The Waking Fire

by Anthony Ryan

  The last set of memories had been the most confused, shot through as they were by the effects of his injuries. She watched as the Black drake carried him away from the White, still roaring its triumph, up and through the channel that had been blasted in the mountain. The memories then became a hazy collage of captured images as Clay slipped in and out of consciousness; his uncle’s face, drawn in worry . . . the other Contractors carrying him to the cable-car . . . a final view of the spike-shaped mountain before it all went dark.

  So, she said, it lives.

  Yes. A pulse of deep regret sent a shiver through the moon-dust. Sorry about that.

  Lizanne felt a resurgence of the sensation that had dogged her since Red Allice and Edgerhand had plucked her from the sea. The feeling that gripped her as they settled her on the deck and banished her bone-deep chill with a gentle blanket of Red-heated air; the unfamiliar and deeply unwelcome sense of being dwarfed by circumstance.

  Well, she went on, forcing a brisk note into her thoughts she hoped would mask the underlying unease. At least now we have confirmation. There had been some talk amongst the fleet of turning back to Carvenport. This should put paid to such notions. She paused, watching his face closely, seeing only the tired features of a young man burdened with a vast responsibility. The only living soul to have drunk the blood of the White, she thought, doubting he found it the wondrous and profitable gift Madame had imagined it to be.

  Do you know what it might mean? she asked, summoning a whirlwind to form the image of the great twisted spike in the ice. Your . . . vision.

  His face gave the smallest tic of amusement. I think it means I still got a long ways to go, miss.

  Where are you now?

  Just a few days from Hadlock, Uncle says. Can only hope there’s somebody left when we get there. We keep finding dead miners on the trail. The Spoiled have been plenty busy in these mountains. Lucky Lutharon decided to stay with us. Guess he’s scaring them away for now. Caught sight of a large war-party yesterday. Thought they might come for us but they just kept on trekking north. I reckon they had another place to be.

  The mountain . . . The White’s calling them home.

  I expect so.

  Trance with me when you get to Hadlock. If there are no ships to be had I’ll have the Board send one when we reach Feros.

  You seem pretty sure they’ll dance to your tune.

  If they want to regain their holdings in Arradsia, they’ll have little choice. Without product, what are they?

  I got a feeling the whole world’s gonna have to get used to going without for a very long time, if not forever. You saw it, miss. It ain’t done, and now it’s got brothers and sisters to play with.

  You wounded it. I saw that too. It needed the Island girl for something. Without that I suspect it will be incomplete, stunted somehow.

  There was a pause and one of his dust-devils drifted closer, transforming into the familiar image of a girl dancing in a ballroom.

  She’s well, Lizanne assured him. I wanted to bring her under my protection but she refused to be parted from her gun-crew. She has care of a pair of Dalcian orphans, a brother and sister.

  Derk?

  She summoned the whirlwind containing Joya’s description of Keyvine’s death, and her brother’s demise; shielding her with his body as he carried her from the burning church only to be greeted by Keyvine’s sword-cane. I’m sorry, she said when it had played out.

  Tell her . . . She watched Nelphia’s surface tremble a little under the weight of his guilt. Tell her I’m glad she finally got to sail in a blood-burner.

  I will.

  His mindscape faded a little, indicating he was nearing the end of his product. He managed to hang on for a few seconds, however, his thoughts conveying a sincerity that warmed her. Lotta people died on account of our contract, miss. All in all, I’m glad you weren’t one of them.

  —

  The trance faded and she was back in the small cabin she shared with Tekela. The girl lay on the opposite bunk, sleeping more soundly than Lizanne would have expected. She winced at the sight of the burns on Tekela’s hands, the result of flames breathed into the bridge at the height of the battle. Tekela had pushed her revolver through the slit in the armour and shot at the Blue as it drew breath for a blast. The burns were the only reward for her bravery, though she swore she had put a bullet down the drake’s throat. Heavy doses of Green had done much to heal the scars and prevent any impairment, but the discolouration remained, making it appear as if she wore a pair of patchwork gloves.

  Lizanne rose from her bunk and reached for the large carpet-bag resting in the corner, opening it to regard the device inside. You told us so much and also so little, she said to the thing’s long-lost inventor. Did you know what you were leading us to, I wonder? Were you like Silverpin? Compelled to undertake deadly expeditions and craft inventions by some mysterious voice. Or were you, like the rest of us, just another greedy fool?

  For a brief second she entertained the notion of taking it aloft and casting it over the side, suspicious of any more secrets that might lurk in its baffling mechanicals. Then, with a sigh she closed the bag and placed it back in the corner. She couldn’t truly decipher it, and neither, for all his technical wizardry, could Jermayah. But in Feros, there lived a man who might.

  “This will be the only gift I ever brought home for you, Father,” she whispered. “Perhaps you’ll finally be glad to see me.”

  —

  She found Arberus on the platform where they had battled the Blues, arms resting on the iron wall as he stared out at the sea, smoke rising from the cigarillo between his fingers and reminding her of someone she had killed not so long ago. The memory summoned a flare of anger, connected as it was to Madame’s traitorous scheming, and also a recognition that such things were behind her. I will never be a spy again, she knew, and found the prospect far more agreeable than expected.

  “Do you ever wonder,” she began, moving to Arberus’s side, “what your grandmother would have had to say about all this?”

  He gave a small shrug, keeping his eyes on the sky. It was a three-moon night and the sea shimmered like molten silver under the light cast by the three heavenly sisters. “I like to think she would have understood,” he said. “For an idealist, she had a surprisingly pragmatic nature.”

  “Would she really have been so forgiving?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Here you are allied with the forces of corporatist greed whilst the global economy stands on the brink of disaster.”

  He gave a short laugh and began to quote in Eutherian, “‘The concept of stability in markets is perhaps the worst lie ever perpetrated by the corporate elite. In transforming a description into an ideology they blinded themselves to the inescapable flaw of any society built on greed . . .’”

  The flow of invective stopped as she kissed him, finding his lips rough and chafed by so many days at sea, his breath also rich in cigarillo smoke. Neither proved sufficient reason to stop, however.

  After a while she drew back, plucking the cigarillo from his fingers and taking a deep draw as she enjoyed the surprise on his face. “My father,” she said, then paused to blow a thin stream of smoke into the air, “is truly going to hate you.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Hilemore

  The Viable Opportunity came free of the reef with only a few additional scrapes to her hull, aided by a stiff easterly wind that whipped up waves of sufficient height to lift the keel from the coral. Hilemore ordered the paddles to full ahead and they rode the swell into open water, Zenida immediately steering a southern course. Like most of the crew she remained largely silent, her eyes constantly roving the waves for any sign of the drakes’ return. It had been two full days since they witnessed the sinking of the Corvantine ship and the great Blue migration into northern waters. The crew had been left in a decidedly jittery state ever since and Hilemore found
he couldn’t blame them, although he had been quick to quash any suggestion they prolong their stay on the reef.

  “They’re cold-water beasts,” Zenida said in Varestian, more to herself than him he suspected. “Live by hunting whales and walrus amidst the ice. Never seen in northern climes. Never.”

  “Well now they are,” was all he could think to say. He found himself cursing Mr. Tottleborn for having such fatally bad luck. A trance communication with the Sea Board, or anyone else for that matter, would be very welcome just now. Before the migration the war had dominated his thoughts, but now a suspicion had begun to build that it might not be the most important event to transpire in this region after all. There were so many of them, he recalled, picturing the mass of snake-like forms cutting through the waves.

  He had briefly considered following in their wake, debating whether duty required he make some effort to discover their ultimate destination. However, his ingrained adherence to the service did not include suicidal urges, and he had serious doubts the men would have stood for it in any case. Habitually superstitious, many amongst the crew had taken on a decidedly haunted aspect, given to muttering archaic warding words or singing ominous shanties as they went about their duties; “Beneath the Spectral Sea” being a particular favourite.

  So, lacking any other course, he had opted to stick with his original plan. The Viable would make for Hadlock where they would reprovision and, with any luck, the Ironship concession would have a Blood-blessed who could explain just what in the Travail was going on.

  —

  Another storm blew up two days later, forcing a diversion to the south-west which would add well over a week to their sailing time to Hadlock. Hilemore maintained a close observance of routine throughout the voyage, keeping up the gun drills and making sure the men didn’t slacken in the myriad tasks that kept a ship from transforming into an unseemly hulk. The mood lightened a little as the days passed and the sea remained free of Blues, the crew regaining a modicum of sprightliness as it became apparent that their doom was not in fact imminent. That all changed when they found the life-boat.

  The crow’s nest spied it five days after they had freed the Viable from the reef. They had resumed course for Hadlock by now, keeping due west through a sea thankfully becalmed after the storm. In response to the call from the tube Hilemore trained his glass on the distant speck below the horizon. A boat, covered over with tarp, but no sail. Also, no sign of any crew.

  “Dead slow,” he ordered Talmant before turning to Steelfine. “See to the recovery of that boat, if you would, Number One.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Unwilling to take any chances, Hilemore had the full complement of riflemen arrayed along the rail and all guns loaded and manned. He signalled all stop as the boat came within twenty yards of the stern and Zenida altered the angle of the Viable’s bows to bring the craft alongside. Steelfine, stripped to the waist and shoeless, fastened a line on the boat by the simple expedient of diving over the side and swimming to it. Upon tying the rope to the boat’s rudder Steelfine’s face bunched in an expression of profound disgust. Hilemore discovered the reason a second later as the stench wafted up over the rail. A murmur of unease ran through the crew for it was a smell they all knew well by now.

  Steelfine climbed onto the boat and took hold of the tarp before glancing up at Hilemore with a questioning glance. He replied with a nod and the Islander pulled the tarp aside, unleashing yet more stench and the sight of six bodies. They were all burnt to some degree, one so badly half his face was a mask of charcoal. They had been dead for several days and the rictus had contorted their faces into smiles.

  “Eastern Conglomerate sailors, Captain,” Steelfine called to him, holding up an empty sack with stencilled lettering. “The ECT Endeavour, looks like.”

  “I know her, sir,” one of the men piped up. “Works the route twixt Hadlock and Carvenport.”

  “Not any more she don’t,” another man said in a grim mutter. “State they’re in, couldn’t have lasted more’n a day once they took to the boat.”

  “Alright!” Hilemore barked, snapping them all to attention. “Riflemen dismissed. Return to your allotted duties.” He moved to the rail and called down to Steelfine. “See them on their way, Number One. The King of the Deep will expect his due.”

  —

  The approach to Hadlock was guarded by a lighthouse of ingenious construction, the base curved so as to deflect the steep seas which were common in this region. It transpired that they were fortunate to come upon it in daylight, as Hilemore doubted it would ever shine out a warning again. The iron-and-glass housing which should have sat atop the great column was gone, the stonework beneath blackened and scorched over much of its surface. Whatever had befallen the light-keepers was probably best left to the imagination. The channel beyond the lighthouse proved even more foreboding, the crow’s nest reporting no less than four wrecked vessels. The tide was high so all they could see of them were the masts, sticking out of the waves like leafless trees after a flood.

  “Doesn’t bode well for Hadlock,” Zenida commented.

  Hilemore ordered the engines slowed as they neared the port, using his glass to scan the buildings and finding Zenida’s prediction all too accurate. There didn’t appear to be a single building still standing, the streets transformed into irregular lines of blackened brick with not a living soul in sight. Lowering the angle of the glass he found the harbour choked with sunk vessels, and also a not-inconsiderable number of bloated corpses littering the wreckage.

  “All stop,” he ordered, annoyed at the grating choke of his voice. He took a moment to clear his throat before continuing, thankful that those present gave no sign of having registered his moment of frailty. “Number One, assemble a squad of riflemen and prepare a launch. We’re going ashore. Mr. Talmant, you have the ship.”

  —

  “Is this altogether wise?” Zenida murmured at his shoulder as the launch made its way into the harbour, those men not at the oars keeping watch on the ruins with rifles at the ready.

  “We need supplies,” Hilemore muttered in response. “Food, ammunition and product if there’s any to be had.”

  “There’s only death to be had here.” She took a firmer grip on her Corvantine revolver, keen eyes scanning the surrounding wreckage.

  They were obliged to row their way through several bodies before reaching the quay, the cadavers becoming so densely packed at one point that Steelfine was obliged to push them aside with an oar, unleashing a miasma of foul gasses as some burst under the prodding. Several men had heaved their breakfasts over the side by the time they tied up to the wharf. Hilemore left two men with the launch and led the others into what remained of Hadlock. He had called here a few times in the course of his career and grown to appreciate the mostly trouble-free port, especially for the hearty if unrefined quality of the local cuisine. His men, however, had clearly pursued other interests.

  “That was Old Brass Belle’s whore-house,” said one, voice thick with emotion as he pointed his rifle at a pile of bricks. “Generous sort, she was. Let y’have a handy if you were a scrip short for a tumble.”

  “Captain,” Steelfine said in a soft voice. Hilemore saw that he had sunk into a crouch, rifle pointing up at the sky. Following the Islander’s gaze Hilemore saw a dark, winged shape glide through the clouds barely a hundred feet up. He had never seen one in the flesh before, but knew without any doubt that he now looked upon a Black drake.

  “Rifles up!” he barked, and every weapon was immediately trained on the dark silhouette above.

  “That’s what did this!” one of the men hissed, his voice betraying the onset of panic. “We should kill the fucker and get gone from here.”

  “Shut your yap,” Steelfine warned in a low growl, rifle tracking the drake across the sky. It banked and wheeled about, long neck coiling and Hilemore knew it had seen them.


  “Can you get it from here?” he asked Steelfine.

  “I’ll hit it sure enough,” the Islander replied. “Can’t say if I’ll kill it.”

  “You won’t,” said a new voice.

  Hilemore whirled, levelling his revolver at a figure standing only a few yards away; a young man in a green-leather duster. The young man stared at him for a moment, head angled slightly, Hilemore seeing him to be of South Mandinorian heritage and, if his accent was anything to go by, Carvenport birth. The shirt beneath his duster was ripped and Hilemore could see a stained bandage beneath it. He appeared to be weaponless but for a knife on his belt. Something that couldn’t be said for the people who quickly appeared at his side. Four men and a young woman, all bearing fire-arms.

  “You won’t kill him,” the young man said, coming closer. “Not with that popgun. And he’ll be sure to take exception to the attempt.”

  The young man stopped as Hilemore drew back the hammer on his revolver. He was struck by the expression on the young man’s face, both weary and sad, but with a faintly amused twist to his lips.

  “Who are you?” Hilemore demanded.

  “Claydon Torcreek, Captain,” the young man replied, raising his hands. He laughed a little, eyes roving over Hilemore’s face in obvious recognition. “And you really don’t want to shoot me. Not if we’re going to save the world.”

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  Ironship Trading Syndicate

  Lizanne Lethridge—Blood-blessed. Full Shareholder and covert agent of the Exceptional Initiatives Division, Ironship Trading Syndicate.

  Lodima Bondersil—Principal Tutor at the Ironship Academy of Female Education. Lizanne’s immediate superior.