The Waking Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  The next phase of her insertion was fairly straightforward. She would await the sunrise whereupon the harbour door would open and the assembled ships begin to make their way inside. The bosun advised the Islander would most likely be fourth in line to gain access. When she began to move Lizanne would follow her in, injecting Green and diving below the surface to avoid the gaze of well-armed guards manning the turrets on either side of the entrance. Straightforward, but the wait was tedious and the Regal sat at anchor only a short distance away.

  Impetuosity, she recalled Madame saying several years ago, shaking her head in stern admonition. It will be the death of you, young lady. Lizanne allowed herself a grin before injecting a quarter vial of Green and slipping below the surface.

  She had to dive deep to clear the cloud of effluent, finding the water below clear and surprisingly rich in sea life. One of the more appreciated effects of Green was a prolongation of respiration, allowing a Blood-blessed to remain underwater for three times the normal duration. The enhanced vision also made for an interesting aquatic experience. Schools of mackerel darted from her path, swarming and breaking apart in a fascinating dance. She caught a glimpse of a ray of some kind shaking loose a cloud of sand before flying off into the gloom, long tail whipping. The surrounding sea-bed was littered with various detritus from the tenements and, she noticed, more than a few human skulls grinning up at her from the sand. It seemed the wall-dwellers used the sea to dispose of more than just effluent.

  It took perhaps three minutes before the jagged bulk of the Regal’s paddles came into view, the stilled blades jutting below the putrid fog. Lizanne made for the stern, hoping to find the anchor chain. She would climb a short way up and listen for any voices on the deck. If the way proved clear a closer inspection might be warranted. As she swam she was given pause by the cleanliness of the cruiser’s hull, mostly free of crustaceans or the myriad scars that signified an extended time at sea. She’s newly scraped, Lizanne realised, her interest deepening as she neared the stern. There was something odd about the shape of the hull here, a bulbous protrusion extending towards the rudder of a kind she had never seen before. Swimming closer she saw that the protrusion narrowed towards its end then blossomed into what appeared to be a massive metal flower.

  She slowed and drifted closer. The odd extrusion was about three yards across and appeared to be fashioned from steel, the three petals of the flower arranged about a central cone. She noticed the flower itself was not part of the protrusion in the hull, separated from it by a half-inch gap. But it appeared new, the metal showing no signs of corrosion. Father would know in an instant what this is, she thought, berating herself for not inheriting the family facility for things mechanical. Or if he didn’t, Jermayah surely would.

  Her head clouded with images of the many blueprints and devices glimpsed in her father’s workshop, seeking something that might compare to this bizarre discovery. It came to her as she felt the effects of both the Green and Red start to ebb, her vision dimming and a chilly hand caressing her flesh. The fan, she remembered. Father’s desk fan. Summer months in Feros could be oppressive, the air heavy with a clammy, strength-sapping heat. Never one to appreciate the loss of a day’s work her father had built a small fan, driven by a tiny steam-engine that set three blades whirling fast enough to deliver a cooling breeze as he laboured over yet another fortune-making design that would, invariably, fail to find a backer. She had once suggested he try manufacturing the fan for sale only to receive an incredulous snort in response. Fortunes are not won by trinkets, my dear.

  Not petals, she realised, reaching out to play her fingers over the flower’s smooth surface. Blades. The empire has invented a fan that can drive the water rather than the air.

  Lizanne winced as the surrounding chill deepened and her lungs began to burn. She paused just long enough to fix the image of the giant, ship-driving fan in her mind before kicking away and driving for the surface.

  —

  An hour later she heaved herself out of the shadowed waters beneath one of Morsvale’s many piers, using up the last of the Green to clamber onto a sturdy cross-beam. Dawn had broken to bathe the harbour with a bright morning sun, shafts of light streaming through the pier’s planking to splash welcome heat onto her shivering flesh. She had kept to the surface as the Regal neared the door, resisting the impulse to inject more product as the cold seeped ever deeper into her bones. Unlike the entrance to Carvenport, Morsvale had but one door, a great iron thing of many riveted plates. The whole edifice was hauled out of the water by means of revolving cogs driven by two steam-engines, of somewhat inefficient design given the clunking racket and copious smoke they emitted.

  Lizanne kept to the shadow cast by the Regal’s stern as the cruiser turned her paddles and proceeded into the harbour. She waited until the last moment before submerging once more, just as the shoulder of a guard turret came into view. She injected all the remaining Green and Red as she dived, newly invigorated arms and legs working to place her under the warship’s keel until her enhanced vision glimpsed the door’s trench-like recess below, indicating she had crossed into the harbour proper. She made for a pier directly opposite the one where the Regal moored up, crouching amidst the forest of support beams to watch her arrival being greeted by a full company of Imperial troops. The dark red tunics and height of the soldiers, each at least six feet tall, made identification an easy matter: the Scarlet Legion. These were elite regulars, one of the three legions that made up the Corvantine Household Division. They were rarely seen outside the empire’s borders, their principal occupation being the subjugation of internal revolt, usually by the most brutal means available. Lizanne could name three separate massacres attributed to the Scarlet Butchers, as Corvantine radicals called them.

  She watched as a gangplank was hauled into place and a group of officers made their way from the ship to the pier. There were seven of them, all but one dressed in the uniform of the Imperial Navy. This odd man out was a tall fellow of middling years clad in the dark green uniform of the light infantry, his jacket free of any insignia. Unlike all the other soldiery present he was bare-headed, his hair shaven down to the scalp. She would have taken him for a somewhat unusually aged common soldier but for the obvious deference and respect displayed by all those around him. The tall man acknowledged the salutes of the Legion officers greeting him with a curt nod then gave a dismissive wave as a colonel bowed and gestured at the ranks of waiting legionnaires.

  No time for inspections, Lizanne thought, watching the tall man stride past the soldiers to climb into a waiting carriage. And little interest in ceremony. She had never seen this man in person before but had read sufficient intelligence reports and seen enough blurred photostats to know his name well enough: Henris Lek Morradin, Grand Marshal of Legions and Victor of the Day of Justice. The Emperor has sent his favourite attack dog to Arradsia. Why?

  CHAPTER 9

  Hilemore

  “They call it the Hive, apparently,” Captain Trumane said, tapping the pencilled “x” on the map with the point of his calliper. The mark sat in a horseshoe-shaped bay in one of the myriad islands forming the north-eastern shoulder of the Barrier Isles. “A nest of pirates and villains where our prey makes her home. Maritime Intelligence has spent the better part of four years searching for it, and now, gentlemen, it finally lies within our grasp.”

  Mr. Lemhill rested his hands on the ward-room table, heavy brows drawn as he regarded the map with a practised eye. “Our speed will count for little in such close confines, sir,” he said. “And, if this pirates’ den is truthfully named, we’ll have more than one vessel to contend with.”

  “Quite so, Number One,” the captain replied, his tone coloured by a slight smugness. “Fortunate it is then, that we have no need to enter this particular pit of snakes. Our colleagues in Maritime Intelligence assure me that the Windqueen is not currently at harbour. Rather, she is en route via a little-known passage throu
gh the dense mass of islands to the south. She is expected to arrive within two days, meaning all we need do is lie in wait. Once she’s either sunk or taken as a prize, we will conduct a bombardment of this Hive from a reasonably safe distance before returning to Feros. Even if we don’t destroy the settlement completely, the inhabitants will have little choice but to flee in the knowledge that their lair has been discovered.”

  “Might I enquire, Captain,” Hilemore said, “what intelligence we possess regarding the enemy’s complement and ordnance?”

  “Nothing we can’t cope with, I’m sure,” Trumane replied, waving a dismissive hand. “With our speed and superior armament I see little occasion for concern.”

  “Even so, sir,” Hilemore went on, “most rumours regarding this particular pirate paints her as a blood-burner. Meaning, of course, they will have at least one Blood-blessed on board.”

  “Superior gunnery will prove ample antidote to any threat from that quarter,” Trumane said, voice now taking on a tetchy edge. “And I dare say there are a few marksmen under your command with a keen enough eye to pick off any pirates displaying obvious signs of the Blessing.”

  Hilemore recalled the largest battle of the Dalcian Emergency and the huge war-galley that had emerged from the smoke to plough towards his frigate. It was crammed with warriors from bow to stern and, standing at the prow, the last few remaining members of the High King’s Blood Cabal. They stood in a dense cluster, bare of clothing and their flesh liberally decorated with garish paint of different hues. Dalcian Blood-blessed continued to attach mystical allusions to their abilities, believing the sigils with which they adorned their skin added somehow to their power. If so, it had availed them nothing that day. Hilemore had leapt atop one of the life-boats, kneeling and taking careful aim with a rifle as Dalcian musket balls buzzed around him. All but one of the Cabal had fallen before the galley drew close enough for their abilities to have any effect. The lone survivor, however, a tall, well-muscled fellow daubed all over in red paint, had clearly imbibed a huge quantity of Green, sufficient in fact to carry him over the rail before he plummeted into the centre of the aft deck. The subsequent two minutes of carnage had provided evidence aplenty of the danger posed by a Blood-blessed at close quarters.

  “An effective tactic, sir,” he conceded to Trumane, briefly closing his eyes to clear the images of flaming and dismembered men from his mind. “However, I would suggest the boarding party’s complement be increased as a precautionary measure. Another dozen men should do it.”

  “We don’t have another dozen men to spare, Lieutenant,” Trumane pointed out. “Every other man aboard will have his own task to perform when battle is joined.”

  “Apart from the cooks and laundry attendants, sir,” Hilemore said. “And your own stewards.”

  He saw Trumane stiffen at that. Most captains made do with one steward, some with none, but Captain Trumane saw fit to employ three. He flushed a little and started to reply but Lemhill, perhaps sensing the onset of an unwise outburst, cut in first.

  “I can probably rustle up another six men for you,” he told Hilemore. “Can’t speak for their fighting abilities though.”

  Hilemore nodded, glancing at Trumane’s reddened features and knowing it was time for a tactical withdrawal. “Gratefully received in any case, sir,” he told Lemhill. “If you could have them report to me at first light, I will commence their training.”

  Trumane took a moment to regard Hilemore in imperious silence before returning his attention to the map. “We will proceed at the rate of one half flask a day. By my calculations that will provide an average speed of eighteen knots in fair weather, meaning we should reach the Isles in nine days. We will keep well to the north of this Hive then cut towards the south and find a suitably secluded mooring from which to spring our trap. In the meantime I shall be undertaking regular inspections of the crew, particularly the boarding party, Mr. Hilemore. I would hate to administer punishments should you fail to transform your cooks and wash-boys into riflemen in the time available.”

  —

  “Fire!” The entire boarding party fired in unison, thirty rifles cracking sharply in the morning air to tear a fresh cluster of ragged holes in the canvas target bobbing a hundred yards off the starboard rail. Grouping’s better, Hilemore decided upon viewing the results through his spy-glass. Still falling short of twelve rounds a minute though. He watched the man nearest to him working the bolt of his Silworth rifle, a single-shot .422 breech-loader that, in the right hands, was deadly up to a mile. Like his fellows, the sailor was a proficient rifleman but hardly expert and Hilemore’s experiences in Dalcian waters had provided ample education in the value of expertise.

  “Too slow!” he barked as the last man snapped the bolt closed and presented his rifle. It had become a familiar refrain during the voyage south and he saw a couple of the men suppressing weary groans in expectation of his next orders. “Master-at-Arms!”

  The hulking Islander snapped to attention. “Sir!”

  “Three times around the fore-deck, if you please. And let’s pick up the pace a bit this time.”

  “Aye, sir!” Within minutes Steelfine had them whipped into a column and doubling around the fore-deck, rifles held at port arms and knees raised to hip height with every step. Despite their evident fatigue none of the riflemen faltered, evidence of the depth of respect, or rather fear, with which they regarded their Master-at-Arms.

  At the sound of a faint but insistent call Hilemore raised his gaze to the upper reaches of the Viable’s only mast where the slender form of Mr. Talmant could be seen in the crow’s nest. The ensign saluted then waved towards the southern horizon. Hilemore duly turned his glass southwards and it wasn’t long before he picked out a faint, grey-green hump rising above the waves.

  “Another ship?”

  He lowered the glass to find Mr. Tottleborn had joined him. The young Blood-blessed rested his arms on the rail, pinched and pale features regarding the view beyond the bows with a mixture of trepidation and weariness.

  “No,” Hilemore replied. “Land. One of the outer islands I expect.”

  “Chock-full of savages keen to rape us to death then devour our corpses, no doubt.”

  Hilemore cast a cautious glance around to ensure Steelfine wasn’t in earshot before giving Tottleborn a closer look. Although the liquor cabinet remained firmly closed to him throughout the ten days it had taken to get here, a perennial redness lingered around his eyes. Added to that, his languid movements and lack of appetite had forced Hilemore to conclude Tottleborn had found some other means of feeding his addiction. As was custom in the Maritime Protectorate, the crew received a daily rum ration but, so far, he hadn’t managed to catch any in the act of selling it on. Given that Tottleborn had continued to perform within the bounds of his contract, albeit with an undimmed sullenness and distinct absence of enthusiasm, Hilemore hadn’t felt the need to push the matter. However, with their objective now in sight he might have to adopt a less lenient approach.

  “It’s not the Islanders we need to worry about,” he told Tottleborn. “Our enemies are likely to be much better armed and a sight more savage.”

  He watched the Blood-blessed clasp his hands together to conceal a tremble. “So it’s certain there’ll be a battle?”

  “Almost certain. Your first time in combat, I assume?”

  Tottleborn gave a jerky nod, his thin neck bulging as he swallowed. “At least fighting isn’t specified in my contract,” he said, forcing a smile.

  “Quite so. Can’t have you swinging over the rail with cutlass in hand, now can we? No, you’ll be tucked up nice and safe in the engine room surrounded by several inches of armour-plate.”

  Tottleborn’s smile faded and his sombre gaze drifted over a sea rendered grey under the overcast sky. “There’s a little known facet of the Blue-trance,” he said in a quiet voice. “One we rarely talk about. They ca
ll it the Shadow.”

  Hilemore frowned in puzzlement. He had made it his business to research the nature of the Blessing and its numerous inherent dangers, but this was beyond his knowledge. “Shadow?”

  “Yes. Every Blood-blessed perceives the trance differently. For some it’s a storm, for others a forest. Mine is like a corridor of endless doors. I need only open one to access the memory or knowledge it possesses. But sometimes a Blood-blessed will see something in their trance, something dark and formless: a void swallowing light and emitting nothing except a chill sense of finality. It may be mere superstition, but it’s said that when you see the Shadow you see a portent of your own death.”

  “And you have seen it?”

  “My last trance was . . . confused, for reasons best not discussed at this juncture.”

  “Meaning you were drunk.”

  Tottleborn’s eyes flashed at him. “Meaning it was confused.” He sighed and looked away. “I believe I saw . . . something. A door that hadn’t been there before, its form shifting continually, and it was so very dark . . .”

  Tottleborn trailed off as Steelfine brought the boarding party to a halt a few yards away, growling at the sagging men to straighten up before delivering a salute. “Three laps of the fore-deck completed as ordered, sir!”

  “Thank you, Master-at-Arms.” Hilemore turned back to Tottleborn. “There isn’t a pirate vessel afloat with sufficient fire-power to penetrate the armour shielding the engine room. I suggest this shadow door of yours was but a figment born of drink. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have men to train.”

  “There’s a letter,” the Blood-blessed said before he could move away, “in my cabin.” He forced another smile. “For a young lady of my acquaintance back in Feros. Should the worst happen . . .”