The Odin Inheritance (The Pessarine Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  All rights reserved. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, either now known or unknown, without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, “Attention: Permissions Coordinator”,

  at the address below.

  Grey Wolfe Publishing, LLC

  PO Box 1088

  Birmingham, Michigan 48009

  www.GreyWolfePublishing.com

  © 2015 Victoria L. Scott

  Cover Desgin by The Cover Counts

  Published by Grey Wolfe Publishing, LLC

  www.GreyWolfePublishing.com

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-1628280968

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015944808

  The Odin Inheritance

  Book One of The Pessarine Chronicles

  Victoria L. Scott

  Dedication

  For my parents:

  Timothy and Jerelene Scott;

  Nancy and John Bazzetta;

  and

  Dale and Joyce Rondeau.

  “….forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit...”

  ~Vergil’s Aeneid, Book One, Line 203

  Acknowledgements

  The author would like to thank:

  Riley Pohlman, Rohan Kheterpal, Daria Chamness, Deborah and Ron Hodges, for being friends and willing readers.

  The Janda family, for being great friends and offering me a soft place to land in hard times.

  Dr. Niketa Dani, my best friend.

  Debbie Lamson and Mike Wilson, my Steampunk partners in crime, along with my fellow Emerson School teachers and staff members.

  All of my 8th grade and Latin students who have been supportive and excited about this novel since the beginning. I honed my own skills as a writer while I instructed them in writing and thinking about language.

  Diana Kathryn Plopa, my enthusiastic editor. The Rondeaus of Spruce MI and Portage IN; and the Thomsons of Ossineke, MI. Y’all will be family always.

  And last but not least: Red 'the Wonder Husky', my favorite traveling and writing companion.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Victoria L. Scott

  Coming Soon...

  Chapter One

  “Roll up, roll up! Come try your luck against the best hand at darts south of Hadrian’s Wall!” Max Lester, Captain of the Bosch, shouted to the pub customers in his deep baritone voice. Even though I was accustomed to Max’s method of garnering attention, I winced inwardly.

  Big, broad and loud, everyone in the pub heard his pronouncement whether they wanted to or not. Heads turned to look us over, their glasses frozen mid-quaff for a moment as the patrons puzzled over which of the five of us was the darts player. Now, many in the pub stared at the large muscular man in the leather aeronaut jacket as if he’d grown purple feathers in awkward places.

  I sighed. We’d only been at The Crown Pub near the Penzance docks for an hour or so. We’d barely had enough time to have a drink and get a feel for the place. It was warm, smoky and crowded due to the press of bodies and the output of the fireplaces, but it had a well-used elm dartboard, which was just what we needed. Most pubs had them, but the pubs farther from home were more lucrative for money-making purposes, as we’d discovered the hard way.

  Max had figured a good place to try this time was somewhere about three hours’ flight away from Cambridge, as the airship soared. Max had pointed out Penzance was within that radius, so the rest of us agreed to go along for the adventure. I’d drawn up the navigation charts, and once Max approved them, I’d set the appropriate steering logarithms and away we went, with Needle at the helm. Even if we didn’t succeed in generating more ready cash, any excuse for a trip in the Bosch was good enough for us. Named after the Dutch painter Hieronymus Bosch in a moment of ale-assisted mad inspiration, ramshackle as it was, our ship was a second home. It even sported a rendering of Bosch’s Ship in Flames on the envelope of the airship’s cigar-shaped balloon as a tribute to the imaginative artist.

  Despite a headwind, the Bosch had made fine time on the journey southwest, arriving just before dark. We’d secured her in a makeshift airship berth at a local farm, and travelled into Penzance proper in Griff’s Technacart, hopping and clanging the whole way. We’d arrived at the pub with a cloud of steam and a terrific bang.

  Most airship captains enjoyed being the center of attention, and Max was no exception. Completely unruffled, Max reveled in the stares, smiling like a madman and hooking his thumbs in his suspenders like a proud father.

  “Come now, gents,” Max declared, “have we no takers? No one interested in a wager?”

  Needle Greene, the Bosch’s tall and lanky pilot; Griff Baldwin, our mechanics expert; and Lizzie Fournier, our First Mate all took nonchalant protective stances about me, making it clear that they’d be able to handle themselves should necessity require it. I stood in the midst of them, wishing the earth would swallow me whole. I nervously smoothed my simple dark skirt and tucked a wayward red curl behind my ear.

  “Do you really need to bellow quite so much, Max?” I asked, speaking low and from the side of my mouth. I hoped I looked inconsequential; my smaller form hidden behind my giant of a friend and the rest of my companions. “Not everyone here plays darts, and saying I’m the best ‘below the Wall’? Your hyperbole will have them ca
lling the constable.”

  “Ari, my dear,” Max said, his smile brilliant and his hazel eyes twinkling as he looked over his shoulder and down at me, “you are the best below the Wall, as you’ve proven time and time again and it’s worked out very well. You want money to start your business. We need money to keep the Bosch in the air. I’ve shown I know how to get it, and we’ll come by it honestly. I don’t care if they call the constable...” He said with a wink, “...so long as we’re well away by the time he arrives.”

  “Which we will be,” Griff whispered confidently. He grinned under his dark brown handlebar mustache, his bib overalls peppered with grease stains. “I’ve been tinkering with the Rover. She’s the fastest Technacart these chaps, constabulary or otherwise, could possibly imagine. We’re safe as houses.”

  “Oi!” came a shout from the innards of the pub, close to the fireplace. It was an older gentleman, hair shot with grey and skin tanned to leather by sun and ocean spray. His clothes were well made, but well-worn and mended in spots. “Who’s this that’s the best at darts, you say?”

  Max winked at me and turned toward the shout. “Why, sir, I’m glad you ask!” he bellowed. He reached around, grabbed me under the arms, and picked me up, turning to place me directly in front of him. I instantly became the focus of every set of eyes in the pub. I tugged my plain dark jacket down a bit, checked the collar and cuffs of my white shirt, and did my level best to act as if I didn’t mind the attention.

  “That little ginger thing?” someone called and the pub erupted in laughter. “Can she see the dartboard, then?”

  “Since when do they let children down to the pub?” another male voice exclaimed. “She can’t be more than ten if she’s a day!” The pub rebounded with more chuckles and guffaws.

  I’m not really that small, I grumbled mentally. In fact, I stood a solid and perfectly respectable five feet three inches tall. Unfortunately, Max stood six feet five inches tall, so compared to him I looked positively tiny. I looked at the beamed ceiling, making my best attempt at an unperturbed demeanor.

  Max held up his hands in a gesture that begged for jocular but polite attention. “Now, gents,” he began, “my fine friend here’s willing to take on all comers at a friendly game of darts. She’s as good as I say. All it’ll cost you to see for yourself is a shilling a game.”

  The older sailor from the fireplace stood up and made his way toward us. I stiffened, and Max placed a gentle hand on my shoulder to hide my nervousness from the crowd.

  “A shilling a game?” the sailor asked, coming closer. His dark grey stubbled face showed his disbelief at my skill. His brown eyes looked me over speculatively. “She’s got to be Enhanced if she’s that good, chap.”

  The pub grew quiet. Enhanced people – those who had been altered with mechanical parts – were relatively new to England, though they’d been in Europe for over fifty years. Most of the Continental Enhanced possessed subtle, very life-like mechanical limbs, making them hard to differentiate from the non-Enhanced. The poor chaps who had the misfortune to acquire artificial limbs in the Empire got far cruder and less aesthetically pleasing limbs, particularly if they couldn’t afford a trip to France or Germany for a better prosthetic. Whether or not the artificial limb was easily identified, most in the Empire viewed someone who allowed a mechanical addition to his or her body with suspicion and even hatred. Ten years ago an accusation that one was Enhanced often resulted in fisticuffs or worse. Times were changing, true enough, but slowly. Nevertheless, the sailor’s suggestion that my skill was due to mechanical alterations was nearly as bad as being called a whore.

  I swallowed, focused on keeping my annoyance in check and playing my role as instructed. After all, my being Enhanced was a frequent explanation for my skill at darts among those who didn’t know me, but it was tiresome to deal with the accusation every time I showed up in a pub. The other Bosch officers shifted behind me, their attitude one of cautious vigilance. Lizzie slid one hand down the outside leg of her trousers, ready to retrieve the knife she kept in her right boot should it be needed. She loved trousers, and they made access to the weapon she preferred easier. Griff tucked his hands inside the bib of his denim overalls, blew out his breath and tensed. He’d grown up protecting himself with his fists, and would use them to protect me, should it be required. Needle, who was taller than everyone in the pub except for Max, scanned the crowd to provide a warning in case someone tried to get too close.

  “Barkeep, I trust you have a Gauge handy?” Max asked, unruffled. Such a device existed in every pub in the Empire since many establishments refused to serve the Enhanced.

  “I do,” the bearded man behind the counter responded. He put down the rag he’d been using to wipe the bar, reached underneath it, and pulled out a black box the size of a loaf of bread. He pointed the open end at Max and flipped open a top panel to reveal a Gauge, its current reading at zero.

  Max turned back to the sailor who’d questioned my humanity. “Ari can prove she lacks Enhancements. Will that clarify that she’s without mechanical assistance?”

  The sailor looked at the barman. “That Gauge true, Charlie?”

  The barman nodded gravely. “Tis, Cap’n. I swear it.”

  The Cap’n looked me over again and nodded. “You let yonder box take a reading, and if it shows you be all girl, I’ll try my hand against you, lass.”

  I looked up at Max, and he smiled reassuringly. “Go on, Ari,” he encouraged.

  I turned and walked around Max while he and my other friends stepped aside so the bar patrons could see me take the test. I approached the counter, took a seat on the stool nearest the Gauge, and placed my right hand inside the box. The first time I’d endured a Gauge scan I’d vomited before the test finished. I clamped my mouth shut and waited for the discomfort I knew so well. A wave of nausea passed over me as the instrument searched my body for any sign of Enhancement, mechanical or otherwise. I closed my eyes. The sensation of being so carefully examined made my teeth ache as my stomach roiled in protest.

  The feeling faded as abruptly as it began. I opened my eyes and saw the barkeep’s eyebrows go up in surprise. He looked at the pub patrons and shrugged. “The reading is 0%, ladies and gents,” he announced. “The needle didn’t even move. Anyone who takes this lass on’ll be trying his luck against her skill, and nothing more. T’will be a fair contest.”

  The pub patrons began speaking in low tones, and the Cap’n smiled. He pulled out three shillings and held them up. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. We each pay a shilling a game. If I do better than the lass, I get my shilling back and her shilling to boot. That about right?”

  Max nodded. “It is. Shall we have Charlie here hold the stakes?” He indicated the barman.

  The Cap’n and Charlie both nodded. Max pulled out three shillings to match those of my challenger and placed them on the bar. I pretended disinterest. It was almost the last of our collective coin, having spent most of our ready money on Griff’s most recent improvements to the Bosch and the Rover, and then our smaller coin on the drinks. We had some money set aside as a safety net, of course, but one of the reasons I continued my monthly forays into pubs for pick-up dart games was to keep our safety net as big as possible. More than once we’d come close to losing it all due to a particularly costly repair, even with all of us chipping in what we could from their wages and my allowance.

  That was the thrilling thing about the life of freelance, part-time aeronauts. You tended to live on the edge of technology, safety, gainful employment and financial liquidity. You never knew what piece of equipment would break next, or if you’d have the funds to fix it.

  That’s how I’d come to join the crew of the Bosch. I had a side business making small, personal mechanicals for home use. I constructed unique mini-machines that laced corsets, buttoned dresses or even combed hair if a woman found herself without a maid to assist with her trousseau and hairstyle. I also constructed mechanical insects like dragonflies with phosphorite
bulbs as heads which could hover and illuminate places that had minimal light. Both types of devices sold well. So far as I knew, no one else had thought to use the technology in that way, and I made a bit of money doing it.

  Lizzie worked during the day at the ladies’ boutique in Cambridge that sold my devices intended for ladies. Impressed by the fine nature of their construction and the ingenuity of the designs, Lizzie had shown my unique handiwork to Griff, who worked at a local blacksmith shop; Needle, who worked as a law clerk; and Max, who possessed a decent inheritance with a regular dividend that allowed him to live decently and be an airship captain at the same time. Max did a variety of odd jobs from hauling coal to carpentry and masonry work on top of the inheritance and was well known in Cambridge. The four Bosch crewmembers looked over samples of my work and agreed my devices showed I could create the navigational instruments they needed.

  When they’d asked for my help, I gladly used my skills on their behalf, learning the ropes of airborne navigation and the needs of an airship guidance system as I went. The process of navigation and creating instruments to enable accurate flying fascinated me. I loved being up in the air, braving the air currents and vagaries of weather. Eventually, I’d earned a spot as the Navigator on the ship though no one in my family knew I flew through the sky on a homemade airship when not immersed in my university studies.

  We weren’t the only aeronauts local to Cambridge. The Bosch was part of a group of seven other airships, collectively called the “Icarus Squadron.” It had earned the name due to the frequent mishaps, minor explosions and crashes the homemade ships suffered though thankfully, no one had been seriously hurt. The installation of my devices on the remaining ramshackle Squadron ships at Max’s urging greatly improved their efficiency and accuracy on their flight paths, and thereby reduced accidents.

  The Squadron had started as a hobby for a few Cambridge students and interested city residents, but now some pondered making the airships into a business. That’s what we hoped to do with the Bosch. If we succeeded, Needle, Max, Griff and Lizzie wouldn’t have to work their day jobs, and I’d be closer to my goal of starting my own aeronaut supply business.