by Anthony Ryan
They stared at each other for a second, separated by a distance of barely ten feet. The Cerath shook its mighty head, eyes narrowed in wary contemplation of its foe. Unwilling to allow it the time to launch another attack, Clay surged into a sprint once more, covering the distance in two strides and leaping as high as his enhanced strength would allow. He turned head over heels in mid air, twisting with an acrobat’s precision to bring himself down squarely on the bull’s back . . . then let out a painful grunt as the bull dodged aside and he landed hard on the ground.
The bull roared and reared above him, hooves rising for a killing stamp, then froze. The beast’s roar choked off in its throat as it continued to stand there on its hind legs, immobile as a statue.
“Looked like you needed some help.”
Clay looked round to see Sigoral standing a short distance away, his gaze locked on the bull with the kind of concentration that only came from use of Black.
“That’s the truth.” Clay got to his feet, unslinging the coiled rope from his shoulders. “Probably should’ve thought of this in the first place.” He leapt onto the bull’s back, swiftly looping the rope over its neck before the elevated angle caused him to slip off. “Alright,” he told Sigoral, who nodded and withdrew his Black before wisely retreating several yards.
The bull let out a strange sound as it settled onto all four legs. It was somewhere between a sigh and a whinny and spoke of a deep, primal distress. Clay had expected it to buck or stamp, but true to his uncle’s word it just stood there, its sighs becoming more shrill by the second.
“Easy, big fella,” Clay said, smoothing a hand along the beast’s leathery hide. The bull twitched in response, craning its head to view the thing on its back with wide, fearful eyes. Clay continued to try and soothe it without much success before it occurred to him he had no notion of how to get it to move.
“Lay the rope on the right side of his neck,” Braddon said a short while later. “Gentle like, no need to whip him.” Clay did as he said, the muscles of the bull’s right shoulder shuddering in response as the animal shifted to the left. It came to a halt when he removed the rope from its hide. Clay tried the same trick with the left side with similar results. “Lay it on his rump to get him to walk,” Braddon said. “A couple of taps and he’ll run, but don’t try that just yet. Gotta get the rest of them in line.”
The other Cerath continued to stand a short way off, voicing sighing whinnies of distress but displaying no sign of any violent action. It was as if the immobility of the bull cast some sort of spell over them, robbing them of their will. A few grew skittish as the rest of the company approached, some shying away. At Braddon’s direction Lieutenant Sigoral used Black to hold a chosen few still long enough for them to be mounted and the gear securely strapped in place.
“Compass bearing, if you please, Lieutenant,” Braddon said once they had all mounted up. “East-north-east.”
Sigoral rode behind Loriabeth, who had hold of the reins of their Cerath, a young male only a few inches shorter than the bull. Unlike the herd leader, however, this beast was prone to continually turning about so it took awhile for the lieutenant to get a compass bearing. “That way,” he said finally, pointing towards a stretch of open plain.
“Once he starts he won’t stop till he’s tired,” Braddon called to Clay. “And that may take a good long while so hold tight.”
It took Clay a few minutes to manoeuvre the bull into position, the rest of the herd growing more agitated as he did so. Once he was reasonably sure the beast was facing the required direction Clay slapped the rope twice against his rump, whereupon the bull let out a throaty roar of alarm and spurred into a gallop.
Clay gave an involuntary laugh of exhilaration as the Cerath sped across the grasslands. Its speed far outstripped that of any horse he had ever ridden and the joy of acceleration came close to matching the feeling of riding atop Lutharon’s back. A thunder of hooves caused him to look over his shoulder to be greeted by the sight of the rest of the herd following, the earth seeming to tremble as they raced to keep up with their leader. Dust rose high enough to obscure the sun so that it felt like they were galloping through a foggy void. Clay turned his gaze to the front where the plains stretched away like a yellow-green sea. Taking a firm grip on the rope coiled about the bull’s neck he wondered if it might have been a good idea to drink some more Green before setting off.
CHAPTER 17
Lizanne
Lizanne blinked and found herself back in the hold, Makario retreating from her in surprise and lowering the mirror he had been holding close to her mouth. “Checking for breath,” he said. “You were gone a long time.”
Lizanne realised she had been placed on a bunk and concluded she must have collapsed. Usually a Blood-blessed would remain in the same seated pose whilst trancing. This one had evidently been different. Jermayah, Tekela and her father stood close by, all staring at her with worried faces. Lizanne swung her legs off the bunk, groaning a little at the lingering fog in her head. The Artisan’s trance had been the deepest and most vibrant she had experienced and leaving it rather felt like stepping from one world to another.
“Are you alright?” her father asked, moving closer to place a hand on her forehead. “Your temperature’s low. I’ll fetch Dr. Weygrand.”
“I’m fine,” she said, trying to swallow and finding her mouth dry. “Some water would be nice, though.”
“I’ll get it,” Tekela said, immediately scampering off.
Seeing Tinkerer on the next bunk Lizanne reached out to grasp his arm, giving it a gentle shake. “Do you remember anything?” she asked.
Tinkerer gave no response, continuing to lie still, eyes closed. Lizanne took his hand, finding it cold and seeing that his chest was barely moving. “I think you’d better get the doctor after all,” she told her father.
“Some form of comatose state,” Dr. Weygrand said a short while later. “But of a kind I’ve never seen before.”
He had conducted a full examination of the artificer, pronouncing his condition stable but unresponsive. Attempts to wake him with smelling-salts or prods from a small but sharp needle to the soles of his feet had produced no reaction. The doctor sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I’ll need to transfer him to the medical bay, rig up an intravenous drip to ensure he doesn’t dehydrate. I can add some stimulants to the mix which might wake him up.”
“No,” Lizanne said. He’s waiting, she realised. Or rather she’s waiting. Pumping drugs into his veins could disrupt his memories. “Thank you, Doctor,” she went on. “But I believe he’s best left unmedicated for now. However, I can’t stress enough how important it is that he remain alive.”
“It’s important for me that all my patients remain alive, miss,” Weygrand replied.
“Of course.” She smiled and gestured for Makario to follow her to a secluded corner of the hold. “The Follies of Cevokas,” she said. “Does it mean anything to you?”
“It’s a comic opera,” he said. “Dating back to the Third Imperium. Cevokas was . . .”
“A possibly fictional explorer of the Arradsian continent, I know. The tales of his exploits are classics of Corvantine literature.”
“And the basis for the Follies. It’s a fairly minor work, but highly popular in its day. It does seem a little vulgar for the Artisan’s tastes. He strikes me as a more discerning fellow.”
“She,” Lizanne corrected. “And she made it clear that we need to study the Follies of Cevokas. I believe there’s another movement to the composition, something that will unlock further memories from her chosen vessel.”
Makario glanced back at Tinkerer, silent and pale on the bunk. “So he’ll remain like this until we come up with the next movement?”
“I think so.”
The musician pursed his lips, frowning deeply, presumably as archaic tunes played in his head. “I’ll need to
reconstruct the opera from memory. It’ll take awhile.”
Catching sight of her father returning to his work-bench, Lizanne started towards him. “Tekela might be able to help,” she told Makario. “She does seem to have a facility for such things.”
“And an equal facility for getting on my bloody nerves,” he added.
“Time is a factor,” she reminded him before joining her father. He was engaged in an improved version of the aerostat’s blood-burner, a new feed mechanism that would enable product to be combusted in batches rather than all at once. “Tinkerer’s rocket,” she said. “Do you think you can finish it?”
* * *
• • •
Captain Trumane’s course guided the fleet in a wide arc around Iskamir Island, keen to limit any contact with Varestian vessels during the voyage. They saw a few merchantmen over the course of the next few days but none felt the need to investigate such a large formation of foreigners. It was only when they made the westward turn towards Blaska Sound that a flotilla of fast, sloop-class ships appeared on the northern flank of their convoy. A few hours later another flotilla of similar size appeared to the south. The Varestian ships maintained a consistent distance from the fleet, making no attempt at communication.
“Making sure we don’t change our minds,” Trumane concluded after the second flotilla appeared. He tracked his spy-glass along the line of Varestian vessels, grunting in grim recognition. “Pirates, the lot of them. That one in the lead is the Ironspike. Chased her all the way around the Southern Barrier Isles a few years ago. The captain kept throwing his cargo away to increase speed. After a while we started finding the bodies of his crew. He couldn’t have had more than a half dozen men left by the time a storm brewed up. Had hoped the bugger had foundered in it.”
Blaska Sound came into view the next morning, a mist-shrouded estuary about three miles wide. The passage was further constricted by a series of granite reefs that prohibited any rapid manoeuvring. Trumane signalled one of the smaller ships to lead the way, a one-paddle mail packet of aged appearance but with a veteran captain renowned for his navigational skills. The Viable Opportunity took up station a mile to the east, circling slowly with all hands at battle stations. Trumane maintained a rigid vigilance over their Varestian escorts as the fleet made its way into the Sound, calling out the range to each ship for the ensign at his shoulder to note down. Lizanne felt there to be a certain theatre in all of this, Trumane putting on a show to bolster the nerves of his crew. However, he must have known that whilst the Viable was a formidable ship, if the Varestians chose to attack she would be overwhelmed in short order.
“Looks as if your employers are keeping their end of the bargain,” he said, lowering the spy-glass as the last of the refugee vessels proceeded into the Sound. “For now at least. Helm, steer forty points to port. Mr. Tollver, signal the engine room to take us to one-third speed.”
* * *
• • •
“What a Divinity-forsaken dump,” Tekela observed as the Viable weighed anchor off Raker’s Mount. The place consisted of a loose arrangement of dilapidated hovels clustered around a series of hill-sized slag-heaps. The mine itself was a gaping black hole gouged into the slope of the mountain that loomed over the town. An incline railway line led all the way from the mine to the docks, which were the only truly impressive feature the settlement had to offer.
Five piers jutted out from the quay, which had been constructed atop a granite shelf that became a cliff at low tide. Consequently, the piers had been built on tall supporting legs of iron, each one streaked with rust. It was a testament to the sturdiness of their original construction that the piers were still standing after so many years of neglect. The steam-driven elevators that had once conveyed cargo and crew from moored vessels to the docks were apparently rusted to uselessness. Therefore, the fleet had been obliged to wait for high tide before disembarking the refugees. They were crowding onto the quayside in increasing numbers, most standing around in groups which reflected the ship they had spent so many weeks aboard. A few had begun to drift into the town in search of shelter but it was clear to Lizanne that a great deal of organisation would be needed before these people could be called a work-force.
“You should’ve seen Scorazin, my dear,” Makario told Tekela. “This is a genteel spa-town in comparison. Besides, I’ll be happy just to feel solid ground beneath my feet again. I find myself heartily sick of a sailor’s life.”
“If not the sailors,” Tekela muttered, earning a stern look from Lizanne.
“It looks as if I’ll have need of your secretarial skills once more,” she told her. “I trust you can find a note-book somewhere.”
“I thought I’d take the Firefly up again,” Tekela said. “Have a scout around.”
“Firefly?”
“The aerostat. I decided she should have a name.”
“Very nice, I’m sure.” Lizanne turned and started towards the derrick where Ensign Tollver was preparing a launch to take them to shore. “But I’m afraid your aerial adventures will have to wait.” She paused as an angry murmur rose from the direction of the docks. Two of the refugee groups had begun to jostle each other, voices raised as pushes and shoves soon became punches and kicks.
“Be sure to bring a revolver along with the note-book,” Lizanne added. “I believe we’re about to have a very trying day.”
* * *
• • •
“We work or we starve.”
The assembled crowd hushed as Lizanne’s words swept over them. She stood atop a raised platform in what had once been a shed used to house the locomotive engines for the incline railway. It was the largest covered space in the town and therefore a useful place for a general meeting. It also benefited from a scaffold of elevated walkways where a number of riflemen from the Viable had been stationed. She was flanked on either side by Captain Trumane and Madame Hakugen, and had hoped that the presence of the refugee fleet’s leaders, and the riflemen, might moderate any discontent. At this juncture, however, the assembly seemed unimpressed and certainly not cowed.
The hush that followed Lizanne’s statement was soon replaced by a babble of discontented voices, rising in pitch and volume. “We are not slaves!” one woman near the front shouted as she and a dozen others struggled against the line of sailors positioned in front of the platform. “I have children!” shouted another. “Corporate bitch!” added someone else.
Lizanne pressed the first and third buttons on the Spider and let loose with a blast of heated air, spread wide enough to prickle the skin but not set anything alight, along with a hard shove of Black, which sent the refugees at the forefront of the mob sprawling.
“I apologise,” Lizanne said, breaking the silence that followed. The crowd stared at her now, fear on most faces, but also plenty of defiance too. “Clearly I did not introduce myself properly,” she went on. “My name is indeed Lizanne Lethridge and I truly am a shareholder in the Ironship Protectorate. But I have another name, one I earned at Carvenport. They called me Miss Blood, and it was not a name I came by accidentally.”
She paused, scanning the crowd. She was quite prepared to send a concentrated blast of Black into the face of anyone who shouted another insult, but for now they seemed content to remain silent. “At Carvenport I organised a defence that saw thousands to safety,” she said. “I did so because those people gave me their trust, as I gave them mine. So I ask you to trust me now as I set out, in clear terms, the reality of our current circumstance.
“We have been provided with this haven, ugly as it is, not because our hosts desire our company or because their hearts are swollen with compassion at our plight. We exist here because I promised them weapons. You will make those weapons. If you do not the best we can expect from our hosts is to be told to leave. I don’t think you need a great deal of imagination to deduce what the worst will be.”
She allowed a few seconds
to let the information settle, seeing a measure of defiance slip from some faces, and the fear deepen on others. “But know that the weapons we will construct here will not just be for our hosts,” she continued. “Sooner or later an army of monsters will come for us, and there will be no corner of the world left in which to hide. Running before this storm is no longer an option. I told you we work or we starve, and that is true. What is also true is that we fight or we die.”
She let the subsequent silence string out, hearing a murmur of tense discussion but no more shouts. “This facility will be run in accordance with corporate law,” she said, adopting a brisk, managerial tone. “With the addition of certain provisions in the Protectorate Disciplinary Code. Desertion will be punished by death. Shirking work will be punished by reduction of rations. Repeat offenders will be flogged. Every adult of fighting age will receive two hours’ military training a day. Crèches and schools will be organised for the children.”
She pointed to the rear of the shed where Ensign Tollver and a group of sailors had begun to set up a row of tables. “Please form orderly lines. Provide your name, age, previous work history and any useful skills. Any Blood-blessed will also make themselves known. We will be conducting a blood lot eventually so if you have the Blessing there’s no point trying to hide it.”
* * *
• • •
“A little to the left!” her father called from atop the scaffold. Lizanne injected an additional measure of Black and concentrated her gaze on the bulbous steel container she had manoeuvred onto the twenty-foot-tall bottle-shaped brick chimney. There were several such chimneys scattered about the town, usually found in proximity to the slag-heaps. Lizanne had initially seen little of interest in them so was surprised by her father’s enthusiasm for what he called “coking ovens.”
