The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) (15 page)

For a moment, Bucky was too happy to speak. He just stared up, adoring his goddess while his heart pounded in his chest.

Then her mouth quirked in a smile. “And let me say that it wouldn’t go amiss if you brought out that black cape from time to time.”

He cleared his throat, trying to recall the English language. “Fancy another picnic?”

She pulled him to his feet, and he drew her into the circle of his arms. She tilted her head back, eyes filled with mischief. “With dessert, Mr. Penner. Now that I’m your betrothed, I intend to make demands.”

“I thought the highwayman made the demands. That’s what it says in
The Adventures of Lightning Jack of the Moor
.”

She chuckled leaning provocatively close. “How little you know the ways of women.”

He grinned, his whole body suddenly alive with the bright, amazing summer day before he got down to the urgent business of kissing her. “Then I believe I’ll enjoy the lessons.”

It would have been simpler if he had died, but he hadn’t. The gods mocked Striker at every chance they got and, dark-hearted bastards that they were, they’d denied him that easy exit. He knew what it was to sail the clouds by magic, and now he had to live with the loss of it.

He stood alone at the top of the hill, his back to the ocean wind, and looked down at the rolling green and brown of the Cornish landscape. The road snaked back and forth all the way to the horizon, almost shimmering under the thick gray clouds. Ruins of an old tin mine tumbled down toward the rough green coast as if some giant had carelessly kicked the brick towers. The place was beautiful and desolate in a way that even a street rat from the Docklands could understand.

It was a foul day, heavy and overcast and with the edge of a storm slicing in on a moody wind. Already the midafternoon sky had sunk into an artificial dusk. As Striker stood there, the rain started: one fat drop, then two, then a scattershot, making the leaves of the wildflowers bounce. Striker pulled his hood up automatically, still searching the road for any travelers.

It was April now. One by one over the last five months, the remaining crew had all walked that winding path to where he stood: Beadle, Digby, Poole, and Striker himself. The airship had burned near London—a long way from the southwestern coast—but this was their rendezvous point, no matter where in the world their vessel went down. So they’d followed orders, gathering there after the disaster. Striker had been standing in that very spot when he’d first seen Poole—a tiny figure trudging along that beige ribbon of road. They’d wept to have the lad back, every last one of them.

But they’d taken too many losses. Knaur, the cook, had died before he’d even got his parachute on. Young Smith—younger even than Poole—had burned when a hot harpoon had struck the deck. Royce, the gunner, had made it to the ground only to die in Striker’s arms; not every landing from a jump like that was a good one. And no one knew what had happened to Captain Niccolo—Nick—who had gone overboard fighting for his life.

Four had survived, four were dead or missing, and that didn’t even count the loss of the
Red Jack
herself. Striker had been angry all his life, but now he was furious. And while he could make plans for a long, slow revenge against the men who’d fired on the
Jack
, he wanted to beat someone bloody right then and there. He had come from the gutters of East London, the bastard of a whore and a lascar sailor, and violence was the tool and solace he knew best.

But there was no place for that anger to go. The road was empty, as it had been yesterday, and a bucketful of yesterdays before that. Nick—wielder of magic, their leader, and Striker’s closest friend—was not in sight. The admission made Striker hunch against the rain. He was clinging to hope, refusing to look ahead more than one sunrise into the future, but each time he was forced to admit that Nick wasn’t on that road, he slid a little further toward a final, fatal fall into despair.

Striker turned, trudging back toward the cliff that overlooked the restless ocean. Between the hilltop and the cliff loomed a hangar where the
Red Jack
’s replacement was under construction. Nick had begun to build their dream ship—a steamspinner—long before the battle that had destroyed the
Red Jack
, and it was the reason that this was their rendezvous point—for here was their new beginning. The vessel was all but finished, the hired shipwrights paid off and dismissed. Striker, who was even better with a wrench than he was with his fists, was putting the final touches on the engines. Beadle, the first mate, had gone so far as to hire three men to
replace the crew they’d lost.

The newcomers had arrived from another pirate ship—men who had barely escaped when the French had raided the stronghold of Captain Roberts. There weren’t all that many air pirates—there were more plentiful pickings on the sea—but of the few who scoured the clouds in search of plunder, Trelawny Roberts was the most famous and the most feared. Damned near invincible, his specialty had been prowling the airways over the English Channel in search of vessels carrying expensive French exports—brandy, perfumes, silks, and the occasional floating brothel—like a hawk plucking fat pigeons from the sky. Sadly for the lovers of black market pleasure goods, the Gallic authorities had finally caught their man on the word of Roberts’s own faithless mistress.

And unfortunately for Striker, the three weeks since the arrival of the new men had proved how hard it was to fold new faces into the
Red Jack
’s tight-knit crew. As if to illustrate that fact, one of the newcomers stood at the bottom of the hill, waiting for him.

“It’s time you put yourself in the hands of a real captain,” the man said. He’d tried to start this conversation several times already, and Striker had just as stubbornly refused to hear it.

“Listen, because I’ll say this once, Falkland,” Striker said, making sure every word came out clearly so that the fool understood. “Say another word and you’re dead.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” Falkland—grizzled and wiry and with the sharp black eyes of a ferret—fell into step with Striker. They walked toward the hangar, heads ducked against the rain.

“I’m not a funny man,” Striker growled. The weather was giving him a headache and he wanted to get inside. He’d spent a long, cold day working on engines until his fingers were numb and his nose dulled to anything but the stink of grease and oil.

They approached the shelter of the building, but he could still feel the cold wind plucking
at his coat. The long, heavy garment was covered with scraps and bits of metal, and they clinked as the hem swung in the wind. “I lost my sense of humor jumping off the
Red Jack
. I lost it when I landed in a tree, and then lost it some more when I fell out of that tree.”

“So?” the other man returned.

“Taking a long step off a burning airship leaves a man a right grim bastard.”

This was the crossroads in the conversation where Falkland usually gave up and left Striker alone. But not this time. Falkland pointed toward the road. “And you’re going to stay sad and angry as long as you go every day to stand on that hill and eat your heart out. Your captain was a fine young man, but he’s not here. And forgive me for saying so, but I doubt that he’s coming back.”

“Say another word against the captain, and I’ll show you just how hard it is to make me smile!”

“I’m not speaking against his character.”

Striker didn’t answer. Nick had been the one who had befriended him when he was a streetkeeper, little better than a hired thug, and the one who had talked him into this mad pirate adventure. And Nick knew the old ways of spirit, vision, and spell. He’d brought an air spirit to a run-down tub of a ship and turned it into the terror of the skies with his magic. Men sang of Niccolo and the
Red Jack
, and the songs were as full of laughter as they were heroism. And Striker—for all he’d been born in the gutter—had lived all those wondrous moments because of Nick. That demanded all the loyalty and friendship Striker could give. And if that meant looking down the road once a day, then why not?

But he didn’t have the words to make a fine speech about all that. They’d reached the side of the hangar, where tools and crates were piled. Striker gripped a heavy wrench in his hand,
his knuckles straining against the brass-studded leather of his gloves.

If the words weren’t getting through, then something in his posture did, because Falkland’s eyes widened. “Now calm yourself, Mr. Striker. Captain Niccolo was a pleasant fellow to be sure, and a clever one, but he’s gone.”

“He’s not gone until I say he’s gone,” Striker said quietly. Then he drew himself up, shifting to keep the weight off his right leg. That knee hadn’t worked right since the jump, but he hid it as best he could. Falkland was the type who would use any weakness to his advantage—maybe not now, but when it suited him best and Striker not at all.

Falkland gave him a pitying glance. “I’ve watched you keep this crew together, Mr. Striker. You understand what the men need.”

“I know how to run a gang. I was streetkeeper for the Yellowbacks.”

“I think Captain Roberts would respect that. He’d look after someone like you.”

Thunder rumbled, echoing Striker’s mood. He never could tolerate the other crew running off at the mouth about Nick—but this time his instincts tingled a warning. With a professional eye, Striker looked Falkland over for firearms. He found none, but he kept alert. The man was working up to something, and Striker had to know what it was.

“I’ve been an airman since I was a lad,” Falkland went on. “Captain Roberts—”

“—is a prisoner on Devil’s Island, where the Frenchies sent him to rot. Shut up and be glad they didn’t catch you, too.”

Once they had the famed captain clapped in irons, the French had decreed the rope too good a fate. So Roberts had gone to a prison off the coast of French Guiana—a prison renowned for heat, disease, brutality, and the impossibility of escape. Devil’s Island was aptly named.

Striker shifted again, making his coat rustle and chime. It was the one thing he’d kept
from his old life. He’d sewed the scraps of metal onto the long duster himself, and had taken care to cover every available inch. It was both armor and a portable supply chest—gears and plates and any other parts a maker might use but were hard to find, and wearing them made them harder to steal. It also made the coat too heavy for most to even lift, let alone wear, from daybreak to dark.

Falkland made an exasperated noise. “Loyalty does you credit, but it may not be wise. A leaderless crew can’t hope to sail a ship like her.” Falkland jerked a thumb toward the hangar. It had been built for the new ship, and it was so enormous that it resembled a beached leviathan. “See reason, man. That’s a steamspinner, and as powerful a vessel as ever parted clouds. We need a proper captain.”

“You’re talking mutiny.” Striker gripped the wrench. Thunder rumbled, growing closer.

“Think about it! You’re a smart man, Mr. Striker. Even you have to see the truth. Your Captain Niccolo went over the side without a parachute. There is no way he lived, and you can’t mutiny against a ghost. He’s dead!”

For a few seconds, the words glanced off Striker like the spits of rain slanting from the slate-colored sky. In the odd, gloomy light, the giant building housing Nick’s new ship looked like one more crag along the Cornish cliffs, with a gray sea frothing behind it.

Then Striker set his jaw, reaching for the threadbare logic he’d grasped so many times. Nick knew magic. He had an air spirit at his beck and call. He didn’t need a parachute.

And if he’s alive, then why isn’t he here?

But there was no answer to that—not one Striker wanted to hear, anyway.

Falkland pressed on. “I’m just saying it would be a fine thing if there were someone like Captain Roberts in charge. With a man like him at the helm, the
Red Jack
might never have
burned, and your crew mates would still be alive.”

That wasn’t Nick’s fault
. Striker wanted to protest, but he kept his face a hard slab of ugly, turning up pure nastiness the way one does the flame of a gaslight. Falkland’s eyelids flickered nervously at the sight.

“You weren’t there,” Striker finally said.

But the smaller man stood his ground. “Call it mutiny if you like, Mr. Striker, but we need a real captain. You have to let us move on.”

Fury flooded Striker, first lava-hot, then sharp and cold as shards of ice. And then a switch flipped inside, and everything went black and white. Falkland was a threat, and threats had to be dealt with. Striker angled his body, moving slowly until Falkland was within reach. Anger seethed like the distant surf, but he kept it remote. Any enforcer knew to keep his work professional. Clean and quick was always best.

Falkland must have seen it on his face, because he started to back away, leaving the shelter of the hangar’s lee side for the windswept cliff tops. A gust swept around the man’s feet, making the short, stubby grass ripple like water.

Striker followed, still gripping the wrench and matching each one of Falkland’s steps with one of his own. The hood of his coat slipped, and his eyes blurred with the stinging rain. He pulled up the hood again, feeling the metal-clad weight settle over his head. It cut the visibility some, but was as good as a helmet in a fight. The rest of the coat swung around him, the clanking of its folds swallowed by the wind and the rush of the surf below. He would have had to shout to make himself heard, but Striker didn’t bother with any more words. They were onto something far more basic than language.

Falkland wheeled and started to run, but he was too slight to make good headway into the
wind. Striker didn’t have that problem, but his bad knee stabbed, white-hot, at every stumble on the uneven ground. They lurched forward, scrambling up the rise toward the ruined mine towers, grabbing rocks and handfuls of low-growing thrift to pull themselves forward. Striker went down on one knee, cursing and dropping the wrench, then fumbling for it again. It was raining in earnest now, water sliding off the metal of his coat and gloves and seeping through the worn seams of his boots. It only fueled his bad mood, dragging him to his feet and hurling him after Falkland with added energy.