‘But if you pin it on my father . . .’ Amalicia said, with dawning realisation. ‘Why, he’ll be the one that hangs.’
Frey stumbled mentally. He’d forgotten about that. In clearing his name, Gallian would have to hang. He was asking a daughter to help send her own father to the gallows.
A cruel smile spread across Amalicia’s face, the terrifying smile of a child about to stamp on an insect. Malice for the sake of malice. She saw her revenge, and it pleased her. Frey was surprised; he hadn’t imagined her capable of such thoughts. Her time in the hermitage had made her bitter, it seemed.
‘If he hangs,’ she said slowly, ‘that makes me head of the family. And no one can keep me here when I’m mistress of the Thades.’
‘I hadn’t even considered that,’ Frey said, truthfully. ‘I was so wrapped up in the idea of rescuing you . . . well, it had never occurred to me that, if your father died . . .’
‘Oh, Darian, it’s brilliant!’ she said, eyes shining. She threw one leg over his thigh and pressed herself to him eagerly. Frey’s mind began to wander from his machinations and back to baser thoughts. ‘Kill him! Let the bastard hang! And then I’ll be free, and we can be together, and we won’t have to run from anyone! We’ll marry, and damn what anyone says!’
Frey’s ardour dampened at the mention of marriage. But why? he asked himself. Why not this one? She’s richer than shit and foxy to boot! Not to mention she’s almost a decade younger than you and she thinks the sun rises and sets in your trousers. Since you can’t make fifty thousand ducats any other way, why not marry them?
But however good the reasons, Frey couldn’t deny the life-sucking sense of oblivion that overtook him whenever he heard the M-word.
‘I daren’t even hope for that yet,’ he said. ‘Things are so dangerous right now . . . simply to survive would be . . . maybe, just maybe, I can win out of this. And then you’ll be free, and we can be together.’
Can, he mentally added. Not will.
‘What can I do?’ she asked, missing the fact that Frey had deftly evaded any promise of marriage. She’d heard what she wanted to hear. Frey noted that the women in his life had a tendency to do that.
‘Can you think of any reason why your father would want Hengar dead? How would it profit him?’
She lay on her back and looked up at the ceiling. Frey admired her, half-listening as she spoke. ‘Well, he’s very close to the Awakeners, you know that. But the Awakeners don’t have anything against Hengar. It’s the Archduchess they hate, and the Archduke by association.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Eloithe is a big critic of the Awakeners. She doesn’t believe in the Allsoul. She says they’re just a business empire that trades in superstition. And she’s obviously inspired the Archduke, since he’s started making all kinds of moves to diminish their power. But none of that’s anything to do with Hengar.’ She thought for a moment, then said, ‘You know what I think? I don’t think my father’s behind this at all.’
‘Amalicia, there’s no doubt. I spoke to a—’
‘No, no, I mean . . . We’re landowners, Darian. We make our money from tenants. There’s no reason to murder the son of the Archduke.’ She sat up suddenly, her face taut with certainty. ‘I know him, Darian, he wouldn’t come up with something like this. Someone else is behind it.’
‘You think there’s someone else?’
‘I’d bet on it.’
‘Well . . . who?’
‘That I don’t know. I’ve been away a long time, in case you’d forgotten. It’s hard to keep up with my father’s business dealings when I’ve been locked in this prison for two years.’
Her tone grew harsher as she spoke, and Frey - fearing another beating - placated her hurriedly. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ll look into it. I just have to find a way to get close to him.’
‘Well, there’s the Winter Ball coming up,’ she suggested.
‘The Winter Ball?’
‘You know! The ball! The one my father has every year at our estate on the Feldspar Islands.’
‘Oh, the ball!’ Frey said, though he’d no idea what she was talking about. Presumably they’d discussed it, although he was reasonably sure he’d never been to one.
‘My father always does business there. All the important people come to it. If someone put him up to this whole business of murder, I’m sure you’d find them there. And you’d be well hidden among all the people. It’s quite the event of the season, you know!’
‘Can you get me in?’
She jumped up and went to the writing desk, drew out a pen and paper and began to scribble. Frey lay on his side, idly studying the curve of her back, the bumps of her spine.
‘There are still people in the family who don’t agree with what father did. This is a letter of introduction. You can take it to my second cousin - he’ll do the rest.’
‘I need two invitations.’
Her shoulders tensed and she stopped writing.
‘Neither are for me,’ he assured her. ‘I won’t be going. Don’t fancy meeting your father again. And you know I’m not very well trained in etiquette. But I do have a friend who is. I’ll need his help.’
‘And the other?’
‘Well, you have to take a lady to these things, don’t you? Turning up without a date looks a bit odd.’
‘And I suppose you happen to know one?’
‘She’s my navigator, Amalicia,’ said Frey. He leaned over and kissed her between the shoulder blades. ‘Just my navigator. And it won’t be me that’s taking her.’
‘Alright,’ she said. ‘Two invitations.’ She resumed writing, then signed with a flourish and laid the letter on top of his piled-up clothes.
Frey began getting to his feet. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you out of here. I promise.’
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Frey looked towards the door of the attic. ‘Well, I’m technically not supposed to be here, so I should really be gone before everyone wakes up.’
Amalicia pulled him back down again. ‘It’s not even close to dawn,’ she said. ‘I’ve had nobody to lie with for two years, Darian. We still have some catching up to do.’
Sixteen
A Triumphant Return - Frey Takes On New Crew - Silo’s Warning
It was midday by the time Frey made it back to the grassy valley where the Ketty Jay waited. There was a cold breeze, but the sun warmed the skin pleasantly, and most of the crew were outside. Harkins was tinkering with the Firecrow; Jez was reading a book she’d picked up in Aulenfay; Malvery was lying on his back, basking. Silo was nowhere to be seen. Frey presumed he was inside, engaged in one of his endless attempts to modify and improve the Ketty Jay’s engine.
Frey strolled into their midst, whistling merrily. Pinn - who was lying propped up against the wheel strut of his Skylance - lifted the wet towel off his forehead and gave an agonised groan. He was still wearing his Awakener garb, although the Cipher he’d painted on his head was now just a red smear.
‘I see you managed to keep yourself entertained while I was gone,’ Frey said. ‘Heavy night?’
Pinn groaned again and put the towel back on his forehead.
‘Mission accomplished, Cap’n?’ Jez called, looking up from her book. ‘What happened to your face?’
Frey touched fingertips to his bruised jaw, probing the skin delicately. ‘Little misunderstanding, that’s all,’ he said. Jez ran her eye over his shabby, soot-covered clothes and let the issue drop.
Bess was sitting on the grass, her short, stumpy legs sticking out in front of her, like some vast and grotesque mechanical infant. Crake was cleaning her with a bucket and a rag. She was making a soft, eerie cooing noise, like wind through distant trees. Crake said it meant she was happy, rather like the purring of a cat, but it unsettled Frey to hear the voice of the daemon that inhabited that massive armoured shell.
‘You look chipper today,’ Crake observed.
Malvery sat up, took
off his round, green-lensed glasses and peered at Frey. ‘Yes, he has a definite glow about him, despite the battle damage. I’d say he had a very happy reunion with someone. That’s my professional opinion.’
‘A gentleman never tells,’ said Frey, with a broad grin that was as good as a confession.
‘I’m very pleased for you,’ said Crake, disapprovingly.
‘How did your new toys work out?’ Frey enquired.
Crake brightened. ‘I think I can do quite a lot with them. A daemonist needs a sanctum, really, but some processes are more portable than others. I won’t be fooling around with anything too dangerous, that’s for sure, but I can still do beginner’s stuff.’
‘What’s beginner’s stuff? Stuff like my cutlass?’
Crake choked in amazement and almost flung down his rag. ‘Your cutlass,’ he said indignantly, ‘is a work of bloody art that took me years of study to accomplish and almost -’
He stopped as he caught the look of wicked amusement on Frey’s face. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see. You caught me. Very droll.’
Frey walked over and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘No, seriously, I’m interested. What can you do?’
‘Well, for example . . .’ He drew out two small silver earcuffs from his pocket. ‘Take one of these and put it on your ear.’
Frey fixed it to his ear. Crake did the same with the other. They looked like any other innocuous ornament. Bess stirred restlessly, her huge bulk rustling and clanking as she moved. Crake patted her humped back.
‘Don’t worry, Bess. We’re not finished yet. I’ll clean the rest in a moment,’ he assured her. The golem, mollified, settled down to wait.
‘Now what?’ asked Frey.
‘Go over there,’ said Crake, pointing. ‘And ask me a question. Just talk normally, don’t raise your voice.’
Frey shrugged and did as he was told. He walked fifty yards and then stopped. Facing away from Crake, he said quietly, ‘So what exactly are you doing on the Ketty Jay?’
‘I gave you my cutlass on the condition that you’d never ask me that,’ Crake replied, close enough to his ear so that Frey jumped and looked around. It was as if the daemonist was standing right next to him.
‘That’s incredible!’ Frey exclaimed. ‘Is that really you? I can hear your voice right in my ear!’
‘The range could be better,’ said Crake modestly. ‘But it’s quite a simple trick to thrall two daemons at the same resonance. They’re the most rudimentary type; stupid things, really. Little sparks of awareness, not even as smart as an animal. But they can be very useful if put to a task.’
‘I’ll say!’
‘I was thinking, if I can whip up some better versions, that you could use them to communicate with your pilots or something. Better than that electroheliograph thing you have.’
‘That’s a damn good idea, Crake,’ he said. ‘Damn good idea.’
‘Anyway, better take it off. These things will tire you out if you wear them too long. Daemons have a way of sucking the energy out of you.’
‘My cutlass doesn’t,’ Frey replied.
He heard the slight hesitation. My cutlass, Crake was undoubtedly thinking.
‘One of many reasons it’s such a work of art,’ he said.
Frey unclipped the earcuff and returned to Crake, who had resumed scrubbing the golem. ‘I’m impressed,’ he said, handing it back. ‘You want to go to a party?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘A ball, actually. Formal ball, held by Gallian Thade.’
‘The Winter Ball at Scorchwood Heights?’
‘Ummm . . . yes?’ Frey replied uncertainly.
‘You have invitations?’
Frey brandished the letter from Amalicia. ‘I will have soon. I was thinking you might go, and take Jez with you.’
Crake looked at him, searching for a sign of mockery.
‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘I could really use your help, Crake. Thade will be there, and if he’s working with someone else, it’s our best chance of finding out what he’s up to.’
Crake was still watching him narrowly, indecision in his eyes.
‘Look,’ said Frey. ‘I know I have no right to ask. You’re a passenger. That’s what you signed on for. You don’t owe me anything.’ He shrugged. ‘But, I mean, you and Bess . . .’
Bess shifted at the sound of her name, a quizzical coo coming from deep within her. Crake patted her back.
Frey coughed into his fist, looked away into the distance, and scratched his thigh. He was never very good with honesty. ‘You and Bess, the both of you saved our lives back in Marklin’s Reach. I’ve kind of got to thinking that, well . . .’ He shrugged again. Crake just kept on looking at him. The daemonist wasn’t making it easy. ‘What I’m saying - badly - is that I’ve started to think of you more as part of the crew, instead of just dead weight. I’m saying, well . . . look, I don’t know what business you’re really on, or why you took up with me in the first place, but it’s getting to be pretty bloody handy having the two of you around. Especially if you’re gonna start making more little trinkets like those ear things.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Frey,’ said Crake. ‘Are you offering me a job?’
Frey hadn’t really thought about that. He just knew that he needed Crake to help him out. ‘Would you take one if I offered it?’ he heard himself saying. ‘Part of the crew? Just till . . . well, until we get this whole mess sorted out. Then you could decide.’
‘Do I get my cutlass back?’
‘No!’ Frey said quickly. ‘But I’ll cut you in on a share of what we make.’
‘We don’t seem to make a great deal of anything.’
Frey made a face, conceding the point.
‘What would I have to do in return?’ Crake asked. He returned to scrubbing Bess’s massive back. A deep, echoing groan of pleasure came from the golem’s depths.
‘Just . . . well, stick around. Help us out.’
‘I thought I was doing that already.’
‘You are! I mean . . .’ Frey was getting frustrated. He was a supremely eloquent liar, but he struggled when he had to talk about things that he actually felt. It made him vulnerable, and that made him angry at himself. ‘I mean, you and Bess could just up and walk, right? It’s like you said back in Yortland: they’d never come looking for you. It’s me they’re after. And I’m sure you’ve other business you want to be getting on with, something to do with all that daemonism stuff you picked up.’
‘So what you’re saying is that you’d like us to stay around?’ Crake prompted.
‘Yes.’
‘And that you . . . well, that you need us.’
Frey didn’t like the triumphant tone creeping into Crake’s voice. ‘Yes,’ he said warily.
‘And what are you going to do next time someone puts a gun to my head and spins the barrel?’
Frey gritted his teeth. ‘Give them the ignition codes to the Ketty Jay,’ he said, glaring malevolently at the grass between his feet. ‘Probably.’
Crake grinned and gave Bess a quick buff on the hump. ‘You hear that, Bess? We’re pirates now!’ Bess sang happily, a ghostly, off-key nursery rhyme.
‘So you’ll go to the ball?’ Frey asked.
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’ll go.’
Frey felt a flood of relief. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been counting on Crake’s co-operation until this moment. He was about to say something grateful-sounding when he was interrupted by a cry from further up the valley.
‘Cap’n!’
It was Silo. The tall Murthian wasn’t in the engine room after all, but running down the valley towards them with a haste that could only spell trouble. He was carrying a spyglass in his hand.
‘Cap’n! Aircraft!’ Silo cried, pointing. The others - with the exception of Pinn -scrambled to their feet or ran to look.
‘I see it,’ said Jez.
‘Damn, you’ve got good eyes!’ said Malvery. ‘I don’t see a thing!’
&
nbsp; ‘Nor me!’ added Crake.
Jez looked around guiltily. ‘I mean, I can’t make it out or anything, not really. Just saw a flash of light, that’s all.’
Silo reached them and passed the spyglass to Frey. Frey put it to his eye.
‘She coming . . . from the south . . .’ he panted. ‘Think she . . . heading for the . . . hermitage . . .’
‘Then she’ll pass over us?’