by Anthony Ryan
Clay stroked a hand through her blonde locks as she relaxed against him. He always felt like he should say thank you at times like these. They lay on a pile of sacking in the shadow cast by the boiler. There was only one engineer on duty at night, an aged, bespectacled fellow who had yet to notice their regular visits, or failed to care if he had. The blood-burning engine was off, as it was only employed in the daylight hours, and the racket of the main power plant was something awful, obliging him to speak in fierce whispers close to her ear.
“Miss Lethridge says Islanders mate for life,” he said. “That true?”
She raised herself up a little resting her chin on his chest. In the drifting steam and the yellow half-light cast by the engineer’s lantern her tattoos seemed to dance as she raised an eyebrow.
“I mean to say,” he went on, “are we . . . married now, or something?”
She raised both eyebrows.
“It’s not like I mind. Just, nice to be asked is all.”
Her teeth flashed white for a second and she turned her head, slim, ink-covered shoulders shaking in amusement.
“Guess that’s a no,” Clay muttered. He stroked her hair some more until her mirth subsided, then gently raised her face up. “I never said thank you, for Keyvine.”
She shrugged, face expressionless. Not important. Just a small favour to a colleague.
He hesitated, unsure of the wisdom in voicing what he had to say next. Their intimacy had enhanced his ability to read her moods, but there were times when he sorely wished she could talk. “You ever ponder the wisdom of all this?” he asked. “Whether traipsing around the Interior looking for this thing is really the best idea?”
Her tattoos danced again as her brow creased into a frown.
“I know you care about my uncle,” he went on. “But there’s other means of earning a living. Other places we could be.”
Her frown deepened and she drew away from him, sitting up and turning her gaze to the floor.
“You saw that thing’s lair,” he persisted, reaching for her. “Whatever grew there wasn’t just some dumb beast, it could think. And if it’s still out there, what size d’you imagine it is now? And what’s it gonna think of us?”
She stood up, reaching for her clothes and pulling on her shirt.
“We don’t have to do this.” He moved to her, putting his hands on her shoulders, lips brushing her ear. “Fallsguard offers a chance to get on another boat. And I have product . . .”
She stepped away, slipping from his hands and pulling on the rest of her clothes. Her gaze was guarded now, all intimacy abruptly vanished.
“I ain’t gonna watch you die,” Clay said.
She strapped on her knife belt and paused, face tense but also a little regretful as she met his gaze and shook her head. Some measure of hurt must have shown on his features for she sighed and came close, pressing a kiss to his cheek before making for the exit.
Seer-dammit, he thought, hating a sudden grim realisation. I can’t leave her.
—
It was midday when they heard it, a faint, irregular crackling echoing through the jungle, like many dry twigs being snapped all at once. The trees had begun to thicken in the last few days, scrub-land and marsh disappearing as the river narrowed and the current grew swift. The surrounding country had also steepened so that they were constantly overlooked by tall, densely forested hills. Clay found it ominous, the unbroken mass of the jungle canopy and the mist-shrouded peaks combining to convey a sense of being watched. His unease grew as the crackling increased in volume and rapidity, rising to a crescendo of sorts before subsiding to silence.
“That what I think it is?” he asked Foxbine.
“Gun-fire,” she confirmed, carbine in hand and eyes scanning the bank off the port rail. “Sounds like somebody’s had themselves quite the party.”
Fallsguard came into view as they rounded a bend, Clay surprised to find it a fortress rather than a town. Unlike Stockade or Edinsmouth it was constructed almost entirely from stone, perched atop a rocky outcrop that jutted into the river and connected to the bank by a narrow wooden jetty. It was a truly massive structure, the walls rising from a thickly buttressed base to a height of over a hundred feet, complete with crenellations and narrow slits just like in one of Joya’s old books. Though the castles in those tales were usually all white-walled with colourful pennants flying from minarets. There were no pennants here, the walls dark with long-accumulated grime and streaked with variously hued effluent. Presumably the inhabitants were content to cast their waste into the river in the safe knowledge it would soon carry it away and over the landmark from which the place derived its name.
The source of the gun-fire became clear as another barrage erupted, smoke pluming on the fort’s east-facing wall. Clay tracked the direction of fire, drawing up in alarm at the target. They milled about at the edge of the tree-line, waving clubs, spears and bows, garbed more sparsely than those they had killed on the Sands. Spoiled bodies littered the ground between the trees and the bank with more lying still on the jetty, reaching a point halfway along and no farther.
“Get the sense we came at a bad time?” Clay asked his uncle.
The Firejack moored up on a narrow stone quay at the foot of Fallsguard’s west-facing wall, Clay finding it significant that there were no other boats in attendance. They were greeted at the gangplank by a man in the uniform of a major in the Ironship Protectorate Infantry. From the thickness of his beard and the weariness in his gaze it appeared neither sleep nor ablutions had troubled him for some days.
“Thank the Seer!” he said, pumping Braddon’s hand as he stepped onto the quay. “Wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
“Expecting us, sir?” Braddon asked.
“Our emergency trance communication,” the major said. “Sent four days ago. I assume you were diverted here in response.”
Braddon shook his head and handed the officer an envelope bearing the seal of the Ironship Board. “I’m afraid we’re here on a different purpose.”
The major broke the seal and read through the letter, his soot-stained brow creasing. “Render every assistance,” he muttered after a moment, voicing an appalled, humourless laugh as he read on. “Provision of an escort?” He raised his weary gaze to Braddon. “Allow me to show you something, Captain Torcreek.”
Once inside, Fallsguard transformed from fortress to town. There were taverns, shops and dwellings all arranged in successive tiers rising the height of the great building. Numerous walkways traced from one tier to another, sometimes intersecting to produce the impression of an inverted tree growing into itself. It was brightly lit with hundreds of lanterns hanging from the walkways, conveying a celebratory appearance at odds with the evidently subdued mood of the inhabitants. They seemed to be mostly old people and children, staring down at the new-comers with mingled hope and trepidation.
“Had to conscript all the able-bodied,” the major explained, striding towards a cage of some kind, heavy chains ascending from its roof through the criss-crossing walkways above. “Got them manning the walls in shifts.” He opened the cage’s door and stood aside, motioning for Braddon to get in.
“Preacher, Clay,” Braddon said. “With me. The rest of you find a tavern. Don’t get drunk.”
Once they were all in the major gave a hard yank on a lanyard, the wail of a steam-whistle sounding far above. After a few seconds’ delay the cage began to rise swiftly, Clay clutching at the sides in barely concealed alarm as the castle’s various tiers sped past in a blur.
“Counter-weights,” the major explained.
The cage came to a sudden jerking halt as it drew level with the topmost tier, two men reaching out to secure it in place. The major led them along a short corridor and out onto Fallsguard’s upper battlements. There were about fifty people arranged along the parapet, some Contractors in evidence but the others m
ostly townsfolk, all armed with longrifles of varying makes and calibres.
“We’re averaging two thousand rounds a day,” the major told Braddon, offering him a spy-glass and pointing to the edge of the jungle below. Clay followed his uncle to the parapet, peering down at the ground. The Spoiled seemed almost comical at this distance, capering about like two-legged ants. But there was nothing funny about the bodies, more than he had thought on the river. The largest mass lay in the space between the trees and the jetty, piled in three distinct clumps.
“How long?” Braddon asked the major, handing back the spy-glass.
“Two weeks now. Night and day.”
“Must be a thousand corpses down there.”
“More than that. We got most of them on the first night. They came out of the jungle in a wave, overrunning the outer pickets before we knew what was happening. Colonel Montfelt died leading the counter-attack, held them long enough to secure the jetty, though it cost us half our riflemen.”
“You have cannon?”
“Six guns, but we’ve expended half the canister and two-thirds of the shells. I’m husbanding the rest for their next charge. They try it at night, mostly.”
“Jungle Spoiled,” Braddon mused, resting his hands on the parapet. “Never seen them in such numbers before. Usually they fight each other more than they fight us. In Stockade we heard talk of a headhunter company out of Rigger’s Bay getting wiped out. Guess now we know why.”
He straightened and turned to Preacher, inclining his head at the Spoiled far below. “Twenty rounds only. No steel tips.” The marksman nodded and began to unsheathe his rifle from its green-leather case.
“Consider it our mooring fee,” Braddon said to the major, putting a hand on his shoulder and steering him away from the wall, speaking quietly. “I have every sympathy with your situation, sir. But you saw the orders, our mission is a Board priority and we need to get down to the lake.”
“I can’t spare a single man.”
“I see that.” Clay saw his uncle force a smile, gripping the Ironship officer’s shoulder tight enough to make the man wince. “But I’m sure you can spare a few cannon shells.”
—
They had a few hours to kill before Uncle Braddon’s clever scheme kicked off, Clay opting to spend it in a tavern, contemplating a half-measure of ale in morose silence. Foxbine had gone to join Preacher aloft, no doubt keen to make her century before they left. Silverpin had gently disentangled her hand from Clay’s then gone to help Loriabeth carry her gear from the Firejack. The steamer was already heavy with refugees, the decks crowded with old people and children awaiting safe passage back to civilisation. Most of the children were crying or staring at their former home in pale-faced shock, their parents being compelled by virtue of contract to stay and defend this valuable company installation. Captain Keelman had exchanged the briefest handshake with Braddon before turning and striding back up the gangplank, face set with a keen determination to be gone from this place and the dangers of this mission as soon as possible. The tavern had a narrow window in its stone wall that afforded a good view of the Firejack steaming away north, the Blood-blessed in the engine room clearly put to work once more from the steady progress she made against the current.
“Pardon me, young sir.”
Clay turned, finding himself confronted with a slightly built young man, only a few years his senior but with round spectacles and a stubbled chin that made him look older. From his complexion Clay judged him as a South Mandinorian, with an accent that told of managerial education if not lineage, though his less-than-edifying appearance bespoke considerable recent hardship. His jacket, well tailored though it was, had many small tears in the sleeves and could have benefited from a prolonged laundering. The man also had a green-leather bundle under his arm, filled with books from the shape of the bulge, and a long case over his shoulder, too bulky for a rifle sleeve.
Clay met the fellow’s gaze, saying nothing and sipping some more ale.
“Orwinn Scriberson,” the young man introduced himself. “Principal Field Astronomer to the Consolidated Research Company. At your service. Might I join you for a moment?”
Clay stared at him in silence, watching him fidget. He didn’t seem any threat but Ellforth had left him wary of tavern encounters with strangers.
“Purchase you another ale, perhaps,” Scriberson went on valiantly. “I feel there is a matter we could discuss, to our mutual advantage.”
“I have more than a half before nightfall, my uncle will shoot me,” Clay said, nodding at the seat opposite. “But feel free to discuss away. Got shit all else to do right now.”
“You arrived this morning, did you not? With the Contractor company?”
“The Longrifles Independent Contractor Company. Going south in search of Black.”
“Quite so.” The young man gave a smile, earnest and hopeful to the point of desperation. “And hence the crux of my enquiry. You see, I too wish to journey south in pursuit of a contractual obligation. Tell me, have you heard of the impending alignment?”
CHAPTER 21
Hilemore
“I’d take it for some kind of ornamentation, but for its size and position.” Mr. Lemhill squinted suspiciously at the sketch Tottleborn had provided. “Is he sure the dimensions are correct?” he enquired of Hilemore. “Seem a little outlandish to me.”
“Mr. Tottleborn lacks the imagination for exaggeration, sir,” Hilemore replied. “Whatever this is, Protectorate Intelligence has confirmed it has been fitted to the underside of the INS Regal, the most powerful Corvantine vessel in Arradsian waters.”
“I’ll send for Chief Bozware.” Lemhill moved to the speaking-tube. “If anyone can tell us what the confounded thing is . . .”
“There’s no need,” Captain Trumane interrupted. He stood at the ward-room’s port-hole, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at the sea. He had taken only a brief glance at the sketch, Hilemore noting how his recent good humour evaporated immediately. “That, gentlemen, is a stolen treasure. A near-exact copy of the prototype proposed to the Sea Board by a good friend of mine near five years ago.”
“Sir?” Lemhill asked, plainly baffled.
“Professor Widdern’s Patented Revolving System for Marine Propulsion,” the captain said. “Or screw propeller for short.”
“I am to understand, sir,” Hilemore said, “this device can push a ship through the water?”
“Indeed it can, at considerable velocity I might add. Professor Widdern’s experiments indicated a twenty percent increase in speed, and that with a Mark One thermoplasmic engine. If the Regal boasts a modern power plant she could out-run even us.”
“If this device was proposed to the Sea Board . . .” Hilemore began then fell silent at the captain’s grim countenance.
“The Board is comprised of old men clinging to old ways,” he said. “Though to their credit they did purchase the professor’s invention, then promptly locked it away and suppressed all publication of the designs. It appears the Cadre’s agents have not been idle in the meantime.”
“If they’ve outfitted the Regal with this thing,” Lemhill said, “it stands to reason they didn’t stop there.”
“Indeed it does. We may well be facing an entire fleet capable of outpacing every other Protectorate vessel afloat.”
The silence heralded by this observation lasted several seconds, Lemhill and Hilemore exchanging a cautious glance as the import of the captain’s words sank in. “The vaunted commodore should have concentrated on Feros instead of the Strait,” the captain said, more to himself than them. “Then we might have had a chance to gather enough strength to break through later. Still, orders are orders.”
He moved to the map spread out on the ward-room table, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Mr. Hilemore,” he said. “Have Mr. Tottleborn burn one full flask at first light. Once it’s expende
d Chief Bozware is to squeeze every ounce of power from the auxiliary engine.” His finger tapped the cross pencilled onto a point fifty miles north of the Strait. “With any luck we should make the rendezvous point within three days.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And the pirate settlement, sir?” Lemhill asked.
“It seems fate has conspired to grant them a reprieve,” the captain replied. “We can afford neither the time nor the ammunition for a bombardment.” He paused in contemplation. “Though we could hang the pirate woman. Leave the noose around her neck and rig the body with floats so it washes ashore. A fine warning, don’t you think?”
“She was promised a trial, sir,” Hilemore said.
“Sea law provides for summary justice, in the right circumstances.”
“I gave my word, sir.”
A sudden sharpness in the captain’s gaze told Hilemore his tone must have contained more force than he intended. “Besides,” he added, “I believe she may be willing to impart further intelligence on the activities of her associates. In return for preferential treatment for her daughter once we reach Feros.”
“A company orphanage will be more than the brat deserves,” the captain said, then gave a tired shake of his head. “Very well, Mr. Hilemore. Far be it from me to impugn your honour.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We can allow no other indulgences, however.” The captain looked at both of them in turn. “The men will be drilled in gunnery and combat every spare hour from now until we make the rendezvous. I suspect easy victories are now behind us.”
