The Waking Fire
Lizanne retired to bed early, complaining of a headache brought on by Miss Artonin’s taxing company. In her attic room she divested herself of her maid’s uniform in favour of the clothes she had arrived in. Ostensibly no different from the garb typical of a young Corvantine woman of mean station, the ensemble was in fact carefully tailored so as not to impede her movements. She wore a pair of thin cotton leggings under the skirt to guard against cold and her shoes were flat-soled and gripped to facilitate athletic activity. She strapped the Whisper to her thigh where it could be easily drawn via a slit in the skirt, then affixed the Spider to her forearm, each vial fully charged.
She opened the window and climbed out onto the roof, viewing her chosen route to the museum. It was a winding path and likely to exhaust nearly half her Green, but that couldn’t be avoided if she was to complete her task before morning. Whereupon I’ll have another to perform . . .
She pushed the thought away and focused her mind, depressing the middle-finger button to inject a good measure of Green into her veins. Such a high dosage was dangerous, producing a sense of physical invulnerability and euphoria that could only be countered by the most deeply ingrained training. She stood, limbs seeming to thrum with the new-found energy, fixed her gaze on the successive roof-tops and walls that would lead her to the museum, then launched herself into space.
CHAPTER 17
Hilemore
The Blood-blessed fired the rifle, the bullet smacking into the planking just to the left of Steelfine’s head. Hilemore shook the fuzz from his vision, seeing the Blood-blessed stagger again and nearly fall before straightening with a loud curse. It was a woman, he saw, long hair tied in braids and clad in silks of various colours, though much besmirched and torn. Only a captain would dress in so many colours. He watched as she cast the rifle aside and summoned another from the deck, bringing it to her shoulder and taking unsteady aim at Steelfine once more.
Hilemore surged to his feet with a shout, ignoring the screaming pain in his back. He drew his revolver and caught hold of the captive, who squirmed in his grip but soon quieted when he pressed the muzzle of the revolver to her temple. “Captain!” he called to the Blood-blessed in Varestian.
The woman turned to him and froze, her eyes lighting with fury then frustration as she fixed them on Hilemore.
“There is no hope for you in this,” he told her. “But I promise safe passage and freedom for this one.” He tightened his hold on the girl, who squirmed again, voicing an angry snarl. Hilemore kept his gaze fixed on the woman. He was gambling, hoping she had nearly exhausted her Black and used up all her Red in feeding the Windqueen’s engine.
The woman’s mouth twisted into an ugly sneer as she said something in Varestian, an insult rarely heard for it was the worst her kind could utter. “Oath-breakers! What trust could I ever give you?”
“You can trust this one will live!” He pressed his revolver harder against the girl’s temple. “And I’ll guarantee a trial for you in Feros. Are your colours struck?”
The woman’s gaze shifted to the girl and Hilemore saw an unmistakable similarity in their features, and the near-frantic concern in the woman’s eyes. She staggered again, a patch of blood spreading across her midriff, muttering a curse in Varestian before letting the rifle fall from her grasp. “My colours are struck, you treacherous bastard!” she cried out, sinking to her knees and casting a forlorn gaze around the smoking ruin of her ship.
—
Steelfine lay unconscious in the doctor’s cabin, blood-stained bandages on his head, arms and legs. There didn’t seem to be any inch of him that wasn’t bruised, grazed or cut. Although deaf and blind to the world he still retained enough vitality for the occasional bout of dangerous thrashing, obliging Dr. Weygrand to have his orderlies strap him down.
“Can’t rightly explain his survival,” the doctor advised Hilemore. “Big and strong as he is, he should be conversing with the King of the Deep right now.”
All told the engagement had cost them six dead and twelve wounded, the latter resulting from the Blood-blessed captain’s attentions on the Windqueen’s deck. In accordance with Protectorate custom the dead had been consigned to the sea at the first opportunity, sewn into a canvas shroud, weighted and slipped over the side after a brief recitation of the Order of Thanks by the captain. Of the wounded, only Steelfine remained bedridden despite his inhuman resilience.
“How much Green has he had?” Hilemore asked.
“One-tenth of a flask. I would like to have administered more, but regulations . . .”
“Bugger regulations,” Hilemore said. “Increase the dosage, as much as he needs. I’ll sign the order.”
Dr. Weygrand was a veteran Protectorate physician of near as many years service as Mr. Lemhill. A tall man with silver-grey hair, he projected an air of calm authority and clearly wasn’t about to surrender it to a second lieutenant. “Medicinal use of product lies within my purview, Mr. Hilemore. Exhausting our stocks treating one patient will serve us ill should we suffer further casualties.”
Hilemore bit down on his frustration. That the doctor’s judgement was undoubtedly correct did little to alleviate an angry guilt. I should have sent more men with him. Should’ve known a Blood-blessed would have survived the blast.
“If he worsens,” Weygrand went on, voice softening a little, “I’ll administer another dose, heavily diluted however.”
Hilemore nodded, knowing this was more than he could have expected. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“And you?” Weygrand asked. “Heard you took a pretty bad knock over there.”
Hilemore shrugged his shoulders, concealing a wince at the flaring ache in his back. “Just a bruise or two.”
“Off.” The doctor tapped his stethoscope to Hilemore’s tunic, his tone brooking no argument. “Let’s take a look.”
“If the point of impact had been a tenth of an inch to the right,” Weygrand said a short while later, making Hilemore gasp as he pulled a bandage tight about his torso. “You’d be paralysed from the sixth thoracic vertebra down.”
“A comforting thought, Doctor,” Hilemore grunted. “Have you checked on our prisoner?”
“Yes. Numerous lacerations and minor burns plus a puncture wound to the upper abdomen. Nothing fatal, though, and I’m confident she’ll make a full recovery in time for the hanging.”
“The girl?”
“Completely unharmed, but I can’t speak for her mental state.”
The speaking-tube in the upper corner of the medical bay gave a high-pitched whistle before Ensign Talmant’s voice came through. “Lieutenant Hilemore to the ward-room, please.”
“Seems you’re wanted.” Weygrand finished tying off the bandage and gave Hilemore a small bottle of pills. “For the pain,” he said. “Two in the morning, two at night. And don’t skimp.”
—
“A higher butcher’s bill than I would have liked,” Captain Trumane said, looking over the list of casualties. “Still, couldn’t be helped. And it always does the crew good to be properly blooded early on.”
He put the list aside and lifted a glass of claret from the ward-room table, Hilemore and the other officers present following suit. “Gentlemen,” Trumane said, raising his glass in a solemn toast. “To victory.”
“To victory,” they echoed, drinking in unison. It was another Protectorate custom for a ship’s officers to toast a victorious engagement before the captain went about allotting the various prize-shares and honours.
“The quartermaster has completed his survey of the pirate’s cargo,” Trumane said, lifting another document from the table. “It appears she’s been busiest on the Corvantine trade routes. We have two full chests of Imperial crowns, plus sundry liquors, spices and tea. An impressive haul indeed, coming to an estimated two hundred and fifty thousand in Syndicate Scrip. Shares will be allotted according to rank, with a one percent bonu
s for Mr. Lemhill and a half percent for Mr. Hilemore. The boarding party and gunners will also receive individual grants of two hundred scrip per man.”
There was a general murmur of appreciation around the room as each officer present calculated his sudden upturn in fortune.
“I should like to donate my bonus to the Ship’s Fund, sir,” Hilemore said, his mind lingering on the sight of Steelfine’s bandaged form. The Ship’s Fund was a pool of donations maintained by the quartermaster to provide succour to maimed crew or assistance to the families of those who had fallen. It was expected, but not required, that officers contribute a small amount of their share to the fund.
“Quite so, Lieutenant.” The captain raised his glass to him. “Naturally, I’ll be making my own contribution as well. Now then.” He turned to Chief Engineer Bozware, still clad in his oily overalls as he appeared to be the only man on the ship’s roster immune to Trumane’s obsession with the uniform code. “You’ve looked over our prize, Chief. Can she be saved?”
“Not without a dry-dock and a few months’ work, sir,” Bozware replied. “Too much warping of the hull due to the fire. Plus her engine’s a wreck. They overloaded her with product trying to get away, blew every gasket.”
“Pity,” the captain mused. “Rarely seen a one-stacker with cleaner lines. Mr. Hilemore, oversee the transfer of her guns, plus any other armaments you can gather, then soak her in oil and burn her.”
“Aye, sir. And the enemy dead?”
“What of them?”
It was Lemhill who replied, his tone possessed of a certain, emphatic conviction. “Pirates or not, those who die at sea belong to the King of the Deep. We burn them, we deny him his due.”
“Doesn’t do to anger him, right enough,” Bozware agreed. “And the men are like to get antsy if we fail to observe custom.”
“Very well,” the captain said, evidently wearied by his officers’ superstitious attachments. “Mr. Hilemore, ensure the enemy dead are consigned to the sea with due ceremony. Once the Windqueen is safely burned we have a bombardment to deliver. Number One, I shall require you to operate as gunnery officer for the remainder of the voyage. Transfer any duties you feel appropriate to Mr. Hilemore.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Excellent. I shall require a plan of bombardment by tomorrow morning. Let’s see if we can’t level this den of sea-rats, shall we?”
—
“Words?” the pirate captain asked him, face striped by the shadows of the brig’s iron bars. She sat slumped on the narrow, mattressless bunk with her daughter curled up by her side. The girl’s eyes were bright as she stared over her mother’s shoulder, whether in accusation or fear Hilemore couldn’t tell. Both were barefoot and dressed in engineer’s overalls: free of any laces or belts that might cheat the hangman. “What words?”
“Words for the dead.” Hilemore struggled for the right translation. His Varestian was adequate but mostly limited to matters sea-related. “Prayers,” he said in Mandinorian, knowing the woman could speak it, all sailors did. “What prayers do you want said for your crew?”
“None.” She turned away from him, face set in hard dismissal as she slipped back into her own tongue. “Words spoken by an oath-breaker are piss on the breeze. The Lords of Sea, Salt and Wind would shield their ears against them.”
“I have broken no oath to you,” Hilemore insisted. “You will face trial and the girl will be freed when we arrive in Feros.”
The woman gave a harsh, disgusted laugh then sobered when she saw his serious gaze. “You don’t know, do you?” she asked with narrowed eyes, switching back to softly accented Mandinorian. “Why they sent you after us.”
“You are pirates.”
“No.” She leaned forward on the bunk, face coming closer to the bars. He noticed for the first time how young she was, barely older than he in fact. Despite her comparative youth there was an undoubted strength to her features, accentuated by the keen intelligence he saw in her eyes. Seeing her up close he could understand how she had commanded a ship of cutthroats with such success.
“I have been a pirate, in my time,” she told him, “until a more lucrative offer was made me. What do you know about the Windqueen, Lieutenant? Scourge of the trade routes, phantom of the seas, striking wherever the cargo was richest. The most successful and feared pirate ship in years. Why do you think we were so successful? Why do you think your captain found us with such ease?”
“Sound intelligence and expert navigation.”
A very small grin played over her lips. “Intelligence, yes. But from where?”
“What are you saying?”
“One man’s pirate is another’s privateer. Would it interest you to know, Lieutenant, that the Windqueen, during all the years she hunted the waves, never once took an Ironship vessel?”
She’s a liar, and a murderer to boot. But something in the woman’s bearing gave him pause, the soft reflection in her voice and absence of anger told of a resignation to her fate. She knows no words will save her. So why lie?
“It was that little favour we did the Protectorate in Carvenport, I assume,” she said when he didn’t respond, slumping back on the bunk and putting an arm around the girl. “Who would have thought witnessing the slaughter of a few Blinds cutthroats was worth all our lives? Or perhaps they decided our success had become too much of a potential embarrassment.”
She looked away and lapsed into silence, hand tracing through her daughter’s hair as she snuggled closer. Realising the fruitlessness of further questions, Hilemore turned to go.
“A coin,” she said as he rapped his knuckles on the heavy door for the guard to let him out.
“What?” he enquired, glancing back.
“They need to carry a coin into the depths. Payment to the Lord of the Sea for all they took from him in life. One copper crown each should suffice.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“And a gold one for the Windqueen.”
“I doubt my captain would agree to that.”
“There’s a cache of Dalcian sovereigns hidden in the hold. I’ll tell you where to find it if you spare one for my ship.” She raised her gaze once more, anger shining clear for the first time. “Gold might persuade the Lord to find a home for her soul in his dominion. Since I am to be denied it, I would like her to take my place. So speak my name when you cast it forth.”
—
Hilemore raised himself up on the bow and threw the coin into the roiling smoke as the Windqueen slipped below the waves, leaving a flaming patch of oil on the swell. As she had bidden he spoke the pirate’s name when the coin splashed into the burning waves, “Zenida Okanas.” The Viable’s paddles began to turn soon after, taking them westwards towards the pirate den. His gaze lingered on the blaze as it faded into the darkening horizon. Pirate she may have been but it was always sad to watch a ship die, especially one so finely made. When the last flicker of flame had vanished he made his way to the engine room.
He found Tottleborn seated on his platform, engrossed in another product of the vulgar press. This one bore the title Slave of the Spoiled and featured an appropriately lurid cover. An improbably muscled and anvil-jawed man of North Mandinorian complexion attempted to shield a buxom and barely clothed woman from an advancing mob of mis-shapen savages. Hilemore had never set eyes on a Spoiled but, from the vagueness of the illustration, doubted the artist had either.
“I have a chest full of real literature if you’d care to borrow some,” he told Tottleborn, ascending the gangway to his platform. The auxiliary power plant was in full clattering swing, obliging him to shout. “Scirwood, Dasmere, all the greats.”
“Great and turgid in equal measure,” Tottleborn replied, not looking up from the book. “I will thank you to allow me to pursue my own literary path, Lieutenant.”
Despite the continuing resentment that coloured his ton
e Hilemore discerned an upturn in the Blood-blessed’s mood today. The reason was not hard to divine. “It seems your portent was mistaken,” he said, raising his arms to gesture at the undamaged engine room. “I told you no harm could come to you in here.”
“Indeed you did. Didn’t stop me nearly pissing myself when the guns started up though.”
“A natural and very common reaction.” He produced his pocket-watch and flipped the case open to display the time.
“Do we have to?” Tottleborn groaned, laying his book aside. “We did this only yesterday.”
“Regulations. The emergency Blue-trance will be observed after every combat action. The Sea Board needs to know the condition of its ships at all times. It’s only sixty seconds, Mr. Tottleborn. You will relay our casualty figures and the value of cargo seized. Then you can return to your”—he cast a caustic glance at the book—“literary pursuits.”
A few moments later he stood watching as the young Blood-blessed sat eyes closed in the ward-room, hands clasped before him on the table. He had ingested only a small measure of product, his face taking on the serene aspect that seemed to be typical of the trance, as if all emotion had either been suppressed somehow or had fled the body. Hilemore kept count of the seconds with his watch, glancing up in expectation when the second hand ticked past the minute. However, Tottleborn’s trance continued. Hilemore frowned, returning his gaze to the watch and counting off another full minute, then another. Thirty more seconds elapsed before the Blood-blessed issued a loud, convulsive gasp. He seemed to deflate in his chair, head lolling forward and hands splayed on the table. His back heaved as he drew in a series of long, retching breaths, finally raising his head to regard Hilemore with a face bleached of colour.
“Didn’t take enough,” he rasped. “Had to cling on as long as I could.” He jerked convulsively and vomited, nearly falling from his chair. Hilemore rushed forward to keep him upright, settling him back into his seat.