The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) (17 page)

“He can’t eat too fast, or it’ll all come back up.” Striker knew from his own experience that a starved stomach couldn’t take too much at once. “Somehow he got all the way out by the hangar.”

“He’s gone lame, and a dog can’t work if he’s only got three legs. Someone might have left him there just to be rid of him.”

“Maybe.” Striker grimaced, fishing another scrap of meat off his plate. He held out the tidbit, feeling the whiskery muzzle of the dog as it accepted the offering. A ratter that couldn’t catch any more rats—no one had time for a creature like that. That was just the way of the world.

Striker glanced up to see Digby was still in the middle of his song. He would give him two minutes before dragging him outside for a chat. In the meantime, he considered Poole. The lad wasn’t the first one he’d go to with Falkland’s treachery—he was too inexperienced—but maybe he could help with a different puzzle. “I was struck by lightning today.”

“Pardon me?” Poole blinked.

“Lightning. Knocked me out cold. I should be dead, shouldn’t I?”

The dog licked its chops and put a paw on Striker’s knee. Striker ruffled its ears, but his
attention was on Poole’s answer. The lad leaned forward, his expression a little horrified and a lot fascinated. “By all the angels! Were you wearing your coat?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What about your head?”

“Hood was up.”

“You’re a city boy, aren’t you?”

Striker narrowed his eyes. “What of it?”

Poole ducked his head, always a little skittish in the face of Striker’s gruff manner. “I grew up in the country. Any farmer could tell you that metal isn’t a good idea in a thunderstorm.”

Striker knew that much but decided not to take offense. “I lived.”

“So you did.” Bright-eyed with interest, Poole leaned forward a little, gesturing with his hands. “In this case, the coat might have saved you. I read about one of Faraday’s experiments. Something surrounded in metal in just the right way will survive a significant electrical charge.”

Striker had no idea who Faraday was and really didn’t care—but the bit about surviving was relevant. “And if it’s the wrong way?”

He winced. “Your heart might stop.”

A noise escaped Striker that was somewhere between a gulp and a grunt. Was that why his chest had hurt? Because his heart had been jolted in the blast? That crawling sense of a too-narrow escape was coming back again, and Striker shifted uneasily. The dog, flopped across his feet in a haze of well-fed contentment, muttered sleepily.

“A narrow escape,” Poole observed.

Striker grunted again, but with more authority, and swilled his ale to stop the shivers
inside.

“I’d chalk it up to a miracle and count my blessings,” the lad said.

Striker slammed down the tankard. “I don’t trust miracles. If the Powers Beyond want a word, they can sit down with a pint and lay it out plain.”

“Maybe they just wanted to get your attention.”

“I don’t think so.” All the lightning bolt had done was stop him from beating Falkland flat. That, and seeing to it that he woke up next to a wet dog. As divine messages went, that was too obscure for Striker. Stone tablets would have been good—except that he couldn’t read.

Uneasiness crept through him, making him fidget. He didn’t like things—especially threats—that he couldn’t touch, taste, or smell, so he shoved the matter from his mind and glanced over his shoulder at Digby again. The fiddler was onto another tune. “Our new lads over there look happy.”

“We all are. You missed Beadle when he came by earlier tonight and bought us all a round.”

That got his attention. “He’s back?”

“From his mother’s. He’s gone again tonight to his sister’s, but will be here tomorrow. He said the steamspinner’s ready for a test flight.”

Striker felt a twist of something in his chest. Pride, yes. The ship was an amazing, beautiful thing. But there was something else, too—Nick should be there for that maiden flight.

It was his ship, after all.
What if he doesn’t find us?
Striker wanted to stop time, to freeze them all the way he’d seen beetles frozen in amber. They shouldn’t get to move on without their captain. It wasn’t right. But reminding the men of that didn’t seem fair, either. They deserved to fly the ship. Anyone who’d ever led men knew how important those triumphs could be.

Striker slid down in his chair, refusing to show the storm of emotion on his face.

“When?”

Poole’s young face lit up in a delighted smile. “Tomorrow. As soon as he’s back from visiting his sister.”

“Tomorrow?” Striker felt his mouth go dry.

The bosun’s brows arched. “You said the engines were ready to go.”

“There’s more to a ship than the engines, boy,” Striker said defensively.

“Like all those confusing ropey bits,” Poole answered with a pinch of sarcasm.

Striker cursed under his breath. “The day you learn how to mend the boiler, boy, I’ll learn your bloody knots.”

“We’ll make an airman of you yet, Mr. Striker.”

“About the time this dog sprouts wings.”

Damn it to the blackest hells
. He picked up his mug, found it drained, and looked about for the barmaid. It was then he noticed the two brothers were gone, and Digby’s fiddle had gone silent. In fact, Digby was slumped over his table, snoring thickly.

A warning tingle crept up Striker’s spine. “How long has he been like that?” he asked Poole quietly.

Poole sniggered. “Just a minute or so. One too many pints.”

“Digby can hold his drink better than most.” Striker rose slowly, the ache in his injured knee a dull, warning throb. Covering his limp with a measured swagger, he crossed the room to where the tall man snored and drooled. He picked up Digby’s ale and sniffed. A faint bitter smell curled under the tang of the drink—easy to miss unless a person was looking for it.
Bugger!

His chest going tight, he pressed two fingers to Digby’s throat, feeling for a pulse. With
relief, he felt it was slow but steady. The dose had meant to knock him out, but not to harm. But why? Because it left no opposition but Poole—little more than a boy—and Striker, who was exhausted and all but lame?

The answer was easy. The steamspinner was ready to sail, and tonight there was almost no one around to guard it. If Roberts’s men were going to steal the ship, now would be the moment. Three was too small a crew to handle her for long, but they could pick up others once they were clear. Risky, but they were experienced airmen—not like Striker, who was a wizard with a wrench but couldn’t tell a bilge from a binnacle.

Striker let his hand drop from Digby’s neck. Alarm made his own breath feel tight, as if he’d swallowed poison that was choking off his air. He cleared his throat noisily, stepping back and glancing around the room. The barmaid had gone to the kitchen. Only Poole sat there, looking very young and a little confused. The locals had gone home or simply vanished, maybe with the encouragement of a shilling or two to stay out of the way. It was up to Striker to figure this out.

He felt the bump of the dog’s shoulder against his leg.
All right, it’s up to me and a three-legged stray
. And Poole could help, though Striker’d be damned if he put the lad in harm’s way. He limp-swaggered back to his own seat, the dog hopping behind him.

“There was something in Digby’s pint besides ale.”

“What’s going on?” Poole asked quietly, and with utter seriousness. “Is he all right?”

“He should be,” Striker said. “But it’s clear we’re out of time.”

The bosun leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

“Those three from Captain Roberts’s old crew are up to no good.”

“No good?” Poole prompted.

Striker cursed under his breath, not used to having to explain himself. He was better at thumping than talking. “Falkland was as good as trying to talk me into mutiny this afternoon.”

Poole went white. “The ship!”

Striker nodded. “Bright lad. I’m going back to the hangar. You try to get Digby back on his feet. We’ll need his help. Make him spew all his dinner if you have to.”

Poole’s eyes went wide, but he gave a jerky nod. Striker shrugged into his coat, twitching a little as he felt the brush of the damp, heavy canvas against his skin. It settled with a familiar drag against his shoulders. The dog sat down before him, thumping its rat tail on the floor.

“You can’t go,” Striker mumbled. Talking to a dog—at least in front of the young bosun—was silly.

The dog yipped.

“No.”

The dog put a paw on his boot. Striker didn’t have time to argue. He picked up the little dog and dumped it in Poole’s arms. “Keep him here.”

He started for the door, only to hear the bosun’s curse and a scrabble of toenails on the old wooden floor. Without another word, Striker picked up the animal before it hobbled and hopped after him into the dark, damp night. If the silly thing insisted on following him into a fight, so be it. He tucked it under his arm and continued. At least it had stopped raining and blowing, and the clouds were breaking up again.

Striker found his way back to the hangar by fitful moonlight. Carrying a lantern would have given away his position, and he supposed the others had the same idea because he saw no sign of anyone else walking the narrow track down to the cliffs. However, he did stop at the cottage he shared with Digby and picked up a small arsenal of weapons. If he was one against
three, he was going to even those odds as best he could.

In the darkness, the hangar was not so much something he saw but a blank in the darkness where the huge structure blotted out the sky. To the left, moon silvered the waves, crests of foam a shifting lacework of white. Striker stopped and listened, and heard the chug of his engines beneath the rush of wind and sea. Someone was already there. He crept up to the hangar door, but it was shut. He set down the dog, gripped the handle, and pulled it open just far enough to slip through. The dog hopped inside, snout to the ground as if chasing a trail. Striker shouldered one of his aether guns and followed, every sense alert.

It was pitch-black, filled with the familiar scents of engine grease and fresh paint. Taking a risk, Striker lit up his chemical lantern. He held it up, shedding the sickly light as far as it would reach. No one moved in the shadows, which meant they were already aboard. Striker approached the ship.

The steamspinner
Athena
loomed above him, her prow invisible in the shadows. The ship was named after the air spirit who had traveled with Nick—and who had disappeared along with him, lost in the flame and terror of that battle. Losing Athena was like losing another crew member, and it hurt to think that she might never fly her namesake.

The
Athena
was a different design from the
Red Jack
, larger, and a lot more lethal looking. Nick had stolen the plans from a sorcerer and hired men to start building her as soon as they’d won enough booty. Nick and Striker had hatched their pirating schemes based on those drawings, and it seemed almost unreal that those far-flung dreams sired in desperation and disgust with their lives had manifested something so lovely.

She was a sleek, bullet-shaped vessel with a rigid frame and fins that swept back like the wings of a stooping hawk. The gondola hugged the bottom of the balloon, forming a single unit
rather than following the old-style design that resembled a sea vessel suspended on ropes. But they had re-created the same hawk figurehead as had graced the
Red Jack
and written the names of the dead below three of the gun portals. The ship might be new, but old loyalties would not be forgotten.

Just then the dog let out a furious barking that sounded huge inside the hangar. Striker turned and raised his weapon, but a beat too late. Falkland was suddenly there, firing a revolver. Striker dropped and rolled, the bullet glancing off one of the metal plates of his coat with a ping.

His movement took him away from the ship as he scrambled behind a pile of crates for cover, weapon humming as it charged up. He glanced over the top. Falkland was stalking toward Striker’s position, revolver raised.

Striker took it all in within moments, though it felt like years. He cocked his weapon, the sound rich with satisfying peril. It was a gun of his own design—a twin-barreled, two-triggered affair able to shoot bullets or magnetized aether. Striker chose the aether, setting it low enough that Falkland would live to answer questions later. He focused, aimed, and fired, a ball of blue fire surging from the muzzle. The
zoop
sound of the gun was followed by a metallic stink.

It should have gone like clockwork, but for the dog. A frenetic ball of hopping, snarling fur exploded from under the ship and fastened onto Falkland’s ankle. The man yelped at terrier pitch, twisting in surprise—and out of the path of the shot. With a roar of frustration and fear for the dog, Striker burst from his cover and launched himself at Falkland. He grabbed the front of the man’s coat, bowling him over backward. Falkland fell, his gun spinning away, but he managed to drive his knuckles into Striker’s throat.

The effect was immediate. Pain gagged him, blurring his eyes and stripping the power from his limbs. He landed with his knee on Falkland’s chest, but that was all he could manage
while he struggled to suck in air. The dog skittered away, unleashing a volley of yips.

Falkland took advantage of the moment to jab at Striker’s eyes, his nose, fighting hard and dirty. Striker got in a good hook to the jaw but Falkland got his feet under him, bucking Striker off. For a small man, he was strong. Striker scooped up his weapon, swinging it like a club because he was still blind with pain. It connected, but not hard enough. Falkland scrabbled for his own gun, but the dog was back, nipping and snarling. The man swore and tried to kick it aside, but even on three legs the mutt was too quick.

The dog bought Striker time to slam the man with a foot to the head. Falkland flew into the air, landing on the hard-packed dirt with a noise like a falling sack of grain. Striker surged forward to follow it up, but Falkland rolled to his knees, slamming his shoulder into Striker’s bad leg. The injured joint failed, sending Striker sideways. He landed on his hip, his gun arm pinned. Falkland grabbed for his throat again, but this time Striker was ready, driving his left elbow up with brutal force.