‘My orders!’ Frey yelled back. ‘He can’t follow us into the storm. It’s up to you now.’
‘You’re giving orders now?’ Malvery sounded surprised. ‘Blimey.’ Then the autocannon began thumping again in clipped bursts.
Crake appeared at the door. ‘Silo says the engines have taken a hit and they’re overheating, but it’s nothing too serious. Other than that there’s only minor structural—’
There was a shattering din as a salvo of bullets punched into the Ketty Jay’s hull from behind. She yawed crazily, hit a pressure pocket in the storm and plunged fifteen metres, fast enough to lift Crake off the ground and slam him to the floor again. The engines groaned and squealed, reached a distressing crescendo, then slowly returned to their usual tone.
Crake pulled himself up from the floor, wiping blood from a split lip. ‘I’ll get a damage report from Silo, shall I?’ he enquired.
‘Don’t bother,’ said Frey. ‘Just hang on to something.’
Crake clutched at the metal jamb of the cockpit door as the Ketty Jay began to shake violently. Frey dumped some of the aerium gas from the tanks to add weight and stability to the craft, letting the thrusters take the strain instead. Getting the balance right was crucial. A craft like the Ketty Jay, unlike its outflyers, wasn’t aerodynamic enough to fly without the aid of its lighter-than-air ballast. It couldn’t produce enough lift to maintain its bulk.
The thunderheads rushed towards them, inky billows flashing with angry lightning. Wind and pressure differentials began to shove them this way and that. The world outside darkened rapidly as they hit the outer edge of the clouds. A blast of blinding light, terrifyingly close at hand, made Crake cower. Jez glanced over at him and gave him a sympathetic smile. He firmed his resolve and stood straighter.
‘Doc! Are they still with us?’ Frey howled over the rising wail of the wind. There was no reply. ‘Doc!’
‘What?’ Malvery cried back irritably.
‘Are they still with us?’
A long pause.
‘Doc! ’ Frey screamed.
‘I’m bloody looking! ’ Malvery roared back. ‘It’s dark out there!’ Then, a moment later, he boomed a triumphant laugh. ‘They’re turning tail, Cap’n! Running off home!’
Jez beamed in relief.
The Ketty Jay was pushed from beneath by a pressure swell and veered steeply, dislodging Crake’s grip on the jamb and sending him careering into a wall. It was black as night outside. Frey flicked on the headlights, but that only lit up the impenetrable murk that had closed in on them.
‘I can’t help noticing we’re still in the storm,’ said Crake.
Jez supplied the answer, since Frey was concentrating on flying. ‘We need to put some distance between them and us. Otherwise they might just pick up the chase again when we emerge.’
‘And what happens if some of that lightning hits us?’ he asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
‘We’ll probably explode,’ Frey said. Crake went grey. Jez opened her mouth to say something but at that moment the craft was shaken again. Frey could hear things clattering about in the mess, and something cracked and burst noisily out in the corridor. Water began to spray everywhere.
‘Is this tub even going to hold together?’ Crake demanded.
‘She’ll hold,’ Frey murmured. ‘And if you call her a tub again, I’ll kick you out right now, and you and your metal friend can fly home.’
‘What, and miss my chance to attend Gallian Thade’s Winter Ball? Just try and—’
There was a stunning flash of light and everything went black. All lights, inside and out, were suddenly extinguished. There was a brief sensation of unreality, as if time itself had been stunned. The air snapped and crawled with wild energy. For long seconds, no one spoke. An uncanny peace blanketed the chaos. The engines droned steadily, pushing them through the storm. The darkness was utter.
Then the lights flickered on again, and the Ketty Jay began to rattle once more.
‘What was that?’ Crake whispered.
‘Lightning,’ said Jez.
‘You said we’d explode!’ Crake accused the captain.
Frey only grinned. ‘Time to get out of here,’ he said. He hauled back on the control stick and the Ketty Jay began to climb.
The ascent through the clouds was rough, but the turbulence was nothing the Ketty Jay couldn’t handle. She’d seen worse than this in her time. Though she was jostled and battered and harassed every klom of the way, Frey fought with her against the storm, and the two of them knew each other well. Frey didn’t realise it, but a fierce smile was plastered across his face as he flew. This was what being a freebooter was all about. This was how it felt to be a lord of the skies. Outwitting your enemies, snatching victory from defeat. Braving the storm.
Then the clouds ended, and the Ketty Jay soared free. The dark carpet of thunderheads was spread out below them as far as they could see, obscuring everything beneath. Above them was only an endless crystalline blue and the dazzle of the sun.
‘Malvery?’ Frey called.
‘All clear, Cap’n!’ came the reply.
Frey looked over his shoulder at Jez and Crake, who were glowing with excitement and relief.
‘Good job, everyone,’ he said. Then he slumped back in his seat with a sigh. ‘Good job.’
Eighteen
Civilisation - A Musical Interlude - Fredger Cordwain - Vexford Swoops In - Morcutt The Boor
The night was warm, and the air shrilled with the song of insects. Lush plants hissed and rustled in the tropical breeze. Electric lamps, hidden in the foliage, lit up an ancient stone path that wound up the hill, towards the lights and the distant music. Northern Vardia might have been frozen solid, but here in the Feldspar Islands winter never came.
Crake and Jez disembarked arm in arm from the luxurious passenger craft that had shuttled them from the mainland. Crake paused to adjust the cuffs of his rented jacket, then smiled at his companion to indicate his readiness. Jez tried not to look ill at ease in her clinging black dress as they made their way down from the aircraft. They were greeted at the bottom of the stairs by a manservant, who politely asked for their invitations. Crake handed them over and introduced himself as Damen Morcutt, of the Marduk Morcutts, whom he’d recently made up.
‘And this is Miss Bethinda Flay,’ he said, raising Jez’s hand so the manservant might bob and kiss it. The manservant looked at Crake expectantly for elaboration, but Crake gave him a conspiratorial wink and said, ‘She’s rather new to this game. Be gentle with her, eh?’
‘I quite understand, sir,’ said the manservant. ‘Madam, you are most welcome here.’
Jez curtsied uncertainly, and then the two of them went walking up the path towards the stately manor at the top of the hill.
‘Small steps,’ murmured Crake out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Don’t stride. Remember you’re a lady.’
‘I thought we agreed that I was a craftbuilder’s daughter,’ she replied.
‘You’re supposed to be a craftbuilder’s daughter trying to be a lady.’
‘I am a craftbuilder’s daughter trying to be a lady!’
‘That’s why the disguise is flawless.’
Crake had spent the last week coaching Jez in the basics of etiquette. She was a fast learner, but a crash course in manners would never convince anyone that she was part of the aristocracy. In the end, Crake had decided that the best lies were those closest to the truth. She’d pose as a craftbuilder’s daughter - a life she knew very well. He’d play the indolent son of a wealthy family who had fallen in love with a low-born woman and was determined to make her his bride.
‘That way, they’ll think your mistakes are naïve rather than rude,’ he told her. ‘Besides, they’ll feel sorry for you. They’ve seen it all before a dozen times, this breathless romance between a young aristocrat and a commoner. They know full well that as soon as it gets serious, Mother will step in and you’ll be dumped. Nobody’s going to waste a go
od marriage opportunity on a craftbuilder’s daughter.’
‘What a charming lot you are,’ Jez observed.
‘It’s an ugly business,’ Crake agreed.
It was an ugly business, but it was a business Crake had known all his life, and as he made his way along the winding path through the restless trees towards Scorchwood Heights, he felt an aching sorrow take him. The feel of fine clothes on his skin, the sound of delicate music, the cultured hubbub of conversation that drifted to them on the warm breeze - these were the familiar things of his old life, and they welcomed him back like a lover.
Seven months ago, he’d taken all of this for granted and found it shallow and tiresome. Having an allowance great enough to keep him in moderate luxury had permitted him to be disdainful about the society that provided it.
But now he’d tasted life on the run: hunted, deprived of comfort and society. He’d been trapped on a craft with people who mocked his accent and maligned his sexuality. He’d stared death in the face and been witness to a shameful act of mass-murder.
The world he’d known was for ever lost to him now. It hurt to be reminded of that.
‘Do I look okay?’ Jez fretted, smoothing her dress and patting at her elaborately styled hair.
‘Don’t do that! You look very pretty.’
Jez made a derisive rasp.
‘That ruins the illusion somewhat,’ said Crake, scowling. ‘Now listen to what I tell you, Miss Bethinda Flay. Beauty is all about confidence. You actually clean up rather well when you change out of your overalls and put on a little make-up. All you need to do is believe it, and you’ll be the equal of anyone here.’ He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Besides, the competition will be weak. Most of the women in this party have been inbred to the point of complete genetic collapse, and the others are more than half horse.’
Jez snorted in surprise and then burst out laughing. After a moment, she caught herself and restrained her laughter to a more feminine chuckle.
‘How kind of you to say so, sir,’ she managed in an exaggeratedly posh accent. She wobbled on the verge of cracking up, then swallowed and continued. ‘May I compliment you on the sharpness of your wit tonight.’
‘And may I say how radiant you look in the lamplight,’ he said, kissing her hand.
‘You may. Oh, you may!’ swooned Jez, then she hugged herself to his arm and followed him jauntily up the path to the manor. She was beginning to have fun.
Scorchwood Heights was set amid a grove of palm trees, its broad porticoed face looking out over a wide lawn and garden. It was a place of wide spaces, white walls, smooth pillars and marble floors. The shutters were thrown open and the sound of mournful string instruments and Thacian pipes wafted out into the night.
The lawn was crowded with knots of society’s finest. The men dressed stiffly, many in Navy uniform. Others wore uniform of another type: the single-breasted jackets and straight trousers that were the fashion of the moment. They laughed and argued, loudly discussing politics and business. Some of them even knew something about the subject. The women showed off in daring hats and flowing dresses, fanning themselves and leaning close to criticise the clothes of passers-by.
Crake felt Jez’s good humour falter at the sight of so many people, and he gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Now, Miss Flay. Don’t let them intimidate you.’
‘You sure you couldn’t have just come on your own?’
‘That’s just not how it’s done,’ he said. ‘Deep breath. Here we go.’
Flagged paths meandered round pools and fountains towards the porch. Crake led them through the garden, stopping to take two glasses of wine from a passing waiter. He offered one to Jez.
‘I don’t drink,’ she said.
‘That doesn’t matter. Just hold it. Gives you something to do with your right hand.’
It was a little cooler inside the manor. The high-ceilinged rooms with their white plastered walls sucked some of the heat out of the night, and the open windows let the breeze through. Servants fanned the air. The aristocrats had gathered in here, too, bunching into corners or lurking near the canapés, moving in swirls and eddies from group to group.
‘Remember, we’re looking for Gallian Thade,’ Crake murmured. ‘I’ll point him out when I see him.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then we’ll see what we can find out.’
A handsome young man with carefully parted blond hair approached them with a friendly smile. ‘Hello there. I don’t think we’ve met,’ he said, offering a hand. He introduced himself as Barger Uddle, of the renowned family of sprocket manufacturers. ‘You know! Uddle Sprockets! Half the craft in the sky run on our sprockets.’
‘Damen Morcutt, of the Marduk Morcutts,’ said Crake, shaking his hand vigorously. ‘And this charming creature is Miss Bethinda Flay.’
‘My father used to use your sprockets all the time,’ she said. ‘He was a craftbuilder. Swore by them.’
‘Oh, how delightful!’ Barger exclaimed. ‘Come, come, I must introduce you to the others. Can’t have you standing around like wet fish.’
Crake let this puzzling metaphor pass, and soon they were absorbed into a crowd of a dozen young men and women, all excitedly discussing the prospect of making ever more money in the future.
‘It’s only a matter of time before the Coalition lifts the embargo on aerium exports to Samarla, and then the money will come rolling in. It’s all about who’s ready to take advantage.’
‘Do you think so? I think we’ll find that the Sammies don’t even need it any more. Why do you think the last war ended so suddenly?’
‘Nobody knows why they called the truce. The Allsoul alone knows what goes on inside that country of theirs.’
‘Pffft! It was aerium, pure and simple. They fought two wars because they didn’t have any in their own country and they couldn’t stand buying it from us. Now they’ve found some. Bet you anything.’
‘We shouldn’t even be trading with those savages. We should have gone in there and flattened them when we had the chance. Mark my words, this is only a lull. They’re building a fleet big enough to squash us like insects. There’ll be a third Aerium War, and we won’t win this one. New Vardia, that’s where I’m going. New Vardia and Jagos.’
‘The frontier. That’s where the money is, alright. Get right in on the ground floor. But I think I’d miss the society. I’d just shrivel out there.’
‘Oh, you’ve no sense of adventure!’
After a while, Crake and Jez excused themselves and made their way into an enormous drawing room. Here was the source of the music they’d been hearing ever since they arrived. A quintet of Thacian women played delicate folk songs from their homeland. They were slender, olive-skinned, black-haired, and even the least attractive among them could still be called pretty. They wore coloured silks and held exotic, exquisitely made instruments of wood and brass.
‘Listen,’ said Crake, laying a hand on Jez’s shoulder.
‘Listen to what?’
‘Just listen,’ he said, and closed his eyes.
In the field of the arts - as in science, philosophy, culture and just about everything else - Thacians were the leaders in the known world. Vardic aristocracy aspired to the heights of Thacian achievement, but usually all they could manage were clumsy imitations. To hear real Thacian players was a treat, which came at a hefty price - but then Gallian Thade wasn’t a man known to be short of money. Crake allowed himself to be swept away in the tinkling arpeggios, the haunting moan of the pipes, the counterpoint rhythms.
This was what he missed. The casual elegance of music and literature. To be surrounded by wonderful paintings and sculpture, perfect gardens and complicated wines. The upper classes insulated themselves against the world outside, padding themselves with beauty. Without that protection, things became ugly and raw.
He wished, more than anything, that he could go back. Back to how it was before everything went bad. Before . . .
‘Excuse
me.’
He opened his eyes, irritated at the interruption. The man standing before him was taller than he was, broad-shouldered and bull-necked. He was fat, but not flabby, bald-headed, and sported a long, thin moustache and expensively cut clothes.
‘Sorry to spoil your enjoyment of the music, sir,’ he said. ‘I just had to introduce myself. Fredger Cordwain is my name.’
‘Damen Morcutt. And this is Miss Bethinda Flay.’ Jez curtsied on cue, and Cordwain kissed her hand.
‘Charmed. I must ask you, sir, have we met? Your face seems very familiar to me, very familiar indeed, but I can’t place it.’
Crake felt a small chill. Did he know this person? He’d been quite confident that nobody who knew his face would be here tonight. His crime had been kept out of the press - nobody wanted a scandal - and the Winter Ball was simply too exclusive for the circles Crake had moved in. Invitations were almost impossible to secure.