On Discord Isle (2 page)

Fengel wheeled about to face her. “Actually, dearest, it
is
somewhat important,” he said, voice tight. “If you’d stop to let two thoughts hammer together in that head of yours, then you might figure it out. This
Salmalin
is a Salomcani vessel. The Sheikdom of Salomca is at war with the Kingdom of Perinault. This is a Perinese merchant ship. Which means she would have had a Perinese naval escort. An escort, that if it returned, we would not be able to escape, seeing as we are currently tied up so very neatly to the
Minnow.
”

“Oh yes,” said the dowager with the hat. “The
Goliath
.
Very
charming captain. Stout ship too. Very modern.”

Natasha wheeled about. “Will you
shut up,
you daft old biddy? This is a private conversation!”

The woman’s hand flew to her throat. “Well!” she said. “I never!”

Ah, dearest wife. Always making things better.
Fengel considered how best to rein her in. Suddenly, he realized that he did not care to bother. No, the sooner they offloaded the cargo, the sooner they could be on their way, and the less likely all around that they would be set upon by an irritated Perinese naval frigate. He smiled at the first mate and captain of the
Minnow,
at Natasha and her goons. “By all means, continue the conversation. However, I think I shall go below.”

He tipped his tricorn hat and moved away to the lip of the hold. It wasn’t deep. Wooden crates were stacked right up to the edge, forming a convenient pyramid stair down into the dim spaces where the noontime sun did not penetrate. Rastalak and Henry Smalls were standing just within the dark, examining a crate. Fengel clambered down to join them.

The cargo area continued forward, stacked high with crates that Fengel knew would stretch all the way to the bow. Thin aisles had been left, dim and shadowed spaces that he couldn’t see too clearly. The planks of the floor were heavy and thick. Just below them, Fengel knew, lurked the bilge of the vessel. The faint smell of stale water rose up from it, mixing with the wood of the crates and the exotic scents of cargo.

The others looked up at his approach. “Well, what have we got, then?” asked Fengel.

His steward stood with pry bar in hand. “The lot here at the opening seems to be the most valuable,” he replied. “Got shipping marks from clear around the far side of the Edrus. Don’t know why they’d be coming from the Yulan. The rest is mostly dried bulk goods.”

“Hmm,” mused Fengel. “Breachtown has a huge need for raw goods. These have probably been in transit for months.”

“This seems inefficient,” rasped Rastalak. “Why so long in transport?” The little Draykin peered around the cargo hold, curious. Most of human civilization was clearly still new to him.

“Merchants try to pack as much profit into one trip as possible,” replied Fengel. “It’s a gamble, especially when people like us get involved. Still worth it, though, if the goods are
especially
valuable.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Their loss, our gain. Let’s crack it open.”

Henry bent to the nearest crate as a racket sounded behind them. Fengel whirled to see one of the Wiley twins clambering down into the hold. The fellow was tall and thuggish, with blond hair and pretty features. He had a particularly dim look in his eyes.

The fellow stumbled to the bottom of the stack. “Captain Blackheart sent me down to help,” he said.

Or to keep an eye on me
. “Then come along and help,” said Fengel dryly. “What was your name again?”

“Nate Wiley, sir,” replied the man.

Fengel nodded.
Nate Wiley. That’s it.
He hated forgetting a crewman’s name.

Henry rammed the pry bar into the lid while Rastalak wrenched at it with his claws. The lid popped free to reveal tightly packed rows of folded red fabric.

“What’s this?” asked Henry.

Fengel ran his fingers over the bolts. They were of a thick cut. He smiled. “Henry, I think we’ve hit the jackpot.”

He reached in and pulled out one bolt, unrolling it and laying it across the top of the crate. The fabric was a crimson rug with fine golden patterns stitched throughout. Henry whistled in appreciation.

“These, my fine, felonious fellows, are expensive rugs from the far away land of Catai. The well-heeled back in Perinault pay handsomely for such exotic goods.”

Nate Wiley gave a dissenting grunt. Fengel glanced over at the man, who met his eyes, blinked, and looked away uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry,” said Fengel acidly. “Is there something you wish to say?”

Natasha’s thug reluctantly met his gaze. “Sorry, sir. It’s just that these ain’t what yer thinking they are.”

Fengel leaned back. “Really. I suppose you’re an expert on exotic furnishings, then?”

Nate Wiley winced. “A little. This is Cataian, that’s for sure. But it’s the cheap stuff that comes out of the southern provinces. Supposed to look like the better stuff from the famous places of the north. Look at the corner there. That small weave? It says ‘made in Zhon-hei.’ Because they weave ‘em so quickly there, and so cheaply.”

The pirate quieted as everyone stared at him. Fengel grimaced. Every pirate had a slew of oddball skills. If it was true, their loot was now significantly less valuable. “Well, they’ve got to be worth something, at least,” said Fengel.

“Probably,” said Nate Wiley. “Most people don’t know, they just hear ‘it’s from Catai,’ and call it good. I bet Mr. Grey could get some decent prices for them. You an’ Captain Blackheart just need to—”

A harsh scream pierced the air, echoing down into the hold from the deck above. Fengel glanced back at Henry and Rastalak. “Stay here and get this loaded.” He scrabbled back up to the deck above. He drew his saber as he clambered up over the edge of the hatch, ready to fight. Then he stopped and slid the weapon back into its sheath.

Things were much the same as before. Crew and passengers were still separated, and the pirates still watched from the airship above. Now, though, Natasha was divesting the passengers of their valuables. She stood before a small man in a shabby brown suit, who rubbed one hand as if injured. Geoffrey Lords stood beside him with a sack. The other Wiley brother shadowed Natasha, lit lantern still in hand.

“I’m sorry,” said the little man. “I didn’t mean to yell. You just pulled, and it stuck.”

“Give us that ring,” snarled Natasha, “before I cut your Goddess-damned finger off.” She drew a dagger at her waist to make good on the threat.

“Sorry, sorry,” said the man.

Fengel flushed with anger. “What is the meaning of this?”

Natasha, the pirates, and the passengers all looked back at him. Geoffrey Lords had the decency to look abashed.

Fengel strode over and snatched the sack from his cook. “I asked, what you think you’re doing, Mr. Lords?”

Geoffrey winced. He opened his mouth to reply, but Natasha spoke up first. “We are looting and pillaging, Fengel.” She glared at him, voice tight with frustration. “That should be obvious, even to you.”

“That doesn’t mean we need to start cutting off fingers! The people are being cooperative.”

Natasha stared at him a long moment. “Good Goddess above! We are
pirates
, Fengel. Have you forgotten that? We’re here to take their things!”

“Um,” said the man in the suit. “I think I can get the ring off.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t keep a certain level of decorum! We have a reputation to maintain.”

“Yes,” cried Natasha. “As pirates! As plunderers! Raiders of the sea!”

“Natasha’s Reavers, mayhap, but Fengel’s Men have always been
gentlemen
.”

“But they’re not just Fengel’s Men anymore, now, are they?”

“And they’re not your Reavers either!”

“Really, it’s coming off now,” said the passenger. “It’s just that I’ve gained some weight lately.”

Fengel glared at the man. “Shut up.” He paused and took a deep breath before looking back to Natasha. “Though you are incapable of seeing it, there’s a perfectly logical reason behind this. Gentlemanly conduct results in more cooperative participants.”

“Who cares about participation?” yelled Natasha. “If they don’t participate, we just cut their heads off and take their things anyway!”

“Which guarantees that those who catch wind of that fact will fight us all that more in the future!” cried Fengel.

“Good! Then I’ll know I’m alive!”

“No! It just gets more of your people killed!”

“Not if you kill everyone else first! That makes sure you’ve got their attention.”

“Which isn’t needed if they’re cooperating in the first place!”

“People tend to need reminders,” she said sweetly. “Let me show you.”

Natasha drew a flintlock pistol with her free hand. She casually aimed it at Captain Mortimer. The man ducked aside with a yelp, and the first mate threw himself likewise aside, cursing. The gun went off with a crack like thunder, a thick plume of stinking sulfurous smoke erupting from it.

The shot was off target. It smacked into the ship’s bell with a loud and echoing call before spinning off in a wild ricochet. The ball hit the iron capstan in the middle of the deck, deflected upward, and impacted the mast just inches away from where Lina Stone stood. The young woman yelped and flinched away from the shower of splinters, losing her grip on the rigging at hand.

Her pet scryn screeched in surprise and flailed its weight about. Lina yelled at it and the creature became even more upset, coiling up to push away from her as it threw itself into the air. The added motion threw Lina even more off balance as she windmilled desperately.

It did not help.

Fengel watched as she toppled from her perch. Lina reacted quickly, though, whipping out a long dagger from her belt and stabbing into the sail beside her. It tore, but slowly enough that it looked for a moment as if she would ride it all the way down to the deck safely. Then she hit the cross-stitching joining one section of sail to another. The dagger was yanked from her grip, and Lina fell, landing hard with a thud from fifteen feet up.

Fengel wheeled on his wife. “You utter madwoman! Someone might have been killed!”

Natasha looked embarrassed. “That was the
point.
”

“But not one of our crew! It’s a good thing that you’re
such
an awful shot.”

“I can hit the mark when it counts!”

“No, you can’t. You never notice a damned thing either, until its too late! Just like that storm you got us caught in the other week. I
told
you to watch for it before I went below!”

“It was a sudden squall,” hissed Natasha. “And you’re one to talk. You’re so obsessed with cleaning your coat that you missed the call on this ship three times over.”

“Proper grooming is an important part of comportment,” Fengel replied with dignity. “As if you don’t spend an hour perfecting that ‘disheveled-yet-attractive-pirate-princess appearance’ each time we come back to port.” He paused, turning to one of the male passengers, looking for an ally. “Women, right?”

The man nodded gravely. “Quite right, sir. I swear, every time I try to take my wife out to the opera, she wastes half the night ‘prettying up.’“

The old dowager with the fancy hat raised an eyebrow. “That, sir, is a crass and unworthy generalization.” She looked to Natasha. “Are you going to let that stand? How often does your husband here avoid his duties to slip off with his mates?”

“Ha!” barked Natasha. “You’d think him, Henry and Lucian were all joined at the hip. Mixed crew, my arse! Just the other night I found the three of them playing cards in an empty hardtack crate.”

Fengel flushed as he realized that everyone on deck was now a part of their argument, and that it was probably his fault.
Whatever. We’re done here for now.

He pivoted on his heel and took a step back toward the hold, where their loot awaited. He paused at the lip, unable to resist. “If someone wasn’t so unbearably afraid of being her father,” he called back, “then maybe I would spend more time on deck.”

There was a pause, and then a surprised shriek of anger. Fengel half turned, eager to catch the look of rage etched across Natasha’s face. His smug amusement changed to alarm as she grabbed the oil lantern from the nearest Wiley twin and threw it straight at him. Fengel ducked, barely, and the thing sailed overhead in a beautiful parabolic arc.

Right into the cargo hold.

Chapter Two

Lina picked up another rug. It split as she did so, separating down a charred section she hadn’t seen at first. She made a small sound of disgust and threw the pieces into a pile with the others.

“This one’s ruined,” she said aloud.

Her voice echoed in the almost-empty hold of the
Dawnhawk.
It bounced from the bulkhead walls, with their portholes peering out into night. It carried from the distant forward bulkhead all the way down to the stair at the stern, past the single lantern dangling overhead, through the insufficient illumination it cast on the burned and broken crates from the earlier raid on the
Minnow
. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and wet ash.

“Only in comparison to your beauty,” said Allen.

For the Goddess’s sake.
Lina didn’t want to have to deal with Allen right now. Her whole right side ached and there were still splinters in her neck from Natasha’s ricochet. Also, Runt was still upset with the earlier incident and refused to leave her shoulder. He’d been overeating of late, too.

She glanced over at Ryan Gae, the only other person in the room, who smiled in quiet amusement. “I am flattered,” she replied, “that I hold up well to a cheap foreign rug charred into stinking ash.” She glared at Ryan. “But I wasn’t asking for the comparison. Tally that one down as ruined.”

Her two friends couldn’t have been more different if they’d tried. Allen was short and frail where Ryan was tall and stout. Allen wore the heavy goggles and leather coat of a Mechanist, while Ryan dressed in the loose shirt and trousers of a lifelong pirate. While Ryan laughed at the world, Allen always seemed to have something in his hands to hide behind. And Allen, unlike Ryan, was nursing a massive crush on Lina.