Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (19 page)

A dropped pin could have been heard in the cabin. The assembled officers, even boot-licking Chesterly, all stared at the Crown Prince of the Kingdom in astonished horror. Wintermourn himself was appalled.

“You hared off away from the conflict here on nothing more than a whim?” Wintermourn all but shouted. He felt his wig hanging acutely askew. “You could have been killed!”

“Oh, I do certainly hope so,” replied Gwydion dryly. “Otherwise, it would somewhat have defeated the point of risking life and limb.”

Wintermourn felt a red rage rise up, eradicating caution. “You little fool!” he shouted. “You exposed the fleet for some doomed errand that you couldn’t even bring to completion!”

The crown prince met his outrage coolly. “Have a care with how you speak, my good admiral.”

The room fell silent then, with everyone present trying very hard to become invisible. Wintermourn realized the precipice he stood on and forced himself to calm. Abruptly Gwydion gave a sigh.

“In this instance, however,” he said, “you may be correct. I’ve little enough to show for my adventure but sore ribs and a limp, in spite of all these expensive, arcane accoutrements I carry. Someone take a note: those boarding harnesses are a terrible idea. Cost me my victory and hampered my platoon of marines. Who are mostly dead now. We’ll do without them in the future. The harnesses, that is.”

He held out his empty glass, which Lanters raced to fill, and then he made an apologetic shrug to the room at large. “Natasha Blackheart is made of sterner stuff than I thought,” he continued. “And she mentioned a husband.” He looked around the room. “I hadn’t read of that. Has anyone else?”

A chorus of coughed negatives echoed about the cabin, until Chesterly raised a tentative hand. “Captain Fengel, of the
Flittergrasp
,” he said quietly. “Or so I’ve heard it said.”

Gwydion frowned. “Really? The traitor and mutineer?” He tapped his chin with his free hand and smiled. “The man is supposed to be a master with a blade; I’ll look forward to finding him. But wherever did you hear he was married to her? I’ve made extensive study of all the dossiers and reports.”

The sodden ex-captain coughed in embarrassment. “Ah. I...ah, one of my crewmen picked up a few of those penny-papers they publish in Triskelion about the pirates. Silly stuff,” he continued, flushing red, “boys’ stories and whatnot.”

“Well,” said Gwydion. “I’ll have to consider going over those. I do so hate to be uninformed.”

“Be that as it may,” said Wintermourn, fixing Chesterly with a fierce glare, “it is beside the point. We are in a costly, untenable, damnable position. The
Ogre
has taken severe damage, with those pirates ready to bomb us again if we should relax our vigilance for even a moment. We’re sitting ducks here in this ravine, just like you’d wanted to avoid. I see no other alternative now than to take the fort by committing the marines to an overland assault.”

Crown Prince Gwydion laughed. “What? Why, that’s ridiculous. I mean, do you realize how many of those men we’ll lose to such an action?” He shook his head. “No, no. We’ll do no such thing.”

“That is what they’re
for—
”

Gwydion cut him off with a glance. “Do not forget who is in charge here, Admiral. I made a misstep, ’tis true. But our larger action is going just fine. And we’re not going to waste our resources on some grand assault.”

Wintermourn opened his mouth to reply again, but Gwydion cut him off. “Fast and efficient, gentleman. Speed, as I said last evening. New days are upon us, and that’s the name of the game. Now. I’ll be returning aloft shortly, and you’ll have your orders. But first. Chesterly? You’ve lost your commission?”

“Yes,” replied the man, miserable.

“Good. You’re with me then, as royal adjutant. At least for the duration of this invasion.”

Chesterly looked up in surprise as everyone else in the room made cries of consternation. Wintermourn stared. The upstart youth he’d sought to destroy had just gained a royal posting, something he’d not accomplished in fifty years at sea.

“But Your Highness,” he protested, “Chesterly just got kicked off his own damned ship—and has barely a decade at the post!”

“I don’t care, overmuch,” replied the crown prince. “I don’t especially care how things
have
been done, but I do care how they
will
be going forward. Haven’t I mentioned that enough by now? New days, gentlemen. New days. Fellow here has experience fighting these pirates and saw the pirate king in the flesh. I want to wring it all from him. Also, he’s quick with a wineglass and a chair when needed.”

Gwydion drained his glass and passed it to his new adjutant, who handed it to Lanters in turn. Then the prince turned to the door. “The key is the pirate captains,” he said, less conversational now. “They’re only a loose coalition. That makes them vulnerable. We can pull them away from the pack. And if we take the right ones, the defense here will fall.”

Wintermourn was unable to choke down the retort. “You already tried that,” he said, voice bitter.

Gwydion raised an eyebrow. “It’s still a viable tactic. And it’s going to get us out of this ‘damnable position’ that you’re so worried over, my good admiral. Enough. I return to the
Glory.
I have a plan to win the Graveway. If we’re lucky, we’ll get Euron Blackheart with it. If not, it’ll do for at least one of these reaving bastards. Remember, though: I want any Mechanists we come across captured—do not kill them.”

Harsh daylight and the stink of fired powder flooded the cabin as the crown prince left, accompanied by his new adjutant. Wintermourn watched them leave, feeling like there was very little under his control at all.

Chapter Nine

Fengel kept glancing at the Mechanist as they waited to depart
Solrun’s Hammer
.

Short and stocky, she’d removed her mask during the flight back to Haventown, revealing plain features and quick, intelligent eyes. Fengel thought her young, in her midteens. An apprentice still, he surmised, though she’d said little beyond the summons to speak with the Mechanist Cabal.

He wanted to be back at the Graveway. The fight there needed his attention. A summons by the Brotherhood of the Cog was not to be ignored, though, even if their timing could be better. Why now, of all possible moments, did they feel the need to chat with him?

The question rattled around inside his head as Brunehilde’s crew ran out the boarding ramp to the Skydocks. Was it a new weapon? Something they’d whipped up to help thwart the invaders?
If so, why me? Brunehilde is the one taking everything to the Graveway
.

He’d meant to further interrogate the young Mechanist, an enigma herself—as he understood it, there were no women in the Brotherhood of the Cog. That plan had been forgotten as soon as they’d passed the
Dawnhawk
on their way back to Haventown. His ship was flying west, straight for the Graveway battle. Just as a small part of him feared, Natasha had rebelled and come to join the fight. He’d ranted and cursed and run about the deck until Khalid Al-Murdawzi threatened to pitch him overboard, calming only once the
Dawnhawk
turned herself northward again. The rest of the journey had been split between worrying over his wife’s crazy antics and why the Mechanist Cabal wanted to see him.

Fengel disembarked as
Solrun’s Hammer
finished docking.
It can’t be about my bills, can it? I mean, there’s a war on at the moment. And my tab isn’t...that big. Not really.
He forced the thought aside. No. It was ridiculous.
Unless...unless they want to make sure I’m settled up before we all die
. Fengel scowled and left the airship.

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.