The Empire of Ashes (The Draconis Memoria)

by Anthony Ryan

  “Miss Lethridge.” Madame Hakugen rose as Lizanne entered.

  “Madame.” Lizanne gestured at the chair in front of the director’s desk. “May I?”

  “Of course. Dissel,” she said, turning to her secretary, “please fetch us some tea.”

  “Tea?” Lizanne enquired, sinking into the chair with a raised eyebrow as the girl bustled out.

  “Sovereign Black no less,” Madame said, also taking a seat. “A gift from Captain Kashiel. We were acquainted before in Lossermark. She always did appreciate the social aspect of business.”

  “I trust you shared it with your staff.” Lizanne gave her a bland smile. “I am hoping to foster a more egalitarian approach to management in this company. Individual privilege would appear to negate that.”

  “I have never been one to hoard luxuries, in truth we are about to enjoy the last of the supply.” She paused for a moment, eyes narrowing a fraction. “Am I to take it then that the Mount Works will adopt a radical approach to commerce? Your intention seems more in line with that of a Corvantine revolutionary than the traditional corporate ethos.”

  “The traditions of the corporate world seem to have availed us little of late. I think it’s time we tried something different.” She reached inside the pocket of the seaman’s jacket she wore over her overalls, producing a sheaf of papers. “It’s all in here,” she said, setting the papers on the desk. “Proposed management structure and remuneration protocols.”

  Madame unfolded the papers and began to read, her eyes narrowing all the while. She read in silence, scouring the pages with a scrutiny of sufficient length that Dissel had returned bearing a tea-tray by the time she finished.

  “The difference between salaries for management and worker is hardly considerable,” Madame Hakugen observed after the girl had made her exit.

  “Indeed it isn’t,” Lizanne agreed, taking a sip from the steaming cup Dissel placed in front of her. Sovereign Black had never been her favourite but, after so long without the taste of tea it was quite wonderful.

  “And all employees are automatically made shareholders,” Madame went on.

  “Yes, with current workers and managers all holding an equal number of shares. New workers, assuming we ever have the opportunity to employ any, will receive one share upon joining to be increased by a share a year until they achieve parity with their colleagues.”

  “A co-operative,” Madame said, setting the papers down and reaching for her own tea-cup.

  “Quite so. A company where everyone shares in the profits and is thereby incentivised to generate more. And I should like you to run it.”

  “A novel proposal, and one I’ll certainly consider. But I find it odd you would put this forward now, with the continuing emergency . . .”

  “I put it forward because of the continuing emergency. You’ll find another document at the end of the bundle. I ask that you witness it.”

  Madame leafed through the papers until she found it, her brows knitting in puzzlement as she read the opening paragraph. “You appear to have written a will,” she said.

  “I have. There was a pre-existing will stored at Exceptional Initiatives headquarters, but I suspect it’s ash by now. In any case, my wishes have changed since then. The list of beneficiaries is short and I trust you will ensure they all receive the allotted bequests in due course.”

  “One typically puts one’s affairs in order in the expectation of an imminent demise.”

  Lizanne pursed her lips in agreement. “One does.”

  Madame Hakugen sat back in her chair, eyeing Lizanne closely. “The fact that you prepared a will indicates you expect the beneficiaries to survive, but you do not. Am I wrong?”

  “Rarely, I suspect.”

  The director let out a soft humourless laugh, shaking her head. “It is my contention that you are far too valuable . . .”

  “Just sign it.”

  Madame’s gaze snapped up at the hardness in Lizanne’s voice. She met the older woman’s eyes, making sure she understood her resolve. After a moment, Madame reached for a pen, dabbed the nib in an inkpot and added her signature to the document.

  “Thank you,” Lizanne said, taking a moment to drain her tea-cup. “I have one more request before I go, regarding personnel.”

  “Personnel?”

  “Yes. I know you have compiled copious records regarding the prior occupations of our employees. I require one with a special set of skills.”

  “All those with military experience have been identified . . .”

  “Not military experience,” Lizanne broke in. “Theatrical.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The Little Cut was too far away to hear the explosion but the cloudless morning sky gave Lizanne a clear view of it. She watched through the front window of the Typhoon’s gondola as a brief flash of white blazed in the centre of the pass before a vaguely mushroom-shaped cloud began to rise above the mountains of the Neck. The charges laid in the Small Cut exploded shortly after and soon there were two tall mushrooms rising to east and west. The demolition crews, all experienced miners or road-builders, had been dropped by aerostat three days before, working with feverish energy to complete the task in the time available. Lizanne had yet to catch sight of any Reds but knew their enemy must have seen the explosions.

  They know the only quick route now lies in the Grand Cut, she thought. But will they take the bait? It was possible the White could steer its army towards the coast road to the west, buying the Defence League valuable time in the process, but she had a sense it would try for the pass despite the obvious risks. What does it care about risks? It can always make more Spoiled, at least for now.

  She held on to the central support strut as Tekela put the Typhoon into a steep descent. The other Blood-blessed, ten in all including Morva, were crowded together in various states of white-faced nausea. For most it was their first trip in an aerostat, and three of the Blood-blessed from the Mount Works had never seen any kind of combat before. They all carried Smoker carbines and each had a Spider on their wrist, fully loaded with product. In addition they carried full flasks of Red, Green and Black with an emergency vial of Blue. It occurred to Lizanne that with all the product on their person those drafted into this mission might well be, albeit briefly, the richest group of individuals on the planet.

  “Get ready,” Lizanne told them as the Typhoon levelled out. She peered through the rear window at the Tempest, the Typhoon’s recently constructed sister ship into which another thirteen Blood-blessed had been crammed. The Tempest bristled with armaments, two Thumpers on either side of the gondola with a Growler at the rear and another two in a fixed position at the front which could be triggered by the pilot. The look-out in the upper gondola also had a mini-Growler to ward off attacks from above. The Typhoon was armed only with Growlers thanks to the heavy object hanging beneath her gondola, which limited the weight she could bear and still manoeuvre.

  “Check your watch,” Lizanne told Morva, who obligingly extended her wrist to display her timepiece. Lizanne placed her own watch alongside to ensure they were synchronised. “Start the trance . . .”

  “In exactly two hours,” Morva finished. “Remain in the trance until you contact me or the product runs out. I know.”

  Lizanne nodded in satisfaction and started towards the front of the gondola, pausing when Morva said, “It was my uncle, wasn’t it? He made you leave me behind.” There was no heat to her words, just careful observation.

  “My trance connection with you is stronger than with the others,” Lizanne replied.

  “Mrs. Griffan could have taken on the role.”

  “Mrs. Griffan is insane. She’s better off remaining on the Viable.” She met Morva’s gaze. “You have this role because I trust no one else to do it.”

  She returned to Tekela’s side, watching the approaching mountai
ns. The morning winds were stiff but she had been advised by Varestians familiar with the region they would grow fierce as the day wore on. The Grand Cut came into view as they flew over the southern foot-hills. Lizanne found its appearance somewhat at odds with its name, a narrow, cliff-sided track tracing the contours between the flanks of two mountains. She took some solace from the photostats that showed the pass to be considerably wider to the north and, therefore, hopefully a more tempting option for whoever had command of the White’s forces today.

  Tekela, having made this trip several times over the preceding days, steered the Typhoon towards a broad ledge jutting from a point a hundred feet or so up the eastern mountain. Reconnaissance had revealed this as the optimum landing site as there was a similarly proportioned ledge on the opposite side of the pass. Tekela brought the aerostat closer, deft hands correcting their course as the fractious mountain air-currents buffeted the craft. After a few minutes of careful handling the Typhoon hovered over the ledge at a height of twenty feet.

  “Remember,” she told Tekela, “not until Morva gives the order. No matter what else might happen.”

  Tekela looked up at her, the tension evident in her set features. “And if there is no order?” she asked.

  “The mission will be over. Fly back to the Mount.” She paused before moving to the hatch in the floor. “And be sure to meet with Madame Hakugen as soon as you return.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Clay

  It seemed as if half of Stockcombe was already alight by the time Lutharon swept over the outer wall. Fires raged on both sides of the falls and he could see people running through the streets on the eastern side. At first it appeared to be the chaotic end of another city fallen to the White’s malice, but then he saw smoke-plumes rising from the cannon on the ships in the harbour. To Clay’s bemusement they were firing into the eastern districts of the city, the shells falling amidst the houses closest to the rim of the crater. As Lutharon flew closer, however, he saw Reds leaping from one roof-top to another, belching flame at the people running in the streets below. He saw one Red blasted in half by a direct hit from a cannon shell, but there were dozens, perhaps hundreds more still scrambling over the lip of the crater. Fortunately, it appeared none had noticed Lutharon’s arrival.

  Clay had already filled his fist with vials of Red, Green and Black. He drank them all now then glanced over his shoulder to ensure Kriz was doing the same. He leaned forward, placing a hand on Lutharon’s neck with the intent of guiding his attack but the Black needed no instruction tonight. Folding his wings, Lutharon angled his body in a near-vertical dive, Clay finding himself thankful for the Green he had imbibed as the slip-stream might otherwise have torn his grip from the neck spines. Lutharon flared his wings and tilted back as they neared the roof-tops, claws stabbing down to pierce the hide of an unsuspecting Red. It struggled frantically, tail lashing at Lutharon’s hide, close enough for Clay to reel away from a whip-crack an inch from his ear. Lutharon clamped his jaws on the Red’s neck and snapped it with a swift wrenching jerk.

  Rearing back from the kill, Lutharon raised his head to the sky and let out a loud, summoning roar. The great host of Blacks circling above responded without hesitation, streaking out of the gloom in a dark torrent. To Clay’s eyes it seemed as if the night sky were reaching down to pour a shadow over the city. Red after Red was crushed under the weight of the assault, some tried vainly to take to the skies only to be caught and dragged back into the tearing, rending maelstrom.

  The rain of Black drakes swept over the upper districts, swallowing Reds as it did so, then spilling over the lip of the crater to assail those still charging across the plain beyond. The mind controlling the drake assault evidently realised the danger at that point for the sky beyond the edge of the crater suddenly became filled with Reds as they abandoned their ground assault. The Blacks began to take off in response, leaving behind a host of slaughtered drakes.

  Clay communicated to Lutharon the need to wait as he and Kriz slipped from his back and hurried to a safe distance. “They’re all yours, big fella,” Clay told him as Lutharon crouched then launched himself upwards, his wings birthing a gale as he climbed into the darkness.

  “Come on,” Clay told Kriz. “We gotta find the captain.”

  They leapt from one building to another, sailing over streets thronged with panicked people, Clay constantly searching for someone in authority. He soon happened upon a crew of fire-fighters attempting to contain a blaze raging in a two-storey tenement. “Hilemore?” he said, leaping down to shout into the ear of the youth who seemed to be in charge.

  “That way,” the youngster shouted in response, pointing to another blaze burning a few streets ahead. Clay and Kriz ran on, dodging past fleeing townsfolk who as yet failed to recognise the fact that their deliverance had arrived.

  They rounded a corner into a small square where Clay’s gaze immediately alighted on Hilemore’s unmistakable form. The captain stood over a large Red, surrounded by bodies in various states of burnt dismemberment. A girl of about eighteen knelt close by, face frozen and expressionless despite the tears streaming from her eyes. As he drew closer, Clay saw that the Red was still alive despite the numerous bullet-holes in its hide. Its wings flapped feebly and its claws dug into the cobbles as it sought to raise itself, and might have done so had Hilemore not raised a revolver and put a bullet through its skull.

  “Captain,” Clay called out, running to his side.

  Hilemore’s face was grim as he glanced at Clay and offered a muttered greeting. “Mr. Torcreek. I had hoped to see you earlier in the evening.”

  “Blacks can only fly so fast.” Watching Hilemore’s gaze track over the surrounding corpses, rich in guilt, he asked, “Friends of yours, huh?”

  “The Wash Lane Defence Volunteers,” Hilemore replied. He went to the kneeling girl, crouching to gently pull her to her feet, murmuring, “It’s done, Jillett. We won.”

  The girl closed her eyes and stepped away from him, hugging herself tight. “What did they win?” she asked in a sob, jerking her head at the bodies. Hilemore had no answer for her and she sagged a little in mingled sorrow and exhaustion.

  “Here,” Kriz said, coming forward to take hold of the girl, offering a vial of Green. “This will help.”

  Jillett made a faint effort to shrug her off, but allowed herself to be guided to a near by bench where she drank down the Green.

  “We killed the first one we found easily enough,” Hilemore was saying in a faint distant voice, his gaze now fixed on the Red he had shot. “This one was different. Jillett tried to hold it with Black but it was just too fast, too strong . . .”

  Clay coughed, finding he didn’t particularly care for this version of the captain. Much as they grated on each other the man’s unerring will and discipline had long been a source of reassurance.

  Hilemore blinked and straightened, turning back to him. “There are still Greens on the other side of the falls and in the harbour,” he said, holstering his revolver. “They’ll need to be dealt with.”

  “Our friends’ll take care of it,” Clay assured him. “Gonna need you to make sure the folks here don’t shoot at them. Think you can do that?”

  Hilemore’s expression hardened into a gratifyingly familiar frown. “Of course,” he snapped and marched off, heading south to the harbour. “We’ll need help fighting these fires,” he added over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The battle between Red and Black raged in the skies over Stockcombe for nearly an hour, swift moonlit shapes soaring and diving against a back-drop of stars. Occasionally the struggle would be illuminated by a concordance of flame. Human spectators were briefly presented with the sight of a dozen or more drakes assailing each other in a whirling knot of lashing tails and stabbing claws, before the flames died and all became confusion once more. Drakes fell into the harb
our throughout it all, trailing smoke as they plummeted down. Most were dead but a few struggled on the surface for a time, screaming out distress calls until the water pulled them down.

  By dawn all the Reds appeared to have either fled or fallen and the Blacks turned their attention to the Greens still prowling the western side of the city. They swooped down in successive relays, plucking Greens from the streets, crushing them with claws and teeth before casting the bodies away and diving down for more. When sunlight crested the edge of the crater Clay saw a steady stream of Greens fleeing over the western wall. Apparently the unseen hand that commanded them had finally allowed a retreat.

  In the aftermath Stockcombe lay silent under a pall of smoke. The ships sat in harbour waters painted a dull red in the meagre light. There was no celebration amongst the townsfolk, no upsurge of joy in victory. Many stood or huddled together, soot-stained faces blank with shock whilst others wandered aimlessly, staring at the blackened ruins of homes or businesses. The children were an exception, clustering around the many drake corpses and chattering in excitement as they poked them with sticks, sometimes scurrying back in delighted alarm when they twitched in response.

  The Blacks continued to patrol the skies above the city, drawing many a concerned and wary eye. Clay had communicated to Lutharon the need to keep out of rifle-range along with a stern warning against perching in the city itself. Instead the Blacks came to rest on the walls along the crater rim, bodies turned towards the rising sun and wings spread to catch the warmth.

  Captain Hilemore, seemingly immune to fatigue, organised working parties from the Superior and the merchant ships to assist in clearing the worst of the rubble from the streets and extinguishing the few remaining fires. He also enlisted the large number of harvesters in the port to extract product from the bountiful supply of corpses littering the streets and the surrounding country, raising a somewhat problematic question in the process.