by Anthony Ryan
They had to fend off another charge before the gun was ready to fire again, Clay feeling his reserves of product diminish with every slaughtered drake. Fortunately, Preacher had evidently seen their plight and chose to lend a hand. Three Greens went down in quick succession, felled by longrifle shots from the crow’s nest. Despite this, the Greens continued to come for them and by the time the gunners called out a warning their product was almost all spent. There was no time to retreat so he and Kriz threw themselves flat, hands covering their ears as the gun blasted out its hail of iron balls.
The effect of this shot was even more deadly than the first, sweeping most of the attacking Greens away in an instant, leaving behind a dozen or so thrashing wounded. Clay scanned the midships seeing no sign of any more Greens clambering out of the sea. A cacophony of shots and shouts could be heard from the stern, indicating this fight wasn’t over yet.
“Come on,” he told Kriz, running for a ladder. “I expect the captain’s got some more product.”
* * *
• • •
“Your pet is a coward.” Steelfine glared at Clay, tattooed features hard with accusation beneath a mask of blood. A drake claw had left a trio of parallel cuts on the crown of his shaven head, though any pain he might have felt seemed to have been subsumed by anger. “Eight good men dead and six grievously burned or gashed, whilst that monster skulks below.”
They were on the aft deck where Lieutenant Talmant had charge of the clean-up crew. They were all clad in oilskins to protect against the effects of so much drake blood and used brooms to push the Green bodies, most of them in pieces, over the side. The more intact ones had been piled near the hold for harvesting later.
The fighting had been fiercest here. Having been forced back from the rails, Steelfine’s riflemen had taken up a defensive position near the stern, consequently suffering the brunt of the casualties. Once the pivot-gun’s cannister had cleared the upper works Hilemore and Lieutenant Sigoral, fortified by product from the ship’s safe, had led the counter-attack to clear the rear of the ship. But not before the majority of the Islander’s squad had been killed or wounded.
“He ain’t a pet,” Clay replied, keeping his voice as passive as he could. This wasn’t a time to surrender to provocation. “He’s a creature from another age trapped in a body that ain’t his. And he don’t even understand what a coward is. He’s just trying to survive.”
“So he survives whilst my men die.” Steelfine took a step closer, a murderous glint in his eye. “That doesn’t seem a fair exchange to me . . .”
“Number One,” Hilemore said. His voice was soft but commanding enough to bring Steelfine to immediate attention.
“Sir!”
“You’re wounded. Report to sick bay for treatment.”
Steelfine didn’t move for a moment, continuing to stare at Clay with jaw clenched until he snapped off a salute, grated, “Aye, sir!” between clenched teeth and marched away.
“At least now our Green stocks should hold out for a while,” Hilemore commented, clasping his arms behind his back as he surveyed the blood-drenched deck. “I’ll set Mr. Skaggerhill to it when he’s finished in the sick bay.”
He paused to regard one particular corpse, a drake that had been caught by cannister-shot. Its lower body had been disintegrated whilst its upper half hung from a walkway, the creature’s jaw fixed on an overhead beam with such force none of the crewmen had yet managed to dislodge it.
“It was well done, Mr. Torcreek,” Hilemore said. “The cannister. An excellent notion.”
Clay forced a half grin. “Just trying to survive too, Captain.”
“You might have made a fine Protectorate officer, had things been different.”
“That don’t seem likely. But thank you anyways.”
“Those were your uncle’s doing.” Hilemore gestured at a cluster of Green corpses arranged in a rough semicircle around the starboard-gun emplacement. “I saw him step up onto the gun just as it all started. Just kept loading and firing throughout the whole engagement. I don’t think he missed once.”
“Uncle Braddon’s always been one of the finest marksmen on the continent.”
“It’s not his marksmanship that concerns me. It’s his demeanour. Or rather his lack of it. He killed all of these and didn’t once change his expression. Nor did he show any sign of seeking a safer vantage point.”
“He’s . . . not quite himself just now. You know why.”
“Grief can lead a man to madness, if it’s stoked by vengeance. I’m wondering if instead of leaving one captain behind on your expedition, it might be better to leave two.”
“No.” Clay gave an adamant shake of his head. “Mad with grief or not, we wouldn’t last more than a few days in the Interior without him.”
“We have all suffered much on this strange voyage of ours,” Hilemore replied. “Lost many lives, men who trusted my judgement enough to follow me to the end of the world and back. I would not have that sacrifice be in vain, see this mission imperilled . . .”
“Captain!”
Hilemore turned at Lieutenant Talmant’s urgent call. The young officer stood at the stern, pointing at the Farlight, which had previously been anchored some hundred yards off but was now making steam and drawing away. The Blue-hunter had been completely unscathed by the Green assault, seemingly ignored by the drakes, who focused their fury entirely on the Superior. However, it appeared her crew had finally seen enough.
“‘Getting too hot around here,’” Talmant translated the flickering signal lamp on the Farlight’s bridgehouse. “‘Crew won’t stand it. Making for Stockcombe. Best of luck, and apologies. Tidelow.’”
“Seems your Islander’s got more cowards to rant about,” Clay observed.
“Yes,” Hilemore agreed. “Captain Tidelow would do well to avoid him in future.” He gave Clay a critical glance. “Are you sure about your uncle?”
“The one man in this world I’ll always be sure of is my uncle.”
“Very well. But make no mistake, Mr. Torcreek. Whether you know it or not, or like it or not, the expedition to Krystaline Lake will be under your command. Your uncle Braddon has forsaken such duty; I see it if you do not.”
* * *
• • •
They cleared Terror’s Cut the following morning, Hilemore having ordered the blood-burner brought on-line to ensure a swift passage. They were aided by the tide which raised the waters of the Cut into a fast-moving swell, propelling them clear of the channel without the risk of running aground on an uncharted sand-bank. Fortunately, no more Greens appeared come daylight and they made an unmolested progress into the Upper Torquil, covering much of the distance to the mouth of the Quilam River before nightfall. The Superior spent a nervous night at full alert, riflemen and look-outs posted in double shifts and all guns manned and loaded. For now at least it seemed the aquatic Greens were content to leave them be.
“You sure this thing will work?” Clay asked Kriz the next morning as he helped her carry her bulky breathing apparatus to the steam-launch.
“I think so, and so does Chief Bozware,” she replied. “I would have liked to conduct a proper test, but . . .” She glanced around at the becalmed, misty waters surrounding their anchorage. The Upper Torquil had so far proven to be less fractious than the Lower. In slight winds the surface took on an almost glass-like aspect, which somehow made it more ominous as it betrayed no sign of what might lie beneath.
“Yeah,” Clay agreed, grunting as they heaved the apparatus into the launch. “Best to wait till we get to the lake.”
He left her to check the device’s various valves and tubes, joining Loriabeth and Sigoral at the rail where they were engaged in a typically acerbic discussion.
“Just take it off,” his cousin told the Corvantine, reaching out to pluck at his eye-patch. “Can’t keep it on forever.”
&nbs
p; “Still hurts,” he said in a sullen mutter, snatching his head away. There was a tension to his bearing that told Clay his reluctance to remove the patch had little to do with any pain it might cause.
“Lori,” he said. “Skaggs needs help hauling up the rest of the ammo.”
She seemed about to tell him to do it himself but paused on seeing his insistent frown. “Your men think you’re weird for still wearing it,” she informed Sigoral before making for the hold.
“If I recall correctly,” Clay said, moving to Sigoral’s side, “you favour the right eye when shooting. How are you with the left?”
Sigoral gave a chagrined grimace. “When the drakes attacked, I must have fired fifty rounds. I think I managed six hits, all at close range.”
“You’ll do better over time. Just takes practice.” He fished inside his duster and came out with a wallet. “Compliments of the captain,” he said, handing it over. “Full vials of all four colours. I had a short trance with Captain Okanas this morning. Be obliged if you did the same.”
Sigoral nodded, consigning the wallet to his jacket pocket. “How’s her mind?”
“Surprisingly neat, and pretty. It’s a ship, as you might expect, but made of jewels. Each jewel is a memory. You?”
“The cliffs on Takmarin’s Land. I spent many hours there as a boy. The Cadre agent who tutored me said it was best to choose something familiar.”
Sigoral fell silent, looking to the broad river mouth half a mile to the north. “You have travelled the Arradsian Interior before,” he said. “Is it as bad as they say?”
“No,” Clay replied. “And yes. A lot depends on your manner of travel. I knew a woman who spent near twenty years out there and never got a scratch. Though she did have a good deal of help.” He gave Sigoral a sidelong glance, seeing the mottled flesh poking out from the edges of his eye-patch. “My cousin really don’t care about scars and such,” he said. “Just so you know.”
Sigoral lowered his gaze, saying nothing. Clay slapped his hands to the rail and moved away. “Captain Hilemore says the ship will only manage a few hours’ travel up the river before they have to drop us off,” he said. “Be sure to do your trancing before then.”
* * *
• • •
They were a good five miles into the river mouth before it began to narrow, banks thick with tall reeds closing in on both sides and drawing closer the farther north they steamed. The previously calm waters became churned with wayward currents and dark with disturbed silt. Clay stood at the stern, watching Jack’s spines cut the surface as he followed the ship. The drake could sense the imminence of their separation and didn’t like it, his fearful thoughts accompanied by a plaintive call that thrummed the deck beneath Clay’s feet.
You can’t go where I’m going, Clay told him once again, a mantra he had been obliged to repeat for the last few hours. But I’ll still be with you.
Jack seemed to take only marginal reassurance from this, his confusion having deepened ever since the Greens attacked the ship. He had never encountered their kind before and his thoughts were tinged with a wary repugnance that could be articulated as: smell wrong, sound wrong.
That they do, Clay conceded. And if they come back, you may have to fight them.
Jack’s thoughts grew warier still, an instinctive desire to avoid danger conflicting with his need to maintain their connection. Clay wondered if it might be kinder to set the beast free, as he had with Lutharon before they set off for the ice. But they still had so much to do, and who knew what use he might be in the future? I really ain’t a very nice person, he reflected causing Jack to voice a puzzled rumble, this one thrumming the ship with sufficient force to make the rail buzz in Clay’s hands.
Awful big ocean out there, Clay reminded him. You ain’t my slave, Jack. You want to go, then go.
Jack’s head rose out of the water for a moment, twin jets of flame sprouting from his nostrils as he gave what could only be called a derisive snort. His snout dipped back below the surface but his eyes remained visible, Clay sensing a certain reproach in the stare Jack levelled at him.
Guess that settles it, he conceded. Once I’m gone this ship will return to the Torquils to wait for us. Stay close if you can, but don’t starve yourself.
Jack replied with an image, a drake’s-eye view of what appeared to be a shimmering, shifting cloud that Clay soon realised was a large shoal of fish. Jack, it appeared, would not be going hungry in his absence.
The Superior’s steam-whistle let out the four short blasts that indicated an imminent stop, Clay feeling the faint rhythmic thud of the auxiliary engine fade from the deckboards. It seemed Captain Hilemore had decided this was as far as the ship could go. It’s time, he told Jack. If I die . . . he began, provoking an upsurge of fear in the drake. Clay asserted his will, forcing his thoughts through the fog of distress. If I die you’ll feel it. What you do then is up to you. Like I said, it’s an awful big ocean.
* * *
• • •
“The Lady Malynda.” Loriabeth read the name Chief Bozware had painted on the steam-launch’s hull in finely executed letters of red and black. “Couldn’t we call her something a sight more fierce?”
“It’s my former wife’s name,” the Chief responded, rubbing his back as he straightened from tightening a bolt on the engine. He vaulted over the craft’s side onto the Superior’s deck. “And be assured, miss, she was plenty fierce enough, even after the divorce.”
The engineer turned to Hilemore and touched two fingers to his forehead in a sketchy salute. Clay had noticed that the Chief was perhaps the only crew member Hilemore afforded such leeway when it came to formal discipline. “She’s as ready as I can make her, sir.”
“Fine work, Chief,” the captain told him. “Alright, Mr. Talmant, let’s get her in the water if you please.”
“Aye, sir.”
Under the young officer’s guidance a dozen crewmen lowered the Lady Malynda over the side and onto the swift-flowing surface of the Quilam. Skaggerhill climbed down first followed by Kriz, the only two in their party who had a notion of how to operate the engine. It was a coal-burner and took a good half-hour to heat the boiler to the required temperature. Supplies were duly lowered, enough for at least a month’s travel though Clay knew well they might have to resort to hunting for food in time.
“All I can spare,” Hilemore said, handing Clay a satchel containing several flasks. “Ten of Green. One each of the other colours.”
“Sure you can spare this much Red?” Clay asked, checking the satchel.
“The exigencies of the mission require it, Mr. Torcreek.” Hilemore glanced down at the launch where the rest of the party waited. Uncle Braddon had taken up position on the prow and sat in now-customary silence, his rifle cradled in his lap as his gaze roamed the river with predatory keenness. “No regrets about your choices?” the captain asked. “It’s not too late. Mr. Steelfine would make a fine addition to this company, and I know he would relish the challenge.”
“Yeah, but he also hates my guts.”
Clay offered his hand and Hilemore took it. “Captain Okanas will be expecting regular communication,” he said. “As will I.”
“Every three days till we get to the lake,” Clay said. “After that we’ll reschedule as needed, depending on how the Blue holds out.” He cast his gaze towards the stern of the ship where Jack’s spines could be seen tracking back and forth across the river. “If he leaves and don’t come back within two days, it most likely means I’m dead. Same if Captain Okanas don’t hear from me or Lieutenant Sigoral for five days. In that case it’d be best if you took off, make for Varestia like Miss Lethridge said.”
“Noted.” Hilemore inclined his head. “But I’d thank you to leave command decisions to me.”
“O’ course.”
Clay moved to the rail and clambered over, descending the rope
net to the Lady Malynda. Kriz was tending the engine whilst Skaggerhill had the tiller. Loriabeth and Sigoral were seated in the middle whilst Preacher sat close to Braddon at the prow. Clay waited for his uncle to say something, hoping he would turn and offer at least some word of command to set them on their way. Even the smallest grunt would have been welcome. But he said nothing, continuing to sit and maintain his hungry vigil over the water. Clay opened his mouth to call to Braddon but stopped when Loriabeth caught his eye and gave a stern shake of her head.
“Daylight’s burning,” he said instead, lowering his gaze to Kriz. “If she’s ready, let’s be on our way. Lori, Lieutenant, eyes on the water. Preacher, watch the sky. It’s a safe bet we’ll have company before long.”
CHAPTER 13
Lizanne
“Ten million in Syndicate scrip, eh?” The broken-nosed man grinned at Lizanne as he lowered Trumane’s letter. “Quite the offer, don’t you think, Mother?” He held the letter out to the prim, neatly attired woman who stood close by. “Have a gander at the signature. I think you’ll find it amusing.”
The woman’s handsome features remained impassive as she scanned the letter, though her lips curled a little when she got to the end. “‘Your faithful correspondent, Captain Wulfcot Trumane,’” she read before raising her eyebrows at Lizanne. “Or ‘Captain Noose’ as he’s known in these waters. I must confess, Miss Lethridge, but for the manner of your arrival I might otherwise have taken this as a rather poor joke.”
“I have no jokes to offer you,” Lizanne replied. “Just an honest offer in return for safe harbour, and sound intelligence I believe you will find useful.”
“Your captain hung my cousin on the deck of his own ship,” the broken-nosed man said, then frowned and added, “Well, second cousin, and a truly rotten bastard to be sure. But still blood of my blood. And my people are all about blood. But then so are you. After all, it’s your name, isn’t it? Miss Blood?”
