Once they had completed all the repairs they could, Lutharon had taken to the water once more to push the craft out of the lagoon and onto the lake. Firing the engine proved to be a less complicated matter than either Clay or Scriberson expected. The astronomer simply injected a quarter of Ethelynne’s vial into a nozzle on the engine’s topside whereupon it flowed into a small chamber covered by thick glass. “Now what?” Clay asked.
“You burn it.” Scriberson handed him the vial. He took a sip then focused on the product behind the glass, stepping back in instinctive alarm when it burst into fiery life. The drive-shaft began to turn immediately, giving off a loud squealing that only abated when Scriberson poured some oil over it.
They endeavoured to keep to true south since departing the lagoon, Preacher still aboard much to Clay’s surprise. He sat at the prow, staring fixedly ahead and not once glancing up at the drake and rider overhead, not even when they came swooping down to deposit another pair of over-large salmon on the deck.
Firpike had made one more abortive attempt to persuade Braddon to pay a brief visit to the supposed location of the fabled treasure ship, sternly refused despite Loriabeth’s enthusiastic support. “C’mon, Pa,” she pleaded. “Let’s have us an adventure and maybe get rich into the bargain.” It had been to no avail and Firpike was reduced to leaning over the side to peer into the depths of the lake, as if some glimmering clue might catch his eye.
“Wouldn’t do that,” Foxbine advised the disgraced scholar. “Krystaline’s famed for its river Greens. Grow big as Reds they say, and they ain’t shy.”
“I know well the fauna of this lake, madam,” Firpike sniffed. “The Greens here are known to be nocturnal hunters and to steer clear of boats.”
“Tell that to the poor bastard who wrote that,” Clay said, nodding at the log-book Scriberson had taken to keeping close at hand.
“In point of fact, young man,” Firpike replied, “the unfortunate skipper’s account supports my research. They were attacked when they foolishly conducted a diving expedition at night.” He gave a wistful sigh and returned his gaze to the water. “So much knowledge to hand and yet so far away.”
“Doesn’t it say anything about what manner of ship it was?” Scriberson asked. He had taken a break from tending the engine and sat on the deck regarding Firpike with his habitual suspicion, though now it was augmented by a reluctant curiosity.
“The description is vague,” Firpike replied, taking up the log-book and holding it to his chest, reminding Clay of a child worried his playmate might steal his toy.
“Spill it, Doc,” Loriabeth said. “We all found this boat, so we all got a stake in the treasure.”
Firpike’s gaze tracked over them, the recurrent awareness that he was not amongst friends looming large in his face as he sullenly opened the log-book and extracted a loose page. “This appears to be a copy of an ancient Dalcian text. It is known that the Dalcians managed to navigate the eastern flank of the Barrier Isles and the Razor Sea long before Queen Arrad discovered the northern strait. However, their numbers were always too small to establish a colony and few expeditions ever returned. Those that did were often dismissed as madmen or liars with their fanciful tales of fire-breathing beasts and great cities rising from the jungle. This”—he held up the page—“appears to be a fragment from an account describing one such voyage. The language is so archaic it defies accurate translation. However, it seems this Mr. O., whoever he was, spent considerable time and money seeking out Dalcian calligraphers who could help decipher its meaning.”
“The period?” Scriberson enquired.
“Early Satura Magisterium.”
The astronomer gave a sceptical frown. “That’s over two thousand years ago.”
“Closer to three, in fact.” Firpike’s tone was more than a little smug.
“What’s it say about the ship?” Loriabeth said.
“This is where it becomes most obscure.” Firpike looked again at the loose page. “It seems the best interpretation the calligraphers could come up with was ‘a vessel of wonder, unbound by earth or sea, come to rest with precious cargo ’neath the silver waters.’ There are some additional geographical references that I assume led Mr. O. to this lake.”
“Seems a slight thing to risk so much for,” Clay said. “Just a few lines from an age long-gone.”
“Precious cargo,” Loriabeth said. “Could be anything down there.”
“More likely nothing.” Clay looked up to see Braddon standing with his arms crossed and visage more fierce than any worn throughout the whole journey from Carvenport. “We went wandering off after one distraction already,” he said. “And it damn near did for us all. That ain’t happening again. We’re heading south to the Coppersoles where we will fulfil our contract, and that’s all there is to it. Any of you wanna disagree, you’re welcome to depart this company right now and enjoy the swim.” He turned his glower on Firpike, pointing at the log-book. “You do what you want with all that guff when we part ways. But I don’t want any more talk of it in this company.”
Braddon’s gaze softened a little as he settled it on Scriberson. “Young man, how about you and Clay seeing if you can get a knot or two extra out of that engine. I don’t relish being on this lake a moment longer than necessary.”
—
They were able to increase speed to a creditable fifteen knots by the simple expedient of adding a third of their remaining product to the combustion chamber. Even so, the southern horizon remained stubbornly free of mountains by the time the sun began to fade. Lutharon came swooping down as sunset cast an orange tint over the eastern sky. Ethelynne could be seen pointing emphatically at the shore-line to the west.
“Seems she don’t think it’s a good idea to be out here come nightfall, Captain,” Skaggerhill noted and Braddon gave the reluctant order to find a mooring for the night.
“The Green packs become more numerous in the lake’s southern reaches,” Ethelynne explained over a supper of yet more fish, enlivened somewhat by Skaggerhill’s inventive use of seasoning. He had steered the River Maiden into a shallow bay just as the last light fled the sky. Ethelynne insisted they vacate the boat and wade to shore, making sure not to leave any lights burning on board. “They’re attracted to bright things.”
“They really grow big as Reds here?” Skaggerhill asked her.
“Certainly, some even bigger, and decidedly more aggressive in defending their territory. The southern shallows are rich in manatees, dolphins and other sundry beasts for them to hunt.”
“What about Spoiled?” Braddon asked her. “We likely to find any when we reach the mountains?”
“The coastal tribes were wiped out by Briteshore’s Contractors years ago. However, there remain some populous enclaves in the higher peaks.” She paused to offer an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid they aren’t very welcoming to visitors.”
As usual, Clay volunteered for first watch along with Silverpin. They sat together on a large rock close to the shore that offered a decent all-round view, Silverpin resting her head on his shoulder as he ran a hand through her blonde locks. They hadn’t made love since leaving the Firejack and he found himself resisting the foolish notion of suggesting a surreptitious assignation in the jungle. Somehow though, the very absurdity of the idea made it more alluring, the thought of them pressed together in the undergrowth, rolling around in the dark . . .
He came to his senses as she abruptly straightened, disentangling herself and coming to a crouch with spear in hand. The reason for her alarm soon became obvious. Lutharon was breathing fire. The drake stood at the shore-line, silhouetted by his own flames, tail thrashing in obvious agitation as he cast repeated jets of flame out over the lake. In between each breath he would move from side to side, growling as his wings flared then folded.
“What in the Travail is he doing?” Clay wondered aloud.
“Warning
.”
Clay turned to find Ethelynne standing near by. She was wearing her swaddle-coat, the hood drawn back to leave her face bare, revealing an altogether more serious expression than any he had seen her display before.
“Warning what?” he asked but she said nothing, her gaze entirely fixed on the Black as he continued his fiery display. A sudden movement on the lake caught Clay’s eye, a flash of white as something broke the surface, something large and fast. Lutharon immediately became even more agitated, rearing back on his hind legs to raise himself, standing well over twenty feet off the ground as he spread his wings and roared. More white flashes erupted on the lake and Clay realised whatever was out there wasn’t alone. He could hear screeching now, high-pitched and loud enough to cut through Lutharon’s warning roar. It was different from the scream of the jungle Greens but possessed much the same ability to leave a chill in the soul. Lutharon, however, remained uncowed.
He launched himself into the air, still roaring, a mighty flap of his wings taking him out over the water where he cast a torrent of flame down at the thrashing water. Clay could see them in the glow of the drake’s fire, jaws snapping and tails thrashing as they spat their own fire in response, though the flames seemed slight in comparison. Lutharon’s wings thrummed as he hovered, roaring and jetting flame until the foaming water beneath finally subsided into a steaming calm. He beat the air to gain more height and circled the spot for several minutes, head swivelling about as he scanned the water for enemies. Apparently satisfied, he returned to the shore where Ethelynne was waiting. She pressed herself against his flank as he shielded her with a wing, gaze still roving the lake.
“Doesn’t make sense,” Clay heard Ethelynne say from beneath the ebony curtain of the wing. He moved closer, motioning for Silverpin to stay put. He had expected some sign of aggression from Lutharon but the drake barely spared him a glance before lifting a wing and allowing him to move to Ethelynne’s side.
“What doesn’t make sense?” he asked.
She had pressed her face into Lutharon’s flank and when she turned to him he was appalled to see tears shining on her cheeks. “He says they’ve gone mad.”
—
The next day dawned behind a heavy cloud that continued to thicken throughout the morning. By midday the River Maiden paddled under a grey-black sky and thunder could be heard rumbling to the south. “Storm coming,” Skaggerhill pronounced, somewhat redundantly. “Best get any bailing gear ready. This tub handles poorly at the best of times. Can’t speak for how she’ll steer all filled up with rain-water.”
“The bilge-pump seems to be in reasonable condition,” Scriberson said. “With Clay’s help I should be able to get it working.”
The pump’s pipe-work had more than a few blockages which Clay was able to clear with a small amount of Black. It was delicate work, but well within his expertise. “I’ve only ever seen it used for large-scale manufacturing,” Scriberson said as Clay carefully drew out a glob of congealed engine grease. “Quite the talent, sir.”
“And I got plenty of practice lifting coins and watches from manager’s pockets back in Carvenport.”
“Oh.” Scriberson blinked and looked away in discomfort. “You were . . .”
“Blinds scum all the way,” Clay finished, enjoying the astronomer’s embarrassment. “Or a notorious thief and killer, according to my uncle.” He returned his attention to the pump, fingers exploring the thick rubber tube protruding from the main valve and detecting a hard lump. “Knew a fella back in the Blinds,” he went on, concentrating on the lump and summoning the modicum of product he had swallowed to inch it along the tube, “had such a knowledge of a man’s innards, he could reach inside with the Black to stop a heart or pinch a vein. Didn’t even have to see it. He used to bribe a morgue attendant to let him in so he could practice on the corpses.”
“A valuable skill, I assume,” Scriberson said, plainly appalled but keeping any disgust from his face.
You acting now? Clay wondered, thinking back on Miss Lethridge’s warning to watch this one closely. “Right,” he replied, still guiding the lump through the tube. “Cost you a packet to hire Black Bildon. Always wondered if I should try to learn his tricks, ask him for an apprenticeship or some such. Somebody killed him before I could.” He laughed as the lump came to the end of the tube, revealed as a rusted iron bolt as it popped into his hand. “Can’t think why.”
If it’s an act, it’s a good one, he decided, seeing the expression on Scriberson’s face: repugnance mixed with pity.
“I’m glad such things are behind you, Clay,” the astronomer said.
Clay tossed the bolt aside and rose to his haunches, shuffling closer to Scriberson and speaking softly. “Neither of us are stupid men, Scribes. So, I’m given to think you already guessed we ain’t going to the Coppersoles to hunt for Black. Am I right?”
Scriberson glanced at the hold’s open hatch then nodded slowly, keeping his voice low. “It seemed unlikely Miss Drystone would be assisting you if that were the case. And I do know her story.”
“Then you know the best thing you can do the moment we get anywhere near a settlement is take off and don’t look back. Forget the alignment. Forget whatever prizes, medals or bonuses they’ll pile on you for looking through that tube of yours at the right moment. What’s in those mountains ain’t worth your life.”
“Is it worth yours?”
Clay thought about how he had clung to life back in the Blinds, when every day was a battle. Now, here he was moving ever closer to something he knew would most likely see him dead, and yet he had no real thought of turning back. “There’s a thing needs to be done,” was all he could think to say.
A shout came from outside, Foxbine’s voice raised in alarm. Clay took a moment to strap on the Stinger’s holster and followed Scriberson onto the deck. The gunhand stood at the prow, hopping on her good leg and pointing at something directly ahead. The rain had started by now, masking the horizon in a thick haze of vapour, but Clay could make out a dark shape in the water. For a moment he thought it might be a drake but soon discerned it as wreckage. “Stop the engine,” Braddon ordered and Scriberson rushed off to comply.
The River Maiden slowed as the engine died, Braddon going to the starboard rail to latch onto the wreckage with one of the pole-hooks they had found on board. “Thick planking,” he commented, Clay taking a moment to recognise the flotsam as a ragged chunk of a boat’s hull, scorched black in most places.
“Happened recently,” Skaggerhill judged. “Timber rots if it’s more than a few days in water.”
“There’s more here,” Foxbine called from the prow. They found further sundered planking, plus some barrels bobbing in the swell, all showing signs of recent burning. Then, as they continued to drift south with the current, Loriabeth spotted a man clinging to a piece of wreckage a hundred yards off the port side. Keen not to use up all their product Braddon had them turn the Maiden’s paddle by hand whilst Skaggerhill steered them towards the survivor.
“Hey!” Loriabeth called to him as they drew within reach. “Wake up, mister!”
There was no response, the man remaining slumped in apparent exhaustion, his lower half beneath the water. Braddon used the pole-hook to draw the wreckage closer but this immediately upset the balance, tipping the man loose. Loriabeth immediately turned away, retching as the man bobbed in the water, his entrails splaying out from his severed torso like the tentacles of some sea creature. He stared up at them with empty, milky-white eyes, mouth open in a strangely baffled expression.
“Briteshore Minerals,” Skaggerhill said, pointing at the lettering stencilled onto the wreckage.
“It must have been a survey craft,” Scriberson said. “The lake-bed is believed to be rich in mineral deposits.”
“Seems they found something more than just rocks,” Clay observed.
“Greens.” Skaggerhill nodded at th
e bobbing man. “Bit him clean in half.”
“Can’t do nothing for him now,” Braddon said as they continued to stare. “Let’s set about gathering up these barrels, see if there’s anything we can use. Clay, Mr. Scriberson, see to the engine.”
—
“Erm.” Loriabeth stared down at the barrel she had just levered open with her belt knife, taking a long step back. “Pa.”
“Well, that’s a turn-up,” Braddon mused, stroking his chin as he regarded the barrel’s contents. It appeared to Clay to consist of a dozen brown tubes, all packed tight in a binding of cotton wool and sealed against the water with oilskin.
“What’s that?” he asked, moving closer only for his uncle to gently push him back.
“Twelve sticks of Briteshore’s finest accelerating agent,” Braddon said, adding, “Explosives, boy,” when Clay shrugged in bafflement.
“Might be best to tip it over the side,” Foxbine said, keeping well back and eyeing the barrel with considerable suspicion. “Seen a fella get turned to powder by just an inch worth of that stuff.”
“We’re too low on ammo to be cautious now, Miss Foxbine,” Braddon told her, crouching to carefully replace the barrel’s lid.
They looked up at a loud squawk from Lutharon. The rain had abated an hour after they traversed the wreckage of the Briteshore vessel, finding more barrels on the way, some packed with greatly welcomed foodstuffs, others tools and equipment of little use, and one with brandy which Braddon refused to let on board, much to Firpike’s annoyance. The sky cleared a little after noon, the clouds fading to reveal the black shadow of Lutharon’s cruciform shape above. It seemed he and Ethelynne had encountered little trouble tracking them through the rain-storm.
The drake described a slow, descending circle and they could see Ethelynne pointing to the south-west. Skaggerhill duly altered course and they saw it after only another mile, faint and formless at first but soon resolving into the jagged grey mass of a mountain range. They were finally at the Coppersoles.