On Discord Isle (22 page)

Mahmoud glared at him. He muttered under his breath and turned away.

It came to Natasha in a flash.
Better and better
. Her father would have said to strike now. She agreed. “He’s running,” Natasha said aloud.

Etarin, Farouk, and Jahmal all looked her way. The noises of aggrieved surprise behind her stopped.

“It’s obvious that this ship will never sail again.” Natasha glanced back to see that several of the crew had heard her and were all listening.
Good.
“That means that you’re not getting off this island,” she continued. “But there’s a whole shipful of enemies here too, with guns and food and medicine to patch up their hurts. So your Kalyon is going to hide somewhere safe. Likely his cabin, which I wouldn’t be surprised to learn has been filled with food and weapons. And most of you aren’t invited.”

Mahmoud had frozen in his tracks. Silence now reigned upon the beach, broken only by the watery crash of the surf.

Jahmal stared at Mahmoud. “Is this true, Kalyon?” Until now, he had been quiet. Lean and wiry, he reminded Natasha of Reaver Jane.

The Kalyon faced her in a rage. He stepped toward her, one hand upraised. “Harlot! How dare you speak such falsehood! I will—”

Natasha stepped in to meet him. She punched Mahmoud in the throat with her left hand, and grabbed ahold of the scimitar at his belt with her right. His hands went to his throat reflexively as he choked. Natasha stepped back, drawing his blade free with a sound that rang across the sands. The she lunged.

The blade met a momentary resistance before punching out the back of Kalyon Mahmoud’s shirt, red and bloody. He gave a startled cry of shock and pain, fumbling for the sword buried in his chest. Natasha withdrew, pulling the scimitar with her. Mahmoud dropped to the ground, choking.

Warm satisfaction rolled over her.
I swore that I would kill you, Mahmoud
. Natasha faced the crew. All their eyes were on her, wide and shocked. A few had reflexively reached for weapons. Natasha knew she had to talk fast if she didn’t want to be torn to pieces.

“Listen, all of you!” she cried. “Your Kalyon Mahmoud was weak. He was afraid! And in the end, he thought only of himself. Go, look at his cabin. I am sure you will find the lion’s share of food and weapons. He would have abandoned you to your enemies!”

A heavy sailor with a scarred chest drew his scimitar and stepped toward her. He wore a blue headscarf and striped trousers, but nothing else. Anger twisted his face beneath his dark beard and mustachios. “You whore!” he cried. “How dare you—”

Natasha attacked. He brought up his scimitar. She parried the blow, crossing their blades. When he leaned in to throw his weight into their struggle, she kicked him in the crotch. The sailor’s eyes bulged. She stepped aside to let him fall, groaning, to the sand.

She met the eyes of every sailor there, ignoring the man who had tried to kill her. “Go,” she repeated. “Look in his cabin.”

Etarin looked aggrieved. He frowned and looked away. “The Kalyon did have us move the supplies,” he said after a moment. “In case the raid went bad.”

Jahmal looked at her angrily. “But he was our Kalyon.” He pointed a finger at her. “You cut him down in cold blood. We needed him to survive, regardless of what we thought of him personally!”

She narrowed her gaze at him.
Go back to being quiet, Jahmal.
“I did what was necessary. For all of you. I’ve freed you from the incompetence of his leadership.”

“But what will we do now?” asked Farouk. “Our ship, she is still wrecked! The Perinese will still come for us.” He shook his head. “We are doomed.”

“Doomed?” Natasha threw back her head and laughed. “Hardly.” She gestured to the dying Mahmoud with her scimitar. “He had no plan. But I, I do. I told you what I would have done just a bit ago, were I leading your raid. Now it’s the only option. The
Salmalin
is beached, but remember that there is still one ship on this island that can sail.”

Farouk looked at her like she was mad. “You cannot mean the
Goliath.
”

“I mean none other.”

The crew all spoke up at once. Cries of surprise and incredulity warred for attention.

“Enough!” shouted Natasha.

“But they have cannons!” said one in the crowd, a man with bandages around both arms.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “So?” She leaned forward, as if with a secret to share. “Let me tell you something I have learned. Those cannons? Whoever fired them wreaked as much harm on the Perinese as they did on you. And that explosion? It wiped out their powder stores. They’ve barely anything left.”

 The crewmen of the
Salmalin
all looked to each other.

“We are without a Kalyon, though,” said Etarin.

Natasha was tempted to run him through. Couldn’t these people take a hint? “Not true.
I
am a Kalyon. Follow me, and I’ll lead you off of this rock, to victory, glory, and more plunder than you ever would have seen in the service of the Sheik.”

“But you are a woman!” said Farouk.

“I am Salomcani!” she roared. “I was born on the Copper Isles, and their people are your people. Do you not see the color of my eyes? The blood in my veins is the same that runs in yours.” She straightened, tapping Mahmoud’s leg with the tip of her scimitar. “And I may have teats, but I’ve also got more backbone and brains than this fool ever had. He’s the one that got you stuck on this damned island in the first place. And he would have left you here to die while he hid himself away.”

She paused for breath and to gauge their reactions. The crew looked to each other, a few muttered quietly. Most of them watched Farouk, Etarin, and Jahmal, who appeared uncertain as well. A few glanced at their fellow in the striped trousers, wheezing on the sand. No one seemed hostile to the idea, at the least.
But they still need a push
, she realized.

“I can see you are uncertain,” she said. “I can see that you are worried. Well, I have a solution. Where I come from, we have a tradition. A simple thing, where every man gets a say, and no one is an officer. The Crewman’s Vote.”

She raised the scimitar up and rested it on her shoulder. “Raise your hand if you wish to continue on as you are, leaderless, injured, and afraid. Don’t be shy now, let’s see who is willing to suffer a slow death on this island.”

Many of the
Salmalin
crew looked to each other. No one raised their hands.

“All right. Now, raise your hand if you want to take a chance and live.” She made a fist. “Raise your hand if you’ll serve under me, while I save your hides, steal you a ship, and get you home alive.”

A smattering of hands crept up. A few more raised as the crew saw their friends vote. Eventually about half had voted. Natasha smiled. It didn’t matter, she knew. They were all listening to her, and already following her orders to vote. That was good enough, for now.

“Excellent,” she said. “Farouk and Etarin, attend me. Jahmal as well. Those of you who are injured, sit down, and rest. Any who can still climb, come with me to the ship. We’re going to unload it. All of you: we rest here for a time, see to our harms. Then we head back into that jungle, and repay those harms tenfold!” Natasha shouted the last, raising her scimitar high.

A ragged cheer met her words. Her three new officers looked to each other, shrugged, and approached.

A gurgle echoed up to her. Natasha glanced down. Mahmoud was on his side, eyes wide with fear and hate. She winked at him. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he stilled.

Natasha allowed herself a satisfied smile.
Well, then, Fengel. Let’s see how you deal with
this
.

Chapter Thirteen

Fengel peered into the depths of the bilge. Before him danced his shadow, flickering and obscuring any vision. He sighed. Reaching back, Fengel pulled Sergeant Cumbers forward so that the lantern in his hand could illuminate the
Goliath’s
lowest level. Light bloomed in the dank space, revealing waist-high seawater sloshing against the ribbed hull, a low ceiling, and a few intruder hermit crabs intent on claiming the space for themselves. Something glimmered in the water a dozen feet away.

“So, as you see, sir,” wheezed Harvey from the cramped stair, “hull’s good an’ punctured down here. It’s a miracle that the quake yesterday didn’t splinter even more of the frame around that weird bit o’ metal. I tried cuttin’ the thing away to make room for a patch, but it broke all my tools. Snapped my best hatchet right off the handle.”

The shipwright held Fengel’s hat and jacket for him. Amazingly, the man was alive and moving only two days after being perforated by Natasha, complaining no more than any other sailor. That was surprising. Privately, he suspected Mr. Dawkins. The aetherite said he was tapped out of Workings, but Fengel was certain he still had a few tricks up his sleeve. Still, since the crew seemed to take it as proof of Fengel’s surgical skills, he didn’t press the matter.

Fengel stepped down into the bilge from the hatchway stair. He gestured for Cumbers to follow and sloshed over to examine the glimmering object. The sergeant was always close at hand these days, ostensibly to better guard him. Yet he had readily performed whatever Fengel asked.

The protuberance was the color of brightly burnished brass. It rose up to just beneath the surface of the water, shaped like a perfect pyramid. Fengel nudged aside a crab and bent low to examine the thing. It did not budge when he leaned against it, and was just as hard as it looked. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind what it was.

Fengel straightened. “It’s no wonder you couldn’t cut it with a piece of steel,” he said aloud. “This, Mr. Harvey, is of Voornish make.”

Cumbers gave a low whistle. “You’ve seen this before?”

Fengel nodded. “A few times. Six months ago, most recently. It won’t budge. Likely this is a whole piece. Possibly part of those water pipes out on the beach.” He shook his head. “There’s no way we’re freeing the ship from it without careening her over entirely.”

He sloshed back up to the hatchway stair with Cumbers following. Fengel took his jacket back and donned it.

“But sir,” said Harvey. “We careen her over on her side,
Goliath
would swamp. We’d never get her back over again without help from the fleet.”

“Which ain’t likely,” added Cumbers.

“No,” agreed Fengel. “Likely not.”

A hurried rhythmic thumping echoed on the deck above their heads. It stopped at the open hatchway of the stair. Midshipman Paine stuck his head in through the breach.

“Sirs!” he cried. “You’ve got to come quick. Hayes is making trouble!”

Fengel sighed.
If it’s not one thing, it’s another
.

He took his hat from the shipwright and climbed up to the next deck. Paine jerked back as he emerged. Fengel donned his hat and peered down at the lad as bilge water dripped from his sodden clothing upon the deck.

“What and where, young Paine?”

The midshipman caught his breath. “Hayes has got some of the crew up on the bow deck. Tryin’ to get ’em all riled up.”

Fengel clasped his hands behind his back. “Very well. Let’s go see what the sub-lieutenant is on about this time, then.”

He led the way up through the
Goliath’s
decks. The ship was in disarray. Though empty of any people, clothes, dice and other detritus lay strewn about in haphazard fashion, the signs of occupation by the surviving crewmembers. Fengel’s first official act as captain had been to order everyone back aboard the warship. With their camp wrecked, no one had really complained. After yesterday’s earthquake, the decision even looked somewhat prescient.

Bright tropical sun blinded Fengel as he emerged on the outer deck. He blinked it away to see the crew, playing cards or fishing as they took advantage of the liberty he had decreed for the day. At first glance, they seemed perfectly at ease. Fengel sensed a tension, though, something off in the air. Everyone had their heads bent slightly, listening to a commotion taking place up on the bow deck.

Fengel sighed.
Here we go again
. Hayes wasn’t a particularly difficult opponent. In fact, quite the opposite. But as a makeshift first mate he was proving singularly untrustworthy. Fengel shifted his monocle and strode up toward the gathering.

The sub-lieutenant stood on the bow deck of the ship with a small knot of the crew before him. Hayes looked wild. His beard was tangled, and his clothes were still torn from the fight upon the beach. He hadn’t dealt well with the last two days, at first laying low, sulkily trying to reason his way into command of his crewmates. Now he looked to have moved on to full-scale proselytization.

“They’ve killed our first mate,” screeched Hayes. “They killed old Tom, our bosun. And they even killed our commander! There’s not a King’s man alive on this boat who hasn’t lost someone to their depredations. Before that, the bastards were hunting and ravaging honest Perinese sailors!” He gestured to the far side of the island. “And they’re over there!”

A mutter of assent went through the crew. Fengel watched them nod and elbow each other angrily.
Well, that’s not good,
he thought. It appeared that some were genuinely angry at the Salomcani.

Which was only to be expected. The question was, how could he
use
that? Very shortly he was going to have to tell the sailors and Bluecoats that their ship was unlikely to ever sail again.

Fengel smiled as the answer came to him.
Never let them see you stumble.

“They need payin’ back,” said a marine. “But we can’t just run off after them. Captain’s got us doing things here on the
Goliath.
Getting us shipshape again.”

Hayes went apoplectic. “That man isn’t our captain!” he shrieked. “He’s a bloody pirate! He’s just a thief!”

And that’s my cue
. Fengel stalked forward, putting a little extra force into each footstep so that his boots echoed out across the deck. It was a trick he’d picked up over the years, useful for drawing attention.