Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) (20 page)

The Yard was just that, a wide open space bounded on all sides by fortified walls, with numerous storage huts and workshops built up against them. Running across the great space were the omnipresent brass pipes that threaded through the rest of the town and terminated here, interspersed by piles of coal and raw ore. At the heart of the enclave loomed the Great Hall, a long structure where the arcane construction of airships and other great wonders were completed.

Fengel strode off for the Great Hall as the guard slammed the postern shut. Imogen ran to keep up with him.

“That’s Montrey,” she said, breathless. “He never listens to my advice. No matter how many times I tell him.”

Fengel glanced back over his shoulder at her, even as he tried to leave her behind. “That, Miss Imogen, is because your ‘advice’ is—”

An orange blur shot out from beneath a raised brass pipe and slammed into his ankle. Fengel lurched, staggered, and pirouetted as he tried to avoid pitching face-first into a man-high stack of coal. He succeeded, barely, regaining his balance as a fat orange ball of fur did figure eights in between his ankles, purring loudly. It was Cubbins, the orange tabby cat that Omari had tried so fervently to foist off on him.

“What are you doing here, you flea-bitten mongrel?” asked Fengel in distaste. The tabby cat only bumped his head against Fengel’s boot.

“Oh,” said Imogen. “A cat. That really shouldn’t be in here.”

Fengel looked up at the dismay in her voice. “Something wrong?”

The young Mechanist covered her face with a gauntlet. “None of us are allowed pets. Hair and feathers and whatnot in the mechanisms...terrible. Also, I’m allergic.”

Fengel looked down at the furry orange feline, then at Imogen, then back to Cubbins. He stooped to gather up the cat, rubbing its head with his fingertips. “Well. I certainly can’t leave it here, then. Just have to take it along. We don’t want fur in the mechanisms, of course. Come now, young Miss Imogen! Take me to your masters.”

Imogen stared at the cat. She edged around him carefully, then led the way to the Great Hall at a goodly pace, actively keeping distance between them. Fengel smiled to himself, then to Cubbins, following along at leisure.

The interior of the Great Hall was one huge and cavernous space. It smelled of oil, leather, and burned metal. An unfinished airship hull sprawled down its length, draped by gantries, chain conveyors, and walkways hanging from the ceiling high above. Shadows ruled the room, as not a single window allowed any light from the outside world. Instead, great galvanic lanterns shed small pools of radiance over the work spaces littering the floor. There were only a few Mechanists here, scurrying about as they frantically worked strange machineries. The room echoed with the sounds of industry.

“Now,” mused Fengel, “where are we to go?” On previous visits, some nameless Mechanist functionary would appear as if by magic.

Imogen sneezed in reply. “Ober dere,” she said a moment later, her voice muffled and thick. Fengel glanced back to see her wiping her nose, standing as far away from him as she politely could. Imogen gestured with her other hand towards the prow of the airship hull. Below it, Fengel spied a small platform raised up to provide a vantage point over the rest of the floor. Five figures in leather greatcoats stood there arguing.

Fengel rubbed Cubbins on the forehead with his thumb, eliciting a deep, rumbling purr. “Well then, Miss Imogen. Let’s not keep them waiting. I’ve a fight to be about.”

He set off before she could reply, taking the most direct path between work spaces. Those few Mechanists he passed seemed absorbed in their work on racks of complicated muskets, fold-up barricades, and what looked for all the world like a rotary cannon. Other, stranger things loomed out of the gloom: an inert Brass Horse from Triskelion, dripping oil from its maw, and a column of brass with a collection of crystals at its peak that hurt the eye to look upon.

The platform loomed before him then, with a single stair climbing ten feet to its top. Fengel released Cubbins and ascended with Imogen in tow. Unfortunately, the tabby cat bounded up after him.

Fengel folded his arms as he reached the top. “All right, then,” he said. “What’s so important that you had to drag me all the way back here?” He tried to ignore Cubbins ramming his ankles, purring into the sudden silence.

The members of the Cabal made a semicircle around the edge of the platform, roughly twenty feet in diameter. Between them stood a small table with a miniature diorama of some kind atop it. The Mechanists turned to face him, their discussion interrupted. They were dumpy and shapeless in their greatcoats and goggles, as expected. There were a few differences, however, marking them out as senior members of the Brotherhood faction.

The one on the left wore a complicated mask of hoses and piping, through which he gasped audibly every few moments. His neighbor wore no mask, though his goggles were surrounded by six smaller lenses that could click into place on tiny armatures. Next in line stood a very stiff Mechanist, the leather of his jacket scarred and scorched by flame. The fourth brother had six timepieces strapped to his left arm, which he constantly checked. And at the far end stood the last Mechanist, who otherwise appeared normal enough, save for the prosthetic mechanical foot poking out from beneath his greatcoat, which Fengel recognized from the delegation sent to Euron’s court last evening. Fengel knew they wouldn’t bother with names, so he mentally assigned them designations: Wheezer, Eight-Eyes, Scorch, Timekeeper, and Clangfoot.

As one, the Cabal peered suspiciously down at Cubbins the tabby cat.

“What is that animal...doing in here?” said Wheezer, his voice raspy and thick behind his mask.

“Pets are not allowed in the Great Hall,” added Timekeeper in disdain.

“They disrupt delicate instrumentation,” said Eight-Eyes.

“Besides,” said Wheezer, “we are...mostly allergic.”

Fengel wanted to smile. Instead he made a sharp, cutting gesture with one hand. “That is a trifling concern. Every second you waste is gifted to the Perinese. Now, why in the Realms Below did you call me all the way back here?”

Behind him, Imogen sneezed.

“Quite,” said Clangfoot unemotionally. “Captain Fengel of the
Dawnhawk
, we have summoned you because you are needed, and you can serve the struggle better here than at the Graveway. Haventown...is doomed.”

The statement echoed about the platform. The finality of it rankled Fengel. He glared at the Mechanist. “That isn’t certain. Not yet. Are we in trouble? Of course. But—”

“It
is
certain,” intoned Eight-Eyes. “Our prognostication engines are far more accurate than you can imagine. We have seen that the current conflict will amount to little more than a spirited defense. The numbers do not lie.”

Fengel put his arms behind him angrily. “Well, numbers can certainly stretch the truth, when it pleases them.” Who were these men, to tell him what the future would be? Cubbins rubbed against his boot, and he tried to force the cat away.

Two of the Cabal Mechanists paused to look at each other. “No,” said Wheezer. “That’s...that’s the exact opposite of what we just said.”

“The point,” continued Clangfoot before Fengel could retort, “is that evacuation must be considered our prime response to this invasion, going forward.”

“Yes,” agreed Timekeeper. “You convinced us yourself last evening at the Bleeding Teeth.”

Fengel blinked, taken aback.
Strange, that I find myself so reversed.
For all the arguing he’d done with Euron, he didn’t want to consider retreat now. They’d actually done well at the Graveway, albeit in a messy, disorganized, skin-of-their-teeth sort of way.

“Now, hold on,” he said. “The whole damned Perinese navy is assembled against us, but I was only attempting to get Euron to consider the option of retreat. Not calling for it. Not just yet.” The argument sounded hollow, even to his own ears.

“Yes. But it was not just your words that swayed us. It was Euron’s.”

 “We came not just to inform you of the missing First Mechanist,” continued Clangfoot, “but to assess the pirate king’s handling of the situation. As we feared, Euron Blackheart will not prove a capable wartime administrator.” The Mechanist held Fengel’s gaze. However, the effect was ruined by Cubbins, whose purr seemed to pull at his attention.

“He hungers for little other than old glory,” said Eight-Eyes.

Clangfoot shook his head, returning to the discussion. “His only real solution to the invasion is impractical—reliance upon an ancient and unlikely Voorn superweapon. Such devices are unreliable at best and positively suicidal at worst. We are not certain this Stormhammer even exists. How could he have hidden it all these years? But if it does...such a past should stay buried.”

Wheezer shook his head. “These factors...combined with the numerical and qualitative superiority of the invaders...only confirm the output of our prognostication engines.”

Fengel looked away with a sour frown. He had to admit that they had a point. Even Wheezer. Not a few hours past, he had commiserated with Natasha about how mad Euron’s solution was. And no one needed to convince him that the pirate king was a doddering old fool who’d get them all killed trying to relive his past victories.

Wheezer wasn’t finished. “Since Haventown is so heavily outnumbered...” Here he paused to glare at Fengel, “And because
math does not lie...
there is only one possible recourse open to us. Haventown should be evacuated.”

Fengel sighed. It was true and he knew it. He’d always known it. His blood had been up at the Graveway, but that long line of navy warships, their airship and Bluecoat marines... In the cold light of reason, there had only ever been one solution. The Perinese knew where Haventown was and were committed to destroying it. Those two simple facts meant downfall more than anything else.

He shook his head. “We can pull the captains back here to load the citizenry, food, and water. Scuttle one of the waterborn ships in the mouth of Haventown Lagoon to act as an obstacle. Cadmus’s, most likely—it’s the biggest, and he was always an ass. A token group can stay behind to harry the invaders long enough to get the majority of the populace to safety.” He paused to rub at his beard. “It
might
work. But even if that buys us enough time and we’ve enough transportation, where to go? The Yulan is our best bet, but it’s too damned far away. And there would need to be several trips.” He rubbed at his beard, thinking furiously. “Maybe build temporary rafts to drag along? No, the fleet would catch up in a day...”

Clangfoot held up a gauntlet. “Such supposition is unnecessary. We already have a plan. Emptying the township in enough time would be impossible, at any rate. We have only a handful of days, at best.”

So soon
. Fengel blinked in confusion. “Then what in the Realms Above are we to do?”

“Captain Fengel,” said Eight-Eyes. The Mechanist paused to sneeze. “We already told you. We’re not going to empty the town....but to
evacuate
it.” He gestured at the table before him. “Look. See.”

Perturbed, Fengel stepped closer, forcing Cubbins out of the way. The table was simple and bare but for the miniature in its center. Upon closer inspection, it was a collection of buildings, terraces, and structures all rendered in tiny detail—a perfect replica of Haventown. Everything from the Gasworks to the Skydocks to the brothels of the Yellow Lantern Terrace and more were represented.

“Oh, that’s just fabulous,” marveled Fengel. “Look, someone’s even painted tiny airships!”

“Mechanist Second Class Thaddeus is a deft hand with a brush,” agreed Eight-Eyes, gesturing to the stiff, fire-scarred brother beside him. “But look at how elegant the solution is.”

Fengel looked up at him. “So you’ve said. But I still don’t see anything. Other than this pretty diorama, that is.”

Cubbins, hungering for a leg to rub against, turned and trotted towards Clangfoot. The Mechanist hurriedly stepped out of the way, turning the motion into a purposeful approach of the table. There he flipped a hidden switch on the backside of the diorama. “That’s because you have to turn it on first.”

There was a faint whirring, then a hiss. Fengel watched as the tiers of the miniature Haventown all shifted...and rose up off the cliffsides upon which it rested, supported by tiny gasbags built into the underside of each terrace. His jaw dropped open as he understood.

That’s...impossible. Isn’t it? You can’t...
“You don’t mean to tell me that we’re going to fly the town away from here?”

“That is exactly what we mean to do,” said Eight-Eyes, pausing to sneeze again. “There is no need to locate a new home, Captain Fengel, because we will be taking it with us.”

His watch-clad brother reached over and poked the floating miniature, sending it back to hover in the center of the table. “Everyone knows of the agreement made between First Mechanist Helmsin and the pirate king, yes?”

“Of course,” replied Fengel. “He let you stay here and gave you a spot for these yards. In return, you oversee the town’s infrastructure and keep it all running.” Behind him, Imogen sneezed again.

“That is the common interpretation. Though it is not technically accurate. For one thing, Euron Blackheart never asked us to oversee the infrastructure of Haventown. We’ve taken up that task up ourselves.”

“Another...reason,” interjected Wheezer, “that...we have so little faith...in his ability to protect the town.”

“Why?” asked Fengel, confused.

“Because what we asked of the pirate king wasn’t land,” added Eight-Eyes. “It was mining rights.” He stepped back warily as Cubbins dropped to the platform and rolled over to his back, presenting his belly, looking up hopefully at them all.

Clangfoot gestured to the miniature cliffface below the floating Haventown. “The Copper Isles are a special place,” he said. “Until very recently, they were the sole locale from which light-air gas could be gathered. Raising an airship without it is an expensive and time-consuming process.”

So that’s the secret
. Everyone in Haventown knew what kept a Brotherhood airship afloat. But where the gas was generated, or how, was unknown. “All the piping running through the town. From the Gasworks down on the Craftwright’s Terrace, up to here. That’s what it’s for.”