Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (26 page)

Imogen, however, didn’t quite have his discipline. Her worry was well-hidden, but Fengel heard the quaver in her voice and the hurry with which she moved. He distracted her as best he could, at least until they could reach the light-air mines beneath the town. So far it seemed to be working.

“What did you call the others?” she asked, adjusting her satchel. Fengel didn’t know what was in it, only that she’d retrieved it on their way out from the Brotherhood Yards, refusing to say what it held.

The airship
Moonchaser
flew overhead. Her crew fired muskets with abandon, aiming for something out in the lagoon. Fengel pretended unconcern. “Well, there’s the one with all the watches on his sleeve. So, Timekeeper.”

Imogen laughed, then hid her mouth, abashed. “That’s Mechanist Second Class Granville. He’s all about efficiency.”

“Then there was the tall, stiff fellow. Never moved much. All burned up?” Fengel gave her a shrug as they walked. “Scorch just seemed to fit.”

The young Mechanist snickered. “Mechanist Second Class Thaddeus. Responsible for all welding operations.”

“Can’t say I liked the fellow much,” continued Fengel. “But there was the one with the breathing apparatus? Wheezer.”

“It’s a mechanical lung,” said Imogen, her tone partially chiding. “Mechanist Second Class Merrywether was born one short. He oversees all pumping and exhaust operations.”

“And there was that last fellow, with the artificial leg? The rest of your Cabal, they seemed to defer to him. What’s he in charge of?”

“That’s Mechanist Second Class Harland. He’s more or less the leader of the Brotherhood these days. Since he and my fa...I mean, since he and Mechanist First Class Helmsin worked so closely together.” She kept only half an eye on the boardwalk ahead, curiosity and dread warring across her features. “What did...what did you call him?”

Fengel stopped at a junction between a fisherman’s hut, a black apothecary, and a sailmaker. They were at the southern end of the Flophouse Terrace, near the stair that would take them down to the next part of Haventown. He turned to Imogen squarely, then paused for dramatic effect.

“Clangfoot.”

The young woman doubled over with a howl of laughter. Fengel smiled. Even Cubbins purred, catching up and winding figure eights around his boots.

Ear-splitting thunder roared out beyond the town in the lagoon. He’d heard the sound often enough in his time.
A full broadside
.
Ninety-six guns, by the sound of it—definitely Perinese.
The blast could have been meant for either the
Saltspray
or
Fortune’s Loss.
Both ships had been positioned to stop any advance on the town—an excellent idea, though whose precisely, he did not know. If either took a beating, he hoped it was Cadmus’s ship.
Still
,
Matice is a tough bird, if a trifle odd. If worse comes to worst, she’ll—

An eruption of splinters pelted him as the sailmaker’s shack burst apart. Fengel had a split-second glimpse of a heavy black cannonball as it passed within inches of Imogen’s skull.

A part of him reacted instantly, and reflexes honed over a lifetime came into play as the projectile flew past. He tackled Imogen, and they landed roughly on the boardwalk with his arms up to cover their heads. Bits of board and building rained down about them as other cannonballs ripped through the Flophouse terrace. The thunder and commotion faded after a moment, replaced by yells of panic and the screams of the wounded.

He uncovered a bit, looking at Imogen. The apprentice Mechanist lay stunned, staring wildly about. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She stared at him, eyes wide. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

Fengel climbed to his feet. He glanced about and held out a hand to lift her up. Devastation surrounded them, as this part of the terrace had shattered. The buildings, so narrow and close only moments ago, were now roofless ruins, gaping up from the boardwalk beneath them like jagged teeth. Midday sunlight washed over them now, impeded only by the smoke and dust hanging in the air. Sailcloth lay heaped with broken glassware from the apothecary, though a few racks were still standing, stocked with noxious medicines. Beyond, the edge of the Flophouse Terrace fell away.

Fengel left Imogen to clamber among the wreckage. A cursory glance told him that there was no one among the ruins. He moved to the rear of the former shops and looked out at the war being fought.

Fengel felt his jaw fall open and his monocle fall free.
I can’t believe it
. Natasha’s mission to find the Stormhammer was pointless now. Perinese warships were streaming into Haventown Lagoon. The
Saltspray
and
Fortune’s Loss
were beleaguered, raked with the deck guns and muskets of the enemy, even as they were held tight by other vessels attempting to board. Above, Captain Weatherby’s
Moonchaser
dueled with the
Glory of Perinault
, giving worse than they got in return. In the waters just below floated the
Titan
, her port-side guns smoking from the broadside she’d fired. Fengel vowed quietly to see that ship sink.

There wasn’t time for that, though. The enemy wasn’t just in the lagoon, which seemed impossible enough. They were already
here
, in the town. Fengel had a perfect view of both the Craftwright’s Terrace and the wide crescent of the Waterdocks below it, both stretching northward along the cliff of the lagoon. And at the far northwest end of the bottom terrace, a single warship had rammed itself into port, knocking half a warehouse down after weathering the worst that Cadmus and Matice could offer. The damage was immaterial, though. Bluecoats swarmed the piers and streets near her hull, fighting the immediate defenders in the area. The line of the conflict was only several streets away from the old Smuggler’s Warehouse, which he needed to reach.

“They fired on us!” coughed Imogen, climbing beside him. She waved away noxious smoke. “They fired on the town! We’re not all pirates here. I mean, not mostly.”

“Our friends in blue aren’t making much distinction,” Fengel replied grimly. “They want us gone, root and stem. Although...” He peered again at the fighting along the far northern end of the Waterdocks. “The
Titan’s
captain must be overeager. Why else land men if you’re just going to bombard the town?”

“Look!”

Fengel followed her gesture down to the Craftwright’s Terrace just below them. Halfway up its length, just a few streets away from the great bundled chimneys of the Gasworks, lay Pillager’s Square. The square was a juncture between several streets threading the terrace and a wide stair that hugged the cliff down to the Waterdocks. There, beside a rough bronze statue of Euron Blackheart, the Mechanists were preparing to fight.

Or they were doing something, at least. They’d erected a squat column with a platform offering a vantage point on the streets and alleys of the terrace below. A device sat atop the platform, looking like a cross between a rotary cannon and the equipment the Mechanists used to fight fires with. Behind the assemblage of flywheels and brass pipes, an operator sat in a chair; numerous hoses trailed down past him to heavy-duty canisters. The Mechanists ran all about the thing, making adjustments and calling back status reports to their brother in the chair. Behind the statue stood a crowd of pirates, watching curiously, weapons in hand.

“We’ve deployed Atherion’s Siren,” said Imogen, voice rapt.

Fengel replaced his monocle. “What?”

“The siren. My fa—I mean, First Mechanist Helmsin designed it. Harland must have had it built. Watch, they’re about to fire.”

She suddenly covered both her ears. Fengel frowned, then returned his attention below.

The Mechanists scattered, fleeing from Atherion’s Siren, with the sole exception of the operator. He pumped foot pedals and turned flywheels with abandon, causing the whole device to swing about, aiming for the Perinese warship at the north of the city.

At first Fengel felt it more than heard it. A deep, thrumming vibration that seemed to resonate within his chest. The sound grew, climbing in pitch, accompanied by a strange noise that after a moment he realized were the numerous stray dogs in the pirate township all howling at once. Then the siren screamed.

He clapped his hands over his ears to shut out the ear-splitting wail. It felt like his teeth were going to fly out of his head. The pain must have been even worse in the square below—the assembled pirates and townsfolk all dropped to their knees.

On the far edge of the Waterdocks where it was aimed, the effects of the weapon were downright infernal. Bluecoat marines clutched at their heads, round caps falling away, their screams subsumed by the unholy wail of the siren. The invaders writhed on the boardwalk and on their ship, unable to fight, think, or even flee.

The siren quieted, its charge momentarily spent. Fengel gingerly pulled his hands away from his ears and stared.

“What is that...thing?” he asked.

“Weaponized sound,” said Imogen. “Technically nonlethal. Until we get the kinks worked out, at least.” There was a fervor in her eyes that Fengel hadn’t noticed before.

“Awful,” said Fengel. “And what about the townsfolk down there! That must have near-jellied their innards!”

A booming, mechanically augmented voice cut short her reply. It echoed down from the Perinese airship above them, the
Glory
, which was breaking away from its duel with Captain Weatherby’s
Moonchaser
. Her sunburst sigil shone bright against the sky.

“Admiral Wintermourn! Why don’t you capture this mechanist contraption for me? Here, have some soldiers who won’t mind a bit of noise!”

A score of bright figures appeared along the side of the airship hull, brazen in the sunlight. As the
Glory
drifted directly over the Waterdocks, they fell, dangling down on long cables that only just slowed their descent, slamming into the boardwalk among the writhing, moaning Bluecoat marines. One punched almost completely through the planks, getting stuck from the waist down.

“What are those?” asked Fengel. “Men in armor?”

“No,” said Imogen. “They fell far too fast—a man would break his legs like that.”

The brazen figures rose, slowly, mechanically, moving as one to untie the cables around them. Then they unshouldered heavy, complicated muskets and marched forward as if they hadn’t even noticed their fall—or their single, stuck compatriot.

Shouts of readiness sounded again from Pillager’s Square. The Mechanists fled Atherion’s Siren again as the operator fired.

Fengel was better prepared this time. Still, the wail of the siren was overpowering. Again, the pirates clustered at the back of Pillager’s Square, huddling. Down on the far edge of the Waterdocks, the Perinese Bluecoats collapsed again, writhing and screaming. The soldiers armored in brass...marched forward through the sonic blast, completely unaffected. As he watched, they raised their heavy muskets and returned fire of their own.

Great gouts of gun smoke erupted from their volley. Almost every shot seemed to hit its mark, an incredible bit of marksmanship across such a distance. The siren shook with the impacts. The Mechanists hadn’t armored the thing, and pieces dented and went shattering off. Steam and more arcane substances sprayed through the air. The operator lurched violently in his seat, injured by gunshot or some fragment of his machine—Fengel knew not which. Slowly, the wail of the siren faded, replaced by the soft background chaos of the battle surrounding them all.

“How did those men resist the siren?” asked Fengel. He unplugged his ears and turned to Imogen. “And those aren’t muskets they carry, they’re almost damned cannons!”

She stared at the scene below them, intensely focused. “Those aren’t men in armor,” she said. “Automatons. They have to be. Nothing living could ignore such a blast from my father’s siren.”

“Well, better and better,” he said. “Come. Let’s get down there. We’ve still got to get to the mines and release that gas. I’d hoped the Mechanists would stop the Perinese advance...but maybe those pirates can escort us—or provide a distraction.”

Imogen glared at the brass automatons, far distant. She nodded, then turned away. Fengel made to follow, pausing only at a small noise. He raised an eyebrow as Cubbins popped out from beneath some of the wreckage to chase after them both.

They picked their way to the stair leading down to the next terrace. Fengel itched, wary of another bombardment. But the
Moonchaser
, free from its engagement with the
Glory of Perinault
, was busily wreaking vengeance upon the
Titan
. Bombs fell like little black seeds on the Perinese vessel, unleashing half-second blossoms of fire and force.

It was satisfying to watch, but the
Titan
had done her work better than she knew. As they crossed the Craftwright’s Terrace, chaos reigned. The artisans here were in a frenzy, and everyone they passed reacted frantically on their own. A compass maker forced his young daughters to board up their shop from the outside—those worried young women only seemed to realize afterward they’d been shut out from safety. Their neighbor blacksmith ignored their yelling, intent instead on fitting his assistant into outdated, makeshift armor, trying harder with every pop of a fired musket. Fengel saw no one taking charge, no one running messages back and forth, no captains ordering anyone to work together.

We were always going to lose
. The thought sat sour in his mind.
The Perinese have discipline and order. Getting anyone to do anything here is like herding cats—unless a captain with a whole crew behind him knocks enough heads together, nothing ever gets done.
He shook his head as they stepped out into Pillager’s Square.
Well, enough of that. I’ll knock whatever heads I must. Never let them see you stumble.

In a town where two men couldn’t often walk abreast, Pillager’s Square was surprisingly spacious. It lay along the western edge of the Craftwright’s Terrace, halfway up its length where a stair descended to the Waterdocks. In its center stood a massive bronze statue, depicting old Euron triumphant over Captain Reddon, the last of his old enemies to stand in his way. Fengel remembered that day fairly well; he’d taken advantage of the distraction to marry Natasha.