Fata Morgana
Page 33
Violet hesitated, just a moment. There were bodies lying around the ship. Marines, all of them with stab wounds. Jack’s work.
“Come on, Vi,” the skipper called her, already over the railing and holding out her hand. Violet reached up and grabbed it, no more hesitations, jumping up and aboard.
“Quill!” the skipper yelled. “Time to go!”
THE KELPIE BROUGHT his hands together, a slow, drawn out clap at Nel’s command. The Poignard rumbled, wood grating against steel. It seemed like they were stuck, moving by inches. Nel saw Violet run to the bow, that mad dash that made her heart lurch thinking the girl was going to continue over the side without stopping. Half of her did, the girl’s top half bending far out over the rail, feet leaving the deck.
Hells, she back to being not-Violet now?
Violet twisted around, almost in the air and nothing but her hands tethering her to the ship itself. “Down!” she yelled, a second before belching mist came tumbling out of the innards of the Fata Morgana. Nel crouched, feeling something solid strike the outside of their hull.
Felt like we hit a reef.
But that impact, combined with the outpouring mist and Quill’s efforts, finally dislodged them. The ship was free. Then falling.
“Quill!” Nel yelled for her navigator, holding on for life. She felt the plane starting to shift as the Dancers Poignard plummeted stern first through all too thin black and mist.
But there was nothing he could do and they both knew it. Nothing but hold on. Which was what Nel did, grabbing a line.
She saw Violet, to her relief, in the headsail lines. There was no sail, fortunate since it would only have become tangled after Quill had rammed the Morgana, but that left plenty of rigging for the girl. Above her, rapidly receding, Nel could see the battle still unfolding. The Morgana’s lance batteries were like lightning to the Mangonel’s thunderous cannon. Some of the sound was even reaching their own envelope.
Damn, but they made that ship tough, was all she could think. Wounded, gutted, pierced, and bleeding profusely, the Fata Morgana was still a wonder of design. She watched as it dove and barrel-rolled, using the same thin mist that was affecting them, to escape the Mangonel Falling’s firing line. Those barrel rolls served another purpose, bringing not one but two broadsides to bear, bright streaks of light that bit into the wooden hull of the dreadnought. And not just the Mangonel. There were rays in the black, diving out of the mist. They were swirling all over the Morgana, crashing and butting into it, then falling away. The wandfire discouraged them but the ship was in a dance for survival, pressed in on all sides.
Good luck, Heathen, was all the thought Nel could spare for her former captain. The battle was out of their hands now and they’d gone above and beyond in providing the promised distraction.
One of the rays dove past them then, wings bigger than their sails stretched out and pale as the mist. Nel swallowed hard as one great eye faced her. The eye itself was bigger than she was, maybe only a passing glance before the ray dropped past them, wings flaring as it swept by.
“Mist bank, coming up!” Sharpe yelled from further down the ship. He’d slid all the way down to the main mast, with the ship close to vertical in its descent. Lashed himself to the woodwork as well. Nel realised there was no one else beyond him. Not a single soul of her crew to be seen. She had to look up to the rigging to find them.
And every sail furled.
They were coming to the edge of the thin mist. In a few hundred feet it was thick enough to lose yourself in.
“Drop sail!” Jack bellowed. He was hanging from the rails, one arm and one foot hooked into the brightwork, same as he would in the rigging, waving to the Draugr in the spars. Nel watched them; Boxing swung on a line, unfurling the main, Horse up in the nest working on the top gallants. Jack called out orders and the sails dropped, one after the other, to hang loose and full.
“Aw, hells,” Nel muttered, realising what the plan was. Jack turned, faced her, and grinned. He held on with both hands now and mouthed one word.
“Brace.”
The jolt when the sails filled was wrenching. The ship suddenly had mass again, real weight, and the free fall came to a jarring stop. They couldn’t have put more stress on the ship if they’d driven the bow into a cresting wave and found a reef the other side. The timbers protested, creaking, but Nel found herself matching Jack’s primal grin in return. The ship held fast.
“You little beauty,” Nel whispered to her, feet finding the deck as the ship started to level off. Quill had somehow made his way to the bridge and was doing what he did.
“Jack!” she called. “That your madcap idea?”
Jack only laughed, one of the few times she could recall seeing him genuinely happy. He pointed up to the rigging.
“Lost a couple,” he told her. “Forgot to hold.”
“What?” Nel started. Had she heard that right? They had crew overboard? She started searching the black, but it was all white. White misty miasma—anyone overboard was gone.
“Calm down, Skipper, were all tied on. Ain’t none of us stupid,” Jack assured her. He pointed, and she spotted a swinging body, Yarn, going by the beard. He was stuck hanging until the ship finished righting itself.
“Don’t worry,” Jack grinned, pointing. “Got my best man on it.”
“Is that . . .” Nel stared. And it was. Bandit, scampering up the mast, already into the rigging and down the rope. Yarn stared at him, nonplussed, when the loompa parked himself on the Draugr’s chest. And then there were two of them, just swinging on the end of the rope.
“Of all the . . .” Nel shook her head. She didn’t have the words.
Shoulda known.
“Make sure they all get down,” she told Jack.
“Aye, Skipper, I’ll do that,” he said.
“And Jack . . . well done.”
Jack chuckled.
Happy Jack, strange world this is.
Quill met her eyes across the length of the deck. He had seen Bandit too. His expression resigned.
“Chanel,” Sharpe called to her, back up against the mast, still holding his side. Bleeding looked to have stopped, something for Jack to have a look at once he was done pulling in their Draugr fishing lines.
“Don’t—” she started to say.
“You stabbed me,” he interrupted her. “Don’t start with the name thing.”
Nel glared. “Fine,” she relented. “But don’t make a habit of it.”
“Stabbed,” Sharpe pointed, with a grimace. “With the stabbing. By you.”
“Wasn’t trying for you,” Nel told him, almost sullenly.
Sharpe’s eyes flicked past her. Violet, presumably. He put his hand on Nel’s shoulder, leaning in closer. “I figured what you were trying to do, after the fact. You think of that all yourself? You think it all the way through?”
“Scarlett,” Nel said. “Woman jumped bodies, rather than let herself go. Powerful fear of dying that speaks to. Powerful.”
“Powerful,” Sharpe nodded. “Thing of it though, if I hadn’t gotten in the way, would you have stabbed Vi like you did me? Or were you bluffing? ’Cause I’ve seen you at cards. You’re a lousy bluff.”
“Wasn’t a card game, Castor.”
“And that wasn’t an answer.”
“Oi, Skipper!” Nel heard her name called. Twisted just enough to take the impact in the front as Violet cannonballed into her, and then it was all arms and legs and wrapped up. Sharpe grunted as he took some of the impact too.
Violet pulled back, looking up at her. Not so much as before, girl had gotten taller. Same girl slapped her in the chest.
“You hit me! In the face!” Violet exclaimed.
Beside her, Nel saw Stoker mouth the word stabbing again. She tried to shush him with her eyes.
“Wasn’t you, Vi,” Nel said, tilting the girl’s face up. She tried not to wince. There was going to be black and blue and more than one shiner come tomorrow. Maybe not even that long.
“Sorry, lass,” Nel told her. She said it fast, but it wasn’t enough. If she said it again, for what mattered, her voice might let her down. “I’m so—”
“It’s fine, s’okay,” Violet said, trying to sound gruff. “Talk about it later.”
Sharpe almost had a coughing fit at that.
“Who else?” Violet asked. “Who else is here?”
“Us and Quill,” Nel said. “And Jack. Picked up Stoker and some friends. Good hands, all of them.”
“Gabbi,” Violet said. “The captain. All the rest.”
Her eyes were bright. So big and liquid. She wasn’t asking. It was something else.
“Brought Bandit,” Violet pointed up. “He came through it with me. Through it all.”
Nel sighed, but didn’t let it show. Damned loompa’s going to outlive all of us. Probably end up captain at this rate.
Hells, why’d I have to go think that?
“And this one,” Violet looked over her shoulder. Dominik, waiting awkwardly behind her. “Figure you two might wanna talk. Gonna go see Quill and Jack.”
One more hug and the girl darted past her. Then stopped.
“Hey, Skipper,” she called, tilting her head.
“Yeah, Vi?”
“Kissed your brother.”
“WHO,” QUILL ASKED her suspiciously, “is that?”
“Who is who?” Violet stared at him, not understanding.
“That,” Quill pointed. Pointed with his eyes. Glared. “They appear familiar. Why?”
“Means the lad with the skipper,” Jack chuckled. Jack was grinning, an ear to ear smile. Bandit was perched on his shoulder, fussing over Jack’s braids Grooming him. Both seemed to be enjoying the exchange. “You know, pint with the same locks as her.”
Quill squinted at Jack. “These follicles, the shade is significant, it holds some meaning?”
Jack shook his head, still grinning, setting his own braids in motion. Bandit squawked his protest until he stopped.
“That’d be the brother, Quill. Her brother,” Violet told him. “On account of them looking alike when you stand them up together like that.”
Quill frowned. “I do not see it. You are sure?”
“Sure as he’s a Vaughn.”
“A Vaughn,” Quill looked troubled. “There are two of them now. Two Vaughns.”
“Just don’t go calling him that then,” Violet suggested. “Keep you both happy.”
“What am I supposed to call him if not that?”
“How’s about little skipper?” a voice called from above. Violet looked up, recognising Stoker but not the other Draugr with him up in the rigging. “Hello, little Miss. Welcome back, welcome aboard, I should say. At your service, we are, but need some help with these top lines if any of you are free to oblige?”
“You go,” Jack said. “Lines up top are flimsy. Suit you, both of yous,” he nudged Bandit meaningfully with the side of his face. “I’ll stay here and keep the Kelpie company.”
“I would much prefer if you did not,” Quill said.
“Why do you think I’m doing it?”
Violet’s head swivelled back and forth between the two. “This feels very awkward,” she said in a loud whisper.
“Kelpie missed you,” Jack told her. “All this fuss, coming to get you, was his idea.”
Violet cocked her head. Couldn’t have heard that right, Jack’s just messing.
Quill glared at them both. Familiar, comforting. “Violet, go and help Stoker with the lines. Now!”
Rigging, Violet thought, gazing up towards the topsail. Ropes and cordage. Tackle and blocks. Swaying masts and crows nests. Oh, I missed you . . .
She didn’t bother trying to keep the smile off her face as she climbed hand over hand up into them, Bandit right by her side.
Halfway up; Violet paused. Hooked her knee, holding on with just the one hand, leaning out and looking up at the black, past the nest, past the flights of rays swarming above, up into the mist.
How I missed you . . .
“I do not like you, Jack,” Quill told the Korrigan once Violet was out of earshot.
“And I still think you’re ugly. But you missed me, Kelpie, same as you missed the girl.”
“I admitted to no such thing,” Quill snorted.
“Didn’t have to,” Jack said. “You called her by her name.”
“Shut up,” Quill snapped at him.
Jack just laughed.
Chapter 27
ARISTEIA QUINN STEPPED back onto Fata Morgana’s gun deck, taking in the carnage. The starboard side had taken the most damage. The gun ports were traditionally a structural weakness, and the enemy had breached the hull with a carronade-class frigate as well. Faux-mist from the ruptured piping still leaked in faint bursts despite being sealed off closer to the source tanks.
The first mate nudged a prone body with her foot. The marine rolled over at the touch, exposing puncture wounds and a slashed throat. This drew a frown. The soldier-sailor still manned one of the ship’s heavy weapons, the wand battery having come loose from its restraints and rolled across the deck, facing the battered innards of the ship.
“Mors, see this weapon secured,” she ordered her Luscan shadow. “You have eyes on the Mangonel Falling?”
“Still retreating,” Mors confirmed. “De-masted and aflame.”
“And the creatures?”
“They stopped their attacks when we moved into the thin void. We have some time.”
“I see,” Aristeia nodded. “Your thoughts?”
“I would not risk a pursuit,” Mors said bluntly. “Here we have the option of safe anchorage. Firing lines. If we were to stray into the black . . .”
“Yes?”
“We would lose.”
“Aristeia!”
A dark look settled over the first mate’s face. She turned stiffly towards the call, facing Raines. The Kitsune was trailed and flanked by his pet golem. Both looked to have fared badly in the battle. Raines had someone else’s blood splattering his clothes and matting his fur, and the golem was missing the better part of one arm. That last fact was impressive.
“Aristeia,” Raines said without preamble. “You need to follow that ship.”
“Mors and I have discussed it,” Aristeia told him. “We are in agreement that any further engagement with the Mangonel would be tactically unwise.”
Raines visibly bristled, his black eyes bulging. “Tactically? That is irrelevant, besides which I was not referring to Heathen’s archaic scow. The other ship, that is who we must follow.”
“The other ship,” Aristeia repeated. Her gaze strayed meaningfully to the gaping breach in the hull.
“The Dancers Poignard,” Mors supplied.
“Yes?” Aristeia mused. “Masona Flint’s command. I will assume formerly. A shame. I knew her.”
“Even in this state of disarray,” Raines threw his arms out, “this ship is more than capable of contending with such an inferior vessel. Give the order.”
Aristeia’s brow furrowed into a deep vee. The mouth a thin, lipless line. “No.”
Raines stepped forward. “Need I remind you, first officer, that—”
“No, you need not remind me who is captain of this vessel. You may have designed her, Raines, but she is under my command. And I say we are done with battle for today.”
“Then perhaps,” Raines lowered his voice, “it is the strain of the recent battle I hear. Taking its toll on you.”
“Doubtful,” Aristeia told him. “You are captain in name only, Raines. I suggest you push the issue no further.”
Raines smiled. It was not a nice smile. “In name only. It seems we have suffered from an unclear chain of command. Our performance in the battle just now proves my point. A battle where we took losses. Most heavy losses. The fleet would grieve the loss of such a ren
owned officer. Don’t you agree . . . Scarlett?”
All attention turned to the obsidian golem. Formerly known as Onyx, now Scarlett. The head turned slowly, from Raines to the first mate and back again. Considering.
Consideration that was cut short by the convulsions of Raines. His body jerked into a series of spasms, lifting up onto the tips of his toes, limbs thrust out like a starfish. He toppled forward, falling flat and face-first upon the deck. Mors stood behind him, recently reclaimed wands in both hands. He looked down at the still-twitching form of the Guildsman.
“Choose your next words carefully, Scarlett.” Aristeia raised her eyes to meet the golem’s. She was met with impassive rock features. The head moved down, considering Raines, before speaking.
“Raines does not speak for me, or the Guild.”
“That is good,” the first mate nodded. “It is a great loss though. Arlin Raines was a brilliant inventor. His death in a minor and pointless border skirmish along the Free Lanes boundary will be considered a great tragedy. His knowledge and insight will be sorely missed in what is to come.”
All eyes on her, Aristeia Quinn showed no expression. On the deck, Raines no longer twitched, but a faint moaning could be heard.
“Alas, his body could not be recovered,” the first mate raised her voice. “Lost as he was during a valiant attempt to affect repairs to his final contribution, this ship. So the record will duly reflect.”
Aristeia turned on her heel, parade-ground snap, with arms clasped behind her back, to face the breach. “If one of you would make it so.”
The eyes of the crew turned to Scarlett. It was a long moment before she stooped, picking up the limp form of Raines with no discernible effort. The Kitsune hanging by her one arm no different than a sack of produce would have, the golem made the short journey towards the edge of the ship.
Scarlett stopped there, Raines underarm, looking out at the black expanse. She cast Raines out, leaving his body to drift amongst the stars.
Mors fired the moment Scarlett turned around. The loose battery, still primed from the battle, lit the inside of the deck for a moment. The discharge struck the one-armed golem full on the chest, hurling it out after its maker. If the Scarlett-golem was capable of showing surprise, it did not.