by Anthony Ryan
“You think the crew will accept that?”
“I have every confidence in your ability to persuade them.”
Her gaze narrowed a little in realisation. “You’re saying this because you think it’s of no consequence who holds the ship. You think if you fail to return everything will be lost, so what does it matter if you hand your vessel over to a pirate?”
“Privateer,” he reminded her, which drew a brief smile from her lips.
“Four weeks then, sea-brother,” she said, opening the door. “Not one day longer.”
• • •
By morning the Superior was steaming through what Scrimshine called the Whirls, a fifty-mile-wide stretch of clear water between the Chokes and the Shelf. Hilemore assumed the name came from the swirling eddies disturbing the otherwise placid water. He had ordered the ship to dead slow upon clearing the channel, partly to conserve product but also due to the need to steer clear of the icebergs which slid across their path with worrisome regularity. He had also doubled the watch, ensuring as many eyes as possible were engaged in scanning the sea for the reappearance of Last Look Jack, despite Steelfine’s confident assertion that the drake must be dead. “A fearsome beast to be sure, sir,” the Islander said. “But still just flesh and blood.”
Except there wasn’t any blood, Hilemore didn’t say, recalling the sight of the ice descending on the giant Blue’s neck. He also took note of the fact that Scrimshine’s terror remained at a high pitch and his gaze darted about with near feverish energy whilst at the wheel. Fortunately, his entreaties to his ancestors had tailed off into an occasional mutter.
“Ship ahead!” came an excited shout from the speaking-tube to the crow’s nest. “Twenty degrees to port!”
Hilemore went out onto the walkway and trained his spy-glass on the given heading. A fine mist lingered over the water and it was a few seconds before he focused the lens on the dark, wide-beamed shape of a mid-sized Blue-hunter. He recognised her as an older ship from the hybrid configuration of paddles and sails. Her stacks were free of smoke and her mainsail swelled sluggishly in the listless morning air.
“Twenty degrees to port,” Hilemore called through the bridge window. “Increase speed to one-third. Mr. Steelfine, run up the Yellow Black, let’s say hello.”
Steelfine had the flag raised in less than a minute, the yellow-and-black pennant that all ships recognised as a peaceful greeting. Hilemore trained his glass on the Blue-hunter once more, grunting in relieved satisfaction at the sight of an identical signal ascending her mainmast. He could see some of her crew clustered on the aft deck, all waving in excitement. Soon the Superior drew close enough to make out the Mandinorian letters painted on her hull: SSM Farlight.
“A South Seas Maritime ship.” Hilemore turned to find Zenida had come to join him. She stood regarding the approaching vessel with a somewhat predatory cast to her gaze. “They were always my favourites. Holds fat with product and crews disinclined to fight. The captains could usually be counted on to come to a reasonable settlement.”
“Let’s hope they’re as accommodating today,” Hilemore said. He could see the faces of the Farlight’s crew now, taking grim note of the joyous relief on every face. They think we’re their salvation, he realised, suppressing a momentary urge to simply sail on. They may have useful intelligence.
The Blue-hunter’s captain was a tall South Mandinorian with a grey beard that reached halfway down his chest. He stood amidst his crew at the Farlight’s starboard rail as the Superior drew alongside, failing to join in their chorus of cheers. Lines were duly thrown and the ships slowly hauled closer. The Superior sat higher in the water than the Blue-hunter, meaning the bearded captain was obliged to stare up at Hilemore as the hulls bumped together. The man inclined his head as Hilemore offered a respectful salute, then barked out a command of sufficient volume and authority to instantly silence his crew. Hilemore noted their emaciated appearance, reckoning it had been several days since they had enjoyed a full meal.
“Remarkable vessel you have there, Captain,” the Farlight’s master observed. “Never seen the like before.”
“We live in an age of wonders, Captain,” Hilemore told him, seeing how the fellow’s eyes lingered on his face, an unmistakable glimmer of recognition lighting his gaze. “Have we met, sir?” Hilemore asked him.
“No. But I fancy I once served under a relative of yours. Name of Racksmith.”
Good old Grandfather, Hilemore thought. There’s isn’t a corner of the world where I won’t find an old comrade of yours.
“Then you were in the Protectorate?” he asked, summoning a smile.
“For a time.” The man straightened a little, introducing himself in formal tones. “Attcus Tidelow, Master of the SSM Farlight.”
“Corrick Hilemore, Commander of the IPV Superior, en route to Kraghurst Station on company orders.”
The smiles lighting the faces of the Farlight’s crew faded abruptly, and Captain Tidelow’s already stern visage took on an even grimmer aspect. “Then you’d best turn about, Captain,” he said. “For there no longer is a Kraghurst Station.”
• • •
“I always thought he was a myth, myself.” Tidelow paused to take a long draw on his pipe, the bowl filled with leaf from the Superior’s stocks, then exhaled a thin stream of smoke towards the ward-room ceiling. “Hunted Blue in these waters for the better part of two decades and never caught even the smallest glimpse of him. Sailors do like their tales, the taller the better, and every tale of Last Look Jack I heard came from the lips of those who’d never actually set eyes on him. They’d always heard it from someone else who’d heard it from someone else.” His teeth clamped on the stem of his pipe for a second, mouth twitching a little. “Now, I’ve got a story of my own, one I saw with my own eyes. Though I’d give my soul to the King of the Deep to take the memory away.”
“Last Look Jack attacked Kraghurst Station?” Hilemore said.
Tidelow nodded. “’Bout three weeks ago now. Came out of the sea without warning one evening. And he wasn’t alone. Him and at least a dozen Blues, all intent on our destruction. Kraghurst had a garrison of sorts, mostly sailors between berths. Did their best I s’pose but they had only rifles and a few cannon. Us and some of the other Blue-hunters tried our luck with harpoons, got a few of the smaller drakes, but not old Jack. We managed to put a steel-headed twelve-foot spike in his hide but it was like sticking a horse with a toothpick. Took maybe a half hour at most and the whole place was up in flames, docks all gone along with most all the ships too. Lucky for us Last Look had turned his flames on the dwellings carved into the Shelf.”
Tidelow fell silent, lips twitching once more. “We made all the steam we could and sailed away. I know there’s some who’ll call us cowards, and maybe they’d be right, but staying to fight it out would’ve been suicide.”
“You did the right thing, Captain,” Hilemore assured him.
“Since then we been sailing up and down the Chokes looking for a course that’ll take us to open sea. So far, we’ve found all the usual routes blocked by bergs, almost like we’re being sealed in here on purpose. With food running low I made for the channel ’twixt the Shelf and the Chokes, though it’s called the Madman’s Rush for a reason. But what choice did we have with food running lower by the day and Last Look about to pop up at any moment? And now you’re telling me he’s dead.” Tidelow gave Hilemore a sceptical frown. “Must say, I’m bound to confess a reluctance to believe that.”
“Understandable,” Hilemore conceded. “But he is certainly wounded, at the very least. Perhaps enough for him to leave us be whilst we complete our mission.”
“You’re still determined to go on to Kraghurst? There ain’t nothing there.”
“Destroyed or not, it remains our destination.”
“Be that as it may, Captain, I can’t go with you. My crew’s been loyal so far,
but ordering a return to the Shelf is most likely to earn me a mutiny, and I wouldn’t blame them.”
“I appreciate your position, sir. However, I believe there is a course that would benefit us both. Tell me, do any of your men have knowledge of explosives?”
• • •
Talmant stood rigidly at attention on the fore-deck, the set of his features revealing barely controlled emotions. It was a strange sight to witness, Hilemore never having seen him angry before. “I . . .” Talmant began, faltered then started again. “I must object to these orders, sir. My place is on this ship.”
“Your objection will be noted in the log, Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore said. “But the exigencies of our mission require you to undertake a new posting.”
“If I might point out, sir,” Talmant said, voice quivering a little. “I followed you on this course at no small risk to my person and my future prospects . . .”
“Also duly noted and appreciated, Lieutenant,” Hilemore broke in, putting an edge to his voice. “But you made an adult decision, one worthy of the rank you hold. Questioning your captain’s orders and failing to put aside personal preferences, however, are not.”
Watching Talmant bite down on some more unwise words, Hilemore was struck by how much older he appeared now. The earnest ensign from several months ago had been much changed by all they had seen and done, but still a vestige of the boy remained. Sighing, Hilemore took a step closer and lowered his voice. “I cannot entrust this to anyone else. Your personnel file shows advanced explosives training at the Academy. Added to that, your navigation skills make you the perfect choice for this mission. Besides”—he glanced over at the group of crewmen transferring half of the Superior’s powder stocks to the Farlight via the gang-plank strung between the two ships, “I’ll need someone to ensure Captain Tidelow keeps his end of the bargain. Why do you think I’m sending four gunners along?”
Talmant took a moment to reply with a stiff nod, though Hilemore detected a faint glimmer of pride amidst the anger still shining in the youth’s eyes. “Once we have blasted a channel through the Chokes,” he said, “these men will have no desire to linger.”
“I’m sure they won’t,” Hilemore agreed. “However, it is your duty to ensure that the course is marked for our return. I will leave the means to your best judgement.”
Talmant stood a little straighter. “Very good, sir,” he said, snapping off a fine salute.
Hilemore returned the salute then extended his hand. “Good luck, Mr. Talmant.”
The youth hesitated before taking Hilemore’s hand, a small grin coming to his lips as Steelfine came forward to clap a large hand to his shoulder. “If it comes to it,” he said, leaning closer, “shoot the bosun before the captain. Every mutiny I ever knew of started with the bosun.”
“I’ll bear it in mind, sir.”
An hour later Hilemore stood at the stern watching the Farlight sail north, paddles turning swiftly thanks to the coal he had provided. He had also been obliged to hand over a quarter of their food as well as sundry other supplies. Captain Tidelow drove a hard bargain and it was fortunate the Superior had been so well-stocked when they seized her. However, Hilemore had drawn the line when the old captain demanded five vials of Green in addition to everything else.
“I shall require all we have to complete my mission,” Hilemore told him. “But we find ourselves with a surplus of Blue, which I’m sure will earn a hefty price in any civilised port. You’re welcome to two-thirds of it.”
The old man’s annoyance was palpable but he ceded the point after some protracted wrangling. “Your grandfather was a penny-pincher too,” he grumbled. “Take the skin off a man’s back just for going a drop over his rum ration.”
“I happen to know my grandfather never flogged a man during his entire career,” Hilemore returned.
“Tell you that himself, did he?” Tidelow’s beard bunched in a grin. “Looks like he had a few tall tales of his own then. Got the stripes on my back to prove it if you want to see.”
Hilemore had never been quick to anger but an insult to the memory of Commodore Jakamore Racksmith was bound to make him bridle, probably because it was such a rare occurrence. “No thank you,” he told Tidelow in a low voice barely above a growl.
“Oh, don’t get all prickled, Captain.” Tidelow’s grin broadened as he touched a match to the bowl of his pipe. “He was better than most, and the finest fighting sailor I ever saw. But wars aren’t won by kindly men.” He took an appreciative puff on his pipe then turned towards the rail, placing a foot on the gangway. “I’ll take care of your lad,” he said, pausing to touch the stem of his pipe to his forehead. “And you can be sure he won’t be needing any fire-arms to ensure my adherence to our bargain.”
“I know,” Hilemore replied.
“Then why send him off with me?”
Hilemore said nothing, clasping his hands behind his back and raising his chin.
“Oh well.” Tidelow shrugged and started along the gangway, casting a few final words over his shoulder. “Best of luck with whatever it is brought you here. And take heed of what I said about wars and kindly men.”
CHAPTER 15
Lizanne
Beyond the gate the tunnel branched off in three directions. Lizanne chose the one in the centre, reasoning that most new arrivals would instinctively opt for right or left. She had a notion that it would be wise to choose the least used entry point. The gloom was partially alleviated by the light trickling through narrow holes in the tunnel roof, the scant illumination fading as the day wore on. The central passage branched off again after fifty paces and once more she kept to the straight course, following it for another hundred paces until it ended in a junction with another passage. Pausing, Lizanne saw that this tunnel extended left and right in a broad circle that probably encompassed the centre of Scorazin. She chose the leftward direction on a whim and soon came to the first entry point. It consisted of a cramped channel sloping upwards to a slanted iron grate. The prison city’s fetid air was thicker now, the patch of light beyond the grate dim with drifting smoke. Lizanne crawled along the channel until she was a foot shy of the grate then cautiously raised her head for the first view of her new home.
Initially, it seemed just an unremarkable alley, no different from the many such alleys her career had taken her to over the years. Certainly the cobbles hadn’t been swept for some time and the plaster on the surrounding walls was patchy, revealing weathered brickwork that gave the buildings a slightly diseased appearance. However, she had seen far worse places in her time and a brief scan revealed no obvious threats. Then she saw the corpse. It lay huddled against the walls, so shrunken and wasted she had taken it for a bundle of discarded rags. Now she saw white bone through the threadbare overalls that clad the remains and a matted clump of long dark hair obscuring the skull. The hair and the smallness of the corpse made this unmistakably the body of a woman. Lizanne wondered if she had been a new arrival like her, venturing forth only to be cut down within feet of the grate. It was equally possible that she was a veteran of this place, used up and left to wither in this alley. In either case, Lizanne decided to seek another entry point.
She was even more cautious when peering out from the next grate, having detected raised voices as she crawled along the channel, loud in argument and slurred with drink. Amongst the grunting babble she discerned two distinct accents, one with the broad vowels of the northern empire and the other the more clipped, nasal tones of the western midlands.
“’S your fault, y’fucker,” the midlander said in a tense growl. “Had to open y’shitty mouth. Two sacks by morning. How in the name of the Emperor’s balls are we s’posed to manage that?”
“Lick my arse,” the northerner replied, his tone rich in aggression but also possessed of a certain weariness. “You’re the one gave her the wrong count. Y’know what she’s like with numbers. Never forgets. I told yo
u that your first day.” A short pause then. “Gimme that, you’ve had plenty.”
“Fuck off!”
Lizanne raised herself as the sounds of a scuffle came through the grate. This entry point was positioned near an outflow pipe, which cast a steady stream of yellow water into a muddy channel leading towards the river. The stench was a gut-stirring blow to the senses, forcing her to swallow a gag and blink tears from her eyes. She could see the river-bank thirty yards or so off to the right, a bar of thick mud where dim figures were visible through the drifting haze; the mud-slingers Constable Darkanis had warned her about. Two men were engaged in a struggle beneath the pipe, stumbling around in a parody of dance with a bottle clutched between them.
“Give it, you greedy sot!” the northerner grunted, tugging hard on the bottle. He was the larger of the two, with a mane of shaggy dark hair and the reddened, bloated features of one who had been lost in indulgence for several years. His opponent was of roughly the same height but with a gaunt aspect and, despite the disparity in build, proved staunchly unwilling to give up his bottle. Lizanne took note of their clothing, standard overalls like hers, worn under knee-length jackets which appeared to have been stitched together from sackcloth. Her interest was piqued by the fact that they both had identical emblems stitched on the shoulders, a red-and-yellow symbol she couldn’t quite make out.
“Hah!” The northerner gave a triumphal laugh as he finally managed to wrestle the bottle from his opponent. The gaunt man lunged for him but fell face-down in the mud, drawing a delighted bellow from his companion before he raised the bottle to his lips, then froze as Lizanne got to her feet and stepped up to the grate. She clutched her blanket tight and peered out at him, eyes wide and apparently uncomprehending, unlike his, which had abruptly narrowed in vulturine calculation.
