The Dragon's Eye: Sequel to Where the Stairs Don't Go (The Corridors of Infinity Book 2)

by Shae Hutto

  Two sailors in ragged, rough clothing made from sail cloth burst through the door, tattooed and ear-ringed, long hair flying behind them and brutal cutlasses held before. Amanda screamed. Nick held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. The two sailors stopped in confusion.

  “Which, these ain’t pirates,” said one of them.

  “Stealing the captain’s silver, most like,” muttered one of them angrily.

  “Leave off it, Killick,” said the first one. “They must have clambered through yon shot hole.” He pointed at the hole the robot had blown in the side. “They’ve been through very hell, looks like. Look out!” he shouted. “Boarder with a pistol.” He was gesturing emphatically to something behind her. Amanda turned and saw that there was, indeed, a man attempting to climb from the ship next to them to this one via the new holes. He had a flintlock pistol in his hand and it was pointed at the first sailor. It seemed like the most reasonable thing in the world to pull the shiny .45 automatic out of her bag, take a brief second to aim, and blow half he man’s head clean off. It seemed less reasonable after she had done it and the sound of the shot echoed through the room. The bloody mess that used to be a man was stuck half in one ship and half in the other. His flintlock pistol fell to the deck, thankfully not discharging. Nick groaned.

  Amanda was expecting some form of violent reaction to her shooting a man in the head with an anachronistic weapon and was surprised when that’s not what she got. The one called Killick cocked his head to one side and looked at her shrewdly. The other one clapped his hands together and laughed out loud.

  “That’ll do ‘im,” he said with a huge grin. “You’re a rare plucked ‘un, so you are, sir,” he said to Amanda. She liked being mistaken for a man even less than for a zombie. Of course, she figured that women didn’t wear pants in the early 19th century and the foul-smelling hoodie she had on was baggie enough to hide the swell of her breasts from casual inspection. Obviously, long hair was no rarity on males in this world and her face was still a mosaic of mayhem that hid her features rather effectively. Of course, her general shape being what it was, she couldn’t expect this misidentification to last for very long.

  The noises of battle above them had subsided completely, she noticed. Now, the sounds of violence were replaced by the calls of officers giving orders and voices raised in triumphant celebration.

  “Please, sir,” said Nick in a very convincing educated English accent. “What ship is this?”

  “It’s the Surprise, then, ain’t it?” said Killick in a surly whine. “Holes all blowed in the side, blood all over the deck. A mort of work.”

  “I’m not familiar with the HMS Surprise,” said Nick. “Who, might I ask, is her captain?”

  “Well, you don’t know much, do you, mate?” said the first sailor with a hint of wounded indignation. “Aubrey is her captain. Goldilocks, hisself. And she’s not no HMS, neither. Not no more, she ain’t.” He frowned in further displeasure.

  “His Majesty’s hired vessel,” said Killick in a mincingly correct intonation. “Sold out of the service and cruising as a letter of marque, is what she is.”

  “I know that name,” said Amanda. “Master and Commander. Did you see it?” she asked Nick. He shook his head.

  Both sailors’ eyes widened enormously when they heard her speak with what was very obviously a woman’s voice. The first one looked at Amanda’s face, trying to make out the feminine features beneath the soot and blood and grime. The other looked at the outline her hips made in her jeans. They both came to the same conclusion at about the same time.

  “Hell and death,” exclaimed the first sailor. “It’s a bloody girl!” Killick nodded absently without taking his eyes off of Amanda’s curves. “After what we went through with Miss Oakes, maybe we oughta throw her overboard and save ourselves all manner of misery,” continued the sailor, his face betraying a fair amount of annoyance. Killick kept staring and Amanda was tempted to point the gun at him in the interest of self-preservation. She managed to not threaten his life, but instead turned sideways to hide her hips. This didn’t help, as it exposed other curves. She felt naked under the rude man’s unwavering gaze and resolved to wear baggier pants in the future. Or a dress. She felt her face heating as it flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and rage.

  “Killick, run and fetch the doctor,” said the first sailor as he took note of the abundant evidence of violence to her person, much of it smeared across her face.

  “Fetch him yourself, Grimshaw,” snarled Killick. “I’ll not let ‘em rob the place blind, girl or no girl. No, I won’t.” Just then, the door opened again to admit a one-armed teenager in an officer’s uniform with one sleeve pinned up. In his one hand he held a bloody dirk. He stopped in the doorway when he beheld the scene inside.

  “Who-?” he began but was cut off.

  “More girls, is who,” said Killick sulkily.

  “Prisoners escaped from the Arastor, sir,” said Grimshaw. “I were just about to go fetch the doctor, Mr. Reade.”

  “Right, Grimshaw,” said Reade in a voice broken by puberty. “You go fetch him and I’ll keep them company.” He turned to Killick who was still leering at Amanda’s backside. “Killick, rouse out some barley water and soft tack, if you please,” he said in a voice that was used to being obeyed, despite his youth and his voice’s unfortunate tendency to start in an improbably high octave and end in an equally improbably low one. Grimshaw immediately vanished out the door.

  “Which I ain’t pleased,” whined Killick, finally taking his eyes off of Amanda’s derriere, much to her relief. “The captain don’t like women on board the barky, much less eating his wittles in his cabin when he ain’t here.”

  “Killick,” said Mr. Reade with a voice that betrayed his displeasure quite effectively and managed to stay firmly in a very manly register for the entire sentence. “The captain would be most unhappy to rig the grating on account of you answering an officer, but make no mistake, he’ll do it nonetheless.”

  Killick glowered at him for a second before touching his knuckle to his forehead and hurrying out after Grimshaw.

  “You are refugees, then?” asked Reade in a more pleasant tone, addressing himself to Nick who had moved to stand next to Amanda.

  “Unhappily, I find that to be the case,” said Nick in his shockingly good Eton voice. “Or rather, happily, given the alternative. I am Nicholas. Nicholas Grant.”

  “You are English, I take it, Mr. Grant?” he asked and Nick replied with a slight bow. “And you… madam?” he asked Amanda.

  “American,” she replied, having no confidence in her ability to mimic either an English accent or the peculiar mannerisms of the early 19th century.

  “I see,” replied Reade. “That apparently didn’t stop those louts from mistreating you horribly, it appears. Welcome to the Surprise. I dare say it will be an improvement on the Arastor. And I shall see what we can do to provide you with suitable clothing. I’m sure you’re anxious to get out of... whatever it is they have forced you to wear, ma’am.” He forced himself to address her face and not leer in the manner of Killick. Until just now, Amanda had never felt the least bit self-conscious in jeans, but felt absurdly grateful for the offer.

  “The doctor’s compliments and he’s right busy in the orlop at present,” said Grimshaw who had just returned. “If the lady needs urgent attention, he desires she be carried below where he can attend to her.”

  “No need,” said Amanda. “I’m fine. It’s just a little blood and soot.” Her reaction seemed to please both Reade and Grimshaw immensely. Reade smiled broadly.

  “Very creditable, I’m sure,” said Reade.

  “Which she done for that sod, too,” mentioned Grimshaw indicating the grisly corpse of the pirate hanging through the wall. “Blowed his brains right out his gob, with never a twitch nor a batted eye, she did.” He seemed enormously proud of her. Reade raised an eyebrow. Amanda shrugged nonchalantly.

  “I see,” said Reade. “I’m sure
he deserved it and more.”

  Killick returned with the barley water and coarse bread, not meeting anyone’s eye as he came in and placed his burden on the only table in the cabin.

  “Some warm water and a towel for Miss…”

  “Amanda,” supplied Amanda.

  “For Miss Amanda,” said Reade to Killick who disappeared out the door with never a syllable uttered, clearly in a snit over his dressing down, however mild. “Oh, miss,” he said after Killick had left, indicating chairs under the table and betraying his youth with a wide grin. He was no older than she was, maybe younger. “Please sit down and have a drink.” His boyish grin got even wider, exposing bad teeth. “What did you shoot him with? Can I see?” Amanda shrugged and began to drag her .45 back out of her bag despite Nick’s alarmed look and his discrete negative motions with his head. She placed the heavy hunk of shiny metal on the table with a clunk.

  “Gory,” said the youthful Mr. Midshipman Reade. “I’ve never seen the like. May I hold It?” Without waiting for a positive response, he reached out and snatched it up with his one hand and promptly looked down the barrel. Amanda quickly reached for the gun and moved the barrel so it wasn’t in imminent danger of removing Reade from existence.

  “Careful, dude,” she said. “That thing will put a hole in your head big enough to drive this ship through.”

  “Why?” he asked incredulously. “You’ve never had time to load it again?”

  “I have, too,” interjected Nick. “It’s primed and ready to go.”

  Reade looked at the weapon in his hand and held it a little more delicately, with more respect. He felt the weight of it and looked for the firing mechanism.

  “Its method of loading and priming is not obvious,” he said, trying to lead them into an explanation. He did so in vain.

  “Trust me,” said Amanda. “You’ll shoot your eye out.” She grinned at borrowing a line from A Christmas Story.

  “Mr. Reade,” said Nick, “If I may be so bold?”

  “Please,” said Reade pleasantly. “Whatever I can do for you, you need but ask.”

  “Is this twelve-pounder loaded?” Nick asked, indicating one of the brass cannons bowsed tightly to the bulkhead in the corner.

  “Indeed,” said Reade. “It would be quite worthless, else.” He grinned wryly. “But it is a nine pounder, only. One of the captain’s own. A lovely weapon.”

  “It looks like it weighs a heck of a lot more than nine pounds,” said Amanda, believing they were teasing.

  “Bless you, miss,” said Reade, laughing innocently. “’Tis the weight of the shot it takes that is nine pounds. The iron ball that is propelled out the end, if you understand me. The gun itself weighs a trifle over a thousand pounds with its trucks.”

  “Oh,” was all Amanda could say to that.

  “How much effort would it take to aim it at that door?” asked Nick as he pointed to the door back to the corridor. “And load it with grape?” he added. Reade looked astonished.

  “The work of ten minutes for four men,” he said after a moment’s thought. “But whatever would we do that for? There’s nothing in there but the doctor’s hammock and an inoffensive piece of gear it is, too. I’d catch merry hell for just suggesting such a thing.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Reade,” said Nick seriously. “There is a deadly menace concealed behind that door.” Instantly, Reade was on his feet and reaching for the door. “Wait,” insisted Nick who knew that he had to open the door himself, him or Amanda. If Reade did it, it would open on whatever cubby was really behind that door in this world. He was too late. Reade grasped the latch and threw open the door, grabbing his dirk from his waistband as he did so, ready to violently murder whatever pirate had concealed himself in the doctor’s sleeping quarters. A completely innocent hammock swung gently within. Some papers and random animal specimens littered the floor. A cello leaned against the wall in a rough and weathered stand. Reade turned to Nick with a questioning look.

  “Whoever hid himself away in there, has got clean away, I’m afraid,” he said to Nick, obviously believing Nick had meant pirates had concealed themselves behind the door. Amanda took advantage of Reade’s distraction to return the .45 to her bag, this time managing to avoid the odious sound of metal on eye. “Shall I have the ship searched for them, do you think?” continued Reade, looking at Nick for guidance.

  “Uh,” said Nick stupidly, still trying to think of how to get the door open in a way that would not get them all killed. “No, I must have been mistaken. I’m sure of it.”

  The door out of the cabin opened again, to let in yet another seaman who looked grave, indeed, and stopped just inside the doorway. They all turned to look at him expectantly.

  “Captain Pullings said the captain, which I mean the real captain, copped it something awful. He’s took to the orlop to have his limbs sewn back on and his head as well. Blood everywhere, his eye hanging down his cheek and all,” gushed the seaman, obviously distressed by the news that his captain was injured but still taking a lot of satisfaction in his gory tale and exaggerating to get a more satisfying reaction.

  “Oh, the vile dogs!” cried Reade in dismay. “Jenkins, show these two to the wardroom and make them at home. I’m going to see that the captain is put back together proper. And tell the sailmaker we need another dress run up from the red silk left over from Ms. Oakes. This one is taller and, shall we say, more bosomy?”

  ________________________

  Some hours later, the ship was lying to next to her prize, a four-masted pirate vessel called the Arastor; crammed to the gunwales with the wealth of a score of ships she had taken in the South Pacific. A short distance away, lay an earlier prize, the Franklin. Nearly all the Frenchmen manning the pirate vessel had perished in the attack and all three ships were in good order, if more sparsely manned than the officers would like. The captain had been returned to his cabin, there to convalesce in peace and quiet, swathed in bandages where he was wounded on his thigh and his scalp. Another bandage covered one eye. The wardroom was not full by any means. Currently, only three ship’s officers were dining there. Nick and Amanda sat at the table, trying to conceal their distaste for what passed for food on this ship: salt pork and dried peas.

  Amanda had been given water to wash with and had removed the majority of the offensive material from her face. On Nick’s urging, she had not put on any makeup. She looked human again, and female as well. She had done what she could with her hair, concealing the burned part as best she could. The sailmaker and several seamen skilled with needles and thread had created a beautiful red silk dress in record time, since they had a pattern already from a previous creation. She wore it now and from the admiring glances and polite comments from the officers and crew, she did it justice. She caught Nick staring more than once. She certainly felt more lady-like, despite her worn, stained and anachronistic sneakers peeking out from under her scarlet hem.

  There was nobody left from the Arastor who could contradict their lies, so when asked, they had concocted tails of being taken from ships on which they were passengers by the pirates. Sensibly, Nick claimed to be the son of the captain of a homebound British whaler. He named this fictitious vessel the Margaret Thatcher. Catching the sense of fun, Amanda claimed she was a passenger on the Titanic and to have been traveling with her fiancé, Leonardo DiCaprio and her cousin, Justin Timberlake. Nick choked on his glass of weak grog when that part came out. The officers, led by Tom Pullings were most sympathetic and generous hosts. They were embarrassed by Nick and Amanda’s obvious distaste for their dinner and were extremely apologetic. Nick claimed they just weren’t hungry because of all the excitement. Nobody was fooled by this polite fiction.

  The ship’s surgeon, Dr. Maturin, appeared late in the meal, weary and covered in blood in various stages of drying. He took a seat at the table and peered at the two newcomers with his strangely pale eyes. Pullings introduced them. He bowed in return.

  “Your servant,” he said shortly and a
ttended to his meal, saying little and appearing lost in thought. Amanda shuddered at the gore on the man’s hands as he calmly ate his pork and peas, sipping his wine and using what looked like a scalpel to cut his food.

  Dessert, or pudding as they called it, was something called plum duff and was close to what Amanda thought of as fruit cake, but covered in a cloyingly sweet sauce. It wasn’t bad and both Nick and Amanda ate all of theirs. Afterwards, the wardroom steward brought a bowl of nuts and a couple bottles of port wine. Nick and Amanda drank sparingly, being already tipsy from the weakened grog. Dr. Maturin pulled out a small pouch and rolled a ball of some kind of leaves and put them in his mouth like a plug of chewing tobacco.

  “Oh, what are those?” asked Amanda, noticing too late the frown on Nick’s face and the slight negative twitch of his head. She was learning, slowly, that uninvited questions in this era were looked upon as the height of rudeness. The doctor didn’t seem to mind, however. His face lit up with pleasure and interest at the mention of his leaves.

  “These, my dear,” he explained, “are a wonderful restorative that I picked up in Peru. It is chewed by the natives and induces a calmness of mind and spirit; a much-desired equanimity and liberates reserves of energy. I find it answers admirably as a suppressor of appetite as well.”

  “Is it like tobacco?” she asked.

  “Apart from being a leaf, not at all. It is far superior in every way. It is a shrub, Erythroxylon coca, by name.” Amanda recognized the ‘coca’ part, at least.

  “Cocaine?” she asked in surprise. Nick kicked her under the table. Dr. Maturin looked at her quizzically.

  “I’m unfamiliar with that word, so I could not say,” he said mildly, still looking at her with much interest. “Verbum curiosa,” he said, mostly to himself, then added, “Curiositas autem occidit cattus.” To everyone’s great surprise, especially Amanda’s, Nick replied.

  “Sed satisfactio reversus intulit eam,” he said and added, “But I do not believe that aphorism was Latin in origin.” With every word of Latin that Nick spoke, the unsettling aura that followed him like a bad smell seemed to pulse and grow ever so slightly, as if it took comfort and nourishment from the language.