by Anthony Ryan
“Claydon,” the taller woman said, greeting him with a smile warmer than he deserved. Whatever passed between him and his uncle, she wasn’t part of it and, for the brief time he allowed her, she had treated him like her own. “Knew you’d grow up prettier than your uncle. Guess you favour your mother’s side.”
“Only in looks,” Braddon grunted.
“Auntie Fredabel.” Clay greeted the elder woman with a respectful nod, before turning to the girl. “Cousin Lori.”
She tilted her head, scowl still in place and a pout forming on her lips. “Pa says you’re now a thief and a disgrace to the family,” she said, looking him up and down. “Guessing he was right.”
“Enough of that!” her mother snapped and the girl took a wary step back, head lowered though her eyes flashed at Clay with undimmed resentment.
“They here?” Braddon asked his wife.
She nodded. “In the Map Room.”
“The company?”
“I cleared the house when our visitors got here, sent them over to the Skinners Rest with enough of an advance to keep them there all night. They’ve been asking questions, though. Skaggerhill especially.”
“Only to be expected.” Braddon nodded at Silverpin. “Take Loriabeth to the Skinners. Make sure she sticks to the sparkle water. Claydon, time to meet your new employers.”
“Thought that was you.”
His uncle grunted a laugh, stepping into the house and gesturing for him to follow. “You ain’t that lucky, boy.”
Inside, the house was spacious with polished wooden floors and sturdy beams of thick oak. Though the furnishings spoke of an upturn in fortunes since his time under this roof. The lobby through which his uncle led him featured several couches and a large gleaming table of imported oak. The walls were liberally decorated in a mix of sketches, photostats and bleached drake skulls of varying dimensions. Clay knew most to be Greens but there were a few Reds amongst them and, hanging from the wall next to the staircase at the rear of the lobby, a skull so large and jagged it could only be a Black. Clay paused for a closer look, eyes tracking over the many teeth to the gaping nostrils and eye-sockets until he found a single ragged hole in the centre of the beast’s forehead.
“Is this . . . ?” he began, causing Braddon to linger on the stairs.
“That’s him,” he said. “Harvesters made a gift of him a couple of years back, part-payment for a hefty consignment of Green and Red. Finest shot I ever took.”
Clay found himself unable to look away from the skull’s empty eyes, imagining what they must have seen that day. You killed my mother, he told it. Did you even know?
“Claydon,” his uncle said, voice softer than usual. “Best not keep them waiting.”
Clay followed him to the upper floor and along a long corridor to a closed door where Braddon paused, hand on the handle. “I ain’t gonna pretend there’s any regard twixt us, boy,” he said, speaking softly and meeting Clay’s gaze with a new intensity. “But you’ve still got Torcreek blood in those veins so listen well. You want to make it out of this room alive, you choose your words carefully. You may think the Blinds is full of the most dangerous folks you’re like to meet, but you never met folks like this before. Whatever they may appear to be, remember that next to them, Keyvine’s a child.”
He opened the door and stepped inside, holding it open for Clay to follow. The room was large with bookshelves lining the walls and a map table in the centre where a continental chart lay, three corners weighted with heavy leather-bound tomes and one, he saw, with a revolver. Two women stood at the table regarding him in expressionless scrutiny. The one on the right was young, a little older than he but with a weight and intelligence to her gaze that spoke of considerable experience. She had the fine bones and pale skin of the North Mandinorian managerial class though her dress seemed plain for one of her station. She stood at apparent ease but Clay could see the part-concealed readiness in her stance, something he knew would be lost on less-attuned eyes.
He turned his gaze to the woman on the left, unsurprised at finding her the same grey-haired Blood-blessed he had seen the night before atop the Mariner’s Rest. Her all-black attire had since been exchanged for a grey dress just as plain as that of her companion. Although their features displayed no familial similarity their shared bearing spoke of a deep and long-standing association.
“Thank you, Captain,” the older woman said to his uncle in a strident and precise tone.
Braddon gave Clay a final glance, grave with warning, before leaving the room, the door closing softly behind him.
“You are Claydon Torcreek,” the older woman stated.
Clay said nothing, merely returning her gaze as the woman continued without undue pause, apparently unconcerned at his lack of manners. “I am Madame Lodima Bondersil, Principal of the Ironship Academy of Female Education. This young lady is my former student and current subordinate, Miss Lizanne Lethridge, Executive Operative of the Exceptional Initiatives Division.”
The younger woman inclined her head with a small smile. “It is my pleasure to meet you, Mr. Torcreek.”
Despite his determination to maintain a rigid composure Clay couldn’t prevent the sudden upturn in his heart-beat, or the first trickle of sweat down his back. The Academy, he thought as the truth of his uncle’s warning struck home with full force. Two Ironship Blood-blessed in the same room. He had never heard the words “Exceptional Initiatives Division” before but it didn’t require any great intelligence to discern their meaning. Whatever he had stepped into went far beyond the Protectorate and any back-alley deals they might make with Keyvine or the crew of the Windqueen.
He managed not to cough before speaking, though his voice was more strained than he would have liked. “My uncle says you have work for me.”
CHAPTER 6
Lizanne
“I’ve been calling it the Spider,” Jermayah said. “Guessing I’ll have to come up with something more technical for the patent.”
Lizanne eyed the spindly device lying on the bench with equal parts curiosity and apprehension. It certainly did have something of the arachnid about it, though with four legs instead of eight. “What exactly does it do?”
Jermayah’s grin indicated that her fondness for taunting him was fully reciprocated. “Put it on and I’ll show you. Left forearm.”
She undid her cuff and rolled up her sleeve, managing not to betray any hesitation as she lifted the device. Jermayah’s mechanical passions may have been principally concerned with locomotion but much of what he fashioned here was highly lethal. The device had two straps that fastened over her forearm and four copper tubes fixed together that fitted snugly just below the elbow. From each tube a narrow rubber hose led to one of four disc-shaped buttons resting in Lizanne’s palm. What concerned her most, however, was the stubby cylinder protruding at a right angle from the rear of the device. It had a syringe-esque quality she found distinctly off-putting.
She raised an eyebrow at Jermayah. “Well?”
“Press a button,” he replied, a bland smile on his lips.
She stiffened her resolve and pressed the button aligned with her index finger, being immediately rewarded with a sharp pain as the syringe-like appendage drove a needle into her flesh. She gritted her teeth, finding the needle’s sting harsh but manageable. “A self-torture device,” she said. “How ingenious.”
“It’s empty,” he said, nodding at the four tubes. “But load it with product and you can inject it direct into the bloodstream. Each button delivers a different variant, and you can also combine them provided you’ve loaded it with the correct dilutions.”
Lizanne raised her arm, turning it to examine the device more closely. Its dimensions were discreet enough for it to be worn beneath the sleeve of her blouse without attracting attention. Also, during a covert mission the ability to ingest product without the need to pause and drink a v
ial would be a distinct tactical advantage, one the Cadre were unlikely to enjoy. “The dosage?” she asked.
“Variable according to how long you depress the button. Three seconds for a full vial. I suggest you do some experimenting before you set off.”
“I shall.” She favoured him with a warm smile. “Thank you very much, Mr. Tollermine. This will do very well.”
“We’re not done yet.” He pulled a hinged wooden box across the bench towards him, opening it to reveal a pistol of some kind. It was about the same dimensions as the Dessinger she knew so well but with distinctive modifications. An additional barrel had been affixed atop the original and a bulbous copper egg extended from behind the cylinder in place of the hammer.
“Feel the weight,” Jermayah said, stepping back. Lizanne hefted the revolver, her expert gaze quickly discerning that the weapon’s calibre had been reduced to .25, enabling the cylinder to hold eight bullets instead of the usual six. Also, she noted that the secondary barrel extended over the frame to stop a quarter-inch short of the rear sight.
“Called it the Whisper,” Jermayah said, tapping the copper egg behind the cylinder. “Compressed air. No bang-bangs, though just as much punch as black powder at short range. The egg and the cylinder are one unit and can be replaced for a quick reload.”
“And this?” Lizanne’s finger traced over the additional barrel.
“That’s not so quiet.” He jerked his head over his shoulder, moving away into the gloomy recesses of the workshop. “Easier to demonstrate than to explain.”
Shiny Man was greatly altered but still recognisable. He had been fashioned from whatever scraps of metal Jermayah had lying around. The multiple holes punched into his composite skin were repaired continually so that he existed in a state of constant flux. However, the basic form remained: an uncannily lifelike sculpture of a charging man caught in midstride at the end of Jermayah’s twenty-foot-long firing range. Lizanne had lost count of how many times she had shot him during her student days and was gratified to find her aim as true as ever.
She found Jermayah’s chosen name for the weapon to be slightly exaggerated. The pistol made a sharp huffing sound when fired, louder than a whisper but still preferable to the blast of a standard revolver. However, the accuracy and power were impressive, her first shots slotting neatly into the gap between Shiny Man’s eyes with a satisfying double clunk as the bullet penetrated both front and rear of his metallic skull.
“Very nice,” she approved, snapping off two more shots into Shiny Man’s chest.
“Now for the main show.” Jermayah held up a bullet of unusual design. The ball was a lead hollow-point but the hole had been sealed in wax. Instead of a brass shell it sat in a half-sphere fashioned from glass. Lizanne’s eyes quickly recognised the viscous substance inside.
“Red,” she said.
“Yes, named it the Redball.” He handed her the bullet. “Drop it into the top barrel. Don’t worry, it won’t break and there’s a magnet to keep it in place.”
She did as he said, the bullet sliding the length of the barrel until it came to rest against the rear sight with the glass casing exposed to the air. “Here.” He held up a vial containing a drop of Red. “When you’re ready,” he said when she had imbibed the drop, taking a few backward steps and gesturing at Shiny Man. “Best if you use a double-handed grip.”
It was only a small amount of Red, just enough for a narrow blast of heat at a very small target. She gripped the Whisper with both hands, lining up on the centre of Shiny Man’s chest then focusing on the bead of Red she could see glimmering in the cartridge just beyond the rear sight. She summoned the product and released it in a single split-second surge, being instantly rewarded by a bright flare of unleashed energy in the cartridge followed by a gout of orange flame from the barrel. It seemed as if the pistol and Shiny Man were momentarily joined by a line of fire as the bullet streaked towards his chest, penetrating the outer shell before exploding. A ball of fire expanded in an instant, so bright Lizanne had to look away. When she looked back she found Shiny Man a smoking ruin, copper and tin melting together to drip onto the workshop floor.
“Aw,” she groaned, pouting at Jermayah in accusation.
“Time I retired him anyways,” he replied with a shrug.
She spent an hour practising with the Whisper, getting used to its slight recoil, but didn’t fire any more Redballs. “Limited supply, I’m afraid,” Jermayah told her, handing over the ammunition, a box of fifty .25 bullets and a smaller one with only six Redballs. “Price of product being what it is, the Division wouldn’t authorise any more. Tried arguing the point but the local Agent-in-Charge started going on about relative risk factors. Can’t abide all that stuff.”
How heartening to know the benefits of my survival can be quantified on a balance sheet, Lizanne thought, nevertheless accepting the ammunition with a grateful smile. “Where would I be without you?”
Her appointment with Madame Bondersil was several hours away so she indulged herself by staying awhile to help Jermayah tinker with his thermoplasmic carriage. “Did you see your father in Feros?” he asked, handing her a spanner.
“Yes,” she replied, using the spanner to loosen a bolt on the engine mounting. “I saw him.”
Some element of bitterness must have coloured her tone for he sighed. “He’s a brilliant man,” he said. “Perhaps the finest technologist of this age. You should respect him more.”
“A brilliant man, indeed,” she grunted, giving the bolt a hard shove. “Living in marginal poverty whilst he tinkers with his toys and nurses his endless grudge against my employers.”
“Not to sound disloyal to the Syndicate, but they did steal your inheritance, did they not? Your grandfather’s invention changed the whole world in the space of a generation, and yet your family have never received a copper scrip for it.”
Lizanne groaned with the effort of working the bolt free, exhaling in relief as it clattered to the workshop floor. “He didn’t,” she said.
“Who didn’t?”
“My grandfather didn’t invent the thermoplasmic engine. My father did, when he was only fourteen years old.”
Lizanne rose from the carriage, massaging the ache in the small of her back. “It’s all there in the Ironship archives, Jermayah. Shareholder status allows one to peruse the records at leisure and it was a small matter to access the vault where they keep the confidential legal documents. Thanks to Grandfather’s lengthy dispute with the Syndicate their lawyers had compiled a full and accurate account of how the thermoplasmic engine came into being. It seems Grandfather had been working on a form of locomotive device based on combustible product, but it was primitive and impractical. My father’s design, by contrast, was revolutionary and capable of immediate application. Also, apparently, too profitable to remain in the hands of a child. Grandfather persuaded his son to keep quiet and ensured it was his name on the patents. A fact Ironship threatened to make public as the legal case escalated. It’s often thought that Darus Lethridge committed suicide due to his mountainous debts, and the unbearable prospect of watching the syndicate he hated profit from his invention. It transpires that he simply didn’t want the world to know just how much of a fraud he was.”
“You should make the facts known,” Jermayah said. “Your father should be credited, and compensated.”
“He won’t hear of it. Such a thing would tarnish his father’s legend. Besides, I find myself content to allow the Lethridge name to fade from public consciousness. Notoriety doesn’t really fit with this occupation.”
He hesitated for a second, his face sombre. “Miss Lizanne, this mission . . .”
“I don’t get to choose.” She stepped close to plant a kiss on his bald head. “And with your marvellous knicky-knacks to help me, how could I fail?”
CHAPTER 7
Clay
“Oh, we do indeed have work for you,�
�� the older woman told Clay, gesturing to the map. “Work of a most fruitful and interesting nature. If you could turn your close attention to this chart, I will be happy to explain in full.”
Clay moved closer to the table, eyes lingering on the revolver securing the corner. He stiffened a little as Miss Lethridge moved to his side, tracking his gaze and speaking softly, “It’s fully loaded, in case you were wondering.”
Cats toying with a mouse, he thought, dragging his eyes from the revolver to the map. He knew the shape of the Arradsian coast-line well enough, having stolen a few antique maps over the years, though their accuracy varied widely with age. This one was newly drawn, the thick waxed paper clean and free of fold marks, the curving lines of the coast and the rivers set down with the true precision of a professional map-maker and the whole thing overlaid by a grid of faint dots.
“The continent of Arradsia,” Madame Bondersil said. “This is a small-scale re-creation combining the most accurate maps ever produced by Ironship cartographers.” Her finger tapped the black dot with the word “Carvenport” inscribed above it, then tracked south along the Greenchurn River through dense jungles until it came to rest on a vast area of blankness stretching towards the southern plains.
“Despite two centuries of colonisation,” she said, “there are still whole swathes of this land that remain unknown to civilised eyes.” Her finger underlined the inscription curving through the blankness. “The Red Sands. You’ve heard of this place, no doubt, Mr. Torcreek?”
“It’s a desert,” he said. “A wasteland with no drakes. Even the headhunters don’t go there.”
“Ah, but surely you know the story of the one intrepid band who did?”
