The helm was back on the stern of the airship, a holdover from the sail ship template used by the Mechanists who built the thing. Natasha stalked toward it, even more irritated by having to cross the distance. Those men and women who saw her coming found reason to be elsewhere suddenly, which pleased Natasha. One of them didn’t, though.
He was big and knelt upon the deck, facing away from the bow. Even from the back she recognized him as one of her thugs, the Wiley twins. He worked alone, though, his brother still recuperating from the fire yesterday. Natasha was suddenly incensed that he hadn’t noticed her.
She kicked over the pile of shiny metal clips he was polishing. He started, then looked up in surprise, visage going flat once he saw her.
“Captain?” he asked.
Natasha bent, snatched up a ring, and shook it in his face. “Rust!” she snarled at him. “Look at this! You miss a spot again and I’ll put you up on lookout duty for a month!” The ring was clean, but that was beside the point: yelling made her feel better.
Something in his face stopped her. The big pirate nodded slowly, never looking away from her eyes. “Duly noted. Captain.” He stared at her, and she was the first one to blink. “May I return to my task?”
She nodded. The big pirate backed away. Something was off here, something amiss. But what? The twins, along with Reaver Jane, had been her most loyal servants ever since joining crews with Fengel. They obeyed her every command without complaint. Natasha could almost hear her father’s approval: to him, an obedient crew was all that mattered. She thought of looking into it further, but the twin had returned to his task. Maybe he’s just sullen. I hear twins get that way. With a shrug, she made her way back toward the helm.
The helm of the Dawnhawk was composed of a ship’s wheel and a large wooden gearbox studded with numerous dials, gauges and levers. A speaking tube was mounted to the box, ostensibly for communication with the engine rooms below and the Mechanists who dwelled there. It had never worked properly. Linkages and gear-trains connected the helm to complex propeller assemblies hanging from the rear of the airship, and connected the skysail armatures hanging from its hull. Both of the helmsmen watched Natasha approach silently.
Maxim and his counterpart Konrad were both aetherites, which meant that they were crazy. As she understood it, the daemon familiars they carried about with them were a constant source of nagging irritation, wheedling aetherwrought Workings in exchange for small mischiefs played upon their crewmates. This did not make them generally popular with anyone. Her father in particular hated them. They were necessary, however, for only an aetherite could see the great aetherlines that ran throughout the world and so enabled efficient airship flight.
Maxim was rail thin and had originally come from Fengel’s crew. Konrad was stocky and one of her own. Ever since the two crews had merged, both magicians had kept a sleepless, antagonistic vigil over each other. That was annoying, as it meant that Natasha couldn’t have Konrad’s powers free for her own behalf.
Fengel’s aetherite glared at her. Konrad simply stared. Both looked pale and shaky from lack of rest. Konrad opened his mouth to greet her. Natasha cut him off.
“Where are we?” she demanded. “And how did we get here?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lucian move up behind her and to one side.
“Near the equator,” said Konrad, his heavy Greisheim accent twisting every word. “The Isle Almhazlik.”
“I know that,” Natasha snapped. “What are we doing here?”
Maxim smiled viciously. “Fengel—” He fell silent as Konrad glared at him.
“Captain,” said the large aetherite, “we must talk. Reaver Jane, the others, we are all concerned.”
A wave of irritation roiled over her. Can’t anyone around here do what they’re told? She glared at Lucian. The man was obviously slacking on discipline. “Later, Konrad,” she said, wheeling around to face the helmsman. “I asked you a damned question. Now, are you going to answer it, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”
Konrad’s face settled like stone. He glanced at his counterpart, who gave him a look, almost as if to say ‘I-told-you-so.’ Konrad looked to Lucian. “I do not know why we are here,” he said. “Your husband, the Captain, bade us take this course. He did not say why.”
Her irritation transformed into white-hot anger. “Goddess strike him down!” she hissed. “You people are useless. Where is he?”
“I believe,” said Lucian smoothly, “that he’s currently in the cargo hold, examining the carpets from yesterday’s raid.”
Natasha whirled on him. “Then why didn’t you tell me that?” she snarled.
He held out his hand theatrically. “You wanted to come over here and find out what these two knew.”
Her hand tightened on the hilt of her cutlass. She wanted to scream at him, then run him through. No. Wait. Hold onto that for the person who deserves it. Natasha growled wordlessly at Lucian, then moved to the stern hatch and descended. Down she went, passing her cabin and the splintered door to the head, then the quarterdeck. She paused for a moment at the stair to the hold; the faint smell of smoke drifted up from the mess. There was also shouting. Natasha recognized the voice as the usually silent, terrifying cook, Geoffrey Lords. What’s got into him? She gave a shrug and continued to the cargo hold below.
The space was mostly empty. A single lantern hung from the ceiling to provide a small pool of light over several rugs, leaving the rest of the great space in darkness. Her husband walked amongst the rugs, examining their damage. Fengel was bent over and did not notice her approach.
“You worm,” she snarled. Fengel straightened in surprise and looked back to her. Natasha marched over to stand on the same rug he now examined. “How dare you hide from me down here?”
“Hide?” said Fengel, disdain dripping from his voice. “I’m the one that came looking for you. Apparently, you’d finally left the cabin. I knew that would happen eventually, if only because I intentionally limit the rum you keep there.”
“That was you,” Natasha growled. “How dare you paw through my things!”
“Because someone kept leaving the half-opened bottles in my clothing! Look, look at this.” Fengel stood back and spread his arms. The fine vest beneath his waistcoat was stained across the left breast. “This was my favorite vest! And now the dye has all run because you couldn’t be bothered to clean up after yourself.”
Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ye Goddess. You’re bitching about your clothes. Again. What are you, some prissy Perinese socialite? Never mind, I know the answer to that.”
Fengel arched an eyebrow. “A gentleman has certain standards of dress to maintain—”
“A gentleman has certain standards to maintain,” she mimicked, voice obnoxious.
Fengel glowered. “Very well. I was coming down here to find out what ridiculous course you’ve put us on, but talking with you is impossible. I’ll just go and correct things, as I usually do.”
He moved to walk past her, and she stuck out an arm to bar his way. “What? No. I came down here to ask you why you’ve put us on this ridiculous course. We should be halfway to Breachtown by now!”
“Exactly,” said Fengel frostily. “The counting house raid, remember?” He made to push her arm away, then stopped. “Wait. But I didn’t order a change in course.”
Natasha frowned. “Well, I certainly didn’t.”
“Then who did?” asked Fengel.
“Now!” shouted a voice.
There was a great commotion in the darkness, and the rugs they stood upon shot upward. Natasha lost her balance and collided with Fengel, the two of them suddenly flung together into the middle of the net that appeared out from beneath their feet. It cinched tight, and they rose into the air of the hold, swinging crazily. Natasha fought to orient herself, but she’d fallen to her side, one leg out through the mesh, one arm bent painfully behind her back and up against Fengel.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she cried
at the whirling cargo hold. “Let me down before I cut your stones off!”
“Thankfully,” said a voice, “that’s not an issue for me.”
A figure appeared out of the darkness. She was waiflike, with knife-hacked hair and that horrible scryn pet of hers. Natasha recognized Lina Stone, the ex-doxy on her husband’s crew. Natasha opened her mouth to shout again, then fell silent as others appeared in the dark.
Reaver Jane, Henry Smalls, Sarah Lome. All the crew she hadn’t seen up above or in their bunks walked out of the dark, some of them holding guide-lines for the trap she had stepped into.
“Miss Stone,” cried Fengel, holding his monocle in place. “What is the meaning of this?”
“She’s got to go, Captain,” said the waif.
Fengel nodded sharply. “Ah. A capital idea. But you seem to have caught me too by mistake.”
Lina shook her head. “Sorry, Captain. You’ve got to go too.”
From where she lay, Natasha could just see her husband’s face. She enjoyed a moment of small, vicious glee as his monocle fell away in shock to dangle from its chain between them.
A rustling came from overhead, then daylight flooded the hold. Natasha twisted to see the great hatch to the main deck being levered aside. Lucian, the Wiley twins and both helmsmen were preparing to winch up the rope to the net she hung within.
“Enough of this,” she yelled at the crew above and below her. “Let me down this instant, or I’ll gut the lot of you, and then shoot you to boot!”
She was ignored. Natasha tried cursing them, their fathers, forefathers, and any children they may have had. Fengel repeatedly tried to speak reasonably, but her traitorous crew paid no attention. They were pulled up and dumped unceremoniously on the upper deck, surrounded by the pirates already here.
Natasha used the moment to try and get her balance. The fresh sea air blew her hair about the inside of the net, disorienting her further. Hands and knees and space enough to draw my sword. I can cut the mesh and get free. Fengel tried to do the same though and she toppled. Hands reached through the net to grab at her blade. Natasha fought, but others held her down while it was removed, and Fengel’s saber as well. She punched and kicked and bit, but to no avail.
The two of them were dragged to the bow, the crew standing in a semicircle around them. Above, the sun hung just enough past the curve of the gas bag to illuminate them both. A sense of deja vu passed over Natasha. Oh Goddess. Not again. She was in the exact same spot she’d been in six months ago, when Mordecai Wright had led a mutiny on her. First the rum, and now this. This day just keeps on getting better. What her father would have said didn’t bear thinking on.
Lucian stepped up out of the crowd. “Captains,” he said. “This looks bad, and believe us, we wouldn’t be doing it if you two weren’t so horribly screwed up with each other. You spend all your damned time fighting, and having us wage war as well. We’ve had four failed raids now in preparation for this counting house heist, and it’s all your fault. So, a Crewman’s Vote has been taken.” He gestured off the bow. “This is Almhazlik Isle. Should be perfectly deserted, and perfectly safe. We’re going to drop you off here while we all head north and raid Breachtown. You two are going to work out your disastrous relationship issues before they’re the doom of us all. Afterward, we’ll swing by and pick you up. Now, do you have anything to say before we continue?”
“I’m going to chew out your throat and piss down the hole,” snarled Natasha.
Lucian sighed. “I mean, do you have anything constructive to say?”
“I said, I’m going to chew out—”
Konrad, her aetherite, stepped forward. “I try to warn you!” he complained, accent thick with emotion. “I try to tell you limits of my magic, how it works. But you never listen! You waste it!”
Natasha stared at him in confusion. Why would she ever want to know that?
“Even you, Henry?” asked Fengel. Natasha glanced over at her husband. His face was pale with shock and betrayal. “Haven’t I been a good captain?”
Henry Smalls looked out sadly from the crowd. “Sorry, sir,” he said heavily, holding up his bandaged hands. “Not lately, no. But you’ll get better, sir. This is for everyone’s benefit. And we’ll have you back, right as rain.”
Lucian clapped his hands. “That’s that, then. All right, let’s send them over. Watch out for Natasha, she bites.”
“You’ll be sorry,” Natasha growled as the crew grabbed up the net, her and Fengel in it. “You’ll come crawling back, and when you do, you’ll—”
The crew pitched the two of them overboard.
Chapter Four
But how did I stumble?
Fengel stared after the airship as it floated away without him. Natasha’s struggles with the net pulled him back and forth, yet all he could do was watch the retreating Dawnhawk. What mistake had he made, to push them so far? Never let them see you stumble. That was his personal motto. So how had he stumbled? Fengel did not know.
Natasha growled as she tried to free herself. She fought with rope mesh until she found the mouth, and stretched it just wide enough to crawl through. Then Natasha pulled herself out onto the hot sand of the beach and clambered to her feet, running into the surf with both fists upraised at the airship.
“You goat-sucking bastards!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “You yellow-bellied cowards! Thieves! You Goddess-damned sky pirates!” She waded out until the water was waist-high, each wave pushing her back toward the island. Natasha floundered and fought against them, trying in vain to chase after the Dawnhawk.
Fengel pulled the rope mesh over his head and freed himself. He did not stand, however. Instead, he hugged his legs up to his chest and rested his chin on his knees. His hat lay beside him in the net. He did not put it back on. Why did they get rid of me? I was a good captain, wasn’t I? And I was straight with them, respectable, even when I didn’t feel it. I tried to be fair, to project that image. Image is everything. Never let them see you stumble. Where did I stumble? Where did I go wrong?
Natasha jumped and beat at the waves, now too far out to stand. She screamed and yelled incoherently. Fengel glanced at his wife, annoyed at the distraction from his train of thought. Then it hit him like a sledge.
“You,” he whispered. “You’re the one they meant to get rid of.”
Natasha tired quickly. Though mighty, her rage was no match for the ocean. She lashed out once more, sending a light spray of sun-dappled seawater after the retreating airship. Then she collapsed. The waves picked her up and pushed her back to the shoreline. There she lay a moment, gasping and exhausted. Fengel glared as she rolled over onto hands and knees, the surf surging over her.
He leaned forward and jabbed an accusatory finger at her. “You’re the reason they did this.”
Natasha glanced up at him in confusion. “Go drown yourself,” she said reflexively. She staggered to her feet and stretched, puffy blouse now limp and clingy. Natasha ruined the effect by loudly hawking a great gob of mucus and seawater down onto the sand. Then she stalked up the beach towards him.
Fengel climbed to his feet to confront her. Natasha ignored him however, walking past to a small wooden crate that had landed behind them, presumably also left by their mutinous crew. She sat down cross-legged beside it, working at the nailed-down lid with her fingers.
How dare you ignore me? He opened his mouth to give voice to his thoughts and stopped as he took in the panorama past her. The white, sandy beach ended a dozen yards farther inland, stopping at a dense jungle of palms and thick underbrush. Tropical birds flew through the branches and made raucous, high-pitched cries as they went. A mile or so deeper into the isle, the jungle rose to meet the slopes of a great steaming mountain dominating the center of Almhazlik. A ridge descended from both sides of the volcano, running all the way back down to the ocean and encompassing this part of the island shore in a pie-shaped partition maybe half a mile at its widest.
The mountain struck him most of
all. Its slope rose up from the jungle to a dimly glowing crag that puffed white clouds off into the bright blue sky, like the boiler steamstacks of his own rogue airship. Weird monoliths dotted the outer skin of it, sharply triangular pillars of rock. One was larger than all the rest. It rose up several hundred feet above the western tree line in a form that could only have been carved by human hands: the shoulders, neck, and reptilian maw of a dragon, all weathered and covered in jungle foliage.
Almhazlik Isle was not as deserted as his crew had believed.
A loud crack brought him back from this discovery. Natasha lay back upon the sand, and was ramming her boot heel down atop the crate. The lid took two blows before breaking inward. Natasha chortled at her success and sat upright to pry aside the broken planks of wood still nailed to the crate.
Fengel refocused on what was important. “It’s true,” he said to her. “It has to be.”
Natasha ignored him. She pulled objects forth from inside the crate; a tinderbox, some rope, foodstuffs. These she tossed aside. Heavy packets of hardtack and rolls of rock-hard, razor-thin salted jerky landed in the sand between them.
“They meant to get you with the net, but I got caught as well,” he insisted. “They couldn’t let me out without freeing you, so that’s why I’m here. They’ve just flown off to the other side of the island, waiting for me to find them.”
The mound of supplies between them ceased growing as Natasha hit the bottom of the crate. There wasn’t much, enough for maybe a week or more of rough living. His wife gave a cry and sat back happily, holding a dark bottle of rum with both hands.
“What I’m hearing,” she said wickedly, “is denial.” She placed the cork between her perfect teeth and bit with a pressure than Fengel knew could sever fingers. With a hollow noise, Natasha pulled the cork from the bottle and spat it to the sand. “A gentleman has certain standards to maintain,” she mimicked mockingly, “if he doesn’t want his crew to toss him overboard. Oh, I have to look nice and talk like a stodgy Perinese jackass if I don’t want my crew of brigands to find a manlier captain.” She tittered to herself and took a long pull off the bottle.
On Discord Isle (The Dawnhawk Trilogy) Page 4
