The Black Lung Captain

Twenty-Nine

They left the miners and the mercs to fight it out and headed away through the alleys. Bree and Grudge led the way, she with her twin lever-action shotguns, he with his colossal autocannon. It was big enough to be mounted on an aircraft, but in his hands it seemed about the right size.

'You're not going to break up the gunfight?' Malvery asked, as the sounds of dying men diminished behind them.

'Not our problem,' rumbled Grudge.

'Not your problem?' Malvery was faintly appalled. 'Then what is?'

'Our problem is back in the refinery,' said Samandra.

'That's where we're going now?' Frey asked.

'Yep,' she replied. That suited Frey. If the miners were to be believed, Almore Roke was there.

He drew his cutlass as they hurried through the narrow back ways of Endurance. It made him feel a little better. They'd left all their guns on the ground when they fled, and he felt uncomfortably vulnerable without them.

'I shouldn't worry,' said Samandra. 'The miners might be riled, but they ought to stop short of firing on the Archduke's Knights.'

'Ought to?' Frey asked.

Samandra shrugged. 'Guess you never can tell.'

The snow was coming down thicker now, and settling. Frey glanced over at Trinica, who was sticking close to Silo. The Murthian had pulled her out of the crossfire earlier. He'd done a better job of protecting her than Frey had. Frey suppressed a surge of jealousy.

Just be glad no one got hurt. No one important, anyway.

'I should thank you,' he said to Samandra. 'For coming to collect us. Didn't expect an escort.'

'We saw you coming in. Recognised the craft. I wouldn't soon forget the Ketty Jay. Not after the shit you pulled at Mortengrace.'

Frey grinned. 'And you just couldn't resist.'

'Actually, it was more 'cause I want to pick your brains about Grist.' She winked. 'And because it'd just break my heart to see that handsome face shot off.'

'Mine, too,' Frey admitted.

He checked on Trinica again. Samandra spotted him. 'She's new,' she said. 'Pretty, too. What's the story?' She nudged him in the ribs.

'Her? Passenger,' said Frey. He hoped that he was offhand enough to discourage her interest. Trinica was under sentence of death for treason, and if the Century Knights realised who she was, it'd all be over for her. Luckily, she was all but unrecognisable without her make-up.

Samandra gave him an insinuating smile, but she didn't pursue the matter.

They came out of the alleys and on to narrow streets. There was more evidence of combat here: bullet holes in the walls, fallen bodies being slowly buried by the snow. Bree and Grudge slipped from corner to corner, covering the angles, each supporting the other. Frey had to admire the seamless way they worked together.

They spotted a group of blue-uniformed mercs ahead, who came sallying out of a side street. They raised their weapons at the sight of the rag-tag group coming their way, but lowered them again as they identified Bree and Grudge. The Knights and their companions were left to pass unhindered.

Now that the distant gunfire had stopped, silence returned to Endurance. The only sound was their boots whispering through the snow, and the clank of Grudge's body armour. Frey found it all a bit eerie.

'Where is everybody?' he said.

'That's what worries me,' said Samandra. 'Most of the town disappeared when the trouble began, before we got here. There are little roaming groups fighting skirmishes with the mercs; as to the rest, we ain't got half an idea where they are. But you can be sure they're about somewhere. Probably been rounded up by the Underground, getting ready to make their move.'

'The Underground?'

Samandra indicated a sign daubed in red paint on a nearby wall. An underlined U. Frey had noticed several others on their way, but hadn't thought much of them. 'The Underground. Bunch of militants who say they fight for worker's rights, votes for all freemen, that kind of thing. They've been stirring the locals up good. This place was a powderkeg. Only a matter of time before something set 'em off.'

'So whose side are you on?'

'The Archduke's,' she said. 'Like always.' She peered round a corner and waved them on. 'Look, I ain't happy about it. I know how they treat the miners in these parts. I'd rather Roke and his lot were shot. But we're Century Knights. We keep the Archduke's peace. And we can't have businessmen getting offed every time the workers get a bit shirty.'

'Gradmuth Operations must pay a lot of tax, right?'

'That, and they fuel half the Navy.'

'They scratch the Archduke's back, he scratches theirs,' said Frey scornfully. 'And the common man gets screwed.'

'Hey, it's the way of the world,' said Samandra, a harsh edge creeping into her voice. 'You ain't so lily-white yourself, pirate.'

By now, the refinery was visible above the buildings, and the mercenary presence was heavier. They passed a long barricade that had been constructed in the centre of a square, and Frey spotted blue-uniformed men squatting on the rooftops. Eventually they came to the refinery gates, which were set in a high wall and guarded by a dozen men. Frey was finding it hard to see how the miners could possibly be a threat. A ground assault on this place would be suicidal.

The guards let them through, and they crossed a flagged courtyard towards a small metal door in the side of the refinery. The building loomed overhead, massive pipes scoring lines across the grey sky. Samandra held the door open and let the others past. Frey waited with her.

'Can I ask a question?'

'Other than that one?' she replied.

'Why are you looking for Grist?'

Samandra tipped back the brim of her tricorn hat. 'Rumour has it he's made off with a Mane artefact of unknown power.'

'Rumour has it, eh? Where'd you hear that?'

'From your daemonist,' she grinned. 'He's quite a chatty sort when he's drunk.'

Frey groaned. The soiree in Lapin that Amalicia had taken them to. He knew he shouldn't have left Crake alone for so long with Samandra.

'But Grist didn't have it then,' he said. 'The Awakeners did.'

'Yes, he did say the Awakeners had stolen it from you,' she said. 'But when our spies heard the Awakeners recently had a craft downed in the Flashpan, we sort of put two and two together. And when we heard you were looking for Grist all over the North, well . . .'

'Poor old Crake,' said Frey. 'He never stood a chance. Not above using your feminine charms in service of the cause, eh?'

She gave a derisive rasp. 'Me? There ain't much I'm above, when it comes to it. Anyway, he's a sweet feller. The pleasure was all mine. Where is he, anyway?'

'He's gone.'

'Shame. I kinda liked him.'

'Me, too.'

They went inside the refinery. Grudge led them up stone stairways and along tight corridors with smooth walls painted grey-green. It seemed colder in here than outside, and the electric lights did little more than provide contrast for the shadows. Frey guessed they were taking a back way to their destination.

That destination turned out to be a collection of offices and filing rooms, several storeys up. They passed by lamplit desks and shelves of neatly ordered paperwork, emerging at last into a chamber with a long window that took up the whole of one wall. It was divided into squares, and it looked out over the refinery floor, where enormous vats and brooding machinery lay dormant.

Frey guessed this was a common area for the foremen and their staff. Several doors led off from it. A large table took up much of the room. A few mercs were here, idling about or sitting at the table, guns hanging loose in their hands. With them were two men who Frey recognised, even though he'd never met them before.

The first was gaunt and sour-faced, with straggly, grey-white hair. He sat with his boots up on the table. His duster had fallen back to reveal a waistcoat laden with a variety of knives. There were half a dozen sheaths on either side of his ribs, and more inside the duster.

He was rolling a throwing knife through his fingers, flipping it end over end around his knuckles.

The other was more enigmatic. He leaned against one of the doors with his arms folded loosely across his stomach. He was wearing a black coat and a wide-brimmed hat, and he wore a black necktie around his face. All that could be seen of him was a slice of his eyes and forehead, and a fringe of shaggy black hair.

Frey knew them from the broadsheets. Eldrew Grissom and Mordric Jask. Century Knights. Deadly men, both. Grissom had the fastest hands in the game, with knives or pistols alike. Jask was a stone-cold warrior, famously unflappable, a man without fear.

'Everyone, this is Darian Frey and his crew,' said Samandra, as they entered the room. Grissom looked up and grunted. Jask tipped his hat.

'What are you all doing here?' asked Frey.

'Guarding the company men. What else?' Samandra replied.

'Why not just take them out of here?'

'The miners are getting shot down on account of those folks. Marching them through the town might be a provocation hard to take, don't you reckon? We're trying to avoid more bloodshed.'

'So you're gonna sit tight?'

'We sent word to the Navy. They'll be here sooner or later.'

'And you reckon the miners are going to to wait around for that?'

'No,' she said. 'I don't. But I can't see that we got too much choice.'

Jez spoke in his ear. 'The Ketty Jay's small enough to fly over the refinery. Could airlift them out. Or you. Just say the word.'

Frey didn't reply. To do so would be to give away the secret of the earcuffs, and besides, he had a feeling the Century Knights would have thought of that already, and decided against it. There had to be a reason for that.

'Why do I get the impression there's something you aren't telling me?'

Samandra raised an eyebrow. 'Smart feller,' she said. 'Come on.'

She walked over to Jask, who moved out of the way of the door he was guarding. Frey looked inside. Beyond was a room with a desk and some shelves, and little else. Its occupant was sitting on a seat. He raised his head as the door was opened.

He was tall, slim and elegant. His features were narrow and perfectly proportioned, even beautiful. He wore a coat of exotic silk and tailored clothes of the most exquisite cut.

But none of that was what marked him out. The truly remarkable thing was that his irises were bright yellow, and his skin was black as onyx, a colour so deep that it seemed tinted with dark blue in the dim light.

The truly remarkable thing was that he was a Samarlan.

Jask closed the door. Frey stared at Samandra.

'What in the name of the Allsoul's pendulous bollocks is a Sammie doing here?' he demanded.

'We did wonder the same thing,' she replied. 'Best we can figure—'

'Roke's selling aerium to the Sammies,' finished Grissom. He flipped a knife into the tabletop, where it stuck with a thump. 'Plain as day, not that you can get the bastard to admit it. And we don't have no proof, neither. Yet.'

'We'll hold 'em both till the Navy arrives, then ship 'em off for questioning,' Samandra explained. 'I'm sure our Samarlan friend will have a thing or two worth knowing.'

'There's a Sammie in there?' asked Malvery, who'd drifted over. He'd overheard the conversation, as had everyone else in the room. 'How'd he get here?'

'Just flew in, I imagine.'

'That easy?'

'We're not at war with them any more,' said Samandra. 'It's not illegal for them to be in the country. With all the air traffic, we couldn't stop 'em if we tried. But since they're liable to be lynched the moment they show their faces, they tend to stay at home.'

'Plus,' said Grissom, 'soon as they set foot in Vardia, they're ours.' He smiled a nasty smile.

'Yep,' said Samandra. 'It's sort of policy to pick up any Sammies we find. Just for a friendly chat, y'know? To see what we can glean.'

'You gleaned anything from that feller?' asked Frey, thumbing at the door.

'Not a thing,' said Samandra.

'But then, we haven't really got going on him yet,' added Grissom, spinning a knife in his palm.

'It's got to be something important, though,' said Frey. 'Sammies don't come out into the open much. They've got the Dakkadians to do all their deals and the Murthians for all their dirty work. The whole time I was flying to the front, during the war, I never spotted a Sammie. That's the first one I ever saw outside of a ferrotype.'

'A fact that hasn't escaped our attention,' said Samandra. She looked over his shoulder. 'Is your man alright, by the way?'

Frey followed her gaze to Silo. He was pacing back and forth on the other side of the room, stalking this way and that like a caged animal. His fists clenched and unclenched, eyes focused on something far away. The picture of agitation. Frey had never seen him act that way.

'Hm,' said Frey. 'He doesn't look too alright, does he?'

'Not really.'

Frey watched Silo for a few moments, wondering what was up with him.

'Perhaps you should have a word?' Samandra suggested.

'Oh, right. Yes, I will.'

'I'll see about getting you fellers tooled up again. You're not gonna be much use if those miners pull anything and all you've got between you is a cutlass.'

'New guns?' Frey's eyes lit up.

She indicated the mercs that were lolling about. 'Courtesy of the company, of course. They've got enough kit stashed away to supply an army.'

Frey beamed. 'Wouldn't say no. Silo and Malvery prefer shotguns, if you please.'

'Well, alright then.'

Frey went over to Silo while Samandra ordered the mercs to fetch up the weapons. Silo saw him approach. His eyes flashed angrily.

'Hey, hey, calm down,' said Frey. 'What's got into you?'

Silo glared at him, then at the door. Frey realised all of a sudden what was bothering him. He felt a little stupid for not having seen it before. In that room was one of the people who'd enslaved Silo's race for half a millenium. Frey could only imagine what kind of treatment he'd suffered at the hands of the Sammies in his lifetime. Almost certainly he'd lost friends and relatives to them at some point. And now, for the first time since his escape from Samaria, he was in the presence of one of his hated tormentors. No wonder he was keyed up.

Frey had never really thought about Silo's life before they met. As far as he was concerned, the Murthian's history began the day he found Frey dying from a stomach wound inflicted by a Dakkadian bayonet, somewhere in the jungle depths of northern Samaria. He'd nursed Frey back to health, and Frey had flown him out of Samaria and out of slavery. They'd been together ever since, in unspoken and unspeaking companionship. Neither asked anything of the other, and each expected nothing in return. By the act of saving each other's lives they'd forged a bond more subtle than any expression of loyalty.

Frey put his hand on the engineer's shoulder. 'Don't let it get to you, Silo. He's got no power over you here. Not unless you give it to him.'

Silo seemed rather surprised at hearing something wise from his captain's lips. Frey was rather surprised himself. He was on good form today, apparently.

Silo took in a long breath and blew it out. 'You're right. I ain't the 'prisoned one now.' He stepped from one foot to the other. Calmer, but still fidgety. 'Sorry, Cap'n. Brings it back, that's all. Knowing there's one of 'em in there.'

Frey patted his shoulder. 'Hold it together, eh?' he said in what he hoped was an encouraging fashion. He walked away, passing Malvery as he did so.

'Keep an eye on him,' he murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

'Right-o,' said Malvery.

Trinica was looking out of the window that gave a view of the refinery floor. She'd been keeping quiet and out of the way since the Century- Knights had first appeared. Frey joined her.

'How're you doing?'

'I'm fine,' she said. 'We should see about speaking to Roke.'

'Better if I do it,' he replied. 'Keep you out of the picture. You're supposed to be a passenger.'

She nodded. 'Do what you can.'

She seemed careless of the presence of the Century Knights. It was as if, without her outfit and her make-up, she really was a different person. An alter ego. One which carried no responsibility for the things done by Trinica Dracken, pirate captain. Given her sometimes fractured state of mind, he wondered if she really had separated one from the other. Perhaps, when she put on her disguise of black clothes and white skin, she put on a colder, harder personality with it. It certainly seemed that every day she spent without them, she became more and more like the young woman Frey had once known. Known, and loved. But maybe he was just being fanciful.

He approached Samandra, who was talking with Grissom. She stopped when he came near. 'Something I can help you with, Captain Frey?'

'I want to see Roke.'

'You do, huh? I wondered when you'd get round to asking. No other reason why you'd be in Endurance that I can see.'

'So, can I?'

'I should warn you, he's not been the most talkative of souls.'

'I can be persuasive when I try.'

'I've no doubt. You're welcome to talk with him, but I'll be in there with you. And no rough stuff. He's a powerful man, and we're the Archduke's right hand. Wouldn't do. You understand?'

'Yeah,' said Frey, vaguely disappointed. Getting answers was so much easier when you could boot your victim all over the room. 'I get it.'

She led him down a corridor to another office. The overseers' area was stark and bare, with as much furniture as was necessary to function and little else. He suspected that the real money-makers in the company had plusher offices elsewhere, away from the noise and stink of a refinery in full flow.

Sitting behind a desk, writing a letter, was Almore Roke. He was an erect, imperious-looking man with a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard. One eyebrow drooped, giving him an expression that suggested permanent suspicion. He wore a neat suit and silver cufflinks.

'Who's this?' he demanded, peering at Frey.

'Captain Darian Frey of the Ketty Jay,' Frey replied. He stepped into the room, and Samandra came with him. 'I hear you used to serve on Harvin Grist's crew.'

Roke tossed down his pen and sat back in his chair, arms crossed petulantly. 'This again? What of it?'

'I'm looking for him.'

'So is she,' Roke said, jutting his chin towards Samandra. 'Why should I care?'

Roke's accent was a strange mix between the rough, guttural tones of the commoner, and a crisper, fluting aristocratic lilt. A man born poor, now trying to pass himself off as one of the rich. Frey doubted he was fooling anyone.

'I'm wondering if you have in mind any places he might be,' said Frey. 'Hideouts he once used, familiar haunts, that kind of thing. It's very important that we find him.'

'Is it? Why?'

'Because otherwise he might end up killing a lot of people.'

Samandra stared at him in surprise. 'Excuse me?'

'That device he's got. We reckon the Awakeners know what it is. And they seem to think it could cost thousands of lives.'

'I thought it was a power source?' Samandra said.

'So did we. It's not.'

Roke was watching their exchange with amusement. 'I know where he is,' Roke said. 'His hideout. If he's gone to ground, he's gone there.'

'And?'

'And,' said the businessman, stretching his back, 'I'll tell you after I get an apology from her, and on the condition that my guest and I are released and given safe passage to a port of our choice.'

'Your guest? The Sammie?'

'Vulgar term,' said Roke, with a sneer. 'They're a fascinating people, very cultured. A shame the common man can't forgive what's happened in the past.'

'When did you stop being a common man?' Samandra asked.

Roke ignored her jab. 'There's no law against associating with Samarlans, last I heard. Our own Earl Hengar was well known for his dalliances. So why am I treated like a criminal?'

'Because it is illegal to sell them aerium, especially since a lot of folk think they're tooling up a navy to have another go at invading us,' said Samandra. 'And that would make you a traitor. Anyway, you'll be given safe passage when the Navy get here. And you'll be released after you've satisfied our curiosity as to why a man high up in an eminent aerium mining company is so chummy with one of our old enemies from the South.'

'That's not good enough,' said Roke.

'Well, it'll have to be.'

Roke rolled his eyes and looked at Frey. 'Your friend here doesn't grasp the basics of negotiation, does she?'

'She does seem an inflexible sort,' Frey agreed.

'Perhaps you're a more reasonable man to deal with?'

'Hey!' snapped Samandra. 'You're dealing with the Century Knights, not him.'

'Then I'm afraid we have nothing more to—'

Roke was interrupted by a rumble that ran through the building, making the walls shudder. Frey listened in alarm as the refinery began to echo with distant groans, shrieks, and eerie wails, as if some enormous metal monster was slowly shaking itself awake.

'The refinery!' Roke exclaimed. 'They've started it up!'

'Who?'

'The workers! Them and their bloody Underground!' Roke sprang out of his chair, agitated. 'They've got inside.' His eyes widened. 'They're going to overload the machines!'

'That sounds like it'll be a bad thing,' Frey observed carefully.

'They'll blow us all to pieces!'

'Right,' said Frey. 'Definitely bad, then.'