CHAPTER 17
Lizanne
Lizanne blinked and found herself back in the hold, Makario retreating from her in surprise and lowering the mirror he had been holding close to her mouth. “Checking for breath,” he said. “You were gone a long time.”
Lizanne realised she had been placed on a bunk and concluded she must have collapsed. Usually a Blood-blessed would remain in the same seated pose whilst trancing. This one had evidently been different. Jermayah, Tekela and her father stood close by, all staring at her with worried faces. Lizanne swung her legs off the bunk, groaning a little at the lingering fog in her head. The Artisan’s trance had been the deepest and most vibrant she had experienced and leaving it rather felt like stepping from one world to another.
“Are you alright?” her father asked, moving closer to place a hand on her forehead. “Your temperature’s low. I’ll fetch Dr. Weygrand.”
“I’m fine,” she said, trying to swallow and finding her mouth dry. “Some water would be nice, though.”
“I’ll get it,” Tekela said, immediately scampering off.
Seeing Tinkerer on the next bunk Lizanne reached out to grasp his arm, giving it a gentle shake. “Do you remember anything?” she asked.
Tinkerer gave no response, continuing to lie still, eyes closed. Lizanne took his hand, finding it cold and seeing that his chest was barely moving. “I think you’d better get the doctor after all,” she told her father.
“Some form of comatose state,” Dr. Weygrand said a short while later. “But of a kind I’ve never seen before.”
He had conducted a full examination of the artificer, pronouncing his condition stable but unresponsive. Attempts to wake him with smelling-salts or prods from a small but sharp needle to the soles of his feet had produced no reaction. The doctor sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I’ll need to transfer him to the medical bay, rig up an intravenous drip to ensure he doesn’t dehydrate. I can add some stimulants to the mix which might wake him up.”
“No,” Lizanne said. He’s waiting, she realised. Or rather she’s waiting. Pumping drugs into his veins could disrupt his memories. “Thank you, Doctor,” she went on. “But I believe he’s best left unmedicated for now. However, I can’t stress enough how important it is that he remain alive.”
“It’s important for me that all my patients remain alive, miss,” Weygrand replied.
“Of course.” She smiled and gestured for Makario to follow her to a secluded corner of the hold. “The Follies of Cevokas,” she said. “Does it mean anything to you?”
“It’s a comic opera,” he said. “Dating back to the Third Imperium. Cevokas was . . .”
“A possibly fictional explorer of the Arradsian continent, I know. The tales of his exploits are classics of Corvantine literature.”
“And the basis for the Follies. It’s a fairly minor work, but highly popular in its day. It does seem a little vulgar for the Artisan’s tastes. He strikes me as a more discerning fellow.”
“She,” Lizanne corrected. “And she made it clear that we need to study the Follies of Cevokas. I believe there’s another movement to the composition, something that will unlock further memories from her chosen vessel.”
Makario glanced back at Tinkerer, silent and pale on the bunk. “So he’ll remain like this until we come up with the next movement?”
“I think so.”
The musician pursed his lips, frowning deeply, presumably as archaic tunes played in his head. “I’ll need to reconstruct the opera from memory. It’ll take awhile.”
Catching sight of her father returning to his work-bench, Lizanne started towards him. “Tekela might be able to help,” she told Makario. “She does seem to have a facility for such things.”
“And an equal facility for getting on my bloody nerves,” he added.
“Time is a factor,” she reminded him before joining her father. He was engaged in an improved version of the aerostat’s blood-burner, a new feed mechanism that would enable product to be combusted in batches rather than all at once. “Tinkerer’s rocket,” she said. “Do you think you can finish it?”
Captain Trumane’s course guided the fleet in a wide arc around Iskamir Island, keen to limit any contact with Varestian vessels during the voyage. They saw a few merchantmen over the course of the next few days but none felt the need to investigate such a large formation of foreigners. It was only when they made the westward turn towards Blaska Sound that a flotilla of fast, sloop-class ships appeared on the northern flank of their convoy. A few hours later another flotilla of similar size appeared to the south. The Varestian ships maintained a consistent distance from the fleet, making no attempt at communication.
“Making sure we don’t change our minds,” Trumane concluded after the second flotilla appeared. He tracked his spy-glass along the line of Varestian vessels, grunting in grim recognition. “Pirates, the lot of them. That one in the lead is the Ironspike. Chased her all the way around the Southern Barrier Isles a few years ago. The captain kept throwing his cargo away to increase speed. After a while we started finding the bodies of his crew. He couldn’t have had more than a half dozen men left by the time a storm brewed up. Had hoped the bugger had foundered in it.”
Blaska Sound came into view the next morning, a mist-shrouded estuary about three miles wide. The passage was further constricted by a series of granite reefs that prohibited any rapid manoeuvring. Trumane signalled one of the smaller ships to lead the way, a one-paddle mail packet of aged appearance but with a veteran captain renowned for his navigational skills. The Viable Opportunity took up station a mile to the east, circling slowly with all hands at battle stations. Trumane maintained a rigid vigilance over their Varestian escorts as the fleet made its way into the Sound, calling out the range to each ship for the ensign at his shoulder to note down. Lizanne felt there to be a certain theatre in all of this, Trumane putting on a show to bolster the nerves of his crew. However, he must have known that whilst the Viable was a formidable ship, if the Varestians chose to attack she would be overwhelmed in short order.
“Looks as if your employers are keeping their end of the bargain,” he said, lowering the spy-glass as the last of the refugee vessels proceeded into the Sound. “For now at least. Helm, steer forty points to port. Mr. Tollver, signal the engine room to take us to one-third speed.”
“What a Divinity-forsaken dump,” Tekela observed as the Viable weighed anchor off Raker’s Mount. The place consisted of a loose arrangement of dilapidated hovels clustered around a series of hill-sized slag-heaps. The mine itself was a gaping black hole gouged into the slope of the mountain that loomed over the town. An incline railway line led all the way from the mine to the docks, which were the only truly impressive feature the settlement had to offer.
Five piers jutted out from the quay, which had been constructed atop a granite shelf that became a cliff at low tide. Consequently, the piers had been built on tall supporting legs of iron, each one streaked with rust. It was a testament to the sturdiness of their original construction that the piers were still standing after so many years of neglect. The steam-driven elevators that had once conveyed cargo and crew from moored vessels to the docks were apparently rusted to uselessness. Therefore, the fleet had been obliged to wait for high tide before disembarking the refugees. They were crowding onto the quayside in increasing numbers, most standing around in groups which reflected the ship they had spent so many weeks aboard. A few had begun to drift into the town in search of shelter but it was clear to Lizanne that a great deal of organisation would be needed before these people could be called a work-force.
“You should’ve seen Scorazin, my dear,” Makario told Tekela. “This is a genteel spa-town in comparison. Besides, I’ll be happy just to feel solid ground beneath my feet again. I find myself heartily sick of a sailor’s life.”
“If not the sailors,” Tekela muttered, earning a stern look from Lizanne.
“It looks as if I’ll have need of your secretarial skills once more,” she told her. “I trust you can find a note-book somewhere.”
“I thought I’d take the Firefly up again,” Tekela said. “Have a scout around.”
“Firefly?”
“The aerostat. I decided she should have a name.”
“Very nice, I’m sure.” Lizanne turned and started towards the derrick where Ensign Tollver was preparing a launch to take them to shore. “But I’m afraid your aerial adventures will have to wait.” She paused as an angry murmur rose from the direction of the docks. Two of the refugee groups had begun to jostle each other, voices raised as pushes and shoves soon became punches and kicks.
“Be sure to bring a revolver along with the note-book,” Lizanne added. “I believe we’re about to have a very trying day.”
“We work or we starve.”
The assembled crowd hushed as Lizanne’s words swept over them. She stood atop a raised platform in what had once been a shed used to house the locomotive engines for the incline railway. It was the largest covered space in the town and therefore a useful place for a general meeting. It also benefited from a scaffold of elevated walkways where a number of riflemen from the Viable had been stationed. She was flanked on either side by Captain Trumane and Madame Hakugen, and had hoped that the presence of the refugee fleet’s leaders, and the riflemen, might moderate any discontent. At this juncture, however, the assembly seemed unimpressed and certainly not cowed.
The hush that followed Lizanne’s statement was soon replaced by a babble of discontented voices, rising in pitch and volume. “We are not slaves!” one woman near the front shouted as she and a dozen others struggled against the line of sailors positioned in front of the platform. “I have children!” shouted another. “Corporate bitch!” added someone else.
Lizanne pressed the first and third buttons on the Spider and let loose with a blast of heated air, spread wide enough to prickle the skin but not set anything alight, along with a hard shove of Black, which sent the refugees at the forefront of the mob sprawling.
“I apologise,” Lizanne said, breaking the silence that followed. The crowd stared at her now, fear on most faces, but also plenty of defiance too. “Clearly I did not introduce myself properly,” she went on. “My name is indeed Lizanne Lethridge and I truly am a shareholder in the Ironship Protectorate. But I have another name, one I earned at Carvenport. They called me Miss Blood, and it was not a name I came by accidentally.”
She paused, scanning the crowd. She was quite prepared to send a concentrated blast of Black into the face of anyone who shouted another insult, but for now they seemed content to remain silent. “At Carvenport I organised a defence that saw thousands to safety,” she said. “I did so because those people gave me their trust, as I gave them mine. So I ask you to trust me now as I set out, in clear terms, the reality of our current circumstance.
“We have been provided with this haven, ugly as it is, not because our hosts desire our company or because their hearts are swollen with compassion at our plight. We exist here because I promised them weapons. You will make those weapons. If you do not the best we can expect from our hosts is to be told to leave. I don’t think you need a great deal of imagination to deduce what the worst will be.”
She allowed a few seconds to let the information settle, seeing a measure of defiance slip from some faces, and the fear deepen on others. “But know that the weapons we will construct here will not just be for our hosts,” she continued. “Sooner or later an army of monsters will come for us, and there will be no corner of the world left in which to hide. Running before this storm is no longer an option. I told you we work or we starve, and that is true. What is also true is that we fight or we die.”
She let the subsequent silence string out, hearing a murmur of tense discussion but no more shouts. “This facility will be run in accordance with corporate law,” she said, adopting a brisk, managerial tone. “With the addition of certain provisions in the Protectorate Disciplinary Code. Desertion will be punished by death. Shirking work will be punished by reduction of rations. Repeat offenders will be flogged. Every adult of fighting age will receive two hours’ military training a day. Crèches and schools will be organised for the children.”
She pointed to the rear of the shed where Ensign Tollver and a group of sailors had begun to set up a row of tables. “Please form orderly lines. Provide your name, age, previous work history and any useful skills. Any Blood-blessed will also make themselves known. We will be conducting a blood lot eventually so if you have the Blessing there’s no point trying to hide it.”
“A little to the left!” her father called from atop the scaffold. Lizanne injected an additional measure of Black and concentrated her gaze on the bulbous steel container she had manoeuvred onto the twenty-foot-tall bottle-shaped brick chimney. There were several such chimneys scattered about the town, usually found in proximity to the slag-heaps. Lizanne had initially seen little of interest in them so was surprised by her father’s enthusiasm for what he called “coking ovens.”
“Stop!” he called, waving his arms. Lizanne halted the flow of Black and the container settled onto the chimney-top with an ugly groan of metal on brick. “Excellent,” he said, then called on his assigned group of workers to start shovelling coal into the aperture in the chimney’s base. Once the oven had been filled he turned expectantly to Lizanne. “I think this would go quicker if you would . . .” he said, gesturing at the Spider.
Lizanne moved to crouch at the aperture, injecting a dose of Red before concentrating her gaze on the mass of coal. She stepped back as a deep red glow blossomed in the pile, then jerked aside as the whole thing burst into fiery life, the jet of flame coming close to singeing the sleeve of her overalls.
“Close it up,” the professor commanded and a labourer came forward with a long iron pole to secure an iron door over the blazing aperture. Lizanne climbed the scaffold to peer over her father’s shoulder as he stared at a dial fixed to a valve in the container’s side.
“It’s working,” he said as the dial’s indicator began to inch upwards. “We have ourselves a gas-plant.”
“Coal-gas will work as well as helium?” she asked.
“It doesn’t have quite the same lifting power but we can compensate for that with an expanded envelope. It does benefit from being less flammable than hydrogen. But given that we have neither helium nor hydrogen there seems little alternative in any case.”
The sound of a ship’s siren drew Lizanne’s gaze to the docks. She could see men running to their stations on the deck of the Viable Opportunity whilst smoke blossomed from her stacks. The reason for the commotion soon became clear as she saw a sleek Varestian sloop approaching from the eastern stretch of the Sound. She was flying a truce flag but it seemed Captain Trumane wasn’t willing to allow the Viable to remain at her mooring with a potential threat so close.
“Our hosts have decided to pay us a visit,” she said.
“Good,” her father said. “I hope they brought some copper.”
“Did you know?” Arshav Okanas glared at her with dark, angry eyes. He had arrived on shore with a ten-man escort led by the perennially stern of face Mr. Lockbar. Lizanne decided to meet Arshav with a squad of riflemen under Ensign Tollver’s command. The two groups eyed each other across the wharf whilst Lizanne stepped forward to offer her employer the most polite greeting she could muster. Today, however, conversational niceties didn’t seem to concern him.
“Know what?” she enquired, resisting the urge to flex her fingers over the Spider’s buttons. This man had a tendency to lead her towards unwise impulses.
“Melkorin,” Arshav said. “It’s been burned to the ground and most of its population appears to have vanished, those that aren’t lying dead in the streets that is.”
Melkorin, a port-town on the south Corvantine coast. The thought immediately led her to an obvious conclusion. It followed us.
“Strange that this should happen shortly after you arrive in our waters,” Arshav went on, a snarl creeping into his voice. “Quite the coincidence, don’t you agree?”
She considered dissembling, professing ignorance or confusion, but didn’t see the point at this juncture. The suspicion born on the deck of the Profitable Venture, when the Spoiled boarding party began their co-ordinated attempt to kill her, now seemed fully borne out. “The White is desirous of my death,” she said. “And the deaths of those I travel with. I did warn you its forces would be coming here.”
“Not so soon you didn’t.” His voice had risen to a shout, causing her escort of riflemen to stir, which in turn had Arshav’s pirates reaching for their weapons. “Alright,” he said, waving a hand at Lockbar and making an effort to calm himself. “Why does it want you dead?” he asked in a marginally more controlled tone.
“That,” Lizanne said, turning away and gesturing for him to follow, “is quite a lengthy tale, best shared over lunch.”
“Krystaline Lake,” Arshav said, shaking his head and reaching for the wine-bottle. “Father’s mad obsessions return to plague me once more.” He poured himself a generous measure and offered the bottle to Lizanne.
“No thank you.”
“Captain Noose?” Arshav asked, waving the bottle at Trumane, who sat opposite him. Lizanne had organised the meal in the only dwelling in Raker’s Mount that might be called grand. It was a three-storey house positioned at a decent remove from the rest of the town, proclaimed as the home of the Imperial Comptroller by the Eutherian letters carved above the lintel. The roof was mostly gone, the windows long vanished and the place smelled strongly of rot, but it did feature a dining-table complete with chairs.
“No,” Trumane replied, returning the enmity in Arshav’s gaze in full measure.
“Suit yourself.” Arshav set the bottle down and took a deep drink from his glass. “Piss water,” he said, with a grimace. “Don’t you people know how to greet an honoured guest?”
“Krystaline Lake,” Lizanne said.
“Oh yes, where your friends are off looking for Father’s fabled treasure. It’s all nonsense, you know. Ancient scribblings sold to generations of gullible fools, much of them fake, I’m sure.”
“We have reason to believe otherwise. There is something at the bottom of that lake that can help us win this war. If your father told you anything . . .”
Arshav laughed and drained his glass. “I mostly remember him telling me to get out of his sight. I was as much a disappointment to him as he was to me. So no, my dear Miss Blood, I have no secrets to share. Anything of use will be at the High Wall, and I am not welcome there.” His gaze darkened, fist tightening on the wine-bottle. “Even though it’s mine by right.”
“The High Wall is the seat of the Okanas family, is it not?” Lizanne asked. “It would seem strange that you and your mother were able to assert control over the Ruling Council, and the Seven Walls, but not your family home.”
“A home stolen from me by my own kin.” His gaze softened a little and he poured more wine, grimacing as he emptied the bottle before throwing it over his shoulder. “Perils of being born into a family of pirates, I suppose. The bastards’ll steal the gold from your teeth if you’re not careful. My dear cousin Alzar Lokaras, first-born son to my late aunt Kezia, now holds the High Wall. Supposedly in my sister’s name, as if she’s about to appear on the horizon anytime soon.”
“Will he be amenable to negotiation? Perhaps, if I went . . .”
“He’ll shoot you the moment he claps eyes on you. Hates all things corporate, y’see? Almost like a religion, really.” Arshav’s gaze swivelled to Trumane. “But it’s not like you didn’t give him plenty of reason, Captain. He lost a lot of sea-brothers to your attentions, as did I.”
He drank more wine, gulping it down so that some leaked from the corners of his mouth. “Was going to kill you, y’know,” he gasped when the glass was empty. “Had it all planned. Once you’d settled in here and gotten all comfortable. I’d turn up with all my ships and threaten to pound the town to pieces, just like you intended to do to the Hive. Then I was going to hang you on your own deck, you vicious fuck!” He slammed the wine-glass down on the table, hard enough to shatter it, blood leaking from his fingers as he glared at Trumane.
Lizanne found herself impressed by the captain’s failure to flinch. Martinet or not he was still a veteran Protectorate officer and Arshav his long-standing enemy, fully deserving of justice. Trumane said nothing, instead reaching for a napkin to dab away the drop of wine on his cheek.
Lizanne began to speak but Arshav held up his bloodied hand, turning his baleful gaze from Trumane to her. “Your fables and doomed friends trekking through the Interior mean nothing to me. We have a war to fight and my mother and I want our weapons. How soon before you actually start producing anything?”
“We need materials . . .”
“They’re being unloaded now. Everything on your list, just about, and enough food for a month. There’ll be more coming by the end of the week. How long?”
“We’re already making progress,” Lizanne lied. In fact most of the work-force’s efforts since arriving in Raker’s Mount had been directed towards making the place fit for habitation. Lizanne had placed Madame Hakugen in charge of civil matters and the former Comptroller had done a great deal to smooth the ruffled nerves in the wake of Lizanne’s speech. The former members of the Eastern Conglomerate Levies had been organised into a militia that also served as a constabulary, which did much to imbue the town with a sense of order. Jermayah was organising the principal manufactory in the old railway shed, but as yet no actual weapons had been produced.
“Lack of heavy plant is a problem,” Lizanne said. “Especially lifting gear. We’ve identified only three other Blood-blessed amongst the refugees. To make maximum use of their abilities requires product, especially Black and Red.”
“Product is an increasingly scarce resource,” Arshav replied. “For obvious reasons, and what stocks we do have will be needed by our own Blood-blessed when the fighting starts. But”—he gave a reluctant shrug—“there are a few flasks in my ship’s safe. You can have that.”
“That would be greatly appreciated.”
“I notice you haven’t answered my question.”
“A month,” she said, adopting her uncoloured tone. “The first delivery of Growlers and Thumpers will be made one month from now.”
“You think our enemy will give us that long?”
It was Trumane who answered, neatly folding his napkin and setting it down before addressing Arshav in a carefully modulated voice, no doubt designed to conceal his distaste. “Time in war is not given,” he said. “It’s bought, with blood. I command the fastest ship in these waters. Letting it sit here unused is a waste of a valuable asset.”
“Want to take the fight to them, eh?” Arshav grunted. “Feel free, Captain. I’ll spread the word that your ship is to remain unmolested, just don’t expect any direct assistance.” He looked at his bloodied hand and grimaced in annoyance. “And if you should contrive to get yourself killed in the process, all the better.”
He rose from the table, fixing Lizanne with a hard stare. “One month, Miss Blood. And when I return I expect to find a fulsome level of productivity.” With that he turned and stalked from the building, shouting for Lockbar and his guards to follow.
Lizanne gave Trumane a sidelong glance. “Do you really think you can accomplish anything useful with just one ship, however fast?”
“Your father was kind enough to share the specifics of his latest design,” Trumane replied with a thin smile. “Provided it’s ready before we set off, yes, I believe we can accomplish a great deal.”
“This is foolish,” her father said. “You are needed here.”
Lizanne fastened the buttons on her overalls. They were the work of a seamstress from Lossermark, lined with fur to ward off the cold found at altitude, as well as featuring numerous additional pockets for tools and weapons. Jermayah had managed to produce another Smoker for her, though on this trip she would have to do without the mini-Growler.
“Madame Hakugen has things well in hand,” Lizanne replied. “And the production line is nearly complete. The intelligence to be had at the High Wall is too important to ignore.” She pulled on a shoulder rig for her twin revolvers. “Are you close to completing Captain Trumane’s project?”
Professor Lethridge appeared unconvinced by her reasoning and less than happy with the change of subject. “Two more days,” he said, face dark with reproach. “It would have taken longer but we’ve been fortunate in having so many skilled instrument-makers here. Lossermark was a port, after all, and sailors always need clocks and compasses.”
“Excellent,” Lizanne said. “When it’s done please concentrate your efforts on constructing more of these.” She nodded at the aerostat, bobbing gently in the wind between the two mooring poles at the end of the pier. The Firefly had undergone considerable modification since the last flight, with a wider gondola that would allow her to switch places with Tekela during flight and an envelope of greater size. An additional cannister of pressurised coal-gas had been fitted to the gondola should they need to replenish it. The improved feed mechanism for the blood-burner was also in place, though they had precious little product with which to fire it.
“Any we build from now on will be warcraft,” she added. “Capable of carrying as much fire-power as possible.”
“I’ve already drawn up the requisite designs,” he said.
“Of course you have.” She pecked a kiss to the professor’s cheek before starting towards the Firefly, the engine’s propellers starting to turn as Tekela powered up the caloric engine. “I’ll return in four days.”
“And if you don’t?” he called after her, fighting to be heard above the growl of the engine.
“Then at least you can consider our contract with the Okanas family null and void.”