The Black Lung Captain

Seventeen

The soiree was hosted by the Duke of Lapin's third cousin, Aberham Race, and held at his townhouse in the duchy's capital. Unlike the Archduke and his wife, Race was a devout supporter of the Awakeners, and not afraid to show it. He used these soirees to drum up support for the organisation, which was suffering under progressively harsher edicts passed down against it by the Archduke. Frey thought that punishment was only fair, really, since the Awakeners were behind the murder of the Archduke's son the winter before last.

Politics had always depressed him, so he only paid cursory attention to Amalicia's explanations as they rattled along the cobbled avenues in the back of a motorised carriage. Crake sat opposite Frey and Amalicia, looking slick and composed. Frey had known him so long that it was easy to forget he was born to the aristocracy. His accent had become so familiar that Frey didn't notice it any more. But seeing him dressed up this way, listening to his polite banter with Amalicia, Frey was reminded of the vast difference in the circumstances of their birth. Amalicia seemed rather charmed by him, despite her initial reservations. She viewed all Frey's companions with mistrust, as if she held them responsible for her lover's long absences.

The townhouse stood in a tree-lined avenue facing a lamplit park. They pulled up outside and a doorman showed them in. A manservant led them upstairs into a series of large drawing-rooms, where the soiree was already well underway.

Frey had to resist the urge to stare. There were glittering chandeliers, gold ceiling roses and embroidered drapes. A glass swan presided over a table of canapes, none of which Frey recognised as food. Bizarre sculptures, apparently designed to intimidate the uneducated, threatened him from their pedestals.

The guests were no less magnificent and alien. The men wore jackets stitched with gold and silver thread; the ladies wore gowns and jewels and glittering headpieces. Frey felt suddenly and completely out of his depth. He was outnumbered here. What did he have in common with these people? Did they even speak the same language he did?

'You look a little grey, Cap'n,' Crake said, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

'Don't call me that,' Frey replied. 'You're my cousin, remember?'

'I remember, dear cousin,' Crake smirked. Frey had the unpleasant feeling that the daemonist was enjoying his discomfort.

A manservant approached with a tray full of glasses of bubbling wine. They all took one.

'Stay sharp tonight,' Frey reminded Crake, indicating the drink in his hand. 'We've got a job to do.'

'Oh, don't worry about me,' said Crake. He glanced off to Frey's right and muttered, 'Incoming.'

A portly, middle-aged woman was making her way across the room towards them. The wrinkles in her sun-beaten face were buried under a thick plaster of make-up. 'Amalicia Thade,' she said. 'So glad you could come.'

'I wouldn't think of missing it,' Amalicia smiled. She turned to Frey and Crake, offering introductions. 'This is Lady Marilla Race, our hostess. Lady Marilla, may I introduce Darian Frey, my fiance.'

Frey choked on his mouthful of wine and bubbles foamed out of his nose.

'Dear me,' said Crake, handing Frey a handkerchief. 'That wine can be tickly on a dry throat, can't it, cousin?' He bowed gallantly to Lady Race. 'My name is Damen Morcutt, of the Marduk Morcutts. It's an honour to attend one of your soirees. Really, quite the highlight of my year so far. May I be bold enough to beg the pleasure of your company for a short while? I'm keen to hear all about Jadney and his exploits in the Navy. I hear he's become quite the young officer.'

'My little Jadney?' Lady Race cooed, as Crake led her off. 'Why, I'd be delighted!'

Frey wiped his face with the handkerchief and looked at Amalicia. 'He's good at this.'

'Pull yourself together,' Amalicia said through gritted teeth. 'What was that all about? Choking in public. Honestly! Can't you behave?'

'Fiance?' Frey asked. 'When were you going to tell me?'

'You wouldn't have got in the door otherwise. Now keep up. That's Chancellor Previn and his wife Marticia. We're going over there. Try to control yourself this time.'

The next hour was a particularly unpleasant one for Frey. It seemed that he met more people during that tortuous sixty minutes than he had in the preceding thirty-one years of his life, and none of them liked him. Somehow everything he said came out wrong. His attempts at wit fell flat. He did his best to follow what they were saying, but it all seemed so damned inconsequential. Marriages, scandals, investment opportunities. Who'd said what about who. Even the men gossiped like old women. Frey tried to come up with something intelligent to contribute, but all he got were blank stares or mildly condescending comments. Amalicia's fixed smile was beginning to crack and wobble at the edges, her patience wearing thinner with every blunder.

Eventually Frey had had enough. He excused himself as best he could and went to locate Crake.

He was surprised to find the daemonist in conversation with a familiar face, and an extremely attractive one at that. It was Samandra Bree, one of the Century Knights, the Archduke's elite hundred. She looked very different without her ever-present tricorn hat, her battered coat and twin shotguns. Instead, she was dressed in a sleek gown of red and black, her dark hair gathered in a ponytail.

'Darian Frey, I declare,' she said as he approached. 'We do meet in the strangest places. As I recall, last time I saw you, you had a noose round your neck.' She looked around the room. 'You've come up in the world.'

'I think I'd rather be hung at this point,' Frey said miserably.

'High society not treating you well?' Crake inquired.

'How do you talk to these people?' Frey asked in exasperation. 'It's like the moment I open my mouth, they're looking down on me.'

'Yes, they'll do that,' said Crake. 'The trick is not to try and engage them on their level. They'll spot a fake. Just be yourself.'

'It's not that easy.'

'Sure it is,' said Samandra. 'Tell me, what do you really think of 'em? Honestly, now.'

Frey gave her a suspicious look. 'You're not an aristocrat, are you?'

'Me? No. Daddy was a Militiaman. Wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but they plucked me out of training school when I eight and sent me to the Knight's Academy.'

'You don't seem out of place here, though.'

'Well, after they got done teaching me to put a bullet between someone's eyes at a hundred yards, they taught me a little etiquette. The Archduke likes some of his Knights to be the public face, you know? That's why my partner ain't here.' She put her hand to her mouth. 'Isn't here, I mean.'

'Colden Grudge?'

'Yeah. Poor Colden. Put him in a place like this and he'd auto-cannon half the room.'

'Now he sounds like the kind of feller I could get on with,' said Frey. 'Speaking of which, we're not still under sentence of death or anything, are we? Never did get to collect those pardons for that whole misunderstanding about the Archduke's son.'

Samandra waved it away. 'Drave took care of it. You're in the clear.'

'Oh, good. I was just thinking how nice it was to meet you again. I'd hate to have to flee for my life.'

'And I'd hate to have to kill you. You seem a decent sort.'

Crake laughed nervously. 'Might I ask what a representative of the Archduke is doing here, at a soiree thrown in support of the Awakeners?'

Samandra looked skyward. 'Good question. I have to be the least popular girl in the room right now. The Archduke wants someone here to remind them we're watching. So here I am.' She nudged Frey. 'You never answered my question. What do you think of the company here?'

'I think they're a bunch of pompous, stuffed-arse idiots and their conversation is boring as watching shit crust over.'

'And how long do you think they'd last in our world? Out there, where the rest of us live?'

Frey grinned. 'Most of 'em would get killed in the first bar they walked into.'

'There you go. Now stop thinking they're better than you, 'cause they ain't. I mean, aren't.'' She rolled her eyes. 'All them etiquette lessons. Waste of good shooting time.'

'I like the way you talk,' Crake murmured into his glass, but nobody heard him.

'Y'know, Samandra, you're right,' said Frey. He was feeling considerably better. 'Who do these rich folk think they are? They're not better than me!' He looked at Crake, then down at the drink in his hand. 'Stay sharp, remember?'

'Stop fretting, Cap'n,' Crake said. 'It's under control.'

Samandra slapped Frey on the shoulder. 'Go out there and get em.

Frey headed back to Amalicia, and met her coming the other way, a look of urgency on her face.

'Where've you been?' she asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, she slipped her arm through his and motioned towards a pudgy man on the other side of the room, who looked rather lost. 'That's the Grand Oracle. Now's our chance.' She propelled him towards their target. 'Just smile a lot, and I'll do the rest.'

The Grand Oracle didn't look particularly grand to Frey. He was a balding, worried-looking man with weak eyes hidden behind a thick pair of spectacles. Frey had imagined him dressed in expensive robes, but instead he wore a long jacket of deep blue velvet, parted down the middle by the thrust of his belly. The emblem of the Cipher was tattooed on his forehead, declaring his faith to everyone.

'Grand Oracle Pomfrey,' said Amalicia. 'Please allow me to introduce my fiance, Darian Frey.'

Frey winced inwardly. He'd heard that word many times over the last hour, but it still came as an unpleasant surprise, like being cudgelled by a mugger.

'Amalicia Thade!' exclaimed the Grand Oracle. 'My, how you've grown!' He shook Frey's hand. 'You're a fortunate man, sir. Congratulations to you both.' Then he turned to Amalicia and became grave. 'Terrible, about your father, my dear. He was a great friend to the Allsoul.'

'As I will be, Grand Oracle,' said Amalicia. ' You know, of course, that I was in training to be a Speaker before tragedy called me away to fulfil my duty to my family.'

Frey raised an eyebrow. As he recalled, she'd been dragged kicking and screaming to that hermitage.

'Quite so, quite so,' said Pomfrey. 'I do hope you can lend your influence against the Archduke and that poisonous wife of his. Do you know, they're attempting to force us to shut down our operations in the cities? Planning regulations or some such rubbish. As if they didn't know they'd be severely cutting our income by doing so.'

'Those of faith will simply travel to the countryside to seek the wisdom of the Allsoul,' Amalicia said, with the blithe confidence of someone who didn't give a toss either way.

'I hope you're right, child,' he said glumly. He looked at Frey. 'And you, young man. What is it that you do?'

'I'm in merchandise,' he said. 'Cargo.'

'Ah, you own a shipping line?'

'Indeed I do,' said Frey, accidentally putting on a posh accent as he did so. Amalicia kicked him in the ankle.

'And how are you finding the party?'

Frey leaned in, shielding his mouth with his hand in a parody of conspiracy. 'To tell you the truth, Grand Oracle, I feel like the Ace of Skulls in a hand of Quad Ladies.'

The Grand Oracle's eyes creased in amusement. 'I had that very hand only last week. Four Ladies and I turned over the Ace of Skulls. Lost everything. I was sick as a dog. You play Rake?'

'Oh, I'm just an eager amateur.'

'Perhaps you'd care for a hand or two in the parlour? If the lady wouldn't mind, of course?'

'Darling?' Frey inquired sweetly.

'Please, go ahead. You menfolk must have your games,' said Amalicia. She gave Frey a kiss on the cheek and whispered, 'Nicely done,' in his ear. Then she drifted off across the room in search of other conversation.

Frey walked into the parlour with the Grand Oracle. It was a small, cosy room with high windows looking out over the square. The air was rich with the scent of cigars. Several tables had been laid out, some for cards and some for other traditional parlour games like Peepers and Whizzbang. All of them were occupied, but Frey spied a game of Rake in the corner with a few seats free.

'I imagine having the Allsoul on your side must be a bit of an advantage in cards,' Frey commented, as they made their way to the table.

The Grand Oracle smiled. 'If only I were allowed to abuse my talent so. Are you of our faith?'

'My parents brought me up to worship only cold, hard currency,' Frey lied. 'I've always felt there had to be more to life than that, but . . .' He shrugged. 'Maybe I never found the right teacher.'

'Hmm,' said the Oracle. 'Or perhaps you are not aware of what the Awakeners can do for you. Through us, the Allsoul's favour may be begged to know the future, and even to change it. A great asset in business.'

'I'd heard it was possible, but I never understood how.'

They took seats at the table, returning the nods of the other players as they settled themselves.

'The patterns of the air, the turning of water in a bucket, the arrangement of a shuffled deck - all these are part of the Allsoul's pattern. Nothing is random. There is nothing it does not touch. But through the Cryptonomicon, we have the wisdom to interpret these signs as the voice of the Allsoul. And those with especial skill can arrange signs to speak to the Allsoul itself, and be understood.'

'Amazing,' said Frey, as he emptied out a purse of money that he'd borrowed from Amalicia. 'The arrangement of a shuffled deck is part of the Allsoul's language?'

'Indeed it is,' Pomfrey smiled.

Frey whisded. 'I think I'm about to lose a horrible amount of money, Grand Oracle.'

Pomfrey chuckled as the cards were dealt. 'The Allsoul's will be done.'

Four hours later, they were still at it. By then only Frey and the Oracle were left at the table. Frey had been carefully eliminating all the other participants and then losing his winnings to Pomfrey. The standard of play was shocking. Manipulating the game was no trouble at all for someone like Frey, who'd spent a sizable fraction of his life in Rake dens.

Early on. Frey had snagged a manservant ant and told him to bring a bottle of rum. He'd been aggressively filling everyone's glass ever since, especially the Grand Oracle's. Pomfrey was long past the point of refusing as he topped him up again.

'I have a Run!' he declared, showing his hand triumphantly.

Frey looked. A Run was five cards of any suit in numerical sequence, without a break. Pomfrey had 3, 4, 6, 7 and 8.

'So you do,' Frey smiled, shaking his head in mock disbelief. He pushed the pile of money, gathered from the other players, towards the Grand Oracle. 'You really do have the Allsoul on your side.'

'Ha!'

Frey dealt the cards again, then caught sight of Crake and surreptitiously motioned him over. Crake ignored him. He was still talking with Samandra Bree. In fact, he hadn't left her side all night. Frey tried again, more vigorously. Crake pretended not to see him, until Frey's flailing became so pronounced that he was in danger of toppling off his chair.

'What are you doing?' asked the Grand Oracle, blearily.

'I have a friend I'd like you to meet,' said Frey, as a sullen Crake joined them at the table. 'Damen Morcutt, this is Grand Oracle Pomfrey.'

Pomfrey was too interested in his cards to manage more than a quick hello. Crake looked over his shoulder for Samandra, but she'd already disappeared. He was looking distinctly unsteady.

'Had a few, have we?' Frey whispered, with a suppressed threat in his voice.

'I was enjoying the company of a beautiful woman,' Crake slurred.

'I told you to stay sharp.'

'I am sharp.'

'You'd better be.' He looked around to be sure nobody was nearby, but the parlour was largely empty now. Pomfrey was studying his cards with an expression of fierce concentration, the tip of his tongue poking out the side of his mouth.

'Grand Oracle, my friend here has something to show you.'

Crake went white. 'Not here!' he whispered. 'What if it goes wrong?'

'He's drunk. It'll be fine,' Frey assured him under his breath. 'Grand Oracle!'

Pomfrey looked up, startled to find himself at a card table. 'What? Er, oh, yes. Sorry. Pardon me.'

'I said, my friend has something to show you,' Frey repeated. 'A quite remarkable gold tooth he has.'

Crake glared at his captain, then turned his attention to Pomfrey and grinned his best grin.

'Oh,' said Pomfrey, not impressed in the slightest.

'Why don't you have a closer look?' Frey urged.

'Spit and blood, Mr Frey, you are acting awfully strange all of a—' Pomfrey trailed off as he caught sight of his reflection in Crake's smile. 'My,' he said. 'That is a very nice tooth.'

Crake kept grinning as the Grand Oracle's eyes glazed further, slipping from drunken to mesmerised.

'Now,' said Frey. 'I've got a couple of questions.'

They left the table soon afterwards. Crake felt faintly nauseous from using his daemon-thralled tooth while drunk. Before he left, he made sure that Pomfrey remembered nothing of what had been said. Frey scooped up the money on the table for good measure, since the Grand Oracle would be in no state to recall whether he won or lost in the morning. After that, they found Amalicia and made their exit.

Crake was wounded to note that Samandra Bree had left too, without saying goodbye. He hoped he hadn't said anything foolish to her. He couldn't remember most of the last hour or so of their conversation. Rot and damnation! He'd never meant to drink so much, but he'd got carried away in her company.

She was just so bloody charming, that was the problem. The lively twinkle in her eyes, that mischievous mouth of hers. He didn't mind admitting he was quite taken by her. It had been a long while since he'd had any interest in the fairer sex. He wasn't sure if it was the drink or the memory of Samandra that was making him dizzy as he sat in the back of the motorised carriage, heading for the private landing pad where the guests' aircraft waited.

The sight of Frey sitting opposite soured his thoughts. He was angry at being pulled away from Samandra and missing his chance to say goodbye. He was doubly angry that Frey had made him use his gold tooth in a place like that. If the Grand Oracle hadn't been so drunk, he might have realised what was being done to him. A daemonist, unmasked in the midst of a house full of Awakeners? He'd have been hung for sure.

The Cap'n was losing perspective. That sphere had come to mean more to him than just the prospect of a fortune. He was chasing something else, and chasing it hard. But Crake wasn't sure if even Frey knew what that something was.