Local dockhands were waiting on the pier beyond, ready with a load of black powder and other supplies. Fengel pushed past, and his Mechanist escort rushed to catch up as he reached the Skydock stair, panting with exertion as she fell in behind him.
“We’re heading to the Brotherhood Yards, then?” he asked.
The apprentice Mechanist nodded. “Yes.”
Fengel felt encouraged. “Well enough, then—I know the way. I do hope, though, that there’s a good reason for hauling me all the way back here?”
She only shook her head. “I do not know.”
He gave a sigh of exasperation. “Do you at least have a name, girl?”
She looked at him sharply. There was something in her gaze...did she think the question a taunt? He shrugged and looked away.
Nob Terrace spread itself before them as they reached the base of the stair. The boardwalk stretched like a crescent moon atop the clifftop, bounded by jungle behind it and a precipitous drop to the terraces below. The furious activity of earlier had been replaced by something more sedate now, though people still ran to and fro, boarding over windows and erecting makeshift barricades in their yards. It was a chaotic mess, with little cooperation or guidance. Fengel watched the distillery lads race the barber next door in using up a stack of spare lumber, the both of them forgetting the undefended alley between their buildings in their haste. At the Sindicato manor, Mr. Grey was shouting at his thugs as they built an impromptu cannon emplacement near the front door. Everywhere Fengel saw people working at cross-purposes. With Euron’s crew and all the other real fighters out at the Graveway, there wasn’t any authority strong enough left here to provide order.
Some seemed intent on avoiding the conflict entirely. A few of Nob Terrace’s more wealthy folk were packing valuable objects into carts, apparently intending to hide in the jungle interior.
Fools. All of them. But he felt more dismay than scorn. A creeping sense came over him that the chances of the pirate township were worse than ever before. He hung his head and stalked down the boardwalk, aiming for the fortified walls of the Brotherhood Yards that dominated the far end of Nob Terrace’s boardwalk crescent.
“It’s Imogen,” said his Mechanist escort suddenly. “Mechanist-Aspirant Imogen.”
Fengel glanced back at her with one raised eyebrow. “Well, good to finally meet you, Mechanist-Aspirant Imogen—”
“And I don’t actually know why the Cabal wants you, but it’s fairly obvious from just the smallest bit of deduction. Though I should be charitable, as you pirates aren’t really known for your cleverness.”
Fengel stared at her, coming to a stop.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Pardoned,” she said. “It’s got to be because you’re the least useful captain at the moment. Order in Haventown operates on two principles: the rule of Euron Blackheart, as carried out by his own old crew and subordinate pirate captains, and the Brotherhood of the Cog, Mechanist Faction, keeping basic utilities running along with the airships. The Dawnhawk is elsewhere at the moment, and the rest of the airships are fighting the Perinese. That leaves you—possessed of a modicum of respectability but not too occupied.”
Fengel blinked. He started walking again, pointedly looking away from her. “I’ll have you know that I was commanding the fort battery, which was the only thing that prevented Euron from getting his damned fool self killed.” Probably, at least. The old man had boarded and destroyed the Perinese vessel on his own. But there were limits to Fengel’s charity.
Imogen hadn’t seemed to notice the rebuttal. “I saw the big woman, Sarah Lome, ordering the guns. As your subordinate, I’m sure that she’s more practiced at the actual task of gunnery. Also, she’s likely familiar enough with your desires to predict your preferences in a pinch. In fact, when I consider how much time you spent playing with that weird monocle on just the flight back, I expect your officers and crew more than practiced at making spot decisions.”
Fengel yanked his hand from his eyepiece. It had only needed a little adjustment. Glancing back in disdain, he noted that Imogen was panting now, troubled at keeping up with his long-legged stride. Intentionally, he lengthened it.
By the time they reached the fortified gates of the Brotherhood Yards, Imogen had managed to criticize how he dressed, his manner of speech, his failure to keep the Dawnhawk in good repair, and his choice of co-captain. She also told him how he really should have infiltrated the Tower of Mad Doctor Invigg.
“By the Goddess’s hairy arms,” he yelled at her, “that never happened! It’s made-up! A starving author back in Triskelion makes all those penny-stories. I haven’t received any royalties from him in close to a year.”
“Still,” replied Imogen, “he should have had you order Sarah Lome to pry open the drain entrances on the south side of the tower. Then you could have slipped inside without raising the alarm. That would have given you plenty of time to plunder the vaults—and coincidentally prevent Invigg from finishing his Aetherbeast.”
Fengel glared at her as he pounded on the gate. “I told you that I don’t write them!”
A metal slit snapped open at eye level. Through it peered the goggles of a Mechanist. “What is this racket—Imogen, that you?”
“I’ve brought Captain Fengel for the Cabal,” she said simply.
The eyeslit shut. There were several mechanical clicks, and then a postern door opened in the gate. Behind it stood a tall Mechanist, hidden beneath a greatcoat and goggles like all the rest. His only defining features were the distasteful glower he directed at his younger colleague, his unkempt hair, and the complicated-looking musket he gripped in one hand.
“You really should oil those hinges every two days,” said Imogen to the gate guard. “And the proper way to hold a musket at all times is with both hands on the weapon—or secured over your shoulder via the stra—”
“Get inside!” growled the guard.
Imogen shut up and scurried through the portal. Fengel tipped his hat to the man, favoring him with a smile before stepping into the Brotherhood Yards.
The Mechanists were an insular lot who treasured their privacy. To the average townsman, the Yard was a place of wonders. They were right, but this place held little mystique for Fengel. Like most pirate captains, he had been here before.
The Yard was just that, a wide open space bounded on all sides by fortified walls, with numerous storage huts and workshops built up against them. Running across the great space were the omnipresent brass pipes that threaded through the rest of the town and terminated here, interspersed by piles of coal and raw ore. At the heart of the enclave loomed the Great Hall, a long structure where the arcane construction of airships and other great wonders were completed.
Fengel strode off for the Great Hall as the guard slammed the postern shut. Imogen ran to keep up with him.
“That’s Montrey,” she said, breathless. “He never listens to my advice. No matter how many times I tell him.”
Fengel glanced back over his shoulder at her, even as he tried to leave her behind. “That, Miss Imogen, is because your ‘advice’ is—”
An orange blur shot out from beneath a raised brass pipe and slammed into his ankle. Fengel lurched, staggered, and pirouetted as he tried to avoid pitching face-first into a man-high stack of coal. He succeeded, barely, regaining his balance as a fat orange ball of fur did figure eights in between his ankles, purring loudly. It was Cubbins, the orange tabby cat that Omari had tried so fervently to foist off on him.
“What are you doing here, you flea-bitten mongrel?” asked Fengel in distaste. The tabby cat only bumped his head against Fengel’s boot.
“Oh,” said Imogen. “A cat. That really shouldn’t be in here.”
Fengel looked up at the dismay in her voice. “Something wrong?”
The young Mechanist covered her face with a gauntlet. “None of us are allowed pets. Hair and feathers and whatnot in the mechanisms...terrible. Also, I’m allergic.”
Feng
el looked down at the furry orange feline, then at Imogen, then back to Cubbins. He stooped to gather up the cat, rubbing its head with his fingertips. “Well. I certainly can’t leave it here, then. Just have to take it along. We don’t want fur in the mechanisms, of course. Come now, young Miss Imogen! Take me to your masters.”
Imogen stared at the cat. She edged around him carefully, then led the way to the Great Hall at a goodly pace, actively keeping distance between them. Fengel smiled to himself, then to Cubbins, following along at leisure.
The interior of the Great Hall was one huge and cavernous space. It smelled of oil, leather, and burned metal. An unfinished airship hull sprawled down its length, draped by gantries, chain conveyors, and walkways hanging from the ceiling high above. Shadows ruled the room, as not a single window allowed any light from the outside world. Instead, great galvanic lanterns shed small pools of radiance over the work spaces littering the floor. There were only a few Mechanists here, scurrying about as they frantically worked strange machineries. The room echoed with the sounds of industry.
“Now,” mused Fengel, “where are we to go?” On previous visits, some nameless Mechanist functionary would appear as if by magic.
Imogen sneezed in reply. “Ober dere,” she said a moment later, her voice muffled and thick. Fengel glanced back to see her wiping her nose, standing as far away from him as she politely could. Imogen gestured with her other hand towards the prow of the airship hull. Below it, Fengel spied a small platform raised up to provide a vantage point over the rest of the floor. Five figures in leather greatcoats stood there arguing.
Fengel rubbed Cubbins on the forehead with his thumb, eliciting a deep, rumbling purr. “Well then, Miss Imogen. Let’s not keep them waiting. I’ve a fight to be about.”
He set off before she could reply, taking the most direct path between work spaces. Those few Mechanists he passed seemed absorbed in their work on racks of complicated muskets, fold-up barricades, and what looked for all the world like a rotary cannon. Other, stranger things loomed out of the gloom: an inert Brass Horse from Triskelion, dripping oil from its maw, and a column of brass with a collection of crystals at its peak that hurt the eye to look upon.
The platform loomed before him then, with a single stair climbing ten feet to its top. Fengel released Cubbins and ascended with Imogen in tow. Unfortunately, the tabby cat bounded up after him.
Fengel folded his arms as he reached the top. “All right, then,” he said. “What’s so important that you had to drag me all the way back here?” He tried to ignore Cubbins ramming his ankles, purring into the sudden silence.
The members of the Cabal made a semicircle around the edge of the platform, roughly twenty feet in diameter. Between them stood a small table with a miniature diorama of some kind atop it. The Mechanists turned to face him, their discussion interrupted. They were dumpy and shapeless in their greatcoats and goggles, as expected. There were a few differences, however, marking them out as senior members of the Brotherhood faction.
The one on the left wore a complicated mask of hoses and piping, through which he gasped audibly every few moments. His neighbor wore no mask, though his goggles were surrounded by six smaller lenses that could click into place on tiny armatures. Next in line stood a very stiff Mechanist, the leather of his jacket scarred and scorched by flame. The fourth brother had six timepieces strapped to his left arm, which he constantly checked. And at the far end stood the last Mechanist, who otherwise appeared normal enough, save for the prosthetic mechanical foot poking out from beneath his greatcoat, which Fengel recognized from the delegation sent to Euron’s court last evening. Fengel knew they wouldn’t bother with names, so he mentally assigned them designations: Wheezer, Eight-Eyes, Scorch, Timekeeper, and Clangfoot.
As one, the Cabal peered suspiciously down at Cubbins the tabby cat.
“What is that animal...doing in here?” said Wheezer, his voice raspy and thick behind his mask.
“Pets are not allowed in the Great Hall,” added Timekeeper in disdain.
“They disrupt delicate instrumentation,” said Eight-Eyes.
“Besides,” said Wheezer, “we are...mostly allergic.”
Fengel wanted to smile. Instead he made a sharp, cutting gesture with one hand. “That is a trifling concern. Every second you waste is gifted to the Perinese. Now, why in the Realms Below did you call me all the way back here?”
Behind him, Imogen sneezed.
“Quite,” said Clangfoot unemotionally. “Captain Fengel of the Dawnhawk, we have summoned you because you are needed, and you can serve the struggle better here than at the Graveway. Haventown...is doomed.”
The statement echoed about the platform. The finality of it rankled Fengel. He glared at the Mechanist. “That isn’t certain. Not yet. Are we in trouble? Of course. But—”
“It is certain,” intoned Eight-Eyes. “Our prognostication engines are far more accurate than you can imagine. We have seen that the current conflict will amount to little more than a spirited defense. The numbers do not lie.”
Fengel put his arms behind him angrily. “Well, numbers can certainly stretch the truth, when it pleases them.” Who were these men, to tell him what the future would be? Cubbins rubbed against his boot, and he tried to force the cat away.
Two of the Cabal Mechanists paused to look at each other. “No,” said Wheezer. “That’s...that’s the exact opposite of what we just said.”
“The point,” continued Clangfoot before Fengel could retort, “is that evacuation must be considered our prime response to this invasion, going forward.”
“Yes,” agreed Timekeeper. “You convinced us yourself last evening at the Bleeding Teeth.”
Fengel blinked, taken aback. Strange, that I find myself so reversed. For all the arguing he’d done with Euron, he didn’t want to consider retreat now. They’d actually done well at the Graveway, albeit in a messy, disorganized, skin-of-their-teeth sort of way.
“Now, hold on,” he said. “The whole damned Perinese navy is assembled against us, but I was only attempting to get Euron to consider the option of retreat. Not calling for it. Not just yet.” The argument sounded hollow, even to his own ears.
“Yes. But it was not just your words that swayed us. It was Euron’s.”
“We came not just to inform you of the missing First Mechanist,” continued Clangfoot, “but to assess the pirate king’s handling of the situation. As we feared, Euron Blackheart will not prove a capable wartime administrator.” The Mechanist held Fengel’s gaze. However, the effect was ruined by Cubbins, whose purr seemed to pull at his attention.
“He hungers for little other than old glory,” said Eight-Eyes.
Clangfoot shook his head, returning to the discussion. “His only real solution to the invasion is impractical—reliance upon an ancient and unlikely Voorn superweapon. Such devices are unreliable at best and positively suicidal at worst. We are not certain this Stormhammer even exists. How could he have hidden it all these years? But if it does...such a past should stay buried.”
Wheezer shook his head. “These factors...combined with the numerical and qualitative superiority of the invaders...only confirm the output of our prognostication engines.”
Fengel looked away with a sour frown. He had to admit that they had a point. Even Wheezer. Not a few hours past, he had commiserated with Natasha about how mad Euron’s solution was. And no one needed to convince him that the pirate king was a doddering old fool who’d get them all killed trying to relive his past victories.
Wheezer wasn’t finished. “Since Haventown is so heavily outnumbered...” Here he paused to glare at Fengel, “And because math does not lie...there is only one possible recourse open to us. Haventown should be evacuated.”
Fengel sighed. It was true and he knew it. He’d always known it. His blood had been up at the Graveway, but that long line of navy warships, their airship and Bluecoat marines... In the cold light of reason, there had only ever been one solution. The Perinese
knew where Haventown was and were committed to destroying it. Those two simple facts meant downfall more than anything else.
He shook his head. “We can pull the captains back here to load the citizenry, food, and water. Scuttle one of the waterborn ships in the mouth of Haventown Lagoon to act as an obstacle. Cadmus’s, most likely—it’s the biggest, and he was always an ass. A token group can stay behind to harry the invaders long enough to get the majority of the populace to safety.” He paused to rub at his beard. “It might work. But even if that buys us enough time and we’ve enough transportation, where to go? The Yulan is our best bet, but it’s too damned far away. And there would need to be several trips.” He rubbed at his beard, thinking furiously. “Maybe build temporary rafts to drag along? No, the fleet would catch up in a day...”
Clangfoot held up a gauntlet. “Such supposition is unnecessary. We already have a plan. Emptying the township in enough time would be impossible, at any rate. We have only a handful of days, at best.”
So soon. Fengel blinked in confusion. “Then what in the Realms Above are we to do?”
“Captain Fengel,” said Eight-Eyes. The Mechanist paused to sneeze. “We already told you. We’re not going to empty the town....but to evacuate it.” He gestured at the table before him. “Look. See.”
Perturbed, Fengel stepped closer, forcing Cubbins out of the way. The table was simple and bare but for the miniature in its center. Upon closer inspection, it was a collection of buildings, terraces, and structures all rendered in tiny detail—a perfect replica of Haventown. Everything from the Gasworks to the Skydocks to the brothels of the Yellow Lantern Terrace and more were represented.
“Oh, that’s just fabulous,” marveled Fengel. “Look, someone’s even painted tiny airships!”
“Mechanist Second Class Thaddeus is a deft hand with a brush,” agreed Eight-Eyes, gesturing to the stiff, fire-scarred brother beside him. “But look at how elegant the solution is.”
Fengel looked up at him. “So you’ve said. But I still don’t see anything. Other than this pretty diorama, that is.”
Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) Page 15