Chasing the Lantern (19 page)

"Okay," she said, panting. "Now we've just got to get this up to the helm. Think you can push it up if I pull from the top of the stair?"

The young Mechanist stared at her. "No."

Lina cursed. "Damnation. You'll have to pull."

Allen shook his head. "I don't think that will work either."

Lina sat down with a scowl. They had to get the cannon up, or her plan wouldn't work. She glanced at Allen; the Mechanist wasn't looking at her though. Instead he stared at the complex system of steerage pulleys and cabling that hung from the gasbag frame above.

"What've you got on your mind?" she asked.

Allen started, looked at her, then examined his feet. "Nothing."

She wanted to sigh, but held back.
I still need him.
"No, go on, tell me."

He shrugged. "Well, it's just,
I
couldn't pull that up those steps. But if we change the pulleys up there, we could hang a rope from it, and the two of us together could pull one up."

Lina eyed the mechanisms. "All right, then. Let's get to work."

With a little coaxing, Lina found Allen to be a fairly clever fellow, though still incredibly bashful and uncertain of himself. If he'd had any initiative, life with Natasha's crew must have beaten it out of him.

At her urging the young Mechanist grabbed an iron gaff-pole and clambered up to prod at the steering mechanisms. Once he started, Lina found the idea easy enough to follow; he was disengaging several of the pulley systems so that they could feed the rope on the carronade on through. Between the two of them the work went quickly. Clambering up onto the aftcastle deck, they raised the artillery-piece up, and guided it back past the helm. It wasn't easy, but it was possible.

They moved six more. Hours passed. "There," Lina said when they were finally done. She collapsed, shaking, onto the pile of iron weapons. Only a few remained onboard in their original positions now. Her muscles quivered and she was drenched in sweat. Allen fell to the deck beside her, doing worse than her. They both lay there a moment, gasping for breath.

"What next?" croaked the young Mechanist.

Lina eyed the railing. "We go get a rope, thread it through the handles on these cannons, then tie it to this other rope attached to the rail there." She stopped. "Oh. And find me a sword." The back railing anchoring her crewmates was splintered and cracked; it wouldn't last much longer now.

Allen went back down below while she rested. Once back he worked at her directions, running the rope through the wrought-iron handles of the cannon and tying a knot to each before moving onto the next. When they were secure, Lina and Allen tied the rope to the one running back across the ship and over the bow. By the time they finished, the moon had risen, crossed the sky, and was about to set.

"All right," said Lina, standing and stretching. She would sleep for a week when this was all done. "Now we just shove this whole mess over."

"I don't know if I have the strength," said Allen plaintively.

"Nonsense," replied Lina. "You just start small."

Spitting into her palms, she grabbed the top-most cannon on the pile and shoved it. The weapon rocked, unwilling to budge, until she grit her teeth, set her feet and went at it again. It abruptly rolled down, bounced off the cannon below it with a clang to fall up against the splintered wooden railing, punching through.

Everything happened at once.

The cannon fell overboard, pulling the second one after it. Then the third, and fourth, and fifth. At the same time, the rail disintegrated and the rope supporting the cargo net hanging from the bow flew forward. Shards of wood flew through the air, pelting the two of them.

The two weights fought, pulling the rope back and forth. More cannons fell overboard, turning the tide and teasing the rope in their direction. As Lina had hoped, the weight of the cannons was greater than the whole of the crew. She ran back down to the deck, ignoring Allen's shouts, drawing the heavy cutlass he'd found for her.

Faint cries echoed up from over the bow. They grew in strength with every passing second until the cargo net full of pirates appeared. It rose up over the bow like a catch of so many screaming fish, flinging up over the gunwales to land on the forecastle deck. The pirates within all grunted at the impact, then yelled as they tumbled en masse down to the main deck. The guide-rope Lina had attached earlier for security pulled taut in the other direction now, bringing the crew to a halt and giving the whole ship a mighty jerk. Lina raised the cutlass and brought it down, severing the rope stretching from the cannons to her crewmates. It parted with a snap, and the stanchion holding the guide-rope parted from the deck with a wrenching squeal, whipping down the deck, past Allen, and off into the sky.

Silence stretched across the deck; most of the crew were stunned.
And that's Problem Two
. She ran forward, drawing her borrowed knife again. She knelt at the net and started sawing at its fibers. Allen was there in a moment, helping.

Coincidentally, Captain Fengel lay before her. He looked up blearily at her through the mesh. "Miss Stone?" he asked in confusion. "What in the Goddess' name did you do?"

Lina paused, sat up. "I," she said proudly, "have improvised."

Chapter Eleven

Fengel spun the wheel of the
Copper Queen,
despondent. It turned free, disengaged for the moment from the rudder.
That's it.
There's the thing exactly. I am utterly rudderless.

The primitive airship drifted through the night. His crew moved about its decks, cleaning up the mess left behind by Miss Stone's impromptu engineering. Ropes, cannons, and stray oddments like loading rammers and iron gaff-poles were being packed back out of the way. Lucian called out for reports while Henry saw to the wounded. Sarah Lome, Maxim, and a few others searched the lower decks for further surprises left by his wife. Fengel was weary now that his ire had run its course. He stood by the helm, not doing anything of worth.

And if he could, then what? The crew kept their eyes down, stayed out of his way. He didn't blame them. The battle aboard the
Dawnhawk
had been lost before the tide had even turned, and all because of him. But what should he have done? His men knew the risks; they were pirates, and there was no shame in falling to honorable combat. Yet for Henry, or any of his crew to be blithely executed while he watched? No. He could not, would not let that happen while he had the power to stop it.

Of course, that meant they'd lost the fight. And their ship. And more than a little of his pride. Natasha had won, leaving a hole that only revenge could fill. But she was long gone; that solace was lost to him.

The wheel still spun. Fengel put out a hand and stopped it. Through its spokes he spied Maxim ascending to the aftcastle deck. The aetherite looked disheveled; his clothes were burnt and his skin blackened in places. His duel with Konrad had unleashed strange, otherworldly energies. For all that, it was the exhaustion on his face that spoke his pain the loudest. Fengel must have looked even worse.

"We're secure for the moment, sir," said Maxim. He turned to mutter something to his shoulder, then turned back to his captain. "Let me take the wheel. You should head below and get some rest."

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
."