On Discord Isle (11 page)

“Oh, help me!” she cried again.

“Confound it, woman!” growled Fengel. “Stop!”

The bushes off to one side parted. Five men in the blue uniforms of Perinese Bluecoat marines appeared, muskets at the ready. Natasha noted that they were likely a watch picket; they hadn’t come from the beach.

Perfect.

“Get him off me!” she implored the men.

Fengel looked around and swore. He released her and tried to run the way they’d come, but it was too late. Two of the Bluecoats stepped in and clubbed him in the back with the stocks of their weapons. Already half-bent, he collapsed to the jungle floor.

Natasha let herself fall to her knees. Shouts came from the direction of the beach. The commotion had been noticed.

One of the Bluecoats stepped forward and held out a hand, bowing low. He was tall and fit, with a long nose and oily curls bound into a ponytail beneath his tricorn hat.

“Are you all right, good lady?” he asked.

Natasha sniffed and tried not to smile. “I am now,” she replied.

Chapter Seven

Captain Fengel wondered what he had done to deserve this fate.

That meat pie I stole from Matron Shrieveport? No, I was only seven. And besides, she’d gone round the bend and was making pasties out of all those husbands she’d axed. Hmm. I did drop Black Robin adrift in the ocean with nothing but an empty pickle barrel. Though, in my defense, the fellow did try to murder me.

A thought occurred to him.

Could it be all the piracy? Surely not. There was that missionary ship with all those nuns. We
did
stay on and patch things up for them again, though. And my apology was very eloquent.

The sharp tip of a bayonet poked him in the back. Fengel glared back at the man, but picked up his pace. There wasn’t any point in antagonizing the Bluecoats further.

Five of the blue-coated soldiers marched him down the beach toward their camp. All were simple privates, fresh-faced youths conscripted from the inner counties back in the Kingdom of Perinault. The sixth and last was a naval officer, a sub-lieutenant by the braid below his shoulder. He stood a little taller than Fengel, with a long nose and oily curls bound into a ponytail. The sub-lieutenant walked at the head of the group, leading the way back while Natasha simpered at his side.

She glanced back over her shoulder to wink at him. Incoherent rage boiled up inside Fengel. Natasha had done it to him again, had won out against the odds, clawing her way up over him to grasp victory. They weren’t even fighting over anything this time. Goddess knows he’d meant to avoid her as long as he could. He’d only left the beach to find out who had carved the dragon up on the mountain. Who they were, or if they were even human didn’t matter. They’d at least have fire and food, a significant improvement over the last night’s miserably rugged experience.

And now here they were, captured by the Royal Navy of the Kingdom of Perinault.

They descended to the camp. It was very recent. The tents were set out in traditional military formation, a long, orderly line of cloth with a latrine dug off behind it. Several fire pits ranged down its length. Crates, sacks, and other supplies were stacked neatly in large piles to one side, the sheer volume surprising. These had to be most of the supplies from their ship, including several large barrels of black powder. Behind those hunkered a portable ship’s forge—poorly placed, in his opinion.

Nostalgia washed over him. The camp was set with a mindless order-for-order’s-sake mentality that he remembered from his navy days. The fire pits were directly in the way of the wind, not sheltered at all by the jungle or the ship, as common sense would dictate. The latrines were also dug slightly uphill from the tents; a rather foolish thing if one stopped to think about it, yet perfectly in accordance with the Military Code of Instruction.

Past the camp was the ship itself. Three things struck Fengel about it. First was its anchorage. The vessel was far too close to shore, and thus surely grounded. The second was its unfamiliar make. She was a ship-of-the-line, though small and built for speed, with modern paddlewheels amidships. Lastly was the gold lettering across her bow. This was the
H.M.S. Goliath.

That’s the missing escort for the Minnow. Now, what is she doing here?

The sailors and Bluecoat marines of the camp crowded around as Fengel and his captors approached. One of the marines stepped out from the press. Fengel blinked at him. The bars on his shoulder denoted him a sergeant, but the man was a hunk of jerky in uniform. Beady eyes stared out from beneath a slanting brow and a lumpy, repeatedly broken nose. Cauliflower ears adorned the sides of his head.

“What you got there, Hayes?” he asked

“I’m not entirely certain, Sergeant,” said the sub-lieutenant. “They stumbled over our picket—”

“Oh,” cried Natasha. She clung to Hayes’s arm and pressed herself against the man. “They
saved
me. Just as I was about to be ravaged by that brute of a pirate.”

Fengel grit his teeth. His wife was in fine form at the moment.

“A pirate?” said the sergeant. “Here?” he frowned, then peered at Fengel and Natasha more closely.

“Well, they’re not from the
Salmalin
,” replied Hayes.

“He’s not. But with skin like that, she could be, and the golden eyes to boot. She speaks the King’s tongue without an accent, though. That says Copper Isles pirate to me.”

It seemed to Fengel that his own status was a foregone conclusion. Cheerfully, though, everyone now stared anew at Natasha, and not in befuddled admiration. A surprised frown flashed across her face, so quick only Fengel recognized it. He smiled and reappraised the battered Bluecoat. The man was a brute, but a clever one.

“That’s ridiculous,” snarled Natasha. She caught herself and fell against Hayes’s chest. “However could you think such a thing?” She gazed imploringly up at the sub-lieutenant with glistening eyes.

Fengel rolled his eyes.
Oh, for the love of the Goddess.
His wife preferred brutality and ruthlessness, which was why she only had a few simple tricks up her sleeve. Unfortunately, this one seemed to be working. It usually did, when she bothered. The sub-lieutenant had that slack-jawed, glazed-over look that Fengel had seen far too often on other men.

“Nonsense,” said Hayes. He smiled slightly. “The poor lass has obviously suffered very dearly at the hands of this man. I’m taking them both to the Commander, and we’ll whistle the truth out of him then. Your business,
Sergeant
Cumbers, is to tighten the perimeter against any of this fellow’s associates.”

Hayes glared for a moment before resuming his pace back towards the ship, gently supporting Natasha. The sergeant narrowed his eyes at the sub-lieutenant, then turned back to the other Bluecoats.

“Oily peacock,” he muttered. “You heard ’im, lads. Get back to your pickets. Smith, fall out and join the others. I’ll help escort this prisoner off to the Commander. That smarmy fool doesn’t tell
me
what to do.” Then Sergeant Cumbers took the lead of the marines and prodded Fengel down to the beach.

Hmm
, mused Fengel.
Discontent among the ranks?
What’s the story here?

The party reached the shore, where Hayes was helping Natasha into one of the longboats resting on the sand. Fengel got in at musket-point, then sat quietly as the Bluecoats heaved the vessel into the water and climbed aboard. Two grabbed oars and pushed them out toward the
Goliath
.

While Natasha whispered thankful nothings to Sub-Lieutenant Hayes up in the bow, Fengel focused on the approaching warship. She was definitely beached, sitting only a few hundred feet from the shore and ever-so-slightly atilt, so that her starboard broadside presented itself almost to the camp. The rigging was tattered, and signs of new woodwork were apparent along the deck. This ship had seen battle, and recently.

The longboat pulled up aside the warship, just behind the large steam-driven paddlewheel. Hayes called out, and a rope ladder was dropped down from above. He led the way, followed by Natasha, and then Fengel. Cumbers and the other marines still down in the boat watched his wife climb with small smiles, occasionally elbowing each other. Fengel, they followed with muskets.

Never let them see you stumble
. Fengel maintained his composure on the way up, but his irritation at Natasha paled before the reality of stepping aboard a Navy warship again for the first time in a decade. Tyranny, poverty, and risking life and limb for a commanding officer who didn’t even know your name. That was what he’d left behind. No, more than left behind. He’d stolen the horse and burned the bridge, changing himself into something completely antithetical to these people. And the Royal Navy weren’t the forgiving sort.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Something was bound to come up. All he needed was an opportunity. Several potential possibilities, such as the split between the sergeant and Hayes, had presented themselves already. Fengel gritted his teeth and climbed onto the deck.

The
H.M.S. Goliath
was a warship, with every bit reflecting that fact. Her lines were straight, efficient. Cannons ran in orderly rows down either side of the deck like stubby iron teeth. She even bore two pair of chase guns up at the bow, heavy Long Nines. The poop deck atop the stern was low, with two swivel guns for the helm crew, mounted for use in boarding actions.

Strangely though, the ship was almost abandoned. Aside from an older man who might have been the carpenter and his assistants, there were no sailors, no more Bluecoats. Unless they were all below, the
Goliath
had lost a fair share of crew. Those back down on the beach didn’t nearly account for the complement he would expect aboard.

Cumbers and three of the Bluecoat marines ascended from the longboat below. A mad thought bloomed in Fengel’s mind. Kick the first one off the ladder as he climbed aboard, then a right hook to Hayes, subdue him just long enough to take his sword…but no. He was too far down the mouth of the dragon at this point. Where would he go? Perhaps he could dive off the starboard side of the ship, swim around to another part of the island. More likely Hayes would run him through, or a musket ball would catch him as he swam.

“Riley Gordon,” called Hayes. “Run along to the commander and let him know we’ve caught a prize.”

Fengel looked over to see one of the carpenter’s assistants approaching from up the deck. Riley was a young man, small and thin, who moved with the furtive air of someone hoping not to be seen. He balanced a heavy timber across one shoulder and seemed to be having trouble with it.

“I’m busy,” said Riley. “Gotta get this down to the poop deck.”

Fengel blinked at the disrespect. On a Perinese ship that kind of attitude would be punished with the lash. Something odd was going on, or Hayes was not very well-liked. He studied the sub-lieutenant.
Probably both.

“You’re right you’re busy,” said Hayes. Color rose in his cheeks. “You’re going to drop that timber and run along to the commander before I jam it so far up your arse you’ll be spitting splinters.”

Riley flinched. He ducked his head and set the board on the deck with difficulty. When he straightened, he gave a sloppy, defiant salute to Hayes, then jogged down toward the sterncastle cabin.

Hayes said something under his breath and jerked his head in the same direction. Cumbers grinned openly, then signaled the Bluecoats to prod Fengel forward. As he went, Natasha caught his eye. She smiled—a small, satisfied thing meant only for him. Fengel ignored her and stood a little straighter, made sure his hat was aligned and his monocle was clamped tightly into place. The scratch over its lens gave the stern of the ship a marred appearance.

Hayes stopped before the sterncastle door. Riley Gordon had shut it after entering a few moments ago, another insult to the sub-lieutenant. Hayes rapped lightly with a knuckle.

“Enter,” croaked an imperious voice.

Hayes opened the door and stepped inside. Natasha followed, and a Bluecoat prodded Fengel again with his bayonet. He glared at the man before following his wife.
I am going to need a new coat after all this
.

The tang of whiskey and the sweet-sour smell of corruption filled the air, undercutting the faint aroma of stale sweat. Fengel took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom before going any further.

The cabin wasn’t spacious. Unlike his own, sumptuous lodgings aboard the
Dawnhawk
, the space was barely large enough for the six other people in the room. Hayes and Natasha stood just before him, framed against little Riley Gordon. The center of the room was dominated by a large captain’s table, a multipurpose piece of furniture that could host dinners and hold charts. Atop it sat a heavyset older man in officer’s clothing. His breaths rasped overloud in the space, and it was obvious that there was something wrong with him. Even though his shirt was open to the belly and his graying curls were damp with sweat, he exuded a presence of dignity and control.
This must be the commander,
Fengel realized.

Another figure stood behind the commander, a gaunt fellow with a shock of white hair. Both his hands were spread above the shoulders of the man before him, a bright, electric light dancing between his fingertips in time with the commander’s labored breathing. Fengel blinked in surprise. Perinese ships didn’t often have an aetherite aboard.

The last person in the room was a young boy in midshipman’s clothing. He stood beside the commander with a damp rag and a bucket. Periodically he dabbed sweat from the commander’s cheeks and brow.

“You had better have a damned good reason for interrupting,” said the commander. His voice was imperious, rich and cultured, the very sound Fengel had always aspired to. “Mr. Dawkins’s Workings are in short supply these days, and they’re the only thing keeping me upright.”