The Waking Fire

It is not the purpose of this tome to explore in detail the many superstitions, frauds and fallacies that surround the subject of plasmology. It is true that lesser cultures beyond the Corporate Sphere, particularly in Dalcia but also in certain regions of the Corvantine Empire, continue to look upon the Blessing as a manifestation of divine favour or conjuration resulting from ancient ritual magics. However, the rational mind is quick to spot the logical inconsistencies and flaws in such beliefs. Whatever nonsense may be claimed by the adherents of the sadly still-extant, but thankfully much-denuded Church of the Seer, there is no credible evidence that use of the Blessing was ever demonstrated beyond the confines of the Arradsian continental mass prior to the opening of the Strait and the first phase of Mandinorian Colonisation. And, to answer a question oft put to the author, I do not consider the fabled White to be anything more than a conglomeration of outlandish tales arising from those frequently chaotic and costly days, when as many lives were lost to madness as to the attentions of the Spoiled.

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

CHAPTER 19

Lizanne

Lizanne sprinted to the end of the roof-top and leapt, somersaulting over the museum railings to land on the gravel beyond. Without the benefit of Green such a leap would probably have left her with two fractured ankles; as it was her legs only betrayed a slight burning as she crouched. Lizanne had the Whisper in hand and a Redball loaded into the top barrel; tonight she could afford no half-measures. She had foregone the luxury of prolonged surveillance of the building’s environs. The urgency was too great and the Green had already burned down to its last vestiges thanks to her enjoyable but strenuous journey across the roof-tops of Morsvale. Instead she had waited only long enough to gain a fair idea of the guards’ patrol schedule before vaulting the railings.

Finding no sign of detection she rose and ran for the side entrance. It was a curious facet of her experience that those responsible for the security of important buildings would expend considerable energy in securing their main access points whilst paying only marginal heed to those used by the people actually employed within. Also, doors used with any constancy, especially by poorly paid functionaries, were rarely as well locked as they should have been.

Lizanne was obliged to inject a modicum of Black to undo the side-entrance, secured by a heavy padlock-and-chain arrangement rather than the excellent double mortice with which it had been equipped. Padlocks were her favourite kind of lock, the mechanism standardised across all makes and swiftly undone by a few seconds’ concentration. The tricky part was reattaching it once she had gained entry, requiring her to reach through the door with the Black and reassemble it from memory. She reattached the chain but didn’t engage the locking mechanism; it should be enough to fool a casual glance and she might have need of a swift exit.

She recharged with a small amount of Green before proceeding through the basement store-room where she found herself, just enough to enhance her senses. There were a few more doors between the basement and the ground-floor, but nothing overly troublesome. On emerging into the marble-floored lobby she crouched to remove her shoes, leaving them in a shadowed recess by the door. Lizanne paused for a moment as her bare feet cooled on the marble, expecting to hear the footfalls of a night watchman echoing through the museum’s many halls, but instead her augmented hearing detected only the faint murmur of voices from the floor above.

Someone’s working late, she decided, stealing across the lobby to the staircase. It wasn’t necessarily a problem provided this dutiful scholar kept to their own business. However, she was obliged to stifle a groan of frustration as, upon reaching the top of the stairs, she realised the voices came from Diran’s office.

She crouched behind the balustrade, her ears revealing the conversation in full, albeit-brief detail.

“I don’t . . .” Diran’s voice, hesitant and lacking the bluster and surety from before. The tone and cadence were all too familiar to Lizanne: a man in desperate fear of his life. “Don’t have it,” Diran managed, Lizanne picturing the sweat covering his face. “Not here.”

“You didn’t make a copy?” another voice asked, the tone hard and demanding though the speaker was careful to keep it muted.

“N-no. I can . . . redraw it though. I have my notes.”

“Where?”

“The cabinet.” Diran’s voice took on a slight note of relief. And I thought him a clever fellow, Lizanne mused in grudging sympathy. “Just there. If you’ll allow me pen and paper . . .”

“No need.” The gun-shot was muffled, probably by a suppressor of some sort. “The notes should suffice.”

She had only seconds to process the significance of this, her mind soon fixing on some inevitable and unwelcome conclusions. They know what he was working on. They know of his association to Burgrave Artonin. And they know he has the map. She had only a matter of hours before being compromised. Protocol was clear in such circumstances: compromise at any stage requires immediate extraction. It was the only rational course.

Lizanne kicked the door to Diran’s office off its hinges and entered in a roll, hearing the thump of a suppressed pistol followed by the whip-crack of a bullet missing by inches. She came to one knee, sighted the Whisper on the man standing beside Diran’s desk and fired twice, one shot to the belly, one to the arm. The man fell across the desk with a pained yell, pistol falling from his spasming hand.

She stood up, using the Black to lift the assassin from the desk and slam him against the wall. A demonstration always saved time on explanations and any tediously prolonged threats. Lizanne moved to the desk, pausing to glance at Diran and finding him predictably dead with a hole in his temple, the paper-strewn desk covered in blood that seeped over the edges.

“Can’t say I liked him overmuch,” she said, turning back to the assassin. “But still, I think he deserved better.”

The man gasped, arms and legs spread flat on the wall, blood flowing freely from the wound in his belly. Despite his evident agony and imminent death she could see him fighting to retain his discipline, dragging breath through clenched teeth, his gaze averted. Cadre through and through, she decided. No freelancers here.

“I realise this is probably a pointless exercise,” Lizanne said, casting a meaningful glance at his bleeding abdomen. “But formality dictates I at least make the offer. Quick and painless or slightly slower and infinitely more ugly. And I’ll crush your larynx so you can’t scream.”

No reaction. Gaze fixed and averted, breath laboured but still regular. Never engage the interrogator, she recalled from the Protectorate school. Not in thought, gesture or deed. Any form of engagement involves communication, and communication inevitably involves the exchange of information.

She applied a gentle pressure to the wound, widening it a little, a fresh torrent of blood seeping forth to spatter the floor beneath his dangling feet. She fixed her eyes on his, gauging the reaction as she spoke a single word, “Artonin.”

It was barely a flicker, just a slight twitch in his fevered gaze, but she caught it. They know. “Thank you,” Lizanne said and used the last of the Black to crush his skull.

She let the body fall and moved to the cabinet behind the desk, wrenching it open. The device lay where Sirus had placed it, the dim light from Diran’s lamp catching the edges of its many cogs and levers. A stack of note-books sat alongside the device but, as he had told his killer, there was no sign of any map. She consigned it all to her pack, gratified to find that the device weighed only a few pounds. She would need to conserve her Green and the journey back to the Burgrave’s house was already likely to prove taxing without additional weight.

Proceed to extraction. The thought spoke in Madame’s voice, as the rational side of her brain often did. She ignored it, moving to the door and closing it softly behind her. You are compromised, Madame’s voice insisted. Proceed to extraction.

The map, she replied, running down the staircase and moving to the alcove where she had left her shoes.

You have the device and the notes. Proceed to extraction.

She pulled on her shoes and returned to the basement, calculating the most efficient ground-level route to the Burgrave’s house. She paused at the side-door, taking a deep breath and focusing her mind for the task ahead.

This is not about the map, Madame accused, summoning the image of Tekela’s eager, doll-like face.

Lizanne ignored her and stepped out into the fading night.

—

There will come a time, one of her instructors had said several years before, when a covert operation will transform into a tactical engagement. Whilst such a circumstance should be avoided wherever possible, you should be prepared to shift your operating parameters accordingly. However, this does not mean an abandonment of careful planning or pursuance of only the most realistic objectives.

She counted three Cadre agents in the street with another standing in the open doorway. They all wore the same long dark overcoat and a flat-topped hat. The Cadre tended to a uniform appearance when they emerged from the shadows; it discouraged any unwise curiosity from the populace. Lizanne approached at a sedate walk, carrying her pack as if it contained newly bought groceries and frowning in apparent puzzlement at their presence. The three agents moved to confront her as she neared, one in front, the other two taking up positions on either side, edging closer.

“You work here, miss?” the one in front enquired.

“I am maid to Miss Artonin,” she said, suitably fearful eyes moving from one to the other.

“Ah,” he said, “recently arrived from Corvus, are you not? Bearing a personal recommendation from Landgravine Morgosal, I believe.”

“Why yes, sir.” Her gaze swivelled to the house in apparent bemusement.

“Curious then,” the agent went on, stepping closer, “that our recent trance communication from Corvus reveals that the good lady has never heard of you.”

His thin smile held a certain triumphant confidence, though his lack of outright alarm indicated that, regardless of what intelligence they had obtained, the most pertinent aspect of her identity had not yet been discerned.

“You shouldn’t have let me get so close,” Lizanne told him, drawing the Whisper from the slit in her skirt and shooting him in the forehead. She used Black to freeze the agents on either side and delivered a single round into each of their heads in a swift switchback motion. The agent in the doorway was quick, pistol already drawn and sweeping towards her. She threw his arm aside with a surge of Black and shot him twice in the chest. He gave a groan as she ascended the steps to the door, obliging her to put another round into his skull.

She crouched in the hallway, Whisper held out in a two-handed grip, scanning for targets and ears alive for any sound. Nothing, not even a creaking board.

She checked the study first, finding Burgrave Artonin slumped on the floor behind his desk, leaking blood onto the carpet from half a dozen exit wounds in his back. An old-model cavalry revolver lay under his hand, his thumb frozen in the motion of drawing back the hammer. He forced them to kill him, she deduced, uncertain what that might mean for Tekela’s fate.

The girl’s room was empty but disordered, drawers upended and sundry clothes and girlish accoutrements strewn about. She went from room to room and floor to floor, Whisper gripped tight and ready, finding the general untidiness resulting from a cursory search but no more agents, or servants.

She found them in the kitchen, all seated at the table, heads slumped forward, each with a single gun-shot to the back of the head. Madam Meeram had been tied to her chair, indicating she at least put up a struggle. Misha and Kalla were holding hands, heads lying on their sides so they seemed to be staring into one another’s empty eyes. Mr. Drellic was seated next to Cook, his expression displaying as much confusion in death as it did in life. Krista . . . Your name is Krista.

Tekela and Rigan were not amongst them.

Lizanne returned to the study and tore open the Burgrave’s hiding place. The Cadre clearly hadn’t had time for a proper search as she found the papers intact. Amongst the ledgers and sundry documents lay a tubular leather case typically used for the storage and transport of maps. She resisted the impulse to open it then and there. Despite the early hour the agents’ bodies would soon be noted and all manner of discord was about to erupt in the street outside. She exited through the garden, leaping the wall and striding towards the northern quarter.

—

The sharpshooter had no time to react beyond glancing up with wide, fear-filled eyes as she plummeted towards him, the Green enabling her to cover the distance from the edge of the roof in a single leap. Lizanne landed with her knees on his shoulders, pinning him down as she plunged a knife into the base of his skull. She snatched up his carbine, a long-barrelled model with an optical sight, and trained it on the roof-top of the safe house opposite. Nothing, she surmised in satisfaction, setting the carbine aside and recalling one of Madame’s favourite axioms: overconfidence is frequently fatal.

She climbed down to the street via a drain-pipe and walked to the safe-house door, fingers depressing three buttons on the Spider and flooding her with an intoxicating mélange of Red, Green and Black. Half her remaining supply used up in a single dose, though she expected to need every drop of it. Efforts had been made to disguise the nature of the door but the Green revealed the iron bracings reinforcing the edges and the lock would have taken all morning to unpick. There was also a small, glass peep-hole at eye-level. She knocked on the door three times, waited then added two more knocks before retreating a good twenty yards and drawing the Whisper from her skirt.

Lizanne focused her gaze on the peep-hole and waited. After a short interval she detected the slight shift of colour indicating someone had responded to the knock, raised the Whisper and summoned enough product to unleash the Redball. She aimed for the peep-hole, reasoning it was the only weak point, and was gratified to see the door disintegrate in a fiery ball of burning splinters and melting iron. She entered in a run, leaping the mangled remains of whoever had come to answer the door and putting two rounds into a figure stumbling about in the smoke-filled hallway. Two more agents came thundering down the staircase at the end of the hallway, pistols drawn. She shot the one in front and dragged the other off his feet with Black, crushing his gun hand and holding him suspended in mid air as she came closer.

“Where’s the girl?” Lizanne demanded, squeezing his throat. Like the assassin in the museum he strove to cleave to his training but the shock of her assault had clearly unnerved him. His eyes gave a downward flick and his mouth sputtered around a hopeless plea.

Keen to conserve her Black, she let him fall and shot him through the temple. She found a sturdy door at the end of the hallway, another one with a lock too complex to pick in a reasonable time. Luckily, this one didn’t have any iron bracings and it gave way after two hefty shoves with the Black, though it left her with a fast-diminishing reserve. The busted door revealed a dimly lit stairwell descending into the bowels of the house, the sound of curious and alarmed voices emanating from below. She paused to slot another Redball into the Whisper’s top barrel before proceeding down, coming to a halt at the sight of a half-open door at the foot of the stairs.

“I am a Blood-blessed operative of the Ironship Protectorate!” Lizanne called out. “If you wish to survive this encounter, disarm yourselves and stand aside!”

The response was so swift it nearly caught her off guard, the bulky form of a Cadre agent bursting through the door with a pistol in each hand, blazing away and filling the stairwell with a fog of flame, gunsmoke and powdered plaster. Lizanne leapt, her back connecting with the ceiling as the agent’s continuing barrage tore at the steps where she had been standing. The excitement of it all instilled a slight loss of control, causing her to reply with two rounds from the Whisper where one would have sufficed. The agent crumpled, issuing a faint death-rattle as Lizanne landed and stepped over him into the chamber beyond.

It was a large, windowless space, walls, floor and ceiling all covered in white tiles. The floor had been constructed with a slight incline towards a grated drain in the centre. Rivulets of blood traced from the drain to a figure tied to a chair, a slender young man, head slumped forward and the signs of recent torment covering his bare torso. Sirus. From the sight of him he hadn’t lasted very long. Tied to the chair opposite was the more substantial form of Major Arberus, similarly slumped and abused. Tekela had been secured to a third chair between the two men, positioned so as to afford a clear view of proceedings. She appeared unharmed though her unblinking, perhaps unseeing eyes and bleached features told of more internal wounds. Two men stood back from the ugly tableau, unremarkable in stature or appearance as men of their occupation often were in Lizanne’s experience. They wore aprons and thick leather gloves, stained red naturally. The various implements of their trade lay on a small, wheeled cart. Both stood with their bloodied gloves raised, plainly terrified.

“You’ve seen my face,” Lizanne told them by way of explanation. Luckily she still had two rounds left in the Whisper.

Tekela had been secured to the chair by a pair of steel cuffs fastened to a brace. Lizanne retrieved the key after a brief search of the torturers’ bodies.

“I didn’t . . .” The girl spoke in a whisper as the cuffs came free of her wrists. “Didn’t tell them anything.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Lizanne took her elbow and guided her to her feet.

Tekela gaped at her with her unblinking eyes. “They killed Father . . .”

“I know.”

“Made me watch what they did to Sirus . . .”

“I know, miss, but we really have to go now.”

“That woman, the dress-maker. She made me watch . . .”

Lizanne paused, frowning. “Dress-maker?”

An invisible hand gripped her like a vice, lifting her off her feet and slamming her into the rear wall of the chamber, the Whisper flying free of her grasp as she connected with the tiles. She struggled but the grip tightened, forcing the air from her lungs and spinning her about to face her assailant.

The dress-maker was clad in simpler attire today, dark waistcoat and skirt, cream-sleeved blouse. She might have been taken for a mid-level manager back in Carvenport. But here her status was obvious, made more so by the silver Imperial crest pinned to her breast. Blood Cadre. How did I miss it?

“Hello again,” the dress-maker said in perfect Mandinorian, a slight smile on her lips.

Do not engage. Lizanne averted her gaze, clamping her mouth shut.

“Quite the mess you’ve made,” the woman continued, casting a rueful glance at the torturers. “Skilled employees don’t grow on trees, you know.” She moved a few steps closer, eyes scrutinising Lizanne’s frozen form. “Where are they?” she asked, noting the absence of Lizanne’s pack. She had concealed it behind a water-tank on a near by roof-top before coming here, knowing the chances of success were only about fifty percent. A miscalculation, she realised now.

“The map and the solargraph,” the dress-maker said, voice hardening and the grip tightening on Lizanne’s chest. She felt her ribs begin to strain from the pressure. “Your little friend here doesn’t seem to know. And I assume that was your handiwork at the museum.”

Do not engage!

“I will kill her before I kill you,” the woman promised with affable sincerity. “Eventually.”

A series of dry clicking sounds came from the left and Lizanne strained her eyes to see Tekela backed into the corner, the Whisper held in her small hand. The barrel was trained on the dress-maker, the mechanism clicking as her finger repeatedly pulled the trigger on an empty cylinder.

“Thought we’d ruined her,” the woman mused, turning back to Lizanne. “People are always so delightfully surprising, don’t you find? Now, as you must know my Black is close to expiry, so I’m afraid a disabling injury is in order. A fractured pelvis always seems to do the trick . . .”

Lizanne wasn’t listening, her eyes focused on the Whisper still held outstretched in Tekela’s hand, and the Redball sitting in the top barrel. She unleashed more Red than necessary, the explosion of flame causing the girl to release her hold on the weapon, but not before the Redball had escaped the barrel. Lizanne was denied the spectacle of the dress-maker’s demise, though the resultant debris was more than sufficient evidence of its finality.

She slid down the wall, leaving a clean space on the tiles amidst the abstract mural of red and black. She felt the last dregs of product dwindle away, leaving the familiar aches and strains that resulted from intense use. Her limbs shook and her chest hurt with every breath. Tekela appeared at her side, face earnest now, reason returned though tears fell freely down her cheeks.

“Sorry about your father,” Lizanne told her.

Tekela shook her head. “It was Rigan,” she said. “They told him he would have a commission in the navy. The dress-maker made him tell it all to me before she killed him. He’d been their spy for over a year.”

Lizanne nodded, recalling Rigan’s absence the previous day. “That makes sense.” She tried to get up, groaned and slumped back down.

“Here.” Tekela put an arm around Lizanne’s shoulders, helping her to rise after several seconds’ effort. “What do we do now?”

A loud, hacking cough filled the chamber, causing Tekela to whirl about, snatching the now-useless Whisper from the tiles and waving it as if it had the power to ward off all dangers. Major Arberus jerked in his chair, spitting blood onto the tiles before turning to them with a baleful glare. “A very good question, my dear.”

—

“A governess once told me this place was haunted,” Tekela said, eyes roving the interior of the oracular temple. Like Lizanne, she wore a skirt and blouse stolen from an upstairs room in the safe house, presumably belonging to the unfortunate dress-maker. They were at least two sizes too big, making her appear even more childlike, though Lizanne knew her childhood had come to an end in that tiled room.

“She would take me to the park sometimes,” the girl went on. “I think she was trying to frighten me into better behaviour.” She issued a short giggle, far too shrill and bordering on hysteria for Lizanne’s liking. “It didn’t work.”

Major Arberus gave a pained groan from atop the stone bench where they had laid him, head lolling in his sleep and face betraying a fearful wince. Lizanne had been obliged to dose him with Green to get him here, trussed into the clothes of one of the dead agents and walking stiffly between them as they made a hurried progress to the park. Fortunately, it was still early and the only folk about were street-sweepers, who quickly averted their gaze at the sight of the major’s garb. He had collapsed on reaching the temple, sinking into a sleep so absolute Lizanne wasn’t entirely sure he would wake. His wounds were grievous but healing quickly thanks to the Green, but she knew there were other wounds that cut deep enough to lay a man low no matter how strong the medicine.

“He said nothing,” Tekela said. “The whole time. Not one word. Sirus wouldn’t shut up, begging them to let me go . . .” She trailed off into another shrill giggle, sinking onto a bench and falling silent.

Lizanne had been cataloguing the supplies looted from the safe house, a decent but not copious stock of product from the dress-maker’s room plus two pistols and ammunition. The product appeared to be of decent quality but the slightly dull colour indicated the Cadre’s plasmologists were still somewhat behind their corporate adversaries in the fields of dilution and refinement. Still, it was a lucky find given the reduced state of her own stocks. She had also taken a moment to secure some food and water.

“Here,” she said, moving to Tekela’s side with a water bottle. “Drink.”

“I’m not thirsty . . .”

“Drink.” Lizanne held the bottle to her lips until she took it. “None of this is your fault,” she said, watching the girl gulp down the water. “This was always going to happen, from the moment the Cadre recruited Rigan as an informant. You did not cause this.”

Tekela lowered the bottle, eyes taking on the unblinking stare once more, her voice listless. “I so wanted to tell him, to see the look on his face when he found out what I’d done. What manner of creature am I?”

Lizanne said nothing. She briefly entertained slapping the girl, but doubted she would even feel it. Instead she placed one of the stolen pistols in her lap, saying, “I need you to keep watch for a short time. I have to consult with my employer.”

Tekela stared at the gun in bafflement. “If they find us I won’t be able to fight them off. Not with this.”

“It’s for you, not them. I’ll be at the top of the spire.”

Night was coming on as she emerged onto the spire’s ledge, the pigeons once again cooing in alarm. She ingested a small drop of Green and fixed her gaze on the harbour. As expected the warships were abuzz with activity, sailors hurrying to allotted tasks and smoke rising from the stacks as engineers stoked the engines. The harbour door was in place to ward off the nightly tide, but as soon as it receded the fleet would sail. Turning to the Imperial Ring she saw columns of troops mustering on the various parade-grounds, regiments of cavalry already trooping south towards the city gates. That’s why the Cadre moved against Artonin, she decided. Clearing the decks in advance of Morradin’s great offensive.

She sat on the ledge, crossing her legs beneath her, and injected a two-second burst of Blue.

—

I cannot vouch for its accuracy, she told Madame Bondersil as the black tendrils of the woman’s obsession slavered over the image of the map. All I know is it was drawn by a respected Corvantine scholar after careful examination of the Mad Artisan’s solargraph. She summoned an image of the device, revolving it to display its complex workings.

Most excellent progress, Lizanne, Madame complimented her, more tendrils emerging from her storm to explore the solargraph. There was no communication for several moments as the tendrils did their work, becoming so thick it seemed as if both map and device were swallowed by a pulsating black fog.

And the other matter, Madame? Lizanne prompted eventually.

Mmmm? Oh, the impending war. I will of course pass on the intelligence to the relevant parties. However, it is vital I collate all available data on the White. More tendrils, this time reaching for the few pages from the Burgrave’s notes Lizanne had had time to memorise. With all this I suspect Jermayah may well be capable of building a replica solargraph.

Forgive me, Madame, but the absence of urgency seems inappropriate. War between the Corvantine Empire and the Syndicate essentially means world war.

One that will end the moment we have the White in our possession. This is not my first war, Lizanne. In time you will realise they have a tendency to rage and then fade, like unseasonal storms. Commerce, however, remains constant regardless of the weather.

Another few moments’ scrutiny and the tendrils receded, the clouds of Madame’s storm taking on a brisk, swirling energy. Are you prepared for extraction?

As prepared as I can be in the circumstances.

The girl . . .

Is coming with me. So is the major. I believe they may be useful. The sudden, dark ferocity of Lizanne’s whirlwinds left little room for further discussion.

And you do this in full knowledge of the consequences? Madame enquired, a note of weary resignation colouring her thoughts.

I do.

A brief, convulsive spasm of frustration set Madame’s storm roiling for a second before she reasserted control. Very well. I dare say, with the war and all, Exceptional Initiatives may prove more forgiving than usual. You shouldn’t count on it, however.

Understood.

I hope so. Your next communication with Mr. Torcreek is in eighteen hours, correct?

Yes, Madame.

Do not proceed to extraction until you have passed your intelligence to him. Omit mention of the war. I believe the captain would benefit from a lack of distractions at this juncture.

CHAPTER 20

Clay

“Well, it’s a nest sure enough.” Skaggerhill crouched, running a hand over the blood-black stones. “Ain’t seen one quite like it before, though. Looks almost man built.”

They had all come to take a look at the discovery, though Foxbine got antsy after only a few seconds in the cave and announced she would go stand guard at the entrance. Silverpin stood with her head resting on Clay’s shoulder, something his uncle took full notice of but kept any comment to himself. For the time being at least the nest had captured his full attention.

“The Spoiled?” he asked the harvester.

“Nah, Captain. See here.” Skaggerhill pointed to the mortar holding stones in place. “Bile straight from the second stomach. They cough it up to melt rock when they craft a nest. Only drakes do that, but never so neatly.”

“So it eats up Wittler then finds a place to nest.” Braddon wandered the cave, scanning the stained walls. “Then the Spoiled obligingly come along and feed themselves to it.”

“It’s more than a mite strange,” Skaggerhill admitted.

“Worship,” Preacher said. He stood near the chamber entrance, apparently unwilling to proceed any farther. There was a new tension in his face, a certain animation that hadn’t been there before. It made Clay wonder what it might be about this place that aroused fear in a crazy man.

“What’s that?” Braddon asked.

“They came to worship it,” Preacher said.

“Getting ate for their trouble,” Skaggerhill pointed out.

“Worship takes many forms.” Preacher turned and left the chamber without another word.

“Worshipped or not,” Braddon said. “It ain’t here now. Nor do we have any sign where it went.”

“Got big enough to fly off, I’d guess.” Skaggerhill climbed out of the circle. “All winged drakes can fly the moment they’re hatched, but it takes a good while before they can cover any real distance. About six years for a Black. Guessing this one’s a sight bigger though.”

“It’s twenty-seven years since the thing hatched.”

Skaggerhill spread his arms helplessly. “Then, Captain, I guess we still got us a lotta searching to do.”

—

Silverpin stayed at Clay’s side when they made camp that night, having trekked out of the Badlands and on to the Sands once more as they retraced their steps to the Firejack. She seemed completely unconcerned by the stares of the others, his uncle’s being particularly rich in disapproval. Clay took some small enjoyment in watching Braddon’s frown deepen when he put an arm around Silverpin’s shoulders, drawing her closer still. What had happened in the cave left him in a fugue of confusion and lust. Lurid tales abounded about the wanton ways of the Island tribes but she hadn’t been wild, pressing herself against him with evident passion but no biting or scratching, pulling away his clothes with insistent rather than frenzied hands. All so different from the whores he had occasionally indulged in back in the Blinds. A whole world of difference in fact.

“So where’s this leave us?” Skaggerhill said, poking at the coals in their miniature fire. Of them all he seemed the most inclined not to notice Clay and Silverpin’s altered relationship.

“Richer in knowledge, if nothing else,” Braddon replied, keeping his gaze on Clay. “And entirely reliant on our contracted Blood-blessed.”

“Next trance is in two days,” Clay said. “We’ll just have to see what the lady’s got to tell me. If the Corvantines ain’t got her yet.”

“That likely?”

“They knew about this little jaunt. Who’s to say they don’t know about her? Looks like we may have to call an end to this whole venture, Uncle.” With any luck, he added inwardly, though the thought made him wonder if his one hundred thousand scrip would still be forthcoming should the expedition prove a failure.

“I say when we call an end, boy.” A deep, barely controlled anger had crept into Braddon’s voice. It’s back, Clay realised, seeing the familiar hungry glint in his uncle’s eye. Worse now he knows the great myth ain’t a myth. Now he’s got something real to chase.

“Preacher,” Clay said, turning to the marksman. “You’re a book-learned fella. Just how big is Arradsia, would you say?”

“One point eight million square miles,” Preacher replied without hesitation.

“One point eight million,” Clay repeated, turning back to his uncle. “Lotta ground to cover with no real idea of where to look.”

Braddon got slowly to his feet, staring down at Clay and speaking in slow, emphatic tones. “I say when we call an end, boy.”

Silverpin suddenly stiffened against Clay’s side, her hand snatching up the spear at her feet. “It’s alright . . .” Clay began to soothe her but she sprang away, panther fast, leaping over the fire and bearing Braddon to the ground.

“Don’t!” Clay shouted, surging to his feet then reeling away as something buzzed past his ear, leaving a stinging pain in its wake. It thudded into the sand just beyond where Silverpin had his uncle pinned to the flakes. Clay put a hand to his ear, staring in shock as it came away bloody.

“Spoiled!” Foxbine called out, whirling to face the darkened dunes, carbine at her shoulder. Silverpin rolled off Braddon to crouch with spear in hand, glancing over at Clay and urgently beckoning him to her side. He could only stand gaping with blood running down his neck.

“Dammit, young ’un!” Skaggerhill sent him sprawling with a sweep of his leg, the harvester lying prone, shotgun at the ready. “Skin that iron. We got work to do.”

Clay fumbled for the Stinger, wincing as Skaggerhill’s shotgun sent a loud, booming blast into the darkness beyond the fire. Clay managed to work the weapon free, cursing the whole while. He reached for the stock on his back then flattened himself to the flakes as the air above thrummed with multiple unseen projectiles. One sank into the ground a bare six inches from his face, an arrow, shuddering with the impact. It was fashioned from bone, he saw, sparsely fletched with dried grass. A series of harsh guttural shouts dragged his attention from the arrow and he turned in time to see half a dozen ragged figures charging out of the darkness, clubs and knives in every hand.

Skaggerhill fired again, cutting down one, then a salvo from Foxbine’s carbine felled two more. The Stinger bucked in Clay’s hand and another collapsed just yards away. He couldn’t remember aiming or drawing back the hammer. He thumbed it once more and fired again, the Spoiled taking the bullet full in the chest less than an arm’s length short. Clay ducked as the last one swung at him, the club whistling over his head. A flurry of shots from the rest of the company sent the Spoiled jerking and spinning until he collapsed onto the fire, his blood drawing a sizzle from the coals.

Multiple snicks in the gloom as they reloaded, Clay marvelling at the absence of a tremble as his fingers fed fresh rounds into the Stinger’s cylinder. He finally managed to get hold of the stock and slotted it into place, pulling it tight against his shoulder as he hunkered down, using the body of the last Spoiled he shot as cover. He could see its face in the meagre light, scales and spines contrasting with an oddly peaceful expression.

“We get ’em all, y’think?” he hissed at Skaggerhill.

The harvester snapped closed the breech of his shotgun and rested it on his pack. “Just scouts. Take a sniff and you’ll get an idea.”

Clay frowned in bafflement but nevertheless widened his nostrils to taste the air, face soon bunching in disgust at the thick scent carried by the westerly wind. It smelled worse than Ellforth’s breath, rich in a corruption that warned of deep and lasting sickness. “Stinks like product gone bad, don’t it?” Skaggerhill commented. “I’d say we got us a full war-party out there, at least.”

“How many’s that?”

The harvester’s face was grim, as was his tone. “Too many.”

Clay’s hand stole into his shirt, clutching Ellforth’s wallet. He had begun to open the flap when the Spoiled charged again. For a while everything was a whirl of gun-shots, war-cries and falling Spoiled. The Stinger bucked repeatedly in Clay’s hand as he aimed and fired on pure instinct. They came on so fast there was no time to think. He gave an involuntary shudder as the Stinger’s hammer clicked on an empty chamber, the Spoiled he had been aiming for charging on, teeth bared and the spiny ridge of his forehead gleaming. Clay reversed his grip on the pistol and got to his feet, stepping close to trap the Spoiled’s club arm and hammering the butt into his forehead. The Spoiled reeled back a few feet then twisted into a bloody pirouette as Skaggerhill sent the contents of both barrels into his chest.

A lull descended, Clay sinking down behind the corpse once more as he reloaded, casting a glance around the camp. They were all still breathing and apparently unharmed. Silverpin crouched at his uncle’s side, spear blooded down to her fist whilst Braddon methodically slid fresh cartridges into his longrifle. Foxbine had apparently emptied her carbine and had both pistols in hand. Just in front of her lay the bodies of seven Spoiled. From her expression, equal parts rage and hunger, Clay judged she didn’t think her haul sufficient.

“Don’t suppose we scared them off, huh?” he asked Skaggerhill.

“They don’t scare. Just keep comin’ till we’re outta bullets or they’re outta bodies.”

A sudden rush of wind brought another wave of the Spoiled’s stench, even thicker than before. Seer-dammit, there’s more gathering out there. He abandoned any hope of secrecy and reached for Ellforth’s wallet. All of it, he decided. Not a time for half-measures.

He had begun to pull Auntie’s vial free when a great roaring sound erupted out in the darkness. He looked up to see a wall of flame rising fifty yards out, birthed by a jet of fire cast down from above. The Spoiled were dancing, not in celebration but agony, their screams cutting through the roar of the flames. A gust of wind swept across the camp and Clay saw the stars above blacked out for an instant as something large passed overhead. A few seconds later another jet of flame swept down fifty yards to the south. More dancing Spoiled, more screams. Clay caught sight of the drake’s wing outlined against the rising flames as it swept low over the desert.

It made several more attacks, circling to cast its flames down at the milling Spoiled until the camp was entirely ringed by fire. No-one spoke, Clay seeing only dumb amazement on every face save Silverpin’s. She alone stood regarding the spectacle with narrow-eyed suspicion. A cry echoed down at them from the sky as the flames began to die leaving behind a glowing orange ring of melted iron: the piercing scream of a triumphant drake.

“There!” Foxbine said, pistols pointed at something out on the sands. It stood just outside the glowing circle, a small figure swaddled in rags clutching a walking-stick. For a second Clay’s swaddled man stood regarding them in stillness. None of the Longrifles fired, some primal instinct telling them they looked upon their saviour. The small figure hefted its stick, turned and walked off into the darkness. After a few moments they heard the rush of wind and thrum of wings that told of a drake alighting on the earth. A moment later it took to the sky, Clay catching a glimpse of its silhouette as it passed across the face of Nelphia. The Black from the river. Somehow he knew it, knew the beast and whatever commanded it had tracked them from the Firejack to the Badlands and back again. And, although it was just a small speck, he could have sworn he saw the swaddled man perched on the drake’s back before it angled its wings and disappeared from view.

—

That is certainly very curious, Miss Lethridge commented as he shifted his mindscape to replay the events on the Sands, the intervention of the swaddled man and his apparently tame Black being a particular point of interest. Clay showed her the piled bodies of the Spoiled, all twisted up and scorched, some forged together by the heat of the drake’s fire.

The remainder of your journey was uneventful, I trust? she enquired.

Saw no more sign of the Spoiled, nor the man. The trek back to the Firejack had been a mostly quiet affair, each of the Longrifles marching in preoccupied silence whilst Clay tried not to fiddle with the bandage Foxbine had secured over his ear. Although Clay knew they all prized discovery above most things, he wondered if what they had witnessed the night before had been one wonder too many, a thing best left unseen.

You may not have found the egg but your uncle should still consider this a success, Miss Lethridge told him. At least we now have confirmation of Ethelynne Drystone’s account. I expect Madame Bondersil will be very pleased.

I’ll be sure to tell him, he replied, pausing to take in the sight of her whirlwinds. They spun with considerable energy but lacked the cohesion he had seen before, and there seemed to be a lot more red in the mix. More complications? he asked.

The past two days have been . . . eventful, but productive. Look here. She pulled a small, pale twister closer, opening it out into a sheet of paper.

That a map? he asked.

Indeed it is. I have reason to believe it holds clues to the whereabouts of our quarry. Be sure to memorise it as I taught you.

He scraped a copy of the map into the dirt of his mindscape, a colourful re-creation of Nelphia’s surface, his various memories formed into valleys and mountains. A considerable improvement, she had complimented him when the trance was joined.

You any idea what all this means? he asked when the drawing was complete. The drake saving us like that? The Spoiled feeding themselves to the White?

Perhaps, if as your Preacher opines they truly worship this thing, they felt they had no choice. As for the drake’s actions, that is one of many things currently beyond my understanding. However, with the wealth of documents and the device in my possession, hopefully answers will be forthcoming when I return to Carvenport.

Mission’s over, huh?

This part of it, at least. Though extraction is likely to prove hazardous so don’t be too surprised if I fail to appear at the next trance.

He didn’t like the matter-of-fact tone to her thoughts and was surprised to find he actually cared if she made it out safely. He put it down to some side-effect of the trance, mutual concern being inevitable when two minds were joined.

You be sure to take care, he told her. The Corvantines’ve got a lead on both of us now, don’t forget.

Her thoughts betrayed a faint amusement, though also a small glimmer of gratitude. Why thank you, Mr. Torcreek. And congratulations, by the way.

For what?

The Island girl. Though you may want to have a care. I hear they mate for life. With that she was gone, leaving him pondering a means of better guarding his secrets in the trance.

—

“The Coppersoles.” Skaggerhill grimaced as he straightened from the map Clay had drawn. “That’s Briteshore holdings, Captain,” he said to Braddon. “And they ain’t partial to trespassers.”

“They rarely venture more than twenty miles from shore,” Braddon replied, fists resting on the table and gaze fixed on the map. “Too busy digging treasure out of their mines. Can’t see them bothering us none.”

He touched a finger to the map, tracing the dotted route that ran south from Morsvale, skirting the Badlands and the Red Sands until it intersected the Greychurn on the other side of the Badlands from where the Riverjack was currently moored up. From there the dotted line continued on, tracing around the Red Sands and the southern Badlands before coming to Krystaline Lake. From there it continued south in the dense confines of the Coppersole Mountains. Upon reaching the foothills, however, the line abruptly ended in a symbol Preacher confidently translated as the Corvantine equivalent of a question mark.

“It’s a long way,” Clay observed, wondering if he shouldn’t have sketched a different route, one that led them to a settlement with a decent-sized port and ships available for charter. However, he was aware his uncle knew him far too well to allow for any deception. “And, seems clear whoever drew this ran out of clues just short of the mountains.”

“But at least we have us a due date for arrival.” Braddon tapped a finger to the note scrawled alongside the question mark. Clay had copied it exactly as it appeared in Miss Lethridge’s shared memory, finding it meaningless since he didn’t know any Corvantine. His uncle, however, was apparently more learned. “The tenth of Margasal,” he translated then glanced up at Preacher.

“Twenty-seventh Verester in the Mandinorian Calendar,” he supplied, adding after a pause, “the date of the next alignment.”

“Alignment?” Clay asked.

“Visible in the southern hemisphere only once in every twenty years,” Preacher said. “The three moons in alignment with the planets. The moons cause a total eclipse, allowing the planets to be viewed in daylight for only the briefest instant.”

“What’s that got to do with the White?” Clay wondered.

“Breeding cycle, maybe,” Skaggerhill suggested. “All the drakes breed at certain times of year. The Blues only spawn when the three moons are visible in the sky, f’r instance.”

“Ain’t gonna know one way or the other till we get there,” Braddon said, rolling up the map and turning to Captain Keelman. “We make for the Falls. After that, it’s on to Krystaline Lake.”

—

“Dammit, kiddo. Sit still, will ya?”

Clay stalled a reflexive jerk of his head and bit down on an unmanly whimper as Foxbine put another stitch in his ear. She had painted the wound with a few drops of Green, making it sting like the fires of the Travail, but that had been a picnic compared to this. “How much longer?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Sheesh, from all this wailing you’d think the damn thing had been torn away entirely.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Just a couple more. Try not to blub now, your lady-love’s watching.”

They were on the Firejack’s fore-deck, Silverpin sitting near by and observing the gunhand’s work with keen scrutiny. Loriabeth had also paused in her daily constitutional to partake of the scene. “Really neat work, Foxy,” she said. “Looks like Cuz won’t have much’ve a scar to boast about.”

“The lower half of my ear was dangling,” he muttered.

“Trust you to be the only one to get scarred up.” She delivered a playful punch to his shoulder and sat down on a barrel, rubbing her leg. “Got bad, huh?” she asked the gunhand.

Foxbine hesitated before replying, her casual tone sounding somewhat forced to Clay. “Bad as I’ve seen it. Never had to take down so many at one time before, and there was plenty more lining up behind. Still.” Clay winced at another tug to his ear. “Always glad to increase my count. Takes me up to over ninety now.”

“You’ve killed ninety Spoiled?” Clay asked.

“Ninety-two, to be exact. And before this expedition’s done, I expect I’ll make my century.” Her scissors gave a soft snick and she moved back from him. “You’re all done. Don’t go picking at it now. The skipper ain’t likely to spare us any more Green just to save your ear from dropping off due to infection.”

It was a six-day haul to the settlement of Fallsguard, Clay noting Captain Keelman was now more inclined to set his Blood-blessed to firing the engine whenever possible. Keen to off-load us, he deduced, seeing the skipper’s stern countenance whenever he had cause to speak to Clay’s uncle. Didn’t sign on for this kind of trouble.

Clay spent his days scanning the skies for the reappearance of the Black and its swaddled rider, without result. He did see a few solitary Reds prowling the banks and the plains for prey, and on one occasion a glimpse of the elusive river Green. It exploded from the waters of an inlet shadowed by a thick canopy of overhanging trees, a flickering spectre of white and green, something dog-sized thrashing and screaming in its maw.

“Got himself an otter,” Skaggerhill observed as the drake dragged its prize below the surface. Clay saw its colour change as it passed beneath the Firejack’s hull, from white to greenish brown to match the river-bed. But for the still-struggling otter it would have been invisible.

“Remind me not to go for a swim,” he told the harvester, who bared his teeth in a grin.

“Seems young ’un’s finally learning.”

At night Silverpin would lead him to one of several more private alcoves in the vessel’s bowels. Behind the main boiler in the engine room seemed to be her favourite spot, possibly because the noise obscured the sounds she made in the midst of passion. For a woman who couldn’t talk, she certainly knew how to give voice to certain sensations. The night before they were due to reach Fallsguard she proved particularly vocal, gasping out hard, ragged breaths as she straddled him, face close to his so their breath mingled.

Clay stroked a hand through her blonde locks as she relaxed against him. He always felt like he should say thank you at times like these. They lay on a pile of sacking in the shadow cast by the boiler. There was only one engineer on duty at night, an aged, bespectacled fellow who had yet to notice their regular visits, or failed to care if he had. The blood-burning engine was off, as it was only employed in the daylight hours, and the racket of the main power plant was something awful, obliging him to speak in fierce whispers close to her ear.

“Miss Lethridge says Islanders mate for life,” he said. “That true?”

She raised herself up a little resting her chin on his chest. In the drifting steam and the yellow half-light cast by the engineer’s lantern her tattoos seemed to dance as she raised an eyebrow.

“I mean to say,” he went on, “are we . . . married now, or something?”

She raised both eyebrows.

“It’s not like I mind. Just, nice to be asked is all.”

Her teeth flashed white for a second and she turned her head, slim, ink-covered shoulders shaking in amusement.

“Guess that’s a no,” Clay muttered. He stroked her hair some more until her mirth subsided, then gently raised her face up. “I never said thank you, for Keyvine.”

She shrugged, face expressionless. Not important. Just a small favour to a colleague.

He hesitated, unsure of the wisdom in voicing what he had to say next. Their intimacy had enhanced his ability to read her moods, but there were times when he sorely wished she could talk. “You ever ponder the wisdom of all this?” he asked. “Whether traipsing around the Interior looking for this thing is really the best idea?”

Her tattoos danced again as her brow creased into a frown.

“I know you care about my uncle,” he went on. “But there’s other means of earning a living. Other places we could be.”

Her frown deepened and she drew away from him, sitting up and turning her gaze to the floor.

“You saw that thing’s lair,” he persisted, reaching for her. “Whatever grew there wasn’t just some dumb beast, it could think. And if it’s still out there, what size d’you imagine it is now? And what’s it gonna think of us?”

She stood up, reaching for her clothes and pulling on her shirt.

“We don’t have to do this.” He moved to her, putting his hands on her shoulders, lips brushing her ear. “Fallsguard offers a chance to get on another boat. And I have product . . .”

She stepped away, slipping from his hands and pulling on the rest of her clothes. Her gaze was guarded now, all intimacy abruptly vanished.

“I ain’t gonna watch you die,” Clay said.

She strapped on her knife belt and paused, face tense but also a little regretful as she met his gaze and shook her head. Some measure of hurt must have shown on his features for she sighed and came close, pressing a kiss to his cheek before making for the exit.

Seer-dammit, he thought, hating a sudden grim realisation. I can’t leave her.

—

It was midday when they heard it, a faint, irregular crackling echoing through the jungle, like many dry twigs being snapped all at once. The trees had begun to thicken in the last few days, scrub-land and marsh disappearing as the river narrowed and the current grew swift. The surrounding country had also steepened so that they were constantly overlooked by tall, densely forested hills. Clay found it ominous, the unbroken mass of the jungle canopy and the mist-shrouded peaks combining to convey a sense of being watched. His unease grew as the crackling increased in volume and rapidity, rising to a crescendo of sorts before subsiding to silence.

“That what I think it is?” he asked Foxbine.

“Gun-fire,” she confirmed, carbine in hand and eyes scanning the bank off the port rail. “Sounds like somebody’s had themselves quite the party.”

Fallsguard came into view as they rounded a bend, Clay surprised to find it a fortress rather than a town. Unlike Stockade or Edinsmouth it was constructed almost entirely from stone, perched atop a rocky outcrop that jutted into the river and connected to the bank by a narrow wooden jetty. It was a truly massive structure, the walls rising from a thickly buttressed base to a height of over a hundred feet, complete with crenellations and narrow slits just like in one of Joya’s old books. Though the castles in those tales were usually all white-walled with colourful pennants flying from minarets. There were no pennants here, the walls dark with long-accumulated grime and streaked with variously hued effluent. Presumably the inhabitants were content to cast their waste into the river in the safe knowledge it would soon carry it away and over the landmark from which the place derived its name.

The source of the gun-fire became clear as another barrage erupted, smoke pluming on the fort’s east-facing wall. Clay tracked the direction of fire, drawing up in alarm at the target. They milled about at the edge of the tree-line, waving clubs, spears and bows, garbed more sparsely than those they had killed on the Sands. Spoiled bodies littered the ground between the trees and the bank with more lying still on the jetty, reaching a point halfway along and no farther.

“Get the sense we came at a bad time?” Clay asked his uncle.

The Firejack moored up on a narrow stone quay at the foot of Fallsguard’s west-facing wall, Clay finding it significant that there were no other boats in attendance. They were greeted at the gangplank by a man in the uniform of a major in the Ironship Protectorate Infantry. From the thickness of his beard and the weariness in his gaze it appeared neither sleep nor ablutions had troubled him for some days.

“Thank the Seer!” he said, pumping Braddon’s hand as he stepped onto the quay. “Wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“Expecting us, sir?” Braddon asked.

“Our emergency trance communication,” the major said. “Sent four days ago. I assume you were diverted here in response.”

Braddon shook his head and handed the officer an envelope bearing the seal of the Ironship Board. “I’m afraid we’re here on a different purpose.”

The major broke the seal and read through the letter, his soot-stained brow creasing. “Render every assistance,” he muttered after a moment, voicing an appalled, humourless laugh as he read on. “Provision of an escort?” He raised his weary gaze to Braddon. “Allow me to show you something, Captain Torcreek.”

Once inside, Fallsguard transformed from fortress to town. There were taverns, shops and dwellings all arranged in successive tiers rising the height of the great building. Numerous walkways traced from one tier to another, sometimes intersecting to produce the impression of an inverted tree growing into itself. It was brightly lit with hundreds of lanterns hanging from the walkways, conveying a celebratory appearance at odds with the evidently subdued mood of the inhabitants. They seemed to be mostly old people and children, staring down at the new-comers with mingled hope and trepidation.

“Had to conscript all the able-bodied,” the major explained, striding towards a cage of some kind, heavy chains ascending from its roof through the criss-crossing walkways above. “Got them manning the walls in shifts.” He opened the cage’s door and stood aside, motioning for Braddon to get in.

“Preacher, Clay,” Braddon said. “With me. The rest of you find a tavern. Don’t get drunk.”

Once they were all in the major gave a hard yank on a lanyard, the wail of a steam-whistle sounding far above. After a few seconds’ delay the cage began to rise swiftly, Clay clutching at the sides in barely concealed alarm as the castle’s various tiers sped past in a blur.

“Counter-weights,” the major explained.

The cage came to a sudden jerking halt as it drew level with the topmost tier, two men reaching out to secure it in place. The major led them along a short corridor and out onto Fallsguard’s upper battlements. There were about fifty people arranged along the parapet, some Contractors in evidence but the others mostly townsfolk, all armed with longrifles of varying makes and calibres.

“We’re averaging two thousand rounds a day,” the major told Braddon, offering him a spy-glass and pointing to the edge of the jungle below. Clay followed his uncle to the parapet, peering down at the ground. The Spoiled seemed almost comical at this distance, capering about like two-legged ants. But there was nothing funny about the bodies, more than he had thought on the river. The largest mass lay in the space between the trees and the jetty, piled in three distinct clumps.

“How long?” Braddon asked the major, handing back the spy-glass.

“Two weeks now. Night and day.”

“Must be a thousand corpses down there.”

“More than that. We got most of them on the first night. They came out of the jungle in a wave, overrunning the outer pickets before we knew what was happening. Colonel Montfelt died leading the counter-attack, held them long enough to secure the jetty, though it cost us half our riflemen.”

“You have cannon?”

“Six guns, but we’ve expended half the canister and two-thirds of the shells. I’m husbanding the rest for their next charge. They try it at night, mostly.”

“Jungle Spoiled,” Braddon mused, resting his hands on the parapet. “Never seen them in such numbers before. Usually they fight each other more than they fight us. In Stockade we heard talk of a headhunter company out of Rigger’s Bay getting wiped out. Guess now we know why.”

He straightened and turned to Preacher, inclining his head at the Spoiled far below. “Twenty rounds only. No steel tips.” The marksman nodded and began to unsheathe his rifle from its green-leather case.

“Consider it our mooring fee,” Braddon said to the major, putting a hand on his shoulder and steering him away from the wall, speaking quietly. “I have every sympathy with your situation, sir. But you saw the orders, our mission is a Board priority and we need to get down to the lake.”

“I can’t spare a single man.”

“I see that.” Clay saw his uncle force a smile, gripping the Ironship officer’s shoulder tight enough to make the man wince. “But I’m sure you can spare a few cannon shells.”

—

They had a few hours to kill before Uncle Braddon’s clever scheme kicked off, Clay opting to spend it in a tavern, contemplating a half-measure of ale in morose silence. Foxbine had gone to join Preacher aloft, no doubt keen to make her century before they left. Silverpin had gently disentangled her hand from Clay’s then gone to help Loriabeth carry her gear from the Firejack. The steamer was already heavy with refugees, the decks crowded with old people and children awaiting safe passage back to civilisation. Most of the children were crying or staring at their former home in pale-faced shock, their parents being compelled by virtue of contract to stay and defend this valuable company installation. Captain Keelman had exchanged the briefest handshake with Braddon before turning and striding back up the gangplank, face set with a keen determination to be gone from this place and the dangers of this mission as soon as possible. The tavern had a narrow window in its stone wall that afforded a good view of the Firejack steaming away north, the Blood-blessed in the engine room clearly put to work once more from the steady progress she made against the current.

“Pardon me, young sir.”

Clay turned, finding himself confronted with a slightly built young man, only a few years his senior but with round spectacles and a stubbled chin that made him look older. From his complexion Clay judged him as a South Mandinorian, with an accent that told of managerial education if not lineage, though his less-than-edifying appearance bespoke considerable recent hardship. His jacket, well tailored though it was, had many small tears in the sleeves and could have benefited from a prolonged laundering. The man also had a green-leather bundle under his arm, filled with books from the shape of the bulge, and a long case over his shoulder, too bulky for a rifle sleeve.

Clay met the fellow’s gaze, saying nothing and sipping some more ale.

“Orwinn Scriberson,” the young man introduced himself. “Principal Field Astronomer to the Consolidated Research Company. At your service. Might I join you for a moment?”

Clay stared at him in silence, watching him fidget. He didn’t seem any threat but Ellforth had left him wary of tavern encounters with strangers.

“Purchase you another ale, perhaps,” Scriberson went on valiantly. “I feel there is a matter we could discuss, to our mutual advantage.”

“I have more than a half before nightfall, my uncle will shoot me,” Clay said, nodding at the seat opposite. “But feel free to discuss away. Got shit all else to do right now.”

“You arrived this morning, did you not? With the Contractor company?”

“The Longrifles Independent Contractor Company. Going south in search of Black.”

“Quite so.” The young man gave a smile, earnest and hopeful to the point of desperation. “And hence the crux of my enquiry. You see, I too wish to journey south in pursuit of a contractual obligation. Tell me, have you heard of the impending alignment?”

CHAPTER 21

Hilemore

“I’d take it for some kind of ornamentation, but for its size and position.” Mr. Lemhill squinted suspiciously at the sketch Tottleborn had provided. “Is he sure the dimensions are correct?” he enquired of Hilemore. “Seem a little outlandish to me.”

“Mr. Tottleborn lacks the imagination for exaggeration, sir,” Hilemore replied. “Whatever this is, Protectorate Intelligence has confirmed it has been fitted to the underside of the INS Regal, the most powerful Corvantine vessel in Arradsian waters.”

“I’ll send for Chief Bozware.” Lemhill moved to the speaking-tube. “If anyone can tell us what the confounded thing is . . .”

“There’s no need,” Captain Trumane interrupted. He stood at the ward-room’s port-hole, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at the sea. He had taken only a brief glance at the sketch, Hilemore noting how his recent good humour evaporated immediately. “That, gentlemen, is a stolen treasure. A near-exact copy of the prototype proposed to the Sea Board by a good friend of mine near five years ago.”

“Sir?” Lemhill asked, plainly baffled.

“Professor Widdern’s Patented Revolving System for Marine Propulsion,” the captain said. “Or screw propeller for short.”

“I am to understand, sir,” Hilemore said, “this device can push a ship through the water?”

“Indeed it can, at considerable velocity I might add. Professor Widdern’s experiments indicated a twenty percent increase in speed, and that with a Mark One thermoplasmic engine. If the Regal boasts a modern power plant she could out-run even us.”

“If this device was proposed to the Sea Board . . .” Hilemore began then fell silent at the captain’s grim countenance.

“The Board is comprised of old men clinging to old ways,” he said. “Though to their credit they did purchase the professor’s invention, then promptly locked it away and suppressed all publication of the designs. It appears the Cadre’s agents have not been idle in the meantime.”

“If they’ve outfitted the Regal with this thing,” Lemhill said, “it stands to reason they didn’t stop there.”

“Indeed it does. We may well be facing an entire fleet capable of outpacing every other Protectorate vessel afloat.”

The silence heralded by this observation lasted several seconds, Lemhill and Hilemore exchanging a cautious glance as the import of the captain’s words sank in. “The vaunted commodore should have concentrated on Feros instead of the Strait,” the captain said, more to himself than them. “Then we might have had a chance to gather enough strength to break through later. Still, orders are orders.”

He moved to the map spread out on the ward-room table, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Mr. Hilemore,” he said. “Have Mr. Tottleborn burn one full flask at first light. Once it’s expended Chief Bozware is to squeeze every ounce of power from the auxiliary engine.” His finger tapped the cross pencilled onto a point fifty miles north of the Strait. “With any luck we should make the rendezvous point within three days.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And the pirate settlement, sir?” Lemhill asked.

“It seems fate has conspired to grant them a reprieve,” the captain replied. “We can afford neither the time nor the ammunition for a bombardment.” He paused in contemplation. “Though we could hang the pirate woman. Leave the noose around her neck and rig the body with floats so it washes ashore. A fine warning, don’t you think?”

“She was promised a trial, sir,” Hilemore said.

“Sea law provides for summary justice, in the right circumstances.”

“I gave my word, sir.”

A sudden sharpness in the captain’s gaze told Hilemore his tone must have contained more force than he intended. “Besides,” he added, “I believe she may be willing to impart further intelligence on the activities of her associates. In return for preferential treatment for her daughter once we reach Feros.”

“A company orphanage will be more than the brat deserves,” the captain said, then gave a tired shake of his head. “Very well, Mr. Hilemore. Far be it from me to impugn your honour.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We can allow no other indulgences, however.” The captain looked at both of them in turn. “The men will be drilled in gunnery and combat every spare hour from now until we make the rendezvous. I suspect easy victories are now behind us.”

—

“What was that?” Hilemore enquired of Ensign Tollver, a lanky youth with the most refined accent on the ship. He straightened from his lunge, offering Hilemore a weak smile as he gave another swish of his sword.

“The Sylian Flourish, sir,” he said. “My fencing master at school assured me it can blind and disable in a single lunge.”

“Your fencing master?”

“Yes, sir. Master Farstaff. He had studied the art of the sword all over the world . . .”

Tollver trailed off as Hilemore returned his own sword to its scabbard, unbuckled it and dropped it on the deck. He took up position a few feet in front of the ensign, standing with arms open. “Show me again,” he said.

Tollver glanced uncertainly at the four other ensigns gathered for the morning practice. “Sir?”

“I am your opponent,” Hilemore told him. “Blind and disable me with the Sylian Flourish.”

The youth hesitated further then made a slow repeat of the move, the blade failing to come close to Hilemore’s face. “Again!” Hilemore commanded. “Your best effort, if you please. Unless you’d like ten strokes of the scabbard before supper.” It was custom to punish ensigns by beating them across the buttocks with a scabbard as they bent over the mess-room table. The humiliation, as Hilemore knew to his cost, was far worse than the pain.

Tollver flushed and made another lunge, faster this time, the blade sweeping down before flicking at Hilemore’s eyes. He ducked under it, caught hold of the ensign’s wrist, dug his thumb in hard to force the sword from his grasp then twisted his arm behind his back.

“I am not teaching you to fence,” Hilemore told Tollver, wrapping his other arm around the youth’s neck and steadily increasing the pressure. He turned about so they faced the other ensigns, now backed away in alarm. “I am teaching you to fight,” Hilemore told them as Tollver gave a harsh, choking rasp. “In the midst of battle you will have no time for flourishes or pirouettes or the perfect parry. Use your sword for what it is, a sharp implement designed to kill. Thrust and hack at the enemy’s face and arms until he falls then find someone else to thrust and hack at. If your sword breaks, use the stump as a dagger. If you lose that, pick up a rifle or anything else to hand and use it as a club.”

He released Tollver, letting him collapse to the deck, gasping as he massaged his throat. “Within days,” Hilemore continued, stepping past the choking ensign, “we are likely to be in combat with the Corvantine fleet. You may consider yourselves seasoned by our recent engagement, but that was a mere scuffle compared to what we face next. The crew will be looking to you for an example of courage and leadership. Fail them and you fail this ship and the service.”

He looked down at Tollver, meeting the boy’s gaze until he got to his feet, standing stiffly at attention. “Draw revolvers and stand at the rail,” Hilemore ordered. “We’ll see if your marksmanship is any better than your sword-play.”

After ten minutes of their blazing away at the various jetsam he cast over the side he concluded their enthusiasm might compensate for a lack of expertise, though Talmant proved to possess a keen eye.

“Good,” Hilemore said as the ensign blasted another bottle to pieces from a distance of twenty yards. “Teach you fire-arms at the Explorer’s School did they?”

“Yes, sir. Pistol and rifle both.”

“We’ll see what you can do with a Silworth tomorrow. Having another marksman to call on is always useful.” He turned towards the mid-deck as something caught his eye. Master-at-Arms Steelfine emerged from below clad in his full uniform and moving with stiff-backed deliberation as he saw Hilemore and saluted. “Mr. Talmant, you have the class. Another twenty-four rounds apiece, if you please.”

“Aye, sir.”

“I find it scarcely credible the doctor has released you,” Hilemore greeted Steelfine, returning his salute.

“Didn’t give him much choice, sir,” the Islander replied. His face still bore numerous bruises along with a stitched cut on his slab-like forehead, but Hilemore was gratified to find that his voice had lost none of its vibrancy. “Permission to return to duty, sir.”

Hilemore stopped himself asking after Steelfine’s condition; he doubted the man had much room in his soul for such notions as uncertainty or the willing acknowledgment of weakness. “Granted,” he said instead. “I believe the armoury would benefit from a close inspection. With battle looming I’d like to be sure all small arms are in working order.”

“I’ll see to it.” Steelfine hesitated a moment, staring straight ahead without meeting Hilemore’s gaze. “Honour requires I give you notice, sir.”

“Notice, Master-at-Arms?”

“Yes, sir. The pirate ship, that Blood-blessed bitch . . . I owe you a life.”

“Merely doing my duty, Mr. Steelfine.”

“Such debts are not taken lightly amongst my people. From now until the debt is paid you will find me at your side.”

Hilemore saw no empty melodrama here. If anything Steelfine’s expression was one of marked reluctance, his bearing that of a man forced into an unwanted obligation. He knew little of the Barrier Isles tribes but they were renowned as a people with scant understanding of such civilised notions as dishonesty or an empty promise. Also, he doubted he had much choice in accepting the Islander’s commitment.

“Within a day or two,” he said, “you may well get the chance.”

—

They sighted the first Protectorate ship a day later, a sleek if aged Marlin class frigate named the Contractual Obligation. Captain Trumane was obliged to reduce speed to one-half to allow the other vessel to cruise alongside as Ensign Talmant related the message conveyed via her signal lamp. “Greetings from the Obligation’s skipper, sir,” he said. “In accordance with standing battle orders he notifies you of his seniority and commission date, which reads as follows . . .”

“Yes, yes,” Trumane snapped. “Presumably he has some orders for us.”

“We are to take up station five hundred yards off their port side and continue to the rendezvous in formation. Should we encounter the enemy we are to fire flares and await orders.”

Hilemore saw the captain’s face flush red with poorly concealed anger, hearing him mutter, “Time-serving tub-thumper,” before curtly telling Talmant to send an acknowledgment. They steamed westwards for another day, three more Ironship vessels joining their small flotilla before nightfall. Two were frigates like the Contractual Obligation and one a large supply ship lumbering along at a top speed of thirteen knots, obliging the other vessels to trim their speed in order to maintain formation.

“He should cast that laggard loose,” the captain said, training his glass on the supply ship. It was one of several criticisms he had voiced about their new commander in the preceding hours. “Fat lot of good she’ll be when the shells start flying.”

“Ships ahead, sir,” Talmant reported. “Crow’s nest counts twenty plus.” He hesitated, ear glued to the speaking-tube as his face betrayed a deep relief. “All flying Ironship colours.”

Hilemore hadn’t seen such a large gathering of warships since the Emergency, and even then the fleet hadn’t featured so many heavy units. Four cruisers were in attendance, along with several Sea Wolf class light cruisers and Marlin class frigates. Sitting in the centre of the fleet was the dark bulk of the Consolidation, her pennants proclaiming Vice-Commodore Norworth as overall Fleet Commander.

“Signal from the Consolidation, sir,” Talmant said, reading the distant flicker of the cruiser’s signal lamp. “All captains to report for council of war by the tenth hour tomorrow.”

Hilemore heard the captain voice another mutter, “More delay,” before adding a quotation he recognised as penned by an ancient scholar from the Old Imperial days, though the name escaped him, “‘What a trial it is to submit to the whim of fools.’”

—

Vice-Commodore Norworth was a barrel-chested man of South Mandinorian descent, his impressive array of battle honours forming a multi-coloured square on the broad canvas of his tunic. The other captains of the fleet stood around the table of the Consolidation’s cavernous ward-room to listen to his plan of battle. As was custom each was attended by a junior officer of his choosing and Trumane had surprised Hilemore by selecting him for the honour. “If you’re going to command one day I suppose you should witness a poor example as well as a fine one,” the captain offered by way of gruff explanation.

“Emergency trance communication from yesterday,” the commodore said, speaking in an accent only slightly more refined than Mr. Lemhill’s, “confirms the Corvantine main battle fleet assembling off Corvus. The Sea Board has ordered the Protectorate High Seas Fleet to proceed to Feros with all dispatch. However, it will be at least two weeks before a major battleship arrives in Arradsian waters, meaning the prosecution of this war resides solely in our hands for the time being and it doesn’t require a strategic genius to identify our enemy’s primary objective.” He turned to the huge map covering the ward-room wall, slapping a hand to the Strait. “Here, gentlemen, is where we find the enemy, and here is where we sink him.”

A general murmur of assent swept around the room, some captains clearly enlivened by the prospect of action as peacetime offered so few chances for prizes and advancement. “We proceed south at twenty-one hundred hours,” the commodore went on. “Standard battle formation, frigates in front, light cruisers guarding the flanks, main units in the centre. If the enemy is in possession of the Strait we will retake it. If they are not we will hold it against all attacks until relieved. Any questions?”

The silence lasted only two seconds before Captain Trumane stepped forward. “If I may offer an observation, sir?”

The commodore’s narrowed gaze and flaring nostrils told Hilemore much of what he thought of any observation Trumane might offer. However, it would be poor form to ignore him in front of so many witnesses. “Of course,” Norworth grated.

“There are ten blood-burners in this fleet,” Trumane began, “the Viable Opportunity being by far the fastest. If our objective is to secure the Strait then I suggest they be formed into a separate striking squadron and sent ahead of the main body.”

“A bold stratagem indeed.” Norworth raised his thick brows, apparently impressed. “Remind me, Captain. How many actual commands have you held in your career?”

Hilemore saw Trumane stiffen a little. “Two, sir. Though I would point out my battle honours . . .”

“Look about you, Mr. Trumane.” The commodore gestured at the assembled captains. “Battle honours abound in this room, as do observance of duty and sensible tactics. Sending our entire complement of blood-burners off on a mad charge into the Strait will avail us little.”

Trumane flushed but ploughed on. “I am sure we are all by now familiar with the new propulsion devices fitted to the enemy’s vessels. It is entirely possible they have already seized the Strait or are at least close to doing so.”

“One device,” Norworth pointed out, “fitted to one ship.”

“As far as we know, sir. Thanks to certain decisions made by those senior to myself, the Corvantine Imperial Navy has had five years to improve their fleet whilst, with the notable exception of my ship, we have done little more than stagnate.”

The annoyance on the commodore’s face transformed into a simmering anger and he stared at Trumane for several moments of taught silence. “You there,” he said finally, Hilemore concealing a start as Norworth’s gaze switched to him. “Hilemore, isn’t it? I pinned a medal on you after that Dalcian mess last year.”

“Yes, sir,” Hilemore said, snapping to attention.

“I served alongside your grandfather,” the commodore went on, returning his gaze to Trumane. “Fighting Jak Racksmith, the finest battle commander in the Protectorate’s history. What do you imagine he would make of your captain’s daring scheme?”

Hilemore was tempted to offer only a short and non-committal reply, but as ever the tug of duty compelled him to speak his mind. “My grandfather rarely spoke about his battles, sir,” he said. “But once I asked him about his tactics at the Battle of Rigger’s Bay, considered his greatest victory by many. He just said, ‘Bugger tactics, lad. Thinking is a luxury when the guns start up.’” He met the commodore’s gaze squarely. “In short, sir, I believe he would counsel doing exactly what my captain has suggested.”

—

The captain waited until they were in the launch being rowed back to the Viable before giving full vent to his anger. “Consigned to the rear by that half-brained dullard!” he fumed, tossing the envelope containing their orders into Hilemore’s lap.

“The rear, sir?” Hilemore enquired, unfolding the orders and the diagram containing the formation the fleet was to adopt. The Viable’s original position as one of the lead vessels had been conspicuously crossed out and a new one scrawled just behind the lumbering supply vessel they had escorted to the rendezvous. He kept silent, knowing the blame for this particularly humiliating outcome lay as much with him as it did with Trumane. The captain, however, saw only one target for his ire.

“Opposed me at every turn,” he fumed. “Opposed my promotion. Opposed my recommendations to the Board. Opposed the refit of this ship. It’s hidebound relics like him that will bring us to ruin.”

“Sir,” Hilemore said, casting a meaningful glance at the crewmen manning the oars.

The captain mastered himself with an effort, face retaining a quiver as he tugged his tunic straight. “In any case, your . . . honesty was courageous, and appreciated, Lieutenant. It won’t be forgotten.”

—

Four more ships steamed to join the fleet before the allotted hour, swelling their force to thirty vessels of varying types, though none was as slow as their closest neighbour. The supply ship was named the Mutual Advantage and was clearly of civilian origins, broader across the beam than any of the other ships and her half-dozen guns perched on her deck like incongruous afterthoughts. Her crew seemed a cheerful lot, however, waving at the Viable as she steamed in their wake, possibly in mockery though Hilemore suspected it owed more to an enhanced sense of security at having a modern ship close at hand.

The tension grew thick the farther south they steamed, the crew taking on a grim aspect under the looming prospect of battle. Hilemore kept up a steady routine of drills throughout the day and much of the night, as much to occupy their minds as to enhance their efficiency. Despite his efforts and their evident tiredness as the watches switched over and they trooped belowdecks to their bunks, he doubted any would sleep. He filled up the remaining hours before the Strait came into view by inspecting the armoury with Steelfine, finding every weapon in immaculate condition. The Islander had regained some vitality in the preceding days, possibly enlivened by the imminence of combat.

“Six years, sir,” he replied in answer to Hilemore’s question as to how long it had been since his last engagement. “Not counting the pirates of course.” He lifted another rifle from the rack and slid open the bolt for inspection of the mechanism, giving a sorrowful shake of his head. “In the Isles such an interval would cause a man to call himself a coward and his wives and husbands to find one more worthy.”

Wives and husbands? Hilemore left the question unasked. It appeared Islander customs were even more bizarre than he imagined. “Have you ever been back?” he asked instead, taking the rifle and inspecting the chamber before peering down the barrel. “To your home island?”

Steelfine’s gaze clouded and he accepted the rifle from Hilemore in silence, returning it to the rack and hefting another. For several moments it seemed he wouldn’t give any answer but it appeared his continuing sense of obligation to Hilemore compelled some form of response, albeit softly spoken. “A dead man has no home.”

In the early hours Hilemore roused Tottleborn from his cabin, finding it neater than before, the man’s extensive collection of tawdry reading matter now stacked in an orderly pile and no sign of a bottle anywhere.

“Four?” Tottleborn asked around a yawn, eyeing the flasks in Hilemore’s hands.

“Half our remaining supply,” he said. “Captain’s orders. Action is imminent, after all. I shall require you . . .”

“To stay in the engine room for the duration of the coming unpleasantness.” Tottleborn reached for his shirt. “Rest assured, Mr. Hilemore, I’ve no intention of showing my head above decks until the last echo of gun-fire has faded.”

With the Blood-blessed safely ensconced in the engine room, Hilemore proceeded to the bridge, finding the captain already in attendance. “Morning, Lieutenant,” he said, his previous fury apparently cured by the advent of a new day.

“Good morning, sir.” Hilemore saluted. “Mr. Tottleborn is at his station and Chief Bozware reports all mechanicals in working order.”

“Excellent.” Trumane gestured at the spectacle of the fleet beyond the window, all steaming south with paddles churning and smoke rising from their stacks, streaming away swiftly thanks to the stiff northerly breeze. “At least we’ll have a decent view of the unfolding debacle, eh?”

“Quite so, sir,” Hilemore replied, divining that the captain’s improved mood could well have arisen from the prospect of witnessing Commodore Norworth’s plan come a cropper. So it was with scant surprise that he watched Trumane’s visage darken some four hours later when Talmant related a signal from the Consolidation. “Advance units report Strait clear of enemy vessels. All ships to proceed to allocated stations. Enemy action remains imminent.”

“Blind luck,” the captain sniffed, then sighed as he addressed the helmsman. “Steer south-south-east. Ensign Talmant, relay the message to Mr. Lemhill if you will. Lieutenant, relevant entry to the log.”

“Aye, sir.”

Hilemore had just finished scribbling the course change into the log when another signal came from the crow’s nest. “Enemy vessels in sight, sir.” Talmant’s voice was calm though his face betrayed a sudden loss of colour Hilemore found worrisome.

“That was quick,” Trumane observed with some satisfaction, raising his glass to peer at the southern horizon. “Beat them here by the barest margin. As I said, just luck.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” Talmant went on, a palpable quiver now creeping into his tone. “The enemy approaches from the north, and in numbers. Estimate of forty-plus vessels, all men-of-war and flying Corvantine colours.”

“Seer’s-teeth!”

Hilemore followed the captain as he rushed from the bridge, glass now trained on the north. Even without benefit of an optic Hilemore could see them already, smoke rising from small black lumps on the horizon, growing in number by the second.

“Fire flares!” the captain barked, Hilemore hurrying back inside to jerk the lever that launched their signal rockets. They streamed into the sky a second later, screaming then exploding in a thunderous cacophony. He then gave three successive heaves on the steam-whistle’s lanyard, the crew running to battle stations in response. He had a glimpse of Mr. Lemhill through the bridge window, hounding his crews to their guns, before Trumane ducked his head into the doorway, barking more orders.

“Reverse propulsion on the starboard wheel, bring us about. Ensign, signal the Mutual Advantage: Enemy approaching in large numbers from the north. Relay to flagship. Am engaging.”

One of the advantages offered by a paddle-driven ship was the ability to turn, as Hilemore’s grandfather had put it, on a copper scrip. Within two minutes the Viable had reversed course and was steaming north, Trumane ordering three vials into the engine. “They’re moving too fast,” he said, voice soft as he continued to observe the approaching enemy fleet. “Some don’t even have paddles. We face the future today, and it’s likely to kill us.”

Behind them the sea was filled with a discordant symphony of shrieking whistles and exploding rockets as the fleet reacted to the Viable’s signal. The Mutual Advantage wallowed as she came about, wheels turning the sea white and her crew scurrying to and fro with what seemed to Hilemore a singular lack of proper direction. Off to port the Contractual Obligation moved with much greater purpose, making her turn with almost as much alacrity as the Viable though her comparative lack of speed soon saw her falling behind.

“Waited until we entered the Strait,” the captain was saying. “They must have cleared it at least a day ahead of us then turned about.” He met Hilemore’s gaze, raising his voice. “It appears we have the misfortune not to be facing a foolish admiral today, Mr. Hilemore.”

Hilemore replied with a grim smile. “Indeed it does, sir.”

“Still.” Trumane rested an affectionate hand on the bulkhead. “At least they won’t be expecting us. See if we can’t throw a wrench in their works, eh?”

Hilemore’s reply was drowned out by the familiar, grating roar of something very large passing overhead. His gaze snapped to a tell-tale flash rising from one of the approaching ships as another shell was fired. He had time to watch the first plunge into the sea just to port of the Mutual Advantage’s bow, the resultant spout rising a good sixty feet into the air, before the second slammed into the supply ship’s stern. Lacking armour, the hit was instantly ruinous, the shell penetrating all the way to the lower decks before exploding, ripping her apart from bridge to rudder. Men and bits of men were visible amidst the falling debris. Within less than a minute she had foundered, the sea flooding into her shattered hull to claim her for the Deep. The bow swung high as she went down, Hilemore glimpsing a knot of men clinging to the forward anchor mounting before she slipped beneath the swell.

“This,” Captain Trumane observed, turning away and lifting the glass to his eye once more, “is going to be a very trying day.”

CHAPTER 22

Lizanne

It was five days before they were ready to move. The major’s wounds were so severe that, despite Lizanne expending two-thirds of their remaining Green in repeated doses, two days went by before he was able to walk, and even then only due to urgent necessity. The Morsvale constabulary had made numerous sweeps of the park but, thanks to either basic indolence or lack of imagination, had failed to search the oracular temple. Near the evening of their second day in hiding, however, it appeared they had decided, or more likely been ordered, to be more thorough. Fortunately, Lizanne had not been idle in the interim. A thorough inspection of the temple revealed a subterranean chamber complete with a marble font and bench, presumably reserved for the oracle’s private meditations. Her decision to enhance her search with a modicum of Green paid dividends when the unnatural perception detected a false wall in the chamber, behind which she discovered a cache of dusty scrolls. The Oracular Scriptures, she decided, thinking Tekela’s father would have made much of such a discovery. Hidden away from the fires of persecution.

The space was small but, once she had removed the scrolls, of sufficient dimensions to accommodate both her and her companions. They had huddled together in the dark as the constables searched the temple, forced into intimate entanglement by the confines. If the major felt any arousal at finding himself in such close proximity to two young women, it was well hidden behind a pale, sweat-covered mask of pain. He lay deepest in the space, pressed up against the far wall with arms braced and teeth gritted to guard against any gasps or grunts of discomfort. Lizanne assumed he knew she had the Whisper in hand beneath her skirt, ready to silence him should it become necessary. Tekela, by contrast, threatened no revealing sound or fidgeting, lying curled about Lizanne in relaxed quietude, like a kitten cuddling up to its mother.

It occurred to Lizanne that, had she followed her first impulse that night in Burgrave’s study, it would have been the first time she had taken an innocent life. There had been a few over the years less deserving of their fate than others, but none whose demise hadn’t improved the world in some small way. Tekela was certainly spiteful, selfish and spoiled, but also still curiously innocent in many ways. Lizanne had never had much truck with notions of ingrained female maternalism, but she had to admit that sparing the girl had engendered a protective instinct, or at least a desire not to see so much effort wasted.

The constables had stomped around for a good two hours, their progress through the temple marked by the crash of upturned pews or the thud of tumbled marble as they vented their boredom on the temple’s statuary. Booted feet had echoed in the chamber for only a short time, two searchers by Lizanne’s estimation, exchanging grunted profanity as they kicked the walls, either too ignorant or indifferent to catch the slight change in pitch as their boots found the false panel. After the boots had faded Lizanne insisted on a prolonged wait before they emerged.

“What did you do with the scrolls?” Arberus asked a short while later. It was evening and he sat with a blanket wrapped about him, shivering a little as they could not risk a fire.

“Ripped into the smallest pieces Tekela and I could manage,” she replied. “Then scattered about amongst the dust piles. Anyone seeing them might have wondered where they could have been stored.”

“Historical treasures, lost forever. Leonis would have wept.” She detected no real regret in his voice; if anything he seemed to find the scrolls’ fate amusing.

She glanced over at the staircase to the spire where Tekela kept watch with a revolver in hand. “He certainly was a scholarly man,” she agreed, keeping her voice low. She didn’t want the girl hearing any discussion of her father. “For a spy.”

“He was scholar and spy both,” Arberus replied. “Though he would have called himself an agent of change.”

“So which is it?” she enquired. “Corvantine Liberation Army? Republic First? Co-respondent Brotherhood?” She saw his gaze betray a slight flicker at that. “So, the most radical of the bunch.”

“I expect the notions of personal freedom and representative government would appear radical to a slave of the corporate world.”

“A slave receives no compensation for their labour, whereas I find myself fairly wealthy despite my youth. Besides, the pursuit of profit can be quite liberating, whilst ideologues often find themselves enslaved by their dogma.”

“Tired corporatist rhetoric.” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “I had expected better of you. You are, I assume, operating far beyond your mission remit? If you weren’t, the girl and I would be dead by now. Unusual for a corporate operative to display such compassion.”

“I had an agreement with Miss Artonin. My employers and I take such things seriously.”

“What will become of her?”

“In her father’s absence it appears the role of guardian falls to me. She will be well provided for.” I am wealthy after all. “As for you”—she gave a reluctant smile—“I am compelled to arrange my own extraction, events having developed at such a pace. No doubt you and your associates have resources which will prove useful.”

“For all I know every Brotherhood agent in this city is dead or undergoing torture as we speak.”

“No, they are not. Burgrave Artonin engineered his own demise to prevent such an outcome, and Tekela tells me they hadn’t yet wrung any information from you. Impressive endurance, by the way.”

He looked away, face clouding at the resulting memory. “Your offer?” he asked after a moment.

“Residence in an Ironship holding of your choice, plus a reasonable financial settlement.”

“I don’t care to live in your world of greed and self-interest, nor do I give a damn about your money.”

“Your alternatives do not appear particularly appealing at this juncture.”

He thought for a moment longer, eyes meeting hers in steady determination. “The interests of the Brotherhood and your employers seem to coincide at the moment, war being imminent after all.”

“Your point?”

“Assisting us will assist you. Increased discord in the Emperor’s homeland will hardly help win his war. With sufficient arms, and funds, there is much we could achieve.”

“I can promise no such aid. However, I will guarantee a meeting with the appropriate Ironship officials. But, trust is only earned through reciprocation and you have information I need regarding the Burgrave’s scholarly pursuits. I believe you had occasion to explore the Interior together?”

He raised a knowing eyebrow. “Servants are such great resources, aren’t they? Did any of them live, by the way?”

“No.” She fell silent, holding his gaze in expectation.

“So,” he said, a fresh realisation creeping into his voice, “that’s your mission. The grand, endless quest for the enigma lurking somewhere in this continent. I had assumed you were sent to ascertain the Emperor’s intent in sending Morradin here.”

“A fruitful adjunct, as it transpired.”

He sighed the smallest laugh then shrugged. “Every summer for the past five years we would charter a boat and go off down-river in pursuit of his latest clue, rewarded, if we were lucky, with a ruin or two. Last year though . . .” He trailed off, his gaze becoming distant, brow furrowed in consideration of a troublesome memory.

“What?” she prompted.

“One of the Mad Artisan’s scrawlings told of a place, the Spearpoint Isle, he called it. Much of his description was gibberish, but one phrase kept repeating: ‘The Place of Offering to the Provider.’ Leonis believed it to be a translation of hieroglyphs found on the island, despite the fact that no scholar has ever succeeded in translating the inscriptions left by Arradsia’s ancient inhabitants.”

“You found it?”

“There’s an island in the middle of the Volkarin River, where it widens about two hundred miles south-west of Morsvale. It’s a narrow oval of jungle a few hundred yards long now, but Leonis thought it must once have been much larger, its mass eroded by the river’s current over the ages. The jungle was so thick we spent days hacking through it until we came to the rocky core of the island, a solid slab of granite overgrown with vines, but beneath them we could see carvings in the stone, pictograms and hieroglyphs, clearly ancient from the wear of them. It seemed as if every inch of the rock had been carved and etched over the course of what must have been a century or more. There didn’t seem to be anything else to find there, no artifacts, certainly no clue as to the possible existence of the great enigma, but then we climbed it.”

The creases on his brow deepened as he summoned uncomfortable memories. “The stone, it transpired, was hollow. A great circular opening had been hewn into its crest and continued down to such a depth the bottom was lost to the gloom. We dropped a torch in and it fell at least a hundred feet, revealing what could only be a pile of bones. After that there was no holding Leonis, he had to investigate and I had little choice but to follow.

“We had our bearers rig ropes to lower us down. It was an . . . unnerving experience I must say, like descending through a place of nothingness, a void that might swallow a man whole. It was something of a relief when my boots finally touched rock, but the relief didn’t last long. The bones we had seen from above were arranged into some kind of stack, or rather a sculpture. Skulls, arms and legs all fused together by means unknown, so many it stood taller than I am. At first I took the bones for human but soon realised they were Spoiled from the many deformities. There must have been thirty or more of them all twisted into that horrid monument, and they weren’t alone. We lit more torches, scattering them about and the full scale of the cavern was revealed, extending away on all sides, the walls unseen beyond the glow, and everywhere there were more of these hideous sculptures. They stood in rows extending from a central pit, a perfect circle carved into the rock about sixty feet in diameter, ten feet deep . . . and it was stained to the point of near blackness.

“Leonis told me a curious fact about blood. It seems that, over time and in sufficient quantities, it will stain rock, seeping into the pores of the stone so deeply that no amount of rain or wind will wash it away. And there was no rain or wind in that cavern. An ocean of blood had been spilled in that pit, and whatever spilled it had made play with its victims.”

“The Provider,” Lizanne said.

“Yes. A curious choice of translation, wouldn’t you say? But they didn’t name him the Mad Artisan for nothing.”

“Did you find anything else?”

“Only more bones. We counted over two hundred stacks before the dwindling torch-light forced us back. There were no artifacts that we saw, no revealing pictograms, just a place of wanton slaughter and mystifying art. Leonis made copious notes, of course, passing it on to his circle of scholars on return to Morsvale. There were a dozen of them, learned men and women like Diran, all duped into assisting the Brotherhood under the guise of scholarly curiosity.” His face tensed in a spasm of poorly controlled guilt and he pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders. “I dare say the Cadre is busy interrogating them all as we speak.”

“I assume the Burgrave intended to return to the island?”

“Yes, armed with the results of Diran’s labours. It was to be our most ambitious expedition to date. Who knows where it might have led us.”

Hopefully the same destination as Mr. Torcreek’s merry band, she thought. “It’s time we discussed extraction,” she said. “I find it hard to believe the Brotherhood didn’t have a contingency for a circumstance such as this.”

“There is someone we could approach. Someone with a ship, of sorts.”

“A member of the Brotherhood?”

He shook his head. “A vile, self-serving rogue whose one redeeming feature is a refusal to welch on a debt.” A faint grin played over his lips. “I think you and he will get on famously.”

—

Contact and sometimes collusion with the criminal element is one of the more distasteful tasks undertaken by a field operative, Lizanne recalled reading in a Division training manual. But will often become necessary in order to complete a given objective. Studies commissioned from the Customer Demographics Faculty of the Ironship University consistently demonstrate that the criminal element in any coastal city will invariably be concentrated in and around the port facilities.

Morsvale’s dock-side district wasn’t quite as irredeemable a slum as the Blinds, but it was close. The houses were mostly wood rather than stone and the streets narrow and winding. It was in many ways a mirror to the vast, unpoliced and poverty-wracked districts of Corvus and the other Corvantine cities she had seen, and equally noisy at all hours. Drunken revelry sounded from many a tavern, angry or inebriated voices blasted from open windows and here and there rose the shouts and running feet of fight or theft. Lizanne noted how Tekela stared about with wide eyes, arms crossed and one hand on the revolver beneath her jacket. She had come close to drawing it once already when an amorous drunk lurched out of an alley, slurring an enquiry over the price for the young one to Arberus. A vicious shove from the major had been enough to send him on his way, muttering curses as he staggered off.

A few other shadowy predators had dogged their progress for a while, but Arberus’s size seemed to be sufficient to keep them at bay. Eventually they came to a tavern where he paused. Unlike every other drinking den they had passed this one was quiet, the sign hanging above the door faded to unreadability and a dim glow visible through the dirt-covered window. Arberus turned to Lizanne, gaze intent and tone entirely serious. “Say nothing. He’ll only listen to me in any case, and his people don’t react well to opinionated women.”

With that he pushed the door open on squealing hinges and went inside. The reason for the tavern’s comparative quietude became obvious as Lizanne followed the major into an empty room. A single unoccupied table with four chairs was positioned near the door with a small lantern suspended above it. Beyond the table a bar could be made out amidst the shadowed interior. It was only when something large and bulky shifted in the shadows that Lizanne realised they weren’t completely alone. Arberus went to the bar as the bulky shape moved into the light, a hulking, shaven-headed man resting two meaty arms on the bar and staring at them in naked suspicion. Lizanne made note of his light bronze complexion and high cheekbones. Dalcian.

Arberus gave no greeting to the man, simply saying the words, “Varestian brandy,” before turning and moving to the table. He sat down and gestured for Lizanne and Tekela to follow suit. Lizanne guided the girl to a chair beside the major and took the one opposite, angling it so as to maintain a good view of both door and bar.

They waited, Lizanne finding it significant that no brandy was forthcoming in the interval. Finally, after ten minutes or more, as Tekela grew visibly more agitated and Lizanne had been obliged to place a calming hand on her forearm, a man came striding out of the shadows. He moved to the table and sat down without a word, casting his gaze at each of them in turn, flame pluming from a match as he lit a cigarillo. He wore sailor’s garb, sturdy boots and canvas trousers with a plain cotton shirt, leather bracelets on his wrists and both ears pierced with several rings. Like the hulking bartender, he was Dalcian, though considerably smaller in size. In fact, in terms of height he was barely taller than Lizanne, but the lean muscle of his forearms and chest revealed by his half-open shirt bespoke an individual of considerable physical strength. Also, the earrings, Lizanne knew, signified mastery in several of the martial arts for which the Dalcians were famed.

“You’re not dead,” he observed to Arberus in perfect Eutherian, giving a complimentary incline of his head.

“Neither are you,” the major returned in a neutral tone.

The man revealed white teeth in a smile. “The Cadre isn’t after me.” He gave a small laugh when Arberus didn’t respond, blowing smoke up at the lantern. “Word flies quickly, my friend. You’re worth five thousand crowns at the last count.” His gaze swept over Lizanne and Tekela. “These two considerably more.”

We can pay triple that amount, Lizanne wanted to say, but kept silent. She knew well the truth of Arberus’s words; Dalcian men had a marked aversion to doing business with women. Adherence to their patriarchal customs was a matter of near-religious zeal.

“And you, my friend,” Arberus said. “What is your life worth?”

The humour faded from the Dalcian’s face, the tip of his cigarillo glowing as he took a deep draw. “My youngest brother said I should kill myself,” he reflected after a lengthy pause. “The debt I owe you being so great. ‘One day it will dishonour the entire clan,’ he said. ‘Your death will wash it away.’ He even offered to do it himself. His funeral was more expensive than I would have liked, but I was fond of him. He did speak a lot of sense, after all.”

Arberus said nothing and the Dalcian crushed his cigarillo onto the table, finger smearing the embers into ash as he asked, “Where?” in a tone of dull acceptance.

“Carvenport,” Arberus said. “Or as close to it as you can get without running afoul of the Corvantine fleet.”

The Dalcian gave the slightest of nods. “Tomorrow. Earliest tide. There’s a room upstairs. Food will be brought to you.” He got up and walked back into the shadows without another word.

“What did you do for him?” Lizanne asked Arberus in a low voice.

“I killed his father.” He got to his feet, bowing and gesturing at the tavern’s interior. “Ladies, shall we?”

—

The steamer was little larger than a tug-boat, equipped with a single rear paddle and one thin stack rising behind the wheel-house. Her paint-work was old and peeling and the stack blackened with years of accumulated soot. Barely legible Eutherian painted on the prow proclaimed her the Wave Dancer, though to Lizanne’s eyes she seemed capable of no more than a stumbling jig.

“Appearances deceive,” Arberus murmured to Lizanne, seeing her sceptical frown. “Those in Kaden’s profession know well the value of disguise. She’s a sturdy boat and quick into the bargain.”

Kaden stood on the fore-deck, muscular arms crossed and face impassive as they came aboard. Night had yet to fully fade and the becalmed harbour waters were a mirror to the dock-side lamps. There were no warships at anchor now, Lizanne saw, only a scattering of Independent freighters and patrol boats. Somewhere, she knew, the Corvantine fleet would be battling the Protectorate for control of the Strait. She could only hope it meant they had no vessels to spare for antismuggling patrols.

At Kaden’s terse command a pair of crewmen led them to the hold, pulling up some planking on the keel to reveal a hiding-place. Tekela couldn’t contain a whimper at the sight of a black rat swimming through the bilge-water. “We have no choice,” Lizanne said. “They’ll be searching every vessel leaving port.”

The crewman tossed a canteen of water to the major before slotting the planks back in place, the meagre light streaming through the gaps soon extinguished as they hauled crates to fully conceal the hiding-place. There was sufficient room to sit but not enough to move more than an inch or two. Once again Tekela curled herself against Lizanne’s side, stifling a gasp as a rat came sniffing about their feet. Lizanne sent it scurrying with a swift kick.

“Sorry,” the girl whispered, clearly fighting a sob. “Make a poor spy, don’t I?”

Lizanne grinned in the darkness. “You’re doing well enough.”

The engine started up an hour later, its clanking soon accompanied by the rhythmic swish of the paddle as they got underway. Lizanne abandoned all attempts at keeping any vestige of her clothes dry as the bilge-water shifted with the boat’s movements. They came to a halt a few moments later, a commanding whistle sounding through the bulkhead followed by a muted shout. “Heave to for inspection!”

Lizanne took hold of the Whisper as multiple boots drummed on the decks above. She gently disentangled herself from Tekela and pressed the middle finger button on the Spider to inject a drop of Green, her boosted hearing soon revealing every word spoken above. “You didn’t used to be so greedy,” Kaden was saying in Varsal.

“There’s a war on,” came a gruff reply. “You see this place? Trade’s halved in two days.”

“Keep demanding this much and it’ll halve again. I’d hate to have to advise my clan to avoid Morsvale in future.”

“Don’t threaten me, slit-eye.” A tense silence, then a grudging, “Twelve hundred, and that’ll cover you for the return trip. And I want two boxes of cigars this time.”

“Fairly spoken, Captain.”

Despite the agreement the search continued, presumably so the corrupt captain could make a show of a thorough inspection. After a few more minutes, however, the thunder of boots receded and the shifting bilge-water and increased engine noise indicated they had moved on towards the harbour mouth. Tekela tensed as a rumbling squeal resounded through the hull like the death agonies of some great sea-beast.

“It’s just the door,” Lizanne whispered to her. “We’ll be at sea soon then we can get out of here.”

Some two hours later, as they still huddled in the stinking wetness, Lizanne felt justified in giving Arberus an impatient jab with her toe. “I said he owed me,” he responded in a resigned tone. “I didn’t say he liked me.”

—

“Couldn’t take a chance we might happen upon a patrol boat,” Kaden explained some four hours later. Lizanne couldn’t detect any particular contrition in the smuggler’s voice; if anything the faint twitch of his lips as he looked Arberus up and down told of a malicious enjoyment of their discomfort. Come midday they had been released, in a state of chilled bedragglement, from the hiding-place and allowed to take a turn about the deck. The Wave Dancer cruised towards the east keeping within a mile of the coast, chugging along at a decent clip which confirmed the major’s claims about her misleading appearance. The north Arradsian shore-line was rich in inlets and coves, perfect refuges for the various smuggling conglomerates keen to take advantage of the disparity in duties between Imperial and Corporate holdings.

Tekela leaned on the rail, gripping it tight, her face raised to breathe deeply of the fresh sea air. “Only been to sea once before,” she said. “Father took me on a short cruise once, when I was still very young. A storm blew up and I got so scared he told me a story to calm my fears.” She lowered her gaze to the passing waves, a catch creeping into her voice. “About the King of the Deep.”

“‘The Third Daughter’s Marriage,’” Lizanne said. “An old Selvurin tale. Here.” She opened her pack and extracted a small book, handing it to Tekela. “I think he would want you to have this.”

“I don’t know this language,” Tekela said, fingers tracing over the embossed letters on the cover.

“Vizian’s Fables,” Lizanne told her. “A compilation of Selvurin folk-tales. The story he told you came from this.”

“You took this from his library?”

“I didn’t steal it. He gave it to me to help with his translation.”

“You speak Selvurin?”

“It’s one of six languages I can speak fluently. I can get by in five others well enough for basic communication. The Blue-trance makes learning such things easier. Understanding is enhanced by shared thoughts.”

Tekela sighed and shook her head. “You know so much. Whilst I can do little but pick out a dress.”

“There are few skills that can’t be learned. If you want to read the book I can teach you.”

Tekela consigned the book to the inside pocket of her jacket, her hand then moving to the butt of the revolver tucked into her belt. “There’s something else I’d rather learn first.”

“All in good time.” Lizanne cast a glance up at the sky, finding the clouds thickening and feeling an edge to the wind. “We’d best get below. I believe it’s about to rain.”

The next two days were spent in the hold with only brief excursions above deck. They were brought meals and water at regular intervals but otherwise the crew mostly ignored them, bar the occasional lustful glance at Lizanne or Tekela. Whatever dark deeds might cloud their thoughts, however, it seemed the crew’s fear of their captain was enough to keep them in check. She noted their obedience to him was absolute, rarely speaking in his presence except to acknowledge an order, and always with a respectful bob of the head.

“A clan-leader is close to being a king in Dalcian society,” Arberus explained. “There are several thousand people who owe him fealty.”

“Then why doesn’t he live in a palace instead of this dingy crate?” Tekela asked.

“His family have been smugglers for generations. If Kaden didn’t smuggle they would lose respect for him. It’s what his clan does, and not just here. The Jade Tigers have affiliates all over the world.” He gave Lizanne an apologetic smile. “He’s probably even richer than you, miss.”

“Wealth only has meaning if it is either enjoyed or invested,” she returned. “A miser is merely a pauper with fewer friends.”

“Misquoting Bidrosin at me, now.” He gave Tekela a warning glance. “Don’t let this one fill your head with corporatist notions, my dear. Your father . . .”

“Is dead,” Tekela cut in. “All his books and his plotting couldn’t save him, or you for that matter.” She nodded at Lizanne. “But she did.”

“You think this woman is a hero of some kind? Ask her how many people she’s killed for her corporate masters. For money, Tekela.”

“As opposed to killing for redundant ideology,” Lizanne said. “Your empire’s history is a thousand-year epic of war, revolution, genocide and corruption, much of it committed in the last hundred years thanks to Bidrosin and her ilk. Since the advent of the Corporate Age there has been nothing like that in any of our holdings. People are fed, educated and employed.”

“A happy slave is still a slave. And if the corporate world is such a paradise, why do they need people like you?”

“Because of people like you . . .”

She trailed off at a sudden sound from above, a faint crump followed by a whining groan and a booming splash.

“Cannon-shot,” Arberus said, getting to his feet and running for the ladder. Lizanne paused to strap on the Spider and pull the pack over her shoulders before following, telling Tekela to stay close. The Wave Dancer tilted as she climbed up on deck, the boat’s prow swinging southwards as Kaden barked out orders. She joined Arberus at the rail where he stood staring at something to the north. “Patrol boat?” she asked.

“Frigate,” he said, shielding his eyes against the sun. “One of the new ones, sadly. I suspect the Cadre tranced an order to the fleet to send her to intercept us. One of their dock-side informants must have made note of Kaden’s departure.”

The ship was perhaps three-quarters of a mile off, the sea white around her bows as she cut through the waves faster than any vessel Lizanne had seen. She was narrow across the beam with a sleek, angular appearance enhanced by the absence of paddles. “Twenty knots?” she guessed, her mind returning to the device she had seen fixed to the Regal’s hull.

“Closer to twenty-five,” the major said. “Oh, the wonders of technology.”

A flash appeared on the frigate’s bow, followed seconds later by the faint report of a cannon and the grating screech of an approaching shell. The Wave Dancer heaved to starboard, the suddenness of the change in course throwing Lizanne and Arberus off their feet. The shell came down less than twenty yards to port, raising enough water to deluge the deck in a brief rain-storm.

“Those weren’t warning shots,” Arberus said, rising and shaking the water from his hair. “It appears they’ve given up trying to capture us.”

Lizanne turned her gaze to the south, seeing the shore less than half a mile distant now as the Wave Dancer piled on more steam. She could see the narrow inlet Kaden was aiming for and knew it offered only a slim chance of refuge as the confines would make them a sitting duck for the frigate’s gunners. She rushed to the wheel-house, finding Kaden at the tiller, eyes fixed on the inlet.

“Keep straight,” she told him in Dalcian. “No more weaving. We need to maintain a steady course.”

The look he turned on her was part fury and part disdain. Even in this extremity it appeared his people’s arcane customs held sway. “Women are forbidden the voice of command!” he grated.

“Steady your course.” She injected a burst of Red and heated the air between them, taking satisfaction from the alarmed surprise in his gaze. “Or I’ll dispense with your services and have the major do it.”

He glared at her in a moment of helpless rage then swung the tiller to midships, training the bows on the inlet. “They’re too fast,” he said, voice quivering. “Soon their gunners won’t miss.”

“Just maintain the course,” she told him and went outside.

She climbed onto the wheel-house roof, grimacing amidst the smoke billowing from the stack and injecting both Green and Black, half a vial of each; enough to make her stagger a little. She gritted her teeth against the disorientation and locked eyes onto the fast-approaching frigate, awaiting the next flash from her cannon. She had read of this being done, but only in history books pertaining to the age of sail when guns cast balls slow enough to track their flight with the naked eye. Modern guns fired at a much higher velocity, but with the Green she might have a chance.

The frigate was perhaps five hundred yards off now, close enough to see the vague shapes of the gunners servicing the long-barrelled gun on her fore-deck. It fired a second later, Lizanne’s altered vision perceiving the shell as a streak of white against a dark blue sky. She waited until it was at the apex of its arc then unleashed the Black as it began a downward plummet. She had intended to divert it but the wave of force she released was enough to trigger its percussion fuse, transforming it into a black cloud of combusted explosive that peppered the sea with a hail of shrapnel.

Focus, she told herself, a statue-like stillness gripping her as she concentrated all attention on the frigate. She was close enough now to make out the individual forms of the gunners, scurrying to haul another shell into the breech. The next shot was fired at a lower trajectory from a distance of just over three hundred yards. She unleashed all her remaining Black a split-second after it was launched. This time it failed to explode in mid air, the force wave throwing it wide and disturbing its flight sufficiently to make it tumble in the air before ploughing into the sea twenty yards to port. The power and proximity of the explosion sent a shuddering tremor through the Wave Dancer, throwing Lizanne onto her back.

Lizanne lay on the wheel-house roof, chest heaving and vision dimming as the Green faded. Exhaustion was the inevitable price for expending so much product in such a short space of time. A brief glance at the shore-line told her they were almost there, the jungle rising on both sides, but they still had another hundred yards to traverse before a bend in the river would shield them from more shells. She groaned, getting to her feet and injecting more Green and Black, leaving only a small amount of the former and draining the latter, but moderation would be folly now.

A small, gleaming streak buzzed past her ear as she straightened, her well-attuned senses instantly recognising it as the passage of a rifle-bullet. Another came a second later, plucking at the sleeve of her jacket, the Green muting the resultant flare of agony as it grazed her flesh. The Corvantine gunnery officer, evidently a resourceful fellow, had gathered a half-dozen marksmen at the frigate’s prow. They blazed away with more enthusiasm than expertise, bullets striking the Wave Dancer from paddle to wheel-house, though one shot did smack into the board an inch from her left foot.

Focus. Lizanne centred her gaze on the gun, a rifled ten-inch model of modern design, now aimed straight and level as the range was so short. She watched a gunner swing the breech closed before locking it in place and taking hold of the lanyard attached to the firing mechanism. She waited until his arm had begun to pull the lanyard taut, time slowing as her gaze found the firing lever. She unleashed all her remaining Black the moment the lever moved, the gun swivelling about on its mounting, the long barrel sweeping the gunners aside before coming to a sudden, juddering halt, trained directly on the frigate’s bridge, whereupon it fired.

The explosion ripped through the bridge and crew quarters, transforming them to scrap in a heart-beat and birthing a rising blossom of orange flame roiling amidst a pall of black smoke. The frigate immediately fell away as her rudder lost all trim, the bows swinging to starboard and her deck listing sufficiently to cast several crewmen into the sea. Flame must have found her magazine for Lizanne was treated to the sight of her exploding a few seconds later, her hull broken into two swiftly sinking pieces before the Wave Dancer turned the bend in the river and she was lost from view.

“Miss?” Arberus had climbed up to join her. She saw that he had a rifle in hand, presumably taken from the smugglers. From the smoke rising from the barrel he must have been trying to ward off the Corvantine sharpshooters.

A fresh wave of exhaustion seized her and she found herself collapsing against him, the vestiges of Green dwindling away and her vision dimming into an all-consuming void.

CHAPTER 23

Clay

“It has long been theorised that there are in fact four other planets in close orbit around the sun, rather than three. And with this”—Scriberson patted his long green-leather case—“I may well be in a position to prove it.”

Braddon exchanged a glance with Clay. He had led the astronomer to the Falls’ quay-side where the Longrifles were gathered to await the commencement of his uncle’s scheme. He had made no comment so far upon hearing Scriberson’s tale, but now his gaze betrayed a slight glimmer of interest. “What you got in there, young man?”

“This, sir”—Scriberson set the case down on the flagstones and began to undo its straps—“is the pinnacle of modern optics. The product of extensive analysis and experimentation in the Consolidated Research workshops.” He undid the case, splitting it in half. It contained two items nestling into recesses of cushioned velvet. One a folded-up wooden stand of sturdy appearance and the other a long brass tube, or rather three brass tubes fitted together in order of diminishing size. The smallest tube had an eyepiece that resembled that of a spy-glass.

“I give you”—Scriberson stood back a little, a note of pride in his voice as he gave a somewhat dramatic flourish at the tube—“the New Model Consolidated Research Astronomical Field Telescope. Capable of three times the magnification of any other portable optic currently available.”

“A remarkable and valuable item to be sure.” Braddon inclined his head in appreciation before turning a less-than-impressed gaze on the astronomer. “But I’m bound to ask, what in the Travail’s it got to do with me or my company?”

“Mr. Scriberson,” Clay said, “why don’t you tell my uncle about the place where you intend to train this here device on the alignment.”

He saw Braddon’s interest deepen at mention of the alignment as Scriberson spoke on. “There is a place spoken of in the records of the earliest expedition to venture into the Coppersoles. The account was written by a somewhat erratic Corvantine and has often been dismissed or ignored due to its often impenetrable and rambling language, all set down in an archaic derivation of Eutherian. However, a research project commenced at my behest managed to confirm many of the historical and geographic details in the documents, adding considerable weight to its veracity. It relates how a Corvantine expedition made its way to a ruin atop a tall mountain, fighting off Spoiled attacks along the way as one might expect. The account becomes confused at this point, but one aspect that remains clear is that the explorers witnessed an alignment upon reaching the mountain top, ‘a view of such clarity and majesty as never glimpsed by civilised eyes,’ apparently. Arradsia is well known for the unique spectacles its sky-line offers the astronomer, but this appears to have been something very special indeed.”

“And you came out here all on your lonesome to see it?” Braddon’s voice conveyed equal parts scepticism and grudging admiration.

“Well, not initially.” Scriberson shifted a little in discomfort. “I arrived in Rigger’s Bay with six companions some three months ago. All Consolidated Research employees of good standing and varying areas of expertise. The expedition was intended to encompass botany, biology and geology as well as my own discipline.”

“And where’s these experts now?”

“Sadly, expertise does not equate to courage. We were obliged to employ an escort from Rigger’s Bay, a Contractor company recommended by the local Consolidated office. Unfortunately, they proved unworthy of our trust.”

“Robbed you and left you adrift in the jungle, huh?”

“Quite so. They took all our funds and equipment, though they were kind enough to leave us alive. It seems they were not so lucky. We found their bodies when making our way back to Rigger’s Bay. From the state of them I deduced the indigenous denizens of this continent felt they had a grievance to settle. They left most of our equipment intact, however.”

“Your company sent you into the Interior with a bunch of headhunters.” Braddon’s chuckle was echoed by the other Longrifles. “You any idea how lucky you are to be alive, young man?”

“Fully aware, sir. As were my companions, who decided their adventuring days were at an end. I alone chose to proceed.”

“You walked through the jungle all the way to the Falls?” Loriabeth asked.

“Actually, miss, I constructed a raft and made most of the journey by river. There were difficult moments, I’ll not deny, but I had ample provisions and a keen sense of purpose. There will be but one chance in my lifetime to witness the alignment from such a vantage point. I had intended to seek passage south on arriving at Fallsguard but, sadly, the Spoiled have contrived to imprison me here for the past ten days.”

“May I assume,” Braddon said, “you’re in possession of a map to guide you to your destination?”

“Lost to the thieves and the Spoiled, sir. However”—Scriberson tapped a finger to his temple—“I am blessed with a very efficient visual memory.”

Seeing the calculation on his uncle’s face, Clay said, “Mr. Scriberson offers a generous fee if we escort him south, Uncle. Plus, he says he knows a way into the Coppersoles, an old trail that leads into the heart of the mountains. Lotta Black nesting in the highest peaks, right, Skaggs?”

“So they say,” the harvester agreed. “Never been there myself, though.”

“Fee?” Braddon asked Scriberson.

“Indeed, Captain. I can offer fifty thousand in exchange notes.” He went to one of his leather-wrapped bundles and extracted a wallet bulging with currency. “The Spoiled saw no use for the thieves’ booty.”

“What makes you think we won’t just steal it like they did?” Loriabeth enquired, offering the astronomer a bright smile.

“I took the precaution of asking around before approaching Mr. Torcreek. Your company has a creditable reputation for honesty, amongst other attributes.”

“That we do,” Braddon said, casting his gaze over Scriberson’s gear. “If you’re gonna travel with us, most of this will have to go. Be quick about choosing what to take, only what you can carry in comfort. We leave as soon as it gets dark.”

—

“Where’s your weapon?” Clay asked Scriberson as they hunkered down in the boat. It was one of the Firejack’s life-boats left behind at his uncle’s insistence, shallow-hulled and of sufficient size to carry them all. The astronomer sat down at Clay’s side, his telescope case clutched tight and a small pack of sundry belongings on his back. He had been visibly perturbed at leaving most of his books behind, though Loriabeth had agreed to carry one, professing herself curious as to the contents.

“A Natural History of Arradsia,” she read, squinting at the title. “That mean there’s an unnatural history out there somewhere?”

“I don’t carry a weapon,” Scriberson told Clay, the sweat on his face shining in the gathering dark. “I have rather an aversion to such things.”

“Can’t walk the Interior without a weapon,” Clay said.

“He ain’t getting none of mine,” Foxbine muttered, perched at the boat’s prow with carbine in hand. “’Sides, if he ain’t shot before he’ll be more a danger to himself and us than any Spoiled or drake.”

“Very true, miss,” Scriberson said. “I’m sure I shall be perfectly fine, Mr. Torcreek. Having survived one jungle sojourn without need of a fire-arm, I’m sure I can survive another.”

Braddon emerged from the shadowy bulk of Fallsguard and strode towards the boat, climbing in and settling himself next to the tiller. “The major’s agreed to a short barrage only, so we’ll need to be quick. Anyone falls, they get left. No exceptions.”

“The lift?” Skaggerhill asked.

“Still intact, least as far as my spy-glass can make out. Prob’ly should’ve made use of Mr. Scriberson’s tellyscope doodad.”

“Assistance I’m happy to render, sir,” Scriberson offered, relief colouring his tone as he half rose from his seat.

“Ain’t got time.” Braddon jacked a round into his longrifle’s chamber and laid it across his knees. “Let’s get gone. Barrage starts precisely one half-hour from the second we set off.”

They pushed away from the quay and were soon speeding down-river, having no need of oars thanks to the swiftness of the current. Braddon worked the tiller, guiding them into the centre of the flow and past the foam-ringed boulders that proliferated along this stretch. It wasn’t long before Clay heard it, a faint hiss at first that soon rose to a murmur, then a roar. He could see a fine mist rising ahead as the river opened out once more before seeming to disappear way short of the horizon.

“Oars out!” his uncle barked. Preacher and Skaggerhill heaved their paddles into the rowlocks and began to pull as Braddon steered them towards the eastern bank. They scraped to a halt amidst a cluster of rocks, Foxbine leaping clear with rope in hand, quickly joined by Clay. Together they held the boat in place whilst the others climbed out, Scriberson coming close to disaster when his foot slipped on the damp stone. Skaggerhill managed to grab him before he tumbled into the river, telescope and all.

“Anything?” Braddon asked, crouching at Foxbine’s side as she peered at the shadowed bank. The jungle was sparse here, only a few patches of tree and bush littering the rocky ground.

“Seems quiet, Captain,” the gunhand replied. “Maybe they missed us . . .” She trailed off at the sound of many voices rising from the left, a great hubbub of excited rage. “Then again.”

“Get low,” Braddon told the rest of them, crouching behind a broad boulder and pulling the rim of his hat down about his ears. “This is gonna be quite the kerfuffle.”

Clay saw the Spoiled come boiling out of the tree-line, an anonymous charging mass, raised spear-points gleaming in the moonlight. It seemed to him there were significantly more than they had faced on the Sands, more in fact than they had bullets to kill. They had charged to within a hundred yards when the first cannon shell hit, slamming into the ground just left of the main body, a dozen or more thrown high by the blast. Clay had time to glimpse the flashes lighting Fallsguard’s south-facing wall before five shells arced into the ranks of Spoiled in quick succession, Clay shielding his eyes against the blast of flame and wind as the flat, hammer-blow sound of the explosions slapped against his ears. Around them waterspouts rose as debris rained down. When he looked again the ground was carpeted with still or crawling bodies and beyond them the dim shapes of surviving Spoiled fleeing back into the jungle. There was a pause as the gunners adjusted their aim then a fresh salvo fell amongst the trees, presumably to keep them running.

“Up!” Braddon shouted, surging to his feet. “Won’t take them long to gather for another try.”

They had to hop from rock to rock before making the bank whereupon Braddon led them at a run towards the roaring fury of the Falls. The ground fell away into a sheer cliff where it flanked the great tumbling cascade of water, Clay finding himself momentarily enraptured by the sight of it. A quarter-mile-long crescent where uncountable gallons rushed over the edge every second to plummet into blackness. Stretching out below was the mirror-like expanse of Krystaline Lake, a broad blade of silver extending to the horizon and beyond.

“Clay, over here, dammit!”

He turned and trotted towards his uncle’s voice, finding him wrestling with the lock on a cage similar to the one they had used to ascend to the Fallsguard battlements. However, this one was much larger, hanging suspended by chains fastened to all four corners of its roof. The chains looped through a series of pulleys fixed to a large T-shaped scaffold above. The cage hung from one arm of the T whilst a larger chain hung from the other, its length swallowed by the gloom below the cliff-edge. Counterweights, Clay thought.

“It’s seized,” Braddon said, stepping back from the lock and drawing his revolver. A single shot was enough to shatter the lock and soon he and Preacher had hauled the cage’s door wide. Clay turned to cast a glance behind them, realising the barrage had stopped. He could see a fresh swarm of Spoiled rushing along the river-bank, war-cries audible even above the roar of the Falls. Silverpin gave an insistent tug on his arm and he followed her into the cage where Braddon was hammering the butt of his longrifle against a long lever that descended from the cage’s ceiling.

“Rusted,” Braddon grunted, teeth clenched as he pounded harder. “Ain’t been used in months.”

“Time’s pressing, Captain,” Foxbine warned, carbine raised as she stood at the open cage door, the war-cries coming closer by the second.

Clay, seeing every eye fixed on his uncle as he continued to assault the lever, turned away and drew his wallet from his shirt. He extracted Auntie’s gift and gulped down a decent-sized drop before returning the wallet to his shirt. “Here,” he said, moving to Braddon’s side and taking hold of the lever. He made a show of heaving at it, fists tight on the handle and teeth gritted, but his gaze centred on the mechanism to which it was fastened.

“Captain!” Foxbine called, her carbine snapping off three quick shots.

Clay shut out the distraction, focusing on the dense patch of rust visible on the lever’s fulcrum. Two concentrated bursts of force were enough to turn it to powder, the lever jerking forward in his grip. An involuntary shout rose from each of them as the cage plummeted down, chains and pulleys squealing, Foxbine reeling back from the blurring rock rushing past the open door. For one dread-filled moment Clay thought the cage had been freed from all constraints, their fall being so rapid, but then noticed the relief on Silverpin’s face as she entwined her hand with his. From the rate the cliff face slid past the door it was clear they fell at a goodly rate, but not near enough to prove fatal.

“Nicely done, young ’un,” Skaggerhill breathed, gripping the bars to gaze out at the growing spectacle of Krystaline Lake. “Seer-damn me if a sight like this wasn’t worth the trip.”

—

The cage descended to a small, fortified tower carved out of the base of the cliff. They came to a juddering halt some ten feet short of the tower’s upper battlement, indicating the gearing on the scaffolding above must have seized as the counterweight reached the apex of its ascent. They dropped down one by one, finding a deserted structure. Four cannon were arrayed around the battlement but were unloaded and showed no signs of recent firing. Their descent through the tower revealed no occupants though it was clear a company of Protectorate troops had been in attendance. Two criss-crossed flags adorning the mess-hall indicated the garrison consisted of the Third Company of the Seventeenth Light Infantry and the Twelfth Battery of Mobile Artillery. However, there were no rifles in the armoury and a brief inspection of the stores found them mostly empty.

“Gathered up what they could carry and took to their heels,” was Skaggerhill’s guess.

“Still plenty of powder and shell in the magazine,” Foxbine said. “Enough to hold this place against the Spoiled for a good while.”

“Maybe it wasn’t the Spoiled they fled from.”

“Find a billet and rest up,” Braddon ordered. “We move on at first light. I want four on watch, two below, two up top, three-hour shifts. Clay, you and Mr. Scriberson can enjoy the best view.”

—

Clay watched Scriberson set up his telescope, finding a certain fascination in the way it all fitted together and the expert precision with which the astronomer aligned it. “Brionar is in the ascendant tonight,” Scriberson said. “Its rings should be visible.”

“Rings?” Clay asked. Thanks to Joya he knew Brionar to be the largest planet in the solar system, but didn’t recall anything about rings.

“Brionar has an extensive ring system,” Scriberson explained, adjusting the telescope’s eyepiece a little. “Would you like to see?”

Clay put his eye to the optic, blinking in confusion until it found the focus. He could see a bright spherical smudge in the centre flanked on either side by two smaller spheres. “Looks like it’s got ears to me.”

“The focus must be slightly off. Allow me.” Scriberson turned the eyepiece a fraction and the blurred image abruptly resolved into a green-blue ball ringed by a silver disc.

“Well, that’s something to see, alright,” Clay said. “Must be some size of a thing if we can see it so clear.”

“Thirty times the size of our own world. With ten moons of its own.”

“Makes you wonder if there’s some fella out there looking back at us.”

“It’s doubtful. Brionar is believed to be composed mostly of gas so there would be nothing for him to stand on.” Scriberson paused and gave an uncomfortable but determined sigh. “How much product do you have left?”

Clay glanced up at him, memories of Ellforth suddenly at the forefront of his mind. But he could see no threat in Scriberson, just guarded necessity. “See a lot, don’t ya?” Clay asked.

“Observation is my profession. Do your companions know what you are?”

“They know. But they don’t know I got product of my own. A secret I’ll oblige you to keep, since you got me to thank for bringing you along.”

“Of course. I just . . . It’s very important I complete these observations. If you could guarantee my safety. I have additional funds . . .”

“I been out here only a short time, Scribes.” Clay returned his eye to the optic, smiling a little at the stark beauty of the distant world and wishing Joya were here to share it. “But that’s long enough to learn there’s no guarantees to be had in the Interior.”

—

They spent three days trekking through the jungle fringing the eastern bank of the Krystaline, Braddon setting a steady but not exhausting pace. Skaggerhill had advised moving with a cautious step as the climes south of the Falls were said to be rich in wild Greens. Silverpin took the lead, keeping a good dozen feet ahead of Clay and moving with the kind of natural grace that made her appear at home in this place. He had grown used to the stink of it by now, not so fearful of every shadow or unexpected sound, even finding the occasional glimpse of beauty amongst the crowding green walls. Birds of vibrant colours and large hooked beaks glided among the tree-tops. Lower down small chattering monkeys were sometimes to be seen hopping from trunk to trunk, long tails curled like whips as they arced through the air.

It was late afternoon on the third day when Silverpin came to a sudden, rigid halt. She stood absolutely still for a second then slowly lowered herself into a crouch, gaze centred on a shaded patch of jungle to her right. Clay held up a hand to halt the rest of the company then drew the Stinger and moved to her side. “Something?” he whispered.

She didn’t look at him, keeping her eyes on the shadow and drawing a thumb across her throat in an unmistakable gesture. Dead thing. Human too, since why else would she stop?

He turned and beckoned Foxbine forward, pointing to the shaded spot. She knelt and trained her carbine on the jungle as he and Silverpin went to take a look. The bodies lay in a circle just beyond the wide trunk of an ancient tree, rifles lying close to hand, some with the bolts drawn back. They were several days gone by Clay’s reckoning, flesh blackened and sloughed off the bones, mostly eaten away by the swarms of flies still abuzz over the scene. What remained of the uniforms, however, was strangely well-preserved though torn and scorched in many places.

“Greens,” Skaggerhill pronounced a short while later. “Looks like those Protectorate soldier boys from the tower made a stand here.” He gave an irritated glance at Scriberson, who was loudly engaged in losing his lunch near by.

“I count twelve,” Braddon said. “There’s near eighty men in a full company. And they had the artillerymen with them too.”

“Got separated maybe. Greens’ll do that. Split smaller groups off from the herd.”

“They ain’t been ate,” Loriabeth said, face thickly sheened in sweat and evidently fighting a rising gorge with admirable determination. “Still . . .” She swallowed as Scriberson gave another heave. “Still got most of their flesh and all.”

“That’s a curiosity, true enough.” Skaggerhill shook his head, grimacing in consternation as he surveyed the bodies. “Skulls intact also. Greens like to crack ’em open and scoop out the brains. Never known a pack not take time to feed.”

“No drake bodies either,” Clay pointed out.

“Soldier boys ain’t Contractors,” the harvester replied. “Probably wasted their ammo shooting at the body ’stead o’ the head. Means this musta’ happened awful fast though.”

“We’d best check ’em for papers,” Braddon said. “Might find some clue why they lit out from the fort.”

Clay concealed a groan, stepping forward in anticipation of the order.

“Not you,” Braddon said, turning to the bent-over form of their newest member. “Mr. Scriberson. Time to start earning your keep, young man.”

—

“Just letters from wives and sweethearts,” Scriberson said. He sat close to the camp-fire, thumbing through the blood-stained papers he had taken from the corpses. Braddon had them cover another few miles before making camp on a shingle beach on the lake-shore, a well-chosen spot that gave them only one flank to guard come nightfall. Scriberson’s face was haggard from prolonged vomiting, though he had taken to his grisly task without complaint. “No diaries or orders. No clues as to what they were doing out here. I took these also.” He held up a brace of copper discs, each bearing a name and a number. “So at least the Protectorate can notify their families.”

“Provided you live long enough to hand them in,” Foxbine muttered. She sat facing away from the fire, carbine resting in her lap and gaze ceaselessly scanning the jungle. Clay saw his uncle frown at the gunhand’s fatalistic tone though he said nothing.

“I got a question,” Loriabeth said to Scriberson, patting the book she had carried from Fallsguard. “Says here no-one knows for sure where we all come from.” She paused to leaf through a few pages, stumbling over the pronunciation of a particular phrase, “The Evo-, erm, Evalootnary Paradox.”

“Evolutionary,” Preacher said, breaking several days’ silence, though he appeared content to leave it at a single word.

“That’s quite true, miss,” Scriberson said. “There is no general consensus on the evolutionary origin for the higher orders of animals inhabiting this planet. Thanks to the fossil record we know that some microbial and insect species, have clearly developed into their modern form over countless centuries of adaptation. Whereas, larger species, including our own, have left behind no ancestor more than ten thousand years old, and those are virtually identical to their modern descendants.”

“Ten thousand years is a long time,” Clay said.

“In human terms, yes,” Scriberson replied. “But in evolutionary terms it’s not even the blink of an eye.”

“Somebody must have a notion,” Loriabeth insisted. “I mean we can’t all just have sprung up from nowhere.”

“There are various theories. Dr. Avaline, the biologist who accompanied my expedition, was an advocate of the Arradsian Progenitor hypothesis. He believed that all the so-called ‘orphan species’ have ancestors which simply haven’t yet been found, but may well one day be unearthed in the unexplored wilds of this continent. He had hoped to find some supporting evidence in the mountains, but failed to appreciate that scientific progress is rarely made by fearful souls.”

“The heavens torn asunder,” Preacher said, leaning forward to meet the astronomer’s gaze across the fire.

“I am a scientist, sir,” Scriberson returned in a curt tone. “Not a theologian.”

“What’s that?” Loriabeth asked.

“And from the great tear in the world poured forth all manner of foulness,” Preacher went on, his voice possessed of a strident cadence, as if he were back in his pulpit. “The drake being the most vile, for its blood is rich with the taint of wickedness.”

“Mere legend dressed up as visionary insight,” Scriberson said, though Preacher kept on, his voice becoming louder with every intonation.

“Hear my words and heed my warning for I tell all who have the wisdom to know truth, the drake will make us its slaves. Eternal bondage its sole promise. Know that the Travail is coming. Know that twenty-one score and ten years from the day of my passing will come the days of fire and iron . . .”

“Preacher,” Braddon said. It was softly spoken but apparently carried sufficient weight to cause the marksman to abandon his sermon. He had risen to his feet and stood blinking in the fire-light, as if waking from a dream. After a second he reached for his rifle and stalked away into the dark without a word.

“Shouldn’t someone . . .” Clay began but Braddon shook his head.

“He’ll be here come the morning.”

“That was Seer Scripture, right?” Loriabeth asked.

“The Prophecy of the Travail,” Scriberson said. “Gibberish scribbled down by a madman, or a Blood-blessed if you believe his more deluded followers.”

“The Seer was a Blood-blessed?” Clay said. He hadn’t known this. In fact, most of what he had heard about those who followed the teachings of the Seer seemed to regard the Blessing with considerable suspicion, if not outright hostility.

“It’s just one theory amongst many,” Scriberson said. “Conceived in an effort to explain the more outlandish claims made about his life. The claim is that, despite the fact that he lived and died two centuries before the opening of the Strait, he somehow gained access to drake blood and the Blue-trance gifted him with visions of the past and the future. Hence his vision of drakes falling out of some great tear in the sky, and his many lurid descriptions of the Travail. The fact that no Blood-blessed in history has ever experienced such a thing would indicate delusion rather than prophecy, even if he did secure himself a supply of product, which seems doubtful.”

“Thought some of it came true,” Clay said. “He predicted the fall of the old empire, right? And he said ships would one day cross the seas without sails.”

“An educated guess, in both cases. The Mandinorian Empire was in the process of a long decline in his own day and early experiments with steam locomotion had already been conducted.”

“Remind me,” Braddon said. “When exactly did he die?”

“The most reliable accounts relate that he expired of plague during the great outbreak of eleven sixty-one, by the Mandinorian calendar . . .” The astronomer trailed off, a frown of annoyed realisation creasing his brow.

“Yes, young man,” Braddon said with a sombre grin. “Exactly twenty-one score and ten years ago.”

—

They came upon more bodies the following afternoon, similarly scorched and mutilated to those found the day before but lying singly or in pairs. The surrounding ground was liberally seeded with spent cartridge cases and discarded kit. “Running battle, I’d reckon,” Skaggerhill said, hefting a half-empty pack. “Casting off anything that might slow ’em down.”

They heard the shots a few miles on, faint cracks echoing through the trees from the east. “Still some kicking, at least,” Foxbine said, raising a questioning eyebrow at Braddon.

“If they’re busy with the soldiers they’re less likely to come for us,” Skaggerhill pointed out.

“Seems they’ll be done with them before long,” Clay said. “Then they’ll be on our trail anyways.”

Braddon thought for a moment longer then unshouldered his rifle. “Silverpin, Preacher, you’re in the lead with me. Miss Foxbine, Skaggs on the flanks. Clay, Lori, keep Mr. Scriberson company in the rear. Eyes on the trees.”

They moved at a sedate walk rather than a rush which might spoil their aim. Clay had the Stinger drawn and stock in place, mimicking his uncle by moving with it already at his shoulder so the barrel pointed wherever he looked. As ordered he continually swept his gaze over the branches above, eyes alive to anything that might betray the presence of a drake and trying to ignore Scriberson’s heavy, fear-laden breaths at his side. “Betcha wish you had a weapon right now, huh?” Clay asked in a whisper.

Preacher claimed the first kill. They had covered another two hundred paces or so, the distant cracks of rifle fire becoming louder with each step, when the marksman stopped and fired a single shot. Thirty yards away a bulky form slumped down amidst a patch of dense jungle. There was a second’s frozen silence, the jungle’s myriad voices suddenly stilled as the echo of the bullet faded, then a bellowing roar sounded directly ahead and a large Green exploded from the jungle. It charged towards them in a blur, shredding foliage in its wake, jaws agape and its hide a whirl of shifting hues. Braddon put a bullet through its mouth from fifteen paces.

“Rear-guard,” Clay heard Skaggerhill mutter as they moved past the Green’s twitching corpse.

Another twenty yards on saw the jungle open out into a broad glade, whereupon they all came to an abrupt and astonished halt.

“What is that?” Loriabeth breathed.

“A city, miss,” Scriberson replied, all trace of fear now vanished from his voice. It was overgrown by vines, the stones cracked by roots and age, but it was still, unmistakably, a city. Spires, unfamiliar in construction and thickly shrouded in leaves, rose on all sides, some over thirty feet high. Partly ruined steps ascended to broad avenues and promenades flanked by numerous one-storey buildings with low, sloping roofs. They could see no sign of the drakes or the soldiers but the rifle fire continued to echo unabated somewhere amidst the ruins, now accompanied by the angry baying of a large pack of Greens.

“Guessing this place ain’t on your map?” Clay asked Scriberson, who nodded, gaze still enraptured by the sight of the city.

“Ain’t got time to gawp,” Braddon said, moving forward. “Look lively. There’s work to be done.”

They found more bodies littering the ruins as they made their way into the weed-infested maze. Clay counted over twenty by the time they had cleared the outer ring of structures, finding themselves in a broad, rectangular plaza, the tallest tower they had yet seen rising from its centre. The source of the continuing rifle fire became clear as soldiers could be seen on the tower’s upper tiers, maintaining a dwindling barrage at the pack of drakes swirling around the base. Clay was struck by their size, larger than those he had seen in the north, larger even than the two they had just killed. Their hides had taken on a grey-green hue that matched the mossy surface of the plaza and they seemed to shimmer as they made repeated attempts to climb the tower. Two or three would separate from the pack to scrabble their way up, claws tearing at the ancient stone, until they were close enough to cast their flames at the defenders before losing purchase or being forced back by a flurry of rifle-shots. There were a number of Greens lying dead or close to it around the tower, indicating the soldier’s aim had improved a little during their journey to this place.

“Preacher.” Braddon pointed the marksman to a near by roof-top. “No point waiting. Just kill as many as you can. Miss Foxbine, Skaggs, go with him. The rest of you with me.”

They followed him as he ran to what appeared to have been a building of some importance, featuring two storeys rather than the one that seemed typical of the dwellings here. They found a part-destroyed stairwell inside that led up to the roof. He set Loriabeth to guarding the stairs and had Silverpin and Clay stand alongside him at the roof’s edge.

“They’ll be coming for us when the killing starts,” he said, flipping up the rearsight on his rifle and taking aim. “You need to keep them off me.”

He fired without further preamble, Clay glimpsing a flash of red amongst the mass of Greens followed by an immediate change in the pitch of their roaring. It sounded more like a scream now as the entire pack ceased its assault on the tower and turned to face the new threat. A shot came from the left and another Green collapsed, blood pluming from its skull.

“Steady now,” Braddon said, jacking another round into the chamber.

Instead of the expected charge, however, the pack fled, still pealing out their weird, screaming roar as they streamed away to the south and were soon lost in the mass of the jungle, though the echo of their cries seemed to take an age to fade.

“Seen some strange sights on this trip,” Braddon said, lowering his rifle. “But that surely beats it all.”

CHAPTER 24

Hilemore

“Hard a-port!” The Viable Opportunity heaved over with a groan of protesting ironwork as the hull strained against the swell. They were already at full ahead and it was no time to reduce speed. A bare five seconds after making the turn the salvo of Corvantine shells slammed into the sea no more than thirty yards distant. To starboard the Contractual Obligation wallowed adrift and burning, smoke billowing from her wrecked upper works to drift across the Viable’s path, providing a welcome smoke-screen in the process. Despite the poor visibility the Viable’s guns continued to fire at every target within range.

Hilemore watched as Mr. Lemhill ordered the pivot-gun into action once more, the crew crouched and hands clapped to ears against the now-familiar flash and boom. Their efforts had clearly borne fruit judging by the sudden appearance of a ball of flame amidst the swirling smoke ahead, though he couldn’t identify the target or the damage caused. It was their seventh successful hit of the action, a more frenzied engagement than Hilemore had ever known, lasting just under twenty minutes since the first Corvantine salvo had claimed the Mutual Advantage. In that time he had seen the Contractual Obligation take a dozen hits before falling out of line, and two more frigates suffer a similar fate before the mingled fog of cannon-smoke and burning ships had frustrated all attempts to follow the course of the battle. From the continuing roar and whistle of shot, however, it was clear the matter remained undecided.

Regardless of the confusion, he knew with some certainty that they had crossed the Corvantine line of battle, perhaps the only Protectorate vessel to do so. Captain Trumane had steered a winding course amongst the fast-moving shadows of the enemy’s fleet, ordering all guns to fire at any target that presented itself and exploiting the Viable’s speed to the full. “See if we can’t shake ’em up a bit, eh?” Trumane had said. “Give the rest of the fleet a chance.”

Hilemore remained uncertain how much of an advantage they had won for their comrades. There had been two huge explosions only minutes ago, lighting up the haze with the kind of energy that could only result from the exploding magazine of a cruiser. Though he tried to push the grim suspicion aside, instinct told him they had to be Protectorate vessels. The Corvantine ships were so fast, matching the Viable in many cases, and the accuracy and rapidity of their gunnery bespoke years of training. This was a trap, he knew. Long laid and well-planned. And we strolled right into it.

“Enemy cruiser dead ahead, sir!” Ensign Talmant reported from the speaking-tube. His earlier fear seemed to have evaporated in the urgency of battle and he spoke in a clear, strident voice.

Hilemore and Trumane went outside to train their spy-glasses on the smoke wreathing the sea beyond the bows, a tall shape soon resolving into view. Like many of the other Corvantine vessels, she had no paddle casements though her lines were markedly less sleek than those of their newly built ships.

“The Regal,” Trumane said. “Heavily modified, but it’s her.” Hilemore followed the captain back to the bridge, watching him stare at the approaching cruiser with an unwavering concentration. After thirty long seconds he barked, “Ten degrees to starboard!” just as a tell-tale flash blossomed on the Regal’s prow. The shell landed just wide of the Viable’s port bow, close enough to send a quaking shudder through the entire ship. Hilemore was sent sprawling along with Talmant and the helmsman, though Trumane somehow managed to remain upright.

Hilemore heard the answering roar of their own forward battery and scrambled to his feet in time to see the shell impact on the Regal’s upper works, scattering shrapnel across her fore-deck and, with any luck, killing some of their gunners. Talmant gave voice to an involuntary shout of triumph, echoed by the helmsman. Trumane, however, saw no reason to celebrate. “She’s turning,” he said, watching the cruiser heave to starboard. As the Regal’s side was revealed Hilemore saw the rows of guns arrayed along her middle and upper decks, counting at least thirty.

“Seems we’re in for an old-fashioned broadside,” the captain observed. “Ensign, signal the engine room to add another flask to the main power plant.”

“Aye, sir.”

Five flasks. Hilemore was unable to recall an instance when such a quantity of product had been burned at once. The results of unleashing so much power in a single burst were unpredictable to say the least, but, given the impending danger, like the captain he couldn’t see an alternative.

Time seemed to stretch as the Regal sought to complete her turn, enough time in fact for Mr. Lemhill to loose another shell from the pivot-gun and score a hit on the cruiser’s mid-section. The effect was difficult to judge but Hilemore assumed, or rather hoped, they had at least disabled a gun or two. The Viable gave a sudden, jerking lurch, Hilemore coming close to losing his footing once more as she leapt forward, the paddles roaring and the needle on the speed indicator swinging past its maximum.

“Five degrees to starboard,” the captain ordered, unable to risk a sharper turn but presumably hoping to present less of a target to the Regal’s gunners. They had cleared two-thirds of her length by the time the first gun fired, the broadside sweeping along the hull in a booming cacophony of flame and smoke. Hilemore switched his gaze to the bridge’s aft window, finding the sea beyond the Viable’s stern roiling with multiple impacts. For a brief moment he entertained the delusion they might have sufficient velocity to emerge unscathed, instantly dispelled when a shell slammed into the port railing just ahead of the rudder. He had time to watch the rearmost battery torn to pieces by the resultant hail of shrapnel before a thick pall of black smoke concealed the grisly sight. Despite the hit, the Viable’s speed seemed unaffected and they cleared the sights of the Regal’s gunners without further injury.

“Bring us to midships,” the captain commanded before turning to Hilemore. “Damage report, if you please, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, sir.”

He slid down the ladder and ran to the stern. Two men were stumbling about in shock, uniforms ripped and flesh scored by numerous cuts though neither appeared to have suffered fatal injury. He shook them both back to sensibility then ordered them to the sick-bay. A brief inspection of the impact site confirmed the loss of the battery and most of its crew, their remains scattered in red and black clumps around the ruined gun. Fortunately, he found no sign of a hull breach and the rudder appeared undamaged.

“Look to your piece!” he shouted to the nearest gun-crew, who stood regarding the scene in wide-mouthed horror. He pointed to the dim shape of a Corvantine frigate four hundred yards to starboard. “Target in range!”

He hurried towards the bridge, gratified by the sound of renewed firing, and had begun to clamber up the ladder when the Viable abruptly veered off course. The deck pitched beneath his feet as she slewed to port, the vibration of the engine suddenly absent from the planking. He turned to the port paddle casement, his guts lurching at the sight of the whirling blades coming to a halt.

“Get to engineering!” Hilemore glanced up to see Trumane staring down at him from the top of the ladder, face flushed with mingled anger and alarm. “There’s no answer from the tube. Find out what in the Travail is happening down there.”

Hilemore went below, shouldering his way past men hauling fresh ammunition from the magazine and navigating the various obstacles that always seemed to accumulate belowdecks when a ship was in action. He found the engine room filled with steam. One of the stokers lay next to the hatch, a jagged blade of shattered iron protruding from his upper chest, face slack and eyes staring vacantly in death. For the first time since Feros the place was possessed of an unnerving quiet, absent of both the harsh clatter of the auxiliary and the steady thrum of the blood-burner. In fact the only sound was the harshly spoken profanity coming from Chief Engineer Bozware’s throat somewhere amidst the vapour.

“Chief!” Hilemore called, making his way forward.

There was no answer, just more cursing, now accompanied by the ringing sound of a hammer. Hilemore climbed the steps to the platform where the main power plant rested, drawing up short at the sight of Tottleborn. The Blood-blessed sat slumped in his chair, one of his beloved periodicals resting in his lap, mouth open as if frozen in the act of speaking, and a large iron rivet skewered through his temple. Sometimes a Blood-blessed will see something in their trance, something dark and formless . . .

Hilemore tore his gaze away, turning to find the plasmothermic engine dead, the fire behind the glass extinguished and a gaping rent in the combustion chamber. It looked as if some feral monster had hatched from the thing, punching its way out in a violent frenzy. A fresh bout of cursing drew his attention to the scene below. The Chief stood astride the gearing of the auxiliary power plant, swinging a hammer with concentrated ferocity at a piece of jagged metal embedded deep in the cogs. Hilemore didn’t need a detailed explanation to gauge their predicament. Both engines were off-line and the Viable was dead in the water.

“It blew almost exactly six minutes after adding the fifth vial,” the Chief said through gritted teeth as he continued to swing the hammer. “In case you want to make a note in the log.”

“We had no choice.” Hilemore returned his gaze to the blood-burner, noting that the rent in the combustion chamber was severe but also narrow. “Can you seal this?” he asked.

“Aye, but what’s the point?”

“How long?”

Bozware ceased his hammering, comprehension dawning as he met Hilemore’s gaze. “Half an hour at least, but it’ll be a bodge.”

“Do it. I’ll be back directly.”

He went to the ward-room first, unlocking the safe to extract all the remaining flasks of Red then ran along the corridor to the bridge. The hatch to the bridge stood open, affording him a clear view as it disintegrated in a blaze of flame and splintered metal. The blast lifted him off his feet and threw him the length of the corridor, a jarring impact with the bulkhead leaving him senseless.

He surfaced to the sound of panicked shouting and the smell of burning fabric. His hands were suffering repeated flares of agony and someone appeared to be punching him in the chest. After a few seconds, enough of his senses had returned to reveal the shouts as his own and the punches in fact blows delivered by his hands as he attempted to beat out the burning patches on his tunic. A large shape loomed out of the smoke and Hilemore found himself hauled upright, staggering a little as broad hands slapped away the flames.

“Are you injured, sir?” Steelfine asked, narrow gaze tracking him from head to foot in appraisal.

Hilemore shook off the Islander’s grip before taking a deep breath of the tainted air, coughing and straightening his back. “I must get to the bridge.”

They found it a shambles, the walls and roof vanished though the wheel remained mostly intact. The only sign of the helmsman was the red stains covering the woodwork. Captain Trumane lay under a pile of fallen debris, blood streaming from his ears and nose. Hilemore checked his pulse and found it faint but present, though from the amount of blood staining his tunic his injuries were evidently severe. Incredibly, Ensign Talmant still stood next to the speaking-tube, his uniform ragged and liberally covered in blood and, whilst he seemed completely unharmed, his eyes were empty of all comprehension.

“Ensign!” Hilemore took hold of the boy’s singed tunic, shaking him until a vestige of life returned to his eyes. He blinked and cast a panicked gaze around at the wrecked bridge.

“The captain . . .”

“Is incapacitated.” Hilemore realised the sound of cannon fire had faded completely and looked towards the bow, taking in the awful sight of the forward pivot-gun. It swung on its mounting, most of the breech shot away, surrounded by the mangled remains of its crew. He could see the bulky but mutilated form of Mr. Lemhill amongst them. “It appears command now falls to me. Take the wheel. The engines will start up again soon.”

“Sir.” Hilemore turned to see Steelfine pointing to something to port. A Corvantine cruiser had come to a stop some three hundred yards off. She was one of their new-builds, sleeker and more compact in design than the Regal, but apparently well-supplied with marines. They stood along the rail in battle-order whilst the cruiser lowered boats over the side.

“Seems they want a prize,” Steelfine observed. His voice held a definite note of good humour, even anticipation.

“They want our engine,” Hilemore said. “The Viable is the fastest ship they’ve faced today. I assume their admiral is keen to find out why.”

He went to the gangway and surveyed the sea. The fog of battle had faded to a thin mist, revealing a long row of burning hulks. Guns could still be heard in the distance but the rate of fire was desultory; the day had been lost. He turned his gaze to the Viable, counting the bodies littering the deck and noting that all her guns were now silent. Further resistance was a hopeless prospect.

“Mr. Steelfine,” he said. “Muster the riflemen and prepare to repel boarders. See if you can’t get the starboard guns loaded and ready, but don’t fire until my order. I’ll be there directly.”

He had expected some hesitation, a desperate entreaty not to throw their lives away perhaps. But instead Steelfine simply snapped off a salute and turned to descend to the deck, his voice casting out a barrage of orders as loud as any siren. Talmant also just continued to stand at the wheel, wordless and unbowed, though he did spare a glance for the captain.

“We’ve no time to deal with him, Ensign,” Hilemore said. “Stay at your station. Once we’re underway steer north-north-east.”

“Aye, sir.”

The guard standing outside the brig greeted Hilemore with a pale face, though was smart enough not to ask any questions as he handed over his keys. “The captain is injured,” Hilemore told him, turning to unlock the door. “Get to the bridge and transfer him to sick-bay. When you’ve done that draw a rifle and join the Master-at-Arms on deck.”

Inside, Zenida Okanas stood at the bars, her daughter at her side, slim arms clutching her mother’s waist and regarding Hilemore with an accusatory frown.

“Our Blood-blessed is dead,” Hilemore told the pirate woman, seeing little point in preamble. “I am now acting captain and hold full authority.”

She angled her head, a single eyebrow raised as she awaited his next words.

“Name your price,” he said.

She pulled her daughter closer for a second then pointed her to the bunk, repeating the gesture with stern insistence when the girl hesitated. “Full pardon,” Zenida Okanas said. “And the return of my sovereigns.”

Hilemore unlocked the cage door and stood back. “Done. I’ll provide a witnessed agreement when matters are less pressing. As for now however . . .” He gestured at the corridor.

The woman turned to her daughter, speaking softly but firmly in Varestian. “Stay here. If this tub starts to sink make your way up top and swim east. The current may take you to the Isles.”

The girl gave a short nod of affirmation and Zenida Okanas briskly walked from the brig, striding ahead of Hilemore as they made their way to engineering. They found the Chief Engineer at the blood-burner, hammering a final rivet in place with a bulky, steam-driven hammer. He had cannibalised the auxiliary engine for iron plates of sufficient dimensions to cover the rent in the combustion chamber, making it resemble a blistered injury to metal skin. Hilemore saw a row of tarpaulin-covered bodies near the door, Tottleborn’s presumably amongst them.

“Another twenty minutes,” Bozware said, groaning as he and the stokers set the steam-hammer down. “Got to reconnect the steam lines.”

Hilemore handed the three flasks to Zenida Okanas. “You know what to do, I assume?”

She gave the engine a brief glance and nodded before addressing a question to Bozware. “Is this thing likely to blow again?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” the Chief replied, not raising his head as he went about fastening a steam line to the engine’s outflow valve.

“‘Caution favours no-one in battle,’” Hilemore said in Varestian, quoting an old proverb.

“If I die,” she replied, “I will expect you to see my daughter home. The Highwall, in southern Varestia . . .”

“I’ve heard of it.” He turned and made for the hatchway. “Though if you die, I expect we’ll all join you in the Deep shortly after.”

—

“Keep down, you no-balled swine!” Steelfine shouted to the assembled riflemen, all crouched about the fore-deck at Hilemore’s order. He had managed to get three of the remaining guns into action, all loaded with chain-and-canister-shot rather than shells. Such archaic munitions were no longer carried by many Protectorate vessels but, once again, Trumane had proven himself a prescient captain. Hilemore had the guns set back from the rail and concealed behind piled wreckage, the gunners all under strict orders not to fire until his command. He crouched at Steelfine’s side, the three surviving ensigns at his back with swords and revolvers drawn. He had named them his personal bodyguard, hoping a sign of favour might stiffen their spirits somewhat. However, despite some forced smiles, they all shared the bright-eyed and rigid expressions common to youth who witness far too much carnage in a single dose.

All in all, the Viable’s defenders numbered some thirty-three souls, what remained of the original riflemen plus the surviving crew. It wasn’t enough to defeat a full company of Corvantine marines but it may well suffice to delay them whilst Bozware got the blood-burner back on-line. There was the added risk that, once it became evident they intended to fight it out, the captain of the Corvantine cruiser might simply decide to pull back his marines and blast them out of the water. In which case you will have scored a victory, Hilemore reminded himself. In denying them the Viable’s engine.

He moved to the rail and peered through the assembled debris to observe the approach of the Corvantine launches. There were two in front with another six behind, each carrying fifteen marines. Two launches from the rear echelon had separated from the formation and begun to circle around the Viable’s stern, presumably to assault the port side whilst the remainder assailed them from starboard.

“Take ten men and cover the port rail,” Hilemore told Steelfine. “No firing until they’re climbing the ropes.”

He saw the Islander’s hesitation, no doubt pondering the chances of fulfilling his obligation if he didn’t remain at Hilemore’s side. “It’ll all be blades and fury soon enough,” Hilemore told him. “Come find me then.”

Steelfine gave a nod and moved away, keeping low as he picked out the ten men who would accompany him. Hilemore returned his gaze to the approaching launches. The marines rowed with sedate but disciplined dips of their oars, a small cannon perched on the prow of each launch where their officers stood watching the silent and smoking hulk ahead with more vigilance than Hilemore would have liked.

“Make ready,” he told the gunners, sending them scrambling to the pieces, removing the chocks from the wheels in preparation for rolling them forward. Hilemore moved down the line of guns in a crouch, checking the sights and speaking just loud enough for them to hear. “Go for the men, not the boats. There will only be time enough for one shot, so aim true. When it’s done, pick up your weapons and join the fight.”

He was gratified by the general murmur of assent and the determination on every face. He had made a brief speech on ascending to the deck, promising escape if they could stand off the assault for only a few minutes. Fortunately, it seemed they had believed it more than he did.

He returned to his vantage point and held up a hand, watching the nearest launch approach until it was so close he could make out the features of the officer on the prow. He was dismayed to find the man of similar age and height to himself, a veteran too judging by the scar that traced along his jaw-line. The officer peered at the Viable with an intense scrutiny, eyes narrowing farther and Hilemore knew he had detected some sign of warning, a glimpse of one of the guns or a bayonet raised a fraction too high. In either case, the game was up and the fight was on.

Hilemore brought his hand down just as the marine officer began to open his mouth in a warning shout. All three guns fired at once, Hilemore seeing the marine officer’s tall form shredded into several pieces by the hail of canister and chain, along with approximately half the marines behind. Smoke momentarily obscured the neighbouring launch but when it cleared he was rewarded with the sight of it listing in the water, waves lapping over its side and oars hanging limp. The marines aboard lay in a twitching ruin.

The response from the other launches was immediate, their small cannon slamming three high-explosive shells into the Viable’s upper rail. The damage to the ship was slight but the resultant explosions cast enough splintered wood and metal into the assembled crewmen to leave at least half a dozen writhing or dead on the deck.

“Leave them!” Hilemore barked at one of the ensigns, who was attempting to haul away a wounded man. “Time for that later.” He stood, raising his voice to a roaring pitch. “Riflemen up! Independent rapid fire!”

The riflemen moved to the rail and began firing immediately, the initial volley scything through the ranks of the marines in the third launch as it attempted to navigate the channel between the two ruined boats. Hilemore saw several Corvantines fall into the sea as their comrades attempted to find cover in the confines of the boat. He allowed the riflemen a few more seconds’ fire before ordering them to shift their aim to the other launches. However, the marine officers had been annoyingly quick to react, ordering the oarsmen to increased efforts and closing the distance. One had drawn up to the Viable’s side just fore of the paddle casement and another was casting ropes at the stern.

Recognising the greatest danger lay where the defenders were thinnest, Hilemore ordered the ensigns to fall in behind and moved forward, gathering the gunners along the way. A marine was already clambering onto the rail when they got there, teeth gritted as he hauled himself up the rope towards the iron grapple hooked onto the Viable’s side. Hilemore shot him in the face, the body tumbling back onto the boat below. Another marine managed to get a foot on deck before the combined fire of the ensign’s revolvers sent him over the side in a welter of blood. Hilemore leaned over the rail and emptied his revolver into the dense ranks of marines below, near oblivious to the shots that came in response, one whipping close by his ear and another shattering the jaw of a gunner who had rushed to his side.

“Keep firing,” he told the ensigns, ducking back down to reload. The three youngsters responded immediately, their fear now replaced by the fury of combat as was often the case once battle became joined and all uncertainty fled. The gunners moved up to add their rifles to the barrage, all whooping in excitement or casting obscenities at the unfortunate marines below as they poured out a desperate barrage. When Hilemore raised himself to fire again, a fresh cylinder in his revolver and eyes alive for targets, he saw a boat filled with corpses or wounded. A few survivors were swimming away, making for the cruiser where their most likely reception would be a noose. The Corvantines were notoriously intolerant of cowardice.

A fresh upsurge of rifle fire tore his gaze back to the stern. The riflemen had evidently fired a final volley before moving in with the bayonet, thrusting at the wall of green-clad bodies now clambering over the side. Fresh firing had also erupted to port, indicating Steelfine’s men were now battling the other two boat-loads of marines.

Hilemore holstered his revolver and drew his sword, ordering the ensigns to follow suit and ensuring the gunners had fixed bayonets. “With a will, if you please, lads,” he said, moving forward at a steady run. The marines had managed to force back the riflemen by a few yards by the time he led his small band into their flank, laying about them with his sword. He hacked down a marine desperately attempting to slot a fresh round into the chamber of his rifle, then slashed open the face of another who raised his bayonet a fraction too late to ward off the blow. Seeing his charge the Viable’s crew gave a savage shout of defiance and launched themselves at the marines with renewed vigour, bayonets stabbing and rifle-butts clubbing. The marines were forced back to the rail, though their sole remaining officer proved a valiant fellow. Standing straight and immune to either injury or fear, he steadied his men into a tight defensive knot around the aft anchor mounting, taking careful aim with his revolver as he dispatched three riflemen in quick succession.

“Pull back!” Hilemore told the crew, drawing his own side-arm. “Reload and finish them with a volley.”

His order had clearly drawn the marine officer’s attention, for he fixed him with a keen eye before his revolver swung round for another carefully aimed shot. Hilemore’s arm came up in response, blurring with the speed of it, his shot loosed in tandem with the marine’s, the two bullets passing each other in mid air. He felt something pluck at his shoulder, numbing the flesh beneath his tunic, but stopped himself looking at the wound. Instead, he stepped to the side and drew back the revolver’s hammer for another shot, only to find it wasn’t necessary. The marine officer had slumped back amidst his men, a large red hole in the centre of his forehead. An instant later the riflemen fired a single deafening volley, blood pluming in crimson blossoms on the tunics of the remaining marines as they were driven lifeless to the deck.

Hilemore turned to the port rail, finding Steelfine’s men engaged in a frantic struggle with two boat-loads of marines. The Master-at-Arms had eschewed a rifle for a sea-axe and could be seen in the thick of the fight, the axe blade trailing blood from his tireless blows. His face had taken on an oddly serene expression, for all the world a man content in his labour.

Hilemore opened his mouth to order the surrounding crew into a firing line, intending to warn Steelfine to drop to the deck whilst their volley sent the marines reeling over the side. At that moment, however, the Viable Opportunity lurched into renewed life.

Those marines still clambering up the Viable’s side were jolted into the sea as her paddles swung into motion and a gout of steam rose from the stacks. A cheer rose from the crew and they immediately launched themselves at the remaining Corvantine marines, most of whom took the prudent course of jumping over the side. Within seconds the remainder were dead, each pinned to the deck by a clutch of bayonets, some in the act of surrendering.

“You there, Tollver,” Hilemore called to the lanky ensign who stood staring at his bloodied sword in dim-eyed fascination. He snapped to attention quickly, however. “Get to the engine room. Tell Mr. Bozware to make smoke, as much as he can.”

“Aye, sir.”

Hilemore paused to order the marine bodies cast over the side and the guns reloaded then made his way to the bridge. “North-north-east, sir,” Talmant said, hands firm on the wheel.

“Very good, Ensign.” He checked the speed indicator, finding that the Viable had already accelerated to twenty knots. Clearly, the Chief’s repair had been less of a bodge than he warned. He found the captain’s spy-glass lying undamaged on the floor and trained it towards the south. Those Corvantine vessels in sight had evidently come to a near halt in the aftermath of battle, either to claim prizes or pluck prisoners from the sea. Some were piling on steam for a pursuit, including the sleek cruiser that had launched the marines. Clearly, their admiral was still keen to get his hands on the Viable’s engine for none of the Corvantines fired a shot.

“Mr. Talmant, make ready to turn hard a-starboard at my signal,” he told the ensign.

“Aye, sir.” The boy hesitated. “Won’t that take us into the islands, sir?”

“With any luck.”

The smoke-screen blossomed from the stacks a few moments later. They were fortunate with the winds today, the relative stillness of the air allowing the smoke to settle over the Viable’s wake in a thick grey blanket. “Make your turn, if you please, Ensign.”

The boy swung the wheel as ordered until the compass-needle settled on dead east, whereupon he brought the rudder back to midships. Whatever restraint had curtailed their pursuers had evidently been lifted and the flat boom and whine of shells could be heard through the smoke, though none came within a hundred yards. The Corvantine gunners had assumed they would maintain a northerly course and laid their fire accordingly. After all, Hilemore reflected, only a madman would take his ship into the Isles. A madman . . . or a pirate.

CHAPTER 25

Lizanne

“As close to Carvenport as I could get without running afoul of the Corvantine Fleet.” Kaden smiled thinly and tossed Major Arberus another canteen.

“It’s fifty miles away,” Arberus returned. “With who knows how many Corvantine scouts patrolling the jungle.”

“Then you had best not linger. I now consider our debt settled and will certainly kill you the moment I see you again. You can keep the rifle.” With that the smuggler turned and strode back to the wheel-house. A few moments later the Wave Dancer pulled away from shore and began to turn about. Night was coming on and her stack glowed a little in the gloom as she made her way back up-river, fading from sight a short while later.

“He didn’t even say thank you,” Tekela observed.

Lizanne shouldered her pack and held up one of the canteens they had been given. “I think this is the sum of his gratitude.” She glanced at the dark wall of jungle crowding the river-bank. She knew every drake pack in this vicinity had been hunted to extinction over a decade ago, but her brief experience of the Interior had bred a healthy respect for the many uncertainties lurking beyond the walls of civilisation.

“We’d best put in some miles before it’s too dark to see,” she said, starting forward. “Miss, do not stray more than two feet from my side.”

“I surely won’t,” Tekela replied in a small voice, her gaze bright with alarm as it roved the jungle.

They managed only an hour’s travel before darkness forced a halt. Lizanne had found a trail of sorts, presumably a track left by some of the small deer that populated this region in ever-increasing numbers since there were no drakes to thin their herds. The trail led to a small glade where they made camp for the night, Tekela huddling close to Lizanne for warmth as the major had been vocal in forbidding a fire.

“Morradin will have his cavalry well ahead of the main body,” he said, rifle cocked and ready as he sat scanning the jungle. “I should know, I would have been amongst them.”

“Do you know his plan of attack?” Lizanne asked.

“Only the broad strategy. Morradin is not a particularly verbose man, nor particularly trusting. The army will advance en masse from Morsvale, screened by cavalry and skirmishers, and approach Carvenport from the south-west. The fleet, provided they manage to secure the Strait, will bombard the town in preparation for the final assault. Hardly subtle, I know, but he’s not the most subtle commander. His record speaks for itself, however.”

“How many troops in total?”

“Two full divisions, plus the Morsvale militia companies. I’d say twenty-five thousand, altogether.” He glanced over at her. “You intend to trance this to your contact in Carvenport, I assume?”

“The next scheduled trance is tomorrow evening. Hopefully, I’ll give the Protectorate some prospect of organising a defence.”

“The Carvenport garrison numbers no more than three thousand troops, and only four batteries of artillery. They’ll be lucky to last a day.”

“The empire’s spies have been busy, I see.”

He gave a humourless laugh, muttering, “Spies are always busy.”

She watched him closely as she spoke another word, resisting the impulse to partake of some Green to enhance her sight as she had precious little left. “Truelove,” she said.

Nothing. No reaction beyond a faintly puzzled glance in her direction. “What?”

He’s not that good an actor, she decided. The name means nothing to him. “Never mind.” She settled next to Tekela, putting an arm around her shoulders to ward off her shivers. “Wake me when you get tired.”

—

There has been no word from the Protectorate Fleet for two days, Madame told her, mindscape simmering like an unappetising soup on the boil. A decidedly ominous development that forces me to conclude the Strait has been lost to the Corvantines. Nevertheless, the Board has ordered Carvenport held at all costs pending relief, which they promise will arrive within the month.

A month may as well be a year at this juncture, Lizanne replied. Morradin has a full picture of our strength, not to mention agents at large in the city.

Reduced in number as of this morning, I’m happy to say. All known Cadre operatives were arrested at dawn. The interrogations have revealed another four agents previously unknown to us.

There are undoubtedly more.

Certainly, but hopefully this little demonstration will be enough to keep them quiescent, at least for now.

Truelove?

Not a sign nor a clue. The name is unknown to any of the operatives we arrested. A now-familiar black web appeared in Madame’s mindscape, the tentacles spreading and coiling about the clouds with a vibrant energy before she reasserted control. The web froze but lingered and Lizanne was unsurprised by the next question. The device is intact?

Quite intact, Madame. As are the documents I was able to retrieve.

Excellent. I have a select group of scholars awaiting their arrival. We should have a much clearer picture to communicate to Mr. Torcreek within days.

Presuming we can hold the city that long.

Allow me to worry about the military tedium, Lizanne. The grand marshal will find we have a few surprises for him. In the meantime, make your way here with all haste, safe delivery of the device being your sole priority, sentimental attachments notwithstanding.

—

“Hateful, stinking, bloody place!” Tekela groaned. She was on all fours, her foot having tangled itself in a vine. Watching her climb wearily to her feet Lizanne could see only a small vestige of the scowling, tantrum-prone girl from a few weeks before. Her overalls were besmirched from the filth of the smuggler’s boat and the attentions of the jungle. Her hair had been tied back into a severe bun but lank, unwashed strands hung across her face like emaciated snakes. Then there was the grief, of course, the pain of it deepening now that she had time to dwell on the series of events that had brought her here. She tried to hide it, fixing her face into a mask of quiet determination for the most part, but Lizanne saw it plainly; the haunted cast to the eyes and the inability to smile that told of deep-seated loss shot through with guilt.

“We’ll rest a moment,” Lizanne said, pointing Tekela to a near by fallen branch.

“I’m not tired . . .”

“Just sit, miss.”

Arberus glanced back at them then rested his back against a tree, drinking deeply from his canteen. In contrast to Tekela, much of his vitality had returned in recent days, though his occasional winces told of scars not yet healed. Also, Lizanne saw no grief in him, just a persistent anger and unwavering purpose. Fanatics are useful, she recalled an instructor saying once. But should always be regarded as disposable resources.

“Here,” she said, rolling up her sleeve and turning to Tekela. She removed the vial of Green from the Spider and handed it to the girl. “Two sips. It’s the dress-maker’s stock so it’s not as potent as I’d like, but it’ll keep you on your feet for a few miles.”

Tekela regarded the vial with a suspicious frown. “I’ve never . . . Father didn’t like it, wouldn’t have any in the house.”

Lizanne stared at her expectantly until she brought the vial to her lips, cautiously drinking down the allotted two sips and grimacing at the taste. “That’s awful . . .” She trailed off as the effects took hold, colour flooding her cheeks and her slumped shoulders straightening. “Oh,” she said, voice just a little below a squeak.

“Come on.” Lizanne patted her hand and got to her feet. “Two more days and we’ll be in sight . . .”

A faint but strident note sounded from the south, echoing through the trees with urgent warning. “Hunting horn,” Arberus said, instantly on his feet with the rifle stock at his shoulder. “Imperial Rangers.” He raised his gaze to the sky, peering through the trees at something far above.

“What is it?” Lizanne asked.

“They know where we are.” He pointed at two small winged silhouettes visible through a gap in the canopy. They were directly above, circling lazily. “Hawks. The Rangers prefer them to hounds.”

The horn sounded again, closer this time.

“Half a mile?” Lizanne wondered.

“More like a third. And they’re on horseback.”

She turned to Tekela, watching her clutch her revolver with a fresh sheen of sweat on her face. The Green had added some colour to her cheeks but the fear in her eyes was palpable. Sentimental attachments notwithstanding . . .

“Take this,” she said, sloughing off her pack and handing it to Arberus. “When you reach Carvenport you’re to place it in the hands of Madame Lodima Bondersil. No-one else. She is aware of our arrangement.”

She drew the Whisper and moved to Tekela, briefly clasping her hand. “Go with the major, miss.”

“Wait!” The girl’s hand tightened on Lizanne’s, refusing to let go. “We go together or not at all.”

“I can hold them long enough for you to get away,” Lizanne replied. “The major can’t.”

She gave Tekela’s hand a final squeeze then firmly pulled herself free, turning and running towards the south without further pause. Tekela called after her, the desperate entreaties turning to frustrated anger as Arberus began to haul her away. Lizanne injected a brief burst of Green and increased her pace.

The first trooper came into sight barely a minute later, trotting his mount forward at a steady clip through a sunlit clearing. He rode with a carbine in one hand and the reins in the other, clad in the grey-green uniform of the Imperial Light Horse. From his weathered features, and the way his eyes constantly roved the surrounding jungle, Lizanne judged him a veteran and no stranger to the Interior. She found a suitable tree and quickly climbed to a third of its height, perching on a thick branch from where she could observe both the trooper and the company following behind at a professionally cautious distance. She put their number at a dozen, though there were certain to be other squadrons near by. However, only this one was likely to pick up the trail left by Tekela and the major.

She allowed the lead trooper to pass beneath unmolested; dispatching him wouldn’t have been especially difficult but the real danger lay in the squadron as a whole. She voiced a soft sigh of frustration upon glancing at the Spider and the parlous state of product remaining in the vials. Only a quarter-vial of Green remained and all the Black gone. Fortunately, she still retained nearly half a vial of Red, and another four of Jermayah’s delightful munitions.

She slotted a Redball into the Whisper’s top barrel and waited, fingers poised over the Spider’s buttons as the cavalry troopers came closer. Only when the last trooper had passed beneath the branch did she inject all her remaining Green along with half the Red. The disorienting effect was immediate and only barely suppressed, her fatigue having sapped her concentration somewhat. Despite the sudden nausea she managed to keep her gun arm steady as she trained the Whisper on the middle of the troop and lit the Redball.

The munition impacted on the upper back of a trooper, birthing a satisfyingly large explosion. The unfortunate Corvantine was killed outright, along with his horse, whilst two of his comrades were sent tumbling from their saddles to writhe screaming in a welter of flame. Lizanne shot another as he attempted to control his bucking mount, then flinched as a carbine bullet smacked into the branch barely a foot to her right. Her Green-boosted eyes fixed on the source immediately; the veteran lead scout, galloping back along the trail at full pelt, carbine at his shoulder as he skilfully worked the lever for a second shot.

Lizanne leapt from the branch, tumbling end over end to land amidst the still-rearing horses as the scout’s next shot cut the air above her head. She shot down two more troopers in quick succession, then ducked as a third swung at her with a sabre, the tip of the blade coming close enough to snick a few hairs from her flailing pony-tail. He proved an annoyingly adept horseman, keeping his mount in check and dancing it closer, sabre drawn back for a killing thrust whilst he kept low behind the horse’s neck to prevent her putting a bullet into his forehead. Lizanne unleashed the Red in a single, instinctive blast. The horse’s scream choked off as the heat ate through its throat in an instant, the rider faring little better. His uniform, skin and much of his bone turned to ash. The ghastly remnant of horse and rider, one-half flesh the other a charred ruin, collapsed as Lizanne scrambled away and whirled to face the still-charging veteran.

He was nearly upon her now, weathered face set in a mask of furious triumph behind his levelled carbine. Lizanne’s gun hand came up in a blur, exhausting her reserves of Green in a reflexive aim-and-fire motion of such speed and accuracy no non-Blessed could ever be expected to match it. The bullet took the scout in the eye just as his finger tightened on the carbine’s trigger, the shot going wide as he tumbled lifeless from the saddle.

Lizanne staggered amidst the carnage she had created, all but a few dregs of product in her veins as she scanned for more targets, finding only dead and dying. She sagged, relief and exhaustion mingling to bring forth an unusual and unfamiliar sound from her throat. It took a moment’s puzzled reflection to recognise it as a sob. How many years since that happened? she wondered, thumbing a tear from her eye as the sob turned into a rueful laugh.

All humour abruptly vanished at the arrival of a fresh tumult of galloping horses and she found herself voicing a weary groan at the sight of another cavalry troop approaching along the trail. They came on at a cautious canter, halting a good fifty yards short to survey the smoking ruin of their comrades. From the exchange of wary glances she concluded they had deduced her nature, but would also soon divine the fact that she was all but out of product. She sighed, taking a firmer grip on the Whisper and drawing the stolen Cadre revolver from the pocket of her overalls. Getting to her feet she stood with both weapons held at her sides, head cocked in expectation.

The cavalrymen exchanged a few more wary glances before one gave an impatient bark of command, a sergeant from the bullish tone of authority in his voice. In response the troopers all drew their carbines from the scabbards on the saddles and spread out, each taking careful aim as they moved closer in a slow walk. Lizanne thought she might be able to get two before they shot her down and scanned their line, choosing which one to kill. She chose the sergeant, a wiry fellow as cavalrymen often were, his lean features grim and eyes dark behind the sights of his weapon. She was raising both pistols when the sergeant’s face disappeared in a red-and-white cloud of sundered flesh and powdered bone.

Gunfire erupted from the jungle to the trooper’s right, at least twenty weapons firing at once, a mix of carbines, shotguns and longrifles judging by the discordant mix of cracks and booms. The troopers withered under the weight of fire, none managing to loose off a single shot in response before they were brought down. Impressive marksmanship, Lizanne thought, noting the empty saddles on the mostly unscathed horses as they circled about their fallen riders, whinnying in alarm.

A chilling wave of exhaustion swept through her and she found herself on her knees once more, arms sagging to rest her pistols in the mud. “You’re alive!” She raised her lolling head to find Tekela running towards her, Major Arberus close behind. “I knew you would be!” Lizanne groaned as the girl crushed herself against her.

“Miss Lethridge?” a voice asked in a gruff Old Colonial accent.

Lizanne’s gaze went to the stocky figure standing next to Arberus, a woman of middling years with a shotgun resting in the crook of her green-leather-clad arm. Beyond her Lizanne could see other figures in dusters moving amongst the Corvantine dead and crouching to retrieve any valuables or weapons with practised efficiency.

“Griseld Flaxknot,” the woman introduced herself, touching a finger to the rim of her broad-brimmed hat. “Captain of the Chainmasters Independent Contractor Company. Madame Bondersil is very keen for us to see you home.”

—

She woke to the jangling of chains, her befuddled mind instantly conjuring visions of a Corvantine torture chamber. The smugglers, the jungle, all a dream . . . The dress-maker captured me in Morsvale . . .

“Krista?” Tekela’s breath was soft on her ear, coaxing her back to awareness. Lizanne groaned and forced her eyes fully open, finding the girl’s face poised above hers, brow bunched in concern. Something hard jolted beneath Lizanne’s back and she realised they were in motion, her eyes going to the swaying chains above Tekela’s head.

“Drake-catcher’s wagon,” she realised aloud.

“Yes.” Tekela helped her into a sitting position, resting her against the thick iron bars that formed the wagon’s walls. Major Arberus sat at the far end of the wagon, gazing out at the mounted Contractors riding alongside. Lizanne noted that his rifle was gone.

“They wouldn’t let us stop,” Tekela went on. “Even though there was no waking you. Just piled us into this thing and set off.”

“How long?”

“Two days. I . . . did wonder if you were ever going to wake.”

Lizanne’s tongue scraped around the inside of her mouth, making her grimace at the acrid dryness of it. “Water, please.”

Tekela held a canteen to her lips, though Lizanne soon took it from her, holding it up and gulping down the blessed contents in convulsive heaves. Intense use of product often had unpleasant side-effects, dehydration and fatigue chief amongst them, though she couldn’t recall experiencing such a profound reaction before now. Her limbs felt like benumbed rubber and there seemed to be an iron bar skewered through her skull from temple to temple. “Lizanne,” she said, finally lowering the canteen and wiping a weak hand across her mouth.

“What?” Tekela asked.

“My name. Lizanne Lethridge.”

She saw Arberus shift at that, shooting her a guarded glance that told of instant recognition. A famous family can be a disadvantage in certain occupations, she knew, but felt the girl deserved to know the name of her self-appointed guardian. She turned to her, switching to Mandinorian. “You know this language?”

Tekela gave a half nod, her reply faltering and heavily accented. “It was the one . . . lesson Father would not . . . allow me to . . .” She fumbled for the right word.

“Shirk?” Lizanne suggested.

Tekela smiled and nodded. “I . . . am not . . . fluent.”

“That will change.” Lizanne raised herself up farther, gazing out at the passing country. The jungle was thinner now and the trees not so tall, meaning they were nearing the partially settled bush-country south of Carvenport. “It’s likely to be all you’ll speak for many years to come.”

—

They passed by several homesteads before nightfall, one-storey houses with wide, sloping roofs surrounded by a clutch of barns and corrals. All were abandoned, the livestock gone or recently slaughtered. The Chainmasters reported all wells had been spoiled with animal carcasses and any harvested crops either left to rot or deliberately burned.

“Company orders,” Captain Flaxknot commented when they stopped for the night. She had kept them moving until the sun finally dipped below the horizon, posting guards in a tight perimeter and sending two of her marksmen to watch the southern approaches. “Don’t wanna leave nothing for the Corvantines. Recall my grandpap saying he saw the same thing happen once, musta’ been eighty years ago. Guess that makes this, what, the Third Corvantine War?”

“Fourth,” Lizanne said. “Not counting the occasional skirmish in between.”

The captain turned a hard-eyed gaze on Major Arberus. “Guess they never tire of getting beat.”

“I have a feeling this will be the last one,” Lizanne said, her thoughts returning to Grand Marshal Morradin and the impossibly swift frigate she had destroyed. The Ironship Syndicate had made itself perhaps the most powerful organisation in the world on the basis of innovation, but in the process had burdened itself with an ever-more-complex and extensive bureaucracy and a Board given to tortuous deliberation. The Corvantines had no Board; they had the Emperor. Scion of an erratic and often corrupt line he may have been, but apparently possessed of sufficient wit and singular vision to at least put the corporate world on the back foot within a few days of launching his grand military gambit. Much depended on the Board’s willingness to adapt and throw off deeply enshrined company regulations. Somehow, she doubted the process would be anything but a long and painful one.

Unless Madame’s scheme comes to fruition, she reminded herself. Perhaps her obsession will save us after all.

A faint, plaintive shriek echoed from the tree-line to the south, Captain Flaxknot instantly coming to her feet in response, along with every Contractor in sight. Lizanne was concerned by the expression on the woman’s face, a mix of deep surprise and unaccustomed fear. “Can’t be,” she heard her whisper.

“What . . . ?” Lizanne began, only to be waved to silence. Flaxknot moved to the camp’s south-facing flank, beckoning one of the Chainmasters to her side, a sturdy young man with a similarly shaped nose to his captain’s.

“You heard it?” she asked.

“We all did, Ma,” he replied, Lizanne gauging his expression as even more fearful than his mother’s. “Weren’t no phantom. What in the Travail can it be doing here?”

A bright, expanding mushroom of flame erupted in the trees a half mile to the south, lighting up the country as it ascended into the air. Another shriek sounded as the flames faded, louder this time and possessed of an unmistakable note of triumph. Some trees continued to burn bright enough to reveal the sight of men and horses running, all of them aflame.

“What they always do,” Flaxknot said. “Hunt and kill.”

“Greens?” Lizanne asked, moving to join the captain.

“Wrong call,” she replied without turning, her eyes reflecting the flames. “Too much fire all at once. We just witnessed a Red fry up a company o’ Corvantines. Guessing they picked up our trail and were angling to creep up on the camp in the darkness.”

“It saved . . . us?” Tekela asked in her broken Mandinorian.

This made Flaxknot turn and regard the girl with an amused twist to her mouth. “Surely, young miss. Outta the goodness of its heart, no doubt.” The captain strode to her horse, voice raised in command, “Saddle up! We’re moving out. No more stops till we make the city.”

—

True to her word, Captain Flaxknot allowed no rests and they moved through the darkened bush with the aid of a few torches, pressing on without pause come daybreak until the hazy mass of Carvenport appeared on the northern horizon. Lizanne was initially puzzled by the haze. Carvenport’s atmosphere was never as polluted as Morsvale’s, but as they drew closer she saw that it was in fact dust. It rose in a fine, grainy mist, born from the labour of at least a thousand people hard at work amidst a network of newly dug trenches, spades and picks rising and falling with urgent energy. A troop of mounted Protectorate soldiers soon emerged from the brown fog to greet them, the presence of three riderless horses indicating their arrival had been expected.

“Madame Bondersil requests you join her at the Academy, miss,” the lieutenant in charge told Lizanne, hand quivering a little as he snapped off a precise salute. “Your companions, also.”

“My thanks for your diligent care, Captain,” Lizanne told Flaxknot as she climbed into the saddle, gesturing for Tekela to follow suit.

“Never failed to fulfil a contract,” the woman replied. She glanced back at the bush country, her unease evident in the way she flapped her hat against her thigh. “You be sure to tell her what we saw,” she said, turning back to Lizanne. “The Red last night . . . It was all wrong, a thing that shouldn’t be. I suspect we got more than Corvantine trouble at our door.”

“I’ll tell her,” Lizanne promised. She tightened the pack’s straps across her shoulders, feeling the weight of the device shift against her back and recalling the black web infecting Madame’s mindscape. Though I doubt if she truly cares a damn for anything else just now.

“I’ve never ridden,” Tekela was saying, still unmounted and eyeing the tall war-horse with some trepidation.

“It’s easy,” Arberus said, taking hold of her waist and lifting her onto the horse’s back. “All you have to do is try not to fall off.”

As they made their way towards the city Lizanne soon gained an appreciation for the extent of the fortifications. It appeared every Carvenport resident was now engaged in digging trenches, from stevedores to managers, labourers and accountants. All hands had either answered the call to work in the city’s defence or, judging by the sullen expressions of a few, been pressed to the task against their will. The speed with which the entrenchments had been constructed was partly explained by the presence of several Blood-blessed. Some toiled away at the earth with Green-fuelled industry whilst others shifted great stacks of sandbags with the aid of Black.

“Morradin will have to spend two thousand lives at least to take this place,” Arberus commented as they came to the final set of breastworks. An interlinked line of artillery emplacements had been constructed close to the walls, all raised to afford clear fields of fire for miles around, each one connected to its neighbour by a zig-zig line of trenches, some already manned by Protectorate infantry.

“Do you expect that to dissuade him?” Lizanne asked.

“On the first day of Cortanza he sent four thousand men to die in a diversionary attack so he could advance his guns a bare fifty yards. On the second day, another twelve thousand died in a frontal assault against the rebel centre. Apparently, he still sleeps soundly every night and enjoys a hearty breakfast on waking. Make no mistake, Miss Lethridge, whatever the cost, Morradin will take this city.”

—

Madame Bondersil’s hands trembled a little as she rested them on the solargraph, a thin sigh escaping her lips, eyes rapt and unwavering as she drank in every cog and lever. “Have you attempted to activate it?” they asked Lizanne. They were in her office at the Academy, now transformed into a de facto military headquarters as the Board had been quick to name Madame as Executive Manager of the Arradsian Holdings. It was a rarely used position, affording near-dictatorial powers to the holder and therefore only employed in times of crisis. The fact that so many Protectorate officers were waiting outside was an indication that the balance of power in the city had abruptly shifted away from the local corporate managers. However, Lizanne knew this was merely a public demonstration of a long-hidden reality; Madame had long been the true power here.

“More pressing matters precluded any experimentation,” Lizanne replied. She stood at formal attention before the desk, having not been offered a seat. Arberus and Tekela had been obliged to wait downstairs, the Protectorate soldiers who had accompanied them from the trenches still very much in evidence. “Also, I was worried I might break it.”

“Yes.” Madame’s fingers lingered on the device, twitching a little. “It is good to see your judgement hasn’t completely failed you.”

Lizanne stiffened, her burgeoning resentment stoked somewhat by the fact that this was the closest thing to a compliment Madame had offered since her arrival. “Every decision taken was born of necessity,” she said, casting a pointed glance at the papers spread out on the desk next to the solargraph. “And I believe my results speak for themselves.”

Madame’s gaze snapped up, dark with anger. “Your identity is forever compromised now. You do realise that, I trust?”

“Everyone who saw my face in Morsvale is now dead, save for the smuggler and I doubt he’ll be returning there for a very long time.”

“Not everyone.”

Lizanne found herself gritting her teeth to forestall an unwise reply. She knew this meeting was a milestone in both her career and her relationship with her most cherished mentor, the future of which greatly dependent on what she said next. “I gave assurances to secure the assistance of local resources,” she said, keeping her voice as even and uncoloured by emotion as possible. “A tactic employed in many covert operations. I will attest to the correctness of my actions should the Board require a fuller enquiry. Also, I believe Major Arberus may have more to say about our overriding mission, being so familiar with the Interior and the studies of Burgrave Artonin.”

“And the girl? Is she, perhaps, also an expert in her father’s work?”

Lizanne’s hands were clasped together behind her back and she found herself flexing her fingers over the buttons on the Spider. Captain Flaxknot had generously provided a half-vial of Green as a restorative and she still had a third of it left. “Miss Artonin,” she said, meeting Madame’s gaze and speaking in a deliberately soft tone, “remains under my protection.”

Madame straightened, blinking in either surprise or disappointment. “You were always such a cold child,” she said. “So distant from the other girls. When you went off to join Exceptional Initiatives, I must confess to a certain trepidation as to what I might have unleashed upon the world.”

She returned her gaze to the solargraph, lifting her hands from it with a visible effort. “Take this to Mr. Tollermine. The papers will be copied and distributed to my coterie of experts. Your next trance with Mr. Torcreek is tomorrow, I believe?”

Lizanne waited a moment before replying, searching Madame’s bearing for some sign of continuing threat, then slowly removed her finger from the Spider. “Yes, Madame.”

“Convey to him whatever Mr. Tollermine is able to discern. He’s been busy crafting various deadly devices with which to greet our Corvantine visitors, but that must be set aside now. You will ensure he doesn’t allow himself any distractions.”

“I will, Madame. Major Arberus and Miss Artonin?”

“Keep them with you. I can’t spare anyone to guard them in any case.”

“There is the other issue I raised . . .”

“A Red this far north is certainly unusual.” Madame’s tone held a certain weary note as she turned to her window, arms crossed as she gazed out at the harbour. It was full of merchant vessels unable to sail now the Corvantines held the Strait. The sailors had either volunteered to assist in the city’s defence or were hiding themselves belowdecks to wait out the coming storm. “But, as ever, I find our human enemies a more potent threat.”

“Mr. Torcreek’s last trance communication indicated unusual activity in the Interior, breeds of drake hunting beyond their usual habitats and the Spoiled even more aggressive than usual. I can’t but wonder if it isn’t somehow connected.”

“This continent is dying,” Madame said, her tone absent any particular alarm. “Or rather, the drakes are dying. We have hunted them to the point where their eventual extinction is now inevitable and we are witnessing their death throes. We should consider ourselves privileged, for future generations will come to think of the drakes as the legends of a less-civilised age. Unless, of course, we find the White.”

The White, Lizanne thought. Her every thought circles back to it. The answer to all our ills. “I should make haste to Jermayah’s,” she said, moving to the desk and returning the solargraph to her pack. Madame didn’t turn, merely nodding as Lizanne went to the door, though she did have a few parting words.

“Should the girl or the major prove to have been unworthy of your trust, I assume you retain sufficient stomach to handle the matter in the appropriate manner.”

CHAPTER 26

Clay

The sergeant who greeted Clay’s uncle at the base of the tower was unshaven and hollow-cheeked, pale features concealed beneath a mask of mingled soot and blood, his uniform stained, ripped and charred in numerous places. Nevertheless, he still managed to deliver a respectful, straight-backed salute, the bandage on his hand leaking blood as he did so.

“Since when d’you salute civilians?” Braddon asked him.

“Since they saved my life, sir.” He stepped forward to extend his uninjured hand to Braddon. “Eadsell, Sergeant . . .”

“. . . Seventeenth Light Infantry,” Braddon finished, briefly clasping the man’s hand. “We found your colours back at the fort. I’m bound to say, Sergeant, it don’t seem too dutiful to me. Abandoning your post like that.”

Clay saw Eadsell stiffen a little and cast a hard look back at the tower. “My duty is to follow orders,” he said. “However mad and driven by greed they might be.”

There were only seven soldiers left, all exhausted to the point of near collapse and none without at least one bandaged wound or burn. They stood or sat slumped about the tower’s uppermost tier, regarding the Longrifles with either glassy-eyed exhaustion or sagging relief. An eighth figure rose from a huddled position on the floor as they climbed up the narrow stairwell, a portly, middle-aged fellow in bedraggled civilian clothes and possessed of a certain wild-eyed animation.

“How many in the main body?” he demanded of Braddon, apparently feeling no need to offer a greeting.

“Main body?” Braddon asked.

“The reinforcements,” the man said, his tone rich in petulant insistence. “You are but a vanguard, I assume.”

“No, sir. It’s just us.” Braddon angled his head, looking the man up and down in scrutiny. “And who might you be?”

“This is Dr. Erric Firpike,” Sergeant Eadsell said when the man stiffened into an aggrieved silence. “Contracted Archaeologist to the Consolidated Research Company.” The sergeant’s tone said much for his opinion of the doctor.

“Really?” Braddon said, turning an enquiring eye to Scriberson. “Then I guess you two must be acquainted.”

Clay watched as the young astronomer regarded Firpike with a stern aspect that spoke of recognition mingled with palpable dislike. For his part, Firpike exhibited a distinctly odd agitation at the sight of an apparent colleague. “By reputation only,” Scriberson said in a quiet voice before turning to the sergeant. “What has this man told you?”

“He came down the Falls a few days before all communication ceased with Fallsguard,” the sergeant replied. “Bearing a joint contract between the Ironship Interior Exploration Division and Consolidated Research. He had Protectorate orders compelling our assistance in his mission.”

“Which was?” Braddon asked.

The sergeant gestured at their surroundings, his voice taking on a distinctly bitter note. “This place. A lost city rich in wondrous treasures.”

“Might I see these orders?” Braddon enquired, extending a hand to Firpike. The man looked as if he might object but a glance at the rest of the company soon cured him of any hesitation. “Well, ain’t that pretty,” Braddon said after looking over the sheaf of papers Firpike produced from the folds of his jacket. “Got the company crests just right. See, Skaggs?”

The harvester took the papers and gave a grunt of amused appreciation. “Expensive work. Pity about the signature.”

“Are you saying they’re forged?” the sergeant said, his gaze now fixed on Firpike’s rapidly paling face. The other soldiers began to stir at this, coming to their feet and stepping closer, each one with a rifle in hand. From their expressions, Clay deduced their fondness for the doctor matched that of their sergeant.

“Those orders are signed, stamped and duly witnessed,” Firpike stuttered, taking an involuntary step back before forcing himself to remain still. He had nowhere to run in any case. “I met personally with . . .”

“Mr. Jonnas Greymount,” Braddon noted, retrieving the papers from Skaggerhill. “Head of Ironship Interior Explorations, signed some six weeks ago, I see. Mr. Greymount was well-known to me. Can’t pretend to being his friend as such, but I did respect him enough to attend his funeral a year and a half ago. Since then, Interior Explorations has been in the hands of Madame Bondersil.” He held up the papers. “Can’t see her name here anywhere.”

“You piece of filth!” Sergeant Eadsell lunged for the doctor, grabbing him and forcing him to the tower’s parapet. “Seventy men dead!” Eadsell grated as his men closed in, a couple raising rifles with fixed bayonets. “All on the promise of lies!”

“I . . . I didn’t force anyone to come,” Firpike protested, voicing a panicky yelp as Eadsell forced him back farther, his head dangling over the parapet. The drop was about fifty feet onto hard stone and, even if he survived it, he had to know there would be no hand lifted to help him. “Your captain could have provided just a small escort . . .”

“You knew, you bastard!” Eadsell shouted, spittle flying as Firpike jerked in his grip. “You knew once that greedy fool heard the word ‘treasure’ he’d do anything to get it.” An angry growl rose from the soldiers, a couple crouching to take hold of Firpike’s legs.

Clay turned to his uncle, speaking quietly, “They keep talking about treasure. And Scribes here had no notion this place existed.”

“We didn’t come for trinkets,” Braddon said.

“Knowledge, Uncle. Knowledge is a treasure.”

He saw Braddon think it over, waiting until the soldiers had begun to tip the doctor over the edge before barking out, “Stop that!”

They took some persuading, but Braddon’s air of authority, not to mention the guns of his Contractors, was enough to compel Firpike’s release. They left him on all fours on the floor, retching with fear.

“Young man,” Braddon said to Scriberson. “Why don’t you tell us what you know about this fella?”

—

The tower had a pit in the centre of its topmost floor with a gap in the ceiling above. It made for a fine fire-place which Clay guessed must have been its original purpose. When night came they huddled round the blaze to hear the astronomer’s story, Foxbine and Preacher posted on the parapet to keep watch on the ruins. Firpike sat a little apart from them, unbound despite Sergeant Eadsell’s protests. “He runs off, he’ll be dead within the hour,” Skaggerhill said. The archaeologist had said nothing since his rescue from the soldiers’ vengeance, sitting with his knees drawn up and face set in a mask of self-pity.

“There’s a figure from history,” Scriberson said. “The man who wrote the account that brought me here, in fact. We don’t know his name, but he has become known as the Mad Artisan in most scholarly circles.”

Clay watched his uncle shrug. “Never been one for history. What’s it gotta do with the charlatan here?”

“Dr., or rather, former Dr. Firpike was one of the most accomplished non-Corvantine authorities on the Artisan. Veteran of several expeditions to the Arradsian Interior and author of three books describing the Artisan’s various wanderings. His principal achievement, however, was the discovery of a design for a mechanical compass, one which worked perfectly when reconstructed.”

“Mechanical compass?” Loriabeth asked with a frown.

“A device that will always point true north without benefit of magnetism. It’s all due to the arrangement and dimension of various cogs. The story goes that the Artisan got lost in the Interior and, lacking a traditional compass, navigated his way home by constructing the device. Though there are those who claim he simply found it, along with most of the other novelties ascribed to him. The invention itself has been lost but Mr. Firpike was able to unearth a design, said to be the work of the Artisan’s own hand. It was the subject of his last book and saw him awarded an honorary doctorate and elevated to the position of Chief Archaeologist to the Consolidated Research Company.”

Braddon spared a glance at Firpike’s huddled form. “Guess it didn’t take.”

“No,” Scriberson said, voice rich in sour judgement. “Other researches into Artisan lore, including some of my own, revealed no corresponding mentions of this device. Unusual given the Artisan’s almost manic love of repeatedly describing his own achievements. However, a journey through the company’s most ancient archives did uncover a Dalcian instrument of remarkably similar design, one that predated the colonisation of Arradsia by at least two centuries.”

Loriabeth gave a wicked chuckle, turning to slap Firpike on the back. “You sly old dog, Doc.”

“Doctor no longer,” Scriberson said, clearly peeved at her appreciation for the charlatan’s ploy. “He was, of course, duly stripped of his doctorate and his contract cancelled. Legal moves were also instituted to recover the lucrative research grants paid to him, whereupon he disappeared, along with the money. In the unlikely event I ever heard of him again, I must confess I expected it to involve a lurid demise in a gambling den or whore-house.”

Clay saw Firpike stir a little, head raised as he muttered a toneless retort. “I was duped by unscrupulous rogues.”

“Rogues who shared your handwriting and could never be found,” Scriberson replied. “How very curious.”

“Alright, Doc,” Braddon said, giving Firpike an insistent nudge. “Time to spill it. What brings you here? And have a care not to give voice to any lies. I got a keen ear for ’em and right now my company is your only ticket back to civilisation.”

Firpike hesitated a long while before shifting himself to face them, his fearful misery still etched into his face, though the prospect of survival did appear to have returned some animation to his voice. “Not all my . . . acquisitions were sourced from forgers,” he began, drawing a disgusted snort from Scriberson, though he ploughed on with only a faint tic of irritation. “The Artisan collected many stories from others who roamed the Interior; Contractors, headhunters and the like, though they were all called hunters in those days. A fragment of one of his collections turned up in a Mandinorian antiquary emporium, though the owner had little idea of its true worth. It related a conversation with a hunter, a fellow seemingly almost as unhinged as the Artisan himself. His company had been engaged in hunting aquatic Greens on Krystaline Lake but had contrived to snare an overly large and aggressive specimen which overturned their boats and left them stranded on the shore, minus several unfortunates who became a meal for their erstwhile prey. Weeks of wandering the jungle saw them beset by Spoiled and Greens alike, until a lone survivor happened upon a city.” Firpike paused to raise his arms in a weak, almost dismissive gesture at their surroundings. When he spoke again his voice had taken on a bitter tone, the tone Clay recognised from gamblers who threw everything into the pot on a sure-fire hand only to see it vanish to a better one. “A city rich in all manner of treasure, there for the taking.”

“So,” Braddon said, “you thought a little jaunt out here would restore your fortunes.” He glanced at the grim-faced soldiers on the other side of the fire. “And got these poor bastards to come along as insurance.”

Firpike gave a small shrug. “Their commanding officer was a . . . pragmatic man.”

“Now a dead one,” Clay pointed out, deciding he didn’t much like Mr. Firpike. It was plain in the faintly self-satisfied cadence of his voice and the aggrieved victimhood in his face: a man who cared nothing for the lives lost in pursuit of his dream of regained eminence. “So where is it?” he asked. “This great treasure.”

“For obvious reasons,” Firpike replied in a tone that did nothing to improve Clay’s opinion of him, “a fulsome investigation of the ruins has not yet been possible.”

“More’s to the point,” Braddon said. “What exactly is it? There’s all kinds of treasure.”

“The Artisan’s account was vague in regards to that,” Firpike said. “However, if his other writings are anything to go by, it will certainly be worth finding.” He paused, neck constricting as he swallowed and gathered some fortitude for his next words. “However, I can assure you it won’t be found without my assistance. I have memorised the Artisan’s account and no copies will be found on my person. Your assistance in fulfilling my mission will, of course, entail a substantial reward . . .”

He trailed off as the Contractors all broke into laughter, save for Preacher, who kept his gaze on the ruins. Seemingly, Firpike’s tale held no interest for him. Clay had also noted that he hadn’t said a single word since his outburst on the lake-shore.

“I’ll make you a counter-offer, Doc,” Braddon said to Firpike, now sunk into guarded sullenness by their amusement. “We’ll tarry a day to search for this wondrous prize of yours, and if we find it we let these here soldiers decide who gets what. Seems the fairest outcome, all things considered.”

—

The vastness of the city became clear during their initial survey the next morning. Braddon forbade any division in their strength and they moved as a crowd, sweeping first north then south to find the edge of the ruins. It soon became clear that the buildings they had encountered so far were but a small part of a much larger whole, most of it so overgrown as to be near invisible amidst the thick jungle. However, now they could recognise the various forms of the city’s architecture, the vine-encrusted towers and houses became obvious landmarks amongst the trees.

“Must go on for miles and miles,” Skaggerhill said. “We’d have to hack our way into every building.”

“How did this get missed for so long?” Clay wondered. “I mean Contractors have hunted here before, right?”

“Not so often as elsewhere. The lake’s always been a tricky place to get to. Besides, those that do make it here ain’t looking for no lost city, especially when it’s damn near claimed by the jungle. Another year or two and this place would’ve been hidden for good.”

“It would have been very different in the Artisan’s day,” Scriberson said. He moved with pencil and notebook in hand, jotting down a hasty note or sketch whenever they paused. “The buildings more intact, the inscriptions not so faded.” He crouched to peer at something carved into the base of a plinth of some kind, a flat-topped stone so cracked and weathered it appeared about to collapse at any second.

“That’s some kinda writing, huh?” Clay asked him.

“I believe so. There have been examples found at other sites, though never as extensive. These symbols appear similar in form, but no-one has yet found a way of translating them.”

“Maybe the Spoiled can read them?” Loriabeth suggested. “I guess it was their forebears that built the place.”

“Spoiled ain’t got the brains to read nothin’,” Foxbine insisted. “And it’s a certainty they could never have made a place like this. Shit, folks today couldn’t make a place like this.”

Braddon called a halt soon after, standing to regard Firpike in wordless expectation. “The Artisan’s account spoke of a bridge across a broad canal,” he said. “Leading to a great temple of some kind. The hunter maintained the bulk of the treasure would be found there.”

“Can’t see no bridge,” Skaggerhill said, voice rich in impatience. Clay could tell he found their dalliance here a pointless distraction from pursuit of the main prize.

Firpike pointed at something in a swathe of jungle to the south. “But there is the canal.” It was only a shallow depression in the mass of vegetation but on closer inspection it became clear that it extended in a straight line into the depths of the overgrown city. “It was always my plan to follow it to the temple.”

They had to hack their way through in several places, the wall of vines and new-grown trees being so thick. Silverpin and Clay shared the duty, cutting a path with long-bladed knives. Unlike the others, she seemed unperturbed by this place, the prospect of imminent riches failing to enliven her at all. If anything she appeared bored, the fascination that had seized her in the White’s cave back at the Badlands now replaced with disinterested labour.

“You think this is all horse shit, right?” Clay asked during a pause, lifting a canteen to let the water cascade over his sweat-slick face. She replied with only a rueful grin, twirling her knife in a brief but expert flourish before returning to her work.

They found the bridge after what felt like twenty miles of cutting but, in fact, couldn’t have been more than two. Clay surmised it must have been quite a sight in its day; a tall, elegant arc spanning a fifty-foot gap. But now the central span had tumbled into the weed-filled canal below, the remaining structure resembling the stunted and deformed arms of some vine-covered giant. Off to the left the temple rose out of the jungle, the most majestic building they had seen so far. It appeared to be a four-sided structure of five tiers, each smaller than the one below so as to form a huge pyramid. The jungle had claimed the two lowest tiers, making it appear like an island partly swamped by a sea of green.

“Guess you’re not wholly a liar, after all,” Clay told Firpike, though the man seemed not to hear, gazing up at the temple in rapt fascination.

“The Artisan tell of any way in?” Braddon prompted as the archaeologist continued to stare.

Firpike blinked and tore his gaze from the temple with a visible effort. “The hunter’s account became confused when he spoke of the temple,” he said. “He had been confined to an asylum by the time the Artisan sought him out. Much of what he said about the place was rambling nonsense, though he kept repeating the word ‘treasure.’”

“In Eutherian, presumably?” Scriberson asked.

“The Artisan wrote in Eutherian,” Firpike replied, a little stiffly. It seemed to Clay he resented the presence of another scholar at his great discovery.

“But did the hunter speak it?” Scriberson pressed.

Firpike remained silent for a moment, frowning in reluctant consideration. “The Artisan describes him as a one-time Steppe nomad, come across the ocean in search of his fortune in this fabled land.”

“Meaning his primary tongue would have been unintelligible to outsiders, so he would most likely have spoken West Mandinorian to anyone not of his tribe. Probably an archaic form to boot.”

“Failing to see the import of this discussion, gents,” Braddon said.

“Translation,” Scriberson said. “Meanings often become confused due to multiple translations. From the nomad’s tongue to West Mandinorian to Eutherian. Much could have changed in the process. ‘Treasure’ in Mandinorian is often translated into Eutherian as any item of value or importance.”

“You mean,” Clay said, “we may not be finding ourselves knee deep in gold and jewels when we get in there.”

“Indeed,” Scriberson said, regarding Firpike with the same suspicion he had maintained since first setting eyes on him. “Though we do know that whatever the nomad found here eventually landed him in the madhouse.”

A moment’s silence descended, soon stretching into several more as the soldiers exchanged nervous glances and the Longrifles did likewise. “Well,” Braddon said eventually, moving towards the temple with a purposeful stride, “we’ve come this far. Besides, if anything I saw in the Interior was gonna send me mad, it woulda happened years ago.”

—

They could find no way in at ground level, the vines proving too thick and the great expanse upon which the temple had been constructed cracked and sundered in many places by the trees that had grown through the stone. Loriabeth volunteered to climb to the upper tiers, demonstrating how well her leg had healed by scaling the wall of close-packed greenery with a lithe ease. She cast a rope down from the second-highest tier and the Longrifles climbed up one after the other.

“We’d best stay here,” Sergeant Eadsell said, to the evident relief of his fellow soldiers. The sergeant’s face shone with more sweat than could be accounted for by mere exertion and his voice betrayed the strain of a man nearing the limits of courage. “Makes sense to guard the escape route.”

“Sound military thinking,” Braddon assured him, taking hold of the rope.

Loriabeth had already found a way in, a decent-sized gap in the vines on the temple’s north-side. She crouched at it with pistol in hand, peering at the gloomy interior with uncharacteristic reluctance. “Smells funny,” she said as Clay clambered to her side. “Like something old and long dead.”

A quick sniff confirmed it, Clay finding the smell had an unpleasant mustiness to it. He could see a broad beam of sunlight streaming through the darkness beyond the gap, indicating the temple roof had fallen in at some point. He glanced back, finding Silverpin close by and inclined his head at the gap. “Shall we?”

After the clamminess of the jungle the temple interior felt blessedly cool, Clay standing in a void of shadows until his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom. The floor was uneven in several places, causing him to move with a cautious step, Stinger at his shoulder and Loriabeth and Silverpin close by on either side. This tier was a single space free of walls, the ceiling supported by rows of octagonal pillars. Clay was inevitably drawn to the sunlit centre of the space, the beam streaming down through a wide opening into the depths of the temple. Like the pillars, the hole was eight-sided and ringed by a balustrade. Clay leaned over to glance up then down, confirming each successive tier also featured an identical hole. The base of the temple, as revealed by the bright octagon of sunlight, appeared just a jumble of fallen stone.

“Well, it’s surely big enough,” Skaggerhill murmured, appearing out of the gloom alongside Braddon and Preacher.

“Big enough for what?” Clay asked.

“A winged drake.” The harvester leaned on the balustrade, gazing down. “Red, Black or . . .” He trailed off at a warning cough from Braddon.

“They paid homage to it, here.” Preacher stood back from the hole, keeping to the shadows though the light glinted on his eyes. Clay felt his unease deepen at the tone of the marksman’s voice: possessed of the same stridency as when he had quoted scripture. “Bowed down to worship a harbinger of destruction.”

“Don’t appear to have done them much good,” Loriabeth said, kicking a loose stone across the floor so it tumbled over the edge of the hole. It was two full seconds before they heard the faint clatter as it found the bottom.

“Nevertheless,” Scriberson said, “I believe our devout friend may be right. About this being a place of worship, at least.” He had stopped at one of the pillars, playing the light from a small lantern over its surface. Clay joined him, making out the symbols etched into the stone.

“More writing that can’t be read?”

“Partly, but not all. See here.” Scriberson angled the lantern a little, revealing a series of images carved into the stone. They were simple in form but had been crafted with considerable precision; a group of human-like figures stood with arms raised below what could only be a drake, flying aloft with wings spread wide and flame blossoming from its gaping jaws.

“That a Red?” Clay wondered.

“A Black,” Skaggerhill said, coming to join them. “You can tell by the spines along the neck. Reds don’t have so many.”

“They worshipped the Black,” Clay said, exchanging a glance with his uncle. “Perhaps that wasn’t all.”

“Look around,” Braddon said. “Every pillar.”

The inscriptions varied on each pillar, both in length and complexity, but the basic motif remained: people in supplication to a Black drake. “Maybe it’s different on the other floors,” Skaggerhill suggested and Braddon soon had them hunting for a stairwell. They found it set into the western wall, the way down blocked by fallen stone but the way up clear and intact. As before, Clay and Silverpin went first, finding a small chamber with fewer pillars, though once again all identically decorated.

“Guess they just really liked the Black,” Skaggerhill said.

“Got something here,” Foxbine called, lowered to a crouch with her torch held close to the floor. Clay lowered his own torch, revealing a complex arrangement of small, square tiles, many of different hues.

“Mosaic,” Scriberson said, voice pitched a little high in excitement. “We need more light.”

Clay and Silverpin were obliged to return to the lower tier to cut vines for more torches, laying them out on the floor to reveal the mosaic in full. It was similar in form to the carvings on the pillars but much more detailed. The Black had been rendered with an unnerving accuracy, the jet scales glittering bright in the torch-light. The people crouched below in worship were similarly convincing, though their form proved unexpected.

“That ain’t no Spoiled,” Foxbine said, tapping a boot on the figure in the centre of the bowing humans, a young woman in a light blue robe. Like the others, she had skin of bronze and an elaborate mass of dark hair. Though the band on her head set her apart, a spiky contrivance fashioned from feathers, gems and what could only be gold.

“An indigenous Arradsian,” Firpike said, crouching to play a hand over the figure before casting a somewhat triumphant glance at Scriberson. “An unspoilt forebear, just as I predicted in my second book.”

“Merely an expansion of theories already advanced by more accomplished scholarship,” the astronomer replied, though Clay felt his dismissive tone was a little forced.

“You mean the Spoiled weren’t always Spoiled,” Loriabeth said.

“Quite so, young lady,” Firpike said, returning a hungry gaze to the mosaic. Clay noted how his hand lingered on the woman’s crown; the only evidence of treasure they had so far found. “The deformities typical to the native inhabitants of this continent have long puzzled biologists, given that they are found nowhere else on the planet. It has been theorised that their line became corrupted somehow, leaving them prone to deformity and reduced intelligence. A theory never validated, until now.”

“So what corrupted them?” she asked.

“Another great mystery awaiting an answer. But, at least now we know it happened long after the building of this city.”

“Got another one here,” Braddon called from the other side of the hole. This time the torches revealed a different image, though the woman from the first mosaic remained. She stood holding aloft something large and red that dripped a crimson cascade into her mouth. The Black that had been the object of worship lay dead beside her, its chest rent open, whilst another smaller drake emerged from a sundered egg near by.

“Heart-blood,” Skaggerhill whispered, shaking his head. “They drank its heart-blood when it died.”

“Thought that stuff was fatal,” Clay said.

“To us, certainly,” Firpike said. “But perhaps not to them. We know modern-day Spoiled have been witnessed eating raw Drake flesh without suffering fatal consequences. It could be they had some inherent immunity to its effects, like Blood-blessed today.”

“Heart-blood will still kill a Blood-blessed,” Skaggerhill pointed out.

“Not in every case. There are stories of some who survived. Receiving gifts beyond that of a normal Blood-blessed in the process.”

Clay returned his gaze to the woman in the mosaic. “Makes you wonder what gift she received,”

“There’s another stairway back here,” Foxbine called from the gloom.

—

“So,” said Braddon, “I’m guessing this is what the mad fella meant by treasure.”

The pyramid’s summit was open to the elements and featured a single pillar next to the octagonal hole in the centre. The jungle had reached even to this height and the pillar was wreathed in vines but not so thickly as to conceal the nature of its construction. Clay reached through the vegetation to press a hand to the untarnished yellow metal beneath, feeling the indentations of an engraving.

“Half a ton’s worth of gold at least,” Skaggerhill surmised. “Though how in the Travail you’d get it down from here and back to civilisation, I don’t know.”

“There are ways,” Firpike said, gazing at the pillar with bright-eyed agitation. “Now proof has been found, there isn’t a corporation in the world that wouldn’t fund an expedition.”

“You’re forgetting our deal, Doc,” Braddon said. “This don’t belong to you.”

“What?” Firpike laughed in genuine astonishment. “Captain, you must see the value of this discovery. Beyond the mere profit to be had from the gold, the historical importance . . .”

“All up to Sergeant Eadsell and his men to decide. You can make your case for their consideration and I’ll stand witness to a contracted outcome. But, make no mistake, Doc. They decide to throw you in the lake and keep this all to themselves, I ain’t standing in their way.” He turned away as Firpike began to sputter, glancing around at the otherwise barren platform. “Ain’t nothing for us here. Mr. Scriberson, Doc, you got a half-hour to take what notes you can, then we’re climbing down.”

Clay went to Braddon’s side as he moved to the edge of the platform, gazing out towards the blue expanse of the Krystaline to the west. “All Black and no White,” Clay said in a soft murmur.

“It was worth the trip, just on the off-chance of finding another clue. I do wonder if we ain’t missing something here, though.”

“It’s a big city. Could be other temples.”

“No.” Braddon gestured at the surrounding jungle. “Nothing comes close to this in size. Preacher’s right, these people were in thrall to the Black . . .”

He fell silent as a sharp, cracking sound echoed from below, quickly followed by a half-dozen more. “Eadsell,” Braddon said, shielding his eyes to peer down at the base of the temple. At first the soldiers were hard to make out amongst the varying hues of green but then Clay saw them, two clambering desperately up the rope whilst the others maintained a rapid fusillade at the tree-line. He couldn’t make out what they were shooting at but then he heard it, the same piercing scream from when they had first found the city. Greens. He could see them through the canopy, skin flickering as they raced through the patchy sunlight. They came boiling out of the jungle a few seconds later, far more than had been assaulting the tower, too many to easily count.

“Preacher, get over here!” Braddon called, unshouldering his longrifle. He began to fire immediately, the rifle booming out three rapid shots, Clay seeing Greens tumble as they began to scramble down the far bank of the canal. All but two of the soldiers had made it up the rope to the second tier now, Sergeant Eadsell and one other continuing to fire at the onrushing Greens.

“Eadsell!” Skaggerhill called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Forget it! There’s too many! Just get up here!”

The sergeant glanced upwards and gestured for his comrade to make for the rope, fired a final shot then followed. A Green clawed its way out of the canal and sprinted in pursuit, leaping with claws raised and mouth gaping. Preacher’s shot caught it in mid air, its head snapping back in a red cloud. Braddon and Preacher continued their barrage as the soldiers climbed, aiming with a precision that belied the rapidity of the shots. Clay counted at least a dozen Greens felled by the time both marksmen stopped to reload.

“What in the Travail is this?” he heard Foxbine breathe, gazing down at the tree-line in blank astonishment.

For a second Clay could only see yet more Greens, emerging from the jungle in a seemingly endless tide, but then amongst the rushing drakes he saw them, moving slower though seemingly in equally large numbers. Spoiled.

They came to stand at the edge of the jungle as the last of the Greens charged clear of the trees. Clay had no notion how many, a thousand, two thousand? For a short time they just stood there, gazing up at the temple in silent contemplation. The Greens were roiling about at the base of the temple, still baying out their screams without any regard for the copious prey at their backs.

“I’m guessing this is new,” Clay said, flexing his trembling hands on the Stinger.

“Greens eat Spoiled just like they eat everything else,” Skaggerhill said. “But not today. Today, seems like they both just want us.”

A ripple ran through the long line of Spoiled, all of them moving with a parade-ground precision as if in response to some unspoken command. Clay could see most had raised their arms, thinking perhaps a homage to this place, but then a closer look saw they all held something.

“Down!” he shouted, whirling away, snagging Braddon’s duster to drag him along. The arrows rose in a black cloud, some striking the edge of the platform whilst others described a narrow arc to plummet down. Clay huddled behind the golden pillar, making himself as small as possible, hearing the sharp raindrop-like clatter of flint striking stone all around. Someone issued a pained grunt near by and he winced as a fleck of shattered flint stung his cheek.

He raised his head as the clatter faded, eyes instinctively seeking out Silverpin. She was crouched at Foxbine’s side, the gunhand’s face tensed in pain as she gave forth a torrent of profane fury, bloodied hands clamped around the arrow embedded in her thigh. “Sons-a-bitching fucking freaks!”

Clay moved to where his uncle stood staring down at the spectacle below. Eadsell and his men lay scattered about the second tier, pierced all over by arrows. Below them the Greens had begun to climb, making slow but steady progress as they latched their claws on the blanket of vines, still screaming all the while.

“That Product you got hidden,” Braddon said to Clay, slotting a round into his longrifle. “I’m thinking now would be a good time.”

He moved away before Clay could say anything else, barking orders. “Preacher, you and me will take the front. Lori, cover the right. Skaggs, on the left. Silverpin, look to the rear. Clay, choose your own ground. Mark your targets and make ’em count. Ammo costs money.”

He and Preacher immediately resumed their barrage at the Greens below, the steady boom of their longrifles punctuating the increasingly loud chorus of drake screams. It wasn’t long before they came within range of Loriabeth’s pistols and Skaggerhill’s shotgun, and for a few moments all was noise and rising gunsmoke, dimming occasionally as the Longrifles reloaded.

Clay saw Firpike huddling at the base of his beloved pillar, eyes closed tight against the din, and hugging the vine-encrusted gold as if worried it might be snatched away. Clay considered hauling him off the thing but then saw Scriberson raising himself up to cast a curious glance over the edge of the roof. The astronomer reeled back almost immediately as a blast of drake fire licked the edge of the platform. Clay rushed to Scriberson’s side, helping him pat away the patch of flame on his sleeve. Clay took out Auntie’s vial and gulped down some Black before risking a glance over the edge.

Two Greens clambered straight towards him, claws blurring and smoke rising from their snapping jaws. He raised the Stinger and began firing, loosing off two shots to no good effect before forcing himself to take a calming breath. The head, always the head.

His next shot impacted on the snout of the Green on the left, forcing it to halt but failing to kill it. He raised his aim a fraction as the beast shook blood from its snout, slotting a round cleanly into its skull and sending it tumbling onto its brethren below.

Clay shifted his sights to the other Green, which had now scrambled to within a dozen feet. It sprang to the side as he fired, the bullet tearing a chunk of flesh from its foreleg but failing to dislodge it from the vines. It launched itself upwards as he fired his final round, tail whipping and jaws gaping as the bullet impacted on its belly, drawing blood but barely slowing it down. It scrambled up the remaining distance in a blur of shifting colours, claws shredding vines and calling out its piercing scream. Clay fought panic and locked his feet in place, fixing his gaze on the drake. There was no time to reload and he had only one weapon left. He waited until it came within a yard of the temple’s summit then unleashed the Black in a single blast. The Green’s head jerked back from the force of the wave, Clay hearing the crack of breaking bone before it was cast off into the air, tumbling end over end to disappear into the jungle.

“Down to my last ten rounds, Captain!” Preacher called out. Clay turned to see him methodically reloading his longrifle, smoke streaming from the barrel, which had taken on a reddish glow from furious use. Near by, Skaggerhill loosed off both barrels of his shotgun then drew his revolver and snapped off two shots. Foxbine had evidently refused to let her wound lay her low and stood with her back propped against the golden pillar, bloodied bandage on her leg and a revolver in each hand.

Clay glanced down, seeing another half-dozen Greens begin the long climb to the summit, with more still clambering out of the canal behind. The Spoiled continued to stand at the tree-line, still as statues. Clay couldn’t know what they were waiting for but doubted it was anything good. He checked the vial in his hand, finding less than half left.

He reloaded the Stinger and took careful aim at the leading Green below. The range was long but worth a shot. It’ll have to pause whilst it clears the second level; there’s a gap in the vines . . . The vines. He watched as the Green clambered up, noting how brittle the vines were under its claws. Dry as tinder, he realised.

He lowered the Stinger and hurried to Braddon’s side. “Got an idea,” he said. “Get everybody back from the edge.”

He ran for the stairwell, ignoring the shouted query his uncle cast after him, sprinting down the steps and into the second tier before reaching for his wallet. It was the scratch of claws on tile that saved him, pure instinct sending him sprawling. The flames missed him by inches, the heat of the blast singeing the hairs on his arm as he rolled away. The Green screamed, the shadow that concealed it lingering on its skin as it leapt for him, teeth gleaming amidst the black. The Stinger roared and red blossomed in the descending silhouette. The Green landed atop him, leaking enough product to have killed an unblessed. As it was, the burn of it on his neck was sufficiently painful to make him yell and kick free of the corpse in a scramble. He shot it again as he got to his feet, more out of spite than necessity.

He took a moment to wash away the blood with the water from his canteen, then reached for the wallet once more. “Right,” he gasped, extracting a vial and looking around at the many gaps in the walls and the vines beyond. “Let’s see if Skaggs is right about you fuckers burning like anything else.”

He drank a quarter of the Red, staggering a little as it mingled with the lingering Black in his gut. Ellforth’s stock wasn’t the best quality and the dilutions didn’t mix well with the more refined product Auntie had given him. The combination made for a nauseous gut and a thumping headache, but it couldn’t be helped. Once his vision cleared, he concentrated on the biggest gap in the wall, the vines beyond bursting into flame instantly. He cast his gaze around in a slow circle, fire blossoming wherever it lingered, pausing to gulp down more Red as it dwindled in his blood-stream. Within minutes the fire had taken hold and the heat was fast becoming unbearable. He ran to the next tier and repeated the process, lighting several more fires that soon merged with the flames rising from below. He stopped when the smoke thickened into a choking fog and made his way back to the summit, fatigue rising due to the intense use of so much inferior product, forcing him to crawl the last few steps.

Braddon and Silverpin rushed to him as he clawed his way free of the smoke, dragging him to the edge of the octagonal hole in the centre of the platform. They were all huddled there, forced back by the heat. Clay could hear the drakes screaming through the swirling fog, in pain now rather than rage. One came clambering up, heaving itself over the edge with difficulty, hide blackened and blistered. It made an effort to crawl towards them, jaws opening and closing spasmodically until a shot from Loriabeth put it out of its misery.

“Seems you saved us and killed us both, young ’un,” Skaggerhill commented. The flames were now licking above the summit’s edge and the smoke grew thicker by the second, so it seemed likely they would choke before they burned.

“Do—” Clay began then fell to coughing, the fit violent enough to see him retching. He grunted, gesturing frantically at the hole and pointing downwards.

“Skaggs, Lori,” Braddon said, rising from Clay’s side. “Fix ropes to the pillar.”

The smoke was near blinding by the time they had two ropes fastened in place. Mr. Firpike apparently saw little need to observe a chain of command by immediately lunging for one of the ropes and commencing a rapid but inexpert descent. “Can’t we just shoot him now?” Loriabeth asked her father.

“Too low on ammo.” He gestured for her to go next then told Foxbine to follow, the gunhand’s descent accompanied by a loud chorus of profanity as she forced animation into her wounded leg.

“You ready?” Braddon asked, crouching at Clay’s side when the others had all climbed down.

“Guess I’ll have to be.” Clay groaned as his uncle hauled him upright, head thumping fit to burst and the gut ache worsened by the stink of smoke and burning flesh.

“Take it slow,” Braddon cautioned as he took hold of the rope and swung himself over the edge of the hole. A good five yards of rope slipped through Clay’s grip before he found purchase, letting out a yell from the effort and the burn to his hands. He hung there for a short while, gasping the slightly clearer air, then began to descend, arms and legs shuddering as he inched his way down. He knew he wasn’t going to make it after only a few more seconds of effort; there simply wasn’t any more strength left in him. He stopped, wrapping his legs and arms around the rope, head lolling as he turned to Braddon, now hanging at his side.

“How’d you know?” he asked. “’Bout the product?”

“Thief’s a thief,” Braddon replied with a shrug. His face darkened as he took in Clay’s evident exhaustion and drooping eyes. “Wake up, boy! We ain’t done here!”

Clay could only manage a slow shake of his head. “Wasn’t lying,” he said, his voice sounding faint and far away to his own ears. “’Bout Keyvine. Wasn’t me . . .”

“Claydon! You hold on, now!”

“She made me a gift . . . Take good care of her, Uncle . . .”

He was aware of the rope slipping through his grasp, of his uncle’s shouts being drowned out by something else, presumably a concoction of his fading and befuddled mind. A drake’s call, far louder and deeper than the screams of the Greens, the sound cutting through him, forcing his eyes open as he fell, staring up at the pale, smoke-shrouded octagon above and the dark shadow growing in its centre. The sound intensified as the shadow grew in size, sprouting wings that banished the smoke with a single flap before it descended into the temple. Clay’s exhaustion finally overtook him just as the shadow came into focus and he knew he was greeting death with a fever dream, so impossible was the image. A Black drake, streaking towards him with mouth wide and talons outstretched, and perched on its back, a small figure swaddled in rags.

CHAPTER 27

Hilemore

“Fifteen effectives,” Dr. Weygrand reported. He sat at the ward-room table, grey-faced with fatigue and his shirt richly decorated with a spatter of red and brown. It was customary for officers to don full uniform and remain standing when making after-action reports, but Hilemore saw little need to observe tradition at this juncture. “Another twenty wounded. I expect eleven will survive, five are possibles, the other four won’t last two days.”

“The captain?” Hilemore asked.

“One of the possibles. He remains comatose, though his pulse is regular and he shows occasional signs of movement. He’s lost a good deal more blood than I’d have liked, though.”

“Green stocks?”

The doctor shook his head. “All gone within an hour of joining battle. Unless some of the crew had a private stock.”

“A good point. Mr. Steelfine.” Hilemore turned to the Islander, the only one present who had opted to remain standing. He had also found the time to change into a clean tunic. “Please conduct a search of the crew quarters, see what you can unearth. Wouldn’t be the first crew to hide a little product aboard.”

“Aye, sir.”

Hilemore shifted his attention to Chief Bozware, who appeared to share the doctor’s state of near exhaustion. “How long until the auxiliary is back on-line?”

“Another day, at least. And we’re down to a quarter vial of Red.”

Hilemore suppressed a frown of annoyance. They had followed a slow, winding course through the Isles until nightfall forced a halt. As he had expected, Zenida Okanas proved capable of navigating these channels without falling afoul of reefs or sand-bars, guiding them to a sheltered bay where they could drop anchor. Despite making a successful escape from the Maritime Protectorate’s worst military debacle, Hilemore knew their immobility counted as a failure. The Corvantines badly want our engine, he knew. And what chance their admiral won’t risk some smaller vessels to get it?

“Very well,” he said, forcing a brisk note into his voice. “We remain at anchor until the auxiliary is repaired. In the meantime we shall heal the Viable’s other injuries and see to our fallen. Mr. Talmant, notes for the log, if you please.”

“Aye, sir.” The ensign lifted his pen and held it poised over the open log-book.

“The following appointments are made under my authority as acting captain of the IPV Viable Opportunity. Master-at-Arms Steelfine to receive a battlefield commission and brevet promotion to the rank of second lieutenant. Accordingly, he will undertake the duties of First Officer.”

The Islander’s only apparent reaction was a slight stiffening to his back, though Hilemore saw him blink a little more than was customary.

“Ensign Talmant is also promoted to the rank of third lieutenant and will undertake the duties of Second Mate.”

Talmant’s pen slipped, spilling ink onto the log which he instantly began to blot away. “Apologies, sir.”

“It’s quite all right, Lieutenant. The former prisoner Zenida Okanas has been contracted as Blood-blessed to the Viable Opportunity. She will also undertake the duties of navigation officer. The terms of her appointment will be appended to the log in due course.”

There were some exchanged glances across the table but, either through agreement or weariness, none of those present felt compelled to voice an objection to allowing a pirate onto the ship’s list. Hilemore got to his feet, obliging the others to follow suit.

“Doctor, Chief,” he said. “I am also ordering you to take at least five hours’ sleep. Can’t serve this ship if you’re dead on your feet.”

—

He had given Tottleborn’s cabin over to Zenida Okanas and her daughter. The girl opened the door at the fifth knock and Hilemore was surprised to find her holding one of the fallen Blood-blessed’s periodicals, this one even more lurid than usual. “She-Wolf of the Isles” the cover proclaimed, the letters emblazoned in red and carefully arranged so as to cover the breasts and nethers of the implausibly proportioned and muscular warrior-woman it depicted.

“That isn’t for you,” he told her in Varestian, reaching for the publication. The girl jerked it out of reach, mouth taking on a defiant grimace as she glared back.

“She likes the pictures,” her mother said. She lay on the bunk, a forearm across her eyes and voice weary. “Can’t read the words in any case.”

“The content is unsuitable,” Hilemore stated.

The woman voiced a soft laugh. “I’ll wager my daughter’s seen more unsuitable things than you have. Varestians don’t coddle their children.”

“Nor teach them to read?”

“She can read a compass and a map. My people rarely have other uses for writing.” She groaned and sat up on the bed. “More orders for me, Captain? I’ve already plotted you a course through the Isles that’ll see us to open water in three days. What more do you want of me?”

“Open water will be our grave without product to fire the blood-burner. Corvantine patrols will intercept us before we’ve covered half the distance to Feros.”

“I have no product.”

“I see that. But we both know there is a place where it might be obtained. A place where only one of us will find welcome.”

The pirate’s face clouded a little in realisation. “The Hive.”

“Quite so.”

“I may have found welcome there once, when I had a ship and loot to fence. The only welcome I’m likely to receive upon stepping ashore from a Protectorate launch will be a lynching, if I’m lucky.”

“They might be less aggressive if our guns were to cover your landing. And much of your loot still rests in our hold.”

The woman’s eyes flicked to her daughter and Hilemore saw something pass between them, the girl’s face taking on a warning cast. “He’s right,” Zenida said, slipping into Varestian. “We have little choice.”

“He’ll kill you and steal me,” the girl said, the first words Hilemore could remember her speaking. In fact, he had come to suspect she might be mute.

“I will never allow that,” the pirate told her daughter in emphatic terms.

“I have no intention of causing harm to either of you,” Hilemore said, somewhat puzzled.

“We weren’t talking about you,” the girl sneered in oddly cultured Mandinorian.

“Really?” Hilemore looked at her mother. “Then who?”

Zenida Okanas gave no reply, merely coming to her feet with a tired groan. “I’ll need to plot a fresh course.”

—

Bozware’s estimate proved to be overly optimistic, the repairs to the auxiliary engine taking two full days and even then the Viable could only make five knots at full clip. Fortunately, the confined waters of the Isles required more manoeuvrability than speed, as well as an expert hand on the wheel. Hilemore had soon come to appreciate the pirate woman’s gift for angling the rudder precisely so as to take full advantage of the fast-flowing currents between the islands, and her deftness in avoiding the many hidden treacheries in these waters.

“First sailed here when I was nine,” she said on the evening of the second day. She had just steered them past the shoulder of a coral reef that appeared nowhere on any Ironship chart of the region. “My father’s boat, The Silver Dart. First blood-burner owned by the Okanas family.”

“And you fired the engine, presumably?” Hilemore asked.

“Of course. Father was able to borrow enough to buy her the day after the Blood-lot revealed my Blessing. He made it all back with interest on our first voyage. Aren’t many freighters can out-run a burner. By the time I was sixteen we had funds enough to buy two more ships, and timber to build a port of our own.”

“Your family built the Hive?”

“It was more of a joint enterprise. Pirates tend not to compete with each other if it can be avoided, those that survive for any length of time that is. Feuding makes for poor profits.”

“Is it your father that waits there now? Is he the man your daughter fears?”

Her face took on the stern aspect he had come to realise meant she had no more words for the time being. It was therefore a surprise when she replied after a lengthy silence, “No, just his bitter seed.”

—

They gave the last of the dead to the Deep the following morning, the four doomed men on Weygrand’s list plus two of the possibles who had expired overnight. Hilemore said the appropriate words and formally crossed the names off the ship’s list whilst the honour guard stood at rigid attention in newly laundered uniforms. He had insisted on a strict observance of dress code today. With the ship in its current state and so many comrades fallen, the crew needed the reassurance of discipline and ritual. Steelfine dismissed the men after the last body had slid over the side, and Hilemore had him linger to survey the Viable’s works.

“Battle-scarred but unbowed, sir,” was the Islander’s estimation.

“Battle-scarred indeed,” Hilemore said, taking in the numerous scorch-marks in the decking that were too deeply ingrained to be scrubbed away. The upper works had been partly reconstructed thanks to the diligent work of the ship’s carpenter, the timber provided by a tree-felling expedition ashore whilst they had been at anchor. At Steelfine’s urging Hilemore had permitted only one tree to be taken. “My people will know we are here,” he had said. “And they don’t appreciate greed.”

“Then why do your people tolerate the Hive?” Hilemore asked. “It strikes me there must be greed aplenty there.”

“Pirates have been traversing the Isles for a hundred years or more. They learned early on the value of reaching an accommodation with any tribes they encountered. I imagine the Hive is tolerated because its leaders pay annual tribute, and the price will be steep.”

“Gold?”

Steelfine gave a rare smile, teeth bright in the morning sun. “Weapons, sir. Plus a few sundry luxuries, but mostly weapons. The only currency in the Isles.”

—

The Hive came into view in late afternoon, heralded by the sight of smoke leaking into the darkening sky from a cluster of tight-packed dwellings halfway up the slope of the island’s highest peak. Instead of a dock, the few ships in attendance were moored to a series of tall posts, each at least sixty feet high. “Mooring ropes are fixed to a ratchet that slides up and down with the tide,” Zenida explained. “Couldn’t afford a wall to guard against the three moons. Works well enough as long as there’s no storms.”

The Viable moored up just within cannon-shot of the town. Hilemore ordered a red flag with a white circle hoisted above the wheel-house; the universal signal requesting truce and negotiation. “Don’t expect it to be a shield if this goes against us,” the pirate woman advised as she and Hilemore climbed into the launch. “It’s just a rag on a stick to the man you’ll meet tonight.”

Hilemore turned to Steelfine, who stood staring at the town with undisguised suspicion, his jaw clenched in suppressed anger at being ordered to remain behind. “Remember,” Hilemore said. “Not one second past the twelfth hour. Confine the bombardment to the ships then make all speed north. No delays, Number One.”

He held Steelfine’s gaze until he received a curt nod then sat down to grasp the oars. Zenida Okanas spared a glance at her daughter standing at Steelfine’s side, saying nothing but Hilemore saw the brightness in her eyes before she blinked and looked away. “You haven’t told me her name,” he said, starting to row for the shore. They were alone in the boat at her insistence, also unarmed, which made his back itch with every pull of the oars.

“Why would that interest you?” she replied, gaze fixed on the approaching town.

“The ship’s log for one. I like to keep accurate records.”

She remained silent as they came level with the moored ships, the crewmen coming to the rail to watch them pass. A few held rifles and shotguns, though none was aimed in their direction. From the straightened backs of a few, Hilemore discerned they recognised his passenger.

“Akina,” Zenida said when they had cleared the ships. “It means jewel.” Her voice was hoarse and Hilemore kept his gaze from her face to spare her embarrassment, knowing she was fighting tears. She expects to die tonight.

The shore-line consisted of a broad beach, crowded with boats and piled cargo awaiting transport or sale. There were numerous onlookers as they grounded the boat and strode free of the surf, however the small group of armed men barring their path captured most of Hilemore’s attention. They were led by a stocky man of middling years and North Mandinorian origin, judging by the red hair crowning a face tanned from many years under the southern sun. In contrast to the men at his back he wore an affable, even jovial expression. “Captain Okanas,” he greeted Zenida in a rumbling baritone. “So glad to find you’re not residing with the King of the Deep, after all.”

“Constable Tragerhorn,” she replied, taking off her hat to return the bow. “May I present Captain Hilemore of the Ironship vessel Viable Opportunity. Come ashore in search of honest commerce.”

One of the pirates gave a scornful snicker at that, soon echoed by his fellows, though Hilemore took note of the speed with which they fell silent at Tragerhorn’s backward glance. “Captain,” he said, turning back, and maintaining his genial tone. “Constable Kaylib Tragerhorn, charged with maintaining order in this port by its duly appointed government. Your flag has been noted and will be respected. However, any breach of the customary rules of parley will result in swift punishment.”

“I understand, sir,” Hilemore replied in as neutral a voice as he could manage. Treating with pirates was not a circumstance he relished, but honour must be set aside in the face of dire necessity.

“How many are present?” Zenida asked Tragerhorn.

“Three of the five,” he replied. “More than usual, in fact. Recent events have gotten everyone in a bit of a tizzy, as you might imagine.” He stepped aside, gesturing at the winding track stretching away from the beach. “They’re waiting, and given their mood, we’d best not tarry.”

—

As with any land regularly beset by the three-moon tide, the slope beyond the beach was mostly rock and sparse bush, ascending at a sharp incline until it levelled out when they came to the town. There were considerably more onlookers here, clustered in doorways and alleys or peering down from windows and balconies. Also, unlike the pirates on the ships, they were less shy in giving voice to anxiety.

“What you doin’ with ’im, Captain?” a woman demanded of Zenida as they passed by one of the larger dwellings. She glared down from a balcony amidst a number of other women, sparsely dressed and liberally painted as befit their profession. “Take your ship away and it turns out you’re more a whore than I am!”

“Clamp down on that shit-mouth, Lirra!” Tragerhorn warned, pausing to fix the woman with a hard stare that soon had her shrinking back into the protective huddle of her sisters. Tragerhorn lingered to regard the surrounding townsfolk with a challenging glare, gaze tracking from face to face, each abruptly finding somewhere else to look. After a few seconds, he moved on and they proceeded along the muddy thoroughfare that formed the Hive’s Main Street, this time without any accompanying catcalls.

“Glad to see your authority hasn’t waned, Constable,” Zenida said. “I assume the One Rule is still in force?”

“That it is, Captain,” Tragerhorn replied. “Been a good six months since I had to enforce it though.”

“One Rule?” Hilemore enquired.

“Those that founded this place were a pragmatic lot,” Tragerhorn said. “As us seafarers tend to be. There’s only one rule if you break a law here.”

He paused again and gestured ahead where the street opened out into a square of sorts. Rising from the centre of the square was a tall scaffold resembling a gallows but with four arms instead of one. From each arm there hung a narrow cage inside which Hilemore could see the dull white glimmer of bone or skull amidst the shrunken bundles of rags and desiccated flesh.

“They can last a good while, sometimes,” Tragerhorn commented. “Folk throw food at the cages, apples and such, all rotten naturally. Surprising how long a man can subsist on other people’s leavings.”

He led them past the scaffold to the largest structure Hilemore had seen so far, an oddly elegant reproduction of the kind of mansion favoured by the higher echelons of the Mandinorian managerial class. It stood three storeys high, complete with rectangular columns and tall windows, though the modern aspect was spoilt somewhat by the classical statuary adorning the roof-top.

“My father had the good fortune to happen upon an accomplished architect aboard a liner out of Carvenport,” Zenida said. “He built this in return for his freedom. Oddly, when it was done he decided he’d rather stay. Too many bad debts, apparently. Spent his remaining years whoring and drinking, all at my father’s expense.”

“I’d say he got his money’s worth,” Hilemore replied, his eyes lingering on the statues, long-forgotten gods and goddesses standing as dumb sentinels over this den of scum. It put him in mind of the crumbling pile at Astrage Vale and the many marble figures that littered the grounds. They were all antique and retained considerable value though his father had always resisted selling them, no matter how many times the bailiffs came knocking. Hilemore doubted that Cousin Malkim would share the same scruples.

“Best not make them wait, Captain,” Tragerhorn advised, gesturing to the steps ascending to the mansion door. It was opened by a hulking South Mandinorian fellow clad in archaic servant’s livery of satin waistcoat and an elaborately cuffed lace shirt. The near-comical appearance was offset somewhat by the pistol on his hip and the Dalcian tulwar strapped across his back. Two more men stood in the corridor beyond, not so large but both similarly attired and armed.

“Constable.” The hulking fellow greeted Tragerhorn with a respectful nod.

“Mr. Lockbar,” the constable replied. “Captains Hilemore and Okanas to see the Directors.”

Lockbar stepped aside to allow them entry then courteously requested they raise their arms and stand still whilst he searched them both. “I was welcome in this house long before you,” Zenida said, face paling with anger as the man patted her down.

“My contract is with the Directors,” Lockbar replied in a neutral tone.

When satisfied they were unarmed he turned and led them through a marble-floored hallway, the two other guards falling in behind along with Tragerhorn. “Leave all negotiation to me,” Zenida murmured to Hilemore as they proceeded to a set of double doors. “Speak only in response to a direct question.”

Lockbar swung the doors open and bid them enter. The space beyond was cavernous and lit by a row of six chandeliers suspended from a ceiling of moulded plaster. Ballroom, Hilemore decided, taking in the floral pattern on the tile floor. Three people sat in chairs next to the cavernous fire-place, long shadows stretching away in the orange glow. They stayed seated as Hilemore and Zenida came closer, stopping a dozen feet away at Lockbar’s order.

The seats were occupied by two men and a woman. The man on the right was portly and balding, with a bulbous nose so reddened from burst veins he appeared almost clownish, an impression countered by the deep scars tracing across his hairless head and the sharp calculation in his eyes. The woman on the left was perhaps fifty years old with thin, handsome features and hair tied back in a severe bun. She was elegantly dressed in a black mourning gown free of any adornments or jewellery. She regarded Hilemore with only the barest flicker of interest before fixing her gaze entirely on Zenida. Hilemore saw a weight to that gaze despite the woman’s expressionless features, whether born of malice or warmth he couldn’t tell.

But it was the man in the centre who captured most of his attention, his honed instincts attuned to seeking out the most salient threat. He was a few years Hilemore’s senior and not particularly tall, nor especially muscular. He wore sailor’s garb of good quality and had his hair worn long as was customary with Varestian men-folk. Unlike the bald man he bore no scars but Hilemore took one look at his face and knew he looked upon a killer. The eyes were steady as they traced from him to Zenida, taking in every detail and seeing more than most could. It was always the way with predators.

“Aren’t you going to introduce your new friend?” the man in the centre asked Zenida in slightly accented Mandinorian.

“Captain Hilemore of the IPV Viable Opportunity,” Zenida replied, keeping her voice on an even keel.

“Ah yes.” The man turned to Hilemore with a smile. “The ship that came to pound us to dust then just sailed away. That was your mission was it not, Captain?”

Hilemore saw little reason to lie, knowing deception would be wasted on this man. “It was. More pressing matters compelled us on another course, however.”

“More pressing matters, yes.” The man laughed. “In particular, this war you appear to be in the process of losing. It seems we owe the Corvantines a considerable debt.”

“If they come here, I doubt you’ll get the chance to repay it.”

“Why should they come here? Unless in search of you.” The man’s smile faded and he turned back to Zenida. “You haven’t finished your introductions.”

“Captain,” Zenida went on, face flushing a little as she gestured to the bald man. “This is Captain Kordwine of the Osprey, Co-Director of the Eastern Isles Trading Conglomerate. This”—Zenida’s discomfort visibly deepened as she turned to the woman, “is his fellow Co-Director Ethilda Okanas, my esteemed stepmother, and this”—she gritted her teeth upon facing the man in the centre, “is Director-in-Chief Arshav Okanas . . . my brother.”

Arshav’s smile returned, though only for an instant as he said, “Half-brother,” very precisely.

Zenida said nothing, face now tense with anger and, Hilemore was disturbed to see, a definite measure of fear.

“Where is my niece?” Arshav asked in a tone of soft intensity. “Aboard the Ironship tub, perhaps? Or are you going to claim she died at this one’s hands? Which would, of course, beg the question, why are you willing to sell yourself to him . . . ?”

“Arshav,” Ethilda Okanas said, her voice not overly loud but possessed of a sharp note of command. Arshav fell silent, though Hilemore saw a spasm of resentment flick across his face.

“She is well, I trust?” the woman enquired of Zenida, casting a brief but loaded glance at Hilemore. “And not held hostage to your conduct here?”

“I am pardoned and contracted under the captain’s authority. Akina is not here by my choice.”

“You have no ship,” Arshav stated. “The law is clear.”

“I am contracted as crew,” Zenida returned. “Therefore, I have a ship.”

Her half-brother abruptly slipped into Varestian, a snarl creeping into his voice. “A corporate ship. A slaver’s ship.”

“But still a ship.”

“Enough of this,” Captain Kordwine said in Mandinorian, speaking for the first time. “Your family disputes are a private matter, and this is conglomerate business.” He gave Hilemore an appraising stare before speaking again. “From the look of your ship it seems you’ve been in the wars, Captain.”

“Indeed we have, sir.”

“As our Chief Director says, we had chance to see you sail by recently. She’s a blood-burner, isn’t she? Fastest I ever saw, in fact. It doesn’t take a brilliant mind to reckon out what you came here for.”

“We have a hold full of valuable cargo.” Hilemore glanced at Lockbar before slowly reaching into his tunic and extracting the list of the hold’s contents. “If this is truly a commercial enterprise, then I’m sure a price can be agreed.”

“There’s only one price I’ll agree to,” Arshav said, still staring at Zenida. “I’ll not see my niece given over to corporate scum . . .”

“We will need some time to consult,” Ethilda broke in, Hilemore noting the annoyance colouring her tone and surmised she was either aggrieved by her son’s intent or peeved at his lack of guile in revealing it. “Mr. Lockbar, escort the captains to the Shell Room and provide appropriate refreshment.”

—

The Shell Room was aptly named, a large study in which the walls and ceiling had been inset with sea-shells of varying sizes, some painted in brightly coloured enamel or adorned with semi-precious stones. Hilemore found its garishness at odds with the rest of the house, thinking it doubtful that this had been in the drunken architect’s plans. “My father had curious tastes when it came to decoration,” Zenida explained. “The older he got the more curious they became.”

Lockbar had placed a bottle of wine and two glasses on the broad, oak-wood writing-desk set back from the window. Zenida had poured a small measure into a glass, sniffed it once then set it aside. “No whiff of poison, but we’d best not trust it.”

Hilemore went to the window, finding scant surprise at the sight of another two armed guards standing amidst the flower-beds outside. “Why is possessing a berth on a ship of such import?” he enquired, turning back.

Zenida sat and rested her elbows on the desk, lowering her head to massage her forehead. She said nothing for some time but then, apparently deciding there might be some value in sharing knowledge, said, “A Varestian without a ship is homeless. A homeless parent cannot care for a child.”

“This is your law?”

“Yes. We do have them, you know.”

“So, if you cannot provide a home for your daughter . . . ?”

“Law dictates she be placed with her closest relative, who will undertake the duties of guardian, along with certain responsibilities regarding the administration of her property.”

Hilemore frowned in puzzlement. “Akina has property?”

“Akina is one of the wealthiest individuals in the southern seas, thanks to my father.” She sighed, leaning back in the chair, hands gripping the edge of the desk. “Towards the end of his life our bond . . . diminished. He didn’t approve of my accommodation with your Syndicate. ‘Privateer is just another word for whore,’ he said, an observation that did little to improve matters between us. So, when he managed to get himself killed during some mad treasure-hunting jaunt to the Interior, his will made for interesting reading. My beloved half-brother and I each received one twentieth of his estate, a tenth going to my stepmother whilst the entire remainder was left to Akina. He remained very fond of her despite our estrangement.”

“So, if your brother claims her, he claims her wealth.”

“Yes. And I have grave doubts he will administer it with her best interests in mind.”

Hilemore paused, fumbling over the best way to phrase the next question, but she pre-empted him. “Akina’s father died three years ago.” She paused to glance around the room. “Two years to the day after completing his last great architectural work.” She looked up at Hilemore, grinning a little at his expression. “He wasn’t always such a complete drunk, and I was more easily impressed when younger.”

He nodded and looked away, thinking to spare her blushes but she merely seemed amused by his discomfort. “You Mandinorians and your rigid customs,” she said with a faint laugh that soon faded. All mirth had vanished when she spoke again. “Arshav will demand we hand over Akina in return for product. I need to know, will you allow this?”

“Certainly not,” he replied, more curtly than he intended as the suggestion had chafed his honour. What does she imagine I am? “Tell me,” he said, leaning against the desk. “How seriously does your brother take Varestian customs?”

She angled her head, eyes narrowing. “Do I sense a stratagem brewing, Captain?”

“It seems to me the solution to this dilemma is obvious, providing your brother responds as custom requires.”

“This is not a prospect to be entertained lightly. He’s a very dangerous man.” She looked away for a moment, brow furrowed in contemplation. “But not one I’ll miss. Ethilda will take it badly, though I can’t say that troubles me much either.”

“The rest of the town?”

“If it’s a properly conducted affair I doubt they’ll be overly troublesome. Arshav is a man surrounded by employees, not friends.” She paused, face entirely serious now. “You appear strangely certain the outcome will go in our favour.”

Hilemore shrugged, recalling something his grandfather had said, “A captain is always certain.”

—

Lockbar came to fetch them an hour later. The three Directors sat in the same chairs, though now Captain Kordwine’s posture was more slumped, his face the sullen grimace of a defeated man. The Chief Director’s greed outweighs sensible commerce, Hilemore decided as Arshav Okanas got to his feet, ignoring Hilemore to address his half-sister.

“We’ll not be bought by this corporate hireling,” he said. “But he can have his product, and you to fire it. My niece, however, requires a secure home . . .”

Hilemore moved in a blur, darting forward too fast for Lockbar to react, covering the distance to Arshav in a heart-beat and delivering a hard back-hand cuff across his face. The pirate reeled back, blood on his face as his mother scrambled to her feet with a shout of outrage.

Hilemore stood back, hearing a tulwar scrape from its scabbard an instant before the sharp point began to press into his back. He fixed his gaze on Arshav, kneeling and wiping the blood from his nose as he glared up at Hilemore, face quivering with rage. Hilemore smiled and spoke a single word in Varestian, “Challenge.”

CHAPTER 28

Lizanne

“Squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it.”

Tekela tried again, keeping a solid, two-handed grip on the revolver and placing the shot dead in the centre of the target’s chest. Lizanne had been pleased to discover Shiny Man had been resurrected in her absence, remolded now into an advancing Corvantine infantryman complete with lowered, bayonet-tipped rifle and peaked cap. “Raise your aim,” she told the girl. “Your weapon is low-calibre and one bullet is unlikely to stop a charging man when his dander’s up.”

Tekela aimed again and fired, the bullet leaving a hole in Shiny Man’s copper cheek. Her hands had proven too small for the Cadre pistol she had carried since Morsvale, the recoil nearly snatching it out from her grasp the first time she fired it. Lizanne had obtained a smaller-calibre piece from Jermayah’s armoury, a seven-shot .22 revolver with a six-inch barrel. What it lacked in power would hopefully be compensated for by its accuracy, and Tekela was proving an adept student.

“Reload and do it again,” Lizanne told her. “Faster this time.”

“Can’t we have some lunch?” Tekela grumbled, slipping into Eutherian as she tended to do when tired.

“Speak in Mandinorian,” Lizanne reminded her, gesturing impatiently at the girl’s revolver. “Lunch later.”

She glanced over at Jermayah as Tekela reloaded. In the three hours since she handed him the solargraph he had barely issued more than a grunt, sitting hunched at his work-bench with a dizzying array of intricate tools placed within reach. He only stirred once, raising his head to bark a warning when Major Arberus began a close inspection of one of his new inventions, a multi-barrelled gun of some kind mounted on a wheeled carriage.

“Keep practising,” Lizanne told Tekela. “Fifty rounds then you can take a rest.”

The girl gave a faint groan but nevertheless dutifully raised her revolver and loosed off another salvo at Shiny Man. Lizanne left her to it and moved into the darker recesses of the workshop, finding the alcove where Jermayah made his home. It featured a small bed and side-table, piled high with various technical manuals, the only reading he ever seemed to indulge in. Lizanne sank onto the bed and lay back, taking a vial of Blue from her skirt pocket. She went through the usual pre-trance ritual of controlled breathing, visualising her mindscape before checking her wrist-watch and raising the vial to her lips.

—

“Not there?” Madame Bondersil’s scowl put Lizanne in mind of one of Tekela’s tantrums, as did the waspishly impatient tone. “What do you mean, not there?”

“Mr. Torcreek failed to make the connection at the allotted time,” Lizanne replied, her tone possessing more placidity than she felt. “There could be any number of reasons for his absence.”

“Death by far being the most likely.” Madame sighed, turning back to view the trench-works below. Lizanne had found her on the city walls accompanied by a gaggle of Protectorate officers, all now retired to a respectful distance. Lizanne was struck by their uniformly haggard faces, all drawn in fatigue and anxiety as they cast repeated glances at the country beyond the trenches, as if Morradin’s horde might appear at any moment. Carvenport had never been a choice posting for the Syndicate’s soldiers. The garrison tended to be officered by those either too lacking in courage or competence to merit a more active command, or those in search of a quiet billet in which to await retirement and pension. It didn’t augur well for their prospects of holding the city. She was, however, heartened by the extensiveness of the trenches, the web of emplacements and dug-outs seeming to have doubled in size since yesterday. A few of Jermayah’s newfangled guns were positioned to cover the more obvious approaches and she was gratified to see a large number of Contractors occupying the outermost trenches. At least they can shoot straight.

“Any fragments?” Madame enquired, dragging her attention away from the defences. Fragments was a catch-all term for the vestiges of deceased trance-mates that sometimes appeared in a Blood-blessed’s mindscape, but only when they had died in mid-trance. Lizanne counted herself fortunate she had never experienced one.

“No, Madame.”

“You schooled him in the emergency procedure, I trust?”

“Contact to be attempted the following day at exactly the same time, and repeated until established.”

Madame nodded, frowning in contemplation for several minutes, apparently uncaring of the officers fidgeting near by. “Has Mr. Tollermine made any progress?” she asked finally.

“He is entirely focused on the task, but the device is yet to be made functional. Your coterie of scholars?”

Madame shook her head in mild disgust. “Spend most of their time arguing with each other. They do seem impressed with the late Burgrave’s canon of work, however.”

“He was an impressive man, in many ways. I’ll quiz the major again, see if he can share more about their expeditions . . .”

Her words were abruptly drowned out by a loud boom that reverberated over the walls to echo through the streets beyond. Lizanne’s gaze instantly went to the rising plume of earth fifty yards beyond the trench-works. The Contractors ran for cover as another shell descended, this one closer by ten yards, quickly followed by a dozen more. The barrage continued, sweeping over the outer trenches in a spectacle of churned earth, birthing a thick brown fog that soon obscured all from sight. The last shell came down barely a hundred yards from the walls, landing near an artillery position. When the fog faded Lizanne could see the corpses of three gunners lying beside their dismounted piece whilst others writhed and screamed near by.

“Marshal Morradin is clearly no laggard,” Madame observed. The last of the smoke drifted away, revealing the sight of Corvantine soldiers advancing from the tree-line to the south. Lizanne judged them to be skirmishers from the looseness of their formation and the way they scurried from cover to cover. A crackle of rifle fire erupted from the Contractors, proving the barrage had done little to thin their numbers. Lizanne counted a dozen Corvantines felled before they retreated back into the trees. Just a probe, she decided. The marshal gauges our numbers and willingness to fight.

“Return to the workshop,” Madame told her. “Continue to report any progress to me. Regardless of the fate of this city, the device must not fall into Corvantine hands, nor any knowledge that might enable them to reconstruct it.”

She held Lizanne’s gaze until she gave a nod of affirmation, the implacability in her once-cherished mentor’s gaze birthing a thought as she walked away, surprising in the depth of anger that accompanied it. You vicious old bitch.

—

The artillery started up again after midday, a slow, steady bombardment rather than another lightning barrage. The regular crump of exploding shells resounded through the workshop, making Tekela wince and the major pace back and forth in poorly controlled agitation. Jermayah, however, still didn’t raise his gaze from the solargraph.

“Morradin did the same at the siege of Jerravin,” Arberus commented. “Three solid days of pounding before the main assault. Frays the nerves as well as the defences.”

Keen to keep Tekela distracted, and sensing the girl had had enough of target practice for the day, Lizanne began to teach her the basics of unarmed combat, conscripting the major as a reluctant participant.

“Keep low,” she said, moving in a crouch towards his back. “Under his line of sight. When you’re close enough . . .” She lunged, fixing a hand over Arberus’s mouth, forcing his head back and sinking an invisible knife into the base of his skull. “Make sure you wiggle it about to churn up the brains.”

Tekela frowned. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

“You are barely five feet tall and any man you meet, and many women, are likely to possess twice your strength. Fairness is not an option for you, my dear.”

She turned to the major, watching him thumb a spot of blood from his mouth. “Sorry,” she said.

“Strong even without product,” he replied with a small grin that reminded her of their first meeting in the Burgrave’s hallway.

“Seer-dammit to the Travail and back again!”

They turned to see Jermayah on his feet, a hammer raised in his fist as he glared down at the solargraph in wide-eyed rage. “This cursed thing was surely crafted only to vex me!”

“Mr. Tollermine!” Lizanne said, employing her most corporate voice. “You forget your contract, sir.”

His gaze swung to her, the fury fading slowly as he lowered his hammer. The expression that covered his face as he looked again at the solargraph was one of abject defeat. “It’s beyond me,” he said tonelessly, tossing the hammer onto the bench. “I can’t make it work.”

“I simply do not believe that,” Lizanne said, moving to his side. She leaned down to peer at the device on the bench, blinking in surprise as she noted that it remained completely intact, not a single screw or bolt undone. “I had thought your explorations might be more extensive.”

“If I take it apart, I might never be able to reconstruct it.”

“How do you know you can’t repair it if you don’t?”

“This is not some child’s toy in need of a new spring.” He extended a hand to the device, fingers splayed and hesitant, as if he were reaching to touch a candle-flame. “There is more here . . . More than is known by us.”

“It was crafted by a man’s hand two hundred years ago, and he was mad. If such a man could make it, surely you can fix it.”

He shook his head, features drawn in mingled frustration and bafflement as he pointed to a bolt in the centre of the device. “This is the fulcrum of the entire mechanism, and it’s locked.”

“Then pick the lock.”

“I don’t even know what manner of lock this is.” He turned the solargraph, taking up a small steel probe and tapping it against a row of eight cylinders set into its side. “See these,” Jermayah said, touching the probe to the thin strips of metal fixed to the top of each cylinder. “They are all connected to the fulcrum. I suspect they must be triggered to release it, but I see no method as to how.”

“Can’t you remove them?”

“Not without breaking the connection and that will seize the entire mechanism.” He huffed out a low, rumbling sigh, tossing down the probe where it clattered against the cylinders, producing a series of sharp, almost musical pings. “There’s nothing else for it.” Jermayah turned away, running a hand through the shaggy mass of his hair. “It’ll have to be taken apart, each component recorded, itemised and copied. Then I’ll attempt a reconstruction.”

“How long?” Lizanne asked him.

“It took me six months to reconstruct the blueprints from the shadows in the box.”

“We do not have six months, Jermayah.”

“And I do not possess miraculous powers . . .”

He fell silent at the sound of several more pings from the device. They turned to find Tekela tapping the probe to the cylinders, producing a simple but recognisable tune in the process. “Chimes,” Tekela said, slipping into Eutherian once more. “My mother left me a music box that sounded much the same. It would play the ‘Emperor’s March.’”

Lizanne expected some irritated outburst from Jermayah but instead his face took on a frown of deep concentration as he moved back to the bench. “Continue,” he told Tekela when she began to step back.

“Eight . . . chimes,” she said in her halting Mandinorian, playing the same tune at a faster clip. “Different notes. Eight notes make an . . .” She fumbled for the right term, turning to Lizanne and speaking a word in Eutherian.

“An octave,” Lizanne translated. “The foundation of all music.”

“Music,” Jermayah repeated, extending a finger to the chimes. “Of course. Play the right tune, and it unlocks the fulcrum.”

“But which one?” Lizanne wondered. “There are many tunes in the world.”

“‘The Leaves of Autumn,’” Major Arberus said, now standing beside Tekela and regarding the device with much the same fascination as the rest of them. “I always thought this thing a waste of time, if not money. But Leonis had such faith in it. ‘The Key to the Interior’s treasures,’ he said.”

“‘The Leaves of Autumn’?” Lizanne enquired.

“It’s the only reference to music in the Artisan’s surviving correspondence,” he said. “Whilst we don’t know much about him, it seems he was engaged to be married at one point, a union never fulfilled thanks to his endless obsession with the Interior’s mysteries. However, a fragment of a letter to his sweetheart does survive, and in it he makes reference to the tune to be played at their wedding, her favourite.” He turned to Tekela, speaking in Eutherian. “‘The Leaves of Autumn.’ You know it? It’s very old.”

“My music tutor liked the old ones,” Tekela said, frowning in concentration as she held the probe poised over the chimes. “Tedious old trout, that she was.” After a few seconds she tapped the probe against the chimes in a precisely executed sequence that made Lizanne wonder if the girl might have an innate talent for something after all. Tekela played the first eight notes, then paused when nothing happened. Jermayah waved an impatient hand at her and she tried again. The tune she produced was slow in tempo and conveyed a definite sense of melancholy despite the high pitch of the chimes. The melody was so sombre in fact, Lizanne couldn’t help but think it a decidedly strange choice for a wedding.

“That’s the first . . . movement,” Tekela told Jermayah in Mandinorian as the last note faded, her tone apologetic as she lowered the probe and the device remained stubbornly inert.

“You didn’t hit every chime,” he said. “I suspect the tune needs to include every note.”

“The main theme,” Arberus said. “It’s fairly complex as I recall.”

Tekela thought for a moment then tapped out the sequence, the notes from the eight chimes overlapping to produce a lilting harmonic resonance. The bolt in the centre of the solargraph issued a loud click then made a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn counter-clockwise. Another series of clicks emerged from the device as the three levers on the top began to move, then came to a halt as the final chime fell silent.

“Seer’s balls,” Jermayah breathed. “It’s powered by music.”

—

“He’s calling it ‘kinetic resonance,’” Lizanne said, then gave an involuntary crouch at the whining growl of a shell passing overhead. “The conversion of sound to energy. I must say it’s a fascinating phenomenon to observe.”

Madame had established her headquarters in a large Old Colonial residence near the south wall. Apparently, it had been the home of the Contractor’s Guild, who had generously gifted, or more likely surrendered it to her needs. Much of the grounds and surrounding houses had been converted to makeshift hospitals where doctors, nurses and volunteers tended the growing number of wounded carried back from the trench-works as the Corvantine bombardment continued to take a steady toll. It had been nearly midnight when Lizanne made her way here, passing through rows of tents from which a chorus of pained voices could be heard, a chorus she knew would only grow louder with every passing day.

Madame had moved her private quarters to the house’s basement after a few Corvantine shells had made it over the wall to smash some neighbouring homes to splinters. She sat at her desk from the Academy, presumably moved here with the aid of Black, the voluminous stacks of reports and messages arranged into neat but tall piles on either side of her. For now, however, her full attention was fixed on Lizanne.

“So, it’s working?” she said.

“When the right combination of notes is played, yes. We’re having to guess which tunes to play. It appears the Artisan was clever in his choice of music. ‘The Leaves of Autumn’ unlocks it, whilst the three dials indicating the orbits of the moons will respond to an old Corvantine ditty called, ‘Dance of the Heavens.’ The other two dials remain inert but Miss Artonin and Major Arberus are compiling a list of likely candidates. Jermayah is of the opinion they relate to geography, as their dimensions correspond to the old Corvantine reckoning for latitude and longitude.”

“Excellent work, Lizanne.” Madame’s tone was free of any triumph, possessed of a pre-rehearsed formality Lizanne recognised as signifying the end of a contract. “Tomorrow, Protectorate officers will collect the device and notes for examination by my scholarly associates. Please instruct Jermayah to resume construction of his deadly novelties. You and your associates may assist him in this regard if you wish. From now on your only role in this mission will be as conduit to Mr. Torcreek. If, as I expect, he fails to make contact during tomorrow’s trance, you may consider your mission complete. Any accommodations you wish to make with Exceptional Initiatives regarding Major Arberus and Miss Artonin, are your concern alone.”

Lizanne was glad of her decision to leave the Whisper at Jermayah’s for some maintenance work; otherwise the temptation to shoot Madame between the eyes would have been hard to resist. As it was, she could only stand at rigid attention as she sought to maintain a suddenly fragile composure. She thinks the Longrifles dead, she realised. But, provided this city remains standing, another expedition can be sent, an expedition firmly under her sole control. Even without benefit of the trance she knew Madame’s black web of obsession to be fully grown now, leaving no room for shared profit. The White was to be hers alone.

“I assume,” Lizanne began in as carefully modulated a tone as she could manage, “Madame has confirmed this course of action via trance with the Board.”

“The Board are frightfully busy at the moment,” Madame replied, her voice as colourless as before. “You may have noticed why.”

Was this always your plan? Lizanne wondered. Have the war provide a cloak for your ambition? With the Corvantines at our throats the Board will accede to any notion that might offer salvation. “What do you imagine will happen if it’s ever found?” she asked. “Every clue uncovered by Mr. Torcreek and every scrap of evidence provided by the late Burgrave Artonin, it all speaks of something best left in peace.”

“Cowardice and profit are rare bedfellows,” Madame replied.

“Profit is dependent on a successful outcome to this siege. As yet, I have seen little reason for optimism.”

Madame smiled, a spectacle Lizanne once saw as merely unusual but now found chilling. “You under-estimate Jermayah’s abilities,” Madame said. “Ask him to show you some of his new toys. He has been very busy.”

—

“A magazine of fifty rounds,” Jermayah said, slotting the component into a port on the top of the weapon’s barrel-shaped breech, a long narrow box containing a stack of standard rifle-bullets. He worked a lever to chamber the first round before taking hold of the handle extending from the machine’s underside. “Best cover your ears,” he said and began to wind, the weapon’s six barrels blurring into motion.

Even though Lizanne clamped her hands firmly over her ears, the blast was near deafening, like a whole platoon of infantry firing at once. Shiny Man had been spared this demonstration though the sandbag-covered wall behind his usual standing-place received some fearful punishment, a faint hiss of escaping sand accompanying the echo of fading gun-fire.

“Rate of fire depends on how fast you turn the handle,” Jermayah explained, tugging tufts of cotton wool from his ears. “A well-drilled crew can manage over three hundred a minute.”

“What do you call it?” Major Arberus asked, staring down at the weapon with an expression that told of keen if somewhat awed appreciation.

“Officially, ‘Rapid-fire Device Mark Four.’” Jermayah gave a shrug. “Been calling it the Growler.”

“Should call it . . . monster,” Tekela said, regarding the smoking barrels with obvious dislike.

“This monster might save this city,” Lizanne reminded her before turning to Jermayah. “How many do we have?”

“Got a half-dozen finished before the siege began. There’s more being made under contract at other shops along with the plentiful stocks of ammunition they need. It’s a slow process though, since the designs are so new. Still, they should take a fearful toll on the Corvantines. Would’ve liked a chance to finish Mark Five though.”

“Mark Five?” Arberus asked. “You improved on this?”

“Not really an improvement.” Jermayah moved away, leading them to a large, tarpaulin-shrouded lump in the deepest recesses of the shop. He gestured to the major to take hold of the covering and together they hauled it free. “More like an enlargement. I call it the Thumper.”

This one really is a monster, Lizanne decided, eyeing the revealed contraption. It stood taller and broader than its younger sibling with four barrels instead of six, and of a calibre at least five times the size.

“Fires this,” Jermayah said, holding up a bullet that appeared to be suffering from some form of elephantiasis. “Point-eight-inch explosive shell. Thought the Maritime Protectorate might have a use for it but never got the chance to demonstrate it.”

“So it might not work?” Arberus asked.

“All my devices work, sir,” Jermayah replied, his tone slightly peeved. “Put three rounds through her and she worked fine. Would’ve been more but I was worried the shop might come down. Had to contract a bricklayer to repair the damage as it was.”

“Can you make more shells?” Lizanne asked.

“Got stocks of brass, steel and propellant enough for maybe two hundred. Take a while though, and it’s delicate work.”

Lizanne took the shell from him, feeling the weight of it and the smoothness of the projectile. One shell could bring down four men at once . . . A recent memory rose in her mind, flames blossoming in the darkened jungle and Captain Flaxknot’s fearful countenance. Or, perhaps even a full-grown drake.

“What else have we got to do?” she said, handing the shell back. “Show me.”

CHAPTER 29

Clay

It was a nightmare Clay hadn’t had for many a year, though it had haunted him for a time in the Blinds, fading when he found Joya and Derk. The scene was much as it had been in life, though whatever vicious corner of his mind crafting this version had added a few details; the blood covering his father’s hands for example, and the rent and torn body of Clay’s mother on the card-table before him. A stack of scrip and exchange notes were piled atop the corpse, stained red but otherwise unnaturally rigid and neat. Clay’s father turned, cigarillo poised before his lips as he regarded the boy standing at the tavern-door with a less-than-welcoming grin. Clay could see the faces of the cards in his other hand, a winning hand in Mourning Jacks, unbeatable. He was about to become a rich man, though give him another day and he’d be poor again.

“Ma’s dead,” Clay said, as he had when this hadn’t been a dream.

“So your uncle tells me,” his father replied, turning back to the table and adding another hundred scrip to the blood-stained pot, the notes sticking to the blood on the dead woman’s face.

“Heard you were back,” Clay said. “Been looking for you.” Another truth, coloured by a high, desperate tone that tore at his insides now. “For more than a week.”

“Been busy.” His father jangled the tooth necklace about his neck. “With a goodly haul, too, I might add.”

“How much were you gonna give to Ma?” The desperate tone had gone now, though Clay didn’t recall his voice being so utterly devoid of emotion.

“She showed me the door.” His father laughed as one of the other players upped his bet. “Ain’t no obligations twixt us, boy. Go on back to your uncle.”

“How much were you gonna give to Ma?” The pistol was an aged one-shot hammer-lock and felt heavy in his boy’s hands. His uncle kept a chest of old weapons in his basement, securely locked but Clay knew where he kept the key. He chose the pistol because it was the only one with ammunition that seemed to fit, though he wasn’t too sure he had loaded it right. Even so, he had every intention of finding out.

His father froze as Clay drew back the hammer with a loud click. “Showed you the door ’cause you broke two of my ribs after you broke her nose for the second time,” Clay said. “Showed you the door because you’re a mean drunk and a lousy gambler.”

His father didn’t turn and Clay always believed he knew what would happen next. It was in the forced shrug of his shoulders as he unfroze himself, and the overly mannered way he added more money to the pot. A man maintaining a lifetime’s façade in the face of death. “She,” he said, nodding at the corpse on the table, “was a fine woman who deserved better. She had a kindness and grace rarely seen in this place, and I always knew I wasn’t worthy. It made me hate, and drink and seek death in the Interior. I know this is my end, I know my own son will kill me this night, and I know it to be fitting.”

He hadn’t, of course, said any of this. These words were born of the nightmare. In fact he had said, “Your ma was a whore. Fucked if I ever knew you were even mine.” It didn’t matter, though in the succeeding years Clay would often lie to himself that it had been these words that sealed his father’s fate. But the fact was, nothing was going to save him.

He remembered the pistol-shot being louder than it was now, more a roar than the dry hiss and crack of hammer finding powder to send the ball into the back of his father’s head. He also recalled the place erupting into panic and discord as the mingling of headhunters and Blinds scum decided how to react to another murder. But now there was no commotion. They all just sat drinking or carousing and the other players at the table kept on with their game. Clay’s last glimpse of his father had been of him slumped across the table, blood and brains leaking from the front and rear of his head, just before he turned and ran, losing himself in the maze of street and alley. But now he stood, still and fascinated as his father rose from the table, face streaked with blood from the hole in his forehead as he turned to his son, fond smile on his lips. Clay began to scream when he started to speak.

—

The screaming kept on until it choked him, making him retch and flail. It took a while before two thoughts surfaced amidst the confusion and sputter: I’m alive. This ain’t no dream.

He stopped flailing, lying with chest heaving on what he realised was something soft. A few seconds’ blinking brought his eyes into focus and he found himself staring at a stone ceiling. The temple? he wondered, recognising the pattern of stonework as similar to the great pyramid. It couldn’t be. The place was surely still burning or charred black as coal by now. He tried sitting up, finding the ache of his limbs so severe the task defeated him. Grunting, he tried again, his surroundings swaying as he came upright, head abuzz with the fugue of recent awakening.

He was in a circular chamber of broad dimensions, the lines of the columns that supported the ceiling and the tiles on the floor convincing him this was another structure in the city. The thick wall of vines that covered the exterior and excluded sunlight also indicated it was as heavily overgrown as everything else. An opening in the centre of the floor revealed a spiral stairwell descending into gloom. To his right sat a desk of basic construction, clearly fashioned from locally harvested timber judging by the bark still clinging to its roughly finished edges. It was piled high with papers, stacked into neat beribboned bundles. A pen sat in an ink-well beside an unfurled sheet half-covered in an artful, flowing script. Clay sat up straighter upon noting the freshness of the ink and the two-thirds-melted candle that sat next to the paper.

He realised he was fully clothed, though his boots were gone. Casting around he saw them placed at the foot of the bed on which he sat, his duster rolled up beside them and, sitting propped against the wall, the holstered Stinger complete with remaining ammunition. A quick exploration found no injuries beyond the scrapes to his hands, though there was a cluster of pale spots on his forearm, presumably the result of the Green he shot in the temple. He got up, staggering as the chamber tilted again and the buzz in his head rose to a greater pitch of intensity. He stumbled towards his belongings, snatching up the Stinger and checking the cylinder to find it empty. He began to reload it immediately, cursing as his trembling fingers sent bullets skittering across the floor.

“Shit!” He bent to chase after one wayward round then stopped as his eyes found something more.

It had been arranged around the back of a chair of similarly crude construction to the desk, a coat of some kind, a coat fashioned so as to resemble a thick swaddling of rags. Sitting on the chair was a long walking-stick, the bulbous head of which bore the signs of extensive and inexpert whittling.

The Black, plunging down out of the smoke . . . The Black with someone perched on its back . . . Someone he had last seen on the Red Sands . . .

“So, you’re finally awake.”

He whirled, Stinger coming round to aim at the figure emerging from the stairwell. She was a diminutive woman of perhaps forty, hair cut short to frame a fine-boned, pale-featured face of North Mandinorian origin. There were some lines in her forehead and around her eyes but she seemed to Clay to possess a vitality that belied any age, an impression fortified by the brightness of her smile.

“Probably best if you don’t do that,” she advised, climbing the last few steps, Clay tracking her with the Stinger. He noticed she bore a tray with a bowl of something that steamed and gave off a hunger-inducing aroma.

“Don’t move!” he ordered, his commanding tone undermined somewhat by a fresh wave of dizziness that saw him take a stumbling step to the right.

“Really,” she said, smile unfaltering and showing an absolute absence of fear, “that’s not the best idea . . .”

She trailed off as a deep, rumbling sound came from outside. It wasn’t particularly loud but the tone of it sent a tremor through him and he felt the stone beneath his feet throb with it. A dark shadow passed by outside the wall of vines, air whooshing as it swayed back and forth with slow deliberation.

“You’re making him nervous,” the woman said.

Clay slowly lowered the Stinger, the rumbling noise and whooshing shadow stopping as he did so.

“Guinea fowl soup,” the woman said, holding up the tray.

“Who . . .” He staggered again, coming close to falling. The woman set the tray down on the desk and came to his side, guiding him back to the bed. “Who are you?”

She stood back, smile less bright now, a little sad in fact as she extended a hand. “Ethelynne Drystone, sir. And you are?”

—

He sat at the desk eating soup with a mis-shapen steel spoon he guessed she must have carried with her from Carvenport all those years ago. He asked no questions of his own, for she seemed to have plenty enough for the both of them. “And Madame Bondersil seemed well to you?” she enquired, eyes bright with a keen desire for knowledge, though not so hungry for it as he might imagine her to be. Just an old pupil asking after a fondly remembered teacher.

“She’s vital enough, alright,” he said and gulped down another mouthful. It may have been due to his hunger, but the soup seemed just about the best thing he had ever eaten. Rich in flavour and seasoned with pepper and wild thyme. “Though I gotta say, she has a somewhat severe disposition.”

Ethelynne Drystone gave a nostalgic laugh, clasping her hands together as she reclined on the bed. “A thing unlikely to ever change. She still runs the Academy, I assume?”

“That and more. Got the Protectorate dancing to her tune now.”

She inclined her head, smile lingering as she studied him. “But you, I would guess, are not drawn from that august body. Are you, Mr. Torcreek?”

Blinds don’t wash, he reminded himself. No matter how far you get. “No, ma’am.”

Her eyes went to the unscarred skin on his right hand. “And unregistered too, I see. What a terribly interesting young man you are.”

He inclined his head at the ceiling from which a few more rumbling sounds had been heard as he ate his meal, accompanied by the scrape of what could only be claws on stone. Very large claws. “Not so interesting as you, ma’am.”

She just smiled some more, watching him eat for a time until she asked what he knew she would. “She sent you for the White, didn’t she?”

He saw little point in lying, since he suspected she already knew most of what he could tell her. “And you, if you could be found. Seems she never gave up hope you might be out here somewheres. Makes me wonder why you never tranced with her. Would’ve been an easy matter for her to send a company to bring you back.”

“Which presupposes that I wished to go back.”

“Seen more of the Interior than I ever wanted to. And if I could get myself off this Seer-damn continent tomorrow, I surely would. Yet you chose to stay out here all these years.” He shook his head and scraped the last of the soup into his mouth before setting aside the bowl. “Thank you for your hospitality, ma’am.”

“Call me Ethelynne. Formality is a wasted commodity in this place.”

“Alright, Ethelynne.” He turned to face her. “Where’s my company?”

“Where you left them.” She got up from the bed and moved to one of the vine-covered openings between the pillars. “Come, I’ll show you.”

The patch of vines she took hold of turned out to be a door of sorts, cunningly crafted so as to merge with the blanket of vegetation outside. She gave it a push and it swung out on a hinge, revealing a narrow balcony affording a view of the jungle that told Clay he was at a far higher elevation than even the temple’s summit. Krystaline Lake was a thin blue line far off to the left, indicating he was viewing it from the south. His attuned eye tracked across the verdant sea of jungle, picking out the overgrown towers and canals of the city before it came to rest on the bulk of the temple, except it wasn’t so bulky now. The top three tiers had gone, the building seemingly tumbled in on itself leaving only a blackened stump.

“The jungle had become one with the structure,” Ethelynne said, stepping out onto the balcony and resting her elbows on the balustrade. “When you burned it, the stones began to crumble.”

After tapping a tentative toe to the balcony floor, Clay went to join her. He looked down at the jungle below, fighting off another bout of dizziness. He turned his gaze to the ruined temple, wishing for some Green to enhance his scrutiny as all he could see was charred stone. “My company . . .” he began, surprising himself by immediately stumbling over the words, a catch in his throat.

“There is a network of tunnels under the temple,” she said, touching a reassuring hand to his forearm. “They strike me as a resourceful bunch. Though they may need a little help digging themselves out.”

He nodded, head lowered as he mastered himself. The thought of them all lying crushed under tons of rubble had been hard to endure, though he couldn’t claim any particular concern over Firpike. “You saved us before,” he said. “On the Red Sands. Why?”

“It only seemed polite. I’ve taken to visiting the Sands at regular intervals in recent years. Having espied your sojourn, it wasn’t especially difficult to guess your intent.”

“You know what we found there?”

All humour abruptly vanished from her face and she turned away, gaze flicking involuntarily to the south. “Yes.”

He was unable to keep the accusation from his voice when he said, “You let it live.”

“I had just drunk the heart-blood of a Red drake and used it to birth something far worse, killing a man I had begun to fall in love with in the process. It’s fair to say my reasoning was somewhat impaired. I got back on the raft and let the river take me away.”

“You and Wittler . . . ?”

She gave the smallest laugh and shook her head. “I was just a girl then, with silly notions. And he was a very impressive man, though considerably older. I’m often given to pondering what might have been if Clatterstock hadn’t powdered that confounded bone.” Her expression became grim, shot through with the pain of reluctant remembrance. “He saw, you know? Wittler breathed in the powdered bone and saw what I would do to him to survive. That’s the great secret Madame has sent you in search of, Mr. Torcreek. The White holds the future in its veins.”

He waited before speaking again, watching her thumb a small tear from her eye with an embarrassed grimace. “We think it’s in the Coppersoles,” he said. “We think the alignment might be a way to find it.”

She pursed her lips and gave a slight nod. “A fair deduction.”

He knew then he was looking upon a woman with a wealth of knowledge far beyond anything Skaggs, Scriberson or Firpike might possess. He also knew her desire to share it was limited, shaped by whatever she had been doing out here all these years. “Madame thinks it’s the key to everlasting profit,” he said. “My uncle, the others, they just hunger for a glimpse of it, like it’s hooked their souls somehow.”

She turned to face him, smiling again, a knowing smile. “And you, Mr. Torcreek? Do you lust for it, also? Or is it merely greed that drives you?”

He thought for a while before replying, everything he had seen and heard since leaving Carvenport babbling in his head like water on the boil. “Seen a lot on this trip,” he said. “What it left behind on the Red Sands, this place, what the mere thought of it does to otherwise clear-sighted folk. None of it bodes well for when we find this thing.”

She said nothing for a long time, standing and regarding him with the same knowing affection. Eventually she turned and glanced up to the roof of the tower, Clay following her gaze and immediately drawing up in shock. His alarm was such he came close to tipping over the balustrade, Ethelynne reaching out to steady him with a laugh. “It’s alright. He only bites when I ask him to, or when he’s particularly angry.”

The Black stared down at Clay with narrowed eyes, small tendrils of smoke leaking from its nostrils as it gave another low, rumbling growl. It sat perched on the tower’s stepped, pyramidal roof, sickle-like claws latched onto the stone and wings folded as its tail swayed gently behind. Blue eyes, was the only coherent thought to pop into his head. It has blue eyes. But these eyes were so different from the eyes of the Greens that had assailed them at the temple. There was no hate in them, no desire for blood or death. Looking at the way the light caught them, the way they gleamed, he knew he was looking into the eyes of something that looked back and understood what it saw. This beast can think.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Ethelynne said. “It seems we are all of like mind.”

—

“You drank heart-blood,” he said a short while later as they descended the tower’s seemingly endless stairs. She had paused to gather some choice belongings into her swaddling of rags, which she rolled up and slung across her shoulders. “That’s supposed to be fatal, even for us.”

“For some of us, I’m sure,” she replied. “But not me, apparently. I’ve done it twice now.”

Twice. “Don’t it hurt?”

“Certainly. The last time was the most agonising experience of my entire life.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

“Because the reward outweighed the cost.”

“Reward?”

She laughed a little. “All in good time, Mr. Torcreek.”

“Claydon, or Clay if you like. Since we’re being informal and all.”

They emerged from the base of the tower onto a broad platform. It was much like those that formed the ground level of the rest of the city except it featured considerably more statuary. They all sat about gazing up at the tower, cracked and wreathed in jungle but still recognisable as representations of drakes and people.

“Guessing somebody of importance lived here once,” he commented, nodding at the tower.

“They called him ‘The Ordained,’” she said. “A quasi-religious figure of great learning and wisdom. Part scientist, part shaman.”

“How could you know that?”

“The inscriptions.” She pointed her stick at the unfathomable script etched into the tower’s base. “‘Know this as Home to the Ordained. All must show him honour.’”

“You can read this stuff?”

“Much of it. It’s been my principal project for much of the last five years.”

“Scribes said no-one can read it.”

“Scribes?”

“Scriberson. A Consolidated Research scholar who got attached to us on the way.”

“Well, Scribes and his fellows don’t enjoy my advantages when it comes to Interior artifacts.”

He nodded at one of the human statues. “Got another fella travelling with us says these weren’t Spoiled. Said the spoiling came later.”

“Yes, much later.” She paused to cast a wistful glance up at the tower. “Pity,” she murmured. “One of my more favoured homes.” From her tone he deduced she didn’t expect to return, something that added an ominous shadow to their next course.

“You didn’t live here the whole time?” he asked.

“Only the last few years. I tend to move around a fair deal. Sometimes I’ll even venture north to a trading post to buy sundry comforts and necessities. Ink and paper mainly, though I’ll confess a weakness for the occasional small cask of brandy.”

“They don’t ask who you are?”

“I make efforts to disguise myself. To them I’m just a madwoman who got separated from her company and kept roaming the Interior. Which, when you think about it, is fairly close to the truth.”

A gust of wind blew across the platform making Clay close his eyes against the stirred grit. When he looked again the Black had come to rest a short distance away. It opened its mouth to issue what he assumed to be a hiss of welcome as Ethelynne strode towards it, taking hold of one of the spines at the base of its neck to haul herself onto its back with accustomed ease. She wiggled her hips a little to wedge herself firmly between two spines then turned to Clay with an expectant glance.

“You must be crazy,” he stated, unmoving.

“I need to show you something,” she said. “It’s a long walk and, spry as I am, my knees are not what they were.”

“My company . . .”

“Aren’t going anywhere, and it’s only a short diversion.”

“Fine. Tell me the way and I’ll meet you there . . .”

He trailed off as the Black flexed its wings and coiled its neck to gaze at him, mouth opening to issue an unmistakably impatient squawk. “Best hurry up,” Ethelynne advised. “He might conclude you don’t like him.”

Somewhat to his surprise, Clay found his feet taking him towards drake and rider, heart rate seeming to double with every step. “He got a name?” he asked, halting at the beast’s side and keen to explore any avenue for delay.

“Yes, but it wouldn’t make any sense to you. I call him Lutharon for convenience. It’s from an old Mandinorian legend about a shadow demon.” She smiled again and inclined her head to the position just behind her.

“He able to lift both of us . . . ?”

“Just get on, you baby!”

He took a breath and reached for the spine behind her, finding it rough under his grip, like old shoe-leather. It took a few tries before he managed to haul himself into place, the sweat building on his brow the whole time as his heart kept on its steam-hammer rhythm. He sat as she did, wedged between two spines. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but neither was it unbearable. In fact, it reminded him of his first time on a horse outside the Protectorate gaol-house. Except horses got no wings, he thought as Lutharon rose from a crouch, Clay feeling the muscles of the beast’s neck shifting beneath the skin.

“Hold on!” Ethelynne advised as the drake turned about, making for the tower. He was perturbed by the joyful anticipation in her voice. “Tight as you can!”

He took her advice, gripping the spine with both hands, worrying that the unabated sweat leaking from his palms might dislodge them at any second. An involuntary yelp escaped him when Lutharon leapt, Clay finding himself staring up at the length of the tower as the drake’s talons found purchase on the vines and began to climb. “His kind are mountain dwellers!” Ethelynne told him, voice raised to a cheery pitch above the loud scrabble of claws and flexing wings. “Prefers to launch himself from an elevated perch.”

“Uhh!” Clay replied, fighting a rising gorge and resisting a strong impulse to close his eyes.

Lutharon climbed to about half the tower’s height, paused to angle his head and regard them with one bright blue eye, as if checking they were both still aboard. He gave a hiss of satisfaction then tensed before propelling his bulk away from the tower with a push of all four limbs. Clay always wondered why he didn’t scream as, instead of gliding gently away over the jungle, they plummeted straight down until he could see the cracks in the paving-stones that made up the platform below. Perhaps he was just too scared to scream, though at least he did finally manage to close his eyes. A lurching heave to his stomach told of a change in direction and when he forced his eyes open he saw they were now ascending, the jungle canopy dipping below his eye-line for a moment before Lutharon angled his wings and they levelled out.

Ethelynne gave an excited giggle and patted a hand to the drake’s neck, craning her own to call to Clay above the rushing wind. “No matter how many times, I never get tired of it!”

Clay could only nod and choke down vomit.

Lutharon gave two beats of his wings, sending them higher, Clay wincing at the chill though he found the view an increasing distraction from his fear. They were higher than any mountain now, higher than a human could ever get, and the world revealed below was rendered new. So small and so big, he thought as the jungle merged into a single emerald blanket. Off to the north the Falls were a mist-shrouded wonder, seeming to sparkle as they fed the mirror-like breadth of the Krystaline. He could even see Fallsguard, a narrow black spike jutting above the misted cascade. He wondered if it had fallen by now or if the major had somehow contrived to fend off the Spoiled. In either case, he could see no boats on the river.

Lutharon angled his wings once more and Clay looked down to see what remained of the temple. Evidently the fire hadn’t contained itself to the pyramid; black tendrils of ruined foliage snaked out into the canopy of trees so that it resembled the charred remains of a colossal squid. Lutharon flew over the ugly spectacle to take them west for a mile or more where he began to circle a small clearing, descending with every bank of his wings. Clay scanned the jungle for any sign of drake or Spoiled, seeing only yet more ruins through the trees and gaining an appreciation for how huge the city below must have been. He saw Ethelynne smooth a hand over Lutharon’s neck and the drake turned again, shortening his wings to bring them lower still, the ground flashing beneath before Clay’s stomach gave another lurch as the drake spread his wings and reared back for a landing.

“It’s this way,” Ethelynne said, lifting a leg to slip from Lutharon’s side and striding off into the trees. Clay’s dismount was less elegant and accomplished by expedient of the drake’s twisting his body to dump him onto the ground. One of Lutharon’s blue eyes gleamed down at him for a second before he trotted off in pursuit of Ethelynne. Not altogether sure he’s taken to me, Clay mused as he followed in the drake’s wake.

Ethelynne led them on a winding course through yet more ruins, even more overgrown and hard to discern than those Clay had seen during the trek to the pyramid. From the many shattered columns and levelled dwellings he judged that whatever had brought the city low had been particularly destructive here. He still saw no sign of any Greens or Spoiled but kept the Stinger drawn as a precaution.

“That’s not really necessary,” Ethelynne told him, turning as she paused at the foot of a stairway so thickly covered in vines and tree-roots it was barely recognisable. “They rarely come here.”

She continued to linger at the base of the steps, gazing upwards with both hands tightly grasping her carved walking-stick. Clay followed her gaze and saw that the steps ended on a raised platform extending away on either side, the ends of it lost to the trees.

“What’s up there?” he asked.

Ethelynne took a few moments to answer, and when she did her voice was soft. “Memory.”

She started up without another word, clambering over vines and roots with an energy that made Clay question her claims of infirm knees. He and Lutharon duly scrambled up after her, the drake’s talons shredding much of the foliage encasing the steps in the process. Coming to Ethelynne’s side Clay found himself looking down into some kind of rectangular bowl-shaped structure. It was at least three hundred yards long and about two hundred wide, the enclosing walls arranged in descending tiers to a flat surface. A large cylindrical tower rose from the centre of the surface, standing perhaps thirty feet high and twelve feet thick. It was heavily overgrown but, through the gaps in the vegetation, Clay determined that it had been fashioned from much paler stone than that used elsewhere in the city.

“The inscriptions I found here indicate it was some kind of sporting venue,” Ethelynne said. “People would gather in their thousands on festival days to watch athletes compete in foot-races and tests of strength. I believe it was as much ritual as entertainment.”

Beside her, Lutharon gave a low, ominous growl. His blue eyes were narrowed as he looked upon the arena and his tail scraped yet more foliage from stone as it swished in agitation.

“Drakes have many mental limitations that humans do not,” Ethelynne said. She put a hand to Lutharon’s snout which calmed him somewhat, though his tail continued to swish. “But,” she went on, “when it comes to memory they are our undoubted superiors. You see, drake memory does not die with the individual, but rather accumulates down the blood line over many generations. Not everything remains, of course, even they have limits, but locked in every drake’s mind are memories from its forebears that span centuries.”

Clay followed as she started down into the arena, leading him to the tower in the centre where she stopped and gestured for him to take a closer look. Not stone, he realised, peering through the gaps in the shroud of vines. A skull stared out at him from a wall of fused bone, just like in the Badlands but on a much grander scale, and a great deal older. He stood back, his gaze tracking the tower from base to top. How many bones would it take to fashion such a thing?

“The last of my Blue,” Ethelynne said, and he turned to find her holding up a vial of product. “The connection won’t be strong given the brevity of our association, but it should be enough.”

Clay glanced back at Lutharon, now lowered to a defensive crouch, eyes fixed on the tower and wings half-spread as if in readiness for a quick flight. “You can share memories with him?” Clay asked. “Like in the trance?”

“The differences between a human mind and a drake’s are considerable, so complete understanding is impossible. But yes, we have shared memories. One I should now like to share with you.”

“He knows what happened here,” Clay realised. “One of his ancestors saw it.”

“Yes.” She held the vial out again, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“I have a task to perform, Clay, one I shirked almost thirty years ago. I believe I shall need your help to complete it.” She removed the stopper from the vial and drank half the contents, holding it out to him once more. “But I won’t ask you to join my course without a full understanding of what lies ahead.”

Clay’s gaze returned to the empty eyes of the skull peering out at him from the vines. The compulsion to know, to find answers to so many questions, was strong, but tempered with an awareness that this was a decision he may well regret for a long time.

“Well, I guess a memory can’t kill me,” he said, taking the vial and draining the remaining product.

—

Ethelynne’s mindscape took the form of a library, Clay finding himself surrounded by tall shelves, each crammed with more books than he could count. The books came in various sizes, the colour of each binding different. Some were bound in board of faint pastel shades whilst others, usually the larger volumes, were bound in leather of more vibrant hues.

The Academy library where I spent so much time as a girl, Ethelynne explained. Madame Bondersil was forever dragging me out of here. Naturally, I had to make a few modifications to fit everything in.

Clay perceived her as a vague, ghostly shape gliding through the maze of shelves, eventually coming to a stop. Here we are. She reached out a translucent hand to pluck a book from the shelf, one of the larger volumes, bound in shiny, black leather. Are you ready? she asked, spectral fingers poised to open the book. Noting the way her hands had begun to shimmer he wondered if she wasn’t more nervous about opening it than he was.

When you are, ma’am, he told her.

She opened the book and the library disappeared, replaced in the blink of an eye by a swirl of confused colour and sensation. Clay grunted as the discordant mess of images birthed an ache in his head. What in the Travail is this? he demanded.

The world as seen through the eyes of a Black drake, she said. I told you, their minds are different, as are their eyes. They do not see as we do. Relax, let your mind adjust.

He tried to calm himself, allowing the ache in his head to subside into a dull throb as the confusing morass gradually resolved into recognisable shapes. People, he realised, seeing what he initially took as a cluster of flames but now realised were running figures, red silhouettes against a dark background.

They see heat rather than light, Ethelynne said. It is often a uniquely beautiful way to perceive the world . . . But not today.

The red silhouettes were engulfed by something so hot it appeared like a pale yellow jet. When it cleared they lay on the dark ground, flame rising from their crumpled remains in an orange fog. Through the shimmering heat Clay could see more figures, a great mass of them in fact, boiling over the walls of the arena in a fiery tide. He realised he was seeing this from near ground level, the view shifting as the drake that had captured it tried to rise, then faded for a second as it failed, eyes closed in pain.

Wounded, Clay realised as the vision cleared and tracked over a massive body riven with fresh scars, all leaking blood. He could feel the animal’s agonies, muted and bearable but still fierce enough to make him reconsider his decision to let Ethelynne show him this.

The wounded drake’s gaze swung about, revealing that the mass of people descending the tiers had now reached the arena floor. By now Clay’s mind had adapted to the change in perception sufficiently to allow him to make out details. He could see the faces of the onrushing figures and recognise their deformities. Spoiled.

Yes, Ethelynne confirmed. The first generation of Spoiled. Countless people taken and twisted into a horde intent on destroying those with whom they had once lived in harmony.

The pale yellow jet streamed out once more, engulfing the leading Spoiled in flame. The vision shifted to the left, revealing a Black drake, a huge male even bigger than Luthoran. His mouth gaped wide to spew more flames before he spread his wings and launched himself directly into the midst of the on-coming horde, teeth, claws and tail wreaking bloody havoc. Clay felt something then, a rush of warmth through the pain and knew his host was looking upon its mate. The male Black must have cut down fifty or more before they swarmed over him, clubs, hatchets and spears rising and falling in a frenzy.

His host gave a faint despairing cry as the male Black’s tail cut down another few Spoiled before it fell limp and his huge body disappeared under the seething mass. The view swung away from the Spoiled and fixed on something small, something Clay realised had been sheltering behind his host’s body. The boy was perhaps twelve, and looked up into the eyes of the wounded drake with an expression of such trust and affection it was hard to bear. Beyond the boy he could see evidence of battle, the bodies of Spoiled and un-Spoiled humans lying tangled together in death, the fierceness of their struggle clear in the dismembered limbs and sundered entrails littering the ground. There were a great many bodies, enough, he understood now, to craft a tower eighty feet high from their bones when this was over.

They were protecting him, he thought, returning his attention to the boy.

Apparently so, Ethelynne replied. The memory froze at that point as she focused all her attention on the boy. This city, and others like it, once they were mighty and the Black was revered; understanding grew as one Blood-blessed in every generation drank the heart-blood of a dying drake. This boy, I believe, was the last Blood-blessed born to this city, a precious soul they sacrificed themselves to preserve. It seems not all humans here fell under his sway.

His?

She unfroze the memory and a vast piercing cry sounded in the sky above the arena, the horde of Spoiled all freezing in place as if in response. Clay’s drake host shuddered as a very large shadow swept the structure from end to end. Her gaze shifted to the sky as it grew dark, the sun blotted out by a huge, winged shadow. She tried once more to rise as the thing landed a short distance away, its claws shattering the stone floor of the arena. Its colour was not revealed by the heat-vision but from its size Clay knew this could be only one breed of drake. It glowed with energy, shining brightest in the upper belly where it stoked its fires. Behind the massive drake the Spoiled horde all stood, as still and silent as Protectorate riflemen on parade.

Clay’s host succeeded in raising herself up, the vision swaying as she staggered and stumbled her way towards her enemy. It peered down as she approached, head tilting from side to side in apparent curiosity. The female Black came to an unsteady halt a few yards short of her foe, raising her gaze to meet its eyes. They blazed back at her like two glowing coals and Clay felt something new stir in her pain-wracked body: defiance.

The female Black launched herself at the White, the vision blurring as she coughed out a jet of flame, fading to reveal her claws latching onto its neck, talons digging deep. For a few seconds all was a confusion of flame and heat, then a new pain, sharp and deep enough to make Clay cry out. The vision flickered, clearing for a moment to show the White stepping over its victim and making an unhurried progress towards the small boy who now stood amidst a mound of corpses, lacking all protection.

Clay was forever grateful that the vision descended into blackness at that point, for he had no desire to see what came next.

—

Lutharon brought them down on the temple’s western side, alighting just beyond the canal on a patch of ash-grey ground littered with tree-stumps and the twisted remains of Greens. What remained of the Spoiled lay along the canal bank, a long, straight line of blackened bodies, all twisted up. They just stood there and burned, he realised. Strangely, he felt no triumph at the sight; it was too ugly for that. Instead, there was only a sense of grim satisfaction at the necessity of it and, though he fought it, an undeniable flare of guilt.

Lutharon folded his wings and issued a low, rattling sound that Clay initially took for a growl but Ethelynne seemed to take as a reassuring sign. “It seems there are no enemies close by,” she said, slipping from the drake’s back. Clay followed quickly before Lutharon could tip him off once more.

“So it rose once before,” he said. He had to hurry to keep up with Ethelynne as she strode towards the east, away from the temple. Lutharon lumbered along behind, pausing now and then to sniff at the corpses of his lesser relatives.

“It would appear so,” Ethelynne replied. “And in so doing, either killed every human on this continent or transformed them into its mindless servants.”

“Which means something must have brought it down. Otherwise, its descendants would still be ruling this place.”

“Sound reasoning, Claydon. Well done.”

“You know what it is, don’t you?” Clay persisted. “That’s why you stayed out here all these years. You’ve been looking for a way to bring it down.”

“Actually, I haven’t the faintest idea what brought about its prior demise. But, perhaps with your help, I might finally find out.” She kept striding across the ash without further explanation and he realised she was done answering questions for now.

After a hundred paces the ash gave way to thick jungle, Ethelynne disappearing into the trees without hesitation. Clay drew the Stinger and hurried after her, eyes roving the shadowed surroundings for signs of an enemy. Despite her assurance, the Interior had ingrained a caution in him that didn’t fade easily. He found her halted before what he initially took to be just an overgrown rocky mound but soon recognised as another ruin. Surveying the fragments of tumbled stone he was able to envision the arch they must once have formed, his gaze tracking along the mound to see it disappear into the earth a short way off.

“They called it the ‘Supplicants Path,’” Ethelynne said, tapping her walking-stick on the stones. “Those hoping to ascend to servitude in the temple would gather once a year to walk it. Any who navigated their way to the temple would graduate to the next set of tests.”

“What if they didn’t?” he asked.

“Most just made their way back here and went home, greatly shamed by their failure and obliged to do penance. Though some inscriptions speak of supplicants becoming lost in the tunnels, never to emerge.” She crouched, leaning close to the stones with ear cocked. “Nothing,” she said, after a moment.

“Are there other ways in?” he asked, a certain desperation creeping into his tone.

“There were, but the Krystaline swallowed them centuries ago. The coast-line was very different when this city rose tall.” She straightened, looking expectantly back at the trees. There soon came the sound of cracking branches and Lutharon landed a short distance away, the ground shuddering with the weight of his arrival.

“Drake hearing is perhaps ten times that of a human,” Ethelynne said as the Black sniffed at the stones before cocking his head in a manner unnervingly similar to hers. Lutharon became very still, blue eyes closing in concentration before he huffed a loud grunt and moved back. Woman and drake exchanged a long look, Clay sensing the passage of information between them.

“Is it heart-blood that does it?” he asked Ethelynne. “Lets you command him like this?”

“Command him?” She laughed. “What an absurd notion. But, you are partly correct. Heart-blood brings about certain changes in a Blood-blessed, provided one survives the experience of drinking it.”

“But he’s a Black, and you drank Red.”

“What an astute observer you are, Claydon. Your friends are there.” She tapped her stick to the stones. “But it seems they’re in a bad way. The air in the tunnels isn’t very good. Pockets of gas have built up over the years.”

Clay moved to the stone, pulling away a hefty boulder then immediately reaching for another. It soon became apparent, however, that shifting so much rock would take more time and strength than he possessed. “Can he help?” he asked, panting and pointing at Lutharon.

The great black turned to Ethelynne and once more Clay sensed their unspoken communication. “He’s . . . understandably reluctant,” she reported eventually.

“Reluctant?” Clay fought down a surge of anger. “Can’t you just tell him to do it?”

Ethelynne’s face took on a severe aspect that would have put Madame Bondersil to shame. “He is not some beast of burden bound to obey my every whim. He is a thinking and feeling creature, and, as you have seen, his kind have a very long memory. He can smell your people; he knows what they are. He was barely ten years old when I found him, Clay. Starved nearly to death and nuzzling at the corpse of his mother, his mother who had a longrifle-bullet embedded in her skull. I assume the body tumbled into too difficult a place for the Contractors to harvest her. Most of her blood had seeped away, but some still lingered in the heart.”

Lutharon issued another rattling hiss, his gaze still locked on Ethelynne’s and Clay knew they were engaged in some kind of unspoken communication. “You drank his mother’s heart-blood,” he realised. “That’s how come he’s bound to you.”

“It enabled a certain mutual understanding,” she answered.

“Then he knows you need me to find the White.” He jabbed a finger at the piled stones and stared up into the Drake’s eyes. “And I need them. I’ve seen what you’ve seen. Do you want to see it happen again?”

Ethelynne moved to Lutharon’s side as the drake’s hiss faded, smoothing a hand over his flank before closing her eyes and pressing her forehead to his hide. Clay heard her whisper, “I’m sorry,” before moving back. Lutharon’s gaze swivelled back to Clay for an instant, eyes betraying a certain reluctance, if not resentment, then he turned about, tail whipping. For a moment Clay thought he would take flight once more but instead the drake raised his tail and brought it down in a blur. The spear-point-like tip must have possessed the hardness of iron from the way the stone shattered under the weight of the blow. Clay moved back as Lutharon repeated the action over and over, the tail whipping in a rising cloud of powder. After several minutes Lutharon turned about and began to dig at the sundered stone, gravel rising in a fountain as he burrowed with forelegs and back legs. He stopped when something noxious rose from the hole he had dug, scooting back and waggling his head before sneezing out a plume of flame. Whatever miasma had escaped the hole caught the spark and blossomed into a brief but bright column of blue fire.

Clay stepped to Lutharon’s side and crouched to peer down at the hole he had dug. For a long moment he heard nothing, but then came the sound of echoing voices, faint and clearly near exhaustion, but still alive. He sagged in relief then turned to Ethelynne. “Best take him back a ways. This is gonna take some explaining. And as for the White, that all stays twixt us for now.”

She nodded and Lutharon abruptly bounded away, launching himself into the tree-tops once more. Clay turned back to the hole, cupping his hands about his mouth to call out, then pausing as a fresh thought crept into his head. Leave them here. They’ll find the way out soon enough. What d’you think Uncle’ll make of your purpose? He forced the notion away with ruthless conviction as Silverpin’s face loomed large in his mind. Ain’t leaving them adrift in the jungle. Got from now until the Coppersoles to make him see sense.

“Uncle!” he called into the hole. “This way! Got someone you’ll be glad to meet!”

CHAPTER 30

Hilemore

Duels, as Hilemore knew all too well, were a very serious business in Varestia. Although the peninsula was renowned for the warlike and unwelcoming nature of its inhabitants, the region hadn’t seen a full-blown civil conflict for the best part of two centuries, even during the tumultuous years of the Revolution which had seen Varestia transformed into a de facto autonomous state. Duelling remained the principal reason for this uncharacteristically lengthy period of peace. If one clan found itself in dispute with another, the matter would normally be resolved either through an arranged marriage or single combat. Similarly, petty feuds between individuals could be settled with a duel before they could escalate into something worse. In consequence, the formalities surrounding such occasions were numerous and subject to a rigid code, successive decades having evolved a system that prevented any claim of unfairness or skulduggery that might defeat the entire purpose. Duels were overseen by a neutral party with a detailed knowledge of the varied technicalities who would be handsomely paid for the task. In the Hive the duty fell upon the shoulders of Constable Tragerhorn who, despite not being of Varestian origin, took a rigorous approach to his responsibilities.

“Your exact age, if you please, Captain?” he enquired, a pair of half-moon reading spectacles perched on his nose and pen poised above an open leather-bound book. He had already jotted down Hilemore’s height and approximate weight along with a signed annotation that he had suffered no recent physical impairments and was not likely to expire from some hidden ailment within the next year.

“Twenty-eight and four months,” Hilemore replied, taking a long drink from the water bottle handed to him by Ensign Tollver. They had returned to the Viable after the meeting with the Directors the day before. He sat on a stool on the aft deck, sweating freely from recent exertion. Steelfine stood near by with sword in hand and, despite their shared bout of practice, didn’t appear to be sweating at all.

“Do you have any relatives likely to question the legality of this proceeding, or pursue vengeance and feud in the event of your death?”

Hilemore’s thoughts flicked briefly over his brothers and the complete absence of correspondence between them. “No.”

“You are not married?”

Lewella’s eyes the last time they met, tearful, regretful, but also so very angry . . . “No.”

“How many enemies have you killed in single combat? An approximate figure will do.”

“Is this really necessary?”

Tragerhorn merely raised his thick eyebrows above his spectacles, a polite smile of expectation on his lips.

Hilemore sighed. “Battle does not count as single combat, I assume?”

“No, sir.”

“Then one. I fought a duel in Varestia seven years ago.”

“Just one, sir?”

“Just one.”

“Mmmm.” Tragerhorn scribbled in his book before playing the pen on his lips in contemplation.

“Problem?” Hilemore asked.

Tragerhorn shook his head in apology. “I am unable to approve this contest, Captain. It being so unequal.”

“Unequal?”

“Indeed. You see, Director-in-Chief Arshav has fought over thirty duels, killing twenty-three men in the process. To match you against him would violate the Duelling Code, and prove tantamount to murder in my opinion.”

“Put me in the circle with him and I’ll show you murder!” Hilemore’s face reddened as he surged to his feet, Tragerhorn blinking as he leaned close to shout into his face. “You think me some managerial milksop, sir?”

“Captain!” Zenida appeared at his side, casting a wary glance at the constable, who used a kerchief to wipe Hilemore’s spittle from his face as she tugged him away. “This won’t do any good. He’s too much a stickler. It’s why Father hired him all those years ago.”

Hilemore took a moment to calm himself, resting clenched fists on the rail. “If he won’t approve the duel, what then?”

“Since you are the challenger, the contest will be declared in Arshav’s favour and any status and property you hold rendered to him. However”—she paused to cast a pointed glance at Steelfine—“in cases where the contestants are not equally matched, nomination of a proxy is acceptable.”

“Twenty-four,” Steelfine stated a few minutes later, brows furrowing as he thought further. “No, twenty-five. I was forgetting my second cousin. It wasn’t a very long contest.”

Hilemore raised an eyebrow at Tragerhorn, who thought for a moment then gave a nod. “The ninth hour tonight. Captain Okanas will guide you to the venue. Please be sure to bring a fully itemised cargo manifest, and the little lady in question. The Directors are insistent upon this point.”

—

The Conglomerate had established a dedicated arena for duels on a bluff overlooking the harbour. It was just a circular pit with a sand-covered floor though, from the hushed reverence of the Varestians present, it could well have been a Church of the Seer. The non-Varestian townsfolk, however, evidently viewed the occasion as an opportunity to indulge in public drunkenness and gambling. Hilemore saw numerous bets placed and a few brief fist-fights break out as they waited. The crowd voiced a ragged cheer as Tragerhorn strode into the pit, falling to murmured anticipation as he raised a hand.

“Challenge has been made and accepted,” Tragerhorn said in a tone of strident formality. “These men,” he pointed in turn to Arshav and Steelfine who stood at opposite sides of the pit, bare to the waist and sword in hand, “come to settle a grievance through blood. This fight is theirs and theirs alone. The contest will continue until death or yielding. Any who interfere will be subject to the One Rule.” He strode to the edge of the pit and climbed out, raising both arms above his head. “Begin!”

Hilemore watched Steelfine stride towards his opponent with unhurried confidence, whilst Arshav immediately dropped into a fighting crouch. Zenida stood close to Hilemore with her daughter between them. From the way she clutched the girl to her side he thought that, whatever the outcome this day, the idea she would ever hand her over to Arshav was a patent absurdity. He had seen her slip something into her trouser pocket back on the ship, the light catching metal before she concealed it from sight. The bulge in her pocket was signature enough, however. Corvantine revolver, he judged. She must have scavenged it from the deck after the battle.

“You won’t need that,” he said as they clambered into the launch.

Her hand went to the revolver in unconscious reflex and she met his gaze with feral resolution, speaking softly. “She stays with me, even if I have to slaughter everyone in this shit-pit.”

“It won’t come to that.”

“You can’t be sure. My brother’s skill matches his spite.”

Hilemore had glanced over at Steelfine standing at the prow of the launch, features placid as he raised them to let the evening breeze play over his tattooed skin. “I have every confidence in our champion.”

He returned his attention to the pit, watching Steelfine come to a halt a few feet short of Arshav, standing at a slight angle to his opponent but making no effort to raise his blade. “This is not an order,” Hilemore had told him back on the Viable. “We’ll find another way . . .”

“Our debt is not settled, sir,” the Islander reminded him. “But today it will be.”

Arshav lunged, moving with a cobra-like speed that made Hilemore wonder for an instant if Tragerhorn might have done him a service. Steelfine, however, possessed plentiful speed of his own. He twisted, allowing the point of Arshav’s blade to jab the air where his shoulder had been, then twisted the other way as the pirate tried another lunge.

Arshav stepped back, breathing deep, calming breaths, though Hilemore could read the growing frustration and anger on his face. He tried a slashing attack next, swinging his sword first at Steelfine’s legs then his neck in a display Hilemore suspected Ensign Tollver would have admired greatly. Steelfine stepped over the slashing blade then ducked the back-swing, seeming to move with a preternatural slowness Hilemore knew came from his ability to read his opponent’s moves.

“Mother,” Hilemore heard Akina say in a small voice.

“Don’t worry,” Zenida said. “All be over soon.”

Arshav spat a florid curse in Varestian and attacked again, flicking his sword-tip at Steelfine’s eyes, then his belly before leaping into a mid-air pirouette that, in the normal course of events, should have laid the Islander’s neck open below the jaw. Steelfine’s sword came up for the first time, steel ringing as it met the pirate’s blade, sending his arm wide and leaving his face open. The pirate saw the danger and tried to back-pedal but the Islander was far too quick. He performed a leap of his own, leg extending into a kick that found Arshav’s nose. Blood flew as the pirate’s head snapped back and he landed hard, sword flying from his grip. He scrabbled for it as Steelfine strode towards him, issuing a pained yelp as the Islander’s boot came down on his wrist. He began to assail Steelfine with a barrage of Varestian profanity as the Islander leaned lower. Arshav fell to abrupt silence as the tip of Steelfine’s sword touched his neck.

“Mother!” Akina repeated, more urgently now.

“Hush!”

“Yield!” a voice called out from the crowd, loud and commanding. It was Ethilda, struggling free of the crowd despite their restraining hands. “Yield, damn you, Arshav!”

The pirate, however, said nothing, face set in a defiant glare as he raised his chin to allow the blade a better target. Steelfine paused and turned to the crowd, his gaze soon finding Hilemore, brows raised in a question.

Hilemore was about to nod when he felt an insistent tugging on his sleeve and glanced down to see Akina, face pale and stricken with alarm. “It’s custom,” he told her. “I did order him to spare your uncle if he yielded.”

“Not that!” she said in disgusted exasperation, turning and pointing out to sea. “Look!”

He turned, following her finger. The crowd behind them was relatively thin, allowing a fine view of the sea. It was a clear day, sunlight shafting through the sparse cloud to play over the two smaller islands to the north and, between them in an arrowhead formation, a flotilla of Corvantine frigates. They were perhaps three miles off, wakes thinning as they slowed and made a turn to port, a turn that could mean only one thing.

Hilemore bent and lifted the girl, turning and running for the pit as her mother followed close behind. He jumped into the pit and reached Steelfine’s side just as the first shell landed in the town. The crowd convulsed at the thunder-clap report of the explosion, screaming panic soon taking hold as another shell landed on the hillside barely twenty yards away.

“Get to the beach,” Hilemore said, pushing Akina into Steelfine’s arms. “Guard the launch. Give me ten minutes. If I fail to arrive, return to the ship and take command. Head south at best speed.”

Arshav Okanas had regained his feet by now and stood near by, blood pouring from his ruined nose as he railed at his sister. “You brought them here!” he yelled as three more shells tore into the Hive, flame and smoke blossoming amidst shattered wood. “Everything our father built, soon to be pounded to ruin! You did this, Zenida!”

She drew the Corvantine revolver and levelled it at Arshav’s head. He quailed for a moment then stood firm, refusing to yield to her any more than he had to Steelfine.

“Don’t!” Ethilda struggled free of the churning crowd and rushed to stand in front of her son, arms spread to protect him as she stared at Zenida in desperate entreaty. “Please, Zenida! For your father’s sake.”

Zenida hesitated, glancing down the hill to the harbour where a fresh salvo of Corvantine shells could be seen raining down on the anchored pirate vessels. One was already burning, whilst the others spewed steam from their stacks in a frantic effort to put to sea. “Soon you will have no ship,” she told her step-mother and half-brother. “Then perhaps you will know what it feels like to beg aid from those you hate.” She gave a dismissive flick of the revolver and they fled, Ethilda pushing her son into motion. He cast a single, hate-filled glare at his sister then ran after his mother.

“Go!” Hilemore slapped a hand on Steelfine’s shoulder, the Islander overcoming his reluctance with a visible effort as he bore Akina away, skirting the now-burning town as he made for the beach.

“Where do they keep it?” Hilemore asked Zenida. “At the mansion?”

She shook her head. “Tragerhorn has charge of it.”

Hilemore cast about, seeing the constable making for the town at a steady run. They set off after him, ducking repeatedly as the Corvantine barrage continued. When they neared the town the flow of panicked people reversed, those who had run towards imagined safety realising their error whilst those who had already seen the effects of the bombardment had taken to their heels. Hilemore found himself forcing his way through the throng, the thickness of which thinned abruptly when Zenida fired a shot in the air and yelled out a firm promise to kill the next scum-sucker to bar her way.

They had lost sight of the constable in the fray but Zenida knew the route to the gaol-house where he held office. They had to throw themselves flat several times as they made their way through the town, flaming debris and broken glass raining down and filling the streets with a growing pall of smoke. Various ugly sights greeted them as they ran on, a child screaming at his decapitated mother, a pig digging its snout into the entrails of a disembowelled man. Hilemore could only close his eyes to it all and keep following the pirate woman as she led him through the smoke. The gaol-house came into view a few moments later, apparently untouched though the buildings on either side were burning fiercely. The door was open and they found Tragerhorn inside, busily filling a leather satchel with copious amounts of scrip and exchange notes from an open safe.

“Fines, I assume?” Zenida asked him.

“My contract has just been terminated by the Corvantine navy,” he replied, barely glancing up as he continued to pile notes into the satchel. He stopped when Zenida raised her revolver.

“We won, fair and legal,” she said. “Where is it?”

The former constable tensed, eyes narrowing as he looked at them both in cold calculation. A true mercenary, Hilemore decided. Dutiful only up until the point where his life is in the balance.

“There’s another safe in the back,” Tragerhorn said. “But only I have the combination.”

Another shell landed outside, shattering the windows and scattering glass across the room. Tragerhorn cursed, clutching at the fresh cut on his arm, though Zenida barely noticed, stepping closer and pressing the revolver’s barrel into his forehead. “Then tell me!” she grated.

Tragerhorn’s eyes flicked to Hilemore. “I have six Corvantine warrants on my head,” he said. “So, when they land I’m dead anyway. I want a berth on your ship.”

“Done,” Hilemore said and Zenida lowered the revolver. They followed Tragerhorn into the recesses of the gaol, past the barred cages where two men were imprisoned. They screamed at the constable for release, hands clutching at him through the bars. “Don’t waste your compassion, Captain,” Tragerhorn advised, reading Hilemore’s expression and working a key in the lock of a heavy door. “Child rapers, the pair of them.”

He pulled the door open revealing a safe of much more sturdy construction than the one in the outer office. “This will take a moment,” he said, kneeling to touch his fingers to the dial. “It’s a lengthy combina—”

His last word was drowned out by an explosion that wrecked the forefront of the gaol-house, Hilemore finding himself blinded and deafened as the blast threw him against the cages. He came to his senses with a tongue of flame licking its way up the sleeve of his tunic. He scooped up powdered stone from the floor and patted the fire out, dragging himself to his feet and trying to shake away the bombastic orchestra that seemed to have taken up residence in his head. The sound of laughter brought him back to full sense, his vision focusing on the two prisoners. The blast had evidently torn the doors of their cages free and they stood amidst the ruins of the gaol-house, joyful at their good fortune.

Two pistol-shots sounded and the prisoners fell, Hilemore turning to see Zenida lowering her revolver. “Child rapers,” she said with a shrug.

They found Tragerhorn slumped next to the safe, a jagged wooden splinter speared through the centre of his face. “Seer-dammit!” Hilemore kicked the safe then ducked as another shell screamed overhead to slam into the whore-house up the street. “We need to go,” he told Zenida. “We’ll head deeper into the Isles on auxiliary power. I daresay you know a hiding-place or two . . .” He fell silent as she held up a small vial of product.

“Black?” he asked.

“Fortunately,” she said, stepping past him to crouch at the safe.

“Where did you get it?”

“I always had it.” She removed the stopper and drank the vial’s contents in a single gulp before tossing it aside. “Your men are overly bashful when searching women, Captain. You should talk to them about that.” She closed her eyes and laid a hand on the safe, frowning in concentration. “It’s a rare thing for a ship not to carry a safe. One reason why having a Blood-blessed aboard always made my father’s voyages so profitable.” She gritted her teeth, grunting with effort as the safe gave a satisfying clunk.

The safe proved to hold an embarrassment of riches, Tragerhorn having evidently exploited every opportunity his position afforded. Alongside a goodly supply of product, there were stacks of scrip notes and Dalcian sovereigns plus a small chest piled with varied jewellery. Ever the pirate, Zenida took the lot, sweeping it all into Tragerhorn’s satchel before retrieving the constable’s revolver and handing it to Hilemore. “I have a sense you’ll need this on the beach.”

Her prediction proved all too reliable. Steelfine stood before the prow of the grounded launch laying about with an oar at a group of half a dozen pirates intent on seizing any means of escape. Two men lay dead at his feet, one with a broken neck and the other with the Islander’s sword buried in his guts. Akina sat in the launch, beckoning frantically to her mother. Hilemore and Zenida were obliged to hurdle several corpses as they ran towards the launch, the Corvantine gunners having made plenty of sport with the flood of pirates seeking return to their ships. Hilemore could see two more vessels burning and another in the process of slipping beneath the harbour waters. The smoke was too dense to make out the state of the Viable but he could at least confirm she was still afloat and seemed to be underway, though at very low speed. Clever lad, he silently complimented Mr. Talmant. A moving target is harder to hit.

Zenida came to a halt a short distance from the launch, levelling her revolver at the pirates. He had expected her to issue some form of warning but whatever solidarity she might feel for these men had apparently disappeared when they posed a threat to her daughter. She fired all four remaining bullets, taking down two pirates and wounding a third. The others rounded on her, terror and desperation banishing reason as they charged, knives and cudgels raised. Hilemore emptied the constable’s hefty revolver as fast as he could, the weapon giving an uncomfortable jerk with every bullet fired. Despite its clumsiness, the large calibre proved effective. Three more pirates lay dead by the time the hammer fell on an empty chamber and the only survivor wisely dropped his knife and sprinted off into the swirling haze.

“Apologies for the delay, Number One,” Hilemore said, moving to put his shoulder to the prow of the launch.

“Unnecessary, sir.” The Islander grunted, adding his own weight to the effort and soon they had pushed the launch free of the sand. Zenida leapt aboard and took the tiller whilst he and Steelfine slotted the oars into the rowlocks and began to haul. “I take it,” Steelfine said between pulls, “our business here is concluded?”

“Yes, and quite successfully I must say.” Though whether I can legally divide the prize money is another matter.

Zenida was obliged to steer them around and through the burning hulks of the unfortunate pirate vessels and the occasional survivor still bobbing in the water. One managed to latch a hand onto the launch’s rail only to withdraw it with a howl as Akina pounced, teeth rending at the knuckles. They were forced to slow on clearing the hulks, the smoke so thick it appeared they were lost amidst a sea fog.

“There, sir.” Steelfine pointed to a bulky shape off to starboard and soon they came in sight of the Viable. She appeared to be circling at dead slow, rails crowded with look-outs despite the continuing shell-fire from the Corvantines. The crew gave a hearty shout upon seeing the launch, casting a veritable web of ropes over the side.

“Tell Mr. Talmant to make speed full ahead!” Hilemore called up to the crew as Steelfine and Zenida caught the ropes. “Steer course for the harbour mouth!”

Hilemore leapt clear of the launch as the crew hauled it level with the Viable’s rail, sending Zenida to the engine room with orders to Chief Bozware to fire up the blood-burner immediately. “Man the guns,” he told Steelfine. “Load shell only. Fire as she bears.”

“Aye, sir!”

He caught sight of Ensign Tollver as he ran to the bridge. “Muster the riflemen, if you please, Mr. Tollver. Sharpshooters to the rail.” He returned the boy’s salute and climbed the ladder, finding Talmant at the tiller.

“She’s at seven knots, sir,” the lieutenant reported. “The Chief did some more tinkering whilst you were ashore.”

“She’ll soon be doing a damn sight more.” Hilemore peered through the smoke clouding their course, making out the dim hump of the sloping headland forming the western edge of the harbour. “Two more points to starboard, Mr. Talmant. We’ll need to shave this as fine as we can.”

“Aye, sir,” Talmant replied just as the port-side guns opened fire to drown out his voice. Hilemore could make out the sleek shape of a Corvantine frigate through the haze, briefly illuminated as one of the Viable’s guns found the range and slammed a shell into her fore-deck. The frigate veered away as her own guns boomed a reply, raising waterspouts on either side of the Viable but doing no damage.

Hilemore turned his gaze to the speed indicator, finding the needle stubbornly stuck on seven knots. Come on, Chief, he prayed inwardly whilst clasping his hands behind his back and affecting as unperturbed a demeanour as he could. A captain is always certain.

His patience was rewarded barely three seconds later when the Viable gave a now-familiar lurch and the needle began a rapid climb, past ten, then fifteen, then twenty, all in the space of a few seconds. What a marvellous machine this is. “Steady the course, Lieutenant,” he told Talmant as the prow drifted slightly to starboard. “Be prepared to turn at my command.”

He waited until they cleared the headland, the course so close to the shore they could feel the slight diminution of speed as the Viable’s hull scraped a sand-bar. Then they were clear, open ocean beckoning them north. “Slow turn ninety degrees to port, Lieutenant,” Hilemore ordered.

“To port, sir?” The lad frowned at him. “But that’ll . . .”

“Take us south and back into the Isles. I’m well aware, Mr. Talmant. Make your turn, if you please.”

“Aye, sir.”

When the turn had been completed he went to the speaking-tube and called down to the engine room. “Captain Okanas to the bridge immediately, please,” he said before going to the hatch and casting his gaze to the stern. The smoke was thinning now and most of the Corvantine guns had fallen silent. Three frigates were labouring in pursuit of the Viable but the distance was increasing by the second. Not a blood-burner amongst them, he concluded. He could see only burning ships in the harbour and, on the hillside beyond, the Hive appeared to be just a mass of flaming buildings. Had Trumane delivered their own bombardment it would have wrecked a large portion of the town, perhaps compelling the occupants to establish their villain’s den elsewhere. The Corvantines, however, were more interested in complete destruction, raising two pressing questions in his mind. How did they know of this place? And did they come for us?

CHAPTER 31

Lizanne

She’s alive?

Very much so. Sane and healthy, too.

Lizanne could feel her mindscape shifting in reaction to the revelation. Ethelynne Drystone, living in the Interior all these years. Madame will be . . . Her thoughts clouded, the last meeting with Madame looming large. Lizanne couldn’t escape the conviction that, whatever her prior sentiments, Madame’s principal reaction to this news would be one of suspicion. The lost pupil’s reappearance was a complication, and with the object of her obsession so close, any complication would be unwelcome. She could also sense Clay’s reluctance to share the information. His encounter with the Corvantine hireling at Edinsmouth was a barely suppressed memory that left a lingering distrust beneath the surface of his mindscape.

You alright, miss? Clay asked. Getting dark in here.

Apologies. She reasserted control of her mindscape, though the whirlwinds were still a little ragged. I appreciate your trust in me, Mr. Torcreek.

Gotta trust somebody if we’re gonna survive this. Can hardly keep it from you anyhow.

True, but I thank you for the honour of your confidence, in any case.

She had a decision to make, the import of which could not be under-estimated. What does she know of the White?

There was a short delay before he replied, his thoughts coloured with a reluctant resolve. I could tell you. He opened one of his memories, displaying the image of an overgrown tower rising from the floor of an arena. But it’ll be easier to show you, though I doubt you’ll thank me for it.

When it was over she took quite some time to reorganise her whirlwinds into respectable order. She wasn’t used to being flustered and resented the disharmony it caused to her mindscape, although she couldn’t argue with his logic. A simple retelling wouldn’t have been enough.

You appear to have decided to break your contract, Mr. Torcreek, she observed, referring to his discussions with the miraculously revived Ethelynne Drystone.

Yes, he replied simply, pausing to read the reaction of her storms. Thought there’d be a different response, if I’m honest.

She summoned one of her whirlwinds and extracted the memory of Major Arberus’s account of his last expedition with Burgrave Artonin. My own investigations have gone some way to corroborating your findings.

So, you agree? You’ll help us?

The decision was too enormous for her to conceal the shiver that ran through her storm, new whirlwinds sprouting from the clouds whilst others withered and died. When it settled the storms had taken on a reddish hue, the colour of conflict . . . and fear. Yes, she told him. I take it your uncle and fellow Contractors know nothing of this change of heart?

Reckon I might be sporting a few bullet-holes if they did. They got a real hankering for this thing now.

You know what that might mean further down the road?

I know. Just have to find a way to make sure it don’t come to that.

Seeing the firm conviction colouring his thoughts, she decided not to pursue the point. This astronomer you picked up in Fallsguard. You trust him?

Seen no reason not to, as yet anyways. You think I should be worrying about him?

His appearance at that juncture seems a little convenient, having survived a journey through the Interior alone to boot. It may be my ingrained paranoia, but he’ll bear close scrutiny.

His mindscape pulsed with agreement before he summoned another memory: a handsome woman of Old Colonial stock standing on a porch. Your aunt, Lizanne recalled.

Yeah. Be grateful if you could check and make sure she’s alright, what with the war and all.

If I can. This place is about to become very hectic. And I suspect Madame will be keeping a close eye on my activities from now on.

She sensed his acknowledgment before his thoughts twisted into a more pressing question. What you gonna tell her?

That you failed to make today’s trance and can therefore be presumed dead. From now on we shall be pursuing our own contract, profitless though it’s likely to be. I will endeavour to obtain what information I can, though from now on it would be better if you advised your uncle that the information I have provided confirms the wisdom of your current course. How much Blue do you have left?

A quarter-vial, more or less. Got a good supply of the other colours, thanks to Ethelynne, but she used up the last of her Blue to share the drake’s memory.

Very well. From now on you will conserve your stocks and refrain from making contact until you reach the Coppersoles. I will resume trancing for a short time at the allotted hour in five days. Hopefully, by then I will have more information to guide you.

Seems to me a lot depends on you making it through the coming battle.

She found herself touched by the concern evident in the sombre hues of his mindscape, so different now from the ill discipline and self-interest of their first trances. Fortunately, she replied, thanks to an old friend of mine, I may well have the means to do just that.

—

“Eight hundred in four days.” Jermayah surveyed the stacked cannon shells with an appreciative shake of his head. “Wouldn’t have thought it possible.”

“Lizanne did most of the work,” Tekela said, pausing in the midst of polishing the latest batch. Her face was besmirched with grease and she wore a pair of ill-fitting overalls and a headscarf, making her resemble a line girl from one of the huge Syndicate manufactories.

“You performed a creditable amount of labour too, miss,” Lizanne told her from her makeshift resting-place atop Jermayah’s work-bench. Prolonged use of Green had indeed greatly increased their productivity, but the cost in fatigue was proving steep. Major Arberus could be heard snoring from his newly constructed bunk in the recesses of the workshop. He had completed a ten-hour shift mixing propellants to Jermayah’s exacting recipe. The process had a tendency to befuddle the mind due to chemical exposure, as demonstrated when he had sunk to one knee the night before, taken Lizanne’s hand and slurred his way through a proposal of marriage.

“Marry a radical anticorporatist?” she scoffed, hauling him upright and pointing him to his bed. “I think not, sir.”

“Probably for the best,” he mumbled, stumbling away. “Marriage is an archaic institution. Grams always said so. Look at Leonis and Salema. Never a happy word between them.”

Lizanne gave Tekela a cautious glance, though the girl seemed not to have heard. She spoke rarely of her father now, and her lapses into Eutherian had diminished in concert with her increased use of Mandinorian. The day before, Lizanne had spent a brief rest from manufacturing to compose her formal report to Exceptional Initiatives, complete with recommendations regarding the future employment of both Tekela and the major. So far, however, she had resisted the urge to seek out the local Agent-in-Charge and submit it for approval. The management of Exceptional Initiatives lay in the hands of those whose absence of sentiment made Madame Bondersil appear the paragon of compassion.

They’ll probably find a use for Arberus, she decided, gaze lingering on Tekela as she performed the delicate task of screwing a percussion cap into a shell casing. But they’ll kill her, even if they don’t kill me. The conclusion left her calculating alternatives. War, as she well knew, bred the kind of chaos that might well facilitate an unquestioned disappearance. She was well schooled in the art of discarding an identity and there were places in the world where even the Protectorate’s arm couldn’t reach. Although, few could be said to be conducive to the secure housing of a young lady and her self-appointed guardian. Some regions of Dalcia retained a good degree of stability despite the recent disturbances. Or, if desperation became a factor, there was always the vast East Mandinorian steppe where, even within living memory, whole armies had disappeared without a trace.

Did I do you a kindness? she wondered, watching Tekela and thinking of that night in her father’s study, the inability to pull the trigger. What did I spare you for? Even if this city stands against Morradin, what then? What happens if we fail and the White rises?

She closed her eyes, reasserting control over her thoughts with long-practised discipline. Uncertainty is the field agent’s lot, she reminded herself. Confine your consideration to practicalities. Action is the antidote to fear.

When she looked again she found Tekela had stopped and stood amidst the rows of gleaming shells with her head raised. “It’s different,” she said. Lizanne’s tired head took a moment to comprehend her meaning, then she heard it; the ever-present artillery barrage had changed, a new faster rhythm underpinning the slower clock-work regularity they had grown accustomed to over the preceding week.

“Naval guns,” Arberus said, tugging on his overalls as he emerged from the shadows. “The Corvantine Fleet is here. Morradin will attack before the end of the day.”

—

“What in the Travail is that?” The Protectorate artillery captain regarded the Thumper with equal parts bafflement and disdain as they trundled it up to the forward battery.

“Rapid Fire Device Mark Five,” Lizanne told him before adding a brisk string of lies. “Myself and these technicians are contracted employees of Exceptional Initiatives, Experimental Weapons Division. This device has been approved for deployment by Madame Bondersil. You are ordered to render all assistance in positioning it for maximum effect against the enemy.” She handed over an envelope containing a set of recently forged orders that would be unlikely to bear more than cursory scrutiny. Fortunately, the captain had more pressing matters on his mind this evening.

“I have no men to spare,” he said, briefly scanning the orders before giving the Thumper another baffled glance. “Will this thing really help?”

“Give us a clear field of fire,” Arberus said, careful to moderate his accent into a gruff semblance of Arradsian-born tones, “and you’ll see soon enough.”

The captain’s scepticism didn’t seem to have been overcome to any great degree, but he dutifully pointed them to a position a hundred yards or so to the left of his battery. “We’re thinnest there. Got a bunch of conscripted townsfolk manning that stretch, plus a few sailors mixed in. Don’t expect them to stick around too long when it starts in earnest.”

Lizanne nodded her thanks and the four of them began pushing the Thumper towards the allotted position. The network of intervening trenches was too narrow to navigate so they were obliged to traverse the shell-holed overground gaps between the defences. Jermayah had sacrificed his beloved thermoplasmic carriage to provide a movable mounting, and the advanced suspension he had designed made the task of wheeling the thing over rough ground so much easier. Marshal Morradin had also been kind enough to shift the full weight of his artillery away from the defences to the city itself, the tempo of the bombardment increased to match that of the fleet now crowding the waters beyond the unbreachable giant edifice of the mole. The journey from Jermayah’s shop to the south wall had been a perilous one, Lizanne pulling Tekela into cover more than once as the shells came down on Old Town, shattering houses that had stood for centuries and igniting numerous fires. She had considered ordering, or more likely, confining Tekela to the workshop but knew the security it offered was illusory; there were no more safe places in Carvenport.

“Protectorate business! Make way!” Lizanne greeted the defenders in the trench, a distinctly unmilitary bunch judging by their non-uniform clothing, though the sailors were easily recognised, as much because of their truculence as their sea-boots.

“Piss off, deary,” one replied with a yellow-toothed smile. “This stretch of line is spoken for . . .”

He trailed off when Arberus jumped into the trench, looking down at the stocky sea-dog with a stern demeanour until he shuffled away. “Here,” the major said after a quick inspection of the trench, pointing to a slightly raised hump near the centre. “Gives us a clear field all the way to the trees.”

He and Jermayah took charge of sighting the Thumper whilst Lizanne and Tekela sorted the ammunition. They had only managed to carry half in the carriage, though Jermayah seemed confident it would be enough. “Get the shock of their lives when she starts to sing,” he said, slapping an affectionate hand on the weapon’s barrels. Arberus’s military persona re-emerged with a vengeance and he was soon ordering the defenders to fill additional sandbags with which to shield their position. None of the conscripts seemed willing to voice an objection. If anything, many seemed relieved to hear an authoritative and competent voice, albeit one with a peculiar accent.

“Your place is here,” Lizanne told Tekela, guiding her to a spot next to the rear wheel of the Thumper’s carriage. “You load the magazines. You do not do anything else and you do not raise your head above the edge of this trench. Do you understand?”

She received only a brief, pale-faced nod in response, the girl’s wide and overly bright eyes indicating she was all too aware of the dangers they faced today. “There will be explosions,” Lizanne said, taking a roll of cotton wool from her pocket and pressing it into Tekela’s hands. “Put some in your ears, and open your mouth wide when the shells start falling. You have your revolver?”

Tekela nodded again, reaching into her overalls to pull the pistol from the holster Jermayah had given her. Lizanne saw how her hand was shaking and reached out to clasp it, forcing a smile and meeting the girl’s eyes until the tremor faded. “Only if you have to,” Lizanne said, squeezing her hand before moving to Arberus’s side. He stood scanning the distant tree-line whilst Jermayah continued to tinker with the Thumper, Lizanne suspected more out of nerves than necessity. Like Tekela, he had never seen combat before.

“Anything?” Lizanne asked the major.

“It’ll be a while yet,” Arberus replied. “He’ll keep pounding the town to spread as much fear and panic as possible. May not even launch his assault until nightfall, though that’s always a risky option. It’s hard to control an army in the dark.”

Lizanne studied his face for a moment, seeing only the focused gaze of the professional soldier facing battle. “No qualms, Major?” she asked. “Once this starts you’ll be killing your own people.”

He replied with a quote, something she noticed he often did when notions of moral difficulty were raised, as if the mere repetition of dogma was enough to banish all doubts. “‘True change has never been bloodless.’”

“Bidrosin again. Do you know all her writings by heart, I wonder?”

Arberus’s eyes remained fixed on the tree-line but his voice took on an oddly nostalgic tone. “Oh yes. Even the poetry. That was her profession, you see, before the First Revolt. She found herself cast into prison for penning an amusing ditty concerning the Emperor’s excessive fondness for the company of young boys. Rather than kill her, the Emperor thought it more amusing to strip away all her family’s wealth. Every sibling, cousin, uncle and aunt reduced to poverty with a stroke of a pen and she cast out from prison, destitute. A singularly vindictive act I suspect he came to regret in time.”

“She changed her name,” Lizanne said, realisation dawning as she recalled her own history lessons. “Bidrosin was merely a pseudonym, adopted when her husband divorced her.”

“Indeed, though for a time she went by her maiden name until finding love with a fellow radical as her unending torrent of anti-Imperial pamphlets drew more and more attention. Her children adopted the name, partly to honour her but also to disguise their association.”

“Arberus.” Lizanne shook her head, voicing a laugh that drew a start from the surrounding conscripts. “So, you were born into revolution.”

He shrugged, his mouth forming a rueful grin. “Grandmother was a difficult woman, but also made some very compelling arguments. Certainly more compelling than the vapid Imperial bombast they drummed into us in school.”

“What became of her? The histories I’ve read are ambiguous regarding her fate.”

“Despite numerous unwise adventures during the Revolution, she survived to grow old hiding in my parents’ attic, eventually losing her sight which proved a great trial for she so loved to read. It was one of my chores to read to her, though in time I came to understand it as an honour. She died when I was fifteen, quietly in bed and as comfortable as we could make her. We laid her to rest in a grave crowned by a stone carved with a false name. One day I hope to replace it with the real one.”

Still, Lizanne thought but left unsaid, she had a better death than the millions who died in pursuit of her nonsensical scribblings.

“Leonis came to the funeral,” Arberus went on. “He had been one of her earliest acolytes. The whole notion of his joining the Imperial army had been Grandmother’s idea. It was hoped that he would win enough renown on the battlefield to place him in proximity to the Emperor one day. Sadly, the day never came. My parents were leery of any further involvement with the Brotherhood but Leonis found a willing accomplice in me, especially when he began to tell me of a great and powerful secret lurking in the depths of this continent, a secret that might resurrect our cause, provided we got to it first.”

Lizanne gave a mirthless laugh. “If you had found it, I suspect the result would have been anything but resurrection.”

“So, you think it best left buried? A wondrous discovery shunned by humanity, despite all it can teach us?”

“I have come to believe it should not be left buried, but destroyed. I believe the wonders that did indeed once flourish on this continent were brought down by the very thing we seek.” She stared at him until the weight of her gaze made him turn. “My employers do not share my concerns. When they come to light, I may need your assistance.” She cast a meaningful glance at Tekela, now busily engaged in arranging the Thumper’s magazines into a neat stack.

She saw calculation in his gaze rather than sentiment as he looked at the girl, though there was perhaps a small glimmer of affection. “Our prior arrangement?” he asked.

“To be negotiated with the Board. But I will need to appeal to them directly, in Feros. Once they hear my full account of this endeavour, I’m hopeful rational measures can be agreed.”

“Meaning, at some point, we will have to contrive an escape from this port, in the midst of a siege no less.”

Lizanne looked back at the city, realising the combined barrage of fleet and army had faded. There remained four hours until nightfall, which indicated Marshal Morradin had decided not to await the cover of darkness after all. “Meaning,” she said as they both crouched down beside the bulk of the Thumper, tensing in anticipation, “the city has to still be standing for us to escape it.”

He nodded as the first shell came down, tearing a hole into the earth just south of the outer trenches, quickly followed by a dozen more. Arberus’s reply was lost amidst the din, but she read his intent readily enough as he patted an affectionate hand to the base of the Thumper.

—

The barrage seemed to last an eternity but in fact couldn’t have gone on for more than a half-hour. The cotton in Lizanne’s ears did much to shield her from the noise but she could still feel it, the earth quaking with the continuous rain of destruction. The depth of the trench protected them from much of the shrapnel but not from the fountains of displaced earth and boulders which soon had them covered in dirt and wincing from bruising encounters with falling stone. Worse than the physical effects, however, was the gnawing uncertainty that grew into fear and then terror as the barrage continued. All in the trench quickly understood it to offer only a partial refuge when a Corvantine shell scored a direct hit on a neighbouring position occupied by Protectorate Regulars. Limbs and partially destroyed torsos had been amidst the debris that rained down, the ghastly sight enough to send one of the conscripts screaming for the rear, casting his rifle and ammunition away as he pelted off into the smoke. A few others had clearly been tempted to follow his example, edging closer to the rear of the trench and tensing for a rush. Their determination faded when one of them poked his head up to scan for an escape route only to have it split down the middle by an inch-long shard of shrapnel.

When it seemed it might never end, Tekela reached out a hand to Lizanne. She sat with knees drawn up and her back against the Thumper’s base, eyes closed tight and trembling arm extended. Lizanne took her hand, holding it tight, watching the girl’s lips move in an unheard prayer, or was it a song? The suspicion was confirmed when at last the final shell came slamming down and a thick wall of silence descended on the trenches, the sudden, almost shocking stillness broken only by Tekela’s song. Lizanne’s estimation of her musical talents deepened upon hearing her voice. She recognised the tune, “The Leaves of Autumn,” the Eutherian lyrics sung with a captivating sweetness at odds with the landscape that greeted their gaze.

The defences had been transformed into a semblance of Morvia’s surface, every square yard seemingly cratered and pitted. In some places the barrage had been so intense the shell-holes overlapped. Predictably, the Protectorate artillery positions had borne the brunt of the fire, Lizanne seeing one in a state of near-complete destruction whilst the nearest battery lay in a shambles of shattered wheels and dismounted guns. She could see the harassed captain busily ordering his dazed men to rebuild the position and found herself impressed that he managed to get one piece sighted and ready by the time Arberus’s shout dragged her attention to the south.

At first she could see nothing but drifting smoke and the dim shadow of the tree-line, but then came the piercing wail of multiple bugles and the ominous growl of thousands of men charging into battle. The smoke seemed to vanish all at once, revealing the dark mass of Corvantine infantry emerging from the trees. They moved at a steady run, rifles levelled and bayonets fixed, sword-waving officers out in front, each blowing a shrill whistle. A ragged volley of shots came from the outer trenches as the Contractors recovered their dazed wits, a score or more Corvantines falling, mostly officers as far as Lizanne could tell. The Contractors evidently knew how to pick their targets. Despite its accuracy, their fire lacked the weight to stem the tide of onrushing infantry and soon dozens of duster-clad figures could be seen running to the second line of trenches.

The Protectorate artillery seemed to take this as the signal to open fire. Their numbers had been thinned by the Corvantine barrage but they still possessed enough fire-power to take a fearful toll on the attackers. Large rents were torn in the Corvantine ranks as they neared the trenches, men and parts of men cast into the air amidst the flame and exploding earth. But still they came on, at least a full brigade by Lizanne’s estimation, driven onward through the rain of shell and bullets either by blind duty or fear. As they came to the edge of the outer trenches the Protectorate infantry and Contractors manning the second line unleashed a deafening blast of rifle fire, cutting down the first rank of Corvantines like a scythe through wheat. Lizanne could hear the distinctive roar of Jermayah’s Growlers amidst the general cacophony, their worth proved by the mounds of dead piling up among the shell-holes.

Some Corvantines escaped the blizzard of lead to take shelter in the trenches vacated by the Contractors, whereupon they began to return fire, Lizanne ducking down as the bullets whined overhead.

“You lot waiting for something?” Arberus demanded of the conscripts, most now cowering beneath the lip of the trench. Some of the sailors duly bobbed up to fire an unaimed shot or two but the rest just gaped at him, the combined effects of the barrage and this new onslaught breeding a paralysis that couldn’t be shaken by a stern word. Arberus swore in Eutherian and strode towards the nearest conscript, a managerial type judging from his well-tailored hunting jacket. He stared at Arberus in white-faced shock as the major pressed his pistol against his head. “Get up!” Arberus ordered.

Some primal instinct seemed to warn the manager that this was no bluff, for he immediately got to his feet, albeit somewhat shakily. “Fire your rifle!” Arberus ordered, keeping his pistol pressed to the man’s temple until he raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired off an inexpert shot. “Again!” Arberus said. “And aim this time!”

The manager worked the bolt to open the breech, fumbled his first attempt to slot a bullet in place, succeeded at the second try and fired again. He flinched when a Corvantine bullet smacked into the ground near by, but nevertheless continued to fire as Arberus stepped back and pointed his revolver at the still-crouching conscripts. “All of you. If you want to live, get on your feet and start fucking fighting!”

Lizanne moved to the major’s side, fingers poised over the Spider’s buttons and Whisper in hand. However, further encouragement proved unnecessary as they all slowly got to their feet and began to fire at the Corvantines in the trenches below. Their position had been cleverly constructed at a greater height than the outer trench lines, allowing the defenders to fire down at the now-densely-packed Corvantines. The conscripts’ lack of expertise mattered little when presented with such an unmissable target. More than a dozen Corvantines fell at the first volley, quickly followed by many more as the conscripts realised they had the upper hand and their rate of fire increased.

“Not yet,” Arberus told Jermayah as his hand went to the Thumper’s lever. “This is just the first wave.”

Gazing down at the dreadful spectacle unfolding below, Lizanne thought of poor Mr. Drellic’s words regarding Grand Marshal Morradin and concluded the old butler hadn’t been so mad after all: The great commander, no more than a pig grown fat on the blood of wasted youth.

The trench below was now crammed with the dead or dying, in some places the corpses so densely packed they remained upright, the mass of bodies twitching continually under the unrestrained rifle fire. Yet more bodies littered the ground beyond, the wounded crawling or staggering about amidst the storm of shell and bullet. She saw one officer propping himself up on an upturned rifle, his leg missing below the knee but still waving his sword and blowing his whistle until a burst of Growler fire tore him apart.

The conscripts, blood-lust now stoked to full and not yet sated, continued to pour bullets into the mass of bodies below until Arberus barked at them to stop wasting ammunition. All along the line the crackle of gun-fire slowly ebbed as it became apparent the Corvantine assault had been stopped at the outer trench. A few shocked and wounded men could be seen through the haze, staggering or crawling back towards their own lines.

“I suppose they’ll ask for a truce now,” Lizanne commented. “To gather up their wounded before renewing the assault.”

Arberus’s laugh was hollow, his gaze fixed on the ground beyond the trenches in tense expectation. “Clearly, you don’t know our enemy that well, Miss Lethridge.”

A few seconds later came the tumult of a fresh assault, bugles, whistles and the shouts of charging men echoing through the smoke before they appeared. Another two brigades, Lizanne realised as she gauged their numbers, her unease deepening at the sight of the dark red tunics of the men directly in front of their trench. The Scarlet Legion.

Arberus had also been quick to spot the presence of the Imperial Elite, moving to the Thumper and patting Jermayah on the shoulder. “It’s time. You turn the handle, I’ll aim.” Jermayah had constructed an ingenious mounting for the weapon that enabled it to be swivelled about on lateral and vertical axes with minimal effort. Arberus took a second to align the Thumper then nodded at Jermayah. Lizanne had time to fumble some fresh cotton into her ears before the weapon began to roar. Its rate of fire was slower than the Growler’s but the harsh, percussive bark that accompanied the departure of every shell from the multiple barrels still made for a jolting experience. She was surprised by how little smoke it produced, Jermayah apparently having concocted a new form of propellant that allowed the gunner to observe their target as they fired. She was therefore treated to a full demonstration of the Thumper’s effectiveness as the first shells tore into the ranks of the Scarlet Legion.

Much of the first rank simply disintegrated, a line of tall men, maintaining impressively disciplined order as they charged with rifles levelled and bayonets gleaming, transformed into bloody ruin in the space of a few seconds. She saw four men explode in quick succession, the men behind and to the sides reeling away from the flying shrapnel and fragmented bone. It seemed that for every man the Thumper killed directly it took down three more with the force of the resultant explosion. By the time they had exhausted the first magazine, the centre of the Scarlet Legion’s line had been stopped completely. The legionnaires on the flanks, however, continued to charge on despite the shock of the Thumper’s attentions, rallied by sword-wielding officers to increase their pace.

“Reload!” Arberus said.

They had practised this over and over again in the workshop; Jermayah opened the breech, Lizanne removed the empty magazine and Tekela replaced it with a full one. All done in less than four seconds.

Arberus traversed the Thumper to the right as Jermayah began to turn the handle once more, then worked the weapon slowly from side to side to concentrate fire on the Legion’s flanks. More exploding men, more gaps torn in their ranks, but still, somehow, the survivors came on. Perhaps four hundred made it to the outer trench where they began to clamber over the bodies of those killed in the first assault. The Protectorate troops and Contractors in the second line opened a withering fire, exacting a heavy price for the legionnaires’ courage. But the Imperial Elite were not easily daunted, struggling on over the mounds of corpses and ascending the slope towards the second line. They were close enough for Lizanne to make out their faces now and they all seemed to be screaming, either through rage or madness, running forward as their comrades died around them.

Arberus ordered another fresh magazine and depressed the Thumper’s barrels by several inches before firing again. At this range the effect was too much even for the surviving legionnaires; whole platoons were wiped out at once, some men suffering multiple hits so that they were simply blasted out of existence. The Thumper’s shells raised a dust-storm, concealing the final moments of the Legion’s assault as Jermayah exhausted the last of the magazine. The pall settled slowly, revealing a scene of utter carnage. Men lay in pieces, heads, limbs, legs and rifles tangled up together like discarded meat from an abattoir.

“Fuck me,” Lizanne heard one of the sailors say before he choked off into a retch.

Incredibly, one man remained standing amidst the slaughter, a great barrel-chested fellow with the grizzled look of a veteran sergeant. He stood staring down at what remained of one of the proudest regiments in the empire, face expressionless but tears streaming down his craggy cheeks. After a moment he straightened, squared his shoulders and hefted his rifle, then began a slow deliberate advance towards the second line of trenches. Arberus took a rifle from one of the conscripts and shot the man in the head, his body collapsing onto the piled remains of his men.

“A trifle harsh, Major,” Lizanne commented as Arberus lowered the rifle.

“When the Scarlet Legion took Jerravin,” he said, “they chained up all the surviving defenders and made them watch as their wives and daughters were raped and beheaded. Then they doused them in oil and burned them alive. I stood and watched them do it, laughing along with all the other butchers, because that was my role then.” He turned and handed the rifle back to the conscript, the manager he had forced to his feet earlier. “You asked if I had any qualms,” he said to Lizanne. “I trust this stands as sufficient answer.”

CHAPTER 32

Clay

“Madame Bondersil says we should trust her, huh?” Braddon spoke quietly, his gaze lingering on Ethelynne as she sat with Lutharon on the lake-shore. The drake had curled up on the shingle beach come nightfall, tail curving to form a protective barrier around the small woman nestled against his massive chest. Whilst she seemed at ease, the drake’s eyes remained bright in the gloom, his gaze sweeping over them all in continual and wary scrutiny. Upon emerging from the tunnels, Preacher and Braddon had immediately begun to raise their longrifles at the sight of a large male Black standing barely twenty feet away, only lowering them when Clay rushed to stand in their sights. Even then, it had taken some while before the knowledge that he had discovered the fabled personage of Ethelynne Drystone fully sank in.

The Longrifles sat around a makeshift camp in various states of dishevelled hunger, much of their supplies having been lost at the temple. Scriberson seemed the least affected, his fascination with Lutharon apparently banishing any mere physical wants. Firpike, still alive somewhat to Clay’s annoyance, regarded the animal with a mixture of barely controlled fear and naked calculation; the ability to control a drake was worth more than all the gold and knowledge now buried beneath several hundred tons of charred stone.

Predictably, the Contractors were considerably more agitated by Lutharon’s presence, their wary observance the equal of his, and all keeping their weapons close as they huddled around the fire the beast had raised for them at Ethelynne’s request. Their suspicion had only been slightly allayed when Ethelynne treated Foxbine’s leg wound with her stock of Green. The injury had begun to fester in the dank confines of the tunnels but a hefty application and ingestion of Green had done much to start the healing process, though the gunhand was still obliged to lean on Skaggerhill as she walked.

Clay took some solace from the comparative lack of concern displayed by Silverpin. She had clambered out of the tunnel and rushed towards him, crushing herself to him in relief, then drawing back to cast a curious glance at Ethelynne and Lutharon. “It’s complicated,” he had said, which, from the lengthy kiss she then pressed to his lips, seemed explanation enough for the time being.

“So Miss Lethridge tells it,” Clay told Braddon, still a little fog-headed as he was not long out of the trance. “She’s back at Carvenport now.” He glanced over at the others, lowering his voice and deciding some truth would make the lies slip down easier. “The Corvantines have it under siege, Uncle. Sent a whole army from Morsvale to take it. They’re holding out for now, but their cannon are pounding the place day and night.”

Braddon’s gaze abruptly lifted from Ethelynne, eyes widening in concern.

“I asked her to check on Auntie,” Clay assured him. “She said she would.” He paused, watching his uncle fold his arms, face clouded with uncharacteristic indecision. He stayed quiet for a good while, features set in a frown that Clay knew must be masking considerable turmoil. How strong is the White’s pull? he wondered. Enough to make you turn your back on your wife?

“If we start back now,” Braddon said finally, “assuming we can find a means to make it up the Falls, then the river, whatever’s gonna happen will have happened by the time we get there.”

“That’s Madame’s thinking too,” Clay said, hoping his quiet tone concealed his disappointment and the ominous realisation that accompanied it. It’s really got him now. Nothing I say is gonna turn him around. “She says the war can be ended if we find the White. Securing an egg or a live specimen will be enough to make every corporation in the world throw their lot in with Ironship. Corvantines’ll have to come to terms then. So she says, anyways. And Miss Lethridge thinks they can hold out for a good while yet.”

Braddon nodded, his gaze tracking to Skaggerhill then Loriabeth. “Say nothing of this to the others. Piling on another load of worry won’t help anybody. We got us a contract and I aim to fulfil the terms; that’s all they need know for now.” He looked again at Ethelynne and Lutharon. “Why’s she so keen to help us?”

“She ain’t one for revealing her intentions, but I sense she’s got a hankering to see the White again. Spent more than twenty years out here pondering the mysteries of the Interior. The White’s still the biggest one of all. Also,” he added with a grin, “seems she knows a way we can get to the Coppersoles that won’t take the best part of two months trekking through the jungle.”

—

“I found it four years ago,” Ethelynne said as Lutharon’s claws tore away another patch of vegetation from the mound. Come the morning she had led them south along the shore, covering five miles before midday. They halted at a small lagoon fed by a narrow inlet in the shore-line. Lutharon immediately plunged in and began tearing away at what appeared to be a large moss-covered mound in the centre of the lagoon.

“I only found one of the crew,” Ethelynne went on. “Half-dead from a Green bite and delirious. He kept rambling on about salvaging some lost treasure from the lake-bed. There’s an air-pump of some kind on board, so I suspect his companions met their end beneath the depths.”

“Lost treasure?” Firpike asked, a keen glint in his eye.

“Yes,” Ethelynne replied. “Some outlandish tale of a fabulously jewelled ship of ancient origin lurking beneath the waters of the lake. I must say, my own research has uncovered no mention of it, but”—she gave Clay a sidelong glance, a small but mischievous grin on her lips—“the Interior has ever been a magnet for those in search of the unfindable.”

Lutharon tore away another patch of moss, revealing the unmistakable shape of a river-boat hull. A few moments more and the craft was fully revealed. She had a single paddle at the stern and one stunted and multiply holed stack rising from the wheel-house. Clay gauged her size as perhaps a quarter that of the Firejack, but that still left plenty of room to carry them all, provided they could get her engine working.

“She could do with a good sprucing up,” Ethelynne said as Lutharon nudged the heavily besmirched vessel towards the bank. “But she’s been untouched since I found her.”

“Did he say what manner of ship?” Firpike persisted, stepping closer to Ethelynne then promptly stepping back as Lutharon issued a warning rumble.

“The poor fellow expired the night after I found him,” Ethelynne replied. “There are some documents aboard, the captain’s log and such. They held little interest for me, but if you’d care to . . .”

Firpike ran to the bank and leapt aboard without another word. Soon they could hear him rummaging around in the wheel-house.

“River Maiden,” Skaggerhill said, wiping a hand along the hull to reveal the boat’s name-plate. “Her timbers must still be water worthy, otherwise she’d have sunk by now. We should still check her over for leaks though.”

“See to the engine first,” Braddon said. “If we can’t get it working, won’t matter how tight the hull is.”

To their surprise the River Maiden proved to have two engines, one a coal-burner, the other a much smaller arrangement of pipes and combustion chamber. “Damned if she isn’t a blood-burner,” Skaggerhill said, crouching to run a hand over the power plant in appreciation.

“Can you make it work?” Braddon asked.

The harvester shrugged and shook his head. “I know a little about boats, and less about engines.”

“If I may?” Scriberson said, stepping forward. Skaggerhill made way for him and the astronomer crouched to run a careful eye over both engines, hands exploring the various components with practised familiarity.

“Done this before?” Clay asked.

“Engineering has always been my secondary passion,” Scriberson replied, grunting a little as he gave a hard twist to the gears connecting the coal-burner to the main drive-shaft. “I was Chairman of the Consolidated Research Amateur Artificers Club. We would hold a contest every year for the most outlandishly pointless kinetic apparatus.” He sighed as the gears refused to budge then lifted the lid on the engine’s exhaust tube to peer inside.

“Too much rust, Captain,” he told Braddon. “It’s seized beyond repair. This beauty, however”—he nodded at the blood-burner—“is a sealed unit and should still run if fed sufficient product. I’ll need to make sure the main shaft will still turn the paddle, however. And the water reservoir will need to be cleaned out and refilled.”

“Get to it,” Braddon told him, nodding at a box in the corner of the engine room. “Looks like the boat’s grease monkey was kind enough to leave his tools behind. Skaggs will help out best he can.” He turned to Clay, nodding at the hatchway. “Let’s see if Miss Drystone will share some of her riches.”

Ethelynne seemed to attach little value to the product she carried and handed over a full vial of Red without demur. “Naturally,” Braddon assured her, “there’ll be a full accounting of expenses when our contract’s fulfilled. You will, of course, receive a full share . . .”

He trailed off as she laughed, covering her mouth and turning away as her mirth continued unabated for several minutes. She laughed for such a long time that Clay found himself worrying over what conclusions his uncle might draw from such a display. “Forgive me, Captain,” she said eventually, having sobered somewhat and wiping tears from her eyes. “It’s just been a good long while since I heard talk of such things, and said with such sincerity too.”

Seeing her mouth twitch in anticipation of another outburst, Clay cut in quickly, “We got other pressing matters. There’s maybe a day’s rations left between all of us. And then there’s the scarcity of ammo.”

“I can help with one,” Ethelynne said, turning and striding towards Lutharon. “But not the other. I’ve had no need of guns in all my days here.” She climbed onto the drake’s back, calling out as he flexed his wings and tensed for the launch, “I’ll be back before nightfall!”

Watching drake and rider climb into the air and glide away over the lake, Braddon shook his head, his features displaying both wonder and wariness. “Mad as a bag of cats, but that beast follows her like a love-lorn hound.”

—

“It starts out rationally enough,” Firpike muttered, perched on the fore-deck with the boat’s log resting on his knees as he pored over the mildewed pages. “But then descends into gibberish a few days before the entries end.”

“That’s truly fascinating,” Clay told him, casting another armful of moss over the side. “How’s about you lend a hand here and do your pondering later?”

“Oh, leave him be,” Loriabeth chided from the prow where she was scraping the worst of the muck from the hawser. “I’m all fired up and curious about this treasure ship, myself. What’s it say about that, Doc?”

“Precious little,” he replied, thumbing back a few pages. “It seems this boat was chartered in Rigger’s Bay by a fellow referred to only as Mr. O. The captain was paid five hundred in exchange notes up front and promised a thirty percent share in whatever treasure was retrieved from the lake. He does give a position for the likely site of the discovery though.” Firpike paused to favour Braddon with a hopeful glance.

“Forget it,” the captain told him. “Though I’ll be happy to drop you off on the way south, Doc.” He turned to Foxbine, sitting on the mid-deck engaged in an inventory of the remaining ammunition. “What’s the count?”

“Twenty-two rifle rounds,” she replied. “Mostly steel-tips, which is good, I guess. And sixty-three of the .48 short, which most suredly ain’t. Plus, Skaggs only has six shotgun shells left. We run into any more trouble, Captain . . .”

“I know,” he said. “Guess we’ll just have to be extra circumspect from now on. Keep thirty of the .48s and parcel out the rest equally between Clay and Lori. Me and Preacher’ll take equal shares of the .52s.”

A sudden shift in the deck made Clay stagger a little, his gaze going to the engine-room hatch from which a low steady hum could be heard. “Seer-damn me if they didn’t fix it,” Foxbine said, starting to rise. Clay paused to help her up and they joined the others in the engine room where a grease-stained Scriberson stood next to the vibrating thermoplasmic engine.

“Lad’s a genius, right enough,” Skaggerhill told Braddon.

“It’s running on kerosene just now,” Scriberson said, tapping the dim glow behind the glass window of the combustion chamber. “It’ll need product to turn the paddle.”

“Your share just went up three points, young man,” Braddon told him. “And I’ll add another three if this thing holds out all the way to the Coppersoles.”

“You still intend to press on?” the astronomer asked. “Not that I’m displeased, the alignment is my life’s work after all. But with so little ammunition, how profitable could this expedition be for you now?”

“Let me worry about that. There’s mining settlements in the mountains, bound to have some ammo to trade. Besides, you and me have a contract.”

—

As promised, Ethelynne returned in the evening as the sun began to dip. Lutharon descended out of the sky to flare his wings and hover over the camp they had established next to the lagoon, opening his claws to drop two enormous fish close to the fire. “That salmon?” Loriabeth wondered, giving one of the fish a dubious poke. “Never seen one so big.”

“Looks like good eating to me, whatever it is,” Skaggerhill said, drawing a knife to start the gutting.

The fish did indeed prove to provide a hearty meal, the flesh only slightly bony and the supply fulsome enough to fill their growling bellies. “Just got fed by a drake,” Skaggerhill said when the meal was done, rubbing his stomach and looking over at Lutharon who had curled up a good distance away. “And I thought this place was done surprising me.” His gaze shifted to Ethelynne sitting on the opposite side of the fire. “I gotta know, miss. How’s it done? All my years on this continent, I ain’t never seen this.”

Ethelynne gave one of the faint smiles Clay had come to recognise meant she had no answer to give and the silence stretched until Preacher spoke up. “It worships her.” His gaze was fixed on Lutharon and had that same focused animation as when he started quoting the Seer. Also, Clay noted his rifle lay unsheathed across his lap. “And you it,” Preacher went on, turning to Ethelynne. “You drank of the drake’s heart, just like the Witch Queen in the mosaic.”

Ethelynne gave a lengthy laugh, seemingly finding almost as much amusement in Preacher as she had Braddon. “She wasn’t a witch,” she replied after a while. “Or a queen for that matter. And you mistake love for worship.”

“‘’Ware the witch,’” Preacher quoted, his stridency increasing by the word. “‘For she will conspire with the drake towards our ruin.’”

Ethelynne gave a girlish giggle, as if she were engaged in some delightful game, then replied with a quote of her own. “‘And the sun became a man, and spoke to me in the voice of an eagle commanding that I not eat of any winged beast, for they are all in secret thrall to the drake.’ You appear to put great faith in the words of a man who was patently insane.”

Clay saw the marksman’s hands tense on the stock of his rifle, as did his uncle. “Easy now, Preacher,” he said. “Let’s not offend a lady who’s been so generous with us.”

Preacher continued to stare at Ethelynne, Clay slowly lowering his own hand to the Stinger as he saw the way the man’s fingers twitched on the rifle. Like a drunk wary of reaching for his last drink. The twitching stopped, however, when Lutharon voiced a growl and rose from his resting place to come to Ethelynne’s side. He moved without haste, tail swishing as he rested his great head on her shoulder, closing his eyes as she reached up to scratch his nose. Love, not worship, Clay thought.

Preacher rose to his feet, staring at woman and drake in naked disgust, then abruptly turned about and walked away, pausing at the edge of the fire-light when Braddon spoke up. “If you’re not here come the morning, I understand. But if you are, leave your scripture behind when you step on that boat. I ain’t got the patience for it no more.”

—

Clay soon came to understand that the Krystaline was more a sea than a lake. The surface that seemed so placid from a distance was in fact prone to swells and choppiness when the wind rose, often causing the deck of the shallow-hulled River Maiden to heave at alarming angles. “Pardon,” Skaggerhill called from the wheel-house when Clay and Silverpin came perilously close to tipping over the rail as they crested a particularly large swell. “She takes a bit o’ steering, for sure.”

Once they had completed all the repairs they could, Lutharon had taken to the water once more to push the craft out of the lagoon and onto the lake. Firing the engine proved to be a less complicated matter than either Clay or Scriberson expected. The astronomer simply injected a quarter of Ethelynne’s vial into a nozzle on the engine’s topside whereupon it flowed into a small chamber covered by thick glass. “Now what?” Clay asked.

“You burn it.” Scriberson handed him the vial. He took a sip then focused on the product behind the glass, stepping back in instinctive alarm when it burst into fiery life. The drive-shaft began to turn immediately, giving off a loud squealing that only abated when Scriberson poured some oil over it.

They endeavoured to keep to true south since departing the lagoon, Preacher still aboard much to Clay’s surprise. He sat at the prow, staring fixedly ahead and not once glancing up at the drake and rider overhead, not even when they came swooping down to deposit another pair of over-large salmon on the deck.

Firpike had made one more abortive attempt to persuade Braddon to pay a brief visit to the supposed location of the fabled treasure ship, sternly refused despite Loriabeth’s enthusiastic support. “C’mon, Pa,” she pleaded. “Let’s have us an adventure and maybe get rich into the bargain.” It had been to no avail and Firpike was reduced to leaning over the side to peer into the depths of the lake, as if some glimmering clue might catch his eye.

“Wouldn’t do that,” Foxbine advised the disgraced scholar. “Krystaline’s famed for its river Greens. Grow big as Reds they say, and they ain’t shy.”

“I know well the fauna of this lake, madam,” Firpike sniffed. “The Greens here are known to be nocturnal hunters and to steer clear of boats.”

“Tell that to the poor bastard who wrote that,” Clay said, nodding at the log-book Scriberson had taken to keeping close at hand.

“In point of fact, young man,” Firpike replied, “the unfortunate skipper’s account supports my research. They were attacked when they foolishly conducted a diving expedition at night.” He gave a wistful sigh and returned his gaze to the water. “So much knowledge to hand and yet so far away.”

“Doesn’t it say anything about what manner of ship it was?” Scriberson asked. He had taken a break from tending the engine and sat on the deck regarding Firpike with his habitual suspicion, though now it was augmented by a reluctant curiosity.

“The description is vague,” Firpike replied, taking up the log-book and holding it to his chest, reminding Clay of a child worried his playmate might steal his toy.

“Spill it, Doc,” Loriabeth said. “We all found this boat, so we all got a stake in the treasure.”

Firpike’s gaze tracked over them, the recurrent awareness that he was not amongst friends looming large in his face as he sullenly opened the log-book and extracted a loose page. “This appears to be a copy of an ancient Dalcian text. It is known that the Dalcians managed to navigate the eastern flank of the Barrier Isles and the Razor Sea long before Queen Arrad discovered the northern strait. However, their numbers were always too small to establish a colony and few expeditions ever returned. Those that did were often dismissed as madmen or liars with their fanciful tales of fire-breathing beasts and great cities rising from the jungle. This”—he held up the page—“appears to be a fragment from an account describing one such voyage. The language is so archaic it defies accurate translation. However, it seems this Mr. O., whoever he was, spent considerable time and money seeking out Dalcian calligraphers who could help decipher its meaning.”

“The period?” Scriberson enquired.

“Early Satura Magisterium.”

The astronomer gave a sceptical frown. “That’s over two thousand years ago.”

“Closer to three, in fact.” Firpike’s tone was more than a little smug.

“What’s it say about the ship?” Loriabeth said.

“This is where it becomes most obscure.” Firpike looked again at the loose page. “It seems the best interpretation the calligraphers could come up with was ‘a vessel of wonder, unbound by earth or sea, come to rest with precious cargo ’neath the silver waters.’ There are some additional geographical references that I assume led Mr. O. to this lake.”

“Seems a slight thing to risk so much for,” Clay said. “Just a few lines from an age long-gone.”

“Precious cargo,” Loriabeth said. “Could be anything down there.”

“More likely nothing.” Clay looked up to see Braddon standing with his arms crossed and visage more fierce than any worn throughout the whole journey from Carvenport. “We went wandering off after one distraction already,” he said. “And it damn near did for us all. That ain’t happening again. We’re heading south to the Coppersoles where we will fulfil our contract, and that’s all there is to it. Any of you wanna disagree, you’re welcome to depart this company right now and enjoy the swim.” He turned his glower on Firpike, pointing at the log-book. “You do what you want with all that guff when we part ways. But I don’t want any more talk of it in this company.”

Braddon’s gaze softened a little as he settled it on Scriberson. “Young man, how about you and Clay seeing if you can get a knot or two extra out of that engine. I don’t relish being on this lake a moment longer than necessary.”

—

They were able to increase speed to a creditable fifteen knots by the simple expedient of adding a third of their remaining product to the combustion chamber. Even so, the southern horizon remained stubbornly free of mountains by the time the sun began to fade. Lutharon came swooping down as sunset cast an orange tint over the eastern sky. Ethelynne could be seen pointing emphatically at the shore-line to the west.

“Seems she don’t think it’s a good idea to be out here come nightfall, Captain,” Skaggerhill noted and Braddon gave the reluctant order to find a mooring for the night.

“The Green packs become more numerous in the lake’s southern reaches,” Ethelynne explained over a supper of yet more fish, enlivened somewhat by Skaggerhill’s inventive use of seasoning. He had steered the River Maiden into a shallow bay just as the last light fled the sky. Ethelynne insisted they vacate the boat and wade to shore, making sure not to leave any lights burning on board. “They’re attracted to bright things.”

“They really grow big as Reds here?” Skaggerhill asked her.

“Certainly, some even bigger, and decidedly more aggressive in defending their territory. The southern shallows are rich in manatees, dolphins and other sundry beasts for them to hunt.”

“What about Spoiled?” Braddon asked her. “We likely to find any when we reach the mountains?”

“The coastal tribes were wiped out by Briteshore’s Contractors years ago. However, there remain some populous enclaves in the higher peaks.” She paused to offer an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid they aren’t very welcoming to visitors.”

As usual, Clay volunteered for first watch along with Silverpin. They sat together on a large rock close to the shore that offered a decent all-round view, Silverpin resting her head on his shoulder as he ran a hand through her blonde locks. They hadn’t made love since leaving the Firejack and he found himself resisting the foolish notion of suggesting a surreptitious assignation in the jungle. Somehow though, the very absurdity of the idea made it more alluring, the thought of them pressed together in the undergrowth, rolling around in the dark . . .

He came to his senses as she abruptly straightened, disentangling herself and coming to a crouch with spear in hand. The reason for her alarm soon became obvious. Lutharon was breathing fire. The drake stood at the shore-line, silhouetted by his own flames, tail thrashing in obvious agitation as he cast repeated jets of flame out over the lake. In between each breath he would move from side to side, growling as his wings flared then folded.

“What in the Travail is he doing?” Clay wondered aloud.

“Warning.”

Clay turned to find Ethelynne standing near by. She was wearing her swaddle-coat, the hood drawn back to leave her face bare, revealing an altogether more serious expression than any he had seen her display before.

“Warning what?” he asked but she said nothing, her gaze entirely fixed on the Black as he continued his fiery display. A sudden movement on the lake caught Clay’s eye, a flash of white as something broke the surface, something large and fast. Lutharon immediately became even more agitated, rearing back on his hind legs to raise himself, standing well over twenty feet off the ground as he spread his wings and roared. More white flashes erupted on the lake and Clay realised whatever was out there wasn’t alone. He could hear screeching now, high-pitched and loud enough to cut through Lutharon’s warning roar. It was different from the scream of the jungle Greens but possessed much the same ability to leave a chill in the soul. Lutharon, however, remained uncowed.

He launched himself into the air, still roaring, a mighty flap of his wings taking him out over the water where he cast a torrent of flame down at the thrashing water. Clay could see them in the glow of the drake’s fire, jaws snapping and tails thrashing as they spat their own fire in response, though the flames seemed slight in comparison. Lutharon’s wings thrummed as he hovered, roaring and jetting flame until the foaming water beneath finally subsided into a steaming calm. He beat the air to gain more height and circled the spot for several minutes, head swivelling about as he scanned the water for enemies. Apparently satisfied, he returned to the shore where Ethelynne was waiting. She pressed herself against his flank as he shielded her with a wing, gaze still roving the lake.

“Doesn’t make sense,” Clay heard Ethelynne say from beneath the ebony curtain of the wing. He moved closer, motioning for Silverpin to stay put. He had expected some sign of aggression from Lutharon but the drake barely spared him a glance before lifting a wing and allowing him to move to Ethelynne’s side.

“What doesn’t make sense?” he asked.

She had pressed her face into Lutharon’s flank and when she turned to him he was appalled to see tears shining on her cheeks. “He says they’ve gone mad.”

—

The next day dawned behind a heavy cloud that continued to thicken throughout the morning. By midday the River Maiden paddled under a grey-black sky and thunder could be heard rumbling to the south. “Storm coming,” Skaggerhill pronounced, somewhat redundantly. “Best get any bailing gear ready. This tub handles poorly at the best of times. Can’t speak for how she’ll steer all filled up with rain-water.”

“The bilge-pump seems to be in reasonable condition,” Scriberson said. “With Clay’s help I should be able to get it working.”

The pump’s pipe-work had more than a few blockages which Clay was able to clear with a small amount of Black. It was delicate work, but well within his expertise. “I’ve only ever seen it used for large-scale manufacturing,” Scriberson said as Clay carefully drew out a glob of congealed engine grease. “Quite the talent, sir.”

“And I got plenty of practice lifting coins and watches from manager’s pockets back in Carvenport.”

“Oh.” Scriberson blinked and looked away in discomfort. “You were . . .”

“Blinds scum all the way,” Clay finished, enjoying the astronomer’s embarrassment. “Or a notorious thief and killer, according to my uncle.” He returned his attention to the pump, fingers exploring the thick rubber tube protruding from the main valve and detecting a hard lump. “Knew a fella back in the Blinds,” he went on, concentrating on the lump and summoning the modicum of product he had swallowed to inch it along the tube, “had such a knowledge of a man’s innards, he could reach inside with the Black to stop a heart or pinch a vein. Didn’t even have to see it. He used to bribe a morgue attendant to let him in so he could practice on the corpses.”

“A valuable skill, I assume,” Scriberson said, plainly appalled but keeping any disgust from his face.

You acting now? Clay wondered, thinking back on Miss Lethridge’s warning to watch this one closely. “Right,” he replied, still guiding the lump through the tube. “Cost you a packet to hire Black Bildon. Always wondered if I should try to learn his tricks, ask him for an apprenticeship or some such. Somebody killed him before I could.” He laughed as the lump came to the end of the tube, revealed as a rusted iron bolt as it popped into his hand. “Can’t think why.”

If it’s an act, it’s a good one, he decided, seeing the expression on Scriberson’s face: repugnance mixed with pity.

“I’m glad such things are behind you, Clay,” the astronomer said.

Clay tossed the bolt aside and rose to his haunches, shuffling closer to Scriberson and speaking softly. “Neither of us are stupid men, Scribes. So, I’m given to think you already guessed we ain’t going to the Coppersoles to hunt for Black. Am I right?”

Scriberson glanced at the hold’s open hatch then nodded slowly, keeping his voice low. “It seemed unlikely Miss Drystone would be assisting you if that were the case. And I do know her story.”

“Then you know the best thing you can do the moment we get anywhere near a settlement is take off and don’t look back. Forget the alignment. Forget whatever prizes, medals or bonuses they’ll pile on you for looking through that tube of yours at the right moment. What’s in those mountains ain’t worth your life.”

“Is it worth yours?”

Clay thought about how he had clung to life back in the Blinds, when every day was a battle. Now, here he was moving ever closer to something he knew would most likely see him dead, and yet he had no real thought of turning back. “There’s a thing needs to be done,” was all he could think to say.

A shout came from outside, Foxbine’s voice raised in alarm. Clay took a moment to strap on the Stinger’s holster and followed Scriberson onto the deck. The gunhand stood at the prow, hopping on her good leg and pointing at something directly ahead. The rain had started by now, masking the horizon in a thick haze of vapour, but Clay could make out a dark shape in the water. For a moment he thought it might be a drake but soon discerned it as wreckage. “Stop the engine,” Braddon ordered and Scriberson rushed off to comply.

The River Maiden slowed as the engine died, Braddon going to the starboard rail to latch onto the wreckage with one of the pole-hooks they had found on board. “Thick planking,” he commented, Clay taking a moment to recognise the flotsam as a ragged chunk of a boat’s hull, scorched black in most places.

“Happened recently,” Skaggerhill judged. “Timber rots if it’s more than a few days in water.”

“There’s more here,” Foxbine called from the prow. They found further sundered planking, plus some barrels bobbing in the swell, all showing signs of recent burning. Then, as they continued to drift south with the current, Loriabeth spotted a man clinging to a piece of wreckage a hundred yards off the port side. Keen not to use up all their product Braddon had them turn the Maiden’s paddle by hand whilst Skaggerhill steered them towards the survivor.

“Hey!” Loriabeth called to him as they drew within reach. “Wake up, mister!”

There was no response, the man remaining slumped in apparent exhaustion, his lower half beneath the water. Braddon used the pole-hook to draw the wreckage closer but this immediately upset the balance, tipping the man loose. Loriabeth immediately turned away, retching as the man bobbed in the water, his entrails splaying out from his severed torso like the tentacles of some sea creature. He stared up at them with empty, milky-white eyes, mouth open in a strangely baffled expression.

“Briteshore Minerals,” Skaggerhill said, pointing at the lettering stencilled onto the wreckage.

“It must have been a survey craft,” Scriberson said. “The lake-bed is believed to be rich in mineral deposits.”

“Seems they found something more than just rocks,” Clay observed.

“Greens.” Skaggerhill nodded at the bobbing man. “Bit him clean in half.”

“Can’t do nothing for him now,” Braddon said as they continued to stare. “Let’s set about gathering up these barrels, see if there’s anything we can use. Clay, Mr. Scriberson, see to the engine.”

—

“Erm.” Loriabeth stared down at the barrel she had just levered open with her belt knife, taking a long step back. “Pa.”

“Well, that’s a turn-up,” Braddon mused, stroking his chin as he regarded the barrel’s contents. It appeared to Clay to consist of a dozen brown tubes, all packed tight in a binding of cotton wool and sealed against the water with oilskin.

“What’s that?” he asked, moving closer only for his uncle to gently push him back.

“Twelve sticks of Briteshore’s finest accelerating agent,” Braddon said, adding, “Explosives, boy,” when Clay shrugged in bafflement.

“Might be best to tip it over the side,” Foxbine said, keeping well back and eyeing the barrel with considerable suspicion. “Seen a fella get turned to powder by just an inch worth of that stuff.”

“We’re too low on ammo to be cautious now, Miss Foxbine,” Braddon told her, crouching to carefully replace the barrel’s lid.

They looked up at a loud squawk from Lutharon. The rain had abated an hour after they traversed the wreckage of the Briteshore vessel, finding more barrels on the way, some packed with greatly welcomed foodstuffs, others tools and equipment of little use, and one with brandy which Braddon refused to let on board, much to Firpike’s annoyance. The sky cleared a little after noon, the clouds fading to reveal the black shadow of Lutharon’s cruciform shape above. It seemed he and Ethelynne had encountered little trouble tracking them through the rain-storm.

The drake described a slow, descending circle and they could see Ethelynne pointing to the south-west. Skaggerhill duly altered course and they saw it after only another mile, faint and formless at first but soon resolving into the jagged grey mass of a mountain range. They were finally at the Coppersoles.