Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles by Zoe Archer Page B

patterns.”
    “They can’t run continuously.”
    “Every now and then they land to be rewound. Then, it’s back on patrol. The Shepherdess has them all over the coast. Their lenses send visual data to the ground, and she collects it all on specially engineered cinemagraph screens.”
    Her eyes widened. “I had no idea such a thing was possible.”
    He grinned. “Clever thinkers they have out in this part of the world.”
    “Arabic inventors are more advanced than the ones in Europe, but this goes beyond anything I’ve ever seen. Self-propelled surveillance dirigibles.” She squinted at one of the small craft.
    Her caution had been forgotten in the discovery of the Shepherdess’s mechanical spies, and it troubled him how her soft smile of wonderment echoed in warm pulses in his chest.
    But he had to be pragmatic, especially at this critical juncture of the voyage.
    “Astonishing, yes,” he said. “Regular old human spies are on the ground, too. Know why she’s called the Shepherdess?”
    “I haven’t the smallest idea.”
    “She’s not a shepherdess of a flock, not even of people. Information is what she herds. Anyone clamoring to get into the Arabian Peninsula has to pay the Shepherdess. They pay for intelligence about who else might be lurking around the area. And they pay to keep her quiet about their own presence.”
    Miss Carlisle nodded. “Baksheesh. A common and venerable practice in these parts.” She raised a brow. “But if the Shepherdess is paid to be silent about our presence here, what’s to say she won’t stay mute on the possibility of other threats in the area? The airspace could be thick with enemies who’ve also paid her. She could be playing everyone for fools, and collect as much baksheesh as she likes.”
    He had to appreciate how quickly her mind moved to devious schemes. “Pay her enough, we get the most reliable information. That’s why I had you bring up this.” He rapped a knuckle against the strongbox. “Nothing ensures security and intelligence like a bar of gold.”
    She took a step back, cradling the strongbox against her chest. Her arms shook with the effort of holding the heavy container, but she didn’t loosen her hold. “Use your own gold.”
    “That is my gold,” he pointed out. Kiss or no kiss, he was in the business of protecting himself and his crew, and earning profit. “Here or in Medinat al-Kadib, it’s mine. And it’s what I’m going to use to pay the Shepherdess.”
    “There has to be something else on this ship that can serve the same purpose.”
    “Nothing as valuable as what you’ve got there.” He made an impatient gesture. “Hand it over.”
    She scowled, but clearly saw that there was no winning this argument. Crouching, she set the strongbox down onto the planks and entered the combination. It unlocked with a hiss. She lifted the lid, shielding the contents from his sight.
    All the color drained from her face, turning her white as ash, with her freckles standing out like scars. Her breathing stopped. For a moment, Mikhail actually thought she might be sick, or faint.
    “Oh, God,” she croaked. “Too soon.”
    His first thought was that she’d been struck by air madness, a rare ailment that briefly robbed airgoing travelers of their senses. But they hadn’t been flying for more than a few days, not long enough for her to succumb to that sickness.
    Concerned, he stepped closer. And saw the interior of the strongbox.
    The ingots of gold were gone. In their place were bars of clay.
    “The hell?” he growled. Picking up one of the bars, he saw it was exactly the same shape as an ingot of gold. Its heft wasn’t the same, though. With one hand, he snapped the bar in half. Dried clay sifted away on the wind. Particles caught in her hair and dusted her clothing. The rest disappeared, blown out to sea.
    He’d given express orders to his crew not to go into Daphne Carlisle’s cabin, nor disturb any of her belongings. Including the