Skybreaker Page 3

  “Monsieur has a reservation?” the maitre d’ inquired, consulting the vast leather-bound notebook on his walnut lectern.

  “I believe it’s under de Vries.”

  “This way.” He gave me a rather resentful look and quickly led me to the most out-of-the-way table he could find. My heart sank, not because the table was near the kitchen doors and beside a window that looked onto the great wheel and cables that operated the elevator—but because Kate was not yet here.

  I’d intentionally arrived twenty minutes late, hoping to avoid this. Kate was always late. So, a while back, I’d decided to be late too. See how she liked that. But if I were five minutes late, she would be ten. If I were twenty, she would be forty. I didn’t know how she managed it. My efforts were quite futile. It was all the more irritating today since the note she’d sent this morning had been extremely precise. “At twelve-thirty sharp,” she’d written, underlining “sharp” as if I were the one who needed reminding.

  “Would monsieur like to order something from the bar?” the maitre d’ asked as he pushed in my chair.

  “I think I’ll wait till Miss de Vries arrives,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  I’d been back in Paris less than forty-eight hours. After the Flotsam had made an emergency landing in Ceylon, it was in no fit state to take flight again. Mr. Domville, still slipping in and out of consciousness, was sent to the hospital. I’d wanted to stay on to make sure he was going to be all right; I’d even offered to help with repairs to the Flotsam, but Captain Tritus made it clear I was no longer welcome. He told me to keep my mouth shut and sent me packing. There was nothing left to do but arrange my own passage back to Paris.

  I wished Kate would hurry up. Between her classes and mine, it was no easy feat to see each other. She’d arrived in the summer, three months ago, with her frightful chaperone, to find a place to live while studying at the university. I knew that Miss Simpkins did not approve of our friendship. Even though I was now a student at the esteemed Airship Academy, she still remembered me as a cabin boy and did not feel I had any right to be socializing with young Miss de Vries. We socialized anyway, at least once or twice a week, usually at Kate’s apartment, where Miss Simpkins would sit in a corner of the room, pretending to read. I wondered if she’d be coming to lunch. I hoped not. I had so much to tell Kate.

  I watched the elevator gears turning for a while, and then swiveled around so I could look into the heart of the restaurant. I figured I was the youngest person here by about thirty years.

  I spotted the Lumière triplets, the three most famous filmmakers in the world, arguing over the last chocolate éclair. At another table, a man who looked suspiciously like the Great Farini was entertaining his lunch guests by balancing a bottle of champagne on his palm while pouring it into a crystal flute poised on his pinkie. Across the great room a flamboyant lady bedecked in peacock feathers was banging her fist on the table and talking loudly to a group of appalled, mustachioed gentlemen. I recognized her picture from the newspapers. She’d struck gold in the Yukon and with her new fortune was trying to buy the Eiffel Tower and have it transported back to Canada, girder by girder. So far, no luck.

  I looked at the ornate clock. Kate was now over half an hour late. A waiter with excessively oiled hair came by and asked me if I was ready to order. When I said I was still waiting for my friend, he gave me a very dubious look and marched off. I saw him whisper something to the maitre d’, and they glanced balefully over at me. My cheeks burned.

  To distract myself, I gazed out the restaurant’s great windows. The Champ de Mars was a busy airfield, and the sky was dotted with ballons-mouches, the small sightseeing airships that flew tourists over the spires and garrets of the city. Winged ornithopters juddered across the drizzling October sky, accompanied by their insistent mosquitolike drone. Some of them came quite close to the tower, as there were docking trapezes for them beneath the second platform. The Eiffel Tower’s very summit, however, was reserved for the most exclusive airship liners, and as I watched, rapt, one floated in with stately grace to dock.

  “Perhaps monsieur is getting peckish now.”

  With a jolt I realized the waiter was back at my elbow. He was smiling, but I’d seen happier faces on taxidermy. The oil in his hair would fuel the city for a month. I knew I had to order something, or they would turf me out.

  I picked up the menu. It felt heavy. The prices were printed in tiny, swirly script. Maybe they kept them small and almost unreadable so people wouldn’t go crazy and start hurling themselves out the windows. But I couldn’t imagine anyone here would think twice about paying a week’s salary for a bit of barnyard chicken.

  I started to have very unkind thoughts about Kate.

  She’d sent me to the most expensive restaurant on the globe, and she was late. Not just a little late, or charmingly late, but very, very late now. She would take one look at the menu and say it was her treat. But I didn’t want it to be her treat. I wanted to pay for myself, and she was making that impossible.

  My eyes swept the menu’s creamy pages. I figured if I spent nothing for a week, I could maybe afford a flavored water.

  “An Acqua Sprizzo, please,” I said with a world-weary air.

  “Very good, monsieur. And something to accompany it perhaps?”

  “No thank you.”

  “Perhaps some smoked salmon?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Just a little something from the menu to nibble on?”

  I looked up at him and could see he was enjoying himself. I didn’t understand this fellow at all. In all my years serving aboard the Aurora, I had never tried to embarrass someone, or make them feel ill at ease.

  “Waiters in a fine establishment such as this,” I told him quietly, “should listen to their guests, not harass them.”

  He looked at me, his mouth twitching, but said nothing. “I’ll bring your Acqua Sprizzo, then, monsieur,” he said.

  The water would buy me a few more minutes. After that they’d probably heave me down the elevator shaft.

  I’d been all eager to see Kate. Now I was feeling flustered and angry, and I hated that. Why on earth had she asked to meet here? Couldn’t she understand I had very little money? I suppose she thought I still had heaps from the reward the Sky Guard had given me after our adventures last year. We’d discovered the secret island stronghold of Vikram Szpirglas’s notorious air pirates, and helped capture some of them. But the truth was, that reward money was enough for my two years’ tuition to the Academy, my room, board, and clothing, with just a little left over to help out my family back in Lionsgate City.

  My heart sank when I saw the maitre d’, followed by the greasy waiter, strutting purposefully to my table. He bent down, his breath unpleasantly warm against my ear.

  “Perhaps monsieur would like to follow me quietly to the elevator so as to avoid any further embarrassment.”

  “But I ordered a flavored water!” I objected.

  “Yes, and we doubt you will be able to pay for it.”

  “How do you know?” I said angrily.

  “Please, monsieur. You are a boy.”

  “I’m a student at the Airship Academy!”

  He compressed his lips disdainfully. “Anyone, I think, can buy an old uniform at a thrift shop.”

  “I am waiting for a friend,” I said, trying to sound affronted, and hating that my voice trembled.

  “We rather think there is no friend, and you are merely escaping the rain. Come now.”

  His hand closed around my arm, and I pulled it free, furious. He took hold again, tighter, as did the waiter, who had stepped around behind me and grabbed my other arm. I would not be manhandled by these two. Just let them try and move me to the elevator!

  And then an amazing thing happened.

  A waiter came crashing out through the kitchen doors, as if someone had hurled him. He gave a terrified look back over his shoulder as a small but furious man in a chef’s hat appeared in the
doorway.

  “Imbecile!” the chef shouted. “Next time why don’t you just put your whole hand in the food, hey? Yes, your whole hand, or maybe your face! I arrange the food on the plates with care, are you understanding what I am telling to you? It is part of the art form of cooking, yes? A lovely plate of food is a thing of beauty! And then you, numbskull, come along and put your fat greasy fingers all over my plate, and shake the plate, and move my food all around the plate until it looks like pigs’ vomit!”

  “Chef Vlad!” I cried out in delight.

  The chef turned. The anger on his face washed away in a second, replaced by astonishment and then confusion as he saw the maitre d’ and the waiter, their hands still gripping my arms.

  Vlad Herzog marched to my table and looked at the maitre d’ severely.

  “Monsieur Gagnon, is there some problem here?”

  “Not at all, Monsieur Vlad. Just ejecting this ragamuffin.”

  “Ragamuffin!” The anger was coming back into Vlad’s face. “Am I hearing you call this gentleman a ragamuffin?”

  “Well…” said the maitre d’. I felt his grasp loosen and fall away.

  “Do you know who this is?” demanded Chef Vlad.

  “No,” whimpered the maitre d’, looking around at the audience of delighted diners.

  “Here, sitting at this table, is Mr. Matt Cruse. He is a good friend of mine. We sailed together aboard the Aurora when she was taken over and nearly wrecked by Vikram Szpirglas. You have heard of him, yes? This young man was in every newspaper in the world. Matt Cruse, pirate slayer, do you hear? A hero!”

  “Yes, Monsieur Vlad.”

  “Shoo, then,” said the Transylvanian chef with disdain. “Shoo-shoo and do whatever paltry little thing it is you do here. Shoo, now.”

  The maitre d’ slunk away, and the waiter tried to follow but Chef Vlad caught him by the lapel. “You, stay here. You are going to bring Mr. Cruse a bottle of the ’43 Champagne d’Artagnan, and bring him some smoked salmon, and the salade du fermier. He is hungry. You are hungry, yes, Mr. Cruse?”

  “Starving, Mr. Vlad,” I said with a grin. “Especially when it’s you doing the cooking.”

  “You flatter me shamelessly. I like it. Good. Bring him all these things now,” Vlad snapped at the stricken waiter, “and whatever else he so desires. Make sure his glass is never empty. If a plate is finished, bring him another. And bring the bill to me. Do not harass him with it. That would be an atrocity I could never forgive. In my country we deal with these things very seriously. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir, Monsieur Vlad,” said the waiter, hair oil running down his sweaty cheeks.

  “Now go. And wipe the grease off your face. It is unsightly.”

  The waiter limped off.

  “Mr. Vlad, really, this is too generous.”

  “Not at all,” he said, sitting down. “I am honored to feed you again. You are dining alone?”

  “No. I’m waiting for Miss Kate de Vries. Do you remember her?”

  “Of course I am remembering her! She was your accomplice, yes? A fine young woman. So you are dining with her. Well, well, well…”

  I blushed.

  “I will cook you a special meal,” Chef Vlad announced. “Something to impress your lady.”

  “She’s not my lady.”

  “She will be after she sees the champagne and the food I am about to make you.”

  “Really, Mr. Vlad—”

  “You must trust me. Chef Vlad is not without experience in winning favor with the feminine heart.” He gave a quick smile, as if remembering one, or possibly more, great romantic conquests in his past. “The young lady, as I recall, was a great fish enthusiast, yes?”

  I nodded.

  “For her, the arctic char…and you, how could I forget? Smoked muscovy duck.”

  I smiled. He remembered everyone’s favorite meal.

  “I will take care of you, Mr. Cruse. When Miss de Vries arrives, you will have a feast before you!”

  “Thank you very much.”

  I was aware that the other diners were watching, and wondered if they’d all heard Mr. Vlad’s grandiose introduction of me.

  “How long have you been working here?” I asked. “I didn’t know you’d left the Aurora.”

  “Four months ago. After our little tête-à-tête with Mr. Szpirglas, I decided the air was no place to cook to the best of my abilities. My feet may not be quite on the ground here, but it is better, I think.”

  “The Aurora must miss you and your food.”

  “Yes,” he said. “This is true. Many of the officers wept openly. But to cook in Paris, at such a restaurant as this, has many compensations. And you are studying here, are you not?”

  “The Airship Academy.”

  “Very good, Mr. Cruse. Very good.”

  “Maybe when I have my own ship, I can convince you to come aboard.”

  “Ha! Maybe so, Mr. Cruse. With you as captain, I need fear no pirates, no!”

  “It’s good to see you, Mr. Vlad,” I told him. “I’ve missed you all.”

  A sous-chef in a floppy white hat appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking desperate.

  “Monsieur Vlad, le consommé!” he whispered.

  “Idiot!” roared Vlad, standing. “Can I entrust you with nothing!” He turned back to me, all smiles. “These Eiffel Tower idiots. They have much to learn. Enjoy your meal, Mr. Cruse.”

  “I will. Thank you very much.”

  With that, Chef Vlad strode into the kitchen, shouting abuse at his stricken assistants in a variety of languages.

  Moments later, my waiter mutely returned with a platter of smoked salmon and capers and all sorts of breads and crackers to eat them with, and an enormous bowl of the most delicious-looking salad I’ve ever seen. The champagne cork shot out with a celebratory pop. My flute sparkled and fizzed as it filled. There’s nothing like a sip of champagne to cheer you up. All those bubbles give you quite a lift.

  Kate was forty minutes late now, but I didn’t feel so upset anymore. I fixed myself some smoked salmon and sipped at my champagne, and enjoyed watching the other guests. The Great Farini smiled at me and lifted his glass high. The Yukon gold lady winked at me. I winked back. I was feeling on top of the world. Kate would come in and find me waiting with champagne, and an array of delicious food, and a whipped waiter who would hustle over whenever I looked his way.

  The drone of an ornithopter rose above the restaurant’s buzz. I turned and glanced out the north-facing windows to see a small single-seater flying toward the Eiffel Tower, at the same level as the restaurant. At first I watched with interest, then growing alarm, as the ornithopter, feathered wings flapping furiously, did not bear away or dip down to the landing docks below the platform.

  The diners nearest the north windows had also noticed and were looking at one another in consternation.

  “Look out!” a man bellowed, and dozens of guests scattered, knocking over cutlery and wine glasses and chairs in their panic.

  The ornithopter careened ever closer, and just before it came crashing through the glass, it banked more sharply than I thought possible, and veered off around the corner. The restaurant had windows on all sides, and I had an almost uninterrupted view of the ornithopter as it made a dizzying circuit of the Eiffel Tower.

  A cheeky daredevil this pilot must be, for as he came around for the second time he lifted a hand and cheerfully waved at the very diners he’d just sent scattering. I couldn’t get a very good look at his face, because he was hidden behind flight goggles and a leather helmet. Then he swung away in a wide three hundred sixty degree turn, and made a proper approach to land his ornithopter below the Eiffel Tower’s second platform.

  Waiters hurried to restore order. Tables were relaid, chairs righted, complimentary wine and champagne poured to soothe rattled nerves. It took only moments before everyone was chatting and eating again, and the whole incident might never have happened.

  Another bottle of ch
ampagne and platter of salmon had appeared on my table, even though I hadn’t finished the first ones yet. I was hungrily eyeing the salad when I heard an excited murmur ripple through the restaurant. I looked up to see an ornithopter pilot striding out of the elevator, leather helmet and goggles still on, beaded with dew. Everyone watched, wondering if this could be the same lunatic who’d nearly berthed his ornithopter in the restaurant.

  I swallowed, for it seemed he was headed straight for my table.

  He pulled off his helmet and a mass of dark auburn hair spilled out. Off came the goggles, and I was looking at the beaming face of Kate de Vries. I could not speak.

  “Hello!” she said brightly.

  “That was you?” I managed to say.

  “You’re not the only one who can fly now, Mr. Cruse.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “I’ve been taking lessons in my spare time.”

  “It’s incredible! That was quite a fancy trick at the window.”

  “Oh, that. I was completely out of control. I’m amazed I didn’t smash myself to bits. Champagne! What a brilliant idea!”

  Her legs were shaking, and she sat down. Her eyes were rimmed red from the goggles. I poured her a glass of champagne, and she drained it in two or three swallows.

  “Ah, that’s better.” She looked at the label. “Good heavens, this is awfully fancy.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said.

  “Well, it’s my treat.”

  “It’s on me today.”

  “Gosh, certainly not. I invited you!”

  “I insist.”

  She lowered her voice. “You have seen the prices, haven’t you?”

  I shrugged with supreme indifference.

  “Well, thank you very much. They might have given us a better view,” she said, frowning at the great elevator wheel at our window.

  “I was rather enjoying it,” I said defensively.

  “Boys like mechanical things, don’t they.”

  “Gears and cables and wheels. That’s all we can cram into our tiny little brains. I can’t believe you’re a pilot now!”

  “I prefer the word aviatrix. It has more zing to it.”