The Legion of Flame

by Anthony Ryan

  “Carvenport was overrun by a combined force of drakes and Spoiled over a month ago,” he told them, pausing to allow the shock of his words to sink in. “However, most of the population was successfully evacuated to Feros. Make a list of any loved ones and pass it to my first officer. Our Blood-blessed will trance with his contact in Feros to ascertain if they are amongst the evacuees.”

  “Hadlock?” one of the other bondsmen asked, face ashen and eyes pleading. “My wife . . .” He trailed off, seeing Hilemore’s expression.

  “I’m sorry,” Hilemore told him. “Hadlock is gone. There were no survivors.”

  He turned to Major Ozpike as his men sagged into disconsolate disorder, the widower weeping openly as his comrades made lacklustre efforts to comfort him. “I believe you intended to take me to your Comptroller?”

  • • •

  “This was supposed to be my retirement posting,” Ozpike muttered as he led Hilemore up the steps to the Eastern Conglomerate Headquarters, a spindly three-storey structure that must have dated back to the earliest days of the port’s existence. “Fifteen years in the Ironship Protectorate and the pension wasn’t enough to keep the wife in her accustomed style. You a married man, Captain?”

  For the first time in weeks Lewella’s face sprang into Hilemore’s head, as lovely and fascinating as ever. It is with a heavy heart I write these words . . . “No,” he replied. Nor will I ever be.

  “Good for you, sir,” Ozpike huffed as they came to the door and made their way inside. “Take my advice and stay that way. After long consideration on the matter, I have concluded that a military career and marriage are fundamentally incompatible.”

  The Comptroller’s office was on the top floor of the building, necessitating a climb up several flights of rather rickety stairs. The Comptroller proved to be a Dalcian woman of perhaps forty years in age, possessed of a high-cheekboned, austere attractiveness accentuated by her plain business suit and severely-tied-back hair. “Madame Hakugen,” Major Ozpike greeted her with a short bow. “I present Captain Hilemore of the IPV Viable Opportunity.”

  Hilemore stepped forward to offer a bow of his own; Dalcians were notorious for their attachment to formality. He hesitated in mid-bow upon noticing that there was a fourth occupant in the room, an athletic young man in the uniform of the Corvantine Marines. His gloved hand rested on the hilt of a sword but he wore no revolver. The man’s face remained rigidly expressionless as he offered Hilemore a very slight nod.

  “Captain,” Madame Hakugen greeted him in perfect Mandinorian. “Welcome to Lossermark.”

  “Thank you, madam,” Hilemore replied, tearing his gaze from the Corvantine. “It seems you and I have a great deal to discuss.”

  “Yes.” She glanced at the Corvantine. “Forgive my rudeness. Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Myratis Lek Sigoral, acting captain of the INS Superior.”

  “Lieutenant,” Hilemore said with a stiff nod, memories of the Strait crowding his mind.

  “Captain,” the Corvantine replied in heavily accented Mandinorian, Hilemore noting the stitched scar tracing across his forehead. The scar did much to enhance the man’s authority but Hilemore realised he couldn’t be more than a year or two older than Mr. Talmant. Just a boy, yet he commands a cruiser. What tribulations brought them here, I wonder?

  “I had hoped you would see fit to bring your Blood-blessed,” Madame Hakugen said. “As per our agreement.”

  “I thought it appropriate to discuss terms first,” Hilemore replied. “Though I must confess my surprise that a port of this size doesn’t contain at least one Blood-blessed.”

  “We had two, until recently.” A thin line appeared in her brow. “Our long-serving contract agent sadly expired of a heart attack during a Blue-trance with our Hadlock office. Whatever he witnessed in his final trance appears to have been too much for him. His colleague, a less experienced and even less diligent character, tried to re-establish communication, to no avail. Trances with other Conglomerate offices revealed only ignorance of unfolding events. Sadly our sole remaining Blood-blessed then decided to smuggle himself aboard an outgoing vessel, one of the last to leave port actually, the ECT Endeavour. We know they were intending to make for Dalcian waters. I had hoped you might have news of them.”

  “I do,” Hilemore replied, recalling the grisly contents of the life-boat they found shortly before docking at Hadlock. “She didn’t make it.”

  “A pity.” Madame Hakugen gave a regretful grimace. “The captain was my cousin.” She permitted herself a small sigh before quickly regaining her composure. “And Hadlock?”

  Hilemore related the destruction of Hadlock before going on to describe the loss of both Morsvale and Carvenport.

  “It appears your war has been superseded by more pressing matters, gentlemen,” Madame Hakugen observed when he had finished, inclining her head at Lieutenant Sigoral.

  The marine maintained his expressionless visage and confined his reply to a short, “Indeed, madam.”

  Hilemore decided it was time to get what he came for. “Our Blood-blessed will be at your disposal for the duration of our stay, madam,” he said. “However, in return we will require product, all the Red you can spare. Also, coal and provisions sufficient for a lengthy voyage.”

  “A hefty price, Captain.”

  “Necessitated by the importance of our mission.”

  “The details of which you are not at liberty to share, no doubt.”

  “I compliment you on your insight, madam.”

  She barely acknowledged the praise, lapsing into silence, the line once again reappearing in her forehead.

  “Might I enquire,” Hilemore began as the silence stretched. “If this port has suffered any attacks, as yet?”

  Madame Hakugen nodded to Major Ozpike, who reported, “Not directly, but the first Blue-hunters failed to return at their allotted time six weeks ago. Contractor companies stopped arriving at the north wall with product to sell. A few days ago just one man came stumbling out of the hills, a Headhunter, half-mad and raving. It took hours of coaxing to get the tale out of him. All of his company wiped out by Spoiled and Greens. Would’ve liked to get more information from him but he hung himself shortly after, not before assuring us we were about to die. You can imagine the effect this has all had on the people. You saw my men and they’re the hardiest souls in this port. The air is thick with fear.”

  Well it might be. Hilemore fought down a spasm of guilt. His best advice for these people was to arm their ships with every gun they possessed, cram as many people aboard as could be carried and sail for Varestian waters. Even then he entertained serious doubts they would escape the attentions of marauding Blues. But what chance of securing his supplies and product in the midst of a panicked evacuation?

  “I wish I had better news,” he said instead. “Hopefully the trance-communication will provide sound orders from your home office, once I have your agreement to our offer . . .”

  • • •

  They provided ten vials of Red, five Green and two Black, a fifty percent down payment on the final amount dependent on Mr. Torcreek performing to expectations. Surprisingly, Madame Hakugen had been more parsimonious with the other supplies, limiting the amount of food he could purchase and demanding a near-extortionate price for the iron plate needed for Chief Bozware’s modifications. By the time the contract was agreed he had been obliged to promise half the contents of the Viable’s safe.

  “I suspect the people of this port will shortly have need of every scrap of food and fuel,” she stated. “And my contract stipulates that every opportunity to enhance company profits is to be exploited to the full. I see no reason to abandon the values of the corporate world, even in such alarming times.”

  Hilemore made his way back to the port under escort, the two guards steering him through little-used alleyways to avoid encounters with townsfolk desperate for news.
He didn’t relish the impending conversation with Clay, unsure of how he would react to an abrupt return to contracted status. For all Hilemore knew he might simply look on this as something else that didn’t matter. Perhaps he thinks this ship will make it to the ice-cap under the power of destiny alone. It occurred to him that the supposed gift contained in the White’s blood was in fact the cruelest curse. To have the sensation of discovery taken away, banishing curiosity or anticipation, seemed an awful fate.

  He found the crew hard at work on return to the Viable, a dozen or so hanging from ropes to replenish the paint on the hull whilst others scrubbed the deck or polished the fittings. “Glad to see you haven’t left them idle, Number One,” he told Steelfine on ascending the gang-plank. “But the paint will be wasted. Chief Bozware needs to make modifications to the hull.”

  “Captain’s orders, sir,” Steelfine replied, voice coloured by a poorly suppressed tone of extreme reluctance.

  “Captain . . . ?” Hilemore began, then trailed off as understanding dawned.

  “He woke up an hour ago,” Steelfine muttered before stiffening to attention. “Lieutenant Hilemore, Captain Trumane has ordered you be relieved of all duties immediately. I am to escort you to his cabin.” He hesitated then held out his meaty hand. “I require your sword and side-arm, sir.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Lizanne

  “An impressive sight, isn’t it?”

  Lizanne’s gaze swept over the broad spectacle of Feros harbour. The sky was cloudless today and the great mass of ships seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, particularly the warships with their polished guns and scrubbed decks. The bulk of the Protectorate High Seas Fleet was now at anchor here: battleships, cruisers, frigates and gunboats initially summoned from their various ports to do battle with the Corvantine Navy. Now, of course, they faced a much more formidable enemy.

  “It’s a great many ships,” Lizanne replied to Taddeus Bloskin. “But it won’t be enough.”

  The Director of Exceptional Initiatives settled his bulk on one of the benches arrayed alongside the old war memorial and began his endless ritual of reigniting his pipe. At his invitation she had followed him here to Signaller’s Mount, the highest point on the southern shore of this island. The war memorial rose above them to a height of eighty feet, an example of the ostentatious masonry typical of the late Mandinorian Empire with its numerous relief carvings and superfluous filigree, the great column topped by a statue of Lord Admiral Fallmoor in overly dramatic pose. The Liberator of the Tyrell Islands stood in straight-backed and stern resolve, sword raised above his head as he pointed out to sea. The impression of martial heroism was spoilt somewhat by the fact that his finger had dropped off at some point in the one hundred and twenty years since the monument’s construction. The fact that no one had bothered to replace that missing finger summed up the regard with which the corporate world held the trappings of the empire it had displaced.

  “Really?” Bloskin asked as he puffed. “Over a hundred ships and forty thousand soldiers, the cream of the Protectorate, armed with ever more of your infernal modern guns. You really think a rabble of Spoiled and drakes could stand against such a force?”

  “Yes. And, since the fleet remains in port, apparently so do the Board.”

  “In fact the Board is divided on the issue.”

  Bloskin flicked a spent match away and reclined on the bench. His tone was one of affable conversation rather than that of a Board member committing the heinous act of revealing their private deliberations. “Admiral Heapmire continues to lobby hard for an immediate invasion, supported by most of the Sea Board despite the fate of their three frigates. Madame Dolspeake is of more cautious mind, wishing to seek alliance with the other corporations and formulate a joint strategy before embarking on any military adventures.”

  “And your thinking, Director?”

  “I think,” Bloskin replied with a faint smile, “it is a great shame the Mad Artisan’s device was lost in the evacuation. Who can say what more we might have learned from it?”

  Lizanne suppressed a sigh. Bloskin evidently knew exactly where the device currently resided or he wouldn’t have raised it. Also, the fact that he had made no efforts to recover it indicated he was content for it to remain under her father’s studious care. However, people in their profession did enjoy their games. “It was certainly a regrettable loss,” she said, deciding to indulge him.

  “Especially after the progress made by Mr. Tollermine in deciphering its mysteries. Still, wasted are the tears of those who weep over spilled wine. Just pour yourself another, I always say.”

  Lizanne said nothing. Now they were alone her earlier sense of vulnerability was slowly morphing into a simmering anger. Evidently, she was out of practice in masking such things for he frowned upon reading her expression. “I know you have questions for me,” he said. “Please do not feel constrained. We are no longer manager and employee, after all. Just two former colleagues enjoying the view.”

  “Madame Bondersil,” she said. “Did you know?”

  His face bunched a little in irritation at an unwelcome topic and he took a long drag on his pipe before replying. “You wonder how her unfortunate choices could have evaded my notice.”

  “I do.”

  “Then I regret to inform you that your estimation of my abilities is overly generous.” He gave a small grunt as she continued to stare. “There were . . . certain irregularities,” he admitted after a short but uncomfortable silence. “Small things, really. Slight inconsistencies in reported expenses, a few unexplained absences. I’ll admit I had concluded she was probably up to something, assuming her to be engaged in some intrigue or other aimed at furthering her status and finally ascending to the Board. Not an uncommon pursuit for a senior manager. Still, in light of the ever-increasing problems in maintaining a steady supply of quality product, it was . . . concerning.”

  “And yet you still approved her request for my deployment.”

  “It seemed likely that whatever scheme she had hatched was approaching its final phase, especially if it required your particular talents. I suspected she would seek to exploit the secrets contained in the Corvantine device, keeping them to herself whilst she enhanced her position. Having a living, breathing White in her grasp would have meant swift ascension to the Board. Of course, I had no notion of the true scale or nature of her deception.”

  “And I was to be the agent of discovery.”

  “To find a queen you have to break apart the hive. You have always been something of a catalyst, my dear. Wherever in the world I send you, noteworthy events are sure to follow. Though none as yet so noteworthy as the loss of Arradsia.”

  “It would have happened in any case.”

  Bloskin gave a non-committal shrug and once again retrieved the bound bundle of papers from his jacket, placing it on the bench. “You haven’t yet asked to see your new contract.”

  Lizanne glanced at the bundle, making no move to pick it up. “Why do you imagine I want one?”

  “Curiosity,” he said, leaning towards her and dropping his voice into an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper. “There’s more than just a contract in there, Lizanne. Don’t you want to see?”

  “Not if the act of seeing it places me in danger.”

  He reclined and turned his gaze towards the sea. “It seems so peaceful today. The sea becalmed beneath a summer sun. But it does make me consider that one day we may awake and find something very unwelcome on the horizon. I think you and I both know that very soon there could no longer be anywhere in this world free of danger.”

  He kept his gaze on the sea as she stepped closer, retrieving the papers and untying the ribbon that bound them. The first few pages were a standard employment contract amended with the very specialised additional clauses unique to those recruited into Exceptional Initiatives. Also, she noted, a doubling in salary and enhanced allotments for nom
inated beneficiaries in the event of her death. Beyond the contract, however, was something else entirely. A sketch, or more accurately, a design rendered in clean precise lines on a piece of cheap parchment. It showed some form of bulbous contraption, rather like an elongated balloon, with several attachments that resembled the Corvantine’s screw propulsion system she had first glimpsed beneath the waters of Morsvale harbour. But this was no ship, as evidenced by the Eutherian letters inscribed along the sketch’s edges. The words were formed with florid lettering and an archaic sentence structure, though she had little trouble translating it: Rapid and easily navigable passage through the very air lies within our grasp. There was more, mainly consisting of a list of dimensions and projected velocities, plus a brief calculation entitled: Projected atmospheric resistance relative to forward velocity.

  Lizanne detected a certain similarity in the lettering, stirring recollections of the scraps she had seen in Burgrave Artonin’s cache of documents.

  “Yes,” Bloskin said softly. “It is indeed the Mad Artisan’s handwriting.”

  Lizanne held the parchment up to the light. It was thick and coarse but lacked the speckling or stiffness of truly aged paper. “This is too recent to be genuine,” she said. “A copy of one of his designs, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps. However, it has been examined by the finest graphologists and scholars, discreetly of course, and they all agree this is either the work of the Artisan himself or that of someone who can mimic his hand with absolute precision. Furthermore”—he tapped a yellow-stained finger to the calculation—“this particular formula was previously unknown to science prior to the discovery of this document. It has been thoroughly checked by experimentalists in the Research Division and it works.”

  Lizanne’s gaze roamed the design again. “This can’t be more than five years old.”

  “Our experts estimate three.”

  “He died centuries ago.”

  “Indeed he did, and yet here we have evidence his genius lives on, as real as you or I.” A smile returned to Bloskin’s lips and Lizanne could have sworn she heard the hard snap of a trap closing on her wrist. “Would you like to know where we got it?”