by Anthony Ryan
He saw it then, a faint glimmer in the void. Clay exerted his will, drawing the glimmer closer, feeding it with the memory of the White so that it grew, blossoming out into a view of a broad sky above a choppy grey sea. Blues churned the water on all sides, long bodies knifing through the waves, whilst above a battle raged. Drakes, Red and Black, wheeled below grey-white clouds, casting flames at each other or locking together in an ugly tangle of thrashing tails and snapping jaws. Drakes plummeted into the sea with grim regularity, either sinking immediately or struggling on the surface as their wounds leaked into the water. The Blues ignored the stricken Reds and swarmed over the Blacks with streaming fire and gnashing teeth. Clay could sense the blankness of the mind that had captured this memory, largely devoid of thought and filled only with a purpose not its own. Kill them, it commanded, the image shifting as the owner of these ancient eyes fixated on a maimed Black near by, trying vainly to take to the air with one undamaged wing. Kill them a—
Then it was gone. The purpose, the command. Vanished from the Blue’s mind and allowing an inrush of sensation. The Blue halted its charge as the urge towards combat faded, instead circling the struggling Black, casting out curious songs of greeting as its strength gave out and it slipped beneath the waves. The Blue cast its gaze to the sky, seeing that the warring factions had now separated, the Reds formed into a loose pack and striking out towards the north-east whilst the surviving Blacks made for the west. Clay managed to make out the dim but unmistakable figure of a human rider on at least one of the Blacks before they slipped into the cloud and were gone from view.
The end of the war, he realised. The first one. The White rose before and they defeated it, somehow.
He pushed the question aside, for it was clear the answer didn’t lie in the mind of this long-dead Blue. He sorted through the memories, finding it a far simpler creature than Jack, its songs joyous and possessing only the smallest tinge of rage. A simple soul, Clay thought, fighting down a pang of guilt. Not sure you’re gonna like your new home.
* * *
• • •
The chill gripped him like a steel fist the moment the trance faded, forcing out a gasp that would have been a yell if he had the breath for it. He bobbed in the swell as the huge Blue sank back into the water, retreating a short distance to hover close by, its head barely above the surface with one wide eye fixed on Clay. He could feel its song thrumming the water, rich in distress. It seemed the trance had left him with an understanding of Blue-song.
A splash drew Clay’s gaze to the left, where he found Kriz and Loriabeth struggling to keep Lieutenant Sigoral’s head above the water. The Corvantine’s face was bleached white and his one good eye dimmed. A series of splashes came from the right, accompanied by the overlapping whine of multiple bullets and the faint crackle of rifle fire. The distress song from the Blue that had been Last Look Jack rose in pitch as he recoiled from the hail of projectiles, sinking lower in the water.
“Stop—!” Clay shouted, twisting about to face the ship, his words choked off behind chattering teeth. He could see a row of armed men at the rail, Uncle Braddon among them. Preacher stood tall in the crow’s nest, rifle at his shoulder. More worryingly, Lieutenant Steelfine and Captain Hilemore were frantically trying to manoeuvre a cannon into place. The gun had clearly suffered some damage, its barrel thickly wrapped with rope, making Clay wonder if the act of firing it would pose more of a danger to the crew than to Jack.
Clay dragged a deep breath into his lungs and called out with all the volume he could muster: “STOP FUCKING SHOOTING!” The words echoed across the intervening water, heralding a pause in activity on the ship. Clay saw Hilemore straighten from the cannon in evident confusion.
“Clay!” Loriabeth gasped and he turned to see Sigoral slip from her grasp. Clay swam towards them and dived, managing to grab hold of the Corvantine’s jacket before he sank beyond reach, dragging him back to the surface. Kriz and Loriabeth closed in, the three of them kicking frantically to bear Sigoral up. A series of shouts came from the ship, Clay craning his neck to see Hilemore directing a party to lower a boat into the water. Won’t be enough time, Clay knew with a grim certainty, turning back to regard Sigoral’s bloodless complexion. It was also clear that Kriz and Loriabeth were fast approaching their limits as the water’s chill sapped their reserves of strength.
He turned to where the huge Blue still loitered twenty yards off, casting out his plaintive distress call. Clay concentrated, summoning the memory of the remade mindscape he had crafted in the beast’s head, filling it with a distress call of his own. The Blue’s response was surprising in its immediacy, propelling himself towards them with a single swish of his tail before rolling over to present his back spines.
“Grab on,” Clay told the others, reaching out to grasp the nearest spine. He took a firm hold of both the bony protrusion and Sigoral’s jacket before hauling himself closer. Kriz was obliged to help Loriabeth, who seemed to have lost the ability to raise her arms above the water, the older woman wrapping an arm around her chest and pulling them both towards the drake’s huge flank. Once they had all taken hold the Blue rolled again, lifting them clear of the water’s deathly chill before bearing them towards the ship.
As they surged through the water Clay caught sight of something bobbing on the surface, his pack, kept afloat by the bulbous cargo it held. Slow, he told the Blue, who obligingly reduced his speed, allowing Clay to reach out and reclaim the pack. Don’t worry, young ’un, he silently comforted the egg. Carried you way too far to leave you behind now.
He looked up as the deck of the ship loomed above, finding a row of gaunt and stunned faces. Uncle Braddon was the sole exception. Any astonishment he may have felt was clearly drowned by the joy of seeing his daughter again. “Got y’self a new pet, I see,” Braddon said, his heavy beard parting in a broad smile.
“More like a new friend,” Clay replied.
“That there’s Last Look Jack,” one of the crew said. It took Clay a moment to recognise Scrimshine’s face under the fellow’s scraggly beard. The former smuggler clutched a rifle in his bony hands as he stared down at the Blue’s massive body, eyes large in his emaciated skull. “We should kill it, Skipper!” he went on, turning to Hilemore with shrill insistence. “Kill it right now, I says!”
Hearing the murmur of agreement from the other crewmen and noting the severe doubt on the captain’s face, Clay said, “That name don’t fit him no more. This”—Clay leaned forward to pat the broad scaly space between the Blue’s eyes—“this is Old Jack now. And he’s gonna get us out of here.”
CHAPTER 2
Lizanne
“Nothing at all?”
Sofiya Griffan shook her head, loose red tresses playing over the pale skin of her forehead. She had maintained a largely silent and downcast demeanour since the Profitable Venture sailed from Corvus, her inexperienced mind no doubt crowded with the horrors she had witnessed during the capital’s fall. However, now she seemed on the verge of some form of mental collapse, her husband reaching out to clasp her hands as they trembled in her lap.
“Nothing,” she said, eyes flashing at Lizanne in resentful accusation, as if this turn of events were somehow her contrivance. “Feros is silent. That . . . that has never happened before.”
“You have an alternative point of contact, do you not?” Director Thriftmor asked, the inevitable brandy glass in hand. “In Sanorah?”
Sofiya’s head moved in a sharp, nervous nod. “A scheduled emergency contact in Northern Fleet Headquarters. I tranced with them less than an hour ago. They’ve had no contact with Feros since yesterday, nor with any fleet units in the harbour. Blood . . .” She faltered, closing her eyes to stem an upsurge of tears before continuing, forcing the words out. “Blood-burning patrol-craft have been dispatched but it will be several days before they report in.”
Silence reigned in the ward-room as each person present digested the
news and the Director took the opportunity to refresh his glass. It was Captain Verricks who broke the silence, his only evident sign of discomfort a slight twitch in the impressive grey whiskers that covered the lower regions of his craggy face. “My orders remain clear,” he said in a gruff tone that said much for his ability to convey a sense of unflappable authority even in times of great uncertainty. “The Profitable Venture is to transport Director Thriftmor and Miss Lethridge to Feros following the completion of their mission to the Corvantine Empire. I intend to fulfil these orders. Trance or not.”
“Feros has fallen,” Lizanne told Verricks, the certainty in her own voice more than a match for his. Her imagination had seen fit to crowd her mind with a plethora of dreadful visions concerning the likely fates of those she had left behind to pursue her Corvantine adventures. Aunt Pendilla, Jermayah, Father . . . Tekela. Guilt and self-reproach roiled in her breast as she met the captain’s gaze. I should have gotten them on the first ship to a Mandinorian port. But she had had no notion the White would be able to strike so far north so quickly, and Feros was one of the most well-defended ports in the world.
“My orders . . .” Captain Verricks began but she cut him off.
“Your orders came from a Board which is now most likely dead or enslaved.” The harshness in her tone drew a frightened sob from Sofiya, but Lizanne ignored her, stepping closer to Verricks to emphasise her point. “We should hope for the former, since I do not relish the prospect of our adversary learning their secrets, as it surely has if it captured any alive.”
Verricks blinked, his gaze switching back and forth between her and Thriftmor. “In that event,” he said, and Lizanne could see the distasteful curl of his lips beneath the whiskers, “Director Thriftmor would appear to be the sole remaining authority.”
Thriftmor’s brandy glass halted its progress towards his mouth as all eyes turned to him in expectation. Besides Lizanne, Verricks and the Griffans, the ship’s senior officers were also present at this conference. It was clear to Lizanne that Thriftmor didn’t enjoy the scrutiny of such a sizable audience.
“I . . . ah,” he said, lowering his brandy glass and inclining his head at Verricks. “I believe, in times of crisis, it is best to defer to military judgement.” He coughed and forced a tight smile in Verricks’s direction. “Your advice, Captain?”
A derisive scowl momentarily creased the captain’s forehead before he turned his gaze away from Thriftmor to address his officers. “It’s highly likely the Profitable is closer to Feros than any Protectorate patrol-craft. Our first duty must be to the Syndicate. We will approach in full battle order and endeavour to carry out a fulsome reconnaissance of the Tyrell Islands. Once the current situation at Feros has been established, Mrs. Griffan will convey the intelligence to Northern Fleet Headquarters with a request for further orders.”
Had Lizanne still held to her operating parameters as an Exceptional Initiatives agent she would have protested, perhaps even leveraged her status to force the captain to sail immediately for northern waters. She had endured weeks in the stink and danger of Scorazin, the Imperial Prison City, to free the Tinkerer and the precious knowledge he possessed. Then there had been the great tribulation of the revolution and the fall of Corus, all the time wondering when the Electress would choose to settle her score. All just to get the Tinkerer aboard this ship. Making for Feros threatened to rob them of whatever advantage his secrets might hold. But the guilt still roiled and she found she had to know what had befallen those she had left to face the storm. So, she stood and said nothing as Captain Verricks reeled off a string of orders to his officers.
“In the meantime, Miss Lethridge,” Verricks said to Lizanne when the room had cleared, “it might be best if you compiled whatever report Exceptional Initiatives is expecting of you. It can be communicated by Mrs. Griffan before we close on the Isles.”
“Sadly,” Lizanne replied with a sigh, making for the ward-room door and sparing a glance at Thriftmor now busily refreshing his brandy glass, “it’s not quite that easy.”
* * *
• • •
“You promised security,” Tinkerer said in his usual colourless voice. He glanced around at the spartan cabin he had been given and Lizanne wondered if he was pining for his books and diagrams. “This isn’t it.”
“I promised escape from Scorazin,” Lizanne returned. “And I delivered. My end of the bargain is fulfilled.” She held out a vial of Blue. “Now it’s time for yours, sir.”
“Bargains can be renegotiated,” he said, making no move to take the vial. “Especially when the value of the item under negotiation has increased . . .”
He fell to an abrupt silence as Lizanne took a revolver from the pocket of her skirt and levelled it at his head. The cylinder clicked as she cocked the hammer. “I am in no mood for your particular manners, sir,” she informed him in slow, unmistakable tones. “Up until this point have I given you any reason to doubt my word?”
His face remained impassive as he replied with a fractional shake of his head.
“Good. Then trust me when I say that you will either surrender your secrets now or I will decorate this cabin with your brains.” She held out the vial once more. “As I say, I am in no mood.”
He lifted one of his deft, slim-fingered hands and plucked the vial from her grasp. “One trance won’t be enough,” he cautioned her, removing the stopper and drinking half the contents. “The amount of information is considerable and complex.”
“Then it’s all the more important that we make a start,” Lizanne replied, retrieving the vial and drinking the remaining product. She lowered the revolver and they matched stares. For several seconds nothing happened, the expected trance failing to materialise. It occurred to her that Tinkerer’s singular personality might prohibit any trance connection, it required some form of emotional bond after all, however slight. But she recalled that he had made at least one friend in Scorazin, although even the unfortunately deceased Melina felt obliged to punch him in the face at one point.
“Perhaps a stronger dose,” she began, reaching for her wallet, but then Tinkerer blinked and the cabin disappeared.
The vision that greeted Lizanne was amazingly detailed, possessing a clarity and exactitude she had never before seen in a Blue-trance. Even the most vivid memory was inevitably altered by the mind that recalled it, insignificant elements rendered vague or omitted completely. For Tinkerer, however, it appeared nothing was insignificant. Every cobble of the street beneath their feet caught the dim sunlight peeking through the slowly drifting grey clouds above. Every brick, timber and pane of glass that formed the surrounding houses was fully present as was the tinge of horse-dung that combined with wood-smoke and a faint tang of salt to stain the air.
A port, Lizanne decided, trying vainly to conceal the sense of wonder that leeched from her mind as she surveyed her new surroundings. She spied a tall tower poking above the roof-tops to the south, a spire that closely resembled the oracular temple in the Morsvale park where she had hidden with Tekela and Major Arberus. Thoughts of Tekela immediately quelled her amazement. We have a task, she reminded herself, turning to Tinkerer who stood a few feet away, expression as blank as ever.
Where is this? she asked him.
Valazin, he replied. I was conceived here.
She had never been to this city but knew Valazin to be the largest port on the Corvantine Empire’s north-eastern coast. Once an independent city-state it had been incorporated into the Empire some six centuries ago. She remembered from her many briefings on Corvantine politics that the port had been the scene of some of the worst outrages of the Revolutionary Wars. The inhabitants had unwisely taken advantage of the chaos to resurrect archaic notions of reclaiming long-lost sovereignty. A series of brief battles and prolonged massacres, undertaken by the three now-extinct legions of the Household Division, had put paid to any such illusions. Judging by the fact that many
of the houses in sight were of recent construction, and the numerous Imperial posters pasted onto the walls, she deduced they were viewing Valazin some years after its subjugation.
Tinkerer strode across the street and halted before a shop-window decorated with the words “Eskovin Toys & Trinkets—Finest Toymakers in Valazin Since 1209.” Lizanne moved to his side, peering through the glass at the interior where a diminutive figure could be seen at a work-bench. Peering closer, she saw that it was a woman, perhaps twenty years old, engaged in wrapping a small wooden box with brown paper. Lizanne took note of the woman’s bulging belly. Your mother.
Yes. This was my family’s shop. Grandfather taught Mother how to make the toys and Father took the shop over when he died.
If she had expected to see some flicker of affection as he gazed upon his mother she was to be disappointed. His face retained its usual impassivity as the woman finished wrapping the box, tying the covering in place with a length of string and a small knot. The woman placed the box under her arm and exited the shop, the bell above the door jingling as she stepped out onto the cobbles. Lizanne was struck by the resemblance to Tinkerer, her pale features a feminized mirror of the man standing next to her, and similarly vacant of expression. The emptiness to the woman’s gaze told of a failure to fully perceive the world, as if she were drugged. As the door swung closed Lizanne caught sight of a man’s body lying face-down next to the work-bench, a recent and broad patch of blood spreading across the tiled floor.
Father tried to stop her, Tinkerer explained. She stabbed him in the chest with a screwdriver.