needed to get atop the structure in order to properly survey it. Fengel removed his coat and set it aside, then tried to climb up the tree. The task was easier said than done, however. His boots were suited to walking the deck of a ship, not clambering up a surprisingly slick tree trunk. Also, his wounded leg protested every time he bent it too far. He fell. Then tried again, with similar results. After the fifth collapse back down to the ground, Fengel gathered his coat and glared at the tree.
Fine, then. More moderate means of shelter will have to suffice. At least for now.
An image came to mind of a simpler dwelling at the base of the tree. A cottage formed of branches and carved lumber. Fengel nodded to himself and started gathering deadfall.
There was surprisingly little free wood, however. After a span of minutes he only had three small branches in hand. And there was another setback, one he hadn’t counted upon; he needed something sharp with which to shape the wood. His crew had taken his sword, dagger and emergency knife. There might have been one in the supply crate, but either Natasha had it, or it was buried now somewhere under the sand. Which came to the same thing in the end.
Fengel sighed deeply. Well. If I can’t have a house just yet, I can at least have a fire. He returned to the tree line with his branches and knelt before the sand. Lucian Thorne, traitor though he was, was an accomplished survivalist. He’d tried to show Fengel the trick of fire more than once. Thinking back, it seemed easy enough.
Place one branch upon the ground like so. Then, sharpen the end of the other branch, stick it on the first, and spin. Hmm. He hadn’t any knife to cut the branch with, but it was just friction between the two sticks. How hard could that be?
A few minutes later Fengel threw the two branches away in frustration. They landed in the sand, one sailing so far as to land at the tide line. The surf pulled it into the waves, then deposited it back up higher than it had landed, mocking him.
Fengel closed his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair.
His “loyal” crew had stuck him here. He and Natasha. But they’d said it was only temporary. Perhaps in his shock he’d forgotten that. How long is the trip to Breachtown from here? This place is near the equator, so likely three days by aetherline and steam. Then the same for the trip back. He just had to last that long.
He moved to sit cross-legged where the tree line cast shade over the beach and pulled a piece of the rock-like biscuit from jacket. “What am I worried about?” he said aloud to no one in particular. “Things are probably falling apart without me there.”
Chapter Five
Things were going surprisingly well.
Lina shifted in her crouch over the canister while Rastalak adjusted his rubber hose. She scanned the interior of the gas-bag envelope. It always made her nervous, coming up here. Seen from the outside, the balloon keeping the Dawnhawk aloft was a great ridged spindle. Once inside, though, things were altogether different. Diffuse daylight revealed a hollow yet cluttered space, with a long central strut running down the middle of the envelope. Wires and armatures branched out along its length, stretching to the metal poles that kept the canvas skin rigid, so that the whole arrangement put Lina in mind of a winter-deadened tree lying on its side.
Between the wires and struts hung the gas cells, small oblong sacks of treated cloth. The contents of the cells were an open secret, a light-air gas capable of lifting the heavy wooden hull of an airship off into the sky. The precise nature of the gas was guarded jealously by the Mechanist Brotherhood, but working around it every day, Lina and the other sky pirates knew just enough to be afraid. The stuff was both poisonous to breath and insanely flammable. Outside, she could forget these details. Stuck within the gas bag, that became rather more difficult.
Lina shifted again in her
Fine, then. More moderate means of shelter will have to suffice. At least for now.
An image came to mind of a simpler dwelling at the base of the tree. A cottage formed of branches and carved lumber. Fengel nodded to himself and started gathering deadfall.
There was surprisingly little free wood, however. After a span of minutes he only had three small branches in hand. And there was another setback, one he hadn’t counted upon; he needed something sharp with which to shape the wood. His crew had taken his sword, dagger and emergency knife. There might have been one in the supply crate, but either Natasha had it, or it was buried now somewhere under the sand. Which came to the same thing in the end.
Fengel sighed deeply. Well. If I can’t have a house just yet, I can at least have a fire. He returned to the tree line with his branches and knelt before the sand. Lucian Thorne, traitor though he was, was an accomplished survivalist. He’d tried to show Fengel the trick of fire more than once. Thinking back, it seemed easy enough.
Place one branch upon the ground like so. Then, sharpen the end of the other branch, stick it on the first, and spin. Hmm. He hadn’t any knife to cut the branch with, but it was just friction between the two sticks. How hard could that be?
A few minutes later Fengel threw the two branches away in frustration. They landed in the sand, one sailing so far as to land at the tide line. The surf pulled it into the waves, then deposited it back up higher than it had landed, mocking him.
Fengel closed his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair.
His “loyal” crew had stuck him here. He and Natasha. But they’d said it was only temporary. Perhaps in his shock he’d forgotten that. How long is the trip to Breachtown from here? This place is near the equator, so likely three days by aetherline and steam. Then the same for the trip back. He just had to last that long.
He moved to sit cross-legged where the tree line cast shade over the beach and pulled a piece of the rock-like biscuit from jacket. “What am I worried about?” he said aloud to no one in particular. “Things are probably falling apart without me there.”
Chapter Five
Things were going surprisingly well.
Lina shifted in her crouch over the canister while Rastalak adjusted his rubber hose. She scanned the interior of the gas-bag envelope. It always made her nervous, coming up here. Seen from the outside, the balloon keeping the Dawnhawk aloft was a great ridged spindle. Once inside, though, things were altogether different. Diffuse daylight revealed a hollow yet cluttered space, with a long central strut running down the middle of the envelope. Wires and armatures branched out along its length, stretching to the metal poles that kept the canvas skin rigid, so that the whole arrangement put Lina in mind of a winter-deadened tree lying on its side.
Between the wires and struts hung the gas cells, small oblong sacks of treated cloth. The contents of the cells were an open secret, a light-air gas capable of lifting the heavy wooden hull of an airship off into the sky. The precise nature of the gas was guarded jealously by the Mechanist Brotherhood, but working around it every day, Lina and the other sky pirates knew just enough to be afraid. The stuff was both poisonous to breath and insanely flammable. Outside, she could forget these details. Stuck within the gas bag, that became rather more difficult.
Lina shifted again in her
Similar Books
