Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (6 page)

The sergeant fell silent. Wintermourn watched the crown prince, waiting for appropriate disapproval. Instead, Gwydion smiled and clapped the kneeling man on the back.

“Excellent!” he cried, wheeling about to face Wintermourn. “I can see that at least some of you here have your minds in the right place. Don’t look so glum, my good admiral. We’ll make a proper scoundrel of you yet!” He turned to Able Seaman Hayes. “You there, fellow. Get on with your mission, and Goddess speed you.”

Hayes ducked his head, backing away as he returned to the longboat. Wintermourn watched him go with grinding teeth.

“Wonderful initiative you’ve got, man,” said the crown prince to Lanters. “Keep it up.”

“Thank you, Yer Highness.” The sergeant blushed, then saw Wintermourn’s freezing glare. He ducked his head and stepped back, subservient. Wintermourn decided there would be punishment later.

“I mean,” said the prince, “they’re all quite dead, assuredly.”

“Indeed,” promised Wintermourn.

“Still, wonderful! I apologize for my earlier chastisement, Admiral. It occurs to me that this is even better than trying, probably in vain, to keep ourselves under cover until the morrow. A small distraction even such as this will prove far more useful. And if there
is
a waterway we can take straight to Haventown...yes, they’ll never see us coming.” The prince paused suddenly. He looked to the airship, then the fleet, and again at the cliffs to the east as they were rapidly becoming shrouded by night. “In fact...” Then he snapped his fingers and turned fiercely. “I have an idea. Broadlow! We’re returning now to the
Glory.
Admiral Wintermourn, have some of those maps of yours sent up. After a turn of the glass, I will have the ship back aloft to act as lookout, just as you suggested. We’ll confirm a few things—advance intelligence and all that.”

Wintermourn did not feel congenial anymore. “It will also allow you to get closer to the action,” he said flatly. At the moment he didn’t much care if the youth endangered himself.

Gwydion laughed and slapped him on the back. Wintermourn flinched at the contact. “Ha! You know me so well already, Admiral. But I do have an idea for something more. Proceed as you’d planned, waiting in vain out here for a fight. Oh, we’re going to have such a wonderful time working together—I can already tell.”

With that, the crown prince of Perinault turned on his heel and strode back down between the Brass Paladins with Captain Broadlow following behind, uncertain. The automatons jerked into hissing and clanking life, peeling off from their formation to follow him back aboard the airship. His retainers and royal guard hurried after.

Admiral Wintermourn stood in the middle of his flagship as the officers and his sergeant adjutant waited on his orders. He ignored them, watching Gwydion’s departure. As they went, he felt strangely unbalanced. The swaggering peacock was going to be his king, but he brought with him a vision of the future which had very little place for the Kingdom that Wintermourn knew. Indeed, very little room for men at all, it seemed.

He snorted. The boy was a fool youth. There was still plenty of time to educate him.

Wintermourn turned back to his cringing officers and barked a series of terse orders. All drama aside, the crown prince was at least in agreement with him about one thing: it was high time the sky pirates of the Copper Isles were dealt with properly. Admiral Wintermourn intended to see that every last man, woman, and child under their anarchic banner swung from a noose.

Chapter Three

Captain Fengel was finding it difficult to enjoy his drink.

“Listen,” hissed Omari. She held Cubbins, her tabby cat, above the small table between them. “I have to build a new life for myself here. I cannot be taking care of this flea-bitten sack of fur.”

She shoved the cat into Fengel’s face, and he pushed it back with his free hand. “Come now,” he replied, pausing to take a swig of warm, sour ale. “Everyone knows that cats bring good luck.” He stopped to pull a long, orange hair from between his lips, then grimaced at Cubbins. The feline purred happily at the attention.

They sat on the small balcony of Garvey’s Hole, tavern of choice for the crew of the
Dawnhawk
when in port. It wasn’t too raucous a place, at least not at this point in the evening. The dry, woody scent of fresh sawdust filled the air, and Garvey’s waitresses came quickly with drinks. At the moment Fengel’s crew took up most of the taproom; the newcomers from Almhazlik mixed with the others, lounging and chatting among themselves.

A few stood out, as always. His first mate and steward sat near the bar, exaggerating tales of their latest adventure, Lucian occasionally glancing over his shoulder to eye Omari. Crewmates and rival pirates both sat rapt, uttering occasional guffaws of disbelief. In the center of the room, Gunney Lome challenged all comers to arm wrestle. Fengel watched her crush Nate Wiley with a mighty yell and then take up the tankard beside her with frayed exuberance. Somehow, she’d completed the task of relocating all the Revenants aboard the
Dawnhawk
down to a Waterdock warehouse.

Michael Hockton and Allen the apprentice Mechanist had also been assigned to that unpleasant job, and both now sat disheveled and stinking at a table nearby. The young men were frantically attempting to drink each other under the table. It wasn’t
entirely
their fault—Miss Stone sat nearby, egging them on while she consoled her vile and ill-tempered pet.

Natasha, as always, held court near the unlit fireplace. His wife never lacked for an audience when in town.

“If it is good luck,” insisted Omari, “then
you
can take care of it.” She shoved Cubbins back across the table, forcing Fengel to pull back.

Fengel usually drank alone, more for image’s sake than anything else. He would spend the evening looking out upon Haventown after nightfall, the stoic and mysterious captain. To be fair, it was a picturesque scene, if a little boring. The lights of the Waterdocks glowed brightly from here, reflecting from the great bundled chimney of the Gasworks on the second terrace and the wide platform it supported. Far up above hung the Skydocks and its airships, likewise reflecting the glow of the Yellow Lantern Terrace from their great, soft gas-bag envelopes. Tropical birds called in the distance, and the occasional breeze brought earthy jungle scents.

“Omari,” sighed Fengel. “I already have far too many animals aboard my ship to take care of, including a scryn, a bird, numerous diverse pirates, and a wife. You were in such a hurry to be rid of us. I can’t be held accountable that this animal decided to follow you.” He looked up as a shadow fell across the table. “Yes, what is it?”

One of the waitresses had appeared, a tankard of ale in hand. “Here ya go, captain.”

Fengel shoved the cat away again and took the drink with a frown. “Obliged. But I don’t remember ordering another.”

She jerked her head back inside. “Compliments of Captain Blackheart, who’d like you to join her.”

“Oh.” Fengel glanced back to where Natasha sat, surrounded by a gaggle of hapless local admirers. “Tell her I’m just fine out here, but thanks.”

The waitress raised her eyebrows. “Not unless you’re tipping in diamonds, Captain. Everyone who gets caught between the two of you gets shot or set on fire.”

Fengel watched her leave in mild vexation. The complaint wasn’t entirely true.
No one’s been set on fire since the wedding
.

He returned to his drink while Omari harangued him, trying to appeal to his reason in vain. Fengel ignored her to watch a flickering light up along the Skydocks. Someone was either playing with a lantern or sending covert signals back down to the town below. The latter was more likely. Some skullduggery was always going on in Haventown—shipboard politics, say, or some crewman trying to slip their doxy aboard. Fengel rather looked forward to hearing about it later.

A shadow fell across the table. Glancing up, he saw his wife glaring malevolently down at him. Butterbeak squatted on her shoulder, mirroring her black gaze.

“Leave,” she said without looking at Omari.

“But I’ve got to do something with this cat—”

Natasha grabbed the animal roughly. Then she turned and threw it across the taproom. Cubbins sailed through the air with a yowl and landed on the surprised face of Allen the apprentice Mechanist, who shrieked in surprise and pain. He collapsed beside the bar as the cat savaged him while Lina Stone and Michael Hockton both stared.

Natasha turned back to face Omari. “Leave,” she repeated.

The other woman took the hint this time. She slunk away from her seat, which Natasha promptly occupied. Her parrot took flight, more interested in the chaos near the bar.

“I bought you a drink,” she snarled at him. “I was being nice. It doesn’t happen often. You were
supposed
to pay me back by coming over and joining me.”

Fengel gave this a distracted shrug. “I...don’t usually drink with anyone, here.”

His wife gave him a look that would have set sailcloth aflame. Then she relaxed abruptly, the fight going out of her, leaving her looking weary. “Horseshit,” she sighed. “You’re still hung up on that meeting with my father.” Natasha took his mug and quaffed from it. Then her eyes popped wide. Gingerly, she removed a long orange cat hair from between her lips. “You think that wasn’t awful for me too?” she asked sourly. “Two weeks ago I killed a man with his own trousers. Yet my father still treats me like I’m five years old, with a head full of dragons and dashing princes.” She shook her head. “You can at least admit you’re still troubled over it.”

A piercing screech startled them both. Fengel glanced back to see Butterbeak fly past Lucian’s table. The malevolent, absurdly colored little thing defecated in Lucian’s tankard just as Fengel’s first mate was about to take a drink. Lucian cursed and dropped his tankard, then took a swing at the parrot. It dodged, screeching again as it flew up into the rafters.

The taproom burst out into laughter. Natasha smiled. Long, painful hours had gone into training the parrot.

Captain Fengel gestured at the scene. “That fairly much sums it up,” he admitted.

Natasha only rolled her eyes. She glanced at the airships and the evening sky above them. “You’ll live,” she said. “Which means that you can damned well come over and keep me company with all the horny bastards who think they’ve still...got...” She trailed off with a frown. Then her eyes widened in surprise. “Goddess’s hairy arms!”

Fengel followed her gaze. The flickering glimmer he’d seen a moment ago was larger now. A cold thrill of fear shot through his belly—what he’d taken to be a lantern was now several blazing fires, each as large as a man.

He shot to his feet.  “Fire on the Skydocks!” he bellowed aloud.

Garvey’s Hole evacuated. Some pirates ran off to fetch their captains, others to spread the word. Fengel led his crew towards the stair up to the upper terraces, with Natasha right beside him. Visions of the
Dawnhawk
aflame hung foremost in his mind.

Not again. Oh Goddess, not again
. His last ship had died burning, eaten by a living magical fire. He’d got almost all of his crew safely away, but the final eruptive blast that ended her still haunted his dreams.

The gaudy structures of the Yellow Lantern Terrace flashed by. Whores, sots, and sailors looked up from dim alleys, or poked their heads out the windows as the pirates raced past. Fengel ignored them all, intent on the walkways that provided the fastest way through the ramshackle warren that was night-shrouded Haventown.

Fengel rounded the last corner before the stair to the terrace above and slammed into someone. Natasha ran into him in turn, followed by their crew, colliding into a confused knot of people rushing for the stair from the other direction. Fengel shoved his way free, until he could clearly see the hirsute man he’d collided with. It was James Glastos, captain of the airship
Powderheart.
He was not on congenial terms with the fellow.

“Fengel!” cried Glastos, reaching for his cutlass. “Set me adrift at sea, will you? Well, damn you to the farthest Realm Below. I’ll gut you like the whoreson dog you are!”

Natasha appeared with a dagger tight against the man’s throat. “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” she snarled, low and dangerous.

Blades and truncheons appeared in the hands of the pirates around them, Natasha’s and Glastos’s both. Fengel frantically threw up his hands. “There’s no time for this! The Skydocks are ablaze!”

Captain Glastos stepped back and pushed Natasha’s dagger away. “I’ve a pair of eyes myself. Where do you think I was going before you and your buffoons tripped into me?”

Off to catch the pox, most like
. Outwardly, Fengel only glared at the pirate. He was insulting, irascible, and ultimately intolerable. There was a reason Fengel had abandoned him to die once. But there were more important considerations at the moment.

He stepped back, bowed low, and gestured at the stair hugging the cliffside with exaggerated theatricality. “
Please,
my good captain. Do go first, so long as you and your men
move
.”

Ugly glares were shot back and forth among the crewmen, but Glastos only nodded and bolted for the stair, climbing with Natasha and Fengel just behind.

They ascended to Nob Terrace, where crowds were already forming. A few of the more quick-witted were pounding desperately against the compound wall of the Brotherhood Yard, shouting for help with the strange, explosive gasses that lifted the airships, which only the Mechanists knew how to handle.

Fengel raced alongside his fellow captains, bellowing with all the practice of long years at sea, shouting at the bystanders to clear the way. Past the taverns and costly homes of Haventown’s elite, the Skydocks were a beacon, its airship gas bags reflecting the infernal blaze of the decks below.           

Not again!
He turned a corner past the Sindicato mansion where Mr. Grey did his business—and felt his heart drop into his belly.