Free Romulus Buckle & the Engines of War by Richard Ellis Preston Jr. Page B

get infected and the animal dies.”
    Sabrina drew in another breath through her nose, the kind of inhalation that reached the bottom of the lungs and was not so cold as air drawn in through the mouth. But it was not the air that chilled her nerves. If Buckle had gotten into a scrap with some sabertooths and lost his horse in the melee, then he was lucky if he was not already eaten and digested by now.
    “What does he mean, ‘horses’?” Sabrina asked. “The captain only took one.”
    “Your weird-eyed Martian took me other, me good mare,” Caruthers chomped. “But I ne’er trust no zebe, so I made her pay full price for her, and good thing, considerin’ she’s already in a beastie gut!”
    Sabrina nodded internally. Max was up on the mountain—of course she was up on the mountain—and there was no telling what fix she might be in, either.
    “We shall pay you for the animal—if it dies,” Sabrina said, turning back to face the nose dome. “And now, Mister Lazlo, please escort Mister Caruthers off the ship. Toss him off, if you have to. We are about to depart.”
    Lazlo hurried Caruthers away.
    The
Arabella
’s maneuvering propellers whirled up as Windermere brought her around into the wind. Caruthers was going to have to make a small jump to the ground, as it was. The main propellers thrust the lithe little airship forward, the surge of the engines rippling through her deck.
    Peachy, Sabrina thought. Just peachy.

NIGHT WATCH
    B UCKLE SAT IN THE OLD wooden chair in the chamber of numbers, watching Max as she slept. Her morphine-doused slumber was fitful; she often stirred, gulping air as if she found it difficult to breathe. The squarish room was full of soft firelight, orange from the candles and red from the wood burning in the potbellied stove. The now fire-warmed air was reassuringly comfortable, temperate enough for Buckle to remove his sheepskin underjacket and leather coat.
    Buckle glanced at his pocket watch: two o’clock in the morning. They had been inside the chamber for roughly five hours now. He slipped his watch back into his pocket with a rattle of the fob, and resumed cleaning his four sabertooth claws, carving the seats of cartilage and sinew away from the wicked yellow bonecutters, which each measured about eight inches long.
    It had been a near-run thing, closing that ancient portal. A sabertooth—probably the big alpha—had stuck a paw in, and Buckle had cut it off with the axe. The half-rotted handle split up the middle on impact, but the rust-encrusted blade had still managed to do the job. Victorious, Buckle was able to crank the door shut after that, his reward amounting to four twitchingclaws, a splash of blue blood, and a huge beastie screaming outside.
    Buckle had had quite his fill of sabertooths for the time being.
    Now Buckle allowed the stillness of the chamber to sink into him. All they could do was wait in the chamber of numbers until the dawn; by then, hopefully, the sabertooths would have returned to their lairs. His heartbeat was slow, bruised, and grateful for the respite, as if it had been hammering in his chest for days. His mouth was dry, his tongue resting, pulpy, in his mouth. He swallowed to wet it a bit; he was thirsty but did not want to drink the water in the canteen. Max would need that.
    The morphine seemed to have done its work well: Max’s face was serene, even if her sleep was restless. He felt thrilled as he watched her, thrilled that she was still alive. For an instant, he felt just a touch improper—he had never watched Max sleep before, not like this, and she was such a private soul that he could not escape the sense that he was in some way intruding, even though it was necessary. Part of him said he should at least not stare at her, but it was difficult to shift his eyes.
    She was inordinately beautiful.
    Buckle forced his gaze to the granite wall on his right, where, after a moment, he focused on the sea of numbers. Every inch of wall in the