil. "There is a wall around the house proper, and it connects with an older part of the estate here," he said, drawing a tiny 'x' for emphasis. "It's a medieval tower, the original castle of the estate. My source tells me that he keeps his precious items in the older section. Now ordinarily, I'd say that it would be easier to break the older lot -- but not this time. Let me show you why," Pete said, and then launched into a long and well-reasoned professional assessment of the best way to elude the servants, avoid the dogs (Cherensky raced dogs and horses, and three terrifyingly large Russian wolf-hounds patrolled the grounds, Pete explained) enter the old tower, remove the valuables, and then escape without detection. He concluded with a heavy sigh. "But it isn't going to be easy, my lad. If it were me, I'd pass on this one. Too much trouble with no promise of reward -- but then you got that promise aforehand, didn't you?"

"I consider it a challenge," Edward admitted, after looking at the hastily-sketched diagram and memorizing salient details before he ripped the paper to shreds and put half of the shreds in his pocket for later disposal. "I see the hardest part will be surmounting the main gate, then passing the dogs." The dogs would not be that difficult, of course, once you hid a large pearl of opium in a bit of sausage. "But getting in that gate will be . . ."

"A challenge," agreed Pete with another sigh. "Too high to mount it without attracting attention, even by the dark of the moon. And too much noise to pick the lock and open it proper. Attract attention, it would. And he does have a couple of stout lads on hand to deal with bounders. Get caught in there, lad, and it isn't the gendarmes you need fear."

"Not much of a climber if I can help it, actually," Edward agreed. "I'd prefer to for someone to let me in."

"A smash-and-grab?" Pete asked, confused.

"No, no, nothing so course. I'd never find the stone that way. No, I think that this calls for a more . . . subtle approach. It's best if one is invited in, after all."

"We all have our ways, don't we?" Pete agreed, slowly. Being invited inside by the mark was outside of his purview. "Well, the details are here in this portfolio," Pete said, tying up the package. "And it cost me a pretty penny, too—"

"For your trouble and good work, then," Edward said, digging a twenty franc note out of his pocket. "And more when I have the item." The note disappeared before it hit the table, and Pete looked around conspiratorially before tugging on his cap in thanks and slinking away into the night to eagerly spend his fee.

Edward studied the portfolio thoroughly that night in his room, and most of the next day, formulating a long list of questions he wanted to answer before making the attempt. He checked out of his hotel the next morning and relocated closer to his mark, in a small inn along the main North road to Saint-Denis. It was a busy inn, and one below his normal station (or, at least, the station to which he aspired) but it suited his purposes admirably. Securing clothes more appropriate to a tradesman than a gentleman, he found his way to the manor and skulked unobtrusively about the wall, noting the comings and goings of the servants and messengers. Unlike the rural Tudley House, this house nearly buzzed with activity.

He circled the estate with a surveyor's tripod and a coil of rope, in pretense of taking measurements. There was no pretense, in actuality -- Edward was taking measurements, not of the roadway but of the Cherensky estate. He had an accurate floor plan, thanks to Pete. But there were other things to measure. How many servant girls were there, and what were their ages? How many guards? Groundskeepers? A butler? Which tradesmen did the Count deal with locally? Who was his grocer, and when did he deliver -- or did his staff travel to market? Who was his vintner? His tailor? His butler's tailor? Edward filled page after page of foolscap with notes, questions, and even the occasional answer. After completing one complete, slow circuit of the estate he took his Spartan lunch back at the inn and spent an hour or two eavesdropping. He was far better at comprehending French than speaking it, so he was able to fill in some of the questions he had before returning to his observations.

For three days he took notes and studied his mark, refining his observations and narrowing his focus on the intelligence he found essential to his task. Then he expanded his investigations to the surrounding countryside. Which carters made regular deliveries, and when? How close was the train station, and which trains where scheduled? Where was the airship terminal, and what was its schedule? Where was the nearest livery stable? Nearest church? Nearest graveyard? Where was the police station, and how many men manned it during the day? The night? Which of the various criminal factions claimed ownership of this region, and could they be a help or a hinderance to his plans?

After the fourth day, he gathered his notes and headed back into the heart of Paris, where he secured lodgings at the same hotel he'd left earlier. He also indulged in a brand-new suit in the latest style, a treat that was also a necessary business expense, he justified in his mind. The suit and his knowledge of the aristocracy afforded him entrance to several exclusive salons and parlors where he made discreet inquiries about Cherensky. 

The blank spaces and question marks began to fill in, and his nebulous plans began to firm as each new point of intelligence was added to his folio. When he finally decided he had a workable solution to the job, he celebrated by taking petite Annette to a bawdy show, then having her fellate him once in the carriage on the way back to his hotel, once again there, in the comfort of his room, and even chose to pay the extra and break his tradition by buggering the whore thoroughly while she plied her clockwork toy between her legs before retiring for the evening. He was so generous in paying her the next morning, in fact, that she had given him yet another delightful blowjob before she left. Then he began to execute his plan.

First, he met with Pete once more to arrange for a few things and pay the man again for his silence. With nearly half of his reserves depleted so far, and no concrete steps towards the goal yet taken, Edward was reluctant to pay off Pete so lavishly -- but then the last thing he wanted was for word of who would be responsible for the theft to leak out. To anyone.

Once he was assured that Pete would procure what was necessary, Edward began haunting a particular cafe where Cherensky was known to pop in, supposedly for the taste of authentic Russian chai and hot chocolate. Two days and many, many cups of chai later, Edward was gratified by the appearance of an older gentleman that resembled the sketches of Cherensky in his portfolio. Edward ignored him, at first, while he was seated and ordered chai and croissants, and continued ignoring him until the exile had finished. But when the old gentleman finally pushed away from the table, Edward rose soon after and, affecting a stumble, plunged head-long into the Russian noble.

"Pardon mois!" Edward said, helping the man to his feet. "How clumsy of me! You must let me pay for your drink," he insisted, wiping a few stray drops of chai off of Cherensky's coat. "I insist -- I had a bit too much to drink last night and am week in the legs." 

Cherensky looked, in turn, confused, outraged, concerned, confused again, and finally gratified. He thanked Edward for his assistance and declared that there was no harm or offense taken by the inadvertent stumble, and that he would graciously accept Edward's generous offer to pay for his drink, before wishing the burglar a good day and leaving the café. Edward took his time settling with the portly little Italian who ran the shop, then left himself. He surveyed the street until he saw the fanciful hat the Russian had worn bobbing its way down the street. 

Pulling the purse he had liberated from Cherensky's pockets during his stumble from his coat, Edward made a mad dash up the lane until he almost collided with the man once again.

"Monsieur!" he called. "Monsieur! You have dropped your wallet!"

Cherensky was highly gratified at the return of the purse -- it was heavy with money, and it nearly broke Edward's criminal soul to hand a full wallet back to a mark. But Cherensky was so grateful that he introduced himself formally to Edward, and invited him for a quick drink of something more potent than chai. They settled on a tavern nearby, where the insidious Russian liquor known as vodka was available, as was the gin Edward favored. Ordinarily he steered as clear of spirits as he did cunt when he was planning a job, but in this case he indulged to further his enterprise.

Edward learned much of the man over their drink. Cherensky was an affable drinking companion, a true Parisian who used his Russian veneer as a social eccentricity. He had, after all, grown up here, and had mastered French as much as his mother tongue. Luckily, due to some business dealings with some firms in Amsterdam, he had also developed a passable knowledge of English. 

Cherensky purchased the first round, in the process hinting that he was richer, more powerful, and better-connected than he actually was. Edward purchased the second, inventing a vague and nebulous business trip on behalf of an English patron he was on in Paris, to explain his presence. He also made a point of mentioning his interest in art, professing a desire to see the famous museums after his work was done. The two men parted well, pledging to repeat the experience should they ever encounter one another again.

Edward had gathered a tremendous amount of information from his brief meeting with the man, and rushed back to his room to add to his notes before his memory betrayed him. Two days later, he contrived to be at the same dog track that Cherensky favored, and again enjoyed a drink with him between races. Once again he mentioned his interest in art, and pretended he was considering purchasing a few pieces of interest while he was in town on behalf of his fictitious patron. 

He made especial note of which of Cherensky's aristocratic companions he seemed the friendliest with -- a Parisian lawyer named Quillion seemed to be his closest confidant, despite his lack of noble title. Edward afterwards made some inquiries through Pete, who provided him with a summary of the man's life. The next day Edward befriended Quillion at a restaurant nearby to his offices, where he indicated that he was considering a law suit against a business rival in Flanders. Smelling money the way all attorneys do, Quillion was only too happy to volunteer for the distasteful task, should it come to such dire circumstances. Edward made sure to leave the man with a fifty-franc note as a retainer.

With both the man and his friend and lawyer on goodly terms with him, most of his set-up was complete. He had his method of entry, his likely method of execution of the crime -- all he lacked was a feasible escape. The problem was getting back out again, not getting in. He had a plan for getting in.

But once he caused the explosion he would need to break into the vault where the stone -- and Cherensky's other treasures -- were kept, stealthily escaping with his booty would be almost impossible without harming one of Cherensky's retainers. He considered, briefly, drugging them all to unconsciousness, but dismissed the idea -- there were just too many of them, almost twenty, to ensure that each and every servant was unconscious before he made his loud attack on the vault. 

He considered escaping over the wall, while the servants were busy investigating the explosion, but to do so he would either have to escape by employing a rope down the side of the ancient tower, exposing him to revelation to any casual observer in or outside of the compound -- and then would necessitate a sprint across the grounds to scale the walls, or an attack on the gates to allow him to escape. Neither prospect suited him. But unless he could sprout wings and fly, nearly every scenario he had conjured had led to his capture.

So he elected to sprout wings and fly.

***

Airships had been originally a novelty, playthings for the wealthy and aristocratic, since the earliest days of ballooning under the Bourbon Regime. But it wasn't until the first dirigibles were used in the throes of the Franco-Prussian war, a generation before, that the airship had become the dominant force on the battlefield -- and, by extension, into the lives of everyone in Europe. 

When the primitive prototype dirigible Das Rhineland appeared suddenly above the French lines during the Battle of Gravelotte, hailing missiles and bombs and sniper fire down on the defenseless French, it resulted in the near total collapse of the French Army in battle, and resulted in a quick end to the disastrous war. Napolean III had sued for peace almost at once, and had been forced to give up Alsace and Lorraine to the Prussian-German Empire forever -- but kept his Empire. 

The French were no stranger to the art of the aeronaut -- indeed, not only had the first balloons been French, but Napolean I had been an early admirer of their clear military applications, and had supported the development of artillery observing balloons. But the floating observation decks were tethered, and therefore earthbound from their true potential. 

The Germans, particularly the Prussians, were ardent enthusiasts who had favored rigid airframes which could be steered, in a rudimentary fashion. It wasn't until the depths of the Franco-Prussian war that the dirigible finally came into its full potential, when the XZD-1, better known as Das Rhineland, appeared suddenly over the trenches of the French just after dawn at Gravelotte. The French had already taken a beating from the deadly fast breach-loading Krupps artillery -- seeing a massive, ominous shape appear suddenly out of the mists overhead and rain fire and death down upon them while they were engaged on the ground in a losing debate was demoralizing to the extreme. For two hours the XZD-1 hovered above the fray, its four man crew providing a vital assault on the lines that allowed the Prussians to break through the trenches and famously capture French Marshal Bazaine. When the terrible airship was used a week later to help besiege the city of Metz, the French had had quite enough. 

When faced with the choice of reinforcing Metz or conceding to a humiliating defeat by the Germans, Napolean III had sued for peace, and escaped the drubbing with only the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine -- and his pride -- the major casualties. More importantly, he had preserved the Empire from German aggression by the skin of his teeth. 

And it was an Empire suddenly mad for airships. Determined not to allow a second shameful showing in the inevitable future engagement against the Germans, who now sported an empire of their own, Napolean III had invested heavily in the design of new ships, and within half a decade the first French Imperial Aerocorps ship Charlemagne was in service against the Basques in the Pyranees. Using naval rockets as well as dropped explosives, the Charlemagne went on a well-publicized three-week rampage that devastated the Uskandulak rebels in their remote outposts. The Empire had a new tool of war.




Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 03



The first duels between two airships happened two years later when the first British military airship, the HMAS Dover, was intercepted by the 100 meter French airship IFAS Tours while interdicting smugglers around the Channel Isles. A twenty-minute skirmish with rifles, pistols, and a few rockets ended with the Dover retiring to its base on Gurensey with a ruptured balloon. After that, it was a matter of national pride for the major empires of Europe to employ airships as part of their military effort. 

About that time, civilian use of the craft for trade began to flourish when some private enterprises realized the simple utility and security of moving valuable cargo via airship. In 1876 the first regular commercial airship service between Paris and Marsielles began, and by 1880 every major European city boasted a mooring tower. As the engines which propelled them became lighter and more efficient, the routes became more economical -- especially with the generous subsidy provided by the Imperial Crown. Even the occasional tragedy was overlooked, as the gaily-painted ships of the air peacefully flew mail, money, legal documents and wealthy passengers across the French countryside without the horror of French roads or the haphazard nature of the primitive French rail system.

The wars and skirmishes between the European powers continued in the air, with new and deadly uses for the airships being continuously found. When the Italian army surprised the French Imperial garrison in Piedmont by employing three airships to move two companies of light infantry fifty miles in one night -- over the sleeping heads of their foes -- to precipitate a deadly flanking maneuver, the tactical uses of airships became apparent. When Irish rebels used a homemade airship to land assassins on the roof of Leed's Castle and successfully murdered a Spanish envoy thought detrimental to their cause, the security concerns of airships became apparent. In 1887 a fleet of three Danish airships crossed the sea and looted three remote Polish villages down to their last copper, returning low in the sky from the amount of plunder they carried -- ushering in a new age of piracy where being landlocked was no barrier to attack. 

In 1888 the French employed six massive Imperial-class warships above the skies of their Indo-Chinese empire, provoking widespread submission to French colonial administration by the backwards natives, demonstrating the utility of the craft in imperial conquest. When the comical Louisianan Empire's first French-made airship, the Emperor Aaron I, landed arms and munitions to the beleaguered Cherokee in their mountain stronghold in America in 1875 and helped win their freedom from American hegemony, the utility of airships in an insurgency became clear. 

When Louis Napoleon, the rakish Prince Imperial, took to the skies above Paris in his own blue floating pleasure palace for his many assignations in 1879, inciting the hatred of the conservative Bourbonists and the admiration of the more liberal Parisian women, the possibilities of utilizing an airship for vice and prohibited pleasures was established. And when Baron Otto Kuiper returned to Berlin from India with a load of tea, silks, and spices on Christmas Day, 1882 -- without one penny going to the Anglo-Dutch East India Company or the British Crown -- the mercantile possibilities of the airship emerged. 

If not for purposes of aggression or simple aggrandizement, then, every nation of Europe had to employ the craft in defense and interdiction duties. Even minor states and principalities purchased or made airships -- or risked being looted from above by predatory interests. 

France, of course, was the heart of the airship industry, and several private concerns toiled to fill the demand. French commercial ships were, arguably, both more lavish and more efficient at passenger travel and cargo than most of her major competitors, the Germans and the British. Paris, being the heart of the Second Empire, was a central hub of activity in the skies, so much so that the mooring towers had been consigned to the edges of the city, save for two commercial posts and a yard convenient for military and governmental airships, for fear of accidental collision over the dense city center to the detriment of the people below. 

Routes into and out of the city encouraged traffic to fly largely above the rivers, when possible, until the outskirts of the city were reached. There was also an elaborate system employing semaphore and control spires that lined the established routes. Edward knew only the barest rudiments of airship travel himself, having only traveled that way when absolutely essential -- and in Edward's line of work, that was rare. Apart from a quick trip back from Paris to London on the occasion of his sister's marriage, and four splendid days sailing off of the Canaries with his schoolmate Gideon Becker (and two local girls) on holiday in his family's private air yacht, Edward had not been aloft. 

He didn't know the first thing about how to secure the use of an airship, nor how to pilot one should he steal it for the purpose. But he did know that the only way off of the roof of Cherensky's chateau was by airship. Either that, or it was back to growing wings.

This was not the sort of thing to have Pete try to arrange. As adept as the reprobate was at arranging things, Edward would likely have better luck asking him for a noblewoman's virginity as an airship -- it was simply beyond the man's purview. No respectable commercial airship company would consent to what he planned, and approaching the subject with his poor French would be, he was certain, a quick way to draw the attention of the gendarmes. 

"I wish I knew where to find a bloody dirigible," he muttered half to himself as Annette worked diligently to relieve him of his seed in her now-accustomed manner. He hadn't meant to voice his frustration, especially in front of a whore whose loyalties were questionable at best, but that was what he was left with after nearly a week of fruitless prowling around airship yards.

"I know of one," Annette said, popping his cock out of her astute mouth in surprise. 

"Eh? You do?" Edward said, startled. 

"But of course! Annette knows all of the airmen! There is one, an American, who comes by regularly. He works at a yard east of Paris. He . . . likes to lick my arse," she confessed, blushing slightly. "And he has a lovely tongue! But then he does it the normal way. Always twice," she said, as if reading cues from a note card.

"You do? Who is this American?" he asked, quickly. An American might be just the thing -- likely not someone with a lot of Parisian ties -- and Americans were notoriously adventurous. Suddenly Edward's prospects began to improve. "What is his name?"

"William," Annette pronounced. "I saw him here only yesterday, monsieur. He said he worked for an English man, but I forget -- wait!" she said, suddenly. "I have it! He was in the city to purchase supplies for his ship, and left some of his papers!" Before he could stop her, Annette bolted up and began rooting around in the table next to the bed. "Aha!" she said, triumphantly. "There! There is the airship man's company! And they are not so far!"

"Annette, you are a wonder!" Edward said, reaching for the papers gleefully. To his further surprise the young whore quickly pulled them out of his reach. Then he realized what she wanted. She was a whore after all. "How much?" he asked, sighing.

"How much?" she asked, indignantly. "What are they worth?"

"Nothing, actually, if I don't read them," Edward admitted. 

"Silly. If I give them to you . . .?"

"Yes?" Edward asked, gloomily, realizing that this job had just gotten more expensive.

" If I give them to you . . . will you fuck me, finally?"

"What?"

"It is just," Annette said, biting her lip fetchingly, "you are a handsome man, monsieur, and for weeks we have been playing at the same game. You come in. I suck your cock. I play with my cunt. You cum in my mouth. You leave," she recited.

"Well, that is what I'm paying for," Edward reminded.

"Oui, comprende vous," she nodded. "However, Annette has been waiting . . . and waiting . . . and waiting for monsieur to finally put his big hard pretty cock, that poor Annette has had to endure tormenting her in her mouth over and over, and never in her pussy! And it is such a beautiful cock! I suck and suck and suck, and . . . nothing! Am I ugly? Am I horrible? Yet you do not fuck me -- only one time in the arse! Perhaps you like boys, yes?"

"No!" Edward said, horrified -- a few furtive school experiences notwithstanding. 

"Annette is happy to hear it! If I give these to you, then you will fuck me, yes?"

Edward stared at the cheeky young streetwalker with amusement. That was a price he would certainly pay, tradition and superstition be damned. "Let me see them first? If they help me, then I shall fuck you to your heart's content, as often as you'd like."

"We have an agreement!" the whore said, exceedingly pleased, as she returned the document to his hand with a twinkle in her eyes. Edward quickly saw it was a supply manifest and receipt from a procurer in town, mostly for food and mechanical supplies. He looked for the agent's signature, and then the delivery address -- and a broad grin emerged on his continence.

"Annette, my sweet, do suck me hard for a moment more, and then I will fuck you as soundly as any woman in my life. You just answered my prayers, and if it is a fucking you want, I vow to piston you until you climax so utterly that your descendents three generations hence will feel it!"

"Monsieur," she said, demurely dropping to her knees with Gaulish grace, "that is all I ask!" 



Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 04



Air Captain Gideon Becker watched the skirmish line of airships bearing the enemy's colors – in this case, the red, gold and green of the Atlan Empire – bearing down on his position with a mixture of dread and excitement. He swung the periscope across the southern horizon and counted . . . five, no six ships. He noted with relief that they were not the three large Prussian-built stratodestroyers that the bloody Atlans had purchased recently, according to the Kingdom's wily intelligence network, but rather the usual native-constructed patrol craft, a mere eighty meters long and painted a distinctive scarlet.

They were far more primitive than the European-constructed airships in his squadron, more like the quaint first real airships from the 1870s. But there were six of them, and there were only three ships left in his squadron, including his own converted caravel, the Victrix. He hoped that today she'd live up to her name.

He slapped the periscope handles back in place and called out to his pilot.

"Change course, twenty degrees starboard, altitude steady. Ahead slow," he ordered, feeling the surge of fear and excitement that came on the onset of battle. The pilot, a lad from Manchester named George Miller, nodded curtly and began making the course correction. George hadn't started out the pilot of the Victrix, but two skirmishes ago the seasoned veteran Gideon had hired away from his father's company had been killed in an unfortunate incident in port. George had bravely taken the wheels during the next battle after Gideon — a poor pilot at best — had nearly brought down calamity on them with his lack of expertise, and George had stayed in control of the ship ever since. Another English lad from Somerset, Jack Cooper, was on station as Signalman – and it was to Jack whom Gideon turned next.

"Signal the rest of the squadron – spread out in formation on the Victrix, and prepare battle stations. Looks like the Beanies are at it again. A half dozen, from the south-southwest, if they haven't spotted them for themselves yet." The dark-complected Atlans were unaffectionately known as "beanies" to the European mercenaries due to the important role that beans and corn played in their diet. The running joke was that they kept their rattle-trap ships aloft with the excess flatulence thereby produced. Gideon only wished it were true – had the bronze-skinned warriors been able to produce this feat, then they would not be advancing upon his position so determinedly.

The fact was that, like most of the airships in the world, the Beanies used Hydrogen to inflate their gasbags and provide lift. Hydrogen was cheap, it was efficient, it was readily available – and it was highly flammable. A Hydrogen-lifted ship in a fight was in inherent danger from enemy fire. While the envelope itself could sustain dozens of individual rifle hits and still remain aloft, quite handily, a mere spark accompanying the bullets could reduce an airship to a flaming cloud in moments. Certainly, precautions were taken to reduce that risk, especially amongst ships of war. Everything from double-cells to lacquered armor were used to protect the balloons, but one well-placed rocket or a lucky incendiary missile could send a ship down in flames.

Gideon, thankfully wasn't concerned about that possibility – the Victrix lifted on pure Helium, now, and was therefore safe from such attacks. That was the whole reason he had accepted a commission from the Kingdom of Oklahoma in the first place: this desolate little land was one of the few places in the world where rare Helium was available, refined from the massive gaseous reserves buried beneath it's desolate prairies. Once these lands had been in Atlan hands, part of their extensive territory to the north of their dusty Empire. But when the nearly unique gas was found in relative abundance, the local tribes had rebelled (with the particular help of the Louisianians, as well as the Americans and the French) to take control of the strategically invaluable resource – and reap the reward of selling the valuable gas on the international market.

But the Atlans were unwilling to surrender such a fortuitous prize without a fight, and the tiny Oklahomanian Kingdom had been in a constant state of war for the entire twenty-five years in which it had existed. Bereft of a large population of their own, the original native uprising had quickly attracted seasoned warriors from the Cherokee, the Choctaw, even Iroquois and Chippewa and members of other tribes. The nascent native rebellion had consolidated their braves around the lucrative gas mines and kept the Atlan armies at bay until the rail line from the Louisianan Empire gave them access to the overland routes and seaports they needed to begin selling their precious gas to the great Empires. Then they had used the incredible profits resulting therefrom to hire mercenaries, on both land and in the air, to keep their former Atlan overlords at bay. When Gideon had gone into exile, trading one of his estates for a second-hand caravel from his father's shipping line and outfitting it for war, he had been eager to sign up his command both for the high bounty paid and the opportunity to secure a goodly supply of the expensive Helium.

The ships which were thus supplied had a great advantage over their Hydrogen-filled counterparts. The prospect of his squadron being outnumbered two-to-one did not particularly bother Gideon, therefore, since his foe had to be concerned with explosion and fire. Indeed, he was looking forward to another fight in the skies.

"Sissy, be a pet and give us some more altitude on my mark, would you?" he called into the shiny brass opening of the speaking tube that ran through the gondola and up to the engine room. He waited a moment to hear an acknowledgement, and a incredibly rich string of vitriol came bubbling back through the tube in response. The cursing was a strange mixture of English, German, Celtic, Choctaw and Cherokee and was profoundly profane – even more so, as it was delivered in the voice of a young girl. Gideon smiled to himself, entertained at the complex richness of his sister's swearing – his father would have been mortified.

"Captain," called the observer from his position in the cupola, "the lead Beanie is breaking formation and cutting to port!"

"Range?" Gideon asked, suddenly attentive. Usually the Beanies were methodical and straight-forward in their assaults. A break in formation was an aberration.

"Half a mile and closing!" the spotter called back.

"Ready port-side rockets," he ordered his gunnery mate, receiving a curt nod in return. Then he turned back to the speaking tube. "It appears as if the neighborhood children want to play, Sissy, are you ready?"

"Of course I'm ready! But why do you need altitude? What the fookin' hell are you doin' Gid?" came the response. "We're already on the bloody plane with 'em! We don't–"

"I'll do the steering, if you don't mind," he interrupted, calmly. "I just need altitude, on my mark. As much as you can manage as quickly as you can. Are you prepared?"

"Just let me know, big brother," the engineer responded. Gideon thrilled to hear her call him that. He had been the youngest child in his family and had always resented being babied by his three sisters and older brother. When he had discovered that he had an illegitimate half-sister, he had embraced her as kin as quickly as the rest of the family had rejected her, in part because it irritated the rest of the family and in part because he finally had the opportunity to play the role of elder sibling.

"Closing!" the spotter called. "Within range in . . . mark!"

"Fire port rockets," Gideon ordered, calmly. "Sissy, give us lift . . . now!" He waited until all four rockets were speeding away towards their target before calling the order, and he watched their smoke trail disappear below as the Victrix went aloft. Too late the opposing ship launched her own salvo, but the Beanies were firing a shorter range rocket than the Manchesters the Victrix carried. They were twice as expensive, but carried a larger explosive charge and had half again the range of the homemade "military standards" the Atlans used. The extra reach and extra potency had played a decisive role in how well Gideon's squadron had acquitted itself against the foe in the last six months.

So had his half-sister, Tayanita. The dusky young lady who had shown up at his father's doorstep in London and proven her heritage was not just a fortune-seeker, as their father was convinced. She was an adept engineer and an inspired tinkerer, a farsighted visionary and enthusiastic about just about everything. The product of a liaison between Lord Becker and the daughter of an important Cherokee noble, who had been nursing Lord Becker back to health after a bout of mysterious fever on a trip to oversee his interests in a chemical manufactory he owned in Oklahoma, Tayanita had not been interested in her father's money as much as an opportunity to work with his company. She had title — according to the bizarre rules of Indian tribal custom, she was among the highest rank, by birth, the equivalent to a Princess or Duchess in England. Tayanita had cared as little for rank as Gideon had — something else that endeared him to her. She had grown up in Tullasi, an important hub of airship activity, and had eagerly explored the enchanting vessels since infancy. She was mad for airships, and had been since the first day she'd lain eyes on one. When she had tracked Lord Becker back to London and presented herself as his child and heir, it hadn't been about money or title. Tayanita merely wanted access to Becker's several airship companies so she might pursue a few technical innovations she championed.

But the stuffy Lord Becker had been far more concerned about the stain of potential scandal and had denied his daughter vigorously – even though she looked so like his sister Gwendolyn that they could have passed for twins, save that one was dusky and the other fair, and six years of age stood between them. His mother, Lady Becker had been appalled at the sudden and inconvenient revelation of her husband's indiscretion and pitched a hellacious fit. Lord Becker had responded by sending the poor girl away, and even threatened to call the constabulary if she did not depart his premises at once.

Gideon, for his part, was appalled at his parent's reaction. Already thick in rebellion against them, living a wildly hedonistic life in London and on his country estates and contemplating a life in the military, he had confronted his father about the matter, demanding that he legitimize Tayanita despite the scandal. As expected, Father had refused, and in a fit of filial insurrection Gideon had sold his largest estate (inherited from his maternal grandmother and out of the control of his Father since he had attained his majority), used the proceeds to procure the old and venerable caravel at auction from his father's own illustrious airline, named the refurbished and retooled ship the Victrix, and had publicly swore to take to the skies as a mercenary-in-exile with his new-found kin until his father saw reason and accepted his dusky daughter as the true fruit of his loins.

The scandal that resulted from his flashy departure far dwarfed that which may have occurred with the simple revelation of a bastard in the family. The British were growing used to the unlooked-for fruits of their struggling Empire appearing out of no where, but to have such a prominent son of such an esteemed house reject Imperial service, a career or medicine, or a stint in the proper military for the flamboyant life of a mercenary air-pirate, that was just too much for the gossiping mavens of London. When Gideon took on a crew for his new command in London, he had hired several other younger-sons and schoolmates who had yet to find gainful employment – or merely lusted for adventure in foreign lands. Gideon's parents were officially in mourning for their youngest son, but as of yet there had been no telegram from them relenting of their decision. Since then he had been in the air for almost a year in the service of the Kingdom of Oklahoma, and had never looked back.

Now the Victrix, her young captain and rakish crew, had been playing tag with the Atlans for eight months, and in that time Princess Tayanita had gone through the old Lincolnshire-class caravel with a gimlet eye and had made significant improvements. Some of her designs were innovative, some were down-right brilliant, but all contributed to the big blue ship being one of the most formidable in the air for her size. Gideon glanced at the trophy pole near the pilot's couch, where nine red, yellow and green streamers hung. Nine of the foe vanquished in combat, a singular achievement for any captain of a warship, and for one so young and new to air service, it was unheard of. As he ordered the engines full forward and the starboard rockets ready, he grimly anticipated a tenth streamer decorating his pole.

Since the Atlans were nominally allied with the British Crown, Gideon was technically fighting against his homeland, but he didn't care. The interests of the Anglo-Dutch Empire were important, but the hundreds of republics, kingdoms, tribal lands and pipsqueak empires in America were always in turmoil, and each of the major European Empires had an interest in every skirmish. The Anglo-Dutch Empire had important trading ties with the Atlans, but they were commercial in nature, and largely to balance the alliance of arch-enemy France and her alliance with the sadly comical Louisiana Empire. His participation in the defense of the Okie Kingdom was therefore a very minor treason, Gideon figured, and one unlikely to draw the attention of his countrymen.

The enemy airship was now several hundred feet below them, and still a quarter mile away. Gideon returned to the periscope and surveyed the foe with well-magnified vision, spotting tiny forms of the bronze-skinned enemy aeronauts running to the battlements with their long rifles and hurriedly preparing another salvo of rockets. Their suddenly inferior position was trouble for them, of course. In airship battles the loftier ship usually had a distinct advantage – one which Gideon took full use of.

"A second ship closing to starboard!" the observation officer called, a note of tension in his voice. "bearing forty degrees starboard . . . six degrees under our horizon . . . and six hundred meters out but she's closing fast!"

"Oho!" Gideon smiled. "Trying to trap us between? I think not – not today. Starboard rockets take aim at the interloper and fire at will!"

The rocket crews in the starboard battlement didn't wait for a second order – they sent out a steady stream of Manchesters at the gaudy red-and-gold ship and were rewarded with two impressive hits on the envelope. Only one of them seemed to have done any lasting damage, and neither one had ignited the gasbag, but it was unlikely the Beanie would trouble them much for the next few moments while their crew struggled to extinguish the fires before they could do so. That gave Gid plenty of time to handle his first foe, who finally managed a half a salvo from their portside battlement. The shots were short or wide, but they gave Gideon pause. Any closer and rockets would be too dangerous for either party, lest they do as much damage to friend as foe. At that point it would be a long, drawn out fusillade with rifles, until the ships drifted further apart.

The portside battlement was already heaving a few smaller rockets at the foe, and the sharpshooters were plying their trade in an effort to clear the decks of the opposing ship. Unlike the predominantly English crew that ran the flight deck of the airship, the gunners were mostly native Okies, Cherokee and other tribes, who used the famous Kentucky long rifles of their native land to devastating effect. As he peered through the scope he saw one, two, then four of the enemy gunners fall at their posts, depriving the battlement of its full complement. Then a small rocket managed to penetrate the wicker enclosure, and set off an ordinance explosion. That activated the safety device that dropped the outrigged battlement safely away from the gasbag. Safe for the rest of the crew – but the ten or so gunners in the battlement were plummeting to their doom on the unyielding prairie below.

"A bottle of whisky to the portside!" he shouted excitedly. "Good shooting!"

He could hear the war cries and exultations of the men even over the din of engines and gunfire. These Okies, he had to admit, had a special talent for warfare – or at least an enjoyment of it that amounted to the same thing.

"Shall we finish her off, Captain?" Black Joe, the gunnery captain, called through the speaker. "I think we could broadside her with a Manchester at this range and be done with it!"

Gideon considered, while swinging the periscope around to survey the rest of the battle. The Victrix's sister ships were all engaged, and two of the Beanie's patrol ships had already caught fire, including the latecomer to starboard. Better yet, one of their ships seemed to have developed engine trouble, and was listing lazily to port, effectively out of the fight. He saw the Hobgoblin, with its savage device like a monstrous mouth painted on the bow of the ship bearing down on the straggler menacingly, leaving a blazing ball of fire in its wake. To the rear the Star of Baton Rouge, a yellow Louisianan ship, deftly dueling with two of the foe, one of which was already afire. Neither one was in need of assistance, he could see, and the Atlan ship they were engaged with had yet to turn quickly enough to bring her starboard-side battlement to bear.

Gideon made the decision. "Prepare boarding gondola!" he commanded. "Marines to your posts! Prepare for boarding and capture!"

The rest of the crew on the flight deck looked at him in confusion. Boarding an airship in the middle of combat was a hazardous proposition, as it involved – usually – repelling out of a loftier ship to an inferior one on ropes, then fighting your way underneath to capture the gondola. More than half the time such crews ended up either being repelled or doing so much damage that they destroyed the ship rather than taking it. But Gideon had successfully boarded two Atlan patrol ships in the last six months, and had brought one of them back to Tallasi as a prize. He'd been rewarded by the Kingdom with a generous bonus, as well as a goodly price for the ship, which had been re-fitted and now flew as part of the Kingdom's nascent air-navy. The money had been good enough to tempt Gideon to repeat the feat.

"Mr. Miller, you have the bridge," he called to the pilot. "Bring her in over the top stern and decline until we're within gondola range. I'll be leading the boarding party personally."

"Is that wise, Captain?" Miller asked, surrendering the pilot's couch to one of the steersmen, who in turn was relieved by the deckman.

Gideon grinned. "No, it's entirely insane, George, but it should be fun. Do try to keep her in the air until I get back. Oh, and . . . don't mention this to my sister until I've left. She isn't going to favor this maneuver, but by Mars we'll give it a go!"

The pale look on Miller's face convinced Gideon that he'd rather face three-to-one odds in combat than brave his sister's fiery temper. Still, he took the Captain's chair and immediately put his eyes to the periscope.

Gideon smiled happily as he doffed his warm wool coat for the tough fleece-lined leather coat anyone on the outside of an airship wore against the biting cold, and added a smart leather helmet, complete with brass goggles, to his ensemble. Then he shrugged into his weapons belt – a revolver on each hip, a carbine slung on his back, a savage-looking knife suspended from his left breast, and rapier, unlike the shortened cutlass that most airmen carried into battle, on his right hip. He added a white silk scarf to help his men identify him, then he took the narrow stairs down to where his men awaited him in the boarding gondola.




Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 04



They were a motley group, mostly recruited from the gin-joints of Tallasi or Guthrie, but they were adept at their trade. Mostly Choctaw and Cherokee braves, with a sprinkling of Creek, and plenty of half-breeds who found themselves more comfortable in the ranks of a mercenary than serving the squabbling Great Houses of the tiny kingdom. There was even a white man or two. They were dressed similarly to Gideon, though none affected the white scarf that he had made his sole prerogative. Their own colorful native gorgets peeked out of their heavy sheepskin garments, and native symbols were often prominently embroidered into their garb. But they knew their trade. Each man there carried a carbine, a pistol, a knife and a cutlass, at minimum, and some nearly bristled with weaponry. They looked nervous and excited while attempting to appear stoic and bored. These Okies really did have a talent for warcraft.

"We're in position, Captain," Miller called down to him. He nodded to Wolf Rider, the sergeant of the marines, and two young braves began lowering the gondola on thick hemp ropes strung cleverly on pullies for the purpose.

Just before the hatch closed, however, an arm thrust itself in the doorway prohibiting the maneuver.

"Wait up, Cap!" the familiar drawl of one of his fighters called. "Don't leave me here whilst you have all the fun!"

"Get in, Bonney!" Gideon chuckled. The other braves in the cramped compartment looked stoic, but Gideon knew they were pleased. Despite his short stature and slight build, boyish face and tenor voice, Bill Bonney was a crack shot and an adept fighter who had traveled all over the West of America, from the American settlements in Ohio to the frontiers of Louisiana to the outskirts of the great Sea of Grass that was the home to the most savage warriors ever in Creation. Gideon had hired the man on a whim after witnessing him shoot the center out of a cork in a tavern, propelled through the air for the purpose, and had not regretted the decision since — even when he had discovered his illicit sexual affair with his sister Tayanita recently. He wasn't particularly inclined to object, of course, but that was far more out of fear of his sister's temper than Bonney's skill with a revolver.

As the diminutive man settled between two much bulkier braves with a grin, the other marines nodded to him stoically — but Gideon knew they were very pleased by his inclusion. He was as a white mascot for the corps, as well as being respected as a warrior in his own right. He had the advantage of knowing the strange Atlan language that had incorporated large portions of Dutch, not to mention several major Indian tongues, French, and a smattering of German and Celtic, too. He grinned broadly the entire hellish descent, as if he were a child being condemned to a week in a candy store.

It was a scary ride. The well-oiled hemp ropes creaked outrageously as the carriage lowered in the winds, twisting uncomfortably. When the great red expanse of the foe's balloon was well underneath, two more braves repelled from the open doorway onto the gasbag and secured the guide lines that brought the boarding gondola to rest on top of the foe. Securing it quickly, they released the lines that tied the ship to the Victrix, lest the foe be lost in the battle and plummet, dragging the Victrix to doom with it.

The wind was savage on the open expanse of the balloon, but Gideon reveled in it. He'd spent most of his life in gentlemanly repose, suffocated by tradition, social expectations, and the other burdens of aristocracy. For the briefest moment he imagined his dull, boring life following in his father's footsteps, working behind a desk, never hearing a shot in anger. This was the antithesis of that. This was adventure, danger, excitement! A man felt alive doing this! He tied his safety line down to a hook and followed Wolf Rider to the dorsal hatch that led down to the bowels of the ship.

Just before the Okie could open it, however, the wooden hatch sprang open and two dark-skinned, mustachioed Atlans emerged with carbines in hand with sinister intent. Wolf Rider was caught by surprised but quickly kicked at the men, who responded with hastily wild shots. Then the half-savage marine drew an iron tomahawk from his belt and brained the first Atlan soldier, while five shots from William's pair of revolvers took the top of the head and a goodly portion of face off of the second Atlan before Gideon could even draw his weapon. Gideon's appreciation at the little man's facility with six-guns grew, as the marines tossed the corpses over the side before disappearing through the dorsal hatch themselves, cutlasses and tomahawks in hand for the grim work below.

Bonney, on the other hand, had holstered his pistols and was in the process of untying his safety line and retying it to a long rope he carefully measured out. Gideon was mystified by the man's actions, and finally had to tap him on the shoulder to get him to explain.

"Simple!" Billy shouted into the wind, his wide grin combined with the brass goggles under his leather flight cap making his face appear laughably cartoonish. "Figure them Injuns ain't hardly gonna leave me any shootin' to do, as fast as they can take a ship. But there's one whole battlement pod on the starboard side ain't been touched at all – I figure I can go ahead and take care of that, so they can't hit us on the flank!"

"But you can't go alone!" Gideon protested.

"Shucks!" the insane American laughed as he cinched the line and re-drew his guns, replacing the spent cartridges – not an easy task, considering the ship was listing badly to port, now, and the winds whipping across them were strong. "This ain't hardly worth even me goin', Cap'n! But it surely will be a bit o' manly fun!" With that he took a breath, drew his pistols, and took a running plunge over the ship's horizon to the starboard side. Gideon's heart was in his throat as he watched the coiled line pay out and then finally go taut. At least his corpse would be dangling, then, he thought, somehow relieved by the idea. Every airman feared plummeting to their death — only a crazy American would risk such a dangerous stunt. There was living a life of adventure . . . and then there was spitting in the shadow of Death. A gentleman knew the difference.

Gideon descended into his prize like a gentleman, a pistol in his right hand, his rapier in the other. As he went down the narrow stairs he passed three corpses – all Atlan soldiers – who had gotten caught in the onslaught. He stepped over or around them as gingerly as possible, and finally came to the Engineering room, where two of his men were busily taking control of the engines, shutting down the crude alcohol burner and releasing huge gouts of steam from the boiler. Two more corpses decorated the hatchway, he saw, both brained with tomahawks. His men gave him a wolfish grin as he congratulated them, and then went even further below.

There was a stark contrast between the interior of this airship and his own British-made Victrix. This Atlan-constructed ship was far more wood and fabric than steel, and he saw how liberal they had been with copper and even gold. But the design was archaic, the type of thing that had flown in his grandfather's day. The tiny gondola was half the size of the Victrix's, and the general condition was shoddy, at best. Gideon could spot a dozen places where maintenance had been ignored to a point he would have dismissed a crewman — if not consigned him over the side — had it occurred on his ship.

By the time he made it to the control room, his men had herded the dozen or so disarmed prisoners who remained into the shabby dining room at the point of a gun and locked it. All the shooting was over, now, thankfully, and he could steer his prize back to port. A few of his men insisted excitedly about telling him the result of Bonney's mad dash over the side. Wolf Rider – who went by Charles, when they were on the ground – pointed to the battlement through the wind glass and explained.

"Damndest thing I ever saw, Captain," he admitted in his slow, deep, rumbling voice. "We were under fire from their position – which we expected – and I had deployed snipers to counter them when – out of no where – Bonney suddenly crashes into the battlement from behind them, boots first, pistols blazing. He made a wild war cry when he did it," Wolf Rider admitted, a grudging token of respect to the white man. "He must have killed two coming in, and shot two more before the survivors surrendered. But after that . . . well, the others were ready to go quietly."

"Excellent show!" Gideon said, happily, clapping the big Indian on the back heartily. "And you as well, my mighty red warrior! Strike her colors and raise the prize flag, if you would, and then let's get her out of this battle and head for port!" In truth, there was not much battle left to leave, he saw when he glanced out a porthole.

"Aye, Captain," Wolf Rider said, snapping to attention. Rumor was the man had been one of the feared Louisianan Imperial Marines before he had sold his sword to the Okie Kingdom. His professionalism in military matters supported that. "And what shall I do with the prisoners?"

"Leave them . . . bide, how many?" Gideon asked.

"Ten, all together, including their coward of a captain who was hiding in the privy. We did find . . . a woman aboard, too. She was well-dressed in civilian garb, and we know how you feel about raping captives . . ." Wolf Rider said, rolling his eyes indulgently at the white man's rules of civilized warfare, "so I had her put with the others. She keeps chattering in Atlan. Could be a noblewoman," he guessed.

"What would an Atlan noblewoman be doing in the middle of an aerial assault?" Gideon asked himself, mystified. He dismissed Wolf Rider with orders to get the ship under power again, and then signaled the Victrix to request a tow, as soon as convenient. As he surveyed the burning skies over Oklahoma, he could see only one Atlan ship still aloft, limping back to the frontier trailing smoke. The Victrix alone seemed unscarred by the fight, but the Hobgoblin and the Star of Baton Rouge were both listing or smoking as their crews struggled to put out fires from the combat.

"It looks as if we've preserved the Kingdom once again," sighed Gideon. "And secured quite the prize as well. This ship looks bigger than the last one we captured . . . how much did we get as bounty for that?"

"We sold it to the Crown for a hundred thousand guineas, Captain," Wolf Rider replied. "A princely sum, with which you were most generous."

Gideon shrugged. He had no desire for money, save for what it might buy him. A hundred thousand was roughly four months pay for his ship's services, all taken in one day. But what he could invest that money in . . .

Gideon's grand strategy involved leaving the desolate Kingdom of Oklahoma with a massive bounty of Helium stored – enough for his own liberal use, as well as plenty to be sold on the market in Paris at a vast profit. His privileged position as one of the Prairie Realm's defenders also allowed him to purchase the noble gas ahead of the commercial enterprises and foreign powers who had orders stretching far into the future. Already nine massive steel canisters of the rare and powerful gas were stored within his hanger, and with a similar prize for his capture, today, he could safely count on four more – perhaps even five – joining them. On the Parisian market, that would fetch him ten times what he invested – provided he could deliver the gas safely to Paris. But fourteen canisters put him well within range of his objective, and therefore limited his tenure as mercenary.

These thoughts entertained him on the long, slow journey back to the hanger – so much so that he barely noted the ominous cloudbank to his port side until it was nearly on top of them.

"Great Jupiter's Balls!" Gideon shouted, springing from the command chair when the first peal of thunder could be heard. "From whence came that storm?" He was speaking mostly to himself – the token pilot, a marine who possessed the rudiments of airship flight experience enough to manage to pilot a ship at tow – barely spoke English. But when his captain indicated the direction of the storm he, too, leapt excitedly to his feet.

The Okie Kingdom was almost ideal for airships – except for the storms. No place on Earth that Gideon had ever had chance to hear of seemed more prone to sudden, violent outbreaks of atmospheric excitation than this utterly flat realm. He had witnessed huge spires of pure mindless force descend from the skies, wreck havoc on the ground like something from the Old Testament, then leap again into the air. The Spanish explorers who were the first white men to witness them called them tornados, but they were more commonly known as Borealis. And they could form in an instant, like the Hand of God itself, at any time on these barren plains. On the ground they were horrific enough, flailing wagons and cows and even whole houses around like toys – but aloft they were hellish.

"Cut us loose," Gideon whispered, when Wolf Rider heard the pilot's chatter and came forward. "We're better off that way."

"What?" the marine asked, incredulous. "We have almost no engines, Captain," he reminded Gideon. "We won't be able to outrun the storm."

"We might be able to out-wit it, then, my lad," Gideon said, reaffirming his decision and standing upon it. "If we stay in our current configuration, we imperil both ships. Apart, even if we are adrift, then we increase our individual chances. Consider," he said, breathlessly, as he sketched the scene in the air with his fingers, "if the Borealis hits one of the ships, then the other will flail about like a whip cracking. This way, with luck, only one of us will be hit and plummet to our doom."

"That is comforting," Wolf Rider said, unconvinced.

"So go and cut the bloody cable, and have the signalman tell the Victrix to head for port, full speed!"

"Aye, Captain," Wolf Rider said, clinging to military discipline in the face of disaster by snapping an open-palmed salute and hurrying off to relay the orders. Gideon was well satisfied with the result – in less than five harrowing minutes the tether that connected his prize to his flagship was loosed. He and the pilot were busy, after that, attempting to steer the damaged airship with only minimal engines at his disposal.

As the tempest bore down on them, he watched his azure ship and his new half-sister, whom he had come to love more than all of his others, speeding dutifully towards the hanger – but still not expediently enough to avoid the looming storm. Worse, the spires of Borealis began appearing in the distance, yet moving ever closer. Gideon himself took the wheel when the storm was nearly upon them, much to Wolf Rider's dismay.

"Are you certain that is wise, Captain?" he asked, as he watched the Englishman, stripped down to his shirtsleeves, wrestle with the massive wheel in the face of such a brutal wind. Gideon had a poor reputation as a pilot.

"No!" Gideon agreed, when he could spare a moment from his titanic effort to keep the ship on course, "But do you want to be responsible for smashing us all to bits? Or will you cede that honor to your captain?"

"As you wish, Sir!" Wolf Rider snapped back. While as brave as any man alive in the face of enemy guns, most of the Indians he'd encountered had a respect near to worship of the wild winds of the plains. Even the civilized Cherokee still retained a superstitious cast about such matters.

"If you want to do anything, see to our prisoners. Make sure they all have tie-downs, lest they get . . . more of a chaotic ride than they expected!"

It took every ounce of Gideon's strength on the dual wheels to keep the ship heading cross-wind against the face of the storm. Ordinarily, that was a job for a steersman for each wheel, but her had to suffice alone. Nor was his prize the only ship having difficulties – the Hobgoblin was already lagging behind the rest of the mercenary fleet, even the damaged prize, and when Gideon spared a moment to look he saw that the airship was dangerously close to the stormfront.

Then, to his horror, one of the Borealis formed all too near in proximity of his ally, and within the blink of an eye, she was caught.

Gideon and the rest of the makeshift prize crew, who had crammed into the control room to see, witnessed out of the portholes the brutal destruction of the green airship in near silence. The  Hobgoblin had been captured by its portside stern section, and while the entire ship was quickly drawn within the ferocious storm, the tail section did so without the necessity of remaining intact. The framework and fabric, the aerolons and stabilizers, the miles of rope and steel cord and lastly the envelope, itself, was chewed up by the force of the wind. The debris from the ship whirled within the cone of destruction so rapidly that it made a full circuit, crashing into the sides of the ship and tearing it apart with added force. Small shapes that all who watched knew were men lept from the gondolas and battlements, willing to plummet to their deaths rather than endure one more moment in that hell in the heavens.

Gideon and his men were helpless to prevent it, but worse, they saw an omen of their own destruction, should they not out-run the storm or be struck by capricious Fortune so. When the last quarter of the Hobgoblin was flung nearly a mile away by the storm, tossed like the core of an apple once the flesh has been consumed, Gideon ordered them all back to work with renewed purpose.

"Here, take the wheels!" he hollered to one of the corporals. "Just hold them steady – we're on course, more or less, and I'm winded! I need to take stock!"

The man reluctantly did as he was ordered, and with a mix of physical relief and foreboding at the continuing risk posed by the storm, he went himself back to collect his thoughts, marshal his resources, and plot his next move. A bit of tea would have been ideal, but he settled for the thick, bitter coffee that the Atlan crew drank. Or at least that was his plan, before he stumbled across one of his men engaged in an activity less suited to the dining room as some.

Bonney, his wild white man, had his trousers pulled down mid-thigh, exposing his muscular buttocks to Gideon's gaze. He was in the act of lustfully pounding forward into some maiden – and with a sick sensation in his stomach, Gideon realized that there was only one candidate for that position aboard.

The "Atlan noblewoman" Wolf Rider had told him of, and his heart sank — should Bonney have raped the woman, he would likely be forced to hang the man himself as a warning to the rest of the men. Best not to leap to any conclusions, under the circumstances, Gideon concluded, noting how lustily the woman was shouting during their vigorous course. Instead he circled the table where the couple was performing their rite, and confirmed his suspicion.

"Bonney," he said in a pained tone as he witnessed the woman's face contort again in ecstasy, "if we weren't in danger most dire and likely be dead in the next half-hour, I'd have to reprove you for violating my dictum against raping the prisoners," he chided, as gently as he could.

"Ain't rape, Cap'n!" the young American said, unwilling to break his erotic momentum one bit, even in the face of discovery and censure. "Or if it is, it's me what's losin' my virtue! I know a bit o' Atlan Dutch, so Papa Wolf asked me to see to the prisoners," he explained. "I was trying to comfort 'em best I could when Wolf came back, said we were headed into a nest o' twisters. This li'l lady was terrified at the thought. I was trying to comfort her, but then next thing I knows my pants are down, my willy's out, and she's a suckin' on it like it's the last piece o' peppermint at the candy store!"




Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 04



"So this union is . . . voluntary?" Gideon brightened. "You didn't coerce her?"

"Coerce her? Hell, she won't let me get away!" The muscular young gun continued to plow the foreign field in front of him, grunting with exertion between ecstatic feminine moans. For her part, the lady had abandoned her colorful undergarments and had pushed her skirts well up her thighs to her waist, bringing her slender limbs high in the air. Gideon could not help but note their shapeliness. Nor could he soon forget the unfortunate face of their owner, whose countenance was clearly far more beautiful in the rictus of ecstasy than in relaxed repose. The Atlan aristocracy was hardly the paragon of beauty under the best of circumstances, being addicted, as they were, to the famous incestuous liaisons within their class, the progeny of which, while pure of blood, were often also as ugly as stray mongrels. And this woman's face would have ranked near the bottom of her peers.

Yet she did seem to be enjoying his soldier's attention, Gideon noted. Her big brown breasts were exposed from her dress, lolling about quite extravagantly as Billy's quick thrusting made them gyrate. She looked up at Gideon pleadingly – but not for the enterprise to end, he surmised. She seemed eager and enthusiastic to entertain this white buck between her thighs.

"Her name is Marta," Billy explained as he fucked her, "and she's apparently the daughter o' one of the Beanie generals or somethin'. She was riding along 'cause she's got a bad case o' randies 'bout skyships."

"And . . . that was enough for her to forget herself and give up her virtue?"

"She's the romantic type," Billy said, continuously thrusting. "She figured dyin' in a skyship in a storm was preferable to goin' back to Atlan and marrying some disgusting old Beanie," he recounted. "This way, she can lose her virtue properly, an' claim 'fortunes o' war' to her daddy. Not bad thinkin' fer a girl!" Billy said, his thrusts becoming harder and more insistent as he approached his climax. "She ain't but . . . eighteen . . . an' just came out . . . o' the convent school . . . in Atlan City," he gasped, plunging his cock deep into her darkly furred cleft as he exploded within the depths of her new-minted womanhood. Billy collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving, a bead of sweat splashing against the woman's unfortunately large nose. "She don't . . . look like much," Billy admitted, "but Marta's a helluva fuck!"

"Apparently," Gideon nodded, unable to find an argument within the statement. "And I'm glad we could assist her in her premature defloration, if that, indeed, suits her purposes. But right now, we are in mortal peril, and your presence is needed in the Engine Room."

"Mine?" Billy asked, surprised and confused. "Why th' hell they need me?"

"You have been fucking my sister for two months, thinking I wouldn't notice," Gideon recounted, drolly. "If she's half as talkative about mechanics while she fucks as she is at any other time, you probably know more than any of my men how the engines work. So pull up your trousers, wipe off your hands, tell your ladylove adieu, and go find some way to get this ship moving . . . faster . . . or this will be the last cunt you sample. Ever."

"Aye, Cap'n," Billy said, fastening his belt, then leaning down to kiss his nearly insensible lover. He murmured something in Atlan Dutch, to which she responded with a nod and a glance at Gideon. "She wants to know if you're next, Cap'n," Billy informed him, when he finally rose.

"What?" Gideon asked, shocked.

"Well, it's funny," the mercenary said, chuckling, "She's heard tale of just how brutal us 'Sky Panthers' are – that's what the Beanies call us airmen, back home. We're just awful rapists and killers and pirates," he said, with mock seriousness. "Any woman who had the misfortune to be captured by us, it's said, is gonna get raped. Guaranteed. Or that's what their Emperor says. So when Marta got the chance to participate in this skirmish she jumped at it on account o' she's a lusty little lady and she got a face like a mush pie, which ain't an enviable combination. So she's gonna make the most of it, get all the Sky Panther cock she can, afore she's ransomed back."

"Ransom?" Gideon asked, his ears perking up. "Just . . . how much does she think she'll be worth?" That was something he hadn't considered. Ratings and officers were housed in a prisoner of war camp in Guthrie, but noble civilians were a different matter. He had every right to demand ransom for Marta's return.

Billy and the girl had a serious exchange in Atlan Dutch, during which Marta went on at length. When she stopped, Billy looked up at his commander. "She says that her sister was captured by Moriscan pirates two years ago, and her father paid out . . . is that right? Over twenty thousand ounces of gold for her return?"

Gideon suddenly found it difficult to breathe as Fortune gave him a gift in the middle of the crisis. "Twenty thousand? In gold? Dear Jupiter's Holy Sack, that's a lot!"

"Them Atlan lords got gold," Billy agreed, reverently. Despite the abject poverty most of the Atlan people suffered, the wealthy among them were very wealthy, indeed, and much of it in gold. "But they also got funny ideas 'bout a girl's virtue – don't even want to pretend she got urges, then they lock her away where she ain't even got hope of a thick cock. So . . . if you'd get your pecker out, Cap'n, and fuck her right proper, then she'd be much in your debt."

"Me?" Gideon asked in surprise.

"She thinks you're handsome," Billy relayed doubtfully after a brief conversation. "Me, I ain't seein' it clear."

"For which I am forever thankful, considering my sister's reports of the size of your weapon," the Captain said, haughtily. "But I find that seeing the Hobgoblin destroyed has renewed my interest in life-centered pursuits, of a sudden, and despite this poor girl's face, she seems to be willing and eager enough to sate me."

"Oh, that she is, Cap'n, that she is," Billy agreed. "She's horny enough to fuck a goat, but I guess an Englishman will do."

"You are dismissed, Mr. Bonney," Gideon said, unbuttoning his fly as he approached the lewdly-splayed girl. "And are you certain she knows no English?"

"None I can tell," the mercenary agreed over his shoulder. "You enjoy her proper, now, Cap'n! We got a reputation as 'Sky Panthers' to live up to, now."

"So we do," Gideon murmured, as the storm outside finally caught up with them. He had barely brought his bare prick out when the gusts suddenly pushed him face-forward against the brazenly displayed breasts of his captive. She seemed startled, and perhaps even a little frightened of the raging tempest, but not at all afraid of the prospect of getting fucked by an enemy who did not even speak her language. Since Gideon found his dick in close proximity in that position, he shoved it into her soaking twat without further ceremony, causing her heart to race, her eyes to pop open, and her cries of pleasure begin anew.

Gideon's prick wasn't a behemoth, but the servant girls, friends' sisters, and occasional whore he'd used it upon had all proclaimed it splendidly formed for its intended function. Since coming to the Americas he had rarely even taken one of the ubiquitous airship whores who prowled the yards, both to maintain discipline without complications and out of respect for his new sister, though he did discreetly visit a few lady friends clandestinely.

Lady Tayanita hadn't seen fit to display a similar decorum herself, however, and had spent most of their time together fucking his marines, her engineers, and anyone else she took a fancy to when they were in port. The Americans, particularly the native Indians, were far more earthy about the rites of Aphrodite than the English, he knew, and there were whispers about savage orgies of lurid sex occurring around bonfires in America throughout the European world.

After spending most of a year here, however, Gideon was forced to concede that such orgies were the stuff of folklore, not fact. Tallassi and Guthrie were perfectly ordinary frontier towns on the Plains, with telegraphs and dry goods stores and post offices – and a good dozen churches of various denominations. They were even building an opera hall in Guthrie, of all things. Such civilized folk frowned on orgies just as much as the most conservative vicar in England.

The folk of Oklahoma, however, had embraced the cult of Science far more readily than that of the Nazarene. Since it had been Science that had elevated their tiny settlement into a strategic asset, lifted their economy to riches, and provided them the wherewithal to establish their independence, Science, not Jesus, held sway the most in Oklahoma. While there were church-goers aplenty, the superstitions of Europe were no more attractive to them than the superstitions of their own people, and a surprising number of educated Oklahomans, depending upon their tribe, were quite openly sexual with little or no regard for the sanctity of marriage – or even its necessity. Far from the scorn an unwed maid might attract for a birth without a husband in England, here on the plains such things were taken as a matter of course. Hence Tayanita's mother's ease at providing for her daughter without the benefit of husband until she came of age. Many Okie girls were similarly wild-spirited, and would leap at the chance at bedding a dashing young Air Captain.

Gideon had - mostly - resisted, though he had such offers aplenty when he was aground. But at this instance, with such easy prey so close and so willing – and no Tayanita around to deter him – he plunged viciously into the cunt of the enemy noblewoman, reveling in the feel of warmth and wetness that engulfed his prick so enchantingly once he proceeded beyond her tangled jungle of pubic hair. Marta, too, seemed pleased at the penetration, arching her hips dramatically as his length found its home.

He didn't know what uncouth things Marta was saying as he fucked her with powerful strokes, or if they were just unworded syllables uttered in response to ecstasy, but Gideon found within his lack of comprehension the freedom necessary to unleash his own sexual frustrations on unhearing ears. As he fucked the girl, a steady stream of filthy invective curled out of his mouth to join her unintelligible cries.

In response, Marta pulled her knees up to her ears, brazenly displaying the well-furred pussy at her center to Gideon's lascivious gaze. He watched in fascination as his prick sawed in and out of her hot, wet slit, unheeding of the shaking and the rolling the airship endured in the teeth of the storm. If he was going to die the way the Hobgoblin had gone down, then buried balls-deep into a hot cunt was his preferred method of doing so.

Marta, for her part, gave voice to her lover's efforts in ways far beyond Gideon' experience. Her howls of lust and joy seemed to fill the entire ship as he relentlessly fed his cock to her hungry pussy. Inexperienced, perhaps, the Atlan woman's capacities for lust seemed infinite. In a pique of savage whimsy, Gideon reached down and viciously twisted her great bronze nipples to make her squeal and tighten her twat around his cock.

The distraction of their mutual climax was enough to prevent them from witnessing the airship's continuing predicament. But the fact that Gideon was still alive to enjoy his orgasm meant, he felt, that his men had adequately dealt with the storm. As he spurted the last tendrils of his creamy joy deep within Marta's clasping cunny, he sighed with great relief and withdrew.

"M-more?" Marta asked, trembling. "C-can we have– can we do that . . . again, Captain?"

"I thought you spoke no English!" Gideon said, springing up in surprise. He quickly began fastening his flies, but noted that Marta made no move to cover herself. What hideous words had departed his lips when he thought none could hear?

"I learned a little," she admitted. "In the convent. They said it would be helpful to me."

"I dare say it was," Gideon admitted. "But then . . . you understood every word I said?" he asked, concerned.

"Well . . . yes, but don't be embarrassed," the poorly-formed girl coaxed. "It sounds as if milord needed that just as badly as I."

"So, what else did you lie to my man about?" he asked, a little perturbed that he had fallen for the ruse.

"Not so much," she conceded. "Well, the part about my father being a General. He's actually the Deputy War Minister, tasked with securing our border."

"You mean, conquering the Kingdom of Oklahoma," Gideon countered.

"I could care less for the politics," the girl insisted in her strange accent. "But when I got the opportunity to go to the front in a real warship—"

"So you could lose your virginity?" Gideon asked in surprise.

"Among other things," she nodded. "Had not that handsome young man deflowered me, then I had selected one from amongst the crew on which to bestow such a gift before we returned."

"Well, I hope Billy provided satisfaction," Gideon added, as he straightened his coat. "To many women, he looks like no more than a child."

"He is no child," Marta said, dreamily. "Nor, Captain, were you."

"So I take it your capitulation to this 'rape' of your virtue is not quite over yet?"

"If this is rape," she breathed, solemnly, "then I love it! Yes, yes, bring me more hard dicks! They fill me so . . . all of your men, should they wish, may reward themselves between my thighs."

"Do not you worry about getting with child?"

"My people know special herbs that make such a thing impossible," Marta said. "But what if I should? I am a princess of the blood, descended from the gods themselves. Should I bear a man's seed, my father might be angry for a short while because of what the priests might say, but soon will come to dote on me and his new grandchild."

"How convenient for you," Gideon acknowledged. "So, is it your desire that you be repatriated to your land?"

"Oh, if I must!" Marta said, impatiently. "I'd much prefer to be repatriated to your prick, Captain. Upon my return, I can expect nothing but marriage to a dour, ill-mannered brute of a nobleman, where I must near him many brats and endure his tiny cock forever. But as a prisoner . . . the skies are open to the possibilities!"

"That's precisely how my sister, Tayanita, reacts," he mused. "She's as fond of prick as you, if a tad older. She's a noblewoman too – on her mother's side she's some kind of princess or something. I'm her brother on her father's side, and her English father has disowned her. It's all very complicated. But if you want to lay about and fuck my men into a stupor until you are redeemed, and then blame your lack of virginity on rough handling by the enemy . . . well, be my guest. Oh, here's a fellow who might assist – Roy! Come here, lad!"

As the young marine was coming to inform the captain that he had dire matters to attend within the control room, and found an open, willing, and well-used cunt oozing invitingly in front of him, instead, he quickly spat out the message, lowered his trousers, and began humping wildly into Marta's clasping cunt. As promised, the lusty young maid responded with delirious delight at this second assault on her virtue – a virtue, Gideon noted, that she had given away at the earliest opportunity. Atlan society was conservative, partially Catholic, and completely repressed sexually – it did not surprise him that a noblewoman, especially one so poorly formed, would be eager to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh the moment it was possible to do so. And Marta seemed quite satisfied by both the size of his weapon, the motion of his thrusting, and the ardor to which he committed himself in service to her pleasure.

One of these days, Gideon said to himself as he returned to the control room, my prick is going to get me into trouble, instead of out of it.



Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 05



Chapter Five:

The Hopi Monk In The Beer Hall

When Chief Jacob Two Star, of the Cherokee Nation, and Chief Everett Mauser of the Chocktaw led their bands of native mercenaries to the frontier of the White Man's empires to found the Oklahoma Kingdom on the basis of the vast reserves of gasses naturally occurring to the otherwise bland and disinteresting land, they had invited (some said kidnapped) a number of German chemists to assist them in exploiting the resource. 

The Germans were fabulous chemists and physicists, and they had happily assisted the Prairie Crown in developing the industry to wrest the gas from the earth, then separate out the precious helium from the less noble elements. The pay was extravagant, compared to what they could command as instructors and professors in the universities of the Rhine, and many worked two and five year contracts with the Crown and retired to Europe rich men. But their presence had had another, unintentional effect, however: the construction of an authentic German beer hall in the middle of a dusty native Kingdom.

Das Jagerhaus had the feel of a Saxon hunting lodge – or, that was what the original design had intended. Made of wattle-and-daub, complete with rune-like exposed beams, Das Jagerhaus had become the unofficial headquarters for both the German scientists who toiled for the Prairie Crown's Helium monopoly and the airship mercenaries who protected it. The two groups mixed freely, providing one of the few truly cosmopolitan venues in Tillassa, both attracted by the hall's near-monopoly on the brewing and dispensing of good German beer. 

King Steven Two Star, noting his own people's poor history with strong drink, had thus restricted the production and sale of such spirits to fully licensed purveyors – of which Das Jagerhaus was one of three in Tillassa. While the restriction had not completely protected the Indians from indulging in the wickedness of drunkenness, it had made the frequently violent outbursts a drunken native was reputed to be capable of a rarity. A native could go to Das Jagerhaus and get a drink, but did so under watchful eyes of foreigners and fellow tribesmen, both of which took a dim view of such behavior. Indeed only a few, notably the mercenary marines like Wolf Rider and his men, made a habit of entering the German tavern, and a marine who could not maintain his control with drink there would not be employed long. None of them would have risked their well-paying positions by hazarding a stupor.

But the European, American, and Louisianan airmen mercenaries were more accustomed to liquor, and had no hesitation about the lure of strong drink. They made Das Jagerhaus their unofficial home, place of business, and recreation hall. Each ship had a section of the large hall where they were in the habit of congregating after a flight, concentrating around an Indian-style fetish on the wall above upon which they bestowed ribbons signifying their battles and triumphs. 

The usual air of celebration was muted today, however, due to the silence coming from the Hobgoblin's empty table. No one had yet removed the ship's trophies, which had been draped in black in mourning while the fallen airmen's comrades drank to their memory.

The corner where the Star of Baton Rouge's crew drank was muted, at best. Five of their number had fallen in the Atlan skirmish, but they had only barely escaped the Hobgoblin's fate when a massive Borealis nearly clipped them in midair. The ship had spun crazily, but Fortune or some unknown native Sky God had favored them, merely leaving them unpowered and battered, not fallen. The bounty on their kill – which Gideon had been only too happy to confirm to the Crown's representative – would be barely enough to pay for repairs, a process which would keep the ship out of service for at least a fortnight.

The big round table where the Victrix's crew was stationed, however, was as jubilant as propriety allowed, under the circumstances. By tradition, the large table was reserved for the marines and flight crew, while a rectangular table nearby attracted the engineers from the ship. As captain, Gideon had the pick of the tables but mostly clung to the larger, in deference to his sister's reign at the latter.

Having successfully nursed his prize ship back to port, as well as his relatively unscathed Victrix, Gideon's band of "Sky Panthers" (he had relayed the Beanie dame's sobriquet for the mercenaries to his men, if not the circumstances under which the intelligence was gathered, and they had adopted the moniker with savage pride and humor) had been richly rewarded for their bravery and efforts. The prize ship was already in the process of being converted into an Oklahoman warship – resigned to patrol, due to her primitive nature – by being repaired and outfitted with Helium balloon and good Manchester rockets. When the conversion was complete, she would work the pickets along the southern frontier, along with her relatively weak sister-ships, espying on the land of her birth like a captive Sabine pining from Rome.

Gideon was glad that he had driven such a hard bargain for her, too, commanding a good thirty percent over his last prize. Still, the Crown had been eager to pay it – even with the additional expense of overhauling her to Okie standards, it was less expensive than purchasing such a craft new from Europe or even America or Louisiana, both of which had nascent airship manufactories. Yet while he had haggled with the wily old Baron Amadahy (made easier by his relation as an uncle or something to his sister Tayanita), he had also discovered the incipient arrival of five brand new warships purchased from the French, through the Louisianans, for the purpose of interdiction duty. 

Each was half again the size of his Victrix, real three-hundred-meter Emperor Napoleon I-class air frigates armed with the latest French Imperial military-grade accoutrements throughout. They were devastating war machines, as the Indochinese discovered during their recent rebellion, able to over-match all but the largest German-made Atlan ships. 

In addition to the nine smaller airships the Kingdom currently used for patrol and interdiction duties (ten, with the addition of Gideon's prize), the five would essentially replace the mercenaries that had protected the Crown and its lucrative Helium for the last decade. It had been a complex, complicated bargain that Baron Amadahy had personally negotiated, but it seemed as if the tenure of easy money for airship mercenaries was drawing to a close. While the ships would not arrive for another month, and take a month beyond to be fully crewed, the Victrix would be redundant soon enough. Even with Amadahy's assurance that Gideon would always be welcome in the Okie Kingdom as a friend to the Crown, he could tell that he was being sacked, albeit gently.

That suited Gideon's own plans nicely – between the bounty for the prize and the likely ransom for Marta the Beanie Dame (who had taken up residence in his Marine barracks, and seemed to be determined to make up for time lost in the convent by making the full acquaintance of the phallus in all of its manifestations ere she was redeemed), he would have easily fifteen fully-loaded cylinders of Helium in a fortnight, with credits payable for up to two more on account with the Crown. That was a titanic fortune, by any account. In truth, he hadn't been particularly surprised by the knowledge - he had heard the rumors of the French ships for months, now, and had factored them into his plotting. Witnessing the Hobgoblin's ignoble destruction had further convinced him that remaining in Oklahoma indefinitely was not in his future.

Gideon's sister seemed more enthusiastic than even he was about winning the day and capturing the prize. Despite her allegedly noble upbringing and gentle appearance, Lady Tayanita made a regular practice of joining the rougher elements of the Victrix's crew with her own Engineers, and tonight she wore a proper lady's dress in defiance of her usual custom of boyish trousers, braces, shirt and cap. She sat amid her German and Dutch mechanics, sipping brandy and talking with some of the scientists from the Gas Works about some exciting ideas she'd had. 

The scientists, lonely, far from home, and drunk, were captivated with the physically ravishing and intellectually brilliant half-native beauty and hung on her every word. Gideon liked to pretend that they were more enthralled with her impressive brain as much as her shapely bubbies, but the gentleman in him knew better. Still, Tayanita could handle herself in nearly any situation, and here she was surrounded by shipmates. Indeed, Das Jagerhaus seemed almost like a home – a shabby, smelly home where he needn't worry about appearances or his family or anything but buying the next round and shagging the next girl. To proceed with his plan meant abandoning this comfortable lifestyle and going back to stuffy Europe, where this kind of frontier camaraderie was rare.

"So where to now, Cap'n?" Bonney suddenly asked Gideon, breaking him from his reverie.

"What do you mean, Bonney?"

"Cap, I know good 'n' well that look in your eye – seen it in the lookin' glass myself a time or two. I'd swear on a stack of Bibles that you was lookin' about, sayin' farewell to this place."

Gideon laughed despite himself. "Well struck, Bill! You are not far wrong. Pray, don't speak of it to the rest of the crew yet, but yes, we are not long for Oklahoma." No sense in keeping the information too close to his vest -- the arrival of the ships was hardly a state secret now. "The Crown has procured a real aerofleet, now, and will be using mercenaries less and less," he explained quietly.

"So, bringin' me back to my earlier point, where to now?" The man didn't seem shaken by the idea of abandoning Oklahoma. That was one reason he liked Bonney -- always on the lookout for adventure.

"Well, I've given it some thought," Gideon admitted. "And much of my plans revolve around my sister."

"Beg pardon?" Bill asked, surprised. He gave the Engineer and his occasional lover her due as an officer and a woman – but Gideon alone of the Victrix's non-engineering crew saw Tayanita's potential as a visionary in airship design. He had seen her portfolios, crammed with sketches and designs and hundreds of pages of technical notes she had put together over her years of casual conversations with engineers, scientists, and airmen. While he doubted the utility of all of her work – likely because he lacked the intellectual foundation to comprehend it – he had seen his dusky sibling work miracles in the air. The improvements she had made on the Victrix's archaic design had made her a model of graceful efficiency compared to other ships in her class – and as a result many of the modifications had been adopted by the other mercenary crews.

"She has an idea to build a new kind of airship," Gideon explained. "I'm going to see her vision come to life. And I will command it," he added, as if there might be some doubt.

"Huh? Little Tayanita?" Bonney asked, mystified. 

"Indeed," Gideon nodded. "When we quit here, likely we will travel to Europe to find a proper yard. With the loot I've gathered, we should be able to fund most of the construction."

"Most?" Bonney inquired again. 

"Most," agreed Gideon. "The rest we can steal. Or earn, if we have to. With a bag full of Helium, we would be in high demand in some places. But there remain plenty of opportunities for a crafty and adventurous airman out there, Bonney, and I dare say we'll find a few on our travels."

"You mean to include me in y'all's excursions?" he asked, again surprised.

"Where we travel, we are likely to need someone with your skills. Wolf Rider and his men, too. Unless you would prefer to terminate your service . . ."

"Oh, hell no, Cap'n!" Bonney swore. "Do you jest? The Victrix's crew is the first place I felt a part o' somethin' akin to a family. Worked my share of ranches and such, might have lifted a horse or two that weren't mine, technically speakin', but I never felt a man until I was aloft," he said, sincerely. "If you'll have me, I'll stay hitched to your star as long as I can!"

"Good to hear!" Gideon agreed, happy that the itinerant gunman was willing to accompany him. He could trust the man, he knew, and that was worth more than a pile of German degrees. "Persuading your native colleagues might be more problematic – Wolf Rider himself was mentioning settling down to ranch, when he put down his guns. But I imagine I'll be able to find a dozen or so healthy rascals who don't mind a fight."

"They're a scrappin' people, assured," Billy agreed, admiringly. "Your sis amongst them. Buit she's sore as hell at me right now. She found out I dipped my wick in that Atlan cunt, she 'bout threw me outta her engine room. Ain't let me near her yet. I know she's your sis an' all, but I confess I'm sweet on her."

"She's likely to forgive, eventually," Gideon said, kindly. "She has a temper, no doubt about it, but she checks it at need and forgets trespasses quickly. Thank Jupiter – else she would have ended me months ago!"

"Sure is a hoot knowin' you're a real English Lord, and she's your daddy's bastard," Bonney chuckled, finishing his beer. "I think it's noble as hell o' you runnin' away from your family castle and bein' with her. Family's important," the orphan assured him.

"It's the only important thing, really," Gideon sighed. "I might hate my father, pity my brother, and despise my sisters and mother for their many shallow faults, but I shall love them all until the day I die. I confess that it is only their intractability in the matter of Sissy's legitimacy that estranges me yet from them."

"Well, hope you and your kin come to accord," Bonney said, raising his mug after receiving a refill from the buxom Saxon daughter of the tavernkeeper. 

"Hope springs eternal," Gideon grumbled, raising his own glass.

"Gid!" his sister called suddenly from her table. "GID! Get o'er here!" She had the sparkling quality in her voice that told her brother that she was already half-drunk and giddy over something. Gideon also knew that she was stubborn enough not to let him at peace until he saw what excited her so. With a nod to his gunman, he rose and came dutifully over to the Engineer's table, where Tayanita held court.

"Gid, this fella here is Herr Doctor Planck. Maxie!" she said, correcting herself. "Maxie works o'er at th' Gas Works, an' I, we been talkin'," she slurred, conspiratorially. Gideon glanced at the young German scientist, who seemed more than a little intimidated by his sister. That was a common reaction in the Germans, who saw most natives as mere laborers or servants, not potentially brilliant scientists and technicians. Or his awkwardness might have been inspired by the way Sissy was pushing her vivacious breasts around. While they were slight, compared to some women, she seemed determined to make up for their lack of size by increasing their visibility. The dress she wore, of colorful native fabrics, was cut low enough to incite scandal in polite society in London.

Therefore, he loved it on her. 

"Go on," he encouraged, when he felt prompted.

"Anyway, me an' Maxie worked out . . . it's right here," she said, holding up a big sheet of foolscap covered with penciled equations, "we worked out a way to build a new kinda gun."

"A gun?" Gideon asked, his interest piqued. "What kind of gun? Like the infamous French gas cannon?"

"No, no, nothing so element-ry," she dismissed, haughtily, with a hiccough. "But I had this idea come from watching the water hose on th' ship, wonderin' if light acts like water an' what would happen if—"

"It's really a matter uv coherency," the German managed to get in, finally. "Ven you push light tru un tuben, tru a reactif matrix of transluscent matter und bounce it off a series of mirrors—"

"The upshot is, you should be able to knock light around with mirrors to get it to act like a cannon!" Tayanita explained, impatiently. "Under the proper conditions, it should be able to tear through a balloon and bring down a Hydrogen ship at over five times the range of a Manchester, afore dispersion sets in! Theoretically-ly, that is," she added with another hiccough.

"That's a fascinating theory," Gideon said, smiling indulgently. "And one of many you've explained to me that I'll have to take on faith, lacking the education or numbers to do otherwise. Tell me, Sissy, is Dr. Planck as convinced as you?" He hated to publicly doubt his sister's abilities, but she was drunk, he reasoned, and a little gracious investigation might help keep her enthusiasm properly channeled.

"He says so," she admitted, as if that hardly mattered. "But think of the implications!" she said, wide-eyed. "Think about shootin' down Beanies wi' a spray o' light, not Manchesters! No weight penalty, no chance o' fire, no missin' the fuckin' target . . ."

"It sounds magnificent, Sissy," Gideon agreed. "We'll have to install it aboard our new ship."

"New ship?" Planck asked confused. "Ze one you captured?"

"Nah, that shitbag?" Tayanita swore. "I wouldn't wipe my cunt with that flyin' turkey! No, me an' my dear brother, here, are going to build the most advanced airship in the world. One of the biggest, too!" she added, hugging her knees through her dress like a little girl. "It's gonna be called—"

"That's enough, Sissy," Gideon said, gently interrupting her. "I know you're enthusiastic, but we have yet to even lay the keel of the thing, much less fly it. If it flies," he added.

"It will fly!" she insisted, ardently. "It will!  It's built on sound principals, just—"

"If you say it will fly," Gideon said, stopping her, "I will trust my life that it will do so. But let's not be casually mentioning our ultimate goal, shall we? Too many ears around." While the tavern was half-filled, and he recognized almost everyone there, he was also fully aware of the sensitivity of the situation. Since Das Jagerhaus was the nexus of the foreign mercenary and the foreign technician class in Oklahoma, naturally all of the major empires had observers here. 

The French, of course, were intently interested in the goings on in Tillassa, as were the British and Germans. Add the American, Louisianan, and even Atlan spies that were no doubt prowling around trying to overhear valuable intelligence about the wildcat kingdom, and the beer hall, while quaint, was hardly a secure venue for sensitive matters.

"Oh, no one's gonna listen to li'l ol' me," Tayanita dismissed. "I'm just a girl."

"You are also the chief engineer of the most successful mercenary airship in the kingdom," he reminded her. "That gives you standing your sex does not."

"My sex ain't gettin' any standin' no how," Tayanita complained. "That fool Billy went and put his pecker in that Beanie cunt, an' I ain't ready to forgive him that . . . yet!" Gideon made note not to reveal his own sexual indiscretion with the captive, lest he incite his sister's wrath at him as well. "That was tant'mount to consortin' with th' enemy! So my poor li'l pussy goes to bed all alone tonight . . ." she pouted.

"I'm sure your genitalia will recover—hullo, what's this?" Gideon asked, interrupting himself as a commotion from the front of the tavern attracted his attention.

It wasn't completely out of the ordinary for the tavern to play scene to an altercation or disturbance, either due to distraught airmen, wild mercenaries, homesick Germans, or drunken natives or a mixture of any or all of them. Hans, the barrel-chested barkeep, had two husky native lads on hand to keep the peace, and the Royal Watch station was on Tacumsah Street, a mere dusty block away. But the tumult that had attracted Gideon's attention bore none of the hallmarks of a typical rowdy evening at the pub – the shouts weren't angry or fearful.




Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 05



"What is it?" his sister asked, only to see the focus of the commotion at the same time as Gideon – although the expression she affected was quite different.

"It's . . . a monk!" Gideon whispered. "A real Hopi monk!"

"So?" scoffed Tayanita. "Those . . . fucking Hopi have been begging at my people's door for generations. Their preaching hurts the ears of our spirits. And they're pacifists," she said, openly scornful. The art of warfare was a well-developed cultural aspect of Cherokee, Chocktaw, and many other clans who had settled in the Okie Kingdom – the saffron-clad Hopi missionaries' reluctance to participate, and indeed their practice of condemning the practice of warfare, were looked upon with open scorn. "They don't fuck, neither," she added with contempt. "How can you trust a man o' god what don't fuck?" she asked, as if that was a crime against nature.

"Catholic priests do not marry," Gideon pointed out, gently. "Surely you've met some Atlan or Louisianan Catholics, haven't you?"

"Yes, but they only say they don't fuck," she pointed out, crudely. "If my friend Atoya's experience at the convent school in Baton Rouge is any guide, their attention to their vows is at best nominal. The fucking Hopi monks," she said, nodding in the direction of the old man who had caused such a ruckus, "they tend to really not fuck. Or fight. Or eat meat. Or drink," she added, finishing her brandy.

"And that offends you?" He was always amused at the surprising prejudices his sister demonstrated. The inter-clan rivalries of the Red Indians were almost as amusing to him as the similar rivalries between the Empires of Europe and their fetid aristocracies.

"I have no argument with their religion," she said, carefully, "but their society is foreign to my people. They were in too close a proximity to Near Cathay, and took up their religion without looking to their other cultural gifts. That's fine, such as it is – but they can't keep it to themselves. They have sent out missionaries for hundreds of years – everywhere. As far as the Saltless Seas, and the Ocean of Grass. To my people's original home in the Appalachians, even."

"I've always heard the Hopi monks were fortune tellers of great repute," Gideon observed, chuckling at his sister's annoyance. "Aged mystics in their bleak mountain caves, doling out wisdom and mystical offal to everyone who can reach their peaks, that sort of thing."

"If only that was th' extent," his sister snorted, curling her lip derisively. "Don't need to go all the way to Hopiland t' get your fortune. Plenty o' holy men around Tillassi and Guthrie, sick on peyote and spouting mystical nonsense. Everywhere, I expect. I've seen their likes, the wild men from the Open Plains, and the medicine men of the swamps of Louisiana. Mostly a bunch of charlatans and harmless fanatics. Love spells and speaking to your ancestors and the like. 

"But the Hopi monks come and they preach and they preach and they preach – more than a body can stand! I have no more desire to take refuge than I do to be saved from Perdition," she said, defiantly. "Reincarnation or resurrection, neither hold my attention as sufficient as ascension."

"Do you think I could get him to tell me my fortune?" Gideon asked, impetuously, not taking his eyes off of the wizened old man. "I've always loved that sort of thing. A Roma witch once read my palm in Cheapside, then offered to get her daughter to suck me off for half a crown," he mused. "Cheeky wench said I'd challenge the titans of the earth and become a force to topple empires. She did not believe so much that she would reduce the price for the fellatio, however. One would assume a toppler of empires would be due a discount."

"You can ask," she admitted. "'Bout the fortune tellin', that is, not the bargain cocksucking. Almost all of them bald-headed johnnies got some magic beads or sticks or such. They throw lots, some pretend to prophesy, and some will examine your head. But it's their damn begging bowl that's in your face before you can take a breath."

"I'm going to ask," Gideon decided, sliding out of his chair. "And do be good to Bonney, won't you Sissy? If you are going to fuck a wild creature, you cannot expect it to become tame overnight."

"I know, I know," she replied, glumly. "He ain't my intended or anything. We're just good friends who rut occasionally. Still, hurts my feelin's. We get back to the hanger by the skin o' our teeth, and finally see your ship in the sky, and the bastard has the nerve to be all fucked out when I want him!"

"Well, in his defense, we were staring death in the face," Gideon offered. "Any moment we could have been consigned to doom."

"Like that ain't his life every other day?" she asked, scornfully. "He's gonna find a grave afore he finds a cane, that 'un. Still, he shoulda known better! He does!  He knows I get worked up in a sky-fight an' need to . . . blow off some pressure!"

"Just don't make him suffer overmuch. I have need of men such as he. And, apparently, so do you."

"I'll make up with him," she agreed, sullenly. "But that don't mean we're pickin' out wedding blankets!"

"I'm certain he'll be relieved to hear you say that," Gideon agreed. "Off to hear my oracle!"

"Superstitious idiot," he heard his sister whisper under her breath. Gideon didn't mind – he had a minor fascination with the occult, and having his fortune told by an authentic Hopi Buddhist Monk in an authentic German beer-hall on the dusty plains of Oklahoma was just the thing to tickle his fancy. He made his way through the crowd, mostly curious Germans and a few guilty-looking natives who were apparently back-slid Buddhists, to where the man was standing.

Hans, the burly barkeep, was standing imposingly in front of the Indian, arms akimbo, a hard expression on his classically Teutonic face.

"Ve vill haf no trouble from your kind!" he said, adamantly. "If you don't like beer, don't preach against it unter mein roof!"

"Peace," the wizened monk said, bowing submissively – yet with great dignity. "I wish only to beg—"

"He is a holy man," one of the stoic Choctaw mercenaries said, quietly but sternly. "He should not be harmed."

"Oh, let him stay, Hans!" a German chemist insisted, drunkenly. "It vill be good sport!"

"If efan one uv mein patronz complainz . . . " Hans said, warningly, raising a fat finger at the man.

"I say," Gideon said, interrupting the rotund Saxon before he could complete the threat, "old man, I've heard it said that your sect can see the future and tell a man's fortune. I'll see you well paid if you would do me that service." For emphasis Gideon jingled his wallet. 

"Do not insult the holy brother," the Choctaw infantryman said, looking at Gideon menacingly. While he had to admit the potency of such a gaze, the truth was that Gideon had long learned to ignore such stares from natives – if nothing else, enduring his sister's glares had hardened him. "He is not here to do tricks for White men. He speaks the path of the Awakened."

"Nor would I ask him to do tricks," Gideon soothed. "I have the same respect for all holy orders. But a man likes to have a glimpse of what Destiny has in store for him, and his sect has a reputation for oracles. Helps in planning your afternoons."

The big Choctaw started to respond angrily, but the monk held up a wrinkled hand wrapped in his turquoise rosary and the man desisted in an instant. Then he turned gracefully to Gideon and bowed. "I would be pleased to relate this man's dharma to him," he said quietly, in strangely-accented English. "All walk the path towards Nirvana, even the Whites." Gideon shot the mercenary a triumphant look as he led the monk through the crowd and towards a small, unoccupied table.

"Can I buy you a drink, Brother . . .?"

"I am called Sumki," the old man said as he sat gingerly in the rough wooden chair. "For I seek."

Gideon was certain that there was a long and complicated story behind the name and the old monk's mysterious manner, but he was anxious to hear his oracle. But there was the matter of hospitality to attend to. "Of course you do, old man. But do you seek a drink, is what I'm asking."

"I will have water," the monk conceded with a nod of his brown, bald head. 

"Well then," Gideon said, excitedly as he clapped his hands together, after ordering for them both from a passing barmaid, "I'm Captain Gideon Becker, Brother Sumki. I'm curious – where did you learn your English? It's passing good."

"I was a guide for the monastery when I was a boy," he explained. "I traveled with many English and learned their tongue. French, Spanish, and Dutch, as well. "

"Brilliant!" Gideon nodded, sliding several silver coins – enough to pay for a month's worth of meals – across the rough wooden table until they rested near to the monk's elbow. "Pray, what do the Fates have in store for me?"

With a quiet sigh of patience the old man opened a simple cloth bag at his side, long faded from dust and sun – much like the man himself, Gideon noted – and withdrew a number of items. First was a small doeskin bag which proved to contain a multitude of odd trinkets, the second was a colorful native doll, like a child's toy, and the third was a handsomely decorated scroll case. "Every man has his dharma," the monk intoned as he opened the bag of lots. "And every man may know his dharma if he but ask the intercession of the spirits. When the great Muna Lama set me upon my path many years ago at the great monastery at Orayvi, he gave into my hand powerful medicine: the Kachina of Taatayi Kokyang Wuti, the Awakened Spider Woman."

"She looks . . . formidable," Gideon acknowledged, as he admired the strangely dressed wooden doll. "Does she . . . talk?"

"Kokyang Wuti brings the whispers of the Spirits and the Buddhas to my ears," Brother Sumki explained patiently in halting English. "She is the middle between Man and the Spirits. It was to her that Pahana brought the sacred scrolls first, so that she could bring them before all of the spirits and convert them to the path of the Awakened One." The old monk rattled off the folk tale as if it was the History of the Roman Empire, not a lot of native superstition. "But she says no words with breath."

"Well, as long as you can hear her, then, I suppose," Gideon chuckled. "So, what does she say?"

"She answers your questions," Sumki explained patiently. "Hold her gently in your hand and whisper your words into her ears. Then I will divine with the stones and hear her answer."

Gideon beamed indulgently, picking up the gnarled little wooden doll with exaggerated care, whilst imagining the proper way to phrase what he most wanted to know. He closed his eyes, imagining himself at some ancient Hellenic oracle, the gods themselves standing by to answer him. Finally, he leaned forward and whispered, "What course will lead me to love, riches, and fame?" into the doll's tiny ear. 

Satisfied, he placed the poppet in front of the monk and waited. He had kept his whisper low enough that it was unlikely that Brother Sumki had heard a word of his barely-voiced inquiry, so he had little expectation that the alleged holy man would be forthcoming with any but the vaguest generalities. 

With eager curiosity he watched the monk spill a little cornmeal on the table in front of him, wave a hummingbird feather through the meal until it was swept into a surprisingly complete circle – no doubt the old wizard had done this ritual many, many times in the past. "The sacred hoop is dharma's wheel," he said, reverently, then chanted something in Hopi or Chinese – Gideon didn't know enough about either culture to tell the difference. "We pour down our questions like the rain," he recited, and followed it with another long string of native gibberish. "Come unto us and speak the path of this man's dharma!" he intoned in a dramatic voice as he rattled the stones and bones within their pouch, throwing them the moment he spoke the last bit of the incantation. 

Gideon eagerly bent forward to see what the tiny objects had divined for him – and was at a loss. There were five small stones of various hues, a translucent crystal, a tiny wagon wheel, a grain of maize, a clay feather, a copper coin and a twig. If there was special significance to any of it, it escaped him – it looked like the contents of the pocket of any eight-year-old boy in Brighton.

Brother Sumki noted the placement of each of the elements, and then drew forth the scrolls secreted within the case at his elbow, nodding significantly when he found whatever passage the oracle called for. Three more times he repeated the rite, before he replaced the tools of divination in their pouch and brushed away the cornmeal with some prayer or other.

"Well?" Gideon asked, impatiently, at the conclusion of the ritual. 

"The spirits have much to say about you, Gideon Becker" the man said sagely as he eyed Gideon as if he was seeing him for the first time. "Let he who has ears and the sense to listen attend me: you are to be a great man, if you follow the dharma the spirits have laid before you. "

"Is that all?" Gideon demanded.

"The spirits say a great journey lies before you," the monk replied, serenely. "A journey of great importance, in many distant lands.".

"Well, since I'm an airship captain, that's hardly a novel horoscope," he sniffed. "Do you have anything more . . . specific? Fame and glory, for instance," he offered.

"You will make the cloud that destroys the dreams of kings," the monk said, as if in a trance. "You will capture the sun within a mighty spear of light. You will slay your enemies with your command. No man will be able to assail you. The kings of the nations of the earth will cry out against you, but you will not bend. Your name will be on the tongue of the multitude that will see in you a savior. You will strike at empires and they will bend to your command. Nations will serve you."

Gideon chuckled in surprise. "Oh, I find I quite like that fortune! Well, I can't imagine such a fate, but far be it for me to argue with the almighty spirits! Fortune? Am I destined for the workhouse in my dotage?"

"Great wealth of material things will be yours, and you will play with the jewels of the earth like they were toys. Gold and grain will be in great supply and you will want not. Yet you will care not for your treasure, for you will find greater riches than can be kept by a man."

"Fame, then wealth," Gideon smiled. "If I didn't know better, Brother Sumki, I might think you were gilding this oracular lily with every breath just to flatter me! What of love, then? Shall I die a bachelor?"

"Many will you sample before you discover your fate. You find your heart under a stone. You will see beauty in the eyes of one who does not. Your spirit will clash with your woman until the skies themselves ache. You will marry," he said, slowly – almost reluctantly, Gideon decided. "But the one you will wed is already long a bride, and carries three sisters on her brow. You shall know her for her skill at arms, for you shall not best her in contest. Blood will be spilt before your heart finds the mate to your spirit. Great misfortune, death, war follow in the footsteps of your union. And in finding your heart, you shall restore the broken sacred hoop of your blood by binding it with your friendship," he pronounced, and then grew silent.

"That is quite a fortune, then!" Gideon sighed, more than a little disappointed. It had been colorful enough, but he had really been hoping for something like: Go to France and build your airship, where you will meet an attractive noblewoman who is heir to some imperial throne willing to extend your exile in the most pleasant of ways. 

Unfortunately, the Hopi monk was no more efficient in his pronouncements than the Roma sorceress had been. Or any of the other fortune tellers, medicine men, shaman and fakirs he had visited over the years. They all seemed to promise the same thing: riches, fame, and love, all in generous portions. Yet it never seemed to materialize. True, he'd been lucky at his trade of sellsword, and had acquired a small fortune in that trade, but it was dwarfed by his father's holdings, for example. It must be an occupational mandate of the soothsayers guild, he mused, to trade only in heady superlatives when fleecing their flock. 

"It is as I have said," Brother Sumki bowed. "I spare you nothing of my visions."

"You didn't mention a violent death, I noticed," Gideon observed.

"Such is beyond the knowing," the man shrugged.

"Nor a reconciliation with my father," he added.

"I speak what I hear from the Spider Woman. The spirits show us our dharma only as much as they desire, and only what we truly need know. I say what I see, nothing more," the monk said, serenely. "Those words were for your ears, not mine. Only you can give them meaning."

"Thank you," Gideon sighed, placing a thick golden Louisianan Dollar in the monk's bowl on top of the silver already there. That was far more than a month's wages, even by the prosperous standards of Oklahoma, but Gideon didn't mind the expense. The reading had been highly entertaining if nothing else and the man seemed sincere, if a little addled. Well worth the cost – and some of his men had Buddhist inclinations, so the open display of largesse to the monk would be popular with them. Of course that meant he would have to be just as generous with the next Catholic priest or Protestant preacher they chanced upon to please the Christians among his men, but he had no trouble with that. Like his sister, he ascribed to no specific faith, Christian or Heathen, save his own code of honor and a sense of filial piety. Perhaps he might regret not cultivating a religion, he mused, in this most dangerous of trades, but Gideon cared not where he spent eternity, provided the company was good.

As he rose and glanced toward his ship's corner, he saw that most of his folk had already retired for the evening. A few mercenaries were deep in their cups, and three engineers were playing cards, but of Tayanita and Bonney, Wolf Rider and Black Joe and the others with whom he fancied sharing the result of his augury, there was no sign. With a sigh he left the beer hall and into the gas-lit evening.

The road between the city center and the airship fields was brightly lit, like all of Oklahoma's cities. The amazing profits from the Helium trade made the raw natural gas it was extracted from nearly a waste product – nearly all of the native homes were fitted for gas pipes for heating and cooking, and the King had invested lavishly in iron streetlamps, more than he had seen in any moldy European city. They provided him ample lamination to cross town on foot without fear of molestation by the occasional footpad, had his sword and pistol been inadequate protection. At this late hour, the rickshaws that carried the well-to-do were long gone from the cobbled track . . . but the whores, he saw, were quite awake.

The road to the airship yard was positively studded with whorehouses and pleasure palaces where an airman or an engineer could spend his time and money in this lonely place. Unlike some other cities he'd seen, they seemed prosperous and happy at their trade, not tired and desperate. While a majority were native girls or half-breeds, there were plenty of delicate French and robust Negro whores from Louisiana, some Celtic and Norse ladies from the Northern countries, and even a few American lasses from Philadelphia and New York, who had come west to seek their fortune with their twats.

But the house he favored was Madame Lei's Orchid House, which was stocked with only the finest Celestial whores from Near Cathay. There was something about the diminutive, fair-skinned women he found alluring, from the way they sucked his cock to the noises they made when he fucked them. 




Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 05



Perhaps it was the novelty of the sallow beauties he found so enchanting, but upon the occasions where he had indulged in such pleasures in the last eight months, the Orchid House had received the majority of his trade. And a clear night tonight, today's violent maelstrom already soaked into the prairie soil, combined with the brush with danger had made him randy despite his earlier tryst with the unhandsome Marta. He resolved to pay a call on the distinguished house before he retired – but was distracted by a familiar moan from the shrubberies adorning the house next to his destination.

Fearing one of his men had been set upon and lay wounded, Gideon parted the shrubbery with one hand, the other on the butt of his revolver. He abandoned the weapon when he saw the author of the moan, however, for Bill Bonney was standing with his back against the brothel wall being serviced enthusiastically by some native whore below him in the shadows. The young man opened his eyes at the noise of the foliage being disturbed, but his hand stayed his lover's head in its place.

Gideon clucked. "Billy!"

"Howdy, Cap'n!" the man grunted. "Did't figure on seein' you again tonight. How did your fortune tellin' go?"

"The monk happened to mention how unpleasant your life might be if my sister catches your cock in the mouth of a whore," Gideon said, cheerfully. 

"Ain't that a relief?" Billy said, his head tilted back in pleasure as his companion continued her work.

"You desire an unpleasant life?" Gideon asked, surprised. "Or a short one? My sister is an excellent shot, I must warn you. And the Cherokee are adept at torture with nothing but a knife and a fire. And that might be preferable to what she would do to you should she deign to let you live."

"Nah," Billy said, dismissing the issue with a casual wave of his hand. "Don't need to worry none 'bout 'Nita 'cause it's 'Nita who's asuckin' on my pecker!"

"Oh," Gideon commented, blankly, staring suddenly at the native woman he'd presumed was a whore. "Oh! Hera's bouncing paps, Sissy! Not quite where I expected to find you this evening!"

Tayanita slowly turned her head around to glance at her brother, allowing Bonney's proud weapon to dangle obscenely in front of her face. 

"What's the matter, Gid?" she asked, sweetly. "Have you never seen a lady give her sweetheart a suckin' afore she gets rightly fucked?" Gideon could tell by the way her accent had degraded from her usual very proper English that his sister was far into her cups – enough so that she would consent to some fellatio al fresco before retiring to her quarters for more intimate fare, apparently. 

"Well," Gideon sighed, "I am gratified that you two have made up, then. Carry on," he added with a half-salute, before he beat a hasty retreat to the sound of their giggles. 

He really had not planned upon, nor had the slightest desire, to witness his sister's sexual hunger, which was legendary around the Tillassa airyards. While he appreciated her lusty disregard for proper European decorum, he hadn't planned on participating even as an observer. No matter how casual the natives were about such things (the Beanies married first cousins rather often, he reflected) Gideon was squeamish about them when it came to his half-sister.

If nothing else, however, the sight, while disturbing, had enflamed his lust even further, and his feet led him to the threshold of the Orchid House without command. He inhaled the sweet smell of incense, opium and sex as he parted the beaded curtain that served as entranceway, once you passed the stout wooden door. That exotic smell always transported him to a state of relaxation and happiness.

Madame Lei was waiting for him in the parlor, a middle-aged Celestial woman in a dark red silk robe, her face painted in what Gideon could only assume was the fashion way out west in Near Cathay. Madame Lei spoke several languages, many Gideon had never heard of. But her English was impeccable – it was rumored that she had served in her youth in a whorehouse in Wilmington, North Carolina, in the United States, which made sense, considering her accent. She greeted Gideon formally with a deep and respectful bow, and two young girls came forward to take his coat and hat and provide him with tea. There was a certain ritual in visiting the Orchid House, and drinking a cup of tea and chatting with Madame Lei was part of it.

"And what pleasures can our humble house provide the dashing Captain Becker this evening?" she asked, after the formal pleasantries were complete. "A bath, perhaps? A massage?" The Orchid House alone of the houses in this district had a large bath tub, which Gideon had used more than he had used the whores. The Oklahomans, while fierce warriors and cunning businessmen, were only beginning to adopt European standards of cleanliness, washing sporadically if at all, whereas the Celestials from Near Cathay saw bathing as a ritual which should be indulged in weekly. While Gideon had yet to progress to that zealous state of cleanliness, nonetheless he found himself in the massive chin-high tub of fragarent, hot water at least once a fortnight. 

But not tonight. "Madame, I would be much obliged if you would provide me two fetching young lasses to tend to me for an hour or so," he declared. "In a private room, of course. And a pipe of opium immediately afterwards will see me slumber the sleep of the gods – and see you well paid for the effort."

"But of course," Madame Lei said, gracefully. "Does the Captain prefer one of the ladies he's seen previously? For not two days ago three new girls arrived, fresh from beyond the Ocean of Grass. Young, pretty . . . although not virgins anymore," she said, biting her lip regretfully.

"It is no matter," Gideon dismissed. "In truth, I prefer a more experienced whore, and with a brace of them virgins I fear I'd spend more time in teaching than fucking. But if they are young and pretty, that should be a sufficiency. I trust your judgment implicitly."

"One of each, then. As you will," she said, bowing again, then chattered away in the sing-song language of New Cathay to the two attending girls. From Gideon's experience, the pretty hostesses in the parlor would only service a client if he was insistent and generous – the duty was considered light, and given to those girls who had already worked several days as a respite from tending Aphrodite's gardens. But they did not spare him any flirtation, sitting in his lap and cooing strange words in his ear, rubbing his bulge in his pants and feeling the muscles on his arms and giggling to prepare him for his coming exploits. The fair dames of the Orchid House knew how to make a gentleman feel manly.

At last Madame Lei returned to him, and the hostesses scattered. "All is prepared," she assured him, leading him through another beaded curtain and back to the rooms of the house. "Two fine young maidens, recently plucked. Ripe and enthusiastic. Spare them nothing, Captain," she added with a tight smile, knowing he had the purse to pay for any perversion. 

He thanked her and entered the room, which was lit by a trio of gas lamps and decorated with paper lanterns and red tassels and beautiful but indecipherable scrolls, a delicately stitched cover of silk on the bed, as if it was in the real Near Cathay. Adding to the effect were the two young whores, who wore their traditional costume. They bowed deeply and respectfully to him before they converged, undressing him gaily while chatting to each other in their native language.

Gideon allowed his clothes to be doffed by the giggling girls before he took a position in the center of the lavish bed. The soft silks from the Far West provided a lavish sense of comfort that he had often lacked while on campaign, but he relished them now. And while the girls did not seem to know any English, French, or Atlan Dutch, they seemed to know their business quite well, as each one took a position at the foot of the bed and began rubbing the soles of his feet with professional confidence.

The feeling was exquisite. His boots were well-made, but he spent an inordinate amount of time in them, and his feet often felt abused by his busy life. Having two pretty Celestial maidens (figuratively, at least) use their surprisingly strong hands to rub away the tension within was a sensual delight. Indeed, the pleasure they gave his feet was such that he forgot all about his erection, which started to flag as he lost himself in reverie. The girls knew better than to let that happen, however, and with a small cry of distress the one on his right foot abandoned her effort to rectify the matter. 

Stooping beside the bed, she used a deft and delicate hand to stroke his cock, cooing to it as if it were some animal. While that halted his erection's decline, she was not satisfied with the progress, and so popped the head of his pego between her lips, running her busy tongue rapidly over the glans, much to his enjoyment. Gideon uttered a blissful sigh, relaxing into the bed even as his whores stimulated them.

He barely knew two words of Mandarin to rub together himself, and those he'd learned in this very "school", but when he gestured for the girl sucking his prick to continue, she did so eagerly. The girl on his feet began changing sides frequently, forcing Gideon to issue the most beatific moans from the pressure. He contented himself to lie there for nearly a half-hour, soaking in the simple pleasures of life. 

"Remove your garments," he commanded, hesitantly. "Take off your clothes," he repeated, pantomiming to his young fellatrix what he desired. She bowed quickly and doffed her simple silk gown, revealing a slender form almost bereft of the womanly attributes he was accustomed to seeing on members of his own race. Her breasts were small but well formed, and her hips were narrow, with only the most graceful of curves at her waist. He had slowly gotten used to the nature of the Celestial whores, but it always occurred to him that a naked specimen, such as he had before him, sucking his cock at the moment, could have been anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five years old and bear such a shape. 

What delighted him the most, however, was the nature of this whore's mound of Venus: it was entirely bereft of the hair normally accustomed to grow there. At first he began to panick when her bare pussy came into sight, thinking for a moment that his hostess, Madame Lei, had somehow foisted off a child on him; but upon closer examination, this sweetly sucking tart was clearly passed into maturity, and had but shaved her crotch in the manner of the ancient Roman gladiators or the odalisques of the Turks. Once he became accustomed to the look, he was infatuated by it: a completely naked pussy on a grown woman was quite a novelty.

His right hand stole out and buried itself between her slender thighs, and his fingers sought to measure the full extent of the barren mound. It was complete; if there was a hair worthy of mention on this girl's cunt, it was not one he could feel. He contented himself then with plying his finger within her hot, clasping depths, fucking her gently while she sucked attentively on his tool.

Meanwhile the girl on his feet had not ceased her toil from the moment she began, though she did move from one foot to the other while her sister whore sucked him. The combined feelings of the two strong sensations made him drunk on bliss, and the added favor of a tight pussy clasping around his finger added greatly to the already sublime experience. 

Yet while he was willing to allow his doxy to ply her trade to completion, he craved something more substantial to sate his lusts. Pulling gently on his fellatrix's bum, he encouraged her to mount the bed and sit astride his face, where her slick, bare folds descended upon his lips with the inevitability of a sunset. Her lips barely moved around his cock as she settled, but soon she was sucking just as enthusiastically as before – more so, now that Gideon was licking her sweet juices from her cunny like a mad long-starved. The little whore responded immediately, moaning delightfully around his prick and gasping with each sweep of his tongue.

The girl massaging his feet began to call instruction to the cocksucker in front of her, apparently finding fault with her technique. Gideon could find none – as far as he was concerned, she was doing an admirable job on his dick, and would soon reap the reward of such activity in the traditional manner. Yet still the lass at the foot of the bed chided the newcomer girl, admonishing her to do... something, although Gideon had not the slightest idea what. 

Finally the more experience girl, who did not have the handicap of a deft and worrisome tongue invading her most private space while she worked – yet – finally gave up verbal instruction and instead grabbed the newer girl's raven-black hair between her hands and began pushing it further and further down his cock, until the whore nearly gagged with her nose buried in his pubic hairs. Only then did the other girl relent and allow her protégé to breathe. Then she once again forced her head down on his prick, which inspired Gideon to redouble his efforts against the young girl's clitoris. That in turn forced the cock sucking whore to lose her concentration, which while it vexed her mentor, sent Gideon into spasms of joy as he felt her mouth struggle.

Licking a bare cunny was delicious, he decided, for it not only allowed him to suck the juices from this exotic peach unencumbered by hair, it made the whole region surrounding her clitoris terribly sensitive, a state which he exploited with enthusiasm. Indeed, the quivering arse above his head was trembling with joy and confusion as the poor girl attempted to focus enough on his blowjob to complete it, yet also enough on the rapid-fire tongue that was eliciting from her such moans. He vowed to extend her pleasurable suffering yet further by the simple expedient of moistening his largest finger in the tight slit above his face, then repositioning the digit in proximity to the girl's tight bumhole.

He felt her tense, of course – only a seasoned sodomite would face such an intrusion without trepidation, and were he to wager a sum, he'd do so on the chance that her arse remained inviolate. So much the better, he thought wickedly, suddenly pushing his thick finger deep into her fundament until it was wholly buried within her most intimate opening.

The move caught his massager off guard, but the older girl recovered quickly enough to ensure that the younger girl's face never wavered from its duty. That produced a stifled scream from her which in ordinary circumstances would be erotic enough . . . but when the mouth that produced such a scream did so with one's cock ensconced within was divine! 

He chuckled into her cunt and began fucking her bunghole with long, strong strokes that mimicked coitus well enough to cause the girl's hips to begin rocking back to meet his finger in response. He resolved at once to bugger the girl before morning, no matter the cost. 

Yet the excitement of the moment was too much for a man already aroused and recovering from an exhausting battle. Once his finger was truly buried in her arse, their companion again forced the girl to suck by moving the other girl's head with her hands, faster and faster. The result was a quick increase in the joy that was exploding through his body from his prick, and the inevitable conclusion of such erotic dalliance. 

With a moan into the young girl's weeping twat above him, he shoved his cock as deeply into the young whore's mouth that she would have yelped, had her mouth not been otherwise occupied, and issued a mighty torrent of sticky sperm into the cavern of her lips. The assistant fucker, as Gideon called the other girl in his mind, ensured that the cocksucker did not lose a drop. Indeed, once completed, the diminutive pixy whose cunt he was feasting upon struggled to swallow everything that he contributed, while simultaneously encountering a sudden and powerful orgasm inspired by Gideon's skilful lips on her lit.

The girl screamed and moaned around his spurting cock, and only then did the older girl seem satisfied. She climbed down from her saddle on his face a little gingerly, slanted eyes wide with wonder as she contemplated such a powerful climax, such a thick jet of sperm, and such a large penis.

"That was very well done," he praised them, as he recovered. "Fetch me more tea," he ordered the older one, making a tell-tale sipping motion with his fingers. Apparently the whore had known enough English to understand "tea" – indeed, the folk of Near Cathay were rumored to be distant relatives of the people of the Chinese Empire, where tea was consumed in massive quantities, so knowledge of the word in foreign tongues was not unheard of. His enthusiastic fellatrix, however, was busy attempting to recover her wits after her climax, and lay in a heap on the bed, panting.

When the older girl returned, Gideon made a great show of taking it, bowing, and then tipping her lavishly with a silver penny. She smiled and graciously took it, then asked him what else he desired, in heavily broken English.

"Just undress yourself," he commanded, feeling like some Turk in his seraglio, surrounded by doting minions. "It will take a moment or two before I am fit for duty again, I'm afraid. But you could improve that process if you . . ." he said, trailing off. The older whore was naked in an instant, and possessed all the womanly curves the younger girl did not. Nodding happily, Gideon sat up enough to avoid spilling his tea, so that he could make his orders clearer. The girls acted confused by his words, however, and just kept shaking their heads in bewilderment – until he finished pulling the older whore's robe off entirely, arraying her on the bed in the spot he had just vacated, and then pushed down the new whore's face between the thighs of her colleague.

That inspired a whole new round of confusion, this time on the part of the younger whore, who seemed unready to perform such a service. The older whore did her best to comfort the girl, no doubt explaining that such forbidden delights were long-practiced by the Europeans while touring their imperial conquests – or, Gideon mused, more likely threatening her with a beating if she did not comply, and do so with enthusiasm befitting her profession.

Eventually the older girl tired of her charge's arguments and simply pulled her face into her groin, holding it there until the younger girl obediently began to suckle her clit.

Gideon had always enjoyed watching the Sapphic arts, ever since he had discovered his sister Gwendolyn practicing such perversions with her Welsh maid when he was seventeen. He had insisted they stay entwined until they had finished their course, then he had roughly taken the maid from behind, quite against his sister's objections (though not, he recalled, the maid's). 

The feeling of fucking a freshly sucked cunt had been one of the finest he'd enjoyed, and he had encouraged the girl (whom he had fucked a few times before, though that hardly mattered during this tryst) to continue licking Gwendolyn. His sister had stormed out, embarrassed and threatening to inform their father, which meant Gideon had to content himself with slaking his lust between the maid's thighs – though he gained a certain excitement knowing he was doing it to his sister's secret lover. 

Of course Gwendolyn had made no such confession to her father, for fear of the truth of her own bestial lusts emerging in public, so Gideon had proceeded to fuck the maid whenever the occasion permitted, and more, encouraged her to find another girl with whom they both could play.




Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 05



But tonight he needed the stimulation provided by seeing such wonderful exploits should he care to take full advantage of his hostess' hospitality and bugger the young whore. Watching two nearly identical whores sup between each others' thighs was a glorious sight to behold, and as the two Celestial girls approached a mutual and monumental crisis of lust, Gideon found his cock quite hard and perfectly ready to resume his fun. 

He had a sudden pang of regret, when he remembered that in as little as a fortnight he might be departing Tillassa and her wild, unsophisticated fleshpots for the more staid and civilized ports in Europe. So he resolved that moment to indulge himself to the fullest in his few remaining days, amusing himself the way only a noble in exile could: with lusty native girls and a bit of opium.

"I think I'm ready, Ladies," he said, as the last moans and cries receded from throats and their spent twats recovered from their mutual licking. The two looked up at him, their juices thick on each others' chins. "A little more sucking, a pipe, a little fucking, and a bit of buggery or two, and I think we can safely call it a well-spent evening."



Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 06



"Are you ready to depart then, Captain Becker?" Baron Amadahy asked Gideon on his penultimate day in service to the Kingdom of Oklahoma. They were meeting in the Foreign Minister's opulent office, easily as posh as any in England, though some of the decorations might have raised an eyebrow in London. But his ship's recent heroism had earned Gideon the privilege of meeting with the third most powerful man in the Prairie Realm in his private office. Tomorrow he would go aloft from the Tallassi Yard one last time, his service ending the moment he crossed the border into the province of Lafayette, in the Empire of Louisiana. 

He had chosen that route to protect the Louisianan locomotive that would haul fifty cars through the Empire's northern frontier, through the provincial capital of Petite Roche. From there the cars would be loaded aboard barges and floated the rest of the way south to the Lousianan capitol at the mouth of the Mississippi. The shipment was of especial import to Gideon, as fifteen of the fifty large steel canisters of compressed Helium belonged to him, not to mention sundry baggage of his crew that could better travel by ship to Europe than on the Victrix. That provided him a great interest in the locomotive arriving at Petite Roche intact -- that is, safe from the various Negro bandits, renegade Reds, gangs of Louisianan outlaws and opportunistic Atlan soldiers who might consider attacking it. 

Indeed, it was only the last of these that were of any particular concern -- bandits, whether Red, White, or Black, had little to gain from rousting the train as the wealth involved, while profound, was hardly portable or easy to conceal. The Atlans, however, had placed a high bounty on any Helium captured by their soldiers or private mercenaries. There had been sporadic raids on the Helium trains for years, since the very first year the vital Tillassa-Petite Roche rail line had been completed, in 1869. 

Four times had ambitious gunmen managed to halt the train, remove or kill the engineers, and off-load the massive canisters across the border using traction engines before either the Louisianan Imperial Army or the Oklahoman Kingdom could respond in force. Therefore, despite the added expense, it was now standard practice for an airship-of-war to accompany the train as it wound through the wilds. Usually an Oklahoman patrol ship would suffice, but since Gideon and his men were leaving any way, the Kingdom had requested this one last service so as to keep their new ships-of-the-line on duty defending the kingdom.

"Yes, your Excellency," Gideon bowed, gracefully. "My crew is chosen, my quarters are stripped bare, and the Victrix is loaded so that I was amazed when my sister managed to get her aloft this morning. We will be prepared to depart at dawn, as scheduled."

"Excellent, excellent. Captain Becker, it is my pleasure to inform you that His Majesty is very pleased with your service in the last year, and has authorized me to extend to you this final offer: a commission as Vice Flight Admiral in the Royal Air Service. I might add that a commission that senior has never been extended to a White man," Amadahy added.

"While I am most gratified by His Majesty's extremely generous offer," Gideon replied carefully, "and though I have enjoyed my service in His Majesty's military, my own ambitions lie outside of the Kingdom. Although I hope this in no way prejudices the great friendship between myself and His Majesty, as I hope to remain in the good graces of the Kingdom for some time to come."

The old Indian smiled indulgently -- more like a Frenchman than a Cherokee, Gideon decided -- and chuckled. "I told Steven you'd say that," he nodded. "And I don't believe you have any fear of vexing the Crown by refusing the offer, especially since you are half-brother to his grand-niece. But I urged him to make it anyway, as did others in the cabinet. It was the least we could do, under the circumstances."

"Well, please kindly inform His Majesty that my ambitions extend to making his grand-niece's vision for a new kind of airship come true. Indeed, it is no secret that after we have secured our property in Petite Roche, we will be voyaging to Paris where we shall commence construction. In fact, my agent has already secured the use of a yard and shed, and the basic structures are being laid. Perhaps the next time we meet, you shall see what honors Tayanita's design will bring to her realm."

"Oh, I certainly hope so," he agreed. "She has always been brilliant. Her Uncle Cheasequah has been trying to marry her off since she was a little girl, but her mother and I have always been able to stop his machinations. He's a traditionalist of the worst sort: women are for tending babies, cocks, and cooking fires, and damn little else. I don't care how important he is in the House of Delegates, that girl has no place bearing brats or languishing in a convent school. He even tried to stop her from leaving in quest of her true father, but she slipped away. She lives up to her name," he mused. "Indeed, I've always had a fondness for her, as if she were my own daughter. "

"I can't imagine Sissy in a convent," Gideon laughed, rolling his eyes. "Yet I don't wish to leave bad blood in our wake -- is this uncle . . .Cheas . . ." he stumbled -- almost a year in this land, and the words still tripped him up as badly as did Ancient Greek.

"Cheasequah," the baron corrected. "Lord Robert Cheasequah. Or Delegate Cheasequah, I should say. I wouldn't concern yourself, Becker. He gave up on Tayanita long ago, in favor of torturing his other relatives. I, on the other hand, know she's possessed of both great vision and a powerful intellect, and I believe that it is best for her to pursue her fantastical ideas. Robert and I often are at loggerheads, however, and Tayanita was just one of our battles. I have yet to forgive him for teasing me about my name when we were lads in the service of Steven I," he mused, recalling his youth with a gleam in his eye. "I knocked him flat that day, and he has yet to move beyond it."

"What's wrong with your name, if you don't mind me asking, Excellency?"

"Eh? Oh, I suppose you wouldn't know. 'Amadahy' is traditionally a girl's name. It means 'forest water', or, more specifically, 'forest spring'. Hardly a warrior's moniker, which Cheasequah never tired of pointing out. Still, it was my mother's dying wish that it be mine, and so I've kept it -- and had to fight to keep it. One reason why Tayanita and I are close, I suppose. Her name is traditionally a boy's name -- but her grandmother wished it."

"Well, you are both extraordinary individuals, regardless of the propriety of your names," agreed Gideon. "And I can only hope the Kingdom will forgive me for borrowing a favored daughter for a time. But Sissy and I have great plans, plans that will shape the design of airships for a generation."

"I would expect nothing less from either of you," Amadahy said, opening a drawer in his impressive French desk. "In any case, here is a draft on the Treasury for the balance of your fee, here is your letter of commendation for service and recognition of your status as a member of the realm's military, and this," he chuckled, "is a personal note of thanks from King Steven."

"This . . . looks perhaps too generous," Gideon said as he studied the first document. "It was my understanding that our balance was only a few thousand pounds, yet this draft is for more than ten thousand!"

"It's no mistake," Amadahy said, in a much lower and conspiratorial voice. "It's compensation for a favor the Kingdom would ask of one of its best officers."

"A . . . favor?" Gideon asked, cautiously.

"Yes, a very quiet favor," said Amadahy. 

"And that would be . . .?"

"On the morrow, before dawn, there will arrive at your yard a group of men I wish you to take aboard," he continued quietly, "a group I would rather not have be seen embarking with you. This town is depressingly full of spies, and it would undermine our plan if they were discovered."

"Plan?" Gideon asked, his interest piqued.

"Oh, just another little skirmish in this interminable war," Amadahy dismissed with a wave of his hand. "We have intelligence that the Beanies are planning something, and we plan to counter it forcefully. Yet due to the current negotiations in New Orleans between our respective delegations, it would be unwise if we were seen to be bargaining in bad faith."

"So you wish me to take these men to Petite Roche?" Gideon asked, confused.

"No, they shall not be disembarking there," Amadahy said, shaking his head.

"All the way to New Orleans, then?" Gideon asked, surprised. "I had not yet decided whether to cross the sea in a southerly clime or voyage to the Golden Halo, but—"

"Either choice is fine, I assure you. They will not be disembarking at any point beyond, either." "Then I am to land elsewhere? I am confounded by this plan," Gideon said, worriedly.

"No, Captain Becker. Indeed, I wish you to depart and conduct your voyage just as you would without my men, but . . . well, let us gaze at the map, shall we?" he asked, nodding to the office wall where a meticulous hand-painted parchment map displayed in miniature the features of the kingdom. Amadahy peered at the thing until he found the capital, then traced the main rail route to Petite Rouche. "This, then, is the river, which the rail line parallels quite nicely for most of its course. You shall be following the locomotive -- circling it, actually -- as it travels. All we ask is that you find your way along your route over . . . this section," he said, drawing an imaginary circle around a spot a few miles off the river, proper, "where you will . . . let my men out."

"You mean . . . a rough grounding?" Gideon asked, imagining his over-loaded Victrix trying to make an unassisted landing in the rough frontier between Louisiana and Altlan without benefit of ground crew, mooring tower, or any of the other comforts an airman desired to reduce the risk of catastrophe. Surely such a landing could be made, of course, but the danger . . . 

"Not at all," Amadahy chuckled. "Indeed, the Atlan pickets would spot your descent at once and dispatch troops to investigate."

"So I'm to just throw your men out over the rails?" Gideon asked, sarcastically.

"In a manner of speaking . . . yes," Amadahy agreed, serenely. 

"I shall not be your executioner, sir," Gideon said, darkly.

"Nor would I ask you to be, Captain. Suffice it to say that before dawn tomorrow, a number of the Crown's soldiers will board the Victrix under the command of . . . Duke Goyahkla," he said, with just a hint of drama.

Gideon stiffened. Of all the Oklahoman soldiers to have made a reputation in the constant border war with the Atlan Empire, General -- now Duke -- Goyahkla was by far the most respected. 

The wiley old Indian general had been born in the deserts of the western Atlan territories, where his people had been brutally oppressed by an empire infamous for its brutality. As a result, his tribe had become warriors of reknown in their struggle against Atlan City. For while their lands were in close proximity to the lamas of the Hopi lands, they had eschewed the faith of the Buddha and cleved instead only to their own gods and spirits -- very warlike spirits, as the Atlans had come to discover. 

After fighting the Beanies for half of his life, Goyahkla had heard of the new Kingdom in the east from traveling monks, and learned that they were seeking warriors to overthrow the Atlan governor. While he had little knowledge of the Eastern tribes of the Chocktaw and the Cherokee, Goyahkla was eager to lay his sword at the feet of any king who swore the Atlans his enmity. He had taken service in King Steven I's rag-tag bands of warriors and quickly distinguished himself in both cunning and ruthlessness in his war of separation. It was said the Atlan scalps he had taken as trophies could have carpeted the Royal Opera House, and Gideon knew serious men of war who would not dispute that fact.

Knighted on the battlefield and commissioned as Lieutenant in the Royal Army only two years after he arrived, Goyahkla took charge of a light cavalry unit and had led dozens of punishing raids deep into Atlan territory. Two years after his knighting, he had been enobled by Steven I and granted an estate and a promotion to Captain; three years after that he was a Baron and a Major, and five years after that, during the Atlan's near-successful push into the gas fields that had almost cost King steven his crown, Goyahkla had rallied the stragglers left behind the disasterous Battle of Two Creeks, split his forces, and coordinated a surprise two-pronged counter-attack on the Atlan column in conjunction with a Louisianan airship bombardment, and broke the momentum of said column.

That battle had been fierce enough and important enough that Edward had remembered reading about it in the newspapers in England. Goyahkla was a living hero to the people of Oklahoma, a revered and respected military man in Louisiana and America, and the bitterest foe to the Atlan Empire that God had seen fit to torment them with.

If Goyahkla was involved in the mission, then, Gideon would trust the man's reputation and battle plan. "Say no more," he nodded. "I shall do as the General bids."

"Thank you, Captain," the Baron nodded. "This war with the Beanies is like conducting three games of chess simultaneously . . . in a room full of rattlesnakes. General Goyahkla is as one of our knights, then, jumping over the frontier and attacking from a clandestine location. There is method to this madness. But say no more to your men than you have to."

"Understood, your Excellency. If there is nothing else—"

"Actually," the man said, suddenly looking embarassed, "there might be. In my capacity as foreign minister, it behooves me to avoid entangling the Kingdom in any unecessary diplomatic disputes . . . and as of last night, one has arisen that you may well be able to assist me with."

"How so?" Gideon asked, intrigued. 

"Well, as I'm sure you are aware, the capitol is postively awash in foreign spies. We are well aware of this, of course, and our intelligence service depends on them as much as they depend upon us for their livlihood. Among these . . . agents are those representing the interests not only of various Empires and powers, but some who work for certain mercantile interests. One of these -- a countryman of yours, actually -- was caught en flagrente delecto with the wife of Duke Mushulatubbee, Minor." 

Gideon knew the name, though he had never met the man. Mushulatubbee was a financially powerful Red Indian, a Choktaw nobleman having titles and estates both in the Oklahoma Kingdom and in the Mississippi province of the Louisianan Empire, the Choktaw's original homelands. Indeed, his family had been instrumental in the support of the first Kings, and had powerful influence in the Court of New Orleans as well. Not the smartest man to cuckold, Gideon observed silently.

"You mean His Excellency—"

"The good Duke returned from business in Guthrie on an earlier train than he had telegraphed to his wife," the Baron explained. "When he had arrived at his townhome, he discovered this . . . gentleman in his lady wife quite up to the balls, and clearly not for the first time. The man in question serves some German merchant interests, though he was once an officer of the British Army -- I believe he was the only survivor of Piper's Fort in Afghanistan, under General Elphinstone, back in the 40s, or something equally as heroic and historic. But that won't save him. Mushulatubbee is a powerful man, and proud. He chased the interloper away, but is now seeking him with vengeance on his mind. He's quite an accomplished duelist, as well -- he studied at the Imperial Academy in New Orleans, and excelled in fencing, as well as the more traditional Indian arts of combat."

"I thought such affairs were commonplace amongst the Oklahoman aristocracy," Gideon pointed out, delicately.

"Perhaps," the Baron conceded. "But when a Choktaw nobleman is humiliated like that, for his wife's lover was a White man, after all, vengeance often clouds his judgement -- and to give you some idea of how proud a man Mushulatubbee is, his name means 'determined to kill' in Choktaw."

"How oddly propitious," Gideon observed.

"Not for the Englishman, I'm afraid. He appeared at my doorstep at midnight last night, begging for sanctuary. While I should, by all rights, summon the Guard and have him appear before the Court of Chiefs for judgement -- which would in all liklihood include a duel to the death between the principals, in consideration of the Duke's high position in court -- I chose to avoid an international incident. I have him sequestered at the moment, but the Duke's men scour the city and search every train to Petite Roche. So . . . I would consider it a personal favor, Captain, if you would spirit this mad Englishman far away from our Kingdom. He pretends to desire to return to Europe, and since that is, indeed, your final destination, I considered you to be his best chance at doing so with his scalp intact."

"I am not quite sure that I want to gain the enmity of such a powerful figure as Duke Mushulatubbee—" Gideon began, preparing to decline the dubious honor.

"The Foreign Office will be happy to pay his fare to Europe in advance, in gold. It would be embarassing, you see, if the old fool turned up dead on Oklahoman soil. Once you are out over the ocean, I care not what happens to him. Throw him over the side or sell him to the Moriscans, if they'll take him. But neither Oklahoma nor Louisiana is safe for him anymore."

"Very well," Gideon said, affecting a heavy sigh. "Because you ask it, Baron, and because you and Tayanita are so close, I will consent to remove this offensive man from the realm." In all liklihood, he would have done it anyway, but every conversation with Baron Amadahy was a negotiation, he had discovered long before. "But not an ounce more gold, or I'll not make it to Louisiana. Just pay my soliciter, Sir James LaFlore, and he will wire me the money. It is he who shall be in charge of running what few affairs I have left here. And he knows how to contact me, should you have further need of my services."

"LaFlore? I know him well, good man. Another Choctaw, related to Duke Mushulatubbee, too, I believe, so we'll make the reason for payment . . . discreet. Now, if that is all, Captain Becker, then I have an appointment on the Royal Links at noon to play nine with the Ambassador of Louisiana and the Consul of the Cherokee Nation. And let me repeat, just one last time, what a pleasure it has been doing business with a White man I can trust. You've been most . . . civilized about things, Becker, and don't think that has escaped our notice."

 ***

Just before dawn the next morning, a troop of twenty five extremely well-muscled young native men in the green woolen coats of the Oklahoman Royal Army arrived en masse, bearing no small amount of weaponry. Each carried a brace of pistols, Gideon observed, as well as a tomahawk, a cavalry sword, a carbine, knives strapped to various appendages, and long belts of ammunition strung over their shoulders. At their head rode an impressive old Indian, his face worn like a leather apron left overlong in the sun, but his eyes seeming like portals to some ancient wisdom.

"General Goyahkla," Gideon said, bowing deeply as he took the head of the old warrior's horse. "An honor to meet you again, Your Grace."

"The reception at New Year's," the General recalled, sharply, after studying Gideon's face in the twilight gloom for no more than an instant. "You wore a blue coat and a silly hat. You danced with Little Beaver. But my old friend Wolf Rider says you fight well." It sounded like a major concession from his lips, but Gideon took it in stride. He was used to the arrogant attitudes of the natives, and this man, above all others, had good reason for his arrogance.




Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 06



"The General has an excellent memory," Gideon agreed. "And it is a pure honor to bear you aloft. I only wish old Wolf Rider was accompanying me -- I'll have to make do with a fellow he recommended for the post, Captain Ned Wauhillau, late of your service."

"I knew his father, Lord Ned Christie," the old Indian grunted. "Good warrior. He stood alone against fifty Atlans with only his rifle, pistol and sword for almost a year at Wauhillau, in the old days, until he was relieved. If his son is half as good a warrior, you will be well served."

"I certainly hope so. If your men will ascend to the gondola, we've made temporary quarters available to them. As far as your baggage . . ." he said, nodding towards a large pile of rucksacks that had been unloaded concurrently with the arrival of the soldiers.

"My men will each take one and carry it themselves," the General said, dismounting his horse like he was a teenager and handing it off to a subordinate. "They are . . . secret weapons."

"No doubt," Gideon nodded, suddenly wondering what that amount of explosives could do to his ship if they were ignited. "Then please use the utmost care in their stowage."

"As you wish," the old soldier grunted, then ordered his men to begin the long climb up to the gondola.

"I believe there was to be one other passenger," Gideon said, biting his lip as he peered into the gloom past the soldiers. "If he does not move with more expediency, however, I fear he will be scalped by noon."

"F_________," the General said, rolling his eyes with disgust. He added a word in a language that Gideon didn't know, but sounded vile, and spat on the ground.

"Was that the name? An older gentleman, an Englishman—"

"I heard of Mushulatubbee's shame," Goyahkla spat again, this time in honor of his countrymen. "They are both old fools. F________ for dishonoring his host, Mushulatubbee for not keeping his woman in line."

"Well, if the old bugger doesn't arrive, and soon, he can face the consequences with Mushulatubbee," Gideon pronounced. "Oh, this must be him," he added, as he heard the clatter of wooden rickshaw wheels and the panting of the youth that pulled it. Soon the imposing figure of his passenger was standing proudly before him, a tall Englishman wearing a well-tailored suit of dark blue. 

Gideon was not impressed. His passenger's mustache was long and luxurious, but white with age -- clearly the man had to be almost seventy. Gideon discovered by observation that he seemed to possess the same officiousness he despised in his father. Even more annoying he affected an air of superiority that clearly he had yet to earn in the Prarie Kingdom. 

"Ready to board, Captain!" he said in a booming voice, throwing a perfect and perfectly inappropriate British military salute.

"Yes, well, up to the gondola and see the steward, Mr.—"

"You may call me Mr. Jones, for the duration of the voyage," the old man said, glancing around at the many natives in the yard suspiciously. "Indeed, I would prefer that you remember that I am a simple representative of Bauer & Schmit, in the German Empire, and forget that I am English at all, if you'd be so kind."

"Certainly . . . Mr. Jones. As I was saying, if you would be so good as to check in with my steward-- he's the Negro in the billed cap -- about your assigned quarters, he will have a porter load your baggage. We will lift as soon as you are aboard."

"Might I ask, Captain, whereto we are bound?"

"Petite Roche, to begin with. After that, perhaps New Orleans, perhaps up the Mississippi to the Golden Halo, or out across the Atlantic towards Africa. I have yet to decide. Ultimately, however, we go to Paris."

"Depend on Fortune, and you will always come out ahead," the old man said, sagely. "Up we go then!" The smell of gin on the old passenger was daunting as he passed by, two large portmanteaus borne by his native rickshaw driver. As the sky lightened in the East, Gideon took one last look around the yard that had been his home for most of the last year, and then ascended himself.

"Ready to depart, Cap'n?" Black Tom asked, putting his ubiquitous notebook under his left arm. He seemed no worse for wear having dealt with "Mr. Jones", but then Tom always seemed to keep cool under pressure.

Tom was a civilian, a clerk Gideon had rescued from debtor's prison in New Orleans six months previously when he had made an escort run and was forced by weather to linger in the decadent capitol a few days. The Negro's family had held lands on the northern frontier of Louisiana, but had lost their holdings during the second war between the Republic and the Empire as they tried yet again to establish a border in the Mississippi valley. Since the Americans had paid a bounty on any Negro bearing arms in the war, and took a dim view of even unarmed Negro peasants, he and his family had departed St. Louis for a more civilized life in the south, and Tom had found a home in service of the Louisianan great houses throughout most of his youth.

Though he lacked formal education, Tom spoke and wrote in fluent French, English, Spanish, Dutch, German, Moriscan, and a smattering of Indian tongues, and had been well-trained for service amongst the nobles of New Orleans. But a love of gambling and a streak of poor fortune had landed him in near-slavery. He had jumped at the opportunity to sign on with the Victrix as porter and ship's accountant, and after three months Gideon had promoted him to steward. 

Now he ran the administrative affairs of the crew with an attention to detail that often astonished Gideon. He had been well-worth the small sum he'd paid to repair the debt and have the man released into his service. His real name was Thomas Million John Turpin, but the English and the Oklahomans alike aboard the Victrix had taken to calling him Black Tom, and he had many admirers in both parties. Even Tayanita's Germans were fond of him -- he was as massive as any Saxon brute, and the way he played on the tiny pianette in the gondola's tiny salon was almost magical. Gideon had come to depend upon the Louisianan for the smooth operation of his ship, and that trust had yet to be betrayed.

"All are aboard," Gideon agreed. "Sound the ascension horn and the departure bell, Tom, I'll have the pilot take us alfot momentarily." The Negro nodded curtly and calmly went about his duties as Gideon found his way into the control room. The horn and bell sounded, the ship gave a gentle lurch as the mooring lines were loosed, and the engines began humming as the blades of the propellers that sent the ship through the air found their full steam.

Watching dawn break over Oklahoma from such a serene height was spectacular, even if he had to hold that position in a small lazy circle about the town until the locomotive below was finally ready. Then he ordered George to begin the lazy circles over the train that would provide cover against banditry. His only real duty discharged, he repaired to the observation lounge and had Tom bring him breakfast.

It was nearly noon by the time the train and airship were approaching the designated spot the Foreign Minister had indicated. Gideon, curious about the Oklahomans' mysterious weaponry, made a point of joining Duke Goyahkla and his men at the main hatch. Each of them seemed prepared for a boarding mission, with thick leather helmets and brass goggles, and each bore one of the mysterious packs, but Gideon had gleaned no more comprehension about their purpose or utility. The men seemed unconcerned with sudden movements or jostling, as one would expect if they were carrying explosives. It was a testament to their professionalism, and the leadership of their General, that they prepared for battle in relative silence.

The same could not be said for "Mr. Jones", who seemed as curious as Gideon about the sortie. He stood at the periphery and told long, rambling stories about his own military service, including several improbable posts and exaggerated missions, but even his boorishness was quieted by the stoic nature of the Indians. 

Duke Goyahkla inspected each man's equipment and rigging, spoke a few words of encouragement, and chuckled good-naturedly with his soldiers as they approached their point of departure.

"You Grace," Gideon finally managed, when the General had completed his inspection, "I was told that we would not be descending for a rough grounding, or even low enough to utilize the boarding gondola -- I cannot but help be curious as to your intended means of departure."

"I suppose we're safely out of earshot of spies," the Duke conceded, though he glanced at Mr. Jones pointedly. "And it will not matter much longer, after today. We will leave your ship by the most expedient route possible, Captain: we will jump."

"Have Red Indians gone and sprouted angel wings, then?"

"No, Captain. The French have. Well, a young American in Louisiana, that is. These are known as 'Baldwin Bags'," the General said, indicating the packs he and his men wore. "Within is a meticulously folded contraption of silk and string, which will deploy as soon as we leap. When it naturally expands due to the force of the wind, it will slow our descent enough to allow us a gentle landing . . . in a region where we are not supposed to be."

"Parachutes!" Gideon cried, his eyes blazing. "I've seen the like, though nothing this small and compact. Do they actually work, then?"

"This will be my third foray," the wizened General nodded. "We tested them in the Northern fields, out over the Ocean of Grass. Only two of my men were injured."

"And you will be able to land your entire platoon without alerting your foe . . . brilliant!" Gideon said, smiling broadly at the idea. He was an airman, himself, but he'd spent time as an infantry officer before he'd acquired his ship; he fully appreciated the tactical advantage of such a deployment.

"That is the theory," the Duke said, grimly. "We will plummet safely and rendezvous in force, before we attack. There are three observation posts along yonder ridge that the Beanies use to spy on our movements -- such as the departure of the train, below. It is my mission to strike them, leaving none alive. The sortie is designed to strike fear into the soldiers of the Beanie army and make them more cautious in regards to our frontier. That, and those shiny new airships we paid so dearly for, should settle this war . . . for a while, I believe."

"So you just . . . jump out, then?"

"Yes," the General confirmed, pulling his brass goggles over his wise old eyes. "As their leader, I shall make the first departure." He made a final check of his straps and his weaponry, before sliding the wicker door open to reveal the sprawling land below. 

"Then good hunting, Your Excellency!" Gideon said, enthusiastically. "No doubt by nightfall the name of Duke Goyakhlah shall once again strike terror in the craven Beanie heart!"

"Actually," the old indian said, with a sly smirk, "the Beanies do not oft use my proper name. I picked up a nomme d’guerre in my youth, when I battled the despicable Spanish mercenaries the Atlans sent to conquer my people."

"Really?" Gideon asked, surprised. This was a tale of the war he'd not heard. And he was particularly intrigued by war-names, now that he and his fellows were known as the Sky Panthers. "What do they call you, then? Something awful, I imagine."

"The Spanish mercenaries were drunken brutes, hired from South America by the Atlans for their dirty work in the desert when we proved too strong for their own people. Catholics, of course," he explained, as he approached the door. "So when they were at need, they called upon St. Jerome. My band and I ensured that they had ample cause to do so, I assure you. So when we made our forays against them in the dark of night, all their comrades could hear were their cries to the saint, as we slew them. In time, as I became more and more associated with those raids, they began using the term to refer to me, specifically, until it became my war-name amongst them."

"So . . . what do they call you?" Gideon asked, expectantly, as the General prepared to jump.

"Geronimo!"  the Duke cried, as he leapt out of the airship and into the fickle winds of fate. 

Gideon held his breath as he watched the man plummet, and was ready to begin a prayer for his soul when he saw the parachute emit from the Baldwin Bag, catch the air, and slow the old warrior's descent to a less-deadly velocity. The next soldier leapt immediately afterwards, grinning foolishly at Gideon as he leapt, and he, too, repeated the General's name. Indeed, each of the braves did so as they leapt, almost as an invocation of the living legend they followed into battle so avidly.

"I wonder if that will catch on?" Gideon asked himself, as he closed the hatch and dogged it securely. "It's ingenious," the faux Mr. Jones said, nodding, his face reflecting a kind of awe at the display. "This could very well change warfare. Imagine: whole armies born aloft and inserted precisely where they are needed, behind enemy lines. It will cast the science of war into a proper tizzy!"

"Perhaps," Gideon shrugged. "But I endeavor to change the science of war altogether, myself. Someday, Mr. Jones, the world will see the launch of the greatest airship in history, and the most terrible, under my command."

"You have ambitions, then, Captain?" Jones chuckled as he followed Gideon up the narrow stairway to the salon. "I thought you were in exile?"

"Which is why I travel to Paris, not London," Gideon agreed, grimly. "Until Pater decides to live up to his responsibilities in regards to Tayanita, I shall not serve him, nor the British Empire, save only as a mercenary -- if then."

"You would make war on your mother country, then?" Jones frowned.

"Not war -- but not love, either. I might die a begger in exile, but I will have my honor. My father, my brother and their cronies have lost any idea of what that might be, but if I alone of the Beckers yet know the meaning of the word, I shall redeem the blemish my father casts upon it by his rejection of his daughter."

"You live a complicated life, Captain Becker," Jones said, shaking his head. "Mark my words: a military career is a grand one, as long as one can avoid battle and live to bed the wench at the end of the day."

"This from the last survivor of Piper's Fort? I expected more valor," Gideon chided, mindful he did so of an elder -- which pleased his rebellious pride.

"So you heard about that, eh?" Jones said, shaking his head. "Candidly, it’s all lies. Well, true enough in fact, but the story is untruthful about the event. It usually is, in my experience. They found me with an empty pistol in my hand, surrounded by my dead comrades, the Union Jack clutched in my fingers. They said I was trying to protect the flag from the Afghan invaders, but the truth was I was looking for the chief of the Afghans to surrender to. I was near insensible, at the time, and if I fired a shot in defense of the Empire the memory escapes me."

"So your entire military and diplomatic career . . ."

"Is built on a lie? Perhaps," the old man shrugged. "But an instructive lie. Keep that in mind as you bravely challenge the world, Captain. Often it is the perception, not the truth, that lingers on far after memory itself has faded. What people believe of you is often far more important than what you have actually done. But you must weigh that against your own sense of honor, and act accordingly. Now, on to cheerier things: who was that delightful morsel of dusky womanhood I saw lurking around when I came aboard? She may have been dressed as a boy, but there is no disguising those curves."

It was Gideon's turn to chuckle. "That is my half-sister, Tayanita. She's also my Engineer, and while I could add she is under my protection, I think you'll find that forcing yourself on her unwilling would produce an abrupt and inglorious end to your career, regardless of how it began. She is very independent-minded -- which I encourage. And an adept shot," he added.

"Remarkable," Mr. Jones sighed, nodding. "I suppose there will be whores enough in Petite Roche -- and certainly in New Orleans."

Gideon left the man to breakfast in the salon. He made his way back to the humming Engine Room, where Sissy and a brace of her men were keeping the steam engine that powered the propellors and the pumps whirring along. The room was moist and overly warm, as usual, and the smell of burning alcohol and stale steam haunted the air. Sissy herself was tapping the altimeter she'd insisted on installing down here and frowning.

"If I didn't know better," she said, absently, "I'd say we just dropped a dozen rockets! Did something fall?"

"In a manner of speaking," Gideon grinned. He explained the method of egress his secret guests had used, and made Tayanita jealous that she hadn't been there to witness the event. 

"But you must procure me some o' those Baldwin Bags when we get to Na'orleans," she insisted. "We could do so much with those!"

"It is already on my agenda," he assured her. "So, do we have everything we need, then, to begin construction of the Argo?"

"What? Of course not!" she scoffed. "Not by half. Oh, we got the gas, now, and the keel is alread laid if that firm we hired knows their business. But there are still thousands o' things we'll need before she takes air, much less goes to battle!"

"Such as?" Gideon asked, his heart sinking. He thought they had acquired enough of a fortune to build their dream ship twice over.

"Such as about forty thousand gallons o' latex," Tayanita began listing, "about ninety miles o' hemp rope, four tonnes o' steel cable -- that ain't cheap -- two brand new custom engines from Germany, and, and . . ."

"I understand," Gideon sighed. "I suppose we'll be hiring our swords out for a while, yet."

"Oh, I think we can take a respite from battle . . . for a while. But Gid, even if we paid pure gold, the Argo will take years to build. At least two. And there are hundreds o' miscellaneous parts that we'll have to special order, or fabricate. That costs, too. More than we have. But we have enough to start, and if Fortune smiles, we'll have the rest afore long," she assured.

"So, to New Orleans, then to Paris," he nodded.

"Uh, Gid? Any way we could do a little . . . fishin' along the way?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, aware that the girl was prone to metaphor far more than an English girl would be.

"I mean, that there are plenty o' Spanish ships comin' back from their colonies in the South, and latex is one of their major spoils. The Moriscan pirates take latex ships all the time. If we could contrive to capture a few o' these, maybe, we could cut down the price significantly. Time, too."

"Air piracy?" Gideon asked, a little startled..

"Well, if you wanna go and get all technical," the Indian maid scowled. "Yes, piracy it would be. I know that might go against your idea of honor—"

"Actually, I find the idea rather appealing," he chuckled. "I was dreading a prolonged stay in Paris. Too easy to be lured into indolence by its many charms. A little casual piracy might be just the thing I need to keep me sharp, until the Argo is complete."

"That's ideal!" she smiled, relieved. "Way I figure, we hole up in Paris while I supervise construction, then maybe go out every couple o' months to go . . . shopping," she said, wryly. "I mean, as long as we stay on the right side of the Frogs, and not hit anything too important, we should be able to linger there until it's complete without having the air navy of every Empire under Heaven chasing us."

"Still, it's unlikely that Emperor Napolean will appreciate a brazen outlaw using his fair city as a hideout. Paris isn't an ideal base for piracy," Gideon pointed out, "although the amenities are, indeed, delightful."




Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 06



"True, but it's where we got to build the Argo. So if you want to dock the Victrix elsewhere, I suggest you start searching for a spot. But within telegraph reach of Paris."

"That's most of Europe, Sissy," Gideon observed, gently. "Very well, I shall seek some out-of-the-way place, then, for our pirate base. But—

"Shhhh!" Taynita said, suddenly, her eyes widening. Gideon almost interrupted, but thought better of it. If Sissy heard something amiss with the engines, he'd leave her to it.

"What is it?" he whispered, afer a long pause. Tayanita waved at him impatiently, then started wandering into the labyrinth of tight corridors that ran the length of the gas envelope. Each of the massive inflating cells had to be accessed at need, so the catwalks wound around a great deal, providing ample territory for mischeif to strike. Gideon followed her, suddenly concerned -- had some Atlan spy actually stowed away up here, ready to sabotage his vessel? Grimly, he drew his pistol. As they approached he began to hear what had attracted Sissy's attention: a rythmic moaning and grunting that was all too familiar. The noise of the engines, while now receded, was still omnipresent enough to hide their footfalls, so the siblings were able to approach without alerting anyone. 

Taynita paused, abruptly, and Gideon stood behind her, peering over her shoulder, at what she stared at. There in a tiny nook between two swollen cells lay two familiar figures: William Bonney and Marta, the captive Beanie noblewoman. The lady in question was on her hands and knees, her bronze arse high in the air, as she welcomed the pounding of Billy's turgid tool in her cunny with apparent relish. For his part, Bonney was riding her cunt like he was breaking a horse, wildly and with abandon. If his approach was crude, it apparently met with Marta's approval, as she had a loud and boistrous climax moments after the siblings discovered them. Neither one was aware of their presence, however, and though Gideon waited for Sissy to intervene, she didn't. 

They contented themselves with watching the rowdy coupling, and Gideon had to admit to himself that Billy, for all of his wild ways, seemed to know his business when it came to fucking. The course mercenary gunman slapped at Marta's broad buttocks with enthusiasm, making her squeal and wimper as he rode her cunt, until he, himself finally arrived with a bellowing scream near to that Gideon had heard the day he'd lept off of the side of an airship.

"That," Tayanita said icily, clapping slowly in the aftermath, "was impressive, Mr. Bonney." 

There was an unpleasant edge to her voice that made Gideon realize that he might be escorting Mr. Bonney through the hatch without the benefit of one of those Baldwin Bags. "So did you smuggle this whore aboard? Or did she make it here on her own?"

"Captain," Bonney said, wide-eyed at his discovery and clearly unwilling to confront Tayanita, "I have to report the presence of a stowaway!"

"Really?" Gideon said, trying hard to keep a smirk from his lips as he returned his pistol to its holster. "And how did you apprehend this stowaway, Mr. Bonney?"

"Wellsir," the mercenary said, as he collapsed on the floor next to his lover, "I was doin' my rounds, patrollin', if you like, when I heard a noise. When I went to investigate said noise, I found me an Atlan spy. So of course I wrestled her to the ground and was in the process of securing her when you arrived in such a timely manner."

"Full marks for boldness, Mr. Bonney," Gideon had to admit. "But that doesn't quite clear your name. Come, did you bring Marta along?"

"No, Captain," the Atlan woman said, sadly. "He is correct: I did stow away. I felt compelled to: my father is reluctant to part with such a high ransom for his . . . homely daughter. He was engaging in bargaining with the Oklahomans more suited to purchasing a mare at market, not redeeming a beloved child. So I escaped the confines of the Atlan Consulate and stole aboard last night."

"So you have cost me a ransom—" Gideon began.

"And me a man," added Tayanita, levelly, her arms crossed judgementally under her breasts.

"And imperilled our entire journey. You do know the law about stowaways, do you not, Marta?"

"Indeed," she said, nodding seriously. "You may do with me what you will. But I can only beg of you, Captain, to take me into your service. I've always been passionate about airships, and yours is so fine compared to my homeland's rude attempts. I will bear any burden, Captain, and swear any oath if you would but consent to allow me to accompany you and learn what I can. I shall clean privys, cook, sew, be the whore of your men. But I have no wish to be the bride of some ancient, pushing out his brats while I see such magnificence as your Victrix probing the skies from the perspective of my miserable life."

Gideon looked at Tayanita, who glanced back at the Atlan girl. He would have to leave this up to her, he knew: he might be captain aboard the Victrix, but he was equal partners with his sister in the venture, and when it came to keeping her happy that alone was Gideon's top priority. There was a long silence that led the captain to believe his half-savage sister might consign both of them to the skies.

"If you truly are that in love with flight," she began, cautiously, "then report to the Engine Room at noon. Have Evan teach you the basics of the room, what everything is called. You will be the absolute lowest of my crew, I warn you, and I will not spare you in the slightest either because of your sex or your class. Noble or common, man or woman, the Engine room is my domain and you will do what I want precisely how I want it done." Gideon stifled a sigh of relief -- he had no desire to execute either of them, though he had been willing to do so.

"As for you, young lady," he said, addressing Marta sternly, "your life belongs to me, now, even moreso than before. When we land at Petite Roche, I will wire your Consulate and let them know I have taken you into custody myself because I was unhappy with negotiations. But when and if your father should see reason and ransom you back, then you will depart for home by the most expedient available transport. Until then, you are Lady Tayanita’s to dispose of as she will. Do you understand me?"

Marta nodded, trembling. "I shall do as you bid, Captain."

"As for you, Bonney," he continued, sternly, "seeing as how you have taken up her cause, you will share your quarters with her for the trip. Somehow I don't think you'll be sharing them with anyone else," he added, wryly, looking at the furious expression on Tayanita's face. "Until we get to New Orleans, at least, and then we can decide exactly what to do then."

"That's fair, Cap'n," he agreed, nodding sagely, as if he just made a good bargain trading horses. "Truth is, I'm kinda sweet on ol' Marta, here. Sorry, 'Nita, not that you ain't a peach, but . . . well, always carried a torch for Atlan women, an' Marta here is just grand!"

"I'm sure you'll be very happy together," the Engineer said, grimly, and stomped off.

"I wouldn't necessarily agree with that," Gideon said, apologetically, as he followed her. "Not if she has anything to say about it. And do pull up your trousers, Bonney."



Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 07



Edward considered just walking up to the front gate of the yard and sending his calling card to Gideon via the carbine-carrying Red Indian guards, but he dismissed the thought almost immediately. Such a re-introduction to his friend after so long an absence would seem so . . . mundane, and worse, unstylish. Edward had always been a bit intimidated by his chum's affluence and social position, and even more so by his indifference and disdain for it. Gideon's indefatigable self-confidence and boldness was infectious and alluring, but it could also be overwhelming. Edward could not match it in volume, so he had always sought to complement it with his own, more subtle accomplishments. A common handshake at the gate just would not do for the occasion of their reunion.

Gideon's yard was a large one, on the outskirts of the sprawling Aeroport Paris, as remote as it could be from the center of the busy port's activity and yet still be attached. It took a train and a carriage ride to arrive there from his Spartan accomodations, and when he did arrive the mean dirt track that linked it was already soaked through from the rain, leaving a long, desolate stretch of Parisian mud to trod through. Gideon's installation was remote, but not alone: there were similar compounds ringing the entire periphery of the busy transportation hub, some private enterprises, some leased by governments friendly to the Empire to care for their diplomatic and national airships.

Each one had a painted sign identifying it -- Gideon's yard's read Le Société Panthères de Ciel, Ltd., a curious and somewhat barbaric name for an airship concern. Edward had the coachman merely pass the yard's gate, then turn about and pass it again before depositing him at a supply shed and custom's house half a mile away. The man seemed irritated at the extra distance, but a generous tip insured his courteous departure.

Edward mumbled something about a better view to the civil servant on duty, a junior assistant customs officer of some sort who was intent upon his lunch, and the man waved him in. He made his way up to the tiny three-storey "observation tower", one of many along the wide stretches of the Aeroport, designed to allow passengers, guests, and ground controllers a better view of the sprawling complex. From here you could see the dozens of mooring towers which seemed to be constantly busy with new ships arriving and old ones departing from all over the continent. There was even a brass telescope there, so that the various numerals and symbols upon their flanks could be more readily espied for a mere two sous -- though the overcast and constant drizzle made such attempts overly ambitious. Edward made use of it, but it wasn't the ships aloft he turned it upon.

He scanned the breadth and length of Gideon's yard, where a dozen sheds clustered around a massive wooden hanger that looked like an enlarged barn. The entirety was enclosed by a wooden fence nearly four meters high. The perimeter of the compound was patrolled by some dusky-looking carbine-toting natives of some distant land, who seemed eager to shoot at someone. There were no less than five of them at the gate, itself, and when a few beggar children who seemed to haunt every aeroport he'd ever been in came near, the guards wasted no time in turning them briskly away.

The more Edward watched, the more he grinned. Whatever Gideon was doing in the yard, he did not want it known, that was certain. The utilitarian iron mooring tower that peeked up over the sheds was empty, at the moment, but there were two more keen-eyed lookouts ensconced therein, with long, wicked-looking rifles at the ready, constantly searching the area around the yard. All in all it reminded Edward more of a fortress than a manufactory.

But a manufactory it was. Carts and lorries of all description seemed to be gaining access, once they presented their credentials to the guards, though Edward could see that the crew inside insisted that all materials be off-loaded in the foremost part of the yard, well-away from the hanger. Upon retiring, every vehicle was subject to close scrutiny before it was allowed to leave.

This, then, would be a challenge, Edward decided, as he abandoned the observation tower.

Less so, it turned out, than he'd hoped for. It took only ten francs under the desk to the attendant to discover that Capt. Becker's ship, the Victrix, was scheduled to return from a brief trip to Berlin near sunset -- if, the bitter clerk added, the sun deigned to show it's face today before retiring. A brief walk down the muddy road that swung around the yards provided Edward with the only other essential piece of information he needed to gain access, and the roots of a plan began to form. Yet merely appearing as if out of nowhere was not sufficient to appease his desire for an impressive arrival. He took steps to ensure that his appearance would be memorable.

He took his supper at the wine shop where waiting passengers took their comfort before they embarked, paying far too much for fare that would have made any self-respecting Parisian shudder. While there, supping on the upper porch where he had a reasonable view of Gideon's mysterious yard, he was able to monitor who was allowed in, and who was stopped at the gate by the armed savages that seemed to be everywhere. Edward sketched out some notes in his notebook while he observed, and noted Gideon could have easily been raping innocent schoolgirls by the wagonload within. But any Parisian gendarme would have balked at trying to get past the private army of dark-skinned warriors and their gleaming guns to preserve their virtue.

The interior of the compound held numerous sheds and huts, all surrounding the massive building the fence barely contained. A few of the huts were nearly full houses, and one in particular was easy enough to pick out as Gideon's residence. It was a legitimate house, at lease four or five bedrooms, and it had several servants who went back and forth between it and the gate, or it and the kitchen, or it and the biggest building. If there was a brain behind the hum of activity, it was there. But before he got into there, he had to get past the gates.

Several deliveries arrived while he watched, and Gideon noted that they were each well-searched at the gate, their identities and business no doubt identified, before being aloud to pass within the compound, proper. The walls were regularly patrolled, and the towers at the edges of the yard were constantly manned by his friend's soldiers. And twice while he sat there observing Edward witnessed a savage patrolling the exterior of the fence with a brace of fierce-looking wolfhounds.

It was a formidable defense, to be sure, but as Uncle Pete never failed to remind him, the greater the visible defense, the easier it was to penetrate it once you understood its weaknesses. His uncle used the metaphor of an old widow: though she might protest mightily on the basis of her morality, she was just as willing as any maiden to part her legs when approached properly. By the time Edward had finished his meal and a second glass of vin ordinaire, he knew exactly how to get this metaphorical widow to spread like a whore.

*   *   *

"So who is that mysterious whore Billy's seein' in town?" Tayanita asked Marta casually as she swabbed an acrid smelling concoction of liquid latex on to a broad canvass sheet in her "laboratory". It bore little resemblance to the pristine German laboratories she'd seen, the French versions at the University and the Academy of Science or even the hastily-built labs back in the Oklahoma Kingdom. Indeed, it was little more than a shed tacked on to the massive hanger building, but it was where she and her protégé, Marta, worked on the millions of questions that needed to be answered before the Argo could be successfully built and launched.

She was testing the comparative weight ratios of rubberized canvas, which the French and British used as the outer envelopes for their airships, compared to the cotton denim cloth the Germans and Italians preferred. The outer envelopes did not need to be gas-tight, of course, as the interior lifting cells were, but they did have to be water-tight, fire-resistant (if not fire proof) yet strong enough to hold together under the punishing conditions of the atmosphere -- but not weigh more than absolutely necessary. Every kilogram of unnecessary weight was a loss.

The Atlan girl shrugged as she continued to stitch together the denim sheet that was next to be coated.

"I am not certain," Marta answered, cautiously. While she loved her friend dearly, the issue of William Bonney had been a sore spot for both of them. "She must be fabelachtig, though. Even the well-born women in Paris dress and act like whores -- how much better, then, would the actual Parisian whores be?"

She and Tayanita had become close friends and confidants, as well as colleagues, despite the problems over the man they had shared. Though Tayanita had been angry and jealous of the less-attractive Atlan woman, as their journey through New Orelans and their adventures with the Moriscan pirates beyond the Florida Straits had overtaken them on their journey to France, Tayanita had recognized a kindred spirit when it came to all things aeronautical. Marta did not have her training and education, being destined for the more feminine world of early matrimony, but she had a nimble mind and a keen eye, and she, like Tayanita, had been around airships most of her life. True, they had been the primitive Atlan variety, but the basic principals were the same. If she did not share Tayanita's talent for engineering, she shared her enthusiasm for building the Argo.

"You ain't too wrong about that," Tayanita admitted with a sigh. "Never saw so much lace and silk in my life as there was in M. Belvoir's gown when she came to call on Gid. And talk about forward: she had her hand on his knee fast as a shot! It's like these French women breathe and sleep sex all the time. Hard for us American girls to compete," she said, a trace of bitterness in her voice.

"Do not worry, misje," Marta reassured her, "They may capture a man's attention for a few weeks, but they tire of them quickly. Or so I've heard," she added, a trace of doubt in her voice. Tayanita suddenly felt sympathetic to Marta -- while she felt inadequate compared to these whorish Parisians, she was still aware of how much more attractive men still found her, compared to Marta, whose wide features and broad nose, not to mention her dusky complexion and dark eyes -- made her homely by most accounts.

Marta had reveled in the brief relationship she'd enjoyed with Billy on the voyage across the Atlantic, but within weeks of arriving at the City of Lights Billy's attention had turned towards the perfumed-and-belaced examples of French femininity the cosmopolitan Empire thrust at him so forcefully. Their romance had faded within days, and had broken within a fortnight, under the pressure of such aggressive competition. Marta still carried quite a torch for the dashing young American, but Billy's eyes were easily distracted. Indeed, even as they had brought the Victrix down in their yard for the first time there had been nearly a dozen airport whores huddled around the mooring tower waving and showing off their cleavage and their slender limbs.

Gideon had put a stop to that quickly, of course. No prude, her half-brother was dedicated to running a smooth enterprise, and complicating matters with on-site prostitutes went against that ideal. He had immediately restricted the entire yard to "outsiders", depending upon his fierce Oklahoman marines to patrol the compound and keep the whores, thieves, and other airport scum at bay. The men were still permitted liberal opportunities to enjoy their illicit favors off-premises, in their off-duty hours, but no one came past the second gate and into the secretive yard without written permission.

But that left the few ladies of the Victrix largely without company. Tayanita was lucky -- she had a few German engineers on her crew she could count on to service her womanly needs, secure in the knowledge that nothing more serious would arise from the liaison. But poor, plain Marta rarely attracted even their brief attention, and it was starting to bother her mightily. She had even started mooning about Billy again, and that could not be a healthy thing to the Cherokee woman's mind.

"Oh, I ain't worried none -- not much, anyway. I know my future last name won't be 'Bonney'," she reassured her friend as she dropped the heavy brush back into the evil-smelling bucket. "But I'm just curious what manner of whore has got him so twitterpated."

"I'm sure she is very beautiful," Marta said, bitterly, as she hung up the denim sheet on the framework she'd built the day before. "A beautiful, sweet-smelling, foul-mouthed nasty Parisian whore," she completed, scathingly. "Probably a Protestant whore, too," she condemned, as if that made it worse somehow.

Tayanita had to giggle -- that was one thing she adored about Marta, her polite forthrightness. Tayanita herself had little patience for the long-winded way the French conducted business, preferring plainspoken American methods instead, and one of the things that had charmed her about the homely Atlan woman was her earnest manner.

"If only there were boy whores, too," Tayanita sighed wistfully as she moved the bucket of latex over to the denim sheet. "They say there are, down in that Moulin Rouge place they keep talkin' about. But from what I gather, they're more interested in other boys than us delicate flowers."

"My 'delicate flower' is in need of some tending, misje," Marta said, wistfully. "And I am near to thinking that paying for the service from a . . . professional gentleman might be the only way that occurs. Not even those savage braves that lope around here will pay me attention!" she pouted.

"Oh, honey, that ain't no way to talk!" Tayanita soothed, lapsing back into the casual English her people spoke at their ease. "Don't worry, if these Frenchies know 'bout anything besides wine, it's how to get their jollies. I heard tale of this device they build here, a special contraption—"

"For . . . masturbation?" Marta asked in a whisper, looking around scandalously. "I, too, have heard such things, but such mechanical abominations must be a grievous sin . . ."

"You can't tell me you haven't rubbed your nubbin before," Tayanita said, aghast. "Every girl does it!"

"Not nuns," Marta quickly pointed out. "Never nuns. And they would whip us if they even thought we had been . . . pleasuring ourselves."

"That doesn't mean you didn't, though," she observed. "You do know how, don't you?"

Marta blushed, her dark skin growing even darker. "Yes. I believe so. There was a girl -- her name was Anchelle, from the coast -- she once showed some of us . . . what she did—"

"And you ain't done it since then?"

"Well, with all that has happened . . ." Marta said, skeptically.

"Here," Tayanita said gently, sitting up on her own desk and drawing up her knees. "I know you have religious objections to this, but watch what I do, at least," she said, not knowing what strange humor had came over her. Why was she being this intimate with the girl? They were friends, close friends, which was unusual considering their peoples were traditional enemies and had been at war all their young lives. Compared to the Parisians, they were practically from the same clan. But this was an intimacy that she had shared with no one. Yet here she was, drawing her skirts up and peeling down the lacy drawers that seemed to be required among the fairer sex in this fair city. Her slender pussy was exposed to her friend's astonished sight. Suddenly Tayanita's loins were heavy with the dew of her excitement as her brown-skinned friend gazed enchanted at her brazenly displayed beaver.

"It's real easy," she breathed, as she parted her inner lips with her fingers. "This up here, that's your happy spot -- rub it. A lot." To demonstrate, she began making delectate circles around her clitoris with her hand, her breathing getting deeper and more ragged as she did so. "You got to relax, though," she said softly as her friend watched her perform the private ritual. "Maybe stick a few . . . fingers inside yourself," she said, exhaling pleasantly, "and run 'em in and out, like they're a real cock . . ." she said, demonstrating, "and it feels . . . real nice . . ."

"Are you . . .?"

"Gettin' there," Tayanita agreed huskily, relaxing a little more, now that Marta had accepted the spectacle of her masturbation. "It ain't as nice as a real dick, but when a girl's got . . . no place else to be . . . and no one to be with . . . it will get you through a hard night. An' sometimes it can keep a girl from thinkin' with her cunny instead of her brain, and that's a help."

"It looks like fun," the Atlan girl admitted, licking her lips.

"Oh, it is, it is," she assured her as her fingers sped up their revolutions around her button. "It's a whole lot of fun -- more fun than most boys, actually. Oh . . . OH! Watch closely, Marta . . . here I . . . go!"

With that the girl spasmed hard as her orgasm washed over her, shook her like a dog shakes a squirrel, and then deposited her gently back to earth.

"There," Tayanita sighed as she pulled up her drawers. "That was simple -- and a lot of fun. And no smelly, nasty, hateful man to deal with afterwards."

"I don't know, 'Nita," Marta said, doubtfully. "The nuns . . . they said it was a sin . . ."

"You been sinnin' since we met, Marta," Tayanita chided. "And you go to church more'n any body here. Weren't you fornicatin' without the blessings of the Church all the way over the ocean? How in hell is that somehow more godly than ticklin' your twat your ownself?"

"Well . . . technically . . . that was rape," Marta justified, quietly. "I was -- am -- a prisoner of war, and therefore I am not in control of my destiny."

"Well ain't you just full of justifications today!" Tayanita howled. "Rape? That weren't rape. I seen rape before, sad to say. If anyone was getting' raped, it was poor Billy. You realize how much noise y'all made? Enough where we could hear over the engines clear back in the Engine Room!"

"If it was rape," Marta sniffed, indignantly, "then it was no sin. That is what the priests say."

"Likely why I ain't a Christian," Tayanita said, shaking her head as she coated the denim. "All them rules about fuckin' -- ain't right. The Spirit put us here with perfectly good working girl parts, Marta, ain't no good reason not to use them as intended."

"Ignorant savage," Marta spat, derisively. But she was blushing deeply at having

"Pretentious slut," the Cherokee princess sneered.

"Blasphemous cunt!"

"Filthy Atlan whore!"

"You're courting damnation!"

"You're courtin' cobwebs in your coochie!"

Both women stared at each other, then broke into gales of laughter. It was a common and enjoyable game they had developed to pass the long hours spent running trials on materials and figuring out complex calculations. 'Swearing like an airman' was a common expression, and both women had been around such rough trade for almost six months, and had learned a rich new vocabulary they never hesitated to try out on each other. The exchanges were good natured and intended to amuse, not hurt, and they always ended in laughter. This time, however, the laughter was cut short by the sudden peal of the alarm bell.

"What the hell?" Tayanita asked, confused.

"The alarm!" Marta said in a hushed whisper. "Quickly: how many bells?"




Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 07



"Three—no, four!" Tayanita said. "Intruder! Probably one o' them pickpockets and sneaktheifs." She quickly rooted around in the large bag she carried, full of useful tools, and pulled out a wide belt from which was suspended a small but deadly revolver. As she strapped it on her hips, Marta nodded, her face pale, and picked up a carbine that Gideon had thoughtfully posted in her shed for their protection.

The girls made a point of locking the laboratory securely, then made their way to the central courtyard in front of the yawning hanger where the Victrix slumbered and from which the Argo had yet to be born. There was already a crowd of two-dozen, a mixture of Oklahoman marines and European crewmen, all of whom had armed themselves with deliberate speed. A profusion of carbines and revolvers, not to mention implements of a ruder -- but no less effective -- sort bristled from the crowd.

Gideon was on the pedestal he'd erected there, addressing his folk like the lord he was. His voice was loud, purposeful, and angry.

"—saw him around the front gate, asking questions about our yard. Wet Fox sent him on his way, but the man disappeared a few moments later, and that's when the sergeant on duty noticed the cash box we use to pay our suppliers was missing. Since the front gate was bolted at that point, the only explanation is that the thief is still somewhere on the premises. There will be five ounces of gold for any man who brings him to me alive, and two gold for his corpse."

"It was a thief," nodded Marta.

"Perhaps he will take you unawares and rape you," offered Tayanita in a whisper. "I'm sure you'd enjoy that."

"Perhaps if he was handsome," the Atlan girl conceded. "I would not struggle overmuch."

"Struggle? You'd put him down and ride him like a rented horse!"

"Surely you have mistaken me for a woman of loose reputation?"

"You ain't got no reputation right now, that's the problem!" the Cherokee girl giggled as she checked the load on her pistol. "Tell you what: we find the man, we take that reward money, go into town, and get us a couple o' fellas. Don't care if they like boys -- they got pricks that can rise, that'll do."

"We may have sex if we find this man?" Marta said, suddenly interested. "Then lead the way, meisje, and I'll destroy him!"

"You horny old . . . hey, see how the Marines are all headed for the walls?"

Marta nodded. "It would make sense. The thief would want to escape with his prize as expediently as possible."

"Which is why goin' towards where all the folk with guns are ain't necessarily the best plan for him," Tayanita pointed out. "So let's go up to the guard shack, take a look around, see what this fella got and then figure where he went. Basic tracking."

The two women wandered away from the resolute-looking men who were swarming the fences and found the route to the guard shed, where there were easily twice as many armed Indians as usual. They were reluctant to let two women in to look around, but the respect they held for Tayanita -- and the fact that both ladies in question were armed -- allowed them into the scene of the crime. Tayanita wasted no time, asking questions about the look of the criminal, exactly what happened, and expressed a desire to see where the stolen money box had been secured.

"Bolted to the wall," noted Tayanita in a murmur. "So he planned this. Chief, how much money in the box?"

"Twenty, thirty francs," Robert "Chief" Standing Bear answered. "Plus some sous. Hardly seems worth the effort."

"It wasn't," agreed Tayanita sagely. "And note what else was stolen?"

"The box?" Marta asked.

"The book," Tayanita corrected. "Gid's big accounts book. It's gone."

"Why would someone want that?"

"And why would someone after money not take that cigar box?" she asked, nodding towards the desk where an ornately carved and inlaid Moriscan box held fine cigars looted from the wreck of a Corsair the Victrix had overtaken. "That box is worth forty francs by itself, not to mention the tobacco inside."

"Yes, that is strange," Chief admitted.

"So they took the book, but not the box," reasoned Tayanita, quietly, opening the expensive piece.

"And this means? Besides the fact that he does not care to smoke?"

"The thief wasn't after money. If he was after mere money, he would have taken the box, the cigars, and had them safely sold before he left the port. Oh, he took the money, of course, but what he really wanted to take was the information in the accounts book. How much we've spent, and with whom."

"But why?"

"That," agreed Tayanita, "is an excellent question, Marta. All of our suppliers are of public record -- all of the ones in France, at any rate. So he wanted to see . . . how much we've spent, and with which vendors. And on what. Someone, it seems, is curious about the Argo."

"Who even knows about the Argo?" Chief asked, mystified.

"Someone who wanted to know so badly they hired a thief to steal our account book. And you say he left . . . this way?"

Fifteen minutes later, while the outbuildings were being thoroughly searched and the walls were being checked for the intruder, the pair of young women came out of the guard shack and strode resolutely across the compound to the old farmhouse that Gideon had converted into a residence fit for a captain. And his engineer.

The old country house predated the airfield by a century, at least, but was snug, warm, dry, and even painted a lovely light blue color. No one seemed to be searching it, so the girls were able to enter without notice. Tayanita immediately drew her pistol and turned towards her brother's hallowed study, where he kept his desk, some books, his safe, his papers, and -- most importantly -- the master plans she herself had drawn up in designing the Argo. If anyone was curious enough about their labors to steal the account book, then the blueprints and designs would be too rich a prize to pass up -- not with the entire compound mobilized to search for a petty thief.

Indeed, Tayanita was gratified a moment later to discover the thief, right where she had deduced he was located.

Sitting at Gideon's desk reading those same -- very secret -- plans was a young man no more than twenty five, neatly coiffed, clean shaven and professionally dressed. He looked like a bright young accountant, or clerk at law, in his well-tailored dark suit. After being around Frenchmen for almost half a year, she was able to determine that this man looked somehow "more English" -- although, truth be told, she frequently found all Whites looked the same to her. But this one was strikingly handsome, she had to admit. He was puffing heartily on one of the Moriscan cigars from the gilt box from the guard shack while he studied, much to Tayanita's horror, the master blueprints that she had painstakingly drawn herself.

"Excuse me," she said, a deadly threat in her voice, "but I believe the tradesmen are expected to use the rear entrance." She spoke in English, because her French was awful and it was one of the languages she and Marta shared. Besides, after six months of seeing how the whole of Paris dressed, the style of the man's suit was decidedly English, even if his face might not be.

"This is a social call, actually," the handsome young Englishman said, without looking up. "This ship you're building -- it's fantastic! I've never seen anything like it! It's beautiful!"

"I'm glad you like it," Tayanita said, evenly. "As it may be the last thing you ever see!"

Finally, the intruder glanced up. "Well, perhaps not the last," he said, after a pause. "Nor, I'm afraid, the fairest. You have taken that honor."

Tayanita had the good grace to blush, but her pistol never wavered. "You have a gentle tongue, I see," she said, when she had recovered from the unexpected flattery.

"That depends entirely on my mood and the lady I'm with," he quipped. "Not to mention the manner in which it may be deployed. Would you be so kind as to summon Captain Becker for me? Thank you."

"Sir, it seems to have escaped your notice that I am armed," she said, her anger rising. "I have yet to kill anyone on this continent, but you are making that exceedingly hard to avoid! In any case, yes, Captain Becker should be informed of your capture. Tom! Black Tom!" she called over her shoulder. When no response was forthcoming, she glanced at Marta. "Go seek my brother and tell him what has happened."

"Will you be all right with him?" the Atlan girl asked.

"I have the gun, he is the trespasser," the Cherokee princess replied. "As far as being ravished," she added, scornfully, "he hardly looks the type."

"As you say," Marta said doubtfully, but she left in good haste.

"I'm not, actually," the stranger commented.

"You are not what? A trespasser?"

"Oh, I'm guilty of that. And of evading your stout savages. And of breaking into this house in broad daylight without a single one of you witnessing the act. I meant to say, 'I'm not the type to ravish a lady' . . . without her express permission."

"I assure you, that shall not be forthcoming," Tayanita said, raising the weapon a little higher to emphasize her argument.

The man shrugged and smiled, displaying dimples that revealed a boyish nature. It unnerved and frustrated her that he was not displaying an adequate amount of fear of her and her pistol. "The day is still young. So, in what capacity do you serve Captain Becker?"

"You are not to do the interrogation, Mr. Thief. I am the one holding the gun!"

"So you have said, thrice now, and yet you haven't fired and I haven't been remotely concerned that you would do so. Does that not speak of a more complicated affair than merely catching a thief?"

"What? If I have restrained myself, Sir, it is out of a fear of giving in to my savage nature -- which I assure you, my people are well known for!"

"Yes, I'd say you were about half English," he nodded. "A beastly people. I'm one, myself, sad to say."

"Are you not concerned for your skin, Sir?" she asked, quivering at the stranger's temerity -- and wondering about his accuracy.

"Usually," he admitted, sublimely. "But my foremost concern regarding my skin is what the most expedient means would be to press it excitedly against your own."

"You go too far, Sir!" she warned. She blushed, despite herself, and realized that she was attracted to this cocky, self-assured stranger.

"Do I?" the thief mused. "I often wonder if I go far enough. I had considered making my entry by means of a line dropped from an airship, but discarded the idea as too . . . showy. I prefer a subtler style. Now Gideon," he chuckled, "Gideon would not have considered such a sudden appearance as 'subtle', unless there was a lion or a camel or something involved, and then he'd only consider it 'mildly interesting'."

"Yes, Miss?" asked the deep and pleasant voice of Black Tom, who acted as Gideon's majordomo while they were aground. If the fact that she was holding a loaded pistol on a stranger in his master's office disturbed the Negro in the slightest, he did not show it.

"Tom, if you would not mind, please pour two glasses of wine for myself and our guest. Three, actually -- the Captain will be joining us." She spoke lightly, but through clenched teeth.

"Yes, Miss," the sharply-dressed man nodded, and disappeared. A moment later he handed a winestem full of red -- a Burgundy, to which her brother was partial -- to Tayanita, and without getting in the line of fire, set a glass near to the thief's elbow on the desk -- receiving a polite thank you for his trouble. The third glass he deposited on a nearby table. "How many for lunch, Miss? Will you be dining with us today?"

"Yes, I think I will be," she agreed. "Set a table for four. We can always remove a seat, if it isn't required any more."

"Yes, Miss."

"This is splendid," the mysterious stranger nodded after sipping the wine. "From Burgundy, I would have to guess an '88?"

"If you are seeking to impress me," Tayanita said, sipping her own glass, "you will be hard pressed to do so. Although I admit your stealth in breeching our compound has piqued my curiosity. How did you do that?"

"Easily enough," the thief demurred.

"And you act as if you know my brother?"

"Know him well," the thief agreed, congenially, as he continued to smoke the cigar and sip the wine. "To his health!" he added, raising the glass.

"Cheers," she nodded. The pistol did not waver.

"So, what is a gloriously radiant woman such as yours—oh, hello Gid, outstanding vintage!" the thief said, interrupting himself as her brother stomped into the house, half a dozen of his Sky Panther marines behind him bristling with weaponry.

"It's an '88," the airship captain said, dully.

"Thought so," the man nodded. "It's splendid . . . but it will be radiant in a few years."

Gideon crossed the room and retrieved the glass that had been prepared for him. "Good to see you Edward. Oh, gentlemen, please cancel the alarm," he added over his shoulder to the bronzed warriors. They nodded and left without any further discussion. "I see you met Tayanita," he said, as the thief vacated his chair.

"Lovely woman, truly beautiful," the man her brother called Edward said, affably. "Is she your bride? Or your fiancé? Or something less . . . formal?"

"She's my sister, actually," Gideon said, putting his mud-stained boots up on an ottoman. Edward took one of the facing chairs, while Tayanita still had not lowered her weapon. While the men were acting like old friends, she knew that Gideon's lack of an order to do so was no oversight: clearly he was suspicious of this "old friend" who was so free with his property and security. "Half sister."

Edward's eyebrows raised in surprise. "She? She's the one your . . . oh, dear God, it is such a pleasure to meet you, then!" he said, roaring with laughter. "And such an enchanting creature, too, to be at the heart of that tempest. Oh, what a scandal you have left behind you, Gid! Your mother is livid, your father is . . . well, I would have a care before you dropped in over the holidays. Might want some of those savages with you."

"I doubt they could stand one of Mater's vicious assaults," Gideon chuckled, wryly.

"I don't say you're wrong. Oh, by the way: your strongbox," the thief said, pulling it out from behind an aeronautical globe in the study.

"Why did you steal it?" Gideon asked, curiously.

"Because it got your attention. You had to know a thief was about. I thought it a fair warning to get your people mobilized for a search for me. That's an impressive cadre you've built, Old Man."

"And yet you broke in anyway. Sissy, when we were at Rugby, Edward had the most amazing talent of . . . acquisition you had ever seen!"

"So, you know this man is a thief?" she asked, skeptically.

"I prefer 'gentleman burglar', actually," Edward offered.

"I prefer 'housebreaker extraordinaire! You may holster your weapon, Sissy, and join us for a bit. Edward was one of my closest friends from school, but afterwards he . . . got involved with disreputable folk."

"Please," Edward dismissed, "I've always been involved with disreputable folk. It makes a man truly appreciate a reputation."

"In any case, Edward steals things -- expensive things -- from very rich people."

"The truth comes out at last," Edward sighed. "So you knew?"

"Of course. Don't let it concern you, Old Man, I didn't mind. You never stole anything from me, personally. And you shared your loot in school too often for me to begrudge you a few silver spoons. I was amused, actually -- the way you made the rounds. Always seemed to have some brass, never seemed to work for it."

"Never work for it?" Edward asked, astonished. "Are you joking? Burglary is hard work, I'll have you know. There's as much art to it as science, and if one is to remain a burglar long, one must put in endless hours of preparation for the tiniest assignment!"

"Really? Is that how you stole my cousin's silver Swiss pocket watch?" Gideon countered. "A grand, elaborate plan with meticulously detailed preparation?"

"He passed out drunk at cards, and I took an opportunity," Edward admitted. "All right, I admit, there's as much initiative in the art as preparation. But it is hardly easy. Not if you're good at it."

"And are you?" asked Tayanita, impressed with the man, despite herself.

"Did I not just break into your home in an armed camp in broad daylight? With no witnesses?"

"He's one of the best in Europe," Gideon assured her.

"Well, as long as you're associating yourself with a high class of criminal," Tayanita said, beginning to relax a bit. Perhaps the wine was soothing her nerves. "By the way, I am indeed claiming my five ounces of gold for capturing him, Gideon. I need to get Marta . . . serviced." And herself, too, she added, silently, somewhat to her dismay.

There was just something about this damned city that made a girl want to throw her legs up to the heavens and hump every cock that happened by! She didn't know if it was the finery, the architecture, or the fabulous cosmetics, but the city of Paris enchanted you, reached out and grabbed you by your cunt and made you want to fuck. Even the presence of this Edward, a comparative stranger, was having a most lubricating effect on her virtue. That was one reason why she didn't blame Billy as much about his infidelity with Marta -- everyone in this town was horny, from the lusty young Emperor to the lowliest scullery maid. And the cosmopolitan nature of the city drew the horny from all over the world, compounding the problem.

She had heard a rumor that the magnificent cathedral of Notre Dame was behind it -- that the church had been built originally on the site of a pagan temple of a particularly lusty divinity, a kin of Pan's, and that Paris' well-deserved reputation for licentiousness was his revenge. She liked that thought -- she found the European manner of religion to be stuffy and impractical -- not to mention not much fun.

The wine helped -- she rarely drank it, preferring good German beer instead, but in Paris wine ran like water -- better than Parisian water, actually. She tolerated the flavor, but the effects of the alcohol were the same as beer. And the Parisians seemed to drink it at all hours of the day. That had to contribute to the lusty nature of the city.

"Is Marta your horse? Dog?" Edward asked, curious.

"She's my aeroarchitechtural protégé," Tayanita corrected. "And if she doesn't see some joy soon, she will be unbearable." That went for both women, of course -- Tayanita nearly blushed at the memory of her brazen display of self-love earlier. If she did not soon find relief . . .

"So you're an . . . engineer?"

"I am the engineer," she corrected, smoothly. "A distinction I truly hope you'll bear in mind."

"Oh! Of course, mademoiselle," Edward assured her. "I meant no disrespect. If you are half as talented in your field as your brother is in his . . ."

"Half? She eclipses me, Old Man. Really, Edward, 'Nita's extraordinary, she really is," Gideon smiled indulgently. "She's not only my chief engineer, she's the chief architect of this," he said, dramatically spreading his arms to encompass the large sheaf of design diagrams covering the desk before him. "She's the wizard behind the Argo."

"Now I am the one who stands impressed," Edward said, quietly, after a moment's consideration. "That ship is . . . it's no less than magnificent. Glorious."

"You know how to read blueprints?" she asked, surprised.

"A gentleman burglar is equipped with all sorts of unusual skills, my dear," he assured her, a silky tone in his voice that she found both pleasant and irritating all at once. "I can read a blueprint, but more importantly I can recognize a truly unique design when I see one. This will be the biggest, most extraordinary thing aloft—"




Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 07



"If it gets built," Tayanita finished, sourly.

"What?" Edward asked in surprise. "I thought you came back from America loaded with gold and jewels."

"Not as such -- but I did come back a wealthy man. And wealth I earned in my own hand, by the by, not taken from my father's," her brother said, proudly. "Yet I have this yard to pay for, my crew to pay, plus the cost of this ship," he sighed, concern haunting his eyes. "I have not spoken openly about it, but . . . well, my funds will run out in months -- and it will be at least two years before the Argo is skyworthy."

"It's true," Tayanita confirmed. "I've had to reduce some of my expenditures . . . and we are making progress on the envelope structure, and the gondola is mostly framed in, but . . ."

"Bah! We took plenty from that Moriscan corsair," Gideon reminded her. "Enough for a few additional months, at least. And I can always sell off a precious tank of Helium to keep us afloat."

"Don't you dare!" she almost shouted. "That noble element is the key to our whole enterprise!"

"I know, I know," Gideon agreed, clearly frustrated with the prospect, "but if it's the only way forward . . ."

"We can go raiding in the Victrix if we need more funds," she countered, shaking her head. "Air piracy isn't my natural calling, but if it keeps the creditors at bay . . ." This was not a discussion she wanted to be having now, especially in front of this . . . surprisingly handsome stranger.

"See, Edward? I'm a thief as well," Gideon chuckled. "I just steal to a larger scale. But if I don't, then all the money I've spent thus far will have been wasted."

"Actually," Edward said, mildly, "I think I may have a solution . . . for all of our problems."