‘Gods, man, do you never go to bed?’
‘Not when there’s money to be made,’ Creedy replied. ‘I found us a buyer for the olea. A collector, here in Ethugra.’
Granger sat up in his cot and stretched his neck. The roof of his garret wavered with copper-coloured reflections. He remembered putting Ianthe and Hana in their cell, but not much after that. He must have been exhausted. ‘The jellyfish? I thought Maskelyne was the only collector in Ethugra.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Creedy replied. ‘But then I started asking around, sly like, so nobody—’
‘How much did you get for it?’
Creedy frowned. ‘I said I’ve found us a buyer. I didn’t say I’d sold the bloody thing. He wants to meet you.’
‘Me?’
‘The brains of the operation.’
Granger got up. ‘What do I know about jellyfish?’
‘About as much as me,’ Creedy said. ‘But you’re prettier than me, and the buyer’s some titled Evensraum merchant. All airs and graces. Wipes his arse with squares of silk. I don’t know if I could speak to him without murdering him.’
Granger frowned. What was an Evensraumer was doing in Ethugra? Unless . . .
‘He’s a prisoner?’
Creedy nodded. ‘A rich prisoner. Holed up in one of the Imperial jails on Averley. Special privileges and all that. The bastard used to own more land than Hu. He’s got gilders coming out of his pores.’
Granger knew the type. Wealth bought luxury and status even in Ethugran prisons, even if it couldn’t always purchase freedom. There were captives in this city who ate better than their jailers did. They were always pre-assigned to Imperial jails, thus avoiding the allocation system used for regular inmates. Emperor Hu made a good profit from such prisons, although it was rumoured that Maskelyne’s men actually ran them.
Maskelyne again, Granger thought miserably. Why does it always come back to him?
‘What is it?’ Creedy said.
‘Nothing.’ Granger sighed. Maybe he was just being paranoid. ‘When can I meet him?’
‘Whenever you like. He ain’t going anywhere.’
‘Now?’
The other man shrugged. ‘The olea’s in the boat. I’ll drop you off there.’
Shortly afterwards he found himself hunched beside Creedy in his launch as it thundered along. He’d left fresh water and soap for Hana and Ianthe. Creedy gunned the engines without regard for other canal traffic, pushing them quickly through Francialle and into Averley Plaza. They discussed money. How much should Granger ask for the olea? Creedy waved his arms and talked about thousands, but Granger wasn’t convinced. If he got more than eight hundred, he’d be happy. The sun was still above the rooftops when they reached the marketplace embankment, bathing the Imperial jails and administration buildings in soft, golden light. Creedy wrenched the tiller to port and cut the engines, expertly berthing the metal vessel between a fishing barque and a clutch of coracles. Once he’d tied up, he dug out a bulky whaleskin parcel from a hidden compartment under the port strakes and beckoned Granger up the stone steps to the embankment.
The market had finished hours ago. Only a few beer sellers stayed open, serving those stallholders who had remained after their morning’s work. Groups of Asakchi and Valcinder merchants lounged against the stony figures of the Drowned, drinking and talking, while a group of children raced around the empty stalls, shrieking with delight at some game. Creedy led Granger to one of the many huge brass doors lining the westernmost façade and then banged on it repeatedly. A great booming sound echoed within.
‘Ask for Truan,’ Creedy said, handing Granger the wrapped amphora. ‘I’ll be yonder, drinking my share on credit.’ He gave a short salute and then wandered off towards the beer sellers.
The amphora felt as heavy as a boulder. Granger was about to put it down, when the door opened and a hard-faced little man peered out and blinked. ‘I’m the jailer,’ he said. ‘You the guy with the thing?’ He glanced at Granger’s parcel, then waved him in without waiting for an answer and swung the door shut behind them both.
They were standing in a grand stone hallway. A sweeping staircase rose to a second-floor gallery. Down here on the ground level, two arched doorways led to administration offices on either side, wherein Granger could see scribes working at their desks amidst stacks of paper. One of the seated young men glanced up from his quill and frowned through his spectacles, before returning his attention to his ledger. The building contained a weighty silence that seemed several degrees more substantial than the air itself.
Given the solemn majesty of his surroundings, the jailer who had admitted Granger could not have looked more out of place. He was as small and tough as a street dog, with a naval haircut and a brawler’s skewed nose. He wore a perpetual scowl, giving his face the same creased, weather-worn appearance as his salt-stained leather tunic and his sailcloth breeches. Ink crosses and sigils tattooed across the back of his hands suggested he’d spent some time in a less imposing prison than this one, albeit on the other side of the bars.
One of Maskelyne’s men? Granger’s unease deepened.
The jailer stared at the parcel in Granger’s arms for a moment, then beckoned him to follow up the staircase. On the right side of the upper gallery he unlocked a stout iron-banded door, which looked a hundred years older than the stonework around it. Granger realized that it must originally have been fitted to a series of identical doors in the flooded levels below, only to be moved up floor by floor as the building grew higher to escape the rising seawater. Imperial builders often followed this pattern, constructing identical floor plans one above the other in order to strip out and reuse every possible fixture and fitting before filling the drowned levels with rubble.
The man waved Granger through. ‘Truan’s wing,’ he said.
His wing?
Granger stepped through the door and into a large, opulent lounge in which velvet chairs, sofas and polished hardwood tables had been artfully arranged on Valcinder rugs. Carved bone chandeliers depended from the high ceilings, while the tall windows on his left overlooked one of Ethugra’s grander canals and the façade of another Imperial jail on the opposite bank. Latticeworks of iron covered those windows, yet even these were ornate and painted white. As surprising as all this was to Granger, his attention was nevertheless grabbed by the opposite, innermost wall of the room. He’d never seen anything like it before.
A score of alcoves lined this wall, each sealed by a massive plate of glass and filled with a different type of brine. Granger recognized the tea-coloured water of the Mare Lux, the dark red Mare Regis brine and that painful green ichor that composed so much of the seas around Valcinder. But there were other colours too – the blues and purples and the soft golds of those weird and distant oceans that he had only heard mentioned in tales.
Within all of these alcoves were oleas.
Each species had been segregated from the others. There were wondrous, ghostly things with tendrils like wisps of fog, and fat brown jellies that looked like pickled brains. In one alcove, schools of tiny quick-moving motes gave off a queer electric luminance, while in the next hung an enormous bloated crimson shape among whose folds Granger thought he could discern an eye. He had an odd sensation that it was watching him.
‘Marvellous, aren’t they?’
Truan, for it must have been he, had entered the chamber through another door. He was a tall, lean man with a long, cadaverous face. He wore a padded gold tunic embroidered with steel wire in the latest Losotan fashion, and white hose that only served to exaggerate his skeletal appearance. Brine spots stippled the backs of
his hands. His green eyes regarded Granger with vigour and intelligence. He dismissed Granger’s companion with a wave and waited until the man had closed the door behind him.
‘Would that I could have them fight each other,’ he said, indicating the creatures in the flooded alcoves. ‘But olea are far too valuable to waste in sport. That hexen midurai is one of only three known specimens in existence.’ He pointed at the large crimson jelly. ‘From its size, I estimate it to be over sixteen hundred years old. And these,’ he waved a hand at several unremarkable ochre lumps floating in a tank of yellow brine, ‘are hexen parasitae from the Sea of Dragons. They way they breed is as remarkable as it is hideous. Even the Drowned avoid them.’
‘You know why I’m here,’ Granger said.
The Evensraumer nodded, then gestured for his guest to sit on one of the sofas. ‘Would you care for some wine, Mr Swinekicker?’
Granger looked at the sofa with distaste. He shook his head.
‘Tea, then? I don’t often get the chance to converse with outsiders.’
‘No.’
Truan smiled. ‘I can see from your expression that you disapprove of my lifestyle.’
‘You’re supposed to be a prisoner here.’
Truan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am a prisoner here, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s true that my wealth affords me certain luxuries and allows me to pursue my interests, but walls are walls. I will remain here until the emperor decrees otherwise, while you are free to leave the city whenever you choose.’
Granger thought about his waterlogged boat, but said nothing. He set his parcel down on a nearby table and began to unwrap it. He was surprised to find that his heart was racing.
Truan hovered nearby, eyeing the amphora with interest as it was revealed. Finally he strolled over, leaned across the table and squinted at the markings etched into the clay. He turned the jar a little to one side, frowning. ‘Is this a joke, sir?’ he said.
Granger felt his heart grow cold. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a wine amphora.’
A sudden awful realization gripped Granger as he stared down at the lump of pottery they’d dredged up. Creedy. Creedy had decided which canals to search. Creedy had identified the find. Creedy had found the buyer. And Creedy had brought him here, away from his home. Anger coiled inside him. He was about to turn and leave when his pragmatic side urged him to stop. Might the Evensraumer not simply be lying to lower the price? He swallowed his rage. ‘If it’s of no value,’ he said, ‘I’ll take it elsewhere.’
Truan continued to study the object. ‘Unmer wine is of some value,’ he said, ‘provided it has not been exposed to the air. I suppose I could offer you twenty gilders. But not a coin more. Frankly, I’d be doing you a favour.’
‘Forget it.’ Granger picked up the amphora.
‘Thirty, then,’ Truan said. ‘That’s five more than the market price.’
Granger began walking towards the door.
‘Thirty-five,’ Truan called after him. ‘My final offer.’
Granger reached the door, and turned the handle. It was locked. He hammered his fist against the iron barred wood.
‘Very well,’ Truan said. ‘My jailers charge me exorbitant commission on anything I order. I’ll give you fifty for the wine if you don’t tell a soul. You are robbing me blind, after all, and I won’t have my other suppliers hear of it.’
Granger turned to look at the other man. Fifty? For a jug of wine? Truan seemed unusually keen to get his hands on such a worthless artefact. And yet his instincts continued to gnaw at him. Something is wrong here. The amphora, the buyer, it was all too convenient for Creedy. And there was something else, something about Truan that bothered him. This man was no trader, that much was clear. He had raised his price three times before Granger had even reached the door. After all, they had both been captive in that room. Granger wasn’t going anywhere until the jailer came to release him, and Truan would have been well aware of that. Not even the poorest Losotan merchant, much less one as rich and successful as Truan purported to be, would have made such a mistake. But if he wasn’t who he said he was, then who was he?
Granger had his suspicions. ‘Perhaps I’ll have that tea after all,’ he said.
Truan smiled again and waved Granger back to the sofa. Then he strolled across the room and pulled a bell chord. Chimes sounded in the hall outside. Granger took a seat and waited with the sealed amphora in his arms. A fortune or a pittance waited within.
‘Which part of Evensraum are you from?’ Granger asked.
‘Deslorn,’ Truan replied.
‘A shame what happened there. The typhoid, I mean.’
‘I believe it was cholera,’ Truan said. ‘We left the place long before the city filled with refugees. One of the benefits of being in shipping is that one owns ships.’
Air bubbled up through one of the jellyfish tanks. The pale blue creatures inside shivered.
‘I had family in Weaverbrook,’ Granger said.
Truan raised his eyebrows. ‘I had no idea you hailed from that part of the world, Mr Swinekicker.’
A key clicked in the lock. The jailer came in carrying a tray of tea.
‘Haven’t been back to see them in a while,’ Granger said.
‘I can sympathize,’ Truan said. ‘Nothing is more important than family.’
The jailer set the tea down on the table. ‘Anything else, sir?’
‘That will be all,’ Truan replied.
Granger looked at the jailer’s tattoos. ‘This can’t be easy for you,’ he said. ‘A man with a history like yours, running around like a boot boy after his master?’
The jailer glanced at Truan and back at Granger, and in that moment Granger finally understood Truan’s real identity.
He grabbed the amphora and leaped to his feet, barging past the jailer and knocking him off his feet. He raced down the stairs and was halfway towards the front door before he heard angry shouts and footfalls coming from behind. Evidently the jailer had recovered enough to come after him. Granger ran on, his chest cramping at the sudden exertion. His scarred lungs were not used to such exercise. The air seemed full of acid, but he ignored it. The bitter taste in his throat was worse. Creedy had lied to him, tricked him into coming here.
Ethan Maskelyne’s accent had been good, but it hadn’t been perfect. Granger had spent enough time in Evensraum to know the difference. But he hadn’t been sure of his suspicions until the jailer had confirmed them. An Ethugran jailer might be paid enough to treat an Evensraum captive as his master, but he would never believe it to be true. Granger’s comment should have humiliated and angered the man. And yet the only emotion in the jailer’s eyes had been fear. Fear of what Maskelyne would do to him.
He reached the front doors and burst through them. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a blizzard of paper whirling around the scribes’ desks. Maskelyne’s man had already reached the bottom of the steps and showed no sign of slowing down. Granger plunged out into the sunlight of Averley Plaza.
The beer drinkers lounged about in groups. A few turned to glance his way as he came storming out of the Imperial jail with the heavy amphora still clutched in his arms. Children shrieked happily as they played about the empty market stalls. The Drowned observed it all with their dead stone eyes, their faces frozen in eternal grimaces of agony. But Creedy was nowhere to be seen, and his launch was no longer moored at the dock.
Bastard.
Creedy had managed to get him away from Hana and Ianthe.
Granger stood in the centr
e of the plaza, wheezing. He needed a boat, any boat, to take him home.
Someone seized his arm.
Snarling, the Imperial jailer looked more like a street dog than ever before. His face was flushed, his eyes narrowed. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he said through his teeth. ‘Nobody runs out on my boss.’
Granger smashed the amphora across his head.
The jailer dropped to the ground, his head and shoulders drenched in oil.
Granger hardly gave him a second a glance. He was already running along the dockside, looking for a boat.
There were few to choose from, and no passenger ferry boats at all. Almost all of the market traders had already gone home, and none of their customers remained. A score of unguarded whaleskin coracles bobbed against the steps, but they would be too slow. Two fishermen sat repairing their nets on the wharf side above an old closed-deck barque, but their deepwater hull was too wide to negotiate Ethugra’s narrower channels. Such a vessel would be forced to head out of the Glot Madera and circle around almost a quarter of the city before heading back in through Halcine Canal. Granger passed three more barques before he finally came upon a suitable craft.
She was a Valcinder sloop – a true canal boat, as sleek, quick and narrow as any in Ethugra. Her captain lay snoozing on the open deck, with his boots propped on the gunwale and a Losotan newspaper draped over his head. He woke with a start when Granger jumped down beside him.
‘What? Who the hell—’ He was young and dark, dressed up in one of those smart black uniforms they sold in the Losotan markets – all braid and buttons.
Granger took him for a hire captain or a smuggler. No one else bothered to look so neat. ‘Take me to Halcine Canal,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay.’ He began unravelling the bow line.
The Losotan blinked. ‘I’m waiting for a fare.’
‘You got a fare,’ Granger replied.
‘Not you! I’m supposed to take an Imperial administrator to Chandel.’
Granger threw the bow line at him and kicked off from the wharf. ‘I’m in a hurry,’ he said, ‘and I’m taking this boat to Hal-cine Canal, with or without you at the helm. You’d better choose quickly’ – he inclined his head towards the retreating dock – ‘because you’re running out of time to jump.’
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