by Anthony Ryan
“He let me choose,” she said, surprising him by speaking aloud. “I always liked the combination of red and black. It used to drive my dress-maker to distraction.”
He blinked as her unnatural gaze lingered on him, his surprise heightened by the fact that she had spoken in Eutherian. “Such a lovely tongue,” she went on. “So much more elegant than Mandinorian, don’t you find?”
Her tone and flawless accent put him in mind of the casual and meaningless chatter of the Corvantine noble class. This was the kind of exchange he used to stammer his way through whenever his father had forced him to attend a social gathering. Somehow he knew that this woman would have felt entirely comfortable in such company.
“In some ways,” he replied, also in Eutherian. “Though it remains overly archaic in many instances, and the strictness of its grammar resists adaptation to the modern world.”
“Spoken like a true technocrat.” She inclined her head, revealing slightly elongated eye-teeth with a smile. “And it’s Catheline, by the way,” she added, with a shallow curtsy. “Since you were wondering. Catheline Dewsmine of the Sanorah Dewsmines. At your service, sir.”
“Sirus Akiv Kapazin, miss,” he replied with bow. “Former Curator of Native Artifacts at the Morsvale Imperial Museum of Antiquities.”
“Once a curator, now a general.” She pursed her lips in apparent admiration. “You’ve risen high for one so young.”
“I thought you were the general now.”
She surprised him again by laughing. She had a rich laugh he knew other men had assuredly once described as delightful. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of stealing your honours, good sir. Not when you’ve done such sterling work in our wondrous cause. Your stratagems are so much more elegant and effective than that Corvantine brute. Where is he, by the way?”
“Mopping-up operations,” Sirus said. “Some survivors are lingering amongst the inland hill-country, most of them refugees from Carvenport.”
“Carvenport, eh? Will we find our elusive quarry amongst them, do you think?” There was a sardonic twist to her lips that told him she already knew the answer.
“I very much doubt it, miss.”
“Catheline, please.” She stepped closer, looping an arm through his and steering him away from the edge of the roof. “And I will call you General, since you seem so attached to the term.”
“Sirus will suffice . . .”
“Nonsense.” She tweaked his nose with a finger. “I think we should accommodate some customs from the old world, don’t you?” She turned her focus on the ghastly tableau before them, smile broadening. “Since so much of it is about to vanish forever.”
The spread-eagled body of Madame Gloryna Dolspeake, Chairperson of the Ironship Board of Directors, was suspended in mid air by virtue of each of her limbs being clutched firmly in the jaws of an adolescent White. Her silver-grey head lolled as she voiced an exhausted scream that was more of a high-pitched gasp. A surprisingly small amount of blood leaked from the jaws of the Whites, the youthful beasts having been careful not to inflict fatal damage, as yet. It would have been a simple matter to convert the woman and pluck the secrets from her head, but it seemed Catheline had a preference for complication, at least insofar as the Ironship Board were concerned.
“Pardon the interruption, madame,” Catheline apologised, switching smoothly to Mandinorian. “Please do go on. You were telling us all about the fascinating Miss Lethridge and her recent mission to the Corvantine Empire. A perilous endeavour to be sure, and all to decipher the workings of an old music-box.”
Madame Dolspeake gave no immediate response, continuing to sag in apparent exhaustion until the juvenile Whites tugged in unison, the woman’s slight form convulsing and a fresh yelp erupting from her lips. “Yes!” she grated through clenched teeth. “The box . . . the Artisan’s box.”
A low, inquisitive rumble sounded above and Sirus raised his gaze to see the White lowering its massive head. Prior to this the beast had regarded the interrogation with apparent indifference, but mention of the Artisan seemed to have piqued its interest.
“Quite so,” Catheline said. “And what exactly is in this box, pray tell?”
“Answers . . .” Madame Dolspeake whimpered, her body seeming to thrum with pain. “A key to . . .”—her gaze took on a sudden animation, eyes flashing at the huge drake looming above her—“defeating this . . . monstrosity!” She shouted the final word, pain-wracked features moulded into a mask of defiant hate. Sirus couldn’t suppress a pang of admiration at this, something which drew a sharp glance from Catheline.
“You find something noble in this wretch, General?” she enquired, her arm tensing against his. Although she was not fully Spoiled, he could feel the strength in her, and added to that was the worrisome awareness that she was also a Blood-blessed.
“Allow me to assure you this woman is not worthy of your regard,” Catheline went on, fixing her gaze on the unfortunate Ironship luminary. Sirus could see the naked hatred shining in Catheline’s red-black eyes, her lips taking on a wet sheen as she continued, “This woman and her kind have enslaved those like me for generations. But for my family’s influence they would have had me labour in their service like some slum-born slattern. Once my family would have been great and powerful, standing high in the court of the Mandinorian Empire. Now, for all their wealth they are beggars, grubbing for crumbs from the corporate table like every other slave in this world of greed, a world they created. It is they who are the true monsters. They who have raped an entire continent in their avarice and would have raped the whole world.”
She unhooked her arm from Sirus’s and moved to crouch at Madame Dolspeake’s side, leaning close to murmur in her ear. “Tell me, madame. What were you going to do when all the product ran out? When you had wrung the last drop of blood from the last withered drake? What were you going to do then?”
Madame Dolspeake met Catheline’s gaze, matching the enmity she saw in full measure. “I . . . remember you,” she said in a thin whisper. “A spoilt little bitch . . . born to a family of wastrels. You’d spread your legs . . . for the merest chance at a gossip-column headline.” Somehow the woman managed to laugh, though it emerged from her throat as more of a choking sob. “At least . . . now your looks match your character.”
Catheline’s lips drew back in a snarl, nails extending into claws as she clamped a hand to Madame Dolspeake’s throat. A short grunt came from the White and Catheline froze, the snarl fading as she jerked her hand away as if it had been burned. Watching her retreat a few steps and take a calming breath, Sirus was compelled to wonder at the viciousness of a woman who had to be restrained by one such as the White. After a moment Catheline straightened, smoothing her hands over her skirt before staring down at the older woman with cold determination. “The Artisan’s box,” she said. “Where is it?”
For a moment Madame Dolspeake said nothing, but soon began speaking in a rapid babble as the juvenile Whites tightened their grip. “Reported lost at Carvenport, though Bloskin was certain Lethridge had placed it in her father’s hands. He chose to leave it there in the hope the man could unlock it, then seize it when he had.”
“Ah yes, Taddeus Bloskin,” Catheline said. “The esteemed Director of Exceptional Initiatives who had the good sense to blow his brains out when the city fell.” She paused for a moment, frowning in recollection. “Lethridge’s father. Presumably that would be the famous Professor Graysen Lethridge, genius inventor and denizen of this very port.” She turned a questioning glance in Sirus’s direction.
“He’s not amongst the captives or the new recruits,” he reported promptly, hoping a steady current of fear would mask the memories provoked by the name Lethridge. Tekela slaughtering the Greens with that infernal repeating gun, the balloon taking her away. As ever, the daughter of the late Burgrave Artonin retained an effortless capacity to haunt his thoughts. His disastrous wooing in Morsvale. The
sight of her adorned with the ancient sapphire necklace, twirling in delight in the museum vaults, probably the only time he had managed to make her laugh. Then the moment only three nights ago when he stood naked in her sights. Out of bullets, she had said with a shrug. “I’ll have his home searched,” Sirus added, flooding his mind with all the horrors he could muster before turning his attention to the collective memory of the Spoiled.
He was careful to scour the collective minds of the recent captives for the address before issuing a thought-command to a troop of Spoiled. It wouldn’t do for Catheline to question why he already knew of the location. The search-party shared their findings as they tore through the domicile of Professor Lethridge, finding no sign of the man or the elusive musical box. Also, no sign of Katrya’s body, which Sirus had buried in the port’s largest park. He put her close to the flower-beds, thinking she might have liked that.
“Gather every scrap of paper and machinery,” Catheline ordered. “Examine them yourself, General. I think this is a task for our keenest mind.” She paused as one of the searchers cast their gaze at the workshop’s ceiling, finding it mostly absent. “No fire damage,” she observed. “Why would the professor remove his own ceiling, I wonder?”
Sirus was aware of her close scrutiny as he sorted through the mélange of images captured by the collective mind of the army the night of Feros’s fall. He had hoped the escape of Tekela and her companions might have been missed altogether. Unfortunately, it transpired that several sets of eyes had glimpsed the balloon craft as it soared over the roof-tops towards the northern shore of the island. All of those who had seen it had died in the fighting, but not before their memories had been shared with others. The vision was dull and misty, as was often the case with memories formed during combat, but clear enough to make out the dimensions of the novel conveyance and its three occupants.
“A dirigible aerostat,” Sirus said, speaking aloud once more. “I’ve read of experiments with such craft in northern Mandinor, but all were said to be at a very early stage.”
“Then the professor must be a man of even greater talent than his reputation allows,” Catheline replied. She looked up at the White who gave a throaty rumble before turning its massive head in the direction of a neighbouring building. A dozen Reds immediately rose from their perch atop the building’s roof, Sirus recognising Katarias amongst them. The huge Red took the lead as they adopted a northern course, wings sweeping in rapid arcs.
“Ingenious as it is,” Catheline said, “it didn’t strike me as the fastest of vehicles. We’ll have them soon enough. Now then,” she added briskly, clasping her hands together and returning her attention to Madame Dolspeake, “let us discuss the strength of the Protectorate Northern Fleet.”
* * *
• • •
Katarias returned two days later, appearing on the northern horizon as the sun began to fade. The Red’s wings moved in sluggish half sweeps that barely caught the cooling evening air. He glided over the harbour wall to land on the quayside, head slumped and eyes dimmed with exhaustion. Catheline ordered he be fed immediately and a trio of captives were duly dragged forward to be feasted upon. They were all in their early teens, too young to be worth converting but kept alive for the amusement or nourishment of the drakes. Madame Dolspeake had at least been spared such a fate, though Sirus doubted she saw much mercy in Catheline’s decision to cast her broken but still-living body from the headquarters roof-top.
“I would have you join us, dried-up old hag though you are,” Catheline told the Chairperson, lifting the woman’s spindly form above her head with effortless strength. “Your experience and insight might have been useful. But I find that I simply can’t stomach the thought of your mind touching mine. Any wisdom or defiance to share at the final moment?”
Madame Dolspeake raised her head, a stream of blood falling from her mouth as she tried to speak. The words were too soft to hear and Sirus doubted the woman was still capable of forming a rational thought in any case.
“Oh, never mind,” Catheline said, casting the Chairperson away. She stood watching her plummet to the ground, arms crossed and expression reflective rather than triumphant. “I doubt it would have been one for the historians anyway.”
“The other Reds died,” she explained to Sirus now, seemingly deaf to the screams and breaking bones behind her. “Flew until they couldn’t fly any longer then fell into the sea.” There was a curiously mournful tone to her voice, as if she were speaking of cherished comrades lost in a noble cause. “Thankfully, he alone managed to stay aloft and caught sight of this.”
She pushed a memory into Sirus’s head, a small bulbous speck on a far horizon. “It appears the winds carried them west. He followed for over an hour but was forced to turn back lest he share his brothers’ fate. It was long enough to discern that the professor’s marvellous contraption is losing height.”
“Then the sea will claim them,” Sirus said, concealing a wince as Katarias tore the last of the captives in two with a loud snap of his jaws. “The problem would appear to be solved.”
“We have to be sure,” she replied, shaking her head. “The box must be destroyed. Along with any who might unlock it. All other considerations are secondary.”
She turned to survey the ships within the harbour walls. Their appearance was decidedly unimpressive, each one blackened by fire or scarred by explosions. Of the Protectorate warships at anchor in Feros at the time of its seizure, only six could be said to be fully operational. The rest were undergoing extensive repairs and those beyond saving were being cannibalised for weapons and parts. Sirus estimated the full strength of the White’s fleet would be some twenty-five vessels once the work was complete. Added to that were another two dozen merchant vessels and Blue-hunters, which would be used as troop-transports, once their next destination had been made clear.
“I so wish to sail north, General,” Catheline said with a wistful air. “How I long to see Mandinor burn. But sadly we have more pressing matters. It’s time for you to add the title of ‘admiral’ to your collection.”
CHAPTER 4
Hilemore
“Who is she?”
“Told you who she is, Captain.” Clay gave Hilemore one of his signature, punch-inviting grins. Hilemore wasn’t sure whether to take some comfort from the fact that this young man had retained an effortless ability to annoy him despite his recent travails.
“Her name doesn’t tell me a great deal,” he replied, striving to control his burgeoning ire. “And, given our circumstances, I find my patience in short supply. So I will ask you again.” He put both fists on the desk and leaned closer to Clay, meeting his gaze with unmistakable intent. “Who is she?”
They were in the captain’s cabin aboard the Dreadfire, Clay nursing a cup of something hot Lieutenant Steelfine had managed to concoct in the galley. Lieutenant Sigoral was being tended to by the youngest Torcreek, though Loriabeth herself seemed close to collapse from exposure. Despite that she continued to nurse the Corvantine Marine and proved deaf to her father’s stern and repeated order to rest.
Then there was the woman. The woman named Kriz, who had not been a member of their party when they entered the Spire, and yet had now somehow been retrieved from the depths. She had nodded a greeting when Clay introduced her but seemed reluctant to utter more than a few words, her Mandinorian spoken in an uncannily perfect Carvenport accent. She sounded like someone raised in the Blinds, the notorious slum where Clay had spent his childhood years, but Hilemore knew instinctively that couldn’t be the case.
He felt an overriding sense of strangeness when he looked at her. Judging by her colouring he would have taken her for a South Mandinorian, but there was an angularity to her features that made him doubt it. Added to that was her manner, the way she stared at every fixture on the ship, eyes wary but also hungry for detail. Then there was the hour or more she had spent on deck staring at the sky and the surro
unding ice-floes, her face occasionally breaking into a smile of unalloyed joy. The smile disappeared, however, the instant Hilemore attempted to talk to her, at which point she pulled her blanket tight about her shoulders and disappeared belowdecks. Hilemore couldn’t help the feeling that, although he had witnessed something unbelievable in Clay’s taming of Last Look Jack, this woman represented something far more incredible.
“Her full name is Krizelle,” Clay said, hesitating before gulping down some of Steelfine’s beverage and continuing in a tone of forced matter-of-factness. “Last survivor of the Philos Caste. She’s about ten thousand years old and was the first Blood-blessed born on this planet.” He sipped from the mug again, smacking his lips in appreciation. “This is really good, whatever it is.” The humour faded from his face as he glanced up at Hilemore’s silent, glowering visage.
“Alright,” Clay said with a sigh, setting the mug down on the desk. “But you better take a seat, Captain. This is a long story.”
* * *
• • •
“It’s true,” Loriabeth said. “Every word of it.” She jerked her head at Sigoral’s slumbering form on the bunk behind her. “You can ask him when he wakes.”
She had curtained off a section of the hold to use as a sick bay and hadn’t strayed from the lieutenant’s side since. Sigoral had been dosed with a small amount of their remaining stock of Green, Loriabeth also applying a diluted tincture of the product to his wound with a compress. Judging by the state of the damage, Hilemore entertained serious doubts the Marine would ever recover his sight in that eye. The pain had clearly left a deep mark for the man fidgeted in his sleep, hands jerking repeatedly as if he were clutching his carbine.
