Howlish yawned. ‘Bear away,’ he said. ‘Ready chasers. Port guns one through twenty, red stations. Fire crews to stand by.’
‘She’s not deviating, sir,’ the first officer said.
‘She’ll deviate. Ring the commands, Officer Lum.’
Bells sounded outside. The helmsman spun the wheel. Out on the storm-blown deck Guild mariners began hauling in the mainsail. Slowly, the warship turned her stern towards the approaching yacht.
The first officer frowned. ‘She’s still not deviating, sir,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘She going to hit us.’
Howlish’s eyes narrowed. ‘What is the madman doing? He’ll sink us both. Fire the chasers.’
The first officer began madly ringing the bell pipe.
But Briana could see that it was too late. Granger’s ship was going to crash into them.
‘Broad reach,’ Howlish cried.
The comspool began to chatter out tape.
‘Chasers ready, sir.’
‘Leave the chasers. Put us on a broad reach now.’
The helmsman spun the wheel back.
Through the driving rain Briana saw the steam yacht bearing down on them, waves crashing against its thunderbolt-wielding figurehead. A solitary figure stood at the wheel amidst the shattered bridge. The Herald’s stern was now inching away, but not fast enough. Briana tensed for the impact.
‘He’s turning,’ Howlish said. ‘Too late, too late.’
At the last instant, the other vessel began to turn aside, but it was a futile manoeuvre.
The yacht struck the stern of the warship with an impact that almost knocked Briana off her feet. From the rear came a great crash of timbers and groan of metal. Men stumbled and fell across the rain-swept deck. The Haurstaf ship yawed wildly, her hull actually rising a few feet out of the water. The yacht kept coming, her vast momentum carrying her along as she scraped along the side of the warship with a juddering shriek. For an instant the two vessels were almost side by side. They began to part.
And then a second concussion thudded through the warship’s timbers. Granger’s yacht broke away, turning downwind as the man-o’-war rocked heavily and righted itself. In the Haurstaf wheelhouse, the helmsman fought against the wheel. The first officer steadied himself and rushed over to the comspool.
‘Port-side guns,’ Howlish said. ‘All of them.’
‘We’re still turning, sir.’
Howlish scowled at the helmsman. ‘Close haul.’
The helmsman was still struggling with the wheel. ‘I can’t . . . I think we’ve lost our rudder, captain.’
The captain snorted. ‘Then how can we possibly be turning into the wind?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
But it was true. The man-o’-war continued to pivot, as some unseen force pushed it into the very face of the gale, turning their broadside away from the departing yacht. The mainsail and jib began to luff. They were losing control.
The whole warship gave a sudden, violent jerk.
Captain Howlish fell against the navigation console. Briana grabbed the first officer’s arm to steady herself. From somewhere aft came a long, low groan.
The man-o’-war began to move backwards.
Shouts came from outside. Howlish threw open the wheel-house door to better hear his crewmen, admitting a blast of rain and wind. Briana lifted the hood of her whaleskin cloak and moved over beside him. ‘Trouble?’ she asked.
Three crewmen clung to the poop deck, leaning over the taffarell as they examined the wrecked stern by the light of a gem lantern. One of them was shouting something, but the wind stole his voice.
Howlish waved a fourth crewman over. ‘What is going on?’
The man looked up and said, ‘We’ve been harpooned, sir.’
‘What?’
‘A dragon harpoon, captain. Biggest one I’ve ever seen. It’s buried deep in the stern post, down at the waterline. She’s using it to tow us.’
‘Tow us?’
‘Aye, Captain. The steam yacht is towing us behind her.’
* * *
CHAPTER 14
HOW TO SINK A SHIP
Granger turned off the gas torch, lifted his mask and examined the cable welds with eyes blurred by exhaustion. He had secured the heavy tow line by wrapping it around three of the gun deck’s steel-reinforced dragon-bone arches before finally welding it fast. He glanced over at the rearmost cannon hatch, through which the cable disappeared. The bulkhead had buckled under the strain, but it would hold well enough. Raising the back of the gun carriage with a chain winch had allowed him to give the harpoon the required trajectory – down into the stern post where it met the waterline – but the recoil had badly damaged the old cannon itself.
Finding everything secure, he wondered if he ought to check on the engines. He was pushing them close to their design limits. But he felt too weary to venture down there right now. The helm was locked on course, the man-o’-war secured behind him, and he had fuel enough to drag the bastard for a hundred leagues – more than enough to take them where he needed to go. The thing about men-o’-war was that they had a deep draught. And the thing about the Excelsior was that she had much a shallower draught. And that was going to make her mightily easy to ground in coastal waters.
But now he badly needed sleep.
He wandered aft to the emperor’s private suite.
Hu’s living areas comprised a warren of deeply lustrous rosewood, hauled up from undersea forests. Some of the blood-coloured beams looked thousands of years old. Free-flowing partitions and arches made from the boughs of once-living trees divided the space between the hull into numerous nooks, each illuminated by a different-coloured gem lantern. It gave the impression of wandering through a woodland carnival. The furniture had been made in the same style, all rich dark curves lacquered to a high sheen – the sort of rustic elegance popular in Losoto that was neither rustic nor, Granger felt, particularly elegant.
In the largest of these convoluted wooded spaces Granger found an enormous circular bed set on eight gilt pedestals, each carved into the image of Hu himself. He frowned at it with disapproval but sat down anyway and took off his boots. He lay back into a mattress as soft as air and found himself staring up at his own grotesque reflection. The emperor had fitted a mirror to the ceiling. He sat up again and rubbed his eyes and went to find the head.
Hundreds of bottles, tins and jars packed the wooden shelves above the sink – a formidable collection of perfumes, lotions, medicines and creams. Granger picked up a jar of Potelemy’s Canker Sore Solution, popped it open and sniffed the contents. The odour brought a brief smile to his face. Permanganate of potash. He’d once had Banks and Creedy mix this stuff with bottles of Doctor Cooper’s Famous Sweetwater to make liquid fire. They’d poured the lot down the air shaft of an enemy bunker in Dunbar. With the right mixture of toiletries you could burn a man’s skin clean off.
While he took a piss he let his gaze wander over the shelves – Butterflower Soap, Parafranio’s Wonder Water, Sparkling Eye Drops, Face Polish, Silk Lustre Dust, Royal Lady Skin Soft Cream, Fragrance of the Glade – mentally sorting the explosive components and combustibles from the useless stuff. Most of these powders and potions cost more than he’d made in a month’s soldiering. Even the tins could be utilized by submerging them in lye and filling balloons with the explosive gas given off. It appalled him that any man could waste such potential by slapping it on his face.
He flushed the head, then went back to the bed chamber and eased his wounded body down into the sheets. That horrible, burning-eyed visage stared back at hi
m from the mirror in the ceiling. It occurred to him that Ianthe might look through his eyes, so he closed them. He lay there for a long time, gazing into the darkness behind his eyelids, thinking about her. Then he got up again and went back to the head. He took the jar of Royal Lady Skin Soft Cream from the shelf and weighed it in his hand. Stupid thing. But he opened the jar anyway and scooped some out and rubbed it into the leathery folds of his face.
After he’d finished, he lay back down on the bed. That hideous face in the ceiling mirror, now daubed with white cream, mocked him. Granger grabbed the sheets and pillows from the bed and set off back to the bridge. It made more sense to sleep there, after all.
‘What do you want?’ Briana asked.
Maskelyne looked up from his writing desk. ‘Sister Marks,’ he said. He set down his pencil and stood up. ‘Actually, I want to help you.’
Briana glanced around the stateroom. This luxurious accommodation was usually reserved for visiting clients, and no expense had been spared on the deep Evensraum rugs, gilt furniture and clamshell lantern shades. Lucille was reclining on a white leather carasole bench with a glass of wine in her hand. Her bruises looked shocking in the bright white light. Painted toys lay scattered across the floor around Maskelyne’s son, who took one look at Briana and then crawled over to hide behind his mother’s legs.
‘As I understand it,’ Maskelyne said, ‘Colonel Granger has sunk your escort ships and is now dragging this vessel to some unknown destination.’
Briana opened her mouth to speak, but Maskelyne held up his hand.
‘The harpoon is lodged in the Herald’s stern post below the waterline,’ he went on, ‘making it impossible to reach without diving equipment – which, of course, you lack. Nevertheless, our kidnapper cannot board us, nor fire upon us without risking the life of his own dear child.’
‘He’s—’ Briana tried to interject.
‘Furthermore,’ the metaphysicist added, ‘Colonel Granger must assume that you have already summoned aid telepathically, and so he must act quickly. What, then, are his options?’
‘Obviously,’ Briana said, ‘he’s going to turn this kidnapping into a political statement.’
Maskelyne’s eyes opened in mild surprise. ‘Precisely,’ he replied. ‘How many cultures have found themselves liberated because they could not afford the psychic services their own enemies relied upon?’ His dark eyes gleamed. ‘What do you imagine would happen, for example, if our renegade colonel decided to run the Haurstaf flagship aground on the Evensraum coast?’ He smiled. ‘Have you ever seen an animal carcass lying across an ant trail? The bones are so clean they look like they’ve been polished.’
Briana smiled thinly.
‘Would I be correct in assuming you haven’t contacted Awl yet?’
‘I’m perfectly capable of dealing with this situation myself, Mr Maskelyne.’
‘Well, quite,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t want your sisters to think you incapable, would we?’
Briana felt her face redden. ‘Be careful, Mr Maskelyne. You are in no position to lecture others.’
‘I apologize,’ Maskelyne said. ‘I meant no disrespect.’
‘Of course not,’ Briana replied. She placed her hands on her hips and gazed around the room, thinking. Jontney peered out from behind his mother’s legs, but Lucille avoided her eyes. Finally, she faced Maskelyne again. ‘Well, what do you propose?’
He indicated the door. ‘If I can just have access to my equipment?’
The Unmer artefacts salvaged from the deadship had been packed into crates and stacked across the breadth of the Herald’s hold, lashed down under oilcloth. Maskelyne immediately began untying cords and pulling the coverings aside. While Briana waited nearby, the metaphysicist uncovered boxes of telescopes and prisms, and nautical instruments taken from the Unmer ironclad, along with crates of brine-damaged goods that looked more like seabed trove. Finally, he gave a grunt of surprise and pulled something out. It was a heavy iron ring, wrapped in wire and covered in grey dust. He blew away some of the dust and held it up.
‘What is that?’ she asked.
‘An amplifier,’ Maskelyne replied. ‘It uses one form of energy to amplify another.’ He turned it over in his hands. ‘I strongly recommend you throw it over the side before all the fresh produce aboard begins to rot.’ He set the ring down again and continued rummaging around in the trove for a while longer. Eventually he gave a sigh. ‘My blunderbuss,’ he said. ‘It isn’t here.’
Briana shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea where it is.’
‘It was in a long, narrow box,’ he said, ‘packed with crespic salts to keep it cold.’
‘They might have put it in the arms locker.’
Briana summoned the lieutenant at arms, who led them to the arms locker, where they did indeed locate a box fitting Maske-lyne’s description. The metaphysicist opened the lid and took out the weapon. It was made of brass and dragon-bone, with a dark glass phial fitted underneath the stock. Curls of ice smoke rose from its flared barrel.
Maskelyne grinned like someone who had encountered an old friend. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘We’ll have that line off in an instant.’
Briana frowned. ‘You plan to shoot it?’
‘I do.’
‘With that old thing?’
He nodded.
She felt like she’d been swindled. ‘That’s your great plan?’
‘This old thing is no ordinary weapon,’ Maskelyne said, holding the gun towards her. ‘This phial contains Unmer void flies.’
A moment of silence passed between them.
‘Crespic salts are used to regulate the temperature of the ammunition,’ Maskelyne said. ‘Once frozen inside this phial, the flies remain quite inactive. The barrel is designed to act as a thermal gradient along which the flies are induced to pass once the phial is punctured, thus creating a directional vortex of considerable destructive force, while preserving both the weapon and its operator from harm.’
‘You brought void flies aboard my vessel?’
‘Your crew brought them aboard.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell anyone about it?’ Briana lifted her hands in exasperation. ‘What would have happened if they’d got loose?’ She shuddered to imagine the bloodshed such an event would have caused – a ship riddled with tiny holes; a crew riddled with tiny holes.
Maskelyne grinned again. ‘Now that we have established the worth of such a weapon in our present circumstances,’ he said, ‘we can start to negotiate a price.’
‘A price? For what exactly?’
‘Void flies aren’t exactly easy to come by, you know.’
The Herald’s engineers had constructed a wooden derrick overhanging her stern, allowing a man to be lowered down over the rear of the ship to the smashed rudder by way of a pulley system. First officer Lum looked on as two of the crew hauled their companion back up again.
The first officer snapped to attention as Briana and Maskelyne arrived. ‘Ma’am.’
‘What’s the verdict, Mr Lum?’ Briana asked.
‘We’ve completed our first inspection now, Ma’am.’
The two sailors helped the man swinging from the derrick back onto the deck. He took off his brine goggles and gloves and faced Lum. ‘The rudder’s in bad shape, but it ought to give us some manoeuvrability,’ he said. ‘That harpoon’s in a tricky place though. Buried in soli
d from what I can see, about a foot under the waterline. I can’t even get close to it because of the waves. I don’t know how he got it in there using one of those old Ferredales. It’s either the luckiest shot or the finest piece of marksmanship I’ve ever seen.’
‘Can you hook the line?’ Lum said. ‘Pull it up?’
The other man shrugged. ‘You’ve got the full weight of the Herald pulling against it, sir. We might be able to rig something up, but we’d brisk tearing off the whole stern post. Then you’d be looking at a hull breach.’
Maskelyne leaned on his blunderbuss and peered down over the side of the ship. He lifted his head, following the line of cable across the waters to the steam yacht some distance away. Then he raised the gun to his shoulder and sighted on the yacht.
‘Wait!’ Briana said. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Two birds,’ Maskelyne said. ‘One stone. If I sever the cable at this end, Granger will merely lose his catch. But if I shoot it out at the other end, the flies will pass through the cable, the ship and anything inside the ship. We’ll leave him with a thousand tiny holes in his hull and, with any, luck, one or two in his own skull.’
‘That’s got to be two hundred yards. Let one of my marksmen take the shot.’
‘Accuracy is not required,’ Maskelyne said. ‘This weapon produces a vortex of flies.’
‘You might miss the cable altogether.’
Maskelyne lowered the gun and turned to face her. ‘You haven’t seen one of these weapons discharge, Miss Banks. A stream of void flies is quite unstoppable. Were I to fire this straight down, the shot would pass straight through the world and out the other side. With the right trajectory, I could easily, from my present location, reduce any city on this planet to rubble.’ He moistened his lips. ‘Now, will you please stand aside and let me take the shot before the phial thaws out?’