by Anthony Ryan
“Who’d be fool enough to travel the jungle at night?” Skaggerhill asked.
Clay saw Silverpin step back from the wall, grip tightening on her spear as she crouched. “Don’t!” he shouted, clambering up the last few rungs of the ladder. But she was already in the air, vaulting the spikes into the blackness beyond. He reached the wall in time to see her sprint away into the darkness as a fresh salvo of shots rang out.
“Clay.” He turned to see Braddon reaching for him, voice rich in warning. “Ain’t nothing you can do . . .”
Clay took hold of a spike and swung himself over the wall, Braddon’s hand flailing at his shirt but failing to find purchase as he fell. The drop was significant but well within Clay’s expertise and he landed without injury, pausing in a crouch to survey the blankness ahead. The Greens’ screeching seemed to have doubled in intensity, perhaps loud enough to mask any more shots. His eyes snapped to a sudden flare in the darkness, a brief gout of bluish flame off to the right. The colour was distinctive, glimpsed only a few times when business took him to the breeding pens. Drake fire.
“Claydon!” his uncle yelled from above. “You get your ass back up here now!”
Clay cast a glance up at the wall, seeing Braddon’s furious face staring down, his arm outstretched and lowering a rope. Clay gave him a grin before rising and running towards the flames. He covered perhaps thirty yards when something caught his foot, sending him tumbling through the long grass. He scrambled to one knee, pistol aiming at a bulky shape in the grass as his nostrils detected a thick stench of mingled blood and shit. The horse, he realised, his gaze alighting on a partly severed hoof before finding the animal’s head. It lay with mouth agape, eyes still wide and frozen in terror.
I may have done a foolish thing, he decided, attention fixed on the sight of the horse’s partially revealed rib-cage, mesmerised by the white bone jutting from the part-roasted gore. Another gout of flame to the left tore his gaze away and he caught a glimpse of Silverpin, silhouetted against the sudden light, leaping into the air, the blade of her spear flickering as it spun. The flames died in an instant, the Green’s screeching song momentarily faltering as if in answer to some unspoken command.
Clay ran towards the spot where he had glimpsed Silverpin, finding her withdrawing her spear from the corpse of a Green. She had skewered it precisely at the join between skull and neck, something he had seen harvesters do to old and unwanted stock in the pens. This Green, however, was nothing like the stunted, greyish creatures in the pens. It must have been at least eight feet in length, twin lines of upraised, razor-like scales running the length of its body from the broad spade-like snout to the spear-point tail. Its legs, thick with muscle, ended in wide, three-toed claws, curved and wickedly sharp. Instead of the wings seen in other species of Drake, it had two curving horns protruding from its back. On pen-bred stock these were usually little more than thumb-sized spikes, but here they were at least a foot in length, indicating an animal of considerable age.
He stepped back in alarm as the Green’s jaws snapped closed, its tail twisting convulsively.
“Just a spasm,” came a pained voice to his right. It was Loriabeth, lying in the grass with blood on her leg. She was fumbling with one of her pistols, desperately trying to reload the open cylinder.
“Your pa really is gonna kill you,” Clay told her, moving to crouch at her side, then pausing as the Greens’ song rose again. He scanned the long grass, pistol levelled and heart thumping. He whirled at the sound of something rushing through the grass, the pistol coming round to aim directly at a charging Green, legs blurring and tail thrashing as it scythed through the grass towards him. He fired his two shots in quick succession, his fears about the weapon’s age proving unjustified by the satisfying roar and thump in his hand as the hammers came down. He saw the shots strike home, blood spouting on the Green’s shoulders. It barely slowed. Frenzy makes ’em unheedful of injury.
“Shit!” He dropped the pistol and reached for the vial in his pocket, knowing he didn’t have time to drink it but neither did he have time to run. He managed to get the stopper off by the time the Green came within arm’s length, jaws gaping wide.
Something boomed close to Clay’s ear, forcing him to reel away, for one panicked instant nearly losing his hold on the vial though not before a few precious drops had slipped out. Ears ringing, he saw the Green’s head snap back, legs tangling beneath it as it collapsed and rolled to lie spasming in the grass.
“The head,” Loriabeth said in an exhausted sigh, on her knees now, smoke trailing from her pistol as she lowered her sagging arm. “Always the head.”
Clay moved to catch her before she fell, wrapping an arm around her waist. He looked at the vial in his free hand, seeing a bead of product glistening on the glass and fighting down a surge of temptation. He replaced the stopper and returned it to his pocket. “We gotta go!” he called, casting around to find Silverpin. She rose from the grass less than three yards away, spear in one hand and freshly bloodied knife in the other. She met his gaze and gave a nod.
Fresh flames blossomed as they lifted Loriabeth between them, hauling her back to the wall at a run. The Greens’ song had changed, the pitch deeper now so that Clay couldn’t help but discern a definite emotion to it. Rage, he realised. We made them angry. He risked a backward glance, seeing four separate fires burning in the grass, dark, long-tailed shapes flickering amidst a sudden confusion of shadow and smoke. He took a firmer grip on Loriabeth and ran faster.
They were within twenty yards of the wall when the Drake rose from the grass directly in their path. It was the largest Clay had seen yet, its twin horns rising from its back like scimitars. It issued a new sound as they skidded to a halt before it, not a screech but a roar, rich in fury and challenge. Clay was close enough to see the pink tongue and throat, the naptha ducts at the base of the tongue flooding the mouth with a fine mist, ready to catch light when it summoned the igniting gasses from its belly.
Should’ve drunk that vial, Clay decided.
A hail of gun-shots swept down from the wall, the big Green disappearing amidst fountaining earth and blood as every Contractor with a clear view fired in unison. The barrage didn’t let up for what seemed an age, the Green writhing and twitching as bullet after bullet tore at its flesh.
“Over here!” Clay turned at the sound of Skaggerhill’s shout and saw a trio of ropes cast from the wall. He and Silverpin dragged Loriabeth to the nearest rope and tied it around her waist. The girl was barely conscious now and could only groan in protest as she was hauled up. Clay watched Silverpin take hold of a rope and begin to climb, then took a final look at the burning field behind. The fires had joined now, creating a thick barrier of flame between the town and the jungle, inching closer by the second. He saw no sign of the Greens and realised their song had fallen silent.
“Claydon!” He looked up to see his uncle above, stern-faced and clearly furious, and wondered if facing the fire might be preferable to climbing the wall. In the end the overwhelming heat made the decision for him and he took hold of the rope, climbing as many hands hauled him to the top. He expected a tirade, or even a blow or two from Braddon, but his uncle merely looked him up and down in critical appraisal before moving away. Clay followed him to where Loriabeth lay on the parapet, wincing as Foxbine secured a makeshift bandage around her leg.
“Tail strike,” the gunhand told Braddon. “She got lucky.”
Braddon said nothing, meeting his daughter’s gaze as she stared up at him, face streaked with sweat and soot. “You knew I wouldn’t stay behind,” she told him, tone rich in accusation.
“Yes,” Braddon replied in a gravelly sigh. “You didn’t get your brains from your mother.”
CHAPTER 11
Lizanne
The house on Careworn Street stood empty, its doors and windows boarded up and an Imperial crest stencilled onto the planks in whitewash. The occupant had bee
n a lifelong Morsvale resident, a clock-maker to trade who also dabbled in antiquities, an expensive hobby requiring more funds than his vocation could provide. Exceptional Initiatives, however, had been more than happy to indulge his interests for the past two decades, in return for certain services. The best cover, Lizanne recalled from a lecture at the Division training school, is no cover at all. It is always preferable to recruit from amongst the local populace. An agent with fewer lies to tell has fewer lies to forget should they ever face detection.
She paused at a dress-maker’s shop opposite the house, ostensibly to gaze longingly at the elegant gown adorning the mannequin in the window, such a contrast to her own dowdy skirt and jacket of plain wool. However, her eyes strayed constantly to the clock-maker’s house reflected in the glass. She could see no obvious signs of surveillance in the houses on either side, nor any indication in the street itself, but the Cadre were rarely obvious about anything. The clock-maker had been silent for close to seven weeks. It was improbable they would have kept watch for nearly two months following his arrest, but certainly not impossible. Lizanne had once spent the best part of three months secluded in a hide near an East Mandinorian hunting-lodge before her target appeared.
The clock-maker, she knew, was almost certainly dead. He may have had fewer lies to remember than a Division agent, but would also have had little resistance to the Cadre’s highly effective, if unsubtle, interrogation methods. She had been briefed on his activities and knew there was nothing he could have told them that might identify her. As soon as the man failed to make his regular rendezvous his handler followed protocol and made for his extraction point. The fact that there had been no Imperial agents waiting for him indicated the arrest must have been very recent, probably a matter of hours. Regardless of this good fortune Lizanne knew that the clock-maker would have provided his interrogators with a fulsome account of his activities, including the recent purchase of an empty box with an interesting inscription. A box purchased at his handler’s insistence, no less. Unsubtle they may be, but the Cadre were rarely foolish. They have to know Division will have sent someone, she concluded. They would watch this place for a year just on the off-chance of snaring me.
Lizanne decided it best to leave a close inspection for another time, casting a final wistful glance at the gown in the window before moving on. She had a call to make and it would be best not to make it after noon.
—
“Can you sew?” Housekeeper Meeram asked her. She was a plump woman with severely tied-back hair of jet-black and disproportionately small eyes, resembling dark beads set into the fleshy pillow of her face. They almost seemed to disappear completely as she looked Lizanne up and down, gaze narrowed in estimation.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lizanne replied, eyes downcast. Corvantine servants rarely looked their employers in the eye.
“Show me your hands.”
Lizanne tentatively raised her hands, the housekeeper grabbing her wrists and turning them over. “Used to work, I see,” she observed. “But the calluses have gotten a little soft, my dear. Out of practise are we?”
“The voyage from Corvus was long, ma’am. Not many folk in steerage willing to pay for tailoring, or cleaning. Did earn a few pins cooking though. Had to fix our own meals on the ship . . .”
“All right.” Meeram released her hands and moved back to her desk. She wore a heavy set of keys on a chain about her neck, keys that rattled as she moved. Lizanne hoped she wore it throughout the day and into the evening. “And you were employed in the household of Landgrave Ekion Vol Morgosal for two years,” Meeram said, scanning the letters of introduction Lizanne had provided.
“I was, ma’am. Second maid to Landgravine Morgosal.”
“Yes.” The housekeeper peered closer at the letters. “Who has done you the kindness of signing these references, I see.”
“The Landgravine was always very pleased with my service, ma’am.”
“I assume you came here in the knowledge that there is a long-standing friendship between the Landgrave and my employer.”
“My former housekeeper’s suggestion, ma’am. She said His Honour often received letters from Burgrave Artonin complaining of the lack of decent servants to be found in Morsvale.”
“True enough.” Meeram sighed. “The last girl kept tripping up the stairs with the master’s tea-tray. I suspect there may be something in the water here, a bacterium of some kind that stunts the wits of those born to this blighted land.”
Housekeeper Meeram sat down, clasping her hands together and fixing Lizanne with a hard stare. “Now, girl, if you expect to find a place here, I will have the truth from you. Why did you leave the Landgrave’s employ? I find it scarcely credible a maid of such experience, and such a fortunate situation, would simply pack her things and travel across the ocean on a whim.”
This one’s a mite too sharp for my liking, Lizanne decided. She summoned a flush to her cheeks and lowered her gaze farther, shifting in discomfort. “There was . . . a difficulty in the Landgrave’s household.”
“Speak plainly, girl,” Meeram snapped. “What difficulty?”
Lizanne kept her gaze averted. “The Landgrave’s youngest son. He developed an . . . inappropriate interest in one far below his station.”
“Ahh.” Meeram sat back, grimacing slightly in understanding. “And was this interest returned?”
“Gracious no, ma’am!” Lizanne looked up with an earnest gaze. “He was just a boy, with boyish notions. I tried to be polite in dissuading his attentions but his interest became . . . unduly excessive, to the point where it threatened embarrassment to the family.” She was careful to put the correct inflection on the word “embarrassment,” a term that carried great significance in the upper echelons of Corvantine society. Amongst the managerial class of the corporate world, steeped in its own modes of snobbery and petty gossip, social embarrassment would always be overlooked in light of success. In the empire, however, it could be a family’s ruin, especially if word of it reached the Imperial Court.
“So, the Landgravine thought it best if you were placed at far remove,” Meeram said.
“Yes, ma’am. She was very kind.”
“Well you will be free of such entanglements in this household. The Burgrave has but one child, a daughter of fifteen. And fortunately for you, she is in need of a maid. I give you fair warning she is a difficult charge, hence the vacancy.”
Housekeeper Meeram opened a drawer and consigned Lizanne’s letters to it with a brisk sweep of her plump arm. “I shall of course need to verify your references. It should take the better part of eight weeks to exchange correspondence with your former employers. In the interim, you will receive room and board and two crowns a month, rising to three upon confirmation of your status. Is this acceptable?”
Lizanne gave an eager nod. Her research had indicated most servants in Corvus could expect to receive half a crown a month. It appeared servants were indeed hard to come by in Morsvale. “Very acceptable, ma’am.”
—
After leading her to the small attic room she would occupy during her service, Meeram had given her a maid’s uniform of somewhat archaic appearance and referred her to the extensive list of duties pinned to the door. “I have an absolute intolerance for tardiness,” she said. “You are required to be at your allotted task by the fifth hour. Not one second later. As for now, get changed and report to the kitchen. You can take the master his afternoon tea.”
Burgrave Leonis Akiv Artonin was a wiry man of perhaps sixty who greeted Lizanne with a kindly smile as she curtsied before his desk, tea-tray in hand.
“A new face,” the Burgrave said, rising from his chair. Lizanne took the opportunity to steal a glance at his desk as she lowered her gaze, finding it mostly covered in household accounts and frustratingly free of any maps or intriguing antique-related correspondence. “And who might you be, my dear?”
&n
bsp; “Krista, sir.” She curtsied again. “Recently arrived from Corvus and employed by Madam Meeram on recommendation of Landgrave Morgosal.”
“Oh excellent.” Artonin’s smile broadened. “And how is my old friend? I’m afraid I’ve sadly neglected our correspondence of late.”
“The Landgrave has been unwell, as you may know, sir. But his condition has improved in recent months.” All true facts gleaned from Division reports on the Corvantine aristocracy. Landgrave Morgosal, an enthusiastic whore chaser, had been laid low by an infection of an intimate nature, recently cured thanks to advances in medicinal Green.
“I am glad,” Artonin said. “The Landgrave and I served in the cavalry together for several years. It would pain me to think a mundane illness could do what rebel cannon could not.”
“The Landgrave often spoke of your service, sir. He said you saved his life at the Battle of Verosa.” Another well-documented truth. Despite his less-than-imposing physical presence, in his youth Captain Akiv Artonin’s courage in rescuing his wounded commanding officer from the teeth of a rebel battery had won him the Emperor’s Star for bravery and elevation to the nobility.
“A dimly recalled day,” he said, smile fading a little. “And best forgotten in any case.” He paused for a moment, scrutinising her face. “You are from Corvus, you say?”
Her complexion was too pale for a Corvus native. The Burgrave was an observant man it seemed. “I was born in the city, sir. But my people were of northern stock.”
“Ah yes. The famines drove a great many of your people into the heartland, as I recall. Tell me, do you speak Selvurin?”
“Yes, sir. My grandmother never spoke anything else so I just picked it up.”
“Excellent. Can you read it too?”
This was tricky. She couldn’t appear overly educated but suspected Artonin had a particular reason for his question, one that might prove useful. “After a fashion, sir. Grandmother had a box of old letters. When her eyes got bad she needed someone to read them to her.”