Free Leviathan by Scott Westerfeld Page A

“The real secret is in Switzerland.”

“A quarter ton of gold, an afterthought ?” Alek looked up at the man. “Are you serious?”

Count Volger raised an eyebrow. “I am always serious. Shall we go?”

Alek pulled himself back up into the pilot’s chair, wondering what other surprises the wildcount had waiting.

Alek started them down the streambed toward Lienz, the nearest city with any mechanikal industry. The walker desperately needed kerosene and parts, and with a dozen gold bars, they could buy the whole town if need be. The trick was not giving themselves away. A Cyklop Storm-walker was a fairly conspicuous way to travel.

Alek kept the machine in the trees along the stream bank. With the afternoon light already fading, they could steal close enough to reach the city on foot tomorrow.

It was strange to think that in the morning, for the first time in two weeks, Alek would see other people. Not just these four men but an entire town of commoners, none of whom would realize that a prince was walking among them.

He coughed again, and looked down at his dusty disguise of farmer’s clothes. Volger had been right—he was as filthy as a peasant now. No one would think he was anything special. Certainly not a boy with a vast fortune in gold.

Klopp beside him was equally grubby, but still wore a pleased smile on his face.

ELEVEN

    Even though Mr. Rigby had said not to, Deryn Sharp looked down.

A thousand feet below, the sea was in motion. Huge waves rolled across the surface, the wind tearing white moonlit spray from their peaks. And yet up here, clinging to the Leviathan ’s flank in the dark, the wind was still. Just like in the airflow diagrams, a layer of calm wrapped around the huge beastie.

Calm or not, Deryn’s fingers clutched the rigging tighter as she gazed at the sea. It looked cold and wet down there. And, as Mr. Rigby had pointed out many times over the last fortnight, the water’s surface was as hard as stone if you were falling fast enough.

Tiny cilia pulsed and rippled through the ropes, tickling her fingers. Deryn slipped one hand free and pressed her palm against the beast’s warmth. The membrane felt taut and healthy, with no whiff of hydrogen leaking out.

“Taking a rest, Mr. Sharp?” called Rigby. “We’re only halfway up.”

“Just listening, sir,” she answered. The older officers said the hum of the membrane could tell you everything about an airship. The Leviathan ’s skin vibrated with the thrumming of the engines, the shufflings of ballast lizards inside, even the voices of the crew around her.

“ Dawdling , you mean,” the bosun shouted. “This is a combat drill! Get climbing, Mr. Sharp!”

“Yes, sir!” she replied, though there wasn’t much point in rushing. The other five middies were still behind her. They were the ones dawdling, pausing to clip their safety harnesses to the ratlines every few feet. Deryn climbed free, like the older riggers, except when she was swinging from the airbeast’s underside—

Ventral side, she corrected herself—the opposite of dorsal. The Air Service hated regular English. Walls were “bulkheads,” the dining room was a “mess,” and climbing ropes were “ratlines.” The Service even had different words for “left” and “right,” which seemed to be going a bit far.

Deryn hooked the heel of her boot into the ratlines and pushed herself up again, the feed bag heavy across her shoulder, sweat running down her back. Her arms weren’t as strong as the other middies’, but she’d learned to climb with her legs. And maybe she had been resting, just a squick.

A message lizard scampered past her, its sucker-feet tugging at the membrane like fingers caught in taffy. It didn’t stop to squawk orders at the lowly midshipmen, but flitted past on its way up to the spine. The whole ship was on combat alert, the ratlines swaying with scuttling crew, the night air full of fabricated birds.

In the distance Deryn could make