Chasing the Lantern (The Dawnhawk Trilogy, Book One)

by Jonathon Burgess

  Lome nodded and he went below. She turned to face the assembled crew. "You all know your normal places," she said loudly. "Dawnhawk isn't much different from Flittergrasp in that. But, I don't know this ship, and you don't really either. So we're going to go over every inch, and all the work that dayshift has already done."

  The next two hours were brutal. By the light of the rising moon Lina found herself holystoning the deck until her back ached. Unused to the work, she fell behind the others, earning a lashing from Sarah Lome's surprisingly vicious tongue. Then they checked the cabling and the rigging along the deck, making sure it was all in good repair and undamaged.

  With the moon at its zenith, they greased the linkage mechanisms and exhaust-pipes. Though her fingers were singed by the steam pipes and her back ached from the work, Lina was still fascinated by the devices. They seemed to control the odd half-sails folded along the outer hull, linking them back to the gearbox at the ship's wheel.

  The Mechanist made an appearance shortly after this task was completed. He conferred with Sarah Lome, then moved to inspect the mechanism where the crew had worked on it. At each, he found fault. He addressed the pirate responsible for each flaw with withering scorn before moving on. As he moved up the line, Lina's nervousness grew.

  Finally, he reached her. But if the Brother of the Cog recognized her, he didn't say so. Instead he bent over the linkage chain she had been scrubbing rust from and then re-greasing. "Satisfactory," he said once, before turning back to Sarah and beginning a withering complaint of the crew and their handling of his machines. Lina let out a sigh of relief.

  Afterwards they attended to other, less important tasks. They rubbed oil on the lockers of weapons and equipment, and took inventory. Lina tried to pay dutiful attention to the directions. Unfortunately, the distractions were myriad. She was unused to the hours and the hard work. And if that weren't enough, Oscar Pleasant was in her shift as well. Whether from the incident with her hair or her abrupt attitude in the engine room, it seemed that she had slighted the man. Now he joked and whispered with his mates about her, just enough of which she heard over the groans of their labor and the creaking of the ship.

  Sarah let up on them in the small hours of the morning. Seemingly satisfied for the moment, she assigned them off to menial, make-work jobs. She took Lina to a haphazard mound of ropes piled against the starboard railing.

  "Get these coiled neatly," she said. "When you're done I'll have someone store them in the lockers."

  With only an inward sigh, Lina bent to the task, undoing the knotty tangle and recoiling it a piece at a time. To her surprise the huge piratess didn't leave, but instead rested against the rail.

  "You're small and weak," she said. "But quick. You don't complain. Mechanist likes how you respect his machines. Keep this up and there's a place for you here, so long as you don't shy from a fight."

  The rope abraded Lina's fingers. Blisters were already forming, and within a weeks time there would be calluses. Once her hands had been smooth and butter-soft. I don't care. Her hands could go the way of her hair. "I can fight," she said, hating herself for the squeak in her weary voice.

  "I hope you're right. Always comes down to that, eventually." Sarah pulled a pipe from her vest. Filling it, she stood to walk away, then stopped, as if she'd remembered something. "Oscar's making trouble for you," she said conversationally. "You should do something about that. Make sure you don't lose any of those ropes over the side."

  Lina bent herself to her task, too tired to respond. As the moon fell beneath the horizon the pile became less tangled, neat coils appearing beside it. She stepped nimbly amongst them; all she needed was to get her feet tangled and trip back over the gunwales.

  Without the moon the deck was dark. Lina and the others worked on by the light of two small lanterns, one far to the fore and the other far aft. Over the deck came the muffled steps of someone approaching.

  "Here you are, girl," said Oscar Pleasant. He glanced around, ratlike.

  "Hello, Oscar," replied Lina, unable to hide the weariness in her voice. The last of the tangle was in her hands and loose. Stooping with a grunt, she tied one end to the gunwales, then began coiling it at her feet.

  "We never got to finish our chat last night," said the pirate.

  "Nothing to talk about," she replied.

  "I think there is." He stepped closer, hemming her in against the railing.

  She looked up at him and took in his stance, his cocksure smile. Oscar plainly hadn't intended to give up on her.

  "You're playing at this, girl," he said. "Was obvious to me all night. You're too slow, and not nearly strong enough for this work. You're not going to be able to keep up. I daresay it's only going to get worse once a bit o' bloodshed starts."

  "I'll get stronger," she replied. "And I've been in a scrap or two." It was true, though she didn't like to think on it much.

  Oscar smiled condescendingly. He leaned in, trapping her against the rail with both arms. "You're a whore, girl. On a ship full of pirates. And there's only one way for you to keep riding along." He leered. "I tried to break it to you gently last night, but here I'll say it plain. Now, I'm sure we can come to an agreement."

  Lina glared at him. Then she dropped her eyes, pretending intimidation. She looked to her footing, then Oscar's. He was standing in the loose loop of a slipknot. "I...you're right."

  The pirate grinned. "I knew you'd see sense."

  "Yep."

  She stepped on the rope and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him towards her as if for a kiss. Then she ducked. Surprised, Oscar pitched over the railing, the rope tangled about his feet. Lina rolled out of the way as he fell.

  Lina rose and peered over the edge of the rail, watching Oscar plummet past the lower decks. The rope pulled taut and he jerked with a scream. Lina sighed. It would have been nice if he'd continued his fall. The rest of the crew perked up at the noise and ran over to the starboard railing.

  "You hear me down there?" she yelled.

  "Oh, Goddess!" cried Oscar. "My leg! Pull me up!"

  "Here's the agreement," Lina bellowed down at him. "I'm not whoring for you, your mates, or anyone else on this ship! You're going to keep your paws to yourself, or I will cut them off. I make my own way, you prick, and I'll be a better, meaner brigand than you'll ever hope to be! Cross me again and I'll cut off your stones and feed them to you!"

  She fell back, panting, ignoring Oscar's cries. She looked up to see the rest of the crew staring at her, like a doormouse that had suddenly turned into a lion.

  Sarah Lome pushed her way through the crowd. "Something wrong here, Miss Stone?"" she asked, voice level.

  Lina stood up straight. "No, ma'am. Almost lost a rope, but I tied it off. I think we can get it back, if we want it."

  The huge piratess nodded. "Well, don't wait too long then. Shift is almost over." She looked to two of the pirates. "Ryan, Andrea, take these coils to the front locker." Then she turned and walked calmly back to the stern.

  Two pirates bent to pick up the ropes at their feet. The woman, Andrea, winked at Lina as she bent. The rest of the pirates drifted away to their tasks, a few chuckling to themselves. A few, Oscar's mates, glanced her way; Lina caught their gazes and held them, challenging them. All turned away.

  Lina bent back to the rail. Resting her elbows on either side of the rope, she looked out at the horizon while Oscar Pleasant sobbed and cursed below.

  Yep. I am home.

  Chapter Five

  Fengel climbed up out of the hatchway stair. He rose into cool shade, the gasbag frame shrouding the deck of the Dawnhawk from the morning sun. The crew on watch moved about their tasks, holystoning the deck and checking the lines. A warm breeze gusted about, bringing with it a bouquet scented by the green growing things on the islands below and the salt brine of the Atalian Sea.

  The gust pulled at his hat. Fengel paused to consider the force of the wind. Was it a threat? A real danger? No. Its strength was insufficie
nt. His hat was secure and his hair was safe from being mussed. He returned his attention to the deck. Fengel clasped his hands behind his back and waited to be noticed.

  Two minutes passed.

  Fengel frowned. He thought about saying something, clearing his throat maybe. But no, that would ruin the effect. Also, the shift watch moved busily. He was loathe to distract them; it was good that they were so focused. The Dawnhawk was a new vessel, and not just to them. It had its own kinks and unique that would need to be identified, and compensated for.

  Still, this was vexing. Maybe I can go down and come back up?

  "Captain on deck!" bellowed the acting mate. Fengel breathed a small sigh of relief. His faithful steward had saved him once again.

  The crew dropped their tasks at the cry and turned to face him in attention. They didn't salute, that would have been far too much to ask of the men, most of whom had served under a Perinese lash. But acknowledge him they did, and it brought him warmth. It was good to be noticed when one wanted to.

  Fengel gave a nod, and the men and women of his crew returned to their tasks. He walked a wide circuit through them, pretending to inspect the work as he made his way back to the helm. His crew knew their duties well. Still though, it was good to show a watchful eye.

  Maxim stood with Henry Smalls at the ship's helm, expending just enough effort with the wheel to keep them straight to their course. Fengel took in the navigator's sullen glare and decided not to press it. All aetherites were a little erratic, and their unique skills called for a lighter touch than most crewmen. As well, most crewman couldn't hex a man to misfortune, or light him aflame like a candle wick with just a thought. Fengel had little fear of dark and dour Maxim, though. The man was an experienced hand and could be counted on when necessary.

  "Morning, sir," said Henry Smalls. His stout steward was again acting first mate in Lucian's absence, a role Fengel knew he did not enjoy. "Did you rest well?"

  "Well enough," Fengel answered. Truthfully, he felt better than that, almost ebullient. Good food, plenty of rest, and a ship of his own again beneath his feet. The fact that the latter had been stolen, from under the besotted nose of his erstwhile spouse, why, that was just icing on the cake. And there was more than that. He had a plan, a heading, and a fantastic treasure awaiting them at the other end of what promised to be a quiet shakedown cruise.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  "Excellent to hear, sir," said Henry, ever dutiful.

  "Of course it is, Mister Smalls. Of course it is. But first things first. My shave?"

  "Ready and waiting for you, sir." Henry produced a stool and a bucket of soapy water. Fengel sat and removed his hat, presenting his chin so that Henry could go to work. The little steward did so with razor and scissors.

  "Anything on the log?" asked Fengel while his steward groomed him. He had rested well, but there were gaps that needed filling. Aside from a small, necessary appearance the morning before, he'd spent all of the previous day and evening holed up in the captain's quarters, recuperating.

  "I am happy to say that all's quiet," replied Henry. "We're two nights out of Haventown. Hugged the coastline south. Currently on course for Breakneck Bay to pick up Lucian. No sign of pursuit, so Natasha hasn't been able to convince anyone else to fly out after us."

  Fengel permitted himself a small smile, pleased that his expectations had borne out. Natasha didn't have another ship, and would have been forced to begging another captain to help. That wasn't likely to happen. People obeyed old Euron, not his daughter. And for all her beauty, she really wasn't that well loved. Some tried to curry favor with her, but that last encounter at the Bleeding Teeth had produced one nugget of important information: all her real allies were away from port at the moment.

  "Yesterday was quiet enough," continued Henry. "Crew are getting a hand on things. The Mechanist here is a surly sort, but seems to have taken a shine to the new girl. Lift your chin, sir."

  Fengel thought back. "Miss Stone?"

  "That's her. He seems to like how she respects the mechanisms on board."

  "A typical Mechanist." Fengel mused to himself as his steward pulled out the little scissors for his beard. "How is Miss Stone doing?" The less he thought about their ill-fated trip to Triskelion, the better. Their flight from the city had been hurried and desperate. When Miss Stone had begged to come along, he hadn't really been thinking about his reply. He'd figured that he would simply deposit her in Haventown. Not much chance of that happening now.

  "Uncertain, but shaping up. Quite a spine of iron, really. She had a bit of trouble with one of the crewmen, but took care of it last night. Gunny Lome says she'll be fine."

  Fengel relaxed. That was a relief. "Keep her on her current shift," he decided after a moment. "But rouse her for anything the Mechanist needs. The Brothers of the Cog are so tight-lipped...maybe she can tease out some of his secrets."

  Henry nodded. "Other than that, sir, not much to say. We should be picking up Lucian momentarily."

  The steward used a towel to wipe away the excess foam and put away his tools. Their morning ritual complete, Fengel replaced his hat and stood. "Carry on, then."

  Fengel left the helm, walking up the deck to the bow and peering out at the world beyond his ship. Below them stretched the coastline, thick, tropical jungle sloping down to meet to a sandy beach and the blue-green waters of the Atalian Sea. This was the southern-most edge of the Isles, where the islets broke down eventually into lone rocks jutting up from the ocean. Fengel picked out familiar landmarks as they flew: a wide seam of copper along a cliff, a particularly large and twisted palm tree. On the Flittergrasp they'd made this trip before, many times, and just where he expected it to, the coastline gave way into a small, blue lagoon, hidden in a shallow bowl by the cliffs and jungle surrounding it. The beach was white sand, virgin but for a tiny speck of black; the charred remains of a campfire. A sandy-haired figure sat beside it. Even that far away he could tell that it was Lucian, waiting patiently.

  The Dawnhawk swooped in over the lagoon. Fengel spied brightly colored fish darting into hiding as the ship's shadow passed across the water. He stood up straight and waved to his first mate. Lucian stood in turn, laughing to see Fengel on the bow of the stolen ship.

  Maxim brought the airship to a halt. Fengel called for a rope ladder and watched as one of the crew brought one up, then tossed it overboard. It unrolled itself as it fell, just long enough for Lucian to grab. As his first mate made his ascent, Fengel gestured back to Maxim at the wheel. The navigator called out warning and busied himself with the controls. At his prompting the ship rose, pointing itself out away from the lagoon. Henry Smalls came up from the stern, joining him at the bow just as Lucian crawled over the rail.

  "Hah," panted Lucian, winded from the climb. "Beat you again, Captain. Even in an airship. Close shave, though. I only arrived here this morning." Lucian was sweaty and disheveled, his usual debonair appearance dispelled. He spied the steward and gave a nod. "Hullo, Henry."

  Fengel smiled. "I will never understand how you can make it from Haventown to Breakneck Bay in less than two days."

  "That, my good captain, is because you're not a dashing first mate. We've all got our secrets." He looked up at gasbag frame and then down the deck, taking in the ship. "Well now. Didn't get a good look at her back in port. She's quite the beauty."

  Fengel nodded. "Different from our last, but more than adequate. How was the trip out of town?"

  Lucian groaned. "Rough. Mordie's getting better. Or I'm getting sloppier. But I can tell you that later. Let's get under way." He faced Henry formally. "Acting first mate, I'll take the watch."

  "You have the watch," replied Henry dutifully.

  Lucian stood straighter, falling easily into the role of authority. He fired off questions to Henry about the crew, the ship, and the watch log. Fengel left them to it and made his way back down the deck to where Maxim stood at the ship's helm. The aetherite nodded, but stood oddly, slightly tilted,
as if leaning subconsciously away from the invisible daemon on his shoulder.

  "Bring us up, Maxim. It's time to see how she carries along an aetherline."

  The navigator nodded. He gave the wheel a spin and pulled at the levers of the gearbox. The lagoon whirled away as they rose up beyond the cliffs and its treetop canopy. Maxim's gray eyes peered out into the empty morning skies and muttered at his shoulder. After a moment he nodded and turned back to the captain. "Engmann's Run could be flowing stronger," he said in his accented Perinese, pursing his lips as if to keep from adding anything else.

  "So long as it flows," replied Fengel. "That just happens to be our bearing."

  Lucian and Henry reappeared. The first mate glanced at a gauge on the gearbox and then at the ship around them. "All right," he said, smiling up at Fengel. "Let's see how she holds up."

  Fengel nodded calmly, hiding any trace of the uncertainty he felt in his stomach. The Dawnhawk was a very good ship to all appearances so far. But each and every one of the Mechanist's sky-vessels was idiosyncratic. While she flew well enough, there was no way to tell how this next step would go.

  "We're rising into it now," said Maxim.

  "Give the word, first mate," said Fengel.

  Lucian cupped his hands and bellowed out at the crew. "Ready the deck!"

  The pirates dropped what they were doing and ran to their pre-assigned stations. Some climbed the ratlines to be near the gas-bag. Others ran up to the bow or back to the stern. Hatches were tightened and lines hurriedly coiled.

  Fengel felt a slight shudder travel through the ship. It jolted, as if in a strong crosswind, though none was blowing. Slowly, it spun counter-clockwise without aid of their rudders, until they pointed southeast, nose out toward the blue sky over the ocean. The skysails along the outer hull rippled, caught by a force that only Maxim could see.

  "Dead set," said the navigator.

  "Run out the skysails," ordered Lucian.

  The navigator reached over to the gearbox and pulled a large lever. A loud, mechanical clank echoed from within, and the gear-link mechanisms running down the length of the pipes stuttered and whirred. The shimmer-cloth of the skysails stretched, opening like the wings of a bat or a dragon stretched wide. The skysails flared brilliantly along the ship and they jolted forward, picking up speed as they went.