Read Online Romulus Buckle & the City of the Founders (The Chronicles of the Pneumatic Zeppelin, Book One) by Richard Ellis Preston Jr. - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Ellis Preston Jr.
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punched the needle through for a second stitch and then a third and a fourth.
Kellie whimpered at Max, who was blocking her view, and pulled herself forward so her paws hung over the opening, cocking her head up at the sky.
Buckle grinned at Kellie as he stitched. When he had found her, more a starved ball of fur than a lost puppy, her appearance in the house had not thrilled Balthazar, whothreatened to let the mongrel sort-of-terrier go. But Balthazar’s bluster was often ineffective when it came to his children; nine youngsters—one born by natural process to Calypso, the other eight adopted from far and wide—raised to be independent and headstrong, who had no qualms about clashing with the will of their father.
Balthazar and Calypso were the only parents Buckle and his sister Elizabeth had ever really known. Their real parents had been killed when Buckle was six years old, and his treasured memories of them were fragmented and cloudy.
Buckle, fifteen years old at the time, claimed the lost dog as his ship’s mascot, even though Buckle was only an apprentice navigator and lacked an airship of his own. There was nothing Balthazar could do. Every captain—or future captain, Buckle argued—was allowed a mascot. Balthazar’s dog, a bulldog named Agamemnon, had the run of Balthazar’s zeppelin, the flagship
Khartoum
. It was even rumored that Balthazar fed Agamemnon buttered bread on occasion, although he would never admit to spoiling his beloved canine in such a fashion.
“I know what to name her,” Buckle had said as Balthazar threw up his hands and wandered off into the sitting room to smoke his pipe.
“Kellie of Kells!” Buckle shouted again, the puppy squirming in his hands, her hot tongue working hard under his chin. The Book of Kells was an illustrated Irish manuscript of considerable age, and Buckle’s mother had inherited a copy that had somehow survived The Storming. She loved the book. Buckle did not have many memories of his mother, but he did remember her saying once, as she tucked him into bed after a nightmare, that she often dreamt in its colors.
For a short time, there had been no response from the sitting room, except a lazy puff of smoke drifting in through the doorway. “Kellie it is, then,” Balthazar finally grumbled.
“You’d better dunk that mangy hound in vinegar and scrub it until its fur falls off,” Balthazar had shouted with false gruffness. “It is lousy with fleas! And it’s not sleeping in the house. Not over my dead body!”
Of course Kellie slept in Buckle’s bed that night (both of them ended up having to take a bath in vinegar) and nearly every night since, wherever Buckle laid his head.
And, on the roof of a zeppelin three years later, it was the bark of this once flea-bitten dog that saved Buckle’s life.
TANGLERS
K ELLIE ’ S BARK WAS A HIGH-PITCHED squeal of warning. Buckle knew he was in trouble. A dog could sense a tangler coming. But a tangler came so fast the warning usually only amounted to a second or two.
But it was enough.
“Tanglers!” Max shouted.
Buckle grabbed Boyd by the collar of her work coat and threw both himself and her flat. The skin fabric bounced and snapped back under his weight, and for an instant he feared he might have impaled himself on the repair needle, but it was still clenched in his hand.
A huge shadow slashed over Buckle, its wings blocking out the sky, the claws snapping like giant scissors. He had an impression of a feathered riot of blue, crimson, green, Roman purple, white, and yellowy orange, the velociraptor body beneath ripped with scaly muscle, the arms and legs tipped with talons as big as butcher’s knives.
The huge beastie missed and then it was gone, diving over the starboard side.
Max’s blackbang musket boomed. Buckle jerked his head up to see the wind snatch away a big puff of black smoke as a second tangler dove down upon them.
The second tangler spun wildly, dead, gut shot. Max’s musket had
Kellie whimpered at Max, who was blocking her view, and pulled herself forward so her paws hung over the opening, cocking her head up at the sky.
Buckle grinned at Kellie as he stitched. When he had found her, more a starved ball of fur than a lost puppy, her appearance in the house had not thrilled Balthazar, whothreatened to let the mongrel sort-of-terrier go. But Balthazar’s bluster was often ineffective when it came to his children; nine youngsters—one born by natural process to Calypso, the other eight adopted from far and wide—raised to be independent and headstrong, who had no qualms about clashing with the will of their father.
Balthazar and Calypso were the only parents Buckle and his sister Elizabeth had ever really known. Their real parents had been killed when Buckle was six years old, and his treasured memories of them were fragmented and cloudy.
Buckle, fifteen years old at the time, claimed the lost dog as his ship’s mascot, even though Buckle was only an apprentice navigator and lacked an airship of his own. There was nothing Balthazar could do. Every captain—or future captain, Buckle argued—was allowed a mascot. Balthazar’s dog, a bulldog named Agamemnon, had the run of Balthazar’s zeppelin, the flagship
Khartoum
. It was even rumored that Balthazar fed Agamemnon buttered bread on occasion, although he would never admit to spoiling his beloved canine in such a fashion.
“I know what to name her,” Buckle had said as Balthazar threw up his hands and wandered off into the sitting room to smoke his pipe.
“Kellie of Kells!” Buckle shouted again, the puppy squirming in his hands, her hot tongue working hard under his chin. The Book of Kells was an illustrated Irish manuscript of considerable age, and Buckle’s mother had inherited a copy that had somehow survived The Storming. She loved the book. Buckle did not have many memories of his mother, but he did remember her saying once, as she tucked him into bed after a nightmare, that she often dreamt in its colors.
For a short time, there had been no response from the sitting room, except a lazy puff of smoke drifting in through the doorway. “Kellie it is, then,” Balthazar finally grumbled.
“You’d better dunk that mangy hound in vinegar and scrub it until its fur falls off,” Balthazar had shouted with false gruffness. “It is lousy with fleas! And it’s not sleeping in the house. Not over my dead body!”
Of course Kellie slept in Buckle’s bed that night (both of them ended up having to take a bath in vinegar) and nearly every night since, wherever Buckle laid his head.
And, on the roof of a zeppelin three years later, it was the bark of this once flea-bitten dog that saved Buckle’s life.
TANGLERS
K ELLIE ’ S BARK WAS A HIGH-PITCHED squeal of warning. Buckle knew he was in trouble. A dog could sense a tangler coming. But a tangler came so fast the warning usually only amounted to a second or two.
But it was enough.
“Tanglers!” Max shouted.
Buckle grabbed Boyd by the collar of her work coat and threw both himself and her flat. The skin fabric bounced and snapped back under his weight, and for an instant he feared he might have impaled himself on the repair needle, but it was still clenched in his hand.
A huge shadow slashed over Buckle, its wings blocking out the sky, the claws snapping like giant scissors. He had an impression of a feathered riot of blue, crimson, green, Roman purple, white, and yellowy orange, the velociraptor body beneath ripped with scaly muscle, the arms and legs tipped with talons as big as butcher’s knives.
The huge beastie missed and then it was gone, diving over the starboard side.
Max’s blackbang musket boomed. Buckle jerked his head up to see the wind snatch away a big puff of black smoke as a second tangler dove down upon them.
The second tangler spun wildly, dead, gut shot. Max’s musket had
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