Free Empire of Unreason by J. Gregory Keyes Page A

strong to beat when I’m alert, especially when I’ve got you two helping. And he’s injured, thanks to you. But he’s out there somewhere, waiting for me to relax.”
    The “whale carcass” had vanished for a moment, hidden by a small rise. Now it came into sight again.
    “Holy Mother,” Tug swore. “It’s a ship .”
    It was. Red Shoes and Tug had met on board a frigate—the Queen Anne’s Revenge —and Red Shoes had thought it a large vessel. This ship had been twice the size, before she shattered, before her nose plowed into the prairie and her spine snapped.
    “An airship,” Tug went on, “like we fought at Venice.”
    “Indeed,” Red Shoes replied.
    “You mean it flew through the air?” Flint Shouting asked. Now he sounded skeptical.
    “I’ve seen it myself,” Red Shoes confirmed. “The Russians have such ships.”
    “Russians?”
    “Europeans, but as different from the English as the Spanish are.” As he spoke, they rode into the shadow of the dead ship. Near it was a pile of casks and crates. “These were dragged out and opened,” he said. “Either someone survived, or the ruin was looted.”
    “Where are the corpses, I wonder?” Tug grunted.
    When they reached the other side of the ship, they saw. A low tumulus of earth had been raised, perhaps fifteen paces in diameter. Nearby was a cook fire and signs of eating. Scattered about like broken puppets were fifteen corpses. The three of them dismounted, letting the horses wander to graze.
    They were Europeans, very pale in death. All had been scalped. They wore EMPIRE OF UNREASON
    dark green knee breeches and bloodstained white shirts, but no coats. A few waistcoats lay here and there, but the buttons had been cut from them.
    Red Shoes, Tug, and Flint Shouting walked carefully around, taking turns keeping watch.
    “Well, Tug, what do you think?” Red Shoes asked, after a time.
    The big man pushed his broad-brimmed hat back and scratched his head.
    “They wrecked here. The livin‘ buried the dead. Then somebody come along an’ killed the livin‘, took their guns and things. In’yuns, I guess.” He grinned, proud of his newfound tracking ability.
    Flint Shouting was still examining the bodies. “Most died from gunshot. Very strange, this far away from places to trade for bullets. Just one arrow.” He turned the shaft this way and that. “I don’t recognize the tribe. Not Awahi, not Kapaha, not Wazhazhe—not Throat-Cutters, either. Someone from far away.”
    Red Shoes said, “I trust you to judge. But if you don’t know who they are, they must be from very far away indeed.”
    Tug had returned to looking at the ship. “Muscovados,” he mumbled. “We came all the way out here’t‘ find Muscovados. An’ what now?”
    Red Shoes pointed to hoofprints, leading away. “We keep following them.
    Some of them may have been taken captive. Besides, I want to see these Iron People.”
    “West, looks like.”
    “Northwest.”
    Tug sighed and shrugged. “Further on, then? Well, I always did want’t‘ see the Parcific from this side.”

    EMPIRE OF UNREASON
    7.
    Pretender
    “Oh, merciful heavens,” Franklin said, when he saw the statehouse.
    It had always been a gaudy affair. Built by Edward Teach— better known as Blackbeard—during his rule of the city, it was a Rococo nightmare, laced with gilded arabesques and iridescent pastel murals of Blackbeard doing various noble deeds. There had long been talk of painting over the latter, but in the days since Blackbeard’s heroic death, his legend had grown; and over the ten years he had been transformed, in the minds of the people, into a sort of benevolent monarch who had saved the city from chaos.
    “Blackbeard would have been proud of this,” Franklin murmured.
    It wasn’t a compliment. As garish as it might normally be, today the center of South Carolina’s government was positively florid. Banners of the Stuart coat of arms draped every available surface—pennants,