by Anthony Ryan
“Heart-blood,” he murmured, smoothing his hand along Lutharon’s ebony scales. “That’s what I need, isn’t it, old fella? And we ain’t got any.”
He stayed with Lutharon for several hours. Eventually the drake had calmed enough for the Corvantine officer to persuade his sailors to return to their duties. The Longrifles went back to bed when it became clear they weren’t likely to return, though Braddon handed Clay a revolver just in case.
“Would’ve preferred the captain leave that lot behind,” he said.
Clay shrugged and strapped the gun-belt around his waist. “Reckon so will they before this is done.” He watched Braddon rest his arms on the aft rail, staring out at the passing ocean. It was calmer tonight, though the air grew colder with every southward mile they sailed and Captain Hilemore had assured them rougher seas were ahead.
“I don’t know what’s down there,” Clay said. “All I know is what I saw in the vision, and that ain’t much. Could be good. But the way our luck’s been lately, I think we both know it’s gonna be bad.”
“The whole world’s gone bad, Clay. You’re the only clue as to how to make it good again.” Braddon paused, lowering his head as if gathering resolve for his next words. “It was my fault,” he said finally. “Silverpin . . . I knew something wasn’t right. The hunger I had for the White. She did that to me.”
“She did a lot to all of us,” Clay said, hoping the flatness of his voice would forestall further discussion. He didn’t relish the memories, or the dreams that might be stirred by talking about Silverpin.
“Took her into my home,” his uncle reflected softly. “Treated her like my own daughter. All the time, she was waiting . . .”
Her blood, spreading out like wings . . . “Yeah,” Clay muttered. “Well, now she’s dead. Her, Scribes, Miss Foxbine and thousands of others, with a damn sight more to come. Just don’t want you and Lori counted among ’em. Best you stay on the ship when we get to the Shelf.”
His uncle had stiffened, turning to fix him with a hard stare. “Your cousin’s a grown woman now. Seasoned gunhand too, and she knows her own mind. Just like her father. You ain’t getting shot of us, Clay. Best get yourself accustomed to that.”
Lutharon remained restless after Braddon returned to his cabin, the Black’s claws dragged along the deck as his narrowed eyes constantly roamed the ship as if in fear of attack. Furthermore, Clay could feel a tremble beneath his skin that had nothing to do with fear. Blacks don’t mind the cold as much as Greens and Reds, Skaggerhill had advised. On account of them nesting in the mountains. But there’s cold and then there’s southern seas cold. And that’s a whole other order of business.
“I can’t keep you,” Clay said, giving Lutharon’s hide a final pat before moving back. The drake gave a quizzical grunt as he swung his gaze towards Clay, sensing the change of mood. “Miss Ethelynne would’ve wanted you kept safe,” Clay told him, hoping that speaking the words aloud would convey some meaning to the beast. “How long’s it gonna be before this thing between us is gone for good? Then I won’t be able to stop them shooting you, that’s if the cold don’t kill you first. ’Sides which, how you gonna hunt so far from land? You gotta go, old fella.”
Lutharon became very still, staring at Clay with steady eyes that betrayed little understanding or reaction. Clay sighed in frustration. Can’t exactly shoo him away. He searched his memories of Ethelynne for some clue as to how to sever their connection, then realised that she was the connection.
“You know she died,” Clay said, filling his mind with visions of Ethelynne battling the White, her last few seconds of life as her small form vanished amidst the whirlwind of infant drakes.
Lutharon gave an abrupt growl, jerking as if prodded by a sharp blade.
“She died,” Clay repeated, raising his voice and pointing at the northern horizon. “And you can’t be here no more!”
Lutharon bared his teeth in a short growl, shifting from side to side, his claws raising more splinters from the deck.
“Go on, damn you!” Clay drew his pistol and fired a trio of shots into the air, causing Lutharon’s growl to transform into a challenging roar. His wings flared as he lowered himself in preparedness for a lunge, tail coiling so that the spear-point tip pointed at Clay’s chest.
“That’s right,” Clay told him. “I ain’t friendly.” He drew back the revolver’s hammer for another shot but Lutharon whirled about, his great body transformed into a shadowy blur, tail whipping out to wrap around Clay’s chest. It squeezed tight, forcing the air from his lungs, the pistol falling from his grip as the drake drew him closer.
The vision, Clay thought, more in hope than certainty. Ain’t my time yet.
Lutharon’s breath was hot on his face, hot enough to birth an instant sweat. The drake’s growl subsided into a curious rattle, nostrils flaring as he sniffed Clay, breathing deep. For a second their eyes met, and Clay saw no anger in the beast’s gaze. The slitted irises narrowed then widened, conveying a sense of understanding.
The tail uncoiled in an instant, leaving Clay gasping on all fours. A scrabble of claws on deckboard then the thunder of wings and Clay looked up to see Lutharon climbing into the night sky. The slender moonlight caught a gleam from his scales, outlining the great wings in silver for the briefest second, then Lutharon turned towards the north and was lost to sight.
• • •
“Captain’s still awful mad at you,” Loriabeth observed, joining him at the port rail. It was a week since Lutharon’s departure, an event that had seen his stock with Hilemore fall several notches.
“The beast would have been very useful where we’re going,” he said, Clay noting how his voice grew softer the angrier he became. “I will thank you to consult me before taking such a drastic decision in future.”
“He wasn’t yours to command, Captain,” Clay had replied with an affable shrug. “Nor mine for that matter. Besides, I owed the greatest of debts to his mistress, now it’s paid.”
Hilemore had let the matter drop, though it was clear Clay’s continual lack of deference was a sore point. The succeeding week had been notable for the captain’s keenness to avoid Clay’s company.
“The sailors say this is where the Myrdin Ocean meets the Orethic,” Loriabeth said, gazing out at the grey, choppy waves of the southern seas. “Supposed to make for a lotta storms, though we ain’t seen one yet.”
Clay wasn’t particularly knowledgeable about maritime matters but judged the Superior’s current speed as far in excess of any coal-burner. “Looks like the captain’s keen to get us to the Chokes as quickly as possible.”
“So we just fetch up at this big spiky thing of yours and this whole mess is over, huh?”
“I don’t rightly know, Lori. Doubt it’ll be that simple, though.”
“If Mr. Scriberson had made it out of the mountain . . .” she began, then trailed off as her face clouded.
“He’d surely have had some smart things to say about all this,” Clay assured her. “I guess I miss him too.”
Loriabeth turned her gaze out to sea and thumbed something from her eye. “Stupid,” she murmured. “Barely knew him for more than a few weeks.”
“It’s long enough,” he said, thoughts crowding with unwanted images of Silverpin. Don’t worry, she had promised. He’ll let me keep you. His kind always had their pets.
“You see that?” Loriabeth asked, now standing straight and alert, eyes fixed on the waves.
“See what?” Clay followed her gaze, seeing only the continual chop of an unsettled sea.
“There was something,” she said. “Maybe a hundred yards out. Something rose up, just for a second.”
“A Blue?”
“Maybe.” She squinted. “Could’ve been back spines, I guess.”
Clay stared at the ocean for a long moment, but whatever she had seen failed to reappear. He knew these
waters were rich in whales of various breeds, but Scrimshine’s warnings made him cautious. “You better go tell Mr. Steelfine,” he said. “Just in c—”
His words died as the deck shifted beneath their feet, sending them both tumbling against the bulkhead. Clay cried out as his bruised back connected with an iron buttress, but Loriabeth’s cry of distress dispelled any pain. The ship had shifted again, this time tipping to port at an alarming angle and sending Loriabeth skidding towards the rail. She hit hard and clung on as the ship continued to heave, her feet dangling over the edge. Clay could see the waves below, frothed into white by the Superior’s disturbed wake, then exploding upwards as the very large head of a Blue drake broke the surface, jaws gaping wide.
CHAPTER 9
Lizanne
“Miss Lizanne Lethridge, Ambassadress of the Ironship Trading Syndicate!” The Imperial Herald, resplendent in a long white coat adorned with gold braid, thumped an ebony staff on the marble floor, announcing Lizanne’s entrance in ringing Eutherian. She stood in her appalling dress at the top of the ball-room steps, trying not to squirm as all eyes turned to her. Being noteworthy was not a sensation she enjoyed, chafing as it did on her long-instilled need for anonymity. The murmur of conversation died as the guests, at least three hundred of them, all spent a moment in silent contemplation of the fabled Miss Blood. Despite the Corvantine dead she had piled up at Carvenport, she could detect no obvious signs of enmity amongst these Imperial worthies. Most faces exhibited a keen, near-predatory curiosity, whilst others affected an amused air or even a blatantly lustful glance or two.
Everyone you will meet there is a self-serving liar, Electress Dorice had warned and one glance told Lizanne she may well have been right.
“My dear Miss Lethridge.” Director Thriftmor politely detached himself from a gaggle of Corvantine ladies to greet her, offering his arm, which she duly took and allowed herself to be led down the steps. “How lovely you look,” he said, making her wonder if he might be taking some pleasure from her discomfort.
“Thank you, Director,” she replied. “It has long been my ambition to attend an Imperial function in the guise of a bedraggled flamingo.”
“Oh tosh,” he scoffed. “Though I would have chosen a darker shade of red. It would have done much to enhance your legend. Our hosts are always greatly impressed by symbolism.”
“Vapid as it may be,” she muttered.
“Well, quite.” He steered her towards a group of courtiers near the centre of the dance floor, switching smoothly into Eutherian. “A very important personage has avowed a keen interest in meeting you.”
The group all offered formal bows as they approached. There were four men of chamberlain rank and one woman, standing tall and elegant in a dress of crimson silk. The dress matched the woman’s colouring perfectly, complementing her pale skin and dark red hair to impressive effect. Lizanne knew her name instantly, having seen her face in many a photostat over the years. However, she contrived to display the correct amount of surprise when Thriftmor made the introductions.
“Countess, I present Miss Lizanne Lethridge, late of Carvenport and Feros. Miss Lethridge, please greet Countess Sefka Vol Nazarias, Noble Commander of the Imperial Cadre.”
Lizanne gave a curtsy of the appropriate depth and lowered her head in respect. “Countess.”
“Miss Lethridge. How wonderful to finally meet.” The woman’s voice had a surprising warmth to it, the words spoken in the kind of Eutherian that came only to those raised in the Imperial Court. “Please rise,” she said, extending a crimson-gloved hand.
So close, Lizanne mused, taking the offered hand and rising, her practised gaze lingering on the countess’s bare neck and the vulnerable kill spots it contained. Has any operative ever come this close, I wonder?
“This must be very frustrating for you,” Countess Sefka said, as if reading her mind.
“Countess?”
“Balls, meetings, parades and such. All terribly tiresome for those of us engaged in more practical pursuits, don’t you think?”
“I’ll happily suffer them all to win the Emperor’s agreement. This mission being of such import to us all.”
“Oh, well done.” The countess glanced at Thriftmor with a raised eyebrow. “Have you been coaching her, Director?”
“I assure you, Miss Lethridge knows her own mind.”
“Of that, I need no assurance.” She hooked her arm through Lizanne’s and led her away. “Let me rescue you from these dullards. Male company becomes tedious after a while, I find.”
She guided Lizanne to a set of tall windows opening out onto a veranda, Lizanne’s eyes instinctively picking out any shadowed alcoves which might conceal an assassin. “We’re quite alone, I assure you,” Countess Sefka said, once again intuiting her thoughts with irksome precision. “Come, let me show you the view.”
She released Lizanne’s arm upon reaching the veranda’s balustrade, resting her hands on the marble to gaze out at the broad ornamental lake below. It stretched away from the palace’s west-facing wing for at least two miles, the surface broken here and there by artificial islands bearing yet more temples. Each one was lit by a cluster of lanterns, giving the impression of a swarm of fire-flies frozen above a mirror.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the countess asked, turning to Lizanne with a smile.
“What do you want?” Lizanne replied, removing the formal respect from her voice. Without witnesses present continued artifice seemed pointless, even a little insulting.
The countess gave a brief laugh, apparently immune to any offence. “Cannot two professionals share a pleasant view and exchange an anecdote or two?”
“You’ve been trying to kill me for years. Now you want a chat?”
“Certainly.” Countess Sefka leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The Sanctum is full of the empire’s worst imbeciles. Centuries of inbreeding will do that, I suppose. You have no idea how long it’s been since I had a truly interesting conversation.”
“I’m sure any of your agents who made it out of Morsvale had many interesting things to say.”
“Actually, none of them managed to escape the great calamity. But the reports I received prior to their demise made for interesting reading.” She turned to rest her back on the balustrade, the humour on her face fading into a judgemental frown. “You compromised yourself to rescue a spoilt girl.”
“I rescued a Corvantine turncoat with contacts who could get me out of the city. The girl was his price for co-operation.”
“You’re lying.” Countess Sefka gave a regretful grimace. “You allowed yourself to be guided by sentiment. How very disappointing.”
“I have not the words,” Lizanne responded, the heat she had felt earlier returning to colour her voice, “to describe the level of my indifference to your disappointment.”
“You should be more appreciative, for I speak only in friendly guidance. Sentiment is not just a luxury for those in our profession, it is in fact a debilitating disease. Take myself, for example. There was a young woman in Morsvale, a member of the Cadre of the Blood, so not under my direct control. But nevertheless, we had formed a close personal attachment prior to her deployment.” The countess paused to smile in fond recollection before continuing in the same affable tone, “After your visit to her safe house, they told me there wasn’t enough of her left to fill half a coffin. And yet, here I stand, without your still-beating heart clutched in my hands.”
The dressmaker, Lizanne recalled, failing to find much cause for regret in the woman’s demise. “From what I saw, you were well suited to each other.”
“Sentiment and moral superiority.” The countess pouted. “Upon finally meeting you I had expected to look upon my own reflection, only slightly younger. The record of your accomplishments paints a very different picture.”
“Nothing I have done compares to anything
in your career.”
“Really? Torture and murder are the same, are they not? Regardless of the quantity.”
The memory of that last visit to Burgrave Artonin’s house sprang into Lizanne’s mind; the scholar lying dead in his study, the servants sitting at table, each with a bullet blasted into the back of their skulls. “It depends on the subject,” she replied, her eyes once again fixing on the countess’s neck. It would be so easy, even with no product in my veins.
“Don’t be silly!” Countess Sefka snapped, more irritated than angry.
Lizanne took a deep breath and turned away, shifting her gaze to the lake and its many glittering islands.
“Director Bloskin should have dismissed you,” the countess said. “You have clearly been too . . . modified by your experiences. Whatever mission he sent you on is already doomed, you must know that.”
“My mission is the same as Director Thriftmor’s. Both the empire and the corporate world stand on the brink of destruction . . .”
“Oh yes, your army of drakes and deformed savages.” Countess Sefka shifted her slim shoulders in a shrug. “Just another storm to assail this empire. We have stood against all manner of threats for centuries.”
“Not like this. You imagine this great tyranny to be eternal, immutable. What’s coming cares nothing for history.”
