Fata Morgana

by Thomas J. Radford

  “Ah, herself. Still wondering how a privateer ended up in charge of an Alliance ship. And such a big one, at that.”

  “She’s a friend of the captain, I think,” Kaspar told him. “Used to be in the fleet too. Before.”

  “Captain has friends now?”

  “Are you trying to run your mouth into the brig?” Kaspar turned on him. “Or worse? You let Quinn or Mors hear you talking like that . . .”

  “They served together,” Violet said. “On the front. During the silk lane march. Back when they were trying to secure a trade route out to the Far Lanes. Trying to plot the end of the mist.”

  “How do you know that?” Gravel asked, a look passing between him and Kaspar.

  “Met her before,” Violet shrugged. “I think.”

  You know you didn’t.

  “She’s been here before,” Kaspar said.

  “Had a big meet with the captain and officers,” Gravel said. “Real hush-hush. Not long before we met you that first time, Miss Violet, back in—”

  “Shut up!” Kaspar snapped at him. “Gods, you two, both of you.” He was genuinely incensed. “Did it ever occur to either of you that if you want to keep a secret you don’t go around running your mouth and letting everyone know you have a secret?”

  Kaspar scowled at them both, hard enough that Violet and Gravel both hung their heads in admonishment.

  “No secrets here, sir,” Gravel saluted him, which only made Kaspar’s face darker. “Just some idle chat from a couple of lowly deckhands.”

  Kaspar shook his head again, not even bothering to contradict his friend. He tugged at his uniform, pristine as always, but still brushing at imaginary dust and grime.

  “I need to go to the deck and join the welcome party. Like Brandon said,” another annoyed look, “all the officers will be there. Can I trust you, both of you, to keep quiet and out of sight and not be in trouble when I come back?”

  “Aye, sir, quiet as a two mouses we’ll be,” Gravel said.

  “Mice,” Violet corrected. “Making the ensign’s face purple there, use your words right.”

  “Aye, Miss Violet, quiet as two mices we’ll be.”

  Violet laughed. Kaspar didn’t. She thought she could hear his teeth grinding as he marched away. All parade stiff.

  “Sad fact is most mice ain’t too quiet,” Gravel winked at her. “Your furry friend, I should say furrier friend, been eating like a king these past weeks.”

  “Haven’t seen Bandit much,” Violet realised, feeling a pang of guilt.

  Haven’t thought about him so much either. That’s odd . . .

  “Aye, not gone unnoticed. Little lad’s been asking after you.”

  Violet gave him a wry look.

  “I speak loompa,” Gravel shrugged. “Useful and very much sought-after skill, it is. And he’s not the only one.”

  “What do you mean?” Violet asked cautiously.

  “Miss Violet,” Gravel said reproachfully, “hard as it seems for you to believe, I am on your side. I’m the one who brings Mister Sharpe his food. And sometimes your furry friend comes by and says hello when I’m doing that. We’re none of us stupid so it’s not hard to figure you’ve been visiting.”

  “Sharpe,” Violet said.

  Not as clever as you think, are you?

  “Aye, as I said, it’s a useful skill. Not many folks around here can . . . talk loompa too, as it is. Fellow’s been asking about you.”

  “I haven’t been able to go see him,” Violet said.

  That was a lie.

  “Got the feeling he was all right with that part. Was more concerned you might be thinking of doing something stupid. Like trying to see him. Things the good ensign might disapprove of rather strongly.”

  “What’s she doing here?” Violet said aloud, looking out at the Mangonel again. Neither Mangonel nor Morgana struck her as a proper ship. One had too much of something and the other not enough.

  “Captain called for help,” Gravel shrugged. “Guess help has arrived.”

  “Thought that was what taking over that town was about?” Violet said. “How’d the captain even know she was out there, Captain Heathen I mean? Seems awful convenient she was just nearby like that, like she were just waiting for the call.”

  “Maybe. Our captain don’t rightly confide in me, Miss Violet, can’t tell you what you’re asking.”

  Violet leaned back against the wall, the metal cool at her back. She found her fingers tapping a rhythm all of their own. The sound echoed and carried. Sound always carried far when the corridors were empty like this.

  “You mean what you said? Just now?” Violet asked.

  “What’d I say? Remind me, gentle-like.”

  “That you were on my side.”

  Gravel nodded. Didn’t say nothing. Just nodded. Without hesitating.

  “Gonna be quiet, ain’t it?” she said. “For a little while. While officers and such do their talking.”

  “Aye.” Gravel eyed her suspiciously, not missing her deliberate phrasing.

  “Be good if we could go somewhere,” Violet said. “Talk. Some place quiet.”

  “Talk,” Gravel repeated.

  “Aye,” Violet grinned. “Come back to my cabin. We’ll talk.”

  Gravel sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. “Far be it from me to turn down such an inviting invitation, except when you say talk I figure you don’t mean talk.”

  “Oh, we’ll talk,” Violet assured him. “Gonna talk lots. Lots to talk about.”

  “Quiet-like?”

  “Quiet as mice, Gravel.”

  Chapter 20

  “WHAT’S THIS?” Nel stared suspiciously at the mug in her hand.

  “Coffee.”

  Nel took another sip. “What did you put in here? Why does it taste good?”

  “Salt,” Java said. The Trollish-Draugr shrugged, a roll of over-developed shoulders. “And butter. Makes it smoother.”

  “This is really good.”

  Java beamed, giving Stoker a meaningful look.

  “Done it now, Skipper,” he said. “Lass will be making all sorts of concoctions in that galley now.”

  “Appreciate a woman with taste, is all,” Java said.

  “Oh, this woman appreciates,” Nel assured her.

  “Shame we don’t run cold,” Java told her. “Can’t do better than a black watch cold press.”

  “What’s that?” Nel asked. “Is that good? Last ship ran cold, what’ve I been missing out on?”

  “Away with you, lass,” Stoker told her. “Bother the woman in charge some other time. She’s got things to do, skipper-type things. That need doing.”

  Java shrugged and left, taking the steps down with a swaying, bobbing motion. Half of it was her shorter than vertical stature, the rest was the to-and-fro of the ship on the waves. They’d yet to take to the air, still bound for the edge of Vice. Nel’s orders, they still needed to take stock of the ship proper. And figure some notions out. Difficult notions.

  “I’m keeping her, Midshipman,” Nel warned Stoker. “The rest of you, don’t know what your plans are but that one’s mine.”

  “Stealing me crew, Skipper? Thought we was friends.”

  “We are. Trade you. You can take Sharpe.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, but I believe he came with me as well. That’s two of mine you’ve gone pressed now.”

  “Fair point, you want Jack then?”

  “On account of you wanting to put the wee Trollish lass in charge of the galley now?”

  Nel made a face at Stoker. He wasn’t wrong.

  “Permit me a view to that show and the lass is yours.”

  Nel snorted. And took another sip. “This is really good, Stoker,” she sighed happily. “If the rest of yours have half the happy surprise to offer I’ll keep the lot of you.”

  “Might generous of you there, Skipper. Truth is I’ve been wondering what Yarn might be hiding in that there bird-nest but I’m not the one brave enough to take a com
b to it.”

  “Him up in the stays, right?”

  “Aye, face for the crow’s nest. So the rumours say.”

  Nel counted four of the new Draugr crew up in the rigging. Yarn and Chit. The other two, she couldn’t remember their names. Had some learning to do. Stoker made with the signalling and the sailors dropped the main; it billowed briefly before filling out and the ship rushed forward at a new clip. Nel found herself matching grins with Stoker. She had missed this, the rise and fall of a ship on the waves. And no one shooting at them.

  “Decided what you want to be doing about your sober companion, Skipper?” Stoker asked.

  And the grinning was gone.

  The woman was down by the steps to the hold. Sharpe was down there with Boxing and Swain doing stock. Woman looked green, swaying but not with the motion of the boats. Like she’d forgotten how to stand. Nel waved to her, motioning for her to come up to the bridge.

  Lock waved back. Stoker chuckled.

  “Shush you, not meant to laugh.”

  “Truly she’s not a sailor, that one, Skipper. Doesn’t even know the signals.”

  “That was hardly a signal.”

  “Perhaps you should try the one to go away?”

  “I’m about to make it to you, Midshipman.”

  “Be about my duties, Skipper. Best of luck with your decision making.”

  Nel sighed. Gesturing again at Lock. The woman got it this time, scurrying across to her, holding on for purchase wherever she could on the way.

  “Your hair,” Nel asked her. “Why’s it green? No, never mind. Don’t care. Don’t sail well at all, do you?”

  Lock shook her head.

  “Keep your eyes on the distance,” Nel told her. “Keep busy. Talking helps. Distractions.”

  “Not many to talk with here, Vaughn. Do I call you Vaughn still? Big Jack and the pretty boy call you Skipper, should I be calling you that?”

  “Vaughn is fine. Big Jack?”

  Lock shrugged. “Doesn’t like me much. Nor his Kelpie friend.”

  Nel smirked. Friend. Ha. “They don’t like much anyone, either of them.”

  “Seems to be the pattern here,” Lock nodded. “Who’s Gabbi then?”

  Nel looked at her sharply. “Why you asking? Where’d you hear that?”

  “From you. Couple of times, actually, when you were deep in your cups. And from Big Jack, when he was tossing around in the kitchen. Gabbi would and Gabbi wouldn’t.”

  “Used to be the cook. Our cook. From . . . before. Jack liked her.”

  “Same way that marine fellow likes you?” Lock asked.

  Nel didn’t rise to that. “Gabbi was a friend,” she said quietly. She looked out over the horizon. Nothing but blue sea now.

  “Ah, sorry. Doesn’t sound . . . didn’t mean to pry there.”

  “It’s fine,” Nel told her.

  “Won’t help myself by saying this but I don’t fancy you have a lot of friends, Vaughn.”

  Nel turned to the woman. “You trying to get on my bad side?”

  “No, the other side. Figure I’m here, don’t see a lot of other options.”

  “You trying to be my friend, lass?”

  Lock shook her head. “No, don’t think you have friends, Vaughn. Just trying . . . not to be the other thing.”

  Nel snorted. Now why does that sound familiar? Hells, last thing I need now is any more friends. The ones I got are all on this ship.

  “Come on,” she clapped the woman on the shoulder. “Have a drink with me. The kind that doesn’t put you to bed. I’ll have Jack make you some of his special blend.”

  See if you still wanna be anyone’s friend after that.

  “WHY THE NAMES?” Sharpe asked. The two Draugr paused, frozen in mid-motion, the crate between them. They set it down before one of them answered.

  “Got to have names.” That was Boxing.

  “But why those? Not regular names, are they? Your mother didn’t name you like that.”

  “No.” That was Swain.

  “Who then?”

  “Folk.”

  “Ship folk,” Boxing added.

  “Crew,” Swain said for good measure.

  “But why?” Sharpe asked. “Regular names not good enough?”

  “You choose your name, Mister Sharpe?” Swain asked.

  “Of course, figured nobody else would.”

  “Ah. Well, ours did.”

  “Get chosen,” Boxing said.

  “We like it that way.”

  Sharpe sighed. Inventory. They were meant to be taking inventory. Inventory was boring. And his workmates weren’t much better. At least they were doing the lifting. The floor with his back to a post was much more Sharpe’s preference.

  “Skipper’s got a real name. Jack. Quill. Castor.”

  Sharpe turned to the new voice. It was Lock, their Korrigan passenger. How long had she been there?

  “Lock ain’t a real name though,” he said. “Seen any biscuits? Jack says there ought to be some.”

  “Real as yours,” Lock winked. “And no, no biscuits.”

  “Sharpe ain’t real,” Swain said. “Not a proper name. Not in the fleet.”

  “Like Swain? Is Swain a real name?”

  “Means bosun,” Boxing said. “Like Skipper, only not.”

  “Right,” Sharpe nodded. “What’s a bosun thing?”

  “That’s a bosun,” Lock pointed.

  Sharpe sighed but the Draugr chuckled.

  “Lass gets it,” Swain said.

  “Be careful with that barrel,” Lock winced as the two Draugr made to heave it out of the way. “Filched some wire from it, might burst.”

  Boxing leaned down, running grey fingers over the staves. “Right again,” he said. “Feels heavy, overfull.”

  “Rum barrel?” Swain suggested.

  “Or brandy. Could be brandy.”

  “Never so lucky. Won’t be brandy.”

  “Be a crime to spill though. And a mess to clean up. Best leave it for Stoker, officers know best.”

  “Which is senior?” Sharpe asked. “Bosun or midshipman?”

  “Yes,” Boxing and Swain nodded.

  Sharpe sighed. He appealed to Lock but the woman was gone. Couldn’t blame her. He heard footsteps heading topside and was tempted to follow.

  “Real name?” Boxing asked.

  “Not a fleet name.”

  “Could be a purser. Would suit a purser.”

  “Or a gaoler. Good name for a gaoler.”

  Sharpe sighed. The world made no sense. What was a poor cabin boy to do?

  GRAVEL WAS VERY quiet after she’d said her piece. Elbows planted on knees, head in his hands. Not despairing, thinking. Brows creased in deep contemplation.

  Violet waited, knowing she couldn’t push him. More than that, if this went the wrong way, she didn’t have a plan to fix it. It was up to him to say something, if not to her then to the captain and first mate. Or to Kaspar. Any one of them could put a stop to it, to what she intended. It was his duty, his responsibility to do just that.

  But Violet didn’t think he would. Or she wouldn’t have told him she intended to break Sharpe out of the brig.

  She’d told him everything else too. Everything since she’d first met the man. Sharpe, not Gravel. Everything that happened in between meeting the two of them and up until now. Why she couldn’t stay. Why she couldn’t leave Sharpe behind.

  “You’re mad, Miss Violet,” Gravel said finally. “Touched in the head.”

  “Maybe,” she said. Felt awkward, sitting across from him on the bed, legs pulled up under her. Like a little kid.

  Don’t wanna be a kid no more. Can’t be. No room in this world to be.

  “Say it works,” Gravel said. “You and him make it off the ship. What then?”

  “Head back to that town,” Violet said. “Find a ship, make for the Free Lanes.”

  “You need a ship just to make it below,” he pointed out.

  “No, just a tende
r. It’s not far.”

  “Two ships firing on you? No navigator. How far you think you’d get, Miss Violet?”

  Violet took a deep breath. There was one thing she hadn’t told him still.

  How to tell him though?

  Looking around, there was nothing obvious. She thought of all the things she’d seen people with the talent do. Forks and potatoes, tables, chairs, and boats. Blocks of ice, whole ships. Golems, even. Her room was sparse, the bed, the solitary chair that Gravel was sitting in, the deck of cards still splayed out from their last game.

  Perfect.

  She pointed at the cards, one arm, palm open. Gravel looked, half rose out of his chair to fetch them until she shook her head for him to stop.

  I can do this, she thought. Just a pack of stupid cards. Don’t weigh nothing. So move, damn you!

  Nothing happened. Violet exhaled in frustration, slapping her hand down on the bed. It jumped half a foot off the floor, three legs at least. Practically rolled her off when it dropped back, leaving her facedown in the blankets.

  She looked sheepishly at Gravel, found wide eyes staring back at her. “Still figuring that out.”

  “Black lanes, Miss Violet.” Gravel shook his head. “I mean . . . for a wonder . . . when? How?”

  “Don’t know,” Violet admitted, picking herself up. “Started to wonder, a while back. Friend told me, said I wasn’t. But I guess I am. Like I said, still figuring things out. Don’t work all the time. But enough. Maybe.”

  “The crash,” Gravel blurted out, eyes popping wider still, “when we crashed on Cold Night. Should have done for us all.”

  “Kaspar said it was the navigator,” Violet said. “I thought he was covering, for you.”

  “Aye, he was, except it wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t do nothing. Not then. Too busy holding on and trying not to soil myself. But you . . .”

  “I don’t remember,” Violet said. “I don’t . . . no.”

  “That happen to you much, lass? The not remembering?”

  More and more. And maybe more than you know.

  “Not the point,” Violet steered them back. “I told you, Brandon, I’m getting Sharpe. Getting Bandit too. And getting off this metal tub. So the ways I see it you’ve got choices. Say that to the captain, say nothing, or say you’ll help me.”