The hydraulics kicked in with a thump, and the cargo ramp opened. A swirl of cold air stirred the curtain. It was bitter out there, but warm in her nook. The pipes radiated a drowsy heat, and she was protected in her hollow.
‘Are you sure you can straighten things out with Drave and the Archduke?’ Crake was saying as they walked down the ramp.
‘Drave’s a tough nut, but he ain’t stupid. He’ll listen to us,’ said another voice: Samandra Bree. So the other footsteps must have been the other two Century Knights. ‘ ’Sides, honey, if he don’t, there ain’t gonna be much left worth survivin’ for anyway.’
‘That’s a good point,’ said Crake. ‘I never thought of that.’
‘Optimism,’ said Samandra. ‘Keeps me young.’
Their voices faded. When the ramp began to raise, she almost bolted. But she balled up a blanket in her fist and gripped it hard, willing herself not to move. Finally the ramp closed with a boom that echoed through the hold.
She relaxed her hand. So it was done. She’d made her choice. She’d passed through a gate, and it had shut behind her. She felt better for it.
She looked at the device in her hand. Leaving or not, she still had a job to do. If the Awakeners were heading for Thesk, then the Thacians needed to know. Pelaru might have already told his people about the Awakeners’ secret weapon, but even if he had, he hadn’t known when or where the strike would come. Perhaps Ocken could get the message to someone who could help. Perhaps the Thacians could make the Archduke listen to Frey’s warnings. Vardia and Thace had been allies for a long time, united against Samarlan aggression. Thace wouldn’t want to see Vardia fall to the Awakeners and end up an ally of Samarla. That would make their neighbours twice as dangerous.
So she’d send the message. She’d do what she could for the good of the country. And after that, she was going to find Malvery, and she was going to get really, really drunk.
The engine room had always been Silo’s domain, and he went there once the Ketty Jay was airborne, to escape the prevailing mood. Here he could lose himself in the noise and heat, disappear among the walkways and pipes. Silo was a man comfortable with his own company, and right now he wanted no one else’s.
Jez’s death had hit them all hard. There was a sense of shock among the crew, but no time to grieve or heal. That was bad. Silo had seen his fair share of grief; he knew the kind of things it might make a man do, if he didn’t get it out. But there’d be no quarter yet. They’d been caught in a whirlpool for a long time now, since way back in the days of Retribution Falls. Now they were nearing the centre. It was down to them whether they’d be swallowed or spat back out.
Well, what gonna come, gonna come, he thought. Too late to pull out now.
Each of the crew were dealing with the tragedy in their own way. Crake had thrown himself into his work. He was on the Wrath with Kyne, in the Century Knight’s sanctum, using the readings they’d taken from the Imperator to knock up some countermeasures as best they could. And maybe when he was done, if there was time, he’d find solace in the Samandra’s arms.
Harkins was flying the Firecrow. That was where he was happiest. Malvery was drinking, and Ashua was drinking with him for company. She didn’t feel it like the others did, but she was there for the doc, and that was good. Malvery was the kind of man who needed to talk it out.
They’d survive. They’d get through. Silo had sorrow of his own, but his was more measured. Life as a slave, and later as a resistance fighter, had inured him somewhat to the pain of loss. Death was part of Murthian life, always at their shoulder. He’d honour his friend when the moment was right.
It was Frey that worried him. The Cap’n hadn’t been all there since he came out of the Awakeners’ base camp. This new blow might have been too much. He always was a self-destructive sort, but he’d always been defiant. Silo didn’t like what he saw in the Cap’n’s eyes at the mess table. It reminded him of people he’d known in the slave camps. The ones who’d been pushed too far, who’d lost too much. The ones who gave up, lay down and died.
At the base of the engine assembly was the curious device that Prognosticator Garin had attached while they were resident at the Awakener camp. Silo had taken the casing off some days before, but once he’d seen what was inside, he’d decided not to touch it. Most of it was familiar technology, but at the core was a small, spindle-shaped glass chamber. Coloured smoke swirled slowly inside, and little sparks of miniature lightning flashed within.
Azryx tech.
The tiny core was rigged up to simple broadcasting device. As to what it did, he had a good idea. They’d been fitting similar devices to every aircraft that joined the fleet. Common sense said that it had to be a countermeasure to their secret weapon. Otherwise, the Awakener fleet would fall out of the sky at the same time the Coalition fleet did. A guard they captured in the Azryx city told them once how the Sammies could fly certain craft in and out of it, ignoring the invisible field that sent delicate systems haywire. The Sammies must have sold that secret to the Awakeners too, along with the parts needed to make it work.
Having guessed its purpose, Silo didn’t want to fiddle with it in case he broke it. He reckoned it might come in handy.
He made his way up stairs and along walkways, stopping here and there to check on the machinery. Everything was running smoothly now the Ketty Jay had warmed up.
Least something runnin’ smoothly round here, he thought.
He spotted Slag among the pipes, curled up in his favourite spot. No doubt he’d been in the bowels of the craft the last few days, tucked up in the Ketty Jay’s core where the cold was kept at bay by heaters designed to protect the delicate machinery. Now the craft was running, he’d returned to the warmth of the engine room. The sight of him gave Silo a measure of comfort. In chaotic times, the cat was a reassuringly permanent fixture.
On impulse, he walked over to the pipes and reached out to tickle Slag behind the ears. Probably Slag would take a swipe at him for the liberty, but he was never fast enough these days.
Just before he touched him, he stopped. There was something profound in the cat’s stillness. A creeping suspicion came over him.
He reached out and laid his hand on Slag’s flank. It was cool, and no breath swelled it.
Silo bowed his head. He let out a long breath, let the surprise of it pass him by and the reality sink in. He knew death, knew that sense of departure when a living being became a framework. This one had been long expected, but still strange when it arrived. Eventually he felt a sort of peaceful melancholy, an acceptance of the inevitable.
‘You lived more ’n your share,’ he said slowly, his palm still flat against Slag’s flank. ‘Took on the world in your own way. Rest up now, old friend. You was a warrior. They never beat you.’
After that, he didn’t have anything to say. He took his hand away, and stood back from the pipes, and looked around the engine room. It all seemed different now. Something vital had departed the Ketty Jay, something indefinable. Yesterday she’d been alive to him; now she was just machinery.
Better the crew don’t know, he thought. Not on top of everythin’ else.
‘Rest up now,’ he said again, this time quietly, almost to himself. He picked up the dead cat, cradling him gently in his arms, and headed off into the maze of the stairways and walkways, until the clank of boots on steel was lost in the roar of the engines.
Thirty-Five
The Best Way to Kill a Mane – ‘I’m Gettin’ a Bad Feelin’ About This’ – Drave’s Revelations – Bruised
Crake stood in the cockpit of the Wrath with Samandra by his side, and looked down on a sea of lights.
Grudge was in the pilot’s seat, a hulking, silent presence. Kyne was still in his sanctum, finishing up a few things. The daemonists had done all they could in the time they had. They’d thralled several amulets with daemons that would theoretically negate the power of the Imperators. Crake went to the cockpit afterwards, to see Samandra, and to watch the city of Thesk come rolli
ng out of the night.
He was tired down to the bone. The terror of the Imperators was only hours old, and he hadn’t had a moment to rest since. Working with Kyne had energised him briefly – practising the Art always did – but now he felt twice as weary as before.
While he’d been occupied he’d avoided thinking about Jez, but now her fate weighed on him again. He saw her in his mind’s eye, a small charred thing, lying in a black tarp body bag on the operating table in Malvery’s infirmary. He’d seen her heal wounds with uncanny speed before, and it had always been impossible to tell whether she was dead or alive when comatose; but nobody was fooling themselves this time.
At least we know the best way to kill a Mane, he thought, with bitter irony.
He spared a thought for Pelaru, too. It seemed someone should. Belatedly, he remembered how he’d seen the whispermonger take an object from the shrine in Korrene, a metal casket that he seemed to recognise. Crake had meant to talk to him about that, but then the Shacklemores had kidnapped him and it had slipped his mind entirely. Well, that secret died with Pelaru. He didn’t have the energy to care about it now.
But despite exhaustion and grief, he felt no despair. There was a rightness to things that he hadn’t known for a long time. For once the crew of the Ketty Jay were doing something moral, something correct. He was in no doubt that the path they’d taken was the one they were meant to.
Malvery would have agreed, if he’d been in the meeting to lend his voice. Harkins too, he was sure. The Cap’n wasn’t so keen, but he’d see in the end. Sometimes you had to trust in the higher powers, the institutions and hierarchies that Frey so despised. They couldn’t take on the world on their own. And Crake wouldn’t let Frey’s irrational distrust of authority put the whole Coalition at risk.
Then there was Samandra. There was a rightness to her beyond all expectation. He’d never felt such certainty about a woman. She was gregarious where he was reserved, uncouth where he was refined, violent where he was gentle: the opposite of everything he thought he wanted. Yet they fit like puzzle pieces; their uneven edges locked them together.
His love for her was simple, uncomplicated by the expectations of his upbringing. He marvelled at his fortune that she should return his feelings. Would he have been capable of this, if not for his time on the Ketty Jay? Probably not. His sense of privilege would have prevented it. But he was a different man now.
Strange the way life takes us, he thought.
The city spread beneath them. Now they could see the lighted boulevards, the monuments, the bell towers and galleries. In the distance was the Archduke’s palace, perched on a crag that rose high above the streets, a beautiful Third Age clutter of green copper domes and sloping rooftops of coloured slate. Coalition frigates slid through the sky and small personal flyers buzzed about. Crake watched them with dread in his heart. None of them knew the doom approaching them.
Seeing Thesk from above, as a net of stars cast out over the black earth, Crake felt all the beauty and fragility of the city and the civilisation it represented. He was suddenly terrified. Thesk was the pinnacle of Vardic culture, home to all its great museums and libraries. By this time tomorrow, it might all be different, the streets in ruin and the land in other hands. Science would be driven aside by superstition, humanity replaced by the inhuman.
It was too awful to contemplate.
‘Think your brother’s down there somewhere?’ Samandra asked, catching his mood.
‘I should think so,’ he said. ‘Somewhere.’
He’d thought often of Condred and his father these past few days. His brother was alive, at least. It was enough to know that. He didn’t know if he’d see him again. He didn’t know if they could ever truly be brothers with the ghost of Bess hanging over them.
For his father he felt little, just a small absence in his life. It was less than he expected, but then Rogibald had always been an icon rather than a person to him. His grief was more dutiful than genuine.
‘Looks like we’re gettin’ an escort,’ rumbled Grudge. Samandra leaned over the dash and he pointed. Several cruisers were approaching. The lead cruiser was flashing a message with its electrohelio-graph.
‘Huh,’ said Samandra. ‘How’d they know we were comin’?’
Nobody had an answer. ‘At least it’s reassuring to know our side are so well-informed,’ Crake offered.
But Samandra still wore a slight frown, and that made Crake uneasy too.
The Coalition cruisers slid into position around the Wrath and the Ketty Jay, and led them in towards the Archduke’s palace. Perhaps it was meant for their protection, but Crake felt oppressed by the presence of the heavily armoured aircraft. Samandra paced the cockpit restlessly.
The Archduke’s palace was modern, not like the dark stone piles that other dukes had as their ancestral homes. Its walls were a light beige, and it was peopled with statues. Elaborate clocks overlooked lawn-covered quads. A great building of steel and glass housed a tropical arboretum, and anti-aircraft cannons nestled in the courtyards.
There was a large walled landing pad near the gates on the sloping west side of the crag. They sank towards it; the cruisers stayed overhead. The Wrath landed first, and while Grudge was powering down the aircraft Crake watched the Ketty Jay land next to them. He wasn’t used to seeing her from the outside, and was struck by how ungainly she looked: an ugly heap of angles, daubed with Awakener symbols, settling uncertainly on the ground. The Firecrow landed with a touch more grace. He looked for the Skylance, then remembered Pinn wasn’t with them any more.
Almost as soon as the aircraft had landed, two dozen soldiers in the blue and grey of the Thesk militia came sallying through a gate, carrying rifles.
‘I’m gettin’ a bad feelin’ about this,’ Samandra muttered.
By the time Crake got outside, the crew of the Ketty Jay were already making trouble.
‘Will you get that bloody gun out of my face?’ Malvery bellowed at a pox-pitted soldier who was threatening him. ‘We ain’t the enemy!’
‘Stay where you are!’ an officious young sergeant barked at him. ‘Tell your men to stay back, or we’ll shoot!’
Malvery rolled his eyes. ‘I ain’t the Cap’n!’ He thrust a finger at Frey. ‘Talk to him!’
But Frey seemed disinterested and said nothing.
‘Hold it down, Doc,’ said Silo, in lieu of any leadership from Frey. ‘Let’s all step back till we know what they’re about.’
‘Is that a Murthian?’ one of the soldiers asked. ‘What in buggery’s a Murthian doing here?’
‘Can it, soldier!’ the sergeant snapped. ‘I want these prisoners rounded up and searched for weapons!’
‘Prisoners?’ Ashua cried.
Harkins was bullied over to stand with the others, and the soldiers began patting them down. Crake hoped they were at least sensible enough to have left their weapons aboard the Ketty Jay. Then, just when it looked like some sort of order was being established, Samandra came storming out of the Wrath.
‘What the shit is this?’ she yelled at the sergeant. ‘These ain’t prisoners! They’re my guests! Who ordered all of—’
‘I ordered it!’ said Kedmund Drave, as he came striding through the ranks with four Century Knights at his back. He knew them all from the broadsheets: Eldrew Grissom and Mordric Jask – whom the others had met before – Celerity Blane and Graniel Thrate. The fact that there were so many together boded ill for someone.
Drave motioned to Grissom, who produced a device from his shabby duster. He brushed his straggly grey-white hair out of his face and panned the device around, watching the gauges. Then, without a word, he walked past the prisoners and up the ramp into the Ketty Jay’s hold.
Some kind of detection device, Crake thought. But what’s he detecting?
A soldier seized Crake by the arm and pulled him over to stand by the others. Crake thought he was rather unnecessarily rough about it.
‘Drave,’ said Samandra, barely suppressing
her anger. ‘This lot came in of their own accord. I’m vouchin’ for ’em. They’ve got important information for the Archduke.’
‘Whatever they have to say can wait,’ said Drave, his face stony.
‘It can’t wait, that’s the point! Listen, we—’
‘You listen, Miss Bree,’ he said. ‘These men and women are traitors and I intend to prove it. Your own judgement is in question here, and those of your fellow Knights. I’d keep quiet if I were you.’
‘I ain’t gonna stand here and let you accuse ’em of somethin’ they ain’t—’
She was interrupted by a sharp whistle from the Ketty Jay. Grissom emerged, holding up a small object. He tossed it over to Drave, who caught it out of the air. He looked down on it and gave a grim sneer of satisfaction. Then he brandished it in front of the crew.
‘Anyone recognise this?’ he challenged them.
Crake didn’t. It was a brass cube with a press-stud on the top and a circle of glass on one face. It looked like something that might belong in his sanctum, but he was sure it wasn’t his.
‘No one?’ Drave said. He swept up and down the line, and suddenly descended on Ashua like a hawk. He leaned down and pushed his broad scarred face close to hers. ‘How about you?’
Ashua had gone very pale. Crake felt a stir of anger on her behalf. How dare he intimidate a young woman like that?
He swept away from her, holding up the device. ‘As you may be aware, there’s a civil war on. All of Pandraca’s interested in how this plays out. Yorts, Sammies and Thacians; everyone wants to know which way the wind’s blowing. And their spies are everywhere.’ He turned back to the crew and ran his gaze across each of them. Crake felt a shiver as it passed over him.
‘A few days ago we captured one of those spies. His name was Bargo Ocken.’
Ashua couldn’t keep her reaction off her face. Crake noticed it. So did Drave.
‘We found a device exactly like this on him,’ Drave continued. ‘It’s a signalling device. Little bit of daemonist know-how. Works like an electroheliograph, except you don’t have to be within sight. You press this stud,’ he raised a finger to demonstrate, but didn’t press, ‘and a light comes on in the other boxes that are linked to it. You’ll note, Miss Vode, that I said boxes. Plural. Ocken wasn’t the only one receiving your messages.’