by Anthony Ryan
Zenida came to a halt a short distance from the launch, levelling her revolver at the pirates. He had expected her to issue some form of warning but whatever solidarity she might feel for these men had apparently disappeared when they posed a threat to her daughter. She fired all four remaining bullets, taking down two pirates and wounding a third. The others rounded on her, terror and desperation banishing reason as they charged, knives and cudgels raised. Hilemore emptied the constable’s hefty revolver as fast as he could, the weapon giving an uncomfortable jerk with every bullet fired. Despite its clumsiness, the large calibre proved effective. Three more pirates lay dead by the time the hammer fell on an empty chamber and the only survivor wisely dropped his knife and sprinted off into the swirling haze.
“Apologies for the delay, Number One,” Hilemore said, moving to put his shoulder to the prow of the launch.
“Unnecessary, sir.” The Islander grunted, adding his own weight to the effort and soon they had pushed the launch free of the sand. Zenida leapt aboard and took the tiller whilst he and Steelfine slotted the oars into the rowlocks and began to haul. “I take it,” Steelfine said between pulls, “our business here is concluded?”
“Yes, and quite successfully I must say.” Though whether I can legally divide the prize money is another matter.
Zenida was obliged to steer them around and through the burning hulks of the unfortunate pirate vessels and the occasional survivor still bobbing in the water. One managed to latch a hand onto the launch’s rail only to withdraw it with a howl as Akina pounced, teeth rending at the knuckles. They were forced to slow on clearing the hulks, the smoke so thick it appeared they were lost amidst a sea fog.
“There, sir.” Steelfine pointed to a bulky shape off to starboard and soon they came in sight of the Viable. She appeared to be circling at dead slow, rails crowded with look-outs despite the continuing shell-fire from the Corvantines. The crew gave a hearty shout upon seeing the launch, casting a veritable web of ropes over the side.
“Tell Mr. Talmant to make speed full ahead!” Hilemore called up to the crew as Steelfine and Zenida caught the ropes. “Steer course for the harbour mouth!”
Hilemore leapt clear of the launch as the crew hauled it level with the Viable’s rail, sending Zenida to the engine room with orders to Chief Bozware to fire up the blood-burner immediately. “Man the guns,” he told Steelfine. “Load shell only. Fire as she bears.”
“Aye, sir!”
He caught sight of Ensign Tollver as he ran to the bridge. “Muster the riflemen, if you please, Mr. Tollver. Sharpshooters to the rail.” He returned the boy’s salute and climbed the ladder, finding Talmant at the tiller.
“She’s at seven knots, sir,” the lieutenant reported. “The Chief did some more tinkering whilst you were ashore.”
“She’ll soon be doing a damn sight more.” Hilemore peered through the smoke clouding their course, making out the dim hump of the sloping headland forming the western edge of the harbour. “Two more points to starboard, Mr. Talmant. We’ll need to shave this as fine as we can.”
“Aye, sir,” Talmant replied just as the port-side guns opened fire to drown out his voice. Hilemore could make out the sleek shape of a Corvantine frigate through the haze, briefly illuminated as one of the Viable’s guns found the range and slammed a shell into her fore-deck. The frigate veered away as her own guns boomed a reply, raising waterspouts on either side of the Viable but doing no damage.
Hilemore turned his gaze to the speed indicator, finding the needle stubbornly stuck on seven knots. Come on, Chief, he prayed inwardly whilst clasping his hands behind his back and affecting as unperturbed a demeanour as he could. A captain is always certain.
His patience was rewarded barely three seconds later when the Viable gave a now-familiar lurch and the needle began a rapid climb, past ten, then fifteen, then twenty, all in the space of a few seconds. What a marvellous machine this is. “Steady the course, Lieutenant,” he told Talmant as the prow drifted slightly to starboard. “Be prepared to turn at my command.”
He waited until they cleared the headland, the course so close to the shore they could feel the slight diminution of speed as the Viable’s hull scraped a sand-bar. Then they were clear, open ocean beckoning them north. “Slow turn ninety degrees to port, Lieutenant,” Hilemore ordered.
“To port, sir?” The lad frowned at him. “But that’ll . . .”
“Take us south and back into the Isles. I’m well aware, Mr. Talmant. Make your turn, if you please.”
“Aye, sir.”
When the turn had been completed he went to the speaking-tube and called down to the engine room. “Captain Okanas to the bridge immediately, please,” he said before going to the hatch and casting his gaze to the stern. The smoke was thinning now and most of the Corvantine guns had fallen silent. Three frigates were labouring in pursuit of the Viable but the distance was increasing by the second. Not a blood-burner amongst them, he concluded. He could see only burning ships in the harbour and, on the hillside beyond, the Hive appeared to be just a mass of flaming buildings. Had Trumane delivered their own bombardment it would have wrecked a large portion of the town, perhaps compelling the occupants to establish their villain’s den elsewhere. The Corvantines, however, were more interested in complete destruction, raising two pressing questions in his mind. How did they know of this place? And did they come for us?
CHAPTER 31
Lizanne
She’s alive?
Very much so. Sane and healthy, too.
Lizanne could feel her mindscape shifting in reaction to the revelation. Ethelynne Drystone, living in the Interior all these years. Madame will be . . . Her thoughts clouded, the last meeting with Madame looming large. Lizanne couldn’t escape the conviction that, whatever her prior sentiments, Madame’s principal reaction to this news would be one of suspicion. The lost pupil’s reappearance was a complication, and with the object of her obsession so close, any complication would be unwelcome. She could also sense Clay’s reluctance to share the information. His encounter with the Corvantine hireling at Edinsmouth was a barely suppressed memory that left a lingering distrust beneath the surface of his mindscape.
You alright, miss? Clay asked. Getting dark in here.
Apologies. She reasserted control of her mindscape, though the whirlwinds were still a little ragged. I appreciate your trust in me, Mr. Torcreek.
Gotta trust somebody if we’re gonna survive this. Can hardly keep it from you anyhow.
True, but I thank you for the honour of your confidence, in any case.
She had a decision to make, the import of which could not be under-estimated. What does she know of the White?
There was a short delay before he replied, his thoughts coloured with a reluctant resolve. I could tell you. He opened one of his memories, displaying the image of an overgrown tower rising from the floor of an arena. But it’ll be easier to show you, though I doubt you’ll thank me for it.
When it was over she took quite some time to reorganise her whirlwinds into respectable order. She wasn’t used to being flustered and resented the disharmony it caused to her mindscape, although she couldn’t argue with his logic. A simple retelling wouldn’t have been enough.
You appear to have decided to break your contract, Mr. Torcreek, she observed, referring to his discussions with the miraculously revived Ethelynne Drystone.
Yes, he replied simply, pausing to read the reaction of her storms. Thought there’d be a different response, if I’m honest.
She summoned one of her whirlwinds and extracted the memory of Major Arberus’s account of his last expedition with Burgrave Artonin. My own investigations have gone some way to corroborating your findings.
So, you agree? You’ll help us?
The decision was too enormous for her to conceal the shiver that ran through her storm, new whirlwinds sprouting from the clouds w
hilst others withered and died. When it settled the storms had taken on a reddish hue, the colour of conflict . . . and fear. Yes, she told him. I take it your uncle and fellow Contractors know nothing of this change of heart?
Reckon I might be sporting a few bullet-holes if they did. They got a real hankering for this thing now.
You know what that might mean further down the road?
I know. Just have to find a way to make sure it don’t come to that.
Seeing the firm conviction colouring his thoughts, she decided not to pursue the point. This astronomer you picked up in Fallsguard. You trust him?
Seen no reason not to, as yet anyways. You think I should be worrying about him?
His appearance at that juncture seems a little convenient, having survived a journey through the Interior alone to boot. It may be my ingrained paranoia, but he’ll bear close scrutiny.
His mindscape pulsed with agreement before he summoned another memory: a handsome woman of Old Colonial stock standing on a porch. Your aunt, Lizanne recalled.
Yeah. Be grateful if you could check and make sure she’s alright, what with the war and all.
If I can. This place is about to become very hectic. And I suspect Madame will be keeping a close eye on my activities from now on.
She sensed his acknowledgment before his thoughts twisted into a more pressing question. What you gonna tell her?
That you failed to make today’s trance and can therefore be presumed dead. From now on we shall be pursuing our own contract, profitless though it’s likely to be. I will endeavour to obtain what information I can, though from now on it would be better if you advised your uncle that the information I have provided confirms the wisdom of your current course. How much Blue do you have left?
A quarter-vial, more or less. Got a good supply of the other colours, thanks to Ethelynne, but she used up the last of her Blue to share the drake’s memory.
Very well. From now on you will conserve your stocks and refrain from making contact until you reach the Coppersoles. I will resume trancing for a short time at the allotted hour in five days. Hopefully, by then I will have more information to guide you.
Seems to me a lot depends on you making it through the coming battle.
She found herself touched by the concern evident in the sombre hues of his mindscape, so different now from the ill discipline and self-interest of their first trances. Fortunately, she replied, thanks to an old friend of mine, I may well have the means to do just that.
—
“Eight hundred in four days.” Jermayah surveyed the stacked cannon shells with an appreciative shake of his head. “Wouldn’t have thought it possible.”
“Lizanne did most of the work,” Tekela said, pausing in the midst of polishing the latest batch. Her face was besmirched with grease and she wore a pair of ill-fitting overalls and a headscarf, making her resemble a line girl from one of the huge Syndicate manufactories.
“You performed a creditable amount of labour too, miss,” Lizanne told her from her makeshift resting-place atop Jermayah’s work-bench. Prolonged use of Green had indeed greatly increased their productivity, but the cost in fatigue was proving steep. Major Arberus could be heard snoring from his newly constructed bunk in the recesses of the workshop. He had completed a ten-hour shift mixing propellants to Jermayah’s exacting recipe. The process had a tendency to befuddle the mind due to chemical exposure, as demonstrated when he had sunk to one knee the night before, taken Lizanne’s hand and slurred his way through a proposal of marriage.
“Marry a radical anticorporatist?” she scoffed, hauling him upright and pointing him to his bed. “I think not, sir.”
“Probably for the best,” he mumbled, stumbling away. “Marriage is an archaic institution. Grams always said so. Look at Leonis and Salema. Never a happy word between them.”
Lizanne gave Tekela a cautious glance, though the girl seemed not to have heard. She spoke rarely of her father now, and her lapses into Eutherian had diminished in concert with her increased use of Mandinorian. The day before, Lizanne had spent a brief rest from manufacturing to compose her formal report to Exceptional Initiatives, complete with recommendations regarding the future employment of both Tekela and the major. So far, however, she had resisted the urge to seek out the local Agent-in-Charge and submit it for approval. The management of Exceptional Initiatives lay in the hands of those whose absence of sentiment made Madame Bondersil appear the paragon of compassion.
They’ll probably find a use for Arberus, she decided, gaze lingering on Tekela as she performed the delicate task of screwing a percussion cap into a shell casing. But they’ll kill her, even if they don’t kill me. The conclusion left her calculating alternatives. War, as she well knew, bred the kind of chaos that might well facilitate an unquestioned disappearance. She was well schooled in the art of discarding an identity and there were places in the world where even the Protectorate’s arm couldn’t reach. Although, few could be said to be conducive to the secure housing of a young lady and her self-appointed guardian. Some regions of Dalcia retained a good degree of stability despite the recent disturbances. Or, if desperation became a factor, there was always the vast East Mandinorian steppe where, even within living memory, whole armies had disappeared without a trace.
Did I do you a kindness? she wondered, watching Tekela and thinking of that night in her father’s study, the inability to pull the trigger. What did I spare you for? Even if this city stands against Morradin, what then? What happens if we fail and the White rises?
She closed her eyes, reasserting control over her thoughts with long-practised discipline. Uncertainty is the field agent’s lot, she reminded herself. Confine your consideration to practicalities. Action is the antidote to fear.
When she looked again she found Tekela had stopped and stood amidst the rows of gleaming shells with her head raised. “It’s different,” she said. Lizanne’s tired head took a moment to comprehend her meaning, then she heard it; the ever-present artillery barrage had changed, a new faster rhythm underpinning the slower clock-work regularity they had grown accustomed to over the preceding week.
“Naval guns,” Arberus said, tugging on his overalls as he emerged from the shadows. “The Corvantine Fleet is here. Morradin will attack before the end of the day.”
—
“What in the Travail is that?” The Protectorate artillery captain regarded the Thumper with equal parts bafflement and disdain as they trundled it up to the forward battery.
“Rapid Fire Device Mark Five,” Lizanne told him before adding a brisk string of lies. “Myself and these technicians are contracted employees of Exceptional Initiatives, Experimental Weapons Division. This device has been approved for deployment by Madame Bondersil. You are ordered to render all assistance in positioning it for maximum effect against the enemy.” She handed over an envelope containing a set of recently forged orders that would be unlikely to bear more than cursory scrutiny. Fortunately, the captain had more pressing matters on his mind this evening.
“I have no men to spare,” he said, briefly scanning the orders before giving the Thumper another baffled glance. “Will this thing really help?”
“Give us a clear field of fire,” Arberus said, careful to moderate his accent into a gruff semblance of Arradsian-born tones, “and you’ll see soon enough.”
The captain’s scepticism didn’t seem to have been overcome to any great degree, but he dutifully pointed them to a position a hundred yards or so to the left of his battery. “We’re thinnest there. Got a bunch of conscripted townsfolk manning that stretch, plus a few sailors mixed in. Don’t expect them to stick around too long when it starts in earnest.”
Lizanne nodded her thanks and the four of them began pushing the Thumper towards the allotted position. The network of intervening trenches was too narrow to navigate so they were obliged to traverse the shell-holed overgroun
d gaps between the defences. Jermayah had sacrificed his beloved thermoplasmic carriage to provide a movable mounting, and the advanced suspension he had designed made the task of wheeling the thing over rough ground so much easier. Marshal Morradin had also been kind enough to shift the full weight of his artillery away from the defences to the city itself, the tempo of the bombardment increased to match that of the fleet now crowding the waters beyond the unbreachable giant edifice of the mole. The journey from Jermayah’s shop to the south wall had been a perilous one, Lizanne pulling Tekela into cover more than once as the shells came down on Old Town, shattering houses that had stood for centuries and igniting numerous fires. She had considered ordering, or more likely, confining Tekela to the workshop but knew the security it offered was illusory; there were no more safe places in Carvenport.
“Protectorate business! Make way!” Lizanne greeted the defenders in the trench, a distinctly unmilitary bunch judging by their non-uniform clothing, though the sailors were easily recognised, as much because of their truculence as their sea-boots.
“Piss off, deary,” one replied with a yellow-toothed smile. “This stretch of line is spoken for . . .”
He trailed off when Arberus jumped into the trench, looking down at the stocky sea-dog with a stern demeanour until he shuffled away. “Here,” the major said after a quick inspection of the trench, pointing to a slightly raised hump near the centre. “Gives us a clear field all the way to the trees.”
He and Jermayah took charge of sighting the Thumper whilst Lizanne and Tekela sorted the ammunition. They had only managed to carry half in the carriage, though Jermayah seemed confident it would be enough. “Get the shock of their lives when she starts to sing,” he said, slapping an affectionate hand on the weapon’s barrels. Arberus’s military persona re-emerged with a vengeance and he was soon ordering the defenders to fill additional sandbags with which to shield their position. None of the conscripts seemed willing to voice an objection. If anything, many seemed relieved to hear an authoritative and competent voice, albeit one with a peculiar accent.
