On Discord Isle (43 page)

The Dray Engine howled again. Then it pressed down with both arms against the deck. Polished wood snapped and buckled. Natasha’s eyes widened in surprise as she realized that she certainly had the monster’s attention now; the thing was trying to climb up onto the warship to come after her.

It reached out and grabbed the foremast in one hand for support. The spar gave easily, cracking and tumbling below. Natasha cursed and climbed to her feet, running for the next gun she could reach. The parrot in her hand was too dazed by fear or by the cannon to utter its usual obnoxious squawk.

Near the forward hatch, she reached another gun. One wheel on the mount was cracked, pointing the nose of the weapon far too low. Natasha grabbed up the lanyard and yanked hard; she didn’t care whether it hit at this point, so long as it fired.

The cannon erupted, flinging its shot to skip across the deck and strike the thing in the one ankle it had upraised. Natasha didn’t watch to see the reaction. Instead she was moving, looking around for another cannon and saw one amidships, pointed forward. She reached it and managed to hit the monster in the arm.

Again and again she repeated the trick, each time skipping away before the Dray Engine could bring ruin down upon her. The thing was big, but slow upon the confines of the
Goliath
. She reached the last of the loaded deck cannon where it had come to rest against the stern castle and port-side ladder leading up to the poop deck. A thick tangle of rigging had fallen into a pile beside it. Natasha made to leap over it to the cannon and tripped on a hidden pulley in the pile.

The fall knocked the wind out of her. She lay stunned, one hand still clutching the parrot, the other pinned against the rough wooden wheel of the cannon-mount.

The parrot gave out a massive, raucous squawk. It pierced her daze just quickly enough for her to notice the moon-cast shadow of a brazen paw about to fall on her.

Natasha didn’t even try to get up. She rolled away from the cannon toward the center of the ship. The claw of the Dray Engine slammed down where she’d been lying, flattening the gun, the ladder and even that portion of the deck itself.

She stared up at the machine. It towered above her, awful and inhuman.

What kind of people could make such a thing?

A quick glance told her that the
Dawnhawk
was past the
Goliath,
descending down to the ocean. Her mutinous crew would rescue Fengel. It was enough.

A thunderous eruption sounded somewhere past the ship. Natasha caught a glimpse of many bright tongues of flame somewhere off the starboard bow, and then the air was filled with the whistling echo of falling cannon balls. They tore sails, rigging, and masts. They hammered the Dray Engine with the sound of a blacksmith beating upon an anvil. Splinters rained down upon Natasha. By some great fortune she managed to avoid all of the iron shot. The creature roared in defiance. It shifted its massive bulk away from the
Goliath,
and Natasha glanced up for a better look.

Down past the bow and the southwestern curve of the island came a warship. In the light of the moon it was huge, even bigger than the
Goliath
, with a fuller complement of guns, all aimed straight at the Dray Engine.

She was Perinese, that much Natasha could tell at a glance.
Does she think she’s coming to assist?

It didn’t matter. Natasha glanced again out the starboard side, over the ocean. The
Dawnhawk
now floated over the longboat. Three figures swam for the rope ladders dangled from the airship.

In her hands the parrot gave a half-stunned, miserable squawk. Natasha glanced down at the thing, which huddled, looking ludicrous. She laughed and climbed to her feet. “Oh no,” she said. “I’m not done with you yet, bird.”

Natasha ran for the port-side railing as the other Perinese warship unleashed another broadside. At its edge she leapt, landing in the waters with a cannonball splash. She rose, sputtering for air, the parrot flapping feebly.

The Dray Engine roared again as cannon fire fell upon it. It shook away the blows of those that had hit and charged down the coastline at the new vessel.

Her father would have applauded her escape.

Natasha shrugged, then swam with one arm toward the waiting
Dawnhawk
.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Fengel eyed his monocle.

It was weird. The glass was still perfectly see-through, but the exterior lens was reflective now, and the brass rim had stretched and flattened, almost taking the shape of an eyepatch. He had to admit that it appeared ludicrous, but with his other one broken and lost, it was the only eyepiece he had left. With a sigh, he fit it into place. Then he adjusted his battered hat and left the captain’s cabin.

The stairwell beyond was cool and dark. It stank, which was usual, being placed so close to the crew on the quarterdeck. But the air was tinged with the sickly, cloying scent of blood, illness and strong alcohol. Many people had died aboard recently, as he understood it.

He knew he should see to those injured. But later, later. Instead he climbed the stairway past a fat orange tomcat to the hatch above, emerging onto the deck of the
Dawnhawk
.

His airship flew over the sea beneath a midafternoon sun on a warm, clear day. Their skysails were extended, stretched taut to catch the stream of immaterial aether pushing them north by northwest, headed toward home. All about the deck moved the crew, quite busy. There was much work to be done, after this most recent misadventure.

“Your tea, sir.”

Henry Smalls appeared at his elbow with a silver tea service in both hands. Fengel nodded and took up his cup. He sipped, savoring the taste of it. After being abandoned on a somewhat-deserted isle for a week, this little civility almost brought a tear to his eye.

But no. He couldn’t be that soft. Not yet.

“Not quite enough sugar, Mr. Smalls.”

The steward looked away. “Sorry, sir,” he apologized. “Won’t happen again, sir.”

Fengel gave a grunt. “See that it doesn’t, Mr. Smalls.”

He finished the tea and gave the cup back to Henry, who disappeared belowdecks. Fengel strolled over to the helm, where two people were arguing in thickly accented Perinese, and a third was trying very hard to not exist.

“Havelthrum’s Quotient makes perfect sense,” said Maxim in a lofty voice. Fengel noted that the aetherite’s usual slovenly appearance was somewhat cleaner at the moment. “Aether naturally sinks, congeals, even, so theoretically it could be found to be so dense that it should be minable—”

“Utter hogwash,” rasped Konrad. The big aetherite had apparently decided to wax his mustache. “If that were true, miners would have found such stuff centuries ago.”

“Hogwash? Your linens may be hog—”

“I’ll wring your neck with my linens, you rail-boned—”

“I do not
care
!” exclaimed the woman between them, her face held in her hands. Both aetherites appeared not to notice her distress.

Fengel eyed Omari. The woman was a Yulan native, which was rare enough. But she was well-spoken, and unlike everyone else aboard the ship, was mostly innocent in the recent affairs. He’d been appraised of her strange ability after coming aboard last night, though he wasn’t quite sure what to think of it yet. Or ready to deal with the results.

“Good afternoon,” he said to the three.

Maxim and Konrad both shut up. They looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. Omari peered at him appraisingly.

“Good afternoon, sir,” coughed Maxim.

“Ah. Yes,” said Konrad. “Good afternoon.”

“The helm is responding all right?” asked Fengel.

“Yes,” they both said at once.

Fengel nodded. “Omari, is it? Walk with me a moment.”

Both aetherites looked suddenly crestfallen. The young woman moved to join him, gratefully. They walked up the deck a way in silence, before she faced him.

“So,” she said. “You are the captain of this ship of fools?”

“Nominally,” replied Fengel.

“Well, I want off. I don’t care where, so long as they speak Perinese.”

“We are returning to our home port in the Copper Isles,” he replied. “It’s where we’ll drop off Cumbers and Etarin and the others recovering below. Not exactly perfect, but the best we can do, I’m afraid. Will that suffice?”

The woman grimaced. “Homeless in yet another strange city. Such appears to be my lot in life.” She looked back up at him. “That will suit then, Captain. It will have to.”

She made to leave, and Fengel gave a cough. “Ah, Omari?”

She looked back his way. “Yes?”

“I would appreciate it if you could refrain from utilizing your aetherite magics until we reach port.” He gestured up the deck toward a group of armless, neckless, and skinless Revenants.

Omari frowned fiercely. She stomped her foot. “But it’s not my
fault!
” she said.

Fengel only shrugged. He walked up the deck to where the main hatch had been opened. Lucian and Sarah Lome were there, supervising Rastalak and a sulking Reaver Jane as they performed some work down in the hold.

“What’s this, then?” he asked.

Lucian whirled in surprise. He smiled a brittle smile, opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Sarah Lome gave the sharpest military salute Fengel had ever seen, which amused him, as he knew that the huge piratess had never been in the navy before.

“Sir!” cried Lucian. “Just taking inventory. Mechanist asked us to check on the light-air reserves. And let me just say sir, we’re all so glad to have you back.”

Fengel nodded absent-mindedly. Then he peered down into the hold. “Good, good. I think this is a two-person job, though, don’t you? Go on down and tend to it yourselves, if you please. The other two are relieved.” He paused as he went to leave. “Gunney Lome?”

“Yes, sir?”

“What’s that on your face?”

“Ink, sir.”

“You got a tattoo?”

“No, sir.”

“Ah. Sums, then. Oh well, carry on.”

Fengel continued to walk up the deck, smiling as he went. Before long he reached the clutch of Revenants, all tied together in a crowd up against the deck. They were repulsive, and Fengel found that he couldn’t hide his dismay at their presence aboard the
Dawnhawk
.
How in the Realms Below did anyone let this come to pass?

Their herder, for lack of a better term, stood nearby. Michael Hockton was of average height and build, but appeared quick-witted and agile. He leaned back against the gunwales with a catch-pole, idly watching over the walking dead that were in his care. A clothespin was pinched over the bridge of his nose. On occasion, one of the corpses would try to lift the rope that restrained it, and he would carefully bat the arm aside.

“And you look ridiculous!”

Fengel glanced over to see Allen, the younger Mechanist, hanging off the side of the ship from a rope and harness. He appeared to be working on the skysails there, but from what Fengel could tell, seemed to have most of his attention focused on Hockton.

“Well,” replied Hockton nasally. “It’s the only coat I’ve got. So I’ll suppose I’ll have to wear it. At least until I can get a proper pirate’s jacket.”

“But it makes you stink of Revenant!” cried Allen.

“No,” said Hockton. “That’s the Revenants. If you want to take over for me, I’ll be glad to give those thingamabobs you’re working on a try.”

Fengel stepped a little closer. “I believe you’ve been assigned a task, Mr. Hockton. You would do well to stick to it.”

Allen looked up in surprise, then dropped out of view. Hockton went to salute him, then stopped, uncertain what to do.

Fengel peered at the young man carefully. Hockton was a
very
familiar name. For someone that he had downright hated, upon a time.
He’s got the right build, but the face is wrong. Hmm.
“So,” he said. “I understand that you’re a recent addition to the crew?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” he said. “I’ve no love for the service any longer, if that’s what worries you, sir.”

“You needn’t salute,” said Fengel. “We’re all brothers here, more or less.” He made to walk away, and paused. “Tell me. Do you happen to know an Elijah Hockton, at all?”

Michael Hockton looked embarrassed. “Ah. Can’t say that I do, sir.”

Fengel nodded. “Very well. Carry on.”

A short distance away he found Lina Stone. The waif was swabbing the deck angrily, her horrible pet scryn draped around her shoulders. By unanimous assent, it had been decided that she wasn’t to speak any further for a period of one week. Naturally, a gag had gone with the plan.

“Hello, Miss Stone! And how are you this fine day?”

Lina dropped her mop. She glanced up, tried to smile, and failed due to the gag.

“Never mind, never mind,” said Fengel with mock cheerfulness. “You’ve quite a number of tasks to see to.
Much
work to be done. I’ll have to bring it up to Gunney Lome if I can think of any others of course, naturally.”

Lina winced again, then she picked up her mop. “Yeff, fur.”

“Good, good.” He let a note of seriousness creep into his voice. “So, Miss Stone. Have you had enough yet?”

Lina pondered a moment. “Woulgn’t trave if for zhe vurld, fur.”

Fengel nodded, and walked away.

He found Natasha up at the bow. She stood facing the deck, and gave him a crooked smile as he approached.

“This monocle makes me look ridiculous,” he said.

“Aye. So throw it away.”

“But it’s the only one I’ve got.”

His wife shrugged.

Fengel rested his arms on the bow rails and looked past her out over the ocean. “So how are you handling it?” she asked him after a moment.

“Mostly by pretending it didn’t happen. They seem regretful enough. But…I think I’ll let them stew a little while longer. You?”

A raucous squawk exploded behind them. Fengel winced, then turned in time to see the gaudy parrot perched on the edge of the hold. Rastalak and Reaver Jane had just climbed up from the hatch, and he watched as both almost slipped and fell back into the hold out of surprise, only just catching themselves by the lip of the opening.