by Anthony Ryan
One hundred thousand in Ironship scrip, he thought, slowly walking back to his uncle’s house. Should’ve asked for two.
CHAPTER 8
Lizanne
She spent her final day in Carvenport practising with the Spider in the Academy gymnasium and several hours in Madame’s office refreshing her Corvantine. They sat beside the fire-place conversing in Varsal, the most common tongue spoken in the empire.
“Still sounding too stuck-up,” Madame judged, her own accent a perfect re-creation of one brought up in the slums of Corvus. “Most Corvantine servants are illiterate, don’t forget. Burgrave Artonin will expect a maid to possess vowels of a more clipped nature if you’re going to secure a place in his household.”
“I shan’t, Madame. We are certain he was the box’s most recent owner?”
“As certain as we can be. Should it prove otherwise you will endeavour to glean what you can from the home of our apparently compromised informant.”
Madame leaned back in her green-leather armchair, switching back to Mandinorian. “Your training with our new Contractor is complete?”
“As complete as possible in the time available.” Something in her voice must have betrayed a certain discomfort for Madame felt the need to press her further.
“Mr. Torcreek is proving unsatisfactory?”
Lizanne thought back over her Blue-trance sessions with the younger Torcreek. At first glance the vista of his thoughts as presented by the trance appeared little more than a swirling mess, a forbidding, mostly formless tempest shot through with lightning flashes of rage and recently birthed grief. But here and there she caught glimpses of small, tightly controlled balls of memory shining bright amidst all the darkness. It would have been an easy matter to tear into these memories and discover his secrets. Given his general lack of control he probably wouldn’t have noticed the intrusion, and secrets were her business after all. But something gave her pause. It wasn’t that her hours tutoring him had left her with any great regard for Claydon Torcreek, but these small islands of nurtured and cherished memory spoke of a more complex man than the self-serving Blinds thug he appeared. Also, given the danger they were sending him into perhaps he deserved at least a modicum of privacy.
“Mr. Torcreek is possessed of a perennially criminal mind-set,” she told Madame, deciding a strictly professional assessment was warranted. “His loyalty should be regarded as neither deep nor lasting.”
“You are aware his erstwhile enemy has met a singularly sticky end, I assume?”
Lizanne nodded. Keyvine’s head had been discovered in a pig-pen near the south wall the morning after their first meeting with the younger Torcreek, a barely recognisable half-eaten monstrosity. According to lurid rumours emanating from the Blinds, the rest of him had been found sitting alone at a table in a seedy tavern, a half-drunk bottle of wine at his side and his sword-cane on the table snapped in two.
“He wasn’t responsible,” she informed Madame. “Though the Blue-trance indicates an awareness of who was. I didn’t consider further investigation appropriate.”
“I concur, as long as no connection is made to our endeavour. Wouldn’t do to have Mr. Keyvine’s former associates sniffing around this matter.”
“I’m sure the Protectorate has suitably discouraging methods should that happen.”
“They do, but I would prefer as few complications as possible. Any direct action in the Blinds is likely to stir up a riot and provide all sorts of opportunities for Cadre operatives. Something best avoided with the mysterious Truelove still eluding us. Be sure to keep a close watch on Torcreek’s thoughts during trance communications and report any troubling developments to me.”
“Of course, Madame, as far as the exigencies of my mission allow.”
Madame Bondersil voiced a very small sigh. “I am aware, Lizanne, of the risks I am asking you to undertake. Rest assured I would not be asking if the matter was not so absolutely vital.”
“I keep abreast of the price index, as befits any responsible Shareholder. The Syndicate is looking at a three percent drop in profits by the end of the year. Finding the White will reverse the current trend.”
“There is more at stake than company profits,” Madame insisted, her expression suddenly grave. She rose from the armchair and went to her desk, beckoning Lizanne to her side. She opened a drawer to extract a file, tied with a black ribbon with a Board seal on the cover. Madame spread the file’s contents out on the desk. Lizanne’s tacit occupation of experimental plasmologist required a basic familiarity with product-quality graphs so she had little trouble interpreting the contents of each page.
“Predicted potency reduction,” she said, eyes moving from one graph to another.
“Quite so.” Madame’s finger tapped the first page, the line on the graph indicating a definite downward curve over the coming decade. “By the end of the decade the potency of Red will have diminished by half. The projections are even worse for the other variants. Added to that”—she extracted a final page from the file and handed it to Lizanne for inspection—“there are the output projections.”
Lizanne read the page several times, her frown deepening. “This can’t be right. Every other report I have read indicates a slight decline in production, the effects of which will be obviated by more sophisticated plasmology.”
“The Board has sealed this report, for obvious reasons. I’m afraid its conclusions are all too accurate. Within twenty years the output of product from all Arradsian holdings, including the other corporations, will have declined to less than fifteen percent of current levels. I don’t have to explain the ramifications for the global economy should that occur.”
“The breeding pens could be expanded, more expeditions sent to the Interior . . .”
“Already begun, and the Contractor Companies return with fewer specimens and less wild-harvested product each season. The drakes born to the pens are sickly and small and the product they produce of diminishing potency. Added to that, their life expectancy is reduced with every generation. Thanks to their irksome trait of dropping dead if they are removed from the Arradsian continent, there is also no prospect of establishing breeding populations elsewhere. It seems in the space of two centuries we have contrived to bleed this continent white.”
White, Lizanne repeated inwardly, hearing the emphasis Madame placed on the word. Everything comes back to the White. “We don’t know what White blood does,” she said. “Your own report of Miss Drystone’s experiences indicates it may hold more danger than profit.”
“Every variant holds danger, but also power that can be harnessed if properly respected. The White promises more than all the others combined.”
—
The hold of the Independent coastal steamer Islander made a stark contrast to the salubrious accommodation Lizanne had enjoyed aboard the Mutual Advantage. She was obliged to sleep on a low bunk equipped with a mattress so thin it barely deserved the name. She had been led here in the small hours of the morning by the ship’s bosun, ostensibly a long-serving merchant sailor of typically grizzled appearance but in reality an Exceptional Initiatives operative specialising in the insertion of covert agents into Corvantine territory.
“We’ll be obliged to anchor outside Morsvale harbour till dawn,” he advised. “They won’t open the doors before then, and every vessel is subject to inspection.”
“That won’t be a problem,” she assured him, placing her oilskin pack on the bunk and managing not to wrinkle her nose at the smell.
“They tell you the success rate?” he asked and she discerned a certain tiredness in his eyes, the same fatigue she had often seen in Protectorate officers with multiple battle ribbons on their uniforms.
“They did,” she said. Twenty percent. The statistic was sobering but not unduly off-putting. Long odds were something she had habituated herself to over the years.
“They don’
t trade captured agents in Arradsia,” the bosun went on. “Not like up north. They catch you in Morsvale they’ll wring what they can out of you then dump your corpse in the pens as drake food. The Arradsian Cadre plays a game without rules.”
“How long have you been in this role?” she asked.
“Twelve years now.” He displayed a wall of discoloured teeth in a forced smile. “And every day brings a new opportunity to better serve the Syndicate.”
She turned to the bunk and opened her bag. “I assume I won’t be disturbed.”
“The captain declared the hold off-limits for three days. Told the crew there was an acid spill.”
“He’s aware I’m aboard?”
The bosun shook his head. “Special cargo. That’s all he knows and he’s paid enough not to ask questions.”
“Excellent. Our journey time?”
“Two days, barring bad weather and Corvantine patrol boats.”
“Is that likely?”
“Happens now and then. Was a time they were easily bribed, not so much these days. Seems the new emperor’s been busy purging his army and navy of lazy and corrupt officers. The new breed are a sight more diligent.”
She extracted the Spider from the bag along with a brace of vials and laid them on the bunk. “I can’t afford a single compromise. If it seems we are about to be intercepted, come and fetch me. I’ll take care of it.”
She saw how his eyes lingered on the vials and realised he hadn’t been told he would be transporting a Blood-blessed. “I don’t know what you’re after in Morsvale,” he said after a moment. “And, of course, I don’t want to know. But if the Cadre catches a Division Blood-blessed on their own ground, getting fed to the drakes will be the least of your worries.”
He handed her a large canteen of water and tapped his boot against a wooden crate. “Preserved herring and pickles, in case you get hungry.” He gave her a final glance before leaving, his expression conveying a firm conviction he was taking a young woman to certain doom. He stomped off into the gloom and she heard him climb the ladder before a heavy clunk told of the hold’s hatchway being locked firmly in place.
Twelve years, she thought, removing her jacket and lying down on the bunk. I’ll have Division transfer him when I return.
—
Lizanne must have fallen into a half slumber at some point for she jerked upright with the Whisper in hand at the sound of the Islander’s steam-whistle. The hold was mostly pitch-dark but for a narrow beam of moonlight streaming through a port-hole near the ceiling. Hearing the slowing of the engine through the bulkhead, Lizanne got to her feet and strapped on the Spider. Each vial was now fully charged and she pressed the button aligned with her middle finger, sending a small charge of Green into her veins, the gloom abating and her muscles thrumming with the effects of the product. The port-hole was out of reach of any walkway so she was obliged to leap from crate to crate, building up enough momentum to grab onto an iron beam in the ceiling, hanging suspended as she peered through the port-hole. At first she could see nothing but the sea, the waters calm beneath a mostly cloudless sky. Then she saw it, a greenish-white wake perhaps a quarter-mile distant and above it a dark silhouette, tall enough to blot out the horizon from one end of the port-hole to the other.
Warship, she realised. Too large for a patrol boat. She watched the massive vessel track across the Islander’s starboard side. From the number of guns and the three stacks rising above the curve of the paddles she judged her to be one of the Imperium class of Corvantine heavy cruisers. It was unusual to see anything larger than a frigate in Arradsian coastal waters; both the Imperial Admiralty and the Ironship Sea Board tended to keep their primary units close to home. She glanced at the stars and roughly calculated the ship’s course as parallel to their own, towards Morsvale. Ran the Strait in darkness, she deduced. The Protectorate pickets must have seen her though.
The effects of the Green began to ebb as the Corvantine vessel slipped out of sight and she used the dregs to return to her bunk. On removing the Spider she inspected the small red circle left by the syringe, one of several now clustered in much the same spot to give her the appearance of an opium fiend. A useful cover story, should I need it.
She lay down on the bunk once more, Spider and Whisper both resting on her chest. She was making a mental note to relay her sighting of the warship to Madame in the first scheduled trance communication when sleep finally overtook her.
—
The wall that shielded Morsvale from the tides was not truly a wall, more an artificial peninsula divided in two by the great door providing access to the docks. The edifice appeared to have been created by the simple, but no doubt enormously laborious, means of dumping huge stone blocks into the harbour until a barrier of sufficient size had been created, large enough in fact for houses to have been constructed atop it. Lizanne gazed up at the tall, close-packed tenements in frank amazement, barely crediting the fact that people would choose to live in such proximity to the unpredictable sea. They were dimly illuminated by flickering candlelight from the small but numerous windows, washing lines arcing between each structure like a spider-web.
“Land is at a premium in Corvantine holdings,” the bosun explained. “Comes from choosing to build a colony so close to a swamp. But all the best anchorages were taken by the time the empire took an interest in the continent.”
As the Islander drew closer Lizanne detected a pungent aroma arising from the surrounding waters, thickening into a nausea-inducing stench as they neared the wall itself. “Poorest folk in the city live here,” the bosun said, nodding at the effluent bobbing in the gentle swell below the rail. “No sewers to speak of so they just cast their filth out the window and let the sea take care of it.”
Lizanne concealed a shudder of revulsion at her impending task and tightened the straps fixing the oilskin pack onto her back. It was another of Jermayah’s designs, featuring an ingenious double-flap and fabric treated with a special coating which kept the contents dry despite continual immersion. The bulk of it also helped with her buoyancy; it wouldn’t do to spend any time on the surface when the door opened. She wore only a tight-fitting one-piece garment of black cotton, light enough not to become so sodden it might weigh her down on exiting the water.
The Islander’s whistle sounded two short blasts and her paddles stopped then gave a half-dozen reverse turns to bring her to a dead stop. “Not too late,” the bosun said as the anchor plunged into the water. “You can still abort.”
Lizanne glanced over at the shadowy bulk of the Corvantine cruiser sitting at anchor just a few hundred yards short of the harbour door. Naturally, an Imperial warship took precedence over commercial traffic. She could make out the name painted on her hull in elaborate Eutherian script: Regal. The cruiser was an even more impressive sight at close range, dwarfing all the other vessels awaiting the opening of the door.
Even though Lizanne still entertained reservations about the merits of this mission, the arrival in Morsvale of a ship capable of tipping the regional maritime balance in favour of the empire demanded investigation. “Thank you,” she told the bosun. “That won’t be necessary.”
“The Islander will return in exactly twenty-three days,” he said. “She will remain for one tide only. Extraction before or after that date will have to be undertaken entirely on your own initiative.”
“I understand.” She rolled up her sleeve to check the straps on the Spider and nodded briskly at the stern. “Shall we?”
“Going to be perishing cold,” he warned as they came to the anchor chain.
“I expect so.” She hopped nimbly onto the rail and took a firm hold of the anchor chain, wrapping her arms and legs about the iron links.
“Gave up saying good luck years ago.” She looked up to see his tired, hollow-eyed face poised above the rail, a very small, sad smile on his lips. “But . . . Well, you know.”
She replied only with a grim smile of her own then loosened her grip on the chain, sliding down into the chill embrace of the stinking water below.
—
It had become apparent early in Lizanne’s schooldays that she enjoyed an equal facility with all four variants of product, an unusual trait that ensured she was soon marked out as a potential Division operative. This was the reason for her weekly visits to Jermayah’s workshop and why Madame would often favour her with a private lesson in the more nuanced uses to which product could be applied. Most of these lessons had been welcome as they invariably involved a fair amount of athletic activity, something Lizanne always enjoyed. However, she had soon come to dread one particular exercise: the proper employment of Red in an inclement environment.
Madame Bondersil would fill a bath with several buckets of ice water then order Lizanne to imbibe a small amount of Red before lying in the tub. She would then stand by with a stop-watch as Lizanne tried desperately not to exhaust the Red in a single convulsive burst. The first few attempts had seen her melt all the ice, though luckily Madame ensured there was insufficient product in her system to boil the water. Over time, however, she had learned to control the release of Red, disciplining her mind and body so that it seeped away in a continual, gradual flow, warming the surrounding water sufficiently for her to remain submerged for an extended period. Her record at the Academy had been forty-eight minutes. Tonight she would need to exceed an hour.
She pressed the requisite button on the Spider halfway down the anchor chain, injecting a quarter of a vial before slipping into the water. The chill gripped her like a vice for a split-second before she summoned the Red, the numbing cold banished in an instant. She held on to the chain, head tilted back so her nose and mouth could still draw air as she fought down a reflexive retch. The Red could keep her warm but could do nothing about the stench.