Song of Ramona (Book #1 in Pirates of the Cloudsea Trilogy) (Teaser)

IV. The Cryptex

The barmaids of the Bird and Cloud catered specifically to sky pirates, the most despised criminals on the face of the earth. Something about air travel made people nervous by its very nature. Already one had to brave the heights, close quarters, a lack of control, and the possibility of burning alive in a fiery wreck. Throwing armed robbery in the mix just seemed cruel and untoward.

As a result of this prejudice, sky pirates congregated in numbers when they came to port, and many establishments took advantage of the trend. To name a few, there was the Aeronaut, a restaurant with walls painted like a tranquil sky, Lydia's Hall of Angels, an airman's brothel, and the Moon Balloon, a secret speakeasy in a hot-air balloon that lifted over the city once a month.

I could not afford to go to those establishments, but the Bird and Cloud suited me fine. Crews coming in from the mooring tower gathered around tables, playing daft games and grabbing at the women's skirts. The air was rife with the bilious odors of ale and vomit. I loved a spirited crowd such as this, and often came to get lost in it or to pinch some purses off the more inebriated patrons.

Sometimes, I would listen in on their conversations about life in the air. They would brag about skydiving from a raid gone sour or recount the time they had to crash land on water.

One night, I had nabbed myself an abandoned pint and was nursing it sip by sip, when the most impressive voice I ever heard bellowed beside me, "Damn that gypsy harlot!"

I did not know him then, but despite his reddening color, I saw that Captain Dirk was a striking, well-built man. He sat hunched over some kind of puzzle, twiddling with a row of brass letters that turned around a cylinder. As he tried to open it, he became increasingly enraged, finally slamming the thing into the table.

Seated around him were twelve other men, all wearing flight caps, except for one.

I studied Baker's dreadlocks, fascinated by their length and the trinkets woven in—an ivory bead here, a leather string there. Folding his burly arms, Baker laughed. "Never trust a woman who peddles opiates and old junk."

The men wore brown leather jackets lined in sheep's wool, some decorated with hand-painted patches depicting scenes of carnage and gore: fiery blimps, cannons, cracked skulls. One man had a row of bullet casings along his front laces. Another had an ace playing card sewn on the sleeve.

"What are you looking at?" remarked one of them.

My brain was too fatigued to remember my last scrap of meat. One swift punch could have knocked me out cold, so I didn't answer, just went back to my grog and pretended not to have heard him. As I eavesdropped, I learned the name of the gent with the cryptex, and that he was the captain of the Wastrel.

Leaning on the back legs of my chair, I raised my voice to speak to them. "Is that a cryptex?" I rasped.

The sky pirates eyed me warily. "Aye," said Dirk. "Bought it with the intention of keeping my gold pieces inside. Now it's jammed, and I can't get at my damn money."

The cryptex cylinder would only open for someone with a lettered code... or someone like me. Sliding my chair over, I said, "Give it here. I can open it."

"What's wrong with your voice?" asked one of the pirates, a young lad with a crooked underbite.

"What's wrong with your face?" I bit back.

The lad hid his face in his tankard, grumbling under his breath.

"What would you like as payment?" asked Dirk.

"How about you give me one of them taters?" I pointed to their plate of baked potatoes.

Dirk shrugged, and I seized the moment to devour one greedily. He nearly handed me the cryptex, but he hesitated. "If you run off with it, I will come after you. I'll find whatever hole you crawled out of and kill you and anyone else living there."