The Waking Fire

by Anthony Ryan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “That would be unwise, young man.”

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 3

  Hilemore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “My cousin owns that estate, sir.”

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

  “Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Which are?”

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

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

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

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

  “I’ll see to it, sir.”

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

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

  —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Aye, sir.”

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

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

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

  —

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

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

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

  “Your first ship, Mr. Talmant?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Fucking fuck off! I’m ill!”

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

  “Sir, he’s the . . .”

  “I know what he is. Stand aside.”

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

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

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

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

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