by Anthony Ryan
On nearing the forward-facing section of deck she became distracted by the sight of a Growler crew struggling to free the loading mechanism of a jammed cartridge. Deciding to offer some words of advice she started forward when two strong hands reached out from the hatchway behind. One clamped onto her mouth, the other encircled her neck to drag her from sight. Lizanne didn’t bother to struggle, instead remaining limp until the assailant revealed his intentions.
“Now then,” a voice breathed in her ear. “What’s a tasty morsel like you doing wandering about above decks of a night?”
Lizanne bit the hand over her mouth, her captor withdrawing it with a soft curse. “Your accent is abysmal,” she told Arberus.
“Seems good enough to fool my shipmates,” he muttered, inspecting the bite mark on his hand. Lizanne looked him over, finding his uniform a little too neat for a recently press-ganged ordinary seaman.
“How did you get up here?” she asked. “Bloskin said you’d be assigned to the lowest deck.”
“Indeed I was. Been swinging buckets of bilge-water all day. Finding my way here wasn’t overly difficult. It’s always the same with military folk, move with a purpose and they tend to leave you alone.” He flexed his hand, wincing. “Quite the powerful bite you have.”
“Stop pouting, I didn’t break the skin.” She sighed and stepped closer, raising a hand to stroke his chin, speaking softly. “This is foolish. We can’t be seen together, not if you’re going to be of any use in Corvus.”
“I wanted to see you,” he said with a shrug, hands encircling her waist. “Where exactly is your cabin?”
“Oh no.” She put a hand on his chest and gently pushed herself away, not without some reluctance. “Our relationship will remain strictly professional for the duration of this mission. I need to . . . re-acclimatise myself to this role.”
“It could take weeks to find the Artisan,” he said. “If the bugger actually exists.”
“I was thinking more in terms of months, actually.” She stood back and pointed an imperious finger at a wrought-iron gangway descending into the lower decks. “Now be off with you, and don’t let me catch you pestering your betters again.”
He huffed out a small laugh and began to climb down, pausing before his head disappeared from view, face completely serious now. “You know I still think this whole enterprise is insane.”
“We’re living in an insane world.” She extended a foot and tapped the toe of her shoe onto his head. “Now get out of my sight, you unkempt bilge rat you.”
CHAPTER 5
Hilemore
“Collusion with the notorious pirate Zenida Okanas. Unauthorised pardoning of said pirate. Gross misuse of Protectorate equipment and personnel. Failure to adhere to standing orders in time of war. Allowing Syndicate interest to be usurped by informal contract with independent civilians spouting fairy stories.” Captain Trumane’s voice took on an increasing tremble as he spoke, his red-rimmed eyes seeming to glow with fury in the pale, hollow-cheeked mask of his face. He paused, staring up at Hilemore from behind his desk, a much-diminished version of the man who had greeted him only a few months before. Though never a physically imposing presence the captain had nevertheless possessed an energetic, if frequently petty air. Now the collar of his tunic hung loosely around a reedy neck and his hands shook so badly he was obliged to keep them clasped together on the desk. His faculty for pettiness, however, seemed as strong as ever.
“Please, Lieutenant,” he said, baring his yellowed teeth in something that might have been intended as a smile but in fact appeared more of a snarl. “Feel at liberty to correct me if I have omitted anything.”
“You were incapacitated, Captain,” Hilemore replied, standing at attention and keeping his voice as mild as possible. “The fleet had been destroyed in the Strait. Difficult choices had to be made.”
“There’s a difference between a hard command decision and outright betrayal of Syndicate interests . . .” Trumane’s tirade was interrupted by a bout of coughing, his reduced form convulsed by a series of deep, wracking heaves.
“Are you alright, sir?” Hilemore asked, stepping forward. “I can send for Dr. Weygrand . . .”
“Stay where you are!”
Trumane took a kerchief from his pocket and wiped at the pinkish moisture on his lips. “Rest assured, Lieutenant,” he rasped after a short period of heavy breaths. “If we were in a Syndicate port I would file formal charges obliging you to account for your actions in a court martial. As it is, all I can do is demote you to third mate pending future enquiries by the Sea Board. My first order to you is to get that rag-bag bunch of Contractors off my ship. And”—he levelled a shaking finger at Hilemore—“you can forget any lunatic notions of sailing south. Once reprovisioned, the Viable will sail for Feros.”
Hilemore clenched his teeth together to cage the unwise words churning in his thumping chest. “Captain Okanas,” he managed after a moment, the words clipped and precisely controlled. “Might I enquire as to her status?”
“Since she seems to be the only means of firing the blood-burner, I have little choice but to honour your contract with her.”
“She will not wish to sail for Feros.”
“She’ll do as she’s told or she and her whelp can stay here and take their chances. We’ll sail north on auxiliary power only, if necessary. Now get out.”
• • •
“He simply doesn’t believe it,” Hilemore said.
Zenida Okanas glanced back at the Viable where a work party of sailors were carrying the newly arrived supplies aboard under Steelfine’s supervision. The captain had made it clear that, once fully loaded, she would depart with the evening tide. “Then he’ll need to be made to,” she said. “I will not take my daughter anywhere near Feros.”
“He didn’t see what we saw,” Hilemore pointed out. “He awoke to a changed world and doesn’t yet know it.”
“When the Blues rip his ship apart, he’ll know it quickly enough.”
“It’s not just the Blues.” Hilemore shot a glance at Clay, standing near by alongside his uncle. The rest of the Longrifles waited a short distance along the wharf, packs heavy with their belongings and the rations Hilemore had quite illegally provided from the ship’s stores. “Mr. Torcreek’s story proved too outlandish for him to accept.”
“So you’re just gonna let him leave us here?” Braddon asked.
“He’s the captain of my ship,” Hilemore said, a certain heat creeping into his voice. “As appointed by the Sea Board and confirmed fit for command by the ship’s doctor. My duty is clear.”
“Balls to your duty,” Clay said. “We got us a place to be and it’s far from here.” He turned and nodded towards the ship where an unusually vocal Steelfine harried the work party to greater efforts. “Seems to me there’s plenty in your crew ain’t too happy he woke up. The Islander in particular.”
“Mr. Steelfine knows his duty as well as I,” Hilemore snapped. “And I’ll thank you not to make mention of such dishonourable allusions in future.”
“Your captain don’t believe it,” Braddon said, adopting a more conciliatory tone than his nephew. “But you do, Mr. Hilemore. You really want to risk us not making our destination due to the jealous arrogance of a sick man? I see it if you don’t. This ain’t about broken regulations or deals with pirates. He knows when the only Protectorate ship to survive the Strait makes it to Feros, the laurels won’t be his. Lest he can find some way to discredit you, that is.”
Hilemore fell silent, turning away to wander to the quay’s edge. Mutiny will never be forgiven, he knew. Regardless of the justification. They’ll hang me and any who join me. He closed his eyes as memories of recent weeks crowded in: the destruction of the INS Imperial, the great northward migration of Blues, the bodies littering the ruins of Hadlock. If we’re gonna save the world . . .
“The crew won’t be
with me,” he sighed eventually, voice barely above a mutter. “Most just want to get back to the safety of a familiar port, however illusory that safety might be. In truth, it was my intention to ask for volunteers when it came time to sail south. I thought perhaps half might step forward, now not even that. Taking a ship is one thing, sailing her short-handed is another. Then there’s the question of Chief Bozware’s modifications. The Viable won’t last a week in southern waters without them.”
Braddon moved to his side, longrifle cradled in his arms as he stared out into the harbour, a thoughtful frown on his brow. “Seems to me there’s more than one warship in this port,” he said. “One that won’t require so large a crew. And I ain’t no sailor, sir, but that looks like a pretty thick hull to me.”
Hilemore followed his gaze, straightening as his eyes lit on the sleek shape of the INS Superior. The Contractor captain was right about her hull, built strong enough to withstand the forces unleashed by driving through the heavy seas of the northern oceans at high speed. Which means she must be a blood-burner.
“Had Preacher and Lori keep watch on her since we got here,” Braddon went on. “They reckon there’s no more than ten sailors aboard. Seems they had a bad time of it up north. Reckon you can muster more than ten men, Mr. Hilemore?”
Hilemore straightened further, clasping his hands behind his back as if a military posture might alleviate the enormity of what he was about to do. “The harbour wall,” he said.
“Best leave that to me,” Clay said. “You’re forgetting we got another ally to call on.”
• • •
“You wanna sail the Chokes, eh?” the sailor spoke in a grating rasp that told of a throat beset by decades of grog and tobacco. His name was Scrimshine and he appeared to be of mixed heritage, the wiry build and high cheekbones speaking of some Dalcian blood, though his blue eyes and accent indicated a North Mandinorian birth. According to Major Ozpike the man was a recently captured smuggler about to embark upon a lengthy sentence in the Lossermark gaol. What made him of interest to Hilemore, however, was his previous service aboard Blue-hunters sailing the southern seas. Hilemore’s attempts to recruit a pilot from amongst the numerous seafarers in port had proven fruitless, mere mention of the southern seas bringing an abrupt end to all interviews. It left them with only one other option. Ozpike had demanded a hefty bribe to allow them access to the inmates, and the promise of yet more once he signed the parole orders in the event they found a suitable candidate.
“Indeed we do,” Hilemore replied. “And then on to the Shelf.”
The sailor’s eyes widened a fraction, though his voice betrayed only a cautious self-interest. “What’s at the Shelf that needs a Protectorate warship to fetch it?”
“Mind your own Seer-damn business,” Clay said. “You want out of this shit-pile or not?”
Clay ignored the warning glare Hilemore gave him, instead matching stares with the smuggler. “I know this brand of fellow of old, Captain,” he said after a moment’s narrow-eyed inspection. “He’s like to cut our throats the moment we clear the harbour. You’d best throw him back.”
“You do that you’ll be sailing to your deaths,” Scrimshine promised. He had been chained to the table, which itself was bolted to the floor of his cell. The iron links rattled on wood as the sailor shifted, fixing his gaze entirely on Hilemore. “This one don’t know shit about the sea, do he, Skipper? But you do. There’s salt in your veins just like me. Ever see the price the Chokes extracts from a foolhardy captain? Ain’t pretty. If the rocks or the bergs don’t rip the hull out from under you, the ice on the rigging might just get thick enough to tip you over. Then there’s the Blues, a’course.”
“The Blues are all up north,” Clay said. “Or didn’t you hear?”
“I heard,” the sailor said, gaze not shifting from Hilemore. “Blue-hunters been scurrying into this dump for weeks now, and they tell a different story. There’s still Blues aplenty down south, Skipper, you can bet a year’s worth of prizes on it. And it’s a dead-on certainty you’ll find Last Look Jack amongst ’em.”
“Who in the Travail is Last Look Jack?” Clay enquired of Hilemore.
“A legendarily monstrous Blue,” he replied. “The dock-side taverns are rich with dire warnings about the great beast and his ravenous appetite for ships and sailors. Though, curiously, no one has ever actually seen him.”
“How’d you think he got his name? They call him Last Look Jack, ’cause you see him once chances are you won’t be seeing nothing again. He was vicious even before the drakes rose against us, now they say he’s got a hunger that can’t be sated.”
“Guess that means you’d rather stay here,” Clay said, turning in his seat to face the door. “I’ll call for the next one . . .”
“Didn’t say that!” Scrimshine spat. “I’d sail the length of the Travail and back to get my carcass clear of this place. Just wanna make sure the good captain is aware of the risks.” He revealed a far-from-complete set of teeth in a strained smile. “And you won’t find a better pilot for the Chokes, Skipper. Sailed ’em for a dozen years or more, and it’s all up here.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “Might forget me old mum’s maiden name, but every course I ever set is still in here.”
“And the Shelf?” Hilemore asked.
“Been there too, not so often, but I can navigate a safe passage there and back.”
“What about farther south? Across the ice.”
The sailor’s chains rattled as he reclined in his seat, a deeper caution creeping into his gaze. “Once. Had a captain a bit touched in the head, convinced there was some old pirate treasure buried south of the Shelf. Never found it and the daft old sod froze to death on the journey back, along with four others.”
At Hilemore’s nod Clay pulled his book of sketches from the pocket of his duster, filled with his inexpert but legible drawings of what he could remember from the vision contained in the White’s blood. He flipped pages until he came to the image of the great spike rising from the ice, placing it in front of the sailor, who peered at it in evident bafflement.
“Guess you never saw this on your travels,” Clay observed.
The sailor gave a despondent groan and shook his head, slumping back in his seat. “Nah. Meaning you got no use for me, right?”
“Right.” Clay retrieved the book and turned to Hilemore. “The major’s got another dozen or so might fit the bill . . .”
“Saw the mountain though,” Scrimshine broke in.
“What mountain?” Hilemore asked him.
“The peak in the background of that scribbling. That’s Mount Reygnar. Named for some old god or other by the first Mandinorians to make it to the Shelf. I only ever saw it at a distance, right enough.”
“But you can guide us there?” Hilemore asked.
“Surely. But truth be told, it don’t take much guiding. Only high ground for miles around. Moor up at Kraghurst Station then keep true on a south-south-west heading for sixty miles, you’ll see it soon enough. That’s the easy part, Skipper.” He gave another gap-toothed smile, this one possessing some real humour. “Hard part is getting anywhere near Kraghurst in the first place. But you got me for that.” He turned his smile on Clay. “Right?”
• • •
“The debt between us is long settled,” Hilemore told Steelfine, watching the Islander cross his thick arms as he lowered his head in stern contemplation. “You should feel no obligation to join me in this.”
They were in the armoury, the thick walls offering protection against prying ears. Steelfine’s bulk took up most of the space, obliging Chief Bozware to squeeze himself into the gap between rifle racks. His agreement had been offered without hesitation. If anything, he seemed a little aggrieved it had taken Hilemore so long to approach him. “We’d be at the bottom of the Strait if not for you, Captain,” he said with a shrug. “Far as I’m concerned, you set th
e course and I’ll make sure we’ll get there.”
Steelfine was another matter. The fortunes of war had seen him rise higher in the ranks than a seaman of his station could normally expect, except after a lifetime of service. Hilemore was asking him to give up a great deal. In fact there was a small corner of Hilemore’s heart that hoped the Islander would march straight to the captain and report his crime. The man had repaid Hilemore several times over for saving his life during that first near-fatal meeting with Zenida, but it appeared some debts were never settled.
“Twelve,” Steelfine said after a long moment’s consideration. “Perhaps fifteen if their mates persuade them. Mr. Talmant and the juniors too, of course.”
Hilemore swallowed a sigh of equal parts relief and regret. He wanted to ask Steelfine if he was sure about his choice but knew it would be taken as a stain on his Island honour.
“Talmant and the other lads aren’t part of this,” Hilemore said. “I’ll not blight their future, assuming they have one.” He turned to the Chief. “You’ll speak to Dr. Weygrand?”
Bozware shook his head. “He won’t come, sir. Not with patients still in need of his care.”
“Very well. We’ll need a short delay to get properly organised. Tell the captain there’s a problem with the engines, something minor but it’ll take until tomorrow to fix.”
“Might be better to sabotage them. Stop him coming after us.”
“No. I’ve no desire to leave this ship marooned here.” He rested a hand on the bulkhead, feeling the thrum of the auxiliary engines turning over as Bozware’s stokers prepared for the impending voyage. Of all the ships he had sailed on he knew he would miss the Viable the most. “She’ll have a hard enough time being left in Trumane’s care as it is.”
He pulled his watch from his tunic, the two men following suit and synchronising the time on his mark. “The operation commences at four hours past midnight, gentlemen. To your tasks, if you please.”
