“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.
“Sir!”
Hilemore turned at Steelfine’s shout, finding him pointing to a familiar shape resolving out of the fog, the Viable coming on at full auxiliary speed. “Man the guns, sir?” Steelfine asked as Hilemore started for the bridge.
“I thought there wasn’t a man aboard with the heart to fire on us?” Hilemore asked.
“Captain Trumane’s a forcefully persuasive fellow,” Steelfine replied. “And, to be honest, sir, there’s a few lads left aboard who’d gladly see us both dead.”
“A lie, Number One?”
“Thought you needed a little prod, sir.”
Hilemore sighed and shook his head. “I won’t fire on my own ship, not that Trumane knows that. Load powder only, give us a smoke-screen.”
“Aye, sir.”
The Superior had already begun to move by the time he got to the bridge, finding Talmant working the wheel with accustomed hands. “She’s a real beauty to handle, sir,” he said.
“Good to know, Lieutenant. Keep her straight and true, if you please.” Hilemore went to the starboard gangway, watching the Viable close to within a hundred yards, her signal lamp blinking furiously: “‘Heave to. Prepare to be boarded.’”
He saw with dismay that the forward pivot-gun was manned and in the process of being loaded, though not with the kind of urgency he would have expected. Perhaps the remaining crew liked him more than Steelfine thought. Nevertheless, the time for subtlety was over.
He returned to the bridge, scanning the various instruments before he found the engine telegraph, though the lettering on its dial was completely indecipherable. “The red one for full ahead, sir,” Talmant said.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” He pushed the lever to the red dial and waited. Ahead the door was at least ten yards short of being fully raised and the Viable was closing by the second. Come on, Chief, Hilemore prayed inwardly. It can’t be all that different.
From outside came the flat boom of a cannon followed by the instantaneous whine of a shell slicing the air. The shot impacted a few yards to the right of the bow, a trifle too close for a warning shot. Either the pivot-gun crew had missed on purpose or they were worse shots than he remembered. Steelfine didn’t wait for the order, the Superior’s three starboard guns barking out a response in quick succession, the resultant smoke mingling with the lingering mist to craft an impenetrable fog.
A shrill bell sounded from the engine telegraph, the dial swinging away and then back to the red portion of the dial. The Superior gave a now-familiar lurch, not as violent as that produced when the Viable’s blood-burner came on-line, but still enough to make him stagger. The Superior surged forward, sweeping through mist and cannon-smoke thick enough to momentarily obscure the door, but luckily Talmant proved capable of holding the course. They exited the harbour at fifteen knots, rapidly rising to twenty as Talmant steered them through the channel to the open sea.
“Steer true south, Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore said. “Keep her at full ahead until further notice.”