by Anthony Ryan
“And having done so, just hand him over to you, I assume?”
“Better in my hands than Sefka’s, believe me. She looks upon the drake threat as a minor inconvenience. You and I know better. You do have my firm assurance, however, that whatever useful information he provides will be shared with the Ironship Syndicate.”
He’s probably lying, Lizanne decided, but knew it didn’t really matter since she had no intention of taking the Artisan anywhere but Feros, assuming she could even find him. Everything she had heard of Scorazin told of a seething cesspool of degraded humanity forced to work in the mines beneath the city for scraps of food. However, her career had taken her to many terrible places and none had yet managed to kill her, or thwart her various missions.
“Very well,” she said.
The Blood Imperial’s hair parted as he nodded in satisfaction, revealing eyes, as bright and steady as a youthful soldier’s, bespeaking an intelligence undimmed by age or frailty. “You’ll need this,” he said, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to her. “Can’t go to prison without a crime.”
Lizanne unfolded the document, finding a formal judgement from the Corvus Magistrate with a long list of charges, each one stamped with the word “guilty” in red ink. “Prostitution?” she asked him, raising an eyebrow.
“And extortion. You are an expensive courtesan who unwisely took to blackmailing a client, a senior official in the Imperial Treasury. Tragically, he’ll be taking his own life about an hour from now, leaving a suitably incriminating suicide note. The Corvus Magistrate will deal with the matter in circumspect fashion to avoid embarrassment to the family. I have an escort standing by to take you directly to Scorazin.” His bony hand disappeared into his pocket once more, coming out with a small vial of product. “Once we have established our connection . . .”
He fell silent as Lizanne slowly ripped the magistrate’s judgement in half and let the pieces fall to the floor. “Understand me,” she said in a low and controlled tone, matching his purposeful gaze with her own. “I do not work for you. I will make my own way to Scorazin and have no part of this amateur farce of a cover story. And if you imagine for one second I would ever trance with you, you’re as mad as your Emperor.”
She rose and moved to the door, making it to the top step before the tip of his stick rang loudly on the flagstones. She paused as the harsh grate of his voice, now sounding far from aged, filled the tomb. “And you imagine I will simply let you loose in this empire?”
She turned to face him, fingers poised over the Spider. “You will if you want the Artisan.”
He was just a dim shape in the gloom now, though she could see his pale hands clenching the walking-stick in barely controlled fury. After a moment he calmed, the hands relaxing, though she knew this to be artifice. I do believe this man intends to kill me when I’m done, she thought, taking perverse comfort in the realisation. With one such as he, the choice was either subservience or deadly antipathy, and she preferred the simplicity of the latter.
“As you wish, love,” he said, voice receding into the same uncultured rasp. He got slowly to his feet and hobbled towards her, the anger stripped from his gaze. “But, before you go, do me the favour of settling an old man’s curiosity.”
She put a hand on the door and pushed it slightly ajar, gazing out at the silent tombs. He would have some of his people out there somewhere, all Blood-blessed and apparently riven with a vengeful impulse. She could only hope they wouldn’t act without his explicit instruction. “What is it?” she asked.
“The expedition Madame Bondersil sent in search of the White. I assume one or both of you were in trance communication with their Blood-blessed, the boy, Torcreek was it? My last intelligence on their whereabouts came from an operative in Edinsmouth, shortly before he had his head blown off. Director Bloskin was kind enough to elucidate on their eventual success in discovering the White, but I do wonder what became of them in the aftermath.”
“They were attacked by Spoiled during the journey south from the mountain. My last trance with Mr. Torcreek indicated his companions were all dead and he had suffered a mortal wound.”
“Ah.” She could tell from the way he averted his gaze that he didn’t believe a word of it. “What a pity. One who had actually met the White face-to-face and lived would have been very valuable.”
Hence my desire to keep him very far away from your pestilent influence. “It’s time I left,” she said, pushing the door fully open and sparing him a final glance. “You’ll hear from me when I have the Artisan.”
“And if you fail?”
“Then you’d best hope your mad Emperor can marshal sufficient force to stop what’s coming.” With that she injected a burst of Green and sprinted off into the gloom.
• • •
Escaping the Sanctum took the rest of the night and the sun was climbing over the roof-tops by the time Lizanne made her way into the city proper. Several double-backs and sudden changes of direction revealed no sign that the Blood Imperial’s operatives had managed to track her. Either that, or they were too skilled for her to detect them, which she thought unlikely. Even so she took every precaution before proceeding to her destination. She had changed into her nondescript clothing after scaling the Sanctum’s outer wall and affected the tired, stooped walk of an underpaid worker released from a night-shift in the manufactory or cotton-mill. There were many such folk about in the small hours, providing useful camouflage as she made her way to the tea-shop.
The woman behind the counter was of pleasingly plump proportions and smiled affably as Lizanne said good morning. The woman’s apple-cheeked cheerfulness slipped somewhat when Lizanne asked if she had any Sovereign Black. It was a spicy and expensive blend from northern Dalcia and virtually impossible to find since the Emergency. Meaning very few customers would be likely to ask for it.
“We have none,” the tea seller replied, eyes flicking towards the window and the street outside. She’s not best suited to this, Lizanne judged, seeing how the woman’s hands fidgeted on the counter. “We, ah.” The woman frowned as she struggled to remember the correct response. “We do have Red Drake’s Breath though.”
“That would be very acceptable.”
The woman glanced at the street once more before raising the flap in the counter and beckoning Lizanne through to the store-room. “Wait here,” she said in a whisper before proceeding ahead into the gloomy interior. Lizanne heard the sound of a coded knock, two quick raps then three more, followed by the scrape of wood on wood as something heavy was hauled aside. A brief, quiet exchange of voices and the shop-woman reappeared. “Go on in,” she said, moving past Lizanne and returning to the outer shop.
She found Arberus waiting at the entrance to a hidden room, a small lantern glowing at his back as he stood holding a concealing stack of shelves to one side. “You found it then?” he asked, speaking in Mandinorian and grinning a little.
“Varsal only,” she admonished him, coming closer. “The shop-lady seems a little too nervous for a revolutionary.”
“Nervous or not she’s fully committed to the cause. The Cadre killed her fiancé for owning a printing-press. Her parents own this place but are thankfully too elderly to visit much. Plus, the local constabulary are appreciative of the free tea she provides.”
Lizanne paused to press a kiss to his cheek before proceeding into the hidden alcove. It was of typically orderly appearance. Arberus would probably never shake off the military habits of a lifetime, even if it had all been artifice.
“This room is well soundproofed,” he said, a slightly hopeful note in his voice as he slid the concealing shelf-stack back into place.
“I made my position on that matter clear aboard ship,” she replied. “I assume your desertion was accomplished without difficulty?”
“The Director’s man had me conveyed ashore in an empty rum cask. By now I e
xpect he’s expunged my name from the ship’s rolls.”
“And your contacts in the Brotherhood?”
“Diminished but still active. I’m afraid I’ve had to make certain promises to secure their co-operation.”
“Presumably they know the importance of our mission? If this world falls then all their deluded ambitions will be meaningless.”
“Arradsia is thousands of miles away, and the Brotherhood’s crusade has spanned generations. Rest assured, the revolution will always come first.”
Lizanne gave a small sigh of discomfort. Dealing with people steeped in dogma was never something she relished, but time was short and she had no other allies at hand. “Arrange a meeting,” she said. “I’ll need all the information they can provide on Scorazin.”
He stared at her in unblinking silence for several seconds. “Scorazin?” he asked finally, a hard edge to his voice.
“The Artisan is most likely there. So that is where I need to go.”
“Or I could just shoot you now and save time.”
“We are faced with a distinct lack of alternatives.” She undid her shoes and took them off, lying back on the bed with an arm across her eyes. All vestige of product had faded from her veins and her body was beginning to feel the exertions of the previous night. “I need to rest, Major. Please go and do as I ask.”
• • •
“One million in gold, not exchange notes or Imperial currency.” The young man spoke in soft but strident tones. He was of slight build with pale, freckled skin and a shock of red hair Lizanne’s tutors would have ordered him to dye black had he been recruited to Exceptional Initiatives. Arberus had introduced him as Korian, a code-name borrowed from Corvantine antiquity. Korian had been one of the seven divine brothers fabled to have built Corvus after being cast out of the gods’ heavenly abode. If Lizanne recalled rightly, Korian had been murdered by his brothers for the crime of coming to love the mere mortals who laboured in their service. His death sparked the revolt that brought down the brothers’ dominion and established the first ruling Corvantine dynasty. Historians considered the whole tale a fanciful myth but it had provided inspiration aplenty for Corvantine subversives for centuries.
“Plus twenty thousand rifles with two hundred rounds apiece,” Korian went on. “We will also require all intelligence the Ironship Protectorate holds on Imperial military deployments.”
Yet another uprising in the offing, Lizanne concluded. Don’t they ever get tired of this? “Done,” she said, suppressing a grin at the youth’s surprised frown. Evidently he had expected some hard bargaining but Lizanne saw little point in it. Although she was technically negating the good faith of Director Thriftmor’s negotiations by agreeing to fund and arm these rebels, she suspected that by the time she got the Artisan on a ship the empire’s internal problems would be superseded by more pressing concerns.
“You will simply hand all of this over without demur?” Korian asked.
“Crisis breeds urgency,” Lizanne replied. “And I am fully empowered by my employers to make whatever agreements are necessary to achieve my objective.”
Korian glanced at Arberus, who stood guarding the entrance to the store-room. The major smiled tightly and gave a firm nod, which seemed to alleviate the revolutionary’s unease. “What do you require?” he asked.
“A capable forger,” she said. “Plus, Imperial Cavalry uniforms in sufficient quantity to clothe a full company together with men to wear them and the requisite number of horses to carry said men. I shall also require a ceramicist skilled in delicate work.”
She paused, regarding his puzzled expression with a raised eyebrow. “I assume these requirements are within the Brotherhood’s capabilities. If not, perhaps there are other groups I should be speaking to. According to my employer’s files, the Republic First Alliance is more effective when it comes to infiltration . . .”
“Republic First,” Korian broke in, “lost all claims to Bidrosin’s legacy during the revolution. They are little more than thieves posturing as radicals. Any other group you might approach are shadows of their former selves, cowed dreamers who do nothing but endlessly rehash the grand epic of failure. Only the Brotherhood still stands for the people. Our struggle will never be done, not until the old order is scoured from this land and Bidrosin’s vision made real. Much as I despise the corporatist world and all it stands for, I’d crawl through the foulest sewer if it will win this struggle.”
Lizanne always found radical invective jarring, especially when delivered without a trace of irony. “How noble of you,” she said, unable to keep the weary tone from her voice. “Can you do this or not?”
CHAPTER 12
Clay
Clay skidded across the deck, staring in fixed horror as the drake’s jaws began to close on Loriabeth’s legs. He had no gun, no product and lacked even the strength to prevent his headlong tumble. Therefore, it was an overwhelming relief to hear the ear-jarring clack of the Blue’s teeth snapping on empty air as Loriabeth swung herself clear. The ship righted itself just as Clay collided with the rail, a shout of pained frustration issuing from his mouth. He flailed on the deck, hands scrabbling on the boards as he tried and failed to haul himself upright.
He looked up at the sound of Loriabeth scrambling to her feet with both pistols in hand, firing a rapid salvo at the Blue’s head as it darted forward for a second try. The beast flinched as the bullets tore at its snout, drawing blood but failing to dissuade it from making another lunge at its prey. Loriabeth dived to one side, rolling clear of the snapping jaws then whirling to empty both revolvers into the drake’s face at point-blank range. The Blue reared back as if stung, blood trailing from a ruined eye. Its mouth gaped wide once more, infuriated growls fading and a haze of heated air blossoming from its throat. Then it froze.
Clay stared at the immobile head of the beast, seeing how the rest of its snake-like body coiled and thrashed in the water below. His gaze snapped to the walkway above, finding the Varestian pirate woman standing there, eyes fixed on the Blue. Her face was set in the hard concentration that told of intense use of Black as she held the drake in place.
Something landed on the deck in front of Clay: an open wallet containing two vials of product. Clay looked up to find Hilemore regarding him with a hard, commanding glare. “Hurry up!” he snapped, nodding at the wallet.
Clay fumbled for the vials, finding that his fingers lacked the strength to remove the stoppers. With a curse, Hilemore crouched to help him, thumbing the stoppers away and jamming both vials none-too-gently into Clay’s mouth. The combined product, full doses of Green and Black, burned on his tongue before making a fiery progress down his throat. The effect was immediate, the Green banishing his weakness in an instant. He sprang to his feet, seeing the Blue’s head was now shuddering as the Varestian woman’s Black faded, flame seeping through its teeth as its jaw began to widen.
Hilemore moved away, barking orders as Clay focused his gaze on the Blue, its jaw clamping shut once more as he summoned the Black. A loud thud sounded from the starboard side as the beast’s body thrashed against the hull. Clay could feel its strength, vastly more powerful than any man he had ever frozen, forcing him to drain product at an accelerated rate.
“If you’ve got a mind to do something,” he told Hilemore through clenched teeth, sweat bathing his skin as the Green thinned in his veins, “it better be soon!”
He heard Hilemore shout some more orders before his voice was drowned by the booming roar of a cannon. Clay felt a hard rush of air as the shell whooshed by less than two feet to his left, quickly followed by a thick cloud of smoke. The last of the product faded as the smoke cleared, leaving him collapsed on the deck once more and staring up at the curious sight of a headless Blue. Blood geysered from the ragged stump of its neck as the body continued to coil and thrash, Clay hearing a scream as a jet of undiluted product found an unfortunate crewman. The drake�
�s writhing corpse slithered along the Superior’s side before coming to rest on the aft deck, still coiling as its blood left a red stain in the ship’s wake.
“All stop!”
Clay turned to see Hilemore standing alongside one of the starboard cannon, smoke streaming from its muzzle. The gun appeared to have been hastily drawn back and aimed by Steelfine and Lieutenant Talmant, the Islander providing the required elevation by the simple expedient of wedging himself under the barrel and lifting it with his back.
“Mr. Skaggerhill,” Hilemore called to the harvester, who was crouched at Loriabeth’s side, applying a salve to a small blood-burn on her wrist. “Ever drained a Blue before, perchance?”
• • •
Exhaustion had forced Clay back to his bunk, where he slept for several hours, drained by the day’s events. He awoke in late evening, emerging onto the aft deck where Skaggerhill and Scrimshine were at work harvesting the Blue. Apparently the former smuggler was the only other hand aboard with enough experience to assist. The Blue’s headless corpse lay on a bed of oilskins, a huge, grisly red-blue crescent. Skaggerhill’s usual method of tapping the jugular was of little use here since the cannon shot had already rent the vessel open, denuding the body of at least half its remaining blood. The harvester had let the corpse settle for a while then made a series of deep incisions where it bulged the most, capturing the outrushing product in steel buckets provided by Chief Bozware. Meanwhile, Scrimshine was hard at work retrieving the valuable organs.
