The Waking Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  “Your exact age, if you please, Captain?” he enquired, a pair of half-moon reading spectacles perched on his nose and pen poised above an open leather-bound book. He had already jotted down Hilemore’s height and approximate weight along with a signed annotation that he had suffered no recent physical impairments and was not likely to expire from some hidden ailment within the next year.

  “Twenty-eight and four months,” Hilemore replied, taking a long drink from the water bottle handed to him by Ensign Tollver. They had returned to the Viable after the meeting with the Directors the day before. He sat on a stool on the aft deck, sweating freely from recent exertion. Steelfine stood near by with sword in hand and, despite their shared bout of practice, didn’t appear to be sweating at all.

  “Do you have any relatives likely to question the legality of this proceeding, or pursue vengeance and feud in the event of your death?”

  Hilemore’s thoughts flicked briefly over his brothers and the complete absence of correspondence between them. “No.”

  “You are not married?”

  Lewella’s eyes the last time they met, tearful, regretful, but also so very angry . . . “No.”

  “How many enemies have you killed in single combat? An approximate figure will do.”

  “Is this really necessary?”

  Tragerhorn merely raised his thick eyebrows above his spectacles, a polite smile of expectation on his lips.

  Hilemore sighed. “Battle does not count as single combat, I assume?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then one. I fought a duel in Varestia seven years ago.”

  “Just one, sir?”

  “Just one.”

  “Mmmm.” Tragerhorn scribbled in his book before playing the pen on his lips in contemplation.

  “Problem?” Hilemore asked.

  Tragerhorn shook his head in apology. “I am unable to approve this contest, Captain. It being so unequal.”

  “Unequal?”

  “Indeed. You see, Director-in-Chief Arshav has fought over thirty duels, killing twenty-three men in the process. To match you against him would violate the Duelling Code, and prove tantamount to murder in my opinion.”

  “Put me in the circle with him and I’ll show you murder!” Hilemore’s face reddened as he surged to his feet, Tragerhorn blinking as he leaned close to shout into his face. “You think me some managerial milksop, sir?”

  “Captain!” Zenida appeared at his side, casting a wary glance at the constable, who used a kerchief to wipe Hilemore’s spittle from his face as she tugged him away. “This won’t do any good. He’s too much a stickler. It’s why Father hired him all those years ago.”

  Hilemore took a moment to calm himself, resting clenched fists on the rail. “If he won’t approve the duel, what then?”

  “Since you are the challenger, the contest will be declared in Arshav’s favour and any status and property you hold rendered to him. However”—she paused to cast a pointed glance at Steelfine—“in cases where the contestants are not equally matched, nomination of a proxy is acceptable.”

  “Twenty-four,” Steelfine stated a few minutes later, brows furrowing as he thought further. “No, twenty-five. I was forgetting my second cousin. It wasn’t a very long contest.”

  Hilemore raised an eyebrow at Tragerhorn, who thought for a moment then gave a nod. “The ninth hour tonight. Captain Okanas will guide you to the venue. Please be sure to bring a fully itemised cargo manifest, and the little lady in question. The Directors are insistent upon this point.”

  —

  The Conglomerate had established a dedicated arena for duels on a bluff overlooking the harbour. It was just a circular pit with a sand-covered floor though, from the hushed reverence of the Varestians present, it could well have been a Church of the Seer. The non-Varestian townsfolk, however, evidently viewed the occasion as an opportunity to indulge in public drunkenness and gambling. Hilemore saw numerous bets placed and a few brief fist-fights break out as they waited. The crowd voiced a ragged cheer as Tragerhorn strode into the pit, falling to murmured anticipation as he raised a hand.

  “Challenge has been made and accepted,” Tragerhorn said in a tone of strident formality. “These men,” he pointed in turn to Arshav and Steelfine who stood at opposite sides of the pit, bare to the waist and sword in hand, “come to settle a grievance through blood. This fight is theirs and theirs alone. The contest will continue until death or yielding. Any who interfere will be subject to the One Rule.” He strode to the edge of the pit and climbed out, raising both arms above his head. “Begin!”

  Hilemore watched Steelfine stride towards his opponent with unhurried confidence, whilst Arshav immediately dropped into a fighting crouch. Zenida stood close to Hilemore with her daughter between them. From the way she clutched the girl to her side he thought that, whatever the outcome this day, the idea she would ever hand her over to Arshav was a patent absurdity. He had seen her slip something into her trouser pocket back on the ship, the light catching metal before she concealed it from sight. The bulge in her pocket was signature enough, however. Corvantine revolver, he judged. She must have scavenged it from the deck after the battle.

  “You won’t need that,” he said as they clambered into the launch.

  Her hand went to the revolver in unconscious reflex and she met his gaze with feral resolution, speaking softly. “She stays with me, even if I have to slaughter everyone in this shit-pit.”

  “It won’t come to that.”

  “You can’t be sure. My brother’s skill matches his spite.”

  Hilemore had glanced over at Steelfine standing at the prow of the launch, features placid as he raised them to let the evening breeze play over his tattooed skin. “I have every confidence in our champion.”

  He returned his attention to the pit, watching Steelfine come to a halt a few feet short of Arshav, standing at a slight angle to his opponent but making no effort to raise his blade. “This is not an order,” Hilemore had told him back on the Viable. “We’ll find another way . . .”

  “Our debt is not settled, sir,” the Islander reminded him. “But today it will be.”

  Arshav lunged, moving with a cobra-like speed that made Hilemore wonder for an instant if Tragerhorn might have done him a service. Steelfine, however, possessed plentiful speed of his own. He twisted, allowing the point of Arshav’s blade to jab the air where his shoulder had been, then twisted the other way as the pirate tried another lunge.

  Arshav stepped back, breathing deep, calming breaths, though Hilemore could read the growing frustration and anger on his face. He tried a slashing attack next, swinging his sword first at Steelfine’s legs then his neck in a display Hilemore suspected Ensign Tollver would have admired greatly. Steelfine stepped over the slashing blade then ducked the back-swing, seeming to move with a preternatural slowness Hilemore knew came from his ability to read his opponent’s moves.

  “Mother,” Hilemore heard Akina say in a small voice.

  “Don’t worry,” Zenida said. “All be over soon.”

  Arshav spat a florid curse in Varestian and attacked again, flicking his sword-tip at Steelfine’s eyes, then his belly before leaping into a mid-air pirouette that, in the normal course of events, should have laid the Islander’s neck open below the jaw. Steelfine’s sword came up for the first time, steel ringing as it met the pirate’s blade, sending his arm wide and leaving his face open. The pirate saw the danger and tried to back-pedal but the Islander was far too quick. He performed a leap of his own, leg extending into a kick that found Arshav’s nose. Blood flew as the pirate’s head snapped back and he landed hard, sword flying from his grip. He scrabbled for it as Steelfine strode towards him, issuing a pained yelp as the Islander’s boot came down on his wrist. He began to assail Steelfine with a barrage of Varestian profanity as the Islander leaned lower. Arshav fell to abrupt silence as t
he tip of Steelfine’s sword touched his neck.

  “Mother!” Akina repeated, more urgently now.

  “Hush!”

  “Yield!” a voice called out from the crowd, loud and commanding. It was Ethilda, struggling free of the crowd despite their restraining hands. “Yield, damn you, Arshav!”

  The pirate, however, said nothing, face set in a defiant glare as he raised his chin to allow the blade a better target. Steelfine paused and turned to the crowd, his gaze soon finding Hilemore, brows raised in a question.

  Hilemore was about to nod when he felt an insistent tugging on his sleeve and glanced down to see Akina, face pale and stricken with alarm. “It’s custom,” he told her. “I did order him to spare your uncle if he yielded.”

  “Not that!” she said in disgusted exasperation, turning and pointing out to sea. “Look!”

  He turned, following her finger. The crowd behind them was relatively thin, allowing a fine view of the sea. It was a clear day, sunlight shafting through the sparse cloud to play over the two smaller islands to the north and, between them in an arrowhead formation, a flotilla of Corvantine frigates. They were perhaps three miles off, wakes thinning as they slowed and made a turn to port, a turn that could mean only one thing.

  Hilemore bent and lifted the girl, turning and running for the pit as her mother followed close behind. He jumped into the pit and reached Steelfine’s side just as the first shell landed in the town. The crowd convulsed at the thunder-clap report of the explosion, screaming panic soon taking hold as another shell landed on the hillside barely twenty yards away.

  “Get to the beach,” Hilemore said, pushing Akina into Steelfine’s arms. “Guard the launch. Give me ten minutes. If I fail to arrive, return to the ship and take command. Head south at best speed.”

  Arshav Okanas had regained his feet by now and stood near by, blood pouring from his ruined nose as he railed at his sister. “You brought them here!” he yelled as three more shells tore into the Hive, flame and smoke blossoming amidst shattered wood. “Everything our father built, soon to be pounded to ruin! You did this, Zenida!”

  She drew the Corvantine revolver and levelled it at Arshav’s head. He quailed for a moment then stood firm, refusing to yield to her any more than he had to Steelfine.

  “Don’t!” Ethilda struggled free of the churning crowd and rushed to stand in front of her son, arms spread to protect him as she stared at Zenida in desperate entreaty. “Please, Zenida! For your father’s sake.”

  Zenida hesitated, glancing down the hill to the harbour where a fresh salvo of Corvantine shells could be seen raining down on the anchored pirate vessels. One was already burning, whilst the others spewed steam from their stacks in a frantic effort to put to sea. “Soon you will have no ship,” she told her step-mother and half-brother. “Then perhaps you will know what it feels like to beg aid from those you hate.” She gave a dismissive flick of the revolver and they fled, Ethilda pushing her son into motion. He cast a single, hate-filled glare at his sister then ran after his mother.

  “Go!” Hilemore slapped a hand on Steelfine’s shoulder, the Islander overcoming his reluctance with a visible effort as he bore Akina away, skirting the now-burning town as he made for the beach.

  “Where do they keep it?” Hilemore asked Zenida. “At the mansion?”

  She shook her head. “Tragerhorn has charge of it.”

  Hilemore cast about, seeing the constable making for the town at a steady run. They set off after him, ducking repeatedly as the Corvantine barrage continued. When they neared the town the flow of panicked people reversed, those who had run towards imagined safety realising their error whilst those who had already seen the effects of the bombardment had taken to their heels. Hilemore found himself forcing his way through the throng, the thickness of which thinned abruptly when Zenida fired a shot in the air and yelled out a firm promise to kill the next scum-sucker to bar her way.

  They had lost sight of the constable in the fray but Zenida knew the route to the gaol-house where he held office. They had to throw themselves flat several times as they made their way through the town, flaming debris and broken glass raining down and filling the streets with a growing pall of smoke. Various ugly sights greeted them as they ran on, a child screaming at his decapitated mother, a pig digging its snout into the entrails of a disembowelled man. Hilemore could only close his eyes to it all and keep following the pirate woman as she led him through the smoke. The gaol-house came into view a few moments later, apparently untouched though the buildings on either side were burning fiercely. The door was open and they found Tragerhorn inside, busily filling a leather satchel with copious amounts of scrip and exchange notes from an open safe.

  “Fines, I assume?” Zenida asked him.

  “My contract has just been terminated by the Corvantine navy,” he replied, barely glancing up as he continued to pile notes into the satchel. He stopped when Zenida raised her revolver.

  “We won, fair and legal,” she said. “Where is it?”

  The former constable tensed, eyes narrowing as he looked at them both in cold calculation. A true mercenary, Hilemore decided. Dutiful only up until the point where his life is in the balance.

  “There’s another safe in the back,” Tragerhorn said. “But only I have the combination.”

  Another shell landed outside, shattering the windows and scattering glass across the room. Tragerhorn cursed, clutching at the fresh cut on his arm, though Zenida barely noticed, stepping closer and pressing the revolver’s barrel into his forehead. “Then tell me!” she grated.

  Tragerhorn’s eyes flicked to Hilemore. “I have six Corvantine warrants on my head,” he said. “So, when they land I’m dead anyway. I want a berth on your ship.”

  “Done,” Hilemore said and Zenida lowered the revolver. They followed Tragerhorn into the recesses of the gaol, past the barred cages where two men were imprisoned. They screamed at the constable for release, hands clutching at him through the bars. “Don’t waste your compassion, Captain,” Tragerhorn advised, reading Hilemore’s expression and working a key in the lock of a heavy door. “Child rapers, the pair of them.”

  He pulled the door open revealing a safe of much more sturdy construction than the one in the outer office. “This will take a moment,” he said, kneeling to touch his fingers to the dial. “It’s a lengthy combina—”

  His last word was drowned out by an explosion that wrecked the forefront of the gaol-house, Hilemore finding himself blinded and deafened as the blast threw him against the cages. He came to his senses with a tongue of flame licking its way up the sleeve of his tunic. He scooped up powdered stone from the floor and patted the fire out, dragging himself to his feet and trying to shake away the bombastic orchestra that seemed to have taken up residence in his head. The sound of laughter brought him back to full sense, his vision focusing on the two prisoners. The blast had evidently torn the doors of their cages free and they stood amidst the ruins of the gaol-house, joyful at their good fortune.

  Two pistol-shots sounded and the prisoners fell, Hilemore turning to see Zenida lowering her revolver. “Child rapers,” she said with a shrug.

  They found Tragerhorn slumped next to the safe, a jagged wooden splinter speared through the centre of his face. “Seer-dammit!” Hilemore kicked the safe then ducked as another shell screamed overhead to slam into the whore-house up the street. “We need to go,” he told Zenida. “We’ll head deeper into the Isles on auxiliary power. I daresay you know a hiding-place or two . . .” He fell silent as she held up a small vial of product.

  “Black?” he asked.

  “Fortunately,” she said, stepping past him to crouch at the safe.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I always had it.” She removed the stopper and drank the vial’s contents in a single gulp before tossing it aside. “Your men are overly bashful when searching women, Captain.
You should talk to them about that.” She closed her eyes and laid a hand on the safe, frowning in concentration. “It’s a rare thing for a ship not to carry a safe. One reason why having a Blood-blessed aboard always made my father’s voyages so profitable.” She gritted her teeth, grunting with effort as the safe gave a satisfying clunk.

  The safe proved to hold an embarrassment of riches, Tragerhorn having evidently exploited every opportunity his position afforded. Alongside a goodly supply of product, there were stacks of scrip notes and Dalcian sovereigns plus a small chest piled with varied jewellery. Ever the pirate, Zenida took the lot, sweeping it all into Tragerhorn’s satchel before retrieving the constable’s revolver and handing it to Hilemore. “I have a sense you’ll need this on the beach.”

  Her prediction proved all too reliable. Steelfine stood before the prow of the grounded launch laying about with an oar at a group of half a dozen pirates intent on seizing any means of escape. Two men lay dead at his feet, one with a broken neck and the other with the Islander’s sword buried in his guts. Akina sat in the launch, beckoning frantically to her mother. Hilemore and Zenida were obliged to hurdle several corpses as they ran towards the launch, the Corvantine gunners having made plenty of sport with the flood of pirates seeking return to their ships. Hilemore could see two more vessels burning and another in the process of slipping beneath the harbour waters. The smoke was too dense to make out the state of the Viable but he could at least confirm she was still afloat and seemed to be underway, though at very low speed. Clever lad, he silently complimented Mr. Talmant. A moving target is harder to hit.