The Black Lung Captain

by Chris Wooding

  Then she looked away, and began to examine her surroundings. 'I came to see if everything was to your liking.'

  'Haven't taken her up yet,' he said. 'But they told me they did a complete overhaul. Reckon she'll fly like a dream now.'

  'You're disappointed,' she said, with a tiny smile. 'You'll miss her quirks.'

  'Yeah, a little.'

  'You always did like to do things the difficult way.'

  'Can't argue with that,' he said. 'Thanks for fixing her up. Really. I bet they did a fine job.'

  'It was the least I could do,' she said. The space between their sentences felt heavy with unspoken words. Then, as if it had just occurred to her, 'I have some things I should return to you.'

  She produced a handful of small objects from her coat. Crake's paraphernalia, that she'd taken from him in Grist's hangar. The earcuffs, the skeleton key, the brass whistle, the compass and pocket watch. When she'd given them to Frey, she began to take the silver ring off her finger.

  'Not that,' said Frey, holding up his hand. 'That's yours.'

  She hesitated. 'And the compass?'

  'That's mine.'

  She smiled reluctantly. 'Very well, Darian,' she said. 'As you wish.' And she slipped the ring back into place.

  'So where now for you?' he asked, before he could begin to feel mawkish.

  'I believe I might pay a visit to Osric Smult, a certain whisper-monger of my acquaintance. He and I have unfinished business. And you?'

  'Bestwark University. We'll go see Professor Kraylock. Reckon he'll know what to do with Maurin Grist's research.'

  'It'll be a powerful blow to the Awakeners. Have you thought what will happen if they discover you were behind it? Are you certain you want to stir up the big fish?'

  'Crake would never forgive me if I didn't,' he said. 'Besides, I got kind of sick of all this small-time grubbing about I've been doing. You have to take a risk now and then, right? That's the point. If you don't take a risk, you'll never do anything worth half a shit.'

  In fact, the idea of stirring up the big fish had begun to hold a certain appeal for him. He was a man who'd always tried to avoid the notice of everyone stronger than he was. He'd always preferred to deal with bottom-feeders, the dregs of the world, people who he reckoned he could safely outwit. He'd considered it a sensible strategy, since it had kept him alive thus far. But just staying alive wasn't enough any more. It wasn't sufficient to drift through a middling existence, making little impact on anyone, to slip quietly into an obscure death with only the fond memories of a few friends to mark him.

  He wanted to be someone. He wanted to make a difference. It was a feeling he hadn't had since he was a boy.

  He'd been haunted by a sense of worthlessness for some time now, but no longer. He'd done something extraordinary, and all of Vardia would know it. This time wasn't like the last, at Retribution Falls, when his involvement was secret and he'd been only interested in saving his own hide. This time he'd done something no one had ever done before, and what was more, he'd done it for someone else's sake.

  What will I leave behind? he thought to himself. A damn good story. A tale they'll tell over and over. And that's enough.

  She seemed to catch his thought. 'You know, they're all talking about you in the taverns. What you did.' She raised an eyebrow. 'They drew their own conclusions as to your motives. I suppose it appeals to the doomed romantics.'

  'I thought you wouldn't want it getting out. Can't be good for your reputation.'

  'Men will talk,' she said. 'I can't stop that. My crew have rather revised their opinion of you, it seems.'

  'And what about you?'

  She didn't answer that, but her gaze flickered awkwardly away from him. Frey cursed himself. He'd meant it to sound light, but the conversation had taken a sudden turn into territory that neither was comfortable with.

  'Darian,' she said softly. 'I'm not what you imagine me to be.'

  'I know,' he said. 'And you've done your damnedest to prove it.'

  'What you feel . . . It's meant for somebody who died a long time ago.'

  'She didn't die. She changed, that's all.'

  'Yes. She changed. Into something you don't want.'

  'Don't tell me what I want. I know what I want.'

  She looked up at him, and a wry expression creased the corners of her eyes. 'That's not like you at all, Darian.'

  What he wanted was to gather her in his arms. It was a physical need. The barrier between them was almost unendurable. But he felt that to do so would be to shatter something that had been built between them, some delicate and fragile understanding. He knew what she'd been through in those years they'd been apart. The touch of a man, any man, would most likely not be welcome. And he had no right to her, anyway, after what he'd done. As hard as it was to stop himself, it would be worse if she rejected him, or coldly suffered his embrace.

  So he didn't reach out to her, as much as he was desperate to. He resisted, for her.

  'You came after me,' she said quietly. 'Even after all my cruelties. You didn't let me go.'

  Frey didn't know what to say to that.

  'You won't stop trying, will you? No matter what I do.'

  'No.'

  Slowly, tentatively, she raised her hand, brushed her fingertips down his chest. She stared at the buttons of his coat, as if contemplating them fiercely. Then she slipped closer, and pressed her body against him. Her arms slipped around his waist, and her head leaned against his shoulder. She breathed in the smell of his coat and sighed.

  'Don't,' she said.

  It was as if it had only been minutes since he'd last held her, instead of a decade and more. The feel of her was familiar and new all at once. She fitted into him perfectly. For a few precious moments, everything was tranquil, and a wonderful peace spread through him. Then, as if afraid to let it last, she stepped away from him. She gave him one last look, and there was something of sadness in her gaze, but something of happiness too. Then she left him.

  He stood in the empty cargo hold, staring after her. Back she went, back to the Delirium Trigger, back to being the pirate queen whose body she inhabited. He knew he should have felt bereft, but he didn't. Instead, a broad smile broke out on his face.

  There was hope. After all this time, there was hope. The thought of it lit him up on the inside.

  His friends were alive and well and together again. His craft had been made over, better than new. The drunks were singing his praises in every tavern from here to the Samarlan border. And maybe, just maybe, Trinica didn't want to kill him any more.

  'Frey, my boy,' he said to himself. 'Things are looking up.'

  Darian Frey is down on his luck. He can barely keep his squabbling crew fed and his rickety aircraft in the sky. Even the simplest robberies seem to go wrong. It's getting so a man can't make a dishonest living any more.

  Enter Captain Grist. He's heard about a crashed aircraft laden with the treasures of a lost civilisation, and he needs Frey's help to get it. There's only one problem. The craft is lying in the trackless heart of a remote island, populated by giant beasts and subhuman monsters.

  Dangerous, yes. Suicidal, perhaps. Still, Frey's never let common sense get in the way of a fortune before. But there's something other than treasure on board that aircraft. Something that a lot of important people would kill for. And it's going to take all of Frey's considerable skill at lying, cheating and stealing if he wants to get his hands on it...

  Strap yourself in for another tale of adventure and debauchery, pilots and pirates, golems and daemons, double-crosses and double-double-crosses. The crew of the ketfyjay are back!

  Table of Contents

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