The steward patted her shoulder and followed his captain. Lina sighed, then moved back to where she wouldn't be in the way. The ship no longer shook. Rather, it seemed unnaturally calm for the roiling Maelstrom they were passing through. The eye of the storm was just off the port-side now, an empty hole in the cloudbank. Lina stared at it, and she almost, almost thought she saw something in the middle, perhaps a long shadow against the clouds where none should be. Andrea's talk of daemons came back to her and she shuddered, looking back to Maxim at the helm. The man stared at the empty space as well, pale and shaking, tears rolling down his face. Captain Fengel was pulling him quietly away from the helm, letting Henry Smalls step in to take his place. Lina shook her head at the strangeness of the world.
Something landed with a thump on the exhaust-pipes beside her. Lina whirled to see a scryn only inches away. She opened her mouth to yell warning, then paused. It was a runty creature, the small one she'd met earlier today.
"Chirr!" The patterns on its belly lit up in dancing, drunken whorls. It coiled, ready to leap forward at her arm.
It suddenly belched, then fell down behind the exhaust-pipe with a thud.
Chapter Eight
Fengel removed his monocle. He wiped at it with the cuff of his sleeve, trying to clean away the thick, black ichors coating it. The glass fogged as he rubbed, smearing. Scryn blood was foul stuff, sticky and rank. With a sigh, he gave up for the moment and replaced his eye-piece, making a mental note to give it a more thorough washing later.
Groans echoed down to him from the rest of the deck. His crew lay about in the aftermath of the attack, resting and looking over their wounds. Lucian moved among them, looking for anything serious enough to need real attention. Fengel's heart went out to them, and he cursed himself again for missing the danger until it was too late. He glanced over at the helm where his gray-haired steward stood, keeping them on course for the moment.
"Henry." The little man glanced over at him. Fengel gestured toward the bow. "I'll take the wheel for a bit. Get some bandages and go help with the wounded."
"You sure, sir?"
"Aye. I misspoke to the Mechanist. I'm going to bring us out of the Maelstrom, then to a full stop. We're already losing our momentum. We might as well see to the injured and take stock, be certain that nothing was seriously damaged." He looked over to the port-side railing where Maxim stood, silent and paler than usual, staring up at the empty eye of the windless storm. "Take Maxim with you."
Henry looked to their navigator and gave a nod. He passed the wheel to Fengel and walked over to the man. Maxim started when Henry touched his elbow, but went along when the steward pulled him up the deck. Fengel set himself behind the helm and took quick stock of the console of the gearbox, the wavering needles of the compass, altimeter, and barometer.
Fengel glanced at the great open space within the middle of the storm, now rolling past them on the starboard-side. Supposedly a daemon sat in its middle, unheard and unseen, trapped in its center like a fly caught in amber. Or so Maxim swore. Fengel had never seen it himself; he hadn't a lick of the strange inborn ability that revealed such hidden mysteries. On the whole, he appreciated that. The world was a very strange place sometimes, and he had more than enough to worry about on his own.
The Dawnhawk finished skirting the eye. Fengel spun the wheel, using their latent momentum and the small head of steam built up in the furnace beneath his feet to push them away from its whorl. The roiling cloudbank washed over the bow of the ship, enclosing them in misty gloom. Fengel checked the gearbox instruments again. They were still on course. Minutes passed, and the churning fog of the Maelstrom brightened. Bit by bit it thinned, then finally parted as his vessel emerged from the perpetual storm and back into bright blue skies. The Atalian Sea spread out beneath them again, empty and white-capped. Thick, puffy clouds scudded low across the sky, far more than had been on the other side of the Maelstrom. This was common, for some reason, in the places so close to the Yulan. Fengel never understood why. He and the crew preferred the west, but a few adventures had brought him this way over the years. Each time the seas nearby were cloudy, and he had never heard of it being otherwise.
The sun sat low in the west, below the layer of heavy cloud. It illuminated the deck of the Dawnhawk, highlighting the disorder and filth from their recent travails, rendering them stark and apparent. Fengel frowned at the state of the ship. She deserved better.
It was definitely time for a bit of a break. Fengel wondered if he'd pushed too hard to get this far. Their brazen theft had warranted a quick escape, but he had to admit to himself that they'd gotten clean away, and it was simple eagerness that drove him now. No one chased after them. The other airship spied this morning had given him a start; his fear then was pursuit by Natasha. But the other vessel had quickly fallen behind, its course aimed elsewhere. Fengel had put it out of his mind.