Watson, Ian - Black Current 03 by The Book Of Being (v1.1)

swished round to steer the balloon—slowly, by
and large—against the breeze. Yet this method of steering couldn't have
been too reliable. One day I saw the balloon drifting through the smoky sky
without fans turning, heading towards the river. All of a sudden the flicker of
fire and shimmer of air above the basket disappeared and the balloon was
dropping fast. Before the craft could crash into the ground, the flame leapt
briefly alive to buoy it up—and a rope with an anchor on the end was tossed
out, its hooks snagging on a roof below.
     
             However,
the kind of industry I was interested in was typefounding. Whilst I was
presiding over what had come to be called "communion" with the
Worm—the solemn drinking of swigs of the black current—Peli was busy in town
doing a spot of investigating. (I suppose I was in town too. But only just.
Since men couldn't board the Crackerjill, a pavilion had been erected for me on the quayside; just as at Gangee and Gate
of the South.)
                 I'd tried without success to deter
Peli from aping a Port Barbra accent—the quiet murmur, the softly hooded
consonants—as subterfuge. If she got excited she couldn't keep this up; and
besides it was Stamno who had commissioned the new type fount, not some woman
of 'Barbra. (Or so, at least, Stamno had told us.) But Peli liked the idea of
disguising herself. She went equipped with a long scarf to wind round her head
as a 'Barbra-style hood and mouth- mask while she was prowling the streets of
Guineamoy. I'm sure this must have made her stick out like a sore thumb. It was
high summer by the time we arrived. The heat wasn't so fierce or the air as
humid as in the deep south , but the atmosphere was
still pretty stifling. The sun was hazed with an overcast of smoke which
pressed the hot exhalations of smelters back down to earth to add to the
season's natural warmth.
                 True, a few of the locals had taken
to wearing thin muslin masks to keep the smuts out of their nostrils; and coifs
or snoods, besides, to protect their hair. Yet these eccentrics were strictly a
minority. Judging by glances directed askance at such, not everybody in
Guineamoy admired this new fashion. Proper Guineamoy folk should obviously suck the dirty air in with relish. They should
stick a finger up their snouts and lick the grime. Undeterred, Peli sallied
forth with six spans of wool to wrap about her countenance.
                 Wool was also wrapped around the
whereabouts of the metal- smith with whom Stamno claimed he had struck his
secret deal. I had no special reason to think that Stamno had been lying, but
in view of our savant's disappearance it seemed as wise to check up; and for a
whole week Peli drew a blank.
                 She slipped into my cabin on the
evening of that day when I saw the balloon make its emergency descent. She was muffled
up to the gills.
                 "Peli, you
nitwit! Do you want the whole boat to see you sneaking round like
that?"
                 A chuckle issued from the scarf as
she unwound it. She was grinning mischievously. "Never fear: I just
bundled up right outside the door. Figured a dramatic entry might be in order. Because ... I found out!"
                 "You did?"
                 "Absolutely. Today I went over to Ferramy Ward. That's out towards the lake of filth.
Town's expanding that way apace, Worm knows why, though I reckon some bright
sparks must have found a way to use the liquid spoils. I spotted big barges
with bucket chains tethered to buoys on the lake; not that I got right up to
it, seeing as Ferramy Ward's already enough of a jungle of workshops and
whatnots—
                 "Yes, yes, but what happened?"
                 "Well, I used diligent guile. I
didn't make myself conspicuous by asking leading questions. I found the fellow
by a process of elimination. His name's Harrup, and