by Anthony Ryan
“He died centuries ago.”
“Indeed he did, and yet here we have evidence his genius lives on, as real as you or I.” A smile returned to Bloskin’s lips and Lizanne could have sworn she heard the hard snap of a trap closing on her wrist. “Would you like to know where we got it?”
• • •
It’s impossible. Over the Blue-trance, Clay’s dust-devil swelled into a rendering of his face, the particles assuming a scornful expression.
Is it? Lizanne asked, summoning the whirlwind that contained the memory of his encounter with the White. You saw many wonders beneath that mountain, as I recall. We know the Artisan went there once. We know that those crystals have the power to change us. What if they changed him?
A shudder ran through Nelphia’s surface, raising the moon-dust into a facsimile of the domes he had seen in the subterranean city and the light shining from them: white, red, blue and green, but no black. Green, she said. You saw what the blue crystal did to the Briteshore Minerals people, transformed into Spoiled by the power of its light. What if he found a green crystal? Green blood is a panacea and a restorative. If these crystals possess the same power as the product they represent . . .
Which means, Clay mused, his scepticism diminished but only slightly, the Artisan made it into the city and back out again. Might explain why he went crazy. You say your boss got this from the Corvantines?
Handed to him personally by an old adversary in the Blood Cadre. They meet every now and then to reminisce, apparently. There was no explanation as to its origins but they did request it be shown to me.
It’s bait. They want you on this diplomatic mission of theirs.
Obviously. The question is why.
You stole the Artisan’s solargraph, killed a cart-load of their agents and held off their army at Carvenport. I doubt they’re gonna greet you with flowers and candy.
She let her thoughts settle, her whirlwinds becoming more placid and losing the red tinge of frustration that stemmed from the much-detested sensation of ignorance. You have docked at Lossermark, I assume?
Day and a half ago. Things’ve gotten a little confused since this tub’s original captain woke from his coma. He’s pretty trying company, I must say.
If he proves a barrier to our objective it’ll need to be dealt with. The time for scruples is behind us.
Hopefully it won’t come to that. My uncle’s got a notion of how to proceed. Looks like the future’s gonna need a helping hand.
There was a pause before he conveyed his next thought, several nascent dust-devils sprouting then fading before he found the right words. The White’s coming. You know that. When it does there’ll be a lotta people in Feros needing your help. Our people.
He didn’t need to share a memory for her to discern the object of his concern. Joya and Fredabel.
I can help them more if I can find the Artisan, she said eventually, conjuring the image of the design Bloskin had shown her. If he’s still somehow alive he possesses knowledge far beyond our own. I have to take the chance.
The domes he had raised turned to instant powder as another shudder rippled through the moon’s surface. You’re really gonna do this? Place yourself at their mercy?
I have never been at anyone’s mercy, Mr. Torcreek. I don’t intend to start now.
• • •
The late-afternoon shift was winding down by the time she got to the workshop, the industrial cacophony not quite at its usual bone-shuddering pitch. Tekela and Arberus were overseeing the final assembly of a Mark II Thumper, an even more fearsome beast than its predecessor with lengthened barrels for greater range and a higher rate of fire thanks to the more efficient gearing her father had designed. Their work-force of twenty former Carvenport artisans laboured away at the production line, an array of work-benches snaking through a recently constructed extension to the shed which had been the birthplace of the Lethridge family’s often wondrous, if rarely profitable innovations.
Jermayah was engaged in yet another heated discussion with a tall man in a long, heavily besmirched white coat. The tall man stood with his arms crossed and gaze raised in stubborn dismissal as Jermayah expounded at length on the correct arrangement of fuel lines for the bulky yet complex confection of iron and copper sitting on the bench between them. From the recent scorch-marks on the bench Lizanne deduced yet another test had ended in failure. The tall man glanced over as she went to a neighbouring bench, ignoring his questioning glare and extracting a roll of blue design paper from a near by bin. Taking up a thick pencil she weighted down the paper’s edges with some discarded knick-knacks and began to draw. As expected it took only moments before the pair of them forgot their argument and came to scrutinise her work.
“A balloon,” the tall man said in a determinedly neutral tone as the diagram began to take shape on the paper, Lizanne reproducing the image from memory with practised ease. “The envelope shaped so as to be navigable through the air. Hardly an original idea.”
Lizanne kept drawing, completing the sausage-like shape and the ribs tracking along its length, before going on to set out a much neater Mandinorian translation of the original Eutherian notes.
“Interesting,” Jermayah said, leaning closer to read the words. “‘Fashion the structure from a composite of tin and zinc.’ Of course, lightness and strength combined. Remarkable.” His stubby finger tapped the calculations. “Have these been verified?”
Lizanne didn’t reply, completing the diagram by adding the propelling apparatus to the body of the main structure. “A parting gift, Father,” she said, looking up to meet the tall man’s gaze. “I’m going away for a time.”
Professor Graysen Lethridge stiffened and turned his eyes towards the lumpen collection of iron and copper resting on the neighbouring bench. “I have little time for flights of fancy. The Lethridge Tollermine Mark One Caloric Engine nears completion. And when it does the world will change for the second time in a generation . . .”
Unwilling to suffer through another speech, Lizanne tossed the pencil aside and walked away. “Build it or don’t,” she said, striding off towards Tekela and Arberus. “I have good-byes to make.”
“Wait!”
She paused, turning to regard his flustered visage. As long as she could remember she had possessed the gift of turning this occasionally brilliant man into a barely coherent picture of paternal rage and disappointment. Today, however, there was at least an attempt at restraint in his demeanour. It took a moment of jaw clenching and needless coat straightening before he said, “Might your father know your destination? Or have you once again sunk yourself into the mire of Ironship’s covert intrigues?”
“A public intrigue, in fact.” She looked at Jermayah expectantly, adding a few insistent eye-flicks before he took the hint and retreated to tinker with the caloric engine.
“I now hold the respectable post of diplomat,” she said, returning to the bench. “They’re sending me to Corvus, ostensibly to help negotiate an alliance. In fact”—she gestured at the diagram—“I am tasked with finding whoever designed this.”
The professor’s eyes roamed the design with a new intensity then narrowed in recognition. “The same hand that crafted the baffling box you brought me, if I’m any judge.”
“Quite so, Father.”
“The Corvantine Empire is vast. How could you hope to accomplish such a thing?”
“There are . . . lines of enquiry,” she said, unwilling to divulge anything that Bloskin might take exception to. “Will it work?” she asked, nodding at the diagram.
“Perhaps, with a sufficiently light-weight means of propulsion . . .” He trailed off and glanced at the as yet lifeless caloric engine. “I see my daughter’s gift for improvisation hasn’t deserted her.”
She smiled. “I have every confidence in you, Father. Also . . .” She pulled a sealed contract from her pocket and placed it on the bench. “I
was able to negotiate a new agreement on your behalf.”
His gaze darkened and he made no attempt to retrieve the contract. “I want . . .”
“. . . nothing to do with that band of thieves. I know.”
She sighed and broke the seal, unfolding a document signed by all Board members currently in Feros. “‘The Ironship Trading Syndicate (hereinafter referred to as “The Syndicate”),’” she began, reading aloud the opening paragraph, “‘hereby acknowledges, without prejudice to any preceding legal decisions or agreed contracts, that Professor Graysen Lethridge is the sole inventor of the Mark I thermoplasmic engine (hereinafter referred to as “the engine”). Furthermore, the Syndicate agrees to pay a restitution fee of ten million in Ironship Trading Scrip in lieu of incurred royalties. The Syndicate also agrees to pay a further twenty million in Ironship Trading Scrip for the exclusive right to use, manufacture, sell or otherwise exploit for commercial gain any and all original designs contained within the engine for a period not to exceed fifteen years from the date of this agreement. At the conclusion of this period both parties undertake to engage in reasonable negotiations for the renewal of this contract.’”
She leaned across the bench to place the document in front of him. “There’s more, mainly relating to termination rights and confidentiality. It requires your signature but you should have a lawyer look it over first.”
He said nothing for a long time, staring down at the words on the page with a stern, almost resentful frown. “It doesn’t mention your grandfather,” he muttered eventually.
“At my insistence,” she said. “He was the real thief, after all. The thermoplasmic engine was yours, not his.” She moved to his side, plucking a pen from the ink-stained pocket of his coat and holding it up in front of his nose. “Just sign it, Father. It took me almost five minutes of hard bargaining.” She stood on tip-toe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I leave in the morning. I’ll understand if you’re not there to see me off.”
• • •
The IPV Profitable Venture was the largest ship she had ever sailed on, a Tempest class battleship of eight twelve-inch guns and enormous, sail-sized paddles secured within armoured casements the size of castles. A small army of sailors were busy about the deck as she came aboard to be greeted by the ship’s First Officer, who ordered her trunk carried to her cabin before requesting she accompany him to the ship’s ward-room. “The rest of the delegation is already aboard, miss. We sail within the hour.”
“A moment, please.” Lizanne turned and cast her gaze down the long gang-plank to where they stood on the quayside. Jermayah waved, Aunt Pendilla awkwardly hugged the shoulders of a half-sobbing Tekela whilst her father stood apart, for once not dressed in that dreadful white coat but a reasonably smart if unfashionable business suit that probably hadn’t seen the outside of a wardrobe in decades. There was no sign of Major Arberus. Of them all, his reaction to her news had been by far the least sympathetic.
Lizanne watched her father give a stiff nod of farewell then turned briskly about. No distractions, she told herself, summoning a lesson from her training, though, like much of her education, the words had a somewhat hollow ring these days. An agent must accommodate their character to solitude. Friends, family and lovers are not within the scope of your employment, except as cover.
“Lead on, if you would, Commander.”
“Ah, Miss Lethridge, excellent.” A grey-haired man in civilian clothes came forward to greet her as she entered the voluminous ward-room, the expression on his lean features considerably more welcoming than the carefully bland one he had shown her the day before. “Director Bloskin advised us of your change of heart.”
“Director Thriftmor.” She inclined her head at the Board member responsible for Extra-Corporate Affairs. She knew him by reputation only, a renowned negotiator who had overseen the successful end to the Dalcian Emergency, though his task had been made easier by the near-complete destruction of Sovereignist forces at the hands of the Protectorate.
“I believe you know the Ambassadress.” Thriftmor turned to an elegant young woman in a finely made dress of black-and-white silk, her hair done up in a pleasing arrangement of golden curls.
“Electress Dorice Vol Arramyl,” Lizanne greeted her in Eutherian, employing the full nomenclature as required by Imperial Court etiquette.
“Miss Blood,” the Electress replied in her slightly accented Mandinorian, lowering her head in a shallow bow. Lizanne found her expression difficult to read, alternating between suppressed resentment and reluctant gratitude. Difficult as it might be to admit, this woman had to know she would have perished at Carvenport but for the evacuation.
“Just Lethridge these days,” Lizanne said. “And I find you elevated to ambassadress no less. How our fortunes have changed.”
“The Blood Imperial advised me of my new title only yesterday,” the Electress replied. “The Emperor thought it only fitting.”
“The Electress has been educating me in Imperial history,” Director Thriftmor said. “A fascinating subject. Did you know the Arakelin dynasty has held the throne for over four centuries?”
“Four hundred and seventy-six years,” Lizanne said. “To be precise.”
“Quite a remarkable feat, don’t you think? For one family to hold on to power for so long.”
A family of blood-soaked inbreds and tyrants who barely survived the last bout of revolution, Lizanne restrained herself from saying. Diplomacy required circumspection. “Indeed, very impressive.”
“Come.” Thriftmor turned and gestured at the gaggle of Ironship functionaries standing near by. “Meet the rest of our delegation.”
There were ten of them altogether, a collection of economic advisers and managers with Corvantine expertise. There were also two senior Protectorate officers, one an admiral the other a general. They socialised for an hour or more, drinking wine served by the ship’s immaculately turned-out orderlies, the conversation lively with corporate gossip and amusing anecdotes. Lizanne found their collective joviality somewhat unnerving, as if none of them truly understood the import of this mission. But then, of the entire delegation, only she and the Electress had been in Carvenport.
“Did they really call you ‘Miss Blood’?” one of them asked, a young economist from the Strategy and Analysis Division who had called for his wine-glass to be refilled several times now. “It seems,” he went on, eyes tracking over her with undue scrutiny, “such an inappropriate title.”
“She killed over a hundred Corvantine soldiers in a single day,” Electress Dorice put in, speaking in slurred Eutherian before downing the contents of her own glass and beckoning to an orderly for more. “Plus half a dozen Blood Cadre agents. Her title would in fact seem to be fairly inadequate.” She raised her glass in a mocking toast. “Miss Slaughter would suit you far better.”
“Whereas a willing spectator to a slaughter is, of course, to be admired,” Lizanne returned. “I don’t believe anyone forced you to embark upon your little jaunt, Electress. And I apologise if the reality of war failed to meet your expectations.”
The Electress flushed, composure slipping away as she flourished a hand at Lizanne, displaying several pale Green-healed scars on the palm. “See these. The legacy of slaving in your filthy manufactory. Forced to labour like a slattern in a workhouse, never knowing if each day might be my last.”
“On behalf of those not born into a life of useless indolence, I bid you welcome to adulthood.”
“Adulthood? You imagine all of this horror has somehow improved me?” The Electress reached up to jerk down the collar of her dress, revealing another scar, this one broad and not so well healed “From when a Blue breathed fire over the length of our ship during the evacuation. I shielded a baby in my arms, she died anyway.”
“Ladies!” Director Thriftmor broke in, dismissing the now-acutely-embarrassed economist with a jerk of his head. The Directo
r smiled, spreading his arms in warm placation. “We stand on the verge of an historic peace. Why sully the occasion with needless acrimony?”
Lizanne realised the rest of the party had fallen silent whilst the volume of their argument rose. Too long out of the shadows, she berated herself. I need to do better.
“Quite so, Director,” she said, setting her wine-glass down on an orderly’s tray before offering Electress Dorice a bow. “My apologies. Your actions were very brave and are still well remembered among the Carvenport refugees.” She nodded at Thriftmor. “I believe I’ll take a turn about the deck before retiring.”
• • •
The Profitable Venture, it transpired, had no less than three upper decks. The largest sat level with the edge of the hull and encompassed an area equivalent to three playing-fields. The next two encircled the ship’s command centre and officers’ quarters, a great iron island bristling with small-calibre cannon and newly installed batteries of Thumpers and Growlers, many no doubt bearing the crest of the Lethridge and Tollermine Manufacturing Company. Lizanne’s quarters were located on the middle deck, where she had been advised to confine her evening wanderings. She spent some time leaning on the starboard rail watching the sea pass by beyond the bulk of the paddle casement. The Profitable had recently been fitted with two of the latest mark of thermoplasmic engines and ploughed a north-westerly course at close to thirty knots. It was, she knew, a necessary expense of increasingly scarce product. The faster they could get to Corvus the sooner this alliance could be formalised, though she harboured serious doubts as to the Corvantines’ sincere desire for an agreement. After spilling so much blood and treasure it seemed unlikely the Emperor would willingly forfeit his cherished ambition to control the source of wealth in this world.
She made her way forward, finding herself replaying the final conversation with Tekela. “If you go there, you’ll die,” she had said, tears swelling in her eyes. “The Cadre never forgets and never forgives. Every Corvantine learns this from an early age.”
