The Waking Fire

What do we mean when we use the term “product,” that otherwise innocuous word that has become so burdened with significance over the course of the preceding century and the advent of the Corporate Age? Most readers, I’m sure, would reply with just one word, “Blood.” Or, if they were of a more verbose inclination, they might expand their definition thusly: “Drake Blood.” This is basically correct but has a tendency to mask the truly vast complexity of the subject addressed within the pages of this modest tome. For, as even the most superstitious Dalcian savage or illiterate Island brute can attest, there is no one type of product. I will spare you, dear reader, a fulsome technical description of each variant, and the increasing list of derivatives reaped from the carcasses of the Arradsian drake. Instead, I feel it would be more apposite, and perhaps amusing, to simply repeat a mantra taught to students at the Ironship Academy of Female Education, amongst whom I am proud to count myself:

Blue for the mind.

From A Lay-person’s Guide to Plasmology by Miss Amorea Findlestack. Ironship Press—Company Year 190 (1579 by the Mandinorian Calendar).

CHAPTER 1

Lizanne

Mr. Redsel found her at the prow just past sunset. It had become her habit to linger here most evenings when weather permitted, taking in the spectacle of the stars and the moons, enjoying the seaward breeze on her skin and the constant rhythmic splash of the Mutual Advantage’s twin paddles. Their cadence had slowed tonight, the captain reducing speed as they drew near to the Barrier Isles with all their hidden dangers. Come the morning the churning currents of the Strait would surround them and the paddles would turn at full speed, but for now a sedate pace and strict observance of charts and compass were needed.

She didn’t turn at Mr. Redsel’s approach, though his footfalls were audible above the paddles. Instead she kept her gaze upon the risen moons, Serphia and Morvia, thinking it a pity their larger sister was not visible tonight. She always enjoyed the sight of Nelphia’s myriad valleys and mountains, largely free of craters unlike her pocked and scarred siblings. Benefits of a recently active surface, according to her father. But still a dead world.

“Miss Lethridge,” Mr. Redsel said, coming to a halt behind her. She didn’t turn but knew he would be maintaining a gap of due propriety. Her cautious observance throughout the voyage had left her in little doubt that he was far too practised to risk any clumsiness at so crucial a juncture. “I find you lost in the whispers of night, it seems.”

Marsal, she mused inwardly. Opening with a quotation. Somewhat trite but obscure enough to convey the impression of a scholarly past.

“Mr. Redsel,” she replied, allowing a little warmth to colour her tone. “Am I to take it the cards did not favour you?”

The other passengers spent the evenings engaged in various amusements, chiefly consisting of cards and amateurish peckings at the aged pianola in their plush but modestly dimensioned lounge. They were mostly content to leave her be, beyond an occasional insistence on petty conversation. Shareholder status had its advantages and none possessed sufficient standing, or gall, to impose their presence to any tedious degree. Mr. Redsel, however, had been more attentive than most, though before tonight he had yet to make the approach she knew was inevitable from the moment he came aboard in Feros.

“Mourning Jacks was never my game,” he replied. “Miss Montis took me for a full ten scrips before I had the good sense to excuse myself.”

She allowed the silence to linger before turning to face him, hoping reluctance might entice a more revealing approach. Mr. Redsel, however, displayed a creditable discipline in remaining silent, though his decision to reach into his jacket for a cigarillo case betrayed a slight impatience.

“Thank you,” she said as he proffered the open case, extracting one of the thin, leaf-wrapped delights. “Dalcian, no less,” she added, playing the cigarillo along her top lip to capture the aroma.

“I find everything else is a poor substitute,” he said, striking a match and leaning closer. Smoke billowed as she put the cigarillo to her lips and sucked the flame onto the leaf. An amateur might have taken the opportunity to let the proximity endure, perhaps even steal a kiss, but Mr. Redsel knew better.

“One should indulge one’s passions, where possible,” he said stepping back and lighting his own cigarillo before flicking the dying match away into the gloom beyond the rail. “Don’t you think?”

She shrugged and tightened her shawl about her shoulders. “I had a teacher once who was fond of equating indulgence with weakness. ‘Remember, girls, the path to the Shareholder’s office lies not in play, but diligence.’” It was a truthful anecdote and she smiled at the memory, Madame Bondersil’s frequently stern face looming in her memory. It will be good to see you again, Madame, she thought, glancing out at the two moons shimmering on the blackening waves. Should I survive the night.

“It seems you were an observant pupil,” Mr. Redsel said. Her words gave tacit permission for his gaze to play over her bodice where the gleam of a Shareholder’s pin could be seen through the thin silk of the shawl. “A full Shareholder at such a young age. Few of us could ever hope to rise so high so quickly.”

“Diligence matched with plain luck is a potent brew,” she replied, taking another shallow draw on her cigarillo and tasting nothing more than finest Dalcian leaf. At least he’s no poisoner. “In any case, I would have thought you would shun such aspirations. You are an Independent are you not?”

“Indeed, at present a syndicate of one.” He gave a self-deprecating bow. “My previous contract being fulfilled, I thought it opportune to invest some profits in finally exploring the land from which all wealth flows and makes us its slaves.”

Another quote, Bidrosin this time, delivered with a sardonic lilt to convey his lack of sympathy with so notorious a Corvantine radical. “So, you’ve never seen Arradsia?” she asked.

“A singular omission I am about to correct. Whilst you, I discern, are more than familiar with the continent.”

“I was born in Feros but schooled in Carvenport, and had occasion to see some of the Interior before the Board called me to the Home Office.”

“Then you must be my guide.” He smiled, leaning on the rail. “For I’m told there will be an alignment in but a few short months, and Arradsia is said to offer the finest view.”

“You are an astronomer then, sir?” She put a slight note of doubtful mockery in her tone, moving to stand alongside him.

“Merely a seeker of spectacle,” he said, raising his gaze to the moons. “To see three moons in the sky, and the planets beyond, all arranged in perfect order for but the briefest instant. That will be a sight to cherish through the years.”

Where did they find you? she wondered, her gaze tracking over his profile. Rugged but not weathered, handsome but not effete, clever but not arrogant. I might almost think they bred you just for this.

“There’s an observatory in Carvenport,” she said. “Well equipped with all manner of optical instruments. I’m sure I can arrange an introduction.”

“You are very kind.” He paused, forming his brow into a faintly reluctant frown. “I am bound to ask, Miss Lethridge, for curiosity was ever my worst vice, you are truly the granddaughter of Darus Lethridge, are you not?”

Clever, she thought. Risking offence to gain intimacy by raising so sensitive a topic. Let us see how he responds to a little set-back. She sighed, forming a brief jet of smoke before the breeze carried it away. “And another admirer of the great man reveals himself,” she said, moving back from the rail and turning to go. “I never knew him, sir, he died before I was born. Therefore I can furnish no anecdotes and bid you good night.”

“It is not anecdotes I seek,” he said, voice carefully modulated to a tone of gentle solicitation, moving to stand in her way, though once again maintaining the correct distance. “And I apologise for any unintended insult. You see I find myself in need of an opinion on a recent purchase.”

She crossed her arms, cigarillo poised before her lips as she raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Purchase?”

“Yes. Some mechanical drawings the vendor assured me were set down by your grandfather’s own hand. However, I must confess to certain doubts.”

She found herself gratified by his puzzlement as she voiced a laugh, shaking her head. “A syndicate of one. This is your business, sir? The purchase of drawings?”

“Purchase and sale,” he said. “And not just drawings but all manner of genuine arts and antiquities. The salient word being ‘genuine.’”

“And you imagine I may be able to provenance these drawings for you, with my expert familial eye.”

“I thought perhaps you would know his line, his script . . .” He trailed off with a sheepish grimace. “A foolish notion, I see that now. Please forgive the intrusion and any offence I may have caused.” He inclined his head in respectful contrition and turned to leave. She let him cover a good dozen feet before delivering the expected question.

“What is it? What device?”

He paused in midstride, turning back with an impressively crafted frown of surprise. “Why, the only one that truly matters,” he said, gesturing at the slowly turning paddles and the twin stacks above the wheel-house from which spent steam rose into the night sky.

“The thermoplasmic engine,” she murmured, a genuine curiosity stirring in her breast. To what lengths have they gone to craft this trap? “The great knicky-knack itself,” she added in a louder tone. “Which version?”

“The very first,” he told her. “If genuine. I should be happy to show them to you tomorrow . . .”

“Oh no.” She strode to his side, looping her arm through his and impelling him towards the passenger quarters. “Curiosity is also my worst vice, and once stirred one not to be denied.”

—

Indulgence? she asked herself a few hours later as Mr. Redsel lay in apparently sated slumber at her side. Her eyes tracked over his torso, lingering on the hard muscle of his belly sheened in sweat from their recent exertions. She had found him as well practised in the carnal arts as everything else, another fulfilled expectation. I doubt Madame would have approved of this particular tactical choice.

The notion brought a faint grin to her lips as she slipped from the bed. She paused to retrieve her discarded bodice from the floor before going to the dresser where Mr. Redsel had arrayed the drawings for her perusal on entering the cabin. His rather involved and inventive description of their origins had been interrupted by her kiss. She had enjoyed his surprise, as she had enjoyed what came next. For a time she had kept a lover in Feros, a suitably discreet Ironship Protectorate officer with a wife far away across the ocean and a consequent disinterest in any protracted emotional entanglements. But Commander Pinefeld had been sent to a distant post some months ago, so perhaps there had been an element of indulgence to this episode, although it had served to dispel any small doubts she might harbour about his true purpose in seeking her out.

She had seen it as he approached his climax, face poised above hers, his objective made plain in the unblinking stare he fixed on her eyes. She had returned his gaze, legs and arms clutching him tighter as he thrust at an increasing tempo, making the appropriate noises at the appropriate moment, allowing him the temporary delusion of success in forging the required bond. She felt she owed him something. He had, after all, been very practised.

The light of the two moons streamed through the open port-hole, providing enough illumination for an adequate perusal of the drawings. There were three of them, the paper faded to a light brown and the edges a little frayed, but the precisely inked dimensions of the world’s greatest single invention remained clear. The words “Plasmic Locomotive Drive” were inscribed at the top of the first drawing in a spidery, almost feverish script, conveying a sense of excitement at a recently captured idea. The date 36/04/112 was scrawled with a similarly energetic hand in the bottom-right corner. The imprecision of the text, however, was in stark contrast to the depiction of the device itself. Every tube, spigot and valve had been rendered in exquisite detail, the shadows hatched with an exactitude that could only derive from the hand of a highly skilled draughtsman.

She turned her gaze on the next drawing, finding it similarly accomplished, though the device now bore its modern title of “Thermoplasmic Locomotive Engine” and featured several additions and refinements to the original design. This one was dated 12/05/112 and its neighbour, an equally impressive depiction of the machine’s final incarnation, bore the date 26/07/112. Two days before the patent was issued, she recalled, her gaze fixing in turn on the same point on each drawing, the top right corner where a small monogram had been etched in the same unmistakable hand: DL.

“So, what do you think?”

She turned from the dresser finding Mr. Redsel sitting upright and fully awake. A dim glow filled the cabin as he reached for the oil-lamp fixed into the wall above the bed. He wore the fond expression of a man embarking on an intimate adventure, the face of the newly enraptured. So perfect, she thought again, not without a note of regret.

“I’m afraid, sir,” she said, lifting her bodice and extracting the single vial of product hidden amidst its lacework, “we have other matters to discuss.”

She detected a soft metallic snick and his hand emerged from the bed-sheets clutching a small revolver. She recognised the make as he trained it on her forehead: a Tulsome .21 six-chamber, known commonly as the gambler’s salt-shaker for the multiple cylinder barrel’s resemblance to a condiment holder and its widespread adoption by the professional card-playing fraternity. Small of calibre but unfailingly reliable and deadly when employed with expert aim.

Her reaction to the appearance of the pistol amounted to a slightly raised eyebrow whilst her thumb simultaneously removed the glass stopper from the vial as she raised it to her lips. It was her emergency vial, a blend from one of the more secret corners of the Ironship laboratory. Effective blending of different product types was an art beyond most harvesters, facilitated only by the most patient and exacting manipulation of product at the molecular level and the careful application of various synthetic binding agents. Such precision required the most powerful magnascopes, another invention for which the world owed a debt to her family.

“Don’t!” he warned, rising from the bed, both hands on the pistol now, the six barrels steady and a stern resolve to his voice and gaze. “I’ve no wish to . . .”

She drank the vial and he squeezed the trigger a split-second later, the revolver issuing the dry click of a hammer finding an empty chamber. He sprang from the bed after only the barest hesitation, reversing his grip on the revolver and drawing it back to aim a blow at her temple. The contents of the vial left a bitter and complex sting on her tongue before burning its way through her system in a familiar rush of sensation. Seventy percent Green, twenty percent Black and ten percent Red. She summoned the Green and her arm came up in a blur, hand catching his wrist an inch short of her temple, the grip tight but not enough to mark his flesh nor crush his bones. Any suspicious bruising might arouse questions later.

She summoned the Black as he drew his free arm back for a punch, a death-blow judging from the configuration of his knuckles. He shuddered as she unleashed the Black and froze him in place, jaw clenched as he made a vain effort to fight her grip, his tongue forming either curses or pleas behind clamped teeth. She pushed him back a few feet, still maintaining her grip, keeping him suspended above the bed. The Black was diminishing fast and she had only moments.

“Who is your contact in Carvenport?” she asked, loosening her grip just enough to free his mouth.

“You . . .” he choked, gulping breath, “. . . are making . . . a mistake.”

“On the contrary, sir,” she replied, going to the dresser and reaching for the small leather satchel concealed behind it. She undid the straps and revealed the row of four vials inside. “It was your mistake not to hide these with sufficient rigour. It took barely moments to discover them when I searched your cabin yesterday, and only a few moments more to find your salt-shaker.” She angled her head in critical examination, using the Black to turn his naked form about. No trace of the Sign. Not even on the soles of his feet.

“You’re not Cadre,” she said. “A hireling. The Corvantine Empire sent an unregistered Blood-blessed after me. The Emperor’s agents are not usually so injudicious. I must confess, sir, to a certain sense of personal insult. What is your usual prey, I wonder? Wealthy widows and empty-headed heiresses?”

“I was . . . not sent to . . . kill you.”

“Of that I have no doubt, Mr. Redsel. After our shared, and no doubt continued intimacy in Carvenport, you would have provided your employers with enough intelligence to justify your fee a dozen times over.”

His features betrayed a certain resignation then, and she felt a flicker of admiration for his evident resolve to beg no more. Instead he asked a question, “How . . . did I reveal . . . myself?”

“I liked you too much.” She forced the admiration down, tightening her grip once more. “Hireling or not, you and I share a profession and I have no great desire to see you suffer. So I will ask again and strongly advise you to answer: who is your contact in Carvenport?”

Much of his face was frozen now and only his lips could convey any emotion as they formed the reply around a snarl, “They were to . . . find me . . . I was given . . . no name.”

“Recognition code.”

“Truelove.”

Despite the circumstances she couldn’t contain a snort of amusement. “How very apposite.” She could feel the Black ebbing now, the fiery burn intensifying as it dwindled in her blood-stream. “Oh, and if it matters,” she said, nodding at the drawings. “They’re fake. My grandfather only ever used the Mandinorian Calendar. Besides which his hands were crippled by arthritis for the latter half of his life, something he concealed due to pride and vanity.”

His lips morphed into something that might have been a smile, or another snarl, just as she stopped his heart with the last of the Black. He jerked in mid air before collapsing onto the bed, finely honed body limp and void of life.

—

The First Mate came to her at breakfast, formal and respectful as he conveyed the sad news of Mr. Redsel’s passing. “How terrible!” she exclaimed, putting aside her toast and reaching for a restorative sip of tea. “A seizure of the heart, you say?”

“According to the ship’s doctor, miss. Unusual in a man of his age but, apparently, not unprecedented.” A crew member had seen them conversing at the prow and the First Mate was obliged to ask a few questions. As expected he proved a less-than-rigorous investigator; once she professed her ignorance of Mr. Redsel’s unfortunate and untimely passing no Syndicate employee of any intelligence would press a Shareholder for additional information.

After the officer had taken his leave she continued to breakfast, though her appetite was soon soured by an outbreak of hysterics at a near by table as news of Mr. Redsel’s demise spread. Mrs. Jackmore, a buxom woman of perhaps forty years’ age, convulsed in abject misery as her white-faced husband, a Regional Manager of notably more advanced years, looked on in frozen silence. Mrs. Jackmore’s maid eventually hustled her from the dining room, her cries continuing unabated. The other passengers strove to conceal embarrassment or amusement as Mr. Jackmore completed his meal, chomping his way through bacon, eggs and no less than two rounds of toast with stoic determination.

Couldn’t resist some additional practice, eh? she asked the spectre of Mr. Redsel as she rose from the table, leaving her breakfast unfinished. I did wonder if I’d have cause to rue my action. Now I believe it can safely be filed under Necessary Regrets.

She went to her cabin to retrieve the drawings then made her way to the prow once more. The tempo of the paddles had tripled now they were in the Strait proper, the Blood-blessed in the engine room no doubt having drunk and expended at least two full vials of Red to power the engines to maximum speed. This was her third trip through the Strait and each time she had been discomforted by the sight of the waters; the general absence of waves seemed strange so far from land and the constant swirl and eddy of the currents held a sense of the uncanny. It seemed to her a visual echo of whatever great force of nature had torn so great a channel through the Barrier Isles some two centuries before.

She held up the drawings for a final inspection. It seemed a shame, they being so well crafted. But Mr. Redsel may have left traces in his efforts to build an identity and, forgeries or not, the rumour of the drawings’ mere existence would invariably attract best-avoided attention. She could have left them in his cabin but that would have raised further questions regarding their remarkably coincidental presence on the same vessel carrying the granddaughter of their apparent author. She lit a match and held it to the corner of each drawing, letting the flame consume two-thirds of their mass before gifting them to the sea.

I didn’t tell you the forger’s gravest error, did I, Mr. Redsel? she asked, watching the blackened embers fall into the ship’s wake to be carried into the churning foam beneath the paddles. Although he could never have known it. You see it was my father who designed the great knicky-knack when he was barely fifteen years of age, only to see it stolen by my grandfather. My father is the author of this wondrous age, a man of singular genius and vision who can barely afford ink for his blueprints.

She allowed her thoughts to touch briefly on the last meeting with her father. It had been the day before she took ship in Feros and she found him in his workshop surrounded by various novelties, hands slick with grease and spectacles perched on his nose. It had ever been a source of wonder to her how his spectacles managed to stay on so precarious a perch; he moved with such restless energy it seemed impossible, and yet in all her years she had never once seen them come adrift. She was fond of the memory, regardless of the words that passed between them. You work for a pack of thieves, he had said, barely glancing up from his tinkering. They stole your birthright.

Really, Father? she had responded. I always thought Grandfather got there first.

Over the succeeding weeks she had become increasingly uncomfortable with the hurt she had seen cloud his face at that moment. It summoned another memory, the day of the Blood-lot when the harvester’s pipette left a small bead of product on her hand but, unlike the other children sniffling or bawling around her, produced no instant burn or blackened scab. She had never seen him sad before and wondered why he didn’t smile as she held up her hand, unmarked but for the patch of milk-white skin on her palm. Look Father, it didn’t hurt. Look, look!

Pushing the memory away she turned her attention to the sea once more. The Strait narrowed to the south and she could see the small green specks of the Barrier Isles cresting the horizon, meaning Carvenport now lay less than two days’ distant. Carvenport, she thought, a wry smile coming to her lips. Where I shall find Truelove.

CHAPTER 2

Clay

Cralmoor’s fist slammed into Clay’s side with enough force to make him stagger, grunting in frustration as the bigger man dodged his sluggish counter-jab and delivered a straight-line kick at his chest. Clay managed to block the kick with crossed forearms but the force of it sent him backpedaling into the crowd. For a few moments the world became a jostling fury of jeers, insults, booze-laden spit and more than a few punches. He had to fight his way clear, fists and elbows snapping aside the drunken faces before he made it back into the chalk-ringed circle where Cralmoor waited. The Islander stood with his hands on his hips, tattoo-covered chest barely swelling and bright wall of teeth revealed by a knowing grin. Street-scrapper don’t make a fighter, lad, the grin said. Swimming in deep waters now.

Clay kept his own answering grin from his lips, worried it might reveal a suspicious confidence, and launched into a series of well-practised moves. Tratter called it the Markeva Combination, a sequence of kicks and punches laid down by the ancient and most celebrated practitioner of the Dalcian martial arts. It had taken a month to learn the sequence, Clay sweating through the moves under Tratter’s expert and unforgiving eye until he pronounced him as ready as he would ever be. “Do it right, y’might actually come outta this with some credit,” the old trainer had said with an approving wink.

“I’m paying you to help me win this thing,” Clay had replied. The memory of the old man’s prolonged laughter came back to him now as Cralmoor blocked every blow with fluid ease and delivered a short jab to Clay’s right eye whereupon he blinked a few times before falling over. He was dimly aware of the bell sounding just before he hit the floor, and the feel of Derk’s arms clamped across his chest as he was dragged to the stool, bare heels scraping sand from the floor. He returned to full awareness when Derk emptied half the water-bucket over his head.

“I believe we have arrived at the appropriate moment,” Derk said, reaching into the bag holding their two canteens, one with a plain cap, the other marked with a scratched cross.

Clay shook his head, liquid flying from his shaved scalp. “One more round.”

“You don’t have another round in you.”

“Too soon,” Clay insisted, wincing as Derk pressed a cloth against the open cut below his eye. “Only the third bell. Keyvine’ll know. Shit, Keyvine’s mother would know.”

He saw Derk’s involuntary glance at the raised platform at the rear of the cavernous drinking den. It was Fight Night every Venasday in the Colonials Rest and its owner never missed a bout. Keyvine sat alone on the platform, a small lamp and a bottle of wine on the table at his side. A slim, unmoving silhouette lit only by the gleam of the silver drake’s head that topped the cane resting on his knees. Not a guard nor a weapon within arm’s reach, Clay thought, a long-gestated jealousy building inside. But still the King of Blades and Whores.

The jealousy proved useful, stoking his anger and muting his pain. He gulped water from the white-capped bottle and got to his feet a good few beats before the bell sounded. Fuck Markeva, he thought, raising his fists as Cralmoor strolled towards him. And fuck Tratter too.

There were rules to this game, no biting, gouging or ball-stomping, but otherwise the participants were free to inflict whatever carnage they could on one another without benefit of weapons. However, Clay had always had a facility for turning words into weapons and knew how deeply they could cut, or at least distract.

“I get a go on your wife when I win, right?” he asked Cralmoor in a conversational tone, dodging another jab at his eye by the barest inch. “Or is it your husband?”

“Got both,” the Islander replied in a cheerful tone, blocking a left hook and delivering another painful dig into Clay’s ribs. “Doubt you could take either.” He stepped outside the arc of Clay’s upper-cut and slapped the arm aside before lashing out with another kick, a round-house to the head, blocked more through luck than design. “No offence.”

“Right, I forgot,” Clay said in mock realisation, delivering another fruitless three-punch combination at Cralmoor’s head. “Your spirits make you stick your cock in anything with a pulse.” He grinned at the sudden darkness to the Islander’s expression. Mention of the spirits from a non-believing mouth was always certain to rile them up something fierce.

“Careful, boy,” Cralmoor warned, his stance becoming tighter, gaze more focused. “Been easy on you so far. Mr. Keyvine owes a debt to Braddon.”

Clay’s own temper began to quicken, an inevitable reaction to hearing mention of his uncle. “Yeah? The spirits make you bare your ass to him too . . . ?”

Cralmoor crouched and charged, too fast to dodge, driving his shoulder into Clay’s midriff as his arms reached around to vice him around the waist. Clay hammered at the bigger man’s head and back in the brief few seconds before he was lifted off his feet and borne to the floor. All the wind came out of him as the Islander’s crushing weight bore down, his forehead slamming once into Clay’s nose before he drew back, rearing up with fists raised to pummel, apparently oblivious to his mistake.

This was what Clay knew, not the ring or the long-practised moves. This was now a gutter fight, and who knew the gutter better than he?

He twisted beneath the Islander, swinging his right leg around to hook Cralmoor under the left armpit, jerking with enough force to push him onto his side. Clay moved with a feral speed, scrambling atop Cralmoor and slapping an open hand against his ear, a blow he knew always worked well as a stunner. Cralmoor gave an involuntary shout, eyes bunching as he fought the sudden blast of pain in his ear, buying the two seconds needed for Clay to pin him, both knees on his shoulders. His punches rained down in a frenzy, leather-bound knuckles flaring with agony as the Islander’s head jerked under the impact, a cheek-bone giving way with a loud crack.

Clay left off when his arms started to ache, clamping a hand under Cralmoor’s chin and drawing back for a final blow. Who needs the other canteen . . .

Cralmoor’s kick slammed into the back of his head, birthing a sudden blaze of sparkling stars. By the time they faded he was on his back once more, the Islander’s knee pressing on his neck as he stared down with a grim and murderous glint in his eye. When the bell sounded he kept on, bearing down with greater force. He left off only when another sound cut through the din: a thin rhythmic tinkle of metal on glass.

Clay rasped air into his lungs as Cralmoor rose from him, turning to Keyvine’s shadowed platform. The King of Blades and Whores was tapping the silver drake’s head of his cane against his wine bottle with a steady but insistent cadence. Cralmoor took a deep breath and gave Clay a final glance, bloody and distorted face full of dire promise, before stalking back to his stool. The tapping ceased when he sat down.

Derk was obliged to half carry Clay to his own stool and hold him upright as he put the canteen to his lips, the one with the cross scratched onto the cap. “Now?” he asked with a half-grin. Clay grabbed the canteen with both hands and gulped down the contents. The product was heavily and inexpertly diluted but still left a tell-tale burn on his tongue followed by the buzzing sensation that accompanied the ingestion of Black, like hornets crafting a hive in his chest.

Although all Blood-blessed could make use of the gifts resulting from ingestion of the four different colours of product, their proficiency with each varied considerably. Most were best suited to Green, the enhanced strength and speed it afforded making them highly prized as elite labourers or stevedores. Some excelled with Red, usually finding lucrative employment in the engine rooms of select corporate ships as the flames they conjured ignited the product in their blood-burning engines. A few were sufficiently skilled in the mysteries of the Blue-trance to earn lifetime contracts in company headquarters, conveying messages all over the world in minutes rather than months. But fewer still shared Clay’s aptitude for harnessing the power afforded by the Black, the ability the ever-superstitious Dalcians referred to as “the unseen hand.” It remained a singularly frustrating gift since Black was by far the most expensive colour and not easily sourced for a man of his station, if indeed he could be said to hold any station. The canteen had been laced with barely a thimbleful, and that the result of two full months thieving profits. Watching Cralmoor prowling the edge of the circle, gaze bright with lethal intent and muscles at full flex, Clay wondered for the first time if it would be enough.

Cralmoor came on at the first peal of the bell, the crowd’s baying roused to an even greater pitch by the prospect of death, a rare but appreciated treat for those who flocked to these unsanctioned fights. Clay covered up, letting the first blow land and using a fraction of the Black to soften it, stopping the fist just as it made contact with his flesh. He gave a convincing yell of pain and spun away, Cralmoor’s second blow whispering past his ear. The Islander growled in fury and dropped into another charge, Clay allowing him to connect but deflecting enough force to keep them both upright. They grappled, spinning like crazed dancers about the ring, Cralmoor cursing him all the while in some tribal Island tongue. He drove repeated blows into Clay’s gut, the Black diminishing with every blow. A few more moments and it would all be gone.

Clay broke the clinch, drawing back and feinting at Cralmoor’s head with a straight left, ducking under the counter and fixing his gaze on the Islander’s right foot. It was only a nudge, easily mistaken for a slip, but just enough to destroy his balance and drop his guard for the briefest instant. Clay put all the remaining Black into the blow, focusing on the point where his fist met Cralmoor’s jaw, feeling it shatter as flesh met flesh. The Islander spun, mouth spraying blood across the crowd. They fell into rigid silence as he staggered, eyes unfocused and steps faltering but still somehow upright.

“Shit,” Clay muttered before leaping onto Cralmoor’s back and wrapping his legs about his torso. The weight was enough to finally bring him down though he continued to struggle, elbows flailing and head jerking as his fighter’s instinct sought to continue the battle. It took a while, maybe three full minutes of punching and slamming his head into the boards, but finally Lemul Cralmoor, Champion of the Chalk Ring and most feared prize-fighter in Carvenport, lay unconscious on the floor of the Colonials Rest. The crowd booed themselves hoarse.

—

“Three thousand, six hundred and eighty-two in Ironship scrip,” Derk said, rolling the bundle of notes into a neat cylinder. “Plus another four hundred in exchange notes and sundry valuables.”

Clay grinned then hissed as Joya pushed the needle into the edge of his cut once more. “And the price for three tickets to Feros?” he asked.

“Fifteen hundred. A price arrived at through extensive negotiation, I assure you.” Derk leaned back from the cash-laden table, finely sculpted face more reflective than joyful. “We did it. After all these years of toil we’re finally on our way.”

“I’ll believe that when we step onto the Feros docks,” Joya said, snipping off the suture and wiping the crusted blood from Clay’s face. “And not before.”

She held out a cup as he sat up on the bed. “Green?” he asked, sniffing the faintly acidic contents.

“Six drops. All we have left.”

He shook his head and put the cup aside. “Best save it.”

“You need to heal.”

“I’m not so bad,” he groaned, rising from the bed and feeling every one of Cralmoor’s punches. “You said it yourself, we’re not clear yet. Find ourselves in a tight spot twixt here and the docks we’ll be happy for a few drops of Green.”

“I could venture forth and buy us some,” Derk offered. “Half a dozen dealers within a stone’s throw.”

“No.” Clay moved to the window. It was firmly boarded to conceal the glow of their lamp but Derk had drilled a small peep-hole as a sensible precaution. Clay peered down at the maze of alley and street below, seeing and hearing nothing of note. The Blinds were as they should be in the small hours, caught in the brief truce before the dock-side horns started pealing and the daily war began in earnest. Whores, thieves, dealers, card-sharps and a dozen other ancient professions all rousing themselves from the previous night’s indulgence to do it all over again, wondering, or perhaps hoping, today would see their final battle.

“No,” he told Derk again. “We’re invisible for the next two days. Give Keyvine any reminders we exist and maybe that sharp mind of his starts to pondering. And that ain’t good for us.”

They had hidden themselves in the steeple of the old Seer’s Church on Spigotter’s Row. It was their best-kept secret and most-cherished hideout, to be used only in emergencies. The place had a clutch of lurid stories attached to it, most concerning the ghost of the Pale-Eyed Preacher said to haunt the place. Century-old legend had the Preacher murdering a dozen or so whores down in the basement. He’d cut them up to make dolls of their corpses, his reasons still mysterious and the subject of myriad perverted theories. Clay had his doubts the Preacher had ever really existed but some of the older Blinds-folk still swore to the truth of the whole thing. In any case, a long-standing ghost story proved a useful device for keeping unwanted visitors at bay; even the most desperate gutter-sleeping drunk wouldn’t go near the church. The stairs were seemingly half-rotted but Clay and Derk had done some repairs over the years, nothing that would show but adding sufficient fortitude to enable a speedy climb to the top, provided you knew where to place your feet. They kept the steeple stocked with a small amount of scrip and sundry supplies, but otherwise stayed away so as not to become overly associated with the place. As for the Pale-Eyed Preacher, Clay had never seen hide nor hair of the crazy old bastard.

“You got a ship all picked out for us?” Joya asked Derk, slim fingers playing over the coins on the table. Clay had noticed before how her hands got restless when she was nervous.

“Indeed I do, darling sis,” her brother replied, consigning their winnings to a nondescript satchel, padded so it wouldn’t jingle. “The ECT Endeavour sails in two days.”

“An Eastern Conglom ship?” Clay asked, not turning from the window.

“Thought it best to steer clear of Ironship vessels. Too well-regulated for our purposes, don’t you think?”

“Not a blood-burner then?” Joya enquired, a little disappointed. Clay knew that travelling the ocean on a Red-fuelled ship had been her ambition since childhood, one they shared along with getting as far gone from this shit-pit as possible.

“Sadly no,” Derk replied. “We’ll have to accustom ourselves to the aroma of coal smoke. Still, she’s fleet enough. Six weeks to Feros with fair weather, according to the bosun. A fine and pragmatic fellow who will see us to a suitably secluded berth for due consideration.”

“You mean we have to stay belowdecks the whole way?” she said. “Thought I’d at least get to see some of the Isles.”

“Be plenty to see in Feros,” Clay told her. He was about to move from the peep-hole when something caught his eye in the street below, a shadow cast by the two moons. It moved with caution, as did most who ventured forth in the Blinds after dark, but had a mite too much girth for real stealth. Clay kept his gaze fixed on the street as he held up a hand to Derk, palm out and fingers spread. There was a scrape of chairs and shifted brick before Derk joined him at the window, handing him one of the two aged but serviceable revolvers from the cache in the wall.

“How many?” he whispered.

“Just the one, and I think I recognise the bulk.” He watched the shadow emerge from the corner of Spigotter’s and Lacemaid, a pale round face revealed clearly in the moonlight. “Speeler, all alone.”

“What could cause him to risk the streets at such an hour with no protection?” Derk wondered softly. “Uncharacteristic, wouldn’t you say?”

Clay kept his gaze focused on Speeler’s flabby face, seeing a certain desperate tension to it as he stared up at the steeple. “Either of you tell him about this place?” Clay asked.

“Didn’t even tell Joya about it until yesterday,” Derk said as his sister murmured a faint negative. “Speeler’s a resourceful fellow, though. I dare say discovering our little hidey-hole is well within his capabilities.”

Clay watched Speeler hesitate for a second then start towards the church in a determined waddle. “Seems intent on making a house call, anyways.” He moved towards the staircase then paused to regard the cup of Green next to the bed, his many aches now flaring due to an increase in heart rate. No use drawing a fire-arm if you can’t hold it steady, he thought, downing the mixture of water and Green in a single gulp. The reaction was instantaneous, a fiery warmth in the belly that spread out to the extremities, banishing all aches in the process. For Blessed and non-Blessed alike Green was the greatest tonic and curative, but only the Blessed enjoyed the enhancing effects it gave to the body. His vision grew sharper as he approached the stairs, hearing more acute and body seeming to thrum with added strength.

“Keep back,” he told Derk. “Best if he only gets eyes on one of us.”

He stepped out onto the upper landing, keeping close to the wall and peering cautiously down. Speeler stood framed by the ragged square of the descending staircase, gazing up with the same desperate entreaty on his face. The greeting he offered carried to the top of the steeple, urgency and reluctance audible in the rasp of it. “Clay, need words.”

Clay said nothing, moving with revolver in hand as he climbed down to the halfway point where the stairs apparently disappeared. In fact he and Derk had crafted a hidden step into the wall which could be slid out when necessary. He rested his arms on the worm-rotted banister, pistol dangling as he stared down at Speeler. He could see no obvious threat; the man’s hands were empty though Clay knew he carried a small but deadly two-shot pistol in one of the numerous pockets of his heavy green-leather overcoat. Clay would have preferred to let the silence string out, forcing Speeler to spill his purpose in discomfort, but the effects of the Green were temporary. If he needed to act he would have to find out quickly.

“Don’t remember issuing no invites, Speeler,” he said.

“And I apologise for the intrusion.” A brief flash of yellowed teeth revealed by a nervous smile. Despite the gloom Clay could see the sweat gleaming on Speeler’s brow.

“So throw down your scrip,” Clay told him with an impatient flick of the revolver. He had known Speeler since childhood, an older boy who lived outside their pack but could be relied on to move their more expensive loot and supply the occasional drop or two of product. It had been Speeler who sold him the thimbleful of Black, asking no questions as was customary though it was safe odds he had guessed the purpose. And now here he was, somewhere he shouldn’t be and more scared than Clay could remember seeing him.

“Come to cash in my scrip, in fact, Clay,” Speeler said. “There’s a debt twixt us. Need you to settle it, tonight.”

That he owed Speeler was true enough. It had been an ugly set-to with a dock-side crew a couple of years previously. They were all Dalcians, sailors kicked off their ships for sundry violations of company law and left with no means of living besides thievery. Desperation, combined with a tradition that prized male aggression above all things, made confrontation with more established crews inevitable. They had ambushed Clay and Derk when they were concluding a deal with Speeler amidst the convoluted mass of chimney and tile where the Blinds bordered Artisan’s Row. The fat man had only two minders with him and the Dalcians numbered ten, leaping across the roof-tops with all the surety and speed of men accustomed to high places. It could have gone badly but, for all their athleticism and skill with a cleaver, the Dalcians enjoyed no immunity to bullets. Clay and Derk shot down two and Speeler’s minders another three. All but one had fled, the biggest and therefore probably the leader, coming on with all speed despite the blood flowing from the wound in his gut. Clay had put his last round in the Dalcian as he got within ten feet but it barely slowed him, leaping high with his cleaver poised for a skull-splitting blow, then falling dead when Speeler put two shots clean through his head.

“Tonight’s inconvenient,” Clay said, disliking the necessity for reluctance. In a society such as theirs an unsettled debt was a considerable burden to carry, even for a man due to make his way across the ocean in two days.

“Don’t get done tonight then I will,” Speeler replied. “Shipment of Green and Red coming in. Corvantine stock, hence the need for discretion and protection. Gave a commitment to the sellers, but I’m a day late in assembling the necessary funds and they ain’t the most understanding folk.”

Corvantine stock, Clay mused. Which means pirates. No wonder he’s nervous. “Where’s your regular boys?” he asked.

“They’ll be there, but given the awkwardness of the situation thought I might need a little extra insurance.” He reached into his overcoat, keeping his movements slow, and extracted a single glass vial. “Green.” He made an expert underarm throw, Clay catching the vial as it came level with his chest. He removed the vial’s stopper for a sniff, nostrils flaring at the sharpness of the scent. This was the best stuff he’d smelled in a long time.

“It’s potent,” Speeler warned. “Low dilution. Might want to hold off awhile, wait till you need it. Thought maybe you could keep over-watch. Things go bad you drink this and get me clear.”

“How much we talking?”

“Ten casks of Green, three Red.”

“My share?”

“Five percent. Once it’s all sold on, o’ course.”

“Ten. And I’ll take it in product, equal parts Green and Red.”

“You owe me, Clay,” Speeler grated, genuine anger momentarily overriding his fear.

“If I didn’t I’d already have said no. You threw down your scrip, now here’s mine. Pick it up or be on your way.”

He held out the vial, ready to drop it, watching Speeler wrestle with the dilemma, his hands fidgeting and balding pate shinier than ever. Whoever these pirates are, they got him scared enough to forego some profit. The notion set him to wondering if he shouldn’t raise his percentage to fifteen when Speeler huffed a groan and nodded.

“Bewler’s Wharf,” he said. “Two hours.”

“I’ll be there.”

Clay turned to ascend the stairs, pausing when Speeler said something else, soft but sincere. “Wouldn’t have come lest my life was in the balance. You know that right?”

“Surely do,” Clay assured him with a small grin before pocketing the vial and turning back to the stairs.

—

Bewler’s Wharf lay at the western extremity of the docks, a run-down and best-avoided stretch of quay afforded a faint sheen of respectability by the occasional berthing of an Alebond Commodities ship. However, by far the majority of vessels to call here were Independents, freelance Blue-hunters or tramp coal-burners for the most part and, every once in a while, a sleek but otherwise nondescript freighter of Corvantine design. Clay had seen her before, each time flying a different company flag and sporting a different name on her hull. But, like most in his profession Clay knew her true name well enough: Windqueen. Legend had it she had been the pride of the Corvantine Imperial Merchant Service before falling afoul of pirates in the seas off Varestia, a region known as the Red Tides since the empire lost control of the peninsula nearly a century ago. What passed for government in Varestia had little inclination to strict observance of Company Law, meaning most pirate ships could come and go as they pleased and their crews were often drawn from the peninsula, olive-skinned folk of notoriously taciturn but quick-tempered nature.

Clay sat atop the roof of the Mariner’s Rest, a tall if poorly maintained inn providing a clear view of the wharf, particularly the twenty square yards of cobbled quayside where business of this nature would most likely be conducted. The pirates were already in attendance, a half-dozen men and three women in seafarer’s garb of dark cotton and sturdy boots. They were lined up in front of a tarp-covered wagon and Clay judged them a professional bunch from their spacing and the men on each flank sporting repeating carbines. The others all stood in silent vigilance, bristling with pistols and blades of varying sizes. He assumed the woman standing in the centre of their line to be the captain, or at least a senior mate trusted to conclude this transaction. She wasn’t overly tall or physically imposing but had the quiet air of authority that came from command, her confidence no doubt enhanced by the brace of throwing knives about her waist and the shotgun strapped across her back.

He had come alone despite Derk’s protestations. “Are we not partners?” he had asked, his hurt tone only half-faked.

“Speeler’s too scared for my liking,” Clay said, pulling his pistol’s holster over his shoulder and strapping it tight. “I may need to run, which case you won’t be able to keep up. ’Sides”—he nodded at the bag containing their loot before casting a meaningful glance at Joya—“someone’s gotta watch our valuables.”

“If he’s so scared you shouldn’t go,” Joya said. “Doesn’t smell right, Clay.”

“It’s the Blinds,” he said. “Nothing smells right. Things’ll smell sweeter in Feros, especially with a stash of quality product to sell.”

He had chosen a circuitous path, around the main Protectorate patrol routes and clear of the more territorial packs. On reaching the roof-top of the Mariner’s Rest he sank onto his belly and crawled to the vantage point, wary of any betraying shadow from the two moons. Long experience had instilled in him a keen sense of punctuality and he got there early enough to witness the pirates arrive with their booty.

It was another quarter hour before Speeler turned up. He had four minders with him tonight, his regular companions Jesh and Mingus plus another two of similarly broad proportions. Clay watched them approach the pirates, the minders’ eyes roving the shadowed quayside all the while. They halted a dozen feet from the woman, who duly inclined her head at Speeler’s faintly heard greeting. She stood in cross-armed silence as Speeler kept talking, plump hands moving in placating gestures. He went on for a good few minutes before falling silent, clasping his hands together in tense expectation.

The woman stared at him for a long while then shrugged and turned to issue a curt order to her subordinates. A pair of burly pirates trundled the wagon forward, pulling back the tarp to reveal the casks beneath. The woman held out a hand to Speeler, inviting his inspection. The fat man made it brief, removing the stopper from two of the casks for a brief sniff of the contents before pronouncing himself satisfied and gesturing for Mingus to come forward. The minder slowly extracted a bulging wallet from his jacket and handed it to the woman. A suitably varied mix of corporate scrip and exchange notes, no doubt.

Clay saw it as the woman counted the notes. The effects of the few drops of Green had faded but the residue left an unnatural keenness to his sight, keen enough to see the surreptitious flicker of movement as one of Speeler’s new minders reached into his jacket and came out with a revolver. It was a short-barrelled, black-enamel .35 Dessinger, standard issue to all Ironship Protectorate Covert Officers, meaning this night had just taken a decided turn for the worse.

It was all too quick for him to intervene, or even voice a warning shout. The Protectorate man aimed his revolver at the back of Speeler’s head and pulled the trigger, blowing much of his face onto the pirate woman. The other minder was already firing, one shot each for Mingus and Jesh before they could even get a hand to their weapons. Clay scrambled back from the edge of the roof, fumbling for his vial of Green and expecting an eruption of gun-fire as the pirates sought to secure their wares and fight their way to the Windqueen. Instead, the outburst of violence was followed by a silence sufficiently unexpected to make him pause.

He raised himself up to risk a brief glance at the wharf, seeing the pirate woman wiping Speeler’s gore from her face with evident annoyance but no sign of impending retribution. Also, her shipmates were still standing in the same formation, none having drawn a blade or aimed a weapon. Set-up, Clay realised, watching the woman exchange a terse greeting with the man who had shot Speeler. Walked into a trap with two Protectorate men at his back. His gaze returned to the product-laden wagon. A well-baited trap to be sure. Hard to resist, for him . . . or me.

The suspicion grew as he scooted back, a growing understanding of his predicament building to a certainty. Sought me out and cashed in his scrip to get me here. Can’t be a coincidence. His thoughts flew quickly to Joya and Derk waiting at the church, unaware of the unfolding danger. He turned about, sitting up and throwing his head back to imbibe all the Green in a single swallow, his only hope of reaching them in time.

“That would be unwise, young man.”

She stood atop the inn’s chimney, a woman of perhaps fifty with grey-streaked hair tied back in a tight bun, her slim form clad in black from head to toe. The expression with which she regarded him was severe, judgemental even, but also touched with a certain sympathy. Got all the way up there without me hearing a thing, Clay thought, the vial still poised at his lips. Ironship Blood-blessed. And she’ll have more than Green in her veins.

It was hopeless, he knew it, he had no hope of matching her, even if he had all the product in that wagon at his disposal. But Joya and Derk were waiting, trusting him to return as they had for the last ten years. So far he’d never disappointed them.

“Don’t!” the woman commanded as he tipped back the vial. The effect was as immediate as it was unexpected, the familiar tongue-burn drowned out by something far more acrid, something that tasted foul but flooded his belly with all the speed of the best product, sapping his strength in an instant of nausea. Tainted, he realised as the woman leapt down from the chimney, arms outstretched. Tainted blood . . .

He felt the woman’s fingers brush his own, failing to get purchase as he tumbled from the roof, the nausea raging like fire in his gut. Then there was just the endless fall into the black.

CHAPTER 3

Hilemore

“Second Lieutenant Corrick Hilemore, reporting for duty and bearing dispatches, sir!”

Captain Trumane regarded his new officer with impassive grey eyes for several seconds, ignoring the documents held out for inspection. His gaze finally settled on the left epaulette of Hilemore’s uniform, recently augmented with a single star of gold braid. “Loose threads, Lieutenant,” he observed in a tone of predatory satisfaction, rich in the cultured tones of the North Mandinorian managerial class. “Do you consider it appropriate to report to me in such a slovenly condition?”

“My apologies, sir. I received notice of my promotion only this morning, along with my orders. It appears I was less than diligent in amending my uniform.”

“Indeed you were. I shall forego a formal reprimand on this occasion but I will deduct a fine of five scrips from your sea pay.” Captain Trumane cocked his head ever so slightly, visibly scrutinising Hilemore’s face for any sign of anger or dissatisfaction.

“Very good, sir,” Hilemore said in as neutral a tone as possible. He had met several officers like Trumane over the years and learned the folly of rising to their petty taunts. He did, however, permit himself an inner sigh of surprised exasperation at finding one of his type in command of an Ironship war vessel; martinets rarely rose high in the Maritime Protectorate; the rigours of life at sea and the demands of battle had a tendency to weed out the weak of character.

Trumane blinked and finally leaned forward in his seat to take the documents from Hilemore’s grasp. He gave no order to stand at ease so Hilemore was obliged to remain at rigid attention whilst his orders were scrutinised. The larger of the two envelopes bore a double seal, one in red wax and another in black indicating the contents were both strictly secret and required urgent attention. The smaller envelope contained Hilemore’s particulars and confirmation of appointment as Second Mate to the Ironship Protectorate Vessel Viable Opportunity. He was surprised, therefore, when Captain Trumane opened the smaller envelope first.

“Hilemore,” he murmured after perusing the three-page letter. “Would you be any relation to the Astrage Vale Hilemores, by any chance?”

“My cousin owns that estate, sir.”

“Hmm, your people are horse-breeders aren’t they? Or some form of livestock trade, I can’t remember.” He went on without waiting for an answer, “These orders indicate your age as twenty-eight. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are young to hold such a rank. Though you certainly appear older. Life at sea is rarely conducive to a youthful complexion.” He read further before issuing a soft laugh. “Ah, promoted due to distinguished service during the recent Dalcian Emergency. Nothing like a good slaughter to reveal hidden talents. Tell me, how many of those slant-eyed swine did you get?”

Hilemore’s memory abruptly clouded with the confusion and fury of that final battle with the Sovereignist fleet, their gunboats exploding one by one to the cheers of Protectorate sailors. The sea was calm that day but churned white and red by the thrashing of shipless Dalcians. Riflemen to the rail, came the captain’s order. An extra tot of grog for the first man to bag a dozen.

“I didn’t keep count, sir,” Hilemore told Trumane.

“Pity. Sorry to have missed it I must say. Refitting the Viable has occupied me for an inordinate length of time.” Trumane took his time reading the rest of Hilemore’s orders. “Appointment as Second Mate, eh? Your predecessor didn’t leave much of an example to live up to, thirty years in the service and never got his own command. Would have cashiered the bugger for drunkenness if he hadn’t been so close to his pension. You are familiar with the allotted duties of a Second Mate, I assume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which are?”

“Keeping of the payroll, oversight of ensigns, command of the ship’s riflemen and boarding parties.”

“You have forgotten one particular duty, Mr. Hilemore. Clearly you have never served aboard a blood-burner before.”

Hilemore managed not to flush in embarrassment. “Of course, sir. My mistake. I am also responsible for the security and discipline of the ship’s Blood-blessed.”

“Yes.” There was a faintly amused lilt to Trumane’s voice as he tossed Hilemore’s orders aside and reached for the second envelope. “A task not to be envied on this ship. I’m afraid our Blood-blessed has a little too much in common with your predecessor, habits developed before my appointment I should add. He’ll need taking in hand.”

“I’ll see to it, sir.”

“Very well.” The captain reached for the envelope with the black seal and tore it open, Hilemore noting an anticipatory smile flicker on his lips as he read the contents.

“Report to Lieutenant Lemhill, the First Officer,” he said, glancing up from the orders. “You’ll find him on the bridge. The ship is to prepare to leave port immediately.”

—

Lieutenant Lemhill proved to be much more typical of a veteran officer than his captain. A stocky South Mandinorian with weathered features, his dark skin was marked by a pale crescent-shaped scar on his cheek. He was also at least ten years older than Trumane with a notably less cultured accent.

“Another northerner,” he said, scanning Hilemore’s orders briefly. “The Maritime officer class has been going to shit ever since it started filling up with you pasty sods.” Lemhill’s shrewd eyes examined Hilemore’s face closely for a long moment, narrowing a little in recognition. “Had a captain once,” he said. “Name of Racksmith. An officer of great renown. Guessing you’ve heard of him.”

Hilemore gave a tight, controlled smile. There were times when bearing a close resemblance to a famous grandfather could be a singular trial. “All my life, sir.”

Lemhill grunted, folding Hilemore’s orders and consigning them to the pocket of his tunic. “Broke your grandfather’s heart when your mother married some managerial fop, I must say.”

It was a calculated insult. Lemhill, like Trumane, clearly had ways of testing the temper of new officers. “My father,” Hilemore replied, “was a fraud, an adulterer, an inveterate gambler and a drunkard. But, I must insist, sir, he was no fop.”

Lemhill’s eyes betrayed a slight glimmer of amusement before he turned and barked over his shoulder. “Mr. Talmant!”

Next to the wheel a skinny youth in the ill-fitting uniform of a first-year ensign spun on his heels and snapped to attention. “Aye, sir!”

“Enter Mr. Hilemore’s name in the ship’s books, appointment as Second Mate confirmed and accepted. Date and time for my signature.”

“If I may, sir,” Hilemore said. “Message from Captain Trumane, the ship will prepare to leave port.”

Lemhill’s face betrayed only the faintest flicker of irritation. “Our course?”

“As yet undetermined, sir. I arrived bearing dispatches from the Sea Board. Black seal.”

The First Officer issued a low, rumbling sigh as he turned away. “Mr. Talmant, when you’re done with the books show Mr. Hilemore to his quarters. Best if you acquaint him with Mr. Tottleborn on the way.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Don’t take too long getting settled, Lieutenant,” Lemhill told Hilemore, unhooking a chain holding two keys from his belt. “I’m giving you the first watch.”

Midnight to seven o’clock. Traditionally it was an ensign’s shift but Hilemore had been the new officer on enough ships by now to expect it, at least for the first few weeks. “Thank you, sir,” he said, taking the keys. One was small, the kind typically used for cabinets or drawers, the other much larger with a complex series of teeth running along its sides.

“My pleasure, Mr. Hilemore.” Lemhill turned and reached for the lanyard above the wheel, pulling it five times, the ship’s steam-powered Klaxon blasting with every pull. Five blasts, Hilemore thought. The signal for an imminent war cruise.

—

Officially the Viable Opportunity belonged to the Sea Wolf class of fast cruisers, a line only recently discontinued in favour of the more heavily armed Eagle class. She was of typically sleek proportions with a low profile and the side-paddles in curving armoured casements. However, as Hilemore followed the ensign from the bridge to the crew quarters, his practised eye picked out certain distinguishing modifications. The Viable’s stacks were positioned at a slightly more acute angle than her sister ships’ and he saw an empty space where the forward secondary battery should have been. Also, the armour plating that normally clad the rails fore and aft of the paddles had been removed.

“The recent refit was extensive?” he asked Ensign Talmant.

“Indeed, sir,” the boy replied, casting an earnest smile at Hilemore over his shoulder. “Eight weeks in dry-dock. New engines installed and a great deal of weight stripped out. All done under Captain Trumane’s supervision. It seems she may now be the fastest cruiser in the fleet, sea trials permitting.”

“Your first ship, Mr. Talmant?”

“Yes, sir. I was very lucky in the appointment. Fully expected to land in a coastal police boat, truth be told.”

Hilemore’s mind immediately returned to the black-sealed envelope and the five blasts Lemhill had sounded. He couldn’t help but wonder how lucky Mr. Talmant would feel when their mission was revealed.

The ensign led him through a door into the mid-deck quarters where officers of the third tier in the ship’s hierarchy made their home. “Your cabin is at the port end, sir,” Talmant told him. “This, however, is Mr. Tottleborn’s.” He stopped at a door halfway along the passage and raised a hand to knock, Hilemore noting a certain hesitation as he did so.

“Something wrong, Ensign?” Hilemore asked as the boy fidgeted.

“No, sir.” Talmant straightened his back and delivered three quick raps to the door. They waited for some seconds, hearing no stirrings from the cabin beyond. Talmant swallowed an embarrassed cough and tried again. This time the response was immediate, the words slurred and slightly muffled.

“Fucking fuck off! I’m ill!”

“Is it locked?” Hilemore asked Talmant, who tried the handle and nodded. “Stand aside.”

“Sir, he’s the . . .”

“I know what he is. Stand aside.”

The lock was sturdy but gave way at the second kick, Hilemore advancing into the cabin towards the unshaven sallow-faced man cowering amidst the blankets on his bunk. “Second Lieutenant Corrick Hilemore,” he introduced himself, grabbing the man by his silk pyjamas and hauling him out of bed. The man whimpered as Hilemore forced him against the bulkhead, wincing at the outrush of gin-infused breath and the sickly odour of unwashed flesh.

“As of today I am Second Mate aboard this ship,” Hilemore informed the pyjama-clad man, “and you are in my charge. Henceforth, when an officer of this vessel knocks on your door you will answer it with all alacrity. Whatever privilege my predecessor allowed you to imagine you enjoy is not my concern. You are a contract employee of the Ironship Maritime Protectorate, nothing more. I trust this is understood?”

“You can’t hit me,” Tottleborn whined, shrinking back. “I have an irregular heart-beat and may die.” A small glimmer of defiance crept into his gaze. “Then who will power the ship?”

Hilemore considered these words for a moment then jabbed his fore-knuckles into Tottleborn’s rib-cage. “There are some,” he said, releasing the man and letting him slide down the bulkhead to lie clutching his side, red-faced and gasping, “who consider the Blood-blessed to hold some mystical, elevated status amongst the great mass of humanity. I’m told in the less civilised corners of the globe there are those who worship your kind with all the fervour the Church of the Seer afford the scriptures. A not unreasonable philosophy given your rarity. Why not see some divine favour in the fact that only one in every thousand of us is chosen to enjoy the gift contained in the blood of drakes?”

He crouched, leaning close to Tottleborn and speaking very clearly. “I trust I have made my lack of sympathy with such attitudes plain, Mr. Tottleborn. From now on, as dictated by Protectorate Regulations, the keys to the product cabinet and the liquor store will be held by me alone. You will fulfil every clause in your contract. I trust this is understood?”

He rose staring down at the Blood-blessed until he gave a short nod. “Very well.” He cast a disgusted glance around the cabin, taking in the sight of a score or more empty bottles amidst scattered papers and crushed cigarillo butts. “Clean yourself up then restore these quarters to some semblance of decency. After that report to me in the engine room. We sail within the hour.”

—

Chief Engineer Bozware was only distinguishable as a North Mandinorian by virtue of his name and accent, his skin being so entirely covered in an amalgam of grease and soot as to make judging his ethnicity impossible. He waved impatiently as Hilemore stood at the hatchway, having followed custom and requested permission to enter. Hilemore and the Chief Engineer were technically of equal rank which required the observance of certain formalities.

“Just come and go as you please,” Bozware told Hilemore. “Trust you’ll have the good sense not to touch anything.”

“I wouldn’t dare, Chief.” Hilemore’s gaze tracked over Bozware’s domain, finding that whatever his disregard for personal cleanliness it didn’t extend to his engines. Most of the Chief’s dozen-strong crew of sub-engineers were busy polishing every lever and bolt whilst two shovelled coal into the fire-box of the bulky auxiliary power plant squatting on the lower deck. Hilemore’s gaze followed the steel rod rising from the top of the engine to the complex series of levers above, his attention inevitably drawn to the smaller and decidedly more elegant device resting in a cradle at the axis between the drive-shafts of the ship’s two side-wheels. He had seen thermoplasmic engines before, mainly in diagrams, and had always been struck by their ingenious yet simple design. Looking closer at this one, however, he found it to be different, featuring some additional pipes and dials. Also, he saw a shiny new brass plate affixed to the water reservoir.

“Is that . . . ?” he began, turning to Bozware.

“A Mark Six,” he confirmed, a note of pride in his voice. “First one to be fitted to any Protectorate vessel. New condensers and combustion chamber, co-designed by our very own captain and installed under his supervision. Overall efficiency increase of twenty-five percent, though I’m confident I can get her up to thirty before we’re done.”

Twenty-five percent. Hilemore did some quick mental arithmetic. “That would mean a top speed of . . .” He trailed off into a laugh, shaking his head.

“Thirty knots in fair weather,” Bozware finished, then gave a meaningful glance at the empty hatchway. “Depending on the diligence of our Contractor, of course.”

“He’ll be along,” Hilemore assured him. “And I should appreciate it if you would report any future tardiness to me.”

“Glad to.”

The bridge communicator above Bozware’s head emitted a sudden and insistent trill, the pointer moving to the red portion of the dial: start auxiliary engine. “Best be about it,” Bozware said, moving the communicator’s handle back and forth to acknowledge the order. He paused to glance at something beyond Hilemore’s shoulder. “Glad you could join us, Mr. Tottleborn.”

Hilemore turned to see the Blood-blessed emerging from the hatchway, eyes red but considerably more alert than earlier. He had shaved before leaving his cabin and run a comb through his hair. As befit his station he wore civilian clothes, a well-tailored waistcoat and shirt, though Hilemore frowned at finding his collar undone.

“Gets hot in here,” Tottleborn muttered, moving past him to climb the iron steps to his allotted station at the platform where the thermoplasmic engine awaited his attention.

“Be a good half-hour before we clear the harbour,” Bozware advised Hilemore. “Safe to assume the captain will want to go to full steam once we’re in open water.”

“I’ll be back directly.” Hilemore moved to the hatch. “One vial will suffice?”

“Best make it two. He’s been waiting quite some time to see his pride and joy take flight.”

Coal smoke was already rising from the Viable’s stacks when Hilemore emerged onto the upper deck. Sailors were casting off the ties and from the stern came the rattle of heavy chains as the ship’s anchor was hauled up. The paddles began turning as he climbed the gangway to the bridge, the ship’s bow slowly drifting away from the quayside. Hilemore paused for a final look at Feros, his home for six dreary months. Ever since receiving Lewella’s letter his mood had been dark, his days spent at the Sea Board in a grind of administration and inspections. Feros was a place of fine architecture, ancient culture and countless places where tourist or sailor alike could find all manner of gratifying entertainments. Hilemore had shunned it all, clinging to the daily schedule with monastic devotion, hoping to lose himself in labour, seeking distraction amongst endless reams of paper or hours spent drilling cadets on the parade-ground. Anything to prevent a bout of indulgent introspection, or a masochistic re-reading of her letter. It is with the heaviest of hearts that I write these words, my dearest Corrick. Please do not hate me . . .

“Is it your habit to dawdle before reporting to the bridge, Mr. Hilemore?”

He turned, finding Captain Trumane standing at the hatchway, a certain amused satisfaction in his gaze. A man engaged in a constant search for the weaknesses of others, Hilemore decided. Perhaps the means by which he maintains faith in his own superiority.

“Chief Engineer Bozware’s compliments, sir,” he said, this time opting not to offer an apology lest it become a habit. “Mr. Tottleborn is at his station and Mr. Bozware suggests two vials.”

He saw a momentary indecision on Trumane’s face, no doubt considering if insisting on some expression of contrition would appear undignified in front of a fully manned bridge. In the event his better judgement prevailed, though his voice retained a certain tightness as he replied, “No, three vials if you please.”

Trumane’s gaze went to the long shape of the Consolidation, now tracking across the Viable’s shifting bow. She was an undeniably impressive sight, a tri-wheel heavy cruiser with an additional paddle at the stern, bristling with batteries fore and aft, her decks crowded with sailors seeing to the endless chores arising from maintenance of such a large vessel. In addition to being the largest warship at berth in Feros harbour the Consolidation was also flagship of the Protectorate’s South Seas Fleet and home to Vice-Commodore Semnale Norworth, Fleet Commander and the most renowned Protectorate officer of modern times. Hilemore could see no sign of the Commodore on the Consolidation’s bridge; in fact the Viable’s departure seemed to arouse little reaction from the other ships in the harbour, there being none of the usual polite signals of good luck or catcalls from idle deck-hands.

“We will be engaging the primary engine the instant we clear the harbour mole,” Trumane said, eyes still fixed on the indifferent bulk of the Consolidation. “Tell Chief Bozware to spare nothing and make sure that sot Tottleborn doesn’t nod off.”

“Aye, sir.”

“There will be a conference in my cabin at twenty-two hundred hours. Please endeavour not to be late. I strongly suggest you spend the intervening time drilling your riflemen.” The captain turned away, not bothering to return Hilemore’s salute. “Mr. Lemhill, attend closely to your stop-watch, if you please. I shall require the most accurate measurements.”

—

The heavy, multi-toothed key turned easily in the lock, the safe’s thick iron door swinging open to reveal its contents. The safe sat in the ship’s armoury, requiring Hilemore to formally seek admission from the Master-at-Arms. He had concealed his surprise at finding the man to be an Islander, complete with an impressive stature and cruciform pattern of tattoos that tracked across his brow and along the length of his nose.

“Steelfine, sir!” The Master snapped to attention and delivered an impeccable salute. At six-foot-two Hilemore was accustomed to a certain height advantage in most meetings but on this occasion was obliged to look up to meet Steelfine’s gaze.

Hilemore produced the key which the Master-at-Arms scrutinised for a moment before turning to the armoury. “I will, of course, require you to witness this, Mr. Steelfine,” Hilemore told him as the Islander’s powerful hands worked keys in the three separate locks on the armoury door.

“Certainly, sir.”

“When I’m done in the engine room I intend to inspect the ship’s riflemen. Please have them mustered on the fore-deck in full battle order.”

“Got fighting ahead of us, sir?” There was a definite note of anticipation in Steelfine’s question, indicating that, regardless of his current status, his tribal origins hadn’t been completely forgotten.

Hilemore glanced up at the Islander as he crouched in front of the safe. Senior non-commissioned officers were allowed a certain leeway, but there were limits. “Our mission remains confidential until the captain chooses to disclose it.”

Steelfine straightened, face impassive once more. “Of course, sir.”

Hilemore’s gaze lingered on the product in the safe, arrayed in four shelves according to variant and contained in hardened leather flasks rather than glass so they wouldn’t break in a heavy sea. The supply of Red was twice as much as had been available on his previous voyage aboard a blood-burner. But the stocks of other variants seemed thin, barely half of what he would have expected. “When was this last replenished?” he asked Steelfine.

“Yesterday, sir. Noticed the shortfall, naturally. Green especially. Quartermaster says supply is thin all over and gets thinner by the year.”

Whilst the price gets ever fatter, Hilemore thought. “It would be best if the crew remained untroubled by this,” he said. “Doesn’t help morale if they’re given cause to grumble about a lack of Green aboard.”

“Indeed, sir. Mr. Lemhill said the same thing.”

He returned to the engine room, where the series of levers that powered the drive-shafts rose and fell in a blur, giving rise to a rattling cacophony and thickening heat. Chief Bozware regarded the three vials of Red in Hilemore’s hands with a grimace. “Thought he might wait a while before testing her to her limits.”

“Problem, Chief?” Hilemore enquired.

Bozware replied with a grin, though it seemed a little forced. “Best get him ready.” He nodded at the Blood-blessed. Tottleborn had seated himself on a folding chair next to the combustion chamber, apparently occupying himself with a pocket-sized periodical of vulgar content if the cover was anything to go by. Kidnapped by Sovereignists! the title exclaimed above a drawing of a milky-skinned and sparsely clad North Mandinorian woman recoiling in horror from a gang of leering Dalcians of bestial appearance. Tottleborn rose as Hilemore approached, offering no greeting save a churlish scowl.

“I trust your wits are fully recovered,” Hilemore said, handing him the first vial.

“Doesn’t require wit,” Tottleborn replied, removing the stopper from the vial and emptying the contents into the induction port. “A dog could do it if dogs received the Blessing.”

“But sadly, they do not.”

Tottleborn frowned at the pair of remaining vials. “Three?”

“Captain’s orders. Does it present a difficulty?”

Tottleborn shrugged and took the vials, quickly adding the contents of the second to the engine’s blood reservoir and unstoppering the third. “Not for me. Just never burned three at once before. I’m guessing this beast will really shift if the captain’s new toy works as expected.”

“She may well be the fastest vessel afloat anywhere in the world.”

Tottleborn emptied all but a few drops from the third flask and stepped back. “Does that mean I get a bonus?”

“I shouldn’t have thought so.”

The bridge communicator issued another trilling alarm, quickly acknowledged by Chief Bozware. “We’re in open waters!” he reported, hands cupped around his mouth and voice barely audible over the tumult of the auxiliary engine. “Time to light her up!”

Tottleborn raised the third vial to his lips and drank the remaining drops of Red. He stood for a moment, Hilemore reading the desire for retribution in the glower he turned on him. He met the Blood-blessed’s gaze squarely, saying nothing.

“Best stand back if you don’t want a scorching,” Tottleborn advised in a mutter, turning to the engine.

Hilemore took a generous backward step and watched as the Blood-blessed focused his gaze on the small open port in the side of the combustion chamber. For a second the air between Tottleborn and the engine shimmered with heat, then the port snapped shut in automatic response to the rising temperature, the Red inside the chamber flaring into a briefly glimpsed inferno of near-blinding intensity. The pointer on the temperature dial immediately swung to the maximum position and the water reservoir began to emit a loud rumbling as its contents were fed into the chamber.

The tumult dimmed as Bozware took the auxiliary engine off-line, the numerous levers above slowing to a halt. Hilemore had always found true fascination in the workings of the thermoplasmic engine, but the comparative quietude of its operation remained perhaps its most unnerving aspect. No more than a combination of rushing water, hissing steam and turning gears, all suppressed to a low murmur. Despite that the energy being unleashed within this machine far outstripped any other device crafted by human hands.

“Sufficient power to take this ship two hundred miles,” Tottleborn commented as the primary engine’s gears were engaged and the drive-shafts started to turn, slowly at first but soon revolving so fast they blurred. “All derived from a measure of product that wouldn’t even fill half an ale glass.”

And one that will only burn when set alight by one such as you, Hilemore added inwardly. “Truly a miracle of our modern age, sir,” he told the Blood-blessed.

“A miracle that might be worth a celebration?”

“The liquor cabinet will remain locked for the time being. However, if you are in need of distraction, I will commence a daily exercise drill for the crew tomorrow. You are welcome to join.”

Tottleborn gave a heavy sigh and returned to his seat, opening his vulgar periodical once more. “Thank you, but I have always preferred a more literary form of distraction.”

—

“Thirty-two knots!” Captain Trumane’s fists thumped the chart table, his face flush with triumph. “Even the great Commodore himself can’t argue with that. You have the official record drawn up I assume, Mr. Lemhill?”

“Aye, sir.” The First Mate nodded. “Signed and witnessed, complete with diagrams as ordered.”

“Excellent. Mr. Hilemore, please ensure the man Tottleborn is fully cognisant with the report. He will convey the contents in full during the next scheduled Blue-trance communication. When is that, incidentally?”

“Three days’ time, sir. There is provision within the schedule for an early emergency communication. Though the window is very narrow, only sixty seconds per day and our Blue stocks are not copious.”

“No, let’s allow the Commodore to stew over the results for a while,” Trumane said, then added in a mutter, “Would have liked to see the puffed-up arse’s face when he read it, though.”

“So it’s official,” Lemhill said. “We are now the fastest vessel on the seas.”

“Indeed we are,” agreed Trumane. “And it appears the Sea Board has found suitable prey for their swiftest hunter.” He unfurled a chart on the table, Hilemore instantly recognising the north Arradsian coast and the dense, arcing cluster of fractured land-masses that comprised the Barrier Isles. “Our course, gentlemen.” Trumane’s finger traced the freshly drawn pencil line from Feros to a point some sixty miles east of the Strait.

“Tell me,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the dread pirate vessel Windqueen?”

CHAPTER 4

Lizanne

It’s different. Lizanne had taken her customary place at the prow as the Mutual Advantage cleared the massive edifice of the outer mole. Although nearly a century old the mole remained one of the largest structures in the world, a seventy-foot-high wall of granite that shielded Carvenport from the tides that had made the first attempts at colonisation so difficult. At each two- or three-moon tide the great copper doors would be lowered across the harbour entrance to prevent the sea flooding the docks and much of the town beyond. Lizanne’s first experience of a three-moon tide had left a sobering impression. The sight of the ocean rising to within a yard of the top of the mole was an unnerving reminder that, however permanent their presence on this continent might seem, civilisation could still be washed from these shores in an instant.

She was joined at the prow by a throng of passengers, all chattering in excitement as they passed beneath the huge green-streaked wings of the raised doors and the full sweep of Carvenport stood revealed. The city remained a remarkable testament to the colonial aspirations of the defunct Mandinorian Empire, the product of a time before much of the world chose to dispense with such fictions as monarchy or politics. Now, thanks to this age where the rational pursuit of profit trumped archaic attachments to flags and borders, Carvenport had blossomed into a fully modern port that could rival even the great conurbations of the northern continents.

Cranes and warehouses crowded the shore of the bowl-shaped inlet where the port made its home, and beyond them the permanently smoke-shrouded vats and water-towers of the breeding pens. Farther in, close-packed slums were separated from more privileged neighbourhoods by tree-lined avenues that seemed to have gained some width in the intervening years. The buildings of the corporate quarter were taller now, all sharing a similar architectural style of low-angled roofs and high but narrow windows. Near by she heard one of the passengers waxing at length about the influence of a renowned but continually inebriated architect who had sought his fortune south of the Strait a decade before. Apparently he had designed over twenty buildings for three separate companies, earning considerable advances in the process which still weren’t enough to settle his mountainous debts. Rumour had it he had slunk away on a north-bound steamer with a valise full of cash leaving his contracts unfulfilled, although his clients had clearly made considerable use of his designs. To Lizanne’s eyes it seemed the talented drunk had left an impressive legacy.

Confidence, she decided, her eyes alighting on an abstract stained-glass window rising almost the complete height of a building flying the Briteshore Minerals flag. That’s what’s different. Not just the size of it. Carvenport was always rich, now it seemed to know what wealth meant in this world.

She arranged with the purser to have her luggage conveyed to the Academy and proceeded down the gangplank to the wharf. She skirted the milling gaggle of passengers seeking greeters or transport and made for the row of horse-drawn cabs at the junction of Queen’s Row, the main thoroughfare into the heart of the city.

“Ironship House, miss?” the driver asked with a respectful nod at her Shareholder’s pin.

“No, the Academy if you please. And I would prefer the more direct route.” She handed him five copper scrips to underline her meaning and climbed into the cab. The driver set off with a whistle at his horse, obediently making for the narrower streets bordering Bewler’s Wharf. Lizanne noted some form of commotion taking place as they passed the wharf, a tall uniformed Inspector from the Protectorate Constabulary remonstrating loudly with a blocky man in cheap clothing whom she nevertheless immediately recognised as a Covert operative. The blocky man stood impassive and unresponsive as the Inspector railed at him, finger jabbing for emphasis. Beyond them, Lizanne could see steam billowing as an Independent freighter of Corvantine design churned her paddles to draw away from the quay. She could also see three lumpen white sheets lying on the cobbles, tell-tale splashes of red discolouring the cotton.

“Trouble here last night?” she asked the driver.

“Wouldn’t know, miss,” he said. “But this close to the Blinds, not a night goes by without some drama.”

The Blinds. She occupied herself with viewing the shabby, labyrinthine spectacle of Carvenport’s largest slum as it passed by on her right. Her student days had seen numerous excursions here; Madame Bondersil had ever been assiduous in teaching her girls the twin values of disguise and a well-concealed weapon. Over-reliance on your ingrained gifts can be deadly, one of her favourite mantras. Never forget, product is always finite.

Lizanne caught a brief glimpse of the famous haunted church before they turned off into Artisan’s Row. It seemed to have suffered a recent calamity, the steeple blackened to scorched ruin. The Pale-Eyed Preacher strikes again, she thought with a small grin, knowing full well such a myth would already be raging through every grimy alley and wine-shop. For all the poverty and violence she had witnessed here, she still retained a perverse fondness for the Blinds. Its outward appearance of chaos in fact concealed a place of rigid order, an established hierarchy enforcing rules with all the efficiency and ruthlessness of the Protectorate. Lizanne liked order; it was predictable whereas so much of her working life was not.

The cab proceeded along Artisan’s Row with all its cacophonous workshops then into the neat lawns of Baldon Park where she abruptly decided to walk the rest of the way. She paid the driver the full fare and strolled towards the Academy amidst an occasional flurry of cherry blossoms. The park had been something of a refuge during her student days, a place for solitary reading beneath the trees and perhaps a small flirtation with one of the more interesting young men with sufficient nerve to approach her. She recalled her first serious dalliance had begun here. He had been a kind if overly serious type, as fond of books as she was, though his father, a Senior Manager at Ironship House, had eventually forced him into a junior accountancy position in Feros. It had been a slight thing, really, as short-lived and pleasing as these swirling blossoms in fact, but she had never entertained any delusions as to a shared future. Academy girls didn’t marry, it was well known. He had ventured the possibility only once, after an exciting if inexpert interlude one Truminsday evening. They lay together amidst the trees bordering the park’s lake, and she felt him tense as she regarded the dimming sky with a certain serene detachment. She knew he was about to say something final, something that would bring an end to these pleasant distractions. It was a little saddening but also inevitable. Madame Bondersil was always very frank about such matters.

“The Academy,” he had said, a slight stammer betraying his own awareness of the finality of the moment. But youth was ever the repository of hope. “You don’t have to . . . I mean to say, you could always leave.”

“Yes,” she had replied, getting to her feet. He rose with her and she shook the leaves from her hair before adjusting her uniform into a resemblance of acceptability. She caressed his face for a moment, smiling and planting a fond kiss on his lips. “I could.”

She had walked away, feeling his eyes on her and not looking back. She didn’t return to the park for several months and eventually discreet enquiries revealed his subsequent employment and marriage in Feros. It was odd that she had never encountered him there, telling herself it was due to her frequent absences or unfamiliarity with the more routine aspects of Syndicate business. But there was a lingering guilty suspicion that she must have seen him, another anonymous face she had failed to recognise amongst the ranks of desk-bound number tickers.

Unlike the rest of the city the Academy seemed largely unchanged: a simple unadorned three-storey rectangular building with whitewashed walls surrounded by tall, wickedly spiked railings. The wrought-iron letters above the gate read: Ironship Syndicate Academy for Female Education, a title that had always struck her as simultaneously dishonest and entirely factual. The guards at the gate stood aside with respectful touches to their caps as she approached, making no effort to enquire as to her business or confirm her identity. Clearly she was expected.

It being mid morn all the girls were at class and she made an uninterrupted progress through courtyard and corridor until she came to the winding staircase at the rear of the building. The other stairwells in the Academy led to the lecture halls and dormitories on the upper floors; this one however had but one destination. She paused at the foot of the stairs, awash in the memory of all the times she had stood here, the first looming by far the largest. She had been eight years old and recently arrived from Feros, shuffling and snuffling in solitary misery, unable to place her foot on the first step for fear of the great and terrible monster that waited above. A hand rested softly on her shoulder and she looked up to find a slim dark-haired woman regarding her with a raised eyebrow. She seemed to be of an age with Lizanne’s Aunt Pendilla, which made her ancient in a child’s eyes but she knew now she couldn’t have been more than forty at the time.

“They told you she beats all the new girls, didn’t they?” the woman asked, to which Lizanne gave a damp-eyed nod.

“Well.” The woman crouched to take her hand, the warmth of the contact somehow banishing Lizanne’s fear and she followed without hesitation as the woman led her up the stairs. “She’s a bit of an ogre, it’s true. But I think I may be able to talk her out of it. Just this once.”

Lizanne smiled at the memory as she climbed, remembering being guided to the office where the woman had taken a seat behind a large desk. Lizanne sat in an empty chair in front of the desk, legs dangling over the edge. “I am Madame Lodima Bondersil,” the dark-haired woman said. “Principal of this Academy. You are Lizanne Lethridge, my newest student.”

They had talked only briefly, Madame Bondersil explaining the Academy’s rules and the correct conduct expected of a student. But in those few moments Lizanne’s loneliness and homesickness faded to just a dull ache, one that would disappear completely over the coming weeks. Madame spoke with a surety and precision that dispelled childhood insecurity and in all the years that followed Lizanne never doubted for an instant that this was a place of safety and welcome. Even now the Academy felt like her only true home.

She found Madame engaged in the Blue-trance, sitting behind her desk in statue-like stillness, eyes open but unfocused, the pupils turned up and half-concealed. “I’ll fetch some tea,” Madame’s secretary whispered, slipping from the room. Her caution was habitual rather than necessary. They could both have sung the Syndicate Anthem at the top of their lungs and Madame would not have stirred an inch. The Blue-trance was absolute and inviolate.

Lizanne took the seat in front of the desk, marvelling at how small it seemed now, before settling her gaze on Madame’s face. A few more lines, she decided. And she’s thinner. The innate strength was still there, however, in the straight-backed posture, impeccably neat hair and the plain dress of dark blue cotton adorned only by her Shareholder’s pin. Lizanne smiled and allowed her gaze to wander, settling, as it often had, on the framed sketch hanging on the wall to the left. Besides the obligatory painting of the Adventurous on the opposite wall, the sketch was the only piece of art in the room. It had been rendered with great skill, so precisely in fact it first appeared to be a photostat and only on closer inspection were the pencil lines revealed. It depicted a dark-haired, oval-faced girl who seemed to be no older than sixteen, although Lizanne knew she had been nineteen when the drawing was made. She looked out from the frame with a half smile and a keen glint in her eye, the expression of a curious and confident young woman. Too curious, Lizanne decided, although she had never in fact met this girl. And far too confident.

“You remind me of her, sometimes.”

Lizanne’s gaze snapped to Madame Bondersil, now fully returned from the trance and regarding her with an expectant expression. She always was a stickler for formality. Lizanne got to her feet and gave a precise curtsy. “Madame. Miss Lizanne Lethridge of the Exceptional Initiatives Division reporting on the instructions of the Board, as per your request.”

“Welcome, Miss Lethridge. Please accept my congratulations on your recent elevation.”

“Thank you, Madame. It was as welcome as it was unexpected.”

“I doubt that. Would you care to enlighten me as to the circumstances of your promotion? A successful and profitable excursion to dangerous and exotic climes, no doubt.”

“I am employed as an experimental plasmologist, Madame. As you know. I have had no occasion to leave Feros in the past seven years nor would I be at leave to discuss such an excursion had it ever taken place.”

Madame Bondersil’s mouth gave the barest twitch as she inclined her head. “It’s very good to see you again, Lizanne. Ah, tea, what perfect timing. We’ll take it on the veranda.”

The veranda offered a fine view of Carvenport all the way down to the harbour, with the breeding pens forming a central point of focus. It was clearly a birthing day judging by the thickening pall of smoke rising above the vats. Lizanne averted her gaze, preferring to watch the ships in harbour. In all her years here she had only toured the pens once and had found that single visit more than sufficient. A strong stomach was a requirement of her occupation, but even she had limits. It had been the birthing more than anything else that unsettled her. The nesting drakes would breathe fire on their eggs, the waking fire, the harvesters called it. The eggs would blacken at first, then a glow would appear inside as the gases contained within took light before exploding. When the smoke cleared the harvesters would immediately scoop up the small squawking infant before their mother could begin to lick away the soot. Hardened as she was by both education and profession, Lizanne still found the screams of both mother and infant capable of sending an icy spike through her heart.

“How do you like the tea?” Madame Bondersil asked, sipping from her own cup.

“Pleasing,” Lizanne said. “If a little unusual. A slight floral aftertaste, I find.”

“Indeed. They call it Green Pearl, the only variety ever successfully grown on Arradsian soil. Of course the Syndicate was quick to purchase the patent and ensure only the most limited supply is harvested. Can you imagine what a collapse of tea imports would do to local profits?”

“A sobering thought indeed, Madame.”

“Your journey was appropriately comfortable, I trust.”

“For the most part. I am afraid I must report a . . . regrettable necessity.” She related a carefully edited version of events surrounding the demise of the unfortunate Mr. Redsel. From Madame’s occasional raised eyebrow she deduced a certain awareness of the obfuscation but thankfully was spared any embarrassing questions.

“The body?” Madame asked instead when Lizanne had finished.

“Consigned to the sea the very next day. It doesn’t do to keep a corpse aboard ship for any length of time. Mrs. Jackmore made quite a scene, I must say.”

“And you’re certain he wasn’t Cadre?”

If he had been it may well have been my body they tossed over the side. “As certain as I can be.”

“All very troubling but, sadly, not unexpected. It seems the Corvantines have either divined our intent or are perilously close to doing so.”

“In which case, Madame, they have the advantage over me.”

“The Board told you nothing about your mission on my advice. If this Mr. Redsel had succeeded our efforts would already be undone. Although, the fact that he knew your true status does cast your further involvement in some doubt.”

“I’m not sure he did fully appreciate my abilities, or know of my specialism. I believe he had been expecting a less worldly or formidable target. The Corvantines undoubtedly know of my promotion and family history. It could be they learned of my impending return to Carvenport and saw an opportunity to monitor our communications.”

“All excessively coincidental for my liking. Though they were lax in choosing an Independent for this mission. Another sign of the malaise infecting their empire. It’s like a sick old dog that refuses to die. Always they strive to take back what they lost to us. You would imagine that after a century of decline they would have the decency to follow the example of the old Mandinorian royal idiots and exchange their land and privileges for company shares. But no, they cling on to ancient monarchical fantasies, revelling in their pantomime of aristocracy as if it still means anything in an age such as this.”

“Do you have any notion of who his contact might be? This Truelove?”

Madame Bondersil gave the smallest of wry laughs. “The Imperial Cadre currently operates a dozen agents in this port, that we know of. It would be a sound wager that Truelove will be amongst the dozen or more we know nothing about.”

“Redsel presented himself as a dealer in antiquities. An avenue of inquiry perhaps?”

Madame Bondersil thought for a moment, lips pursed in apparent consternation. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “But also another unpleasant coincidence.”

“Madame?”

The older woman merely blinked before getting to her feet. “Come, I have something to show you.”

—

They took a Syndicate carriage to Artisan’s Row, pulling up outside a small but familiar workshop nestled between a foundry on one side and a gunsmith’s on the other. The faded and flaking sign above the door read “Tollermine and Son—Bespoke Technologists for Over Sixty Years.” Madame told the driver to wait and proceeded inside without pausing to ring the bell suspended beneath an equally faded sign reading “Secure Premises—Entry by Appointment Only.”

They found no-one to greet them in the shop’s front office, a cramped space of many shelves and drawers overflowing with various mechanical trinkets, apparently stored without reference to function or size. They were obliged to pause before the door at the rear of the office whilst a small optical device above the lintel swivelled first towards Lizanne then to Madame Bondersil. The door opened a second later, Lizanne smiling at the familiar aroma that wafted forth. Oil, pipe-smoke and a dozen unnamable chemicals combined into a mixture which somehow carried a sense of cosy welcome. She had always loved her visits here.

The door swung wide to reveal a dumpy man of middling years in a knee-length leather apron and an oversized revolver in his hand. “Sorry,” he said, waving the pistol. “Can’t be too careful.”

Lizanne laughed and rushed forward to greet him with a tight hug, uncaring of the grease on his apron, planting a kiss on his bald pate as he only stood as high as her chest. “Hello, Jermayah!”

“Mr. Tollermine to you,” he gruffed, though she noted he paused long enough to return the hug before moving away. “Guessing you want me to show her?” he asked Madame.

“Indeed, Mr. Tollermine,” she replied. “The associated documents too.”

“Come on then.” He beckoned to them with the revolver, stomping off into the workshop’s cavernous interior which stood in stark contrast to the cramped outer edifice. Lizanne felt oddly gratified by the fact that the space didn’t appear to have shrunk in her absence. As a child it had seemed a cave of treasures, making her laugh as she scampered from one mysterious mechanical wonder to another. The Syndicate operated its own repair shops and manufactories but there were times when Exceptional Initiatives had need of more novel devices, to be crafted and maintained beyond the sight of competitors or Imperial agents. During her tenure at the Academy, only Lizanne had been given the privilege of coming here once every week to be educated in the basics of engineering and the more obscure aspects of chemistry. She had been quick to ask why, of course, being of a somewhat aggravatingly keen mind even at a young age. Jermayah had just shrugged and said, “Can’t steal this stuff if you don’t know what it is.”

He led them through the rows of mechanicals, some familiar but others of such esoteric design as to baffle even Lizanne’s educated eye. She drew up short, however, at the sight of a squat, four-wheeled carriage with a bulbous collection of pipe-work and valves fitted between the driver’s seat and the front axle. “You’re still working on it?” she asked Jermayah with a faintly incredulous laugh.

His expression darkened into a scowl as he glanced over his shoulder. “Nearly done,” he muttered.

“It was nearly done seven years ago,” Lizanne said, as unable to resist taunting him as ever.

“Change the world it will,” came the growling response. “Plasmothermic-driven carriages are the future.”

“Does the main reservoir still melt every time you activate the flow?”

“No,” came the sullen and defensive reply before he added in a softer tone, “Engine’s still too heavy. Won’t move more than a few yards before the drive-shaft seizes.”

“If only you would allow me to share your designs with my father . . .”

“Miss Lethridge!” Madame Bondersil cut in sharply. “I trust you require no reminder that Mr. Tollermine is under exclusive lifetime contract to the Ironship Trading Syndicate, as indeed are you. Whilst your esteemed father has, in the most intemperate terms, rebuffed every contractual approach made by our company.”

“Quite so, Madame.” Lizanne concealed a smile as they came to the solid oaken work-bench where Jermayah spent the bulk of his time. It was usually piled high with tools and various components but today stood empty but for a leather document case and a polished wooden box perhaps ten inches square.

“You were expecting our visit, I see,” Madame Bondersil observed.

“Knew this one was back today.” Jermayah jerked his head at Lizanne as he approached the box, resting a hand on the lid. “Guessing her mission wasn’t ’specially difficult.”

“A moment, please,” Madame said as Jermayah began to lift the lid. She turned to Lizanne, gesturing at the box. “Tell me what you see.”

Lizanne moved to the box as Jermayah stood back, her practised gaze drinking in every detail in a few seconds. It had been fashioned from redwood, one of the darker varieties, varnished and clearly old. Fine work, she decided, noting the near-invisible joins at the corners. None of Mr. Redsel’s fakery here. Her gaze narrowed a little as it traced over the lid and the intricate gold inlaid letters, an archaic flowing script in a language not spoken in any company holding.

“Corvantine,” she told Madame. “Late Third Imperium. Most likely crafted in the port of Valazin at least a century and a half ago.”

“And the letters?”

“Eutherian, the language only spoken by the elite, or the highly educated.” Lizanne took a moment to formulate a reasonable translation whereupon her gaze snapped to Madame’s, finding it met with calm resolve. Lizanne’s mind immediately returned to the sketch in her office: Madame’s most favoured pupil lost nearly two decades ago in pursuit of the impossible. “Have you brought me here to chase legends, Madame?”

Madame Bondersil gave one of her rare smiles, not just a faint flicker of amusement this time, but an expression of genuine and warm appreciation. “I brought you here,” she said, “so that we might secure the future of our company by making the greatest discovery since civilised people first stepped onto these shores. Open the box, Lizanne.”

She sighed in strained amusement as she lifted the lid and revealed what lay inside. Empty. Of course. “I must say this makes for a poor clue,” she said.

“Look closer,” Madame insisted.

Lizanne did as she was bid, peering at the unvarnished interior of the box, seeing only aged wood for the most part although she did detect some faint marks on the base, jagged circles intersected by narrow lines. “Gears?” she asked Jermayah, who nodded.

“Shadows of gears,” he said. “Someone left the lid open long enough for the sun to leave us an impression.” He undid the binds on the leather document case and extracted a drawing. It had been set down on thin paper and covered near a quarter of the work-bench when unfolded.

“Your work, I assume?” Lizanne asked, eyes tracking over the precise lines and cogs, each numbered and described in Jermayah’s neat script. The mechanics were mostly lost on her. She knew a great deal but the workings of this device were best left to the technologist’s eye. The words, however, were a different matter. “Serphia,” she murmured, reading the note next to one of the smaller cogs before moving on to its slightly larger neighbour. “Morvia.” It took a moment before she found their sister, though it was only partially complete, just twenty degrees of a circle larger still than the other two. “Nelphia.”

She moved back from the bench, frowning as she turned to Jermayah. “The three moons. How can you be sure?”

“Simple arithmetic. The diameter of this one,” he pointed to Nelphia’s cog, “is larger than this one,” he tapped Morvia, “by a factor of 1.214. Which in turn is larger than the diameter of Serphia by a factor of 1.448. An exact correlation to the values of their respective orbits.”

“An orrery,” Lizanne realised.

“Quite so,” Madame Bondersil said. “Though the Corvantines call it a solargraph. A device for precisely measuring the varied orbits of the bodies swirling about our sun, once contained within a box marked with the words ‘The Path to the White Drake.’ I assume you see the import of this?”

Lizanne gently closed the lid and traced her fingers over the letters. “I’m afraid your translation is a little too literal, Madame. The inscription is in fact a quotation from one of the classics of Corvantine literature, a partly comic tome entitled The Many Misadventures of Silona Akiv Cevokas. Cevokas is widely believed to have been inspired by a Corvantine scholar from the Third Imperium, possessed of all manner of wild notions who bankrupted himself with successive expeditions to various corners of the globe until, perhaps inevitably, he was drawn to Arradsia and the fabled, always elusive White Drake. The final chapter sees him succumbing to madness somewhere in the southern highlands, all his companions having died or abandoned him during the journey. He resolves to carve an entire mountain into his own White so it can carry him home. The final paragraph sees him happily chiselling away whilst a White creeps up behind him, though by then he’s too mad to notice.”

“And the inscription?” Madame asked.

“‘’Ware the path of the White Drake,’” Lizanne replied. “Though it’s missing the final line: ‘for madness is its only reward.’ Still a popular saying in some Corvantine circles, mostly heard when one is considering a risky business venture.”

She turned to Jermayah. “I assume you’ve attempted to recreate it?”

He shook his head. “There’s no point. Too many parts missing.”

“May I enquire where this box came from?” she asked Madame.

“Morsvale,” she replied.

The only sizable Corvantine enclave on Arradsia, Lizanne thought, her mind quickly formulating the likely purpose of her mission. “Where you will require me to go in search of the missing contents.”

“Indeed.” Madame spoke in a flat tone, free from any suggestion of flexibility. Whilst Lizanne’s contract allowed some leeway in accepting commissions from senior executives, there were those she couldn’t refuse.

“Well,” she said, “it’s preferable to the alternative. For a moment I harboured the terrible suspicion you were about to order me on some mad Interior excursion.”

“No, that aspect of the mission will be left to more appropriate hands.”

“You intend to send an expedition even though the clue promised by this box has not yet been found?”

“Time is our enemy, Lizanne. Your recent encounter aboard ship underlines the urgency very clearly.”

“And where are they to go? We have no confirmation this thing exists . . .”

“That, as you know, is not true.”

Lizanne suppressed an exasperated sigh. “She died, Madame. I know it pains you to think it, but Ethelynne Drystone perished with the Wittler Expedition.”

“They found no body . . .”

“And only the scattered bones of the others, and no trace of the White skeleton she spoke of.”

Madame paused, glancing at Jermayah. “Could you leave us a moment please, Mr. Tollermine.”

“Stop by again before you leave,” the technologist told Lizanne before disappearing into the shadowed depths of his workshop. “Got new toys for you.”

Madame waited until Jermayah’s footsteps had faded before speaking again. “You never read my full report on the Wittler Expedition, did you?”

“It remains sealed by the Board.”

“They didn’t just find a skeleton. Ethelynne recovered an egg. I saw it clearly through the trance.”

The egg of a White Drake. Undoubtedly the most valuable object in the world, should it actually exist. “The trance can be confusing,” she said. “A lesson you taught me long ago. The trance touches our dreams, our hearts. Sometimes it shows us lies we wish to be true.”

“You think I wanted her to find that thing?” Madame spoke quietly but with a heat Lizanne had rarely heard. “You think I wanted to see her like that, feel her fear, her desperation? She found an egg. The others died, killing each other thanks to some maddening infection released when their harvester powdered one of the White’s bones. But Ethelynne lived, and she took that egg with her.”

“The location of which you expect to be revealed by a Corvantine novelty fashioned more than a hundred years ago?”

“If it leads us to the nesting grounds of the White Drake, it may well lead us to Ethelynne. She was always a very curious soul and, even if the Whites all perished long ago, there is a chance she would seek their place of origin.”

A girl of nineteen, lost and alone in a continent of jungle and desert liberally seeded with wild drakes and Spoiled tribes for nigh-on thirty years. Blood-blessed or not, the odds of her survival seemed astronomical, and yet Madame would not let go her hope. “The Red Sands,” she told Lizanne. “We have contracted a company to journey there and retrieve what evidence remains of the Wittler Expedition. By the time they have done so it is my hope your investigations in Morsvale will have revealed further intelligence to aid their hunt. The box was sold at auction six months ago, purchased by one of our agents, who has not been in contact for the past seven weeks. We have to assume the Cadre knows we are in possession of it. Documents relating to its prior ownership indicate it was owned by one Burgrave Leonis Akiv Artonin, a minor aristocrat with scholarly leanings. He will be your starting point.”

“I assume it is your intention to accompany the expedition and have me relate this intelligence to you via the trance.”

“No.” Madame stood a little straighter, a small twitch of annoyance passing across her face. “That was my original intent, however the Board were swift in forbidding it. Another Blood-blessed will travel with the expedition. You will communicate your findings to them.”

“Given your well-justified concerns about the security of this enterprise it will need to be an unregistered agent, someone as yet unknown to the Cadre and therefore capable of trancing without fear of interception. Employing such a person would be a serious breach of corporate law, not to say extremely hard to find.”

“Since when is the tedium of corporate law of such concern to you, Lizanne?” Madame Bondersil gave another smile, this one much more in character due to its facility for conveying a sense of greatly superior knowledge. “And as to the difficulties of recruitment, I’m happy to report that we found a suitable candidate only last night.”

CHAPTER 5

Clay

He dreamed about the time he’d first found Derk and Joya, two scared kids huddled together amidst the stink and dross of Staker’s Alley. Clay had dropped into the alley from the roof-top, panting a little and clutching a bag of freshly stolen preserves, six full jars of pickled herring and two of plum jam. It was raining that day, as it usually did in late Vorellum. Clay liked the rain; it frustrated any pursuers and made them more likely to give up. The storekeeper had chased him for two streets, blowing hard on his whistle to draw the Protectorate, but the sharp urgent blasts tailed off when he saw Clay scale a wall and skip across the roof-tops into the Blinds. He hadn’t even needed to swallow the drop of Green in his flask.

It was the girl’s eyes that made him pause, so bright in the shadows. Not fearful either, just wide and curious. Her brother was older and smarter, hissing at her to look away. “We didn’t see you,” he promised Clay as he stepped closer. Whilst it was the girl’s eyes that drew his gaze it was the boy’s voice that made him linger. Cultured vowels free of any trace of the Blinds. The kind of voice Clay heard on his infrequent forays into Carvenport’s more salubrious districts.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he had said.

The boy tensed, shuffling forward so his sister was partly shielded, staring up with wary defiance. “And where, sir, should we be, pray tell?”

The sheer incongruity of it all drew a laugh from Clay, one which faded when he saw the hollowness of the girl’s cheeks below her too-bright eyes. “Anywhere but here,” he said, crouching to open the bag. He drew out one of the herring jars and held it out to the boy, who stopped himself snatching it immediately, wariness mingling with hope.

“We have no money,” he said.

“I believe you.” Clay pushed the jar at him and the boy took it, quickly passing it to his sister.

“You read, right?” Clay asked the boy. “Way you talk and all. Gotta know how to read.”

The boy’s head moved in a jerking nod. “I can read.”

Clay smiled. “I can’t. But I’m a fast learner.” He frowned at a sudden tinkling, looking up to see the girl tapping a pin against the glass jar. It was small and silver, one end shaped into a drake’s head, moving with an oddly familiar rhythm. Slow, steady but insistent, growing in volume until it seemed the girl was striking a hammer against a bell. He gave a shout of alarm as the jar came apart in her hand, cutting her flesh, red flashing amidst the explosion of fish and vinegar . . .

He came awake with a gasp, seeing only striped shadows and moonlight on bare stone. His mind raced through recent memory seeking answers. Speeler dying at the wharf . . . The woman, the Ironship Blood-blessed standing atop the chimney . . . Then the fall. After that nothing, just the dream and the sharp, rhythmic tapping which, he realised, still hadn’t stopped. But the sound had changed, no longer the tinkle of metal on glass, now it was metal on metal.

His eyes found the source quickly, making him growl in confusion. Moonlight streamed through a narrow slit in the wall above Clay’s bunk, the drake’s head catching it with every tap of its snout against the bars, not a pin now though. Now it was the ornate silver head of a walking cane. Clay suppressed a groan of realisation and swung his legs off the bunk, sitting up to regard the shadowy figure on the other side of the bars.

The tapping stopped and the figure moved to a stool, sitting down just beyond arm’s reach of the bars. He rested a hand on his cane, long-nailed fingers flexing, and sat in silence for some time. He hadn’t removed his broad-brimmed hat so his face was just a blank void, unseen lips forming a softly spoken question. “Do you know why you are here?”

Clay resisted the impulse to rub at his aching back. He didn’t appear to have suffered any broken bones but from the feel of it he hadn’t had a soft landing either. “Yes, Keyvine,” he replied, eyes scanning the cell for any loose object. A nail, a splinter. Anything that might serve as a weapon. His gaze found a waste bucket next to the bunk, but it was secured to the wall on a short chain. “I know why I’m here.”

“Really?” Like most people Clay had rarely heard Keyvine’s voice, just a snatched word or two over the years. It had always seemed accentless, not cultured like Derk’s, more deliberately anonymous, free of anything that might betray an origin or prior allegiance. It was also dry of any emotion, every word spoken without inflection. Now, however, Clay detected a certain amused lilt to it. “Enlighten me.”

“You’re about to tell me Cralmoor was like a son to you,” Clay said, abandoning his search for a weapon as the cell was clearly too well kept. “Now he can’t talk right, thanks to me.”

“He’ll be talking soon enough. Hefty dose of Green to take care of any infecting humours and an expensive surgeon saw to that. Cralmoor is a valued employee, deserving of my largess. He is not my son. I didn’t take your transgression personally, Mr. Torcreek. I wanted you to know that. However, the nature of our business leaves no room for compromise.”

Clay ground his teeth together, knowing the question was tantamount to begging but he had to know. “Derk and Joya?”

“Ah, yes. The sibling outcasts from the managerial class. I always admired your protective attitude to them, though I’m sure the relationship had mutual benefits.”

They’re my friends. He didn’t say it. The sentiment would mean nothing to Keyvine. “Kept tabs on us, huh?”

“Should a king not know his kingdom? Have a care for all his subjects? I’ve had my kingly eye on you for quite some time. I did briefly consider taking you into my court, but it soon became apparent you had developed far too much ambition. In time you would have been the Zorrin to my Mayberus.”

Clay dimly recalled the reference, a play Derk had quoted from time to time. Mayberus had been some Corvantine emperor from long ago, betrayed by his adopted son Zorrin, an orphan from the peasant caste. A cautionary tale, Derk called it. Those who would rule should not get too close to the ruled.

“You were right,” he told Keyvine, the old jealousy flaring once more though it was soon replaced with something else, guilt and shame burning worse than envy ever had. “It was my scheme,” he said. “They didn’t want to . . .”

“But you made them. How noble. But the transgression is too great, Mr. Torcreek. You knew that, and so did they. You all knew the price should you fail to make the boat to Feros. Which brings us to my original question: do you know why you are here?”

Clay glanced around the cell and the space beyond the bars: a short corridor leading to a solid door, braced in iron. It was all too orderly and well built a place to be one of Keyvine’s dens. “This is a Protectorate cell,” he said. “Guess they got to me before you could. But you knew who to bribe to get in here.”

Keyvine got to his feet and came close to the bars, making Clay tense in anticipation though he strove to maintain the same slumped posture. Well within reach. I’ll need to be quick.

“Oh no,” said the King of Blades and Whores. “You are here because your uncle begged for your life.”

“My uncle,” Clay said, “wouldn’t piss on my burning corpse.”

“It seems he finds some value in you. There’s a long-standing debt twixt us, you see. A debt I’ve been keen to repay for quite some time. So when your sad little scheme came to light I must say I seized on the opportunity and let him know of your imminent fate. He did seem reluctant to intervene at first but he became markedly more interested once I mentioned your true nature. It was clumsy and obvious of you to try using Black in one of my fights. Do you imagine I don’t know the signs? Quite a secret to keep for such a long time, from family as well as company interests. Luckily your uncle’s contacts in the Protectorate were able to contrive a suitably enticing trap, with my help, of course.”

Keyvine leaned his head closer to the bars and Clay caught the gleam of his eye in the shadow beneath the hat, unblinking and steady. “Judging by your age I’d guess you owe your unregistered status to the day the Black got loose. Lot of confusion that day, easy to miss another screaming child amidst the chaos. Did it kill your parents?”

Just my mother. Clay closed his eyes against the memory. Ma standing with her hand on his shoulder as he waited his turn for the Blood-lot. “Be brave, Claydon. It’ll be just a little burn, that’s all.” Then everything was screams and flames and blood . . . Ma lying amidst the blood, eyes open and a ragged red gap where her belly should be. Around him people screamed and writhed as the drake blood rained down in a fine mist. Not him though; on him the red vapour left just small specks of white on his skin. He ran. Ran and ran, all the way to his uncle’s house, and that proved only a temporary refuge.

“If my uncle saved me it’s for a reason,” he told Keyvine, staring into the one gleaming eye.

“Yes. I expect your unregistered status may have something to do with it. It’s why poor old Speeler had to die, you see? A secret loses value with every memory that carries it.”

“How’d you get him to sell me out?”

“Speeler had a long-term male companion. Charming fellow but with expensive tastes, hence Speeler’s tireless work ethic. A few cuts to the right places and he was more than co—”

Clay lunged, putting every ounce of strength and speed into his legs, ignoring the flare of agony from already strained muscles. He nearly did it, his hand brushing through Keyvine’s braided hair as the King of Blades and Whores twisted aside with less than an inch to spare. Something flashed in the gloom and Clay felt the cold chill of a very sharp blade against his neck. He froze, standing with his arm still clutching at thin air whilst Keyvine stood with his bared sword-cane protruding through the bars, poised to sever Clay’s jugular with the smallest flick.

“What are you?” Keyvine asked, voice soft, almost contemplative and free of anger. “Without product in your veins, what are you? Just another piss-alley thief, albeit with an important uncle.”

Clay suppressed a grunt as the sword-cane pressed deeper, feeling the sting of the cut and small drop of blood trickle down his neck. “They burned, Clay,” Keyvine told him. “The boy and his sister. More precisely, I burned them in that rotting old church. If you stop by there again one day maybe you’ll see them haunting away with the Pale-Eyed Preacher.”

He angled his head so the moonlight from the single window caught his face. Clay had only seen it once before, just a glimpse one night at the Colonials Rest, a flash of something from a nightmare. The burn covered half his face, the flesh mottled and puckered from throat to forehead, the pigment dimmed by the gloom but Clay knew it to be a motley collage of red and pink. Drake’s Kiss, it was called, the burn that could only result from drake fire.

“I know fire,” Keyvine went on. “I even like fire. You could say I was born in it and in doing so learned the greatest of lessons: there is no pain that cannot be endured and survived, no obstacle that cannot be overcome. All that is required is the will to succeed, a will that allows for no distractions. You should think on that when you’re off contracting with your uncle. Find me when you return, for I sense a new debt between you and me and I so detest an unbalanced scale.”

—

He was woken by the sound of a key working the lock on the heavy iron door. He didn’t rise from the bunk, turning onto his side and blinking his bleary eyes until they found focus on the brickwork. The voice that greeted him was familiar and expected, also deep with impatient resentment. “On your feet.”

Clay waited a good while before rolling onto his back, gazing up at the flaking plaster on the ceiling. His sleep had been fitful, richly populated by Derk’s and Joya’s faces, laughing sometimes, mocking at others. But mostly just burned and dead. And Keyvine. Keyvine had been there too.

“I said, get up!” the voice said with growling deliberation. “Lest you’re keen to spend the next year in here before the Protectorate decides whether to kill you or cut you open.”

Clay groaned and sat up. It was daylight now, somewhere past mid morn judging by the angle of the shadows. A tall man stood on the other side of the bars. He wore the green-leather duster and wide-brimmed hat typical of the Contractor fraternity, his hair hanging in thick braids down to his shoulders. It had been nearly two years since their last meeting but Clay still felt the same jarring disorientation when looking at his face. There were a few more lines on the forehead and the stubble on his chin was mostly grey, but the resemblance remained. They could have been twins.

“You gonna stare at me all day, boy?” the man demanded. “Off your backside, we got work.”

“Since when d’you have work for me?” Clay asked.

The man angled his head, eyes narrowing with the same angry judgement he had exhibited all those years ago when Clay shambled into his home with a recently emptied pistol in hand. “Since it turned out you were actually useful,” the man said, stepping back to jerk his head at a second man standing near the open door. Clay’s pulse quickened as he recognised him as the ununiformed Protectorate type who had shot Speeler.

“Killing the fat man was unnecessary,” Clay said as the blocky man turned a key in the lock and slid the gate open. “And since when did the Protectorate work for pirates?”

“Shut your mouth, boy!” the tall man snapped, though his gaze was fixed on the Protectorate official. Clay noted his hand now rested on his belt, just a few inches from the butt of his six-shooter.

Doesn’t know if either of us are likely to make it out of here alive, Clay realised, although the Protectorate man stood beside the bars in impassive immobility.

“Wasting time, Claydon,” the tall man said, voice hard with the urgent need to leave.

Clay sighed and got slowly to his feet. “Always good to see you, Uncle Braddon.”

They emerged from a nondescript house on Healman’s Way, a quiet road south-west of the docks mostly populated by the middle-management class. Glancing up Clay saw nothing to distinguish the house from its neighbours, same company emblem carved above the lintel, same drab curtains behind the windows. However, on closer inspection his practised eye could see the clues plain enough: a narrow gap in the brickwork on the upper storey just wide enough for a rifle, and another on the right at street level.

Expect they’ll have to close this up now, he thought, suspecting they were the first two non-employees to leave the place alive.

“Enough dawdling,” his uncle snapped. He gestured to the street where a young woman waited astride a horse, clutching the reins of two more, their saddles empty. Braddon strode to the larger of the two horses, hauling himself into the saddle with unconscious ease. “Know how to ride, I hope.”

“Well enough,” Clay lied. He took a look at the young woman as he approached the other horse. She wore a broad-brimmed hat much the same as his uncle’s, though her long blonde hair was unbraided and cascaded down her back in a straight golden stream. But it was her face that soon captured his full attention. Islander, he realised, eyes roving the mask of tattoos that covered her skin from forehead to neck, the intricate pattern of red and green continuing on beneath the dark cotton of her shirt.

“This is Silverpin,” his uncle said, nodding at the woman. “Bladehand to the Longrifles. You don’t want to stare too long. She may take it personal.”

The woman, however, returned Clay’s scrutiny with placid acceptance as his gaze lingered. He had never seen an Islander without an extensive array of designs inked into their flesh, but never one so entirely covered. “Morning, miss,” he said, touching a finger to his forehead. She gave no response save a slight incline of her head, though he fancied her mouth curled just a little.

“Silverpin can’t talk,” Braddon said, eyebrows raised in amusement as Clay made a faltering attempt to mount his horse. “Left foot in the left stirrup, unless you’re planning to ride him backwards.”

They rode in silence for some time, Clay trailing along as his uncle and the woman followed Healman’s south, soon passing out of middle-management country and into the tall buildings of Company Square. Clay was not overly familiar with this district, it being far too well patrolled for his purposes; a uniformed Protectorate guard stood on every corner with a repeating carbine on his shoulder. They skirted the neat lawns surrounding Ironship House, at six storeys the tallest building in the city, one storey higher than the South Seas Maritime office opposite. The buildings shared a similar design, all tall narrow windows and straight walls rising from a broad base, but whoever had built Ironship House had been at pains to ensure it outshone the others, both in its size and the opulence of its stained-glass windows and the numerous corporate flags flying from the forest of poles on the roof. Upon viewing the building any newly arrived visitor would be left in no doubt as to which company truly held power over this port.

Clay found his gaze drawn back to Silverpin as they proceeded into Carter’s Walk, the broad thoroughfare that separated the white-marble mansions of the senior manager’s district on the left from the closer-packed terraces of Scullion Town on the right. Her hair wasn’t unusual for an Islander, especially one who hailed from the north-eastern chains. Under the ink they tended be of fair complexion, not dissimilar in fact from the New Colonials of northern Mandinor although they couldn’t have been farther apart in temperament and custom. However, they also tended to be taller than Silverpin, and a little broader whereas she was all long-limbed litheness. His gaze settled on her hips, moving in perfect concord with her horse, a curved knife at the small of her back in a leather sheath, angled for a quick draw. Bladehand, his uncle had called her, an uncommon title he had heard a few times in relation to the Contractors who ventured into the Interior in search of fresh stock and undiluted product. What use are blades in an age of guns? he wondered.

As if sensing his thoughts Silverpin turned in her saddle, meeting his gaze. The placid acceptance from before was gone now, replaced by a disconcerting directness. Her eyes were a pale, icy blue, another trait common to Islanders, and he found himself squirming a little under their blatant inquisition.

“I have,” he began, turning to his uncle and finding he had to cough a little as Silverpin kept staring. “I have business of my own. Before I do any bidding of yours.”

“Keyvine’s lot will cut your throat the second you step into the Blinds,” Braddon said, not bothering to turn around. “Best you forget any foolish notions.”

Clay’s mind was quick to summon the dream from the night before. Flames engulfing the steeple. Derk and Joya, laughing as they burned and, standing immobile amidst the inferno, a figure who at first appeared to be the Pale-Eyed Preacher, grinning madly and covered in whore’s blood, but soon shifted into Keyvine, ruined features twisted into a delighted smile. “Foolish or not,” Clay said, aware of his thickening voice. “I got a debt in need of settling.”

Braddon brought his horse to an abrupt halt, turning it about so he came face-to-face with his nephew. His expression was angry but also faintly weary, the face of a tutor forced into lessons with a dull and ungrateful pupil. “Take a look,” he said, jerking his head at the surrounding street. “What d’you see?”

Clay sighed but did as he was told, glancing around at the people passing by. Well-dressed women strolled together in pairs or trios, chattering the inane gossip of the idle rich whilst those paid to service their needs scurried to and fro on various errands, laden with groceries or pushing squalling infants in prams. Here and there a city employee swept the paving or collected litter from the gutters. It was a far remove from the familiar chaos of the Blinds but nothing he hadn’t seen before.

“Nothing,” he told his uncle. “Just rich folks and their servants.”

“Really?” Braddon turned to Silverpin with a questioning glance. She paused to scan the street for a moment, pale blue eyes narrowing slightly, then raised four fingers.

“I only count three,” Braddon said, turning back to Clay. “But she’s always had the better eye. See that lady with the little dog over by the bench?” Clay duly looked, seeing only a well-attired young woman in a dress of white and black, laughing as she tossed treats to a yapping terrier of minuscule proportions. He had taken her for either the young wife of a senior manager or an elder daughter, spoiled and filling her useless day fawning over a pet.

“So?” he asked.

“The shoes, boy. Heels just flat enough for running, and her handbag’s just the right size for a brace of vials. She’s Academy trained. The street-sweeper’s got a carbine in his broom holder and the lad hawking news-sheets has a salt-shaker strapped to his ankle. Can’t see the fourth myself but I’d lay odds they’ll be on a roof-top with a longrifle. We didn’t choose this route, boy, and if you have any thought our backers will allow you out of my sight till we’re on our way, forget it. You’re bought and paid for and it’s me who did the paying so wipe that fucking scowl off your face.”

“I want Keyvine,” Clay stated, fighting his rage. “I’m guessing you got a contract needs what I can do. You want my services then give me a day to settle with Keyvine. That’s my price.”

“My business with Keyvine is settled, and I don’t need it unsettled right now. What’s between you and him is no concern of mine. When we fulfil this contract I expect to be gone from these shores in short order and you’ll find yourself with enough Ironship scrip to buy the whole Blinds if you like. Buy it and burn it to ash for all I care. But in the meantime, you are now the Blood-blessed liaison to the Longrifles Independent Contractor Company and, unless you want a bullet through the brain, you’ll act like it.”

—

They passed into Colonial Town a few streets on, the last remnant of the original South Mandinorian settlement that had grown here some two centuries ago. The houses were all two-storey dwellings with low, sloping roofs and many verandas, the streets just as well-kept as in Manager Country but much more lively. There was a market in every square and a tavern on almost every corner. Everything was drenched in the music that floated out of the taverns or rose from street-corner trios. Fiddle, flute, drum and pianola mingled a hundred different tunes into what should have been a discordant mess but somehow worked as a harmonious accompaniment to the ceaseless bustle. It was all a great contrast to the Blinds where music was rarely heard in daylight and skin colour varied as much as fortune. Here almost every face was as dark as his own, and yet, although he had been born here Clay had never felt at home amongst these people.

Orphans have no home anywhere, he recalled. It was something Joya had said one damp night as they huddled together on a roof-top, her gaze fixed on Manager Country, the marble mansions gleaming under the two moons and seeming very far away. Derk rarely talked of their lives before the Blinds but Joya felt no reluctance in relating tales of their fine house and toy-filled rooms, all lost the day their father had been carted off by the Protectorate and the company bailiff handed their mother a writ of seizure. Their father’s crime had never been fully revealed to Clay and he suspected they barely understood it themselves, but it had been sufficiently grave to see him on a prison ship back to Feros and his family destitute. If they were ignorant of their father’s eventual fate they were all too aware of their mother’s and staunchly refused to discuss it. Clay had always respected their reticence though it wasn’t hard to reckon it out. A woman of no means with no skills, shunned by the managerial class and cast out to fend for herself would have had few options. Whatever her struggles, however, it hadn’t been enough to save her children from eking a living scrounging scraps in Staker’s Alley.

We’ll get it all back, Clay had assured Joya that night, putting an arm around her slim shoulders. All the toys you could ever want.

He came back to the present when his uncle’s boots stamped onto the ground. They had stopped at an impressively proportioned house on the northern fringes of Colonial Town, just a short walk from the outer wall in fact. It was much as Clay remembered, standing two storeys high like the others but with an extensive cluster of attic windows sprouting from the roof. The addition of a decent-sized stable showed this to have been a building of some importance at one point, home to a Mandinorian Imperial Consul perhaps, in the days when such things held any meaning.

Two women waited to greet Braddon as he climbed the short steps to the main door, one tall with a purple scarf on her head, the other shorter and considerably younger. Clay found the youngster capturing most of his attention, mainly due to the pair of revolvers on her hips and the half-scowl with which she greeted him. He turned as Silverpin tapped him on the shoulder, climbing down from the saddle and gesturing for him to follow.

“Claydon,” the taller woman said, greeting him with a smile warmer than he deserved. Whatever passed between him and his uncle, she wasn’t part of it and, for the brief time he allowed her, she had treated him like her own. “Knew you’d grow up prettier than your uncle. Guess you favour your mother’s side.”

“Only in looks,” Braddon grunted.

“Auntie Fredabel.” Clay greeted the elder woman with a respectful nod, before turning to the girl. “Cousin Lori.”

She tilted her head, scowl still in place and a pout forming on her lips. “Pa says you’re now a thief and a disgrace to the family,” she said, looking him up and down. “Guessing he was right.”

“Enough of that!” her mother snapped and the girl took a wary step back, head lowered though her eyes flashed at Clay with undimmed resentment.

“They here?” Braddon asked his wife.

She nodded. “In the Map Room.”

“The company?”

“I cleared the house when our visitors got here, sent them over to the Skinners Rest with enough of an advance to keep them there all night. They’ve been asking questions, though. Skaggerhill especially.”

“Only to be expected.” Braddon nodded at Silverpin. “Take Loriabeth to the Skinners. Make sure she sticks to the sparkle water. Claydon, time to meet your new employers.”

“Thought that was you.”

His uncle grunted a laugh, stepping into the house and gesturing for him to follow. “You ain’t that lucky, boy.”

Inside, the house was spacious with polished wooden floors and sturdy beams of thick oak. Though the furnishings spoke of an upturn in fortunes since his time under this roof. The lobby through which his uncle led him featured several couches and a large gleaming table of imported oak. The walls were liberally decorated in a mix of sketches, photostats and bleached drake skulls of varying dimensions. Clay knew most to be Greens but there were a few Reds amongst them and, hanging from the wall next to the staircase at the rear of the lobby, a skull so large and jagged it could only be a Black. Clay paused for a closer look, eyes tracking over the many teeth to the gaping nostrils and eye-sockets until he found a single ragged hole in the centre of the beast’s forehead.

“Is this . . . ?” he began, causing Braddon to linger on the stairs.

“That’s him,” he said. “Harvesters made a gift of him a couple of years back, part-payment for a hefty consignment of Green and Red. Finest shot I ever took.”

Clay found himself unable to look away from the skull’s empty eyes, imagining what they must have seen that day. You killed my mother, he told it. Did you even know?

“Claydon,” his uncle said, voice softer than usual. “Best not keep them waiting.”

Clay followed him to the upper floor and along a long corridor to a closed door where Braddon paused, hand on the handle. “I ain’t gonna pretend there’s any regard twixt us, boy,” he said, speaking softly and meeting Clay’s gaze with a new intensity. “But you’ve still got Torcreek blood in those veins so listen well. You want to make it out of this room alive, you choose your words carefully. You may think the Blinds is full of the most dangerous folks you’re like to meet, but you never met folks like this before. Whatever they may appear to be, remember that next to them, Keyvine’s a child.”

He opened the door and stepped inside, holding it open for Clay to follow. The room was large with bookshelves lining the walls and a map table in the centre where a continental chart lay, three corners weighted with heavy leather-bound tomes and one, he saw, with a revolver. Two women stood at the table regarding him in expressionless scrutiny. The one on the right was young, a little older than he but with a weight and intelligence to her gaze that spoke of considerable experience. She had the fine bones and pale skin of the North Mandinorian managerial class though her dress seemed plain for one of her station. She stood at apparent ease but Clay could see the part-concealed readiness in her stance, something he knew would be lost on less-attuned eyes.

He turned his gaze to the woman on the left, unsurprised at finding her the same grey-haired Blood-blessed he had seen the night before atop the Mariner’s Rest. Her all-black attire had since been exchanged for a grey dress just as plain as that of her companion. Although their features displayed no familial similarity their shared bearing spoke of a deep and long-standing association.

“Thank you, Captain,” the older woman said to his uncle in a strident and precise tone.

Braddon gave Clay a final glance, grave with warning, before leaving the room, the door closing softly behind him.

“You are Claydon Torcreek,” the older woman stated.

Clay said nothing, merely returning her gaze as the woman continued without undue pause, apparently unconcerned at his lack of manners. “I am Madame Lodima Bondersil, Principal of the Ironship Academy of Female Education. This young lady is my former student and current subordinate, Miss Lizanne Lethridge, Executive Operative of the Exceptional Initiatives Division.”

The younger woman inclined her head with a small smile. “It is my pleasure to meet you, Mr. Torcreek.”

Despite his determination to maintain a rigid composure Clay couldn’t prevent the sudden upturn in his heart-beat, or the first trickle of sweat down his back. The Academy, he thought as the truth of his uncle’s warning struck home with full force. Two Ironship Blood-blessed in the same room. He had never heard the words “Exceptional Initiatives Division” before but it didn’t require any great intelligence to discern their meaning. Whatever he had stepped into went far beyond the Protectorate and any back-alley deals they might make with Keyvine or the crew of the Windqueen.

He managed not to cough before speaking, though his voice was more strained than he would have liked. “My uncle says you have work for me.”

CHAPTER 6

Lizanne

“I’ve been calling it the Spider,” Jermayah said. “Guessing I’ll have to come up with something more technical for the patent.”

Lizanne eyed the spindly device lying on the bench with equal parts curiosity and apprehension. It certainly did have something of the arachnid about it, though with four legs instead of eight. “What exactly does it do?”

Jermayah’s grin indicated that her fondness for taunting him was fully reciprocated. “Put it on and I’ll show you. Left forearm.”

She undid her cuff and rolled up her sleeve, managing not to betray any hesitation as she lifted the device. Jermayah’s mechanical passions may have been principally concerned with locomotion but much of what he fashioned here was highly lethal. The device had two straps that fastened over her forearm and four copper tubes fixed together that fitted snugly just below the elbow. From each tube a narrow rubber hose led to one of four disc-shaped buttons resting in Lizanne’s palm. What concerned her most, however, was the stubby cylinder protruding at a right angle from the rear of the device. It had a syringe-esque quality she found distinctly off-putting.

She raised an eyebrow at Jermayah. “Well?”

“Press a button,” he replied, a bland smile on his lips.

She stiffened her resolve and pressed the button aligned with her index finger, being immediately rewarded with a sharp pain as the syringe-like appendage drove a needle into her flesh. She gritted her teeth, finding the needle’s sting harsh but manageable. “A self-torture device,” she said. “How ingenious.”

“It’s empty,” he said, nodding at the four tubes. “But load it with product and you can inject it direct into the bloodstream. Each button delivers a different variant, and you can also combine them provided you’ve loaded it with the correct dilutions.”

Lizanne raised her arm, turning it to examine the device more closely. Its dimensions were discreet enough for it to be worn beneath the sleeve of her blouse without attracting attention. Also, during a covert mission the ability to ingest product without the need to pause and drink a vial would be a distinct tactical advantage, one the Cadre were unlikely to enjoy. “The dosage?” she asked.

“Variable according to how long you depress the button. Three seconds for a full vial. I suggest you do some experimenting before you set off.”

“I shall.” She favoured him with a warm smile. “Thank you very much, Mr. Tollermine. This will do very well.”

“We’re not done yet.” He pulled a hinged wooden box across the bench towards him, opening it to reveal a pistol of some kind. It was about the same dimensions as the Dessinger she knew so well but with distinctive modifications. An additional barrel had been affixed atop the original and a bulbous copper egg extended from behind the cylinder in place of the hammer.

“Feel the weight,” Jermayah said, stepping back. Lizanne hefted the revolver, her expert gaze quickly discerning that the weapon’s calibre had been reduced to .25, enabling the cylinder to hold eight bullets instead of the usual six. Also, she noted that the secondary barrel extended over the frame to stop a quarter-inch short of the rear sight.

“Called it the Whisper,” Jermayah said, tapping the copper egg behind the cylinder. “Compressed air. No bang-bangs, though just as much punch as black powder at short range. The egg and the cylinder are one unit and can be replaced for a quick reload.”

“And this?” Lizanne’s finger traced over the additional barrel.

“That’s not so quiet.” He jerked his head over his shoulder, moving away into the gloomy recesses of the workshop. “Easier to demonstrate than to explain.”

Shiny Man was greatly altered but still recognisable. He had been fashioned from whatever scraps of metal Jermayah had lying around. The multiple holes punched into his composite skin were repaired continually so that he existed in a state of constant flux. However, the basic form remained: an uncannily lifelike sculpture of a charging man caught in midstride at the end of Jermayah’s twenty-foot-long firing range. Lizanne had lost count of how many times she had shot him during her student days and was gratified to find her aim as true as ever.

She found Jermayah’s chosen name for the weapon to be slightly exaggerated. The pistol made a sharp huffing sound when fired, louder than a whisper but still preferable to the blast of a standard revolver. However, the accuracy and power were impressive, her first shots slotting neatly into the gap between Shiny Man’s eyes with a satisfying double clunk as the bullet penetrated both front and rear of his metallic skull.

“Very nice,” she approved, snapping off two more shots into Shiny Man’s chest.

“Now for the main show.” Jermayah held up a bullet of unusual design. The ball was a lead hollow-point but the hole had been sealed in wax. Instead of a brass shell it sat in a half-sphere fashioned from glass. Lizanne’s eyes quickly recognised the viscous substance inside.

“Red,” she said.

“Yes, named it the Redball.” He handed her the bullet. “Drop it into the top barrel. Don’t worry, it won’t break and there’s a magnet to keep it in place.”

She did as he said, the bullet sliding the length of the barrel until it came to rest against the rear sight with the glass casing exposed to the air. “Here.” He held up a vial containing a drop of Red. “When you’re ready,” he said when she had imbibed the drop, taking a few backward steps and gesturing at Shiny Man. “Best if you use a double-handed grip.”

It was only a small amount of Red, just enough for a narrow blast of heat at a very small target. She gripped the Whisper with both hands, lining up on the centre of Shiny Man’s chest then focusing on the bead of Red she could see glimmering in the cartridge just beyond the rear sight. She summoned the product and released it in a single split-second surge, being instantly rewarded by a bright flare of unleashed energy in the cartridge followed by a gout of orange flame from the barrel. It seemed as if the pistol and Shiny Man were momentarily joined by a line of fire as the bullet streaked towards his chest, penetrating the outer shell before exploding. A ball of fire expanded in an instant, so bright Lizanne had to look away. When she looked back she found Shiny Man a smoking ruin, copper and tin melting together to drip onto the workshop floor.

“Aw,” she groaned, pouting at Jermayah in accusation.

“Time I retired him anyways,” he replied with a shrug.

She spent an hour practising with the Whisper, getting used to its slight recoil, but didn’t fire any more Redballs. “Limited supply, I’m afraid,” Jermayah told her, handing over the ammunition, a box of fifty .25 bullets and a smaller one with only six Redballs. “Price of product being what it is, the Division wouldn’t authorise any more. Tried arguing the point but the local Agent-in-Charge started going on about relative risk factors. Can’t abide all that stuff.”

How heartening to know the benefits of my survival can be quantified on a balance sheet, Lizanne thought, nevertheless accepting the ammunition with a grateful smile. “Where would I be without you?”

Her appointment with Madame Bondersil was several hours away so she indulged herself by staying awhile to help Jermayah tinker with his thermoplasmic carriage. “Did you see your father in Feros?” he asked, handing her a spanner.

“Yes,” she replied, using the spanner to loosen a bolt on the engine mounting. “I saw him.”

Some element of bitterness must have coloured her tone for he sighed. “He’s a brilliant man,” he said. “Perhaps the finest technologist of this age. You should respect him more.”

“A brilliant man, indeed,” she grunted, giving the bolt a hard shove. “Living in marginal poverty whilst he tinkers with his toys and nurses his endless grudge against my employers.”

“Not to sound disloyal to the Syndicate, but they did steal your inheritance, did they not? Your grandfather’s invention changed the whole world in the space of a generation, and yet your family have never received a copper scrip for it.”

Lizanne groaned with the effort of working the bolt free, exhaling in relief as it clattered to the workshop floor. “He didn’t,” she said.

“Who didn’t?”

“My grandfather didn’t invent the thermoplasmic engine. My father did, when he was only fourteen years old.”

Lizanne rose from the carriage, massaging the ache in the small of her back. “It’s all there in the Ironship archives, Jermayah. Shareholder status allows one to peruse the records at leisure and it was a small matter to access the vault where they keep the confidential legal documents. Thanks to Grandfather’s lengthy dispute with the Syndicate their lawyers had compiled a full and accurate account of how the thermoplasmic engine came into being. It seems Grandfather had been working on a form of locomotive device based on combustible product, but it was primitive and impractical. My father’s design, by contrast, was revolutionary and capable of immediate application. Also, apparently, too profitable to remain in the hands of a child. Grandfather persuaded his son to keep quiet and ensured it was his name on the patents. A fact Ironship threatened to make public as the legal case escalated. It’s often thought that Darus Lethridge committed suicide due to his mountainous debts, and the unbearable prospect of watching the syndicate he hated profit from his invention. It transpires that he simply didn’t want the world to know just how much of a fraud he was.”

“You should make the facts known,” Jermayah said. “Your father should be credited, and compensated.”

“He won’t hear of it. Such a thing would tarnish his father’s legend. Besides, I find myself content to allow the Lethridge name to fade from public consciousness. Notoriety doesn’t really fit with this occupation.”

He hesitated for a second, his face sombre. “Miss Lizanne, this mission . . .”

“I don’t get to choose.” She stepped close to plant a kiss on his bald head. “And with your marvellous knicky-knacks to help me, how could I fail?”

CHAPTER 7

Clay

“Oh, we do indeed have work for you,” the older woman told Clay, gesturing to the map. “Work of a most fruitful and interesting nature. If you could turn your close attention to this chart, I will be happy to explain in full.”

Clay moved closer to the table, eyes lingering on the revolver securing the corner. He stiffened a little as Miss Lethridge moved to his side, tracking his gaze and speaking softly, “It’s fully loaded, in case you were wondering.”

Cats toying with a mouse, he thought, dragging his eyes from the revolver to the map. He knew the shape of the Arradsian coast-line well enough, having stolen a few antique maps over the years, though their accuracy varied widely with age. This one was newly drawn, the thick waxed paper clean and free of fold marks, the curving lines of the coast and the rivers set down with the true precision of a professional map-maker and the whole thing overlaid by a grid of faint dots.

“The continent of Arradsia,” Madame Bondersil said. “This is a small-scale re-creation combining the most accurate maps ever produced by Ironship cartographers.” Her finger tapped the black dot with the word “Carvenport” inscribed above it, then tracked south along the Greenchurn River through dense jungles until it came to rest on a vast area of blankness stretching towards the southern plains.

“Despite two centuries of colonisation,” she said, “there are still whole swathes of this land that remain unknown to civilised eyes.” Her finger underlined the inscription curving through the blankness. “The Red Sands. You’ve heard of this place, no doubt, Mr. Torcreek?”

“It’s a desert,” he said. “A wasteland with no drakes. Even the headhunters don’t go there.”

“Ah, but surely you know the story of the one intrepid band who did?”

He frowned, wondering why they had gone to such lengths to ask him about a tale often told by drunks who claimed former allegiance to various Contractor Companies. “The Wittler Expedition. It’s a story. Not sure I ever believed it.”

“It’s true enough, I assure you. Though over the years the factual details have been greatly confused in the public mind. Tell me, which version have you heard?”

“Wittler was a Contractor, like my uncle. Captain of the Sandpipers . . .”

“Sandrunners,” Madame Bondersil corrected. “Please go on.”

“He and his company went looking for the White Drake and never came back. Some say the Spoiled got them all, others that they found the White and it ate them.”

“And in any of these stories was the name Ethelynne Drystone ever mentioned?”

Clay searched his memory. “Story goes there was a Blood-blessed with them, an Academy girl. If so, I guess she died with the others.”

“No, Mr. Torcreek,” Madame Bondersil told him with a sad smile. “She most assuredly did not. I assume you require no extensive lecture on the need for discretion in this matter. Nor must I emphasise the consequences should our confidence in you prove misplaced.”

Clay’s eyes snapped involuntarily to the revolver. Fully loaded, but they don’t need it. I reach for it and they know they’re wasting their time. Cats with a mouse. “Guess you don’t,” he muttered, returning his gaze to the map.

“Excellent. The Sandrunners did indeed meet an untimely end on the Red Sands but Ethelynne Drystone was not amongst them. To my certain knowledge she escaped their fate having secured possession of an egg, a White egg. I trust the significance of this is not lost on you?”

A White egg. He found himself searching the woman’s face for some sign of trickery, finding only a placid certainty. “Whites are a myth,” he said. “Never seen, never harvested. Just tall tales from the old days.”

“The first settlers did indeed talk of encounters with Whites, but even then they were exceptionally rare and reports of their existence taken as the delusions of those who had lost their minds amidst the many horrors to be found in the Interior. As it transpires, thanks to Miss Drystone, we know they were far from a delusion and somewhere out there”—her hand played over the Red Sands once more—“lies the evidence to prove it.”

In spite of his tension Clay couldn’t suppress a laugh, though it emerged as more of a groan. “And you ladies have some notion I might know where to find it?”

“Oh, goodness no!” Madame Bondersil exchanged an amused glance with her subordinate, who held a hand to her mouth to suppress a chuckle. “Your esteemed uncle will do the finding, with Miss Lethridge’s assistance, whilst you, Mr. Torcreek, will be the conduit for that assistance.”

“The Blue-trance,” he realised aloud, his puzzlement deepening further. “There’s at least half a hundred Blood-blessed in this port, and most of them in Ironship employ.”

“Actually, there are currently thirty-five Blood-blessed resident in Carvenport, and their names are properly recorded in the Joint Company Register as per Special Edict of the Global Trade Council. Every one except you, young sir. Your value to us lies in your anonymity. Our competitors have no knowledge of your status and therefore no opportunity to intercept any communications you might make.”

“The Blue-trance.” He shook his head, a sense of entrapment adding to his already heightened unease. “I’ve never done it. Never even tasted Blue. The price was always too high. Besides, who would I trance-talk with?”

“Even better.” Madame Bondersil reached into her sleeve to extract a vial, holding it out to him. The colour of the vial’s contents was paler than the other product variants he knew and there was something odd about the way it caught the light. The gleam was duller than it should be, muted somehow, as if a portion of the light had been captured in the product. “Blue,” she said. “Fresh from the laboratory. The dilution is a relatively new formula, allowing for more control during the trance. It can become a little confusing in there at times.”

He stared at the vial, hands frozen at his sides. After a second he glanced at Miss Lethridge, who favoured him with an oddly warm smile. “Thought there had to be some kind of . . . bond twixt the drinkers. That’s how you talk through the trance, make the connection.”

“Absolutely correct, Mr. Torcreek,” Madame Bondersil complimented him. “The most clarity is achieved between Blood-blessed who have an emotional connection, the deeper the better. However, not all bonds need be affectionate, or even particularly close to be effective. In fact, considering the line of work you are now embarking upon you may want to exercise considerable circumspection in forming close relationships. To survive as a covert Blood-blessed often requires that you shun the affections of others. A truism you may well come to appreciate with terrible clarity.”

She extended her arm further, raising an insistent eyebrow. “Shall we begin?”

He forced himself to remain immobile and summoned the nerve to meet her gaze. “We ain’t yet discussed the terms of my contract.”

Miss Lethridge gave another small chuckle. “Isn’t continued life and well-being payment enough?”

He didn’t look at her, keeping his gaze on Madame Bondersil and finding to his surprise he had stopped sweating. A White egg. Every company in the world would drain their vaults just to bid on it. “No,” he said. “Not nearly enough.”

Madame Bondersil lowered her arm and the two women exchanged another glance. “What do you want?” Miss Lethridge asked, not without a note of impatience.

“One hundred thousand in Ironship scrip,” he said, still addressing Madame Bondersil. “My name kept off the register for the rest of my life, and . . .” He smiled for the first time since entering the room. “Keyvine.”

“And who might he be?” Miss Lethridge enquired.

“The current King of Blades and Whores,” Madame Bondersil informed her. “And author of Mr. Torcreek’s recent misfortunes.” She paused to issue a thin sigh. “I’m afraid Mr. Keyvine negotiated with us in good faith. Acting against him now would undermine our relations with his inevitable successor.”

“Not my problem. Anyways, you don’t need to do any acting, just give me tonight and a decent supply of product. It’ll be done by morning and you’ll be assured of my loyalty during this whole crazy enterprise.”

“Unacceptable.” Madame Bondersil’s face took on a stern resolve, all trace of her previous affability vanishing to reveal a far-more-unnerving visage. “Who do you imagine I am to be bartered with like some Blinds whore? Your life was preserved for a purpose, preserved by my agency I might add, otherwise your fall from that roof would certainly have been fatal. Your debt to Mr. Keyvine is your own business. Your debt to us, however, will be paid in full. We have done murder to secure your services and will not baulk at another should your truculence prove any more aggravating.” She extended the vial of Blue once again, her gaze locked on his. “I trust this is understood.”

On the edge of his vision he noted the corner of the map was now curled and he heard Miss Lethridge take a deliberate step back, presumably to avoid besmirching her dress.

Sweating once more, he raised his hand and opened his palm.

“A hundred thousand scrip and omission from the register,” Madame Bondersil said, dropping the vial into his hand. “These terms are, however, perfectly acceptable.”

—

His aunt led him to one of the attic rooms when they were done with him, his head all fuzzy with the after-effects of the Blue-trance. “Join us for supper when you’re ready,” she said. “Got pork and black-bean stew. Fried taters too.”

He replied with a tired nod, sinking onto the bed. It had been freshly made up, the sheets clean and crisp, and a jug of water sat in a bowl on a near by table. Fredabel lingered at the door for a moment, regarding him with a tight smile.

“You shouldn’t mind Braddon too much,” she said. “He had to beg, y’see. For Keyvine to give you up. Begging don’t sit right with a man like him.”

Don’t sit right with anyone, he thought, but said, “Thank you, Auntie. For your . . . kind welcome.”

“Family welcomes family, Claydon. Or at least they should.” She smiled again and left him alone.

He lay back on the bed with a groan. Use of Blue, it transpired, was more taxing than Black or Red. His memory of the trance was dim, like a half-forgotten dream though Miss Lethridge had assured him it would become clearer with practice. For now, however, he remembered only a swirl of images amidst a discordant cacophony of mangled sound. It reminded him of a painting he had once stolen from a mansion in Manager Country: The Great Storm according to the title on the small brass plate affixed to the frame. It showed a convoy of warships, all sailing vessels from some bygone age, rendered near invisible by a raging tempest that covered most of the canvas, the clouds roiling in shades of black and grey, turned yellow in one place by a flash of lightning. The Blue-trance had been like stepping into that painting the instant he drank the vial, except the clouds and the lightning were all fashioned from memories, and not all were welcome.

Derk and Joya were the first to come bubbling out of the morass, his last memory of them, just last night back in the steeple. Derk annoyed at being left behind, Joya worried, their faces smeared and stretched until they began to transform into something else. Clay had started to rage when Keyvine’s face appeared, pulse pounding and the trance turning red with it.

Calm. Miss Lethridge’s voice in his mind. Focus.

On what? he asked, rage lurching anew as Keyvine favoured him with a conspiratorial wink.

These are your memories, she told him. Find a better one.

His mind raced with feverish energy, fighting panic as he sought to summon some vestige of peace from his mind. The ball-room, he decided as Keyvine began to laugh. Of course.

It had been a year ago, their biggest ever score before the fight with Cralmoor. The mansion belonged to the most senior Briteshore Minerals official in Carvenport, an irascible man with a habit of firing his servants for the smallest misdeeds. It had been a former servant who got them in, a maid with a grievance and the good foresight to make some impressions of the house keys before her dismissal. The Briteshore official and his family were away, leaving the place in the care of an aged butler who was a little too fond of helping himself to the wine-cellar and an arthritic housekeeper who rarely bothered herself with the upper floors after dark. Gaining access had been a simple matter, a sip of Green then a rapid scaling of the creeper-covered rear wall to the second floor where the maid’s keys gave him access to the windows. He fixed a rope for Joya and Derk to climb up after, their spoils being too numerous and weighty for just him. They went from room to room, Derk’s practised eye choosing the most valuable and least cumbersome items, sacks a-bulge with loot by the time they got to the ball-room.

Joya laughing, he thought, focusing on the image. She had dropped her loot with a clatter, stepping onto the ornately tiled dance floor, arms wide as she gazed up at the chandeliers. None were lit but still they sparkled in the meagre light. She spun and spun across the floor, lithe form moving with unconscious grace, laughing all the while despite their hissed warnings.

Beautiful, Miss Lethridge commented, the image dimming with her intrusion. His momentary resentment faded when he realised Keyvine’s burnt mask had now faded into the general morass. Did she get you caught?

No, he replied. The housekeeper started yelling up the stairs and we ran. Didn’t make as much profit as expected though.

He remembered berating Joya for her foolishness though he saw now it had been a forced tirade, the image of her dancing more precious than any of the shiny things they had stolen that night. The only time I ever saw her truly happy. Something I’ll never see again.

Mr. Keyvine will surely be here when you return, Miss Lethridge said, sensing the dark turn in his thoughts. Think of it as an added incentive. Now, to business.

It had seemed to take hours though she told him time could lose its meaning in the trance, a minute could seem like a day and a few moments might cover the span of an hour in the waking world. She had him concentrate on her thoughts instead of his and he found himself wondering at the orderliness of her mind. Instead of his roiling storm, her trance was more like a series of tightly controlled whirlwinds, some light and rich in colour, others dark and shot through with an inner vein of red fire.

Tornadoes are plentiful on the plains of eastern Mandinor come the summer, she said. I borrowed the image, crafted it to fit my purpose. You would do well to find a pattern of your own, some means of imposing order on all this mess.

She showed him the basics of sharing information via the trance. He soon found it was more complicated than a simple exchange of words. Words change with repetition, she warned. Intelligence is only valuable when unsullied by interpretation. Your understanding of a document will vary widely from an educated reading.

Guess they don’t teach charm in the Academy, he returned, his storm taking on a sullen cast.

Pay attention! She drew one of the whirlwinds closer, not as dark as some and with only a faint inner glow. It convulsed as it neared him, the whirling clouds slowing and coalescing into an image, some kind of mechanical diagram. This is a design I obtained during a recent sea voyage. A forgery as it happens but it’ll suffice for teaching purposes. Look closely, absorb the image. When we wake from the trance I’ll expect you to draw it.

His drawing had been crude and barely legible to his own eyes, although Miss Lethridge and Madame Bondersil seemed unperturbed. “Better than expected,” was the older woman’s only comment whilst Miss Lethridge gave a small shrug of agreement.

“Sleep well,” she advised Clay as he stood blinking in confusion. “We only have one more day before your uncle’s expedition sets off. Be in this room bright and early tomorrow, Mr. Torcreek. Any tardiness and Madame will deduct five percent from your fee.”

Sleep contrived to elude him despite his fatigue and the lingering fogginess in his head. He lay on the bed eyes closed, hearing the dim murmur of conversation downstairs as his uncle and aunt shared their stew, and all the while the image of Joya dancing played itself over and over in his mind. Mr. Keyvine will most likely be here when you return. Miss Lethridge was right, he knew that. Keyvine will keep, but will I?

He had never ventured into the Interior, his trips beyond the city wall having been infrequent forays to meet various criminal associates away from the vigilant gaze of the Protectorate. All he knew of the wider continent on which he lived had been gleaned from stories told by one-time Contractors and headhunters, none of which painted a pleasant picture. The Interior was a place of jungle, desert and tall mountains populated by wild drakes and savage tribes of mis-shapen Spoiled. If one didn’t get him the other surely would and he doubted Keyvine would ever even hear the news.

For a moment it was as if the trance had returned, his mind clouding with the mingled vision of Joya’s dance and Keyvine’s smiling, flame-ruined face beyond the bars. “I do so detest an unbalanced debt,” Clay whispered aloud, opening his eyes.

He waited until the sound of conversation faded, listening for the fall of feet on the staircase. “Please, Freda, enough,” he heard his uncle say as they climbed the steps. “I said I’d talk to him in the morning . . .” Then the soft closing of a door and silence.

Life as a thief held many lessons on the virtues of patience and it was a full hour before Clay stirred from the bed, leaving his shoes where they were and moving to the window, feet soft and slow on the floor-boards. The window proved to be unlocked and the roof outside thankfully free of any nesting parakeets that might squawk an alarm. He inched his way out, flattening himself onto the roof and letting gravity carry him over the tiles to the edge. He caught hold of it and dropped to the first-storey roof below, feet finding the apex with practised ease. From there it was a short balancing act and a leap to the ground where he rolled to absorb the impact before sprinting off into the gloomy streets ahead.

No weapon and no money, he thought. Not to say no shoes. It was hardly the best condition in which to approach the most well-defended building in the Blinds. He was considering which of his hidden caches would be the best choice when Silverpin dropped from a roof-top to land directly in front of him.

He skidded in alarm, bare feet sliding over the cobbles before giving way to deposit him on his rump. Silverpin was already looming above him and he shrank back, arms raised instinctively and eyes alive for the gleam of her curved knife. But instead of a blade her hand grasped a green-leather satchel, whatever was inside giving it a rounded appearance. She met his gaze and he was surprised to find no mockery in her smile, just sympathy. She dumped the satchel between his legs then walked away.

Clay watched her unhurried progress towards his uncle’s house, seeing her disappear inside without a backward glance, then turned his attention to the satchel. His hands faltered as they moved to the buckles and he found to his annoyance they were shaking. He flexed his fingers and tried again, unfastening the straps with quick angry snaps of his wrists. He knew what he would find, he knew what gift Silverpin had given him but still he had to look.

Keyvine’s ruined face stared up at him from the satchel, half-closed eyes dry and catching only the smallest gleam from the street-lights. There were new scars in the flesh, he saw, dried blood flaking on the mottled skin. He put up a fight. Didn’t help . . . What is she?

Clay got to his feet, hefting the satchel. He stood there for a time, lost in indecision. Somewhere music was playing, a lone fiddler casting a mournful tune into the night air accompanied by the faint howl of a lonely dog. The road to the Blinds was open and the throne of the King of Blades and Whores sat empty. It was a silly notion, he knew. The two ladies would find him in no small amount of time and exact a severe punishment before forcing him on their mad search for the fabled White. Or they might decide he simply wasn’t worth the trouble and cut their losses. Besides, Derk and Joya were gone and the only home that awaited him was a haunted church with a burnt steeple.

One hundred thousand in Ironship scrip, he thought, slowly walking back to his uncle’s house. Should’ve asked for two.

CHAPTER 8

Lizanne

She spent her final day in Carvenport practising with the Spider in the Academy gymnasium and several hours in Madame’s office refreshing her Corvantine. They sat beside the fire-place conversing in Varsal, the most common tongue spoken in the empire.

“Still sounding too stuck-up,” Madame judged, her own accent a perfect re-creation of one brought up in the slums of Corvus. “Most Corvantine servants are illiterate, don’t forget. Burgrave Artonin will expect a maid to possess vowels of a more clipped nature if you’re going to secure a place in his household.”

“I shan’t, Madame. We are certain he was the box’s most recent owner?”

“As certain as we can be. Should it prove otherwise you will endeavour to glean what you can from the home of our apparently compromised informant.”

Madame leaned back in her green-leather armchair, switching back to Mandinorian. “Your training with our new Contractor is complete?”

“As complete as possible in the time available.” Something in her voice must have betrayed a certain discomfort for Madame felt the need to press her further.

“Mr. Torcreek is proving unsatisfactory?”

Lizanne thought back over her Blue-trance sessions with the younger Torcreek. At first glance the vista of his thoughts as presented by the trance appeared little more than a swirling mess, a forbidding, mostly formless tempest shot through with lightning flashes of rage and recently birthed grief. But here and there she caught glimpses of small, tightly controlled balls of memory shining bright amidst all the darkness. It would have been an easy matter to tear into these memories and discover his secrets. Given his general lack of control he probably wouldn’t have noticed the intrusion, and secrets were her business after all. But something gave her pause. It wasn’t that her hours tutoring him had left her with any great regard for Claydon Torcreek, but these small islands of nurtured and cherished memory spoke of a more complex man than the self-serving Blinds thug he appeared. Also, given the danger they were sending him into perhaps he deserved at least a modicum of privacy.

“Mr. Torcreek is possessed of a perennially criminal mind-set,” she told Madame, deciding a strictly professional assessment was warranted. “His loyalty should be regarded as neither deep nor lasting.”

“You are aware his erstwhile enemy has met a singularly sticky end, I assume?”

Lizanne nodded. Keyvine’s head had been discovered in a pig-pen near the south wall the morning after their first meeting with the younger Torcreek, a barely recognisable half-eaten monstrosity. According to lurid rumours emanating from the Blinds, the rest of him had been found sitting alone at a table in a seedy tavern, a half-drunk bottle of wine at his side and his sword-cane on the table snapped in two.

“He wasn’t responsible,” she informed Madame. “Though the Blue-trance indicates an awareness of who was. I didn’t consider further investigation appropriate.”

“I concur, as long as no connection is made to our endeavour. Wouldn’t do to have Mr. Keyvine’s former associates sniffing around this matter.”

“I’m sure the Protectorate has suitably discouraging methods should that happen.”

“They do, but I would prefer as few complications as possible. Any direct action in the Blinds is likely to stir up a riot and provide all sorts of opportunities for Cadre operatives. Something best avoided with the mysterious Truelove still eluding us. Be sure to keep a close watch on Torcreek’s thoughts during trance communications and report any troubling developments to me.”

“Of course, Madame, as far as the exigencies of my mission allow.”

Madame Bondersil voiced a very small sigh. “I am aware, Lizanne, of the risks I am asking you to undertake. Rest assured I would not be asking if the matter was not so absolutely vital.”

“I keep abreast of the price index, as befits any responsible Shareholder. The Syndicate is looking at a three percent drop in profits by the end of the year. Finding the White will reverse the current trend.”

“There is more at stake than company profits,” Madame insisted, her expression suddenly grave. She rose from the armchair and went to her desk, beckoning Lizanne to her side. She opened a drawer to extract a file, tied with a black ribbon with a Board seal on the cover. Madame spread the file’s contents out on the desk. Lizanne’s tacit occupation of experimental plasmologist required a basic familiarity with product-quality graphs so she had little trouble interpreting the contents of each page.

“Predicted potency reduction,” she said, eyes moving from one graph to another.

“Quite so.” Madame’s finger tapped the first page, the line on the graph indicating a definite downward curve over the coming decade. “By the end of the decade the potency of Red will have diminished by half. The projections are even worse for the other variants. Added to that”—she extracted a final page from the file and handed it to Lizanne for inspection—“there are the output projections.”

Lizanne read the page several times, her frown deepening. “This can’t be right. Every other report I have read indicates a slight decline in production, the effects of which will be obviated by more sophisticated plasmology.”

“The Board has sealed this report, for obvious reasons. I’m afraid its conclusions are all too accurate. Within twenty years the output of product from all Arradsian holdings, including the other corporations, will have declined to less than fifteen percent of current levels. I don’t have to explain the ramifications for the global economy should that occur.”

“The breeding pens could be expanded, more expeditions sent to the Interior . . .”

“Already begun, and the Contractor Companies return with fewer specimens and less wild-harvested product each season. The drakes born to the pens are sickly and small and the product they produce of diminishing potency. Added to that, their life expectancy is reduced with every generation. Thanks to their irksome trait of dropping dead if they are removed from the Arradsian continent, there is also no prospect of establishing breeding populations elsewhere. It seems in the space of two centuries we have contrived to bleed this continent white.”

White, Lizanne repeated inwardly, hearing the emphasis Madame placed on the word. Everything comes back to the White. “We don’t know what White blood does,” she said. “Your own report of Miss Drystone’s experiences indicates it may hold more danger than profit.”

“Every variant holds danger, but also power that can be harnessed if properly respected. The White promises more than all the others combined.”

—

The hold of the Independent coastal steamer Islander made a stark contrast to the salubrious accommodation Lizanne had enjoyed aboard the Mutual Advantage. She was obliged to sleep on a low bunk equipped with a mattress so thin it barely deserved the name. She had been led here in the small hours of the morning by the ship’s bosun, ostensibly a long-serving merchant sailor of typically grizzled appearance but in reality an Exceptional Initiatives operative specialising in the insertion of covert agents into Corvantine territory.

“We’ll be obliged to anchor outside Morsvale harbour till dawn,” he advised. “They won’t open the doors before then, and every vessel is subject to inspection.”

“That won’t be a problem,” she assured him, placing her oilskin pack on the bunk and managing not to wrinkle her nose at the smell.

“They tell you the success rate?” he asked and she discerned a certain tiredness in his eyes, the same fatigue she had often seen in Protectorate officers with multiple battle ribbons on their uniforms.

“They did,” she said. Twenty percent. The statistic was sobering but not unduly off-putting. Long odds were something she had habituated herself to over the years.

“They don’t trade captured agents in Arradsia,” the bosun went on. “Not like up north. They catch you in Morsvale they’ll wring what they can out of you then dump your corpse in the pens as drake food. The Arradsian Cadre plays a game without rules.”

“How long have you been in this role?” she asked.

“Twelve years now.” He displayed a wall of discoloured teeth in a forced smile. “And every day brings a new opportunity to better serve the Syndicate.”

She turned to the bunk and opened her bag. “I assume I won’t be disturbed.”

“The captain declared the hold off-limits for three days. Told the crew there was an acid spill.”

“He’s aware I’m aboard?”

The bosun shook his head. “Special cargo. That’s all he knows and he’s paid enough not to ask questions.”

“Excellent. Our journey time?”

“Two days, barring bad weather and Corvantine patrol boats.”

“Is that likely?”

“Happens now and then. Was a time they were easily bribed, not so much these days. Seems the new emperor’s been busy purging his army and navy of lazy and corrupt officers. The new breed are a sight more diligent.”

She extracted the Spider from the bag along with a brace of vials and laid them on the bunk. “I can’t afford a single compromise. If it seems we are about to be intercepted, come and fetch me. I’ll take care of it.”

She saw how his eyes lingered on the vials and realised he hadn’t been told he would be transporting a Blood-blessed. “I don’t know what you’re after in Morsvale,” he said after a moment. “And, of course, I don’t want to know. But if the Cadre catches a Division Blood-blessed on their own ground, getting fed to the drakes will be the least of your worries.”

He handed her a large canteen of water and tapped his boot against a wooden crate. “Preserved herring and pickles, in case you get hungry.” He gave her a final glance before leaving, his expression conveying a firm conviction he was taking a young woman to certain doom. He stomped off into the gloom and she heard him climb the ladder before a heavy clunk told of the hold’s hatchway being locked firmly in place.

Twelve years, she thought, removing her jacket and lying down on the bunk. I’ll have Division transfer him when I return.

—

Lizanne must have fallen into a half slumber at some point for she jerked upright with the Whisper in hand at the sound of the Islander’s steam-whistle. The hold was mostly pitch-dark but for a narrow beam of moonlight streaming through a port-hole near the ceiling. Hearing the slowing of the engine through the bulkhead, Lizanne got to her feet and strapped on the Spider. Each vial was now fully charged and she pressed the button aligned with her middle finger, sending a small charge of Green into her veins, the gloom abating and her muscles thrumming with the effects of the product. The port-hole was out of reach of any walkway so she was obliged to leap from crate to crate, building up enough momentum to grab onto an iron beam in the ceiling, hanging suspended as she peered through the port-hole. At first she could see nothing but the sea, the waters calm beneath a mostly cloudless sky. Then she saw it, a greenish-white wake perhaps a quarter-mile distant and above it a dark silhouette, tall enough to blot out the horizon from one end of the port-hole to the other.

Warship, she realised. Too large for a patrol boat. She watched the massive vessel track across the Islander’s starboard side. From the number of guns and the three stacks rising above the curve of the paddles she judged her to be one of the Imperium class of Corvantine heavy cruisers. It was unusual to see anything larger than a frigate in Arradsian coastal waters; both the Imperial Admiralty and the Ironship Sea Board tended to keep their primary units close to home. She glanced at the stars and roughly calculated the ship’s course as parallel to their own, towards Morsvale. Ran the Strait in darkness, she deduced. The Protectorate pickets must have seen her though.

The effects of the Green began to ebb as the Corvantine vessel slipped out of sight and she used the dregs to return to her bunk. On removing the Spider she inspected the small red circle left by the syringe, one of several now clustered in much the same spot to give her the appearance of an opium fiend. A useful cover story, should I need it.

She lay down on the bunk once more, Spider and Whisper both resting on her chest. She was making a mental note to relay her sighting of the warship to Madame in the first scheduled trance communication when sleep finally overtook her.

—

The wall that shielded Morsvale from the tides was not truly a wall, more an artificial peninsula divided in two by the great door providing access to the docks. The edifice appeared to have been created by the simple, but no doubt enormously laborious, means of dumping huge stone blocks into the harbour until a barrier of sufficient size had been created, large enough in fact for houses to have been constructed atop it. Lizanne gazed up at the tall, close-packed tenements in frank amazement, barely crediting the fact that people would choose to live in such proximity to the unpredictable sea. They were dimly illuminated by flickering candlelight from the small but numerous windows, washing lines arcing between each structure like a spider-web.

“Land is at a premium in Corvantine holdings,” the bosun explained. “Comes from choosing to build a colony so close to a swamp. But all the best anchorages were taken by the time the empire took an interest in the continent.”

As the Islander drew closer Lizanne detected a pungent aroma arising from the surrounding waters, thickening into a nausea-inducing stench as they neared the wall itself. “Poorest folk in the city live here,” the bosun said, nodding at the effluent bobbing in the gentle swell below the rail. “No sewers to speak of so they just cast their filth out the window and let the sea take care of it.”

Lizanne concealed a shudder of revulsion at her impending task and tightened the straps fixing the oilskin pack onto her back. It was another of Jermayah’s designs, featuring an ingenious double-flap and fabric treated with a special coating which kept the contents dry despite continual immersion. The bulk of it also helped with her buoyancy; it wouldn’t do to spend any time on the surface when the door opened. She wore only a tight-fitting one-piece garment of black cotton, light enough not to become so sodden it might weigh her down on exiting the water.

The Islander’s whistle sounded two short blasts and her paddles stopped then gave a half-dozen reverse turns to bring her to a dead stop. “Not too late,” the bosun said as the anchor plunged into the water. “You can still abort.”

Lizanne glanced over at the shadowy bulk of the Corvantine cruiser sitting at anchor just a few hundred yards short of the harbour door. Naturally, an Imperial warship took precedence over commercial traffic. She could make out the name painted on her hull in elaborate Eutherian script: Regal. The cruiser was an even more impressive sight at close range, dwarfing all the other vessels awaiting the opening of the door.

Even though Lizanne still entertained reservations about the merits of this mission, the arrival in Morsvale of a ship capable of tipping the regional maritime balance in favour of the empire demanded investigation. “Thank you,” she told the bosun. “That won’t be necessary.”

“The Islander will return in exactly twenty-three days,” he said. “She will remain for one tide only. Extraction before or after that date will have to be undertaken entirely on your own initiative.”

“I understand.” She rolled up her sleeve to check the straps on the Spider and nodded briskly at the stern. “Shall we?”

“Going to be perishing cold,” he warned as they came to the anchor chain.

“I expect so.” She hopped nimbly onto the rail and took a firm hold of the anchor chain, wrapping her arms and legs about the iron links.

“Gave up saying good luck years ago.” She looked up to see his tired, hollow-eyed face poised above the rail, a very small, sad smile on his lips. “But . . . Well, you know.”

She replied only with a grim smile of her own then loosened her grip on the chain, sliding down into the chill embrace of the stinking water below.

—

It had become apparent early in Lizanne’s schooldays that she enjoyed an equal facility with all four variants of product, an unusual trait that ensured she was soon marked out as a potential Division operative. This was the reason for her weekly visits to Jermayah’s workshop and why Madame would often favour her with a private lesson in the more nuanced uses to which product could be applied. Most of these lessons had been welcome as they invariably involved a fair amount of athletic activity, something Lizanne always enjoyed. However, she had soon come to dread one particular exercise: the proper employment of Red in an inclement environment.

Madame Bondersil would fill a bath with several buckets of ice water then order Lizanne to imbibe a small amount of Red before lying in the tub. She would then stand by with a stop-watch as Lizanne tried desperately not to exhaust the Red in a single convulsive burst. The first few attempts had seen her melt all the ice, though luckily Madame ensured there was insufficient product in her system to boil the water. Over time, however, she had learned to control the release of Red, disciplining her mind and body so that it seeped away in a continual, gradual flow, warming the surrounding water sufficiently for her to remain submerged for an extended period. Her record at the Academy had been forty-eight minutes. Tonight she would need to exceed an hour.

She pressed the requisite button on the Spider halfway down the anchor chain, injecting a quarter of a vial before slipping into the water. The chill gripped her like a vice for a split-second before she summoned the Red, the numbing cold banished in an instant. She held on to the chain, head tilted back so her nose and mouth could still draw air as she fought down a reflexive retch. The Red could keep her warm but could do nothing about the stench.

The next phase of her insertion was fairly straightforward. She would await the sunrise whereupon the harbour door would open and the assembled ships begin to make their way inside. The bosun advised the Islander would most likely be fourth in line to gain access. When she began to move Lizanne would follow her in, injecting Green and diving below the surface to avoid the gaze of well-armed guards manning the turrets on either side of the entrance. Straightforward, but the wait was tedious and the Regal sat at anchor only a short distance away.

Impetuosity, she recalled Madame saying several years ago, shaking her head in stern admonition. It will be the death of you, young lady. Lizanne allowed herself a grin before injecting a quarter vial of Green and slipping below the surface.

She had to dive deep to clear the cloud of effluent, finding the water below clear and surprisingly rich in sea life. One of the more appreciated effects of Green was a prolongation of respiration, allowing a Blood-blessed to remain underwater for three times the normal duration. The enhanced vision also made for an interesting aquatic experience. Schools of mackerel darted from her path, swarming and breaking apart in a fascinating dance. She caught a glimpse of a ray of some kind shaking loose a cloud of sand before flying off into the gloom, long tail whipping. The surrounding sea-bed was littered with various detritus from the tenements and, she noticed, more than a few human skulls grinning up at her from the sand. It seemed the wall-dwellers used the sea to dispose of more than just effluent.

It took perhaps three minutes before the jagged bulk of the Regal’s paddles came into view, the stilled blades jutting below the putrid fog. Lizanne made for the stern, hoping to find the anchor chain. She would climb a short way up and listen for any voices on the deck. If the way proved clear a closer inspection might be warranted. As she swam she was given pause by the cleanliness of the cruiser’s hull, mostly free of crustaceans or the myriad scars that signified an extended time at sea. She’s newly scraped, Lizanne realised, her interest deepening as she neared the stern. There was something odd about the shape of the hull here, a bulbous protrusion extending towards the rudder of a kind she had never seen before. Swimming closer she saw that the protrusion narrowed towards its end then blossomed into what appeared to be a massive metal flower.

She slowed and drifted closer. The odd extrusion was about three yards across and appeared to be fashioned from steel, the three petals of the flower arranged about a central cone. She noticed the flower itself was not part of the protrusion in the hull, separated from it by a half-inch gap. But it appeared new, the metal showing no signs of corrosion. Father would know in an instant what this is, she thought, berating herself for not inheriting the family facility for things mechanical. Or if he didn’t, Jermayah surely would.

Her head clouded with images of the many blueprints and devices glimpsed in her father’s workshop, seeking something that might compare to this bizarre discovery. It came to her as she felt the effects of both the Green and Red start to ebb, her vision dimming and a chilly hand caressing her flesh. The fan, she remembered. Father’s desk fan. Summer months in Feros could be oppressive, the air heavy with a clammy, strength-sapping heat. Never one to appreciate the loss of a day’s work her father had built a small fan, driven by a tiny steam-engine that set three blades whirling fast enough to deliver a cooling breeze as he laboured over yet another fortune-making design that would, invariably, fail to find a backer. She had once suggested he try manufacturing the fan for sale only to receive an incredulous snort in response. Fortunes are not won by trinkets, my dear.

Not petals, she realised, reaching out to play her fingers over the flower’s smooth surface. Blades. The empire has invented a fan that can drive the water rather than the air.

Lizanne winced as the surrounding chill deepened and her lungs began to burn. She paused just long enough to fix the image of the giant, ship-driving fan in her mind before kicking away and driving for the surface.

—

An hour later she heaved herself out of the shadowed waters beneath one of Morsvale’s many piers, using up the last of the Green to clamber onto a sturdy cross-beam. Dawn had broken to bathe the harbour with a bright morning sun, shafts of light streaming through the pier’s planking to splash welcome heat onto her shivering flesh. She had kept to the surface as the Regal neared the door, resisting the impulse to inject more product as the cold seeped ever deeper into her bones. Unlike the entrance to Carvenport, Morsvale had but one door, a great iron thing of many riveted plates. The whole edifice was hauled out of the water by means of revolving cogs driven by two steam-engines, of somewhat inefficient design given the clunking racket and copious smoke they emitted.

Lizanne kept to the shadow cast by the Regal’s stern as the cruiser turned her paddles and proceeded into the harbour. She waited until the last moment before submerging once more, just as the shoulder of a guard turret came into view. She injected all the remaining Green and Red as she dived, newly invigorated arms and legs working to place her under the warship’s keel until her enhanced vision glimpsed the door’s trench-like recess below, indicating she had crossed into the harbour proper. She made for a pier directly opposite the one where the Regal moored up, crouching amidst the forest of support beams to watch her arrival being greeted by a full company of Imperial troops. The dark red tunics and height of the soldiers, each at least six feet tall, made identification an easy matter: the Scarlet Legion. These were elite regulars, one of the three legions that made up the Corvantine Household Division. They were rarely seen outside the empire’s borders, their principal occupation being the subjugation of internal revolt, usually by the most brutal means available. Lizanne could name three separate massacres attributed to the Scarlet Butchers, as Corvantine radicals called them.

She watched as a gangplank was hauled into place and a group of officers made their way from the ship to the pier. There were seven of them, all but one dressed in the uniform of the Imperial Navy. This odd man out was a tall fellow of middling years clad in the dark green uniform of the light infantry, his jacket free of any insignia. Unlike all the other soldiery present he was bare-headed, his hair shaven down to the scalp. She would have taken him for a somewhat unusually aged common soldier but for the obvious deference and respect displayed by all those around him. The tall man acknowledged the salutes of the Legion officers greeting him with a curt nod then gave a dismissive wave as a colonel bowed and gestured at the ranks of waiting legionnaires.

No time for inspections, Lizanne thought, watching the tall man stride past the soldiers to climb into a waiting carriage. And little interest in ceremony. She had never seen this man in person before but had read sufficient intelligence reports and seen enough blurred photostats to know his name well enough: Henris Lek Morradin, Grand Marshal of Legions and Victor of the Day of Justice. The Emperor has sent his favourite attack dog to Arradsia. Why?

CHAPTER 9

Hilemore

“They call it the Hive, apparently,” Captain Trumane said, tapping the pencilled “x” on the map with the point of his calliper. The mark sat in a horseshoe-shaped bay in one of the myriad islands forming the north-eastern shoulder of the Barrier Isles. “A nest of pirates and villains where our prey makes her home. Maritime Intelligence has spent the better part of four years searching for it, and now, gentlemen, it finally lies within our grasp.”

Mr. Lemhill rested his hands on the ward-room table, heavy brows drawn as he regarded the map with a practised eye. “Our speed will count for little in such close confines, sir,” he said. “And, if this pirates’ den is truthfully named, we’ll have more than one vessel to contend with.”

“Quite so, Number One,” the captain replied, his tone coloured by a slight smugness. “Fortunate it is then, that we have no need to enter this particular pit of snakes. Our colleagues in Maritime Intelligence assure me that the Windqueen is not currently at harbour. Rather, she is en route via a little-known passage through the dense mass of islands to the south. She is expected to arrive within two days, meaning all we need do is lie in wait. Once she’s either sunk or taken as a prize, we will conduct a bombardment of this Hive from a reasonably safe distance before returning to Feros. Even if we don’t destroy the settlement completely, the inhabitants will have little choice but to flee in the knowledge that their lair has been discovered.”

“Might I enquire, Captain,” Hilemore said, “what intelligence we possess regarding the enemy’s complement and ordnance?”

“Nothing we can’t cope with, I’m sure,” Trumane replied, waving a dismissive hand. “With our speed and superior armament I see little occasion for concern.”

“Even so, sir,” Hilemore went on, “most rumours regarding this particular pirate paints her as a blood-burner. Meaning, of course, they will have at least one Blood-blessed on board.”

“Superior gunnery will prove ample antidote to any threat from that quarter,” Trumane said, voice now taking on a tetchy edge. “And I dare say there are a few marksmen under your command with a keen enough eye to pick off any pirates displaying obvious signs of the Blessing.”

Hilemore recalled the largest battle of the Dalcian Emergency and the huge war-galley that had emerged from the smoke to plough towards his frigate. It was crammed with warriors from bow to stern and, standing at the prow, the last few remaining members of the High King’s Blood Cabal. They stood in a dense cluster, bare of clothing and their flesh liberally decorated with garish paint of different hues. Dalcian Blood-blessed continued to attach mystical allusions to their abilities, believing the sigils with which they adorned their skin added somehow to their power. If so, it had availed them nothing that day. Hilemore had leapt atop one of the life-boats, kneeling and taking careful aim with a rifle as Dalcian musket balls buzzed around him. All but one of the Cabal had fallen before the galley drew close enough for their abilities to have any effect. The lone survivor, however, a tall, well-muscled fellow daubed all over in red paint, had clearly imbibed a huge quantity of Green, sufficient in fact to carry him over the rail before he plummeted into the centre of the aft deck. The subsequent two minutes of carnage had provided evidence aplenty of the danger posed by a Blood-blessed at close quarters.

“An effective tactic, sir,” he conceded to Trumane, briefly closing his eyes to clear the images of flaming and dismembered men from his mind. “However, I would suggest the boarding party’s complement be increased as a precautionary measure. Another dozen men should do it.”

“We don’t have another dozen men to spare, Lieutenant,” Trumane pointed out. “Every other man aboard will have his own task to perform when battle is joined.”

“Apart from the cooks and laundry attendants, sir,” Hilemore said. “And your own stewards.”

He saw Trumane stiffen at that. Most captains made do with one steward, some with none, but Captain Trumane saw fit to employ three. He flushed a little and started to reply but Lemhill, perhaps sensing the onset of an unwise outburst, cut in first.

“I can probably rustle up another six men for you,” he told Hilemore. “Can’t speak for their fighting abilities though.”

Hilemore nodded, glancing at Trumane’s reddened features and knowing it was time for a tactical withdrawal. “Gratefully received in any case, sir,” he told Lemhill. “If you could have them report to me at first light, I will commence their training.”

Trumane took a moment to regard Hilemore in imperious silence before returning his attention to the map. “We will proceed at the rate of one half flask a day. By my calculations that will provide an average speed of eighteen knots in fair weather, meaning we should reach the Isles in nine days. We will keep well to the north of this Hive then cut towards the south and find a suitably secluded mooring from which to spring our trap. In the meantime I shall be undertaking regular inspections of the crew, particularly the boarding party, Mr. Hilemore. I would hate to administer punishments should you fail to transform your cooks and wash-boys into riflemen in the time available.”

—

“Fire!” The entire boarding party fired in unison, thirty rifles cracking sharply in the morning air to tear a fresh cluster of ragged holes in the canvas target bobbing a hundred yards off the starboard rail. Grouping’s better, Hilemore decided upon viewing the results through his spy-glass. Still falling short of twelve rounds a minute though. He watched the man nearest to him working the bolt of his Silworth rifle, a single-shot .422 breech-loader that, in the right hands, was deadly up to a mile. Like his fellows, the sailor was a proficient rifleman but hardly expert and Hilemore’s experiences in Dalcian waters had provided ample education in the value of expertise.

“Too slow!” he barked as the last man snapped the bolt closed and presented his rifle. It had become a familiar refrain during the voyage south and he saw a couple of the men suppressing weary groans in expectation of his next orders. “Master-at-Arms!”

The hulking Islander snapped to attention. “Sir!”

“Three times around the fore-deck, if you please. And let’s pick up the pace a bit this time.”

“Aye, sir!” Within minutes Steelfine had them whipped into a column and doubling around the fore-deck, rifles held at port arms and knees raised to hip height with every step. Despite their evident fatigue none of the riflemen faltered, evidence of the depth of respect, or rather fear, with which they regarded their Master-at-Arms.

At the sound of a faint but insistent call Hilemore raised his gaze to the upper reaches of the Viable’s only mast where the slender form of Mr. Talmant could be seen in the crow’s nest. The ensign saluted then waved towards the southern horizon. Hilemore duly turned his glass southwards and it wasn’t long before he picked out a faint, grey-green hump rising above the waves.

“Another ship?”

He lowered the glass to find Mr. Tottleborn had joined him. The young Blood-blessed rested his arms on the rail, pinched and pale features regarding the view beyond the bows with a mixture of trepidation and weariness.

“No,” Hilemore replied. “Land. One of the outer islands I expect.”

“Chock-full of savages keen to rape us to death then devour our corpses, no doubt.”

Hilemore cast a cautious glance around to ensure Steelfine wasn’t in earshot before giving Tottleborn a closer look. Although the liquor cabinet remained firmly closed to him throughout the ten days it had taken to get here, a perennial redness lingered around his eyes. Added to that, his languid movements and lack of appetite had forced Hilemore to conclude Tottleborn had found some other means of feeding his addiction. As was custom in the Maritime Protectorate, the crew received a daily rum ration but, so far, he hadn’t managed to catch any in the act of selling it on. Given that Tottleborn had continued to perform within the bounds of his contract, albeit with an undimmed sullenness and distinct absence of enthusiasm, Hilemore hadn’t felt the need to push the matter. However, with their objective now in sight he might have to adopt a less lenient approach.

“It’s not the Islanders we need to worry about,” he told Tottleborn. “Our enemies are likely to be much better armed and a sight more savage.”

He watched the Blood-blessed clasp his hands together to conceal a tremble. “So it’s certain there’ll be a battle?”

“Almost certain. Your first time in combat, I assume?”

Tottleborn gave a jerky nod, his thin neck bulging as he swallowed. “At least fighting isn’t specified in my contract,” he said, forcing a smile.

“Quite so. Can’t have you swinging over the rail with cutlass in hand, now can we? No, you’ll be tucked up nice and safe in the engine room surrounded by several inches of armour-plate.”

Tottleborn’s smile faded and his sombre gaze drifted over a sea rendered grey under the overcast sky. “There’s a little known facet of the Blue-trance,” he said in a quiet voice. “One we rarely talk about. They call it the Shadow.”

Hilemore frowned in puzzlement. He had made it his business to research the nature of the Blessing and its numerous inherent dangers, but this was beyond his knowledge. “Shadow?”

“Yes. Every Blood-blessed perceives the trance differently. For some it’s a storm, for others a forest. Mine is like a corridor of endless doors. I need only open one to access the memory or knowledge it possesses. But sometimes a Blood-blessed will see something in their trance, something dark and formless: a void swallowing light and emitting nothing except a chill sense of finality. It may be mere superstition, but it’s said that when you see the Shadow you see a portent of your own death.”

“And you have seen it?”

“My last trance was . . . confused, for reasons best not discussed at this juncture.”

“Meaning you were drunk.”

Tottleborn’s eyes flashed at him. “Meaning it was confused.” He sighed and looked away. “I believe I saw . . . something. A door that hadn’t been there before, its form shifting continually, and it was so very dark . . .”

Tottleborn trailed off as Steelfine brought the boarding party to a halt a few yards away, growling at the sagging men to straighten up before delivering a salute. “Three laps of the fore-deck completed as ordered, sir!”

“Thank you, Master-at-Arms.” Hilemore turned back to Tottleborn. “There isn’t a pirate vessel afloat with sufficient fire-power to penetrate the armour shielding the engine room. I suggest this shadow door of yours was but a figment born of drink. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have men to train.”

“There’s a letter,” the Blood-blessed said before he could move away, “in my cabin.” He forced another smile. “For a young lady of my acquaintance back in Feros. Should the worst happen . . .”

“Worry is the enemy of all sailors, Mr. Tottleborn,” Hilemore interrupted, finding his patience exhausted. “Best put it from your mind and concentrate on the matter at hand. I believe a Blue-trance communication is scheduled in less than one hour. Please go and ask Mr. Lemhill for the relevant documents. I shall meet you in the ward-room when I’m done here.”

He saw a brief flicker of hurt pass over Tottleborn’s narrow features before he nodded and turned away, making for the ladder leading to the bridge.

“Now then,” Hilemore said, raising his voice to address the boarding party and taking a stop-watch from his pocket. “Let’s see if you buggers can do any better with independent fire. An extra quarter measure of rum for any man who manages twelve rounds in a minute.”

—

The captain chose to anchor in a narrow inlet on the coast of a small island six miles north-east of the Hive. They approached at night, moving at a crawl through the two-moonlit waters, Tottleborn having burned only a tenth of a flask to reduce their speed and engine noise. Hilemore stood at the prow as the Viable slowed to a halt, grudgingly impressed by Trumane’s navigation. Under his guidance the helmsman had performed a ninety-degree turn exactly ten miles true north and the subsequent passage had been achieved with only minimal corrections. All night the captain stood on the gangway taking repeated readings from the stars and moons with his sextant, every now and then ordering slight changes in their heading to counter the effects of the prevailing current. Hilemore entertained certain doubts about his captain’s command ability but his skill as a navigator, like his expert understanding of the workings of the marvellous engine that drove this ship, was unquestionable.

Hilemore also found he couldn’t fault the man for his regular inspections of the boarding party; with battle looming men needed a vigilant and sometimes stern commander. However, he wished Trumane would exercise his gift for criticism with greater care, concentrating more on marksmanship and weapons maintenance than uniform infractions. He had come close to ordering one of the cooks flogged for a missing belt buckle but seemed unconcerned by the blunt edge on the boy’s bayonet, an infraction for which Hilemore had fined him a month’s sea pay before ordering three mornings of close-order drill under Steelfine’s instruction.

On the whole he judged the boarding party as ready as he could make them, though only a handful had ever seen combat and they lacked the cutting edge and aggression of the men he had commanded in the Emergency. He could only hope these pirates proved a less ferocious foe than the Sovereignists when the time came.

He turned at the splash of the anchor descending into the still waters of the inlet, soon followed by the soft toll of the bell sounding the commencement of the first watch. He lingered for a moment, his thoughts turning to Lewella, as they ever did when the still hours of the night were upon him. Her letter rested in the breast pocket of his tunic and he couldn’t help the feeling that it emitted a certain heat through the fabric, the pain it held warm and irresistible. Please do not hate me . . .

As ever, when his thoughts turned to Lewella, they fixed on that first meeting. Whilst young women of the managerial class were typically introduced to their future fiancés at a ball or other suitably chaperoned social gathering, Lewella Tythencroft was destined to meet Lieutenant Corrick Hilemore under very different circumstances. The North Mandinorian port of Sanorah was no stranger to riots, but previous civil disturbances had tended to erupt amidst the ever-fractious and poverty-riven dock-side neighbourhoods. This one was different in that the principal agitators were students rather than drunken stevedores enraged at yet another wage cut.

Hilemore had emerged from the post office on Aylemont Road to find himself embroiled in a scene of smoke-shrouded chaos. He could see a line of mounted Protectorate constabulary clubbing their way through a crowd of yelling youths, batons and placards colliding in an ugly melee before the horses broke through and the young people scattered. One, however, remained where she was.

She was tall with auburn hair trailing from a hatless and dishevelled head, her well-tailored clothes marking her out as of managerial station, although the message painted onto her placard spoke of contradictory allegiances. IRONSHIP MUST BE DISSOLVED!

“Votes not shares!” he heard her cry out, standing straight-backed and unafraid as her fellow protestors fled on all sides. “End the corporate tyranny!”

Hilemore found himself transfixed by the sight, continuing to stare even as a salvo of rifle-shots sounded through the thickening smoke. The moment was broken, however, by the sight of a Protectorate constable wheeling his horse about and galloping straight at the object of Hilemore’s fascination.

“Votes not shares! Votes no—”

The young woman’s chant ended in a hard grunt as Hilemore’s charge took her off her feet, horse and constable thundering past, the clatter of iron-shod hooves counterpointed by the whistle of the constable’s baton as it came within a whisker of Hilemore’s head. They landed a few yards on, Hilemore finding himself staring into the woman’s eyes, bright hazel eyes that were angry rather than grateful.

“Get off me!” she shouted, struggling free. “Corporate pig! Slaver’s mercenary!”

Hilemore’s attention was dragged away by the sound of the constable attempting to bring his mount around for a second charge. Luckily, the fellow was clearly a novice horseman and took an inordinate amount of time to complete the manoeuvre. Hilemore surged to his feet, covered the intervening distance in a few strides and jerked the constable’s foot free of his stirrup, hauling him from the saddle with a heavy shove. He slapped a hand to the animal’s flank to send it galloping off through the smoke then turned to find the young woman had regained her feet and was crouching to retrieve her placard.

“Put me down!” she yelled as he forestalled any delay by simply lifting her onto his shoulder and bearing her away at a steady run. “Unhand me you Syndicate lackey!”

He was obliged to shield her from several more assaults as he skirted knots of conflict where students and constables battled one another with an intensity that he wouldn’t see outmatched until the Dalcian Emergency two years later.

Finally the smoke began to thin as they entered a residential street away from the main concourse. The young woman had fallen into a stern silence by now and glared at him as he set her down, lips set in a hard, unyielding line as he touched a finger to his cap. “Apologies, miss.”

“You, sir,” she said, glare undimmed, “are a whore to the corporate elite.”

And then she kissed him.

“Cocoa, sir.”

Hilemore blinked and turned to find Mr. Talmant confronting him with a steaming tin mug. “Cookie’s compliments, sir,” the ensign went on. “Says his boys are a lot more obedient since you came aboard.”

“Be sure to thank him for me.” Hilemore accepted the mug, raising his eyebrows as he paused to sniff the steaming aroma. A tot or two of rum, if I’m not mistaken. He decided it would be churlish to refuse the cook’s gratitude and took a generous sip.

“A wild shore, sir,” Talmant said, nodding at the jungle-thick mass of the island. The light of the double moons played over the dense foliage like a scattering of silver dust that did little to alleviate its ominous appearance. “Do you think we’ll see any Islanders?”

“I’ve only sailed these waters once before,” Hilemore replied. “My first posting in fact, when I was an ensign like you. Sailed up and down the whole archipelago in a customs cutter for six months and never caught sight of a native the whole voyage. In fact, Mr. Steelfine is the only Islander I’ve had the pleasure of seeing at close quarters.”

“I believe he’s from one of the Vineland tribes that live near the Strait. The only tribe ever to be successfully pacified, they say.”

Hilemore had serious doubts that the word “pacified” could be truthfully applied to Steelfine but was impressed by the boy’s knowledge. “Are you an educated fellow then, Mr. Talmant?”

The ensign gave a cautious smile. “I had three years of school, sir. Milvale, Explorer House.”

Milvale, Hilemore knew, was one of the more prestigious boarding schools where the Mandinorian managerial class sent their children. Mr. Talmant, it seemed, came from successful stock. “Explorer, eh?” he asked.

“The house was founded by the Explorer’s Guild, sir. Back in the days of the old empire. I believe it was their intention to educate successive generations of adventurers.”

“Is that why you joined up? To voyage to the far-flung reaches of the globe?”

“Partly, sir. My tenure at the school came to a somewhat abrupt end, you see.” He paused and Hilemore saw an embarrassed flush on his cheeks despite the gloom. Money troubles, he decided. It was a familiar story. The Talmants’ stock must have fallen: a bad investment or over-extended credit on the family mansion. Either way the school fees could no longer be met and it was time for the boy to find gainful employment. Though the youth seemed cheerful enough with his lot.

“And you, sir?” Talmant asked. “The Maritime Academy, I assume?”

Hilemore shook his head. “My father didn’t believe in formal education. Or rather, he resented the expense it required. My brothers and I were taught reading and numbers by my mother. Luckily, my grandfather had schooled her in the mysteries of navigation and I proved an able student. It was of considerable assistance when I applied to the Protectorate, my knowledge of other areas having been so neglected.”

“Your grandfather,” Talmant said, a certain hushed reverence in his voice. “I overheard Mr. Lemhill make mention of him. Truly you are the grandson of Fighting Jak then, sir?”

Fighting Jak, or Captain and later Commodore Jakamore Racksmith to be precise. A man Hilemore had known intimately for but one year of his life, but what a year it had been. The old man had taken them in after his father had finally frittered away the last of the family holdings, necessitating the sale of Astrage Vale to Cousin Malkim, a man of singular odium. Father had taken himself off to the eastern steppes, ostensibly to seek out some fabled lost treasure and restore the family fortune. Hilemore, then aged thirteen and old enough to know a lie when he heard it, had sternly refused to take his father’s hand the day he left. Instead he turned his back and walked to the carriage that would take him, his brothers and his mother to their grandfather’s comparatively humble home by the sea. He remembered Father calling his name but he hadn’t looked back. Whatever became of him Hilemore never knew, though in idle moments he preferred to imagine him tucked up warm and safe in a yurt with a plump nomad woman and a full skin of fermented milk.

“Keen to hear an anecdote are we, Ensign?” he asked Talmant, grinning at the boy’s evident discomfort. “Grandfather rarely spoke of his battles, though my mother had provided me a rich history of his career. No, he preferred to speak of his more peaceful endeavours. It’s often forgotten these days but he was as much an explorer as a fighter. I dare say he would have been at home lecturing in your old college.”

“It would have been an honour to hear him, sir.” Talmant fidgeted for a moment before continuing, evidently struggling with the right choice of words. “Lieutenant, with regards to the boarding party . . .”

“No,” Hilemore interrupted flatly.

“But, sir. It’s plain you are short-handed . . .”

“Short-handed or not, I have no place for you, Mr. Talmant. You have an allotted role aboard this ship.”

Talmant stiffened a little. “Shackled to the captain’s side, relaying messages whilst my comrades fight is hardly honourable duty.”

“On that point you are utterly wrong.” Hilemore smothered an exasperated sigh, knowing he was looking at himself from ten years before, though even then he had stood half a foot taller than this deluded youth. “There is no safe place in a sea battle, Mr. Talmant,” he said, voice now rich in authority. “As you will soon discover when we draw within range of our adversary’s guns. The captain has done you credit by ascribing you a vital role. I suggest you do not abuse the opportunity with churlishness.”

Talmant’s posture abruptly shifted into straight-backed respect, eyes averted as he saluted, replying in a standard tone, “Very good, sir.”

Hilemore nodded and returned the salute. “Carry on, Mr. Talmant.”

“Sir!”

He watched the lad take a few steps, then sighed again before calling after him. “A moment, Ensign.”

Talmant halted and about-faced, still maintaining his rigid posture. “Aye, sir.”

“You and the other junior officers will draw revolvers tomorrow morning and report here for target practice. Bring your swords, too. And I had better not find any with a dull edge.”

He saw Talmant suppress a grin before he saluted again. “I’ll make sure of it, sir.”

“See that you do, Mr. Talmant.” Hilemore returned his gaze to the island as Talmant’s footsteps faded, watching the moonlight play on the tree-tops and feeling Lewella’s letter burn against his breast once more. Throw it away, a seductive voice whispered inside his head. Consign it to the sea and curse her name. Betrayal deserves nothing else.

If that’s true, he answered himself, I had best throw myself in as well. Still, he took another gulp of cocoa before upending the mug and emptying the remainder into the still waters below. In a day or two the pirates may well spare me the trouble.

CHAPTER 10

Clay

“Told you to leave it be,” his uncle grated through clenched teeth.

“I did,” Clay replied. He glanced across the table at Silverpin busily shovelling fresh scrambled eggs into her mouth, apparently oblivious to the conversation. It became abruptly clear to him that his uncle had no notion of the gift she had made him the previous night. He turned away and left a lengthy pause before replying. “Man like that had no shortage of enemies. Seems someone saved me the trouble.”

“You think Keyvine’s crew will see it that way?”

“Keyvine’s crew are already slicing each other to pieces over who gets to sit the throne, or if they ain’t they soon will be. Besides, you got Ironship protection now, right?”

“Don’t tell me what I got, boy!” Braddon started to rise, stopping only when Fredabel put a hand on his arm.

“He was here all night,” she said softly. “Lest he sprouted wings, can’t see how he could’ve done this thing.”

There came a light knocking at the door. It was open to receive the fresh morning air but the new arrival lingered outside, awaiting leave to enter with his broad-brimmed hat clutched in both hands. He was a bulky man of New Colonial complexion, closer to fifty than forty with long hair and a heavy beard, the duster he wore and the butt of a shotgun jutting above his shoulder clearly indicating his Contractor status. He gave a respectful nod as Fredabel went to greet him. “Mrs. Torcreek.”

“Mr. Skaggerhill.” She took both his hands and drew him inside. “I’ve told you many times, just come on in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Skaggerhill replied with an earnest nod, Clay noting the faint flush on his cheeks. Seems Auntie won’t be wanting for a suitor if anything happens to Uncle, he surmised.

“Skaggs,” Braddon said, getting to his feet to shake the man’s hand. “Join us for a bite.”

“Eaten already, Captain. But thank you for the consideration.”

“They here?”

“Gathered in the yard, sir.” Skaggerhill gave an embarrassed wince and inclined his head at the door. “Got a small matter to attend to first, however.”

Loriabeth lay in the back of the wagon, a livid bruise on her cheek and the twin holsters on her hips empty. “Had to take her guns,” Skaggerhill explained. “Got a mite rambunctious after the third bottle.”

“What happened to her face?” Fredabel asked, arms crossed tight in concern as she cast a wary glance at her husband’s darkening visage.

“She, uh, formed an attachment,” Skaggerhill said, voice heavy with reluctance. “Young fella from the Trueshots. They danced for a while, then it seems he said something unfortunate. Things got a little hairy for a time. May be politic to go see their captain, smooth the waters like.”

Braddon stared down at his daughter with a barely controlled rage. “And she wants a place on this expedition,” he said in a low voice.

“Probably just trying to fit in,” Fredabel said, voice deliberately light. “It’s Contractor custom to let loose a little the night before an expedition.”

“She ain’t a Contractor,” Braddon grated, turning to his wife in mounting anger. “She’s my daughter. Her actions reflect on me, on this company. This is not some ragbag headhunter mob . . .”

He trailed off as Clay stepped between them, moving to the wagon and taking hold of Loriabeth’s arms. He hauled her onto his shoulder and carried her inside without particular difficulty since she weighed next to nothing. She gave a weary moan as he heaved her onto her bed, surfacing from the wine-induced fog and blinking at him with dulled eyes. “Shit,” she groaned. “You’re still here.”

“’Fraid so, cuz,” he replied with a smile. He glanced at the door as his aunt and uncle’s argument escalated downstairs. “Though right now I’m not sure which one of us your pa will kill first.”

“Kill you first,” she mumbled, curling up on the bed and snuggling childlike into the covers. “Kill you for murdering your pa . . .” After a few seconds she began to snore.

Clay took a look around her room, finding it surprisingly neat and well-ordered with an extensive collection of knives adorning the walls along with several maps and photostats of the Interior. He stepped closer to examine a framed sepia image above her bed, Braddon crouching next to a dead drake, a Red judging by the size. His uncle was maybe a decade younger, clasping his longrifle in one hand whilst balancing a little girl on his knee, her face smudged slightly. Children tended to be blurred in older photostats due to an inability to keep still long enough for the image to set.

“Been waiting for this a long time, huh?” he asked Loriabeth, receiving only a drooling rasp in return.

“Claydon!” Fredabel called from downstairs, voice strained with forced conviviality. “Miss Lethridge is here.”

—

Altogether they numbered six and Loriabeth was not counted amongst them. Aunt Fredabel had gone to wake her when the Longrifles assembled in the yard but Braddon forbade it with a command terse enough to leave his wife scowling.

“You really want to leave it like this?” she asked.

“Time she learned some consequences,” he replied before turning to the company, refusing to look as Fredabel stomped off back to the house.

“This here’s my nephew, Claydon,” Braddon told the Contractors, jerking his head at Clay. “If you’re familiar with the Blinds I guess you’ve heard the name and may be wondering why a known killer and thief is part of this expedition. I’m also mindful that I’ve never before taken a company so deep into the Interior. I ask you to trust my word that this is how it needs to be and the reward is equal to the risk. Any who can’t do that are welcome to forego this contract with an assurance that your choice won’t affect our future dealings.”

He fell silent, arms crossed in expectation of their answer. Clay was accustomed to the company of dangerous folk but found the scrutiny of the Longrifles more disconcerting than he would have liked. In addition to Skaggerhill and Silverpin there were a man and a woman of New Colonial stock, both possessed of a forbidding appearance and penetrating gaze. The man was tall, with a narrow face and tendrils of dark hair snaking down from a balding scalp. Clay put his age at somewhere past thirty but he could have been older from the deep lines clustered around his eyes. He carried a longrifle in a soft leather bag and rested his powerful hands on the barrel whilst regarding Clay, head tilted, like a cat analysing unfamiliar prey. What caught most of Clay’s attention, however, was the sight of the blood-red collar the man wore about his neck. Cleric, he realised. What’s a churchman doing in this company?

“Don’t worry, young ’un,” said the woman at the tall man’s side, reading Clay’s expression. “Preacher don’t do much preaching these days.” She made a stark contrast to her fellow Contractor, being of chunky build and standing only an inch above five feet, the pistols on her hips and carbine on her back a clear indication of her role. Gunhand. “Name’s Foxbine,” she said, taking off her hat in greeting and revealing a mass of red hair twisted into thick braids in the style of an Island woman, though the absence of tattoos and her accent revealed her to be of Carvenport origin.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Clay replied, then nodded at Preacher. “And you, sir.”

“Well, he’s polite enough,” Foxbine said to Braddon. “And time’s wasting, Captain. We wanna make Stockade by nightfall we’d best move out.”

Braddon nodded and shifted his gaze to Preacher. “You’re sure?”

The tall man said nothing, merely casting a final impassive gaze at Clay before hefting his rifle and walking to his horse. “Well, that gets it said.” Braddon pointed at Skaggerhill’s wagon. “Clay, you ride with the harvester. Thank your aunt for her hospitality and let’s get gone.”

Braddon walked to his horse without a single glance towards the house. He mounted up then flicked an impatient hand at Clay as he stood staring in surprise. Shaking his head he went inside and found Fredabel running a cloth over the meal table.

“My uncle . . .” Clay began, unsure of what to say.

“We don’t say good-bye,” she told him. “He always comes back and when he does it’s like he’s only been gone a day. So we never say good-bye.” She stopped and turned to him with a smile. “It was good to have you under my roof again, Claydon.”

“And I thank you for the favour, Auntie.”

She gave a furtive glance at the door then moved closer, taking something from the folds of her skirt and pressing it into his hand. “Don’t tell your uncle. The cost of it would drive him mad and those Ironship witches said you were only allowed Blue.”

Clay looked at her gift, feeling his heart lurch in gratitude. A vial, the colour and density of the contents wonderfully familiar. Black. A full vial of Black. “Thank you, Auntie,” he said, quickly consigning the vial to his pocket. “Rest assured I’ll pay you back . . .”

“Oh, hush now.” She leaned close and planted a kiss on his cheek then withdrew a little, hands on his shoulders. “Knew your mother. Only a little, but I liked her well enough. Knew your father too, more than I wanted to. Sometimes there are men who just need to be taken out of this world. So, regardless of my husband’s view on the matter, I see no reason to bar you from this family. When you come back, this house will be your home for as long as you want it to be.” She hugged him close then pushed him towards the door. “You go on now. And keep close to Mr. Skaggerhill. If there’s anyone can keep you alive out there it’s him.”

—

The jungle stank. It wasn’t just an odour, or a scent, it was a stink, thick, cloying and inescapable. It assailed his nostrils at every breath, rich with the sweet tang of decay and overripe fruit. Added to the discomfort of the stink was the ominous sight of the jungle itself, a wall of green closing around with every mile passed since leaving Carvenport. The road grew dimmer as they travelled, the trees rising to obscure the sun until the company was completely in the shade and the road had transformed into a rutted track.

“First time beyond the walls makes a fella itch, alright,” Skaggerhill commented, watching Clay fidget, sweat-beaded eyes constantly roving the surrounding curtain of greenery. “Feels like it’s gonna reach out and grab ya, don’t it?”

Clay confined his reply to an irritated scowl, striving to stare straight ahead at the two oxen drawing the wagon, but managing only a few yards before the jungle inevitably drew his gaze once more.

“You’re right to be wary, young ’un.” Skaggerhill chuckled. “Fairly shit my pants first time out. And with good reason: Greens are always looking for an easy meal.”

“What Greens?” Clay grunted, gesturing at the surrounding wall of vegetation. “Haven’t seen shit all day.”

Skaggerhill gave a wry chuckle. “’Course you ain’t. If you was to see a Green this far north it’ll be strung up for harvesting. When we gets farther south though, you find y’self unlucky enough to catch a glimpse of a live one and you’ll most likely be dead a second or two later.”

Clay’s hand moved unconsciously to the only weapon he had been allowed, a double-barrelled hammer-lock pistol of antique appearance. His uncle had handed it to him as the company mounted up in the stable-yard, reading the disdain on Clay’s face with a direct glare that dared him to voice a complaint. “For protection only,” Braddon said. “You got two shots and they’re both already loaded. You fire this without a reason, you ain’t getting any more.”

“Won’t do you no good,” Skaggerhill said, nodding at the pistol. “Jungle Greens are pack hunters, like to swarm over you from several directions at once.”

“So what do I do if I see one?”

“Run like the Seer’s ghost is on your heels and scream your lungs out.”

“The noise’ll scare them off, I guess.”

Skaggerhill chuckled again. “No, but we hear you screaming we might come running quick enough for there to be something left worth saving.”

—

The town of Stockade sat on the eastern bank of the Greenchurn River. At first glance it appeared to consist of a half-circle of spike-topped tree-trunks enclosing a clutch of tents and huts of mean appearance. However, as they approached in line with the bank, Clay found his gaze drawn mostly to the long jetty that extended from the shore into the fast-flowing river. This, he realised, was where the real town lay. Two-storey houses sprouted along its length and a twenty-foot-high watch-tower rose at the junction where the piers split off. He counted half a dozen paddle steamers moored along the piers, mostly small single-wheelers but one side wheeler standing out thanks to the tallness of its stacks and the Ironship pennant flying from its mast.

“The Firejack,” Skaggerhill said. “Only blood-burner to work the river trade. She’ll be home for a while till we make the Sands.”

“You ever been there?” Clay asked him. “The Red Sands.”

A cloud passed over the harvester’s usually cheery features and he gave a short nod. “Just once. They’re well named, right enough. Don’t seem natural for land to be so truly red. There’s a badness to the place, a feeling to the air and it ain’t just the dust.”

“But you’re still willing to go? ’Cause my uncle asked you to?”

Skaggerhill gave him a sidelong glance. “Your uncle asked me to walk naked across a southern ice-floe, I’d do it. Twenty expeditions together so far, and I came back whole and a damn sight richer from each and every one. Captains like him are a rare breed.”

The entrance to the town lay open and unguarded, the collection of tents and huts beyond shrouded in smoke. Raucous merriment rose from a large two-storey structure near the jetty but for the most part it was quiet. Men and women in Contractor garb sat around fires, sharing meals or playing cards, a few calling greetings to his uncle as they passed by. “Only the river folk truly live here,” Skaggerhill explained. “And they keep to the jetty. Contractors spend a night or two in camp waiting for a boat or trying to find a company, then move on.”

Braddon led them to a vacant patch of ground near the wall and told them to make camp. “I’ll check in with the Firejack’s skipper,” he said. “Clay, help Mr. Skaggerhill raise the tents then make supper.” He met Clay’s gaze with the same glaring expectation of a challenge. I do suspect, Clay thought, Uncle would quite like to beat me in front of this company.

“My pleasure, Uncle,” he replied with a smile, climbing down from the wagon.

“Miss Foxbine.” Braddon turned to the gunhand. “Take a turn around the camp and the tavern. See what the rumour-mill’s weaving these days.”

Foxbine tipped her hat. “Will do, Captain.”

Braddon turned his horse towards the pier, raising a hand to the various Contractors calling out greetings, Clay noting that every voice was coloured by a deep respect.

“You cook?”

Clay turned, finding himself confronted by Preacher. He stood at least half a foot taller than Clay, staring down with the same impassive scrutiny from before.

“Not especially,” Clay replied.

“I don’t eat fowl,” Preacher stated, holding Clay’s gaze. He was vaguely aware that those who still maintained adherence to the Seer’s teachings often held objections to various foodstuffs.

“Seer spoke against it, huh?” he asked.

Preacher blinked, his expression unchanging as he repeated “I don’t eat fowl,” in exactly the same emphatic tone, before adding, “Nor anything that flies.”

“Yeah, you said.” A familiar heat was building in Clay’s chest as the tall man continued to stare, the heat that had come close to killing him as often as it had saved him back in the Blinds.

“He’s got it, Preacher,” Skaggerhill said, coming to Clay’s side. “You know I’d never let such a thing touch your plate.”

Preacher looked at the harvester, blinked and walked back to his horse.

“Next time he says something to you,” Skaggerhill told Clay in a quiet voice, “just nod, real polite-like, and agree. If he says the sky’s purple with red dots all over it, you just nod and agree. Understand me, young ’un? This ain’t the Blinds. Everything out here, including the people, is worse than anything you ever seen before.”

—

“A full company of headhunters?” Braddon asked with a sceptical frown.

Foxbine shrugged and nodded. “That’s the word, Captain. Second-generation crew out of Rigger’s Bay, over fifty strong they say. Went hunting for Spoiled along the coast and just”—she spread her hands—“never came out again. Some Contractors went looking and found a few bodies, all marked and cut up the way Spoiled like to do.”

“When was this?”

“About a month back. Seems the whole of Rigger’s Bay is squawking about it, demanding more troops from the Protectorate and such.”

“Spoiled getting all riled up is never good news,” Skaggerhill commented. “But Rigger’s Bay is a good sight out of our way.”

“Thought the Spoiled were supposed to be near extinct,” Clay said which drew a hearty laugh from Foxbine.

“They’re like rats,” his uncle replied in a grim tone. “Always more than you think there are.”

“True enough,” Foxbine said, her mirth subsiding into a nostalgic grin. “You remember that last trip to the Flats? Only time I ever ran out of ammunition.”

Supper was beef sausage and rice, cooked under Skaggerhill’s close supervision. Clay had watched Preacher carefully examine his plate before taking a bite, chewing and pursing his lips in apparent satisfaction. Silverpin sat next to Clay, happily gorging herself on the meal in what he was coming to understand as a characteristic lack of moderation, then offering him a wink of appreciation. As Foxbine related her accumulated gossip the bladehand reclined, leaning in Clay’s direction and running a whetstone over the narrow blade of a six-foot spear. Clay recognised it as an Islander’s weapon, the haft fashioned from ebony and covered from end to end in intricate carvings and tribal symbols. The butt ended in a fist-sized ball which, he knew, made an excellent skull-cracker. If the conversation held any interest for Silverpin she failed to show it, though she did cast an occasional shy smile in Clay’s direction.

“Anything else of interest?” Skaggerhill enquired of Foxbine.

“Contractor Company took some losses in the Badlands,” she said. “More than usual, that is. Seems the Reds are getting a sight boisterous these days.”

“Since when weren’t they . . . ?” the harvester began then trailed off as a high, piercing screech came echoing over the wall. Clay saw him exchange an urgent glance with his uncle. “Can’t be. Not so far north, not for years.”

Braddon stood, raising a hand to silence him. Clay rose as the rest of the company followed his uncle’s lead. They listened for a while, Clay suddenly aware of the silence as the entire congregation of Contractors strained their ears for another sound. Nothing came for several moments and a murmur of conversation had begun to return when the screech rose again, louder and closer this time, and, if Clay was any judge, it wasn’t alone.

“That’s a Seer-damned pack,” Skaggerhill breathed.

“Greens?” Clay asked.

“What else they gonna be?” Foxbine grunted, hefting her carbine.

“Best get to the wall,” Braddon said, unsheathing his longrifle from its green-leather covering. “Clay, stay with the wagon.”

Clay stared after him as he led his people towards the wall, most of the other Contractors following suit with weapons in hand. The casual humiliation caused the heat to rise in his chest again, spawning all manner of unwise notions. “Fuck this,” he muttered, drawing his double-barrelled pistol and following, though at a discreet distance.

He was surprised to find the entrance still standing open. Apparently no-one had thought to close it in quite a while. “Not sure the hinges even work any more,” a heavy-set man was saying to Braddon. He wore the peaked cap and overalls typical of river folk and was flanked by two younger men in similar garb. “Been some talk we should just go ahead and take down the walls, for all the good they do these days.”

“Looks like they’ll be doing you some good tonight,” Braddon replied, nodding at the darkness beyond the gateway where the screeching chorus continued unabated. If anything, it seemed to have risen in volume.

“How many, d’you think?” the riverman asked Braddon.

“Full pack and then some.” Braddon worked the lever on his rifle, chambering a round. “More than twenty, most likely. It’s your town, sir, but my advice is you get this sealed up best you can, and the quicker the better. That’s a frenzy song they’re singing. Frenzy makes ’em unheedful of injury. Just a few get loose in here and it’s gonna get ugly real fast.”

The riverman gave a sweaty-faced nod and started barking orders, a clutch of townsfolk running to heave the doors in place, rusted hinges squealing. They buttressed them with some sturdy beams and dragged a wagon across the entrance for good measure. Clay saw Braddon lead the Longrifles up a ladder to a narrow parapet running along the top of the wall. Dozens of Contractors hurried to follow suit amidst a chorus of clicks and snicks as they loaded their weapons.

Clay climbed to a point halfway up the ladder, close enough to hear any conversation, though the Contractors had all fallen into a tense silence. The screeching chorus of the Green pack rose and fell for several minutes, Clay finding it impossible to gauge their distance from the wall. Eventually he heard Skaggerhill say, “Could throw some torches out there. Get some light on them.”

“Grass is too dry this close to town,” Braddon replied. “We’d most likely set the walls to blazing. Besides, nothing’s more likely to drive them crazy than fire.”

He fell silent at an insistent thumping to his right, Clay risking a glance at the parapet to see Silverpin slamming the butt of her spear onto the planking. She held her finger to her lips and leaned out between the spikes, ear cocked to the darkness. Clay heard it then, a new sound amidst the drake song, though just as chilling. A horse, he realised. Screaming.

“Someone’s out there,” he heard Foxbine say, her judgement soon confirmed by the sharp crack of multiple pistol-shots cutting through the general cacophony.

“Who’d be fool enough to travel the jungle at night?” Skaggerhill asked.

Clay saw Silverpin step back from the wall, grip tightening on her spear as she crouched. “Don’t!” he shouted, clambering up the last few rungs of the ladder. But she was already in the air, vaulting the spikes into the blackness beyond. He reached the wall in time to see her sprint away into the darkness as a fresh salvo of shots rang out.

“Clay.” He turned to see Braddon reaching for him, voice rich in warning. “Ain’t nothing you can do . . .”

Clay took hold of a spike and swung himself over the wall, Braddon’s hand flailing at his shirt but failing to find purchase as he fell. The drop was significant but well within Clay’s expertise and he landed without injury, pausing in a crouch to survey the blankness ahead. The Greens’ screeching seemed to have doubled in intensity, perhaps loud enough to mask any more shots. His eyes snapped to a sudden flare in the darkness, a brief gout of bluish flame off to the right. The colour was distinctive, glimpsed only a few times when business took him to the breeding pens. Drake fire.

“Claydon!” his uncle yelled from above. “You get your ass back up here now!”

Clay cast a glance up at the wall, seeing Braddon’s furious face staring down, his arm outstretched and lowering a rope. Clay gave him a grin before rising and running towards the flames. He covered perhaps thirty yards when something caught his foot, sending him tumbling through the long grass. He scrambled to one knee, pistol aiming at a bulky shape in the grass as his nostrils detected a thick stench of mingled blood and shit. The horse, he realised, his gaze alighting on a partly severed hoof before finding the animal’s head. It lay with mouth agape, eyes still wide and frozen in terror.

I may have done a foolish thing, he decided, attention fixed on the sight of the horse’s partially revealed rib-cage, mesmerised by the white bone jutting from the part-roasted gore. Another gout of flame to the left tore his gaze away and he caught a glimpse of Silverpin, silhouetted against the sudden light, leaping into the air, the blade of her spear flickering as it spun. The flames died in an instant, the Green’s screeching song momentarily faltering as if in answer to some unspoken command.

Clay ran towards the spot where he had glimpsed Silverpin, finding her withdrawing her spear from the corpse of a Green. She had skewered it precisely at the join between skull and neck, something he had seen harvesters do to old and unwanted stock in the pens. This Green, however, was nothing like the stunted, greyish creatures in the pens. It must have been at least eight feet in length, twin lines of upraised, razor-like scales running the length of its body from the broad spade-like snout to the spear-point tail. Its legs, thick with muscle, ended in wide, three-toed claws, curved and wickedly sharp. Instead of the wings seen in other species of Drake, it had two curving horns protruding from its back. On pen-bred stock these were usually little more than thumb-sized spikes, but here they were at least a foot in length, indicating an animal of considerable age.

He stepped back in alarm as the Green’s jaws snapped closed, its tail twisting convulsively.

“Just a spasm,” came a pained voice to his right. It was Loriabeth, lying in the grass with blood on her leg. She was fumbling with one of her pistols, desperately trying to reload the open cylinder.

“Your pa really is gonna kill you,” Clay told her, moving to crouch at her side, then pausing as the Greens’ song rose again. He scanned the long grass, pistol levelled and heart thumping. He whirled at the sound of something rushing through the grass, the pistol coming round to aim directly at a charging Green, legs blurring and tail thrashing as it scythed through the grass towards him. He fired his two shots in quick succession, his fears about the weapon’s age proving unjustified by the satisfying roar and thump in his hand as the hammers came down. He saw the shots strike home, blood spouting on the Green’s shoulders. It barely slowed. Frenzy makes ’em unheedful of injury.

“Shit!” He dropped the pistol and reached for the vial in his pocket, knowing he didn’t have time to drink it but neither did he have time to run. He managed to get the stopper off by the time the Green came within arm’s length, jaws gaping wide.

Something boomed close to Clay’s ear, forcing him to reel away, for one panicked instant nearly losing his hold on the vial though not before a few precious drops had slipped out. Ears ringing, he saw the Green’s head snap back, legs tangling beneath it as it collapsed and rolled to lie spasming in the grass.

“The head,” Loriabeth said in an exhausted sigh, on her knees now, smoke trailing from her pistol as she lowered her sagging arm. “Always the head.”

Clay moved to catch her before she fell, wrapping an arm around her waist. He looked at the vial in his free hand, seeing a bead of product glistening on the glass and fighting down a surge of temptation. He replaced the stopper and returned it to his pocket. “We gotta go!” he called, casting around to find Silverpin. She rose from the grass less than three yards away, spear in one hand and freshly bloodied knife in the other. She met his gaze and gave a nod.

Fresh flames blossomed as they lifted Loriabeth between them, hauling her back to the wall at a run. The Greens’ song had changed, the pitch deeper now so that Clay couldn’t help but discern a definite emotion to it. Rage, he realised. We made them angry. He risked a backward glance, seeing four separate fires burning in the grass, dark, long-tailed shapes flickering amidst a sudden confusion of shadow and smoke. He took a firmer grip on Loriabeth and ran faster.

They were within twenty yards of the wall when the Drake rose from the grass directly in their path. It was the largest Clay had seen yet, its twin horns rising from its back like scimitars. It issued a new sound as they skidded to a halt before it, not a screech but a roar, rich in fury and challenge. Clay was close enough to see the pink tongue and throat, the naptha ducts at the base of the tongue flooding the mouth with a fine mist, ready to catch light when it summoned the igniting gasses from its belly.

Should’ve drunk that vial, Clay decided.

A hail of gun-shots swept down from the wall, the big Green disappearing amidst fountaining earth and blood as every Contractor with a clear view fired in unison. The barrage didn’t let up for what seemed an age, the Green writhing and twitching as bullet after bullet tore at its flesh.

“Over here!” Clay turned at the sound of Skaggerhill’s shout and saw a trio of ropes cast from the wall. He and Silverpin dragged Loriabeth to the nearest rope and tied it around her waist. The girl was barely conscious now and could only groan in protest as she was hauled up. Clay watched Silverpin take hold of a rope and begin to climb, then took a final look at the burning field behind. The fires had joined now, creating a thick barrier of flame between the town and the jungle, inching closer by the second. He saw no sign of the Greens and realised their song had fallen silent.

“Claydon!” He looked up to see his uncle above, stern-faced and clearly furious, and wondered if facing the fire might be preferable to climbing the wall. In the end the overwhelming heat made the decision for him and he took hold of the rope, climbing as many hands hauled him to the top. He expected a tirade, or even a blow or two from Braddon, but his uncle merely looked him up and down in critical appraisal before moving away. Clay followed him to where Loriabeth lay on the parapet, wincing as Foxbine secured a makeshift bandage around her leg.

“Tail strike,” the gunhand told Braddon. “She got lucky.”

Braddon said nothing, meeting his daughter’s gaze as she stared up at him, face streaked with sweat and soot. “You knew I wouldn’t stay behind,” she told him, tone rich in accusation.

“Yes,” Braddon replied in a gravelly sigh. “You didn’t get your brains from your mother.”

CHAPTER 11

Lizanne

The house on Careworn Street stood empty, its doors and windows boarded up and an Imperial crest stencilled onto the planks in whitewash. The occupant had been a lifelong Morsvale resident, a clock-maker to trade who also dabbled in antiquities, an expensive hobby requiring more funds than his vocation could provide. Exceptional Initiatives, however, had been more than happy to indulge his interests for the past two decades, in return for certain services. The best cover, Lizanne recalled from a lecture at the Division training school, is no cover at all. It is always preferable to recruit from amongst the local populace. An agent with fewer lies to tell has fewer lies to forget should they ever face detection.

She paused at a dress-maker’s shop opposite the house, ostensibly to gaze longingly at the elegant gown adorning the mannequin in the window, such a contrast to her own dowdy skirt and jacket of plain wool. However, her eyes strayed constantly to the clock-maker’s house reflected in the glass. She could see no obvious signs of surveillance in the houses on either side, nor any indication in the street itself, but the Cadre were rarely obvious about anything. The clock-maker had been silent for close to seven weeks. It was improbable they would have kept watch for nearly two months following his arrest, but certainly not impossible. Lizanne had once spent the best part of three months secluded in a hide near an East Mandinorian hunting-lodge before her target appeared.

The clock-maker, she knew, was almost certainly dead. He may have had fewer lies to remember than a Division agent, but would also have had little resistance to the Cadre’s highly effective, if unsubtle, interrogation methods. She had been briefed on his activities and knew there was nothing he could have told them that might identify her. As soon as the man failed to make his regular rendezvous his handler followed protocol and made for his extraction point. The fact that there had been no Imperial agents waiting for him indicated the arrest must have been very recent, probably a matter of hours. Regardless of this good fortune Lizanne knew that the clock-maker would have provided his interrogators with a fulsome account of his activities, including the recent purchase of an empty box with an interesting inscription. A box purchased at his handler’s insistence, no less. Unsubtle they may be, but the Cadre were rarely foolish. They have to know Division will have sent someone, she concluded. They would watch this place for a year just on the off-chance of snaring me.

Lizanne decided it best to leave a close inspection for another time, casting a final wistful glance at the gown in the window before moving on. She had a call to make and it would be best not to make it after noon.

—

“Can you sew?” Housekeeper Meeram asked her. She was a plump woman with severely tied-back hair of jet-black and disproportionately small eyes, resembling dark beads set into the fleshy pillow of her face. They almost seemed to disappear completely as she looked Lizanne up and down, gaze narrowed in estimation.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lizanne replied, eyes downcast. Corvantine servants rarely looked their employers in the eye.

“Show me your hands.”

Lizanne tentatively raised her hands, the housekeeper grabbing her wrists and turning them over. “Used to work, I see,” she observed. “But the calluses have gotten a little soft, my dear. Out of practise are we?”

“The voyage from Corvus was long, ma’am. Not many folk in steerage willing to pay for tailoring, or cleaning. Did earn a few pins cooking though. Had to fix our own meals on the ship . . .”

“All right.” Meeram released her hands and moved back to her desk. She wore a heavy set of keys on a chain about her neck, keys that rattled as she moved. Lizanne hoped she wore it throughout the day and into the evening. “And you were employed in the household of Landgrave Ekion Vol Morgosal for two years,” Meeram said, scanning the letters of introduction Lizanne had provided.

“I was, ma’am. Second maid to Landgravine Morgosal.”

“Yes.” The housekeeper peered closer at the letters. “Who has done you the kindness of signing these references, I see.”

“The Landgravine was always very pleased with my service, ma’am.”

“I assume you came here in the knowledge that there is a long-standing friendship between the Landgrave and my employer.”

“My former housekeeper’s suggestion, ma’am. She said His Honour often received letters from Burgrave Artonin complaining of the lack of decent servants to be found in Morsvale.”

“True enough.” Meeram sighed. “The last girl kept tripping up the stairs with the master’s tea-tray. I suspect there may be something in the water here, a bacterium of some kind that stunts the wits of those born to this blighted land.”

Housekeeper Meeram sat down, clasping her hands together and fixing Lizanne with a hard stare. “Now, girl, if you expect to find a place here, I will have the truth from you. Why did you leave the Landgrave’s employ? I find it scarcely credible a maid of such experience, and such a fortunate situation, would simply pack her things and travel across the ocean on a whim.”

This one’s a mite too sharp for my liking, Lizanne decided. She summoned a flush to her cheeks and lowered her gaze farther, shifting in discomfort. “There was . . . a difficulty in the Landgrave’s household.”

“Speak plainly, girl,” Meeram snapped. “What difficulty?”

Lizanne kept her gaze averted. “The Landgrave’s youngest son. He developed an . . . inappropriate interest in one far below his station.”

“Ahh.” Meeram sat back, grimacing slightly in understanding. “And was this interest returned?”

“Gracious no, ma’am!” Lizanne looked up with an earnest gaze. “He was just a boy, with boyish notions. I tried to be polite in dissuading his attentions but his interest became . . . unduly excessive, to the point where it threatened embarrassment to the family.” She was careful to put the correct inflection on the word “embarrassment,” a term that carried great significance in the upper echelons of Corvantine society. Amongst the managerial class of the corporate world, steeped in its own modes of snobbery and petty gossip, social embarrassment would always be overlooked in light of success. In the empire, however, it could be a family’s ruin, especially if word of it reached the Imperial Court.

“So, the Landgravine thought it best if you were placed at far remove,” Meeram said.

“Yes, ma’am. She was very kind.”

“Well you will be free of such entanglements in this household. The Burgrave has but one child, a daughter of fifteen. And fortunately for you, she is in need of a maid. I give you fair warning she is a difficult charge, hence the vacancy.”

Housekeeper Meeram opened a drawer and consigned Lizanne’s letters to it with a brisk sweep of her plump arm. “I shall of course need to verify your references. It should take the better part of eight weeks to exchange correspondence with your former employers. In the interim, you will receive room and board and two crowns a month, rising to three upon confirmation of your status. Is this acceptable?”

Lizanne gave an eager nod. Her research had indicated most servants in Corvus could expect to receive half a crown a month. It appeared servants were indeed hard to come by in Morsvale. “Very acceptable, ma’am.”

—

After leading her to the small attic room she would occupy during her service, Meeram had given her a maid’s uniform of somewhat archaic appearance and referred her to the extensive list of duties pinned to the door. “I have an absolute intolerance for tardiness,” she said. “You are required to be at your allotted task by the fifth hour. Not one second later. As for now, get changed and report to the kitchen. You can take the master his afternoon tea.”

Burgrave Leonis Akiv Artonin was a wiry man of perhaps sixty who greeted Lizanne with a kindly smile as she curtsied before his desk, tea-tray in hand.

“A new face,” the Burgrave said, rising from his chair. Lizanne took the opportunity to steal a glance at his desk as she lowered her gaze, finding it mostly covered in household accounts and frustratingly free of any maps or intriguing antique-related correspondence. “And who might you be, my dear?”

“Krista, sir.” She curtsied again. “Recently arrived from Corvus and employed by Madam Meeram on recommendation of Landgrave Morgosal.”

“Oh excellent.” Artonin’s smile broadened. “And how is my old friend? I’m afraid I’ve sadly neglected our correspondence of late.”

“The Landgrave has been unwell, as you may know, sir. But his condition has improved in recent months.” All true facts gleaned from Division reports on the Corvantine aristocracy. Landgrave Morgosal, an enthusiastic whore chaser, had been laid low by an infection of an intimate nature, recently cured thanks to advances in medicinal Green.

“I am glad,” Artonin said. “The Landgrave and I served in the cavalry together for several years. It would pain me to think a mundane illness could do what rebel cannon could not.”

“The Landgrave often spoke of your service, sir. He said you saved his life at the Battle of Verosa.” Another well-documented truth. Despite his less-than-imposing physical presence, in his youth Captain Akiv Artonin’s courage in rescuing his wounded commanding officer from the teeth of a rebel battery had won him the Emperor’s Star for bravery and elevation to the nobility.

“A dimly recalled day,” he said, smile fading a little. “And best forgotten in any case.” He paused for a moment, scrutinising her face. “You are from Corvus, you say?”

Her complexion was too pale for a Corvus native. The Burgrave was an observant man it seemed. “I was born in the city, sir. But my people were of northern stock.”

“Ah yes. The famines drove a great many of your people into the heartland, as I recall. Tell me, do you speak Selvurin?”

“Yes, sir. My grandmother never spoke anything else so I just picked it up.”

“Excellent. Can you read it too?”

This was tricky. She couldn’t appear overly educated but suspected Artonin had a particular reason for his question, one that might prove useful. “After a fashion, sir. Grandmother had a box of old letters. When her eyes got bad she needed someone to read them to her.”

“Then it seems good fortune has brought you to my door.” Artonin went to the heavily laden bookcase behind his desk, scanning the shelves until he extracted the required volume. Lizanne noted how he ignored the upper shelf completely. The row of thick legal-reference works it held were free of dust but appeared mostly unread from the clarity of the lettering and intactness of the bindings.

“Here we are,” he said, Lizanne lowering her gaze once more as he turned to her with a slender tome in hand. “What do you make of this?” he asked, handing it to her.

She set the tea-tray down on his desk and accepted the book. It was bound in red leather and the gold mostly faded from the embossed title. “Vizian’s Fables,” she read, taking care to labour over the pronunciation. It was a collection of children’s stories from the early empire, long before the Selvurin language had been displaced by Varsal. “Grandmother would tell me these tales,” she said, smiling in fond recollection. “But I never saw them in a book before.”

She began to hand the book to him but he shook his head. “Why don’t you keep hold of it for a little while. I’ve attempted my own translation but my Selvurin is sadly not up to the task. I keep losing the nuance. With your assistance perhaps I can capture it.”

“You want me to write all these stories out in Varsal, sir?”

“Oh, I think a verbal recitation will do. Naturally, you will be paid for the additional duty.”

He smiled again and she found herself hoping she wouldn’t have to kill him. “Thank you, sir. I should be very happy to help.”

A series of loud thumps came from beyond the study door as someone descended the stairs with considerable haste. Lizanne saw a wince of anticipation pass across the Burgrave’s face an instant before the door flew open and a diminutive figure in a blue-silk dress burst in.

“Tekela,” Artonin said warmly, moving towards the new entrant, arms opening to embrace her. The girl, however, didn’t seem interested in a welcoming hug.

“Who’s she?” she demanded, pointing a rigid finger at Lizanne.

“This is Krista, your new maid.”

Lizanne gave a curtsy of the appropriate depth. “A pleasure, miss.”

The girl would have been pretty but for the scowl that transformed her features into a mask of unwelcoming spite. “Get rid of her!” she said, turning back to her father. “I didn’t choose her. You said I could choose my maid.”

“You chose the last one, my darling,” Artonin reminded her in a gentle tone. “And she left after two days.”

“She was a thief and a liar and a strumpet.” The girl shot another scowling glance at Lizanne. “And so’s this one. I can tell.”

Perhaps she shares her father’s keen eye, Lizanne considered, albeit slightly peeved by the strumpet remark.

She saw the Burgrave stiffen, his patience evidently running thin. “Do you wish me to force you to apologise to a servant, Tekela?” he asked in a soft voice.

The girl’s scowl deepened into a defiant glare as she matched stares with her father, eventually softening into a sullen pout when it became clear this was a battle she couldn’t win. “Sorry,” she mumbled in Lizanne’s direction, not meeting her gaze.

“There we are,” Artonin said, smiling once more as he placed a hand on his daughter’s cheek. “Did you find an appropriate dress today?”

“No,” she huffed. “They were all awful. If only you would let me go to Nizley’s.”

“Their prices are ridiculous. Your mother always said so.”

The girl’s scowl returned, accompanied by a self-pitying whine. “Mother wouldn’t have sent me to the ball in little more than peasant rags.”

“Keep looking. I’m sure you’ll find something. Krista will go with you tomorrow.”

Tekela gave another glance in Lizanne’s direction, a frown of suspicion augmenting her aggrieved pout. “What could she know about fashion?”

“I did see a most fine dress this morning,” Lizanne offered. “In a shop window on Careworn Street. I believe it would suit Miss Artonin very well indeed.”

“Marvellous,” the Burgrave said, stilling his daughter’s next objection with a tight hug and a kiss to the forehead. “Now, off to the drawing room, my dear. Miss Margarid will be here soon for your pianola lesson.”

The girl shrugged free of him and stomped to the door, Lizanne hearing the words, “Margarid’s a tone-deaf old hag,” before the door closed behind her.

“I’ve survived revolution, war and over a decade on this continent,” the Burgrave reflected. “But by all the ghosts of the hundred emperors, I think fatherhood will finally do me in.”

—

As was custom Corvantine servants ate together in the kitchen two hours after serving their masters’ evening meal. In addition to Housekeeper Meeram, Burgrave Artonin maintained a staff of three maids, one footman, one cook and one butler. In most noble houses the butler would have exercised authority below stairs but here everyone deferred to Meeram. Mainly, Lizanne assumed, due to the obvious infirmity and wayward memory of the ancient, white-haired fellow seated at the head of the table.

“What is your name, girl?” he enquired of Lizanne for the third time as the cook doled out a dessert of rice pudding.

“Krista, Mr. Drellic,” she replied, earning a nod of approval from Meeram for the absence of impatience in her tone.

“Got a look of the north about you,” he observed, as he had once before. “Best if you don’t go wandering too far. Not everyone in Corvus is as welcoming as the Artonin family.”

Lizanne saw the two maids seated opposite her smother a shared giggle. They were several years her junior and prone to girlish ways, though they both had the sturdy look of those who grow up accustomed to daily labour.

“I shall be careful, sir,” Lizanne assured him.

“May I ask, Miss Krista,” the footman said, “what manner of vessel carried you from Corvus?”

“She was called the Southern Pride,” Lizanne replied. “Biggest boat I ever saw until I caught sight of that warship steaming into the harbour ahead of us.”

“Oh yes, the Regal,” the footman enthused. “A fine sight she makes. Such clean lines. They say she can achieve close to thirty knots.”

Or maybe more, Lizanne thought, recalling the sight of the great steel fan affixed to the Regal’s hull. “You have a liking for ships, Mr. Rigan?”

“Indeed I do. It is my ambition to enlist in the navy, once the Burgrave sees fit to sign my letter of recommendation.” Lizanne could see the keenness in Rigan’s expression. She put his age at just over twenty and his face had a certain plumpish aspect not dissimilar to Housekeeper Meeram’s. His small, dark eyes confirmed Lizanne’s suspicion of a maternal relationship, as did Meeram’s frown of disapproval at his maritime ambitions.

“I was lucky in catching sight of a famous personage disembarking the Regal,” Lizanne went on. “Grand Marshal Morradin no less.”

A sudden hush descended as Drellic stiffened, his spoon falling from his hand and all confusion departing his gaze. “Morradin,” he whispered. “The Butcher is here?”

“Don’t upset yourself, Mr. Drellic,” Meeram said in a cautious tone.

“Twelve thousand men dead in a day,” Drellic went on, voice edged with a long-held anger. “My son amongst them. All on the Butcher’s order.”

“I’m sorry if I . . .” Lizanne began then fell silent at Meeram’s warning glare.

“And they call him a hero,” Drellic said, teeth clenched now. “The great commander, no more than a pig grown fat on the blood of wasted youth . . .”

“Now, now!” Meeram said with a strained smile, getting to her feet and laying a firm hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Our new employee might mistake your meaning, Mr. Drellic. And we all know where mistaken words can lead. I think you’re overly tired. Perhaps an early night will do you good.”

“Bodes ill that he’s here,” Drellic muttered as Meeram ushered him to his feet, guiding him to the stairs. “Means the Emperor has another slaughter in mind. Best if you send your boy away . . .”

“Please don’t say such things, Mr. Drellic,” Lizanne heard Meeram say as their footsteps ascended the back stairs.

“Well, that’s the most sense I’ve heard out of him since I got here,” one of the maids said. She was the taller of the two with a freckled nose and auburn curls escaping the pale blue cap the maids were required to wear.

“Careful,” Rigan warned. “The Cadre might forgive a half-mad old man’s ramblings, but you don’t have that excuse.”

The maid scrunched her nose at him in dismissal before turning her attention to Lizanne. “I’m Kalla,” she said, then nodded at the girl next to her. “She’s Misha.”

The other girl, clearly the more shy of the two, replied to Lizanne’s smile with an uncertain one of her own. Unlike Kalla, her colouring was more in keeping with Corvantines from the Imperial heartland, light olive skin and black hair, though her eyes were a pale shade of green. “You have been with the family long?” Lizanne asked her although it was Kalla who replied.

“Five years,” she said. “Madam Meeram picked us out of the orphanage. Was going to be just me but Misha gave such a terrible bawling at us being separated that she took her too.” She flinched as Misha gave her an annoyed poke in the ribs. “Well, you did. We should thank you for turning up when you did,” she went on, turning back to Lizanne, “otherwise it’d be us waiting on the Horror.”

“The Horror?” Lizanne enquired.

“The Burgrave’s evil spawn.” Kalla paused to stick her tongue out at Rigan’s sigh of reproach. “Tosh, you don’t like her any better than the rest of us. This would be a happy house to work in but for her.”

“Ah, Miss Tekela,” Lizanne said. “I’m to accompany her tomorrow. She needs a new dress.”

“Then you’d best prepare yourself for a trying day. Once saw her scream herself sick in the milliner’s cos they didn’t have a blue ribbon for her bonnet.”

“Madam Meeram did warn me she was . . . difficult.”

“Difficult’s not the word. She’s been a nightmare ever since her mother died. Now there was a woman who knew the value of a good switching now and then. The Burgrave’s too kind, is what it is. Forking out for pianola lessons, dancing lessons, sketching lessons, new shoes and frocks every week. All has to be paid for. No wonder the Burgrave’s been selling off his old stuff. Won’t be long before one of us’ll be let go so’s she can festoon herself with jewels and such. All so she can snare a nobleman one day, not that there’s one mad enough to have her.”

—

After supper, and an hour spent scrubbing dishes at the cook’s direction, Lizanne repaired to her attic room to lie on the bed. She removed her shoes but was otherwise fully clothed whilst she indulged in two hours of sleep. Her insomnia would always disappear once a deployment was fully underway and experience had taught her the value of seizing the opportunity to sleep whenever practicable. Inevitably, there would come a time when such indulgence became impossible and she would face a constant struggle with exhaustion, though the Green would help as long as it lasted.

She woke in the small hours, finding the house steeped in a gratifying quietude. Rising from the bed, she filled the bowl on her bedside table and splashed water on her face to banish the lingering fog of sleep then retrieved the Spider and Whisper from their hiding-place in the gutter outside her small window. She went to the door and opened it a fraction, strapping on the Spider and injecting a drop of Green to enhance her senses. She could hear no trace of conversation, though a female voice was whimpering through a nightmare and a loud snoring could be heard from one floor down. Mr. Drellic, she assumed with some satisfaction; the grating cacophony would help mask any unavoidable creaking from the staircase.

Lizanne made an unhurried progress down the backstairs to the next floor then across the hall to the main staircase. She had the Whisper in hand though hadn’t thought it appropriate to load a Redball. Should she encounter an unfortunate night-time wanderer the issue would require a stealthy resolution. She had already identified a narrow, shaded alley-way two streets away where a body would most likely lie undiscovered for sufficient time to facilitate her swift extraction.

She paused at the landing on the first-floor, crouching and scanning the hallway below. The distressed whimpering she had detected before was louder here and she realised it emanated from the room of the Burgrave’s daughter. The sounds were mostly indistinct through the door but the ebbing Green enabled her to catch the words “Please!” and “I didn’t tell!” amidst the babble. The Horror has horrors of her own, it seems, Lizanne concluded before moving on.

Haste is the burglar’s worst vice, she had been told at the Division school. Her tutor in the larcenous arts was a compact but muscular man she later learned had been the most successful thief in North Mandinorian history before Exceptional Initiatives offered him a lucrative teaching contract. The thief who rushes towards their object is the thief who will be hanging by a rope the next morning.

So she moved with a creeping slowness down the final flight of stairs, splaying her bare toes wide for a stable grip on the wood. There’s never been a stair or a floor-board that didn’t creak, the former burglar had said. Secret is not to fight it, but control it. Lift your foot just as slow as you put it down. The stairs made a few protesting noises as she descended to the ground-floor, but nothing that wouldn’t be mistaken for the natural grunts and groans common to all older houses in the quiet hours. After a full ten minutes of careful progress she finally felt the chill marble of the chequer-board floor under her feet.

She paused, eyes roving the shadows, ears alive for anything out of place, moving towards the Burgrave’s study only when satisfied the household’s slumber hadn’t been interrupted. As expected the study door was locked, almost certainly by Artonin himself. It would be a rare Corvantine noble who would allow a servant unfettered access to his study, no matter how trusted.

Lizanne crouched, injecting another drop of Green and peering at the lock. One of the former burglar’s more tedious lessons had been the memorisation of every major make of lock employed throughout the civilised world. This was a fairly typical example of an Alebond Commodities Suresafe mortice lock. Like many a Corvantine it appeared Burgrave Artonin was not immune to flouting the Imperial restrictions on purchase of corporate goods. It was an old and uncomplicated design but greatly disliked by the criminal fraternity for its solidity and the weight of its main lever, both of which made it extremely difficult to pick. She injected a half-second burst of Black and closed her eyes, clearing her mind and focusing on the memory of the diagram depicting the lock’s inner workings. The main lever was heavy, but light as a feather under the touch of the Black. She remembered to hold it in place at the apex of its arc as releasing it would result in an unwelcome rattle. Instead the Suresafe issued only a faint click as it surrendered its grip on the door. Lizanne slowly worked the door-handle and let herself in, closing it softly behind her.

She briefly checked the desk, finding it clear of papers and the drawers all locked. Using Black to pick the locks was a possibility but also tricky and time-consuming. In any case, she thought it unlikely Artonin would conceal anything of true value or interest in so obvious a location. She quickly switched her attention to the top shelf of his bookcase and the row of thick legal tomes. She reached up and tested the seam between two of the volumes, giving a soft grunt of satisfaction when it transpired the books were actually joined at the binding. In fact, these weren’t books at all. A few seconds further exploration revealed twin catches at each end of the edifice, and pressing them in unison enabled its smooth removal.

Any expectation that the revealed hiding-place would contain a delightfully complex artifact of gears and cogs were swiftly dashed, however. Instead, there were papers. A dozen or so tightly bound bundles of letters, some stacked periodicals and several leather-bound ledger-books. Reading it all in the time available was impossible and she could see no obvious clue as to which would offer useful information.

Sighing, she took a moment to memorise the position of the cache’s contents before reaching inside and extracting the topmost ledger book. She was expecting merely a mundane list of household expenditures but upon leafing through the first few pages found herself pleasantly surprised. The Burgrave wrote in flowing, elegant Eutherian interspersed with sketches and diagrams of an enticingly technical nature. Skipping back to the first page she found herself whispering aloud the title inscribed at the top: “Conjectures on the Designs and Inventions of the Mad Artisan.”

Although Lizanne was not habitually given to expressions of excitement she couldn’t suppress a slight increase in the tempo of her heart-beat as she read on:

The true identity of the man, or one might more properly say “genius,” known to our brotherhood of scholars as the Mad Artisan, has never been fully established. What is known beyond any credible doubt is that he was born in the empire sometime during the late Third Imperium and arrived in the then-nascent colony of Morsvale whilst still a young man in his twenties. It is also known that he made several journeys into the interior of this continent and that his experiences there were fundamental in crafting the many wondrous designs he left to posterity. Chief amongst these devices is, of course, the marvellous Arradsian Solargraph, the exact operation of which still defies our understanding, although the inscription on the box that housed it leads one inevitably to speculate on the Artisan’s knowledge regarding perhaps the greatest mystery this continent possesses . . .

The door’s hinges were well oiled, but still issued a betraying whine as it opened. Lizanne’s arm snapped level with her shoulder, the Whisper straight and unwavering as it centred on the space between the intruder’s eyes.

Tekela stood in the doorway, dressed in a silk night-dress, her hand still on the door-handle and staring at Lizanne with wide eyes. For some reason her cheeks were damp with fresh tears. The scowl from that afternoon had vanished now, replaced by an expression of blank incomprehension.

“What are you doing?” she had time to say before Lizanne’s finger tightened on the Whisper’s trigger.

CHAPTER 12

Clay

The river folk proved to be a resourceful bunch when it came to dealing with fire, anchoring two paddle steamers close to the bank so they could play their pumps over the advancing flames. By morning the river-bank had been transformed into a tract of steaming ash that stopped less than ten feet from the wall. Only one Green corpse remained sufficiently whole to warrant harvesting, the others all no more than blackened humps rising from the cinders. They counted thirteen in all, Braddon estimating at least seven more were still prowling the jungle close to town.

“Worth a day’s hunting, Captain,” Skaggerhill suggested. “Even iffen we bag just the one.”

Braddon shook his head. “Can’t afford the time. Besides, every company in town will be out there within the hour. Get the best price you can for this one.” He nodded at the Green suspended head down from Skaggerhill’s harvesting frame. “Just be sure to have it done before evening. The boat won’t wait for us.”

“Come hither, young ’un,” Skaggerhill said, moving to the hanging Green. “Learn a thing.”

Clay couldn’t quite suppress his trepidation as he approached the drake. Dead it may be but its tail, secured to the frame’s upper spar by a chain, had an unnerving habit of twitching even hours after the beast’s demise. Also, as Skaggerhill had enthusiastically demonstrated, a drake’s bite reflex lingered for a good while even without a living brain to command it.

“Hah!” The harvester chuckled as the snapping jaws closed on the thick wooden peg he thrust between them. “Only beast on the globe that can kill you when it’s stone-dead.” He took hold of the drake’s lower jaw with a thickly gloved hand, grunting with effort as he prised it apart and twisted the peg so that the jaws remained clamped in an open position.

“The hide ain’t gonna be worth much in this state,” Skaggerhill mused, stepping back to survey the multiple bullet-holes and scorch-marks tracing the length of the corpse.

“Had heard they were immune to fire,” Clay said, recalling the sight of the blackened drake corpses outside the wall.

“Popular myth,” the harvester replied. “Their hide’s resistant to flame, that’s why Contractors wear these green-leather dusters. But don’t expect it to save you from a full blast of drake fire. A hot enough flame and they burn like anything else.”

This was the big Green that had sought to bar Clay’s path to the wall, claimed by Braddon due to the fact that the Longrifles had put the most metal into it. Clay found himself even more impressed by it in daylight. Even slackened by death the power of the animal was evident in the bulging muscles of its legs and neck. Also, unlike the pen-bred Greens in Carvenport, its hide retained a complex pattern: a swirl of green and yellow, shot through with streaks of black. It was as if some paint had gotten all mixed up on the scales and frozen before the colours could meld.

“Caught in mid-change when it died,” Skaggerhill explained. “They can shift their colour somewhat to match their surroundings. Still mostly green, but altered so as to confuse the sight of its prey. Jungle Greens ain’t so good at it as their plains cousins though; they can change colour completely so as to disappear into the grass. Yellow in the dry season, green in the wet. The river Greens though, they’re like ghosts. Just shadows in the water. It’s a brave Contractor works the river trade.”

He pointed to a large steel bucket on the wagon. “Bring me that, would you? And that big clay jug next to it.”

Skaggerhill removed the cork from the jug and sloshed a good measure of the contents into the bucket before swishing it around. “White spirit,” he said. “Kills any mites and impurities that could spoil the blood. Product Brokers will lower the price if they spy any bugs floating about.”

He took a spile and mallet from the tool belt on his apron and had Clay position the bucket directly beneath the drake’s head. “Been hanging for long enough for the blood to pool,” he said, placing the spile’s point halfway along the neck. “Best stand back, it’ll gush some.”

He gave the spile two hard whacks with the mallet, driving it deep into the drake’s hide. The outflow of blood was immediate, flowing from the spile to the bucket in a thick, dark torrent. “Should net us a full quart,” Skaggerhill sniffed, stepping back as the blood continued to flow. “Would be more if I had time. Reckon we’ll sell the carcass once it’s bled. It’ll take too long to skin her and harvest the bones.”

“The bones?” Clay asked.

“Yes indeedy. Bones, organs, eyes, naptha sacs, brains. It’s all worth something. Only thing best left to the plasmologists is the heart. Stuff you get from the heart is near black and like to burn you to the bone iffen a drop touches your skin. Well, us non-Blessed folks, that is. Reckon you’d be alright. Though I hear tell even the Blood-blessed can’t drink the stuff.”

Clay gave him a sidelong glance. “My uncle told you what I am.”

“No, but it ain’t hard to figure. Why else’d you be here, given your lack of skills and all?”

Clay nodded at the rapidly filling bucket. “Do I get a share of this?”

“That’s up to the captain. And payments are only tallied when the expedition’s over.”

“I don’t mean money. I meant the product. You know how to dilute it, right?”

“To a usable standard, sure.” His beard parted in a smile, teeth bright and eyes cheery. “But that, like everything else that occurs in this company, is up to the captain.”

—

He found Braddon with Loriabeth in the tent. Foxbine and Silverpin had been tending to her but he had told them to take themselves off to the tavern. He sat beside her recumbent form, eyes intent on the girl’s sweat-covered face, not looking up when Clay entered, though he did offer a muttered greeting. “That was a damn-fool thing you did last night.”

“You’re welcome,” Clay replied, tone hardened by the ingratitude. He took a second to force down his anger before speaking again. “How is she?”

“The wound is deep but she’ll keep her leg. Most who suffer a tail strike ain’t so lucky. Foxbine anointed the gash with Green to ward off infection and gave her a tincture of opium for the pain.”

“So she’ll live?”

“Seems so.”

Clay found his uncle’s face unreadable. Was it anger or concern that drew his brows so? “You know,” he said, “if you leave her here she’s just gonna find a way to follow.”

Braddon leaned back from Loriabeth’s side and gave him a weary glance. “What d’you want, Claydon?”

“Skaggerhill bled near a full quart from the Green. I want some.”

“Payment for this?” Braddon gestured at Loriabeth.

“Some token of appreciation seems fitting.”

“Fair enough. Thank you for helping to save my daughter’s life. Now go help Skaggs unpack the wagon.”

“The Green . . .”

“Ain’t for you, Clay. Madame Bondersil added a very particular clause to our contract concerning your employment. You get the requisite amount of Blue only at the allotted time for the trance. Apart from that”—his brows lifted in a mockery of apology—“you get shit all.”

“I’ll be more use to this company if I have a ration of product.”

“Your employers see it differently. They think you’ll be more likely to take to your heels the first time we get near civilisation, if not before. The life you chose had consequences, boy. Absence of trust being one of them.”

“The life I chose?” Clay felt the unwise heat building again, making him acutely aware of the forbidden vial in his pocket. “Thought it was you chose it for me, Uncle.”

The faint vestige of humour faded from Braddon’s face, resuming his unreadable frown as he turned back to his daughter. “No place in my house for a boy who kills his own father.”

Auntie thinks different. Auntie thinks your brother was better off dead. He didn’t know why he left it unsaid; the truth may have inflicted some additional hurt after all, a little recompense for his lack of product. But something about this felt all wrong, the two of them bickering whilst his cousin lay senseless and wounded just feet away.

“I need a new gun,” he said instead. “Lost that relic you gave me last night.”

“Carried that piece my first-ever expedition,” Braddon told him, his voice near toneless and oddly lacking in reproach. “Should’ve known better than to trust it to you, I guess.” He sighed and glanced up. “Go find Foxbine in the tavern. She knows the local iron broker. The cost will be deducted from your share.”

—

They boarded the Firejack come early evening, the two tall stacks already belching black smoke into the air as stevedores hauled aboard the last of her cargo. The horses, oxen and wagon would be left within the town stable and sold off if they failed to return within six months. Preacher and Skaggerhill carried Loriabeth up the gangplank on a stretcher, the sight of the unconscious girl provoking an unwise outburst from a youthful deck-hand. “Ain’t signed up to serve on no hospital barge. Ill luck to let some sickly bitch aboard . . .”

Braddon knocked him down with a single punch, moving on without breaking stride or sparing another glance at the boatman, who now lay spitting blood onto the deck. “He’s new, Captain,” the Firejack’s First Mate apologised as Braddon approached the ladder to the wheel-house.

“Skipper up top?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. My daughter and Miss Foxbine will have my cabin. I’ll bunk with the company.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Clay.” Braddon started up the ladder. “You’re with me.”

The skipper proved to be a compact fellow of Old Colonial stock who, as far as Clay could tell, could have been any age between sixty and eighty. His features, partly obscured by a silver-grey beard, were leathery and wrinkled but there was an evident spryness to him that seemed to deny his years. Like most of the crew his uniform was only partially complete, a blue jacket and peaked cap bearing the Ironship badge. Otherwise there was little to distinguish him from the Independents who worked the river trade.

“This is Captain Seydell Keelman,” Braddon introduced him. “Master of the Firejack. Captain, my nephew Claydon.”

“Welcome aboard, young sir,” Keelman said, a keen scrutiny in his gaze as he looked Clay up and down. “You ain’t a company man, now are ya? Ironship Blood-blessed got a particular look to them. Not you though.”

“I am proudly Independent, sir,” Clay told him. “And hope to remain so for the rest of my days.”

“Well good for you. Spent two decades on the river without benefit of a company flag, myself. But”—he touched a finger to his cap—“comes a time when a man has to think on his pension.” He turned to Braddon. “How much?”

“Half a vial.”

Keelman’s hand went to his collar, extracting a chain attached to a bulky key. “Need you to sign for it,” he said. “The manager of the River Division is a stickler for balanced books.”

He led them from the wheel-house and along a passageway to a large, well-appointed cabin, complete with a gleaming oak dining-table reflecting the brass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A number of portraits adorned the walls, each depicting a man in the uniform of a captain in the Ironship Merchant Fleet. “The Firejack tends to use up her captains,” Keelman explained, gesturing at the portraits. “I’m the sixth skipper since she launched fifteen years ago.”

He went to one of the portraits, pulling it out on a hidden hinge to reveal the safe behind. He worked the heavy key in the lock then twisted the safe’s dial, hand moving with an unconscious rapidity which prevented Clay from catching more than two of the six digits in the combination. Hopefully the voyage down-river would afford further opportunities to learn the rest of it.

Once the safe was opened Keelman removed a ledger-book, an empty vial and a flask from the safe. He carefully poured a half-measure of product into the vial from the flask and handed it to Braddon. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, after Braddon had signed the ledger-book, both it and the flask having been returned to the safe, once again locked and concealed behind the painting. “We’ll be underway within the hour. Be glad if your company would join me for supper tonight. Cookie’s gotten us some prime catfish.”

“Happily accepted, Skipper,” Braddon told him.

After Keelman had gone he pointed Clay to one of the chairs ringing the table and produced a pocket-watch from the folds of his duster. “Two minutes yet,” he said. “Sure you can do this?”

Clay looked at the vial his uncle had placed on the table. Enough Blue for a trance of some intensity, though, as he had come to understand, the duration did not necessarily relate to the amount of product ingested. He found his palms were sweating and realised for the first time how much his sessions with Miss Lethridge had disturbed him. The ease with which she moved around his mind was disconcerting to say the least, made worse by the evident disdain for what she saw.

“Guess we’ll find out,” he replied.

Braddon kept a careful eye on the watch, waiting until the last ten seconds before nodding at Clay. He drank the vial in one gulp and the storm of image and sensation descended in a rush.

Punctual, Miss Lethridge’s mind said in approval. I’m happy to see my lessons weren’t entirely wasted.

Clay surveyed her thoughts, finding the panorama of disciplined whirlwinds largely unchanged though the nearest one was a darker hue than he recalled, flashing red and white and the clouds that formed it seemed to roil with greater energy than the others. Something wrong? he enquired.

A minor complication, now resolved, she replied. There was a pause and he felt her undertake a brief voyage through his own recent experience. Still far too messy in here, Mr. Torcreek. You really need to find a coherent visual template. But what’s this? Another pause as she effortlessly prised open the throbbing boil that contained the previous night’s memories. Yes, the first sight of a wild drake is always jarring. He saw the clouds of her mind darken further in disapproval. However much your new colleagues might appreciate your heroics, you are not employed to needlessly risk your life. A great deal depends on the success of this expedition.

He confined his response to a brief flash of lightning, something that happened whenever his anger and resentment flared.

Don’t sulk, she chided him, a certain weariness colouring the shared sensation. Just make your report.

We’re on the Firejack, he told her. About to leave Stockade.

On schedule. Good. Apart from last night’s excitement, has there been any interest from other parties?

Not so’s I’ve noticed. Uncle’s crew is highly respected, feared even. Other Contractors tend to keep their distance.

She gave a pulse of satisfaction before continuing. When you surface, ask him if he’s familiar with any old stories concerning a Corvantine known as the Mad Artisan. I believe he may be important to our endeavour.

I guess that means you ain’t found a map with a nice cross on it telling us where the White’s certain to be found?

Our operation is unprecedented and its parameters highly dynamic.

What’s that mean?

It means nothing like this has been attempted before and no, I have yet to discover a map or other intelligence precisely identifying the location of our fabled quarry. Nor do I expect to.

So where’s that leave us?

Continue to your objective. The Red Sands may offer further clues. The whirlwind twisted somewhat and he experienced a flush of uncertainty mingled with reluctance, two emotions he hadn’t felt from her before now.

You sure you’re alright? he asked.

Perfectly, she responded, the whirlwind snapping into a more regular shape. Look to your mission, and mind what I said about further heroics.

Then she was gone.

—

“Damn, kiddo.” Foxbine gave a sad shake of her head, gunsmoke fading as the waterspout from Clay’s shot cascaded down a yard to the left of the floating branch she had told him to aim for. “Woulda thought a Blinds boy would know how to shoot.”

“I ain’t used to the kick yet,” Clay said in annoyance. “This thing bucks like a mule.”

“Don’t you go blaming your weapon, now. That there’s a fine piece of engineering.” She searched the passing river for another target. “There.” She pointed at a half-submerged tree-stump on the far bank. “Should be big enough for ya.”

At first glance the pistol Foxbine chose for him appeared just as antique as his uncle’s double-barrelled relic. The black enamel on the frame was chipped in numerous places and the mismatched plain steel cylinder an obvious replacement for the original. But at least it was a six-shooter and, if Foxbine’s reaction to finding it at the iron broker’s was any indication, something of a prized rarity.

“An Alebond Mark One long-barrel,” she said, a faint note of awe in her voice as she spied it through the iron broker’s glass counter.

“Yep, she’s a treasure to be sure,” the broker said, an elderly man with bushy eyebrows that jutted out over his thick spectacles. “Would have made a goodly sum on her if she had all the original parts.”

“You got the stock?” Foxbine asked.

“It was all rotted but I made another myself.” He disappeared into the dense racks of rifles and shotguns crowding the rear of his shop, returning after a short delay with what appeared to be the sawn-off stock of a rifle. He took the pistol from the counter and slotted the stock into a brace on the rear of the butt, transforming it into a carbine. “They made these for the Royal Mandinorian Calvary,” the iron broker said, holding the weapon out to Foxbine. “Back when there still was such a thing. Some credit the winning of the Second Spoiled Wars to this beauty.”

Foxbine had held the weapon only briefly before handing it to Clay with a sigh of regret. “Tempted to buy her for myself, but I’m guessing the captain wants me to arm you as best I can.”

Despite his initial misgivings, Clay had to admit the weapon sat well in his hands. The heft of it was oddly comforting and the length of the barrel, twelve inches rather than the usual six, gave it a more sinister appearance than most pistols. “They called it the Stinger,” the broker said as Clay peered down the sights. “Still shoots true, young fella. And the action’s smooth as the day she was made. Wouldn’t sell her otherwise. Business like this runs on reputation.”

Foxbine raised a questioning eyebrow at Clay, who nodded in approval. “We’ll take her,” she told the broker, not bothering to ask the price. “Assume you’ve got a holster that’ll fit my friend here. We’ll also need two more cylinders, two boxes of .48 short and .52 long, the steel tips if you got ’em.”

“Going after Black, huh?” the broker asked, reaching up to the shelves behind the counter for the required ammunition.

“Iffen there’s any to find.” She took one of the boxes of .48 and tossed it to Clay. “Load her up. Tomorrow we’ll have us a lesson.”

The holster was designed to fit under his left arm rather than around his waist, the Stinger being too long to carry at the hip with any comfort. The stock hung from a strap across his back, within reach for a quick assembly. However, at first she had him firing without the stock, standing on the platform on the boat’s stern and taking one-handed pot-shots at the various targets she pointed out.

“Better,” she conceded as his bullet took a chunk out of the tree-stump. “And another.”

After firing off twenty rounds or more she had him practice replacing the cylinder. “Gotta get so’s your hands can do it without thinking. Can’t be fumbling around when the Spoiled come boiling over the hill.”

“How long you been at this?” he asked her.

“Oh, fourteen years now, give or take. In my blood, y’see. Like Loriabeth, though never done anything so dumb as that girl.”

“Your people were Contractors?”

“Yep. Ma and Pa both. Second and Third Hands on the Chainmasters crew. Brought in live drakes from far and wide. Was them that caught the Blood-lot Black.” She gave a small, cautious frown. “Guessing my family owes you for that.”

“Why? Wasn’t them that set it loose.” Clay snapped the lever in place, locking the cylinder to the Stinger’s frame, then started over at her insistent nod. “How come you didn’t join the Chainmasters?” he asked.

“I did for a time. Never took to the work though. It’s a grim business, trapping and hauling beasts across miles of jungle and desert. Most of ’em die during the journey. Just stop eating and wither away. A dying drake is a grim sight but it’s the sound that gets ya, keening away for hours on end like a pining dog but pitched low so you can’t never blot it out. Besides, the money started getting thin after my second expedition. Just not enough wild ones left in reasonable distance of civilisation. So I went looking for another position. Your uncle and my pa go way back, so he took me on. Had to prove myself, though. Lucky for me the Spoiled came at us in decent numbers that year.”

“They really as ugly as they say? Like men but all twisted up, I heard.”

“They ain’t men.” There was a grim insistence to her tone, her affability suddenly vanished. “Ugly they is, inside and out. But it’s evil that makes ’em so. Don’t ever mistake a Spoiled for human, and never let ’em take you alive.”

—

“The White Drake,” Braddon said. The Longrifles had gathered in the Firejack’s ward-room, alone save for Captain Keelman. When the stewards had cleared away the dinner dishes Keelman passed round a box of Dalcian cigars. All but Preacher had taken advantage of the offer and soon a thick cloud of sweet-smelling smoke hung over the table as Clay fought the impulse to cough.

“That’s what we’re after?” Skaggerhill asked, exhaling smoke in a laugh of mingled delight and incredulity.

“Indeed,” Braddon assured him, tossing a neatly folded sheaf of papers onto the dining-table. “As bonded under contract with the Ironship Trading Syndicate. Fees and shares stipulated. Feel free to read at your leisure.”

“I assume,” Skaggerhill said, barely glancing at the contract, “this means we have some notion of where to look when we get to the Red Sands.”

“We make for the Crater,” Braddon replied, “search for any sign of the Wittler Expedition.” He paused to nod at Clay. “After that, my nephew will provide further guidance from our employers.”

“Pardon me, Captain,” Foxbine said. “But this ain’t a capture crew. We find this thing, iffen it can be found, what then?”

“There’s an egg,” Clay said, voice a little hoarse. “Or there was. Wittler’s crew found it before they all died. All but one anyway, if the story’s to be believed.”

“All this time, thought it was all just another tall tale,” the gunhand mused.

“Wittler was real enough,” Skaggerhill said. “Knew him a little, though I was scarcely older than Clay at the time. Fine captain, if a little unbending. Caused quite a stir when the Sandrunners failed to come back and claim their wagon. No-one knew the Badlands and the Sands better than Wittler. If they can take him they can take anyone.”

“Ironship sent a Protectorate expedition in search of them not long after,” Braddon said. “All they found was bones. We’ll be on the lookout for what they missed. Protectorate don’t know the Interior like we do.”

“And if we find nothing like they did?” the harvester asked.

“Then hopefully more clues will be passed to Clay. And, fact is, we already have one.” He gave Clay an expectant nod.

Clay took another draw on the cigar, managing not to grimace as he said, “The Mad Artisan. Any of you ever hear the name?”

The Longrifles replied with blank faces, except for Preacher. He kept his gaze downcast, fixed on his hands clasped on the table before him, speaking softly, “A figure from Corvantine history. Inventor of many wonders and, in his day, said to be the wisest man in the empire.”

“He have a name?” Braddon asked.

“No-one knows it for sure,” Preacher replied. “Historians have often confused his tale with the comedy of Cevokas, although the dates don’t match up and, if Cevokas ever really existed, they could never have met.”

“Is there any tale that puts the Artisan with the White?”

Preacher shook his head. “Although he was supposedly a famous explorer in addition to everything else. One story has it that he found a cache of ancient but wondrous devices somewhere and that’s where the inspiration for all his inventions came from.”

“What happened to him?” Braddon enquired.

“Stories differ. Some say he fell foul of the Cadre, as many noteworthy personages did in the aftermath of their formation. Others have it that he just went wandering one day and never came back.”

“How’d you know this?” Clay asked.

Preacher raised his gaze, face as impassive as ever. “They teach more than scripture in the seminary.”

“That’s useful, Preacher,” Braddon told the marksman. “You remember any more, let me know.” He turned to Captain Keelman. “How long till we make the Sands, Skipper?”

“Well, we can’t follow the path taken by Wittler,” Keelman replied. “He took a barge down the Greychurn, then followed the fork that leads into the Badlands. The Firejack’s too broad in the beam for such a course. We’ll stick to the Greenchurn and skirt the badlands. There’s some shallows sixty miles or so south of Edinsmouth offers a decent mooring, far enough from the bank to ward against Spoiled attacks.” He paused for a contemplative puff on his cigar before replying. “I’d say twenty days altogether, including a stopover for supplies at Edinsmouth.”

“Thought this tub was a blood-burner,” Clay said. “Can’t it go any quicker?”

His uncle’s face darkened a little but the wiry skipper seemed to take no offence. “Our Blood-blessed’ll quicken her up some on the straights, young fella. But the river ain’t the ocean and it sets its own pace.”

He pushed back from the table and got to his feet. “I’d best see to the evening watch.” He inclined his head. “Gents, ladies. Some brandy in the cabinet if you’re partial.”

Silverpin had already risen to retrieve the liquor by the time the door closed.

“Guessing I don’t have to issue no lectures about circumspection,” Braddon said, accepting a glass of brandy from the bladehand as she shared it out. “Another crew gets word of what we’re after there’ll be an army of Contractors on our tail within days.” He fixed Clay with a hard stare. “Means no getting drunk and spilling your guts to some whore in Edinsmouth.”

Clay sipped the brandy Silverpin passed him and pursed his lips in appreciation. Contracting life has its compensations. He returned his uncle’s stare with a hopeful smile. “They have whores in Edinsmouth?”

—

Edinsmouth was like Stockade but constructed on a much grander scale with an even smaller shore-based settlement. Dozens of piers and jetties extended out into the river, all crowded with two- or three-storey buildings and many linked by high walkways and cantilevered bridges that rose and fell continually like the bobbing heads of some water-bound herd of beasts. There was a whole fleet of barges and steamers moored up around the jetties, with more arriving and leaving by the hour. Night was coming on by the time the Firejack approached its mooring so the whole spectacle was peppered with the yellow orbs of a thousand or more lanterns.

“Seer knows I hate this outhouse of a town.” Foxbine sighed in distaste as the Firejack’s paddles slowed to a crawl and the helmsman spun the wheel to align her starboard side to the jetty.

“Don’t look so bad,” Clay observed, earning a caustic laugh from Skaggerhill.

“A notion likely to change upon closer inspection,” the harvester said. “You’d best stay close tonight, young ’un. Sounds to me like the headhunters are in town.”

Clay could hear the raucous laughter rising from the densest part of the stilt town, his Blinds-tuned ear picking out the vicious edge to it. Just like the Colonials Rest on fight night, he thought. Only even more hungry.

“They’re troublesome?” he asked.

Skaggerhill shrugged. “Some crews are worse than others, but all best avoided when they’re off the hunt. They spend months on end out there looking for Spoiled and when they find some there’s an even chance they ain’t gonna survive the encounter. It’s a rare headhunter lasts more than a few years. They’ll spend a night or two here, drinking and whoring themselves blind, then go on out and do it all again.” The harvester paused to nod at Silverpin, who stood regarding the town with a grim expression.

“She knows all about it,” Skaggerhill said. “Used to be a headhunter, didn’t ya’, sweetness?”

Clay knew Skaggerhill to be as tough a fellow as he was like to meet, but noticed the harvester couldn’t help blanching a little as Silverpin turned her gaze on him.

“Anyways,” he said, coughing a little and turning away. “Just stay close to us, is all.”

When the steamer had moored up they made their way to a tavern at the far end of the pier. The sign above the door featured a painting of a warship of antique appearance, sails billowing as her broadside blazed cannon fire at a flaming shore. “The Stupendous” proclaimed the white lettering below the image. It all meant nothing to Clay though he heard Preacher mutter something about the painting’s inaccuracy as they made their way inside. “She only had half that number of guns.”

The tavern was busy but not overly crowded, populated mostly by boatmen and stevedores who clustered in their various crews, playing games of chance or attempting drunken renditions of old shanties. The Longrifles occasioned no particular interest as they took a table near the door.

“Be back by midnight,” Braddon had instructed, himself opting to stay on the boat. “Anyone who has to be carried back will be fined.”

Skaggerhill bought the first round, placing a clay tankard that nearly overflowed with a frothy dark beer in front of Clay. “Take it easy, strong stuff this,” Foxbine advised as Clay took his first gulp, raising his eyebrows in appreciation at the taste. It had a fruity tang to it and only a slight edge of bitterness, and the high alcohol content left a pleasing tingle on his tongue.

“They call it Jungle Rot,” Skaggerhill said. “Barley and hops mixed with three types of fermented native fruit.”

“Don’t care what they call it,” Clay said, draining half the tankard in a single, luxuriant swallow. “As long as there’s more.”

He realised he hadn’t been drunk in quite some time, the last being a lengthy binge with Derk the day before he started training in earnest for the fight with Cralmoor. They had awoken the next day on the floor of the rented room they shared with Joya, who had kindly refreshed their senses with a bucket of none-too-fresh water. He found himself smiling at the memory of her tirade, rich in words he never realised she knew. She only quieted when he took her face in his hands and planted a long kiss on her forehead. It earned him a slap but at least she stopped yelling.

“Stallwin!” He looked up at Skaggerhill’s shout, finding the harvester risen to his feet and pumping the hand of a slim, long-haired man about his own age, evidently another Contractor from the duster he wore.

“Skaggs,” he replied with a grin. “So bastards never die, I guess.”

He took a seat at Skaggerhill’s insistence, laying down a whiskey bottle he was affable enough to share if any wanted. “Longrifles,” he said, raising his glass in a salute. The others all raised their tankards and Clay sensed a certain gravity to the gesture. He was beginning to understand that mutual respect meant a lot between Contractors, possibly because it was so rare a commodity.

“Riverjacks,” Skaggerhill replied in a formal tone and they all drank, Clay following suit and realising his tankard was near empty.

“This here’s Kleb Stallwin,” Skaggerhill said to Clay. “Second hand to the Riverjacks. Kleb, say hello to Claydon Torcreek, the captain’s nephew and our newest hand.”

“A pleasure, young sir.” Stallwin greeted him with a nod. “Though it seems you’ve chosen an interesting time to start your career.” He turned back to Skaggerhill, lowering his voice a little. “These boat-swabs had an interesting story, ’bout a Green pack attacking Stockade. Can’t be true, surely.”

“Close enough to truth,” the harvester replied. “Damn near killed the captain’s daughter. Luckily Clay and Silverpin here got her over the wall in time.”

“A whole pack?” Stallwin pressed. “Full-grown too?”

“Full-grown,” Skaggerhill confirmed. “And meaner than I’ve seen in a long time. Would’ve taken ’em for southern breeds if they hadn’t been so far north.”

“Maybe they moved,” Clay said, smothering a belch and searching his memory for the right word. “Migrated, I mean to say.”

Stallwin indulged him with a smile. “Greens don’t migrate, son. No drake does. They’re so territorial they’ll kill one of their own brood if it wanders too far. More likely a long-hidden pack, driven to try for human prey by desperation. You may have been privileged to witness the final days of the last pack remaining north of the Badlands.”

Stallwin and Skaggerhill’s conversation soon moved on to the exclusive, jargon-filled talk of those engaged in the same profession: the prices being paid for product in various settlements, which company had lost the most hands recently and so on. Clay found himself losing interest as the last of the Jungle Rot slipped down his throat.

“Shit,” he mumbled, contemplating the bottom of his tankard with a grimace.

“Fetch another round,” Foxbine said, sliding a scrip note across the table. “But get y’self a half-measure this time.”

“Surely,” Clay lied, getting to his feet with note in hand. He made a slow progress to the bar, his way being obstructed by so many boatmen, though he found himself curiously unperturbed by all the jostling. The place was raucous, right enough, but the atmosphere had none of the simmering violence that pervaded nearly every drinking den in the Blinds. Somehow, here in this river-bound stilt town in the middle of a jungle far from what people chose to call civilisation, he felt safer than he had in years.

He found a gap at the bar and waved the scrip note at the serving-woman, who seemed preoccupied with another customer.

“Gotta shout in here, fella,” said the man on Clay’s right.

Clay nodded and waved the note again, his call to the serving-woman cut short when she moved to the far end of the bar.

“Too bad,” the man said. “Don’t worry, she’ll get to you soon enough. Probably all apologetic when she realises you’re Braddon’s kin.”

Clay turned to him, taking a closer look. He was a diminutive figure of Old Colonial stock, his skin weathered and lined, like leather stretched over a frame of sticks. Clay took note of the pattern of scars and tattoos that had been etched into the flesh around his eyes and mouth, and the row of pointed teeth he revealed when his lips parted in a smile. File tooth, he thought, recalling some of the aged drunks who congregated in the Blinds and claimed allegiance to long-defunct headhunter crews. Those that still had teeth often looked like this, though this one wore a plain woolen coat of dark blue, just like the boatmen.

“How is the great captain?” the man asked, laying his elbow on the bar and turning to face Clay. As he moved his coat parted to reveal a necklace, a leather string adorned with what appeared to be greenish-yellow pegs, all sharpened to a point. He also wore a short-barrelled revolver at his right hip and a long-bladed knife at the other.

“You know my uncle?” Clay asked him, edging back from the bar a little, so as to unhinder the holstered Stinger.

“Met him once,” the man said. “Though I dare say he wouldn’t remember. Can’t expect a great mucky-muck Contractor like him to spare a glance or a word for scum like me.”

“Headhunter, huh?” Clay’s eyes flicked around, seeking the man’s companions. Apart from his accoutrements everything about this man’s bearing was familiar, and his type never picked a fight without allies.

“That’s right.” The man rattled his necklace. “Gotta hand in the heads or y’don’t get the bounty. Teeth’s the only way to keep a true score.” He gave a shallow bow. “Tadeus Ellforth, at your service. Although,” he paused to chuckle, “in all truth, young fella, tonight I’m engaged to be very much the opposite.”

Clay needed no further encouragement and began to reach for the Stinger. Put this one down and hop over the bar before his friends start shooting . . . His arm didn’t move. He knew what was happening in a single, dreadful instant. He had never been on the receiving end before but had dished this treatment out enough times to know it for what it was: muscles bulging with the strain as he fought the invisible grip, sweat breaking out all over his skin as every part of him throbbed under the pressure. Black. He met Ellforth’s eyes as the headhunter chuckled again. Bastard’s a Blood-blessed.

“Had me a right interesting Blue-trance recently,” Ellforth went on, stepping closer, his tone and posture convivial, like they were two old friends sharing a story. “With a fella I know in Morsvale. Offered me fifty thousand in exchange notes to come here and wait for you to show up.” The headhunter gave an apologetic grimace. “Guessing you know what he wants me to do next, and we’ll get to that. But, it occurs to me there’s additional value to be had here. I mean to say, fifty thousand just for your sorry hide. Raises some pressing questions in a man’s mind.”

Ellforth leaned closer still and Clay felt his gorge rise at the stench of the man’s breath, rich in smoke and recently chewed meat, worse even than the jungle. “So, how’s about you tell me what your famous uncle is looking for, and maybe I’ll make it quick. Snap your neck and you’re gone before you know what’s happening. Or, I could crush your liver and you’d linger for days, screaming all the while whilst your skin turns yellow and you shit your insides out.”

Clay felt a single bead of sweat trace down his face as the headhunter stared into his eyes. He knew now the truth of Skaggerhill’s words, Everything out here, including the people, is worse than anything you ever seen before. Whatever lived behind Ellforth’s gaze was beyond madness or cruelty, an implacable mis-shapen thing of pure will and greed. It couldn’t be bargained with, bought or persuaded. He was going to die here in this shitty bar in this shitty town. The only thing that remained was to decide the manner of his passing.

“So?” Ellforth asked in a gentle whisper. “What y’got to tell me, Mr. Torcreek the younger?”

Clay felt the Black’s grip loosen a little, just enough to free his mouth. “Came looking for your mother,” he told Ellforth in a spittle-rich rasp, “didn’t fuck her enough last time.”

Ellforth blinked and moved back. He stared at Clay for a long while, long enough to stir the faint hope that the Black might burn out. But something told him Ellforth had the skill to string this out for a few minutes more, certainly long enough to make good on his threat. “Well now,” he said, a grin forming on his lips. “Ain’t you just the perfect nephew. Think he’ll weep over your grave, boy?”

Clay started to reply with another insult but his mouth clamped shut, teeth snapping together so fast he nearly bit off the tip of his tongue. Ellforth took a slow deliberate step backwards and began to laugh, lips drawn back over the yellowed spikes of his teeth as he gave voice to rich and genuine hilarity.

He was still laughing when his head exploded.

CHAPTER 13

Hilemore

“Signal from the crow’s nest, sir.” Ensign Talmant straightened from the speaking-tube to address the captain. “Mast sighted due west. Five points off the port bow.”

“Bang on time,” Trumane observed with an anticipatory smile that forced Hilemore to the relieved conclusion that cowardice, like navigational incompetence, was not amongst his captain’s vices. “Considerate of these scum to be so punctual. Helm, five points to port. Number One, signal the engine room to engage the main power plant. Two flasks, if you please, and tell Mr. Bozware to stand by to add another at my order.”

“Aye, sir!” Lemhill relayed the order via the communicator before adding further instruction via the speaking-tube. Within a minute the paddles had begun to churn with blurring rapidity, doubling the Viable Opportunity’s speed to eighteen knots. They were in deeper waters now, well clear of shore and the sea mostly becalmed under a light breeze, meaning the cruiser’s unique abilities could be exploited to the full, much to the captain’s evident delight.

“I find it’s a little like flying, don’t you, Lieutenant?” He raised an eyebrow at Hilemore, gesturing at the onrushing sea beyond the bridge window.

Hilemore had to admit there was a certain intoxication to the experience of traversing the ocean faster than a man could run. “An invigorating sensation, sir,” he agreed.

“Indeed.” The captain turned back, clasping his hands behind his back, fists clenching and unclenching. From the absence of a tremble Hilemore judged the gesture as more a signal of eagerness than fear. “But I suspect we are about to experience something even more stirring.”

“Crow’s nest has her fully in sight now, sir,” Talmant reported. “A one-stack side wheeler of narrow beam, Corvantine lines. Grey-and-black paint scheme.” The boy paused, ear glued to the tube as he listened further. “She’s flying Briteshore Minerals colours.”

“Just as Intelligence promised,” Trumane observed with a satisfied chuckle. “Number One, sound battle stations, if you please. Signal Guns to load fragmentation shell and aim for her paddles and upper workings. All guns to fire as she bears until ordered to cease.”

“Aye, sir!”

Hilemore could see the gun-crews running to their pieces as Lemhill pulled three long blasts from the steam-whistle’s lanyard, the signal for imminent action. The First Officer then moved to the speaking-tube at the rear of the bridge to relay orders to Lieutenant Bilforth, the gunnery officer stationed on the lower deck. Although he carried a bullhorn, Bilforth, like most experienced gunnery officers, preferred to relay messages in person. Hilemore could see his blocky form running from one gun to another on the fore-deck, crouching to deliver orders to the senior hand in charge of each piece.

The Viable was equipped with four twenty-four-pounders on each side, arranged in pairs fore and aft of the paddles, with another half-dozen twelve-pounders on the upper decks. They were all relatively modern weapons, smooth-bore muzzle loaders with long barrels and reinforced breeches that gave them a bottle-like appearance. A well-drilled crew could fire perhaps one round every hundred seconds to a range of three miles, though this would inevitably reduce in battle due to fouling of the barrels. However, the Viable’s most impressive piece of ordnance was the brand-new rifled pivot-gun on the fore-deck. Officially it was known as a Falcontile Mark One, in honour of its inventor, but Protectorate sailors had been quick to dub it the Irondrake for the impressive gout of flame its muzzle produced with every shot. It was slower to load than its smaller forebears, taking two full minutes to heave the sixty-pound shells into the barrel, but it outranged any smooth-bore gun by at least a mile and, at sufficiently close range, could punch a hole clean through six-inch armour-plate. Added to this was the novel pivot mechanism on which it sat, enabling the crew to swiftly bring the Irondrake to bear on any target within a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree radius of the fore-deck.

“Smoke on the horizon, sir,” Talmant reported, pointing dead ahead.

“I see it,” Trumane replied in a murmur, training his glass on the plume of grey-black smoke. “I believe our prey has made note of our approach.”

Hilemore raised his own glass for a better view, frowning at the odd pattern described by the smoke. It should have been streaming either north or south according to the wind or the direction of the vessel that produced it. Instead it appeared to be rising and falling in a chaotic, back-and-forth motion. Also, the plume was thicker than it should be, even for a vessel moving at top speed. “She’s putting up a screen,” he said. “Seems they intend to make a chase of it.”

“Quite so,” Trumane agreed. “Helm, another five points to port if you please.”

“No sure way to tell which way she’ll turn, sir,” Lemhill cautioned. “Could strike out to the north.”

“She’ll be low on coal and product,” Trumane replied without lowering his glass. “So it’s of little matter which course she chooses. If she makes for open water we’ll catch her in a day rather than an hour.”

Hilemore watched the smoke-screen grow thicker as they approached. It soon broadened to a good three hundred yards in length, swirling this way and that as the Windqueen moved about inside it, her course rendered unknowable and the gunners deprived of a target.

“A clever opponent,” Trumane observed, a small smile on his lips as he lowered his glass. “I do appreciate an interesting engagement. Number One, slow to one-third. Helm, take us directly towards the smoke.”

A hush descended as the Viable reduced speed, the roar of the paddles diminished to a regular swishing thrum as the smoke roiled ever thicker. They had drawn to within a half-mile of it when two quick flashes lit the swirling fog like lightning in a heavy storm.

“Incoming fire!” Hilemore barked, his words soon drowned out by the whining groan of approaching shot. The first fell wide by several yards, raising a towering spout off the starboard paddle that gave the gun-crews a liberal dousing. The second, however, slammed into the Viable’s starboard bow just above the anchor mounting. The iron-clad hull rang like a bell, loud enough to make Hilemore wince as the ship shook from bow to stern. Despite the power of the impact, the shot had no chance of penetrating the hull. However, it had more than enough force to shatter the thinner armour that covered the rail to the right of the Irondrake, scattering it across the fore-deck in a cloud of steel splinters. Hilemore saw all but one of the Irondrake’s gun-crew fall, limbs and torsos shredded by the deadly cloud, Mr. Bilforth amongst them.

“Seer-dammit all.” Trumane sighed before raising his voice to address Lemhill. “Number One, gather men from the port guns and take charge of the Falcontile.”

“Aye, sir!” The First Officer saluted and ran for the gangway.

“Maintain course,” the captain told the now-ashen-faced helmsman staring fixedly at a fresh spider-web crack in the glass directly in front of his station. He was scarcely older than Talmant and evidently shared his lack of experience. Nevertheless he duly straightened up and took a firmer hold on the wheel, though Hilemore saw the sweat he left on the handles. Talmant seemed only marginally less perturbed, face bleached and eyes wide, though he did manage to offer Hilemore a weak smile in response to his glance, mouthing something as he did so. “No safe place.”

“Sir!” Hilemore turned at the helmsman’s shout, seeing a sleek shape emerging from the smoke.

“Impudent swine,” Trumane observed, though his tone remained cheerful. “I do believe she intends to ram us.”

The Windqueen came on at full speed, her blood-burner status confirmed by the white foam billowing beneath her churning paddles. Hilemore could see figures moving about on her fore-deck and made out the bulky shapes of two cannon positioned on either side of the prow. “Bow chasers, sir,” he reported to Trumane. “Looks like Corvantine thirty-two-pounders.”

“Noted, Mr. Hilemore,” the captain said. “Ensign Talmant, signal the engine room to increase to full ahead. Helm hard-a-port. Lieutenant, please remind the starboard crews of their orders.”

Hilemore made for the hatchway, stumbling as the helmsman spun the wheel and the Viable listed. He hauled himself outside as two more shots came from the Windqueen, their gunners’ aim spoilt by the captain’s manoeuvre and the two balls passing harmlessly over the aft deck, albeit low enough to make the crews duck. Cupping his hands around his mouth Hilemore yelled the order at the gun-crews below. “Stand to, lads! Let’s give her a broadside!”

He fancied there may have been a ragged cheer in response, though it was difficult to tell above the resurgent roar of the paddles. The Viable’s shift to port placed her at a right angle to the on-coming pirate, whilst her speed easily rendered any ramming attempt a fruitless enterprise. The Windqueen’s narrow profile would have made aiming a difficult task if she had been at a decent range, but her abortive attack had put her at less than three hundred yards distance; any Protectorate gunner contriving to miss at that range would deserve a flogging. The two guns fore of the Viable’s starboard paddle fired in unison, one shell impacting on the pirate’s hull to little obvious effect. Luckily the other was aimed with more care and exploded just behind her bows in a cloud of flame and shattered decking, Hilemore discerning the mangled shapes of several crewmen amidst the descending wreckage. He gave a grunt of satisfaction at the sudden absence of the pirate’s bow chasers through the fading smoke.

The Viable’s two aft guns fired one after the other, one shell wrecking a life-boat and the other shredding the casement of the Windqueen’s starboard paddle. Hilemore quickly trained his glass to gauge the damage. He could see that one of the blades had been split in two and several others badly damaged. However, the wheel was still turning, though at a slower rate, and the Windqueen had begun to sheer to port due to the paddle’s reduced grip on the water.

“Good work, lads!” he called to the gun-crews below. “Keep at it!”

He returned to the bridge and saluted Trumane before making his report. “She’s badly winged, sir. Damage to the starboard paddle, though she’s still able to make headway.”

“For a short time only,” Trumane replied, turning to the helm. “Hard-a-starboard. Mr. Talmant, slow to one-third.”

“Slow to one-third. Aye, sir.”

“Now then.” The captain’s gaze shifted from the Windqueen, now pouring on what speed she could with a thicker plume of black smoke streaming from her stack, to the Irondrake, fully loaded and ready under Lemhill’s supervision. “Let us see what our new toy can do.”

Mr. Lemhill was clearly no stranger to the arts of gunnery or the workings of the novel weapon he now commanded. His ad hoc gun-crew had loaded the piece with powder and shell and now knelt to the rear of the gun, hands clapped over their ears as the First Officer peered down her sights, hand-working the wheel that altered the angle of the pivot. After a few seconds, as the smoke from the Windqueen’s stack began to drift over the fore-deck, he pulled the gun’s firing lever. The blast of noise and flame that issued from the Irondrake banished the gathering smoke in an instant, the gun recoiling on its spring mounting like a rearing horse. Hilemore turned his gaze to the Windqueen in expectation and, after a second long interval, was rewarded with the sight of her upper works disintegrating in a ball of fire: the bridge, stack and crew quarters all blasted apart in one fiery instant.

“Seer’s balls,” the helmsman breathed, eyes wide as he took in the sight of the near-ruined vessel heaving to port as her starboard paddle finally stalled and she began a slow circle. Hilemore’s glass picked out the sight of burning men on the deck, some crawling, others casting themselves over the side in desperation.

The captain ordered an increase to two-thirds speed and the Viable’s starboard guns soon found the range for the pirate’s port paddle. Two volleys proved sufficient to put it out of action and see the Windqueen adrift and burning.

“Ever the way with pirates,” Trumane commented as another flaming man threw himself from the Windqueen’s stern, thrashing briefly before going under and leaving a smoking patch on the water. “Can’t stand up to a real enemy.”

He turned to Hilemore. “I’ll lay us alongside to port, Lieutenant. Muster your party and take her in hand. She may still be worth salvaging and prize money should never be sniffed at. And there’s bound to be some loot in her hold.”

“Very good, sir.” Hilemore saluted and made for the exit, sliding down the ladder for a rapid descent to the deck. “Master-at-Arms!”

“Sir!” Steelfine materialised out of the thinning smoke no more than three feet away, standing at rigid attention. “Boarding party mustered and awaiting orders!” Hilemore made note of the barely suppressed eagerness in the Islander’s voice.

“Stand to at the aft port rail,” Hilemore ordered. “Ladders and ropes at the ready, bayonets fixed. Sharpshooters to lie prone atop the life-boats.”

“Aye, sir!”

Hilemore took the opportunity to check his revolver as the Viable manoeuvred into position, turning the cylinder and thumbing back the hammer to blow grit from the mechanism. The smoke grew thicker as they drew near to the Windqueen. Whatever vitals Mr. Lemhill’s shot had found continued to blaze and Hilemore knew it may have been wiser to simply let her burn down to the water-line then witness her sinking in the log. However, like Trumane, he wasn’t immune to the lure of a prize. In addition to a welcome share in the spoils, one-twentieth of the vessel’s total value for a second lieutenant, it added considerable lustre to an officer’s record.

The captain ordered the Viable’s pumps into action when they got to within forty feet of the pirate, the gun-crews taking up the hoses to play jets of water over the stricken vessel. They were required to stay at it for a good ten minutes before the flames and smoke had dampened sufficiently to allow boarding.

“Away the grapples!” Steelfine shouted as the Viable drew even closer to the Windqueen, the range now no more than twenty feet. There was no sign of any opposition, nor even a glimpse of the crew beyond the few charred corpses littering the wreckage. The boarding party threw their ropes with practised accuracy, the grapples biting into the pirate’s timbers as the ropes were drawn tight. “Haul hard, lads!” Steelfine called, continuing to exhort them to greater efforts until they finally bumped hulls with the other ship.

“Ladders up!” Hilemore ordered, moving to the rail with Steelfine at his side. “Once we’re aboard,” he told the Islander, who, he saw, now stood with a sea-axe in hand. “Take ten men and sweep belowdecks. Subdue any opposition and make efforts to secure whatever cargo they may have stolen.”

“Aye, sir.”

Hilemore drew his sword as the last boarding ladder slammed into place, hopping up onto it and waving for the men to follow. “Time to earn your sea pay, lads!”

He led them over in a rush, the men yelling at his back, either in eagerness or a desire to conquer their fear. Once aboard, however, he found there was little reason for trepidation, save the danger posed to a weak stomach. A man lay dead on the fore-deck, his torso separated from his lower half and guts liberally strewn about in a tangled red smear. Curiously, although much of the corpse was scorched and blackened, his face remained unmarked and free of soot. Varestian, Hilemore decided without surprise, noting the angular features common to those born to the Red Tides. Was there ever a more piratical race?

“Chuck it up if you’re going to, lad,” he told a green-faced youth standing near by and staring at the carnage with wide, unblinking eyes. “Better out than in.”

He glanced over to see Steelfine’s squad descending into the smoking guts of the ship then conducted a thorough search of the wreckage. They found another dozen corpses in various states of mutilation and one that appeared to be completely untouched, a muscular fellow of Dalcian lineage who was quite dead despite no obvious signs of injury.

“It’s the blast, sir,” one of the riflemen said, a veteran judging by his age and the way he held his Silworth. “Smushes up the innards but leaves the outers be.”

Hilemore turned at a shout from another man, seeing a diminutive figure being hauled from a smoking pile of timber. “Caught us a fish, sir,” the rifleman said. “Only a tiddler, though.”

The captive couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, stick-thin arms visible through the ragged clothing he wore. He stumbled to his knees as the sailor dragged him to Hilemore, breathing in hard, choking sobs, face averted. Hilemore knew it was custom for Varestian youth to take to the seas at an early age but could scarcely credit why they would take one such as this on a pirate cruise.

“Sea-brother,” Hilemore said in his basic but passable Varestian. The captive’s face abruptly snapped up, eyes wide in surprise and fear. A brief scan of the delicate if besmirched features told Hilemore his mistake. “Sea-sister,” he corrected. “Where is your captain?”

The girl said nothing, though a hard narrowing of her eyes indicated it was more due to defiance than shock.

“What d’you want done, sir?” the veteran rifleman enquired. “They didn’t strike their colours and pirates got no protection under the law. No consequence to just slinging her over the side.”

Hilemore ignored him and cast his gaze about the deck, watching his men poke the smoking wreckage with their bayonets. It was all quiet but for the rustle and clatter of untended rigging. “There’s nothing else here,” he said then nodded at the kneeling girl. “Take this one back to the Viable. I’ll question her later. Tell the captain the rest of the crew appears to have been accounted for.” He moved towards the hold, speaking over his shoulder. “I’ll be taking inventory of the cargo with the Master-at-Ar—”

Something large and bulky exploded from the hold in a cloud of splinters, ascending to a height of near twenty feet before crashing back down onto the deck with a sickening thud. Steelfine, Hilemore realised, watching as the Islander tried vainly to rise, teeth bared in a snarl and axe still in hand, eyes fixed on the figure emerging from the hold.

“Arms up!” Hilemore barked, too late as the wave of force swept over them, sending rifles spinning and several men over the side. He himself was thrown from his feet and sent crashing into the part-ruined paddle casement. The air rushed from his lungs, forced out by the impact, leaving him gasping. His vision dimmed as he slid to the deck, seeing a shadowy figure move away from the hold on unsteady legs. He watched one of the fallen rifles rise into the air and fly towards the figure who raised a hand to catch it with almost casual ease.

At least one Blood-blessed on board, Hilemore thought, watching the figure raise the rifle and point it at Steelfine.

CHAPTER 14

Lizanne

Kill her. Lizanne’s finger had stalled just a fraction short of the Spider’s firing point. The girl continued to stare at her, mouth open and eyes wide. Perhaps it was her eyes that did it, bright and uncomprehending, so free of the spite she had shown earlier. Or perhaps it was the fresh tears still glistening on her cheeks. Kill her!

From beyond the door came the sound of movement on the first-floor landing followed by Burgrave Artonin’s tired call. “Who is abroad at this time of night, pray tell?”

I’ll have to be quick, Lizanne decided. One shot for her then another for him from the foot of the stairs. Tricky but not impossible. Then she would gather up all these wonderfully enlightening papers and be on her way. It would be prudent to set fire to the house as well. The servants would be sure to provide an excellent description of the mysteriously vanished maid who started work only that morning.

Instead she just stood there, aiming her pistol and finding, much to her surprise, she was quite incapable of shooting a fifteen-year-old girl.

“Well?” came an impatient query from upstairs.

Tekela blinked and turned slowly to the doorway. Her first attempt to speak ended in a cough but she swallowed and tried again. “It’s just me, Father,” she called, voice thin but loud enough to carry. “I mislaid my slippers.”

Lizanne heard the Burgrave sigh an exasperated curse. “Well, look for them in the morning.”

Tekela turned back to Lizanne before replying, voice smaller now. “Yes, Father.”

Lizanne heard Artonin’s door close and waited a few seconds before lowering the Whisper. “Close that,” she whispered, nodding at the study door.

The girl hesitated then slowly swung the door closed, wincing at the slight squeal from the hinges. Lizanne saw her take a deep breath before turning back to confront her. “My father is a good man,” she said. “You won’t hurt him, will you?”

Lizanne closed the ledger on the desk and returned it to the hiding-place in the bookcase, making sure the contents matched her memorised glance before securing the concealing edifice in place.

“He is not a traitor,” Tekela said. “No matter what lies are spun against him. He is loyal to the Emperor.”

She thinks I’m Cadre, Lizanne realised, her regard for the girl’s courage going up a notch. She turned back to meet her gaze, eyes lingering again on her still-damp cheeks. “Bad dream, miss?”

Tekela flushed and wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her night-dress. Lizanne saw that her hands were trembling. “Please,” she said. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but . . .”

“We’ll talk further in the morning, miss.” Lizanne moved to the girl’s side, pausing to whisper in her ear. “Speak of this and I will kill everyone in this house. Now, follow your father’s instruction and go to bed.”

—

The Mad Artisan. The drifting clouds of Madame Bondersil’s mindscape flickered as she searched her memory. Not a tale I’m familiar with. You’ve passed it on to Mr. Torcreek, I assume?

Yes, Madame. Not less than two hours ago. His command of Blue is improving but still lacks discipline.

And the Longrifles’ progress?

Safely aboard the Firejack, not without some drama apparently.

Drama?

A pack of wild Greens attacked Stockade. I’m afraid Torcreek indulged in some unwise bravado. Rest assured I cautioned him against any repetition.

Greens attacking Stockade. Madame’s clouds took on a reddish tinge of surprised concern. Not an occurrence I ever thought I’d hear tell of again. There was a pause as she reordered her thoughts, the clouds soon taking on the same familiar, serene drift.

I’ll start delving into the archives, she told Lizanne. See if there’s any mention of this mysterious Corvantine genius.

There is another matter, Madame, Lizanne told her, forming one of her whirlwinds into an accurate depiction of the fan-like device she had seen affixed to the Regal’s hull.

What is that? Madame asked.

I was hoping you would know. Or, if not, then I suspect Jermayah would.

She saw Madame twist one of her clouds into a near-exact copy of the image Lizanne had provided. There are other warships at harbour in Morsvale, I assume?

Ten that I saw.

Do they also feature this device?

I didn’t have the opportunity to conduct an extensive reconnaissance. However, I doubt it. The Regal is a recent arrival and the other vessels appear to have been stationed in Arradsian waters for some time. Also, she was carrying a passenger of some importance. Grand Marshal Morradin is now in Morsvale. He was greeted on arrival by a full company from the Scarlet Legion.

Madame’s clouds grew red once more, their drift transformed into a sudden roil. Troubling, was her only comment.

Quite, Lizanne agreed. A ship of the Regal’s power in Arradsian waters is concerning enough. But the presence of Household troops coupled with Morradin’s arrival . . .

Duly noted, Lizanne. Rest assured your intelligence will be passed to the Protectorate as a matter of urgency. In the meantime you have a primary objective and we cannot allow any distractions, however pressing they may appear.

Her mindscape was now a simmering storm, dark with authority and shot through with something Lizanne hadn’t seen before. This was their first shared trance for the best part of a decade, and the colour and shape of Madame’s thoughts remained much the same as she remembered. But now she saw dark tendrils spreading throughout the clouds in brief, convulsive spasms, tendrils that had started to grow at mention of a development that might impede her pursuit of the White. Indeed, Madame, she assured her mentor. I have several lines of enquiry to pursue.

The storm lessened, the tendrils shrinking into small, flickering vines. Good. I await your next report with interest.

Thank you, Madame. She began to close the connection then stopped at Madame’s insistent thought.

And, Lizanne?

Yes, Madame?

You know the girl has to die.

Madame’s mindscape vanished, leaving Lizanne adrift amongst her whirlwinds and pondering the folly of trying to hide anything from someone so well versed in the trance. More troubling, however, was the lingering image of the tendrils coiling through Madame’s clouds. So, she thought. That’s what obsession looks like.

—

Tekela was waiting by the carriage after breakfast, pale of face and somewhat red-eyed beneath her bonnet. Despite her countenance Lizanne found herself struck by how pretty she was now that all vestige of a scowl had vanished, thinking her face as close to being genuinely doll-like as she had ever seen. “Apologies for my lateness, miss,” she told the girl with a curtsy. “I do hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

Tekela said nothing, simply staring at her in numb silence.

Lizanne gave a brief glance at Rigan, who stood with crop in hand next to the carriage’s duckboard, regarding Tekela with a puzzled frown. Lizanne moved to her side, offering a hand and gesturing at the carriage. “Shall we be about it then? I truly think you will like this dress.”

The girl gave a stiff nod and took the proffered hand, Lizanne leaning close as she climbed into the carriage. “Rebuke me,” she whispered in Eutherian.

She met the girl’s startled glance and gave a barely perceptible nod accompanied by an insistent glare. “You . . .” Tekela began, stumbling over the words and attempting to imbue her tone with the customary waspish edge. “You will not last long in my father’s house like this,” she managed, though her words were coloured by a slight stammer. “Any further lateness and you’ll be turned out . . . Turned out into the street with no pay. Wouldn’t like that would you?”

“No, miss,” Lizanne assured her with deep solicitude. “I surely wouldn’t.”

“Enough dawdling.” The girl waved a hand at Rigan. “Let’s be away, boy.”

Rigan tipped the peak of his cap and climbed onto the duckboard, setting the horse to motion with a gentle swish of his crop over its rump. Tekela sat in rigid silence as they made their way along Hailwell Gardens towards the northern quarter, her gaze fixed on Lizanne, who sat opposite engaged in a careful examination of the passing buildings. Morsvale was much more uniform in architecture than Carvenport, each house closely resembling its neighbours with their pillared porches and high, sloping roofs. In the poorer districts people lived in long rows of terraced brick-built housing, their walls dark with decades of accumulated soot. Lizanne doubted there was a building in the city less than fifty years old. They’ve stagnated here, she decided, recalling one of the many mantras beloved of the managerial class: progress through competition, competition through progress.

“Are you a thief?” the girl burst out finally, though with sufficient presence of mind to speak in Eutherian. “Or a spy?”

Lizanne turned to her, lowering her voice. “Not so loud, if you please, miss.”

Tekela flushed under the weight of her stare, then replied in a softer tone. “The boy doesn’t understand us.”

“No. But he might wonder why a maid can speak the noble tongue.”

“So you’re a spy then. A thief wouldn’t know Eutherian.”

Lizanne looked at her in silence, wearing an expression of placid expectation.

“I know you’re not Cadre,” Tekela said. “They would just arrest us all. Which makes you a corporate saboteur. I know about your kind, you want to destroy the empire and make us all slaves.”

Lizanne replied with a raised eyebrow.

“I know you won’t kill my father,” the girl said, a note of triumph in her voice. “Or the servants, or me. If you were going to you’d have done it last night.”

Horror she may be, stupid she is not. “And if you were going to expose me you would have done it by now,” Lizanne returned.

Tekela’s brow took on a sullen frown and she looked away. “I hoped you’d be gone this morning,” she mumbled. “And the Cadre . . . Father doesn’t like them, and they don’t like him.”

“Why?”

The girl hesitated and Lizanne heard the lie in her muttered response. “I don’t know.” Tekela’s face tensed and her eyes flashed at Lizanne in wary accusation. “But if they knew you had even set foot in our house . . .”

“They won’t. And as for destroying the empire, I’m afraid my objective is far more modest and I suspect you may be in a position to help me achieve it.”

“And why should I do that? Since you’re not going to kill me, or anyone I care about, what threats can you make?”

Lizanne scrutinised Tekela’s bearing closely for a moment, discerning less anger and uncertainty than she would have expected from a young girl finding herself ensnared in so dangerous a circumstance. There was a glimmer of something in her gaze, something more than fear or adolescent self-interest. Excitement, Lizanne realised. All her tantrums are just a mask for boredom and now she’s found a new game.

“The servants seem to think your father is likely to place himself in the poorhouse,” Lizanne said. “The cost of your education and wardrobe being so exorbitant.”

The ghost of a habitual pout played over Tekela’s lips. “Is that what spies do? Pay heed to commoners’ gossip?”

“Yes, it is frequently what spies do. Useful information comes from a wide variety of sources and snobbery can be a fatal indulgence in my business.” She realised her voice had taken on an impatient edge, not dissimilar in fact from the inflection adopted by Madame Bondersil when her students failed to grasp the simplest of lessons. “What if,” she went on in a more moderate tone, “you could have all the dresses, shoes, bonnets and jewels you want? And your father could have a whole mansion full of books and ancient artifacts to puzzle over? Would you like that?”

Tekela was silent for some time, small lace-clad hands fidgeting and a variety of emotions flicking across her doll-like face. “Your employers are wealthy then?” she asked.

“Wealthy is a supremely inadequate term with which to describe my employers.” Lizanne smiled and leaned closer. “Your father owned a box, very old and valuable. It had a Eutherian inscription on the lid referring to the White Drake. I know he sold it at auction recently. Did you ever see it?”

The girl frowned, eyes narrowing in calculation. “What do you want it for?”

Lizanne shook her head. “Oh no, miss. If we are to enter into an arrangement information will flow but one way.”

Tekela’s mouth took on a downward curve, as if she were about to embark upon another tantrum. However, a glance at Lizanne’s steady gaze seemed to cure her of the temptation. “Plague take bonnets and dresses and jewels,” she said. “I want passage out of this dreary city and a house in Feros for Father and me. I hear it’s a very interesting place.”

No mention of money, Lizanne noted. Even though stepping beyond the bounds of Imperial territory without express permission is punishable by death, she’s prepared to take the risk. Why? “All eminently achievable,” Lizanne assured her, putting the question aside for now. “But also dependent on results.” She leaned back, eyebrows raised in expectation.

“I recall the box well enough,” Tekela said. “Though I was only eight or so when he brought it home. Mother was angry he spent so much and they had a terrible row. After that he rarely took it out. Mother didn’t like to be reminded of it.”

“Did you ever see inside?”

“Once. There was a jumble of cogs and spindles in it, like the workings of a clock. Father said it showed the passage of the three moons but I couldn’t see how. Then Mother came home and got angry. Father sent me upstairs to play.” A sad frown bunched Tekela’s smooth brow. “I could still hear them though. Mother could say very bad things when she was angry.”

And not sparing with the switch either, Lizanne recalled, thinking this girl and her father may have been better served by the woman’s absence. “Did he ever speak of it again?” she asked. “Explain what it was for?”

Lizanne shook her head. “I never saw it again until the day he took it to the auction house. He seemed very sad, now I come to think on it.”

“The device it contained had been removed before he sold it. Do you know what became of it.”

Tekela moved her slim shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t really pay much attention to his enthusiasms. It may still be in the house, though I couldn’t say where.”

“Does he have other hiding-places like the one in his study?”

“I didn’t even know about that one.”

Lizanne smothered an exasperated sigh. She didn’t doubt the girl’s honesty but this was hardly worth the promised expense. She was calculating how to combine the right amount of threat with encouragement when Tekela spoke again.

“Uncle Diran might have it, I suppose.”

“Uncle Diran?”

“I call him ‘uncle,’ but he’s really just Father’s old friend. Diran Akiv Kapazin. He works at the museum. They spend endless hours together waffling about old things.”

The museum. Where better to hide it? “You are close to this uncle?” she asked.

“Not especially.” A smug smile curved Tekela’s lips. “His son’s regard, however, is of a higher order.”

“His son?”

“Sirus. He works as Uncle’s assistant, when he’s not penning yet more inept verse to send me. Last time he rhymed ‘the gentle wind blows’ with ‘your tiny bud nose.’”

“So if you were to visit the museum it wouldn’t appear out of place?”

“I only go when Father drags me there for some tedious function. Although, Sirus is always offering a guided tour so it would be an easy matter to arrange it.”

Lizanne returned her gaze to the passing streets, pondering the information and ignoring Tekela’s insistent gaze. As they made their way past Victory Park she saw something she had noticed the previous day when making her way to the Burgrave’s house, her eyes being attuned to seeking out high points in any landscape. A tall spire rose from what appeared to be a temple of some kind. Religious observance varied widely throughout the empire, as did forms of belief, but she knew this to be an oracle site, a place where those with the supposed gift of reading the future had once dwelt, growing fat on the offerings of gullible supplicants. Oracularism had fallen into disuse in recent decades, largely because the Imperial family had eschewed it in favour of a return to the once-defunct Imperial Cult which elevated the emperor to near-godlike status. But here and there the old temples lingered on, though most, like this one, were long since unoccupied.

Her eyes tracked the length of the spire and, given its position, she judged it would offer no view of the clock-maker’s house. However, it would afford a clear line of sight to the dress-maker’s.

“What do you want me to do?” Tekela asked, as they turned a corner into Careworn Street. The excitement Lizanne had noticed earlier was back now, the girl’s gaze more intense, eager even. Already she begins to enjoy the game, Lizanne thought, feeling a twinge of self-recognition. She hadn’t been much older when an Exceptional Initiatives agent had first piqued her interest in covert matters.

“For now,” she replied as Rigan brought the carriage to a halt outside the dress-maker’s, “try on the lovely dress I’ve found for you. You will buy it, after an appropriate amount of fussing, then make a scene and take the carriage. You will tell Madam Meeram you have sent me on an errand to find shoes to match the dress and she should not expect me until after dark. You understand?”

Tekela’s eyes flicked to the shop beyond the carriage window. “There’s something here, isn’t there? Something you want.”

Lizanne leaned forward, taking hold of Tekela’s small hand and squeezing hard enough to make her gasp. “Information flows but one way, miss. Now”—she released her and opened the carriage door, slipping back into Varsal and raising her voice—“let us do some shopping.”

—

Tekela’s second attempt at an intemperate outburst was considerably more convincing than her first, albeit a trifle overplayed. “I’ll have Father order Madam Meeram to cane you,” she said, wagging a finger in Lizanne’s face, tone shrill with shrewish zeal. “You see if I don’t! Ungrateful slattern!”

Lizanne lowered her gaze and glanced back at the dress-maker’s shop in apparent mortification. She could see the elegantly attired woman inside offering a sympathetic wince through the window. They had spent the better part of an hour in the shop as Tekela tried on the dress, a narrow-waisted arrangement of pleasingly complementary silks and lace. She appeared quite fetching to Lizanne’s eyes but the girl was evidently practised in finding fault with even the most skilled work. “The hem’s too low,” she told the elegant woman. “Don’t you know the fashion is now an inch above the heel?”

“A detail easily remedied, miss,” the woman replied. “The alteration should take only an hour or two.”

“The sleeves also,” Tekela said, straightening her arms and angling her gaze at the tall mirror. “Too plain.”

“Perhaps a touch of silver braid about the cuffs,” the woman suggested. “If it were to be matched with appropriate earrings and necklace, the effect would be quite breath-taking. However, the price would also require modification . . .”

“Then modify it,” Tekela said, waving a dismissive hand. “And take the waist in another half-inch. I’m not a sow. Bill to Burgrave Artonin, Hailwell Gardens. My girl here will collect on the morrow.”

“Very good, miss.” The woman moved behind the counter to write up the transaction. She appeared every inch the proprietress of a dress shop, from the impeccably arranged hair to the finely made but otherwise unadorned gown she wore; anything too elaborate might outshine the customers. But something was off: her back a little too straight and stride a little too precise, like steps learned on a parade-ground. Military training had a tendency to seep into the soul and was consequently always difficult to mask. Also, her hands, whilst as elegant as the rest of her, were possessed of an evident strength that went beyond the seamstress’s arts.

Cadre, Lizanne decided. But is she Blessed?

“During your walk home,” Tekela said, climbing into the carriage with Rigan’s assistance, “you would do well to ponder if you truly deserve a place in my father’s house.”

She slammed the carriage door closed and sat with her nose raised to a near-exact forty-five-degree angle. “Sorry,” Rigan whispered to Lizanne in apology. She favoured him with a small smile of understanding before he climbed up onto the duckboard and set the carriage in motion. She stood watching them depart for a moment then sighed and began a weary southward trudge.

—

She spent an hour or more wandering the park, ostensibly smiling at flower-beds and partaking of the roasted chestnuts or iced creams offered by various vendors. In reality she was conducting a thorough reconnaissance of the area surrounding the oracular temple and its useful spire, taking note of the patrol routes and routines favoured by Morsvale’s constabulary. She was unsurprised to find this city more heavily policed than Carvenport, the constables patrolling in pairs at annoyingly regular intervals and regarding their fellow Imperial citizens with often glowering scrutiny. She was, however, gratified by their uniform absence of any obvious sign of true intelligence or individual initiative; a stupid enemy was always easier to evade, or kill.

She filled the final hour before nightfall by throwing bread-crumbs to the ducks and swans occupying the park’s boating lake, then secluded herself in a suitably dense cluster of bushes whilst the park-keeper hustled lingerers to the exits. She lay prone on the dirt, uncaring of any stains to her dress, stirring only when the last rattle of keys in the iron gates had faded to nothing. She took the Spider from her handbag and strapped it to her arm before hoisting her skirt and drawing the Whisper from the holster fastened to her thigh. In idle moments she often wondered how ordinary women went about their daily business encumbered by the ridiculous under-garments they were obliged to wear in these supposedly modern times.

She found the temple boarded up and adorned with various signs warning against intrusion and proclaiming the place due for imminent demolition. A small drop of Green was enough to enable a swift removal of boards from one of the smaller windows and she climbed inside to find a gloomy interior of dust-shrouded marble. She made her way to the south-side of the building where a narrow flight of winding stairs led upwards into the spire, the Green facilitating a rapid ascension to the top. The spire was crowned by a roofed viewing platform, the rafters of which were busy with the annoyed cooing of pigeons unsettled by her appearance. She climbed outside onto a narrow ledge to avoid the constant patter of bird droppings, considering that, for all its excitements and rewards, the life she had chosen was rarely a glamorous one.

She crouched, ingesting more Green to enhance her vision and ward off the inevitable ache to her muscles. She could see a light inside the dress-maker’s, flickering a little as the occupant moved about. After a few minutes the light abruptly faded and the elegant woman emerged from the shop, pausing to secure a grating over the window and door before locking them in place. She then made an unhurried progress north to the junction with Needlecraft Row, turning right and making for the more spacious streets of the town’s western quarter. Lizanne’s suspicions were confirmed by the woman’s progress, pausing at every corner, frequently doubling back on herself, all standard practice for an operative proceeding towards a secure location. For a few moments Lizanne was worried she might lose her as the distance between them broadened, but fortunately the woman came to a halt at an apparently nondescript house on Ticker Street. It was a neighbourhood mostly occupied by what the Corvantine noble class termed “the middling sort,” the bookkeepers, lawyers and petty government officials who provided the bureaucratic glue for the empire’s myriad workings. She watched the woman approach the front door and knock three times, pause then knock twice more. The door opened after a short interval and she disappeared inside.

Lizanne took a moment to scan the surrounding roof-tops, picking out a guard positioned on the house opposite, lying prone with a repeating carbine at the ready. The house behind was obscured from her sight but it was a safe assumption another marksman had been placed there also. Safe house, she decided. Anything more important would be better guarded. Her gaze returned to the shop and the boarded-up clock-maker’s house opposite. She still saw no sign of surveillance which meant whoever had charge of this operation was far too skilled for her liking and the risks of mounting a close inspection were too great.

She huffed in frustration, leaning back on her haunches. It was aggravating but not disastrous; the Cadre had provided her with intelligence on their organisation and she had uncovered one of their agents. Also, she now had a keen new asset to exploit. Lizanne smothered the upsurge of nostalgic recognition provoked by the memory of Tekela’s earnest gaze. Sentiment was always unwise and here would most likely prove fatal. You know the girl has to die . . .

CHAPTER 15

Clay

For a second everything was red, the grip of Ellforth’s Black lingering for a few heart-beats despite the sudden absence of his head. Clay could only stand rigid as blood, brains and skull fragments spattered his face. Release came when what remained of Ellforth slumped against the bar and slid to the floor, the last vestiges of Black leaking from his body. Clay’s every muscle seemed to spasm at once, the world reeling around him as his legs gave way and he collapsed onto the headhunter’s corpse, retching and quivering.

“Longrifles up!”

Clay turned his twitching head to see Uncle Braddon standing near the tavern door, jacking a spent cartridge from his rifle. There came the scrape and tumble of chairs as his company scrambled to obey. Braddon unslung a second rifle from his shoulder and threw underhand, Clay tracking the weapon’s arc towards Preacher. The rifleman caught it with almost casual ease, worked the lever and brought it to his shoulder, aiming at something to Clay’s left. Foxbine had both pistols drawn and aimed in the same direction whilst Skaggerhill stepped to her side and thumbed the hammers back on his shotgun. His old friend Stallwin was backing towards the corner, one hand on the revolver at his side.

Clay blinked bloody grit from his eyes and swivelled his gaze to the right. Most of the boatmen who had been engaged in such raucous merriment only seconds before now lay flat on the floor, hands over their heads, whilst others were scrambling under tables or clambering out of the nearest window. However, there was a group of ten figures in the centre of the tavern who seemed content to bide awhile longer. They were all dressed in the same kind of blue riverman’s coat worn by Ellforth, though like him they were all adorned with tooth necklaces, each face featuring a unique pattern of scars. Ellforth’s crew, Clay realised, taking dim satisfaction in his own judgement. Fella like him never makes a move on his own.

The headhunters, three women and seven men, stood with hands on their weapons, carbines and pistols half-drawn or half-raised, every face hard with a keen desire for retribution. One, a tall Old Colonial with a large-calibre pistol gripped at his side, bared his filed teeth in evident eagerness for the coming confrontation.

“Lawful killing,” Braddon said, his tone absent any note of conciliation. If anything he seemed mightily angry. “Your man should’ve expected nothing different. Any of you worthless shit-heels don’t want the same, leave your weapons on the floor, find a window and crawl your sorry behinds on out of here.”

Although the tall headhunter’s grin broadened yet further at the warning, Clay saw a flicker of uncertainty flash across the faces of his companions. Glances were exchanged and they began to edge backwards, weapons lowering. The tall man, however, was having none of it. “Fuck the law, Captain,” he told Braddon in an oddly conversational tone. “And fuck you t—”

His head snapped back in a blur, his final word choking off into a hacking gurgle, blood streaming down his face from the short-handled knife buried in his eye-socket. Clay turned to see Silverpin drawing her arm back for a second throw. This one sent the knife into the tall man’s other eye, evidently buried deep enough to find the brain from the way he fell to the floor, all vestige of life suddenly drained from his limbs.

A multiple thudding sounded as the remaining headhunters dropped their weapons and began to back away. “I got a long memory and an unforgiving nature,” Braddon told them. “Catch sight of any of you again, I won’t be minded to be so nice. Now get gone.”

The headhunters fled, battering their way through the tavern’s rear windows in their haste to be elsewhere.

“Clay,” Braddon called to him. “Time to go.”

Clay tried to rise then slumped back onto Ellforth’s corpse, arms and legs still suffering the after-effects of the Black’s grip. “I’m alright,” he said, waving a hand as Skaggerhill moved to help him up. He lingered for a second, fighting his gorge at the stink and sight of the headhunter’s shattered skull, then got unsteadily to his feet.

“They got sharpshooters on the roof-tops outside,” Braddon said. He caught Silverpin’s gaze and pointed her to the corpse of the tall headhunter. She moved to it, quickly drawing her blades from his eye-sockets then unsheathing the broad knife at the small of her back. Clay turned away as she went about her work, though the sound of it was enough to finally make him spew.

“’Salright, kiddo,” Foxbine said, rubbing his heaving back. “It’s what he would’ve wanted.”

This made the others laugh, apart from Preacher, who stood at his uncle’s side, keen eyes scanning the darkness beyond the door. The tumult that had covered the town on their arrival had faded now, leaving a palpable and expectant silence. “One opposite,” Preacher reported. “Another hunkered down by those barrels on the wharf. Can’t see the others.”

“Headhunters move in packs of twenty or more,” Braddon said. “Means at least a half-dozen we can’t see.” He raised his voice, casting it out into the dark. “Your captain and your Blood-blessed are dead! There’s no profit to be had here!” He nodded at Silverpin and the Islander tossed her grisly trophy through the doorway. Braddon let it lie on the board-walk for a good few seconds before speaking again. “We’re coming out! You know me and you know what’s like to happen if a single bullet comes my way!”

He turned to the company, speaking low. “Preacher, take the lead. Miss Foxbine, Silverpin, keep Clay between you. Skaggs, you and me bring up the rear.”

Skaggerhill nodded then turned to raise a hand to Stallwin. “Wish we coulda talked longer, Kleb. You know how it is.”

The Riverjack shrugged and holstered his pistol. “Always a pleasure, Skaggs. Any messages to take up-river?”

“Call in on my Lousille when you get to Carvenport. Let her know her old pa’s still kicking. Maybe make sure she’s not wanting for essentials.”

“That I will.” Something in Stallwin’s gaze told Clay there was more to this exchange than just the parting of old friends. Skaggerhill had asked for a favour not granted lightly. “You take care now,” the Contractor said as they began to troop out the door.

“Always do, Kleb.”

They moved at what seemed a crawl to Clay, Preacher a few steps ahead with rifle stock firm against his shoulder and eyes constantly roving the walkways and bridges. Silverpin and Foxbine kept Clay tight between them the whole while and he felt a certain shame at voicing no objection. He had drawn the Stinger, though from the way his hands continued to tremble he doubted it would do him much good if any shooting started up. As they neared the wharf the Firejack’s whistle began to sound, casting a plaintive call across the town.

“Seems the skipper got word of our trouble,” Skaggerhill said. “Calling the crew back from their revels.”

“They better be quick about it,” Braddon grunted. “We ain’t lingering here a second longer than we have to.”

Preacher came to a halt as they came to the walkway leading to the Firejack’s mooring, sinking into a crouch and staring intently at the board-walk ahead. “What ya got?” Foxbine asked him in a whisper.

Preacher said nothing, his rifle tracking the walkway in a slow side-to-side sweep. The moment stretched and Clay had begun to ponder reaching for Auntie’s gift when Preacher fired. The shot sounded like a roar in the stillness, a plume of powdered wood erupting from the walkway. For a second there was no sound save the fading echo of the rifle-shot, then the tell-tale splash of something heavy falling into the river.

“Bastards are underneath,” Foxbine said, raising both pistols and firing off all twelve shots faster than Clay would have thought possible. Splintered wood rose in a cloud the length of the walkway, accompanied by shouts of alarm and more splashes from beneath the planking. A pair of dark figures began to clamber up as Foxbine’s guns fell silent and she went into a crouch, hands moving with unconscious speed and precision as she replaced the cylinders. Preacher fired again, two shots in quick succession, the climbers tumbling into the water.

“Let’s go!” Braddon shouted and they ran the remaining distance, Skaggerhill snapping off a shotgun blast at a shadow glimpsed beneath the board-walk. Keelman greeted them at the gangplank, his weathered features grim and not entirely welcoming.

“Company orders didn’t say anything about this kinda trouble,” he said to Braddon as they came aboard in a rush. Foxbine and Preacher hunkered down at the rail, weapons aimed at the town.

“It’s the Interior, Skipper,” Braddon told him. “There’s always trouble. Best you cast off now.”

“Still got four men unaccounted for. My Second Mate amongst them.”

“They ain’t here yet, they ain’t coming. Likely the headhunters grabbed them up and are already wringing what they can outta them. We can’t wait.”

As if to underline his point a shot came from the town, the bullet whining past the skipper’s head to smack into the bulkhead behind. He barely flinched, though the anger that coloured his shouted order to cast off indicated a reluctant acceptance of Braddon’s advice. The Firejack soon pulled away from the wharf, paddles churning the water white. A few more shots were fired before they drew out of range, doing no damage beyond a shattered window. Preacher fired only one shot in response, though his grunt of satisfaction indicated he had hit his mark. They were soon steaming south at a brisk pace, Edinsmouth fading into the distance then disappearing completely as they rounded a bend.

Clay turned as Braddon laid a hand on his shoulder, finding his uncle looking him over in close inspection. “I ain’t hurt,” Clay said, shrugging off the hand. He returned the Stinger to its holster, finding to his annoyance his hands still hadn’t stopped shaking. “How did you know? About the Blood-blessed.”

“Saw the headhunters taking up position around the tavern,” Braddon replied. “Someone always takes the watch, tonight it was my turn.”

“Uncle, the Blood-blessed, he said . . .”

“Somebody hired his crew to kill you, and the rest of us into the bargain I’m guessing. Headhunter rarely spends a bullet without someone paying him first. Seems there’s a bounty on us now.”

“Morsvale,” Clay said. “He said he Blue-tranced with someone in Morsvale.”

“Corvantine bastards,” Skaggerhill said, spitting over the side.

“Ironship warned me it might come to this,” Braddon said, turning to address them all. “Seems we’re not just on a hunt now. Now we’re in a race and we just missed our last chance to turn back.”

—

Somehow the others all managed to fall asleep the moment they hit their bunks, whilst Clay lay awake for hours. He had reason enough to ensure there were no eyes or ears to witness what he needed to do, but the lingering effects of Ellforth’s grip ensured sleep was denied him in any case. Added to the palsy was the lingering image of the headhunter’s leering face, the evident delight in what he was doing, not to say the stench of his breath. It all combined to raise a singular question in his mind: Was that me? He thought back over all those vicious back-alley confrontations in the Blinds, the times he had used Black to settle a score or collect a debt. He had been cruel at times, he knew that, but never needlessly and those on the receiving end had been more than deserving. He hadn’t been an Ellforth but after a few more years, and a war with Keyvine, who knew what he might have become?

He slipped from his bunk when Skaggerhill began to snore, that the cacophony failed to wake Preacher or Braddon was ample sign they were sound asleep. Outside the night was clear and the sky lit with a vast panorama of stars. Only Nelphia was visible tonight, denied the company of her smaller sisters as she made her imperceptible progress across the twinkling back-drop. He remembered that Joya had liked to sit out on the roof and gaze up at the heavens, for hours at a time some nights. He had often felt the urge to go sit with her but never did, thinking it an intrusion; this was her time and they asked enough of her as it was. So she would watch the moons and he would watch her; it had seemed a fair trade at the time.

He chose a spot near the port paddle casement, glancing around to ensure there were no crewmen in sight before reaching into his shirt to extract his prize. He was gratified to find Ellforth’s lack of personal hygiene didn’t extend to his vials. The padded green-leather wallet was shiny from regular wiping and the glass tubes themselves free of any besmirching grease that might contaminate the contents. He checked each one in turn, grunting in annoyance at the meagre stocks. There was barely a drop of Black left, meaning the bastard had taken a full dose before approaching Clay. He supposed it was flattering. The Blue was similarly denuded but there was about a quarter vial of Green and Red. Added to Auntie’s gift he now had a half-decent supply of product, not counting Blue but he doubted he’d be making much use of that when the time came.

He took only the smallest sip of Green, letting it settle on his tongue before swallowing it down. As expected the tremble immediately vanished from his hands and the residue of nausea still clutching at his guts loosened then faded completely. He swept the river with his enhanced vision, finding the waters now transformed into a swirling mist through which clouds of small fish darted, gleaming like fire-flies. He raised his gaze to the lonely moon and an involuntary gasp escaped him. So clear, he wondered, eyes tracking over Nelphia’s surface. Usually monochrome, now it stood revealed as a pleasing patchwork of crimson mountains and vermilion valleys, the sparsely cratered plains a soft shade of azure. It was mesmerising, capturing his complete attention for the full sixty seconds it took for the Green to fade and lodging a memory he knew was unlikely to dim.

As the last of the Green ebbed away and Nelphia’s surface resumed its grey-black pallor, he recalled Miss Lethridge’s advice to find a visual template for the trance, a mindscape she called it. He decided it was worth a try. The moon was as good an image as any and compelling enough for him to sustain a facsimile during the trance. Also, it might spare him another lecture.

He added Auntie’s gift to the wallet and returned it to his shirt, knowing he would have to find a better hiding-place come the morning. He made his way back to the hatch leading to their shared cabin then paused at a new sound from the stern. It was soft but high-pitched, like the whimper of a pup in distress. Keenly aware of the fact that he had left the Stinger in the cabin he briefly debated going back for it before moving towards the stern; he had the wallet after all. More whimpering came as he neared the cluster of crates and barrels lashed to the aft deck, the sound clearly human but also possessed of a wince-inducing fear.

He found Silverpin lying on a large coil of rope, clutching herself tight as if chilled, her tattooed features alternately slack then tense in response to whatever horrors lurked behind her closed eyes. She bared her teeth as she whimpered again, the sound transformed into a snarl as she lurched and lashed out. Her hand was empty but he saw that it gripped an invisible knife, jabbing and thrusting with expert savagery before it fell limp onto her side.

Clay watched as her heaving chest slowed to a regular rhythm and her shivering subsided, feeling a surge of guilty arousal at the sight of her sweat-beaded skin. He switched his gaze to her face, seeing the features take on a placid, almost serene cast. He retrieved an unused tarpaulin from the deck and draped it over her, taking care to do so at arm’s length lest she awaken with a start, this time with a real blade in hand. He sat on a crate and watched her sleep for a while, thinking it odd how harmless she appeared. Despite the tattoos and the predatory leanness, he saw now that she was scarcely older than he. He wondered how old she could have been when, if as Skaggerhill had claimed, she took up with a pack of headhunters. As old as he had been when Uncle cast him out into the Blinds maybe? Younger even. If so, it was hardly surprising she might suffer the occasional nightmare.

Feeling the tug of sleep he rose from the crate and started back to the crew quarters, pausing when he saw Silverpin’s lips moving. No sound came from them but it was clear she was speaking, the lips forming words in a silent torrent. He could make little sense of it, but he did detect one word, repeating over and over. Mother . . .

After a short while the flow of words stopped and she became serene and apparently content under the tarpaulin with no trace of distress to mar her features. He stared at her for some time but she slept on in tranquil silence, her lips free of the slightest twitch. Eventually, as Nelphia slid farther to the west and his eyelids began to droop, he turned away and started back to his cabin, a single question defying his fatigued mind. What is she?

—

“There,” Skaggerhill said, pointing a stubby finger at a patch of swamp land off the starboard bow. In the five days since leaving Edinsmouth the surrounding jungle had thinned, giving way to large tracts of grassy, bug-misted swamp. Clay followed the harvester’s finger, picking out a cluster of dome-like forms amidst a less grassy patch of brown-tinged water. For a moment he thought some river folk had come to grief, perhaps thanks to one of the fabled but yet unseen river Greens, upturned boats the only sign of their demise. But looking closer he saw the forms were moving, each producing a subtle but visible wake in the water.

“What are they?” he asked.

“Glyptids,” Skaggerhill replied. “Though most folk call ’em shell-backs. You’ll get a better look when we pass by some dryer land. Though you probably won’t credit your eyes when you do. They’re the most unlikeliest-looking beast I ever did see, next to the drakes that is.”

“They dangerous?” Clay asked, then realised it was a stupid question. Everything out here is dangerous.

“They ain’t meat-eaters,” Skaggerhill replied. “But you don’t wanna get too close, especially when they got young ’uns around. Glyptid’s got a tail like a hammer. They’ll crack you open from neck to balls with a single sweep. Seen it happen once.”

A shout came from the upper deck, Clay glancing up to see a deck-hand pointing to the sky. He shaded his eyes against the sun and searched the sky until he found it, a cruciform shape, black against blue. He knew instantly it was no bird. Even at this distance he was able to gauge some measure of its size, an impression confirmed when the shadow of a wing swept over the steamer, shading it from bow to stern. The Firejack’s whistle gave a long, insistent blast which sent the crew running. Uncle Braddon and Preacher soon appeared on deck with rifles in hand.

“Ain’t after us,” Skaggerhill told Braddon as the drake angled its wings, its neck forming an elegant curve as it peered at the river below.

Braddon’s gaze went to the cluster of humps in the swamp and he nodded, turning and cupping his hands to yell at the wheel-house. “Steer to port and pile on the steam! It’s going for the shell-backs!”

The Firejack’s paddles were soon churning at a greatly increased rate as the steamer put a good distance between them and the shell-backs. If the drake had any care for their presence it failed to show it, sweeping around in a slow descending circle. Clay could make out its colouring now, seeing the sun glint on its jet scales.

“Fifteen-footer,” he heard Skaggerhill say. “He’s a long way from home.”

The Black levelled out then abruptly shortened its wing-span, plummeting down at a steep angle until it was no more than five feet off the water. It spread its wings again, talons skimming the river. On reaching the shell-backs it reared up, the claws of its rear legs slashing downwards. The swamp water erupted into a white maelstrom for a few seconds at it took a firm hold on its prey, Clay feeling the wind-rush as it fanned its wings. It gave a piercing squawk of triumph as it rose higher, something thrashing in its grip. Clay assumed it had taken a juvenile from the size of it, smaller than the others. The shell-back had a blunt, block-shaped head, its mouth agape as it screamed in distress, club-headed tail whirling in panic. The other shell-backs cried out in unison, blocky heads raised from the water to issue a chorus of plaintive dismay as the drake flew away with its prize. It rose to a great height in the space of a minute, soon becoming no more than a speck in the sky.

“He’ll find some rocky ground to drop it on,” Skaggerhill said.

“Ever see one so big this far north?” Braddon asked him.

“No, Captain.” Clay saw there was a troubled cast to the harvester’s gaze. “Not ever. Younger Blacks sometimes venture farther afield in search of a mate, but full-grown males keep to their hunting grounds and guard their females close.”

“So what’s it doing here?” Clay asked.

Skaggerhill grunted a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll be Seer-damned if I know, young ’un. First Greens attacking Stockade now Blacks hunting in swamp country. Could be this land is trying to tell us something.”

—

The swamp grew more shallow with each passing mile and disappeared completely after another three days. The Greenchurn now snaked its way through a mix of arid plains and scrub bush-land. As Skaggerhill promised, Clay was afforded plentiful opportunity to view shell-backs out of the water. They moved in herds of twenty or more, raising copious dust clouds that covered their leathery shells in a reddish-brown shroud. They seemed placid creatures for the most part, happy to munch away at the dense bushes clustering around the river’s numerous tributaries. Occasionally though, two of the larger beasts would go at each other, mouths gaping to roar as they circled around, twisting to deliver thunder-crack blows with their club tails. With little else to do Clay kept watch on the shell-backs and the sky, looking, or perhaps hoping, for another sight of the Black. So far, however, the lumbering herds had remained unmolested.

“Pa says they taste like mutton.”

Clay turned to find Loriabeth limping to his side. She had finally emerged from her cabin the day before, thinner in face and body and incapable of walking more than a few steps at a time, but otherwise healthy to Clay’s eyes. She also seemed less inclined to habitual insult. “Says I can hunt us one if we get a chance,” she went on, resting her slender arms on the rail and sighing a little from the effort of walking.

“Would’ve thought they taste like turtle,” Clay replied. “Thought that’s what they are, just big turtles.”

“Maybe. Guess we’ll find out before long.” She paused, throat working and gaze guarded. “I ain’t thanked you for what you did at Stockade.”

“Thank Silverpin. Get the feeling she didn’t need my help.”

“Thanked her already. She just nodded and went back to honing her blades. Known her for four years now and she barely seems to see me. Awful puzzling why she’d risk her neck for mine.”

“Uncle brought her into the Longrifles?”

She shook her head. “Was Skaggs that found her back in some shit-hole tavern in Carvenport. Seems she was in the midst of a disagreement with her old headhunter crew. Her skills impressed him enough to make an introduction.” She shifted, wincing a little and clutching at her leg.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Aches now and then is all. Foxy says given time it should heal enough that I won’t limp my whole life.”

He watched her massaging her thigh, seeing the suppressed pain in her face. “Was it worth it, cuz?” he asked. “Coming after us was the most fool thing I ever saw, and I saw plenty in the Blinds.”

“Pa told me what we’re after. Damn right it was worth it. We’re the luckiest Contractor crew to ever track the Interior, Clay. The White Drake, a thing no living soul has ever seen. Think on it.”

Her eyes had taken on a gleam not dissimilar to the one he had seen in Madame Bondersil’s gaze when she had first explained the objective of this enterprise. They all had it to some extent, even Preacher. Something about the prospect of the White Drake had a power to capture the heart, and it wasn’t just the reward. By now he had seen enough of the Interior to conclude that Contractors were not drawn here solely by lust for profit. The risks involved in traversing this land meant there had to be more to it. They lived for the mysteries that lurked here, the basic need to explore and find what others hadn’t.

“I’d rather think on the reward I’m due,” he said. “And there’s a chance some living soul has seen it. Your pa tell you about the Wittler Expedition?”

“He told me. But Wittler wasn’t my pa and the Sandrunners weren’t us.”

—

The Badlands came into view later that day, the plains on the western bank giving way to a dense panorama of jagged chalk spires and cliffs that ascended from the river like castle-walls from one of the old books Joya liked to read. Clay could see taller peaks to the west, rising like black teeth against the dimming sky. There was something strange about the peaks, a mottled surface that accentuated their already unnatural appearance. Also, there seemed to be some kind of cloud lingering over the summits.

“They volcanoes or something?” he asked Skaggerhill, who laughed.

“Different kind’ve fire birthed in those peaks.” He offered Clay his spy-glass. “Take a look.”

It took a moment to focus the glass, Clay working the eyepiece back and forth until the blurred image coalesced into something that almost made him drop it. Reds. The sky’s full of Reds.

They wheeled around the peaks in a crimson swarm, flame gouting from their mouths in short bursts. Most were smaller than those he had seen in the Carvenport pens, albeit possessed of considerably more vitality. Here and there a larger specimen soared through the shifting swarm to land atop one of the innumerable ledges that covered the peaks, usually with something formless and bloody dangling from its talons. Wherever they landed a clutch of the smaller Reds would detach from the swarm and descend on the newly arrived meal, heads bobbing as they tore and rent the flesh to nothing in a matter of seconds.

“Hatchlings at play,” Skaggerhill explained. “They fly about and burn off their naptha before bedtime.”

Clay focused the glass on one of the youngsters as it sidled up to an adult. The full-grown Red was about two-thirds the size of the Black he had seen, presumably mother to the infant nestling against its flank from the way it licked the blood from its face and drew it closer with an enveloping curl of its tail. He saw now that the peaks’ jagged appearance came from the numerous ledges and holes carved into their surface by what he guessed was centuries of talon scrapings. It resulted in something that resembled a giant tooth-shaped honeycomb, blackened by soot born of generations of drake breath.

“Guess you know where to come when you need Red,” he said to Skaggerhill, handing back the glass.

“Oh no. Ain’t nobody made it to the heart of the Badlands and lived to tell of it. Reds live in hives and they don’t like visitors. Get within a mile and they’ll come at you in a swarm no amount of bullets can stop. No, you want to hunt Red you gotta be smart about it, set live bait at the edge of their territory and be patient. They live in swarms but hunt alone.”

“Live bait?”

“Goats work fine, mostly. Though they prefer horse. Closest thing to a Cerath, their usual prey.”

“Cerath?”

“Imagine a horse that mated with a bull and gave birth to a freakishly giant foal, and you’ve got a pretty good picture. You get Lesser Ceraths living close to the Badlands to the west, great herds of the things. More every year since there are fewer Drakes to eat ’em.”

Clay returned his gaze to the distant peaks and their cloud of juvenile Reds. “Fewer?”

“Surely. Time was the swarm was so thick it’d blot out the sun.” Skaggerhill’s tone took on a note of sombre reflection as he added, “One day there won’t be no more Drakes, and no more Contractors. Makes a fella wonder what the world’ll look like then.” He gave Clay a rueful grin before moving away, casting a final comment over his shoulder. “We reach the Sands tomorrow, young ’un. Might wanna clean and oil your weapon in the meantime. It’s likely to see some service out there.”

CHAPTER 16

Lizanne

“‘ . . . and so the third and fairest daughter of the Diamond Realm went willingly with the King of the Deep,’” Lizanne recited. “‘Carried away and down into the depths of the ocean never to return. Though on that same day every year her kin gather on the shore-line, for it’s said her song can be heard on the sea-breeze and it is the song of a queen well pleased with her husband.’”

“Ah.” The Burgrave nodded, his pen moving across the page in eager but precise strokes. “‘Diamond Realm,’ you say? I’ve been translating it as ‘The Bejewelled Kingdom.’”

“Yes, sir,” Lizanne said. “A lot depends on how you say it.”

“And the title,” he went on. “‘The Third Daughter’s Sacrifice.’ Accurate would you say?”

“‘Marriage’ would be better, sir. In the northern provinces parents talk of sacrificing their daughters at the wedding ceremony. It’s a tradition, y’see.”

“Sacrifice,” he repeated softly, pen stalled on the page. “I see more wisdom in these fables every day.”

Lizanne lowered the book as he returned to his scribbling, soon losing himself amongst the words. She was pondering whether to ask permission to withdraw when the door-bell gave an insistent jangle.

“Shall I go, sir?” she asked.

“Better not,” the Burgrave replied. “Answering the door is the only duty Mr. Drellic remembers to perform with any efficiency. I’m loath to upset him.”

She nodded and curtsied. “I’ll be about my duties then, sir. Since you’re about to have company.”

“Thank you, Krista. Ask Cook to send up some tea, would you?”

“Certainly, sir.” Upon exiting the study she caught sight of Mr. Drellic making steady if glacial progress along the hallway. She made a brief visit to the kitchen to relay the Burgrave’s tea order then returned to the ground-floor to find that Drellic had finally reached the door. She busied herself dusting a vase situated close to a convenient mirror which afforded a clear view of the visitor, her cloth pausing as Drellic opened the door to reveal a tall man in the blue uniform of the Imperial Dragoons. Her momentary concern dissipated, however, when the man offered the butler his cap with a familiar smile.

“Mr. Drellic,” he said. “How are you today?”

“Well, Major. Very well, thank you.” Drellic stood aside, head bowed as the officer entered. “The Burgrave’s in his study, sir. Go right on in.”

Lizanne averted her eyes as the officer approached the study, hearing a momentary pause in his footsteps as he caught sight of her. “New blood?”

Lizanne turned and stood with her head lowered, deferring to Drellic to make the introduction. “Quite so, Major,” the ancient butler said, gesturing a quivering hand at Lizanne. “This is . . .” He paused, brows furrowed and eyes unfocused. “This . . . is . . .”

“Krista, sir,” Lizanne said, bobbing a curtsy.

“That’s not a Morsvale accent,” the officer observed, angling his head slightly. “Corvus. Am I correct?”

Studying his face she discerned a similar confidence to that of the unfortunate Mr. Redsel, though his military bearing and lean features also put her in mind of Commander Pinefeld. It was an appealing combination but she knew this mission had already accumulated sufficient complications. “Indeed so, sir,” she said in a neutral tone, lowering her gaze. She had the satisfaction of feeling his eyes track her from head to toe; reciprocated or not such interest could always be useful.

“And how is the old dung heap?” he asked. “Haven’t been back for nigh on a decade.”

“Please stop quizzing my employees, Arberus,” the Burgrave said, appearing in the study doorway beyond the major’s shoulder. “She’s not one of your troopers.”

The officer inclined his head at Lizanne. “Major Arberus Lek Hakimas, miss. Seventeenth Dragoons. At your service.” He glanced over his shoulder at the Burgrave’s insistent cough then inclined his head at her once again and grinned before making his way into the study. The Burgrave closed the door, muting their conversation, though from the convivial tone she discerned a long-standing friendship.

“This is . . .” Drellic said again, still standing in the hallway with his face drawn in confusion.

“Come on, Mr. Drellic,” Lizanne said, taking his arm. “Cook’s got some fresh honey cakes baking.”

She began to guide him towards the kitchen then paused at the sight of Tekela’s pale face appearing at the top of the front stairs, beckoning urgently. “You go on, Mr. Drellic,” she told the butler, patting his shoulder. “I need to finish my chores.”

“Krista!” he said, face alight with mingled triumph and joy. “Your name is Krista.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, planting a kiss on his wrinkled cheek. “Yes it is. Go on now. Cook baked them special for you.”

She watched him proceed to the backstairs, muttering her false name over and over, then ascended to the landing where Tekela waited. “Come,” the girl whispered, taking hold of Lizanne’s hand and leading her towards a room at the front of the house.

“What is . . . ?”Lizanne began but the girl rounded on her with a fierce scowl.

“Shhhh!”

The room she led her to was small, the walls a faded shade of yellow and decorated with hand-painted flowers. An infant’s cot stood against the wall and a small rocking-horse rested under the window. “My old nursery,” Tekela said in a whisper, pulling Lizanne towards the fire-place. She knelt and began to work her small fingers into the join around the grating, grimacing with the effort as she prised it free. “Listen,” she mouthed to Lizanne, gently laying the grate aside and leaning close to the hearth, head angled and ear cocked. Lizanne followed suit and was instantly rewarded with the sound of the Burgrave’s voice, as clear as if she were listening through an open window.

“. . . and yet another warship crowding the harbour, I hear. Quite the fleet they’re gathering.”

“Indeed,” came the major’s voice. “Three blood-burners amongst them.”

“And the garrison?”

“Swollen to over twenty thousand men.” There was a pause and Lizanne discerned the sound of smoke being inhaled from a cigarillo. “My friend, I believe you were right. War may well return to these shores very soon.”

She heard the Burgrave utter a bitter sigh. “Are all refuges to be denied us, then? Even here in this blighted continent of jungle, desert and drakes. Is there nowhere the regnarchy won’t look to sate their lust for conquest?”

Lizanne found herself leaning closer at mention of the word “regnarchy.” She knew it to be a term not heard in Corvantine society for the better part of two decades, at least not openly. A term coined by one Morila Akiv Bidrosin, philosopher, radical and ideological mother to the revolutions that had nearly torn the empire apart a generation before.

“Please,” came Arberus’s sigh via the grate, “no speeches, Leonis. I come for instruction, not enlightenment. That happened years ago, as you are well aware.”

There was a pause before the Burgrave replied, Lizanne finding his voice very different from the affable, indulgent noble she had taken him to be. Instead he sounded more like the soldier he had once been, his tone decisive and hard with authority. “Have you met with Morradin yet?”

“A brief conference only, attended by several dozen officers of senior rank. Seems I was invited because he remembered me from Jerravin. Sometimes it pays to win a medal in an ignoble cause. He didn’t say anything, leaving it all to his adjutant.”

“And the object of this conference?”

“Training, mostly. We have been given a new regimen to follow, and I must say, it’s a considerable improvement on the old one. Less drill, more marksmanship and field manoeuvres, plus a twenty-mile forced march every ten days. Also, the list of punishments has been extended and the rate of floggings doubled. It appears he intends to turn our colonial garrison into a real army.”

“There can be only one objective for so large a force.”

“I know.”

“When?”

“No plans have been issued, but any offensive will have to be launched well in advance of the wet season. Meaning perhaps a month, maybe less.” Lizanne heard the major take another puff on his cigarillo. “Should we warn them?”

“They are as much our enemy as the Imperial brood.”

“They have helped us in the past. Supplied arms and intelligence . . .”

“But never enough to ensure victory. It suits them to succour a thorn in the Emperor’s side, but ultimately they have just as much reason to obstruct our goals. A world freed from the twin tyrannies of regnarchy and corporatism is hardly in their best interests. No, we will allow the two monsters the opportunity to destroy one another. If the Emperor believes he can seize this continent’s riches with impunity he’s madder than I imagined. The Ironship fleet will strangle the empire’s trade and famine will result, along with riot and dissent. Fresh soil to plant the seeds of freedom.”

“You are aware, old friend, that I will be required to fight in this war?”

“And you shall, Arberus. As I once hardened my heart and fought for those I despised. Fight well, lead your men with courage and skill. Gain the marshal’s notice and who knows how high you might rise? To have one of our own so close to him . . . We have never been so graced by opportunity.”

“And I had hoped I might have time to make better acquaintance with your new maid.”

Lizanne exchanged a glance with Tekela, seeing her mouth twitch in amusement as Arberus continued, “Tell me, do you judge her worthy of recruitment? Can’t tell you what a bore it is spending time with these hollow-skulled society wenches.”

“Our sisters awaiting freedom from traditional subjugation,” Artonin corrected with the air of someone imparting an oft-told lesson. “She’s bright enough, but it’s too soon to judge her character or sympathies. And I wouldn’t put it past the Cadre to place a spy in my house.”

“That delightful creature?” Arberus scoffed. “Never. I know a spy when I see one.”

Lizanne was obliged to give Tekela a warning nudge as the girl covered her mouth to smother a giggle.

“And the other matter?” Artonin enquired. “Any progress to report?”

“Called on Diran yesterday,” Arberus replied. “Says he’s close to a breakthrough, but he’s been saying that for the past two years. Sometimes I think we came here on the greatest of fool’s errands.”

“It’s worth the risks. Think what we might accomplish if we had such a thing in our grasp . . .”

“You put too much faith in legends, old friend. Diran asked after you, by the way. Perhaps a personal visit might gee him up a bit.”

“He imagines we’re all just a merry band of harmless scholars attempting to solve a historical riddle. Any urging to greater efforts might arouse his all-too-keen mind to suspicions best avoided. Besides, after the spectacle Sirus has been making of himself recently, a certain distance is required.”

“The boy is smitten, true enough.” Arberus voiced a rueful chuckle. “Poor little bugger.” There was a pause and the sound of rustling paper. “Diran did pass on his latest jottings though . . .”

He fell silent at the sound of knocking. “Ah, Misha,” he said as they heard the door being opened. “Would you care for some tea, Arberus? I see Cook has been kind enough to provide honey cakes as well . . .”

Lizanne gestured for Tekela to replace the grate and rose from the fire-place, lost in momentary contemplation of what she had heard. I imagine this must be what it feels like to strike gold, she thought.

“You,” she said, keeping her voice low and turning to Tekela, “have not been entirely honest with me, miss. I believe you know exactly why your father doesn’t like the Cadre.”

There was a brief spasm of what may have been contrition on Tekela’s face before it transformed once again into a pout. “Well, you know all about it now,” she muttered, then brightened. “And all information is valuable, is it not?”

“Its value varies, as does its danger.”

“I’m not afraid.”

So much fun to be had in this new game, Lizanne thought, reading the girl’s eager expression. “Do you share your father’s convictions?” she asked. “Are you eager for the fires of revolution to burn anew?”

Tekela shook her head. “No, and neither was Mother. She lost her father and three brothers in the wars. I think . . . I think Father had other reasons than love for marrying her.”

I dare say you’re right, Lizanne decided. “What can you tell me about this Major Arberus?”

“He’s been calling at the house as long as I can remember. He acts like my big brother but I can tell he doesn’t mean it. He buys me birthday presents but they’re always the wrong thing. Last year he got me a Palaver set. I don’t even know how to play.”

Palaver was a board-game played with tiles of varying values placed face-down on a grid. The players would attempt to identify each piece based on a series of ten questions where the opponent was only permitted to lie three times. With a hundred tiles on the board success in Palaver depended as much on a facility for obfuscation as it did arithmetic.

“You should learn,” Lizanne told Tekela. “I think you’d be very good at it.” She fell silent, thoughts churning this new glut of information. “I believe,” she said eventually, “it’s time for that trip to the museum.”

—

The Imperial Museum of Antiquities was situated in the middle ring of the concentric, circular arrangement of buildings forming the centre of Morsvale. In common with the architecture Lizanne had witnessed so far, every building was of archaic construction and would have benefited from some organised maintenance; tall marble columns stood partly blackened by accumulated soot and she saw more than a few cracked window-panes sitting in rotting frames. The district was home to the town’s administrative and military headquarters and known, without apparent irony, as “The Imperial Ring.” However, amongst the Burgrave’s servants, and Lizanne assumed most other commoners, it was better known as “The Emperor’s Arse.”

“Krista’s taking the Horror to the Arse today,” Kalla commented over breakfast, a meal eaten a good hour before the Burgrave and Tekela rose from bed. “Gonna see that museum fop keeps mooning over her. Can’t think why, she’s never gonna marry the poor sod.” She bit into a crumpet and gave Misha a nudge. “’Member that night he climbed the garden wall and started singing up at her window? Had flowers and everything. She threw her piss-pot at him.”

The two maids shared a giggle then quieted at Madam Meeram’s disapproving frown. “You know the rule, girls. No gossip at this table.”

“Yes, Madam,” they replied in unison.

“You’ll have to take a cab, I’m afraid,” Meeram told Lizanne, gesturing to the empty chair where Rigan normally sat. “My son is off pursuing his maritime ambitions once again.”

“The Burgrave signed his letter?” Lizanne asked.

“No, but we are acquainted with a senior supervisor in the Custom House. Rigan believes his signature may carry sufficient weight to facilitate entry to the Naval Academy.”

“He wants to be an officer?” Lizanne was surprised. The Imperial Armed Forces were notorious for their snobbery and rarely gave commissions to members of the lower orders, and certainly not to servants.

“Ambition will be the boy’s ruin.” Meeram sighed. “His father was the same. Always signing up with some expedition or other, each one supposedly destined to yield more profit than the last. Rigan was five years old when he went off on the last one. We haven’t seen him since.”

“I’ve heard many tales of the Interior,” Lizanne said, frowning in sympathy. “It holds countless dangers, so they say.”

“Not for the Burgrave,” Kalla said around another mouthful of crumpet. “Him and the handsome major go off expeditioning every year.”

“Really?” Lizanne asked. “Didn’t have the Burgrave down as an adventurous type.”

“It’s just a few weeks when the wet season ends,” Meeram said. “The Burgrave believes it refreshes him for the year ahead.”

“Misha thinks they’re off treasure hunting,” Kalla said, nudging her companion once more. “Don’tcha?”

The maid gave a tremulous smile in Lizanne’s direction. “They had a map spread out yesterday,” she said in her barely audible voice. “Saw them going over it in the study when I came for the tea-tray.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re looking for treasure,” Lizanne said. “Could just be working out their route for the next trip.”

“They was talking when I came in,” the girl replied. “Saying that’s the best place to look for it. Anyway”—she gave Kalla a brief scowl—“was Rigan said it might be a treasure map, not me. Don’t wanna poke my nose in the Burgrave’s business.”

“A creditable attitude,” Meeram said, a note of finality in her voice. “One we would all do well to emulate.”

There was no map in the hidden compartment, Lizanne recalled. Diran did pass on his latest jottings though . . . Uncle Diran who works at the museum. The handsome major came bearing his most recent contribution to the Burgrave’s scholarly endeavours, meaning it’s likely still in the house.

—

“Whatever you do,” Tekela said as the cab pulled up outside the museum, “don’t mention poetry, even if he asks you.”

A slender, dark-haired young man stood waiting for them on the museum steps. He was dressed in a newly bought suit, the collar tight about his neck and his hair carefully arranged and oiled. Despite his preparations, however, his youth and the nervous smile he offered Tekela made him resemble a boy playing dress-up.

“Tekela,” he said with a bow, voice betraying a slight quiver. “You have honoured me . . .”

“Yes, alright, Sirus,” she told him, Lizanne gaining the impression she was restraining an habitual scorn. She waved a hand at Lizanne. “This is Krista, my new girl.”

“My pleasure, miss.” Sirus bowed to her also, a significant breach of manners he clearly didn’t know he was making.

“Your note said something about jewellery,” Tekela said.

“Oh yes. A cache discovered in a grave-site on the west coast only a few months ago.”

“Grave-site?” Tekela’s mouth took on a curl of distaste. “You want to show me dead people’s jewels?”

“They’re remarkably well-preserved,” he assured her. “And the craftsmanship is extraordinary. Far above anything we’ve seen before. The expedition also found clay tablets engraved with writing. Such things have been unearthed elsewhere but never in so much quantity . . .”

“Fascinating,” Tekela interrupted in a tone that combined boredom with impatience.

“Well, I hope so.” Sirus turned and gestured at the museum door. “Shall we?”

The museum had a grand if besmirched edifice, tall columns supporting a triangular block of marble upon which a scene from Corvantine antiquity had been carved in relief. Lizanne recognised it as the Divination of Caranis the First, the moment some fifteen hundred years before when a senate-ruled commonwealth was transformed into an empire. The theme continued inside with numerous frescoes and statues, all depicting a somewhat one-sided view of Imperial history. There were battles aplenty but no massacres; happy crowds cheered victorious generals but none suffered starvation or torture. Naturally the revolutionary wars, the most important event in Corvantine history, were conspicuous by their absence.

She followed behind Tekela as Sirus led them along a broad, echoing hallway lined with paintings of monumental proportions. The young man made continual attempts to engage Tekela in conversation, his gambits ranging from enquiring after her father’s health to a commentary on the oddly inclement weather. She responded to it all with non-committal shrugs, Lizanne having warned her against any uncharacteristic displays of interest or affection.

“I sent flowers with my note,” he said, a desperate tone creeping into his voice. “I trust you got them.”

“You sent white roses,” Tekela replied. “They’re for funerals.”

“Oh.” His face clouded only for a second and Lizanne found herself admiring his resilience as he forced a smile and ploughed on. “Red next time then. Once my new verse is complete.”

Lizanne saw Tekela smother a caustic reply and take a calming breath. How bad can his poetry be? she wondered.

Sirus came to a halt before a set of solid double doors and extracted a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket. It took a long moment’s fumbling before he managed to unlock the doors, swinging them wide as he bowed, flourishing his arm in an elaborate and practised gesture. “It is my honour to finally welcome you to my sanctum. I give you the vaults of the Imperial Collection of Arradsian Artifacts.”

Tekela just sniffed and marched through the doors with her nose raised. He’s far too good for you, Lizanne decided. Though you’ll probably be in your sixties before you realise it. Any amusement occasioned by the thought soon expired under the weight of another. You know the girl has to die . . .

The room beyond the doors was cavernous, their footsteps echoing through seemingly endless rows of stored curiosities. A variety of stuffed and mounted creatures stared out at Lizanne from behind glass cases alongside pinioned beetles of alarming size. Beyond them were cabinets full of pottery shards and collections of shaped flint. Sirus led them through the maze of exhibits with accustomed speed, Lizanne making careful note of the route. So far she hadn’t caught sight of any guards but assumed that would change come nightfall.

“Here we are.” Sirus stopped at a tall wooden cabinet of many thin drawers. “I’ve just finished cataloguing all the finds. The Imperial Actuary will be round tomorrow to value it all.”

“So you won’t get to keep it?” Tekela asked.

“Some pieces will remain with us, no doubt. The less valuable, of course. The Emperor deserves his due.” The slight edge to Sirus’s voice as he said this made Lizanne wonder if he might share some sympathies with Burgrave Artonin.

“We’ll start with the sapphires, I think.” Sirus pulled one of the drawers from the cabinet, carefully setting it down on a near by table then removing the thin paper covering.

Lizanne managed to stifle her own reaction but Tekela gave an involuntary sound that was part awe and part greed. The necklace was arranged in a circle, a chain of silver adorned with four sapphires. The stones were set in ornate mountings of unfamiliar design, sharing no motifs with either Mandinorian or Corvantine craftsmanship. There was an appealing fluency to it, the individual links of the chain and the mountings moulded into twisting, organic forms, appearing almost to have grown around the stones.

“This was dug out of a grave?” Tekela asked, her hand reaching out to touch one of the sapphires as if drawn by some invisible magnetism.

“The grave of a female between eighteen and thirty years old,” Sirus said and Lizanne noted all hesitation had now left his voice. “Though the deformation of the bones made ascertaining the age difficult.”

“Deformation, sir?” Lizanne asked, then lowered her gaze at Tekela’s glare. Speaking out of turn was risky but curiosity was always her greatest vice. “Your pardon, miss,” she said.

“Oh it’s quite all right,” Sirus said, offering her a smile. “Yes, miss. The owner of this necklace was undoubtedly a member of what is commonly termed the Spoiled.”

“I thought the Spoiled were savages,” Tekela said, returning her hungry gaze to the necklace. “They couldn’t have made this, surely.”

“Our findings indicated they did, and much more besides. Whatever they are now, it seems they were something very different in the past.” He turned and extracted another drawer from the cabinet. This one held a bracelet of white gold inset with rubies and a clasp fashioned into a tiny and near-perfect facsimile of a drake’s head.

“The drake is a common motif in their designs,” Sirus said, seeing Lizanne’s interest. “Understandable, given they must have encountered them on a daily basis. Curiously, we have found no evidence that they hunted drakes; if anything the artifacts indicate a near-religious reverence.”

Tekela wasn’t listening, playing her fingers over the bracelet before desire overcame caution. “Just for a second,” she told Sirus, placing the bracelet on her wrist and fumbling with the clasp. “There,” she said, extending her arm and angling the wrist so the rubies caught the light. “As if it were made for me, don’t you think?”

“Quite,” Sirus agreed softly.

“Here, girl.” Tekela turned and presented her back to Lizanne. “Put the necklace on me.”

Lizanne glanced at Sirus, who gave a nod of assent, then took the necklace and carefully fastened it around the girl’s neck. She laughed and whirled about in delight, the jewels glittering. Lizanne had to admit she did look fairly stunning. A view evidently shared by Sirus, who stared in unabashed fascination.

“What’s this!” a booming voice echoed through the maze of curiosities accompanied by heavy and rapid footsteps. A very large man soon hove into view, advancing towards them with a purposeful stride, his bearded face flushed an angry red. Lizanne guessed his age at somewhere past fifty though the way he moved indicated a considerable vitality. “What are you doing, boy!” he demanded of Sirus. “This is not a playground.”

“Father . . .” Sirus stammered. “I-I was . . .”

“Fawning, boy!” The large man jabbed a finger at Sirus before turning his glare on Tekela. “That’s what you were doing.”

Tekela seemed utterly unconcerned by the fellow’s anger, smiling and standing on tiptoe to peck a kiss to his cheek. “Hello, Uncle Diran.” She stood back, adopting a regal pose in her finery. “Don’t I look marvellous?”

Diran issued a low, rumbling sound that put Lizanne in mind of a well-stoked boiler. However, Tekela must have had some hold on his heart for his tone was more measured when he said, “Indeed you do. Now take those off before a guard happens by and shoots you.”

Tekela responded with one of her best pouts but dutifully beckoned Lizanne forward to divest her of the jewels. “Pity there’s no photostatist on hand.” She sighed as Sirus hastily returned the items to their cabinet. “I should have liked an image of myself suitably adorned for once. You should see the drab beads Father makes me wear.”

“Your father is deserving of more gratitude,” Diran snapped in rebuke, his glower gradually softening under her wounded frown. “Come on,” he said in a resigned tone, striding off towards the doorway and gesturing for them to follow. “As you’re here you may as well have some lunch.”

He led them from the vaults, standing with arms folded and face stern whilst Sirus locked the doors, then proceeded via an elegant marble staircase to the upper floor. “New maid?” he asked Tekela, nodding at Lizanne. “Hope she lasts longer than the last one.”

“Oh,” Tekela turned a judgemental glance on Lizanne, “so far she’s proving tolerable enough.”

The room he led them to was part office and part workshop, though considerably more ordered than Jermayah’s den of cluttered knick-knacks. A bench near the window held a number of diagrams, all neatly arranged side by side and, sitting in the middle, an intricate device of some sort. A device of numerous cogs and gears that would have fit neatly into a box Lizanne had seen recently. Before she could get a closer look, however, Diran ordered Sirus to clear the bench and the device was swiftly consigned to a locked cabinet along with all the diagrams.

“Go and tell the porter to bring us some sandwiches,” Diran instructed his son. “Ham, I think. And a selection of cakes for our guest.”

After Sirus had gone he settled into the leather chair behind his desk and reached for a pipe. “So, how’s your father?” he enquired, piling tobacco into the bowl. “Haven’t seen him in an age.”

“Scribbling away as always,” Tekela replied, taking a spare chair and smothering a yawn. “He sends his regards, of course.”

“As I send mine.” Diran held a lit match to the tobacco and reclined, smoke billowing as his gaze took on a more serious cast. “You know my son’s in love with you, I suppose?”

Tekela stiffened a little. “As his many poems would seem to indicate.”

“Coming out in a few months, aren’t you? Dare say there’ll be more poems in the offing, from more appropriate authors.”

“Provided Father doesn’t persist in dressing me in rags.”

“It’ll be hard on Sirus, seeing you on the arm of another.”

“I have never encouraged him. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“And yet here you are, feeding his obsession.”

Tekela shrugged. “I wanted to see the jewels.”

Diran exhaled a cloud of smoke, shaking his head. “Never able to walk past a mirror. Just like your mother.”

Lizanne saw Tekela stiffen yet further, her tone taking on an icy quality as she replied, “Is that a topic you really wish to explore, Uncle?”

The subsequent silence stretched as they regarded each other through the haze of pipe-smoke. Lizanne saw how Tekela’s hands had bunched into small, angry fists in her lap. What is it between these two?

“There will be no more poems,” Diran said finally. “I’m sending Sirus to Corvus. A vacancy has opened up in the Imperial Archives. In time, and with luck, he’ll find a more suitable recipient for his verse.”

“I sincerely hope he does.” Tekela got to her feet. “I shan’t be staying for lunch, after all, Uncle. Say good-bye to Sirus for me. And pass on my best wishes for his future endeavours.”

—

Tekela was silent for most of the ride back, staring at nothing as the cab rattled over the cobbles. Lizanne resisted the urge to ask for clarification of her conversation with Diran, knowing it would risk indulging in yet more sentiment. The game is nearly over, she reminded herself.

As if reading her thoughts Tekela stirred from her torpor, speaking in dull Eutherian, “That was it wasn’t it? The device on the bench.”

“I believe so.”

“So you plan to steal it, I assume?”

Lizanne evaded the question. Revealing her intentions would be an excessive risk at this juncture. “You should prepare yourself to reveal our agreement to your father in the next few days,” she said instead. “Once my mission is complete, there will be no room for delay.”

“He’ll be angry.” Tekela’s voice betrayed only slight concern at the prospect. “Being forced to abandon his studies and his plots.”

“I expect so. Though he’ll have little choice once the Cadre learn of our activities, as they surely will before long.”

“How will it be done? Getting us to Feros safely?”

“It’s better if you don’t know. However, you should have a bag packed and be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”

Tekela nodded, her listlessness dissipating now as the joy of the game reasserted itself. Lizanne found herself unable to meet the girl’s gaze for the rest of the journey.

Back at the house she returned to her allotted chores with customary diligence, though the work-load had increased since Rigan had as yet failed to return from his trip to the Custom House. “He’ll be in some dock-side tavern,” Meeram said at the evening meal. “Palling around with sailors and pestering them for stories.”

Lizanne retired to bed early, complaining of a headache brought on by Miss Artonin’s taxing company. In her attic room she divested herself of her maid’s uniform in favour of the clothes she had arrived in. Ostensibly no different from the garb typical of a young Corvantine woman of mean station, the ensemble was in fact carefully tailored so as not to impede her movements. She wore a pair of thin cotton leggings under the skirt to guard against cold and her shoes were flat-soled and gripped to facilitate athletic activity. She strapped the Whisper to her thigh where it could be easily drawn via a slit in the skirt, then affixed the Spider to her forearm, each vial fully charged.

She opened the window and climbed out onto the roof, viewing her chosen route to the museum. It was a winding path and likely to exhaust nearly half her Green, but that couldn’t be avoided if she was to complete her task before morning. Whereupon I’ll have another to perform . . .

She pushed the thought away and focused her mind, depressing the middle-finger button to inject a good measure of Green into her veins. Such a high dosage was dangerous, producing a sense of physical invulnerability and euphoria that could only be countered by the most deeply ingrained training. She stood, limbs seeming to thrum with the new-found energy, fixed her gaze on the successive roof-tops and walls that would lead her to the museum, then launched herself into space.

CHAPTER 17

Hilemore

The Blood-blessed fired the rifle, the bullet smacking into the planking just to the left of Steelfine’s head. Hilemore shook the fuzz from his vision, seeing the Blood-blessed stagger again and nearly fall before straightening with a loud curse. It was a woman, he saw, long hair tied in braids and clad in silks of various colours, though much besmirched and torn. Only a captain would dress in so many colours. He watched as she cast the rifle aside and summoned another from the deck, bringing it to her shoulder and taking unsteady aim at Steelfine once more.

Hilemore surged to his feet with a shout, ignoring the screaming pain in his back. He drew his revolver and caught hold of the captive, who squirmed in his grip but soon quieted when he pressed the muzzle of the revolver to her temple. “Captain!” he called to the Blood-blessed in Varestian.

The woman turned to him and froze, her eyes lighting with fury then frustration as she fixed them on Hilemore.

“There is no hope for you in this,” he told her. “But I promise safe passage and freedom for this one.” He tightened his hold on the girl, who squirmed again, voicing an angry snarl. Hilemore kept his gaze fixed on the woman. He was gambling, hoping she had nearly exhausted her Black and used up all her Red in feeding the Windqueen’s engine.

The woman’s mouth twisted into an ugly sneer as she said something in Varestian, an insult rarely heard for it was the worst her kind could utter. “Oath-breakers! What trust could I ever give you?”

“You can trust this one will live!” He pressed his revolver harder against the girl’s temple. “And I’ll guarantee a trial for you in Feros. Are your colours struck?”

The woman’s gaze shifted to the girl and Hilemore saw an unmistakable similarity in their features, and the near-frantic concern in the woman’s eyes. She staggered again, a patch of blood spreading across her midriff, muttering a curse in Varestian before letting the rifle fall from her grasp. “My colours are struck, you treacherous bastard!” she cried out, sinking to her knees and casting a forlorn gaze around the smoking ruin of her ship.

—

Steelfine lay unconscious in the doctor’s cabin, blood-stained bandages on his head, arms and legs. There didn’t seem to be any inch of him that wasn’t bruised, grazed or cut. Although deaf and blind to the world he still retained enough vitality for the occasional bout of dangerous thrashing, obliging Dr. Weygrand to have his orderlies strap him down.

“Can’t rightly explain his survival,” the doctor advised Hilemore. “Big and strong as he is, he should be conversing with the King of the Deep right now.”

All told the engagement had cost them six dead and twelve wounded, the latter resulting from the Blood-blessed captain’s attentions on the Windqueen’s deck. In accordance with Protectorate custom the dead had been consigned to the sea at the first opportunity, sewn into a canvas shroud, weighted and slipped over the side after a brief recitation of the Order of Thanks by the captain. Of the wounded, only Steelfine remained bedridden despite his inhuman resilience.

“How much Green has he had?” Hilemore asked.

“One-tenth of a flask. I would like to have administered more, but regulations . . .”

“Bugger regulations,” Hilemore said. “Increase the dosage, as much as he needs. I’ll sign the order.”

Dr. Weygrand was a veteran Protectorate physician of near as many years service as Mr. Lemhill. A tall man with silver-grey hair, he projected an air of calm authority and clearly wasn’t about to surrender it to a second lieutenant. “Medicinal use of product lies within my purview, Mr. Hilemore. Exhausting our stocks treating one patient will serve us ill should we suffer further casualties.”

Hilemore bit down on his frustration. That the doctor’s judgement was undoubtedly correct did little to alleviate an angry guilt. I should have sent more men with him. Should’ve known a Blood-blessed would have survived the blast.

“If he worsens,” Weygrand went on, voice softening a little, “I’ll administer another dose, heavily diluted however.”

Hilemore nodded, knowing this was more than he could have expected. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“And you?” Weygrand asked. “Heard you took a pretty bad knock over there.”

Hilemore shrugged his shoulders, concealing a wince at the flaring ache in his back. “Just a bruise or two.”

“Off.” The doctor tapped his stethoscope to Hilemore’s tunic, his tone brooking no argument. “Let’s take a look.”

“If the point of impact had been a tenth of an inch to the right,” Weygrand said a short while later, making Hilemore gasp as he pulled a bandage tight about his torso. “You’d be paralysed from the sixth thoracic vertebra down.”

“A comforting thought, Doctor,” Hilemore grunted. “Have you checked on our prisoner?”

“Yes. Numerous lacerations and minor burns plus a puncture wound to the upper abdomen. Nothing fatal, though, and I’m confident she’ll make a full recovery in time for the hanging.”

“The girl?”

“Completely unharmed, but I can’t speak for her mental state.”

The speaking-tube in the upper corner of the medical bay gave a high-pitched whistle before Ensign Talmant’s voice came through. “Lieutenant Hilemore to the ward-room, please.”

“Seems you’re wanted.” Weygrand finished tying off the bandage and gave Hilemore a small bottle of pills. “For the pain,” he said. “Two in the morning, two at night. And don’t skimp.”

—

“A higher butcher’s bill than I would have liked,” Captain Trumane said, looking over the list of casualties. “Still, couldn’t be helped. And it always does the crew good to be properly blooded early on.”

He put the list aside and lifted a glass of claret from the ward-room table, Hilemore and the other officers present following suit. “Gentlemen,” Trumane said, raising his glass in a solemn toast. “To victory.”

“To victory,” they echoed, drinking in unison. It was another Protectorate custom for a ship’s officers to toast a victorious engagement before the captain went about allotting the various prize-shares and honours.

“The quartermaster has completed his survey of the pirate’s cargo,” Trumane said, lifting another document from the table. “It appears she’s been busiest on the Corvantine trade routes. We have two full chests of Imperial crowns, plus sundry liquors, spices and tea. An impressive haul indeed, coming to an estimated two hundred and fifty thousand in Syndicate Scrip. Shares will be allotted according to rank, with a one percent bonus for Mr. Lemhill and a half percent for Mr. Hilemore. The boarding party and gunners will also receive individual grants of two hundred scrip per man.”

There was a general murmur of appreciation around the room as each officer present calculated his sudden upturn in fortune.

“I should like to donate my bonus to the Ship’s Fund, sir,” Hilemore said, his mind lingering on the sight of Steelfine’s bandaged form. The Ship’s Fund was a pool of donations maintained by the quartermaster to provide succour to maimed crew or assistance to the families of those who had fallen. It was expected, but not required, that officers contribute a small amount of their share to the fund.

“Quite so, Lieutenant.” The captain raised his glass to him. “Naturally, I’ll be making my own contribution as well. Now then.” He turned to Chief Engineer Bozware, still clad in his oily overalls as he appeared to be the only man on the ship’s roster immune to Trumane’s obsession with the uniform code. “You’ve looked over our prize, Chief. Can she be saved?”

“Not without a dry-dock and a few months’ work, sir,” Bozware replied. “Too much warping of the hull due to the fire. Plus her engine’s a wreck. They overloaded her with product trying to get away, blew every gasket.”

“Pity,” the captain mused. “Rarely seen a one-stacker with cleaner lines. Mr. Hilemore, oversee the transfer of her guns, plus any other armaments you can gather, then soak her in oil and burn her.”

“Aye, sir. And the enemy dead?”

“What of them?”

It was Lemhill who replied, his tone possessed of a certain, emphatic conviction. “Pirates or not, those who die at sea belong to the King of the Deep. We burn them, we deny him his due.”

“Doesn’t do to anger him, right enough,” Bozware agreed. “And the men are like to get antsy if we fail to observe custom.”

“Very well,” the captain said, evidently wearied by his officers’ superstitious attachments. “Mr. Hilemore, ensure the enemy dead are consigned to the sea with due ceremony. Once the Windqueen is safely burned we have a bombardment to deliver. Number One, I shall require you to operate as gunnery officer for the remainder of the voyage. Transfer any duties you feel appropriate to Mr. Hilemore.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Excellent. I shall require a plan of bombardment by tomorrow morning. Let’s see if we can’t level this den of sea-rats, shall we?”

—

“Words?” the pirate captain asked him, face striped by the shadows of the brig’s iron bars. She sat slumped on the narrow, mattressless bunk with her daughter curled up by her side. The girl’s eyes were bright as she stared over her mother’s shoulder, whether in accusation or fear Hilemore couldn’t tell. Both were barefoot and dressed in engineer’s overalls: free of any laces or belts that might cheat the hangman. “What words?”

“Words for the dead.” Hilemore struggled for the right translation. His Varestian was adequate but mostly limited to matters sea-related. “Prayers,” he said in Mandinorian, knowing the woman could speak it, all sailors did. “What prayers do you want said for your crew?”

“None.” She turned away from him, face set in hard dismissal as she slipped back into her own tongue. “Words spoken by an oath-breaker are piss on the breeze. The Lords of Sea, Salt and Wind would shield their ears against them.”

“I have broken no oath to you,” Hilemore insisted. “You will face trial and the girl will be freed when we arrive in Feros.”

The woman gave a harsh, disgusted laugh then sobered when she saw his serious gaze. “You don’t know, do you?” she asked with narrowed eyes, switching back to softly accented Mandinorian. “Why they sent you after us.”

“You are pirates.”

“No.” She leaned forward on the bunk, face coming closer to the bars. He noticed for the first time how young she was, barely older than he in fact. Despite her comparative youth there was an undoubted strength to her features, accentuated by the keen intelligence he saw in her eyes. Seeing her up close he could understand how she had commanded a ship of cutthroats with such success.

“I have been a pirate, in my time,” she told him, “until a more lucrative offer was made me. What do you know about the Windqueen, Lieutenant? Scourge of the trade routes, phantom of the seas, striking wherever the cargo was richest. The most successful and feared pirate ship in years. Why do you think we were so successful? Why do you think your captain found us with such ease?”

“Sound intelligence and expert navigation.”

A very small grin played over her lips. “Intelligence, yes. But from where?”

“What are you saying?”

“One man’s pirate is another’s privateer. Would it interest you to know, Lieutenant, that the Windqueen, during all the years she hunted the waves, never once took an Ironship vessel?”

She’s a liar, and a murderer to boot. But something in the woman’s bearing gave him pause, the soft reflection in her voice and absence of anger told of a resignation to her fate. She knows no words will save her. So why lie?

“It was that little favour we did the Protectorate in Carvenport, I assume,” she said when he didn’t respond, slumping back on the bunk and putting an arm around the girl. “Who would have thought witnessing the slaughter of a few Blinds cutthroats was worth all our lives? Or perhaps they decided our success had become too much of a potential embarrassment.”

She looked away and lapsed into silence, hand tracing through her daughter’s hair as she snuggled closer. Realising the fruitlessness of further questions, Hilemore turned to go.

“A coin,” she said as he rapped his knuckles on the heavy door for the guard to let him out.

“What?” he enquired, glancing back.

“They need to carry a coin into the depths. Payment to the Lord of the Sea for all they took from him in life. One copper crown each should suffice.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“And a gold one for the Windqueen.”

“I doubt my captain would agree to that.”

“There’s a cache of Dalcian sovereigns hidden in the hold. I’ll tell you where to find it if you spare one for my ship.” She raised her gaze once more, anger shining clear for the first time. “Gold might persuade the Lord to find a home for her soul in his dominion. Since I am to be denied it, I would like her to take my place. So speak my name when you cast it forth.”

—

Hilemore raised himself up on the bow and threw the coin into the roiling smoke as the Windqueen slipped below the waves, leaving a flaming patch of oil on the swell. As she had bidden he spoke the pirate’s name when the coin splashed into the burning waves, “Zenida Okanas.” The Viable’s paddles began to turn soon after, taking them westwards towards the pirate den. His gaze lingered on the blaze as it faded into the darkening horizon. Pirate she may have been but it was always sad to watch a ship die, especially one so finely made. When the last flicker of flame had vanished he made his way to the engine room.

He found Tottleborn seated on his platform, engrossed in another product of the vulgar press. This one bore the title Slave of the Spoiled and featured an appropriately lurid cover. An improbably muscled and anvil-jawed man of North Mandinorian complexion attempted to shield a buxom and barely clothed woman from an advancing mob of mis-shapen savages. Hilemore had never set eyes on a Spoiled but, from the vagueness of the illustration, doubted the artist had either.

“I have a chest full of real literature if you’d care to borrow some,” he told Tottleborn, ascending the gangway to his platform. The auxiliary power plant was in full clattering swing, obliging him to shout. “Scirwood, Dasmere, all the greats.”

“Great and turgid in equal measure,” Tottleborn replied, not looking up from the book. “I will thank you to allow me to pursue my own literary path, Lieutenant.”

Despite the continuing resentment that coloured his tone Hilemore discerned an upturn in the Blood-blessed’s mood today. The reason was not hard to divine. “It seems your portent was mistaken,” he said, raising his arms to gesture at the undamaged engine room. “I told you no harm could come to you in here.”

“Indeed you did. Didn’t stop me nearly pissing myself when the guns started up though.”

“A natural and very common reaction.” He produced his pocket-watch and flipped the case open to display the time.

“Do we have to?” Tottleborn groaned, laying his book aside. “We did this only yesterday.”

“Regulations. The emergency Blue-trance will be observed after every combat action. The Sea Board needs to know the condition of its ships at all times. It’s only sixty seconds, Mr. Tottleborn. You will relay our casualty figures and the value of cargo seized. Then you can return to your”—he cast a caustic glance at the book—“literary pursuits.”

A few moments later he stood watching as the young Blood-blessed sat eyes closed in the ward-room, hands clasped before him on the table. He had ingested only a small measure of product, his face taking on the serene aspect that seemed to be typical of the trance, as if all emotion had either been suppressed somehow or had fled the body. Hilemore kept count of the seconds with his watch, glancing up in expectation when the second hand ticked past the minute. However, Tottleborn’s trance continued. Hilemore frowned, returning his gaze to the watch and counting off another full minute, then another. Thirty more seconds elapsed before the Blood-blessed issued a loud, convulsive gasp. He seemed to deflate in his chair, head lolling forward and hands splayed on the table. His back heaved as he drew in a series of long, retching breaths, finally raising his head to regard Hilemore with a face bleached of colour.

“Didn’t take enough,” he rasped. “Had to cling on as long as I could.” He jerked convulsively and vomited, nearly falling from his chair. Hilemore rushed forward to keep him upright, settling him back into his seat.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“New orders from the Sea Board.” Tottleborn grimaced, wiping his mouth and rubbing at his temples before offering Hilemore the weakest of smiles. “It appears that, as of yesterday, we are at war with the Corvantine Empire.”

CHAPTER 18

Clay

The Red Sands smelled like blood. The wind carried a fine crimson haze from the shore to the Firejack, possessed of a sharp, metallic sting that stirred a faint nausea in Clay’s gut. It was late morning and the sun had risen to a clear sky, revealing just how aptly named this desert was. “It’s really red,” he commented, eyes tracking over the dunes, finding only the slightest variation in hue and no hint of any vegetation. “And it tastes like iron,” he added, scraping his tongue along the roof of his mouth.

“’Cause that’s what it’s made of,” Skaggerhill said. He held a hand up to the wind for a few seconds then showed it to Clay, tiny red flakes visible on the callused skin. “It ain’t sand, it’s rust. Educated fella I knew in Carvenport said it must’ve been a mountain range once, all filled up with iron ore. One day thousands of years ago some great catastrophe turned it into a desert. Wind carried off the rock sand, it being lighter, leaving this. Here.” He tossed Clay a pack that seemed to be two-thirds comprised of full canteens. “No water on the Red Sands. Gotta carry our own. You be sure to ration it. And tie a kerchief about your face, don’t want this shit in your lungs.”

The Longrifles crowded into one of the Firejack’s boats and rowed to shore, jumping clear in the shallows and wading the rest of the way. Clay looked back at the Firejack as the others all pulled on their packs, seeing Loriabeth raising a hand in farewell. She had accepted Braddon’s stern refusal to let her come along with a stoic calm, though Clay saw how it pained her. “He’s right, cuz,” he told her the night before as the steamer moored up close to the shallows. “You ain’t anywhere near healed enough yet.”

Braddon gave his daughter only the briefest glance before turning his back on the river and unfurling a map. “A mite over thirty miles to the Crater,” he said, aligning a pocket compass to the chart and checking his bearing against the sun. “I want to be there by noon tomorrow so we’ll be pushing hard. We move in single file. Clay, make sure you keep to the steps of whoever’s in front of you. Don’t want the Spoiled getting a notion of our numbers. Preacher, take the rear. Everyone else, eyes on the flanks. Let’s go.”

They moved in a south-westerly direction, Braddon setting a punishing pace and allowing only a five-minute stop per hour. There was little talk, Clay noting how each of his companions kept their gaze on the surrounding desert. Braddon and Preacher had their rifles ready and Foxbine marched with carbine in hand.

“How can the Spoiled live out here?” he wondered aloud when they had finally stopped for the night. They clustered round a somewhat puny fire fuelled by the small sack of coal Skaggerhill had brought along. Whilst the absence of shade made the day a heat-hammered trial, night on the Red Sands brought a cutting chill. “What’s there to live on?”

“Each other, iffen they’re hungry enough,” Foxbine grunted, her eyes roving the dunes, transformed into a dark crimson sea under the light of the moons.

“Spoiled live on the fringes,” Skaggerhill said. “Hunting Cerath and shell-backs. But they come here regular, and in numbers. No-one’s sure quite why.”

“It’s sacred to them,” Preacher said, provoking a surprised silence due to the rarity of the occurrence. “One of the early expeditions described a ceremony they witnessed here. The Spoiled come here to pray. We’re walking across their church and desecrating it in the process.”

“Fuck their church,” Foxbine said, lifting the kerchief that covered her mouth to spit on the rust grains beneath her feet. “We see any o’ those bastards, I’ll be happy to desecrate them too.”

—

They made the Crater just after noon the next day. It lay in a broad depression free of any dunes and at first it seemed like a low, flat-topped hill but soon revealed itself as a circular hole in the desert, sixty feet wide and ten deep.

“Where’s all the nesting White Drakes?” Foxbine asked, a sardonic lilt to her voice. “Stories I heard about this place, you’d think there’d be more to it.”

“Clay, Silverpin, you’re with me,” Braddon said, sloughing off his pack and hefting his rifle. “Take your shovels. The rest of you keep watch.”

Clay sighed in relief as the pack slid from his shoulders, then took a long pull from a canteen. “You want us to start digging now?”

Braddon ignored him and strode off towards the lip of the crater with Silverpin at his side, spear in one hand and shovel in the other. Clay pressed a hand to the comforting weight of Ellforth’s wallet inside his shirt, then drew the shovel from his pack and followed with a muttered curse. The crater walls were steep but had enough of an incline to allow them to slide down to the floor.

“Just more rust,” he said, kicking a small mound of the stuff as his uncle moved about, eyes roving the ground. No great skeleton to take back to Carvenport in triumph. And certainly no shiny egg. “It’d take months to dig through all this,” he called to Braddon, who didn’t seem to hear.

Clay turned to see Silverpin crouched near the centre of the crater, hand splayed on the rust. After a second she took her shovel and started scraping at the surface. Clay moved to her side, watching as she carefully worked the tool’s blade through the metallic soil. His heart took a sudden lurch at the sight of something smooth, pale and round emerging from the flaked dirt.

“Seer-damn me to the Travail,” he breathed. The egg . . . The thought died, however, as Silverpin’s shovel dug deeper, revealing a crack in the pale shape. A few more scrapes and two rust-filled eye-sockets stared up at them from the hole.

Like it would ever have been that easy. Clay straightened, calling to his uncle, “Got us a skull here.”

“Female,” Braddon said a short while later, fingers tracing over the smooth brow of the skull. “Young too, I’d guess.”

“Ethelynne Drystone?” Clay suggested.

Braddon shook his head. “There was a lady gunhand with Wittler’s crew. Madame Bondersil said Ethelynne saw her die here when the powder from the White’s bones made them all crazy.”

“Speaking of which.” Clay rose and spread his arms out to encompass the barren floor of the crater. “Where is the great mucky-muck?”

Braddon retrieved his shovel from the ground and tossed it to Clay, voice hardening with impatience. “Ain’t gonna find it without a little digging, now are we?”

They dug for an hour, finding more bones, all human. “Look at this poor bastard,” Clay said, lifting a skull from the dirt. He guessed this one was male from the heaviness of the brows, a single neat hole punched plumb between.

“Pistol-shot twixt the eyes,” Braddon surmised, glancing up from a partially exposed rib-cage. “Rules out the Spoiled doing all this.”

In all they uncovered the remains of one woman and three men, each with evidence of having suffered death by gun-shot. “Accounts for all of them ’cept Wittler and Drystone,” Braddon said. “Skaggs said he was a good deal taller than his crew. No clothing nor weapons either, which means the Spoiled must have happened by afterwards and taken it all. Stands to reason they took the drake bones too.”

“No bones, no egg.” Clay emptied the last of his canteen down his throat, glancing up at the near-dark sky. “Seems to me we came a long way to prove this thing can’t be found.”

“No, we proved it can’t be found here. And we proved Ethelynne didn’t perish with the rest of them, Wittler either maybe.” Braddon started back towards the lip of the crater. “We’ll dig proper graves for these folks in the morning. Preacher can say the words, if he’s so minded.”

“Then back to the boat, right?”

Braddon kept walking.

“Uncle,” Clay persisted, stalking after him. “We’re going back to the boat in the morning, right?”

“We know they came via the river and Badlands to the north,” Braddon replied. “Could be more sign there.”

“And how many more miles is that . . .”

“As many as I say we walk, Clay!” Braddon rounded on him, face dark with menace. “I say we walk across this whole Seer-damn continent, we do it.” He glanced at the empty canteen in Clay’s hand, gaze softening a little. “And go easy on that. I ain’t asking the others to go short for you.”

—

He volunteered for first turn on watch, preferring to stave off fatigue for two hours in order to enjoy an uninterrupted sleep. Preacher shared the shift, sitting on the far side of the fire, rifle in his lap and staring out at the darkened dunes in customary silence. Clay found it surprisingly easy to stay awake, partly due to the icy chill. He was obliged to wrap his duster tight around him and drape a blanket across his shoulders. Unlike Preacher he stayed on his feet, pacing back and forth across the newly frosted ground, breath misting in the air. At Skaggerhill’s advice he had drawn his Stinger but kept it within the folds of his duster, close to the warmth of his body so the workings wouldn’t seize in the cold.

Thirty miles back to the boat, then . . . what? His mind had been busy with calculations since they climbed out of the crater. With a decent gulp of Green he could cover thirty miles in a couple of hours. Tell the Skipper they all perished on the Sands. Then back to Edinsmouth and on to Carvenport . . . where the Protectorate were likely to carve a smile into his throat within a day of arrival. Plus it meant leaving the Longrifles to perish in this desert, something that might not have concerned him before but, one way or another, he owed them all now, especially Silverpin. He had other options: bypass the Firejack altogether and make for the Alebond enclave at Rigger’s Bay on the coast, a plan that involved a two-hundred-mile trip through the jungle. Even with Ellforth’s product his brief exposure to the realities of traversing the Interior left him in little doubt as to the likely outcome.

Fact is, you’re stuck, he told himself. Just as stuck as you were back in that Protectorate cell.

He was pondering the gleam he had seen in his uncle’s eye in the Crater, that same hunger for the White they all seemed to share, when something moved out in the desert. The Stinger came free of his duster in a blur, the stock going to his shoulder and the sights aligned with his eye in a smooth movement that said a lot for Foxbine’s teaching. A small, upright shape stood just above the Stinger’s fore-sight. For a moment he took it for a tree-stump, surely an impossibility in these wastes, but then saw it was a man. Small and swaddled in thick coverings, his face hooded and a shoulder-high walking-stick in his hand. Unmistakably a man.

“Preacher!” Clay hissed, thumbing back the Stinger’s hammer.

He heard the scrape of the marksman’s boots as he rushed to his side, then blinked as the man with the walking stick shifted. It was just a small, jerky movement then the crimson rust around him erupted into a plume of dust that twisted and drifted to the right.

“What is it?” Preacher demanded, appearing at his side with longrifle raised.

“There’s someone out there,” Clay said, tracking the whirl of dust with the Stinger.

Preacher was silent for a moment then slowly lowered his rifle. “Just a dust-devil,” he said.

“There’s a man in it,” Clay said. “He raised it. Must be a Blood-blessed.”

The swirling plume drifted on a few more yards then split into a half-dozen smaller, whispy vortices. They faded in a few heart-beats, revealing nothing but empty air.

Clay felt the weight of Preacher’s stare as he lowered the Stinger. “He was there,” he insisted. “Spoiled maybe, come to scout us out.”

The expression on the marksman’s face indicated a realisation he may not be the only crazy man in this company. “Spoiled don’t walk alone.”

“Still, we should wake the others.”

“Feel free.” Preacher cradled his rifle between crossed arms and returned to his station on the far side of the fire. “Be sure to tell your uncle it was your idea though.”

—

In the morning he went over the ground where he had seen the swaddled man, finding only vague tracks in the flakes that could have been left by a gust of wind.

“The Sands do this, young ’un,” Skaggerhill said, watching with a faintly amused expression as Clay scoured the ground. “Play with a fella’s brain. Seen a man go crazed my last trip here, blazing away at shadows he swore were the ghosts of his kin.”

“Wasn’t no ghost,” Clay said, raising his gaze. “It was a Blood-blessed and I’m betting he’s on our trail now.”

Skaggerhill shrugged and inclined his head at the camp where the company were packing up. “Then he’s got a long walk ahead. Best not keep the captain waiting.”

As they tracked north Clay kept just as close a watch on the landscape as the others. The swaddled man, however, failed to reappear, not during the day and not at night. Clay stayed awake past his watch, wandering around the fire in a wide circle, hand clutching the Stinger beneath his duster. “Sit still awhile, will ya’, kiddo,” Foxbine said in annoyance. “That’s awful distracting.”

He sank onto his blanket, unable to shake the certainty the small man with the walking-stick was out there in the dark, watching, waiting. But for what? He knew a measure of Green might help, enhance his vision enough to pick out their pursuer amongst the dunes, but with Foxbine so close there was no way to take it without her knowing. Sleep came slowly and proved fitful, leaving him heavy of head and no less fearful come the morning.

They pressed on for three hours, trekking over a flat expanse devoid of dunes that ended abruptly in the chalk labyrinth of the Badlands. “Keep it tight,” Braddon ordered. “No more than two feet from your neighbour. Get lost in here you got lousy odds of making it out again.”

He kept his compass in hand as they made their way through the narrow maze of thin, conical tors and winding channels. The landscape often forced a deviation from true north but the compass kept them moving towards the Greychurn River. There was little warning before it came in sight, just a slight cooling in the air before the Badlands fell away into a steep slope of red sandstone, descending into dark, swift-flowing waters.

“Can see why folks tend to avoid this stretch,” Foxbine commented, looking down at the churning current.

“In full spate due to the rains,” Braddon said. “Wittler made the journey earlier in the year, when it was calmer.”

“Can’t see nowhere they coulda moored up,” Skaggerhill said, shielding his eyes to scan the course of the river.

“Well, we know for a fact they did.” Braddon pointed east. “We follow the bank. See what turns up.”

The going was treacherous, the stone forming the bank soft and liable to give way under a heavy footfall. More than once Clay found himself coming perilously close to dropping into the swift waters below. It took another two hours before they found a small inlet with a gently sloping bank, the kind of place where a company might moor up a raft if they intended to make for the Red Sands. On the bank lay the skeleton of a large drake, the bones bleached white and long denuded of flesh. At first Clay entertained the faint hope they had found the White’s bones but Skaggerhill pronounced it a male Red.

“Dead a good long while,” Skaggerhill judged, looking over the skeleton and poking a finger into the hole in its skull. “Longrifle shot took it down, but that don’t account for this.” He crouched, pointing to the creature’s shattered sternum. “Looks almost like it burst from the inside.”

“Ethelynne,” Braddon said. “In the final trance she had with her, Madame Bondersil told her to make for this corpse and use the last of her Black to draw out the heart. The blood it held was her only chance against Wittler.”

“She drank heart-blood?” Skaggerhill gave a low whistle. “Little wonder no-one’s seen her since.”

“Over here, Captain,” Foxbine called, her boot nudging at something a short ways off. It was so shrouded in chalk-dust Clay initially assumed it must be more of the drake’s bones but a quick waft of Foxbine’s duster revealed it as a human skeleton, though far from complete. Unlike those in the Crater, this one retained the long-rotted rags of its clothes and the dry, papery remnants of a boot enclosed its only foot.

“Wittler,” Braddon said, eyes tracking the body from end to end. “Too tall for anyone else. Looks like he contrived to lose an arm and a leg.”

“Drakes’ve been at him.” Skaggerhill peered closer at the arm-bones. “Got teeth marks here, too small for a full-grown. Juvenile Reds must’ve come by and had themselves a feast.”

“They ate his arm and leg off?” Clay asked.

Skaggerhill shook his head. “Reds don’t eat bones. Ain’t got the teeth for it.”

“Only cannon fire can bust up a body like that,” Foxbine said.

Braddon straightened, casting his gaze around the surrounding landscape. “Spread out. If there’s anything else to find here I want it. Sweep two hundred yards out then come back. Stay in pairs. Clay, go with Silverpin.”

The bladehand took the lead, moving with spear lowered through the narrow channels of chalk and sandstone. Clay’s eyes strayed continually to the tops of the stunted cliffs that surrounded them, wondering if the hooded head of the swaddled man might pop up. Climbing these walls would have been difficult, perhaps impossible given the softness of the stone, but not for a Blood-blessed and he remained convinced that’s what the man had been.

“I did see him,” he muttered, drawing a glance from Silverpin. “I saw a man,” he repeated. “Wasn’t just some figment.”

She nodded, face devoid of any mockery or scepticism, then moved on. At least somebody believes me, he thought.

They had made a slow progress through the maze for maybe a hundred paces when Silverpin came to a sudden halt, eyes narrowing as she peered at something to her right. Clay tracked her gaze, seeing a channel descending then broadening into a steep-walled canyon. His gaze immediately went to a deep crack in one of the walls, more than wide enough for a man to gain entry, and stacked at the opening what could only be more bones. They had been collected into a cylindrical structure some ten feet high, skulls, thigh-bones and ribs all fused together somehow and woven into a macabre monument, to what only the Seer knew.

Silverpin approached in a slow, half-crouch, spear at the ready. Clay followed at a short interval, Stinger drawn. Such a thing could have been crafted by human hands, and for all they knew the artist was still in residence. Silverpin flattened herself against the stone before darting her head around the edge of the crack. Clay heard her take a few sniffs before she relaxed, moving away from the stone and shaking her head at him.

“No-one home, huh?” he asked, peering into the gloom, seeing nothing but blackness and his nose detecting only dust. Even so, he had no intention of stepping inside just yet, not without the rest of the company in front. He turned to the bone stack, frowning at the first skull he saw. It didn’t seem quite right, the chin too prominent and the brows featuring small, spiky protrusions. “Spoiled,” he realised, eyes flicking from one malformed skull to another. The deformity differed in each case, some with spikes growing out of their cheek-bones, others with what could only be called horns jutting from their jaws or temples.

A scuff of boot leather drew his attention away from the bones and he had time to see Silverpin disappearing into the black void of the crack. “Wait!” he called out, moving to follow then hesitating as his boot stepped into the all-consuming shadow. “At least take a light.”

He waited, heard nothing then cursed, slipping off his pack to retrieve the small lantern it held. It took several seconds of fumbling and cursing before he got it lit, the yellow beam it cast reaching only a few yards into the crack. There was no sign of Silverpin. He spent a full ten seconds voicing the foulest language he knew, then took a firm hold on the butt of the Stinger and made his way into the dark.

The air was musty but cool, soon becoming dank as the light revealed dampness on the walls. The passage had a slight but discernible downward slant, becoming wider the deeper he went until finally it opened out into a large chamber. It was maybe twenty feet across, the ceiling too high to be made out by the lamplight. After a few seconds of casting the beam about he voiced a sigh of relief as it played over Silverpin’s slim form in the centre of the chamber. She stood in a circle of stones, head cocked as her eyes tracked over it, keen and unblinking.

“Fool thing you did,” Clay admonished her, though she didn’t seem to hear. “How’d you find your way without a light?” Again no reaction, she seemed completely engrossed in examining the stone circle. He moved closer, the lamplight revealing the stones to be densely packed together in a ring about three feet high, held in place by some form of mortar. He saw it was covered by something, some kind of dried liquid that had accumulated over several years until the stones were rendered near black with it. He cast the light over the surrounding rock, finding it liberally streaked with more of the same stuff. Blood, he realised, his thoughts returning to the stacked bones outside. Killed here and piled up out there. But by who?

Despite several more enquiries Silverpin remained apparently oblivious to him, enraptured by whatever she saw in the stones. He moved away, playing the lantern over the cavern walls, finding more blood, some of it splashed higher than his head. Not just killed, he realised, glancing back at the circle. Ripped apart . . . feasted upon.

“It nested here,” he said aloud, realisation dawning in a rush. Wittler’s blasted body, not a cannon-shot, an egg, bursting apart in flame and fury as they did when their mothers bathed them in the waking fire, setting free what waited within. “She used the Red’s heart-blood to birth the egg. The White hatched, ate up what was left of Wittler and came here where the Spoiled fed it, fed it with their own flesh.”

He realised Silverpin was looking at him now, her fascination with the stones transformed into a keen, almost scary scrutiny. “Right?” he asked, finding the weight of her gaze uncomfortable. She gave no response, stepping from the stones and walking towards him with a purposeful stride. He drew back, Stinger gripped tight though he didn’t raise it as her hands remained empty. “What’s . . . ?” he began as his back bumped up against the wall, falling silent as she leaned close and planted a kiss on his mouth, a long kiss.

“Um,” he said when she drew back. It was all he could think to say. “Maybe . . . maybe we should go get my uncle.”

She angled her head, raising an eyebrow, mouth forming a small smile.

He moved to her, drawing her close, mouth finding hers again. There was a ringing sound as she began to discard her blades. “Yeah,” Clay breathed as she pressed herself against him. “He can wait awhile, I guess.”