I did wonder if I would ever see you again, Hyran went on.
And now you wonder what on earth I could want?
Quite.
She summoned one of her whirlwinds, opening it out to display a recent memory. It was the view of a ruined port city captured from far above during a reconnaissance flight in the Firefly the day before. Blackened buildings stretched away from the docks, smoke still lingering in some places. A few Red drakes glided over the town and a pack of Blues could be seen breaking the surface of the sea beyond the harbour wall. Lizanne magnified the image to bring the many bodies littering the streets into focus, sensing Hyran’s distress at the sight of so many slaughtered children.
They take the adults and kill the young, Lizanne explained.
Where is this? he asked.
Sairvek, what’s left of it. I take it neither the general nor the Electress know about this?
Rumours have been flying lately, but the southern coast is a long way from Corvus and all the Blood-blessed there are Cadre loyalists. Besides, we’ve had plenty to keep us busy in the north.
So not every Corvantine is enamoured with the revolution?
It was glorious at first. General Arberus led one army west and the Electress another north. Jelna went with her, I went with the general. Village after village, town after town all welcomed us, young people flocked to our ranks . . . Then it began to change. Not every region of the Empire suffered under the Regnarchy’s yoke, and some of the most prosperous lands lie in the west. Often the people there had no urge to offer their loyalty to those they saw as traitors and usurpers of the ancient and divine order. There were battles. We lost troops winning them and many in our ranks felt the need to take vengeance on those we had vanquished. The general did his best to stem the worst of it but . . . Things got uglier the farther west we marched. By the time we reached the coast they were calling it “Arberus’s Red March to the Sea.”
I’d wager he didn’t like that.
No. He didn’t.
Where are you now?
Torivek, the largest port on the western coast. Unlike the others it fell without a shot. People are a lot poorer here.
The Electress?
Besieging Merivus in Northern Kestria along with Varkash.
Varkash, the former Varestian pirate and leader of the Verdigris gang in Scorazin, who once said he couldn’t give a sea-dog’s cock for the revolution. I thought he would have sailed for home by now, she commented.
He agreed lucrative terms with the Electress, one-third of the value of any noble property seized. Plus she made him an admiral, which pandered to his vanity. She advanced up the coast roads and he kept her supplied en route with what’s left of the Imperial fleet. It worked well until she got to Merivus. She’s been at it for a good few weeks now. Jelna says her captains keep advising her to by-pass it but she stubbornly refuses to move on. There are rumours she has scores to settle with some of the townsfolk.
Lizanne recalled Electress Atalina’s tale of how she came to end up in Scorazin and felt a brief pang of pity for any Imperial officials she managed to capture alive when Merivus fell. Lizanne also concluded the Electress would be too preoccupied in pursuing her vengeance to have much regard for crises elsewhere, but it couldn’t hurt to try.
Share the memory of Sairvek with Jelna, she told Hyran. Tell her to bring it to the Electress’s attention. You do the same with the general.
I will, he promised. But that doesn’t mean they’ll send any aid. Without the presence of the revolutionary armies this entire country may fall into anarchy.
If the White triumphs in Varestia your revolution will be worth nothing. Feeling her Blue begin to thin, Lizanne prepared to exit the trance, pausing as another notion occurred to her. Make sure Jelna also shares what she knows with Varkash, it’s his homeland after all.
* * *
• • •
“I’m pregnant, not crippled,” Sofiya Griffan told Captain Trumane, ignoring his further protestations and ascending the gangway to the deck of the Viable Opportunity.
Flustered, Trumane turned to Lizanne. “Couldn’t you . . . ?”
“She’s an experienced Maritime Protectorate Blood-blessed,” Lizanne replied. “And I have a trance connection with her. Besides, I suspect within a few weeks she’ll be as safe aboard your ship as anywhere else.”
She switched her gaze to the Viable, taking in the sight of the newly manufactured Growlers on the upper works and the four Thumpers mounted on the rails. Situated on the fore-deck in front of the pivot-gun was a large canvas-covered object standing over fifteen feet high. At this angle it somewhat resembled an abstract sculpture awaiting an unveiling. She could see her father’s long-coated form moving about as he made adjustments to the revolving circular frame on which the object was mounted. He had wanted to go on this mission but, unlike Sofiya, Lizanne firmly asserted he was needed at the Mount Works, as the inhabitants were now calling it. Instead, a trio of the more mechanically adept workers had been recruited to operate the professor’s latest device.
“You’re confident this will work?” Lizanne asked Trumane. This mission had been his notion, conceived after being advised of the new invention’s capabilities.
“It would have been preferable to do a proper test,” Trumane replied. “But in time of war thorough preparation is a luxury. I trust your father’s engineering above all others. With continual reconnaissance during the approach there’s every reason to expect success.”
“And you’re certain they’ll strike next at Subarisk?”
“It’s the most logical choice, if the enemy’s object is to gather strength. Given their evident efficiency the port may already have fallen.”
Lizanne nodded, discomforted by the grim military logic of this plan, which required Subarisk to be in enemy hands for it to work. “Your new recruits are shaping up, I trust?” she asked. Trumane’s crew had been brought to full strength by a number of former sailors from the refugee fleet. It hadn’t been necessary to draft any recruits as the captain had been swamped with volunteers keen to escape the monotony of the manufactory.
“Only a few have military experience,” Trumane replied. “But they know their way around a ship, which is the main thing. I’ll whip them into shape soon enough.”
Lizanne didn’t like the emphasis he put on the word “whip,” but resisted the urge to voice any concerns. Trumane’s competence had become clear over the preceding weeks, forcing her to overlook his other less admirable qualities.
“As planned, we will conduct the first aerial reconnaissance in four days,” she said. “Advising any course changes to Mrs. Griffan.”
Recent flights had revealed that Blue drakes were surprisingly easy to spot from the air. Even at night the patrolling packs left a tell-tale series of white tracks across the ocean surface. This meant she would be able to guide the Viable around any concentrations of Blues during the voyage to Subarisk. A timetable had been drawn up for frequent trance communication between Lizanne and Sofiya. It made for an inflexible approach but that wouldn’t matter once the Viable was in position and could make full use of her remarkable speed.
“Four days then,” he said, surprising her with a salute before he strode up the gangway.
She waited for her father to disembark and together they watched the Viable sail away, following the course of Blaska Sound east to the sea. “I called it the Tinkerer Mark I,” he said once the ship had rounded a bend and disappeared from view. “Didn’t feel right naming it for myself. Since it’s not really mine.”
“Very generous of you, Father.”
They made their way back to the manufactory via the town, which at this hour was mainly occupied by children liberated from their morning lessons. Lizanne thought them an oddly well behaved lot, given to prolonged silence, little mischief and an absence of laughter, even when they played. They all sa
w too much at too young an age, Lizanne concluded, feeling for perhaps the first time in her life that her own childhood had been one of comparative ease and security.
“No sign of Tinkerer waking from his coma, I suppose?” the professor asked.
“None,” Lizanne replied. “And Makario’s made little progress with the next movement.”
“Pity. A fellow of many uses, even with his irksome manners.”
“I don’t think he has much say over his manners. It’s just how he’s made.”
They paused at the entrance to his workshop, a large warehouse with a canvas awning where its roof had been. Lizanne glanced through the open doors, trying to gauge the nature of the machine taking shape within.
“There’s still work to do,” her father said, moving to block her view.
“It’s not a Year’s End present, Father,” she said. “You don’t need to surprise me.”
“I would prefer an unvarnished opinion of the finished machine,” he said. “Free of any insights into the narrative of its construction.”
Lizanne gave a bemused shrug and clasped his arm before moving on. “As you wish.”
“I need thicker steel wire,” he called after her. “The coils you gave me were too flimsy.”
She waved her assent in response and went to find Morva for her afternoon lesson.
* * *
• • •
What do you think she meant? Clay asked after Lizanne had finished sharing the memories recovered from Tinkerer’s mind. The trance connection between them felt different now, the clarity of his mindscape sharper and the exchange of thoughts more rapid. When he had revealed the fact that he could now trance without the aid of product she had been sceptical, but a few seconds of communication had banished any doubts.
The Artisan’s greatest discovery was a tribe of Spoiled? he went on.
No ordinary tribe, Lizanne pointed out. They saved her, and they seemed different to the others. Using spoken language and dressing as individuals.
Never met a friendly Spoiled, to be sure, Clay conceded. But it all happened centuries ago, right? What use is this now?
A question to be answered if I can unlock more memories.
She turned her attention to the images he had shared, particularly the Black crystal and the vial of what the ancient woman called “convergence.” Synthetic product. She allowed her conflicted emotions to colour the shared trance. The very idea of such a thing was both tantalising and incredible, if not ominous in its implications.
You saw what her people built, Clay responded. What they were able to do with the crystals, even though they never really understood them.
If they had they might never have bred the White, for which we would all have been grateful.
She plucked the vial from the mound of moon-dust where he had placed it, turning it over to watch the viscous contents slosh about. An amusing notion sent a disordered twitch through her whirlwinds, provoking a pulse of curiosity from Clay.
Just thinking, she told him. About Madame Bondersil and her obsession with the White. She said its blood promised more than all the other variants combined. But, if this can do what your friend claims, all the blood we might drain from the White’s corpse would be worth only a fraction of the price we could command for this.
Can’t argue with that. As for the White’s blood, seeing the future’s sorely overrated. When we kill it the best thing we could do with its corpse is burn it.
Let’s hope we get the chance. What is your current location?
Lieutenant Sigoral puts us about seventy miles north-east of the Carnstadts. We’re doing a lot more walking the last few days. Getting harder to find Cerath to ride. Skaggerhill says the herds start to thin the closer you get to Black country, those that do graze here are a sight more jittery.
Tomorrow I’ll be flying north where I expect to find another city fallen to the White. Meaning it won’t be long before it has sufficient strength to invade Varestia. Urgency is required, Mr. Torcreek.
I’m aware. As for the White’s gathering strength, I’ve been thinking about that. It uses a Blue crystal to change folk into Spoiled. Destroy or steal that and its army ain’t growing any bigger.
Meaning it’s sure to be well-guarded.
Didn’t say it would be easy.
Point taken. Trance again when you reach the mountains. And if you should feel the urge to try this convergence product, make sure your ancient friend drinks it first.
* * *
• • •
Mr. Lockbar arrived the next day aboard a bulky freighter with instructions to take delivery of the first consignment of weapons. The hard mask of his face betrayed little emotion when Lizanne met him on the wharf to advise two ships would be required to carry the full load. “You have ships at anchor here,” he said. “Assign one of them.”
“Ships require crews,” Lizanne replied. “And that would denude our work-force.”
“Then tell the rest to work harder. If they need any encouragement we can always cut the food supplies.” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead producing a sealed envelope and handing it to her. “The Board has convened a council of war at the Seven Walls. It meets in twelve days. Your attendance is requested.”
“Requested?”
Lockbar met her gaze, blinked once and turned away. “I’ll expect the second ship to be fully loaded and ready to sail with the morning tide.”
* * *
• • •
“They’re going to kill you, you know,” Morva said.
Lizanne glanced back from the control panel with a raised eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” Morva insisted. “Arshav and Ethilda don’t share. Now your people are delivering weapons they’ll see it as the perfect time to get rid of you. When you go to this war council of theirs they’ll either come up with a convenient lie justifying your execution, or they’ll arrange an accident. Then the Mount Works and all the weapons will be theirs.”
“How shocking,” Lizanne observed, turning back to the control panel. She eased the pitch lever to port as a gust of wind pushed the Firefly’s nose a few points east of due north. “What terrible people your relatives are.”
“You knew,” Morva said after a short silence.
“I suspected. I find when dealing with people like your cousins it’s best to maintain a healthy paranoia.”
“Oh. Will you kill them first then?”
“One of the first lessons I was taught regarding strategy, and your lesson for the day: Never tell anyone your thoughts.”
Tekela stirred in the right-hand pilot’s seat, coming awake with a groan. “You let me sleep too long,” she muttered, frowning in groggy discomfort as she tapped the clock, which showed four hours past midnight.
“You needed to rest,” Lizanne said, relinquishing control of the aerostat as Tekela gripped the lever and settled her feet onto the pedals. Her natural affinity for piloting this machine was evident in the way it seemed to calm at her touch like a horse responding to a familiar rider. The buffeting that had made the gondola thrum faded into a faint vibration and the slight see-saw action of the compass-needle was replaced by a near-perfect stability.
“We’re ten miles due south of Subarisk,” Lizanne said. She unbuckled from the pilot’s seat and moved to the rear of the gondola to peer at the glass viewport Jermayah had set into the floor. Depressing the second button on the Spider, she scanned the ocean passing below, seeing no sign of any patrolling Blue packs.
“Green,” she instructed Morva. “I need you to be our eyes whilst I’m in the trance.”
Morva nodded and pressed the appropriate button on her own Spider. Jermayah had made new devices for all the Blood-blessed at the Mount Works, an improved design which cut down on the weight and added a quick-release catch for swift removal. Lizanne injected a small amo
unt of Blue, sinking into the trance where Sofiya waited in her fairy-tale forest.
The starting point is clear, Lizanne reported. We’ll hover here then track your progress when the Viable commences the attack.
Acknowledged, Sofiya responded. The trance connection faded almost immediately but not before Lizanne had the opportunity to note that the sky above the forest had taken on a strangely reddish hue, the clouds frozen like a painting of sunset. Lizanne found herself unable to decide if this was a good or a bad sign regarding Sofiya’s mental stability. Sunset means the onset of night, she thought. But also the promise of a new day.
She blinked and found herself back in the gondola, finding to her annoyance that Morva was peering through the starboard port-hole rather than observing the sea below. Her rebuke died, however, when Morva said, “There’s something out there.”
Lizanne moved swiftly to her side, peering at the darkened sky beyond the port-hole. The cloud-cover was intermittent at this height, slipping by like wisps of powdered silver and growing into an obscuring fog farther out. A short scan of the sky with her Green-enhanced sight revealed nothing.
“Drake?” she asked Morva.
“It was hard to make out, and gone in an instant. It was there,” she added in response to Lizanne’s frown.
“Stand by at the ignition tube,” she said, reaching to retrieve her Smoker before returning her gaze to the port-hole. “Light the blood-burner on my order. Tekela, increase height by five hundred feet then begin to circle.”
Lizanne levered a round into the Smoker’s chamber then opened the starboard hatch. She was obliged to don a pair of welder’s goggles before leaning out into the icy chill, eyes roaming the sky. The clouds thinned as Tekela brought the Firefly higher, becoming a patchy blanket through which she could see the light of two moons glittering on the ocean. The aerostat tilted as Tekela began to turn, Lizanne gripping the handhold above the hatch and leaning out yet farther, still finding no sign . . .