RiBeld, pale and laying on his side, jerked with pain. “What the devil are you doing to me?”

“Be quiet, I’m looking at your wound,” Hunter snapped at RiBeld. “Has anyone called for a doctor?”

“Yes, sir! One’s already on the way!” a nearby passenger replied.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” RiBeld snarled.

The captain looked down at RiBeld. “As much as you do about being a captain. No, wait, more so. I don’t carelessly lose my own airship!” Hunter retorted. “Now keep silent and let me work, before I forget I was going to save you!”

RiBeld glared back in silence. Hunter ignored the glare and focused on helping his disgruntled patient. The mercenary captain’s dark wool coat had absorbed enough of the blood that it was hard to determine if the wound was freely bleeding or not. “About your coat, Archibald, it looks well-tailored.”

RiBeld blinked in confusion at the odd question. “It was until your assassin’s knife was plunged through it! Not that a dullard like you would know, but I had it made by Dirsh and Ravensmeade in London.”

Captain Hunter pulled a pocket knife from his trousers, then deftly popped the largest blade open. “Pity that.”

“How do you mean?” RiBeld asked.

Another of the guests, a thin man with a hawk-like nose and the shadow of a tiny mustache on his upper lip sat back on his heels, looking aghast as Hunter opened the small weapon. “Sir! What are you doing with that knife?”

RiBeld’s eyes widened in alarm as he struggled to turn over. “Wait, what? He has another knife? What is that cretin doing?”

Stone-faced, Hunter put a firm hand on the mercenary captain and held him still. Quickly, the captain slipped the blade in and tugged away from the assassin’s knife, widening the tear and exposing the knife wound in the meat of RiBeld’s shoulder. “Giving your tailor more business,” he replied with a grim expression.

RiBeld yelled in pain from being slightly jostled, and from anger over his wardrobe. From among the crowd, an older woman dripping with jewelry fainted from the ghoulish, bloody sight of the wound. Senhorita Salgado turned immediately to attend the overcome guest. Next to Captain Hunter, Duchess Von Ferrin sat, tense as a bowstring from both concern and a barely veiled excitement. Hunter ignored her.

Two nearby guests knelt to help Adonia with the fainted woman. Just then, the senhorita saw something move out of the corner of her eye. She quickly turned. At that moment, she saw Anthony’s coat vanish from the chair and into the hands of a Britannia deckhand!

“Anthony! Your coat!” Adonia lunged forward, missing both sailor and coat by inches. She shoved the chair aside, bolting after the man as quickly as her dress allowed.

Anthony Hunter glanced up, then glared angrily at where his coat had been a second ago. “Blood and sand!” he swore aloud.

Von Ferrin clutched at Hunter’s arm, her hands latched onto him like claws. On the floor, RiBeld grimaced in intense pain. “Anthony! Help him! The bleeding is worse!”

“See to his knife wound!” Adonia called over her shoulder to Anthony. “I will get the thief!”

Captain Hunter gave the Duchess a brief, irritated look. He wiped his bloody hands on his shirt, then politely extracted his arm from her grip. She sat back with a furiously concerned look.

“Madam Duchess, do not do that again!” he ordered. “If you cause me to slip, the knife in him might cut a vital vein and surely kill him.” Hunter then returned to his bloody work on the wound.

Meanwhile, the senhorita darted between groups of startled guests, racing madly across the dining room. Just ahead of her, not quite within reach, the deckhand ran headlong towards an open hatch leading out of the room.

“Stop that sailor!” Adonia called out, gesturing to the running sailor. “That one! Stop him, por favor!”

One of the guests, a large, square-built man with a neatly trimmed mustache and thin beard stepped in the sailor’s path. He looked like a wall dressed in a dark blue suit.

“Hold up there, hoss,” the man said with a recognizable American drawl. He stuck a hand out as if to either say ‘stop’, or try and restrain the man.

The small sailor stepped to one side, and in the blink of an eye, flicked his wrist. Metal gleamed dully in the half-light. A spring-blade flipped open in the man’s hand! He slashed at the big American.

Adonia snatched a porcelain plate from a nearby table. She quickly stopped, grabbed the dinnerware by the edge and hurled it like a discus. The plate shattered against the thief’s hand before his blade moved more than a few inches! He howled in pain and dropped the knife, which fell among the shards of dinnerware. Immediately, the American lunged, but missed as the thief sidestepped again. The sailor snatched up a chair and bashed it into the side of the big man’s head! With a groan, the American collapsed into a heap.

Adonia grasped for the sailor, but the swarthy little man ducked out of reach at the last moment. He swatted at her hands with a broken chair leg, batting her fingers roughly aside. The senhorita yelped in pain, then stumbled sideways, narrowly avoiding the wounded American. Her opponent, the Britannia deckhand, sneered at her before dashing out into the hallway.

“Estúpido!” the senhorita spat at yet another missed chance. Hair tendrils coiled around each other like angry snakes as she frowned angrily and chased after her prey.

In the hallway, the sailor darted between startled passengers. He glanced over his shoulder. Once he saw Adonia, he doubled his pace. Not to be outdone, the senhorita doubled hers.

The sailor turned and vanished down a hallway to his right, then slammed a hatch door shut behind him. Adonia, unable to make the turn as quickly in the weight of her dress, stumbled into the wall and directly into the path of First Lieutenant Greg Mason.

“What the devil?” the officer declared, instinctively reaching out to catch the Senhorita before she tumbled to the floor.

Senhorita Salgado steadied herself. “Obrigado, Mr. Mason. There is no time to explain! A man dressed as a Britannia sailor has taken both Captain Hunter’s coat and something related to ‘our cargo’! He must not escape!”

“What?” Mr. Mason exclaimed. “A thief? In a Britannia uniform! The impertinence! Where?” he asked with a deep frown.

“This way,” Adonia replied, reaching for the door. The first officer stopped her.

“That leads to passenger cabins and is likely crowded, there’s a better way. Follow me!” the First Lieutenant turned towards a small door a few steps away from the hallway the senhorita had indicated.

Mr. Mason took Senhorita Salgado down a side passage, obviously intended for the maintenance crew to use during an emergency. The officer flipped a knife switch closed, and a sparse collection of arc lanterns crackled to life. Dim, white light chased back the darkness. While the lights just started to glow, he ran down the hallway with the Senhorita a few steps behind him.

At the far end, he hesitated at a bare metal door. Mr. Mason put his hand on the latch. “We should be ahead of the thief. Ready?”

The senhorita nodded, jaw set firmly. “Sim, ready.”

Mr. Mason threw open the door and leaped out into the hallway. It was a junction between two long corridors of passenger cabins. The few passengers there stopped what they were doing to look at Mr. Mason in surprise.

“He should be right here?” The officer said, looking at each passenger warily.

Suddenly, from around the corner a deckhand carrying Captain Hunter’s coat barreled into the first officer! The two men crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Adonia stepped back in surprise. Quickly, she searched that section of the maintenance tunnel for anything to use as a weapon. She located a tool locker someone had mistakenly left unlatched. She smiled as she pulled the small door open.

In the hallway as the deckhand struggled to get free of the first officer’s grip and leave with the coat, Mr. Mason fought to keep a tight hold on the thief. It was the officer that won the contest.

Pinning the deckhand flat to the floor on his chest, Mr. Mason twisted the thief’s left arm behind him. “I have him!”

Abruptly a charcoal cloud filled the hallway around both the deckhand and Mr. Mason! From within the smoke, a black-cloaked member of the Brotherhood slammed a fist across Greg Mason’s jaw, knocking him backwards in a daze. Wide-eyed, the thief tried to rise, but met a similar fate as well. The dark figure snatched the coat from where it fell on the ground.

“Sì, Signore, and I have this!” the dark-garbed man said with a triumphant grin. He turned to leave, then immediately, doubled over as a large wrench slammed into his lower ribs! Adonia stepped out of hiding, then swung again. The wrench collided with her target’s stomach. With a sharp grunt, the Brotherhood attacker doubled over, then collapsed to the floor and lay still. He moaned in pain, curled into a ball.

“I, Senhor, have a pipe wrench,” Adonia replied sternly then tossed the tool to the floor. “Therefore, I win.” She snatched up Anthony Hunter’s coat. “That was also for being part of this problem, and helping to ruin a lovely dinner with my Captain!” She shook the jacket angrily at the moaning man on the floor. “Do you have any idea what it takes to get him into a coat like this? Oh, the trouble your ‘Brotherhood’ has caused!” She looked for the thief, intent on unleashing a fair share of rage on him. The deckhand had already vanished among the small crowd of startled passengers. She bit back a very impolite string of vulgar curses.

Greg Mason slowly came to his senses. He rubbed his sore jaw while a bruise started to blossom. Adonia fixed Mason with a hard-eyed glare. “Mr. Mason, please have this,” she stabbed a finger at the black cloaked man laying on the floor, “stripped of his trickery and locked tight away! I think it is time we have answers, sim? He will be giving them!”

Since the captain knew both women well, he would have placed his money on the Senhorita. The phrase itself implied a gamble, and the captain did not see it being a ‘gamble’ by any means. He knew the Senhorita’s temperament, which with the proper motivation was quite ferocious.

The current object of said ferocity, Duchess Von Ferrin, greeted Captain Hunter with a smile as he approached. It was as if she looked for a proper ‘social’ means to withdraw from the tense conversation, and he might just fit the bill nicely. Apparently, this silent war was at best a stalemate, and the Duchess’ highly developed sense of self-preservation had emerged.

“My dear Captain,” Von Ferrin said with a sultry, inviting smile. “I take it you’ve concluded your business?”

“Only for the moment, Duchess,” the captain replied with a polite smile. “Negotiations will resume at a later date, I assure you.”

“I’m sure,” she replied silkily. “If you both excuse me, I should see to Archibald before he gets too far.”

“Of course,” Captain Hunter replied courteously.

“Naturally,” Senhorita Salgado said in a brittle voice and a polite nod.

Once the Duchess Von Ferrin had lost herself among the other passengers, Adonia’s hair tendrils twitched sharply as she let out a long, heavy sigh. She closed her eyes for a moment in an attempt to let the tension drain away.

“Vile woman!” Adonia eventually managed, with only a mild growl to her voice.

“Indeed,” Anthony agreed, offering his arm to Adonia. “Quite lethal, as well. She does grows her own poisonous plants. Quite the horticulturist.”

“I am not surprised,” she snarled. She interlaced her arm with the captain’s. “What does surprise me is that you let her get that close once to poison you!”

“A sad lapse of judgment,” Anthony replied casually. “One that nearly became a tragedy. Were you able to discern if she has anything to do with our current troubles?”

Adonia shook her head while Anthony led them slowly between the dining tables. “I do not think so,” she replied. “Her current obsession apparently is you, too much so, in fact. This cruise? Captain RiBeld? Merely an ‘entertaining dalliance of the moment’.”

“That will last only until she’s grown weary of Duke Archibald RiBeld,” Anthony added. “When the clock strikes that particular hour in her mind, she’ll be more than happy to fix a ‘special’ high tea for him. Most likely flavored with a dash of hemlock.”

“Duke?” Adonia echoed with a mild astonishment.

The captain nodded. “Yes, fourth duke of a small place called Collinsway, just North of London. Never heard of the place, myself. The ‘Captain’ title notwithstanding, ‘Duke’ is likely the only real title he could lay claim to, in my opinion.”

She nodded, then smiled a polite greeting to another passenger who passed by. “So, what of our Duke RiBeld? What was he so intent to speak to you about, Querido?”

“Unsurprisingly, he wants ‘his property’ returned, and made it clear that he’s willing to harm me to get it,” Anthony replied. Avoiding a knot of guests deep in their own conversation, he took a longer route to the Captain’s table than he had first planned. “He wasn’t specific as to ‘his property’ and I wasn’t willing to suggest any options for him. However, I suspect he meant the journal, since we took it from his mercenaries at the High Fens relay station last year.”

“Did he notice the forgery?” Adonia asked, keeping her voice low.

“I wasn’t making an attempt to conceal it; he might have spotted the forgery and mistook it for the real thing,” Anthony responded quietly. “I did push on to see if there was any association with the Brotherhood.”

“And?” she asked.

Anthony sighed lightly. “He claimed no knowledge of them. Although, that may have been an act for my benefit.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “True. Though Querido, consider this: if he was with the Brotherhood, he would know of the arrangement to deliver the journal and the knives. Therefore, why threaten you at all? If with the Brotherhood, he should be under the assumption that in a few hours he has the journal of his desire.”

The two of them stopped at the Captain’s table. Anthony pulled back a chair for Adonia. “Brilliant, and very true. He would gloat only after he had the journal, not banter with idle threats now. This also means Moira may indeed have something with her theory of more than one antagonist. The question now becomes: is RiBeld an unpleasant chance encounter among this mess, or not?”

Without warning, the power dimmed across the entire room with a static-filled shriek. Sparks jumped between the arc lanterns in the candelabra, and the faint smell of burnt cotton puffed out from the fixtures. The blue-white light sputtered, dimmed, then finally threatened to extinguish completely.

A rumble of discontent washed over the passengers like a wave crashing to shore. Suddenly, a man cried out in alarm! A woman screamed! Captain Hunter glanced around, trying to look between the moving knots of people. It was like trying to find a single cork cast free in the debris of a wrecked ship that floated in rough water. Everywhere alarmed guests looked around, others clustered near the closest dining table, while a few noble souls searched for some way to help the three overworked sailors who immediately arrived to restore the smoking, dimmed lights.

Adonia touched Anthony on the arm. “There, by the musicians!”

Beyond the guests, next to the recessed pit that held the musicians, a group of people clustered around a figure that lay prone on the floor. The captain quickly assessed the mob between himself and the victim in the poor light. He glanced over to Adonia.

“Follow me, I see a clear path,” he told her, pushing into the crowd. Adonia nodded, then kept close behind him.

A few moments later, they arrived at the source of the commotion. Six people were gathered around a fallen man. Two guests had knelt beside the victim, but seemed unsure of what to do. The rest stood by in appalled panic. Only one called out for a doctor, but his voice was lost in the chaos of the moment. Duchess Von Ferrin, upon seeing Captain Hunter, shoved two of the guests aside then clutched, panic-stricken, at Captain Hunter’s arm.

“Captain, please, help him!” Von Ferrin pleaded.

Adonia gave Anthony an uneasy look. Her eyes were tight and her hair tendrils clenched from concern. The captain nodded slightly at her unspoken worry: a lethal ploy on the part of the Duchess.

“I know,” he replied briefly, then gave Adonia’s arm a brief, reassuring squeeze.

Captain Hunter extracted himself politely from the Duchess’ grip, then slipped beyond the small group gathered there. He stopped dead still as he gained full view of the victim. Laying on the floor with a knife deep in his shoulder, was Archibald RiBeld!

Hunter immediately shed his constricting coat, then tossed it onto the back of a nearby chair. He rolled up his sleeves before kneeling down to have a better look at the wound. When he touched RiBeld’s arm, the man’s eyes opened. He glared at Hunter.

“You,” RiBeld growled weakly. “Come to gloat?” he asked bitterly, trying to reach the dagger protruding out from his shoulder. “Or admire the handiwork of your assassin?”

“Neither,” Hunter’s reply was curt while he gently brushed the man’s hand away. He carefully studied the large knife that was buried nearly to the hilt in RiBeld’s shoulder. Captain Hunter estimated the blade was two or even three inches long. The lack of blood concerned him. It meant the knife itself was possibly acting as a plug in the wound. Removing it might be dangerous. It also might mean the knife had not cut anything severe, yet. Hunter hoped it was the latter case. He gave RiBeld a sour look. “While I may regret it later when you try and kill me yet again, right now I plan on saving your misspent life.”

“Oh, my hero,” RiBeld said with a dry, snide tone.

I must apologize for the delay in getting the next Episode to you. Last week has been quite unpleasant if not downright disruptive. I’ll have the next Episode up for all of you as soon as I can, so please check back this week!

Thank you all for understanding,
C B Ash

“Why yes, Anthony, I do remember,” the Senhorita said pleasantly. The intensely stern look in her eyes shone like hard yellow gemstones beneath the light of the electric arc chandeliers. “Duquesa, I certainly have been dying to meet you.”

“Oh? Well, I most certainly can oblige you then, Senhorita,” Duchess Von Ferrin replied smoothly.

Senhorita Salgado’s smiled turned a shade more predatory, not unlike a snake about to feed. Only in this case, dinner was another snake. “Ah, Duquesa Ferrin, I bow to your presumed extensive experience.”

Archibald RiBeld thoughtfully stroked his chestnut colored mustache and goatee with a hand. His hard, brown eyes flicked between the two women, alight with a spark of amusement. He leaned forward slightly and carefully interjected himself in between the barbed, verbal artillery fire.

“Ah, ladies, while this is most entertaining, I must beg your indulgence. Unfortunately, there is a private matter I really must discuss with the good Captain Hunter. Would you two mind? If only a moment?” the mercenary captain asked with a charming smile.

Julia Von Ferrin’s smile spread a touch wider. “Why, of course I do not mind! Surely the Senhorita does not either. I’m certain she and I will find all sorts of things to batter about between the two of us.”

“Oh, sim, I am certain we will.” Adonia then flashed a tense smile at Anthony. “Do not be too long, Querido, there might be a change in tempo. It would be such a shame if you missed it.”

“Of course. I promise I won’t tarry,” Anthony replied with a slight, formal bow at the waist. He doubted Adonia meant the music when she mentioned ‘tempo’. The captain was also quite certain he watched battle lines being drawn before his very eyes, even as the two women walked a short distance away.

RiBeld likewise watched the two women leave before he clasped his hands behind his back. “You’re looking well, Captain. Not any the worse for wear?” the mercenary captain said, looking down his long, thin nose at Hunter as if examining a mildly entertaining servant.

Captain Hunter slipped the fraudulent journal into a coat pocket, then clasped his own hands in front of him. He turned and faced his own personal conflict. “None that I’ve found. Quite hale and whole, thank you, Sirrah.”

RiBeld’s face broke away from a casual smile into a genuinely dark smirk. “I’d heard a nasty little rumor that a last outing of yours had nothing to do with you being shot, for a change. I was astounded! You were ‘gassed’, I believe? Truly awful for you. It must have been quite the stench.”

Hunter’s reply was sharp. He was in no mood to banter about with a man who had tried to kill him. “Just what do you want?”

“My property, of course,” the mercenary leader explained casually, narrowing his eyes like a sleepy cat. “Which you have, and I know you have. You could be a rather good chap and deliver it to me. It would save much bloodshed, irritation, and trouble on my part. I expect you to be difficult about this, given you are ‘you’ after all. Be that as it may, I thought I’d be magnanimous and give you the chance to be a gentleman, just this once. You know, demonstrate a semblance of breeding that I’ve heard your family might have.”

Captain Hunter’s jaw muscles clenched, his mouth set in a hard line. He glanced off towards Adonia and Julia. They were still talking, and no weapons had been drawn. That surprised him. He was certain Adonia had at least two knives hidden on her dress somewhere; he had given her one as a gift. The chamber musicians quickened the tempo of their piece. Hunter nodded very slightly in appreciation of the music; it helped him think.

He looked back at RiBeld, smiling politely. “No,” he replied.

“No?” the mercenary leader looked only briefly surprised.

“Oh, forgive me,” Hunter added, “respectfully, no.”

“How do you mean, ‘no’?” RiBeld replied, stunned and almost insulted that anyone – even Anthony Hunter – would refuse his overly generous offer.

“Please, forgive me, Captain Archie,” Captain Hunter responded with a tense, bemused smile, “I had not realized you were hard of hearing. If you would, allow me to try again.” He leaned forward just an inch, staring into RiBeld’s eyes with a challenging look. “No. Absolutely, bloody hell, no. I doubt a man of your questionable station in life has the intelligence to understand the details around and within said ‘property’ you claim is yours. However, I do believe a man of your dubious, pampered position does have the intelligence to understand: no, it remains with me.”

Captain Archibald RiBeld’s face went rigid. His eyes burned with rage. “You and your cheap, frivolous heroics!” he snarled in a low voice. “Who do you think you’re saving today? Hm? Hunter, if you think that having these,” he made a brief, short, dismissive gesture at the room around them, “fat wastrels called ‘passengers’ all about us will keep me from my property, you are ill informed!”

“Captain,” Hunter replied with a smile.

“What?” RiBeld blinked, momentarily confused.

“There should have been a ‘Captain’ along with that ‘Hunter’, Sirrah.” Captain Hunter corrected the mercenary leader. “You see, I use the title ‘Captain’ to grant you the highest amount of respect I can – which, incidentally, would fill the belly of a dung beetle – as you have, at one time, been the captain of an airship.” Hunter’s smile quirked at the corner of his lips, then threatened to break out into a full smirk again. “An airship which, if I recall, I burned out from under you. Twice. With enthusiasm. Mine? She still flies proudly.” He frowned slightly, giving Archibald RiBeld a mockingly thoughtful look. “Old chap, you really ought to see to a different profession. Have you consider horticulture?”

“You insufferable … arrogant …” RiBeld stammered, cheeks flushed with anger. “I will have what’s mine!”

Captain Hunter momentarily raised a hand. “Ah, temper, temper, ‘Captain’ RiBeld. We are in a social setting. Best observe the proprieties. Wouldn’t want to give rise to ‘bad form’. Besides, that’s what your Brotherhood is for, yes? Wouldn’t want to get one’s hand soiled among the lower classes, eh?”

It was the mercenary captain’s turn to frown. It gave him the look of a confused bulldog. “What are you blathering on about? Yes, I manage a company of mercenaries. Nothing ill-gotten about that. Although, they are not called a ‘Brotherhood’. That makes it sound like some addled cult huddling in the back of a storeroom, whispering ridiculous opium-laden portents at one another.” He shook his head angrily. “You will not dissuade me with another of your childish, rubbish attempts at distraction! ‘Brotherhood’ indeed.” He thrust a finger into Captain Hunter’s face. “I will have my property, Hunter, take mark on that! I will not be diverted! Passengers and Britannia be damned!” he hissed furiously.

Hunter said nothing. He raised his eyebrows in response, feigning a look of social surprise that neither man truly believed.

With a great effort, Archibald RiBeld struggled to regain his composure or some measure of it, then resumed a more civil stance. “In any case, I am on holiday. I would prefer to enjoy said holiday. I will deal with this matter between the two of us at my leisure … which will be later!” Jaw clenched angrily, RiBeld turned smartly on his heel. He sternly walked away, with hands clasped tightly behind his back.

Captain Hunter watched the man thoughtfully. He considered the mercenary leader a general irritation, not unlike a persistent boil on the backside of life that was in desperate need of lancing. Despite the usual level of depravity to which Anthony had become accustomed from RiBeld, a ‘genteel subterfuge’ had never been among the man’s repertoire. The Archibald RiBeld he knew was direct, blunt, and at times bloodthirsty. He was not above using others to do his dirty work, even if that occasionally involved small amounts of subterfuge with a decoy. So far he had never resorted to the extensive theatrics that had been happening of late.

“I’m not as polished as Adonia in getting the general measure and sense of a person,” Anthony mused in a low voice to himself. “However, I do manage. I don’t think you actually know about this ‘Brotherhood’, ‘Captain’ Archie old boy. You and that damned Duchess might very well be just an unhappy coincidence in this whole affair. Hopefully, Adonia will have discovered more from her social sparring partner than I have from mine.”

He glanced over where his resourceful Senhorita Salgado and the Duchess Von Ferrin were fully engaged in either a conversation or a verbal duel to the death. It was difficult to tell; there was no bloodshed yet.

Captain Hunter took a deep breath, then let it out slowly to steady his nerves. While he watched the two ladies, he got the impression he observed two cobras, seeking just the right moment to strike at the other. Hunter was surprised there was not a lightning storm over their heads.

“Well,” he said lightly, brushing wrinkles from his coat. “It’s time to sail in to see if Adonia needs any artillery support, or assistance in hiding the body. Damn the lightning cannon, and full steam ahead!”

Anthony Hunter stood just inside the doorway to the banquet hall. He tugged at his collar, then adjusted his dark blue frock coat – one that usually only saw the inside of his sea chest – for the hundredth time. He was dressed appropriately for the occasion, from polished boots to passingly pressed trousers, shirt and frock. From any observer’s perspective, Hunter appeared at first glance to belong there … just so long as one did not look too closely. For Hunter it brought back uncomfortable memories of another place and time in the Royal Navy.

Captain Hunter glanced around at the passengers as they filed through the main doors. Dressed in their finery, the newcomers drifted around the room. Conversations floated in the air, hovering like steam around the participants. Anthony sighed; he felt a bit like rotting flotsam adrift at sea given how the occasional passerby looked down their nose at him.

Adonia Salgado, her arm entwining with the captain’s own left arm, gave him a brief glance, then gently shook her head. Her hair-tendrils, which were pulled back and secured precariously with a black bow that complimented her black blouse and sapphire blue gown, jostled slightly from the motion, then curled with amusement. She patted his forearm. “Stop fidgeting,” she said.

“My deepest apologies, Adonia, I’m being a proper ass,” he replied softly. His resolve lasted only a few moments. “Bloody hell, I feel like I’m being baked,” he complained in a low voice. “It feels all too warm in here.”

“You are not being baked,” Adonia replied, bemused. “You dislike formal affairs, therefore you are simply not used to wearing that particular coat. Now stop squirming like a worm on a hook and pay attention, Querido. If you want this Brotherhood to take you seriously – if they are even watching – you know as well I do, you need to be more at ease.”

Anthony gave the Charybdian woman at his arm a sour look. She returned it with one of amusement. His face melted into a smile. “Oh, very well,” he said, “I concede defeat.” The captain gripped the fraudulent journal in his right hand, tapping it idly against his thigh while he returned to watching the new arrivals. “We should at least be sociable.”

She raised an eyebrow at her companion, then tugged his arm gently. “This way, Querido, we need to be seen so the journal is seen. Also, I know I asked you to leave your pistol aboard your ship, so please try not to punch anyone? It would be in bad form, even if they do deserve it.”

Anthony’s only reply was a grunt of acceptance. Knowing that was the best she would get in reply, Adonia led the pair across the room towards the closest knot of passengers. Among them, a portly, balding man in a tweed suit smiled at their approach. His ruddy cheeks made his smile all the more jolly.

“You must be the renowned Captain Hunter I’ve been hearing about!” the man said, extending a hand. “Capital meeting you, Sir, at this time of our little mechanical mishap! Sir Reginald Wainwright of the Southampton Wainwrights, at your service.”

Captain Hunter shifted the journal to the hand Senhorita Salgado held, then accepted the energetic handshake. “Good meeting you, Sirrah,” the captain replied. The moment he said the words, he immediately regretted it. He had forgotten the class of company he was in.

Reginald looked aghast, “What? ‘Sirrah’? How rude! Explain yourself, sir!”

Hunter frowned. “Explain what? What are you blabbering on about? I was merely …”

Senhorita Salgado sighed, then set her mouth in a brief, firm line. She quickly came to the captain’s rescue.

“Sir Wainwright, if you please, senhor, if I may explain?” she asked, her Portuguese accent giving a soothing undercurrent to her words. Adonia smiled pleasantly, her hair tendrils writhing with a mild tension, which was not quite in concert with the jovial nature she portrayed. “My good captain meant nothing by the comment. He has had little chance of late to properly relax these past several months, what with helping your vessel, dispatching brigands along the coast. He has been a rather busy man.”

Sir Reginald blinked at her comment, then straightened his back slightly. It only made him seem more pompous.

“Of course, my dear! Brigands, you say!” Sir Reginald beamed. “Brilliant! I myself am a retired Brigadier. I’ve dealt with a few pirates in my time. I know just the thing, Captain! Come! Dinner isn’t for a good while, we’ll swap stories! I and several others travelling with me would be absolutely enthralled, Sir! I’ll go let them know you’ll be joining us.”

While Sir Wainwright walked away, Adonia turned to Anthony and whispered, “Behave!”

“I am quite composed,” he whispered back irritably. “I didn’t hit him.”

She patted his arm. “For which I am grateful. Now, try harder, meu guerreiro. Think ‘genteel’.”

Anthony’s only reply was a withering sigh. He never had found his sea legs in formal engagements. He was not his father.

“Sir Wainwright, a moment, Senhor?” Adonia said, hurrying to catch up to the portly man. “Captain Hunter will be along in a moment, he needs time to compose where to begin. The tale is so very exciting,” she said with a bright smile.

Behind them, Anthony rubbed his eyes wearily. He just knew it was going to be a long night. Before he could follow, he felt an uncomfortable presence behind him.

“Ah Capitano, I see you have the journal,” an Italian voice said in a silky smooth, low baritone from behind. “I trust you are not about to commit any deviltry?”

Hunter started to turn but a hand gripped his elbow like a vice from behind. “Ah, no, Capitano, stay as you are,” the mysterious Italian man said firmly. “I am merely to reinforce the needs of the Brotherhood. It is clever you brought the journal to such a public place. Make no mistake, we are watching. We trust you will deposit it where we asked after this wonderful event, sì?”

“It will be there,” Hunter replied in a low growl. “I will personally see to it.”

From a few feet away, Senhorita Salgado looked past the shoulder of Sir Wainwright. Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed. Anthony’s eyes caught hers, he nodded just enough for her to notice.

Look for his face, Adonia, Hunter silently urged.

“Wonderful, Capitano, wonderful,” the Italian man said cheerfully. “Now, I will leave you to the attentions of your lovely companion. She is quite a gem. I would treasure her, eh? Though, I would advise against either of you following me.” Captain Hunter heard the man chuckle darkly. “I can see she is already curious. How unfortunate she cannot see me fully as you are in the way. Still, she is such a lovely woman.”

“Throw knives at me all you want,” Hunter growled. “Harming her? I’ll not tolerate it!”

The mystery man chuckled again. “Then remember, Capitano, no more games. A box in the main boiler room. Tonight would be most ideal. Buonasera.”

Suddenly, the grip on Captain Hunter’s arm was gone. The captain spun around, searching for any men walking away, crew or passenger. Unfortunately, that included ten different choices moving in ten different directions. However, he saw none of the Britannia’s crew, only passengers.

Adonia was immediately at his side, her hair-tendrils twitching in anxiety. “Anthony, perchance was that gentleman a member of the group we are looking for?”

“Yes,” Anthony replied curtly. “The Brotherhood is indeed here. At least we know one or more are among the passengers. He had an Italian accent. Did you see his face?”

“No, Sir Reginald was in the way and your new friend knew just where to stand,” she said irritably.

Anthony let a deep breath out slowly with a sigh. “At least we have their attention. That’s something.” He gave her a small smile, as much to reassure her as himself. “Since we’re here and the Brotherhood now expects the journal after this event, let’s make the most of it. I believe you said we should ‘mingle’?”

She entwined her arm in his. “Sim, Querido. I did. This way we can listen for your new friend.”

The pair turned to join Sir Reginald, then stopped. Adonia’s eyes went wide, although Anthony’s narrowed while his chest went tight. Across the floor, a man dressed similarly to Hunter in tailored formal clothes, only much more expensive and polished, smiled at Captain Hunter. The smile was pleasant, yet cold – nearly icy. Next to him drifted a dark-haired woman with pale, flawless skin, her dark eyes offset by a blood red gown. Black hair spilled along her shoulders, framing her almost sculpted face. The well-dressed man and his lady companion leisurely crossed the open space until they stood only two paces from Captain Hunter and Senhorita Adonia.

“Captain Hunter,” Archibald RiBeld said casually, drawing out each word as if tasting the bitterness of every syllable.

“Captain RiBeld,” Anthony said with a curt nod.

Captain RiBeld beamed, giving him the brief appearance of a well-fed reptile. “What an amazing surprise. I never took you for a ‘pleasure cruise’ man. Coming up in the world, good for you. You’ve lovely company this evening, I see.” The aristocrat turned mercenary captain then had a look of brief surprise on his face. “Ah, but where are my manners? Captain, as I understand it, you should recall the Duchess Von Ferrin?”

The Duchess Von Ferrin wrapped her arm around RiBeld’s, not unlike a snake. Her dark eyes quickly appraised Adonia, then dismissed her with a look as though she found her lacking. Von Ferrin turned her attentions to Captain Hunter with a slow, alluring smile.

“Captain,” she said silkily. “It has been such a long time.”

“Duchess,” Anthony replied with a brittle voice.

Adonia’s hand tensed dramatically on Anthony’s arm, her hair-tendrils nearly twitched themselves loose of the velvet bow holding them in place. “Anthony, who is this … person? I don’t think we’ve met.” An undercurrent of searing hot temper sizzled beneath the question.

Captain Hunter’s look shot hot daggers at Captain RiBeld for a brief moment. Hunter felt boxed in. He detested feeling trapped. Normally, such circumstances happened in less gentile venues; ones that allowed him the comfort of carrying a sidearm. Unlike now. He forced a smile. Instead of appearing at ease, it merely made him look like he had licked the side of the greased gear of a bilge pump.

“Adonia, I believe Captain RiBeld needs no introduction,” Hunter replied as calmly as he could, “at least none that I can properly give in such a setting. However, allow me to introduce the Duchess Julia Maria Von Ferrin. Widow of the late Baron August Von Ferrin. Duchess? Captain RiBeld? This is Senhorita Adonia Maria Ricalde Salgado, a dear and close friend.”

Anthony then waved a hand briefly towards the Duchess while he smiled at Adonia. “You remember the Duchess, my dear? She’s the one who tried to poison me.”

He glanced over to his right, where Moira and Noel stood. Moira fidgeted nervously, toying with one of the countless tools she carried in her weather-worn brown leather vest. Occasionally, her boots scuffed the deck as she shifted weight uneasily. Beside her, Noel St. Claire kept his hands behind his back, his usual perpetual smile of bemusement on his tattooed face. It was well over an hour since the incident aboard the Britannia amid her boilers. Since then the pair had managed at least a few minor repairs, created some notes on work yet to be done, and cleaned up for their meeting with Captain Hunter.

“A mallet?” the captain asked, as if he still did not quite believe what he had been told. Hunter slowly stalked the length of the room, a frustrated pace that matched his mind. “You hit him with a wooden mallet?”

“Oh, oui, mon Capitaine,” Noel replied cheerfully for the blacksmith. “The number twelve one.”

Captain Hunter stopped in mid-stride, and gave the pilot a sour look.

“Shut it,” Moira said in a low voice, “that’s not helpin’.”

Beyond the trio, Krumer Whitehorse folded his arms over his chest, trying not to grin – and failed. He had already heard some of what had transpired aboard the Britannia. The first mate attempted a more serious appearance. They had assaulted an officer of another ship, even if said officer possibly had earned it fair and square. Although, as he turned the image over in his mind, coupled with what he knew of the events and Moira’s near-legendary temperament, he found it difficult to maintain the look of a stern disciplinarian.

To Krumer’s right, Conrad O’Fallon, the Griffin’s quartermaster, sat in one of the few wooden chairs. He was leaning backwards with a leather-patched, brass-trimmed booted foot propped up on the edge of the wooden table. O’Fallon’s grin was no smaller than Krumer’s, the only difference was that the Scottish quartermaster did not try to hide it.

Hunter resumed his pacing. “You hammered that journeyman engineer – their only journeyman engineer – with a mallet,” the captain said, almost as if he still could not fully believe the story. “Now, I have the Britannia’s first officer demanding the both of you be strapped to the wheel and flogged with twenty lashes!” Hunter shook his head, then stopped pacing to face Moira and Noel, who looked embarrassed and cheerful, respectively. “Do the two of you have anything to say? Such as what, pray tell, were you thinking?”

Moira quickly replied as Noel grinned and started to open his mouth. “Beggin’ the Cap’n’s forgiveness, when the insults started, I couldn’t keep me head about me. He was struttin’ about, gettin’ in the way. I … I just lost me head. It won’t happen again.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow. He knew her temper, so therefore knew better, but he also knew she would try to keep her ferocious anger under some measure of control. The captain glanced over to Noel. “And you? What say you, Mr. St. Claire?”

“Mon Capitaine,” Noel replied with a small, yet humble bow which was closer to a brief bend at the waist, “I throw myself on your judgement. If I might say to our defense, the Journeyman Marris is un connard, non? Moira is quite accurate. The man’s insults were insufferable! It was as if he did not wish the help!”

“I see,” Hunter replied. The captain’s mouth set into a firm line while he bored looks into both of his accused crew. “What were these insults? Were they personally directed at either of you?”

Moira and Noel exchanged a momentary glance. Noel shrugged, but it was Moira who answered. “Aye, some. A few at Noel here, about his heritage an’ all. A few at me bein’ a woman.” Despite her best effort, she could not quite keep the bitter undertone from her voice.

Behind Hunter, Krumer glanced at O’Fallon. The Scotsman shook his head slightly in silent reply to the questioning look. He then made a slight, silent, dismissive motion with his right hand to the first mate as if to say: ‘that didn’t do it’.

Hunter frowned. “So that started it?”

Noel shook his head. “Oh, no mon capitaine. That marked the man as a swine, but we carried on. Better to finish our work then leave, non? After that, however, he must have felt quite proud of his small intellect. It was then he called the Brass Griffin ‘antiquated’ and claimed Moira’s work would not be ‘proper’ repairs and would require rework once in Boston.”

“That’s when I bopped ‘im,” Moira admitted staring at the floor, her cheeks flushed a brighter red with embarrassment and a small touch of anger over the memory.

“With the number twelve mallet,” Noel added cheerily. Moira gave him a withering look.

Captain Hunter momentarily raised his eyebrows at the explanation. Behind the captain, Krumer suppressed a chuckle. O’Fallon gave Krumer a small, knowing smile followed by a wink.

The captain let a long, pregnant silence fall through the air between him and his crew. At long last he spoke. “Very well. I’m in no mood to grant Mr. Mason any such satisfaction in accordance to his wishes, even if I felt flogging with a cat-o-nine tails was proper in these modern times. However! You two should have held your tempers better. Therefore, given light of the current situation aboard both vessels, you are restricted to the Brass Griffin. No wandering about, no off time other than to eat, sleep for the following two duty shifts. Understood?”

Moira and Noel nodded glumly.

“Capital,” Hunter replied, his voice as rigid as steel. “As I know neither of you are off shift for several hours, report below and get to work assisting my brother and Dr. Llwellyn with something to subtly track an object at a distance. After that, get to work on this second explosives expert theory of yours.”

Moira and Noel blinked in surprise. The young woman grinned from ear to ear, while Noel bowed graciously to the captain as they realized the extent of their ‘punishment’.

“Mon Capitaine, it is a fair and just punishment. We shall learn the error of our ways,” he said lavishly with a deeper bow.

“Aye, Cap’n!” was Moira’s only reply. “Right away!”

Captain Hunter folded his arms over his chest, and shook his head slightly. “Move! Both of you! Before I alter my decision.”

Once the pair had bolted for the door, vanishing out on deck, Krumer could no longer contain his mirth. Hunter turned around to see his two officers grinning at him like cheshire cats.

“You two! Stop encouraging them,” he growled, a corner of his mouth crooking in a tiny, unwanted, bemused smile.

O’Fallon chuckled a moment before he replied. “Och, come now, Cap’n. The man be soundin’ like a wee bampot. He be gettin’ what he be askin’ for.”

Krumer nodded, trying to contain his grin. “Spirits know, it sounds like he went out of his way to be a problem.”

The captain quickly concealed his own grin, then shook his head. “There is no proper excuse for what happened, even if the man was an ass and even if he did practically beg for it,” Hunter said.

“Ah no call it ‘practically’,” O’Fallon replied with a bemused grin.

Anthony shook his head, then started to pace once more. His brown knitted in concentration, while his mind chewed on various bits of information as surely as a grinder shredded steel. Finally, he spoke his mind. “Journeyman aside, Moira’s theory of a second bomber interfering with the first is fascinating and troublesome. That could mean we face two opponents at once, and not necessarily working together.”

Krumer shrugged. “Perhaps this ‘Brotherhood’ is not so ‘brotherly’?” he suggested. “They might not all agree on how to steal Miss Adonia’s cargo?”

“Perhaps,” Hunter agreed. He looked over at the quartermaster. “Where are we on crafting something to pacify these murderous magicians that keep hounding the bloody hell out of us?”

“William be takin’ a hand at forgin’ a fake diary for us,” O’Fallon explained, still leaning back in his chair. “He be sayin’ the wee thing will be havin’ the right look, might even pass a wink and a nod, but he canna be makin’ it better without addin’ detail from the real MacKay, Cap’n.”

Hunter started to pace slowly. “Which is the last thing we want. We only need them to think it’s genuine enough to carry it with them.”

The Scotsman nodded. “Right now, he still be under lock an’ key. Little Tom be keepin’ his eye on him.”

“Good,” the captain replied. “Once young Will is done, and Thorias and my brother concoct a way to track that forgery, we’ll turn the tables on these bloody irritants. Let me know the moment the fake journal is ready. By then Adonia should have checked on the false knives, and Moira and Noel might have made better sense out of the parts they recovered.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” O’Fallon replied, lowering his chair to the floor.

“Captain,” Krumer asked curiously, “the Brotherhood never mentioned where to put the items they want. Do we know they’ll find the bait?”

“True,” Hunter agreed, “we don’t know. However, we do know they have been observing us to a limited degree aboard the Griffin, otherwise they would’ve burrowed their way into the armory and taken the knives by now. They have to be holed up aboard the Britannia somewhere, which means the moment we place the forgery down, it will be seen. We need a distraction.”

“Do you have one?” Krumer asked.

Hunter smiled thinly. “Indeed. It seems that Captain Bellgrave has invited myself and Adonia to dine at his table this evening. There will be entertainment to follow. If the Brotherhood are among the Britannia’s crew, they will be there and notice that I have the ‘journal’ along for some ‘light reading’. We shall see if they take the bait.”

During his much younger days, when he was not ferrying supplies for his father, Noel had worked in the diamond mines along the Ivory Coast as an apprentice demolition handler. Being only an apprentice, he was regularly tasked with carrying or packaging the dynamite for transport. On very rare occasions, he was allowed – under supervision – to set the deadly mix of gunpowder and nitroglycerin up for use in blasting out a new mine tunnel. Such work was not unheard of for children twenty-odd years before, in 1869. It had been hard work, but honest, and Noel had learned quite a bit.

Unfortunately, the device in front of him was far more complex than a stack of dynamite. He touched a burnt wire carefully. Noel could not see where some parts began and others ended; it was as though something much hotter than dynamite had started to slag the metal. Despite the half-melted gears, burnt wires, and the remains of a shattered pocket watch, he did find the broken shards of a glass vial tied down near two fused gears. The memory of a metal label still clung to the bottle.

“Glycerin?” he asked curiously. “This device seems overly complex to simply put nitroglycerine in it, non?”

Moira, who had been studying the small silver-trimmed brass gear Noel had found, glanced over at what had caught his attention.

“The glycerin’s not supposed to be there,” she explained. Moira turned around and squatted next to him. She pointed at the neck of the bottle. “That bottle was tied on there with a cotton-covered wire, some of the cotton’s still holdin’ on. None of them other wires are cotton-covered. They’re covered in some kinda fancy, expensive rubber.” Moira then carefully tilted the gears to expose a bit of flaky residue on the underside. “That scorin’ on those clock gears that are left? Quick, hot blast does that. A sharp flash with lots of heat. Them gears are still attached to an arm below the nitro bottle. My guess? The nitroglycerine was added a bit later and helped set off whatever was supposed to go off in here. That makes me think it went off sooner than most wanted.”

“That is why you think there were two bombers?” Noel asked, gazing at the ruined device.

“Makes me guess there was,” she replied. “Why one arsed about with the other’s bomb? That I can’t be sayin’. Maybe he didn’t like the way the first twisted his wires into place? Or maybe he didn’t think the first bugger set it up to make enough of a boom?”

Noel nodded, “Or someone wished to hurry things along, non? None of them seem a good conclusion.” he looked around with a low sigh. “What do we do from here?”

“Now, we pack this up and take it back,” Moira said, patting the ruined machine.

The pilot looked at her in amazement. “What? Why? Mon amie, it is what’s left of a bomb. Why do you want it?”

“I got a good look at that bomb in the hallway,” she explained with a faint grin, “but not once it be blown apart. This one? Sure it’s in pieces, but some of the pieces here are still mostly together.” She lightly touched a set of blackened gears. “Them parts look a lot like what I laid me eyes on in the hallway. Puttin’ it together might give me a bit of an idea around who’s doin’ this. Most inventors leave some mark in their work. Like a signature.” Moira then glanced up at the ruined pipes. “Of course that’s in between puttin’ this girl’s heart back in the right place.”

“Oui, that is fair,” Noel replied. “I will see to your keepsake here, while you keep working on what parts you will need for the repairs.”

“Much appreciated,” Moira replied, slipping the sliver-tipped gear Noel had handed her a moment ago into a pocket. Picking up her hammer and chisel, she returned to work with a vengeance. “This spot just needs a few lengths of pipe and a new collar, then we check the boiler. Good steel oughtta do the trick for most of this,” she said between clenched teeth while she yanked with effort. “I just gotta get the bloody thing loose!”

Noel had only just picked up the burnt remains when a set of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the engine room. Moira paused in mid-swing as four men dressed as part of Britannia’s crew walked through the doorway. One wore a midshipman’s uniform, while the other three were in the basic seaman uniform of the regular crew.

The pale, thin, and wiry midshipman was a brown-haired young man with a hawk-like nose set beneath piercing amber-colored eyes. He fixed his gaze on Noel the moment he entered the room.

“You there! What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Clearing away the debris,” Noel replied warily. He did not remember being told anyone from the Britannia would be assisting them.

“Bloody hell, don’t stand about, clear the drain grates!” The midshipman snapped at the sailors. The three other men immediately dove into the mess and started clearing away debris. Putting his hands behind his back, the midshipman fixed Noel with another hard look along his thin nose.

“Journeyman Alfred Marris, acting Engineer,” the man replied curtly. “This room is my charge. I’ll not have people mucking about. Now, who sent you? Are you from that lot aboard the merchant marine vessel alongside?”

Noel and Moira exchanged a glance. The pilot – normally a jovial man – had already formed a kernal of dislike against the young journeyman. He cleared his throat; Noel felt that it was worth the effort to find a better foot to start off on.

“Yes, Journeyman, we are. I am Noel St. Claire,” the West African sailor gave a polished smile and gracious bow. “Current pilot of the Brass Griffin. With me is the enchanting and ever-inventive Mademoiselle Moira Wycliffe, engineer and blacksmith of our vessel,” he continued with a lavish wave of one hand. “At the gracious request of your Capitaine and his officers, we are here to help solve your little dilemma.”

“An African and a woman? Hm,” the man grunted. “Well, apparently you’re not paying attention … pilot,” the Journeyman said sternly. “My mentor is dead, as is the blacksmith, and we’ve lost all primary power due to these anarchists. This room is a wreck. The ‘dilemma’ is not so ‘little’.”

Moira hammered the metal pipe collar with a bit more fervor, her jaw clamped angrily shut.

Insulting little worm, Noel thought to himself. So much for starting on a better foot. Fine, he wishes to duel? So be it.

“Well, Monsieur, whether it is little or not,” the pilot replied with a broad grin, “depends on the level of skill facing the problem, along with the amount of spine to tackle it, non?”

The Journeyman turned red-faced like an overheated boiler about to explode. “What!” he sputtered.

Kneeling in the shallow water, Moira grinned and almost snickered. Instead, she dropped her hammer, which splashed loudly.

“Sorry, musta’ slipped,” she said, covering her amusement. Fishing the tool out of the water, she resumed her work pulling the damaged collar off of the boiler.

Journeyman Marris turned his angry gaze on Moira. “Watch yourself there. We’ve enough to repair.” He took a long, slow breath, then let it drain out of him. “Fine, look. We’ve a lot of work and my guild master is dead,” he said sternly. “Bickering will not bring the boilers and turbines back online. If the Captain wishes you here, then obviously you must be of some help. Before you rearrange anything, please check with me so we can work in concert on this?”

Noel, not content to let the man off easy, smiled again, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the journeyman. “Of course Monsieur! We certainly would not dream of acting alone. When around machines, it is always best to speak with those well trained in the language of tools, Oui?”

“Glad you see it that way,” Marris replied. He half turned to walk over to where one sailor was having some trouble clearing a submerged grate of some small, twisted chunks of metal, then stopped to give Noel a sharp, angry look over the veiled insult.

The pilot smiled broadly back. He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head with a twinkle in his eye. All of which merely offset his facial tattoos, giving his face a dangerous cast in the glow of the blue-white electric arc lanterns.

The midshipman sniffed irritably, then stalked over to torment the sailor struggling with the debris.

“At least he went an’ made some kind of effort to apologize,” Moira said quietly, finally pulling the ruined collar away from the boiler. “He’s still a horse’s arse, but he could’ve been (a) right bloody wanker and given us real trouble instead of struttin’ about like a popinjay.”

“I will sooner take a pig to bed with a wet kiss before I accept that man’s apology, Mon amie,” Noel replied tartly, struggling to put the bomb’s remains into Moira’s duffel. “The man is a donkey.”

One of the sailors, a very young man with a friendly smile and freckled face, stopped to kneel down and open the duffel wider. “Oh, Journeyman Marris is a right proper sod, but his heart’s in a good place most o’ the time. Don’t let his manner fool ya.”

Noel nodded his thanks, then slipped the mess of wires, gears and frame into the bag. “Ah, then you are more perceptive than I,” he replied, “Thank you for the help. You know who we are and that your Journeyman is short on manners. You are?”

The young sailor quickly combed his tawny hair into some state of order, which only lasted a brief moment, before he thrust out his hand. “Garin Farrow. Seaman second class. Got drafted when the Journeyman caught me fannyin’ about, chattin’ with my mates.”

Noel shook his hand and Moira flashed the young man a brief grin before shoving the large metal pipe collar, easily larger around than a man’s head, at the sailor. “Good to meet ya! Here, hold this up. I need better light on the inside.”

Garin grunted, then held the heavy part up for Moira to see better. “Like that?”

“Perfect,” she said, peering on the inside. “Noel, go pull down a bit of the busted pipe above. Just need a small sheet so I know what gauge to hammer the metal to.”

“Your wish is my command, Mon amie,” Noel said with a smile. Pulling out an iron prybar with a hooked end, he moved a few steps away to wrench at the ruined water pipe.

“So,” Moira asked after a moment, “quite a mess here.”

“Right proper one,” Garin replied. “It sent a lot of people spinnin’ about.”

She withdrew a cloth from her bag, then rubbed frantically at something on the inside of the metal collar. “Passengers up in arms?”

Garin shook his head, “Oh no. First mate’s been good about keepin’ them calm about it all. Called it an ‘unfortunate accident of circumstance’.”

Moira paused and glanced up at the sailor, “Ya engineer and blacksmith were knifed in the back from what I heard. Then someone lit your engine room up afterwards. A bit much for ‘accident’.”

Garin shrugged. “Ah, I supposed he means ‘unfortunate’, cause it happened here?” he replied with a weak smile. “I’m not an officer, so’s I don’t know. I just do what I’m told.”

Moira made a wry face, then peered again on the underside of the curved metal. “Well, it’s a way to look at it. That’ll do. Put it down next to me bag; I’ll have to take that back to the Griffin so I can start makin’ a replacement. Go grab a lantern an’ help me check the boiler for cracks.”

“Aye,” the young man replied, then raced off. In moments, he returned carrying one of the clockwork-powered arc-lanterns.

Moira positioned Garin just beside the opening in the boiler, lantern held high. With both sailor and lantern put just where she wanted, she picked up her hammer then crawled partway inside the machine. Methodically she tapped the inner walls gently, moving steadily around the interior of the boiler.

“What are you on about?” Garin asked curiously.

“Lookin’ for cracks. Big ones I’ll be seein’ with that lantern shinin’ there. Smaller ones I might see once I give a tap or two on the boiler like this.” She illustrated with two firm taps that echoed dully.

“Oh,” Garin replied. “I heard the water pressure pipes were blown, so why bother with the boiler?”

“You build up pressure, not lettin’ the water run where it should. It’s bound to go everywhere and break everything. So, you gotta check it all,” she explained. A few more taps later, Moira asked, “Anyone natterin’ on about why they got knifed?”

“A word or two,” Garin said with a shrug, “Most don’t go on about it.” The young sailor glanced around, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’d heard the blacksmith and the engineer had themselves caught up in some skullduggery. I’d heard it was a treasure. Like gold or something.”

“Oh?” Moira paused with her next round of taps. “They were lookin’ for it?”

“No, no,” Garin replied. “Word is they already had it, but I’d heard they had a partner. And he’d be the one who killed them. Killed them and took it. I’m figurin’ it’s one of the passengers.”

“So,” Journeyman Marris said, interrupting the conversation. The young man stalked over through the shallow water with his hands clasped behind his back, his usual frown plastered on his face. He hesitated when Moira climbed out of the boiler, hammer in hand. Marris cleared his throat. “Obviously you’ve found something?”

Moira smiled politely, “Oh, you bet yer boots I have. Got a few cracks in yer boiler, so I’ll have some patches for that square away. Then there’s that collar,” she gestured at it with her hammer and shook her head. “It took a beatin’. That I’ll be makin’ all new. Though I might melt it down and make some stout patch panels for ya from it, so not to let anything go to waste. Noel’s pullin’ down some pipe for me, too. I’m thinkin’ I’ll have this one here back workin’ in a few hard hours, once the bilge has sucked the water out for us first.”

Marris nodded in thought while she spoke. When Moira finished, he gave her a curt nod. “Good enough, then. Do your best. I understand, given the limitations you’re working under, perfection’s obviously a bit out of your grasp, eh?” he smiled politely.

Seaman Farrow looked uneasy at the back-handed comment, then fidgeted from one foot to another.

Moira narrowed her eyes slightly. “Missed that, sailor. Care to check your course and come at that one again?”

The journeyman raised an eyebrow, then cleared his throat, speaking a touch more slowly. “Certainly, Miss. I understand, what with your limited experience aboard a merchant vessel such as that little one you arrived in, this might tax your … resources … shall we say? Rest assured, we’re not expecting perfection as befitting a ship of the line. I’m sure you’ve squirreled away aboard your antiquated vessel the supplies enough to patch us adequately so we can make haste to Boston for proper repairs.”

“Antiquated? Proper?” she echoed softly, before her mouth set in a thin line. “That’s what I thought ya said.”

Journeyman Marris had never seen anyone move as fast as Moria did when she swung her wooden mallet. In another moment, Alfred Marris did not see anything at all.

That is, until he awoke in the Britannia’s infirmary a few minutes later with a wide bandage around his head.

Some unexpected news and life itself just jumped on me with both feet. As a result, I’m running a bit behind with this week’s episode. You’ve my word, I’ll have it ready for you all next Monday, April 2nd.

Until then, I’ll have to ask for your immense patience.

Thank you,
CB Ash

However, as Moira and Noel approached, it was more akin to a charnal house for broken parts.

Steam interlaced with tendrils of smoke hung lazily in the air surrounded by a vague stench of burnt rubber. Pipes, some had ruptured from an immense pressure while others were dented and in strong need of repair, lined the walls. Only a few retained even a single pressure valve. The Britannia’s four boilers sat on the far side of the room from the entrance, and seemed actually intact, although the water pipes had been ripped from their couplings.

Water had sprayed a significant area of the engine room, giving the air a swampy texture that could almost be tasted. Surrounding the boilers, the nine large, bladeless turbines sat idle. Only two escaped puncture debris during the massive explosion that had shaken the room to its foundation.

Noel stood at the door, eyes wide, staring in amazement at the sight. It was rare that he spent any time in an engine room of any kind, let alone one with this much damage.

“Quel désastre!” the dark-skinned man said in a hushed voice, “only one explosion did this?”

Moira put her hands on her hips and scowled at the destruction. “Oh, I doubt it was just one,” she said, glancing around the room, “but it coulda been. Let me think a moment.”

Following each dent, every abused twist of jagged metal, the blacksmith took in every detail of the room. In her mind, time slowly reversed. Smoke curled like snakes through the air; scattered shards of metal flew across the room to reconnect. Chunks of metal knit, reforged, and reassembled back in their proper place. Gray fumes fled before the change, and steam retreated into the pipes against the wall. In her mind’s eye, the room repaired just enough for the young woman to deduce where the damage had started. Slowly, Moira stepped into the engine room and pointed in two different directions.

“It had to be two,” Moira explained while she stepped amid the debris, “One by the pipe outta the third boiler, and the second by them far turbines off to our right. It’s the only thing that makes any sense here.”

Noel looked around the debris in surprise. He saw none of this. However, he did not have to. His area of expertise lay along different lines. Picking up Moira’s tool bag, Noel took note of a fallen piece of pipe, steam curling from each end. He stepped over it while he made his way into the room.

“Then which do we start with, mon ami?” he asked with another curious look around.

The lady blacksmith and clockwork engineer pursed her lips, considering his question. She idly waved a hand through a waft of steam that coiled about her as if she were greeting a pet.

“Boiler,” she said at last. “Won’t do to have the turbines runnin’ when we’re down at least one boiler to feed the water pressure through ‘em.” She gave the pilot a grin, “Roll yer sleeves, Noel, this’ll be fun!”

With a fervor, Moira set to work. Noel followed her lead.

Not far from the third boiler, Moira found the bilge pump for the room and pointed it out to Noel. The pilot cranked the large steel-gray wheel to drain the remains of the standing water while Moira explored the rip in the metal. The angry gash extended from the first elbow curve of the pipe to a steel joint collar that was still flush against the massive metal container. Dragging over her toolbag, she rolled her sleeves partway up her arms, exposing a series of tattoo-like marks that looked for all the world like a connected set of reddish-brown fern-like patterns drawn along her skin.

Noel paused in his labor on the bilge pump crank to frown at the marks on Moira’s arms. Moira, however, was using a hammer and chisel to knock loose a damaged steel ring from the boiler.

“Do they still hurt?” he asked curiously.

Moira hesitated in mid-swing, then stared down at the marks on her skin. “A bit,” she replied quietly, “More like a tingle. Itch fierce when I get near a generator.” The woman stared off into the middle of the room, watching something unseen. “Almost like,” the words caught in her throat a moment before she continued in a smaller voice, “the lightnin’s lookin’ for me all over again.”

Noel frowned and slowly stood upright.

She usually seems so unshakable, the pilot thought to himself, like a lioness. This is disquieting.

Moira glanced back, giving Noel her more customary smile. “Nothin’ about it though,” she replied, her mask of cheerfulness back in place, “Best get at it. We’ve a room full of work, y’know?”

The pilot watched her a moment longer, then returned the smile briefly, “Oh, of course, mon ami. It will not fix itself, non?”

“Right,” she grinned, then bent back to her work.

Noel resumed his work at the emergency bilge pump, slowly lowering the water until the clockwork gears for the standard pump were exposed. Letting go of the wheel, he stretched, rubbing sore muscles, then walked over to the main system. Kneeling down, he removed pieces of shredded rubber and cloth from the mechanism, then checked for any damage.

With the gears cleaned of debris, the pilot saw to the relief of his back muscles that the clockwork system was undamaged. It had only been jammed. Reaching in, he withdrew a brass crank, pulling it outward until it formed an ‘L’ shape, locking into place with a satisfying click.

“Ah, this is better,” he said to himself, rubbing his calloused hands together.

He gripped the brass lever, then pushed. It fought back, stubbornly refusing to move. Noel pushed harder, putting his back into it, and finally won out. With a rough grinding sound, gears turned, the massive double-helix springs winding with a series of steady metallic clicks. He turned the crank five, ten, fifteen times until it came to an abrupt halt. Noel wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead, then reached down and flipped a small metal toggle switch.

Immediately, the ‘L’ shaped lever receded into the mechanism, and the gears started to turn methodically. Somewhere within the walls, the sound of a pump throbbed like a heartbeat, drawing water out of a dozen grate-covered holes situated around the room near the floor.

Noel put his hands on his hips and smiled at his handiwork. “C’est du gâteau,” he said.

No sooner had he relaxed, than the gears abruptly hammered against each other! The pilot dove for the switch, turning the pump off.

“What be all that racket?” Moira called out from the other side of the boiler.

“A bit of something stuck in the pump, non?” Noel replied waving a dismissive hand in her direction, “Nothing I cannot fix.”

“Give a shout if it gets interestin’,” she replied, then resumed her work with the hammer and chisel.

Kneeling down by the mechanism, Noel pulled out a pocket knife and carefully pried off a metal panel covering the main gear box. Inside, he saw the main gears, interlocked as he would expect. Deeper in, he saw the beginning of one of the main springs that provided the energy for the pendulous motion which powered the pump itself. He frowned. Nothing looked out of place. Then, he saw a glimmer near the lower-most pair of gears, obscured by the water.

The glimmer was a small helical gear, a little over two inches in diameter, that was no larger than the palm of the pilot’s hand. It was mostly brass, with what appeared to be silver tips to the gear-teeth and a ring of silver around the outer edge. Gingerly, he reached in and tugged at his find.

At first, it remained stuck fast. Noel continued to rock it back and forth until, at last, it popped free in his hand. Pulling himself out of the machinery, he replaced the metal cover, then flipped the switch back to the ‘on’ position. Immediately, the pumping sound began again in earnest with no further interruptions.

Holding the gear up to the blue-white light of the arc-lanterns, Noel studied the curious gear closely. The silver band that formed a circle at the outer edge of the gear was a half-inch wide. It was perfectly uniform, and quite possibly inlaid into the body of the gear itself. Gently he rubbed a thumb across the teeth. They were dented slightly, as if well used – a mate to a larger gear.

In the reflection of the light, Noel could make out a series of small scratches that formed concentric rings about the silver. These were only interrupted at one point where the gear had been caught in the bilge pump mechanism. The imprint of gear teeth crushed the silver at that location and scraped across the brass helical gear itself, disfiguring it horribly. Curious, he walked around the boiler to ask Moira about it.

“Moira, what use would a gear with a silver band be?” Noel asked curiously.

The clockwork engineer and Brass Griffin’s blacksmith looked up from something she, herself, was studying. She frowned at the object in Noel’s hand.

“Silver? Not sure, that’s pretty soft for high heat,” she replied. “It’d be somethin’ delicate. Let me see,” she asked, holding out her hand.

Noel handed over the part, then looked over her shoulder at the ruined remains of a small container she had salvaged from the water. It looked no bigger than a foot long on each side. The box was wood, covered in a thin sheet of metal and riveted at the corners. Only a small portion of what might be the cover was still intact; the rest was twisted outward as if struck by a great fist. Wire dangled loose through the hole and terminated at charred ends of copper. Half-melted springs were attached to the inside, suggesting a more complicated mechanism long destroyed by an explosion. The most interesting portion of the device, to Noel anyway, was the presence of a smear of blood on the inside of the container.

“Mon ami, where did you find that?” Noel asked, pointing at the ruined box.

She glanced at Noel, then the box. “I was gonna ask ya that about your gear. I found that box out of sight on the back of this boiler above the waterline. Odd thing about it? Once set, it shouldn’t gone and caused this much damage. I’m just guessin’ but it seems someone opened it up and was tryin’ to make some adjustments after the bomb had been put here.”

“To defuse it?” Noel asked curiously.

Moira shook her head, “No, I’m thinkin’ they were tryin’ to make it worse. Problem is, they didn’t know nearly as much as the person who made it.” She gestured around the room. “One person was trying to make a mess, but not this much. I think someone was coming back to use it for their own reasons.”

Noel looked astonished, “So we have two bombers?”

The engineer nodded, “I need to look at it more, but I’m thinkin’ so.”

I must apologize for the delay in getting the next Episode to you. Life has taken a sharp turn, which has caused some extra stress I thought I had managed properly, but … as the saying goes … life is what happens when you are planning something else. While I was not going to go into the deeper explanation, the lady of my house said it was only fair to all of you. She is, as is no real surprise to me, quite correct. I owe all of you a proper explanation.

You see, this brilliant young woman was diagnosed at the end of January with Stage 2 Breast Cancer. Since then there has been surgery, tests, the first round of chemotherapy treatments have started as of this weekend. It will be a long road.

I humbly ask for patience. I will have the next episode ready for March 19th, following that I will do my best to maintain the schedule I’ve promised all of you for the past several years.

Again, I want to thank all of you for reading. Please check in again on March 19th, where Episode 9 will be ready for you.

Thank you all for understanding,
C B Ash