CHAPTER 24
Hilemore
Hilemore tracked his spy-glass over the bodies hanging from the Stockcombe-harbour wall, counting twenty in all. Curiously, the row of suspended corpses was confined to the right-hand side of the wall, halting at the huge copper-and-wood edifice of the harbour door. Each corpse had a noose around its neck and some kind of sign fixed to its chest, but the distance was too great to make out any words. I doubt it’s a welcome in any case, he decided, lowering the glass and nodding to Talmant. “Ahead dead slow, Lieutenant.”
“Ahead dead slow, aye sir.”
Hilemore had ordered the Superior to battle stations upon commencing their approach to the port, although the truce pennant fluttered from her mast and her signal lamp flashed a repeated request for safe harbour. So far, however, no one had appeared atop the harbour wall to issue either a welcome or a warning. Stockcombe’s wall was unusual in that it was more of a dam than a simple barrier against the tide. It curved out from the steep slopes forming the apex of the channel where the port lay. It was famed for the unique geographical feature of a waterfall that cascaded into a lake at the base of a huge crater within which the port had grown. The lake was kept at a constant depth by a series of huge outlet tunnels. Consequently, the waters around the wall were in a permanent state of frothy turmoil save for a narrow stretch of calm water directly in front of the door. This ensured a nervous approach as any evasive manoeuvres the Superior might make would see her floundering in the churn.
“All stop,” Hilemore ordered as the door loomed larger. He was close enough now to read the signs adorning the hanging bodies, finding them each bearing the same message painted in red Mandinorian letters: CORPORATE MURDERER.
Perhaps coming here wasn’t the best idea, Hilemore concluded. He was about to order Talmant to signal the engine room to reverse the propeller, drawing them away in preparation for turning about, when the harbour door let out a loud squeal of grinding metal and began to ascend.
“Pretty sight, ain’t it, Skipper?” Scrimshine commented as the port was revealed. The famous Stockcombe falls cascaded from atop a tall narrow promontory extending from the crater wall. The falls birthed a plume of misty vapour as it met the lake below, producing a small rainbow as it caught the sun. This pleasing spectacle was contrasted by the sight of the town itself. It stretched away on either side of the falls, covering the banks of the lake and ascending up the steep flanks of the crater. Denied building space, the residents of Stockcombe had built up rather than out, the place featuring some of the tallest buildings Hilemore had seen, some rising six storeys or more. The architecture varied in style, from high-angled roofed colonial mansions to Corvantine-influenced official buildings complete with classical pillars and statuary. The taller structures all conformed to modern standards, reflecting the clean, uncluttered lines favoured by the corporate world.
This would all have made for an aesthetically varied and interesting view if Hilemore’s practised eye hadn’t noticed the signature signs of cannon-shot on many walls, accompanied by the blackening and vanished roofs that told of extensive burning. The damage was worse close to the docks where many buildings had been completely burned out and others reduced to rubble. Hilemore’s initial assumption that the port had been attacked in much the same manner as Carvenport was proven mistaken as he took in the sight of the numerous flags flying over the buildings on either side of the falls. The flags on the western side were all the black square emblazoned with a silver ship pennant of the South Seas Maritime Company, whilst those on the eastern side consisted of a simpler design; white with an uneven red X within a square. Thanks to his prior engagement Hilemore was fairly familiar with this symbol and was obliged to contain a dismayed groan at the sight of it.
“Buggers’ve been fighting each other, Skipper,” Scrimshine observed. Even with his new-found regard for military manners he still had difficulty in restraining his tongue. “Don’t recognise that flag, though. One of those new East Mandinorian syndicates, maybe?”
“It’s not a company flag,” Hilemore said. “It appears the Voters Rights Alliance has a significant presence here.”
He could see numerous vessels in the harbour, none of them warships. Only one was in motion, an old Blue-hunter Hilemore soon recognised. The Farlight’s signal lamp blinked out a message as she approached, moving at dead slow and drifting to a halt some fifty yards short of the door.
“‘Half the town v. pleased to see you,’” Talmant related the message. “‘Steer to port or the other half will fire on you.’”
Hilemore was tempted to follow his first impulse to turn the Superior about and make for open water. This place was clearly riven with internal strife and he had no desire to embroil his command in a conflict that might impede their mission. But the Superior was down to less than one-fifth of her coal reserves. Added to that was their rapidly diminishing food stocks and all the ammunition they had expended in the Torquils. Without a substantial resupply the chances of recovering the Longrifles and making use of their discovery were slight at best.
“Ahead dead slow,” Hilemore told Talmant. “Mr. Scrimshine, take her in and steer immediately to port.”
“Ethany Kulvetch.” The young woman in the ill-fitting and besmirched uniform greeted Hilemore with a salute. “Acting Colonel, South Seas Maritime Defence and Security Force.”
Given her youth and diminutive size Hilemore might have found Kulvetch’s appearance almost comical but for the recently stitched cut above her left eye and the carbine slung over her shoulder. The fact that she had the weapon slung barrel down and wore a half-empty bandolier across her chest indicated she had plenty of practice in using it. She had been waiting on the quayside along with a squad of similarly dishevelled but well-armed South Seas Maritime Marines. He took note of the way her gaze continually strayed to the eastern regions of the port across the harbour, as if expecting a cannon shell to come sailing over at any second.
“Corrick Hilemore,” he replied with a salute of his own. “Captain of the IPV Superior.”
“Welcome, Captain. Captain Tidelow of the Farlight vouched for your conduct but was somewhat reluctant to elaborate as to your mission here.”
“Resupply. Assuming South Seas Maritime is still open for business.”
Kulvetch’s gaze darkened with disappointment. “I had hoped you might have been subcontracted to assist us in our . . . local difficulty. We tranced requests for reinforcement with Head Office until our Blood-blessed fell victim to a sniper’s bullet. That was two weeks ago.”
“Sadly, I knew nothing of the situation here until we caught sight of your wall. Unfortunate business.”
The colonel’s eyes grew darker still as she settled her gaze on the eastern districts. “They hung all our senior managers on the first day of their so-called uprising. Held a trial and so on, to give it the appearance of actual justice.”
“The signs proclaim them as murderers.”
“There had been a good deal of trouble since the other ports went silent and ships started arriving with all manner of mad rumours. Management’s attempts to quell the disorder may have been . . . excessive but they certainly didn’t deserve to be slaughtered at the hands of a slum-born mob.” A shudder ran through Kulvetch then and she lowered her gaze, Hilemore realising she was even younger than she first appeared. “Forgive me,” she said, straightening her back. “My father was amongst the slain. He had command of Defence and Security here.”
“I see. My condolences. And your position in this port, Colonel?”
“When the uprising began I was a junior executive in the Customs Enforcement Division. Two days later I was the most senior official left. It took some hard fighting but with good and loyal soldiers”—she inclined her head at the squad of Marines—“and the support of the corporate populace, we won back half the city.”
“Would I be correct in assuming, therefore, that you are the only figure in authority on this side of the harbour?”
“You would. If you wish to purchase supplies you will negotiate with me. As a corporate officer I’m sure you’ll understand that prices will reflect prevailing circumstances.”
Hilemore’s hand went to his breast pocket and emerged with a gold Dalcian sovereign, one of the stack taken from the wreck of the Windqueen. Hilemore had fortuitously liberated the coins and other sundry valuables from the Viable Opportunity’s safe before seizing the Superior. “I’m sure we can agree on a mutually beneficial price,” he said, handing over the coin.
Kulvetch glanced at the sovereign, betraying scant interest before handing it back. “You mistake me, Captain,” she said. “It is not money I require, but your service. Vile insurrection has sundered this port in two. I require your assistance in uniting it and”—she fixed him with a steely, implacable gaze, voice taking on a hungry tremor—“ensuring justice is meted out to every last Voter bastard we can lay our hands on.”
“It’s been a stalemate for the better part of a month.” Kulvetch had escorted him to the roof of South Seas Maritime headquarters in Stockcombe, the tallest structure in the port, affording a fine view of the whole city. “As you can see the falls create a natural and impassible barrier between the eastern and western districts. Meaning the only avenues of advance are via the harbour or the wall. The Voters attempted a charge across the wall the day after we secured control of this side. A few massed rifle volleys were enough to see them off. They tried a night attack in boats next. Fortunately, most of the ships in the harbour chose to ally with us and they didn’t even make it to the wharf. Since then they’ve been content to stay in their hovels and cast the occasional shell at us.”
“They have artillery then?” Hilemore asked.
“Two batteries of six-pounders and one eighteen-pounder long-barrelled cannon, whilst we have only four heavy guns. That’s the main reason I haven’t yet ordered an attack of our own, plus lack of numbers. All told I have less than three hundred soldiers under arms, plus just over seven hundred volunteers from the townsfolk. They’re low on training and weapons but keen as a blade.”
“The Voter numbers?”
“The neighbourhoods east of the falls are more populous than on our side, plenty of slum rats over there to recruit to their deluded cause. I’d estimate at least three thousand under arms.”
Hilemore let out a sigh of grim amusement. “I have faced long odds before, Colonel, but never impossible ones. What exactly do you expect a single warship to do against such numerous shore-based opposition?”
“Destroy that damn artillery of theirs,” Kulvetch returned, her tone heating appreciably. She pulled a folded map from the pocket of her tunic and began to unfurl it. “Through careful observation we have pin-pointed most of their guns . . .”
“No.”
She fell silent, clearly taken aback by the flat, uncompromising tone of his refusal. “This plan is sound . . .”
“Colonel.” Hilemore’s voice was pitched just below a shout and he took a moment to calm his rising frustration before continuing. “Do you have any notion of what is happening in the rest of the world?”
She stared at him, confusion and anger adding a red tinge to her face. “Some kind of emergency,” she said. “Drakes and Spoiled running amok. Once the combined might of the corporate world is brought to bear on the savages and beasts . . .”
“Carvenport has fallen to those savages and beasts,” Hilemore broke in. “Morsvale has fallen. Feros has fallen and I daresay other cities have since shared their fate. The might of the corporate world has already been brought to bear and found wanting. And while the world burns this city tears itself apart without a drake in sight. I’ll have no part of your petty war. And if you are unwilling to sell me supplies, perhaps your friends across the water will be more amenable.”
Kulvetch’s face twisted into a snarl, her hands twitching, and Hilemore knew she was resisting the impulse to reach for her carbine. “You would treat with those scum?”
“To fulfil my mission I would treat with all the demons of the Travail.” Hilemore stood to attention and spoke in formal tones. “I am impressed with your achievements here, but you have no hope of victory. I am willing to mediate . . .”
“Piss on your mediation!” Kulvetch’s nostrils flared as she glared at him, breath becoming ragged in her fury. “I should shoot you . . .”
“Then you’ll have my ship’s guns to contend with alongside the Voters’ artillery.” Hilemore gave a salute, which she failed to return, and started towards the stairwell.
Instead of a single authority figure, the Voters presented him with a committee of six. Hilemore was depressed to find them all much the same age as Colonel Kulvetch, with a similarly steely look in their eyes which told him he was in for a very taxing meeting.
He had made his way to the eastern docks in the ship’s launch, standing at the prow with a truce flag in hand. He found the wharf abandoned, though the flicker of movement behind the windows of the surrounding houses indicated his arrival had been noticed. After an interval of several minutes a lone, stocky young man in a Contractor’s duster emerged from a shadowed alley with a revolver in hand. On the sleeve of his duster was an arm-band bearing the cross-and-square emblem of the Voters Rights Alliance. The young man lurked in a crouch at the corner of the alley, wary eyes tracking from Hilemore to the western side of the city. After some further scrutiny he pointed to the launch, scowling at Hilemore.
“Send ’em back,” he said.
Hilemore nodded and called out an order for the launch to return to the ship. The crew were clearly reluctant to leave him in such uncertain company but dutifully dipped their oars and began to row away.
“C’mere,” the stocky man said, gesturing with his revolver before disappearing back into the alley. Hilemore followed him through a short maze of cramped streets until he rounded a corner to find himself confronted by a dozen or so young men and women, all levelling fire-arms at him.
“Search him,” the man in the duster ordered. Hilemore was then subjected to a few minutes’ rough handling at the hands of a trio of rebels, which came to an abrupt end when he jabbed his elbow into the face of a skinny youth who tried to take his pocket-watch.
“Are you Voters or thieves?” he asked as they tensed around him.
“Corprate bastud!” the skinny youth said, lying on the cobbles and clutching a broken nose. “Shood ’im, Coll!”
“Shut it!” the duster-clad man said. “Freeman Towl’s got unfortunate habits,” he told Hilemore. “Comes from growing up living off the scraps allowed us by corporate slavers.”
Hilemore brushed the blood from the sleeve of his tunic and said nothing.
“I’m Freeman Coll and this is the Wash Lane Defence Volunteers,” the young man said, gesturing to the other youths. “Don’t mistake us, Mr. Protectorate Man, you don’t get a second chance.” He slowly lowered his revolver and jerked his head to the left. “This way. Towl, you’re on guard duty tonight. Told you before ’bout thieving.”
Coll led Hilemore to a cobbled square formed by the intersection of several streets. Sitting in the centre of the square was an inn of such antique, slant-walled appearance that Hilemore concluded it must have stood there since the earliest days of the city. An armed guard hauled the door open as they approached, Hilemore following Coll into the gloomy, candle-lit interior. After squinting for several seconds to adjust his sight Hilemore saw Coll taking a seat at a long table alongside five other people of similar age.
There were two men besides Coll and three women, all staring at Hilemore in expectant silence. The inn was clearly a headquarters of some kind. Maps and documents littered the tables and the walls were covered in leaflets and radical propaganda including, Hilemore was both amused and dismayed to see, numerous pages from the Voters Gazette.
Seeing little need to stand on ceremony he took a stool from one of the tables, dragging it across the tiled floor to sit down. “Lieutenant Corrick Hilemore,” he introduced himself. “Commander of the Ironship Protectorate Vessel Superior. Might I know to whom I am speaking?”
“Free men and free women,” one of the six replied, a girl of about nineteen by Hilemore’s reckoning. From the sunken state of her eyes and sallow skin she appeared not to have slept for several days. Despite her fatigue the defiance in her voice and bearing was palpable as she added, “Who will not be cowed by corporate threats.”
“I haven’t made any threats,” Hilemore pointed out.
“How many ships in your fleet?” another of the six demanded, a red-haired and freckle-faced lad with a bandage covering one ear.
“My fleet?” Hilemore enquired.
“Don’t play with us,” Coll growled. “We know Ironship’s been hired to retake this place for South Seas Maritime.”
“Then you know more than I do,” Hilemore told him. “I have no fleet. For that matter, the Ironship Syndicate no longer has a fleet, not in these waters at least.”
“South Seas Maritime agents met in Sanorah with the Interim Ironship Board three weeks ago,” the hollow-eyed girl said. “You presume to tell us you are not here as a result?”
Hilemore gave no immediate reply, gaze narrowing as it tracked over each of them. So young and guileless despite all the blood they’ve spilled. “So, you’re in trance communication with Sanorah,” he said.
This heralded a silence during which the girl lowered her head as her red-haired colleague shot her a glare of reproach.
“I have had no contact with Ironship senior management for quite some time now,” Hilemore went on. “My ship is here on business unconnected with your insurrection. I wish to purchase supplies and I have gold to pay for it. That is all.”
“He’s lying!” the red-haired youth rasped. “Corporatists lie. It’s what they do. Remember Red Lomansday.”
Another silence as they exchanged glances, both fierce and uncertain.
“Red Lomansday?” Hilemore asked.
“The spark that lit the tinder,” Coll replied. “Colonel Kulvetch, the first one, invited our leaders to a meeting. He told them their concerns would be addressed. Told them a new government would be established for this port, a joint government he said. When they turned up he had them stripped naked, flogged, paraded through the streets then shot in the head.” He gave a thin smile. “Hung the bastard myself from the wall and laughed as he dangled and kicked, looked a little like the clown from that circus marionette show they put on for the kiddies. So you see.” His smile faded as he reclined in his seat. “We ain’t too trusting of corporate types these days.”
Hilemore nodded and rose from his stool. He went to the wall, scanning the many pages pinned to it until he found something familiar and ripped it free.
“‘The Shared Guilt of the Corporate Age,’” he read aloud. “‘How the greed and corruption of the modern economy shames us all.’” He moved to the table, placing the page in front of Coll. “By Lewella Tythencroft, Acting Editor of the Voters Gazette. I was actually in her office when she wrote this.” He grimaced, huffing out a small, regretful sigh. “We had quite the argument about it, as I recall.”
“You know Lewella Tythencroft?” the hollow-eyed girl asked, gaze narrowed in doubt.
“I should,” Hilemore replied. “We were engaged to be married until very recently.”
The hollow-eyed girl’s name was Jillett and it transpired that she was the only Blood-blessed left in Stockcombe. After Hilemore’s revelation the committee had him escorted outside before spending the next hour in discussion, some of it quite heated judging by the shouts emerging from the inn. Eventually the voices fell silent and Hilemore was obliged to spend another hour wandering the square, closely watched by the Wash Lane Defence Volunteers.
“You been in battles then?” one of them asked, a hefty boy no more than sixteen years old who seemed intrigued by the medal ribbons on Hilemore’s tunic.
“I have,” he replied.
“Who with?”
“Dalcians, pirates, Corvantines and, most recently, drakes.”
The boy’s features bunched in surprise. “So it’s true then? They’ve risen up, like the Seer said.”
“I’m not sure the Seer foresaw all of this, but yes, the drakes are now making war on us, with the help of the Spoiled.”
“How come they ain’t come for us then?”
Hilemore cast a gaze at the sky and the surrounding cliffs. The lip of the enclosing crater was crowned with a series of defensive forts joined by a wall. To Hilemore’s eyes it seemed too insubstantial and dilapidated to offer much defence in the event of a serious attack. “I don’t know,” he replied. “But I’m sure they’ll get to it eventually.”
“You’re wanted,” Coll called from the inn’s doorway.
“Your first ship,” Jillett said once Hilemore had made his way back inside. She stood reading from a sheet of paper, suspicion still evident in her face.
“The IPV Company Pride,” Hilemore replied.
“Your youngest brother’s name and occupation.”
“Starrick, he’s a schoolmaster.”
“Where and when did you first meet Lewella Tythencroft?”
“During a riot in Sanorah, four years ago.”
“Her dog’s name.”
“She’s never had a dog, preferring cats. Her last cat, Mr. Mewsly, died shortly before I left for Dalcia. He was very old.”
Jillett lowered the sheet and nodded to Coll. “It’s him.”
“Couldn’t they just have shown you a photostat?” Hilemore asked.
Jillett’s lips formed a faint smile. “Apparently Free Woman Tythencroft advised our Blood-blessed contact that she no longer possesses any photostats of you.”
“I see.” Hilemore coughed. “I assume, nevertheless, that she also advised that my word can be trusted.”
“No, she didn’t. Not yet anyway.” Jillett pointed to a table where a stack of blank paper sheets had been placed alongside a pen and ink-well. “Free Woman Tythencroft insists on a full report of your activities and whereabouts for the past year. You will write it, I will memorise it and, once she has been fully apprised of its contents, she will advise us how best to proceed.”
“Advise or command?” Hilemore asked. “It seems Free Woman Tythencroft enjoys considerable authority here.”
“Not just here.” Jillett exchanged a glance with Coll, apparently unsure of how much information to share.
“Thought it was just Stockcombe, did you?” the stocky youth asked. “This revolution ain’t local, Captain. Half of Sanorah is now under Voter control, along with two complete cities in northern Mandinor.”
“You’re telling me Mandinor is now in a state of civil war?”
“There’s been fighting, but no battles as such from what we’re told. Protectorate ain’t got enough troops to do more than hold what they already got. Free Woman Tythencroft is the guiding light at the heart of it all, calming tempers so things don’t slip out of control like they did here. She wants a peaceful end to the corporate world. Myself, I ain’t too fussed about that.” He nodded at the stack of pages. “She’s waiting. Best get to it.”
Hilemore moved to the table and sat down, unbuttoning his tunic. “Might I have some coffee?” he asked, reaching for the pen. “This will take quite some time. I’ll also write a note for you to take to my ship; otherwise, my First Officer is likely to come ashore to look for me, and you really don’t want that.”