The Waking Fire

  III

  THE BLESSED AND THE DAMNED

  The Blessing remains perhaps the most baffling mystery as yet unsolved by modern science. Even in this new age dominated by the rational pursuit of profit, the answer to this question still eludes our best minds: Why is only one in every thousand born to each generation afforded the ability to make use of the wondrous properties found in the blood of the Arradsian drake? Extensive research, most recently the exhaustive statistical analysis produced by Professor Skylar Blackfold of the Consolidated Research Company, has uncovered no shared physical characteristics between the Blessed. Height, pigmentation, eye-colour and the new science of blood grouping, reveal no commonalities between subjects. The phenomenon is also not hereditary; Blessed parents do not produce Blessed children. Social research has also provided no useful insight as personality amongst the Blessed is as varied as the rest of the population. Depending on their beginning station in life, a Blood-blessed is just as likely to embark upon a career of base criminality as they are to find productive and responsible employment. The Blessing, it appears, is as random as the weather.

  From A Lay-person’s Guide to Plasmology by Miss Amorea Findlestack. Ironship Press—Company Year 190 (1579 by the Mandinorian Calendar).

  CHAPTER 33

  Hilemore

  “The northern route is suicide,” Hilemore said. “As the Corvantine attack on the Hive demonstrated. Fast as we are, we can’t out-run every ship likely to bar our path, and enemy patrols will grow ever more numerous as we draw near Feros, assuming we even get that far.”

  He was alone with Zenida in the ward-room, having unfurled a map of the eastern Isles on the table. He had given the tiller over to her upon clearing the Hive’s harbour mouth, keeping the Viable at full speed and trusting her to navigate a course through the winding channels to the south. It had been a perilous enterprise, even with her knowledge. Steering a vessel of such size through so many narrow passages was a considerable challenge and they had come close to running aground more than once. However, as the sky grew dark and the way behind remained free of any pursuers, he knew his trust hadn’t been misplaced.

  He ordered Bozware to switch to auxiliary power and reduced speed to dead slow. Zenida, face slick with sweat from her exertions at the wheel, guided the ship to the south-side of a tall, rocky islet whereupon she collapsed. Hilemore caught her as she fell, carrying her back to Tottleborn’s old cabin and laying her on the bed next to Akina.

  “I wish she’d killed Arshav,” the girl said, pulling a blanket over her mother.

  “Killing one of your own blood is not an easy thing,” Hilemore replied, thinking back over the many times he had been tempted to plunge a knife into his father’s back during yet another drunken catastrophe at the dining-table.

  “It won’t be for me,” the girl said before none-too-gently pushing him from the cabin and firmly closing the door.

  Zenida didn’t re-emerge for a full day, and when she did it appeared the rest had done much to restore both her vitality and facility for caustic observation. “So, we will simply sail around the Isles until the war ends? Forgive me, Captain, but the pleasure of your company is not so alluring and I have pressing family matters in Varestia to attend to. My darling brother will no doubt be doing everything in his power to get there before I do.”

  “Assuming he survived the attack.”

  “Oh, he survived, you can be sure of that. And the bitch that whelped him.”

  “In any case,” he said, forcing a patient tone into his voice, “the southern course offers certain opportunities.” He traced his finger along the eastern edge of the Isles to where they curved towards Arradsia’s south-eastern coast-line. “Hadlock,” he said, tapping the dot at the head of an inlet that stretched into the Coppersole Mountains from the south-eastern coast.

  “A Briteshore holding,” she said.

  “With an Ironship concession and berthing rights for Protectorate Vessels. Also, we should be able to purchase sufficient product to carry us to Varestia.”

  Zenida raised an eyebrow. “You wish to take me home, Captain?”

  “I wish to save my ship and, if possible, continue to prosecute this war. Varestia will put us close to the Corvantine home waters and maritime trade-routes, with which I’m sure you are highly familiar. With most of their fleet concentrated around Arradsia, the pickings are likely to be rich, wouldn’t you say?”

  Her lips twitched in amusement, though he saw the definite glimmer of interest in her eyes. “I thought I was the pirate here.”

  “Privateer,” he reminded her. “And also now contracted crew of an Ironship Protectorate Vessel in time of war.”

  “Your entire Protectorate can perish from the black pox for all I care. They did try to kill me, if you recall.”

  “Purely a matter of business, I’m sure. And so is this.”

  She returned her gaze to the map, sighing and shaking her head. “It’s a very long way.”

  “It’s either this or we strike out for Dalcia. Hundreds of miles of open ocean and I doubt we’ll find much welcome at the end of it.”

  “It’s not so much the passage through the Isles that concerns me.” Her finger circled the apparently open water between the tail-end of the eastern Isles and the south Arradsian coast. “They call it the Razor Sea for a reason. More hidden reefs than can easily be counted. And there’s nothing between it and the waters off Carvenport. Who’s to say the Corvantine Fleet isn’t already patrolling the region?”

  “A risk we’ll have to run. Unless you wish to sit out the war here whilst your brother rebuilds his fortunes in your homeland.”

  She glared at him for a second then stood back from the map, folding her arms. “I believe it’s time to renegotiate my contract,” she said. “Equal shares in all prize money. Half for me, half for the ship. Think of it as compensation for your Syndicate’s betrayal.” Seeing his burgeoning anger, she added. “Or perhaps you’d like to fire the engine and navigate both the Isles and the Razor Sea yourself?”

  —

  It took two days of careful piloting to reach the Razor Sea, Hilemore using the time to return the Viable to some semblance of military readiness. The worst of the damage to her decking and upper works was repaired and Ensign Tollver given the task of overseeing an application of fresh paint which obscured much of the blackening she had received. Hilemore reinstituted daily drills for the gun-crews and riflemen, something that aroused little grumbling now that they had all gained a hard education in the rigours of battle. His principal worry remained their diminished numbers. So far, Dr. Weygrand had returned only two men to active duty and maintained a rigid determination not to release more until sure of their recovery.

  “The ship is your charge,” the doctor reminded him during a visit to the sick-bay. “These men are mine.”

  Hilemore paused at the bunk where Captain Trumane lay, still insensible after so many days. “No change, then?”

  “Actually, he started shouting in his sleep last night,” Weygrand said. “Not for very long, but it’s a good sign.”

  Hilemore surveyed the captain’s slack features, wondering whether it would be for the best if he did return from whatever depths had claimed him. Although Hilemore knew Trumane’s handling of the ship during the battle had saved them from destruction, he had severe doubts the man would approve of his accommodations with Zenida, or his chosen course of action. Another worry best set aside, he told himself, turning to the doctor. “We have a copious stock of Green, now. Wouldn’t that speed the recovery of these men?”

  “Not everything is cured by Green, sir. If it was, there’d be no need for doctors.”

  He checked on the engine room next, finding the Chief in surprisingly cheerful spirits. “Both my babes in fine working order,” he said, grease-black cheeks bunching in a smile as he gestured to the two engines. “After all the punishment they’ve
had, it’s a Seer-blessed miracle.”

  “If so, you wrought it, Chief,” Hilemore told him, then frowned at the sight of a small figure in much-modified overalls moving about the auxiliary gearing with an oil-can. “What’s she doing here?” he asked.

  “Her mother brought her down yesterday, told me to put her to work. Got a sense she’s tired of having her cooped up in that cabin.”

  Hilemore briefly considered ordering the girl up top but, seeing the keen animation in her face as she tended the machinery, decided to leave her be. Better this than spending more time with Tottleborn’s collection of filth, he thought. “If we encounter any more action, make sure she’s taken aloft,” he told the Chief.

  “Aye, sir.”

  They reached the southern tip of the Isles that evening where Zenida insisted they anchor and wait for morning. “Running the Razors in darkness is madness,” she told him.

  “I trust your knowledge will see us safely through,” he said, frowning as she replied with only a vague nod. “You are familiar with these waters?”

  She didn’t look at him. “I’ve sailed them before.”

  “How often?”

  He watched her hands twitch on the wheel. “Once, when serving on my father’s ship.”

  “You mean you weren’t even in command?”

  She rounded on him, eyes flashing. “Have you ever sailed here, Captain?”

  He thought about retrieving their reworded contract and burning it in front of her, but instead took a turn about the deck to calm his anger. The fact that he had no alternative but to trust his ship to her knowledge, meagre though it was, did not sit well. No good choices in war, he reminded himself, another of his grandfather’s observations. War is a storm, lad. With a good crew and a good ship, maybe you can ride it out. But there’s never been a ship didn’t take a battering in a storm.

  Hilemore ran a hand along the Viable’s scarred timbers, seeking to banish his worries with as much certainty as he could muster. A good ship I have, and a crew to match it.

  —

  At first glance the Razor Sea seemed like any other stretch of ocean, a little more prone to wayward currents than some, but hardly unusual. It was only when they had covered the first ten miles that Hilemore came to appreciate the dangers lurking beneath the surface. The sea had a tendency to transform from placidity to swirling eddy or frothing swell in a matter of seconds, without any change in weather or wind to provide a warning. Zenida insisted they remain on auxiliary power and kept the Viable at no more than one-third speed throughout the first day, making several dramatic course changes whilst teams of crewmen fore and aft took soundings with lead weight and rope.

  “Eight fathoms!” the ensign in charge of the forward team called out, soon echoed by the team at the stern.

  “The most shallow stretch yet,” Hilemore commented to Zenida, who barely nodded, her concentration fixed entirely on the course and the bridge instruments. She had spent much of the preceding night engaged in a close study of the Viable’s charts, scribbling down and memorising the series of manoeuvres that would, he hoped, see them safely through this most perilous region.

  “Dead slow,” she ordered, maintaining her course. “And tell them to check for sand.”

  Hilemore duly relayed the order, watching the sounding teams swing the lead once more, this time with a dab of tallow smeared on the end of the weight. “Six fathoms!” the ensign at the bow reported, checking the fragments sticking to the tallow. “Sand and coral beneath!”

  “We’re on top of it,” Zenida commented, correcting course as a sudden current began to push the bows to port.

  “On top of what?” Hilemore asked.

  “See for yourself,” she replied, nodding towards the side. Hilemore went outside and leaned over the railing to peer down at the sea. The water was unusually clear and he could see a school of fish darting about near the port paddle, and below them the multi-hued, jagged shapes of close-packed coral. She had steered them directly over a reef.

  “Four fathoms!” the sounding team called out.

  Hilemore returned to the bridge and spoke quietly into Zenida’s ear. “What in the Travail are you doing?”

  “It goes on for four hundred miles north and the same distance south,” she said, spinning the wheel once more to compensate for the current. “There’s no way around it if you want to make Hadlock in anything like reasonable time.” She checked the bridge clock then the compass. “Trust me, Captain. If I meant to wreck this ship I could have done so a hundred times in the Isles.”

  “Three and one-half fathoms!”

  Twenty-one feet of depth, he thought. The Viable’s draught at her current loading was nineteen. “We could off-load some cargo,” he said. “Reduce the weight.”

  “Unnecessary,” Zenida replied.

  “We have only two feet of clearance.”

  She said nothing for some time, her gaze flicking continually between compass and clock. When the sounding team reported again the result was a surprise. “Ten and one-quarter fathoms!”

  “Ten,” Zenida repeated, pursing her lips. “It was a good twenty fathoms deep a decade ago. It must have grown back.”

  “Grown?” Hilemore asked in bafflement.

  “My father had a very robust approach to obstacles,” she said. “If something was in his way, he tended to knock it down. We spent the best part of a summer here lowering explosive charges to blow a hole in this reef. It proved its worth soon enough. Briteshore ships sailing from Hadlock were always a rich prize, and they were poorly armed in those days since what pirate would risk the Razors to get at them? My share was sufficient for me to purchase my own ship, much to Father’s annoyance.”

  She gave a weary sigh and relaxed her hold on the wheel, turning to Talmant. “Take her for me, lad. It’s clear water for the next sixty miles.”

  —

  Hilemore awoke to the hard feel of the cabin deck beneath his cheek, his bleary vision clearing to see a spy-glass rolling towards him across the planking. He tried to get up and realised he was tangled in his bed-clothes, the continual pitching of the deck frustrating his attempts to get free. A quick glance at the port-hole confirmed his suspicion. The rain lashed against the glass and lightning flashed to throw stark shadows onto the wall. Storm.

  He stumbled onto the bridge a bare five minutes later, liberally soaked from the water cascading over the rails as tall waves pounded the immobile vessel. They had come to a halt at nightfall as per Zenida’s instruction. She advised they had one more reef-maze to traverse the following day before reaching open water, an impossible task at night. The sea had been relatively placid then, but for a few squalls on the western horizon. As ever, the sea proved an erratic mistress.

  “Blew up only a quarter hour ago, sir,” Ensign Tollver said, clinging desperately to the wheel. Talmant had been sent below at change of watch for some much-needed rest.

  “And why are we still at anchor?” Hilemore demanded, but the boy could only gape at him in white-faced incomprehension. Hilemore cursed and went to the lanyard, pulling the six long blasts that signified a ship-threatening emergency.

  “Look alive down there!” he yelled into the speaking-tube, being rewarded a moment later by the dull voice of one of Bozware’s stokers.

  “Sir?”

  “Get the Chief out of bed,” Hilemore ordered. “And Captain Okanas. The blood-burner is to be brought on-line with all haste.”

  He went outside, receiving an immediate dunking from another pounding wave as he clambered down to the main-deck. “You there!” he called to a pair of crewmen clinging to one of the life-boat hawsers. “Get the stern anchor raised or we’ll be swamped!”

  They displayed some initial hesitation but evidently had enough discipline and experience to see the wisdom in following his order and were soon staggering towards the stern. Hilemore made for the
fore-deck, finding himself swept from his feet more than once as the waves continued to pound at the Viable. At one point he found himself pressed up against one of the starboard guns, the raging sea only a few feet from his face as the ship wallowed under the pressure. He was trying to regain his feet when he saw it, something out in the storm, something that caught a gleam as lightning flashed again. It was only for an instant and gone too soon to convince him it had been more than just a figment of his excited mind; an impression of speed and fluidity, knifing through the roiling swell. Then it was gone.

  It can’t be, he thought, still staring out at the storm. Not in these waters surely.

  “Sir?” Steelfine’s meaty hands gripped him and pulled him upright, the Islander’s tattooed face rendered momentarily demonic by a lightning flash as he leaned in to hear Hilemore’s order.

  “The forward anchor!”

  The Viable gave an abrupt lurch to starboard as they reached the fore-deck, indicating the aft anchor had either been raised or come loose. They struggled on, reaching the winch. The job of raising the anchor was usually done by a team of four sailors, but, thanks to Steelfine’s strength they managed to make the three turns of the winch needed to dislodge the great iron grapnel from the sea-bed. For a few seconds the Viable swung about wildly, at the mercy of wind and wave, but then the paddles jerked into life and the bow settled to something resembling a course.

  “Rouse every man not yet awake!” Hilemore yelled to Steelfine as they locked the winch down. The anchor wasn’t fully raised but it couldn’t be helped. “Ensure all hatches are secured and make sure provisions are made ready if we have to take to the boats.”

  He made his way to the bridge, a less perilous journey now that they were underway and the danger of swamping had passed. He was relieved to find Talmant at the wheel, Tollver standing at the speaking-tube, head lowered in shame.

  “We didn’t sink, lad,” Hilemore said, patting his shoulder. “That’s all that matters.”