As the scent became more intense, so did the feelings it provoked. He was powerful, hungry, obsessed. He scampered from mark to mark, head clouded with a new and unfamiliar sensation. In all his long life, he’d never known anything like it.
When he found her, she was waiting for him. They circled in the faint glow of the duct lights, sniffing at each other. The smell of her drove him wild. Her manner was different now, her body language inviting him instead of pushing him away. It was her time, and Slag finally knew the feeling that had brought him here.
Lust.
Ashua looked up sharply, a mug of coffee halfway to her lips. ‘What was that?’
Crake, who’d been steadily inching round the mess table to get out of the potential spray zone, looked bewildered. ‘What was what?’
Malvery had his feet up on the table, eating a slab of dry cake that he’d found in the back of the pantry and resurrected through his own unique brand of culinary necromancy. ‘Didn’t hear a thing,’ he said. He reached over to pour some more rum into his coffee.
Ashua listened again. She could have sworn she’d heard a baby crying. ‘You fellers would tell me if the Ketty Jay was haunted, right?’
‘Oh, definitely,’ said Malvery through a mouthful of cake.
‘First thing we’d do,’ Crake agreed.
Ashua sat back and relaxed a little. Surely her imagination. No need to be nervy.
She sipped her coffee and let contentment find her again. Crake’s return had settled them all to some degree. She was glad to have him back. Intelligent company was rare on the Ketty Jay, and she’d missed him, even if he currently spent more time with Samandra Bree than on his own craft. Malvery was happier than she’d seen him for months. They were working for the Coalition, albeit secretly: no more moral dilemmas for him.
In fact, everyone was so pleased to have their daemonist back that they barely mentioned Pinn at all, except to occasionally take the piss. They all seemed confident that his bizarre infatuation with the Awakeners would wear off, and he’d turn up sooner or later. Or perhaps it hadn’t sunk in that he’d gone yet. For her part, she didn’t much care. All she minded was that the crew seemed to be sticking together.
That, and she’d negotiated herself a great big bonus from Bargo Ocken.
She heard the sound again and stiffened. ‘Listen!’ she said.
They listened, and they heard it too. A sound like a baby crying. This time she found the source: an air vent above the cooker. They all stared at it as the noise lengthened and dipped to a sinister croon.
‘Um,’ said Crake. He looked at Malvery. ‘We don’t actually have a ghost, do we?’
Malvery opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly the croon became a shocking yowl, making them all jump. Malvery and Crake looked at each other in bewilderment. Ashua burst out laughing.
‘You never heard a pair of cats going at it before?’ she asked.
‘It ain’t that I’m puzzled about,’ said Malvery. ‘Where’d Slag find himself a lady?’
‘Got a whole crew full of romantics, don’t you?’ Ashua said, winking at Crake, who blushed.
There was another bloodcurdling shriek from the depths of the Ketty Jay.
‘Didn’t know the old fleabag had it in ’im,’ said Malvery. He raised his mug towards the vent. ‘Go on, lad! Give her what for!’
Ashua rolled her eyes. Men.
Frey pulled his trousers on. Amalicia gathered up her dress. They kept their backs to one another.
‘That never happens,’ Frey said.
‘Apparently it does,’ Amalicia replied tightly.
Frey had thought himself numbed to all feeling, but it turned out he was wrong. Shame got through his defences just fine.
Amalicia pulled her dress over her shoulders and sighed. She could barely conceal her irritation. ‘I suppose it happens to every man once in a while,’ she said. ‘It just . . . never happened with me.’
Frey buttoned up his shirt. The chamber was too hot. Even the slow bubbling of the crystal pool oppressed him. He was wretched, scorched with embarrassment. He wanted to get away from her as fast as he could.
He felt betrayed. Happy, sad, drunk, high or depressed, he’d always performed. He’d done it with women of intimidating beauty and with women who looked like the back end of a rusty tractor. Whatever the circumstances, his equipment had never let him down. One of the great certainties of his world had been torn away from him today.
‘Is it her?’ Amalicia said from behind him. ‘Is that why?’
He didn’t trouble to ask how she knew about Trinica. There had been rumours circulating ever since Sakkan. No doubt she’d had her ear out.
Is it her? he thought. Is it? Suddenly he was angry. Was it the memory of her that stopped him, that last scream that still echoed in the dark places of his consciousness? Was it loyalty to her memory? Had she shackled him, without either of them knowing it? Had he shackled himself? Chained himself to a woman he might never be able to have, excluding all others?
That wasn’t him! That wasn’t Darian Frey! This wasn’t even cheating, for rot’s sake! They weren’t even together!
And yet the sight of Amalicia naked hadn’t stirred him. Her touch had produced no response. Something inside him had shut down, and he didn’t know how to wake it up again.
Amalicia took his lack of reply as an affirmative. ‘She must be quite a woman, this pirate queen of yours.’
He heard the poison in her voice. She’d never help him now. And without her, he didn’t know how he could save Trinica. It was only in that moment that he realised how much had relied on this one woman, how slim his chances had been from the start.
‘I should go,’ he said, defeated. He needed to get out of her sight and never be seen by her again, to bury this incident in his memory and not tell another living soul.
‘Wait,’ she said, as he headed for the doorway. He stopped and looked back at her, crushed in on himself like a beaten dog. ‘Ebenward Plome, you said?’
He just stared at her dumbly.
She combed her fingers through her hair and threw it back over her shoulders. She was staring into the pool. ‘I hear he’s staying at the Tarlocks’ summer home in the Splinters right now. Such a disloyal, treacherous enemy of the Allsoul. He won’t be there for long. Only a few days, perhaps.’ She met his eyes briefly. ‘It might be our only chance to turn him over to the side of the Awakeners.’
He could hardly credit what he was hearing. After everything he’d done to her, after this new humiliation, he’d never have expected the maturity necessary to choose politics over her emotions. She’d always been a spoilt child at heart, full of pique and rage. He felt an overwhelming surge of gratitude, and didn’t know what to do with it.
‘Thank you, Amalicia,’ he said, his gaze on the floor. ‘You’re doing the right thing. If the Awakeners ever seize power, who knows what they’ll do to the aristocracy.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘No, that’s not why I’m doing this.’
‘So why?’ he asked quietly.
‘Hate,’ she said, ‘Pure and simple.’ She gave him a small, vicious smile. ‘I suppose I am a vengeful person after all.’
Twenty-Seven
Impaled – ‘You Can’t Deny His Whiskery Majesty’ – Pinn Gets Drunk – Hinges – Pinn Gets More Drunk
‘Hey!’
Marinda froze. She looked slowly over her shoulder, like a child dreading the monster they imagine stands behind them.
‘Wait up!’ Pinn called, as he hurried across the clearing towards her.
He had to dodge his way through. This part of the Awakener camp was busy in the hot afternoon. Groups of sweltering men were loading cargo into aircraft. Cassocked figures hurried here and there, locked in agitated conversation. Teams of mercenaries carried out weapons checks while the mangroves stirred restlessly in the hot breeze from the south.
She must not have seen him, because she was walking away at some speed when he caught up with her.
/> ‘Hey! It’s me!’
She turned around, brushed her hair back behind her ear self-consciously, levered an unconvincing smile onto her face. ‘Artis,’ she said. ‘What a surprise.’
‘Ta da!’ he sang, spreading his arms wide. He wagged a finger at her. ‘You are a hard woman to find.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s the preparations, you see.’
Pinn looked about. Now that she mentioned it, he’d noticed a certain increase in activity over the last couple of days. He hadn’t thought much of it, to be honest. He’d been preoccupied with his quest to find Marinda. The Awakener camp was a big place.
‘What are we preparing for?’ he asked.
‘Leaving,’ she said. ‘Soon it will be time for the great assault, and we . . . What are you wearing?’
Pinn struck a pose, the better to show off his shabby, dirt-smeared beige cassock, an ill-fitting imitation of hers. He still had the Cipher painted on his head, though sweat had reduced it to a blue smear. ‘You like it?’ he asked. ‘I’m a Speaker, like you!’
‘Artis,’ she said patiently. ‘That’s actually quite offensive.’
‘Just thought I’d get into the spirit of things,’ he said, unfazed by her disapproval. ‘Can’t blame me for being keen!’
She glanced about as if searching for escape. ‘Well, it’s very nice to see you again, but I really must be—’
‘You weren’t at the meeting place,’ he said. ‘Not yesterday or the day before! What about my lessons?’
‘I, er, I understood that your crew had left. There was quite a stir about it. A lot of people were very angry, as I recall.’
‘Not me!’ said Pinn. ‘I stayed. I’m a follower of the Allsoul, through and through.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘And a Prognosticator knows about this?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘I’ve talked to three of them now. They said I was alright, ’cause I chose the Allsoul. Not like the others. That lot are traitors.’
She regarded him sceptically. Pinn wasn’t quite sure if he was telling the truth or not. His memory always was a bit fuzzy that way. He remembered running away into the swamp while everyone was occupied with shooting at the Ketty Jay. He remembered the flak exploding in the sky. After that, there was a lot of wandering about. It was easy to get lost in a camp this size. He’d slept rough one night; later on he’d just walked into a tent and taken a bunk and no one had disturbed him. He queued up and ate at mess tents. He got drunk at a makeshift bar that had set up its own still. A few people remarked on the fake Cipher on his forehead, but whatever he’d said had convinced them he was harmless. He thought he might have talked to a few of the higher-up Awakeners at some point, but that could have been his imagination. Well, anyway, they’d understand. After all, he’d stayed behind: how could they doubt his loyalty?
And all the time he’d been searching. Searching for Marinda. Those sweet, understanding eyes. That youthful, pretty smile. Those round, firm—
She caught him looking. His gaze flicked back up to her face. ‘So how about my lesson?’ he said, without missing a beat.
‘Oh, I really couldn’t. It’s the preparations, you see. I have so much to do.’
‘ ‘‘Teach those who would be taught’’,’ Pinn said, frowning and speaking in a deep voice to imitate the Prognosticator that had ordered her to give him lessons. He hadn’t learned a thing in the time since, but he’d enjoyed staring at her a lot. ‘Listen, I’ll tell you what. You don’t even need to give me a lesson today. I’m gonna give one to you. I’m gonna read the future!’
‘You’re, er . . . Pardon?’
‘I’ll show you!’ he said. ‘Come on! Where’s that bowl of yours?’
He took her by the hand and dragged her off in the direction of a nearby tent. She protested weakly, but soon gave up. It was usually easier just to do what Pinn wanted. Reasoning with him was too exhausting.
There were a dozen or so crates in the tent, but it was mostly empty. Most of the supplies had been loaded into nearby aircraft. Part of the preparations Marinda kept talking about, Pinn guessed. He didn’t care. He just wanted her to himself for a bit.
She had the bowl with her, of course; she always did. It was in a bag along with a flask of milk and her long, sharp needle, its tip blunted by cork. He had her hold the bowl and poured some milk into it, then he took the needle from her, pulled off the cork and held it up.
‘Now I’m just going to prick your finger—’ he began.
‘No! Noooo, no, no,’ she said, backing off. ‘Dangerous. You shouldn’t be doing that.’
‘Come on, it can’t be that hard.’
‘There’s a technique to it,’ Marinda protested.
‘Yeah, I saw your technique on that old lady you stabbed through the hand.’
Her face hardened. Pinn detected a bad move on his part. ‘Er,’ he said. ‘What I mean is—’
‘Wait!’ she said. A slow smile spread across her lips. ‘I have an idea. You want to read the future, you can read your own. I’ll pierce you.’
Pinn suddenly felt a whole lot less enthusiastic about his grand plan to impress her. ‘Erm,’ he said.
‘Come on, give me your hand,’ Marinda said briskly. ‘Here, hold the bowl and give me that needle. Now your finger. Come on!’
Before he knew quite how it had happened, Pinn found himself holding out his finger over the bowl of milk. He wished he’d thought faster, found some reason to argue. But she certainly seemed a lot more eager now.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Just be gentle with meeeaaAAAAAHHH!’
She grabbed his hand and plunged the needle deep into his finger. The pain was spectacular. Pinn gritted his teeth to prevent himself from calling her something unforgivable.
‘Oh, don’t be a baby,’ she said maliciously. She yanked his hand down and held it over the bowl. Blood squirted into the milk. It was terrifying to see that much come out at once. ‘There you go. We need enough to get a good reading. You are a beginner, after all.’
As soon as he was decently able, he pulled his finger away and stuck it in his mouth. ‘I said be gentle,’ he complained as he sucked it.
She enjoyed that, he thought. She actually enjoyed it.
She took the bowl of bloody milk from him and set it on a crate. When she looked back at him, he was staring at her with the eyes of a wounded and pathetic animal. She sighed and softened a little.
‘Give me your hand,’ she said. Fearfully, he did so, but this time she only wanted to bind the wound with some dressing from her pack. He gazed at her fondly as she wrapped his finger. So tender, he thought.
‘Now, then,’ she said when she was done. ‘Why don’t you try to read your future? See if the Allsoul’s gift is within you.’ She was gentler now, perhaps guilty for jamming a needle in his finger so hard that he felt it in his elbow.
Pinn composed himself and walked solemnly over to the bowl. He bent over and studied it. ‘Hmm,’ he said.
The blood swirled slowly in the milk, forming arcs and clusters of spots. None of it meant shit to him. He was slightly disappointed – part of him had expected divine abilities – but not deterred. The plan didn’t call for the intervention of the Allsoul, just a little creativity.
‘I see it!’ he said. ‘I see it, clear as day! The Allsoul is speaking to me!’
‘Are you sure?’ Marinda asked doubtfully. She came up to his shoulder and peered into the bowl. ‘What does it say?’
‘It says . . . In the very near future . . .’ Pinn traced the line of a swirl with his finger. ‘You and I will go off into the undergrowth and bang like rabbits!’
Marinda burst out laughing. It wasn’t quite the response Pinn had been expecting. He’d imagined something closer to a swoon.
‘What?’ he complained. ‘You have to. The Allsoul said so. You can’t deny His Whiskery Majesty.’
Marinda was holding her side and leaning against a crate. ‘Stop!’ she begged. ‘Oh, dear, no! Don’t say anything else!??
?
Pinn thought this was all pretty rude, and by the time she’d got herself under control, his mood had blackened to a thunderous sulk.
‘Heretic,’ he said peevishly.
She took a few deep breaths and wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘Artis, you haven’t done your research, have you? It’s very sweet that you’ve got a crush on me . . . Wait, no, actually it’s not, but anyway . . . Look, the thing is, Speakers are celibate.’
‘Yes!’ said Pinn, brightening. ‘We should celebrate!’
‘Celibate,’ said Marinda. ‘Thoughts of lust distract the mind from communion with the Allsoul. Speakers don’t have relations with anyone else.’
Pinn just stared at her. She’d said a bunch of words but they didn’t seem to mean anything. She put it more plainly for his benefit.
‘No sex,’ she said. ‘No kissing.’
‘Hand job?’ Pinn suggested hopefully.
‘Not that either.’
‘Shit,’ said Pinn. ‘Really?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Pinn considered that for a short while. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He frowned and hmmed. Finally he arrived at the conclusion of his mighty cogitation.
‘Your religion bites arse,’ he said, and walked away.
After that, Pinn did what any hero would have done in his shoes. He headed for the bar.
The drinking tents had been set up mainly for the benefit of the mercs, who’d inevitably rampage if forced to stay sober for too long. Pinn stormed his way towards the central clearing of the Awakener camp, where the tents and stalls clustered thickest. On his way he pulled his cassock over his head and flung it into the mangroves. Damned thing was too hot to wear over his regular clothes anyway. He stopped at the edge of the path, where the swamp water lapped close, and wet his hands. Then he rubbed them all over his forehead until he’d reduced the smeared Cipher to a faint bluish smudge.
‘Stupid bloody Awakener bloody shit bloody,’ he muttered to himself as he walked.