by Anthony Ryan
Upon reaching the ground she immediately sprinted towards the mansion, disappearing into the refuge of the house’s shadowed rear in the space of a few heart-beats. Given the lack of alarm she had successfully avoided the attentions of the inquisitive guard.
Scanning the rear edifice of the mansion, she saw lights in the ground-level windows, but none in the floors above. Intelligence on this place had been meagre, garnered from the few sailors and refugees she could find with some familiarity of Varestian waters. Only one, a former Blue-hunter hand recently recruited into Madame Hakugen’s militia, had actually been to the High Wall but never reached these lofty heights. “They’re a right suspicious bunch to be sure, miss,” the man had said. “Don’t let visiting sailors wander from their docks. Though there’s rumours of all manner of treasure in the upper reaches of that mountain.”
Lizanne, of course, wasn’t interested in treasure tonight, merely maps and documents which experience told her would most likely be found on the first floor. The mansion was a close copy of a larger-than-average Mandinorian country-house, the kind purchased by the upper middle rank of the corporate managerial class desirous of a refuge from the odorous bustle of city life. She had had occasion to burgle such places before and the study would normally be found opposite the stairwell on the first-floor landing. Quickly identifying the correct window, she moved to the mansion wall and launched herself upwards, the Green ensuring she gained purchase on the window-sill some twelve feet off the ground. Hoisting herself up, she was gratified to find only a basic latch on the window, easily opened after a fractional injection of Black. She used the remaining Black to draw the window up and swiftly swung herself inside, crouching to survey the room with her enhanced vision. After a few seconds of squinting at brooms, buckets and a variety of mops she realised she had chosen the wrong access point after all.
Getting rusty, she chided herself, moving to press her ear to the door of what was plainly a closet. She could hear a faint murmur of voices from the lower floor, two or three, all male. The words were indistinct but the pitch was casual, lacking in urgency. Lizanne found the door unlocked and eased it open, seeing an empty landing and two stairwells, one leading up, the other down. Spotting another door opposite the cupboard, she stole out onto the landing, moving in a slow crouch, her feet testing each floor-board before putting her full weight on it. She found the other door secured by a heavy Alebond Commodities double-mortise lock, indicating something of value might well lie on the other side. Another injection of Black and some careful probing later and she was in, closing the door softly behind her.
The room was fully dark and the windows shuttered so even with Green in her veins it took a moment to confirm she had in fact found the study this time. However, it was more of a library-cum–map room, the walls lined with book-laden shelves from floor to ceiling whilst a number of chart-bearing easels were arranged around a large central map table.
Not so rusty after all. Lizanne allowed herself a small compliment as she went to the map table. Laid out on its surface beneath a thick sheet of glass was the largest complete map of the Arradsian continent she had ever seen. It was clearly several decades old from the foxing that discoloured the edges of the paper, but it also appeared to be remarkably accurate, albeit also heavily modified. Annotations in dense Varestian script had been scribbled all around the coast and at some places in the mostly blank Interior. Lizanne’s interest piqued, however, as her gaze tracked across the chart to Krystaline Lake where the annotations became a jumbled, overlapping frenzy.
“Mrreaaoow?”
Lizanne’s gaze snapped to the underside of the table, finding a pair of green eyes blinking up at her from the gloom. The cat slinked out of the shadows and wound itself around her legs, tail swishing. Lizanne ignored it and returned to the map, peering closer at the cloud of scribbles around the lake. Her spoken Varestian was perfect but her understanding of the written form less so. It was a curious mode of text in that it mixed pictography with phonetics, making rapid translation difficult.
“Current becomes . . . a vortex here,” she murmured, her finger tapping a notation next to a series of circular arrows. It was marked with several cruciform squiggles she knew to be the equivalent of a Mandinorian exclamation mark.
The cat let out another plaintive miaow then purred as it prodded her calf with its head. Keen to quiet the animal, Lizanne crouched and gathered it up, stroking it as she continued to examine the map. Large as it was the depiction of Krystaline Lake still lacked sufficient detail for her to identify a precise location. She gauged the swirl of arrows as about sixty miles south of the falls that fed the lake, and at least three miles from shore, but doubted that would be enough for Clay and his Contractors to pin-point it.
She stepped back from the map, turning her attention to the easels that surrounded it. She carried the cat to the closest one, the furry bundle purring as she scratched under its chin. The map was a detailed scientific study of the lake marked with the crest of the Consolidated Research Company. Various depths were depicted and coded in different colours and likely concentrations of “draconic activity” outlined in green ink, but the map itself gave no clues as to the location of what had so obsessed the late patriarch of the Okanas clan.
She examined each of the easels in turn, finding them all detailed renderings of various regions of Krystaline Lake, until she came to one that was plainly an enlarged version of the region with the swirling currents. The arrows depicting the vortex were drawn with more care, some rendered in black, others red and often marked with the Varestian equivalent of a question mark. However, what drew most of her attention was the large “X” in the centre of the vortex. The notation next to it was unusual in that it wasn’t written in Varestian, but something that resembled the flowing elegance of Dalcian. Ancient Dalcian, she decided, recalling what Clay had told her about the original legend regarding the treasure of Krystaline Lake. She didn’t know this script and therefore couldn’t translate it, but was sure if she had it would have read “a vessel of wonder, unbound by earth or sea, come to rest with precious cargo ’neath the silver waters.”
“I do believe,” Lizanne said, giving the cat a hug, “I may have found what I came for.”
The cat squirmed in her arms, suddenly agitated. A flicker of movement drew Lizanne’s gaze to a near by bookcase, finding another cat perched atop it. Unlike the grey tabby she held, this one was black, and considerably larger. Also, judging by the white teeth it bared at Lizanne as it hissed, much less desirous of petting.
“Don’t do that,” Lizanne said, patting the cat she held on the head. “See? I’m nice.”
The black cat, however, seemed unimpressed, its hiss becoming louder still as it lowered itself for a pounce. The cat in Lizanne’s arms let out a frightened growl and tore itself free, bounding off into the gloomy recesses of the study, swiftly pursued by its darker cousin. Soon came the sound of tumbled books and furniture as the cats raced around the room, letting out a chorus of shrieks and hisses as they did so. From the sound of raised voices from below, it was evident the commotion hadn’t been missed.
Lizanne snapped her gaze back to the map on the easel, trained eyes drinking in every detail in the space of a few seconds. Hearing keys rattling in the door’s lock she ran to the nearest window. The shutters were locked so she injected Black and tore them away before shattering the window itself. She leapt through just as the door to the study burst open. A pistol shot boomed behind her as she tumbled into space, followed by a stern rebuke in Varestian: “No firing, shit-brain! I need her alive!”
Lizanne landed amidst a cluster of rose-bushes in the mansion’s small garden. Tearing herself free and ignoring the sting of thorns, she refreshed her Green and ran for a stairwell carved into the surrounding crater wall. As she scaled the steps a man leapt down from above to land in front of her, swinging the butt of a carbine at her head, then finding himself tumbling throug
h the air as she blasted him aside with Black. Below light flooded the crater as torches and lanterns sprang to life accompanied by a chorus of shouts and orders. Loudest amongst the babble of voices was one calling for “Morva! Get up here, you lazy bitch!”
Messy, Lizanne reproached herself as she neared the top of the stairwell. Next time just throttle any cats.
A five-strong squad of sentries charged at her when she got to the parapet, arms locked and grouped together in a tight bunch in the hope it might protect them. They were wrong. She swept their legs away with a wave of Black, sending them all sprawling face-first onto the parapet. Lizanne leapt the struggling quintet, landing atop the battlement and pausing to gauge the distance to the crashing waves below. It would be the highest dive she had ever attempted, but survivable with sufficient Green in her veins and Black to part the water as she came down.
Lizanne leapt, her form perfect, legs straight and toes pointed, arms outstretched then pulled forward and hands clasped together . . .
The air rushed out of her lungs as an invisible fist closed about her chest, holding her in mid air for a second before dragging her backwards. She managed to cushion the impact with Black, sending out a pulse just before she collided with the cobbled surface of the courtyard to the front of the mansion. She rolled as she landed, jerking to the side as a wave of heated air told of a near miss with Red. Lizanne whirled and dodged, gaze roaming the courtyard for her assailant, taking in the onlooking cordon of Varestians. They were all carrying weapons and many were in a state of undress, having just been roused from their beds. The Blood-blessed wasn’t hard to find, a tall slim figure standing apart from the others, female with a scarlet headscarf. She stood with her arms crossed and head tilted in a way that put Lizanne in mind of the cat that had just undone her mission. It didn’t improve her mood.
She sent a contained blast of her own Black straight at the woman’s face then followed it with one to the chest as she dodged aside, Lizanne experiencing the satisfaction of watching her opponent spun into an untidy pirouette by the force of the blow. The woman let out a frustrated yelp, bounding upright in an impressive display of agility and letting loose with a stream of Red. It was an undisciplined riposte, one Lizanne easily evaded with a Green-enhanced leap that brought her to a height of twenty feet, whereupon she pinned the woman to the cobbles with a stream of Black. Lizanne drew both her revolvers and landed astride the woman’s prostrate form, levelling one pistol at her forehead as she tracked the other across the surrounding Varestians.
They all raised their own weapons with a metallic rattle of drawn hammers and chambered rounds. They held a mix of carbines and pistols along with the occasional shotgun. Lizanne knew in an instant the chances of evading so many projectiles at once were non-existent, and given the confident anticipation on their faces, so did they.
“Kill her if you want,” said one of the Varestians, a bearded fellow of broad stature who stepped from the cordon with a long-barrelled pistol in hand. He cast a withering glance at the woman on the ground, who returned it with a resentful frown. “My niece has never really earned her salt,” he said, sliding the pistol into a shoulder holster. “So you would in fact be doing me a great favour.”
Lizanne cast a final glance around at the ring of armed men and women, then slowly raised both pistols above her head. “My name is Lizanne Lethridge . . .” she began.
“Miss Blood herself?” the bearded man cut in, eyebrows raised in apparent awe. However, the awe disappeared almost instantly and he began to voice a laugh that was soon shared by his compatriots, the sound of their humour echoing through the crater. “I did rather think it might be,” he added once the laughter had faded, inclining his head in a grudging gesture of respect. “Alzar Lokaras, Custodian of the High Wall. And before I hang your worthless corporate hide from said wall, I should very much like to know what you’re doing here.”
Lizanne replied with an affable nod, smiling to distract him before dropping the pistol in her right hand and pressing the fourth button on the Spider. Alzar Lokaras swore and lunged towards her as she collapsed, Blue flooding her veins and dragging her into the deepest trance.
CHAPTER 20
Clay
“Thank the Seer for that,” Skaggerhill groaned, slipping from the back of the female Cerath he had been riding. The animal immediately cantered away to cluster with its kin as the Harvester rubbed at the small of his back. “One more mile would have done for me, I reckon.”
“I believe we’re close enough to walk the rest of the way,” Lieutenant Sigoral said, looking up from his map. “Just over twelve miles due east should bring us to the lake’s western shore.”
Clay leaned forward then back to relieve his own aching muscles, casting his gaze over the darkening blue of the sky, broken by Nelphia’s pale crescent rising over the eastern horizon. “It’s late,” he said. “We’ll rest up. Same watch order as last night, lest anyone’s got any objections.”
Since taking on the primary burden of leadership he had also assumed the post-midnight watch, generally considered the least desirable, something his uncle had tended to do during their search for the White. He wasn’t sure if the absence of argument was due to an acceptance of his leadership or a desire for uninterrupted sleep.
“Would never light a fire out here before,” Braddon said later, tossing a few sticks into the small but healthy blaze in the centre of the camp. “Woulda drawn Spoiled by the dozen.” He paused to scan the surrounding plains, the grass whispering faintly beneath a starlit sky. “Now, there’s no fresh sign of their passing for miles around. Used to be six different tribes on the plains, that we knew of anyways.”
“All gone off to fight the White’s war,” Clay said. “Those that ain’t dead already.”
“Makes you wonder,” Skaggerhill said. “If they got any notion of what they’re fighting for. Or any say in the matter.”
“‘Those that serve the drake’s will surrender their own,’” Preacher said, causing the usual stir of surprise at breaking his customary silence.
“Forgive my ignorance,” Sigoral said. “But did the Seer predict any of this? His writings have long been banned in the Empire.”
“He tried to warn the world of what was to come,” Preacher replied. “Though there were few who listened.”
“I have read all the Seer’s words, more than once,” Braddon said. “Don’t recall mention of anything that resembles what’s happening right now.”
Preacher fixed Braddon with a bright-eyed stare of the kind Clay had last seen during their previous visit to Krystaline Lake. “Then you should have read deeper, Captain,” the marksman said in a low, intent voice. “For it’s all there. The Travail is at last upon us and are we not seven in number?”
Braddon gave no reply causing Loriabeth to pipe up. “What’s that gotta do with anything?”
“The Seven Penitents,” Braddon said. “The Seer claimed that when the forces of darkness rise up during the Travail they’ll be opposed by Seven Penitents.”
“Seven Righteous Penitents,” Preacher said, the volume of his voice climbing a notch. “Chosen from amongst the great throng of sinners to stand against the ravaging tide.” He paused, gaze unfocused but gleaming. “I see it now. Though I hid from it for many years. Though I sundered myself from the church and sought death in the Interior. Though I have revelled in slaughter of drake and Spoiled and sullied my soul in the revelling, ever has the truth of the Seer’s word pursued me, until now, at last it finds me.”
He stood, raising his arms, hands outstretched, fingers spread wide. “Will you pray with me, brothers and sisters?” he said, head lowered. “Give thanks to the Seer for his guidance and seek his blessing for the task ahead.”
Loriabeth exchanged a brief glance with Clay and her father before getting to her feet, lip curled in distaste. “Fuck off,” she said wearily before going to her bedroll.
“Wait a second, cuz,” Clay said, bringing her to an uncertain pause. He rose to his feet and went to clasp Preacher’s outstretched hand. The marksman gripped it with all the fierceness of a man clinging to wreckage in a stormy sea. “Thank you, brother,” he breathed, head still lowered.
“Well, why not?” Clay said, looking at each of them in turn and holding out his own hand. “Reckon we’ll be needing all the help we can get before long.”
It was Kriz who took his hand, albeit with a bemused smile. Braddon moved to clasp Preacher’s other hand, extending his own to Skaggerhill, who took it after a moment’s hesitation.
“Lieutenant?” Kriz said, holding her hand out to Sigoral.
The Corvantine frowned in rueful resignation before joining his hand to hers, muttering, “A man would find himself hung for this in the Empire.” He turned, hand raised expectantly to Loriabeth. The distaste still lingered on her face, though the sneer had disappeared now.
“Ma never had no truck with such nonsense,” she said, crossing her arms. “Neither do I.”
“Please, Lori,” Braddon said. “It’s just for a second.”
Loriabeth raised her face to the sky, breath misting a little in the chill night air as she let out a soft curse. “As long as he don’t take all night about it,” she said, moving to join hands with Sigoral and Skaggerhill, closing the circle.
“The final resting place of the Seer is unknown to this day,” Preacher said, raising his face, eyes still lit by the same glow of conviction. “For that was his wish. ‘Make no idols of me,’ he said. ‘My words are my temple and my testament.’ The Seer offered no false promises, no empty lies, that those who followed his words would earn an eternal place in another world or riches in this one. His message was simple: The Travail is coming. And now it is here. Of the Seven Penitents he said only this: ‘When the storm winds born of the Travail blow hardest, when the flames reach highest, when the screams of the damned grow loudest, then will the Seven Righteous Penitents rise. Long will they travel and much will they suffer, but it is they who will quench the flames and silence the screams, though it cost them all.’”