“I pitied him,” Silverpin said, Clay seeing that her gaze was fixed on the girl as she used a small hand to wipe away the tear tracing down her cheek. “It seemed so unfair. But for me to receive my gift, he had to die.” Her eyes drifted to her mother. “And so did she.”
The harvester positioned the spile at the Black’s neck, just above the juncture with his shoulder where the artery was thickest, and pounded it home with three quick strikes of the hammer. The blood began to flow immediately, spattering onto the floor in thick jets as the Black shuddered in his chains. The woman reached down to gather her daughter into her arms, waiting and watching the blood flow.
“Still,” Silverpin said. “I felt he at least deserved revenge. And I had need of a distraction.”
Some idle eye in the crowd must have finally noticed the woman for a scream pealed out as she hugged her daughter tighter and jumped into the vat. She landed directly in the torrent of blood, her skin blistering immediately wherever it touched her. The agony must have been indescribable but she issued no cries. Instead, she held the little girl out so that the gush of blood flowed over every inch of the child’s skin and into her open mouth. Even for a Blood-blessed, exposure to so much product should have been fatal. Instead she laughed, even as her mother, skin mottled with blisters and part dissolved by the red stream, collapsed into the spreading pool of raw product. The girl didn’t appear to have any interest in her mother’s ghastly fate, jumping and giggling in excitement as the blood covered her. Whilst she didn’t burn, she did change, her already pale skin bleached to alabaster as she continued to rejoice in the red stream.
The harvester, who had until this moment remained rooted in shock at the horror confronting him, rushed towards the child, no doubt intending rescue. She scowled as his leather-clad hands touched her shoulders, and the harvester flew away, his body blurring before it slammed into the side of the vat with a crack that told of a shattered spine. The little girl turned to regard the Black and, for an instant, their eyes met. Clay saw the drake attempt to recoil, its eyes shining with even more fear than when confronted with the inevitability of its own death.
“He heard me,” Silverpin said. “In his head, and he recognised the voice. I didn’t know it would scare him so much.”
The little girl shifted her gaze slightly and every chain binding the drake shattered as one. Then all became a senseless fury of splintered wood as the vat blew apart and the crowd let loose a scream of terror. The memory froze then, leaving them alone in a world of misted blood and air thickened by debris.
“You did this,” Clay said.
Silverpin nodded.
“My mother died here . . . You killed her and hundreds more besides.”
“And gained much in return,” she said. “Everything he promised. There is so much more that can be done with the power stored in drake blood, Clay. Your kind are like children playing with gunpowder.”
“My kind,” he repeated. “We’re so different now?”
“We always were. After this”—she gestured at the surrounding destruction—“I was remade. And still he called to me, offering more. All I had to do was find him.”
It came to him then, a hard, sickening rush of understanding that set his pulse racing. Their hunger for the White. Uncle’s loss of reason whenever it came up. Gone when she stole the car. Seeds . . . Seeds planted and nurtured the farther south we travelled. Seeds planted by her. “You didn’t know,” he said. “You didn’t know where it was. We guided you to it.”
“Some years ago his voice grew dim, like a distant murmur. But still he called to me. I tried several times to find him, venturing into the Interior with different companies, even a mob of Headhunters. When I found your uncle, however, the voice grew louder and I knew all I had to do was wait. I didn’t know I was waiting for you. You were . . . a pleasant and terrible surprise.”
“You needed me to get you here,” Clay said, his anger deepening yet further. “That’s why you killed Keyvine. That why you fucked me too?”
“Actually no. I do have the occasional weakness for spontaneity.” She lowered her gaze and the trance vanished, replaced by the vast chamber and its domes. She stepped closer to him, reaching out a hand to caress his face. Her lips were still when she spoke this time, but the words rang clear in his mind. Why did you come, Clay? You were supposed to flee, get far away just like you wanted. You would have had some time, at least. Perhaps even years.
“Until what?” he grated, forcing himself to remain still as her fingers stroked his jaw.
He called me here for a reason. A very old but very necessary design has been interrupted, and will now be resumed.
Clay’s gaze went to the largest dome, the one with the white light streaming from the apex of its roof. “It’s in there isn’t it?”
Yes. Sleeping safely all these years. He came here after nesting in the Badlands, when he had grown enough to take wing, drawn by an ancient instinct burned into his soul. And all the while he called to me in his dreams.
“Why? What does it need you for?”
I don’t know. She stepped back, gesturing at the dome. Shall we find out?
His eyes flicked to the barrel lying nearby, abandoned when he had been lured into the blue dome.
Don’t be foolish, Silverpin chided and the barrel rose from the floor, hovering for a second before streaking upwards, disappearing through the shaft above too fast to follow. A few seconds later he heard the flat boom of a distant explosion. Come along then. She took his hand and tugged him towards the white dome. Since you are so devoted to me we’ll see if he can be persuaded to share his gifts.
“I don’t want his gifts!” Clay said, tearing his hand away, then freezing as her Black closed on him tight enough to stop the breath in his throat.
The time when the apes scampering about this rock were allowed the illusion of choice is over, she told him and he had the sense that she was reciting a well-rehearsed speech, words she had been expecting to say for a very long time. Your last choice was in following me into this mountain. And like all choices it entailed consequences.
CHAPTER 42
Lizanne
This is pointless. She knew it even as she thumbed the stopper from the vial. A waste of time and effort sorely needed elsewhere.
Lizanne sat slumped behind her desk, casting a weary glance at her soon-to-be-vacated office and finding nothing she wanted to claim as a souvenir. In just over an hour she would make her way to the docks and the fleet would begin its desperate attempt at escape. She should be using this short respite to rest, knowing she and every other Blood-blessed would be sorely needed when they finally put to sea. She had tried twice over the course of the preceding day, taking precious time away from organising the evacuation, and each time finding nothing in the trance beyond her own mindscape and the same inescapable conclusion. He must surely be dead. This is entirely pointless.
With a final glance at the clock she sighed and drank the vial of Blue.
—
Her heart leapt as the trance descended and Nelphia’s peaks and valleys unfolded before her. He’s alive! He’s here!
The blossoming excitement soon died, however, as she realised that although Clay’s mindscape was present, he wasn’t. The valleys and peaks of the great moon remained empty and silent. It was something she had never seen before. Something, in fact, she would have thought impossible. Even when a Blood-blessed slept through a trance, there was still some vestige of them left.
She roamed across the surface calling out for him, ready to unfurl the whirlwind containing her memory of Joya’s tale. Silence was the only answer.
The Island girl! she called out, hoping somehow the words might reach him. If an image conjured by his mind was here then some vestige of him might be too. She killed Keyvine! Joya’s alive. She saw her do it, with Black! The Island girl is a Blood-blessed!
For the briefest instant the mindscape vanished, snapping out of existence, replaced with a blank void . . . No, not a void. There was something there, something shining bright, like a crystal lit from within . . .
Then it was gone and she found herself once again surrounded by her own whirlwinds of memory and not the slightest glimmer of Clay’s mindscape. Now, he was truly gone.
—
The MPV Laudable Intent sat low in the harbour waters as Lizanne strode aboard, followed up the gangplank by Tekela, her three Blinds bodyguards plus Arberus and his handful of surviving Corvantines. She knew the ship to be a Marlin class frigate though extensive modification had rendered her near unrecognisable. In addition to the existing armament of one forward pivot-gun and four old twelve-pounders, she now bristled from end to end with an array of Thumpers and Growlers, all protected by a newly installed covering of armour, the construction of which was so uneven as to resemble the deformed shell of a battered turtle.
“Miss Lethridge.” Vice-Commodore Skarhall delivered a formal salute as she stepped down from the gangplank. As a result of the demise of Commander Stavemoor he was now the most senior Protectorate officer in the city, though at first glance he cut a much-less-impressive figure. Skarhall stood a little over five feet seven inches in height and had a frame that could most generously be described as wiry. He also had a tendency to speak in soft tones, as if pondering thoughts aloud rather than attempting communication. But, however unremarkable his appearance or demeanour, he had proven himself an able and efficient collaborator in Jermayah’s daunting project, ensuring the requisite modifications to his small fleet were carried out without obstruction from truculent crews or recalcitrant engineers.
“Any problems to report, Commodore?” she asked him.
“The Protectorate flotilla stands at full readiness with engines primed,” he reported in tones barely above a murmur. “Some civilian vessels are still loading, but we expect to be ready to sail at the appointed time.” He stood aside, gesturing at a nearby ladder. “If you would care to join me on the bridge.”
The bridge offered a view of the harbour and the city, albeit restricted somewhat by the armour fringing the windows. Lizanne peered out at the dockside then raised her gaze to survey the city beyond. Smoke rose in dense columns from several places, the result of another Red attack the night before. The cost had only been a fraction of the toll exacted the night Colonial Town burned, sparing civilians but claiming yet more defenders amongst the gun-crews. She had ordered the resultant fires left unchecked, there being no time or particular need to quell them now as she harboured profound doubts that any human would be returning to this city in the near future.
She had issued the evacuation order barely twenty hours ago, surely an impossible schedule to complete the emptying of an entire city, but somehow they had managed it. To prevent a panicked rush to the docks, each district had been evacuated in turn, the movement of people being subject to stern and unwavering control by a heavily armed contingent of Protectorate soldiers. The Blinds, thanks to its proximity to the docks and much to the surprise of its inhabitants, had been the first to go, the great horde of ragged and mismatched souls making their way to the ships in surprising quietude. The managerial district, the last to be emptied, proved a marked contrast. There had been an unseemly and ineffectual attempt to break through the Protectorate cordon as the hours wore on and tempers grew frayed. When the besuited and heavily laden denizens had finally been escorted to the ships the scene was marked by many protestations and dire promises of legal redress, their outrage deepening further when forced to cast aside much of their luggage before being allowed to board. The quay-side was now littered with piles of suitcases and sundry valuables, the impressive array of silverware catching the late-morning sun.
The hospital had been the hardest task, conveying so many wounded to the ships taking up considerable time and effort. Despite some suggestions to the contrary Lizanne, to Mrs. Torcreek’s evident relief, refused to countenance leaving behind any but the most hopeless cases. These unfortunates, all either comatose or barely aware of their surroundings, remained in the hands of a small staff of volunteers, elderly nurses and doctors willing to sacrifice their final hours to the care of others. Lizanne had been assiduous in recording their names in detail, though her promises of posthumous awards and pensions for surviving relatives sounded empty even to her own ears.
Two ships had been given over to the wounded, Mrs. Torcreek taking her place on the largest. She had come to Lizanne before going aboard, seeking some word regarding her family, only to be told the unalloyed truth. “I do not know, Mrs. Torcreek. I believe Clay at least was alive as of a few hours ago, but in what state I cannot say.”
The woman’s head lowered, her shoulders slumping in the only sign of frailty Lizanne had seen in her. She righted herself after a moment, smiling as she offered Lizanne her hand. “Call me Fredabel, or Freda if you like.”
“Lizanne.”
“Lizzie?” the older woman suggested as they shook hands.
“No,” she replied in an unambiguous tone. “Lizanne.”
She tried to make out the wall through the haze of smoke but the distance was too great. Captain Flaxknot and the small army of Contractors had undertaken the duty of holding the wall during the evacuation. Their scouts reported ever more Spoiled trekking towards the city from the south and the west, whilst increasing numbers of Greens could be seen prowling the jungle. Fortunately, neither were present in sufficient numbers to mount another assault, though that might change if they happened to notice how thinly the walls were held.
Lizanne spent the remaining time watching the last few civilians being herded onto the ships, stragglers and old folk for the most part. There had inevitably been a few who refused to leave, mainly amongst the old or recently bereaved. The latter had clustered together, armed to the teeth and intent on selling their lives dear when the time came. Lizanne had made a few vain attempts to persuade these vengeful mobs to see reason but soon gave up in the face of more pressing matters, allowing them to take charge of any Growlers and Thumpers left behind when the fleet sailed.
When the last ancient had tottered up the gangplank Commodore Skarhall ordered a fresh signal hoisted and the steam-whistle sounded. The piercing wail was soon joined by that of every siren and whistle in the fleet, the general cacophony augmented by several flares launched by the Protectorate vessels. Lizanne turned her gaze back to the city and was soon rewarded by the sight of the Contractors hurrying towards the docks, many riding double on horseback. They had been left in no doubt that the fleet would wait exactly thirty minutes before setting off and all had clearly taken the warning to heart. As per Lizanne’s orders they made for the civilian ships where she hoped their marksmanship would enhance the defences, most of the heavy weaponry having been allotted to the Protectorate vessels.
Lizanne breathed a small sigh of relief at seeing Captain Flaxknot’s stocky form striding up the gangplank onto the same old steamer where Jermayah had chosen to place himself. “Built her engine myself,” he said by way of explanation. “Every plate and bolt. First one to come off the line. I believe it’s up to me to make sure she runs all the way to Feros.”
She watched the last of the Contractors vacate the quay with five minutes still to spare then turned to Skarhall with a tight smile. “I see little point in further delay, Commodore.”
He replied with a nod then proceeded to make her jump as a rapid and very loud series of orders issued from his mouth. The crew on the bridge responded with automaton-esque alacrity, the helmsman taking a grip on the wheel and the First Mate working the telegraph to the engine room whilst relayed orders chorused from one end of the ship to the other. The decking beneath Lizanne’s feet began an immediate thrum as the blood-burner came to life, soon accompanied by the regular swishing churn of the paddles. She winced a little as Skarhall barked out another tirade of orders and the
Laudable Intent pulled away from the dockside. The wheel blurred as the helmsman spun it from port to starboard in a precise and well-practised sequence that soon had them heading directly for the harbour doors. Some of the stay-behinds had volunteered to operate the lifting machinery, a dozen or so dockworkers who had lost their families in the siege. They performed their duty with creditable dedication, the great copper wings rising smoothly as the Laudable approached, speed building all the while.
“All guns stand to!” Skarhall barked, his every word echoing through the decks. “Riflemen to firing holes! Ammunition crews stand ready!”
He turned to Lizanne, his voice dropping into its customary murmur as he gestured to the ladder at the rear of the bridge. “I believe you’ll find things arranged as requested, miss.”
Lizanne nodded and moved to Tekela’s side, clasping her hand. The girl said nothing, remaining with eyes downcast for a second, before enfolding Lizanne in a tight embrace. “Stay here,” Lizanne whispered into her ear. “I believe the commodore is in need of protection.”
Tekela released her and stepped back, moving to Skarhall’s side and checking her revolver. Lizanne nodded at her three bodyguards and started up the ladder.
—
The platform had been constructed atop the bridge, open-topped to afford a clear view all around but with thick armour walls four feet high. Each of the Protectorate ships in the vanguard featured the same arrangement and Lizanne could see their contingents of Blood-blessed climbing up in readiness as they drew near the doors, a minimum of two to each ship. Stocks of product had already been placed in each corner of the platform, Red and Green in plentiful supply, but only a third as much Black.
“Never been this close to such riches,” Red Allice commented, playing a hand along the well-packed row of vials. These were the first words Lizanne had heard her utter and she spoke in an odd accent, mixing native Arradsian tones with a tinge of Varestian.