Sailing the Poison Storm up the system of rivers that would get them deeper into Connlaoth took some doing, but they managed alright. Docking the ship at a small, riverside town that Isabeau didn't even bother to learn the name of, the captain disembarked as soon as she was able and set out.
She had some errands to run, and the ship would be in good hands with her first mate. The pistol at her hip was in dire need of some maintenance, not to mention she had to hire someone to repair the broken rail of the Storm. And maybe someone to do a routine check on the rudder. And the guns.
Gods, her poor girl was a mess.
A sign that proclaimed "gunsmith" caught her attention, and she didn't bother to read the rest before marching into the little shop. May as well get one thing checked off her list."Hello?" she called, looking around for the proprietor.
"Thirty ingots of pure silver a month, Perry. I need you to get that contract for me, and nothing less. You're the only one who can get it done."
Fletcher exhaled softly and took a sip of the burgundy wine before him as he sized up the local gunsmith. The glass goblet was probably the cleanest thing in this entire back room, and the front of the gunsmith's store had not been any cleaner or more inviting. But Perry's cousin was foreman of the nearby silver mine, and he needed that ore. The quality was unlike any other in Connlaoth.
"My Lord de Villiers," Perry said as he sat across from the master gunsmith, "will my utmost respect, you ask too much of me! My shop would go out of business if they ramped production of silver! Where would I get my metals for my own guns?"
"Look, Perry, I'm offering you a very good price here as the middleman, and you know I have the money to back it up. I need that silver. The money I'm paying you will cover at least a portion of your losses."
Perry sat unmoving, brows furled, and so Fletcher leaned in. "Your son Isaac. He has been apprenticing in your shop for years, and he's almost of age. What if I put in a good word for him, get him into the College and Uthlyn?"
That sparked a twitch in gunsmith Perry's eye as he looked at Fletcher with incredulity as he continued, "You do fine work here, but the College has the greatest gunsmiths in the world. Just do this one favor for me, and I will repay you in kind."
Perry opened his mouth to say something, when a voice echoed from the front of the store. He stood from the table and shook his head. "Let me think of it while I go tend to this customer. With the war going on, it's been... busy around here."
Fletcher also stood and followed Perry out, wine in hand, as the elder gunsmith stepped up to the counter. It was a lady in the storefront, but clearly not a Connlaothian. Regardless, coin was coin these days. "How can I help you, miss?" Perry asked as Fletcher leaned against the doorway of the back room, watching casually.
Isabeau eyes both men with a long practiced, calculating look before addressing the one who seemed to be running the shop. "You do maintenance?" She drew her pistol to show him, tilting it so the wear on the weapon was visible.
"If your work is quality, I'll pay for it," she said easily. Pausing a moment, she added, "And how are you with bigger guns? Like a ship's canons?" Maybe she could kill two birds with one stone.
"Aye, the finest gun work in the country!" Perry exclaimed proudly before shooting a glance over at Fletcher. Boy, was that an understatement. "At least west of Uthlyn."
The mention of cannons brought a furrow to his brow. The gunsmith new smaller arms, but cannons and the like were beyond him. Indeed, she would be hard pressed to find anyone who knew the intricacies of larger artillery pieces outside of the colleges.
His eyes drifted toward Fletcher. "This man can help you."
Wait, what?
Fletcher immediately set down his goblet on a sawdust-covered table and opened his mouth to protest, when Perry muttered out the side of his mouth, "You know cannons are expensive maintenance. I need the gold. Give me half of what you charge her, and the other payment we agreed on. And Isaac. Get him into the colleges, and you will have your contract."
Fletcher was left standing between Isabeau and Perry, mouth agape as he looked between them. Did this man just strong-arm him? HIM! Fletcher de Villiers, who was called upon by lords and Dukes to craft their firearms! He didn't have time -- nor the patience -- to take care of some third-grade cannons.
But the silver contract. He needed that.
Fletcher grit his teeth together and scowled mightily at Perry, pointing at him as though his finger somehow bound the man to his word. Then he turned to Isabeau with an awkward smile and nodded. "I can do both, and my work is impeccable."
She gave him a brief, slightly forced smile. Her face wasn't used to the expression. "Wonderful," she said sincerely. Holstering her pistol- if he could do both, as he claimed, she saw no reason to leave it here- and turned to face him and held out her hand.
"My name's Isabeau," she said briskly. It seemed clear to her by the men's interactions that this gunsmith didn't really want to be working on her ship, but as long as he got the job done and done well she didn't care. "My ship's at the docks- how soon can you come take a look at her?"
Fletcher's handshake was soft, the way an artisan's would be. And brief.
He glowered at Perry one more time before replying, "A pleasure, Lady Isabeau. If you have the coin at your ship, we can go this instant. I have a carriage outside waiting."
If this trip landed him that silver he so badly wanted, then a detour of a day or two was worth it.
A carriage? Lady? Giving him a wry, lopsided smile she said, "Just Isabeau is fine, sir. Or Captain, if you feel you must give me a title."
She turned to leave, nodding her thanks at the other man. Over her shoulder she threw back, "What's your fee? Or is that something you're going to have to wait to tell me until you've seen just what it is you've got to do?" That's what she would do anyway, wait until she saw the scope of the job before she set a price.
Although she got the distinct feeling that this man, with his carriages and his smooth, airy handshake, was not very much like her.
He looked at her oddly. You didn't find many women captains in Connlaoth -- not that he was judging. With a nod, he echoed, "A pleasure, Captain. I am Fletcher de Villiers." No title needed.
And indeed there was a carriage waiting outside for them, though it certainly looked like no carriage around these parts. It almost looked... armored. Thick paneled walls, iron spokes beneath. The driver gave a nod to Fletcher. He had several guns on him, and looked ready for war. Another man sat on the back also with a loaded weapon.
As Fletcher opened the door for the Lady, he replied, "Very astute, captain. I'll have to see what I'm working with before I assess a fee. I must warn you, I charge more than the average gunsmith for my time. Believe me, I am worth every copper."
Isabeau gave a low whistle at the sight of the carriage, one eyebrow arching up fractionally. Which was a pretty intense expression of emotion for her. "Not bad," she murmured.
Nodding as he opened the door for her, she flashed a quick smile. "I'm sure you are, Mister Fletcher." She settled herself onto the seat of the carriage and looked around curiously. "You design this?" she asked bluntly. If that was the case, he really would be worth the money.
"Yes, I did," came the reply as he climbed inside and shut the door behind him. With a lurch, the onerous vehicle began rolling forward toward the docks at the other end of town.
The interior of the carriage looked very much as utilitarian as the outer panels. While the seats were cushioned in velvet, the rest of the cabin looked more like a workshop than anything. Indeed, there was a small bench set up right in front of where the two sat, and all along the walls were the gleaming tools of a craftsman, each impeccably clean and resting on metallic racks.
"It can take gunfire, anything short of a blunderbuss or a cannon," he explained, though he left out the part where he'd had to learn that lesson the hard way. In times of war, he found himself increasingly paranoid -- and for good reason.
"And," he added after a moment, gesturing to the bench, "sometimes on these long journeys I like to get some work done. Speaking of which, how about we take a look at that pistol of yours?"
Another low, appreciative whistle as she looked around and murmured, "Impressive."
Shaking her head, Isabeau glanced at him and replied with a quick, "Oh, yeah. Sure, thanks," reaching for the pistol at her hip and handing it over.
"I do the best upkeep I can," she said with a little shrug. "But you know how it is- enough wear and tear and eventually you just need a professional." She flashed him a quick, crooked smile.
Fletcher gave her a smile back. He was most certainly a professional.
His brow furrowed slightly as he inspected the piece from all angles, and then peeked down the barrel.
"The wheel shaft is slightly bent," he remarked even as he reached across her (with an apologetic "excuse me") to snatch a thin metal rod off the rack of tools. "and the bore has widened significantly. The barrel will have to be replaced, and it will take time."
There were also several design flaws he immediately noticed, though he kept those to himself. After all, for the most part whoever had constructed this weapon had done a fine job. Nothing that a little work couldn't remedy... or improve.
He glanced up at her. "You've clearly fired this a lot. Merchant ship, I'm guessing?"
Her most charming smile lit up her face and she leaned back in her seat, folding her arms just under her chest. "Something like that."
Biting her lip, she let out a huff of air through her nose and her eyes flicked from his face to the weapon. "How long is "time"?" She asked.
She probably shouldn't be surprised that it was going to need more than a polish and a few tweaks- the damn thing was practically as old as she was, a gift from her father before he'd handed command of the ship over to her.
Fletcher was back to fiddling with the pistol, using the little rod to pry and prod at every nook of it.
"At least a day," he replied, head still down. "And if you truly have cannons that need to be examined, it'll be much longer."
For all they talked of cannons, it didn't even occur to him that a merchant ship wouldn't have blackpowder and cannons on board. Outside, the carriage took a gentle turn down a sloping road and toward the water.
Isabeau sighed, dropping her chin onto one hand, but gave a small shrug. "Yeah. Guess I shouldn't expect anything faster, not if I want the job done right," she murmured, glancing away as he brow furrowed in thought.
"Ah- just so you know," she said as a thought suddenly struck her. "My crew...well, they're simple merchants you understand. Don't think they've seen the likes of you often, so they may be a little...standoffish."
While he didn't look at her just then, his brow raised slightly. "I'm sure we'll get along just fine, but I suppose I could stay out of their way as much as possible."
A knock came from the front of the carriage just as it lurched to a stop. The driver opened a sliding hatch and peeked in. "Which ship is yours, milady?"
The bustle of the docks carried on all around them, oblivious to the carriage. People around these parts didn't have time to stop and stare.
"It's called the Poison Storm," Isabeau replied to the driver, leaning forward a bit in an attempt to see the docks through the small hatch.
"A frigate, looks old but sturdy, and she's got dark gray sails. The name's painted in gold. And her figurehead's a mermaid, one arm reaching up toward the bow." She sat back, arms folding just under her chest and tapping her fingers distractedly on her ribs.
The dockside was small enough that it didn't take the driver much longer to find the right pier. He opened the door for his two passengers and Fletcher stepped out, still examining the pistol and oblivious to his surroundings.
Until he almost walked into a burly tattooed sailor loading barrels up the gangplank and onto the ship. With a fierce scowl, the man gave Fletcher a gold toothed snarl and said, "Watch yer step, pretty boy. Next time, ye be swimmin' in the wharf."
Fletcher could only blink and stare for a moment as the man lumbered past him. "I see what you mean," he finally said to Isabeau, eyes locked on the sailor's back even as he absentmindedly handed the gun back to her.
She took her pistol back with an apologetic half-smile. "Excuse me one moment, sir."
Taking a breath, she turned and shouted at her sailor's back, "Crag! Mind your manners around our guest, or it's your ass I'm hauling up the mast the next time I say fly the colors, ya hear me?"
The pirate stiffened, nodded quickly, and went about his business.
Isabeau turned back to Fletcher with and innocent smile and a bright, "Shall we?" gesturing to the gangway with a wave of her hand.
Fletcher watched blankly as she reprimanded the sailor who must've been at least twice her size. His eyes widened even further as the man, taught his lesson, scurried off like a mouse who'd lost his cheese.
"Uhh, sure thing," was all he could muster as they proceeded up aboard the ship. The entire way up, all he could smell was brine and wood wax.
As soon as he stepped on deck, the ship rocking slightly back and forth with the gentle lapping waves, he stopped.
"I... have a small request," he said to her back. "I have several chests in the carriage. My belongings, and I would like them close at hand if I am to work upon your cannons. They're better off by my side than off in an inn somewhere."
Especially considering the staggering value of their contents.
Isabeau nodded and said rather graciously, "Of course." A sharp whistle called two of the men, Neil and Floren, juniors of the crew, working on the deck of the Storm to her and she nodded to the carriage back on the docks. "The gunsmith needs the chests that're in there, fetch 'em up, lads."
"Aye, Cap'n." They set off.
She tossed a slightly crooked smile in Fletcher's direction. "For the record, those two are probably the easiest to deal with of my lot. You need something and I'm not around, ask one of them, or tell them to fetch me. The blond's called Neil, the gangly on is Floren." Folding her arms, she looked around the deck and said after a moment, "I suppose you'll be wanting a bit of a tour then? Learn where everything is?"
"Be careful with them!" he called after the two lads, though really there was no need. The solid oak trunks were wrapped in iron and under heavy padlock. If anything, they needed to be careful.
Turning to the captain, he smiled sheepishly and nodded. "That would be helpful, yes. In truth, I have never stepped aboard a ship before."
Isabeau flashed a smile at him. "Right this way then," she said, setting off an beckoning for him to follow.
"Well, you'll mostly be on the upper and gun decks, working on the canons." She gestured to the upper deck, where another pirate was at the wheel, examining the smoothed wood. "There's eighteen on the gun deck, fourteen on the upper."
She turned and gestured toward a set of stairs that led below decks. "Cargo hold and galley are down there, if you need anything out of there. Um..." Her eyes cast around, searching the ship. "I suppose- if you have any questions, just find me."
Fletcher looked to the stairs leading below. The ship was still swaying slightly in the tide, and he made a mental note to spend as little time as possible down there in the cramped quarters.
"Hopefully not, but I'll take a preliminary look at your guns first before deciding if I need anything further. Will you be down below decks?"
"I'll be up here, probably," Isabeau said with a sigh, watching her crew scurry about the deck. "Make sure the lads are staying in line."
She smiled at him, clapping his shoulder as she moved past. "Let me know when you've got a price, gunsmith."
"Aye," he replied with a crooked grin. What that what sailors said? Fletcher was almost proud of himself for saying it -- that is, until he spotted the yellow-toothed scowl of a nearby sailor who heard it. With a gulp and a reddening face, he turned and went to work on the guns.
By the time the sun began its long descent toward the horizon, Fletcher's brow was already deeply furrowed trying to figure out what to tell the lady captain. The long nines on either end of the ship were fine and needed not much work, though personally he doubted the craftsmanship of them.
The larger guns were in dire need of upkeep, and in several instances he wouldn't have objected to having the entire artillery piece thrown overboard. By Ansgar, one of the 18-pounders had rust on it!
"You might want to find the captain," he voice echoed from inside the barrel of one particularly large cannon, for the gunsmith has stuck his entire head down the muzzle. The young lad who had begun following him around looked strangely at Fletcher (for to him, and to all the other sailors, this one was quite a piece of work) before hopping off the barrel upon which he sat and complying.
"Cap'n! The fancy man wants ya."
Isabeau looked up from her bookkeeping at the boy standing in her cabin doorway. She smiled a bit at his name for the gunsmith and nodded, standing. "Alright."
She followed the lad to the cannon Fletcher was working on, then leaned against the barrel. "Cabin boy said you wanted me, sir?"
Fletcher still had his face pressed up against the barrel of the cannon when the captain arrived. Hastily, he stood and brushed some of the smeared dirt from his cheek.
"Well, I've got good and bad news. The good news is, most of these guns can function properly with a little tinkering, though it'll take several days at least."
He coughed and patted on the 18-pounded he'd just inspected.
"The bad news is... your larger artillery is in bad shape. Frankly I wouldn't even bother firing three of them, they flat out need to be replaced. There's rusting, cracking along the bore, improper-sized muzzle. They can't be fixed, and you won't find replacements in anywhere near this town."
He paused for a moment and added, "Replacing them will cost you a pretty penny too."
Isabeau listened to his diagnosis with a blank expression, then pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed heavily. "Perfect," she muttered. "Just- perfect."
Well, the Storm was an old girl. She supposed she was just lucky that was all that needed replacing.
With another sigh, she straightened her shoulders and gave the gunsmith a nod. "Right. What you can fix then- how much will it cost?"
Fletcher looked away. Truthfully, he could charge a hefty amount for the same work to anybody else, and nobody would have hesitated for a second. But then again, he wasn't in Uthlyn anymore and his current patron was not some Lord or wealthy merchant.
But a fair price was a fair price.
"A hundred and fifty gold pieces," he finally said. Not a small amount by any stretch of the imagination; a person could purchase two dozen horses with that amount of money. But for the number of guns that needed repairing, and the cost of tools and labor, it was a reasonable amount. Less than he would have charged, honestly.
"We can settle up afterwards, but if I start now, I can have most of the work done within three days."
And he'll have a silver contract to go along with it.
Isabeau arched an eyebrow, considering. She would have haggled- but gods her poor girl needed some looking after.
"Done," she said with a nod, holding out her hand. Arching an eyebrow, she added, "But if your work's not worth every coin, I'll make you walk the plank." Her tone was light, joking, but her eyes were flinty.
The veiled threat was not lost upon Fletcher, but he couldn't help himself but stand a little taller at that moment, shooting her a casual smile. "Captain, I'm worth every copper. If you're not satisfied with the work, I'll jump into the sea myself and save you the trouble."
She laughed, a little surprised and a lot impressed despite herself. "I like you," she told Fletcher, lips quirking up on one side in a wry little smirk.
Glancing at the cannon, she looked back at him and tilted her head to one side. "Anything I can do to make this a bit easier?"
Fletcher nodded, taking her hand with a shake. "I'll make a list of things I need. And somewhere quiet on this ship where I can rest my eyes if I need it." He'd stayed up long nights lost in his work before, but even a master gunsmith needed rest sometime.
Isabeau nodded in return. "You can use my cabin," she decided. "Doesn't get much use when we're in port anyway." She was normally running around whatever town they docked in, trading, gathering supplies, and making repairs.
"I can imagine," Fletcher replied. And truly he was imagining it for did not know what sort of life the captain of a merchant ship lived. Probably spent most of her time ashore bartering and trading, he guessed.
"In any case, thank you for the hospitality Captain."
His list, penned in curling letters that belied his more than fortunate upbringing, took moments to draw up. By the time he'd handed it to the captain, the gunsmith's sleeves were already rolled up and a heavy-looking hammer in his hand. Cannons first, pistol later. Save the best for last.
The list was oddly precise. Exact numbers of each item, and some with exact dimensions written out. "Knowing exactly what you need makes the work go much more smoothly," he explained.
Isabeau's eyes flicked over the list and she nodded. "Yes of course." She bit her lip. Most of this stuff was too precise to trust to someone else to run a quick errand. Maybe Crag, but he had his own duties.
She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. "I should go and get these things myself. I'll be back before too long. Any problems, report to my first mate- the large fellow with all the tattoos you met boarding the ship."
"The one who wanted to kill me?" he said with a wrinkled brow. "Got it."
The rest of the afternoon was spent tinkering with the cannons that needed the least work. By the time the high sun began its decent toward the horizon, the day found him below decks, sitting crosslegged beside one 12-pounder that had been completely taken apart -- or at least as much as it could have been, considering it was cast entirely in iron. The real problem with this piece's trunnions were so dented and warped that it couldn't properly be turned or aimed.
He'd had it removed from its mount, and had taken that apart piece by piece. The cabin boy, still enraptured by the fancy man, was busy cleaning out months of dirt and grime caked inside the ignition pan.
Isabeau didn't manage to find all the things Fletcher needed until near sunset, and when she returned to the storm she spent a few minutes making her rounds of the upper decks before she headed below to find him.
"How's the work coming?" she asked. Her eyes flickered to the cabin boy and she frowned slightly. "Thought you were supposed to be helping out in the galley, lad."
He sort of ducked his eyes, silently continuing to work, and she sighed, shaking her head. Well, it wasn't as if he was doing any harm.
Before the cabin boy could say anything, Fletcher stood, dusting off his hands and readjusting his sleeves. He frowned as he looked down at the disassembled gun, hands on hips.
"It's coming, Captain," he said, looking at her with a slight smile. His brow was still furrowed though, mostly for the state of this particular artillery piece. The long bronze cannon itself lay motionless on deck while the mount had been separated. Pieces of it were missing. He'd thrown the rotting wooden blocks overboard himself.
"Just have to smooth out the trunnion and reassemble the mount, and it'll fire. How was your day?"
"I've got the tings you asked for, if that's what you mean," Isabeau said, waving the cabin boy aside as he seemed to be starting to apologize. "I'm not sure what you need where, so I've left most of it in my cabin. I can show you if you like, help you haul what you need down here."
Fletcher wiped his hands with a nearby rag and tossed it down to where his tools lay. He gave her a nod. "A short break would be good. Lead the way. "
"Right then." The captain glanced at the cabin boy and arched an eyebrow at him. "Galley, lad. Now."
"Yes, ma'am!" He jumped to his feet and scurried off ahead of her as she led Fletcher up onto the main deck, then across to the door set in the helm that led to her cabin, dodging ropes and crates and crew with the ease of long practice.
"Right in here," she said, bumping the door open with her hip and gesturing for the gunsmith to go into the rather lavishly if oddly decorated cabin.
The trip across the main deck was a little more difficult for Fletcher, as he almost tripped over ropes and bumped into scowling sailors more than once. It didn't help that he could feel the boat rocking ever so gently on its moorings.
A low whistle escaped Fletcher's lip as he stepped into the captain's cabin. He had to admit, he was impressed. Apparently the captains of merchant ships really knew how to live extravagantly! Even his own accommodations back in Uthlyn were not so finely decorated.
"If this is how all sailors live, Captain, consider me signed up for the next journey," he said in jest, turning to her. "
Isabeau smirked a bit, leaning against her desk and folding her arms. "Well now, this is just how captains live," she replied lightly. "Be a long time voyaging before you could work your way up to something like this."
She waved a hand toward the bed, where she'd piled most of the things she'd gathered from his list. "There you are. I'm not ashamed to admit I don't really know what's what in there, so you'll just have to dig through until you find what you need." She shrugged. "Sorry."
Fletcher kept his mouth shut, though he inwardly was thinking about how she also looked a little too young to be captain of a merchant vessel. But judging by the way that big tattooed lug had scurried away at her command, she probably earned the right.
He instead grinned back at her. "I retract my pledge of service, then. At least I learn how to swim."
Eyes drifted to the pile of materials stacked upon her bed, and gave a thoughtful nod. The few items that were missing weren't critical, and he could make do with what was there. "I can make this work.. My thanks."
With a long hmmmm he began collecting up the banded iron rings, forming a haphazard pile in his arms. "I suppose it'd be bad form to do it while in port, but that long nine you have up front of the ship looks like it was built with steady hands. I'd like to have a go with it." Without even comprehending that it was the bow of the ship and not the front, he turned to her. "Door, please."
Isabeau smiled a bit for his interest and nodded, bumping the door open with her hip again and waving him through. "Anything I can do to help you down there?" she asked. "I don't like feeling idle when there's work to be done on the old girl."
"Most of it involves hammering and filing, to be honest," he told her with a laugh as he nearly tripped over another crate. Clearly ships were dangerous environments. "And cleaning. A lot of your pieces weren't cleaned regularly, so I am guessing that some of them misfired, or fizzled in the pan at the wrong times." He was becoming more animated, the more the conversation steered toward her guns.
He stopped at the stairs leading below decks, and glanced at her. "I could show you some things, though I'm guessing you're already quite familiar with the artillery. On account of you being a captain and all."
She nodded, smile widening slightly at how obviously thrilled he was with his work. "I am," she conceded, "But I'm not so arrogant as to think there's nothing left for me to learn." She nodded at him politely. "I'd be happy if you would let me watch you work, at least."
His grin widened at that, and carefully he descended below decks. It was still light enough outside that the open gun ports allowed some measure of visibility, and Fletcher went back to the disassembled gun and set down his armful of iron pieces with a clatter.
"Now you can see," he said to her, though he might as well have been talking to an auditorium with the way he dove into his work, "your cabin boy did a passable job of cleaning out the bore of built-up residue. Of course, if you take a look inside, you can see that the actual bore itself is not even its entire length, which suggests a problem with the casting. Now it'll fire, but you won't get a perfect shot out of the girl short of recasting the entire barrel."
He picked up the iron bands which he'd removed from the gun carriage earlier. "Take a look at this. It's hard to see from just a quick glance, but it's bent out of shape, probably from too much firing. The trunnions don't sit evenly in it and don't rotate properly, which is why it's so hard to aim the barrel up or down. Replace it with one of these-" and he picked up one of the new rings, giving it a cursory look before nodding in satisfaction, "and that's a problem solved."
With almost a flourish, he tossed the old iron band out of the gun port before realizing what sort of show he was putting on. With another foolhardy grin, he turned back to the Captain. "Sorry, I get a little caught up in small details sometimes."
Isabeau nodded along to his explanation. She started to get a little wary when he mentioned the issues and what had probably caused them- too much firing. Would he start to get suspicious about why a "merchant" ship was using her cannons so often?- but smoothing her face into something expressionless.
Then she smiled a bit, shaking her head at him. "It's fine, really. I'm interested, and it's good to know you take such obvious pride in your work. It means you'll do a good job with the repairs." Hopefully.
His smile waned a little bit, though it was still present on his face. Everything he did with these guns would certainly improve their lifespan and operational efficiency, but with cannons there was only so much a single man could do short of building new guns from scratch. And that really irritated him. By Ansgar, he was Fletcher de Villiers, and everything he touched should be perfect! Why couldn't it be so with artillery?
"You'll certainly get a lot more use out of them, that I can promise," he said enthusiastically, leaving out the bit about scrapping these guns and beginning anew. Instead he added, "Once I get my hands on your pistol, you'll never want me to leave."
She laughed quietly. It was rather nice. She didn't laugh often, but because this man wasn't really crew she allowed herself to relax a bit.
"I almost can't tell if that's a threat or a promise," Isabeau noted a little playfully.
A few loud noises- some commotion on deck- made her sigh and close her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Excuse me a moment, would you? I believe I'm being summoned," she muttered.
Fletcher took a sidestep out of the way and gestured to the steps. "Of course, the captain has to tend to her ship. Well, you know where to find me." He picked up the heavy mallet and gave the disassembled cannon a pat. "Giving this lovely girl a new lease on life."
It occurred to him that he really should be making more efficient use of his time. After all, that was his most valuable commodity and he really should be back in Uthlyn pushing the boundaries of design and creating masterpieces of engineering. But something about being here so far flung from the College, getting his hands greasy with these cannons...
It was the small things in life that made it worthwhile.
Isabeau nodded at him and turned to hurry back to the upper deck. "Alright, what's got all your knickers in a twist-" she started to snarl, then froze.
City guards were stalking their way up and down the docks, and four of them appeared to be demanding to come aboard. Shit.
Fletcher knelt back down beside the cannon and picked up the iron band he inspected earlier. A huge improvement over the piece he'd thrown overboard but not perfect. With a practiced ease, he began hammering at it to round out the bends.
---
The city guards were arguing vehemently with one sailor standing at the end of the gangway, gesturing at the Poison Storm. Something about a manifesto, or lack thereof. Already one of the four had broken off to gather more reinforcements for the inevitable boarding of this ship. A few words could be heard over the bickering down below. Cargo hold... search... smugglers...
Finally the tallest greybeard among the guards pointed directly at Isabeau. "OI! You there, bonny lass. Go fetch the captain, we have a warrant to come aboard and search this ship!"
It was hardly the first time someone had made that mistake, but every time it made Isabeau bristle, hackles raising.
She stepped to the rail of the ship and planted her feet, fists on her hips and eyes stormy. "No need," she called. "Captain's right here, lads. On what grounds do you have this warrant then?"
The greybeard gave her a scowl of disgust. Women had no business being on ships, everybody knew that. He held up an opened letter, red wax seal of the local governor clearly visible on its crisp white surface. "Governor's orders, girl. We 'ave reports of illegal vessels sailing these waters engaging in buccaneering and thuggery, and have authority to search all the boats in this area."
He gave her a squinty glare. "Authority to use whatever means necessary."
One of his spear-wielding cronies gave the nearest sailor a shove and was almost surprised when the man shoved him back. In short order, a small scuffle had started.
Damn. Damn damn damn double damn. Her mind started racing. "Alan! Bear! Belowdecks, now!" she bellowed at the sailors who had started the fight.
The man glanced at her, surprised, and she gave a subtle nod. They fell back without argument, clambering back onto the ship and darting for the stairs. "Forgive my men, sirs," Isabeau called to the guards. "If you'll just wait one moment, I'll lower the gangplank for you."
Crag had come up on her left. "Everyone on board?"
He nodded with a low grunt. "Plus one extra."
Right. The gunsmith. Damn. "We'll drop him off at the next port," she decided firmly. "I want us ready to sail in five minutes."
"Yes, Cap'n."
She smiled and moved forward as the rickety gangplank was lowered to the docks, waving jovially. "Come aboard then, and welcome to the Poison Storm."
As Alan and Bear retreated from the melee with sour looks, one of the guards spat angrily their way before bending down to retrieve his fallen helmet. Evidently greybeard wasn't too impressed with how he fared against some lowly sailors, for he had choice words for the man as soon as he stood back up straight.
By now a few more guards had joined them, though they opted to wait on the dock while the four of them marched ceremoniously up the gangplank and onto the boat. The smile on Isabeau's face was met bitter wrinkled scowl of the head guard. "Your cargo if you would please, captain."
"Of course." She gave him an almost demure smile and gestured broadly. "Right this way, gentlemen."
Isabeau led them- taking her sweet time- to the stairs and paused for just a moment, meeting her first mate's eyes and nodding once.
"Anchors away! Heave to, lads!"
The Storm rocked into motion as the crew leaped to action. In a flurry, Alan and Bear came charging back into the deck, taking two of the guards by surprise. Crag jumped for another and Isabeau took the captain for herself as the deck dissolved into a mess of brawling and scurrying sailors.
Her cutlass flicked out to point at the man's heart, using the advantage of surprise. "Now you just stay nice and quiet while we sail ourselves out of your deplorable little port, savvy?" Her lips curved into a wicked grin. "There's a good lad."
With one final ring of metal on metal, Fletcher set down his mallet and gave the heavy cannon a test push. The reassembled cannon carriage groaned slightly under the immense weight of the iron barrel, but otherwise rotated quite nicely in its newly fashioned sockets.
With a self-assured grin, Fletcher mumbled under his breath, "Sometimes, I impress even myself," before re-rigging the artillery piece with all the untangled ropes laying about. The job finished, he stood up to inspect his handiwork -- and nearly toppled over in place.
"What in Ansgar's name is happening up there? Are we MOVING?"
With an alarmed yelp, he scurried his way toward the stairs and up onto the main deck, only to be greeted by the sight of the four guards all standing in a row at sword point. Immediately, he froze in place, wide-eyed and watching the port slowly shrink behind them.
Not realizing Fletcher had arrived on deck just behind her, Isabeau barked, "You know what we do with law-folk, lads."
Her crew laughed, the sound rather mean and frightening, and lunged forward. There were a few sharp cries and the sounds of a scuffle, then the guards were all gagged, hands bound behind them, and disarmed.
Isabeau nodded, smirking. "Plank. Now."
"Uh. Captain." Crag nodded behind her and she turned.
"Ah. Master Gunsmith." She felt her chest squeeze a bit, feeling suddenly guilty, then raised her blade and arched a pointed eyebrow. "If you don't cause a fuss about all this, we'll be having no problem, just drop you off when we next make port, savvy?"
The shocked look on his face bordered on comical as he stared mutely at the unfolding scene. Pirates, he thought. Of course, how could he have been so dense? Her attire should've given it away, but he'd been so caught up in talks of contracts and silver to recognize it.
The talk of a plank awoke something in him, and he took a bold step forward. Maybe too bold. "Are you mad? You're going to throw them overboard with their hands bounds? For God's sake, think about what you're doing!"
Her cutlass flicked up to press against his throat, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to show him how easy it would be for her to do so.
Isabeau's eyes actually flashed with guilt for a moment before she shoved it away. The Storm was almost out of the river now, gliding through the bay. Without taking her eyes of the gunsmith, she snapped, "Neil, Alan, Crag- hold our guests until we're in open water, then escort them out."
She was silent for a long moment, then added, "And loosen their bonds a bit. May as well give them a fighting chance. Might be fun to watch." She smirked, covering the sliver of mercy with dark humor.
"Aye, Cap'n."
Letting her blade drop just slightly, she nodded over her shoulder. "You come with me, gunsmith." She couldn't just leave him wandering around now, she'd have to lock him in her cabin or something.
Fletcher's breath caught as the sword dug into his neck, and he could do nothing but remain still and glare at her. At least he could see, out the corner of his eye, that the sailors were begrudgingly following the captain's orders and slackening the ropes holding the prisoners together.
When she ordered him to follow, he remained in place. "What are you doing, kidnapping me?" he replied brusquely and with a challenging voice. This had to be a cruel trick; he'd been so wary of kidnappers for so long, ever since the whole country had descended into war. Of course it would be the one time he let his guard down and voluntarily stepped aboard this bloody ship that he'd be taken.
When he still didn't budge, he felt a hard shove from behind him as another sailor forced him toward Isabeau with no other alternatives.
The captain sidestepped slightly, catching his arm and twisting it behind his back as he stumbled forward. "Of course not," she said conversationally, staring to march him toward her cabin, sword still held at her side. "You'll be our guest, for the time being. I'll pay you for whatever work you managed to get done on the guns, then we'll send you ashore next chance we get."
Until then, though, he'd best mind himself. Now that they no longer had to pretend to be respectable, her crew was likely to take offense to the classy gunsmith's presence.
Fletcher let out a little wince as his arm was torqued behind his back. He could feel the pressure in his shoulder and really had no choice but to gingerly dance his way toward her cabin door, stumbling into her cabin about as gracelessly as one could manage.
"Next chance you get?!" he coughed. "You're about to throw lawmen off your ship! They'll never let you... me back into port!'
She shrugged carelessly, knocking the door open and pushing him into the cabin. "That's sounds like your problem, lad," Isabeau said with a sharp, dangerous sort of smile.
She didn't really want to make his life miserable- he'd only been here to help her, after all- but at the moment she didn't really see that she had many other options.
"Just- stay here, alright?" She glowered, tapping her foot in a nervous habit that she could usually disguise as irritation. "Keep yourself to yourself and no harm will come to you on this ship, you have my word."
He glared mightily at her at the mention of lad (after all, she looked too young to be a captain, he just had a shred of decency not bring it up!), but then his eyes fell to the sword at her side. "I suppose I don't have a choice now," he grumbled. "As the captain wishes."
At least she'd brought his lockboxes in here, where they would be close by. Being out at sea... well that was another matter.
Isabeau nodded at him and turned to go, then paused. "I know it doesn't make much difference," she said quietly over her shoulder, "but I really wish things didn't have to be this way."
Sh swept out onto the deck, closing and locking the door behind her.
Time passed extremely slowly in the captain's cabin. Although it was well-furnished and decorated, it was still cramped quarters on a ship. He tried to pass the time by double- and triple-checking the contents of his lockboxes, stashing one of the exquisitely made guns down the front of his trousers in case he needed it.
Instead, what he really needed to do was to lie down. Fletcher had tried to look out the window but the rolling waves played odd tricks on his stomach and soon he was feeling dizzy. He soon found himself laying on the captain's bed (with boots removed, of course; he wasn't a savage), hand over his head and groaning.
Even from outside the captain's quarters, his voice could be heard, muffled through the heavy wooden door. "Captain, you need to let me out!"
It seemed most of the crew could hear their "guest's" complaints. By the time the forth person came up to Isabeau to say something she caved, rolling her eyes and grumbling to herself as she stalked toward her cabin.
She knocked the door open, slipped inside, and kicked it shut behind her. "What seems to be the problem, your Highness?" She snapped, arms folded over her chest and hip cocked to one side. She didn't have time for this, she had a ship to run!
Fletcher was sitting on the edge by then, with clammy skin a shade paler than usual for him. There was a glum expression on his face as he met her impatient gaze, before suddenly pulling his pistol out and leveling it at her.
"Captain, this pan is primed and the muzzle loaded with a perfectly sized lead ball," he said as he forced his wobbly legs to stand. Where was he going to run? They were in the middle of the damn sea by now... but he needed just a little bit of respite from this room. "And believe me I can place one between your eyes before you can even blink. I don't miss. So hear me out."
He had to take another deep breath to steady himself at that moment, but luckily he didn't have much to say. His eyes took on a pleading stare as he felt his stomach roil. "Look, just open the door and step aside. For one damn minute. You'll thank me later."
He actually managed to catch her off guard. If she hadn't been busy cursing herself, she might have been impressed.
"What do you plan to do?" she asked evenly, shutting down any emotion in her voice. "Even if you shot me, what would you do next? Where would you go? You wouldn't make it three feet before my crew killed you."
She didn't back down, but she didn't go for her pistol or her cutlass either. Whatever else could be said, she did believe that he was a decent shot.
Though his breath was ragged and his skin unpleasantly damp, his gun hand remained steadily pointed at her even as he inched toward the door.
"Nobody needs to get shot. Just..."
And as he reached the door he fumbled with the lock while still aiming at her. As soon as he heard the hinges swing open though, he turned and bolted right out onto the main deck. There were more than several sailors caught unawares by the gunsmith as he clumsily darted his way between crates, ropes, and men, barely hearing the outraged shouts behind him.
As soon as he reached the railing of the ship he leaned over the side of it and retched overboard before slumping to the damp wooden deck, a little relieved smile on his face.
Isabeau darted after him, drawing her blade and shouting for pirates to get out of her way.
Then, realizing why he'd so desperately wanted to get out of her cabin, she paused beside the rail. Sighing and rolling her eyes, she muttered, "Landlubbers," and sheathed her sword.
Kneeling next to Fletcher, she easily took the gun from his rather limp hand and grabbed his shoulder, turning him to face her. "Alright, better? Then up you get, lad. C'mon."
Fletcher out only let out a little laugh as she turned him to face her. By Ansgar, he'd never felt so satisfied in his life. "You can thank me now," he muttered with a wry grin even as she helped him back onto his feet. A small crowd of sailors had begun to form around them. Just string 'im up with the sails an' be done wit' him! came a shout from the back of the throng.
His eyes lingered on the gun she'd taken from him. A detailed stag had been meticulously carved into the stock, and the polished silver inlays gleamed in the sunlight. For a wealthy Lord in Castavar.
"I suppose it'd be too much to ask to get that back. Once... once you've dropped me off?"
She sighed, rubbing at her temple and slipping the gun into the sash around her waist that acted as a belt. "I suppose you can," she grumbled, pulling her own pistol and training it on his chest in a manner that was almost bored.
"Alright. It seems that leaving you cooped up with pose a problem..." She bit her lip, then tilted her head at him, ignoring the grumblings of her crew. "How comfortable are you with heights?"
"Why, what are you planning?" he asked in return, though truthfully nowhere on this ship would do him much good.
After a moment he shook his head and added, "I'm fine with heights, it's this rocking that I can't handle."
"Up to the nest with you then," Isabeau decided, flicking her pistol toward the rigging and moving toward it. She could relieve Raven of his watch for a bit, and it would keep the gunsmith out of the rest of the crew's way.
There were more grumblings from the crew, but also a smattering of grins and laughs as the Captain directed the fancy landlubber toward the mast. It was a long climb up there, and already others were cheering Raven as he descending the rope to rejoin his comrades.
Fletcher, still a bit pale in the face and queasy in the gut, slowly maneuvered his way toward it, given occasional pushes from crewmen lining the way. At the base of the mast, he gave Isabeau a grim look -- for, really, up there was no better prison than her chambers -- and looked up. At least the afternoon sky was clear and sunny.
He looked back at her, then down to her gun. Specks of black ringed the wheel shaft. "Prime the pan with less powder," he told her in a low voice so that others around wouldn't hear. "It'll lessen the chance of a misfire, and create less wear on the gun."
With that, he let out a soft sigh and began the ascent.
Isabeau stared at him in silence for a long moment, then gave him a small nod. "Thank you," she said quietly, sincerely.
Stepping back, she added in a louder voice, "You see anything amiss up there, you holler, savvy?"
Normally he might have climbed the ropes with a little more ease (or really, a little less ungracefully), but the rocking ship was still playing tricks on his body. Only about ten feet up, he had to pause. Looking down at Isabeau with a sour face, he gave her a half-sarcastic "Yarrr, cap'n," before continuing up.
What a week.
That actually earned a few chuckles from the crew and a smirk from Isabeau. "Watch the attitude, sailor!" she shouted up to him before walking briskly back along the deck to take the helm from Crag.
"Three days 'till we can safely make port," the man grunted as he relinquished the wheel. "What are ya gonna do with him.
"I'll figure something out." She shrugged. "I always do."
The crow's nest was little more than a glorified wooden basket, but after the climb Fletcher was glad to be able to rest his back against something and catch his breath. The exertion seemed to have helped him find his sea legs somewhat though. Or perhaps the tiredness just suppressed his feeling of sickness momentarily.
He had to admit though: the view from his little prison up here was spectacular. As he stared off into the horizon for the first time in his life, he almost forgot about his predicament. Instead he huddled in the lookout and closed his eyes, letting the sound of sea birds and lapping waves take over.
After a few hours at the wheel, Isabeau turned the helm over to make her rounds of the ship. The sun was creeping ever lower toward the horizon as she made her way from bow to stern and back.
She glanced up at the crow's nest every once in a while as she made her way about the ship. Well, as long as he wasn't getting sick again, she supposed even such a temporary solution was fine for now.
After a while, it became quite clear to Fletcher that his post high above the rest of the ship was no better than the captain's cabin. In fact, the tilting of the ship was even more pronounced up here, making for a thoroughly miserable experience. At least he had a great view.
As day faded into evening and the sky turned a fiery orange, something glinted in his eye in the distance. He blinked. No, there it was again, it wasn't an illusion. The setting sun was reflecting off something metallic in the distance. Another ship.
Biting his lip, he peered over the side of the nest to the deck below. There was the captain, making her usual prowl up and down the length of the ship. He waited until she'd passed before standing up and waving his hands up and down at the distant vessel, trying to attract its attention. After a while though, he stopped. The vessel was much too far away to see one lone man in the crow's nest... right?
"Ship to port!"
Isabeau came springing up from below decks and raced to the bow of the storm, snatching a spyglass from one of her crew's hands and training it where he pointed. "Damn," she hissed. It looked like a merchant vessel, but it was entirely possible it was military trying to be subtle. She didn't want to risk it so close to Connlaoth.
"Hard to starboard!" she shouted, tossing the spyglass back and making for the helm, barking orders as she went. Hopefully they could just breeze by.
The lurching of the ship meant only one thing, and it made Fletcher's heart sink: the Captain must have spotted the ship as well.
"HEY!" he shouted over the rail of the crow's nest. "Slow the ship down! Where are you going to run anyway?"
"Shut up!"
Isabeau wasn't sure who shouted it, but she agreed with the sentiment. "Get your ass down here, gunsmith! If this goes south, you're not gonna want to be up there."
Furtive glances between the distant ship and the impatient captain below brought a wrinkle to the gunsmith's nose.
"They're too far away to his this ship, not with any cannon in existence," he shouted back down. "So unless they're faster than you, I think I'll take my chances up here!"
In the distance, the rumbling sound of cannonfire rung in his ears. A whistling sound behind him has him turning just in time to see a black iron mass splash into the water some lengths behind this ship.
A little too close for comfort.
"On second thought, maybe you're right."