by Ian Whates
There had been no real venom in the words, Ethelynne knew, just a maternal sense of concern and a well-concealed pride. “I want to see…” she began but Madame Bondersil waved her to silence with a flick of her elegant hand.
“What’s out there, yes. As you have told me many times. Too many books, that’s the problem. Filling your head with adventurous notions.” She fell quiet, regarding Ethelynne with a steady eye and a grim smile. “I have agreed to act as your liaison for this little jaunt, with the Syndicate’s blessing. naturally.”
Ethelynne had stopped herself reaching for Madame Bondersil’s hand, knowing displays of affection were never very welcome in her office. “Thank you, Madame. An honour.”
The tutor’s smile faded and she went to the window, gazing out at the fine view it afforded. The Academy stood on one of the ten hills across which Carvenport had sprawled since their people came to this land two centuries before, seeking riches and finding more. Out in the harbour an iron-hulled ship ploughed its way towards the sea, great paddles turning and stacks trailing smoke as the Blood-blessed in her engine room drank Red to stoke her fires. Her hold would be filled with barrel upon barrel of all colours, mostly Red and Green, with a small and heavily guarded stock of Blue and an even smaller stock of Black. But nowhere on that great ship nor any of her sisters, would you find a single barrel, or even a vial, of White.
“This man,” Madame Bondersil said. “The captain of these Sandrunners.”
“They call him Wittler, Madame.”
“Yes, Wittler. He’s truly convinced he can find it?”
“He has a map, Madame. Very old, showing a route through the badlands to the Iron Sands… and the Crater. Last season they made it as far as the Sands. He believes he can make it to the Crater with the assistance of a Blood-blessed.”
“The Crater,” Mrs Bondersil repeated with a soft laugh. “Where the Whites are said to still soar.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“It’s a myth, Ethelynne. Just another hopeless search for a long dead legend.”
“The Whites are real, or at least they were. We know that from the records left by the first colonists.”
“And none have been seen for a century and a half.”
“All the more reward to be reaped when we find them.”
She saw Madame Bondersil shake of her head before stepping back from the window, going to her desk to extract a box from one of the drawers. “Finest quality,” she said, opening it to reveal the four vials inside. “Wild blood, not bred stock. It cost a tidy sum, I must say.”
Ethelynne approached to peer at the vials, the contents all a different shade of crimson. Light and almost clear for the Blue. Opaque with a faintly amber hue for the Green. The Red dark and the most viscous, clinging to the glass like oil. The Black was little more than slightly reddened pitch. The colours were not natural but the product of the harvesters’ art, a result of the various chemical additions to stop the contents spoiling and prevent the effects of imbibing undiluted product, effects that would be dangerous for a Blood-blessed but fatal for others.
“When the sun’s half-set,” Mrs Bondersil said, extracting the Blue and tapping it lightly against Ethelynne’s nose. “Not before. Not after. I do have a schedule to keep.”
The Badlands remained stubbornly beyond the horizon as the sun began to dip, heralding the fast descending chill that made traversing these wastes such a trial. This sea of iron would retain heat for only a short while, becoming sheened in frost by the time the sky grew dark, and cold enough to strip skin from unwary hands as the night wore on. Ethelynne closed the duster and tightened her belt before pulling on her gloves, green-leather like the duster and perfect for protecting flesh from extremes of temperature. But she knew this chill would not be easily assuaged and she was so tired.
She had cleared the taller dunes a mile back and now laboured across the flat expanse forming the border with the badlands. She was keenly aware of the complete lack of cover, taking only scant comfort from the fading light and the empty desert revealed by her frequent backward glances. Could have lost him in the dunes, she thought, knowing it a desperate appeal for luck.
She stumbled to a halt as the half-sun finally appeared on the western horizon. Her shadow stretched away across the sands, an unmistakable marker to any pair of eyes, but it had to be risked now. Despite the gloves her hands still shook as she opened the box to extract the vial of Blue. The tremble grew worse as she fumbled with the stopper, almost dropping it and choking down shout of panic as the precious crimson drops retreated from the lip of the vial. She cast one final glance at the way she had come, seeing only her footprints in the carpet of deepening red, then poured the remaining Blue into her mouth.
For an unblessed the taste of Blue was bitter, vile even, leading to an instant, often unbearable headache and nausea. For a Blood-blessed, however, it was always a profound experience. The acrid taste faded as the trance took hold, normal vision segueing into the mists of memory and imagination. Losing oneself in the swirl could be blissful and Ethelynne’s early lessons at the Academy had been rich in warnings regarding addiction, but today the fear and panic made it a dark trance, the mists storm clouds amid which recent events flashed like lightening. Fortunately, Madame Bondersil had evidently been awaiting this moment and the warm concern in her greeting was enough to calm the impending storm.
Ethelynne. What has happened?
Dead they’re all dead apart from Wittler and he’s trying to kill me…
Calm. Focus. Ethelynne felt the storm abate further as Madame Bondersil’s thoughts flowed into her, replacing panic with sober reflection. Tell me.
The Crater, Ethelynne replied. We reached the Crater. She paused to refocus as the upsurge of memories threatened to reawaken the storm though Madame Bondersil was quick to interpret the images.
You found a White? she asked, her thoughts conveying a sense of amazement Ethelynne had thought beneath her.
Yes… No. We found bones, a skeleton. Too large for a Black. It had to be a White… And an egg. I have it.
The others? What happened to them?
Clatterstock, the Harvester, he thought the bones might contain marrow, so he broke one, powdered it… The powder did something to them… Something that made them fear, and hate, and kill… Bluesilk killed the Crawdens, Clatterstock killed her… Wittler killed him.
But not you?
No. It had no effect on me. When the killing began I took the egg and ran… Wittler is coming for me, Madame… He’s tried twice now… He said something to me, when it happened, just after he shot Clatterstock… ‘You know what I saw.’
And do you?
No. I saw nothing but madness.
Where are you?
On the Iron Sands, near the badlands.
A pause, Madame Bondersil’s thoughts now forming their own storm. Ethelynne found a crumb of comfort in the deep affection she saw amongst the roiling frustration. You have blood left?
Ethelynne replied with an image of the vials, concentrating on the empty Blue and the meagre stock of Black.
Madame Bondersil’s storm became more concentrated, flashing as it shifted through the memories Ethelynne had shared of the journey, settling on something from just a week ago, something from the river. What is the first thing I taught you? the tutor asked.
Her memories calmed, forming into an image of a little girl in a new dress, a dress Ethelynne’s mother had spent a month’s wages to buy. The little girl stood among a dozen other children of the same age, all with their hands outstretched, displaying the patch of white skin on their palms. Not burnt like the thousands of other children tested that year, their parents bound by law to present them to the local harvester and watch as he used a long glass pipette to drop a single bead of undiluted blood into their hands. Most screamed and cried as the blood left a dark, black mark, but some, only a very few, stood and stared in wide eyed wonder as the bead seeped into their skin and turned it white.
&
nbsp; Blue for the mind, the children chanted in unison. Green for the body. Red for the fire. Black for the push.
Red for the fire, Madame Bondersil’s thought was implacable, emphatic, the accompanying images unnervingly clear. Now you need to get moving.
Despite their coarse manners and coarser language, Ethelynne still found reason to like each of the Sandrunners. Clatterstock was a wall of green-leather criss-crossed by belts festooned with knives. His face was a slab of stubbly granite with thin lips that parted to reveal a smile that was three parts gold to one part teeth. She liked him for his knowledge; a lifetime harvesting blood made him an expert in their quarry.
“You ever see a wild one, little miss?” he asked two days out from Carvenport. The inland road they followed wound through dense bush country that would soon transform into thick jungle where contractors still came to hunt for Greens, though they were fewer in number every year. She was obliged to travel on the supply wagon with Clatterstock, sitting next to him for many an uncomfortable hour as the oxen hauled them over countless ruts. “A real live wild one,” he went on, leaning close, a glint in his eye she might have taken for a leer but for the humour she heard in his voice. “Not those sickly, tooth-pulled things in the breeding pens.”
She gave an honest shake of her head, provoking a laugh as he drew back, snapping reins on ox rump. “Well, that’s one thing we’ll fix for sure. You mind me well, little miss. When it comes to the blood, it’s all me. You watch all you want, but you leave the bloodin’ to me. First time you gaze into the eyes of a wild one, you’ll know what hate looks like.”
Unlike Clatterstock, who carried just a repeating carbine, Bluesilk had guns aplenty. Petite and buxom with a thick mass of blonde locks tied into a shaggy ponytail, she wore a pair of six-shot repeaters on her hips with a third under her arm. The arsenal was completed by the shotgun strapped across her back. Next to Wittler, Ethelynne found her perhaps the easiest to like. At night, when done cleaning her guns, she would sit cross-legged, one hand holding a small compact up to her face whilst she applied various powders and paints to eyelids, cheeks and lips.
“Where’s your warpaint, love?” she asked Ethelynne one evening, eyes fixed on her mirror and a broad-headed brush leaving a faint red blush on her cheeks. They had come to a small trading post, a collection of huts and storehouses with a long pier extending out into the broad, rapid waters of the Greychurn River, their route to the badlands and beyond.
“We weren’t permitted make-up in the academy,” Ethelynne told the gun-hand. “It was said to be unseemly.”
“Y’mean they told you it’d make you look a whore, right?”
Ethelynne blushed and looked away.
“You keep on this track, girl,” Bluesilk went on, “and you’ll find there’s much worse people than whores in this world.”
Ethelynne’s eyes went to the holstered six-shooters lying atop Bluesilk’s shotgun. “Will you teach me to shoot?”
“Shit, no!”Bluesilk gave an appalled laugh. “That ain’t proper for a girl like you. Besides it ain’t your role in this grand company. You’re here for the Spoiled. Those I don’t put a bullet through, that is.” She looked up from her mirror to offer a half-smile, waving her brush in invitation. “You come sit by me though, and I’ll put some rosiness on those cheeks.”
So she didn’t learn to shoot, not from Bluesilk and not from the Crawden brothers. Like Wittler, they both carried long-rifles in addition to the pistols on their hips. “Brother One, this young lady would like to fire my rifle,” the younger Crawden had said to his sibling, mock indignation on his face. He was by far the better looking of the two, clean shaven where his brother was bearded, and with a tendency towards mockery she might have taken exception to but for the evident regard in his gaze. “Surely she must know this is a weapon of great delicacy, only to be operated by the most expert hands.”
“Be nice, now, Brother Two,” the elder Crawden advised before offering Ethelynne an apologetic smile. “Long-rifle’ll take your shoulder off, miss. ‘Sides, it ain’t…”
“My role,” Ethelynne finished. “I know.”
They were on the river now, the wagon’s cargo unloaded onto a large flat-bottomed barge the day before. The trading post’s owner, a man near as broad as Clatterstock but with a genuinely lustful leer to him, had grown angry when Wittler refused a contract to spend a week hunting Greens. “Going for Red, this trip,” he said. “Black if I can get it.”
“My ass you is,” the trader replied. “You goin’ t’the Iron Sands again. Didn’t lose enough good people last time, huh? Spoiled’ve got your scent now, Wittler. They won’t be best pleased t’see ya.”
Ethelynne had noted how the trader’s fierceness dissipated and his face grew pale under Wittler’s silent and prolonged gaze. “Grateful if you’d have a care for our animals,” Wittler said eventually, tossing the trader a purse. “We’ll be needing the barge.”
Brother Two found her at the prow of the barge as they came to the point where Wittler had chosen to moor up, a shallow cove where the canyon walls descended to a gentle slope. They had cleared the jungle four days back, the Greychurn now winding its way through high, curving walls of pinkish sandstone.
“You wanna learn a thing, miss?” Brother Two said, putting an arm around her shoulders, light enough not to cause offence as he turned her towards the southern horizon. “See those peaks? Tell me what you see.”
He held up a spyglass which she duly took and trained on the distant heights ahead. She stared at the peaks for a time, seeing only rock, though it was oddly coloured, mottled all over as if pock-marked. “What is that?” she asked.
“Red Hive,” Brother Two said. “Their spit’s loaded with enough bile to eat the rock. Wait a mite longer and you’ll see.”
She did and was soon rewarded by the sight of a dark shape emerging from one of the marks in the stone. It seemed tiny from this distance but she had seen enough of them in the pens to recognise the shape, and knew it was as big as a horse. She watched it crawl from the hole and onto a ledge, wings spreading to catch the warmth of the rising sun.
She heard a metallic snick and turned to find Brother Two loading his long-rifle, sliding the cartridge into the chamber and working the lever to close it. “Need Green to kill a Red,” he said with a wink, taking a flask from his belt and lifting it to his lips. The amount he drank was more than strictly necessary for his purposes, but she knew Green had other effects on the unblessed beyond enhanced senses. He lowered the flask, licking his lip and issuing a slight groan. “That’s a fine blend, I must say. Clatterstock is an artist.” With that he raised the long-rifle and fired with only the barest pause to aim.
The range was considerable so she had time to raise the spyglass and find the Red again before the bullet struck home, except it didn’t. She saw the Red flinch as the bullet smacked into its rocky perch, mouth gaping and head lowering in an instant threat posture. The beast was too far away to make out its eyes but Ethelynne had no doubt of its ability to discern the source of its distress.
“You missed,” she told Brother Two, a somewhat redundant statement as the Red had now taken to the air, wings sweeping as it gained height, growing in size until it filled the lens of the spyglass.
“Shitdammit!” Brother Two hissed, feverishly working to reload the long-rifle, cartridges scattering across the deck as he fumbled, swearing even louder.
A high, peeling cry echoes along the canyons, the Red flattening its wings as it flew lower, less than two hundred feet away. The scream sounded again as it neared, mouth gaping to reveal rows of razor teeth, and its eyes… First time you gaze into the eyes of a wild one, you’ll know what hate looks like.
She tossed the spyglass aside and reached for the box on her belt, extracting the Black and thumbing the stopper free, raising it to her mouth…
A single rifle shot sounded behind them, the drake’s scream choking off as it veered away twenty feet short of the barge. It twisted in the a
ir, flailing wings raising water from the river, before colliding with the slope ahead. The drake slid down the rock and screamed again, the cry plaintive now, desperate. Its claws scrabbled on the sandstone until they found purchase and it began to scramble up, blood trailing across the rock, wings spreading in preparation to fly. Another rifle shot sounded and a cloud of blood erupted from the drake’s skull. It collapsed onto the slope, tail and wings twitching as it slid towards the water.
Ethelynne’s gaze went to the starboard rail where Wittler stood, smoking long-rifle in hand. He turned to her and she saw judgement in his narrowed eyes, perhaps also disappointment, before they tracked to Brother Two. “And the purpose of this?” he asked.
The younger Crawden blanched a little under the scrutiny but quickly rallied to offer a sheepish grin. “The young miss wanted to learn a thing…”
“The young miss is not your concern,” Wittler told him, each word spoken with considerable precision. He jerked his head at the dead drake on the slope. “Three cartridges to take this thing down and we ain’t got time to harvest a single drop.”
“Any cost can come from our share, Cap’n,” Brother One said, moving between Wittler and Brother Two. His stance was respectful, but also firmly defensive. “Besides, there’ll still be blood in the heart for when we make our way back. Ain’t a total loss.”
“You let me assess the profit and loss for this company, Craw.” Wittler’s gaze narrowed further, his face showing none of the affable surety Ethelynne had become accustomed to. “Your brother’s here because you vouched for him. Best if he doesn’t give me further cause to regret deferring to your judgement.”
“He surely won’t, Cap’n. My word on it.” The Elder Crawden took hold of his brother’s arm and led him to the stern, pausing to offer a respectful nod to Ethelynne. Wittler lingered a moment, his gaze now free of judgement and a certain warmth returning to his voice. “Careful with that, Miss Ethy.” He pointed to the unstoppered vial of Black in her hand. “We’ll need every drop before long.”
