He knew that frigate. That black, scarred monster, built like an ocean liner, her deck laden with weaponry.
Trinica Dracken's craft: the Delirium Trigger.
He watched the shuttle descend from the frigate with a deep sense of trepidation. She would be on it, of course. The woman he'd loved, once, back when they were both young and didn't know any better. The woman he'd deserted on their wedding day. The woman who'd tried to kill herself in her grief and only succeeded in killing the baby in her womb. His baby.
But that was a long time ago. Before she became one of the most feared pirates in Vardia. Before she robbed him of a fortune outside Retribution Falls.
Before she changed into something else.
They waited at gunpoint, surrounded by armed men. Their own guns had been unloaded and left in a heap a short distance away, along with their blades and other weaponry. Frey's cutlass rested on top of the heap; assorted knives, machetes, clubs and a set of knuckledusters were scattered around it.
A cold wind blew across the landing site. Frey tried not to shiver in his wet clothes. He clamped his jaw, which was threatening to tremble. He wouldn't show any weakness. Not to her.
The shutde touched down, and a ramp opened to let the passengers out. His stomach was a painful knot of anticipation. Damn it, how did that woman do this to him? Half of him hated her, the other half craved seeing her again. It had been more than a year since he'd last laid eyes on her, while she was depriving him of a hard-won chest of ducats that could have made him a rich man.
He'd imagined a reunion many times since, in many different ways. But always in circumstances more favourable than this.
Then he saw her. She stepped off the shuttle, her bosun by her side. Slender, dressed head to toe in black. Chalk-white skin, short blond hair hacked into clumps. Red lips, garishly painted. She wore contact lenses to blacken her irises, making her pupils seem wide as coins. Everything about her was calculated to unsettle. She dressed like Death's bride, or perhaps his whore, and people called her both.
The very sight of her made him angry. He couldn't help it. How could she bury her beauty under this horrifying facade? Her very existence was a blasphemy against the girl who lived in his memory. His idealised portrait of perfect romance. The love that might have been.
How could she do that to him?
'Trinica Dracken,' Grist muttered. 'I heard of her.'
'Yeah,' said Frey. 'Me, too.'
He recognised her bosun from their last meeting. A squat man, with matted black hair that hung untidily around a swarthy, simian face. His skin was puckered in a patch over his cheek and throat, a burn scar, visible above the collar of his shirt. Frey tried to keep his eyes on the bosun as they approached, so he wouldn't have to look at Trinica. But his gaze kept going back to her, and eventually he gave in to it.
She stopped in front of them and looked them over. Her black eyes lingered a moment on Frey before passing by with scarcely a glimmer of recognition or greeting. Then she looked at Spanners.
'This is all they had on 'em,' he said, holding out the metal sphere.
'Then that's what we came for,' Trinica said. 'Mr Crund?'
Her bosun took the sphere from Spanners. Grist glowered and seethed at the sight. Frey fancied he could feel the heat of the rage coming off him.
'Captain Grist, Captain Frey,' said Trinica, nodding at both of them. 'It's been a pleasure.'
And with that, she turned and walked away. Crund departed with her. The armed men who'd surrounded them backed off towards the shuttle, keeping their weapons trained on the captives.
Frey stared after her. Stunned.
That was it? That was all? No 'Long time, Darian?' Not even the banter of old adversaries? He'd waited a year to see her again and that was all she gave him?
She'd robbed him doubly this time. It wasn't just that she'd taken the sphere from them; it was that she'd done it with such a shattering disregard for his feelings. He'd thought about her ever since their last meeting, reliving that final smile she'd given him. A smile that came from the old Trinica, the briefest glimpse of the young woman he'd loved. He believed in that smile. He'd convinced himself that young woman was still there, buried under the heartless criminal she'd become. He'd fantasised about meeting her again, teasing out that smile once more.
But she, apparently, hadn't given him a moment's consideration.
They stood in silence as the shuttle rejoined the frigate. Nobody was quite sure what to say. They watched as the Delirium Trigger lit its thrusters and slid out of sight over the mountains.
'I really hate that bitch,' Frey muttered.
'How did she know?' Grist snarled. There was danger in his tone, like the ominous rumblings that precede an earthquake. His face was red; he was almost choking with rage. 'How did she find us? How did she know?' He turned and faced the group. 'Which one of you told her?'
Frey was intimidated enough to take an unconscious step back, but Malvery was uncowed. 'Calm down, mate,' he said. 'We've not been out of your sight since you came to us with the job. It's hardly gonna be one of us.'
Hodd raised a quivering hand. 'Remember that I, ah, approached several people before I came across your good self, Captain Grist. It's entirely possible that—'
He got no further. Grist gave a bellow of rage, and punched him in the face with appalling force. Hodd squealed as he fell to the ground, holding his bloody mouth, eyes wide with fear and distress. Grist stamped over to the heap of weapons, scooped up a machete, and stamped back towards Hodd, who'd got to his knees and was making incoherent shrieking noises through his hands.
'Here, wait a minute . . .' said Malvery, but his protest was halfhearted. None of them really thought he'd do it. Not until he swung the machete with all his might and buried it in the side of Hodd's neck.
Time stopped for Frey. The shock of the moment froze them all where they were. Hodd gaped blankly.
Then he coughed, and a flood of red spilled from his throat and over his lips. His hand came up and felt for the grip of the machete, as if trying to work out what it was. He made a feeble attempt to pull it free, but his hand slipped on the blood that had already coated the handle. It squirted from the wound in grotesque pulses.
His eyes had that terrible look in them. A look Frey had seen many times before. The look of a man who couldn't quite believe his time was up.
He keeled over sideways and was still.
Grist stared down at the explorer, his chest heaving. Nobody said a word. They watched him carefully, waiting to see what he'd do next.
'We're gonna get the sphere back,' he said eventually. 'We're gonna get it back, you hear? Your crew and mine. We'll track that woman down and we'll have what's ours and more besides. Nobody steals from Harvin Grist.' He took a breath, straightened, and looked over at Frey. 'You in, or not?'
Frey looked back at him. Trying to judge the depth of the mania in Grist's eyes. His first appraisal of the man had been seriously off. There was a blackness at his core that Frey didn't like at all.
To give up his shot at a fortune was no easy thing. This was the second time Trinica had stolen from him, and that was hard to take. But even so, he could have walked away. He was getting in over his head, and he knew it. Might as well play with dynamite as have a partner like Grist.
But she'd scarcely acknowledged him. That was what burned. All this time, all that had passed between them, and he meant less than nothing to her. He felt snubbed and humiliated, and he wanted to make her pay for that. He wanted revenge. She'd never walk all over him again.
'I get Hodd's five per cent,' he said, motioning toward the dead man.
Grist snorted in disgust. 'Fifty-fifty it is, you bloodsuckin' bastard,' he said. He turned his back and walked off towards the Storm Dog. Crattle followed him.
'Another mission ends in resounding success, then,' Malvery said sarcastically. He headed for the Ketty Jay. The others drifted away after him, all except Jez, who was eyeing the corpse of Hodd.
>
'You sure about this?' she said doubtfully.
'No,' said Frey. 'But we're doing it anyway.'
Jez nodded to herself. 'Right you are, Cap'n,' she said. Then she, too, walked off towards the Ketty Jay, and Frey was left alone.
Thirteen
The Butcher's Block — Pinn Gets A Letter —
Advice From A Drunkard
Marlen's Hook stood between the Blackendraft ash flats and the Scourfoot Desert, an outpost of humanity in the most i. lifeless of places. To the west were the Hookhollows, their sharp tips peeping over the edge of the high Eastern Plateau. Restless volcanoes hidden among the mountain peaks filled the sky with a grimy haze which was carried on to the plateau by the prevailing winds. The land was gloomy and bleared.
The port was built on a blunt lump of black rock that thrust dramatically upward from the ash-crusted earth. The heart of the settlement was on the flat top of the rock, where there was a landing pad for aircraft. It was the only place in Marlen's Hook that had anything recognisable as streets.
Jez stood at Frey's shoulder as he brought the Ketty Jay in towards the landing pad. She'd been to Marlen's Hook twice since joining Frey's crew, and she never looked forward to returning. The place was a lawless den of thieves and cut-throats. The Coalition Navy ignored it because it was so remote from civilisation, and because the ash in the air clogged up engines and lungs alike. Just being here was bad for your health.
She turned her eyes to the horizon, where the day was burning down in shades of pink and yellow and purple. Still, she thought, at least it makes for a dramatic sunset.
Outside the central mass of the town, shanty dwellings had gathered in clots. Tents and lean-tos crowded for space. Buildings clung to the sloped flanks of the rock wherever they could, forming a rickety maze of plank walkways and chiselled stairs. Shadows stretched long fingers eastward, or pooled in the hollows.
The Storm Dog was ahead of them and below, descending towards the port. Powerful beam lamps shone up from the landing pad, cutting through the murk, guiding her in. The Ketty Jay followed, her outflyers trailing behind.
'Well,' said Frey. 'It may not be pretty, but if anyone knows where Dracken might be found, they'll be down there somewhere.'
'Let's hope so, Cap'n,' Jez said neutrally. Frey was just talking to fill up the silence. She could tell he was full of doubts, just as she was. The atmosphere on the return journey from Kurg had been strained. The crew had retreated to their quarters or occupied themselves with solitary tasks. Hodd's murder had sobered them. Nobody missed the explorer, but nobody thought he deserved what he got, and they were all wary of Grist now. They didn't like throwing their lot in with someone like that. They'd rather give up on this whole thing.
But the Cap'n had decided otherwise. He'd got the bit between his teeth, and he wasn't going to stop. Jez wished she knew what was going on in his head. He'd been different ever since Grist had turned up. The old Frey would have known when to retreat. He would have folded his hand and got out while they still could. But something had lit a fire under him. There was a kind of doggedness in his manner that she hadn't seen since they got tangled up in the Retribution Falls affair. She sensed they'd be following this through to the end.
But if Grist was a dangerous ally, then Dracken was an even more dangerous enemy. Her involvement was unlikely to be a coincidence. There was more to this than a simple treasure hunt. She just hoped the Cap'n knew what he was doing.
Meanwhile, Jez had preoccupations of her own. Now that the shock had worn off, she'd had time to process everything she learned aboard the dreadnought. Foremost among them was this: Manes were daemons. Daemons that took over the bodies of men and women.
She had a daemon inside her.
The thought was horrifying. Ever since she'd first realised she was dead, she'd thought of the Mane part of her as an infection, a disease that she must resist if she wanted to retain her humanity. But now it was different. Now she was possessed. The enemy was intelligent, and it was within her. Not some mindless force of transformation, but a malicious invader that knew her thoughts and plotted her overthrow.
She held up her hand in front of her and stared at it. The arrow wound she'd sustained on Kurg had already closed up. There was no trace of a scar, and her fingers worked fine. Once her ability to heal rapidly had seemed a useful side effect of her condition; now it was just more evidence of the dreadful entity within her.
Her skin no longer felt like her own. She was violated. Somehow, she had to expel the invader.
This can't go on, she thought.
For years she'd lived in fear of herself, hiding from her fellow humans, afraid to make friends or to stay in one place. She'd tried to resist the creeping influence of the Manes, hoping to drive it back by willpower alone. She'd told herself that she would have been consumed long ago if not for that.
Maybe that was true, maybe not. But the influence grew, nevertheless. Her trances came more easily and frequently now.
She hadn't been winning. She'd just slowed the speed at which she lost.
Something's got to be done, she thought. And soon.
The Butcher's Block stood on a grubby thoroughfare, sandwiched between a pawnshop and a whorehouse. It was a patched-up mess of wind-blasted sheet metal and flapping tarp. The facade leaned outward as if the whole building was about to tip drunkenly into the street. Lamp-posts, made filthy by the insidious ash in the air, glowed in the dark. Most passers-by wore goggles and face masks; those who didn't had red-rimmed eyes and racking coughs.
Inside, smoke replaced ash as the pollutant of choice. The tables and stools were as mismatched as the clientele. An electric iron candelabra hung from the ceiling, buzzing. The rattling of an oil-powered generator could be heard through the outside wall.
Frey pushed in through the door, unwrapping the scarf from around his face. Pinn, Malvery- and Crake followed, hacking and spluttering. None of the worn-looking patrons paid them any attention.
'Someone get me a drink!' Malvery rasped. 'My mouth tastes like a fireplace.'
'Darian Frey!' called the bartender, seeing them come in. 'Rot and damn! How are you?'
Frey walked over and shook his hand. His name was Ollian Rusk, and he was the proprietor. Huge, fat, permanently sweaty and bald as an egg. He kept a shotgun on a rack over the armour-plated bar, to distract attention from the bigger one he kept hidden underneath it.
'How's things in the ashtray of the world, Rusk?' Frey grinned.
'Getting by, getting by. Some drinks for your boys?'
'Reckon so. What do you recommend?'
'Beer's best, if you want to wash the atmosphere off your tongue.'
'Beer, then.'
'Coming up.'
Frey eyed the room, searching for familiar faces as Rusk poured the drinks. A lot of people came and went in Marlen's Hook. Every lowlife Frey had ever met - and he'd met quite a few - passed through here at one time or another. But tonight he was out of luck.
'Quiet lately,' said Rusk, divining his thoughts. 'Navy have come around sticking their noses in. Once word gets about, people don't want to come here so much.'
'Is nothing sacred?' Frey commiserated.
'Navy's jumpy. All these stories about colonies vanishing in New Vardia. Then there's those rumours that the Sammies found aerium, down where Murthia used to be. Everyone's paranoid they're kitting themselves up with a new Navy. Not to mention the Awakeners getting pissy 'cause the Archduke is trying to cut them down to size.' He laid the beers on the bar. 'The higher-ups think there might be conspiracies afoot. Looking for spies and such, I imagine. Turbulent times, friend.'
Malvery, Pinn and Crake snatched up their beers and downed them thirstily. Pinn burped and slammed his empty glass back on the bar.
'Three more, I suppose,' said Frey, whose own mug was only halfway to his lips.
Rusk poured the beers. Halfway through, he suddenly raised a finger and said, 'I forgot. I've got mail for you.'
'Brin
g it out,' said Frey. 'Let's have a look.'
The Butcher's Block was one of a dozen mail drops Frey had all over Vardia. It was a system used by many freebooters, who tended to have no fixed address. This way, they could be contacted through the underworld without a lengthy search. Some liked to have mail sent to a post office where they could collect it, but Frey distrusted post offices. Returning to the same spot frequently made him too easy to find, and some of the packages he received were suspect, to say the least. Employing bartenders and shopkeepers as unofficial mail drops carried the risk of theft, but usually the need to maintain a reputation kept them honest. Ollian Rusk handled more mail than some post offices did, because he was as trustworthy as they came.
Rusk went into a back room and emerged with a bundle of six letters wrapped in string.
'What do I owe you?'
'One bit and two for the letters. I'll run you a tab for the drinks.'
'Obliged,' he said, as he took them. The sight of the first letter made him groan.
'Bad news, Cap'n?' Malvery asked. 'You haven't even opened it yet.'
'No, it's nothing,' said Frey.
Malvery looked at him expectantly.
'Alright, it's from Amalicia,' he said. 'I recognise the handwriting. I've had a lot of letters from her lately.'
'Amalicia Thade?' Crake asked. 'The young lady you, er, rescued from the Awakeners by getting her father killed?'
'Hey, he got himself killed!' Frey protested. 'And yes, her.'
'What's she after?' Malvery asked.
Frey squirmed.
'Come on!' the doctor cried, joshing him. 'You might as well tell us. You'll get no peace till you do.'
'Well, she might have somehow got the impression that I was in love with her.'
'Might she?' Malvery asked with a grin. 'And who gave her that idea?'
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