Mikhail watched Klara disappear through the hatchway like a wraith into the night and tried to swallow, but the icy wind and nerves had long since stripped his mouth of any moisture.

  He drew a painful, shuddering breath. His side still ached from the broken rib gifted to him by an over-eager watcher after he and Klara had been dishonoured in Borovsk. They’d shown no desire to give him a healing extract. Why would they waste such a precious commodity on a guildless mucker like him?

  Every breath ached, and only the strength extract enabled him to reach outside, grab the ladder, and pull himself into the blackness. But by the Sovereign Sculptor, it hurt!

  Slipstream from the engine’s giant propeller ripped at his coat, snapping it against his legs as he climbed.

  Above them, clouds obscured the waning gibbous moon. In the dim light, he could just make out Klara’s shadowy form as she reached the rope strung between the small grey bulk of Vera’s Revenge and the looming black mass of the Alchemist airship. The icy wind howled and ripped at Mikhail like an enraged beast, threatening to drag him into the empty abyss beneath them.

  Without pause, Klara grabbed the rope—which now seemed insignificant and thin—and pulled her legs up, crossing them over the rope. A harpoon cannon roared above them, and a flash of stark light cast twisted shadows around them as with speed extract enhanced movements, Klara shimmied toward the Alchemist airship.

  Despite the ache in his side, Mikhail sped up. He didn’t want to be left alone out here. Or worse, arrive on the Alchemist airship and not be able to find Klara…

  He reached the rope and took hold, likewise swinging his legs up. A gasp ripped from his lips as his muscles tightened around his middle, pain flaring around his damaged rib. He clenched his jaw and hauled himself hand over hand, quickly closing in on the Alchemist airship.

  Mikhail glanced down, unable to see the frozen tundra miles below. Thanks to reflex extract, a fall now would feel like an hour before he splattered across the hard, rocky surface.

  That’s… charming. Don’t let go.

  Mikhail reached the Alchemist airship. He could just see Klara sidling along the airship’s gondola towards the rear. The harpoon was buried in the hull beside a convenient ledge. Either they were extremely lucky, or Yuri’s crew were crack shots.

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  Perhaps a little of both.

  With only the faintest hint of terror, Mikhail let his legs drop and pivoted to face the hull, scrabbling for footing against the black painted wood. His feet found purchase, and he released the breath he’d been holding and took a hand off the rope.

  His feet slipped, boots sliding off the frost streaked wood.

  The wind slowed as he dropped. Each gust pressed against his exposed forehead with measured precision. Mikhail’s stomach twisted, partially from fear, partially from the otherworldly effects of the reflex extract.

  Falling does take a while…

  Mikhail’s hand shot out with a speed extract boosted movement and he grabbed the ledge he’d seen Klara use. He jolted to a stop and hung for a moment, hearts pounding before he hauled himself up and found his footing once more.

  Being careful of ice and ignoring the small voice lecturing him about the hazards of gallivanting around frost-covered airships at night, he inched along the narrow ledge.

  Klara disappeared around the rear of the airship’s gondola, so Mikhail sped up, moving as fast as he dared. He rounded the corner. Klara hung a short way off, hood directed at him, her face lost in the darkness. She jerked her head towards the small hatchway set in the hold’s main door.

  Mikhail reached her and nodded, and Klara swung a punch at the hatchway.

  Wood splintered.

  She swung again. This time, her strength extract boosted punch broke through the door. With a yank, she ripped it off its hinges and flung it into the night.

  Before she even let go of the door, Mikhail was up and through the hatch, his sword drawn as he scanned the hold.

  Klara followed, knife out, the long black blade extending down behind her, her thumb on the pommel.

  The hold was empty.

  Mikhail frowned and pulled down his goggles, letting them hang around his neck. Not just empty of prisoners being transported to the uzhas mine. Empty of everything. Not a single crate marked the space. Only a solitary gaslamp hung in the centre, casting a weak yellow glow over the bare walls and the horizontal iron bars mounted to them.

  “Where are the prisoners?” Mikhail asked, eying the bars that should be lined with shackled dishonoured Alchemists.

  Klara slunk deeper into the hold, her half-mask still in place, but her goggles likewise around her neck.

  Mikhail hoisted his sword, tightened his grip on the handle and walked after her. Unease stirred his gut. This felt wrong. Very, very wrong. Where was everyone?

  Where was Pozharsky?