by Anthony Ryan
“Skipper will do, Mr. Scrimshine,” Hilemore told him. “I’ve grown accustomed to it.” He gestured at the wheel, which had been manned by Talmant for the past week. “Relieve the lieutenant at the helm, if you please. The heading is north-north-east.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore went on, “note for the log. Deck Hand Scrimshine hereby promoted to the rank of leading deck hand. Also, awarded a mention in dispatches for his outstanding actions during recent operations.”
“Very good, sir.”
He saw Scrimshine straighten a little as he took the wheel, but the former smuggler gave no other indication he had heard. “Heavy cloud ahead, Skipper,” he said instead. “Sitting low on the horizon. Looks like we’re in for it.”
“When aren’t we, Mr. Scrimshine?”
This brought a restrained chuckle from the others on the bridge and a small flare of reassurance in Hilemore’s breast. After all I put them through, they can still laugh, he thought. His good humour, however, evaporated with the arrival of Claydon Torcreek some minutes later. The Blood-blessed’s face was as grim as Hilemore had seen it. Beyond him Braddon Torcreek held his daughter in a tight embrace, tears streaming down the young gunhand’s face, which was for once rendered ugly as she strove to contain her sorrow.
“Tranced with Miss Lethridge this morning,” Clay said. “I got news.”
* * *
• • •
He ordered the news shared with the crew. It may have been wiser to spare their morale by concealing the truth, but Hilemore felt it best to ensure they knew the reality of the situation, however grim it might be. Many crewmen had family in Feros, it was the largest Maritime Protectorate base after all, and the knowledge of its fall left a thick pall of despair over the ship. He kept them distracted with constant drills and much-needed repairs. Prolonged exposure to freezing temperatures had left many of the fittings and armaments in a poor state, in addition to causing much of the ship’s paint-work to flake off. The hold yielded a decent stock of paint in various hues and Hilemore ordered the renewed colour scheme to feature both Protectorate blue and Corvantine green. Although the remaining Corvantine crew were small in number, he was keen to emphasise the fact that, despite being a ship of several different allegiances, they had but one common purpose.
The possibility of an attack by Blues was a constant worry, albeit alleviated by Clay, who spent most days on the prow in silent communion with Jack. The huge Blue would range out ahead of the ships, his remarkable hearing able to detect his drake brethren over huge distances. Consequently, they were able to avoid the danger as Clay related a series of course changes to steer them clear of trouble. However, he also provided a warning.
“He says they’re hunting us,” the Blood-blessed told Hilemore during the evening watch. It was Clay’s habit to remain at his post until midnight before retiring for a few hours’ sleep. He sipped the coffee Hilemore had brought him with a tired but grateful grin. “The White’s got ’em scouring the southern seas for us. Ain’t sure how it knows what we’re about, but it surely does, and it don’t like it.”
“Can’t he . . .” Hilemore fumbled for the right words. “Talk to the other Blues, somehow. Tell them to leave us alone.”
“He can talk, but they ain’t listening. They only got ears for the White. That’s how it was centuries ago when it rose before. That’s how it is now. To them Jack’s just another enemy in need of killing.”
Hilemore inclined his head at the crew quarters. “Has she been any more forthcoming with her intelligence?”
“Kriz? Not really. Seems right fascinated with your ship’s library and charts and all. Hard to get her head out of a book just now, though it could be just a ruse to stop me asking questions. Fact is, until we get where we’re going, I doubt she’ll tell us anything she ain’t already.”
* * *
• • •
“Land in sight, Captain,” Talmant related from the speaking-tube connected to the crow’s nest. “Sea and sky reported clear of enemies.”
“All stop,” Hilemore ordered, Talmant promptly relaying the instruction to the engine room via the bridge telegraph. “Drop anchor and signal the Farlight to draw alongside. Tell them I also request Captain Tidelow’s presence for a conference.”
“I put us here,” Hilemore said a short while later, tapping a compass-needle to a position on the chart laid out on the ward-room table. In addition to Captain Tidelow he had summoned Zenida, Clay, Braddon and Kriz to the conference. Braddon was the only one seated, placing himself at the far end of the table and paying scant attention as he stroked his beard, eyes brooding and distant. Hilemore hadn’t heard him speak more than a few words since receiving the news about Feros and the man’s bearing didn’t invite conversation. By contrast, his daughter had been highly vocal in her grief.
The night after Clay had related the news that her mother was most likely dead Loriabeth had contrived to get drunk on a cask of rum purloined from the ship’s diminishing stores. She spent an hour or more at the stern, raging profanities into the sea air in between blasting imaginary enemies with her twin revolvers. Hilemore had ordered her left alone until she became so insensible as to mistake one of the life-boats for a drake. It was Lieutenant Sigoral who calmed her, grabbing her about the arms and chest as she attempted to reload her guns and put another salvo of bullets into the life-boat’s hull. The Corvantine held her as she twisted and spat in his arms, speaking softly into her ear until the rum in her veins finally drew her into an exhausted slump. Sigoral then carried her back to her bunk, staying by her side until morning.
“Forty miles due south of the Barnahy Firth,” Tidelow said, eyes tracking a westward course over the map. “Which would make Stockcombe the nearest port.”
“We’re not going to Stockcombe,” Hilemore said. He took a pencil and sketched out a route from their current position and into the Firth.
“The Lower Torquil.” Tidelow frowned as his finger tapped the small inland sea. “That’s some tricky sailing, Captain. It’s a fractious stretch of water, small though it may be.”
“So I’ve heard,” Hilemore agreed. “And even trickier when we get to the Upper Torquil.”
Tidelow moved back from the map, shaking his head. “The Upper Torquil is said to be richer in aquatic Greens than any other place in Arradsia. Hardly the safest course in the circumstances, sir.”
“But our course nonetheless.” Reading the deep uncertainty on Tidelow’s face, Hilemore added, “One you are not obliged to follow, sir.”
“What fine choices you give me.” Tidelow let out a sardonic laugh. “Follow you into drake-infested waters or sail alone to Stockcombe in the faint hope there might be someone left alive there to reprovision us.”
* * *
• • •
Hilemore turned to regard Braddon’s silent bulk. “Your counsel would be welcome, Captain Torcreek. I’d hazard there are few souls who know the Arradsian Interior better than you do.”
For a prolonged moment Braddon didn’t respond, continuing to stare into the middle distance until Clay said softly, “Need your help here, Uncle.”
The elder Torcreek gave his nephew an impassive glance then got to his feet, moving to regard the map for several seconds. “Northern flank of the Upper Torquil is mostly marshland,” he said, voice flat as he swept a hand over the numerous water-ways that characterised the region. “Impassible on foot or boat except for here.” His finger came to rest on a particular river at the northernmost point of the Upper Torquil. “Quilam River. Named for one of the fellas first discovered the Torquils. Current’s fierce but it’s the only means of making it to the plains country west of the Krystaline without going through the Coppersoles.”
“I got no desire to see them again,” Clay commented.
“The depth of the river?” Hilemore asked Braddon.
“Should accommodate the Superior for about half the way, after that we’ll need a steamboat of some kind to make it the rest of the way. Oars won’t do it, the current’s too strong.”
“I’ll set Chief Bozware to the task,” Hilemore said. “I’m sure he can rig something up. Been awhile since I commanded a small steam craft. I’m sure I can still remember how.”
“Erm,” Clay said, giving a small cough of discomfort. “Miss Lethridge had opinions on this matter, Captain. Thinks it’s best you stay with the ship this time.”
Hilemore stared at him, feeling an icy anger stealing over him. “She thinks that, does she?” he enquired in a low voice. “How very interesting.”
“Says you now command the most advanced warship in the world,” Clay went on with an apologetic shrug. “Probably, with all the Corvie ships sunk and all. You and this ship are too valuable an asset to risk. If we don’t make it back from the Krystaline you should sail for Varestia and aid with the defence. Said you can regard it as an order from Exceptional Initiatives if it helps.”
Hilemore’s anger abruptly switched from icy to hot, and he felt a red flush creep over his cheeks as he leaned forward, meeting Clay’s reluctant gaze. “Understand this, Mr. Torcreek. I do not take orders . . .”
“He’s right,” Zenida interrupted.
Hilemore rounded on her, rage swelling further, then paused at the hard but insistent honesty he saw in her gaze. “This crew didn’t follow me,” she told him. “They followed you, through battle, mutiny, drake fire, ice and deadly gas. You might think I chose to wait for you, but you’re wrong. I knew if I had attempted to sail away they would have hung me from the mainmast and continued to wait until they froze. I cannot command this ship in your absence. That is the simple truth, sea-brother. You belong here.”
Hilemore rested his clenched fists on the map, trying to calm the thumping in his temples. The worst thing about being a captain, Grandfather Racksmith told him once, is recognising that you’re the most important man on the ship. And that’s a burden of responsibility few men can stand, for you no longer have the luxury of pride. “How will we know if you’re successful?” he said, his hard, grating voice breaking what he realised had been a protracted silence.
“I can trance with Captain Okanas,” Clay said. “Reckon we’ve been in each other’s company long enough for a viable connection. Anything happens to me, then Lieutenant Sigoral can trance in my stead. Anything happens to him, well, we’re most likely all dead and you need to sail for Varestia.”
Hilemore swallowed, feeling his rage subside into a nauseous anger. “Very well,” he said. “Assuming you reach the Krystaline, what then?”
Kriz stepped forward, placing a sheaf of papers on the table. Peering closer, Hilemore saw they were mechanical designs, but the device depicted was unfamiliar. It appeared to consist of a large sealed tube attached to a frame and something that resembled an upended metal fish-bowl. “What is that?” he asked.
“A subaquatic breathing apparatus,” Kriz said. “We’ll need to explore the lake-bed to locate the aerostat and recover what we need.”
“You can build this?”
She nodded. “There are sufficient materials on board to construct it. But I’ll require education in how to operate your welding gear.”
“The Chief will be busy, it seems.” Hilemore straightened, breathing deep to banish his anger, though a simmering core of it remained. It was selfish, he knew. Born of a desire to see the Interior for himself. For all its many dangers his time on the ice and the wonders witnessed there had birthed a thirst for more. Perhaps it’s in the blood, he mused. Grandfather was an explorer after all. But this was an active-duty warship and exploration would have to wait for more peaceful days.
“We will clear the Firth and enter the Lower Torquil by tomorrow evening,” he said. “Weather and drakes permitting we should reach the mouth of the Quilam River three days later. All your mechanicals will need to be complete by then. Let’s be about it.”
* * *
• • •
Chief Bozware used the Superior’s largest launch as the basis for his steam-powered river-boat. Taking his cue from the Superior’s own radical design, he opted for a propeller-driven craft rather than paddles. “Too complex to put together in the time available, sir,” he advised Hilemore during a visit to the makeshift workshop on the fore-deck. The Chief appeared tired under the usual sheen of oily grime, but the enthusiasm for his task shone through nonetheless. The shaft was a length of iron pole fashioned from a ceiling beam taken from the crew quarters. The propeller had been constructed of copper tubing from the ship’s hot-water system, the pipes flattened and welded into three identical blades. “With this it’s just two separate components instead of ten.”
“And the engine?” Hilemore enquired.
Bozware pulled back the tarpaulin covering a bulky shape in the centre of the launch. To Hilemore’s eyes the unveiled contraption resembled a greatly enlarged iron top hat sprouting from a dense nest of copper and iron tubing. “Luckily, the Corvies had a decent stock of spares for their auxiliary power plant,” Bozware said. “So the gearing and pipe-work weren’t too difficult. The boiler and condenser were another matter. Had to purloin a good few of cookie’s pots and pans from the galley, plus some deck-plates from the hold.”
He slapped a hand to the engine, a glimmer of pride evident in his besmirched features. “Reckon she’ll do a good ten knots in calm waters, if she’s stoked high enough.”
Hilemore turned to where Braddon Torcreek stood appraising the craft in his now-habitual silence. “Will ten knots suffice, do you think, Captain?” Hilemore asked him.
Braddon shrugged and muttered, “It’ll have to.” With that he stalked off towards the crew quarters. Hilemore had seen men succumb to grief before, crewmates who had learned of the death of loved ones on return to port. Some would lose themselves in drink, others whores or gambling and a few could be expected to tip themselves over the side during a lonely midnight watch. In Braddon’s case the man neither drank nor gambled, nor showed any inclination to suicide. Instead when not compelled to take part in a discussion he sat in his cabin repeatedly disassembling and cleaning his guns.
It’s not self-pity that’s snared this one, Hilemore decided, watching Braddon disappear belowdecks. It’s revenge. Which may be worse.
* * *
• • •
The Lower Torquil soon lived up to its reputation for troublesome sailing. Captain Tidelow, having taken a vote amongst those members of his crew not incarcerated in the brig, had opted to stay with the Superior. Both ships sailed through the Barnahy Firth and into the Lower Torquil without incident, finding mostly calm blue waters reflecting the clear sky above. However, the wind stiffened as the day wore on and the waters soon grew choppy. By late afternoon they were regularly swept by heavy torrents of rain and the wind had whipped the inland sea into a minor storm. They were forced to reduce speed and Leading Deck Hand Scrimshine obliged to work ever harder at the wheel to maintain their heading.
“Apparently it’s all due to geography, sir,” Lieutenant Talmant commented to Hilemore as they steadied themselves on a pitching bridge. “The prevailing wind comes from the west at this latitude and picks up increased velocity as it passes over the Torquils. It then slams into the natural barrier of the Coppersole Mountains, producing a kind of huge, high-pressure vortex.”
“Fucking fascinating that is,” Scrimshine muttered as he hauled on the wheel, low enough for only Hilemore to hear.
“Steady, Mr. Scrimshine,” Hilemore snapped causing the half grin to vanish from Scrimshine’s face. Recently promoted and decorated he may be, but that was no excuse for a lack of respect between ranks.
He turned his attention to the prow where Clay had continued to perch himself, despite the weather. Through the squall Hilemore caught occasional glimpses of Jack’s scales, glittering in
the fading light as he broke the surface. The younger Torcreek reported that the beast was unnerved by his new surroundings, finding the relatively shallow waters and confines of the Torquils a marked contrast to his vast home waters. However, his senses remained sharp and so far the Blue hadn’t detected any sign of another drake.
Hilemore ordered the ship to one-third speed as evening slipped into night. The weather had stolen the stars from the sky and he was unwilling to risk navigating by dead reckoning in such shallow waters. Running aground in peacetime was a career disaster for a captain, but in times like these it would mean the end of this whole enterprise.
Morning brought calmer waters and an uninterrupted progress to the narrow channel that connected the Lower Torquil to its northern twin. It was a notoriously dangerous strait that had the official name of Tormine’s Cut, another feature named for one of the explorers who had first charted this region. In the habit of sailors, however, it had long since earned the name Terror’s Cut thanks to the number of ships that had fallen foul of its capricious nature. During a three-moon tide it was said the waters of the Cut could reach heights equivalent to a tidal wave. Fortunately, they were in a relatively inactive lunar period and the tides were unlikely to be high. Even so, Hilemore ordered the ship to dead slow as they approached the channel. Partly to gauge the conditions and also to allow the Farlight to catch up, the Blue-hunter having fallen behind during the night.
“Current appears to be flowing north, Captain,” Talmant reported, having trained a spy-glass on the Cut. Hilemore followed suit, tracking his own glass between the headland on either side of the channel. The terrain consisted of the kind of bare, sandy scrub typical to land regularly subjected to the three-moon tide, whilst the waters themselves seemed placid enough, though evidently fast-flowing.