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.