“Mr. Steelfine’s compliments, sir,” a rifleman called from the hatch. “The Contractors’ boat just came alongside.”
“I’ll be there directly.” Hilemore handed Zenida the leather satchel containing the rest of the stolen product. “We raise anchor as soon as the Chief gets the engines on-line. Are you . . . ?”
“More than capable, thank you, Captain.” She took the satchel and got to her feet. “The Corvantine,” she added as he started for the hatch, making him pause. “He called me some very unfortunate names. I let him live as a favour to you.”
This wasn’t a trivial matter, he knew. Varestians, particularly the women, were renowned for their violent intolerance of insult. “Your restraint is appreciated, sea-sister,” he told her in his coarse Varestian.
She smiled and turned back to the engine. “A small matter.”
The mist was lit by the faint but growing rays of the morning sun, a thick concealing blanket covering the harbour and obscuring the top of the wall from view. “Your nephew seems a little tardy, Captain Torcreek,” Hilemore observed. He stood with the Contractor at the Superior’s narrow prow, gaze fixed on the wall and ears straining for the sound of a lifting engine springing to life. The Longrifles had come aboard a quarter hour ago, having collected Scrimshine from the Lossermark gaol. The smuggler regarded the unfolding preparations with a nervous suspicion, causing Hilemore to ask the young gunhand to keep a close watch on him.
“If he tries to jump over the side, shoot him in the leg,” he told Loriabeth. “We need him alive.”
“Clay’ll be along,” Braddon said, his voice absent of doubt, though Hilemore noted his gaze was as keen as his own. He checked his watch, finding them a full five minutes behind schedule. Much longer and the tide will be against us. “I’ll get the prisoners away,” he said, hurrying towards the stern.
He found Sigoral and his nine crewmen under guard amidst the section of wrecked superstructure. Hilemore’s attention was immediately drawn to one of the guards, a young man in an ill-fitting seaman’s uniform who seemed at pains to keep his face shaded by his cap. “Mr. Talmant!” Hilemore barked.
The youngster froze then snapped to attention. “Sir!”
Hilemore bit down on a tirade and stepped closer. “What are you doing here?”
Talmant’s response was immediate and clearly rehearsed. “Following my captain, sir. As per my oath. I left a letter on Captain Trumane’s desk resigning my commission and providing a full explanation of my actions.”
Hilemore was not overly fond of corporal punishment, except where demanded by necessity, but now experienced a near-irresistible desire to beat the naïvety from this boy in full view of prisoners and crew alike. However, Talmant’s statement gave him pause. “You left him a letter?”
“Indeed, sir. Honour required no less.”
At that moment the shrill pealing of a ship’s steam-whistle cut through the mist. The Viable was concealed by the fog but Hilemore knew the sound like the voice of an old friend.
“Dr. Weygrand said he’d sleep for hours yet,” Talmant said in a thin voice.
“Captain Trumane always had a love of confounding expectations,” Hilemore muttered before turning to meet Talmant’s eye. “Get to the bridge and take the helm. Signal Chief Bozware to start whichever engine he can make work.”
“Aye, sir.” Talmant saluted and sprinted off.
“Lieutenant Sigoral.” Hilemore strode towards the marine. “Please muster your men. Time for you to take your leave.”
One of the Corvantine sailors growled something at that, the tone of stern refusal requiring little translation. The rest of them all quickly echoed the sentiment, bunching together in a tight defensive knot. “This is our ship,” Sigoral stated. “Thanks to the townsfolk, my men are fully aware of recent events. They do not wish to stay here, and I find I cannot argue with their reasoning.”
“They’ll find berths on other ships,” Hilemore said.
“Not warships. And I doubt your captain will make room for us.”
Hilemore looked in the direction of the Viable’s mooring as the faint chug of her auxiliary engine drifted through the mist. “The voyage we are about to undertake,” he began, turning back to Sigoral, “will bring more danger than anything you’ll face aboard a Blue-hunter in northern waters.”
“This is our ship,” Sigoral repeated. “The Imperial Navy is not the Protectorate, Captain. These men are bonded to their ship by sacred oath. Would you give up your home so easily?”
The Viable’s whistle sounded again, three long blasts accompanied by the swish of her paddles stirring into motion. “I require your parole,” Hilemore told Sigoral. “And you’ll be accountable for these men. I cannot tolerate even the slightest suggestion of trouble.”
The Corvantine glanced at his remaining crew, jaw bunching as he fought long-instilled instinct. Finally he gave a strained rasp, “My parole is given.”
Hilemore looked up at the Superior’s single stack, noting the absence of smoke. “You have engineers in your party?” he asked.
“Shopak! Zerun!” Sigoral barked and two Corvantines stepped forward, both clad in the besmirched overalls typical of those who toiled amidst mechanicals.
“Take them to the engine room,” Hilemore ordered. “They are to help my Chief Engineer get this ship underway. You will translate. The rest of your men will raise the anchor.”
Sigoral nodded but didn’t move immediately, instead extending his hand to the rifleman who had hold of his sword. Hilemore nodded and the man handed it over. Sigoral buckled his sword about his waist then turned to his men and barked out a series of orders that sent all but the two engineers scurrying to the forward anchor mounting.
“I look forward to learning our destination,” the Corvantine told Hilemore as he led the engineers towards a hatch and disappeared below.
“The lads won’t like this, sir,” said the rifleman who had offered to torture Sigoral for information. “Lotta bad feeling after the Strait.”
Hilemore began to snarl out a command for the man to shut his mouth but hesitated. He had already asked a great deal of these men and clinging to normal proprieties seemed foolish in the circumstances. “We don’t have enough hands to work the ship properly,” he said instead, adding, “Any who don’t want to serve with them can take a boat and get gone, but they’d best be quick about it.”
He made his way forward, covering half the distance to the bow before the deck began to thrum beneath his feet. A glance at the stack confirmed that Bozware had at least managed to get the auxiliary engine on-line. He paused to watch the Corvantines haul the anchor clear of the water then went to stand alongside Braddon, still maintaining his vigil of the wall.
“I should’ve just bribed the harbour-master,” Hilemore muttered, picking out the hazy bulk of the lifting engines atop the wall.
Braddon stiffened then grinned as a shout of alarm rose from the Corvantines. All eyes snapped upwards at the panicked shout, “DRAKE! DRAKE!”
“Apologies for the delay, Captain,” Braddon said as a large shadow cut through the thinning mist above. “My nephew was obliged to climb the highest spire in the port. And his pet gets less obedient by the day.”
Hilemore watched the shadow glide towards the wall then flare its wings for a landing. A piercing scream sounded through the mist followed by a brief but fierce gout of flame. “It takes a brave man to deny the request of a Blood-blessed riding a drake,” Braddon commented. After a short delay the two lifting engines guttered into life and the door ahead of the Superior began its squealing rise.