Chasing the Lantern(17)

"No!" howled the bleeding man in Mordecai's grasp. "It was a present!" He fell to his knees before Natasha, sobbing now.

"Captain!" yelled Konrad.

Natasha held up a hand to her navigator, not looking at him. She glared at the man Mordecai held. "One at a time, damn you all! I'm still rather tipsy." She pointed at the pirate before her. "You," she said, finger wavering slightly. "What do you mean?"

"It was supposed to be a present!" he sobbed. "Fengel's man came down to the bar, said he needed some men for a surprise on behalf of Fengel for his wife. Paid us a silver apiece to come up here and clean ol' Euron's ship. We, we just had to wait until we heard the pistol shot. So's he could time it right. That's all I know, I swear! It was just supposed to be a present."

Natasha stared. Then realization struck her. "Fengel? she cried. "Fengel's behind this? That doesn't make any sense. The man wouldn't give me anything unless it was poisonous and had teeth like knives!"

"Actually Captain," said Mordecai, "I think he had a plan to steal the Queen, but this doesn't—"

"Captain!" yelled Konrad again. "First mate! Look!"

Heat burned in Mordecai's breast. How dare the navigator interrupt him. And in front of Natasha! He dropped the sniveling dockworker at his feet and formed a fist. Looking up toward the navigator, he stared.

Konrad wasn't even looking him, or Natasha. He had crossed to the rail of the ship and peered out up beyond the gasbag. Other crewmen were pointing at something, as well as some of the 'cleaners' involved in Lucian's plot. Mordecai glanced over at Natasha. She met his gaze and the both of them ran to the railing.

The Dawnhawk was leaving. People scurried about its deck and gasbag in a flurry of activity. The mooring lines were already cut and the ship floated free on the breeze. It rose above the Skydocks, steam puffing from the exhaust-pipes at the rear of the vessel and taking direction as the propellers began to spin. A single figure stood at the helm near the stern.

"My ship!" cried Natasha.

The figure moved to the railing and waved down at them. From where he stood, Mordecai could see the tricorn hat and heavy officer's coat. Moonlight glimmered for a moment, reflected, as if from a pair of spectacles. Or a monocle.

"My ship!" cried Natasha again. "You whoreson bastard! Give me back my ship!" She erupted into a torrent of emotion, a stunning string of profanity that blanched the faces of the hardened pirates around her and even gave Mordecai pause.

He yelled orders at the crew to run back up to the Dawnhawk's pier. Even as they ran off he knew it would be too late. He turned back to his captain. "Lucian Thorne is still somewhere on this ship. Or in town. He can't have gotten far."

Natasha wheeled on him, eyes half-mad, panting from lack of breath. "But that bastard husband of mine has my ship!" she screamed in his face.

"And we will get it back," he vowed. "Because I know where they are going."

His captain glared. "Search the deck from bilge to the bags," she yelled to her crew. "Tie these sorry bastards up somewhere I can interrogate them properly. And you," she said, pointing to Mordecai, "tell me everything that you know."

Mordecai took a calming breath, and did so.





Chapter Four



Is this supposed to be my new home?

Flying on a real airship was nothing like Lina had expected. Her flight from Triskelion on their makeshift conveyance had been a dicey and terrifying experience, as the vessel seemed constantly about to crash into the sea, which it finally had. The Dawnhawk was altogether different. It rocked gently but solidly beneath her feet, its deck swaying left and then right at irregular intervals, prodded along by the whim of the wind. The sensation was strange, similar and yet altogether different from travelling a seagoing ship upon the open ocean. These incongruities surprised her, kept her from any easy acclimation. And there were others. It was quiet. No waves crashed against the hull, and no seabirds screamed. While the wind still whistled over the deck and the wood of the vessel creaked, these were hushed, small sounds.

"A bit different, eh?" asked Henry Smalls.

Lina turned. The ship's steward walked up to where she stood in the middle of the deck. His bulldog features were still drawn with fatigue, but she sensed enthusiasm and energy from him.

"Very," she said with a nod. "Quieter, too."

Though different, the airship still had much in common with a normal seagoing vessel. Its deck was long and flat, hanging parallel below the gas-bag frame above. There was a bow and a stern, but neither end rose up in a forecastle or stern deck; the whole ship was uniformly flat from end to end. Three hatches led down below: a large one for cargo in the middle, and two smaller openings placed fore and aft for crew use. Low, flat equipment lockers were placed between the hatches, like wardrobes set on their sides. From thick rings bolted along the gunwales, rigging and cable work rose up the way they did on any sail ship. But there the similarities ended.