by Anthony Ryan
Come . . .
The voice invading his mind was instantly recognisable; possessing the same note as the compelling undercurrent that ran through all their thoughts. It was soft, far from the booming echo Sirus might have expected from this beast. But its power to command was undeniable. He marched straight to the ship and up the gang-plank without hesitation, coming to a halt in the shadow of the White’s wing as it curled its snake-like neck to regard him.
Different . . . The voice mused as Sirus felt a sharp series of stabbing pains at the front of his skull, causing him to stifle a gasp as a thousand memories ran through his head in a scant few seconds. More, the White mused as it rummaged through his mind, Sirus sensing a note of increasing satisfaction. Thinks more . . . Knows more.
Abruptly the pain stopped and the White huffed out two twin circles of smoke from its nostrils. Once again the beast’s voice sang in Sirus’s mind, a single word but this time completely unintelligible, resembling no language that Sirus spoke or could recognise. However, the word was accompanied by a brief image, a man in white clothing reading a book, the page rich in complex diagrams and calculations.
Scientist, he thought. Scholar.
The White’s wings gave a small jerk, knife-length teeth bared in sudden annoyance. Sirus discerned a clear note of frustration in its shared thoughts as it swung its gaze away.
No, Sirus realised. I don’t understand.
After a few seconds the White’s wings settled and it swept its head round in a long arc that encompassed the whole harbour, Sirus following suit in response to the urge it placed in his head. Thirty-three ships, he counted obediently. Capable of carrying a force of perhaps four thousand.
He felt the White’s anger flare, visions of rent and burning bodies filling his mind.
We can build more, Sirus replied, the thoughts rushing forth in a panicked torrent. Simple craft . . . Barges that can be towed. A tactic first employed by the Emperor Hulahkin in the First Regency War . . .
He stopped as the White’s anger, and the dreadful encouraging images, receded to be replaced by a single word. Build.
I will . . . All that you need.
The White turned away, raising itself to gaze towards the east. Feeling a keen sense of dismissal, Sirus retreated to the gang-plank and returned to the wharf. A group of Spoiled had already begun to gather, presumably summoned by the White. They were all former townsfolk, clad in the tattered regalia of their station: carpenters, artisans, shipwrights, labourers. Sirus could feel their expectation and obedience; the White had given him a work-force. After a moment’s calculation he focused his mind on an illustration he recalled from one of the older tomes in the museum library: Marschenik’s History of the Regency Wars. The illustration showed an armada of oar-driven war galleys approaching the then-independent city-state of Valazin, each one towing two barges behind, all heavily laden with troops.
Draught’s too shallow for the Arradsian seas, a heavy-set man in shipwright’s garb responded before providing an image of his own, a longer craft with a narrower beam and a deeper hull. Troop barge from the Imperial Fleet, the shipwright explained, his thoughts rich in craftsman’s certainty. With enough timber we can build fifty in a month.
Timber? Sirus sent the thought out to all of them, receiving a chorus of responses. Plenty of trees beyond the wall . . . Tear down the houses . . . Break up the smaller boats . . .
Sirus nodded and glanced back at the White, still maintaining its eastward vigil. He summoned the memory of its command and conveyed it to his new work-force: Build, fifty in a week.
• • •
The first barge was completed by nightfall, with another ten already under construction in the Morsvale yards. Sirus couldn’t help but feel an absurd pride at the sight of the barge descending the slip-way to the harbour waters, greeted by a wave of satisfaction from the onlooking work-force.
His fear hadn’t abated, nor had his disgust at what he had been fashioned into. But the power of what the White had wrought here was undeniable. The ability to take an entire city of individuals and transform them into a cohesive whole, free of rivalry, greed or envy, and capable of working in absolute concert. Added to that were the physical changes. Sirus had never been a particularly athletic youth but now found himself lifting burdens previously beyond him, working for hours on end with scant need for all but the briefest rest. He was quicker too, moving about his new domain on swift and nimble feet. Then there were the skills. Sirus had never hammered a nail or chiselled a length of wood in his life, but now found himself working timber with the hands of a master craftsman, and it wasn’t just him. Every Spoiled under his command now possessed the same skills. Somehow the shipwright’s knowledge had been passed to all of them.
They worked through the night with only two hours’ break for sleep. Sirus was grateful to find his rest untroubled by the dreams or night terrors that had often plagued him since the basement. The White, it seemed, decreed that its army must have an undisturbed slumber. They launched the third boat a few minutes after dawn, Sirus shooting a cautious glance at the White. It had shifted its perch to the tallest remaining structure atop the harbour wall and now crouched silhouetted against the rising sun, still gazing east. Any sense of satisfaction at their achievement was absent from the faint torrent of its thoughts, which now held a dominant note of impatient expectation.
Sirus shuddered as the White straightened, every Spoiled within sight wincing in unison at its sudden shift in mood. Flaring its wings, it gave a loud but thankfully brief roar then launched itself into the air. It circled the harbour until a fresh sound greeted Sirus’s ears with piercing force. Drake calls, he realised, shifting his gaze from the White to the eastern sky, which had grown suddenly dark. A thousand drake calls.
They came in a screaming crimson mass, swirling around the harbour and churning the surface of the water with the beat of their wings. The White fanned its own wings and hovered as the Reds flocked around it. Another roar, far louder and longer than the first, issued from its gaping jaws. Sirus could still hear its thoughts but the sensation was different now, reminding him of the untranslatable word it had tried to teach him. This event, he knew, was beyond human understanding. The drakes were sharing something he and the other Spoiled could never hope to experience.
Are they gods now? he wondered. Will this be the entire world when they’re done?
After several more roaring sweeps the White descended to the quayside, landing a short distance from the slip-way. The sky gradually emptied as the Reds descended into the city, save one that glided down to land opposite the White. It was the largest Red Sirus had seen so far, as large as a full-grown Black, but still of course dwarfed by the White. The left side of the Red’s face was pock-marked with deep scars and its hide bore the signs of recent battle. Sirus noted that it alighted on three legs instead of four and assumed it had been injured, but then saw it held something in its claw. Sinking low, the Red gave a subdued rattling growl as it extended its claw to deposit an offering at the White’s feet. The White sniffed the gift then prodded it with its toe, drawing forth a groan that made Sirus realise this tribute was in fact a man. He lay immobile for several seconds before raising his head, revealing craggy but unspoilt features. He gazed around at his surroundings for a time before getting slowly to his feet, a large, barrel-chested man of middling years who betrayed absolutely no fear at all as he gazed up at the White.
“Chew well, you fucker,” Sirus heard the man say in coarse Eutherian. “I’m likely to choke you.”
It was one of the soldiers who recognised the man, the knowledge spreading through the onlooking horde of Spoiled in short order as the memory spread from mind to mind. Sirus had never seen this man in person but every Corvantine alive knew his name. Grand Marshal Morradin had returned to Morsvale.
CHAPTER 7
Lizanne
Electress Dorice came to find h
er on the last day of the voyage, appearing at Lizanne’s side as she paused during her morning constitutional around the mid-deck. The noblewoman’s handsome face was pale this morning, unadorned by rouge or paint, and she wore a simple gown of plain muslin.
“Miss Lethridge,” she said, her voice lacking any of the usual condescension or resentment. They had tended to avoid one another during the voyage, save for the evening meals, which Director Thriftmor insisted be attended by all members of the delegation. Lizanne assumed he was trying to cement some form of bond between them whilst also providing a talking shop from which a “nuanced strategy” would emerge to guide their impending dealings with the Corvantines. Director Thriftmor was full of phrases like “amicable concordance” and “synergised outcomes,” but “nuanced strategy” was by far his favourite. Lizanne had contrived to limit her presence at these soirees with some inventive imaginary ailments and artfully constructed euphemisms such as “the feminine regularity.” She found the prospect of their imminent arrival in Corvus oddly attractive in that it would at the very least spare her the company of her fellow diplomats.
“Electress,” Lizanne responded with a formally respectful nod then turned her gaze to the prow where the sea broke white against the iron hull of the Profitable Venture. “Grey skies and grey seas,” she said. “It seems we are to be denied fine weather for our last day aboard.”
“Quite appropriate, I assure you. Corvus is a fairly dreary city, truth be told.” The woman fell silent and Lizanne saw a new distance in her gaze, the eyes sunken and ringed with dark circles.
“Are you well, Electress?” she asked.
Unexpectedly, the woman smiled, though it was brief and her perfect teeth remained hidden behind unpainted lips. “I am as well as I will ever be,” she said, her smile fading completely before she continued. “I should like to tell you something, about the siege.” She hesitated, the distance in her gaze becoming yet more pronounced. “The child . . .” she began, the words soft and formed with a forced precision. “The child I failed to save in the evacuation. I found her the night the Spoiled came over the wall, wailing away in a ruined house, her parents gone or slaughtered. I was going to leave her. I was so terribly afraid, you see. I was at the barricade when the Spoiled and the Greens came charging out of the flames . . . And I ran. As far and as fast as I could, I ran and I ran. But I stopped when I heard that child crying.”
“You saved her,” Lizanne said.
“I picked her up, swaddled her as best I could and tried to find somewhere to hide until morning. A Red found us before I could. I had a small amount of product left. Luckily, it proved sufficient, though the beast put up quite a fight, I must say. In the morning I took the child to Mrs. Torcreek’s hospital, intending to leave her in the care of more experienced hands. But the place was in such a terrible state, and what better hands to protect her than mine?” Her lips formed another smile, her face brightening with a cherished memory. “So I kept her, and I named her Aledina, my grandmother’s name. It was my intention to formally adopt her on return to the empire, should we survive the evacuation . . .” The emotion drained from her face as she trailed off, taking several moments before continuing. “It wasn’t the flames that killed her. I shielded her from those. But the heat sucked all the air out of the cabin, just for a few seconds, and her lungs were too small . . .”
Electress Dorice turned her face out to sea, eyes closed and expressionless save for the tear that trickled from the corner of her eye. Lizanne lowered her gaze, suppressing a grimace as memories of Carvenport’s fall crowded in. “I’m sorry . . . ” she began.
“No,” the Electress said. “Do not be sorry. I came to thank you. You were right, I came to Arradsia in search of excitement. I was so terribly bored in Corvus. Life amongst the Imperial elite is an endless drudge of gossip and petty rivalry. I barely knew my own parents, so distant and wrapped up in their own prestige were they. I have had several lovers, none of whom I have loved. Only amidst war and horror did I discover what it feels like to love. A life without it is a barren, wasted thing, Miss Lethridge. Thanks to you, that fate, at least, has been denied me.”
She took a small silver jewellery box from the pocket of her dress. “I would like you to have this,” she said, offering the box to Lizanne. “I believe it may be of use in your future endeavours.”
Lizanne accepted the box, opening it to find a small circular pin of plain silver adorned with the oak-leaf symbol of the Imperial crest. “This was yours?” she asked, unable to keep an incredulous note from her voice. “You were an agent of the Blood Cadre?”
“A mostly honorary position,” the Electress said, apparently unruffled by Lizanne’s scepticism. “But one that involves certain inescapable responsibilities.” She met Lizanne’s gaze before continuing, her expression intent and, as far as Lizanne could tell, completely sincere. “I tranced with the Blood Imperial this morning. He instructed me to acquaint you with certain facts regarding the Imperial Court. Firstly, everyone you will meet there is a self-serving liar, although I assume that won’t come as any great surprise. Secondly, since infancy Emperor Caranis has suffered from a very unusual malady. For extended periods he will appear to be of an entirely rational, if somewhat coldly practical frame of mind. However, throughout his life there have also been periods when his behaviour could best be described as erratic. I am instructed to inform you that the Emperor’s most recent erratic episode began three days ago.”
“You mean he’s mad?” Lizanne asked. She had assumed, given the Emperor’s warmongering, that his character must possess some delusional elements. But the fact that he was truly unhinged had so far escaped the notice of Exceptional Initiatives.
“It means,” the Electress said, “that your prospects of securing an alliance with the Corvantine Empire are now extremely remote.”
“Is there no regent or proxy we can negotiate with?”
“For centuries the empire has run on one simple principle: all power rests in one man. Be assured, whatever order Caranis gives during his madness will be followed, and to the letter. During his last episode he ordered every remaining temple to the elder goddess Sethamet be destroyed and her followers purged from the empire. When some of his chamberlains pointed out that there had never, in fact, been an elder goddess named Sethamet, Caranis had them disembowelled for treason. So, the understandably unnerved surviving chamberlains set about creating the cult of Sethamet from scratch, building temples and hiring poor folk to worship her, even employing a group of theologians to pen a body of scripture. She had actually begun to build up a genuine following by the time they unleashed the purge. Hundreds died and the newly built temples were destroyed as per Imperial Dictum. When Caranis returned to sanity, he professed no knowledge of any such orders.”
“Then this mission is hopeless,” Lizanne said. “We may as well turn the ship about and go home.”
“The Blood Imperial is very keen for you to continue the mission. He has something of considerable importance to share, but only with you.”
Lizanne’s thoughts returned to the design Bloskin had given her, and the curious tale of its origins. Had the Blood Imperial been behind it? A device to lure her here for purposes unknown. For an operative accustomed to relying on her own resources, the sense of being a piece in someone else’s game was an unpleasant one. It reminded her too much of Madame Bondersil. “Can’t you share it now?”
“I am not privy to it. Besides”—Electress Dorice nodded at the box containing the silver pin—“my tenure as a Blood Cadre agent has now come to an end. The Blood Imperial feels I am not best suited to the work. A judgement I find it hard to argue against.”
She moved back from the rail, then paused. “I buried Aledina in the graveyard at the Church of the Seer near the bluffs east of Feros. It would ease my mind to know the grave will be cared for.”
“Come back with us and care for it yourself,” Lizanne said.
“You are an ambassadress, after all.”
The Electress gave another small smile and shook her head, turning to go before lingering awhile longer, as if compelled to share something further. “Did you know,” she said, her voice soft and reflecting the sadness in her smile. “My family once ruled a kingdom even greater in size than the entire land-mass of Arradsia. When the empire swallowed it up they allowed the ruling house to keep its titles, even though they were now utterly powerless. And so I am permitted to call myself an Electress, a figure who once held sway over millions. Now, regardless of what titles I possess and all the finery with which I adorn myself, I am in fact no different from any other subject of the Emperor, and he has given me a command.”
She inclined her head at Lizanne and walked away, leaving Lizanne to contemplate her gift. The pin sat in the box, a small piece of silver catching a dim gleam from the muted sunlight. A token of esteem? she wondered. Or a marker for some nefarious design of the Blood Imperial? She was decidedly unsure if she wanted to accept a gift from the most highly ranked Blood-blessed in the Corvantine Empire, fearing acceptance might signal some form of compliance. Diplomacy, it seemed, could be just as aggravatingly complex as espionage.
Sighing, Lizanne returned the pin to the box and gazed once more at the sea, glimpsing the first hazy shadow of land on the horizon. She had always suspected her profession would bring her to the Corvantine capital, though hardly under such odd circumstances. She had no target to assassinate, no secrets to steal. Just a tantalising clue to the existence of something impossible.
• • •
The Profitable Venture docked at Corvus the following morning. Lizanne joined the rest of the delegation as tugs pushed the ship towards the docks. A complement of riflemen was arrayed along the length of the port rail in impeccable order and the warship’s every fitting gleamed with fresh polish. Lining the length of the docks was a full brigade of Imperial Household troops, complete with a musical band playing a bombastic interpretation of the Ironship Syndicate Anthem.