The Gospel According to Verdu (a Steampunk Novel) (The Brofman Series) (6 page)

The natural seaside beauty shrank away from Chenda, and the beginnings of a shabby port town shifted in from the edges of her vision. The town of Blackwell rose from the sand like a tar-paper barnacle. The wooden buildings, protected from the grinding sand and salty wind by thick layers of pitch, were smudged with all manner of detritus brought in with the breeze—sea grasses, trash paper, and feathers being the most prominent of adornments. The outlying buildings collected most of the filth, or perhaps those closer to the center of town were more diligent in their collection of litter from the sides of their houses and shops.

When the bicycle cart reached its destination, the delivery boy pulled up in front of the
Blackwell Gazette
building and hopped off. “It’s the end of my route, lady. Sorry.”

“
Thank you,” Chenda said as she slid off the back of the trike. She started thinking about her next steps. The first ship out of the port was what she needed. She thought about Candice. The professor had a mind for planning out these things. She would know what ship they would need and how much it would cost, what papers they would want to acquire and how to get them. Chenda spent several moments trying to plot like Candice, but in her rushed state, she could not begin to sort out the details.

First things first
, Chenda thought.
If what I need is a boat, the docks are a good place to start
.

She walked down the gentle slope toward Blackwell Port. Past the mercantile shops of the town center, the fish stalls of the market, the pawnshops, sailors’ taverns, warehouses, and workshops that lined the street, Chenda made her way to the pier. Although it was still relatively early, the dock was a bustle of activity. A thin man with even thinner gray hair stood on a large box in the middle of the dock, and a crowd of assorted fishermen were gathered around him. The man on the box, dressed more like a High Road shopkeeper than a fisherman, waved first one hand then the other, pointing to various members of the crowd.

“
The Vulture will be through in just a minute or two, lass,” a voice came from Chenda’s left. She turned and looked at the man who had spoken, a small dark-haired man with sad brown eyes and smooth skin the color of caramelized cream.

“
What’s going on?” she asked.

The man rubbed the back of his hand on the end of his nose and sniffed. “Sellin’ my boat,” he said, his voice dripping with shame. “Be easier if they just drowned me. She was the fastest ship to ever cut the waves, and I just couldn’t keep her.”

“
Excuse me,” Chenda said, and she walked toward the man on the crate, who was gathering the bids. “Twenty-five hundred, to the man in the blue. Do I hear twenty-five and five? Yes, to you, in the green cap, twenty-five and five. Do I hear twenty-six? We are at twenty-five and five. Anyone for twenty-six?” The bid held for a moment, and no takers seemed ready to up the bid. Chenda hesitated a moment more and then said meekly, “Twenty-six.”

All heads turned to her, and the auctioneer looked at her twice to be sure he had heard the bid. “I have twenty-six. Back to you, sir, raise to twenty-six and five?”

The fisherman in the green cap shrugged at the offer. “It wasn’t worth twenty-three,” he said. “Only bid that high to respect Trygan. Let her take it.” He turned and shuffled down the pier and away from the crowd.

“
Twenty-six going once . . . twice. . . . Sold to the aviatrix,
The Poor Man’s Bounty
,” said the auctioneer. With that, the rest of the crowd dispersed.

Hopping down from his perch, the auctioneer strode over to Chenda and shuffled some papers. “Ah,” he said. “
The Poor Man’s Bounty
. Vile name, don’t you think? Well, assuming you have funds to transfer to the Second Bank of Kite’s Republic, you can call that old tub whatever you like.” He shone his eyes eagerly at Chenda, his hand held palm upward expectantly.

“
Of course,” Chenda said. “A check?”

“
That will be acceptable,” he said. Chenda pulled a payment form from her pouchbelt and wrote out the promissory for her bank. It was a good chunk of the savings she shared with Fenimore, but if ever there was a rainy day in their lives, this was it. With check in hand, the auctioneer waved a curt good-bye and muttered a “Pleasure doing business” over his shoulder as he left.

Chenda sighed with relief; she had a boat! She just threw money at the problem, and there came an easy solution. Realizing she had no clue where to look for her new purchase, she called after the man. “Hey, wait! Where is
The Poor Man’s Bounty
?” The auctioneer never turned to reply. Chenda stomped her foot on the dock in frustration, then noticed the smooth-skinned man, the one who was evidently the last owner of the
Bounty
, eyeing her. She turned away, deciding to seek help elsewhere.

Her plan was simple: she would just walk down all the piers, looking for a boat that said
The Poor Man’s Bounty
on the back end, and that would be her ride east. But after a quarter hour of searching, she stood right back where she had started, completely confused and frustrated. All of the fishermen and sailors on the pier either did not know or were not willing to say where the boat was. She sat down on the crate where the auctioneer had stood, and put her head in her hands. She berated herself about buying merchandise sight unseen. True, it had been some time since she had done any proper shopping, but had she lost all her good sense?

“
What’s the matter, lady? Lose something?” said the smooth-skinned man, who was still lounging on the dock.

“
Yes, your boat in fact. Any clue where it is? I’m rather in a hurry.” Chenda’s tone dripped with annoyance.

“
Oh, she’s
your
boat now, I guess. But I do know where she is,” he said, rubbing the back of his hand on his nose. “She’s about a half mile up the coast”—he smiled at Chenda—“in dry dock.”

Chapter 5

The noble choice

“
Let’s get this over with,” Captain Endicott said as he held Candice’s thin waist against the railing of the
Brofman
. This was the part of air travel that Candice hated; it was just
so
undignified, so unprofessional. She would have preferred to vomit belowdecks in the tiny guest cabin, out of sight and with enough seclusion to focus on how miserable the whole experience really was. Sadly, Max had a firm “no puke belowdecks” policy, so there she stood in the airship’s stern, truly regretting her breakfast choices that morning.

As the
Brofman
picked up speed and rolled to the east, the professor’s stomach rolled to the north, and up came the next round. The captain held Candice’s blond hair in a ball at the base of her neck and then, when the roaring seemed finished, he handed her his cleanest handkerchief. As she blotted her lips, he said, “I can’t believe I let you on my airship when you puke every time. Oh, well, I love you nevertheless.”

Candice’s head snapped up and she stared at him. Shocked by his casually using the
L
word, she blushed, turned to the railing, and vomited once again.

“
I’ll take that as ‘I love you, too,’” he said.

Chenda followed the dragging footsteps of the former captain of
The Poor Man’s Bounty
. To say she was furious barely covered her emotions. Dry dock. Minutes were ticking by, and with each tick of the clock, her husband was getting farther ahead of her. What a fool she was to buy a boat that was not even in the water! She toyed with the idea of waiting the two days more for the
Brofman
, but there were no guarantees that the captain would agree to go after Fenimore. As much as Captain Endicott loved his crew like a father cares for his sons, he was hesitant to interfere with the private deals his boys made, especially when sovereign governments were involved. But the captain’s intention for their next route was toward the east. . . . At least as far as Atoll Belles, perhaps as far as Crider Island. That could be just three days for her on the
Brofman
, and she might be able to catch up to Fenimore before he slipped into the stinking hole that was the Tugrulian Empire. She was so frightened of going back there.

“
Is the damned thing even seaworthy?” she snapped at the man she was following.

“Hey! That’s no way to talk about her! She’s fine and dandy,” he answered, then sheepishly added, “I just couldn’t pay for her repairs the last time I ran her aground.”

“
That happens a lot for you then, dragging your ship up onto various landmasses?” she said.

Trygan coughed and rubbed the back of his hand over his nose. “Sometimes I hit a reef . . . once another boat.”

“
Perhaps it is best you are out of the boat-captaining business,” Chenda said. She was feeling very uncharitable in general. As she had become more self-aware in recent months, she had learned a truth about herself: Chenda hated waiting. Now that she was master of her own life, she vowed not to waste any more time. Patience, once the definition of her being, had become her biggest challenge.

“
Wow, lady, way to kick a guy when he’s down. I’m one of the best boatmen on the Kohlian Sea. Me and the
Bounty
have skirted more dangers than a wee sky rider like you, so keep your petty slights to yourself. So what if I run aground after a night deep in my cups? I’ll be back on the waves, missy, just you wait. There’s not much that can keep Trygan from the seas!”

Chenda rolled her eyes at his bravado. “Are we there yet?”

“
Just over the next dune, you hard-hearted barnacle,” Trygan said.

The two crested the hill and strolled under the faded paint on a rough board that announced they were walking into Blue Gorilla Marine Repair. The compound was a rough arrangement of wooden shacks, a toolshed, and several stands of large gray scaffolds clustered along the beach, some holding boats in varying degrees of disrepair, others empty and awaiting the next broken ship.

Trygan made a shrill whistle through his teeth, a screeching, harsh sound that demanded attention. A moment later a hulk of a man squeezed out of the biggest shack and looked around. As the big man’s tanned leathery face settled on Trygan and Chenda, his countenance turned from curious to annoyed, the look of a man preparing for an argument, perhaps one he was more than likely to lose.

“
Trygan!” the man shouted, “Now, you just turn around and march your swindling butt right back out of my shop! You forfeited that hunk of junk when you left her here past the payment due date. So I. Don’t. Want. To hear it!” Each phrase was emphasized by a heavy footfall that vibrated through the wet sand like so many little earthquakes. “She’s going to be sold at auction today, and you can’t have her. No way!”

“
Calm down, ’Rilla. The
Bounty
’s already been sold. This here’s the new captain.” He jerked his thumb at Chenda. She heard the sarcasm in his tone, especially in the word
captain.

’
Rilla shifted his dubious look from Trygan to Chenda and back. “The girl? Bought your broke-down tub? Unbelievable.” He turned his full attention to Chenda. “Prove it.”

Chenda fished the receipt for
The
Poor Man’s Bounty
out of her pouchbelt and held it out to the big repairman, who snatched the paper up and held it close to his eyes. He squinted at the numbers and signatures for a moment, and shoved the receipt back at Chenda with a grunt. “Well, maybe.”

“
Well, it appears as if we are all going to forego our best manners today. Show me the damn boat,” Chenda said. “Please.”

’
Rilla looked hard at Chenda, who stared right back at him with all the fire that her brown eyes could muster. “I’m in rather a hurry, if you please.”

“
Fine,” ’Rilla said, waving up the shoreline. “Eighth boat up. I’ll get a crew together and we’ll haul the stinking tub off the braces. Might take me a few hours.” He turned on his heel and strolled back to his sun-bleached shanty. Chenda ground her teeth. More delays. She headed in the direction ’Rilla had indicated to look at her new boat.

The Poor Man’s Bounty
lay bound in a hammock of ropes slung between six giant poles planted deep in the sand. The ship itself was narrow and long. The shabby, peeling paint and various patches could not disguise the inner sleekness of the ship dangling a few feet over the sand. Chenda’s spirits lifted. Speed was what she needed, and this ship looked like it was built to race. Every fiber of her being grew ready to turn eastward and run after Fenimore.

A sorrowful sigh from behind distracted her. She turned to look at Trygan, who had followed her up the beach. “What?” she asked snappishly. “Come to get your things?”

Trygan winced. The reality that he had really lost his beloved boat seemed to be sinking in. “I guess I have to say good-bye to the old girl. It won’t be right, me not havin’ a ship,” he moped. Chenda rolled her eyes again as he continued, “So when is your crew coming?”