Fata Morgana

by Thomas J. Radford

  “This,” he held out a satchel.

  Violet scowled. “I asked you to find a hammer, not a lady’s purse.”

  “Easy, lass,” Gravel made a pained face. “It’s a caulker’s kit, got hammers.”

  “Little ones?”

  “Metal ones. But more importantly,” he dug around inside, “chisels.”

  “Ha!” Violet exclaimed. She turned a gleeful expression on the golem. “Hear that, crag face? Chisels. Now let go right now and maybe I won’t carve my sign in your backside.”

  Gravel winced. “Violet, maybe don’t be jibing the golem. Not when it’s holding you like that. What if it . . . squeezed?”

  What if?

  “It won’t,” Violet kept glaring at Onyx. It didn’t squeeze. Nor did it let her go. “Fine. Gravel, start chiselling.”

  Gravel stepped up, hammer and chisel held in either hand. “I think the old fox wanted this thing. For all I know he might have made it. Maybe we shouldn’t . . .”

  “Give me the hammer then,” Violet held out her free hand. “I ain’t staying like this and I ain’t being found stuck to this walking landslide neither.”

  “Fine, I’m chiselling,” Gravel muttered. He set the point of the chisel at the joint of one of the fingers and started tapping away.

  Gravel. Little rock. Think you can take down Onyx?

  Bandit climbed atop Onyx, dragging a second hammer, making his way to the smooth head. Violet grinned when the loompa started making ungainly swings at Onyx’s face with a hammer half his own size. She focused on that.

  Not doing so much but I warned ya, crag face. Don’t says I didn’t.

  “This isn’t working,” Gravel said. “I’m not even scratching it.”

  “Hammer harder,” Violet suggested pointedly.

  “I’m hammering plenty hard.”

  “Then get a bigger hammer.”

  “Why? So as I can smash your hand too? This isn’t going to work.”

  Violet growled, shaking her head.

  Shouldn’t have . . . shouldn’t have drunk. Can’t think . . .

  He’s right. You saw Piper and Jack pound on this thing with all they got. It didn’t bother it none at the time.

  “So what? I just stay like this?” She wiggled her fingers.

  Gravel grasped her arm under the golem’s fingers and pulled, hard. Violet yelped, smacking at him with her free hand. Bandit screeched from his high perch, brandishing his weapon on protest.

  “Oi, stop that! I tried, it don’t work.”

  “Damnit,” Gravel muttered, leaning one hand on Onyx’s. He reached up to brush hair damp with sweat out of his eyes. “Violet, I’m going to get you out, ok.”

  “Yeah, how?”

  “Could you . . . maybe turn yourself around?”

  She stared incredulously. “See this here? This here whole kind of the problem? I can’t turn nowhere!”

  “Maybe just shut your eyes then,” he suggested.

  “No! What are you thinking on trying? Whatever it is, I ain’t taking my eyes off you.”

  Gravel muttered something under his breath. “Fine,” he ground out. “Just don’t be saying nothing about it.”

  He raised one hand, his face descending into intense lines of concentration.

  “That your thinking face?” Violet said.

  “Shut up,” Gravel told her. “This ain’t easy.”

  Violet held her tongue. Then she felt it. Hair standing on end, an extremely unpleasant feeling when one had more hair than should be standing. And saw it, a pale blue light against the white, starting to emanate from Gravel. Filling the air with that crackling sound she’d always associated with Loveland Quill. With . . . thaumatics.

  Gravel reached out, hands held close together, fingers almost clawed in tension. He held them as if they were an oversized extension of Onyx’s already prodigious fingers, and started to pry them open. The golem creaked and groaned in protest but one by one Gravel dragged each finger free. Violet snatched her hand free and stepped away, staring wide-eyed. The glow dropped. She expected Onyx’s hand to snap shut again but it remained open, frozen and splayed.

  “Are you . . . meant to be able to do that?” Violet asked, rubbing her hand. “You didn’t want me to see . . .”

  Gravel shrugged, backing away from the golem. Bandit gave a squawk when he realised he’d been abandoned and jumped to re-join them. “Don’t nobody know I can. Except you and Kaspar.”

  “You two,” Violet shook her head, “you real tight with your secrets, aye.”

  “Aye,” Gravel admitted. “Let’s go, afore we get ourselves in more trouble.”

  “Think anyone’ll notice himself posing like that?” Violet indicated the grasping golem.

  Gravel winced. “Aye, except I don’t wanna think about it.”

  Chapter 12

  “THE HELLS DID you do?” The first words out of Sharpe’s mouth when they arrived just shy of the docks, breathing hard. “Half the city is woke up.”

  Nel scowled at him. Didn’t care for the tone, nor for the words Sharpe was using—sounded too much like something she’d have said.

  “Blame Jack,” she said. “Got himself locked up. Again.”

  “Jack,” Sharpe stared past her, squinting in the flickering torchlight. “Good to see you again.”

  “Huh,” was all of Jack’s response. He eyed up the half-dozen Draugr contingent behind Sharpe. Didn’t seem impressed.

  “Anyone here not gotten themselves locked up recent?” Stoker asked, stepping forward. He had a loosely-tied bundle of clothes thrown over his shoulder, a pick and mix affair.

  “You get everything?” Nel asked.

  Stoker looked to Sharpe. “Did we? Seems we’ve acquired a few costumes here. Still not sure what the run is here? You planning on anymore breakouts tonight?”

  “Just the one,” Nel told him. “Got a pretty lady I’d like you all to meet and you have to dress the part to make introductions.” She knelt down and started investigating what they’d brought.

  “Should be enough,” Sharpe told her. “Grabbed what looked promising and hustled. Didn’t feel like a good idea to get caught with our breeches down given all the yelling.”

  “Breeches stay up,” Nel told him firmly. “Dress quick, all of you. Seems like we woke the neighbours.”

  “This,” was Quill’s considered opinion, after they finished dressing, “looks ridiculous.”

  The Kelpie wore his hooded cloak with a roughly modified vest in Alliance blue and white glimpsed beneath. It was the closest they’d been able to find for Quill’s frame. By contrast, Jack, Sharpe, and their Draugr contingent appeared the more genuine. All wore hooded rain capes draped around their shoulders and pulled low, covering more ill-fitting and makeshift uniforms, though this time in the dark green and black of Alliance marines. Nel wore the same colours as them but hers would pass closer inspection. There just hadn’t been anything suitable for the Kelpie’s lean and angular body in the slop boxes they’d raided, and he’d never pass for anything other than a deckhand or officer.

  Quill is right, Nel thought. In the harsh torchlight, their party looked ridiculous and had little chance of passing inspection. But there would be much less light down by the ships and with any luck it wouldn’t come to that.

  “How do I look?” Sharpe asked, puffing out his chest. His sense of humour was coming back, she noted. Truth was he had the build to pull off this role.

  “Just play your part,” Nel told him. “A marine Captain. You should be able to manage that.”

  “Just another face for you to wear, lad,” Stoker told him.

  “Put my face on same as all of you,” Sharpe replied. “One saggy cheek at a time.”

  “Could use some help putting mine on,” said another of the crew. Java, Nel thought. “Things aren’t where I remember them being. Not just the face neither.”

  Gallows humour.

  “Quiet in the ranks,” Sharpe told them. “Remember, you’re in the army
now. Less talking, more marching.”

  “Marines are still fleet,” someone corrected him. “We don’t march in the fleet. We sing.”

  “Sing it loud,” another added.

  “For the blind!”

  “And louder for the deaf.”

  “And loudest for all the ones we left behind,” Stoker finished.

  “Not the best start to your career,” Nel told a frowning Sharpe. “Maybe we promoted you too far? Might have to bust you back to sergeant.”

  “Sergeant Sharpe,” Stoker grinned. “Got a favourable ring to it.”

  “Captain no more,” the one with the beard said. Yarn, that one I know.

  “You wanna be captain, Nel?” Sharpe asked her.

  “No.”

  “Then keep on saluting me, lass. Call it lieutenant and meet you halfway. Now, if you’ll excuse me, got some yelling to do. Hells, this better go better than the last time.”

  “Just get a move on, Castor.”

  Sharpe had the grace not to answer her jibes, striding up to the boarding ramp of their chosen ship. Dancers Poignard. The name made Nel sigh. Well down the ladder as far as ships of the line went. Whoever had named her had barely deigned to adhere to the Alliance convention.

  The Poignard Dances would have been closer. Hells, sounds just as trite. Maybe we can rename the damned thing, almost worth the hassle. Wonder if Quill would go for it again?

  “All hands!” Sharpe bellowed, aiming his voice up at the decks. “I want to see your pasty tar-speckled faces lining the docks before I finish counting. And I don’t count so high since Three Peaks.”

  A small wiry figure holding a lantern bobbed above the railing. “And who in the Seven Hells are you, greenjack? What do you want?”

  The other members of this bell’s watch were gathering now. Nel counted three. If they were extraordinarily lucky that could be the sum total of crew left on the ship. The rest might be dispersed and carousing in town.

  “It’s almost the dead man’s watch, laddy,” the man called out again. “Ain’t you got some buttons and brass needs polishing?”

  “Lieutenant Castor Sharpe, third squadron, marines.” Nel’s teeth caught as Sharpe identified himself. Using his real name probably wouldn’t ring any bells with this crew but it seemed a daft risk to take, defeated the whole point in using disguises in the first place. “I’m here to secure this vessel before our passenger arrives.”

  “Passenger? What passenger?” the watchman objected. “It’s the middle of the bloody night! Skipper ain’t said nothing about—”

  “Then I suggest,” Sharpe stepped up the gangway, closing in on the trio of noticeably smaller sailors, “you go wake him up!”

  The sailors were momentarily cowed, shrinking back from the much bigger marine officer. The lead watchmen made a hurried sign to one of the others, who scurried off towards the stern of the ship. That was where the captain would be. So there was at least one senior officer still aboard.

  “How many of your crew have returned?” Sharpe forged ahead.

  “Returned? They meant to be returned?” the watchman stumbled.

  Sharpe rounded angrily, or a good convincing of it. “Half my men are out rounding up your useless crew, sailor. What drunken rat holes have they crawled into that they haven’t made it back to your ship yet?”

  “On whose orders are they returning?” the captain’s shrill voice echoed over the deck. “What are you doing on my ship, Lieutenant?”

  Sharpe turned his head to acknowledge the dark-haired woman, even if she hadn’t bothered to don more than a nightshirt before storming out onto the deck.

  “Commander,” he saluted her. A calculated insult. A ship this size was too small to be commanded by an actual ranked Captain, even if they were generally referred to as such by all aboard. It had been Nel’s idea but she wanted to strike Quill for it when she heard him chuckling softly beside her.

  The woman scowled at Sharpe furiously, managing a respectable affronted dignity while the wind whipped her shirt around.

  “Sergeant,” Sharpe bellowed. Nel grimaced but marched briskly up the gangway, coming to stand beside her lieutenant.

  “Orders,” Sharpe held out his hand and Nel placed the pilfered papers in it.

  “From above,” Sharpe said, offering the rolled parchment to the commander. The woman took it, looking up from under what Nel could see was grey-streaked hair. She didn’t look for long. Good, papers aren’t much better than the rest of us.

  “Who’s this passenger?”

  “Need to know, Commander,” Sharpe said, his tone implying the obvious.

  “If they’re on my ship then I need to know,” the Dancers Poignard commander growled at him.

  “Then you can ask them yourself,” Sharpe shrugged, smiling evilly. “They’ll be here within the next bell, along with the rest of my men and whatever sorry remnants of your crew they’ve managed to sober up.”

  The commander glared. “Best be watching your mouth, greenjack,” she said, dropping the sailor slang for marine. “I don’t care who your damned cargo is, on my ship you show me my due or I’ll have your back flogged till you run crimson.”

  Sharpe continued to ignore her. “I count seven of your crew present, Commander. Is that all of them currently aboard?”

  “Aye,” she said warily. “Why?”

  “My men and I have to secure the ship before our guest arrives. You’ll all wait on the docks whilst we make our inspection.”

  The woman cursed. Nel took a moment to admire her extensive vocabulary. It took another exchange and more cursing before the commander led her increasingly surly crew down to the docks. Nel and Sharpe stood in front of them, doing their best to block their view of Quill and the Draugr as the Kelpie led the makeshift marines up the ramp.

  “Your marines’ footwork needs work,” the commander said bitterly. Nel held her breath, waiting for some exultant shout of discovery but it seemed just the woman getting her sour kicks in.

  Quill appeared at the top of the gangway. The plan called for them to board the ship and somehow keep the crew stranded on the dock. Yet Quill looked genuinely agitated. Jack was next to him, looking mean and ugly by contrast. Perfect marine, though it most likely wasn’t all acting.

  “We have a problem,” Quill called, louder than was needed. Sharpe exchanged a concerned look with Nel, before regaining his composure.

  “Anything you’d like to tell me, Commander?” he put an edge in his voice.

  The woman eyed him coldly. “Got one in the hold.”

  “One of your crew?”

  The commander didn’t answer.

  “And you didn’t think to—” Sharpe bit off his words in disgust. “You stay here! Sergeant, come with me,” he bellowed.

  “You found someone?” Nel whispered hoarsely to Quill as they drew closer.

  “They have a man secured below deck,” Quill said.

  “How secure?”

  “Secure.”

  “This is a problem.” Sharpe glanced back at the milling sailors on the dock.

  “No, this is good,” Nel shook her head. “Gives us an excuse, gives us time.”

  “You want to cast off?” Sharpe said. “What about this prisoner?”

  “That’s going to be their problem, but later.”

  “We could retrieve them and—” Quill started.

  Nel interrupted. “No, take too long and we don’t know why they’re locked away in the first. We need to go fast, or this crew might start thinking. Worse, woman might read those papers. Give the signal.”

  “How much sail do you need?” Sharpe asked Quill.

  “The main will take too long. The headsail will suffice. Just tend to the ropes and keep them off.”

  “Right. Which one is the headsail?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Stoker rescued him before Quill’s reaction took voice. “Horse, with me.”

  Horse, Nel filed the woman as she and Stoker moved towards the bowsprit. Easy to s
ee why.

  “I’ll get the ropes,” Nel told Sharpe. “You be useful and hold the ramp.”

  Sharpe took his post, placing himself large and directly across the gangway, looking down at the Alliance crew and out into the docks. Nel kept to the centre of the ship, staying in the shadows of the rigging though it was doubtful she was visible to anyone below. She took her knife and went to work on the lines holding the ship to the dock. She got them all but for the barest threads. None of the about-to-be-former crew could see but the lines would fail the moment Quill launched the ship.

  She held her breath, waiting for the shouting to begin when the Draugr unfurled.

  The sail dropped open. The murmuring of complaints echoing from the docks rose, reaching a much higher pitch. Voices were raised, there were shouts, then the distinctive clap of sheets filling with thaumatically conjured wind. There was Quill, arms raised on the bridge, casting the faintest halo of blue and white light. The ship lurched under Nel’s feet, rocking her as Quill applied pressure, forcing the sloop to strain against the lines. They began snapping in audible twangs, one after the other, leaving curled and frayed ends dangling into the water. The sailors ashore stared as their ship sailed away from them.

  One, quicker of mind than his fellows, made a sprint up the gangway. Sharpe raised his arm to strike, bare-knuckled, other hand clutching his wand’s hilt, but Quill’s next surge drew the ship away from the dock, sending the gangway tumbling into the waters between. The sailor fell with a despairing shriek, arms flailing and clutching at air until he hit water.

  The commander was yelling orders, the crew a disorganised mob but keeping pace along the wooden platform. There wasn’t much running room but until they were clear there was still the threat of being boarded. Someone pitched a makeshift missile in Quill’s direction. It fell short but worried Nel nonetheless. She joined Sharpe, wand drawn, waiting to repel boarders.

  The acting marine lieutenant was firing shots at the pier, aiming low and for the feet, seeking to trip up the sailors. Nel joined in, targeting those who were closest first. The ship picked up speed, clearing the docks, leaving its former crew stranded at the end of the pier, staring after them forlornly. The commander stood at the very edge, just far enough away to make her expression indiscernible but Nel didn’t have to imagine very hard. She’d been the one on that pier before. Same damned Kelpie stealing the ship too.