by Anthony Ryan
Another crewman came close to succumbing to the gas as the journey wore on, Braddon managing to get a fresh mask on the man before he suffered lasting damage. After that Hilemore ordered everyone to replace their masks. He could tell from the increasingly fetid air leaking through his own mask that it was close to saturation. Finally, as the day slipped into evening the miasma began to thin. Mount Reygnar became a dim, thunderous bulk at their rear as Jack dragged the Dreadfire clear of its deadly atmosphere. It wasn’t until the last vestiges of smoke had cleared and they were once again amongst the bergs that Hilemore saw fit to remove his mask, taking a short experimental breath that he thought might be the sweetest air he had ever tasted.
“Take them off, lads,” he told the crew, heralding an outpouring of relief.
“Thank the Seer for that,” Skaggerhill said, drawing in several deep luxurious breaths as he tossed his mask over the side. “One more whiff of piss and I think I might’ve preferred the poison. No offence, miss,” he added, nodding in Kriz’s direction as she emerged on deck.
She replied with a placid nod before turning to Hilemore, speaking with a hesitancy that reminded him she was very much a stranger to this company. “Your man,” she began. “The helmsman.”
“Scrimshine,” Hilemore said. “What about him?”
She gave an apologetic sigh. “He’s dying.”
* * *
• • •
“This is all of it, sir,” Steelfine said, placing the last flask on the table. “Every drop of Green on board. Some of the lads had private stocks secreted about their person.”
“Had to shake it loose of them, I suppose,” Hilemore said.
“Actually no.” Steelfine inclined his head at where Scrimshine lay on his bunk, normally sallow features now rendered pale as candle wax as he convulsed with another bout of coughing. “Scoundrel he may be, but the lads know we’d all have perished long since but for his hands on the tiller.”
“Will it be enough?” Hilemore asked Kriz.
“I have no idea,” she replied. “I suspect my people knew less about the medicinal properties of drake blood than yours.”
“He’d need at least three full vials by my reckoning,” Skaggerhill put in. As harvester and ad hoc healer to the Longrifles he was the closest thing to a medic on board. “We’ve got”—he played a stubby-fingered hand over the assembled product—“maybe two, at most.”
“And no knowledge of what lies ahead,” Braddon added, meeting Hilemore’s gaze. “It’s a long way back to civilisation, Captain, and odds are there’ll be plenty of dangers betwixt here and there.”
Hilemore concealed a wince as Scrimshine coughed again, a deep, wet retch full of pain. The man’s a rogue, he reminded himself. Smuggler and pirate both, no doubt with a good deal of blood to account for, not to mention cannibalism. The decision was obvious and swiftly reached.
“Give it to him,” he told Skaggerhill. “All of it. Mr. Torcreek, Miss”—he went on nodding at Clay then Kriz—“please join me in my cabin. I believe it’s time we had a serious and honest discussion.”
CHAPTER 5
Lizanne
“Crow’s nest reports twenty vessels so far, sir,” an ensign related from the speaking-tube. “Bearing south-south-west. Man-o’-war in the centre, all the rest appear to be freighters. Pennants are raised but the distance is too great to make out any signals.”
“Speed?” Captain Verricks asked, standing with his hands clasped behind his back with barely a twitch disturbing his whiskers.
“Estimated at eight knots, sir,” the ensign related a few seconds later.
“A somewhat sedate pace for an attacking fleet,” Verricks mused, turning to Lizanne with a questioning glance. She had entered the bridge without permission but the fact that she hadn’t been ordered to leave said much, for the captain valued her advice.
“The White will have captured a large number of ships at Feros,” she pointed out. “It could be a ruse. Approach at a slow speed to lure us close then spring the trap.” She nodded at a spy-glass on the map table. “May I?”
“Be my guest, miss.”
She moved to the front of the bridge, taking a vial of Green from her wallet and drinking a small amount. When first viewed through the lens of the spy-glass the approaching vessels were little more than grey smudges cresting the horizon, but soon sprang into sharp clarity as the vision-enhancing effects of the Green took hold. The first one to come into focus was a Blue-hunter, clearly heavily laden judging by how low she sat in the water, her paddles labouring as smoke belched from her single stack. Lizanne tracked the glass along the line of ships, stopping when a familiar sight came into view. She had only ever seen this ship through Clay’s eyes but the lines were unmistakable, as was the Ironship Protectorate flag and friendly greeting signal flying from her mast.
“The IPV Viable Opportunity,” she told Verricks. “This is not an enemy fleet, Captain. Though I would caution you that you may be about to experience a very trying interview.”
* * *
• • •
“Trumane.”
“Verricks.”
The two captains exchanged nods. They were alone in the ward-room apart from Lizanne; Director Thriftmor, who was engaged in a thorough hunt of the room’s cupboards, presumably for more brandy; and a woman of Dalcian appearance who had accompanied Captain Trumane. The captain looked much the same as she recalled from Clay’s shared memories, his uniform an impeccable buttoned-up contrast to Verricks’s open jacket and misaligned necktie. But there was a new pale hardness to Trumane’s face. Always a stern character, albeit with occasional displays of conviviality during moments of personal triumph, he appeared to Lizanne to have lost whatever vestiges of affability or humour he had once possessed. She doubted his crew had enjoyed their time under his command since Lieutenant Hilemore’s desertion in Lossermark harbour.
Lizanne would have described the Dalcian woman as elegant but for the tattered seaman’s jacket she wore and the numerous wayward strands of hair escaping from her otherwise severe bun. “May I present Madame Hakugen,” Trumane said, extending a hand to the woman. “A senior executive of the Eastern Conglomerate and former Comptroller of Lossermark Port.”
“Welcome aboard, madame,” Verricks greeted the woman with a formal bow which was returned in kind.
“And I am very pleased to meet you, Captain,” she said with a note of relieved sincerity.
“Your reputation precedes you, Captain Verricks,” Trumane went on. “So I won’t waste time with petty demands for the date of your commission.”
Verricks gave a slight incline of his head. “Appreciated, Captain. It therefore behooves me, as senior officer, to request your report.”
Trumane hesitated, his eyes flicking to Lizanne and Director Thriftmor.
“Your pardon,” Verricks said. “May I present Mr. Benric Thriftmor, Ironship Syndicate Board member and Director of Extra-Corporate Affairs.”
“Delighted, I’m sure,” Thriftmor replied, straightening from an empty cupboard with a distressed cast to his eyes. “Captain Verricks, I wonder where I might . . .”
“I had it tipped over the side, sir,” Verricks told him. “All other liquor on board is now under lock and key, and will remain so for the duration of our current difficulties.”
Thriftmor stared at the captain, tongue tracing over his lips in an unconscious display of desperate thirst. “Oh,” he said. “Well, as important as this meeting is, I find myself suddenly quite unwell and will adjourn to my cabin . . .”
“I had it searched and all the bottles disposed of,” Verricks told him, then pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Mr. Thriftmor. The steward will bring you some coffee presently.”
A range of emotions passed over the Director’s face, from defiance to anger before subsiding into resentful acceptance as he sank into a chair, gaze lowered.
“Miss Lizanne Lethridge,” Verricks introduced her. “Of Exceptional Initiatives.”
Trumane stiffened a little at that, as did Madame Hakugen, though they both greeted Lizanne with a polite nod. “By any chance,” Trumane said, “would you be related to . . .”
“Professor Graysen Lethridge.” Lizanne didn’t bother to keep the weary irritation from her voice. Mention of her familial connections just now was certain to worsen her mood. “He’s my father.”
“And my valued colleague,” Trumane said. “His insights were of great assistance when designing the refit of the Viable Opportunity.”
“Then I hope you paid him. It would make a pleasant change from the norm. I believe you have a report to make.”
“My report is somewhat lengthy,” Trumane said after a moment of bemused irritation. “As yet I haven’t had time to compile a written version.”
“A verbal report will do very well, I’m sure,” Verricks said, moving to the table and pulling out a chair for Madame Hakugen. “Let us all please sit. Refreshment is on the way.”
Trumane related his tale over coffee and sandwiches, Lizanne noting the enthusiasm with which the former Comptroller consumed the food while the captain maintained an air of restraint. She already knew much of what he had to say, particularly regarding the desertion of Lieutenant Hilemore along with half the crew of the Viable Opportunity. “A vile and outrageous breach of contract,” Trumane said, some colour returning to his face. “I intend to petition the Sea Board for the ultimate penalty at the court martial, in the unlikely event the swine ever returns from his mad venture.”
“There will be no court martial, Captain,” Lizanne said, instantly drawing a fierce glower from the captain.
“I beg your pardon?” Trumane asked.
“Lieutenant Hilemore will face no charges,” she said simply. “In seizing the Corvantine ship and sailing for southern waters he acted on the instructions of an Exceptional Initiatives agent, as you should have done.”
“What Exceptional Initiatives agent?”
“Claydon Torcreek and the Longrifles Independent Company are contracted employees of my division.”
“Contracted for an insane expedition to the Interior from which they returned with a pack of fairy stories.”
“Their expedition bore fruit, bitter though it turned out to be. The answer to our current difficulties may well lie amidst the southern ice. It was your duty to find it, a duty Lieutenant Hilemore undertook instead. Therefore, as I say, he will face no charges.”
The reddish tinge to Trumane’s face deepened as he continued to glower. “I will not stand for this,” he grated. “When the Sea Board reads my full report . . .”
“If Torcreek and Hilemore fail,” Lizanne cut in, matching his glower with an intent stare, “within a few months there may well be no Sea Board to read it.”
Trumane began to speak again but stopped at a cough from Captain Verricks. “A matter for another time, I think, Captain,” he said. “I have little doubt that once this . . . confused state of affairs has been rectified there will be a full enquiry. Any charges you wish to bring against your subordinate will receive due consideration then. As for now, I should like to hear how you came to be in command of such an unusual fleet.”
Trumane took a moment to master his anger before turning away from Lizanne, addressing himself solely to Verricks. “The Viable was the only warship in Lossermark. With no cargo arriving and the Interior closed to foraging parties Madame Hakugen and I agreed that an evacuation had to be attempted.”
“So your fleet carries the entire population of Lossermark?” Verricks asked.
Trumane remained impassive but Madame Hakugen’s coffee-cup paused on its way to her lips, Lizanne noting how her hand trembled as she set it down. “Lossermark is a large port,” she said, staring straight ahead. “There wasn’t room for everyone. Mothers with children were automatically allotted a place, as were the Conglomerate Levies. All others had to be chosen by lot, myself included. The situation . . .” She faltered, blinking rapidly. “The situation deteriorated alarmingly on the day of departure.”
“Bunch of headhunters and other scum tried to storm their way onto the fleet,” Trumane elaborated. “A few salvos from the Viable put paid to that mischief.” He sipped his own coffee and Lizanne saw that his hand didn’t tremble at all. “To the Travail with the lot of them, I say,” he added. “Worthless cowards.”
Watching Madame Hakugen dab a napkin at her welling eyes, Lizanne recalled her own fraught days leading the resistance at Carvenport. As bad as things had gotten towards the end she had at least been spared the burden of making such a decision. “I’m sure you did your best, madame,” Lizanne told the former Comptroller. “These days it appears we have nothing but hard choices ahead of us.”
“Any incidents during the voyage north?” Verricks asked.
“We lost one ship to a storm three days from port,” Trumane said. “An old coal hauler barely fit to sail. Another two took off on their own course a day later. I wasn’t going to waste time hunting them down.”
“No drake attacks?” Lizanne asked.
Trumane gave her a frosty sideways glance and shook his head. “Never caught sight of one during the whole voyage. Makes me wonder if all these tall tales of rampaging drakes and conquering Spoiled are just that.”
“Sadly, they’re all true,” Verricks assured him, whiskers bunching in a grim smile. “Feros has fallen silent. We have been unable to trance with them for two days.”
“There could be any number of reasons for that,” Trumane said. “An outbreak of influenza amongst the trance staff for instance.”
“Indeed. Which is why I intend to sail there forthwith. Your command is hereby ordered to join us.”
“There must be thousands of civilians in those ships,” Lizanne said. “You’re asking them to sail towards the very thing they’re trying to escape.”
“Thirty-two thousand civilians, to be exact,” Madame Hakugen said. “Who have been at sea for far too long already. Our supplies are not copious and Feros is the nearest port.” She inclined her head at Captain Verricks. “We will be happy to sail under your protection, sir.”
Verricks gave a small huff of discomfort that told Lizanne all she needed to know about his intentions. “Captain Verricks is not offering protection, madame,” she said. “He intends to form company with the Viable Opportunity and sail for Feros at the best possible speed. The Viable is a blood-burner and there are three Blood-blessed on this ship, which means the engines of both vessels can be fired to full capacity. Do I miscalculate, Captain?”
“Military necessity, miss,” Verricks sniffed. “As you said. Nothing but hard choices.”
“If you abandon these people,” Lizanne told him, speaking every word with great precision, “the report I will write to the Board regarding your conduct will make Captain Trumane’s report on Lieutenant Hilemore seem like a love-letter in comparison.” She held his gaze, seeing the stern resolve of a professional and long-serving Protectorate officer.
“Much as I respect the advice of an Exceptional Initiatives agent,” Verricks replied, “command of this vessel rests with me . . .”
“She’s right.”
They turned to Director Thriftmor, both elbows resting on the table as he massaged his temples. An untouched cup of coffee sat beside him. “Leaving thousands of refugees to fend for themselves in the middle of the ocean is an unconscionable act,” Thriftmor went on, lowering his hands to regard Verricks with tired eyes. “One I can’t support or, more importantly, justify to a public whose passions will no doubt have been inflamed by a hostile press. You may have command of this ship, sir, but I am a Board member and senior shareholder of the Ironship Syndicate. To all inten
ts and purposes this is my ship and so is”—he waved a hand at Trumane, trying and failing to remember his name—“his.”
Thriftmor turned away from Trumane’s glare to offer Madame Hakugen a smile. “Your ships will join with us, madame. Together we will sail for Feros where, if fortune favours us, safe harbour will be found.” He got to his feet and made a slump-shouldered progress to the door. “I’ll be in my cabin. Please knock only in the direst emergency.”
* * *
• • •
She found Makario at the rear of the mid–upper deck, following the sound of the flute he had somehow obtained during the voyage. Meeting here had become something of a nightly ritual. Since first meeting him in the odorous pit of Scorazin she had noted his aversion to serious conversation, something she now welcomed as a reprieve from the worries crowding her head, as was his music. It transpired that Makario was as accomplished with the flute as he was with the pianola and she had no difficulty in recognising the tune.
“Illemont again?” she asked, moving to rest her arms on the rail beside him. The long-dead Corvantine composer had been a particular favourite when Makario played for the largely unappreciative patrons of the Miner’s Repose. “One might suspect you of nurturing an obsession.”
“One would be correct,” he replied, lowering the flute. “But what is love, if not obsession?”
Makario pointed the instrument at the ships following the Profitable, the many freighters and Blue-hunters arranged in two long rows that extended for at least two miles. “I didn’t know we were expecting company.”
“We weren’t.” Lizanne cast her gaze over the darkened hulks of the refugee fleet. Whatever misgivings Captain Verricks might harbour about taking charge of this rag-tag collection of vessels hadn’t prevented him from issuing strict and sensible orders regarding its organisation. All lights were to be doused and each ship appointed a slot in a prearranged sailing formation. Every ship had also been strictly forbidden to stop for any reason. “I don’t care if the skipper’s grandmother falls overboard,” Verricks had said. “I’ll shoot any captain who stops their engines.”
