The Legion of Flame

FAMED SOCIETY BEAUTY PERISHES IN ASYLUM INFERNO Widespread Mourning for “Queen of Mandinorian Society” Charmed Life Ends in Madness and Flame

The wealthy Dewsmine family is in mourning today after the tragic demise of their most celebrated daughter—the once-beautiful and -charming Catheline, aged twenty-five. It scarcely seems credible that less than four years ago this very periodical named Catheline Dewsmine as the uncrowned Queen of Mandinorian Society. A glittering and vivacious presence at any ball or managerial gathering, Catheline garnered many admirers, and not a few sharp-tongued enemies, in her meteoric rise to societal eminence. This humble correspondent has heard her described as both “a soul of celestial grace and boundless generosity” and “a venomous, razor-taloned harpy whose back never met a mattress it didn’t like.” Whatever the truth, it is plain that, with her passing, Mandinorian society will be a much less interesting place.

The Dewsmine family dates its prominence back to the days of empire when the family fortunes were largely derived from various landholdings granted by Queen Arrad III in recognition for service in war against the Corvantines. With the advent of the Corporate Age the family was one of the first aristocratic dynasties to purchase shares in the then-nascent Ironship Syndicate. Over the succeeding decades their fortunes prospered thanks to ever-increasing profits derived from the Syndicate’s Arradsian holdings. Not content to simply enjoy the fruits of a sound investment, the family have never shirked their managerial responsibilities. Every son or daughter bearing the Dewsmine name is expected to enter the Syndicate at a junior level on the assumption that their inherent gifts of ambition and intelligence will see them rise to a more suitable station. Several such scions have even risen to occupy a seat on the Board.

Catheline Dewsmine was to prove a spectacular exception to this rule, much (it is rumoured) to the dismay of her parents. No family, be they ever so grand, is exempt from the Blood-lot, and the Blessing is no respecter of station. Whereas, amongst those families of less fortunate rank the identification of a Blood-blessed child is invariably seen as a route from gutter to prosperity, for a child of the managerial class it is often regarded as a curse that will inevitably sever their links with family, friends and a share of dynastic wealth. However, subsequent to the Blood-lot revealing her true nature, this was not to be the case with Catheline. When called upon to pack her things and travel to Arradsia for enrolment in the Ironship Academy of Female Education she promptly refused and threw what a former employee of the Dewsmine mansion described to this correspondent as “the great-grandfather of all screaming fits.” Although every entity in the corporate world is bound by the accords regulating the education and employment of the Blood-blessed, the Dewsmine family, thanks to a good deal of expensive legal counsel and an inventive interpretation of Company Law, were able to secure an “exceptional release” from standard regulatory practice on the grounds that Catheline was of too “delicate a disposition” to cope with such a savage wrenching from the bosom of her family.

So, instead of spending years learning the proper employment of her gifts under the expert eye of the renowned Academy’s staff, Catheline received a private education at home from various Blood-blessed tutors. Although she would rarely display her gifts in public many accounts speak of Catheline’s particular facility for the use of Red, one servant relating how she could light a candle from fifty yards away whilst another described an incident in which she incinerated an entire orchard during a fit of pique. It should be pointed out in the interests of balanced reporting that the Dewsmine family denies this latter incident ever took place.

Catheline’s unique position was sure to arouse interest from press and public alike and her progress through adolescence became a novelty item in many a periodical that saw fit to print recurring—and recurrently denied—tales of roasted kittens, eviscerated puppies and maids being propelled through upper-floor windows. Since no legal action ever arose from these supposed incidents their veracity cannot be ascertained. However, this correspondent has noted that several former employees of the Dewsmine mansion do live very comfortably in retirement despite disabilities arising from long-term injury.

Catheline’s status as an interesting if unimportant curiosity was to change with her first appearance at a prominent managerial gathering. Aged just seventeen but already blossomed into what a fellow correspondent described as “the near perfection of womanly loveliness,” Catheline simply enchanted all who attended the annual Introductory Ball at the Sanorah Banqueting Hall. Rumour has it she received no less than six marriage proposals in the course of the following week, all from notable executives of impressive standing, one of whom was apparently already married. However, Catheline was not to be so easily wooed and her glittering if brief career as the pinnacle of Mandinorian Society was marked by a complete absence of any engagement or serious romantic entanglement (rumours of less-than-serious entanglements abound, but such gossip is beneath the pen of this correspondent).

Within the space of a year Catheline had become the required guest for any serious gathering and garnered a considerable income from endorsements for various fashion houses and cosmetic concerns. Soon her photostat appeared everywhere, although the images often failed to capture the near-ethereal nature of her beauty, something which could only be appreciated if one were fortunate enough to find oneself in her proximity. More than simply the conformity of feature to accepted notions of beauty, Catheline exuded a sense of otherness. At the risk of laying oneself open to charges of hyperbole, this correspondent is of the opinion that, through some agency of her Blood-blessed gifts, Catheline had somehow transcended mundane humanity. More than one witness has commented on the addictive nature of her company, the sense of being transfixed whenever her gaze fell upon one’s eye, the near-desperate desire to remain in her presence and the bereft lurch of the heart upon separation.

Sadly, it was all to end much too soon. The first sign that all might not be well in Catheline’s world came during her twentieth birthday party, a truly lavish occasion funded entirely by the Clothing and Accessories arm of the Alebond Commodities Conglomerate. By all accounts Catheline remained her usual compelling, enchanting self for much of the evening, despite an ugly incident when one of her suitors became overly insistent on pressing his case and had to be forcibly removed. Whether it was this episode that upset her, or some previously hidden malady of the mind, none can say. In either case, towards the end of the evening Catheline Dewsmine began to speak gibberish. It started as a mutter, low and guttural, the words indistinct but the tone of it still retains the power to chill this correspondent’s bones some five years later. That this was not the first such incident was made plain by the alacrity with which Catheline’s family began to usher her from the ball-room, something that seemed to unhinge her completely. Her mutters became screams, her perfect face an ugly, crimson mask. She flailed, she spat and she bit as they dragged her away, her words echoing in the shocked silence left in her wake. I have never forgotten them: “He calls to me! He promises me the world!”

Catheline Dewsmine was never seen in public again. All enquiries regarding her condition were sternly rebuffed by her family though servants later related a horrible interval during which her parents attempted to care for her at home. Doctors of both mind and body came and went, various concoctions were administered, novel and experimental distillations of Green applied. All to no avail. Reliable witness accounts agree that by this stage Catheline was completely and incurably mad. By the advent of her twenty-first birthday she had been committed to the Ventworth Home for the Emotionally Troubled, an Ironship-sponsored institution specialising in the care and treatment of those Blood-blessed suffering mental affliction. Soon Catheline faded almost completely from the public mind, save as a vehicle for the occasional cruel witticism or unkind cartoon, and perhaps would have been forgotten completely but for the terrible events of two days hence.

The origins of the fire that engulfed the Ventworth Home are yet to be established. For reasons that should be obvious not one drop of Product is ever permitted on the premises and all patients are subject to close monitoring. What is clear is that at approximately two hours past midnight an intense conflagration broke out in the building’s west wing and soon spread to all parts of the structure. Only six members of the staff and three patients escaped. Tragically, Catheline was not amongst them. An initial report by the Ironship Protectorate Fire and Safety Executive confirms that the blaze began within the building but no cause has as yet been ascertained. Also, a full count of the dead is not possible due to the condition of the remains.

And so, Catheline Dewsmine, once a Queen of sorts, and an unparalleled beauty, leaves this world in as ugly a fashion as can be imagined. Her light no longer shines upon us, and in the opinion of this humble correspondent, the world is a much darker place as a consequence.

Lead article in the Sanorah Intelligencer—35th Verester 1600 (Company Year 211)—by Sigmend Talwick, Senior Correspondent.

CHAPTER 1

Sirus

He awoke to Katrya weeping again. Soft whimpers in the darkness. She had learned by now not to sob, for which Sirus was grateful. Majack had threatened to strangle her that first night as they all huddled together in the stinking torrent, Katrya pressed against Sirus, holding tight as she wept seemingly endless tears.

“Shut her up!” Majack had growled, levering himself away from the green-slimed sewer wall. His uniform was in tatters and he had lost his rifle somewhere in the chaos above. But he was a large man and his soldier’s hands seemed very strong as he lurched towards them, reaching for Katrya’s sodden blouse, hissing, “Quiet, you silly bitch!”

He’d stopped as Sirus’s knife pressed into the meaty flesh below his chin. “Leave her be,” he whispered, wondering at the steadiness of his own voice. The knife, a wide-bladed butcher’s implement from the kitchen of his father’s house, was dark red from tip to handle, a souvenir from the start of their journey to this filthy refuge.

Majack bared his teeth in a defiant snarl, eyes meeting those of the youth with the gory knife and seeing enough dire promise to let his hands fall. “She’ll bring them down here,” he grated.

“Then you had better hope you can run faster than us,” Sirus told him, removing the knife and tugging Katrya deeper into the tunnel. He held her close, whispering comforting lies into her ear until the sobs faded into a piteous mewling.

There had been ten of them that first night, ten desperate souls huddling in the subterranean filth as Morsvale died above. Despite Majack’s fears their enemies had not been drawn to the sound of Katrya’s sobs. Not then and not the night after. Judging by the continuing cacophony audible through the grates, Sirus suspected that the invaders had found sufficient sport to amuse themselves, at least for the time being. But, of course, that didn’t last.

Ten became nine on the fifth day when hunger drove them out in search of supplies. They waited until nightfall before scurrying forth from a drain on Ticker Street where most of the city’s grocers plied their trade. At first all seemed quiet, no piercing cries of alarm from a disturbed drake, no patrols of Spoiled to chase them back into the filth. Majack broke down a shop-door and they filled several sacks with onions and potatoes. Sirus had wanted to head back but the others, increasingly convinced by the continual quiet that the monsters had gone, decided to take a chance on a near by butcher’s shop. They were making their way back along a narrow alley towards Hailwell Market, laden with haunches of beef and pork, when it happened.

A sudden rattling growl, the brief blur of a flashing tail and one of their number was gone. She had been a middle-aged woman from some minor administrative post in the Imperial Ring, her last words a garbled plea for help before the drake dragged her over the edge of the roof-top above. They hadn’t waited to hear the screams, fleeing back to their grimy refuge and dropping half their spoils in haste. Once back underground they fled deeper into the sewers. Simleon, a stick-thin youth of criminal leanings, had some familiarity with the maze of pipes and tunnels, leading them to the central hub where the various water-ways converged to cast effluent into a great shaft where it would be carried out to sea. At first the roaring torrent had been filthy, but as the days passed the water grew ever more clean.

“Think there’s anyone left?” Majack muttered one day. Sirus reckoned it to be a month or more after their abortive foray, it was hard to keep track of the days here. Majack’s dull-eyed gaze was lost in the passing waters. The soldier’s previous hostility had subsided into a listless depression Sirus knew to be born of hunger and despair. Despite the strictness with which they rationed themselves, they had perhaps two more days before the food ran out.

“I don’t know,” Sirus muttered, although he had a strong suspicion these nine starving souls were in fact all that remained of Morsvale’s population.

“Wasn’t our fault, y’know.” The listlessness in Majack’s gaze disappeared as it swung towards Sirus, his voice coloured by a plea for understanding. “There were so many. Thousands of the bastards, drakes and Spoiled. Morradin took all but a handful of the garrison to fight the corporates. We had no chance . . .”

“I know,” Sirus said, adding a note of finality to his voice. He had heard this diatribe before and knew, if left unchecked, Majack’s self-pitying rant might drag on for hours.

“A hundred rounds each, that’s all we had. Only one battery of cannon to defend a whole city . . .”

Sirus groaned and moved away, stepping carefully over the damp brickwork to where Katrya huddled on a ledge beside one of the larger pipes. She held her hand out to the water gushing from the pipe, slender fingers splayed in the cascade. “Do you think it’s clean enough to drink now?” she asked. They had perhaps a bottle and a half of wine left, their only remaining source of uncontaminated hydration.

“No.” He sat down, letting his legs dangle over the ledge and watching the water disappear into the vast blackness of the shaft. He had considered jumping several times now, but not out of any suicidal impulse. According to Simleon the shaft conveyed the water to a vast underground tunnel leading to the sea. If they survived the drop it might prove a means of escape. If they survived the drop . . .

“You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?” Katrya asked.

Sirus fixed her with a sharp glare, a harsh reminder of her status coming to his lips. Please be good enough to remember, miss, you are but a servant in my father’s house. The words died, however, when he met her eyes, seeing the mixture of defiance and reproach. Like most of the servants in his father’s employ Katrya had taken a dim view of his embarrassing but irresistible obsession. However, he thought it strange that she should care about such things now.

“Actually no,” he said instead and nodded at the shaft. “Simleon says it’s about eighty feet to the bottom.”

“You’ll die,” she stated flatly.

“Perhaps. But I increasingly fail to see any alternative.”

She hesitated then shuffled closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder, an overly familiar action that would have been unthinkable only a few weeks before. “It’s awful quiet up there now,” she said. “Could be they’ve all gone. Moved on to Carvenport. Some of the others think so.”

Moved on. Why not? Why stay once they’ve slaughtered everyone else? The notion was almost unbearably enticing but also dangerous. Alternatives? he asked himself, the absolute gloom of the shaft filling his gaze once more.

“Your father would have at least gone to look,” Katrya said. The words were spoken softly, free of malice or judgement, but they were still enough for him to push her away and get to his feet.

“My father’s dead,” he told her, the memory of his last interrogation looming large as he stalked away. The Cadre agent sitting at the foot of his bed, shrewd eyes on his, somehow even more frightening than the men who had tortured him in that basement. “Where is she? Where would she go?” And he had no answers, save one: “Far away from me.”

In truth he remembered little of Tekela’s escape. The hours that preceded it had been full of such agony and fear his memory of it remained forever ruined. His arrest had swiftly followed Father’s demise, a half-dozen Cadre agents breaking down the door to drag him from his bed, fists and cudgels the only answer to his babbling enquiries and protestations. He woke to find himself strapped to a chair with Major Arberus staring into his face, expression hard with warning. Arberus, Sirus soon realised, was also strapped to a chair and, positioned off to Sirus’s right, so was Tekela. He remembered the expression on her doll’s face, an expression so unlike anything he had ever expected to see there: deep, unalloyed guilt.

“I’m sorry,” she’d mouthed, tears falling from her eyes. It changed then, the obsession he had chosen to call passion, the delusion that had compelled him to pen verse he knew in his heart to be terrible and make an unabashed fool of himself at every opportunity. Here she was, his one true love, just a guilt-stricken girl strapped to a chair and about to watch him die.

Their attendants were two men in leather aprons, both of middling years and undistinguished appearance, who went about their work with all the efficiency of long-serving craftsmen. They started on the major first, Sirus closing his eyes tight against the awful spectacle and Tekela’s accompanying screams. They turned their attentions to Sirus when Arberus fainted and he learned for the first time what true pain was. There were questions he couldn’t answer, demands he couldn’t meet. He knew it all to be meaningless, just another form of pressure, added theatre for Tekela’s benefit. How long it took to end he never knew, but it seemed an eternity before his heart began to slow, transformed into a softly patted drum in his chest and he became aware of his imminent departure from this world. The basement disappeared into a fugue of distant sound and vague sensation. He heard shouts and thuds at some point, the sounds of struggle and combat, but assumed it to be just a figment of his fading mind. Despite the confusion he still retained the memory of the precise moment his heart stopped. He had read of those who returned from the brink of death to tell of a bright beckoning light, but he never saw it. There was only blackness and the dreadful pregnant silence left by his absent heart-beat.

The Cadre brought him back, though it had been a close-run thing as his doctor had been happy to tell him. He was a cheerful fellow with a lilting accent Sirus recognised as coming from the northern provinces. However, there was a hardness to his gaze despite the cheeriness, and Sirus sensed he knew as much about taking life as saving it. For days they tended him, generous doses of Green and careful application of various drugs until he was as healed as he could ever expect to be and the numerous scars on his chest reduced to a faint web of interconnected lines. Sirus understood this to be only a respite. The Cadre were far from finished with him.

The man who came to question him was of diminutive height and trim build. He wore the typical, nondescript dark suit favoured by Cadre agents, though the small silver pin in his lapel set him apart. It was a plain circle adorned with a single oak leaf that matched those of the Imperial crest. Sirus had never met anyone wearing this particular emblem before but all Imperial subjects knew its meaning well enough. Agent of the Blood Cadre.

“She left you behind,” were the agent’s first words to him, delivered with a tight smile of commiseration. “Nothing like misplaced love to harden a man’s heart.”

The agent went on to ask many questions, but for reasons Sirus hadn’t yet fathomed the Cadre’s more direct methods were not visited upon him again. It could have been due to his fulsome and unhesitant co-operation, for his experience in the basement had left no lingering pretensions to useless bravery. “My father and Burgrave Artonin worked together on their own projects,” he told the agent. “I was not privy to their studies.”

“The device,” the agent insisted, leaning forward in his chair. “Surely you must know of the device? Please understand that your continued good health depends a great deal upon it.”

Nothing, Sirus thought, recalling the way his father would jealously guard those artifacts of interest to his precious circle of select scholars. I know nothing. For a time Sirus had entertained the notion that such circumspection had been for his protection, the less knowledge he possessed the less the Cadre’s interest in him. But he knew such concern was largely beyond his father’s heart. It had been simple professional secrecy. His father had happened upon something of great importance, something that might transform their understanding of this entire continent and its history. Like many a scholar, Diran Akiv Kapazin did not relish the notion of sharing credit. Sirus had only ever caught glimpses of the thing, and indulged in a few snatched glances at his father’s notes. It remained a baffling, if enticing enigma.

“I was privy to . . . certain details,” he lied.

“Enough to reconstruct it, perhaps?” the agent enquired.

“If I . . .” He had choked then, the lies scraping over his parched tongue. The agent came to his bedside and poured a glass of water before holding it to Sirus’s lips. “If I had sufficient time,” he managed after gulping down the entire contents of the glass.

The agent stood back, lips pursed in consideration. “Time, I’m afraid, is both your enemy and mine at this juncture, young sir. You see, I was sent here by a very demanding master to secure the device. I’m sure a fellow of your intelligence can deduce to whom I refer.”

Unwilling to say it aloud, Sirus nodded.

“Very well.” The agent returned the glass to the bedside table. “I’m going to send you home, Sirus Akiv Kapazin. You will find your household largely unchanged, although sadly my colleagues felt obliged to arrest your father’s butler and he failed to survive questioning. All the papers we could find in his offices at the museum are awaiting your scholarly attentions.”

So he had gone home, finding it bare of servants save Lumilla, his father’s long-standing housekeeper, and her daughter Katrya. It seemed the Cadre’s visit had been enough to convince the others to seek employment elsewhere. He spent weeks poring over his father’s papers, compiling copious notes and drawing diagram after diagram, making only the most incremental progress. The agent came to the house several times, appearing less impressed with every visit.

“Three cogs?” he enquired, one eyebrow raised as he looked over Sirus’s latest offering, a simple but precisely rendered diagram. “After two weeks of effort, you show me three cogs.”

“They are the central components of the device,” Sirus told him, his voice imbued with as much certainty as he could muster. “Establishing their exact dimensions is key to reconstructing the entire mechanism.”

“And these dimensions are correct?”

“I believe so.” Sirus rummaged through the pile of papers on his father’s desk, unearthing a rather tattered note-book. “My father wrote in a shorthand of his own devising, so it took some time to translate his analysis. I am convinced the dimensions of these cogs is directly related to the orbits of the three moons.”

He saw the agent’s interest deepen slightly, his shrewd eyes returning to the diagram. “I suspect you may well be right, young sir. However”—he sighed and set the diagram aside—“I have a Blue-trance scheduled with our employer in a few short hours and I fear he will be far from dazzled by your achievement. I regret I must anticipate his likely instruction to encourage you to greater efforts.” He moved to the study door. “Please join me in the kitchens.”

They found Katrya scrubbing pans at the sink whilst Lumilla prepared the evening meal. Sirus had known her for most of his life, a lively woman of plump cheeks and a ready smile, a smile which froze at the sight of the agent. “Which are you least fond of?” the agent enquired, plucking a vial from his wallet and gulping down a modicum of Black.

“Please . . .” Sirus began, then choked to silence as an invisible hand clamped around his throat. Katrya began to move back from the sink then froze, limbs and torso vibrating under the unseen pressure.

“I’d hazard a guess the pretty one’s probably your favourite,” the agent went on, pulling Katrya closer, her shoes dragging over the kitchen tiles until he brought her within reach. “I always find it curious,” the agent mused, raising a hand to stroke Katrya’s cheek, “how pleasing to the eye the gutter-born can be despite such lack of breeding.”

Katrya’s mother, displaying a speed and resolution Sirus would never have suspected of her, snatched a butcher’s knife from the chopping-board and charged at the agent. He let her get close before freezing her in place, the tip of her knife quivering an inch from his face.

“It seems the choice has been made for you, young sir,” he remarked, allowing Katrya to slip from his unseen grip. She collapsed to the floor gasping, flailing hands reaching out for her mother as she was lifted off her feet.

“Now then, good woman,” the agent said, angling his head and lifting Lumilla higher, the knife falling from her hand to ring like a bell as it connected with the tiles. “I’m not a needlessly cruel fellow. So, I’ll just take an eye for today. But which one . . .”

He trailed off as a boom echoed outside, loud enough to rattle the glass in the windows. The agent’s head jerked towards the sound, a twitch of irritated alarm playing over his bland features. For several seconds nothing happened, then another boom just as loud as the first, quickly followed by two more. Despite his panic Sirus managed to recognise the sound: Cannon fire.

“How curious,” the agent said, still holding Lumilla in place as he stepped towards the window to peer out at the street. People were running, dozens of them, all casting pale, terrorised glances up at the sky. Then came a new sound, not the flat boom of cannon but something high-pitched and sufficiently piercing to provoke an ache in the ears. Sirus knew it instantly, his sole childhood visit to the Morsvale breeding pens had left an indelible impression. Drake’s call. Pen-bred drakes invariably had their vocal cords cut shortly after birth, but in the interval the infants would scream out their distress. As a child his tearful reaction had been enough to earn a judgemental cuff from his father, but now he couldn’t help regarding it as a potential deliverer, for the agent clearly had no idea what he was witnessing.

“What in the name of the Emperor’s countless shades . . . ?” he murmured, watching as more and more people fled past the window.

It was at this point that Katrya snatched the fallen butcher’s knife from the floor and plunged it deep into the agent’s back. The reaction was instantaneous and near fatal for all concerned, the agent’s reserves of Black seeming to explode in one convulsive burst. Sirus found himself hurled against the far wall, plaster cracking under the impact as he subsided to the floor. It took seconds for him to shake off the confusion, stumbling upright to find the agent on his knees and screaming, his body contorted like a circus performer as he pulled the knife from his back.

“You . . . fucking . . . little slut!” he yelled at Katrya, now lying semiconscious several feet away. The agent gave a final shout of agony as the knife came free of his back. “You vicious whore!” His voice had taken on a strangely peevish edge, like a child who had been hit for the first time. He staggered to his feet, sobbing as he fumbled for his wallet, blood covering his chin as he babbled hate-filled threats. “I’ll rip out your mother’s guts and make you eat th—”

The iron skillet made a dull sound as it connected with the back of the agent’s head, sending him to all fours, vials scattering as the wallet flew from his grip. He glanced over his shoulder at Sirus, now raising the skillet for a second blow. The agent’s brow formed a frown of aggrieved betrayal. “I . . . let you . . . go . . .” he sputtered.

“No,” Sirus replied, “you didn’t.” He brought the skillet down with all the force he could summon. Once, twice, a dozen more times until the agent’s head was a pulped ruin and his legs finally stopped twitching.

Lumilla was dead, her neck snapped by the impact with the wall. Sirus left Katrya weeping over her body and went to the window, where he saw the first full-grown wild drake in his life. The Red landed in the middle of the street, pinning an unfortunate Morsvale resident under its claws. It was at least twenty feet long from nose to tail and stood in stark contrast to the emaciated, wingless wretches from the pens; muscles bunching beneath its crimson skin and wings beating as it gave a small squawk of triumph before beginning its meal. Sirus jerked his gaze away then saw another impossible sight, more running figures but, judging by their completely unfamiliar garb, not townsfolk. One paused outside the window, a tall man dressed in what Sirus instantly recognised as hardened green-leather armour near identical to an exhibit in the museum’s Native Arradsian collection. His suspicions were instantly confirmed when the man turned his head. Spoiled . . . The scaled, spine-ridged visage and yellow eyes left no doubt that the creature he beheld was a living breathing member of the deformed indigenous tribal inhabitants of this continent.

He ducked instantly, hoping the Spoiled had missed him, scuttling towards Katrya’s side and retrieving the knife on the way. “We have to go!” he told her.

So they fled through street after street of horror and chaos. Confusion reigned, drake and Spoiled killing with little or no attempt at resistance from the scant few constables and soldiers left in the city. They were just as panicked and terror-stricken as the civilians and it was obvious this attack had come with no warning.

Sirus’s first hope had been to make for the docks but the surrounding thoroughfares were choked with people all beset by the same delusion that they might find a ship to carry them away. Such a throng proved an irresistible target for the scores of Reds flying above. He dragged Katrya into a doorway as the massacre unfolded, dodging a rain of corpses and limbs. It had been her idea to make for the sewers, one they shared with a few others possessed of well-honed survival instincts. Ten at first, then nine and, as Sirus discovered when he was woken by Katrya’s soft weeping, only two.

“They took a vote,” Katrya said. “Didn’t wake you cos they knew you’d talk them out of it, I s’pose. Majack’s idea.”

“But you didn’t go with them,” Sirus said.

She said nothing, fidgeting and glancing at the tunnel that led to the outlet near the docks.

“How long since they left?” Sirus asked her.

“Hours ago. Haven’t heard anything, could be a good sign.”

“Or they’re all dead.”

He saw her face bunch in frustration as she battled to contain an outburst. “There’s nothing here!” she exploded finally, water sloshing as she stamped her foot. “You wanna stay and starve amongst shit, then fine! I’m going!”

With that she turned and disappeared into the tunnel. Sirus cast a glance back at the shaft and its eighty-foot drop, gave a tired curse then ran after her.

The outlet ended at the western slip-way, affording a view of the harbour where Sirus was greatly surprised to find at least twenty vessels still at anchor, though he could see no sign of any crew. Some of the ships bore signs of damage or burning but for the most part had been left intact. Beyond the ships the tenements that stood atop the great harbour wall were a ruin, some destroyed down to their foundations, others roofless and burnt so that the whole edifice resembled a blackened saw-blade. Sirus found the complete absence of any sound save the faint keening of gulls more troubling than the absence of people. He motioned for Katrya to stay put then inched closer to the opening, darting his head out for a quick glance in all directions. Nothing, just silent docks and, due he supposed to the drakes’ appetites, no bodies. He paused then took another longer look, concentrating on the sky this time and finding only patchy cloud.

“Told you,” Katrya said, giving him a hard nudge in the ribs. “They’ve all gone. Ages ago, prob’ly. We’ve been starving for weeks for no reason.”

“Wait,” Sirus said, reaching for her arm as she stepped free of the pipe, face raised and eyes closed as she bathed in the sunlight.

“Get off!” She shook herself free and trotted out of reach. “I’m going to find something to eat. You coming or not?”

Sirus watched her march determinedly towards the nearest warehouse then ran to catch up, all the while casting repeated glances at the sky, one hand on the knife in his belt. The warehouse was mostly empty apart from a few crates stacked in a corner of the cavernous interior. Katrya gave voice to some protracted profanity when Sirus used the knife to lever off the lids to reveal only crockery. They moved from one warehouse to another until they finally uncovered some food, a shipment of fruit preserved in brandy.

“Slowly,” Sirus cautioned as Katrya gulped down half a jar of tangerines. “Too much at once and you’ll make yourself sick.” She just stuck her tongue out at him and kept eating. In the event it was the brandy that had more of an effect than the fruit and Sirus was obliged to half carry her to the quayside, a sack full of jars slung over his shoulder.

“My Auntie Sal lived there,” Katrya slurred, gazing at the ruined tenements.

Sirus’s gaze roamed the wharf until he found the smallest craft, a fishing-boat about a dozen feet long with a single narrow stack rising from its guard-box-sized wheel-house. He had no experience of piloting a vessel and reckoned the smaller the better.

“Shouldn’t we find the others?” Katrya enquired as Sirus led her to the boat. He didn’t answer, feeling the weight of the silence more heavily with every passing second. All his instincts led to one conclusion; they had to get away from here, and soon.

“What about the door?” Katrya pressed as he threw the sack onto the boat and used a mooring rope to pull it closer to the quayside. Sirus raised his gaze to the great door positioned in the centre of the harbour wall. From the level of detritus and algae building up where the metal met the water it was clear it hadn’t been raised in weeks.

“We’ll just have to fire up the engines,” he said, nodding at the wheel-houses on either side of the door. “I’ve seen it done, once. My father took me to . . .”

He trailed off as he saw the expression on her face, wide-eyed and pale, staring fixedly at something that had banished her drunkenness in an instant. Fighting a sudden paralysing dread, Sirus pulled the knife from his belt and followed her gaze.

The drake sat atop a near by goods cart, head cocked at an angle as it regarded them with a curious gaze, its tail coiling idly like a somnolent snake. Two very salient observations immediately sprang to Sirus’s mind. Firstly, the drake’s size. It was far smaller than any he had seen before, little bigger in fact than an average-sized dog, forcing him to conclude it must be an infant. Second was its colour. Not Black, not Green, not Red. This drake was entirely White.

The drake stared at them both for a long moment and they stared back. Sirus would later consider that they might have gone on staring at each other forever if Katrya hadn’t voiced a small, terrified whimper. The drake started at the sound, tail thrashing and wings spreading as it opened its mouth to issue a plaintive screech. The cry echoed around the docks and through the empty streets beyond, a clear clarion call.

“Have to shut it up!” he said, starting forward, knife at the ready. The drake’s cries redoubled in intensity and volume as he came closer, causing it to hop down from the cart and scuttle away, casting baleful glances at him as it did so, like a spiteful child fleeing a bully. Enraged by its continued screeching Sirus charged towards it, deaf to the warning Katrya screamed after him.

The drake had begun to clamber up a warehouse wall by the time he got to it, claws scrabbling at the stone, screeching all the while. It bared small, needle-sharp teeth at him, hissing as he drew the knife back, all the horror and suffering he had endured adding strength to his arm. You did this!

Something looped around his neck and pulled tight, jerking him off his feet an instant before the knife would have pierced the drake’s hide. He found himself dragged backwards across the flagstones, trying vainly to suck air into a constricted throat. He could hear Katrya screaming and lashed out with the knife, the blade finding no purchase before something hard cracked against his wrist and the weapon fell from his grip. Hands closed on him, seizing his limbs and head, pressing him down with unyielding force. Faces loomed above him, spined and deformed silhouettes against the sky. Spoiled.

Knowing death to be imminent, Sirus tried to spit his defiance at them but the cord about his neck permitted no sound. As one the faces loomed closer and he was flipped onto his stomach, impossibly strong hands bound his wrists with more cord before he was jerked to his feet. He staggered, gasping for breath, finding that the cord about his neck had been loosened slightly. He was able to make out his captors now, a dozen or so, clad in a variety of garb that indicated different tribal origins, though he doubted that would make much difference to his eventual fate. Should have risked the drop, he thought.

His gaze paused on one of the Spoiled, marked out by his clothing, fabric instead of leather or coarse woven hemp. Looking closer Sirus saw it to be the ragged and besmirched tunic of a Corvantine infantryman. He assumed it must have been looted from the bodies of the slaughtered garrison, then he saw the face of the wearer. This one’s deformities were not so pronounced as the others, the scales about his eyes and mouth barely noticeable and the ridge on his forehead scarcely more than a series of small bumps in the flesh. Also, his eyes, black slits in yellow orbs, regarded Sirus with a clear expression of recognition.

“Majack?” Sirus said.

The Spoiled gave a short nod before he and his companions stiffened in response to another cry, not the screech of the infant but something far deeper and more commanding. They raised their gaze to the sky as a very large shadow descended. A Black? Sirus wondered, squinting upwards as the shadow obscured the sun. The notion died when he saw that this drake had a wing-span greater than any drake known to science, but it did match one known to legend.

CHAPTER 2

Lizanne

She was dreaming of the evacuation again when the noise of her father’s latest invention woke her. She bobbed in the chilly swell as the Blue rose above her, water cascading from its coils, eyes bright with malicious intent as it lowered its gaze to regard her as one might regard an easily caught fish, and spoke, “Can’t you make him stop? Just for a few hours.”

She groaned, blinking bleary eyes until the drake’s visage transformed into the red-eyed, tousled-haired and annoyed face of Major Arberus. She grimaced, shaking her head and sinking back into the bed-clothes. “He’s your father,” Arberus went on.

“And you’re a guest in his home,” she replied, closing her eyes and turning away. “If he has one principal occupation in life it’s in the generation of noise. If you could bottle it and sell it we would have been a much richer family.”

Whatever retort Arberus began to voice was drowned out by a fresh upsurge of rhythmic thumping from downstairs. Lizanne bit down a curse and opened an eye to view the clock on the bedside table. Fifteen minutes past ten, and she had a very important meeting at twelve.

“Go on,” she said, nudging Arberus’s naked form with her foot. “Back to your own room, if you please. Appearances must be maintained.”

“Surely he knows by now. Your aunt certainly does.”

“Of course she knows, and so does he. It’s a matter of respect. Now”—she gave a more insistent shove—“go!”

She felt the mattress bounce as he got out of bed, hearing the rustle of hastily donned clothes. She heard the click of the latch then a pause as he hesitated at the door. “You don’t have to go,” he said. “It’s not as if you owe them anything, after all.”

“I have a contract,” she reminded him. “I like to think that still means something in this world.”

She turned onto her back as he slipped out, less quietly than she would have liked, and stared up at the ceiling. It was decorated with a spiral pattern made up of birds and dragon-flies, her aunt’s work. The colours were a little faded now but the swirling mass of flying creatures remained mostly unchanged from childhood. She would stare up at them every morning in the days before the Blood-lot saw her shipped off to the Academy. The notion stirred memories of Madame Bondersil and the lingering pain of her betrayal. She had a contract too.

She found Tekela at the kitchen table eating an oversized breakfast under Aunt Pendilla’s supervision. “Not healthy for a girl your age to be so thin,” Pendilla said, pouring tea and nodding at a plate of buttered bread. “Eat up now. Never catch a husband looking like a stick.”

“I don’t want a husband,” Tekela responded in her now-near-perfect Mandinorian. “Lizanne appears to get along perfectly well without one. And so, I notice, do you, Miss Cableford.”

Seeing her aunt’s face darken, Lizanne moved quickly to relieve her of the tea-pot. “Allow me, Auntie.”

“This girl is of too sharp a tongue for her own good,” Pendilla stated.

“An observation you are not the first to make.” Lizanne sat down next to Tekela and poured herself some tea as Pendilla disappeared into the larder.

“She’s obsessed with making me eat,” Tekela murmured. “It’s unnerving.”

“She’s obsessed with making everyone eat,” Lizanne returned. “Something many in the incomers’ camp would appreciate. I’m sure I could find one who would be willing to swap places with you.”

A slight vestige of her old pout came to Tekela’s lips before she caught herself and returned to her breakfast with renewed enthusiasm. “Wasn’t complaining.”

Lizanne sipped her tea and winced as a fresh round of thumping came from the direction of the workshop. It continued for about thirty seconds before stuttering to a clanking halt. “I see they still haven’t fixed it,” she observed.

“Jermayah says it’s the intake valve,” Tekela said. “The Professor says the combustion chamber.”

“Which means they’ll be tinkering with the bloody thing for weeks to come whilst more pressing work remains incomplete.”

“We’re keeping up with orders,” Tekela pointed out. “Producing up to six Thumpers a week now. I believe I could probably assemble one myself without assistance, if anyone would let me. I think I have a way to do it faster too.”

Lizanne hesitated before telling her to stick to their established piecemeal manufacturing methods. The three weeks since their rag-tag refugee fleet arrived in Feros had taught her that a bored Tekela was a very trying Tekela. “You can demonstrate when I return this afternoon,” she said, moving back as Aunt Pendilla returned to set a heavily laden plate before her. “Thank you, Auntie.”

“You’re wearing that, are you?” Pendilla asked, her somewhat critical gaze playing over Lizanne’s rather plain dress of light blue fabric adorned only with a shareholder’s pin on the bodice. “It hardly reflects your current status.”

Current status? Lizanne had puzzled over this particular question since stepping onto the Feros quayside. What was she now exactly? A hero to many. The saviour of the Carvenport Thousands to some. The refugees still called her Miss Blood, showing a sometimes annoying deference in her presence, as if the authority she wielded in fending off the drake and Spoiled assault still held true. In fact, whatever titles or respect they chose to bestow upon her she was officially a suspended agent of the Ironship Exceptional Initiatives Division, an agent currently awaiting the findings of a Board-sanctioned inquiry.

“Sober dress is expected at Board meetings,” she told her aunt, glancing at the clock above the range. An hour to go, and it would be best not to be late.

“Good morning, Major,” Pendilla greeted Arberus with a bright smile as he descended the stairs. She bustled over to pull a chair out for him. Lizanne had noticed before how her aunt tended to do her best bustling around the major. Lizanne assumed Pendilla was worried Arberus would decide to take himself off without marrying her ruined niece first. Both her aunt and her father retained some tiresomely outdated notions.

“You do look smart today,” Pendilla said, patting the shoulder of the overly expensive suit Arberus had insisted on buying to replace his tattered cavalryman’s uniform. Lizanne often thought it strange that a man of fierce egalitarian convictions should care so much about appearance. “Doesn’t the major look smart, ladies?”

“Green suited you better,” Tekela muttered around a mouthful of bacon.

“I thought I should make the effort.” Arberus forced a smile at the veritable mountain of food Pendilla placed before him. Unlike Tekela, he retained a strong Corvantine accent, though his syntax was flawless. “It’s not every day a man steps into the lair of the corporatist cabal, after all.”

“You’re staying here,” Lizanne told him, glancing at Tekela. “The contingency.”

She saw him about to protest before a grimace of reluctant acceptance showed on his face. Their contingency consisted of a bag filled with all the Ironship scrip and exchange notes they could spare, plus a pair of revolvers. There was also a sympathetic Independent ship’s captain in the harbour willing to take them to a friendly port. “You think it might be necessary?” he asked. “The entire expatriate Carvenport population will riot if they lay a hand on you.”

“Desperation may force them to extreme measures.” Lizanne reached for the toast. “I must confess I haven’t the faintest idea of how this day will turn out. But, if there’s one lesson we learned in Arradsia, it’s the value of contingency.” She buttered the toast and took a sizable bite. “There are two Exceptional Initiatives agents in the house opposite and another two playing the role of vagrants in the alley behind the workshop. I believe only one is Blood-blessed, a woman posing as one of the vagrants. If I fail to return by six o’clock and the agents at the front make themselves visible it means I’ve been arrested. You’ll need to kill the Blood-blessed first. Jermayah’s prototype portable Growler should suffice for the task. Assuming the refugees oblige us with a riot, it will provide sufficient cover to make it to the docks.”

She finished her toast and glanced at the clock once more. “Forgive me, Auntie,” she said, rising from the table. “It appears I shan’t have time to finish breakfast.”

“Don’t you want to see your father before you go?”

Lizanne looked at the door to the workshop, hearing the rising pitch of voices as her father and Jermayah commenced yet another argument. “As ever, he appears to be preoccupied with more important things.”

Although the Ironship Trading Syndicate had never been overly fond of ostentation in its architecture the early Board members had felt compelled to make an exception for their Feros Headquarters. The building stood five stories tall and had a castle-like appearance, being formed of four corner towers linked by recessed walls. The archaic impression was alleviated by the many tall glass windows behind which countless clerks, lawyers and accountants laboured to maintain the bureaucratic machinery of the world’s largest corporation. Lizanne’s visits here had been infrequent over the years, the nature of her employment requiring that she minimise any risk of identification by agents from the Corvantine Empire or one of the syndicate’s many competitors. Of course, such concerns were now largely irrelevant. She was, after all, quite famous.

Before making her way to the main entrance Lizanne took time to note the building’s enhanced defences; Thumper and Growler batteries placed on the towers and also the roof-tops of surrounding ancillary offices. Despite Arradsia being a considerable distance away it seemed the Board had not been entirely deaf to the warnings contained in her initial report.

Normally she would have been required to report to the main desk and spend a tedious half-hour pacing the foyer before being granted entry. Today, however, things were very different. Two Protectorate officers, both with side-arms, met her as soon as she stepped through the revolving door and she was conveyed to the Board’s private, steam-powered elevator after only the most cursory greeting. They made the journey to the Board-Room in total silence and Lizanne took care to note the pale patches of skin on the hands of her two escorts, the legacy of the Blood-lot. The Board, it appeared, were unwilling to take any chances today.

She had only been granted access to the Board-Room once before, the day she received her shareholder’s pin. It had been a formal affair shared with a dozen other young managerial types summoned to receive their reward for exceeding predicted profits or, in her case, successfully stealing the designs of a competitor. Incredibly, that had been less than a year ago and now here she was, called to suffer their judgement.

She was surprised to find all but three of the Board’s ten members in attendance, unusual for a body that could rarely count on half its number at any given meeting. Ironship’s truly global reach meant that those appointed to lead it were often called to far-distant climes and would receive a full recording of the Board’s deliberations via Blue-trance before a final vote on any major matter was taken. For practical reasons the day-to-day decisions were made with a quorum of no less than five members. Today, however, was a far-from-mundane matter and it appeared most of the Board preferred to hear her testimony in person before casting their vote.

The Board sat at a semicircular table in front of a large stained-glass window featuring the Ironship company crest. The window’s predominant colour was blue, which gave the ambient light in the cavernous room a strangely surreal cast, reminding Lizanne of a Blue-trance she had once shared with a fellow agent on the brink of death following an encounter with a Corvantine assassin. It wasn’t an encouraging portent. She took her place, a spot where the blue light from the window disappeared to form a small white circle. A chair had not been provided and the two Protectorate officers took up station on either side of her, just far enough back to evade her eye-line.

Her gaze swept over the Board members, recognising them all but searching for one in particular. She found him seated at the extreme left of the semicircle, a large, bearded man of notable girth dressed in a slightly shabby suit Arberus wouldn’t have been seen dead in. Taddeus Bloskin, Director of the Exceptional Initiatives Division, who this day could prove to be either her best ally or worst enemy. She truly had no idea which; he had never been an easy man to read.

“State your name and employment status.”

Her eyes snapped to the Board’s Chairperson. The position changed hands every year and was currently occupied by a small woman of deceptively fragile appearance. Madame Gloryna Dolspeake had spent the bulk of her career in Mergers and Acquisitions, an arm of the Syndicate that tended to foster both a predatory mind-set and a fierce attachment to company loyalty. She stared at Lizanne over a pair of half-moon spectacles, pen poised over her papers with what seemed to Lizanne to be a dagger-like anticipation.

“Lizanne Lethridge,” she stated. “Shareholder and lifetime contracted agent of the Exceptional Initiatives Division, currently under suspension.”

A few pens scratched on paper but otherwise silence reigned until Madame Dolspeake spoke again, “For the sake of the record please confirm that you are the author of this report.” She held up a bundle of papers bound with a black ribbon, the one-hundred-page report Lizanne had compiled on return to Feros. “Board file number six-eight-two, submitted on the second of Harvellum, Company Year two hundred and eleven. Title reads: Report on operations undertaken and events witnessed by Shareholder Lizanne Lethridge during deployment to the Arradsian Continent.”

Before replying in the affirmative Lizanne made a mental note to come up with a more compelling title should she ever decide to publish the report in book form. “I authored that report, yes.”

“All members present and not present having read this report, certain salient points are considered worthy of further discussion.” Dolspeake began to make her way down a list scrawled on her papers. “One: the apparent betrayal of company interests and collusion with Corvantine agents undertaken by the now-deceased Lodima Bondersil, formerly Director of Arradsian Holdings. Two: the dispatch and progress of the ‘Torcreek Expedition’ to the Arradsian Interior and its apparently successful discovery of the previously legendary White Drake. Three: the successful recovery and subsequent loss of an artifact containing potentially valuable information said to have been produced by the so-called ‘Mad Artisan.’ Four: the attack on Arradsian Holdings by what this report describes as, quote: ‘a combined army of drake and Spoiled I believe to be in thrall to the White by virtue of means unknown,’ end quote.”

Lizanne maintained a placid expression as Dolspeake fell into an expectant silence. “What else is there for me to say?” she enquired as the silence wore on. “You have my report. I have also submitted to Blue-trance interrogation by Internal Security, who I believe confirmed its veracity.”

One of the other Board members spoke up, a gruff older fellow she recognised as the Director of Manufacturing and Procurement. “Memories can be falsified. A skilled Blood-blessed can plant lies in another’s head.”

“Only the head of another Blood-blessed,” Lizanne pointed out. “And there are thousands of former Carvenport residents in the incomers’ camp who can attest to the truth of my report. I would suggest that a brief reconnaissance of the Arradsian coast will also bear out much of my account.”

She saw the Maritime Protectorate Admiral who chaired the Sea Board exchange a brief but guarded glance with Dolspeake. As commander of the body that exercised control over all Ironship war vessels, he would be responsible for ordering any such mission. “I see such action has already been taken,” Lizanne went on. “Might I enquire as to the outcome?”

Dolspeake waited a full ten seconds before giving a barely perceptible nod of assent to the admiral. “We sent three fast frigates, all modern blood-burners,” he said. “Only one returned, having lost half its crew. They barely had time to glimpse the Arradsian shore before coming under attack by both Blues and Reds.”

“Then the crew are to be commended on a considerable feat of arms,” Lizanne told him before returning her gaze to Madame Dolspeake. “Since you are fully aware of the accuracy of my report, might I enquire why I’m here?”

The woman’s gaze flicked to the far end of the table where Taddeus Bloskin was shaking a match as he puffed on a newly lit pipe. “Your report makes mention of a Corvantine woman,” he said in his decidedly non-managerial accent. Director Bloskin did not owe his position to privileged birth. “A Blood-blessed.”

“Electress Dorice Vol Arramyl,” Lizanne said, suspecting an imminent accusation of corporate treason and moving swiftly to head it off. “She survived the siege and the evacuation, if you would care to question her.”

“We have. She was very forthcoming.” Bloskin regarded her with steady eyes behind the rising pall of pipe-smoke. “You permitted her to trance with the Blood Imperial.”

“Morsvale had fallen to the drakes and the Spoiled. Given the circumstances I decided news of events in Arradsia might forestall further Corvantine aggression.”

“Thereby exceeding your authority in the extreme,” Madame Dolspeake stated.

“We were all very likely to die in the near future,” Lizanne replied. “I had little time or concern for the trivia of syndicate regulations.”

“It worked, in any case,” Bloskin broke in before Dolspeake could retort. “Hostilities with the Corvantine Empire have ceased. Partially, one suspects, due to the fact that they no longer possess a fleet in Arradsian waters, but then”—he turned to favour the admiral with a thin smile—“neither do we.”

The admiral glowered at the spymaster but evidently retained sufficient wisdom to remain silent.

“Although no formal treaty has as yet been agreed with the Corvantines,” Bloskin went on, “we have received an approach via unofficial channels. Apparently they want to talk.”

“Negotiation would seem a sensible course at this time,” Lizanne said.

Bloskin’s grin broadened into a smile, smoke seeping between his teeth. “I’m glad you think so, since it’s you they want to talk to.”

Lizanne took a long moment to survey the Board members, eyes tracking over a variety of faces, men and women of middling years or older. Some dark-skinned, others pale like her, and all sharing a singular attribute she once imagined to be beyond those who have risen so high. They’re all terrified.

“Me?” she asked Bloskin, feeling a warm flush of confidence building in her breast.

He shifted his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other and she saw a twitch of resentment crease his heavy brow. Of them all he was the least afraid. “It appears the Imperial Court was impressed with your boldness,” he said. “Not to say honesty. The Emperor, or more likely his senior ministers, seem to think they can trust you.” He leaned back in his seat and cast an expectant glance at Madame Dolspeake.

“Lizanne Lethridge,” the Chairperson began in formal tones, extracting a fresh sheaf of papers from her stack, “you are hereby reinstated as a fully contracted agent of the Exceptional Initiatives Division. In recognition of your actions in the recent Arradsian Emergency you are awarded two additional company shares. You are also hereby appointed Special Executive Liaison to the Corvantine Empire and instructed to sail to Corvus at the earliest opportunity in order to establish terms for a shared undertaking aimed at recovering the Arradsian continent . . .”

“No.”

Madame Dolspeake’s eyes snapped up, blinking in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“No,” Lizanne repeated. “I refuse your appointment.”

“You have a contract, young woman . . .”

“Hereby dissolved under my own initiative as per section thirty-four, clause B.” Lizanne paused, finding she couldn’t keep the smile from her lips as she enjoyed their shock and outrage. “You . . .” She laughed and shook her head. “All of you, ruling half the world for over a century with paper, ink, ships and guns. Did you really think that’s where your power lay?” She held up her arm, drawing back the sleeve of her dress to reveal the veins in her wrist. “Here is where your power lay. In me.” She jerked her head at the two Blood-blessed Protectorate guards behind her. “In them. And now it’s gone. The product has stopped flowing and your syndicate is a bloated corpse that hasn’t yet acknowledged its own death. My advice to you is to immediately dissolve all company holdings and form a military alliance with any and all willing to join. Forget profit, forget loss. They no longer have meaning. The White is not done, and it will be coming. Survival is the only currency now.”

She gave a formal bob of her head before turning to go. “I hereby resign from the Ironship Trading Syndicate. Good day.”

They let her leave, not that she was overly surprised. Ultimately they were just a roomful of scared people at a loss for what to do next. Besides, Arberus was probably right, had they tried to apprehend her the reaction of the former Carvenport refugees would have been highly unpredictable.

It had become her habit to visit the camp most afternoons, compelled by a sense of duty mingled with a masochistic guilt, for the people she had done so much to save now had very little. A minority, those lucky enough to have relatives across the sea who might take them in, had chosen to sail for other ports shortly after arrival. The majority had stayed for the simple reason they had nowhere else to go or no funds for passage elsewhere. The camp covered several acres of nonarable land a mile or so north of Feros, tents and makeshift shelters sprawling across a series of low hills beneath a pall of smoke and dust. Ironship continued to supply food and fuel, but only enough to forestall an upsurge of trouble and in spite of a rising tide of resentment amongst the native Feros population. Protectorate patrols were scrupulous in hounding any incomers from the port’s environs and only a few refugees had found regular employment.

She made her way through the rows of tents and shacks, greeted by the usual nods of respect or calls from those she remembered from the siege, and many she didn’t. However, she noticed as the days went by respect was often replaced by anger.

“Tell those bastards we need more milk!” a woman called to her from one of the shacks, hefting a skinny toddler in her arms to emphasise her point. “Or d’they want us to starve? Is that it?”

“I no longer work there, madam,” Lizanne told her, forcing a sympathetic smile before moving on.

She found Fredabel Torcreek at the makeshift clinic, engaged in tutoring Joya in the correct method of applying a bandage. Clay’s aunt had taken a protective interest in the girl since the evacuation, partially motivated by the years Joya had shared with her nephew as they lived out a perilous childhood in the Blinds. Their patient was a young woman wearing a clownish mask of white make-up and swearing constantly as they tended the wound in her upper arm.

“Been fighting again, Molly?” Lizanne asked, moving to her bedside.

“Them that don’t settle their bill deserve punishment.” Molly Pins winced as Joya tied off the bandage. “You sure you ain’t got no Green? I can pay.”

“Sorry, Moll.” Fredabel shook her head. “Last of it went three days ago.” She handed over a small wrap of paper. “One half-spoonful in a tincture of clean water twice a day. You get a fever or feel sick at any time you come right back, you hear?”

“Yessum.” Molly swung her legs off the bed, nodding thanks as Lizanne helped her to her feet. “Cralmoor sends his regards, Miss Blood,” she said. “Should I see you, told me to say they saw off another press-gang t’other night.”

Lizanne smothered a sigh of frustration. The Maritime Protectorate had become somewhat desperate to replenish its ranks recently. Pressing vagrants into service was permitted under company law, but the practice had long fallen out of use, until now. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “However, I’m afraid my influence will be even less effective these days.”

Molly shrugged. “He says they didn’t kill any sailor boys this time, but they come round again it’ll be a different matter. If you got anybody to tell, then you’d best tell ’em that.”

Lizanne had long given up trying to educate the refugees in her true status. For many of these people she remained Miss Blood, their great Blood-blessed saviour. The notion that she was in fact little more than a minor functionary, and now not even that, didn’t seem to have penetrated the collective consciousness. “I will,” she said instead.

After Molly had taken her leave Fredabel brewed coffee in her small canvas-walled office-cum–living space. “What happened to her customer?” Lizanne asked.

“Didn’t make it,” Joya replied. “Some managerial type fallen from grace. Liked to take his frustrations out on the girls from the Blinds. Should’ve known better than to welch on Molly’s bill though. Don’t worry, he won’t be missed. Cralmoor took care of it.”

Lizanne stopped herself delivering another lecture on the parlous effects camp violence had on the refugees’ reputation. She was now essentially powerless after all and in no position to be lecturing anyone.

“You have news?” Fredabel asked, passing her a mug of coffee. Lizanne was impressed by her self-control in not asking the question sooner. Thanks to Lizanne Fredabel knew her husband, daughter and nephew had survived the search for the White, but the interval between trances no doubt made for a nerve-wracking wait.

“I tranced with Mr. Torcreek three days ago,” she said. “He and the Longrifles are aboard the Protectorate vessel and making for Lossermark. The captain is insistent on replenishing supplies. Also, he remains undecided about the next course of action.”

“Can’t say I blame him.” Fredabel sank onto a stool, clasping her hands together. “But I guess my husband’s attitude remains unchanged?”

“He and the other Longrifles remain committed to this course of action.”

“It’s madness,” Joya stated. Lizanne had noted before how her managerial origins tended to overcome her Blinds accent in moments of stress. “Sailing south through an ocean full of hostile Blues . . .”

“The Blues seem to be concentrated in northern waters,” Lizanne said, recalling the admiral’s words at the meeting. “They have a good chance of making it.”

“If this captain agrees to take them,” Fredabel pointed out.

“Quite so.” Lizanne paused and pulled a bundle of scrip notes from her dress pocket. “For medicine, and whatever you deem fit,” she said, handing the notes over.

Fredabel’s eyebrows rose as she counted the bundle, which comprised a quarter of the profits from the newly established Lethridge and Tollermine Manufacturing Company. “You ain’t making yourself poor on our account, I hope.”

“Business is booming,” Lizanne assured her. “We should be able to take on some more workers soon.”

She stayed for a time, catching up on the camp news, which often made her consider that this place was simply a transplanted if much-reduced version of Carvenport. Although many social barriers had disappeared under the pressures of siege and evacuation, others lingered with surprising tenacity, and the camp had soon evolved a neighbourhood structure that reflected prior allegiances. The former denizens of the managerial district proved the most strenuous in maintaining a certain exclusivity in their wood-and-canvas dominion, though Lizanne felt there was something pitiable in their attempts to cling to lost eminence. They could strut around in their fine but increasingly threadbare clothes all they wanted, in the end they were all just beggars now.

Emerging from the clinic a short while later, she drew up short at the sight of a tall, large-bellied man in a shabby business suit. “A little overdramatic, don’t you think?” Taddeus Bloskin asked her.

“What do you want?” Lizanne said, acutely aware she had neither product nor weapon on her person, though she took some comfort from the fact that Bloskin had chosen to come alone.

“I want what I assume your little tantrum was intended to achieve.”

Lizanne forced herself to remain still as Bloskin reached into his inside pocket to extract a bundle of papers bound with a black ribbon. “I believe, Miss Lethridge,” he said, proffering the papers, “it’s time to renegotiate your contract.”

CHAPTER 3

Hilemore

“Lighthouse in view, Captain,” Steelfine reported, glass raised to his eye as he peered through the early-morning mist. “She’s still lit.”

Someone’s alive here, at least, Hilemore thought, his relief tempered by the suspicion that the Spoiled, or whatever commanded them, were not beyond mounting a ruse to lure them into an ambush. “Best take no chances, Number One,” he said. “Sound battle stations. Split the riflemen into two sections and spread them along both rails.”

“Aye, sir.” Steelfine saluted and strode from the bridge as Lieutenant Talmant sounded three long blasts from the steam-whistle.

“Captain Torcreek,” Hilemore said, turning to the tall man in the green-leather duster. “If you would care to oblige me, I believe your eyes will be best employed in the crow’s nest.”

The Contractor’s leathery features betrayed a slight smile as he inclined his head, presumably in recognition of the respect Hilemore had continued to show him throughout the voyage from Hadlock. “Glad to, Captain,” he said, hefting his rifle, a .422 Silworth from the ship’s armoury. “I’ll take Preacher too. Ain’t much his eyes’ll miss, even in this fog. Lori and Mr. Skaggerhill will take their place with your riflemen. Don’t want it said we don’t earn our keep.”

“Also,” Hilemore added as Torcreek moved to the hatch. “Your nephew’s presence would be greatly appreciated. Captain Okanas is required in the engine room should we need to make a rapid escape.”

He saw a shadow pass over the Contractor’s face before he replied with a slow nod. “He’s . . . resting. But I’ll make efforts to rouse him.”

“Very good, Captain.”

By the time the Lossermark lighthouse came fully into view the ship was ready for battle, a demonstration of hard-won expertise that stirred a small glimmer of pride in Hilemore’s breast. Despite everything the Viable Opportunity remained a battle-worthy ship of the Maritime Protectorate, although he had reason to believe she might be the last such ship in the entire Arradsian region.

The lighthouse was of less impressive dimensions and design than the curve-sided wonder that guarded the approaches to Hadlock, having been constructed much longer ago by engineers lacking the insights of modern science. It rose from a cluster of wave-battered rocks to a height of little more than sixty feet, a plain octagonal tower painted red and white to draw the eye, though the colours had faded over the years. The light, however, remained strong and bright. Hilemore blinked moisture from his eye as he trained his spy-glass on the tower’s apex, picking out two faint figures through the glare. He took some comfort from the fact that the figures were waving, but whether in warning or welcome he couldn’t say.

“Lamp signal, Mr. Talmant,” he said. “Send in plain: ‘Is this port safe?’”

“Aye, sir.” Talmant relayed the order via the speaking-tube and Hilemore heard the clacking shutter of the Viable’s signal lamp through the wheel-house roof. However, the only response from the two lighthouse keepers was yet more waving. Hilemore tried to pick out their faces but the lingering mist was too thick. Spoiled or human, he had no way of knowing.

“I could take a boat over, sir,” Talmant suggested. “See what’s what.”

“No,” Hilemore replied, lowering the glass after a moment’s consideration. “Can’t wallow about so close to these rocks. Helm, maintain course.”

He went out onto the upper works, gazing ahead at the faint outline of the south Arradsian coast. It had taken six days to get here, mainly due to his desire to husband as much Red as possible. With the loss of Carvenport the flow of product into corporate holdings would have been reduced to a trickle, perhaps halted completely meaning there was no certainty of procuring more. Before that they had been obliged to spend three tense weeks in Hadlock whilst Chief Bozware repaired the Viable’s many wounds and the crew gleaned what supplies they could from the ruined port. It hadn’t amounted to much, sundry small arms, some powder barrels, which went only partway to replenishing their stocks, and a few dozen cans of preserved vegetables. More concerning than the meagre pickings, however, was the fact that amongst all the rubble they hadn’t found a single survivor.

“Should be more bodies, Captain,” one of the riflemen told him as they picked over the remains of the Ironship offices, hoping to find some product secreted away in the vaults. Instead they uncovered nothing more than a mound of blackened scrip notes.

“More?” Hilemore asked.

“Yes, sir,” the man insisted. “Been in and out of this port more times than I can count. Always a lively place, must’ve been home to nigh on twenty thousand folk, not counting all the sailors coming and going.”

A brief check of the ship’s books had confirmed the man’s reckoning, though he had under-estimated Hadlock’s population by some three thousand. Unwilling to impose the grisly task on the crew Hilemore had personally conducted a count of the corpses, though he was obliged to estimate the number they had found floating in the harbour on arrival as most had now subsided beneath the water. When added to the rapidly putrefying remains littering the ruins he came up with a figure of only eight thousand. It was a singular puzzle and he knew of only one person who might hold an answer.

“Spoiled took ’em,” Claydon Torcreek told him simply. He sat regarding Hilemore from across the ward-room table, wearing the same vaguely interested expression that had dominated his prematurely aged features since that first meeting with his Contractor company.

“Where?” Hilemore pressed. “Why?”

“I’m guessing the White has a use for ’em.”

“What use?”

“I don’t imagine it’s anything good.”

Hilemore resisted the officer-born impulse to shout. This man was not technically under his command after all. “Mr. Torcreek,” he said in as patient a tone as he could manage. “I have listened to your story in exhaustive detail, and, whilst I find it convincing in many respects, your continual attachment to cryptic responses does little to further your cause.”

Clay’s face momentarily lost its preoccupied cast, instead forming something that resembled an amused and insolent adolescent. “None of this matters, Captain,” he said. “Don’t matter if you believe me. Don’t matter where all those poor townsfolk went or what the White’s doing to them. Don’t matter how many days we spend in this dump fixing doohickeys and scraping shit from the hull.” He leaned forward, the insolence fading into a regretful certainty. “You and me, we’re going south to the ice. And there ain’t nothing gonna change that.”

“To save the world,” Hilemore said.

Clay reclined, shrugged and sighed, “Just repeating your words.”

“Words I have no memory of speaking.”

“Not yet. But you will.”

The White’s blood. Hilemore still wasn’t sure he believed it, this man had been gifted a vision of the future by drinking the blood of a White Drake, a creature once thought a legend. It was the stuff of fables, not the rational reality of the modern world. There’s a place, Clay had said that first night in Hadlock as they wandered the empty, wrecked streets together. A place where we’ll get answers, perhaps the biggest answer of all. How do we kill it? He went on to describe the spire he had seen in his vision, and Hilemore’s presence there. There was a strong temptation to dismiss it all, offer these Contractors a berth on the Viable in return for service and sternly forbid any more nonsensical talk of visions and saving the world. But he hadn’t. He told himself it was the corroborating testimony of Torcreek’s uncle and the other Contractors that swayed him, but in reality it had been the look in Clay’s eyes when they first met. The absolute sense of recognition on the man’s face was undeniable. He knew me.

They stayed only a few more days until Chief Bozware reported he had done all he could to return the Viable’s engines to their previous level of efficiency.

“Could do with a lot more grease,” he said. “And more product. If we’re really going south, that is. She’s a tough old bird, Captain. But she ain’t built for the ice.”

“Can you make it so she is?”

“Maybe, with sufficient iron to buttress the bow and stern. It’ll slow her down a good deal though.”

“The Eastern Conglomerate owns a shipyard at Lossermark,” Hilemore remembered. “It’s where they build most of their Blue-hunters, as I recall.”

He saw a glimmer of anticipation creep in the Chief’s gaze. “And fine ships they are, sir.”

He smelled Lossermark before he saw it, the familiar coal-fire scent mingling with the sickly stench he knew came from the port’s harvesting plant. Despite the unpleasant aroma seeping through the mist he took it as an encouraging sign that this town retained some vestige of a human population.

“Seer’s balls, that stings,” Clay said, face bunching and eyes blinking rapidly against the smell. He had finally chosen to grace the bridge with his presence, even going to the trouble to arm himself with a revolver.

“I’m told you get used to it,” Hilemore said. “But it takes a year or so.”

The dark curtain of Lossermark’s harbour wall resolved out of the mist a few minutes later. It was of unusual construction in that it lacked a central opening. Instead it was formed of a series of huge copper doors suspended from an iron frame that stretched between the two rocky cliffs forming the harbour mouth. Each door was broader than two ships side by side and could be raised individually. Today, however, they were all firmly lowered.

“All stop,” Hilemore commanded, tracking his glass along the top of the wall. He could see a knot of people clustered around a bulky apparatus he recognised as a signal lamp. After a short delay the lamp began to blink out a series of bright, rapid flashes. The message was sent in plain code so he had no trouble reading it: “This port is closed. State your business.”

“Reply Mr. Talmant,” he said. “‘IPV Viable Opportunity seeking leave to enter in order to procure supplies. Our intent is peaceful.’”

He watched the light from their own signal lamp flickering on the greenish copper then trained his glass on the knot of people, watching them engage in an animated and lengthy discussion before apparently deciding on a reply. “‘Contact with other stations lost one month ago. Do you have news?’”

“‘Affirmative,’” Hilemore sent. “‘Will share after making port.’”

More commotion and gesticulation, then another message. “‘Do you have a Blood-blessed aboard?’”

He glanced at Clay, who seemed to be regarding this whole palaver with only mild interest. Don’t matter . . . We’re going south.

“‘Affirmative,’” Hilemore replied. “‘We have contact with Feros. Willing to negotiate services in return for safe anchorage.’”

He watched the people at the signal lamp discussing their options. He sensed more resignation than enthusiasm in their demeanour, evidenced by the hesitancy with which the next message was delivered. “‘Leave to enter granted. Be advised, Corvantine vessel also at anchor here. You are reminded this is a neutral port.’”

“Trouble?” Clay enquired as Hilemore exchanged a sharp glance with Mr. Talmant.

“I thought it didn’t matter,” Hilemore said, moving to the speaking-tube. He called down to Steelfine to convey the news and issue strict instructions that no weapons were to be fired without his explicit instruction. “Just one shot and I’ll hang the man who fired it.”

“Understood, sir.”

A great grating squeal rose from the door directly in front of the Viable’s bows, steam billowing atop the wall as the engines that drove the door laboured to raise it.

“How much Black do you have?” he asked Clay.

“Two full vials,” he replied. “No Red, though. Your Islander wouldn’t let me have the smallest drop.”

“On my orders.” He nodded at the door, now grinding itself free of the sea. “There’s a Corvantine ship on the other side of this. I doubt their reaction to our presence will be friendly, however I’m determined not to fire the first shot. Should they do so, I’ll need you to ensure they miss.”

“Diverting a shell in flight.” Clay’s eyebrows rose in consideration, face free of any particular alarm. “Miss Lethridge did it. Might tweak her nose a little if I could match the feat.”

“Can you do it or not?” Hilemore demanded, patience wearing thin.

“Maybe.” Clay gave a mock salute and turned towards the hatchway. “Guess we’ll find out in short order.” Hilemore watched him descend the ladder to the deck and make his way forward. He took up position beside Skaggerhill, the Longrifles’ harvester, and extracted a vial from his duster as the door reached its apogee fifty feet above.

“Ahead dead slow,” Hilemore ordered, gaze fixed on the revealed harbour ahead. He could see a line of Blue-hunters moored along the quay but no sign of a Corvantine warship as yet. The Viable slipped through the opening at a crawl, Hilemore forcing himself to appear as calm as possible though the tension was clear in the bead of sweat he saw trickle down the helmsman’s cheek.

“Steady lad,” Hilemore told him. “If their whole fleet couldn’t sink us in the Strait I’ll be damned if just one of their tubs will sink us now.”

“Enemy vessel twenty degrees to starboard, sir!” Talmant snapped. “One of the new ones by the look of it.”

Hilemore soon saw he was right. The Corvantine ship sat high in the water, sleek lines bare of paddles and a single stack angled back towards the stern. Her length and the number of guns singled her out as a frigate, smaller than the Viable and not so heavily armed, but probably almost as fast thanks to her screw propeller, even faster if she proved to be a blood-burner. She had clearly been in the wars, her paint-work blackened and hull dented in several places. It also appeared the rear section of her upper works had been wrecked, though the bridge remained intact. It took Hilemore a moment to pick out the Eutherian letters embossed aft of the forward anchor chain: INS Superior.

“I count only six crew on deck, sir,” Talmant reported. “Her guns are unmanned and she’s not making steam.”

Hilemore’s gaze was drawn to the frigate’s mast as a flag was hauled up, unfurling in the wind to reveal a white circle in a black background. Truce-flag. Too much to expect them to surrender, I suppose.

“Mr. Talmant, run up the truce pennant,” he said. “And tell Mr. Steelfine to stand down from battle stations.”

A small pilot tug guided the Viable to her anchorage, a length of quay at the extreme western end of the harbour, as far from the Corvantine frigate as they could get. Despite the exchange of truce signals it seemed the port authorities didn’t want to chance a clash of warships within the confines of the harbour. A platoon of twenty soldiers were waiting to greet them on the wharf, all clad in the grey uniform of the Eastern Conglomerate Levies, the name given to that company’s version of the Protectorate. They were an irregular force, a hard core of contracted professional officers augmented by sailors and shipwrights called to the Levies in times of crisis. From the state of their uniforms and the lack of cohesion in their line Hilemore concluded it had been some time since they had faced a proper inspection. Nevertheless, there was a hard-eyed wariness to their gaze and he noted that, whilst their uniforms could have benefited from a thorough laundering, their rifles were clean and held by experienced hands.

“Major Ozpike.” The platoon commander greeted Hilemore with a precise salute as he stepped onto the quayside. “Commander Lossermark Defence and Security Levies.” The major was a South Mandinorian of sturdy build, his clean and pressed uniform contrasting markedly with the appearance of his men.

Hilemore came to attention and returned the salute. “Captain Corrick Hilemore, Ironship Protectorate Vessel Viable Opportunity.” He glanced around at the surrounding buildings, seeing no sign of damage. “Glad to find you in such good order, Major.”

Ozpike blinked and cast a cautious glance at his men, regarding the exchange with a uniformly keen interest.

“So that ain’t the case elsewhere?” one of them asked, a diminutive fellow of Dalcian heritage as were many Eastern Conglomerate sailors.

Hilemore scanned their faces, seeing a great deal of fear and uncertainty. “You truly have no notion of recent events?” he asked Ozpike.

“Only what the Corvies told us,” the Dalcian replied before the major could answer. “Said a great mass of Blues rose from the sea around Carvenport and tore their fleet to pieces. That true, Skipper?”

“Matters for discussion with the Comptroller,” Ozpike barked with a military authority that seemed to carry little weight.

“I got family in Carvenport,” the Dalcian went on. “The mail packet is three weeks late and not a single Blue-hunter’s returned to port in all that time. We got a right to know, Major.”

“And you will,” Ozpike said, forcing what Hilemore judged to be an unaccustomed note of conciliation into his voice. “But the Comptroller needs to speak to this officer first.”

A growl rose from the rest of the platoon and their already loose formation turned into a cluster of angry men, all demanding answers.

“Stand fast!” Hilemore shouted, his voice apparently compelling some vestige of discipline for they all froze as one. Their obedience may also have been informed by the sudden appearance of Steelfine at the Viable’s rail along with the full complement of the ship’s riflemen. Hilemore allowed a few seconds to pass before speaking again, seeing the soldiers’ anger vie with their trepidation.

“Carvenport was overrun by a combined force of drakes and Spoiled over a month ago,” he told them, pausing to allow the shock of his words to sink in. “However, most of the population was successfully evacuated to Feros. Make a list of any loved ones and pass it to my first officer. Our Blood-blessed will trance with his contact in Feros to ascertain if they are amongst the evacuees.”

“Hadlock?” one of the other bondsmen asked, face ashen and eyes pleading. “My wife . . .” He trailed off, seeing Hilemore’s expression.

“I’m sorry,” Hilemore told him. “Hadlock is gone. There were no survivors.”

He turned to Major Ozpike as his men sagged into disconsolate disorder, the widower weeping openly as his comrades made lacklustre efforts to comfort him. “I believe you intended to take me to your Comptroller?”

“This was supposed to be my retirement posting,” Ozpike muttered as he led Hilemore up the steps to the Eastern Conglomerate Headquarters, a spindly three-storey structure that must have dated back to the earliest days of the port’s existence. “Fifteen years in the Ironship Protectorate and the pension wasn’t enough to keep the wife in her accustomed style. You a married man, Captain?”

For the first time in weeks Lewella’s face sprang into Hilemore’s head, as lovely and fascinating as ever. It is with a heavy heart I write these words . . . “No,” he replied. Nor will I ever be.

“Good for you, sir,” Ozpike huffed as they came to the door and made their way inside. “Take my advice and stay that way. After long consideration on the matter, I have concluded that a military career and marriage are fundamentally incompatible.”

The Comptroller’s office was on the top floor of the building, necessitating a climb up several flights of rather rickety stairs. The Comptroller proved to be a Dalcian woman of perhaps forty years in age, possessed of a high-cheekboned, austere attractiveness accentuated by her plain business suit and severely-tied-back hair. “Madame Hakugen,” Major Ozpike greeted her with a short bow. “I present Captain Hilemore of the IPV Viable Opportunity.”

Hilemore stepped forward to offer a bow of his own; Dalcians were notorious for their attachment to formality. He hesitated in mid-bow upon noticing that there was a fourth occupant in the room, an athletic young man in the uniform of the Corvantine Marines. His gloved hand rested on the hilt of a sword but he wore no revolver. The man’s face remained rigidly expressionless as he offered Hilemore a very slight nod.

“Captain,” Madame Hakugen greeted him in perfect Mandinorian. “Welcome to Lossermark.”

“Thank you, madam,” Hilemore replied, tearing his gaze from the Corvantine. “It seems you and I have a great deal to discuss.”

“Yes.” She glanced at the Corvantine. “Forgive my rudeness. Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Myratis Lek Sigoral, acting captain of the INS Superior.”

“Lieutenant,” Hilemore said with a stiff nod, memories of the Strait crowding his mind.

“Captain,” the Corvantine replied in heavily accented Mandinorian, Hilemore noting the stitched scar tracing across his forehead. The scar did much to enhance the man’s authority but Hilemore realised he couldn’t be more than a year or two older than Mr. Talmant. Just a boy, yet he commands a cruiser. What tribulations brought them here, I wonder?

“I had hoped you would see fit to bring your Blood-blessed,” Madame Hakugen said. “As per our agreement.”

“I thought it appropriate to discuss terms first,” Hilemore replied. “Though I must confess my surprise that a port of this size doesn’t contain at least one Blood-blessed.”

“We had two, until recently.” A thin line appeared in her brow. “Our long-serving contract agent sadly expired of a heart attack during a Blue-trance with our Hadlock office. Whatever he witnessed in his final trance appears to have been too much for him. His colleague, a less experienced and even less diligent character, tried to re-establish communication, to no avail. Trances with other Conglomerate offices revealed only ignorance of unfolding events. Sadly our sole remaining Blood-blessed then decided to smuggle himself aboard an outgoing vessel, one of the last to leave port actually, the ECT Endeavour. We know they were intending to make for Dalcian waters. I had hoped you might have news of them.”

“I do,” Hilemore replied, recalling the grisly contents of the life-boat they found shortly before docking at Hadlock. “She didn’t make it.”

“A pity.” Madame Hakugen gave a regretful grimace. “The captain was my cousin.” She permitted herself a small sigh before quickly regaining her composure. “And Hadlock?”

Hilemore related the destruction of Hadlock before going on to describe the loss of both Morsvale and Carvenport.

“It appears your war has been superseded by more pressing matters, gentlemen,” Madame Hakugen observed when he had finished, inclining her head at Lieutenant Sigoral.

The marine maintained his expressionless visage and confined his reply to a short, “Indeed, madam.”

Hilemore decided it was time to get what he came for. “Our Blood-blessed will be at your disposal for the duration of our stay, madam,” he said. “However, in return we will require product, all the Red you can spare. Also, coal and provisions sufficient for a lengthy voyage.”

“A hefty price, Captain.”

“Necessitated by the importance of our mission.”

“The details of which you are not at liberty to share, no doubt.”

“I compliment you on your insight, madam.”

She barely acknowledged the praise, lapsing into silence, the line once again reappearing in her forehead.

“Might I enquire,” Hilemore began as the silence stretched. “If this port has suffered any attacks, as yet?”

Madame Hakugen nodded to Major Ozpike, who reported, “Not directly, but the first Blue-hunters failed to return at their allotted time six weeks ago. Contractor companies stopped arriving at the north wall with product to sell. A few days ago just one man came stumbling out of the hills, a Headhunter, half-mad and raving. It took hours of coaxing to get the tale out of him. All of his company wiped out by Spoiled and Greens. Would’ve liked to get more information from him but he hung himself shortly after, not before assuring us we were about to die. You can imagine the effect this has all had on the people. You saw my men and they’re the hardiest souls in this port. The air is thick with fear.”

Well it might be. Hilemore fought down a spasm of guilt. His best advice for these people was to arm their ships with every gun they possessed, cram as many people aboard as could be carried and sail for Varestian waters. Even then he entertained serious doubts they would escape the attentions of marauding Blues. But what chance of securing his supplies and product in the midst of a panicked evacuation?

“I wish I had better news,” he said instead. “Hopefully the trance-communication will provide sound orders from your home office, once I have your agreement to our offer . . .”

They provided ten vials of Red, five Green and two Black, a fifty percent down payment on the final amount dependent on Mr. Torcreek performing to expectations. Surprisingly, Madame Hakugen had been more parsimonious with the other supplies, limiting the amount of food he could purchase and demanding a near-extortionate price for the iron plate needed for Chief Bozware’s modifications. By the time the contract was agreed he had been obliged to promise half the contents of the Viable’s safe.

“I suspect the people of this port will shortly have need of every scrap of food and fuel,” she stated. “And my contract stipulates that every opportunity to enhance company profits is to be exploited to the full. I see no reason to abandon the values of the corporate world, even in such alarming times.”

Hilemore made his way back to the port under escort, the two guards steering him through little-used alleyways to avoid encounters with townsfolk desperate for news. He didn’t relish the impending conversation with Clay, unsure of how he would react to an abrupt return to contracted status. For all Hilemore knew he might simply look on this as something else that didn’t matter. Perhaps he thinks this ship will make it to the ice-cap under the power of destiny alone. It occurred to him that the supposed gift contained in the White’s blood was in fact the cruelest curse. To have the sensation of discovery taken away, banishing curiosity or anticipation, seemed an awful fate.

He found the crew hard at work on return to the Viable, a dozen or so hanging from ropes to replenish the paint on the hull whilst others scrubbed the deck or polished the fittings. “Glad to see you haven’t left them idle, Number One,” he told Steelfine on ascending the gang-plank. “But the paint will be wasted. Chief Bozware needs to make modifications to the hull.”

“Captain’s orders, sir,” Steelfine replied, voice coloured by a poorly suppressed tone of extreme reluctance.

“Captain . . . ?” Hilemore began, then trailed off as understanding dawned.

“He woke up an hour ago,” Steelfine muttered before stiffening to attention. “Lieutenant Hilemore, Captain Trumane has ordered you be relieved of all duties immediately. I am to escort you to his cabin.” He hesitated then held out his meaty hand. “I require your sword and side-arm, sir.”

CHAPTER 4

Lizanne

“An impressive sight, isn’t it?”

Lizanne’s gaze swept over the broad spectacle of Feros harbour. The sky was cloudless today and the great mass of ships seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, particularly the warships with their polished guns and scrubbed decks. The bulk of the Protectorate High Seas Fleet was now at anchor here: battleships, cruisers, frigates and gunboats initially summoned from their various ports to do battle with the Corvantine Navy. Now, of course, they faced a much more formidable enemy.

“It’s a great many ships,” Lizanne replied to Taddeus Bloskin. “But it won’t be enough.”

The Director of Exceptional Initiatives settled his bulk on one of the benches arrayed alongside the old war memorial and began his endless ritual of reigniting his pipe. At his invitation she had followed him here to Signaller’s Mount, the highest point on the southern shore of this island. The war memorial rose above them to a height of eighty feet, an example of the ostentatious masonry typical of the late Mandinorian Empire with its numerous relief carvings and superfluous filigree, the great column topped by a statue of Lord Admiral Fallmoor in overly dramatic pose. The Liberator of the Tyrell Islands stood in straight-backed and stern resolve, sword raised above his head as he pointed out to sea. The impression of martial heroism was spoilt somewhat by the fact that his finger had dropped off at some point in the one hundred and twenty years since the monument’s construction. The fact that no one had bothered to replace that missing finger summed up the regard with which the corporate world held the trappings of the empire it had displaced.

“Really?” Bloskin asked as he puffed. “Over a hundred ships and forty thousand soldiers, the cream of the Protectorate, armed with ever more of your infernal modern guns. You really think a rabble of Spoiled and drakes could stand against such a force?”

“Yes. And, since the fleet remains in port, apparently so do the Board.”

“In fact the Board is divided on the issue.”

Bloskin flicked a spent match away and reclined on the bench. His tone was one of affable conversation rather than that of a Board member committing the heinous act of revealing their private deliberations. “Admiral Heapmire continues to lobby hard for an immediate invasion, supported by most of the Sea Board despite the fate of their three frigates. Madame Dolspeake is of more cautious mind, wishing to seek alliance with the other corporations and formulate a joint strategy before embarking on any military adventures.”

“And your thinking, Director?”

“I think,” Bloskin replied with a faint smile, “it is a great shame the Mad Artisan’s device was lost in the evacuation. Who can say what more we might have learned from it?”

Lizanne suppressed a sigh. Bloskin evidently knew exactly where the device currently resided or he wouldn’t have raised it. Also, the fact that he had made no efforts to recover it indicated he was content for it to remain under her father’s studious care. However, people in their profession did enjoy their games. “It was certainly a regrettable loss,” she said, deciding to indulge him.

“Especially after the progress made by Mr. Tollermine in deciphering its mysteries. Still, wasted are the tears of those who weep over spilled wine. Just pour yourself another, I always say.”

Lizanne said nothing. Now they were alone her earlier sense of vulnerability was slowly morphing into a simmering anger. Evidently, she was out of practice in masking such things for he frowned upon reading her expression. “I know you have questions for me,” he said. “Please do not feel constrained. We are no longer manager and employee, after all. Just two former colleagues enjoying the view.”

“Madame Bondersil,” she said. “Did you know?”

His face bunched a little in irritation at an unwelcome topic and he took a long drag on his pipe before replying. “You wonder how her unfortunate choices could have evaded my notice.”

“I do.”

“Then I regret to inform you that your estimation of my abilities is overly generous.” He gave a small grunt as she continued to stare. “There were . . . certain irregularities,” he admitted after a short but uncomfortable silence. “Small things, really. Slight inconsistencies in reported expenses, a few unexplained absences. I’ll admit I had concluded she was probably up to something, assuming her to be engaged in some intrigue or other aimed at furthering her status and finally ascending to the Board. Not an uncommon pursuit for a senior manager. Still, in light of the ever-increasing problems in maintaining a steady supply of quality product, it was . . . concerning.”

“And yet you still approved her request for my deployment.”

“It seemed likely that whatever scheme she had hatched was approaching its final phase, especially if it required your particular talents. I suspected she would seek to exploit the secrets contained in the Corvantine device, keeping them to herself whilst she enhanced her position. Having a living, breathing White in her grasp would have meant swift ascension to the Board. Of course, I had no notion of the true scale or nature of her deception.”

“And I was to be the agent of discovery.”

“To find a queen you have to break apart the hive. You have always been something of a catalyst, my dear. Wherever in the world I send you, noteworthy events are sure to follow. Though none as yet so noteworthy as the loss of Arradsia.”

“It would have happened in any case.”

Bloskin gave a non-committal shrug and once again retrieved the bound bundle of papers from his jacket, placing it on the bench. “You haven’t yet asked to see your new contract.”

Lizanne glanced at the bundle, making no move to pick it up. “Why do you imagine I want one?”

“Curiosity,” he said, leaning towards her and dropping his voice into an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper. “There’s more than just a contract in there, Lizanne. Don’t you want to see?”

“Not if the act of seeing it places me in danger.”

He reclined and turned his gaze towards the sea. “It seems so peaceful today. The sea becalmed beneath a summer sun. But it does make me consider that one day we may awake and find something very unwelcome on the horizon. I think you and I both know that very soon there could no longer be anywhere in this world free of danger.”

He kept his gaze on the sea as she stepped closer, retrieving the papers and untying the ribbon that bound them. The first few pages were a standard employment contract amended with the very specialised additional clauses unique to those recruited into Exceptional Initiatives. Also, she noted, a doubling in salary and enhanced allotments for nominated beneficiaries in the event of her death. Beyond the contract, however, was something else entirely. A sketch, or more accurately, a design rendered in clean precise lines on a piece of cheap parchment. It showed some form of bulbous contraption, rather like an elongated balloon, with several attachments that resembled the Corvantine’s screw propulsion system she had first glimpsed beneath the waters of Morsvale harbour. But this was no ship, as evidenced by the Eutherian letters inscribed along the sketch’s edges. The words were formed with florid lettering and an archaic sentence structure, though she had little trouble translating it: Rapid and easily navigable passage through the very air lies within our grasp. There was more, mainly consisting of a list of dimensions and projected velocities, plus a brief calculation entitled: Projected atmospheric resistance relative to forward velocity.

Lizanne detected a certain similarity in the lettering, stirring recollections of the scraps she had seen in Burgrave Artonin’s cache of documents.

“Yes,” Bloskin said softly. “It is indeed the Mad Artisan’s handwriting.”

Lizanne held the parchment up to the light. It was thick and coarse but lacked the speckling or stiffness of truly aged paper. “This is too recent to be genuine,” she said. “A copy of one of his designs, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. However, it has been examined by the finest graphologists and scholars, discreetly of course, and they all agree this is either the work of the Artisan himself or that of someone who can mimic his hand with absolute precision. Furthermore”—he tapped a yellow-stained finger to the calculation—“this particular formula was previously unknown to science prior to the discovery of this document. It has been thoroughly checked by experimentalists in the Research Division and it works.”

Lizanne’s gaze roamed the design again. “This can’t be more than five years old.”

“Our experts estimate three.”

“He died centuries ago.”

“Indeed he did, and yet here we have evidence his genius lives on, as real as you or I.” A smile returned to Bloskin’s lips and Lizanne could have sworn she heard the hard snap of a trap closing on her wrist. “Would you like to know where we got it?”

It’s impossible. Over the Blue-trance, Clay’s dust-devil swelled into a rendering of his face, the particles assuming a scornful expression.

Is it? Lizanne asked, summoning the whirlwind that contained the memory of his encounter with the White. You saw many wonders beneath that mountain, as I recall. We know the Artisan went there once. We know that those crystals have the power to change us. What if they changed him?

A shudder ran through Nelphia’s surface, raising the moon-dust into a facsimile of the domes he had seen in the subterranean city and the light shining from them: white, red, blue and green, but no black. Green, she said. You saw what the blue crystal did to the Briteshore Minerals people, transformed into Spoiled by the power of its light. What if he found a green crystal? Green blood is a panacea and a restorative. If these crystals possess the same power as the product they represent . . .

Which means, Clay mused, his scepticism diminished but only slightly, the Artisan made it into the city and back out again. Might explain why he went crazy. You say your boss got this from the Corvantines?

Handed to him personally by an old adversary in the Blood Cadre. They meet every now and then to reminisce, apparently. There was no explanation as to its origins but they did request it be shown to me.

It’s bait. They want you on this diplomatic mission of theirs.

Obviously. The question is why.

You stole the Artisan’s solargraph, killed a cart-load of their agents and held off their army at Carvenport. I doubt they’re gonna greet you with flowers and candy.

She let her thoughts settle, her whirlwinds becoming more placid and losing the red tinge of frustration that stemmed from the much-detested sensation of ignorance. You have docked at Lossermark, I assume?

Day and a half ago. Things’ve gotten a little confused since this tub’s original captain woke from his coma. He’s pretty trying company, I must say.

If he proves a barrier to our objective it’ll need to be dealt with. The time for scruples is behind us.

Hopefully it won’t come to that. My uncle’s got a notion of how to proceed. Looks like the future’s gonna need a helping hand.

There was a pause before he conveyed his next thought, several nascent dust-devils sprouting then fading before he found the right words. The White’s coming. You know that. When it does there’ll be a lotta people in Feros needing your help. Our people.

He didn’t need to share a memory for her to discern the object of his concern. Joya and Fredabel.

I can help them more if I can find the Artisan, she said eventually, conjuring the image of the design Bloskin had shown her. If he’s still somehow alive he possesses knowledge far beyond our own. I have to take the chance.

The domes he had raised turned to instant powder as another shudder rippled through the moon’s surface. You’re really gonna do this? Place yourself at their mercy?

I have never been at anyone’s mercy, Mr. Torcreek. I don’t intend to start now.

The late-afternoon shift was winding down by the time she got to the workshop, the industrial cacophony not quite at its usual bone-shuddering pitch. Tekela and Arberus were overseeing the final assembly of a Mark II Thumper, an even more fearsome beast than its predecessor with lengthened barrels for greater range and a higher rate of fire thanks to the more efficient gearing her father had designed. Their work-force of twenty former Carvenport artisans laboured away at the production line, an array of work-benches snaking through a recently constructed extension to the shed which had been the birthplace of the Lethridge family’s often wondrous, if rarely profitable innovations.

Jermayah was engaged in yet another heated discussion with a tall man in a long, heavily besmirched white coat. The tall man stood with his arms crossed and gaze raised in stubborn dismissal as Jermayah expounded at length on the correct arrangement of fuel lines for the bulky yet complex confection of iron and copper sitting on the bench between them. From the recent scorch-marks on the bench Lizanne deduced yet another test had ended in failure. The tall man glanced over as she went to a neighbouring bench, ignoring his questioning glare and extracting a roll of blue design paper from a near by bin. Taking up a thick pencil she weighted down the paper’s edges with some discarded knick-knacks and began to draw. As expected it took only moments before the pair of them forgot their argument and came to scrutinise her work.

“A balloon,” the tall man said in a determinedly neutral tone as the diagram began to take shape on the paper, Lizanne reproducing the image from memory with practised ease. “The envelope shaped so as to be navigable through the air. Hardly an original idea.”

Lizanne kept drawing, completing the sausage-like shape and the ribs tracking along its length, before going on to set out a much neater Mandinorian translation of the original Eutherian notes.

“Interesting,” Jermayah said, leaning closer to read the words. “‘Fashion the structure from a composite of tin and zinc.’ Of course, lightness and strength combined. Remarkable.” His stubby finger tapped the calculations. “Have these been verified?”

Lizanne didn’t reply, completing the diagram by adding the propelling apparatus to the body of the main structure. “A parting gift, Father,” she said, looking up to meet the tall man’s gaze. “I’m going away for a time.”

Professor Graysen Lethridge stiffened and turned his eyes towards the lumpen collection of iron and copper resting on the neighbouring bench. “I have little time for flights of fancy. The Lethridge Tollermine Mark One Caloric Engine nears completion. And when it does the world will change for the second time in a generation . . .”

Unwilling to suffer through another speech, Lizanne tossed the pencil aside and walked away. “Build it or don’t,” she said, striding off towards Tekela and Arberus. “I have good-byes to make.”

“Wait!”

She paused, turning to regard his flustered visage. As long as she could remember she had possessed the gift of turning this occasionally brilliant man into a barely coherent picture of paternal rage and disappointment. Today, however, there was at least an attempt at restraint in his demeanour. It took a moment of jaw clenching and needless coat straightening before he said, “Might your father know your destination? Or have you once again sunk yourself into the mire of Ironship’s covert intrigues?”

“A public intrigue, in fact.” She looked at Jermayah expectantly, adding a few insistent eye-flicks before he took the hint and retreated to tinker with the caloric engine.

“I now hold the respectable post of diplomat,” she said, returning to the bench. “They’re sending me to Corvus, ostensibly to help negotiate an alliance. In fact”—she gestured at the diagram—“I am tasked with finding whoever designed this.”

The professor’s eyes roamed the design with a new intensity then narrowed in recognition. “The same hand that crafted the baffling box you brought me, if I’m any judge.”

“Quite so, Father.”

“The Corvantine Empire is vast. How could you hope to accomplish such a thing?”

“There are . . . lines of enquiry,” she said, unwilling to divulge anything that Bloskin might take exception to. “Will it work?” she asked, nodding at the diagram.

“Perhaps, with a sufficiently light-weight means of propulsion . . .” He trailed off and glanced at the as yet lifeless caloric engine. “I see my daughter’s gift for improvisation hasn’t deserted her.”

She smiled. “I have every confidence in you, Father. Also . . .” She pulled a sealed contract from her pocket and placed it on the bench. “I was able to negotiate a new agreement on your behalf.”

His gaze darkened and he made no attempt to retrieve the contract. “I want . . .”

“. . . nothing to do with that band of thieves. I know.”

She sighed and broke the seal, unfolding a document signed by all Board members currently in Feros. “‘The Ironship Trading Syndicate (hereinafter referred to as “The Syndicate”),’” she began, reading aloud the opening paragraph, “‘hereby acknowledges, without prejudice to any preceding legal decisions or agreed contracts, that Professor Graysen Lethridge is the sole inventor of the Mark I thermoplasmic engine (hereinafter referred to as “the engine”). Furthermore, the Syndicate agrees to pay a restitution fee of ten million in Ironship Trading Scrip in lieu of incurred royalties. The Syndicate also agrees to pay a further twenty million in Ironship Trading Scrip for the exclusive right to use, manufacture, sell or otherwise exploit for commercial gain any and all original designs contained within the engine for a period not to exceed fifteen years from the date of this agreement. At the conclusion of this period both parties undertake to engage in reasonable negotiations for the renewal of this contract.’”

She leaned across the bench to place the document in front of him. “There’s more, mainly relating to termination rights and confidentiality. It requires your signature but you should have a lawyer look it over first.”

He said nothing for a long time, staring down at the words on the page with a stern, almost resentful frown. “It doesn’t mention your grandfather,” he muttered eventually.

“At my insistence,” she said. “He was the real thief, after all. The thermoplasmic engine was yours, not his.” She moved to his side, plucking a pen from the ink-stained pocket of his coat and holding it up in front of his nose. “Just sign it, Father. It took me almost five minutes of hard bargaining.” She stood on tip-toe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I leave in the morning. I’ll understand if you’re not there to see me off.”

The IPV Profitable Venture was the largest ship she had ever sailed on, a Tempest class battleship of eight twelve-inch guns and enormous, sail-sized paddles secured within armoured casements the size of castles. A small army of sailors were busy about the deck as she came aboard to be greeted by the ship’s First Officer, who ordered her trunk carried to her cabin before requesting she accompany him to the ship’s ward-room. “The rest of the delegation is already aboard, miss. We sail within the hour.”

“A moment, please.” Lizanne turned and cast her gaze down the long gang-plank to where they stood on the quayside. Jermayah waved, Aunt Pendilla awkwardly hugged the shoulders of a half-sobbing Tekela whilst her father stood apart, for once not dressed in that dreadful white coat but a reasonably smart if unfashionable business suit that probably hadn’t seen the outside of a wardrobe in decades. There was no sign of Major Arberus. Of them all, his reaction to her news had been by far the least sympathetic.

Lizanne watched her father give a stiff nod of farewell then turned briskly about. No distractions, she told herself, summoning a lesson from her training, though, like much of her education, the words had a somewhat hollow ring these days. An agent must accommodate their character to solitude. Friends, family and lovers are not within the scope of your employment, except as cover.

“Lead on, if you would, Commander.”

“Ah, Miss Lethridge, excellent.” A grey-haired man in civilian clothes came forward to greet her as she entered the voluminous ward-room, the expression on his lean features considerably more welcoming than the carefully bland one he had shown her the day before. “Director Bloskin advised us of your change of heart.”

“Director Thriftmor.” She inclined her head at the Board member responsible for Extra-Corporate Affairs. She knew him by reputation only, a renowned negotiator who had overseen the successful end to the Dalcian Emergency, though his task had been made easier by the near-complete destruction of Sovereignist forces at the hands of the Protectorate.

“I believe you know the Ambassadress.” Thriftmor turned to an elegant young woman in a finely made dress of black-and-white silk, her hair done up in a pleasing arrangement of golden curls.

“Electress Dorice Vol Arramyl,” Lizanne greeted her in Eutherian, employing the full nomenclature as required by Imperial Court etiquette.

“Miss Blood,” the Electress replied in her slightly accented Mandinorian, lowering her head in a shallow bow. Lizanne found her expression difficult to read, alternating between suppressed resentment and reluctant gratitude. Difficult as it might be to admit, this woman had to know she would have perished at Carvenport but for the evacuation.

“Just Lethridge these days,” Lizanne said. “And I find you elevated to ambassadress no less. How our fortunes have changed.”

“The Blood Imperial advised me of my new title only yesterday,” the Electress replied. “The Emperor thought it only fitting.”

“The Electress has been educating me in Imperial history,” Director Thriftmor said. “A fascinating subject. Did you know the Arakelin dynasty has held the throne for over four centuries?”

“Four hundred and seventy-six years,” Lizanne said. “To be precise.”

“Quite a remarkable feat, don’t you think? For one family to hold on to power for so long.”

A family of blood-soaked inbreds and tyrants who barely survived the last bout of revolution, Lizanne restrained herself from saying. Diplomacy required circumspection. “Indeed, very impressive.”

“Come.” Thriftmor turned and gestured at the gaggle of Ironship functionaries standing near by. “Meet the rest of our delegation.”

There were ten of them altogether, a collection of economic advisers and managers with Corvantine expertise. There were also two senior Protectorate officers, one an admiral the other a general. They socialised for an hour or more, drinking wine served by the ship’s immaculately turned-out orderlies, the conversation lively with corporate gossip and amusing anecdotes. Lizanne found their collective joviality somewhat unnerving, as if none of them truly understood the import of this mission. But then, of the entire delegation, only she and the Electress had been in Carvenport.

“Did they really call you ‘Miss Blood’?” one of them asked, a young economist from the Strategy and Analysis Division who had called for his wine-glass to be refilled several times now. “It seems,” he went on, eyes tracking over her with undue scrutiny, “such an inappropriate title.”

“She killed over a hundred Corvantine soldiers in a single day,” Electress Dorice put in, speaking in slurred Eutherian before downing the contents of her own glass and beckoning to an orderly for more. “Plus half a dozen Blood Cadre agents. Her title would in fact seem to be fairly inadequate.” She raised her glass in a mocking toast. “Miss Slaughter would suit you far better.”

“Whereas a willing spectator to a slaughter is, of course, to be admired,” Lizanne returned. “I don’t believe anyone forced you to embark upon your little jaunt, Electress. And I apologise if the reality of war failed to meet your expectations.”

The Electress flushed, composure slipping away as she flourished a hand at Lizanne, displaying several pale Green-healed scars on the palm. “See these. The legacy of slaving in your filthy manufactory. Forced to labour like a slattern in a workhouse, never knowing if each day might be my last.”

“On behalf of those not born into a life of useless indolence, I bid you welcome to adulthood.”

“Adulthood? You imagine all of this horror has somehow improved me?” The Electress reached up to jerk down the collar of her dress, revealing another scar, this one broad and not so well healed “From when a Blue breathed fire over the length of our ship during the evacuation. I shielded a baby in my arms, she died anyway.”

“Ladies!” Director Thriftmor broke in, dismissing the now-acutely-embarrassed economist with a jerk of his head. The Director smiled, spreading his arms in warm placation. “We stand on the verge of an historic peace. Why sully the occasion with needless acrimony?”

Lizanne realised the rest of the party had fallen silent whilst the volume of their argument rose. Too long out of the shadows, she berated herself. I need to do better.

“Quite so, Director,” she said, setting her wine-glass down on an orderly’s tray before offering Electress Dorice a bow. “My apologies. Your actions were very brave and are still well remembered among the Carvenport refugees.” She nodded at Thriftmor. “I believe I’ll take a turn about the deck before retiring.”

The Profitable Venture, it transpired, had no less than three upper decks. The largest sat level with the edge of the hull and encompassed an area equivalent to three playing-fields. The next two encircled the ship’s command centre and officers’ quarters, a great iron island bristling with small-calibre cannon and newly installed batteries of Thumpers and Growlers, many no doubt bearing the crest of the Lethridge and Tollermine Manufacturing Company. Lizanne’s quarters were located on the middle deck, where she had been advised to confine her evening wanderings. She spent some time leaning on the starboard rail watching the sea pass by beyond the bulk of the paddle casement. The Profitable had recently been fitted with two of the latest mark of thermoplasmic engines and ploughed a north-westerly course at close to thirty knots. It was, she knew, a necessary expense of increasingly scarce product. The faster they could get to Corvus the sooner this alliance could be formalised, though she harboured serious doubts as to the Corvantines’ sincere desire for an agreement. After spilling so much blood and treasure it seemed unlikely the Emperor would willingly forfeit his cherished ambition to control the source of wealth in this world.

She made her way forward, finding herself replaying the final conversation with Tekela. “If you go there, you’ll die,” she had said, tears swelling in her eyes. “The Cadre never forgets and never forgives. Every Corvantine learns this from an early age.”

She was right, of course. The vindictiveness of the Cadre had been hammered home to Lizanne throughout her training. On several occasions over the past century long-retired Exceptional Initiatives agents had been targeted for assassination or abduction. It didn’t bode well for any reception she might receive.

On nearing the forward-facing section of deck she became distracted by the sight of a Growler crew struggling to free the loading mechanism of a jammed cartridge. Deciding to offer some words of advice she started forward when two strong hands reached out from the hatchway behind. One clamped onto her mouth, the other encircled her neck to drag her from sight. Lizanne didn’t bother to struggle, instead remaining limp until the assailant revealed his intentions.

“Now then,” a voice breathed in her ear. “What’s a tasty morsel like you doing wandering about above decks of a night?”

Lizanne bit the hand over her mouth, her captor withdrawing it with a soft curse. “Your accent is abysmal,” she told Arberus.

“Seems good enough to fool my shipmates,” he muttered, inspecting the bite mark on his hand. Lizanne looked him over, finding his uniform a little too neat for a recently press-ganged ordinary seaman.

“How did you get up here?” she asked. “Bloskin said you’d be assigned to the lowest deck.”

“Indeed I was. Been swinging buckets of bilge-water all day. Finding my way here wasn’t overly difficult. It’s always the same with military folk, move with a purpose and they tend to leave you alone.” He flexed his hand, wincing. “Quite the powerful bite you have.”

“Stop pouting, I didn’t break the skin.” She sighed and stepped closer, raising a hand to stroke his chin, speaking softly. “This is foolish. We can’t be seen together, not if you’re going to be of any use in Corvus.”

“I wanted to see you,” he said with a shrug, hands encircling her waist. “Where exactly is your cabin?”

“Oh no.” She put a hand on his chest and gently pushed herself away, not without some reluctance. “Our relationship will remain strictly professional for the duration of this mission. I need to . . . re-acclimatise myself to this role.”

“It could take weeks to find the Artisan,” he said. “If the bugger actually exists.”

“I was thinking more in terms of months, actually.” She stood back and pointed an imperious finger at a wrought-iron gangway descending into the lower decks. “Now be off with you, and don’t let me catch you pestering your betters again.”

He huffed out a small laugh and began to climb down, pausing before his head disappeared from view, face completely serious now. “You know I still think this whole enterprise is insane.”

“We’re living in an insane world.” She extended a foot and tapped the toe of her shoe onto his head. “Now get out of my sight, you unkempt bilge rat you.”

CHAPTER 5

Hilemore

“Collusion with the notorious pirate Zenida Okanas. Unauthorised pardoning of said pirate. Gross misuse of Protectorate equipment and personnel. Failure to adhere to standing orders in time of war. Allowing Syndicate interest to be usurped by informal contract with independent civilians spouting fairy stories.” Captain Trumane’s voice took on an increasing tremble as he spoke, his red-rimmed eyes seeming to glow with fury in the pale, hollow-cheeked mask of his face. He paused, staring up at Hilemore from behind his desk, a much-diminished version of the man who had greeted him only a few months before. Though never a physically imposing presence the captain had nevertheless possessed an energetic, if frequently petty air. Now the collar of his tunic hung loosely around a reedy neck and his hands shook so badly he was obliged to keep them clasped together on the desk. His faculty for pettiness, however, seemed as strong as ever.

“Please, Lieutenant,” he said, baring his yellowed teeth in something that might have been intended as a smile but in fact appeared more of a snarl. “Feel at liberty to correct me if I have omitted anything.”

“You were incapacitated, Captain,” Hilemore replied, standing at attention and keeping his voice as mild as possible. “The fleet had been destroyed in the Strait. Difficult choices had to be made.”

“There’s a difference between a hard command decision and outright betrayal of Syndicate interests . . .” Trumane’s tirade was interrupted by a bout of coughing, his reduced form convulsed by a series of deep, wracking heaves.

“Are you alright, sir?” Hilemore asked, stepping forward. “I can send for Dr. Weygrand . . .”

“Stay where you are!”

Trumane took a kerchief from his pocket and wiped at the pinkish moisture on his lips. “Rest assured, Lieutenant,” he rasped after a short period of heavy breaths. “If we were in a Syndicate port I would file formal charges obliging you to account for your actions in a court martial. As it is, all I can do is demote you to third mate pending future enquiries by the Sea Board. My first order to you is to get that rag-bag bunch of Contractors off my ship. And”—he levelled a shaking finger at Hilemore—“you can forget any lunatic notions of sailing south. Once reprovisioned, the Viable will sail for Feros.”

Hilemore clenched his teeth together to cage the unwise words churning in his thumping chest. “Captain Okanas,” he managed after a moment, the words clipped and precisely controlled. “Might I enquire as to her status?”

“Since she seems to be the only means of firing the blood-burner, I have little choice but to honour your contract with her.”

“She will not wish to sail for Feros.”

“She’ll do as she’s told or she and her whelp can stay here and take their chances. We’ll sail north on auxiliary power only, if necessary. Now get out.”

“He simply doesn’t believe it,” Hilemore said.

Zenida Okanas glanced back at the Viable where a work party of sailors were carrying the newly arrived supplies aboard under Steelfine’s supervision. The captain had made it clear that, once fully loaded, she would depart with the evening tide. “Then he’ll need to be made to,” she said. “I will not take my daughter anywhere near Feros.”

“He didn’t see what we saw,” Hilemore pointed out. “He awoke to a changed world and doesn’t yet know it.”

“When the Blues rip his ship apart, he’ll know it quickly enough.”

“It’s not just the Blues.” Hilemore shot a glance at Clay, standing near by alongside his uncle. The rest of the Longrifles waited a short distance along the wharf, packs heavy with their belongings and the rations Hilemore had quite illegally provided from the ship’s stores. “Mr. Torcreek’s story proved too outlandish for him to accept.”

“So you’re just gonna let him leave us here?” Braddon asked.

“He’s the captain of my ship,” Hilemore said, a certain heat creeping into his voice. “As appointed by the Sea Board and confirmed fit for command by the ship’s doctor. My duty is clear.”

“Balls to your duty,” Clay said. “We got us a place to be and it’s far from here.” He turned and nodded towards the ship where an unusually vocal Steelfine harried the work party to greater efforts. “Seems to me there’s plenty in your crew ain’t too happy he woke up. The Islander in particular.”

“Mr. Steelfine knows his duty as well as I,” Hilemore snapped. “And I’ll thank you not to make mention of such dishonourable allusions in future.”

“Your captain don’t believe it,” Braddon said, adopting a more conciliatory tone than his nephew. “But you do, Mr. Hilemore. You really want to risk us not making our destination due to the jealous arrogance of a sick man? I see it if you don’t. This ain’t about broken regulations or deals with pirates. He knows when the only Protectorate ship to survive the Strait makes it to Feros, the laurels won’t be his. Lest he can find some way to discredit you, that is.”

Hilemore fell silent, turning away to wander to the quay’s edge. Mutiny will never be forgiven, he knew. Regardless of the justification. They’ll hang me and any who join me. He closed his eyes as memories of recent weeks crowded in: the destruction of the INS Imperial, the great northward migration of Blues, the bodies littering the ruins of Hadlock. If we’re gonna save the world . . .

“The crew won’t be with me,” he sighed eventually, voice barely above a mutter. “Most just want to get back to the safety of a familiar port, however illusory that safety might be. In truth, it was my intention to ask for volunteers when it came time to sail south. I thought perhaps half might step forward, now not even that. Taking a ship is one thing, sailing her short-handed is another. Then there’s the question of Chief Bozware’s modifications. The Viable won’t last a week in southern waters without them.”

Braddon moved to his side, longrifle cradled in his arms as he stared out into the harbour, a thoughtful frown on his brow. “Seems to me there’s more than one warship in this port,” he said. “One that won’t require so large a crew. And I ain’t no sailor, sir, but that looks like a pretty thick hull to me.”

Hilemore followed his gaze, straightening as his eyes lit on the sleek shape of the INS Superior. The Contractor captain was right about her hull, built strong enough to withstand the forces unleashed by driving through the heavy seas of the northern oceans at high speed. Which means she must be a blood-burner.

“Had Preacher and Lori keep watch on her since we got here,” Braddon went on. “They reckon there’s no more than ten sailors aboard. Seems they had a bad time of it up north. Reckon you can muster more than ten men, Mr. Hilemore?”

Hilemore straightened further, clasping his hands behind his back as if a military posture might alleviate the enormity of what he was about to do. “The harbour wall,” he said.

“Best leave that to me,” Clay said. “You’re forgetting we got another ally to call on.”

“You wanna sail the Chokes, eh?” the sailor spoke in a grating rasp that told of a throat beset by decades of grog and tobacco. His name was Scrimshine and he appeared to be of mixed heritage, the wiry build and high cheekbones speaking of some Dalcian blood, though his blue eyes and accent indicated a North Mandinorian birth. According to Major Ozpike the man was a recently captured smuggler about to embark upon a lengthy sentence in the Lossermark gaol. What made him of interest to Hilemore, however, was his previous service aboard Blue-hunters sailing the southern seas. Hilemore’s attempts to recruit a pilot from amongst the numerous seafarers in port had proven fruitless, mere mention of the southern seas bringing an abrupt end to all interviews. It left them with only one other option. Ozpike had demanded a hefty bribe to allow them access to the inmates, and the promise of yet more once he signed the parole orders in the event they found a suitable candidate.

“Indeed we do,” Hilemore replied. “And then on to the Shelf.”

The sailor’s eyes widened a fraction, though his voice betrayed only a cautious self-interest. “What’s at the Shelf that needs a Protectorate warship to fetch it?”

“Mind your own Seer-damn business,” Clay said. “You want out of this shit-pile or not?”

Clay ignored the warning glare Hilemore gave him, instead matching stares with the smuggler. “I know this brand of fellow of old, Captain,” he said after a moment’s narrow-eyed inspection. “He’s like to cut our throats the moment we clear the harbour. You’d best throw him back.”

“You do that you’ll be sailing to your deaths,” Scrimshine promised. He had been chained to the table, which itself was bolted to the floor of his cell. The iron links rattled on wood as the sailor shifted, fixing his gaze entirely on Hilemore. “This one don’t know shit about the sea, do he, Skipper? But you do. There’s salt in your veins just like me. Ever see the price the Chokes extracts from a foolhardy captain? Ain’t pretty. If the rocks or the bergs don’t rip the hull out from under you, the ice on the rigging might just get thick enough to tip you over. Then there’s the Blues, a’course.”

“The Blues are all up north,” Clay said. “Or didn’t you hear?”

“I heard,” the sailor said, gaze not shifting from Hilemore. “Blue-hunters been scurrying into this dump for weeks now, and they tell a different story. There’s still Blues aplenty down south, Skipper, you can bet a year’s worth of prizes on it. And it’s a dead-on certainty you’ll find Last Look Jack amongst ’em.”

“Who in the Travail is Last Look Jack?” Clay enquired of Hilemore.

“A legendarily monstrous Blue,” he replied. “The dock-side taverns are rich with dire warnings about the great beast and his ravenous appetite for ships and sailors. Though, curiously, no one has ever actually seen him.”

“How’d you think he got his name? They call him Last Look Jack, ’cause you see him once chances are you won’t be seeing nothing again. He was vicious even before the drakes rose against us, now they say he’s got a hunger that can’t be sated.”

“Guess that means you’d rather stay here,” Clay said, turning in his seat to face the door. “I’ll call for the next one . . .”

“Didn’t say that!” Scrimshine spat. “I’d sail the length of the Travail and back to get my carcass clear of this place. Just wanna make sure the good captain is aware of the risks.” He revealed a far-from-complete set of teeth in a strained smile. “And you won’t find a better pilot for the Chokes, Skipper. Sailed ’em for a dozen years or more, and it’s all up here.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “Might forget me old mum’s maiden name, but every course I ever set is still in here.”

“And the Shelf?” Hilemore asked.

“Been there too, not so often, but I can navigate a safe passage there and back.”

“What about farther south? Across the ice.”

The sailor’s chains rattled as he reclined in his seat, a deeper caution creeping into his gaze. “Once. Had a captain a bit touched in the head, convinced there was some old pirate treasure buried south of the Shelf. Never found it and the daft old sod froze to death on the journey back, along with four others.”

At Hilemore’s nod Clay pulled his book of sketches from the pocket of his duster, filled with his inexpert but legible drawings of what he could remember from the vision contained in the White’s blood. He flipped pages until he came to the image of the great spike rising from the ice, placing it in front of the sailor, who peered at it in evident bafflement.

“Guess you never saw this on your travels,” Clay observed.

The sailor gave a despondent groan and shook his head, slumping back in his seat. “Nah. Meaning you got no use for me, right?”

“Right.” Clay retrieved the book and turned to Hilemore. “The major’s got another dozen or so might fit the bill . . .”

“Saw the mountain though,” Scrimshine broke in.

“What mountain?” Hilemore asked him.

“The peak in the background of that scribbling. That’s Mount Reygnar. Named for some old god or other by the first Mandinorians to make it to the Shelf. I only ever saw it at a distance, right enough.”

“But you can guide us there?” Hilemore asked.

“Surely. But truth be told, it don’t take much guiding. Only high ground for miles around. Moor up at Kraghurst Station then keep true on a south-south-west heading for sixty miles, you’ll see it soon enough. That’s the easy part, Skipper.” He gave another gap-toothed smile, this one possessing some real humour. “Hard part is getting anywhere near Kraghurst in the first place. But you got me for that.” He turned his smile on Clay. “Right?”

“The debt between us is long settled,” Hilemore told Steelfine, watching the Islander cross his thick arms as he lowered his head in stern contemplation. “You should feel no obligation to join me in this.”

They were in the armoury, the thick walls offering protection against prying ears. Steelfine’s bulk took up most of the space, obliging Chief Bozware to squeeze himself into the gap between rifle racks. His agreement had been offered without hesitation. If anything, he seemed a little aggrieved it had taken Hilemore so long to approach him. “We’d be at the bottom of the Strait if not for you, Captain,” he said with a shrug. “Far as I’m concerned, you set the course and I’ll make sure we’ll get there.”

Steelfine was another matter. The fortunes of war had seen him rise higher in the ranks than a seaman of his station could normally expect, except after a lifetime of service. Hilemore was asking him to give up a great deal. In fact there was a small corner of Hilemore’s heart that hoped the Islander would march straight to the captain and report his crime. The man had repaid Hilemore several times over for saving his life during that first near-fatal meeting with Zenida, but it appeared some debts were never settled.

“Twelve,” Steelfine said after a long moment’s consideration. “Perhaps fifteen if their mates persuade them. Mr. Talmant and the juniors too, of course.”

Hilemore swallowed a sigh of equal parts relief and regret. He wanted to ask Steelfine if he was sure about his choice but knew it would be taken as a stain on his Island honour.

“Talmant and the other lads aren’t part of this,” Hilemore said. “I’ll not blight their future, assuming they have one.” He turned to the Chief. “You’ll speak to Dr. Weygrand?”

Bozware shook his head. “He won’t come, sir. Not with patients still in need of his care.”

“Very well. We’ll need a short delay to get properly organised. Tell the captain there’s a problem with the engines, something minor but it’ll take until tomorrow to fix.”

“Might be better to sabotage them. Stop him coming after us.”

“No. I’ve no desire to leave this ship marooned here.” He rested a hand on the bulkhead, feeling the thrum of the auxiliary engines turning over as Bozware’s stokers prepared for the impending voyage. Of all the ships he had sailed on he knew he would miss the Viable the most. “She’ll have a hard enough time being left in Trumane’s care as it is.”

He pulled his watch from his tunic, the two men following suit and synchronising the time on his mark. “The operation commences at four hours past midnight, gentlemen. To your tasks, if you please.”

Hilemore spent the rest of the day going about his duties with typical efficiency and ignoring the nervous winks or grins offered by Steelfine’s chosen co-conspirators. He left the surreptitious gathering of arms and provisions to the Islander and, aware of Trumane’s continually watchful eye, confined his first act of outright mutiny to retrieving two-thirds of the ship’s product from the safe. Luckily, the captain’s distrust hadn’t extended to relieving him of the keys. He briefly considered taking all of the Red but decided there was a possibility, however faint, that Trumane might find a Blood-blessed at another port. Once you’ve decided your course you can never falter. Another of his grandfather’s lessons popping into his head as he regarded the contents of the safe, wondering what the old man would have made of this. Mutineer and now thief. Hanging will be too good for me.

He found the Chief waiting at the port rail with Zenida and her daughter. Akina seemed unusually cheerful, her usual scowl replaced by a bright-eyed excitement and she fairly bounced on tip-toe as the first boat was lowered over the side. Steelfine had ensured the night watch consisted entirely of his trusted crewmen, numbering sixteen men in total, mostly riflemen and stokers. They were further aided by Dr. Weygrand, who, despite refusing to join them, had contrived to add a soporific to the captain’s nightly dose of medicine.

“Doc says he’ll be dead to the world for at least eight hours,” Bozware reported. “Even if there’s another who raises the alarm, I doubt there’s a man aboard with the heart to fire on us, sir.”

Hilemore nodded and glanced over the rail to confirm the first boat was now in the water. “Captain,” he said, handing Zenida a small draw-string oilskin bag containing a good supply of their stolen product. “I would prefer no fatalities, if possible.”

She nodded and paused to kneel and embrace her daughter, speaking in soft Varestian. “Stay with the grease-rat.”

Hilemore swung himself over the rail and began to climb down, making the boat without undue difficulty and taking up the oars. Zenida joined him a moment later, taking the tiller whilst he began to propel them towards the dark bulk of the Superior. Behind them came the clinking of chains through the davits as Steelfine’s party lowered three more boats over the side. Hilemore concentrated on rowing the boat, working oars with a smooth, even rhythm to avoid tell-tale splashes, the squeal of the rowlocks muffled by a liberal application of grease and canvas. Zenida kept mostly to the shadows cast by the other ships at harbour, steering through the curving cliff-like hulls for several long minutes. Finally, she nodded for Hilemore to halt alongside an Alebond Commodities freighter some fifty yards from the Superior’s anchorage.

“We could get closer,” Hilemore whispered, judging the remaining distance too great for his liking.

“Too risky.” Zenida stood up and began to strip. Hilemore expected her to stop at her underthings and found himself instinctively averting his gaze when instead she removed every scrap of clothing. “It’ll just slow me down,” she said, crouching to retrieve the bag of product. “Besides, I’ve noticed men are often reluctant to shoot a naked woman.”

“I wouldn’t be,” he muttered. “If my ship were under threat.”

“But you are a very singular fellow, Mr. Hilemore.” It was too dark to see her face but he could hear the smile in her voice. She extracted three vials from the oilskin bag, presumably Red, Green and Black, and drank them all in quick succession. Drawing the bag’s string tight, she hooked it over her head and slipped over the side into the water. “If I die . . .” she began, the dark silhouette of her head just visible in the gloom.

“I’ll see her safe,” Hilemore promised.

A short pause and she was gone, her disappearance betrayed only by the softest slap of water against the boat’s hull. Hilemore turned his full attention to the Superior and waited. The mist that seemed to greet every morning in this port was beginning to gather as night faded towards day, a thin veil of vapour lingering over the still waters. It took perhaps two full minutes before he saw her pale form appear at the base of the frigate’s forward anchor chain. She ascended to the deck in seconds, moving with the strength and swiftness of a Blood-blessed fully dosed with Green. On reaching the deck she disappeared from sight, though he caught a brief glimpse of her through the upper gun-ports as she sprinted for the ship’s command deck, a white blur in the gloom almost too fast to follow. Hilemore counted ten seconds before the first shout of alarm sounded, followed by two rapid pistol-shots. He took up the oars and began to row as fast as he could, glancing back to ensure Steelfine’s party were following suit.

Two minutes of strenuous effort later the prow of the boat butted against the Superior’s hull and Hilemore shipped oars before reaching for the coil of rope at his feet. He swung the attached grapple with practised precision, the iron-barbed hook looping over the rail and snaring a firm purchase at the first attempt. Some skills were beyond the ability of his body to forget. Like most warships the Superior sat lower in the water than a merchant vessel and the climb was short, though made somewhat agonising by a fresh salvo of pistol-shots from above.

Grunting in frustration, he hauled himself up the last few yards and clambered onto the deck. The first sight to greet him was the body of an unconscious Corvantine sailor. He lay on his side near one of the starboard guns, his faint groans indicating that Zenida had so far managed to avoid any killing. Hilemore drew his revolver and ran for the ladder leading to the upper works. He passed another Corvantine on his way to the bridge, a stocky middle-aged man bent double and retching whilst a steady stream of blood flowed from his nose. He raised his head to gaze blearily at Hilemore, but returned to his retching when it became apparent he wasn’t about to be shot.

Hilemore found another Corvantine on the bridge, little more than a boy and presumably equivalent to an ensign in rank. He glared at Hilemore in helpless outrage, both his wrists firmly knotted to the helm by a length of rope. Hilemore’s Corvantine was poor but he detected more than a few choice obscenities in the invective flowing from the boy’s mouth. Hilemore gave the boy a quick salute and moved on, drawn towards the stern by the sound of a fresh commotion.

Lieutenant Sigoral stood amidst a section of poorly repaired superstructure, sword in one hand and revolver in the other, as something pale and very fast moved around him in a wide circle. He tracked the pale thing with his revolver and pulled the trigger, cursing when the hammer clicked on a spent cartridge. Sigoral then performed some impressively timed and well-practised strokes of his sword, each failing to connect with his tormentor, causing him to swear with increasing volume. This time Hilemore picked out the word “bitch” amongst the tirade. He tapped the barrel of his revolver against an iron railing, calling out, “Captain!” When Sigoral failed to respond, still swinging away with his sword, though with an increasing lack of finesse, Hilemore sighted the revolver an inch or two from the Corvantine’s foot and fired a single round. It proved sufficient to capture his attention.

“Captain,” Hilemore repeated, raising his sights to aim at the man’s forehead. “Look to starboard, if you would.”

Sigoral glared up at him, eyes blazing beneath a sweaty brow, then did as he was bid. He cursed again at the sight of Steelfine’s party now within ten yards of the ship, the Islander standing tall at the prow of his boat with grapple in hand.

“You raised the flag!” Sigoral hissed through gritted teeth, once more glaring up at Hilemore.

“Yes,” he said. “I did. But I am a mutineer who has forsaken all honour.”

He glanced over to where Zenida had come to a halt, shuddering as the product faded from her veins. He experienced a moment of pride at the fact that he managed not to allow his gaze to linger on her moistened and heaving breasts before returning his gaze to Sigoral. “Are your colours struck, sir?”

“What a lump of shit.” Bozware’s lip curled as he regarded the monstrous collection of boiler plate and piping that comprised the Superior’s blood-burning engine. Even to Hilemore’s inexpert eye it appeared a stark contrast to the compact wonder that drove the Viable. The Corvantine vessel’s engineering compartment was cramped compared to the Viable’s, her coal-burning auxiliary engine taking up even more space than the blood-burner. It was also markedly less clean and well-ordered than Bozware’s domain, with the beginnings of rust showing on several fittings.

“Will it work?” Hilemore asked.

“Can’t see any damage,” Bozware mused, circling the engine with a critical eye. “Stupidly over-engineered though. Also looks like she’s been cold for a good few weeks. Needs a proper clean too.”

“Lost your Blood-blessed, did you?” Hilemore asked a stiff-backed and white-faced Sigoral. He had surrendered his sword and pistol but refused to be paroled, obliging Hilemore to allot two riflemen to guard him. “So did we,” he went on when Sigoral refused to answer. “At the Strait. Were you there perchance?”

Sigoral met his gaze squarely, a humourless smile coming to his lips. “Yes. What a great and glorious day it was.”

“A remarkable victory,” Hilemore agreed. “If, as I’m given to understand, somewhat short-lived. And, as you saw, we found another Blood-blessed. Do you have any product on board?”

Sigoral’s only response was a weary glare.

“Give us a few minutes, sir,” one of the riflemen said, moving closer to the Corvantine. “We’ll get him singing soon enough.”

“No,” Hilemore said. “Take him aloft and put him with the others. Tell Mr. Steelfine to prepare a boat to put them ashore when we’re ready to sail.”

He saw surprise flicker across Sigoral’s face for a moment. It seemed plain he had expected either execution or a lengthy tenure in the ship’s brig. “And give him his sword back when you cast them off,” Hilemore added as the marine was led to the engine room’s exit.

He moved to where Zenida sat, dressed in liberated Corvantine overalls and sipping a restorative mixture of rum and warmed milk. “Are you alright?” he asked.

She gave a tired nod and turned her gaze to Akina, who had joined the Chief in his examination of the Corvantine engine. In contrast to the engineer her small face betrayed fascination rather than professional distaste. “My daughter has always loved mechanicals,” Zenida said. “Could never get her out of the Windqueen’s engine room.”

“Good,” Hilemore said. “I have a sense we’ll need every hand during the voyage ahead, and the Chief could do with an apprentice.”

“Mr. Steelfine’s compliments, sir,” a rifleman called from the hatch. “The Contractors’ boat just came alongside.”

“I’ll be there directly.” Hilemore handed Zenida the leather satchel containing the rest of the stolen product. “We raise anchor as soon as the Chief gets the engines on-line. Are you . . . ?”

“More than capable, thank you, Captain.” She took the satchel and got to her feet. “The Corvantine,” she added as he started for the hatch, making him pause. “He called me some very unfortunate names. I let him live as a favour to you.”

This wasn’t a trivial matter, he knew. Varestians, particularly the women, were renowned for their violent intolerance of insult. “Your restraint is appreciated, sea-sister,” he told her in his coarse Varestian.

She smiled and turned back to the engine. “A small matter.”

The mist was lit by the faint but growing rays of the morning sun, a thick concealing blanket covering the harbour and obscuring the top of the wall from view. “Your nephew seems a little tardy, Captain Torcreek,” Hilemore observed. He stood with the Contractor at the Superior’s narrow prow, gaze fixed on the wall and ears straining for the sound of a lifting engine springing to life. The Longrifles had come aboard a quarter hour ago, having collected Scrimshine from the Lossermark gaol. The smuggler regarded the unfolding preparations with a nervous suspicion, causing Hilemore to ask the young gunhand to keep a close watch on him.

“If he tries to jump over the side, shoot him in the leg,” he told Loriabeth. “We need him alive.”

“Clay’ll be along,” Braddon said, his voice absent of doubt, though Hilemore noted his gaze was as keen as his own. He checked his watch, finding them a full five minutes behind schedule. Much longer and the tide will be against us. “I’ll get the prisoners away,” he said, hurrying towards the stern.

He found Sigoral and his nine crewmen under guard amidst the section of wrecked superstructure. Hilemore’s attention was immediately drawn to one of the guards, a young man in an ill-fitting seaman’s uniform who seemed at pains to keep his face shaded by his cap. “Mr. Talmant!” Hilemore barked.

The youngster froze then snapped to attention. “Sir!”

Hilemore bit down on a tirade and stepped closer. “What are you doing here?”

Talmant’s response was immediate and clearly rehearsed. “Following my captain, sir. As per my oath. I left a letter on Captain Trumane’s desk resigning my commission and providing a full explanation of my actions.”

Hilemore was not overly fond of corporal punishment, except where demanded by necessity, but now experienced a near-irresistible desire to beat the naïvety from this boy in full view of prisoners and crew alike. However, Talmant’s statement gave him pause. “You left him a letter?”

“Indeed, sir. Honour required no less.”

At that moment the shrill pealing of a ship’s steam-whistle cut through the mist. The Viable was concealed by the fog but Hilemore knew the sound like the voice of an old friend.

“Dr. Weygrand said he’d sleep for hours yet,” Talmant said in a thin voice.

“Captain Trumane always had a love of confounding expectations,” Hilemore muttered before turning to meet Talmant’s eye. “Get to the bridge and take the helm. Signal Chief Bozware to start whichever engine he can make work.”

“Aye, sir.” Talmant saluted and sprinted off.

“Lieutenant Sigoral.” Hilemore strode towards the marine. “Please muster your men. Time for you to take your leave.”

One of the Corvantine sailors growled something at that, the tone of stern refusal requiring little translation. The rest of them all quickly echoed the sentiment, bunching together in a tight defensive knot. “This is our ship,” Sigoral stated. “Thanks to the townsfolk, my men are fully aware of recent events. They do not wish to stay here, and I find I cannot argue with their reasoning.”

“They’ll find berths on other ships,” Hilemore said.

“Not warships. And I doubt your captain will make room for us.”

Hilemore looked in the direction of the Viable’s mooring as the faint chug of her auxiliary engine drifted through the mist. “The voyage we are about to undertake,” he began, turning back to Sigoral, “will bring more danger than anything you’ll face aboard a Blue-hunter in northern waters.”

“This is our ship,” Sigoral repeated. “The Imperial Navy is not the Protectorate, Captain. These men are bonded to their ship by sacred oath. Would you give up your home so easily?”

The Viable’s whistle sounded again, three long blasts accompanied by the swish of her paddles stirring into motion. “I require your parole,” Hilemore told Sigoral. “And you’ll be accountable for these men. I cannot tolerate even the slightest suggestion of trouble.”

The Corvantine glanced at his remaining crew, jaw bunching as he fought long-instilled instinct. Finally he gave a strained rasp, “My parole is given.”

Hilemore looked up at the Superior’s single stack, noting the absence of smoke. “You have engineers in your party?” he asked.

“Shopak! Zerun!” Sigoral barked and two Corvantines stepped forward, both clad in the besmirched overalls typical of those who toiled amidst mechanicals.

“Take them to the engine room,” Hilemore ordered. “They are to help my Chief Engineer get this ship underway. You will translate. The rest of your men will raise the anchor.”

Sigoral nodded but didn’t move immediately, instead extending his hand to the rifleman who had hold of his sword. Hilemore nodded and the man handed it over. Sigoral buckled his sword about his waist then turned to his men and barked out a series of orders that sent all but the two engineers scurrying to the forward anchor mounting.

“I look forward to learning our destination,” the Corvantine told Hilemore as he led the engineers towards a hatch and disappeared below.

“The lads won’t like this, sir,” said the rifleman who had offered to torture Sigoral for information. “Lotta bad feeling after the Strait.”

Hilemore began to snarl out a command for the man to shut his mouth but hesitated. He had already asked a great deal of these men and clinging to normal proprieties seemed foolish in the circumstances. “We don’t have enough hands to work the ship properly,” he said instead, adding, “Any who don’t want to serve with them can take a boat and get gone, but they’d best be quick about it.”

He made his way forward, covering half the distance to the bow before the deck began to thrum beneath his feet. A glance at the stack confirmed that Bozware had at least managed to get the auxiliary engine on-line. He paused to watch the Corvantines haul the anchor clear of the water then went to stand alongside Braddon, still maintaining his vigil of the wall.

“I should’ve just bribed the harbour-master,” Hilemore muttered, picking out the hazy bulk of the lifting engines atop the wall.

Braddon stiffened then grinned as a shout of alarm rose from the Corvantines. All eyes snapped upwards at the panicked shout, “DRAKE! DRAKE!”

“Apologies for the delay, Captain,” Braddon said as a large shadow cut through the thinning mist above. “My nephew was obliged to climb the highest spire in the port. And his pet gets less obedient by the day.”

Hilemore watched the shadow glide towards the wall then flare its wings for a landing. A piercing scream sounded through the mist followed by a brief but fierce gout of flame. “It takes a brave man to deny the request of a Blood-blessed riding a drake,” Braddon commented. After a short delay the two lifting engines guttered into life and the door ahead of the Superior began its squealing rise.

“Sir!”

Hilemore turned at Steelfine’s shout, finding him pointing to a familiar shape resolving out of the fog, the Viable coming on at full auxiliary speed. “Man the guns, sir?” Steelfine asked as Hilemore started for the bridge.

“I thought there wasn’t a man aboard with the heart to fire on us?” Hilemore asked.

“Captain Trumane’s a forcefully persuasive fellow,” Steelfine replied. “And, to be honest, sir, there’s a few lads left aboard who’d gladly see us both dead.”

“A lie, Number One?”

“Thought you needed a little prod, sir.”

Hilemore sighed and shook his head. “I won’t fire on my own ship, not that Trumane knows that. Load powder only, give us a smoke-screen.”

“Aye, sir.”

The Superior had already begun to move by the time he got to the bridge, finding Talmant working the wheel with accustomed hands. “She’s a real beauty to handle, sir,” he said.

“Good to know, Lieutenant. Keep her straight and true, if you please.” Hilemore went to the starboard gangway, watching the Viable close to within a hundred yards, her signal lamp blinking furiously: “‘Heave to. Prepare to be boarded.’”

He saw with dismay that the forward pivot-gun was manned and in the process of being loaded, though not with the kind of urgency he would have expected. Perhaps the remaining crew liked him more than Steelfine thought. Nevertheless, the time for subtlety was over.

He returned to the bridge, scanning the various instruments before he found the engine telegraph, though the lettering on its dial was completely indecipherable. “The red one for full ahead, sir,” Talmant said.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” He pushed the lever to the red dial and waited. Ahead the door was at least ten yards short of being fully raised and the Viable was closing by the second. Come on, Chief, Hilemore prayed inwardly. It can’t be all that different.

From outside came the flat boom of a cannon followed by the instantaneous whine of a shell slicing the air. The shot impacted a few yards to the right of the bow, a trifle too close for a warning shot. Either the pivot-gun crew had missed on purpose or they were worse shots than he remembered. Steelfine didn’t wait for the order, the Superior’s three starboard guns barking out a response in quick succession, the resultant smoke mingling with the lingering mist to craft an impenetrable fog.

A shrill bell sounded from the engine telegraph, the dial swinging away and then back to the red portion of the dial. The Superior gave a now-familiar lurch, not as violent as that produced when the Viable’s blood-burner came on-line, but still enough to make him stagger. The Superior surged forward, sweeping through mist and cannon-smoke thick enough to momentarily obscure the door, but luckily Talmant proved capable of holding the course. They exited the harbour at fifteen knots, rapidly rising to twenty as Talmant steered them through the channel to the open sea.

“Steer true south, Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore said. “Keep her at full ahead until further notice.”

“Aye, sir.”

Hilemore went outside and slipped down the ladder to the deck, making his way aft where the Longrifles stood in vigilant expectation. They didn’t have long to wait. The great shadow of the Black rose from the misted channel and closed the distance to the ship with a few lazy beats of its wings. Hilemore heard a few near-hysterical shouts from the Corvantines and a hushed Dalcian prayer from Scrimshine as the drake flew closer. Lutharon spread his wings and landed on the aft deck with a skittering thump as his claws found the boards, folding his wings and crouching to allow Clay to climb down from his back.

“Well,” he said, glancing around, “this tub’s hardly an improvement on the last one.”

CHAPTER 6

Sirus

It killed Simleon first, reaching out to enclose the boy in one of its claws before tearing him in half with a quick snap of its massive jaws. It tossed the pieces to the squalling clutch of infants scrabbling about near by. Their Spoiled captors had dragged Simleon from the ranks of prisoners and pushed him towards the White, using comparatively little force due to the boy’s placidity. He just trotted along obediently, shoulders slumped and head lowered. It seemed to Sirus as if Simleon had lost the last vestiges of himself in the sewers and all that remained was an empty shell awaiting execution. Sirus wanted him to scream and struggle, at least then there may be some scrap of sanity amongst all this horror. But Simleon hadn’t screamed. He just stood, not even looking up as the legendary beast dipped down to sniff him, issuing a faintly satisfied rumble. Katrya, unlike Simleon, had plenty of screams left in her. Sirus tried to shush her, fearing a silencing blow from their captors, but she kept wailing on. The Spoiled, however, seemed content to let her scream, Majack’s deformed features barely glancing down at them before returning his yellow-eyed gaze to the impossible beast that now ruled this city.

The White had coiled itself around the statue of the Emperor Voranis occupying the centre of the plaza at the heart of the Imperial Ring. It should have been majestic in its size and evident power, like something stepped from the pages of myth. But the inescapable realness of the beast made it dreadful rather than awe-inspiring. There were scars on its hide in several places, and red veins could be seen pulsing in its wings as it wrapped them around the bronze effigy of long-dead Voranis. He had been the first of the Arakelin line to sit the throne, his bronze effigy now partly unrecognisable thanks to recent melting. The cause of the vandalism became apparent when Sirus saw the infant drakes casting their flames at it, wings fluttering and tails whipping as if engaged in a delightful new game. Those not preoccupied with turning the statue into slag were busy gathering up the many bones that littered the plaza, jaws laden with blackened sticks that had once been limbs and balls that had once been skulls. They appeared to be fashioning a stack from this ghastly detritus, fusing the bones in place with some kind of steaming bile heaved up from their stomachs. Sirus’s gaze swept the plaza, counting five completed stacks arranged in a circle around the White. Before vomiting, Sirus noticed most of the bones were too small to have been adult remains.

There were about forty other captives in their party, presumably the last survivors to have been scoured from the ruins of Morsvale. Sirus was surprised to find so many, but the city had been large and its antiquated architecture provided many nooks and crannies where desperate souls might conceal themselves, but not, apparently, forever. The captives were greatly outnumbered by their captors, Sirus estimating that at least three thousand drakes had gathered in this plaza. As the captives were dragged through the silent crowd, arms bound, expecting death at any second, he noticed that many of the Spoiled were clad in the clothes of the townsfolk: soldiers, constables, servants and shopkeepers. Like Majack their faces were not so deformed as those clad in tribal garb, although they all shared the same expression of faintly interested scrutiny.

The White spent a few moments watching the infants squabble over Simleon’s quickly diminishing remains then turned its gaze to the ragged line of kneeling captives. Katrya’s screams finally stopped as the beast’s eyes swept over them, choking into a final terrorised exhalation. Sirus wanted to look away but found himself captured by the White’s gaze. Its eyes were narrowed and its brows bunched in calculation and Sirus realised he had a yet deeper well of fear in him as the realisation hit home: This animal can think!

The White’s gaze tracked across them all several times before halting to focus on one captive in particular, Sirus noting how its brows deepened as if in recognition. The captive was a small man of at least fifty years of age, dressed in a filthy set of overalls typical of those who worked at the docks. He knelt with his head lowered, lips moving in a silent prayer. Sirus wondered if he was beseeching the Emperor’s divine intervention or, more likely given his age, casting his hopeless entreaties at one of the older, suppressed gods. In either case he had to know there was no prayer that would rescue him now.

A low rumble issued from the White and two Spoiled immediately dragged the man to his feet. His prayers trailed off as they pushed him towards the White, whatever lingering faith he possessed replaced by abject terror as he stared up into the beast’s critical gaze. The White angled its head, its scrutiny deepening. The docker could only stand and tremble under the examination, Sirus noting how his bound hands spasmed at the small of his back, one of which, he saw, featured a pale circle in the otherwise olive-hued skin. A Blood-blessed, he realised, understanding how the man had managed to survive until now. But without product, a Blood-blessed was just another meal for their conquerer.

Abruptly the White jerked its head back from the docker with a growl that contained a clearly discernible note of frustration. Whatever it had hoped to find in this unfortunate apparently wasn’t there to be found. Sirus finally looked away when the White’s claws closed on the fellow, talons piercing his torso like spears. From the resurgence of squawking from the infants it was clear they had been given a new toy to play with.

When he looked again he saw that the White had uncoiled much of its bulk from the part-melted statue, revealing two objects that had previously been hidden by its wing. Sunlight glittered on two huge crystals about the size of a man, one green and one blue, both pulsing with some kind of inner light. Sirus found his gaze immediately caught by the pulsing, both the green and the blue crystal flaring and fading in steady, synchronised rhythm, oddly soothing in its ability to entice the eye. Sirus felt the sickening chill of his fear fade as he continued to stare at the crystals. The many aches and pains of his strained and part-starved body slipped away along with all sense of time. There was only the light, the wonderfully soothing light . . .

“No!” He never knew where he found the strength or the will to look away, clamping his eyes shut and jerking his head to the side. The crystals’ gifts were intoxicating, and he longed for the absence of fear and pain, but some primal instinct screamed a warning in his mind: This is taking more than it gives!

Strong hands clamped on his shoulders and head, forcing it forward, whilst implacable fingers prised his eyelids apart. Sirus tried to shout but the sound was muffled by the hands holding his jaw and he could only spout angry spittle as the Spoiled held him in place and let the crystals’ light flow into his mind. After only a few heart-beats, he found that the desire to look away had vanished.

. . . still sleeping. Probably dreaming about her again . . .

Sirus groaned as Katrya’s voice banished the dregs of slumber, her tone more sullen and bitter than he remembered. He shifted, blinking rapidly as a confusion of images greeted his eyes. It took some time before he could make sense of what he saw. There were so many colours, as if he lay in a room bathed in light from a multitude of stained-glass windows. More blinking and things became marginally more comprehensible. The colours, just confused smudges at first, soon resolved into people. They were outlined in some kind of red haze, like the glow of a lantern, but still recognisably people. No, he corrected himself as their features came into focus. Not people. Spoiled.

They lay or sat on a collection of beds or mattresses arranged in a loose order that resembled a barrack room, albeit one occupied by soldiers with scant regard for military order. The floor was littered with various refuse, from discarded bones to empty bottles. A closer look at the Spoiled brought an instant of sickening recognition. These were his fellow captives, though their faces now featured the same nascent deformities as Majack’s.

Sirus fought down panic and reached up to place a tremulous hand along the new ridge of dome-like protrusions extending from the centre of his brows into his hair. They followed the line of his skull to the base of his neck where they grew yet larger, proceeding down his back in parallel to his vertebrae. A quick inspection of his face confirmed the presence of soft but scaled skin around his eyes and mouth. Had he a mirror he knew he would now be staring at the visage of a yellow-eyed monster.

Isn’t so bad, Katrya said. Doesn’t hurt any more, at least.

His gaze snapped towards Katrya, finding her sitting on the next bed, her face betraying the same deformities as the others. As he tried to overcome the shock provoked by her appearance another realisation came to him. She hadn’t spoken, and yet her words sang clear in his mind.

He saw her scaled mouth twitch in faint amusement. Clever, isn’t it? Like magic or something. I think it, you hear it.

Sirus recalled the silence of the Spoiled in the plaza, the way their captors had moved with a shared purpose despite not exchanging a word. The crystals, he thought, remembering the pulsing light, the way it had seemed to flow into him. They did this . . .

That’s what I think too, Katrya agreed, smiling wider as he started.

This . . . His hands came up to paw at his face, fingers exploring the scales and the ridge of bumps with fevered disgust. It’s horrible . . . I can’t . . .

He got to his feet, casting about wildly for some kind of weapon, anything with a sharp edge capable of opening a vein. He spied a discarded bottle near by and snatched it up, raising it high to smash the glass. I will not be this!

STOP!

The command rang in his head like a bell, implacable and inescapable. He froze in place, the bottle slipping from suddenly numb fingers. It hadn’t been just one voice this time, though he heard Katrya’s in there amongst the multitude. Looking around their makeshift barracks, he saw the rest of the former captives all staring at him intently. He could feel their thoughts in his head like the low buzz of a disturbed beehive. Words began to form out of the buzz, jumbled for the most part but some leaping out with sufficient force of will to make him wince: . . . needed . . . He needs us . . . This one is smart . . . He will be valuable . . .

More than the jumble of voices was the sense of something beneath it, something spurring them on, a will far greater than all of them combined.

Sirus reeled under the onslaught and fell to his knees, clutching his head in pain. Then came a new sensation, something softer, kinder, subduing the commanding babble and its overwhelming accompaniment. Best if you don’t fight it. Katrya knelt to gently pull his hands away from his temples. Her slitted eyes met his and a fresh wave of sensation rushed forth. The voices faded to a whisper as a collage of images ran through his head.

A small boy in a garden, seen through the eyes of someone whose head didn’t yet come level with an old sun-dial which the boy studied with complete attention. A small but insistent hand reached out to place a ball on the sun-dial, drawing an irritated scowl from the boy that soon softened into a smile, and then a laugh. The image shifted and Sirus saw the same boy, older now and glimpsed through a half-open doorway. He stood at stiff attention, fighting tears whilst his father harangued him for a lack of attention to his studies. Sirus could feel the sympathy that coloured this memory, the desire to comfort. The vision blurred again, swirling into something different, something tinged with a dark stain of hurt and jealousy. The boy is perhaps eighteen now, standing with head bowed in the garden of his house, stuttering through some poorly written verse as a bored girl with a doll’s face regards him with ill-concealed contempt. When the boy has finished his poem the girl simply rolls her eyes and walks away without a word . . .

Sirus shuddered as the images faded and he found himself back in the warehouse, on his knees and staring into Katrya’s remade eyes. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? her mind said. Now we can share everything.

Sirus stifled the impulse to recoil, clamping down on the disgust and fear mingling in his breast. He could feel something in Katrya’s thoughts, beyond the affection she had hidden for so long and now felt no compunction in sharing. It was like touching a jagged bone shoved through sundered flesh. Something had been broken in Katrya, probably in all of them when the crystals’ light flooded in. Somehow it had reached inside them and snapped the cord of reason and humanity that should have made them hate this transformation. He had it too, he could feel it, a throbbing persistent desire to surrender to this new body with its marvellous gifts. Katrya no doubt had more memories to share, as did the others . . .

You are needed. Sirus’s gaze snapped to the warehouse entrance, finding Majack regarding him in placid expectation. At the docks.

Sirus could sense no affection in Majack’s thoughts. In fact the soldier exuded little of anything beyond a blind sense of purpose as he led Sirus to the docks. Katrya followed along behind, skipping a little. Her thoughts conveyed a tone of childlike contentment that made Sirus wonder why such acceptance remained beyond him. They passed many fellow Spoiled on the way, all labouring to gather what provisions could be looted from the city into several great mounds along the approaches to the quayside. After a moment’s concentration Sirus found he could sense their purpose amongst the unspoken hum of shared thoughts. He commands that we prepare . . . The sea is broad and the way long . . .

The sea is broad . . . Sirus felt his simmering fear rise a notch at what that might mean but the sight that greeted him at the docks banished further consideration. Spoiled were at work aboard every ship in the harbour, hauling cargo or repairing damage with a concentrated, near-feverish energy. But what commanded his attention most was the presence of the White, perched atop the deck of a large freighter moored directly ahead. His attention was concentrated even more by the fact that it was looking at him.

Come . . .

The voice invading his mind was instantly recognisable; possessing the same note as the compelling undercurrent that ran through all their thoughts. It was soft, far from the booming echo Sirus might have expected from this beast. But its power to command was undeniable. He marched straight to the ship and up the gang-plank without hesitation, coming to a halt in the shadow of the White’s wing as it curled its snake-like neck to regard him.

Different . . . The voice mused as Sirus felt a sharp series of stabbing pains at the front of his skull, causing him to stifle a gasp as a thousand memories ran through his head in a scant few seconds. More, the White mused as it rummaged through his mind, Sirus sensing a note of increasing satisfaction. Thinks more . . . Knows more.

Abruptly the pain stopped and the White huffed out two twin circles of smoke from its nostrils. Once again the beast’s voice sang in Sirus’s mind, a single word but this time completely unintelligible, resembling no language that Sirus spoke or could recognise. However, the word was accompanied by a brief image, a man in white clothing reading a book, the page rich in complex diagrams and calculations.

Scientist, he thought. Scholar.

The White’s wings gave a small jerk, knife-length teeth bared in sudden annoyance. Sirus discerned a clear note of frustration in its shared thoughts as it swung its gaze away.

No, Sirus realised. I don’t understand.

After a few seconds the White’s wings settled and it swept its head round in a long arc that encompassed the whole harbour, Sirus following suit in response to the urge it placed in his head. Thirty-three ships, he counted obediently. Capable of carrying a force of perhaps four thousand.

He felt the White’s anger flare, visions of rent and burning bodies filling his mind.

We can build more, Sirus replied, the thoughts rushing forth in a panicked torrent. Simple craft . . . Barges that can be towed. A tactic first employed by the Emperor Hulahkin in the First Regency War . . .

He stopped as the White’s anger, and the dreadful encouraging images, receded to be replaced by a single word. Build.

I will . . . All that you need.

The White turned away, raising itself to gaze towards the east. Feeling a keen sense of dismissal, Sirus retreated to the gang-plank and returned to the wharf. A group of Spoiled had already begun to gather, presumably summoned by the White. They were all former townsfolk, clad in the tattered regalia of their station: carpenters, artisans, shipwrights, labourers. Sirus could feel their expectation and obedience; the White had given him a work-force. After a moment’s calculation he focused his mind on an illustration he recalled from one of the older tomes in the museum library: Marschenik’s History of the Regency Wars. The illustration showed an armada of oar-driven war galleys approaching the then-independent city-state of Valazin, each one towing two barges behind, all heavily laden with troops.

Draught’s too shallow for the Arradsian seas, a heavy-set man in shipwright’s garb responded before providing an image of his own, a longer craft with a narrower beam and a deeper hull. Troop barge from the Imperial Fleet, the shipwright explained, his thoughts rich in craftsman’s certainty. With enough timber we can build fifty in a month.

Timber? Sirus sent the thought out to all of them, receiving a chorus of responses. Plenty of trees beyond the wall . . . Tear down the houses . . . Break up the smaller boats . . .

Sirus nodded and glanced back at the White, still maintaining its eastward vigil. He summoned the memory of its command and conveyed it to his new work-force: Build, fifty in a week.

The first barge was completed by nightfall, with another ten already under construction in the Morsvale yards. Sirus couldn’t help but feel an absurd pride at the sight of the barge descending the slip-way to the harbour waters, greeted by a wave of satisfaction from the onlooking work-force.

His fear hadn’t abated, nor had his disgust at what he had been fashioned into. But the power of what the White had wrought here was undeniable. The ability to take an entire city of individuals and transform them into a cohesive whole, free of rivalry, greed or envy, and capable of working in absolute concert. Added to that were the physical changes. Sirus had never been a particularly athletic youth but now found himself lifting burdens previously beyond him, working for hours on end with scant need for all but the briefest rest. He was quicker too, moving about his new domain on swift and nimble feet. Then there were the skills. Sirus had never hammered a nail or chiselled a length of wood in his life, but now found himself working timber with the hands of a master craftsman, and it wasn’t just him. Every Spoiled under his command now possessed the same skills. Somehow the shipwright’s knowledge had been passed to all of them.

They worked through the night with only two hours’ break for sleep. Sirus was grateful to find his rest untroubled by the dreams or night terrors that had often plagued him since the basement. The White, it seemed, decreed that its army must have an undisturbed slumber. They launched the third boat a few minutes after dawn, Sirus shooting a cautious glance at the White. It had shifted its perch to the tallest remaining structure atop the harbour wall and now crouched silhouetted against the rising sun, still gazing east. Any sense of satisfaction at their achievement was absent from the faint torrent of its thoughts, which now held a dominant note of impatient expectation.

Sirus shuddered as the White straightened, every Spoiled within sight wincing in unison at its sudden shift in mood. Flaring its wings, it gave a loud but thankfully brief roar then launched itself into the air. It circled the harbour until a fresh sound greeted Sirus’s ears with piercing force. Drake calls, he realised, shifting his gaze from the White to the eastern sky, which had grown suddenly dark. A thousand drake calls.

They came in a screaming crimson mass, swirling around the harbour and churning the surface of the water with the beat of their wings. The White fanned its own wings and hovered as the Reds flocked around it. Another roar, far louder and longer than the first, issued from its gaping jaws. Sirus could still hear its thoughts but the sensation was different now, reminding him of the untranslatable word it had tried to teach him. This event, he knew, was beyond human understanding. The drakes were sharing something he and the other Spoiled could never hope to experience.

Are they gods now? he wondered. Will this be the entire world when they’re done?

After several more roaring sweeps the White descended to the quayside, landing a short distance from the slip-way. The sky gradually emptied as the Reds descended into the city, save one that glided down to land opposite the White. It was the largest Red Sirus had seen so far, as large as a full-grown Black, but still of course dwarfed by the White. The left side of the Red’s face was pock-marked with deep scars and its hide bore the signs of recent battle. Sirus noted that it alighted on three legs instead of four and assumed it had been injured, but then saw it held something in its claw. Sinking low, the Red gave a subdued rattling growl as it extended its claw to deposit an offering at the White’s feet. The White sniffed the gift then prodded it with its toe, drawing forth a groan that made Sirus realise this tribute was in fact a man. He lay immobile for several seconds before raising his head, revealing craggy but unspoilt features. He gazed around at his surroundings for a time before getting slowly to his feet, a large, barrel-chested man of middling years who betrayed absolutely no fear at all as he gazed up at the White.

“Chew well, you fucker,” Sirus heard the man say in coarse Eutherian. “I’m likely to choke you.”

It was one of the soldiers who recognised the man, the knowledge spreading through the onlooking horde of Spoiled in short order as the memory spread from mind to mind. Sirus had never seen this man in person but every Corvantine alive knew his name. Grand Marshal Morradin had returned to Morsvale.

CHAPTER 7

Lizanne

Electress Dorice came to find her on the last day of the voyage, appearing at Lizanne’s side as she paused during her morning constitutional around the mid-deck. The noblewoman’s handsome face was pale this morning, unadorned by rouge or paint, and she wore a simple gown of plain muslin.

“Miss Lethridge,” she said, her voice lacking any of the usual condescension or resentment. They had tended to avoid one another during the voyage, save for the evening meals, which Director Thriftmor insisted be attended by all members of the delegation. Lizanne assumed he was trying to cement some form of bond between them whilst also providing a talking shop from which a “nuanced strategy” would emerge to guide their impending dealings with the Corvantines. Director Thriftmor was full of phrases like “amicable concordance” and “synergised outcomes,” but “nuanced strategy” was by far his favourite. Lizanne had contrived to limit her presence at these soirees with some inventive imaginary ailments and artfully constructed euphemisms such as “the feminine regularity.” She found the prospect of their imminent arrival in Corvus oddly attractive in that it would at the very least spare her the company of her fellow diplomats.

“Electress,” Lizanne responded with a formally respectful nod then turned her gaze to the prow where the sea broke white against the iron hull of the Profitable Venture. “Grey skies and grey seas,” she said. “It seems we are to be denied fine weather for our last day aboard.”

“Quite appropriate, I assure you. Corvus is a fairly dreary city, truth be told.” The woman fell silent and Lizanne saw a new distance in her gaze, the eyes sunken and ringed with dark circles.

“Are you well, Electress?” she asked.

Unexpectedly, the woman smiled, though it was brief and her perfect teeth remained hidden behind unpainted lips. “I am as well as I will ever be,” she said, her smile fading completely before she continued. “I should like to tell you something, about the siege.” She hesitated, the distance in her gaze becoming yet more pronounced. “The child . . .” she began, the words soft and formed with a forced precision. “The child I failed to save in the evacuation. I found her the night the Spoiled came over the wall, wailing away in a ruined house, her parents gone or slaughtered. I was going to leave her. I was so terribly afraid, you see. I was at the barricade when the Spoiled and the Greens came charging out of the flames . . . And I ran. As far and as fast as I could, I ran and I ran. But I stopped when I heard that child crying.”

“You saved her,” Lizanne said.

“I picked her up, swaddled her as best I could and tried to find somewhere to hide until morning. A Red found us before I could. I had a small amount of product left. Luckily, it proved sufficient, though the beast put up quite a fight, I must say. In the morning I took the child to Mrs. Torcreek’s hospital, intending to leave her in the care of more experienced hands. But the place was in such a terrible state, and what better hands to protect her than mine?” Her lips formed another smile, her face brightening with a cherished memory. “So I kept her, and I named her Aledina, my grandmother’s name. It was my intention to formally adopt her on return to the empire, should we survive the evacuation . . .” The emotion drained from her face as she trailed off, taking several moments before continuing. “It wasn’t the flames that killed her. I shielded her from those. But the heat sucked all the air out of the cabin, just for a few seconds, and her lungs were too small . . .”

Electress Dorice turned her face out to sea, eyes closed and expressionless save for the tear that trickled from the corner of her eye. Lizanne lowered her gaze, suppressing a grimace as memories of Carvenport’s fall crowded in. “I’m sorry . . . ” she began.

“No,” the Electress said. “Do not be sorry. I came to thank you. You were right, I came to Arradsia in search of excitement. I was so terribly bored in Corvus. Life amongst the Imperial elite is an endless drudge of gossip and petty rivalry. I barely knew my own parents, so distant and wrapped up in their own prestige were they. I have had several lovers, none of whom I have loved. Only amidst war and horror did I discover what it feels like to love. A life without it is a barren, wasted thing, Miss Lethridge. Thanks to you, that fate, at least, has been denied me.”

She took a small silver jewellery box from the pocket of her dress. “I would like you to have this,” she said, offering the box to Lizanne. “I believe it may be of use in your future endeavours.”

Lizanne accepted the box, opening it to find a small circular pin of plain silver adorned with the oak-leaf symbol of the Imperial crest. “This was yours?” she asked, unable to keep an incredulous note from her voice. “You were an agent of the Blood Cadre?”

“A mostly honorary position,” the Electress said, apparently unruffled by Lizanne’s scepticism. “But one that involves certain inescapable responsibilities.” She met Lizanne’s gaze before continuing, her expression intent and, as far as Lizanne could tell, completely sincere. “I tranced with the Blood Imperial this morning. He instructed me to acquaint you with certain facts regarding the Imperial Court. Firstly, everyone you will meet there is a self-serving liar, although I assume that won’t come as any great surprise. Secondly, since infancy Emperor Caranis has suffered from a very unusual malady. For extended periods he will appear to be of an entirely rational, if somewhat coldly practical frame of mind. However, throughout his life there have also been periods when his behaviour could best be described as erratic. I am instructed to inform you that the Emperor’s most recent erratic episode began three days ago.”

“You mean he’s mad?” Lizanne asked. She had assumed, given the Emperor’s warmongering, that his character must possess some delusional elements. But the fact that he was truly unhinged had so far escaped the notice of Exceptional Initiatives.

“It means,” the Electress said, “that your prospects of securing an alliance with the Corvantine Empire are now extremely remote.”

“Is there no regent or proxy we can negotiate with?”

“For centuries the empire has run on one simple principle: all power rests in one man. Be assured, whatever order Caranis gives during his madness will be followed, and to the letter. During his last episode he ordered every remaining temple to the elder goddess Sethamet be destroyed and her followers purged from the empire. When some of his chamberlains pointed out that there had never, in fact, been an elder goddess named Sethamet, Caranis had them disembowelled for treason. So, the understandably unnerved surviving chamberlains set about creating the cult of Sethamet from scratch, building temples and hiring poor folk to worship her, even employing a group of theologians to pen a body of scripture. She had actually begun to build up a genuine following by the time they unleashed the purge. Hundreds died and the newly built temples were destroyed as per Imperial Dictum. When Caranis returned to sanity, he professed no knowledge of any such orders.”

“Then this mission is hopeless,” Lizanne said. “We may as well turn the ship about and go home.”

“The Blood Imperial is very keen for you to continue the mission. He has something of considerable importance to share, but only with you.”

Lizanne’s thoughts returned to the design Bloskin had given her, and the curious tale of its origins. Had the Blood Imperial been behind it? A device to lure her here for purposes unknown. For an operative accustomed to relying on her own resources, the sense of being a piece in someone else’s game was an unpleasant one. It reminded her too much of Madame Bondersil. “Can’t you share it now?”

“I am not privy to it. Besides”—Electress Dorice nodded at the box containing the silver pin—“my tenure as a Blood Cadre agent has now come to an end. The Blood Imperial feels I am not best suited to the work. A judgement I find it hard to argue against.”

She moved back from the rail, then paused. “I buried Aledina in the graveyard at the Church of the Seer near the bluffs east of Feros. It would ease my mind to know the grave will be cared for.”

“Come back with us and care for it yourself,” Lizanne said. “You are an ambassadress, after all.”

The Electress gave another small smile and shook her head, turning to go before lingering awhile longer, as if compelled to share something further. “Did you know,” she said, her voice soft and reflecting the sadness in her smile. “My family once ruled a kingdom even greater in size than the entire land-mass of Arradsia. When the empire swallowed it up they allowed the ruling house to keep its titles, even though they were now utterly powerless. And so I am permitted to call myself an Electress, a figure who once held sway over millions. Now, regardless of what titles I possess and all the finery with which I adorn myself, I am in fact no different from any other subject of the Emperor, and he has given me a command.”

She inclined her head at Lizanne and walked away, leaving Lizanne to contemplate her gift. The pin sat in the box, a small piece of silver catching a dim gleam from the muted sunlight. A token of esteem? she wondered. Or a marker for some nefarious design of the Blood Imperial? She was decidedly unsure if she wanted to accept a gift from the most highly ranked Blood-blessed in the Corvantine Empire, fearing acceptance might signal some form of compliance. Diplomacy, it seemed, could be just as aggravatingly complex as espionage.

Sighing, Lizanne returned the pin to the box and gazed once more at the sea, glimpsing the first hazy shadow of land on the horizon. She had always suspected her profession would bring her to the Corvantine capital, though hardly under such odd circumstances. She had no target to assassinate, no secrets to steal. Just a tantalising clue to the existence of something impossible.

The Profitable Venture docked at Corvus the following morning. Lizanne joined the rest of the delegation as tugs pushed the ship towards the docks. A complement of riflemen was arrayed along the length of the port rail in impeccable order and the warship’s every fitting gleamed with fresh polish. Lining the length of the docks was a full brigade of Imperial Household troops, complete with a musical band playing a bombastic interpretation of the Ironship Syndicate Anthem.

“Quite an effort they’ve made,” Lizanne observed to Director Thriftmor, nodding at the three thousand or more troops arrayed up on the wharf.

“A demonstration of strength rather than welcome,” he said in an unusually subdued voice. Lizanne noted the grim set of his features, an expression shared by the rest of the delegation, save one who appeared to be absent.

“Where is the Electress?” she asked.

“A steward found her in her cabin this morning,” Thriftmor said. “The ship’s doctor identified the poison as arsenic mixed with laudanum, presumably to dull the pain.”

I am as well as I will ever be . . . Lizanne’s hand went to the small box in her pocket. A parting gift, apparently. She clamped down on the upsurge of guilt and regret, choosing instead to regard the Electress’s death as a useful reminder. She had resumed the role of an Exceptional Initiatives agent, a role that had no place for sentiment. “Was there a note?” she asked.

He shook his head. “There was ash on the port-hole in her cabin. It seemed she burned any papers in her possession.”

Commanded to suicide either to silence her or at the whim of her mad Emperor? As yet, there was no way to tell which, but Lizanne fully intended to find out.

“She told me something yesterday,” Lizanne said, seeing little point in concealing the information. “The Emperor is mad and this mission is a waste of time. I suggest you proceed with the formalities as quickly as possible then sail for home at the earliest opportunity.”

He turned to her with a deep frown, his usual air of affable authority replaced by a certain cold calculation. “Thank you, Miss Lethridge,” he said. “But I will decide how best to proceed, the Board having given me full authority in this matter.”

“Not over me, Director.”

From fore and aft came the distinctive rattle and splash of anchors dropping into the harbour waters. Sailors swiftly hauled the gang-plank into place and the ship’s duty officer stepped forward to blow a piercing note from a whistle. An honour guard of Protectorate riflemen trooped down the gang-plank to the wharf. They lined up opposite a company of very tall Imperial Guardsmen flanking a clutch of Corvantine dignitaries in various garish finery.

“Whatever Bloskin sent you here for,” Thriftmor said in a soft murmur as he took a step towards the gang-plank, “if it results in any disruption to this mission, rest assured I will not hesitate to disavow any knowledge of it and let the Corvantines have their way with you.”

“I would expect nothing less, sir.”

They were conveyed to the Imperial Sanctum in a convoy of ornate carriages, each gilded in gold and drawn by a team of white horses. The Sanctum was a sprawling complex of palaces, parks and temples occupying a full one-fifth of the capital. Their route was lined with yet more soldiers, standing two ranks deep in places, usually where the onlooking crowd was thickest or the surrounding buildings less opulent. Lizanne noted clusters of cheering people where the soldiers’ ranks were thinnest, but in the more heavily guarded portions of the route the crowds were quiet and suspicious. Her gaze also picked out the tell-tale signs of recently repaired damage to several houses: patched up roofs and freshly painted walls that failed to conceal the scorch-marks beneath. There have been riots here, Lizanne mused. And recently too. Military failure is never conducive to civil order.

Naturally, it all changed when they entered the Sanctum. It was ringed by a wall of ancient appearance, twenty feet high and fifteen feet thick. The gatehouse through which they gained entry was in fact a fortress equal in size to anything produced during the Mandinorian feudal age. Once inside they were greeted by broad fields of neatly kept grass and copses of maple and cherry blossom.

“The Imperial Gardens,” explained the plump man seated opposite Lizanne. She had been guided to the last carriage in the convoy where the fellow had introduced himself as Chamberlain Avedis Vol Akiv Yervantis. The quatra-nomina indicated he was both scholar and hereditary member of the ruling class, evidenced by the biased historical commentary he delivered during the journey. “Here we see the statue of General Jakarin, victor of the Second Great Rebellion, tragically and treacherously slain by the rebels to whom he had granted mercy on the field of victory.”

Lizanne knew that, in fact, General Jakarin had been stabbed to death in a whore-house. It was an act of revenge undertaken by a prostitute who had seen her brother publicly tortured and executed on the general’s order the day before. The chamberlain was the only other passenger in her carriage and Lizanne couldn’t decide if he was simply the effete, over-privileged fool he appeared to be or might, in fact, be a particularly skilled Cadre agent in disguise.

“This may be hard to believe, my dear,” Yervantis went on, as if her half-raised eyebrow had been a sign of deep interest, “but the gardens, and the entire Sanctum, were constructed on swamp land. Construction of the whole complex was commenced by Emperor Larakis the Good, who decreed that he would not rob his people of valuable land. Instead, the swamps, which had been a source of fever for generations, would be drained. Thereby, glory and duty would both be served.”

“Wasn’t Larakis the one who married his twelve-year-old sister?” Lizanne enquired. “And later had her poisoned when she failed to produce a male heir?”

The chamberlain blinked, managing to maintain the smile on his pear-shaped face. However, she did notice a beading of sweat amidst the sparse hair on his head. “I see you are something of a scholar yourself, Miss Lethridge,” he said with a chuckle of forced joviality.

“Not particularly,” she replied. “But I’ve often found a knowledge of Corvantine history to be useful. Tell me, Chamberlain, did you ever have the good fortune to meet Burgrave Artonin?”

The man’s eyes widened before he blinked again, his eyelids performing several rapid flutters as fresh sweat broke out on his scalp. “Artonin?” he replied in a small voice.

“Yes. Burgrave Leonis Akiv Artonin, late hero of the Imperial Cavalry and a scholar of impeccable repute. I thought, given your shared interests, you may have corresponded with him at some point.”

Yervantis said nothing, his now-unsmiling features wobbling as he shook his head.

“A pity,” Lizanne said, turning back to watch the gardens pass by, knowing she would now enjoy a quiet journey. “I think you might have learned a great deal from him.”

Beyond the gardens lay the Blue Maze, an intricate series of interlinked canals encircling the small city of palaces and temples that lay at the centre of the Sanctum. From her studies, Lizanne knew the maze to be as much a defensive fortification as an aesthetic feature. Its many bridges and ornately statued artificial islands were certainly pleasing to the eye, but she could see how no two bridges were aligned and the walkways constructed so as to funnel a large body of people into narrow and easily defended channels. Also, the number of Imperial Guardsmen in sight grew as they drew nearer to the Sanctum proper.

Chamberlain Yervantis found his voice again when they had begun to wind their way through the outer ring of temples. There were dozens of them, some grand and opulent, others barely more than a marble box, all built to honour the former emperors who had risen to godhood by the simple act of dying. “If I might draw your attention to a point of particular interest, my dear,” Yervantis said, then coughed to clear the quaver from his voice.

Lizanne raised another eyebrow at him but he ploughed on valiantly. “The temple to the Emperor Azireh is now passing by on your left. I think you’ll find the statuary particularly interesting.”

She glanced out of the window, frowning at the sight of the temple. It was of average size compared to the others, but set apart by the fact that the crowning statue was female, whereas every other temple featured a male figure. “Azireh is a woman’s name,” she said, surprised.

“Quite so,” Yervantis confirmed, an eager note creeping into his strained voice. “However, as a result of the massacres that marked the end of the third and final Regency War, she found herself the only surviving member of the Imperial dynasty.”

“But no woman has ever sat the throne,” Lizanne said.

“Indeed.” Yervantis shifted his plump self on the carriage seat, leaning closer, close enough in fact for Lizanne to smell the lavender-scented oil mingling with the sweat on his skin. It wasn’t a pleasant aroma. “As ordained by the first emperor,” the chamberlain went on. “But, with no other possessing the Divine Blood left alive, she was able to negotiate this obstacle by having the Arch-Prelate of the Imperial Divinity declare her the living embodiment of Great Arakelin himself, essentially a man in a female body. Consequently, she was able to rule quite successfully for the better part of two decades.”

Lizanne’s gaze lingered on the statue. If the sculptor’s eye was to be believed, Azireh had been slightly built with a fairly prominent nose and chin, but there was a certain implacable resolve in the gaze she cast out at her fellow rulers. “She must have been quite a formidable woman,” Lizanne commented.

“Oh yes.” Yervantis shifted closer still, causing Lizanne to respond with a warning glare. The Chamberlain gave a weak and entirely non-amorous smile before continuing, his voice now little more than a murmur. “And fond of riddles too. It’s said there’s a great treasure hidden somewhere in her temple, a treasure that can only be revealed under Nelphia’s light. Many have tried to find it, at risk of death I might add, as the Imperial family has always guarded well the sanctity of their ancestors. But, after so many centuries, the treasure remains undiscovered.” There was a weight to his gaze and voice now; a man attempting to convey meaning beyond his words, and in spite of a deeply felt fear.

Nelphia’s light, Lizanne thought. Nelphia is the only moon visible tonight. “I’ve spent a surfeit of my life hunting for hidden treasures,” she told the chamberlain, meeting his gaze and holding it for a second longer than necessary. “I must say, it’s a mostly fruitless enterprise.”

He gave a barely perceptible nod and leaned back, taking a silk handkerchief from his top pocket to mop his face. “Unseasonably hot, today. Ah!” He pointed to his right as another temple came into view. “See here, the monument to Emperor Hevalkis. Note the aquatic theme to the relief carvings, for Hevalkis was known as the Scourge of the Seas . . .”

One of the Sanctum’s minor palaces had been given over in its entirety to housing the Ironship delegation. According to Chamberlain Yervantis it had been built three centuries before for the then-emperor’s favourite concubine. Lizanne couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t some subtle insult in the current Emperor choosing to place his corporate guests in the home of a courtesan. A plainly attired servant guided her to her suite in the palace’s eastern wing, no less than four spacious rooms arranged around a central pool complete with ornate fountain of somewhat erotic design. “The original occupant?” Lizanne asked the servant, nodding at the bronze woman at the centre of the carnal tableau.

“It’s Yesilda, my lady,” the serving-woman replied with a deep bow. “An elder goddess of passion and fertility.”

“I thought images of the elder gods were frowned upon.”

“Only those beyond the Emperor’s sight, my lady. Those within the Sanctum dare not impugn his divinity, this being the centre of his holy power.”

Lizanne searched the woman’s face for some sign of mockery and smothered a laugh upon realising she was entirely sincere. “I . . . see,” she said, glancing around. “My luggage?”

“It will be here momentarily, my lady.”

After a thorough search, no doubt. Lizanne went to the fountain, resting on its rounded edge and playing a hand in the water.

“I can have it warmed, my lady,” the serving-woman offered. “If you would like to bathe before dressing. The Welcoming Ball will commence in less than three hours.”

“No, this is sufficient, thank you. But I would be grateful if you would fetch some tea.”

Her bags arrived shortly after the tea, a rich blend of leaves from the empire’s western mountains. Lizanne made no effort to sniff its aroma or display hesitancy in drinking it. The Emperor, even if in the throes of madness, would hardly summon her all this way for a mundane poisoning. In any case, it suited her for the serving-woman, who was much too keen of eye and toned of muscle for her station, to think Lizanne unworried for her safety.

After enjoying her tea she bathed in the fountain for a time. It was deep enough for her to float free, arms spread wide and eyes closed as her hair trailed in the water. Despite the water’s soothing caress she found herself irked by the constancy with which Electress Dorice’s face lingered in her mind. Pampered, indolent and useless for most of her life . . . until the last few months. The thought birthed a simmering heat in her chest, the same sensation that had gripped her when the Cadre had taken Tekela in Morsvale. Anger is a distraction, she reminded herself. Vengeance is for amateurs. But still, the heat continued to simmer.

After bathing she checked her luggage, confirming the tiny threads she had glued in certain places had been broken. The fact that whoever had performed the search hadn’t bothered to replace the threads was more concerning than the search itself. They don’t care if I know. Fortunately, whilst the search had evidently been thorough, it hadn’t been expert. She touched a satisfied hand to the cosmetic and jewellery cases nestled in her chest, before casting a reluctant eye at the ball-gown Bloskin had insisted she bring. A certain degree of finery will be expected, he had said, before handing over the frilly monstrosity. I’m told this is all the rage in Corvus, and it wouldn’t do to disappoint the Emperor. By all accounts, he’s quite taken with the legend of Miss Blood. Try not to disappoint him.

CHAPTER 8

Clay

Silverpin smiled as she bled, uncaring of the dark red torrent rushing from the hole he had blasted through her. He called me here for a reason, her voice spoke in his mind, calm and rich in certainty. A very old but very necessary design has been interrupted, and will now be resumed.

“I didn’t mean to,” Clay said, reaching out for her as she collapsed, her blood spreading across the chamber floor to form the now-familiar crimson wings. But this time it was different, because she didn’t die. Instead she stared up at him, face serene and accepting.

I was a monster, Clay. I deserved this . . .

“No . . .”

Millions would have died. Millions more enslaved. You saved them, for a time.

A great hiss of drawn breath drew his gaze and Clay found himself face-to-face with the White, its eyes full of malice and anger, mouth opening to reveal a haze of heated air as it summoned the flames from its guts. The fiery stream rushed forth, enveloping him in screaming agony. His skin blistered and peeled, his body twisted and deformed in the heat and through it all he heard a deep, grating rumble he knew was the sound of the White’s laughter . . .

“Dammit, young ’un, wake up!”

Clay shuddered as the dream faded, blinking until Skaggerhill’s broad, leathery features came into focus. The cabin they shared was still dark save for the dim moonlight streaming through the port-hole. “Ain’t even morning yet,” Clay groaned, pushing the harvester’s hand from his shoulder.

“That pet of yours is acting up again. Your uncle’s already had to stop one of the Corvies shooting it.”

Clay muttered a curse, swinging his legs off the bunk and reached for his clothes.

He found Lutharon in the aft section, lowered into a defensive crouch amidst the circle of accumulated driftwood and purloined barrels he had crafted into a nest. Uncle Braddon, Preacher and Loriabeth had formed a cordon in front of the drake, facing down a half-dozen Corvantine crewmen. They were all armed with a variety of edged weapons and seemed disinclined to heed the placating words of their young officer. To his surprise, Clay found he could understand much of their babble despite never having spoken Varsal in his life. Must be the trance, he concluded. Miss Lethridge knows it, so I know it. It was a strange but welcome facet of Blue he hadn’t known existed.

“The bugger nearly roasted me, sir!” one of the Corvantines said, the burliest one amongst them, brandishing the scorched arm of his jacket at Lieutenant Sigoral. “Ain’t natural having that beast aboard. Blasphemous even.”

Clay paused, deciding to experiment with his new-found ability. “You were told to stay away from him for a reason,” he said in heavily accented but reasonably-well-phrased Varsal. “He doesn’t like to be gawped at.”

“Threw him some grub is all!” the burly man bridled, stepping forward with a sea-axe in hand. Sigoral moved into his path, snapping out a curt order to stand fast as the fellow’s mates gave an angry murmur that bespoke imminent violence.

“Doesn’t like to be fed, either.” Clay stepped through the line of Contractors and moved slowly to Lutharon’s side. The Black gave a low rumble of discontent but allowed Clay to touch a hand to his flank. “Like to hunt, dontcha, old fella?” he said, slipping back into softly spoken Mandinorian.

Lutharon’s hide twitched under his palm and Clay sensed he was fighting an instinctive desire to flinch away. This was behaviour he had never exhibited in Ethelynne Drystone’s company, but then she had practically raised him from an orphaned infant. During the first few days following Ethelynne’s demise, Lutharon had followed Clay without question. He seemed fully capable of understanding his new master’s moods and responding to his unspoken wishes thanks to whatever bond Ethelynne’s final command had instilled. They had spent days ranging out over the Coppersoles whilst Captain Hilemore oversaw the repairs to the Viable Opportunity. Clay’s former fear of flight soon disappeared as they wheeled and soared above the mountains, the temporary joy a welcome respite from their shared grief. But since leaving Hadlock, Clay felt their connection fading with every passing day. Lutharon was becoming less placid in the presence of humans, more inclined to threatening growls or warning puffs of smoke whenever anyone but Clay came close. He had tried to strengthen the bond, spending as much time with the beast as he could, even drinking Blue and attempting to establish the kind of trance connection he had briefly shared with Silverpin. It didn’t work, their bond continued to erode and Clay had an intuition as to why.

“Heart-blood,” he murmured, smoothing his hand along Lutharon’s ebony scales. “That’s what I need, isn’t it, old fella? And we ain’t got any.”

He stayed with Lutharon for several hours. Eventually the drake had calmed enough for the Corvantine officer to persuade his sailors to return to their duties. The Longrifles went back to bed when it became clear they weren’t likely to return, though Braddon handed Clay a revolver just in case.

“Would’ve preferred the captain leave that lot behind,” he said.

Clay shrugged and strapped the gun-belt around his waist. “Reckon so will they before this is done.” He watched Braddon rest his arms on the aft rail, staring out at the passing ocean. It was calmer tonight, though the air grew colder with every southward mile they sailed and Captain Hilemore had assured them rougher seas were ahead.

“I don’t know what’s down there,” Clay said. “All I know is what I saw in the vision, and that ain’t much. Could be good. But the way our luck’s been lately, I think we both know it’s gonna be bad.”

“The whole world’s gone bad, Clay. You’re the only clue as to how to make it good again.” Braddon paused, lowering his head as if gathering resolve for his next words. “It was my fault,” he said finally. “Silverpin . . . I knew something wasn’t right. The hunger I had for the White. She did that to me.”

“She did a lot to all of us,” Clay said, hoping the flatness of his voice would forestall further discussion. He didn’t relish the memories, or the dreams that might be stirred by talking about Silverpin.

“Took her into my home,” his uncle reflected softly. “Treated her like my own daughter. All the time, she was waiting . . .”

Her blood, spreading out like wings . . . “Yeah,” Clay muttered. “Well, now she’s dead. Her, Scribes, Miss Foxbine and thousands of others, with a damn sight more to come. Just don’t want you and Lori counted among ’em. Best you stay on the ship when we get to the Shelf.”

His uncle had stiffened, turning to fix him with a hard stare. “Your cousin’s a grown woman now. Seasoned gunhand too, and she knows her own mind. Just like her father. You ain’t getting shot of us, Clay. Best get yourself accustomed to that.”

Lutharon remained restless after Braddon returned to his cabin, the Black’s claws dragged along the deck as his narrowed eyes constantly roamed the ship as if in fear of attack. Furthermore, Clay could feel a tremble beneath his skin that had nothing to do with fear. Blacks don’t mind the cold as much as Greens and Reds, Skaggerhill had advised. On account of them nesting in the mountains. But there’s cold and then there’s southern seas cold. And that’s a whole other order of business.

“I can’t keep you,” Clay said, giving Lutharon’s hide a final pat before moving back. The drake gave a quizzical grunt as he swung his gaze towards Clay, sensing the change of mood. “Miss Ethelynne would’ve wanted you kept safe,” Clay told him, hoping that speaking the words aloud would convey some meaning to the beast. “How long’s it gonna be before this thing between us is gone for good? Then I won’t be able to stop them shooting you, that’s if the cold don’t kill you first. ’Sides which, how you gonna hunt so far from land? You gotta go, old fella.”

Lutharon became very still, staring at Clay with steady eyes that betrayed little understanding or reaction. Clay sighed in frustration. Can’t exactly shoo him away. He searched his memories of Ethelynne for some clue as to how to sever their connection, then realised that she was the connection.

“You know she died,” Clay said, filling his mind with visions of Ethelynne battling the White, her last few seconds of life as her small form vanished amidst the whirlwind of infant drakes.

Lutharon gave an abrupt growl, jerking as if prodded by a sharp blade.

“She died,” Clay repeated, raising his voice and pointing at the northern horizon. “And you can’t be here no more!”

Lutharon bared his teeth in a short growl, shifting from side to side, his claws raising more splinters from the deck.

“Go on, damn you!” Clay drew his pistol and fired a trio of shots into the air, causing Lutharon’s growl to transform into a challenging roar. His wings flared as he lowered himself in preparedness for a lunge, tail coiling so that the spear-point tip pointed at Clay’s chest.

“That’s right,” Clay told him. “I ain’t friendly.” He drew back the revolver’s hammer for another shot but Lutharon whirled about, his great body transformed into a shadowy blur, tail whipping out to wrap around Clay’s chest. It squeezed tight, forcing the air from his lungs, the pistol falling from his grip as the drake drew him closer.

The vision, Clay thought, more in hope than certainty. Ain’t my time yet.

Lutharon’s breath was hot on his face, hot enough to birth an instant sweat. The drake’s growl subsided into a curious rattle, nostrils flaring as he sniffed Clay, breathing deep. For a second their eyes met, and Clay saw no anger in the beast’s gaze. The slitted irises narrowed then widened, conveying a sense of understanding.

The tail uncoiled in an instant, leaving Clay gasping on all fours. A scrabble of claws on deckboard then the thunder of wings and Clay looked up to see Lutharon climbing into the night sky. The slender moonlight caught a gleam from his scales, outlining the great wings in silver for the briefest second, then Lutharon turned towards the north and was lost to sight.

“Captain’s still awful mad at you,” Loriabeth observed, joining him at the port rail. It was a week since Lutharon’s departure, an event that had seen his stock with Hilemore fall several notches.

“The beast would have been very useful where we’re going,” he said, Clay noting how his voice grew softer the angrier he became. “I will thank you to consult me before taking such a drastic decision in future.”

“He wasn’t yours to command, Captain,” Clay had replied with an affable shrug. “Nor mine for that matter. Besides, I owed the greatest of debts to his mistress, now it’s paid.”

Hilemore had let the matter drop, though it was clear Clay’s continual lack of deference was a sore point. The succeeding week had been notable for the captain’s keenness to avoid Clay’s company.

“The sailors say this is where the Myrdin Ocean meets the Orethic,” Loriabeth said, gazing out at the grey, choppy waves of the southern seas. “Supposed to make for a lotta storms, though we ain’t seen one yet.”

Clay wasn’t particularly knowledgeable about maritime matters but judged the Superior’s current speed as far in excess of any coal-burner. “Looks like the captain’s keen to get us to the Chokes as quickly as possible.”

“So we just fetch up at this big spiky thing of yours and this whole mess is over, huh?”

“I don’t rightly know, Lori. Doubt it’ll be that simple, though.”

“If Mr. Scriberson had made it out of the mountain . . .” she began, then trailed off as her face clouded.

“He’d surely have had some smart things to say about all this,” Clay assured her. “I guess I miss him too.”

Loriabeth turned her gaze out to sea and thumbed something from her eye. “Stupid,” she murmured. “Barely knew him for more than a few weeks.”

“It’s long enough,” he said, thoughts crowding with unwanted images of Silverpin. Don’t worry, she had promised. He’ll let me keep you. His kind always had their pets.

“You see that?” Loriabeth asked, now standing straight and alert, eyes fixed on the waves.

“See what?” Clay followed her gaze, seeing only the continual chop of an unsettled sea.

“There was something,” she said. “Maybe a hundred yards out. Something rose up, just for a second.”

“A Blue?”

“Maybe.” She squinted. “Could’ve been back spines, I guess.”

Clay stared at the ocean for a long moment, but whatever she had seen failed to reappear. He knew these waters were rich in whales of various breeds, but Scrimshine’s warnings made him cautious. “You better go tell Mr. Steelfine,” he said. “Just in c—”

His words died as the deck shifted beneath their feet, sending them both tumbling against the bulkhead. Clay cried out as his bruised back connected with an iron buttress, but Loriabeth’s cry of distress dispelled any pain. The ship had shifted again, this time tipping to port at an alarming angle and sending Loriabeth skidding towards the rail. She hit hard and clung on as the ship continued to heave, her feet dangling over the edge. Clay could see the waves below, frothed into white by the Superior’s disturbed wake, then exploding upwards as the very large head of a Blue drake broke the surface, jaws gaping wide.

CHAPTER 9

Lizanne

“Miss Lizanne Lethridge, Ambassadress of the Ironship Trading Syndicate!” The Imperial Herald, resplendent in a long white coat adorned with gold braid, thumped an ebony staff on the marble floor, announcing Lizanne’s entrance in ringing Eutherian. She stood in her appalling dress at the top of the ball-room steps, trying not to squirm as all eyes turned to her. Being noteworthy was not a sensation she enjoyed, chafing as it did on her long-instilled need for anonymity. The murmur of conversation died as the guests, at least three hundred of them, all spent a moment in silent contemplation of the fabled Miss Blood. Despite the Corvantine dead she had piled up at Carvenport, she could detect no obvious signs of enmity amongst these Imperial worthies. Most faces exhibited a keen, near-predatory curiosity, whilst others affected an amused air or even a blatantly lustful glance or two.

Everyone you will meet there is a self-serving liar, Electress Dorice had warned and one glance told Lizanne she may well have been right.

“My dear Miss Lethridge.” Director Thriftmor politely detached himself from a gaggle of Corvantine ladies to greet her, offering his arm, which she duly took and allowed herself to be led down the steps. “How lovely you look,” he said, making her wonder if he might be taking some pleasure from her discomfort.

“Thank you, Director,” she replied. “It has long been my ambition to attend an Imperial function in the guise of a bedraggled flamingo.”

“Oh tosh,” he scoffed. “Though I would have chosen a darker shade of red. It would have done much to enhance your legend. Our hosts are always greatly impressed by symbolism.”

“Vapid as it may be,” she muttered.

“Well, quite.” He steered her towards a group of courtiers near the centre of the dance floor, switching smoothly into Eutherian. “A very important personage has avowed a keen interest in meeting you.”

The group all offered formal bows as they approached. There were four men of chamberlain rank and one woman, standing tall and elegant in a dress of crimson silk. The dress matched the woman’s colouring perfectly, complementing her pale skin and dark red hair to impressive effect. Lizanne knew her name instantly, having seen her face in many a photostat over the years. However, she contrived to display the correct amount of surprise when Thriftmor made the introductions.

“Countess, I present Miss Lizanne Lethridge, late of Carvenport and Feros. Miss Lethridge, please greet Countess Sefka Vol Nazarias, Noble Commander of the Imperial Cadre.”

Lizanne gave a curtsy of the appropriate depth and lowered her head in respect. “Countess.”

“Miss Lethridge. How wonderful to finally meet.” The woman’s voice had a surprising warmth to it, the words spoken in the kind of Eutherian that came only to those raised in the Imperial Court. “Please rise,” she said, extending a crimson-gloved hand.

So close, Lizanne mused, taking the offered hand and rising, her practised gaze lingering on the countess’s bare neck and the vulnerable kill spots it contained. Has any operative ever come this close, I wonder?

“This must be very frustrating for you,” Countess Sefka said, as if reading her mind.

“Countess?”

“Balls, meetings, parades and such. All terribly tiresome for those of us engaged in more practical pursuits, don’t you think?”

“I’ll happily suffer them all to win the Emperor’s agreement. This mission being of such import to us all.”

“Oh, well done.” The countess glanced at Thriftmor with a raised eyebrow. “Have you been coaching her, Director?”

“I assure you, Miss Lethridge knows her own mind.”

“Of that, I need no assurance.” She hooked her arm through Lizanne’s and led her away. “Let me rescue you from these dullards. Male company becomes tedious after a while, I find.”

She guided Lizanne to a set of tall windows opening out onto a veranda, Lizanne’s eyes instinctively picking out any shadowed alcoves which might conceal an assassin. “We’re quite alone, I assure you,” Countess Sefka said, once again intuiting her thoughts with irksome precision. “Come, let me show you the view.”

She released Lizanne’s arm upon reaching the veranda’s balustrade, resting her hands on the marble to gaze out at the broad ornamental lake below. It stretched away from the palace’s west-facing wing for at least two miles, the surface broken here and there by artificial islands bearing yet more temples. Each one was lit by a cluster of lanterns, giving the impression of a swarm of fire-flies frozen above a mirror.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the countess asked, turning to Lizanne with a smile.

“What do you want?” Lizanne replied, removing the formal respect from her voice. Without witnesses present continued artifice seemed pointless, even a little insulting.

The countess gave a brief laugh, apparently immune to any offence. “Cannot two professionals share a pleasant view and exchange an anecdote or two?”

“You’ve been trying to kill me for years. Now you want a chat?”

“Certainly.” Countess Sefka leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The Sanctum is full of the empire’s worst imbeciles. Centuries of inbreeding will do that, I suppose. You have no idea how long it’s been since I had a truly interesting conversation.”

“I’m sure any of your agents who made it out of Morsvale had many interesting things to say.”

“Actually, none of them managed to escape the great calamity. But the reports I received prior to their demise made for interesting reading.” She turned to rest her back on the balustrade, the humour on her face fading into a judgemental frown. “You compromised yourself to rescue a spoilt girl.”

“I rescued a Corvantine turncoat with contacts who could get me out of the city. The girl was his price for co-operation.”

“You’re lying.” Countess Sefka gave a regretful grimace. “You allowed yourself to be guided by sentiment. How very disappointing.”

“I have not the words,” Lizanne responded, the heat she had felt earlier returning to colour her voice, “to describe the level of my indifference to your disappointment.”

“You should be more appreciative, for I speak only in friendly guidance. Sentiment is not just a luxury for those in our profession, it is in fact a debilitating disease. Take myself, for example. There was a young woman in Morsvale, a member of the Cadre of the Blood, so not under my direct control. But nevertheless, we had formed a close personal attachment prior to her deployment.” The countess paused to smile in fond recollection before continuing in the same affable tone, “After your visit to her safe house, they told me there wasn’t enough of her left to fill half a coffin. And yet, here I stand, without your still-beating heart clutched in my hands.”

The dressmaker, Lizanne recalled, failing to find much cause for regret in the woman’s demise. “From what I saw, you were well suited to each other.”

“Sentiment and moral superiority.” The countess pouted. “Upon finally meeting you I had expected to look upon my own reflection, only slightly younger. The record of your accomplishments paints a very different picture.”

“Nothing I have done compares to anything in your career.”

“Really? Torture and murder are the same, are they not? Regardless of the quantity.”

The memory of that last visit to Burgrave Artonin’s house sprang into Lizanne’s mind; the scholar lying dead in his study, the servants sitting at table, each with a bullet blasted into the back of their skulls. “It depends on the subject,” she replied, her eyes once again fixing on the countess’s neck. It would be so easy, even with no product in my veins.

“Don’t be silly!” Countess Sefka snapped, more irritated than angry.

Lizanne took a deep breath and turned away, shifting her gaze to the lake and its many glittering islands.

“Director Bloskin should have dismissed you,” the countess said. “You have clearly been too . . . modified by your experiences. Whatever mission he sent you on is already doomed, you must know that.”

“My mission is the same as Director Thriftmor’s. Both the empire and the corporate world stand on the brink of destruction . . .”

“Oh yes, your army of drakes and deformed savages.” Countess Sefka shifted her slim shoulders in a shrug. “Just another storm to assail this empire. We have stood against all manner of threats for centuries.”

“Not like this. You imagine this great tyranny to be eternal, immutable. What’s coming cares nothing for history.”

“This great threat of yours is an ocean away, probably busy eating its own followers.”

“You are not foolish enough to believe that,” Lizanne said. “Otherwise, why spend so much time and energy pursuing the Mad Artisan’s device?”

“Largely thanks to Madame Bondersil’s increasingly deranged insistence. Was it you who killed her, by the way? The circumstances of her demise are a little vague.”

“She was eaten, by a Blue drake.” Watching a faint amusement play over the countess’s face, she added, “Tell me, were you really going to allow her to govern Carvenport independently?”

“It was not a decision I was privy to. All aspects of her co-operation were handled by the Emperor in concert with the Blood Imperial.”

A loud upsurge of martial drumming sounded from the open windows, soon joined by a chorus of trumpets. “Perhaps His Divinity will explain it all himself,” Countess Sefka said, Lizanne noting how her jovial tone suddenly seemed a little forced. “It seems he’s about to join us.”

She started back towards the ball-room, then paused, offering Lizanne a smile. “Despite it all, I am glad we finally met, Miss Lethridge. Please accept a word of caution; whatever it is the Blood Imperial wants of you, tell the old vulgarian bastard to piss off and sail home. It’s only going to get you killed.”

“Emperor Caranis Vol Lek Akiv Arakelin!” the page boomed out and every person in the ball-room sank to one knee. “First of his name. Divine Emperor of the Corvantine Empire, High Admiral of the Imperial Fleet, Supreme Marshal of the Imperial Host . . .”

It took at least two minutes for the herald to recite the full list of the Emperor’s titles, by which time Lizanne’s knee had begun to ache quite painfully. When the titular litany finally ended she couldn’t conceal a groan of relief as she rose to watch Emperor Caranis descend the ball-room steps at a sedate pace. He was a tall man, resplendent in a marshal’s uniform of an ivory hue and a long cloak of black fur. The thorn-like barbs of his silver crown glittered as they caught the light from the chandeliers above. Corvantine propaganda often spoke of the Emperor’s handsomeness, court-appointed poets penning lengthy verses praising his impressive physique and athletic accomplishments. Looking at him now, Lizanne concluded it might not all be exaggeration.

An elderly chamberlain stepped forward as the Emperor strode onto the ball-room floor, the man bowing and gesturing towards Director Thriftmor, who stood near by. “Divinity, might I crave the honour of presenting . . .”

“Where is she?” the Emperor cut in, his gaze roaming the ball-room. In contrast to his appearance, his voice sounded weak to Lizanne’s ears. Deep but also discordant, as if he had trouble maintaining an even tone. “Where is the one they call Miss Blood?” he went on, tongue lingering on the final word as if tasting it.

The chamberlain gave another bow and turned towards Lizanne, beckoning her forward. “Miss Lethridge, Divinity,” he introduced her. “Ambassadress . . .”

“I know what title they gave her,” Caranis snapped, causing the chamberlain to blanch and take an involuntary backward step. The Emperor’s attention, however, was entirely fixed on Lizanne as she approached and offered a deep curtsy.

“Yes . . .” Caranis said in a thin hiss as his eyes roamed Lizanne from head to toe. She tried not to return his stare, finding the awe on display highly disconcerting. “It is her. Sethamet’s Bane made flesh.”

Sethamet. She recalled Electress Dorice’s warning. His imaginary dark goddess.

“Rise!” the Emperor commanded with an elevating wave of his hand. “And walk with me.” With that Emperor Caranis turned about and strode back up the ball-room steps, leaving a vast silence in his wake. Lizanne’s eyes flicked towards Director Thriftmor, who replied with a minimal shake of his head. I cannot help you.

Smothering a sigh, Lizanne raised the skirt of her ridiculous dress and followed the mad Emperor out into the night.

She found him striding across a gravelled path on the bank of the ornamental lake, obliging her to adopt an undignified trot in order to come to his side. A platoon of Household Guards patrolled the grounds, each armed with a repeating carbine and never more than thirty yards away.

“An impressive form you’ve chosen,” Caranis said, sparing her a brief glance as he continued his purposeful march. His voice now possessed a brisk, business-like tone, as if greeting a trusted colleague rather than the servant of a long-standing enemy. “Pleasing to the eye, but not ostentatiously so. I suppose it must be useful.”

He doesn’t think me human, she realised. Rather, some manifestation of his invented religion. She had dealt with the deluded and outright insane before. Some required lies in order to become useful, whilst others responded best to the harsh, unalloyed truth. But none had possessed the power that rested in the hands of this particular madman.

“I have often found it so, Divinity,” she responded, deciding bland agreement would be the best course.

“Does it age?” he enquired. “The shell you wear.”

“It . . . ages as do all others, Divinity.”

He grunted and nodded in acceptance. “Of course. Unnaturally prolonged youth would attract undue attention.”

“My missions often require anonymity, Divinity,” she said.

“Enough pretence!” he grated, coming to an abrupt halt and rounding on her. Lizanne kept all emotion from her face as he came closer, merely blinking as he spoke in a harsh, rapid whisper, “I’ll have no more of this mummery. I am no more your superior than a bug is superior to the sun. Sethamet has set her beasts loose upon this earth and the Guardians have sent you as our deliverer.”

Although she tried to conceal it, some measure of confusion must have shown in her expression, for he frowned, face darkening in uncertain suspicion. “You are sent by the Guardians, are you not?”

Realising the time for half-measures had passed, Lizanne straightened and met his wide-eyed gaze before replying in as flat and certain a tone as she could manage. “We know them by a different name.”

He gave a sharp intake of breath, eyes flicking to the sides to ensure no one was listening. “Am . . . am I permitted to know it?”

“You will be, in time. Such knowledge must be earned.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “I do not . . . presume to overstep. But you must realise how much I have already sacrificed. My best troops sent to die by the thousand, little more than bait for Sethamet’s horde. This I did because the Guardians commanded it, plaguing my dreams every night until I complied, risking yet more rebellion. I realise the import of drawing out her minions, but do they not know how vulnerable my position is?”

“The whole world is vulnerable to Sethamet’s horde,” Lizanne replied evenly. “This they know.”

“Yes. Do not think I question their commands. When word reached me that you had arisen in Carvenport, I knew I had chosen the correct course. Who else but Sethamet’s Bane could have defeated both my army and her vile horde?”

“Your insight does you credit. But we are far from done.”

He nodded, face grave. “To prevent the Dread Goddess from seizing this world, I will give all I have.”

“The Guardians will expect nothing less. However, at this juncture they require only two things. First, you will sign the treaty with the Ironship Syndicate, allying your forces with theirs to defend against the hordes of the Dread Goddess. They will push for an agreement to launch an immediate invasion of Arradsia, but this you will refuse. Their actions are driven by greed, keen as they are to restore the source of their wealth. Whereas your actions, Great Emperor, are motivated by compassion and love for humanity. It is for these virtues that the Guardians chose you.”

He lowered his head in a servile bow, making Lizanne cast a cautious glance at the surrounding troops. An Emperor would never bow to a corporate underling.

“Stop that,” she told him in a soft hiss. “Others must never know of your true role. They would not understand.”

He straightened, features resuming a regal mask, though she saw tears shining in his eyes. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “It is just . . . I am so humbled.”

“Humility will not save us. But strength and wise leadership might. From this point on you must be Caranis the Great, the Warrior Emperor who will save the entire world. You will speak no more of Sethamet, for merely giving voice to that name renders power unto her.”

He straightened further, blinking the tears away. “Yes. That . . . that makes things clearer to me now. It seemed strange that her power grew with every warning I gave.” He met her gaze, features stiff with resolve. “What is the second thing?”

“Merely information. You must impart to me all the information you hold concerning the man known to history as the Mad Artisan.”

A mystified frown passed across the Emperor’s face. “The old legend Kalasin used to witter on about? One of his many obsessions.” Caranis gave a rueful grimace. “In truth, I think my Blood Imperial may be a little touched in the head.”

“Touched or not, the Artisan is of interest to Sethamet’s minions, and also, therefore, to us.”

“Then it pains me to confess I have little to tell you. Kalasin comes to me every now and again with his arcane stories, begging funds for expeditions or scholarly investigations. Usually, I endeavour to indulge him, his other qualities being so useful. I will have his archive seized and conveyed to you forthwith . . .”

“No,” Lizanne cut in. Even in his madness the shock on the Emperor’s face indicated this may have been the first time anyone had ever interrupted him. Lizanne maintained her composure, meeting his gaze with an unwavering stare until he recovered. “We must be circumspect,” she went on. “There are far too many distrustful eyes in your court. Countess Sefka, for one.”

“You think she plots against our purpose?” Caranis’s voice held little sign of surprise. “She wouldn’t be the first Cadre Commandant to succumb to treasonous intentions. I suppose a quiet disappearance would be preferable to public trial and execution. Rest assured, all intelligence will be extracted from her first.”

Vengeance is indulgence, Lizanne reminded herself, though not without a pang of regret. “Best to leave her in place, for now,” she said. “Under careful watch. She may lead us to other plotters in time.”

He nodded and smiled in admiration. “Clearly the Guardians chose well.”

“I wasn’t chosen, I was made.” She glanced back at the palace from where an orchestra could be heard playing an old waltz. “We should rejoin the ball.”

“But what of the information you require from Kalasin?”

She dropped into a deep curtsy, head bowed low as if acknowledging dismissal. “Leave him to me, and know well how much the Guardians favour you.” She looked up, meeting his gaze and colouring her voice with a harsh note of command. “Remember; never again speak her name. Now return to your court and prepare to save the world, oh Caranis the Great.”

She lingered at the ball for another hour, noting how the other guests made scrupulous efforts to avoid her gaze and the only invitation to dance came from Director Thriftmor. Countess Sefka was also conspicuous by her sudden absence. It appeared holding the Emperor’s favour made Lizanne something of a dangerous acquaintance to make.

“I’m afraid I find myself tired by the day’s events, Director,” she said to Thriftmor at the conclusion of their first and only dance. “I believe I shall retire.”

“Of course,” he said, offering a respectful smile that failed to alleviate the concern she saw in his eyes. “In the morning we must converse fully regarding your interaction with the Emperor.”

“There’s little to say,” she replied. “Except that he’s every bit as mad as we were told. However, I have a sense he will be amenable to your diplomacy. I bid you good night, sir.”

Upon returning to her suite of rooms in the concubine’s palace, her first act was to render the keen-eyed, well-toned servant unconscious. It required only a well-placed blow to the back of her head as the woman offered a respectful bow of incautious depth. Lizanne dragged the senseless woman to the bedroom, leaving her face-down on the bed with her head correctly positioned so she wouldn’t choke to death whilst aslumber.

Quickly divesting herself of the appalling dress, she clad herself in nondescript dark cotton trousers and blouse. Knowing she would need to change later, she filled her waterproof pack with garb typical of that worn by a Corvantine woman of middling station. She then turned her attention to the case of cosmetics the now-unconscious serving-woman had helpfully placed on her dresser. Like the rest of her belongings the case had been thoroughly searched. Luckily, Countess Sefka’s operatives had proven to be less than familiar with Jermayah’s ingenuity, missing three separate hidden compartments, each opened by pressing certain key points in the correct sequence.

She opened the compartment in the lid first, extracting a set of metal components and a slim leather strap, which were swiftly assembled into a device of spidery appearance. This was Jermayah’s refined design, achieved after a short but productive collaboration with Lizanne’s father. It was less weighty and more easily broken down into concealable components, whilst also featuring a more efficient injection mechanism and expanded vials.

Lizanne strapped the Spider onto her left forearm then turned her attention to the large bottle sitting in the centre of the case’s perfume rack. The Cadre had undoubtedly checked all the bottles for the presence of product, paying closest attention to the four smallest. At first glance, the larger bottle appeared no more than a pleasant but unremarkable concoction redolent of roses and cinnamon, the clarity of the liquid a pale and unintriguing contrast to the more opaque and colourful smaller bottles. Bloskin had assured her of the efficacy of this new trick from the Ironship plasmologists, but Lizanne couldn’t suppress a lingering pang of worried scepticism as she opened another compartment and extracted a stoppered vial containing a dark, viscous substance.

It’s all to do with molecular weights, apparently, Bloskin had said back in Feros on the day of her departure. Bind them with a correct mix of chemical agents and they combine into an inert, colourless liquid, though I’m told it’s a bitter brew so don’t be tempted to drink it. Simply add a little something to dissolve the binding agents and all four colours will instantly revert to their original state.

Has this been used in the field before? she had asked and saw with some surprise that Director Bloskin was a poor liar.

Of course, my dear, he said, lighting another cigarillo. I’d hardly send my best agent off with an untried compound, now would I?

So it was with some relief that she saw the liquid in the bottle change as soon as she added the contents of the vial. After a short interval of confused swirling the four colours duly arranged themselves into layers. Taking a long pipette from the compartment Lizanne began to carefully extract enough product to fill the Spider’s vials. It was frustratingly delicate work but, as she had no intention of facing the approaching encounter without product, there was no alternative.

Upon completing the task she opened the case’s third compartment and extracted a slender dagger, the seven-inch blade encased in a leather sheath, which she strapped to her ankle. Jermayah had offered to modify the case to accommodate his redesigned Whisper but there hadn’t been time. He offered a number of miniature fire-arms but Lizanne had always eschewed such weapons; they were too noisy and lacking in effectiveness to make the risk worthwhile, leaving the dagger as her only realistic alternative.

Lizanne paused briefly by the bed to ensure the serving-woman’s breathing remained regular, then proceeded to the upper floor, emptying the remaining contents of the perfume bottle into the fountain on the way. She made her way to a balcony before clambering onto the roof, crouching low and injecting a burst of Green to allow for a thorough examination of the surrounding palace grounds. It made for a depressing view; numerous Household troops patrolled the environs and even with a full dose of Green and Black she doubted she could make it across even two of the bridges in the Blue Maze before being discovered. There was the option of proceeding across the maze and methodically killing or incapacitating the guards en route, but that would exhaust her product in short order, not to mention having a parlous effect on Director Thriftmor’s upcoming negotiations.

Lizanne gave a soft groan and moved to the roof’s edge where she began to clamber down the north-facing wall of the palace. She didn’t relish the task ahead but there was nothing else for it; she had a very long swim to make.

She climbed free of the maze some two hours later. The swim through the labyrinth of canals had been both mentally and physically taxing, forcing her to inject repeated small doses of Red to stave off the water’s chill as she followed the map she had memorised aboard the Profitable Venture. The patrolling guards had also been a considerable nuisance, frequently appearing to scan the water-ways with commendable if annoying scrutiny, forcing her to remain submerged for several minutes at a time and further denuding her stocks of Green and Red.

She wasted no time on clearing the maze, injecting yet more Green to enable a sprint into the concealing marble jungle of the temple ring. It took only a short while to find the tomb of Empress-cum-Emperor Azireh, Lizanne having marked its location thanks to Chamberlain Yervantis’s clumsy hints that morning. She made a wide circuit of the structure before approaching, finding no sign of anyone else in attendance. Lizanne read the archaic Eutherian inscription above the tomb’s entrance as she came closer: Greatness can rest in the most fragile vessel. Pausing to take in the sight of the Divine Azireh’s marble features in all its hawk-nosed imperiousness, Lizanne doubted this woman had ever exhibited a moment of fragility in her life.

Touching a tentative finger to the solid oak door covering the tomb’s entrance, she was unsurprised to find it unlocked. Got here early, she surmised, flexing her fingers over the Spider’s buttons before pushing the door fully open. For a second she saw only blackness, until the faint moonlight illuminated enough of the interior to reveal the curved bulk of Azireh’s sarcophagus and the pale grey cascade of hair crowning the head of a stooped man leaning heavily on a walking-stick. The long grey tendrils shifted as the man turned to her, his features lost to the gloom. There followed a moment of mutual scrutiny, seeming to last quite some time to Lizanne though in fact it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Finally the grey hair swayed again as the stooped man gave a short, irritated wave with his stick.

“Close the fucking door, love,” the Blood Imperial told her, speaking in Varsal, his accent coarse, aged and distinctly lacking in nobility. “And let’s get on with it, eh?”

CHAPTER 10

Sirus

Fire!

The volley crashed out in a single, jarring blast, each bullet fired at exactly the same instant. The targets, wooden man-shaped facsimiles positioned one hundred yards from the line of Spoiled marksmen, each received a simultaneous hit dead centre of the chest. Sirus watched the Spoiled reload their rifles with an uncanny, synchronised uniformity. At first their contingent of riflemen had consisted of former soldiers and constables, all possessed of an ingrained familiarity with fire-arms. Now their number had swollen to over six thousand and included Spoiled-born tribesfolk as well as converted townspeople. They fired as one, reloaded as one and marched as one, all guided by the expert, if often tortured mind of their new general.

Grand Marshal Morradin had reacted badly to his conversion, emitting a rising howl of rage and disgust as his fingers explored his remade features before launching himself at Sirus. The marshal’s large, vise-like hands came close to crushing Sirus’s windpipe before the collective will of the other Spoiled closed in. Sirus had seen the change in Morradin’s eyes as his hands slipped to his sides, the murderous intent drowned under a barrage of invading thoughts. But still he resisted, Sirus sensing a ball of rage and defiance simmering away at the core of his mind.

That is unwise, Marshal, Sirus warned him. He will expect complete obedience.

The marshal’s eyes flashed at him, the deadly promise shining clear and bright for a brief second before his rage subsided once again. Sirus felt the reservoir of defiance diminish further, subsiding into a fluttering spark, weak but not yet completely extinguished.

Very good, Sirus told Morradin. Now, it’s time for you to begin your task.

Thanks to his father’s influence Sirus had avoided conscription into the Imperial army, but his extensive historical knowledge told him that successfully training a body of soldiers required months, if not years. Grand Marshal Morradin, however, managed it in barely two days. The ability to convey orders directly without use of subordinates or messengers greatly accelerated all aspects of the process. The abilities of their most expert marksmen were instantly communicated to every soldier. The gunners allotted to their small collection of cannon had learned the art of gunnery from the sole artilleryman to survive the city’s fall. They all now also possessed deadly hand-to-hand combat skills thanks to the knowledge shared by the tribal warriors amongst them.

However laced with self-loathing it might be, Sirus could feel Morradin’s pride at what he had accomplished. They stood together on a raised dais overlooking the Morsvale garrison parade-ground, watching the mass of Spoiled soldiery perform a sequence of manoeuvres. They formed companies, squares and skirmish lines with a swiftness and precision that would have shamed even the Household Guards

An army to conquer a world, wouldn’t you say? Sirus asked him.

A flare of anger coloured the marshal’s reply along with a grudging if inescapable expert recognition of the power of what he had created in so short a time. Trained the Household Division myself, he mused. Years of drill, route marches and floggings. Made them the best three legions ever to march under an Imperial banner. But this . . . He waved a clawed hand at the unnaturally even ranks of the companies on the parade-ground, his scaled lips twisting into a mirthless grin. This is a kind of legion never seen before. A legion of flame, with which our monster-god will burn the world to cinders.

Sirus had initially tried to caution Morradin’s thoughts but soon gave it up as the White appeared utterly indifferent to their personal exchanges. Every task it demanded of them was done, swiftly and completely. If those it commanded chose to hate one another, so be it. Sirus often wondered at the level of their master’s ambivalence towards its slaves. Are we no more than useful beasts of burden? Does it look on us as we looked upon its kind?

Don’t flatter yourself, boy, Morradin growled in his mind. We’re lower than maggots to that thing.

And yet it needs us. Sirus nodded at the mass of troops as their ranks split apart then came together again in response to the marshal’s unspoken commands.

For now, Morradin replied. Makes you wonder what it’ll do with us when it’s done.

They launched the last barge two days later. The initial quota of fifty had been increased to a hundred, far more than necessary to transport their entire force. It’s expecting reinforcements, Morradin explained. The marshal was still on the parade-ground whilst Sirus now stood on the wharf watching his Spoiled work-force secure tow-lines from the ships to the barges. He had come to understand that the power enabling them to share their thoughts was not limited by distance, but the connection was stronger with some than others. Katrya’s mind was like an open box, every emotion and memory there for the taking. By contrast, Majack remained a largely blank vessel filled with the White’s purpose, as did most of the Spoiled, especially the tribesfolk. The memories of the native Arradsians were a best-avoided mélange of unfamiliar custom, violence and hardship. Strangely, despite their mutual antipathy, his strongest bond besides Katrya was with Morradin. It was as if dislike, or more truthfully, hatred, could breed as much closeness as love.

The marshal’s memories were a curious mix, blazing bright when they touched on his many victories, brighter still at the unfolding spectacle of slaughter. However, they dimmed whenever they turned to the personal. An arranged marriage to a woman he barely knew, who soon grew to despise him. The children they produced, a son and daughter, growing into disappointing, rarely acknowledged shadows of his greatness. Morradin’s cruel indifference to his children caused Sirus to wonder if his resentment of his own father had been entirely justified. He had been harsh at times, certainly, but when contrasted with this war-loving monster it became apparent to Sirus that his father had merely been a widowed man trying, in his own faltering way, to raise a son as best he could.

A loud and familiar cry sounded over the docks as the White came soaring out of the sky. A gaggle of Reds followed in its wake, led by the huge drake with the scarred face. Sirus had taken to calling this one Katarias, the darkest of the elder Corvantine gods. Legend had it that Katarias had ruled the whole world with depraved malice for a hundred years before his fellow gods cast him into the fire beneath the earth. This Katarias possessed all the cruelty of his divine namesake, having killed at least a dozen Spoiled in as many days, picking out the weak or infirm with a predator’s expert eye. Whereas the shared connection permitted some sense of the White’s mind, Katarias and the other drakes under its sway remained closed to Sirus and the other Spoiled. But, although he couldn’t hear his thoughts, the enmity with which Katarias viewed the formerly human inhabitants of this city was plain in its every, baleful glare and the evident glee it exhibited whenever it feasted on a meal chosen from amongst their ranks.

The White settled on the part-ruined building atop the harbour wall where it made its nest. The clutch of infant Whites screeched out a greeting as it landed amongst them, crowding round to nuzzle its flanks, wings flapping in excited adoration. The White enclosed them all in its wings, issuing a low growl of paternal affection. After a moment it moved back, glancing up at Katarias circling above. The Red obediently folded its wings and descended to deposit something in the nest, something with two legs and two arms that managed to issue a plaintive, hopeless scream before the infant Whites tore it to pieces.

Another unfortunate from Carvenport, Sirus decided. Or some wayward Contractor found in the Interior. He wondered if there was any significance in the fact that the infant Whites only ever fed on human prey. He had seen the other drakes feed on livestock as well as humans, but not the White’s brood.

It’s training them, Morradin told him. Making it so that’s all they’ll ever want to eat. When we go forth from here, they’ll eat the whole world, boy.

Katrya came to him after dark, as had become her nightly ritual. Their couplings, performed in full view of the other Spoiled since privacy was a meaningless concept now, seemed an inevitable consequence of joining minds so deeply. As they coiled together he could feel those other Spoiled similarly occupied throughout the city, their lust mingling to make the experience ever more compulsive. He knew he should have been disgusted by this, repelled by the spines and scales that marked Katrya’s face and body, violated by the fact that every sensation was shared with so many others. But the intoxication of it was overwhelming, irresistible.

Did it made us like this for a reason? he pondered later as they lay entwined, finally spent, Katrya’s contented slumber a low hum in his mind. Something else to keep us bound to its will?

Katrya gave a faint moan of distress as his thoughts turned to Morradin’s words that day: They’ll eat the whole world. He had learned that sober reflection tended to mute the interest of the other Spoiled, the lack of emotion partially masking his thoughts. But draining his mind of feeling was never easy, especially when the marshal’s prediction led inevitably to thoughts of Tekela. He knew it was likely she had perished by now, if not during her flight from Morsvale then in Carvenport along with so many others. But a nagging sense of hope convinced him otherwise. She lived, somewhere beyond his sight, but not beyond the scope of the White’s ambition.

He drifted into his dreamless sleep picturing her face, as caustically indifferent as he remembered, but this time drenched in blood.

The reinforcements arrived the next afternoon, emerging from the jungle beyond the southern wall in their dozens, then hundreds, then thousands. More Spoiled-born summoned from the Interior. The disparate tribal origins were evident in the wide variety of clothing they wore. Some had feathers in their hair, whilst others had skin etched all over with decorative scars. They were all men and women of fighting age, Sirus finding not a single child or old one among their ranks. Touching their minds briefly brought an explanation: children trotting in the wake of silent and indifferent parents marching steadily north, cuffed or cut down when they became a hindrance. Soon all the children were left behind to fend for themselves. The White had no use for those too small to fight.

By nightfall the White’s horde had grown to ten thousand, rising to twenty come the following morning. Morradin absorbed them all into his army with typical efficiency and soon they were drilling with the same uniform precision as the others, though only about half possessed fire-arms. The fleet of ships and barges were loaded with provisions and ammunition, their cannon hauled aboard and every engine turned over in preparation for an imminent voyage. Sirus could feel the excited anticipation of the others, even sharing it to some extent though the prospect of what lay ahead stirred his dread in equal measure. He also sensed a change in Morradin’s mood, the self-recrimination lessening as the prospect of conflict loomed. For a man whose soul appeared to be stirred only by triumph in war, the coming tribulation was as irresistible as Sirus’s nightly surrenders to lust.

The White watched the preparations in silence until the last Spoiled had trooped aboard barge or ship, then raised its head and gave a vast cry. Its command spread through them all in an instant, the most powerful and implacable urge it had yet birthed in its horde of slaves: North.

CHAPTER 11

Lizanne

“What did that bitch Sefka tell you?” the Blood Imperial enquired, long-nailed fingers twitching on the curved head of his walking-stick. His entire bearing was that of an old man struggling to maintain posture despite a host of aches and pains. However, his eyes were bright and steady behind the veil of lank grey hair. “Said you should tell me to stuff it, didn’t she?”

“Why don’t we sit down?” Lizanne suggested, nodding at an alcove towards the rear of the tomb.

The Blood Imperial gave a faint huff before making a slow progress to the alcove, Lizanne casting a cautious glance at the door as the brass tip of his cane drew an echo from the flagstones.

“Nobody’s coming, love.” The old man sighed as he sank onto the narrow bench set into the alcove. “You can be sure of that.”

Lizanne perched herself on the edge of the plinth supporting Empress-cum-Emperor Azireh’s sarcophagus, taking a moment to scan the tomb’s interior in greater detail. “So, have you ever found it?” she asked. “The great treasure revealed only by Nelphia’s light.”

“Years ago,” he said, rubbing his knee. “Wasn’t really treasure. It was a scroll hidden in the lintel. Some of the letters are carved to a different depth, only becomes obvious when Nelphia’s at the right elevation. Took me years to work out the correct sequence to press. When I did, a scroll popped out of a hidden compartment. Clever old cow, Azireh.”

“What was on it?”

“A list, all the people she’d killed over the years. Not the executions, you understand, because Azireh was renowned for her mercy. No, this was all the noble shit-eaters and trouble-makers she’d had poisoned or arranged to fall victim to an unfortunate accident. It was a long list. I suppose it was some sort of confessional, unburdening her soul before making the final journey into godhood. Would’ve transformed our understanding of her reign completely, if I hadn’t burned it.”

“Why do that?”

She saw his mouth twitch behind the grey veil. “You met our Divine Emperor tonight. Mad as a Blue-addled monkey, isn’t he?”

Lizanne maintained a neutral tone as she replied, “He had some interesting notions to impart.”

“Let me guess, you’re some sort of holy incarnation sent to help him defeat Sethamet’s demon horde.” The Blood Imperial shook his head. “Every time he slips into this state his delusions get a little more complex, but at least they’re consistent. His father always said we should’ve drowned the little fucker, and he wasn’t exactly the straightest arrow in the quiver, either. It’s how it is in this empire, love. The mad and the inept become gods. It’s an absurd and ancient pantomime, and it works, but only if everyone stays in character. Azireh, the only woman ever to sit the throne, was a wise and magnanimous ruler who founded a dynasty that would one day produce our current beloved Caranis, and that’s how she’ll stay.”

Lizanne noted that his hands had stopped twitching, making her wonder as to the true state of his infirmity.

“You killed a lot of my best people,” he said. “The Blood Cadre is a bit like a family, there being so few of us, comparatively speaking. They look on me as a father of sorts, and many of my children want justice for their murdered brothers and sisters.”

“Killing in war isn’t murder,” Lizanne replied. “And I lost plenty of good people in Carvenport, if you want to compare butcher’s bills.”

“Oh, don’t mistake me.” He shrugged and gave a dismissive wave of his stick. “Been many a year since I took any of this stuff personally. Just a word of caution, not all my kiddies can be counted on to help in our endeavour.”

“And what exactly is our endeavour?”

“The defeat of the White Drake and its terrible minions, of course. With the help of the Mad Artisan, or whoever it was set down that marvellous design I sent to Director Bloskin. How is the old bastard, by the way? Still smoking too much?”

“Considerably. Since you sent the design, I assume you can point me to its creator.”

“Wish it were that simple. Got it by a roundabout route, y’see. Passed through a dozen hands before one of my kiddies chanced upon it when she was doing a little job for me up north. It was in a box of documents the former owner no longer had a use for. An investigation of tedious length eventually tracked it back to a retired member of the Imperial Constabulary who, after some gentle persuasion, explained that the design had been amongst a number of keepsakes he’d helped himself to during his last posting.”

“And where might that be?”

The Blood Imperial smiled, revealing oddly white teeth for a man of his age. “Scorazin, love. You’ll find whoever drew it in Scorazin.”

She stared at him for a long moment, watching his smile fade and eyes narrow in expectation.

“You expect me to infiltrate the Emperor’s prison city,” she said.

“Indeed I do.”

“You have your own agents. Use them.”

“Already tried it. Sent my two best. The first one lasted three days, the second managed four. You may not have heard, but Scorazin isn’t a very nice place and getting product through the gates is practically impossible. But, if anyone can get in there and find the Artisan, it’s you. Why else d’you imagine I sent the design to Bloskin?”

“I’ll have the Emperor scour the place. He’ll do anything for Sethamet’s Bane, after all.”

“Won’t work, love. It’s fair odds he’ll have returned to sanity by the morning and won’t even remember meeting you. Even if he hasn’t, you must have realised by now that not everyone in this court shares my desire to preserve the current state of affairs. Countess Sefka’s been plotting my downfall ever since she took control of the Cadre, and she isn’t alone. Certain long-standing interests don’t like a gutter-born upstart like me having so much influence over the Emperor. Nor do they appreciate so much power resting in the hands of a Blood-blessed. They’d much prefer it if we went back to being the slaves of the elite, and that I won’t have. You might persuade Caranis to tear Scorazin apart in order to find the Artisan, but would he even be findable amidst so much chaos? Besides which, it’ll be a clear signal to Sefka and her cronies that something of great value to me resides in that city, intelligence I’ve so far managed to keep from her. No, my dear Miss Lethridge. You want the Artisan, you’ll have to go in there and get him.”

“And having done so, just hand him over to you, I assume?”

“Better in my hands than Sefka’s, believe me. She looks upon the drake threat as a minor inconvenience. You and I know better. You do have my firm assurance, however, that whatever useful information he provides will be shared with the Ironship Syndicate.”

He’s probably lying, Lizanne decided, but knew it didn’t really matter since she had no intention of taking the Artisan anywhere but Feros, assuming she could even find him. Everything she had heard of Scorazin told of a seething cesspool of degraded humanity forced to work in the mines beneath the city for scraps of food. However, her career had taken her to many terrible places and none had yet managed to kill her, or thwart her various missions.

“Very well,” she said.

The Blood Imperial’s hair parted as he nodded in satisfaction, revealing eyes, as bright and steady as a youthful soldier’s, bespeaking an intelligence undimmed by age or frailty. “You’ll need this,” he said, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to her. “Can’t go to prison without a crime.”

Lizanne unfolded the document, finding a formal judgement from the Corvus Magistrate with a long list of charges, each one stamped with the word “guilty” in red ink. “Prostitution?” she asked him, raising an eyebrow.

“And extortion. You are an expensive courtesan who unwisely took to blackmailing a client, a senior official in the Imperial Treasury. Tragically, he’ll be taking his own life about an hour from now, leaving a suitably incriminating suicide note. The Corvus Magistrate will deal with the matter in circumspect fashion to avoid embarrassment to the family. I have an escort standing by to take you directly to Scorazin.” His bony hand disappeared into his pocket once more, coming out with a small vial of product. “Once we have established our connection . . .”

He fell silent as Lizanne slowly ripped the magistrate’s judgement in half and let the pieces fall to the floor. “Understand me,” she said in a low and controlled tone, matching his purposeful gaze with her own. “I do not work for you. I will make my own way to Scorazin and have no part of this amateur farce of a cover story. And if you imagine for one second I would ever trance with you, you’re as mad as your Emperor.”

She rose and moved to the door, making it to the top step before the tip of his stick rang loudly on the flagstones. She paused as the harsh grate of his voice, now sounding far from aged, filled the tomb. “And you imagine I will simply let you loose in this empire?”

She turned to face him, fingers poised over the Spider. “You will if you want the Artisan.”

He was just a dim shape in the gloom now, though she could see his pale hands clenching the walking-stick in barely controlled fury. After a moment he calmed, the hands relaxing, though she knew this to be artifice. I do believe this man intends to kill me when I’m done, she thought, taking perverse comfort in the realisation. With one such as he, the choice was either subservience or deadly antipathy, and she preferred the simplicity of the latter.

“As you wish, love,” he said, voice receding into the same uncultured rasp. He got slowly to his feet and hobbled towards her, the anger stripped from his gaze. “But, before you go, do me the favour of settling an old man’s curiosity.”

She put a hand on the door and pushed it slightly ajar, gazing out at the silent tombs. He would have some of his people out there somewhere, all Blood-blessed and apparently riven with a vengeful impulse. She could only hope they wouldn’t act without his explicit instruction. “What is it?” she asked.

“The expedition Madame Bondersil sent in search of the White. I assume one or both of you were in trance communication with their Blood-blessed, the boy, Torcreek was it? My last intelligence on their whereabouts came from an operative in Edinsmouth, shortly before he had his head blown off. Director Bloskin was kind enough to elucidate on their eventual success in discovering the White, but I do wonder what became of them in the aftermath.”

“They were attacked by Spoiled during the journey south from the mountain. My last trance with Mr. Torcreek indicated his companions were all dead and he had suffered a mortal wound.”

“Ah.” She could tell from the way he averted his gaze that he didn’t believe a word of it. “What a pity. One who had actually met the White face-to-face and lived would have been very valuable.”

Hence my desire to keep him very far away from your pestilent influence. “It’s time I left,” she said, pushing the door fully open and sparing him a final glance. “You’ll hear from me when I have the Artisan.”

“And if you fail?”

“Then you’d best hope your mad Emperor can marshal sufficient force to stop what’s coming.” With that she injected a burst of Green and sprinted off into the gloom.

Escaping the Sanctum took the rest of the night and the sun was climbing over the roof-tops by the time Lizanne made her way into the city proper. Several double-backs and sudden changes of direction revealed no sign that the Blood Imperial’s operatives had managed to track her. Either that, or they were too skilled for her to detect them, which she thought unlikely. Even so she took every precaution before proceeding to her destination. She had changed into her nondescript clothing after scaling the Sanctum’s outer wall and affected the tired, stooped walk of an underpaid worker released from a night-shift in the manufactory or cotton-mill. There were many such folk about in the small hours, providing useful camouflage as she made her way to the tea-shop.

The woman behind the counter was of pleasingly plump proportions and smiled affably as Lizanne said good morning. The woman’s apple-cheeked cheerfulness slipped somewhat when Lizanne asked if she had any Sovereign Black. It was a spicy and expensive blend from northern Dalcia and virtually impossible to find since the Emergency. Meaning very few customers would be likely to ask for it.

“We have none,” the tea seller replied, eyes flicking towards the window and the street outside. She’s not best suited to this, Lizanne judged, seeing how the woman’s hands fidgeted on the counter. “We, ah.” The woman frowned as she struggled to remember the correct response. “We do have Red Drake’s Breath though.”

“That would be very acceptable.”

The woman glanced at the street once more before raising the flap in the counter and beckoning Lizanne through to the store-room. “Wait here,” she said in a whisper before proceeding ahead into the gloomy interior. Lizanne heard the sound of a coded knock, two quick raps then three more, followed by the scrape of wood on wood as something heavy was hauled aside. A brief, quiet exchange of voices and the shop-woman reappeared. “Go on in,” she said, moving past Lizanne and returning to the outer shop.

She found Arberus waiting at the entrance to a hidden room, a small lantern glowing at his back as he stood holding a concealing stack of shelves to one side. “You found it then?” he asked, speaking in Mandinorian and grinning a little.

“Varsal only,” she admonished him, coming closer. “The shop-lady seems a little too nervous for a revolutionary.”

“Nervous or not she’s fully committed to the cause. The Cadre killed her fiancé for owning a printing-press. Her parents own this place but are thankfully too elderly to visit much. Plus, the local constabulary are appreciative of the free tea she provides.”

Lizanne paused to press a kiss to his cheek before proceeding into the hidden alcove. It was of typically orderly appearance. Arberus would probably never shake off the military habits of a lifetime, even if it had all been artifice.

“This room is well soundproofed,” he said, a slightly hopeful note in his voice as he slid the concealing shelf-stack back into place.

“I made my position on that matter clear aboard ship,” she replied. “I assume your desertion was accomplished without difficulty?”

“The Director’s man had me conveyed ashore in an empty rum cask. By now I expect he’s expunged my name from the ship’s rolls.”

“And your contacts in the Brotherhood?”

“Diminished but still active. I’m afraid I’ve had to make certain promises to secure their co-operation.”

“Presumably they know the importance of our mission? If this world falls then all their deluded ambitions will be meaningless.”

“Arradsia is thousands of miles away, and the Brotherhood’s crusade has spanned generations. Rest assured, the revolution will always come first.”

Lizanne gave a small sigh of discomfort. Dealing with people steeped in dogma was never something she relished, but time was short and she had no other allies at hand. “Arrange a meeting,” she said. “I’ll need all the information they can provide on Scorazin.”

He stared at her in unblinking silence for several seconds. “Scorazin?” he asked finally, a hard edge to his voice.

“The Artisan is most likely there. So that is where I need to go.”

“Or I could just shoot you now and save time.”

“We are faced with a distinct lack of alternatives.” She undid her shoes and took them off, lying back on the bed with an arm across her eyes. All vestige of product had faded from her veins and her body was beginning to feel the exertions of the previous night. “I need to rest, Major. Please go and do as I ask.”

“One million in gold, not exchange notes or Imperial currency.” The young man spoke in soft but strident tones. He was of slight build with pale, freckled skin and a shock of red hair Lizanne’s tutors would have ordered him to dye black had he been recruited to Exceptional Initiatives. Arberus had introduced him as Korian, a code-name borrowed from Corvantine antiquity. Korian had been one of the seven divine brothers fabled to have built Corvus after being cast out of the gods’ heavenly abode. If Lizanne recalled rightly, Korian had been murdered by his brothers for the crime of coming to love the mere mortals who laboured in their service. His death sparked the revolt that brought down the brothers’ dominion and established the first ruling Corvantine dynasty. Historians considered the whole tale a fanciful myth but it had provided inspiration aplenty for Corvantine subversives for centuries.

“Plus twenty thousand rifles with two hundred rounds apiece,” Korian went on. “We will also require all intelligence the Ironship Protectorate holds on Imperial military deployments.”

Yet another uprising in the offing, Lizanne concluded. Don’t they ever get tired of this? “Done,” she said, suppressing a grin at the youth’s surprised frown. Evidently he had expected some hard bargaining but Lizanne saw little point in it. Although she was technically negating the good faith of Director Thriftmor’s negotiations by agreeing to fund and arm these rebels, she suspected that by the time she got the Artisan on a ship the empire’s internal problems would be superseded by more pressing concerns.

“You will simply hand all of this over without demur?” Korian asked.

“Crisis breeds urgency,” Lizanne replied. “And I am fully empowered by my employers to make whatever agreements are necessary to achieve my objective.”

Korian glanced at Arberus, who stood guarding the entrance to the store-room. The major smiled tightly and gave a firm nod, which seemed to alleviate the revolutionary’s unease. “What do you require?” he asked.

“A capable forger,” she said. “Plus, Imperial Cavalry uniforms in sufficient quantity to clothe a full company together with men to wear them and the requisite number of horses to carry said men. I shall also require a ceramicist skilled in delicate work.”

She paused, regarding his puzzled expression with a raised eyebrow. “I assume these requirements are within the Brotherhood’s capabilities. If not, perhaps there are other groups I should be speaking to. According to my employer’s files, the Republic First Alliance is more effective when it comes to infiltration . . .”

“Republic First,” Korian broke in, “lost all claims to Bidrosin’s legacy during the revolution. They are little more than thieves posturing as radicals. Any other group you might approach are shadows of their former selves, cowed dreamers who do nothing but endlessly rehash the grand epic of failure. Only the Brotherhood still stands for the people. Our struggle will never be done, not until the old order is scoured from this land and Bidrosin’s vision made real. Much as I despise the corporatist world and all it stands for, I’d crawl through the foulest sewer if it will win this struggle.”

Lizanne always found radical invective jarring, especially when delivered without a trace of irony. “How noble of you,” she said, unable to keep the weary tone from her voice. “Can you do this or not?”

CHAPTER 12

Clay

Clay skidded across the deck, staring in fixed horror as the drake’s jaws began to close on Loriabeth’s legs. He had no gun, no product and lacked even the strength to prevent his headlong tumble. Therefore, it was an overwhelming relief to hear the ear-jarring clack of the Blue’s teeth snapping on empty air as Loriabeth swung herself clear. The ship righted itself just as Clay collided with the rail, a shout of pained frustration issuing from his mouth. He flailed on the deck, hands scrabbling on the boards as he tried and failed to haul himself upright.

He looked up at the sound of Loriabeth scrambling to her feet with both pistols in hand, firing a rapid salvo at the Blue’s head as it darted forward for a second try. The beast flinched as the bullets tore at its snout, drawing blood but failing to dissuade it from making another lunge at its prey. Loriabeth dived to one side, rolling clear of the snapping jaws then whirling to empty both revolvers into the drake’s face at point-blank range. The Blue reared back as if stung, blood trailing from a ruined eye. Its mouth gaped wide once more, infuriated growls fading and a haze of heated air blossoming from its throat. Then it froze.

Clay stared at the immobile head of the beast, seeing how the rest of its snake-like body coiled and thrashed in the water below. His gaze snapped to the walkway above, finding the Varestian pirate woman standing there, eyes fixed on the Blue. Her face was set in the hard concentration that told of intense use of Black as she held the drake in place.

Something landed on the deck in front of Clay: an open wallet containing two vials of product. Clay looked up to find Hilemore regarding him with a hard, commanding glare. “Hurry up!” he snapped, nodding at the wallet.

Clay fumbled for the vials, finding that his fingers lacked the strength to remove the stoppers. With a curse, Hilemore crouched to help him, thumbing the stoppers away and jamming both vials none-too-gently into Clay’s mouth. The combined product, full doses of Green and Black, burned on his tongue before making a fiery progress down his throat. The effect was immediate, the Green banishing his weakness in an instant. He sprang to his feet, seeing the Blue’s head was now shuddering as the Varestian woman’s Black faded, flame seeping through its teeth as its jaw began to widen.

Hilemore moved away, barking orders as Clay focused his gaze on the Blue, its jaw clamping shut once more as he summoned the Black. A loud thud sounded from the starboard side as the beast’s body thrashed against the hull. Clay could feel its strength, vastly more powerful than any man he had ever frozen, forcing him to drain product at an accelerated rate.

“If you’ve got a mind to do something,” he told Hilemore through clenched teeth, sweat bathing his skin as the Green thinned in his veins, “it better be soon!”

He heard Hilemore shout some more orders before his voice was drowned by the booming roar of a cannon. Clay felt a hard rush of air as the shell whooshed by less than two feet to his left, quickly followed by a thick cloud of smoke. The last of the product faded as the smoke cleared, leaving him collapsed on the deck once more and staring up at the curious sight of a headless Blue. Blood geysered from the ragged stump of its neck as the body continued to coil and thrash, Clay hearing a scream as a jet of undiluted product found an unfortunate crewman. The drake’s writhing corpse slithered along the Superior’s side before coming to rest on the aft deck, still coiling as its blood left a red stain in the ship’s wake.

“All stop!”

Clay turned to see Hilemore standing alongside one of the starboard cannon, smoke streaming from its muzzle. The gun appeared to have been hastily drawn back and aimed by Steelfine and Lieutenant Talmant, the Islander providing the required elevation by the simple expedient of wedging himself under the barrel and lifting it with his back.

“Mr. Skaggerhill,” Hilemore called to the harvester, who was crouched at Loriabeth’s side, applying a salve to a small blood-burn on her wrist. “Ever drained a Blue before, perchance?”

Exhaustion had forced Clay back to his bunk, where he slept for several hours, drained by the day’s events. He awoke in late evening, emerging onto the aft deck where Skaggerhill and Scrimshine were at work harvesting the Blue. Apparently the former smuggler was the only other hand aboard with enough experience to assist. The Blue’s headless corpse lay on a bed of oilskins, a huge, grisly red-blue crescent. Skaggerhill’s usual method of tapping the jugular was of little use here since the cannon shot had already rent the vessel open, denuding the body of at least half its remaining blood. The harvester had let the corpse settle for a while then made a series of deep incisions where it bulged the most, capturing the outrushing product in steel buckets provided by Chief Bozware. Meanwhile, Scrimshine was hard at work retrieving the valuable organs.

“Best hold your nose, now,” he said, voice muffled behind the welder’s mask he wore and, like Skaggerhill, clad head to toe in thick leather. “This is where we find out what the bugger had for dinner.” With that he sank a broad-bladed knife into the lower section of the drake’s belly and sliced deep and long. The resultant stench had Clay gagging even though he sat on a crate a good fifteen feet away. Scrimshine stood back as a steaming collection of guts spilled out onto the deck, then took a moment to poke through it with his steel-shod boots, commenting, “Seems we weren’t the first ship he happened across in recent days.”

He kicked something free from the mound of guts, something pale and round that rolled to a stop at Clay’s feet. The skull had been mostly denuded of flesh but one of the eyes remained. The blank, milky-white orb stared up at him provoking an unpleasant memory; another dislocated head once gifted to him in a bag.

“Have some Seer-damn respect,” Skaggerhill growled at Scrimshine from behind his mask, receiving only a shrug in response.

The sailor turned to rummage through the drake’s abdomen, prising the lips of the cut apart and reaching inside, muttering, “Let’s be having yer bile duct then, y’bastard.”

“Is it him?” Clay asked. “Is it Last Look Jack?”

“King of the Deep’s arse it is,” Scrimshine replied, still rummaging. “This is a tiddler, lad. If old Last Look’d found this tub it’d be him harvesting us.”

Clay watched Skaggerhill apply a hand to the Blue’s hide next to the final incision he had made, squirting a few more drops into his bucket. “Well, that’s about all the easy money we’ll make,” he said, standing back. “Have to render him down to the bone to get full value and we ain’t got the gear for that.”

“Folk at Kraghurst’ll take what’s left,” Scrimshine said, emerging from the body holding a dark object roughly the size and shape of an apple, which he plopped into a large pickle jar. “Even a rotted Blue’s got value.”

“What about the heart?” Clay asked.

Skaggerhill turned to him, moving clear of the pooling blood and pushing his mask back from his face. “What about it?” he asked with a cautious frown.

“Can you get to it?”

“I guess so. Take a while to saw through his ribs though.” The harvester’s gaze narrowed further. “Why d’you ask, young ’un?”

Clay levered himself off the crate and started back to his cabin. “Just curious,” he said.

That, Lizanne told him, her whirlwinds twisting a little in agitation, is a very bad idea.

Miss Ethelynne told me she drank the stuff twice, he pointed out. And she was fine.

You aren’t her. Heart-blood is a highly unpredictable and barely understood substance. Plasmologists have been attempting to refine it into a usable state for decades, enjoying a singular lack of success. I urge you, Mr. Torcreek, to put such notions aside and concentrate on the task ahead.

As you wish. He hoped his insincerity didn’t show in his mindscape. Although he had become ever more adept in controlling it, he knew he lacked her expertise when it came to fully concealing his thoughts. This time, however, it seemed his growing abilities paid off, for her whirlwinds settled into their usual contained orderliness.

Your position? she asked.

Three days north of the Chokes. Captain’s stopped burning Red on account of the bergs. Must say I ain’t liking the climate much. I knew it’d be cold but this is hard to take.

I’m sure it’ll be harder still when you reach the Shelf. Best keep some Red handy for emergencies.

Surely. Where you at now?

Halfway to Scorazin. He saw her whirlwinds darken again at the prospect ahead and found it unnerving; fear was usually absent from these trances.

Bad place, huh?

The worst in the empire, some say. Prisoners have been known to commit suicide upon being sentenced to life in Scorazin.

Anyone ever escaped?

Her whirlwinds twitched as a faint ripple of amusement ran through them. Not to my knowledge, but I come from a long line of innovators.

You could wait. See what we find beyond the Shelf. Could be, you don’t have to do this.

I have a sense time is very much our enemy, Mr. Torcreek. Her thoughts took on a brisk note, indicating an imminent end to the trance. There may be little opportunity to trance once I gain entry to Scorazin. If you fail to connect with me after a month, assume I’m dead and proceed at your own discretion. And put any notion of drinking heart-blood out of your head.

He borrowed tools from the engine room and spent over an hour hacking away at the Blue’s sternum with an axe. It had been two days since the trance with Lizanne and he felt an odd sense of pride at having resisted this impulse for so long. But the farther south they sailed, and the deeper the chill in the air, the more the Blue’s heart seemed to call to him.

He grunted and swung the axe once more. The blade sank into the fibrous gash he had made in this slab of bone. It was as thick as an oak door and almost as hard. He gave a satisfied sigh as the sternum finally cracked open, reaching in with his thick-gloved hands to pry the sundered bone apart. Through the pink-grey gore he could see the Blue’s rib-cage had compressed, the arcs of bone pressed together to conceal the prize within. Lifting a saw, he set to work, forcing down his rising gorge at the stink of the drake’s decomposing innards. It required another hour’s work before he cut a decent-sized hole in the wall of ribs, by which time the morning watch were coming on deck.

“What are you about, Mr. Torcreek?”

Clay glanced over his shoulder to see Hilemore standing near by, his blocky features rich in suspicion.

“Claiming my prize, Captain,” Clay replied, tossing some bone fragments into a bucket.

“This animal is the ship’s prize,” Hilemore informed him. “Profit derived from it will be shared among the crew.”

“I doubt they’d want any part of what I’m after.” Clay lifted a lantern and shined the light into the gap he had created, seeing something glisten as it caught the glow. Closer inspection revealed it to be at least as big as his head and secured to the rest of the Blue’s inner workings by a huge vein as thick as his forearm.

“Spare me some Black and this’d go quicker,” he told Hilemore. “Miss Ethelynne once tore a heart right out of a Red’s chest after drinking Black.”

“You’ve had all the product you’re getting, for the time being.”

“Oh well.” Clay reached for the large knife sitting amongst his array of tools. “Guess I’ll have to do it the traditional way.”

He half expected Hilemore to stop him, pull him away from the corpse and maybe even administer another beating. Instead, the captain just stood and watched as he cut the heart free and carefully extracted it from the rib-cage. “Might want to stand back a mite farther,” he told Hilemore, carrying the heart towards a steel bucket. “I’m given to believe just a drop of this stuff on un-Blessed skin can have ruinous results.”

Hilemore stared at him for a moment before taking two slow and deliberate backward steps. “Are you really intending to drink from that?” he asked.

“You intending to stop me?” Clay placed the heart in the bucket then took up the knife once more and made two deep cuts, forming a cross in the organ’s surface that immediately swelled with blood.

“I find myself curiously ambivalent on the matter,” Hilemore replied.

Clay watched as the blood dripped sluggishly from the cuts to form an inch-thick pool around the heart. It was darker and more viscous than the product Skaggerhill had harvested, and a distinct contrast to the paler, diluted substance Clay was used to. How much? he wondered, striving to recall every word Ethelynne had spoken on the subject, which he was depressed to realise amounted to no more than a few words. She had command of Lutharon because she drank the blood of his mother, he remembered. So, stands to reason he was right there when she did it. Ain’t no Blues here now.

He reached for the empty spice jar he had purloined from the galley. It was double the size of a standard product vial but still small enough to carry in his pocket. He sank it into the bucket and let it fill to the brim, then fixed the lid in place and washed the excess product away with water from his canteen.

“Finally,” Hilemore said, turning and striding towards the bridge. “A modicum of common sense.”

The Chokes came into view the next day. At first they appeared as a long jagged saw-blade on the southern horizon but soon resolved into a series of narrow rocky islets, each rising to a height of at least eighty feet and topped with a thick cap of ice. At Scrimshine’s urging, Hilemore had reduced speed to one-third during their approach in order to allow the tidal currents to raise the sea to the required height. “Need at least a two-moon tide to sail the Chokes,” he advised.

Clay kept a close eye on the former inmate as he worked the wheel. He knew his undimmed distrust of the man was most likely the result of Blinds-born prejudice, but it was an instinct he had learned to trust. Blinds don’t wash, he reminded himself, watching Scrimshine expertly spin the wheel to counter a sudden current.

“Gotta keep a watch on the eddies here,” he said, glancing at Hilemore. “Best tell your lookouts that, Skipper. They need to sing out if they see a big swirl ahead.”

Hilemore nodded to Steelfine, who relayed the command to the crow’s nest via the speaking-tube.

“We’re too far east,” Scrimshine went on, squinting through the wheel-house window before tapping a finger to the compass. “Gonna have to tack west for a bit.”

“We followed the heading you gave us,” Hilemore pointed out.

“Chokes’ve never been mapped for a reason, Skipper.” Scrimshine grinned and spun the wheel to starboard. “They change. Sea wears at the rock whilst the ice carves new channels and closes others. It’s almost like they’re a living thing that eats unwary ships.”

They followed the northern edge of the Chokes for another two hours. Clay quickly gained an appreciation for Hilemore’s insistence that they find a pilot before coming here. Through the gaps in the outer chain of islets he could see many more, too many to count easily, forming a close-packed maze several miles thick. He also saw how the chain of islets described a great curve, disappearing into the distance where a thin white line could be seen on the horizon.

“That’s the Shelf, huh?” he asked Hilemore, who gave a short nod, his own gaze fixed on their helmsman, who, Clay noted, now had a sheen of sweat on his cheeks despite the chill.

“Something wrong?” Hilemore asked him.

Scrimshine didn’t answer for a long moment, eyes feverishly tracking over the parade of passing islets. “It’s, um,” he began, swallowed then spoke on, his voice betraying a hoarse nervousness. “It’s gone. The channel I was aiming for. See?” He pointed through a gap between two islets, beyond which a large iceberg could be seen twisting slowly in the current. “Looks like it’s suffered a tumble since last I was here.”

“I told you to throw this one back,” Clay said to Hilemore.

The captain ignored him and took a step towards Scrimshine, looming over him and speaking in precise tones. “You are here for one reason. I have no room for useless hands aboard this ship.”

“There’s maybe another way,” Scrimshine said, voice even hoarser. “Farther west, where the Chokes meet the Shelf. It’s, uh, right treacherous though. Not to be risked lightly.”

Hilemore stared at the perspiring convict for a long moment. “It seems we have little choice,” he said eventually. “I hope for your sake you don’t once again prove my trust to have been misplaced.”

It took the better part of the remaining daylight to reach the Shelf. Progress was slow due to Scrimshine’s need to compensate for the shifting and powerful currents flowing into the Chokes. As the light began to ebb the Shelf grew from a thin white line into a massive pale green-blue wall that towered over the Superior by at least fifty feet.

“Well, that’s really something,” Skaggerhill said, gazing up at the frozen cliffs with ice beading his bushy eyebrows. The Longrifles had gathered on the fore-deck as the ship drew ever nearer to the frozen edifice. They were all wrapped in a variety of clothing looted from the unneeded belongings of the Superior’s fallen crew, Loriabeth appearing somewhat comical in her voluminous collection of thick coat and seal-fur hat. It all seemed a very long way from the jungles and badlands of Arradsia.

“You were hoping for an interesting journey,” Clay said. He was wearing a heavy coat that had belonged to the Superior’s coxswain, but still his teeth chattered as he spoke.

The harvester turned and nodded to the south. “That seems a damn sight more interesting than I was hoping for.”

Gazing at the passage ahead, Clay couldn’t help but share his trepidation. The channel between the Chokes and the Shelf was barely twice the Superior’s width and the water seethed as the energetic currents battered against the ice. As he watched, a chunk the size of a house detached itself from the Shelf and plummeted into the roiling waters. He had gained a grudging appreciation for Scrimshine’s piloting abilities but found it incredible that any helmsman could successfully steer such a course.

Preacher said something, the first words Clay could recall him uttering since Hadlock, a soft recitation of scripture almost lost to the numbing air. “‘’Ware the safest roads, for they lure the slothful towards the Travail.’”

Clay saw that the marksman had a serene cast to his face, as if he looked upon the coming trials with calm acceptance. He always was crazy, Clay reminded himself, seeing the sharp glance his uncle shot at Preacher and knowing they shared the same thought. Probably should’ve left him in Lossermark.

“Ain’t gonna attempt this tonight are they?” Loriabeth asked, casting a wary eye at the darkening sky.

Clay turned towards the bridge. Through the glass he could see Scrimshine engaged in some animated gesticulation as Hilemore loomed over him once more. “Seems it’s a matter under discussion,” he said, starting back towards the mid-deck.

“It’ll be fully dark within the hour!” he could hear Scrimshine saying as he climbed the ladder to the bridge. The sailor’s voice possessed a curious tone that mixed stern refusal with wheedling solicitation. “You take us in there, this ship’ll be scrap come the morning.”

“It’s a two-moon night,” Hilemore said, his own tone absent any inflection save command. “Bright enough to see by without lights and I’ll not anchor here.”

“We could draw back a mile or two to calmer waters,” Scrimshine said, fighting a catch in his throat. “Steam in a slow circle until midday on the morrow. Should be able to get her through then.”

Clay paused at the entrance to the bridge, watching Scrimshine stare at Hilemore in desperation. Clay clamped down on the urge to add his voice, knowing the captain’s reaction to unasked-for advice, especially from him, was unlikely to be pleasant. After a moment’s consideration, Hilemore shifted his gaze to the Varestian woman standing at the rear of the bridge, arms folded and face rigid as she witnessed the discussion. She met Hilemore’s gaze and gave a short, barely perceptible nod that had Clay wondering if he wasn’t in fact sailing on a ship with two captains.

“Very well,” Hilemore said, moving back from Scrimshine. “Bring us about. Mr. Talmant, signal the Chief to take us to one-fifth speed.”

“One-fifth speed, aye, sir.”

“Mr. Steelfine, double watch tonight. I’ll take the first one.”

“Aye sir . . .”

“BLUE TO STERN!” the shout cut through the Islander’s words, dragging every set of eyes towards the rear of the ship where a lookout stood pointing at something a good distance off. At first Clay saw what he thought was another collision of waves born of the region’s unpredictable currents. Then he realised it was in fact a wake, a great swell of displaced water that spoke of something far larger than the rotting corpse lying on the aft deck. He could see a spine at least the height of two men rising from the centre of the swell, with a long row of others twisting behind as whatever created the wake made an unhurried progress towards the Superior.

“Oh fuck me to the Travail and back again,” Scrimshine breathed. “It’s him.”

CHAPTER 13

Lizanne

“Hyran,” the young man introduced himself, voice wavering a little and his large eyes averted. She put his age at somewhere around eighteen, though his thin frame and gaunt features made him look younger. Pale skin and dark hair meant his family was of northern origin, though his accented Varsal held a depth of street-born coarseness it was hard to fake. Hyran, Lizanne thought. Another code-name from Corvantine myth. The mystical messenger who walked the dark paths between the divine and mortal worlds. Quite apt, really.

Korian had introduced the lanky youth, nudging him into the secret refuge in the tea-house store-room with an impatient slap to the shoulder. “Haven’t got all day, citizen.”

“You can go,” Lizanne informed Korian in tones that didn’t invite discussion. “Close the entrance.”

Left alone with her the boy squirmed under her scrutiny, though she saw how he resisted the urge to conceal his hands as her gaze tracked over them, finding no marks. “You never sought the Blood Imperial’s Token?” she enquired, referring to the Corvantine equivalent of the Blood-lot.

“My ma and pa didn’t like it,” he muttered, eyes still downcast. “Godly reasons, they said.”

“Are they aware of your current . . . activities?”

He shook his head. “Only if they’re looking down from the heavens they was always going on about. Last purge but one. Emperor didn’t like their holy books, see?”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, continuing to shuffle in nervous expectation.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” she asked.

“Brotherhood don’t let their Blood-blessed trance. Too worried the Cadre might be listening.”

She pointed him to a stool next to the bed. “Please, sit.”

After some hesitant fidgeting, he duly sat on the stool, though his eyes remained fixed on the floor.

“It won’t hurt,” she assured him. “Though the first time is confusing.”

He clasped his hands together, hard enough to make the knuckles turn white. “Ma and Pa’s cleric told of how the trance steals part of your soul,” he said in a strained murmur. “Said you lose a piece of your soul then the gate to the heavens is barred to you. S’why they wouldn’t take me to try for the Token.”

“I thought the Brotherhood eschewed such notions,” Lizanne said. “Didn’t Bidrosin call religion the ‘triumph of delusion’?”

“She did. But it ain’t easy setting aside all you learnt from a young age, miss.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. But we have a mission, you and I, a mission that requires mutual understanding, and trust.” She reached for the Spider and disconnected the vial of Blue it held, removing the stopper and holding it out to him. “You can trust me, Hyran.”

After some more fidgeting he took the vial, eyes flicking up to meet hers for the first time. “How . . . How much?”

“Just a sip will suffice for today,” she said.

“Aren’t we s’posed to talk awhile first? Become friends or some such?”

“A brief acquaintance will suffice for basic communication.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Drink up.”

He did so, grimacing at the burn before handing the vial back to her. “They said you’d try to take all I know,” he said, watching her raise the vial to her lips. “Korian said it’s a good job I hardly know anything.”

Lizanne smothered a laugh and drank a small amount of Blue. We all see more than we know, my lad.

Arberus slipped back into the role of cavalry commander with practised ease, though the addition of an eye-patch and spear-point moustache did much to reduce the chance that a fellow officer might recognise a disgraced major of Imperial Dragoons. His dark green uniform and black cap marked him as a lieutenant in the 18th Light Horse, an undistinguished regiment often called upon to assist the constabulary in matters of internal security. He rode at the head of a dozen men, all members of the Brotherhood with sufficient military experience to pass for soldiers. Lizanne rode in a prison wagon of sturdy oak construction with barred windows and a slat in the floor for her bodily needs. She wore only a rough woollen smock and her unwashed and unbound hair was tangled with several days’ worth of grime and sweat. After two weeks on the road she must look quite frightful, which was all to the good. Also, thanks to a painful but necessary procedure undertaken before leaving Corvus, she had a persistent and acute pain in her lower jaw.

They met other travellers on the road, mostly traders carting their goods to the capital’s markets who were quick to shuffle onto the verge and lower their gaze at the sight of Imperial soldiery escorting a prison wagon. Occasionally they happened upon a constabulary check-point which invariably required Arberus to exchange curt pleasantries with their commander before proffering his forged orders. The sight of the Interior Minister’s crest was usually enough to discourage further questioning but not all members of the constabulary were so easily cowed.

“Can’t take any chances, Captain,” one particular check-point commander said. “What with all the trouble in the capital.” His boots thumped on the wagon’s rear step as he climbed up to peer at Lizanne through the barred window on the door.

“A traitor, eh?” he asked Arberus. “Sure she’s not a whore too? I can see her as one, but not the other. Though I wouldn’t give more than a few pins for a gobble off that mouth, the state she’s in.” He moved back, glancing to the side. “Unless you’re offering a free go?”

“Don’t let appearances fool you, Inspector,” Lizanne heard Arberus reply in a commendably mild tone. “You’ll likely find yourself short a few inches.”

The inspector grunted, looking down as he read something. “No name on the warrant,” he observed, without any particular surprise. “Another one for the ranks of the disappeared, eh?”

“My orders come directly from the Interior Ministry.” Arberus’s voice had taken on a clipped, cautionary note. “Experience teaches me the folly of looking too closely at the particulars.”

“Quite so, Captain.” The man’s brutish face lingered behind the bars a moment longer, Lizanne staring back at his predatory lust with studied indifference. More than a few inches, she decided. I’ll take his balls too.

“Very well.” The inspector disappeared, his barked commands audible through the wagon’s sides. “Raise the barrier!” The oak planking next to Lizanne’s head gave a loud thump as he pounded a fist against it. “Enjoy your time in Scorazin, my dear!” he shouted with a laugh. “I hear a whore can last at least a month if she’s generous enough!”

“I’ll stop by and kill him on the way back,” Arberus said. They had halted for the night, allowing her the chance to engage in the daily stretching exercises she employed to prevent her muscles atrophying during the journey. He stood at the wagon’s door, face framed in the barred window. She had forbidden any temporary liberations during the journey lest such a conspicuous breach of procedure attract attention.

“No you won’t.” Lizanne groaned a little as she raised her torso, keeping her legs straight and arms outstretched. “Much as I appreciate your chivalry, personal vendettas are a barrier to successful mission fulfilment.”

“I hate it when you talk like that.”

She looked up at the harsh tone in his voice, finding his face set with suppressed anger. “Really?”

“Yes, really. It’s like you step back from being you, becoming . . . someone else, someone Exceptional Initiatives made you into.”

“They didn’t make me into anything. They only refined what was already there.” She arched her back, sweeping her arms over her head so her body described the shape of a drawn bow. “And if they hadn’t, I doubt either of us would be here now.”

He said nothing, watching her hold the pose for several seconds before she relaxed. She sank into a sitting position and began working her neck muscles with a series of slow revolutions. “He said there was trouble in the capital,” she said.

“There were riots when the Emperor announced the treaty with Ironship,” he replied. “Relatives of those lost in the Arradsian campaign joined with traditionalists who despise the notion of allying their once-great empire with the hated corporatist enemy. The authorities were obliged to turn out the entire city garrison to restore order. It seems the Emperor has been even more industrious than usual in signing the resultant execution orders.”

“So he’s still mad,” Lizanne mused. “For the time being, at least. We can but hope it lingers long enough for his forces to be of some use when the White comes north.”

“So our fate is dependent on the continuing madness of an inbred fool.”

“If we accomplish our objective perhaps it won’t be necessary. How much longer?”

“A day and a half.” She watched his face take on an even more grim expression. “Once I hand you over, there will be nothing I can do to assist you.”

“On the contrary,” she said, offering a smile which he failed to return. “You will continue to gather intelligence and prepare for my return, and contingencies in the event I do not. Your Brotherhood must be made to understand the danger we face. Seek them out, as many as you can, tell them what you saw in Arradsia. Tell them yet another hopeless rebellion will only hurt our cause, and theirs.”

He sighed and gave a reluctant nod. “I suppose it’s better than simply waiting at the rendezvous for you to trance with Hyran.”

“Be sure to leave clear instructions with your people at the rendezvous. If I fail to trance within four weeks, assume me lost and try to convey word of the mission’s failure to Director Bloskin. Also . . .” She hesitated, closing her eyes. “In such an event I would request that you return to Feros.”

“You brought me here because of my useful allegiances. Now I’m back, you can’t expect me to abandon them.”

“Tekela is the daughter of your closest friend and comrade. Isn’t she more deserving of your protection than these hopeless dreamers?”

He met her gaze through the bars, the eyes harder and more unyielding than she had seen before. “If you’re expecting a solemn promise in that regard, you will be disappointed. I’ll not deprive you of yet another incentive to survive that benighted pit. If you wish to safeguard Tekela, stay alive and do it yourself.”

With that, he was gone, leaving her to ponder the folly of intimate relations for one such as she.

She smelled the smoke a good while before the wagon trundled up to the walls of Scorazin. It was faint at first, the mingled scent of burnt coal and wood mixed with a sulphurous tinge. Soon the scent thickened into a cloying, acrid miasma. It wasn’t quite as bad a stench as the green-leather tannery in Carvenport, but certainly came close. She heard the muffled exchange of military greetings as the wagon came to a halt, then the thump of boots on the step before keys rattled in the lock.

“Out!” Arberus commanded in an impatient bark.

Lizanne checked to ensure the manacles on her wrists were properly secured then got slowly to her feet. “Hurry up, you traitorous bitch,” Arberus said with weary brutality as she emerged, blinking into the light. She gazed around with a blank expression that conveyed the impression of a woman unable to comprehend her changed circumstances. The walls of the prison city towered above her, at least three times the height of the barrier that had ultimately failed to protect Carvenport. She couldn’t see the top of it through the pall of yellowish smoke escaping the confines of the city beyond. Before her stood the gatehouse, which was in fact a substantial fortress protruding from the wall like an ugly brick-and-wood tumour.

“Do you think I want to loiter in this stink a moment longer than necessary?” Arberus said, yanking Lizanne from the wagon with a hard tug. Her bare feet met mud-covered cobbles and she slipped, collapsing with a scared sob.

“Can’t see any scars on her,” a man said, the voice muffled. Lizanne shot a fearful glance up at a blocky Senior Constable, eyes dark and curious above the mask he wore, presumably to assuage the foul humours that brought a sting to her own eyes. “When the Cadre sends us a traitor they’re usually marked up something frightful.”

“Apparently, she was very co-operative,” Arberus told him. “Sold her friends out in return for her life. They barely had to touch her.”

“Life?” The constable laughed. “Weren’t you sold a lame horse, love. Alright, get up.”

He was surprisingly gentle as he brought her to her feet and she experienced a moment’s disorientation upon reading the expression in his eyes: deep, unalloyed pity. “No name, I take it?” the constable enquired of Arberus.

“Number only: Six-one-four.”

“Duly noted.” The constable scribbled something on the document he held and handed it to Arberus. “Transfer complete and witnessed, Captain. I wish you a pleasant journey. Right, love.” The constable turned away, taking hold of Lizanne’s arm and leading her towards a small door in the base of the fortress-like gatehouse. “Let’s get you sorted.”

Lizanne didn’t look back at Arberus as she was led away, and hoped he had the good sense to just close up the wagon and ride off. Somehow, though, she knew he had lingered to watch her disappear into the doorway.

The Senior Constable led her through a series of guarded doors, unlocked and then locked behind them as they passed through. Her escort hummed a faint but jaunty tune behind his mask as they made their way deeper into the maze of corridors and holding cells. He paused every now and then to exchange a word or two with the other guards, usually drawing a laugh with some witticism or shared gossip. He appeared to be a popular fellow. Lizanne kept the shocked, blank expression in place whilst her practised mind recorded the route they took and any names or other intelligence revealed by the guards. It seemed that the Warden Commandant, a new appointee of questionable judgement, had an unwise habit of actually venturing beyond the confines of the barracks.

“Came back covered in shit yesterday,” one of the guards told the Senior Constable with a smirk.

“He’s lucky it was just shit.”

“True enough. Seems he didn’t make it more than two streets before they ambushed him, Wise Fools mostly. Had his squad shoot three of the buggers by way of recompense.”

“Wonderful,” the Senior Constable groaned. “Makes it more likely there’ll be another bloody riot on Ore Day.”

They moved on, eventually coming to a small tiled room which contained a chair and table, both bolted down. On the table a pair of plain but sturdy shoes sat alongside a folded set of overalls and a cake of soap. In the centre of the room a bucket of water sat close to an iron-grated drain. “Sit down, love,” the Senior Constable told her, pointing to the chair and closing the door. He removed his mask as she sat, revealing a broad, fleshy face set in a grimace of habitual sympathy.

“Your prisoner number is Six-one-four,” he told her, unlocking her manacles and setting them on the table. “Remember it. You’ll need it on Ore Day, otherwise you don’t get fed. Understand?”

Lizanne stared up at him blankly for a moment before giving a hesitant nod.

“Good.” His grimace deepened. “Need you to strip now. Best if you don’t give me any trouble. Don’t worry, I’ve seen everything you’ve got a thousand times and never been tempted once.”

She briefly considered throwing a hysterical fit of some kind, but decided meek acquiescence would better suit her current persona. The constable was patient as she stood up and slowly pulled the coarse woollen smock over her head, placing it on the table and standing hunched with an arm across her breasts and a hand over her crotch. “You’ll find the water’s cold,” the constable said, pointing to the bucket and handing her the soap. “Sorry about that. Be sure to be thorough.”

So she washed, gasping at the chill of the water and dragging the cheap, odourless soap over her skin as he looked on with professional scrutiny, his eyes lacking any vestige of lust. She was unsure whether to find this reassuring or not. She deliberately prolonged the washing, knowing what came next and a lack of hesitancy would be sure to arouse suspicion.

“That’s enough,” he said, finally. “Rinse off.”

He had her stand facing the wall with her hands raised and legs parted. “Alright then, love,” he said as she shivered and bit down on a whimper. “You got anything hidden, now’s the time to tell me and it’ll stay just between us. But if you don’t tell me and I find something, well, that’s a different matter. Last lady who tried it got put through the gate with no clothes and no blanket. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

“I-I’ve nothing!” Lizanne babbled. “I swear!”

“Well, let’s hope so, eh?”

The subsequent inspection was brief but thorough enough to provoke an involuntary shudder or two.

“Good,” the constable said in brisk satisfaction. “Let’s get you dressed, shall we?”

“It’s better if you don’t think of Scorazin as a prison,” the constable told her a short while later. She walked ahead of him, her overalls chafing as they descended a series of stairwells into the bowels of the gatehouse. The garment was fashioned from thick, tight-woven cotton and, despite a recent laundering, retained a faded but recognisable blood-stain on the midriff. “It’s a city, really,” he went on. “And like any city it has rules. The precise details change according to whoever’s enforcing them, but for the most part it boils down to two basics: don’t take what you’re not strong enough to keep and don’t fight anyone you’re not strong enough to kill.”

They reached the bottom of the last stairwell where a heavy iron-braced door waited. The constable put a hand on her shoulder, turning her around, his gaze rich in the same pity she had seen outside the gatehouse. “Few words of advice, love,” he said. “Make friends fast, and don’t be picky about it. You’ll need protection. There’s a place you might want to make for. A tavern of sorts. When you get through the grate find Sluiceman’s Way, it’s the widest street in the eastern quarter. Follow it until you come to Pick Street. Keep to the sides and don’t speak to anyone that speaks to you. If they press their case, start running. The place you’re looking for is called the Miner’s Repose but the sign’s long since faded. You’ll know it ’cause it’s by far the largest building in the street. Ask for Melina.” He cupped her chin in a gesture that was almost fatherly. “Tell her Constable Darkanis sent you.”

Lizanne coughed, drew breath and asked in a small voice, “It’s . . . It’s a whore-house?”

He lowered his hand and gave a heavy sigh. “Trust me, love, it’s far better than the mines.”

He turned and worked a key in the heavy door, hauling it aside to reveal a tunnel. “Before I got here,” Constable Darkanis said, hefting an oil-lamp to illuminate the tunnel, “they used to send the new arrivals in through the main gate at the start of each week. One big parcel of the poor sods served up like feeding time at the menagerie, ’specially if there were any women in the bunch. Started having a bad effect on the size of the work-force, so we’ve got a more civilised way of doing things these days.”

He stepped aside, gesturing for her to go ahead. Lizanne gave a start at the sight of a rat scurrying away from the light, then clutched her blanket tighter and entered the tunnel. They sloshed through an inch of foul-smelling water, rats fleeing ahead of them as the constable kept up an advisory monologue she assumed he had delivered hundreds of times before. “It’ll be dark soon. Best to wait a good couple of hours before you poke your head out though, gives the taverns time to fill up and clears the streets of those who’ve come off the day shift.”

After a hundred yards or so the tunnel split in two and he pointed her to the opening on the left, advising that it would take her closer to the Miner’s Repose. Fifty paces on Lizanne came to a sturdy iron gate; the bars spanned the tunnel from floor to ceiling and were set deep into the brickwork. Beyond the gate she could see a thin stream of light descending through an opening in the tunnel’s roof.

“There’s a few dozen entry points for you to choose from,” Darkanis said, stepping forward to unlock the gate. “Just lift the grate and crawl out, but choose carefully cos it’ll lock behind you. Avoid the one near the river, there’s always some mud-slingers hanging around regardless of the hour.”

He had crouched a little to unlock the gate, turning his exposed neck to her. Even without a drop of product in her veins, rendering him unconscious or dead wasn’t a particularly difficult prospect. His keys and whatever valuables he had in his pockets might well come in handy in the days ahead, and the garrison was hardly likely to scour the whole city for his assailant. The risks are too high, she decided, telling herself the decision had nothing to do with sentiment. Rare to find a decent man in so terrible a place.

“Best of luck, love,” Constable Darkanis said, swinging the gate open and standing aside.

Lizanne allowed a few seconds to pass before stepping through the gate, turning to watch as he locked it behind her. “Remember what I said about waiting for a while,” he told her with a wink before turning to go.

“Thank you,” she said. The constable paused and turned back with a puzzled frown that told her these were words none of his charges had spoken before. “Your . . . compassion does you credit, sir. For which I thank you.”

“You’re welcome, love,” he said in a flat tone. It was clear to Lizanne he wasn’t accustomed to going off script.

She nodded and turned to go.

“Wait.”

Turning back, she saw him fishing in his trouser pocket for something. “This is against regs,” he muttered. “But sod it, I’m retiring in three months.” He held the object out through the bars, Lizanne recognising it as a penknife perhaps four inches long. “Isn’t much of a weapon, I know,” he said with a shrug. “But it’s something. And”—his sympathetic grimace returned for a second—“as there’s only one way out of Scorazin, it may come in handy if you feel in need of an . . . early release.”

Lizanne reached out and took the penknife. She began to voice her thanks once more but he had already begun making his way back down the tunnel, humming his jaunty tune as the lamplight faded, leaving her in darkness.

CHAPTER 14

Hilemore

“Battle stations!” Hilemore barked, Steelfine pulling the steam-whistle’s lanyard before the words had fully escaped his lips. Hilemore tore his gaze away from the sight of the huge spine knifing through the waves and turned to Zenida. “To the engine room please, Captain.” She nodded and ran for the ladder. “Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore went on. “Signal Chief Bozware: full ahead at two vials!”

“Full ahead at two vials, aye, sir!”

Hilemore fixed his gaze on Scrimshine, who stood with his back to the wheel, staring at the view through the bridge’s rear window in bleach-faced, wide-eyed shock. “To your duty, Mr. Scrimshine,” Hilemore ordered in an even voice.

“Can’t . . .” Scrimshine gaped at him. “Can’t go in there at full ahead. It’s suicide.”

“On the contrary.” Hilemore drew his revolver and pressed the muzzle into the centre of Scrimshine’s forehead. “Failing to obey my orders is suicide. Perhaps, if I toss your corpse over the stern, a tasty morsel might slow our friend down a little.”

Scrimshine’s feverish gaze swung from Hilemore to the approaching monster then back again before he turned and set his hands on the wheel. “He’s too fast for us, even at full ahead,” he said.

Hilemore felt the deck shudder as Zenida lit the vials Chief Bozware had added to the blood-burner. Within seconds the needle on the speed indicator ticked past twenty knots and continued to climb. “Allow me to worry about that,” Hilemore said. “Mr. Steelfine!”

“Sir!”

“Muster the riflemen and toss the Blue carcass over the side. Then run up the stern-chasers. Fire as she bears.”

“Aye, sir!”

“Mr. Torcreek.” Hilemore turned to the young Blood-blessed, who stood clutching the jar of heart-blood he had harvested from the Blue’s corpse, eyes narrowed as he regarded the huge wake beyond the Superior’s stern. There was none of Scrimshine’s horror on the younger Torcreek’s face, more a sense of indecision.

“Mr. Torcreek!” Hilemore repeated, finally capturing the fellow’s attention.

“Captain?”

“One of Red and one of Black.” Hilemore handed him the wallet of product. “Keep that beast away from my ship. And ask your uncle and that mad cleric to take their rifles aloft.”

“Surely will.” Clay inclined his head and made for the ladder, sliding down to the deck with a practised ease which said much for his time aboard ship.

Hilemore focused his attention on the channel between the Shelf and the Chokes as it loomed ever larger in the bridge window. A glance at the speed dial indicated the Superior had now surpassed forty knots and still had more to give. Scrimshine kept muttering to himself as he steered them towards the channel, profanities and sailor’s curses for the most part but with a few Dalcian prayer-spells thrown in for good measure.

“Steady as she goes, Mr. Scrimshine,” Hilemore told him, holstering his revolver and clasping his hands behind his back. “You’re doing splendidly.”

“Gonna fucking die . . .” the smuggler intoned, spinning the wheel to align the Superior with the centre of the channel. “May the ancestors bestow their protection upon a fallen son . . .”

Dual cannon shots sounded from the stern, Hilemore glancing back to see a pair of waterspouts rising from the waves just behind the enormous wake. Perhaps in response, the great spine descended below the surface and the swell faded as the huge body beneath sought the depths. “Perhaps we scared it off, sir,” Lieutenant Talmant suggested, which drew an immediate, near-hysterical cackle from Scrimshine.

“Scared . . . Stupid little shit,” he muttered before returning to his superstitious pleading. “Great-Grandfathers, Great-Grandmothers, look kindly upon this wayward wretch . . .”

Despite his terror, Scrimshine still retained enough presence of mind to safely steer the Superior into the channel, the wheel blurring in his hands as he countered the roiling currents. Despite his efforts, Hilemore soon appreciated that the man’s warnings had not been exaggerated. Some fifty yards into the channel, a tall wave surged out of the Chokes to slam into the Superior’s port side. The ship swayed towards the Shelf as the deck tipped at an alarming angle. For a moment it seemed the frozen massif came close enough to reach out and touch before Scrimshine angled the bows to ride the wave rebounding from the ice, bringing them clear.

“Heavenly cousins show mercy to this dishonoured fool . . .” Scrimshine hauled the tiller to starboard, the Superior swerving away from the rocky shoulder of an islet as the speed indicator nudged forty-five knots.

A flurry of rifle-shots drew Hilemore’s attention back to the stern. The riflemen were at the rail, firing furiously at the swell building up just fifty yards short of the stern. Steelfine was harrying the gun-crews to reload their pieces but Hilemore judged it likely that the beast would be upon them before the battery was ready. The tall spine was once again jutting above the waves, its height even greater now and he fancied he caught a glimpse of the Blue’s head beneath the water. Perhaps it was a trick of the fading light but he detected a certain reddish glow to the animal’s eyes. The signature crack of a longrifle sounded through the ceiling of the bridgehouse as the elder Torcreek or the mad cleric tried his luck. Hilemore saw the bullet impact just short of the spine but whatever effect it had on the Blue was so negligible that its course didn’t alter in the slightest. Hilemore saw Clay step between two cannon, hand still clutching the jar of heart-blood.

“Oh, fuck me!”

Hilemore turned to find Scrimshine spinning the wheel to port. A glance through the bridge window revealed the source of his distress. The uneven but otherwise unbroken line of the Shelf had abruptly altered, a huge, blade-like promontory jutted into the channel leaving a greatly reduced gap.

“Won’t make it!” Scrimshine shouted, eyes wide and pleading as he turned to Hilemore.

“You have to,” Hilemore told him, his own gaze focused on where the promontory met the water, noting how it was thinner at the base than the top. He checked the situation at the stern, seeing how the Blue had shortened the distance between them to little over twenty yards; too close for the cannon to depress sufficiently for a shot. Steelfine was busily engaged in getting the gun-crews to move their pieces to the edge of the deck, so their muzzles could be lowered. The drake’s head was clearly visible through the swell now, eyes seeming to glow even brighter.

“I’m going forward,” Hilemore told Talmant, inclining his head at Scrimshine. “If he removes his hands from the wheel, shoot him and take over.”

“Aye, sir!”

Hilemore slid down the ladder and sprinted for the pivot-gun on the fore-deck. “Solid shot loaded?” he asked the lead gunner.

“Loaded and ready, sir.” The man was somewhat pale of face but kept a commendably straight posture as he glanced over Hilemore’s shoulder at the stern. “Need a change of heading if we’re going to get the bugger though.”

“You have a different target.” Hilemore pointed at the base of the promontory looming ahead. “Just above the water-line where it joins the Shelf, if you please.”

“Sir?” the gunner asked with a frown.

“Just do it, man!” Hilemore snapped.

The gunner nodded and barked out a series of orders to his three-man crew, who swiftly brought the piece on target. The shot impacted on the Shelf a few feet above the waves, sending a cascade of shattered ice into the sea. Hilemore took out his spy-glass and trained it on the promontory, seeing a small fissure where the shell had struck home. Not enough, he mused. Like firing a pistol at a mountain. “Again,” he ordered the gunner. “Same spot. As many as you can whilst she still bears. I’ll be back directly.”

He ran for the starboard batteries, ordering each gun primed and lowered to the correct elevation. “Fire on my order,” he told the crews. The pivot-gun managed another two rounds before the Superior slipped into the gap between the promontory and the closest islet. The ugly, high-pitched groan of iron on rock sounded from the port side, indicating Scrimshine had slightly misjudged the course. The ship shuddered from bow to stern but kept on, the promontory looming overhead like a poised axe. Let’s hope it’s sharp enough, Hilemore thought before barking out his command to the starboard guns. “Fire!”

The four cannon fired at once, the range was less than fifteen yards meaning they were obliged to shrink from a hail of shattered ice as the shells slammed home. Hilemore stared up at the great frozen wedge, hoping Scrimshine’s ancestors might hear his prayers for he had no reason to expect this to work. After several seconds of fervent hoping, it had become clear that the scoundrel’s ancestors were indeed deaf today.

“Hit it again!” Hilemore called to the pivot-gun before switching his gaze to the stern as the chasers fired again. He saw the resultant waterspouts deluge Steelfine and the others, hoping to see the flash of red that would indicate a hit, but it appeared Last Look Jack was either too skilled a pursuer or just too lucky. A vast, ear-piercing screech sounded as the beast finally revealed itself, the great, red-eyed head surging from the waves a few yards short of the stern. It slowed a little as it reared up, falling behind but still staying close enough to cast a jet of flame at its prey. The men at the stern scattered as the flames swept down. Hilemore was unable to contain a shout of frustration at the sight of two men tumbling over the side, both wreathed in flame. A flat crump erupted as an ammunition stack caught light, the explosion sending one of the cannon high in the air.

“Mr. Torcreek!” Hilemore called, sprinting towards the carnage. He found the Blood-blessed on his knees, coughing in the smoke, and dragged him upright. “I said to keep it back!”

“He’s too strong,” Clay replied, staring at the beast as it slipped below the waves once more. “Only one chance now.” Clay raised the jar of heart-blood and removed the stopper. “If I die, Captain,” he said, raising it to his lips, “be sure to speak well of me.”

His words were drowned by the vast, booming crack that filled the air above their heads. Hilemore’s gaze snapped to the promontory, following the line of a fissure that had suddenly appeared in its flank. “That may not be necessary,” he said, putting a restraining hand on Clay’s forearm.

Last Look Jack had begun to raise himself once more, Hilemore gaining a true impression of the beast’s size for the first time. It towered over them to a height of twenty feet with most of its body still beneath the surface, jaws widening to cavernous dimensions and its red eyes alive with what was unmistakably a deep, unquenchable hatred.

The promontory detached from the Shelf with another booming crack, the immense blade of ice plunging down so that its edge caught the monster just behind the head. Last Look Jack disappeared in an explosion of spume as the promontory met the water. The Superior rose high as the resultant wave swept along the channel, Hilemore fancying he heard a scream from the bridge as Scrimshine performed miracles to keep them on a true course. Beyond the stern the new-born iceberg sank to two-thirds of its length before grinding to a halt, wedged between the Chokes and the Shelf, firmly blocking the passage for years to come.

Casualties: three dead, four wounded. Hilemore dipped his pen in the inkpot and added a final few lines to the log. The Blue known as Last Look Jack assumed dead, though not confirmed. Expect to clear the Chokes by morning.

He added his initials to the entry and leaned back from the desk. Surveying the log, two-thirds of which was written in Eutherian and the remainder in Mandinorian, it occurred to him that this ship’s story would provide ample evidence to future historians of the dramatic changes wrought on the world in a short space of time. He was sure the rest of the log would have made for interesting reading if his Eutherian hadn’t been so poor. Half of the entries had been set down in the spidery script of the Superior’s original captain, later replaced by the less accomplished, and often barely legible, penmanship of the ship’s first mate following the Battle of the Strait. A few weeks on and this hand was in turn supplanted by Lieutenant Sigoral’s smooth-flowing calligraphy. Although the commentary was lost on him, the casualty lists were unmistakable. It appeared the Superior had lost over a third of her crew at the Strait and then even more at Carvenport. Sigoral’s description of these calamitous events, set down several days later, was surprisingly brief but Hilemore was able to translate the phrase “entire fleet destroyed.”

And yet, he mused. Somehow he managed to sail her all the way to Lossermark with a skeleton crew, without suffering another casualty. Hilemore decided a more thorough debrief of the marine was in order when circumstances allowed.

The cabin door opened and Zenida came in, closing it behind her and slumping into the seat opposite. Such niceties as knocking or requesting permission to sit were evidently beneath her. She was, after all, a fellow captain even without a ship.

“You look tired,” he told her, noting the red tinge to her eyes.

“Took over the wheel from that bilge-scum for a few hours,” she said around a yawn. “He was ready to drop. Navigating this course takes a toll. Mr. Talmant has the wheel. The channel’s far wider now and he’s a sure enough hand.”

Hilemore saw her press her lips together, her slumped form betraying a slight tension despite her fatigue. “You have something to discuss, Captain?” he enquired.

“Joining you on this venture was a mistake,” she said. “Even though I knew the risks. We had already survived so much, I couldn’t imagine it might be worse. And I owed you a debt. But I have a daughter to think of.”

“She may well have been no safer fleeing Lossermark,” he pointed out. “And leaving you both in the hands of Captain Trumane was not acceptable to me.”

“Even so, that Blue . . . I never suspected such a thing might even exist. It leads me to wonder what else we could find in these climes.”

“I cannot turn back.”

“And I would not ask you to.” Zenida averted her gaze and Hilemore realised she saw this conversation as a shameful episode. Admission of fear was never an easy thing for a Varestian. “But,” she added, voice heavy with reluctance, “when we reach Kraghurst Station, I will not be accompanying you across the ice.”

In fact he had been worrying over how to persuade her to stay behind, fully expecting an outburst of rage at the implied dishonour. “I see,” he said, deciding a tone of sombre acceptance rather than relief was appropriate. “Your skills will be missed.”

She nodded and got to her feet, moving to the door.

“Sea-sister,” he said in Varestian as she reached for the handle, making her pause. “The ship will be yours whilst I’m gone. You will wait four weeks. Not one day longer. In the event we don’t return, consider the ship as payment for prior service and sail where you will.”

“You think the crew will accept that?”

“I have every confidence in your ability to persuade them.”

Her gaze narrowed a little in realisation. “You’re saying this because you think it’s of no consequence who holds the ship. You think if you fail to return everything will be lost, so what does it matter if you hand your vessel over to a pirate?”

“Privateer,” he reminded her, which drew a brief smile from her lips.

“Four weeks then, sea-brother,” she said, opening the door. “Not one day longer.”

By morning the Superior was steaming through what Scrimshine called the Whirls, a fifty-mile-wide stretch of clear water between the Chokes and the Shelf. Hilemore assumed the name came from the swirling eddies disturbing the otherwise placid water. He had ordered the ship to dead slow upon clearing the channel, partly to conserve product but also due to the need to steer clear of the icebergs which slid across their path with worrisome regularity. He had also doubled the watch, ensuring as many eyes as possible were engaged in scanning the sea for the reappearance of Last Look Jack, despite Steelfine’s confident assertion that the drake must be dead. “A fearsome beast to be sure, sir,” the Islander said. “But still just flesh and blood.”

Except there wasn’t any blood, Hilemore didn’t say, recalling the sight of the ice descending on the giant Blue’s neck. He also took note of the fact that Scrimshine’s terror remained at a high pitch and his gaze darted about with near feverish energy whilst at the wheel. Fortunately, his entreaties to his ancestors had tailed off into an occasional mutter.

“Ship ahead!” came an excited shout from the speaking-tube to the crow’s nest. “Twenty degrees to port!”

Hilemore went out onto the walkway and trained his spy-glass on the given heading. A fine mist lingered over the water and it was a few seconds before he focused the lens on the dark, wide-beamed shape of a mid-sized Blue-hunter. He recognised her as an older ship from the hybrid configuration of paddles and sails. Her stacks were free of smoke and her mainsail swelled sluggishly in the listless morning air.

“Twenty degrees to port,” Hilemore called through the bridge window. “Increase speed to one-third. Mr. Steelfine, run up the Yellow Black, let’s say hello.”

Steelfine had the flag raised in less than a minute, the yellow-and-black pennant that all ships recognised as a peaceful greeting. Hilemore trained his glass on the Blue-hunter once more, grunting in relieved satisfaction at the sight of an identical signal ascending her mainmast. He could see some of her crew clustered on the aft deck, all waving in excitement. Soon the Superior drew close enough to make out the Mandinorian letters painted on her hull: SSM Farlight.

“A South Seas Maritime ship.” Hilemore turned to find Zenida had come to join him. She stood regarding the approaching vessel with a somewhat predatory cast to her gaze. “They were always my favourites. Holds fat with product and crews disinclined to fight. The captains could usually be counted on to come to a reasonable settlement.”

“Let’s hope they’re as accommodating today,” Hilemore said. He could see the faces of the Farlight’s crew now, taking grim note of the joyous relief on every face. They think we’re their salvation, he realised, suppressing a momentary urge to simply sail on. They may have useful intelligence.

The Blue-hunter’s captain was a tall South Mandinorian with a grey beard that reached halfway down his chest. He stood amidst his crew at the Farlight’s starboard rail as the Superior drew alongside, failing to join in their chorus of cheers. Lines were duly thrown and the ships slowly hauled closer. The Superior sat higher in the water than the Blue-hunter, meaning the bearded captain was obliged to stare up at Hilemore as the hulls bumped together. The man inclined his head as Hilemore offered a respectful salute, then barked out a command of sufficient volume and authority to instantly silence his crew. Hilemore noted their emaciated appearance, reckoning it had been several days since they had enjoyed a full meal.

“Remarkable vessel you have there, Captain,” the Farlight’s master observed. “Never seen the like before.”

“We live in an age of wonders, Captain,” Hilemore told him, seeing how the fellow’s eyes lingered on his face, an unmistakable glimmer of recognition lighting his gaze. “Have we met, sir?” Hilemore asked him.

“No. But I fancy I once served under a relative of yours. Name of Racksmith.”

Good old Grandfather, Hilemore thought. There’s isn’t a corner of the world where I won’t find an old comrade of yours.

“Then you were in the Protectorate?” he asked, summoning a smile.

“For a time.” The man straightened a little, introducing himself in formal tones. “Attcus Tidelow, Master of the SSM Farlight.”

“Corrick Hilemore, Commander of the IPV Superior, en route to Kraghurst Station on company orders.”

The smiles lighting the faces of the Farlight’s crew faded abruptly, and Captain Tidelow’s already stern visage took on an even grimmer aspect. “Then you’d best turn about, Captain,” he said. “For there no longer is a Kraghurst Station.”

“I always thought he was a myth, myself.” Tidelow paused to take a long draw on his pipe, the bowl filled with leaf from the Superior’s stocks, then exhaled a thin stream of smoke towards the ward-room ceiling. “Hunted Blue in these waters for the better part of two decades and never caught even the smallest glimpse of him. Sailors do like their tales, the taller the better, and every tale of Last Look Jack I heard came from the lips of those who’d never actually set eyes on him. They’d always heard it from someone else who’d heard it from someone else.” His teeth clamped on the stem of his pipe for a second, mouth twitching a little. “Now, I’ve got a story of my own, one I saw with my own eyes. Though I’d give my soul to the King of the Deep to take the memory away.”

“Last Look Jack attacked Kraghurst Station?” Hilemore said.

Tidelow nodded. “’Bout three weeks ago now. Came out of the sea without warning one evening. And he wasn’t alone. Him and at least a dozen Blues, all intent on our destruction. Kraghurst had a garrison of sorts, mostly sailors between berths. Did their best I s’pose but they had only rifles and a few cannon. Us and some of the other Blue-hunters tried our luck with harpoons, got a few of the smaller drakes, but not old Jack. We managed to put a steel-headed twelve-foot spike in his hide but it was like sticking a horse with a toothpick. Took maybe a half hour at most and the whole place was up in flames, docks all gone along with most all the ships too. Lucky for us Last Look had turned his flames on the dwellings carved into the Shelf.”

Tidelow fell silent, lips twitching once more. “We made all the steam we could and sailed away. I know there’s some who’ll call us cowards, and maybe they’d be right, but staying to fight it out would’ve been suicide.”

“You did the right thing, Captain,” Hilemore assured him.

“Since then we been sailing up and down the Chokes looking for a course that’ll take us to open sea. So far, we’ve found all the usual routes blocked by bergs, almost like we’re being sealed in here on purpose. With food running low I made for the channel ’twixt the Shelf and the Chokes, though it’s called the Madman’s Rush for a reason. But what choice did we have with food running lower by the day and Last Look about to pop up at any moment? And now you’re telling me he’s dead.” Tidelow gave Hilemore a sceptical frown. “Must say, I’m bound to confess a reluctance to believe that.”

“Understandable,” Hilemore conceded. “But he is certainly wounded, at the very least. Perhaps enough for him to leave us be whilst we complete our mission.”

“You’re still determined to go on to Kraghurst? There ain’t nothing there.”

“Destroyed or not, it remains our destination.”

“Be that as it may, Captain, I can’t go with you. My crew’s been loyal so far, but ordering a return to the Shelf is most likely to earn me a mutiny, and I wouldn’t blame them.”

“I appreciate your position, sir. However, I believe there is a course that would benefit us both. Tell me, do any of your men have knowledge of explosives?”

Talmant stood rigidly at attention on the fore-deck, the set of his features revealing barely controlled emotions. It was a strange sight to witness, Hilemore never having seen him angry before. “I . . .” Talmant began, faltered then started again. “I must object to these orders, sir. My place is on this ship.”

“Your objection will be noted in the log, Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore said. “But the exigencies of our mission require you to undertake a new posting.”

“If I might point out, sir,” Talmant said, voice quivering a little. “I followed you on this course at no small risk to my person and my future prospects . . .”

“Also duly noted and appreciated, Lieutenant,” Hilemore broke in, putting an edge to his voice. “But you made an adult decision, one worthy of the rank you hold. Questioning your captain’s orders and failing to put aside personal preferences, however, are not.”

Watching Talmant bite down on some more unwise words, Hilemore was struck by how much older he appeared now. The earnest ensign from several months ago had been much changed by all they had seen and done, but still a vestige of the boy remained. Sighing, Hilemore took a step closer and lowered his voice. “I cannot entrust this to anyone else. Your personnel file shows advanced explosives training at the Academy. Added to that, your navigation skills make you the perfect choice for this mission. Besides”—he glanced over at the group of crewmen transferring half of the Superior’s powder stocks to the Farlight via the gang-plank strung between the two ships, “I’ll need someone to ensure Captain Tidelow keeps his end of the bargain. Why do you think I’m sending four gunners along?”

Talmant took a moment to reply with a stiff nod, though Hilemore detected a faint glimmer of pride amidst the anger still shining in the youth’s eyes. “Once we have blasted a channel through the Chokes,” he said, “these men will have no desire to linger.”

“I’m sure they won’t,” Hilemore agreed. “However, it is your duty to ensure that the course is marked for our return. I will leave the means to your best judgement.”

Talmant stood a little straighter. “Very good, sir,” he said, snapping off a fine salute.

Hilemore returned the salute then extended his hand. “Good luck, Mr. Talmant.”

The youth hesitated before taking Hilemore’s hand, a small grin coming to his lips as Steelfine came forward to clap a large hand to his shoulder. “If it comes to it,” he said, leaning closer, “shoot the bosun before the captain. Every mutiny I ever knew of started with the bosun.”

“I’ll bear it in mind, sir.”

An hour later Hilemore stood at the stern watching the Farlight sail north, paddles turning swiftly thanks to the coal he had provided. He had also been obliged to hand over a quarter of their food as well as sundry other supplies. Captain Tidelow drove a hard bargain and it was fortunate the Superior had been so well-stocked when they seized her. However, Hilemore had drawn the line when the old captain demanded five vials of Green in addition to everything else.

“I shall require all we have to complete my mission,” Hilemore told him. “But we find ourselves with a surplus of Blue, which I’m sure will earn a hefty price in any civilised port. You’re welcome to two-thirds of it.”

The old man’s annoyance was palpable but he ceded the point after some protracted wrangling. “Your grandfather was a penny-pincher too,” he grumbled. “Take the skin off a man’s back just for going a drop over his rum ration.”

“I happen to know my grandfather never flogged a man during his entire career,” Hilemore returned.

“Tell you that himself, did he?” Tidelow’s beard bunched in a grin. “Looks like he had a few tall tales of his own then. Got the stripes on my back to prove it if you want to see.”

Hilemore had never been quick to anger but an insult to the memory of Commodore Jakamore Racksmith was bound to make him bridle, probably because it was such a rare occurrence. “No thank you,” he told Tidelow in a low voice barely above a growl.

“Oh, don’t get all prickled, Captain.” Tidelow’s grin broadened as he touched a match to the bowl of his pipe. “He was better than most, and the finest fighting sailor I ever saw. But wars aren’t won by kindly men.” He took an appreciative puff on his pipe then turned towards the rail, placing a foot on the gangway. “I’ll take care of your lad,” he said, pausing to touch the stem of his pipe to his forehead. “And you can be sure he won’t be needing any fire-arms to ensure my adherence to our bargain.”

“I know,” Hilemore replied.

“Then why send him off with me?”

Hilemore said nothing, clasping his hands behind his back and raising his chin.

“Oh well.” Tidelow shrugged and started along the gangway, casting a few final words over his shoulder. “Best of luck with whatever it is brought you here. And take heed of what I said about wars and kindly men.”

CHAPTER 15

Lizanne

Beyond the gate the tunnel branched off in three directions. Lizanne chose the one in the centre, reasoning that most new arrivals would instinctively opt for right or left. She had a notion that it would be wise to choose the least used entry point. The gloom was partially alleviated by the light trickling through narrow holes in the tunnel roof, the scant illumination fading as the day wore on. The central passage branched off again after fifty paces and once more she kept to the straight course, following it for another hundred paces until it ended in a junction with another passage. Pausing, Lizanne saw that this tunnel extended left and right in a broad circle that probably encompassed the centre of Scorazin. She chose the leftward direction on a whim and soon came to the first entry point. It consisted of a cramped channel sloping upwards to a slanted iron grate. The prison city’s fetid air was thicker now, the patch of light beyond the grate dim with drifting smoke. Lizanne crawled along the channel until she was a foot shy of the grate then cautiously raised her head for the first view of her new home.

Initially, it seemed just an unremarkable alley, no different from the many such alleys her career had taken her to over the years. Certainly the cobbles hadn’t been swept for some time and the plaster on the surrounding walls was patchy, revealing weathered brickwork that gave the buildings a slightly diseased appearance. However, she had seen far worse places in her time and a brief scan revealed no obvious threats. Then she saw the corpse. It lay huddled against the walls, so shrunken and wasted she had taken it for a bundle of discarded rags. Now she saw white bone through the threadbare overalls that clad the remains and a matted clump of long dark hair obscuring the skull. The hair and the smallness of the corpse made this unmistakably the body of a woman. Lizanne wondered if she had been a new arrival like her, venturing forth only to be cut down within feet of the grate. It was equally possible that she was a veteran of this place, used up and left to wither in this alley. In either case, Lizanne decided to seek another entry point.

She was even more cautious when peering out from the next grate, having detected raised voices as she crawled along the channel, loud in argument and slurred with drink. Amongst the grunting babble she discerned two distinct accents, one with the broad vowels of the northern empire and the other the more clipped, nasal tones of the western midlands.

“’S your fault, y’fucker,” the midlander said in a tense growl. “Had to open y’shitty mouth. Two sacks by morning. How in the name of the Emperor’s balls are we s’posed to manage that?”

“Lick my arse,” the northerner replied, his tone rich in aggression but also possessed of a certain weariness. “You’re the one gave her the wrong count. Y’know what she’s like with numbers. Never forgets. I told you that your first day.” A short pause then. “Gimme that, you’ve had plenty.”

“Fuck off!”

Lizanne raised herself as the sounds of a scuffle came through the grate. This entry point was positioned near an outflow pipe, which cast a steady stream of yellow water into a muddy channel leading towards the river. The stench was a gut-stirring blow to the senses, forcing her to swallow a gag and blink tears from her eyes. She could see the river-bank thirty yards or so off to the right, a bar of thick mud where dim figures were visible through the drifting haze; the mud-slingers Constable Darkanis had warned her about. Two men were engaged in a struggle beneath the pipe, stumbling around in a parody of dance with a bottle clutched between them.

“Give it, you greedy sot!” the northerner grunted, tugging hard on the bottle. He was the larger of the two, with a mane of shaggy dark hair and the reddened, bloated features of one who had been lost in indulgence for several years. His opponent was of roughly the same height but with a gaunt aspect and, despite the disparity in build, proved staunchly unwilling to give up his bottle. Lizanne took note of their clothing, standard overalls like hers, worn under knee-length jackets which appeared to have been stitched together from sackcloth. Her interest was piqued by the fact that they both had identical emblems stitched on the shoulders, a red-and-yellow symbol she couldn’t quite make out.

“Hah!” The northerner gave a triumphal laugh as he finally managed to wrestle the bottle from his opponent. The gaunt man lunged for him but fell face-down in the mud, drawing a delighted bellow from his companion before he raised the bottle to his lips, then froze as Lizanne got to her feet and stepped up to the grate. She clutched her blanket tight and peered out at him, eyes wide and apparently uncomprehending, unlike his, which had abruptly narrowed in vulturine calculation.

“Gizzit!” the gaunt man snarled, darting closer to snatch the bottle from the northerner. He drew back in guarded puzzlement at his adversary’s lack of a reaction before turning to regard the object of his interest. They exchanged a brief glance of mutual decision then slowly began to advance towards the grate. The gaunt man attempted a smile which would have failed to instill trust in the most addled fool. His companion seemed incapable of such artifice and kept his features free of expression though his eyes shone with hungry interest.

“New arrival, eh?” the gaunt man asked. Lizanne maintained her unblinking, blank mask as they drew closer. To her slight annoyance they both stopped a foot short of the grate, crouching to peer at her through the iron bars. “Aren’t you lucky, dearest one,” the gaunt man said, his inexpert smile broadening to reveal an incomplete set of rotted teeth. Even amidst the fetid stink from the river Lizanne could still smell his breath. “Finding us here to greet you, I mean,” he went on, inching closer. “Decent folk are hard to come by within these walls.”

Lizanne said nothing, continuing to stare and bunching her fists in her blanket.

“It’s alright, dearest,” the gaunt man said. “No need to be feart of us, is there Dralky?” He glanced at his comrade, who gave an unsmiling shake of his head. Lizanne didn’t like the keenness of the larger man’s gaze, having hoped to find it more dulled by drink.

“The . . .” she began, adding a shake to her voice, “the constable said I need to go to the Miner’s Repose.”

The northerner gave a grunt of smothered laughter whilst the gaunt man managed to conceal a smirk before replying with an assured nod. “O’course he did, dearest. We know the place well. Work there most days, in point of fact. No mining for the Furies. See?” He turned to tap a finger to the yellow-and-red patch on his shoulder, Lizanne seeing it clearly now: a flaming match. “It’s like a club,” he continued. “A club for those with skills. You got skills, dearest?”

“Yes.” Lizanne’s eyes flicked from one to the other as she drew back a step or two. Appearing overly trusting too early was unwise. Men such as these might spend most of their lives several sails to the breeze, but they invariably shared an innate cunning and instinctive nose for danger. “I’m a seamstress,” she said, drawing back farther.

The larger man’s arms twitched as he restrained the impulse to grab at her through the bars, earning a warning glare from his friend. “Good,” he said, once again revealing the awful spectacle of his teeth. “That’s good. Skilled folk got value in here, y’see? You come on with us to the Miner’s Repose and we’ll introduce you to a nice lady who knows best how to make use of your skills.” He extended a bony hand through the bars, beckoning. “Come on now, dearest.” He was unable to resist the impulse to lick his lips as she edged closer. “Come on with me and Dralky.”

Lizanne crouched, reaching out towards the bars, making ready to push the grate aside, then stopped. “On second thoughts,” she said, returning the gaunt man’s smile, “I think not. You stink so much I’m amazed your friend here can stand to stick his cock in your mouth.”

As ever with the more low-rent thug, anger always outweighed cunning. They both lunged in unison, Lizanne dancing back as their hands shot between the bars to claw at her. The blanket unfurled in her hands with a snap, looping over their wrists before they had time to snatch their arms back. She exerted her well-honed muscles to good effect, drawing the knot tight with sufficient force to extract a pained shout from both men. They had time to voice a few expletive-laden threats at her before their shouts turned to screams as she stepped closer, jumping as high as the tunnel would allow to bring her weight down on their trapped limbs. She had never been particularly gifted in body-weight, so it took two attempts before she was rewarded with the satisfying crack of breaking bone.

“Now then, gentlemen,” she said, unknotting the blanket from their wrists and allowing them to collapse in sputtering agony, “let us have a little chat.”

Lizanne encountered little trouble finding the Miner’s Repose. She had followed Constable Darkanis’s advice and waited for darkness before exiting the tunnels, choosing another entrance well away from the river. True to his description, the sign hanging above the door was an illegible, mud-spattered square offering no clue to the name of the raucous tavern it guarded, but the directions provided by her two greeters had been sufficient to guide her steps. She lingered outside for a short while, listening to the loud but largely laughter-free babble seeping from the lit windows. It consisted mostly of the raised voices of men engaged in competition or argument. Cards, drink and women were always a potent combination. Amidst the general din she detected the faint sound of a pianola being played with unexpected artistry, recognising the tune as the Mountain Breeze Cadenza from Illemont’s third concerto, a classic of North Mandinorian composition.

I wonder if they know the full piece, she thought, hefting her sackcloth-wrapped bundle and making her way inside. It would be nice to hear it again.

The interior of the Miner’s Repose was thick with the scent of cheap tobacco and hazy with smoke from a poorly maintained chimney. Overall-clad men stood around in thick clusters, earthenware tankards in every hand as they jostled and exchanged dull-voiced conversation. Thanks to Dralky and Jemus she knew the ground floor of the establishment was for drinkers only, those who either couldn’t afford or had no interest in the entertainments found on the upper floors. Predictably, the conversation grew more muted as Lizanne made her entrance, many falling silent to regard her with various expressions of lust, some desperate, others resentful as it was never pleasant to want something you couldn’t have. One man, a stocky fellow with a jaundiced tint to his skin, took a large gulp from his tankard before starting towards her, then coming to an abrupt halt as a strident female voice rang out from the bar.

“Y’know the rules, cock-brain!”

The stocky man hesitated a moment, teeth bared in a grimace of frustration as his gaze roamed Lizanne from head to toe before he retreated back into the crowd.

“Eyes on your drinks, lest you want me to fetch Anatol down here,” the female voice continued, the crowd parting to allow a tall woman in a red skirt and surprisingly clean lace blouse to make her way through. She approached Lizanne with a confident stride, coming to a halt to tower over her by at least ten inches. She stood in silent appraisal for a long moment. Lizanne took note of the burn-scar marring the flesh around the woman’s right eye, the socket filled with some kind of smoothed yellow crystal. She had the fine bones and length of limb that would have made her a sought-after fashion model in a corporate holding, but for the scar.

“Constable sent you, I’m guessing?” she asked, Lizanne recognising a Corvus accent, though not as coarse or thick as Hyran’s. “Which one?”

“Darkanis,” Lizanne replied.

The woman gave a satisfied nod. “Good. He doesn’t charge as much as the others. I’m Melina.” Her good eye went to the sackcloth bundle in Lizanne’s hands. “What you got there?”

“It’s for Electress Atalina. May I see her please?”

A twitch of puzzled amusement passed across the tall woman’s lips. “That’s not how it works, love. She’ll see you when she decides it’s time.”

“It’s from Dralky and Jemus. They said it would settle their debt.”

Melina’s brow creased into a frown. “How d’you know those two cock-brains?”

“They were kind enough to give me directions.”

They stared at one another for some time. Lizanne had known this to be a dangerous woman at first glance, her eyes detecting the outline of a concealed knife beneath her blouse. It was also safe to assume she had more secreted about her person. But Lizanne also judged her smart enough to recognise someone equally dangerous.

“If you waste her time,” Melina said finally, “she’ll make you work the first week with no pay and no wash-bucket.”

“Understood.”

“Your funeral.” Melina turned and started towards a staircase at the rear of the bar, Lizanne following and paying scant heed to the many eyes tracking over her. “What’s your name, love?” Melina asked as they climbed the stairs.

“Six-one-four.”

“Forget that shit. Need a name if you’re gonna work here. Doesn’t have to be your real one, not that it makes a difference either way. Best make it pretty though, customers prefer it. No Grubnilas or Egathas in the Miner’s Repose.”

“Krista, then,” Lizanne said. A name she had used before but those still alive to relate the tale were far away.

“Bit ordinary,” Melina said. “Get more clients if you go for something noble. It’s where I got mine. Princess Melina. It’s from an old tale about some silly tart who agrees to marry the King of the Deep.”

“I know the story,” Lizanne said. “And Krista will do.”

They ascended to the first floor where men clustered around the gaming tables in various states of excitement or despair. In the corner a slender young man sat playing a pianola, the tune now far more simple and jaunty than the cadenza she had recognised outside. Despite its simplicity, the player still managed to convey an effortless artistry as his hands floated over the keys. Most of the surrounding tables were given over to the traditional Corvantine card and dice game of Pastazch, with a couple of spin-wheels for those who preferred a more random method of losing money. Bets were placed using wooden chits, the length of which determined the value. After some judicious questioning Jemus had been particularly helpful in educating her on the system of currency adopted in Scorazin. One sack of mined minerals formed the basis of exchange, the length of the chit reflecting the value of the contents. Copper, being the most valuable, earned a five-inch chit, whilst pyrite earned four, sulphur three and coal two. Chits could be subdivided into shorter sub-units; half-sack, quarter-sack and so on. It was all surprisingly logical and, according to Jemus, worked well as long as you had the ore to back up the chits. “Anyone caught faking a chit will find himself tied to a pole with his guts around his neck on Ore Day,” he had said, offering a desperate and ingratiating laugh which had singularly failed to stir any sympathy in Lizanne’s breast.

“Welcome to the Sanctum of Earthly Bliss,” Melina said as they ascended to the top floor. It consisted of a circular chamber with a seating area of velvet-cushioned couches surrounded by a series of rooms. About a third of the doors were closed and a few employees lounged around in various states of undress. They were all heavily painted with rouged lips and cheeks, making it hard to judge their age, though Lizanne put the youngest at no more than sixteen and the eldest at close to fifty.

“New meat, Mel?” one asked, a chunky woman with a mass of auburn curls sprouting from her head in the manner of an unkempt bird’s-nest. She stepped closer to Lizanne, cigarillo dangling from her lips and an open steel flask in her hand. “Do yerself a favour and sod off to the mines, darlin’,” she advised. “I can tell you ain’t got the backbone for this.”

“Shut it, Silv,” Melina snapped, staring hard at the chunky woman until she averted her gaze and retreated to the couches. “This way,” Melina told Lizanne, moving to a corridor opposite the staircase. “Don’t mind Silvona,” she said. “She just doesn’t want the competition.”

A large man rose from a chair beside a door at the end of the corridor as they approached. He stood tall enough that his head was only an inch or two shy of the ceiling and had the broad, irregular features of a prize-fighter. The impression was heightened by the concave nose he revealed as he turned and bent to press a kiss to Melina’s cheek.

“This is Anatol,” she said, clasping and releasing the large man’s hand in a sign of genuine affection. “He’s mine, so hands off.”

Lizanne took careful note of Anatol as he looked her over, finding none of the dull-eyed desperation that had been writ so large in the faces of Jemus and Dralky. “She’s no whore,” he said to Melina in a soft voice that nevertheless retained a certain rumbling quality.

“Darkanis sent her,” Melina replied with a shrug.

“Then he should have looked closer.” Anatol angled his head, eyes narrowing as they tracked from her face to the bundle she carried. “What’s that?”

“It’s for the Electress,” Lizanne repeated.

“Jemus and Dralky’s debt,” Melina elaborated. “So she says anyway.”

“Need to see it before you see her,” Anatol said, extending a shovel-sized hand.

A quick glance at his face told Lizanne the folly of arguing the point so she handed the bundle over. He pulled the sackcloth open and peered at the contents for a moment, his only reaction a soft grunt of satisfaction. He closed the sack and once again extended his hand, staring at Lizanne in expectation until she handed over the knife she had taken from Dralky and the weighted leather sap she had taken from Jemus. “And the rest,” Anatol said.

“This was a gift,” Lizanne said, handing him Darkanis’s penknife. “I’d like it back when I leave.”

“And you’ll get it,” he said, turning and knocking on the door, “if she lets you.”

After a short delay an irritated voice sounded through the door. “For fuck’s sake, Anatol, it’s late.”

Anatol turned the handle and opened the door a fraction, dipping his head through the gap to speak in carefully respectful tones. “New arrival, Electress. Says she’s here to pay off Jemus and Dralky.”

A short pause then a sigh. “What the fuck,” the voice said, the tones clearer now. Lizanne was surprised to find it largely free of an accent, almost cultured in fact. “Bring her in. Never too late in the day for a good laugh, I always say.”

Anatol opened the door and stepped aside, gesturing for Lizanne to enter. “Hands in view at all times,” he warned as she passed by. The room was large and striking in its contrast to everything Lizanne had seen of Scorazin so far. A bookcase stood against the far wall and velvet drapes hung over the windows. An extensive mahogany desk sat in the centre of the room, behind which one of the largest women Lizanne had ever seen reclined in a leather armchair, her bare and impressively broad feet propped on the desk. She was leaning forward to run a metal rasp over the feet, grunting a little with the effort.

“Pardon me,” she apologised as Lizanne came to a halt before the desk. “I’m a martyr to me corns.”

Lizanne noted again the incongruity of her words and her accent. Like a countess speaking the words of a street-walker, she thought. She said nothing, keeping her hands at her sides and watching the large woman file powdered skin onto the desk. Lizanne put her age at somewhere past fifty, brows heavy and shoulders broad. She wore a sleeveless dress of violet-hued silk, the flesh on her arms wobbling as she went about her ablutions. Despite the excess weight Lizanne could see the innate strength in her, reckoning she might even pose a challenge to Anatol in a test of brute force.

“When did you get in?” the Electress asked, the rasp still filing away.

“A few hours ago.”

“A few hours, eh? And you’ve already managed to extract payment from the worst two shit-stains in the Furies. Impressive.” She turned to Anatol. “What’s she got?”

The huge man moved to the desk and placed the bundle before her along with the knife and the sap. The Electress groaned as she removed her feet from the desk and set the rasp aside before unwrapping the bundle. She took a moment to view the revealed contents in expressionless silence before raising her gaze to Lizanne. “One but not the other. Where’s Dralky?”

“He had a thicker neck,” Lizanne replied. “My arm got tired and it was getting late.”

“Then how do I know he’s not still out there somewhere?”

Lizanne turned to Anatol. “I need to reach into my clothing.”

He exchanged a glance with the Electress, who gave a nod of assent. “Slowly,” Anatol said.

Lizanne undid the first three buttons on her overalls then reached inside to undo the cloth she had wrapped around her midriff. Unlike Jemus, Dralky had possessed a full set of teeth, although about half had been fashioned from gold. The Electress gave a huff of satisfaction as Lizanne placed the teeth on the desk. “Was going to make him pull them out himself with pliers,” the Electress mused. “Or get him and Jemus to fight to the death. Hadn’t quite decided.”

She leaned back in her chair, keeping her eyes on Lizanne but speaking to Anatol. “Get her a seat. Then leave us alone.”

Lizanne tried not to enjoy the comfort of the padded leather chair as she sank onto it, the first time she had experienced the sensation since leaving Corvus.

“What’s your name?” the Electress asked.

“Krista.”

The large woman’s mouth twitched a little. “No it isn’t.”

“Melina said it didn’t matter.”

“Not for most of the new arrivals who fetch up on my door, but I’m sensing that you’re a special case.” She reached for a silver-plated box on the desk and extracted a cigarillo. “Get these from the guards,” she said, striking a match and lighting up. “One of several favours they do for me, ’cos of what I do for them. Wanna know what that is?”

“I would assume you bribe them,” Lizanne replied.

“I do.” Smoke billowed as the woman smiled. “And a greedy bunch of bastards they are, apart from Darkanis, but he still expects to wet his beak now and then. You’d be surprised how much an off-the-books sack of sulphur ore will sell for. But it’s not just that. I enjoy certain privileges because I understand the need to keep this place orderly, or as orderly as a place filled with the worst scum in the empire can be.”

She paused to turn the box towards Lizanne, raising a questioning eyebrow. “No thank you,” Lizanne declined.

“Worried I might have added something to the leaf?” the Electress asked.

“I try to avoid indulgence at times like these.”

The Electress rested her elbows on the desk, one hand on the other with the cigarillo smoking between her broad fingers. “What did you do on the outside?” she asked after a long pause. “And don’t try telling me you were a fucking governess or some such.”

“I stole things and I killed people.”

“For who?”

“Whoever paid me.”

“The Cadre ever pay you?”

Lizanne shook her head. “They couldn’t afford me. Besides, I doubt they’d find me a suitable recruit.”

A soft chuckle escaped the Electress as she took another draw on her cigarillo. “So that’s it. Another child of the revolution.”

“I’ll confess I suffered from some naïve notions in my youth. I assure you any political allegiance is all behind me now. But the experience did leave me with a particular set of skills, skills I’m prepared to offer to you.”

“How generous of you. But you may have noticed that this is a prison. I want a thief or a killer I can throw a rock in any direction and find one.”

“Not like me you can’t.”

The Electress nodded at the grisly prize on the desk. Jemus’s head lay on its side, face towards Lizanne, a vestige of that final desperate smile frozen on his lips. “You think you’re the first to bring me some fucker’s head and demand a favour?”

“I’m not demanding anything,” Lizanne said. “Merely offering my services. If you find them unacceptable I’ll be happy to leave.”

“And offer yourself up to one of my rivals, no doubt. I assume you extracted a list of likely candidates from this bastard before you killed him.”

Lizanne said nothing, knowing confirmation would be taken as a threat. “I chose to come here,” she said instead.

The Electress gave Lizanne another long look of examination before shaking her head in consternation. “Got a lot going on behind those pretty eyes. More than I’d like. And, being honest, you’ll probably live longer as a whore. I treat my girls well.”

“I’m sure you do. But it’s not my line of work.”

The Electress shrugged and stubbed out her cigarillo. “You know how to deal Pastazch?”

“Corvus Twist and Varestian Draw-down.”

“We play our own rules here, Scorazin Two-roll. It’s basically the same as Corvus Twist with three more wild cards. I’m sure you’ll pick it up.”

“You want me to be a croupier?”

“For now. Since you’re so averse to mattress-work. Can’t have you just hanging around the place. People would talk.” She turned to the door, raising her voice, “Anatol! Find this bitch a room!”

CHAPTER 16

Clay

Kraghurst Station was served by a floating-timber dock arranged along a series of buoys. The whole structure was tethered to the ice by huge chains, so as to allow it to rise and fall with the tide. Clay thought it must have been an impressive sight before Last Look Jack came by for a visit, a fine example of the human facility for ingenuity in even the worst climate. Now, however, it was a ragged thing of splintered and burnt wood, held in place by blackened chains, which had failed to burn in the fires cast by the drakes.

He sat at the front of the launch, Loriabeth huddled close to his side. She was finding the cold harder to bear by the day but reacted with fury to any suggestion she stay on the ship. Captain Hilemore had kept the party as small as possible. In addition to the Longrifles and Hilemore himself, the expedition consisted of the hulking Islander and four of his most trusted riflemen along with a predictably miserable Scrimshine and, to Clay’s surprise, the Corvantine lieutenant and two of his men. Clay suspected that Sigoral’s presence might be due to concerns over what mischief the man might foster in the captain’s absence.

Beyond the ruined dock Clay could see dark, shadowed openings carved into the Shelf where Scrimshine said the inhabitants of Kraghurst Station made their home. “They have their own company,” he explained before they set off. “The Kraghurst Trading Co-operative, they called it. Bunch’ve reprobates who’d been thrown out of the larger corporations for various misdeeds, but they certainly made a good go of it. South Seas Maritime has been trying to buy them out for years.” His gaze darkened as he looked at the ruined dock. “Guessing they won’t have to bother now.”

The launch rounded the western edge of the dock and made for the Shelf where a number of iron ladders had been fixed into the ice. “Ship oars!” Steelfine said as the launch came within the last few feet of the Shelf. “Fix a grapnel on that ladder, if you’d be so kind, Mr. Torcreek.”

Clay flexed his fingers, numb despite the thick gloves he wore, and hefted the rope and grapnel at his feet. The water was placid and the launch close enough to make it an easy throw, the iron hook snagging on one of the lower rungs at the first attempt. Preacher and Braddon helped him haul the launch to the base of the ladder where Clay began to climb up.

“Belay that!” Hilemore barked. “Mr. Steelfine and Lieutenant Sigoral will go first.”

“I ain’t one to shirk a risk, Captain,” Clay told him, finding his pride piqued a little.

“You’re our only Blood-blessed,” Hilemore reminded him. “Without you this mission is over.”

He nodded at Steelfine, who shouldered his way past Clay and onto the ladder, ascending with a sailor’s customary swiftness, Sigoral close behind. The marine had a repeating carbine strapped across his back whilst Steelfine carried a sea-axe and a pistol. The two men reached the top quickly, climbing up onto the ledge and drawing their weapons before disappearing inside. Steelfine’s head reappeared after a few moments. “All clear, sir!”

At Hilemore’s insistence Clay and the Longrifles were the last up the ladder, having spent some time fixing hauling lines to the supplies. Following Scrimshine’s advice, the captain had ensured the food consisted mainly of salted meat plus a crate of preserved limes to stave off scurvy. There seemed to be much more than they would ever need but the convict had been insistent. “When a man’s out on the ice,” he said, “he’ll eat twice what he usually would and still find his belt looser by the day. At these climes the cold wears at you like a grindstone.”

When Clay finally ascended the ladder he found himself confronted by a broad, rectangular cavern with dozens of side tunnels in the walls. Hilemore and Steelfine stood regarding what appeared to be a pile of blackened sticks at the rear of the chamber as the rest of the party went about unpacking the supplies.

“They must have clustered together at the end,” Hilemore commented as Clay drew closer. He could see the pile for what it was now, fleshless skulls grinning up at him from the mass of part-melted bone.

“How many?” he asked.

“Hard to tell,” Steelfine said. “At least twenty here. Lieutenant Sigoral and I found another dozen in the next chamber.”

“A sustained stream of fire,” Hilemore said, glancing around at the glassy smoothness of the surrounding ice. “Last Look Jack was very thorough, it seems.”

“So no survivors,” Clay muttered, turning away from the burnt monstrosity. “At least you gave them some revenge, Captain.”

Hilemore merely glanced at him before turning his gaze to the cavern opening and the Superior sitting at anchor beyond. Clay knew he was wondering if he would ever see it again and wished he could offer some assurance. But the closer they came to their goal, and the fulfilment of their shared future, he found himself increasingly lacking in certainty. We were always going to be here, he reminded himself. But where next?

He saw Hilemore blink before removing his gaze from his ship, striding off, voice raised to cast out a series of orders. “Let’s get these packs filled, lads. I want to be gone from here before nightfall.”

Clay’s judgement proved to be grimly accurate. Their journey through the tunnels and chambers of Kraghurst Station revealed only more corpses in various states of immolation, as well as a wealth of incinerated furniture and supplies. They found only one unburnt body, a large man of middling years huddled in a side tunnel, his hair and skin frozen solid and his eyes two blank orbs in a desiccated leather mask.

“Cold got him,” Scrimshine judged. “And right quick too. Tends to happen when a fella loses all hope of deliverance.”

“He saved himself,” Braddon said. “Found a corner where the fire couldn’t reach.”

“Truly,” Scrimshine conceded. “But what to do next? No ships to take you away. All the food burned up and the open ice the only place left to go.” He crouched to rummage through the dead man’s stiff, frosted clothing, pocketing a small roll of exchange notes. “Won’t do him much good will it?” he said in response to Braddon’s disapproving frown.

They pressed on, the air growing colder the deeper they went. Scrimshine called to Hilemore to halt when they came to a large chamber where daylight could be seen through a narrow opening at the far end. “Looks like we’ve finally had some luck, Skipper,” he said, moving towards a tarpaulin-covered mound. He pulled the tarpaulin aside to reveal a collection of narrow objects, each about seven feet long. They were constructed from a wood-and-wicker frame set atop a pair of iron runners.

“Guessing the dogs went the way of everyone else,” Scrimshine observed. “Not that I mind. Vicious bugger, your sled-dog. Have your fingers off if y’don’t handle him proper.”

“What use are they without dogs to haul them?” Clay asked.

“Man can haul a sled too.” Scrimshine bent to retrieve a harness from atop the nearest sled. “Less you want that bundle weighing on your back all the way to the mountain.”

They dragged five of the sleds out onto the ice and piled on the supplies. Hilemore divided the party into teams and allocated each a sled, sparing Loriabeth, who, for once, didn’t voice an objection. She stood apart as they donned the harnesses, staring at the vast expanse to the south. The ice stretched away towards the misted horizon beneath a dark blue sky where stars were already glimmering. Not since the Red Sands had Clay seen anything so completely devoid of life or feature. He saw how Loriabeth’s expression alternated between reluctance and determination now she stood confronted by the enormity of their task. All the guts and skill in the world can’t put any more meat on those bones, he thought, wondering if it might have been better to chain her to her bunk before disembarking the ship.

“Won’t be much use this far south, Skipper,” Scrimshine advised as Hilemore flipped open a small compass. “You’ll find the needle dances about too much to gauge a heading.”

“Then how do we fix our course?”

Scrimshine jerked his head at the stars beading the darkening sky. “The mountain sits betwixt Southern Jewell and the Crossed Swords. Reckon we got us maybe two more hours of daylight.”

Hilemore glanced around to ensure they were all buckled in then waved a hand before starting off, the three other men in his team marching in step as he led the way. “Then we’d best make good use of it.”

They covered a little over five miles before nightfall. The ice was a deceptive surface to traverse. Apparently thick snow-banks often transformed into loose piles of powder concealing slippery patches that left more than a few of the party with a painful rump. Elsewhere the surface rose into large jagged mounds several yards wide, necessitating long diversions from their course until they found a way around. Added to the aggravating terrain was the all-consuming cold, which Clay found sapped his strength with every step. It seemed a tangible thing, pressing in on all sides and making every breath feel like an inhalation of tiny needles. Like the others he had been quick to tie a cloth over his mouth and nose but it provided only minor relief.

At Scrimshine’s urging they made camp by upending the sleds and arranging them in a circle. They then strung tents between the sleds to form a roof with a gap in the centre where Steelfine used lamp oil to light a fire. The evening meal consisted of boiled salt-beef washed down with black coffee dosed with a hefty portion of sugar. True to Scrimshine’s word, Clay found his stomach still growling after wolfing down his meal though he resisted the urge to ask for seconds. He sat with his arm around his cousin’s shoulders as she cradled a tin mug of steaming coffee with trembling hands. Scrimshine sat close by, using a small knife to whittle on a piece of bone from the Blue corpse he had helped Skaggerhill harvest.

“What was it?” Clay asked him, recalling his tale from their interview back in the Lossermark gaol. “The great treasure you came here to find?”

Scrimshine kept his attention on his carving, though his bony face betrayed a certain sheepish reluctance as he muttered a reply, “Bledthorne’s Hoard.”

On the far side of the fire, Clay heard Steelfine give voice to a rarely heard chuckle, one that was soon echoed by the other sailors. Hilemore turned to the smuggler, raising an amused eyebrow. “Did you, perchance, have a map showing you the exact location? Possibly a map that had been hidden for years?”

“Wasn’t my idea,” Scrimshine said, scowling a little. “And it was a long time ago, before the story was so widely known.”

“Story?” Clay enquired.

“You mean to say you’ve never heard of Arneas Bledthorne?” Hilemore asked in mock surprise. “The Red Scourge of the Eastern Seas. A pirate so fearsome Queen Arrad herself offered a million gold crowns to anyone who could bring her his head. For ten years or more the Royal Fleet hunted him hither and yon, but always he eluded them, taking ships at will and casting their crews into the sea for his vile amusement. So great was his fortune, it’s said his ship, the Dreadfire, nearly sank under its weight. Eventually, with all ports closed to him, he sailed south and hid his treasure somewhere in these frozen wastes, then murdered his crew lest they betray the location. Maddened by his crimes and his greed, and lacking any hands to sail his ship, he was unable to leave and died raving amidst vast wealth.”

“Quite a story,” Braddon observed.

“Indeed so,” Hilemore said. “And for many years unscrupulous cartographers made good money selling maps purporting to show the very spot where Bledthorne’s Hoard could be found. Eventually the story attracted the attention of a Consolidated Research Company scholar who traced it back to a novel from the late Imperial Era. It transpired the tale was mostly fiction. There had been a minor pirate named Arneas Bledthorne, who disappeared along with his ship somewhere in the southern seas. But in his short career his list of prizes amounted to the grand total of three ships, none of them laden with treasure. Also, there is no documentation confirming that Queen Arrad had ever even heard of him, let alone offered a reward for his capture. However, this doesn’t prevent the foolish or deluded occasionally risking their lives on the promise of an aged parchment they won at the card table.”

“Captain Sturwynd wasn’t a man to cross,” Scrimshine said, grimacing at the memory. “Especially when he had a firm notion in his head. He spent a great deal of loot on that map and wasn’t about to be told he was a fool for doing so.”

“I’m guessing you never found anything,” Clay said.

“Just a lotta ice, lad. And poor mad Captain Sturwynd found his death.” Scrimshine gave a sorrowful sigh. “Crazed and cruel though he was, he’d saved my skin on a bundle of occasions, so when he finally gasped out his last I wouldn’t let the others eat him. It got ugly for a time, a right old knife party. Still, plenty more food to go round when it was done.”

The nascent atmosphere of humour in the shelter faded quickly. “Your crew ate their dead?” Steelfine asked, staring hard at Scrimshine.

The smuggler shrugged, not looking up from his work. “You’ll be surprised how fast a man starts to resemble a side of pork when you’ve tracked across the ice on an empty belly for days on end.”

A few voices muttered in judgemental disgust but fell silent at Hilemore’s sharp glare. Scrimshine, apparently oblivious to any offence he may have caused, kept on whittling. Clay drifted off to sleep a short while later to the steady scrape of Scrimshine’s blade on drake bone.

It took five days before Mount Reygnar came into view, rising above the morning haze and dispelling Clay’s weariness with the sheer novelty of looking upon something that broke the endless monotony of the ice. They reached the lower slopes by evening, making camp amid a cluster of massive boulders part-submerged in the encroaching glacier. Reygnar loomed above, stirring unwelcome memories of the narrow peak that had concealed the White’s lair, though the two mountains were very different. The Nail had been a giant rocky spike whilst Mount Reygnar was a flat-topped mound that resembled the snow-speckled hide of a sleeping monster. But still, Clay couldn’t suppress a shudder of unease as his gaze tracked across the slopes.

“Wondering what might be inside?” his uncle asked, coming to his side.

“Maybe,” Clay replied with a shrug.

“The smuggler says it’s a volcano, though it’s stayed quiet for years. Nothing inside but molten rock.”

“There was a whole lotta molten rock beneath the Nail. I think the folks that built the city chose it for that.”

“Something you saw in your visions?”

Clay closed his eyes as the collage of memories crowded in. He had tried sorting through it all more than once, but so many images had been pushed into his head that making sense of it all was never easy, the effort inevitably leaving him with a pounding headache. “Just a guess, Uncle,” he said.

Hilemore and the Longrifles climbed the peak the next day. Loriabeth wasn’t among them, Braddon having ordered her to stay at the camp and eat all the food Steelfine prepared for her. She was growing more emaciated by the day and Clay knew it was only a matter of time before she would have to be placed on a sled and dragged along. Seeing the guilt dominating his uncle’s face, Clay thought better of voicing any concern.

Mount Reygnar wasn’t a particularly tall peak in comparison to the steep giants of the Coppersoles, but still the cold made the going hard. Thankfully, the mountain’s flanks consisted of black, hard-packed ash that was largely free of ice so the route wasn’t overly treacherous. A four-hour climb interspersed with numerous rest stops got them to the summit where the ground dropped away into a crater some fifty feet wide. The bottom of the crater consisted of a pile of boulders that appeared to have been undisturbed for many years.

“Guess she’s lost her spark,” Skaggerhill observed in a ragged gasp, slumping down onto the ash.

“Sometime ago, I’d judge,” Hilemore said, casting a critical eye over the crater. “Otherwise, I suspect we would be looking out on a stretch of open water.” He turned to the south and extended a hand to Clay. “The sketch, if you please, Mr. Torcreek.”

Clay took the paper from the depths of his heavy overcoat and handed it over. “I’d judge the viewpoint to be some miles south-east,” Hilemore said after a moment’s study of their surroundings. “Given the shape of the peak as depicted here.”

“Just over twenty miles south-south-east,” Preacher said, standing with his longrifle cradled in the crook of his arm as he pointed out the bearing.

“You can see it, sir?” Hilemore asked with a sceptical frown.

“An eagle’s got nothing on Preacher, Captain,” Braddon said. “He says he sees it, he sees it.”

Hilemore extended his spy-glass and moved to Preacher’s side, following his extended arm to find the target. “Impressive eyes,” he said with a faint smile of satisfaction. “Mr. Torcreek, I believe we have our destination.”

Clay came to his side as Hilemore handed him the glass. It took a moment to bring the thing into focus, the great twisted spire seeming little more than a malformed thorn at this distance. But it was unmistakably the same structure from the vision. He felt no joy at this validation, the confirmation that his visions weren’t simply the conjuration of a traumatised mind. If anything the sight stirred a sinking sensation in his gut; a sense of helplessness in the face of the vision’s commands. We were always going to be here.

The ice became easier to traverse south of the mountain, covered by a thin blanket of powdery snow and the going more even. The sleds skidded across the surface easily and they made good progress, covering the distance to the spire in the space of three days. The size of the thing became more evident with every passing mile, towering above the haze to such an altitude that they had to crane their necks to see the top. The base came into view halfway through the third day, Clay estimating it to be over a hundred yards wide where it met the ice. From the slanted flanks it was clear it grew to even broader proportions beneath the surface. At the sight of it the entire party came to an unbidden halt, standing in silence as their breath misted the air. Clay could understand their awe. The vision hadn’t done justice to the scale of the spire, nor captured the sensation of insignificance engendered by being so close to it.

His eyes tracked over the spire’s surface, finding it dark and mostly featureless. As he looked closer he saw that the shade varied a little, straight lines and hard angles forming a pattern that confirmed this thing to be unnatural. Someone, some thing, had made it. As his gaze ascended, the spire’s flanks took on a definite twist, becoming more acute near the top where it narrowed to a sharp point.

“They’ll have someone’s eye out with that,” Skaggerhill said, which drew only muted laughter.

Clay tore his gaze from the spire at the sound of boots crunching across the snow towards him. He found himself shuddering as he turned to face Hilemore, a fresh ache lurching in his head as the vision and present reality became one.

“So,” Hilemore said, “this is where we save the world, Mr. Torcreek.”