"Still, though," mused Fengel. "Interesting. At any rate, you have a look about you that says you've something to say. What is it?"
"The hour's late," said his steward. "You need rest, sir. We've got everything in hand here, and it looks like smooth flying ahead."
Fengel was tired. And his literary endeavors were going nowhere. Worse than that, he was getting unacceptably scruffy as well. His steward had a point. "Very well," he acceded.
He turned away from the rail and walked down the deck, stopping where Miss Stone sat against the starboard-side exhaust-pipe. The scryn was looped around her shoulders, chirping to itself softly. She looked up at his approach.
"Miss Stone," said Fengel.
"Sir?" Her expression was haggard. It had been a busy night.
He gestured up to the bow. "Pack my things up and bring them down below." He took a step away, then paused. "Oh," he added. "Don't read any of it, either."
They moved down to the aft hatch. Fengel nodded at Maxim and descended belowdecks, Henry following obediently behind. The musky air of the jungle was replaced by the smell of oiled wood, burning coal, and sweat. Oil lanterns mounted to the walls were lit, lighting the wooden hall below the stair in warm, golden tones. The captain's cabin was below the stern deck of the ship, as was traditional. It sat on a level with the ship's equipment stores. In an emergency both could be accessed in a minimum of time. The stairwell continued downward to the bunks, mess, and the engine room of the Mechanist.
Lucian was leaning against the wooden arch of Fengel's doorway. His first mate looked tired, and no longer wore the jewelry plundered from the treasure in their holds. He smiled though, like a cat that had just caught a mouse. A heavy, leather-bound tome was cradled in his hands.
"I know where the Lantern went," he said.
Fengel perked up. Pay the debt and keep the treasure. "Inside," he said, quietly, insistently. Lucian opened the door with a grin. Fengel and Henry followed him.
The captain's cabin was sumptuously spaced, yet strangely utilitarian and empty— at least now that he'd thrown most of Natasha's junk overboard. Each wall was twenty feet wide, stretching from the port-side of the ship to the starboard. Windows of reinforced glass looked out from three of the four sides, set above and between numerous cubbies and cabinets worked into the walls. A wide table was bolted down in the middle of the floor, big enough to host several people at a meal. A simple box-bed unfolded from one corner, capable of fitting two people at the least.
Knowing Natasha, Fengel had been surprised at first. He had expected thick carpets made from some rare beast's hide to cover the floor, maybe gaudy, cloth-of-gold draperies over the windows. Instead, all he'd found was her clothing and a few personal effects. Though, admittedly, there were three full liquor cabinets cleverly hidden in the cupboards.
Henry closed the door behind them. Fengel removed his hat and jacket and threw them to his steward. He moved to the main chair behind the table and sat, picking up his legs one at a time so that Henry could remove his boots.
"All right, Lucian," he said. "What have you got for me?"
The first mate held up his hands. "Well now, sir. Don't get your hopes up. Knowing what happened to it doesn't mean we can even get at it, or that we should try."
Fengel rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. Your missed calling in theater is duly noted."
Lucian raised an eyebrow. He set the tome in his hands onto the table and then turned to one of the liquor cabinets. Fengel picked the book up. It was a leather bound ship's log, much like a thousand others he'd seen over the years.
Lucian brought a jug of wine and three glasses to the table. He spoke as he poured. "What you hold in your hands is the log of the H.M.S. Albatross, penned by one Captain Everett Homme. I found it when I was completing my inventory of the holds. Your lovely wife took everything that wasn't nailed down, and, being as it wasn't gold or silver, I didn't notice it until the last."
He paused to pass filled glasses to Fengel and Henry. Then he waited expectantly. Fengel realized what was wanted and took his glass, raising it high. "Cheers to a theft well done," he said.
"Cheers," said Lucian and Henry at the same time. They all drank. "At any rate," continued the first mate, "I went through it over dinner. The tale is quite amazing, really." He gestured at his captain. "Go ahead."
Fengel put down his glass and picked the logbook back up. He opened it to the first page and read aloud:
Fifteenth of Marchwater. Eighth bell. Two days out of Triskelion, and the itching has started. A curse on all the poxy dockside whores in that abhorrent city.