CHAPTER 11
Lizanne
“Estimated maximum altitude of fifteen hundred feet,” Professor Lethridge said. He strolled around the redesigned aerostat, arms clasped behind his back and listing its virtues with a pride Lizanne couldn’t recall being directed at her. “Maximum speed of forty miles an hour on kerosene, eighty-three under thermoplasmic power. A significant improvement in performance thanks to the information provided by you.” He favoured Lizanne with a rare smile. “The aerodynamic refinements to the envelope alone added twenty miles an hour to the top speed, and another ten thanks to the addition of an enclosed gondola.”
The new aerostat was indeed a more impressive specimen than its predecessor. The balloon itself had a more robust and elongated appearance, almost shark-like in the smooth curves achieved by Tinkerer’s internal copper frame. The gondola was no longer just a small boat suspended by ropes from the balloon but a narrow canoe-shaped capsule with glass windows in front and back and hinged port-holes in the side which were wide enough to accommodate a carbine or mini-Growler if the need arose. The engine was suspended from the base of the gondola on a sturdy steel frame that enabled it to be swivelled about by the pilot, facilitating a much greater range of control. Jermayah had wanted to add a second engine but there simply weren’t enough materials on board to construct it. Lizanne’s gaze narrowed as it fell on the ugly bulk of the caloric burner. The way it sprouted through the roof of the gondola spoilt the craft’s otherwise elegant lines.
“A temporary but necessary modification,” her father said, following her gaze. “With no helium or hydrogen on hand it’s the only means of achieving elevation.”
“I’m sure it will work perfectly, Father,” she told him. She turned as Tekela appeared at her side, clad in a heavy seaman’s jacket, the sleeves of which had been trimmed to accommodate her less-than-regulation proportions. She carried a second jacket in her arms and wore a thick woollen hat on her head. Lizanne considered that she might have resembled a child playing dress-up but for the shrewd appraisal she displayed in surveying the aerostat.
“No time for test flight, I suppose?” she asked Jermayah.
“We don’t have the fuel,” he said with a grimace of apology before handing her a leather map-case. “The course is marked and the compass heading already set. The captain advises that the winds tend to swing north over the Red Tides so be sure to account for it.”
Tekela gave a tense nod then hefted the second jacket into Lizanne’s arms. “It gets cold up there,” she said, striding forward. “Shall we?”
Lizanne lingered a moment to exchange a few words with Makario, who had come along with Captain Trumane to see them off. Tinkerer apparently felt no compulsion towards such social niceties and was busy in the workshop improving Jermayah’s mini-Growler. “Keep working on the solargraph,” Lizanne told the musician. “If you should happen to discover the final tune, don’t play it for Tinkerer until I return.”
He nodded, forcing a smile before nodding at the aerostat. Tekela had already climbed the ladder into the gondola and started up the caloric burner with a loud whoosh, causing the craft to lift several inches off the aft deck. “Room in there for a third party?” Makario asked and she was surprised to see he was serious. “Who’ll save your life when you get captured again?” he added.
“I’ll just have to manage,” she said, folding him into a brief embrace before turning to Captain Trumane.
“Our formal proposal,” he said, holding out a sealed envelope. “I’m sure they’ll find the terms generous enough to be tempting.”
“Let’s hope they also find them credible,” Lizanne replied, taking the envelope.
Trumane gave one of his short but deep coughs, stiffening into a more formal posture. “We shall proceed to a point twenty miles west of here,” he said. “The waters off Viemen’s Island. An uninhabited rock of little interest, but an easy locale to find. Also, pirates tend to avoid it. Some superstition about the place’s being cursed by the King of the Deep.”
“If my mission succeeds I shall trance with Mrs. Griffan at the allotted hour,” Lizanne told him. “Please ask Dr. Weygrand not to sedate her too heavily.”
“And if you are unsuccessful?”
“Then it’s doubtful a trance will be possible. I suggest you linger at Vieman’s Island no longer than two weeks.” She paused, discomforted by the fact that she had no alternative destination to offer.
“After two weeks,” Trumane said, “we will have no option but to risk Corvantine waters.”
She nodded, wishing she had more to say, and that she felt this man to be more trustworthy. But once again the course of events had conspired to present her with nothing but bad choices. “Best of luck, Captain,” was all she could think to say.
He gave a salute, the twitch that marred his features marginally less pronounced today. “And to you, miss.”
Lizanne went to Jermayah, took the Smoker and ammunition from him before sharing a short, wordless embrace. She then moved to where her father was crouched beneath the gondola, engaged in a last-minute inspection of the engine.
“Any problems?” she enquired.
He didn’t look up, gaze fixed on some component in the engine’s internals. “The plasma-ignition valve can hold only one charge at a time,” he said. “The released energy will last for no more than three hours. It’s ignited via a viewing tube in the gondola . . .”
“I know, Father. It’s very simple.” She pulled on the jacket Tekela had given her, finding a woollen hat in one of the pockets. Professor Lethridge remained crouched, working a screwdriver as he fixed an access panel in place.
“The feed tube to the condenser will freeze if the engine remains idle for too long at altitude . . .”
“I know that too, Father.”
He tightened the last screw and finally raised his gaze to hers. She was shocked to find herself confronted by the pale, damp-eyed face of a very frightened man. “Your aunt . . .” he began in a strained voice, then faltered, looking away.
Lizanne crouched at his side. “Aunt Pendilla loved us both and we loved her,” she said. “We were a family.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his temple. “We still are. Best stand back, Father. It’s time for me to leave.”
Tekela’s small but nimble hands darted over the aerostat controls as the craft lifted off from the Viable. She sat at the front of the gondola with Lizanne in the rear behind the central strut that connected the engine to the main body of the craft. Tekela used a large central lever fitted with a throttle to control the angle and speed of the engine. A smaller one to the left was connected to what her father had named “ailerons,” a pair of stubby wings protruding from either side of the gondola which were used to control the forward and back pitch of the craft. A pair of foot-levers directed the large rear rudder which determined the port and starboard angle. Watching Tekela engage in the complex dance of lever and pedal that sent the aerostat into the air and on the correct heading, Lizanne wondered aloud if her musical training made her such a quick student as a pilot.
“Possibly,” Tekela conceded once they were clear of the ship. It was surprisingly quiet in the gondola. With the engine positioned outside its whirring buzz was reduced to a low hum, allowing for easy conversation. “When I was little Mother would stand over me with a ruler as I played my scales on the pianola. If I hit the wrong note, down came the ruler. It made for very quick hands.”
If I’d ever met your mother I’d have wrung the evil bitch’s neck, Lizanne thought but chose not to say.
She glanced over her shoulder, seeing the rapidly diminishing outline of the Viable through the rear window. As the aerostat drew higher still the rest of the fleet came into view, dozens of ships all reduced to toy-like dimensions in the space of a few moments. Although no stranger to heights Lizanne found that such a rapid ascent brought an uncomfortable lurch to the stomach and a decided sense of disorientation. She turned away, occupying herself with checking their weapons. In addition to the Smoker they had the original mini-Growler Jermayah had constructed in Feros, plus a pair of pistols and a standard-issue Silworth rifle fitted with a telescopic sight. In Lizanne’s experience it always paid to have a long-range weapon close at hand, a lesson starkly underlined by her experience in Scorazin.
“It has a tendency to veer upwards,” Tekela said. Lizanne looked up from the mini-Growler to see her eyes in the mirror above the forward window. “Best keep it to short bursts.” Lizanne saw a shadow creep into Tekela’s eyes then and she quickly lowered them to the controls. “Heading is set,” she said, finger tapping the compass. “Jermayah rigged a kind of pulley system that’ll keep the levers at the right angle. Still have to correct for the wind though, but it makes for a lighter work-load.”
“We still haven’t spoken,” Lizanne said, “about what you saw in Feros. About Sirus.”
Lizanne saw Tekela’s slim shoulders tense beneath the bulky confines of her jacket. “I wasn’t making it up,” she said.
“I know. But it does raise some troubling questions.” She shifted forward, speaking softly. “You said he saved you. How?”
“The Greens . . .” Tekela paused to swallow before continuing. “The Greens burned their way in and Sirus was there. Standing in the wreckage of the workshop doors. He was Spoiled, but I knew him right away. I . . . I tried to kill him. I had Jermayah’s new gun and I tried to kill them all. I got all the Greens but I ran out of bullets before I could get Sirus. He just stood there looking at me, then another Spoiled came in, a woman. I didn’t recognise her but she seemed to know me, and not in a friendly way. She had a pistol . . . Sirus shot her. I could tell it wasn’t easy for him, but he did it. He did it to save me.”
She fell silent for a while, tending to the controls with an occasional pause to wipe at her eyes. “I wanted him to come with us. I asked him to, but he said he couldn’t. He told us to go.”
Lizanne reached around the central strut to grip the younger woman’s shoulder, feeling her shudder as she contained a sob. “He always loved you,” she said.
“I suppose.” Tekela gave a miserable sniff and wiped at her nose with the sleeve of her jacket. “Though Emperor knows why. I was never exactly nice to him. All that awful poetry.” She drew in a hard breath, exhaling slowly. “Still, I doubt he writes anything any more.”
“No, I don’t expect he does. Tekela”—Lizanne’s grip grew slightly firmer on her shoulder—“if he’s Spoiled it means he’s in thrall to the White. Which means the White may possess every memory in his head, every memory of you, me, the solargraph, all of it. If it doesn’t have it now, it may well soon.”
“He saved me,” Tekela insisted. “He wouldn’t betray us.”
“Not willingly. I doubt any of the Spoiled do what they do willingly, but they do it nonetheless. Saviour or not, he’s a threat to us. And I think he knows that. It’s why he wouldn’t go with you. Should we see him again . . .”
Tekela shifted, drawing her shoulder clear of Lizanne’s grip. “I won’t do that,” she stated, sitting straighter in her seat. “And I don’t want to talk about this any more,” she added in a familiar but now rarely heard tone, rich in all the truculent stubbornness Lizanne recalled from those first days in Morsvale.
“You might as well sleep,” Tekela went on, shifting the main lever as the compass-needle strayed a little from the heading. “It’ll be hours before we see anything but ocean.”
The weather remained kind and the aerostat made swift progress on its westward flight, aided by the wind for much of the way until the first Varestian islands came into view a day and a half later. Tekela had managed barely two hours’ sleep, slumping in her seat with one hand on the control lever and the engine set to its slowest speed. Nevertheless she seemed fresh enough today, one of the advantages of youth, Lizanne supposed.
“The captain wasn’t wrong about the wind,” Tekela commented, grunting a little as she hauled on the controls to keep the craft on the correct heading.
Lizanne peered down at the small specks of land passing by below. These were the mostly uninhabited outer islands that formed the Sabiras Archipelago, a natural barrier on the eastern fringe of the Varestian region that served as an unofficial border between the Orethic Ocean and the Red Tides. From here on the only ships to sail these waters were Varestian, either traders or pirates. Even before the Corvantine Empire had been forced to forsake its sovereignty over the region, the Red Tides had mostly been shunned by both Imperial and corporate ships. Despite a reputation as the finest and most wide-ranging mariners in the world, the Varestians had always been hostile to intruders into their own waters.
Lizanne read through Captain Trumane’s letter once more. She had felt no compunction about breaking the seal and was quite prepared to discard it should the contents prove counter-productive. In fact she found the letter’s diplomatic phrasing to be elegant and effective, containing nothing their potential hosts could take offence at and striking the right balance between solicitation and conciliation. What would interest them most, she knew, was the offer of ten million in Syndicate scrip or stock of equivalent value in return for safe harbour, an offer far beyond Trumane’s authority to make. And far beyond mine for that matter, she thought, folding the letter away. It was clear that in order to secure Varestian co-operation she would have to engage in some spectacular lies.
They saw their first Varestian vessel once they were over the larger islands a dozen miles farther west. It was a large three-paddle freighter easily identified by the broad wake it left on the ocean. Lizanne used the riflescope to scan the ship. A flag she didn’t recognise flew from the mast, making it an Independent as was the case with most Varestian ships. And pirates, she added inwardly. She doubted that this vessel was engaged in piracy, being too large for the kind of swift manoeuvring required of that trade. It did, however, turn out to be armed.
A flash appeared on the freighter’s fore-deck, followed a second or two later by the faint crump of a cannon-shot. The gunners were clearly untrained in firing at aerial targets because the shell was both wide and short, its fuse causing it to explode about fifty yards below and a hundred yards behind the aerostat. Even so, it was close enough for Tekela to open the throttle and increase the angle of the ailerons, taking them up to the craft’s maximum ceiling in another gut-disturbing lurch.
“Could you warn me when you’re going to do that?” Lizanne requested.
“Sorry.” Tekela glanced out of the starboard port-hole at the ship below. “That wasn’t very friendly, was it?”
“No.” Lizanne saw several more flashes flaring on the freighter’s deck as it brought all its guns into play, though none of the shells it launched came any closer than the first. “They have no idea who we are,” she went on as the cluster of small black clouds left by the exploding shells drifted away and the freighter shrank into the distance. “Or any notion what this craft is. Troubled times makes for nervous hands.”
“And when we get to the Seven Walls?”
Lizanne turned to Tekela, finding her doll’s face tense with worry. Easy to forget how young she is sometimes, Lizanne chided herself. She resisted the impulse to lie, offer some bland reassurance. But a co-operative mission required trust between agents. “I don’t know,” she said. “They may fire on us as soon as they see us. Or they may not. They may allow us to land and immediately arrest us.”
Tekela nodded, small worry lines creasing her forehead. “Or worse,” she said.
“Yes. Or worse.” She gestured at the small clock Jermayah had set amongst the cluster of dials in front of the pilot’s station. “How much longer?”
Tekela straightened and turned, taking a firmer grip on the control lever. “In this wind, at least another ten hours.”
“Which means we’ll be arriving in darkness.”
“I can circle through the night, begin the approach at dawn.”
“No. You’ll be too fatigued.” Lizanne rose into a crouch and shuffled forward to the viewing tube that sat alongside the central strut. “Time to fire up the blood-burner, I think.”
“The professor said it has only one charge. And once started the only way to stop it is to flush the plasma from the combustion chamber. It might be better to save it for emergencies.”
“We can recharge it when we land, assuming we’re allowed to take off again. If not then it won’t matter.” She flipped open the cover on the viewing tube and put her eye to the socket. “Besides, I should like to see just how fast this thing can go. Ready?”
“One second. Need to level the ailerons; otherwise, the slip-stream will tear them off.” Lizanne heard a snick as Tekela locked one of the levers into place. “Ready.”
Lizanne took her wallet from the pocket of her jacket and extracted a vial of Red, taking a small sip before returning her eye to the viewing tube. Her father had placed a little luminescent disc inside the plasma valve so it was easy to make out the small pool of viscous liquid it held. A brief flare of Red and the product immediately burst into an eye-wateringly bright fire-ball. She was about to opine that adding tinted glass to the eyepiece might be a good idea when the aerostat surged forward with enough force to send her sprawling. She heard Tekela let out a startled but delighted giggle and blinked the moisture from her eyes to see that she now had both hands on the control lever. Over her shoulder Lizanne could see the needle on the speedometer swiftly ascending to its maximum reading, where it stayed.
“Must be over a hundred miles an hour at least,” Tekela said with an appreciative laugh. “Looks as if the professor underestimated his invention.”
“Co-invention,” Lizanne corrected, glancing through a port-hole to see the wispy cloud beyond passing by at a greatly accelerated rate. “When we get back to the ship, remind me to draft a proper patent and a contract to cover distribution of future profits.”
They cleared the Sabiras Archipelago in what seemed like minutes, bringing them into the Red Tides proper. They were low enough to make out the waves passing below, the ocean surface blurring thanks to their speed. Several more ships came into view, most much smaller than the freighter, though none felt the need to fire on them. Lizanne suspected this was due more to their increased speed than any lack of hostility. In all it took just under four hours before Tekela reported land in sight. The thermoplasmic engine had exhausted its supply by then, forcing Tekela to combat the winds once more, though she proved adept at keeping the approaching land-mass firmly in the centre of the forward window.
Lizanne moved forward, leaning over Tekela’s shoulder to view the landscape, her eyes tracking over the coast in search of landmarks. “Iskamir,” she said, spying a broad inlet a few degrees to the north. She gave Tekela’s shoulder a grateful squeeze. “We’re in the right place. You better take us up, high as you can, please. No telling what reception we’ll get from the locals.”
The island of Iskamir was often referred to in atlases and almanacs as the “jewel” or “beating heart” of Varestia, the central hub where pirates came to sell their booty and traders to buy it. As they flew over the eastern coast Lizanne was struck by how many ports it featured, all surrounded by towns of varying proportions. It occurred to her that this might well be the most densely populated land-mass on the globe, meaning the place had to be reliant on imported cargo to feed its population, as the interior was mostly mountains or rough hill-country. Not a place to hold out for very long in a siege, she concluded as the aerostat drew away from the coast and into the mountains. The peaks were so tall Tekela had to slow the craft and steer a way through them, hauling on the controls with ever more energy thanks to the fractious air currents and drifting patches of mist.
“Best if we fly around this place on the way back,” she said, her labour having left a sheen of sweat on her face despite the chill.
Once through the mountains they flew across a thin stretch of cultivated fields before once again finding themselves over the sea as they reached the strait that separated Iskamir from the unique construction that formed the Seven Walls. It came into view quickly, at first appearing to be a dark strangely regular notch on the horizon, but soon grew to a size that put her in mind of the mountains they had just traversed. She knew the great fortress’s origin dated back at least a thousand years and was a truly ingenious design; a small central island complete with a port around which a series of seven walls had been constructed between the smaller outlying islets. The result was a self-contained port permanently shielded from the tide on all sides. However, during the days when the old Varestian League had fought the last of its wars against the encroaching Corvantine Empire it had been greatly enlarged. The walls now stood over a hundred feet high featuring a miniature fort at each intersection. Once again making use of the riflescope, Lizanne could see each fort bristling with guns and busy with ant-sized figures running to their stations. It appeared their approach had not gone unnoticed.
Within the walls lay the port itself, so crammed with buildings, wharfs and jetties Lizanne could see scant sign of vegetation save for the occasional tree. I hope they’ve been stockpiling food, she mused. The only open space was a central square surrounded by a series of grand buildings, the largest of which she assumed would house the Varestians’ quasi-government.
“We’ll land there,” Lizanne said, pointing to the square.
“The forts?” Tekela asked in a thin voice. They were close enough now to see the gun-crews loading their pieces.
“Let’s hope they have enough honour to observe traditional customs.” Lizanne went to the canvas bag she had obtained from Captain Trumane. The item it contained was large and unwieldy, taking several tiresome minutes to extract. When it was done she dragged it to the hatch in the gondola’s floor.
“Hover in place for a moment,” she told Tekela. “We need to make sure they see it.”
She opened the hatch as Tekela duly brought the craft to a slow sideways drift, then fastened the ties attached to the corners of the item to the main strut before pushing it out. The flag unfurled to its full length thanks to the stiff winds found at these heights, revealing a design Lizanne hoped would still be recognised in these uncertain times; a white circle on a red background. Even the Varestians were reputed to respect the universal signal requesting truce and negotiation.
They drifted for several minutes as the flag fluttered and flapped below the aerostat. Lizanne kept careful watch on the closest fort, detecting a certain amount of confusion amongst the gun-crews, and no small amount of accompanying argument. She even saw a couple of men come to blows, but no cannon were fired.
“Take us in,” she told Tekela. “A slow and gentle approach would be best.”
She was obliged to cut the flag free once they were over the wall as it was coming perilously close to fouling the engine’s propellers. They would just have to hope the Varestians didn’t take this as a signal of hostile intent. People thronged the wharfs and streets as they flew over the port towards the square, most staring in wonder or suspicion, a few running in panic. There were numerous ships at anchor and many began to make steam at the sight of the aerostat. None of this gave Lizanne much confidence in a safe landing, but they couldn’t turn back now.
Tekela guided the aerostat to a hover when they came to the square, then slowly reduced the heat of the caloric burner to ensure a gentle congress with the ground. One of Jermayah’s design additions to the aerostat was retractable landing gear that sprouted from the gondola’s underside and rather resembled a metallic eagle’s claw. Tekela deployed it when they were a few feet from the square’s paved surface and the aerostat settled down with only a small bump.
“Excellently done,” Lizanne complimented her, peering through the window at a group of men rapidly descending the steps of the large building to their front. There were about twenty of them, and each one bore a rifle or carbine. “You had better go out and greet our hosts.”
Tekela gaped at her. “Me?”
Lizanne went to the rear of the gondola and began assembling the required equipment. “I’ll be along directly,” she said, strapping on her Spider.
“What do I say to them?”
“‘Hello’ is traditional.”
“I don’t speak Varestian.”
“Don’t worry. They’re almost always multilingual.”
Tekela hesitated for a long, silent moment then undid the forward hatch and climbed out of the gondola. Lizanne heard the pounding of boots as the men drew near and fanned out, one of them demanding something in harsh, breathless Varestian.
“Ah,” Tekela said. “Hello.”
There was a short pause, during which Lizanne used the Spider to inject a small burst of Green before moving to the rear hatch.
“Who the fuck are you?” the same voice demanded in heavily accented Mandinorian. “And what the fuck is this?”
“My name is Burgravine Tekela Artonin,” came the response in admirably steady tones. “And I don’t see any need for profanity, sir.”
“Trust me, girl,” the voice went on, growing louder as its owner drew closer, “a foul tongue is the least of—”
His words were drowned out as Lizanne stepped out from under the gondola, raised the mini-Growler and let loose with a prolonged burst of fire. She found Tekela was right about the weapon’s tendency to pull up when fired, it was also somewhat unwieldy thanks to the ammunition load and the miniature caloric engine required to spin the barrels. Consequently, even with the benefit of Green Lizanne’s aim was not as precise as she would have liked. The mini-Growler stitched a vertical line of bullet-holes up the edifice of the largest building in the square before transforming one of the statues on its roof into a stump of shattered marble.
Lizanne removed her finger from the firing mechanism, lowering her gaze to find that the men who had come to greet them were all now lying face-down on the paving-stones. She strode forward, focusing her gaze on the upturned face of the man who had addressed Tekela. In normal circumstances he would probably have been an imposing fellow, with his weathered face and sabre-scarred cheeks. Now he was just another scared man facing death. It was an expression she had grown used to recently.
“I shall explain your choices in very simple terms,” she said. “You can get up, apologise to my friend for your language and take us to see the Varestian Ruling Council. Or”—she aimed the mini-Growler’s smoking barrels directly at his head—“I’ll kill you and every man here, then go and find them myself.”