Chasing the Lantern (5 page)

Fengel nodded, despondent. His ship. His beautiful ship, blown to smithereens by arcane flames. He forced the thought from his mind.

"Then, most importantly, I take it to mean that you cannot pay off your loan?

Despite himself, Fengel winced. He could feel Henry's eyes on his back. Fengel smiled a brittle smile.
I need to say something. Something quick, witty.
He opened his mouth but Grey bulled on.

"And the distinct manner in which you arrived suggests that the collateral is...unavailable?"

Fengel sighed, like a balloon letting free its air. "Gone," he admitted. "Dead by an aetherite's infernal magics."

"I see." Grey steepled his fingers. "Mister Fengel. You are aware that you owe me in excess of two hundred and forty-five thousand gold sovereigns?"

Henry sucked in his breath. Miss Stone whistled. "How?" asked his steward. "For what?"

The financier consulted a ledger on his desk. "The details are extensive, but in short; your captain owes me, and by extension the western cartels, for five separate loans over the last year and a half. Ostensibly to repair, refit and supply his ship."

Henry quieted in shock. Fengel was glad for that. "I am aware," he replied to Grey.

"And you cannot pay."

"No."

Grey tapped his ledger. "Well then, it is quite fortunate for you that I have a task all lined up."

Fengel blinked, his confusion returned. "I'm sorry?"

The financier rolled his eyes. "I had the suspicion that your latest venture west would be fruitless, if not quite so catastrophic. Simply put, there is something that you can do for me to square your debt to the Sindacato, saving your skin and perhaps making a profit for once in your life."

He turned in his chair and retrieved a sheaf of papers from a bookshelf, which he then rolled out upon the table. Grey hunted for a moment, then tapped a space at one side. "Here," he said.

Fengel peered down over the map. Though dizzy, he made out a sketch of the Copper Isles and the Yulan continent. As he examined it, Thomas returned with a large platter which he set upon the edge of the desk before backing away discreetly.

Fengel lost all interest in the map. The platter held a fine silver tea service with a steaming teapot, cups, a large pitcher of water, and several small plates stacked high with sweet biscuits. His mouth watered painfully at the sight of it.

"Feel free to help yourselves," said Grey. "Now—"

The financier fell silent as the trio descended upon the platter. Lina moved quickest, grabbing handfuls of biscuits and shoving them in her mouth. Fengel cursed her speed and found himself fighting with Henry over the pitcher of water. They tugged it back and forth until Henry seemed to remember himself and abashedly, yet regretfully, gave in to his captain.

Fengel raised the pitcher to his lips then stopped, spying Mr. Grey out of the corner of his eye.
Never let them see you stumble.
He smiled, and with an effort took a teacup and filled it, which he immediately drank. Then he poured another. And then another.

"At any rate," said Grey, eyebrow raised, "I have had a recent dispatch from Breachtown. The
H.M.S. Albatross
has gone missing with all hands en route to Triskelion. The vessel was carrying a large number of very valuable items, but most of all a gemstone, big as two fists, carved of a luminous and unknown material."

Fengel paused in pouring himself another cup of water, and Henry wrenched the pitcher from him. "Gemstone?"

"Yes. A recent find, known as the Governor's Lantern. I want you to attain it for me. Now. I have paid a pretty sum for an aetherite divination, and that augury seemed to indicate that the ship had run aground here, in the south-western coastline, along the mouth of the little-known Silverpenny River. Take whatever treasures you can find from the wreck, but the gemstone is mine. Return it to me and I will clear your debt to the Sindacato. Oh, one other thing. The Lantern may be cursed."

"Cursed?" asked Fengel, one eyebrow raised.

"Possibly. At any rate, that isn't my problem. We have an accord, and I'm not taking no for an answer. You've much to do, and I as well. Take the map. A description of the gemstone is attached."

Fengel felt flustered. "But I haven't got a ship anymore."

Grey looked bored. "Also not my problem. Thomas! Please see Captain Fengel out." The financier rolled up the map and handed it across the table to him, along with another sheaf of paper. "Oh, and Captain Fengel? One more thing."

Fengel blinked. "What?"

Grey suddenly looked anything but mild. He met Fengel's eyes and held them. "This is your final chance. No more loans, no more time. Return with the gemstone. There is no other option. You can not hide from the Sindicato. And you cannot fight them. Bring me the Lantern. If you don't, we will be taking your head instead." He held his gaze another moment, then looked down at his ledger.

The three of them were escorted outside, Lina gulping down a cup of hot tea and Henry shoving sweet biscuits into his pockets. Fengel tried to regain his composure. The Sindicato were dangerous, but he'd always believed that he could deal with them. Now, with Grey's threat hanging in his ears, he didn't seem so certain. He tapped the rolled up map to his chin and strolled down the ramp to the boardwalk. Halfway down he stopped, frowning.
What am I going to do?

"Oh sir," said Henry, through a mouthful of sweet biscuit. "How could you get in with the Sindacato? And for so much? What are we going to do?"

The airships of the Skydock caught Fengel’s eye. Maybe he was looking at this the wrong way.
Grey's honest, if cutthroat. His information would be good. And if I can get that gem, everything's fixed.
The airships bobbed gently in the evening breeze. Closest, the
Copper Queen
was a dark blotch against the night, the finer vessels easily visible past it. The
Dawnhawk
was the largest and most magnificent, a beautiful airship, brand new and unscarred. The complex network of skysails hung against its hull like glimmering fins, shining in the light of the rising moon.

An idea began to form within the murk of his receding confusion. So what if his old ship was gone? He still had his crew, he now had a job that could take care of everything, and he'd drunk about a gallon of water flavored by little lemon slices.

"Mister Smalls," he asked tentatively. "Are you still owed a favor by Wayern the crate-maker?" Fengel turned back to his befuddled, grizzled steward. Then he grinned.

Chapter Three

Mordecai counted the knots in the wood of the far wall.

"That inconceivable shit," ranted Natasha. "That pompous, blowhard windbag!"

He didn't bother saying anything. There was little point when she was like this, angry and in her cups. He continued his count.
Forty eight. Forty nine. No, that's a hole from a pistol-ball. Isn't it? Maybe just dried blood?

Natasha Blackheart was a competent captain and a ruthless pirate. She truly was her father's daughter, and old Euron cared only for booze, booty, and his ship. But unlike her father, Natasha was also quite emotional on a few other, more personal subjects, especially when she was drunk.

The first was Euron's own legacy. The old man was the most famous pirate of them all, and she constantly stood in his shadow. Everyone in Haventown knew the tales of his exploits; she'd grown up hearing them constantly, and both loved and hated the old man for it.

The second was her husband. Fengel was well known amongst the current generation of buccaneers. His crew were fiercely loyal for some reason, and the man was a master with a blade. Beyond that, he was a strangely honorable fellow for a pirate, though priggish. Goddess alone knew what Natasha saw in him; the origin of their engagement was a mystery.

Between these two fixations, Natasha was driven to reach farther and plunder harder than any other brigand in Haventown. When inebriated she would obsess over the two of them, becoming ridiculously petty. Mordecai learned long ago that it was best to simply let her rant until her emotion burned itself out, or she found someone else to burn it out on.

"Fop," Natasha continued. "He's as base-born as I am. Worse! He's the son of a back alley horse-doctor!"

Mordecai kept his peace, still rankled at her meaningless, drunken suggestion that Fengel might replace him as first mate. It was the kind of thing he should have come to expect, but it still annoyed. A great grandfather clock sat along one wall opposite the bar, a relic of Euron's many, many raids. It chimed eight times, presenting an opportunity for escape.

"Maybe I should have him killed," Natasha muttered. She grabbed at Mordecai's coat and glared at him with bleary eyes. "What do you think?"

"An excellent suggestion," he murmured. Faintly, he felt a glimmer of hope— maybe she would finally see sense. Mordecai was wiser than to try to encourage the subject, though; she would only get defensive. "It is eight. I must make the rounds."

Natasha released him, face slack as she considered her words. Nothing would come of it, he knew. She upended her mug, swaying slightly in her father's throne. Finding it empty, she hollered for the barkeep, gesturing for Mordecai to take his leave.

He took his chance and left the bar. Outside, the cool evening breeze of the Isles was a panacea after the stifling heat of the tavern. Most assumed that the heat in the Bleeding Teeth was calculated, that Euron liked to see the pirate captains beneath them squirm and pant while he remained icy calm. For his part, Mordecai always suspected that the warmth was meant to comfort to Euron in his age.

Leisurely, he strolled down the boardwalk, heading in the direction of the Yards. He stuck to the middle of the walk, one hand comfortably on the hilt of his cutlass as he made his way through the drunks, sailors, and whores. All fell back at the sight of him. Mordecai never smiled, but inwardly he let himself feel pleased. Being first mate of Natasha's Reavers, the most feared band of cutthroats in the Atalian Sea, lent him recognition enough. But Mordecai had a reputation all his own, carefully cultivated over many years. No one risked his offense.

It would have been nice to show himself around a little further.
But duty calls
. They'd already overstayed in port. Much longer and the crew would become lazy or rebellious, and that meant he would have to reinforce discipline, which meant in turn that he'd have to find new bodies to replace those that were inevitably lost.

He swung by the Brotherhood Yards and spoke with the foreman, a dour Mechanist in a leather greatcoat and goggles. For all the mystery of his profession, the man looked harried. Mordecai ratified the bill for repairs made and checked to ensure that spares had been delivered to the
Dawnhawk's
Mechanist in case of an emergency. He took care not to intimidate the man
too
much. It behooved him to have a cordial relationship with the people who made sure his ship flew.

He climbed out to the stair-step pier of the Skydocks where the
Dawnhawk
was moored. Reaching it, he stopped a moment to regard her. A ball of warm pride grew in his belly as he took in her shining skysails and clean, dark hull. She sat anchored on the highest pier of the dock, latest and best of the air-borne marvels of the Brotherhood.

The ship was Natasha's, but he was the one that ran it. In a ritual he performed whenever he approached, he compared the
Dawnhawk
to the other airships, just so he could find them lacking. They certainly flew well enough, and would be worth a fortune to any nation on the Western Continent. Yet beside the
Dawnhawk
they were pitiful and outdated. Mordecai did not consider himself a petty man, but the ship was his passion, and his position on it a singular point of pride.

His eyes alighted on the last and lowest of the moored skyships, old Euron's boat, the
Copper Queen.
That brash idiot was right. What a garbage scow.
Dismissing it, Mordecai walked down the pier to an assortment of crates and barrels stacked below the
Dawnhawk
, which the crewman he'd left to keep watch were hauling up onto the deck. Konrad Faust, ship's navigator, spied Mordecai and strode to the gangplank above him. Like all airship navigators the man was an aetherite, capable of conjuring forth strange magics from the invisible daemon he carried with him.

"Almost loaded," Konrad called down, voice clouded by the thick accent of his native Greisheim. The aetherite was stocky, and as he spoke the shaggy blond beard he wore danced like a scruffy bush in a windstorm. Mordecai didn't like Konrad. But he acknowledged the man's utility, even if he was dangerous and a little unstable. It was a pity that the rarity of such individuals didn't leave much room to be choosey.

"Good," Mordecai replied. "You've got until first light to get things shipshape. Captain will want to rise with the dawn."

"We be ready," affirmed Konrad, blue eyes crinkling. The man sounded affable. He must have sated his daemon recently. "We plan on being gone awhile? Why so much food this time? It's packed oddly too. Captain thinking of a little smuggling?"

Mordecai raised an eyebrow. Salt-beef, hardtack, black powder, and fresh water? The goods order hadn't been exceptionally larger than usual. He turned and called a pair of deckhands, waving them over with the crate they'd just hoisted. "Set it down," he said. "I want to get a look inside." They nodded and dropped the load before him. Mordecai retrieved a nearby pry bar and levered the top up. Rows of packed biscuits lay tightly within. Hardtack.

He frowned slightly. Another man might feel foolish. He did not. It was always better to be safe, and perhaps a little paranoid, than to be sorry. The pirates of Haventown were a cutthroat bunch; it was never a good idea to think oneself immune to some sort of sabotage, regardless of one's reputation. "Get it aboard," he said to the crewmen. They scurried to obey. He turned back to Konrad. "The cargo's fine. Now quit dawdling."