kerosene's still there."
"Right. Of course." The dust was clearing in the viewports, and Alek put his shaking hands on the saunters again. He realized that he'd hoped Klopp would take the controls, but the man was still panting, his face bright red.
"Don't worry, Alek. You did well."
Alek swallowed, forcing his hands to push the Stormwalker into a first step. "I almost wrecked it again."
"Exactly: almost." Klopp laughed. "Remember how I said everyone falls the first time they try to run?"
Alek scowled as he planted one giant foot on the river-bank. "I could hardly forget."
"Well, everyone also falls the second time they run, young master!" Klopp's laughter turned into coughing, then he spat and cleared his throat. "Except for you, it seems. Lucky for us you're such a Mozart with the saunters."
Alek kept his eyes ahead, not answering. He didn't feel proud, having left that rider behind, lying broken in the grass. The man had been a soldier serving the empire. He couldn't have understood the politics swirling around him any more than those commoners back in Lienz.
But he'd lost his life just the same.
Alek felt himself split into two people, the way he did when he was alone on watch, one part crushing down his despair into its small, hidden place. He blinked away sweat and searched the riverbank for the precious cans of kerosene, hoping that Bauer was watching for horses, and that the cannon was loaded again.
FIFTEEN
Just after morning altitude drills the middies were all at breakfast, chattering about signal scores, the duty roster, and when war would finally come.
Deryn had already finished her eggs and potatoes. She was busy sketching the way the message lizard tubes coiled around the Leviathan's walls and windows. The beasties always poked their heads out as they waited for messages, like foxes in a burrow.
Then suddenly Midshipman Tyndall, who'd been staring dreamily out the windows, shouted, "Look at that!"
The other middies sprang up, scrambling to the port side of the mess. In the distance, across the patchwork of farmlands and villages, the great city of London was rising into view. They shouted to each other about the ironclads moored on the River Thames, the tangle of converging rail lines, and the elephantine draft animals that choked the roads leading to the capital.
"BLASÉ ABOUT OLD SIGHTS."
Deryn stayed in her seat, taking the opportunity to spear one of Middy Fitzroy's potatoes.
"Haven't you plook-heads seen London before?" she asked, chewing.
"Not from up here," Newkirk said. "The Service never lets us big ships fly over cities."
"Wouldn't want to scare the Monkey Luddites, would we?" Tyndall said, punching Newkirk's shoulder.
Newkirk ignored him. "Look! Is that Saint Paul's?"
"Seen it," Deryn said, stealing a piece of Tyndall's bacon. "I flew over these parts in a Huxley once. An interesting story, that."
"Quit your blethering, Mr. Sharp!" Fitzroy said. "We've heard that story enough."
Deryn flicked a piece of potato at Fitzroy's dorsal regions. The boy always assumed superior airs, just because his father was an ocean navy captain.
Feeling the projectile hit home, Fitzroy turned from the view and scowled. "We're the ones who rescued you, remember?"
"What, you sods?" she said. "I don't remember seeing you at the winch, Mr. Fitzroy."
"Perhaps not." He smiled and turned back to the view. "But we watched you float past these very windows, swinging from your Huxley like a pair of trinkets."
The other middies laughed, and Deryn sprang up from her chair. "I think you might want to rephrase that, Mr. Fitzroy."
He turned away and gazed serenely out the window. "And I think you might learn to respect your betters, Mr. Sharp."
"Betters?" Deryn balled her fists. "Who'd respect a bum-rag like you?"
"Gentlemen!" Mr. Rigby's voice came from the hallway. "Your attention, please."
Chapter 12
Deryn snapped to attention with the others, but her glare stayed fixed on Fitzroy. He was stronger than her, but in the two tiny bunk rooms that the middies shared, there were a hundred ways to take revenge.
Then Captain Hobbes and Dr. Busk entered the mess behind Mr. Rigby, and her anger faded. It wasn't often that the master of the Leviathan, much less the ship's head boffin, addressed the lowly middies. She exchanged an anxious glance with Newkirk.
"At ease, gentlemen," the captain said, then smiled. "I'm not bringing you news of war. Not today, at least."
Some of the other middies looked disappointed.
A week ago Austria-Hungary had finally declared war on Serbia, vowing to avenge their murdered archduke with an invasion. A few days later Germany had started up with Russia, which meant that