Chasing the Lantern (The Dawnhawk Trilogy, Book One)

by Jonathon Burgess

  Fengel thought of arguing. What's the point? Where were they going to go? If he returned to Haventown without the treasure, there would be no safe place to haven from Mr. Grey. That, and they were in the Copper Queen. Euron's ship. That would not go over well.

  But what else was left to them? Not piracy. The airship was a scow. A fantastic, impractical thing cobbled together a long time ago on a daring dream and not a little recklessness. Its raiding days were done.

  He didn't know what to do. In sweeter times there would have been someone he could turn to. The crew all idolized him, though he didn't dare confide in them. But Natasha...Fengel felt his mouth twist as the incongruity met him head on; his horrible wife was responsible for their situation. Fengel spat and shoved the thought aside. With a nod to his navigator he made his way down to the main deck. Lucian and Henry Smalls conferred nearby, looking up as he passed them.

  "Captain," said his first mate. "We're all aboard and relatively shipshape. I've broken us up into a skeleton crew for the moment; we're organizing and taking stock. We should be as ready as we can be by dawn."

  Fengel nodded at his officers, then sighed. "That's good. Carry on." He turned away, toward the door to the captain's cabin.

  "Captain," said Henry. Fengel glanced back over his shoulder at his steward. "Is something wrong?"

  Fengel wanted to laugh, a dry, black chuckle from deep within in his chest. "No, Henry. Nothing at all." He couldn't quite keep the sarcasm from coloring his voice. "Take stock of our provisions, I'll decide where we're going to sail in the morning."

  From the corner of his eye he saw his steward and first mate share a look. "We're going after Natasha," said Lucian, a hard edge to his voice. "Right, sir?"

  "What's the point?" Fengel all but shouted. "She got us!" He threw his arms wide. "And she got us well! She was the better pirate. She was the better captain! I stole her ship, but she not only found it again, but took it back and repaid us in full!" He shook his head.

  He looked back up at his officers. Sarah Lome joined them, her thick braid swaying as she walked up. Maxim watched from the helm up above. Several of the crew watched from nearby. All shared the same look of concern. "Just...take stock of our provisions," Fengel continued. He turned and strode through the door into the captain's cabin.

  A funk permeated the air, the scent of rum, mold, and dust. A box-bed sat just below a wide window at the rear of the space, heavy curtains drawn over rumpled bedding. Fengel blinked. The room was spacious and dark, just as he'd remembered it. Memories rose to the fore at the sight of the bed, of happier times when he and Natasha had been almost-strangers and still blind to the flaws of each other. Euron's ship had been a great hiding place back then; no one but Natasha dared board it. A hollow pang bit at him. Fengel shook his head with a snort and ignored it. He yanked the coverlet free and curled up in a corner, next to an extinguished candle nub and several bottles of rum. There were far too many memories still laying in that bed.

  A knocking at the cabin door woke him. Fengel opened his eyes, surprised at how easily he had fallen asleep. The sound continued, someone gently tapping. He blinked and sat up cross-legged, a groan escaping his lips. His back hurt and his mouth tasted horrible. Thick fuzz coated his teeth. "Come in," he said with a yawn, reaching for one of the unopened bottles of rum.

  The door cracked wide and Henry Smalls stuck his head in. Seeing Fengel he entered, Lucian sauntering behind. Before they shut the portal Fengel spied the light of an early dawn out on the deck. His first mate glanced about as they approached him. "Goddess," he said. "This place stinks."

  "Captain's cabin," replied Fengel. "Natasha would have slept here recently. She was never much for cleaning up." He still felt aimless, though less weary.

  "Faugh. It stinks of rum and mildew. Are you sure? How could anyone live in this?"

  "There are fresh obscenities carved into the floor by the bed," said Fengel. Lucian and Henry craned their heads to look. Fengel ignored them and picked up a bottle. He swallowed a mouthful of rum, breathing out as it burned its way down his throat and filled his chest with warmth.

  Henry turned back to him. "We're holding stable, Captain. You'll want to say a few words later for those we lost, but the crew is as good as can be expected. The ship's a wreck, but she...should serve. Our coal stores are fairly low. Natasha must have burned through most of it to beat us to the Maelstrom. We've...maybe enough to get back to Haventown. I've got Geoffrey Lords downstairs scavenging what he can for breakfast for you. I'll bring it right up."

  Fengel sighed. "No need. I'll get something later. I think I'll just sleep a bit more."

  Lucian frowned. Henry blinked. "Well, let's at least get your shave, sir."

  Automatically his hand went to his chin. A thick patch of whiskers sprouted there. Fengel sighed and shook his head. "No. We'll take care of that later."

  His officers stared at each other in alarm. Fengel ignored it. "I mean, what's the point?" he continued angrily. "She got me. I tried to pull one over on her, but she caught up. I've lost us our ship twice now, old and new." He looked down at the bottle in his hands.

  Henry walked over and knelt next to him. "Captain, come on now. Things haven't been great lately. But we've still got a ship. Of sorts." The steward frowned. "Never mind. Let me go get you an egg from the kitchens. You always like a good hard-boiled egg."

  Fengel shook his head silently.

  "Or how about we go up atop the bag? I'll clear everyone off, so you can read your poetry in peace." He frowned again. "Um. Though I think your kit bag is still back aboard the Dawnhawk. But ah, you've got your favorites memorized, right? That's like reading them. We'll make a morning of it."

  Fengel shook his head silently.

  "Well," said Lucian. The first mate walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. He held a thick folio in one hand, battered and stained by travel. "I hate to interrupt a good bit o' self-pity. But there may be a chance we're not done yet." He smiled like he knew a secret, then cracked the book wide and shoved it into Fengel's face. "Take a look at this."

  The tome was a journal. Its left page was a scribbled shorthand, a collection of notes, measurements, and geographical datum. The right was what looked like a map, a carefully sketched bit of coastline around a river mouth, and the boundaries of the river for several miles inland.

  "What's this?" asked Fengel.

  "This," said Lucian with a flourish, "is the original survey logbook from the expedition that found the Silverpenny River. Really, it's full of all sorts of interesting notes. I don't know who Natasha beat up to get her hands on it, but they left it behind when they retook the Dawnhawk."

  Fengel felt a glimmer of interest. It was obvious what Lucian wanted. Fengel wanted it too. But why even bother? "Interesting. But we know where she's going. There's no way we can catch up to her in time with this old scow, even if her skysails are damaged."

  "That's true," said Lucian. "At least as far as it goes. But as I was reading through this book, I noticed something interesting." He tapped the mouth of the river, where a series of notes had been scrawled. "The Silverpenny apparently has a number of rocks at its mouth, and according to the original survey, an unusually strong tidal draw, matched with a very deep riverbed."

  Henry made a small, curious noise. "So the H.M.S. Albatross got sucked over and ran aground as it was passing by?"

  "Likely so. But it's been almost a week now. A week of constant tidal draw."

  "Which could have sucked the wreck farther upriver," said Fengel, understanding. He pointed at the map. "Probably there, where the survey noticed a shallow draft. But how does that help us?"

  Lucian placed his finger beyond the map. "Engmann's Run comes up at the river from an oblique southern angle. It's fast, but goes around in a curve." He moved his hand up onto the page, north of the river mouth. "I estimate we're somewhere here. Natasha's got a head start, but if we move quickly, in a straight line, we might be able to meet them there. Same way they got us. W
e're so damned dependant on the aetherlines that we never think to go straight."

  Henry blanched. "We'd have to go overland and cross the Stormwall. There wouldn't be enough coal for the return trip."

  Fengel blinked. Slowly it came to him; Lucian was right. If they went in a straight line, and the maps were accurate, then there was still a chance. He could beat his wife to the treasure. Fengel saw Natasha in the eye of his mind. She was laughing at him, laughing herself sick at having taken his ship and his treasure to boot. But slowly her visage changed to one of stunned incomprehension, and then the mask of inchoate rage that would come when she got to the wreck and realized that he had beaten her again.

  He threw aside the coverlet and shot to his feet. "Lucian!" he cried. "I want two watches, evenly distributed. Get the Mechanist, Lina Stone, and one other assigned to patching up this wreck. Take stores and inventory, I want to know what weapons we've got, and what supplies. Henry! Go down to the kitchens and get me an egg, then meet me atop the wheelhouse. Bring a razor; I'll want a shave."

  Fengel strode to the cabin door and threw it open without a further glance at his officers. The sun was rising in the east, casting long shadows across the deck. Chains, ropes, and other equipment were piled up neatly along the wooden surface as his crew took inventory. A light breeze blew, tousling his hair. Fengel straightened his monocle and climbed up atop the wheelhouse. Maxim stood there, eyes red, his exhaustion apparent.

  "Navigator," said Fengel. "You are relieved. Go get something to eat and then get some rest. I want you fit and prepared for the next watch. Prepare some Workings."

  Maxim started back in surprise at his captain's fervor. Fengel stepped in and took the wheel, spinning it. Without instruction, the navigator had kept their heading north by northeast, fortunately. Slowly, Fengel oriented the ship toward the cloudy eastern horizon.

  "Captain," said Maxim. "Where are we going?" Lucian and Henry ran out onto the deck, looking up at him. The pirates nearest paused in their tasks to listen as well.

  "Why, Maxim," said Fengel with a grin. "We're pirates. We're going to steal something." And we'll show that drunken wench a thing or two.

  Fengel's mood spread throughout the ship like a drop of oil on a calm pool of water. Those crew closest to the helm moved with renewed confidence and enthusiasm. The lingering, hang-dog depression over their circumstances faded. Those he'd heard complaining about the surrender quieted, bending to their tasks more readily. In short order the ship was alive again and bustling.

  Fengel flew them as hard and fast as they would go, aimed dead ahead for the cloudy horizon, where the Stormwall bordered the strange eastern shore of the Yulan. Their speed wasn't much. The Copper Queen lacked skysails, and even if it did they'd never catch the Dawnhawk now; with their stores, Natasha could simply outrun them. So instead he kept them pointed dead east at the Stormwall. Fengel trusted to the weak propellers of the airship and caught the wind as best he could.

  The sun rose to mid-morning, then high overhead at noon, before sinking back down again in the mid-afternoon. Their stores of fuel grew smaller. Maxim returned and insisted on taking the helm again. Fengel reluctantly let him, moving down onto the deck and eyeing the state of the ship. He called for more anchorage to the gas-bag frame and reinforcements to weak sections of railing. Several times he came across Miss Stone carrying a long iron gaff-pole. Ryan Gae and the Mechanist moved with her, making minor repairs to the steering systems she'd changed to get them all aboard. Fengel wasn't certain who led whom; Miss Stone seemed just as canny and far more confident than the young Brother of the Cog she'd found.

  Fengel made certain to compliment her. His opinion of the little waif only seemed to rise. She was constantly pulling them from one dire problem or another on this voyage. The only oddity was her bashfulness whenever he approached her. This time she listened to him, blushed furiously, and then scurried off to see to a pulley assembly, her crewmates following after her in confusion. Ah well. She'll relax at some point.

  When he was sure that things were running smoothly, Fengel descended to the kitchens for a bit of lunch. Not much was to be had, aside from a haunch of salt pork and wormy ship's biscuit. But it would suffice. He took his meager meal up to the bow and watched as the churning Stormwall grew closer. Faster. We need to go faster. The sun sank into late afternoon just as tall rocky islets appeared in the distance, the precursor to the shores of the Yulan. Their journey was almost over; they had reached the far continent.

  The Stormwall was aptly named. It was just like he remembered; a roiling, churning cloudbank that stretched along the coastline as far as he could see. It towered, the upper end rising out of sight where lightning crackled in its reaches. The only consistent point of weakness was Breachtown, more than a day's journey north. A few other places were rumored, like the river mouth they'd sought. Unlike the Maelstrom though, this storm was real. Already its winds brushed at his hair and jolted the airship.

  Fengel returned to his post at the rear of the ship and its helm. Lucian climbed up to stand beside him. They watched in silence as they approached the churning black wall dead ahead. "That doesn't look pleasant," said his first mate.

  "That it does not," replied Fengel. He smiled. They'd all heard the rumors of the Stormwall, and seen it from afar. But this was the first time they were going to enter it. There might be the chance that they could fly over it. He'd never heard of anyone trying it though, and with the furious bolts shooting through the heights, he had no intention of trying to. Fire was a sky-pirate's greatest fear; the light-air gas was very, very flammable.

  So, straight through it was. I will pull this off. That treasure's mine. It wasn't so much even his debt anymore. He just didn't want Natasha to get it.

  His first mate stared at the Stormwall. "You know, there is entirely too much bad weather in this region."

  Fengel smiled. "That's why no one ever comes out here."

  They quieted. Maxim kept their course true and they flew at the continent and its storm. Beneath them the surface of the sea grew choppy and foamy. The strong breeze grew into a buffeting wind. The airship moved past the islets and now he spied the sand of the coastline, a thin, grey stretch of land lashed by rain. Past that everything was occluded by the rage of the storm.

  Lucian called for all hands to stations. The pirates scurried about, binding themselves to the gunwales and ratlines. Hatches were battened down and loose gear stowed as best it could be. Then the storm was upon them.

  It towered, a violent wall. Rain lashed the deck and drummed the gas-bag frame. The sun disappeared, blotted out by churning clouds. Beneath them the deck heaved and shook, swaying like a drunkard about to collapse. Lucian shouted something at their navigator. Fengel could not hear him, and neither could Maxim from the shake of his head. The first mate grabbed his half-cloak and thrust out a hand clutching a small compass. The needle swung back and forth, rocking its way clockwise. The storm was trying to turn them around.

  Fengel understood. The initial surveyors had been amazed at the perpetual nature of the Stormwall, but even more confused by how thin it was. According to the logbook, as well as rumors Fengel had heard from Breachtown, the Stormwall was only several hundred feet deep. So long as they could stay on course they would punch right through.

  But the Stormwall fought. It twisted, pushed, and pulled. Maxim wrenched the wheel back and forth, twisting the rudder assembly and the sails it was attached to as best he could. The steam-driven propellers pushed, moving them slowly, slowly forward.

  A brilliant spear of light illuminated the deck. The lightning bolt licked out from the storm to strike at the port-side gunwales. The railings blew apart, burning flinders flying up and past Fengel and his officers.

  Fengel's shut his eyes til they passed, then watched as more jagged bolts tore across the sky, increasing in frequency. He fought his way to the port-side rail and leaned over. They whirled, and clouds streamed down past them. The ship was rising, buoyed by the mad c
urrents of air and right to where the storm-bolts played.

  Another lambent blast cast stark illumination across the deck. The thunder that followed was deafening. Fengel clapped his ears while Lucian and Maxim dropped to their knees. Fengel threw himself at the wheel, catching it before they lost their course. The wood was slick between his fingers though, and fought.

  The ship swayed violently. Maxim slid away, rolling up against the starboard gunwales. Fengel reached down and grabbed Lucian. "Take the wheel!" he shouted.

  His first mate climbed to his feet and grabbed the ship's wheel, more to anchor himself than out of duty. "What?" he yelled, sandy hair flying in the wind. "What are you going to do?"

  The answer was obvious. "If those blasts catch the gas-bag alight," said Fengel, "we're done for. We need a rod!"

  Lucian shook his head. "I didn't see one on board! Where are you going to find one?"

  Fengel glanced about the deck. Tools and equipment rolled all about, knocked free from their lockers or not packed entirely away in the first place. There had to be something he could do.

  "I'll figure something out," he said to Lucian. "Don't worry about that, just get us through this storm!"

  He left his first mate to the wheel and descended to the deck. The ship swayed as he climbed, the wood of the stepladder slippery from rain. Fengel took a breath and shimmied nimbly down. He'd been through worse as a sailor.

  The deck was chaos. Storm clouds obscured everything beyond the ship. The crew clung to anchor points and railings, a few dangling from cables they'd tied themselves to. The cannons were locked in place still, thankfully. More than once had he seen artillery slide free from its mount during a squall to crush some hapless bystander.

  A wailing gust slammed into the airship. The deck beneath them swayed madly, tilting up almost thirty degrees. Buckets, ropes, and tools slid past him to go flying overboard. One, the long metal gaff-pole that Miss Stone had been using, caught at the hem of his jacket. Lightning blasted again, this bolt connecting with the wooden railing beside him. The spindles exploded, pelting him with burning flinders.