“I wouldn’t be,” he muttered. “If my ship were under threat.”
“But you are a very singular fellow, Mr. Hilemore.” It was too dark to see her face but he could hear the smile in her voice. She extracted three vials from the oilskin bag, presumably Red, Green and Black, and drank them all in quick succession. Drawing the bag’s string tight, she hooked it over her head and slipped over the side into the water. “If I die . . .” she began, the dark silhouette of her head just visible in the gloom.
“I’ll see her safe,” Hilemore promised.
A short pause and she was gone, her disappearance betrayed only by the softest slap of water against the boat’s hull. Hilemore turned his full attention to the Superior and waited. The mist that seemed to greet every morning in this port was beginning to gather as night faded towards day, a thin veil of vapour lingering over the still waters. It took perhaps two full minutes before he saw her pale form appear at the base of the frigate’s forward anchor chain. She ascended to the deck in seconds, moving with the strength and swiftness of a Blood-blessed fully dosed with Green. On reaching the deck she disappeared from sight, though he caught a brief glimpse of her through the upper gun-ports as she sprinted for the ship’s command deck, a white blur in the gloom almost too fast to follow. Hilemore counted ten seconds before the first shout of alarm sounded, followed by two rapid pistol-shots. He took up the oars and began to row as fast as he could, glancing back to ensure Steelfine’s party were following suit.
Two minutes of strenuous effort later the prow of the boat butted against the Superior’s hull and Hilemore shipped oars before reaching for the coil of rope at his feet. He swung the attached grapple with practised precision, the iron-barbed hook looping over the rail and snaring a firm purchase at the first attempt. Some skills were beyond the ability of his body to forget. Like most warships the Superior sat lower in the water than a merchant vessel and the climb was short, though made somewhat agonising by a fresh salvo of pistol-shots from above.
Grunting in frustration, he hauled himself up the last few yards and clambered onto the deck. The first sight to greet him was the body of an unconscious Corvantine sailor. He lay on his side near one of the starboard guns, his faint groans indicating that Zenida had so far managed to avoid any killing. Hilemore drew his revolver and ran for the ladder leading to the upper works. He passed another Corvantine on his way to the bridge, a stocky middle-aged man bent double and retching whilst a steady stream of blood flowed from his nose. He raised his head to gaze blearily at Hilemore, but returned to his retching when it became apparent he wasn’t about to be shot.
Hilemore found another Corvantine on the bridge, little more than a boy and presumably equivalent to an ensign in rank. He glared at Hilemore in helpless outrage, both his wrists firmly knotted to the helm by a length of rope. Hilemore’s Corvantine was poor but he detected more than a few choice obscenities in the invective flowing from the boy’s mouth. Hilemore gave the boy a quick salute and moved on, drawn towards the stern by the sound of a fresh commotion.
Lieutenant Sigoral stood amidst a section of poorly repaired superstructure, sword in one hand and revolver in the other, as something pale and very fast moved around him in a wide circle. He tracked the pale thing with his revolver and pulled the trigger, cursing when the hammer clicked on a spent cartridge. Sigoral then performed some impressively timed and well-practised strokes of his sword, each failing to connect with his tormentor, causing him to swear with increasing volume. This time Hilemore picked out the word “bitch” amongst the tirade. He tapped the barrel of his revolver against an iron railing, calling out, “Captain!” When Sigoral failed to respond, still swinging away with his sword, though with an increasing lack of finesse, Hilemore sighted the revolver an inch or two from the Corvantine’s foot and fired a single round. It proved sufficient to capture his attention.
“Captain,” Hilemore repeated, raising his sights to aim at the man’s forehead. “Look to starboard, if you would.”
Sigoral glared up at him, eyes blazing beneath a sweaty brow, then did as he was bid. He cursed again at the sight of Steelfine’s party now within ten yards of the ship, the Islander standing tall at the prow of his boat with grapple in hand.
“You raised the flag!” Sigoral hissed through gritted teeth, once more glaring up at Hilemore.
“Yes,” he said. “I did. But I am a mutineer who has forsaken all honour.”
He glanced over to where Zenida had come to a halt, shuddering as the product faded from her veins. He experienced a moment of pride at the fact that he managed not to allow his gaze to linger on her moistened and heaving breasts before returning his gaze to Sigoral. “Are your colours struck, sir?”
“What a lump of shit.” Bozware’s lip curled as he regarded the monstrous collection of boiler plate and piping that comprised the Superior’s blood-burning engine. Even to Hilemore’s inexpert eye it appeared a stark contrast to the compact wonder that drove the Viable. The Corvantine vessel’s engineering compartment was cramped compared to the Viable’s, her coal-burning auxiliary engine taking up even more space than the blood-burner. It was also markedly less clean and well-ordered than Bozware’s domain, with the beginnings of rust showing on several fittings.
“Will it work?” Hilemore asked.
“Can’t see any damage,” Bozware mused, circling the engine with a critical eye. “Stupidly over-engineered though. Also looks like she’s been cold for a good few weeks. Needs a proper clean too.”
“Lost your Blood-blessed, did you?” Hilemore asked a stiff-backed and white-faced Sigoral. He had surrendered his sword and pistol but refused to be paroled, obliging Hilemore to allot two riflemen to guard him. “So did we,” he went on when Sigoral refused to answer. “At the Strait. Were you there perchance?”
Sigoral met his gaze squarely, a humourless smile coming to his lips. “Yes. What a great and glorious day it was.”
“A remarkable victory,” Hilemore agreed. “If, as I’m given to understand, somewhat short-lived. And, as you saw, we found another Blood-blessed. Do you have any product on board?”
Sigoral’s only response was a weary glare.
“Give us a few minutes, sir,” one of the riflemen said, moving closer to the Corvantine. “We’ll get him singing soon enough.”
“No,” Hilemore said. “Take him aloft and put him with the others. Tell Mr. Steelfine to prepare a boat to put them ashore when we’re ready to sail.”
He saw surprise flicker across Sigoral’s face for a moment. It seemed plain he had expected either execution or a lengthy tenure in the ship’s brig. “And give him his sword back when you cast them off,” Hilemore added as the marine was led to the engine room’s exit.
He moved to where Zenida sat, dressed in liberated Corvantine overalls and sipping a restorative mixture of rum and warmed milk. “Are you alright?” he asked.
She gave a tired nod and turned her gaze to Akina, who had joined the Chief in his examination of the Corvantine engine. In contrast to the engineer her small face betrayed fascination rather than professional distaste. “My daughter has always loved mechanicals,” Zenida said. “Could never get her out of the Windqueen’s engine room.”
“Good,” Hilemore said. “I have a sense we’ll need every hand during the voyage ahead, and the Chief could do with an apprentice.”