before he did.
A riot of color appeared, landing on a low branch just ahead of her. It was the parrot from this morning, or one close enough to it. The bird lifted its butter-colored beak in surprise at the racket she made. A gleeful cackle worked its way up her throat. Natasha made a fist and swung, putting all of her weight and momentum behind it.
The parrot squawked just as she hit it. Her knuckles hammered into its brightly-plumaged breast, connecting squarely and sending the obnoxious thing flying from its perch in a haze of rainbow feathers. Natasha laughed in glee and forged on ahead.
A noise reached her from behind, a crashing through the jungle only a short distance behind her. Apparently Fengel had recovered from her sucker-punch.
“Too late, hubby dearest,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m going to be first!”
“So what?” he called up to her. “You don’t even know who that is!”
Euron Blackheart would have warned her against being so hasty. Natasha didn’t care. “It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “Sailors are sailors! I think I’ll do the ‘poor damsel’ bit. Say you kidnapped and ravished me, oh woe. That always pulls the heartstrings.” She laughed. “Just like that time off the coast of Capricanto! Remember that you are moderately infamous, Fengel dearest. A notorious criminal! Who wouldn’t want to save me from you, and claim a fat bounty to boot? Then it’s homeward bound, and revenge. ”
“You’re daft.”
“Daft like a fox!”
“That’s not how that goes!”
She laughed, refining her plan as she went. It was solid enough, one she’d used before in a pinch. Deception wasn’t her favorite tactic, finding brute force and intimidation preferable. But Natasha had learned the lesson of practicality a long time ago. Ruthlessness only worked from a position of strength. Unfortunately, she didn’t have that position at the moment, or any way to get it.
The jungle thinned. Beyond the crash and clatter of her movement through the underbrush, she heard something else: the faint roar of the sea. She was almost there. Natasha practiced her lines in her head. Fengel was right. She didn’t know who the sailors were. But fortunately, she spoke several languages fluently.
The underbrush parted suddenly. The bare earth beneath her dropped away into a faint incline, sloping down a dozen feet to a wide patch of sand only intermittently broken by small tufts of yellow grass. The jungle spread out around it, stretching a little farther toward the surf.
There was a camp here.
It was not a small one, either. Out near the farthest edges of the jungle it started, a line of grey pup tents arranged with military precision into several orderly rows. Several campfires smoldered between them and a number of long trestle tables were covered with tools, plates, and muskets. The camp stretched all the way back down the beach to the tide line, where three longboats sat beached in the sand. Only a short distance away, too close to be anything but beached, sat the ship.
It was big, a warship. Either a ship-of-the-line or a very large frigate. She was new as well, with a steam stack in the stern and both port and starboard paddlewheels amidships. A triple-row of cannon nosed out of her ports to face the island, black barrels shiny in the morning sun. Faint golden lettering stood out just below the bowsprit, though she couldn’t quite make out the name.
The camp was not empty. Men moved about without any sense of urgency, though there was a strange, almost mechanical pattern to the way they moved. She couldn’t see their clothing too clearly from where she stood. That didn’t mean much, though. Most navies were somewhat ragged in appearance.
A ship was a ship. So long as it sailed, and she got to it before Fengel, Natasha didn’t care who was on it. She tore a sleeve and adjusted the neckline of her blouse lower. Then Natasha pinched the inside of her wrist until it hurt, and willed
A riot of color appeared, landing on a low branch just ahead of her. It was the parrot from this morning, or one close enough to it. The bird lifted its butter-colored beak in surprise at the racket she made. A gleeful cackle worked its way up her throat. Natasha made a fist and swung, putting all of her weight and momentum behind it.
The parrot squawked just as she hit it. Her knuckles hammered into its brightly-plumaged breast, connecting squarely and sending the obnoxious thing flying from its perch in a haze of rainbow feathers. Natasha laughed in glee and forged on ahead.
A noise reached her from behind, a crashing through the jungle only a short distance behind her. Apparently Fengel had recovered from her sucker-punch.
“Too late, hubby dearest,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m going to be first!”
“So what?” he called up to her. “You don’t even know who that is!”
Euron Blackheart would have warned her against being so hasty. Natasha didn’t care. “It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “Sailors are sailors! I think I’ll do the ‘poor damsel’ bit. Say you kidnapped and ravished me, oh woe. That always pulls the heartstrings.” She laughed. “Just like that time off the coast of Capricanto! Remember that you are moderately infamous, Fengel dearest. A notorious criminal! Who wouldn’t want to save me from you, and claim a fat bounty to boot? Then it’s homeward bound, and revenge. ”
“You’re daft.”
“Daft like a fox!”
“That’s not how that goes!”
She laughed, refining her plan as she went. It was solid enough, one she’d used before in a pinch. Deception wasn’t her favorite tactic, finding brute force and intimidation preferable. But Natasha had learned the lesson of practicality a long time ago. Ruthlessness only worked from a position of strength. Unfortunately, she didn’t have that position at the moment, or any way to get it.
The jungle thinned. Beyond the crash and clatter of her movement through the underbrush, she heard something else: the faint roar of the sea. She was almost there. Natasha practiced her lines in her head. Fengel was right. She didn’t know who the sailors were. But fortunately, she spoke several languages fluently.
The underbrush parted suddenly. The bare earth beneath her dropped away into a faint incline, sloping down a dozen feet to a wide patch of sand only intermittently broken by small tufts of yellow grass. The jungle spread out around it, stretching a little farther toward the surf.
There was a camp here.
It was not a small one, either. Out near the farthest edges of the jungle it started, a line of grey pup tents arranged with military precision into several orderly rows. Several campfires smoldered between them and a number of long trestle tables were covered with tools, plates, and muskets. The camp stretched all the way back down the beach to the tide line, where three longboats sat beached in the sand. Only a short distance away, too close to be anything but beached, sat the ship.
It was big, a warship. Either a ship-of-the-line or a very large frigate. She was new as well, with a steam stack in the stern and both port and starboard paddlewheels amidships. A triple-row of cannon nosed out of her ports to face the island, black barrels shiny in the morning sun. Faint golden lettering stood out just below the bowsprit, though she couldn’t quite make out the name.
The camp was not empty. Men moved about without any sense of urgency, though there was a strange, almost mechanical pattern to the way they moved. She couldn’t see their clothing too clearly from where she stood. That didn’t mean much, though. Most navies were somewhat ragged in appearance.
A ship was a ship. So long as it sailed, and she got to it before Fengel, Natasha didn’t care who was on it. She tore a sleeve and adjusted the neckline of her blouse lower. Then Natasha pinched the inside of her wrist until it hurt, and willed
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