The Copper Queen was a ghost ship. The forecastle deck spread out before her, widening until it dropped abruptly down to the main deck. That tier was wide and flat, a single large cargo hatch covering its center with ropes dangling onto it from the gasbag frame above. Along both the port and starboard gunwales were a row of light cannons, notches cut beneath them so that they could be aimed at targets below the ship. To the rear rose the aftcastle deck, a pair of stairs leading to the ship's helm at the top. This vessel was old, the dark wood chipped and scuffed. Equipment lay about the deck carelessly, forgotten in the excitement of the attack. Natasha obviously hadn't taken care of it in the little time she'd been aboard, not the way that either crew had cared for the Dawnhawk.
Lina picked herself up and stretched. Well. What now?
The rope that dangled her crewmates from the bow was not tied to the prow, or even up here on the bow. Instead, it stretched taut down the length of the ship, running all the way back to the aftcastle deck. There it terminated past the helm and out of her sight.
Lina turned back to the prow. She bent to inspect the rope, rubbing against the prow and the wood of the gunwales. The fibers were tough, and did not seem too damaged; they would hold for awhile.
She leaned over the edge. Dimly she spied the crew, still hanging, the net a bulbous outline against the sea.
"I made it up," she yelled.
"Excellent," replied Fengel. Faint, halfhearted cheers echoed him.
"I'm not sure how to get you up," shouted Lina. "There's no winch here I can see. Ship's deserted, though. I'm going to take a look around."
"Right then," Fengel called back. "See if you can find a ladder. If not, then improvise!"
A ladder. Right. She turned back to the ship and made her way over to the edge of the forecastle deck. A small, steep set of steps led down to the deck. Quickly but carefully she descended.
Lina followed the rope supporting the net full of pirates down the length of the deck. Maybe there was a winch in the stern? If she could just see how it terminated, maybe she could figure something out. She certainly wasn't seeing any rolled-up rope ladder anywhere.
She climbed up to the aftcastle deck, and her heart almost fell into her stomach. The rope suspending her crewmates stretched back past the helm to the very stern rails of the ship. There it was tied in a heavy, but simple knot. Already the wood of the rails was splintered and cracked, some of the spindles dangling free. The anchor point was uncertain, and would not last. Natasha had meant to kill them.
Lina glanced about for some other way to anchor the rope. Nothing made itself apparent. She ran back down the stair and back up to the bow, cursing under her breath.
"Captain?" she cried, leaning over the gunwales.
"Yes?" came Fengel's reply.
"It would be a really, really good idea if you lot down there could move as little as possible."
Silence greeted her statement.
"We will endeavor not to," said Fengel at last, both in reply to Lina and as an order to the wordless crew.
Lina turned back to the ship. There had to be something she could do. Improvise, improvise. Forget that. There's got to be rope ladders somewhere on board. Or more ropes, at least. If she found one she could anchor it to something properly, buying more time if—when—the railing snapped free.
She descended back to the deck. Where would they keep spare rope or ladders? There weren't anything like the neat equipment lockers aboard the Dawnhawk. Lina cursed, stopping as she glanced at the forecastle behind her. Up above was the bow deck, but here below it was open. Once, comparing bedding arrangements with a client in her former line of work, she'd heard that sometimes sailors slept there where they could access ready gear quickly. Lina took a step toward it, when a sound caught at her ear.
It was a sob.
Lina stopped. All around her the airship creaked, groaning and complaining in its dotage. Had she misheard? No. It had been the sound of a grown man crying; she'd heard it far too often to mistake it for anything else.
She drew the loaned knife from its sheath. When she'd thought herself alone, the ship hadn't seemed at all dangerous. Ancient and rattletrap maybe, but not dangerous. Now though she knew better, and her heart raced.
The sound came again, a thick choking sob echoing from the aftcastle deck. There, the door of the captain's cabin was slightly ajar. She had not noticed it until now, too focused on the predicament at hand. Lina crept to the door, knife held at the ready, peered within.
The cabin was a mess. It smelled of old mold and alcohol. The window-hangings above the box-bed at the rear of the room were moth-eaten and pulled shut. A lone figure crouched in the far corner on the floor, a tiny nub of candle his only illumination. It was a young, red-headed man in the rumpled greatcoat of a Mechanist. Several bottles of cheap rum lay at his feet. Lina pushed her way inside. The Mechanist didn't seem to notice. Softly forward she crept until she crouched just before him.
"Who are you?" she whispered, knife held at the ready.
The Mechanist started. He leapt backwards with a yelp and banged his head on the rear timbers of the cabin. "You didn't leave me!" he cried, rubbing at his head. Freckles covered his face. "You came back for—" He looked up at Lina and blinked in confusion. "You're not Miss Blackheart," he said. "Who are you?"
"Lina Stone," she said. "Are you the ship's Mechanist? Are you alone?"
He sniffed, nodding. "They left me on board when they abandoned the Queen for their old ship. I tried to come with, but the first mate just kicked me down and laughed. I can't pilot this thing by myself—it's barely aloft as it is! I'm going to die here, just like the others dangling off the bow." The Mechanist covered his face with his hands, weeping again.
Lina sighed, all her wariness gone. This was an oddity, but it didn't change anything. She still had to get Fengel and the others aboard, and needed help to do that. She appraised the youth before her. He really was very young, and didn't seem worth much. But needs must. "Hey now," she said, voice soft. "It's going to be all right."
"What?" blubbered the Mechanist. "Wait. Where did you even come from?" His eyes widened and he shrank back. "Please don't hurt me! I didn't have anything to do with what they did!"
You could have helped after they'd left, rather than hiding up here and sobbing your guts out. Lina hid her thoughts behind a smile. "I'm not going to do anything to you. But I want to get my friends up on board, and I can't do that alone." She sat demurely, working to make herself look less threatening. "Why don't you help me out, and then I'll make sure they aren't angry at you, all right? Afterward we can fly back to port, and everything'll be fine."
The Mechanist looked at her like a deer about to bolt. He sniffed, and Lina couldn't help but stare at the bubble of snot that shrank from one nostril. She kept her smile small and placid though, and eventually the young man nodded.
"There," she said. "Not so hard, eh? Come on." Lina stood, grabbing the Mechanist by the hand. He started, reflexively trying to pull from her grip. He couldn't. The Mechanist's hands were soft and un-callused. Lina's could crack walnuts. Acting as sweet as she dared, Lina pulled him to his feet, then tugged him out from the captain's cabin and onto the deck.
The rope holding the pirates off the bow was still taut. Faintly, she heard the sounds of the rail anchoring it strain. Lina looked back at the Mechanist.
"What's your name?" she asked, fighting to keep calm herself.
The youth gawked. "My name? I...I'm Allen," he said. He blanched, as if suddenly remembering he wasn't supposed to have one anymore.
"All right, Allen. Where can we find a ladder?"
"Nowhere," Allen mumbled. "I mean they're all up top. We had to use some of them to replace the ratlines and rigging, and to get the starboard rudders shored up. We could get one down, but it'll take another pair of hands than just us two."
Lina cursed. "All right then. Improvisation it is. Where can we find some rope?"
That, he could provide. The M
echanist led her belowdecks to the engine room he stayed in. It was nothing like the one aboard the Dawnhawk, more an equipment locker than a place for proper engineering. A little cast-iron stove squatted in one corner, banked low. A coal-ladder to the store somewhere deeper in the ship opened next to it, but it was largely empty, black dust staining it heavily. Lina grabbed a heavy coil of rope, and with Allen's help hauled it back up to the deck. They anchored it to a heavy steel cleat just below the aft deck, one connecting the gasbag frame above to the ship. Then she ran the other end up to the bow.
"Here," she cried at the pirates below. Fengel looked back up at her, his monocle winking in the moonlight. She threw down her end of the rope, and held it until someone grabbed it from within the net. "Tie that off so's you don't fall in the meantime. And don't move too much. I don't trust my knot-work up here." Without waiting for a reply she turned back to the ship.
Problem One, improvised. That took care of any immediate mishaps that might occur. Now to see about Problem Two. There was still issue of getting the crew back up on board, and she had no idea how to go about it.
"Do you have a winch?" Lina asked. They stood amidships, looking up at the rope. Allen stood beside her, eyes down and subservient.
The young Mechanist flinched. "No," he said with a shake of his head. "We're not even close to being properly supplied. I tried to tell them, but Captain Blackheart just hit me. They were in such a hurry to get aloft! I tried to tell them that the Copper Queen wasn't ready yet. We ended up just drifting for a day and a half after we went up. The linkage and turning system wasn't even close to being usable."
Lina frowned. Well, I'm not going to be able to pull them back up. And with wrists like that, Allen here isn't going to either.
The ship lurched, pushed by a strong wind. A stray belaying pin rolled down the deck toward them, then reversed and rolled the other way as the Copper Queen settled. Lina watched it, then looked up at the taut rope above them. An idea occurred to her. "What about something really heavy?"
Allen blinked. "Like what?"
Lina held out her hands. "We need something really heavy. Like, I don't know, a bunch of water barrels or something."
The young Mechanist gave her a funny look. He pointed to the port-side gunwales. "Like those?"
Lina followed his gesture. The light cannons sat upon their mountings, pointing out from the ship. They were carronades, almost solid iron, with handles cast into their thick bodies, one on either side of the barrel. And they were very, very heavy. Lina tapped her lip thoughtfully. "I think they just might, at that."
With Allen's help, Lina unlocked one of the carronades from its wooden mounts. Then they rolled it off onto the deck where it landed with a deafening thump that echoed up and down the length of the ship. Inclined as the ship was, the artillery-piece slid down to a stop against the forecastle. Lina cursed. She hadn't thought this entirely through.
Taking a spare piece of rope, she tied it through the errant weapon and gave one end to Allen. Cursing and swearing, they dragged the thing back up to the aftcastle and tied it in place.
"Okay," she said, panting. "Now we've just got to get this up to the helm. Think you can push it up if I pull from the top of the stair?"
The young Mechanist stared at her. "No."
Lina cursed. "Damnation. You'll have to pull."
Allen shook his head. "I don't think that will work either."
Lina sat down with a scowl. They had to get the cannon up, or her plan wouldn't work. She glanced at Allen; the Mechanist wasn't looking at her though. Instead he stared at the complex system of steerage pulleys and cabling that hung from the gasbag frame above.
"What've you got on your mind?" she asked.
Allen started, looked at her, then examined his feet. "Nothing."
She wanted to sigh, but held back. I still need him. "No, go on, tell me."
He shrugged. "Well, it's just, I couldn't pull that up those steps. But if we change the pulleys up there, we could hang a rope from it, and the two of us together could pull one up."
Lina eyed the mechanisms. "All right, then. Let's get to work."
With a little coaxing, Lina found Allen to be a fairly clever fellow, though still incredibly bashful and uncertain of himself. If he'd had any initiative, life with Natasha's crew must have beaten it out of him.
At her urging the young Mechanist grabbed an iron gaff-pole and clambered up to prod at the steering mechanisms. Once he started, Lina found the idea easy enough to follow; he was disengaging several of the pulley systems so that they could feed the rope on the carronade on through. Between the two of them the work went quickly. Clambering up onto the aftcastle deck, they raised the artillery-piece up, and guided it back past the helm. It wasn't easy, but it was possible.
They moved six more. Hours passed. "There," Lina said when they were finally done. She collapsed, shaking, onto the pile of iron weapons. Only a few remained onboard in their original positions now. Her muscles quivered and she was drenched in sweat. Allen fell to the deck beside her, doing worse than her. They both lay there a moment, gasping for breath.
"What next?" croaked the young Mechanist.
Lina eyed the railing. "We go get a rope, thread it through the handles on these cannons, then tie it to this other rope attached to the rail there." She stopped. "Oh. And find me a sword." The back railing anchoring her crewmates was splintered and cracked; it wouldn't last much longer now.
Allen went back down below while she rested. Once back he worked at her directions, running the rope through the wrought-iron handles of the cannon and tying a knot to each before moving onto the next. When they were secure, Lina and Allen tied the rope to the one running back across the ship and over the bow. By the time they finished, the moon had risen, crossed the sky, and was about to set.
"All right," said Lina, standing and stretching. She would sleep for a week when this was all done. "Now we just shove this whole mess over."
"I don't know if I have the strength," said Allen plaintively.
"Nonsense," replied Lina. "You just start small."
Spitting into her palms, she grabbed the top-most cannon on the pile and shoved it. The weapon rocked, unwilling to budge, until she grit her teeth, set her feet and went at it again. It abruptly rolled down, bounced off the cannon below it with a clang to fall up against the splintered wooden railing, punching through.
Everything happened at once.
The cannon fell overboard, pulling the second one after it. Then the third, and fourth, and fifth. At the same time, the rail disintegrated and the rope supporting the cargo net hanging from the bow flew forward. Shards of wood flew through the air, pelting the two of them.
The two weights fought, pulling the rope back and forth. More cannons fell overboard, turning the tide and teasing the rope in their direction. As Lina had hoped, the weight of the cannons was greater than the whole of the crew. She ran back down to the deck, ignoring Allen's shouts, drawing the heavy cutlass he'd found for her.
Faint cries echoed up from over the bow. They grew in strength with every passing second until the cargo net full of pirates appeared. It rose up over the bow like a catch of so many screaming fish, flinging up over the gunwales to land on the forecastle deck. The pirates within all grunted at the impact, then yelled as they tumbled en masse down to the main deck. The guide-rope Lina had attached earlier for security pulled taut in the other direction now, bringing the crew to a halt and giving the whole ship a mighty jerk. Lina raised the cutlass and brought it down, severing the rope stretching from the cannons to her crewmates. It parted with a snap, and the stanchion holding the guide-rope parted from the deck with a wrenching squeal, whipping down the deck, past Allen, and off into the sky.
Silence stretched across the deck; most of the crew were stunned. And that's Problem Two. She ran forward, drawing her borrowed knife again. She knelt at the net and started sawing at its fibers. Allen was there in a moment, helping.
Coincident
ally, Captain Fengel lay before her. He looked up blearily at her through the mesh. "Miss Stone?" he asked in confusion. "What in the Goddess' name did you do?"
Lina paused, sat up. "I," she said proudly, "have improvised."
Chapter Eleven
Fengel spun the wheel of the Copper Queen, despondent. It turned free, disengaged for the moment from the rudder. That's it. There's the thing exactly. I am utterly rudderless.
The primitive airship drifted through the night. His crew moved about its decks, cleaning up the mess left behind by Miss Stone's impromptu engineering. Ropes, cannons, and stray oddments like loading rammers and iron gaff-poles were being packed back out of the way. Lucian called out for reports while Henry saw to the wounded. Sarah Lome, Maxim, and a few others searched the lower decks for further surprises left by his wife. Fengel was weary now that his ire had run its course. He stood by the helm, not doing anything of worth.
And if he could, then what? The crew kept their eyes down, stayed out of his way. He didn't blame them. The battle aboard the Dawnhawk had been lost before the tide had even turned, and all because of him. But what should he have done? His men knew the risks; they were pirates, and there was no shame in falling to honorable combat. Yet for Henry, or any of his crew to be blithely executed while he watched? No. He could not, would not let that happen while he had the power to stop it.
Of course, that meant they'd lost the fight. And their ship. And more than a little of his pride. Natasha had won, leaving a hole that only revenge could fill. But she was long gone; that solace was lost to him.
The wheel still spun. Fengel put out a hand and stopped it. Through its spokes he spied Maxim ascending to the aftcastle deck. The aetherite looked disheveled; his clothes were burnt and his skin blackened in places. His duel with Konrad had unleashed strange, otherworldly energies. For all that, it was the exhaustion on his face that spoke his pain the loudest. Fengel must have looked even worse.
"We're secure for the moment, sir," said Maxim. He turned to mutter something to his shoulder, then turned back to his captain. "Let me take the wheel. You should head below and get some rest."
Chasing the Lantern (The Dawnhawk Trilogy, Book One) Page 14