On Discord Isle (27 page)

Not everyone appeared so eager, however. Both Etarin and Jahmal, her two makeshift officers, exchanged worried glances. Tall Farouk seemed oblivious, staring around at the tunnel in curiosity, and tentatively touching the deep bruise across his cheek that Fengel had left him.

Natasha snorted.
Realms Below with it
.
Best get this lot moving again.

“All right,” she growled. “They’re limping and bloodied. Let’s finish them off.”

“My fingers!” wailed a crewman whose name Natasha hadn’t bothered to learn. The man was short and wiry, and clutched a bloody rag around one hand. “That one with the monocle took two of my
fingers!
”

Natasha sighed. It was true. Not only had Fengel been in the gully, he hadn’t been bound as a prisoner. He’d been armed, and shouting orders. Her incompetent, infuriating, lackwit husband had somehow finagled his way into leading the Perinese.

Just like he’d said he would.

I’ll show him
. She’d put his dupes to the sword and prove once and for all just which one of them was more capable, which one of them was the better captain.

“Walk it off,” she snarled at the injured sailor. “And remember, golden sovereigns for the one who brings me Captain Fengel alive!”

Jahmal looked uneasily at her. “Kalyon....”

“What?”

“Shouldn’t we be making for the
Goliath
?”

Natasha paused. What was left of the Perinese had been with Fengel, for some reason. Now they were all stuck up a tunnel leading who-knew-where, leaving their steamship behind them, lightly defended if at all.

Chasing down and thrashing her husband would be satisfying. But she’d risen to control over the crew of the
Salmalin
by more than personal force. She’d also promised a solution to their troubles. The wise move would be to retreat, take the
Goliath,
and then strand Fengel by sailing away.

But that wasn’t good enough.

“Dog!” she shouted, slapping the man with her free hand. He flinched and gave a yelp. Natasha gestured down the tunnel with her sword. “The Perinese are backed into a corner here. We crush them, and
then
we’ll take their ship. Now, forward!”

Etarin wiped more blood from his face and shared another look with Jahmal. Natasha ignored it, deciding to deal with them later. She raised her scimitar and led the way down the tunnel. The crew roared and followed after, sloshing through the stream deeper into the heart of the mountain.

Tiny rivulets and waterfalls appeared along the sides of the tunnel, combining together to form the stream flowing back outside. That was strange, but Natasha ignored the feature to focus instead on the sanguine light that grew with every step she took. It resolved into an opening, where the tunnel widened. Natasha steeled herself and plunged through, ready again for the fray.

The tunnel opened into a massive chamber formed of smoothly polished brass. Four walls of the same material rose up and outward, like the inside of an inverted pyramid. Natasha found herself standing in the middle of a platform dais raised several feet above a perfectly flat, square floor. A low, waist-high wall rose from the lip of the platform, smooth and unbroken but for a pair of wide stairs. One was directly ahead, leading down to the floor. Another ascended on her right, up to a causeway. That causeway spanned the length of the room to a similar stair and platform against the far opposite wall. Below it an arched opening led deeper into the mountain.

Illumination came in the form of a lurid red glow. It filled the space, emanating from ten tall, fat, transparent cylinders. Glass or translucent crystal, Natasha didn’t know. But within flowed something viscous that resembled nothing so much as red-hot magma, rising up from below the floor to disappear past the half-seen gearworks that covered the ceiling. Chains dangled down at regular intervals, suspending heavy metal blocks above the floor. These were taller than a man, perfectly square and formed of the same material as the rest of the room, with odd transparent panels adorning their surfaces. One of the blocks did not dangle, resting instead on the causeway to the right; the chain connecting it ran slack to the far end of the room.

Farouk and Etarin ran into her, followed by the rest of the Salomcani. Bloodthirsty yells quieted as Natasha’s crew stared about in confusion.

“By the Goddess,” muttered Etarin, wiping away more blood from the cut on his forehead. “Where are we?”

“Voornish ruin,” said Natasha with a smile. She’d been surprised at first, but it wasn’t that hard to figure out. Her father had seen enough of them, and she wasn’t unfamiliar with the places either. “Ha. We’ll loot this place down to the bone once we take care of business. There’s more than a few nobles back on Edrus who’ll pay their eyeteeth for Voorn leftovers, and I know just the fences to reach them.” She raised her scimitar. “Congratulations, me hearties. We’re all richer than pig shit!” Her new crew gave a ragged cheer, not entirely seeming to understand.

Jahmal grabbed at her arm. Natasha opened her mouth to snarl at the man, then stopped. With his other hand, the thin sailor pointed down the platform stair at the center of the room. “Kalyon,” he said. “Look.”

Natasha jerked her arm away, then peered through the gloom. A figure stood there, wavering slightly. Human-shaped, though it reflected the light of the magma as if it were wearing armor.

“Hara hailo!”
it called out, in a tinny voice that just reached up to her on the platform.

She didn’t recognize the language. Natasha exchanged a look with Jahmal, then faced the rest of the crew. “Forward, all of you. And have your weapons at the ready. Fengel, I mean, the Perinese, are in here somewhere.”

Cautiously, she led the way down to the floor of the great room. No one jumped out at her. No one triggered any clever traps.

When Natasha reached the figure, she stopped. It was a metallic armature, almost a skeleton, formed out of the same Voornish brass as everything else here. The torso, head, and forearms were like a child’s suit of armor, covered in alien scrollwork. Two great glass eyes peered at her. It tottered on skeletal feet, its arms bound around its midsection by coils of well-tied rope.

“Hara hailo?”
it asked. “
Korstachi?
Or this one? Can you understand this dialect?”

The last had come in clear, though weirdly accented, Perinese. Natasha frowned.

“This one is reasonably certain that this dialect is correct,” continued the machine. “Earlier speech samples indicate a 95 percent chance of success, with only a 5 percent chance of failure.” It struggled unsuccessfully against the ropes that bound it. Whoever had tied it up had done a thorough job. It wiggled back and forth, threatening to tip over entirely.

“What is it, Kalyon?” asked Farouk. He peered past Natasha, worry and fascination playing out on his face, the swollen bruise twisting it ghastly in the reddish glow. The other crewmen stared at the thing as well, keeping well at her back.

“It’s an automaton,” muttered Natasha in Perinese. “An actual Voornish automaton.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the machine. “The calculations were correct. Please, you must not be here. Take yourselves from this facility, all of you! It is very dangerous, and recent external activity has damaged the cooling pumps—”

Jahmal raised his long knife and took a half-step back. “It’s some trap. The thing speaks Perinese!”

“Shut up,” replied Natasha in irritation. “I think it speaks many languages. I’ve heard of these. It’s a working Voornish machine. Probably priceless. But who tied it up? It’s Fengel. It had to be Fengel...but why?” She straightened, peering around at the cavernous room.

“Do you know the other humans?” asked the machine. “Oh, please. You must ask them to leave. They did not listen to this one, though this one is certain that the appropriate dialect was used, especially in light of recent evidence. But! The machineries here are very delicate, especially after an unknown violent event on the exterior of the facility—”

Natasha looked back at the rambling automaton. “Where did these others go?”

“Oh,” said the automaton. “They never left.”

A screeching cacophony echoed from up above. Natasha glanced up to see the block resting upon the causeway up above slide over and fall off. The chains anchoring it to the machineries in the ceiling went taut, and the thing swung down at the gathered Salomcani.

The raiders yelled and scrabbled to get out of the way. Natasha’s instincts kicked in and she dropped, throwing herself flat. Farouk landed beside her, covering her head and torso protectively. She opened her mouth to yell at him, but then the block swung overhead with just inches to spare. It connected with the Voornish automaton, and both went flying past.

Natasha glanced back up. The block continued on, the attached chains guiding it in a long arc toward the translucent tubes on the far left wall. As it reached the apex of its swing, the chains suspending it from the ceiling snapped, letting the thing fly through the air. It slammed violently into the tubes with a resounding clang. The metal block and the Voornish automaton fell away, the latter with a distressed wail. Natasha spied several long, glowing cracks that the impact had left in the glass. She winced as the block slammed into the ground, clattering out of sight.

“Hayes!” called a familiar voice. “You idiot!”

Natasha would know Fengel’s holler anywhere. She looked up to see him standing on the far platform, where he’d risen from hiding behind the low wall there. He shook his saber at the causeway, where a panting, disheveled figure stood. Natasha recognized the sub-lieutenant of the
Goliath
, looking a little worse for wear.

“You’ve missed them all completely!” continued her husband. “And that automaton was a priceless artifact, probably.”

Natasha glanced around. It was true. Her new crew lay all wherever they had thrown themselves. By some miracle the trap had managed to miss them all.

Now I’ve got you
. Natasha grinned and climbed to her feet. Or tried to. Farouk still had her clasped protectively tight. “Off,” she hissed at him. “Get off, fool!” She slapped with her free hand until he let go and then scrabbled upwards. She raised her scimitar, resting the blade against one shoulder. “There you are,” she said. “I figured that you’d have tried to set an ambush, but I didn’t expect it would be anything worth worrying over. Looks like I was right.”

Fengel rapped the pommel of his saber against the metal wall. “Well, you would have, if
that idiot up on the causeway
could follow orders!” The last he obviously shouted so that Hayes would hear.

The Salomcani climbed to their feet behind her, muttering curses and angry threats. Fengel blinked down at them. Then he gave a whistle. The rest of the men of the
Goliath
rose up from behind the wall where they’d been likewise hiding.

Natasha cheered. She hadn’t stopped to check casualties after the fight in the gully outside, but there were fewer Perinese than she remembered. “I seem to recall someone saying that the crew was only as good as the captain,” she sneered.

Fengel’s eyes widened in outrage, his eyepiece falling away to dangle from its chain. He started in alarm and carefully replaced it, wiping the monocle against his jacket first. When he looked back to her, it was focused through the crazed glass of a cracked lens.

A warm, fuzzy feeling grew in Natasha’s belly.
Finally
. He’d finally failed to beat her in wordplay. Oh, she was sure he’d had a clever response, but it was ruined by his ridiculous affectation.

“You make a very good point,” said Fengel.

Natasha blinked. “I do?”

“Yes. I take full responsibility for this trap’s failure to crush you. Even if the hands that set it in motion belonged to my moderately treacherous, and
increasingly incompetent
sub-lieutenant,” Fengel projected his voice toward the causeway. “I was still the one who placed him in charge, and thus it’s my fault.”

Fengel examined the nails of his free hand. The room was momentarily silent, save for the clanking whirr of the machineries overhead.

“What?” exclaimed Natasha. “No. You don’t get to do that!”

Her husband raised an eyebrow. Somehow, the monocle stayed in place. “I’m sorry?”

“You don’t get to win by giving in. I got you that time. Admit it!”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about. I’ve already said that you had a point—”

“There!” Natasha pointed her scimitar at him. “That! You’re doing it again.”

Fengel sighed. “As always, you’re being irrational. Not to mention childish. Not that I expect anything else of you.”

Natasha realized that he’d turned the conversation around on her. Again.

“You. Ass.” She gritted her teeth. “You smug, condescending pig. How you conned your way atop that sad sack of low-tide leavings beside you is mystifying.”

“There was a need,” replied Fengel. “I filled it.” He swept his arms wide to encompass the Perinese sailors to either side. “You see, a
real
leader doesn’t just command. He lifts his people up and shows them the way to victory. He listens. Which I’m guessing isn’t something you’ve ever done. How much bullying did you have to do in order to get that pack of feral animals to follow you?”

“Feral animals?” Rage and pride filled her voice. Natasha stood up straighter and slashed out with the tip of her blade. “My men are Salomcani! The people of the Sheikdom are fiercer fighters and better sailors by far than those sheep-loving peacocks you’ve got following you.”

Fengel slammed his free hand against the brass wall before him. “Fierce fighters? Hardly. Any intensity they show is only to make up for their lack of skill. And the Perinese consistently sail circles around them on the open water. The
Salmalin
was running from the
Goliath,
I seem to recall.”

“The only reason your sots can even sail is because they can’t wait to escape the Kingdom!”

“How dare you, you pox-ridden harlot. The people of the Kingdom are men of breeding and—”