Groaning, Lina lifted the cask up to balance on the rail. She made sure to splash Cure-all out of the open bung onto the hot metal pipes. The air filled with the pungent, acidic scent of the stuff.
The scryn nearest stopped their screaming to look in her direction. Lina dropped to the deck, curling into a ball, and wedged herself under the exhaust-pipe as much as she could. The air above her filled with cacophony as the scryn swarmed, irresistibly attracted to the alcohol. They screeched and squabbled, fighting to be first. Lina heard the cask scrape against the wooden railing as the mass of creatures shoved it overboard. The red glow along the deck all about her darkened.
Lina look up. The massed scryn were gone, though she heard them just out of sight. A few still fought, though most of those were circling around her and the place where the Cure-all had spilled. She scrabbled away, climbing to her feet. The crew had the upper hand now, and quickly dispatched the remaining sky-rays.
Fengel moved up beside her, blade dripping black scryn ichors. "What happened?" he asked. "What did you do?"
"No time," she cried. "The Maelstrom is ripping us apart!"
Captain Fengel blinked at her. Then he looked up at the Maelstrom around them and cursed, taking notice of the groaning cries of his ship. "Hard to port!" he yelled, whirling back to face the helm. "Maxim! We've gained too much velocity! Get us turned hard to port and ride the wind!"
Those crew unwounded scrambled back to their stations. She glanced at the Maelstrom, at the skysails. No. That won't work. They had to pull the sails in.
The ship shook violently, first to one side and then the other. It swayed like a drunken horse. She opened her mouth to yell back to the captain. No. Not enough time. She had to do it herself.
Lina raced up the deck to the bow. She reached the first skysail along the starboard-side and the chain linkage that controlled it. A series of pulleys ran fine cord out from the mechanism to the skysail, attached to the linkage by a spool mounted on an axle, like the reel of a fishing rod. The cords hummed, taut against the invisible pressure of the Maelstrom. The thin metal armatures that suspended the sails squealed at the stress.
She placed her hands upon the reel and twisted. It gave only a little. Lina threw herself at it. The reel wound a little bit, and the skysail moved inward slightly. Bit by bit, swearing under her breath, she pulled it in. Finished, she stepped back to view it. The skysail wriggled and twisted, even folded up. But it would hold.
The ship still shook. There were five more sails to go.
Through the yelling of the captain and the frantic movement of the crew, Lina raced unnoticed. One by one she pulled them in, the second, third, fourth, and fifth. The ship shook less, leveled out. She was working on the sixth, near the helm in the stern, when a hand landed on her shoulder, spinning her about.
Lucian Thorne stood before her, Captain Fengel and Henry Smalls just behind. Smalls looked confused and the captain impassive, like stone. Maxim, stood at the helm past them, staring at the eye of the Maelstrom, as if seeing nothing else.
"What are you doing, girl?" The first mate glared down at her, furious. "We need to tack around the edge of the storm!"
Lina wanted to wince, to shrink away. "It was too late!" she said. "We were already caught up in the Maelstrom, and the skysails were tearing away!"
"The skysails would have been fine!" shouted Lucian. The dashing, easygoing man she'd seen was gone, replaced by the rough second-in-command of a crew of brigands and rogues. "We've taken them through aetherstorms like this just fine. You think you know better? We're going to be stuck in the eye now until we can fire up the furnace again and propel our way out! We've lost hours of travel because of you!"
"The girl is correct." Everyone turned at the harsh, almost mechanical voice. The Mechanist stalked over from the mouth of the rear hatchway, moving like a machine. "This ship is not your Flittergrasp. You presume too much about her capabilities." He turned to Captain Fengel. "The skysails installed upon the Dawnhawk are light, and will speed you more efficiently than any built by the Brotherhood so far. But they are fragile. You should have consulted me before adopting this tactic. A penalty will be applied to the fee after the voyage, as well as costs to repair the skysails, should they prove necessary."
Dismay flashed across Fengel's face. Whether at the fee or the possible damage to the ship, Lina could not say. Her captain visibly regained his composure, then nodded stiffly at the Mechanist. "My apologies, sir. The Brothers of the Cog know their own equipment best, of course." He glanced over to Lucian and Lina. "Miss Stone," he said, changing the subject. "What was it you did to lure away the scryn?"
Lina blinked in surprise. "Corsair's Cure-all," she said. "It's how I got rid of the one from earlier."
Captain Fengel raised an eyebrow. Then he moved to the rail to peer overboard. Lina shrugged off Lucian's hand and took a step back, glancing over the gunwales as well. Below them flew the cloud of scryn. They swarmed around the last islet where the cask had fallen and shattered. The creatures screeched and fought, but ignored the Dawnhawk in favor of the spilled liquor.
Fengel turned back to face them. "I see," he said. "Lucian. It appears that Miss Stone has acted both quickly and cleverly. She is to be commended. Sir Mechanist, please bring up the furnace, if you would, before beginning your inspection."
Lina released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The Mechanist glared at them all, but gave a nod and moved away belowdecks to comply. Lucian sighed and shook his head. He turned away to shout orders at the pirate crew scattered about. Fengel made to move back to the helm where Maxim stood. He paused.
"Miss Stone?" he said, half-turning. His green eyes pinned her, not pleasantly.
Lina swallowed. "Sir?"
"Initiative is prized. But in the future, I would appreciate it if you would notify me of such intentions before acting upon them."
Lina blushed. "I would have, sir. But there wasn't time. We'd have lost the skysails, at the least."
"Duly noted." The captain walked away, shouting orders for the wounded to be taken below and the ship to be seen to.
Lina frowned, not sure what to think or how to feel. She realized that one person still stood at her side. Henry Smalls leaned in. "How did you know we wouldn't be becalmed?" he asked.
Lina looked at him blankly. "We're on an airship. There isn't even any wind trapping us here. It's just the aether, right?" She looked after Lucian, and the captain, suddenly worried. "Should I...?"
"No. Just give them a bit. You did the right thing, twice over. Lucian just feels guilty he didn't solve the problems, and the Captain didn't like you going against his orders. Still, he commended you. And if he said it, he meant it; I know the man. Maybe just...find somewhere unobtrusive for a bit, eh?"
The steward patted her shoulder and followed his captain. Lina sighed, then moved back to where she wouldn't be in the way. The ship no longer shook. Rather, it seemed unnaturally calm for the roiling Maelstrom they were passing through. The eye of the storm was just off the port-side now, an empty hole in the cloudbank. Lina stared at it, and she almost, almost thought she saw something in the middle, perhaps a long shadow against the clouds where none should be. Andrea's talk of daemons came back to her and she shuddered, looking back to Maxim at the helm. The man stared at the empty space as well, pale and shaking, tears rolling down his face. Captain Fengel was pulling him quietly away from the helm, letting Henry Smalls step in to take his place. Lina shook her head at the strangeness of the world.
Something landed with a thump on the exhaust-pipes beside her. Lina whirled to see a scryn only inches away. She opened her mouth to yell warning, then paused. It was a runty creature, the small one she'd met earlier today.
"Chirr!" The patterns on its belly lit up in dancing, drunken whorls. It coiled, ready to leap forward at her arm.
It suddenly belched, then fell down behind the exhaust-pipe with a thud.
Chapter Eight
Fengel removed his mon
ocle. He wiped at it with the cuff of his sleeve, trying to clean away the thick, black ichors coating it. The glass fogged as he rubbed, smearing. Scryn blood was foul stuff, sticky and rank. With a sigh, he gave up for the moment and replaced his eye-piece, making a mental note to give it a more thorough washing later.
Groans echoed down to him from the rest of the deck. His crew lay about in the aftermath of the attack, resting and looking over their wounds. Lucian moved among them, looking for anything serious enough to need real attention. Fengel's heart went out to them, and he cursed himself again for missing the danger until it was too late. He glanced over at the helm where his gray-haired steward stood, keeping them on course for the moment.
"Henry." The little man glanced over at him. Fengel gestured toward the bow. "I'll take the wheel for a bit. Get some bandages and go help with the wounded."
"You sure, sir?"
"Aye. I misspoke to the Mechanist. I'm going to bring us out of the Maelstrom, then to a full stop. We're already losing our momentum. We might as well see to the injured and take stock, be certain that nothing was seriously damaged." He looked over to the port-side railing where Maxim stood, silent and paler than usual, staring up at the empty eye of the windless storm. "Take Maxim with you."
Henry looked to their navigator and gave a nod. He passed the wheel to Fengel and walked over to the man. Maxim started when Henry touched his elbow, but went along when the steward pulled him up the deck. Fengel set himself behind the helm and took quick stock of the console of the gearbox, the wavering needles of the compass, altimeter, and barometer.
Fengel glanced at the great open space within the middle of the storm, now rolling past them on the starboard-side. Supposedly a daemon sat in its middle, unheard and unseen, trapped in its center like a fly caught in amber. Or so Maxim swore. Fengel had never seen it himself; he hadn't a lick of the strange inborn ability that revealed such hidden mysteries. On the whole, he appreciated that. The world was a very strange place sometimes, and he had more than enough to worry about on his own.
The Dawnhawk finished skirting the eye. Fengel spun the wheel, using their latent momentum and the small head of steam built up in the furnace beneath his feet to push them away from its whorl. The roiling cloudbank washed over the bow of the ship, enclosing them in misty gloom. Fengel checked the gearbox instruments again. They were still on course. Minutes passed, and the churning fog of the Maelstrom brightened. Bit by bit it thinned, then finally parted as his vessel emerged from the perpetual storm and back into bright blue skies. The Atalian Sea spread out beneath them again, empty and white-capped. Thick, puffy clouds scudded low across the sky, far more than had been on the other side of the Maelstrom. This was common, for some reason, in the places so close to the Yulan. Fengel never understood why. He and the crew preferred the west, but a few adventures had brought him this way over the years. Each time the seas nearby were cloudy, and he had never heard of it being otherwise.
The sun sat low in the west, below the layer of heavy cloud. It illuminated the deck of the Dawnhawk, highlighting the disorder and filth from their recent travails, rendering them stark and apparent. Fengel frowned at the state of the ship. She deserved better.
It was definitely time for a bit of a break. Fengel wondered if he'd pushed too hard to get this far. Their brazen theft had warranted a quick escape, but he had to admit to himself that they'd gotten clean away, and it was simple eagerness that drove him now. No one chased after them. The other airship spied this morning had given him a start; his fear then was pursuit by Natasha. But the other vessel had quickly fallen behind, its course aimed elsewhere. Fengel had put it out of his mind.
He checked the wide expanse all about the ship. Nothing gave him pause. In the distance, leagues ahead, he thought he saw a dark stain on the horizon. That would be the Continent and the Stormwall, still a day's worth of travel at their current rate. He called out to the lookouts at their stations. Their answering cries came back a few moments later. The ocean was free of nearby islets that might harbor more scryn.
As good a place as any. He looked again to the gearbox, where a brass tube emerged from its top. Earlier, the Mechanist had informed him that it would allow vocal communication down to the furnace-room where he resided. Fengel cleared his throat, leaned forward and spoke clearly. "Cool engines. Full stop."
He waited for acknowledgement. There was no reply. Fengel frowned and leaned in closer, wondering if he'd been heard. The Mechanist would be irritated, having just gotten the furnace fired up again. He opened his mouth to speak again and a shrill cacophony erupted from the tube. Fengel jerked back in startlement, his ears suddenly ringing.
Apparently it worked. The rhythm of the furnace below changed, its constant low vibration slowed. He glanced back to the stern to see the steam-pipe exhaust dwindling, the chain-driven propellers halting in their spin.
Fengel waved down a passing crew-woman, Andrea Holt. He gave her the wheel and told her to keep it steady, then walked up to listen to Lucian's reports on the state of ship and crew. His first mate stood up near the bow. Fengel started to make his way up, but stopped a short distance from the helm. The new girl, Miss Stone, crouched furtively near the port-side gunwales.
Lucky, indeed, to have you along. The incident with the skysails was embarrassing, but losing them entirely would have been disastrous. Not to mention expensive. As well, though, her quick thinking with the scryn-swarm would have her firmly in the crew's good-books, raising him again in their eyes as well for letting her aboard. Who knew that a Triskelion doxy would prove so useful? "Miss Stone?" he asked. "Are you well?"
Lina whirled in surprise. She clutched a hip flask in one hand, white-knuckled. "Yes!" she cried, over-loud. "I'm fine! Perfectly fine." She smiled, leaning back against the exhaust-pipe. "How are you?"
Fengel paused for a moment to consider the question. He felt tired from the stress and the strain of their recent exertions. Mistakes had just been made, and they were his to own. Abruptly an acute pang of loneliness washed over him. In times past there would have been someone else to prop him up, help check his blind spots and poor decisions. His wife...
He blinked, surprised at the feeling. He shoved it aside as a pointless and treacherous line of thought. I've been better, but also a lot worse. Fengel smiled at Lina. "Capital," he said, "thanks in no small part to you." A caustic stench tickled his nose, making him sneeze. Only one thing smelled like that. The flask in her hand must be filled with Cure-all. "Good Goddess above." He waved a hand to disperse the stink. "You're not actually drinking that stuff, are you?"
Lina appeared to notice the flask in her hand for the first time. She jerked it behind her back. "No! No, I—" She quieted, calculation in her eyes. Then she pulled the flask back around, staring at it. "Yes," she continued, voice now deadpan. "Yes, that is what I am doing." She glanced down at the flask, and then back up again at him, as if trying to decide whether to take a swig from it, and really hoping not to.
Fengel frowned. Miss Stone was acting decidedly suspicious. Then it came to him. "It's all right," he said with a smile. "We're pirates, not Perinese sailors, Miss Stone. It's fine, so long as you're not drunk on watch." Everyone dealt with the stress of battle differently. And she had been through a lot today, not including getting reprimanded by Lucian awhile before. "You're not the first to calm their nerves with drink after a bit of a scuff."
"Chirr."
Miss Stone went pale as a sheet. Fengel raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"
Lina coughed, fist to her mouth. "Um, hrm. Excuse me. That was...ah. That was me." She glanced around like a cornered animal. "I may have overdone it? I'm a little drunk?"
Fengel nodded. "Perfectly understandable. But as I said, please remember that your watch is on in several hours." He leaned in. "Personally, if you want some advice, you're going to want something that takes the edge off but doesn't put you under too much. Cure-all is something I would probably stay away from."
Lina stared at
him. Then she nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She glanced back up the deck toward the bow. "I'd, ah, I'd best get below for a bit. Henry said I should avoid Mr. Thorne for a little while to come."
Fengel looked up to the bow where his first mate stood. "Don't worry yourself overmuch, Miss Stone. You surprised us all at first when we realized what you were doing; we didn't understand. That's forgiven, though. We're not some Navy ship, ready to punish quick thinking. Lucian's just upset now that he didn't catch that detail about our lovely new vessel. Still, maybe you should head down below, if only to find something else to drink."
Lina smiled, bright and brittle. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." The young woman turned back to the gunwales and pulled a hempen sack up and out from between it and the exhaust-pipes. "Chirr," she seemed to say again. Glancing furtively about, she bowed to him and ran for the aft hatch belowdecks.
Fengel watched her go, then shook his head. "Strange girl," he muttered.
He examined the ship as he made his way up to the bow. Blood smeared the boards, most of it the black ichors of the scryn. Fengel swore another curse at the horrible creatures under his breath. They really were vile things, and one of several reasons he didn't fly much in this direction. Though he'd never seen it himself, there were horror stories of scryn-swarms burrowing into the frames of the airship gasbags, attracted to the smell of light-air gas. Inevitably such stricken vessels crashed into the ocean with no survivors. Fengel did have to wonder at that last bit, though. If no one survived, how did anyone know about it?
The crew took notice of him as he passed, calling greetings. Fengel returned the favor, and commended those who'd fought well. His men and women were all skilled and confident in their abilites, he knew, but, like everyone else, they liked it to be noticed. Fengel made sure that he did; it was one of the many carefully orchestrated reasons they all stayed so loyal to him.
Up near the bow, he finally found Lucian. The first mate was eyeing a stanchion connecting an anchor line to the gas-bag above. "The little vermin will chew on anything," he muttered at Fengel's approach.
Chasing the Lantern (The Dawnhawk Trilogy, Book One) Page 11