The Empire of Ashes

From the Journal of Miss Lewella Tythencroft—Sanorah, 27th Termester 1600 (Company Year 211)

I awoke from another dream of Corrick, as is my wont most mornings in these troubled times. If, as the infrequent responses to my many letters to the Maritime Protectorate insist, Lieutenant Corrick Hilemore is most likely dead as opposed to merely missing, he appears to have left behind a very busy ghost.

My humour is misplaced, I know. Cruel even. To myself if not the memory of the man I loved (still love, at least be honest with yourself, Lewella). But I find it preferable to the weeping and mewling expected of my sex.

The dream was different again. My erstwhile fiancé’s nightly visits are rich in variety if not clarity. I would dream of him before of course, especially during those long awful months of separation thanks to his slavish service to our corporate overlords. Even more so during the unjust Dalcian slaughter the Syndicate chooses to call an “emergency.” But those dreams were more like memories, my mind seeking his company in somnolence when it was denied me in the waking hours. Walks in the park, stolen hours of intimacy away from my parents’ ever-prying gaze, our many, many wonderful arguments. I used to cherish my dreams of him, but now I dread them, for I always find him in danger.

This time he was somewhere cold and very far away. The images are always vague but his face remains clear, and just lately it is the face of a man troubled by a terrible weight of guilt. Corrick is not a man given to excessive introspection but, despite his professional calling, he does have a greater capacity for feeling than many might imagine.

There I go again, the present tense. But, like my misplaced humour, I find I can’t help it. In my soul, if not my mind, I know him to be alive . . . and somewhere very cold.

I endured another breakfast with Mother and Father, he hiding behind his copy of the Intelligencer, as per usual, whilst she filled the silence with inane gossip. Just lately, as the news from home and abroad grows ever worse, I have noticed a certain desperation in her chatter. Her myriad tales of petty scandal, announced engagements and barbed comments regarding my own singular lack of prospects in that regard are spoken with a somewhat shrill note and an over-bright cast to her eyes. At times I think she is trying to weave some form of magic spell, as if this verbal frippery will banish the encroaching threat through dint of sheer, mundane normalcy. But the threat is real and shows no sign of abating.

“Feros Falls Silent” proclaims the Intelligencer in characteristically bald terms. As yet, however, the reason for the city’s silence remains unexplained, if much speculated upon. The interior pages relate more lurid details of the latest Corvantine Revolution, this one apparently successful. “Entire Corvus Aristocracy Slaughtered in a Single Night,” “Mock Trials See Hundreds Hanged,” “Self-Proclaimed Ruling Council Led by Notorious Criminal Dictatress,” and so on. Many of my Voterist friends insist these stories are lies concocted by the corporate-controlled press to stoke fear of just rebellion. Personally, I’m not so certain all these horrors are in fact imaginary. The Corvantine people suffered centuries of cruel oppression at the hands of a hideous, blood-soaked Regnarchy. Is it so surprising they would act with a vengeful heart now?

Other stories speak of riots in many North Mandinorian towns, an increased desertion rate amongst Protectorate soldiery, and, perhaps most worrying of all, a collapse in the corporate bond and share markets. I noticed Father’s hands take on a small tremor as he turned the page to this particular report causing me to ponder just how much of the family wealth he has invested in market speculation over the years. But of course, any question I might raise in regard to financial matters would be met with either cold indifference or a suggestion that, if business interests me so much, I should give up my radical hobbies and find corporate employment. So I said nothing, washed my toast and boiled egg down with a gulp of tea, kissed Mother on the cheek and set off for the offices of the Voters Gazette.

As has become somewhat routine the morning editorial meeting soon degenerated into a political discussion and thence a full-blown shouting match. Mr. Mantleprop, the photostatist, nearly came to blows with Mr. Mityard, the foreign affairs correspondent, over the latter’s “blatant bias in favour of vindictive beastliness” in his reporting on the Corvantine Revolution. Lately, in my capacity as acting editor-in-chief, I have been sorely tempted to simply dismiss every correspondent on the staff. Given that I write at least two-thirds of the words in every issue whilst my supposed subordinates spend their hours in fruitless argument, it would hardly be a greater burden to run the paper as a solo enterprise. It would also make for a much more peaceful working environment. But, as this periodical—being the official organ of the Voters Rights Alliance—was constituted as a co-operative rather than a private entity, I lack the power to dismiss anyone without a majority vote of the editorial board.

I would normally have made efforts to calm the atmosphere and force some semblance of order on the meeting, but today found myself too wearied by my troubled sleep. So instead I took my note-pad and pen and set off for the dock-side district, leaving my colleagues to their strife. Any experienced correspondent will know that the docks are always a useful source of information, most particularly during troubled times. Sailors from all corners of the globe can be found in any dock-side tavern and they are ever a talkative breed, especially when encouraged by a young and not unattractive woman willing to spend a few scrip on a round of ale or two.

Today, however, it transpired that such machinations would not be necessary, for I found the docks in a state of considerable excitement. Several weeks before, the so-called Blessed Demon had forsaken her reign of terror in the Marsh Wold to inflict fiery destruction on the dock-side district before mysteriously vanishing. The damage has been only partially repaired and many warehouses remain in a blackened and ruined state. However, Syndicate authorities were efficient in restoring the cranes to the wharf and rebuilding the many wooden jetties which had been burned down to the water-line.

I found the quayside a-throng with Protectorate soldiers and constabulary, several senior officers amongst them. Beyond the broad waters of the harbour itself I could see smoke pluming from the great engines that operate the huge doors in the guard-wall. Usually, only one door is raised after the morning tide, but today all three doors were being drawn up at once.

Naturally, my questioning of the Protectorate officers on the scene produced either a bland but polite “no comment” or a frosty suggestion that I seek grist for my “Voterist propaganda” elsewhere. Consequently, I was compelled to elicit information from a more willing source, albeit reluctantly.

I found Sigmend Talwick midway along the wharf, his lanky, poorly tailored form perched on a crate as he scribbled in his note-pad. “Miss Tythencroft,” he said upon noting my approach. His broad smile would have been taken for warm and welcoming if not for the poorly concealed carnal interest he simultaneously displayed in surveying my person. “How are things at the Gazette? I hear your circulation is booming, almost breaking four figures last month.”

“Five figures,” I lied, as I often do in Mr. Talwick’s presence and find it scarcely tweaks my conscience at all. “I must congratulate you on the Intelligencer’s latest issue,” I went on. “For a periodical given to vulgar and tasteless reporting, your paper truly outdid itself today. Corvantine rebels are roasting and eating aristocratic babies, apparently.”

He stiffened a little, his smile fading. “I am merely a correspondent, miss. Not the editor.”

“Quite so, sir.” I turned and nodded at the rising harbour doors. “Might I enquire if any of your Protectorate friends have enlightened you as to the meaning of all this?”

“No,” he replied, somewhat archly. “They haven’t, but one doesn’t raise all three doors for a single ship, does one?”

“A fleet then. And not composed of enemies.”

“So it seems. But from where does it hail is the question. Care for a wager, Miss Tythencroft? My money’s on a flotilla of Dalcian mercenaries, hired by the Protectorate to augment the Northern Fleet.”

“I leave the financial speculation to my father, sir. However, I doubt the Protectorate could find many Dalcians willing to take their scrip after the Emergency.”

“Varestians then. In the pre-Colonial era they’d fight for anyone if the price was right.”

Just then the harbour doors reached their full elevation, as signalled by the chorus of steam-whistles that sounded from the top of the wall. A short while later the dark, slow-moving shape of a vessel appeared in the central entry-point to Sanorah harbour. I immediately recognised it as a small steam-ferry, the type normally employed in carrying passengers around coastal regions. However, from its appearance it seemed to have been at sea for many days. The vessel’s paint-work was besmirched with soot and her paddles were missing some blades, making only partial purchase on the water as she moved sluggishly to one of the near by jetties.

Mr. Talwick and I quickly made our way to the jetty as lines were thrown between ship and shore. I could see a large crowd of people on the ferry’s fore-deck, mostly women and children and all possessed of the kind of grey-faced silence that comes from prolonged privation. As we drew nearer I could see many weeping, either in relief or sorrow. I couldn’t tell.

“A fleet to be sure,” Talwick commented, jerking his chin at the opened portals through which several more similarly bedraggled vessels were making their way. “But composed of refugees, not mercenaries.”

We were close enough to make out the lettering on the ferry’s hull: IRV Communicant—Rg’d Feros Harbour, 03/06/177. “Sailed all the way from the Tyrell Islands in a thirty-year-old coast runner,” Talwick said with a note of admiration.

A gangway had been manoeuvred into place and people were disembarking the ferry, most moving with a stooped, unsteady gait that bespoke near exhaustion. Some of the older passengers were being aided by their younger compatriots, and many were still weeping. As they began to congregate on the quayside my gaze was drawn to a particular figure who stood straighter than the rest. She was a tall woman of South Mandinorian colouring and, from the way the other refugees responded to her, seemed to enjoy some form of authority.

“Joya,” she called to a slender girl who, along with a pale-skinned woman wearing oddly garish face-paint, was helping a man with bandaged eyes navigate his way down the gang-plank. “Bring him here. We need to keep all the patients together. Molly, when you’ve settled Mr. Adderman get y’self back aboard and retrieve all the medicines you can find. Ain’t rightly sure how generous our hosts are gonna be.”

“Good day, madam.” Talwick, always possessed of a keen eye for the best source of information, walked up and greeted the tall woman with a bow. “Sigmend Talwick, chief correspondent of the Sanorah Intelligencer. Might I enquire as to your name?”

“Surely,” the woman replied, moving away. “It’s Mrs. Mind Your Own Seer-damn Business.”

Talwick straightened with an aggrieved sniff but, never one to be distracted in his quest for a story, immediately began questioning the other refugees. I, however, felt there was more to be had from Mrs. Mind Your Own Seer-damn Business, and pursued her through the crowd for several minutes until she consented to notice my presence.

“You another correspondent?” she asked, glancing up from inspecting a wound on a child’s arm. The infant seemed to have lost the energy to cry, merely sitting quietly in her mother’s lap and gazing at the stitched red-and-blue mark in her flesh with wide, incurious eyes.

“Of a sort,” I replied. “I represent the Voters Rights Alliance.” I looked around at the growing throng of beggared people, finding I had to cough away the sudden catch in my throat. “I assure you I only want to help.”

“Good.” She tied a fresh bandage around the girl’s arm, then tweaked her small chin. The girl merely blinked and settled deeper into her mother’s arms. “These people need medical care,” the woman went on, rising and turning to me. “And those on the other ships will need places to live and food to eat. Can your Alliance help with that?”

“Yes,” I said, possessed of a sudden conviction. “I’ll return forthwith to our offices and start organising a relief effort.” I extended my hand. “Miss Lewella Tythencroft.”

“Mrs. Fredabel Torcreek.” We shook and a faint, grim smile played on her lips, presumably as she read the feelings evident in my features. “Guess this is a new sight for you, hun?”

“Yes.” I coughed again, standing straighter. “Please, before I go. You were at Feros, yes?”

“That’s right. And it’s gone. Drake and Spoiled came out of the sea and sky and took it, doing a whole lotta killing in the process. Us former Carvenporters and a few others managed to get away, but we left a good many folks behind.”

“I . . . have a friend,” I began, hating myself for the way my words stumbled from a faltering mouth. “My former fiancé in fact. A Lieutenant Hilemore. He’s been posted as missing presumed dead. I wondered . . .”

“Hilemore?” Mrs. Torcreek stared at me for a moment then let out a laugh. “Firstly, I believe it’s Captain Hilemore these days. And he ain’t dead, hun. Last I heard he’s very much alive, though he’s probably freezing his ass off alongside my kin just now.”

CHAPTER 1

Clay

It was like drinking liquid fire, the heart-blood sending a searing bolt of agony through him the instant it touched his tongue. Somehow he managed not to lose his grip on the vial, keeping it pressed against his lips until the entire contents had made a fiery progress from his throat to his gut. He convulsed as the pain blossomed, thrashing in the water as it grew, banishing all other sensation, turning his vision grey then black. He wondered if the pain would kill him before Last Look Jack could send a stream of flame down to boil him as he thrashed. Either way he knew with absolute certainty he had barely seconds to live.

Then it was gone. The pain vanished in an instant. Clay blinked and the black void filling his eyes cleared. He was still in the water, floating weightlessly below a shimmering surface. The water was cold but the chill was muted somehow, a distant thing beyond the confines of his body, a body he quickly realised had grown to huge proportions. The view ahead was a mélange of colour, cool azure shades shot through with smudges of orange and the occasional small flutters of deep red. They see heat rather than light, Ethelynne Drystone had said when she shared memories with him in the ruined amphitheatre. Once again, he was seeing the world through the eyes of a drake.

He saw that these colours were not so vibrant as those captured by the doomed Black all those centuries ago, but any sense of limited vision was more than dispelled by the sound that filled his ears. It was a constant vibrating echo, varying in pitch from one second to the next. It meant little to him but he could sense an understanding somewhere in his mind, an instinctive knowledge possessed by the one who had captured this memory. The conclusion was as inescapable as it was terrifying. I’m trancing with Last Look Jack.

The view shifted as the soundscape changed, a sharp pealing cry cutting through the echo. The shimmering surface above blurred as Clay was propelled through the water, moving with a speed that was beyond any human engine. He could feel the great drake’s pulse quicken from a steady, ponderous thrum to a rapid drum-beat as the pealing cry came again. It was plainly a distress call, shot through with panic and terror. Clay could sense Jack’s increasing alarm as they raced through the water, the understanding afforded by the trance enabling him to recognise it as parental concern. Somewhere his child was suffering.

Abruptly the distress call rose to a scream, piercing enough to send a shiver of pain through Clay’s mind, then it was gone, cut off in an instant. Another sensation seeped through his consciousness as the scream faded, not a sound this time, a scent. It was a smell that would usually stir hunger in the belly of this monstrous predator, but now stirred only despair. Blood, but not prey to be hunted down or a drifting whale carcass to be scavenged. This was the blood of a Blue drake.

Last Look Jack gave voice to a cry of his own then, a deep throaty roar of grief that seemed to shake the sea. His speed remained undiminished, however, his massive body coiling with furious energy to propel him on. The scent of blood grew more intense until Clay saw a dark billowing red fog ahead, cooling to pink as the warmth leeched into the water. Jack slowed as he neared the cloud, Clay making out a dark matrix amidst the billowing warmth, a net stretched tight around something large and limp. He could see the dark barbs of several harpoons jutting from the dead Blue, a juvenile judging by its size. Blood bloomed with fresh intensity as the net shifted and the body rolled in its snare as it was drawn up towards the surface. Jack’s gaze followed the black lines of the hauling ropes, finding two long dark shapes interrupting the surface above. He knew these shapes, knew they brought danger and normally the sight of them would have caused him to dive for the security of the depths. But not today.

He tore the net apart first, triangular, razor-like teeth tearing it to pieces, freeing the slaughtered juvenile inside. Jack paused to regard the slowly descending corpse, falling away into the cold black depths in a shroud of blood. A new memory filled Clay’s mind. A small Blue struggling free of her mother’s womb to coil against her father’s massive flanks as he curved his body around them both in a protective embrace, voicing a soft song to soothe her distress.

The memory faded and Clay found Jack’s gaze had returned to the two dark shapes above. He roared again, his despair merging with rage. It was a rare emotion for a Blue, conserved for the mating season and defending territory from aggressive young males. Now it bloomed to unprecedented heights, filling every fibre of Jack’s body. Clay felt something give in Jack’s mind, a jolting shock that banished his last vestiges of reason. The great Blue’s roar died. He had no need to voice his rage now. He was rage.

The two dark shapes had begun to move, the water on either side of them frothing white and a rhythmic thrum sounding through the ocean. Clay saw soft yellow globes burning in the centre of each shape as the Blue-hunter’s engineers stoked them high. Unnerved by the sudden loss of their catch, these sailors had clearly opted not to linger. It wouldn’t save them.

Jack made for the shape on the left, making a steady but unhurried approach from below. Although the rage still boiled in his mind, his predatory instincts held true and he knew the wisdom of preserving his energy for the final rush. When he was some fifty yards from the spinning blades of the Blue-hunter’s starboard paddle, he struck. A single thrash of his massive tail shattered the paddle-blades into splinters, causing the ship to veer off in a ragged circle, tilting from the force of Jack’s blow. Small, dark figures plunged into the water around him, sailors cast from the deck of the stricken vessel. Jack took his time, snapping each struggling figure in half and spitting out the remnants, finding he disliked the taste of these tiny monsters. Their blood was bitter and their flesh too full of bones. In any case, he was not here to feed.

He thrashed his tail again, an explosive release of power that propelled him free of the sea. The ship passed beneath him as his massive body soared over it, sailors gaping up at him in terror then screaming as he opened his jaws wide and unleashed a torrent of fire. The flames swept the ship from stern to bow, incinerating men and fittings alike, flooding the holds and setting light to anything that would burn.

Jack plunged back into the welcoming chill of the ocean, circling the ship as it burned and killing the charred and barely alive sailors peppering the surrounding waters. A sudden, hard vibration pulsed through the sea as something gave in the ship’s vitals, probably a stock of gunpowder from the size of the explosion. Jack watched it break in two and slowly subside into the depths, trailing a dark cloud of blood from its sundered holds. The scent of his kin’s blood stoked Jack’s rage to even greater heights, Clay feeling the already fragile structure of his mind crumble yet further.

The huge Blue returned to the surface, raising his head above the waves to see a second ship several miles to the north, smoke billowing from her funnels and paddles churning as she piled on the steam. It wouldn’t save her.

The trance fragmented then, Clay experiencing a jolt of pain as the shared memories flitted through his head in a kaleidoscope of wrecked ships and slaughtered sailors. Jack’s existence had evidently become an unceasing epic of vengeance, days and nights consumed by the hunt, the endless search for more monsters to kill. He preyed upon whales or giant squid only when his hunger grew into pain; otherwise, he scoured the oceans for ships, destroying all he could find, but there were always more.

Then came a change, a shift in the torrent of rage and tireless hunting. Jack had shunned the company of his own kind for years, ignoring their songs of greeting whenever he passed close to a pack. He knew on some basic level he was no longer one of them, their songs of bonding and play or the joy of the hunt were echoes of something forever lost; Jack had only one song, the rage song. But then came the day he heard something new, not a plaintive cry drifting through the depths, but a song within his mind.

Clay felt another jolt of pain as the song enveloped him, alien and dislocating, and yet dreadfully familiar. The White. The depth of malice was unmistakable, although he found it impossible to fully comprehend the intricacies of the beast’s thoughts. But he could feel them, the new sense of purpose seeping into Jack’s mind, merging with his rage. Clay could sense the Blue struggling against this intrusion. He had a purpose of his own and wanted no other, but the White would not be denied. Soon a fresh torrent of images accompanied the sensation, another ship viewed through the eyes of another Blue. This ship was different however, a warship judging by its guns. Also, it had no paddles. The Superior, Clay realised, watching a young woman raise a pair of revolvers on the deck below. Loriabeth, the day the Blue attacked us.

The image changed as Loriabeth’s bullets struck home, filling it with a red mist that obscured much of what came next, although Clay was able to discern the sudden halt in movement, recalling how he and the Varestian Blood-blessed had used Black to hold the Blue in place whilst Captain Hilemore and Lieutenant Steelfine readied the cannon. There was a flash amidst the red mist and the vision turned instantly to black.

The sense of purpose flooding Jack’s mind altered, becoming an implacable command as the image of the Superior reappeared. This time Clay was able to discern a clear meaning in the White’s thoughts: Go south . . . Kill them.

Clay reeled in shock as Jack’s memories swirled around him. It sent him after us. It knew where we were going. How? The answer dawned swiftly, accompanied by a tinge of self-reproach at his failure to realise it sooner. Silverpin. The remnant of her consciousness had been living in his head since her betrayal and death beneath the mountain. It followed her scent, forced poor mad Jack to hunt us down.

Another tumble of memories: Jack finding himself part of a pack once more, although the Blues he swam with sang no songs. The destruction of Kraghurst Station and his repressed but still-evident relish at the sight of so many small monsters burning. Jack chasing the Superior through the channel between the Chokes and the shelf, the crushing weight of the huge wedge of displaced ice bearing him down to the depths, so far down the pressure threatened to crush his mighty body like paper. But he hadn’t died, somehow struggling from under the descending weight and straining damaged muscles as he sought the surface. Soon exhaustion claimed him, leaving him limp and drifting on the current. He would have subsided back into the depths had the pack not found him, coming together to bear him up to the surface and the salvation of the air. Still, he was wounded, needing time and sustenance to heal. The other Blues brought walrus and whale-meat, starving themselves so he might eat. Had he still been capable of such things, he would have sung the song of thanks. But they were not truly his pack and such songs were a distant murmur of who he had once been.

He ate, he healed, he waited, and then came the great upsurge of heat from below, fracturing the ice and allowing him to hunt down the monsters that had wounded him. He marshalled his silent pack, sending them out into the newly sundered ice, ranging far until one found his quarry. A new ship, one with no bloom of heat within its hull, but with monsters roving its deck. Jack, though mad, was far from stupid. Having recently suffered at these creatures’ hands, he opted for a more cunning approach, sending his pack to bear the brunt of their terrible, unnatural defences. He watched the sundered, flailing Blue bodies fall one by one, clamping down on his rage, forcing patience into his damaged mind. Only when the last of his pack had slipped into the depths, trailing a cloud of gore from the rent in its neck, did he determine to strike.

Then a new distraction, a fresh bloom of heat from below accompanied by a great cloud of bubbles as something rushed towards the surface. Jack had no notion of what this thing was, his vision unable to penetrate the hull to discern any heat sources within. But, as it bobbed to the surface and he watched four monsters clamber out, he knew he had found his first easy prey for a long time. A shallow dive then an upward rush was enough to leave the creatures struggling in the water. Jack made for the closest one, grunting in momentary pain as one of the monsters on the ship cast something at him, small but possessed of enough speed to tear a hole in his scales. But it was a familiar sting, his scales bore the scars of many such irritations, and with the prey so close he paid it scant heed.

The creature struggling in the water below stared up at him with its tiny, bead-like eyes, its claws fumbling for something about its neck. A weapon, perhaps. As if anything so small could threaten him . . .

Clay watched the image of himself struggling in the water freeze and then shatter, leaving him in a formless, multicoloured fog. Mist swirled around him, coalescing into dense, vibrantly hued clouds then breaking apart. Here and there he caught glimpses of firmer memories, Blue bodies drifting, dismembered sailors, burning ships. This then was the mindscape of Last Look Jack. Beneath the horror Clay could feel a deep weight of confusion pressing in on his own consciousness, shot through with a growing anger.

You can feel me in here, can’t you? Clay asked, hoping the drake could discern some meaning in his thoughts. The surrounding mist shimmered, reddish forks of lightning crackling as evidence of Jack’s burgeoning rage. Well, you’re stuck with me, for now at least. So let’s talk.

The lightning flashed again, blood-red tendrils reaching out from the fog to envelop Clay, lacerating him with implacable, utter rejection. He steeled himself against the sensation, fighting off the waves of nausea and confusion that threatened to end the trance. I know you got good reason to hate me and my kind, Clay persisted as the nausea blossomed into an ache. But the White . . . He choked off as the ache transformed into an abrupt burst of agony, deep within his being. The mindscape shimmered again and he felt the imminent loss of the trance as Jack exerted all his will to cast out the hated intruder.

Bargaining won’t work, Clay realised, reasserting his own will, the mindscape flaring bright about him, revealing yet more scenes of death and fire. He’s just too crazy. He struggled to remember everything Ethelynne had said about the effects of drinking heart-blood, how it had enabled her to control Lutharon. No, he reminded himself. Not control. A “mutual understanding,” she called it. But how to birth understanding in a mind damaged by so many dire memories? He paused as more of Ethelynne’s words came back to him: Drake memory does not die with the individual, but rather accumulates down the blood line over many generations.

He scanned the surrounding chaos, reeling amidst the fury of Jack’s continuing efforts to drive him out. Lutharon remembered the White, Clay thought. Even though he’d never seen it. Maybe one of Jack’s ancestors caught sight of it too. But if so, what then? The experiences of Jack’s forebears could hardly be sufficient to restore his sanity. Then something Silverpin’s ghost had said popped into his head, a small nugget of insight that reminded him she had been more than just the White’s vassal: What are people, anyway, if not just a collection of memories?

Clay summoned all his will then unleashed it in an instant, blasting away the surrounding fog. He felt Jack shudder under the impact, his rage momentarily quelled by the burst of mental strength. Must be the heart-blood, Clay decided. Gives extra power in the trance.

He focused on the remnants of memory now drifting around him in an otherwise black void, finding fragmentary glimpses of yet more bloody, flame-soaked vengeance. Reaching out to one, a tight ball containing a vision of the attack on Kraghurst Station, he exerted his will again, forcing it into a tiny bead before crushing it to fragments. He moved on, roaming Jack’s mindscape and crushing all the traumatic memories he could find. Jack fought him, red lightning lashing out again and again, but with diminishing force as his memories died. Clay couldn’t get them all, some were too formless to be captured and others just snippets of barely remembered carnage. Here and there he encountered odd moments of serenity or even joy, mainly concerning Jack’s life before the raging insanity of his vengeance. These Clay left alone, though they were few and far between and certainly not enough to return this beast to sanity.

Confusion reigned in the mindscape as Clay crushed the last of the major horrors: the death throes of a Blue-hunter Jack had tormented for days, rearing up every few hours to roast a sailor or two before diving down to let the survivors ponder their impending fate. Humans, it seemed, had taught him the pleasures of sadism. All Jack’s resistance seeped away as the memory crumbled, leaving only the vaguest sense of who or what he was. I could just leave now, Clay knew. End the trance and let him wander the ice, mind broken forever. But what use was there in that?

Let’s see what your ancestors left you. Clay reached into his own memory, summoning the most vibrant image of the White he could find, that final glimpse beneath the mountain as it raged amongst the swarm of its newly hatched kin. Remind you of anything? he asked Jack, who failed to provide an answer. Clay expanded the memory, filling the surrounding void with it. Come on, must be something in here, something buried deep.

He saw it then, a faint glimmer in the void. Clay exerted his will, drawing the glimmer closer, feeding it with the memory of the White so that it grew, blossoming out into a view of a broad sky above a choppy grey sea. Blues churned the water on all sides, long bodies knifing through the waves, whilst above a battle raged. Drakes, Red and Black, wheeled below grey-white clouds, casting flames at each other or locking together in an ugly tangle of thrashing tails and snapping jaws. Drakes plummeted into the sea with grim regularity, either sinking immediately or struggling on the surface as their wounds leaked into the water. The Blues ignored the stricken Reds and swarmed over the Blacks with streaming fire and gnashing teeth. Clay could sense the blankness of the mind that had captured this memory, largely devoid of thought and filled only with a purpose not its own. Kill them, it commanded, the image shifting as the owner of these ancient eyes fixated on a maimed Black near by, trying vainly to take to the air with one undamaged wing. Kill them a—

Then it was gone. The purpose, the command. Vanished from the Blue’s mind and allowing an inrush of sensation. The Blue halted its charge as the urge towards combat faded, instead circling the struggling Black, casting out curious songs of greeting as its strength gave out and it slipped beneath the waves. The Blue cast its gaze to the sky, seeing that the warring factions had now separated, the Reds formed into a loose pack and striking out towards the north-east whilst the surviving Blacks made for the west. Clay managed to make out the dim but unmistakable figure of a human rider on at least one of the Blacks before they slipped into the cloud and were gone from view.

The end of the war, he realised. The first one. The White rose before and they defeated it, somehow.

He pushed the question aside, for it was clear the answer didn’t lie in the mind of this long-dead Blue. He sorted through the memories, finding it a far simpler creature than Jack, its songs joyous and possessing only the smallest tinge of rage. A simple soul, Clay thought, fighting down a pang of guilt. Not sure you’re gonna like your new home.

The chill gripped him like a steel fist the moment the trance faded, forcing out a gasp that would have been a yell if he had the breath for it. He bobbed in the swell as the huge Blue sank back into the water, retreating a short distance to hover close by, its head barely above the surface with one wide eye fixed on Clay. He could feel its song thrumming the water, rich in distress. It seemed the trance had left him with an understanding of Blue-song.

A splash drew Clay’s gaze to the left, where he found Kriz and Loriabeth struggling to keep Lieutenant Sigoral’s head above the water. The Corvantine’s face was bleached white and his one good eye dimmed. A series of splashes came from the right, accompanied by the overlapping whine of multiple bullets and the faint crackle of rifle fire. The distress song from the Blue that had been Last Look Jack rose in pitch as he recoiled from the hail of projectiles, sinking lower in the water.

“Stop—!” Clay shouted, twisting about to face the ship, his words choked off behind chattering teeth. He could see a row of armed men at the rail, Uncle Braddon among them. Preacher stood tall in the crow’s nest, rifle at his shoulder. More worryingly, Lieutenant Steelfine and Captain Hilemore were frantically trying to manoeuvre a cannon into place. The gun had clearly suffered some damage, its barrel thickly wrapped with rope, making Clay wonder if the act of firing it would pose more of a danger to the crew than to Jack.

Clay dragged a deep breath into his lungs and called out with all the volume he could muster: “STOP FUCKING SHOOTING!” The words echoed across the intervening water, heralding a pause in activity on the ship. Clay saw Hilemore straighten from the cannon in evident confusion.

“Clay!” Loriabeth gasped and he turned to see Sigoral slip from her grasp. Clay swam towards them and dived, managing to grab hold of the Corvantine’s jacket before he sank beyond reach, dragging him back to the surface. Kriz and Loriabeth closed in, the three of them kicking frantically to bear Sigoral up. A series of shouts came from the ship, Clay craning his neck to see Hilemore directing a party to lower a boat into the water. Won’t be enough time, Clay knew with a grim certainty, turning back to regard Sigoral’s bloodless complexion. It was also clear that Kriz and Loriabeth were fast approaching their limits as the water’s chill sapped their reserves of strength.

He turned to where the huge Blue still loitered twenty yards off, casting out his plaintive distress call. Clay concentrated, summoning the memory of the remade mindscape he had crafted in the beast’s head, filling it with a distress call of his own. The Blue’s response was surprising in its immediacy, propelling himself towards them with a single swish of his tail before rolling over to present his back spines.

“Grab on,” Clay told the others, reaching out to grasp the nearest spine. He took a firm hold of both the bony protrusion and Sigoral’s jacket before hauling himself closer. Kriz was obliged to help Loriabeth, who seemed to have lost the ability to raise her arms above the water, the older woman wrapping an arm around her chest and pulling them both towards the drake’s huge flank. Once they had all taken hold the Blue rolled again, lifting them clear of the water’s deathly chill before bearing them towards the ship.

As they surged through the water Clay caught sight of something bobbing on the surface, his pack, kept afloat by the bulbous cargo it held. Slow, he told the Blue, who obligingly reduced his speed, allowing Clay to reach out and reclaim the pack. Don’t worry, young ’un, he silently comforted the egg. Carried you way too far to leave you behind now.

He looked up as the deck of the ship loomed above, finding a row of gaunt and stunned faces. Uncle Braddon was the sole exception. Any astonishment he may have felt was clearly drowned by the joy of seeing his daughter again. “Got y’self a new pet, I see,” Braddon said, his heavy beard parting in a broad smile.

“More like a new friend,” Clay replied.

“That there’s Last Look Jack,” one of the crew said. It took Clay a moment to recognise Scrimshine’s face under the fellow’s scraggly beard. The former smuggler clutched a rifle in his bony hands as he stared down at the Blue’s massive body, eyes large in his emaciated skull. “We should kill it, Skipper!” he went on, turning to Hilemore with shrill insistence. “Kill it right now, I says!”

Hearing the murmur of agreement from the other crewmen and noting the severe doubt on the captain’s face, Clay said, “That name don’t fit him no more. This”—Clay leaned forward to pat the broad scaly space between the Blue’s eyes—“this is Old Jack now. And he’s gonna get us out of here.”

CHAPTER 2

Lizanne

“Nothing at all?”

Sofiya Griffan shook her head, loose red tresses playing over the pale skin of her forehead. She had maintained a largely silent and downcast demeanour since the Profitable Venture sailed from Corvus, her inexperienced mind no doubt crowded with the horrors she had witnessed during the capital’s fall. However, now she seemed on the verge of some form of mental collapse, her husband reaching out to clasp her hands as they trembled in her lap.

“Nothing,” she said, eyes flashing at Lizanne in resentful accusation, as if this turn of events were somehow her contrivance. “Feros is silent. That . . . that has never happened before.”

“You have an alternative point of contact, do you not?” Director Thriftmor asked, the inevitable brandy glass in hand. “In Sanorah?”

Sofiya’s head moved in a sharp, nervous nod. “A scheduled emergency contact in Northern Fleet Headquarters. I tranced with them less than an hour ago. They’ve had no contact with Feros since yesterday, nor with any fleet units in the harbour. Blood . . .” She faltered, closing her eyes to stem an upsurge of tears before continuing, forcing the words out. “Blood-burning patrol-craft have been dispatched but it will be several days before they report in.”

Silence reigned in the ward-room as each person present digested the news and the Director took the opportunity to refresh his glass. It was Captain Verricks who broke the silence, his only evident sign of discomfort a slight twitch in the impressive grey whiskers that covered the lower regions of his craggy face. “My orders remain clear,” he said in a gruff tone that said much for his ability to convey a sense of unflappable authority even in times of great uncertainty. “The Profitable Venture is to transport Director Thriftmor and Miss Lethridge to Feros following the completion of their mission to the Corvantine Empire. I intend to fulfil these orders. Trance or not.”

“Feros has fallen,” Lizanne told Verricks, the certainty in her own voice more than a match for his. Her imagination had seen fit to crowd her mind with a plethora of dreadful visions concerning the likely fates of those she had left behind to pursue her Corvantine adventures. Aunt Pendilla, Jermayah, Father . . . Tekela. Guilt and self-reproach roiled in her breast as she met the captain’s gaze. I should have gotten them on the first ship to a Mandinorian port. But she had had no notion the White would be able to strike so far north so quickly, and Feros was one of the most well-defended ports in the world.

“My orders . . .” Captain Verricks began but she cut him off.

“Your orders came from a Board which is now most likely dead or enslaved.” The harshness in her tone drew a frightened sob from Sofiya, but Lizanne ignored her, stepping closer to Verricks to emphasise her point. “We should hope for the former, since I do not relish the prospect of our adversary learning their secrets, as it surely has if it captured any alive.”

Verricks blinked, his gaze switching back and forth between her and Thriftmor. “In that event,” he said, and Lizanne could see the distasteful curl of his lips beneath the whiskers, “Director Thriftmor would appear to be the sole remaining authority.”

Thriftmor’s brandy glass halted its progress towards his mouth as all eyes turned to him in expectation. Besides Lizanne, Verricks and the Griffans, the ship’s senior officers were also present at this conference. It was clear to Lizanne that Thriftmor didn’t enjoy the scrutiny of such a sizable audience.

“I . . . ah,” he said, lowering his brandy glass and inclining his head at Verricks. “I believe, in times of crisis, it is best to defer to military judgement.” He coughed and forced a tight smile in Verricks’s direction. “Your advice, Captain?”

A derisive scowl momentarily creased the captain’s forehead before he turned his gaze away from Thriftmor to address his officers. “It’s highly likely the Profitable is closer to Feros than any Protectorate patrol-craft. Our first duty must be to the Syndicate. We will approach in full battle order and endeavour to carry out a fulsome reconnaissance of the Tyrell Islands. Once the current situation at Feros has been established, Mrs. Griffan will convey the intelligence to Northern Fleet Headquarters with a request for further orders.”

Had Lizanne still held to her operating parameters as an Exceptional Initiatives agent she would have protested, perhaps even leveraged her status to force the captain to sail immediately for northern waters. She had endured weeks in the stink and danger of Scorazin, the Imperial Prison City, to free the Tinkerer and the precious knowledge he possessed. Then there had been the great tribulation of the revolution and the fall of Corus, all the time wondering when the Electress would choose to settle her score. All just to get the Tinkerer aboard this ship. Making for Feros threatened to rob them of whatever advantage his secrets might hold. But the guilt still roiled and she found she had to know what had befallen those she had left to face the storm. So, she stood and said nothing as Captain Verricks reeled off a string of orders to his officers.

“In the meantime, Miss Lethridge,” Verricks said to Lizanne when the room had cleared, “it might be best if you compiled whatever report Exceptional Initiatives is expecting of you. It can be communicated by Mrs. Griffan before we close on the Isles.”

“Sadly,” Lizanne replied with a sigh, making for the ward-room door and sparing a glance at Thriftmor now busily refreshing his brandy glass, “it’s not quite that easy.”

“You promised security,” Tinkerer said in his usual colourless voice. He glanced around at the spartan cabin he had been given and Lizanne wondered if he was pining for his books and diagrams. “This isn’t it.”

“I promised escape from Scorazin,” Lizanne returned. “And I delivered. My end of the bargain is fulfilled.” She held out a vial of Blue. “Now it’s time for yours, sir.”

“Bargains can be renegotiated,” he said, making no move to take the vial. “Especially when the value of the item under negotiation has increased . . .”

He fell to an abrupt silence as Lizanne took a revolver from the pocket of her skirt and levelled it at his head. The cylinder clicked as she cocked the hammer. “I am in no mood for your particular manners, sir,” she informed him in slow, unmistakable tones. “Up until this point have I given you any reason to doubt my word?”

His face remained impassive as he replied with a fractional shake of his head.

“Good. Then trust me when I say that you will either surrender your secrets now or I will decorate this cabin with your brains.” She held out the vial once more. “As I say, I am in no mood.”

He lifted one of his deft, slim-fingered hands and plucked the vial from her grasp. “One trance won’t be enough,” he cautioned her, removing the stopper and drinking half the contents. “The amount of information is considerable and complex.”

“Then it’s all the more important that we make a start,” Lizanne replied, retrieving the vial and drinking the remaining product. She lowered the revolver and they matched stares. For several seconds nothing happened, the expected trance failing to materialise. It occurred to her that Tinkerer’s singular personality might prohibit any trance connection, it required some form of emotional bond after all, however slight. But she recalled that he had made at least one friend in Scorazin, although even the unfortunately deceased Melina felt obliged to punch him in the face at one point.

“Perhaps a stronger dose,” she began, reaching for her wallet, but then Tinkerer blinked and the cabin disappeared.

The vision that greeted Lizanne was amazingly detailed, possessing a clarity and exactitude she had never before seen in a Blue-trance. Even the most vivid memory was inevitably altered by the mind that recalled it, insignificant elements rendered vague or omitted completely. For Tinkerer, however, it appeared nothing was insignificant. Every cobble of the street beneath their feet caught the dim sunlight peeking through the slowly drifting grey clouds above. Every brick, timber and pane of glass that formed the surrounding houses was fully present as was the tinge of horse-dung that combined with wood-smoke and a faint tang of salt to stain the air.

A port, Lizanne decided, trying vainly to conceal the sense of wonder that leeched from her mind as she surveyed her new surroundings. She spied a tall tower poking above the roof-tops to the south, a spire that closely resembled the oracular temple in the Morsvale park where she had hidden with Tekela and Major Arberus. Thoughts of Tekela immediately quelled her amazement. We have a task, she reminded herself, turning to Tinkerer who stood a few feet away, expression as blank as ever.

Where is this? she asked him.

Valazin, he replied. I was conceived here.

She had never been to this city but knew Valazin to be the largest port on the Corvantine Empire’s north-eastern coast. Once an independent city-state it had been incorporated into the Empire some six centuries ago. She remembered from her many briefings on Corvantine politics that the port had been the scene of some of the worst outrages of the Revolutionary Wars. The inhabitants had unwisely taken advantage of the chaos to resurrect archaic notions of reclaiming long-lost sovereignty. A series of brief battles and prolonged massacres, undertaken by the three now-extinct legions of the Household Division, had put paid to any such illusions. Judging by the fact that many of the houses in sight were of recent construction, and the numerous Imperial posters pasted onto the walls, she deduced they were viewing Valazin some years after its subjugation.

Tinkerer strode across the street and halted before a shop-window decorated with the words “Eskovin Toys & Trinkets—Finest Toymakers in Valazin Since 1209.” Lizanne moved to his side, peering through the glass at the interior where a diminutive figure could be seen at a work-bench. Peering closer, she saw that it was a woman, perhaps twenty years old, engaged in wrapping a small wooden box with brown paper. Lizanne took note of the woman’s bulging belly. Your mother.

Yes. This was my family’s shop. Grandfather taught Mother how to make the toys and Father took the shop over when he died.

If she had expected to see some flicker of affection as he gazed upon his mother she was to be disappointed. His face retained its usual impassivity as the woman finished wrapping the box, tying the covering in place with a length of string and a small knot. The woman placed the box under her arm and exited the shop, the bell above the door jingling as she stepped out onto the cobbles. Lizanne was struck by the resemblance to Tinkerer, her pale features a feminized mirror of the man standing next to her, and similarly vacant of expression. The emptiness to the woman’s gaze told of a failure to fully perceive the world, as if she were drugged. As the door swung closed Lizanne caught sight of a man’s body lying face-down next to the work-bench, a recent and broad patch of blood spreading across the tiled floor.

Father tried to stop her, Tinkerer explained. She stabbed him in the chest with a screwdriver.

She and Tinkerer followed the woman on a southward trek through winding streets and alleys. She moved with an automatic precision, turning this way and that without pause as if locked into a pre-set course. Eventually she emerged from a narrow walkway onto the broad wharf of the Valazin dockside. She side-stepped the many carts and barrows with unconscious ease, making for a large three-storey building Lizanne recognised as the port’s Custom House. Tinkerer’s mother walked up to the uniformed guard on the door and presented the box, Lizanne catching her soft precise tones as she said, “I was told to give you this.”

The guard’s face broke into a puzzled smile as he bent to accept the box. The expression abruptly turned to consternation when the woman turned on her heel and walked briskly away. The guard had time for a half-shouted command to stop before the box exploded. Lizanne was impressed by the woman’s skills, somehow managing to cram so powerful a device into such a small container. When the smoke cleared there was little left of the guard save a red smear surrounding the ruined Custom House door. Tinkerer’s mother stood a short distance from the carnage, hands folded over her fulsome belly and an oddly satisfied smile on her lips. When a squad of constables descended on her a few moments later she said, “Free Valazin, death to the Empire” with all the conviction of a child reciting a poorly remembered rhyme.

Why? Lizanne asked as the memory faded into a grey mist. She hardly seemed the radical type.

She was told to, Tinkerer answered as the surrounding mist formed into a more familiar scene.

Scorazin, Lizanne thought in sour recognition. This vision possessed the same clarity as the first memory, made all the more disconcerting by being an unwelcome reminder of her time within these walls. They looked out on the prison city through a part-shattered window, more roof-tops than she remembered just visible through the familiar haze of smoke fumes. Tinkerer had managed to perfectly capture the signature scent of sulphur, coal and death she had hoped would never again assail her nostrils.

She turned at the sound of a small plaintive cry behind her, seeing a man cradling an infant beside the bleach-faced body of a woman covered by a filthy blanket. Stepping closer, Lizanne confirmed her suspicion that it was Tinkerer’s mother, face even emptier now having been slackened by death.

They sent her here, Tinkerer said, moving to stand by the man with the infant. As he knew they would. Even a pregnant woman can expect no mercy if the crime is treason.

Lizanne looked closer at the crouching man, seeing a stocky, bald-headed fellow in his thirties, his face possessed of the sallow hardness that marked those who spend years within the walls. He stared down at the child in his arms with what appeared to Lizanne to be cold animosity, his face betraying not the slightest twitch as the baby raised a tiny hand to his unshaven cheek. Who is he? she asked.

You met him once before, Tinkerer said. But he was dead by then.

Lizanne recalled the chamber beneath Tinkerer’s quarters in the cinnabar mine, the fourteen corpses that had included the long-dead Artisan. He brought you here, she realised, her mind stumbling over the implications with unaccustomed confusion. How?

The trance, Tinkerer replied. He stepped back as the man got to his feet, moving with the infant to the window.

Lizanne frowned in consternation, this all being so far outside her experience. How could a man compel a non-Blessed soul to such extreme action via the trance? She remembered what Clay shared with her about Silverpin’s revelation when they discovered the White’s lair, about there being more to the trance than just shared memory. Blue is a remarkable product, your kind understands only the barest fraction of its power. Somehow the blade-hand had compelled the rest of the Longrifles to keep searching for the White long after it became obvious the most rational course would be to return to Carvenport. Also, she had been able to bind Clay somehow, forcing him to confront the sleeping White. But they had both been Blood-blessed whereas Tinkerer’s mother couldn’t have been.

He had the blessing, Lizanne said, nodding to the man who now stood cradling the infant as he stared out at the prison city. As do you. But your mother didn’t. The blessing is not hereditary.

What is the mind if not a means of controlling the body? Tinkerer said. To share a mind is to share control, or surrender it to a greater will. He had been searching for me for a long time, or one like me. Sending his mind out far and wide until he snared a Blood-blessed infant still nestling in its mother’s womb. The mind of an unborn child is blank, easily claimed, and through it, so is the mother. Later, he saw fit to share the memory of the act that had brought her here, the crime he had forced her to commit. I believe he hoped it would distress me. Instead I found it fascinating.

The man at the window spoke then, his voice low and croaking, the rasp of a guilty soul. “You poor little fucker,” he said as the child squirmed in his arms. “If I was any kind of a man I’d strangle you right now.”

The memory shifted again, swirling into another darker space. His home in the mine, Lizanne realised, looking around at the rough-hewn rock. Tinkerer was at least ten years old by now, though his slightness of frame may have made him seem younger. He sat on a stool next to a bed, holding a cup of water to the lips of a barely conscious older girl. Though apparently in her mid-teens the girl was so tall her bare, soot-covered feet protruded off the edge of the bed.

“Can’t stay,” a raspy voice said and Lizanne turned to see the man from the previous memory standing unsteadily in the chamber entrance. His countenance had become even more sallow and sunken in the intervening years and his eyes were dark reddish holes in his face. A half-empty bottle dangled from his hand and Lizanne could smell the acrid stain of whatever concoction it contained on the man’s breath. “Can’t have her here,” the man went on, voice loud and slurred as he waved the bottle about. “Shouldn’t’ve brought her.”

The young Tinkerer barely glanced at the man, continuing to hold the cup to the girl’s lips and speaking in a flat voice he would carry into adulthood. “I expected you to have expired by morning. Your organs must be close to failing by now.”

The man responded with a snarl which sounded somewhat half-hearted to Lizanne, as if he had long exhausted all anger for the boy he had condemned to this place. “Always the fuckin’ same,” he growled. “Ever since you were old enough to speak. There’s no soul in you, boy.” He took a long drink from the bottle, his throat working with greedy, desperate gulps that told Lizanne this was a man engaged in a protracted suicide attempt. “We’ll sell her to that bitch who took over the Miner’s Repose,” he added upon draining the bottle. “Once she’s healed up, and all.”

“No,” Tinkerer said, setting the cup aside. “You will be dead soon, and I require assistance.”

The girl on the bed groaned and shifted a little, Lizanne noting the marks of a recent and severe beating on her face. Despite the discolouration and the swelling, it was still possible to recognise Melina’s high cheek-bones and strong nose, although at this point she evidently retained possession of both eyes. Lizanne had liked her, as much as it had been possible to like any inmate of Scorazin. Melina, although brutalised by her years within the walls, had at least possessed a straightforward fairness and lack of duplicity that set her apart. Lizanne found she couldn’t suppress a twinge of guilt at the woman’s eventual fate, shot in the head during the first chaotic charge into the wreckage of the citadel, itself a spectacular distraction Lizanne had orchestrated to facilitate her own escape.

Your regret is misplaced, the older Tinkerer told her. She would certainly have killed you had she survived. Forgiveness was not a trait she possessed.

As interesting as this all is, Lizanne replied, you have yet to show me what became of the Artisan.

He became him. Tinkerer nodded at the sallow-faced drunkard, now glowering at the boy in impotent rage. In time, so did I.

Another shift in the vision, the setting switching to a much darker place. The young Tinkerer had sprouted several inches in height in the interval. He crouched at the drunkard’s side, holding up his ingenious lantern so the focused beam could fully illuminate the man’s face. The drunkard had lost much of his body-weight by now, his features gaunt and skin resembling old yellowed paper in the lamplight. It was clear to Lizanne he had only a small amount of life left to him. His eyes were half-closed and his lips moved in a faint murmur. The young Tinkerer leaned closer to catch the sibilant rasp, “You’re the last, y’know that?”

“The last of what?” the youth enquired, a rare frown of puzzlement on his brow.

“These . . .” The dying man’s hands jerked and Tinkerer turned the lamp to illuminate the bodies, thirteen in all and soon to be joined by one more. “All of these . . . lived wretched lives trapped in this place . . . just to bring you here.” He managed to lift a shaking hand and extend a finger, Tinkerer’s lamp following it to reveal the oldest corpse, the one chained to the wall. “That one . . . began it all. Fucker!” The man coughed out the insult and began to jerk spasmodically, breath catching. “Started it . . . Called the first one, found her in the womb . . . just like I found you.”

Tinkerer turned the lamplight back on the dying man, head angled in curiosity. “Why?”

The man fumbled for something in the pocket of his besmirched clothes, coming out with a small glass vial. “It’s time,” he rasped, holding the vial out to Tinkerer. “She’ll be coming . . . soon. Need to be ready.”

Tinkerer took the vial, Lizanne recognising the hue as he played the lamplight over it. Blue.

“Ready for what?” Tinkerer enquired, his voice betraying only mild interest, which Lizanne suspected concealed a raging curiosity.

The man grunted out a wheezing laugh, baring half-rotted teeth in what was probably his first smile in decades. “Escape . . . you little shit. What else?” He held out the vial. “Drink.”

Lizanne watched Tinkerer take the vial and lift it to his lips then hand it back to the dying man. “If you do happen to find the Artisan’s ghost one day,” he said, tipping the remaining Blue down his throat, “give them my undying hate.”

He leaned forward then, grunting with the effort, staring into Tinkerer’s eyes. The trance shifted again, the chamber fading into a black void, absent of light or sensation. Lizanne had experienced shallow minds before, mostly lacking in thought or imagination, but nothing as completely empty as this. She searched for Tinkerer but found nothing. Somehow, he had been removed from a memory in his trance. Then she saw something in the dark, a small bright glimmer in the void. It grew as she went to it and she saw it to be a metal box, spinning in the darkness, a box of gears and cogs that caught the non-existent light as it spun and spun. A box she had seen before. The solargraph-cum-music-box that had once belonged to Tekela’s father. The work of the Artisan’s very own hand that had set her and Clay on this path. The mystery they had spent many hours trying to unlock in Jermayah’s workshop.

The trance vanished. Lizanne found herself blinking into Tinkerer’s blank gaze. For a long moment neither of them said anything.

“Well?” Lizanne demanded as the silence stretched.

“That is all I can give you.”

“For your sake, I hope that is a lie.”

“I showed you all that I can.”

“There has to be more.”

“There is. But it is behind a lock I cannot undo. But now you know the key.”

The solargraph, she thought. The solargraph is the key. Everything always comes back to that damned box. “You know how it works?” she said, jaw clenched as she bit down on her frustration.

“No. But if you want the memories in my head, you will have to find it and make it work.”

Lizanne swallowed a hard, bitter laugh. “All those tales you had to tell me,” she said. “Of his days in Arradsia, his many discoveries. Of the women he loved and the men he hated. You don’t actually know any of it, do you?”

“No more than educated guesses.” He angled his head, frowning in marginal confusion. “I would have thought someone in your profession would appreciate creative dishonesty when demanded by necessity. You were always my only means of escape.”

She turned away from him, clenching her fists to stop herself reaching for her revolver. “You were expecting me,” she realised after taking a series of calming breaths. “That man, he said, ‘She’ll be coming soon.’ He was referring to me, wasn’t he?”

“I expect so. I believe it was a vision shared with him by his predecessor. But not one he chose to share with me. Out of spite, I suspect.” Tinkerer paused, raising his gaze to the cabin roof as a loud pealing cry sounded throughout the ship. “What is that?” he enquired.

“The ship’s siren,” Lizanne said, refusing to be distracted. “How could he possibly have known I would be there?”

Tinkerer’s eyes narrowed slightly in a gesture she had come to recognise as bemusement at the stupidity of others. “A question I pondered briefly until the answer became obvious, once all other possibilities had been discounted.”

Lizanne winced as the ship’s siren came again, three long blasts. He didn’t know, she thought, striving to concentrate. The Artisan knew, centuries ago . . . “The future,” she said as the answer came to her in a rush. “He saw the future.”

“Yes. Though quite how I do not know. I suspect the answer is locked away with the other memories.”

But she already knew the answer. White blood. Lizanne experienced a small moment of inner triumph stirred by at least knowing one thing he didn’t. The Artisan must have drunk White blood.

“That sounds urgent,” Tinkerer said as the siren sounded again.

“Stay here,” she said, rising from the bunk and moving to the door.

“What does it mean?” he enquired.

She paused to glance back at him, wondering if it might be better to get him to a life-boat whilst there was still time. But she knew it to be a desperate notion; they would scarcely be any safer adrift on the high seas than on a Protectorate battleship.

“Enemy in sight,” she replied. “If the guns start up, lie down on the deck. If the White’s forces seize the ship, I advise you to find the most efficient means of killing yourself.” With that she hauled the door closed and started off along the passageway at a run, making for the bridge.

CHAPTER 3

Sirus

Slaves we may be. Monsters we may be. But if we can be merciful, can we not love too?

Katrya’s words drifted through his head like the whisper of a morning breeze, kept deliberately faint by the fear he used to cloud the image of her death whenever it arose. But still it was hard not to dwell on the sight of her scaled, despoiled features, so vibrant at the end, glowing with triumph during that last instant before his bullet tore through her head. We can be merciful . . .

The words felt like the distant echo of a bad joke as he surveyed the city below, the view being preferable to the spectacle unfolding behind him on the roof-top. He could see neat columns of Spoiled moving through the streets towards their billets in the dock-side warehouses. Smaller parties were engaged in a methodical search of every house, workshop, shed and sewer for any Feros citizens who had survived the assault and so far escaped capture. Many of those doing the searching had been citizens themselves only days before and Sirus wondered how many sons or daughters had been dragged from their hiding-places to find themselves staring into the distorted visages of their parents.

He stood atop the imposing fortress-like tower that had been, until very recently, the headquarters of the entire Ironship Syndicate. The White had chosen to nest on the building’s broad flat roof, along with its clutch of adolescent kin. Also present was the Blood-blessed Mandinorian woman who had inexplicably arrived on a passenger liner the day after their seizure of Feros. So far, she was the only one of her kind not to face near-immediate slaughter upon entering the White’s company. Instead she had received instant elevation to the pinnacle of this monstrous army, something that Sirus found piqued his pride in no small measure, much to his self-disgust. Morradin had been quick with his taunts, sensing Sirus’s resentment with grating ease. General no longer, eh? Victory, it seems, brings no reward in the Legion of Flame. For such a self-interested soul the former Grand Marshal had a remarkable facility for divining the feelings of others.

Sirus’s mind churned with questions regarding this woman. Who is she? Why does the White dote on her as if she were one of its own? Why didn’t it kill her like the others? But the biggest mystery of all was the fact that the woman’s mind remained her own, unshared and impenetrable. However, this didn’t prevent her from invading the minds of other Spoiled.

What are you looking at?

He turned to find her standing at his side, head angled in faint curiosity. The torn and scorched dress that had barely covered her when she first arrived in Feros had since been exchanged for a formal attire of dark blue, the kind usually worn by women of the corporate managerial class. Adorning the otherwise plain jacket were four silver shareholder pins, each one taken from the corpse of an Ironship Board member. With one more to come, Sirus thought, resisting the impulse to look over his shoulder as another scream sounded.

“The search is proceeding well,” he said aloud in Mandinorian, choosing to maintain his custom of speaking rather than thinking. He was curious to see if she objected to spoken communication. Besides, with this one there was no obvious indication she had absorbed any thought he might share. He sent a subtle probe her way as she followed his gaze, hoping to detect some faint leakage of emotion. But as usual there was nothing. Trying to touch her mind was like jabbing at a wall fashioned from cold unyielding iron. He wondered if his inability to reach her thoughts was somehow related to the fact that she was only partially Spoiled. Instead of the spines and discoloured scales of his fellow slaves, her brief exposure to the Blue crystal’s light had left her with a mostly human appearance. A cluster of scales had appeared around her eyes and a series of barely perceptible bumps marred the otherwise smooth perfection of her forehead. The eyes themselves showed the most change and were another unique and mysterious facet of her story. Instead of the yellow eyes with which they had all been afflicted, hers were like two red coals set into black orbs.

“He let me choose,” she said, surprising him by speaking aloud. “I always liked the combination of red and black. It used to drive my dress-maker to distraction.”

He blinked as her unnatural gaze lingered on him, his surprise heightened by the fact that she had spoken in Eutherian. “Such a lovely tongue,” she went on. “So much more elegant than Mandinorian, don’t you find?”

Her tone and flawless accent put him in mind of the casual and meaningless chatter of the Corvantine noble class. This was the kind of exchange he used to stammer his way through whenever his father had forced him to attend a social gathering. Somehow he knew that this woman would have felt entirely comfortable in such company.

“In some ways,” he replied, also in Eutherian. “Though it remains overly archaic in many instances, and the strictness of its grammar resists adaptation to the modern world.”

“Spoken like a true technocrat.” She inclined her head, revealing slightly elongated eye-teeth with a smile. “And it’s Catheline, by the way,” she added, with a shallow curtsy. “Since you were wondering. Catheline Dewsmine of the Sanorah Dewsmines. At your service, sir.”

“Sirus Akiv Kapazin, miss,” he replied with bow. “Former Curator of Native Artifacts at the Morsvale Imperial Museum of Antiquities.”

“Once a curator, now a general.” She pursed her lips in apparent admiration. “You’ve risen high for one so young.”

“I thought you were the general now.”

She surprised him again by laughing. She had a rich laugh he knew other men had assuredly once described as delightful. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of stealing your honours, good sir. Not when you’ve done such sterling work in our wondrous cause. Your stratagems are so much more elegant and effective than that Corvantine brute. Where is he, by the way?”

“Mopping-up operations,” Sirus said. “Some survivors are lingering amongst the inland hill-country, most of them refugees from Carvenport.”

“Carvenport, eh? Will we find our elusive quarry amongst them, do you think?” There was a sardonic twist to her lips that told him she already knew the answer.

“I very much doubt it, miss.”

“Catheline, please.” She stepped closer, looping an arm through his and steering him away from the edge of the roof. “And I will call you General, since you seem so attached to the term.”

“Sirus will suffice . . .”

“Nonsense.” She tweaked his nose with a finger. “I think we should accommodate some customs from the old world, don’t you?” She turned her focus on the ghastly tableau before them, smile broadening. “Since so much of it is about to vanish forever.”

The spread-eagled body of Madame Gloryna Dolspeake, Chairperson of the Ironship Board of Directors, was suspended in mid air by virtue of each of her limbs being clutched firmly in the jaws of an adolescent White. Her silver-grey head lolled as she voiced an exhausted scream that was more of a high-pitched gasp. A surprisingly small amount of blood leaked from the jaws of the Whites, the youthful beasts having been careful not to inflict fatal damage, as yet. It would have been a simple matter to convert the woman and pluck the secrets from her head, but it seemed Catheline had a preference for complication, at least insofar as the Ironship Board were concerned.

“Pardon the interruption, madame,” Catheline apologised, switching smoothly to Mandinorian. “Please do go on. You were telling us all about the fascinating Miss Lethridge and her recent mission to the Corvantine Empire. A perilous endeavour to be sure, and all to decipher the workings of an old music-box.”

Madame Dolspeake gave no immediate response, continuing to sag in apparent exhaustion until the juvenile Whites tugged in unison, the woman’s slight form convulsing and a fresh yelp erupting from her lips. “Yes!” she grated through clenched teeth. “The box . . . the Artisan’s box.”

A low, inquisitive rumble sounded above and Sirus raised his gaze to see the White lowering its massive head. Prior to this the beast had regarded the interrogation with apparent indifference, but mention of the Artisan seemed to have piqued its interest.

“Quite so,” Catheline said. “And what exactly is in this box, pray tell?”

“Answers . . .” Madame Dolspeake whimpered, her body seeming to thrum with pain. “A key to . . .”—her gaze took on a sudden animation, eyes flashing at the huge drake looming above her—“defeating this . . . monstrosity!” She shouted the final word, pain-wracked features moulded into a mask of defiant hate. Sirus couldn’t suppress a pang of admiration at this, something which drew a sharp glance from Catheline.

“You find something noble in this wretch, General?” she enquired, her arm tensing against his. Although she was not fully Spoiled, he could feel the strength in her, and added to that was the worrisome awareness that she was also a Blood-blessed.

“Allow me to assure you this woman is not worthy of your regard,” Catheline went on, fixing her gaze on the unfortunate Ironship luminary. Sirus could see the naked hatred shining in Catheline’s red-black eyes, her lips taking on a wet sheen as she continued, “This woman and her kind have enslaved those like me for generations. But for my family’s influence they would have had me labour in their service like some slum-born slattern. Once my family would have been great and powerful, standing high in the court of the Mandinorian Empire. Now, for all their wealth they are beggars, grubbing for crumbs from the corporate table like every other slave in this world of greed, a world they created. It is they who are the true monsters. They who have raped an entire continent in their avarice and would have raped the whole world.”

She unhooked her arm from Sirus’s and moved to crouch at Madame Dolspeake’s side, leaning close to murmur in her ear. “Tell me, madame. What were you going to do when all the product ran out? When you had wrung the last drop of blood from the last withered drake? What were you going to do then?”

Madame Dolspeake met Catheline’s gaze, matching the enmity she saw in full measure. “I . . . remember you,” she said in a thin whisper. “A spoilt little bitch . . . born to a family of wastrels. You’d spread your legs . . . for the merest chance at a gossip-column headline.” Somehow the woman managed to laugh, though it emerged from her throat as more of a choking sob. “At least . . . now your looks match your character.”

Catheline’s lips drew back in a snarl, nails extending into claws as she clamped a hand to Madame Dolspeake’s throat. A short grunt came from the White and Catheline froze, the snarl fading as she jerked her hand away as if it had been burned. Watching her retreat a few steps and take a calming breath, Sirus was compelled to wonder at the viciousness of a woman who had to be restrained by one such as the White. After a moment Catheline straightened, smoothing her hands over her skirt before staring down at the older woman with cold determination. “The Artisan’s box,” she said. “Where is it?”

For a moment Madame Dolspeake said nothing, but soon began speaking in a rapid babble as the juvenile Whites tightened their grip. “Reported lost at Carvenport, though Bloskin was certain Lethridge had placed it in her father’s hands. He chose to leave it there in the hope the man could unlock it, then seize it when he had.”

“Ah yes, Taddeus Bloskin,” Catheline said. “The esteemed Director of Exceptional Initiatives who had the good sense to blow his brains out when the city fell.” She paused for a moment, frowning in recollection. “Lethridge’s father. Presumably that would be the famous Professor Graysen Lethridge, genius inventor and denizen of this very port.” She turned a questioning glance in Sirus’s direction.

“He’s not amongst the captives or the new recruits,” he reported promptly, hoping a steady current of fear would mask the memories provoked by the name Lethridge. Tekela slaughtering the Greens with that infernal repeating gun, the balloon taking her away. As ever, the daughter of the late Burgrave Artonin retained an effortless capacity to haunt his thoughts. His disastrous wooing in Morsvale. The sight of her adorned with the ancient sapphire necklace, twirling in delight in the museum vaults, probably the only time he had managed to make her laugh. Then the moment only three nights ago when he stood naked in her sights. Out of bullets, she had said with a shrug. “I’ll have his home searched,” Sirus added, flooding his mind with all the horrors he could muster before turning his attention to the collective memory of the Spoiled.

He was careful to scour the collective minds of the recent captives for the address before issuing a thought-command to a troop of Spoiled. It wouldn’t do for Catheline to question why he already knew of the location. The search-party shared their findings as they tore through the domicile of Professor Lethridge, finding no sign of the man or the elusive musical box. Also, no sign of Katrya’s body, which Sirus had buried in the port’s largest park. He put her close to the flower-beds, thinking she might have liked that.

“Gather every scrap of paper and machinery,” Catheline ordered. “Examine them yourself, General. I think this is a task for our keenest mind.” She paused as one of the searchers cast their gaze at the workshop’s ceiling, finding it mostly absent. “No fire damage,” she observed. “Why would the professor remove his own ceiling, I wonder?”

Sirus was aware of her close scrutiny as he sorted through the mélange of images captured by the collective mind of the army the night of Feros’s fall. He had hoped the escape of Tekela and her companions might have been missed altogether. Unfortunately, it transpired that several sets of eyes had glimpsed the balloon craft as it soared over the roof-tops towards the northern shore of the island. All of those who had seen it had died in the fighting, but not before their memories had been shared with others. The vision was dull and misty, as was often the case with memories formed during combat, but clear enough to make out the dimensions of the novel conveyance and its three occupants.

“A dirigible aerostat,” Sirus said, speaking aloud once more. “I’ve read of experiments with such craft in northern Mandinor, but all were said to be at a very early stage.”

“Then the professor must be a man of even greater talent than his reputation allows,” Catheline replied. She looked up at the White who gave a throaty rumble before turning its massive head in the direction of a neighbouring building. A dozen Reds immediately rose from their perch atop the building’s roof, Sirus recognising Katarias amongst them. The huge Red took the lead as they adopted a northern course, wings sweeping in rapid arcs.

“Ingenious as it is,” Catheline said, “it didn’t strike me as the fastest of vehicles. We’ll have them soon enough. Now then,” she added briskly, clasping her hands together and returning her attention to Madame Dolspeake, “let us discuss the strength of the Protectorate Northern Fleet.”

Katarias returned two days later, appearing on the northern horizon as the sun began to fade. The Red’s wings moved in sluggish half sweeps that barely caught the cooling evening air. He glided over the harbour wall to land on the quayside, head slumped and eyes dimmed with exhaustion. Catheline ordered he be fed immediately and a trio of captives were duly dragged forward to be feasted upon. They were all in their early teens, too young to be worth converting but kept alive for the amusement or nourishment of the drakes. Madame Dolspeake had at least been spared such a fate, though Sirus doubted she saw much mercy in Catheline’s decision to cast her broken but still-living body from the headquarters roof-top.

“I would have you join us, dried-up old hag though you are,” Catheline told the Chairperson, lifting the woman’s spindly form above her head with effortless strength. “Your experience and insight might have been useful. But I find that I simply can’t stomach the thought of your mind touching mine. Any wisdom or defiance to share at the final moment?”

Madame Dolspeake raised her head, a stream of blood falling from her mouth as she tried to speak. The words were too soft to hear and Sirus doubted the woman was still capable of forming a rational thought in any case.

“Oh, never mind,” Catheline said, casting the Chairperson away. She stood watching her plummet to the ground, arms crossed and expression reflective rather than triumphant. “I doubt it would have been one for the historians anyway.”

“The other Reds died,” she explained to Sirus now, seemingly deaf to the screams and breaking bones behind her. “Flew until they couldn’t fly any longer then fell into the sea.” There was a curiously mournful tone to her voice, as if she were speaking of cherished comrades lost in a noble cause. “Thankfully, he alone managed to stay aloft and caught sight of this.”

She pushed a memory into Sirus’s head, a small bulbous speck on a far horizon. “It appears the winds carried them west. He followed for over an hour but was forced to turn back lest he share his brothers’ fate. It was long enough to discern that the professor’s marvellous contraption is losing height.”

“Then the sea will claim them,” Sirus said, concealing a wince as Katarias tore the last of the captives in two with a loud snap of his jaws. “The problem would appear to be solved.”

“We have to be sure,” she replied, shaking her head. “The box must be destroyed. Along with any who might unlock it. All other considerations are secondary.”

She turned to survey the ships within the harbour walls. Their appearance was decidedly unimpressive, each one blackened by fire or scarred by explosions. Of the Protectorate warships at anchor in Feros at the time of its seizure, only six could be said to be fully operational. The rest were undergoing extensive repairs and those beyond saving were being cannibalised for weapons and parts. Sirus estimated the full strength of the White’s fleet would be some twenty-five vessels once the work was complete. Added to that were another two dozen merchant vessels and Blue-hunters, which would be used as troop-transports, once their next destination had been made clear.

“I so wish to sail north, General,” Catheline said with a wistful air. “How I long to see Mandinor burn. But sadly we have more pressing matters. It’s time for you to add the title of ‘admiral’ to your collection.”

CHAPTER 4

Hilemore

“Who is she?”

“Told you who she is, Captain.” Clay gave Hilemore one of his signature, punch-inviting grins. Hilemore wasn’t sure whether to take some comfort from the fact that this young man had retained an effortless ability to annoy him despite his recent travails.

“Her name doesn’t tell me a great deal,” he replied, striving to control his burgeoning ire. “And, given our circumstances, I find my patience in short supply. So I will ask you again.” He put both fists on the desk and leaned closer to Clay, meeting his gaze with unmistakable intent. “Who is she?”

They were in the captain’s cabin aboard the Dreadfire, Clay nursing a cup of something hot Lieutenant Steelfine had managed to concoct in the galley. Lieutenant Sigoral was being tended to by the youngest Torcreek, though Loriabeth herself seemed close to collapse from exposure. Despite that she continued to nurse the Corvantine Marine and proved deaf to her father’s stern and repeated order to rest.

Then there was the woman. The woman named Kriz, who had not been a member of their party when they entered the Spire, and yet had now somehow been retrieved from the depths. She had nodded a greeting when Clay introduced her but seemed reluctant to utter more than a few words, her Mandinorian spoken in an uncannily perfect Carvenport accent. She sounded like someone raised in the Blinds, the notorious slum where Clay had spent his childhood years, but Hilemore knew instinctively that couldn’t be the case.

He felt an overriding sense of strangeness when he looked at her. Judging by her colouring he would have taken her for a South Mandinorian, but there was an angularity to her features that made him doubt it. Added to that was her manner, the way she stared at every fixture on the ship, eyes wary but also hungry for detail. Then there was the hour or more she had spent on deck staring at the sky and the surrounding ice-floes, her face occasionally breaking into a smile of unalloyed joy. The smile disappeared, however, the instant Hilemore attempted to talk to her, at which point she pulled her blanket tight about her shoulders and disappeared belowdecks. Hilemore couldn’t help the feeling that, although he had witnessed something unbelievable in Clay’s taming of Last Look Jack, this woman represented something far more incredible.

“Her full name is Krizelle,” Clay said, hesitating before gulping down some of Steelfine’s beverage and continuing in a tone of forced matter-of-factness. “Last survivor of the Philos Caste. She’s about ten thousand years old and was the first Blood-blessed born on this planet.” He sipped from the mug again, smacking his lips in appreciation. “This is really good, whatever it is.” The humour faded from his face as he glanced up at Hilemore’s silent, glowering visage.

“Alright,” Clay said with a sigh, setting the mug down on the desk. “But you better take a seat, Captain. This is a long story.”

“It’s true,” Loriabeth said. “Every word of it.” She jerked her head at Sigoral’s slumbering form on the bunk behind her. “You can ask him when he wakes.”

She had curtained off a section of the hold to use as a sick bay and hadn’t strayed from the lieutenant’s side since. Sigoral had been dosed with a small amount of their remaining stock of Green, Loriabeth also applying a diluted tincture of the product to his wound with a compress. Judging by the state of the damage, Hilemore entertained serious doubts the Marine would ever recover his sight in that eye. The pain had clearly left a deep mark for the man fidgeted in his sleep, hands jerking repeatedly as if he were clutching his carbine.

“An entire enclosed world down below.” Hilemore shook his head in a mixture of awe and incredulity. “It’s a hard tale to swallow, miss. And not one the Board will easily believe.”

“They can believe what they like.” She gave a pointed glance at where Kriz sat conversing with Clay at the galley table. “Besides, it ain’t like we got no proof.”

Hilemore nodded his thanks and moved away, pausing to regard the ancient woman who appeared only a few years his junior. She and Clay spoke in a language Hilemore didn’t know, an oddly inflected tongue of elongated vowels and soft consonants. The language of the past, he assumed. Learned by Torcreek in the trance along with many secrets he no doubt chose to keep back. Lengthy as the young Blood-blessed’s story had been, Hilemore’s experienced eye picked out several instances of slight hesitation accompanied by the fractional aversion of the eyes that told of a lie or deliberate omission. It won’t do, he decided, starting forward with a purposeful stride. I must know all of it to decide our course.

His purpose, however, was soon interrupted as the Dreadfire’s deck suddenly heaved beneath his feet, coming close to pitching him flat on his face. Hilemore grabbed a beam to steady himself, holding on as the deck lurched again. Cutlery and plates cascaded from the galley table as the ship seemed to revolve, swaying as if borne up by a heavy sea. But the weather’s calm, Hilemore thought, peering through the nearest port-hole.

“Blues again, Skipper?” Scrimshine asked, eyes wide and bright in his cadaverous face.

“Not with Jack so close by,” Clay said, making an unsteady progress to Hilemore’s side with Kriz following close behind. “Reckon we got some fresh trouble, Captain.”

The ship settled and Hilemore rushed for the steps to the upper deck, emerging to see Steelfine and a pair of crewmen leaning over the rail to stare at the water below. Moving to the Islander’s side, Hilemore followed his gaze to see that the sea was churning, large bubbles rising to the surface and bursting all around.

“Seer’s balls, what a stink!” one of the crew exclaimed, wafting the air from his nose at the miasma rising from the roiling sea. It was a potent stench to be sure, sulphurous and thick enough to clog the nostrils with an acrid sting.

“The fault in the sea-floor,” Hilemore realised as more bubbles rose, once again causing the Dreadfire to sway. “It must still be coughing out a great deal of lava. An annoyance but hardly an obstacle. Mr. Scrimshine!” he called to the former smuggler. “Take over the helm if you please, keep her heading north.”

“Aye, Skipper!” Scrimshine gave one of his less-than-regulation salutes and ran to the tiller, pushing the previous helmsman aside with an urgent shove.

“Stop!”

Hilemore turned as a hand tugged at his sleeve, finding himself confronted by Kriz. “We need to stop,” she said in her clipped, street-level Mandinorian.

“You may have noticed, miss, but time is against us.” Hilemore politely disentangled himself. “Our food stocks being what they are . . .”

“Gas!” she interrupted, pointing towards the ship’s prow. Hilemore followed her finger, frowning at the haze ahead. It was thin but definitely there, a soft grey vapour drifting amongst the bergs.

Kriz said something in her own language, raising her finger to point at the distant fiery bulk of Mount Reygnar. When Hilemore blinked at her in incomprehension she gave what he assumed was a highly simplified translation. “Poison gas. The fault extends all the way to that volcano. If we sail towards it everyone on board will be dead within the hour.”

Hilemore went to the prow, training his spy-glass on Reygnar’s slopes. The eruption that had begun days ago continued unabated, huge chunks of molten rock spouted from the mountain’s gaping summit in a plentiful torrent. The lava-stream made a sluggish but irresistible progress to the sea where great billows of steam occluded what he assumed to be a rapidly growing new island. Although his education in geology had been confined to a few classes at the Protectorate Maritime Academy, he knew another side-effect of so much of the earth’s innards being released into the sea would be the production of various gases, none of which were conducive to longevity.

“Trim sails!” Hilemore ordered, sending the sailors scurrying. “Mr. Steelfine, see if you can get the anchor lowered. Boiling some oil to melt the ice on the chains might do it.”

“I’ll see to it, sir.”

“We can’t wait this out,” Kriz said, moving closer to Hilemore and speaking in a low voice. “The eruption could go on for days. As you said, we don’t have the food.”

“There is but one navigable channel through this ice,” Hilemore said, pointing to the winding course ahead. He felt a resurgence of his earlier anger, the sensation of having no good options was never a comfortable one for a captain. We sail on we die, we stay we die, he thought biting down on a sigh of frustration.

“There is a way,” Kriz said. “But I’ll need a particular substance in as much quantity as you can provide.”

“What substance?”

Kriz gave a doubtful frown, as if unsure the word she was about to speak was the right one. “Piss,” she said with a bland smile. “I need a great deal of piss.”

Scrimshine proved the most productive of the crewmen, filling two large pickle-jars to Hilemore’s one. “Reckon I can squeeze out a few drops more, Skipper,” he offered, britches still undone as he hovered splay-footed over a steaming jar. Hilemore wasn’t sure what smelled worse, the gas or the product of Scrimshine’s bladder.

“I think that’ll do for now,” he said, averting his eyes as the helmsman buttoned himself up. There were some sights even a seasoned sailor couldn’t abide.

In addition to the urine, Kriz had Steelfine roast as much coal as could be crammed into the galley stove. The scorched bricks were then pounded into a fine powder. “Two layers will provide better protection,” she explained laying out a strip of their thinnest fabric on the table. In addition to the Dreadfire’s meagre sails her hold had yielded a number of flags, all dating back to the pre-Corporate age. Hilemore assumed they were souvenirs of the long-dead Captain Bledthorne’s brief pirating career. He had thought they might be worth something to an antiquities dealer should they ever return to civilisation, but was happy to surrender any potential profit in the circumstances.

Under Kriz’s instruction the flags had all been sliced into strips six inches wide and twelve long. “Carbon absorbs most gases,” she said, spooning about a quarter-pound of the powdered coal onto the fabric. “But not all. Hopefully,” she continued, laying another strip on top of the layer of coal dust, this one having been dipped into one of the steaming buckets, “urine will filter out the rest. Stitch them together and you have a basic respirator.”

“Hopefully?” Hilemore asked, receiving a helpless shrug in response. He resisted the urge to ask more questions. There were no other choices and this had to be risked. “Let’s be about it, lads,” he said instead, sending the crew into motion. “Two masks each. Just like she showed you. Stitch them tight and be quick.”

He drew Kriz aside as the crew got to work, speaking softly. “How long will they last?”

“It depends on the thickness of the gas. If we run into a dense concentration they’ll become saturated fairly quickly.”

“At our current speed it will take at least a day to reach the mountain and another to get clear of it.”

“Then we need to sail faster.”

“We’ve barely enough sheets to keep her moving as it is.”

“Pardon me, Captain,” Clay said, appearing at Kriz’s side. “But we don’t need the wind to get this old tub moving. Just a lotta strong rope.”

They used the Dreadfire’s only boat to string the rope out in front of the prow. Hilemore, Steelfine, Clay and the elder Torcreek took on the task, the crew displaying a marked reluctance to place themselves in proximity to the monster whose spines were frequently glimpsed cutting through the surrounding waters. Hilemore knew the sailors were unlikely to disobey a direct order but thought it best not to fray their already thread-like nerves further. Steelfine, of course, appeared to have no nerves whilst Braddon assumed a mantle of steady surety, though Hilemore caught the wariness in his gaze whenever it alighted on Jack’s spines. By contrast Clay exuded only a cheerful calm as they rowed away from the ship’s hull, playing the rope out behind. It was really three ropes in one, the thickest hawsers they could find braided into a single cable thicker than a man’s arm. It had been fashioned into a loop some thirty yards long, both ends fixed to the anchor mountings on either side of the rotted figure-head on the Dreadfire’s prow.

“Reckon this is far enough,” Clay said and the boat slowed to a gentle drift as Steelfine shipped oars.

“What now?” Hilemore enquired as Clay focused his gaze on Jack. The Blue loitered only a stone’s throw away, one great eye poking above the surface to regard them either with curiosity or hunger. Hilemore couldn’t tell.

Clay’s response was soft and cryptic, his expression now one of studied concentration as he stared at Jack. “Now I get to see if I could’ve made Miss Ethelynne proud,” he murmured.

For a full minute nothing happened, Hilemore and the others looking at Clay in frigid expectation. The Blood-blessed’s brows creased and uncreased several times, his lips twitching all the while, and Hilemore knew he was witnessing direct communication between a human and a drake. Finally, the great eye blinked and disappeared below the surface, the beast’s tall spines frothing the water as it twisted its body and dived.

“Let it go, Uncle,” Clay told Braddon and they released the rope in unison. It subsided below the surface with a soft splash that soon transformed into a white explosion as Jack’s head erupted from the water barely a second later, huge jaws clamping down on the cable. The resultant swell sent their boat into a spin, Hilemore coming close to tipping over the side before Steelfine used his oars to steady the craft.

Hilemore’s gaze was drawn by the sound of Clay’s laughter. He stood at the boat’s stern, head shaking and grin wide as he regarded the sight of Jack waiting patiently with the rope lodged firmly in his mouth. “He gets it,” Clay said and laughed again. “He really gets it.”

“Six knots, do you think, Mr. Steelfine?”

“Closer to seven, sir.” The Islander’s voice was muffled by his mask and he was obliged to shout to make himself understood. “Think he might get up to eight when the channel straightens.”

Hilemore cast his gaze over the Dreadfire’s much broader and deeper wake then back at Last Look Jack, or Old Jack as Clay insisted on calling him now. The Blue seemed tireless as it towed the ship northwards, his huge body coiling in a steady unchanging rhythm. Thanks to Jack they had covered more miles in an hour than in the previous two days. Whatever dire results the gas may have inflicted on an unprotected human didn’t seem to affect the beast at all.

“It’s a creature that breathes fire,” Clay explained when Hilemore raised the issue. “Probably got all manner of poison swirling about his lungs already.”

Pleasing as this was, any elation Hilemore might have felt was quelled by the thickening stench which was detectable even through the nostril-stinging barrier of his makeshift mask. So far the masks had worked, none of the crew having succumbed to the miasma, though a couple had displayed signs of confusion and unsteadiness. As an added precaution Hilemore ordered the bulk of the crew belowdecks and all hatches and port-holes sealed. He knew it was scant protection; although the Dreadfire was a remarkably sturdy old bird she had more holes in her than a Corvantine deserter after a court martial. But a crew needed to be kept busy, especially in times of crisis.

More worrying than the gas was the looming sight of Mount Reygnar. They were little over two miles away from the volcano now and what had been a fiery spectacle was fast becoming an ominous danger. The ice surrounding the mountain had disappeared entirely, creating what was in effect a large warm-water lagoon of churning currents which even Old Jack might have trouble navigating. Added to that was the unpredictable violence of the eruptions, Reygnar vomiting forth chunks of molten rock at irregular intervals. They would ascend to a great height before plunging down into the surrounding lagoon, trailing smoke like fire-balls cast by some ancient and massive catapult.

Initially the currents proved more of a danger, Jack swimming headlong into a swirling eddy that sent the Dreadfire heaving to starboard and threatened to rip the cable from the prow. “Look lively at the helm!” Hilemore barked at Scrimshine, who was busily spinning the tiller in an effort to counter the current and maintain the correct angle to the tethered drake.

“The beast needs to slow down, Skipper!” Scrimshine returned, grunting with the strain of hauling the wheel to midships.

“Mr. Torcreek,” Hilemore said, moving to where Clay stood at the very apex of the prow. “A tad slower, if you please.”

Clay gave a distracted nod, keeping his gaze fixed on the Blue. A moment later the ship began to slow to about two-thirds her previous speed. Hilemore extended his spy-glass and trained it on the waters ahead, finding just a wall of drifting smoke and steam, no doubt rich in a plethora of lethal gases. “Five points to port, Mr. Torcreek,” he ordered, drawing a bemused glance from the Blood-blessed.

“That way,” Hilemore bellowed through his mask, pointing to the left. “I’ll tell you when to straighten her out. We need to keep close to the edge of this expanse.”

Clay nodded again and Jack soon altered course, hauling clear of the fast-approaching fog. Hilemore turned his gaze to the mountain, now a dark mass in the roiling smoke, glowing lava threading the slopes’ flanks like veins of fire. Even more unnerving than the sight of it was the volcano’s voice, a constant thunderous roar accompanied by the occasional boom as lightning flashed in the billowing black clouds that crowned the summit.

“Sir!” Steelfine gave an urgent cry from the starboard rail, pointing at the mostly black sky. Hilemore saw it immediately, a flaming ball of lava reaching the apex of its flight. He had a fraction of a second to judge its course, but a life aboard warships had left him with an instinct for gauging the trajectory of dangerous projectiles.

“Hard to starboard!” he said, clamping a hand on Clay’s shoulder and pointing to the right. “Fast as he can!” Hilemore whirled away and sprinted towards Scrimshine, joining him at the wheel to help spin it to starboard so the drake’s abrupt change in course wouldn’t rip away the tether.

The fire-ball came streaking down barely a second later, throwing up a great geyser of steam and displaced water as it impacted within pistol range of the Dreadfire’s port side. The old ship hadn’t been built for such violent manoeuvres and Hilemore felt the aged timbers beneath his boots thrum in a groan of collective protest. Keep together, old girl, Hilemore implored her, running a hand along the oaken wheel. Not much longer now. Then you can rest.

As if in response the ship settled, Hilemore tracking Jack’s course as Clay steered a more gentle track back towards the fringes of the lagoon. It was then that Hilemore realised he was alone at the tiller. He began to voice a rebuke at Scrimshine then saw the former smuggler lying prone on the deck, eyes red and bulging above his mask as he convulsed.

“Mr. Steelfine, take the helm!” Hilemore called out, rushing to Scrimshine’s side. The man’s gloved hands scrabbled at Hilemore’s arms, white froth appearing at the edges of his mask as his choking and convulsions intensified. Hilemore hooked his arms around Scrimshine’s chest and dragged him to the hatch leading to the hold, stamping on the planking until Skaggerhill heaved it open. Together he and the harvester dragged Scrimshine to the galley table, laying him out. His spasms were weakening now, though his eyes were still bright and full of pleading as they stared up at Hilemore. Don’t let me die, Skipper.

“The filters must be saturated,” Kriz said, coming forward with a fresh mask. She took hold of Scrimshine’s face and turned his gaze to hers, speaking in firm tones: “Hold your breath, keep still.” She waited for him to master himself, then swiftly undid the ties on his mask, tossing it aside to fix the replacement over his mouth and nose. “Don’t breathe too deep,” she cautioned as Scrimshine heaved, doubling over on his side, eyes shut tight in pain as he issued forth a rich stream of muffled Dalcian profanity.

“Pretty thick out there now, huh?” Skaggerhill asked, casting a worried glance at the open hatch.

“Not much longer,” Hilemore said, speaking with what he hoped was sufficient volume and clarity to reassure the onlooking crew. “Need another hand at the tiller, if you’re willing,” he added, climbing the ladder to the upper deck.

They were obliged to dodge two more fire-balls over the course of the next hour, the second one streaking down close enough to leave a good portion of the upper works ablaze. Hilemore had begun shouting orders to muster a fire-fighting party from below when Old Jack paused in his towing to thrash his tail. The resultant curtain of water was sufficient to both drown the flames and subject all on deck to a thorough soaking.

“The damage could have been worse, sir,” Steelfine reported after ascending the rigging to inspect the masts. “But we’d be lucky to rig more than a few yards of sail after this.” The Islander glanced at the prow where Clay maintained his unerring vigil over Old Jack. “We’d best hope his pet monster doesn’t get tired.”

Another crewman came close to succumbing to the gas as the journey wore on, Braddon managing to get a fresh mask on the man before he suffered lasting damage. After that Hilemore ordered everyone to replace their masks. He could tell from the increasingly fetid air leaking through his own mask that it was close to saturation. Finally, as the day slipped into evening the miasma began to thin. Mount Reygnar became a dim, thunderous bulk at their rear as Jack dragged the Dreadfire clear of its deadly atmosphere. It wasn’t until the last vestiges of smoke had cleared and they were once again amongst the bergs that Hilemore saw fit to remove his mask, taking a short experimental breath that he thought might be the sweetest air he had ever tasted.

“Take them off, lads,” he told the crew, heralding an outpouring of relief.

“Thank the Seer for that,” Skaggerhill said, drawing in several deep luxurious breaths as he tossed his mask over the side. “One more whiff of piss and I think I might’ve preferred the poison. No offence, miss,” he added, nodding in Kriz’s direction as she emerged on deck.

She replied with a placid nod before turning to Hilemore, speaking with a hesitancy that reminded him she was very much a stranger to this company. “Your man,” she began. “The helmsman.”

“Scrimshine,” Hilemore said. “What about him?”

She gave an apologetic sigh. “He’s dying.”

“This is all of it, sir,” Steelfine said, placing the last flask on the table. “Every drop of Green on board. Some of the lads had private stocks secreted about their person.”

“Had to shake it loose of them, I suppose,” Hilemore said.

“Actually no.” Steelfine inclined his head at where Scrimshine lay on his bunk, normally sallow features now rendered pale as candle wax as he convulsed with another bout of coughing. “Scoundrel he may be, but the lads know we’d all have perished long since but for his hands on the tiller.”

“Will it be enough?” Hilemore asked Kriz.

“I have no idea,” she replied. “I suspect my people knew less about the medicinal properties of drake blood than yours.”

“He’d need at least three full vials by my reckoning,” Skaggerhill put in. As harvester and ad hoc healer to the Longrifles he was the closest thing to a medic on board. “We’ve got”—he played a stubby-fingered hand over the assembled product—“maybe two, at most.”

“And no knowledge of what lies ahead,” Braddon added, meeting Hilemore’s gaze. “It’s a long way back to civilisation, Captain, and odds are there’ll be plenty of dangers betwixt here and there.”

Hilemore concealed a wince as Scrimshine coughed again, a deep, wet retch full of pain. The man’s a rogue, he reminded himself. Smuggler and pirate both, no doubt with a good deal of blood to account for, not to mention cannibalism. The decision was obvious and swiftly reached.

“Give it to him,” he told Skaggerhill. “All of it. Mr. Torcreek, Miss”—he went on nodding at Clay then Kriz—“please join me in my cabin. I believe it’s time we had a serious and honest discussion.”

CHAPTER 5

Lizanne

“Crow’s nest reports twenty vessels so far, sir,” an ensign related from the speaking-tube. “Bearing south-south-west. Man-o’-war in the centre, all the rest appear to be freighters. Pennants are raised but the distance is too great to make out any signals.”

“Speed?” Captain Verricks asked, standing with his hands clasped behind his back with barely a twitch disturbing his whiskers.

“Estimated at eight knots, sir,” the ensign related a few seconds later.

“A somewhat sedate pace for an attacking fleet,” Verricks mused, turning to Lizanne with a questioning glance. She had entered the bridge without permission but the fact that she hadn’t been ordered to leave said much, for the captain valued her advice.

“The White will have captured a large number of ships at Feros,” she pointed out. “It could be a ruse. Approach at a slow speed to lure us close then spring the trap.” She nodded at a spy-glass on the map table. “May I?”

“Be my guest, miss.”

She moved to the front of the bridge, taking a vial of Green from her wallet and drinking a small amount. When first viewed through the lens of the spy-glass the approaching vessels were little more than grey smudges cresting the horizon, but soon sprang into sharp clarity as the vision-enhancing effects of the Green took hold. The first one to come into focus was a Blue-hunter, clearly heavily laden judging by how low she sat in the water, her paddles labouring as smoke belched from her single stack. Lizanne tracked the glass along the line of ships, stopping when a familiar sight came into view. She had only ever seen this ship through Clay’s eyes but the lines were unmistakable, as was the Ironship Protectorate flag and friendly greeting signal flying from her mast.

“The IPV Viable Opportunity,” she told Verricks. “This is not an enemy fleet, Captain. Though I would caution you that you may be about to experience a very trying interview.”

“Trumane.”

“Verricks.”

The two captains exchanged nods. They were alone in the ward-room apart from Lizanne; Director Thriftmor, who was engaged in a thorough hunt of the room’s cupboards, presumably for more brandy; and a woman of Dalcian appearance who had accompanied Captain Trumane. The captain looked much the same as she recalled from Clay’s shared memories, his uniform an impeccable buttoned-up contrast to Verricks’s open jacket and misaligned necktie. But there was a new pale hardness to Trumane’s face. Always a stern character, albeit with occasional displays of conviviality during moments of personal triumph, he appeared to Lizanne to have lost whatever vestiges of affability or humour he had once possessed. She doubted his crew had enjoyed their time under his command since Lieutenant Hilemore’s desertion in Lossermark harbour.

Lizanne would have described the Dalcian woman as elegant but for the tattered seaman’s jacket she wore and the numerous wayward strands of hair escaping from her otherwise severe bun. “May I present Madame Hakugen,” Trumane said, extending a hand to the woman. “A senior executive of the Eastern Conglomerate and former Comptroller of Lossermark Port.”

“Welcome aboard, madame,” Verricks greeted the woman with a formal bow which was returned in kind.

“And I am very pleased to meet you, Captain,” she said with a note of relieved sincerity.

“Your reputation precedes you, Captain Verricks,” Trumane went on. “So I won’t waste time with petty demands for the date of your commission.”

Verricks gave a slight incline of his head. “Appreciated, Captain. It therefore behooves me, as senior officer, to request your report.”

Trumane hesitated, his eyes flicking to Lizanne and Director Thriftmor.

“Your pardon,” Verricks said. “May I present Mr. Benric Thriftmor, Ironship Syndicate Board member and Director of Extra-Corporate Affairs.”

“Delighted, I’m sure,” Thriftmor replied, straightening from an empty cupboard with a distressed cast to his eyes. “Captain Verricks, I wonder where I might . . .”

“I had it tipped over the side, sir,” Verricks told him. “All other liquor on board is now under lock and key, and will remain so for the duration of our current difficulties.”

Thriftmor stared at the captain, tongue tracing over his lips in an unconscious display of desperate thirst. “Oh,” he said. “Well, as important as this meeting is, I find myself suddenly quite unwell and will adjourn to my cabin . . .”

“I had it searched and all the bottles disposed of,” Verricks told him, then pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Mr. Thriftmor. The steward will bring you some coffee presently.”

A range of emotions passed over the Director’s face, from defiance to anger before subsiding into resentful acceptance as he sank into a chair, gaze lowered.

Trumane afforded Thriftmor a brief and plainly disgusted glance before nodding at Lizanne. “And this lady?”

“Miss Lizanne Lethridge,” Verricks introduced her. “Of Exceptional Initiatives.”

Trumane stiffened a little at that, as did Madame Hakugen, though they both greeted Lizanne with a polite nod. “By any chance,” Trumane said, “would you be related to . . .”

“Professor Graysen Lethridge.” Lizanne didn’t bother to keep the weary irritation from her voice. Mention of her familial connections just now was certain to worsen her mood. “He’s my father.”

“And my valued colleague,” Trumane said. “His insights were of great assistance when designing the refit of the Viable Opportunity.”

“Then I hope you paid him. It would make a pleasant change from the norm. I believe you have a report to make.”

“My report is somewhat lengthy,” Trumane said after a moment of bemused irritation. “As yet I haven’t had time to compile a written version.”

“A verbal report will do very well, I’m sure,” Verricks said, moving to the table and pulling out a chair for Madame Hakugen. “Let us all please sit. Refreshment is on the way.”

Trumane related his tale over coffee and sandwiches, Lizanne noting the enthusiasm with which the former Comptroller consumed the food while the captain maintained an air of restraint. She already knew much of what he had to say, particularly regarding the desertion of Lieutenant Hilemore along with half the crew of the Viable Opportunity. “A vile and outrageous breach of contract,” Trumane said, some colour returning to his face. “I intend to petition the Sea Board for the ultimate penalty at the court martial, in the unlikely event the swine ever returns from his mad venture.”

“There will be no court martial, Captain,” Lizanne said, instantly drawing a fierce glower from the captain.

“I beg your pardon?” Trumane asked.

“Lieutenant Hilemore will face no charges,” she said simply. “In seizing the Corvantine ship and sailing for southern waters he acted on the instructions of an Exceptional Initiatives agent, as you should have done.”

“What Exceptional Initiatives agent?”

“Claydon Torcreek and the Longrifles Independent Company are contracted employees of my division.”

“Contracted for an insane expedition to the Interior from which they returned with a pack of fairy stories.”

“Their expedition bore fruit, bitter though it turned out to be. The answer to our current difficulties may well lie amidst the southern ice. It was your duty to find it, a duty Lieutenant Hilemore undertook instead. Therefore, as I say, he will face no charges.”

The reddish tinge to Trumane’s face deepened as he continued to glower. “I will not stand for this,” he grated. “When the Sea Board reads my full report . . .”

“If Torcreek and Hilemore fail,” Lizanne cut in, matching his glower with an intent stare, “within a few months there may well be no Sea Board to read it.”

Trumane began to speak again but stopped at a cough from Captain Verricks. “A matter for another time, I think, Captain,” he said. “I have little doubt that once this . . . confused state of affairs has been rectified there will be a full enquiry. Any charges you wish to bring against your subordinate will receive due consideration then. As for now, I should like to hear how you came to be in command of such an unusual fleet.”

Trumane took a moment to master his anger before turning away from Lizanne, addressing himself solely to Verricks. “The Viable was the only warship in Lossermark. With no cargo arriving and the Interior closed to foraging parties Madame Hakugen and I agreed that an evacuation had to be attempted.”

“So your fleet carries the entire population of Lossermark?” Verricks asked.

Trumane remained impassive but Madame Hakugen’s coffee-cup paused on its way to her lips, Lizanne noting how her hand trembled as she set it down. “Lossermark is a large port,” she said, staring straight ahead. “There wasn’t room for everyone. Mothers with children were automatically allotted a place, as were the Conglomerate Levies. All others had to be chosen by lot, myself included. The situation . . .” She faltered, blinking rapidly. “The situation deteriorated alarmingly on the day of departure.”

“Bunch of headhunters and other scum tried to storm their way onto the fleet,” Trumane elaborated. “A few salvos from the Viable put paid to that mischief.” He sipped his own coffee and Lizanne saw that his hand didn’t tremble at all. “To the Travail with the lot of them, I say,” he added. “Worthless cowards.”

Watching Madame Hakugen dab a napkin at her welling eyes, Lizanne recalled her own fraught days leading the resistance at Carvenport. As bad as things had gotten towards the end she had at least been spared the burden of making such a decision. “I’m sure you did your best, madame,” Lizanne told the former Comptroller. “These days it appears we have nothing but hard choices ahead of us.”

“Any incidents during the voyage north?” Verricks asked.

“We lost one ship to a storm three days from port,” Trumane said. “An old coal hauler barely fit to sail. Another two took off on their own course a day later. I wasn’t going to waste time hunting them down.”

“No drake attacks?” Lizanne asked.

Trumane gave her a frosty sideways glance and shook his head. “Never caught sight of one during the whole voyage. Makes me wonder if all these tall tales of rampaging drakes and conquering Spoiled are just that.”

“Sadly, they’re all true,” Verricks assured him, whiskers bunching in a grim smile. “Feros has fallen silent. We have been unable to trance with them for two days.”

“There could be any number of reasons for that,” Trumane said. “An outbreak of influenza amongst the trance staff for instance.”

“Indeed. Which is why I intend to sail there forthwith. Your command is hereby ordered to join us.”

“There must be thousands of civilians in those ships,” Lizanne said. “You’re asking them to sail towards the very thing they’re trying to escape.”

“Thirty-two thousand civilians, to be exact,” Madame Hakugen said. “Who have been at sea for far too long already. Our supplies are not copious and Feros is the nearest port.” She inclined her head at Captain Verricks. “We will be happy to sail under your protection, sir.”

Verricks gave a small huff of discomfort that told Lizanne all she needed to know about his intentions. “Captain Verricks is not offering protection, madame,” she said. “He intends to form company with the Viable Opportunity and sail for Feros at the best possible speed. The Viable is a blood-burner and there are three Blood-blessed on this ship, which means the engines of both vessels can be fired to full capacity. Do I miscalculate, Captain?”

“Military necessity, miss,” Verricks sniffed. “As you said. Nothing but hard choices.”

“If you abandon these people,” Lizanne told him, speaking every word with great precision, “the report I will write to the Board regarding your conduct will make Captain Trumane’s report on Lieutenant Hilemore seem like a love-letter in comparison.” She held his gaze, seeing the stern resolve of a professional and long-serving Protectorate officer.

“Much as I respect the advice of an Exceptional Initiatives agent,” Verricks replied, “command of this vessel rests with me . . .”

“She’s right.”

They turned to Director Thriftmor, both elbows resting on the table as he massaged his temples. An untouched cup of coffee sat beside him. “Leaving thousands of refugees to fend for themselves in the middle of the ocean is an unconscionable act,” Thriftmor went on, lowering his hands to regard Verricks with tired eyes. “One I can’t support or, more importantly, justify to a public whose passions will no doubt have been inflamed by a hostile press. You may have command of this ship, sir, but I am a Board member and senior shareholder of the Ironship Syndicate. To all intents and purposes this is my ship and so is”—he waved a hand at Trumane, trying and failing to remember his name—“his.”

Thriftmor turned away from Trumane’s glare to offer Madame Hakugen a smile. “Your ships will join with us, madame. Together we will sail for Feros where, if fortune favours us, safe harbour will be found.” He got to his feet and made a slump-shouldered progress to the door. “I’ll be in my cabin. Please knock only in the direst emergency.”

She found Makario at the rear of the mid–upper deck, following the sound of the flute he had somehow obtained during the voyage. Meeting here had become something of a nightly ritual. Since first meeting him in the odorous pit of Scorazin she had noted his aversion to serious conversation, something she now welcomed as a reprieve from the worries crowding her head, as was his music. It transpired that Makario was as accomplished with the flute as he was with the pianola and she had no difficulty in recognising the tune.

“Illemont again?” she asked, moving to rest her arms on the rail beside him. The long-dead Corvantine composer had been a particular favourite when Makario played for the largely unappreciative patrons of the Miner’s Repose. “One might suspect you of nurturing an obsession.”

“One would be correct,” he replied, lowering the flute. “But what is love, if not obsession?”

Makario pointed the instrument at the ships following the Profitable, the many freighters and Blue-hunters arranged in two long rows that extended for at least two miles. “I didn’t know we were expecting company.”

“We weren’t.” Lizanne cast her gaze over the darkened hulks of the refugee fleet. Whatever misgivings Captain Verricks might harbour about taking charge of this rag-tag collection of vessels hadn’t prevented him from issuing strict and sensible orders regarding its organisation. All lights were to be doused and each ship appointed a slot in a prearranged sailing formation. Every ship had also been strictly forbidden to stop for any reason. “I don’t care if the skipper’s grandmother falls overboard,” Verricks had said. “I’ll shoot any captain who stops their engines.”

“Keep playing,” Lizanne told Makario, keen for the distraction. “Please.”

Makario gave a gracious bow and raised the flute to his lips. Soon the lilting interlude from Illemont’s supposedly lost “Ode to Despair” was drifting across the warship’s pale wake.

“Have you finished it then?” she asked when the flute fell silent. “Your reconstruction of the great lost work?”

“I doubt if it can ever be finished. All I can do is record my guess-work and perhaps in time more talented souls will take it further.” He fell silent, face uncharacteristically sombre as he gazed at the following ships.

“Wishing you’d stayed behind?” Lizanne asked.

Makario gave a short laugh and shook his head. “We both know I had little choice. The Electress would have settled accounts with me sooner or later. It’s not in her nature to forgive a betrayal. Besides, I always had a yen to see the rest of the world, even if it is about to catch fire.”

“You never told me how you ended up in Scorazin. Your presence there seemed so incongruous.”

“I was a thief.” He shrugged. “Thieves go to prison.”

“Not to Scorazin. Not unless they’ve somehow offended the Emperor.”

Makario looked at the flute in his hands, slim fingers playing over the keys. “My obsession, as you call it, has always been more of an addiction, and an addict will go to extremes to sate his need. That old student of Illemont I told you about lit a fire in me, a fire that could only be quenched by seeking out everything I could find that the great man had written or touched in his lifetime. Sadly, amassing such a collection requires a great deal of money and my parents had selfishly conspired to ensure I was born poor. My talent brought money in time, and a modicum of fame in certain circles, but it was never enough to quench the fire.

“It was small things at first, an item of jewellery from a box left carelessly open the evening I had been contracted to play for the amusement of the lady of the house. Then there was a pocket-watch taken from the drawer of a viscount who had probably forgotten how many he owned. Many of the more valuable trinkets were not so easily plucked of course, but my access to the homes of the nobility enabled a first hand reconnaissance before a stealthy night-time intrusion.

“It transpired I had a facility for climbing; musicians tend to have strong hands and I have always been fairly spry. I found a delightfully awful old reprobate in one of Corvus’s seedier quarters who was more than willing to teach me the finer points of lock picking, as long as I kept him well supplied with ale and opium.

“Thanks to my new-found skills I soon had sufficient funds for a fine and growing collection of Illemontaria, and a decent fortune to go with it. I also had a name for my larcenous alter ego, the Moonlighter they called me. Corvus society was publicly alarmed and secretly delighted by his exploits. Ladies harboured entirely misplaced fears of being ravished in their own beds and servants were denied their meagre sleep ration to keep armed watch on the great houses lest the Moonlighter come calling. There was a lot of theatre to this, of course. Half the valuables that went missing during this period were never stolen by me, if they were stolen at all. And any family who did fall foul of the Moonlighter’s attentions found their cachet suddenly enhanced, invitations to grand occasions and exclusive dinners would follow. Everyone wanted to hear more about the Moonlighter. There was even a series of vulgar periodicals about him which I fervently hope the Cadre have since seized and burned. The prose was dire and the illustrations terrible, but even the nobility bought them.

“The wealthy are a strange breed, dear Krista. Like children in many ways with their pettiness and susceptibility to flattery, and there are few creatures in this world more susceptible than a once-handsome man of privilege. Burgrave Erbukan wasn’t a bad man, not really. Just bitter about getting old and fat, and he was far too trusting of the many artistic young men he invited to his home, a home which happened to contain one of the largest collections of original sheet music in the world. He was happy to show it to me, encouraged by an enthusiasm I, for once, didn’t need to fake. The collection had been inherited from his late wife, a woman in whose company he spent as little time as possible. It was clear the old dullard had no notion of what he had. Original handwritten sheets penned by some of the greatest composers who ever lived, and there amongst it all, not even properly catalogued, no less than four previously undiscovered pages from Illemont’s ‘Ode to Despair.’ I had to have them and, once the Moonlighter paid a visit to the Burgrave’s mansion the following night, for one precious week I did.”

“You should have waited,” Lizanne said, voicing the critique of an experienced burglar. “Your visit was too fresh in his memory, it was inevitable that he would connect you to the theft.”

Makario voiced a faint laugh. “It was just too tempting, you see. Like dangling a full bottle of best brandy before the eyes of a hopeless drunk. But it was a wonderful week alone with those pages, almost like being in the presence of Illemont’s ghost. I barely rose from the pianola, so lost was I in the music. I’m not claiming it was worth all those years in Scorazin, but it was worth a great deal nonetheless.”

“The Burgrave was well connected, I assume?”

“No, but his wife had a smidgen of Imperial blood and some of the other pages I stole had been gifted to her by the Emperor himself. The Moonlighter had offended the Divinity and could no longer be tolerated, however entertaining his skulduggery might be. The Burgrave received a visit from the Cadre, who didn’t take long to piece it all together. I suppose I should be grateful they didn’t amputate my fingers before throwing me into the great smokey pit. But then, I would never have met you, dear Krista, and I feel my life would be much poorer for the omission.”

“Lizanne,” she corrected. “As I’ve told you many times. My real name is Lizanne.”

“Oh,” he said with a wistful smile, raising the flute to his lips once more, “you’ll always be Krista to me. It was her who set me free, after all.”

She was woken by the ship’s siren sometime around dawn. The signal, two short blasts followed by two long, wasn’t one she had heard often and it took a moment to place it: “vessel in distress sighted.” She dressed quickly and checked that the vials in her Spider were fully loaded with product before strapping it to her wrist. She made her way to the bridge where the duty officer had his glass trained on something about thirty degrees to port. Through the bridge window she could see an ensign haranguing a squad of sailors on the lower deck as they manoeuvred a launch over the side.

“What is it?” she asked the duty officer, who obligingly handed over his spy-glass. She had no need of Green to make out the target, a bulbous shape silhouetted against the red morning sky, bobbing as it made an irregular but inexorable descent towards the waves. Realisation dawned instantly. This could be only one thing, a thing she had seen the designs for a few months before, and there were very few people capable of constructing it in so short a time.

“Distance?” she asked the duty officer.

“Just over a mile,” he replied.

Lizanne kept the spy-glass to her eye for a moment longer, tracking from the aerostat to the sea then back again as she gauged how long it would be before the craft completed its descent. It was too far, she knew. The launch wouldn’t get there in time.

“Keep the ship at dead slow,” she told the duty officer, handing back the spy-glass and making for the door. “Steer thirty degrees to port. On my authority if the captain has any questions,” she added before stepping outside.

Lizanne moved to the walkway in front of the bridge, depressing a button on the Spider to inject a full vial of Green. She took a second to steady herself as the product flooded her system before vaulting over the walkway railing and making her way down the cruiser’s upper works via a series of spectacular leaps before landing next to the boat party. They had succeeded in getting the boat over the side and lowered so that it bobbed on the swell. The wind was up this morning and the sea choppy, adding yet another level of difficulty to her task.

“You.” Lizanne pointed to the ensign in charge. “Take the tiller. You and you.” Her finger jabbed at the two burliest sailors in the party. “Get in. The rest of you stand away.”

She leapt over the side and landed in the middle of the boat where she immediately sat and hefted a pair of oars into the rowlocks. “Hurry up!” she ordered, seeing her three chosen crewmates staring down at her. The ensign reacted first, barking a command at the two sailors who had them following him down the netting on the Profitable’s hull.

“Don’t bother,” Lizanne told the two sailors as they began hauling the oars into place. “You’ll just upset my rhythm. Ready?” she asked, turning to the ensign who had obediently taken position at the tiller. He gave a tense nod and Lizanne raised the oars. “Hold tight,” she said, and began to row.

CHAPTER 6

Clay

“You have maps?” Kriz’s expression was guarded as she asked the question, and she avoided the hard, inquisitive gaze Hilemore afforded her before moving to where his pack lay in the corner of the captain’s cabin.

“The southern ice-shelf and the Chokes,” he said, extracting a rolled-up sheet of waxed parchment and laying it out on the desk. “The only one I was likely to need once we disembarked the Superior.”

Clay watched Kriz survey the map then shake her head. “No. I need a map of . . .” She paused and he knew she had been about to voice a name from her own era. “Arradsia,” she finished, a slight roll to her eyes giving an indication as to what she thought of the continent’s modern-day title.

The captain’s jaws bunched a little in evident impatience but he said nothing as he opened a desk drawer. “Captain Bledthorne may have been a poor pirate,” Hilemore said, extracting a sheaf of papers, “but he was a decent enough seaman to recognise the value of charts. I suspect he stole most of them. The condition is surprisingly good, something to do with the sterility of the atmosphere I assume.”

“Freezing temperatures kill most of the corrupting agents in the air,” Kriz said, her attention fixed on the charts as she sorted through them. “Here,” she said, pointing to a small map that Clay recognised as a rendition of south-eastern Arradsia. Although he had little notion of what Kriz intended, he was unsurprised when her finger alighted on a familiar landmark.

“Krystaline Lake,” he said.

“My people called it ‘The Divine Mirror.’” A sad smile of recollection played over Kriz’s lips. “On calm nights the surface would reflect the stars almost perfectly. It was a place of pilgrimage during the summer months where the Devos would gather to give thanks to the Benefactors.”

Hilemore let out a soft grunt, clearly irritated by what must sound to him like gibberish. “And the importance of this place today?” he enquired.

“There’s something there.” Kriz’s hand went to the small crystal she wore on a chain around her neck, the one with which Zembi had tried to kill her. So far she hadn’t revealed its significance to Clay beyond a single word: memory. “Something important.”

“Miss,” Hilemore said in a tone of controlled anger, “as previously stated I have no more tolerance for vagary or obfuscation. Speak plainly and tell me exactly what is at Krystaline Lake and why it is so important.”

Kriz looked at Clay, clearly seeking support, but his own desire for answers was at least a match for the captain’s. “I don’t see any more reason for secrets,” he told her.

“The knowledge I hold is dangerous,” she said, eyes switching between Clay and Hilemore. “Dangerous to you, your whole civilisation . . .”

“We have a more pressing danger to deal with,” Hilemore cut in. “As Mr. Torcreek has told you.”

“The White.” She nodded, closing her eyes, face downcast. “I know, and you are right to fear it. We never dreamed it would be capable of so much . . . hatred.”

“Then you probably shouldn’t have bred the thing,” Clay said. “But since you did I’d say it’s up to you to put it right.” He tapped a finger to the map. “Let’s start here. There’s an old legend about a marvellous flying treasure ship that came to rest at the bottom of Krystaline Lake. I’m guessing your item of importance has something to do with that.”

“I assume so, but it wasn’t a ship.” She opened her eyes and Clay noticed her knuckles were now pale on the crystal shard. “It was an aerostat, like the one we used to escape the enclave below. It was stolen by my brother when he made his own escape thousands of years ago.”

“Your brother?” Clay asked. “You mean one of the other Blood-blessed kids.”

“Hezkhi.” She nodded. “He grew up to be our best pilot, and probably the most impetuous soul amongst us. I don’t know all of it, not yet.”

Clay’s hand traced along the chain around his own neck in unconscious mimicry of Kriz, pausing on the vials beneath his shirt. One contained heart-blood, scavenged from the corpse of a slain Black beneath the ice. The other held a small, congealed amount of blood from the diseased White that Kriz had reduced to ash with her bomb-throwing gun. Could save a whole lot of trouble, he thought. One sip could show us the way. He discounted the notion almost instantly, remembering the intense disorientation of his first experience in harnessing the power it held. It seemed to him that a human mind simply wasn’t attuned to perceiving the future and feared for his sanity should he try it again. Added to that was the deep sense of uncertainty it engendered. Once, he would have assumed such a gift would banish all doubts, provide answers to all problems. Instead it only raised endless questions.

Letting his hand slip from the vials, Clay nodded at the shard in her fist. “I guess that’s got the whole story, huh?”

“Zembi’s memories,” she said, opening her hand to show them the dagger-like length of crystal. “But I’ll need what’s on the aerostat to access them. Hezkhi escaped the enclave, and whatever killed the others and made Zembi into that . . . thing. That’s what he told me as he lay dying. Hezkhi flew away and he took something with him.” Her fingers traced over the irregular elongated arrow-head form of Krystaline Lake. “There’s another crystal there . . . a black crystal. And if anything can defeat the White, it’s that.”

Jack towed them clear of the bergs a day later. Clay could feel the drake’s burgeoning exhaustion as he dragged the Dreadfire out into the Whirls, the broad stretch of water that formed a minor sea between the Chokes and what had been the solid ice-wall of the Shelf.

Let it go, he told the Blue, standing on the prow as had become his custom over the past few days. He sent an image of a slackened cable along with the thought and Jack immediately opened his jaws. He rolled as the hawser slipped from his mouth, Clay sensing his joy at the release. He could also feel Jack’s hunger, something that had grown to alarming proportions as the voyage through the ice wore on.

Go, Clay told him, sending images of whales and walruses he had found in Old Jack’s memories. Hunt. Come back when you’re strong.

Jack lingered on the surface for a moment, his eyes bobbing above the surface. Clay could sense his reluctance to be separated from their connection. Distance don’t matter, Clay assured him, uncertain whether the beast could understand the concept. I’ll hear you however far you go.

Twin columns of smoke issued from Jack’s nostrils as he grunted in apparent assent before disappearing from view. Clay followed him for a while, sharing the sensations of the hunt as the Blue dived deep, his incredibly sharp ears tuned for any betraying echo that might lead him to prey. Within seconds he had it, a series of faint splashes and muted barks that told of a seal pack several miles east. Clay withdrew his thoughts as Jack sped off in pursuit.

“We seem to have lost our engine, Mr. Torcreek.”

Clay turned to find Hilemore and his hulking second in command standing close by. The captain’s demeanour towards him had become less suspiciously judgemental during the voyage, but the Islander’s expression told of an unalloyed mistrust. Such an attitude should have made Clay wary of the man, he was even taller and broader across the shoulders than Cralmoor, another dangerous Islander of Clay’s previous acquaintance. However, he took comfort from the sense that Steelfine was incapable of doing anything unless ordered by his captain.

“He’s hungry,” Clay replied. “He’ll be back soon enough.”

“Whilst we drift on the current in the meantime,” Steelfine pointed out.

“Got an anchor, haven’t you?”

Clay moved away, ignoring the Islander’s ominous scowl as he descended the steps to the hold. He found Loriabeth at Sigoral’s side, a spot she had rarely strayed from since coming aboard. Clay was relieved to find the Corvantine awake, though his face appeared worryingly gaunt as he drank the thin broth Loriabeth had concocted from the ship’s rapidly dwindling stores.

“Good to have you back, Lieutenant,” Clay told him, surprised by his own sincerity. The man was a Corvantine Imperial Officer of somewhat duplicitous nature, and therefore technically an enemy. However, Clay knew he and his cousin would most likely have died beneath the ice but for Sigoral’s skill with a carbine. Also, he was a Blood-blessed and therefore too valuable a companion for the trials ahead to allow any lingering resentment.

“I had a dream in which I was drowning in piss,” Sigoral replied, grimacing as he took another spoonful of broth. “It tasted better than this.” He shrank back as Loriabeth aimed a swipe at his head.

“That was the mask,” Clay said, taking a seat on a near by barrel. He went on to explain about the gas and Jack’s role in hauling them clear of Mount Reygnar. “We had us an eventful voyage so far. And it ain’t over.”

“Have you told the captain . . . ?” Sigoral trailed off, affording both Clay and Loriabeth a questioning glance.

“That you’re a lying, double-faced Corvie shithead?” Loriabeth said. “Sure, we told him.”

“Needed to know there was another Blood-blessed on board,” Clay added. “It’s his ship after all, such as it is.”

He turned as a stream of muttered gibberish sounded from the neighbouring bunk. Scrimshine had sunk into a semiconscious state after Skaggerhill dosed him with all their remaining Green. His colour was better and his bouts of coughing had abated, but he showed little sign of waking save for the occasional bout of babbling in an unfamiliar Dalcian dialect.

“I bet Skaggs twenty scrip he don’t make it,” Loriabeth said, the callousness of the remark contrasted by the softness of her voice.

“You’ll lose,” Clay told her. “Seen his kind before, they only ever die old. It’s like life just ain’t mean enough to kill them.”

Jack still hadn’t returned by nightfall, although the images of reddened waters and dismembered seals told Clay he had at least partially sated his hunger. The crew shared a sparse meal of soup, Sigoral joining them for the first time. He wore an eye-patch over his still-unhealed orb and Clay saw how his features tensed as he fought to control the repeated spasms of pain. Conversation was muted and frequently interrupted by Scrimshine’s delirious outbursts.

“Least he’s got the energy to swear,” Loriabeth observed after another lengthy Dalcian diatribe.

“He’s not cursing, miss,” Hilemore told her. “He’s praying.”

“You know Dalcian, Captain?” she asked.

“A little. I spent a year or so in Dalcian waters before the Emergency. It’s a difficult tongue to pick up, there being so many variations between islands. But prayers to the ancestors are always spoken in the same holy language, which also serves as a common tongue for commerce.”

“I had heard, sir,” Steelfine said, “that there was much fine combat to be had in the Dalcian Emergency. I’m aggrieved to have missed it, I must say.”

“There was combat, Lieutenant,” Hilemore said, his face taking on a grim aspect. “And plenty of it, to be sure. But I wouldn’t call it fine.”

“An alliance of pirate clans attempted to seize corporate holdings,” Sigoral said. “And were soundly defeated. At least that’s what we were told.”

“Curiously the Dalcians have no word for pirate,” Hilemore replied. “Whether a vessel is to be taken, sunk or allowed on its way is determined by a complex array of clan loyalties and unsettled feuds. They call it the ‘Mehlaya,’ which roughly translates as ‘a web of many spiders.’ It’s what they have instead of written law and proved remarkably effective at keeping some semblance of order for centuries, until the corporate world came calling, of course.”

“The old will always fall to the new,” said a rarely heard voice. All eyes turned to Preacher, who finished the last of his watery soup before getting up and making for the stairs without another word.

“Seer scripture,” Braddon explained after Preacher had ascended to the upper deck. “Seems the only thing he speaks these days. If he speaks at all.”

“Silent or verbose,” Hilemore said. “I’m still grateful for his eyes.”

Scrimshine’s muttering had abated into a sibilant whisper by the time a new sound came to them, a faint whoosh and boom from outside followed by a hollering from the look-outs on deck.

“That cannon?” Braddon asked as they scrambled to their feet.

“Signal rocket,” Hilemore said. “It appears we have company and it might well be friendly.”

Clay joined the rush to the upper deck and the starboard rail where one of the look-outs was pointing into the darkness. “About thirty points off the bow, sir,” the crewman told Hilemore, who was busy scanning the gloom with his spy-glass. After a short interval there came another whoosh and Clay saw a thick stream of sparks ascend into the night sky before blossoming into a bright yellow flower followed a heart-beat later by the flat thud of combusted powder.

“Light torches!” Hilemore ordered, Clay seeing a grin play over his lips as he lowered the spy-glass. “All hands step to it. Quick as you can, lads.”

Soon every crewman had a blazing torch in their hand. Hilemore instructed them to stand along the rail and wave them high whilst shouting as loud as they could. Within moments two shapes appeared in the gloom some two hundred yards off, a narrow, sleek warship moving wraith-like through the placid waters and a markedly less elegant Blue-hunter with paddles that churned the sea white as it drew closer.

Clay heard Hilemore give a soft sigh as he murmured, “I told her not to wait.”

“You look like a drake ate you up then shat you out,” Zenida Okanas greeted Hilemore. They had rigged a gang-plank between the Superior and the Dreadfire. As was apparently custom, the captain had been the last to leave the old sailing-ship.

“Then I must look better than I feel,” Hilemore replied, before giving a formal bow and adding something in Varestian. Clay only spoke a few words of this tongue but noted a certain gravity to the exchange that followed, almost as if they were observing a ritual of some kind. Zenida said a few short lines then gave a bow and moved aside, Clay recognising the last sentence she spoke as Hilemore stepped from the gang-plank and onto the frigate’s deck: “Welcome home, sea-brother.”

Hilemore cast a glance around the Superior’s deck and upper works, nodding in approval. “Glad to see you’ve kept her in good order.”

“There wasn’t a great deal else to do,” she said before inclining her head at the Farlight, which was anchored a short distance away. “Apart from a small matter of mutiny.”

“Mutiny?”

“Seems about half the Farlight’s crew weren’t too keen on honouring our bargain once they’d blasted a channel through the Chokes. That old captain managed to save his skin thanks to your Mr. Talmant, though the lad was obliged to take a pistol to the ship’s bosun. We happened upon them when we were making our way out, persuaded Tidelow to come back with us, not that he needed a lot of persuading. I think he didn’t like the notion of sailing north alone with so many of his crew locked in the hold. I offered to cast them overboard but he wouldn’t have it.”

“I recall instructing you not to linger.”

Clay saw the woman avoid Hilemore’s gaze as she pointed at the distant glow on the southern horizon. “Took it as a sign we should wait awhile longer. Besides, Akina thought it was pretty.”

Clay saw the pirate woman’s daughter hovering near by, though her eyes weren’t fixed on the volcano but on Kriz. She had placed herself close to Clay’s side, her expression a mix of guarded uncertainty and fascination as he drank in the sight of the Superior.

“Who’s this?” Akina demanded, stabbing a finger at Kriz, small features bunched in suspicion. “She’s new, and she looks wrong.”

Clay saw the girl wasn’t alone in her fascination, several of the Superior’s crew were also staring at Kriz.

“I’d guess you didn’t find her at Kraghurst Station,” Zenida said to Hilemore.

“Her name’s Kriz,” Clay said, matching the stares of the crew. “She’s with me.” It’s different, he realised, watching the uncertainty on their faces. Mostly they displayed a basic fear of the unfamiliar mixed with a desire for this long, wearisome expedition to end. Before it hadn’t been like this, they had all followed him across miles of ocean through many perils without any real question or reluctance. Now he saw many of them were asking themselves why.

He had seen Hilemore and the others exhibit the same diminished faith in him on the Dreadfire and had put it down to the extremity of their situation, but now saw it went deeper than that. Didn’t you ever wonder why they were so willing to follow you? Silverpin’s ghost had asked, making him understand that somehow he had cast a spell over these people, just as Silverpin had cast a spell on the Longrifles during their search for the White. Now that spell was gone. Now he was just an unregistered Blood-blessed from the Blinds who had returned to them with something impossible.

The answer came to him as Hilemore stepped forward, casting out a string of orders that had the crew rushing off to their allotted tasks, albeit with many a suspicious or baffled glance at Kriz. Silverpin, Clay thought. Part of her lived on in me, the part that could compel the un-Blessed to follow me on the promise of little more than a waking dream. And I killed it when I killed what was left of her.

“Are you alright?” Kriz asked and he realised his face must have betrayed his thoughts.

“Just fine,” he lied, forcing a smile. “But I think we got us a long and trying trip ahead.”

“Krystaline Lake?” Zenida’s face betrayed a curious mix of amusement and foreboding. “That’s where we’re going?”

Hilemore had convened a meeting in the Superior’s ward-room. He stood at the map table, face scraped clean of his previously copious beard and wearing a fresh uniform. Although Clay thought the captain had weathered the depredations of the ice better than all of them, the uniform still hung loose in several places, though Hilemore stood as straight as ever. Braddon and Kriz were the only others present besides Clay and Zenida.

“You know it?” the captain asked the Varestian woman.

“I know of it, as I should. My father died there.” Zenida gave a rueful grimace as she surveyed the map, a more detailed rendering of the south Arradsian coastal region than that offered by the antique maps of long-dead Captain Bledthorne. “The last of his many foolish and expensive jaunts in search of mythical treasures. I never knew what truly became of him. He went off exploring and never came back. I hoped to go looking for him myself one day but the pressures of commerce always prevented me. And I had a daughter to think of.”

Clay opened Scriberson’s note-book as something chimed in his memory. Thanks to the leather binding, the pages hadn’t been ruined when he dropped his pack in the sea. “Mr. O.,” he said after finding the series of entries that corresponded to their journey across the lake. “The River Maiden was charted by a Mr. O.”

“For Okanas.” Zenida frowned at him, her gaze fixed on the note-book. “What is that?”

“A dead man’s journal,” Braddon said before going on to relate the story of their time on Krystaline Lake. “It was Dr. Firpike who had the most interest in it. Pity we left all his papers in the grave where we buried him in the Coppersoles.”

“Looks like Scribes took plenty of notes,” Clay said, continuing to leaf through the book. “Guessing he didn’t trust Firpike to share what he knew later on.” He stopped as he came to a particular notation, a line of text underscored with the words “Translated Dalcian text—Early Satura Magisterium.” “‘A vessel of wonder,’” Clay read aloud. “‘Unbound by earth or sea, come to rest with precious cargo ’neath the silver waters.’” He raised his gaze to Zenida. “You have any notion what it all means?”

“Relations between my father and I were . . . poor in the three years before his disappearance. I know that he spent the better part of two years paying out a good portion of his wealth to an artificer. A renegade Corvantine who had a design for an apparatus that would enable a man to breathe underwater. So whatever he was after will not to be easy to reach. The location would be marked on one of his many maps, but they are all locked away in the family archive at the High Wall.”

“Firpike said the story came from a Dalcian legend,” Braddon said, brow creased as he strove to recollect the details. “Close to three thousand years old, he said.”

Clay turned to Kriz. “Seems too recent to be Hezkhi.”

“The legend may be three thousand years old,” she said. “But the story that inspired it could be much older. And we don’t know exactly when he woke. He could have been sleeping for centuries.”

Clay sighed as Zenida and Braddon squinted at Kriz in bafflement. “It’s . . . a really long story,” Clay began.

Kriz yelped and shrank back as the flames consumed the candle in one fierce blast of heat, leaving a patch of dripping wax on the stern-rail. “I don’t get why you ain’t better at this,” Clay said, watching her straighten quickly, smoothing a hand through her hair in an effort to cover her embarrassment. “You can fashion a crystal into a rose but you can’t light a candle with Red?”

“Red plasma was never my speciality,” she said, somewhat stiffly. “The blessing, as you call it, was only marginally understood in my time. Your people have had centuries of practice. As for the crystals, they were much more easily manipulated than other material. It was almost like they wanted to be altered.”

“We’ll try again.” Clay took a box from his pocket and extracted a single match. “Something smaller might work better,” he said, setting it down on the rail and stepping back. “Concentrate on the head. The fire goes where your eyes go. You can feel it, right? The Red in your veins. Try to think of it as a barrel, full of power. You only need to let out a little at a time.”

Kriz kept her gaze locked on the match, frowning in concentration. Clay was soon gratified to see a slight heat shimmer appear between her and the rail just as the match-head flared into life. The fire was still too fierce, consuming the match in a fraction of a second to leave a speck of black ash on the rail, but it was her most controlled effort so far.

“I want to try again,” Kriz said. “Something bigger.”

“The captain’s got us on a strict product ration,” Clay said. “No more than a few drops at a time, just for practice.”

“This ship truly runs on Red plasma?” she asked, casting her eyes over the frigate’s upper works.

“Didn’t think we had just sailing-ships, did you?”

From her slightly chagrined expression he saw that she had in fact been thinking that very thing. Although they had shared much in the trance, it was clear they still understood relatively little about each other and the eras that had produced them. Contempt, Mr. Torcreek, Sigoral had said during their sojourn through the strange world down below. That’s what she thinks of us. To her we are just useful primitives.

“It’s called a thermoplasmic engine,” he said, watching closely to gauge her reaction. “Just a vial or two of Red is enough to shift this whole ship at a right old lick, and she’s a tiddler compared to some.”

“Remarkable,” Kriz murmured, though her gaze darkened as it alighted on the rear gun-battery. “So much progress, and yet you’re still fighting wars.”

“It’s a big world. Guess there’s a lot to fight over.”

They both turned in unison as an upsurge of shouting came from the deck of the Farlight moored some fifty yards to port. It was still early as Hilemore wanted to wait for a fully risen sun before commencing the voyage north. However, there was ample light to make out the tall spines cutting through the Whirls towards the three ships. Although the Blue-hunter’s crew had been warned that Jack no longer posed a threat and might appear at some point, it seemed their long-held instincts were not so easily assuaged. Clay saw a group of sailors feverishly loading the ship’s forward harpoon cannon as others formed up along the side with rifles in hand.

“Lesson number two,” Clay said, opening his wallet and extracting a vial of Black. “How to stop a missile in flight.”

The harpoon cannon fired just as Jack raised his head above the water, blinking in apparent bemusement at the sight of the huge barbed length of iron as it hovered in mid air a few yards away. Clay knew he was showing off and burning more product than he should, but it wasn’t just Kriz who needed to learn a lesson. The harpoon gave a loud squeal as Clay twisted the arrow-head point back at a sharp angle. The crew on the Farlight could only stare in shock and then duck as he hurled the projectile back at them. It slammed into the Blue-hunter’s stack with sufficient force to leave a sizable dent.

Clay cupped his hands around his mouth, raising his voice to full volume. “Any of you fuckers casts so much as a nasty look in his direction again and I won’t blunt it next time!”

He heard a faint hiss of steam and turned to see Jack letting out a contented puff of flame as he slipped below the water.

CHAPTER 7

Lizanne

She exhausted most of her Green rowing to the aerostat, the oars blurring like paddles as they propelled the launch through the choppy sea. By the time they reached the craft it had settled on the waves, the boat-like gondola bobbing on the swell and sinking ever lower as water lapped over its shallow sides. Above, the elongated gas-filled balloon swayed in the wind, threatening to twist the ropes that bound it into a tangle that would no doubt see it fall and the whole craft subside along with it into the ocean. It appeared to have been fashioned from overlapping panels of silk, which fluttered as the gas inside grew thinner by the second. There were three people in the gondola and the sight of them flooded Lizanne with a relief that made her pause in her labour, though it was shot through with an awful realisation. Father, Jermayah, Tekela . . . No Aunt Pendilla.

“Get a rope over there,” she commanded the two burly sailors at the front of the launch. They duly cast a weighted rope to the gondola as the ensign at the tiller steered them alongside. The last of Lizanne’s Green gave out as she closed the distance between the two craft. She slumped in her seat, chest heaving thanks to the effects of burning so much product so quickly. So she barely heard the thump and clatter of feet on the boards, sitting with her aching head bowed and chest thumping like a drum.

“Lizanne.”

She raised her head as a pair of soft hands met her cheeks, looking up to find herself confronted by a familiar, doll-like countenance, albeit one that seemed to have suddenly become much more womanly in expression if not form. “It is very good to see you again, miss,” Lizanne said with a tired smile.

Tekela’s face blossomed into a smile of her own, tears welling in her eyes, and she pressed a kiss to Lizanne’s forehead before pulling her into a tight embrace. Lizanne swallowed, her throat hard and tight. “My aunt?”

Tekela drew back, tears falling as she shook her head. “I’m sorry. It was horrible . . .” She trailed off, face clouded with confusion and unwanted memories. “Sirus . . . Sirus was there.”

“What?”

“He was there. Changed, Spoiled. But it was him. He saved me.”

The resurrection of a youth Lizanne had last seen strapped into a chair and apparently dead in a Corvantine torture-chamber was a singular mystery, but one that would have to wait. As would her grief.

“The box,” Lizanne said. “Do you still have the box?”

Tekela had deposited two bulky objects on the deck of the launch. One was wrapped in waxed canvas against the damp but Lizanne could make out a familiar if much-reduced shape under the covering. Jermayah’s been busy, I see. She turned to the other object, also concealed in canvas. Tekela crouched and pulled the wrapping away to reveal a familiar, shiny, box-shaped device of numerous cogs and gears.

“Good,” Lizanne said. “Keep it close.”

Tekela’s eyes widened in surprise. “You want me to look after it?”

“You seem to have done a fair job so far. I assume that thing works,” she added, nudging the other object with her toe.

“Six hundred rounds a minute on the slowest setting,” Tekela replied, face suddenly grim with no doubt ugly remembrance. “It works very well.”

“No, young man, I will not abandon this craft.” Her father’s voice tore her gaze from Tekela. Jermayah had already clambered onto the launch but the esteemed Professor Graysen Lethridge stood resolute on the rapidly descending deck of his latest invention. “Do you have any notion of the import of this device?” he demanded of the ensign. “I insist you see to its salvage.”

Lizanne stood, moving on unsteady legs to slump against the side of the boat, staring at her father until he met her gaze, not without some reluctance. She saw his resolve falter, but not completely. “It’s important,” he said, a faint pleading note in his voice. “Surely you can see that.”

Lizanne gave an involuntary roll of her eyes which she knew must have made her resemble a sulky adolescent, but found herself too weary to care. “He’s right,” she told the ensign. “Lash the launch to it then use your flags to signal the Profitable for more boats.” He began to protest but she waved a dismissive hand. “Exceptional Initiatives. Just get on with it, unless you’d like to be posted to a research station in the northern polar region.”

She assumed either Verricks put a great deal more weight on her authority than she really deserved or Director Thriftmor intervened again. In either case the Profitable Venture soon came to an almost complete stop, raising flags and blasting her sirens to order the rest of the convoy to follow suit. Within minutes the cruiser’s twenty-foot steam-powered pinnace had been lowered over the side and was making a steady progress towards the floundering aerostat.

Her father and Jermayah used a valve on the balloon’s underside to vent the remaining gas, provoking a worried question from Lizanne as the pinnace drew alongside. “Isn’t it flammable?”

“Helium,” Jermayah said. “Take more than a spark to set it off. Tried a few experiments with hydrogen but they nearly burned the shop down.”

“Helium is more plentiful in any case,” her father added. “And cheaper.”

Soon the balloon was just a flaccid sprawl of wet silk on the water. Professor Lethridge ordered it gathered up whilst Jermayah oversaw the recovery of the gondola. “Not so much the carriage we need,” he said, slapping a hand to a bulky cylindrical apparatus at the rear of the gondola, “it’s the engine.”

“Thermoplasmic?” Lizanne asked, recognising the tell-tale pipe-work visible through a gap in the engine’s carapace.

“It’s a hybrid,” Jermayah replied and she saw the glimmer of professional pride in his eyes. “Kerosene or blood. Both burn in the same combustion chamber. She’ll give out more power if you feed her Red, of course, but kerosene is fine for basic manoeuvring.”

“Speed?” Lizanne enquired receiving a reply from an unexpected source.

“I had her up to thirty miles per hour using kerosene,” Tekela said. “We hadn’t yet managed to conduct a trial with blood.”

Lizanne scowled at Jermayah. “You let her fly this thing?”

“She’s our test pilot,” he answered with a grin far too lacking in contrition for Lizanne’s liking. “We weren’t too sure about the lifting properties at first, needed someone who wouldn’t weigh her down. Tekela volunteered. Got a right good feel for the controls too.”

Lizanne shifted her baleful gaze to her father. “I told you to find her a decent school, not subject her to your experiments.”

“We did,” Professor Lethridge replied. “Miss Hisselwyck’s Finishing Academy. She wouldn’t go. Your aunt tried to march her there but she fought her off, then threatened to run off and live in the refugee camp.”

Lizanne rounded on Tekela, who met her angry visage with a shrug and a purse of her lips. “I’m too old for school anyway.”

“And too young to be careening around the sky in one of his mad contraptions.”

“Well, you gave him the plans.” A small vestige of the old Tekela appeared then, pouty and defiant in the face of legitimate concern. At this juncture Lizanne wasn’t sure if she preferred that Tekela to this one. At least the brat had been predictable, up to a point.

Lizanne took a calming breath and turned back to her father as he helped drag the last of the depleted balloon onto the fore-deck of the pinnace. “If you’re quite finished we need to return,” she said. “You’ll also have to provide a full account of Feros’s fall to Captain Verricks and Director Thriftmor. It seems we have some more hard decisions to make.”

Soon the pinnace had closed to within about a hundred yards of the Profitable. The helmsman steered hard to port to bring the craft alongside as a group of sailors gathered at the lower-deck rail, ready to cast off their securing lines. It was then that Lizanne felt a small hand clutch at her arm and turned to see Tekela, face pale and eyes wide as she pointed at something in the sky.

The drake was high enough to be out of range of the Profitable’s guns, but the angle of the sun drew a faint red glitter from its scales as it banked and turned for the east. Lizanne went to the junior lieutenant commanding the pinnace and demanded his spy-glass before training it on the eastern horizon. An “enemy in sight” signal was already blasting from the Profitable’s sirens by the time she picked out the tell-tale silhouettes resolving through the morning mist. Warships. There were five of them, all either frigate or sloop class. She saw what at first appeared to be a thick pall of smoke rising from each of the ships then realised it to be a swarm of drakes.

“Change of orders,” Lizanne said, returning the spy-glass to the lieutenant. “Make for the Viable Opportunity. Tell Captain Trumane to head east at best possible speed and signal the rest of the fleet to follow. He is not to linger for any reason.”

She stared at his blanched, near-panicked features until he gave a nod of assent. “What are you doing?” her father asked as she moved to the prow of the pinnace.

“I left something behind.”

Lizanne climbed onto the prow and took out her wallet, extracting a vial of Green and exchanging it for the exhausted one in the Spider before injecting all of it along with a quarter vial of Red. She would need it to ward off the chill. She glanced back, seeing Tekela struggling in Jermayah’s grip as she sought to follow. “Take care of her,” Lizanne said before diving into the sea.

The Profitable’s main batteries were firing as she scaled the stern anchor mounting and vaulted onto the lower deck. The cruiser’s guns fired according to a pre-set sequence so as not to buckle the ship’s structure with the release of so much energy at once. The resultant roar was therefore continuous and deafening, drowning out the cacophony of shouted orders as the crew scrambled to their battle stations. The Profitable’s blood-burners came on-line when she made her way onto the mid-deck, the ship lurching into accelerated motion as Mr. and Mrs. Griffan lit the product in her dual engines. Apart from their brief and distressing sojourn through the revolution-torn streets of Corvus, neither of the Griffans had been in battle before and Lizanne had to suppress a pang of sympathy for what they were about to experience. They are not your mission.

She was obliged to struggle past a throng of rushing sailors to get to the officers’ quarters, opening the door of Tinkerer’s cabin to find him lying on the deck just as she had instructed. He stared up at her with bright eyes, though his face was typically lacking in animation. She noticed he also had a small bottle clutched in his hand. “I stole it from the ship’s medical bay,” he explained, following her gaze. “Potassium chloride. You said to seek out the most efficient means.”

“Best hold on to it for now,” she said. “Get up. We’re leaving.”

She led him to Makario’s cabin where she found the musician playing a surprisingly jaunty tune on his flute. “Thought I’d prefer my death to be accompanied by something cheerful,” he said.

“It’ll have to wait. Follow me, and don’t dawdle.”

She led them both to the corridor leading to the middle of the ship where they could scale a ladder all the way to the lower deck. They were halfway down the ladder when the ship gave a sudden, violent shudder. A loud high-pitched groan of protesting metal echoed all around.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Makario observed, holding on to the ladder with a white-knuckled grip.

“She’s been hit,” Lizanne said, continuing to climb down. “And it won’t be for the last time. Keep going.”

On descending to the lower deck she started for the stern, dodging around sailors laden with equipment and ammunition. The ship heaved several times as they made their way aft, Lizanne deducing that Captain Verricks had thrown the Profitable into a series of evasive manoeuvres. Even through the thick iron bulkheads and continuing roar of the main batteries she could hear a familiar rapid percussive thump and growl. Secondary armament, she realised. The drakes must be close.

The pale rectangle of an open hatch appeared ahead and she started forward at a run, then came to a sudden halt as the ceiling buckled, the metal tearing open to flood the corridor with smoke and flame. Thanks to the Green in her veins Lizanne recovered quickly, the ringing in her ears and blurred vision subsiding after only seconds. Makario and Tinkerer were not so lucky. The musician required several hard slaps before he regained enough sensibility to stand whilst Tinkerer remained unconscious, though mercifully free of injury.

“Did you have to bring him?” Makario enquired as Lizanne hauled the artificer’s slight form onto her shoulders.

“Just be grateful I brought you.”

She was obliged to step over the mangled remains of several sailors before reaching the hatch, stepping out into the open air to find the stern of the Profitable Venture in shambles. It appeared the cruiser had been hit by at least four shells from a salvo of five. One of the rear batteries was a complete wreck, the armoured housing shattered and the gun-crew transformed into charred lumps of flesh. Two large holes had been punched into the deck from which smoke issued forth in copious amounts. The surrounding ironwork glowed a deep red as the inferno beneath raged unchecked. It was clear that her original plan to make for the aft life-boats was now out of the question.

“By the souls of all the emperors,” Makario breathed as a large winged form soared through the smoke. The Red gave a brief squawk before opening its talons, allowing something to tumble free of its grip, a man-sized, man-shaped something.

The Spoiled landed directly in front of Lizanne, no more than three feet away. Time seemed to slow then, thanks to the Green, which had a tendency to increase perception in times of great stress. Therefore, Lizanne was able to discern a great deal about the Spoiled in the space of the next few heart-beats. She saw that it was male, stood an inch or two over six feet in height and appeared to be wearing a greatly modified version of a uniform normally worn by Protectorate infantry. Various trinkets had been sewn into the uniform’s tunic, cap badges from Protectorate and Corvantine regiments along with what were unmistakably human teeth and other more fleshy tokens. It also carried a .35 Dessinger long-barrel service revolver in one clawed hand and a tribal war-club of some kind in the other. She even had time to look into its eyes and be left with absolutely no doubt that it was about to do its best to kill her.

“Catch,” Lizanne told the Spoiled and threw Tinkerer’s unconscious body at it. Doing the utterly unexpected was a tactic that had worked for her in the past and so it proved now. The Spoiled nimbly caught Tinkerer in its arms then wasted a few precious seconds staring at Lizanne, its spined brow creasing in bafflement. She drew her revolver from her skirt pocket and shot it in the eye.

At least they die like a human, she thought, bending to retrieve Tinkerer’s body. “Take that,” she told Makario, nodding at the Spoiled’s fallen revolver.

“I . . .” Makario was blinking rapidly, face white with shock. It seemed even the depredations of Scorazin hadn’t prepared him for this. “I don’t like guns.”

“Just pick it up.”

She turned and carried Tinkerer towards midships, keeping to the walkway that fringed the lower starboard deck. She passed several Thumper and Growler batteries, the crews casting a flaming torrent of tracer into the sky at the Reds that now seemed to be everywhere. She had the satisfaction of seeing one drake torn apart by a concentrated blast from a Thumper before it could deposit the two Spoiled in its claws on the deck. Sadly, the Thumper crew’s cheers were short-lived as another much larger Red swooped down through the cloud of gore left by its fallen brother and doused the jubilant sailors in a thick stream of fire. Lizanne closed her ears to the screams and ran on.

On reaching the ladder that led to the starboard life-boat derricks they were confronted by the sight of a vicious hand-to-hand mêlée between sailors and Spoiled. At least twenty were assailing each other, rifle-butts and bayonets against war-clubs and hatchets. Lizanne was struck by the unnaturally coordinated movements of the Spoiled as they fought, one ducking a swinging rifle-butt whilst its comrade stepped forward to dispatch the sailor who had delivered it, whereupon they both stepped aside in unison to dodge a bayonet charge. It was like some form of dreadful murderous dance and proved dishearteningly effective. Within what seemed like seconds all the sailors lay dead or dying whilst the Spoiled had only lost three of their number.

Lizanne heard Makario let out a shocked gasp as the Spoiled all turned to regard the pair of them. There were a dozen, uniform in their silence if not their appearance, but betraying slight head movements that indicated inner thoughts. Not thoughts, Lizanne decided, seeing the Spoiled suddenly take on a more purposeful stance as if some unspoken decision had been reached. Communication.

“What do we do now?” Makario asked as the Spoiled started forward.

“Fight. What else?” Lizanne shrugged Tinkerer from her shoulder and pushed him into Makario’s arms. “Guard him.”

She had time to inject half a vial of Red and Black before the Spoiled closed, fanning out with pistols raised. Lizanne released most of her Black at once, blasting the Spoiled off their feet, then rushed forward to methodically shoot five of them in the head in quick succession as they lay on the deck. The remaining seven were up quickly and immediately began their deadly dance, circling her with frustrating speed and loosing off shots with their revolvers that forced her into a leap. She tumbled in mid air over the head of one of the Spoiled, unleashing Red as she did so. The Spoiled’s mismatched garb of Corvantine uniform and Island tribal gear caught light immediately, though his scaly hide proved more resistant to the flames. He swung his war-club at her as she landed, forcing her to back-pedal and use all her remaining Black to propel his flaming body over the side and into the sea.

Another Spoiled loomed out of the smoke left by his comrade’s departure, pistol levelled at her head, too close to dodge. Something boomed behind Lizanne and a hole appeared between the Spoiled’s eyes as a crimson plume exploded from the back of his skull. Lizanne darted forward to retrieve the fallen Spoiled’s revolver, then turned to see Makario hunched against the bulkhead, flaming pistol in hand. The musician held Tinkerer’s inert form to his chest in the manner of a human shield, meeting Lizanne’s gaze with a tremulous grin.

“I said I didn’t like them,” he told her. “Not that I couldn’t use them.”

Lizanne whirled away, feeling the whoosh of a war-club as it passed close to her head. Sending her assailant reeling with a blast of Red at his eyes, she followed up with a quick shot to his chest then leapt again. Bullets buzzed around her as she twisted in mid air, Green-enhanced reflexes given full rein as she targeted each of the remaining Spoiled, felling them all with single shots to the head before her feet met the deck.

She crouched, shuddering as the last of the Green faded from her veins, then looked up at the thump of several large bodies hitting the walkway. She let out a tired groan at the sight of what now confronted her. It appeared the Reds’ cargo didn’t just consist of Spoiled. The trio of Greens spent a brief moment sniffing the smokey air before fixing their gaze on her and immediately charging, jaws gaping wide as they summoned their flames. If there had been any Green left she might have been able to leap over the drakes at the last moment. But there was no Green so all she could do was inject her remaining Red and Black, hoping to match their flames with her own but knowing it wouldn’t be enough.

Flames began to blossom from the mouth of the leading Green as it closed to within a dozen feet, whereupon it was lifted off its claws and propelled into a near by iron support beam with enough force to break its spine. Flames engulfed the two remaining Greens as they whirled to the left to meet the new threat, Lizanne turning to see a slender, soot-covered figure emerge from a hatchway.

Sofiya Griffan seemed to have suddenly acquired a demonic aspect, her face like a mask of white and black and her unbound red hair flowing as she advanced on the Greens, the air around her shimmering with unleashed heat. Lizanne marvelled at the amount of Red she must have ingested, far more than was normally considered safe judging by the intensity of the fire she cast at the Greens. The heat was sufficient to blacken even their fire-resistant hides, causing both to scamper back, squealing in distress in a manner that was almost piteous. Mrs. Griffan, however, appeared to have lost all capacity for pity.

Having forced the pair of Greens to the edge of the walkway she unleashed her Black, tearing the limbs from their torsos, their screams multiplying as the unabated flames met exposed flesh. Even then she wasn’t done, advancing to stand over the writhing creatures as she tore ever more flesh from their bones until the screams finally fell silent and they were no more than blackened, twitching husks on the deck.

Sofiya collapsed as Lizanne rushed to her side. She was saying something, lips moving in a faint whisper as she sang a soft tune Lizanne recognised as an old Mandinorian nursery rhyme. “Eat, eat, eat it all up, or you’ll get no pudding today . . .”

“Mrs. Griffan,” Lizanne said, shaking the woman’s shoulder.

There was no response save the continual repetition of the same whispered words. “Eat, eat, eat it all up, or—”

“Sofiya!” Lizanne shook her again, hard enough to force the other woman to turn. Sofiya Griffan blinked at her blankly for several long seconds until recognition dawned.

“Miss Lethridge,” Sofiya said, her voice possessed of a calm that seemed completely out of keeping with their present circumstance. “They ate my husband. Ate him all up.”

Lizanne glanced back at the hatch from which Sofiya had emerged. It led to the engines, but from the thickness of the smoke billowing from below Lizanne had serious doubts anyone would still be alive down there. She rose, peering through the acrid, billowing fog at the sea beyond the walkway. She could see one of the enemy ships burning, a frigate drifting in a lazy circle as tall flames consumed her superstructure. From the speed at which the wreck passed by the Profitable’s starboard beam it was clear that whatever conflagration raged beneath the cruiser’s decks, her blood-burners were still operating at full power.

Lizanne went to the rail and leaned out, squinting at the sea beyond the bows. Through the haze she could see two more warships, bright flashes on the fore-decks and the whine of approaching shot indicating they were still very much in this fight. The fact that the Profitable was heading straight for the ships told her the cruiser was still answering the helm and Captain Verricks was resolved to see this through to the end.

He’s buying time, she realised, turning about and shielding her eyes to scan the eastern horizon. The refugee fleet were dim shapes in the haze now, growing dimmer as they piled on the steam to complete their escape. Time for them but none for us.

“Come with me,” she said, moving to grasp Sofiya by the arm, pulling her upright and tugging her along. Lizanne found Makario propping Tinkerer up against the bulkhead. “I think he’s coming round,” he said, catching sight of Lizanne.

“Let’s see.” She delivered a hard slap to Tinkerer’s jaw, provoking a groan and a vague blink of his eyes. Several more slaps were sufficient to return him to consciousness.

“Please stop that,” he said as Lizanne drew her hand back for another blow.

“We can’t carry you any farther,” she said. “Follow and stay close.”

Fortunately, Sofiya seemed to have subsided into a state of dumb compliance which made it easy to lead her to the ladder and down to the life-boat derricks. “Oh bother!” Lizanne exclaimed, viewing the shattered and blackened remnants of the boats she had hoped to find.

“There!” Makario said, pointing to the end of the row where a single boat, smaller than the others, lay apparently unscathed if somewhat charred. They rushed to it and climbed in, Lizanne checking to ensure it was equipped with oars before turning her attention to the lowering mechanism.

“Won’t someone have to get out and wind it?” Makario asked, his tone indicating a marked reluctance to volunteer.

From above came the grinding whistle of an approaching shell followed by a deafening explosion. “I doubt we have the leisure for that,” Lizanne said, pulling Sofiya into a protective huddle as debris rained down about them. When the cascade stopped she focused her gaze on the ropes from which the life-boat was suspended. “Hold on!” she said and used the last vestiges of her Red to burn the ropes away. The life-boat plummeted ten feet to the water, impacting with sufficient force to tip Tinkerer over the side, though Makario was quick to catch hold of his flailing arms.

“Do you have any Green?” Lizanne asked Sofiya after she and Makario had hauled the sputtering artificer back on board. Mrs. Griffan offered a blank stare in response before shrugging her slim shoulders. “Never mind.” Lizanne turned to Makario and Tinkerer. “Take the oars. I’ll steer.”

Their two male companions proved to be inexpert but enthusiastic rowers, their efforts spurred on by a series of explosions that wracked the Profitable from end to end as they drew away. Lizanne set the tiller to an easterly course then turned to watch the Profitable as it closed on the two enemy frigates.

The huge cruiser’s forward guns kept up a steady barrage as she charged on, Lizanne estimating her speed at close to forty knots. Shell after shell tore into her upper works, transforming much of the superstructure into a mangled mass of twisted smoking metal. Judging from the bodies littering the sea the ship’s Growlers and Thumpers had taken a fearful toll on the attacking Reds, and only half a dozen remained to torment her, swooping down to cast their flames at the sailors who fought back with rifle fire to little effect. Still the Profitable came on, her return fire becoming more accurate as the range diminished. One of the frigates took a full salvo amidships, birthing an instantaneous explosion that tore the warship in two. The stern section sank almost immediately whilst the bows rolled over and lingered on the surface for a short time, Lizanne seeing the ant-like figures of men clinging to the hull.

Not men, she reminded herself, watching the wreck sink beneath the waves amidst a roiling froth of foam and hoping every single member of her inhuman crew drowned along with her.

The Profitable changed course, angling her stern towards the sole remaining enemy ship, sirens blaring a salute to what Lizanne knew would be her final act.

CHAPTER 8

Sirus

He could feel them drowning. Over two hundred Spoiled were on the Losing Proposition and most of them survived the explosion that ignited her magazine and tore her in two. So Sirus was given a fulsome education in the experience of convulsive gasping as salt water invaded throat and lungs. Even amongst the Spoiled panic would take over at the end, subjugated human instincts reborn at the instant of death. The resultant blossom of terror and desperation should have been repugnant, something to slam his mental shields against. Instead he drank it all in. Fear, he had come to understand, was a precious commodity. He could use this. Constant exposure to a life of horrors was creating an ever-thicker callus around his soul, eroding his capacity to feel anything. When his own reserves of fear were depleted now he could summon the memories of the dead to guard his mind. This he did now as he sent a silent pulse of thanks into the fading minds of the Spoiled as they slipped into the depths.

The Losing Proposition had been the fastest and least damaged ship in their small fleet, her original name of the Negotiator scraped from her hull and replaced by something more to Catheline’s liking. It transpired that the Blood-blessed woman had a flair for the ironic. Sirus’s command ship, a heavy frigate once dubbed the IPV Position of Strength, was now the Imminent Demise, a name that seemed increasingly appropriate as the huge Protectorate battleship loomed ever larger in the bridge window.

“Hard to starboard!” he commanded aloud to the Spoiled at the helm, simultaneously sending a thought-command to the engine room: Reverse starboard paddle.

The Imminent Demise veered away as the battleship came on, paddles turning the sea to foam on either side of her hull. Despite the damage that had wrecked much of her upper works, the fire of the battleship’s forward batteries continued unabated. Sirus had ordered the guns seized by the Spoiled the Reds had deposited on the ship but resistance from the Protectorate crew had been ferocious. Consequently, all but a handful from an assault force of over fifty had been killed. They had succeeded in dispatching over twice their number in the savage fighting that raged throughout the ship, but a vessel this size had plenty of crewmen in reserve. Sirus felt sure that one of his squads, all veterans of the Barrier Isles campaign, would have succeeded in silencing the guns if they hadn’t encountered the Lethridge woman.

Sirus’s mind had been fully occupied with marshalling his fleet against the battleship and her fearsomely accurate guns, but the rush of recognition experienced by the Spoiled boarding party had cut through the competing morass of image and sensation. Lizanne Lethridge’s face had been plucked from the memory of one of the few Exceptional Initiatives agents captured at Feros and seared into the mind of every Spoiled by Catheline herself. The image had been accompanied by an implacable instruction: Kill this woman on sight.

They had certainly tried, Sirus taking charge of the squad and orchestrating an assault that should have left Miss Lethridge a bullet-riddled corpse. The notion of summoning a burst of fear to mask his mind and allow her to escape fluttered through his head, but he resisted it. Recognition of this woman had spread throughout the fleet and across the many miles to Feros; Catheline would know.

In the event, no subterfuge was necessary. Sirus had faced many formidable people in battle before, wickedly skilled Island warriors, the Shaman King and grizzled Protectorate veterans during his warship-seizing operations. But watching this woman as she leapt and shot, utilising her powers with an economy and ferocity that was truly frightening, he knew he was looking upon the most dangerous individual he was ever likely to meet.

He had come close, however, his sole remaining Spoiled might actually have done the deed if Lethridge’s companion hadn’t intervened. The woman’s face disappeared into instant blackness as the bullet tore through the Spoiled’s brain and Sirus felt a painful howl of frustration filling his mind. The connection to his fellow Spoiled was lost as the howl continued, accompanied by a lacerating fury as Catheline gave full vent to her feelings.

Sink that fucking ship, Admiral, her mind boomed in his head. Whatever the cost. I want that bitch dead!

He had organised his ships into a broad semicircle, the two more lightly armed sloops at either end and heavily armed frigates in the centre. The whole affair would have been over fairly quickly if a sufficient number of Blues had been with them, but it transpired the aquatic drakes were unable to keep pace with steam-powered ships for more than a few hours at a time. Consequently, their accompanying force of two dozen Blues were nowhere in sight when the Protectorate fleet hove into view, obliging Sirus to fight the battle with the forces on hand.

He ordered the two sloops to use their superior speed to dart close to the battleship, loose off a rapid salvo then withdraw so as to divide the enemy’s fire whilst the frigates’ barrage did most of the damage. All the while the Reds conducted harassing dives on the battleship, sweeping her decks with fire. It had been an effective if costly tactic so far, most of the Reds had fallen to the battleship’s deadly repeating guns and a sloop and a frigate had been destroyed thanks to sheer weight of gunnery. But it was working. The big ship could only take so much more, despite her captain’s impressive manoeuvring and the desperate courage of her crew. All they had to do was draw back a mile or so and let her exhaust her reserves of product before closing in for the kill. But with Catheline’s command the time for tactical niceties was over.

Sirus ordered his three remaining ships into a tight formation and launched them head-on at the battleship. The other sloop went down first, striking out in the lead only to be caught by a mixture of heavy and light armament when she drew within four hundred yards of the enemy. Both her paddles were wrecked within minutes and her boiler exploded as she foundered. The Losing Proposition went next, felled by a lucky plunging shot to the magazine, which left the Imminent Demise to face the dying monster alone.

“Midships,” Sirus ordered as the frigate’s bow swung north. He sent a command to the engine room to set both paddles into forward motion but a glance through the side-window told him it wouldn’t be enough.

The battleship loomed over the smaller vessel as the two ships closed, the repeating guns on the Protectorate ship raking the Imminent Demise from stern to bow. Sirus dived to the deck as cannon shells and bullets tore the bridge apart, showering him with shattered glass and timber. He felt the ship heave to port and looked up to see the helmsman lying near by. A cannon shell appeared to have punched clean through the Spoiled and he lay gazing at the smoke rising from the hole in his chest, yellow eyes curious rather than afraid.

Sirus tore his gaze from the sight and scrambled upright, lurching towards the wheel in the vain hope he might correct the ship’s course whilst she could still make headway. He was propelled off his feet before he could reach it, the entire ship wracked by a mighty shudder as the battleship rammed into her port beam at full speed. Ironwork screamed in protest as the huge ship’s prow tore into the guts of the Imminent Demise, steam exploding up through the sundered deck as her boiler burst. For a moment it seemed as if the battleship would slice the frigate clean in two but then her velocity suddenly diminished, Sirus assumed due to her blood-burners finally exhausting their fuel.

He had been thrown clear of the wrecked bridge and found himself clinging to the starboard railing. The sea seemed to be heaving around him and he realised the two ships were now locked together in a mad dance. The frigate’s starboard paddle was still turning and the battleship had brought her auxiliary engines on-line, forcing the two vessels into an erratic pirouette as neither had sufficient power to break free of the other. However, a quick scan of the minds of his remaining crew told Sirus the Imminent Demise would soon live up to its name. The impact had torn a gaping rent in the port hull plating and several tons of water had already deluged the hold and the ballast tanks. She would go under in minutes.

Sink it! Catheline’s voice in his head, shrill and undeniable in its compulsion. Kill her!

Sirus found a pair of Spoiled crewmen attempting to shore up the hull and sent them to the magazine instead. He also found a drowning Spoiled trapped beneath an iron beam in engineering. The man had been an armourer on a Protectorate vessel before his capture and it was an easy matter to pluck the required knowledge from his head before the rising waters claimed his final breath. Sirus instantly shared the knowledge with the two Spoiled in the magazine. They completed the task with the kind of efficiency only the Spoiled could display, pushing the detonators into the sacks of propellant and rigging the fuses in a scant few minutes.

Sirus clambered back onto the listing deck of his short-lived command, gazing up at the prow of the battleship above. The Profitable Venture, he read from the iron-lettered plate behind the great ship’s anchor mounting. Not today, it seems. A bullet ricocheted off the bulkhead a few feet away as a Protectorate marksman tried his luck. Sirus ignored it, instead focusing his gaze on the tallest figure he could see amongst the riflemen assembled along the battleship’s rail. Whether the man was the captain, or even an officer, he couldn’t tell, but Sirus straightened and offered a perfect salute nevertheless. It seemed only polite.

He never knew if the man returned the salute for at that moment Catheline’s thoughts pushed their way into his. Very noble, I’m sure, Admiral. But we still have need of you. Time for a swim.

This command was no more resistible than the others and Sirus turned and sprinted for the starboard rail without pause, chased all the way by Protectorate rifle fire. He leapt over the rail and dived into the sea, plunging deep and staying below the surface as he swam away. The magazine blew when he had covered perhaps twenty yards. The blast wave would probably have killed a non-Spoiled, forcing the remaining air from his lungs and propelling him to the surface, his back arched like a bow.

Air flooded his lungs as he reared up out of the water, floundering for a brief time before his instinctive panic receded. He let the fear linger as he bobbed on the surface, gazing at the final moments of the two warships. The explosion had torn the Imminent Demise free of her ugly embrace with the larger vessel and she foundered quickly, Sirus once again sharing the final agonies of a drowning crew.

The Profitable Venture took longer to die. The explosion had torn away most of her prow, revealing the corridors and compartments of her innards. Smoke and flame gouted from deep within her then died as the decks flooded. Her stern reared up as the forward section became inundated, her massive rudder turning this way and that like the tail of some huge, wounded fish. The battleship emitted a last, forlorn groan as she sank, men dropping from her flanks like flies escaping a submerging corpse. Then the rudder slipped into the patch of frothing sea and she was gone.

Night seemed to fall quickly, though his sense of time slipped away as delirium took hold. As disciplined as his mind was it remained susceptible to the depredations of persistent cold, thirst and hunger. A short exploration of the surrounding water had discovered a shattered piece of life-boat. Sirus clung to it, managing to keep the upper half of himself out of the water to stave off the deadly chill. From the diminishing screams of the Protectorate sailors not far off, it seemed most of them had not been so lucky.

The temptation to let go of his fear was strong, his resolve leeching away with every passing hour. What does it matter now? he pondered, too numb to feel the pain of the all-encompassing chill. Let her see it all. The last testament of a dying man.

For some reason Katrya’s face came to him as his mental defences began to erode, threatening to reveal his scheming, his desperate desire for release from this bondage. It was Katrya who stopped him. Her face was not the one she wore when he killed her. This was her human face, the pale, frightened visage of the young woman he had sheltered with in the Morsvale sewers. Why are they doing this? she had whispered to him then as they huddled beneath a drain cover listening to the horrors unfolding in the streets above. What do they want?

He had no answer for her then, but he had one now. Because they hate us, and they want everything.

He let out a shout as consciousness returned, thrashing in the water and nearly losing his grip on the wreckage. Hold on to the fear! he commanded himself, summoning the sensations he had stolen from the drowning Spoiled. It was possible there were others in the army who had learned how to mask their thoughts in the same manner and he was determined not to allow Catheline to learn the secret. Give her nothing. Even if you die here.

So he clung to his flotsam, shivering in fear and cold as the night wore on until the first slivers of sunlight snaked through the clouded eastern sky. Finally, the last of his strength seeped away and his hands lost purchase on the wreckage. He lay back as the swell carried him off, waiting for the sea to claim him and staring up at the dimly lit clouds . . . Then blinked as a large black shape soared into view, folded its wings and dived down towards him, claws extending.

Katarias, Sirus thought as the Red plucked him from the water and beat his wings to strike out on a westward course. Before Sirus slipped into unconsciousness he entertained the notion that the drake had found him hours before but delayed his rescue, curious to see how long he would last.

His new flagship was a diminutive mail-carrier recently renamed the Fallen Stock. She had a single paddle at the stern driven by the most recent mark of steam engine. Sirus recalled from the inventory provided by Veilmist, the Island girl turned mathematical genius, that this craft was the fastest civilian vessel they possessed. It seemed he had Catheline to thank for ordering the mail-carrier to follow the ill-fated battle fleet as added insurance.

Katarias had dumped his inert form on the fore-deck before taking perch on the small ship’s bridgehouse. The drake’s weight was sufficient to buckle the ceiling and cause the ship to dip several inches. Sirus spent a day in delirious slumber belowdecks, being fed broth by his Spoiled crewmates until he returned to full consciousness. Once again he found himself marvelling at the fortitude of his remade body. An ordeal that would certainly have killed his human form was now little more than a daylong inconvenience.

Welcome back, Admiral, Catheline’s thoughts greeted him when he made his way to the bridge the following morning. May I say how gratified I am by your survival, sir. This whole enterprise would be much less entertaining without you.

You do me too much credit, miss, he replied. My orders?

Sadly, it seems your mighty efforts proved in vain. She pushed a vision into his head. It showed an eye-level view of the sea, the waves swept by gusts of thick smoke. The vision kept fading to grey before springing back into clarity, from which Sirus deduced it had been captured by an injured Spoiled near the point of exhaustion. There, Catheline said, freezing the memory and dispelling any extraneous detail to focus on a vague shape in the smoke. Spoiled eyes were capable of capturing much more detail than human vision so even through the haze it was possible to discern the shape of a life-boat. Catheline magnified the image, revealing the slim form of a woman seated at the stern of the boat.

Lizanne Lethridge, Sirus commented, stoking his fear to conceal the twinge of admiration for the woman’s resourcefulness.

Isn’t she just so appallingly aggravating? Catheline replied. The poor fellow who saw this didn’t last much longer, I’m afraid. But it seems the boat was heading west. It’s possible the sea may claim her before she finds rescue, but I doubt our luck is that good. Follow her, my dear faithful Admiral. Find out her destination then await us. We are coming. All of us.

CHAPTER 9

Lizanne

“What is that?” Makario said, peering at the western horizon. Lizanne followed his gaze, regretting the lack of Green to enhance her vision. Spending the better part of two days in this life-boat with no provisions or product had left them all in a state of chilled lethargy, apart from Sofiya Griffan, who maintained the same rigid and silent posture throughout. Lizanne found her vision blurring as she tried to focus on the small speck in the distance, hoping not to discern the flap of wings as it drew nearer. However, it was Tinkerer who solved the mystery

“An aerostat,” he said, his brow furrowed as if trying to recall something out of reach. “I don’t know how I know that.”

“The Artisan knew it,” Lizanne said. “It seems not everything is locked away after all.”

It took an hour for the aerostat to draw close enough for Lizanne to make out its two occupants. A diminutive figure sat in front manning what Lizanne assumed were the contraption’s controls whilst a person of considerably bulkier proportions tended to what appeared to be some kind of flaming brazier situated in the middle of the gondola.

“A caloric oil burner,” Tinkerer observed. “Hot air is a reasonable alternative to a chemical lifting agent. Though the design is crude.”

“I’d advise strongly against telling him that,” Lizanne said.

She waved her arms as the aerostat slowed to an uneven hover a hundred feet above. The propeller on the single engine at the stern spun fast enough to blur its blades but seemed to be having difficulty making headway against the prevailing westerly winds. She saw Jermayah lean over the side of the gondola and drop something. It splashed into the water a few feet shy of the life-boat’s bows where it bobbed on the surface until Makario retrieved it with one of the oars. It was a tarpaulin sack rigged with floats, quickly opened to reveal a large flask of water, some loaves and cured ham and, to Lizanne’s great relief, one small vial of Green.

She looked up as Jermayah shouted something from above, the words mostly swamped by the noise of the engine and the wind but she was sure she caught the word “back.” She saw Tekela give a wave before returning her hands to the controls whereupon the aerostat turned about and flew off towards the west. It seemed to Lizanne that its departure had been much swifter than its approach.

“Couldn’t they have taken us with them?” Makario asked around a mouthful of bread. Lizanne had noted that his usual decorum, and refined accent, had slipped somewhat during their time in the boat.

“I doubt it can lift more than two persons at a time,” Tinkerer replied, eyes locked on the receding craft and head presumably filling with numerous design improvements. Lizanne wondered if her father would welcome the artificer’s input and found herself doubting it. Though the prospect of their meeting did fill her with a certain guilty anticipation.

She retrieved the flask of Green from the sack and sat beside Sofiya. Removing the stopper, she held the flask up to the woman’s nose in the hope the scent of product might provoke her into some kind of animation. Instead, she was rewarded with only a small nose wrinkle.

“Drink,” Lizanne said. “It’ll restore you.”

That drew a response, Sofiya turning her head to regard Lizanne with a vacant stare. “Can you restore my husband, Miss Lethridge?” she asked, her tone light and conversational. “The father to the child I carry. Can you restore him?”

Lizanne saw it then, the way the woman’s hands were clasped over her belly in a tight protective shield. “Emperor’s balls,” Makario muttered. “Just what we need.” He fell silent as Lizanne shot him a warning glare.

“No,” she said, turning back to Sofiya. “I cannot.” She reached out to prise the woman’s hands apart, placing the vial in her palm. “But I can keep you both alive. Don’t you think he would want that?”

Sofiya stared at the vial in her hand then put it to her lips and took a small sip, Lizanne taking some gratification from the faint colour she saw blossom in the woman’s cheeks.

“So what now?” Makario asked.

“We eat,” Lizanne said, reaching for the sack again. “And await rescue.”

“It may have escaped your notice, miss,” Captain Trumane said. “But, since Captain Verricks and Director Thriftmor can no longer be counted amongst the living, command responsibility for this fleet now rests with me. I’ll thank you to leave decisions regarding our course in my hands.”

They were alone in his cabin, Lizanne having been granted an interview only after the most strenuous insistence. Captain Trumane, it seemed, had none of Captain Verricks’s pragmatism when it came to advice offered by an Exceptional Initiatives agent.

Lizanne hadn’t been offered a seat but took one anyway, slumping into the chair opposite the captain’s desk and running a weary hand over her forehead. It had taken three hours for the Viable Opportunity to appear and rescue them, and most of that time had been taken up with coaxing Sofiya into eating something. She was in the care of the ship’s doctor now, a highly capable and affable man named Weygrand Lizanne recalled from some of Clay’s memories. Glancing up at Trumane’s arch, imperious visage above his steepled fingers, she couldn’t help but wish events had conspired to keep this man in a comatose state, which would have placed the good doctor next in line for command.

“As a matter of professional courtesy,” she began with all the politeness she could muster, “what is our present destination?”

She saw Trumane’s face twitch in an unconscious expression of discomfort. It was probably some effect of his prolonged coma and it told her a great deal. Wherever we’re going, he’s not happy about it.

“Given our current fuel stocks, not to mention the supply situation,” Trumane replied, “there is only one viable course.” His face twitched again and he let out a small cough before continuing. “Varestia,” he said. “Specifically the Red Tides.”

Lizanne stared at him, her lips curling as she contained an incredulous laugh. “I know only a little of your career, Captain,” she said. “So please correct me if my memory plays me false. Is it not the case that for most of your active service you have been engaged in antipiracy operations?”

Trumane coughed again. “Quite correct.”

“So, it would be a fair assumption that your name and reputation will be well known amongst piratical circles.”

“A fair assumption indeed.”

“Then please explain to me why sailing into the most pirate-infested region in the world at the head of an unarmed fleet of civilian vessels is such a good idea.”

“There is nowhere else!” Trumane slammed his hands onto the desk, face twitching with renewed intensity. He glared at Lizanne for a long moment before composing himself, leaning back and straightening his uniform as he added, “Not unless you think it wise we try our luck in a south Corvantine port.”

This was a point Lizanne was forced to concede. There was little prospect of finding safe harbour in one of the ports on the southern Corvantine coast. The region was a hotbed of Imperial loyalists and the chaos caused by the as yet incomplete revolution would surely make for a hostile reception from the local authorities. But the welcome they would receive in Varestian waters might well be worse.

“The Viable is the only warship in the fleet,” she said. “Even with two Blood-blessed on board to fire the engine and augment the defences, it won’t be able to protect every ship from seizure by pirates.”

“Not all Varestians are pirates,” Trumane replied. “Though they do tend to be universally greedy. They formed a government of sorts after the Empire lost control of the region, the seat of which is located at the Seven Walls. We will sail there and seek asylum in return for suitable compensation from the Ironship Syndicate.”

“The Seven Walls sits at the heart of the Red Tides,” Lizanne pointed out. “That’s a considerable distance to cover without drawing unwelcome attention, regardless of what agreement we might want to make.”

Trumane’s brow furrowed as he spent a moment in silent calculation, before his expression brightened fractionally. “Then we have your esteemed father to thank for providing the means of sending an advance party,” he said, the first smile Lizanne had seen him make appearing on his twitching face. “Miss Lethridge, please do not worry that I might dissuade you from volunteering for such a mission. I feel that keeping you cooped up aboard ship would be a singular waste of your talents.”

“It’s supposed to have a frame.”

Lizanne smothered a laugh as she watched Tinkerer unceremoniously pluck the pencil from her father’s hand and begin sketching lines on his blueprint. From the look on the professor’s face she deduced he was simply too shocked to voice an objection.

“A rigid envelope allows for more capacity and durability,” Tinkerer went on, the pencil moving in swift, precise strokes across the diagram. “And stronger fabric. Silk is far too fragile.” He stopped drawing and stepped back, turning to regard her father’s rapidly darkening countenance.

“And why,” Professor Lethridge began, voice possessed of a distinct quaver, “should I take any advice from the likes of . . .”

“Three concentric rings connected by diagonal cross-beams,” Jermayah broke in, lips pursed as he surveyed the altered blueprint. “You know, that might actually work, Professor.” He raised an eyebrow at Tinkerer. “Materials?”

“In the absence of a bespoke composite alloy, hollow copper tubing would be the best substitute.”

Professor Lethridge gave a snort but, Lizanne noted, failed to voice any further objections as Tinkerer went on to make additional modifications to the design for an improved aerostat. “The control surfaces are too small . . . Increased lifting capacity will allow for the addition of a second engine . . .”

Lizanne left them to it, deciding to check on Makario’s progress with the solargraph. Captain Trumane had ordered a good-sized portion of the Viable’s hold cleared for use as a makeshift workshop. This included a curtained-off section where the musician had some measure of privacy whilst he attempted to decipher the device’s musical mysteries. It sat on the work-bench, its various cogs and wheels gleaming in the lamplight. During the siege of Carvenport they had taken the first steps to unlocking a few of its secrets, such as the fact that it was powered by music, or “kinetic resonance,” as Jermayah termed it. However, to Lizanne it remained as unknowable and frustrating an enigma as when she first set eyes on it in the office of the unfortunate Diran Akiv Kapazin. As yet, despite Makario’s efforts, it had signally failed to reveal any clue as to how it might unlock the secrets in Tinkerer’s head. She had asked Tekela to assist, hoping the girl’s musical insights might yield some progress, as they had in Jermayah’s workshop.

“Wrong,” Tekela said as Makario finished tapping out another tune on the device’s exposed chimes. “I doubt the Artisan would have chosen something so ugly. He had far too much taste for that. Try this.” She went on to sing a short melody in her fine, accomplished voice. She seemed oblivious to Makario’s baleful stare which Lizanne fancied was at least a match for the one her father had directed at Tinkerer. The tune was wordless, formed only of notes into something both pleasing and haunting to the ear. It reminded Lizanne of “The Leaves of Autumn,” the tune that had first caused the solargraph’s gears to turn in Jermayah’s workshop, in feeling rather than composition.

“I don’t recognise it,” Makario grated when Tekela fell silent.

“You wouldn’t,” she replied. “I made it up.”

“If this infernal thing is powered by music, it will be by a composition from the Artisan’s era. May I point out, miss, that only one of us is an expert in musical history.”

Tekela made a face and arched an eyebrow at Lizanne. “He’s just jealous because I have perfect pitch.”

“Perfect pitch is just a trick,” Makario stated, bridling as his face darkened further. “I once saw a monkey with perfect pitch in a circus.”

“Try it,” Lizanne said before Tekela could give voice to a no-doubt-vicious rejoinder. “We’ve tried every other tune the Artisan might have heard in his lifetime and all they do is cause the levers to turn, which describes the orbits of the three moons but fails to convey anything actually meaningful. There is more to this thing than just astronomy. It has another secret to tell and we know the Artisan was scrupulous in guarding his secrets. He may well have used a unique composition, one known only to himself.”

Makario huffed but dutifully raised the silver spoon he had borrowed from the officers’ mess and tapped out the notes of Tekela’s song on the chimes. “See?” he said, moving back as the tune faded. “A fruitless . . .”

He gave a start as a soft click came from the solargraph. It was faint, but definite evidence that somewhere within the complex array of components that formed the device’s innards, something had responded to the tune. Makario immediately repeated the sequence, all animosity replaced by a steady-eyed concentration. This time, however, the solargraph failed to respond.

“The main theme from ‘The Leaves of Autumn,’” he said, reaching for pen and paper and scribbling down a series of musical notes. “What else?”

“‘Dance of the Heavens,’” Tekela said. “The second movement. Also, the choral melody from ‘The Maiden’s Fall.’”

Makario wrote down all the notes from each piece, one beneath the other. “Now your little tune,” he said, setting the notes out at the bottom of the page. He stared at it for a moment then let out a soft laugh. “See it?” he said, holding the paper out to Lizanne. Music had never been her subject and she had only a bored child’s understanding of musical notation so immediately passed the page to Tekela.

“I don’t . . .” she began after scanning the notes, then frowned as comprehension dawned. “A descending scale,” she said. “They all share the same descending scale, but at different tempos.”

Makario nodded and tapped a series of notes onto the chimes. This time the response was much more prolonged and impressive. All three of the solargraph’s levers turned at once, moving with more energy than Lizanne had seen before whilst several of the cogs along its sides spun fast enough to blur. It lasted for no more than three seconds then stopped after which the solargraph emitted a series of notes of its own. It was the same melody Makario had tapped out, but at a much slower tempo, and also followed by several more notes. To Lizanne’s ears the tune possessed much the same melancholy flavour as “The Leaves of Autumn” and the other centuries-old tunes the device had so far responded to. She could also tell it was incomplete, the final note cutting off abruptly as if the solargraph had been silenced in mid-conversation.

“I do believe we might have made some progress,” Makario said. “Perhaps our fellow former inmate can shine some more light on it.”

“Not yet,” Lizanne replied. “I’d rather his energies were concentrated on the new aerostat, for now at least.” She nodded at the solargraph. “Do you think you can get it to play the whole tune?”

“With time and”—he cast a reluctant glance in Tekela’s direction—“some further assistance. Music is a code after all.” He nodded at the page of notes he had scribbled down. “At least now we have the beginnings of a key, and thanks to the additional notes it played, a clue as to where to look next.”

“So what are you calling this one?” Lizanne enquired as Jermayah crouched to undo the ties on a canvas-wrapped item on the deck. “Do you have a new Whisper for me? I must say I miss the old one.”

He gave a soft grunt, shaking his shaggy head as he stepped back to reveal his latest invention. “This one doesn’t whisper. Could call it the Shouter, if you like.”

At first glance it appeared to be a standard-issue Silworth .31 lever-action repeating carbine, albeit modified with a slightly longer barrel and more elaborate fore- and rearsights. The wooden stock had also been augmented with a brass shoulder plate and spring arrangement. However, the strangest modification was that the upper half of the breach mechanism had been replaced by glass instead of the usual iron.

“Something occurred to me during that business in Carvenport,” Jermayah began. “Takes a keen eye and a skilled hand to kill a full-grown drake with a fire-arm. It’s one thing for a Contractor to do it on a hunt through the Interior, different matter in the midst of a battle. The Thumpers and Growlers are fine and good, but you need a whole crew to work them. The mini-Growler I built in Feros could do the job but it eats up a huge amount of ammunition and takes too long to manufacture. If we had a mass-producible small-arm that could do the job with only a few shots, seems to me things might go better for us.”

Lizanne cast a doubtful gaze over the carbine. “This can kill a drake?”

“Surely can, provided you load it with the right ammunition.” He produced a cartridge from his pocket and tossed it to her. It was about a third longer than a standard carbine round with a more pointed bullet featuring a slight indentation at its base.

“This isn’t steel,” she said, touching a finger to the tip of the bullet. Military-grade rounds were usually formed of a lead core surrounded by a hard-steel jacket. Jermayah had apparently crafted something new in this one.

“Titanium,” he said. “Hard enough to punch through the hide of any drake. Your father had a small stock of it set aside, but couldn’t remember what he was going to use it for. He also had some magnesium and mercury. So you have a titanium-tipped projectile which collapses on impact to set off a composite explosive charge. Took a little experimenting but I think you’ll find the results impressive.”

He hefted an empty brandy-keg the ship’s galley no longer had a use for and made ready to toss it over the side. Lizanne bent to retrieve the carbine from the deck, finding it marginally heavier than a standard-issue model, but not enough to be unwieldy. She slotted the cartridge into the tubular magazine below the barrel, worked the lever to chamber the round and put the stock against her shoulder.

“Very well,” she said. “Have you ranged the sights?”

“Fifty yards,” Jermayah told her before heaving the keg into the sea. “Put some whitewash in to illustrate the effect.”

Lizanne stepped to the rail, tracking the keg’s progress towards the stern. The Viable Opportunity was maintaining a slow speed to keep pace with the rest of the convoy so her target took a moment or two to drift the required distance. When she judged it to be about fifty yards away she raised the carbine’s barrel, centring the fore- and rearsights on the bobbing keg. The wind was slight today so she didn’t need to account for it as she exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the bullet’s leaving the barrel did indeed resemble a shout, though the recoil was less severe than she might have expected. The stock seemed to pulse against her shoulder instead of the usual hard shove and the foresight deviated from the target by only a few degrees. Consequently, she had a fine view of the brandy-keg as it transformed into a cloud of white vapour. There wasn’t even enough left of it to litter the surrounding water with debris.

“One, maybe two to stop an adult Green,” Jermayah mused. “Three for a Red. Blue’s a different matter of course, but you should still be able to do some serious damage. It’ll also fire standard rounds if you need to shoot a Spoiled.”

Lizanne lowered the carbine and ejected the spent cartridge with a smooth motion of the lever, catching it before it could fall to the deck. It was hot, but not enough to burn and leached a thick foul-smelling cloud of spent propellant.

“Had to mix a variety of agents to get enough power behind the bullet,” Jermayah said with an apologetic wince. “Couldn’t make it smokeless.”

Lizanne grinned and blew the fumes from the bullet before tossing it over the side. “Then I’ll call it the ‘Smoker.’” She tapped the glass covering the upper portion of the breach. “And this?”

“That’s for an old friend.” He produced another cartridge from his pocket, holding it up for inspection. This projectile was more elongated than those she had used in her Whisper, but still recognisable from the viscous liquid she could see inside the glass cylinder.

“Redball,” Lizanne said, remembering the various forms of carnage she had inflicted with the product-fuelled round.

“Three times the range of the pistol version,” Jermayah said. “Could only buy enough Red to make a dozen though, so best forgo the test firing, eh?”

She nodded, reaching out to take the cartridge. “And the explosive rounds?”

“Just thirty. I had just bought enough magnesium and mercury to make a hundred but . . .” He trailed off, face darkening.

“Did you see it?” Lizanne asked. “My aunt?”

He shook his head. “It all happened so fast. It was Tekela who woke us, told us we had to get in the aerostat and leave. Your aunt didn’t believe it, or didn’t want to. She went outside to look for herself. Not an easy thing to just fly away from the place you’ve lived all your life, I suppose. It’s my belief she locked the workshop doors so the drakes couldn’t get in when she saw what was happening. Even then.” He paused and gave a sad, helpless shrug. “If your ward hadn’t gotten her hands on the mini-Growler we’d certainly have shared your aunt’s fate.”

“We’ll need more of those before long.” Lizanne hefted the carbine. “And more of these.”

“Only so much we can do on this tub. Not a lot to work with.”

“I’ll see about rectifying that. In the meantime”—she shouldered the carbine and started towards the ladder to the crew quarters—“I have a long-delayed call to make.”

Do you believe it? Clay asked as the last images of his journey through the world beneath the ice folded back into the grey hues of Nelphia’s surface.

Lizanne took a long time to reply. Absorbing such a quantity of new and incredible information left her own mindscape in an unusual state of disarray. The whirlwinds twisted and entwined with the kind of energy that only came from confusion and indecision. Neither were sensations she enjoyed.

I don’t wish to cause offence, Mr. Torcreek, she told him after managing to straighten some of the more fractious whirlwinds. But I doubt you are capable of constructing memories of such . . . remarkable variety and precision.

Got plenty of wild tales of your own, he observed and their joined minds shared a brief instant of empathic humour. Bringing down the entire Corvie Empire. Quite a feat, miss. Even for you.

A house built with rotten timbers on shaky foundations was always bound to fall. My concern is what they’ll build in its place.

Think we got more pressing concerns than that.

She took a moment to calm her mind yet further, forcing the whirlwinds into a reasonable semblance of order, before sending him a pulse of agreement. You’re certain of this woman’s motives? You believe she only wants to help?

I believe she wants to put right what her people did wrong. But I’m pretty sure there’s a good deal she hasn’t shared yet. I’m hoping I’ll get some answers at Krystaline Lake.

Returning to Arradsia at this juncture seems excessively risky. It’s likely the entire continent is now under the sway of the White.

Maybe not. It ain’t there just now, don’t forget. And there are limits to what it can do. Silverpin showed us that. Besides, I’m all out of other options, lest you got something to share.

Tell Captain Hilemore to sail for Varestia. We will join forces. It was a suggestion that would have carried more weight when spoken aloud, but in the trance she knew he could sense the reluctant insincerity in it. They were both fully aware he would sail to Arradsia and then journey on to Krystaline Lake, whatever the cost.

Guess that settles it, he observed.

So it seems. However, I feel it would be better if Captain Hilemore stayed with his command this time. Given the fate of the Corvantine main battle fleet he now commands possibly the most advanced warship in the world. An asset we’ll need in the days to come.

He’ll be hard to convince. Not the kind who likes to sit out the big show.

Frame it as an order from me if it helps.

With Feros gone I ain’t too sure how he’ll feel about taking orders, and my influence ain’t what it was. But I’ll try. When will you be able to trance again?

I’m not sure. The welcome we’ll receive in the Red Tides is . . . uncertain to say the least.

Dealt with a fair few Varestians in my time. They’re a practical folk above all else, and they got spies everywhere. They have to know what’s been happening, or at least a good deal of it. Could be they don’t need as much persuading as you think. Besides which, there’s a service you could do me in Varestia.

He went on to explain about Zenida Okanas and her father’s connection to whatever lay beneath the waters of Krystaline Lake. A place called the High Wall, Clay told her. She says he had a pile of maps there. They’ll be useful if we’re gonna find this thing.

I’ll see what I can do, Lizanne replied. She paused and their shared mindscape took on a darker hue as the knowledge of what had befallen Feros struck home once again. What will you tell your uncle? she asked.

The truth. Think he and Lori deserve that much. Lines of deep red began to snake through the moon-dust like miniature lava floes. Grief took many forms in the trance, it seemed that in his case it burned. Looks like we both lost an aunt, huh? And Joya. Was hoping I’d see her again one day.

We don’t fully know what happened yet, she replied. There may yet be a chance some people escaped. The refugees were ever a resourceful lot. It was scant comfort, something else they both knew, but it was all she had.

Where are you now? she asked, happy to alter the topic of conversation.

Saw our last iceberg two days ago, so a good lick farther north. Captain Hilemore reckons another two weeks before we sight Arradsia. Would be quicker if we weren’t nurse-maiding that old Blue-hunter. They’re awful scared of Jack. Makes me nervous.

The connection thrummed as Lizanne’s Blue began to fade. Guess it’s time to say our farewells for now, Clay observed.

Wait. Lizanne drew one of her whirlwinds closer and formed it into one of his shared memories, the aerostat of marvellous design he had used to escape the world below the ice. I need more images of this. Anything you can remember. And anything that woman told you about it.

Think you can copy it, huh? he asked, swiftly moving to comply. Nelphia’s surface sprouted a new crop of memories, the dust blossoming into a panoply of image and sensation.

The drakes hold a very singular advantage over us, she replied, opening her mind to drink in all the knowledge before the Blue ran out. If we can contest the skies, we may have a chance.

CHAPTER 10

Hilemore

They were forced to leave the Dreadfire behind. Hilemore had briefly considered taking her under tow but that would have required leaving a skeleton crew on board and they had barely enough hands for the Superior as it was. He took possession of Captain Bledthorne’s charts and log, thinking they would be a boon to any historian, especially one with deep pockets. Following a brief solo inspection to ensure every scrap of anything useful had been removed from the hold he strode across her deck for what he knew would be the last time.

“Sorry, old girl,” he whispered, running a hand over her timbers before stepping onto the gang-plank. “I doubt you’d have liked the modern world, in any case. It’s far too noisy.”

“Sir?” Steelfine asked from the other side of the walkway.

“Nothing, Number One.” Hilemore crossed to the Superior, gesturing for the gang-plank to be removed. “Let’s get these lines cast off and see her on her way.”

“Could set a fire in her belly, sir,” Steelfine suggested. “Give her a decent funeral. The King of the Deep’s been expecting her, after all.”

“Then he’ll have to wait awhile longer.”

Hilemore lingered to watch the old ship slip away from the Superior’s port side. The prevailing currents swept southwards in the Whirls and soon the Dreadfire was drawn back into the channel through which she had carried them to safety. Despite her lost masts and many wounds, Hilemore thought she still retained a defiant aspect, as if all the long years in the ice and the recent fury of battle had been unable to dent her pride. “Perhaps,” he commented to Steelfine, “in a century or two she’ll provide a refuge for some other desperate souls.”

He waited until the Dreadfire had vanished completely into the maze of ice before turning about and striding towards the bridge. “Weigh anchor and signal the Farlight to make steam and take the lead. It’s only proper since they know the way out.”

It transpired that Lieutenant Talmant had done an excellent job of clearing a channel through the Chokes to the open sea. The young officer had used his stock of explosives wisely, blasting a course through the obstructing ice that was narrow but straight enough to eliminate the need for any tricky manoeuvring. Hilemore had ordered Talmant and his small squad back to the Superior, seeing little need to maintain a supervising presence on the Farlight now their escape route had been secured. In fact Hilemore nursed a secret hope the Blue-hunter might decide to follow her own course once free of the Chokes, thinking Captain Tidelow and his crew more of an irksome burden than useful allies. But, upon reaching the open sea the other ship duly fell in behind the Superior as she set her bows due north. So far she showed little sign of shirking the warship’s protection.

Scrimshine, against the odds generated by the growing pool of bets on the possibility of his demise, recovered from his gas-related illness seven days after the ships cleared the Chokes. Having been released from the sick bay on Skaggerhill’s advice he stood in the bridge entrance, swaying a little as he offered Hilemore a clumsy salute. “Reporting for duty, Skip—” he began before correcting himself. “Sir.”

Scrimshine’s already cadaverous face had been rendered even more gaunt and his colour was pale. However, what distracted Hilemore the most was the fact that the man was wearing a Protectorate uniform for the first time since joining the ship. Furthermore, it appeared to have been cleaned and pressed.

“Skipper will do, Mr. Scrimshine,” Hilemore told him. “I’ve grown accustomed to it.” He gestured at the wheel, which had been manned by Talmant for the past week. “Relieve the lieutenant at the helm, if you please. The heading is north-north-east.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore went on, “note for the log. Deck Hand Scrimshine hereby promoted to the rank of leading deck hand. Also, awarded a mention in dispatches for his outstanding actions during recent operations.”

“Very good, sir.”

He saw Scrimshine straighten a little as he took the wheel, but the former smuggler gave no other indication he had heard. “Heavy cloud ahead, Skipper,” he said instead. “Sitting low on the horizon. Looks like we’re in for it.”

“When aren’t we, Mr. Scrimshine?”

This brought a restrained chuckle from the others on the bridge and a small flare of reassurance in Hilemore’s breast. After all I put them through, they can still laugh, he thought. His good humour, however, evaporated with the arrival of Claydon Torcreek some minutes later. The Blood-blessed’s face was as grim as Hilemore had seen it. Beyond him Braddon Torcreek held his daughter in a tight embrace, tears streaming down the young gunhand’s face, which was for once rendered ugly as she strove to contain her sorrow.

“Tranced with Miss Lethridge this morning,” Clay said. “I got news.”

He ordered the news shared with the crew. It may have been wiser to spare their morale by concealing the truth, but Hilemore felt it best to ensure they knew the reality of the situation, however grim it might be. Many crewmen had family in Feros, it was the largest Maritime Protectorate base after all, and the knowledge of its fall left a thick pall of despair over the ship. He kept them distracted with constant drills and much-needed repairs. Prolonged exposure to freezing temperatures had left many of the fittings and armaments in a poor state, in addition to causing much of the ship’s paint-work to flake off. The hold yielded a decent stock of paint in various hues and Hilemore ordered the renewed colour scheme to feature both Protectorate blue and Corvantine green. Although the remaining Corvantine crew were small in number, he was keen to emphasise the fact that, despite being a ship of several different allegiances, they had but one common purpose.

The possibility of an attack by Blues was a constant worry, albeit alleviated by Clay, who spent most days on the prow in silent communion with Jack. The huge Blue would range out ahead of the ships, his remarkable hearing able to detect his drake brethren over huge distances. Consequently, they were able to avoid the danger as Clay related a series of course changes to steer them clear of trouble. However, he also provided a warning.

“He says they’re hunting us,” the Blood-blessed told Hilemore during the evening watch. It was Clay’s habit to remain at his post until midnight before retiring for a few hours’ sleep. He sipped the coffee Hilemore had brought him with a tired but grateful grin. “The White’s got ’em scouring the southern seas for us. Ain’t sure how it knows what we’re about, but it surely does, and it don’t like it.”

“Can’t he . . .” Hilemore fumbled for the right words. “Talk to the other Blues, somehow. Tell them to leave us alone.”

“He can talk, but they ain’t listening. They only got ears for the White. That’s how it was centuries ago when it rose before. That’s how it is now. To them Jack’s just another enemy in need of killing.”

Hilemore inclined his head at the crew quarters. “Has she been any more forthcoming with her intelligence?”

“Kriz? Not really. Seems right fascinated with your ship’s library and charts and all. Hard to get her head out of a book just now, though it could be just a ruse to stop me asking questions. Fact is, until we get where we’re going, I doubt she’ll tell us anything she ain’t already.”

“Land in sight, Captain,” Talmant related from the speaking-tube connected to the crow’s nest. “Sea and sky reported clear of enemies.”

“All stop,” Hilemore ordered, Talmant promptly relaying the instruction to the engine room via the bridge telegraph. “Drop anchor and signal the Farlight to draw alongside. Tell them I also request Captain Tidelow’s presence for a conference.”

“I put us here,” Hilemore said a short while later, tapping a compass-needle to a position on the chart laid out on the ward-room table. In addition to Captain Tidelow he had summoned Zenida, Clay, Braddon and Kriz to the conference. Braddon was the only one seated, placing himself at the far end of the table and paying scant attention as he stroked his beard, eyes brooding and distant. Hilemore hadn’t heard him speak more than a few words since receiving the news about Feros and the man’s bearing didn’t invite conversation. By contrast, his daughter had been highly vocal in her grief.

The night after Clay had related the news that her mother was most likely dead Loriabeth had contrived to get drunk on a cask of rum purloined from the ship’s diminishing stores. She spent an hour or more at the stern, raging profanities into the sea air in between blasting imaginary enemies with her twin revolvers. Hilemore had ordered her left alone until she became so insensible as to mistake one of the life-boats for a drake. It was Lieutenant Sigoral who calmed her, grabbing her about the arms and chest as she attempted to reload her guns and put another salvo of bullets into the life-boat’s hull. The Corvantine held her as she twisted and spat in his arms, speaking softly into her ear until the rum in her veins finally drew her into an exhausted slump. Sigoral then carried her back to her bunk, staying by her side until morning.

“Forty miles due south of the Barnahy Firth,” Tidelow said, eyes tracking a westward course over the map. “Which would make Stockcombe the nearest port.”

“We’re not going to Stockcombe,” Hilemore said. He took a pencil and sketched out a route from their current position and into the Firth.

“The Lower Torquil.” Tidelow frowned as his finger tapped the small inland sea. “That’s some tricky sailing, Captain. It’s a fractious stretch of water, small though it may be.”

“So I’ve heard,” Hilemore agreed. “And even trickier when we get to the Upper Torquil.”

Tidelow moved back from the map, shaking his head. “The Upper Torquil is said to be richer in aquatic Greens than any other place in Arradsia. Hardly the safest course in the circumstances, sir.”

“But our course nonetheless.” Reading the deep uncertainty on Tidelow’s face, Hilemore added, “One you are not obliged to follow, sir.”

“What fine choices you give me.” Tidelow let out a sardonic laugh. “Follow you into drake-infested waters or sail alone to Stockcombe in the faint hope there might be someone left alive there to reprovision us.”

Hilemore turned to regard Braddon’s silent bulk. “Your counsel would be welcome, Captain Torcreek. I’d hazard there are few souls who know the Arradsian Interior better than you do.”

For a prolonged moment Braddon didn’t respond, continuing to stare into the middle distance until Clay said softly, “Need your help here, Uncle.”

The elder Torcreek gave his nephew an impassive glance then got to his feet, moving to regard the map for several seconds. “Northern flank of the Upper Torquil is mostly marshland,” he said, voice flat as he swept a hand over the numerous water-ways that characterised the region. “Impassible on foot or boat except for here.” His finger came to rest on a particular river at the northernmost point of the Upper Torquil. “Quilam River. Named for one of the fellas first discovered the Torquils. Current’s fierce but it’s the only means of making it to the plains country west of the Krystaline without going through the Coppersoles.”

“I got no desire to see them again,” Clay commented.

“The depth of the river?” Hilemore asked Braddon.

“Should accommodate the Superior for about half the way, after that we’ll need a steamboat of some kind to make it the rest of the way. Oars won’t do it, the current’s too strong.”

“I’ll set Chief Bozware to the task,” Hilemore said. “I’m sure he can rig something up. Been awhile since I commanded a small steam craft. I’m sure I can still remember how.”

“Erm,” Clay said, giving a small cough of discomfort. “Miss Lethridge had opinions on this matter, Captain. Thinks it’s best you stay with the ship this time.”

Hilemore stared at him, feeling an icy anger stealing over him. “She thinks that, does she?” he enquired in a low voice. “How very interesting.”

“Says you now command the most advanced warship in the world,” Clay went on with an apologetic shrug. “Probably, with all the Corvie ships sunk and all. You and this ship are too valuable an asset to risk. If we don’t make it back from the Krystaline you should sail for Varestia and aid with the defence. Said you can regard it as an order from Exceptional Initiatives if it helps.”

Hilemore’s anger abruptly switched from icy to hot, and he felt a red flush creep over his cheeks as he leaned forward, meeting Clay’s reluctant gaze. “Understand this, Mr. Torcreek. I do not take orders . . .”

“He’s right,” Zenida interrupted.

Hilemore rounded on her, rage swelling further, then paused at the hard but insistent honesty he saw in her gaze. “This crew didn’t follow me,” she told him. “They followed you, through battle, mutiny, drake fire, ice and deadly gas. You might think I chose to wait for you, but you’re wrong. I knew if I had attempted to sail away they would have hung me from the mainmast and continued to wait until they froze. I cannot command this ship in your absence. That is the simple truth, sea-brother. You belong here.”

Hilemore rested his clenched fists on the map, trying to calm the thumping in his temples. The worst thing about being a captain, Grandfather Racksmith told him once, is recognising that you’re the most important man on the ship. And that’s a burden of responsibility few men can stand, for you no longer have the luxury of pride. “How will we know if you’re successful?” he said, his hard, grating voice breaking what he realised had been a protracted silence.

“I can trance with Captain Okanas,” Clay said. “Reckon we’ve been in each other’s company long enough for a viable connection. Anything happens to me, then Lieutenant Sigoral can trance in my stead. Anything happens to him, well, we’re most likely all dead and you need to sail for Varestia.”

Hilemore swallowed, feeling his rage subside into a nauseous anger. “Very well,” he said. “Assuming you reach the Krystaline, what then?”

Kriz stepped forward, placing a sheaf of papers on the table. Peering closer, Hilemore saw they were mechanical designs, but the device depicted was unfamiliar. It appeared to consist of a large sealed tube attached to a frame and something that resembled an upended metal fish-bowl. “What is that?” he asked.

“A subaquatic breathing apparatus,” Kriz said. “We’ll need to explore the lake-bed to locate the aerostat and recover what we need.”

“You can build this?”

She nodded. “There are sufficient materials on board to construct it. But I’ll require education in how to operate your welding gear.”

“The Chief will be busy, it seems.” Hilemore straightened, breathing deep to banish his anger, though a simmering core of it remained. It was selfish, he knew. Born of a desire to see the Interior for himself. For all its many dangers his time on the ice and the wonders witnessed there had birthed a thirst for more. Perhaps it’s in the blood, he mused. Grandfather was an explorer after all. But this was an active-duty warship and exploration would have to wait for more peaceful days.

“We will clear the Firth and enter the Lower Torquil by tomorrow evening,” he said. “Weather and drakes permitting we should reach the mouth of the Quilam River three days later. All your mechanicals will need to be complete by then. Let’s be about it.”

Chief Bozware used the Superior’s largest launch as the basis for his steam-powered river-boat. Taking his cue from the Superior’s own radical design, he opted for a propeller-driven craft rather than paddles. “Too complex to put together in the time available, sir,” he advised Hilemore during a visit to the makeshift workshop on the fore-deck. The Chief appeared tired under the usual sheen of oily grime, but the enthusiasm for his task shone through nonetheless. The shaft was a length of iron pole fashioned from a ceiling beam taken from the crew quarters. The propeller had been constructed of copper tubing from the ship’s hot-water system, the pipes flattened and welded into three identical blades. “With this it’s just two separate components instead of ten.”

“And the engine?” Hilemore enquired.

Bozware pulled back the tarpaulin covering a bulky shape in the centre of the launch. To Hilemore’s eyes the unveiled contraption resembled a greatly enlarged iron top hat sprouting from a dense nest of copper and iron tubing. “Luckily, the Corvies had a decent stock of spares for their auxiliary power plant,” Bozware said. “So the gearing and pipe-work weren’t too difficult. The boiler and condenser were another matter. Had to purloin a good few of cookie’s pots and pans from the galley, plus some deck-plates from the hold.”

He slapped a hand to the engine, a glimmer of pride evident in his besmirched features. “Reckon she’ll do a good ten knots in calm waters, if she’s stoked high enough.”

Hilemore turned to where Braddon Torcreek stood appraising the craft in his now-habitual silence. “Will ten knots suffice, do you think, Captain?” Hilemore asked him.

Braddon shrugged and muttered, “It’ll have to.” With that he stalked off towards the crew quarters. Hilemore had seen men succumb to grief before, crewmates who had learned of the death of loved ones on return to port. Some would lose themselves in drink, others whores or gambling and a few could be expected to tip themselves over the side during a lonely midnight watch. In Braddon’s case the man neither drank nor gambled, nor showed any inclination to suicide. Instead when not compelled to take part in a discussion he sat in his cabin repeatedly disassembling and cleaning his guns.

It’s not self-pity that’s snared this one, Hilemore decided, watching Braddon disappear belowdecks. It’s revenge. Which may be worse.

The Lower Torquil soon lived up to its reputation for troublesome sailing. Captain Tidelow, having taken a vote amongst those members of his crew not incarcerated in the brig, had opted to stay with the Superior. Both ships sailed through the Barnahy Firth and into the Lower Torquil without incident, finding mostly calm blue waters reflecting the clear sky above. However, the wind stiffened as the day wore on and the waters soon grew choppy. By late afternoon they were regularly swept by heavy torrents of rain and the wind had whipped the inland sea into a minor storm. They were forced to reduce speed and Leading Deck Hand Scrimshine obliged to work ever harder at the wheel to maintain their heading.

“Apparently it’s all due to geography, sir,” Lieutenant Talmant commented to Hilemore as they steadied themselves on a pitching bridge. “The prevailing wind comes from the west at this latitude and picks up increased velocity as it passes over the Torquils. It then slams into the natural barrier of the Coppersole Mountains, producing a kind of huge, high-pressure vortex.”

“Fucking fascinating that is,” Scrimshine muttered as he hauled on the wheel, low enough for only Hilemore to hear.

“Steady, Mr. Scrimshine,” Hilemore snapped causing the half grin to vanish from Scrimshine’s face. Recently promoted and decorated he may be, but that was no excuse for a lack of respect between ranks.

He turned his attention to the prow where Clay had continued to perch himself, despite the weather. Through the squall Hilemore caught occasional glimpses of Jack’s scales, glittering in the fading light as he broke the surface. The younger Torcreek reported that the beast was unnerved by his new surroundings, finding the relatively shallow waters and confines of the Torquils a marked contrast to his vast home waters. However, his senses remained sharp and so far the Blue hadn’t detected any sign of another drake.

Hilemore ordered the ship to one-third speed as evening slipped into night. The weather had stolen the stars from the sky and he was unwilling to risk navigating by dead reckoning in such shallow waters. Running aground in peacetime was a career disaster for a captain, but in times like these it would mean the end of this whole enterprise.

Morning brought calmer waters and an uninterrupted progress to the narrow channel that connected the Lower Torquil to its northern twin. It was a notoriously dangerous strait that had the official name of Tormine’s Cut, another feature named for one of the explorers who had first charted this region. In the habit of sailors, however, it had long since earned the name Terror’s Cut thanks to the number of ships that had fallen foul of its capricious nature. During a three-moon tide it was said the waters of the Cut could reach heights equivalent to a tidal wave. Fortunately, they were in a relatively inactive lunar period and the tides were unlikely to be high. Even so, Hilemore ordered the ship to dead slow as they approached the channel. Partly to gauge the conditions and also to allow the Farlight to catch up, the Blue-hunter having fallen behind during the night.

“Current appears to be flowing north, Captain,” Talmant reported, having trained a spy-glass on the Cut. Hilemore followed suit, tracking his own glass between the headland on either side of the channel. The terrain consisted of the kind of bare, sandy scrub typical to land regularly subjected to the three-moon tide, whilst the waters themselves seemed placid enough, though evidently fast-flowing.

Hilemore checked to ensure the Farlight had closed to a few hundred yards then ordered Talmant to signal the engine room. “Ahead one-third. Captain Okanas to stand by to fire the blood-burner if necessary.”

“Aye, sir.”

Hilemore turned his spy-glass towards the prow, watching as Jack’s spines twisted through the gentle swell towards the Cut. After a moment the spines slipped below the surface as the beast swam ahead to scout their route. “Mr. Steelfine,” Hilemore said, causing the Islander to snap to attention.

“Sir.”

“Line and weight crew to the starboard beam. Best keep an eye on the depth. It’s been awhile since these waters were properly charted.”

“I’ll see to it, sir.” Steelfine saluted and left the bridge, voice carrying the length of the ship as he summoned a pair of crewmen.

The draught had reduced to fifty feet by the time they entered the Cut, and then to thirty when the Superior reached the halfway point. The current was swift but manageable, Scrimshine managing to correct for its occasional shoves to the hull.

“Don’t suppose you ever did any smuggling here, eh, Mr. Scrimshine?” Hilemore enquired.

“Can’t say I have, Skipper,” he replied, turning the wheel three points to port to bring the prow back in line with the compass-needle. “No bugger around here to sell our wares to, see? Done plenty round Stockcombe, though. Many a cosy inlet to be found on that coast . . .”

“Sir!” Talmant broke in, Hilemore raising his gaze to see Clay abruptly straightening at the prow. He turned and sprinted for the bridge, hands waving and shouting. Hilemore heard the word “Stop!” through the bridge window.

“Is that another squall, sir?” Talmant asked, training his glass on something beyond the prow. Hilemore followed his gaze, seeing the waters of the Cut some two hundred yards ahead had begun to roil, as if stirred up by a sudden and vicious wind.

“He couldn’t hear them!” Clay said, appearing in the doorway, breathless and face hard with dire warning. “They were hiding under the silt.”

Hilemore turned back to view the roiling waters. He didn’t need his spy-glass to discern the cause. They were breaking the surface now, verdant scales glittering in the morning sun. Greens. Large aquatic Greens, so many they filled the entire breadth of Terror’s Cut from end to end.

CHAPTER 11

Lizanne

“Estimated maximum altitude of fifteen hundred feet,” Professor Lethridge said. He strolled around the redesigned aerostat, arms clasped behind his back and listing its virtues with a pride Lizanne couldn’t recall being directed at her. “Maximum speed of forty miles an hour on kerosene, eighty-three under thermoplasmic power. A significant improvement in performance thanks to the information provided by you.” He favoured Lizanne with a rare smile. “The aerodynamic refinements to the envelope alone added twenty miles an hour to the top speed, and another ten thanks to the addition of an enclosed gondola.”

The new aerostat was indeed a more impressive specimen than its predecessor. The balloon itself had a more robust and elongated appearance, almost shark-like in the smooth curves achieved by Tinkerer’s internal copper frame. The gondola was no longer just a small boat suspended by ropes from the balloon but a narrow canoe-shaped capsule with glass windows in front and back and hinged port-holes in the side which were wide enough to accommodate a carbine or mini-Growler if the need arose. The engine was suspended from the base of the gondola on a sturdy steel frame that enabled it to be swivelled about by the pilot, facilitating a much greater range of control. Jermayah had wanted to add a second engine but there simply weren’t enough materials on board to construct it. Lizanne’s gaze narrowed as it fell on the ugly bulk of the caloric burner. The way it sprouted through the roof of the gondola spoilt the craft’s otherwise elegant lines.

“A temporary but necessary modification,” her father said, following her gaze. “With no helium or hydrogen on hand it’s the only means of achieving elevation.”

“I’m sure it will work perfectly, Father,” she told him. She turned as Tekela appeared at her side, clad in a heavy seaman’s jacket, the sleeves of which had been trimmed to accommodate her less-than-regulation proportions. She carried a second jacket in her arms and wore a thick woollen hat on her head. Lizanne considered that she might have resembled a child playing dress-up but for the shrewd appraisal she displayed in surveying the aerostat.

“No time for test flight, I suppose?” she asked Jermayah.

“We don’t have the fuel,” he said with a grimace of apology before handing her a leather map-case. “The course is marked and the compass heading already set. The captain advises that the winds tend to swing north over the Red Tides so be sure to account for it.”

Tekela gave a tense nod then hefted the second jacket into Lizanne’s arms. “It gets cold up there,” she said, striding forward. “Shall we?”

Lizanne lingered a moment to exchange a few words with Makario, who had come along with Captain Trumane to see them off. Tinkerer apparently felt no compulsion towards such social niceties and was busy in the workshop improving Jermayah’s mini-Growler. “Keep working on the solargraph,” Lizanne told the musician. “If you should happen to discover the final tune, don’t play it for Tinkerer until I return.”

He nodded, forcing a smile before nodding at the aerostat. Tekela had already climbed the ladder into the gondola and started up the caloric burner with a loud whoosh, causing the craft to lift several inches off the aft deck. “Room in there for a third party?” Makario asked and she was surprised to see he was serious. “Who’ll save your life when you get captured again?” he added.

“I’ll just have to manage,” she said, folding him into a brief embrace before turning to Captain Trumane.

“Our formal proposal,” he said, holding out a sealed envelope. “I’m sure they’ll find the terms generous enough to be tempting.”

“Let’s hope they also find them credible,” Lizanne replied, taking the envelope.

Trumane gave one of his short but deep coughs, stiffening into a more formal posture. “We shall proceed to a point twenty miles west of here,” he said. “The waters off Viemen’s Island. An uninhabited rock of little interest, but an easy locale to find. Also, pirates tend to avoid it. Some superstition about the place’s being cursed by the King of the Deep.”

“If my mission succeeds I shall trance with Mrs. Griffan at the allotted hour,” Lizanne told him. “Please ask Dr. Weygrand not to sedate her too heavily.”

“And if you are unsuccessful?”

“Then it’s doubtful a trance will be possible. I suggest you linger at Vieman’s Island no longer than two weeks.” She paused, discomforted by the fact that she had no alternative destination to offer.

“After two weeks,” Trumane said, “we will have no option but to risk Corvantine waters.”

She nodded, wishing she had more to say, and that she felt this man to be more trustworthy. But once again the course of events had conspired to present her with nothing but bad choices. “Best of luck, Captain,” was all she could think to say.

He gave a salute, the twitch that marred his features marginally less pronounced today. “And to you, miss.”

Lizanne went to Jermayah, took the Smoker and ammunition from him before sharing a short, wordless embrace. She then moved to where her father was crouched beneath the gondola, engaged in a last-minute inspection of the engine.

“Any problems?” she enquired.

He didn’t look up, gaze fixed on some component in the engine’s internals. “The plasma-ignition valve can hold only one charge at a time,” he said. “The released energy will last for no more than three hours. It’s ignited via a viewing tube in the gondola . . .”

“I know, Father. It’s very simple.” She pulled on the jacket Tekela had given her, finding a woollen hat in one of the pockets. Professor Lethridge remained crouched, working a screwdriver as he fixed an access panel in place.

“The feed tube to the condenser will freeze if the engine remains idle for too long at altitude . . .”

“I know that too, Father.”

He tightened the last screw and finally raised his gaze to hers. She was shocked to find herself confronted by the pale, damp-eyed face of a very frightened man. “Your aunt . . .” he began in a strained voice, then faltered, looking away.

Lizanne crouched at his side. “Aunt Pendilla loved us both and we loved her,” she said. “We were a family.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his temple. “We still are. Best stand back, Father. It’s time for me to leave.”

Tekela’s small but nimble hands darted over the aerostat controls as the craft lifted off from the Viable. She sat at the front of the gondola with Lizanne in the rear behind the central strut that connected the engine to the main body of the craft. Tekela used a large central lever fitted with a throttle to control the angle and speed of the engine. A smaller one to the left was connected to what her father had named “ailerons,” a pair of stubby wings protruding from either side of the gondola which were used to control the forward and back pitch of the craft. A pair of foot-levers directed the large rear rudder which determined the port and starboard angle. Watching Tekela engage in the complex dance of lever and pedal that sent the aerostat into the air and on the correct heading, Lizanne wondered aloud if her musical training made her such a quick student as a pilot.

“Possibly,” Tekela conceded once they were clear of the ship. It was surprisingly quiet in the gondola. With the engine positioned outside its whirring buzz was reduced to a low hum, allowing for easy conversation. “When I was little Mother would stand over me with a ruler as I played my scales on the pianola. If I hit the wrong note, down came the ruler. It made for very quick hands.”

If I’d ever met your mother I’d have wrung the evil bitch’s neck, Lizanne thought but chose not to say.

She glanced over her shoulder, seeing the rapidly diminishing outline of the Viable through the rear window. As the aerostat drew higher still the rest of the fleet came into view, dozens of ships all reduced to toy-like dimensions in the space of a few moments. Although no stranger to heights Lizanne found that such a rapid ascent brought an uncomfortable lurch to the stomach and a decided sense of disorientation. She turned away, occupying herself with checking their weapons. In addition to the Smoker they had the original mini-Growler Jermayah had constructed in Feros, plus a pair of pistols and a standard-issue Silworth rifle fitted with a telescopic sight. In Lizanne’s experience it always paid to have a long-range weapon close at hand, a lesson starkly underlined by her experience in Scorazin.

“It has a tendency to veer upwards,” Tekela said. Lizanne looked up from the mini-Growler to see her eyes in the mirror above the forward window. “Best keep it to short bursts.” Lizanne saw a shadow creep into Tekela’s eyes then and she quickly lowered them to the controls. “Heading is set,” she said, finger tapping the compass. “Jermayah rigged a kind of pulley system that’ll keep the levers at the right angle. Still have to correct for the wind though, but it makes for a lighter work-load.”

“We still haven’t spoken,” Lizanne said, “about what you saw in Feros. About Sirus.”

Lizanne saw Tekela’s slim shoulders tense beneath the bulky confines of her jacket. “I wasn’t making it up,” she said.

“I know. But it does raise some troubling questions.” She shifted forward, speaking softly. “You said he saved you. How?”

“The Greens . . .” Tekela paused to swallow before continuing. “The Greens burned their way in and Sirus was there. Standing in the wreckage of the workshop doors. He was Spoiled, but I knew him right away. I . . . I tried to kill him. I had Jermayah’s new gun and I tried to kill them all. I got all the Greens but I ran out of bullets before I could get Sirus. He just stood there looking at me, then another Spoiled came in, a woman. I didn’t recognise her but she seemed to know me, and not in a friendly way. She had a pistol . . . Sirus shot her. I could tell it wasn’t easy for him, but he did it. He did it to save me.”

She fell silent for a while, tending to the controls with an occasional pause to wipe at her eyes. “I wanted him to come with us. I asked him to, but he said he couldn’t. He told us to go.”

Lizanne reached around the central strut to grip the younger woman’s shoulder, feeling her shudder as she contained a sob. “He always loved you,” she said.

“I suppose.” Tekela gave a miserable sniff and wiped at her nose with the sleeve of her jacket. “Though Emperor knows why. I was never exactly nice to him. All that awful poetry.” She drew in a hard breath, exhaling slowly. “Still, I doubt he writes anything any more.”

“No, I don’t expect he does. Tekela”—Lizanne’s grip grew slightly firmer on her shoulder—“if he’s Spoiled it means he’s in thrall to the White. Which means the White may possess every memory in his head, every memory of you, me, the solargraph, all of it. If it doesn’t have it now, it may well soon.”

“He saved me,” Tekela insisted. “He wouldn’t betray us.”

“Not willingly. I doubt any of the Spoiled do what they do willingly, but they do it nonetheless. Saviour or not, he’s a threat to us. And I think he knows that. It’s why he wouldn’t go with you. Should we see him again . . .”

Tekela shifted, drawing her shoulder clear of Lizanne’s grip. “I won’t do that,” she stated, sitting straighter in her seat. “And I don’t want to talk about this any more,” she added in a familiar but now rarely heard tone, rich in all the truculent stubbornness Lizanne recalled from those first days in Morsvale.

“You might as well sleep,” Tekela went on, shifting the main lever as the compass-needle strayed a little from the heading. “It’ll be hours before we see anything but ocean.”

The weather remained kind and the aerostat made swift progress on its westward flight, aided by the wind for much of the way until the first Varestian islands came into view a day and a half later. Tekela had managed barely two hours’ sleep, slumping in her seat with one hand on the control lever and the engine set to its slowest speed. Nevertheless she seemed fresh enough today, one of the advantages of youth, Lizanne supposed.

“The captain wasn’t wrong about the wind,” Tekela commented, grunting a little as she hauled on the controls to keep the craft on the correct heading.

Lizanne peered down at the small specks of land passing by below. These were the mostly uninhabited outer islands that formed the Sabiras Archipelago, a natural barrier on the eastern fringe of the Varestian region that served as an unofficial border between the Orethic Ocean and the Red Tides. From here on the only ships to sail these waters were Varestian, either traders or pirates. Even before the Corvantine Empire had been forced to forsake its sovereignty over the region, the Red Tides had mostly been shunned by both Imperial and corporate ships. Despite a reputation as the finest and most wide-ranging mariners in the world, the Varestians had always been hostile to intruders into their own waters.

Lizanne read through Captain Trumane’s letter once more. She had felt no compunction about breaking the seal and was quite prepared to discard it should the contents prove counter-productive. In fact she found the letter’s diplomatic phrasing to be elegant and effective, containing nothing their potential hosts could take offence at and striking the right balance between solicitation and conciliation. What would interest them most, she knew, was the offer of ten million in Syndicate scrip or stock of equivalent value in return for safe harbour, an offer far beyond Trumane’s authority to make. And far beyond mine for that matter, she thought, folding the letter away. It was clear that in order to secure Varestian co-operation she would have to engage in some spectacular lies.

They saw their first Varestian vessel once they were over the larger islands a dozen miles farther west. It was a large three-paddle freighter easily identified by the broad wake it left on the ocean. Lizanne used the riflescope to scan the ship. A flag she didn’t recognise flew from the mast, making it an Independent as was the case with most Varestian ships. And pirates, she added inwardly. She doubted that this vessel was engaged in piracy, being too large for the kind of swift manoeuvring required of that trade. It did, however, turn out to be armed.

A flash appeared on the freighter’s fore-deck, followed a second or two later by the faint crump of a cannon-shot. The gunners were clearly untrained in firing at aerial targets because the shell was both wide and short, its fuse causing it to explode about fifty yards below and a hundred yards behind the aerostat. Even so, it was close enough for Tekela to open the throttle and increase the angle of the ailerons, taking them up to the craft’s maximum ceiling in another gut-disturbing lurch.

“Could you warn me when you’re going to do that?” Lizanne requested.

“Sorry.” Tekela glanced out of the starboard port-hole at the ship below. “That wasn’t very friendly, was it?”

“No.” Lizanne saw several more flashes flaring on the freighter’s deck as it brought all its guns into play, though none of the shells it launched came any closer than the first. “They have no idea who we are,” she went on as the cluster of small black clouds left by the exploding shells drifted away and the freighter shrank into the distance. “Or any notion what this craft is. Troubled times makes for nervous hands.”

“And when we get to the Seven Walls?”

Lizanne turned to Tekela, finding her doll’s face tense with worry. Easy to forget how young she is sometimes, Lizanne chided herself. She resisted the impulse to lie, offer some bland reassurance. But a co-operative mission required trust between agents. “I don’t know,” she said. “They may fire on us as soon as they see us. Or they may not. They may allow us to land and immediately arrest us.”

Tekela nodded, small worry lines creasing her forehead. “Or worse,” she said.

“Yes. Or worse.” She gestured at the small clock Jermayah had set amongst the cluster of dials in front of the pilot’s station. “How much longer?”

Tekela straightened and turned, taking a firmer grip on the control lever. “In this wind, at least another ten hours.”

“Which means we’ll be arriving in darkness.”

“I can circle through the night, begin the approach at dawn.”

“No. You’ll be too fatigued.” Lizanne rose into a crouch and shuffled forward to the viewing tube that sat alongside the central strut. “Time to fire up the blood-burner, I think.”

“The professor said it has only one charge. And once started the only way to stop it is to flush the plasma from the combustion chamber. It might be better to save it for emergencies.”

“We can recharge it when we land, assuming we’re allowed to take off again. If not then it won’t matter.” She flipped open the cover on the viewing tube and put her eye to the socket. “Besides, I should like to see just how fast this thing can go. Ready?”

“One second. Need to level the ailerons; otherwise, the slip-stream will tear them off.” Lizanne heard a snick as Tekela locked one of the levers into place. “Ready.”

Lizanne took her wallet from the pocket of her jacket and extracted a vial of Red, taking a small sip before returning her eye to the viewing tube. Her father had placed a little luminescent disc inside the plasma valve so it was easy to make out the small pool of viscous liquid it held. A brief flare of Red and the product immediately burst into an eye-wateringly bright fire-ball. She was about to opine that adding tinted glass to the eyepiece might be a good idea when the aerostat surged forward with enough force to send her sprawling. She heard Tekela let out a startled but delighted giggle and blinked the moisture from her eyes to see that she now had both hands on the control lever. Over her shoulder Lizanne could see the needle on the speedometer swiftly ascending to its maximum reading, where it stayed.

“Must be over a hundred miles an hour at least,” Tekela said with an appreciative laugh. “Looks as if the professor underestimated his invention.”

“Co-invention,” Lizanne corrected, glancing through a port-hole to see the wispy cloud beyond passing by at a greatly accelerated rate. “When we get back to the ship, remind me to draft a proper patent and a contract to cover distribution of future profits.”

They cleared the Sabiras Archipelago in what seemed like minutes, bringing them into the Red Tides proper. They were low enough to make out the waves passing below, the ocean surface blurring thanks to their speed. Several more ships came into view, most much smaller than the freighter, though none felt the need to fire on them. Lizanne suspected this was due more to their increased speed than any lack of hostility. In all it took just under four hours before Tekela reported land in sight. The thermoplasmic engine had exhausted its supply by then, forcing Tekela to combat the winds once more, though she proved adept at keeping the approaching land-mass firmly in the centre of the forward window.

Lizanne moved forward, leaning over Tekela’s shoulder to view the landscape, her eyes tracking over the coast in search of landmarks. “Iskamir,” she said, spying a broad inlet a few degrees to the north. She gave Tekela’s shoulder a grateful squeeze. “We’re in the right place. You better take us up, high as you can, please. No telling what reception we’ll get from the locals.”

The island of Iskamir was often referred to in atlases and almanacs as the “jewel” or “beating heart” of Varestia, the central hub where pirates came to sell their booty and traders to buy it. As they flew over the eastern coast Lizanne was struck by how many ports it featured, all surrounded by towns of varying proportions. It occurred to her that this might well be the most densely populated land-mass on the globe, meaning the place had to be reliant on imported cargo to feed its population, as the interior was mostly mountains or rough hill-country. Not a place to hold out for very long in a siege, she concluded as the aerostat drew away from the coast and into the mountains. The peaks were so tall Tekela had to slow the craft and steer a way through them, hauling on the controls with ever more energy thanks to the fractious air currents and drifting patches of mist.

“Best if we fly around this place on the way back,” she said, her labour having left a sheen of sweat on her face despite the chill.

Once through the mountains they flew across a thin stretch of cultivated fields before once again finding themselves over the sea as they reached the strait that separated Iskamir from the unique construction that formed the Seven Walls. It came into view quickly, at first appearing to be a dark strangely regular notch on the horizon, but soon grew to a size that put her in mind of the mountains they had just traversed. She knew the great fortress’s origin dated back at least a thousand years and was a truly ingenious design; a small central island complete with a port around which a series of seven walls had been constructed between the smaller outlying islets. The result was a self-contained port permanently shielded from the tide on all sides. However, during the days when the old Varestian League had fought the last of its wars against the encroaching Corvantine Empire it had been greatly enlarged. The walls now stood over a hundred feet high featuring a miniature fort at each intersection. Once again making use of the riflescope, Lizanne could see each fort bristling with guns and busy with ant-sized figures running to their stations. It appeared their approach had not gone unnoticed.

Within the walls lay the port itself, so crammed with buildings, wharfs and jetties Lizanne could see scant sign of vegetation save for the occasional tree. I hope they’ve been stockpiling food, she mused. The only open space was a central square surrounded by a series of grand buildings, the largest of which she assumed would house the Varestians’ quasi-government.

“We’ll land there,” Lizanne said, pointing to the square.

“The forts?” Tekela asked in a thin voice. They were close enough now to see the gun-crews loading their pieces.

“Let’s hope they have enough honour to observe traditional customs.” Lizanne went to the canvas bag she had obtained from Captain Trumane. The item it contained was large and unwieldy, taking several tiresome minutes to extract. When it was done she dragged it to the hatch in the gondola’s floor.

“Hover in place for a moment,” she told Tekela. “We need to make sure they see it.”

She opened the hatch as Tekela duly brought the craft to a slow sideways drift, then fastened the ties attached to the corners of the item to the main strut before pushing it out. The flag unfurled to its full length thanks to the stiff winds found at these heights, revealing a design Lizanne hoped would still be recognised in these uncertain times; a white circle on a red background. Even the Varestians were reputed to respect the universal signal requesting truce and negotiation.

They drifted for several minutes as the flag fluttered and flapped below the aerostat. Lizanne kept careful watch on the closest fort, detecting a certain amount of confusion amongst the gun-crews, and no small amount of accompanying argument. She even saw a couple of men come to blows, but no cannon were fired.

“Take us in,” she told Tekela. “A slow and gentle approach would be best.”

She was obliged to cut the flag free once they were over the wall as it was coming perilously close to fouling the engine’s propellers. They would just have to hope the Varestians didn’t take this as a signal of hostile intent. People thronged the wharfs and streets as they flew over the port towards the square, most staring in wonder or suspicion, a few running in panic. There were numerous ships at anchor and many began to make steam at the sight of the aerostat. None of this gave Lizanne much confidence in a safe landing, but they couldn’t turn back now.

Tekela guided the aerostat to a hover when they came to the square, then slowly reduced the heat of the caloric burner to ensure a gentle congress with the ground. One of Jermayah’s design additions to the aerostat was retractable landing gear that sprouted from the gondola’s underside and rather resembled a metallic eagle’s claw. Tekela deployed it when they were a few feet from the square’s paved surface and the aerostat settled down with only a small bump.

“Excellently done,” Lizanne complimented her, peering through the window at a group of men rapidly descending the steps of the large building to their front. There were about twenty of them, and each one bore a rifle or carbine. “You had better go out and greet our hosts.”

Tekela gaped at her. “Me?”

Lizanne went to the rear of the gondola and began assembling the required equipment. “I’ll be along directly,” she said, strapping on her Spider.

“What do I say to them?”

“‘Hello’ is traditional.”

“I don’t speak Varestian.”

“Don’t worry. They’re almost always multilingual.”

Tekela hesitated for a long, silent moment then undid the forward hatch and climbed out of the gondola. Lizanne heard the pounding of boots as the men drew near and fanned out, one of them demanding something in harsh, breathless Varestian.

“Ah,” Tekela said. “Hello.”

There was a short pause, during which Lizanne used the Spider to inject a small burst of Green before moving to the rear hatch.

“Who the fuck are you?” the same voice demanded in heavily accented Mandinorian. “And what the fuck is this?”

“My name is Burgravine Tekela Artonin,” came the response in admirably steady tones. “And I don’t see any need for profanity, sir.”

“Trust me, girl,” the voice went on, growing louder as its owner drew closer, “a foul tongue is the least of—”

His words were drowned out as Lizanne stepped out from under the gondola, raised the mini-Growler and let loose with a prolonged burst of fire. She found Tekela was right about the weapon’s tendency to pull up when fired, it was also somewhat unwieldy thanks to the ammunition load and the miniature caloric engine required to spin the barrels. Consequently, even with the benefit of Green Lizanne’s aim was not as precise as she would have liked. The mini-Growler stitched a vertical line of bullet-holes up the edifice of the largest building in the square before transforming one of the statues on its roof into a stump of shattered marble.

Lizanne removed her finger from the firing mechanism, lowering her gaze to find that the men who had come to greet them were all now lying face-down on the paving-stones. She strode forward, focusing her gaze on the upturned face of the man who had addressed Tekela. In normal circumstances he would probably have been an imposing fellow, with his weathered face and sabre-scarred cheeks. Now he was just another scared man facing death. It was an expression she had grown used to recently.

“I shall explain your choices in very simple terms,” she said. “You can get up, apologise to my friend for your language and take us to see the Varestian Ruling Council. Or”—she aimed the mini-Growler’s smoking barrels directly at his head—“I’ll kill you and every man here, then go and find them myself.”

CHAPTER 12

Clay

“Battle stations! Riflemen assemble on deck!”

Hilemore’s orders rang out from the bridge as Clay turned and slid down the ladder, making for his position on the prow. The Superior’s forward pivot-gun fired before he could get there, the shot aimed low so that it impacted in the centre of the approaching mass of Greens in a spout of white and red. Clay went to the port rail instead, pistol drawn as he stared down at the water below. Jack!

He could feel the Blue’s distress, an instinctive fear of greater numbers overcoming his loyalty. A brief sharing of minds revealed him to be circling frantically beneath the Superior’s stern, attempting to conceal himself in the silt his coils raised from the sea-bed. Old Jack was never as mighty as Last Look, Clay reminded himself. Nor so crazy.

He heard another shouted command from the bridge and saw Steelfine marshalling his riflemen. The Islander sent a squad of six to the port rail and the remaining seven to starboard. Several more riflemen appeared on the upper works, accompanied by Sigoral and Loriabeth. A glance above revealed Preacher’s tall form scaling the ladder to the crow’s nest, his rifle slung across his back. Clay couldn’t see his uncle or Skaggerhill but knew they would be taking up station somewhere in the aft section.

The forward gun fired again, quickly followed by both the port and starboard cannon, meaning the Greens were all around them now. Clay returned his gaze to the sea, at first seeing nothing but the roiling wake rebounding from the hull, then reeling back as a Green launched itself out of the water, mouth gaping. The heat of the drake’s fire was fierce enough to stun him, sending him sprawling onto the deck, smoke rising from his singed clothing. He scrabbled to extinguish the flames clinging to his sleeves then, realising he had dropped his revolver, reached for the wallet of product in his jacket. He had managed to get it open when a loud hiss dragged his gaze to the rail in time to see the Green clambering onto the deck.

Like most aquatic Greens it was considerably larger and longer of body than its land-based cousins, the head and snout narrow and spear-like, and possessed of a barbed, whip-like tail. Seeing the beast coil its tail for a strike, Clay rolled on the deck an instant before the thorny tip slammed into the boards with splintering force. Clay’s mind filled with feverish curses as he fumbled for his vials, desperately trying to get one to his lips. The Green, however, saw no reason to allow him the luxury of time and lunged, jaws snapping, then fell dead as a bullet tore through its skull.

Clay gaped at the bleeding twitching body of the Green then felt hands grip him beneath the shoulders, trying to drag him upright. “Are you hurt?” Kriz asked once he was on his feet. She had obtained a revolver from somewhere and stood with her back to him, aiming at the multiple Greens now boiling over the Superior’s rails. Rifle fire crackled continually, punctuated by more rapid pistol and carbine-shots and the hissing roar of drake flames. A scream snapped Clay’s gaze to the forward gun-crew. They had abandoned the pivot-gun and were attempting to fend off a trio of Greens with sea-axes and boat-hooks. One gunner was already down, yelping as he beat at the flames consuming his legs.

Clay took three vials from his wallet, Green, Red and Black, put all three to his lips and drank half the contents. “Take all of it,” he said, handing the vials to Kriz before crouching to retrieve his pistol and starting forward. “I’ll do the killing. Keep them off me.”

He froze one Green in place as it darted towards the burning crewman, shooting it in the head, then stunned the other two with a mixed blast of Red and Black. They skittered back, hissing in distress and rage. He used his Green-enhanced reflexes to shoot one through the eye, but the other was too quick, swiftly dodging to the side then lashing out with its tail to spear one of the gunners through the chest. Kriz shouted an enraged expletive in her own language, casting out an inexpert but effective wave of Black that pinned the Green to the side-rail long enough for Clay to put a bullet through its head.

The burnt man lay writhing in agony as the two remaining gunners used a jacket to quench the last of the flames, but Clay could tell the fellow wouldn’t last long. A quick look around confirmed the fore-deck and the prow free of Greens, but the mid-deck and the upper works were thick with the beasts. Dozens had been killed, and dozens more continued to fall to the crew’s desperate fusillade, but ever more were boiling out of the sea to clamber up the hull.

“You got cannister?” Clay asked one of the gunners, who could only stare at him in shock until Clay grabbed his jacket and shook him. “Cannister! You got any?”

“Just three shells,” the man said, moving to the recessed compartment in the deck where the ammunition was stored. “The Corvies used most of it up at the Strait.”

“Get it loaded,” Clay said. “We’ll keep them back.”

The gunners got to work whilst Clay and Kriz positioned themselves to the rear of the gun, dispatching any Green that detached itself from the main pack to charge them. Kriz seemed to be learning with every use of product, her blasts of Red and Black becoming more accurate. Clay saw her snap the forelegs of one Green then roast its eyes as it stumbled to a halt a few yards away.

“Neat trick,” he said, finishing the Green with a bullet to the skull. His last bullet. “You ready yet?” he demanded, turning back to the gun.

“Ready,” one of the gunners said, snapping the breech closed before he and his comrade began swivelling the gun about. “Better get behind us if you don’t want to be shredded.”

Clay and Kriz moved swiftly to comply as the gunners brought the pivot-gun to bear on the upper works. “Where do we aim?” one asked.

“Starboard side,” Clay said, pointing. “That’s where they’re thickest.”

“Guard your ears,” the other gunner said, reaching for the firing lanyard. Clay clamped his hands over the side of his head, nodding for Kriz to do the same. Even so, the gun’s blast was enough to leave a ringing in his ears and cause an involuntary closing of the eyes. When he looked again the mass of drakes assailing the starboard flank of the upper works had been transformed into a green-and-red morass. Eviscerated and part-dismembered Greens lay about the ladders and walkways, some still twitching. Amongst it all Clay could see the dark uniform of a Protectorate sailor.

“Port side,” he said, forcing his gaze away. “Hurry up.”

They had to fend off another charge before the gun was ready to fire again, Clay feeling his reserves of product diminish with every slaughtered drake. Fortunately, Preacher had evidently seen their plight and chose to lend a hand. Three Greens went down in quick succession, felled by longrifle shots from the crow’s nest. Despite this, the Greens continued to come for them and by the time the gunners called out a warning their product was almost all spent. There was no time to retreat so he and Kriz threw themselves flat, hands covering their ears as the gun blasted out its hail of iron balls.

The effect of this shot was even more deadly than the first, sweeping most of the attacking Greens away in an instant, leaving behind a dozen or so thrashing wounded. Clay scanned the midships seeing no sign of any more Greens clambering out of the sea. A cacophony of shots and shouts could be heard from the stern, indicating this fight wasn’t over yet.

“Come on,” he told Kriz, running for a ladder. “I expect the captain’s got some more product.”

“Your pet is a coward.” Steelfine glared at Clay, tattooed features hard with accusation beneath a mask of blood. A drake claw had left a trio of parallel cuts on the crown of his shaven head, though any pain he might have felt seemed to have been subsumed by anger. “Eight good men dead and six grievously burned or gashed, whilst that monster skulks below.”

They were on the aft deck where Lieutenant Talmant had charge of the clean-up crew. They were all clad in oilskins to protect against the effects of so much drake blood and used brooms to push the Green bodies, most of them in pieces, over the side. The more intact ones had been piled near the hold for harvesting later.

The fighting had been fiercest here. Having been forced back from the rails, Steelfine’s riflemen had taken up a defensive position near the stern, consequently suffering the brunt of the casualties. Once the pivot-gun’s cannister had cleared the upper works Hilemore and Lieutenant Sigoral, fortified by product from the ship’s safe, had led the counter-attack to clear the rear of the ship. But not before the majority of the Islander’s squad had been killed or wounded.

“He ain’t a pet,” Clay replied, keeping his voice as passive as he could. This wasn’t a time to surrender to provocation. “He’s a creature from another age trapped in a body that ain’t his. And he don’t even understand what a coward is. He’s just trying to survive.”

“So he survives whilst my men die.” Steelfine took a step closer, a murderous glint in his eye. “That doesn’t seem a fair exchange to me . . .”

“Number One,” Hilemore said. His voice was soft but commanding enough to bring Steelfine to immediate attention.

“Sir!”

“You’re wounded. Report to sick bay for treatment.”

Steelfine didn’t move for a moment, continuing to stare at Clay with jaw clenched until he snapped off a salute, grated, “Aye, sir!” between clenched teeth and marched away.

“At least now our Green stocks should hold out for a while,” Hilemore commented, clasping his arms behind his back as he surveyed the blood-drenched deck. “I’ll set Mr. Skaggerhill to it when he’s finished in the sick bay.”

He paused to regard one particular corpse, a drake that had been caught by cannister-shot. Its lower body had been disintegrated whilst its upper half hung from a walkway, the creature’s jaw fixed on an overhead beam with such force none of the crewmen had yet managed to dislodge it.

“It was well done, Mr. Torcreek,” Hilemore said. “The cannister. An excellent notion.”

Clay forced a half grin. “Just trying to survive too, Captain.”

“You might have made a fine Protectorate officer, had things been different.”

“That don’t seem likely. But thank you anyways.”

“Those were your uncle’s doing.” Hilemore gestured at a cluster of Green corpses arranged in a rough semicircle around the starboard-gun emplacement. “I saw him step up onto the gun just as it all started. Just kept loading and firing throughout the whole engagement. I don’t think he missed once.”

“Uncle Braddon’s always been one of the finest marksmen on the continent.”

“It’s not his marksmanship that concerns me. It’s his demeanour. Or rather his lack of it. He killed all of these and didn’t once change his expression. Nor did he show any sign of seeking a safer vantage point.”

“He’s . . . not quite himself just now. You know why.”

“Grief can lead a man to madness, if it’s stoked by vengeance. I’m wondering if instead of leaving one captain behind on your expedition, it might be better to leave two.”

“No.” Clay gave an adamant shake of his head. “Mad with grief or not, we wouldn’t last more than a few days in the Interior without him.”

“We have all suffered much on this strange voyage of ours,” Hilemore replied. “Lost many lives, men who trusted my judgement enough to follow me to the end of the world and back. I would not have that sacrifice be in vain, see this mission imperilled . . .”

“Captain!”

Hilemore turned at Lieutenant Talmant’s urgent call. The young officer stood at the stern, pointing at the Farlight, which had previously been anchored some hundred yards off but was now making steam and drawing away. The Blue-hunter had been completely unscathed by the Green assault, seemingly ignored by the drakes, who focused their fury entirely on the Superior. However, it appeared her crew had finally seen enough.

“‘Getting too hot around here,’” Talmant translated the flickering signal lamp on the Farlight’s bridgehouse. “‘Crew won’t stand it. Making for Stockcombe. Best of luck, and apologies. Tidelow.’”

“Seems your Islander’s got more cowards to rant about,” Clay observed.

“Yes,” Hilemore agreed. “Captain Tidelow would do well to avoid him in future.” He gave Clay a critical glance. “Are you sure about your uncle?”

“The one man in this world I’ll always be sure of is my uncle.”

“Very well. But make no mistake, Mr. Torcreek. Whether you know it or not, or like it or not, the expedition to Krystaline Lake will be under your command. Your uncle Braddon has forsaken such duty; I see it if you do not.”

They cleared Terror’s Cut the following morning, Hilemore having ordered the blood-burner brought on-line to ensure a swift passage. They were aided by the tide which raised the waters of the Cut into a fast-moving swell, propelling them clear of the channel without the risk of running aground on an uncharted sand-bank. Fortunately, no more Greens appeared come daylight and they made an unmolested progress into the Upper Torquil, covering much of the distance to the mouth of the Quilam River before nightfall. The Superior spent a nervous night at full alert, riflemen and look-outs posted in double shifts and all guns manned and loaded. For now at least it seemed the aquatic Greens were content to leave them be.

“You sure this thing will work?” Clay asked Kriz the next morning as he helped her carry her bulky breathing apparatus to the steam-launch.

“I think so, and so does Chief Bozware,” she replied. “I would have liked to conduct a proper test, but . . .” She glanced around at the becalmed, misty waters surrounding their anchorage. The Upper Torquil had so far proven to be less fractious than the Lower. In slight winds the surface took on an almost glass-like aspect, which somehow made it more ominous as it betrayed no sign of what might lie beneath.

“Yeah,” Clay agreed, grunting as they heaved the apparatus into the launch. “Best to wait till we get to the lake.”

He left her to check the device’s various valves and tubes, joining Loriabeth and Sigoral at the rail where they were engaged in a typically acerbic discussion.

“Just take it off,” his cousin told the Corvantine, reaching out to pluck at his eye-patch. “Can’t keep it on forever.”

“Still hurts,” he said in a sullen mutter, snatching his head away. There was a tension to his bearing that told Clay his reluctance to remove the patch had little to do with any pain it might cause.

“Lori,” he said. “Skaggs needs help hauling up the rest of the ammo.”

She seemed about to tell him to do it himself but paused on seeing his insistent frown. “Your men think you’re weird for still wearing it,” she informed Sigoral before making for the hold.

“If I recall correctly,” Clay said, moving to Sigoral’s side, “you favour the right eye when shooting. How are you with the left?”

Sigoral gave a chagrined grimace. “When the drakes attacked, I must have fired fifty rounds. I think I managed six hits, all at close range.”

“You’ll do better over time. Just takes practice.” He fished inside his duster and came out with a wallet. “Compliments of the captain,” he said, handing it over. “Full vials of all four colours. I had a short trance with Captain Okanas this morning. Be obliged if you did the same.”

Sigoral nodded, consigning the wallet to his jacket pocket. “How’s her mind?”

“Surprisingly neat, and pretty. It’s a ship, as you might expect, but made of jewels. Each jewel is a memory. You?”

“The cliffs on Takmarin’s Land. I spent many hours there as a boy. The Cadre agent who tutored me said it was best to choose something familiar.”

Sigoral fell silent, looking to the broad river mouth half a mile to the north. “You have travelled the Arradsian Interior before,” he said. “Is it as bad as they say?”

“No,” Clay replied. “And yes. A lot depends on your manner of travel. I knew a woman who spent near twenty years out there and never got a scratch. Though she did have a good deal of help.” He gave Sigoral a sidelong glance, seeing the mottled flesh poking out from the edges of his eye-patch. “My cousin really don’t care about scars and such,” he said. “Just so you know.”

Sigoral lowered his gaze, saying nothing. Clay slapped his hands to the rail and moved away. “Captain Hilemore says the ship will only manage a few hours’ travel up the river before they have to drop us off,” he said. “Be sure to do your trancing before then.”

They were a good five miles into the river mouth before it began to narrow, banks thick with tall reeds closing in on both sides and drawing closer the farther north they steamed. The previously calm waters became churned with wayward currents and dark with disturbed silt. Clay stood at the stern, watching Jack’s spines cut the surface as he followed the ship. The drake could sense the imminence of their separation and didn’t like it, his fearful thoughts accompanied by a plaintive call that thrummed the deck beneath Clay’s feet.

You can’t go where I’m going, Clay told him once again, a mantra he had been obliged to repeat for the last few hours. But I’ll still be with you.

Jack seemed to take only marginal reassurance from this, his confusion having deepened ever since the Greens attacked the ship. He had never encountered their kind before and his thoughts were tinged with a wary repugnance that could be articulated as: smell wrong, sound wrong.

That they do, Clay conceded. And if they come back, you may have to fight them.

Jack’s thoughts grew warier still, an instinctive desire to avoid danger conflicting with his need to maintain their connection. Clay wondered if it might be kinder to set the beast free, as he had with Lutharon before they set off for the ice. But they still had so much to do, and who knew what use he might be in the future? I really ain’t a very nice person, he reflected causing Jack to voice a puzzled rumble, this one thrumming the ship with sufficient force to make the rail buzz in Clay’s hands.

Awful big ocean out there, Clay reminded him. You ain’t my slave, Jack. You want to go, then go.

Jack’s head rose out of the water for a moment, twin jets of flame sprouting from his nostrils as he gave what could only be called a derisive snort. His snout dipped back below the surface but his eyes remained visible, Clay sensing a certain reproach in the stare Jack levelled at him.

Guess that settles it, he conceded. Once I’m gone this ship will return to the Torquils to wait for us. Stay close if you can, but don’t starve yourself.

Jack replied with an image, a drake’s-eye view of what appeared to be a shimmering, shifting cloud that Clay soon realised was a large shoal of fish. Jack, it appeared, would not be going hungry in his absence.

The Superior’s steam-whistle let out the four short blasts that indicated an imminent stop, Clay feeling the faint rhythmic thud of the auxiliary engine fade from the deckboards. It seemed Captain Hilemore had decided this was as far as the ship could go. It’s time, he told Jack. If I die . . . he began, provoking an upsurge of fear in the drake. Clay asserted his will, forcing his thoughts through the fog of distress. If I die you’ll feel it. What you do then is up to you. Like I said, it’s an awful big ocean.

“The Lady Malynda.” Loriabeth read the name Chief Bozware had painted on the steam-launch’s hull in finely executed letters of red and black. “Couldn’t we call her something a sight more fierce?”

“It’s my former wife’s name,” the Chief responded, rubbing his back as he straightened from tightening a bolt on the engine. He vaulted over the craft’s side onto the Superior’s deck. “And be assured, miss, she was plenty fierce enough, even after the divorce.”

The engineer turned to Hilemore and touched two fingers to his forehead in a sketchy salute. Clay had noticed that the Chief was perhaps the only crew member Hilemore afforded such leeway when it came to formal discipline. “She’s as ready as I can make her, sir.”

“Fine work, Chief,” the captain told him. “Alright, Mr. Talmant, let’s get her in the water if you please.”

“Aye, sir.”

Under the young officer’s guidance a dozen crewmen lowered the Lady Malynda over the side and onto the swift-flowing surface of the Quilam. Skaggerhill climbed down first followed by Kriz, the only two in their party who had a notion of how to operate the engine. It was a coal-burner and took a good half-hour to heat the boiler to the required temperature. Supplies were duly lowered, enough for at least a month’s travel though Clay knew well they might have to resort to hunting for food in time.

“All I can spare,” Hilemore said, handing Clay a satchel containing several flasks. “Ten of Green. One each of the other colours.”

“Sure you can spare this much Red?” Clay asked, checking the satchel.

“The exigencies of the mission require it, Mr. Torcreek.” Hilemore glanced down at the launch where the rest of the party waited. Uncle Braddon had taken up position on the prow and sat in now-customary silence, his rifle cradled in his lap as his gaze roamed the river with predatory keenness. “No regrets about your choices?” the captain asked. “It’s not too late. Mr. Steelfine would make a fine addition to this company, and I know he would relish the challenge.”

“Yeah, but he also hates my guts.”

Clay offered his hand and Hilemore took it. “Captain Okanas will be expecting regular communication,” he said. “As will I.”

“Every three days till we get to the lake,” Clay said. “After that we’ll reschedule as needed, depending on how the Blue holds out.” He cast his gaze towards the stern of the ship where Jack’s spines could be seen tracking back and forth across the river. “If he leaves and don’t come back within two days, it most likely means I’m dead. Same if Captain Okanas don’t hear from me or Lieutenant Sigoral for five days. In that case it’d be best if you took off, make for Varestia like Miss Lethridge said.”

“Noted.” Hilemore inclined his head. “But I’d thank you to leave command decisions to me.”

“O’ course.”

Clay moved to the rail and clambered over, descending the rope net to the Lady Malynda. Kriz was tending the engine whilst Skaggerhill had the tiller. Loriabeth and Sigoral were seated in the middle whilst Preacher sat close to Braddon at the prow. Clay waited for his uncle to say something, hoping he would turn and offer at least some word of command to set them on their way. Even the smallest grunt would have been welcome. But he said nothing, continuing to sit and maintain his hungry vigil over the water. Clay opened his mouth to call to Braddon but stopped when Loriabeth caught his eye and gave a stern shake of her head.

“Daylight’s burning,” he said instead, lowering his gaze to Kriz. “If she’s ready, let’s be on our way. Lori, Lieutenant, eyes on the water. Preacher, watch the sky. It’s a safe bet we’ll have company before long.”

CHAPTER 13

Lizanne

“Ten million in Syndicate scrip, eh?” The broken-nosed man grinned at Lizanne as he lowered Trumane’s letter. “Quite the offer, don’t you think, Mother?” He held the letter out to the prim, neatly attired woman who stood close by. “Have a gander at the signature. I think you’ll find it amusing.”

The woman’s handsome features remained impassive as she scanned the letter, though her lips curled a little when she got to the end. “‘Your faithful correspondent, Captain Wulfcot Trumane,’” she read before raising her eyebrows at Lizanne. “Or ‘Captain Noose’ as he’s known in these waters. I must confess, Miss Lethridge, but for the manner of your arrival I might otherwise have taken this as a rather poor joke.”

“I have no jokes to offer you,” Lizanne replied. “Just an honest offer in return for safe harbour, and sound intelligence I believe you will find useful.”

“Your captain hung my cousin on the deck of his own ship,” the broken-nosed man said, then frowned and added, “Well, second cousin, and a truly rotten bastard to be sure. But still blood of my blood. And my people are all about blood. But then so are you. After all, it’s your name, isn’t it? Miss Blood?”

Lizanne and Tekela had been guided to a grand room on the second floor of the building the Varestians referred to simply as “The Navigation.” The title apparently derived from the building’s original use as the home of the Loyal Guild of South Corvantine Cartographers and Navigational Experts. The map-makers and compass designers had long since been exiled back to their northern homelands, but the building remained, complete with its appropriate and overwhelming decor. Maps were everywhere, hanging in tapestry form on the walls, rendered in oils on huge canvases, reproduced as floor mosaics and even plasterwork reliefs on the ceilings. She assumed this particular chamber had been some kind of ball-room, the floor covered from end to end in a vast map of the world which, judging from the florid Eutherian lettering and place names, dated back to the early corporate era.

Apart from herself and Tekela, the only other occupants were the broken-nosed man, his handsome of face if somewhat severe of demeanour mother and a man of South Mandinorian origin clad in curiously archaic clothing. Lizanne had quickly judged this man to be the most salient physical threat, not least by virtue of his cutlass and pistol, but also his muscular frame and set features, tensed as if in constant expectation of combat. She also deduced from the way the broken-nosed man moved about the room that he was not to be under-estimated either.

“We know who you are, you see?” he went on. “Famed Defender of Carvenport, Hero of the Corvantine Revolution and, most importantly at this particular juncture, a thieving, murdering bitch in the employ of the Ironship Exceptional Initiatives Division.” All humour faded from his face, voice dropping to a murmur. “And therefore not to be trusted.”

“I know of you too,” Lizanne replied, meeting his gaze squarely. “Arshav Okanas, renowned pirate and former Chief Director of the criminal enclave known as the Hive, where I believe you lost a duel to an Islander named Steelfine not so long ago. How’s your nose, by the way?” She turned her gaze from his reddening face before he could reply, inclining her head at the primly attired woman. “And you are Ethilda Okanas, widow to the late founder of the Hive and, I’m told, possessed of a more rational mind than your son.”

“Be assured that we speak with one mind on matters of business,” Ethilda replied. She briefly read through Trumane’s letter once more before tossing it onto a near by table. “This is worthless. With Arradsia lost your Syndicate’s collapse is inevitable, along with much of the corporate world. What use will we have for your scrip then? It has always been nothing more than paper, after all, and we have sufficient kindling.”

Lizanne took a moment to scan the opulence of the room, hoping the myriad maps might spark some stratagem. “I had hoped to address the whole council,” she said, playing for time as inspiration failed to materialise. “I believe a quorum of eight is required before any decision can be reached.”

She saw Arshav exchange an amused glance with his mother. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be content with a quorum of two,” he said. “You see, upon return to our beloved homeland there was what I believe historians refer to as a vicious power struggle. Our wise Ruling Council had taken it upon themselves to declare us dead after the Corvantine attack on the Hive, helping themselves to our family holdings in the process. It took five successive duels to put the matter right, by which time the council was short five members and the remainder had decided they preferred life at sea.”

“So you see, Miss Blood,” Ethilda said, “any accommodation you wish to make will require our agreement, and as yet I find myself content to let your fleet of beggars rot where it sits.”

Lizanne looked down, biting on a frustrated sigh. She saw that her boot rested on the Barrier Isles north of the Arradsian continent, the toe covering the Strait, the portal through which so much wealth had once flowed, enough to transform an entire world.

“You’re right,” she said, raising her gaze to address Ethilda. “Without product the corporate world will fall. But what are you without the corporations? With whom will you trade when they’re gone? Whose ships will you prey upon? The Corvantine Empire destroyed itself trying to maintain the illusion it could remain separate, eternal and unchanged for all time. They failed to see a basic truth: The corporate world is the world. If it falls so does everything else.”

She lowered her gaze once more, striding across the map until her boots came to rest on Varestia. “Do you imagine you are immune here? I’m sure your spies have informed you of what befell the Barrier Isles and Feros.”

“We have defences,” Arshav said. “A great many ships and the best sailors in the world.”

“The Corvantines had the most modern fleet in the world,” Lizanne returned. “I watched it sink and burn off Carvenport. If you know as much as you claim you’ll have some inkling of the force that will come against you. An army of Spoiled controlled by a single mind. And drakes, thousands of Reds, Greens and Blues, all of them filled with hate and hunger by the thing that commands them.”

Ethilda exchanged another glance with her son, this one much more serious. “How will taking in a bunch of impoverished corporatists aid us?” Arshav asked. “It strikes me you will be more a burden than a blessing.”

Lizanne pointed at the mini-Growler. She had been obliged to surrender it on entering the room and it lay on a table close to the entrance. “That,” she said. “And many more like it, along with larger and even more powerful weapons. You also saw the craft that brought us here. Give us the means and we can make more.”

Arshav went to the mini-Growler, lifting it and pursing his lips in reluctant admiration. “A nice toy,” he said. “But expensive and time-consuming to manufacture, I would imagine.”

“There is something else,” Lizanne told him. “Something that can be fashioned in hours rather than days. I assume your men searched the aerostat. They would have found a carbine there.”

Arshav raised an eyebrow at the man in the archaic clothing, who nodded. “Bring it here, please, Mr. Lockbar,” the pirate told him.

“I’ll need a target,” Lizanne said, reaching for the Smoker when Lockbar returned with it a few minutes later. “Something you don’t value.”

“I think not, miss,” Arshav said, taking the carbine from Lockbar. “I’d rather form my own conclusions.”

He went to one of the expansive window doors lining the room’s south-facing wall and opened it. Stepping out onto the veranda beyond, he gestured for Lizanne to follow and pointed at something in the lush gardens below. A tall rectangular plinth sitting amidst a circle of flower-beds.

“The monument to the fallen members of the Corvantine Navigational Guild,” he said. “Kept intact due to the sentiment of my predecessors. Personally, I see no reason to honour the souls of those who once enslaved us.”

He put the carbine to his shoulder, chambered a round and fired. “King of the Deep,” he breathed as the top of the monument shattered. Arshav laughed, worked the lever and fired again, blasting away another chunk of the plinth. He kept on until the carbine was empty, his laughter increasing as he reduced the monument to a jagged remnant.

“After due consideration,” he said, lowering the Smoker and coughing a little as he wafted the smoke away, “I believe . . .”

“Further consideration is warranted,” Ethilda broke in, giving her son a glare of sufficient severity as to wipe the laughter from his face. Ethilda turned to Lizanne with a humourless smile. “In the meantime you and your lovely young companion will be our guests. Mr. Lockbar, please see these ladies to their room.”

Mr. Lockbar, together with a squad of five equally stern-faced guards, had escorted Lizanne and Tekela to a room on the upper floor of the Navigation. It was small with a narrow cot and a tiny window that had been nailed shut. “Servant’s quarters,” Tekela sniffed with snobbish disdain.

“I doubt we’ll be here long,” Lizanne said, sitting on the cot. Mr. Lockbar had relieved her of the vials of product in the Spider but she had had the foresight to conceal a vial of Blue in her hollow boot-heel. She had been permitted to keep her watch and waited the required forty-three minutes before commencing the trance at the scheduled hour.

“Listen at the door,” she told Tekela, slotting the vial into the Spider. “If they come back try to delay letting them in until I’m done.”

She found Sofiya Griffan wandering her mindscape in a black mourning-dress, her vibrant red hair the only colour to be found. Lizanne thought the woman’s mindscape must have been beautiful before her grief. She imagined dappled forest-glades carpeted with wild flowers above which butterflies danced in air scented by honeysuckle. Something almost certainly taken from a picture-book read in childhood. Now it was like walking through the same scene reimagined by an illustrator in the midst of a depression. The forest was bleached of all colour, the sky above the tree-tops an ominous smear of black and grey.

Another ship took off on its own yesterday, Sofiya informed Lizanne, her thoughts as dull and uncoloured as the environment. The second in two days.

Tell Captain Trumane to do all he can to prevent further desertions, Lizanne told her. I have a sense we will need to muster as large a work-force as possible, if our hosts choose to accept us that is.

She paused, watching as Sofiya gazed at something near by. At first glance Lizanne took it for a butterfly frozen in flight, but closer inspection revealed it to be a miniature person, a lissome young girl with diaphanous wings plucking a morsel of pollen from an orchid.

The sylph-folk would visit me when I was a little girl, Sofiya recalled. Whirl in spirals around my head as I danced. Such music they sang. Nanny said it was all in my head and spanked me for my foolishness, and in time they went away, but I never truly stopped believing. Their music was so beautiful, far beyond the mind of a child to conjure . . .

Speaking of music, Lizanne interrupted, keen to break the woman’s reverie, which she suspected might go on for some time. Has Makario made any more progress?

With your mysterious box? Not as far as I’m aware. He plays for me sometimes, when I get sad enough to start crying again. He’s very kind.

Yes, he is. And your . . . Lizanne fumbled for the right words. Her experience of pregnant women was minimal, and she had determined long ago to avoid such a mammoth complication to her own life. Condition? she decided finally.

I am vomiting less, thanks to Dr. Weygrand. He tells me it’s far too soon for such things but I feel my son kicking sometimes. Curiously, it only happens when I think of Zakaeus. I believe he’s keen to be born so he can avenge his father.

Lizanne clamped down on her own thoughts, lest the words “mad as a Blue-addled rat” leach into the shared mindscape. We’ll have to ensure that won’t be necessary, she told Sofiya. Have you had any success in contacting Northern Fleet Headquarters?

Yes. My contact there was clearly very harassed and seemed to regard my intelligence as more of a nuisance than anything. They had little to say other than that Captain Trumane is instructed to await further orders. I’m to trance again in five days.

Ask Professor Lethridge and Mr. Tollermine to provide you with blueprints for their weapons designs and memorise them. When you trance with the Northern Fleet again, make it very clear that their best course of action is to build as many of these devices as they can.

I had the impression no one is building anything at the moment. Apparently, a third of Ironship manufactories are on strike. There’s a great deal of Voter agitation in many cities and the Protectorate is fully engaged in dealing with what my contact called “urban disturbances.”

So they’re rioting already, Lizanne thought, her own mindscape filling with unpleasant memories of Scorazin and the northern march of the People’s Freedom Army. She was careful to confine the images within her own mind for fear of distressing Sofiya. If ever there was a poor time to start a revolution.

Miss Lethridge? Sofiya enquired, perturbed by the lack of communication.

Tell them also that secrecy is no protection now, Lizanne added. They need to publicise the complete and unvarnished story of what happened in Arradsia and Feros. Only truth will unite us. Tell them that.

“Blaska Sound.” Ethilda Okanas pointed to a spot somewhere in the middle of the painted map. It stood seven feet high and occupied much of the north-facing wall in the round tower that sprouted from the Navigation’s roof-top. The tower’s eastern wall was dominated by a broad window facing out to sea, the room itself liberally equipped with optical devices of varying types and dimensions. Arshav occupied himself with peering through the lens of a huge telescope whilst his mother conversed with Lizanne.

The painting was a rendering of the entire Varestian region, though the style was illustrative rather than strictly cartographical. Mountain ranges and forests were depicted in elevated perspective rather than the usual lines and text. Lizanne was also grimly amused to see that the artist had chosen to populate the Red Tides with several fancifully proportioned drakes.

She stepped closer to the map, peering at the narrow coastal channel marked in elaborate Eutherian as “Blaska Sound.” The mouth of the Sound stood perhaps twenty miles north of the Seven Walls and Iskamir. Close enough for a secure supply route, Lizanne mused. And also an easy place in which to bottle us up should they see the need.

“What facilities are there?” she asked, drawing a faint snicker from Arshav, who, she noticed, still had the Smoker slung over his shoulder.

“There’s a coal-mine ten miles in on the northern bank of the Sound,” Ethilda told her. “‘Raker’s Mount’ they call it. It’s an old Corvantine penal colony, abandoned since the Varestian Liberation. Our people have never been fond of grubbing in the dirt. The seams are still viable, so I’m told, so fuel won’t be a problem.”

“It’s also a desolate shit-hole,” Arshav added, grinning as he raised his eye from the telescope. “No roads or railways and tall mountains all around. The only way in and out is by sea.”

“We’ll need other materials,” Lizanne said. “Iron and steel, copper too. Also chemical agents for munitions. Not to mention food.”

Ethilda looked at her son, who shrugged, apparently bored with logistical details. “There’ll be stocks in the Iskamir warehouses,” he said. “All sorts of cargo’s piled up recently since trade’s been so poor.”

“Make a list before you leave,” Ethilda said and handed Lizanne an envelope. “Our formal counter-proposal.”

Seeing that the envelope had no seal Lizanne extracted the papers within, reading over the first few paragraphs. “This is a company charter,” she said, frowning.

“Indeed,” Ethilda said. “This day marks the founding of the Varestian Defence Conglomerate. I and Arshav are Co-Directors in Chief. You’ll note I’ve appointed you Director of Intelligence and Manufactory Liaison.”

“Congratulations,” Arshav put in.

“‘The Conglomerate will retain exclusive lifetime rights to any and all novel devices manufactured on Conglomerate soil,’” Lizanne read, feeling her pulse quicken. “‘Also all salvage rights over any captured belligerent vessel, including its cargo, fixtures and fittings. Plus any draconic plasma, heretoafter referred to as “product,” harvested within the established borders of the Varestian region will be regarded as Conglomerate property.’”

“Entirely fair in the circumstances,” Arshav said, moving away from the telescope and holding up a pen. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Lizanne stared at him, thinking it would be an easy matter to take that pen and push it through his eye and into his brain.

“You’ll get your share,” Ethilda said. “As a Director you will be afforded ten percent of total company stock. How you wish to distribute the dividends is up to you. Please add your signature to the final page.” She angled her head, looking past Lizanne at Tekela with a fond smile. “Your delightful ward can witness the transaction.”

Lizanne set her jaw and reached for the pen. “There is one other matter,” Ethilda said, her son giving a pout of mock apology as he drew the pen out of reach. “My late husband’s granddaughter.”

“What of her?”

“You indicated a detailed knowledge of what transpired at the Hive. I wish to know how.”

“I’m an Exceptional Initiatives agent. Intelligence is my business.”

“Then be so kind as to share what intelligence you hold regarding the whereabouts of Akina Okanas. This is not a matter for negotiation.”

Seeing the hard glint in the woman’s eyes, Lizanne knew this was no bluff. She also knew it wouldn’t profit her to share too much with these people. She abruptly decided to avoid any mention of Clay’s mission to Krystaline Lake, despite what insights these two might offer regarding the explorations undertaken by Zenida’s late father. An adage from Burgrave Artonin’s translation of Selvurin folk-tales popped into her head as she took in the poorly concealed greed on the Arshavs’ faces: Feed a snake and your only thanks will be venom.

“Captain Trumane’s flagship is the Viable Opportunity,” Lizanne said. “A vessel I believe you are familiar with. I learned the story from the crew.”

Arshav took a step forward, gaze narrowing. “Is my niece aboard?” he demanded in a low, dangerous voice. “Do you have her?”

“She’s no longer on the ship,” Lizanne went on in a clipped uncoloured tone, the voice her tutors had drilled into her as the most effective when lying. Poor liars always attempt a performance, she had been told. The truth requires no theatrics. “The Viable Opportunity sailed eastward around Arradsia after departing the Hive, eventually putting in at Lossermark where Zenida Okanas contrived to escape with her daughter.”

“That’s a pile of dog shit,” Arshav growled.

“Captain Trumane was wounded at the Battle of the Strait,” Lizanne continued, ignoring him and addressing his mother. “Leaving him in a comatose state. Command of the Viable then fell to a Lieutenant Hilemore, with whom I believe you are also familiar. Hilemore freed Zenida Okanas from Protectorate custody and employed her as the ship’s Blood-blessed. A measure that earned Captain Trumane’s severe disapproval when he woke from his coma in Lossermark harbour. It was the captain’s intention to return Zenida Okanas to the brig for eventual trial and likely execution. It appears Lieutenant Hilemore found such a course of action unacceptable to his honour and so he contrived to desert the ship along with Zenida, her daughter and a small number of mutineers. It seems they seized a Corvantine warship that had taken refuge in the harbour and sailed away, destination as yet unknown.”

Arshav glowered and turned away, he and Ethilda retreating to a corner of the room for a whispered discussion. They spoke in Varestian, which Lizanne knew well, but using a pirate slang that made translation difficult. She did, however, hear Ethilda utter the phrases “coming here” and “determined to kill us when she does,” to which Arshav replied, “I do hope so, Mother.”

Eventually they seemed to reach some form of agreement and turned back to Lizanne, Arshav tossing her the pen. “Rest assured, Miss Blood,” he cautioned her as she scrawled her name on the document, “we regard formal agreements just as seriously as does the corporate world, except in Varestia breach of contract is usually a fatal matter.” He gave a bland smile and patted the stock of the Smoker. “Don’t mind if I keep this do you?”

“Not at all.” Lizanne said, handing the contract back to Ethilda. “It’s customary to mark a new partnership with gifts, after all.”

“Partnership.” Ethilda’s mouth twitched a little in suppressed amusement. “What quaint notions you have, miss.” Her lips broadened into a smile as she extended the contract and pen to Tekela. “Come, my dear. Your very dainty hand is needed.”

CHAPTER 14

Sirus

“Varestia,” Morradin said, a sneer curling his broad lips as his gaze tracked over the pencil-line Sirus had sketched on the map. The marshal’s thoughts went on to form the old Eutherian term for the region, one born of the many wars the Empire had fought there: the Sewer of Malcontents.

“A formidable target then?” Catheline asked, her red-and-black eyes shifting between Sirus and Morradin. The principal captains of the White’s army were clustered around the navigation table on the bridge of a large freighter recently renamed the Malign Influence, the new flagship of their fleet. Following behind were over sixty ships of varying sizes, together with numerous towed barges laden with Spoiled. In all the army now totalled some sixty thousand formerly human souls but, from the grudging concern leaking from Morradin’s thoughts, it might well prove insufficient for the task ahead.

“The Corvantine Empire was never able to fully control the region,” Sirus said. “Even after it had been officially conquered. Rebellions were frequent and the attrition of Imperial forces constant. When the previous revolution broke out, the Empire was obliged to withdraw its forces to reinforce the northern provinces. Following the revolution repeated attempts to reconquer Varestia met with disaster.” Sirus’s gaze flicked to Morradin. “Including one led by you, I believe, Marshal.”

“Fuck you, boy!” Morradin spat. Sirus didn’t bother to conceal his satisfaction at the marshal’s blossoming rage. “And fuck your mother,” Morradin went on. “I was second in command of that expedition, as you well know. And we’d have won if that fool admiral had listened to me . . .”

Be quiet.

Morradin’s teeth clacked as his mouth slammed shut in response to Catheline’s thought-command. He stood with nostrils flaring and eyes blazing as Catheline turned back to Sirus. “You were saying, General?”

“The Varestians’ success in defeating the Empire was largely due to their command of the sea,” Sirus went on. “And a willingness to put aside long-standing clan rivalries to pursue a common aim. Their society is famed for its supposed brutality but is in fact remarkably stable and cohesive, due in part to a strictly observed code of ethics and the practice of resolving irreconcilable disputes through duels rather than large-scale conflict. The geography of the region also presents numerous challenges. So many islands offer numerous refuges for enemy vessels and many opportunities for ambush. Then there is the question of numbers.” Sirus fell silent, turning to Veilmist in expectation.

“The Ironship records seized at Feros,” the Islander began in her unhesitant, precise Mandinorian, “contain a demographic analysis of the Varestian region. It was compiled five years ago when the Syndicate was considering seeking a formal arrangement with the Varestian Ruling Council regarding trading concessions. It concluded the region is home to approximately thirty million people. This is based on the availability of arable land and consumption of imported food-stuffs, a more reliable method than the Corvantine census, which is notoriously inaccurate. This means that in the event of a large-scale conflict the region could muster close to four million recruits of military age, including both men and women.”

Catheline arched an elegant eyebrow at Veilmist. “Four million? That does seem rather a lot.”

“This is the figure they could amass under ideal conditions,” Veilmist replied. “The true figure, given the challenges of local terrain, factional conflicts and logistical difficulties, will be much lower. Perhaps as low as one million, and even then that would require several months of organisation.”

“Let’s say we give them”—Catheline pursed her lips in consideration—“just one month. How many are we likely to face then?”

“Given the armed citizenry already on hand, local militias and likely rate of recruitment, between two hundred to two hundred and fifty thousand.”

Forest Spear spoke up, which was a rarity in these meetings as he tended to make any contributions mentally. However, since Catheline’s ascension Sirus had noticed an increased tendency amongst the Spoiled to communicate verbally. He assumed she just liked it that way. “We faced more in the islands,” Forest Spear said in his guttural but still-comprehensible Varsal. For some as yet unexplained reason the tribals seemed to prefer the Corvantine common tongue when speaking aloud, not that it mattered. All languages were equally understood in this army. “Warriors born and bred for battle,” Forest Spear added. “And still they fell before us.”

“But they didn’t all possess fire-arms,” Sirus pointed out. “Neither did they possess a large fleet of armed ships crewed by the best sailors in the world.” He turned to Catheline, compelled by her desire for unalloyed truth. “We don’t have the numbers for a successful conquest. Or the ships.”

Morradin gave a pained grunt, drawing Catheline’s gaze. She smiled and unlocked his mouth. “Something to add, Marshal?”

“The southern coastal ports of the Empire,” he said, stubby finger jabbing at a series of successive points on the map. “Each one separated by at least fifty miles, unable to come to the other’s aid should they be attacked.”

“Population?” Catheline asked, turning to Veilmist.

“Five million all told,” she said after a pause of only a few seconds. “But dispersed. Melkorin, the most westerly port has a population of only eighty-five thousand. Even allowing for the vagaries of the Corvantine census, it would seem a manageable objective. I estimate the recruitment yield to be close to twenty thousand Spoiled, allowing for a three to four percent casualty rate amongst our own forces.”

“And when we’re done there,” Catheline said, a note of approval in her voice as she traced her crimson finger-nail along the coast, “we’ll have yet more fruit to pluck. Excellent reasoning, my dear. You are as clever as you are beautiful.”

Sirus managed to summon enough fear to mask his disgust at the warm gratification these words provoked in Veilmist’s mind. Even the Spoiled, it seemed, were not immune to the flattery of a beautiful madwoman.

“Any additional concerns, General?” she asked, her gaze swivelling to Sirus as she sensed his fear.

He shook his head. “Only an observation that battle is always uncertain,” he said.

She laughed, moving closer to pat his arm, her hand lingering to caress taut muscle beneath his sleeve. “But that’s what makes it so stimulating.”

Catheline stepped back, closing her eyes momentarily as she communed with the White, which had chosen to perch itself on the wide aft deck of the Malign Influence, along with its clutch of juveniles. After a moment she opened her eyes and favoured them all with one of her brightest smiles. “Consent is given. Please plot a course to Melkorin.”

“Are you angry with me?” Catheline asked as they dined together. The Malign Influence lay at anchor a mile south of Melkorin and Sirus could see the flames rising above the harbour wall. “For keeping you from all the fun,” she added, sipping her wine.

They had dined on sea-trout, expertly poached by a former head chef from one of Morsvale’s more exclusive restaurants. Upon finding the fellow amongst the ranks of Spoiled Catheline had immediately appointed him as her personal cook and dined every day on lavish meals of the highest quality. She always ate dinner on the observation deck to the rear of the bridge, seated at a table complete with an ornate silver candelabra, plates of antique Dalcian porcelain and silver cutlery.

It was a week since the conference, sufficient time to plan their attack and complete the approach. At Catheline’s instruction the entire affair had been left in Morradin’s hands. Sirus found his own role restricted to overseeing the running of the fleet. He suspected she either wanted to stoke the rivalry between them or obtain an unvarnished example of the marshal’s abilities. Perhaps both.

Morradin’s plan had been characteristically straightforward, though he borrowed some of the more subtle elements from Sirus’s attack on Feros. A small flotilla of ships, disguised as refugee vessels with besmirched hulls and unkempt works, approached the port in late evening, their signal pennants displaying a request for safe harbour. The Melkorin authorities, however, had staunchly refused to raise the door in their wall, gathering their garrison and militia in and around the docks. Sirus felt his sympathy for these people erode slightly when gun-batteries on the wall began casting shells at the supposed refugees.

Yes, Catheline agreed, sensing his disdain. Yet more souls deserving of their fate. But then, they all are.

Whilst the attention of the Melkorin defenders remained fixed on the ships outside their wall, the White’s host of Reds swept over the coast to the east. They flew north for several miles before turning west as the sun began to fade, swooping low to deposit Spoiled and Greens on the port’s outlying suburbs. Meanwhile, Morradin led the bulk of the fleet to land the main force of Spoiled infantry on a broad stretch of beach three miles to the west. Within hours the entire port was in chaos and the Corvantine troops and militia were unable to mount an organised defence. Resistance was still fierce, however, especially amongst the militia who were defending their homes and families. A few companies barricaded themselves into the more substantial buildings in the commercial district, holding out against repeated assaults until Morradin lost patience and asked for assistance from the Reds. Any action undertaken by the drakes that lay outside the original plan had to be approved by Catheline, their lives being regarded as so much more precious than the Spoiled.

Are you sure, Marshal? Catheline asked. Seems a trifle excessive to me. Can’t you just wait for them to run out of ammunition?

They’re blocking the main thoroughfare into the residential neighbourhoods, Morradin replied. My scouts report a large number of people fleeing to the hill-country to the north. The longer this lot holds out the smaller our yield of recruits.

This had been enough for Catheline to unleash the Reds, Katarias leading several dozen out of the night sky to blast the buildings with flame from top to bottom. This attack succeeded in eliminating resistance but also birthed a conflagration that soon spread to much of the port’s western districts.

What a marvellous strategist you are, Marshal, Catheline observed. I ask for recruits and you give me charred corpses.

Morradin’s response consisted of a sullen, reluctant pulse of apology which provoked a surprising laugh from Catheline. “What a simply dreadful man,” she commented to Sirus. “But useful. Not as useful as you, dear General, but still worth keeping around. Don’t you think?” Sirus sensed a genuine enquiry in her tone, eyebrows raised above her wine-glass as she added, “I’ll kill him if you like.”

He felt Morradin tense, the Spoiled of his personal guard immediately turning towards the marshal with levelled rifles. Sirus let the fear seep into his mind, masking his thoughts. Morradin was useful to the White, it was true. He was also supremely arrogant and self-interested to the point of mania, not to mention an Imperial butcher with the blood of thousands on his hands. But, more than that, he hated his enslavement just as much as Sirus did, and such hatred might suit his own ends in time.

“In land warfare he has no equal,” Sirus said, reaching for his own wine-glass. He shrugged as he took a small sip. The wine was an expensive Mandinorian white of impressive vintage, part of the copious stocks looted from the Ironship stores in Feros. Sirus doubted even his father could have afforded a single bottle of the stuff. He had found since his conversion that his senses had been enhanced, including his taste-buds, and he savoured the tingle the wine left on his tongue. Notes of apple with a hint of lemon, matured in oak for at least eighteen years. He shared the taste with Morradin, feeling the marshal’s hatred swell along with his terror.

“However,” Sirus went on, lowering his glass, “his instinctive aggression can cause problems, as you’ve seen. Perhaps punishment would be preferable to execution. But, of course, I leave the matter in your hands.”

“Do you seek to teach me restraint?” Catheline’s lips pursed in mock offence. “I should hope not, sir. I was never one for moderation. But you speak sense. Punishment it is.”

Sirus flinched as she blinked and sent a pulse of pure agony into Morradin’s brain. The marshal stiffened and collapsed, writhing on the cobbled street as the port burned around him. Catheline held out her glass to the Spoiled waiter near by, who dutifully filled it. She had drained the glass by the time the pain faded from Morradin’s mind.

I trust such lessons will not be necessary in future, she told him, all humour gone and her thoughts chilly with sincerity. Now be about your business. Twenty thousand recruits is what I was promised, and what I expect.

Sirus felt the marshal’s thought-command spread to the rest of the army, carrying strict injunctions against any unnecessary killing. Apart from the children, of course, he added. They’re of no use.

“Ah,” Catheline said, brightening as a second waiter approached bearing a tray. “Dessert!”

“This is the point in the evening when most men would try to fuck me.”

She had him stroll with her after dinner. Sirus had been required to dress for the occasion and wore the uniform of an Ironship Protectorate colonel of infantry, complete with several medals won by its former owner. Catheline was attired in an elegant gown of black silk embroidered with flames of red, the product of a skilled dress-maker captured and converted in Feros. She also wore a shawl about her shoulders, fine lace threaded with jewels that glittered as they caught the flickering flames from Melkorin. Sirus supposed that, but for their deformities and the dying city across the water, an ignorant observer might have thought them the image of a romantic young couple.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she added, sensing his surprise at the coarseness of her language. “Seduce me.”

Sirus found himself at a complete loss for words. He had experienced a great deal in a short space of time, but some things were still far beyond his abilities.

“Despite my reputation I was quite choosy, you know,” Catheline went on. “Married men were always my preference, especially if their wives were one of those managerial bitches who loved to sneer at me so. I always found sex and revenge a potent mix.”

They came to the prow of the ship where she paused, rearranging her shawl to reveal her shoulders. Sirus found himself momentarily distracted by the way the light of the burning city played over her flesh, smooth, unscaled and wonderfully human.

“Why thank you, sir,” Catheline said, sensing his involuntary lust. “I was beginning to think such things beneath you.”

She turned back to the city as a large explosion blossomed above the wall. From the scale of the blast Sirus assumed the fire had reached the garrison’s arsenal. “I had them burn Feros before we left,” Catheline continued, the explosion fading into a cascade of debris. “He hates cities, you see? The very notion of human civilisation is offensive to him. I expect this is a sight to which we’ll become quite accustomed before we’re done.”

“What happens then?” Sirus asked. He was aware this might be dangerous, the Spoiled did not question their great White god after all. But he coloured his mind with what he hoped was a sufficient level of simple curiosity to conceal any sense of concern for the fate of the human world.

“The world will be his, and we will be his grateful servants,” Catheline replied, apparently failing to detect any artifice. “For He has blessed us, has He not? The ability to seamlessly share thoughts and experience. Think of a whole world where lies have been banished, where every mind is united in a common purpose. This will be the last war in human history. I have a yen to be a mother when this is all over. My child will be heir to a new world of eternal peace.” She glanced over her perfect shoulder at him. “You fathered a child, did you not?”

Katrya’s face when he shot her . . . Can we not love too? He drowned the memories in a deluge of fear and grief, but not before Catheline sensed his guilt.

“We can’t keep them all alive, General,” she said, a frown of sincere sympathy creasing her brow. “More’s the pity. I’m sorry for your woman, and the child, but soldiers die in war. Come the morning we’ll have thousands of freshly converted young women in our ranks. Choose one, if you wish.”

“No thank you.”

Catheline’s sympathy turned to amusement and she moved to him, reaching out to take his hand, perfect unblemished fingers tracing over the callused, scaled flesh. “Still carrying a torch for your fallen lover?” she asked. “Or do I flatter myself that you worry over making me jealous?”

Nothing, he thought, his mind sliding over hers like a hand pushing at smooth, cold glass. No clue as to her true intentions. What she really is.

“What I am?” she asked with a laugh provoking the shocked realisation that he had failed to shield his thoughts. “Oh, don’t fret,” she added, squeezing his hand as the fear flooded in. “It’s refreshing to find a genuinely curious mind amongst this lot.” She moved closer, her perfume rendered near intoxicating by his enhanced senses. “I am the final word in his blessing of this world,” she murmured, lips close to his. “He needed me, you see? Not all of me, since He got a good deal from the other bitch before she died. But, great as his mind is, it lacks . . .”

She let out an involuntary shout, her breath hot on Sirus’s face as she convulsed and collapsed at his feet. Sirus started to crouch at her side but froze as another far more powerful will invaded his mind. A low, rattling growl came from above and Sirus looked up to find the White’s huge head poised above them, thin tendrils of smoke leaking from both nostrils. Its gaze flicked over Sirus before locking onto Catheline. She let out a strangled scream, jerking on the deck as spittle drooled from her lips.

Punishment, Sirus thought.

A series of thuds drew his gaze to the surrounding deck and he saw the juvenile Whites had come to watch the spectacle, wings flapping in excitement, tails and necks coiling as they hissed and squawked. Sirus found he had no need to draw on his reserves of fear to mask his thoughts, the fist of terror that gripped him now was completely authentic, though he did find room amongst it all for a singular insight. Your god does not love you back, he decided as Catheline’s choking shudders subsided into a gibbering tremble.

The White’s growl trailed off and it grunted out a gust of smoke before launching itself into the air, the wind generated by its wings strong enough to force Sirus to his knees. He watched it ascend into the night air, ivory scales painted pink by the light of the burning city. It levelled out and angled its massive body towards Melkorin, its juvenile brood clustering around it, screaming in excited hunger. It had been the same after Feros. After the fall came the feast, and there were many children in this city.

He lowered his gaze to Catheline, seeing that her tremors had stopped and she now lay in an exhausted stupor. He also saw that she had contrived to besmirch her silk gown with a copious amount of urine. He wondered if the White would care if he killed her now.

Sirus crouched and gathered Catheline into his arms, lifting her easily. He stood watching the White dive down into the burning city, its dreadful brood following close behind, before lowering his gaze to the dark waters below. Throw the mad bitch over the side. The world will thank you for it.

Catheline let out a soft, fearful whimper, her fluttering eyelids telling of a mind beset by nightmares. She shifted in his arms, moving her head closer to his chest in an instinctive quest for comfort. Sirus turned and carried her towards the nearest hatch, making for her cabin and sending a command to the crew to bring her some clean clothes.

CHAPTER 15

Lizanne

“I didn’t like the way that woman looked at me.”

Lizanne glanced up at Tekela from the contract that cemented her employment in the Varestian Defence Conglomerate. She had read it several times during the return journey, finding to her annoyance that Ethilda Okanas had crafted something it would be very hard to extricate herself from later, at least legally. “You shouldn’t,” she muttered in agreement before glancing out the window. They had left Iskamir behind a day ago and were nearing the southern extremity of the Sabiras Archipelago, beyond which lay the hopefully secure anchorage of Viemen’s Island.

“I won’t have to see her again, will I?” Tekela asked. “Or that son of hers. He was almost as horrid.”

Lizanne began to snap at her, irritation at the cleverness of the Okanas clan leading her to scold this girl for her weakness. An entire world of horrid people awaits you, she had been about to say. Harden your sensibilities and keep a loaded revolver handy. Instead she took a breath and recalled all the many trials Tekela had endured, concluding she was already as hardened as Lizanne wished her to be. So she said, “I’m sorry. I’ll do my best to ensure you don’t find yourself in their company again.”

They had resisted lighting the blood-burner for the return trip, Lizanne deciding the burst of speed would be best saved for emergencies. The flight was therefore long and somewhat tedious, passed in resentful scrutiny of the contract she had been obliged to sign interspersed with fitful dozing. Her sleep had been interrupted several times by the buffeting the aerostat received from the winds at this more southerly latitude. Hours of fighting to keep the machine on course left Tekela increasingly fatigued as the journey wore on. Lizanne wanted to take over for a time but lacked the required familiarity with the controls. Besides which, manoeuvring herself into the pilot’s seat in the cramped confines of the gondola seemed next to impossible.

“When we’re back on the ship,” she told Tekela as the first of the outlying Sabiras Isles drifted by below, “your first task will be teaching me how to fly this thing.”

The fleet came into view some two hours later, the many ships clustered in a tight arc around the speck of rock Lizanne’s map confirmed as Vieman’s Island. Daylight was fading fast and Lizanne feared night would fall before they could settle onto the fore-deck of the Viable Opportunity. Fortunately, Captain Trumane evidently saw the danger and ordered all lights lit, including the frigate’s powerful search-light, which was lowered to illuminate the front of the ship. Tekela was obliged to navigate a stiff cross-wind to complete the approach, her hands dancing from lever to lever as she gave voice to some choice curses in Varsal Lizanne would never have suspected her of knowing.

Finally, the landing gear bumped onto the deck and Tekela closed the throttle, stilling the thrum of the engine, before slumping forward with a soft sigh. She sat with her head resting on the dials in what Lizanne suspected was a theatrical pose until she heard a very faint snore emerge from the girl’s nose.

“At any other time signing this would be an unconscionable act.” Trumane sighed before tossing the contract onto his desk. “One the Syndicate would most likely punish with a prison sentence. Now, however.” He shrugged and sank into his seat. Lizanne had expected more resistance from him but divined that his pragmatism outweighed any ingrained corporatist abhorrence for such a patently poor deal.

“There is something else to consider,” she said. “The contract makes no mention of you.”

Trumane frowned at her. “So?”

“It stipulates just about every aspect of our arrangement, including my role and the role of our coterie of inventors, and the employment of the refugees, but says nothing about you, the man they refer to as Captain Noose. I believe this to be a deliberate omission. Captain, I must advise you not to accompany us into Varestian waters. Take the Viable Opportunity and head north, along with Mrs. Griffan. If you can make it to a Mandinorian port you can enlighten what’s left of the Syndicate hierarchy on the true nature of this crisis. Such understanding appears to be sadly lacking at this juncture.”

“No.” Trumane gave a stiff shake of his head. “I have not led this fleet so far to abandon it . . .”

“They’ll hang you,” Lizanne broke in. “The Okanas family, and many of the other clans, feel they owe you a blood debt, something Varestians do not forgive.”

“I have never run from pirates, Miss Lethridge,” he replied in a quiet but steady voice that told her this discussion was over. “I do not intend to start now.” He lowered his gaze to the charts unfurled on his desk, reaching for a pen and compass. “Now, I have a course to plot if you’ll excuse me.”

“The whole composition has eight distinct movements,” Makario said, handing her a partially crumpled sheaf of musical notation. “It was realising this that proved the key. The Artisan certainly had a passion for the number eight.”

Glancing over the papers, Lizanne found them covered in a mostly illegible scrawl of notes interspersed with comments in the musician’s often-tiny script. Lifting her gaze to him, she was struck by the redness of his eyes and the jittery tremble to his hand as he ran it through a mop of unkempt hair.

“How long since you slept?” she asked.

His brow bunched in genuine bafflement. “Why would I sleep with a puzzle like this to solve? I once thought Illemont would be my sole consuming passion, but this.” He turned his gaze to the solargraph and Lizanne found herself wondering about the ability of this device to capture the hearts of those cursed to study it. “The Artisan was as much a musician as he was an inventor. To have met him would have been to know greatness.”

“You’re sure this is all of it?” she asked, setting the pages down on the work-bench.

“I’ve tested it several times, out of earshot of our fellow convict, of course.”

“Very well.” Lizanne turned to regard Tinkerer, who stood at another bench near the starboard bulkhead. He was engaged in completing a prototype redesign of the rocket projectile that had been so useful during the march from Scorazin. This one was larger with a greatly increased range and, thanks to an internal clock-work apparatus of dizzying complexity, would possess a remarkable level of accuracy.

“We’ll wait until he’s finished his new toy,” she said. “In the meantime, please get some rest.”

Three days later she watched Tinkerer’s face closely as the solargraph played the tune, deciding Makario had been right about the Artisan’s musical gifts matching his inventiveness. After he tapped out the first three movements on the chimes the device began to play on its own. Cogs whirred and dials turned as it gave voice to something of such sombre precision that it couldn’t help but tug at her heart. Tinkerer sat through it all with an expression of interest but no particular concern and when he was done his only reaction was to blink at her.

“Have you . . .” Lizanne ventured, “anything to tell me?”

“Yes,” he said with an earnest nod that caused her to lean closer. “I need more brass for the rocket-guidance mechanism.”

“About this,” she grated, stabbing a finger at the solargraph. “About all of this.”

“Oh,” said Tinkerer. “Then no.”

“It’s the right tune,” Makario insisted as Lizanne turned her gaze upon him.

She thought back over her interactions with Tinkerer, all mentions of the Artisan and his shared memories in the trance. The trance. “Here,” she said, taking a vial of Blue from her wallet. “Play it again,” she instructed Makario after she and Tinkerer had both imbibed equal portions of the product.

This time the reaction was immediate. As soon as the tune began Tinkerer’s gaze took on the unfocused cast that told of an imminent trance. However, it wasn’t until the fourth movement that the full effect took hold. Tinkerer’s eyes closed and he slumped to the floor, limbs twitching. Lizanne began to rise from her seat to check on him . . . and found herself standing waist deep in the middle of a fast-flowing river.

She had never experienced such a seamless transition into the trance state before and found it jarring. The sudden switch in surroundings, complete with a change in temperature, sights, smells and sounds made her stagger in the water. She would have lost her footing on the loose shingle of the river-bed if a pair of hands hadn’t reached out to steady her.

“Careful now,” said a voice in soft, cultured Eutherian. “You really can drown in here, you know.”

The woman who had hold of her arms was trimly built of average height with shrewd dark eyes peering at Lizanne from behind a pair of spectacles. She wore sturdy clothes of strong fabric, the kind worn by someone who spends a good deal of time outdoors. A heavy pack was slung over her shoulders and a short-brimmed felt hat sat on her head, tilted back to reveal a shock of close-cropped black hair. She was also, Lizanne noticed, possessed of a high-cheek-boned beauty normally reserved for the imaginary heroines found adorning the covers of cheap romance novels.

“This . . .” Lizanne closed her eyes and shook her befuddled head before taking a more fulsome look at her surroundings. A swift river, thick jungle on both banks. “This is the Arradsian Interior.”

“It is indeed.” The woman gave an apologetic smile and released Lizanne’s arms from her gentle but firm grasp. “Though I have always preferred the Eutherian name for the continent. Kilnahria, it derives from a serpent god of the pre-Imperial era. Quite apt, wouldn’t you agree, miss . . . ?”

“Lethridge,” she said, straightening and extending her hand. “Lizanne Lethridge. And yes, very apposite.”

“Alestine Akiv Azkarian,” the woman said, shaking her hand and giving a formal bow. “I was about to stop for lunch,” she went on, sloshing her way towards the far bank. “If you would care to join me.”

“You are the Artisan?” Lizanne asked, voicing a rueful laugh as she laboured through the water in her wake. The trance had seen fit to attire her in a somewhat impractical skirt and jacket of archaic dimensions, making for laggardly progress. “The Artisan was a woman.”

“How observant you are,” Alestine remarked, clambering onto the river-bank and extending a hand as Lizanne struggled to extricate herself from the water.

“I thought you would already know my name,” Lizanne said, hauling herself free of the river and keeping hold of Alestine’s hand. “The Artisan having foreseen this meeting.”

“The Mad Artisan,” Alestine said, her smile now tinged with a mix of sadness and humour. “Isn’t that what they will come to call me?”

“The appellation of madness has faded recently,” Lizanne replied. “Which is strange, given that the world around us grows madder by the day.”

Alestine released her hand and turned, leading her deeper into the jungle. “I did not, in fact, know your name,” she told Lizanne, as they tracked along a narrow trail. “But I have foreseen this meeting, or at least a portion of it. Oddly, I remember you having darker hair, and being markedly less polite. It happens sometimes, the vision’s truth proves illusory. Due, I have theorised, to the relative passage of time. The longer I have to wait for it to come true, the less true it turns out to be.”

“What did we discuss in the vision?” Lizanne asked, aware that her voice betrayed a note of desperation she would normally try to conceal. The shock of actually finding herself conversing with this person after expending so much time and effort to do so made her a little giddy, even nervous.

“You said your world was burning,” Alestine said, coming to a halt as the trail opened out into a broad clearing. She unslung her pack and set it down before casting around with a searching gaze. “We need fire-wood. If you wouldn’t mind lending a hand.”

Lizanne began to comply but found her eyes drawn to a dark shape above the tree-tops ahead, the sides jagged black teeth against the pale blue of the sky. The temple, she realised, recalling one of Clay’s shared memories. “Are we close to Krystaline Lake?” she enquired.

“Oh, Emperor’s Soul no,” Alestine laughed, crouching to gather up a fallen branch. “The lake lies over three hundred miles north-east of here.” She followed Lizanne’s gaze to the bulky silhouette above the trees. “Seen one like it before, I see. Krystaline Lake, eh? I must confess I had no idea there were ruins there.”

“A whole city in fact.”

“One I’ll never get to see, except through your eyes if you’re willing to share.”

Lizanne turned to her, finding the same half-sad, half-amused smile on her lips. It wasn’t unkind, but Lizanne found there was too much knowledge behind that smile for her to like it. “So in your vision I told you my world was burning,” she said. “In reality it has only just begun to smoulder, though I think the flames are about to rise very high indeed. I believe you know how to prevent that, and I would have you tell me.”

Alestine’s smile switched to a grimace, her face clouding in reflective sorrow. “Then I fear you may be disappointed, miss. But”—she dumped the branch she had gathered on the ground and set about searching for more—“let’s discuss it over dinner, shall we? I have an excellent cut of Cerath haunch to share. It’s good meat, but does require proper seasoning.”

She proved deaf to further questions so Lizanne helped her build the fire and a frame with which to spit the haunch of meat. Alestine scored the layer of fat coating the flesh with a knife then rubbed it with salt before sprinkling on some wild thyme. She constructed the frame in only a few moments, crafting two sturdy bipods and a cross-beam from scavenged wood. The swift, unconscious precision with which she went about the task was enough to banish any doubts Lizanne might have as to her identity. She looks like Tinkerer, she realised. Or Father when he’s particularly engrossed.

“The secret is to keep it turning,” Alestine said, adjusting the haunch’s position over the fire before turning to her pack. “Would you care for an aperitif?” She extracted a metal flask and two tin cups, handing one to Lizanne before pouring a pinkish liquid into it. “A local vintage,” Alestine said, raising her own cup to her nose to sample the aroma. “I’m afraid the name is quite unpronounceable. I call it ‘Kilnahria’s Milk.’”

Lizanne sniffed the substance, finding it pleasantly fruity, before taking a sip. “Very nice,” she said. “If a little strong for my tastes.”

“I’m glad you like it. You didn’t in the vision.” She drained her own cup and poured some more. “So, how did you like the music? I assume you unlocked the solargraph; otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

“A highly accomplished tune, to be sure. The musician I employed to decipher it was suitably impressed, and he is something of an expert in the music of your era.”

“And you, Miss Lethridge? Did you like it?”

There was a weight to Alestine’s gaze that caused Lizanne to conclude her answer was important. A test of some kind? she wondered. Did my vision self hate the music or love it? “It was beautiful,” she said, deciding honesty would be the best course. “But sad. Your musical skills appear to match your flair for things mechanical.”

“I can assure you they do not. I didn’t write the music, you see. I merely captured it for posterity, although it’s nice to know my flair for the mechanical had some uses.”

“A great many uses. So many in fact, people have killed to possess the fruits of your labour, myself included.”

“Such was never my intention.” Alestine took another sip from her cup and turned to the meat, asking Lizanne to help as she adjusted the spit to revolve the haunch above the flames. “Approach every task with care and diligence and you won’t go far wrong,” she said. “Something my mother never tired of telling me.”

“If you didn’t write the music,” Lizanne said, stepping back to waft the thickening smoke away, “who did?”

She saw the sadness return to Alestine’s face, though this time it was not accompanied by any humour. “A lady of my prior acquaintance,” she said. “You remind me a little of her. So much passion and humanity bound up in a tight, controlled package. I think you two would have gotten on quite well. Although, in time she would probably have come to see you as a threat and had you executed. She was prone to such things in later life, so I’m told.”

“Had me executed?” Lizanne asked. “A woman of some influence, then?”

“You could say that. They made her empress eventually, well, Emperor to be strictly accurate. Apparently the title cannot accommodate a change in gender.”

A singular memory sprang to the fore of Lizanne’s mind: one of the many statues adorning the miniature temples that lay outside the Corvantine Imperial Sanctum, a hawk-nosed woman rendered in marble. “The Empress Azireh,” she said. “You knew her? She wrote the music?”

“She wrote a great many things, but music was her passion. And yes, I knew her, but she wasn’t an empress then.”

There was a rustle of disturbed vegetation as Alestine turned towards the far end of the clearing, Lizanne following her gaze to see the foliage twisting and merging to form a new tableau. A young woman sat at a pianola, playing the same tune the Artisan had captured in the solargraph. Although the surrounding jungle remained unchanged, the floor beneath the pianola was smooth chequered marble reflecting a grand, palatial interior. Despite her youth Lizanne saw clearly the resemblance to the stern, commanding woman who would later adorn the temple built in her honour.

“She was just a lonely girl then,” Alestine went on as the young future empress played her beautifully sad music. “Lost in a court of privileged, scheming idiots who would quite happily have seen her dead. I’ve often thought divine blood was more a curse than a blessing. So much promise, so much more music to give to the world, all swallowed up by the fate her blood made for her. But, the young are ever prone to the hope, perhaps the delusion, that their fate can be changed.”

Lizanne watched as a young woman emerged from the jungle and bowed to the woman at the pianola, who immediately straightened into a much more attentive posture. The younger Alestine was also easy to recognise, but in this memory she wore the white blouse, black waistcoat and skirt of a Corvantine court attendant, and a low-ranking one at that. “It’s the upper c minor again, I’m afraid,” Azireh said, tapping one of the pianola’s keys. “A little tinny, don’t you think?”

“My musical knowledge was only functional,” the older Alestine told Lizanne as her younger self opened the lid of the pianola. “I knew enough to repair instruments but not play them with any skill. My primary duty in the Sanctum was fixing the various toys and automata with which the noble children amused themselves. The ‘Fiddly Girl,’ they called me, amongst other things.” She gave a fond chuckle. “Awful brats the lot of them, apart from one.”

At the young Alestine’s bidding Azireh repeatedly tapped the key as she worked away at something in the pianola’s innards. Lizanne was no expert but couldn’t detect more than a fractional change in the pitch. “I found out later she used to loosen the strings herself,” the older Alestine said. “Just so she would have a reason to talk to me.”

“That seems perfect, my lady,” her younger self said, closing the pianola lid and dropping into a low curtsy. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait a moment,” Azireh said. “I’ve been working on a little something and would so like your opinion. My lady attendants wouldn’t know a decent tune if I strangled them with it.”

She began to play without waiting for a response, the same composition as before but now executed with expert clarity and precision. Lizanne found it much more affecting than that recreated by the solargraph’s chimes, music that seemed to reach inside her, forcing her mind to explore the most vibrant memories, good and bad. It was both an unnerving and intoxicating experience, and, judging by the changing expression on the young Alestine’s face, one she shared in full measure. Up until now her face had maintained the same incurious, carefully neutral mode common to servants of long standing. Now she stared at the young woman before her with rapt fascination, a single tear tracing down her cheek.

“Love is always a surprise,” the older Alestine said. “Don’t you find? Whether it creeps up on you over the course of years or reaches out to snare you in an instant. The moment is always a revelation and it can happen in the space of a heart-beat, or the time it takes to play the most wondrous music a foolish young woman had ever heard.”

She looked away and the memory swiftly merged back into the jungle. “I do believe it’s time for another turn of the spit,” she said, moving back to the fire.

“You were lovers,” Lizanne said, finding the notion scarcely conceivable. A servant and a princess trysting in the Imperial Sanctum. “If you had been discovered . . .”

“Oh we were, make no mistake about that.” Alestine gestured for Lizanne to take the other end of the spit and together they turned the meat, the fire hissing and popping as grease flowed from the cuts. “We weren’t even particularly discreet. It wasn’t uncommon for nobles to indulge themselves with the servants. There was an unspoken tolerance for such things, life in the Sanctum being so monumentally dull. But not for us. For what we had was not mere indulgence, and that made it dangerous. For a time we were left in peace. Azireh had me assigned as her personal attendant and we lived in happy seclusion in our own little palace. She composed her music and I designed and constructed my toys, then came the Regency Wars.”

The sound of rustling plants came again and Lizanne looked round to see the entire clearing morphing into a grand ball-room. Huge chandeliers of glittering crystal hung from the ceiling above a dance floor streaked in blood from the many corpses that covered it. There were men and women, infants and elderly, all dressed in the finery befitting the various ranks of Corvantine nobility. From the pattern of the blood spatter Lizanne deduced this massacre had been carried out with the blade rather than the gun.

“The Coronation Day Purge,” Alestine said, sprinkling a little salt on the roasting meat. “At least half of the upper tier of Imperial aristocracy wiped out in a single day. I won’t go into the tedium of what led up to it. Suffice to say a bunch of malcontent inbreds wanted to seize power from the ruling bunch of inbreds. The result was the Regency Wars, which began with all this. Azireh survived, thanks to me. I dressed her up in servant’s clothes and we managed to escape the Sanctum. We took refuge in my grandparents’ house, which could have been a costly mistake, it being an obvious place to look. Luckily, her uncle found her before anyone else did. He heaved her up onto a horse and off they went. We barely had time to say good-bye and I didn’t see her again for five years. When I did, this is what they had made of her.”

The ball-room shimmered and shifted into an even grander room of cathedralesque proportions. Tall windows rose on each side and huge pillars supported vaulted ceilings of such height they were wreathed in mist gathered from the thousand or more people below. They were all kneeling in abject supplication, heads pressed to the floor and arms outstretched as they paid obeisance to a figure seated on a dais. Lizanne was barely able to recognise Azireh under the mask of alabaster paint that covered her face, her features bunched by the weight of the bejewelled crown atop her head. More than that was the new hardness to her eyes. These were the eyes of her statue, the eyes of a woman who had seen and done terrible things, too many to remain that same young woman who had once sabotaged her pianola just for the chance to talk to someone she thought she might love.

“Emperor Azireh I,” Alestine said. “Quite impressive isn’t she?”

Lizanne saw that there was one figure amongst the multitude who was not kneeling. Alestine stood at the rear of the huge vaulted chamber, clad in a plain muslin dress as she stared at the newly crowned empress that official history would record as an emperor. “This was the last time you saw her,” Lizanne realised.

“Yes.” Alestine didn’t turn from her cookery, crouching to add some more wood to the fire. “I was surprised to receive a formal invitation to the coronation, somewhat frightened in fact. But I went, nevertheless. How could I not? And I didn’t kneel, which was noticed but by then she was already so feared none would dare voice an objection. After the ceremony a chamberlain gave me an envelope. Inside was a large amount of money and notification that I had been commanded by the Emperor to undertake a research expedition to the continent of Kilnahria. There was also a note in her own hand, just one line: ‘Find me treasure.’”

The coronation faded into the green wall of the jungle as Alestine took a knife and cut a portion of meat from the haunch. “I do believe this is close to done,” she said, biting off a morsel before offering it to Lizanne. “Don’t you think?”

Lizanne took the meat, putting the whole piece in her mouth and discovering Cerath meat to be both flavoursome and tender. “She exiled you,” she said, chewing and swallowing.

“She had little choice. And I believe she thought she was being kind. I had often spoken of this place, you see. Idle talk about its many mysteries as we lay together in the small hours. It was a surprise to find she was actually listening. Ah!” She turned as fresh rustling sounded from the jungle. “It seems our guests have arrived.”

“Guests?”

“I invited a few old friends. I hope you don’t mind.”

Lizanne’s polite response died as a figure stepped out of the jungle, a tall figure carrying a spear and a war-club. His face, adorned in a black-and-white mottling of war-paint, was the distorted, scaled and hostile visage of a tribal Spoiled. Lizanne lunged for Alestine, catching her by the wrist and tearing the knife from her grip. Lizanne whirled to face the Spoiled as he dropped into a fighting crouch and charged, teeth bared in a snarl.

She side-stepped the Spoiled, lashing out with her knife in an attempt to sever the veins in its neck. It was too swift, however, dancing out of reach and countering with a fast sweep of its spear, aiming for her legs. Lizanne leapt over the weapon, rolled and cast her knife at the Spoiled’s face, an expert throw that would have skewered it through the eye. Instead the knife shuddered to a halt in mid air, where it continued to hang.

“That’s hardly the way to greet an honoured guest,” Alestine reproached her, moving to pluck the knife from the air before turning to the Spoiled. “Tree Speaker,” she said. “Good of you to come.”

The Spoiled continued to glare in challenge at Lizanne for several seconds then abruptly straightened into a calmer posture, the hostility fading from its face. “Maker of Things,” it greeted Alestine, speaking with such calm affability that Lizanne realised it was conforming to a pre-set sequence of events. This trance had been crafted with such care it was easy to forget the entire thing was essentially a narrative dream.

“You made yourself a pet Spoiled,” Lizanne said, watching Alestine lead the tribal to the fire where she cut him a portion of meat.

“I didn’t make anything,” she said with a laugh. “I merely discovered some new friends.”

She inclined her head at the jungle where more Spoiled had begun to appear. There were about fifty of them, male and female, all of fighting age and carrying weapons. They were clad in a similar garb of soft dark leather, albeit with a few individual embellishments. Some wore face-paint of various hues whilst others didn’t. Some wore necklaces of bone or beads, whilst others were unadorned. She had had little opportunity to study the tribal Spoiled that attacked Carvenport but she did recall a rigid uniformity of appearance amongst the different tribal groups. Her experience during the final moments aboard the Profitable Venture had provided a partial explanation. They share minds. It’s how the White controls them.

“There was a Gathering,” Tree Speaker told Alestine with grave formality. “Your words were heard. Agreement was reached.” He pointed his spear at the temple above the trees. “We will go with you to end what must be ended.”

“And very decent of you it is too,” Alestine replied, handing him some meat. “Best eat up. From what I recall you’re going to need your strength.”

Lizanne spent some time in confused contemplation, gaze roaming the assembled Spoiled as they came forward to share in the feast. “Language,” she said finally, one particular realisation rising through the babble of thoughts. “Are they speaking yours or you theirs?”

“Does it matter?” Alestine asked and Lizanne realised that it didn’t, at least not here. In the trance, language was thought.

“But if this is a memory you must have found a way to communicate,” she persisted. “Did you . . . change them somehow?”

Alestine gave a full, hearty laugh that lasted long enough for Lizanne to find quite aggravating. “No,” Alestine said when she finally sobered, shaking her head and wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “If anything, it was the opposite. They found me not far from here, a few years before all this. I’d had the misfortune to encounter some of their less friendly cousins and was in rather dire need of medical attention. Tree Speaker’s daughter found me, bleeding away and close to death.” She smiled fondly at the Spoiled, who was now busily gorging himself on Cerath flesh. “He’s a healer as well as a warrior. They have a remarkable knowledge of the healing properties of Green, and all manner of medicinal herbs to be found in this jungle. They usually kill our kind when they find us, the Sickened they call us. But for me they made an exception.” Her face took on a more serious aspect and she turned to regard the temple. “I think because somehow they knew we would share an important task one day.”

“What’s in there?” Lizanne said, moving to her side. “Your empress’s treasure?”

“I suppose you could call it that. The greatest treasure and the greatest danger.” She raised her gaze to the sky as a rumble of thunder sounded. “It appears you’re running out of Blue, Miss Lethridge. Do be sure to call again soon. Tell your musician friend to take a look at the Follies of Cevokas.”

“Wait.” Lizanne winced as a pulse of confusion went through her, the sense of dislocation that indicated the end of a trance. “You locked your memories in Tinkerer’s head for a reason. You knew we would meet. I need to know why.”

“You already have what you need,” Alestine said, the jungle turning to mist around her as the trance neared its terminus. She gestured at the Spoiled as they transformed into vague, wisp-like ghosts. “For now, at least. I look forward to your next visit . . .”

CHAPTER 16

Clay

“They should call this place Bug-aria,” Loriabeth said, slapping a hand against her neck to squash yet another fly. They hung over the water in thick swarms and would plague the Lady Malynda at regular intervals as she ploughed her way north along the Quilam. Lieutenant Sigoral had the best map-reading skills amongst them and reckoned it had taken two days to cover some twenty miles of river. Skaggerhill blamed the current, which had a tendency to force random shifts in the boat’s course as well as impeding progress despite the efforts of her engine. As yet there had been no change in the green wall of reeds that covered both banks, if anything Clay thought they had grown taller as the miles wore on.

“Seer dammit, you little bastards!” Loriabeth cursed, slapping at her arms and neck as the Malynda carried them through another swarm.

“Cover up more,” Sigoral told her, pulling a duster from beneath his bench. He had donned a seaman’s jacket to ward off the flies, finding the sweat and discomfort caused by the humid atmosphere preferable to the attentions of the insects.

“In this heat?” Loriabeth said, more in resignation than protest, and she voiced no further objection as the lieutenant settled the heavy garment around her shoulders.

Kriz was the only member of the crew who didn’t feel obliged to cover her skin as the constant pall of smoke from the Malynda’s engine proved a deterrent to the bugs. Chief Bozware’s design was ingenious but not especially efficient, being prone to emitting a variety of unpleasant miasmas, a sooty, oil-tinged smoke being the most copious.

“We’ll need fuel soon,” Kriz told Clay, blinking at him above the handkerchief she used to shield her lungs from the engine’s vapours. “At this rate the coal will be exhausted by tomorrow afternoon.”

“She’d run on wood well enough,” Skaggerhill put in from the tiller before casting a sour glance at their surroundings. “If there was any to be had round here.”

“How about reducing speed?” Clay asked. “Won’t she burn less then?”

“We’re barely making headway as it is,” Skaggerhill said. “Any slower and we’ll be standing still.”

“We could harvest some reeds,” Sigoral suggested. “They should burn.”

“Not enough . . .” Kriz frowned, evidently translating the explanation in her head. “Energy. Besides, we would need to dry them out first.”

Clay turned his gaze to the prow where his uncle sat in customary, unspeaking vigilance. He had barely moved from the spot so far, except to partake of a brief meal or clean his rifle. “Any guidance to offer here, Uncle?” Clay called to him. “You know this place, right?”

He wasn’t sure Braddon would answer. He hadn’t said a word since setting off and even Loriabeth’s attempts to elicit a response had met with either non-committal grunts or outright silence. Today, however, he seemed willing to talk. “There’s an island,” he said, not turning. “’Bout ten miles on where the river widens. It’s got trees on it.” He paused and added, “Greens too, most likely.”

Clay’s gaze automatically began to scan the river, as it did whenever mention of Greens was made. So far they hadn’t seen a single sign of any drakes, not even a ripple in the Quilam’s swift-flowing surface. Even so, the sense of being observed had lingered ever since leaving the Superior. This is their place, he reminded himself. Even before the White I doubt they appreciated visitors.

“Can’t be helped,” he said, forcing a brisk decisiveness into his tone. It was something he noticed Hilemore tended to do when things weren’t going well. “There’s no walking out of here. Lieutenant, how long before we make this island?”

Sigoral briefly consulted his map and compass. “It’s not marked on this chart,” he said. “But assuming it’s to be found ten miles on, we should be there by late afternoon.”

“Everyone clean and load your iron,” Clay said. “Preacher, when we get there I want you at the prow with Uncle Braddon. You two’ll kill any Greens on the island, the rest of us will keep them off the boat.”

True to Sigoral’s calculation the island came into view a few minutes past the seventeenth hour. It was formed of a narrow spit of land some two hundred yards long and about fifty wide with, Clay was relieved to see, a copse of stunted but thick-limbed trees rising from its centre.

“What d’you see?” he asked Preacher as Skaggerhill steered them towards the eastern shore of the island.

The marksman took a moment to thoroughly scan the place before replying. “Only two. Starting to stir. Looks like the engine woke them up.”

“Take ’em as soon as you’re sure of the shot,” Clay said, pistol in one hand and vials of Red, Green and Black in the other as his gaze roved the river and the banks. Braddon fired almost immediately, the shot like a thunder-clap as it echoed across the water. His Protectorate-issue rifle had been equipped with a telescopic sight, a gift from the Superior’s armoury courtesy of Mr. Steelfine, enabling a clean kill even at this range. He worked the bolt and fired again after only the slightest pause, grunting, “Got both.”

“Take us in,” Clay told Skaggerhill then crouched to retrieve the bag of tools Chief Bozware had stowed in the lower hull. The engineer had had the foresight to include a saw and a pair of axes. “Me and the lieutenant will gather the fuel. The rest of you watch the water.”

He drank a full vial of Green and nodded at Sigoral to do the same. They leapt clear of the Malynda as Skaggerhill grounded her on the island’s sandy eastern bank, rushing into the trees in search of the most easily harvested timber. Sigoral chose a sapling and set about its trunk with the axe, hacking through it in less than a minute. Clay found a more thickly bodied tree farther in, the trunk too broad to be felled, but with a number of easily severed branches. By the time the Green wore off they had amassed a considerable pile of wood, albeit of less-than-regular proportions.

“Guess carpentry ain’t your strong suit,” Skaggerhill observed, eyeing the pile in amusement.

“We’ll saw it up on the boat,” Clay said, gathering logs into his arms. “Lend a hand here, will you?”

They had piled most of the wood onto the boat when he heard a commotion in the trees. Recognising Loriabeth’s voice raised in anger and alarm, Sigoral immediately snatched up his carbine and charged into the undergrowth, Clay and the others close behind.

“Just stop it, Pa! Please!” They found Loriabeth in a small clearing, staring at her father in shocked misery, tears shining in her eyes. Braddon stood a short distance away, hefting something in his hands. Something small that wriggled and screeched as he swung it up and then down. The screeching abruptly ceased as the thing’s head made contact with a boulder, the skull cracking open to spill blood and brains.

A chorus of screeches dragged Clay’s gaze from the grisly sight to a pair of infant Greens. They scrabbled about in a nest surrounded by the remnants of their scorched shells, hides shifting colour in distress. Only just hatched, Clay realised as his uncle bent to retrieve one of the infants, grabbing it by the hind legs and swinging it up and back.

“Uncle,” Clay said, wincing as the infant’s head connected with the boulder, its brains mixing with that of its sibling. Loriabeth let out a sob and took an involuntary step towards her father, fists balled. Clay caught her before she could launch herself at Braddon, who barely seemed to notice.

“That’s enough, Uncle,” Clay said as Braddon tossed the dead infant aside and reached for the last one. He appeared deaf to Clay’s words, tearing his arm away as Clay reached for him.

“Captain!” Skaggerhill had arrived at the clearing and stood staring at the scene, eyes wide and appalled.

“It’s time for them to die, Skaggs,” Braddon said, reaching for the final infant. “All of them.”

“Contractor’s code,” Skaggerhill said, stepping forward to grip Braddon by the shoulders. The harvester gave a brief shake of his captain’s shoulders. “Young ’uns are left be. Elst what are we gonna hunt in days to come?”

“Time for hunting’s over,” Braddon replied, Clay seeing a strange emptiness in his uncle’s eyes as he regarded Skaggerhill. “It’s time for slaughter now. Ain’t no room in this world for both us and them. The thing that commands them sees it. Time we did too.”

He tried to shrug off Skaggerhill’s hands but the harvester held on, a certain desperate bafflement creeping into his voice as he said, “This ain’t you, Captain. And it ain’t us . . .”

His words were abruptly drowned out by the flat crack of a longrifle from the direction of the boat, followed soon after by a flurry of pistol shots. “Greens!” Clay said. “Get back to the Malynda.”

Sigoral and Loriabeth immediately sprinted off, followed by Skaggerhill after a brief, hesitant glance at Braddon, who stood unmoving, gaze locked on the squalling infant drake. It had calmed now and stared up at its would-be murderer, yellow eyes blinking as it let out a series of chirps, small tail sweeping from side to side.

“Let’s go, Uncle,” Clay said, his voice pitched just below a shout. Braddon took a step towards the infant, boot raised. “I said, let’s go!” Clay stepped between his uncle and the drake, meeting his gaze and finding the previous emptiness replaced with dark, quivering fury.

“Since when do you command me, boy?” Braddon demanded in a low voice.

Clay looked over his shoulder as another volley of shots sounded from the direction of the Malynda. “We ain’t got time for . . .” he began, turning back to take his uncle’s fist in the face. As he landed flat on his back, tasting blood and blinking away stars, he at least had the satisfaction of seeing the infant Green scamper off into the undergrowth.

“This is my company,” Braddon said, advancing towards him, fist pulled back for another punch. He let out a pained grunt as Clay jack-knifed, lashing out with both boots to catch his uncle in the chest. Clay rolled to his feet and swung a punch into Braddon’s jaw, hard enough to set him back a step or two.

“Not any more,” Clay said, jabbing another blow at his uncle’s nose, drawing blood. “Not since you gave it up to wallow in the shit of your misery.” He lashed out again, catching Braddon on the chin, then followed up with a three-punch combination to the body that left the older man stooped and winded. “It’s my company now.” Another punch, blood flying from Braddon’s lips as he reeled away. “You ain’t nothing no more, old man!” A right hook to the side of the head, Braddon staggering, about to fall. “Aunt Freda would be ashamed . . .”

Braddon’s arm moved in a blur as Clay’s fist swung again, blocking the blow before taking hold of his arm. He delivered a punch of his own to Clay’s gut, doubling him over, before hoisting him up and tossing him into the bushes. Clay groaned, clutching at his aching midriff as he tried to fill his winded lungs. After a few ragged breaths he managed to roll over and began to push himself upright, then saw his uncle striding towards him with a drawn pistol.

Shit, thought Clay. Guess I finally made him mad enough to kill me.

Braddon brought the pistol level with his chest and fired, left hand fanning the hammer as he loosed off a rapid salvo. Clay heard something heavy hit the ground behind him and turned to see a fully grown aquatic Green lying dead a short distance away, its hide continuing to flicker as it twitched. His gaze swung back to his uncle, now calmly but swiftly slotting cartridges into his revolver. He met Clay’s eyes, sighed and stooped to offer him a hand.

“If you’re gonna hit a man,” he said. “Make sure you put him down with the first blow.”

Clay took the proffered hand and hauled himself upright, drawing his revolver and following as his uncle set off for the boat at a run. They found it wreathed in gunsmoke with several Green corpses littering the surrounding sand-bank. Kriz had already stoked the engine to full power and Skaggerhill sat at the tiller, beckoning urgently for them to get aboard. Clay fixed his gaze on the boat and accelerated into a sprint, refusing to look back as a chorus of enraged growls erupted behind. Preacher stood at the prow of the boat, rifle at his shoulder and apparently aimed at Clay’s head. He instinctively jerked to the side but Preacher had already fired, the bullet whipping past Clay’s ear like an angry hornet before finding its target.

Skaggerhill had drawn the Malynda a few yards away from the bank to get her clear of the sand, so they were obliged to wade through the last few yards. Preacher and Sigoral kept up a steady barrage as Kriz and Loriabeth helped haul Clay and Braddon aboard. Once they lay gasping on the deck Kriz engaged the propeller, setting the boat into forward motion.

“They get you?” Loriabeth asked, her gaze switching from Clay’s bloodied face to that of her father.

“Ran into a tree,” Clay replied, wiping blood from his nose and getting to his feet. He looked back at the island, finding it overrun with Greens, all howling a chorus of rage in their high-pitched, almost bird-like voices. A few slipped into the water in pursuit but soon fell behind thanks to the Malynda’s speed, aided by the reduced current, which seemed to be less swift in this stretch of river.

“Why ain’t they coming for us?” Braddon wondered, frowning in puzzlement. “Thought the White wants us dead.”

“I don’t think the White’s got hold of them right now,” Clay said, recalling the nest and the infant Greens. “They’re just defending the place where their young ’uns get hatched.”

He sat down, taking a canteen and tipping some of the contents over his face to wash away the rest of the blood. He had a lingering ache in his gut and a swelling below his eye but it looked like his uncle had spared him any permanent damage or lost teeth. Braddon, it turned out, hadn’t been so lucky. Clay watched him take the bench opposite and open his mouth wide, reaching inside to pluck out a tooth. He gave Clay a sour glance before tossing it over the side.

Clay winced at a sudden upsurge of pain in his gut. He extracted a vial of Green from his wallet and took a quarter sip before offering it to his uncle. “Won’t grow a new tooth, but it’ll take away the pain and heal the hole.”

Braddon shrugged and accepted the vial, taking a small sip before tipping the entire contents down his throat. He sat for a time, jaws clenched against the burn of the Green. “So . . . Captain,” he said eventually. “There’s still a great deal of country betwixt us and Krystaline Lake. You got any notion of what we’re gonna do when we get to the end of this river?”

Clay gave a humourless grin. “Was kinda hoping you did, Captain.”

Seen through the lens of a spy-glass the Cerath seemed small at first, Clay initially concluding they were of horse-like dimensions, albeit with a longer neck and more sturdy body and legs. It was only when one of them began grazing on the upper leaves of a tree that he gained a true impression of their size. “At least a third again bigger than the biggest horse I ever saw,” he said, handing the spy-glass back to his uncle. “You really think we can tame these beasts?”

“Tame them, no,” Braddon said. “But you can ride them.”

“You sure, Pa?” Loriabeth asked, shielding her eyes to view the Cerath herd. “Seem a little rambunctious to me.”

Clay surveyed the herd once more, seeing two of the larger beasts squaring up for a confrontation. They both pawed the ground with their fore-hooves, heads lowered as they bellowed out a challenge that could be heard even at this distance. After a lengthy period of bellowing and earth scraping the Cerath charged at each other, dust billowing across the plain as they met. They fought by rearing up and assailing one another with their hooves, reminding Clay of inexpert drunks fighting in a Blinds bar. The combat was brief if loud, one Cerath abruptly abandoning the fight to gallop away a short distance. Its opponent chased it for a short time then veered off, spending a few moments to call out in triumph before returning to the business of grazing on the long grass that seemed to dominate the southern plains.

“That’s the bull,” Braddon said. “He’s the one we want.”

The Lady Malynda had come to a grinding halt in the shallows of the upper Quilam two days before, forcing them to proceed on foot. They cut reeds to camouflage her, there being the faint possibility that a Spoiled might happen upon her in their absence. Hauling their gear and Kriz’s apparatus across the marsh to the plains had been both tedious and exhausting. The spongey, bug-infested land seemed to go on forever and their feet suffered from the constant damp. By the time the marsh gave way to firm grasslands Clay had to order an extended halt just to dry out their feet. Consequently, he had welcomed his uncle’s suggestion that they ride rather than walk to Krystaline Lake, but now he wasn’t so sure. Still, it was an awfully long way.

“Alright,” he said. “How’s this done?”

“Cerath’s a herd animal,” Braddon said a short time later. He led Clay towards the herd with a purposeful stride, making no effort at concealment. “The bull’s the leader and the rest are so loyal they’ll follow him over a cliff. Curious thing about these beasts is they get all docile-like once you’re on their back. Met a naturalist fella in Carvenport once, said it was to do with their size. They’re so big nothing of any weight ever sits on them. Even the drakes don’t land on them when they hunt the herds. Blacks’ll pin them to the ground and Reds’ll roast their legs so’s they can’t run off. So when something gets astride them they get set in a state of scared confusion. Thing is”—he paused and came to a halt, turning and handing Clay a length of coiled rope—“only ever seen this done by a Blood-blessed. Us normal folk are just too slow.”

Clay looked at the bull, which by now had noticed their approach. The other Cerath were slowly gathering behind him as he stared at the two small interlopers, jaws grinding on a mouthful of grass and one foreleg stamping the ground. “That’s a warning sign,” Braddon said, although Clay hadn’t really needed the explanation. At this remove the bull seemed much larger than his first estimation and it was hard to credit being able to control such a beast just by virtue of landing on its back.

“It has to be him, huh?” he asked Braddon, reaching for his wallet.

“Yep. Try landing on one of the smaller ones and the others’ll just run off and leave it. Be sure to loop that rope around his neck soon as you can.”

Clay took a vial of Green from his wallet, drank it all then, after a moment’s consideration, drank another. He waited for the product to flood his system, feeling his limbs thrum with it as he focused on the bull. The animal clearly sensed an increased level of danger for it let out a bellow, head lowering and fore-hooves pawing. Clay set off at a sprint, Green-enhanced speed making the grassland blur around him as he sped towards the bull. It bellowed again and charged to meet the challenge. Time seemed to slow as Clay closed with the animal, the dust it raised from the plain ascending in gentle clouds and the huge muscles of its legs quivering. After covering the last few yards it planted both fore-hooves on the ground and spun, lashing out with its hind legs. Clay dived and rolled under the flailing hooves, coming to a halt as the bull whirled to face him.

They stared at each other for a second, separated by a distance of barely ten feet. The Cerath shook its mighty head, eyes narrowed in wary contemplation of its foe. Unwilling to allow it the time to launch another attack, Clay surged into a sprint once more, covering the distance in two strides and leaping as high as his enhanced strength would allow. He turned head over heels in mid air, twisting with an acrobat’s precision to bring himself down squarely on the bull’s back . . . then let out a painful grunt as the bull dodged aside and he landed hard on the ground.

The bull roared and reared above him, hooves rising for a killing stamp, then froze. The beast’s roar choked off in its throat as it continued to stand there on its hind legs, immobile as a statue.

“Looked like you needed some help.”

Clay looked round to see Sigoral standing a short distance away, his gaze locked on the bull with the kind of concentration that only came from use of Black.

“That’s the truth.” Clay got to his feet, unslinging the coiled rope from his shoulders. “Probably should’ve thought of this in the first place.” He leapt onto the bull’s back, swiftly looping the rope over its neck before the elevated angle caused him to slip off. “Alright,” he told Sigoral, who nodded and withdrew his Black before wisely retreating several yards.

The bull let out a strange sound as it settled onto all four legs. It was somewhere between a sigh and a whinny and spoke of a deep, primal distress. Clay had expected it to buck or stamp, but true to his uncle’s word it just stood there, its sighs becoming more shrill by the second.

“Easy, big fella,” Clay said, smoothing a hand along the beast’s leathery hide. The bull twitched in response, craning its head to view the thing on its back with wide, fearful eyes. Clay continued to try and soothe it without much success before it occurred to him he had no notion of how to get it to move.

“Lay the rope on the right side of his neck,” Braddon said a short while later. “Gentle like, no need to whip him.” Clay did as he said, the muscles of the bull’s right shoulder shuddering in response as the animal shifted to the left. It came to a halt when he removed the rope from its hide. Clay tried the same trick with the left side with similar results. “Lay it on his rump to get him to walk,” Braddon said. “A couple of taps and he’ll run, but don’t try that just yet. Gotta get the rest of them in line.”

The other Cerath continued to stand a short way off, voicing sighing whinnies of distress but displaying no sign of any violent action. It was as if the immobility of the bull cast some sort of spell over them, robbing them of their will. A few grew skittish as the rest of the company approached, some shying away. At Braddon’s direction Lieutenant Sigoral used Black to hold a chosen few still long enough for them to be mounted and the gear securely strapped in place.

“Compass bearing, if you please, Lieutenant,” Braddon said once they had all mounted up. “East-north-east.”

Sigoral rode behind Loriabeth, who had hold of the reins of their Cerath, a young male only a few inches shorter than the bull. Unlike the herd leader, however, this beast was prone to continually turning about so it took awhile for the lieutenant to get a compass bearing. “That way,” he said finally, pointing towards a stretch of open plain.

“Once he starts he won’t stop till he’s tired,” Braddon called to Clay. “And that may take a good long while so hold tight.”

It took Clay a few minutes to manoeuvre the bull into position, the rest of the herd growing more agitated as he did so. Once he was reasonably sure the beast was facing the required direction Clay slapped the rope twice against his rump, whereupon the bull let out a throaty roar of alarm and spurred into a gallop.

Clay gave an involuntary laugh of exhilaration as the Cerath sped across the grasslands. Its speed far outstripped that of any horse he had ever ridden and the joy of acceleration came close to matching the feeling of riding atop Lutharon’s back. A thunder of hooves caused him to look over his shoulder to be greeted by the sight of the rest of the herd following, the earth seeming to tremble as they raced to keep up with their leader. Dust rose high enough to obscure the sun so that it felt like they were galloping through a foggy void. Clay turned his gaze to the front where the plains stretched away like a yellow-green sea. Taking a firm grip on the rope coiled about the bull’s neck he wondered if it might have been a good idea to drink some more Green before setting off.

CHAPTER 17

Lizanne

Lizanne blinked and found herself back in the hold, Makario retreating from her in surprise and lowering the mirror he had been holding close to her mouth. “Checking for breath,” he said. “You were gone a long time.”

Lizanne realised she had been placed on a bunk and concluded she must have collapsed. Usually a Blood-blessed would remain in the same seated pose whilst trancing. This one had evidently been different. Jermayah, Tekela and her father stood close by, all staring at her with worried faces. Lizanne swung her legs off the bunk, groaning a little at the lingering fog in her head. The Artisan’s trance had been the deepest and most vibrant she had experienced and leaving it rather felt like stepping from one world to another.

“Are you alright?” her father asked, moving closer to place a hand on her forehead. “Your temperature’s low. I’ll fetch Dr. Weygrand.”

“I’m fine,” she said, trying to swallow and finding her mouth dry. “Some water would be nice, though.”

“I’ll get it,” Tekela said, immediately scampering off.

Seeing Tinkerer on the next bunk Lizanne reached out to grasp his arm, giving it a gentle shake. “Do you remember anything?” she asked.

Tinkerer gave no response, continuing to lie still, eyes closed. Lizanne took his hand, finding it cold and seeing that his chest was barely moving. “I think you’d better get the doctor after all,” she told her father.

“Some form of comatose state,” Dr. Weygrand said a short while later. “But of a kind I’ve never seen before.”

He had conducted a full examination of the artificer, pronouncing his condition stable but unresponsive. Attempts to wake him with smelling-salts or prods from a small but sharp needle to the soles of his feet had produced no reaction. The doctor sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I’ll need to transfer him to the medical bay, rig up an intravenous drip to ensure he doesn’t dehydrate. I can add some stimulants to the mix which might wake him up.”

“No,” Lizanne said. He’s waiting, she realised. Or rather she’s waiting. Pumping drugs into his veins could disrupt his memories. “Thank you, Doctor,” she went on. “But I believe he’s best left unmedicated for now. However, I can’t stress enough how important it is that he remain alive.”

“It’s important for me that all my patients remain alive, miss,” Weygrand replied.

“Of course.” She smiled and gestured for Makario to follow her to a secluded corner of the hold. “The Follies of Cevokas,” she said. “Does it mean anything to you?”

“It’s a comic opera,” he said. “Dating back to the Third Imperium. Cevokas was . . .”

“A possibly fictional explorer of the Arradsian continent, I know. The tales of his exploits are classics of Corvantine literature.”

“And the basis for the Follies. It’s a fairly minor work, but highly popular in its day. It does seem a little vulgar for the Artisan’s tastes. He strikes me as a more discerning fellow.”

“She,” Lizanne corrected. “And she made it clear that we need to study the Follies of Cevokas. I believe there’s another movement to the composition, something that will unlock further memories from her chosen vessel.”

Makario glanced back at Tinkerer, silent and pale on the bunk. “So he’ll remain like this until we come up with the next movement?”

“I think so.”

The musician pursed his lips, frowning deeply, presumably as archaic tunes played in his head. “I’ll need to reconstruct the opera from memory. It’ll take awhile.”

Catching sight of her father returning to his work-bench, Lizanne started towards him. “Tekela might be able to help,” she told Makario. “She does seem to have a facility for such things.”

“And an equal facility for getting on my bloody nerves,” he added.

“Time is a factor,” she reminded him before joining her father. He was engaged in an improved version of the aerostat’s blood-burner, a new feed mechanism that would enable product to be combusted in batches rather than all at once. “Tinkerer’s rocket,” she said. “Do you think you can finish it?”

Captain Trumane’s course guided the fleet in a wide arc around Iskamir Island, keen to limit any contact with Varestian vessels during the voyage. They saw a few merchantmen over the course of the next few days but none felt the need to investigate such a large formation of foreigners. It was only when they made the westward turn towards Blaska Sound that a flotilla of fast, sloop-class ships appeared on the northern flank of their convoy. A few hours later another flotilla of similar size appeared to the south. The Varestian ships maintained a consistent distance from the fleet, making no attempt at communication.

“Making sure we don’t change our minds,” Trumane concluded after the second flotilla appeared. He tracked his spy-glass along the line of Varestian vessels, grunting in grim recognition. “Pirates, the lot of them. That one in the lead is the Ironspike. Chased her all the way around the Southern Barrier Isles a few years ago. The captain kept throwing his cargo away to increase speed. After a while we started finding the bodies of his crew. He couldn’t have had more than a half dozen men left by the time a storm brewed up. Had hoped the bugger had foundered in it.”

Blaska Sound came into view the next morning, a mist-shrouded estuary about three miles wide. The passage was further constricted by a series of granite reefs that prohibited any rapid manoeuvring. Trumane signalled one of the smaller ships to lead the way, a one-paddle mail packet of aged appearance but with a veteran captain renowned for his navigational skills. The Viable Opportunity took up station a mile to the east, circling slowly with all hands at battle stations. Trumane maintained a rigid vigilance over their Varestian escorts as the fleet made its way into the Sound, calling out the range to each ship for the ensign at his shoulder to note down. Lizanne felt there to be a certain theatre in all of this, Trumane putting on a show to bolster the nerves of his crew. However, he must have known that whilst the Viable was a formidable ship, if the Varestians chose to attack she would be overwhelmed in short order.

“Looks as if your employers are keeping their end of the bargain,” he said, lowering the spy-glass as the last of the refugee vessels proceeded into the Sound. “For now at least. Helm, steer forty points to port. Mr. Tollver, signal the engine room to take us to one-third speed.”

“What a Divinity-forsaken dump,” Tekela observed as the Viable weighed anchor off Raker’s Mount. The place consisted of a loose arrangement of dilapidated hovels clustered around a series of hill-sized slag-heaps. The mine itself was a gaping black hole gouged into the slope of the mountain that loomed over the town. An incline railway line led all the way from the mine to the docks, which were the only truly impressive feature the settlement had to offer.

Five piers jutted out from the quay, which had been constructed atop a granite shelf that became a cliff at low tide. Consequently, the piers had been built on tall supporting legs of iron, each one streaked with rust. It was a testament to the sturdiness of their original construction that the piers were still standing after so many years of neglect. The steam-driven elevators that had once conveyed cargo and crew from moored vessels to the docks were apparently rusted to uselessness. Therefore, the fleet had been obliged to wait for high tide before disembarking the refugees. They were crowding onto the quayside in increasing numbers, most standing around in groups which reflected the ship they had spent so many weeks aboard. A few had begun to drift into the town in search of shelter but it was clear to Lizanne that a great deal of organisation would be needed before these people could be called a work-force.

“You should’ve seen Scorazin, my dear,” Makario told Tekela. “This is a genteel spa-town in comparison. Besides, I’ll be happy just to feel solid ground beneath my feet again. I find myself heartily sick of a sailor’s life.”

“If not the sailors,” Tekela muttered, earning a stern look from Lizanne.

“It looks as if I’ll have need of your secretarial skills once more,” she told her. “I trust you can find a note-book somewhere.”

“I thought I’d take the Firefly up again,” Tekela said. “Have a scout around.”

“Firefly?”

“The aerostat. I decided she should have a name.”

“Very nice, I’m sure.” Lizanne turned and started towards the derrick where Ensign Tollver was preparing a launch to take them to shore. “But I’m afraid your aerial adventures will have to wait.” She paused as an angry murmur rose from the direction of the docks. Two of the refugee groups had begun to jostle each other, voices raised as pushes and shoves soon became punches and kicks.

“Be sure to bring a revolver along with the note-book,” Lizanne added. “I believe we’re about to have a very trying day.”

“We work or we starve.”

The assembled crowd hushed as Lizanne’s words swept over them. She stood atop a raised platform in what had once been a shed used to house the locomotive engines for the incline railway. It was the largest covered space in the town and therefore a useful place for a general meeting. It also benefited from a scaffold of elevated walkways where a number of riflemen from the Viable had been stationed. She was flanked on either side by Captain Trumane and Madame Hakugen, and had hoped that the presence of the refugee fleet’s leaders, and the riflemen, might moderate any discontent. At this juncture, however, the assembly seemed unimpressed and certainly not cowed.

The hush that followed Lizanne’s statement was soon replaced by a babble of discontented voices, rising in pitch and volume. “We are not slaves!” one woman near the front shouted as she and a dozen others struggled against the line of sailors positioned in front of the platform. “I have children!” shouted another. “Corporate bitch!” added someone else.

Lizanne pressed the first and third buttons on the Spider and let loose with a blast of heated air, spread wide enough to prickle the skin but not set anything alight, along with a hard shove of Black, which sent the refugees at the forefront of the mob sprawling.

“I apologise,” Lizanne said, breaking the silence that followed. The crowd stared at her now, fear on most faces, but also plenty of defiance too. “Clearly I did not introduce myself properly,” she went on. “My name is indeed Lizanne Lethridge and I truly am a shareholder in the Ironship Protectorate. But I have another name, one I earned at Carvenport. They called me Miss Blood, and it was not a name I came by accidentally.”

She paused, scanning the crowd. She was quite prepared to send a concentrated blast of Black into the face of anyone who shouted another insult, but for now they seemed content to remain silent. “At Carvenport I organised a defence that saw thousands to safety,” she said. “I did so because those people gave me their trust, as I gave them mine. So I ask you to trust me now as I set out, in clear terms, the reality of our current circumstance.

“We have been provided with this haven, ugly as it is, not because our hosts desire our company or because their hearts are swollen with compassion at our plight. We exist here because I promised them weapons. You will make those weapons. If you do not the best we can expect from our hosts is to be told to leave. I don’t think you need a great deal of imagination to deduce what the worst will be.”

She allowed a few seconds to let the information settle, seeing a measure of defiance slip from some faces, and the fear deepen on others. “But know that the weapons we will construct here will not just be for our hosts,” she continued. “Sooner or later an army of monsters will come for us, and there will be no corner of the world left in which to hide. Running before this storm is no longer an option. I told you we work or we starve, and that is true. What is also true is that we fight or we die.”

She let the subsequent silence string out, hearing a murmur of tense discussion but no more shouts. “This facility will be run in accordance with corporate law,” she said, adopting a brisk, managerial tone. “With the addition of certain provisions in the Protectorate Disciplinary Code. Desertion will be punished by death. Shirking work will be punished by reduction of rations. Repeat offenders will be flogged. Every adult of fighting age will receive two hours’ military training a day. Crèches and schools will be organised for the children.”

She pointed to the rear of the shed where Ensign Tollver and a group of sailors had begun to set up a row of tables. “Please form orderly lines. Provide your name, age, previous work history and any useful skills. Any Blood-blessed will also make themselves known. We will be conducting a blood lot eventually so if you have the Blessing there’s no point trying to hide it.”

“A little to the left!” her father called from atop the scaffold. Lizanne injected an additional measure of Black and concentrated her gaze on the bulbous steel container she had manoeuvred onto the twenty-foot-tall bottle-shaped brick chimney. There were several such chimneys scattered about the town, usually found in proximity to the slag-heaps. Lizanne had initially seen little of interest in them so was surprised by her father’s enthusiasm for what he called “coking ovens.”

“Stop!” he called, waving his arms. Lizanne halted the flow of Black and the container settled onto the chimney-top with an ugly groan of metal on brick. “Excellent,” he said, then called on his assigned group of workers to start shovelling coal into the aperture in the chimney’s base. Once the oven had been filled he turned expectantly to Lizanne. “I think this would go quicker if you would . . .” he said, gesturing at the Spider.

Lizanne moved to crouch at the aperture, injecting a dose of Red before concentrating her gaze on the mass of coal. She stepped back as a deep red glow blossomed in the pile, then jerked aside as the whole thing burst into fiery life, the jet of flame coming close to singeing the sleeve of her overalls.

“Close it up,” the professor commanded and a labourer came forward with a long iron pole to secure an iron door over the blazing aperture. Lizanne climbed the scaffold to peer over her father’s shoulder as he stared at a dial fixed to a valve in the container’s side.

“It’s working,” he said as the dial’s indicator began to inch upwards. “We have ourselves a gas-plant.”

“Coal-gas will work as well as helium?” she asked.

“It doesn’t have quite the same lifting power but we can compensate for that with an expanded envelope. It does benefit from being less flammable than hydrogen. But given that we have neither helium nor hydrogen there seems little alternative in any case.”

The sound of a ship’s siren drew Lizanne’s gaze to the docks. She could see men running to their stations on the deck of the Viable Opportunity whilst smoke blossomed from her stacks. The reason for the commotion soon became clear as she saw a sleek Varestian sloop approaching from the eastern stretch of the Sound. She was flying a truce flag but it seemed Captain Trumane wasn’t willing to allow the Viable to remain at her mooring with a potential threat so close.

“Our hosts have decided to pay us a visit,” she said.

“Good,” her father said. “I hope they brought some copper.”

“Did you know?” Arshav Okanas glared at her with dark, angry eyes. He had arrived on shore with a ten-man escort led by the perennially stern of face Mr. Lockbar. Lizanne decided to meet Arshav with a squad of riflemen under Ensign Tollver’s command. The two groups eyed each other across the wharf whilst Lizanne stepped forward to offer her employer the most polite greeting she could muster. Today, however, conversational niceties didn’t seem to concern him.

“Know what?” she enquired, resisting the urge to flex her fingers over the Spider’s buttons. This man had a tendency to lead her towards unwise impulses.

“Melkorin,” Arshav said. “It’s been burned to the ground and most of its population appears to have vanished, those that aren’t lying dead in the streets that is.”

Melkorin, a port-town on the south Corvantine coast. The thought immediately led her to an obvious conclusion. It followed us.

“Strange that this should happen shortly after you arrive in our waters,” Arshav went on, a snarl creeping into his voice. “Quite the coincidence, don’t you agree?”

She considered dissembling, professing ignorance or confusion, but didn’t see the point at this juncture. The suspicion born on the deck of the Profitable Venture, when the Spoiled boarding party began their co-ordinated attempt to kill her, now seemed fully borne out. “The White is desirous of my death,” she said. “And the deaths of those I travel with. I did warn you its forces would be coming here.”

“Not so soon you didn’t.” His voice had risen to a shout, causing her escort of riflemen to stir, which in turn had Arshav’s pirates reaching for their weapons. “Alright,” he said, waving a hand at Lockbar and making an effort to calm himself. “Why does it want you dead?” he asked in a marginally more controlled tone.

“That,” Lizanne said, turning away and gesturing for him to follow, “is quite a lengthy tale, best shared over lunch.”

“Krystaline Lake,” Arshav said, shaking his head and reaching for the wine-bottle. “Father’s mad obsessions return to plague me once more.” He poured himself a generous measure and offered the bottle to Lizanne.

“No thank you.”

“Captain Noose?” Arshav asked, waving the bottle at Trumane, who sat opposite him. Lizanne had organised the meal in the only dwelling in Raker’s Mount that might be called grand. It was a three-storey house positioned at a decent remove from the rest of the town, proclaimed as the home of the Imperial Comptroller by the Eutherian letters carved above the lintel. The roof was mostly gone, the windows long vanished and the place smelled strongly of rot, but it did feature a dining-table complete with chairs.

“No,” Trumane replied, returning the enmity in Arshav’s gaze in full measure.

“Suit yourself.” Arshav set the bottle down and took a deep drink from his glass. “Piss water,” he said, with a grimace. “Don’t you people know how to greet an honoured guest?”

“Krystaline Lake,” Lizanne said.

“Oh yes, where your friends are off looking for Father’s fabled treasure. It’s all nonsense, you know. Ancient scribblings sold to generations of gullible fools, much of them fake, I’m sure.”

“We have reason to believe otherwise. There is something at the bottom of that lake that can help us win this war. If your father told you anything . . .”

Arshav laughed and drained his glass. “I mostly remember him telling me to get out of his sight. I was as much a disappointment to him as he was to me. So no, my dear Miss Blood, I have no secrets to share. Anything of use will be at the High Wall, and I am not welcome there.” His gaze darkened, fist tightening on the wine-bottle. “Even though it’s mine by right.”

“The High Wall is the seat of the Okanas family, is it not?” Lizanne asked. “It would seem strange that you and your mother were able to assert control over the Ruling Council, and the Seven Walls, but not your family home.”

“A home stolen from me by my own kin.” His gaze softened a little and he poured more wine, grimacing as he emptied the bottle before throwing it over his shoulder. “Perils of being born into a family of pirates, I suppose. The bastards’ll steal the gold from your teeth if you’re not careful. My dear cousin Alzar Lokaras, first-born son to my late aunt Kezia, now holds the High Wall. Supposedly in my sister’s name, as if she’s about to appear on the horizon anytime soon.”

“Will he be amenable to negotiation? Perhaps, if I went . . .”

“He’ll shoot you the moment he claps eyes on you. Hates all things corporate, y’see? Almost like a religion, really.” Arshav’s gaze swivelled to Trumane. “But it’s not like you didn’t give him plenty of reason, Captain. He lost a lot of sea-brothers to your attentions, as did I.”

He drank more wine, gulping it down so that some leaked from the corners of his mouth. “Was going to kill you, y’know,” he gasped when the glass was empty. “Had it all planned. Once you’d settled in here and gotten all comfortable. I’d turn up with all my ships and threaten to pound the town to pieces, just like you intended to do to the Hive. Then I was going to hang you on your own deck, you vicious fuck!” He slammed the wine-glass down on the table, hard enough to shatter it, blood leaking from his fingers as he glared at Trumane.

Lizanne found herself impressed by the captain’s failure to flinch. Martinet or not he was still a veteran Protectorate officer and Arshav his long-standing enemy, fully deserving of justice. Trumane said nothing, instead reaching for a napkin to dab away the drop of wine on his cheek.

Lizanne began to speak but Arshav held up his bloodied hand, turning his baleful gaze from Trumane to her. “Your fables and doomed friends trekking through the Interior mean nothing to me. We have a war to fight and my mother and I want our weapons. How soon before you actually start producing anything?”

“We need materials . . .”

“They’re being unloaded now. Everything on your list, just about, and enough food for a month. There’ll be more coming by the end of the week. How long?”

“We’re already making progress,” Lizanne lied. In fact most of the work-force’s efforts since arriving in Raker’s Mount had been directed towards making the place fit for habitation. Lizanne had placed Madame Hakugen in charge of civil matters and the former Comptroller had done a great deal to smooth the ruffled nerves in the wake of Lizanne’s speech. The former members of the Eastern Conglomerate Levies had been organised into a militia that also served as a constabulary, which did much to imbue the town with a sense of order. Jermayah was organising the principal manufactory in the old railway shed, but as yet no actual weapons had been produced.

“Lack of heavy plant is a problem,” Lizanne said. “Especially lifting gear. We’ve identified only three other Blood-blessed amongst the refugees. To make maximum use of their abilities requires product, especially Black and Red.”

“Product is an increasingly scarce resource,” Arshav replied. “For obvious reasons, and what stocks we do have will be needed by our own Blood-blessed when the fighting starts. But”—he gave a reluctant shrug—“there are a few flasks in my ship’s safe. You can have that.”

“That would be greatly appreciated.”

“I notice you haven’t answered my question.”

“A month,” she said, adopting her uncoloured tone. “The first delivery of Growlers and Thumpers will be made one month from now.”

“You think our enemy will give us that long?”

It was Trumane who answered, neatly folding his napkin and setting it down before addressing Arshav in a carefully modulated voice, no doubt designed to conceal his distaste. “Time in war is not given,” he said. “It’s bought, with blood. I command the fastest ship in these waters. Letting it sit here unused is a waste of a valuable asset.”

“Want to take the fight to them, eh?” Arshav grunted. “Feel free, Captain. I’ll spread the word that your ship is to remain unmolested, just don’t expect any direct assistance.” He looked at his bloodied hand and grimaced in annoyance. “And if you should contrive to get yourself killed in the process, all the better.”

He rose from the table, fixing Lizanne with a hard stare. “One month, Miss Blood. And when I return I expect to find a fulsome level of productivity.” With that he turned and stalked from the building, shouting for Lockbar and his guards to follow.

Lizanne gave Trumane a sidelong glance. “Do you really think you can accomplish anything useful with just one ship, however fast?”

“Your father was kind enough to share the specifics of his latest design,” Trumane replied with a thin smile. “Provided it’s ready before we set off, yes, I believe we can accomplish a great deal.”

“This is foolish,” her father said. “You are needed here.”

Lizanne fastened the buttons on her overalls. They were the work of a seamstress from Lossermark, lined with fur to ward off the cold found at altitude, as well as featuring numerous additional pockets for tools and weapons. Jermayah had managed to produce another Smoker for her, though on this trip she would have to do without the mini-Growler.

“Madame Hakugen has things well in hand,” Lizanne replied. “And the production line is nearly complete. The intelligence to be had at the High Wall is too important to ignore.” She pulled on a shoulder rig for her twin revolvers. “Are you close to completing Captain Trumane’s project?”

Professor Lethridge appeared unconvinced by her reasoning and less than happy with the change of subject. “Two more days,” he said, face dark with reproach. “It would have taken longer but we’ve been fortunate in having so many skilled instrument-makers here. Lossermark was a port, after all, and sailors always need clocks and compasses.”

“Excellent,” Lizanne said. “When it’s done please concentrate your efforts on constructing more of these.” She nodded at the aerostat, bobbing gently in the wind between the two mooring poles at the end of the pier. The Firefly had undergone considerable modification since the last flight, with a wider gondola that would allow her to switch places with Tekela during flight and an envelope of greater size. An additional cannister of pressurised coal-gas had been fitted to the gondola should they need to replenish it. The improved feed mechanism for the blood-burner was also in place, though they had precious little product with which to fire it.

“Any we build from now on will be warcraft,” she added. “Capable of carrying as much fire-power as possible.”

“I’ve already drawn up the requisite designs,” he said.

“Of course you have.” She pecked a kiss to the professor’s cheek before starting towards the Firefly, the engine’s propellers starting to turn as Tekela powered up the caloric engine. “I’ll return in four days.”

“And if you don’t?” he called after her, fighting to be heard above the growl of the engine.

“Then at least you can consider our contract with the Okanas family null and void.”