Perilous Journey of the Much-Too-Spontaneous Girl (26 page)

There was no chute. There was no Jacques. There was no escape. She could hear the three soldiers thundering up the stairs behind her, hollering what she could only guess were obscenities in English. She heard her name from below and dared to open her eyes to see Outil standing ready with a length of rope. The
Henrietta’s
engines were roaring to life, and the ship was pulling out. Outil threw the rope, and Marguerite knew she had to move her body.

Just move,
she told herself. And she did. Both arms reached out and grabbed the rope as it swung past her head, but she wasn’t fast enough. Outil jumped forward and retrieved the returning line and threw it again as fast as lightening. This time, Marguerite was ready. She focused on the life line and grabbed with both hands as tightly as she could. She ignored the pain in her shoulder, closed her eyes, and jumped off the Tower of Bombay. The men behind her swore and yelled, but their voices faded away as she flew through the aether.

I really must stop doing this.

She opened her eyes just in time to see Outil standing right in front of her, ready to catch her. But she was moving too fast. She hit the bot at full speed, and they both sprawled on the deck as the little ship burst into full speed ahead—which wasn’t nearly as fast as Marguerite would have liked. She vowed then to figure out a way to get her hands on The Dragon’s technology. There had to be a way to get these ships to sail faster.

“You are bad luck and not worth your weight in pine needles. No wonder they locked you in the brig. I’ll do you one better. Josephine, lock her in her room. The bot too. I’ll let you out when we are in North Carolina—if I have forgiven you.” Just then the sky erupted in colors and flashes of light all around them.

“Blasted Chinese rockets!” Captain Butterfield swore. “Get out the water cannons. We are going to be lucky to make it past Virginia now. Soak the envelope! Fire back!” The battle was fast but glorious. Water and fire were everywhere. The rockets exploding on and around the deck were deafening and colorful, but Marguerite knew that one strike to the shabby brown envelope holding them aloft with explosive gasses would knock the entire ship out of the sky like a dead bird.

She ignored the captain’s order to go to her room, dodged the big girl, Josephine, and with Outil’s help grabbed a water cannon. She pointed it at the envelope, watching for incoming rockets. She successfully joined a few others in soaking the vile weapons before they did any damage to the ship, but as they finally flew out of range of the Tower of Bombay and the battle ended, she also soaked the captain. Butterfield marched up to her and took the hose. “Your quarters,
now
!”

Somehow Marguerite knew this was an order she couldn’t ignore. She marched below deck sullen and wet. Outil followed, a persistent squeak coming from each step of her now soggy gears.

At least this time, Marguerite had a porthole to watch out of. As they sailed south along the coast of the British Colonies, she saw much of the same landscape of her own New France. Thick forests and winding rivers covered and cut the land below her. She faced port side, so there were no mountains, but every now and then she got a glimpse of the ocean.

The horizon soon began to change from bright blue to fiery orange, and then a soft pink fading to deep purple. A vast net of stars covered her and a deep black settled below. Pinpoints of light speckled the land in random places. Glowing clusters marked the more populated towns, like Virginny and Baltimore.

She changed into a flight suit and dried her hair as best she could with a spare blanket, then threw herself on the bed. No one had bothered to deliver any food yet, which irked Marguerite a bit. The battle was over; surely everyone had eaten by now. But the feelings passed quickly as waves of guilt washed over her as she thought about her foolish wrong turns.

“Outil, I swear to listen to you the next time you give me advice.” She pronounced with as much resolve as she could muster.

The bot simply nodded her head. “Yes, m’lady.”

“You don’t think I will. I can tell. You think I’ll just go on doing whatever fool thing comes into my head,” Marguerite sat up and faced the bot that was standing in the corner, waiting to power down for the night.

“No, m’lady. I know you are penitent for your mistakes, and you wish to be a better person. I do not think I can guarantee that my advice will always be the correct path to choose.”

“Well, so far you’ve been right as rain.” Marguerite flopped back on her bed. “And I am a fool.”

“I disagree. And I have good news, m’lady. Upon my last check, the beetle frequency is much closer. I believe we have almost arrived at Cape Feare.”

A knock at the door startled both of them. “Yes,” Marguerite called.

A key was fitted into the lock, and the mechanism clicked, allowing it to swing wide. Louis stood there, looking sheepish and smelling horrible. He was carrying a tray of what looked to be a cold stew and bread.

“Dinner, Lady Vadnay,” he said quietly as he entered her room and placed the tray on the small table.

“Louis, what on earth happened to you today?” Marguerite sat up and smelled at the food, trying to rid her nostrils of his stink. “You smell like you lost a fight with Fifi.”

“Yes, miss. You aren’t far from the truth. Captain put me on special duties this afternoon. I was packaging up Marguerite Bombs.”

“Packaging what?” She set down the fork she’d just picked up and looked at the poor boy.

“Well, Captain liked your little trick you played on Captain Laviolette so much, she ordered me to make up some more packages just like them—only with some gunpowder to boot. We’ve been saving Fifi’s wastes for the past week. It’s not a pretty job.” He sighed and looked, even more, embarrassed.

“Ha! That’s excellent news. Why don’t you go get cleaned up and head to bed,” Marguerite offered.

“Can’t. That’s the other news. We’re docking in Cape Feare in the next ten minutes. Captain will be down to see you before that. She said to eat up and get ready.”

“Well, thank you, Louis.” Marguerite cringed at his filthy clothes and terrible smell, but patted him on the back, and returned his happy grin.

“My pleasure, m’lady.”

He left as quickly as he’d come, but she didn’t lock the door this time. The food was better than going without, and Marguerite took quick bites as she went through her pack and trunk, trying to decide what to take with her. She had her goggles ready and her gun in her waistband when Captain Butterfield showed up.

“Oh, no,” she said when she saw Marguerite’s outfit. “You will put on your best gown and put away all that gear, and you will do
exactly
as I say for the rest of this night or I swear to you, I will leave you and, any other fool who helps you, in this godforsaken city of pirates and walking parts. Are we clear?” She stood with her hands on her pudgy hips, her face tight as a knot and her eyebrows raised, waiting for a reply.

Marguerite felt it only fitting she say, “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Now, put on your prettiest ball gown. Outil, put this around her wrists. You are booty tonight, and that is that. Booty does not speak. You will follow me to the tavern where my messengers have informed me Douleur and her crew are celebrating their victory over the French. They’ve been at it for the past three days, ever since they arrived. My lovely little helper also let me know that Douleur has a thing for silks, and I just happen to have a cargo hold full of them. You are the model, the bot pulls a sample load, we trade for your boyfriend and we get out of here. Is that clear? No shenanigans, no crazy rescue attempts. No trying to get even. You will also not let anyone know your name. Tonight you are Eunice.”

“Eunice?” Marguerite pretended to gag. “What is it with you and terrible names? First the Henrietta, now Eunice?”

Butterfield had moved to the trunk and opened the lid to look at the wares inside, but now turned on Marguerite, her face just as stern, but also cracked with a bit of emotion. “I’ll have you know, this ship is named after my tiny daughter. She was the most beautiful, perfect thing you ever laid eyes on. I lost her and her father to the Barbary pox on a run to the Canary Islands. So I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself,
Eunice.
”

“I’m very sorry, Captain.” Marguerite was sorry. She hadn’t ever considered that the rough, ill-tempered woman could have had a family, much less children. She also couldn’t imagine what it would be like to suddenly lose all of that. She thought of Lucy as well, having lost all of her family to disease, and was simultaneously grateful for her health and sorry for her big mouth. She wanted to stop putting her foot in her mouth but wasn’t quite sure how. She wasn’t sure how to keep from getting herself into situations that required her body to fly through the air either. She would have to work on both of those.

“It’s neither here nor there. Make my night easy, and I’ll forgive you. Marguerite looked at Outil again. The bot nodded slightly, and Marguerite sighed, remembering her promise. Captain reached into the trunk and pulled out a blue silk gown of the latest style, and a slightly less elegant green frock. “This one will do for you,” she held up the blue. “And this one I will take for your friend, Lucy.”

“Very well,” Marguerite nodded, taking the gown and laying it on the bed. “Just let me finish my food. I need all my strength to keep my mouth shut.” Twenty minutes later they were docked and showing papers to the local authority—if you could call him that. He wore a Britland military hat, but his cloak was shabby and clearly not originally his own, as it bore the emblem of a French aerman. The rest of him was dressed in gunnysack, and it didn’t appear that he was fond of shaving. He had several companions at the dock house that were drinking heavily and weren’t worried at all about a ship coming in after dark.

They received no warnings or questions about criminals or illegal activity. There wasn’t even a search of their goods when Butterfield mentioned that the silks were for Captain Douleur’s private collection. “This is a strictly don’t ask, don’t tell community,” Butterfield was able to whisper to them once the pirates had left them alone. They marched right off the lift and out into the city. Outil pulled a cart, and Lucy and Marguerite walked behind, a slender chain connecting their bound wrists to the end of the cart. Butterfield took the lead and marched them down muddy streets and dark buildings to a street that shown with yellow lights, both flame and artificial.

As they turned the corner and the lights came into full view, Marguerite couldn’t help but gasp. The lights didn’t just come from windows. They were strung across the street. A bonfire burned in the center outside of a tavern. Men and women danced and laughed, stumbling drunk and merry with life. Everything was covered in a film of dust, it seemed. They marched past makeshift autocarts and peddler carts loaded with fine wines. Some of the labels Marguerite recognized from her homeland. Their little parade was only gawked at by bots, of which there seemed to be an unusual amount out in the streets without a human at their side.

Eventually, they came to the doors of a tall wooden building crammed between two other shorter buildings. It was night, and Marguerite couldn’t make out many details, but it was most assuredly the loudest establishment on the block. The doors were thrown wide, and the light poured out into the street adding to the effect. Music came from within, as well as laughter and the occasional body, stumbling or being tossed out the door.

Butterfield led them to the door and instructed Outil to stay with the cart. It only held a few bolts of cloth, but Marguerite knew their worth was high above that of any peddler’s rum. Bots and humans mingled inside. Game tables were set up on the perimeter, and the center was open to dancing. On a chair in the middle of all of this noise, stood a man in a strange suit of bright colors throwing balls up in the air and catching them in difficult positions. The crowd cheered and whooped every time he caught another, and each time he threw the next higher. A bot was sitting at a clavichord in the corner, pounding a quick melody on the keys and leaving Marguerite to wonder that they hadn’t already broken from the heavy hand.

A tall, brown-skinned man with tight cotton pants an inch too short for him and a leather holster filled with bullets slung over his chest stood at the door. Two guns rested on his hips. One hand idly fondled a gun while he reached the other out and stopped Butterfield. “There’s no soliciting tonight, slaver. Wait till morning,” he growled.

“I’m not waiting another minute. These lovely ladies and the silks are here for Douleur. If the day breaks on this shipment before she sees it, it will be my head and your neck.” Marguerite did not like the term
slaver
and instantly tensed. She tried to slip her hand to her gun in her pocket for comfort, but remembering her hands were bound, she let them fall lamely in front of her. The man grunted again and nodded across the room to an antiquated copper bot, which also nodded and walked to a corner in the back of the roaring tavern. The first man kept his arm out and didn’t move until the bot returned. A very tall, very striking woman followed him. She was wearing all black, and although she held a strong drink in her hand, she was nowhere near being out of her wits.