The Empire of Ashes (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

  Over the years the Voters Rights Alliance has maintained contacts with various sympathetic persons employed within the corporate structure. I wouldn’t go so far as to describe them as “covert agents,” more a small number of individuals disenchanted with their employers and occasionally willing to part with relevant information. Once such person, who I shall name only as “X,” met with me in the aftermath of yet another fruitless approach to the interim Board to impart a singular and important fact.

  “The Ironship Syndicate is bankrupt,” X told me. I had chosen a quiet corner in a secluded tavern for our meeting and was obliged to lean across the table to hear, the words being so softly spoken.

  “Bankrupt?” I asked, finding myself suddenly lacking comprehension. I knew the meaning of the word but placing it in conjunction with the wealthiest single entity in the world was momentarily disorientating. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “I mean they have no money.” X is not a character given to overt emotion so it was disconcerting to take note of a tremulous voice and twitching hands. “The company reserves are exhausted. There is no money to pay the workers in the manufactories. No money to pay the Protectorate soldiers. No money to pay the managers, executives or clerks. They’ve been printing scrip by the bucketload but it’s only a matter of time before a finance house attempts to convert a substantial amount of scrip into exchange notes or gold and discovers they hold nothing more than a pile of worthless paper.”

  I must confess to a certain hesitation before asking my next question. Although I had spent much of my adult years longing for the fall of the Ironship Syndicate, the apparent reality of just such an outcome was sobering to say the least. The Alliance had always campaigned for a peaceful transition to representative government and regulated markets, but the sudden collapse of the world’s greatest corporation would herald an era likely to be anything but peaceful. In all honesty, I wasn’t sure I wanted it to be true. Nevertheless I buttressed my resolve and asked the question anyway: “You have proof of this?”

  In response X handed over a weighty stack of financial ledgers, all marked “Secret—Board Eyes Only” and all showing a zero in the total column.

  “How could this happen?” I asked.

  “Product.” X let out a laugh at this point, somewhat shrill and rich in despair. “It was all built on product. Take that away and what is Ironship? Just a collection of offices, ships and manufactories, all soon to stand empty. And it’s not just the Syndicate. The Chairman of the Alebond Commodities Board committed suicide two days ago after being presented with a summation of the company accounts. Yesterday, South Seas Maritime issued an order forbidding any of its ships from leaving port, for the simple reason that they have no funds to buy coal or Red to fire the engines.”

  X gave another near-hysterical laugh, which soon faded, their features sagging into the pallid mask of a defeated soul. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” X said, rising from the table. “I need to go home, dismiss all my servants and tell my spouse they are married to a pauper. After which, I suspect I shall get very drunk indeed.”

  I made a slow return to the offices of the Gazette, clutching the ledgers tight and gazing around at all the people passing by. Despite recent troubles there was still an air of normalcy to Sanorah then. Stall holders still hawked their wares, boys still ran around delivering the Intelligencer and constables still strolled the thoroughfares, every one of them blithely unaware of the calamity that had already befallen their comfortable world. Upon returning to my office I ignored the many calls for my attention, locking the door and spending several hours in silent contemplation of the stack of ledgers on my desk. The decision before me was stark and, I decided in a fit of cowardice, not one I was prepared to make without counsel.

  Regardless of our short acquaintance, Mrs. Torcreek had proven herself to be one of the most level-headed and basically sensible individuals I had yet to meet. Also, her recent experience gave her a depth of insight beyond that of my immediate colleagues in the Alliance. Father knows more about corporate finance than anyone of my acquaintance, and was therefore far better attuned to the consequences of the act I was now forced to consider. Having answered my invitation they both stood in silence as I related the news. Mrs. Torcreek reacted with a stoic lack of surprise and a sympathetic shrug. “Trouble’s gonna find everyone sooner or later,” she said. “That’s the nature of the world right now.”

  My father was notably less phlegmatic, removing his jacket to roll up his sleeves before spending over an hour in feverish examination of the ledgers. “Seer save us all,” he breathed, closing the final one with a snap, resting his elbows on my desk as he rubbed at his temples. “It’s true. Ironship is ruined.”

  I should like to relate that I immediately rose to my feet with a suitably impressive declaration regarding the duty of the press and the rights of the populace to be informed of such disastrous news. However, in actuality I continued to sit behind my desk, staring at my father’s stricken features as I asked in a small, frightened voice, “What do I do?”

  He stared at me for some time, long enough for me to take shocked notice of the tears welling in his eyes. “Once . . .” he began in a choked quaver then paused, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his eyes. He coughed before continuing in a voice that actually sounded like my father. “Once I would have implored you to wait, give me time to liquidise the family holdings. And I’m sure you would have had many ugly things to say about my greed and selfishness, and perhaps you would have been right. Now . . .” He rested a hand on the ledgers, shaking his head. “Now it doesn’t matter. A disaster of this scale will take us all down with it, regardless of any action I take. Publish today or publish tomorrow, but publish. The world should know what’s coming.”

  “Your pa’s right, miss,” Mrs. Torcreek put in. “People got a right to know, and it’s your job to tell them, elst what are you doing here?”

  “Well quite,” I said, voice still small and hatefully weak. Taking a very deep breath, I rose to my feet, thanked them both for their advice and opened my office door, calling loudly for an urgent editorial meeting.

  The following day the headline of the Voters Gazette read: “IRONSHIP BANKRUPT,” rendered in the largest lettering our print set would allow. The story beneath contained a detailed summation, compiled with my father’s assistance, of the information in the ledgers provided by X. A battalion of Alliance volunteers spent several hours making copies of the ledgers which were sent to the editor of the Intelligencer and every other periodical in Sanorah. Copies were also dispatched via one of the few mail packets still operating to every major port in northern Mandinor.

  Although the Gazette’s circulation has never been huge, the fact that this particular issue had been distributed for free guaranteed an initial readership of thousands. Our vendors were quick to demand more copies and our available presses were soon producing issues as fast as could be managed. By the evening of that day lengthy queues had appeared outside all of the major Sanorah banks as depositors demanded withdrawal of their funds. The fact that all but the first few dozen were turned away was all the proof the populace required to validate the Gazette’s claim. The previously orderly crowds outside the banks soon became considerably less so. These were not the agitators and campaigners often dismissed as extremists and malcontents by the corporations. These were ordinary people of many trades and occupations, all suddenly finding themselves impoverished through no fault of their own. Windows were broken, the doors to the banks battered down and bank tellers forced to open vaults which were found to be mostly empty.

  Ironship’s reaction was swift but unfortunately predictable. A night-time curfew was declared, the Sanorah garrison was turned out with orders to assist the constabulary in clearing the streets. They also made the singular mistake of sending a company of Protectorate soldiers to arrest my good self and close the Gazette. The refugees, having been roused by Mrs. Torcre
ek, were more than happy to assist in establishing barricades in the surrounding streets. There are many stalwart souls amongst the refugees, some of them former Contractors hardened by numerous sojourns through the Arradsian Interior. Others are products of the notorious Carvenport slums and therefore habituated to use of weapons. Many of these people had contrived to retain ownership of their fire-arms, or found ways to purchase replacements since their arrival. Also, they were all unified, thanks to Mrs. Torcreek and the work I had done on their behalf, in a determination not to allow me to fall into Protectorate hands.

  Consequently, the commander of the Protectorate force bearing my arrest warrant found himself confronted by a series of fortified streets bristling with guns wielded by persons well acquainted with their use. Our defences were also augmented by a significant number of Voters Rights Alliance volunteers, veterans of many a protest who had armed themselves with clubs and piles of displaced cobble-stones for use as projectiles.

  The Protectorate captain, a resolute fellow, ordered his men to remain in ranks and approached our largest barricade alone, calling out a demand for my immediate surrender and a list of pertinent charges. “Corporate libel. Theft of Syndicate property. Conspiracy to disrupt public order . . .” This litany of misdeeds ended abruptly when one Molly Pins, the clown-faced woman I had first met at the docks, fired a single pistol shot that shattered a cobble-stone barely an inch from the captain’s foot.

  “Get the f—— out of here, y’Syndicate p——!” Miss Pins advised to loud acclaim from her fellow defenders. “And take those limp d——s with you, lessen y’wanna see ’em all dead!”

  The captain, now somewhat white of face, barked an order that had his soldiers unslinging their rifles, although some began to hesitate when Mrs. Torcreek added her own voice to the proceedings. “They ain’t paying you enough to die, boys!” she called out, standing tall on the barricade. “Fact is, they ain’t paying you at all!”

  Peering through a small gap in the barricade, I saw a few of the soldiers exchanging uncertain glances, whilst a number of others had failed to respond to their captain’s order. Apart from the sergeants they were all young, eighteen or nineteen for the most part, conscripts from the outlying holdings drafted only weeks or days before. However, most were dutifully bringing their rifles to port arms as their sergeants barked out their commands. It was clear that any chance to avoid this ending in violence was fast disappearing and I had no desire to see anyone die on my account.

  “Stop this!” I said, scrambling up to stand alongside Mrs. Torcreek.

  “What’re you doing, miss?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t let this happen.”

  I turned to the captain, raising my arms above my head. He stared up at me in grim satisfaction as I opened my mouth to surrender, then saw his body crumple when one of his men shot him in the back.

  For perhaps three full seconds nothing happened. The captain lay bleeding on the street. The soldier who had shot him stood frozen with smoke leaking from the muzzle of his rifle. The other soldiers all gaped at him or the captain’s corpse. Then one of the sergeants raised his rifle and shot the soldier in the head. After that, everything happened very quickly.

  “Geddown!” Molly Pins hissed, she and Mrs. Torcreek forcing me back behind the barricade as gun-fire exploded all around. The crack and snap of splintering wood accompanied the multitude of discharging fire-arms as bullets tore at the piled furniture that formed the barricade.

  “Stop shooting, Seer dammit!” Mrs. Torcreek yelled, her voice possessed of enough volume and authority to cause the surrounding refugees to cease their fusillade. “They’re fighting each other.”

  A quick glance above the barricade confirmed her judgement. The Protectorate company had split into two factions, both rapidly backing away from one another as they exchanged rifle-shots, often tripping over the bodies of their comrades in the process. In the confusion it was impossible to tell which group might harbour sympathy for our cause, although I did note that one was about two-thirds the size of the other. Also, the smaller group seemed to contain a number of sergeants whilst the larger had none.

  After a few frantic minutes the smaller group seemed to have fled, whilst the others remained, having taken cover in near by doorways and alleys. A half-dozen soldiers lay on the cobbles, most unmoving, a couple twitching as they groaned.

  The renegade soldiers emerged from cover shortly after, led by a scrawny, hook-nosed youth with the broad vowels of the Marsh Wold. “Not been paid for weeks,” he said. “Nor fed much the last few days. Not like we volunteered either. Most of us only got called up cos our folk’ve got land-hold contracts with Ironship.”

  He went on to describe the widespread discontent amongst the ranks of the Sanorah garrison and alluded to the possibility that he could persuade more of his comrades to join.

  “Join what?” I asked, a question I have since recognised as singularly foolish.

  “Why, the revolution o’course, miss,” the scrawny youth told me. “That’s you, ain’t it?”

  CHAPTER 18

  Hilemore

  “They’re safely on the plains,” Zenida said. “Mr. Torcreek thinks another three days until they reach the lake.”

  “So soon?” Hilemore asked in puzzlement. His examination of the charts relating to southern Arradsia left him with no illusions as to the distances involved.

  “Apparently a stampeding Cerath herd can cover a hundred miles a day,” she said. “Seems a hazardous form of travel to me, but there you have it.”

  They were in his cabin, Zenida having just emerged from the regularly scheduled trance. Every time she did this Hilemore would sit in tense expectation of her awakening with nothing to report. “He also said to tell you that his uncle’s mood seems to have improved a little,” she added.

  “Well that’s something at least.”

  Hilemore rose from his desk, pacing to the window to gaze at the placid waters outside. They were anchored off the southern shore of the Upper Torquil. Unwilling to sit idle whilst awaiting the Longrifles’ return, Hilemore had undertaken an ad hoc mapping operation of this inland sea. It was clear that the charts of this region held by both the Maritime Protectorate and the Corvantine Imperial Navy were badly outdated and in sore need of revision. Besides which, he preferred to occupy the crew with something beyond yet more painting of the hull or another scrubbing of the bilge tanks.

  “I thought I’d take a launch to shore tomorrow,” Zenida said, joining him at the port-hole. “Akina hasn’t set foot on dry land for months. Even for a Varestian, it’s not good to lose touch with the earth. With your permission of course.”

  Hilemore surveyed the shore, which was much more picturesque than the marshlands that surrounded the Quilam. Small rocky islands topped by trees proliferated amongst the many inlets and creeks, though any scenic appreciation was offset by the knowledge of what lay beyond. “If you wish,” he said. “I’ll send Mr. Talmant along with an escort.”

  “Why not come yourself? Take a little time away from your charts. I know Akina would like that.”

  “All she ever does is make fun of me, when she’s not cursing me in pirate slang.”

  “That’s why she would like it. And so would I.”

  Hilemore turned towards her, finding a wary but definite smile on her lips. They were conversing half in Varestian and half Mandinorian, as they often did when alone, which reminded him that she hadn’t referred to him as “sea-brother” for several days now. In Varestian culture the absence of such formality between crewmates could have significant implications. The thought immediately summoned Lewella’s face to mind and he looked away.

  You have no obligations, he reminded himself. A broken engagement is just that; the absence of obligation.

  “I . . .” he began, unsure as he spoke what his answer would be, then stopped as a palpable vibration thrummed through
the deck beneath his feet. The sensation was accompanied by a loud keening sound that seemed to be coming from beneath the ship.

  He frowned at Zenida. “Is that . . . ?”

  “It’s Jack,” she said. “And I believe that’s a warning cry.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Twenty points off the starboard bow, sir,” Talmant said, handing Hilemore a spy-glass as he and Zenida rushed onto the bridge. “About two miles out. Another to stern, similar distance. Chief Bozware has the auxiliary engine on-line and the blood-burner is standing by. Anchors are being raised.”

  Hilemore settled the spy-glass on a patch of sea two miles beyond the bows, finding a familiar roiling to the Torquil’s surface he had hoped never to see again. A quick check of the stern confirmed it. Greens, and a damn sight more than we faced in the Cut.

  “Well done, Mr. Talmant,” he said, lowering the glass and speaking swiftly but calmly. “Signal the Chief to bring us to one-third auxiliary power. Mr. Scrimshine, steer due west, if you please.” He pulled the set of keys from the chain around his neck and handed it to Zenida, lowering his voice. “Take every vial and report to the engine room. Tell the Chief to pack the blood-burner with as much product as he thinks she can take. Wait for my signal before firing it.”

  She reached out to take the key, her hand closing over his and lingering for a second. “You owe me a trip to shore,” she said before swiftly exiting the bridge.

  “Sound battle stations, Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore said, drawing his revolver and checking the cylinder. “Riflemen to the rail. All guns to load cannister.”

  After the near-fatal confrontation in the Cut he had ordered Steelfine to see to the conversion of half their remaining standard shells to cannister. The armour-piercing warheads had been pried off and replaced with modified food cans filled with rifle bullets and whatever scrap-metal they could find. Such munitions were unlikely to prove as effective as true cannister-shot from an Ironship manufactory, but Hilemore expected them to prove their worth if the range was short enough.