Read The Aeronaut's Windlass for Free Online Page B

better than anyone else in Habble Morning. She hadn’t asked to be born to the lineage of some overachieving, bloodthirsty Fleet admiral, no matter how respected a role he played in the history of Spire Albion. It wasn’t as though she and her father enjoyed any particular privileges.
    Why on earth should she submit to an outdated, rigidly traditional obligation ?
    She felt a small surge of outrage and tried to ride it into something larger and more determined, but it dwindled and flickered out again, leaving her feeling . . . small.
    She could pretend all she liked. She knew the real reason she didn’t want to spend her year in the service of the Spirearch.
    She was afraid.
    There was a rustle and a very light thump, and she looked up to see one of her favorite people bound lightly from the top of the next vat, land in silence only a few feet away, and sit down, regarding her with large green eyes.
    “Good morning, Rowl,” she said. Her voice sounded little and squeaky in her own ears, especially compared to her father’s basso rumble.
    The dark ginger cat purred a greeting and padded over to her. Without preamble, he climbed into her lap, turned a lazy, imperious circle, and settled down, still purring throatily.
    Bridget smiled and began to run her fingers lightly around the bases of Rowl’s ears. His purr deepened and his eyes narrowed to green slits.
    “I don’t want to go,” she said. “It isn’t fair. And it isn’t as though I can actually help anyone with anything. All I know is the vattery.”
    Rowl’s purring continued.
    “We don’t even own a gauntlet or a sword, unless you count our carving knives. We don’t have enough money to get them, either. And even if we did, I don’t have the faintest idea of how to use them. What am I supposed to do for the Spirearch’s Guard?”
    Rowl, having had his fill of getting his ears rubbed, stretched and turned over onto his back. When she didn’t begin immediately, he swatted lightly at her hand with a soft paw, until she started scratching his chest and belly. Then he sprawled in unashamed luxury, enjoying the attention.
    “But . . . you know Father. He’s so . . . so good about honoring his obligations. When he gives his word, he keeps it. When he sets out to accomplish something, it’s not enough simply to accomplish it. He needs to be the best at it, too. Or at least try to be. He served his time. He says it’s important for me to do it, too.” She sighed. “But it’s a whole year . I won’t get to see him at all. And . . . and the neighbors and the people in this corridor. And . . . and the vats and the shop and . . .” She bowed her head and felt her face twist up in pure misery. She gathered Rowl in her arms and hugged him to her, rocking back and forth slightly.
    After a few moments, the cat murmured, “Littlemouse, you are squishing my fur.”
    Bridget jerked guiltily and sat up, loosening her embrace. “Oh,” she apologized, “please excuse me.”
    The cat turned to meet her eyes with his and seemed to consider that for a moment. Then he nodded and said, “I do.”
    “Thank you,” Bridget said.
    “You are welcome.” The cat flicked his tail back and forth a few times and said, “Wordkeeper wishes you to leave his territory?”
    “It isn’t that he wants me to go,” Bridget said. “He thinks it is important that I do so.”
    Rowl tilted his head. “Then it is a duty.”
    “That’s how he sees it,” Bridget said.
    “Then there is no matter for consideration,” the cat replied. “You have a duty to your sire. He has a duty to his chief. If he has agreed to loan one of his warriors to his chief, then that warrior should go.”
    “But I’m not a warrior,” Bridget said.
    The cat looked at her for a moment and then leaned his head forward to rub his little whiskery muzzle against her face. “There are many kinds of war, Littlemouse.”
    “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked.
    “That you are