Excerpt: To Tame a Clockwork Dragon

For a long time Wes didn't dare touch the old man. He watched him, desperately hoping that he would snore or move a little. The sun was low on the horizon, casting a long, deep shadow across Wendell's face. It would be dark before long. He had to know now.

He crawled across the heavy weaved floor of the basket and moved up next to the old man. He didn't stir. Wes put a hand on his shoulder and shook him, and a sour gurgling breath came out of his mouth and startled him. His head lolled to the side heavily. Wes watched for the rise and fall of his chest, but up in the balloon there wasn't even a breeze to ruffle his shirt and give him a false sense of hope. Wendell was dead.

Wes's thoughts were filled with the things he had been told about dead animals, especially birds, and how you weren't supposed to touch them. He knew that this was about older dead things and animals that might have been diseased, but he still felt that touching the old man was dangerous, like breaking a taboo. As though he had suddenly became sick and contagious through the act of dying.

As the shadows deepened Wes realized that he couldn't keep the old man with him. He didn't know when he'd start to become unhealthy, or smell, and he couldn't stomach the idea of spending the night curled up in the basket with a dead man. He searched through his pockets, furtively, as though he might at any moment sit up again and scold him for it. Wendell had little with him after their hasty escape, save a few pieces of money that looked like thick pennies and some strange tools. Wes set them aside - there were no pockets in his pyjamas.

He was desperately in need of clothing, too. Wes shuddered. The body was cold now. Wes had to wait a minute to work himself up to it. He worked as quickly as he could, holding his breath and trying to look at anything but the old man's face. But when he was finished he was grateful to pull on the long-sleeved shirt and trousers, all of it a little too large even over top of his pyjamas. He was particularly thankful for the boots and socks, which felt painfully heavenly on his cold, aching feet.

The old man looked pathetic, stripped to his undergarments and propped up next to the controls of the aircraft - controls Wes had no idea how to operate. It was nearly dark now. He couldn't wait any longer. He heaved the body up onto the rail of the basket and left him like that for a long moment, folded over the edge like a rag doll. Then, in long, slow stages, he pulled him up, up, until the weight of the old man simply made him slide over the edge and disappear into the darkness below.

In a fit of disgust Wes found himself heaving over the side, though he had so little food or water in him he merely wretched and coughed up bile. Then he slid down into the basket and wrapped the blanket around himself and cried.

He slept furtively until the first light of dawn. When he stood up he saw that the balloon had drifted quite low. He fumbled at the ignition switch above him like he'd seen Wendell doing, until a flame leapt out and the balloon slid up into the sky again. He was aloft in a sea of trees, and he had no idea where he was going.