Chasing the Lantern (The Dawnhawk Trilogy, Book One)

by Jonathon Burgess

  "You let me worry about that," said Lina. "Just tell me what you're thinking."

  Rastalak told her its plan.

  Lina decided she needed to worry about it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Fengel examined his fingernails. They were getting rather long.

  "Mister Smalls," he said. "Lend me your knife."

  The little steward glanced up from the corner of their cage he was sawing at. Henry looked perplexed. The Draykin had taken all their weapons, but Henry had managed to keep a little paring knife hidden in the waistband of his trousers. Wordlessly, he handed it up. Fengel took the blade and trimmed his index nails, then handed it back. His steward gave him a flat look before bending back to his task.

  Their cage was surprisingly spacious. Twenty paces by twenty, and a full ten feet high. Its bars were formed of some dense native wood, bound by gut and twine. The right and rear sides were flush up against the stone walls of this corner of the temple. Beneath the bars under their feet was a flat, stone surface. All of his crew were here; Sarah Lome, Maxim, Henry Smalls, Oscar Pleasant, and Geoffrey Lords. Each were either tending to their wounds or working on some method of escape. Fengel stood in the middle of the cage, supervising.

  The great temple-manse was mostly hollow. In its depths a pool of lava seethed, overheating the air and illuminating the interior with a lurid red glow. The entryway high above led onto a wide ledge only a few dozen feet below the roof of the great space. Stairways at either side led down to a catwalk ledge on a lower level that extended all the way around the interior, meeting with the ledge on its opposite side.

  It was at this lower level that Fengel and his crew were caged. At regular places the walk widened out from the wall to support more of the strange stone idols he'd seen throughout the city. From the four widest spaces extended a rope bridge with wooden slats. These connected to the large structure at the center of the pyramid, a spiraling tower of stone rising up from the molten depths below.

  Wide stairs were carved into the tower. They circled upward from where the rope-bridges were anchored, to a wide platform at the top. There, on an altar carved like a pair of stone hands, sat the Governor's Lantern.

  Strangely, Fengel felt a little underwhelmed by the gem. The Lantern was a luminescent orb maybe a little larger than his fist. From where it was ensconced up above it shone with a shifting, opalescent brilliance, like a tiny multicolored star. It was pretty, that much was certain. But after all the fuss and fury, it didn't seem to live up to its reputation. He felt no waves of madness, nor any immaterial sense of power. He still wanted it, very, very badly. But that felt like nothing more than simple greed, and the desire to tweak his wife a little further. He certainly felt no sense of devotion toward the thing, unlike the Draykin who had genuflected on the platform before it. The guards and their chieftain had returned outside a short time ago, just as a great racket rose up. Fengel was curious about that. The noise sounded like pistol shots.

  Fengel shrugged and turned away. He moved to where Sarah Lome was watching over Maxim. The aetherite had not reawakened after their imprisonment. That was worrying. His magic would be undoubtedly helpful. More than that though, he was a crew member.

  "How is he?" asked Fengel.

  Lome looked up at him. She shrugged, her broad, placid face giving nothing away. "Can't say, Captain. He took a good hard knock during that ambush. Ain't bleeding anymore. Pulse feels strong."

  Fengel frowned. He leaned down to look his navigator over. The aetherite was pallid and his skin waxy with perspiration. His dark hair lay in a tangled cloud beneath his head. Minor cuts and bruises covered him, but nothing serious. Fengel reached out to feel his brow. It wasn't aflame, there was no fever. "Maybe I can beg some medicine from our captors." They still didn't know what the Draykin proposed to do with them. The cage was obviously a general-use item, not intended specifically for pirates.

  Lome gave him a flat look. "Captain. Maybe someone else should handle any negotiating?"

  Fengel raised an eyebrow at her. "Gunny Lome. While our initial diplomatic endeavors did not turn out as best could be hoped, I strongly feel that I've the beginnings of a rapport with their chieftain. Shaman. Whatever."

  Sarah Lome blinked. She opened her mouth to reply.

  "Let me go, you cockless eunuchs! I've eaten snake and lizard before, don't think that I won't do the same to you. Unhand me!"

  The voice was shrill and high pitched. It came from another human captive supported between ten Draykin guards. The chieftain walked behind them, glowering. It was missing its headdress.

  The captive was a woman, that much was obvious. But Fengel knew who it was before she was hauled close enough to their cage to see. Only one person could hit those high, ear-shattering notes with her voice alone. Only one person possessed such a library of the basest and vilest insults known to man, ogre, and dragon alike. Only one person set his teeth on edge whenever she walked into the room.

  His wife.

  The Draykin hauled their captive kicking, screaming, and biting up to the cage. One of their number opened it. Fengel caught glances from his Men, wanting to know if this was their chance, if they should try to free themselves. He didn't respond to them, one way or the other, only glared in irritation and frustration at their newest companion.

  Natasha was thrown into the cage. She landed hard on the wooden slats, bouncing back to her feet to throw herself at the opening. The Draykin slammed the cage door shut in the pirate princess's face. She fell back with a curse and one of the guards made a strange croaking sound, what must have been a laugh. Fengel knew how he felt.

  The Draykin chieftain returned to his platform at the center of the temple. The guards moved to stand before the doorways, two of them close enough to watch the prisoners. Natasha yelled at them for awhile before pausing to catch her breath. She seemed to wilt. Her hands gripped the wooden bars of the door high up to support her weight. But her knuckles were white. She took a deep breath, stood, and turned to face her fellow captives.

  Even in defeat Natasha looked as she always did. Stunning. There was nothing elegant or refined about her, however. She wasn't lovely or picturesque. Instead she was sensual, vibrant. His wife always reminded Fengel of a panther or some other great cat. Nervous anticipation twisted his stomach even now at the sight of her crooked smile, just like when she'd taken the Dawnhawk back, just like when he'd seen her in the Bleeding Teeth at the start of all this. His heart always ignored his head and the many other, extremely negative, emotions she woke in him.

  "Well," said the pirate princess. "Fancy meeting you lot here."

  Not really. I'm right where I want to be. You're just bad luck. Fengel went over the insult a few times and found it lacking. Then the moment had passed. Ah well. He turned and faced his crew, who were all glaring at Natasha with undisguised loathing.

  "Headcount," he said. "What's our status?"

  Henry Smalls coughed. "Back hurts from that scratch," he said. "But I'm good. Sorry, sir, this knife isn't doing much. Maybe if we're here awhile."

  "I'm fine," grunted Gunny Lome. "Was doing better, until that batty whore showed up."

  "Oh," sighed Natasha sarcastically. "Why, I do believe I've been insulted. By a seven foot cow with no neck and wrists bigger than her teats."

  Sarah Lome glared at her.

  "I…I think I'm okay," said Oscar Pleasant. "But I haven't walked right since that Lina girl—"

  "Geoffrey Lords?" interrupted Fengel.

  The pirate spat, then grinned, revealing teeth filed down to points. Geoffrey rarely spoke. He looked up from where he'd been testing the strength of each bar. The grin meant that he hadn't found anything yet. Or that he was hungry. Or something. Fengel nodded in awkward reply.

  "Well," said Fengel. "Nothing for it, then. Let's keep up our tasks. Once the moment strikes, we'll make our move. If only Maxim—"

  "Here, sir," came a croak from the floor.

  Fengel was there in an instant,
Gunny Lome back to cradling their aetherite's head. Maxim looked terrible still, but his eyes were wide and peered at the cage around them.

  "Hello, there," said Fengel. He grinned. "I worried that we were losing you."

  "Shut up." Maxim groaned. Then he blinked at Fengel's face. "Sorry, sir. I didn't mean you. Just him." He tipped his head toward his left shoulder. "My head pounds, but I am alive. Please help me up. Where are we?"

  Fengel stood back to allow him room. Gunny Lome supported his weight, but Maxim got his own hands under himself and sat up. He looked around at his crewmates, the cage, and then Natasha. He blinked in surprise and narrowed his eyes. The aetherite opened his mouth to say something, then lowered his eyebrows, as if puzzled. He stared, gibbered a scream, and scuttled back away from the front of the cage, into Sarah's ample grasp. Maxim kicked and pushed and fought, desperate to get away from something near the cage door.

  "Cute," said Natasha.

  Fengel frowned. His navigator was terrified of something, and it wasn't his wife. He peered back out the cage. The temple had not changed. Some of the nearest guards watched them in interest, but had come no closer. The lava below was terrifying, yes, but it couldn't be seen directly from where they were kept prisoner. The only other thing of interest was the chieftain, near the Lantern atop its pillar.

  He turned back to Maxim. "What's wrong? What are you seeing?" Aetherites could see the immaterial, daemons and the curving aetherlines of the world. "Is it a daemon?" Fengel remembered the creature at the eye of Engmann's Maelstrom. For him it had been invisible, unfelt. But it had deeply impacted Maxim.

  "Oh, Goddess," said Maxim in an awful voice. "It's cursed. Cursed. It warps the very air. It tarnishes the aether with its very presence."

  Fengel peered back at the center of the temple. "What, the chieftain?"

  Maxim caught his gaze when he looked back at the aetherite. "No, Captain. The gemstone. The Lantern. Oh, don't touch it. If we even just touch it we're doomed."

  Fengel pursed his lips. Everyone and their brother had been trying to tell him the Lantern was cursed. And now it really was. That was quite vexing.

  "Well," he said. "We'll just have to be careful. I seem to recall that in Breachtown they put it in a box. Maybe we can find a rope or something."

  His crew were staring at him. Henry raised his eyebrows in surprise, and not a little admiration.

  "Typical," said Natasha. "You come all this way, lose so much, for a Worked gemstone that just happens to be cursed."

  Fengel didn't bother to reply. Henry Smalls did, however. "Why are you even here?" he asked, glaring at her.

  Natasha glowered. "Really. Did you think I'd let you steal my ship? Again? And just get away scot-free?" She smiled and folded her arms. "I swore to make you pay for that little jape. And now I have. The Dawnhawk is mine again."

  Dismay echoed around the cage. Fengel turned to face her, to demand answers. But the smugness on her lips was too much. He shut his mouth, teeth clicking audibly.

  "You bitch," grunted Sarah Lome. She frowned. "Wait. But if that's so, why'd you get captured by yourself? Where's your lackey? That snake, Mordecai."

  Natasha frowned. She looked away from the big gunnery mistress. "He's...occupied. Busy. We got separated." She set her shoulders and met their gazes. "My crew will come for me."

  Footsteps and hissing growls interrupted them. Draykin were approaching the cage, a group of twelve. Half were guards, the others wore ornaments like the chieftain, his acolytes or under-priests. One carried cloth bundles in hand, and another a bowl filled with something that stank. Fengel caught his crew glancing at him, wondering if this was the time. He shook his head in negation. Their captors were watching carefully, and still had spears.

  The Draykin opened the cage and fanned out, herding the group into one corner with short jabs from their weapons. The one with the cloth bundles threw it down at their feet. "Raktass," it said with a gesture. "Raktass." It pointed at them, and then at the bundle.

  Fengel frowned and picked up the bundle. It fell apart, a stack of folded loincloths, similar to what the Draykin themselves wore. He snorted. "I think not."

  Their captors didn't speak Perinese, but it seemed his message was clear enough. Two guards jabbed him with their spears. Fengel cursed and jumped back. They pointed at the loincloths again.

  "Sir," said Henry. "I think they want—"

  "I know what they want," growled Fengel. "I'm still not going to do it. A gentleman should dress like—" One of the Draykin poked him with a spear again. "Ouch! Damnation! Fine!" He tore off his jacket and shirt, waving them back at the guard with the spear to ward him off.

  Face burning, he removed his clothing until he was stark naked. After a bit of trouble, and some humiliating suggestions from the crew, he managed to put on the loincloth. However, in defiance of his captors, he replaced his hat, and wedged his monocle firmly over his eye.

  Natasha snickered. "You look like an utter fool." One of the guards jabbed her with a spear. "Stop that!" she ordered. They jabbed her again and pointed at the pile of loincloths. "Not a chance in the Realms Below," she told them.

  One guard looked at another. It shrugged. It whistled, and four of them moved together, herding Natasha into a corner. They restrained her and began tearing off her blouse. She yelped, snarled, and swung at them. Fengel glanced at his crew. Now might be a good time to move...but, no. They were all watching Natasha's treatment with savage glee, not looking remotely concerned. Ah well. He went back to enjoying the show himself.

  In moments Natasha was released, now clad in only a thin loincloth. She glared daggers at the Draykin, who moved back to threaten the other pirates. She snagged another loincloth from the pile and used it to bind her breasts. "Go on," she snarled at Fengel. "Enjoy the show. It's all you're going to get outside of some Haventown doxy." She smiled. "Actually, you probably don't even need it; I bet that stick up yer arse gives you all the pleasure you want."

  Fengel fought to keep his mouth flat. He turned away to face the Draykin with the bowl, who now approached him warily. There was some red ichor in it, and a brush.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natasha turn her head slightly at him, as if seeing something for the first time. She stared. "Oh my Goddess," she snarled at him. "You're trying to ignore me. You have been since these stupid reptiles brought me here. You are such a childish idiot!"

  Fengel ignored her. The Draykin with the bowl pulled out a brush and hissed something at him. It was clear he was supposed to stand still. Fengel took a step back.

  "You never got over your little impressment adventure," continued Natasha. "You spend so much time trying to be something you're not. That hat. The monocle. You're no different from a kid playing dress-up with his father's clothes."

  Fengel had had enough. He whirled, the Draykin acolytes falling back with a cry of alarm. "Well, at least I'm not so afraid of being my father that I turned myself into a brazen hussy and raging alcoholic!"

  Natasha stared at him, mouth agape. "How dare you!" she hissed. "I am my own—"

  "Oh, save it," said Fengel. "You've been running out from Euron's shadow ever since you could put one foot in front of the other. Everything you've ever done has been an attempt to be someone different." He took a step toward her. "But you know what? With every step you take, you turn out to be a little more like him." Fengel grinned nastily.

  His wife went white. The fists she made at her side trembled with suppressed rage. "You're the one who's running away," she hissed, voice thick with contempt. "Do your crewmates here even know the truth? The one you've been hiding all these years?"

  His crew turned to look at him curiously. Fengel felt the blood drain away from his face. "You wouldn't," he said, voice small.

  "Oh, yes. Yes, I would." She turned to the little steward, the big gunnery mistress. "Do you know even his first name?"

  "Don't," said Fengel.

  "What?" She put a hand to her throat in mock surprise. "You
mean you haven't told them? But Ashley, why ever not?"

  Silence filled the cage. Not even the Draykin moved. Distantly, he could hear the rumble of the boiling lava at the bottom of the temple.

  "You horrible bitch!" screamed Ashley Fengel at the top of his lungs. He threw himself at her, hands stretched out to strangle. "You slut! You scheming, backstabbing harpy!"

  "As if you don't deserve it!" she howled back, fending him off. "You started this whole mess! It's your fault your crew are dead!"

  Fengel paused, shocked. Natasha threw him back. "What?" he asked. All the crew were on their feet now, eyes widening.

  Natasha waved a hand. "We retook the Dawnhawk using that wreck you'd discarded. Fairly bloodlessly, too. I tied them all up and sent them overboard again as a lark." She shrugged. "Unfortunately the powder magazine or something went up. The whole thing exploded out to the northwest of the city. Wouldn't have been any survivors."

  Fengel felt a cold weight settle into his belly. He turned away from his wife, his crew, even their Draykin captors, watching their interaction in alarmed confusion. The Governor's Lantern gleamed at him from its pedestal in the center of the temple. Dead, he thought mutely. They're all dead.

  "You bitch!"

  He glanced back to see Sarah Lome leap at his wife, ham-hock fists swinging. Natasha leapt contemptuously aside, grabbed the big woman by the head, and rammed her into the wooden bars that were at her back. The whole cage shook, and the Draykin gave a fluting cry of alarm.

  The rest of his crew wasn't done. Henry Smalls leapt at her with his paring knife. She kicked him in the stomach, pulled the blade from between his fingers, and threw it at Maxim, who was raising his hands to invoke a Working at the back of the cage.

  "Enough!" cried Fengel. "Back, all of you! I'll deal—"

  Wooden spear hafts rammed into the back of his legs. Fengel went down to the floor of the cage. Glancing up, he saw that the Draykin were moving in to restrain him. Their captors had had enough.