“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.”
“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 na?vety 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.”