by Anthony Ryan
“What you believe is a matter for you,” Lizanne replied, sinking wearily into the chair behind Madame’s vacant desk. She was barely an hour from her hospital bed, Mrs. Torcreek having released her only after a full day’s rest. The makeshift hospital that now crowded the parks of Colonial Town seemed to have become a personal fiefdom for the Contractor’s wife, a measure of the respect in which her family was held and a reflection of the woman’s formidable organisational talents. Doctors and nurses alike deferred to her in most things and the many wounded soldiers and townsfolk regarded her with a deep affection. Consequently, she had little trouble in forcing what was left of Carvenport’s senior management to wait before allowing Lizanne to be questioned.
“You presume a great deal,” the commander went on, casting a pointed glance at the chair.
“I just need a place to sit.” Lizanne reclined, settling into the leather padding. It was cool against her neck, much of her hair having been shorn away so that she now sported a ragged bob that did little to enhance her appearance, as did the partially laundered overalls she wore. Her education had been rich in lessons on the value of proper attire and personal ablutions but now she found she couldn’t care one whit for such frippery.
The Agent-in-Charge placed a restraining hand on the commander’s arm as he bristled yet further. “Miss Lethridge,” she said in a gentle tone, offering what Lizanne assumed to be an uncharacteristic smile. “You have an overdue report to make, if you recall.”
You’ve been out of the field too long, Lizanne deduced, noting the ill-fitting expression of interested concern on the woman’s face. “I made my report to Madame Bondersil on arrival,” she said. “The fact that she failed to pass it on is telling, wouldn’t you say? As is the fact that since my return to this continent I haven’t set eyes on you until now.”
The woman stood a little straighter, though Lizanne heard the barely suppressed quaver in her voice as she replied, “Madame was given full authority by the Board. Any unfortunate actions on her part were performed without my knowledge . . .”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lizanne interrupted, waving a weary and dismissive hand. “Don’t you understand? None of this matters now. You have seen what transpired outside the harbour, I assume? And, I’m given to understand, a similar calamity has befallen the Corvantine forces beyond our walls. Our time on this continent is coming to a swift end. Its former owner is keen to reclaim possession and evict the current tenants.”
“How could you know that?” Stavemoor demanded. “Certainly recent occurrences have been . . . dramatic and very strange. But we still hold a strong position. And have plentiful supplies.”
Lizanne’s eyes drifted to the solargraph. It sat on the desk where Arberus had placed it before being escorted from the room, gears and cogs gleaming in the dim light offered by this subterranean refuge. What were you trying to tell us? she asked the Mad Artisan’s ghost, the drake memory Clay had shared with her at the forefront of her mind. How to find it? Or how to kill it?
“Can you put a roof over this city?” she asked the Commander. “Because that alone might save us. The mole will keep the Blues out, the walls the Greens. But what about the Reds and the Blacks?”
“We are not defenceless.” Stavemoor’s tone belied his words and Lizanne was appalled to see tears shining in his eyes.
“You have family here, sir?” she asked him.
He took a moment to compose himself before replying, blinking and allowing tears to flow into his whiskers. “My daughter, and two grandsons.”
“I also have family,” she said, Tekela’s face looming large in her head, along with Jermayah’s and, she was surprised to find, that of Major Arberus. She looked at the Agent-in-Charge, finding her in a barely more controlled state than the commander. A realisation came to her as she took in the full measure of their desperation. They haven’t come for answers, but guidance. Madame had exercised control over appointments here for years, and apparently stacked the deck with those she knew would never challenge her.
“I have some suggestions,” Lizanne said, leaning forward and clasping her hands together on the desk. “If you would care to listen.”
—
She toured the walls with the gaggle of managers in tow, finding the trenches all abandoned now. “Ordered everyone back to the walls once it became clear what was happening to the enemy,” Stavemoor explained. “Keeping out drakes is what they were originally built for, after all.”
Lizanne lifted her gaze from the empty trenches to the tree-line and jungle beyond, except much of the jungle seemed to have disappeared. Great swathes were burned to ash and others little more than blackened stumps. The devastation covered at least two square miles and amidst it all the Corvantine dead lay in mounds. Apparently they had clustered together in desperation, only to be surrounded by the swarming Greens and roasted to death.
“Started around the same time as the business at the harbour,” the commander said. “Didn’t know what was happening at first, o’ course. Just a lot of flames leaping up and such. Thought some Corvantine fool had set light to their own ammunition stores. Then came the screams and the runners, hundreds of them streaming towards us. Assumed it was another attack, as anyone would have done. We must’ve cut down about half before we realised they were begging for help. Got about three hundred under guard now. That Corvantine traitor questioned them. Seems the drakes started attacking their perimeter without warning. Great hordes of Greens, plus a Red or two.”
“But they haven’t come for us,” Lizanne said, still peering at the ruined jungle. “Yet.”
“A Red came flying over this morning. Didn’t get low enough for a shot though.”
Lizanne turned and scanned the expanse of Carvenport from end to end. Her gaze roamed over the residential districts damaged by the Corvantine bombardment, the densely packed ships in the harbour, and the untouched majesty of Company Square where the various corporate headquarters still stood tall, Ironship House tallest of all. Can you put a roof over this city . . . ?
“How many Growlers do we have in total?” she asked the commander.
“Fifty or so, but ammunition is down to one-third what it was when the siege began.”
“I would suggest,” she said, choosing to phrase this carefully, “putting half on the roofs in Company square, reinforced by Mr. Tollermine’s Thumper. The rest will be placed on the walls along with every surviving Contractor, since they know best how to deal with Drakes. Mr. Tollermine, in concert with every other artisan and able pair of hands in this city, should be put to work manufacturing more Thumpers and requisite ammunition.”
“You believe we should try to hold them off?” Stavemoor asked.
“For now at least.” She nodded at the harbour. “Taking ship and trying to fight our way through a sea full of enraged Blues is not an inviting prospect, even if we could fit every soul in Carvenport into those vessels.”
“Actually, miss,” the Manager of Accounts spoke up, a corpulent fellow with an unnaturally dark moustache and a shiny bald pate that shimmered as the sun caught the sweat beading his skin. “I have calculated that, if properly organised, the merchant and Protectorate vessels currently at anchor could carry two-thirds of our population.”
Two-thirds. Meaning we would have to choose which third would be left behind. “A measure to be explored only in dire necessity,” Lizanne said, forgetting the pretence of deference for the moment. She was gratified to see the man’s reluctant nod, and the lack of objection from his colleagues. Her short journey to the walls had engendered a peculiar realisation that partly explained the managers’ acceptance of her authority. It appeared her intervention against the Blood Cadre had done much to enhance her standing. It was there in the grave nods of respect from Contractor and soldier alike, in the shouted thanks and the name they murmured as she passed by. Of course, few, if any, even knew her true name. Instead they had
crafted a new one; “Miss Blood.”
“Has there been any further communication from the Board?” she asked, turning back to Commander Stavemoor.
“This morning,” he said. “Recent developments have clearly given them much to think on. But they did report the Protectorate Main Battle Fleet continues to muster off Feros and will be at full strength within seven days. An expeditionary force of two full divisions is also being organised, though now it appears they’ll be fighting drakes rather than Corvantines.”
Seven days to muster the fleet, another three weeks to sail here, assuming they make it through the Strait and any Blues that might be waiting. “So,” she said, imbuing her tone with a less-than-sincere note of optimism. “All we need do is hold out for another month.”
There was no agreement on their faces, just numb acceptance shot through with a twitch of suppressed panic. This would have been the core of your new enterprise? she wondered, thinking of Madame’s surety in those final moments on the mole and wondering if ambition, the most cherished trait in this corporate world of theirs, wasn’t itself just another form of madness.
“Perhaps,” she said, pointing them towards the city, “we should get to work?”
—
“It’s not enough,” she told Jermayah as he laboured at the work-bench. At her insistence his tools and equipment had been shifted to a large warehouse near the docks where all the city’s artisan class had been gathered to work under his guidance.
“Enough or not,” Jermayah grunted, tightening a bolt on a part-completed Thumper breech. “You asked how many we can make in a week, and ten is the answer. That’s if you want them to have any shells to fire.”
“If it’s a question of labour, I can draft in more hands,” she said.
“Unskilled hands.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at the two hundred or so artisans labouring in the warehouse. “It’s all I can do to get this lot to understand the basic mechanics of the thing.” He sighed, seeing her expression. “More hands would help with the ammo count. And the rate of Thumper production will increase once they’ve gotten used to the techniques. And we could use more Blood-blessed to shift the raw materials around. You should have thirty by the end of the second week.”
She moved closer, speaking in an earnest whisper. “I have serious doubts we’ll last that long. Please Jermayah. Anything you can do . . .”
He sighed again and she saw how tired he was, his sagging features and too-bright eyes speaking of an over-indulgence in Green. She would have dearly loved to order him to sleep, but dare not with so much depending on his expertise. “It’ll mean stopping production for a day to reorganise,” he warned. “Make this place a proper manufactory, so components are made separately then assembled.”
“But if it works?” she prompted.
“Twenty Thumpers by the end of the week.” He shrugged. “Maybe. The artisans won’t like it though, turning them into piece-workers.”
“I doubt they’ll like the prospect of Blacks and Reds burning the city down around them either. Do whatever you need to do. I’ll have Commander Stavemoor allocate a company to this place. For security purposes, of course. But don’t feel shy about employing their services if the grumbling gets out of hand.”
He nodded then allowed his gaze to drift to Tekela. Lizanne had pressed her into service as an assistant and she followed her everywhere with note-book in hand and a large canvas bag over her shoulder. “Take it no-one else has looked at it?” Jermayah asked, nodding at the tell-tale bulge in the bag.
“No,” Lizanne replied. “And no-one will until we have time for a proper study.”
“I trust you won’t forget me when that time comes.” He gave a wistful grin. “Most wondrous bit of engineering I ever saw.”
—
“He showed me before he died,” the Corvantine woman said in the kind of flowing Eutherian spoken only by those born to the noble class, albeit choked with emotion. She was probably quite a beauty under the grime and soot that covered her face and matted her hair. She’s not Cadre, Lizanne had decided almost instantly, taking in the woman’s impractical attire of pleated riding skirt and intricately embroidered bodice. Whatever her station or prior responsibilities, the woman remained the only Corvantine Blood-blessed taken alive. Arberus had found her amongst the subdued mass of prisoners when a vial of product slipped from her sleeve during interrogation. He had brought her to the basement office where Lizanne allowed a short trance communication with Morsvale, the results of which were not encouraging.
“It was burning,” the woman went on. “The slums atop the sea-wall went first, Blues rising up to torch them from end to end. Then a mass of Reds came screaming out of the sky. He . . .” The woman managed to stifle a sob. “It was happening around him when he tranced with me . . . He could have run but he stayed and tranced at the scheduled time. I felt him burn . . .” Her composure failed and she began to weep, huddling into herself and appearing very young. Lizanne permitted her a few minutes before asking another question.
“What is your name? I understand you refused to give it to Major Arberus.”
The woman wiped her eyes and breathed deeply, some vestige of a no-doubt-customary poise returning as she straightened in her seat. “Electress Dorice Vol Arramyl.”
Electress. The third-highest rank in the Imperial hierarchy. Noble blood indeed. “What are you if you’re not Cadre?” Lizanne asked.
“I am . . . was second cousin by marriage to Grand Marshal Morradin. He asked me to accompany him on this expedition, so as to provide a secure line of communication with Morsvale and the Imperial Command.”
“Don’t the Cadre normally provide such services?”
“The Grand Marshal had little regard for the Cadre. Also, some recent failure of theirs in Morsvale had made him very angry, and somewhat mistrustful. Besides, I was keen to witness his victory.” A faint, grim amusement ghosted across her face. “I thought it might prove a novel and diverting adventure.”
“You can trance to the Imperial Command?” Arberus asked her.
The woman stiffened, her voice taking on an icy tone as she addressed her reply to Lizanne. “As a prisoner of war, must I suffer the indignity of being questioned by a traitor?”
Lizanne leaned closer to her, smiling sweetly, voice soft. “My dear Electress, you will suffer whatever indignity I heap upon your dainty shoulders and ask for more, or I’ll drop you outside the walls and you can go and find your second cousin. Answer the major’s question.”
The woman blanched a little but managed to retain her composure, replying in a clipped voice, “The Blood Imperial and I have a trance connection, yes.”
The Blood Imperial. Lizanne drew back a little, trying to disguise her surprise. The Blood Imperial was the most highly placed Blood-blessed in the empire, answering only to the Emperor himself. At any other time capturing this woman would have outshone all other achievements in Lizanne’s career, but now she was just another fearful soul desperate for protection.
“When is your next scheduled communication with the Blood Imperial?” Lizanne asked.
The Electress glanced at the clock on Madame’s former desk. “In a little over four hours. I realise I am at your mercy, and have already besmirched my honour in speaking so plainly. But I beg you, do not force me into a traitor’s role.” Her hands reached for Lizanne’s, soft fluttering fingers in torn lace gloves. “I beseech you . . .”
“Oh shut up,” Lizanne snapped. “And stop mewling so, it’s extremely aggravating.”
She moved behind the desk and took a seat, reaching for pen and paper. “I will give you a message to memorise,” she told the Electress as she wrote in Eutherian. “You will relate it to the Blood Imperial word for word. You will also show him everything you have seen during your diverting adventure and request that he convey it all to the Emperor with utmost urgency.” She finished writ
ing and blotted the ink dry before tossing the page across the desk to the Electress. “Read it. I’m sure you’ll find it contains nothing that would further besmirch your honour. Major Arberus will provide a vial of Blue at the allotted time. When it’s done, you can make yourself useful in our new manufactory. They need help shifting the steel ingots from the store to the smelter.”
—
“What do you expect this to achieve?” Arberus asked, smoke blossoming as he lit a cigarillo then proffered the case. Realising she hadn’t had a smoke in several weeks Lizanne took one, leaning close as he shared the flame from his match, then savouring the burn of Dalcian leaf on her tongue.
“Probably nothing,” she said, groaning a little as the smoke rushed from her mouth into the cool night air. They had left the Electress under guard in the office and repaired to the walls where a large number of soldiers and Contractors stared out at the ashes in tense expectation. “At the very least,” she went on, taking another deep draw from the cigarillo, “it might persuade the Emperor that his cherished war will be best postponed for the foreseeable future.”
“She says she saw Morradin fall,” he said, his voice possessed of a reflective tone rather than the satisfaction she expected. “Went down fighting, as you’d expect. Blazing away with a revolver as the Greens swarmed all around. Perhaps one day the Emperor will have a picture painted to commemorate such a heroic end.”
Lizanne’s gaze tracked over the copious Corvantine dead still littering the ground beyond the trenches. “No such honours for them, I expect.”
“Of course not. Why waste paint on a mass of dead commoners?” He rested his forearms on the parapet, face grim as he looked down on the bodies of his countrymen. “How many of them even understood what they were dying for, I wonder? Come all this way to face slaughter in pursuit of profit, and it’s all pointless anyway.”
