CHAPTER 29
Lizanne
“You were right,” Lizanne told Captain Trumane. “Mrs. Griffan is not suited to service aboard your ship.”
Trumane glanced to where Sofiya was fussing over some of the children, her face showing a rare animation and joy. “The mission was a success,” he said. “I believe she acquitted herself well.”
“She should have passed on my order to abort,” Lizanne insisted. “We were compromised.”
“War-time operations are not intelligence missions, Miss Lethridge.” Trumane’s tone was mild but his gaze betrayed a twitch of resentment she realised came from her use of the word “order.” “They cannot be abandoned due to mere compromise,” Trumane went on. “War is an exercise in the management and acceptance of risk. If Mrs. Griffan had passed on your order I may well have discounted it in any case, considering the advantage we stood to gain. A sea-borne invasion of the Red Tides is now impossible, at least for some considerable time. In short, the risk was worth it.”
Is it pride, Lizanne wondered, trying not to let her burgeoning anger show on her face, that makes me dislike this man so? Do I hunger for power? Like Countess Sefka, or the Electress.
Despite her resentment she knew there was merit in his judgement. It was two days since the Viable Opportunity had returned from its mission, during which time Tekela and Lizanne had made a brief reconnaissance flight. They flew in daylight with Morva and a volunteer from the militia, both armed with mini-Growlers. They kept a wary eye on the surrounding sky as the aerostat drew close enough to Subarisk to confirm it mostly ruined by flooding and the White’s fleet wrecked, save for a few vessels seen floating in the harbour. More disturbingly, there was no sign of any drakes or, as they drifted lower, no Spoiled either.
Lizanne had decided to risk an inland flight, having Morva stand by to ignite the blood-burner as they flew north. The tail end of the White’s army came into view some ten miles beyond the city, the huge host raising a pall of brownish dust as it snaked away across the landscape. The sight of dark-winged specks flying above the horde was enough to convince Lizanne to turn back. The conclusion was obvious: The White had abandoned Subarisk and commenced an overland march. Its eventual destination was not hard to divine. They had won victory and precious time, but this war was very far from over.
“Ah,” Trumane said, turning towards her father’s workshop as a sudden upsurge in noise rose from beneath the awning. “I believe we are about to be treated to an unveiling.”
The work-force had been granted the afternoon off to witness this event, a reward for exceeding their production targets and also a pragmatic measure intended to obviate the exhaustion of many. The patch of bare ground that lay in front of the workshop had been converted into a park of sorts complete with benches and gravel paths. Some former gardeners from Lossermark had even planted flower-beds, though it would be some weeks before they blossomed. It was mainly used as a playground, carpenters and metal-workers having used their infrequent spare time to construct swings and a climbing frame for the children. Today the park was crowded with off-duty workers, mostly clad in their overalls, though Lizanne saw some who had taken the time to change into finer garb somehow salvaged from their previous lives. Despite the tiredness evident on most faces, there was a distinct sense of celebration in the air, as if the unveiling of the professor’s latest marvel might even be a cause for optimism.
The noise from the workshop rose to a greater pitch, sounding to Lizanne like the buzzing of a thousand giant hornets. Ripples spread across the awning and it began to snap with increasing energy before the ties holding it in place were either deliberately undone or it was torn away by the gale raging beneath. As the awning peeled back from the workshop’s roof a large curved shape began to rise drawing an awed gasp from the onlooking crowd. Lizanne had expected the Mark II aerostat to be larger than the Firefly, but this was on another scale entirely.
The gas envelope that rose from the workshop was at least four times the size of the Firefly and different in shape. Instead of an elongated egg it put Lizanne in mind of a headless whale, being flatter and wider. Also, its smooth surface was broken by a cupola on its topside. She instantly recognised her father’s tall form standing in the cupola, giving a hesitant wave as a cheer rose from the crowd at the sight of him. Four rudders protruded from the stern, two vertical and two horizontal, swivelling in response to Tekela’s touch on the controls.
The aerostat rose higher, the source of the great buzzing noise soon revealed as two propelling engines fitted to either side of the gondola that seemed to sprout like some organic growth from the craft’s underside. The engines were angled so that the propellers pointed at the ground, blurred to invisibility as they pushed the aerostat higher still, drawing it clear of the workshop. It slowed to a hover some fifty feet off the ground at which point the spectators all burst into applause.
“Impressive,” Captain Trumane said, Lizanne turning to see a corner of his mouth curling in an infrequently seen expression of pleasure, or perhaps anticipation. “I wonder if it can lift a rocket.”
* * *
• • •
“It looks like a whale,” Morva said. “That’s what we should call it, the Flying Whale.”
“We’re not calling her that,” Tekela insisted. “She’s the Typhoon. I’m the pilot so I get to name her.” She turned to Lizanne with an expectant smile. “Isn’t that so?”
“I couldn’t care less if you call her the Flying Turd,” Lizanne said. “As long as she performs as expected.”
Her gaze tracked over the interior of the gondola. After a brief circuit of the Mount the new aerostat had been tethered to one of the taller chimneys. Lizanne, Morva and Trumane had climbed a rope ladder for an inspection. She estimated the compartment was sufficiently spacious for at least a dozen crew with wide hatches in the hull to which gun mountings had already been fitted.
“She can carry two Thumpers or five Growlers,” Professor Lethridge said, descending a ladder which extended from the centre of the floor into an opening in the ceiling. “Or a mix of the two. Plus another Growler in the upper observation point.”
“A clever modification, Father,” she complimented him. “Drakes do like to attack from above.”
“It might not be entirely necessary,” Captain Trumane put in, glancing up from an inspection of the control panel at the front of the gondola. “Is this altitude indicator’s maximum level accurate, Graysen?”
“A reasonable estimation based on the lifting capacity,” the professor replied. “There will be variations depending on atmospheric conditions, of course.”
“Ten thousand feet,” Captain Trumane said, tapping one of the dials. “I’m no drake-ologist but I believe no Red has ever been observed to fly higher than six thousand feet. Something to do with the thinness of the air, I believe.”
“Speed?” Lizanne asked her father, although it was Tekela who answered.
“On standard power we think she might get up to eighty miles per hour,” she said. “Two engines, you see? Once the blood-burners are lit, however . . .” She smiled. “Well, I’m very keen to find out just how fast she’ll go.”
“So,” Lizanne mused, moving to one of the gun mountings, “we have the advantage of height, speed and fire-power.”
“Whilst they possess greater numbers,” Trumane pointed out. “One ship doesn’t make a fleet.”
“With the materials already on hand,” Professor Lethridge said after a moment’s mental calculation, “we could produce perhaps two a month.”
“That won’t be enough,” Lizanne said. “Destroying the White’s ships has bought us time, but we can expect its army to reach the Varestian Peninsular within four to five weeks.” Growing larger with every village and town it destroys along the way, she added to herself.
“It’s a matter of labour rather than resources,” her father said. “With a
n expanded work-force . . .”
“You’ll have it,” she promised. “It’ll mean reduced production of weapons but that can’t be helped. Without more of these I doubt we have a chance.” She turned to Tekela. “I’m appointing you Chief Pilot. Your first task is to identify and train others in how to fly this thing.”
Tekela’s face took on a puzzled frown. “How do I do that?”
“Find people with relevant experience. Former helmsmen, locomotive-drivers and the like. Madame Hakugen should be able to help. Failing that just ask people to volunteer. I’m sure there are many keen to get out of the manufactory.” She turned to her father. “Captain Trumane voiced a pertinent question earlier,” she said, “regarding rockets.”
* * *
• • •
Ethilda and Arshav convened their war council in the observation tower crowning the Navigation. Lizanne had arrived alone in the Firefly an hour before, piloting it herself to land on the building’s expansive front lawn. Mr. Lockbar and his gang duly arrived, failing to deliver a formal greeting of any kind before conducting a thorough and ungentle search of her person for product and weapons. He then escorted her to the meeting where Lizanne was surprised to find Alzar Lokaras in attendance along with a half dozen captains of varying clan allegiances.
Ethilda hadn’t bothered to introduce any of the captains, though a few possessed sufficient manners to make themselves known to Lizanne before the meeting began. The most courteous was a trim woman clad in a long, waxed-canvas jacket and sea-boots, the least expensive garb of any other captain present. She was about Lizanne’s height and build and would have seemed much the same age but for her hair and lined face.
“Mirram Kashiel,” she said, removing her broad-brimmed hat and performing a low bow. “Captain of the Sunrider and Chief of Clan Kashiel.”
“Lizanne Lethridge . . .”
“Oh, I know who you are. They call you Miss Blood.” The woman straightened with a grin. “But I won’t. Bit of a silly name, don’t you think?”
“Extremely. I didn’t choose it.”
“Got our first delivery of your marvellous guns yesterday. Very impressive, ’specially the big ones. Could do with a lot more, though.”
“They’re on their way,” Lizanne assured her.
“If you’re finished with your chatter,” Arshav broke in, eyes hard and face set in as serious an expression as Lizanne had yet seen. “We have a war to plan.” He turned to Ethilda as the room fell silent. “Mother?”
Ethilda moved to stand next to the oil painting depicting the Varestian region. She held a thin ivory baton and wore a dress which had been adorned with various military accoutrements, including shoulder epaulets and a yellow sash of the kind worn by marshals of the late Mandinorian Imperium. Lizanne somehow knew Ethilda was already imagining the portrait of her in this dress that would one day adorn the halls of this building.
“Subarisk,” Ethilda said, tapping the tip of the baton to the relevant section of the painting. “Fallen to our enemy and since abandoned, thanks to an unsanctioned action by our supposed ally.” She fixed Lizanne with a glare before moving the baton westward. “Denied ships, the enemy is now marching towards the peninsular.”
“Where they will no doubt visit all manner of vile havoc on every Varestian they get they claws on,” Arshav added. Unlike his mother he didn’t glare, though Lizanne recognised the set of his features, having seen the face of many a man set on murder.
Subarisk, Lizanne decided, recalling Morva’s words. That will be their pretext.
“With ships they would have invaded the Red Tides within days,” she pointed out, keeping her tone mild. “Now we have weeks to prepare.”
“For a land campaign,” Ethilda said. “Varestians are not accustomed to fighting on land. At sea we would have had a much better chance of victory, especially with the new weapons.”
A small murmur of agreement came from the other captains, though by no means all. “Many ships aren’t yet armed,” Alzar Lokaras said, voice flat, though his animosity to his cousins shone in his eyes clearly enough. “And there are only a few hundred of the new carbines. I also note my cousin Arshav has barely managed to gather more than ten thousand fighters.”
“I can’t be held accountable for the cowardice of others,” Arshav said, a snarl creeping into his voice.
“It isn’t cowardice, cousin,” Alzar replied. “It’s you. No true Varestian wants the stain on their honour that comes from serving under your flag.”
“Careful, cousin,” Arshav returned, his hand straying towards the hilt of his sabre. “Challenges may be forbidden in time of war, but don’t imagine that will protect you.”
Alzar met Arshav’s gaze squarely, a sneer forming on his lips. “From what?”
“Enough!” Ethilda barked as Arshav’s fist closed on the sabre hilt. “This avails us nothing.” She focused her gaze on Lizanne. “We have a disloyal ally to deal with.”
Lizanne had prepared an initial response to this trap, a short but effective speech highlighting Arshav’s and Ethilda’s many and obvious faults in both character and judgement. It was designed to stoke the pre-existing resentments of the other captains, perhaps even to the point where they might be tempted to stage a coup. But the Okanas’s clumsy intrigues were proving sufficiently tiresome for her to proceed directly to the alternative option.
“I take it Mr. Lockbar is outside awaiting some form of signal,” she said, arching a quizzical eyebrow at Ethilda. “Soon he’ll come bursting in to arrest me for breach of contract whereupon I’ll be marched off to some dungeon, perhaps making a doomed and fatal escape attempt along the way.”
Ethilda stared at her with an expression that mingled poorly hidden surprise with unconcealed animosity, her eyes flicking towards Arshav as they exchanged an uncertain glance. Lizanne gave a disgusted sigh and strode towards the large telescope opposite the huge oil-painted map. She swivelled the tube on the tripod to point it towards the large window, setting the correct angle before checking the focus through the eyepiece.
“Please,” she said, stepping back and gesturing at the telescope. “I should like you to see my father’s latest invention,” she added as mother and son exchanged another glance. They continued to stand in rigid and enraged immobility so Alzar stepped forward.
“What is that?” he asked, brows creasing as he squinted through the eyepiece.
“She’s called the Typhoon,” Lizanne replied. “A Mark II aerostat, currently hovering at a height of six thousand feet, well outside the range of any current artillery piece. Please note the object below the gondola.”
“I see it,” Alzar said after some more squinting.
“We call that the Tinkerer Mark I rocket. It’s identical to the one that destroyed the harbour door at Subarisk. You will also note it is aimed directly at this building. Should I fail to fly away from the Seven Walls within the hour it will be fired, and please harbour no illusions that it will miss its target.”
She turned to Ethilda and Arshav, speaking in clear, precise tones to ensure there would be no mistaking her intent. “Our contract is hereby voided on grounds of corporate duplicity and negotiations undertaken in bad faith. Should you make any attempt to reassert the provisions of said contract the Typhoon will return and destroy this building. It will then destroy every ship your family owns. The Mount Works Manufacturing Company is of this moment a separate entity and free to negotiate its own contracts. Your business, however, is not welcome and your authority over the Varestian region is no longer recognised.”
She stepped away from the telescope and bowed to the other attendees. “Captains, should you wish to engage in serious discussions regarding the defence of the Red Tides you can find me at Blaska Sound. All munitions will be supplied free of charge to any who choose to ally with us.” She bowed again and moved to the door. “Good day.”
CHAPTER 3
0
Hilemore
“I’m sorry, Corrick. But you can expect no help.”
Hilemore reread the last line of the communique several times, it being the only sentence to convey any sense of intimacy. The rest of the missive contained a brief and depressing summary of recent events in Mandinor and assurances that she had advised the Voters Rights Alliance in this city to render assistance to him “subject to a reciprocal arrangement compatible with your honour.” This was followed shortly after by an observation he felt had been intended as much for his hosts’ eyes as his: “I’m sure all parties will benefit from your advice and calm counsel.”
“So you see,” Coll said after Hilemore had finished. “You want our help, you help us win this city back.”
“That,” Hilemore replied, “is not her intent.”
“Reads that way to me,” the stocky youth replied to a murmur of agreement from the other committee members. “We got supplies, you want ’em. So take your boat across the harbour and pound that bitch Kulvetch’s headquarters to rubble . . .”
“That’s not going to happen,” Hilemore interrupted, glancing over the communique once more before consigning it to his pocket. Lacking intimacy or not, it was the only correspondence he had received from Lewella in many months and he found himself unwilling to part with it. “You forget that I know Free Woman Tythencroft far better than any of you. Her intention, misguided though I believe it to be, is for me to negotiate a ceasefire between the Voters Rights Alliance and corporate forces, and subsequently to assume leadership of this city.”
Hilemore rose from his stool, scanning each of the young, angry faces before him and feeling far older than his twenty-eight years. Twenty-nine, he reminded himself, recalling his uncelebrated birthday on the ice. “Clearly,” he said, “had she met Colonel Kulvetch or any of you lot, she would have known this to be a hopeless prospect, as is any further negotiation with me.”