The Waking Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  Her eyes had taken on a gleam not dissimilar to the one he had seen in Madame Bondersil’s gaze when she had first explained the objective of this enterprise. They all had it to some extent, even Preacher. Something about the prospect of the White Drake had a power to capture the heart, and it wasn’t just the reward. By now he had seen enough of the Interior to conclude that Contractors were not drawn here solely by lust for profit. The risks involved in traversing this land meant there had to be more to it. They lived for the mysteries that lurked here, the basic need to explore and find what others hadn’t.

  “I’d rather think on the reward I’m due,” he said. “And there’s a chance some living soul has seen it. Your pa tell you about the Wittler Expedition?”

  “He told me. But Wittler wasn’t my pa and the Sandrunners weren’t us.”

  —

  The Badlands came into view later that day, the plains on the western bank giving way to a dense panorama of jagged chalk spires and cliffs that ascended from the river like castle-walls from one of the old books Joya liked to read. Clay could see taller peaks to the west, rising like black teeth against the dimming sky. There was something strange about the peaks, a mottled surface that accentuated their already unnatural appearance. Also, there seemed to be some kind of cloud lingering over the summits.

  “They volcanoes or something?” he asked Skaggerhill, who laughed.

  “Different kind’ve fire birthed in those peaks.” He offered Clay his spy-glass. “Take a look.”

  It took a moment to focus the glass, Clay working the eyepiece back and forth until the blurred image coalesced into something that almost made him drop it. Reds. The sky’s full of Reds.

  They wheeled around the peaks in a crimson swarm, flame gouting from their mouths in short bursts. Most were smaller than those he had seen in the Carvenport pens, albeit possessed of considerably more vitality. Here and there a larger specimen soared through the shifting swarm to land atop one of the innumerable ledges that covered the peaks, usually with something formless and bloody dangling from its talons. Wherever they landed a clutch of the smaller Reds would detach from the swarm and descend on the newly arrived meal, heads bobbing as they tore and rent the flesh to nothing in a matter of seconds.

  “Hatchlings at play,” Skaggerhill explained. “They fly about and burn off their naptha before bedtime.”

  Clay focused the glass on one of the youngsters as it sidled up to an adult. The full-grown Red was about two-thirds the size of the Black he had seen, presumably mother to the infant nestling against its flank from the way it licked the blood from its face and drew it closer with an enveloping curl of its tail. He saw now that the peaks’ jagged appearance came from the numerous ledges and holes carved into their surface by what he guessed was centuries of talon scrapings. It resulted in something that resembled a giant tooth-shaped honeycomb, blackened by soot born of generations of drake breath.

  “Guess you know where to come when you need Red,” he said to Skaggerhill, handing back the glass.

  “Oh no. Ain’t nobody made it to the heart of the Badlands and lived to tell of it. Reds live in hives and they don’t like visitors. Get within a mile and they’ll come at you in a swarm no amount of bullets can stop. No, you want to hunt Red you gotta be smart about it, set live bait at the edge of their territory and be patient. They live in swarms but hunt alone.”

  “Live bait?”

  “Goats work fine, mostly. Though they prefer horse. Closest thing to a Cerath, their usual prey.”

  “Cerath?”

  “Imagine a horse that mated with a bull and gave birth to a freakishly giant foal, and you’ve got a pretty good picture. You get Lesser Ceraths living close to the Badlands to the west, great herds of the things. More every year since there are fewer Drakes to eat ’em.”

  Clay returned his gaze to the distant peaks and their cloud of juvenile Reds. “Fewer?”

  “Surely. Time was the swarm was so thick it’d blot out the sun.” Skaggerhill’s tone took on a note of sombre reflection as he added, “One day there won’t be no more Drakes, and no more Contractors. Makes a fella wonder what the world’ll look like then.” He gave Clay a rueful grin before moving away, casting a final comment over his shoulder. “We reach the Sands tomorrow, young ’un. Might wanna clean and oil your weapon in the meantime. It’s likely to see some service out there.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Lizanne

  “‘ . . . and so the third and fairest daughter of the Diamond Realm went willingly with the King of the Deep,’” Lizanne recited. “‘Carried away and down into the depths of the ocean never to return. Though on that same day every year her kin gather on the shore-line, for it’s said her song can be heard on the sea-breeze and it is the song of a queen well pleased with her husband.’”

  “Ah.” The Burgrave nodded, his pen moving across the page in eager but precise strokes. “‘Diamond Realm,’ you say? I’ve been translating it as ‘The Bejewelled Kingdom.’”

  “Yes, sir,” Lizanne said. “A lot depends on how you say it.”

  “And the title,” he went on. “‘The Third Daughter’s Sacrifice.’ Accurate would you say?”

  “‘Marriage’ would be better, sir. In the northern provinces parents talk of sacrificing their daughters at the wedding ceremony. It’s a tradition, y’see.”

  “Sacrifice,” he repeated softly, pen stalled on the page. “I see more wisdom in these fables every day.”

  Lizanne lowered the book as he returned to his scribbling, soon losing himself amongst the words. She was pondering whether to ask permission to withdraw when the door-bell gave an insistent jangle.

  “Shall I go, sir?” she asked.

  “Better not,” the Burgrave replied. “Answering the door is the only duty Mr. Drellic remembers to perform with any efficiency. I’m loath to upset him.”

  She nodded and curtsied. “I’ll be about my duties then, sir. Since you’re about to have company.”

  “Thank you, Krista. Ask Cook to send up some tea, would you?”

  “Certainly, sir.” Upon exiting the study she caught sight of Mr. Drellic making steady if glacial progress along the hallway. She made a brief visit to the kitchen to relay the Burgrave’s tea order then returned to the ground-floor to find that Drellic had finally reached the door. She busied herself dusting a vase situated close to a convenient mirror which afforded a clear view of the visitor, her cloth pausing as Drellic opened the door to reveal a tall man in the blue uniform of the Imperial Dragoons. Her momentary concern dissipated, however, when the man offered the butler his cap with a familiar smile.

  “Mr. Drellic,” he said. “How are you today?”

  “Well, Major. Very well, thank you.” Drellic stood aside, head bowed as the officer entered. “The Burgrave’s in his study, sir. Go right on in.”

  Lizanne averted her eyes as the officer approached the study, hearing a momentary pause in his footsteps as he caught sight of her. “New blood?”

  Lizanne turned and stood with her head lowered, deferring to Drellic to make the introduction. “Quite so, Major,” the ancient butler said, gesturing a quivering hand at Lizanne. “This is . . .” He paused, brows furrowed and eyes unfocused. “This . . . is . . .”

  “Krista, sir,” Lizanne said, bobbing a curtsy.

  “That’s not a Morsvale accent,” the officer observed, angling his head slightly. “Corvus. Am I correct?”

  Studying his face she discerned a similar confidence to that of the unfortunate Mr. Redsel, though his military bearing and lean features also put her in mind of Commander Pinefeld. It was an appealing combination but she knew this mission had already accumulated sufficient complications. “Indeed so, sir,” she said in a neutral tone, lowering her gaze. She had the satisfaction of feeling his eyes track her from head to toe; reciprocated or not such interest could always be useful.

 
“And how is the old dung heap?” he asked. “Haven’t been back for nigh on a decade.”

  “Please stop quizzing my employees, Arberus,” the Burgrave said, appearing in the study doorway beyond the major’s shoulder. “She’s not one of your troopers.”

  The officer inclined his head at Lizanne. “Major Arberus Lek Hakimas, miss. Seventeenth Dragoons. At your service.” He glanced over his shoulder at the Burgrave’s insistent cough then inclined his head at her once again and grinned before making his way into the study. The Burgrave closed the door, muting their conversation, though from the convivial tone she discerned a long-standing friendship.

  “This is . . .” Drellic said again, still standing in the hallway with his face drawn in confusion.

  “Come on, Mr. Drellic,” Lizanne said, taking his arm. “Cook’s got some fresh honey cakes baking.”

  She began to guide him towards the kitchen then paused at the sight of Tekela’s pale face appearing at the top of the front stairs, beckoning urgently. “You go on, Mr. Drellic,” she told the butler, patting his shoulder. “I need to finish my chores.”

  “Krista!” he said, face alight with mingled triumph and joy. “Your name is Krista.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, planting a kiss on his wrinkled cheek. “Yes it is. Go on now. Cook baked them special for you.”

  She watched him proceed to the backstairs, muttering her false name over and over, then ascended to the landing where Tekela waited. “Come,” the girl whispered, taking hold of Lizanne’s hand and leading her towards a room at the front of the house.

  “What is . . . ?”Lizanne began but the girl rounded on her with a fierce scowl.

  “Shhhh!”

  The room she led her to was small, the walls a faded shade of yellow and decorated with hand-painted flowers. An infant’s cot stood against the wall and a small rocking-horse rested under the window. “My old nursery,” Tekela said in a whisper, pulling Lizanne towards the fire-place. She knelt and began to work her small fingers into the join around the grating, grimacing with the effort as she prised it free. “Listen,” she mouthed to Lizanne, gently laying the grate aside and leaning close to the hearth, head angled and ear cocked. Lizanne followed suit and was instantly rewarded with the sound of the Burgrave’s voice, as clear as if she were listening through an open window.

  “. . . and yet another warship crowding the harbour, I hear. Quite the fleet they’re gathering.”

  “Indeed,” came the major’s voice. “Three blood-burners amongst them.”

  “And the garrison?”

  “Swollen to over twenty thousand men.” There was a pause and Lizanne discerned the sound of smoke being inhaled from a cigarillo. “My friend, I believe you were right. War may well return to these shores very soon.”

  She heard the Burgrave utter a bitter sigh. “Are all refuges to be denied us, then? Even here in this blighted continent of jungle, desert and drakes. Is there nowhere the regnarchy won’t look to sate their lust for conquest?”

  Lizanne found herself leaning closer at mention of the word “regnarchy.” She knew it to be a term not heard in Corvantine society for the better part of two decades, at least not openly. A term coined by one Morila Akiv Bidrosin, philosopher, radical and ideological mother to the revolutions that had nearly torn the empire apart a generation before.

  “Please,” came Arberus’s sigh via the grate, “no speeches, Leonis. I come for instruction, not enlightenment. That happened years ago, as you are well aware.”

  There was a pause before the Burgrave replied, Lizanne finding his voice very different from the affable, indulgent noble she had taken him to be. Instead he sounded more like the soldier he had once been, his tone decisive and hard with authority. “Have you met with Morradin yet?”

  “A brief conference only, attended by several dozen officers of senior rank. Seems I was invited because he remembered me from Jerravin. Sometimes it pays to win a medal in an ignoble cause. He didn’t say anything, leaving it all to his adjutant.”

  “And the object of this conference?”

  “Training, mostly. We have been given a new regimen to follow, and I must say, it’s a considerable improvement on the old one. Less drill, more marksmanship and field manoeuvres, plus a twenty-mile forced march every ten days. Also, the list of punishments has been extended and the rate of floggings doubled. It appears he intends to turn our colonial garrison into a real army.”

  “There can be only one objective for so large a force.”

  “I know.”

  “When?”

  “No plans have been issued, but any offensive will have to be launched well in advance of the wet season. Meaning perhaps a month, maybe less.” Lizanne heard the major take another puff on his cigarillo. “Should we warn them?”

  “They are as much our enemy as the Imperial brood.”

  “They have helped us in the past. Supplied arms and intelligence . . .”

  “But never enough to ensure victory. It suits them to succour a thorn in the Emperor’s side, but ultimately they have just as much reason to obstruct our goals. A world freed from the twin tyrannies of regnarchy and corporatism is hardly in their best interests. No, we will allow the two monsters the opportunity to destroy one another. If the Emperor believes he can seize this continent’s riches with impunity he’s madder than I imagined. The Ironship fleet will strangle the empire’s trade and famine will result, along with riot and dissent. Fresh soil to plant the seeds of freedom.”

  “You are aware, old friend, that I will be required to fight in this war?”

  “And you shall, Arberus. As I once hardened my heart and fought for those I despised. Fight well, lead your men with courage and skill. Gain the marshal’s notice and who knows how high you might rise? To have one of our own so close to him . . . We have never been so graced by opportunity.”

  “And I had hoped I might have time to make better acquaintance with your new maid.”

  Lizanne exchanged a glance with Tekela, seeing her mouth twitch in amusement as Arberus continued, “Tell me, do you judge her worthy of recruitment? Can’t tell you what a bore it is spending time with these hollow-skulled society wenches.”

  “Our sisters awaiting freedom from traditional subjugation,” Artonin corrected with the air of someone imparting an oft-told lesson. “She’s bright enough, but it’s too soon to judge her character or sympathies. And I wouldn’t put it past the Cadre to place a spy in my house.”

  “That delightful creature?” Arberus scoffed. “Never. I know a spy when I see one.”

  Lizanne was obliged to give Tekela a warning nudge as the girl covered her mouth to smother a giggle.

  “And the other matter?” Artonin enquired. “Any progress to report?”

  “Called on Diran yesterday,” Arberus replied. “Says he’s close to a breakthrough, but he’s been saying that for the past two years. Sometimes I think we came here on the greatest of fool’s errands.”

  “It’s worth the risks. Think what we might accomplish if we had such a thing in our grasp . . .”

  “You put too much faith in legends, old friend. Diran asked after you, by the way. Perhaps a personal visit might gee him up a bit.”

  “He imagines we’re all just a merry band of harmless scholars attempting to solve a historical riddle. Any urging to greater efforts might arouse his all-too-keen mind to suspicions best avoided. Besides, after the spectacle Sirus has been making of himself recently, a certain distance is required.”

  “The boy is smitten, true enough.” Arberus voiced a rueful chuckle. “Poor little bugger.” There was a pause and the sound of rustling paper. “Diran did pass on his latest jottings though . . .”

  He fell silent at the sound of knocking. “Ah, Misha,” he said as they heard the door being opened. “Would you care for some tea, Arberus? I see Cook has been kind enough to provide honey
cakes as well . . .”

  Lizanne gestured for Tekela to replace the grate and rose from the fire-place, lost in momentary contemplation of what she had heard. I imagine this must be what it feels like to strike gold, she thought.

  “You,” she said, keeping her voice low and turning to Tekela, “have not been entirely honest with me, miss. I believe you know exactly why your father doesn’t like the Cadre.”

  There was a brief spasm of what may have been contrition on Tekela’s face before it transformed once again into a pout. “Well, you know all about it now,” she muttered, then brightened. “And all information is valuable, is it not?”

  “Its value varies, as does its danger.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  So much fun to be had in this new game, Lizanne thought, reading the girl’s eager expression. “Do you share your father’s convictions?” she asked. “Are you eager for the fires of revolution to burn anew?”

  Tekela shook her head. “No, and neither was Mother. She lost her father and three brothers in the wars. I think . . . I think Father had other reasons than love for marrying her.”

  I dare say you’re right, Lizanne decided. “What can you tell me about this Major Arberus?”

  “He’s been calling at the house as long as I can remember. He acts like my big brother but I can tell he doesn’t mean it. He buys me birthday presents but they’re always the wrong thing. Last year he got me a Palaver set. I don’t even know how to play.”

  Palaver was a board-game played with tiles of varying values placed face-down on a grid. The players would attempt to identify each piece based on a series of ten questions where the opponent was only permitted to lie three times. With a hundred tiles on the board success in Palaver depended as much on a facility for obfuscation as it did arithmetic.

  “You should learn,” Lizanne told Tekela. “I think you’d be very good at it.” She fell silent, thoughts churning this new glut of information. “I believe,” she said eventually, “it’s time for that trip to the museum.”