The Empire of Ashes (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

  “Stop!” he called, waving his arms. Lizanne halted the flow of Black and the container settled onto the chimney-top with an ugly groan of metal on brick. “Excellent,” he said, then called on his assigned group of workers to start shovelling coal into the aperture in the chimney’s base. Once the oven had been filled he turned expectantly to Lizanne. “I think this would go quicker if you would . . .” he said, gesturing at the Spider.

  Lizanne moved to crouch at the aperture, injecting a dose of Red before concentrating her gaze on the mass of coal. She stepped back as a deep red glow blossomed in the pile, then jerked aside as the whole thing burst into fiery life, the jet of flame coming close to singeing the sleeve of her overalls.

  “Close it up,” the professor commanded and a labourer came forward with a long iron pole to secure an iron door over the blazing aperture. Lizanne climbed the scaffold to peer over her father’s shoulder as he stared at a dial fixed to a valve in the container’s side.

  “It’s working,” he said as the dial’s indicator began to inch upwards. “We have ourselves a gas-plant.”

  “Coal-gas will work as well as helium?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t have quite the same lifting power but we can compensate for that with an expanded envelope. It does benefit from being less flammable than hydrogen. But given that we have neither helium nor hydrogen there seems little alternative in any case.”

  The sound of a ship’s siren drew Lizanne’s gaze to the docks. She could see men running to their stations on the deck of the Viable Opportunity whilst smoke blossomed from her stacks. The reason for the commotion soon became clear as she saw a sleek Varestian sloop approaching from the eastern stretch of the Sound. She was flying a truce flag but it seemed Captain Trumane wasn’t willing to allow the Viable to remain at her mooring with a potential threat so close.

  “Our hosts have decided to pay us a visit,” she said.

  “Good,” her father said. “I hope they brought some copper.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Did you know?” Arshav Okanas glared at her with dark, angry eyes. He had arrived on shore with a ten-man escort led by the perennially stern of face Mr. Lockbar. Lizanne decided to meet Arshav with a squad of riflemen under Ensign Tollver’s command. The two groups eyed each other across the wharf whilst Lizanne stepped forward to offer her employer the most polite greeting she could muster. Today, however, conversational niceties didn’t seem to concern him.

  “Know what?” she enquired, resisting the urge to flex her fingers over the Spider’s buttons. This man had a tendency to lead her towards unwise impulses.

  “Melkorin,” Arshav said. “It’s been burned to the ground and most of its population appears to have vanished, those that aren’t lying dead in the streets that is.”

  Melkorin, a port-town on the south Corvantine coast. The thought immediately led her to an obvious conclusion. It followed us.

  “Strange that this should happen shortly after you arrive in our waters,” Arshav went on, a snarl creeping into his voice. “Quite the coincidence, don’t you agree?”

  She considered dissembling, professing ignorance or confusion, but didn’t see the point at this juncture. The suspicion born on the deck of the Profitable Venture, when the Spoiled boarding party began their co-ordinated attempt to kill her, now seemed fully borne out. “The White is desirous of my death,” she said. “And the deaths of those I travel with. I did warn you its forces would be coming here.”

  “Not so soon you didn’t.” His voice had risen to a shout, causing her escort of riflemen to stir, which in turn had Arshav’s pirates reaching for their weapons. “Alright,” he said, waving a hand at Lockbar and making an effort to calm himself. “Why does it want you dead?” he asked in a marginally more controlled tone.

  “That,” Lizanne said, turning away and gesturing for him to follow, “is quite a lengthy tale, best shared over lunch.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Krystaline Lake,” Arshav said, shaking his head and reaching for the wine-bottle. “Father’s mad obsessions return to plague me once more.” He poured himself a generous measure and offered the bottle to Lizanne.

  “No thank you.”

  “Captain Noose?” Arshav asked, waving the bottle at Trumane, who sat opposite him. Lizanne had organised the meal in the only dwelling in Raker’s Mount that might be called grand. It was a three-storey house positioned at a decent remove from the rest of the town, proclaimed as the home of the Imperial Comptroller by the Eutherian letters carved above the lintel. The roof was mostly gone, the windows long vanished and the place smelled strongly of rot, but it did feature a dining-table complete with chairs.

  “No,” Trumane replied, returning the enmity in Arshav’s gaze in full measure.

  “Suit yourself.” Arshav set the bottle down and took a deep drink from his glass. “Piss water,” he said, with a grimace. “Don’t you people know how to greet an honoured guest?”

  “Krystaline Lake,” Lizanne said.

  “Oh yes, where your friends are off looking for Father’s fabled treasure. It’s all nonsense, you know. Ancient scribblings sold to generations of gullible fools, much of them fake, I’m sure.”

  “We have reason to believe otherwise. There is something at the bottom of that lake that can help us win this war. If your father told you anything . . .”

  Arshav laughed and drained his glass. “I mostly remember him telling me to get out of his sight. I was as much a disappointment to him as he was to me. So no, my dear Miss Blood, I have no secrets to share. Anything of use will be at the High Wall, and I am not welcome there.” His gaze darkened, fist tightening on the wine-bottle. “Even though it’s mine by right.”

  “The High Wall is the seat of the Okanas family, is it not?” Lizanne asked. “It would seem strange that you and your mother were able to assert control over the Ruling Council, and the Seven Walls, but not your family home.”

  “A home stolen from me by my own kin.” His gaze softened a little and he poured more wine, grimacing as he emptied the bottle before throwing it over his shoulder. “Perils of being born into a family of pirates, I suppose. The bastards’ll steal the gold from your teeth if you’re not careful. My dear cousin Alzar Lokaras, first-born son to my late aunt Kezia, now holds the High Wall. Supposedly in my sister’s name, as if she’s about to appear on the horizon anytime soon.”

  “Will he be amenable to negotiation? Perhaps, if I went . . .”

  “He’ll shoot you the moment he claps eyes on you. Hates all things corporate, y’see? Almost like a religion, really.” Arshav’s gaze swivelled to Trumane. “But it’s not like you didn’t give him plenty of reason, Captain. He lost a lot of sea-brothers to your attentions, as did I.”

  He drank more wine, gulping it down so that some leaked from the corners of his mouth. “Was going to kill you, y’know,” he gasped when the glass was empty. “Had it all planned. Once you’d settled in here and gotten all comfortable. I’d turn up with all my ships and threaten to pound the town to pieces, just like you intended to do to the Hive. Then I was going to hang you on your own deck, you vicious fuck!” He slammed the wine-glass down on the table, hard enough to shatter it, blood leaking from his fingers as he glared at Trumane.

  Lizanne found herself impressed by the captain’s failure to flinch. Martinet or not he was still a veteran Protectorate officer and Arshav his long-standing enemy, fully deserving of justice. Trumane said nothing, instead reaching for a napkin to dab away the drop of wine on his cheek.

  Lizanne began to speak but Arshav held up his bloodied hand, turning his baleful gaze from Trumane to her. “Your fables and doomed friends trekking through the Interior mean nothing to me. We have a war to fight and my mother and I want our weapons. How soon before you actually start producing anything?”

  “We need materials . .
.”

  “They’re being unloaded now. Everything on your list, just about, and enough food for a month. There’ll be more coming by the end of the week. How long?”

  “We’re already making progress,” Lizanne lied. In fact most of the work-force’s efforts since arriving in Raker’s Mount had been directed towards making the place fit for habitation. Lizanne had placed Madame Hakugen in charge of civil matters and the former Comptroller had done a great deal to smooth the ruffled nerves in the wake of Lizanne’s speech. The former members of the Eastern Conglomerate Levies had been organised into a militia that also served as a constabulary, which did much to imbue the town with a sense of order. Jermayah was organising the principal manufactory in the old railway shed, but as yet no actual weapons had been produced.

  “Lack of heavy plant is a problem,” Lizanne said. “Especially lifting gear. We’ve identified only three other Blood-blessed amongst the refugees. To make maximum use of their abilities requires product, especially Black and Red.”

  “Product is an increasingly scarce resource,” Arshav replied. “For obvious reasons, and what stocks we do have will be needed by our own Blood-blessed when the fighting starts. But”—he gave a reluctant shrug—“there are a few flasks in my ship’s safe. You can have that.”

  “That would be greatly appreciated.”

  “I notice you haven’t answered my question.”

  “A month,” she said, adopting her uncoloured tone. “The first delivery of Growlers and Thumpers will be made one month from now.”

  “You think our enemy will give us that long?”

  It was Trumane who answered, neatly folding his napkin and setting it down before addressing Arshav in a carefully modulated voice, no doubt designed to conceal his distaste. “Time in war is not given,” he said. “It’s bought, with blood. I command the fastest ship in these waters. Letting it sit here unused is a waste of a valuable asset.”

  “Want to take the fight to them, eh?” Arshav grunted. “Feel free, Captain. I’ll spread the word that your ship is to remain unmolested, just don’t expect any direct assistance.” He looked at his bloodied hand and grimaced in annoyance. “And if you should contrive to get yourself killed in the process, all the better.”

  He rose from the table, fixing Lizanne with a hard stare. “One month, Miss Blood. And when I return I expect to find a fulsome level of productivity.” With that he turned and stalked from the building, shouting for Lockbar and his guards to follow.

  Lizanne gave Trumane a sidelong glance. “Do you really think you can accomplish anything useful with just one ship, however fast?”

  “Your father was kind enough to share the specifics of his latest design,” Trumane replied with a thin smile. “Provided it’s ready before we set off, yes, I believe we can accomplish a great deal.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “This is foolish,” her father said. “You are needed here.”

  Lizanne fastened the buttons on her overalls. They were the work of a seamstress from Lossermark, lined with fur to ward off the cold found at altitude, as well as featuring numerous additional pockets for tools and weapons. Jermayah had managed to produce another Smoker for her, though on this trip she would have to do without the mini-Growler.

  “Madame Hakugen has things well in hand,” Lizanne replied. “And the production line is nearly complete. The intelligence to be had at the High Wall is too important to ignore.” She pulled on a shoulder rig for her twin revolvers. “Are you close to completing Captain Trumane’s project?”

  Professor Lethridge appeared unconvinced by her reasoning and less than happy with the change of subject. “Two more days,” he said, face dark with reproach. “It would have taken longer but we’ve been fortunate in having so many skilled instrument-makers here. Lossermark was a port, after all, and sailors always need clocks and compasses.”

  “Excellent,” Lizanne said. “When it’s done please concentrate your efforts on constructing more of these.” She nodded at the aerostat, bobbing gently in the wind between the two mooring poles at the end of the pier. The Firefly had undergone considerable modification since the last flight, with a wider gondola that would allow her to switch places with Tekela during flight and an envelope of greater size. An additional cannister of pressurised coal-gas had been fitted to the gondola should they need to replenish it. The improved feed mechanism for the blood-burner was also in place, though they had precious little product with which to fire it.

  “Any we build from now on will be warcraft,” she added. “Capable of carrying as much fire-power as possible.”

  “I’ve already drawn up the requisite designs,” he said.

  “Of course you have.” She pecked a kiss to the professor’s cheek before starting towards the Firefly, the engine’s propellers starting to turn as Tekela powered up the caloric engine. “I’ll return in four days.”

  “And if you don’t?” he called after her, fighting to be heard above the growl of the engine.

  “Then at least you can consider our contract with the Okanas family null and void.”

  II

  THE BURNING SEAS

  From the Journal of Miss Lewella Tythencroft—Sanorah, 21st Vorellum, 1600 (Company Year 211)

  The successful management of a revolution, it transpires, requires neither military genius nor inspired leadership nor great rhetoric. No, if there is one lesson I have learned over the course of the preceding weeks it is that revolutions require, above all things, paper and ink as well as presses with which to apply the latter to the former.

  I have no precise figures for the number of pamphlets, posters, handbills, one-sheet newspapers and other sundry publications produced by the Voters Rights Alliance since this all began but it surely must run into many thousands by now. The doughty old Alebond Commodities Mark II press that had served the Voters Gazette so well for several years eventually collapsed under the strain of it all. Had we not agreed on an alliance with the Printer’s Guild during the early days of this upheaval I doubt we would have achieved any measure of success in rousing the populace, but success, of course, is a relative concept.

  Having read the paragraph above I find my tendency to ramble has once more come to the fore. It has been some time since I had the leisure to write in this journal and so much has happened in the interval that it will take too long to document every particular here. So, I am forced to summarise the principal events.

  True to my promise to Mrs. Fredabel Torcreek, the Voters Rights Alliance shouldered most of the burden in housing the refugees from the Tyrell Islands. I must confess to operating in a haze of confused emotions for much of this time. Mrs. Torcreek’s news about Corrick engendered as much doubt and consternation as it did joy. It appears he has actually sailed off to the southern ice-cap in search of something glimpsed in a vision. Although, a much more thoughtful man than many in his profession, Corrick was never one given to flights of fancy and the notion that he might throw off Protectorate shackles to pursue something so ephemeral it seemed absurd to the point of impossibility.

  Mrs. Torcreek, however, had at least a partial explanation: “My nephew drank the blood of White Drake, miss. Guess that makes a fella awful persuasive.”

  Despite the doubts and unanswerable questions that threatened to befuddle my brain, I set myself to the task of aiding the refugees with all the energy I could muster. The minority who belonged to the managerial class were usually able to find relatives or friends to take them in which left the much-less-fortunate majority homeless without a scrip to their name. Many Voter families volunteered to provide foster homes for the distressingly high number of orphans, whilst others gave over spare rooms and attics to the few intact families to disembark the ships. Even so, the Alliance was forced to rent warehouse space to house the remainder. Wild speculation in the markets has had a strange effect on the warehouse district. Some remai
n full to capacity with unwanted luxury goods whilst those usually given over to agricultural produce and other necessities are increasingly empty. Consequently, finding a suitable location at a reasonable price was not difficult.

  The large number of sick and wounded presented a far greater problem. All but a few independent hospitals in Sanorah are under corporate control and, since none of the refugees could provide an insurance certificate, their doors remained firmly closed to us. As might be expected many of the refugees with sick or injured relatives reacted badly to this, especially those hailing from Carvenport who, on the whole, display only a small regard for corporate authority. A minor riot erupted at the gates of the Ironship General Hospital, which degenerated into an ugly free-for-all when the constabulary arrived. More trouble might have broken out if aid hadn’t come from an unexpected quarter.

  The day after the riot my father arrived at the Gazette offices with a letter of credit amounting to some one hundred thousand in exchange notes. Thanks to this donation the Alliance was able to secure all the required beds in the independent Sanorah hospitals. I will confess to a few private tears following this incident, my emotions being so aggravatingly variable at this juncture. The fact that my father’s intervention had been completely unsolicited, and I am aware that accumulating such a sum would have required him to liquidate a large portion of his personal assets, still brings a certain moistness to the eye.

  In all over seven thousand people were successfully provided with shelter, food and medical care within two days of arrival in this port. I should record that all this was achieved without any assistance whatsoever from the Ironship Syndicate. The few managerial representatives with whom I secured a meeting provided only empty platitudes and reminders of the wider crisis facing the entire globe. If anything, their demeanour was mostly one of irritation, as if the need to provide succour to thousands of dispossessed souls was a mere diversion from the real issue.