by Stephen Hunt
‘What are you talking about?’ spat Carter. ‘We’re a member of the league. If the navy finds a ship carrying slaves we free them and burn the damn boat!’
‘And Weyland’s king had much the same reaction. The imperium’s agents were thrown out on their ear and told never to return on pain of death. If any slavers given letters of marque by the empire dared to darken our skies, Weyland would invoke the pact of the league. To attack one is to attack all. The Rodalian skyguard would be ordered to pursue every hostile carrier violating our airspace; our cities and towns would be transformed into armed camps, protecting every prefecture as best it could.’
‘That was not the Northhaven I was raised in,’ said Willow.
‘It would have been,’ said Owen. ‘But the king’s brother heard about the terms of the deal. And when he did, he thought the king a sentimental fool. Let us be kind, maybe the brother told himself that with such resources at his command he could industrialise the country. Bring a similar standard of living to Weyland enjoyed by the richer countries of the south. And all he had to do was to make sure that the king and his more “immediate” heirs to the throne died in an avalanche, when such accidents were common in winter. He didn’t even need the help of the Vandians’ network of spies to arrange it. The royal guardsmen on duty were the brother’s men, the rest of the staff at the winter lodge either bribed or silenced.’
‘You’re talking about the last king,’ said Carter.
‘And the brother is the man we now call King Marcus.’
‘So that’s why we’re here?’ said Carter, furiously. ‘Why our regiment was out at sea on manoeuvres with the navy and the skyguard when the skels attacked us? Traded like horse flesh on market day by our own damn ruler!’
‘Look on it as Weyland’s small contribution to running the sky mines,’ said Owen, irony but no trace of humour in his voice. ‘Repaid in kind by the imperium, and all for the greater good.’
‘How can you be so certain of this?’ demanded Kerge.
‘Because there were three survivors of the avalanche,’ said Owen. ‘Three young boy princes. They were discovered long after they should have been dead, by a guardsman who was a little less bribed and corrupt than the rest of his company. He couldn’t let the children live, but he couldn’t bring himself to slit their throats either. So he washed his hands by arranging for them to be in the next town raided by the skels, after which they would never be heard of again.’
Carter could hardly bring himself to ask the next question. ‘And…?’
‘Two of the princes died when the last sky mine was blown apart. Sabotaged, in all likelihood, by Helrena’s rivals.’
‘And the third,’ said Anna, ‘is protected by a circle of loyal Weylanders who keep his identity hidden. From traitors and snitches. From the Vandians who’d execute him in a second if they ever realised who he really was. The same circle who try to make sure we don’t all die out here from hunger and overwork; say, by trying damn fool escape attempts with not a chance of success.’
‘We didn’t betray your escape, Carter,’ said Owen. ‘I warned you off it because it was obvious you were going to get yourself killed and bring punishment down on the rest of the station. Nobody can cross the dead zone in a transporter. The volcano’s plains are littered with the bones of slaves who spent their final days drinking engine oil.’
Carter looked around the small cavern in shock. At these people who had survived against all the odds inside the sky mines for so long, ragged and hungry, but still bound together with a singular purpose.
‘So, Mister Carnehan,’ said Owen. ‘That’s why we are here. Both in the narrow sense of this cave and the wider sense of our predicament as slaves of the imperium. And that is the nature of the conspiracy you have unravelled so keenly. What do you have to say?’
Carter fell to his knee and bowed down before Owen, Willow touching the rock by his side. Not before Owen Paterson, but before Owen Hawkins. The true King of Weyland. ‘Your Majesty.’
Duncan remembered the advice of the territorial regiment training sergeant as the assassin closed in on him, the paltry electrical cable sparking in his hand his sole defence; the one way to disarm an expert knife fighter that an opponent never expected – mainly because the move was completely insane. He ignored the grunts and yells behind him as Cassandra and Paetro struggled against impossible numbers, lunging forward and feinting with the cable, using the split second of uncertainty to catch the assassin’s blade in his shoulder. Raw red pain flared as the dagger drove home, passing through his flesh and glancing against his scapular. Better the shoulder than your heart. His attacker couldn’t withdraw the blade quick enough to stop Duncan breaking the man’s hold on the hilt, then shoving the cable into the killer’s chest, the assassin’s turn to yell as Duncan hurled him backwards with a thousand volts coursing through his body. The killer hit the wall, pitching forward as the surge of energy dissipated, collapsing at the feet of his two clan brothers hauling a struggling, belligerent Doctor Horvak towards the plant lab. Their masks glanced down at their dead comrade, a goading present laid at their feet, before moving up towards Duncan. Both blades came up as one, signalling their contempt at delaying the inevitable just as the laboratory’s main entrance exploded. Duncan was thrown to the floor by the shockwave, the assassins scattered and the doctor’s bound form landing hard against him. Duncan’s ears rang like a cathedral bell tower in full peel, his vision blurred. His thumping mind tried to focus on a group of hoodsmen rushing into the room, their leader, Apolleon, converted from a sly courtier into a terrible fury, leaping and thrusting with twin daggers, disordered assassins falling to the secret police’s blades. Duncan could see from where he had collapsed that Paetro and Cassandra had also fallen to the floor. From the blast, or put there by the assassins’ blades? Please let them be alive. Duncan tried to pick himself up. Doctor Horvak’s body trapped his legs, the scientist moaning as Duncan attempted to push him off. Not dead, not yet. More murdisto joined the fray down the plant lab’s corridor, far enough from the blast to still be combat effective, three or four killers rushing the counterattack’s commander. Duncan must be badly concussed. Apolleon moved far too fast, his daggers growing longer, becoming part of his arms, twin sabre limbs, impaling and decapitating men quicker than Duncan’s blinking eyes could comprehend. Murdisto assailants fell away, cut apart by the crazed butcher. Duncan finally managed to wriggle out from beneath the doctor and crawled towards Cassandra, the boots of Apolleon’s men dancing by his side as they thrust and parried with assassins, corpses from both sides tumbling around him as he inched towards the young girl. The house’s defenders finally turned the assault, pushing the raiders back down the corridor, a distant whine of the assassins’ shields deflecting knife and sword strikes, howls and cries as they retreated. Duncan reached Cassandra and rested the back of his hand against her mouth. He could feel the intermittent sigh of warm breath. Still alive! He ran his hands across her body. All the blood on Cassandra’s clothes appeared to belong to the assassins rather than the young noblewoman.
Paetro emerged out of the blurred edge of Duncan’s vision, bleeding from multiple wounds. ‘She lives?’
‘Yes,’ coughed Duncan, his throat on fire as though he had swallowed the explosion.
‘Thank the stars!’ gasped Paetro.
Duncan turned to gaze behind him. Apolleon knelt beside one of the assassins. And Duncan swore that for a brief second the nobleman’s right hand had been a silvery spike withdrawing from the corpse’s skull. He blinked, not believing the evidence of his eyes. When Duncan looked again the secret police chief appeared as normal as any of them. Two of his hoodsmen held Doctor Horvak in their arms, keeping him upright while they cut the bonds from the stunned doctor’s hands. A team of medics ran in and began carefully examining the scientist. Shots sounded from the direction of the greenhouse, the slow measured burst of an execution being carried out.
‘Don’t you want to interrogate the prisoners?�
� said Paetro.
‘They don’t have tongues I can order pulled out. I know all I need to know,’ said Apolleon. ‘Circae does not understand the game she is playing. But she will.’
Duncan thought of the nobleman’s twisted hand, reaching deep inside the corpse’s skull. Could a dead man’s mind cling to his secrets, before he became food for the worms? I know all I need to know. What manner of dark sorcery probed a mind so easily?
Paetro stalked out to the plant laboratory, returning seconds later with the news that the officer he had been trading insults with had fled down the rappel line. Then he limped back towards Duncan and Cassandra. ‘You arrived just in time to save the young Highness, my lord Apolleon. Another few seconds and we could have been measured for burial shrouds.’
Apolleon looked down at the young noblewoman, as if noticing her for the first time. ‘Of course.’ He turned to the medics attending Doctor Horvak. ‘The doctor is uninjured. See to her, you dolts.’ He turned to Paetro and Duncan. ‘But you are too modest; we only just arrived in time to finish off the raiders. This valiant defence was led by Lady Cassandra’s gallant tutor and her staff.’ He announced his verdict as though rewriting history, before staring sadly at the bodies of the two lab assistants. ‘And many of you paid the price with your lives.’ There was something about the way he said it that made Duncan’s skin crawl. As though the two men had been ants scraped off the underside of his boot.
Paetro picked his pistol up from the floor. ‘Aye, we merely did the duty we were sworn to.’
Paetro stood by Duncan while the medics examined Cassandra. Doctor Horvak assisted the team, irritably brushing off concerns about his own health as he located a black bag full of surgical instruments and medicines. The girl started to come round and Duncan gently wiped the grime of the explosion off her face. ‘I told you that we’d be fine.’
‘Are we with our ancestors now?’ she whispered.
‘Still soundly in the mortal world,’ said Duncan.
‘I thought I might see my father again.’
‘We are all here to look after you,’ said the doctor. ‘Myself, Duncan and Paetro.’
‘I’ve decided to cancel your lessons for the rest of the day, lass’ said Paetro. ‘That’s something to be pleased about.’
‘This is the doctor’s chamber… are my books here?’
She sounded far more concussed than Duncan; he looked worriedly over at Doctor Horvak.
‘You need to rest. Your head glanced hard against a bench when you fell,’ pronounced Horvak. The doctor gave Cassandra an injection to help her sleep while they anxiously waited for a stretcher to carry her to the castle’s infirmary. Duncan found Apolleon looking at him in a peculiar way. Did he suspect Duncan had caught sight of something strange during the fight? That might not be a particularly safe situation for the Weylander. ‘Is Princess Helrena alive? We heard a blast.’
‘Such loyal concern from our plucky sky miner! Your mistress is unharmed. You heard the castle’s gunnery control system overloading,’ smiled Apolleon. ‘The hold’s security is far too tight for a bomb to be smuggled inside the gathering.’ He tossed something that resembled an open shell down to the floor. Duncan looked again. It was a little black brooch! ‘There was a roll of magnetic tape concealed inside it, designed to overload the defence generator. An inside job. My agents caught the woman responsible fleeing the central computer chamber. She serves as your young lady’s pilot, I believe.’
Paetro groaned. ‘Hesia! No? How can you be sure it was her?’
‘Oh, we will be quite sure,’ smiled Apolleon, coldly. ‘All we require is time.’
‘You must be mistaken,’ said Paetro, his face uncharacteristically pale and uncertain. ‘If Hesia wanted to betray the young Highness, all she needed to do was fake engine trouble and land her helo at an ambush site.’
Apolleon indicated the damage around them. ‘Can you conceive of a better way for Circae to undermine Princess Helrena than snatching her granddaughter under the noses of the house’s gathered allies? What a message to send. Stand against me and I can attack you without mercy anywhere and at any time. You are never safe. Ah, dear Circae. There is a woman who understands imperial politics.’
If Duncan hadn’t already been on his knees, he would have dropped to them. Adella. Adella was the one who had slipped Hesia the brooch, to silence the castle’s automated defences. She had been willing to sacrifice Cassandra and Duncan’s lives for her new master. Merely collateral damage as the assassins silenced every witness to their real mission… abducting Doctor Horvak. Duncan hadn’t believed his hatred for her could grow any deeper, but he was shocked to find that among the ruins of love, there were still depths left to plumb. He could have almost forgiven Adella’s treachery in throwing him to the wolves a second time. But for trying to kill Cassandra? Never.
‘It’s Baron Machus,’ rasped Duncan. ‘He’s the one who sabotaged the castle’s defences.’
‘And how do you know that?’ said Apolleon, the menace in his tone obvious.
‘I saw one of his entourage pass that brooch to Hesia. Hesia told me it had fallen from her uniform on the airfield where Baron Machus noticed it had come off.’
‘Ever the gallant.’ Apolleon jabbed a finger at his hoodsmen. ‘Locate the baron and his party and ensure they are detained!’
The agents sprinted away as ordered, returning five minutes later with a sense of foreboding that Duncan could detect even below the anonymity of their masks. Bowing to the head of the secret police they gave their report. When Apolleon turned back to Duncan, Paetro and Horvak, he appeared unexpectedly sunny. ‘So, as reliable as any confession. Baron Machus and his people were called away to “urgent business” at his fortress five minutes before the assault began.’
Paetro shook his head in fury. ‘The princess’s own cousin…’
‘Every family is unhappy in its own way,’ said the doctor, gravely.
‘A very distant cousin,’ said Apolleon, ‘with, it seems, quite extravagant ambitions. The cretin has finally over-reached himself.’
Duncan could barely look at the head of the secret police in case his eyes betrayed what he had seen. This cruel nobleman carried far too many secrets. All the science of the world offered as tribute to the imperium. And what weird science had Apolleon plundered to transform himself into the deadly creature Duncan had glimpsed? Or had his mind been overcome by chemicals spilled across the laboratory? God knows, his head was throbbing hard enough. One thing at least was certain. Circae knew exactly what she was doing. She hadn’t been targeting her granddaughter; she had been seeking to disrupt whatever mysterious scheme the doctor was engaged in for Apolleon. But Duncan could hardly question Circae about the nature of that mysterious project. And as for Apolleon, the quicker the ruthless nobleman departed the castle, the safer Duncan and his friends would be.
FOURTEEN
A TRUE HEART’S WANT
Willow walked back to her barracks in a daze, passing through the maze of passages. She didn’t know which she should be more shocked at. The fact that one of the station’s slaves was the true heir to the throne of Weyland, or that when it had come to it, Carter Carnehan had been willing to sacrifice his life to save hers. The plotters had scattered back to their duties. Kerge returned to his repair bay. Only Carter walked with Willow. He had changed. The sky mines altered everyone, of course. Or perhaps the deaths and hardships just stripped away the lies and falsehoods people surrounded themselves with, revealing their true identity beneath their layers. That was a mining of sorts, too.
‘So you still don’t know who betrayed your escape,’ said Willow, if only to break the pensive silence between them.
‘I’m not sure I care anymore,’ said Carter. ‘I was so certain Owen and Anna sold us out. I would have brained the lot of them, and for what? What would I have achieved? Cracked the head of a man who should have worn the crown back home?’
‘Anyone could have betrayed you,’ said Willow. ‘M
aybe one of the others trusted too easily. Talked to the wrong person or was noticed stealing supplies for the breakout.’
‘I led them to their deaths,’ said Carter. ‘Eshean, Noah and the others. I nearly got you and Kerge killed back there, too. We could have charged in and Anna could have gunned us down with that antique pistol, thinking that we were the turncoats.’
‘But we’re still alive,’ said Willow.
‘And so is Owen,’ said Carter. ‘I lost my two brothers to the plague. He lost his to his uncle’s treachery. And we’re both here as slaves, no way of ever getting home. Where’s the difference between us?’
‘There’s one difference. The Vandians don’t care who you or I were back home – daughter of a Landor or a pastor’s son. But if the empire ever finds out who Owen is, they’ll execute him immediately to protect their tame pretender.’
‘Give me time,’ said Carter. ‘Maybe I’ll get Owen and Anna killed in my next doomed escape scheme.’
‘Self-pity isn’t an attractive trait,’ said Willow. ‘You like fighting and you don’t give up.’
‘That’s just a polite way of saying I’m pig-headed and stubborn.’
‘It’s kept you alive,’ said Willow.
‘No,’ said Carter. ‘People do that. You do that.’
‘Now you sound like Owen.’
‘Whatever else I am, I’m not a king.’ He slowed Willow in the corridor and uncertainly pulled her towards him before kissing her. She nearly slapped him in surprise, before her displeasure melted away and she yielded. It was almost as she had imagined so many times over the years. ‘What was that for?’
