Percy twisted and elbowed his assailant in the throat.
Rue struggled to extract herself from a newly intimate relationship with the tea hamper.
Percy delivered a very nice punch to his opponent’s eye. The man, who may or may not have been one of those who tried to board before, pulled a knife and turned his attention onto Rue.
Rue found a grip on the hamper and swung it in a wide arc, clipping him on the side of the head. Until that moment she had not realised how satisfying the sound of wicker crunching could be.
It didn’t fell the ruffian, but it dazed him enough for Percy to get in another punch.
“Bloody hell,” said Percy, shaking his hand, “that hurts.”
“Imagine how he feels.” Rue’s attention drifted to assess the larger situation. She needed to establish command.
“Percy, can you manage this?”
“If I must.”
Rue left the poop deck for the quarterdeck. Away from the helm and associated clutter, the quarterdeck afforded her a better vantage point on the battle taking place on the main deck below.
Several ruffian types had boarded once again. Decklings had one invader up against the forecastle break, four deadly crossbows pressing against his delicate parts. Other decklings had taken to the rigging and were poised for a clear shot, should any of the enemy try to escape. Deckhands engaged two others in fisticuffs.
The three remaining enemies seemed to be trying to make their way belowdecks via the main hatch to the staircase.
Behind her came a crash as Percy brought one of her potted sunflowers down on his assailant’s head. The man fell, insensate.
“Oh, Percy, really, must you waste my disinfecting sunflowers?”
Percy look prim. “The evidence supporting the efficaciousness of sunflower use in aetherosphere transit is sketchy at best.”
Rue turned back to the battle. What are they after? Percy’s research perhaps? Or Quesnel’s preservation tank? A tank that would allow vampires and werewolves to travel by air was a gold mine. No doubt Professor Lefoux was busy writing up petitions to modify the patent, now that they knew it worked on werewolves. Quesnel will have told me everything. Or Mother will have. Inventors did talk to each other. If someone knew what that tank could do and blabbed? It could be a target. And now her father was inside it.
Rue barked out orders, trying to cut through the yelling of excited decklings. “Threat headed belowdecks! Stop them! Willard, Spoo, marshal your troops. Don’t forget your training.”
Spoo gave a series of piercing whistles. “Decklings to the ground! Invaders at the main hatch!” Those who had been waiting high up to pick off stragglers leapt down.
Willard left off trading blows and, with a signal from his beefy arm, called one of his fellows to replace him. The deckhand stepped in and Willard followed Spoo’s decklings towards the three men wrestling with the hatch.
The main hatch was big and heavy but not difficult to open. It operated on a hydraulic pump, with a foot lever on both sides, so someone carrying, for example, a large wicker tea hamper could make it down without need of hands. Fortunately, the concept of a foot-activated door seemed incomprehensible to the enemy. Two were scrabbling about looking for a hand lever and the third was trying to muscle the thing open with his fingertips. Since the hatch fitted seamlessly into the deck, there was no way to get a grip and the man was merely bloodying his nails.
There were two other ways to get below. One was the ladder which Rue had just used from the captain’s quarters to the quarterdeck aft. It was a non-standard modification, so even had the enemy stolen schematics of The Spotted Custard they wouldn’t know it was there. The other was the staff ladder near the forecastle, which no gentleman, not even one bent on criminal activities, would deign to use.
“He’s staining my deck with his blood!” objected Rue.
“Don’t you worry, Lady Captain, that’s what swabbing is for,” comforted Spoo as she nipped by to join the fray.
The invaders rather gave up at that juncture. No doubt they had not anticipated the ship to be so well defended and so populated, everyone being on shift in preparation for the imminent float off.
The leader, one of the three trying to go below, looked up and made eye contact with Rue. He was a darkly handsome man, or would have been had his visage not been marred by a fierce scowl that only deepened upon seeing Rue. Of course, when they attacked, she’d been out of sight. Aha! thought Rue, pleased. Scared of me, are you? Quite right.
Then Willard hit him broadside with one meaty fist. The man twisted away and yelled some fancy foreign word. With which all the invaders took off down the gangplank.
Two deckhands made to chase but Rue called, “No time. We’ve a current to catch.”
Decklings took pot shots with their crossbows at the retreating men, but only in a desultory fashion.
Just like that, it was over.
“I want to know what they were after.” Rue let frustration colour her voice. “Please report in with clues and theories. Nothing is too minor. Everyone understand?”
Her crew nodded.
“Now, is anyone injured?” No one seemed to be, except the tea hamper and one potted sunflower, which had taken the brunt of the battle. There were a few bumps and bruises, but nothing her crew might not garner during the ordinary course of work.
“Please see Miss Primrose for plaster and medicinals.”
They hadn’t a medic on board, but Primrose was capable in a pinch. She emerged from where she had taken refuge, behind the overturned cartload of kippers. She’d lost her hat and a smoked fish now draped over her lovely hair in a jaunty manner. Rue forbore to say, although she really wanted to, how this would only make Prim more intriguing to Tasherit. The werelioness was awfully fond of kippers.