The Waking Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  Arberus gave no greeting to the man, simply saying the words, “Varestian brandy,” before turning and moving to the table. He sat down and gestured for Lizanne and Tekela to follow suit. Lizanne guided the girl to a chair beside the major and took the one opposite, angling it so as to maintain a good view of both door and bar.

  They waited, Lizanne finding it significant that no brandy was forthcoming in the interval. Finally, after ten minutes or more, as Tekela grew visibly more agitated and Lizanne had been obliged to place a calming hand on her forearm, a man came striding out of the shadows. He moved to the table and sat down without a word, casting his gaze at each of them in turn, flame pluming from a match as he lit a cigarillo. He wore sailor’s garb, sturdy boots and canvas trousers with a plain cotton shirt, leather bracelets on his wrists and both ears pierced with several rings. Like the hulking bartender, he was Dalcian, though considerably smaller in size. In fact, in terms of height he was barely taller than Lizanne, but the lean muscle of his forearms and chest revealed by his half-open shirt bespoke an individual of considerable physical strength. Also, the earrings, Lizanne knew, signified mastery in several of the martial arts for which the Dalcians were famed.

  “You’re not dead,” he observed to Arberus in perfect Eutherian, giving a complimentary incline of his head.

  “Neither are you,” the major returned in a neutral tone.

  The man revealed white teeth in a smile. “The Cadre isn’t after me.” He gave a small laugh when Arberus didn’t respond, blowing smoke up at the lantern. “Word flies quickly, my friend. You’re worth five thousand crowns at the last count.” His gaze swept over Lizanne and Tekela. “These two considerably more.”

  We can pay triple that amount, Lizanne wanted to say, but kept silent. She knew well the truth of Arberus’s words; Dalcian men had a marked aversion to doing business with women. Adherence to their patriarchal customs was a matter of near-religious zeal.

  “And you, my friend,” Arberus said. “What is your life worth?”

  The humour faded from the Dalcian’s face, the tip of his cigarillo glowing as he took a deep draw. “My youngest brother said I should kill myself,” he reflected after a lengthy pause. “The debt I owe you being so great. ‘One day it will dishonour the entire clan,’ he said. ‘Your death will wash it away.’ He even offered to do it himself. His funeral was more expensive than I would have liked, but I was fond of him. He did speak a lot of sense, after all.”

  Arberus said nothing and the Dalcian crushed his cigarillo onto the table, finger smearing the embers into ash as he asked, “Where?” in a tone of dull acceptance.

  “Carvenport,” Arberus said. “Or as close to it as you can get without running afoul of the Corvantine fleet.”

  The Dalcian gave the slightest of nods. “Tomorrow. Earliest tide. There’s a room upstairs. Food will be brought to you.” He got up and walked back into the shadows without another word.

  “What did you do for him?” Lizanne asked Arberus in a low voice.

  “I killed his father.” He got to his feet, bowing and gesturing at the tavern’s interior. “Ladies, shall we?”

  —

  The steamer was little larger than a tug-boat, equipped with a single rear paddle and one thin stack rising behind the wheel-house. Her paint-work was old and peeling and the stack blackened with years of accumulated soot. Barely legible Eutherian painted on the prow proclaimed her the Wave Dancer, though to Lizanne’s eyes she seemed capable of no more than a stumbling jig.

  “Appearances deceive,” Arberus murmured to Lizanne, seeing her sceptical frown. “Those in Kaden’s profession know well the value of disguise. She’s a sturdy boat and quick into the bargain.”

  Kaden stood on the fore-deck, muscular arms crossed and face impassive as they came aboard. Night had yet to fully fade and the becalmed harbour waters were a mirror to the dock-side lamps. There were no warships at anchor now, Lizanne saw, only a scattering of Independent freighters and patrol boats. Somewhere, she knew, the Corvantine fleet would be battling the Protectorate for control of the Strait. She could only hope it meant they had no vessels to spare for antismuggling patrols.

  At Kaden’s terse command a pair of crewmen led them to the hold, pulling up some planking on the keel to reveal a hiding-place. Tekela couldn’t contain a whimper at the sight of a black rat swimming through the bilge-water. “We have no choice,” Lizanne said. “They’ll be searching every vessel leaving port.”

  The crewman tossed a canteen of water to the major before slotting the planks back in place, the meagre light streaming through the gaps soon extinguished as they hauled crates to fully conceal the hiding-place. There was sufficient room to sit but not enough to move more than an inch or two. Once again Tekela curled herself against Lizanne’s side, stifling a gasp as a rat came sniffing about their feet. Lizanne sent it scurrying with a swift kick.

  “Sorry,” the girl whispered, clearly fighting a sob. “Make a poor spy, don’t I?”

  Lizanne grinned in the darkness. “You’re doing well enough.”

  The engine started up an hour later, its clanking soon accompanied by the rhythmic swish of the paddle as they got underway. Lizanne abandoned all attempts at keeping any vestige of her clothes dry as the bilge-water shifted with the boat’s movements. They came to a halt a few moments later, a commanding whistle sounding through the bulkhead followed by a muted shout. “Heave to for inspection!”

  Lizanne took hold of the Whisper as multiple boots drummed on the decks above. She gently disentangled herself from Tekela and pressed the middle finger button on the Spider to inject a drop of Green, her boosted hearing soon revealing every word spoken above. “You didn’t used to be so greedy,” Kaden was saying in Varsal.

  “There’s a war on,” came a gruff reply. “You see this place? Trade’s halved in two days.”

  “Keep demanding this much and it’ll halve again. I’d hate to have to advise my clan to avoid Morsvale in future.”

  “Don’t threaten me, slit-eye.” A tense silence, then a grudging, “Twelve hundred, and that’ll cover you for the return trip. And I want two boxes of cigars this time.”

  “Fairly spoken, Captain.”

  Despite the agreement the search continued, presumably so the corrupt captain could make a show of a thorough inspection. After a few more minutes, however, the thunder of boots receded and the shifting bilge-water and increased engine noise indicated they had moved on towards the harbour mouth. Tekela tensed as a rumbling squeal resounded through the hull like the death agonies of some great sea-beast.

  “It’s just the door,” Lizanne whispered to her. “We’ll be at sea soon then we can get out of here.”

  Some two hours later, as they still huddled in the stinking wetness, Lizanne felt justified in giving Arberus an impatient jab with her toe. “I said he owed me,” he responded in a resigned tone. “I didn’t say he liked me.”

  —

  “Couldn’t take a chance we might happen upon a patrol boat,” Kaden explained some four hours later. Lizanne couldn’t detect any particular contrition in the smuggler’s voice; if anything the faint twitch of his lips as he looked Arberus up and down told of a malicious enjoyment of their discomfort. Come midday they had been released, in a state of chilled bedragglement, from the hiding-place and allowed to take a turn about the deck. The Wave Dancer cruised towards the east keeping within a mile of the coast, chugging along at a decent clip which confirmed the major’s claims about her misleading appearance. The north Arradsian shore-line was rich in inlets and coves, perfect refuges for the various smuggling conglomerates keen to take advantage of the disparity in duties between Imperial and Corporate holdings.

  Tekela leaned on the rail, gripping it tight, her face raised to breathe deeply of the fresh sea air. “Only been to sea once before,” she said. “Father took me on a short cruise once, when I was still very young. A
storm blew up and I got so scared he told me a story to calm my fears.” She lowered her gaze to the passing waves, a catch creeping into her voice. “About the King of the Deep.”

  “‘The Third Daughter’s Marriage,’” Lizanne said. “An old Selvurin tale. Here.” She opened her pack and extracted a small book, handing it to Tekela. “I think he would want you to have this.”

  “I don’t know this language,” Tekela said, fingers tracing over the embossed letters on the cover.

  “Vizian’s Fables,” Lizanne told her. “A compilation of Selvurin folk-tales. The story he told you came from this.”

  “You took this from his library?”

  “I didn’t steal it. He gave it to me to help with his translation.”

  “You speak Selvurin?”

  “It’s one of six languages I can speak fluently. I can get by in five others well enough for basic communication. The Blue-trance makes learning such things easier. Understanding is enhanced by shared thoughts.”

  Tekela sighed and shook her head. “You know so much. Whilst I can do little but pick out a dress.”

  “There are few skills that can’t be learned. If you want to read the book I can teach you.”

  Tekela consigned the book to the inside pocket of her jacket, her hand then moving to the butt of the revolver tucked into her belt. “There’s something else I’d rather learn first.”

  “All in good time.” Lizanne cast a glance up at the sky, finding the clouds thickening and feeling an edge to the wind. “We’d best get below. I believe it’s about to rain.”

  The next two days were spent in the hold with only brief excursions above deck. They were brought meals and water at regular intervals but otherwise the crew mostly ignored them, bar the occasional lustful glance at Lizanne or Tekela. Whatever dark deeds might cloud their thoughts, however, it seemed the crew’s fear of their captain was enough to keep them in check. She noted their obedience to him was absolute, rarely speaking in his presence except to acknowledge an order, and always with a respectful bob of the head.

  “A clan-leader is close to being a king in Dalcian society,” Arberus explained. “There are several thousand people who owe him fealty.”

  “Then why doesn’t he live in a palace instead of this dingy crate?” Tekela asked.

  “His family have been smugglers for generations. If Kaden didn’t smuggle they would lose respect for him. It’s what his clan does, and not just here. The Jade Tigers have affiliates all over the world.” He gave Lizanne an apologetic smile. “He’s probably even richer than you, miss.”

  “Wealth only has meaning if it is either enjoyed or invested,” she returned. “A miser is merely a pauper with fewer friends.”

  “Misquoting Bidrosin at me, now.” He gave Tekela a warning glance. “Don’t let this one fill your head with corporatist notions, my dear. Your father . . .”

  “Is dead,” Tekela cut in. “All his books and his plotting couldn’t save him, or you for that matter.” She nodded at Lizanne. “But she did.”

  “You think this woman is a hero of some kind? Ask her how many people she’s killed for her corporate masters. For money, Tekela.”

  “As opposed to killing for redundant ideology,” Lizanne said. “Your empire’s history is a thousand-year epic of war, revolution, genocide and corruption, much of it committed in the last hundred years thanks to Bidrosin and her ilk. Since the advent of the Corporate Age there has been nothing like that in any of our holdings. People are fed, educated and employed.”

  “A happy slave is still a slave. And if the corporate world is such a paradise, why do they need people like you?”

  “Because of people like you . . .”

  She trailed off at a sudden sound from above, a faint crump followed by a whining groan and a booming splash.

  “Cannon-shot,” Arberus said, getting to his feet and running for the ladder. Lizanne paused to strap on the Spider and pull the pack over her shoulders before following, telling Tekela to stay close. The Wave Dancer tilted as she climbed up on deck, the boat’s prow swinging southwards as Kaden barked out orders. She joined Arberus at the rail where he stood staring at something to the north. “Patrol boat?” she asked.

  “Frigate,” he said, shielding his eyes against the sun. “One of the new ones, sadly. I suspect the Cadre tranced an order to the fleet to send her to intercept us. One of their dock-side informants must have made note of Kaden’s departure.”

  The ship was perhaps three-quarters of a mile off, the sea white around her bows as she cut through the waves faster than any vessel Lizanne had seen. She was narrow across the beam with a sleek, angular appearance enhanced by the absence of paddles. “Twenty knots?” she guessed, her mind returning to the device she had seen fixed to the Regal’s hull.

  “Closer to twenty-five,” the major said. “Oh, the wonders of technology.”

  A flash appeared on the frigate’s bow, followed seconds later by the faint report of a cannon and the grating screech of an approaching shell. The Wave Dancer heaved to starboard, the suddenness of the change in course throwing Lizanne and Arberus off their feet. The shell came down less than twenty yards to port, raising enough water to deluge the deck in a brief rain-storm.

  “Those weren’t warning shots,” Arberus said, rising and shaking the water from his hair. “It appears they’ve given up trying to capture us.”

  Lizanne turned her gaze to the south, seeing the shore less than half a mile distant now as the Wave Dancer piled on more steam. She could see the narrow inlet Kaden was aiming for and knew it offered only a slim chance of refuge as the confines would make them a sitting duck for the frigate’s gunners. She rushed to the wheel-house, finding Kaden at the tiller, eyes fixed on the inlet.

  “Keep straight,” she told him in Dalcian. “No more weaving. We need to maintain a steady course.”

  The look he turned on her was part fury and part disdain. Even in this extremity it appeared his people’s arcane customs held sway. “Women are forbidden the voice of command!” he grated.

  “Steady your course.” She injected a burst of Red and heated the air between them, taking satisfaction from the alarmed surprise in his gaze. “Or I’ll dispense with your services and have the major do it.”

  He glared at her in a moment of helpless rage then swung the tiller to midships, training the bows on the inlet. “They’re too fast,” he said, voice quivering. “Soon their gunners won’t miss.”

  “Just maintain the course,” she told him and went outside.

  She climbed onto the wheel-house roof, grimacing amidst the smoke billowing from the stack and injecting both Green and Black, half a vial of each; enough to make her stagger a little. She gritted her teeth against the disorientation and locked eyes onto the fast-approaching frigate, awaiting the next flash from her cannon. She had read of this being done, but only in history books pertaining to the age of sail when guns cast balls slow enough to track their flight with the naked eye. Modern guns fired at a much higher velocity, but with the Green she might have a chance.

  The frigate was perhaps five hundred yards off now, close enough to see the vague shapes of the gunners servicing the long-barrelled gun on her fore-deck. It fired a second later, Lizanne’s altered vision perceiving the shell as a streak of white against a dark blue sky. She waited until it was at the apex of its arc then unleashed the Black as it began a downward plummet. She had intended to divert it but the wave of force she released was enough to trigger its percussion fuse, transforming it into a black cloud of combusted explosive that peppered the sea with a hail of shrapnel.

  Focus, she told herself, a statue-like stillness gripping her as she concentrated all attention on the frigate. She was close enough now to make out the individual forms of the gunners, scurrying to haul another shell into the breech. The next shot was fired at a lower trajectory from a distance of just over thre
e hundred yards. She unleashed all her remaining Black a split-second after it was launched. This time it failed to explode in mid air, the force wave throwing it wide and disturbing its flight sufficiently to make it tumble in the air before ploughing into the sea twenty yards to port. The power and proximity of the explosion sent a shuddering tremor through the Wave Dancer, throwing Lizanne onto her back.

  Lizanne lay on the wheel-house roof, chest heaving and vision dimming as the Green faded. Exhaustion was the inevitable price for expending so much product in such a short space of time. A brief glance at the shore-line told her they were almost there, the jungle rising on both sides, but they still had another hundred yards to traverse before a bend in the river would shield them from more shells. She groaned, getting to her feet and injecting more Green and Black, leaving only a small amount of the former and draining the latter, but moderation would be folly now.

  A small, gleaming streak buzzed past her ear as she straightened, her well-attuned senses instantly recognising it as the passage of a rifle-bullet. Another came a second later, plucking at the sleeve of her jacket, the Green muting the resultant flare of agony as it grazed her flesh. The Corvantine gunnery officer, evidently a resourceful fellow, had gathered a half-dozen marksmen at the frigate’s prow. They blazed away with more enthusiasm than expertise, bullets striking the Wave Dancer from paddle to wheel-house, though one shot did smack into the board an inch from her left foot.

  Focus. Lizanne centred her gaze on the gun, a rifled ten-inch model of modern design, now aimed straight and level as the range was so short. She watched a gunner swing the breech closed before locking it in place and taking hold of the lanyard attached to the firing mechanism. She waited until his arm had begun to pull the lanyard taut, time slowing as her gaze found the firing lever. She unleashed all her remaining Black the moment the lever moved, the gun swivelling about on its mounting, the long barrel sweeping the gunners aside before coming to a sudden, juddering halt, trained directly on the frigate’s bridge, whereupon it fired.