The Waking Fire

by Anthony Ryan

The sharpshooter had no time to react beyond glancing up with wide, fear-filled eyes as she plummeted towards him, the Green enabling her to cover the distance from the edge of the roof in a single leap. Lizanne landed with her knees on his shoulders, pinning him down as she plunged a knife into the base of his skull. She snatched up his carbine, a long-barrelled model with an optical sight, and trained it on the roof-top of the safe house opposite. Nothing, she surmised in satisfaction, setting the carbine aside and recalling one of Madame’s favourite axioms: overconfidence is frequently fatal.

  She climbed down to the street via a drain-pipe and walked to the safe-house door, fingers depressing three buttons on the Spider and flooding her with an intoxicating mélange of Red, Green and Black. Half her remaining supply used up in a single dose, though she expected to need every drop of it. Efforts had been made to disguise the nature of the door but the Green revealed the iron bracings reinforcing the edges and the lock would have taken all morning to unpick. There was also a small, glass peep-hole at eye-level. She knocked on the door three times, waited then added two more knocks before retreating a good twenty yards and drawing the Whisper from her skirt.

  Lizanne focused her gaze on the peep-hole and waited. After a short interval she detected the slight shift of colour indicating someone had responded to the knock, raised the Whisper and summoned enough product to unleash the Redball. She aimed for the peep-hole, reasoning it was the only weak point, and was gratified to see the door disintegrate in a fiery ball of burning splinters and melting iron. She entered in a run, leaping the mangled remains of whoever had come to answer the door and putting two rounds into a figure stumbling about in the smoke-filled hallway. Two more agents came thundering down the staircase at the end of the hallway, pistols drawn. She shot the one in front and dragged the other off his feet with Black, crushing his gun hand and holding him suspended in mid air as she came closer.

  “Where’s the girl?” Lizanne demanded, squeezing his throat. Like the assassin in the museum he strove to cleave to his training but the shock of her assault had clearly unnerved him. His eyes gave a downward flick and his mouth sputtered around a hopeless plea.

  Keen to conserve her Black, she let him fall and shot him through the temple. She found a sturdy door at the end of the hallway, another one with a lock too complex to pick in a reasonable time. Luckily, this one didn’t have any iron bracings and it gave way after two hefty shoves with the Black, though it left her with a fast-diminishing reserve. The busted door revealed a dimly lit stairwell descending into the bowels of the house, the sound of curious and alarmed voices emanating from below. She paused to slot another Redball into the Whisper’s top barrel before proceeding down, coming to a halt at the sight of a half-open door at the foot of the stairs.

  “I am a Blood-blessed operative of the Ironship Protectorate!” Lizanne called out. “If you wish to survive this encounter, disarm yourselves and stand aside!”

  The response was so swift it nearly caught her off guard, the bulky form of a Cadre agent bursting through the door with a pistol in each hand, blazing away and filling the stairwell with a fog of flame, gunsmoke and powdered plaster. Lizanne leapt, her back connecting with the ceiling as the agent’s continuing barrage tore at the steps where she had been standing. The excitement of it all instilled a slight loss of control, causing her to reply with two rounds from the Whisper where one would have sufficed. The agent crumpled, issuing a faint death-rattle as Lizanne landed and stepped over him into the chamber beyond.

  It was a large, windowless space, walls, floor and ceiling all covered in white tiles. The floor had been constructed with a slight incline towards a grated drain in the centre. Rivulets of blood traced from the drain to a figure tied to a chair, a slender young man, head slumped forward and the signs of recent torment covering his bare torso. Sirus. From the sight of him he hadn’t lasted very long. Tied to the chair opposite was the more substantial form of Major Arberus, similarly slumped and abused. Tekela had been secured to a third chair between the two men, positioned so as to afford a clear view of proceedings. She appeared unharmed though her unblinking, perhaps unseeing eyes and bleached features told of more internal wounds. Two men stood back from the ugly tableau, unremarkable in stature or appearance as men of their occupation often were in Lizanne’s experience. They wore aprons and thick leather gloves, stained red naturally. The various implements of their trade lay on a small, wheeled cart. Both stood with their bloodied gloves raised, plainly terrified.

  “You’ve seen my face,” Lizanne told them by way of explanation. Luckily she still had two rounds left in the Whisper.

  Tekela had been secured to the chair by a pair of steel cuffs fastened to a brace. Lizanne retrieved the key after a brief search of the torturers’ bodies.

  “I didn’t . . .” The girl spoke in a whisper as the cuffs came free of her wrists. “Didn’t tell them anything.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Lizanne took her elbow and guided her to her feet.

  Tekela gaped at her with her unblinking eyes. “They killed Father . . .”

  “I know.”

  “Made me watch what they did to Sirus . . .”

  “I know, miss, but we really have to go now.”

  “That woman, the dress-maker. She made me watch . . .”

  Lizanne paused, frowning. “Dress-maker?”

  An invisible hand gripped her like a vice, lifting her off her feet and slamming her into the rear wall of the chamber, the Whisper flying free of her grasp as she connected with the tiles. She struggled but the grip tightened, forcing the air from her lungs and spinning her about to face her assailant.

  The dress-maker was clad in simpler attire today, dark waistcoat and skirt, cream-sleeved blouse. She might have been taken for a mid-level manager back in Carvenport. But here her status was obvious, made more so by the silver Imperial crest pinned to her breast. Blood Cadre. How did I miss it?

  “Hello again,” the dress-maker said in perfect Mandinorian, a slight smile on her lips.

  Do not engage. Lizanne averted her gaze, clamping her mouth shut.

  “Quite the mess you’ve made,” the woman continued, casting a rueful glance at the torturers. “Skilled employees don’t grow on trees, you know.” She moved a few steps closer, eyes scrutinising Lizanne’s frozen form. “Where are they?” she asked, noting the absence of Lizanne’s pack. She had concealed it behind a water-tank on a near by roof-top before coming here, knowing the chances of success were only about fifty percent. A miscalculation, she realised now.

  “The map and the solargraph,” the dress-maker said, voice hardening and the grip tightening on Lizanne’s chest. She felt her ribs begin to strain from the pressure. “Your little friend here doesn’t seem to know. And I assume that was your handiwork at the museum.”

  Do not engage!

  “I will kill her before I kill you,” the woman promised with affable sincerity. “Eventually.”

  A series of dry clicking sounds came from the left and Lizanne strained her eyes to see Tekela backed into the corner, the Whisper held in her small hand. The barrel was trained on the dress-maker, the mechanism clicking as her finger repeatedly pulled the trigger on an empty cylinder.

  “Thought we’d ruined her,” the woman mused, turning back to Lizanne. “People are always so delightfully surprising, don’t you find? Now, as you must know my Black is close to expiry, so I’m afraid a disabling injury is in order. A fractured pelvis always seems to do the trick . . .”

  Lizanne wasn’t listening, her eyes focused on the Whisper still held outstretched in Tekela’s hand, and the Redball sitting in the top barrel. She unleashed more Red than necessary, the explosion of flame causing the girl to release her hold on the weapon, but not before the Redball had escaped the barrel. Lizanne was denied the spectacle of the dress-maker’s demise, though the resultant debris was more than sufficient evidence of its finality.<
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  She slid down the wall, leaving a clean space on the tiles amidst the abstract mural of red and black. She felt the last dregs of product dwindle away, leaving the familiar aches and strains that resulted from intense use. Her limbs shook and her chest hurt with every breath. Tekela appeared at her side, face earnest now, reason returned though tears fell freely down her cheeks.

  “Sorry about your father,” Lizanne told her.

  Tekela shook her head. “It was Rigan,” she said. “They told him he would have a commission in the navy. The dress-maker made him tell it all to me before she killed him. He’d been their spy for over a year.”

  Lizanne nodded, recalling Rigan’s absence the previous day. “That makes sense.” She tried to get up, groaned and slumped back down.

  “Here.” Tekela put an arm around Lizanne’s shoulders, helping her to rise after several seconds’ effort. “What do we do now?”

  A loud, hacking cough filled the chamber, causing Tekela to whirl about, snatching the now-useless Whisper from the tiles and waving it as if it had the power to ward off all dangers. Major Arberus jerked in his chair, spitting blood onto the tiles before turning to them with a baleful glare. “A very good question, my dear.”

  —

  “A governess once told me this place was haunted,” Tekela said, eyes roving the interior of the oracular temple. Like Lizanne, she wore a skirt and blouse stolen from an upstairs room in the safe house, presumably belonging to the unfortunate dress-maker. They were at least two sizes too big, making her appear even more childlike, though Lizanne knew her childhood had come to an end in that tiled room.

  “She would take me to the park sometimes,” the girl went on. “I think she was trying to frighten me into better behaviour.” She issued a short giggle, far too shrill and bordering on hysteria for Lizanne’s liking. “It didn’t work.”

  Major Arberus gave a pained groan from atop the stone bench where they had laid him, head lolling in his sleep and face betraying a fearful wince. Lizanne had been obliged to dose him with Green to get him here, trussed into the clothes of one of the dead agents and walking stiffly between them as they made a hurried progress to the park. Fortunately, it was still early and the only folk about were street-sweepers, who quickly averted their gaze at the sight of the major’s garb. He had collapsed on reaching the temple, sinking into a sleep so absolute Lizanne wasn’t entirely sure he would wake. His wounds were grievous but healing quickly thanks to the Green, but she knew there were other wounds that cut deep enough to lay a man low no matter how strong the medicine.

  “He said nothing,” Tekela said. “The whole time. Not one word. Sirus wouldn’t shut up, begging them to let me go . . .” She trailed off into another shrill giggle, sinking onto a bench and falling silent.

  Lizanne had been cataloguing the supplies looted from the safe house, a decent but not copious stock of product from the dress-maker’s room plus two pistols and ammunition. The product appeared to be of decent quality but the slightly dull colour indicated the Cadre’s plasmologists were still somewhat behind their corporate adversaries in the fields of dilution and refinement. Still, it was a lucky find given the reduced state of her own stocks. She had also taken a moment to secure some food and water.

  “Here,” she said, moving to Tekela’s side with a water bottle. “Drink.”

  “I’m not thirsty . . .”

  “Drink.” Lizanne held the bottle to her lips until she took it. “None of this is your fault,” she said, watching the girl gulp down the water. “This was always going to happen, from the moment the Cadre recruited Rigan as an informant. You did not cause this.”

  Tekela lowered the bottle, eyes taking on the unblinking stare once more, her voice listless. “I so wanted to tell him, to see the look on his face when he found out what I’d done. What manner of creature am I?”

  Lizanne said nothing. She briefly entertained slapping the girl, but doubted she would even feel it. Instead she placed one of the stolen pistols in her lap, saying, “I need you to keep watch for a short time. I have to consult with my employer.”

  Tekela stared at the gun in bafflement. “If they find us I won’t be able to fight them off. Not with this.”

  “It’s for you, not them. I’ll be at the top of the spire.”

  Night was coming on as she emerged onto the spire’s ledge, the pigeons once again cooing in alarm. She ingested a small drop of Green and fixed her gaze on the harbour. As expected the warships were abuzz with activity, sailors hurrying to allotted tasks and smoke rising from the stacks as engineers stoked the engines. The harbour door was in place to ward off the nightly tide, but as soon as it receded the fleet would sail. Turning to the Imperial Ring she saw columns of troops mustering on the various parade-grounds, regiments of cavalry already trooping south towards the city gates. That’s why the Cadre moved against Artonin, she decided. Clearing the decks in advance of Morradin’s great offensive.

  She sat on the ledge, crossing her legs beneath her, and injected a two-second burst of Blue.

  —

  I cannot vouch for its accuracy, she told Madame Bondersil as the black tendrils of the woman’s obsession slavered over the image of the map. All I know is it was drawn by a respected Corvantine scholar after careful examination of the Mad Artisan’s solargraph. She summoned an image of the device, revolving it to display its complex workings.

  Most excellent progress, Lizanne, Madame complimented her, more tendrils emerging from her storm to explore the solargraph. There was no communication for several moments as the tendrils did their work, becoming so thick it seemed as if both map and device were swallowed by a pulsating black fog.

  And the other matter, Madame? Lizanne prompted eventually.

  Mmmm? Oh, the impending war. I will of course pass on the intelligence to the relevant parties. However, it is vital I collate all available data on the White. More tendrils, this time reaching for the few pages from the Burgrave’s notes Lizanne had had time to memorise. With all this I suspect Jermayah may well be capable of building a replica solargraph.

  Forgive me, Madame, but the absence of urgency seems inappropriate. War between the Corvantine Empire and the Syndicate essentially means world war.

  One that will end the moment we have the White in our possession. This is not my first war, Lizanne. In time you will realise they have a tendency to rage and then fade, like unseasonal storms. Commerce, however, remains constant regardless of the weather.

  Another few moments’ scrutiny and the tendrils receded, the clouds of Madame’s storm taking on a brisk, swirling energy. Are you prepared for extraction?

  As prepared as I can be in the circumstances.

  The girl . . .

  Is coming with me. So is the major. I believe they may be useful. The sudden, dark ferocity of Lizanne’s whirlwinds left little room for further discussion.

  And you do this in full knowledge of the consequences? Madame enquired, a note of weary resignation colouring her thoughts.

  I do.

  A brief, convulsive spasm of frustration set Madame’s storm roiling for a second before she reasserted control. Very well. I dare say, with the war and all, Exceptional Initiatives may prove more forgiving than usual. You shouldn’t count on it, however.

  Understood.

  I hope so. Your next communication with Mr. Torcreek is in eighteen hours, correct?

  Yes, Madame.

  Do not proceed to extraction until you have passed your intelligence to him. Omit mention of the war. I believe the captain would benefit from a lack of distractions at this juncture.

  CHAPTER 20

  Clay

  “Well, it’s a nest sure enough.” Skaggerhill crouched, running a hand over the blood-black stones. “Ain’t seen one quite like it before, though. Looks almost man built.”

  They had all come to take a look at the discovery, thou
gh Foxbine got antsy after only a few seconds in the cave and announced she would go stand guard at the entrance. Silverpin stood with her head resting on Clay’s shoulder, something his uncle took full notice of but kept any comment to himself. For the time being at least the nest had captured his full attention.

  “The Spoiled?” he asked the harvester.

  “Nah, Captain. See here.” Skaggerhill pointed to the mortar holding stones in place. “Bile straight from the second stomach. They cough it up to melt rock when they craft a nest. Only drakes do that, but never so neatly.”

  “So it eats up Wittler then finds a place to nest.” Braddon wandered the cave, scanning the stained walls. “Then the Spoiled obligingly come along and feed themselves to it.”

  “It’s more than a mite strange,” Skaggerhill admitted.

  “Worship,” Preacher said. He stood near the chamber entrance, apparently unwilling to proceed any farther. There was a new tension in his face, a certain animation that hadn’t been there before. It made Clay wonder what it might be about this place that aroused fear in a crazy man.

  “What’s that?” Braddon asked.

  “They came to worship it,” Preacher said.

  “Getting ate for their trouble,” Skaggerhill pointed out.

  “Worship takes many forms.” Preacher turned and left the chamber without another word.

  “Worshipped or not,” Braddon said. “It ain’t here now. Nor do we have any sign where it went.”

  “Got big enough to fly off, I’d guess.” Skaggerhill climbed out of the circle. “All winged drakes can fly the moment they’re hatched, but it takes a good while before they can cover any real distance. About six years for a Black. Guessing this one’s a sight bigger though.”

  “It’s twenty-seven years since the thing hatched.”

  Skaggerhill spread his arms helplessly. “Then, Captain, I guess we still got us a lotta searching to do.”

  —

  Silverpin stayed at Clay’s side when they made camp that night, having trekked out of the Badlands and on to the Sands once more as they retraced their steps to the Firejack. She seemed completely unconcerned by the stares of the others, his uncle’s being particularly rich in disapproval. Clay took some small enjoyment in watching Braddon’s frown deepen when he put an arm around Silverpin’s shoulders, drawing her closer still. What had happened in the cave left him in a fugue of confusion and lust. Lurid tales abounded about the wanton ways of the Island tribes but she hadn’t been wild, pressing herself against him with evident passion but no biting or scratching, pulling away his clothes with insistent rather than frenzied hands. All so different from the whores he had occasionally indulged in back in the Blinds. A whole world of difference in fact.