Interlude 5: Seize the Booty (1/2)
THREE NIGHTS AGO
The Cotton Tale touched down with practiced ease, as Harey Karey used her control of the air to cushion the landing. Not a thump or a bump as it eased into the grass of the farmer's field. The lights of the city were a steady twinkle in the distance, and they'd been an aid to navigating through the night.
Anne Bunny leaped down with a golden grin on her face and a hidden pistol in her hand as she kept an eye on the treeline. Sure enough, there were figures coming out to meet her, and sure enough they had their hands up and empty, but you didn't get to stay the captain of an incredibly valuable ancient airship without taking a few basic precautions.
“You are the pirates, then?” said a human in a loose fitting shirt with baggy pants.
Anne took a long look at her ship, with her crew standing ready at the railings, cutlasses and hooks and flintlocks and halitosis all ready for the first sign of treachery.
“Nay,” she said, glaring at the fool in front of her. “We be flooring inspectors.”
The figures halted.
“Of course we be the pirates!” Anne snapped. “Drop the farce and tell us the plan, we're burning moonlight here!”
ONE NIGHT AGO
It was hot in the warrens that the actors had dug under their theater. Hot and close, and some part of Anne approved. Some instinctual part, that remembered the closeness of the tiny shack she'd been born in, the warmth of her brothers and sisters, and the smell of mother.
But the piratical mind that she'd worked hard to forge out of that child's soul disapproved. Too many tight corners. Too many ambush points. She was used to being up and above, or surrounded by mostly empty ocean. In places where she could see trouble coming and work out how to stab, shoot, or flee it before it struck.
Some people would say that was ironic, given her love of ambushes and all, but any pirate worth their salt could tell those people that when you were talking about surprise attacks, it was much, much better to give than to receive.
Thoughts of giving and receiving made her smile. Her crew had vastly enjoyed the menching and wenching that being in a big city provided. Most hadn't made it outside the warrens... their hosting troupe of “actors,” were being extra careful. Fortunately, everyone was thirsty enough after that long voyage that no one minded much. The poor humans in the troupe were getting a workout, though. Most couldn't keep up with her pirates.
One of the few that could smirked at her across the table. She sneered back. This Gaston fellow hadn't stopped trying to get into her drawers the second she'd arrived, but something about him set her ears on edge. He weren't right, and she couldn't say why.
“We may have complications,” said his companion, and she was much easier to look at, that one. Anne twisted her sneer into a smile as she glanced over to Jean, then down to the little dollhouse model of the Cotton Tale, the square around it, the buildings surrounding the square, and the tiny little miniature figurines that she'd filled the three-dimensional map with.
“It's been clear that someone has been trying to hinder Celia— Cecelia, I mean,” Jean stumbled. “Small annoyances, contradicting her orders after they're given, attempts to limit her recruitment of staff... It's a subtle harassment campaign.”
“Petty landlubber bullshit. Got it,” Anne nodded.
“It's... more than that. When Gaston got involved, they tried to rough him up and drive him away.”
“They failed. Miserably,” Gaston chuckled.
“Pity,” Anne muttered.
Gaston looked puzzled.
Jean rolled her eyes. “No time,” she pressed on. “Early on I believed they were simply trying to drive her to self-harm. But the more I think about it, the more I wondered why they came for Gaston. It seemed out of place with the rest of their plan.”
“I've learned never to underestimate the stupidity of men. Or women, for that matter. Or non-binary sorts.”
“What?” Gaston squinted.
“Don't sweat yerself, swabbie,” Anne slapped his shoulder. Maybe a little harder than necessary. “So what yer telling me, Jeanie girl, is that when we try to grab our target, there might be a few more landlubbers between us and our payday?”
“She has a name,” Jean was tensed now, ears drawn back. Oh, she had fallen for the girl hard, it was clear to see. But Anne didn't mind that. So long as she could do the job, she didn't care just how the actress wanted to play with her doll.
“Aye, but that name's a bit hard to hear behind the noise that all the gold coins of our payment will make when I go swimming in them,” Anne grinned back. “Relax, doe. The contract says to deliver her booty intact and unharmed, and so shall she be. Now, let's talk about just how we're going to tie these guidelines so we can release'em quick when things get going...”
NOW
“Look out Celia!” shouted Jean.
Anne paused, mid-lash.
She whirled, completely forgetting the dance steps she'd practiced, and stared as some bastard, some human waste of air, loomed up over her target's chair and brought a hammer down on Cecelia Gearhart's head.
Time slowed.
The hammer dropped.
Anne went for her pistol belt, but she knew she'd be late, too late...
...and the hammer bounced back, as Cecelia fell off the chair. As if it had struck a hard helmet, though it had done naught but crack her in the skull.
And Anne felt her lips peel back from her golden front teeth, as she remembered what Jean had told her of Cecelia's jobs.
Ruler? Aye, only to be expected. Model? Made sense, and worked well for what she was doing. Animator? A strange job, that, but her encounter with that Threadbare fellow had shown her that it was useful. Particularly in the mending department.
But Cecelia's last job was Knight, and oh, Anne knew that one well. She'd fought many Knights in her time, and she knew just how troublesome a well-kept Code of Chivalry could be. And that was only one of their defensive skills. No, that had probably hurt like a sunovabitch, but she doubted it had written the little lady into the deadbook.
The assassin's surprise was palpable, and he kicked the chair aside, brought the hammer up again...
...and some instinct made him look up, and meet Anne's eyes.
He was an unremarkable man. Dressed in simple clothes, with his hair pulled back into a small ponytail. The only concession to his murderous intentions were the hammer, and a garish festival mask over half his face. It had a nice pattern to it. Anne decided she rather fancied it, so she aimed a little high and blew the other half of his face through the back of his skull.
Jean was already off the stage and bolting through the surprised crowd, arrowing straight for the fallen dolly.
Anne thought fast. “Arr! Don't worry, me hearties! All part of the show!” she bellowed.
The crowd paused.
The assassin's body collapsed into the lap of an elderly dowager.
The four people behind her screamed and tried to rub brains and blood and skull fragments out of their eyes.
The crowd panicked. They surged to their feet and ran, helter-skelter, trying to
Anne shrugged. “Well, we tried. You lot! New plan! Get in there and seize that dolly!”
She cracked her whip for emphasis, and her crew leaped to! There were only a dozen of them onstage, but she judged that would be more than enough.
And under any other circumstance she'd be right.
But as the crowd cleared, running in all directions, she saw figures pushing through it. Humans, dwarves, and other breathing sorts with golems riding on their shoulders, looked like. At least two full parties worth, she figured.
Two full parties and one very large suit of armor with helm that looked like a minotaur's head. Its eyes glowed red as they turned on her, and she laughed, and snapped her whip on the deck. “Well now! This is getting interesting! Come if you've got a pair, ya scallywag!” Muttering her buffs under her breath, she finished with “Swinger!” and leaped into the air, tossing aside her whip as she caught a guideline and swung down into the rapidly-clearing aisles.
She looked to Jean, and saw the actress with her hands open and to the sides, pleading. She was crying, and it hurt to see her cry, in a way that made Anne's heart go out to her... then she shook her head as she realized what was going on.
WILL+1
“Using yer social skills. Going after that dolly's soft heart, hm?” Anne looked to the dolly in question... and found Cecelia glaring at Jean, rubbing a crack in her skull, with a full cordon of animated knives whirring around her. “Good luck with that, me hearty.”