CHAPTER 9
Lizanne
“What is that?” Makario said, peering at the western horizon. Lizanne followed his gaze, regretting the lack of Green to enhance her vision. Spending the better part of two days in this life-boat with no provisions or product had left them all in a state of chilled lethargy, apart from Sofiya Griffan, who maintained the same rigid and silent posture throughout. Lizanne found her vision blurring as she tried to focus on the small speck in the distance, hoping not to discern the flap of wings as it drew nearer. However, it was Tinkerer who solved the mystery
“An aerostat,” he said, his brow furrowed as if trying to recall something out of reach. “I don’t know how I know that.”
“The Artisan knew it,” Lizanne said. “It seems not everything is locked away after all.”
It took an hour for the aerostat to draw close enough for Lizanne to make out its two occupants. A diminutive figure sat in front manning what Lizanne assumed were the contraption’s controls whilst a person of considerably bulkier proportions tended to what appeared to be some kind of flaming brazier situated in the middle of the gondola.
“A caloric oil burner,” Tinkerer observed. “Hot air is a reasonable alternative to a chemical lifting agent. Though the design is crude.”
“I’d advise strongly against telling him that,” Lizanne said.
She waved her arms as the aerostat slowed to an uneven hover a hundred feet above. The propeller on the single engine at the stern spun fast enough to blur its blades but seemed to be having difficulty making headway against the prevailing westerly winds. She saw Jermayah lean over the side of the gondola and drop something. It splashed into the water a few feet shy of the life-boat’s bows where it bobbed on the surface until Makario retrieved it with one of the oars. It was a tarpaulin sack rigged with floats, quickly opened to reveal a large flask of water, some loaves and cured ham and, to Lizanne’s great relief, one small vial of Green.
She looked up as Jermayah shouted something from above, the words mostly swamped by the noise of the engine and the wind but she was sure she caught the word “back.” She saw Tekela give a wave before returning her hands to the controls whereupon the aerostat turned about and flew off towards the west. It seemed to Lizanne that its departure had been much swifter than its approach.
“Couldn’t they have taken us with them?” Makario asked around a mouthful of bread. Lizanne had noted that his usual decorum, and refined accent, had slipped somewhat during their time in the boat.
“I doubt it can lift more than two persons at a time,” Tinkerer replied, eyes locked on the receding craft and head presumably filling with numerous design improvements. Lizanne wondered if her father would welcome the artificer’s input and found herself doubting it. Though the prospect of their meeting did fill her with a certain guilty anticipation.
She retrieved the flask of Green from the sack and sat beside Sofiya. Removing the stopper, she held the flask up to the woman’s nose in the hope the scent of product might provoke her into some kind of animation. Instead, she was rewarded with only a small nose wrinkle.
“Drink,” Lizanne said. “It’ll restore you.”
That drew a response, Sofiya turning her head to regard Lizanne with a vacant stare. “Can you restore my husband, Miss Lethridge?” she asked, her tone light and conversational. “The father to the child I carry. Can you restore him?”
Lizanne saw it then, the way the woman’s hands were clasped over her belly in a tight protective shield. “Emperor’s balls,” Makario muttered. “Just what we need.” He fell silent as Lizanne shot him a warning glare.
“No,” she said, turning back to Sofiya. “I cannot.” She reached out to prise the woman’s hands apart, placing the vial in her palm. “But I can keep you both alive. Don’t you think he would want that?”
Sofiya stared at the vial in her hand then put it to her lips and took a small sip, Lizanne taking some gratification from the faint colour she saw blossom in the woman’s cheeks.
“So what now?” Makario asked.
“We eat,” Lizanne said, reaching for the sack again. “And await rescue.”
“It may have escaped your notice, miss,” Captain Trumane said. “But, since Captain Verricks and Director Thriftmor can no longer be counted amongst the living, command responsibility for this fleet now rests with me. I’ll thank you to leave decisions regarding our course in my hands.”
They were alone in his cabin, Lizanne having been granted an interview only after the most strenuous insistence. Captain Trumane, it seemed, had none of Captain Verricks’s pragmatism when it came to advice offered by an Exceptional Initiatives agent.
Lizanne hadn’t been offered a seat but took one anyway, slumping into the chair opposite the captain’s desk and running a weary hand over her forehead. It had taken three hours for the Viable Opportunity to appear and rescue them, and most of that time had been taken up with coaxing Sofiya into eating something. She was in the care of the ship’s doctor now, a highly capable and affable man named Weygrand Lizanne recalled from some of Clay’s memories. Glancing up at Trumane’s arch, imperious visage above his steepled fingers, she couldn’t help but wish events had conspired to keep this man in a comatose state, which would have placed the good doctor next in line for command.
“As a matter of professional courtesy,” she began with all the politeness she could muster, “what is our present destination?”
She saw Trumane’s face twitch in an unconscious expression of discomfort. It was probably some effect of his prolonged coma and it told her a great deal. Wherever we’re going, he’s not happy about it.
“Given our current fuel stocks, not to mention the supply situation,” Trumane replied, “there is only one viable course.” His face twitched again and he let out a small cough before continuing. “Varestia,” he said. “Specifically the Red Tides.”
Lizanne stared at him, her lips curling as she contained an incredulous laugh. “I know only a little of your career, Captain,” she said. “So please correct me if my memory plays me false. Is it not the case that for most of your active service you have been engaged in antipiracy operations?”
Trumane coughed again. “Quite correct.”
“So, it would be a fair assumption that your name and reputation will be well known amongst piratical circles.”
“A fair assumption indeed.”
“Then please explain to me why sailing into the most pirate-infested region in the world at the head of an unarmed fleet of civilian vessels is such a good idea.”
“There is nowhere else!” Trumane slammed his hands onto the desk, face twitching with renewed intensity. He glared at Lizanne for a long moment before composing himself, leaning back and straightening his uniform as he added, “Not unless you think it wise we try our luck in a south Corvantine port.”
This was a point Lizanne was forced to concede. There was little prospect of finding safe harbour in one of the ports on the southern Corvantine coast. The region was a hotbed of Imperial loyalists and the chaos caused by the as yet incomplete revolution would surely make for a hostile reception from the local authorities. But the welcome they would receive in Varestian waters might well be worse.
“The Viable is the only warship in the fleet,” she said. “Even with two Blood-blessed on board to fire the engine and augment the defences, it won’t be able to protect every ship from seizure by pirates.”
“Not all Varestians are pirates,” Trumane replied. “Though they do tend to be universally greedy. They formed a government of sorts after the Empire lost control of the region, the seat of which is located at the Seven Walls. We will sail there and seek asylum in return for suitable compensation from the Ironship Syndicate.”
“The Seven Walls sits at the heart of the Red Tides,” Lizanne pointed out. “That’s a considerable distance to cover without drawing unwelcome attention, regardless of what agreement we might want to make.”
Trumane’s brow furrowed as he spent a moment in silent calculation, before his expression brightened fractionally. “Then we have your esteemed father to thank for providing the means of sending an advance party,” he said, the first smile Lizanne had seen him make appearing on his twitching face. “Miss Lethridge, please do not worry that I might dissuade you from volunteering for such a mission. I feel that keeping you cooped up aboard ship would be a singular waste of your talents.”
“It’s supposed to have a frame.”
Lizanne smothered a laugh as she watched Tinkerer unceremoniously pluck the pencil from her father’s hand and begin sketching lines on his blueprint. From the look on the professor’s face she deduced he was simply too shocked to voice an objection.
“A rigid envelope allows for more capacity and durability,” Tinkerer went on, the pencil moving in swift, precise strokes across the diagram. “And stronger fabric. Silk is far too fragile.” He stopped drawing and stepped back, turning to regard her father’s rapidly darkening countenance.
“And why,” Professor Lethridge began, voice possessed of a distinct quaver, “should I take any advice from the likes of . . .”
“Three concentric rings connected by diagonal cross-beams,” Jermayah broke in, lips pursed as he surveyed the altered blueprint. “You know, that might actually work, Professor.” He raised an eyebrow at Tinkerer. “Materials?”
“In the absence of a bespoke composite alloy, hollow copper tubing would be the best substitute.”
Professor Lethridge gave a snort but, Lizanne noted, failed to voice any further objections as Tinkerer went on to make additional modifications to the design for an improved aerostat. “The control surfaces are too small . . . Increased lifting capacity will allow for the addition of a second engine . . .”
Lizanne left them to it, deciding to check on Makario’s progress with the solargraph. Captain Trumane had ordered a good-sized portion of the Viable’s hold cleared for use as a makeshift workshop. This included a curtained-off section where the musician had some measure of privacy whilst he attempted to decipher the device’s musical mysteries. It sat on the work-bench, its various cogs and wheels gleaming in the lamplight. During the siege of Carvenport they had taken the first steps to unlocking a few of its secrets, such as the fact that it was powered by music, or “kinetic resonance,” as Jermayah termed it. However, to Lizanne it remained as unknowable and frustrating an enigma as when she first set eyes on it in the office of the unfortunate Diran Akiv Kapazin. As yet, despite Makario’s efforts, it had signally failed to reveal any clue as to how it might unlock the secrets in Tinkerer’s head. She had asked Tekela to assist, hoping the girl’s musical insights might yield some progress, as they had in Jermayah’s workshop.
“Wrong,” Tekela said as Makario finished tapping out another tune on the device’s exposed chimes. “I doubt the Artisan would have chosen something so ugly. He had far too much taste for that. Try this.” She went on to sing a short melody in her fine, accomplished voice. She seemed oblivious to Makario’s baleful stare which Lizanne fancied was at least a match for the one her father had directed at Tinkerer. The tune was wordless, formed only of notes into something both pleasing and haunting to the ear. It reminded Lizanne of “The Leaves of Autumn,” the tune that had first caused the solargraph’s gears to turn in Jermayah’s workshop, in feeling rather than composition.
“I don’t recognise it,” Makario grated when Tekela fell silent.
“You wouldn’t,” she replied. “I made it up.”
“If this infernal thing is powered by music, it will be by a composition from the Artisan’s era. May I point out, miss, that only one of us is an expert in musical history.”
Tekela made a face and arched an eyebrow at Lizanne. “He’s just jealous because I have perfect pitch.”
“Perfect pitch is just a trick,” Makario stated, bridling as his face darkened further. “I once saw a monkey with perfect pitch in a circus.”
“Try it,” Lizanne said before Tekela could give voice to a no-doubt-vicious rejoinder. “We’ve tried every other tune the Artisan might have heard in his lifetime and all they do is cause the levers to turn, which describes the orbits of the three moons but fails to convey anything actually meaningful. There is more to this thing than just astronomy. It has another secret to tell and we know the Artisan was scrupulous in guarding his secrets. He may well have used a unique composition, one known only to himself.”
Makario huffed but dutifully raised the silver spoon he had borrowed from the officers’ mess and tapped out the notes of Tekela’s song on the chimes. “See?” he said, moving back as the tune faded. “A fruitless . . .”
He gave a start as a soft click came from the solargraph. It was faint, but definite evidence that somewhere within the complex array of components that formed the device’s innards, something had responded to the tune. Makario immediately repeated the sequence, all animosity replaced by a steady-eyed concentration. This time, however, the solargraph failed to respond.
“The main theme from ‘The Leaves of Autumn,’” he said, reaching for pen and paper and scribbling down a series of musical notes. “What else?”
“‘Dance of the Heavens,’” Tekela said. “The second movement. Also, the choral melody from ‘The Maiden’s Fall.’”
Makario wrote down all the notes from each piece, one beneath the other. “Now your little tune,” he said, setting the notes out at the bottom of the page. He stared at it for a moment then let out a soft laugh. “See it?” he said, holding the paper out to Lizanne. Music had never been her subject and she had only a bored child’s understanding of musical notation so immediately passed the page to Tekela.
“I don’t . . .” she began after scanning the notes, then frowned as comprehension dawned. “A descending scale,” she said. “They all share the same descending scale, but at different tempos.”
Makario nodded and tapped a series of notes onto the chimes. This time the response was much more prolonged and impressive. All three of the solargraph’s levers turned at once, moving with more energy than Lizanne had seen before whilst several of the cogs along its sides spun fast enough to blur. It lasted for no more than three seconds then stopped after which the solargraph emitted a series of notes of its own. It was the same melody Makario had tapped out, but at a much slower tempo, and also followed by several more notes. To Lizanne’s ears the tune possessed much the same melancholy flavour as “The Leaves of Autumn” and the other centuries-old tunes the device had so far responded to. She could also tell it was incomplete, the final note cutting off abruptly as if the solargraph had been silenced in mid-conversation.
“I do believe we might have made some progress,” Makario said. “Perhaps our fellow former inmate can shine some more light on it.”
“Not yet,” Lizanne replied. “I’d rather his energies were concentrated on the new aerostat, for now at least.” She nodded at the solargraph. “Do you think you can get it to play the whole tune?”
“With time and”—he cast a reluctant glance in Tekela’s direction—“some further assistance. Music is a code after all.” He nodded at the page of notes he had scribbled down. “At least now we have the beginnings of a key, and thanks to the additional notes it played, a clue as to where to look next.”
“So what are you calling this one?” Lizanne enquired as Jermayah crouched to undo the ties on a canvas-wrapped item on the deck. “Do you have a new Whisper for me? I must say I miss the old one.”
He gave a soft grunt, shaking his shaggy head as he stepped back to reveal his latest invention. “This one doesn’t whisper. Could call it the Shouter, if you like.”
At first glance it appeared to be a standard-issue Silworth .31 lever-action repeating carbine, albeit modified with a slightly longer barrel and more elaborate fore- and rearsights. The wooden stock had also been augmented with a brass shoulder plate and spring arrangement. However, the strangest modification was that the upper half of the breach mechanism had been replaced by glass instead of the usual iron.
“Something occurred to me during that business in Carvenport,” Jermayah began. “Takes a keen eye and a skilled hand to kill a full-grown drake with a fire-arm. It’s one thing for a Contractor to do it on a hunt through the Interior, different matter in the midst of a battle. The Thumpers and Growlers are fine and good, but you need a whole crew to work them. The mini-Growler I built in Feros could do the job but it eats up a huge amount of ammunition and takes too long to manufacture. If we had a mass-producible small-arm that could do the job with only a few shots, seems to me things might go better for us.”
Lizanne cast a doubtful gaze over the carbine. “This can kill a drake?”
“Surely can, provided you load it with the right ammunition.” He produced a cartridge from his pocket and tossed it to her. It was about a third longer than a standard carbine round with a more pointed bullet featuring a slight indentation at its base.
“This isn’t steel,” she said, touching a finger to the tip of the bullet. Military-grade rounds were usually formed of a lead core surrounded by a hard-steel jacket. Jermayah had apparently crafted something new in this one.
“Titanium,” he said. “Hard enough to punch through the hide of any drake. Your father had a small stock of it set aside, but couldn’t remember what he was going to use it for. He also had some magnesium and mercury. So you have a titanium-tipped projectile which collapses on impact to set off a composite explosive charge. Took a little experimenting but I think you’ll find the results impressive.”
He hefted an empty brandy-keg the ship’s galley no longer had a use for and made ready to toss it over the side. Lizanne bent to retrieve the carbine from the deck, finding it marginally heavier than a standard-issue model, but not enough to be unwieldy. She slotted the cartridge into the tubular magazine below the barrel, worked the lever to chamber the round and put the stock against her shoulder.
“Very well,” she said. “Have you ranged the sights?”
“Fifty yards,” Jermayah told her before heaving the keg into the sea. “Put some whitewash in to illustrate the effect.”
Lizanne stepped to the rail, tracking the keg’s progress towards the stern. The Viable Opportunity was maintaining a slow speed to keep pace with the rest of the convoy so her target took a moment or two to drift the required distance. When she judged it to be about fifty yards away she raised the carbine’s barrel, centring the fore- and rearsights on the bobbing keg. The wind was slight today so she didn’t need to account for it as she exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the bullet’s leaving the barrel did indeed resemble a shout, though the recoil was less severe than she might have expected. The stock seemed to pulse against her shoulder instead of the usual hard shove and the foresight deviated from the target by only a few degrees. Consequently, she had a fine view of the brandy-keg as it transformed into a cloud of white vapour. There wasn’t even enough left of it to litter the surrounding water with debris.
“One, maybe two to stop an adult Green,” Jermayah mused. “Three for a Red. Blue’s a different matter of course, but you should still be able to do some serious damage. It’ll also fire standard rounds if you need to shoot a Spoiled.”
Lizanne lowered the carbine and ejected the spent cartridge with a smooth motion of the lever, catching it before it could fall to the deck. It was hot, but not enough to burn and leached a thick foul-smelling cloud of spent propellant.
“Had to mix a variety of agents to get enough power behind the bullet,” Jermayah said with an apologetic wince. “Couldn’t make it smokeless.”
Lizanne grinned and blew the fumes from the bullet before tossing it over the side. “Then I’ll call it the ‘Smoker.’” She tapped the glass covering the upper portion of the breach. “And this?”
“That’s for an old friend.” He produced another cartridge from his pocket, holding it up for inspection. This projectile was more elongated than those she had used in her Whisper, but still recognisable from the viscous liquid she could see inside the glass cylinder.
“Redball,” Lizanne said, remembering the various forms of carnage she had inflicted with the product-fuelled round.
“Three times the range of the pistol version,” Jermayah said. “Could only buy enough Red to make a dozen though, so best forgo the test firing, eh?”
She nodded, reaching out to take the cartridge. “And the explosive rounds?”
“Just thirty. I had just bought enough magnesium and mercury to make a hundred but . . .” He trailed off, face darkening.
“Did you see it?” Lizanne asked. “My aunt?”
He shook his head. “It all happened so fast. It was Tekela who woke us, told us we had to get in the aerostat and leave. Your aunt didn’t believe it, or didn’t want to. She went outside to look for herself. Not an easy thing to just fly away from the place you’ve lived all your life, I suppose. It’s my belief she locked the workshop doors so the drakes couldn’t get in when she saw what was happening. Even then.” He paused and gave a sad, helpless shrug. “If your ward hadn’t gotten her hands on the mini-Growler we’d certainly have shared your aunt’s fate.”
“We’ll need more of those before long.” Lizanne hefted the carbine. “And more of these.”
“Only so much we can do on this tub. Not a lot to work with.”
“I’ll see about rectifying that. In the meantime”—she shouldered the carbine and started towards the ladder to the crew quarters—“I have a long-delayed call to make.”
Do you believe it? Clay asked as the last images of his journey through the world beneath the ice folded back into the grey hues of Nelphia’s surface.
Lizanne took a long time to reply. Absorbing such a quantity of new and incredible information left her own mindscape in an unusual state of disarray. The whirlwinds twisted and entwined with the kind of energy that only came from confusion and indecision. Neither were sensations she enjoyed.
I don’t wish to cause offence, Mr. Torcreek, she told him after managing to straighten some of the more fractious whirlwinds. But I doubt you are capable of constructing memories of such . . . remarkable variety and precision.
Got plenty of wild tales of your own, he observed and their joined minds shared a brief instant of empathic humour. Bringing down the entire Corvie Empire. Quite a feat, miss. Even for you.
A house built with rotten timbers on shaky foundations was always bound to fall. My concern is what they’ll build in its place.
Think we got more pressing concerns than that.
She took a moment to calm her mind yet further, forcing the whirlwinds into a reasonable semblance of order, before sending him a pulse of agreement. You’re certain of this woman’s motives? You believe she only wants to help?
I believe she wants to put right what her people did wrong. But I’m pretty sure there’s a good deal she hasn’t shared yet. I’m hoping I’ll get some answers at Krystaline Lake.
Returning to Arradsia at this juncture seems excessively risky. It’s likely the entire continent is now under the sway of the White.
Maybe not. It ain’t there just now, don’t forget. And there are limits to what it can do. Silverpin showed us that. Besides, I’m all out of other options, lest you got something to share.
Tell Captain Hilemore to sail for Varestia. We will join forces. It was a suggestion that would have carried more weight when spoken aloud, but in the trance she knew he could sense the reluctant insincerity in it. They were both fully aware he would sail to Arradsia and then journey on to Krystaline Lake, whatever the cost.
Guess that settles it, he observed.
So it seems. However, I feel it would be better if Captain Hilemore stayed with his command this time. Given the fate of the Corvantine main battle fleet he now commands possibly the most advanced warship in the world. An asset we’ll need in the days to come.
He’ll be hard to convince. Not the kind who likes to sit out the big show.
Frame it as an order from me if it helps.
With Feros gone I ain’t too sure how he’ll feel about taking orders, and my influence ain’t what it was. But I’ll try. When will you be able to trance again?
I’m not sure. The welcome we’ll receive in the Red Tides is . . . uncertain to say the least.
Dealt with a fair few Varestians in my time. They’re a practical folk above all else, and they got spies everywhere. They have to know what’s been happening, or at least a good deal of it. Could be they don’t need as much persuading as you think. Besides which, there’s a service you could do me in Varestia.
He went on to explain about Zenida Okanas and her father’s connection to whatever lay beneath the waters of Krystaline Lake. A place called the High Wall, Clay told her. She says he had a pile of maps there. They’ll be useful if we’re gonna find this thing.
I’ll see what I can do, Lizanne replied. She paused and their shared mindscape took on a darker hue as the knowledge of what had befallen Feros struck home once again. What will you tell your uncle? she asked.
The truth. Think he and Lori deserve that much. Lines of deep red began to snake through the moon-dust like miniature lava floes. Grief took many forms in the trance, it seemed that in his case it burned. Looks like we both lost an aunt, huh? And Joya. Was hoping I’d see her again one day.
We don’t fully know what happened yet, she replied. There may yet be a chance some people escaped. The refugees were ever a resourceful lot. It was scant comfort, something else they both knew, but it was all she had.
Where are you now? she asked, happy to alter the topic of conversation.
Saw our last iceberg two days ago, so a good lick farther north. Captain Hilemore reckons another two weeks before we sight Arradsia. Would be quicker if we weren’t nurse-maiding that old Blue-hunter. They’re awful scared of Jack. Makes me nervous.
The connection thrummed as Lizanne’s Blue began to fade. Guess it’s time to say our farewells for now, Clay observed.
Wait. Lizanne drew one of her whirlwinds closer and formed it into one of his shared memories, the aerostat of marvellous design he had used to escape the world below the ice. I need more images of this. Anything you can remember. And anything that woman told you about it.
Think you can copy it, huh? he asked, swiftly moving to comply. Nelphia’s surface sprouted a new crop of memories, the dust blossoming into a panoply of image and sensation.
The drakes hold a very singular advantage over us, she replied, opening her mind to drink in all the knowledge before the Blue ran out. If we can contest the skies, we may have a chance.