by Anthony Ryan
“Quite a formidable knot,” the Electress mused, tapping a stubby finger to her chin before turning to Arberus. “Untangle it for us, will you, General?”
Arberus studied the map in silence for some time, gaze narrowed in calculation. “Given the weight of opposition,” he said eventually, “siege might be a better strategy than direct assault.”
“Starve them out,” Varkash said, grunting in approval. “Seems preferable to anodder blood-bath.”
“The Sanctum’s vaults are copious,” Korian said. “And we have reports from all over the empire of loyalist forces marshalling for a march on the capital. It will take months before Sefka’s forces are weakened by siege, by which time we could be facing a loyalist army equal in size to our own.”
“What other intelligence do we have on these ships,” Arberus said, pointing to the harbour. “Just how keen are their crews to fire on their own people?”
“The Imperial Navy has always been a bastion of loyalty.”
“To the Emperor, yes. But he’s gone, and his mad excursion to Arradsia can hardly have endeared him to the rank and file. They have to come ashore for supplies. Send agents to contact the sailors when they do, the ordinary seamen not the officers. See if we can’t foment some discord.”
Lizanne’s gaze lingered on the harbour and the pencilled crosses. “You said five Imperial ships,” she said to Korian. “I count six.”
“That’s not an Imperial ship,” he replied. “Your people, it seems, have either opted to stay or been forbidden from leaving.”
“The Profitable Venture is still there?”
“And possessing enough fire-power to blow every other vessel at anchor out of the water,” Arberus pointed out, meeting her gaze. Although their intimacy might not have survived the revolution, they still possessed a facility for unspoken communication.
“It seems I have another mission,” Lizanne said.
• • •
The sailor stationed at the Profitable’s aft-anchor mounting gaped at her for a full two seconds before fumbling for his rifle. A half-formed challenge died on his lips as Lizanne reached out with Black to pluck the weapon from his grasp. “Exceptional Initiatives,” she told him, climbing down from the anchor chain and shaking the less-than-fragrant harbour water from her hair. “Please tell the Duty Officer to rouse Director Thriftmor and inform him of my arrival.”
Thriftmor was a markedly less composed figure than the unruffled diplomat she remembered. His hair was tousled from what Lizanne judged to be an unsettled sleep and his somewhat sagging, red-eyed visage told of a man beset by unaccustomed worries. “So, you’re alive,” were his only words as Lizanne was conveyed to the ship’s ward-room.
“And good evening to you, Director,” she replied, casting her gaze around the room to ensure they were alone.
“I find I have little appetite for petty niceties these days,” Thriftmor replied. He went to the drinks cabinet in the corner and poured a generous measure of brandy into two glasses. “Ice?” he enquired.
“No thank you.”
Thriftmor carried the glasses to the ward-room table and sat down, Lizanne moving to join him. The brandy was an excellent vintage and the finest liquor she had tasted for some time, fine enough for her to resist the impulse to drink it all at once. Director Thriftmor was not so restrained, gulping down the entire contents of the glass before asking a hoarse question, “Your mission?”
“Still progressing. I require your assistance to ensure its success.”
“Assistance?” Thriftmor gave a humourless smile and rose to pour himself some more brandy. “What possible assistance could I provide? I assume you have some awareness of our current situation?”
“Yes. You sit aboard the most powerful warship in the western hemisphere doing precisely nothing whilst the empire that has long been our enemy crumbles to pieces.”
“The Regency Council has formally ordered this ship not to leave the harbour. If we attempt to do so Countess Sefka has assured me hostilities will resume immediately.”
“War with the Syndicate is the last thing she wants just now. Her plate being somewhat overflowing.”
“It is Syndicate policy not to interfere in Corvantine internal disputes.”
“Yes. Curious then that I have spent much of my career doing just that. For decades the entire corporate world has been hoping for the day this empire faces its ultimate collapse. Now it’s finally here, do you really intend to do nothing?”
“We have an agreed treaty with the late Emperor. Countess Sefka has given assurances it will be ratified once the current criminal insurgency is dealt with.”
“Why wait?” Lizanne took an oilskin-covered packet from her pocket and tossed it onto the table.
Thriftmor lingered at the drinks cabinet, regarding the packet with grave suspicion as he polished off another full glass of brandy. “And what is that?” he asked, reaching once again for the bottle.
“A Mutual Assistance Agreement between the Corvantine Republic and the Ironship Syndicate, signed by all members of the Interim Governing Council. They will consider the agreement fully valid once your signature is added.”
Thriftmor gave a short, high-pitched laugh as he poured more brandy. “You expect me to formally and publicly support this rebellion on my own initiative?”
“Yes. And having done so, you will order the captain of the Profitable Venture to place his Blood-blessed under my authority and stand ready to fire upon the Imperial Sanctum at a time of my choosing.”
He gaped at her, brandy trickling from the upended bottle, spattering onto the floor as it missed his glass by a wide margin. “You are patently quite insane,” he said.
“If so, you are alone in a room with a Blood-blessed agent of the Exceptional Initiatives Division who also happens to be mad.” She placed her left arm on the table, the sleeve of her shirt rolled up to reveal the Spider, holding his gaze. “Just sign the document, Director,” she said with a bland smile. “Once you’ve introduced me to the captain I’ll let you go back to bed.”
• • •
The Profitable Venture had two thermoplasmic engines, each requiring its own Blood-blessed to operate. Lizanne met the pair of them in the captain’s cabin, the man himself having gone to oversee his ship’s surreptitious transition to battle stations. At first Lizanne took the two Blood-blessed for brother and sister, so similar were they in colouring, both with striking red hair and pale freckled skin. They also both had similarly narrow noses and eyes of dark green, so it was a surprise when the male Blood-blessed made the introductions, “Zakaeus Griffan. This is my wife Sofiya.”
“Sir, madam,” she greeted them both. “The captain has advised you of your change in circumstances, I trust?”
The two of them exchanged an uneasy glance. “We are to follow your instructions,” Mrs. Griffan said in a cautious tone.
“You are indeed.” Lizanne gestured at the captain’s desk where a pair of revolvers had been placed along with thirty rounds of ammunition. “Please arm yourselves. Product will be provided once we reach our objective.”
Neither of them moved, eyes tracking from the guns to Lizanne. “I . . .” Zakaeus Griffan faltered, coughed and tried again. “I didn’t catch your name, madam?”
“I didn’t give it.”
“Even so.” The man licked dry lips, forcing himself to meet her eye with a stern resolve. “Never having met you before, my wife and I cannot simply . . .”
“Standard Ironship Maritime Contract Number Seventy-four,” Lizanne cut in. “Pertaining to the employment of registered Blood-blessed aboard Protectorate Vessels. Clause Ten, sub-clause Twelve-B: All contracted Blood-blessed shall consider themselves subject to the orders of any Exceptional Initiatives agent who identifies themselves to the ship’s commanding officer. Failure to comply will be considered a breach of contract and result in forf
eiture of all payments set out in this agreement, formal removal from the Register and a period of no less than ten years in an Ironship custodial facility.”
She forced down the spark of pity in her breast as she watched them clasp hands, Mrs. Griffan’s features tensing with the onset of tears. “I find myself with recent experience of prison life,” Lizanne told them, maintaining a stern tone. “I assure you it is far from pleasant.”
Zakaeus squeezed his wife’s hand, meeting Lizanne’s steady gaze with one of his own. “I will serve in my wife’s stead . . .”
“Unacceptable. I require both of you.” Lizanne moved to the desk, retrieving the revolvers and pushing them into the Griffans’ arms. “I’ll allow you five minutes of privacy,” she said, moving to the door. “After which I shall expect your presence on the fore-deck.”
• • •
They slipped ashore in the morning, disguised as crew members on the small launch the Profitable was permitted to send to the docks for supplies. Sofiya Griffan fidgeted continually as the launch neared the wharf, her face even paler beneath the peak of the cap under which her red locks had been concealed. Watching her Lizanne wondered if it might have been better to accede to her husband’s request. For all their gifts, Blood-blessed were people like any other and fortitude was a far from universal trait.
“Stop that!” Lizanne said in a harsh whisper, reaching out to grip the woman’s forearm as her hands began to tremble.
“I can’t . . .” Sofiya hissed back. “I can’t fight! I don’t know how!”
“I do not require you to fight,” Lizanne returned, casting a cautious glance at the Corvantine marines on the wharf.
“Then why drag us into this?” the woman persisted.
Lizanne watched the Protectorate sailors toss ropes to the marines. “In war the illusion of strength is as valuable as the reality. Now clench your fists and keep your gaze lowered. Do not say a word.”
As per his orders the Protectorate officer in charge of the shore party began to loudly harangue his coxswain for poor helmsmanship as soon as the gang-plank was lowered into place. He continued the diatribe as the sailors trooped onto the wharf, much to the apparent amusement of the onlooking marines. The sailors closed in on either side of Lizanne and the Griffans, shielding them from any curious glances as they made their way to the stacked crates containing the supplies.
“They may have counted us off,” a petty officer warned Lizanne as she moved to the far side of the crates.
“If they attempt to impede your return, kill them,” Lizanne replied, removing her sailor’s cap and tunic. “Try to be quiet about it.”
“We’ll be seen,” the man insisted. “Within seconds the whole harbour will be on alert.”
“Your captain has clear instructions should that occur. In a few hours it won’t matter anyway.”
Lizanne gestured for the Griffans to follow and made for a shadowed alley between two warehouses. “Both of you stay within three feet of my person at all times,” she told the couple as the shadow swallowed them. “And leave any talking to me.”
Lizanne was obliged to share some Green with the Griffans to enable a sprint past the outer cordon of Corvantine marines guarding the docks. A few shots were fired in their wake but their speed made it a waste of ammunition, not that Zakaeus seemed to appreciate the ease of their escape.
“You’re going to get us both killed!” he raged at Lizanne, pulling his wife close after she concluded a short bout of fear-induced vomiting.
Lizanne ignored him and turned her attention to the broad square ahead. They had taken shelter behind a huge tumbled pillar of bullet-pocked marble, part of the front edifice of the Corvantine Customs House, now transformed into little more than rubble. The square, once a small park of neat lawns and flower-beds, had become a shell-cratered patch of corpse-littered earth. Smoke rose in thick columns above the surrounding roof-tops and rifle fire echoed intermittently in the distance. Corvus, it appeared, was now more battleground than city.
Lizanne led them in a circuitous route around the square, keeping to the rubble piled on the fringes. Challenges came from various barricades as they followed a westward course through successive streets. Lizanne gave no answer to the shouted demands and for the most part those manning the barricades were content to let them proceed on their way. One, however, proved excessively keen for confrontation.
“Proclaim yourselves as true citizens!” a tall man called from atop a mound of loose brick and piled furniture, the Imperial flag flying from the pole he carried. He wore the besmirched clothing of a well-to-do member of the middling sort, this district lying at a decent remove from the dock-side slums.
“Proclaim or perish!” the tall man added, the others manning the barricade echoing what was evidently a newly born battle-cry. They were an ill-disciplined lot, evidenced by the volley of shots that rang out to accompany their exhortation. Lizanne dragged the Griffans behind an upturned coal-wagon as the bullets impacted around them like angry lead bees.
“Come out!” the tall man ordered. “Come out and procla—”
His words died as Lizanne injected a burst of Green, drew her pistol and darted out from behind the upturned wagon to slot a bullet between his eyes from a distance of thirty yards.
“I am a Blood-blessed soldier in the People’s Freedom Army!” she called out to the now-silent barricade. “And you’ve seen what I can do! Put down your weapons and go back to your homes!”
Lizanne hauled her companions to their feet and pushed them ahead. She wasn’t sure what effect her words might have had, but they made their way clear of this district without further incident.
• • •
“This is all?”
Besides Hyran, there were five people gathered in the basement of his grandfather’s long-abandoned shop, three men and two women. They were all much the same age, about twenty-five by Lizanne’s estimation, and also shared the ragged and besmirched appearance of those who had spent days in combat. They also had a hollow-eyed aspect that told of a lack of Green to stave off the consequent exhaustion.
“Every surviving Blood-blessed to have joined the Corvus rebels,” Hyran replied. “The empire takes all but a few into the Blood Cadre at a young age, so parents with radical notions tend to hide the true nature of any Blessed children.”
“What of the agents Arberus sent to the harbour?”
“It seems they found more willing ears than expected. Being cooped up for weeks hasn’t done much for morale and there’s many a sailor with family in Corvus. The general’s confident we can seize at least three ships when the time comes.”
“You’re her, aren’t you?” one of the Blood-blessed spoke up, a slender young woman with a bandage around her forearm. “Miss Blood?” Lizanne found herself discomfited by the gleam of awe in the young woman’s eyes. It seemed her legend had flown far wider than she thought.
“Just ‘miss’ will do,” Lizanne replied. “And you?”
“Jelna, here in the name of First Republic.” She cast a sour glance in Hyran’s direction. “The only true voice of revolution.”
“And the first to abandon the cause,” Hyran replied, which provoked Jelna into a combative snarl.
“Your Brotherhood has as much blood on its hands as the Regnarchy. You betrayed Bidrosin’s legacy . . .”
“Enough!” Lizanne broke in, her impatience with their radical feuding adding a hard edge to the command. They still can’t forget their petty squabbles even in the midst of all this. She took a moment to calm herself and nodded at the bandage on Jelna’s arm. “How bad is it?”
“Bullet graze.” Jelna shrugged, a cautious hopefulness creeping into her gaze as she eyed the satchel on Lizanne’s shoulder. “Stings a bit. A spot or two of Green would go down nicely.”
Lizanne placed the satchel on the floor, opening it to reveal the contents. “Courte
sy of the IPV Profitable Venture,” she said. The captain had been none-too-happy about parting with almost the entire contents of the ship’s product safe. Consequently Lizanne had been obliged to issue a reminder of his obligations and the likely reaction of Director Bloskin should he fail to meet them. She shared the product out equally, Zakaeus and Sofiya accepting their vials with a reluctance that contrasted markedly with the enthusiasm of their new colleagues.
“Got enough Red here to burn down the whole fucking Sanctum,” one of the men commented. He spoke in coarse Varsal rich in the accent of the slums and wore a cavalryman’s coat, dark with dried blood and marked by several poorly stitched bullet-holes.
“This is Kraz,” Hyran introduced the man. “Besides me, the only surviving Brotherhood Blood-blessed in the city.”
“Luckily, burning down the Sanctum in its entirety shouldn’t be necessary,” Lizanne told Kraz. She reached into the satchel and extracted the two additional Spiders she had taken from the fallen Blood Cadre agents at the Battle of the Road. She handed one to Jelna and the other to Kraz before spending a few minutes educating them in the correct operation of the devices.
“Do you have any more of those?” Zakaeus asked, peering into the satchel.
“No,” Lizanne replied. “They’re only for fighters.”
She extracted her timepiece and did a rough mental calculation of how long it would take to get to the outer walls of the Sanctum. “We need an unobstructed route,” she said, realising they would be unlikely to reach their objective if required to traverse more barricade-ridden streets.
“Could try the sewers,” Kraz suggested.
“Most have been flooded,” Jelna said. “The Cadre learned a lot of lessons after the last revolution.”
“If we can’t go down,” Lizanne said, slotting a fresh vial of Green into her Spider, “we’ll have to go up.”
• • •
The roof-tops of Corvus were fortuitously rich in tiled slopes and broad ledges, which made traversing them at Green-enhanced speeds a relatively simple matter. Lizanne led the way, the others following her route as she sprinted and leapt from one roof-top to another. A few snipers, both rebel and loyalist, had taken to the upper levels of the city. Most just stood and gaped at the momentary intrusion into their domain, but a few possessed sufficient reflex and resolve to cast some shots in their direction.
