Chasing the Lantern (20 page)

Fengel felt a glimmer of interest. It was obvious what Lucian wanted. Fengel wanted it too. But why even bother? "Interesting. But we know where she's going. There's no way we can catch up to her in time with this old scow, even if her skysails are damaged."

"That's true," said Lucian. "At least as far as it goes. But as I was reading through this book, I noticed something interesting." He tapped the mouth of the river, where a series of notes had been scrawled. "The Silverpenny apparently has a number of rocks at its mouth, and according to the original survey, an unusually strong tidal draw, matched with a very deep riverbed."

Henry made a small, curious noise. "So the
H.M.S. Albatross
got sucked over and ran aground as it was passing by?"

"Likely so. But it's been almost a week now. A week of constant tidal draw."

"Which could have sucked the wreck farther upriver," said Fengel, understanding. He pointed at the map. "Probably there, where the survey noticed a shallow draft. But how does that help us?"

Lucian placed his finger beyond the map. "Engmann's Run comes up at the river from an oblique southern angle. It's fast, but goes around in a curve." He moved his hand up onto the page, north of the river mouth. "I estimate we're somewhere here. Natasha's got a head start, but if we move quickly, in a straight line, we might be able to meet them there. Same way they got us. We're so damned dependant on the aetherlines that we never think to go
straight.
"

Henry blanched. "We'd have to go overland and cross the Stormwall. There wouldn't be enough coal for the return trip."

Fengel blinked. Slowly it came to him; Lucian was right. If they went in a straight line, and the maps were accurate, then there was still a chance. He could beat his wife to the treasure. Fengel saw Natasha in the eye of his mind. She was laughing at him, laughing herself sick at having taken his ship and his treasure to boot. But slowly her visage changed to one of stunned incomprehension, and then the mask of inchoate rage that would come when she got to the wreck and realized that he had beaten her again.

He threw aside the coverlet and shot to his feet. "Lucian!" he cried. "I want two watches, evenly distributed. Get the Mechanist, Lina Stone, and one other assigned to patching up this wreck. Take stores and inventory, I want to know what weapons we've got, and what supplies. Henry! Go down to the kitchens and get me an egg, then meet me atop the wheelhouse. Bring a razor; I'll want a shave."

Fengel strode to the cabin door and threw it open without a further glance at his officers. The sun was rising in the east, casting long shadows across the deck. Chains, ropes, and other equipment were piled up neatly along the wooden surface as his crew took inventory. A light breeze blew, tousling his hair. Fengel straightened his monocle and climbed up atop the wheelhouse. Maxim stood there, eyes red, his exhaustion apparent.

"Navigator," said Fengel. "You are relieved. Go get something to eat and then get some rest. I want you fit and prepared for the next watch. Prepare some Workings."

Maxim started back in surprise at his captain's fervor. Fengel stepped in and took the wheel, spinning it. Without instruction, the navigator had kept their heading north by northeast, fortunately. Slowly, Fengel oriented the ship toward the cloudy eastern horizon.

"Captain," said Maxim. "Where are we going?" Lucian and Henry ran out onto the deck, looking up at him. The pirates nearest paused in their tasks to listen as well.

"Why, Maxim," said Fengel with a grin. "We're pirates. We're going to
steal
something."
And we'll show that drunken wench a thing or two.

Fengel's mood spread throughout the ship like a drop of oil on a calm pool of water. Those crew closest to the helm moved with renewed confidence and enthusiasm. The lingering, hang-dog depression over their circumstances faded. Those he'd heard complaining about the surrender quieted, bending to their tasks more readily. In short order the ship was alive again and bustling.

Fengel flew them as hard and fast as they would go, aimed dead ahead for the cloudy horizon, where the Stormwall bordered the strange eastern shore of the Yulan. Their speed wasn't much. The
Copper Queen
lacked skysails, and even if it did they'd never catch the
Dawnhawk
now; with their stores, Natasha could simply outrun them. So instead he kept them pointed dead east at the Stormwall. Fengel trusted to the weak propellers of the airship and caught the wind as best he could.

The sun rose to mid-morning, then high overhead at noon, before sinking back down again in the mid-afternoon. Their stores of fuel grew smaller. Maxim returned and insisted on taking the helm again. Fengel reluctantly let him, moving down onto the deck and eyeing the state of the ship. He called for more anchorage to the gas-bag frame and reinforcements to weak sections of railing. Several times he came across Miss Stone carrying a long iron gaff-pole. Ryan Gae and the Mechanist moved with her, making minor repairs to the steering systems she'd changed to get them all aboard. Fengel wasn't certain who led whom; Miss Stone seemed just as canny and far more confident than the young Brother of the Cog she'd found.

Fengel made certain to compliment her. His opinion of the little waif only seemed to rise. She was constantly pulling them from one dire problem or another on this voyage. The only oddity was her bashfulness whenever he approached her. This time she listened to him, blushed furiously, and then scurried off to see to a pulley assembly, her crewmates following after her in confusion.
Ah well. She'll relax at some point
.

When he was sure that things were running smoothly, Fengel descended to the kitchens for a bit of lunch. Not much was to be had, aside from a haunch of salt pork and wormy ship's biscuit. But it would suffice. He took his meager meal up to the bow and watched as the churning Stormwall grew closer.
Faster. We need to go faster.
The sun sank into late afternoon just as tall rocky islets appeared in the distance, the precursor to the shores of the Yulan. Their journey was almost over; they had reached the far continent.

The Stormwall was aptly named. It was just like he remembered; a roiling, churning cloudbank that stretched along the coastline as far as he could see. It towered, the upper end rising out of sight where lightning crackled in its reaches. The only consistent point of weakness was Breachtown, more than a day's journey north. A few other places were rumored, like the river mouth they'd sought. Unlike the Maelstrom though, this storm was real. Already its winds brushed at his hair and jolted the airship.

Fengel returned to his post at the rear of the ship and its helm. Lucian climbed up to stand beside him. They watched in silence as they approached the churning black wall dead ahead. "That doesn't look pleasant," said his first mate.

"That it does not," replied Fengel. He smiled. They'd all heard the rumors of the Stormwall, and seen it from afar. But this was the first time they were going to
enter
it. There might be the chance that they could fly over it. He'd never heard of anyone trying it though, and with the furious bolts shooting through the heights, he had no intention of trying to. Fire was a sky-pirate's greatest fear; the light-air gas was very, very flammable.

So, straight through it was.
I
will
pull this off
.
That treasure's mine.
It wasn't so much even his debt anymore. He just didn't want Natasha to get it.

His first mate stared at the Stormwall. "You know, there is entirely too much bad weather in this region."

Fengel smiled. "That's why no one ever comes out here."

They quieted. Maxim kept their course true and they flew at the continent and its storm. Beneath them the surface of the sea grew choppy and foamy. The strong breeze grew into a buffeting wind. The airship moved past the islets and now he spied the sand of the coastline, a thin, grey stretch of land lashed by rain. Past that everything was occluded by the rage of the storm.

Lucian called for all hands to stations. The pirates scurried about, binding themselves to the gunwales and ratlines. Hatches were battened down and loose gear stowed as best it could be. Then the storm was upon them.

It towered, a violent wall. Rain lashed the deck and drummed the gas-bag frame. The sun disappeared, blotted out by churning clouds. Beneath them the deck heaved and shook, swaying like a drunkard about to collapse. Lucian shouted something at their navigator. Fengel could not hear him, and neither could Maxim from the shake of his head. The first mate grabbed his half-cloak and thrust out a hand clutching a small compass. The needle swung back and forth, rocking its way clockwise. The storm was trying to turn them around.

Fengel understood. The initial surveyors had been amazed at the perpetual nature of the Stormwall, but even more confused by how thin it was. According to the logbook, as well as rumors Fengel had heard from Breachtown, the Stormwall was only several hundred feet deep. So long as they could stay on course they would punch right through.

But the Stormwall fought. It twisted, pushed, and pulled. Maxim wrenched the wheel back and forth, twisting the rudder assembly and the sails it was attached to as best he could. The steam-driven propellers pushed, moving them slowly, slowly forward.

A brilliant spear of light illuminated the deck. The lightning bolt licked out from the storm to strike at the port-side gunwales. The railings blew apart, burning flinders flying up and past Fengel and his officers.

Fengel's shut his eyes til they passed, then watched as more jagged bolts tore across the sky, increasing in frequency. He fought his way to the port-side rail and leaned over. They whirled, and clouds streamed
down
past them. The ship was rising, buoyed by the mad currents of air and right to where the storm-bolts played.

Another lambent blast cast stark illumination across the deck. The thunder that followed was deafening. Fengel clapped his ears while Lucian and Maxim dropped to their knees. Fengel threw himself at the wheel, catching it before they lost their course. The wood was slick between his fingers though, and fought.

The ship swayed violently. Maxim slid away, rolling up against the starboard gunwales. Fengel reached down and grabbed Lucian. "Take the wheel!" he shouted.

His first mate climbed to his feet and grabbed the ship's wheel, more to anchor himself than out of duty. "What?" he yelled, sandy hair flying in the wind. "What are you going to do?"

The answer was obvious. "If those blasts catch the gas-bag alight," said Fengel, "we're done for. We need a rod!"

Lucian shook his head. "I didn't see one on board! Where are you going to find one?"

Fengel glanced about the deck. Tools and equipment rolled all about, knocked free from their lockers or not packed entirely away in the first place. There had to be something he could do.

"I'll figure something out," he said to Lucian. "Don't worry about that, just get us through this storm!"

He left his first mate to the wheel and descended to the deck. The ship swayed as he climbed, the wood of the stepladder slippery from rain. Fengel took a breath and shimmied nimbly down. He'd been through worse as a sailor.

The deck was chaos. Storm clouds obscured everything beyond the ship. The crew clung to anchor points and railings, a few dangling from cables they'd tied themselves to. The cannons were locked in place still, thankfully. More than once had he seen artillery slide free from its mount during a squall to crush some hapless bystander.

A wailing gust slammed into the airship. The deck beneath them swayed madly, tilting up almost thirty degrees. Buckets, ropes, and tools slid past him to go flying overboard. One, the long metal gaff-pole that Miss Stone had been using, caught at the hem of his jacket. Lightning blasted again, this bolt connecting with the wooden railing beside him. The spindles exploded, pelting him with burning flinders.

Fengel blinked away the afterimages as the ship settled again.
Of course,
he realized. He grabbed up the gaff-pole before it could fly overboard. There was his lightning rod.
Now I just need somewhere to anchor it properly.
He glanced about the deck and his eyes alighted on the cannon there.
Perfect.

This wasn't a job for just one man though. Several pirates tumbled about the deck nearby. Sarah Lome, Miss Stone, and Oscar Pleasant being closest. "You three!" he barked. "Attend me!" He waited for the ship to level out again and then strode confidently up the deck. The three pirates scrambled after him.

Fengel knocked his catch-pole against the middle-most cannon in the row. "Gunny, Oscar, get this fat bastard unmoored. I need it pointed out and up." He turned to the waif. "Miss Stone, get me a rammer and a length of chain. I see two rolling around against the gunwales opposite us."

The three stared at him, bewildered. "But Captain," said Pleasant. "What are we doing—"

Fengel rounded on him. "Do you want to live? Get to work!" The crewman ducked his head. Sarah shrugged and bent to unlock the cannon. Miss Stone scrabbled off across the deck.

The gunnery mistress unshipped the cannon, her braid swinging in the storm as she worked. At Fengel's direction she lifted the cannon up to rest on the wooden rail. The wood complained, but held. He had Oscar secure it in place with a rope. It wouldn't hold for long, but maybe long enough.

Miss Stone returned with a rammer for loading cannon and the length of chain. He had her hold it steady while he bound the gaff-pole to the wooden rod, chain dangling down its length. Now came the hard part.

"Get back, all of you." He stepped towards the edge of the deck. Lightning crackled by, a thunderous blast that scorched the canvas of the gas-bag frame above.

Sarah Lome's eyes widened. "Sir," she said. "You can't mean—"

"Stay back, Gunny," said Fengel. Swallowing, he stepped up to the rail. Then he quickly thrust the rod out, trying to get it placed to slide down the barrel. The iron gaff-pole was heavy, and unwieldy, loosening already against the chain that bound it. Then the small hairs on the backs of his hands stood painfully straight. Fengel tasted something coppery.