"The same."
Oh. The fog clouding his brain dissolved. Not food and drink. Natasha and obeisance. That was why they were here. Fengel grimaced, fighting down the swell of mixed, mostly negative emotions that welled up inside him. Through the door came music, braying laughter, and the sound of something breaking.
Smalls had fallen silent. Fengel could feel their gazes upon his back, both his steward and the girl. Never let them see you stumble. Still. Natasha. He wanted to spit. Instead he squared his shoulders, adjusted his monocle, and pushed through the wooden door.
The interior of the Bleeding Teeth spread out before him. A hundred different lanterns lit the room brightly, all affixed to the walls or hanging from the ceiling. There were hand-lamps, ship's lamps, garden lamps, oil lamps, and even streetlamps. At the far end of the room a great stone hearth blazed merrily, combining with the lanterns to fill the room with an oppressive heat. A narrow bar dominated the left wall, a fat barkeep glowering behind it. Despite its warmth, the room was almost full. Pirates of every description lounged at tables spread out throughout the space. Fengel recognized a few of them, captains of skyships and sailships sitting apart, clustered together with their crews.
The middle of the room was empty, set before a heavy chair placed with its back to the hearth. It was a throne, really, carved of a single piece of heavy wood and pillaged from who knew where. A woman reclined lazily in its lap, leaning against one armrest with her leg stretched out over the other. She was tall and thin, wearing captain's boots, tight leggings, and a puffy blouse cut low to reveal ample cleavage. Her skin was dusky, and long tresses of curly black hair spilled down over her shoulders to frame an elegant face. Striking golden eyes gazed out hungrily at the world, balanced by a crooked smile. At her sides, on each arm of the throne rested a simple wooden mug. One was cracked and broken, as if it had been used to stop a pistol-ball. The other was still in use, a thick head of foam crowning its lip. In spite of his other feelings, Fengel's heart lept into his throat at the sight of his wife.
Mordecai Wright, Natasha's first mate, stood beside and a little behind her chair. The man was a thin, sinister shadow. He wore black, well-suited to his dark hair and beard, and glowered at the world as if it constantly did him some disservice. In the space before the throne stood a young, handsome pirate.
Leaning down, Mordecai whispered into Natasha's ear and made a gesture at the man standing in the empty space before her. "So," she said, voice sultry and slow. "You think you're good enough to join my Reavers?"
"That I am," said the pirate. "I've served three years with Ruckshaw on a sailship, I know the Isles like the back of my hand, and I can out-fight and out-drink damn near any man alive." He grinned, cocksure.
Natasha returned his smile. "That's quite the boast." She glanced lazily back at Mordecai. "And I think you're wrong on at least one part. But tell me. Why do you want to join my crew?"
He grinned lasciviously. "Because of all the captains in Haventown, there's only one that men dream of, and that's Natasha Blackheart."
Natasha smiled coyly at him. "Flatterer."
"That I am!" he laughed. "But it's not just that. Your ship, she's a work of art. The Dawnhawk, she's the finest in Haventown. A skyship, and a masterpiece of the craft. The Brotherhood has come a long way since that old garbage scow, the Copper Queen." He chuckled dryly.
The room went silent. The barkeep ducked down behind his bar.
"Mordecai?" Natasha held out a hand. The first mate drew a flintlock pistol and passed it to her.
The would-be sky-pirate stared, eyes wide. "No," he cried. "Wait!"
Natasha took aim and fired. Thunder erupted in the room, the blast setting Fengel's ears to ringing. The dashing pirate slumped to the floor, sending the sawdust flying. Face pensive, eyes dangerous, Natasha blew smoke from the barrel and passed the pistol back to her first mate.
"No one insults my father's ship," said Natasha quietly. Then she smiled, sat back, and took up her mug. "He was right, though. The Dawnhawk is a very fine ship."
The tension in the room evaporated, the crowd jeering laughter before turning back to drinking and jesting and games of chance. Mordecai made a gesture and two men jumped up from a table. They grabbed up the corpse to haul him away. Then one paused and turned back to their captain. "He's still alive, ma'am."
Natasha quaffed from her mug, the drink sloshing a bit over her delicate cheeks and spilling down her throat. She wiped her lips with her sleeve and raised an eyebrow at the crewman. "Really?" She looked up at her first mate. "You need to clean your gun."