The Mattherhill Pirates

The Mattherhill Pirates

Fox Riley

Copyright 2015 by Fox Riley

Smashwords Edition

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Prologue – The Island of Iskar

The Tarbug, mark two.

The sun shone bright in the sky, glinting off the wings and windshield of the small black craft as it circled down over the island. It was a mark two, part of the Tarbug series of airship, a personal flier just big enough for a team of three people and their supplies. The small solar engines buzzed like a blowfly, lending something insectile to the ship's appearance. Loud but efficient, the Tarbug was a model made for manoeuvrability. The perfect choice for the three people it carried.

Inside the cockpit was cramped and warm, the air filtration system not quite good enough to compete with the harsh tropical sun streaming in through the glass. The man in the pilot's chair leaned forward to peer at the map of the southern hemisphere open in front of him. That's Iskar, he confirmed. The only land mass in this direction within spitting distance of a Swallowtail's range.

What do you think, Lenora? The other man in the ship asked from the pilot's right, with a glance back over his shoulder. Are we in the right place?

The Tarbug's third occupant, Lenora, leaned forward, brushing ginger hair away from her face and craning her neck to look out the window at the island below. Concentric patterns in the trees, she said, eyes narrowed in concentration, and look over there. Those lines might be evidence of walls. Yes, I'd say this is the place.

I'll circle around, the pilot said, see if there's a spot big enough to land.

Sunlight glinted off the Tarbug's wings as the pilot turned the ship. Lenora sat back in her seat, satisfaction warring with excitement on her face. Iskar was unexplored and deserted. The dormant volcano in its centre previously enough for scientists and explorers alike to assume that it was, and always had been, inhospitable. A dangerous rocky coastline and sharp, jagged reefs had kept the explorers of old away, but in the age of the airship no island was unreachable. No matter how inhospitable it was said to be.

A sudden bout of turbulence rocked the small craft, making it judder and jump in the air. The pilot adjusted his angle, riding it through with expert care. Suddenly, just as it seemed they were through the worst of it something small and hard slammed into the left wing, punching through the underside to smash through the solar panel on top. An ominous, beeping alarm filled a cockpit, a small red light flashing on and off on the console.

What –? The pilot had time for just the one word before the world turned to chaos.

A series of impacts hit the side of the Tarbug from below, high calibre bullets big enough to have come from a small canon that punched through the hull and tore the left engine apart. The airship lurched, forced into a spin by the undamaged right engine. Mechanics screeching, wind howling through the cracks and tears in the hull, the Tarbug dropped from the air in a trail of smoke. Thrown hard against the wall, Lenora fought to get back into her seat and buckle her safety harness before the inevitable crash.

The pilot fought the wheel, guiding the ship as best he could with only one engine. It was a losing battle and all he could do to try and see that they came in on a shallow angle rather than a steep one. Grim-faced he stared out the windshield, ignoring the panicked yells of the man beside him. Trees loomed up from underneath, the leafy canopy doing nothing to cushion their impact.

The Tarbug came own hard in a spray of dirt, ripping up saplings and splintering the trunks of trees. Part of the damaged left side of the ship came away, torn off against the ground and casting off shrapnel as it went. The nose crumpled against the dirt. There was the sound of something cracking, and a jolt that hit him like a punch to the chest. Finally the Tarbug stopped, still smoking, a wreck embedded in the side of the mountain.

The pilot sighed in relief, finally releasing the wheel with hands that felt numb. The metal spur that had flown through the windshield and pinned him to his chair was a vice in his chest, pressure without pain.

Wilton, Lenora gasped, winded and bruised, her eyes big and round, her face drawn and unnaturally pale.

Beside him the other man was still screaming.

Shut up, Vane, the pilot said, the words strangely hard to force out. He took a deep breath, as deep as the spur would allow and let it out slowly. By the time the other man stopped screaming, Wilton was dead.

Act I – Scriftshire and Langford.

Nick Inherits Some Annoyances.

After the third knock the door swung open of its own accord - the cheap, faulty lock no match for the powerful, thumping blows. Nick half-turned in his chair, a tired look on his face, to see who the hell was bothering him at this time of day two hours after he was supposed to have finished and clocked off. The door hinges creaked as they went, a little rusty and never properly oiled, and the door itself juddered to a halt at the wall. In the doorway, illuminated by the cheap electric overhead, stood two of the most attractive people Nick had ever seen outside of theatre posters and paintings. One man, and one woman, both of them perfect examples of human beauty.

They were eerily similar, both dressed in a manner that reminded Nick of guard uniforms with their thick leather jackets and practical brown boots. Both of them had pulse guns holstered at their sides and wore the fingerless grip-gloves favoured by professional sharpshooters. They even had the

same set of tattoos, leopard spots that framed the outside of their eyes from cheekbones to temples, the same golden-bronze skin, the same wild dark brown hair, and the same light brown eyes.

Nicolai Serreford? the man spoke, addressing him in a pleasant baritone.

Nick blinked, taking a moment to consider the reasons two armed strangers might show up at his workplace in the late evening hours. Unlike some of the others who worked for this particular shipping company Nick's history was neither shady nor questionable. He had no debts, he wasn't a gambler, and he didn't have any close ties to anyone who was. These two weren't police and they weren't military, that much was obvious. There was no reason he could think of, sinister or otherwise, that he should keep his identity to himself.

Nick, he corrected the man, standing up so he could face the door properly, that's me.

I'm Tucker, the man told him, then gestured to the woman beside him, this is Jenni.

We're here about your uncle, the woman continued.

Nick frowned. What about him?

He's dead, they said in unison, a flat-voiced statement that should have made him feel something.

But after so many years Nick couldn't even muster up a twinge of sadness. His uncle was dead, Robert Serreford was dead, and Nick didn't feel anything. They had been close once, the same way Nick had been close with the rest of his family. Before the war. Before he threw away a promising career to volunteer his services to the federal military and not the militia being formed by certain parts of the aristocracy. That was the wedge that had separated him from his family - nobody had cared that he was willing to throw away his years at Hartford and Kent or the internship at the Rothwell Institute, all they cared about was that he had chosen to support the wrong people. Nick had thrown away his career and thrown in his lot with the secularists, and what remained of his family after the war hadn't spoken to him since.

Even though it would make him seem cold, Nick simply stared at the two strangers and asked simply; Then shouldn't you be in Hardbury talking to my father? What has this got to do with me?

The two strangers glanced at each other, an indecipherable look passing over their faces. You don't know? Jenni asked, a guarded look on her pretty face.

Know what? Nick demanded.

You're in the will, Tucker replied. You're his sole beneficiary.

That at least made him feel something. Shock. A deep and overwhelming sense of surprise. Somehow managing to keep too much of his surprise from showing, Nick shook his head. I was under the impression that I'd been disinherited.

The two shared another glance. Your father did, Tucker admitted. We just came from Hardbury.

We spoke to him already, Jenni continued, he tried to contest the will. It didn't hold up.

That's why we're here, Tucker finished, the will stipulates that you needed to be told in person.

We have a copy here, Jenni fished for a moment inside her jacket, coming up with a slightly crumpled white envelope bearing the Serreford family seal. She held it out expectantly. In case you want to go over the details yourself.

Nick hesitated a moment, if only from a natural reluctance to have anything to do with the family crest, then reached out to take the envelope. Two sets of amber eyes flicked down to his hand. They said nothing and neither did he. Prosthetics like this one were still fairly uncommon, even years after the technology had first become available they were still rarely seen outside big cities. Nick had gotten used to the looks quicker than he'd gotten used to the hand itself. Now he barely noticed either of them.

He slid his thumb under the seal, the wax peeling neatly away. Inside the envelope was an official looking document stamped with the words 'copy' and 'Tarsig and Sons' at the top. Nick recognised the company name - his uncle's lawyers - and the looping, curling signature at the bottom. He scanned the document, looking for confirmation. Amongst all the flowery, official language, the details lurked. Nick was indeed his uncle's sole beneficiary, the will did state that he must be told in person, and he was further encouraged to divide or liquidate his uncle's estate as he saw fit... as long as it was done in person, by himself, from Robert's estate in Langford.

You're not lawyers, Nick said plainly, looking up from the copy of the will to the two of them still standing in the doorway. You're certainly not messengers or couriers. You're mercenaries, aren't you?

Jenni shrugged. Sort of.

We do a bit of this, a bit of that... Tucker waved a hand carelessly as he spoke, whatever needs doing.

We were employed by your uncle.

Still are, until his accounts are closed or you stop payments.

Nick frowned. Why would my uncle employ... No. He stopped himself, folded up the copy of the will and stuffed it into a pocket. I don't care right now. It's late, and I want to get home. I'll deal with this - with you, he thought - tomorrow.

The two of them shrugged and stepped to either side of the doorway to let him through. We're staying at the Royal, Tucker informed him as he passed. We have transport arranged back to Langford when we need it.

Tomorrow, Nick repeated firmly, locking the office door. He didn't wait for either of them to reply after that, just walked away.

Quick, long strides ate up the distance between his poky little office and the fence that blocked off the shipping company's land from the rest of the town. Once he was past the fence it was only a short walk back to his apartment, an equally poky little three room affair on the third floor of an old renovated hotel. It wasn't much, the fixtures old and tarnished, the electric overheads barely bright enough to see by, but it was his. Inside the door Nick stopped to take off his coat and boots, noting with some annoyance that the holes he'd just mended in his socks the week before had opened up again. Security work didn't pay very well. Then again, nor did many jobs in this town.

With a sigh Nick sat down on his single threadbare couch and thought about the will in his pocket. Nick's family were old blood, old money who used to like to boast that they could trace their lineage all the way back to royalty. Those claims had petered off in the years before the civil war, but the arrogance and the idea behind them remained. They were rich, and therefore they deserved to be treated with privilege. Nick's father, Erland Serreford, had been the younger son. As such he had inherited only part of the Serreford estate when his parents passed and even so he retained a considerable amount of money, enough that he would never want for anything (except perhaps a less disagreeable son).

By contrast Robert had the Serreford lands, less now than there had been, as well as the townhouse in Langford and accounts with several of the largest banks in the country.

He'd had more money than Nick, or anyone else, would see in a lifetime. And, according to his will, he had left it all to the wayward nephew that his brother had disowned.

What were you thinking? Nick asked aloud. And, more to the point, what was he thinking?

He didn't want the fuss and the pomp that came with the aristocracy, who clung to traditions and fashions even more now that they had no power to influence the governing powers of this country. He didn't need acres and acres of land that could better be put to use as agriculture or farming, and he certainly didn't need a townhouse in a city that held nothing of interest to him. The money though... the money would be nice. He could quit his job, get a better one, one that he actually liked. Or just not even work at all. He could buy himself a house, or even a ship, and move out south and west to the colonies in Javalair. He could do anything he wanted, he wouldn't be tied to any one thing. Money opened up opportunities. The rich never realised how lucky they were until they weren't rich anymore.

Assuming the will was legitimate, which was as easy to check as telegraphing a message to Tarsig and Sons for confirmation, Nick had just come into a very large inheritance.

He smiled slightly. He knew himself well enough to realise that Javalair was nothing more than a passing fancy. Nick was a man grounded in reality, a man who liked to work and who wasn't given to leisure. Even as a boy he'd preferred study, and ambition towards being something useful, to lounging about the family's mansion attending parties as his father expected. He'd never be happy like that. If he bought a ship it would be a working ship, and if he bought a house it would be a matter of practicality. He would keep what he needed, Nick decided, and sell the rest or donate it to the many charities and universities that found their seat in Langford.

Once upon a time Nick had gone to a university in Langford.

***

The morning sun shone weak and pale behind the clouds when Nick finally emerged from his apartment. It was half an hour past the time when he was supposed to have clocked in at work and by now his supervisor would have noticed. Dressed in his best coat – the only one he had that wasn't patched or worn – and a neatly pressed waistcoat, shoes buffed and polished, Nick was not on his way to work. He took the stairs to the ground floor of the apartment building and instead of turning left at the front door he turned right towards the town centre. A brisk fifteen-minute walk saw him outside the telegraph office where he spent five cents per word for a message to Tarsig and Sons in Langford. It took a further half an hour for him to receive a reply, at which point the clerk asked him for a further ten cents. Feeling cheated, Nick forked over the money, his pockets suddenly feeling much lighter than he was comfortable with. It was worth it for the reply. A small square of paper that he read over twice just to make sure it said what he thought it did.

‘Document authentic. Original copy in archives. Congratulations on your inheritance.'

Nick tucked the square of paper into the inside pocket of his coat and nodded his thanks to the clerk. He felt strangely numb, reeling from sudden financial vertigo as the reality of the situation hit him in full. His uncle had just died, and Nick had just inherited his estate.

He had to stop for breath outside, standing on the sidewalk like an absolute idiot as he took deep breaths and tried to get his head wrapped around what he needed to do next.

He would need to find transport to Langford, something that would cost him a good deal more than the money he had remaining on his person. Nick mentally counted what meagre savings he had invested with the local bank, remembering only belatedly that he already had an offer of transport from the sort-of mercenaries in his late uncle's employ. Without really meaning to Nick found himself walking towards the Royal, a cheaply priced hotel with a cheaply priced pub on the ground floor.

It made sense of course, to use the two of them to get to his uncle's townhouse in Langford. He doubted their integrity in the same way he doubted all mercenaries, but as long as there was the promise of money he didn't think they would lead him astray. After all, without Nick to claim Robert's estate eventually it would fall into the ownership of the government. Assets would be liquidated, accounts would be closed, and whatever payment system Robert had arranged for those two would be cut off. It was in their best interests to do well by him.

With that in mind Nick made for the Royal with growing confidence. It didn't take him very long to get there. An ugly, square building with peeling paint, the outside of the Royal said all you needed to know about the quality of the establishments inside. It was run down and shabby, most of the customers equally so. Nick bypassed the restaurant and went straight to the front desk of the hotel where a small, thin, bespectacled clerk in pinstripes was reading a newspaper.

The clerk looked up at him as he approached, though he didn't put the newspaper down. Can I help you with something? he asked over the top of the newsprint.

I'm looking for some people, Nick replied, leaning against the counter. A man and a woman, tanned, dark hair, tattoos, look like they might be mercs.

The clerk put down the paper. The twins, he said, nonplussed. Third floor, first door on the right.

Thanks. Nick pushed himself away from the counter and headed for the stairs, the clerk calling out after him;

Tell them if they've broken furniture they have to pay for it!

Nick trotted up the stairs, wondering if that was an accurate measure of their character or if the clerk said that to all of the hotel's guests. Frankly either option wouldn't have surprised him. He came to the first door on the right of the third floor landing and knocked. Unlike his office door this one had a latch that actually worked and didn't swing open of its own accord. Instead he had to wait as thumping footsteps made their way across the hotel room floor. Nick stepped back just before the door swung open.

Tucker stood there, barefoot and coatless, pulse gun in hand. It's you, he said upon seeing Nick, and let the hand with the pulse gun drop down to his side. Come in, he suggested, turning his back on Nick to walk away into the hotel room, Jenni's doing coffee.

Nick hesitated a moment, a natural reluctance to trust a mercenary on their home ground flaring up. He reasoned again that these two had every reason to help him and swallowed his reluctance to follow the other man inside. I just came from the telegraph office, he said, closing the door behind him. Tarsig and Sons confirmed your story.

So you're ready to go to Langford? The question came from the far corner of the hotel room where Jenni stood behind a portable electric burner where a copper coffee pot was just beginning to steam.

The hotel room was spacious and well equipped but somehow gave off an air of neglect. The furniture was just this side of shabby, the wallpaper peeling at the corners and the carpet worn away in spots near the window and the doorway. Two bags had been tossed haphazardly down behind the couch, jackets hung from the curtain rods, and a holster belt complete with pulse-gun had been flung down on the low-set coffee table. There was no broken furniture, Nick noted, so that should keep the clerk downstairs happy.

Tucker sat down on the couch, disturbing a threadbare afghan and slightly squashed pillow in the process. Nick remained standing. Sitting down would have seemed too familiar.

I'm ready to talk about Langford, he told them