Tales of the Ketty Jay #01 - Retribution Falls Chris Wooding

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‘Tied him up. Put him in the guardhouse with the other,’ said Silo.

‘Right, right,’ Frey said, relieved. He allowed himself to relax a little. ‘Should’ve thought of that myself.’

Pinn and Malvery exchanged a glance. Malvery looked skyward in despair.

‘Your boss is upstairs?’ Frey asked the prisoners. They nodded. ‘No more guards?’ They shook their heads. ‘The whores?’

‘In there,’ said Charry, indicating the room the half-naked man had come from. ‘Obviously.’

Frey looked at Silo. ‘You’re in charge. Anyone moves, shoot them. Malvery, you and me are going to have a word with Quail.’ As an afterthought, he added: ‘Bring your bag. I don’t want him dying before he talks.’

‘Right-o,’ said Malvery, heading outside to collect the doctor’s bag that he’d left on the porch.

Frey walked up to the whores’ doorway and stood to one side. The dead man with his trousers round his ankles had a comically astonished expression on his face.

We can all but hope to die with such dignity and elegance, he thought.

‘Ladies?’ he called. There was no reply. He stuck his head around the doorway, and drew it back rapidly as a shotgun blast blew part of the door frame to splinters.

‘Ladies!’ he said again, slightly annoyed this time. His ears were ringing. ‘We’re not going to hurt you!’

‘No, you’re bloody not!’ came the reply. ‘I know your sort! We give what we give ’cause we’re paid to! Nobody takes it by force!’

‘Nobody’s taking anything,’ said Frey. ‘You might remember me. Darian Frey? We were introduced just a few weeks ago.’

‘Oh,’ came the reply, rather less harsh than before. ‘Yes, I remember you. Stick your head out, let us have a look.’

‘I’d rather not,’ he replied. ‘Listen, ladies, our business is with Quail. We’ll be done with it and go. Nobody’s going to bother you. Now will you let us past?’

There was a short debate in low voices. ‘Alright.’

‘You won’t shoot?’

‘Long as nobody tries to come in. Specially that one who looks like a potato. He’s enough to turn a woman to the other side.’

Silo grinned at Pinn, who kicked an imaginary stone and swore under his breath.

‘Especially not him,’ Frey agreed.

‘Well. Okay then.’

Malvery returned with his bag. He took another swig of swabbing alcohol and stuffed it back inside. Pinn bleated for a taste, but Malvery ignored him.

They hurried past the doorway. Frey caught a glimpse of the whores, hidden behind a dresser with a double-barrelled shotgun poking over the top. They held a pair of white, pink-eyed dogs on leashes, for extra protection. One of the whores waved and made a kiss-face as he passed, but he was out of sight too quickly to respond.

He headed up the stairs, Malvery close behind. The coiled-brass motif from the hallway continued on the upper level, but here the walls and floor were panelled in black wood and lit by electric bulbs in moulded sconces. The place had a dark, grand feel to it. Frey was feeling pretty dark and grand himself right now.

As they approached Quail’s study they heard something crash inside. The sound of a desk tipping over. Presumably he was making a barricade. Frey remembered the bars on the windows from his last visit. They couldn’t be opened from the inside. Quail wasn’t going anywhere.

They took position either side of the door. Frey kicked it open and stepped back as a pistol fired twice. The door rebounded and came to rest slightly ajar. There were two coin-sized holes in the wood panelling of the corridor at chest-height.

‘Anyone comes through that door, they’ll be sorry!’ Quail cried. His attempt to sound fierce was woeful. ‘I’ve got a couple of guns and enough ammo for the whole night. The militia will be here sooner or later! Someone will have heard the racket you made downstairs!’

Frey thought for a moment. He waved at Malvery. ‘Give me the bottle.’

‘What?’ Malvery said, feigning ignorance.

‘The bottle of alcohol in your bag. Give it here.’

Malvery opened his bag reluctantly. ‘This bottle?’ he asked querulously, rather hoping Frey would reconsider.

‘I’ll buy you another one!’ Frey snapped, and Malvery finally handed it over. He snatched it off the doctor and pulled out the stopper. ‘Now a rag.’

‘Oh,’ Malvery murmured, divining Frey’s plan. He passed Frey a bit of cloth with the expression of one about to witness the cruel extinction of some lovable, harmless animal.

Frey stuffed the rag into the neck of the bottle and upended it a few times. He pulled out a match - one of several that had lived in the creases of his coat pocket for many years - and struck it off the door jamb. He touched it to the rag and flame licked into life.

‘Fire in the hole,’ he grinned, then booted open the door and lobbed the bottle in. He ducked back in time to avoid the gunfire that followed.

The throw had been pitched into the corner of the room - he didn’t want to incinerate Quail quite yet - but the whispermonger started howling as if he were on fire himself, instead of just the bookshelves.

Frey and Malvery retreated a little way down the corridor to another doorway, where they took shelter and aimed. Black smoke began to seep out of Quail’s study. They could hear him clattering around inside, cursing. Glass smashed, bars rattled. The smoke became a thick, churning layer that spread out along the ceiling of the corridor. Quail began to cough and hack.

‘You think this is gonna take much longer?’ Malvery asked, and an instant later Quail burst from the room, his good eye watering, waving a pistol in one hand.

‘Drop it!’ Frey yelled, in a voice so loud and commanding that he surprised himself. Quail froze, looking around, and spotted Frey and Malvery with their guns trained on him. ‘Drop it, or I’ll drop you.’

Quail dropped his gun and raised his hands, coughing. His smart jacket was smoke-stained and his collar had wilted. His sleeve was ripped, revealing the polished brass length of his mechanical forearm.

Frey and Malvery emerged from hiding. Frey grabbed the whispermonger by the lapels and dragged him down the corridor, away from the smoke and flames of the study. He slammed Quail bodily up against the wall. Quail glared at him, teeth gritted, defiance on his face. Frey saw himself reflected in Quail’s mechanical eye.

‘Right then,’ said Frey, then stepped back and shot him in the shin.

Quail screamed and collapsed, writhing on the ground, clutching at his leg. ‘What the shit did you do that for, you rotting whoreson?’ he yelled.

Frey knelt down on one knee next to him. ‘Look, Quail. I don’t have time for the preliminaries, and to be honest, I’m pretty unhappy with you right now. So let’s pretend you’ve already put up a spirited resistance to my questioning and just tell me: who set me up? Because if I have to ask again, it’s your kneecap. And after that I’m going for something you can’t replace with a mechanical substitute.’

‘Gallian Thade!’ he blurted. ‘It was Gallian Thade who gave me the job, that’s all I know! It came through a middleman but I knew something was funny so I traced it back to him. He’s a rich land-owner, a nobleman who lives out in—’

‘I know who Gallian Thade is,’ Frey said. ‘Go on.’

‘They said it should be you, specifically you that I offered the job to. But they said . . . aaah, my leg!’

‘What did they say?’ Frey demanded, and punched him in his wounded shin. Quail shrieked and writhed, breathless with pain.

‘I’m telling you, I’m telling you!’ he protested. ‘They said if you couldn’t be found, I could offer it to someone else, last-minute. The important thing . . . the important thing was that the Ace of Skulls was passing through the Hookhollows on that date, they knew that, and they wanted someone to attack it. Preferably you, but if not, any lowlife would do.’

‘You’re not in much of a position to make insults, Quail.’

‘Their words! Their words!’ he said frantically, holding up a hand to ward off further punishment. ‘Someone who wouldn’t be missed, that’s what they said. You’ll forgive me if I’m not thinking too clearly since you just shot me in my damn leg!’

‘Pain does cloud one’s judgement,’ Malvery observed sagely, crouched alongside Frey.

‘You’ve no idea what was on that aircraft?’ Frey pressed the whispermonger. He coughed into his fist. Time was getting short. The corridor was filling with hot smoke, and the only breathable air was low down. The militia wouldn’t be far away.

‘He told me jewels! He said he’d buy them from me if you came back. If not, he’d pay me a fee anyway. It was a cover story, I knew that, but I didn’t . . . didn’t find out what was underneath.’

‘You don’t want to speculate? Any idea why the Century Knights are all over me? Why there’s such a big reward offered that Trinica Dracken is involved?’

‘Dracken!’ His eyes widened. ‘Wait, I do know this! Trinica Dracken . . . she’s put the word out in the underground. Anyone sees you, they tell her. Not the Century Knights. She’s offering an even bigger reward. But it’s for information only . . . she wants to catch you herself.’

‘Well, of course she does—’

‘No, you don’t understand. Dracken doesn’t have that kind of money. Someone’s funding her. I don’t know who. But whoever it is, they want her to get you before the Century Knights do. This isn’t just about a reward, Frey. This is something more. Someone doesn’t want the Knights to find you.’

Frey’s jaw tightened. Deeper and deeper. Worse and worse.

‘We’d better go, Cap’n,’ said Malvery, coughing. ‘Smoke’s getting bad.’

‘Alright,’ Frey muttered. ‘Come on.’

‘What about me?’ Quail said, as they got up. ‘You can’t just—’

‘I can,’ said Frey. ‘You still have one good leg.’ With that, they left, the whispermonger hurling oaths after them.

‘Should we truss up the rest of his men?’ Malvery asked, as they hurried down the stairs at the end of the hall. Pinn, Jez and Silo still had the surviving guards at gunpoint at the far end.

‘No time. Besides, I think they’ll have their hands full saving the house.’ Frey raised his voice to address everyone in the hall. ‘Ladies, gentlemen, we’re out of here! Your boss is upstairs, and only mildly wounded. Go help him if you have the inclination. You’ll also notice that the house is on fire. Make of that what you like.’

Militia whistles were sounding in the distance as the crew of the Ketty Jay slipped through the front gate, their breath steaming the air. Bright yellow flames were pluming from the eaves of the house behind them.

‘This time we’re really not coming back,’ said Frey, as they headed for the dock.

‘One question,’ said Malvery as he huffed alongside. ‘Gallian Thade, this noble feller, you know him?’

‘No,’ said Frey. ‘But I knew his daughter very well. Intimately, you could say.’

Malvery rolled his eyes.

Twelve

The Awakeners - Frey Apologises - A Game Of Rake

Olden Square sat in the heart of Aulenfay’s trade district, a wide paved plaza surrounded by tall apartment buildings with pink stone facias. On a clear winter day such as this, the square was filled with stalls and people, everyone buying or selling. Hawkers offered food or theatre tickets or clockwork gewgaws; street performers imitated statues and juggled blades. Visitors and locals wandered between the attractions, the ladies in their furs and hats, men in their leather gloves and greatcoats. Children tugged at their parents’ arms, begging to investigate this or that, drawn by the smell of candied apples or cinnamon buns.

The centrepiece was a wide fountain. The water tumbled down through many tiers from a high column, on which stood a fierce warrior. He was wielding a broken sword, fighting off three brass bears that clawed at him from below. On the rooftops, pennants of brown and green snapped and curled in the breeze, bearing the Duke’s coat of arms.

Frey and Crake sat on the step of a small dais. Behind them four stone wolves guarded an ornate, black iron lamp-post, one of several dotted around the square to illuminate it at night. Frey was holding a white paper bag in one hand and chewing on a sugarplum. He offered the bag to Crake, who took a sweet absently. Both of them were watching a booth in the corner of the square, from which three Awakeners were plying their trade.

The booth was hung with banners showing a symbol made up of six spheres in an uneven formation, connected by a complicated pattern of straight lines. The three Awakeners were dressed identically, in white single-breasted cassocks with high collars and red piping that denoted their status. They were Speakers, the rank and file of the organisation.

One of them was kneeling in front of a circular chart laid out on the ground. An eager-eyed man knelt opposite, watching closely. The Speaker was holding a handful of tall sticks upright in the centre of the chart. He let go and they fell in a clutter. The Speaker began to study them intently.

‘Seriously, though,’ said Frey. ‘What’s all that about?’

‘It’s rhabdomancy,’ said Crake. ‘The way the sticks fall is significant. The one behind him is a cleromancer: it’s a similar technique. See? He drips a little animal blood in the bowl, then casts the bones in there.’

‘And you can tell things from that?’

‘Supposedly.’

‘Like what?’

‘The future. The past. You can ask questions. You can find out if the Allsoul favours your new business enterprise, or see which day would be most auspicious for your daughter’s wedding. That kind of thing.’

‘They can tell all that from some sticks?’

‘So they say. The method isn’t really that important. Each Awakener specialises in a different way of communicating with the Allsoul. See the other one? She’s a numerologist. She uses birthdates, ages, significant numbers in people’s lives and so on.’

Frey looked over at the third Awakener, a young woman, chubby and sour-faced. She was standing in front of a chalkboard and explaining a complicated set of mathematics to a bewildered audience of three, who looked like they could barely count on their fingers.

‘I don’t get it,’ Frey confessed.

‘You’re not supposed to get it,’ said Crake. ‘That’s the point. Mystical wisdom isn’t much good if everyone possesses it. The Awakeners claim to be the only ones who know the secret of communicating with the Allsoul, and they don’t intend to share. If you want something from the Allsoul, you go through them.’

Frey scratched the back of his neck and looked askance at Crake, squinting against the sun. ‘You believe any of that?’

Crake gave him a withering look. ‘I’m a daemonist, Frey. Those people in there, they’d like to see me hanged. And do you know why? Because what I do is real. It works. It’s a science. But a century of this superstitious twaddle has made daemonists the most vilified people on the planet. Most people would rather associate with a Samarlan than a daemonist.’

‘I’d associate with a Samarlan,’ said Frey. ‘War or no war, they’ve got some damned fine women.’

‘I doubt Silo would think so.’

‘Well, he’s got a chip on his shoulder, what with his people being brutally enslaved for centuries and all that.’

Crake conceded the point.

‘So what about this Allsoul thing?’ asked Frey, passing over another sugarplum. ‘Enlighten me.’

Crake popped the sugarplum in his mouth. ‘Why the interest?’

‘Research.’

‘Research?’

‘Gallian Thade, the man who put Quail up to framing us. He’s the next one we need to talk to if we want to get some answers. I want to find out what he’s framing us for.’ He stretched, stiff from sitting on the step. ‘Now, getting to Gallian, that’s gonna be no easy task. But I can get to his daughter.’

Crake joined the dots. ‘And his daughter is an Awakener?’

‘Yeah. She’s at a hermitage in the Highlands. They keep their acolytes cut off from the outside world while they study. I need to get in there and get to her. She might know something.’

‘And you think she’ll help you?’

‘Maybe,’ said Frey. ‘Best idea I’ve got, anyway.’

‘Shouldn’t you be asking someone who believes this rubbish?’

Frey shifted on the step and settled himself again. ‘You’re educated, ’ he said, with slightly forced offhandedness. ‘You know how to put things.’

‘That’s dangerously close to a compliment, Frey,’ Crake observed.

‘Yeah, well. Don’t let it go to your head. And it’s Captain Frey to you.’

Crake performed a half-arsed salute and slapped his knees. ‘Well, then. What do you know?’

‘I know some things. I’ve heard of the Prophet-King and how they put all his crazy pronouncements in a book after he went mad, except they think he was touched by some divine being or something. And how they all say they can solve your problems, just a small donation required. But I never was that bothered. None of it seemed to make much sense. Like some street scam that got out of control, you know? Like the thing with the three cups and the ball and no matter what you do, you never win. Except with this, half the country plays it and they never get that it’s rigged.’ He snorted. ‘Nobody knows my future.’

‘Fair enough.’ Crake cleared his throat and thought for a moment. When he spoke it was as a teacher, crisp and to the point. ‘The basic premise of their belief posits the existence of a single entity called the Allsoul. It’s not a god in the sense of the old religions they wiped out, more like a sentient, organic machine. Its processes can be seen in the movement of wind and water, the behaviour of animals, the eruption of volcanoes and the formation of clouds. In short, they believe our planet is alive, and intelligent. In fact, vastly more intelligent than we can comprehend.’

‘Okaaay . . .’ Frey said uncertainly.

‘The Awakeners think that the Allsoul can be understood by interpreting signs. Through the flights of birds, the pattern of fallen sticks, the swirl of blood in milk, the mind of the planet may be known. They also use rituals and minor sacrifices to communicate with the Allsoul, to beg its favour. Disease can be cured, disaster averted, success in business assured.’

‘So let me get this straight,’ Frey said, holding up his hand. ‘They ask a question, they . . . release some birds, say. And the way the birds fly, what direction they go, that’s the planet talking to them. The Allsoul?’

‘When you strip out all the mumbo-jumbo, yes, that’s exactly it.’

‘And you say it doesn’t work?’

‘Ah!’ said Crake scornfully, holding up a finger. ‘That’s the clever part. They’ve got it covered. Margin for human error, you see. Their understanding of the Allsoul is imperfect. Human minds aren’t yet capable of comprehending it. You can ask, but the Allsoul might refuse. You can predict, but the predictions are so vague they’ll come true more often than not. The Allsoul’s schemes are so massive that the death of your son or the destruction of your village can be explained away as part of a grand plan that you’re just too small to see.’ He gave a bitter chuckle. ‘They’ve got all the angles figured out.’

‘You really hate them, don’t you?’ Frey said, surprised at the tone in his companion’s voice. ‘I mean, you really hate them.’

Crake clammed up, aware that he’d let himself get out of control. He gave Frey a quick, tense smile. ‘It’s only fair,’ he said. ‘They hated me first.’

They strolled up the hill from Olden Square, along a tree-lined avenue that led towards the wealthier districts of Goldenside and Kingsway. Passenger craft flew overhead and motorised carriages puttered by. There were fine dresses in the windows of the shops, displays of elaborate toys and sweetmeats. As they climbed higher they began to catch glimpses of Lake Elmen through the forested slopes to the west, vast as an inland ocean. All around, stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see, were the dark green pines and dramatic cliffs of the Forest of Aulen.

‘Pretty part of the world,’ Frey commented. ‘You’d think the Aerium Wars never happened.’

‘Aulenfay missed the worst of it the first time round, and got none of it on the second,’ said Crake. ‘You should see Draki and Rabban. Six years on and they’re still half rubble.’

‘Yeah, I’ve seen ’em,’ he replied distantly. He was watching a young family who were approaching on their side of the avenue: a handsome husband, a neat wife with a beautiful smile, two little girls singing a rhyme as they skipped along in their frilly dresses. After a moment the woman noticed his interest. Frey looked away quickly, but Crake bid them a pleasant ‘Good day,’ as they passed.

‘Good day,’ the couple replied, and a moment later the girls chimed ‘Good day!’ politely. Frey had to hurry on. The sight of their happiness, the sound of those little voices, was like a kick in the chest.

‘What’s the matter?’ Crake enquired, noticing Frey’s sudden change in demeanour.

‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘Nothing, I just suddenly . . . I was worried they’d recognise me. Shouldn’t have made eye contact.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I told you, I picked up a broadsheet in Marklin’s Reach yesterday. There was no mention of you. And Aulenfay isn’t the kind of place where they stick “Wanted” posters everywhere. I think you’ve been forgotten by the general public.’ He patted Frey on the shoulder. ‘Besides, considering the age of the photograph and your newly raddled and insalubrious appearance, I don’t think anyone would recognise you unless they had a particular interest.’

‘Raddled and insalubrious?’ Frey repeated. He was beginning to suspect Crake of showing off, in an attempt to belittle him.

‘It means formidable and rugged,’ Crake assured him. ‘The beard, you see.’

‘Oh.’

They came to a crossroads and Crake stopped on the corner. ‘Well, I must be leaving you. I have to go and pick up my equipment, and the kind of people who sell daemonist paraphernalia are the kind of people who don’t like non-daemonists knowing who they are.’

‘Right,’ said Frey. ‘Have it delivered to the dock warehouse. We’ll pick it up from there. No names, though.’

‘Of course.’ The daemonist turned to go.

‘Crake.’

‘Yes?’

Frey looked up the street, rather awkwardly. ‘That thing with Macarde . . . him holding a gun to your head and so forth . . .’

Crake waited.

‘I’m sorry it went that way,’ Frey said at last.

Crake regarded him for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he nodded slightly and headed away without another word.

Frey made his way to the South Quarter, a less affluent part of the city, where he visited a tailor and a shop that specialised in theatrical make-up. After that, he went looking for a game of Rake.

The South Quarter was about as seedy as Aulenfay got, which meant it was still quite picturesque in a charmingly ramshackle kind of way. The winding lanes and cobbled alleyways were all but free of filth and litter. Statues and small, well-kept fountains still surprised visitors at every turn. There were no rag-tag children or crusty beggars. Aulenfay had a strict policy against that kind of thing.

The Ducal Militia were in evidence, patrolling in their stiff brown uniforms. Frey kept out of their way.

Despite the risks of coming to a big city, Frey had allowed himself to be persuaded by Crake. He did have some preparation to do before he went looking for Amalicia Thade in her secluded hermitage, but that wasn’t the whole reason. The crew needed a break. The disastrous attack on the freighter, the escape from the Century Knights, that frustrating time spent bored and freezing in Yortland - all these things had worn them down, and they were sick and tired of each other’s company. A little time off would do them all good, and Aulenfay was a fine place for it.

Whether they’d all come back or not was another matter, but Frey wasn’t worried about that. If they left, they left. He’d understand. They’d each make their own choice.

It took a little searching to locate the Rake den. He hadn’t been this way for a few years. But it was still there, in the cellar bar of an old tavern: a little room with three circular tables and a vaulted ceiling of old grey brick. Smoke drifted in the air and the shadows were thick, thrown by oil lanterns. Rake players didn’t like their games too brightly lit. Most of them only had a passing acquaintance with daylight.

Only one of the tables was in use when Frey was shown in. Three men sat there, studying their cards, dull piles of coins before them. There was a thin, po-faced man who looked like an undertaker, an elderly, toothless drunk, and a whiskery, rotund fellow with a red face and a battered stovepipe hat. Frey sat down and they introduced themselves as Foxmuth, Scrone and Gremble, which amused Frey, who thought they sounded like a firm of lawyers. Frey gave a false name. He ordered a drink, emptied out his purse on the table, and set to the game.

It wasn’t long before he realised his opponents were terrible card players. At first he suspected some kind of trap: perhaps they were feigning incompetence to sucker him. But as the game went on he became ever more convinced they were the real deal.

They went in big with their money, chasing runs that never came up. They jittered with excitement when they made a low three-of-a-kind and then bet it as if it was unbeatable. They allowed themselves to be bluffed away whenever they saw Frey pick up a dangerous card, frightened that he was holding something that could crush them.

From the moment he sat down, he was winning.

Several hours passed, and several drinks. Scrone was too plastered to keep his attention on the game, and his money was whittled away on silly bets. Eventually, he made a suicidal bluff against Foxmuth who was holding Crosses Full and lost it all. After that, he fell asleep and began to snore.

Foxmuth was knocked out shortly afterwards, following a chancy call against Gremble’s Ace-Duke paired. Foxmuth’s last card failed to produce the hand he needed, and Gremble scooped up all his money.

Frey was only mildly disheartened. All his careful work in maintaining his lead had been undermined by the bad play of the other two. They’d given all their money to Gremble, making the two remaining players roughly even. He settled down to the task of demolishing his final opponent.

‘Just my luck,’ Foxmuth moaned. ‘The wife’s going to rip me a new arse when I come home. I wouldn’t have even been here if they’d had the parade today.’

Frey was only half-listening. He dealt the cards, three each, then picked up his. A thin chill of excitement ran through him. Three Priests.

‘Why didn’t they have the parade?’ Frey asked, making idle chatter to cover his anticipation.

‘Earl Hengar was supposed to be coming to see the Duke. Big parade and all. But with what’s happened . . . well, I suppose they thought it was in bad taste or something. Cancelled last-minute.’

‘I should think so. Bloody disgrace,’ muttered Gremble. He rapped the table to indicate that he didn’t wish to bet.

‘Bet,’ said Frey. ‘Two bits.’ He pushed the coins in. It was a high opening bid, but he knew Gremble’s style of play by now. Instead of being frightened off, Gremble would assume it was a bluff and match it. Which was exactly what he did.

Frey dealt four more cards to the middle, two for each player in the game. Two face up, two face down. The face-up cards were the Lady of Wings and the Priest of Skulls.

His heart jumped. If he could get that Priest, he’d have an almost unbeatable hand. But Gremble, to the left of the dealer, got to pick his card first from the four in the middle.

‘What’s a disgrace?’ he asked, trying to keep the conversation up. He wanted Gremble distracted.

‘About Hengar and that Sammie bitch.’

Frey gave him a blank look.

‘You don’t know? You been living in a cave or something?’

‘Close,’ said Frey.

‘It’s not been in the broadsheets,’ said Foxmuth. ‘They don’t dare print it. But everyone knows. It’s been all over this past week.’

‘I’ve been away,’ he said. ‘Yortland.’

‘Chilly up there,’ Gremble commented, taking the Lady of Wings as he did so. Frey thrilled at the sight.

‘Yeah,’ Frey agreed. The Priest was his. He made a show of deliberating whether to take one of the two face-down mystery cards or not. ‘So what’s the story with Hengar?’

Hengar, Earl of Thesk and the only child of the Archduke. Heir to the Nine Duchies of Vardia. It sounded like something Frey should be paying attention to, but he was concentrating on depriving this poor sap of all his coins. He picked up the Priest. Four Priests in his hand. If he played this right, the game would be his.

‘So there were all these rumours, right?’ Foxmuth said eagerly. ‘About Hengar and this Sammie princess or something.’

‘She wasn’t a princess, she was some other thing,’ Gremble interrupted, frowning as he looked at his hand.

‘Yeah, well, anyway,’ Foxmuth continued. ‘Hengar was having secret meetings with her.’

‘Political meetings?’

‘The other kind,’ Gremble muttered. ‘They was lovers. The heir to the Nine Duchies and a bloody Sammie! The family wanted it stopped, but he wouldn’t listen, so they was covering it all up. But this past week, well . . . All I can say is someone must’ve shot their mouth off.’

‘What’s so wrong with him seeing a Sammie?’ Frey asked.

‘Did you miss the wars or something?’ Gremble cried.

‘I wasn’t on the front line,’ said Frey. ‘First one, I was working as a cargo hauler. Never saw action. Second one, I was working for the Navy, supply drops and so on.’ He shut up before he said any more. He didn’t want to revisit those times. Rabby’s final scream as the cargo ramp closed still haunted him at night. He could never forget the awful, endless, slicing agony of a Dakkadian bayonet plunging into his belly. Just the thought made him sick with fury at the people who had sent him there to die. The Coalition Navy.

Gremble humphed, making it clear what he thought of Frey’s contribution. ‘I was infantry, both wars. I saw stuff you can’t imagine. And there are a lot of people out there like me. Curdles my guts to think of our Earl Hengar snuggling up to some pampered Sammie slut.’

‘So how did the news get out?’

‘Search me,’ growled Gremble. ‘But the Archduke ain’t happy about it, I bet. There’s already all them rumours about the Archduchess, how she’s secretly a daemonist and that. You know they say the Archduke has a regiment of golems helping guard his palace in Thesk? And that he’s planning to make more regiments to fight on our front lines?’

‘Didn’t know that,’ said Frey.

‘It’s what they say. They say the Archduchess is behind it. They say that’s why they’re doing all that stuff to undermine the Awakeners. Awakeners and daemonists hate each other.’

‘Yeah, I gathered,’ said Frey, thinking back to his earlier conversation with Crake.

‘And now there’s Hengar behaving like this . . .’ Gremble tutted. ‘You know, I always used to like him. He’s a big Rake player, you know that?’ He folded his arms and sucked his teeth. ‘But now? I don’t know what that family’s coming to.’

‘Speaking of Rake, are you gonna bet?’

‘Five bits!’ Gremble snapped.

‘Raise five more,’ Frey replied.

‘I bet all of it!’ said Gremble immediately, piling the rest of his money into the centre of the table. Then he sat back and looked at his cards with the air of someone wondering what he’d just done.

Frey considered for only a moment. ‘Okay,’ he said. Gremble went pale. He hadn’t expected that.

Frey laid down his cards with a smile. ‘Four Priests,’ he said. Gremble groaned. His own four cards were the Ace, Ten, Three of Wings and the Lady of Wings he’d just picked up. He was going for Wings Full, but even if he made it, he couldn’t beat Four Priests.

Unless Frey drew the Ace of Skulls.

The Ace of Skulls was the wild card. Usually it was worse than worthless, but in the right circumstances it could turn a game around. In most cases, if a player held it, it nullified all their cards and they lost the hand automatically. But if it could be made part of a high-scoring hand, Three Aces or a Run or Suits Full or higher, it made that hand unbeatable.

If Frey drew the Ace of Skulls, his Four Priests would be cancelled and he’d lose everything.

There were two cards left on the table, face down. Gremble reached out and turned one over. The Duke of Wings. He’d made his Wings Full, but it didn’t matter now. He sat back with a disgusted snort.

Frey reached out for his card, but there was a commotion behind him, and he turned around as a tavern-boy came clattering down the stairs.

‘Did you hear?’ he said urgently. Scrone jerked in his chair, startled halfway out of sleep, and then slipped back into unconsciousness.

‘Hear what, boy?’ demanded Foxmuth, rising.

‘There’s criers out in the streets. They’re saying why the parade got cancelled. It’s because of Hengar!’

‘There, what did I tell you?’ said Gremble, with a note of triumph in his voice. ‘They’re ashamed of what he’s done, and so they should be!’

‘No, it’s not that!’ said the boy. He was genuinely distressed. ‘Earl Hengar’s dead!’

‘But that’s . . . He’s bloody dead?’ Foxmuth sputtered.

‘He was on a freighter over the Hookhollows. There was some kind of accident, something went wrong with the engine, and . . .’ The boy looked bewildered and shocked. ‘It went down with all hands.’

‘When?’ asked Frey. The muscles of his neck had tightened. His skin had gone cold. But he hadn’t taken his eyes from that face-down card on the table.

‘Excuse me, sir?’

‘When did it happen?’

‘I don’t know, sir. They didn’t say.’

‘What kind of damn fool question is that?’ Gremble raged. ‘When? When? What does it matter when? He’s dead! Buggering pissbollocks! It’s a tragedy! A fine young man like that, taken from us in the prime of his life!’

‘A good man,’ Foxmuth agreed gravely.

But the when did matter. When meant everything to Frey. When was the final hope he had that maybe, against all the odds, he could avoid the terrible, crushing weight that he felt plummeting towards him. If it happened yesterday, or the day before . . . if it could somehow be that recent . . .

But he knew when it had happened. It had happened three weeks ago. They just hadn’t been able to keep it quiet any longer.

The Century Knights. The job from Quail. All those people, travelling incognito on a cargo freighter. The name of the freighter. It all added up. After all, wouldn’t Hengar travel in secret, returning from an illicit visit to Samarla? And wasn’t he a keen Rake player?

Gallian Thade had arranged the death of the Archduke’s only son. And he’d set Frey up to take the fall.

He reached over and flipped the final card.

The Ace of Skulls grinned at him.

Thirteen

Frey Is Beleaguered - A Mysterious Aircraft - Imperators

Frey stumbled through the mountain pass, his coat clutched tight to his body, freezing rain lashing his face. The wind keened and skirled and pushed against him while he kept up the string of mumbled oaths and curses that had sustained him for several kloms now. On a good day, the Andusian Highlands at dawn could be described as dramatic - stunning, even - with its wild green slopes and deep lakes nestling between peaks of grim black rock. Today was not a good day.

Frey dearly wished for the sanctuary and comfort of his quarters. He remembered the grimy walls and cramped bunk with fondness, the luggage rack that ever threatened to snap and drop an avalanche of cases and trunks on his head. Such luxurious accommodation seemed a distant dream now, after hours of being pummelled by nature. He was woefully underdressed to face the elements. His face felt like it had been flayed raw and his teeth chattered constantly.

He lamented his bad luck at being caught out in the storm. So what if he’d set out completely unprepared? How could he have known the weather would turn bad? He couldn’t see the future.

It seemed like days had passed since he left the Ketty Jay hidden in a dell. He couldn’t risk landing too close to his target for fear of being seen, so he put her down on the other side of a narrow mountain ridge. The journey through the pass should have taken five hours or so. Six at the most.

When he set off the skies had been clear and the stars twinkling as the last light drained from the sky. There had been no hint of the storm to come. Malvery had waved him on his way with a cheery ta-ra and then taken a swig of rum to toast the success of his journey. Crake had been playing with the new toys he’d picked up in Aulenfay. Bess was having fun uprooting trees and tossing them around. Pinn had stolen the theatrical make-up pen that Frey had bought in the South Quarter and painted the Cipher on his forehead - the six connected spheres, icon of the Awakener faith. He was prancing around in the ill-fitting Awakener robes that had been tailored for Frey, pulling faces and acting the clown.

Frey had been unusually full of good cheer as he walked. All of them had come back from Aulenfay. Frey took that as a vote of confidence, even if the truth was they had no better alternatives. But even with the news of Hengar’s death looming over him, he felt positive. Bullying Quail had energised him. Having a name to put to the shadowy conspiracy against him gave him a direction and a purpose. He’d got so used to running away that he’d forgotten how it felt to fight back, and he was surprised to learn that he liked it.

Besides, he thought sunnily, things were about as bad as they could possibly get. After a certain point, it didn’t really matter if they hung him for piracy, mass murder, or for assassinating Earl Hengar, heir to the Archduchy. He’d be just as dead, any way you cut it. That meant he could do pretty much whatever he liked from here on in.

His buoyant mood survived while the first ominous clouds came sliding in from the west, blacking out the moon. He remained persistently jolly as the first spots of rain touched his face. Then the howling wind began, which took the edge off his jauntiness a little. The rain became torrential, he got lost and then realised he had no map. By this time he’d begun to freeze and was desperately searching for shelter, but there was none to be found and, anyway, he didn’t have the supplies to wait out a really bad storm. He decided to keep going. Surely he was almost there by now?

He wasn’t.

Dawn found him exhausted and in bad shape. His face was as dark as the clouds overhead. He stumped along doggedly, head down, forging through the tempest. His good mood had evaporated. It wasn’t positivity but spite that drove him onward now. He refused to stop moving until he’d reached his destination. Every time he crested a rise and saw there was another one ahead, it made him angrier still. The pass had to end eventually. It was him against the mountain, and his pride wouldn’t let him be beaten by a glorified lump of rock, no matter how big it thought it was.

Finally the wind dropped and the rain dwindled to a speckling. Frey’s heart lifted a little. Could it be that the worst was over? He didn’t dare admit the possibility to himself, for fear of inviting a new tempest. Fate had a way of tormenting him like that. The Allsoul punished optimists.

He struggled up another sodden green slope and looked down into the valley beyond. There, at last, he saw the Awakener hermitage where Amalicia Thade was cloistered.

The hermitage sat on the bank of a river, a sprawling square building constructed around a large central quad. It was surrounded by lawns which opened on to fields of bracken and other hardy highland plants. With its stout, vine-laden walls, deeply sunken windows and frowning stone lintels, it looked to Frey like a university or a school. There was a quiet gravity to the place, a weightiness that Frey usually associated with educational institutions. Academia had always impressed him, since he’d only a passing acquaintance with it. All that secret knowledge, waiting to be learned, if only he could ever be bothered.

A little way from the hermitage, linked to it by a gravel path, was a small landing pad. There were no roads into the valley. Like so many places in Vardia, it was only accessible from the air. In a country so massive and with such hostile geography, roads and rail never made much sense once airships were invented. A small cargo craft took up one corner of the pad. It was their only link with the outside world, most likely, although there would certainly be other visitors from time to time.

Frey could see the tiny figures of Awakener Sentinels patrolling the grounds, carrying rifles. They issued from a guardhouse, which had been built outside the hermitage. He’d intended to arrive under cover of deepest night, but getting lost in the storm had put him severely behind schedule. There was no way he could approach the hermitage during the day without being seen.

The last of the rain disappeared, and he saw hints of a break in the clouds. Shafts of sun were beaming down on the mountains in the distance, warm searchlights slowly tracking towards him. There was nothing for it but to find a nook and rest until nightfall. Now that the storm had given up and he’d reached his destination, he was tired enough to die where he stood. A short search revealed a sheltered little dell, where he piled dry bracken around himself and fell asleep in the hollow formed by the roots of a dead tree.

He woke to the sound of engines.

It was night, clear and cold. He extricated himself from the tangle of bracken and stood up. His skin was fouled with old sweat, his clothes were stiff and he desperately needed to piss. His body ached as if he’d been expertly beaten up by a squad of vicious midgets. He stood, groaned and stretched, then spat to clear the rancid taste in his mouth. That done, he went to investigate what that noise was all about.

He looked down into the valley while he relieved himself against the side of a tree. The moon had painted the world in shades of blue and grey. The windows of the hermitage glowed with an inviting light, a suggestion of heat and comfort and shelter. Frey was looking forward to breaking in, if only to get a roof over his head for a while.

The craft he’d heard was a small black barque, bristling with weapons. A squat, mean-looking thing, possibly a Tabington Wolverine or something from that line. It was easing itself down onto the landing pad, lamps on full, a blare of light in the darkness.

A visitor, thought Frey, buttoning himself up. Best get down there while they’re occupied.

He made his way down into the valley, staying low in the bracken when he could, scampering across open ground when he had to. He got to the river, where there was better cover from the bushes that grew on the bank, and followed it up towards the hermitage. There was a lot of activity surrounding the newly arrived vessel. The Sentinels had all but abandoned their patrol duties to guard it. They stationed themselves along the path between the house and the landing pad.

You should leave it alone, he told himself. Take advantage of the distraction. Get inside the building. Do what you came here to do.

A minute later he was creeping through the bracken, edging his way closer to the landing pad to get a better look. He just wanted to know what all the fuss was about.

The craft rested on the tarmac, bathed in its own harsh light. Though the cargo ramp was down, it still had its thrusters running and the aerium engines fired up. Evidently it wasn’t staying for long.

When he’d got as close as he dared, Frey squatted down to watch. The wind rustled the bracken around him. The craft had a name painted on its underside: the Moment of Silence. He’d never heard of it.

The Sentinels had organised themselves as though they expected an attack, guarding the route between the craft and the door of the building, which stood open. They were dressed in grey, high-collared cassocks of the same cut that all the Awakeners wore. They carried rifles and wore twinned daggers at their waists. The Cipher was emblazoned in black on their breasts: a complex design of small, linked circles.

Sentinels, Crake had explained, were not true Awakeners. They lacked the skill or the intelligence to be ordained into the mysteries of the order. That was why they only wore the Cipher on their breast, not tattooed on their foreheads. They devoted themselves to the cause in other ways, as protectors of the faith. They were not known to be especially well trained or deadly, but they were disciplined. Frey resolved to treat them with the same respect he gave anyone carrying a weapon capable of putting a hole in him.

Everyone was on the alert. Something important was happening.

There was movement by the house, and several Sentinels emerged. They were carrying a large, iron-bound chest between them, straining under its weight. The chest was a work of art, lacquered in dark red and closed with a clasp fashioned in the shape of a wolf’s head. Frey was suddenly very keen to find out what was inside.

The Sentinels had hauled it up the path and had almost reached the craft when two figures came down the cargo ramp to meet them. Frey felt a chill jolt at the sight of them. Being so close to the craft didn’t seem like such a good idea any more.

They were dressed head to toe in close-fitting suits of black leather. Not an inch of their skin was showing. They wore gloves and boots, and cloaks with their hoods pulled up. Their faces were hidden behind smooth black masks, through which only the eyes could be seen.

Imperators. The Awakeners’ most dreaded operatives. Men who could suck the thoughts right out of your head, if the stories were to be believed. Men whose stare could send you mad.

Frey hunkered down further into the bracken.

The Sentinels put the chest down in front of the Imperators, then one of them knelt and opened it. Frey was too far away to see what was within.

One of the Imperators nodded, satisfied, and the chest was closed. The Sentinels lifted it and carried it up the Moment of Silence’s cargo ramp. They emerged seconds later, having left their burden inside. A few words were exchanged, and then one of the Imperators boarded the craft. The other turned to follow, but suddenly hesitated, his head tilted as if listening. Then he turned, and fixed his gaze on the spot where Frey hid in the bracken.

An awful sensation washed over him: foul, seething, corrupt. Frey’s heart thumped hard in terror. He ducked down, out of sight, burying himself among the stalks and leaves. The loamy smell of wet soil and the faintly acrid tang of bracken filled his nostrils. He willed himself to be a stone, a rabbit, some small and insignificant thing. Anything that would be beneath the Imperator’s notice. Some distant part of him was aware that such overwhelming fear wasn’t natural, that there was some power at work here; but reason and logic had fled.

Then, all at once, the feeling was gone. The fear left him. He stayed huddled, not daring to move, breathing hard, soaked in relief. It had passed, it had passed. He murmured desperate thanks, addressed to no one. Never again, he swore. Never again would he go through that. Those few seconds had been among the most horrible of his life.

He heard the whine of the hydraulics as the cargo ramp slid shut. Electromagnets throbbed as the aerium engines got to work. The Moment of Silence was taking off.

Frey gathered his courage and raised his head, peering out above the bracken. The Imperators were gone. All eyes were on the craft. Frey took advantage of the moment, and scampered away towards the hermitage.

By damn, what did that thing do to me?

He could only remember one event vaguely comparable to the ordeal he’d just suffered. He’d been young, perhaps seventeen, and he and some friends went out to some fields where some very ‘special’ mushrooms grew. The night had started off with hilarity and ended with Frey seized by a crushing paranoia, afraid that his heart was going to burst, and being mobbed by hallucinatory bats. That senseless, primal fear had turned a confident young man into a quivering wreck. Now he’d been brushed by it again.

His breathing had returned to normal by the time he got to the hermitage, and he had himself under control again. Shaken, but unharmed. He approached the building from behind, where there were no guards to be seen, and pressed himself against the cool stone of the wall. Security was lax here. He had that to be thankful for. The guards didn’t expect any trouble. They were only here for protection against pirates and other marauders, who might find the idea of a hermitage full of nubile, sex-starved young women somewhat alluring.

Frey cheered at the thought. He’d forgotten about the nubile, sex-starved part. It made his mistake back in Aulenfay twinge a little less, although his cheeks still burned at the memory.

He’d studied the Awakeners in Olden Square and picked Crake’s brains about their faith for a purpose. His idea was to disguise himself as a Speaker, to blend in seamlessly, and thereby move about the hermitage unopposed. Congratulating himself on his unusually thorough preparations, he’d surprised Crake by appearing in full Speaker dress: the high-collared white cassock with red piping, the sandals, the Cipher painted on his forehead in a passable impression of a tattoo.

‘What do you think?’ he asked proudly.

Crake burst out laughing, before explaining to the rather miffed captain that Awakener hermitages were always single sex institutions. Acolytes were allowed no contact with the opposite gender. In Amalicia’s hermitage, all the tutors and students would be female. The male guards would be forbidden to go inside except under special circumstances, and even then the female acolytes would be kept to their rooms. Lust interfered with the meditation necessary to communicate with the Allsoul.

‘So you’re telling me that there’s a building full of women who haven’t even seen a man in years?’ Frey had demanded to know.

‘What I’m telling you is that your cunning disguise is going to be pretty useless in there, since there shouldn’t be a male Speaker within twenty kloms of that hermitage,’ said Crake. ‘However, it’s interesting that you jumped to the other conclusion first. I never pegged you as a glass-half-full kind of person.’

‘Well, a man must make the best of things,’ Frey replied, already envisioning a pleasant death by sexual exhaustion, after being brutally abused by dozens of rampant adolescent beauties.

So Frey had discarded the uniform. Pinn found it later and had been wearing it ever since, for a joke, pretending to be an Awakener. It was funny for the first few hours, but Pinn, encouraged, had carried the joke far past its natural end and now it was just annoying. Frey wouldn’t be surprised if Malvery had beaten him up and burned the robe by the time he got back. He rather hoped so.

He found two small doors, recessed in alcoves, but the Awakeners who ran the hermitage were sensible enough to keep them locked. He considered breaking a window, but they were set high up in the wall and were very narrow. He wouldn’t want to get stuck in one. Finally he found the entrance to a storm cellar which looked as if it led under the house. Hurricanes were frequent in these parts. A padlock secured a thick chain, locking the doors to the cellar. Both were stout and new. It looked like it would take a lot of sawing and hammering to get through that. An intruder would certainly be caught before they gained access.

Frey drew his cutlass and touched its tip to the lock.

‘Think you can?’ he asked it. He didn’t really believe it could understand him, but as ever, it seemed to know his intention. He felt it begin to vibrate in his hands. A thin, quiet whine came from the metal. Soon it was joined by another note, setting up a weird, off-key harmonic that set Frey’s teeth on edge. The lock began to jitter and shake.

Suddenly, by its own accord, the cutlass swept up and down, smashing into the lock. The shackle broke away from the padlock and the chain slithered free. The blade itself was unmarked by the impact. Frey hadn’t even felt the jolt up his sword arm.

He regarded the daemon-thralled cutlass that Crake had given him as the price of his passage. Best deal he ever made, he reckoned, as he sheathed it again.

He climbed into the storm cellar before anyone came to investigate the noise. Steps led down to a lit room, from which he could hear the growl and rattle of machinery. He slipped inside, shut the cellar door behind him, and crept onward into the hermitage.

Fourteen

A Ghastly Encounter - Intruder In The Hermitage - A Heartfelt Letter - Reunion

Frey stepped warily into the dim electric glow of smoke-grimed bulbs. The room at the bottom of the stairs was the powerhouse of the hermitage, dominated by a huge old generator that whined and screeched and shook. It took Frey a while to persuade himself that the ancient machine wasn’t in imminent danger of detonation, but in the end logic triumphed over instinct. Since it had obviously been running for fifty years or more, the idea that it would explode just as he was passing would be such incredible bad luck that even Frey couldn’t believe it would happen.

Pipes ran from the generator to several water boilers and storage batteries, linking them to the central mass like the legs of some bloated mechanical spider. The air pounded with the unsteady rhythm of the generator and everything stank of prothane fumes. Frey’s head began to swim unpleasantly.

He crept forward, his cutlass held ready. He always preferred blades in close quarters. The powerhouse was shadowy and full of dark corners and aisles from which someone could emerge and surprise him. He hadn’t discounted the possibility that he might run into a mechanic down here, or maybe even a guard, although they’d need lungs like engines to breathe these fumes for long.

The generator banged noisily and he shied away, threatening it with the tip of his cutlass. When nothing calamitous happened, he relaxed again, feeling a little stupid.

Just get out of here, he told himself. Abandoning caution, he hurried through the room with his arm over his face, breathing through the sleeve of his coat.

If there was anyone else down there, he neither saw nor heard them. A few stone steps led up to a heavy door, which was unlocked. He peered in, and found himself in an untidy antechamber full of tools. Dirty gloves and rubber masks with gas filters hung on pegs. Frey shut the door behind him, muffling the sound of the generator. There was another door leading to a room beyond, and now he could hear loud snoring from the other side.

Snoring was good. Unless it was a particularly cunning decoy - Frey briefly imagined a sharp-eyed assassin waiting behind the door, dagger raised, snoring loudly - then it suggested the enemy was unaware, unarmed and at a massive disadvantage, which was the only way Frey would fight anyone if he could help it.

He lifted the door on its hinges to minimise the squeak, pushed it open, and immediately recoiled. The room beyond reeked overwhelmingly of cheesy feet and stale flatulence, strong enough that Frey had to fight down the urge to gag. He glanced briefly at one of the gas masks hanging on the wall, then took a deep breath and slipped inside.

The place was a wreck. Every surface was covered in discarded plates of food, half-drunk bottles of milk that had long gone bad, and pornographic ferrotypes from certain seedy publications (Frey saw several women he recognised). In the corner, on a pallet bed surrounded by discarded chicken bones and bottles of grog, lay a mound of hairy white flesh entangled in a filthy blanket. It took Frey a few moments to work out where the head was. He only found it when a gaping wet hole appeared in the crumb-strewn black thatch of a face, and there emerged a terrible snore like the death-rattle of a congested warthog.

Frey kept his sword pointed at the quivering mass of the caretaker’s naked belly, and edged through the room towards the door at the far end. Finding it locked, he cast around the room and located a key under a scattering of toenail clippings. He extracted it gingerly, slipped it in the lock and went through. The caretaker, deep in his drunken slumber, never stirred.

It took him some time to find his way to the dormitories. A quick search established that the basement level of the building was a maze of gloomy corridors and pipes, sealed off from the hermitage proper, presumably to stop the caretaker getting in and giving the acolytes a nasty shock. There must have been another entrance for the caretaker, since the storm doors had been locked on the outside, but Frey never found it. What he did find was a chimney flue, which he climbed with considerable difficulty and much discomfort.

When he emerged, sooty and dishevelled, from the fireplace, he found himself in a small hall. Doors led off to other rooms, and a wide staircase went up to the floor above. The place had a clean, quiet, country feel: the cool, pensive atmosphere of an old house at night. Bulbs shone from simple iron sconces; decoration was understated and minimal. There were no idols of worship or shrines, such as the old gods might have demanded. The only evidence of this building’s purpose was a shadowy, gold-framed portrait of King Andreal of Glane, father of the Awakeners and the last ever King. He’d been painted in his most regal pose. It betrayed none of the madness that later took him, and set him to burbling prophecies which ended up having far more influence over the country than he ever did while he ruled it.

There was little here to distract the mind from its devotions. Instead, there were only panelled doors, strong beams, smooth banisters, and the frowning sensation of trespass that settled heavier on Frey with every passing moment.

There are no guards. Only women inside, he reminded himself. Since when have you been scared of women?

Then he remembered Trinica Dracken, and he felt a little nauseous. Of all the people in the world he never wanted to see again, she was top of the list.

Forget her for now, he thought. You’ve a job to do.

He dusted himself down as best he could, though he was still covered in sooty smears when he finished. Having made himself as presentable as possible, he looked through the nearest doorway. A short corridor led to an empty wooden room, with only a small brazier in the centre. Mats were laid out in a circle around it. A skylight let in the glow of the moon.

A meditation chamber, Frey guessed, backtracking. The Awakeners were very keen on meditation, Crake had told him. Sitting around doing nothing took many years of practice, he’d added with a sneer.

Other doorways let out on to other corridors, which took him to a small study, a filing room full of cabinets and paper, and a classroom with desks in rows of three. Any windows he saw were set high up on the wall, too high to look through without using a stepladder. Obviously interest in the outside world was discouraged.

He soon came upon a room with a stone table, red-stained blood-gutters running down it. Frey’s alarming visions of human sacrifice faded when he remembered that many Awakeners used the reading of entrails to understand the Allsoul. As he was wondering how it all might work, he heard the distant whisper of footsteps and female voices in conversation. Someone was up, even at this hour. It was difficult to tell if they were heading his way or not, but he returned to the hall to be safe, and then went up the stairs.

The problem of actually finding Amalicia once he was inside the hermitage hadn’t greatly troubled Frey during the planning of his daring infiltration. He’d been sidetracked by delicious visions of what an army of cloistered girls might do when a man turned up in their midst. In the face of that, the details seemed rather unimportant. But now he realised that he hadn’t the faintest idea where his target was, and his only option was to keep nosing around until something presented itself.

There was another small concern that had been nagging him. It had been two years, more or less, since Amalicia’s father sent her to the hermitage. Granted, the point of a hermitage was to keep acolytes in isolation for twice that, but still, two years was a long time. He wasn’t even certain she was here at all. Maybe her father had forgiven her and let her out?

No. He didn’t think so. He knew Gallian Thade’s reputation, and forgiveness wasn’t something he approved of.

Besides, Amalicia herself had said as much, in the last letter she’d sent him.

Moilday Firstweek, Thresh, 145/32

Dearest one,

Through the investigations of those still loyal to me and sympathetic to our cause, I have discovered the location of the hermitage to which my father intends to condemn me. He is sending me to the Highlands. I enclose the co-ordinates, which I am sure your navigator can decode, as they are mysterious to me.

Please forgive the cruel and shameful words I wrote in my last letter. I see now that you were wise to flee when you could, for my father’s mood has not improved. He still swears terrible vengeance, and likely will desire your death until the day his own comes. My heart should break if harm were to come to you. My anger was not towards you, but towards the injustice that made me my father’s daughter and you a man born without noble blood. But our love makes mockery of such things, and I know it will make you brave.

Find me, Darian, and rescue me. You have your craft, and we have the world before us. You will be a great man of the skies, and I shall be at your side, the way we always dreamed.

This letter will depart by my most trusted handmaiden, and I hope it will reach you and find you well. There will be no further opportunity to communicate.

With love everlasting,

Amalicia

Well, I got here eventually, Frey thought.

At the top of the stairs was another corridor, and more doors on either side. Each one was a private study cell, with a small lectern on the floor, a mat for kneeling, and a window slit, high up. There were more classrooms, and a door to a library, which was locked. He was just about to try the next door when suddenly a voice came to him, startlingly close.

‘It’s Euphelia, that’s who it is. She’s the one bringing the others down.’

He bolted into a classroom and crouched inside the doorway just as two women came gliding round the corner on slippered feet.

‘She’s taking her studies very seriously,’ argued the other. ‘She’s terribly earnest.’

‘She’s just not very bright, then,’ replied the first. ‘Her understanding of the Cryptonomicon is woeful.’

Two figures swept past in the corridor. Frey caught a glimpse of them. They were middle-aged, with greying hair cut in masculine, efficient styles, and they wore the white cassocks of Speakers.

‘She has a talent for casting the bones, though,’ the second woman persisted.

‘That she does, that she does. The signals are very clear. But I wonder if she’ll ever learn to interpret them.’

‘Perhaps if we focused her more towards cleromancy and lightened her other studies?’

‘Make her a special case? Goodness, no. If we start with her, we have to do it with everyone, and then where will we be?’

The voices faded as they turned the corner, and Frey relaxed. It seemed the hermitage was still patrolled, even in the dead of night. Out to catch acolytes sneaking into the pantry, or some such thing. Well, he’d have to be careful. He didn’t think his conscience could handle punching out a woman.

He found the girls’ dormitory shortly afterwards, and slid inside.

For a time he stood just inside the door, in the dark. Moonlight fell from a pair of skylights onto two rows of bunk beds. Perhaps fifty girls were sleeping here, their huddled outlines limned in cold light. The room was soft with sighing breath, broken by the occasional delicate snore. There was a scent in the air, not perfume but something indefinable and female, present in a dangerous concentration. Frey began to feel strangely frisky.

He was something of an expert in the art of creeping through women’s rooms without disturbing them. By waiting, he was being careful. The slight disturbance caused by his entry may have brought some of the girls close to the surface of sleep, and any small noise might wake them. He was giving them time to slip back into the depths before proceeding.

That, and he wanted to exult in the moment. It really was quite special, being here.

He moved silently between the beds, looking at the moonlit faces of each girl in turn. Disappointingly, they were not quite as luscious in person as he’d imagined they might be. Some were just too young - he had standards - and others were too plain or too fat or had eyes too close together. Their hair was cut in boring styles, and none were in any way prettified. One or two slept beneath their pillows or obscured their faces with their arms, but they didn’t have Amalicia’s black hair, and their hands - always a giveaway - were too old.

He’d almost reached the end of the room when he saw her. She was sleeping on one of the bottom bunks, her head pillowed by her folded hands, mouth slightly open, face relaxed. Even without the elegant hairstyles and the expertly applied make-up he remembered her wearing, she was beautiful. Her long black hair had fallen across her face in strands; the curve of the lips, the tilt of the nose, the line of her jaw were just as they were in his memory. Frey felt a throb of regret at the sight of her, and smothered it quickly.

He knelt down, reached out and touched her shoulder. When she didn’t respond, he shook her gently. She stirred and her eyes opened a little. They widened as she saw him; she took a breath to say his name. He quickly put his finger to his lips.

For a few moments, they just looked at each other. Her gaze flickered over his face, absorbing every detail. Then she pushed her blanket aside and slid out of bed. She was wearing a plain cotton nightdress that clung to her hips and the slope of her breasts. Frey felt a sudden urge to take her in his arms as he’d often done before, but before he could act on it she grabbed his hand and led him towards a door at the far end of the dormitory.

Outside was another corridor, as dark and spartan as the rest. She checked the coast was clear and then pulled him down it. She took him through a door which led to a narrow set of stairs. At the top was an attic room, with a large skylight looking up at the full moon. It had a small writing desk in a corner, with several books piled atop it. A private study chamber, perhaps. Frey closed the door behind them.

‘Amalicia . . .’ he began, but then she roundhouse-kicked him in the face.

Fifteen

Amalicia’s Revenge - Frey’s Talent For Lying - Plans Are Made - Invitations, Lewd and Otherwise

It wasn’t so much the force of the kick but the surprise that sent Frey stumbling back. He tripped and fell to the ground, holding his face, shock in his eyes.

‘What’d you do that f—’

‘Two years!’ she hissed, and her bare foot flashed out again and cracked him around the side of the head, knocking him dizzy. ‘Two years I’ve waited for you to come!’

‘Wait, I—’ he began, but she booted him in the solar plexus and the breath was driven out of him.

‘Did you know they teach us the fighting arts in this place? It’s all about being in harmony with one’s body, you see. Only when we’re in harmony with ourselves can we find harmony with the Allsoul. Utter rubbish, of course, but it does have its benefits.’ She punctuated the last word with another vicious kick in the ribs.

Frey gaped like a fish, trying to suck air into his lungs. Amalicia squatted down in front of him, pitiless.

‘What happened to your promises, Darian? What happened to “Nothing can separate us”? What happened to “I’ll never leave you”? What happened to “You’re the only one”?’

Frey had a vague recollection of saying those things, and others like them. Women did tend to take what he said literally. They never seemed to understand that because they expected - no, demanded - romantic promises and expressions of affection, they forced a man to lie to them. The alternative was frosty silences, arguments, and, in the worst case, the woman would leave to find a man who would lie to her. So if he’d said some things he hadn’t exactly meant, it was hardly his fault. She only had herself to blame.

‘Your father . . .’ he wheezed. ‘Your father . . . would’ve had . . . me killed.’

‘Well, we’ll never know that for sure, will we? You turned tail and ran the moment you realised he’d found out about us!’

‘Tactical withdrawal,’ Frey gasped, raising himself up on one hand. ‘I told you . . . I’d be back.’

She stood up and drove her heel hard into his thigh. His leg went dead.

‘Will you stop bloody hitting me?’ he cried.

‘Two years!’ Her voice had become a strangled squeak of rage.

‘It took me two years to find you!’

‘Oh, what rot!’

‘It’s the truth! You think your father advertised your whereabouts? You think it was easy finding you? He sent me away so once you’d gone you’d be hidden from me. I’ve spent two years trying to get my hands on Awakener records, mixing with the wrong kind of people, trying to stay one step ahead of your father and the . . . the assassins he set on my trail. You know he’s hired the Shacklemores? The Shacklemores have been after me ever since the day I left, and every day I’ve been trying to make my way back to you.’

It was an outrageous lie, but Frey had a talent for lying. When he lied even he believed it. Just for that moment, just for the duration of his protest, he was convinced that he really had done right by her. The details were unimportant.

Besides, he knew for sure that Gallian Thade really did still want him dead. Thade had framed him. In such a light, it was rather heroic that he’d come back at all.

But Amalicia wasn’t so easily swayed. ‘Spit and blood, Darian, don’t give me that! I sent you a letter telling you where I was! I sat here in this horrible place waiting for—’

‘I never got any letter!’

‘Yes, you did! The letter I sent you with the co-ordinates of this place.’

‘I never got any co-ordinates! In your last letter you called me a coward and a liar, among other things. In fact, the last letter I got from you left me in very little doubt that you never wanted to see me again.’

Amalicia’s hand went to her mouth. Suddenly, all the anger had gone out of her and she looked horrified.

‘You didn’t get it? The letter I sent after that one?’

Frey looked blank.

Amalicia turned away, an anxious hand flying to her forehead, pacing around the room. ‘Oh, by the Allsoul! That silly cow of a handmaiden. She must have written the wrong address, or not paid the right postage, or—’

‘Maybe it got lost in the post?’ Frey suggested generously. ‘Or someone at one of my pick-up points mislaid it. I had to stay on the move, you know.’

‘You really didn’t receive my letter?’ Amalicia asked. Her voice had taken on a note of sympathy, and Frey knew he’d won. ‘The one where I took back all those foul things I said?’

Frey struggled to his feet with difficulty. His jaw was swelling, and he could barely stand on his dead leg. Amalicia rushed over to help him.

‘I really didn’t,’ he said.

‘And you still came? You still searched for me all these years, even when you thought I hated you?’

‘Well,’ he said, then paused for a moment to roll his jaw before he delivered his final blow. ‘I made a promise.’

Her eyes shimmered with tears in the moonlight. Wide, dark, trusting eyes. He’d always liked those eyes. They’d always seemed so innocent.

She flung herself at him, and hugged him close. He winced as his injuries twinged, then slid his arms around her slender back and buried his face in her hair. She smelled clean. Cleaner than he’d smelled for a long time, that was for certain. He found himself wondering how things might have been with her, if not for her father, if not for the unfortunate circumstances that drove them apart.

No. No regrets. If he opened that door he’d never be able to close it.

She pulled herself away a little, so she could look up at his face. She was desperately sorry now, ashamed for having tragically misjudged him. Grateful that he’d come for her in spite of everything.

‘You’re the only man I’ve ever been with, Darian,’ she breathed. ‘I haven’t seen another since my father sent me to this awful place.’

Darian leaned closer, sensing the moment was right, but she drew back with a sharp intake of breath. ‘Have you?’ she asked. ‘Have you been with anyone?’

He looked at her steadily, letting her feel how earnest he was. ‘No,’ he lied, firmly and with authority.

Amalicia sighed, and then kissed him hard, clutching at him with unpractised, youthful fury. She tore at his clothes, frantic. He struggled free of his sooty greatcoat as she fumbled at the laces of his shirt before finally tugging it off and throwing it away. He pulled her nightshirt up and over her head, and then swept her up and kissed her, gratified to realise that at least part of his fantasy about sex-starved young women in a hermitage was about to come true.

Afterwards, they lay together naked on Frey’s coat, his skin prickling deliciously in the chilly night. He ran a finger along the line of her body while she stared at him adoringly. There was a dazed look in her eye, as if she was unable to quite believe that he was here with her again.

‘I saw some Imperators on the way here,’ he said.

She gasped. ‘You didn’t!’

‘Right outside. A bunch of Sentinels carried a chest out to them, and they put it on their craft and took off. One of them looked right at me.’

‘How frightening.’

‘They were guarding that chest very closely.’

‘Are you asking me if I have any idea what might have been inside?’

‘In a roundabout way, yes.’

‘I don’t know, Darian. Some stuffy old scrolls, no doubt. Perhaps it was an original copy of the Cryptonomicon. They’re terribly careful with those things.’

‘Remind me what that is again?’

‘The book of teachings. They wrote down all the insane little mutterings of King Andreal the Demented, and put them in that book.’

‘Oh,’ said Frey, losing interest immediately.

‘We have to leave together,’ she said. ‘Tonight.’

‘We can’t.’

‘It’s the only way, Darian! The only way we can be together!’

‘I want that, more than anything in the world. But there’s something I haven’t told you. Your father . . .’

‘What did he do?’ she snapped, jumping immediately to Frey’s defence.

‘You might not want to hear this.’

‘Tell me!’

‘Your father . . . well, he’s . . . Something terrible happened. An aircraft blew up, and people died. Nobody knows who did it, but your father has pinned it on me. Me and my crew. If you were caught with me, they’d hang you. It’s too dangerous. You’re safer here.’

Amalicia looked at him suspiciously.

‘I’m a lot of things, but I’m no cold-blooded killer!’ he protested. ‘The Archduke’s son was on that craft, Amalicia. Your father arranged it, but half of Vardia is after me.’

‘Hengar is dead?’ she gaped.

‘Yes! And your father is in on it.’

Amalicia shook her head angrily, eyes narrowing. ‘That bastard. I hate that bastard!’

‘You believe me, then?’

‘Of course I believe you! Spit and blood, I know what he’s capable of. Look at me! His only daughter, condemned to this place because I went against his wishes just once! He doesn’t have a heart. Money is all he cares about . . . money and that rotten Allsoul.’ She glanced around guiltily, as if afraid she’d gone too far. Then, emboldened by Frey’s presence, she went on. ‘It’s all stupid! I don’t believe any of it! They say it’s all about faith, but it’s not, because I can do it and I don’t even care about the Allsoul! It’s brought me nothing but misery. Any idiot can study the texts and learn to read the signs. Anyone with half an education can tell the Mistresses what they want to hear. But there’s nothing there, Darian! I don’t feel anything! I’m just stuck here in this prison, and after two more years they’ll put that awful tattoo on my forehead, and after that I’ll be an Awakener for ever!’ She cupped his bruised jaw with her hands and gazed desperately into his eyes. ‘I can’t let that happen. I’ll die first. You have to get me out of here.’

‘I will,’ he said. ‘I will. But first I have to get to your father.’

‘Oh, Darian, no! He’ll have you hanged for sure!’

‘Gallian Thade is the only lead I’ve got. If I can find out why he killed Hengar . . . well, maybe I can do something about it.’ Then, seeing Amalicia’s expectant expression, he added, ‘And then I’ll come back for you, and we’ll escape together as we planned.’

‘But if you pin it on my father . . .’ Amalicia said, with dawning realisation. ‘Why, he’ll be the one that hangs.’

Frey stumbled mentally. He’d forgotten about that. In clearing his name, Gallian would have to hang. He was asking a daughter to help send her own father to the gallows.

A cruel smile spread across Amalicia’s face, the terrifying smile of a child about to stamp on an insect. Malice for the sake of malice. She saw her revenge, and it pleased her. Frey was surprised; he hadn’t imagined her capable of such thoughts. Her time in the hermitage had made her bitter, it seemed.

‘If he hangs,’ she said slowly, ‘that makes me head of the family. And no one can keep me here when I’m mistress of the Thades.’

‘I hadn’t even considered that,’ Frey said, truthfully. ‘I was so wrapped up in the idea of rescuing you . . . well, it had never occurred to me that, if your father died . . .’

‘Oh, Darian, it’s brilliant!’ she said, eyes shining. She threw one leg over his thigh and pressed herself to him eagerly. Frey’s mind began to wander from his machinations and back to baser thoughts. ‘Kill him! Let the bastard hang! And then I’ll be free, and we can be together, and we won’t have to run from anyone! We’ll marry, and damn what anyone says!’

Frey’s ardour dampened at the mention of marriage. But why? he asked himself. Why not this one? She’s richer than shit and foxy to boot! Not to mention she’s almost a decade younger than you and she thinks the sun rises and sets in your trousers. Since you can’t make fifty thousand ducats any other way, why not marry them?

But however good the reasons, Frey couldn’t deny the life-sucking sense of oblivion that overtook him whenever he heard the M-word.

‘I daren’t even hope for that yet,’ he said. ‘Things are so dangerous right now . . . simply to survive would be . . . maybe, just maybe, I can win out of this. And then you’ll be free, and we can be together.’

Can, he mentally added. Not will.

‘What can I do?’ she asked, missing the fact that Frey had deftly evaded any promise of marriage. She’d heard what she wanted to hear. Frey noted that the women in his life had a tendency to do that.

‘Can you think of any reason why your father would want Hengar dead? How would it profit him?’

She lay on her back and looked up at the ceiling. Frey admired her, half-listening as she spoke. ‘Well, he’s very close to the Awakeners, you know that. But the Awakeners don’t have anything against Hengar. It’s the Archduchess they hate, and the Archduke by association.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Eloithe is a big critic of the Awakeners. She doesn’t believe in the Allsoul. She says they’re just a business empire that trades in superstition. And she’s obviously inspired the Archduke, since he’s started making all kinds of moves to diminish their power. But none of that’s anything to do with Hengar.’ She thought for a moment, then said, ‘You know what I think? I don’t think my father’s behind this at all.’

‘Amalicia, there’s no doubt. I spoke to a—’

‘No, no, I mean . . . We’re landowners, Darian. We make our money from tenants. There’s no reason to murder the son of the Archduke.’ She sat up suddenly, her face taut with certainty. ‘I know him, Darian, he wouldn’t come up with something like this. Someone else is behind it.’

‘You think there’s someone else?’

‘I’d bet on it.’

‘Well . . . who?’

‘That I don’t know. I’ve been away a long time, in case you’d forgotten. It’s hard to keep up with my father’s business dealings when I’ve been locked in this prison for two years.’

Her tone grew harsher as she spoke, and Frey - fearing another beating - placated her hurriedly. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ll look into it. I just have to find a way to get close to him.’

‘Well, there’s the Winter Ball coming up,’ she suggested.

‘The Winter Ball?’

‘You know! The ball! The one my father has every year at our estate on the Feldspar Islands.’

‘Oh, the ball!’ Frey said, though he’d no idea what she was talking about. Presumably they’d discussed it, although he was reasonably sure he’d never been to one.

‘My father always does business there. All the important people come to it. If someone put him up to this whole business of murder, I’m sure you’d find them there. And you’d be well hidden among all the people. It’s quite the event of the season, you know!’

‘Can you get me in?’

She jumped up and went to the writing desk, drew out a pen and paper and began to scribble. Frey lay on his side, idly studying the curve of her back, the bumps of her spine.

‘There are still people in the family who don’t agree with what father did. This is a letter of introduction. You can take it to my second cousin - he’ll do the rest.’

‘I need two invitations.’

Her shoulders tensed and she stopped writing.

‘Neither are for me,’ he assured her. ‘I won’t be going. Don’t fancy meeting your father again. And you know I’m not very well trained in etiquette. But I do have a friend who is. I’ll need his help.’

‘And the other?’

‘Well, you have to take a lady to these things, don’t you? Turning up without a date looks a bit odd.’

‘And I suppose you happen to know one?’

‘She’s my navigator, Amalicia,’ said Frey. He leaned over and kissed her between the shoulder blades. ‘Just my navigator. And it won’t be me that’s taking her.’

‘Alright,’ she said. ‘Two invitations.’ She resumed writing, then signed with a flourish and laid the letter on top of his piled-up clothes.

Frey began getting to his feet. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you out of here. I promise.’

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

Frey looked towards the door of the attic. ‘Well, I’m technically not supposed to be here, so I should really be gone before everyone wakes up.’

Amalicia pulled him back down again. ‘It’s not even close to dawn,’ she said. ‘I’ve had nobody to lie with for two years, Darian. We still have some catching up to do.’

Sixteen

A Triumphant Return - Frey Takes On New Crew - Silo’s Warning

It was midday by the time Frey made it back to the grassy valley where the Ketty Jay waited. There was a cold breeze, but the sun warmed the skin pleasantly, and most of the crew were outside. Harkins was tinkering with the Firecrow; Jez was reading a book she’d picked up in Aulenfay; Malvery was lying on his back, basking. Silo was nowhere to be seen. Frey presumed he was inside, engaged in one of his endless attempts to modify and improve the Ketty Jay’s engine.

Frey strolled into their midst, whistling merrily. Pinn - who was lying propped up against the wheel strut of his Skylance - lifted the wet towel off his forehead and gave an agonised groan. He was still wearing his Awakener garb, although the Cipher he’d painted on his head was now just a red smear.

‘I see you managed to keep yourself entertained while I was gone,’ Frey said. ‘Heavy night?’

Pinn groaned again and put the towel back on his forehead.

‘Mission accomplished, Cap’n?’ Jez called, looking up from her book. ‘What happened to your face?’

Frey touched fingertips to his bruised jaw, probing the skin delicately. ‘Little misunderstanding, that’s all,’ he said. Jez ran her eye over his shabby, soot-covered clothes and let the issue drop.

Bess was sitting on the grass, her short, stumpy legs sticking out in front of her, like some vast and grotesque mechanical infant. Crake was cleaning her with a bucket and a rag. She was making a soft, eerie cooing noise, like wind through distant trees. Crake said it meant she was happy, rather like the purring of a cat, but it unsettled Frey to hear the voice of the daemon that inhabited that massive armoured shell.

‘You look chipper today,’ Crake observed.

Malvery sat up, took off his round, green-lensed glasses and peered at Frey. ‘Yes, he has a definite glow about him, despite the battle damage. I’d say he had a very happy reunion with someone. That’s my professional opinion.’

‘A gentleman never tells,’ said Frey, with a broad grin that was as good as a confession.

‘I’m very pleased for you,’ said Crake, disapprovingly.

‘How did your new toys work out?’ Frey enquired.

Crake brightened. ‘I think I can do quite a lot with them. A daemonist needs a sanctum, really, but some processes are more portable than others. I won’t be fooling around with anything too dangerous, that’s for sure, but I can still do beginner’s stuff.’

‘What’s beginner’s stuff? Stuff like my cutlass?’

Crake choked in amazement and almost flung down his rag. ‘Your cutlass,’ he said indignantly, ‘is a work of bloody art that took me years of study to accomplish and almost -’

He stopped as he caught the look of wicked amusement on Frey’s face. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see. You caught me. Very droll.’

Frey walked over and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘No, seriously, I’m interested. What can you do?’

‘Well, for example . . .’ He drew out two small silver earcuffs from his pocket. ‘Take one of these and put it on your ear.’

Frey fixed it to his ear. Crake did the same with the other. They looked like any other innocuous ornament. Bess stirred restlessly, her huge bulk rustling and clanking as she moved. Crake patted her humped back.

‘Don’t worry, Bess. We’re not finished yet. I’ll clean the rest in a moment,’ he assured her. The golem, mollified, settled down to wait.

‘Now what?’ asked Frey.

‘Go over there,’ said Crake, pointing. ‘And ask me a question. Just talk normally, don’t raise your voice.’

Frey shrugged and did as he was told. He walked fifty yards and then stopped. Facing away from Crake, he said quietly, ‘So what exactly are you doing on the Ketty Jay?’

‘I gave you my cutlass on the condition that you’d never ask me that,’ Crake replied, close enough to his ear so that Frey jumped and looked around. It was as if the daemonist was standing right next to him.

‘That’s incredible!’ Frey exclaimed. ‘Is that really you? I can hear your voice right in my ear!’

‘The range could be better,’ said Crake modestly. ‘But it’s quite a simple trick to thrall two daemons at the same resonance. They’re the most rudimentary type; stupid things, really. Little sparks of awareness, not even as smart as an animal. But they can be very useful if put to a task.’

‘I’ll say!’

‘I was thinking, if I can whip up some better versions, that you could use them to communicate with your pilots or something. Better than that electroheliograph thing you have.’

‘That’s a damn good idea, Crake,’ he said. ‘Damn good idea.’

‘Anyway, better take it off. These things will tire you out if you wear them too long. Daemons have a way of sucking the energy out of you.’

‘My cutlass doesn’t,’ Frey replied.

He heard the slight hesitation. My cutlass, Crake was undoubtedly thinking.

‘One of many reasons it’s such a work of art,’ he said.

Frey unclipped the earcuff and returned to Crake, who had resumed scrubbing the golem. ‘I’m impressed,’ he said, handing it back. ‘You want to go to a party?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘A ball, actually. Formal ball, held by Gallian Thade.’

‘The Winter Ball at Scorchwood Heights?’

‘Ummm . . . yes?’ Frey replied uncertainly.

‘You have invitations?’

Frey brandished the letter from Amalicia. ‘I will have soon. I was thinking you might go, and take Jez with you.’

Crake looked at him, searching for a sign of mockery.

‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘I could really use your help, Crake. Thade will be there, and if he’s working with someone else, it’s our best chance of finding out what he’s up to.’

Crake was still watching him narrowly, indecision in his eyes.

‘Look,’ said Frey. ‘I know I have no right to ask. You’re a passenger. That’s what you signed on for. You don’t owe me anything.’ He shrugged. ‘But, I mean, you and Bess . . .’

Bess shifted at the sound of her name, a quizzical coo coming from deep within her. Crake patted her back.

Frey coughed into his fist, looked away into the distance, and scratched his thigh. He was never very good with honesty. ‘You and Bess, the both of you saved our lives back in Marklin’s Reach. I’ve kind of got to thinking that, well . . .’ He shrugged again. Crake just kept on looking at him. The daemonist wasn’t making it easy. ‘What I’m saying - badly - is that I’ve started to think of you more as part of the crew, instead of just dead weight. I’m saying, well . . . look, I don’t know what business you’re really on, or why you took up with me in the first place, but it’s getting to be pretty bloody handy having the two of you around. Especially if you’re gonna start making more little trinkets like those ear things.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Frey,’ said Crake. ‘Are you offering me a job?’

Frey hadn’t really thought about that. He just knew that he needed Crake to help him out. ‘Would you take one if I offered it?’ he heard himself saying. ‘Part of the crew? Just till . . . well, until we get this whole mess sorted out. Then you could decide.’

‘Do I get my cutlass back?’

‘No!’ Frey said quickly. ‘But I’ll cut you in on a share of what we make.’

‘We don’t seem to make a great deal of anything.’

Frey made a face, conceding the point.

‘What would I have to do in return?’ Crake asked. He returned to scrubbing Bess’s massive back. A deep, echoing groan of pleasure came from the golem’s depths.

‘Just . . . well, stick around. Help us out.’

‘I thought I was doing that already.’

‘You are! I mean . . .’ Frey was getting frustrated. He was a supremely eloquent liar, but he struggled when he had to talk about things that he actually felt. It made him vulnerable, and that made him angry at himself. ‘I mean, you and Bess could just up and walk, right? It’s like you said back in Yortland: they’d never come looking for you. It’s me they’re after. And I’m sure you’ve other business you want to be getting on with, something to do with all that daemonism stuff you picked up.’

‘So what you’re saying is that you’d like us to stay around?’ Crake prompted.

‘Yes.’

‘And that you . . . well, that you need us.’

Frey didn’t like the triumphant tone creeping into Crake’s voice. ‘Yes,’ he said warily.

‘And what are you going to do next time someone puts a gun to my head and spins the barrel?’

Frey gritted his teeth. ‘Give them the ignition codes to the Ketty Jay,’ he said, glaring malevolently at the grass between his feet. ‘Probably.’

Crake grinned and gave Bess a quick buff on the hump. ‘You hear that, Bess? We’re pirates now!’ Bess sang happily, a ghostly, off-key nursery rhyme.

‘So you’ll go to the ball?’ Frey asked.

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’ll go.’

Frey felt a flood of relief. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been counting on Crake’s co-operation until this moment. He was about to say something grateful-sounding when he was interrupted by a cry from further up the valley.

‘Cap’n!’

It was Silo. The tall Murthian wasn’t in the engine room after all, but running down the valley towards them with a haste that could only spell trouble. He was carrying a spyglass in his hand.

‘Cap’n! Aircraft!’ Silo cried, pointing. The others - with the exception of Pinn -scrambled to their feet or ran to look.

‘I see it,’ said Jez.

‘Damn, you’ve got good eyes!’ said Malvery. ‘I don’t see a thing!’

‘Nor me!’ added Crake.

Jez looked around guiltily. ‘I mean, I can’t make it out or anything, not really. Just saw a flash of light, that’s all.’

Silo reached them and passed the spyglass to Frey. Frey put it to his eye.

‘She coming . . . from the south . . .’ he panted. ‘Think she . . . heading for the . . . hermitage . . .’

‘Then she’ll pass over us?’

‘Yuh-huh. See us for sure.’

Frey cast about with the spyglass, struggling to locate the incoming threat. It swung into view and steadied. Frey’s mouth went dry.

She was a big craft. Long and wide across the deck, black and scarred, yet for all her ugliness she was sleek. A frigate, built more like an ocean vessel than an aircraft: a terrible armoured hulk bristling with weaponry. Her wings were little more than four stumpy protuberances: she was too massive to manoeuvre quickly. But what she lacked in speed, she more than made up for in firepower. This was a combat craft, a machine made for war with a crew of dozens.

Frey took the spyglass away from his eye.

‘It’s the Delirium Trigger,’ he said.

Seventeen

Dracken Catches Up - Equalisers - Jez Makes A Plan - Pinn’s Defence - Lightning

The reaction among the crew was immediate. Frey had never seen them scramble into action so fast. He vainly wished he had half the authority that the Delirium Trigger apparently did.

‘Everyone! Get to stations! We’re airborne!’ Frey yelled, even though Silo, Jez and Malvery were already bolting up the cargo ramp. Harkins had scampered into the cockpit of the Firecrow like a frightened spider, and Pinn was grumbling nauseously to himself as he set about getting himself into the Skylance.

‘Crake! Get Bess inside and shut the ramp!’ he ordered, as he raced aboard the Ketty Jay. He made his way to the cockpit with speed born of panic, flying up the steps from the cargo hold two at a time. He squeezed past Malvery, who was climbing into the autocannon cupola on the Ketty Jay’s back, and found Jez already at her post. He threw himself into his chair, punched in the ignition code, and opened up everything he could for an emergency lift.

How did she find me?

Harkins was in the air by the time the Ketty Jay began to rise, and Pinn took off a few moments later, still clad in his half-buttoned Awakener cassock and with a red smear across his forehead. There was a look of frantic bewilderment on his face, like someone rudely awakened from sleep to find their bed is on fire.

The Ketty Jay was facing the Delirium Trigger as she rose. The frigate was coming in fast. Now it was easily visible to the naked eye, and growing larger by the second. She couldn’t fail to have spotted the craft lifting into the sky, directly in her path. The question was, would she recognise the Ketty Jay at this distance?

As if in answer, four black dots detached from her, and began to race ahead. Outflyers. Fighter craft.

‘She’s on to us!’ Frey cried. He swung the craft around one hundred and eighty degrees, and hit the thrusters. The Ketty Jay bellowed as she accelerated to the limit of her abilities.

‘Orders, Cap’n?’ Jez asked.

‘Get us out of here!’

‘Can we outrun her?’

‘The Trigger, yes. The outflyers are Norbury Equalisers. We can’t outrun them.’

‘Okay, I’m on it,’ said Jez, digging through her charts with a loud rustling of paper.

‘Heads up, everyone!’ Malvery called from the cupola. ‘Incoming!’

Frey wrenched the control stick and the Ketty Jay banked hard. A rapid salvo of distant booms rolled through the air, followed a moment later by a sound like the end of the world. The sky exploded all around them, a deafening, pounding chaos of shock and flame. The Ketty Jay was shaken and thrown, flung about like a toy. Pipes shrieked and burst in the depths of the craft, spewing steam. Cracks split the glass of the dashboard dials. A low howl of metal sounded from somewhere in the guts of the craft.

And then suddenly the chaos was over, and somehow they were still flying, the majestic green canvas of the Highlands blurring beneath them.

‘Ow,’ said Frey weakly.

‘You alright, Cap’n?’ asked Jez, brushing her hair out of her eyes and gathering up her scattered charts.

‘Bit my damn tongue,’ Frey replied. His ears were whistling and everything sounded dim.

‘They’re firing again!’ cried Malvery, who had a view of the Delirium Trigger from the blister on the Ketty Jay’s back.

‘What kind of range do those guns have?’ Frey murmured in dismay, and sent the Ketty Jay into a hard dive. But there was no cataclysm this time. The explosions fell some way behind them, and the concussion was barely more than a sullen shove.

‘Not enough, apparently,’ said Jez.

‘Malvery! Where are those fighters?’ called Frey through the door of the cockpit.

‘Catching us up!’ the doctor replied.

‘Don’t fire till they’re close enough to hit! We’ve not got much ammo for that cannon!’

‘Right-o!’

He turned to his navigator. ‘I need a plan, Jez.’

She was plotting frantically with a pair of compasses. ‘This craft has Blackmore P-12s, right?’

‘Uh?’

‘The thrusters. P-12s.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay.’ She looked up from her chart. ‘I have an idea.’

Pinn’s mouth tasted like decomposing mushrooms and his peripheral vision was a swarming haze. He felt like there wasn’t a drop of moisture in his body and yet his bladder throbbed insistently. He was utterly detached from the world. Reality was somewhere else. He was cocooned in his own private suffering.

And yet, some faint part of him was alarmed to find that he was in the cockpit of his Skylance, racing over the Highlands, pursued by four fighter craft intent on shooting him down. That part was urging him to sharpen up pretty quickly and pay attention. Eventually, he began to listen to it.

With some difficulty, he craned around and looked over his shoulder. The enemy craft were close enough to make out now. He recognised the distinctive shape of Norbury Equalisers: their bulbous, rounded cockpits right up front; their straight, thick wings, cut off at the ends; their narrow, slightly arched bodies. Norburys were a pain in the arse. Speedy and highly manoeuvrable. They were like flies: annoyingly hard to swat. And when you got frustrated, you made mistakes, and that was when they took you out.

He could outrun them, for sure. He could outrun just about anything in his modified Skylance. But an outflyer’s job wasn’t to save his own neck. He had to protect the Ketty Jay. Besides, running was for pussies.

The Ketty Jay was to starboard. He saw her change tack, swinging towards the west, and he banked to match. The horizon became uneven as the edge of the Eastern Plateau came into view, a hundred kloms ahead of them. Beyond it, invisible, the land fell away in the steep, sheer cliffs and jagged, crushed peaks of the Hookhollows.

Pinn frowned. Where did they think they were going? They might be able to make it to the mountains, where there would be ravines and defiles to use as cover, but there was still no way the Ketty Jay could outmanoeuvre an Equaliser.

He glanced to port. The Delirium Trigger was safely out of the race, but the Equalisers were banking to intercept the Ketty Jay on her new course, and they were closing the gap even faster than before.

Minutes ticked by. The slow, excruciating minutes of the long-distance chase. Pinn’s world shrank back to the pulsing of his hangover, the low roar of the thrusters, the shudder and tremble of the Skylance. But every time he looked around, the Equalisers were closer. One thing was clear: whatever the Ketty Jay was heading for, she wouldn’t make it before the Equalisers reached her.

Then, in the far distance, he saw an indistinct fuzz in the air. Gradually the fuzz darkened, until there could be no question as to what it was. Just beyond the lip of the Eastern Plateau was a line of threatening clouds. The clear blue of the sky ended abruptly in a piled black bank of gathering thunderheads.

The Ketty Jay was running for the storm.

‘How’d you know that was there, you clever bitch?’ he murmured, out of grudging respect for Jez. He naturally assumed it wasn’t the captain’s doing.

He checked where the Equalisers were. Behind him now, but closer still, flying in tight formation. Organised. Disciplined. Soon they’d be within firing range.

He shook his head and spat into the footwell. ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he snarled. He was bored with the chase and angry at his nagging headache. The fact that the enemy were flying in such neat formation inexplicably annoyed him. If someone didn’t do something soon, those Equalisers would start taking shots at them, and Pinn was damned if he was going to present his tail to four sets of machine guns.

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Let’s play.’

He broke away from the Ketty Jay in a high, curving loop. At its apex, he rolled the craft to bring him right-side up again. The pursuing fighters were below and ahead of him now. They’d seen the threat but were slow to react, unsure if he was fleeing or fighting. Nobody expected a single craft to take on four: it was suicidal.

But death was a concept that Pinn wasn’t really smart enough to understand. He didn’t have the imagination to envisage eternity. Oblivion was unfathomable. How could he be scared of something when he only had the vaguest notion of it? So he dived down towards the pursuing fighters with a whoop of joy, and opened up with his machine guns.

The Equalisers scattered as he plunged among them like a cat among birds. They banked and rolled and dived, darting out of his line of fire as he cut through the formation and out the other side. Lesser craft would have been tagged, but the Equalisers were just quick enough to evade him.

Pinn pulled the Skylance into a climb, rolling and banking as he did, making himself a difficult target. G-forces wrenched at him. His hangover throbbed in protest at the abuse, but the adrenaline was kicking in now, clearing away the cobwebs. He fought to keep track of the Equalisers as they wheeled through the sky. Three of them were reorganising, continuing their pursuit of the Ketty Jay. One had peeled off and was angling for a shot at Pinn.

One? One? Pinn was insulted. Ignoring the fighter that was trying to engage him, he flew towards the main formation. They’d streaked ahead, dismissing him. They thought they’d got too much of a head start while he was turning around. They thought he had no chance of catching them.

They were wrong.

Pinn hit the thrusters and left his pursuer aiming at empty sky. The Skylance howled gleefully as it accelerated, eating up the distance between Pinn and his targets. He came in from directly behind, growing in their blind spot. He was forced to fly straight to avoid notice, but he was acutely aware that by doing so he was allowing the fourth Equaliser to line up on his tail. He held steady for a dangerous moment, then loosed off a fusillade at the nearest plane.

Whether it was luck, instinct, or skill, the pilot spotted him an instant before he fired. The Equaliser banked hard and the bullets chipped across its flank and underwing, instead of hitting the tail assembly. Pinn cursed and rolled away just as the Equaliser on his tail sent a volley of tracer fire his way. The Skylance danced between the bullets and dived out of the line of fire.

Pinn jinked left and right, keeping his movements unpredictable.

He twisted his neck round, trying to get a fix on his opponents. The most important factor in aerial combat was knowing where your enemies were. He kept up a frantic evasion pattern until he spotted two of the Equalisers dwindling in the distance, continuing their pursuit of the Ketty Jay. The plane he’d damaged was still in the air and still a threat, though it was trailing a thin line of smoke that made it easy to find. Burned by his sneak attack, that pilot had decided to deal with Pinn.

He felt better once he’d located the fourth Equaliser. He had two of them on his tail now. They respected him enough that they couldn’t turn their backs on him. Now all he had to do was keep them busy awhile.

He launched into a new sequence of evasions, leading them away from the Ketty Jay as he corkscrewed and twisted and rolled. The Equalisers homed in on him from different angles, doing their best to trap him, but he could see their tactics and refused to play along. The one he’d damaged was limping slightly, a little slow and clumsy, and its pilot couldn’t lock in with his companion. Their manoeuvres were pretty but came to nothing. Sporadic machine-gun fire chattered behind him, but it was more hopeful than effective.

I should just turn around and take these bastards out, thought Pinn. But then he caught sight of the Delirium Trigger, much larger than he remembered when he last looked. Their aerobatics had allowed the bigger craft to catch them up, and Pinn didn’t fancy dealing with her guns on top of everything else.

The Ketty Jay was barely visible in the distance. He’d taken two of the Equalisers out of the chase, and he’d delayed the other two and bought the Ketty Jay time to reach the storm. He’d done his part.

He reached over and grabbed a lever underneath the dash. The Skylance had been built as a racer long before he’d modified it for combat, and it still had a racer’s secret weapon installed. He levelled up and aimed for the horizon.

‘Bye bye, shit-garglers!’ he yelled, then rammed the Skylance to full throttle and engaged the afterburners. The Skylance rocketed forward, slamming him back in his seat with enough force to press his chubby cheeks flat against his face. His pursuers could only watch, hopelessly outpaced, as the Skylance dwindled into the distance, carrying its whooping pilot with it.

‘Two still with us!’ called Malvery from his cupola. ‘Pinn’s drawn off the others.’

Frey grinned. ‘I’d kiss that kid if he wasn’t so hideous and stupid.’ He looked about. ‘Where’s Harkins?’

Jez pointed up through the windglass to the Firecrow hanging high on their starboard side.

‘Tell him to engage,’ he said, then shifted in his seat and hunched forward over the controls. ‘Keep ’em off my tail.’

Jez reached over to the electroheliograph and tapped a rapid code. The lamp on the Ketty Jay’s back flashed the sequence. Harkins gave a wing-waggle and broke away.

The winds were rising as the storm clouds rolled ever closer. Frey’s admiration for Jez had grown a great deal in the moment he saw those thunderheads appear on the horizon. She’d been right on the money. Again. It was an unfamiliar feeling, having someone reliable on his crew. He was rather liking it.

‘Wind is from the northwest today, and it’s sunny,’ she’d said. ‘Warm air rising off the mountains up the side of the plateau, cooled by the airstream coming down from the arctic. This time of the day, this kind of weather, you’re gonna get a storm there.’

The kind of storm a small fighter craft couldn’t handle. But a bigger one, driven by the notoriously robust Blackmore P-12 thrusters - that kind of craft could make it through.

Crake stuck his head round the door. ‘Anything I can do?’

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Bess was upset. All the explosions, you see.’

‘We’ll try and keep it down,’ Frey replied dryly. ‘Get me a damage report from Silo.’

Crake ran off down the corridor to comply. Frey returned his attention to the storm. The Ketty Jay rocked and shivered as the winds began to play around her. Machine-gun fire sounded from behind them.

‘There goes Harkins,’ Frey said. ‘Malvery! What’s going on back there?’

‘They dodged round him! Still coming!’

‘Well make sure you—’ he began, but was drowned out by the heavy thudding of the autocannon as Malvery opened up on their pursuers.

Frey cursed under his breath and swung the Ketty Jay to starboard. He heard the chatter of machine guns, and a spray of tracer fire passed under them and soared away towards the clouds.

‘Will you hold still?’ Malvery bellowed. ‘I ain’t gonna hit anything if you keep jigging around like that!’

‘I’m jigging around so they don’t hit us!’ Frey shouted back, then banked again, dived, and yawed to port. The Ketty Jay was a sizeable target, but she could move faster than her bulk suggested. Her pursuers were still at the limit of their range, but they were catching fast.

‘You know the worst thing about flying an aircraft like this?’ he asked Jez. ‘You can’t see behind you. I’m just guessing where those sons of bitches are while they take pot-shots at my arse. I wish, just once, someone would have the guts to take us on from the front so I could shoot ’em.’

‘Sounds like it wouldn’t be a very wise tactic, Cap’n,’ she replied. ‘But we can hope.’

The storm was filling the sky now. They were flying in low, and the thunderheads had swallowed the sun. The cockpit darkened, and the air got choppier still. The Ketty Jay began to rattle around, buffeted this way and that.

‘Let’s see ’em aim straight in this,’ he murmured. ‘Signal Harkins. Tell him to get out of here. He knows the rendezvous.’

Jez complied, tapping the electroheliograph.

A few moments later, Malvery yelled: ‘Hey! Harkins is turning tail! That yellow toad was supposed to be—’

‘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 good 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.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t quite recall.’

‘Perhaps we met on business? At a party? May I ask what it is you do?’

‘You may well ask, but I’m not sure I could answer!’ Crake brayed, falling into his role. ‘I’m sort of in between occupations at the moment. Father wants me to go into law, but my mother is obsessed with the idea that I should be a politician. Neither of them appeals much to me. I just want to be with my sweetheart.’ He smiled at Jez, who smiled back dreamily, bedazzled by her rich boyfriend. ‘May I ask what it is that you do?’

‘I work for the Shacklemore Agency.’

It took all of Crake’s control to keep his expression steady. The news was like a punch in the gut. Suddenly, he was certain that Cordwain was watching for a reaction from him, and he was determined to give none.

‘And what does the Shacklemore Agency do?’ asked Jez innocently, though she must have already known. Crake silently thanked her for the distraction.

Cordwain favoured her with a patronising smile. ‘Well, Miss, we look after the interests of our clients. We work for some very important people. My job is to deal with those people, keep things running smooth.’

‘Hired guns and bounty hunters, that’s what they are,’ sniffed Crake. He was quick on his feet in social situations, and he’d already decided on the best tactic for getting away as fast as possible. ‘I must say, I find it very distasteful.’

‘Damen! Don’t be rude!’ Jez said, appalled.

‘It’s alright, Miss,’ said Cordwain, with an unmistakable hostility in his gaze. ‘There’s some that don’t understand the value of the work we do. The law-abiding man has nothing to fear from us.’

‘I say, sir, do you dare to imply something?’ Crake bristled, raising his voice. People nearby turned and looked. Cordwain noticed the attention their conversation had drawn.

‘Not a thing, sir,’ he said coldly. ‘I apologise for disturbing you.’ He bowed quickly to Jez and walked away. The people around them resumed their conversations, glancing over occasionally in the hope of further drama.

Crake felt panicked. Had there been a warning in the man’s tone? Had he been recognised? But then, what was the point in confronting him? Was it just monstrous bad luck that he’d run into a Shacklemore here?

The warm sensation of being surrounded by familiar things had faded now. He felt paranoid and uneasy. He wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.

Jez was studying him closely. She was an observant sort, and he had no doubt that she knew something was up. But she kept her questions to herself.

‘Let’s go find Gallian Thade, hmm?’

Crake found him shortly afterwards, on the other side of the room. He was a tall, severe man with a hawk nose and a deeply lined, narrow face. For all his years, his pointed beard and black hair had not a trace of grey. His eyes were sharp and moved rapidly about as he spoke, like an animal restlessly scanning for danger.

‘That’s him,’ said Crake, admiring their host’s stiff, brocaded jacket.

Thade was in conversation with several men, all of them stern and serious-looking. Some of them were smoking cigars and drinking brandy.

‘Who’s that with him?’ murmured Jez, looking at the man next to Thade.

Crake studied Thade’s companion with interest. ‘That’s Duke Grephen of Lapin.’

Crake knew him from the broadsheets. As ruler of one of the Nine Duchies that formed Vardia, he was one of the most influential people in the land. Only the Archduke held more political power than the Dukes.

Grephen was a dour-looking man with a squarish build and a sallow face. His eyes were deeply sunken and ringed with dark circles, making him look faintly ill. His short blond hair was limp and damp with sweat. Though he was thirty-five, and he wore a fine uniform with the Lapin coat of arms on its breast, he looked like a pudgy boy playing at being a soldier.

Despite his less than formidable appearance, the others treated Grephen with the greatest respect. He didn’t speak often, and never smiled, but when he had something to offer, his companions listened intently.

‘Bet you never thought you’d see him when you came here tonight,’ said a voice to their right. They looked over to see a gaunt man with white hair and bushy eyebrows, flushed from alcohol and the heat. He was wearing a Navy uniform, his buttons and boots polished to a high shine.

‘Why, no, I hadn’t imagined I would,’ said Jez.

‘Air Marshal Barnery Vexford,’ he said, taking her hand to kiss it.

‘Bethinda Flay. And this is my sweetheart, Damen Morcutt.’

‘Of the Marduk Morcutts,’ Crake added cheerily, as he shook Vexford’s hand. Vexford wasn’t quick enough to keep the fleeting, predatory glitter from his eyes. Crake had already surmised what was on his mind. He was after Jez, and that made Crake his competition.

‘You know, ferrotypes don’t do him justice,’ Jez twittered. ‘He’s so very grand in real life.’

‘Oh, he is,’ agreed Vexford. ‘A very serious man, very thoughtful. And so devout. A credit to his family.’

‘Do you know the Duke very well?’ Jez asked.

Vexford glowed. ‘I have had the privilege of meeting the Duke on many occasions. The Archduke is also a personal friend of mine.’

‘Perhaps you could introduce us to Duke Grephen?’ Crake suggested, pouncing. Vexford hesitated. ‘We’d be honoured to meet him, and offer our thanks to the host. I know Bethinda would be very grateful.’

‘Oh! It would be a dream come true!’ she gushed. She was getting to be quite the little actress.

Vexford’s reservations were obvious. You didn’t introduce just anyone to the Duke. But he’d talked himself into a corner, and he’d seem foolish if he backed out now. ‘How can I refuse such a beautiful lady?’ he said, with a hateful smile at Crake. Then he laid his hand on Jez’s back, claiming her as his prize, and led her over towards the Duke’s group without another look at her ‘sweetheart’. Crake was left to follow, rather amused by the Air Marshal’s attempt to snub him.

Vexford’s timing was perfect. The conversation had lulled and his arrival in the group caused everyone to take notice of the newcomers.

‘Your Grace,’ he said, ‘may I introduce Miss Bethinda Flay.’ After a pause long enough to be insulting, he added, ‘And also Damen Morcutt, of the Marduk Morcutts,’ as if he’d just remembered Crake was there.

On seeing the blank looks of his companions, someone in the group exclaimed knowingly, ‘The Marduk Morcutts, ah, yes!’ The others murmured in agreement, enough to imply that the Marduk Morcutts were indeed a fine family, even if none of them knew who the Marduk Morcutts actually were.

Jez curtsied; Crake bowed. ‘It’s a great honour, your Grace,’ he said. ‘For both of us.’

The Duke said nothing. He merely acknowledged them silently with nods, then gave Vexford a look as if to say: why have you brought these two here? The conversation had fallen silent around them. Vexford shifted uncomfortably and sipped his sherry.

‘And you must be Gallian Thade!’ Crake suddenly exclaimed. He took up Thade’s hand and pressed it warmly between his palms, then gave the older man a companionable pat on the hip. ‘Wonderful party, sir, just wonderful.’

Vexford almost choked on his drink. The others looked shocked. Such familiarity with a man who was clearly his social superior was unpardonable. The worst kind of behaviour. Nobody expected such oafishness in a place like this.

Thade kept his composure. ‘I’m so glad you’re enjoying it,’ he said frostily. ‘You should try the canapes. I’m sure you would find them delicious.’

‘I will!’ said Crake enthusiastically. ‘I’ll do it right now. Come on, Bethinda, let’s leave these gentlemen to their business.’

He took her by the arm and marched her away towards the canapés, leaving Vexford to face the silent scorn of his peers.

‘What was that about?’ asked Jez. ‘I thought you wanted to find out what Thade was up to.’

‘You remember this?’ he said, taking a tiny silver earcuff out of his pocket.

‘Of course I do. You showed the Cap’n how they worked. He didn’t stop talking about them for two days. I think you impressed him.’ She watched him affix it to his ear. ‘Looks a bit tacky for this kind of party,’ she offered.

‘Can’t be helped.’

‘Where’s the other one?’

Crake flashed her a gold-toothed grin. ‘In Thade’s pocket. Where I put it, when I patted him on the hip.’

Jez was agape. ‘And you can hear him now?’

‘Loud and clear,’ he said. ‘Now let’s get some canapes, settle down, and see what our host has to say.’

Nineteen

Crake’s Stereotypes - Jez Is Betrayed - A Daring Show Of Cheek - Dreadful Information

An hour later, and Crake had begun to remember why he’d been so bored with the aristocracy. He seemed to be en countering the same people over and over again. The faces were different, but the bland niceties and insipid observations remained the same. He was yet to meet anyone more interesting than the clothes they wore.

The guests fell neatly into the pigeonholes he made for them. There was the Pampered Adventurer, who wanted to use Father’s money to explore distant lands and eventually set up a business in New Vardia. They had no real concept of hardship. Then there was the Future Bankrupt, who talked enthusiastically of investing in dangerous projects and bizarre science, dreaming of vast profits that would never materialise. They were often attached to the Vapid Beauty, whose shattering dullness was only tolerable because they were so pleasant to look at. Occasionally he spotted a Fledgling Harpy, spoiled daughter of a rich family. Unattractive, yet intelligent enough to realise that their fiancée was only with them for their money. In revenge for thwarting their fantasies of romance, they intended to make the remainder of his life a misery.

These, and others, he recognised from long experience. A procession of stereotypes and clichés, he thought scornfully. Each one desperately believing themselves to be unique. They parrot their stupid opinions, plucked straight from the broadsheets, and hope that nobody disagrees. How had he ever communicated with these people? How could he ever go back among them, knowing what he knew?

They’d moved into the magnificent ballroom, with its swirled marble pillars and copper chandeliers. The floor was busy with couples, some of them lovers but most not. They exchanged partners as they moved, men and women passed around in a political interplay, gossiping and spying on one another. Crake stood to one side with Jez, talking with a pair of brothers who had recently bought an aerium mine and clearly had no idea how to exploit it.

Gallian Thade and Duke Grephen stood on the other side of the room. Crake listened. It was hard to concentrate on two conversations at once, but luckily he needed less than half his attention to keep up with either. Jez was fielding the Aerium Brothers, and Thade and his companions were saying nothing of any interest. Their talk consisted of possible business ventures, witticisms and pleasantries. He was beginning to wonder if Frey had been wise to believe Thade might give something away.

‘We should go elsewhere,’ he heard Thade murmur, through the silver earcuff. ‘There are things we must discuss.’

Crake’s eyes flickered to the host, who was talking to the Duke. Grephen nodded, and they excused themselves and began to move away across the ballroom. This was promising.

‘Miss Flay!’

It was Vexford, the rangy old soak who had taken a fancy to Jez. He gave Crake a poisonous glare as they made their greetings. He’d not forgotten his recent embarrassment at Crake’s hands. It hadn’t embarrassed him enough to keep him from trying to steal his adversary’s sweetheart, apparently.

‘Air Marshal Vexford!’ Jez declared, with false and excessive enthusiasm. ‘How good to see you again!’

Vexford puffed up with pleasure. ‘I was wondering if I might have the honour of this dance?’

Jez glanced uncertainly at Crake, but Crake wasn’t listening. He was concentrating on the sounds in his ear. Grephen and Thade were exchanging greetings with people as they passed through the ballroom towards a doorway at one end. The greetings were getting fainter and fainter as they moved out of range.

‘Damen?’ Jez enquired. He noticed her again. ‘Air Marshal Vexford wishes to dance with me.’ Her eyes were urgent: Save me!

Crake smiled broadly at the Air Marshal. ‘That would be fine, sir. Just fine,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, I must attend to something.’ He slipped away with rude haste, to spare himself Jez’s gaze of horrified betrayal.

He made his way towards the doorway Grephen and Thade were heading for, glancing around nervously as he went. He was searching for a sign of Fredger Cordwain, the man who worked for the Shacklemores. Crake hadn’t spotted him since their conversation earlier, and it worried him deeply.

When he was a child, he’d been afraid of spiders. They seemed to like his bedroom, and no matter how the maids chased them out they always came back. But frightened as he was, he found their presence easier to bear if he could see them, hiding in a corner or motionless on the ceiling. It was when he looked away, when the spider disappeared, that the fear came. A spider safely on the far side of the room was one thing; a spider that might already be crawling over the pillow towards his face was quite another. Crake wanted Cordwain where he could see him.

The sound of Thade’s voice strengthened in his ear as he drew closer to them. They passed through the grand doorway at the end of the ballroom and away. Crake followed at a distance.

Beyond was a corridor, leading through the manor to other areas: smoking rooms, galleries, halls. Guests were scattered about in groups, admiring sculptures or laughing among themselves. Crake was sweating, and not only because of the heat. He felt like a criminal. The casual glances of the doormen and servants seemed suddenly suspicious and knowing. He sipped his wine and tried to look purposeful.

‘Where are we going?’ Grephen said quietly to Thade, looking around. ‘Somewhere more private than this, I hope.’

‘My study is off-limits to guests,’ Thade replied. He halted at a heavy wooden door with vines carved into its surface, and unlocked it with a key. Crake stopped a little way up the corridor, pretending to admire a painting of some grotesque aunt of the Thade dynasty. Thade and Grephen stepped inside and closed the door behind them.

He waited for them to speak again. They didn’t. Wait: was that a murmur in his ear? Perhaps, but it was too faint to make out. The study evidently went back some distance into the manor, and they were right at the limit of his range.

Spit and blood! I knew I should have made these things more powerful, he thought, fingering his earcuff in agitation.

He looked both ways up the corridor, but nobody was paying attention to him. He walked across to the door that led to the study. If anyone asked, he could just say he got lost.

He tried the door. It didn’t open. He tried again, more forcefully. Locked.

‘I don’t think you can go in there,’ said a portly, middle-aged man who had spotted his plight.

‘Oh,’ said Crake. ‘I must be mistaken.’ He lowered his voice, and moved close to murmur: ‘I thought this was the lavatory. It’s quite desperate, you see.’

‘Other end of the corridor,’ said the man, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

‘Much obliged,’ he said, and hurried away.

His mind was racing. If Thade had anything worth hearing, he was saying it right now, and Crake was too far away to listen. This whole excursion would be wasted if he couldn’t get back in range, and quickly.

Just then he passed the foot of a staircase. It was relatively narrow and simple, with white stone steps and elegant, polished banisters. A manservant stood on the first step, barring entry to guests.

And suddenly Crake had an idea.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Would you mind terribly if I had a nose around up there?’

‘Guests are not allowed, sir,’ said the manservant.

Crake grinned hugely. His best grin, his picture-grin. His gold tooth glinted in the light of the electric bulb. The manservant’s eyes glittered like a magpie’s.

‘I’d be most grateful if you could make an exception,’ he said.

The corridors upstairs were cool and hushed and empty. The gabble of conversation and music from the ballroom were muted by the thick floors. Crake could hear a pair of maids somewhere nearby, talking in low voices, giggling as they prepared the bedrooms.

He chose a direction that he judged would take him towards Thade’s study chambers. Despite the awful thrill of trespass, his limbs were beginning to feel heavy. Using the earcuff, and now his tooth, had sapped his energy. Years of practice had trained him to endure the debilitating effect of employing daemons, but the sustained, low-level usage had worn him down.

A man’s voice joined the women’s. A butler. Chiding. Get on with your work. The three of them were up ahead, just around a bend in the corridor. They might step into view at any moment, and Crake would be seen. He could feel his pulse throbbing against his collar. His palms were clammy and wet with the terror of being caught doing something wrong. He marvelled at how people like Frey could flout authority with such ease.

Then, a murmur. The faintest of sounds. The daemon thralled to his earcuff was humming in resonance with its twin. He was picking up the conversation again.

Stealthily, holding his breath, he moved down the corridor. The butler was issuing instructions as to how the master wanted his guests’ rooms arranged. His voice grew in volume. Frustratingly, Thade’s didn’t. Crake was skirting around the limit of his earcuff’s range. Somewhere on the floor below him, Thade and Grephen were discussing the secret matters he’d come here to learn about. He had to get closer.

Crake crept up to the corner, pressing himself against it. He peered round. The butler was in the doorway of a nearby bedroom, a little way inside. His back was to the corridor, and he was talking to the maids within.

Crake took a shallow breath and held it. He had to do this now, before his nerve failed him. Soft-footed, he padded past the doorway. No voice was raised to halt him. The butler kept talking. Unable to believe his luck, Crake kept going, and the conversation in his ear grew audible.

‘. . . concern that . . . still haven’t caught . . .’

He opened a plain-looking door and ducked inside, eager to get out of the corridor. Within was a small, green-tiled room, with a shuttered window, a scalloped white sink, and a flush toilet at the end.

Well, he thought. I found the lavatory after all.

‘It’s imperative that Dracken finds him before the Archduke’s Knights do,’ said Grephen in his ear. ‘It should have been done properly the first time.’

Crake felt a guilty shiver, the chill of an eavesdropper who hears something scandalous. They were talking about Frey.

‘Nobody expected him to get away,’ said Thade. ‘I had four good pilots flying escort.’

‘So why didn’t they do their jobs?’

The lavatory had a lock on the inside, with a large iron key. Crake eased the door closed and quietly turned it, then sat down on the toilet lid. Grephen and Thade were almost directly below him now. He could hear them perfectly.

‘The survivor said they launched a surprise attack.’

‘Well, of course they did! We told them the route the Ace of Skulls would be flying! So why weren’t our pilots warned?’

‘The pilots were independents, hired through middlemen, that couldn’t be connected to you. We needed them to be reliable, untainted witnesses. We could hardly warn them an attack was coming without giving away the fact that we set up the ambush.’

Amalicia Thade was right, thought Crake. Her father wasn’t in this alone. This goes all the way up to the Duke.

‘The Ketty Jay had two outflyers - fighter craft,’ Thade went on patiently. ‘We didn’t even know Frey travelled with outflyers. He’s such an insignificant wretch, it’s a miracle he keeps his own craft in the sky, let alone three.’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘Your Grace, do you have any idea how hard it is to keep track of one maggot amid the swarming cess of the underworld? A man like that puts down no roots and leaves little trace when he’s gone. The sheer size of our great country makes it—’

‘You underestimated him, then.’

Crake heard a resentful pause. ‘I miscalculated,’ Thade said at last.

‘The problem was that you didn’t calculate anything,’ Grephen said. ‘You allowed your personal hatred of this man to blind you. You saw a chance for revenge because he disgraced your daughter. I should never have listened to you.’

‘The Allsoul itself thought that Darian Frey was an excellent choice for our scheme.’

‘The auguries were unclear,’ said Grephen, coldly. ‘Even the Grand Oracle said so. Do not presume to know the mind of the Allsoul.’

‘I am saying that I trust in the Allsoul’s wisdom,’ Thade replied. ‘This is merely a hiccup. We will still emerge triumphant.’

Crake couldn’t help a sneer and a tut. Superstition and idiocy, he thought. Strange how your Allsoul can’t stop me using my daemons to listen to every word you say.

‘The survivor told us that the Ketty Jay’s outflyers were fast craft with excellent pilots,’ Thade explained. ‘The surprise attack threw them into chaos and took out half of our men. We were lucky that one witness escaped to report to the Archduke.’

Nobody spoke for a time. Crake imagined a sullen silence on Grephen’s part.

‘This is not a disaster,’ said Thade, soothingly. ‘Hengar is out of the way, and our hands remain clean. Don’t you see how things have fallen in our favour? That fool’s dalliance with the Samarlan ambassador’s daughter gave us the perfect opportunity to remove him and make it look like a pirate attack. If he’d not been travelling in secret, if your spies hadn’t discovered his affair, our job would have been that much more difficult.’

Grephen grunted in reluctant agreement, allowing himself to be mollified.

‘Not only that,’ Thade went on, ‘but leaking information about the affair to the public has turned them against Hengar and the Archduchy in general. Hengar was the one they loved, remember? He stood aside when his parents began their ridiculous campaign to deprive the people of the message of the Allsoul. His death could have strengthened the family, made them sympathetic in the eyes of the common man, but instead they have never been so unpopular.’

‘That’s true, that’s true.’

Thade was warming to his own positivity now. ‘Don’t you see how kindly the Allsoul looks on our enterprise? We have cleared the line of succession: the Archduke has no other children to inherit his title. The people will welcome you when you seize control of the Coalition. You will be Archduke Grephen, and a new dynasty will begin!’

Crake’s mind reeled. This was what it was all about? Spit and blood, they were planning a coup! They were planning to overthrow the Archduke!

It was all but inconceivable. Nobody alive remembered what it was like to live without a member of the Arken dynasty ruling the land. The rulers of the duchy of Thesk had been the leaders of the Coalition for almost a century and a half. They’d been the ones who forcefully brought the squabbling Coalition to heel after they deposed the King and threw down the monarchy. The first Archduke of Vardia had been of the family of Arken, as had every one since. The Arkens had been the ultimate power in the land for generations, overseeing the Third Age of Aviation and the Aerium Wars, the discovery of New Vardia and Jagos on the far side of the world, the formation of the Century Knights. They’d abolished serfdom and brought economic prosperity and industry to a land strangled by the stagnant traditions of millennia of royal rule.

Crake felt history teetering. Riveted, he listened on.

‘It . . . concerns me that Darian Frey is still on the run,’ said the Duke. ‘He has already been to the whispermonger you employed.’

‘Don’t worry about Quail. Dracken has made sure he won’t speak to anyone ever again.’

‘But Frey is already on the trail. He was spotted near your daughter’s hermitage.’

‘Amalicia has been questioned by the Mistresses, at my request. She swears that he never visited her. Dracken probably caught up to him before he had a chance to—’

‘What if she’s lying?’

‘You know I can’t go in there or bring her out. She must stay in isolation. We have to trust her, and the Mistresses.’

‘My point is, he must know about you. That means he may learn about me.’

‘Peace, your Grace. Who’ll believe him? With Quail dead, there’s nothing to link us but the word of a mass-murderer.’

‘It’s not a chance I want to take. If he digs deep enough, he might find something. I don’t want the Century Knights getting hold of him and giving him the chance to spout his theories to the Archduke.’

Crake was sitting atop the toilet, elbows on his knees, one hand on his forehead with his fingers clenched anxiously through his hair. Finally he understood the true seriousness of their situation. Unwittingly, they’d become entangled in a power-play for the greatest prize in the land. The only problem was they’d been inconvenient enough not to die when they were supposed to. Now they were hunted, both by those who thought they were responsible, and those who wanted them silenced. Small fry dodging the mouths of the biggest fish in the sea.

Thade’s voice was soothing again. ‘Dracken will have him soon. She guessed that he’d go to Quail, and she surmised he’d go after your daughter rather than coming for you. I am learning to respect her intuition where Frey is concerned.’ He paused. ‘She also believes he might try something tonight.’

‘Tonight?’

‘It’s his best chance of getting close to me, in amid all the chaos. But do not fear. She has men undercover all over my manor, and in the port on the mainland. The Delirium Trigger itself is hiding up in the night sky, waiting for a signal if the Ketty Jay should arrive.’

Crake felt his stomach sink. First the Shacklemores, and now Trinica Dracken was here? One step ahead of them already? This was getting altogether too dangerous. It was only through Amalicia’s invitations - and because nobody knew Crake and Jez were part of the crew of the Ketty Jay - that they’d remained undetected thus far. Crake was beginning to wish he’d never got involved in the first place.

The lavatory door rattled, making him jump. He looked up. There was a pause, then the door rattled again. A moment later, there was a sharp knock on the door.

‘Is someone in there?’

It was the butler. Crake was frozen to the spot. He said nothing, in the futile hope that the man outside would go away.

‘Hello? Is someone in there?’ He sounded angry. There was a knocking again, firmer this time.

The door was locked from the inside. Crake decided that he’d do better to own up, before the butler got really furious.

‘I’m in here,’ he said. ‘Be out in a minute.’

‘You’ll be out right now, sir!’ said the butler. ‘I don’t know how you got up here, but these are the private rooms of Master Thade.’

‘Do you trust her?’ said Grephen, from downstairs. His voice was suddenly faint. They’d moved away, walking into another room. Crake strained to hear over the voice of the butler.

‘Dracken? As much as I trust any pirate,’ Thade replied. ‘Besides, we need her. She’s our only link to—’

‘Sir! I must insist you come out here right now!’ the butler cried, knocking hard on the door.

‘Give a man a moment to finish his business!’ Crake protested, delaying his exit as long as he could. He had the sense that something important was being discussed here, but the words were becoming harder and harder to hear as the speakers moved away.

‘. . . we . . . no one else?’ Grephen asked. ‘I . . . uneasy about . . .’

‘. . . Dracken knows the . . . has charts and . . . device of some kind. Only way . . . can find that place. She . . . our . . . has to be escorted in . . . out . . . secret hideout . . .’

‘Sir!’ bellowed the butler.

‘I’m coming!’ cried Crake. He flushed the toilet, and was dismayed when the sound drowned out the last of the conversation from below him. Unable to hold out any longer, he unlocked the door and was immediately seized by the arm. The butler was a short, balding, red-faced fellow, and he was in no mood for Crake’s weak excuses. The daemonist was escorted roughly along the corridor and down the stairs, past the startled manservant who was supposed to be guarding them.

‘Sir will please stay downstairs from now on, or he shall be thrown from the premises!’ the butler snapped, loud enough to draw titters from the guests nearby. Crake blushed, despite himself. He hurried back towards the ballroom as the butler began to vent his anger on the hapless manservant who had let Crake pass minutes before.

Once in the ballroom, he looked for Jez, and found her with Vexford. The older man was towering over her, drunk on sherry and success, bawling about his outrageous exploits during the Second Aerium War. Crake strode up to them and took Jez by the arm.

‘Cra—’ Jez began, then corrected herself. ‘Sweetheart!’

‘We’re going,’ he said, pulling her away.

‘Here, now, you boor!’ protested Vexford, who was still in mid-story; but Crake ignored him, and Jez was propelled away. Vexford grabbed her wrist to stop her.

‘Sir!’ she exclaimed, breathlessly.

Vexford leaned closer and murmured huskily in her ear. ‘I have a large estate, just outside Banbarr. Anyone in the city will know where it is. If you ever tire of this ruffian, you will be most welcome.’ Then she was pulled away again by her impatient companion.

‘It’s been a great pleasure, sir!’ Jez called over her shoulder. ‘I hope to meet again!’ Then the crowd closed around them, and she turned to Crake with a narrow glare. ‘You left me alone with him,’ she accused. ‘He smells of sour milk and carrots.’

‘We’ll talk about it later, dear,’ said Crake.

‘I don’t think I want to marry you any more,’ she sulked.

Twenty

A Guest On The Path - The Letter Knife - A Bad End To The Evening

The crowd on the lawns had thinned out considerably - most of them were in the ballroom now - and the chorus of night insects was in full voice. Crake pulled off his earcuff and threw it into a flower bed as they passed. It was useless without its partner, and he wasn’t about to retrieve it from Thade’s pocket. He’d make more, and better.

‘So I take it you found out what you wanted?’

‘I found out more than I wanted,’ he muttered. ‘But right now I’d like to get off this island as quickly as possible.’

Crake looked up into the moonless sky as they walked, fancying he might see a patch of deeper black in the blackness: the Delirium Trigger, lurking in wait. Jez, having picked up on his obvious agitation, stayed silent.

They crossed the lawns and came to the old path that led to the manor’s landing pad. Here, passenger craft ran a shuttle service to the port of Black Seal Bluff on the mainland. The Ketty Jay was hidden in a glade a few kloms out from the port. Shaken by his near-miss with the Delirium Trigger, Frey hadn’t dared set down in Black Seal Bluff itself. A sensible precaution, as it turned out. Dracken’s undercover spies would have spotted the craft immediately.

They’d been fortunate so far. They’d received more than their share of luck. But the circle was drawing tighter now, and the closer they got to the truth behind the destruction of the Ace of Skulls, the more it constricted.

The path down to the landing pad was wide and deserted, with a knee-high drystone wall on either side. It wound down the hill, occasionally bulging out into small rest areas with carved wooden benches. Weeping bottlebrush and jacarandas overhung the wall, obscuring sections of the path. Electric lamps, set in recesses, lit their faces from below. Bats feasted on insects in the blood-warm darkness overhead.

Crake was so intent on getting down to the pad and away that he was surprised when Jez suddenly tugged him to a halt.

‘Someone’s there,’ she said. She was staring intently into the foliage, a distant look in her eyes, as if she was seeing right through the leaves and bark to whoever hid beyond.

‘What? Where?’ He tried to follow her gaze, but he could see no sign of anyone.

‘He’s right there,’ she murmured, still staring. ‘On the bench. Waiting for us.’

They stood there a moment, not knowing what to do. Crake couldn’t fathom how she could sense this mysterious man, nor how she knew his intention. But he didn’t doubt the conviction in her voice. They couldn’t go forward without passing him, and they couldn’t go back. Crake suddenly wished they’d tried to smuggle in weapons, but it was forbidden for guests to carry arms.

Yet he couldn’t just stand here, trapped, a child afraid to move in case he disturbed the spider. That wasn’t the way a man ought to act. So he steeled himself, and walked on, Jez following behind.

A dozen paces later the path twisted and widened into a circular rest area, hidden by the trees. There was an ornamental stone pool, with a weak jet of water bubbling from a spike in its centre. Sitting on a bench, contemplating the pool, was Fredger Cordwain. He looked up as Crake and Jez arrived.

‘Good night,’ said Crake, without breaking stride.

‘Good night, Grayther Crake,’ Cordwain replied.

Crake froze at the sound of his name. He tensed to run, but Cordwain surged up from the bench, a revolver appearing in his meaty hand. He must have assumed the rule against carrying arms didn’t apply to him.

‘Let’s not make this difficult,’ Cordwain said. ‘You’re worth just the same to me dead or alive.’

‘Who’s this?’ Jez asked Crake. It took a moment before he realised she was still playing in character. ‘Sweetheart, what’s this about?’

Cordwain walked towards them, his weapon trained on Crake. ‘Miss Bethinda Flay,’ he said. ‘If that is your real name. The Shacklemore Agency have been after your “sweetheart” for several months now. I’m ashamed to say it took me a little time to recognise him from his ferrotype. It’s the beard, I think. I don’t have a good memory for faces.’

‘But he hasn’t done anything!’ Jez protested. ‘What did he do?’

Cordwain stared at her levelly. ‘Don’t you know? He murdered his niece. An eight-year-old girl.’

Jez looked at Crake, stunned. Crake was slump-shouldered, gazing at the floor.

Cordwain moved around behind Crake, took his wrists and pulled his arms behind his back. Then he shoved the revolver into his belt and drew out a pair of handcuffs.

‘Stabbed her seventeen times with a letter knife,’ he said conversationally. ‘Left her to bleed out on the floor of his own daemonic sanctum. That’s what kind of monster he is.’

Crake didn’t struggle. He’d gone pale and cold, and he wanted to be sick.

‘His own brother hired us to find him,’ said Cordwain. ‘Isn’t that sad? It’s terrible when families get to fighting among themselves. You should always be able to trust your family.’

Tears gathered in Crake’s eyes as the handcuffs snapped closed. He raised his head and met Jez’s gaze. She stared at him hard, shock on her face. Wanting to be reassured. Wanting to know that he hadn’t done this thing.

He had nothing to tell her. She could never condemn him more that he already condemned himself.

‘If you don’t mind, Miss, I’ll have to ask you to come along with me, too,’ said Cordwain as he adjusted the handcuffs. ‘I’m sure you understand. Just until we establish that you’ve no connection with this—’

Jez lunged for the pistol sticking out of his belt, but Cordwain was ready for her. He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her off balance, shoving Crake down with his other hand. With his hands cuffed behind his back Crake was unable to cushion his fall, and he landed painfully on his shoulder on the stony ground.

Jez slapped and punched at Cordwain, but he was a big man, much stronger and heavier than she was.

‘As I thought,’ he said, fending her off. ‘In on it too, aren’t you?’

Jez landed a fist on his jaw, surprising him. But the surprise lasted only a moment. He backhanded her hard across the face: once, twice, three times in succession. Then he flung her away from him. She tripped headlong, flailing as she went, and cracked her forehead against the low stone wall of the pool.

The terrible sound of the impact took all the heat out of the moment. Cordwain and Crake both stared at the small woman in the pretty black dress who now lay motionless on the ground.

She didn’t get up.

‘What did you do?’ Crake cried from where he lay. He struggled to his knees.

Cordwain drew his pistol and pointed it at him. ‘You calm down.’

‘Help her!’

‘I said cool your heels!’ he snapped. He moved over towards Jez, crouched down next to her, and picked up a limp hand, pressing two fingers to her wrist. After a moment, he let it drop, pulled her head aside and checked for a pulse at her throat.

Crake knew the result by his expression. He felt a surge of unbelievable, irrational hate. ‘You son of a bitch!’ he snarled, getting to his feet. Cordwain immediately thrust his weapon towards him.

‘You saw what happened!’ Cordwain said. ‘I didn’t mean for that!’

‘You killed her! She wasn’t anything to do with us!’

Cordwain advanced on him. ‘You shut your damn mouth! I told you I could take you in dead or alive and I meant it!’

‘Well, you’d better take me dead, you bastard! Because even a Shacklemore doesn’t get to kill innocent women! And I’m going to make absolutely sure that everyone knows what you’ve done.’

‘You need to stop your talking, sir, or I will shoot you like a dog!’

But Crake was out of control. The sight of Jez, lying there, had freed something inside him. It unleashed all the rage, the guilt, the horror that he kept penned uneasily within. He saw his niece, still and lifeless, her white nightdress soaked in red, her small body violated by vicious wounds. He saw the bloodied letter knife in his hand.

That was the day he began to run, and he hadn’t stopped since.

‘Why don’t you shoot?’ he shouted. ‘Why don’t you? Save me the show trial! Pull the trigger!’

Cordwain backed off, his gun raised. He was unsure how to deal with the red-faced, spittle-flecked maniac who was stumbling towards him, his hands cuffed behind his back.

‘You stay back, sir!’

‘End it, you murderer!’ he screamed. ‘End it! I’ve had enough!’

And then something moved, quick in the night, and there was a terrible, dull crunch. Cordwain’s eyes rolled up into his head and he crumpled, folding onto himself and falling to the ground.

Standing behind him, a rock from the drystone wall in her hand, was Jez.

Crake just stared.

Jez tossed the rock aside and took the keys from the Shacklemore man. She walked over to Crake, turned him around, and undid his handcuffs. By the time they’d fallen free, he’d found words again.

‘I thought you were dead.’

‘So did he,’ she replied.

‘But he . . . but you were dead.’

‘Apparently not. Give me a hand.’

She began to tug Cordwain towards the trees. After a moment, Crake joined her. As they manhandled him over the drystone wall, his head lolled back, and Crake caught a glimpse of his eyes. They were open, and the whites were dark with blood.

Crake turned away and vomited. Jez waited for him to finish, then said, ‘Take his legs.’

He wasn’t used to this merciless tone from her. He did as he was told, and together they carried him out of sight of the path and left him there.

They returned to the clearing, where Jez replaced the rock in the wall and threw Cordwain’s gun into the undergrowth. She dusted her dress off as best she could.

‘Jez, I—’ he began.

‘I didn’t do it for you, I did it for me,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m not being taken in by any damn Shacklemore. Not when half the world still wants us dead.’ There was a weary disgust in her voice. ‘Besides, you still haven’t told me what you learned in there. The Cap’n will want to hear that, no doubt.’

She wasn’t the same Jez who had accompanied him to this party. The change was sudden, and wrenching. Everything that had happened before, every shared joke and kind word, meant nothing in the face of the crime he’d committed. Crake wished there was something to say, some way he could explain, but he knew that she wouldn’t listen. Not now.

‘It’s better that we don’t speak about what happened here today,’ she said, still brushing herself down. She stopped and gave him a pointed look. ‘Ever.’

Crake nodded.

‘Right, then,’ she said, having arranged herself as best she could. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

She walked down the path towards the landing pad. Crake cast one last glance into the trees, where Cordwain’s body lay, and then followed her.

Twenty-One

Frey Calls A Meeting - Hope - A Captain’s Memories Of Samarla - The Bayonet

‘You want to take on the Delirium Trigger?’ shrieked Harkins. Pinn choked on his food, spraying stew across the table and all over Crake’s face. Malvery gleefully pounded Pinn on the back, much harder than was necessary, until his coughing fit subsided.

‘Thanks,’ he snarled at the grinning doctor.

‘Another day, another life saved,’ Malvery replied, returning to his position by the stove, where he was working on an artery-clogging dessert made mostly of sugar. Crake dabbed at his beard with a pocket handkerchief.

‘So?’ prompted Jez. ‘How do you plan to do it?’

Frey surveyed his crew, gathered around the table in the Ketty Jay’s mess hall, and wondered again if he was doing the right thing. His plan had seemed inspired when he came up with it a few hours ago, but now he was faced with the reality of his situation he was much less certain. It was fine to imagine a crack squad of experts carrying out their assigned missions with clinical precision, but it was hardly a well-oiled machine he was dealing with here.

There was Harkins, reduced to a gibbering wreck by the mere mention of the Delirium Trigger. Malvery, lacing the dessert with rum and taking a couple of swigs for himself as he did so. Pinn, too stupid to even swallow his food properly.

Jez and Crake were trustworthy, as far as he could tell, but they’d barely been able to meet each other’s eyes throughout the meal. Something had happened between them at the Winter Ball - perhaps Crake had made an unwelcome move? - and now Jez’s loathing for him was obvious, as was his shame.

That left Silo, silently spooning stew into his mouth, unknowable as always. Silo, who had been Frey’s constant companion for seven years, about whom he knew nothing. Frey had never asked about his past, because he didn’t care. Silo never asked about anything. He was just there. Did he have thoughts like normal men did?

He tried to summon up some warm feelings of camaraderie and couldn’t.

Oh well, damn it all, let’s go for it anyway.

‘We all know we can’t take on the Delirium Trigger in the air,’ he said, to an audible sigh of relief from Harkins. ‘So what we do is we get her on the ground. We lure Dracken into port and when she’s down . . .’ He slapped the table. ‘That’s when we do it.’

Pinn raised a hand. When Pinn raised a hand it was only ever for effect. If he had something to say he usually just blurted it out.

‘Question,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Because she won’t be expecting it.’

Pinn lowered his hand halfway, then raised it again as if struck by a new idea.

‘Yes?’ Frey said wearily.

‘Why don’t we do something else she isn’t expecting?’

‘I liked the running away plan,’ said Harkins. ‘I mean, we’ve been doing pretty good so far with the running away. Maybe we should, you know, keep on doing it. Just an idea, though, I mean, you’re the Cap’n. Only seems to me that, well, if it ain’t broke it doesn’t need fixing. Just my opinion. You’re the Cap’n. Sir.’

The crew fell silent. The only sounds were Malvery quietly stirring the pot and a wet chewing noise coming from the corner of the mess, where Slag was tucking in to a fresh rat. He’d dragged it all the way up from the cargo hold in order to join the crew’s dinner.

Frey looked at the faces turned towards him and felt something unfamiliar, a strange weight to the moment. He realised with a shock that they were waiting for him to persuade them. They wanted to be persuaded. In their eyes, he saw the faintest hint of something he’d never thought to see from them. Something he was only accustomed to seeing in the expressions of beautiful girls just before he left them.

Hope.

Rot and damnation, they’re hoping! They’re hoping I can save them. They’re hoping I know what I’m doing.

And Frey was surprised to realise he felt a little bit good about that.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Dracken’s been catching us up ever since she set out to get us. She was behind us when she got to Quail, she almost had us at the hermitage, and she was even ahead of us at the Winter Ball. She knows that we know about Gallian Thade, and she’ll assume we’ll keep on after him. But what she doesn’t know is that we know about their secret hideout.’

‘We don’t even know what this secret hideout is,’ Jez pointed out.

Pinn looked bewildered. He wasn’t sure who knew what any more.

‘Crake heard Thade and the Duke talking about Trinica and some secret hideout,’ Frey said. ‘They mentioned charts and a device of some kind. Seems to me that if we get those charts and that device, then we can find our way there too.’

Pinn raised his hand. ‘Question.’

‘Yes?’

‘Why?’

‘Because we need proof. We know Duke Grephen arranged Hengar’s murder. We know he’s planning a coup. But we don’t have any way to prove it. If we can prove it, we can shop those bastards to the Archduke.’

‘What good will that do?’ Jez asked. ‘We still blew up the Ace of Skulls.’

‘You think they’re going to care about the trigger-man if they’ve got the mastermind?’ Frey asked. ‘Look, I’m not saying they’ll necessarily forgive, but they might forget. If the Archduke gets his hands on them, he won’t worry about us. We’re small-time. And without Duke Grephen putting up that huge reward, Dracken’s not going to waste her time chasing us either.’

‘You think we can actually get ourselves out of this?’ Malvery rumbled. He was standing behind Frey, at the stove. He’d stopped stirring and was staring at the pot of dessert.

‘Yes!’ Frey said, firmly. ‘We play this right, we can do it.’

The crew were exchanging glances, as if looking for support from each other. Did their companions feel the same? Were they being foolish, to believe that they could win out against all the odds?

‘Whatever’s going on at this hideout is something to do with all of this,’ Frey said. ‘The answers are there, I’m sure of it. There’s a way out. But we need to hang on, we need to go a little deeper first. We need to take the risk. Because I’m not spending the rest of my life on the run, and neither are any of you.’

‘You said we’ll lure Dracken into a port,’ said Jez. ‘How are we gonna do that?’

‘Parley,’ he said. ‘I’ll invite her to talk on neutral turf. Face to face. I’ll pretend I want to cut a deal.’

‘And you think she’ll agree?’

‘She’ll agree.’ Frey was horribly certain of that.

Nobody spoke for a few moments. Slag looked up, puzzled by the pregnant pause in the conversation, then went back to snacking on his rat.

Frey felt the weight of Malvery’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Tell us the rest of the plan, Cap’n.’

Frey stepped off the iron ladder that ran from the mess up to the main passageway of the Ketty Jay. He stopped there for a moment and took a breath. Explaining his plan had been unusually nerve-wracking. For the first time he could remember, he’d actually worried about what his crew thought. There were a few good suggestions, mostly from Jez. Outright shock as he revealed the final part. But they’d liked it. He saw it on their faces.

Well, it was done. Until now he hadn’t really been sure they’d go with it. It was frightening to have it all seem so suddenly real.

Because he really, really didn’t want a meeting with Trinica Dracken.

Slag scampered up the ladder behind him and thumped down into the passageway, obviously in the mood for some company. He followed Frey into the captain’s quarters and waited while Frey shut the door and dug out the small bottle of Shine from the locked drawer in the cabinet. He sat patiently while Frey administered a drop to each eye and lay back on the bed. Then, once he’d determined that Frey was liable to be motionless for a while, he hopped onto the captain’s chest, curled up and fell asleep.

Frey drifted on the edge of consciousness, dimly aware of the warm, crushing weight of the cat on his ribs. He was scared of what was to come. He hated being forced into this position. He hated having to be brave. But in the soothing narcotic haze he felt nothing but peace, and gradually he fell asleep.

In seeking to block out one thing he’d rather forget, he ended up dreaming of another.

The north-western coast of Samarla was a beautiful place. The plunging valleys and majestic mountains were kept lush and green by frequent rains off Silver Bay, and the sun shone all year round this close to the equator. It was a land of sweeping vistas, mighty rivers and uncountable trees, all green and gold and red.

It was also swarming with Sammies. Or, to be more accurate, it was swarming with their Dakkadian and Murthian troops. Sammies didn’t dirty themselves with hand-to-hand combat. They had two whole races of slaves to do that kind of thing.

Frey looked down from the cockpit of the Ketty Jay at the verdant swells beneath him. His navigator, Rabby, was squeezed up close, peering about for landmarks by which to calculate their position. He was a scrawny sort with a chicken neck and a ponytail. Frey didn’t much like him, but he didn’t have much choice in the matter. The Coalition Navy had commandeered his craft and his services, and since the rest of his crew had deserted rather than fight the Sammies, the Navy had assigned him a new one.

‘They’re sitting pretty, ain’t they? Bloody Sammies,’ Rabby muttered. ‘Wish we had two sets of bitches to do our fighting for us.’

Frey ignored him. Rabby was always fishing for someone to agree with, constantly probing to find the crew’s likes and dislikes so he could marvel at how similar their opinions were.

‘I mean, you’ve got your Murthians, right, to do all your hard labour and stuff. Big strong lot for hauling all those bricks around and working in the factories and what. Good cannon-fodder too, if you don’t mind the surly buggers trying to mutiny all the time.’

Frey reached into the footwell of the cockpit and pulled out a near-empty bottle of rum. He took a long swig. Rabby eyed the booze thirstily. Frey pretended not to notice and put it back.

‘And then you’ve got your Dakkadians,’ Rabby babbled on, ‘who are even worse, ’cause they bloody like being slaves! They’ve, what do you say, assistimated.’

‘Assimilated,’ said Frey, before he could stop himself.

‘Assimilated,’ Rabby agreed. ‘You always know the right word, Cap’n. I bet you read a lot. Do you read a lot? I like to read, too.’

Frey kept his eyes fixed on the landscape. Rabby coughed and went on.

‘So these Dakkadians, they’re all dealing with the day-to-day stuff, administration or what, and flying the planes and commanding all the dumb grunt Murthians. Then what do the actual Sammies do, eh?’ He waited for a response that wasn’t going to come. ‘Sit around eating grapes and fanning their arses, that’s what! Calling the bloody shots and not doing a lick of work. They’ve got it sweet, they have. Really sweet.’

‘Can you just tell me where I’m setting down, and we can get this over with?’

‘Right you are, right you are,’ Rabby said hastily, scanning the ground. Suddenly he pointed. ‘Drop point is a few kloms south of there.’

Frey looked in the direction that he was pointing, and saw a ruined temple complex in the distance. The central ziggurat of red stone had caved in on one side and the surrounding dwellings, once grand, had been flattened into rubble by bombs.

‘How many kloms?’

‘We’ll see it,’ Rabby assured him.

Frey took another hit from the rum.

‘Can I have some of that?’ Rabby asked.

‘No.’

They came in over the landing zone not long afterwards. The hilltop was bald, and where there used to be fields there were now earthworks, with narrow trenches running behind them. Battered stone buildings clustered at the crest of the hill. It was a tiny village, with simple houses built in the low, flat-topped style common in these parts. The trees and grass glistened and steamed as the morning rain evaporated under the fierce sun.

Nothing moved on the hilltop.

Frey slowed the Ketty Jay to a hover. He was surly drunk, and his first reaction was disgust. Couldn’t the Coalition even organise someone to meet their own supply craft? Did they want to run out of ammo? Did they think he enjoyed hauling himself all over enemy territory, risking enemy patrols, just so they could eat?

Martley, the engineer, came bounding up the passageway from the engine room and into the cockpit. ‘Are we there?’ he asked eagerly.

He was a wiry young carrot-top, his cheeks and dungarees permanently smeared in grease as if it was combat camouflage. He had too much energy, that was his problem. He wore Frey out.

Rabby examined the earthworks uncertainly. ‘Looks deserted, Cap’n.’

‘These are the right co-ordinates?’

‘Hey!’ Rabby sounded offended. ‘Have I ever failed to get us to our target?’

‘I suppose we usually get there in the end,’ Frey conceded.

‘Did the Navy tell us anything about this place?’ Martley chirped. ‘Like maybe why it’s so deserted?’

‘It’s just a drop point,’ Frey said impatiently. ‘Like all the others.’

Frey hadn’t asked. He never asked. Over the past few months Frey simply took whichever jobs paid the most. When the Navy began conscripting cargo haulers into minimum-wage service, the Merchant Guild responded by demanding danger bonuses. Those employed by the big cargo companies were happy to sit out the war ferrying supplies within the borders of Vardia. Freelancers like Frey saw an opportunity.

By taking the most dangerous missions, Frey had all but paid off the loan on the Ketty Jay. They’d had some close scrapes, and the crew complained like buggery and kept applying for transfers, but Frey couldn’t have cared less. After seven years, she was almost his. That was all that counted. Once he had her, he’d be free. He could ride out the rest of the war doing shuttle runs between Thesk and Marduk, and he’d never again have to worry about the loan companies freezing his accounts and hunting him down. He’d be out on his own, a master of the skies.

‘Let’s just load out the cargo and get paid,’ he said. ‘If there’s no one here to collect, that’s not our problem.’

‘You certain?’ said Martley, uncertainly.

‘If there’s been a screw-up here, it’s someone else’s fault,’ said Frey. He took another swig of rum. ‘We’re paid to deliver to the co-ordinates they give us. We’re not paid to think. They’ve told us that enough times.’

‘Bloody Navy,’ Rabby muttered.

Frey lowered the Ketty Jay down onto a relatively unscarred patch of land next to the village. Impatient and drunk, he dumped the aerium from the tanks too fast and slammed them down hard enough to jar his coccyx and knock Martley to his knees. Martley and Rabby exchanged a worried glance they thought he didn’t see.

‘Come on,’ he said, suppressing a wince as he got out of his seat. ‘Quicker we get unloaded, quicker we can go home.’

Kenham and Jodd were down in the cargo hold when they arrived, disentangling the crates from their webbing. They were a pair of ugly bruisers, ex-dock workers drafted in for labour by the Navy. The only people on the crew they respected were each other; everyone else was slightly scared of them.

Jodd was smoking a roll-up. Frey couldn’t remember ever seeing him without a cigarette smouldering in his mouth, even when handling crates of live ammunition, as he was now. As captain, he took an executive decision to say nothing. Jodd had never blown them all to pieces before. With a track record like that, it seemed sensible to let it ride.

Frey lowered the cargo ramp and they began hauling the crates out. The sun hammered them as they emerged from the cool shadow of the Ketty Jay. The air was moist and smelled of wet clay, and there was a lingering scent of gunpowder.

‘Where do you want ’em?’ Kenham called to Frey. Frey vaguely waved at a clear spot some way downhill, close to the trenches. He didn’t want those boxes of ammo too near the Ketty Jay when he took off. Kenham rolled his eyes - all the way over there? - but he didn’t protest.

Frey leaned against the Ketty Jay’s landing strut with the bottle of rum in his hand, and watched the rest of his crew do the work. Since it took two men to a box, a fifth worker would only get in the way, he reasoned. Besides, it was captain’s privilege to be lazy. He swigged from the bottle and surveyed the empty site. For the first time he noted that there were some signs of conflict: burn marks on the walls of the red stone houses; sections where the earthworks had been blasted and soil scattered.

Old wounds? This place had probably seen a lot of action. But then, there was that smell of gunpowder. Weapons had been fired, and recently.

He cast a bleary eye over his crew, to be sure they were getting on with their job, and then pushed off from the landing strut and wandered away from the Ketty Jay. He headed towards the village.

The houses were poor Samarlan peasant dwellings, bare and abandoned. Wooden chicken runs and pig pens had fallen into ruin. The windows were just square holes in the wall, some of them with their shutters hanging unevenly, drifting back and forth in the faint breeze. As Frey got closer he could see more obvious signs of recent attacks. Some walls were riddled with bullet holes.

His skin began to prickle with sweat. He drained the last of the rum and tossed the bottle aside.

The dwellings were built around a central clearing that once had been grassy but was now churned into rapidly drying mud. Frey peered around the corner of the nearest house. Despite the racket from the forest birds, it was unnervingly quiet.

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