by Anthony Ryan
“Clean?” Kriz asked after a long day’s march, brows furrowed in response to Loriabeth’s query.
“Yeah, how do I clean it?” She hefted the large weapon Kriz had given her, miming running a cloth over it. “All guns need cleaning or they’ll foul up.”
This seemed only to baffle Kriz more and she replied with a shrug.
“Perhaps it requires no cleaning,” Sigoral said. Although clearly impressed by the weapons, the Corvantine’s unease was obvious. The cause wasn’t hard to divine, for Clay shared much the same sentiment. Beyond our time . . . They were like the Spoiled now, primitives struggling to understand seemingly magical novelties. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.
“We need to trance again,” he told Kriz, miming the motion of injecting Blue into his arm. She drew back a little at the hard insistence in his voice, but once again replied with a shake of her head.
“It appears she has secrets to keep,” Sigoral observed, eyeing Kriz carefully. “What exactly she’s doing down here, for instance. And where exactly we’re going.”
“She’s in the same fix we are,” Loriabeth said. “She needs to get out. Right, hon?” She turned to Kriz, raising her voice and pointing a finger at the featureless sky above. “You got a way out, right?”
Kriz’s hesitation was slight, fractional enough to be easily missed, but Clay saw it and knew her next words to be a lie. “Out,” Kriz said, smiling and nodding. “Yes.”
They moved on, tracking back along the road that had brought them to the island then resuming the same route as before. No more Blues appeared to trail them and the unbroken, waveless water took on a tedious monotony. Clay began to wonder if this place would consist of yet more sea all the way to the end, if it actually had an end. The tedium was finally broken when Sigoral trained the spy-glass of his carbine on the road ahead and reported the sight of land.
“Blessed be the Seer,” Loriabeth said, moving to Sigoral’s side. “How’s it look?”
“Steep.”
The cliff came into view a short while later, a dark grey wall rising from the surface of this strange sea to over two hundred feet in height. Clay trained his own carbine on the top of the cliff, finding a dense mass of tree-tops and beyond them, the unmistakable sight of a mountain slope.
The road ended at the base of the cliff where it met a series of stone steps carved into the rock. They ascended in a zigzag series of flights to a height of about twenty feet whereupon they disappeared. It seemed a section of the cliff-face had become dislodged at some point in the past, taking the upper two-thirds of the staircase with it. Although Kriz’s command of Mandinorian was still limited, she had developed a fondness for certain words. “Shit,” she sighed before raising her gaze to the cliff-top.
“We’re climbing, huh?” Clay asked. This drew an exasperated glower from Kriz and he understood that, for the first time, she had no notion of what to do next.
“Shouldn’t take more than a few hours,” Sigoral said, surveying the cliff with a critical eye. “I can see three relatively easy routes from here.”
“You’re joshing us, right?” Loriabeth said.
“Certainly not, miss,” the marine replied, stiffening a little. “I used to climb the bluffs on Takmarin all the time. It’s a common pastime for children. Market traders would give you a quarter-crown for every dozen puffin eggs you brought back.”
“No puffins here,” Clay said, playing the spy-glass of his carbine over the cliff-face. “No drakes either, for which we should be grateful.”
Sigoral led them to what appeared to Clay to be an unremarkable stretch of cliff. The marine divested himself of his pack and weapons before looping their one length of rope across his chest. “It should be long enough to reach,” he said, hands exploring the rock for a moment before finding a hold. “I’ll fix it up top and you’ll use it to follow.”
“What about the gear?” Loriabeth asked.
“We’ll haul it up after us. Someone will have to wait here and tie them to the rope, though.”
Clay opted to be the last up the rope, waiting as he tracked the others’ progress with the spy-glass on his carbine. Sigoral’s expertise was evident in the way he navigated the cliff, hands and feet moving with steady surety as he made an unhurried ascent, reaching the top in less than an hour whereupon he cast the rope down for them to follow. Loriabeth went next, her progress considerably less fluid and subject to repeated pauses, but still reaching the top after a lengthy effort. Kriz’s climb was faster, the woman displaying a natural athleticism in the way she hauled herself up the rope and Clay found his spy-glass lingering on her slender form as she climbed.
Not a good idea, he reproached himself, head suddenly filled with visions of Silverpin. Something his uncle had once said came to mind as he lowered the carbine: No room in my company for a man who needs to learn the same lesson twice.
Once Kriz had crested the cliff-edge he slung his carbine across his back, tightening the strap over his chest before taking hold of the rope and beginning to climb. His years in the Blinds had provided ample opportunities to educate himself in the finer points of scaling a wall, but a cliff proved more of a challenge. The uneven surface and the length of the climb soon birthed an ache in his limbs. Although his miraculously healed leg stood up to the strain, it became apparent after the first fifty feet or so that he had yet to fully recover from the trauma suffered in the forest.
He forced himself up another dozen feet of rope before stopping to rest, sweat bathing his face as he slumped against the rock and tried to figure the best way of manoeuvring his canteen to his lips. It was then that he felt a hard tug on the rope followed by the deep, guttural rattle of an angry drake.
Clay splayed his hands against the rock and slowly eased his body away from the cliff-face, raising his gaze to find it met by a pair of slitted yellow eyes. The Black was perched on a ledge about eight feet above, its long neck curving a little as it moved its head from side to side, the angry rattle still issuing from its throat as it opened its mouth to display an impressive set of teeth. Although its body was hidden by the ledge, Clay judged from the size of the Black’s head that it was considerably larger than the other breeds they had seen so far, as large as an adolescent Red in the world above.
A torrent of thoughts ran through his mind, principally concerning the prospects of getting a grip on either his carbine or the product in his wallet. He discounted the product almost immediately, as the beast would be upon him long before he could get a vial to his lips. However, he calculated the odds of bringing his carbine to bear in time as scarcely any better. Instead, he opted to remain completely still and continue to stare into the Black’s eyes.
“I ain’t your enemy, big fella,” he told the drake in a whisper, searching its gaze in the faint hope of finding some measure of understanding. “Even made friends with one of your cousins up top.”
The Black’s eyes narrowed as if in consideration and they continued to stare at each other, Clay feeling a tremble creep into his limbs as the strain of clinging to the rope started to tell. The moment stretched and he began to suspect he would fall to his death long before the beast decided whether to eat him. In the event, his cousin chose that moment to resolve the issue.
“Seer-dammit, Clay!” she yelled. “Get clear of my sights!”
The Black jerked in response to the shout, head snapping to the top of the cliff. Clay seized the chance, bracing his legs against the rock and pushing clear of the cliff at an angle so that he swung out, body spinning. The Black gave an angry screech, fixing its gaze on him once again and flaring a pair of very broad wings, crouching as it prepared to launch itself clear of the ledge. Its mouth gaped wide, a dreadfully familiar haze appearing as it summoned the requisite gases from its gut. The flames blossomed at the same instant as Loriabeth let loose with a burst of fire from her repeating rifle. Clay had time to watch the Black’s head
dissolve into a thick mist of shredded flesh and bone before the fire it had breathed caught the rope a few inches above his hands.
He could only continue to hold on and stare at the flames licking over the tightly braided cord. He watched it blacken and turn to ash, glowing strands unravelling and fragmenting in a strangely captivating sight that put him in mind of fire-flies rising from a field at twilight. As the rope snapped and he began to fall, he considered that for a last thought, it really wasn’t all that bad.
CHAPTER 32
Lizanne
The house Julesin had taken her to sat in the middle of Chandler’s Row, a promenade of decrepit terraced houses a few streets west from Sluiceman’s Way. Lizanne emerged to find a thick column of smoke rising above the roof-tops in the vicinity of the citadel. She could also hear a faint but constant crackle of rifle fire. A few confused inmates loitered near by in various states of indecision, mostly non-affiliated midden-pickers who must have fled the Ore Day parade when Tinkerer’s bomb went off.
“The citadel will fall within the hour!” Lizanne called to the dazed unfortunates. “If you want out of here you’ll need to fight for it. Spread the word.”
She turned as Makario stumbled from the doorway behind her, blinking rapidly as he gazed up at the pillar of smoke ascending into the grey sky. The Green had banished much of the pain left by Darkanis’s beating, but he was yet to regain his full senses. “Did you do that?” he asked in an oddly calm tone, one eyebrow raised to a quizzical angle.
“Yes,” she replied. “And I’m about to do a great deal more. Come on.” She took hold of his arm, hurrying towards Sluiceman’s Way and pulling him along.
They found the broad thoroughfare wreathed in a thick pall of acrid smoke and littered with both corpses and rubble. People ran past in panic, some deeper into the city, some towards the cacophony up ahead where rifle fire mingled with the sound of many voices raised in anger or fear. Lizanne saw a bright yellow flash in the smoke ahead, followed a split-second later by the boom of a cannon. She threw herself behind a part-demolished wall and dragged Makario down beside her, flinching at the multiple high-pitched whistles of canister-shot rending the surrounding air.
“So they didn’t manage to kill the gun-crews,” she muttered, poking her head above the wall. Somewhere a voice was screaming in the fog, the diminishing pitch of their distress telling of a mutilated soul fast approaching death.
“Such wonders you have wrought, my dear,” Makario said, Lizanne hearing the unrestrained reproach in his voice.
“I suspect we’ll both have a great deal to atone for when this is done,” she replied, tugging him upright. “Stay close. We need to move quickly.”
They ran from corner to corner and doorway to doorway, crouching low as bullets and canister tore at the drifting clouds of smoke, threading their way through rubble and knots of panicked inmates, all babbling rumours and confusion.
“They’ve started killing us all . . .”
“The Furies are trying to break out . . .”
“The Emperor’s ordered the Constables to execute everyone . . .”
“Might I enquire,” Makario said as they huddled behind yet another part-demolished building to avoid a volley of bullets. “Where exactly are we going?”
“I have to meet someone,” she said, moving on quickly and obliging him to follow.
“And then what?” the musician persisted. “Forgive me, but I doubt an easy stroll through the gates is on the cards just now.”
She said nothing and ran on, resisting the impulse to shorten the journey with a gulp or two of Green. Makario wouldn’t have been able to keep up. Besides, she would probably have need of every drop of Julesin’s supply before long.
She gave a small sigh of relief at finding Tinkerer exactly where she had told him to be: the exposed basement at the eastern end of Pick Street. He stood alone, regarding her with typical impassivity as she jumped down to join him. She expected some nervousness at the sight of Makario but Tinkerer merely glanced at the musician before turning to her. “You’re late,” he said.
“Unforeseen difficulties.” She jerked her head towards the river, away from the citadel and the continuing chorus of gun-fire. “Come along then.”
She led them to the muddy fringes of the river-bank then towards the grate beside the outlet pipe where she had first made her entry to Scorazin. “You have your other devices ready?” she asked Tinkerer. He stepped wordlessly to the grate, reaching into a sack to extract what appeared to be a rough-hewn lump of fist-sized clay with a short length of wire protruding from the top. He fixed the lump to the barrier’s heavy lock, working the still-soft clay around the contours.
“It’s advisable not to look,” he added before striking a match and touching it to the fuse, immediately stepping back and shielding his eyes.
Lizanne managed to turn away before the device ignited. Makario wasn’t so lucky.
“Owww!” he squealed. Lizanne opened her eyes to see him clutching at his own, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Thank you very fucking much, sir!” he fumed at Tinkerer, rapidly blinking his reddened orbs. “As if this day hadn’t been a sufficient trial already. What is that stuff?”
“A combustible copper-and-magnesium core with a dense silicate coating for insulation,” Tinkerer replied, seemingly unruffled by the musician’s ire. Lizanne looked at the grate, seeing a last guttering of sparks fall from the lock, which had been transformed into a steaming tear-drop of molten iron. She pulled at the grate, finding she had to give several hard tugs before it came free.
“Stay close and move fast,” she told them, stepping into the gloom.
She took one of Julesin’s vials from her pocket and sipped some Green to boost her vision before starting down the tunnel. Memorising the route to this entry point had been well within her expertise and following it out was a simple matter. They soon came to the second grate where Darkanis had left her that first day. Lizanne stood back, averting her gaze as Tinkerer affixed a second device to the lock. It was then that she noticed Makario was missing.
She hissed his name, enhanced eyes piercing the gloomy confines of the tunnels but catching no sign of him. Then her ears, also bolstered by the effects of Green, detected a faint scrabbling sound. What is he doing?
“Keep at it,” she told Tinkerer. “Don’t proceed without me.”
She moved away, making for the source of the scraping sound in a crouching run. Makario came into view around the next bend. The musician was on his knees, clawing barehanded at some loose brickwork in the tunnel wall with an energy that put her in mind of a giant rat. He glanced up as she approached, blinking his still-bleary eyes at her, an eager grin on his lips.
“He couldn’t risk taking it out through the guard-house,” he said, turning back to pull another brick from the wall. “Not all at once. Only the tiniest bit at a time.”
Lizanne crouched at his side, peering into the hole he had created. Despite the Green it was hard to make out the contents of this hiding-place, then she saw a dim patch of light catch the coarse weave of sackcloth. “Darkanis’s silver ore,” she realised.
“Yes.” Makario grunted as he levered another brick from the wall. “Considerate of him to pile it all up in one place for us, wasn’t it?”
Lizanne reached out and grasped his hand. “We don’t have time.”
She could see Makario’s stricken, desperate face in the gloom. “Krista, there’s enough for both of us. Enough to bribe every magistrate in Corvus. I can have a new name, a new life . . .”
His voice trailed off into a whine as she dragged him to his feet, keeping hold of his arm and making her way back to the grate. “Please . . .”
“Shut up or I’ll leave you here,” she ordered, suddenly infuriated by his greed.
They found Tinkerer standing beside the opened grate, a foul odour rising from the ruined lock. “I
don’t know how many constables will be waiting,” she said, moving through the portal, still dragging Makario along. “Most will have been drawn to the fighting, but there will be others who’ll have contrived to stay behind. Leave them to me . . .”
She fell silent and came to a halt as a new sound reached her ears. A deep, rushing sound that made the tunnel tremble from floor to ceiling.
“Run!” She turned and began shoving them both back along the passage. “They’ve flooded the tunnels! RUN!”
It took at most thirty frantic seconds to get clear of the tunnel, Lizanne exhausting her Green as she conveyed her two companions none-too-gently back through the first grate and onto the muddy river-bank. The water came rushing out a heart-beat later, a roaring torrent that sent the three of them sprawling into the mud. For a moment Lizanne entertained the grim notion that they might drown but then the torrent began to abate. She checked to ensure the others were still alive then began to pry herself loose from the mud, grunting with the effort.
“Don’t!”
Lizanne’s gaze snapped up to find Anatol standing atop the outflow pipe, eyes as hard as his voice. He held one of the cross-bows captured from the Scuttlers, the dull gleam of the bolt unwavering as he aimed it at her chest. Still imprisoned by the mud Lizanne could only lie still and watch as a bulky silhouette appeared on the bank behind Anatol.
“To think I was actually starting to like you,” Electress Atalina said.
• • •
An expertly placed punch slammed into the centre of Lizanne’s back, sending her face-first onto the hard floor of the basement. Air rushed from her lungs as something large and heavy pressed against her spine, pinning her in place. Lizanne bit down on a shout as the pressure increased, nostrils filling with a thick gust of cigarillo smoke as someone leaned low to whisper into her ear.
“Don’t mistake me,” the Electress said, speaking as if there had been no interval between their capture at the river and the short but punishing journey to the basement of the Miner’s Repose. The inn itself had been ruined by a cannon shell, but the basement apparently remained open for business. “I always knew I’d have to kill you, just not so soon, and long before you contrived to bring the whole city down around us. Still, that’s what sentiment gets you.”
