by Anthony Ryan
* * *
• • •
Night seemed to fall quickly, though his sense of time slipped away as delirium took hold. As disciplined as his mind was it remained susceptible to the depredations of persistent cold, thirst and hunger. A short exploration of the surrounding water had discovered a shattered piece of life-boat. Sirus clung to it, managing to keep the upper half of himself out of the water to stave off the deadly chill. From the diminishing screams of the Protectorate sailors not far off, it seemed most of them had not been so lucky.
The temptation to let go of his fear was strong, his resolve leeching away with every passing hour. What does it matter now? he pondered, too numb to feel the pain of the all-encompassing chill. Let her see it all. The last testament of a dying man.
For some reason Katrya’s face came to him as his mental defences began to erode, threatening to reveal his scheming, his desperate desire for release from this bondage. It was Katrya who stopped him. Her face was not the one she wore when he killed her. This was her human face, the pale, frightened visage of the young woman he had sheltered with in the Morsvale sewers. Why are they doing this? she had whispered to him then as they huddled beneath a drain cover listening to the horrors unfolding in the streets above. What do they want?
He had no answer for her then, but he had one now. Because they hate us, and they want everything.
He let out a shout as consciousness returned, thrashing in the water and nearly losing his grip on the wreckage. Hold on to the fear! he commanded himself, summoning the sensations he had stolen from the drowning Spoiled. It was possible there were others in the army who had learned how to mask their thoughts in the same manner and he was determined not to allow Catheline to learn the secret. Give her nothing. Even if you die here.
So he clung to his flotsam, shivering in fear and cold as the night wore on until the first slivers of sunlight snaked through the clouded eastern sky. Finally, the last of his strength seeped away and his hands lost purchase on the wreckage. He lay back as the swell carried him off, waiting for the sea to claim him and staring up at the dimly lit clouds . . . Then blinked as a large black shape soared into view, folded its wings and dived down towards him, claws extending.
Katarias, Sirus thought as the Red plucked him from the water and beat his wings to strike out on a westward course. Before Sirus slipped into unconsciousness he entertained the notion that the drake had found him hours before but delayed his rescue, curious to see how long he would last.
* * *
• • •
His new flagship was a diminutive mail-carrier recently renamed the Fallen Stock. She had a single paddle at the stern driven by the most recent mark of steam engine. Sirus recalled from the inventory provided by Veilmist, the Island girl turned mathematical genius, that this craft was the fastest civilian vessel they possessed. It seemed he had Catheline to thank for ordering the mail-carrier to follow the ill-fated battle fleet as added insurance.
Katarias had dumped his inert form on the fore-deck before taking perch on the small ship’s bridgehouse. The drake’s weight was sufficient to buckle the ceiling and cause the ship to dip several inches. Sirus spent a day in delirious slumber belowdecks, being fed broth by his Spoiled crewmates until he returned to full consciousness. Once again he found himself marvelling at the fortitude of his remade body. An ordeal that would certainly have killed his human form was now little more than a daylong inconvenience.
Welcome back, Admiral, Catheline’s thoughts greeted him when he made his way to the bridge the following morning. May I say how gratified I am by your survival, sir. This whole enterprise would be much less entertaining without you.
You do me too much credit, miss, he replied. My orders?
Sadly, it seems your mighty efforts proved in vain. She pushed a vision into his head. It showed an eye-level view of the sea, the waves swept by gusts of thick smoke. The vision kept fading to grey before springing back into clarity, from which Sirus deduced it had been captured by an injured Spoiled near the point of exhaustion. There, Catheline said, freezing the memory and dispelling any extraneous detail to focus on a vague shape in the smoke. Spoiled eyes were capable of capturing much more detail than human vision so even through the haze it was possible to discern the shape of a life-boat. Catheline magnified the image, revealing the slim form of a woman seated at the stern of the boat.
Lizanne Lethridge, Sirus commented, stoking his fear to conceal the twinge of admiration for the woman’s resourcefulness.
Isn’t she just so appallingly aggravating? Catheline replied. The poor fellow who saw this didn’t last much longer, I’m afraid. But it seems the boat was heading west. It’s possible the sea may claim her before she finds rescue, but I doubt our luck is that good. Follow her, my dear faithful Admiral. Find out her destination then await us. We are coming. All of us.
CHAPTER 9
Lizanne
“What is that?” Makario said, peering at the western horizon. Lizanne followed his gaze, regretting the lack of Green to enhance her vision. Spending the better part of two days in this life-boat with no provisions or product had left them all in a state of chilled lethargy, apart from Sofiya Griffan, who maintained the same rigid and silent posture throughout. Lizanne found her vision blurring as she tried to focus on the small speck in the distance, hoping not to discern the flap of wings as it drew nearer. However, it was Tinkerer who solved the mystery
“An aerostat,” he said, his brow furrowed as if trying to recall something out of reach. “I don’t know how I know that.”
“The Artisan knew it,” Lizanne said. “It seems not everything is locked away after all.”
It took an hour for the aerostat to draw close enough for Lizanne to make out its two occupants. A diminutive figure sat in front manning what Lizanne assumed were the contraption’s controls whilst a person of considerably bulkier proportions tended to what appeared to be some kind of flaming brazier situated in the middle of the gondola.
“A caloric oil burner,” Tinkerer observed. “Hot air is a reasonable alternative to a chemical lifting agent. Though the design is crude.”
“I’d advise strongly against telling him that,” Lizanne said.
She waved her arms as the aerostat slowed to an uneven hover a hundred feet above. The propeller on the single engine at the stern spun fast enough to blur its blades but seemed to be having difficulty making headway against the prevailing westerly winds. She saw Jermayah lean over the side of the gondola and drop something. It splashed into the water a few feet shy of the life-boat’s bows where it bobbed on the surface until Makario retrieved it with one of the oars. It was a tarpaulin sack rigged with floats, quickly opened to reveal a large flask of water, some loaves and cured ham and, to Lizanne’s great relief, one small vial of Green.
She looked up as Jermayah shouted something from above, the words mostly swamped by the noise of the engine and the wind but she was sure she caught the word “back.” She saw Tekela give a wave before returning her hands to the controls whereupon the aerostat turned about and flew off towards the west. It seemed to Lizanne that its departure had been much swifter than its approach.
“Couldn’t they have taken us with them?” Makario asked around a mouthful of bread. Lizanne had noted that his usual decorum, and refined accent, had slipped somewhat during their time in the boat.
“I doubt it can lift more than two persons at a time,” Tinkerer replied, eyes locked on the receding craft and head presumably filling with numerous design improvements. Lizanne wondered if her father would welcome the artificer’s input and found herself doubting it. Though the prospect of their meeting did fill her with a certain guilty anticipation.
She retrieved the flask of Green from the sack and sat beside Sofiya. Removing the stopper, she held the flask up to the woman’s nose in the hope the scent of product might provoke her into some kind of animation. Instead, she
was rewarded with only a small nose wrinkle.
“Drink,” Lizanne said. “It’ll restore you.”
That drew a response, Sofiya turning her head to regard Lizanne with a vacant stare. “Can you restore my husband, Miss Lethridge?” she asked, her tone light and conversational. “The father to the child I carry. Can you restore him?”
Lizanne saw it then, the way the woman’s hands were clasped over her belly in a tight protective shield. “Emperor’s balls,” Makario muttered. “Just what we need.” He fell silent as Lizanne shot him a warning glare.
“No,” she said, turning back to Sofiya. “I cannot.” She reached out to prise the woman’s hands apart, placing the vial in her palm. “But I can keep you both alive. Don’t you think he would want that?”
Sofiya stared at the vial in her hand then put it to her lips and took a small sip, Lizanne taking some gratification from the faint colour she saw blossom in the woman’s cheeks.
“So what now?” Makario asked.
“We eat,” Lizanne said, reaching for the sack again. “And await rescue.”
* * *
• • •
“It may have escaped your notice, miss,” Captain Trumane said. “But, since Captain Verricks and Director Thriftmor can no longer be counted amongst the living, command responsibility for this fleet now rests with me. I’ll thank you to leave decisions regarding our course in my hands.”
They were alone in his cabin, Lizanne having been granted an interview only after the most strenuous insistence. Captain Trumane, it seemed, had none of Captain Verricks’s pragmatism when it came to advice offered by an Exceptional Initiatives agent.
Lizanne hadn’t been offered a seat but took one anyway, slumping into the chair opposite the captain’s desk and running a weary hand over her forehead. It had taken three hours for the Viable Opportunity to appear and rescue them, and most of that time had been taken up with coaxing Sofiya into eating something. She was in the care of the ship’s doctor now, a highly capable and affable man named Weygrand Lizanne recalled from some of Clay’s memories. Glancing up at Trumane’s arch, imperious visage above his steepled fingers, she couldn’t help but wish events had conspired to keep this man in a comatose state, which would have placed the good doctor next in line for command.
“As a matter of professional courtesy,” she began with all the politeness she could muster, “what is our present destination?”
She saw Trumane’s face twitch in an unconscious expression of discomfort. It was probably some effect of his prolonged coma and it told her a great deal. Wherever we’re going, he’s not happy about it.
“Given our current fuel stocks, not to mention the supply situation,” Trumane replied, “there is only one viable course.” His face twitched again and he let out a small cough before continuing. “Varestia,” he said. “Specifically the Red Tides.”
Lizanne stared at him, her lips curling as she contained an incredulous laugh. “I know only a little of your career, Captain,” she said. “So please correct me if my memory plays me false. Is it not the case that for most of your active service you have been engaged in antipiracy operations?”
Trumane coughed again. “Quite correct.”
“So, it would be a fair assumption that your name and reputation will be well known amongst piratical circles.”
“A fair assumption indeed.”
“Then please explain to me why sailing into the most pirate-infested region in the world at the head of an unarmed fleet of civilian vessels is such a good idea.”
“There is nowhere else!” Trumane slammed his hands onto the desk, face twitching with renewed intensity. He glared at Lizanne for a long moment before composing himself, leaning back and straightening his uniform as he added, “Not unless you think it wise we try our luck in a south Corvantine port.”
This was a point Lizanne was forced to concede. There was little prospect of finding safe harbour in one of the ports on the southern Corvantine coast. The region was a hotbed of Imperial loyalists and the chaos caused by the as yet incomplete revolution would surely make for a hostile reception from the local authorities. But the welcome they would receive in Varestian waters might well be worse.
“The Viable is the only warship in the fleet,” she said. “Even with two Blood-blessed on board to fire the engine and augment the defences, it won’t be able to protect every ship from seizure by pirates.”
“Not all Varestians are pirates,” Trumane replied. “Though they do tend to be universally greedy. They formed a government of sorts after the Empire lost control of the region, the seat of which is located at the Seven Walls. We will sail there and seek asylum in return for suitable compensation from the Ironship Syndicate.”
“The Seven Walls sits at the heart of the Red Tides,” Lizanne pointed out. “That’s a considerable distance to cover without drawing unwelcome attention, regardless of what agreement we might want to make.”
Trumane’s brow furrowed as he spent a moment in silent calculation, before his expression brightened fractionally. “Then we have your esteemed father to thank for providing the means of sending an advance party,” he said, the first smile Lizanne had seen him make appearing on his twitching face. “Miss Lethridge, please do not worry that I might dissuade you from volunteering for such a mission. I feel that keeping you cooped up aboard ship would be a singular waste of your talents.”
* * *
• • •
“It’s supposed to have a frame.”
Lizanne smothered a laugh as she watched Tinkerer unceremoniously pluck the pencil from her father’s hand and begin sketching lines on his blueprint. From the look on the professor’s face she deduced he was simply too shocked to voice an objection.
“A rigid envelope allows for more capacity and durability,” Tinkerer went on, the pencil moving in swift, precise strokes across the diagram. “And stronger fabric. Silk is far too fragile.” He stopped drawing and stepped back, turning to regard her father’s rapidly darkening countenance.
“And why,” Professor Lethridge began, voice possessed of a distinct quaver, “should I take any advice from the likes of . . .”
“Three concentric rings connected by diagonal cross-beams,” Jermayah broke in, lips pursed as he surveyed the altered blueprint. “You know, that might actually work, Professor.” He raised an eyebrow at Tinkerer. “Materials?”
“In the absence of a bespoke composite alloy, hollow copper tubing would be the best substitute.”
Professor Lethridge gave a snort but, Lizanne noted, failed to voice any further objections as Tinkerer went on to make additional modifications to the design for an improved aerostat. “The control surfaces are too small . . . Increased lifting capacity will allow for the addition of a second engine . . .”
Lizanne left them to it, deciding to check on Makario’s progress with the solargraph. Captain Trumane had ordered a good-sized portion of the Viable’s hold cleared for use as a makeshift workshop. This included a curtained-off section where the musician had some measure of privacy whilst he attempted to decipher the device’s musical mysteries. It sat on the work-bench, its various cogs and wheels gleaming in the lamplight. During the siege of Carvenport they had taken the first steps to unlocking a few of its secrets, such as the fact that it was powered by music, or “kinetic resonance,” as Jermayah termed it. However, to Lizanne it remained as unknowable and frustrating an enigma as when she first set eyes on it in the office of the unfortunate Diran Akiv Kapazin. As yet, despite Makario’s efforts, it had signally failed to reveal any clue as to how it might unlock the secrets in Tinkerer’s head. She had asked Tekela to assist, hoping the girl’s musical insights might yield some progress, as they had in Jermayah’s workshop.
“Wrong,” Tekela said as Makario finished tapping out another tune on the device’s exposed chimes. “I doubt the Artisan would have chosen something
so ugly. He had far too much taste for that. Try this.” She went on to sing a short melody in her fine, accomplished voice. She seemed oblivious to Makario’s baleful stare which Lizanne fancied was at least a match for the one her father had directed at Tinkerer. The tune was wordless, formed only of notes into something both pleasing and haunting to the ear. It reminded Lizanne of “The Leaves of Autumn,” the tune that had first caused the solargraph’s gears to turn in Jermayah’s workshop, in feeling rather than composition.
“I don’t recognise it,” Makario grated when Tekela fell silent.
“You wouldn’t,” she replied. “I made it up.”
“If this infernal thing is powered by music, it will be by a composition from the Artisan’s era. May I point out, miss, that only one of us is an expert in musical history.”
Tekela made a face and arched an eyebrow at Lizanne. “He’s just jealous because I have perfect pitch.”
“Perfect pitch is just a trick,” Makario stated, bridling as his face darkened further. “I once saw a monkey with perfect pitch in a circus.”
“Try it,” Lizanne said before Tekela could give voice to a no-doubt-vicious rejoinder. “We’ve tried every other tune the Artisan might have heard in his lifetime and all they do is cause the levers to turn, which describes the orbits of the three moons but fails to convey anything actually meaningful. There is more to this thing than just astronomy. It has another secret to tell and we know the Artisan was scrupulous in guarding his secrets. He may well have used a unique composition, one known only to himself.”