Fata Morgana

by Thomas J. Radford

  “I have,” the Kelpie approached, his head twisting from side to side. There was no sign of the Mangonel again but that hadn’t stopped Quill looking. “I want one thing understood.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That I am in charge. Until you return.” He looked meaningfully at Jack.

  “Ship’s not going anywhere without you,” Nel conceded.

  “Good,” Quill was mollified. “Do not take too long. And do not lose her.” He held out a pair of carabineers to Sharpe, joined by a length of cord. Sharpe took them, briefly clasping hands with the Kelpie.

  “There is a certain symmetry to this.” Sharpe held open the hatch to the bubble.

  Nel adjusted her belt one last time, making sure the fastening strap on her wand was in place. Don’t need to lose another one. She had a knife tucked into her boot as well, a midshipman’s dirk Stoker had provided.

  “Make sure you both come back,” Quill told them, pacing in front of the bubble, hands clasped behind him, stooped, tail lashing. He was a bundle of nervous energy, almost ready to bolt. Still with the searching too.

  “You know what to do if we don’t,” Nel told him.

  “I am not being left alone with Jack,” Quill snapped at her. “That will not be happening.”

  “Good,” Sharpe said. “Then if this rescue goes south you be sure the next one don’t.”

  “Ready when you are, Jack.” Nel pushed Sharpe inside, climbing in after. “See you both soon.”

  She shut the hatch before either could reply.

  Chapter 24

  THEY WERE FALLING at the same rate but at different angles. Quill, Jack, Stoker, all those left on the ship vanished out of sight. It was a strangely skeletal look, almost ghostly, as the sails were drawn and stowed, bundled against the stays by Draugr linesmen. They worked well, Nel thought. The ship started to fall away, and with her back against the curve of the glass, Nel couldn’t follow them anymore. She resisted looking down. There was little they could do now, other than trust that Jack and Quill had done their jobs right.

  “Nel,” Sharpe said, grimacing with the same falling sensation she was feeling. “How do we even get onto the Morgana?”

  “Jump,” she told him. “You waited till now to ask that?”

  “Too much talk going on,” he said. “Figured it was best just to get on with it.”

  “No other way,” Nel said. “Either we miss the ship and it’s moot, or we come too close and smash into them. You don’t want to be in here if that happens.”

  “So we cast the hatch open and get sucked out?”

  Nel nodded. “Yes.”

  “And if we jump and miss our landing?”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Right. Only . . . aw, hells,” Sharpe whispered, staring through the glass cage they were travelling in.

  Nel saw it too. They’d misjudged their fall, badly. The Fata Morgana wasn’t where they’d thought it was, it wasn’t even where she would have sworn it was a minute ago. They were going to miss it, by a lot.

  “Get the hatch,” she told Sharpe. There were no other words, they both knew they had only a few moments to get this right. Sharpe took the turn-wheel, feet set against the inside of the sphere. If he opened it too soon they would miss their chance. He looked at Nel to say when that chance was.

  Nel grabbed onto the rope tethering the two of them together, a thin and fragile thing. But it had held her fast on more than one occasion. Once even with Sharpe, what seemed so long ago.

  A sort of symmetry.

  A few hundred feet now. There was a decent supply of air inside, it wouldn’t all gush out at once. Though she wasn’t sure how the outside environment, the lack of mist, might affect that. Faster or slower? Probably faster. Hells, no second chances here.

  “Open it,” she ordered. Sharpe swung the wheel, the hatch flew wide open, and even braced as he was it sucked Sharpe out after it. The rope tugged and Nel followed right after.

  She caught the wheel with one hand, ripping skin from her palm, almost doing the same for her shoulder. Wind rushed past her, cold and instantly icy, a blizzard to go with the cold sun.

  Too far, still too far!

  She could see the Morgana now, closer, bigger, still too far. Her fingers were starting to slip. Sharpe dangled below her. He was bent back almost in half, dangling from the rope around his waist, unable to look up at her. Caught in the same flurry, just the one hand supporting the both of them.

  It wasn’t enough. She let go.

  The last breath of air leaking from the bubble pushed them away, then the sense of falling was gone. Just drifting. Nel closed her eyes, already feeling frost starting to form over her lashes and eyelids.

  So close. Too far . . .

  And then they were falling again, Sharpe first, and the line went taut again, pulling her down. Nel’s eyes snapped open and she tried to twist, looking for which way they were going to land. She barely had time to sight the incoming wall of metal, huge and filling her vision, when her shoulder slammed into it followed immediately by her back. She half rolled with the impact when the rope pulled her up short. She hadn’t even seen Sharpe strike the hull first, pulled in by the Fata Morgana’s envelope.

  Nel rolled flat onto her back, arms out. She wanted to groan as the pain hit her but there was no air in her lungs. They were definitely inside the envelope, she was just winded.

  Just winded.

  She heard something beside her. Hysterical. Laughter. Choking, gasping laughter. She managed to roll her head to see Sharpe in the same spread and flatly prone position. His head rolled to face her, split wide by a grin.

  “Hells, woman,” he said. “You trying to kill me?”

  Nel looked up at the black. Sharpe was right.

  She started laughing too.

  THEY FOUND A hatch after venturing forth onto the hull, taking their steps slowly. Nel could imagine her footsteps must sound like the inside of a bell on the other side. There were several ways in, but they chose one a third of the way down the deck, though Nel disliked the dual-side decking arrangement. It was nothing she hadn’t heard of before, or seen, but the sheer aesthetic of it rubbed her wrong. It wasn’t a ship they were standing on, it was a metal box.

  “Any idea where this will take us?” she asked Sharpe.

  “No,” he shook his head. “Didn’t let me out for walks much. The bow and stern should be the busy parts though. The midship, this is our best bet.”

  Nel nodded, finding herself taking shallow breaths as Sharpe twisted the hand wheel open. Possibly it could be locked from the inside but it seemed nobody had bothered.

  Because nobody would be daft enough to try what we just did, that’s why.

  They exchanged a look as Sharpe cracked the seal on their entry. Sharpe’s face must have mirrored hers, tight-lipped and pale, already wincing against the shouts of alarm and discovery. But nothing happened. He pulled the hatch the rest of the way open.

  Sharpe went first, taking the ladder that was revealed inside then dropping the last few feet to the floor. He landed lightly, crouching all the way down. One hand on his weapon, the other poised on the ladder for the first sign of trouble.

  They came rushing from both sides, but first the corridor lit up with a flash of wand fire. Sharpe dropped flat to avoid it and just barely got to his feet when the first man tackled him. A Korrigan, built squat and low to the ground, almost took Sharpe down. Two more piled on, going for his arms. Somehow he fought them off and was scrambling for the ladder. Nel started to reach for him, pull him to safety but other arms reached up first. Wrapping around him, pulling him down. Sharpe stretched out with both arms, not for her but for the wheel lock, slamming the hatch closed. Her last glimpse was of him crashing back inside the ship.

  “Oh, the hells with that!” Nel shouted to the empty deck. She ripped the hatch back open, jumping straight down into the rolling fracas. Her elbow connected with someone’s head and she found herself atop two collapsing bodies.
There was no room for wandplay in the cramped confines, only knees and fists. She could barely see who she was struggling with, other than it wasn’t Sharpe. Someone’s neck wrapped under her arm. Slammed back against the wall, that body slipping limply from her grasp, dead or unconscious or broken, no way of telling. Someone connected with her, to the face, the light she saw wasn’t real. Yelling.

  And then they were running.

  Dashing down the corridor, footsteps ringing out. Inside of a bell, never lose them now. Twists and turns, Sharpe’s hand on hers, pulling her forward. Then he stumbled, buckled at the knees, rolling and coming up again. She almost ran into him, then bright, hot pain in her knee. She went down too.

  She saw him, looking back. The Luscan from Vice, dual armed, two wands dropping sparks, glowing hot in his hands. He’d winged them both. Another step towards them as she reached for her weapon, arm drawn back, a lazy roll of the shoulder.

  The lights went out.

  “YOU NEED TO come with me.”

  “You sound angry,” Violet said to Kaspar. Looked angry too.

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Because I got Brandon killed,” Violet said simply.

  Kaspar flinched, looked away. Biting down on his lip before he replied. “You shouldn’t call him that. Only his friends called him that.”

  “I was his friend. Wouldn’t have asked for his help otherwise.”

  “His help—” Kaspar started, then cut himself off. He stepped up to her, right in her face. “I heard you! Talking with Heathen, I heard you, Violet!”

  She frowned at him. “Heard what? I never talked to Heathen, except when I got dragged in front of the captain.”

  “I saw you,” he said harshly. “And you saw me, why the hells would you even bother denying it?”

  Violet shook her head, then reached up to steady her glasses. She tried to think, but couldn’t recall what he was talking about. “I don’t know,” she said. “Honest, Niko, I don’t know what you mean.”

  Kaspar glared at her. He wanted to be angry, she realised. But was perplexed. She just didn’t know what, other than it was somehow her fault.

  “You need to come with me,” he said, grabbing her arm. “Everyone’s been called out, we’re to meet on the gun deck.”

  Kaspar dragged her down the hallways, the twisting corridors of the Fata Morgana. They passed more crew, more marines, on their way. All of them headed to where they themselves were going. And there was a crowd gathered. Kaspar pushed them both through it.

  “Skipper,” Violet heard herself whisper. It couldn’t be anyone else, the shock of hair red against the pallor of her skin, a match for the blood running down her face, almost drying and flaking like rust. The colours, so bright and vivid. Violet reached up, clawing the glasses off her face. She could hear her own breathing, harsh, laboured. The world was easier in grey, painted all in silver. Just like being belowdecks, the light of a glowstone. No need for the harshness.

  She felt calmer now, different. Like rough waters, with someone else steering. It wasn’t her concern. She just had to let it ride.

  “Violet,” Kaspar whispered to her, holding her arm. His grip was tight, she had to grab at his hand when the blood stopped flowing. White-knuckled hands she could feel.

  You’re alive.

  Kaspar. Vaughn.

  Skipper . . .

  Oh no . . .

  She wasn’t alone. Sharpe was with her, bound and tied again, manacles around his wrists. Thrown down onto his knees and collapsed next to the skipper.

  Why did you come back? Why didn’t you stay away? You and the skipper.

  Except she wasn’t the skipper anymore. There was nothing left to be skipper of. No ship, no crew, no Tantamount. She was just Nel Vaughn. All alone now.

  Aristeia Quinn was there, the skipper of the Fata Morgana. The Gunner’s Daughter. Flanked by marines and looking down at her prisoners. Raines too, standing further back, safely away. Mors flanked him like a good guard dog, watching.

  “I expected better.”

  Nel looked up, face battered and bloody, strands of hair stuck to her face. “You expected us. Meant it to be a surprise.”

  “It was a careless plan. Even if we hadn’t been warned, you would have been found as soon as you came aboard. What did you hope to accomplish?”

  Warned? Who warned us? Them . . . who warned . . .

  Nel smiled, thin and sickly, teeth still covered in a film of blood. She’d been hit hard. “You took my ship from me, Skipper. My crew. Thought I’d . . . return the favour.”

  “You were a commendable officer once,” Aristeia said. “A pity.”

  “Yeah.”

  The first mate waved to Mors. “Deal with this.”

  “You want a fight?” Nel struggled to her feet before anyone could take action. “I’ll fight you. Here, now, I’ll fight you. Draw your damned weapon and show me you can still use it.”

  Aristeia measured her up and down, considering. “A duel? Why? What would be the point?”

  Nel turned her head and spat, staining the deck crimson. “You’re a coward.”

  “Are you trying to goad me, Vaughn? You’ll have to try harder than that.” The first mate turned to go, putting her back to Nel.

  “Afraid of a few more scars? I expected better.” Nel pushed herself to her feet, hands still bound in front of her. A sailor moved to restrain her, and she elbowed the man in the face, her eyes never leaving the first mate. The marine holding Sharpe moved to help restrain Nel. Aristeia stopped but didn’t turn to face her.

  “All the stories I ever heard about you, the great dread captain who’s not a captain. Child of the black, gunner’s daughter, hero of the Bells. It’s all rot. I got the drop on you and your little friend back on Vice.”

  Nel took a step forward. “And I heard you cried like a little girl,” she said, “when they held you down to paint a shellback on you—”

  “Someone put that woman down,” Aristeia snapped, turning, moving to do so herself. She charged straight past Sharpe who chose that moment to stand up himself. He raised his bound hands high and looped them over the woman. She started to struggle, half drawing her weapon. Sharpe grabbed for it, dropping his hands and wresting it from Aristeia’s. He stabbed down, triggering the discharge and both their bodies lit up.

  A miniature lightning storm enveloped them both, and the Fata Morgana’s first mate went into convulsions. The wand flew through air, and with the slightest nudge from Sharpe, straight into Nel’s outstretched hands. She didn’t waste the moment, aiming directly for the captain in a savage whipping gesture.

  Raines, to his credit, did not flinch, did not move. But his bodyguard did, stepping into the path, smooth as silk. The Luscan half-breed caught the wand fire on one tip, sending it flying off to the side. His face cracked in a predator’s savage grin.

  Violet could see Nel grind her teeth in frustration, squeezing the wand hilt tight. Like Violet, she’d only ever seen a Guildswoman pull that trick before. But Nel had seen it, knew what it meant. Mors drew his second duelling wand, holding them crossed in front of himself, daring her to try again.

  Aristeia Quinn’s limp body slumped to the deck with a thud, the only sound. Smoke drifted off of her. Sharpe stood tall above her, still wreathed in electricity. His body shook but he didn’t go down. Surrounded by the Fata Morgana’s crew, all of them with weapons bared. No one moved to touch him yet.

  “Do you want to persist in this pointless charade, my dear?” Raines asked, stepping around Mors. “I despise duels. The bravado, the pantomime. But very well, have it your way. Ensign, cut her free. And someone do see to your first mate.”

  Aristeia was already being attended to by marines. Scorch marks and blisters marred her already scarred skin. Worse for it, she made it to her feet, unsteady and supported, but still standing.

  “Captain,” she called out.

  “Enough, later,” Raines ignored her. “Let us be done with this. Mors.”


  The Luscan twirled his matched wands eagerly. Nel barely acknowledged the young ensign stepping up to her until the knife flashed between her wrists. Severed rope hit the deck.

  The skipper shoved Kaspar away fiercely, growling something Violet couldn’t make out. He returned hurriedly to where Violet was standing.

  “She doesn’t like you very much,” she said to him.

  His response was tight, pale and choked. “We killed her crew.”

  And you had no idea.

  Did she?

  Violet focused on the upcoming duel, thoughts running through her mind. “Mors commanded the cannon during the battle. Do you think she knows that?”

  She hadn’t spoken loudly but Nel’s head turned to her slowly, her eyes dead and flat. She returned that gaze to Mors Coldstream.

  “She knows now,” Mors said, his grin becoming even wider. “Thank you, girl, you just made this interesting.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Nel said to Mors, loudly. “I wanted your captain, but I’ll settle for you first.”

  “You were lucky, before, on Vice. Think you’ll be so again?” Mors laughed. At the same time Nel whipped her wand in a horizontal cross, stepping forward close behind the salvo.

  “Hells!” Violet heard Kaspar curse beside her. Nel closed the distance between herself and Mors in a matter of heartbeats, and the duellist reeled, sending her attacks left and right, forcing the crew to scurry for cover. Kaspar dragged Violet down.

  When she looked up again, Mors and Nel were pressed almost against each other. The duellist was panicked now. He still ducked and weaved as the woman lashed out with her wand in close like it was a knife but he seemed to lack the ability to match her at this range.

  Violet saw it coming, even if Mors didn’t. Nel dropped down to the deck, taking a knee as his backhand arced over her head, and then she came back up, leading with her fist. Her punch nearly lifted Mors off his feet when it connected with his chin. He staggered, dropping a wand. Nel hit him again and he dropped like a stone. She stood over him, wand raised for the killing blow.

  The Fata Morgana’s first mate stepped in then, grabbing Nel’s wrist with one hand and smashing it back into her face. She stumbled, tripped, fell. Aristeia stamped down on her hand, trapping the wand against the deck.