GRAYLIN STOOD IN the dark hold of the Sparrowhawk. The beached ship listed on its starboard side. The cavernous space had been emptied of its storehouse of crates and barrels. Even the hay that lined Kalder’s and Bashaliia’s former pens had been swept clean. He stood before a lake of seawater that filled the stern half of the hold.
Kalder paced the water’s edge. The vargr looked as concerned as Graylin felt.
Not only did they need to repair the hole blasted out of the hull’s side, but the ship’s keel had shattered when the Sparrowhawk crashed into the sea.
A sharp curse burned his ears, echoing his own sour sentiment. He turned to see Darant climb out of a hatch in the decking, rising from the bilge, which was equally swamped down below.
The pirate clambered to the planks and shook himself like a drowned dog. He wore only leggings, but they were soaked. His dark hair was plastered to his scalp. Despite his dousing, his arms were stained with black oil to his elbows, along with swaths across his chest.
“Were you successful in freeing the stern forge from its moorings?” Graylin asked.
Darant scowled and waved to the hatch. “Only because Shiya never has to breathe, lucky her. She was able to crawl underwater, unlock the bolts—with her bare fingers, I tell you.” He swiped his brows, plainly impressed and maybe envious. “She dragged the forge clear of the water, where I was able to inspect it for damage.”
“And?”
“A broken fuel line, a couple bent rods. I have enough spare bits to fix her up.” He glowered at Graylin. “But why waste the sweat?”
Graylin understood his consternation. “How much flashburn do you have left in the extra tanks?”
“Maybe enough to keep Brayl’s sailraft aloft for a day or so. Certainly not enough to get the Hawk into the air. That’s if we even had enough fabric to patch our shredded balloon.”
A shout echoed through the empty hold, coming from the top of the spiral stairs that led to the wheelhouse. “Come see this!” Jace called down to them. “Up on the middeck!”
The timbre of his voice rang with excitement and something Graylin had not felt in ages: hope.
“What is it?” Darant hollered.
“You have to see it!” Jace vanished away.
Darant shared an exasperated look with Graylin and waved toward the stairs. “If that bastard wants to show us some new bird or sarding fish, I’m gonna stew his bollocks in the last of our flashburn.”
Graylin understood. Jace and Krysh had spent the past days exploring the wonders of the Crèche, debating a thousand subjects. Their enthusiastic jabbering wore thin, especially considering the dire straits—and the gloom surrounding all the deaths. The pirate had lost four men during the attack.
Still, something had fired up the young man.
Graylin motioned for Kalder to stay below. The vargr crossed to his freshly swept pen and set about sniffing it, then lifted a leg to reclaim his spot.
Graylin and Darant clambered up into the wheelhouse and out the forecastle door to the open middeck. They had to sidestep past the shredded remains of the giant gasbag. Its fabric had been gathered and folded to the portside and weighted down by thick coils of draft-iron cables. One baffled section of the balloon remained intact, hanging overhead, still swollen by its lifting gasses.
Darant glanced up at it with a sad shake of his head. He didn’t need to raise yet another difficulty. Even if they could repair the rest of the balloon, there was no distillery that could refill it with fresh gas.
“Over here!” Jace called to them.
He knelt with Fenn and Krysh, who crowded close. Rhaif shadowed over them, leaning on a crutch, favoring his wounded leg. Even Meryk stood with them, a palm over his mouth.
Rhaif spotted them and waved them closer. “You truly need to see this.”
Graylin frowned.
What is going on?
He and Darant crossed the planks and joined them. Fenn shifted aside to reveal what had drawn everyone’s attention.
Krysh crouched over a pumpkin-sized swell of a tiny balloon, made of sewn bits of fabric. Framing its open mouth, woven threads ran down to a tiny tin cup that danced with flames below it.
Jace spoke rapidly. “I remembered reading the histories of flight in an old book back at the Cloistery. It spoke of such early efforts.” He waved to Krysh, who held those tiny threads. “Show them.”
The alchymist released his fingers, and the small balloon and its flaming package miraculously rose off the planks. It floated past their shoulders and continued upward.
