The Black Lung Captain

by Chris Wooding

  A half-dozen, actually. Six names and addresses, given to him by Plome. Six people who, between them, could lay their hands on the best daemonic texts in the land.

  I expect you've been all tied up in research, trying some new method or something, ain't you? Malvery had asked him once. Maybe working on something really special?

  The doctor's voice had been sarcastic then. Pushing him, making him look at himself and what he'd become. It was an alcoholic's warning to a man he saw heading down the same route. And it had worked. Spit and blood, it had really worked. Crake was going to miss having a friend like Malvery. He was going to miss all of them, except Pinn.

  But it couldn't be helped. Because now he was working on something really special. He was going to learn how to reverse what he'd done to his niece. He was going to bring her back to life. Real life, not the half-life she led inside a suit of armour. From that dim-witted thing that was more like a pet than a human, he'd extract the little girl inside, and restore her. Somehow.

  If it sounded like madness, so be it. If he had no idea where to start, then he'd find a place. Whatever it took, there had to be a way.

  He'd had a long talk with Plome, after their brush with the daemon in his sanctum. The politician was frankly in awe of him by then. Plome was the kind of daemonist who dabbled but never dared too much. Crake represented the man he wished he could be, if only he had the courage. Seeing him master the monster in the echo chamber had made him something of a hero in Plome's eyes.

  Crake took advantage of that. He explained his plan. And he secured Plome's promise that he could make use of the politician's sanctum to conduct his experiments in.

  'Hang the risks!' Plome had said, flushed with the excitement of their recent encounter. 'I'd be honoured, Crake! Honoured!'

  Crake and Frey stood together for a time, neither quite knowing how to end it. Finally, Crake spoke up.

  'I need money.'

  'Oh?' Frey replied neutrally.

  'Plome's agreed to help me out, but it won't be enough. What I'm up to . . . it's expensive business.' He looked over at his captain. 'I believe I played some part in obtaining all that money from Grand Oracle Pomfrey at the Rake table.'

  'I'd have won it from him anyway, fair and square,' Frey said stiffly.

  'Possibly,' said Crake. 'Or maybe he'd have got up and left with his winnings, too drunk to play on. We'll never know.'

  He hated himself for asking. No matter how valid his claim to those ducats, he still felt like a beggar.

  'Alright,' Frey said, not without a little bitterness. 'I've already had to shell out for new windglass for the autocannon cupola, but you can take half of what's left. Rot knows, you've earned it in your time on my crew.' He jabbed Crake in the chest with his finger. 'Don't you breathe a word to the others though, or they'll be on me like vultures.'

  'I won't,' said Crake.

  'Hey, why don't you take the compass?' Frey suggested suddenly. He lifted his hand, to show the silver ring on his little finger. 'It's your device, after all. That way you can come find us, if you change your mind. Just follow the compass back to me.'

  Crake smiled. He'd made the ring and compass almost as a joke. Two daemons thralled together, one always pointing toward the other. It was so absurdly simple in comparison to what he'd be attempting.

  'And who'll track you down next time you go missing in a Rake den, or in some woman's bed?' he said. 'Better the others keep hold of that.'

  Frey looked crestfallen. 'Alright,' he said. 'That's sensible, I suppose.'

  'It's just . . . it's something I have to do. I don't know how long it'll take, but . . .'

  'I know.'

  'I'll leave word at all of your mail drops when I'm finished.'

  'Do that'

  Frey had closed up. Crake had hurt him.

  'Thank you, Cap'n,' Crake said eventually, as if that would salve his feelings.

  'Frey,' he said. 'It's just Frey, now.'

  There was something terrible and final in that. Crake suddenly wanted to take it all back, to stay on the Ketty Jay with the people he cared about. He wanted to ask for their help, to have them share in his mission. But he couldn't. It would mean telling them what he'd done. Like Jez, he was going to hold on to his secret to the end.

  They walked back down the path towards the docks. Despite the warmth of his furs, Crake felt as cold as he'd ever been in his life.

  Twenty-Three

  Hawk Point — The Whispermonger —

  A Curious Alliance — Grist As A Boy

  'Another day, another rat-hole,' said Frey with forced cheeriness, as he brought the Ketty Jay in over Hawk Point.

  The settlement below had a blank, starved look to it. It was crushed into a mountain pass, deep in the Splinters, blanched by the hot spring sun. Carefully laid rows of buildings betrayed its orderly origins, but it had long since turned ramshackle. Brown strips of withered flowerbeds rotted on the main street. Slates had gone missing from the roofs. Though the town centre still had a ghost of its former pride, the outskirts had decayed into shanties.

  Frey had never been here before, but he'd seen its like a hundred times. Another dying outpost, founded on high hopes and promises of freedom, only to end up violence-ridden and destitute. Honest traders came here to escape the cities and the crushing grip of the Guilds, but without Guild bribes the Ducal militia paid it no attention, and soon the criminals took over. Before long, the dreams of the first settlers had fallen into ruin, and they abandoned their failed town to try again elsewhere.

  The Coalition Navy traditionally showed little interest in out-of-the-way, insignificant places like Hawk Point. Which made the presence of one of their frigates all the more unusual.

  'What are they doing here?' Trinica muttered. She was standing at Frey's shoulder, one hand on the back of the pilot's seat. Jez sat at the navigator's station, behind him. Individually, they made Frey uneasy; together, it was all he could do not to jump whenever one of them spoke.

  'Still a wanted woman, Trinica?' he asked.

  'Of course. Quite a bounty on my head, last I heard. Though I think they have other matters to worry about right now.'

  'You mean all that about the Sammies arming up in the south?'

  'Amongst other things.'

  'Like their mortal enemies, the Awakeners, trying to steal some terrible doomsday weapon that could possibly destroy vast swathes of Vardia?' Frey suggested.

  Trinica ignored the jab. 'I'd be surprised if they knew about that at all.' She watched the frigate turning slowly in the air above the town. Its thrusters glowed, and moments later they heard a low roar that ratded the cockpit.

  'Looks like they're heading off,' said Frey.

  Trinica tutted. 'I hope they haven't disturbed my contact. He'll be far less agreeable if he's agitated. Not that he's usually very agreeable.'

  'Are you sure this feller's any good?' Frey asked.

  'The best. When I need information, he's the first one I go to.'

  'Really? I know lots of whispermongers, and I never heard of Osric Smult.'

  'You wouldn't have,' said Trinica, and left it at that. Frey felt his hackles rising at the slight edge of disdain in her voice.

  Calm down, he thought. Don't let her know that she gets to you.

  'Wind from the north, Cap'n,' said Jez from behind him. 'You'll get some heavy push on the way in.'

  Frey made a grunt of acknowledgement. Jez had been subdued ever since she emerged from the infirmary. She went about her job quietly and with her head down, saying only the bare minimum to fulfil her duties. Frey, for his part, was fine with that. He didn't want to tackle the question of Jez right now. He had enough on his plate.

  The problem was, he felt betrayed. A Mane, a damned Mane, here on his aircraft! He'd been hearing tales of those sky-ghouls since he was old enough to fly. He'd never have hired Jez if she'd told him about her condition in advance. Not that he'd have done differently in her shoes, but that was hardly the point.
/>   The point was, she let him care about her. She didn't tell him, and she let him care about her, and then he found out. That was the betrayal.

  Not only was she the best navigator he ever had, and utterly invaluable, but he liked her. She was a friend. She was, in fact, Frey's only female friend. For the rest, friendship was just an inconvenient on the way to sex. But he'd felt almost brotherly towards Jez.

  Largely it was because she wasn't up to his standards as far as women went, but it was also because he respected her. There weren't many women Frey respected, but Jez was one of them.

  He knew there was something off about her, of course he did. But he'd never thought . . . well, not this.

  Now he was repulsed by her, and afraid, and guilty for feeling that way. He knew she was the same old Jez, but at the same time she wasn't, and that confused him and made him angry and frustrated. He was mad at her for that.

  Why did she have to screw everything up by being a Mane?

  The tension was scarcely less outside the cockpit. Morale was low throughout the crew. Like him, everyone was nervous around Jez. They didn't quite know what to make of her since they'd seen her rip the head off an Imperator with her bare hands.

  There were other problems, too. The departure of Crake and Bess had left a hole bigger than anyone would have thought. Malvery missed the daemonist most of all: he was gloomily drinking himself stupid. Meanwhile Harkins had taken to sleeping in the cockpit of his Firecrow, and hardly set foot on the Ketty Jay. Whenever he did, Slag emerged to drive him off. Silo kept his own counsel, as ever, but Pinn was becoming a handful. He'd been depressed ever since he got that letter from his sweetheart, but he became downright mutinous at the news that Trinica Dracken would be travelling with them. It took all of Frey's powers of coercion, and a few good old-fashioned threats, before he'd consent to go anywhere with a woman he loathed.

  Pinn's opinion of Dracken was shared by the rest of the crew, although none of them were as vocal as he was. Even Frey had decided he didn't much want her on board. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but having her here destroyed the one safe haven he had in his life. When he was flying the Ketty Jay he could pretend that he was a mighty captain, free to find adventure wherever it lay. A lord of the skies! But Trinica's presence punctured all his illusions. Reflected in those black, black eyes, he saw himself as she must: captain of a heap of junk, leader of a miserable crew, a man who'd made nothing of himself.

  'Are your engines supposed to make that sound?' she inquired, as Frey lowered the Ketty Jay towards the small, crowded landing pad.

  'Didn't have time to get them fixed in Iktak, did I?' he said. 'Speed is of the essence, and all that. It would've taken a couple of weeks to get the parts.' Not that I could have afforded them, anyway, he added mentally.

  'You must have a fine engineer, then,' Trinica remarked.

  He couldn't work out whether the compliment was snide or genuine, but it didn't matter in the end. Just by being here, she made him feel like a failure.

  What was he even doing? Chasing after some artefact with no clear idea of what it was or what it did? It wasn't as if he could sell the thing, even if he did get his hands on it. Frey didn't have the most sensitive conscience, but he still balked at the idea of delivering a super-weapon into the hands of the highest bidder. His dreams of a fortune had gone up in smoke, yet he went on anyway. Just like one of those idiots he saw at the Rake tables. The ones who lost everything while waiting for their luck to change.

  Was he doing it to get back at Grist? Perhaps. Perhaps it was just because he was tired of being stepped on by everyone, not least the woman standing next to him. Or perhaps . . . perhaps he just needed this.

  What will I leave behind? The question that had been plaguing him ever since he'd almost died while being chased by a bunch of over-persistent yokels. Well, if he could avoid leaving thousands of corpses behind, that would be good. Mass murder was a legacy he could do without.

  Damn the reasons. Damn it all. He wasn't failing this time. That was all there was to it.

  The town hall was one of the oldest structures in Hawk Point. It was a grand building, stony and solid, dating from a time when Hawk Point was young and full of optimism. It had been designed as the heart of the settlement, the place from which the founders would put all their plans into practice. Plans for a just and honest outpost, where a man would get a fair wage for a fair day's work, and people were decent to one another.

  That had been a long time ago. Those plans were forgotten, the people who made them dead or departed. The streets stank in the heat. The gutters were choked with rubbish that the sewers coughed up when the rains came. Mould streaked the post office walls. The schoolhouse windows were all smashed. The town hall itself was surrounded by a spiked barricade and watched by armed guards.

  'This Smult feller,' said Frey, as they made their way up the street. 'He can't be doing too well for himself if he lives in a dump like this.'

  'You always did judge by appearances, Darian,' Trinica said.

  'What of it? Most of the time it's a pretty good indicator.'

  She tutted. 'And I thought you were sharper than that. People only show you what they want you to see. Haven't you learned that by now?'

  Frey looked her over with a raised eyebrow. Her deathly pallor, her butchered hair. 'I've picked up some hints,' he said. She scowled at him.

  People watched them from doorways and alleyways. Mostly men and a few women, their gazes hungry or hostile. This wasn't a place for strangers. Frey kept his hands near his cutlass and pistols. Trinica didn't show the slightest sign of being intimidated.

  'We're safe enough,' Trinica said. 'Everyone here knows who I am. Nobody will bother us.'

  Frey was scarcely reassured. He'd wanted to bring some men along for protection, but Trinica had forbidden it. Smult wouldn't respond well to that, and he might well be on edge already after the Coalition Navy's visit.

  Frey wasn't sure who he'd have brought, anyway. Malvery? Too drunk. Harkins? Too cowardly. Pinn? He could barely haul himself out of bed nowadays. Silo was liable to inspire aggravation; Murthians weren't too popular in Vardia, having fought on the wrong side of the Aerium Wars. That left Jez, who may or may not turn into a raging daemon and tear his head off at an inconvenient moment.

  Crake and Bess? Gone. Gone to take care of some business of their own.

  He missed them. Difficult as it was to admit, he admired Crake. He respected the daemonist's smarts, his education, his way of putting things. Crake was a good sort, and those were hard to find in the world Frey lived in.

  He could understand Crake's need to deal with whatever was troubling him. The damage it was doing to him was obvious. These past few months Frey had watched the daemonist hollowing out in front of his eyes. But he wished they hadn't had to leave.

  The crew of the Ketty Jay were a finely balanced group. Individually, each man and woman was a mess, but together, somehow, they'd found a way to work. The loss of two of their number had thrown even-thing out of kilter, and the whole operation was beginning to feel like it was in danger of falling apart.

  That scared him. Once, he'd only cared for his aircraft, and his crew had meant less than nothing. Now, he had no idea what he'd do without them.

  They approached the barricade surrounding the town hall. The guards on the gate recognised Trinica. It was hard not to. There wasn't a pirate or a criminal in Vardia who hadn't heard of the white-faced woman with the black outfit and blacker eyes. Her legend went before her.

  'I'm here to see Smult,' she said, and they let her in. They barely glanced at Frey. They assumed that the tattered-looking man following in her wake was her bosun, or a general dogsbody from her crew. It didn't do Frey's pride much good.

  A gun-wielding thug met them at the door. He looked Trinica over, dismissed Frey with a snort, collected their weapons and escorted them inside.

  Inside, the town hall was a cross between a junk shop and a treasure trove. The stone co
rridors were piled high with artefacts and antiques. Strange sculptures and paintings were heaped up in the foyer, peeping out from behind velvet drapes. The sheer variety of objects was bewildering. There were boxes of guns, elaborate game boards with crystal pieces, a section of the chassis from a mechanical carriage, a curving broadsword of foreign design.

  'Vases from Thace, armour from Yortland, perfume and necklaces from Samaria,' Trinica murmured as they walked through a narrow aisle between mountains of clutter.

  'Bet he doesn't have a mysterious sphere from Kurg,' said Frey, rather childishly.

  'Neither do we,' Trinica said. 'That's why we're here, remember?'

  'Your man's quite a collector, though,' Frey murmured, looking around in wonderment. 'This stuff must be worth a fortune.'

  'No doubt,' said Trinica. 'If you can sift out the valuable bits from the junk.'

  'What's the point of all this? He's not showing it off. Does he sell it?'

  'Not that I know of,' said Trinica. 'He just likes to have them.'

  Frey shook his head. All that wealth, just lying around. Some people weren't meant to be rich. When it was his turn, he intended to do a better job of it.

  They were shown in to a dim room, draped in fabrics and stacked with artefacts. There were mannequins and chests of drawers, side tables and mirrors. Stuffed animals glared from the shadows with glassy eyes. The room was stifling and close. Despite the heat of the day, the boiler had to be running hard.

  At a table in the corner was Osric Smult. He was sitting on an antique chair, his entire attention focused on the jigsaw before him. Two bored-looking bodyguards were staring vacantly into space as Frey and Trinica were led in. Spotting her, they shook themselves and woke up a little.

  'Trinica Dracken,' said Smult, without raising his head. 'Ain't you a sight?'

  Frey presumed that was meant as irony, because if Smult had any eyes at all, he certainly couldn't see through them.

  Smult was a wiry, tall man, dressed in a faded shirt, trousers and boots, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat. Beneath his clothes, every inch of exposed skin was covered in bandages. Rusty patches of dried pus and blood seeped through here and there. His face was similarly bound, and his eyes wrapped tight. The only gaps were for his mouth, and small holes for the ears and nostrils. Glimpses of the red and blistered skin around his lips indicated some kind of disease that Frey would rather not know about. He looked up at them and smiled horribly, revealing yellowed teeth and breath that smelt of sweet rot, even from across the room.