Makario huffed but dutifully raised the silver spoon he had borrowed from the officers’ mess and tapped out the notes of Tekela’s song on the chimes. “See?” he said, moving back as the tune faded. “A fruitless . . .”
He gave a start as a soft click came from the solargraph. It was faint, but definite evidence that somewhere within the complex array of components that formed the device’s innards, something had responded to the tune. Makario immediately repeated the sequence, all animosity replaced by a steady-eyed concentration. This time, however, the solargraph failed to respond.
“The main theme from ‘The Leaves of Autumn,’” he said, reaching for pen and paper and scribbling down a series of musical notes. “What else?”
“‘Dance of the Heavens,’” Tekela said. “The second movement. Also, the choral melody from ‘The Maiden’s Fall.’”
Makario wrote down all the notes from each piece, one beneath the other. “Now your little tune,” he said, setting the notes out at the bottom of the page. He stared at it for a moment then let out a soft laugh. “See it?” he said, holding the paper out to Lizanne. Music had never been her subject and she had only a bored child’s understanding of musical notation so immediately passed the page to Tekela.
“I don’t . . .” she began after scanning the notes, then frowned as comprehension dawned. “A descending scale,” she said. “They all share the same descending scale, but at different tempos.”
Makario nodded and tapped a series of notes onto the chimes. This time the response was much more prolonged and impressive. All three of the solargraph’s levers turned at once, moving with more energy than Lizanne had seen before whilst several of the cogs along its sides spun fast enough to blur. It lasted for no more than three seconds then stopped after which the solargraph emitted a series of notes of its own. It was the same melody Makario had tapped out, but at a much slower tempo, and also followed by several more notes. To Lizanne’s ears the tune possessed much the same melancholy flavour as “The Leaves of Autumn” and the other centuries-old tunes the device had so far responded to. She could also tell it was incomplete, the final note cutting off abruptly as if the solargraph had been silenced in mid-conversation.
“I do believe we might have made some progress,” Makario said. “Perhaps our fellow former inmate can shine some more light on it.”
“Not yet,” Lizanne replied. “I’d rather his energies were concentrated on the new aerostat, for now at least.” She nodded at the solargraph. “Do you think you can get it to play the whole tune?”
“With time and”—he cast a reluctant glance in Tekela’s direction—“some further assistance. Music is a code after all.” He nodded at the page of notes he had scribbled down. “At least now we have the beginnings of a key, and thanks to the additional notes it played, a clue as to where to look next.”
* * *
• • •
“So what are you calling this one?” Lizanne enquired as Jermayah crouched to undo the ties on a canvas-wrapped item on the deck. “Do you have a new Whisper for me? I must say I miss the old one.”
He gave a soft grunt, shaking his shaggy head as he stepped back to reveal his latest invention. “This one doesn’t whisper. Could call it the Shouter, if you like.”
At first glance it appeared to be a standard-issue Silworth .31 lever-action repeating carbine, albeit modified with a slightly longer barrel and more elaborate fore- and rearsights. The wooden stock had also been augmented with a brass shoulder plate and spring arrangement. However, the strangest modification was that the upper half of the breach mechanism had been replaced by glass instead of the usual iron.
“Something occurred to me during that business in Carvenport,” Jermayah began. “Takes a keen eye and a skilled hand to kill a full-grown drake with a fire-arm. It’s one thing for a Contractor to do it on a hunt through the Interior, different matter in the midst of a battle. The Thumpers and Growlers are fine and good, but you need a whole crew to work them. The mini-Growler I built in Feros could do the job but it eats up a huge amount of ammunition and takes too long to manufacture. If we had a mass-producible small-arm that could do the job with only a few shots, seems to me things might go better for us.”
Lizanne cast a doubtful gaze over the carbine. “This can kill a drake?”
“Surely can, provided you load it with the right ammunition.” He produced a cartridge from his pocket and tossed it to her. It was about a third longer than a standard carbine round with a more pointed bullet featuring a slight indentation at its base.
“This isn’t steel,” she said, touching a finger to the tip of the bullet. Military-grade rounds were usually formed of a lead core surrounded by a hard-steel jacket. Jermayah had apparently crafted something new in this one.
“Titanium,” he said. “Hard enough to punch through the hide of any drake. Your father had a small stock of it set aside, but couldn’t remember what he was going to use it for. He also had some magnesium and mercury. So you have a titanium-tipped projectile which collapses on impact to set off a composite explosive charge. Took a little experimenting but I think you’ll find the results impressive.”
He hefted an empty brandy-keg the ship’s galley no longer had a use for and made ready to toss it over the side. Lizanne bent to retrieve the carbine from the deck, finding it marginally heavier than a standard-issue model, but not enough to be unwieldy. She slotted the cartridge into the tubular magazine below the barrel, worked the lever to chamber the round and put the stock against her shoulder.
“Very well,” she said. “Have you ranged the sights?”
“Fifty yards,” Jermayah told her before heaving the keg into the sea. “Put some whitewash in to illustrate the effect.”
Lizanne stepped to the rail, tracking the keg’s progress towards the stern. The Viable Opportunity was maintaining a slow speed to keep pace with the rest of the convoy so her target took a moment or two to drift the required distance. When she judged it to be about fifty yards away she raised the carbine’s barrel, centring the fore- and rearsights on the bobbing keg. The wind was slight today so she didn’t need to account for it as she exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the bullet’s leaving the barrel did indeed resemble a shout, though the recoil was less severe than she might have expected. The stock seemed to pulse against her shoulder instead of the usual hard shove and the foresight deviated from the target by only a few degrees. Consequently, she had a fine view of the brandy-keg as it transformed into a cloud of white vapour. There wasn’t even enough left of it to litter the surrounding water with debris.
“One, maybe two to stop an adult Green,” Jermayah mused. “Three for a Red. Blue’s a different matter of course, but you should still be able to do some serious damage. It’ll also fire standard rounds if you need to shoot a Spoiled.”
Lizanne lowered the carbine and ejected the spent cartridge with a smooth motion of the lever, catching it before it could fall to the deck. It was hot, but not enough to burn and leached a thick foul-smelling cloud of spent propellant.
“Had to mix a variety of agents to get enough power behind the bullet,” Jermayah said with an apologetic wince. “Couldn’t make it smokeless.”
Lizanne grinned and blew the fumes from the bullet before tossing it over the side. “Then I’ll call it the ‘Smoker.’” She tapped the glass covering the upper portion of the breach. “And this?”
“That’s for an old friend.” He produced another cartridge from his pocket, holding it up for inspection. This projectile was more elongated than those she had used in her Whisper, but still recognisable from the viscous liquid she could see inside the glass cylinder.
“Redball,” Lizanne said, remembering the various forms of carnage she had inflicted with the product-fuelled round.
“Three times the range of the pistol version,” Jermayah said. “Could only buy enough Red to make a dozen thou
gh, so best forgo the test firing, eh?”
She nodded, reaching out to take the cartridge. “And the explosive rounds?”
“Just thirty. I had just bought enough magnesium and mercury to make a hundred but . . .” He trailed off, face darkening.
“Did you see it?” Lizanne asked. “My aunt?”
He shook his head. “It all happened so fast. It was Tekela who woke us, told us we had to get in the aerostat and leave. Your aunt didn’t believe it, or didn’t want to. She went outside to look for herself. Not an easy thing to just fly away from the place you’ve lived all your life, I suppose. It’s my belief she locked the workshop doors so the drakes couldn’t get in when she saw what was happening. Even then.” He paused and gave a sad, helpless shrug. “If your ward hadn’t gotten her hands on the mini-Growler we’d certainly have shared your aunt’s fate.”
“We’ll need more of those before long.” Lizanne hefted the carbine. “And more of these.”
“Only so much we can do on this tub. Not a lot to work with.”
“I’ll see about rectifying that. In the meantime”—she shouldered the carbine and started towards the ladder to the crew quarters—“I have a long-delayed call to make.”
* * *
• • •
Do you believe it? Clay asked as the last images of his journey through the world beneath the ice folded back into the grey hues of Nelphia’s surface.
Lizanne took a long time to reply. Absorbing such a quantity of new and incredible information left her own mindscape in an unusual state of disarray. The whirlwinds twisted and entwined with the kind of energy that only came from confusion and indecision. Neither were sensations she enjoyed.
I don’t wish to cause offence, Mr. Torcreek, she told him after managing to straighten some of the more fractious whirlwinds. But I doubt you are capable of constructing memories of such . . . remarkable variety and precision.
Got plenty of wild tales of your own, he observed and their joined minds shared a brief instant of empathic humour. Bringing down the entire Corvie Empire. Quite a feat, miss. Even for you.
A house built with rotten timbers on shaky foundations was always bound to fall. My concern is what they’ll build in its place.
Think we got more pressing concerns than that.
She took a moment to calm her mind yet further, forcing the whirlwinds into a reasonable semblance of order, before sending him a pulse of agreement. You’re certain of this woman’s motives? You believe she only wants to help?
I believe she wants to put right what her people did wrong. But I’m pretty sure there’s a good deal she hasn’t shared yet. I’m hoping I’ll get some answers at Krystaline Lake.
Returning to Arradsia at this juncture seems excessively risky. It’s likely the entire continent is now under the sway of the White.
Maybe not. It ain’t there just now, don’t forget. And there are limits to what it can do. Silverpin showed us that. Besides, I’m all out of other options, lest you got something to share.
Tell Captain Hilemore to sail for Varestia. We will join forces. It was a suggestion that would have carried more weight when spoken aloud, but in the trance she knew he could sense the reluctant insincerity in it. They were both fully aware he would sail to Arradsia and then journey on to Krystaline Lake, whatever the cost.
Guess that settles it, he observed.
So it seems. However, I feel it would be better if Captain Hilemore stayed with his command this time. Given the fate of the Corvantine main battle fleet he now commands possibly the most advanced warship in the world. An asset we’ll need in the days to come.
He’ll be hard to convince. Not the kind who likes to sit out the big show.
Frame it as an order from me if it helps.
With Feros gone I ain’t too sure how he’ll feel about taking orders, and my influence ain’t what it was. But I’ll try. When will you be able to trance again?
I’m not sure. The welcome we’ll receive in the Red Tides is . . . uncertain to say the least.
Dealt with a fair few Varestians in my time. They’re a practical folk above all else, and they got spies everywhere. They have to know what’s been happening, or at least a good deal of it. Could be they don’t need as much persuading as you think. Besides which, there’s a service you could do me in Varestia.
He went on to explain about Zenida Okanas and her father’s connection to whatever lay beneath the waters of Krystaline Lake. A place called the High Wall, Clay told her. She says he had a pile of maps there. They’ll be useful if we’re gonna find this thing.
I’ll see what I can do, Lizanne replied. She paused and their shared mindscape took on a darker hue as the knowledge of what had befallen Feros struck home once again. What will you tell your uncle? she asked.
The truth. Think he and Lori deserve that much. Lines of deep red began to snake through the moon-dust like miniature lava floes. Grief took many forms in the trance, it seemed that in his case it burned. Looks like we both lost an aunt, huh? And Joya. Was hoping I’d see her again one day.
We don’t fully know what happened yet, she replied. There may yet be a chance some people escaped. The refugees were ever a resourceful lot. It was scant comfort, something else they both knew, but it was all she had.
Where are you now? she asked, happy to alter the topic of conversation.
Saw our last iceberg two days ago, so a good lick farther north. Captain Hilemore reckons another two weeks before we sight Arradsia. Would be quicker if we weren’t nurse-maiding that old Blue-hunter. They’re awful scared of Jack. Makes me nervous.
The connection thrummed as Lizanne’s Blue began to fade. Guess it’s time to say our farewells for now, Clay observed.
Wait. Lizanne drew one of her whirlwinds closer and formed it into one of his shared memories, the aerostat of marvellous design he had used to escape the world below the ice. I need more images of this. Anything you can remember. And anything that woman told you about it.
Think you can copy it, huh? he asked, swiftly moving to comply. Nelphia’s surface sprouted a new crop of memories, the dust blossoming into a panoply of image and sensation.
The drakes hold a very singular advantage over us, she replied, opening her mind to drink in all the knowledge before the Blue ran out. If we can contest the skies, we may have a chance.
CHAPTER 10
Hilemore
They were forced to leave the Dreadfire behind. Hilemore had briefly considered taking her under tow but that would have required leaving a skeleton crew on board and they had barely enough hands for the Superior as it was. He took possession of Captain Bledthorne’s charts and log, thinking they would be a boon to any historian, especially one with deep pockets. Following a brief solo inspection to ensure every scrap of anything useful had been removed from the hold he strode across her deck for what he knew would be the last time.
“Sorry, old girl,” he whispered, running a hand over her timbers before stepping onto the gang-plank. “I doubt you’d have liked the modern world, in any case. It’s far too noisy.”
“Sir?” Steelfine asked from the other side of the walkway.
“Nothing, Number One.” Hilemore crossed to the Superior, gesturing for the gang-plank to be removed. “Let’s get these lines cast off and see her on her way.”
“Could set a fire in her belly, sir,” Steelfine suggested. “Give her a decent funeral. The King of the Deep’s been expecting her, after all.”
“Then he’ll have to wait awhile longer.”
Hilemore lingered to watch the old ship slip away from the Superior’s port side. The prevailing currents swept southwards in the Whirls and soon the Dreadfire was drawn back into the channel through which she had carried them to safety. Despite her lost masts and many wounds, Hilemore thought she still retained a defiant aspect, as if all the long years in the ice and the recen
t fury of battle had been unable to dent her pride. “Perhaps,” he commented to Steelfine, “in a century or two she’ll provide a refuge for some other desperate souls.”
He waited until the Dreadfire had vanished completely into the maze of ice before turning about and striding towards the bridge. “Weigh anchor and signal the Farlight to make steam and take the lead. It’s only proper since they know the way out.”
* * *
• • •
It transpired that Lieutenant Talmant had done an excellent job of clearing a channel through the Chokes to the open sea. The young officer had used his stock of explosives wisely, blasting a course through the obstructing ice that was narrow but straight enough to eliminate the need for any tricky manoeuvring. Hilemore had ordered Talmant and his small squad back to the Superior, seeing little need to maintain a supervising presence on the Farlight now their escape route had been secured. In fact Hilemore nursed a secret hope the Blue-hunter might decide to follow her own course once free of the Chokes, thinking Captain Tidelow and his crew more of an irksome burden than useful allies. But, upon reaching the open sea the other ship duly fell in behind the Superior as she set her bows due north. So far she showed little sign of shirking the warship’s protection.
Scrimshine, against the odds generated by the growing pool of bets on the possibility of his demise, recovered from his gas-related illness seven days after the ships cleared the Chokes. Having been released from the sick bay on Skaggerhill’s advice he stood in the bridge entrance, swaying a little as he offered Hilemore a clumsy salute. “Reporting for duty, Skip—” he began before correcting himself. “Sir.”
Scrimshine’s already cadaverous face had been rendered even more gaunt and his colour was pale. However, what distracted Hilemore the most was the fact that the man was wearing a Protectorate uniform for the first time since joining the ship. Furthermore, it appeared to have been cleaned and pressed.