Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

She went to her quarters with a smile on her face, shaking her head.

My home. My family. What a curious lot we are.

As dusk fell, Frey, Pinn and Malvery headed into town, as they'd done every night since they landed here. Sometime Crake went with them, but not tonight. Jez wasn't one for drinking, Harkins was frightened of strangers, and Silo stayed with the craft for everyone's sake. The Second Aerium War was still a raw wound almost eight years after it had finished. Silo's people had fought for the enemy, however unwillingly they'd done so. Murthians were not popular folk in Vardia.

Frey led the way as they followed the well-used path down the hill, through the darkening trees. The light drained from the sky, turning to violet and gold, and the last of the day's birdsong died away as the insects took over. This far south, spring was starting early: it wasn't even the end of Middenmoil yet.

When they got to the tavern, they were greeted by the usual fixed grimace on the owner's face. Frey could see how a little piece of his soul died every time these rowdy strangers pushed through the door, calling for drinks. This was a nice town, a quiet town. The kind of town where people got uncomfortable when grown men began to drunkenly sing shanties at the tops of their voices.

But it was the only tavern in town, so they kept coming back. Besides, Frey liked it. He liked the big windows that looked out over a cobbled road to the black woods. He liked to be able to see his reflection in the glass, thrown back by the soft light of the hooded gas lamps. They always sat at a table near a window, though he never said why.

It was about the point in the evening when Pinn started turning the conversation towards his sweetheart, and everyone else tried to turn it away. But Pinn was not to be deterred tonight, inspired by the sight of several young and moderately attractive females at the bar. Word of the strangers had spread. Since it was Kingsday tomorrow, a day of rest, some of the town's more youthful population had come to see what the fuss was about. The tavern was busier than they'd ever seen it.

'She's worth ten of any of them girls!' he slurred, waving a flagon about. 'That's fact. My Lisinda, she's . . . well, I'm a lucky man. A lucky, lucky man. Some people go their whole lives without . . . without finding true love.' He shook his head blearily. 'But not me. Not me, oh no. I found mine. And I love her. I do!' He thumped his fist on the table, frowning, as if someone had been arguing the point. Then his face softened into a happy leer. 'I miss her lips. Lisinda's lips. Soft as . . . soft as pillows.'

He lurched to his feet suddenly, and stood there swaying, his eyes trying to focus. 'Going for a piss,' he said, then stumbled off through the crowd.

Malvery let his head drop to the table with a thump. 'I may be forced to brain him if he doesn't shut up about that damn girl,' he said, despairingly.

'Please do,' said Frey, without much enthusiasm. He didn't seem to have any enthusiasm for anything tonight. Not even for the pretty redhead who kept glancing over at him from her spot among a group of friends. He knew that look. He counted himself something of an expert in the field of casual seduction. But somehow he just couldn't muster the effort to care at the moment. Drink had made him maudlin.

'Do you think she's even real?' Malvery continued. He took a pull from his flagon and wiped beer foam from his white moustache. 'I mean, how long's it been? Years! Years of him talking about his bloody sweetheart, and all I've ever seen of her is that ferrotype he carries around.' He adjusted his glasses and snorted. 'I say she ain't even real.'

Frey stared into the middle distance as he finished his mug of grog. It was a theory he'd heard many, many times before from Malvery.

'What's up, Cap'n?' Malvery inquired. 'You've had a face like a bowel tumour all night.'

'I'm just not in the mood, Doc,' Frey said. ' 'Scuse me.'

He got up from the table and walked away. Through a doorway and along a corridor was a quieter room, out of sight of the main tavern area. This was where most of the older patrons had retreated, to avoid the raucous singing that would come later. A guitarist was playing in the corner, and the lamps were turned down low.

The townsfolk stared disapprovingly at Frey as he entered. He ignored them and found himself a stool at the bar. The scrawny young barman eyed him dubiously.

'Grog,' said Frey, putting a few shillies on the bar with a click.

There was a mirror behind the bar, tarnished with cigar smoke. Frey watched himself in it as he waited for his drink.

He was just as handsome as he'd ever been, in a roguishly unkempt kind of way. He had dark eyes, promising wickedness. Women went for those eyes. His hair was black, and always seemed to do exactly what he wanted it to. His cheeks and chin were peppered with just the right amount of grizzle. He'd been born lucky in looks, which was good, because in every other department things had been pretty shit. Abandoned as a baby on the steps of an orphanage, brought up with a bare minimum of education in a dead-end town in the backwaters of Lapin. It wasn't the best start in life.

He showed some talent with words, so they'd taught him to write. But reading didn't interest him. Stories seemed pointless; they weren't real. Instead, he turned his talent to charm and lies. He learned early on how the right words could turn an adult's wrath to indulgent chuckling. He learned, later, how they could induce a woman to take him to bed.

There had been many women since, but only one that meant anything.

The barman put a mug down in front of him. He picked it up and drank from it. His eyes flicked back to the mirror. He couldn't help it.

He needed to check he was still there.

What's wrong with me?

It had started soon after they landed at Thornlodge Hollow. At first he'd thought he was just rattled. He'd nearly flown the Ketty Jay into the side of a valley, and that was bound to shake anyone up. But days passed and he still felt the same. He'd scraped past death before and it hadn't bothered him particularly. What was different this time?

It was the thought that sprang into his head, in that moment when he really believed he was going to die.

What will I leave behind?

He couldn't think of a single thing. No property, no family. If he was erased right now, what evidence would there be that he'd lived? What was he worth, except a few drunken toasts from a loyal crew? There were six people in his life he could count as friends, and they were a rag-tag bunch at best.

Suddenly, it didn't seem enough.

What about Retribution Falls, eh? he asked himself. You pretty much saved the Coalition back then!

He felt a small surge of pride as he remembered the events of the previous winter, when he'd been framed for the murder of the Archduke's son. In the process of wriggling out of that particular predicament, he ended up averting a coup against the Archduke by leading the Navy to a hidden pirate army at Retribution Falls.

But even that didn't feel like much, if he was honest. He didn't give a toss about the Coalition. One Archduke was much the same as the other to him. He hadn't been acting out of noble intentions; he'd been trying to save his own hide. And besides, the only people who knew about his involvement were some Navy personnel and a few Century Knights. Better that way. If the pirate community ever found out about his rather spectacular betrayal, he wouldn't last long.

It didn't mean anything. Nothing meant anything.

He swigged his grog. The year since Retribution Falls had been squandered, like all the years before it. The money they made had been spent. And now here they were again, living day-to-day, scrabbling for enough ducats to keep the Ketty Jay in the sky. Silo would need parts for the engine, of that he was sure. Frey wouldn't have enough to buy them. It was a miserable state of affairs.