“Heart-blood.” Clay remembered the mosaic from the hidden city that lay on the far side of the lake. “Their queen would drink heart-blood and bond with a Black. That’s what bound them together. With this”—he nodded at the crystal—“we won’t have to.”
He heard his uncle let out a faint groan and turned to find him frowning in grim realisation.
“Captain?” Skaggerhill asked.
“He means we’re gonna have to go find us some Blacks,” Braddon said, “to make friends with.”
* * *
• • •
“That’s what you need?” Clay asked later, nodding at the glass vial in Kriz’s hand. The others were all sleeping, Clay and Kriz having taken the first watch. She had returned the Black crystal to its original state and now sat regarding the vial in one hand and the blade-shaped shard in the other. “You drink that and you can unlock the memories Zembi put in there?” he went on.
“Yes,” she said, her eyes tracking from the shard to the vial but making no move to drink it.
“Is it dangerous?” he asked, sensing her reluctance and switching to her language.
“All knowledge is dangerous, but all knowledge is precious. The contradiction at the heart of everything the Philos Caste studied or created.”
“Convergence,” Clay said. “What is it?”
Kriz was silent for a time, turning the vial over in her fingers, face rapt. “Does this look like drake blood to you?” she asked, holding the vial out to him. He took it, holding it up so the fire-light illuminated the contents.
“Kinda,” he said, handing it back. “Looks a little like one of the more expensive Ironship dilutions. Colour’s different, though.”
“Then it might surprise you to know that no part of what is in this vial came from a drake, except the knowledge of how to make it. This is what your people call product, Clay. It will do everything Blue will do, but it was not syphoned from the corpse of some unfortunate beast. It was made.
“Zembi believed that the abilities of the Blood-blessed lay dormant in all of us. What else could explain the random nature of the Blessing? If only a small proportion of the population developed the ability during early adolescence, an ability they clearly didn’t inherit, then the same potential rested in all of us. If the right formula could be found, it could unlock that potential. Think of it, Clay, a whole world of people able to share their thoughts, craft wonders, walk this earth without fear. This is what we were working for all those years under the ice. This is the key to convergence. This”—she held up the vial once more—“is synthetic product. Anyone can drink it and harness the power it holds. Not just the Blessed. Anyone.”
“The White,” Clay said. “You needed it to make this?”
She lowered her gaze, Clay seeing a mirror of the shame he had seen on the face of her younger self in the trance. It’s unfair of me to despise you so, she had told the sickly White as it glared at her from the pit. Like you, it appears I should never have been born. “There is more than just drake blood in the White,” she said.
It took him a moment to realise the import of what she had said, a chilly fist closing around his heart as the implications struck home. “People,” he said in a slow, hard rasp. “You used people to make that thing.”
“Not people. Human tissue, mostly unfertilised eggs and plasma. Zembi had developed a method of blending organic material at the microscopic level. Another barely understood gift from the crystals. It took years, there were many failures.” Kriz’s head lowered farther still, voice dropping to nearly a whisper. “Many . . . things were brought into this world, things we are fortunate did not live for more than a few minutes after hatching. Then came the first White, and Zembi thought he had his discovery, the ultimate triumph of the Philos Caste. Its blood was unique, much easier to study than the other breeds. It gave us clues as to how to formulate synthetic compounds, clues we would never have had if it hadn’t been born.”
“But it got out, while you slept it got out, turned him into a Spoiled and somehow made it to Arradsia.”
“All knowledge is dangerous, all knowledge is precious.” Kriz looked again at the shard in her hand. “At least now we have a chance to discover how it got out.”
“Could be he only had that thing because the White allowed it. Maybe it wanted him to give it to you. For all we know you’ll drop down dead the moment you enter the trance.”
Kriz jerked her chin at Preacher’s sleeping form on the other side of the camp-fire. “Your friend gave us a lesson in faith the other day. Maybe it’s one we should heed.”
“Faithful he surely is, but he’s also crazy.” Clay reached out, placing his hand over hers to cover the vial and the shard. “Don’t. At least not here, not now. Wait till we’re back on the ship, or at least somewhere that could be called civilised. We got what we came for.”
She gave a small grin, slipping back into her accented Mandinorian to ask, “That an order, Captain?”
“If you like. We got a long way to go and a better chance of surviving this trip with three Blood-blessed ’stead of two.”
She gently pushed his hand away and looked again at the items in her hand before nodding and consigning them to the pocket of her jacket. “As you wish. I wouldn’t want anyone calling me a mutineer.”
* * *
• • •
In the morning he woke in time for his trance with Zenida Okanas, spending several minutes in contemplation of the vial in his hand. It did happen, he thought, replaying the events at the lake in his head. I tranced without drinking. But how? There was only one explanation that made any sense. Heart-blood. He had been able to maintain a mental connection with Jack from the moment he drank Blue heart-blood, and what else could that be called but a kind of trance? If he could trance with a drake, why not a human?
Checking his watch to confirm the moment had arrived, he shrugged and returned the Blue vial to his wallet. One way to find out.
Closing his eyes he concentrated on Zenida’s face, reasoning it would summon enough memories of her to establish the connection. Nothing happened. He tried to recall every interaction with the Varestian woman, discovering they were few in number, just enough in fact to forge enough of a connection for the Blue-facilitated trance. Looks like I need something more for this one, he decided, pondering that moment on the raft again. The trance with Kriz had seemed to occur naturally, without any conscious decision, as if his fear for her had reached down to the bottom of the lake and forced its way into her mind. Fear . . . Fear is an emotion. When they first met, Lizanne had tutored him on the basics of the trance, explaining that mental communication required some form of emotional connection between the two parties. It’s how we remember one another in the real world, she said. Not through faces but feelings, however slight. Think of all the people you must have met in your life. Now ask yourself how many you remember. Comparatively few, I imagine. You remember those who made you laugh, those who made you cry, and, especially in your case, Mr. Torcreek, apparently those who made you angry most of all.
Anger, another emotion. Zenida had never made him angry, nor had she made him laugh, except during those times she directed her occasionally caustic observations at Captain Hilemore . . . An image blossomed in his mind then, Hilemore’s face, rendered in much more detail than Clay could have recalled. The captain, it transpired, had a small mole on his chin Clay had never noticed. But she did, he realised. This ain’t my memory. It’s hers. Hilemore’s our connection.
He summoned his much more plentiful supply of Hilemore-related memories, all shot through with the conflicting range of emotions the captain always birthed in him, from grudging admiration to consternation to, most of all, anger.
Zenida’s mindscape arrived with disorienting swiftness, the jewel-encrusted ship filling his vision in a flash and Clay stumbling as he felt its boards beneath his boots. He let out a delighted
laugh at the sight of Zenida herself, standing near the prow and regarding him with a half-baffled, half-amused expression.
Are you alright? she asked. The captain will be dismayed to discover the Interior has driven you mad.
We wouldn’t want that, Clay replied. I know how you’d hate to disappoint him, and all.
Zenida’s expression hardened into something that reminded Clay this was a very dangerous woman if the mood took her, and this was her mind.
Just a bad joke, he said, raising his hands. I got some interesting news to share, if you’re ready.
* * *
• • •
“The Carnstadt Mountains,” Braddon said, gloved finger tapping the map. The mountains lay south-west of the Torquils, a considerable distance from their current location.
“That’s an awful long way, Uncle,” Clay pointed out.
“You want Blacks, that’s where you’ll find ’em. Largest concentration anywhere on the continent. There are pockets in the Coppersoles and the Cragmines on the far western coast, but this is the only place you’re guaranteed a Black kill.”
“’Cept we ain’t going to kill ’em,” Loriabeth put in. “We’re going to make nice and ask them to join up to fight the White, iffen you can believe it. Not sure I do, so the Seer’s ass knows what they’ll think of it.” Seeing Preacher stiffen at the blasphemy she added, “Sorry,” in a low mumble.
“They’re a rambunctious lot to be sure,” Skaggerhill said. “Blacks grow big and mean in those mountains. Cunning too. Longrifles took a pass through the foot-hills a few years back. Lost a marksman and a gunhand with only two kills to show for it.”
“Still a profitable trip by my recollection,” Braddon said, a faint note of annoyance in his voice. “Good news is,” he continued, turning back to Clay, “we don’t have no Spoiled to worry about twixt here and there. Just a whole lotta Cerath wrangling and walking in between.” He lowered his voice to add, “Skaggs is right, though. Next to the Red Sands it’s just about the worst country I ever contracted in. Had hoped never to set eyes on the place again.”
Clay looked at the map. The distance was dismaying but if they were to make this expedition count for something he couldn’t see any other option. “I tranced with Captain Okanas this morning,” he said. “The Superior’s making for Stockcombe.” He tapped the dot a hundred miles or so south of the Carnstadts. “So we have to get there and the route leads us past the mountains in any case.”
He clapped his uncle’s shoulder and moved away, eyes roaming the surrounding plain. “Looks like we got some mounts to find. Lieutenant, I believe it’s your turn to tame the bull.”
CHAPTER 24
Hilemore
Hilemore tracked his spy-glass over the bodies hanging from the Stockcombe-harbour wall, counting twenty in all. Curiously, the row of suspended corpses was confined to the right-hand side of the wall, halting at the huge copper-and-wood edifice of the harbour door. Each corpse had a noose around its neck and some kind of sign fixed to its chest, but the distance was too great to make out any words. I doubt it’s a welcome in any case, he decided, lowering the glass and nodding to Talmant. “Ahead dead slow, Lieutenant.”
“Ahead dead slow, aye sir.”
Hilemore had ordered the Superior to battle stations upon commencing their approach to the port, although the truce pennant fluttered from her mast and her signal lamp flashed a repeated request for safe harbour. So far, however, no one had appeared atop the harbour wall to issue either a welcome or a warning. Stockcombe’s wall was unusual in that it was more of a dam than a simple barrier against the tide. It curved out from the steep slopes forming the apex of the channel where the port lay. It was famed for the unique geographical feature of a waterfall that cascaded into a lake at the base of a huge crater within which the port had grown. The lake was kept at a constant depth by a series of huge outlet tunnels. Consequently, the waters around the wall were in a permanent state of frothy turmoil save for a narrow stretch of calm water directly in front of the door. This ensured a nervous approach as any evasive manoeuvres the Superior might make would see her floundering in the churn.
“All stop,” Hilemore ordered as the door loomed larger. He was close enough now to read the signs adorning the hanging bodies, finding them each bearing the same message painted in red Mandinorian letters: CORPORATE MURDERER.
Perhaps coming here wasn’t the best idea, Hilemore concluded. He was about to order Talmant to signal the engine room to reverse the propeller, drawing them away in preparation for turning about, when the harbour door let out a loud squeal of grinding metal and began to ascend.
“Pretty sight, ain’t it, Skipper?” Scrimshine commented as the port was revealed. The famous Stockcombe falls cascaded from atop a tall narrow promontory extending from the crater wall. The falls birthed a plume of misty vapour as it met the lake below, producing a small rainbow as it caught the sun. This pleasing spectacle was contrasted by the sight of the town itself. It stretched away on either side of the falls, covering the banks of the lake and ascending up the steep flanks of the crater. Denied building space, the residents of Stockcombe had built up rather than out, the place featuring some of the tallest buildings Hilemore had seen, some rising six storeys or more. The architecture varied in style, from high-angled roofed colonial mansions to Corvantine-influenced official buildings complete with classical pillars and statuary. The taller structures all conformed to modern standards, reflecting the clean, uncluttered lines favoured by the corporate world.
This would all have made for an aesthetically varied and interesting view if Hilemore’s practised eye hadn’t noticed the signature signs of cannon-shot on many walls, accompanied by the blackening and vanished roofs that told of extensive burning. The damage was worse close to the docks where many buildings had been completely burned out and others reduced to rubble. Hilemore’s initial assumption that the port had been attacked in much the same manner as Carvenport was proven mistaken as he took in the sight of the numerous flags flying over the buildings on either side of the falls. The flags on the western side were all the black square emblazoned with a silver ship pennant of the South Seas Maritime Company, whilst those on the eastern side consisted of a simpler design; white with an uneven red X within a square. Thanks to his prior engagement Hilemore was fairly familiar with this symbol and was obliged to contain a dismayed groan at the sight of it.
“Buggers’ve been fighting each other, Skipper,” Scrimshine observed. Even with his new-found regard for military manners he still had difficulty in restraining his tongue. “Don’t recognise that flag, though. One of those new East Mandinorian syndicates, maybe?”
“It’s not a company flag,” Hilemore said. “It appears the Voters Rights Alliance has a significant presence here.”
He could see numerous vessels in the harbour, none of them warships. Only one was in motion, an old Blue-hunter Hilemore soon recognised. The Farlight’s signal lamp blinked out a message as she approached, moving at dead slow and drifting to a halt some fifty yards short of the door.
“‘Half the town v. pleased to see you,’” Talmant related the message. “‘Steer to port or the other half will fire on you.’”
Hilemore was tempted to follow his first impulse to turn the Superior about and make for open water. This place was clearly riven with internal strife and he had no desire to embroil his command in a conflict that might impede their mission. But the Superior was down to less than one-fifth of her coal reserves. Added to that was their rapidly diminishing food stocks and all the ammunition they had expended in the Torquils. Without a substantial resupply the chances of recovering the Longrifles and making use of their discovery were slight at best.
“Ahead dead slow,” Hilemore told Talmant. “Mr. Scrimshine, take her in and steer immediately to port.”
* * *
• • •
“Ethany Kulvetch.” The youn
g woman in the ill-fitting and besmirched uniform greeted Hilemore with a salute. “Acting Colonel, South Seas Maritime Defence and Security Force.”
Given her youth and diminutive size Hilemore might have found Kulvetch’s appearance almost comical but for the recently stitched cut above her left eye and the carbine slung over her shoulder. The fact that she had the weapon slung barrel down and wore a half-empty bandolier across her chest indicated she had plenty of practice in using it. She had been waiting on the quayside along with a squad of similarly dishevelled but well-armed South Seas Maritime Marines. He took note of the way her gaze continually strayed to the eastern regions of the port across the harbour, as if expecting a cannon shell to come sailing over at any second.
“Corrick Hilemore,” he replied with a salute of his own. “Captain of the IPV Superior.”
“Welcome, Captain. Captain Tidelow of the Farlight vouched for your conduct but was somewhat reluctant to elaborate as to your mission here.”
“Resupply. Assuming South Seas Maritime is still open for business.”
Kulvetch’s gaze darkened with disappointment. “I had hoped you might have been subcontracted to assist us in our . . . local difficulty. We tranced requests for reinforcement with Head Office until our Blood-blessed fell victim to a sniper’s bullet. That was two weeks ago.”
“Sadly, I knew nothing of the situation here until we caught sight of your wall. Unfortunate business.”
The colonel’s eyes grew darker still as she settled her gaze on the eastern districts. “They hung all our senior managers on the first day of their so-called uprising. Held a trial and so on, to give it the appearance of actual justice.”
“The signs proclaim them as murderers.”