The Waking Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  “Worry is the enemy of all sailors, Mr. Tottleborn,” Hilemore interrupted, finding his patience exhausted. “Best put it from your mind and concentrate on the matter at hand. I believe a Blue-trance communication is scheduled in less than one hour. Please go and ask Mr. Lemhill for the relevant documents. I shall meet you in the ward-room when I’m done here.”

  He saw a brief flicker of hurt pass over Tottleborn’s narrow features before he nodded and turned away, making for the ladder leading to the bridge.

  “Now then,” Hilemore said, raising his voice to address the boarding party and taking a stop-watch from his pocket. “Let’s see if you buggers can do any better with independent fire. An extra quarter measure of rum for any man who manages twelve rounds in a minute.”

  —

  The captain chose to anchor in a narrow inlet on the coast of a small island six miles north-east of the Hive. They approached at night, moving at a crawl through the two-moonlit waters, Tottleborn having burned only a tenth of a flask to reduce their speed and engine noise. Hilemore stood at the prow as the Viable slowed to a halt, grudgingly impressed by Trumane’s navigation. Under his guidance the helmsman had performed a ninety-degree turn exactly ten miles true north and the subsequent passage had been achieved with only minimal corrections. All night the captain stood on the gangway taking repeated readings from the stars and moons with his sextant, every now and then ordering slight changes in their heading to counter the effects of the prevailing current. Hilemore entertained certain doubts about his captain’s command ability but his skill as a navigator, like his expert understanding of the workings of the marvellous engine that drove this ship, was unquestionable.

  Hilemore also found he couldn’t fault the man for his regular inspections of the boarding party; with battle looming men needed a vigilant and sometimes stern commander. However, he wished Trumane would exercise his gift for criticism with greater care, concentrating more on marksmanship and weapons maintenance than uniform infractions. He had come close to ordering one of the cooks flogged for a missing belt buckle but seemed unconcerned by the blunt edge on the boy’s bayonet, an infraction for which Hilemore had fined him a month’s sea pay before ordering three mornings of close-order drill under Steelfine’s instruction.

  On the whole he judged the boarding party as ready as he could make them, though only a handful had ever seen combat and they lacked the cutting edge and aggression of the men he had commanded in the Emergency. He could only hope these pirates proved a less ferocious foe than the Sovereignists when the time came.

  He turned at the splash of the anchor descending into the still waters of the inlet, soon followed by the soft toll of the bell sounding the commencement of the first watch. He lingered for a moment, his thoughts turning to Lewella, as they ever did when the still hours of the night were upon him. Her letter rested in the breast pocket of his tunic and he couldn’t help the feeling that it emitted a certain heat through the fabric, the pain it held warm and irresistible. Please do not hate me . . .

  As ever, when his thoughts turned to Lewella, they fixed on that first meeting. Whilst young women of the managerial class were typically introduced to their future fiancés at a ball or other suitably chaperoned social gathering, Lewella Tythencroft was destined to meet Lieutenant Corrick Hilemore under very different circumstances. The North Mandinorian port of Sanorah was no stranger to riots, but previous civil disturbances had tended to erupt amidst the ever-fractious and poverty-riven dock-side neighbourhoods. This one was different in that the principal agitators were students rather than drunken stevedores enraged at yet another wage cut.

  Hilemore had emerged from the post office on Aylemont Road to find himself embroiled in a scene of smoke-shrouded chaos. He could see a line of mounted Protectorate constabulary clubbing their way through a crowd of yelling youths, batons and placards colliding in an ugly melee before the horses broke through and the young people scattered. One, however, remained where she was.

  She was tall with auburn hair trailing from a hatless and dishevelled head, her well-tailored clothes marking her out as of managerial station, although the message painted onto her placard spoke of contradictory allegiances. IRONSHIP MUST BE DISSOLVED!

  “Votes not shares!” he heard her cry out, standing straight-backed and unafraid as her fellow protestors fled on all sides. “End the corporate tyranny!”

  Hilemore found himself transfixed by the sight, continuing to stare even as a salvo of rifle-shots sounded through the thickening smoke. The moment was broken, however, by the sight of a Protectorate constable wheeling his horse about and galloping straight at the object of Hilemore’s fascination.

  “Votes not shares! Votes no—”

  The young woman’s chant ended in a hard grunt as Hilemore’s charge took her off her feet, horse and constable thundering past, the clatter of iron-shod hooves counterpointed by the whistle of the constable’s baton as it came within a whisker of Hilemore’s head. They landed a few yards on, Hilemore finding himself staring into the woman’s eyes, bright hazel eyes that were angry rather than grateful.

  “Get off me!” she shouted, struggling free. “Corporate pig! Slaver’s mercenary!”

  Hilemore’s attention was dragged away by the sound of the constable attempting to bring his mount around for a second charge. Luckily, the fellow was clearly a novice horseman and took an inordinate amount of time to complete the manoeuvre. Hilemore surged to his feet, covered the intervening distance in a few strides and jerked the constable’s foot free of his stirrup, hauling him from the saddle with a heavy shove. He slapped a hand to the animal’s flank to send it galloping off through the smoke then turned to find the young woman had regained her feet and was crouching to retrieve her placard.

  “Put me down!” she yelled as he forestalled any delay by simply lifting her onto his shoulder and bearing her away at a steady run. “Unhand me you Syndicate lackey!”

  He was obliged to shield her from several more assaults as he skirted knots of conflict where students and constables battled one another with an intensity that he wouldn’t see outmatched until the Dalcian Emergency two years later.

  Finally the smoke began to thin as they entered a residential street away from the main concourse. The young woman had fallen into a stern silence by now and glared at him as he set her down, lips set in a hard, unyielding line as he touched a finger to his cap. “Apologies, miss.”

  “You, sir,” she said, glare undimmed, “are a whore to the corporate elite.”

  And then she kissed him.

  “Cocoa, sir.”

  Hilemore blinked and turned to find Mr. Talmant confronting him with a steaming tin mug. “Cookie’s compliments, sir,” the ensign went on. “Says his boys are a lot more obedient since you came aboard.”

  “Be sure to thank him for me.” Hilemore accepted the mug, raising his eyebrows as he paused to sniff the steaming aroma. A tot or two of rum, if I’m not mistaken. He decided it would be churlish to refuse the cook’s gratitude and took a generous sip.

  “A wild shore, sir,” Talmant said, nodding at the jungle-thick mass of the island. The light of the double moons played over the dense foliage like a scattering of silver dust that did little to alleviate its ominous appearance. “Do you think we’ll see any Islanders?”

  “I’ve only sailed these waters once before,” Hilemore replied. “My first posting in fact, when I was an ensign like you. Sailed up and down the whole archipelago in a customs cutter for six months and never caught sight of a native the whole voyage. In fact, Mr. Steelfine is the only Islander I’ve had the pleasure of seeing at close quarters.”

  “I believe he’s from one of the Vineland tribes that live near the Strait. The only tribe ever to be successfully pacified, they say.”

  Hilemore had serious doubts that the word “pacified” could be truthfully applied to Steelfine but was impressed by the boy’s kno
wledge. “Are you an educated fellow then, Mr. Talmant?”

  The ensign gave a cautious smile. “I had three years of school, sir. Milvale, Explorer House.”

  Milvale, Hilemore knew, was one of the more prestigious boarding schools where the Mandinorian managerial class sent their children. Mr. Talmant, it seemed, came from successful stock. “Explorer, eh?” he asked.

  “The house was founded by the Explorer’s Guild, sir. Back in the days of the old empire. I believe it was their intention to educate successive generations of adventurers.”

  “Is that why you joined up? To voyage to the far-flung reaches of the globe?”

  “Partly, sir. My tenure at the school came to a somewhat abrupt end, you see.” He paused and Hilemore saw an embarrassed flush on his cheeks despite the gloom. Money troubles, he decided. It was a familiar story. The Talmants’ stock must have fallen: a bad investment or over-extended credit on the family mansion. Either way the school fees could no longer be met and it was time for the boy to find gainful employment. Though the youth seemed cheerful enough with his lot.

  “And you, sir?” Talmant asked. “The Maritime Academy, I assume?”

  Hilemore shook his head. “My father didn’t believe in formal education. Or rather, he resented the expense it required. My brothers and I were taught reading and numbers by my mother. Luckily, my grandfather had schooled her in the mysteries of navigation and I proved an able student. It was of considerable assistance when I applied to the Protectorate, my knowledge of other areas having been so neglected.”

  “Your grandfather,” Talmant said, a certain hushed reverence in his voice. “I overheard Mr. Lemhill make mention of him. Truly you are the grandson of Fighting Jak then, sir?”

  Fighting Jak, or Captain and later Commodore Jakamore Racksmith to be precise. A man Hilemore had known intimately for but one year of his life, but what a year it had been. The old man had taken them in after his father had finally frittered away the last of the family holdings, necessitating the sale of Astrage Vale to Cousin Malkim, a man of singular odium. Father had taken himself off to the eastern steppes, ostensibly to seek out some fabled lost treasure and restore the family fortune. Hilemore, then aged thirteen and old enough to know a lie when he heard it, had sternly refused to take his father’s hand the day he left. Instead he turned his back and walked to the carriage that would take him, his brothers and his mother to their grandfather’s comparatively humble home by the sea. He remembered Father calling his name but he hadn’t looked back. Whatever became of him Hilemore never knew, though in idle moments he preferred to imagine him tucked up warm and safe in a yurt with a plump nomad woman and a full skin of fermented milk.

  “Keen to hear an anecdote are we, Ensign?” he asked Talmant, grinning at the boy’s evident discomfort. “Grandfather rarely spoke of his battles, though my mother had provided me a rich history of his career. No, he preferred to speak of his more peaceful endeavours. It’s often forgotten these days but he was as much an explorer as a fighter. I dare say he would have been at home lecturing in your old college.”

  “It would have been an honour to hear him, sir.” Talmant fidgeted for a moment before continuing, evidently struggling with the right choice of words. “Lieutenant, with regards to the boarding party . . .”

  “No,” Hilemore interrupted flatly.

  “But, sir. It’s plain you are short-handed . . .”

  “Short-handed or not, I have no place for you, Mr. Talmant. You have an allotted role aboard this ship.”

  Talmant stiffened a little. “Shackled to the captain’s side, relaying messages whilst my comrades fight is hardly honourable duty.”

  “On that point you are utterly wrong.” Hilemore smothered an exasperated sigh, knowing he was looking at himself from ten years before, though even then he had stood half a foot taller than this deluded youth. “There is no safe place in a sea battle, Mr. Talmant,” he said, voice now rich in authority. “As you will soon discover when we draw within range of our adversary’s guns. The captain has done you credit by ascribing you a vital role. I suggest you do not abuse the opportunity with churlishness.”

  Talmant’s posture abruptly shifted into straight-backed respect, eyes averted as he saluted, replying in a standard tone, “Very good, sir.”

  Hilemore nodded and returned the salute. “Carry on, Mr. Talmant.”

  “Sir!”

  He watched the lad take a few steps, then sighed again before calling after him. “A moment, Ensign.”

  Talmant halted and about-faced, still maintaining his rigid posture. “Aye, sir.”

  “You and the other junior officers will draw revolvers tomorrow morning and report here for target practice. Bring your swords, too. And I had better not find any with a dull edge.”

  He saw Talmant suppress a grin before he saluted again. “I’ll make sure of it, sir.”

  “See that you do, Mr. Talmant.” Hilemore returned his gaze to the island as Talmant’s footsteps faded, watching the moonlight play on the tree-tops and feeling Lewella’s letter burn against his breast once more. Throw it away, a seductive voice whispered inside his head. Consign it to the sea and curse her name. Betrayal deserves nothing else.

  If that’s true, he answered himself, I had best throw myself in as well. Still, he took another gulp of cocoa before upending the mug and emptying the remainder into the still waters below. In a day or two the pirates may well spare me the trouble.

  CHAPTER 10

  Clay

  “Told you to leave it be,” his uncle grated through clenched teeth.

  “I did,” Clay replied. He glanced across the table at Silverpin busily shovelling fresh scrambled eggs into her mouth, apparently oblivious to the conversation. It became abruptly clear to him that his uncle had no notion of the gift she had made him the previous night. He turned away and left a lengthy pause before replying. “Man like that had no shortage of enemies. Seems someone saved me the trouble.”

  “You think Keyvine’s crew will see it that way?”

  “Keyvine’s crew are already slicing each other to pieces over who gets to sit the throne, or if they ain’t they soon will be. Besides, you got Ironship protection now, right?”

  “Don’t tell me what I got, boy!” Braddon started to rise, stopping only when Fredabel put a hand on his arm.

  “He was here all night,” she said softly. “Lest he sprouted wings, can’t see how he could’ve done this thing.”

  There came a light knocking at the door. It was open to receive the fresh morning air but the new arrival lingered outside, awaiting leave to enter with his broad-brimmed hat clutched in both hands. He was a bulky man of New Colonial complexion, closer to fifty than forty with long hair and a heavy beard, the duster he wore and the butt of a shotgun jutting above his shoulder clearly indicating his Contractor status. He gave a respectful nod as Fredabel went to greet him. “Mrs. Torcreek.”

  “Mr. Skaggerhill.” She took both his hands and drew him inside. “I’ve told you many times, just come on in.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Skaggerhill replied with an earnest nod, Clay noting the faint flush on his cheeks. Seems Auntie won’t be wanting for a suitor if anything happens to Uncle, he surmised.

  “Skaggs,” Braddon said, getting to his feet to shake the man’s hand. “Join us for a bite.”

  “Eaten already, Captain. But thank you for the consideration.”

  “They here?”

  “Gathered in the yard, sir.” Skaggerhill gave an embarrassed wince and inclined his head at the door. “Got a small matter to attend to first, however.”

  Loriabeth lay in the back of the wagon, a livid bruise on her cheek and the twin holsters on her hips empty. “Had to take her guns,” Skaggerhill explained. “Got a mite rambunctious after the third bottle.”

  “What happened to her face?” Fredabel asked, arms crossed tight in concern as sh
e cast a wary glance at her husband’s darkening visage.

  “She, uh, formed an attachment,” Skaggerhill said, voice heavy with reluctance. “Young fella from the Trueshots. They danced for a while, then it seems he said something unfortunate. Things got a little hairy for a time. May be politic to go see their captain, smooth the waters like.”

  Braddon stared down at his daughter with a barely controlled rage. “And she wants a place on this expedition,” he said in a low voice.

  “Probably just trying to fit in,” Fredabel said, voice deliberately light. “It’s Contractor custom to let loose a little the night before an expedition.”

  “She ain’t a Contractor,” Braddon grated, turning to his wife in mounting anger. “She’s my daughter. Her actions reflect on me, on this company. This is not some ragbag headhunter mob . . .”

  He trailed off as Clay stepped between them, moving to the wagon and taking hold of Loriabeth’s arms. He hauled her onto his shoulder and carried her inside without particular difficulty since she weighed next to nothing. She gave a weary moan as he heaved her onto her bed, surfacing from the wine-induced fog and blinking at him with dulled eyes. “Shit,” she groaned. “You’re still here.”

  “’Fraid so, cuz,” he replied with a smile. He glanced at the door as his aunt and uncle’s argument escalated downstairs. “Though right now I’m not sure which one of us your pa will kill first.”

  “Kill you first,” she mumbled, curling up on the bed and snuggling childlike into the covers. “Kill you for murdering your pa . . .” After a few seconds she began to snore.

  Clay took a look around her room, finding it surprisingly neat and well-ordered with an extensive collection of knives adorning the walls along with several maps and photostats of the Interior. He stepped closer to examine a framed sepia image above her bed, Braddon crouching next to a dead drake, a Red judging by the size. His uncle was maybe a decade younger, clasping his longrifle in one hand whilst balancing a little girl on his knee, her face smudged slightly. Children tended to be blurred in older photostats due to an inability to keep still long enough for the image to set.