Chasing the Lantern (The Dawnhawk Trilogy, Book One)

by Jonathon Burgess

  Ah well. We've still come out of this mess a damn sight better than we entered it. They didn't have the Lantern for Mr. Grey, but there was no way that the financier would turn down good gold and silver toward his loans. Still. Fengel tried to force himself to be happy; his debt would be paid, he'd won out against his harpy wife, and he had his brand new skyship back beneath his feet.

  But still. It wasn't quite perfect.

  Fengel stopped his pacing and turned toward the starboard rails. He spied Miss Stone a few dozen paces away, back to the gunwales, playing with her new pet. The young woman seemed to be teaching it to sit up, the scryn making odd little leaps at the open flask in her hands. Fengel shuddered and forced himself to put her out of his mind. If she wanted to keep the little monster, then he wouldn't stop her. She'd made it plain to him that this was what she wanted for rescuing the ship in the Maelstrom. If the beast went rabid they'd kill it. If she actually trained the thing, what she did with it didn't really matter.

  He gazed out at the jungle canopy. It stretched below them into the horizon, only broken here and there by the swell of hills bulging up to form lonesome and craggy cliffs. As far as he knew, he might very well be the first civilized person to set eyes on them. The initial surveyors had never made it this far into the Interior.

  The thought struck him then. Below him lay a strange new world. Wondrous and ancient, and he had all the freedom to explore it at his whim. But what he really wanted was someone to show it to. Someone to hold beneath the shining moon, someone he could confide in...

  Fengel snorted. He pushed the thoughts aside and gazed out at the jungles of the Yulan. Maybe I should write a journal? A memoir? People back on the Western Continent bought up air pirate stories like mad. Why shouldn't he be involved in that? And there were the Perinese explorers' clubs. What would they pay for an account of the Stormwall and the Yulan Interior viewed from the air? Captain Fengel, he mused, The Adventurer. The title certainly made him sound more dashing. Even if there wasn't much money to be had, there would be renown. And that was just as good.

  Henry Smalls approached, grey hair ghostly in the moonlight. He likely wanted to hint that Fengel should retire to the captain's cabin below. Fengel was far too interested in his own idea, however, and struck first. "Mister Smalls," he said with a smile.

  The little steward paused. "Yes, sir?"

  "Go give Maxim a new heading. Slightly north by northeast. Then, take a hand or two and bring up a chair, writing table, and implements. By the bow, I think."

  Henry stared for a moment. Then he nodded. "Sir."

  A short time later Fengel was seated by the bow railings. He held a quill in hand and stared out at the evening sky. Let's see. There we were, deep in the stinking jungles of the Yulan Interior. My treacherous harpy of a wife... He penned a few more lines. Reaching the end of the page, he paused to re-examine his work. It took all of two seconds to decide that they were rubbish. Fengel tried again, reordering his thoughts.

  It didn't work. Time and again he tried to jot down an exciting opening line for the memoir. But upon review he found them tawdry, banal, or downright silly. The moon rose higher and Fengel decided to take a break, his hand cramped from holding the feather quill. He pushed the chair back and stood to stretch. Leaning on the gunwales, he pondered the ghostly jungle below. Weird hoots and strange cries echoed up from it. He smelled overripe citrus and odder scents on the air. The evening breeze here was pleasant, but the air itself was warm and muggy.

  Something caught his eye. A light twinkled in the jungle canopy far off to the east, just below the horizon. It was probably just the moonlight on a lake, or even the headwaters of the Silverpenny River they had left behind.

  Curious, he retrieved his spyglass from within his coat. Extending it, he placed the device to his eye and peered out at the light. It resolved a little, but was still too far away to ascertain. It wasn't a river or lake, of that he was certain. The color was off as well. It burned orange and yellow, not the silver of reflected moonlight.

  A campfire?

  Henry Smalls approached the bow. He stopped beside his captain, waiting quietly.

  "Here," said Fengel. He passed the spyglass to his steward. "What do you see out there?"

  Mr. Smalls took the glass deftly and peered where Fengel indicated. "Is that a...campfire?"

  Fengel nodded. "That's what I'd thought. But out here? We're still at least three days out from Breachtown, and that's as the dragon flies. Natasha and crew are directly behind us now, and a goodly distance away."

  Henry passed back the spyglass. "Could be another expedition. Or something else. It's not entirely empty out here, from what I've heard."

  The Yulan Interior was a strange, mysterious place. But Henry wasn't wrong. Tribal savages had been discovered by the Breachtown Colony, and were regularly traded with. Rumors circulated of other things as well, tribes of ogres that lived in the deep jungle and even sightings of dragons against the horizon. Such creatures were either nigh extinct on the Western Continent or driven to the deepest, darkest places in which to hide. The Yulan, however, was virgin territory.

  "Still, though," mused Fengel. "Interesting. At any rate, you have a look about you that says you've something to say. What is it?"

  "The hour's late," said his steward. "You need rest, sir. We've got everything in hand here, and it looks like smooth flying ahead."

  Fengel was tired. And his literary endeavors were going nowhere. Worse than that, he was getting unacceptably scruffy as well. His steward had a point. "Very well," he acceded.

  He turned away from the rail and walked down the deck, stopping where Miss Stone sat against the starboard-side exhaust-pipe. The scryn was looped around her shoulders, chirping to itself softly. She looked up at his approach.

  "Miss Stone," said Fengel.

  "Sir?" Her expression was haggard. It had been a busy night.

  He gestured up to the bow. "Pack my things up and bring them down below." He took a step away, then paused. "Oh," he added. "Don't read any of it, either."

  They moved down to the aft hatch. Fengel nodded at Maxim and descended belowdecks, Henry following obediently behind. The musky air of the jungle was replaced by the smell of oiled wood, burning coal, and sweat. Oil lanterns mounted to the walls were lit, lighting the wooden hall below the stair in warm, golden tones. The captain's cabin was below the stern deck of the ship, as was traditional. It sat on a level with the ship's equipment stores. In an emergency both could be accessed in a minimum of time. The stairwell continued downward to the bunks, mess, and the engine room of the Mechanist.

  Lucian was leaning against the wooden arch of Fengel's doorway. His first mate looked tired, and no longer wore the jewelry plundered from the treasure in their holds. He smiled though, like a cat that had just caught a mouse. A heavy, leather-bound tome was cradled in his hands.

  "I know where the Lantern went," he said.

  Fengel perked up. Pay the debt and keep the treasure. "Inside," he said, quietly, insistently. Lucian opened the door with a grin. Fengel and Henry followed him.

  The captain's cabin was sumptuously spaced, yet strangely utilitarian and empty— at least now that he'd thrown most of Natasha's junk overboard. Each wall was twenty feet wide, stretching from the port-side of the ship to the starboard. Windows of reinforced glass looked out from three of the four sides, set above and between numerous cubbies and cabinets worked into the walls. A wide table was bolted down in the middle of the floor, big enough to host several people at a meal. A simple box-bed unfolded from one corner, capable of fitting two people at the least.

  Knowing Natasha, Fengel had been surprised at first. He had expected thick carpets made from some rare beast's hide to cover the floor, maybe gaudy, cloth-of-gold draperies over the windows. Instead, all he'd found was her clothing and a few personal effects. Though, admittedly, there were three full liquor cabinets cleverly hidden in the cupboards.

  Henry closed the door behind them. Fengel re
moved his hat and jacket and threw them to his steward. He moved to the main chair behind the table and sat, picking up his legs one at a time so that Henry could remove his boots.

  "All right, Lucian," he said. "What have you got for me?"

  The first mate held up his hands. "Well now, sir. Don't get your hopes up. Knowing what happened to it doesn't mean we can even get at it, or that we should try."

  Fengel rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. Your missed calling in theater is duly noted."

  Lucian raised an eyebrow. He set the tome in his hands onto the table and then turned to one of the liquor cabinets. Fengel picked the book up. It was a leather bound ship's log, much like a thousand others he'd seen over the years.

  Lucian brought a jug of wine and three glasses to the table. He spoke as he poured. "What you hold in your hands is the log of the H.M.S. Albatross, penned by one Captain Everett Homme. I found it when I was completing my inventory of the holds. Your lovely wife took everything that wasn't nailed down, and, being as it wasn't gold or silver, I didn't notice it until the last."

  He paused to pass filled glasses to Fengel and Henry. Then he waited expectantly. Fengel realized what was wanted and took his glass, raising it high. "Cheers to a theft well done," he said.

  "Cheers," said Lucian and Henry at the same time. They all drank. "At any rate," continued the first mate, "I went through it over dinner. The tale is quite amazing, really." He gestured at his captain. "Go ahead."

  Fengel put down his glass and picked the logbook back up. He opened it to the first page and read aloud:

  Fifteenth of Marchwater. Eighth bell. Two days out of Triskelion, and the itching has started. A curse on all the poxy dockside whores in that abhorrent city.

  Fengel fell silent. Henry coughed.

  "A little farther in," said Lucian. "Ten pages or so."

  Fengel flipped to the aforementioned location and started again.

  Twenty-second of Marchwater. Sixth bell. We have reached the Breachtown Colony only to discover that chaos and anarchy reign. Fires rage through the city. The cries of battle and the reports of gunfire can be heard throughout. Ships at anchor along the quay fight both pillagers and locals desperate to get away, themselves unable to pull out.

  I have ordered anchor dropped farther out in the bay, still within sight of the city. Guns are prepared and the Marine contingent is on alert. Rationing has been instituted, should we have to return across the Sea to friendly lands without resupply.

  "Hmm," said Henry. "It sounds like things were worse than we'd heard during the rebellion."

  Fengel nodded. "The timing is right. This would have been two weeks ago." He bent back over the logbook and read on.

  Twenty-second of Marchwater. Eighth Bell. While discussing the situation with my officers, a dinghy approached from the city. Several had done so in the hours since our arrival, manned by people desiring to escape the issues ashore. Every time so far we were able to warn them off without bloodshed, but my heart still leapt in my throat; it would only be a matter of time until we were forced to open fire.

  Fortunately, this time we were not approached by refugees. A lone soldier from the local barracks had rowed out to hail us, on behalf of the Governor's Secretary, one Joshua Vrey. It seems that the Colony was in open rebellion, and this man Vrey was even now attempting to restore order. He begged our assistance and stated that he wished to meet at the Governor's House within the city.

  There were too many questions that the soldier could not, or would not, answer. Where was the Governor? How had such things come to pass? After conferring internally, a decision was reached. Leaving Mr. Marley in charge, we lowered a longboat and went ashore, taking all but one contingent of Marines to form a beachhead.

  Conditins were even worse up close. On our way to the Governor's House, we witnessed much chaos. The city is very much like something out of the Realms Below at this moment; fires, illness, and starvation.

  The House itself was a stately building on a hill overlooking the Colony. It made an impressive sight, built with the Stormwall to the rear of its grounds and recently fortified against assault. Within, we met the haggard Mr. Vrey, and learned a most disturbing story.

  Apparently the Governor had taken complete and utter leave of his senses and declared the Colony independent from the Empire. Just prior he had imprisoned the Major of the local Marine contingent. The rest he captured with his own men, and shipped them all off west in a commandeered merchant cog to inform the King of his declaration. Shortly thereafter, the city descended into civil war.

  Fortunately, Mr. Vrey had retained the good sense which seems to have fled the erstwhile Governor. He imprisoned the man, took control of the loyalists, and was in the process of restoring order. With the local Marines either untrustworthy or largely dead, he begged our aid, and swore to fill our holds with all manner of treasure to return to the King in reparations.

  Well, we know our duty, even if these colonials are utterly confused by it. I have given my commands. Tomorrow we begin a two-pronged attack, restoring order to the streets and buildings that may be saved, and bombarding the redoubts of those scurrilous rebels that are not worth saving.

  "What a charmer," said Henry Smalls.

  "Duty, King, Goddess," said Fengel. "And a whole lot of misery and murder for anyone who stands in the way. Or might be in the wrong place at the wrong time. That is the Perinese Royal Navy that we all know and love."

  "Ain't that the truth," said Lucian darkly.

  Twenty-fourth of Marchwater. Noon. The rebellion was easily quelled and order is now restored. At the sight of the bluecoats, many rebels surrendered immediately. Their leaders are being put to trial and will be summarily executed. A few malcontent strongholds were too heavily defended to risk our loyal Marines on. I ordered them shelled from offshore. While those buildings were demolished, there was a certain amount of unfortunate collateral damage; the local hospital and a series of tenements were annihilated as well. However, the folk within were poor rabble of no consequence, and the fires were halted when they tried to spread to the nearby counting houses.

  The former Governor himself has gone missing, under extremely mysterious circumstances. As the highest local authority of the Crown, I have named Joshua Vrey acting Governor. I will say this for the man, he moves quickly. Already all manner of gold and silver taken from the local ruins and savages flow into the hold of the Albatross. We will depart on the evening tide. Mr. Vrey hopes that we will be able to beat the exiled Marines back to the Kingdom, to appease His Majesty before their news can reach him. It should be a matter of no real consequence, but we will make haste anyway. Returning with such a bounty as now sits in our holds is easily worth a lordship to the man in charge of the operation, not to mention being the driving force behind quelling a colonial rebellion.

  Supplemental Entry: We are now an hour under sail, catching the Stormwall wind headed directly west. A curious addition must be mentioned. Mr. Vrey arrived at the pier just before we were about to set sail. He had a manservant in tow, a plebian of the lower classes who had obviously suffered grave misfortune during the recent troubles. Acting-Governor Vrey was sweating, and seemed to be under intense distress, highly at odds with his recent satisfied attitude. The manservant held a small chest made of expensive woods, such as those used to store fine jewelry.

  The Acting-Governor insisted that I take the chest and its contents as additional restitution. Our holds already loaded, I assured him that the treasure already given over would suffice. Vrey would not be appeased however, until we had taken the box. He then departed posthaste.

  Within, my officers and I discovered a single, massive gemstone. It is quite unlike any I have ever seen, big as two fists and rough-cut of some luminous material. It is capable of lighting a darkened room as well as any lantern and shines brilliantly. The stone is a fortune by itself.

  I wonder now at Acting-Governor Vrey's insistence. He could have easily kept the gem, with us none the wiser. Most curi
ously, I recall now that Vrey was very careful to never handle the box directly himself. How odd.

  "So that's that," said Fengel. He paused to sip his wine. "I hope we get to the meat of the matter shortly?"

  "Keep reading," said Lucian.

  Fengel bent back over the tome.

  Twenty-sixth of Marchwater. Eighth bell. Poor weather has assailed us since leaving the Colony. The winds have carried us south along the coast and show no sign of relenting. My officers are flummoxed, and insist on fighting the weather to continue bearing west. While we've enough coal on board to work the paddlewheels, I have had another idea. We will go with the winds until we are south of the Copper Isles' latitudinal. By then the weather should let up, and we can sail west without depleting our stores excessively. On another note, I have had Vrey's gemstone, the 'Lantern,' brought up to me. I must admit that it is a fascinating specimen, and I am quite taken by it.

  Twenty-seventh of Marchwater. Second bell. Crew unhappy. Apparently a rumor has spread amongst the seamen from their time on the Colony. The Lantern is apparently somewhat infamous (unsurprising), and rumor holds that it is cursed. I will not have such superstition aboard my ship, and have ordered any man caught speaking of such matters flogged. On another note, Mr. Marley is becoming rather agitated about our course. I reminded him of his need to trust me. I do hope he is not becoming unreliable. It would be a shame for him to cut his promising career short.

  Twenty-eighth. Marchwater. Lantern a fascinating piece of gemology. I do not have the tools to verify, but I rather suspect that it is singing to me. Could it be a Worked jewel? That would be something out of a storybook, almost. But not unheard of. Have decided that I shall keep it for myself. His Majesty will neither know nor care; I have stricken it from the audit, and arranged to have the common men who know of it flogged for insubordination concerning these crass rumors spreading about the ship.

  Twenty-ninth. Have had abrupt discussion with Marley. Have apparently missed our bearing to turn west. Unimportant.