Fata Morgana

by Thomas J. Radford

  He led her into a different part of the ship, one she hadn’t explored before. One, if she was being honest, she was not sure she could find again. Bandit took her through twists and hatches and two more crawlspaces. Either the loompa had no destination in mind and was lost or there was a reason for this circumspect route.

  Could be both, could be just after his next meal. Might have been chasing a rat this whole time.

  And then he stopped. At a door. Just stopped, stood up on two feet, waiting for her reaction. Nose twitching, whiskers quivering. All expectant-like.

  Violet stared. There was nothing remarkable about the corridor. It was featureless apart from the wheel-turn doors, three of them and nothing to set them apart. They could be anywhere in the ship—could be the brig or the galley or the head on the other side of those doors.

  There was no explanation from Bandit, no hints or anything. He just sat there, waiting.

  His part is done. Now it’s on you. If you can figure out what that is.

  She tried the door. Nothing. It creaked in protest, locked or stiff or maybe even seized. The sound of metal on protesting metal echoed down the corridor and she jumped away from it, smacking her back against the opposite wall and making even more noise.

  “Who’s there?” a voice from beyond the metal demanded. “Can’t a fellow get some sleep without you lot marching to the beat for one damned bell?”

  Violet clapped her hands to her mouth, frozen. Her heart was beating, its own wild march, and she was shocked the owner of the voice couldn’t hear it echoing off the metal walls. She held still, immobile, waiting to see what would happen. Any moment now she expected the door to open and to be discovered. She started to move, slowly, quietly.

  That was her plan. Bandit, unfortunately, wasn’t in on the plan. Without so much as a permissive look to Violet, the loompa vaulted up onto the wheel, clinging awkwardly onto it, screeching and banging with one paw on the outside. Demanding to be let in or just making conversation, Violet couldn’t tell. She could only listen and stare in horror.

  She lurched forward, wrapping her arms around Bandit and trying to pull him free. He clung on, fierce, bit down on her hand when she tried to cover his mouth, shrieking the whole time. Muffled shrieks with his fangs in her skin but shrieking to the best of his ability.

  “Hey, Bandit? That you?” the voice on the other side called out, shocking Violet. Bandit cried out in response, a triumphant trill.

  “What’s going on out there?” the voice demanded. “Who’s there? What are you doing to my little friend? You better not touch him! Got the mange he does, plague, fleas, all sorts! One bite and your nethers will drop off, so you leave him be if you know what’s good for you!”

  The plague-ridden loompa wriggled free from Violet’s grasp, resuming his banging and tugging on the locked door. She knew that voice. She knew it!

  “Who are you?” she called out, shaking her head. She had to know now. Because it couldn’t be true. Couldn’t be.

  “Who am I? Who’re you? You’re the one banging on my door, harassing my friends. Well, friend, just the one, which makes him all the more precious. And you—”

  “Sharpe,” Violet exclaimed. “Castor Sharpe!”

  There was a pause. “Now . . . one of us is mightily confused.”

  Violet pushed up against the door, shoving Bandit aside. She tried the wheel again and it wouldn’t budge, so she set her ear against the door itself. Bandit finally quietened down.

  “It is you,” she said. “But you’re dead.”

  “I got better,” came the reply, “but who’re you? You’re with Bandit, that’s clear enough. But you don’t sound big enough to be Piper nor wheezy enough to be the old man. Fact is you sound like a lass, only I’ve known many a lass in my day, that is to say more than one and—”

  “Damnit, Sharpe!” Violet slapped the door. “How do I get this open?”

  “You can’t,” Sharpe said, after a hesitation. “Violet. That’s you, right?”

  “Yes,” Violet whispered, cheek to the door. “It’s me.”

  “Damn, lass, but it’s good to hear your voice. You don’t know how much I mean that.”

  “You too.” There was a catch in her voice. Made her not want to say anymore.

  “Are you alone?”

  “It’s just us. Me and Bandit.”

  “But the others, your crew. How are you even here? Is anyone else with you, I mean. Is Nel . . . ?”

  “They’re dead,” Violet said. “They’re all dead. It’s just me.” She looked down at Bandit, the loompa’s wizened little face, the black eyes. “It’s just us.”

  She heard a sigh. “Lass . . . I am so sorry.”

  Bandit scratched at the door, claws on metal. It was a half-hearted gesture, simple noise making. He cried, a soft, mewling sound. Squeaks. Violet gathered him up in one arm, held him close with her back against the wall.

  “Lass,” Sharpe told her from the other side. “You can’t stay. Can’t let them catch you here.”

  Violet shook her head. Everyone was always telling her to leave, not to go. Be careful. Don’t get caught. Bandit squawked at her, reminding her that Sharpe couldn’t see her. “Not leaving,” she said stubbornly. “Hells not. Not.”

  “You’re going to get us both in trouble,” Sharpe reproached her.

  Violet laughed. “How much more trouble could we be in?”

  “One of us is still wandering around freely so she could be in much more trouble yet. And don’t let them see Bandit. He brings me snacks. I like my snacks.”

  “How did you get here?” Violet asked, laying her head back. She heard shuffling on the other side, imagined Sharpe mirroring her position. Backs against the wall. Just the two of them.

  “I’m a prisoner. This is a cell. So they put me here.”

  “No guards.”

  “Can’t have guards. Might talk to them.”

  “Talking is bad?”

  “Very bad.”

  “What happened? How are you here?”

  Silence.

  “Picked me up, didn’t they? Just like you. Found me on what was left of that ship out at Rim. Last one left. Didn’t take too kindly to that.”

  “You took them all out? By yourself?”

  “No,” he said. “I was the last one left. They didn’t know about you—the other ships got away. So it was just me. They made it count. Made it . . . made it hurt.”

  There was a tremble in his voice.

  “I’m sorry,” Violet said. She hugged Bandit, and he crooned to her. It wasn’t the same.

  “It’s fine, lass. Knew what I was getting in for. Ended up here. And here’s where you are. Not as nice as the last time you found me, felt like a warmer welcome.”

  “You were covered in ice.”

  “What?”

  “When I met you. Covered in ice. Frost. You must have been freezing.”

  “Ah. True. Maybe it wasn’t warmer.”

  “The skipper saved you. She jumped.”

  “I recall that.”

  “She jumped twice. After the battle. Turned out to be Stoker. But she thought it was you.”

  “Stoker made it? Good to hear. Liked him. Good man. Strange sense of humour.”

  “She didn’t jump for me.”

  The bitterness in her own voice surprised her.

  “What do you mean?” Sharpe asked.

  “We were attacked. The ship. Under . . . there was a waterfall . . . they shot at us. The mast. I was in the mast and it fell. I fell.”

  Violet pulled her knees up close, resting her chin on them.

  “She let me go. Let me fall.”

  “Violet, I—” Sharpe started to say.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She got to her feet quickly. “It’s done. It’s over. She’s dead, I’m not.”

  “You—”

  “I’ll be back.” She put her hand on the door. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Violet,” Sharpe called back to her.

/>   “I’m not leaving you.”

  Without you. I’m not leaving without you. Because she’s dead. You’re not.

  Because now there was a plan. Not much, but the beginnings of one.

  Chapter 14

  QUILL FACED NEL and Sharpe. His arms were folded and his tail lashing. He stood between them and the prisoner.

  “I am not happy.”

  That, Nel thought, is about the funniest damned thing in the whole damned universe.

  “That!” Quill turned and pointed furiously. “What is that doing aboard our ship?”

  Been aboard less than a bell and he’s already calling it our ship. At least he ain’t calling it his ship. Yet.

  “Comes with the ship, Quill. You knew there was a prisoner aboard when we stole her. Too late to do nothing about it now.”

  “It is not too late. We are not yet over the falls.”

  “You want to throw them overboard?” Nel shook her head in disgust. Even for Quill that was detestable.

  “They appear fat, fat like the cook. The fat ones float.”

  Nel glared at her navigator. Hard. “Don’t be mentioning Gabbi, Quill. Not like that.”

  Quill matched her glare for glare. “I will speak of her as I have always spoken of her. The cook was fat and fat is how I will remember her. We do not need another fat one. We do not need another one of . . . of them.”

  “Of them, Kelpie?” Nel folded her arms. “You beating that dead horse again?”

  “We have only just expunged the last of these from our ship. Must we infest this one with more of your stray mongrels?”

  “You’ll hurt her feelings, Quill.”

  Quill flicked a suspicious glance at the female Korrigan who remained silent in her irons. “Her? It is female?”

  “Yes, Quill.”

  “I am not happy about this.”

  “I couldn’t care less, Quill. Get topside and make your unhappy self useful. Leave me to fix things down here.”

  Quill brushed past her, making dark mutterings.

  “What was that about?” Sharpe asked. “Remember it being Quill’s idea to fetch Jack. What’s got him so antsy?”

  “Doesn’t like the strays. Never has. Natural order of the universe reasserting itself,” Nel shrugged, waiting until Quill’s stomping footsteps had faded out of hearing, taking a seat opposite their newly acquired prisoner.

  “Give us a moment,” she told Sharpe. He left her alone with the other woman.

  “So,” the prisoner said, “how’re you looking to fix me, then?”

  Nel did look the woman over before replying. Darker skinned than Jack, almost a walnut coloured tan, ears that were longer but narrower, and tightly braided black hair streaked with green. Some sort of affectation, most like, as colour like that couldn’t be natural. Like Quill had been crude enough to point out, she could have been on the large side but then most Korrigan measured the same in all directions. She was dressed like a sailor which suggested she was part of the ship’s crew, which raised the question, what had she done to get locked up?

  “What’s your name, lass?” Nel asked.

  “Lock,” the woman shrugged, with no appreciation for the irony. “What’s yours?”

  “Skipper.”

  “Ah,” Lock chuckled. “That.”

  “Should I let you go, Lock?”

  “Thought you were looking to throw me over. Prefer if you didn’t.”

  “Kelpie was. I ain’t him.”

  “You in charge then, I’m hoping?”

  Nel kicked idly at a water cask with her booted foot. There were several of them stacked around a beam, held in place by loops of wire. One of them bulged out, the wire seeming barely long enough to secure itself where it was twisted into a crude knot.

  She asked, “What’d you do, Lock?”

  “Got caught.”

  Nel laughed, in spite of herself. “You realise my friends and I just stole this ship out from under your Captain.”

  “Figured that. Don’t change my situation any. Still tied up down here. Couldn’t go nowhere even if you did let me out.”

  “Guess not. How’d you get caught?”

  The woman hesitated, then shrugged. “Got greedy, I guess. One too many things from the captain’s cabin. Woman didn’t appreciate that.”

  “I wouldn’t neither.” Nel headed towards the stairs. “Meet me on deck. We’ll talk this out some more.”

  Lock held up her manacled wrists quizzically.

  “Five minutes,” Nel told her.

  She made her way to the bridge. It jarred her how quick the journey was compared to her old ship. While the Poignard was not significantly shorter than the Tantamount that extra length resulted in a much wider and taller vessel. And in mirror fashion her crew was reduced to just a bare handful, a motley dozen.

  Maybe two handfuls then.

  She’d yet to ascertain if Sharpe would be of any practical use when it came to the ship itself. He hadn’t been last time.

  He juggled.

  The Draugr also tugged at her memories, recalling setting out for Rim with a hold full of the creatures.

  Hells, it was these same folk. If I don’t remember them from above deck they must have been below. Got to stop calling them creatures too. If they can talk they ain’t that. Real folk, they are.

  Real people, Nel caught herself thinking. But they had been real people. So where was the line between Stoker and other Draugr?

  Not my problem. This about Violet, getting her back and making things right, don’t need to think about anything else.

  “Shall I prepare a plank?” Quill interrupted her musings. “Or shall we dispense with such ceremony?”

  “Don’t test me, Quill.”

  “What did she do?” Sharpe asked. The man leaned against the railing, watching Stoker and the others work. They’d dropped the last of the sails and were making good headway if the rushing scenery was any guide.

  Lad really is useless aboard.

  “Theft and desertion, looks like,” Nel said. “Attempted desertion anyway. Was dumb enough to get caught.”

  Sharpe nodded. “What’s your thoughts?”

  “I think we’re stuck with her. Unless you want to side with Quill here.”

  Quill turned expectantly. Sharpe bobbed his head in consideration, fingers beating a tuneless pattern against the railing. “Not for those charges. Bad precedent.”

  Quill made a sound of disgust. “I believed we were done with this collecting of riffraff. Had I known otherwise I would have left Jack where I found him. Fine. Fine! Collect your strays, Vaughn. I no longer care.”

  “Good, because as soon as she works those shackles Lock is gonna be joining us up here.”

  “You expect her to affect her own release?” Quill did not bother hiding his scepticism.

  “Woman palmed some wire off one of the barrels,” Nel told him smugly. “If we hadn’t stolen the ship with her on it she would have taken her leave already.”

  “A pity we did not wait just a bit longer then.”

  “You can wait now, Kelpie. Just you wait.”

  Enjoyable as making Quill wait was she had rounds to make. Starting with Stoker. She found him near the bow, checking lines on the headsail.

  “Said it before, Skipper, but you’re truly a sight for sore eyes,” Stoker greeted her with what might have been a smile. “If my eyes could get sore no more, that is. Still, good to see you, lass.”

  “Stoker,” Nel said gravely, as she took her first proper look at him. “You look terrible.”

  He did. The Draugr sailor’s skin was drooping on one side of his face, the skin hanging loose and in folds. What little colour had been left to him was gone. The eyes were yellowed and shrunken, like sun-dried grapes. His clothing hadn’t fared much better: pressed against his own decayed skin, the cotton and leather was falling apart. Could have been rot from the Draugr pens or just general neglect. He’d discarded the rain cape and coloured tunic already, neither suitable
for ship duties.

  “Haven’t looked in a mirror for a while,” Stoker confided, noting her study. “All a bit of a blur to me anyway.”

  “Your eyesight’s going?” Nel winced.

  “What? Naw, eyes are same as they always were. Eyes of a hawk, lass, world only makes sense from a distance. Was never a problem aboard.”

  “You’re far-sighted.”

  “That’s the fancy words for it. Always preferred the hawk part myself.”

  “You’re falling apart, lad,” Nel told him. “Does it . . . ?”

  “Hurt? No, not in the sense that you’re thinking. Feels slow, like when you wake in the morning after a hard night. Stiff and not sure how you got that way. Except you never loosen up. You stay that way, never getting no better. Forget things too. Maybe that’s just me age catching up with me though.”

  “Never seen a Draugr age like you, Stoker.”

  “Ain’t none like me, Skipper.”

  “No? I count seven others,” Nel pointed down the deck.

  “Ah, well, counting, lass. Too fancy for the likes of me. Leave that to yourself and those who’ve a head for numbers.”

  Nel chuckled. For all that he wasn’t much to look at, she liked Stoker. Nothing so plain-spoken as a common sailor.

  “Tell me about them,” she said, leaning back on the brightwork and looking down the ship. “Your people. You sail with them all before?”

  “Naw, just the two. Powder and Swayne there. Powder used to be a cannon monkey. Lad’s a bit hard of hearing even before, stand to his left if you wanna make yourself heard. Swayne was a bosun. Keep her away from the cat and she’s not so bad.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Town folk, those who’d done some sailing or trading. Had names but we didn’t care for them much so we gave ’em new ones. Lad with the crooked nose is Boxing.”

  “Good man for a tavern brawl?”

  “Not sure. Shipping crate fell off and hit him in the face. That was the first round, could be he made a comeback but my coin is on the crate. Java, the short one there.”

  “The Troll?”

  “Prefers Java, couldn’t pronounce her last name. Too many what-you-call-thems.”

  “Syllables? Consonants?”

  “Letters, I’m thinking. Being fancy again there, Skipper.”