The helm was a large square brass tablet engraved with complex magical constructs that sent magical energy to the air screws that steered the ship and to the lift tanks filled with the Breath of God. Although the Breath itself was magical, the small quantities in the lift tanks required magical “sparks” to generate enough lift to float a ship. The liquid form of the Breath, known as the Tears of God, was more powerful, but the cost was far more dear. Few could afford it.
Kate crouched down beside the helm, studying it and thinking back to the first lessons Olaf had given her in using the helm’s magic. She had been eight years old and needed to stand on a crate to reach it.
Kate took off the red kerchief she wore around her neck and used it clean off the worst of the blood, then wadded up the kerchief and stuffed it in her pocket. She reached out to touch the central construct. Before she could even bring her fingers close, some unseen force struck her hand, knocking it aside.
“What the hell?” Kate frowned down at the helm.
The magic must be malfunctioning, probably owing to the wizard storm. She had never heard of such storms disrupting the magic on a ship’s helm, but then she wasn’t a magical scholar. Given that wizard storms were created by the magic of the Breath running amok, she supposed such disruption could be possible. She tried again to touch the construct.
The force that struck her this time was stronger.
“Damnation!” Kate swore. “Akiel! I need you!”
She stood up, looking for him. He was here on the island somewhere, but she had lost sight of him in the mists. She heard his heavy footfalls before she saw him, seeming to swim his way out of the mist.
Akiel was about thirty, a big man, tall and muscular with skin the color of warm dark rum and brown eyes. He came from Bround, but had moved to Freya when he was older to ply his trade: back-alley prizefighting.
He had fled Freya because he had killed a man, or so he had told Kate when he signed on to the Barwich Rose.
“I think you should know the truth about me, mum,” Akiel had said. “I did not mean to kill. He was my opponent in a fight and he was winning. My manager had wagered a lot of money and he told me to use my magic to beat him. I only meant to knock the man down, but sadly I killed him.”
“Your magic killed him?” Kate had asked.
“No, mum,” Akiel had said patiently. “My fist killed him. Spirit magic does not kill.”
“Spirit magic,” Kate had repeated, frowning. “That’s also known as dark magic and that is illegal.”
“My magic is not dark. It is called so by people who are ignorant—no offense, mum. In fact, I believe I can use my spirit magic to help you with the wrecking. I can cast a spell that will keep you warm, let you work longer in the Deep Breath.”
“You don’t have to sacrifice anyone to do it,” Kate had asked. “Not like blood magic?”
“No, mum,” Akiel had replied with a smile, and so Kate had hired him.
“I found two bodies, mum,” Akiel reported as he came up to where she was standing.
“I thought I heard you talking to someone,” Kate said, frowning down at the helm. “What do you and the dead find to talk about anyway?”
“Sometimes spirits are confused by the sudden change in their situation. For some, death comes as a shock and they do not know what to do or where to go. I give them advice, but only if they ask. Some of the dead do not like to be disturbed. They consider it an imposition.”
Kate had seen death enough in her twenty-four years to know that dead meant dead: cold, stiff, silent. She changed the subject.
“You’re a crafter, Akiel, albeit a strange one. I need your advice. Something is wrong with the magic on this helm. I’ve never seen the like. Whenever I try to touch it … this happens.”
Kate demonstrated, placing her hand near the central construct engraved into the brass. As before, something seemed to strike her hand away.
“See there?” Kate said, exasperated. “You try it, see what happens.”
Akiel gently touched the helm.
“I do not need to try it, mum,” he said. “I know what is wrong. The spirit of the captain is guarding his ship.”
Kate started to laugh; then she saw he was serious.
“Oh, come, now!” Kate protested. “The magical construct has been damaged. I just need to know how to fix it.”
“You see the blood on the helm,” Akiel said, pointing to the red smears that remained. “That is the captain’s blood. He did not leave his ship with the rest of his crew. He stayed with her until she crashed. He must have loved her very much.”
Kate gazed at the blood splotches and pictured herself clinging to that helm, fighting to the end to save her ship. The Barwich Rose was her dearest possession. She had been raised on the ship. The Rose was all she owned, as perhaps this ship was all this captain had owned. She accorded him a moment of silent respect.
“But you are gone now, Captain,” Kate told him. “And I need this helm.”
“You plan to sell it to pay off your debt to that bad man,” said Akiel in an accusatory tone.
“No,” said Kate. “I’ll find some other way to pay Greenstreet.”
She didn’t really believe in what she was about to say, but she was desperate. “Akiel, could you use your magic to … uh … talk to the captain? Tell him I’m going to keep his helm. I’m not going to sell it. I’m going to use it in my own ship.”
“That old derelict you are trying to restore, mum?” Akiel asked, frowning.
“She isn’t a derelict!” Kate retorted, annoyed. “Just tell the captain what I said. And make it quick. We’ve been down here all day. I’m tired and I’m hungry and your warming spell is starting to wear off. I can’t feel my toes.”
“I will try, mum,” said Akiel. “Did you find the body?”
Kate shook her head. “The helm broke off from the base. I think the captain’s body must have gone over the edge of the cliff with the rest of the ship.”
“That will be a more difficult task,” said Akiel. “I will have to cast a very powerful spell. You should keep your distance, but stay nearby, in case the captain has any questions.”
Kate rolled her eyes and obligingly backed off a short distance, thankful Olaf couldn’t see her. He would be scandalized. Jamming her hands into her pockets, she stood shivering and stomping her feet, trying to get some warmth into her toes.
Akiel drew out the stub of candle from the pocket of his peacoat. Pinching the wick between his thumb and forefinger, he began to sing in a deep, gruff voice. Kate spoke a smattering of most languages of the world. She couldn’t understand this one. When Akiel let go, a flame appeared. He held the candle over the helm, letting some of the wax drip onto it; then he placed the candle firmly in the wax.
He gently cupped his left hand over a clump of grass and weeds, not harming them, but simply touching them. He thrust his right index finger directly into the flame of the candle and held it steady.
Kate gave a cry, expecting to see him burn himself. Akiel paid no heed to her. Still singing, he drew back his hand. Flame blazed from the tip of his index finger, and using the flame he swiftly began to draw what looked to be sigils in the air. Kate could briefly see the afterimages and she recognized some of the sigils, though not others.
After a moment, Akiel stopped singing. He cocked his head, appearing to be listening. At length he nodded and turned to Kate.
“The captain said his ship was everything to him. He was both captain and owner, sailing under contract to the Travians. He had no family and thus his crew became his family. He is glad to know so many survived.”
“Fine. Good,” said Kate. “Will he let me have the helm?”
“He wants to know why you need it, mum. What you plan to do with it.”
“Is that really necessary?” Kate demanded.
“If you want the helm, yes, mum.”
“Oh, very well!” Kate grumbled, resigned. “Tell him I found an old Rosian warship, the Victor
ie, that had crashed on one of the remote islands during the Bottom Dweller War. The ship sank when a direct hit of contramagic struck the helm, destroying the constructs. I wanted to replace them, but Olaf said only a crafter who specialized in that field could do that and I can’t afford to hire anyone, nor can I afford to buy a new helm. That’s why I need this one.”
Akiel waved his blazing finger in the air.
“How do you do that?” Kate demanded. “Keep from burning yourself?”
Akiel frowned at her and shook his head. He began to sing again. Kate sighed. Her feet were numb. She began to hobble back and forth to bring some feeling into her toes. Akiel quit singing.
“Well?” Kate asked impatiently.
“The captain says you may have it,” Akiel reported.
“Thank God! Dalgren!” Kate shouted.
She walked back over to the helm. Akiel had doused the flame on his finger and let go of the plants he had been holding, gently smoothing them to straighten any he might have bent. He blew out the candle, removed it, and tucked it back into his pocket.
Kate eyed the helm. Crouching down, she cautiously reached down to touch the central construct. This time, her fingers actually made contact. She felt the familiar tingle of the magic, and the construct began to glow blue.
“You fixed the magic!” Kate said, pleased. “Thank you, Akiel.”
“I did not fix anything, mum,” said Akiel. “The captain’s spirit has departed. He is at peace.”
Kate wasn’t listening. A drop of cold water had hit her on the back of her neck, running down her peacoat. She looked up to see Dalgren hovering overhead. Water from the thick mists was dripping off his scales.
“What now?” Dalgren shouted down.
“I need you to carry this helm to the ship,” Kate called.
Kate and Akiel scrambled out of the way to give Dalgren room to maneuver. He flew as low as he dared and reached down with his forefoot.
“Be careful,” Kate said, watching anxiously as the dragon’s claws closed over the helm. “Don’t scratch the brass or you might damage the magic.”
Dalgren rumbled deep in his chest, muttering something about a waste of time and energy. He lifted the helm off the ground.
“I heard that remark. I’m not wasting my time. I’m not going to be a wrecker all my life,” Kate told him.
“You’re not going to impress Captain Northrop, either,” Dalgren said. “Not with a forty-year-old ship and a salvaged helm.”
“He’ll be struck by my ingenuity,” said Kate. She tried to grin, but her face muscles were stiff from the cold. “That’s the last load. Tell the crew to send down the bosun’s chair.”
Dalgren flew back up to the ship. Despite his grousing, he was carrying the helm as carefully and gently as he would have carried a baby dragon. He vanished through the mists. She could not see either him or the ship.
She stood with her neck craned, impatiently watching, and gave a sigh of relief when she saw the bosun’s chair come into view, dangling from a long length of rope.
Once the chair was in grabbing distance, Kate caught hold of it and took her seat. The bosun’s chair aboard the Rose was crude, little more than a plank attached to ropes attached to a block and tackle thrown over the yardarm. With Akiel’s help she settled herself and, tugging on the rope, gave the signal to start lifting.
She could hear the screeching of the winch and feel ropes tighten as the crew hauled the chair up through the mists. She was about halfway to the ship when the chair came to a sudden stop, leaving Kate dangling in midair.
“What the hell is going on?” Kate yelled.
Her shout was drowned out by the boom of a cannon. The next moment, Dalgren came plunging down through the mists.
“What’s happening?” Kate gasped.
“A Travian patrol boat,” he reported. “They’ve come to collect their cargo.”
“They can’t!” Kate said angrily. “We found the wreck first. It’s ours.”
“That’s what Marco told them,” Dalgren said, hovering near her chair, barely moving his wings for fear the breeze would cause the chair to start swinging. “The Travians don’t agree. The captain laughed when Marco mentioned the law. The patrol boat is armed. Twelve nine-pound guns. That boom you heard was a warning shot across the bow.”
Kate swore roundly. The Barwich Rose was also armed, but only with a couple of swivel guns. The Rose had been built during a more peaceful era, when the biggest threat merchant ships faced was pirates. Following the depredations committed by the Bottom Dwellers, who captured merchant ships and either slaughtered or enslaved the crew, merchant ships had been refitted to carry cannons.
Kate gave an angry shout to the crew, and the bosun’s chair started to rise again.
“Did they see you?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Dalgren. “I’ve been keeping to the mists.”
“Good,” said Kate. “Stay out of sight and wait for my signal. I’ll try talking reason to them, but I might need your help. I’m not letting them take what’s legally mine!”
“So far no one in the Aligoes knows I’m here. If people see me, rumors will run rife. People will think I’m a wild dragon,” Dalgren grumbled. “They’ll send out hunting parties.”
“People were bound to see you sooner or later,” said Kate. “After all, you’re bigger than some of the islands. I’m surprised you’ve stayed hidden this long.”
“If I have it’s because I’ve take precautions!” Dalgren retorted, glowering. “And I won’t harm a human.”
“No one is asking you to,” Kate said.
The chair continued to rise. She could now see her small ship looking ghostly in the mists. The sails, masts, and balloons of the larger Travian vessel were just beyond.
Dalgren was looking stubborn. The scales between his eyes bunched up. His twisted horn quivered and small puffs of smoke rose from his nose.
“Please, Dalgren,” Kate pleaded. “I’m not giving up that brass helm!”
Dalgren sighed, and smoke gushed from his nose. “You’re always landing me in trouble, Kate. Starting from that time I nearly flattened you when you were little. I’ll watch for your signal.”
As he flew off, he shouted back, “It’s funny to hear you talking about the law. What was it your father always said? ‘Laws are only for those who get caught.’”
“I like the law when it’s on my side,” Kate shouted back.
Dalgren made a rumbling sound in his chest like rocks rolling down a cliff and disappeared into the Breath.
When Kate reached the ship, the crew was waiting for her. Two sailors grabbed hold of the chair and swung it over the deck. Kate jumped out.
“Send the chair back down for Akiel,” she said. “And get ready to release the lines.”
The mists drifted about the Travian ship, the Hortsmann. The Travians were expecting trouble. The captain had ordered the gunports open and the guns run out. Kate’s own crew lined the rail, armed with muskets and pistols, all aimed at the Travians.
“Put down your weapons and return to your posts,” Kate ordered. “This is just a misunderstanding.”
The men did as she told them, some of them winking as they stuffed their pistols into their belts.
Kate was headed for the quarterdeck when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the brass helm.
“Good God!” she muttered. “I look like something that crawled out of a Westfirth sewer.”
Her face and ears were scarlet from the cold and covered with dirt. Her peacoat was muddy and so were her slops and her boots. She needed to look like the captain, not the loblolly boy.
She hurriedly pulled off the seaman’s cap and used it to scrub her face. Her hair, flattened by her hat, hung in lank, sodden curls. Her mother had disparagingly termed her hair color as “dishwater blond.” Kate grunted. Today her hair just looked like dishwater.
She raked her fingers through her curls and shed her dirty peacoat and the baldric.
Reaching beneath the helm, she grabbed one of the pistols that she kept there and thrust it into the belt at her waist, making certain the pistol was visible.
The helmsman watched approvingly.
“Give the bastards hell, Captain,” he told her.
“I plan to,” said Kate. She ducked under the rigging that supported the balloon, and mounted the stairs that led to the quarterdeck.
The Travian vessel was a merchant ship out of the city of Sornhagen, the only Travian stronghold in the Aligoes. The two-masted ship was a hundred feet long with a single balloon and short stubby wings over two large airscrews.
“What’s going on, Marco?” Kate asked.
Her first mate, Marco, was the best officer she had ever known. Levelheaded, cool in crisis, he had served as a midshipman on an Estaran brig during the war with the Bottom Dwellers. He had challenged a superior officer to a duel—a court-martial offense. Rather than spend years in the brig, Marco had run.
He was tall, lanky, and gangly with black hair, a swarthy complexion, and big ears. His ears and his broad grin made him look closer to sixteen than his twenty-one years. He was aiming a pistol at the Travians.
“They want us to hand over the cargo, Captain,” Marco reported, his voice loud enough to carry. “They are threatening to blow us out of the Breath if we don’t. I told them by law we have a right to it. They took exception to that.”
“They think that the sight of a cannon will make me turn tail and run,” Kate scoffed. Lowering her voice, she asked softly, “Did they catch sight of Dalgren?”
“Not a chance, Captain,” Marco whispered back. “They wouldn’t be so damn cocksure of themselves if they had.”
“Good,” said Kate. She studied the two men standing on the Travian quarterdeck. Judging by his uniform, one was the captain. “Who is the other man?”
Marco pointed. “The tall man is the captain of the Hortsmann. The other is the head of the cartel that owns the cargo on the Marie Elaine, the brig that sank. He’s hopping mad. Literally hopping. Up and down. Look at him.”
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