On Discord Isle (The Dawnhawk Trilogy)

by Burgess, Jonathon

  While Natasha whispered thankful nothings to Sub-Lieutenant Hayes up in the bow, Fengel focused on the approaching warship. She was definitely beached, sitting only a few hundred feet from the shore and ever-so-slightly atilt, so that her starboard broadside presented itself almost to the camp. The rigging was tattered, and signs of new woodwork were apparent along the deck. This ship had seen battle, and recently.

  The longboat pulled up aside the warship, just behind the large steam-driven paddlewheel. Hayes called out, and a rope ladder was dropped down from above. He led the way, followed by Natasha, and then Fengel. Cumbers and the other marines still down in the boat watched his wife climb with small smiles, occasionally elbowing each other. Fengel, they followed with muskets.

  Never let them see you stumble. Fengel maintained his composure on the way up, but his irritation at Natasha paled before the reality of stepping aboard a Navy warship again for the first time in a decade. Tyranny, poverty, and risking life and limb for a commanding officer who didn’t even know your name. That was what he’d left behind. No, more than left behind. He’d stolen the horse and burned the bridge, changing himself into something completely antithetical to these people. And the Royal Navy weren’t the forgiving sort.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Something was bound to come up. All he needed was an opportunity. Several potential possibilities, such as the split between the sergeant and Hayes, had presented themselves already. Fengel gritted his teeth and climbed onto the deck.

  The H.M.S. Goliath was a warship, with every bit reflecting that fact. Her lines were straight, efficient. Cannons ran in orderly rows down either side of the deck like stubby iron teeth. She even bore two pair of chase guns up at the bow, heavy Long Nines. The poop deck atop the stern was low, with two swivel guns for the helm crew, mounted for use in boarding actions.

  Strangely though, the ship was almost abandoned. Aside from an older man who might have been the carpenter and his assistants, there were no sailors, no more Bluecoats. Unless they were all below, the Goliath had lost a fair share of crew. Those back down on the beach didn’t nearly account for the complement he would expect aboard.

  Cumbers and three of the Bluecoat marines ascended from the longboat below. A mad thought bloomed in Fengel’s mind. Kick the first one off the ladder as he climbed aboard, then a right hook to Hayes, subdue him just long enough to take his sword…but no. He was too far down the mouth of the dragon at this point. Where would he go? Perhaps he could dive off the starboard side of the ship, swim around to another part of the island. More likely Hayes would run him through, or a musket ball would catch him as he swam.

  “Riley Gordon,” called Hayes. “Run along to the commander and let him know we’ve caught a prize.”

  Fengel looked over to see one of the carpenter’s assistants approaching from up the deck. Riley was a young man, small and thin, who moved with the furtive air of someone hoping not to be seen. He balanced a heavy timber across one shoulder and seemed to be having trouble with it.

  “I’m busy,” said Riley. “Gotta get this down to the poop deck.”

  Fengel blinked at the disrespect. On a Perinese ship that kind of attitude would be punished with the lash. Something odd was going on, or Hayes was not very well-liked. He studied the sub-lieutenant. Probably both.

  “You’re right you’re busy,” said Hayes. Color rose in his cheeks. “You’re going to drop that timber and run along to the commander before I jam it so far up your arse you’ll be spitting splinters.”

  Riley flinched. He ducked his head and set the board on the deck with difficulty. When he straightened, he gave a sloppy, defiant salute to Hayes, then jogged down toward the sterncastle cabin.

  Hayes said something under his breath and jerked his head in the same direction. Cumbers grinned openly, then signaled the Bluecoats to prod Fengel forward. As he went, Natasha caught his eye. She smiled—a small, satisfied thing meant only for him. Fengel ignored her and stood a little straighter, made sure his hat was aligned and his monocle was clamped tightly into place. The scratch over its lens gave the stern of the ship a marred appearance.

  Hayes stopped before the sterncastle door. Riley Gordon had shut it after entering a few moments ago, another insult to the sub-lieutenant. Hayes rapped lightly with a knuckle.

  “Enter,” croaked an imperious voice.

  Hayes opened the door and stepped inside. Natasha followed, and a Bluecoat prodded Fengel again with his bayonet. He glared at the man before following his wife. I am going to need a new coat after all this.

  The tang of whiskey and the sweet-sour smell of corruption filled the air, undercutting the faint aroma of stale sweat. Fengel took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom before going any further.

  The cabin wasn’t spacious. Unlike his own, sumptuous lodgings aboard the Dawnhawk, the space was barely large enough for the six other people in the room. Hayes and Natasha stood just before him, framed against little Riley Gordon. The center of the room was dominated by a large captain’s table, a multipurpose piece of furniture that could host dinners and hold charts. Atop it sat a heavyset older man in officer’s clothing. His breaths rasped overloud in the space, and it was obvious that there was something wrong with him. Even though his shirt was open to the belly and his graying curls were damp with sweat, he exuded a presence of dignity and control. This must be the commander, Fengel realized.

  Another figure stood behind the commander, a gaunt fellow with a shock of white hair. Both his hands were spread above the shoulders of the man before him, a bright, electric light dancing between his fingertips in time with the commander’s labored breathing. Fengel blinked in surprise. Perinese ships didn’t often have an aetherite aboard.

  The last person in the room was a young boy in midshipman’s clothing. He stood beside the commander with a damp rag and a bucket. Periodically he dabbed sweat from the commander’s cheeks and brow.

  “You had better have a damned good reason for interrupting,” said the commander. His voice was imperious, rich and cultured, the very sound Fengel had always aspired to. “Mr. Dawkins’s Workings are in short supply these days, and they’re the only thing keeping me upright.”

  “Of course, Commander Coppertree,” said the sub-lieutenant. Hayes’s earlier pomposity was gone, replaced by oily obsequiousness. “My picket happened across this poor lass out in the jungle. We barely saved her from being ravished by this brute of a pirate here.”

  Damnation! He was actually repeating Natasha’s spiel. This was a poor way to be introduced to the leadership here. Possibly the poorest. “That is a ridiculous and base assertion—”

  The butt of a musket hammered into the backs of his knees. Fengel toppled mid-sentence to the floor of the cabin.

  “Shut it, you,” growled Sergeant Cumbers.

  Fengel pursed his lips. Carefully, he climbed back to his feet.

  “Pirates?” scoffed the Commander. “Out here? Well now, that seems moderately unlikely.” He glanced at Natasha. “What is your story, madam?”

  Fengel looked the man over again carefully. There was something odd about his voice. He spoke with difficulty, as if he wasn’t getting enough air. His throat was slightly distended and his veins stood out against his pale skin. The whole scene struck Fengel as oddly familiar, somehow. Where had he heard of an illness like this?

  Natasha touched a hand to the small of her throat. When she spoke up, her voice was choked, anguished. “It was horrible. Just…just horrible. I—”

  “They’re both pirates,” said the boy with the rag.

  Commander Coppertree peered over at him. “Eh? What’s this now, young Paine?”

  The boy nodded. “I studied the postings like you told me to, sir. They’re air pirates, the both of them.” He gestured. “That one’s Captain Fengel of the Flittergrasp. And she’s Natasha Blackheart. There’s a big prize for the both of them.”

  “Oh really now,” said Coppertree. He glanced back to the assemblage before him. �
�And what do you have to say to this?”

  “The boy is mistaken,” growled Natasha, her irritation shredding any hint of helplessness.

  Fengel straightened. He might not be able to save himself, but he would be damned to the Realms Below if he wasn’t taking Natasha with him. “My apologies for the ruse,” he said. “Mrs. Blackheart simply doesn’t know when she’s lost. You have us both dead to rights. But you have, however, missed out on one important fact.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Unlike her, I am a gentleman.”

  Silence filled the room, but for the hissing pop of the aetherite’s spell, and the faint sound of Natasha grinding her teeth.

  “I see,” said Coppertree. His eyes were sunken, and his breaths more shallow. “Sergeant Cumbers, is that you I spy in the doorway?”

  The Bluecoat sergeant touched his forehead in obeisance. “Aye, sir.”

  “How did Hayes find these two, and not your pickets?”

  Cumbers blanched. “Dumbest luck sir. The men are arrayed—”

  “Insufficiently,” interrupted the Commander. “Toss these two into the brig. And you can help guard them yourself for the moment. Once we deal with the Salomcani and get ourselves righted again, we can haul them back to the admiralty and have a big show of hanging them.”

  “Sir!” protested Cumbers.

  “No!” hissed Natasha. “Wait, this is a mistake—”

  “Come now, dearest,” said Fengel with a savage glee. “These men are professionals. They’ve surely got our number.”

  “Shut up!” she snarled at him. Natasha glared at Midshipman Paine. “You little shit. I’m going to cut out that tongue of yours and wear it as a necklace. I’m going to turn your feet into—”

  Paine recoiled. The Bluecoats intervened, led by a now-angered Sergeant Cumbers. They wrestled Fengel and Natasha back outside and then down below. The lower decks of the Goliath swept by at a blur, yet it was still everything that Fengel expected from the interior of a warship, oiled wood and military efficiency. They were brought to a padlocked cell on the berth deck near the stern, three walls of stout iron bars built up against the starboard-side hull.

  Fengel went first, offering no resistance. Suspecting what was coming next, he stepped aside just in time to hear a cry of pain from one of the marines, and to see Natasha thrown to the cell floor. The door slammed shut and the Bluecoats glared at the two of them, one shaking his hand where Natasha had bit him, the other locking the padlock closed again.

  Most of the men left. One young marine stayed behind along with Sergeant Cumbers. They sat at a table a short distance away, glaring at the prisoners and muttering to each other. Fengel glanced down the rest of the deck. It was wide and open, hammocks hanging from the bulkheads below the portholes, sea-chests positioned beneath these in turn. Spears of daylight were the only illumination.

  He smiled cheerfully at Natasha as she stood. “That certainly went well.”

  “Shut up,” she snarled.

  “It was such a devious, cunning plan. ‘Make sultry noises at the nearest officer in charge.’ Inspiring. It almost worked too. Except that you apparently attached yourself to the most hated man in the crew. Pity that Bluecoat sergeant, the commander, and even his cabin boy had the good sense the Goddess gave most things that can walk to ask who in the Realms Below you were.”

  Natasha glared at him, one eyelid twitching. “I didn’t see you enacting any clever plan.”

  “No!” shouted Fengel. “Once I saw that it was a Perinese warship, I was going to run away. But you had to run your damned fool self right at it, just for the chance to screw me over!”

  “You want an apology?” she spat. “You’re not getting one. I saw a chance and took it. You’re the one who’s content to spend the rest of your days trapped on this island. Me? I’ve got blood in my veins, not milk. I want revenge. I’m going to get off this rock and get my ship back, and those pissant crewmen of yours are going to regret ever even thinking of mutiny.”

  Fengel rolled his eyes. “Who do you think you’re fooling? Me? Listen to yourself.” He affected a high-pitched falsetto. “‘Oh, my incredibly foolish plan to sleep my way home aboard a Navy warship didn’t work out. I think I’ll rant for awhile about how mean and vengeful I am.’“ He shook his head. “Please. And don’t talk to me as if this were all my people’s fault. This is the second time you’ve had a mutiny led against you. Or do you keep forgetting that? You’re a terrible captain.”

  “Terrible?” she stepped up to him, her chest almost touching his. “At least I am one. Lucian, Henry, and that giantess of yours do all your real work.”

  Fengel ignored the jibe. “You’re only a pirate because men won’t pay to sleep with you,” he growled. “And you’re only a ‘captain’ because of your father.”

  Natasha blanched as if he’d shot her. Then her features hardened into an ugly, angry mask. “You dare?” she hissed, voice tight with sudden rage.

  “Oh yes,” he said with relish. Fengel felt weirdly buoyant, excited. Years of resentment and frustration boiled up. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. Fengel bulled on before she could recover from her shock. “You don’t know the first damned thing about leading a crew of men. You mistake brutality for coercion and think attractiveness leads to admiration in others. You’re a cruel, greedy woman, who shirks any responsibility to drown herself in drink and bedplay with utter strangers. Mordecai Wright covered for your flaws with his strengths. He was a bastard, but an efficient bastard, and efficiency is something that’s absolutely alien to you. Old Euron Blackheart gave you your first ship, it was his reputation that made your crew sign on as well. And look how you’ve cocked up all three of those things. Admit it: you haven’t got a damned thing of worth going for you on your own.”

  He glanced over at Sergeant Cumbers and the other guard. Both watched in bemusement. Fengel winked at them.

  Natasha sucker-punched him in the gut. His air whooshed out of him and he folded down to the deck.

  “You smarmy sack of scryn-leavings,” she snarled. “You’re in love with the sound of yer own voice more than you ever were with me. You’ve got an awful lot of answers for a glorified figurehead. The monocle, the hat, the stiff upper lip, they’re all just bits and props for you, an attempt at legitimacy. A real man wouldn’t need them, he wouldn’t even think of them!” She put a foot on his shoulder and kicked him over. “You’re a fat sack of hot air, and you weren’t ever anything else. Without your crew you’re nothing, and you never were.”

  A red haze covered his vision. He tried to marshal a rebuttal, but the words didn’t come. Her jibes shouldn’t have touched him, they were small and he’d heard it all before. But somehow, something was different now.

  He reached out and grabbed her standing leg with both hands, yanking her knee toward him. She toppled with a surprised cry and hit the deck. Natasha was quick, back up and on her knees before he could move. But he was ready. His open-handed slap cracked across her face.

  Words finally came. “The Flittergrasp was mine!” he roared. “The Dawnhawk is mine! My crew listens to me because I lead them. I’m the one who decides and directs them. I clawed my way up from slavery on a stinking Perinese frigate to be a better, fitter captain than you could ever hope to be!”

  She recovered from his blow to lash out with her hands, viper quick. They closed on his throat. He raised his own to free himself, but moved too slowly. Natasha wasn’t intending to choke him. Her forehead rammed into his face, right between his eyes. The world shifted and brilliant stars bloomed across it.

  “I’ll kill you,” she snarled. “You puffed-up piece of trash. I’ve pillaged more, plundered more, than you could ever hope. I’m a real pirate: what you only pretend to be. You were busy throwing away your airship in Triskelion while I was reaping my own weight in gold. When men talk about the airship pirates of the Copper Isles, they’re talking about me. You’ll never amount to anything. I’ll come back from this and be more terribl
e, feared, and successful than you could ever dream of being!”

  He bent his head and bit at her knuckles. Natasha yelled in pain. All his words were gone now, and there was only the rage he held for the woman in front of him.

  Distantly, he heard the click of the padlock and the metallic squeal of the cell door opening, followed by the tromping boots of the Bluecoats. Natasha grunted as they rapped her with their musket-butts. He smiled. Then they laid into him as well.

  The guards hauled her out of the cell and off across the deck. She screamed and swore at him. He replied, shocked on a dim level by how incoherent he was. When she disappeared above-decks, he crawled back to sit against the bulkhead, panting.

  Something wet was all over his face. Stunned, he realized his nose was bleeding, spilling down to stain his shirt. He pinched it shut and breathed through his mouth. Weirdly, Natasha’s yelling grew somehow louder. The staccato rap of boot heels on the ceiling deck above helped him understand. They grew until he heard the clink of chains, and her awful epithets echoing as if she was only a room away.

  Fengel glanced up until he found it, a small empty knothole in the wood of the deck above him, little bigger around than his thumb.

  He listened to his wife rant and rage until it palled. Occasionally, the urge to yell back at her, to continue letting her know what he thought of her, took hold. But everything tasted of copper, and he didn’t trust himself not to sound too nasal. Instead, he watched as Sergeant Cumbers and his other guard returned.

  Both sat at a nearby table and ignored him. Cumbers dabbed gently at a newly bloodied lip. The other fellow was the same from a moment ago, a young, freckled man with a thin, sandy mustache, obviously still on his first tour of duty.

  “As if we didn’t have enough to deal with,” muttered Cumbers. He shook his head. “Pirates.”

  “Don’t know why the commander didn’t just have us shoot ’em,” replied the other.

  “Well, if these two are semi-famous”—he thrust a thumb toward Fengel—“then there’s a fat bit of prize money once we deal with the Salomcani and make it back home, and they’ll still be just as dead then as now.”