Chasing the Lantern (4 page)

Smalls had fallen silent. Fengel could feel their gazes upon his back, both his steward and the girl.
Never let them see you stumble.
Still. Natasha. He wanted to spit. Instead he squared his shoulders, adjusted his monocle, and pushed through the wooden door.

The interior of the Bleeding Teeth spread out before him. A hundred different lanterns lit the room brightly, all affixed to the walls or hanging from the ceiling. There were hand-lamps, ship's lamps, garden lamps, oil lamps, and even streetlamps. At the far end of the room a great stone hearth blazed merrily, combining with the lanterns to fill the room with an oppressive heat. A narrow bar dominated the left wall, a fat barkeep glowering behind it. Despite its warmth, the room was almost full. Pirates of every description lounged at tables spread out throughout the space. Fengel recognized a few of them, captains of skyships and sailships sitting apart, clustered together with their crews.

The middle of the room was empty, set before a heavy chair placed with its back to the hearth. It was a throne, really, carved of a single piece of heavy wood and pillaged from who knew where. A woman reclined lazily in its lap, leaning against one armrest with her leg stretched out over the other. She was tall and thin, wearing captain's boots, tight leggings, and a puffy blouse cut low to reveal ample cleavage. Her skin was dusky, and long tresses of curly black hair spilled down over her shoulders to frame an elegant face. Striking golden eyes gazed out hungrily at the world, balanced by a crooked smile. At her sides, on each arm of the throne rested a simple wooden mug. One was cracked and broken, as if it had been used to stop a pistol-ball.  The other was still in use, a thick head of foam crowning its lip. In spite of his other feelings, Fengel's heart lept into his throat at the sight of his wife.

Mordecai Wright, Natasha's first mate, stood beside and a little behind her chair. The man was a thin, sinister shadow. He wore black, well-suited to his dark hair and beard, and glowered at the world as if it constantly did him some disservice. In the space before the throne stood a young, handsome pirate.

Leaning down, Mordecai whispered into Natasha's ear and made a gesture at the man standing in the empty space before her. "So," she said, voice sultry and slow. "You think you're good enough to join my Reavers?"

"That I am," said the pirate. "I've served three years with Ruckshaw on a sailship, I know the Isles like the back of my hand, and I can out-fight and out-drink damn near any man alive." He grinned, cocksure.

 Natasha returned his smile. "That's quite the boast." She glanced lazily back at Mordecai. "And I think you're wrong on at least one part. But tell me.
Why
do you want to join my crew?"

He grinned lasciviously. "Because of all the captains in Haventown, there's only one that men dream of, and that's Natasha Blackheart."

Natasha smiled coyly at him. "Flatterer."

"That I am!" he laughed. "But it's not just that. Your ship, she's a work of art. The
Dawnhawk,
she's the finest in Haventown. A skyship, and a masterpiece of the craft. The Brotherhood has come a long way since that old garbage scow, the
Copper Queen
." He chuckled dryly.

The room went silent. The barkeep ducked down behind his bar.

"Mordecai?" Natasha held out a hand. The first mate drew a flintlock pistol and passed it to her.

The would-be sky-pirate stared, eyes wide. "No," he cried. "Wait!"

Natasha took aim and fired. Thunder erupted in the room, the blast setting Fengel's ears to ringing. The dashing pirate slumped to the floor, sending the sawdust flying. Face pensive, eyes dangerous, Natasha blew smoke from the barrel and passed the pistol back to her first mate.

"No one insults my father's ship," said Natasha quietly. Then she smiled, sat back, and took up her mug. "He was right, though. The
Dawnhawk
is a very fine ship."

The tension in the room evaporated, the crowd jeering laughter before turning back to drinking and jesting and games of chance. Mordecai made a gesture and two men jumped up from a table. They grabbed up the corpse to haul him away. Then one paused and turned back to their captain. "He's still alive, ma'am."

Natasha quaffed from her mug, the drink sloshing a bit over her delicate cheeks and spilling down her throat. She wiped her lips with her sleeve and raised an eyebrow at the crewman. "Really?" She looked up at her first mate. "You need to clean your gun."

"Mayhap," said Mordecai, "you need to work on your aim."

She sighed. "Nonsense. Fellow might be as tough as he said. Fancy that." She raised her voice. "Take him to the ship. If he survives maybe he can have his wish. After all, a little stamina in a man is a rare thing." Natasha raised her mug for another pull, then paused to belch.

Fengel squared his shoulders.
Time to get this over with
. Sidestepping the two crewman and their bleeding, groaning cargo, he moved to the middle of the taproom floor. Mordecai noticed him first, and smiled thinly. Natasha didn't see him. She was taking another drink, mug upended.

"The crew of the
Flittergrasp
has returned to port," he said loudly, clearly. "And thus, I have come to give my obeisance to the rule of Blackhand."

Natasha's eyes widened. She choked, leaned up, and spit her mouthful of ale in a geyser that soaked a nearby pirate. "Fengel?" she gasped, staring at him.

Up close he saw the familiar signs.
She's drunk. Again
. He pursed his lips disapprovingly. "Indeed," he said.

She laughed, wiped her chin with the sleeve of her shirt, then laughed again. "Oh, now this is a day. What kept you? Triskelion isn't that far away."

Mordecai smiled like a serpent. "Alas, ma'am, I believe that good Captain Fengel had to take the long way home. I spied him coming into the Waterdocks in a broken longboat."

Natasha blinked up at her mate, then at him. "What? Where's the
Flittergrasp
? Why weren't you on your ship?"

Cold anger and hot embarrassment writhed in his stomach. "The
Flittergrasp
is...no more. There was an incident over Triskelion. It was destroyed."

The room quieted abruptly. Natasha stared at him, her face slacking into surprised sympathy.

Then she laughed. Great big choking belly-laughs that set her form to shaking uncontrollably. She threw her empty mug at the floor and it bounced. "You...utter...
tit,
" she howled. The rest of the room joined in, mocking laughter echoing from wall to wall.

Fengel grimaced. "Your sympathy is appreciated," he said. "However, after a bit of rest, I plan to make my way to the Yards to resolve this inconvenience."

"And what," asked Natasha, gasping for air, tears in her eyes, "do you plan to do there? The head Mechanist is gone missing. The Brotherhood of the Cog aren't taking any more ship orders."

Fengel started.
What?
What did she mean?

"I tell you what," said his wife, slurring slightly. She took a deep breath and then cleared her throat. "A pirate's no pirate without a ship. I've always had a soft spot for you, I'll admit. And it seems you're in a bit of a bind. Here, drop that group of press-ganged losers you call a crew, and join mine. You can even be a mate. First or second I don't care, should be fun seeing you try to best Mordecai. It's been a bit since I've seen that swordplay of yours." She smiled back woozily at her first mate. "My husband here is probably the only one on the Atalian Sea who can give you a run for your money, isn’t that right?"

Mordecai Wright stared her down. Then he turned to Fengel, eyes narrow. "Hardly," he drawled.

"Hmm," said Natasha, turning back to Fengel. "What do you say?"

"Never," he replied instantly. "My crew is my crew. They stand behind me, and I behind them. I will simply have to acquire a ship by some other means."

Anger rippled across Natasha’s features, turning her fair face into something ugly. "How
dare
you. Fine then. That'll teach me for trying to throw you a bone. It's just as well. I would have loved to watch you crawl, making do with second best when everyone knew that you'd had your own ship. I would have loved to watch you choke on that swollen pride of yours. Go then! Get out! Starve to death instead, you incompetent fool. When I find your beggared arse down on the Waterdocks, I'll laugh! Now go!" She stood and pointed with a wavering finger, chest heaving.

Fengel felt himself flush. He bent in a short, terse bow. Then he wheeled about, looking past Henry and Lina and making his way to the door. He pushed through it back to the town outside. The cool night air hit him like a hammer. Descending the stair, he closed his eyes and let out a sigh, willing away the turmoil within.
Ridiculous harpy. Besotted slattern. Raging—

Two hands grabbed him roughly. They swung him around to smack into a wall with a thump that jarred his thoughts and his sense. Distantly, he felt his monocle fly free.

"Mr. Grey would like to speak with you," said a voice like heavy gravel.

Fengel looked up into a face made wholly out of scar tissue. The man holding him was huge, though not quite the size of his gunnery mistress, Sarah Lome. Still, he himself was slight in comparison. Another massive fellow, partner to the first, glowered down at him. Past these two Fengel spied Henry Smalls on the stair, watching in surprise and concern, Miss Stone standing behind him.

"Ah," said Fengel. "Yes. Mr. Grey. Of course I will pay him a visit. Just as soon as—"

"Just now," rumbled the other thug. "Mr. Grey would very much like to speak with you, an' he won't be taking 'no' for an answer."

Fengel felt his heart sink into his stomach.
I do
not
need this right now.
But he smiled up at the thugs. "Well, then. Lead the way."

The man released his grip and stepped back, indicating their desired direction. Fengel paused to straighten his jacket and replace his monocle, then he strode ahead. The men moved to frame him, and he heard his two crewmen jog up to behind him.

"Captain, should I go and fetch—"

"No, Henry," replied Fengel. "Let's just go and see what Mr. Grey wants. Attend, Miss Stone. I am sure that this shall be an extended education on the life of adventure you so desired."

They walked on in silence along the uppermost boardwalk. The thugs led them along the northern edge of the cliff, past shops and craftsmen towards the Skydocks and the airships there. Some of the locals observed the procession, scurrying out of the way after a glare from the two massive escorts.

"Who is Mr. Grey?" Lina asked quietly.

"Local factor," whispered Henry. "Financier and fence for all the big criminal cartels back on the Western Continent. The Sindacato. Funds a lot of people here."

"Oh." She fell silent. Fengel wasn't surprised.
Everyone
had heard of the Sindicato.

The troupe reached the border between the Skydock and the town proper. Grey's thugs led them to the last building before the Skydock, an older manor-house of a style at odds with the rest of the shanties and shacks of Haventown. A low ramp led up to a front door elegantly carved out of fine wood. Fengel paused halfway up to catch his breath and stare longingly at the great dirigibles moored only a hundred feet away.

Lina spoke up again, her voice a whisper meant not to carry. "That was his
wife?
What a bitch."

"That she is, lass," replied Henry. "And pretty much in charge here, more or less."

Fengel gazed out at the airships, a sense loss almost overwhelming him at their sight. They floated gently in the breeze, the watch crewman bantering with each other from the underslung decks. Sailing on the open ocean was a fine thing, but nothing compared to the wind-born sway of flying through the air.

"But why?" asked Lina. "Why did he marry her?"

"A moment of raging insanity," said Fengel. The two thugs turned back to him, fists ready to chivvy him along. Fengel smiled at them and continued up the ramp to the building.

The front door opened onto a richly appointed parlor. Fine carpets covered the floors and oiled teak paneled the walls. A small couch sat against one wall, facing a portrait of a distinguished Perinese gentleman next to a door hanging slightly ajar. Past these a stair led upwards to the floor above.

"Thomas? cried a voice through the door. "Is that you?"

The second thug who'd manhandled him strode over and pushed open the door. "Yes sir," he said quietly. "And I've brought the debtor you asked me to go find."

"Fengel?" said the voice. "Ah, excellent. Show him in please."

Thomas glared over at him. Fengel was already moving. He sauntered over to the door, Lina and Henry falling in behind him.

The room was a small, well-decorated office. Bookshelves lined the walls and expensive rugs lay upon the floor. A massive mahogany desk dominated the small space, a single chair facing it.

Mr. Grey sat behind it, as bland as his name suggested. Middling height, average weight, and light brown hair, his skin tanned but not so dark as an islander. His eyes were an unremarkable shade of brown. As if in compensation, his clothing was wealthy and refined. He wore a suit, expensive and slightly unreasonable considering the climate, and his hair was slicked back with pomade.

"Ah,” he said in a soft voice. "Captain Fengel, have a seat. So good of you to drop by." His eyes flicked to the pair of crewman behind him. "Would you and your crew care for some refresh—"

"Yes," said Fengel, Henry, and Lina all at once.

Mr. Grey blinked, taken aback. "Some tea, Thomas," he said. "And biscuits." Thomas grunted and backed out of the room. Grey turned to face Fengel again. "Have a seat. Now, let's get straight to business. It's come to my attention that you and your crew returned to Haventown in a leaky dinghy tied up down at the docks."

"Longboat, actually," replied Fengel. He took the lone chair before the desk. The floor creaked as Henry and Lina moved up behind him.

A moue of annoyance fluttered across Grey's face. "Yes, a longboat. As I take it, your most recent venture has failed?"