Scimitar War (24 page)

But the screams…

A portion of Edan’s mind was appalled by what he had done, but the overpowering rage smothered his sympathy. They were Imperial Navy, and they deserved what they got. They would have destroyed him if they could, and the only way he could fight back was with wind and fire. They had stood between him and vengeance, between him and the seamage, and he would destroy them all if he had to.

He could see four small boats pulling away from him in the darkness, escapees from the ship. They, too, were imperials, but he forced down the rage and let them go. They were too small to yield much power by burning them, and too few to be a threat. Besides, they would all burn, in time…

≈

“Can we not put the sail up, Mister Jundis?” the young ensign asked, putting all the whiny petulance of his youth into the plea.

“Not until we’re well away, Mister Twyne,” the lieutenant snapped. “Tend to your oar and keep your mouth shut. Your captain just gave his life to spare your pimply arse, so show some respect and row the skin off your palms without one more whimper.”

“Yes, sir,” the youth mumbled.

They’d been pulling hard for four hours, and Jundis estimated they were now about four miles from Akrotia. Its glow had faded completely now. Shortly after he had seen
Iron Drake
explode in flames—may the Gods of Light claim the souls of Captain Pendergast and the rest of the doomed crew—the fires had slowly banked until the city was the color of a dying ember.

The contents of the captain’s box were invaluable. Using the knot log and the golden pocket watch, then doing some easy calculations, Jundis determined that Akrotia was making a steady three knots toward the north. They were steadily increasing their lead, now that the unnatural wind had abated. The trade winds should pick up soon, though he wouldn’t trust them until he had put several more miles between themselves and the monstrosity. Until then, he arranged staggered watches on the oars with everyone pulling their share.

Akrotia still loomed large to the south when the sky began to lighten with the gray of pre-dawn. Its lofty spires had no sooner glinted with the first light of the sun when the young ensign resumed his complaints. Jundis had just about had enough.

“Have a care, Mister Twyne. We have three hundred sea miles to reach Vulture Isle, and this boat will move much faster if relieved of the weight of even
one
skinny ensign!”

“Or we could just eat ‘im,” one of the sailors muttered.

Chuckles broke out around the longboat, and the ensign’s face flushed. It served him right; a little humility would do the selfish boy good. Jundis hauled on his oar and directed his thoughts to mental calculations of their speed, when they might arrive, and how far ahead of Akrotia they would be when they got there. Anything to keep him from hearing in his mind the screams of his shipmates as
Iron Drake
burst into flames.

Chapter 16

Lies and Revelations

“Captain…Farin, is it?” Admiral Joslan squinted at the ship’s papers, then eyed the slovenly young man who stood before him, clenching his hands and shifting his weight in obvious discomfort.

“That’s right, Milord Admiral, sir.” The man sketched a sailor’s salute and bit his lip. “Captain Seoril died some weeks ago now, and I—”

“Yes, it’s all here in your log. This is your hand?” Joslan peered at the poor penmanship as Farin bobbed his head. “You state here that your captain died four weeks ago, but you apparently have been keeping the books for…” He flipped through a few pages. The same scribbled writing preceded the captain’s supposed demise. “…about six weeks now.”

“Yes, sir,” Farin said, still bobbing his head. “The captain, well, he was sick for a while, see, an’ he asked me ta—”

“I understand.” Joslan was annoyed. This Farin chap had the look of an outlaw, as did the rest of his crew. He glanced over the exhaustive inventory of the ship’s cargo compiled by the lieutenant’s men. The mixed load of valuables looked like no commercial cargo he’d ever seen, though to be honest, he had never bothered himself with merchant affairs beyond pressing into service the occasional sailor when the navy was short of seamen. Yet, to be found where Count Norris claimed to have encountered pirates not three weeks ago… He clenched his teeth. The situation stank like bilge water, but there was no clear evidence of any wrongdoing.

“Maintaining such a large crew must cut into your profit margin, Captain Farin,” he said as he scanned the crew list. “Why so many men?”

“The Sand Coast is a dangerous stretch o’ water, Milord Admiral. We had to fight off more’n one attack by pirates. One was even a warship, one o’ them low galleys they have down there. We was lucky to escape alive.”

“Yet you’ll profit rather well by the venture.” He returned to the manifest. “Mostly copper and spice, but a rather mixed lot of this and that. Tell me, for I’m a military man and unversed in the ways of commerce; why not trade for a single commodity?”

“A mixed load’s better for us, bein’ as we don’t have a set buyer, Milord Admiral, sir.” Farin shrugged. “Captain Seoril set it up that way, and I figured: why change? He always said that we was far enough and long enough out of the market that we don’t rightly know what’ll sell best, so a mixed load is less risk. That silver plate we bought up, fer instance. Why, that’s bound to sell, but at what margin? If it’s high, a whole boat load of it would be worth a fortune. But if it’s low when we make the market, well, it might not even pay for the sailors’ wages an’ vittles. So we got a bit of everything, and we’ll sell it straight to the bazaar shops in Tsing…after payin’ the import tax and city tithe, o’ course. Cuttin’ the buyer out of the middle saves us a tidy bit.”

“I see,” Joslan said, though he didn’t, and also didn’t particularly care. “And why were you in that mangrove channel in Middle Cay?”

“Why, we had a long hard run up from the Sand Coast, milord, and
King Gull
ain’t as spry as she used to be. We was restin’ up and takin’ stock, doin’ some repairs and such.”

“I can certainly understand that, but why that particular spot? It’s been reported as a pirate’s lair.”

Farin stifled a snort of laughter. “Oh, aye, that’s what yer lieutenant said, but there ain’t no truth to it, milord. There ain’t been pirates in the Shattered Isles for near two years, not with the seamage here.” He looked around at the huge chamber, and grinned. “I always wanted to see inside her palace, I did. Thank’e fer that.”

“But why go to the trouble of hauling that galleon up a narrow channel, Captain?” Joslan pressed irritably. He knew the man was dodging, but he couldn’t trip him up. “Why not anchor out in the lagoon?”

“Oh, that! Well, it’s the merfolk, sir.” Farin’s eyes widened. “Captain Seoril marked that spot as the only place in the Shattered Isles that was safe from them bloodthirsty fish folk. They don’t like the brackish water up them channels, it seems.”

“I see,” Joslan said with another scowl. The man seemed to have all the answers, well-rehearsed though they might be. But everything was in order, and the admiral could find no reason to hold him. “Very well, Captain Farin, you are free to go.”

“Oh, thank you, Milord Admiral, sir!” the man gushed, bowing and grinning.

“But remember, Captain. The Shattered Isles are under imperial control now. Be assured that this area is no longer lawless, and we will be maintaining a strong presence.” He handed over the ship’s papers and made a shooing motion.

“Oh, I’ll remember that, and don’t you worry, sir. We’re sailin’ straight for Tsing to offload this haul, and then north to cooler breezes and friendlier folk. Thank’e again, milord.”

The fawning man left and Joslan scowled, grabbed his cup and gulped down the blackbrew. He didn’t know why, but he had the feeling he had just made a big mistake.

≈

“Sails sighted, sir. South by southwest, about five miles,” the officer of the watch said as Donnely stepped onto the quarterdeck. “I was just sending a boy to fetch—”

“Thank you, Mister Tanner. I heard the lookout’s hail. Your glass, if you please.” Donnely was curious. Pendergast shouldn’t return for weeks if Captain Brelak’s coordinates had been correct, and there was no reason for any other ship to be approaching from that direction. He couldn’t help but think that this boded ill.

“The lookout reports four small boats, visible only from the maintop right now.” He handed over the glass.

“Boats?” Donnely’s curiosity doubled. “Native fishermen, perhaps?”

“No, sir,” Tanner said. “The natives paddle their outrigger canoes, they don’t sail them.”

The captain’s curiosity blossomed into dread, though he kept his face blank. What kind of trouble had Pendergast gotten himself into out in the middle of nowhere? “No sign of
Iron Drake
?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well, Lieutenant. Sound all hands to haul anchor and make sail. We’ll go out to intercept, and see if we can learn what is afoot here.” He raised the glass and scanned the horizon as Tanner relayed his orders, but saw nothing but white-capped swells.

“Mister Tanner, send a message ashore to let Lieutenant Parks know our intentions.” Donnely scanned the heavily wooded mountains of Vulture Isle, and wondered how the patrols fared. His first mate and half of his marines were ashore, hacking through the jungle with the island natives in search of the cannibal tribe that lived in the northeast highlands. “We should be back before evening.”

“Aye, sir!” Tanner relayed the order, and a skiff manned with a stout crew and an ensign skimmed away.

“Let’s haul anchor, Mister Tanner. Jibs and tris’ls to bear her away from the reef. The deck is yours.” He lowered the viewing glass, snapped it closed and handed it back to the lieutenant. “I’ll be in my cabin. Call me up when we’re in hailing distance of the boats.”

≈

Sailing was one of Mouse’s favorite things in the world; higher on the list even than rum and food. Well, higher than food, anyway, and a lot higher than the food he’d been eating the last few days. This sailing, however, was the second worst sailing he’d ever experienced, the worst having been experienced from the inside of a footlocker, stuffed under a load of dirty socks. It was so bad, in fact—bad food, bad beds, no light and that nasty guard always pointing that stupid crossbow at him—that he was trying to figure out a way to coax Cynthia into an escape.

He knew she could do it if she really wanted to, but she didn’t seem to want to do anything. All she did was sleep and talk with Feldrin, then feed the baby and sleep some more. The longer they sat in this smelly, dark windowless cell, the less likely it seemed that they would ever get out.

He sighed and cuddled with Kloe, which was just about the only bright spot of this whole trip. Babies were right up there with rum and good sailing in Mouse’s book, and Kloe was a good baby. He did make a mess every once in a while, but what went in had to come out one way or another, and with Cynthia doing all the feeding, the messes really weren’t that bad. Mouse fluttered his wings, which stirred the stale air enough to flutter the downy wisps of baby hair and dry the light sheen of perspiration on Kloe’s brow. The baby smiled up at him, and he smiled back. He could already tell that they were going to be good friends. And one day, Mouse just knew that Kloe would be a seamage like Cynthia, though then Mouse would have a decision to make, one that he didn’t really want to think about.

But that wouldn’t be for years, at least, so like most things Mouse didn’t like, he ignored it. Now, if he ignored that big ugly guy in the corner with the crossbow, maybe he’d go away, too.

≈

“Stow those boats forward, Mister Tanner. A round of grog for these men; they look as if they could use it.”

“Thank you, Captain Donnely,” Jundis said as he collapsed onto a hatch cover. He had seen his crew safely aboard
Cape Storm
before finally climbing the boarding ladder himself; it was what Captain Pendergast would have done, he was sure. The lieutenant looked proudly at his men. There wasn’t a slack heart in the bunch; even Ensign Twyne had bucked up. They had rowed and sailed three hundred sea miles, by his calculations, and were ready to do three hundred more if necessary. But the sight of
Cape Storm’s
billowing sails had been sweet, and the grog he gulped down was even sweeter. After a healthy draught, he stood, saluted sharply, and delivered the bad news. “Captain, I regret to report the destruction of His Majesty’s Ship
Iron Drake
. All hands not present, including Captain Pendergast, were lost.”

“Destroyed?” the captain cried, gaping at him in shock. “How, Mister Jundis? What in the Nine Hells happened?”

“We found the floating city, Captain Donnely, sir. Or rather, it found us.” Jundis met Donnely’s glare and struggled to maintain a stiff mien as the emotion of that night swept over him once again. He gave a detailed account of the events as best he remembered them, as the captain looked more and more incredulous with each passing moment. “Then Akrotia used the wind to pull
Iron Drake
toward it, and swallowed it up in a ball of fire, sir. There was no chance of survivors.”

“Swallowed it up?” Donnely glared at the lieutenant as if he were the cause of this catastrophe, not simply the bearer of bad news. “Explain that, if you please.”

“Sir,” Jundis said, appalled to hear his voice crack. “We were about half a mile away when a big gate opened up. The captain ordered me to take the ship’s books and as many men as we could fit in the boats. After we rowed away,
Iron Drake
turned toward the city. I think they fired a broadside, but I didn’t see if it did any damage. Then the whole ship just went up in flames.” He tapped the teakwood box Pendergast had entrusted him with. “I took the liberty of appending Captain Pendergast’s log with as accurate an account as I could remember, sir. It’s all in there.”

“By the Nine Hells!” Donnely swore, looking sternly into Jundis’ face, then lifting his gaze to stare off to the south. “Where and when did this occur, Lieutenant?”

“Two nights ago in the midwatch, about three hundred miles south, sir. We made good time once we got into the trades, sir, averaging about five knots. I made some calculations, and figured that Akrotia was making about three knots when last we saw it. If it maintains that speed, we’ve got about forty hours until it’s here. Less if it can use the trade winds to move itself faster.”