Threadbare - 55Interlude 5: Seize the Booty

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.”

She looked to her crew, found them forming into rough lines between the unexpected reinforcements and the drama in front of the stage. That was good, but she had no idea what they were up against.

But then she had other worries, as she heard a deep voice bellow from her flank.

“Rammit!”

Moving with instinct, moving before she had time to think, she dove forward and tucked herself into a roll as she heard a row of chairs explode behind her, heard the thundering, hollow, armored footsteps of the minotaur crash past, then turn and wheel around. She rose to her feet drawing two pistols from her brace and sent two shots toward the great towering golem. One struck home, but it barely seemed to dent his chest a bit.

Anne laughed and threw the pistols aside, cross-drawing her cutlass and her off-hand knife, shot a quick glance back toward the stage, then charged him.

“Ya lost the second you came here, me bucko!” she roared, ducking as he tried to sweep his battleaxe through her. “We’ve got a job to do and yer in the way!

She played the drums with the armor, clattering her blades off it, checking the numbers when she could spare a quick look. She was hurting him, aye, but not much. He was made of armor, plain and simple. All the dirty tricks she could bring to bear, all the tendons she was used to slicing, all the bleeding cuts she’d usually try to gouge… none of those things would work here. So after a few hard strikes she switched to the flat of the blade, to try and spare her weapons some sharpening later.

“From what I’m told you’re not a bad lot as pirates go,” the minotaur said, as she barely dodged a snap-kick that would have probably broken her knee. “Surrender and you’ll be well treated.”

“From what I’ve seen you’re not a bad lot as townsfolk go,” she said. “Surrender and we’ll borrow yer dolly and be off.”

He caught her in the face with the butt of the axe, sending her back a few steps, and tried to grab for her arm. But with grace no human could match, she was rolling to the side, hitting the ground shoulder first and tumbling, before snapping to her feet again.

She got a look at the stage while doing so, and saw that the fight had done what she’d hoped. More crew were pouring out of the hatches, some heading down to reinforce the ones who were keeping a cordon around Cecelia and Jean, and more moving into positions on the deck.

Anne parried the axe, fell full-on shocks up her arm as she took stamina damage from the impact, and used her knife to make a few signals.

Unfortunately her foe was pretty sharp.

“What? Oh, you’re playing shenanigans, aren’t you?” the minotaur said, and looked toward Jean and Cecelia. “Get through the line! Get her to safety! We win if she escapes!”

The second he looked away she dropped her knife, pulled a pistol, and shot one of the golems off the shoulder of his battle-buddy. Surprised, the warrior looked down, and the crewbunny he was fighting stabbed him in the face.

“What? No!” the minotaur shouted, and Anne laughed and two-handed the cutlass, catching a brutal swipe of the axe on the side and deflecting it to the ground.

“If ya don’t want dead friends then deal with me, bucko! I’m your problem now! You’re up against Captain Anne Bunny!”

“And I’m Garon. And that was Snapper you shot, and his husband James who’s down and bleeding over there. So with all due respect I’m going to kill you and get the answers I want from your corpse if you don’t KNOCK IT OFF RIGHT NOW!”

He punctuated the words with short, fast thrusts and swings of the axe, poking at her with the spike on the end and driving her back. She let him gain ground a bit at a time, grinning as she went.

And as he drove her back, she heard a snippet of Jean and Cecelia’s conversation.

“We weren’t. I swear. That man, he wasn’t with us, we shot him, why would we shoot him if he was ours?”

“You wouldn’t be the first to sacrifice a minion for your goals. That was how my father did business. You remember him? The daemon summoner? The mad tyrant?”

“And we’re not him! We… please. We just want to take you to meet someone. The future of your nation, your future, your happiness, all of these things depend on it!”

“Then why are you attacking my friends! You could have just asked!”

“Could we? There’s a strange assassin dead at your feet! What do you think they would have done if we tried to come in good faith? You have enemies here, and you can’t see them because you’re too close! Come with us, please! You don’t have to trust us, you can hold those knives to my throat the whole way if you like. You don’t have to trust… me.”

It was a beautiful little bit of drama.

Too beautiful. Too… distracting. And Anne realized that just a second too late.

Garon’s axe caught her square in the chest, and she doubled over, feeling the pain, feeling ribs give…

And in that instant of slowed time, in that fraction of a second before blood gushed up and out her throat, Anne whispered, “Cannon Fodder.”

The crewbunny who’d stabbed James screamed as she tore in half.

And Anne straightened up again, her hide whole, but her blouse cut where the axe had cleaved it.

“Of course,” Garon grumbled. “Bandit tricks. You can shunt damage to anyone you’ve promoted.”

“That’s how Band O’Bastards works, aye.” Anne said, stowing her cutlass back in its sheath. “And I think our time is about up, mister bull.”

“What?” she pointed, and clearly against his better judgment he turned a bit, brought a red eye to bear over to where Cecelia had taken Jean’s hand, and was walking toward the ship. “No! Cecelia! It’s a trick, don’t follow her!”

Anne dodged past him in that moment of distraction, leaping into the air as he grabbed for her, missed. “Too slow! It’s over!” she said as she grabbed a swinging line, and rode it back to the stage.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, but you’re not getting away from me!” Garon bellowed, lowering his horns and starting his charge. “Rammit!”

Anne nodded, as he came thundering down the aisle. Then she drew her cutlass, looked to the crew gathered around the railing, and raised it. “Oh me poor metal bucko. I told you. You lost the second you came here!”

She slashed the cutlass down, pointed it to Garon.

The firing ports of the “stage” slammed open.

And four full cannons worth of canister shot blew away chairs, carpets, decorations, and one very surprised doll haunter.

“Garon!” Cecelia shrieked, caught midway up the ladder. “What have you done?” she struggled free of Jean’s hand and started down the ladder again…

…and yelped in surprise as Anne scooped up her whip from the deck, lashed out with it, and pulled her in. “Oh no ye don’t! Hold tight me pretty. We’ve gone to too much trouble to collect you.

Five knives cut through the air, and hovered in front of Anne’s face. “Let. Me. Go.”

“Reload the guns!” Anne barked. “At the first stab, open fire on them armor remnants! And keep firing until everything’s pulverized! Including soulstones.”

Cecelia hesitated. Glass eyes met Anne’s own.

And Cecelia blinked first. “No. I… damn it. I surrender. Don’t hurt him. Don’t break any soulstones.”

“I agree to yer terms. Welcome aboard! Go over and keep Jean company, lass.” Anne smiled, and tried not to look too gloaty. “We’re done. All right! All hands on board! Anyone who ain’t on board gets left behind!”

She turned then, headed for the wheel, then stopped and frowned. There was one last bit of business to attend to. “Karey! Get our prisoners! Kick them off the ship! They can explain matters to the town guard for us!”

There was no reply.

“Karey?”

The sounds of battle had died down now, and she was certain that her first mate would have heard her. She headed toward the stairs down to the forecastle…

…and paused and stared, as a halven stepped out of the shadows, flaring a hand full of silvery metal cards.

A halven who by rights should be behind a sturdy locked door, guarded at all times, and out of earshot of anyone, anyone at all who didn’t have the strongest possible willpower to resist her silvered tongue. A halven who was easily the most dangerous of Anne’s five very dangerous prisoners.

“You!” Anne barked.

“Me,” said Chase Berrymore.