Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (45 page)

Fengel decided the architecture was wholly their fault. As he turned a corner and the curdled stink of light-air gas washed over him, panic shot through him—he crushed his sleeve to his nose and tried not to breath. Then he took a step back and surveyed the devastated room he’d stepped into.

The Gasworks here opened into a wide chamber, which must have been the heart of the facility. Shafts of faded twilight illuminated the space, tumbling in through a collapsed section of the left-most wall to reveal instrumentation dancing madly among the twisted wreckage. Crumpled figures in leather greatcoats lay about the space, some half-buried by burned and misshapen metal—the Mechanists. One of them knelt just ahead over one of her colleagues. Imogen, by her size.

This is going to be the death of me
. Fengel held his breath and dove forward, trying not to think about what light-air poisoning would feel like.

A fallen section of pipework lay atop two of Imogen’s fellow Mechanists. The first was trapped from the waist down. Imogen had him propped up in her lap, both of her hands pressed over a jagged tear in his greatcoat. Blood pooled beneath the fellow, and his breath rasped beneath his mask. The second was just an arm and a head sticking out from beneath the wreckage.

“How is he?” asked Fengel through his sleeve as he knelt down beside them. His throat burned, and everything stank of spoiled milk.

Imogen turned to look at him in surprise. Tears choked her voice, muffled by her mask though it was. “I was wrong! He’s still alive, but badly inj—”

“I’m dying,” rasped the Mechanist wearily.

Fengel paused. His voice sounded familiar. “Hold on. Do I know you?”

The dying man rolled his head in exasperation. “Of course...you know me, Fengel. You tit. I’m the reason...you’re back in Haventown at all. It’s me, Mechanist Second Class...Harland.”

Blank spots kept appearing in front of Fengel’s eyes. He tried blinking them away. “I’m sorry, who? You just all look so similar in those masks.”

“I’m Mechanist Second Class—”

“Clangfoot,” sobbed Imogen. “You called him Clangfoot.”

Now his lips were numb. “Oh.” Fengel blinked again, then pointed with his free hand at the other Mechanist lying still beside them. “I’m sorry, is this other fellow dead?”

“Mechanist Third Class Terence,” rasped Harland. “Yes.”

“One moment, then.”

Fengel tore off his hat and monocle even as he bent over the dead man at their feet. The gas mask came off only grudgingly, but desperation led to success quickly enough. Fengel slid his head into the mask and pulled it tight, even as he started to choke.

His lungs burned. His face felt numb. Slowly, though, through his gasping and retching, the mask went to work. Breathable air replaced the toxic gas. Fengel realized he wasn’t going to die. Probably. 

“There,” he croaked after a moment. “That’s done it.”

“You didn’t properly tie the straps,” said Imogen, her voice a flat monotone. “Proper mask-donning procedure requires you to completely untie—”

“Well, I’m sorry that I was too busy choking to death on this stinking gas!” snapped Fengel. The mask made his voice sounded tinny and muffled.

Mechanist Harland gestured sharply between them. “Enough. None of us...have much time.”

Fengel nodded, then put up a hand to hold his mask in place as it shifted. “The terrace shackled here in the Gasworks—you didn’t blow it free.”

“Pressure back-build cascade,” gasped Mechanist Harland. “Graye...was out setting the charges...when it happened. Everything should be in place but the primer. I saw...the wall fall. The shackle is still...reachable. “

He coughed wetly. Imogen bent over him, pressing tighter on the wound in his side. Then she looked back to Fengel. “We have the primer in here still,” she said, jerking her head towards the wreckage. “It’s buried now. We’ll never get to it.”

“What’s the primer?” asked Fengel. “Just an explosive?”

“Yes,” gasped Harland. “But there’s nothing left in the facility with enough power to set them off.”

“My bomb!” shouted Imogen.

“What?” asked Harland. “Those ridiculous munitions...I expressly forbade you from experimenting with?”

“No—I mean, yes. Fengel, you’ve still got my bomb!”

Captain Fengel blinked, then he peered through the glass lenses of the mask at the satchel he still wore. “Oh. Right. What about it?”

“We can use it to blast the shackle free! Now give it here!”

Fengel put a protective hand to the satchel. “No. Harland, where is the shackle?”

The Mechanist Second Class pointed feebly at the opening blown through the wall above them as Imogen complained. “Courtyard...just outside. Hidden before, until the incident. Should be free of gas.”

“Right, then.” Fengel stood and made to climb atop the wreckage. “Harland, I apologize for calling you
Clangfoot
, though not overmuch. Imogen, leave him and get some of these masks here. Bring them back out to the front of the facility for Henry and Sarah Lome and anyone else who shows up.”

“What? No! Give me back my bomb. You don’t even know how to set it! And I’m not leaving Mechanist Second Class Harland here. We could still go get help!”

“Mechanist...Sixth Class...Imogen Helmsin,” said the dying man. “Do as Captain Fengel says.”

Imogen jerked her head down to stare at him. “What? Why? And why did you call me Mechanist Sixth Class?”

Harland lay back with a sigh. “Because I’ve just promoted you.”

“But what about the tests?”

“You’ve the skill...and we all know it. The tests would be a...formality.”

“But I’ve been preparing for them for months now.”

“Then you can take them...for fun...later!” snapped Harland. “Right now, do what you’re told...Mechanist.”

“But why?” asked Imogen, her voice thick.

“Because Captain Fengel is in charge of the city,” he replied. “And he’s putting you where he needs you to be. Obey my orders, Mechanist. And Fengel!”

Fengel paused in his climb, exasperated. “Yes?”       

“Once you’ve escaped...with Haventown...find Atherion Helmsin. Find...the First Mechanist…and bring him home safely!”

Mechanist Harland spasmed, gasped, then fell still. Fengel gave the corpse a hurried nod. “Of course. Imogen? He’s dead now.
Please
obey his last wishes and get moving.”

He didn’t wait to see what she’d do. They’d already wasted enough time. It was harsh to act so callously, but there were more important things to worry about at the moment. And his mask still didn’t quite fit right.

Fengel clambered up the wrecked pipeworks and through the breach back outside. He pushed through a cloud of jetting steam to see the Gasworks exterior and a small courtyard built onto the boardwalk, just as Harland had said. It lay snug up against the face of the cliff and the external wall of the facility. The accident had exposed it, however, revealing the rooftops of the Waterdocks through a hole blown through the wall. Thin, rickety-looking metal stairways ran up along the cliff, still intact, leading up to the airship platform and other parts near the top of the facility.

In the center of the courtyard, among piles of rubble, sat the shackle. It looked like nothing more than the top of a thick iron spike surrounded by a ring of toothed gears biting down upon it. Ominous black explosive charges covered the gears, and the boardwalk they stood upon was warped, the boards slanting towards the shackle as if under great pressure.

There. That’s it.
Fengel opened the satchel at his side and lifted out Imogen’s bomb. He eyed the fuse at the top, then he swore.

He didn’t have any way to light it.

Henry. Henry smokes—he’ll have one of those new lighters. Or Gunney Lome, she’ll know a way to jury-rig this thing. If Imogen can get them up here.

He stopped as an armored ovoid emblazoned with a sunburst appeared above the Waterdocks. It was that Perinese airship, the
Glory.
The vessel was swinging around into view, a whole complement of Bluecoat marines crowding her gunwales.

Coming right for him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Lina slipped down the aft hatchway stair. The cutlass in her hands was a heavy thing, far more unwieldy than her lost daggers.

She was angry about that, more so at the Castaway who’d fallen overboard with them buried in his spine. As for the smoke rising dead ahead from Haventown, she tried not to think on that—or how half of her home port seemed to be...flying. Those were problems for later. Instead, she shifted her grip on the stolen sword and carefully descended down below the decks of the
Dawnhawk
.

Oscar Pleasant, I’m going to cut your Goddess-damned head off.

The fight had been furious from the start. Caught off guard and outnumbered by just a few, her crewmates rallied. It wasn’t like they hadn’t beaten these curs off once already. The Castaways had the twin advantages of numbers and surprise, though. Worse, they’d rearmed themselves. Properly equipped from the
Dawnhawk’
s own stores, Euron’s abandoned crewmen seemed like a different group altogether.

As if that weren’t enough, the Dray Engine was almost fully awake again. It roared and flailed within its bonds, shaking the whole airship with its gyrations. The deck pitched and yawed while they fought as if in a storm. The ancient Voorn monster was going to free itself, of that Lina was certain. It was only a question of when.

So there had been battle aboard the
Dawnhawk
for the second time today. Natasha met Morgan One-Eye head on, with Reaver Jane coming to her aid. Etarin and Farouk fought back to back against their geriatric assailants while the aetherite Omari protested her neutrality vociferously. At least, until a Castaway devoted himself to taking her head off, forcing her to flee.

Rastalak and Michael Hockton worked together until the crate containing Runt’s scrynlings went sliding madly for the breach in the gunwales. Then her lovely soldier pitched himself across the deck, catching it before it could fall overboard. Lina loved him for that.

For her own part, Lina tried repeatedly to get to Oscar Pleasant. The traitor needed to die for his numerous betrayals—screaming, if possible. For all his tough talk, though, he’d backed firmly out of the melee, maneuvering away, keeping a flailing Allen as hostage the entire time.

Then the Dray Engine gave a particularly violent jerk, pitching the
Dawnhawk’
s decks so that not even Rastalak could keep his footing. Lina recovered just in time to see the rat-faced bastard slip belowdecks via the aft hatchway.

So now she hunted.

Lina crept down the hatchway stair, moving as quickly and quietly as she could down the creaking boards. She reached the landing of the captain’s cabin, then down to the crew deck where the stair opened onto a hall. Off to her left, the hall opened onto the quarterdeck, where a single open porthole provided illumination. To the right, the hall continued down to the engine rooms and the Mechanist’s domain, as well as to the stores and the stair that led to the cargo.

Which way did you go, you bastard?

The deck pitched wildly beneath her feet. Lina fell hard, dropping her cutlass, which clattered against the stair behind her. She cursed as the Dray Engine gave a thunderous roar outside, loud enough that she felt it through the planks more than heard it. The mechanical monster thrashed again, tilting the airship madly about.

A more human cry of pain reached her, along with a snarl for quiet. Lina narrowed her eyes. It had come from off to the right, up from the stairwell that led down to the hold.

There.

But why would Oscar go that far down? If he’d been hiding onboard since Haventown, he had to know about all the Revenants they’d put in the hold after the fight with the
Glory
.

Lina swallowed her discomfort.
He’s trapped. There’s only one way out of that hold. And the Revenants are harmless enough, if you don’t attack them. At least, that’s what Omari always says.

Which seemed true enough. The things had never run amuck or done any of the things that the penny-papers always seemed to go on about.

Still, the soldiers
had
been trying to kill her when they died.
And Goddess in the Realms Above, do they stink
.

Allen gave a startled yell. This time Oscar said nothing, though she heard the thump of a blow. A low groan echoed up the stairwell.

Enough.
Lina grabbed up her cutlass again. She slipped down the hall to the hold stairwell and made her way down. What little ambient light there’d been disappeared completely. The stair was dark and close. It seemed to swallow her up, like she was descending into a wooden grave.

The cargo hold of the
Dawnhawk
opened up at the bottom of the stair, a wide, airy space meant for packing away all the illicit booty that Fengel and Natasha could steal. Both captains had emptied it earlier that morning, leaving only a single oil lantern dangling from a chain overhead. That lantern was freshly lit, and it swung back and forth now, casting long, mad shadows from the dozen corpses rising to stand. Their stink filled the air, a perfume of dead flesh and congealed blood.

Allen knelt in the middle of the room beneath the lantern. He clutched one arm to his chest and sobbed openly.

Lina forced herself to ignore the undead. She stepped into the room, cutlass hefted. “Allen!” she hissed. “Allen, are you all right? Where’s Oscar?”

The apprentice Mechanist glanced up at her, eyes wide. “Lina, don’t!” he croaked. “It’s a trap!”

Someone moved in the gloom to her left, faster and with more purpose than a Revenant. Lina threw herself to the right, hitting the deck and rolling as the pistol went off. The crack and flash was brilliant. But the ball went wide, splintering the bulkhead behind her.

“Of course it’s a trap!” she snapped, rising back to her feet.

Oscar Pleasant stepped out from the corner. In the faint lighting, his features appeared even more ratlike, exaggerated. He tossed the emptied pistol aside to clatter on the boards, then drew a cutlass.