Beneath The Endless Sky

Oh Child Of The World's Cruel Spite

Mercy worked through cacophonous solitude and turbulent peace, as she rode like a kite atop her ship.

She was clipped in to the cables that held the ship's lift balloon in place. She was pushed backward, hanging on by her harness as she clung to the side of the bag. Her hat was pressed hard against the side of her head, her coat was so sodden from the moist air that it was hard to raise her arms, and her fingerless gloves leaked water whenever she made a fist.

And she was having the time of her life. She hummed as she pressed her fingers against the seams, feeling with bare fingers for a leak. She had no hope of hearing air leaving the ballon, not in the middle of the gale the ship was riding, so she had to climb her way around and feel for the warmer air inside.

She pulled herself back up to her clip and took it off. She then took a deep breath, and let go. The wind threw her back as the ship sailed forward without her. She held her hands out, kept her eyes open despite the water building up, and grabbed the next set of cables.

She laughed as she came to a stop, clipped herself back in, and checked the last seam. Another half minute of careful prodding, she pulled herself back up, wound in her harness, and used the clip to slide down the cable. The slide was stunningly swift, and carried her around the bag in seconds. She climbed up towards the front of the bag, the ship's deck above her head, and detached her harness.

She jumped up, throwing herself as hard as she could through the air, somersaulted, and landed on the deck. Her boots, with lodestone set in the soles, clung to the deck just enough that she didn't bounce off.

She clipped in, and made her way to the stairway hatch, whistling happily all the while.

A smell caught her attention, just after she sealed the outer hatch. A very pleasant smell, of bread and herbs and poultry. It was a smell Mercy associated with artisanal shops along the streets of Vol Ayre, bakeries in Olenica, or feasts among the Wayfarers when they were docked. It was not a smell she thought of as belonging on a ship.

Curious, she opened the door at the bottom of the stairwell, took a right, and opened the first door.

Sure enough, Leslie was working in the kitchen. His harness was clipped onto a rail set into the end of the counter, and he was crouched in front of the ship's oven, tapping the glass impatiently.

"You're baking?" Mercy asked, stepping inside. The smell had her salivating.

"At this point, I'm praying that I don't overcook it," Leslie said. "I lost track of how long it's been in the oven. Unless you take it out in time, too much of the sauce evaporates at once and the whole thing explodes."

"Explodes?" Mercy asked. She floated over to the other side of the counter, to take a look inside the oven. "Why would baking explode?"

"If it cooks too fast, or for too long, the steam inside builds up faster than the holes I poked in the crust. Or it can just happen by accident, if the filling blocks the air holes," Leslie said. "Baking a pie in free-float is a bit like looking for blasting powder in a dark room, when you're holding a torch."

Inside the oven, Mercy could see what looked like a ball, of golden-brown pastry. To the hunger gnawing at her stomach, it was like looking at the sun after a long storm. "You're a prince among men, Leslie. Even if you can't use your title."

Mercy flinched a heartbeat after she spoke, worried she had rubbed salt in an old wound. Leslie's earlier years, especially aboard the Hood, had involved a lot of unhappy drinking.

Thankfully, Leslie only grimaced a little. If stung, but only like an old scar could in a storm. "Gentleman is a title a man can relinquish, but is impossible to be stripped of. I got the idea from some folks back on the Roost. Now hand me a skewer and a metal bowl, and I'll try to get this thing out of the oven."