A Study in Ashes (48 page)

“Crew quarters here,” Striker replied. “Mess hall and kitchen ahead.”

Nick could feel Athena’s impatience rising to a fever pitch. He waved at the saddlebag. “Let’s go straight to the bridge. I assume accommodations were made?”

Striker gave a nod. “Absolutely.”

So far they hadn’t seen many crew members, but now several looked up as they passed. All were strangers, which Nick found disorienting. The
Red Jack
’s crew had been very small and closely bound, almost to the point of claustrophobia. A few greeted Striker, but he just waved and kept moving.

Are we nearly there?
Athena asked, sounding querulous from inside the saddlebag.

In a minute
, Nick replied silently, shifting the bag to a more comfortable spot on his shoulder.

Bacon bounced ahead, tail wagging like some canine propulsion system. From the mess, they passed through a map room and Nick caught a glimpse of the bridge ahead. Even from here he could see that tall windows wrapped around the entire prow of the gondola, the panoramic ocean view out the hangar doors utterly breathtaking. Athena must have caught the image, because if the deva in the metal cube could have eagerly hopped up and down, she would have.

Finally the map room gave way to the bridge. Here, all the readouts of the vessel’s complex infrastructure were available at a glance. Beneath and between the tall windows was a jungle of brass and copper pipes, pressure gauges, dials, valves, and knobs. He recognized some of the equipment—one cluster to his right was surely for the helmsman. There was only one crew member there, taking a reading from a large brass dial on the wall. Striker sent him out with a jerk of his thumb, and they were alone.

And in the center of the bridge was the only chair—the captain’s chair, carved from mahogany and set on a swivel so the occupant could see all parts of the bridge. It was
his
chair. His first instinct was to claim it, but a captain’s first responsibility was always the ship.

He saw at a glance the spot he was looking for. A rib of steel ran between the two panes of glass right at the nose of the gondola. There was an ornate piece of brass, etched with scrollwork, screwed to the steel rib at about the height of a man’s head. Striker stepped forward, pulling a screwdriver from somewhere inside his coat, and removed the brass plate in moments. Behind it was an empty space about two feet square lined in dark blue velvet. Nick unbuckled the saddlebag and took Athena out. He had washed her and scrubbed the rust away, lightly oiling the metal and wrapping her in a square of turquoise silk. He placed her, silk and all, on the velvet, securing her in place with fine leather straps anchored into her private chamber. Then Striker replaced the brass panel, tightening the screws before stepping back with a look of satisfaction on his dark face.

“Now the ship is finished,” he said.

Nick felt the change almost at once as Athena’s consciousness flowed from the metal cube to embrace the whole of the steamspinner. It was as if the entire ship took a breath and shook itself awake. The hum of the engines changed, the lights dimmed and then grew brighter, and the entire ship—it was hard to put a word to it
—glowed
. Not brightly, and not so much that he’d have noticed unless he’d seen the ship a moment ago. But he had witnessed the change, and he could tell there was a luster on every surface that hadn’t been there before. The crew must have felt it, too, for suddenly the low conversation floating from the distant mess grew brighter, as if they were suddenly filled with hope.

Nick put a hand on the brass plate.
Welcome home, my lady
. He felt her touch, almost like a kiss on the cheek, and she was gone, no doubt to explore every cupboard and cannon in her new vessel. In no time at all she’d be back, demanding to fly.

A TALL, LANKY MAN WITH RED HAIR AND WIRE-RIMMED
glasses skidded to a halt in the doorway. It was the helmsman, the residue of shock still on his face as he looked at Nick. Digby had been one of the
Red Jack
’s crew, and a friend. The man’s eyes grew bright with moisture, but he blinked and drew himself up, offering an awkward salute. “It’s a good thing you’re back, sir. We have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Nick looked around the bridge, where he’d been listening to Striker explain the instrument panels. He wasn’t ready for visitors. Hours had passed since he’d returned, but they had gone by in a blink.

“Who is it?” Striker asked, and then his face fell. “Bollocks, now what does he want?”

A man pushed past Digby, and Nick knew him at once.
Roberts
. There weren’t
that
many pirate captains hunting the skies—especially ones who made themselves at home on other people’s ships. Often permanently, and with their unlucky host at sword point.

“You might have warned me,” Nick muttered.

“I told you he keeps dropping by,” Striker grumbled. “I still don’t trust him.”

Nick folded his arms, telling himself not to make assumptions—but the man was a wolverine in a tailcoat. Even if Striker had plucked him off an island prison, and even if by some freak of circumstance he really did want to be friendly, showing weakness could be a fatal mistake. “Captain Roberts,” Nick said cautiously.

Roberts was a tall, big-boned man, but he had lost weight since Nick had seen him last—probably during his time on
Devil’s Island. There were shadows under his craggy cheekbones and his ruddy complexion now looked fevered. He was dressed in a dandy’s clothes, but they’d seen better days, hanging limp and greasy around his frame. Nick could smell the brandy on him from where he stood.

“Ah, Captain Niccolo.” Roberts ambled across the bridge, pausing in front of the chair. “Back from the dead, I see,” Roberts mused, the burr of a Scots brogue rounding the words. “Where the hell were you, lad?”

“In a prison,” Nick said, trying to keep the chitchat brief. “I escaped.”

The man made to sit down in the captain’s chair. Nick pulled the knife from his belt and threw it in one smooth motion. The blade flashed through the air and clunked into the arm of the chair, pinning the man’s sleeve. “That’s my seat,” Nick said smoothly, “if it’s all the same to you.”

Roberts looked up from the knife that quivered a bare inch from his flesh. The man’s dark eyes narrowed with anger for a heartbeat before he broke into a great, booming roar of mirth. “Ah, Niccolo, for a dead man, you are mighty fast!” Then with a grunt, he tugged the knife from his sleeve.

“Let’s start again. Hello, Captain, what are you doing on my ship?” Nick asked, struggling to keep his voice calm.

“It’s a bit of a tale. I was on Devil’s Island until Mr. Striker here brought this marvelous ship to set me free.”

“So I heard.”

“Aye, and I’m a grateful man. That island is bloody awful, let me tell you. As hot as hell and not a drop of spirits to drink.” Roberts began to sit down again, thought better of it, and leaned on the back of the chair instead. His long, lank brown hair swung forward over his shoulders. “I owe your crew a favor, Nicky my lad, for helping my boys break me out of the Frenchies’ prison. It was a bloody miracle and each one of your crew is an angel born and bred.”

Striker shifted his weight, his coat clanking as he moved. “We were along for the exercise. It was your old crew that wouldn’t rest until you were back.”

Nick began to relax—not much, but enough to take his
hand off the second knife he had hidden up his sleeve. “And that is why you’re here? To acknowledge this debt?”

Roberts broke into a devilish smile. “Nay, lad, I’ve done that time and again already until Mr. Striker is ready to bar the door. This time I came to ask another boon.” He held up a hand before Nick could protest, and Nick saw the flash of a gem-studded ring. Roberts had never been shy about showing off his loot. “Let me explain. I have my own ship, the
Dawn Star
, three hours’ ride up the coast. It was, uh, being underutilized by a Portuguese trader I met in Barbados, where Mr. Striker here was good enough to leave me and my boys after we left Devil’s Island behind.” Roberts gave a regretful shrug. “There were a few glasses of rum and a game of cards and suddenly the ship was mine. You know how it goes.”

In other words, Roberts had cheated the Portuguese captain of his ship. There was a reason every honest seaman dreaded his name. “The favor?” Nick prompted.

Roberts pulled out a flask, took a swig, and smacked his lips. Despite the costly ring, there was grime worked deep into the creases of his fingers, as if he hadn’t washed in weeks. “Right to the point you are. Well, as I said, I have my own ship again, and I’m thinking to myself, ah, Roberts, what’s next? What are you going to do with your last few years in the great blue sky?”

He leaned forward, gripping the chair. “And then I say to myself, what about this whisper I heard that there’s a pardon for every pirate that sides with the rebels against the Steam Council?”

Striker looked at Nick, head cocked. He hadn’t heard this yet.

Roberts went on. “It sounds like a crock of nonsense, but then I think, the
Red Jack
did business with those rebel boys—they all said so at the Saracen’s Head, back before you went away, Nicky boy. So yes, thinks I,
that
crew would know the truth of it, and those kind souls would steer me right. And so I’m here, but from your face it’s news to you, Mr. Striker. Is my errand a waste of time and aether?”

“It’s new information,” said Nick cautiously. “The pardons
would come only under certain conditions.” He was making this up, but he was sure the queen wouldn’t hand them out willy-nilly.

The pirate regarded him steadily, all business now. “I want that pardon, lad. After the island, the savor has gone out of this life. Pillage for its own sake has paled. Perhaps I’m just tired, but I want to bounce my grandbabies on my knee and look back at the good old days with a wistful sigh.”

Nick tried to picture Roberts in his dotage, and failed. Nevertheless, the Schoolmaster wanted ships. “I don’t know what the work would be. More than just running supplies. Maybe defense against the Scarlet King’s dirigibles. Could be against foreign allies attacking the coast.”

Roberts stood up straight, his feet planted apart, as if riding a heaving deck. “And I’m more than ready to show them the business end of my cannons, but those cursed Baskervilles are as hard to find as cockroaches at high noon. How do I treat with them?”

“I can deliver your terms to the Baskervilles,” said Nick. “Standard negotiation rates.”

Roberts’s eyebrows curled in suspicion. “Two percent of plunder?”

“Three.” Nick wasn’t going to get greedy—the rebels needed an air fleet more than he needed gold—but not bargaining would have undervalued the pirate’s offer. “Subject to the acceptance of looting as part of the agreement.”

“Fair as an April morn,” said Roberts. “And I won’t be the only one to think so. Our pirate brothers have a bone to pick with the steam barons. In the time you’ve been gone, conditions have gone down the crapper. Fuel is costly. Parts are hard to come by. The Violet Queen wants to shut down our pleasure ships because they’re not authorized brothels. As if the Steam Council has any business where we take our pleasures! She even wants to tax our rum. Now I know that men in our line of work like to go our own way, but it’s time we banded together. And since the men of the
Jack
knew the rebels, and I knew the men of the
Jack
, I was chosen as the one to speak.”

The captain fished inside his filthy coat and extracted a
soft leather case. From it, he drew a fistful of papers that he thrust at Nick. “Take these to your Baskervilles. Same terms as mine. I trust you to see us right, my boy, because you of all of us play a fair game. It’s damned convenient you’re not dead.”

Nick shuffled through the pages, a light-headed sensation overtaking him. There were dozens of papers, each one representing a pirate ship and its crew, each one outlining a request for pardon in return for service.

He started to chuckle out loud. This wasn’t a few disgruntled thieves. This was an armada.

Dartmoor, October 5, 1889
BASKERVILLE HALL
3:17 p.m. Saturday

TOBIAS POUNDED ON
the door of his room, awkward because he was using his left hand. He’d fallen asleep sometime yesterday and had just come to, pausing just long enough to dress before mounting an angry assault on the door. Disorientation swamped him. He recalled the journey down from London with Evelina and coming to Baskerville Hall. After that, things got fuzzy.

But he knew two things: he was missing the key to Evelina’s bracelets, and the damned door was locked. Everything else flowed from there.

He raised his fist to pound again, but the door flew open. It was Dr. Watson. “Mr. Roth,” he said sharply. “Calm yourself!”

“What’s going on?” Tobias snapped.

“You fell asleep,” the doctor said, a little more softly. “You were ill and exhausted. We put you to bed.”

The exhausted part had been true—the last weeks had been nightmarish, to say the least. Although Tobias would never admit it, he felt better for the rest. “We were drinking in the library,” he remembered. “Did you put something in that brandy, Doctor? And where is Evelina?”