CHAPTER 26
Lizanne
Hyran, it transpired, had company when Lizanne slipped into his mindscape, finding it merged with another. At the mid-point of the spice-shop the cabinets and cases sublimed into a stretch of rocky shore-line, dotted with many pools. She could see him wandering a shingle beach close by, a smaller and more slender figure at his side. Lizanne moved to one of the rock-pools, seeing a swirl of colours in the water, vague shapes forming and breaking apart in what one of her tutors had called “the dance of memory.”
Miss Blood?
Lizanne turned to see Hyran standing close by. At his side was a young woman Lizanne had last seen killing Corvantine Imperial troops at the Sanctum. It was the young woman who had addressed her, this being her mindscape.
Jelna, Lizanne greeted her. Good to see you, and please pardon the interruption.
I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t turn up ten minutes ago, Jelna replied, provoking a blossom of embarrassment from Hyran. I’m guessing you’re here for him, not me, she added.
I am.
Jelna nodded, Lizanne seeing the colour bleach from the surrounding mindscape as she prepared to leave the trance. They still talk about you, she said. Some of us have been arguing for a statue in your honour.
Then please stop.
Jelna let out a pulse of warm amusement before her mindscape vanished completely, leaving her alone with Hyran in the spice-shop. When I met her in Corvus, she was of a . . . fiercer disposition, Lizanne recalled.
She’s still fierce enough, he responded. When the need arises. Do your respective organisations approve? One of the Co-respondent Brotherhood dallying with a member of Republic First.
It has become clear to many of us that holding fast to old allegiances is not in the best interests of our new republic.
Although evidently glad to see his former comrade and informal mentor again, Hyran’s thoughts were tinged with a wary suspicion. Lizanne suppressed a small pulse of pride at this, glad to see her lessons during the long march to Corvus hadn’t been wasted. A good Blood-blessed agent should always suspect everyone, even their friends.
I did wonder if I would ever see you again, Hyran went on.
And now you wonder what on earth I could want?
Quite.
She summoned one of her whirlwinds, opening it out to display a recent memory. It was the view of a ruined port city captured from far above during a reconnaissance flight in the Firefly the day before. Blackened buildings stretched away from the docks, smoke still lingering in some places. A few Red drakes glided over the town and a pack of Blues could be seen breaking the surface of the sea beyond the harbour wall. Lizanne magnified the image to bring the many bodies littering the streets into focus, sensing Hyran’s distress at the sight of so many slaughtered children.
They take the adults and kill the young, Lizanne explained.
Where is this? he asked.
Sairvek, what’s left of it. I take it neither the general nor the Electress know about this?
Rumours have been flying lately, but the southern coast is a long way from Corvus and all the Blood-blessed there are Cadre loyalists. Besides, we’ve had plenty to keep us busy in the north.
So not every Corvantine is enamoured with the revolution?
It was glorious at first. General Arberus led one army west and the Electress another north. Jelna went with her, I went with the general. Village after village, town after town all welcomed us, young people flocked to our ranks . . . Then it began to change. Not every region of the Empire suffered under the Regnarchy’s yoke, and some of the most prosperous lands lie in the west. Often the people there had no urge to offer their loyalty to those they saw as traitors and usurpers of the ancient and divine order. There were battles. We lost troops winning them and many in our ranks felt the need to take vengeance on those we had vanquished. The general did his best to stem the worst of it but . . . Things got uglier the farther west we marched. By the time we reached the coast they were calling it “Arberus’s Red March to the Sea.”
I’d wager he didn’t like that.
No. He didn’t.
Where are you now?
Torivek, the largest port on the western coast. Unlike the others it fell without a shot. People are a lot poorer here.
The Electress?
Besieging Merivus in Northern Kestria along with Varkash.
Varkash, the former Varestian pirate and leader of the Verdigris gang in Scorazin, who once said he couldn’t give a sea-dog’s cock for the revolution. I thought he would have sailed for home by now, she commented.
He agreed lucrative terms with the Electress, one-third of the value of any noble property seized. Plus she made him an admiral, which pandered to his vanity. She advanced up the coast roads and he kept her supplied en route with what’s left of the Imperial fleet. It worked well until she got to Merivus. She’s been at it for a good few weeks now. Jelna says her captains keep advising her to by-pass it but she stubbornly refuses to move on. There are rumours she has scores to settle with some of the townsfolk.
Lizanne recalled Electress Atalina’s tale of how she came to end up in Scorazin and felt a brief pang of pity for any Imperial officials she managed to capture alive when Merivus fell. Lizanne also concluded the Electress would be too preoccupied in pursuing her vengeance to have much regard for crises elsewhere, but it couldn’t hurt to try.
Share the memory of Sairvek with Jelna, she told Hyran. Tell her to bring it to the Electress’s attention. You do the same with the general.
I will, he promised. But that doesn’t mean they’ll send any aid. Without the presence of the revolutionary armies this entire country may fall into anarchy.
If the White triumphs in Varestia your revolution will be worth nothing. Feeling her Blue begin to thin, Lizanne prepared to exit the trance, pausing as another notion occurred to her. Make sure Jelna also shares what she knows with Varkash, it’s his homeland after all.
“I’m pregnant, not crippled,” Sofiya Griffan told Captain Trumane, ignoring his further protestations and ascending the gangway to the deck of the Viable Opportunity.
Flustered, Trumane turned to Lizanne. “Couldn’t you . . . ?”
“She’s an experienced Maritime Protectorate Blood-blessed,” Lizanne replied. “And I have a trance connection with her. Besides, I suspect within a few weeks she’ll be as safe aboard your ship as anywhere else.”
She switched her gaze to the Viable, taking in the sight of the newly manufactured Growlers on the upper works and the four Thumpers mounted on the rails. Situated on the fore-deck in front of the pivot-gun was a large canvas-covered object standing over fifteen feet high. At this angle it somewhat resembled an abstract sculpture awaiting an unveiling. She could see her father’s long-coated form moving about as he made adjustments to the revolving circular frame on which the object was mounted. He had wanted to go on this mission but, unlike Sofiya, Lizanne firmly asserted he was needed at the Mount Works, as the inhabitants were now calling it. Instead, a trio of the more mechanically adept workers had been recruited to operate the professor’s latest device.
“You’re confident this will work?” Lizanne asked Trumane. This mission had been his notion, conceived after being advised of the new invention’s capabilities.
“It would have been preferable to do a proper test,” Trumane replied. “But in time of war thorough preparation is a luxury. I trust your father’s engineering above all others. With continual reconnaissance during the approach there’s every reason to expect success.”
“And you’re certain they’ll strike next at Subarisk?”
“It’s the most logical choice, if the enemy’s object is to gather strength. Given their evident efficiency the port may already have fallen.”
Lizanne nodded, discomforted by the grim military logic of this plan, which required Subarisk to be in enemy hands for it to work. “Your new recruits are shaping up, I trust?” she asked. Trumane’s crew had been brought to full strength by a number of former sailors from the refugee fleet. It hadn’t been necessary to draft any recruits as the captain had been swamped with volunteers keen to escape the monotony of the manufactory.
“Only a few have military experience,” Trumane replied. “But they know their way around a ship, which is the main thing. I’ll whip them into shape soon enough.”
Lizanne didn’t like the emphasis he put on the word “whip,” but resisted the urge to voice any concerns. Trumane’s competence had become clear over the preceding weeks, forcing her to overlook his other less admirable qualities.
“As planned, we will conduct the first aerial reconnaissance in four days,” she said. “Advising any course changes to Mrs. Griffan.”
Recent flights had revealed that Blue drakes were surprisingly easy to spot from the air. Even at night the patrolling packs left a tell-tale series of white tracks across the ocean surface. This meant she would be able to guide the Viable around any concentrations of Blues during the voyage to Subarisk. A timetable had been drawn up for frequent trance communication between Lizanne and Sofiya. It made for an inflexible approach but that wouldn’t matter once the Viable was in position and could make full use of her remarkable speed.
“Four days then,” he said, surprising her with a salute before he strode up the gangway.
She waited for her father to disembark and together they watched the Viable sail away, following the course of Blaska Sound east to the sea. “I called it the Tinkerer Mark I,” he said once the ship had rounded a bend and disappeared from view. “Didn’t feel right naming it for myself. Since it’s not really mine.”
“Very generous of you, Father.”
They made their way back to the manufactory via the town, which at this hour was mainly occupied by children liberated from their morning lessons. Lizanne thought them an oddly well behaved lot, given to prolonged silence, little mischief and an absence of laughter, even when they played. They all saw too much at too young an age, Lizanne concluded, feeling for perhaps the first time in her life that her own childhood had been one of comparative ease and security.
“No sign of Tinkerer waking from his coma, I suppose?” the professor asked.
“None,” Lizanne replied. “And Makario’s made little progress with the next movement.”
“Pity. A fellow of many uses, even with his irksome manners.”
“I don’t think he has much say over his manners. It’s just how he’s made.”
They paused at the entrance to his workshop, a large warehouse with a canvas awning where its roof had been. Lizanne glanced through the open doors, trying to gauge the nature of the machine taking shape within.
“There’s still work to do,” her father said, moving to block her view.
“It’s not a Year’s End present, Father,” she said. “You don’t need to surprise me.”
“I would prefer an unvarnished opinion of the finished machine,” he said. “Free of any insights into the narrative of its construction.”
Lizanne gave a bemused shrug and clasped his arm before moving on. “As you wish.”
“I need thicker steel wire,” he called after her. “The coils you gave me were too flimsy.”
She waved her assent in response and went to find Morva for her afternoon lesson.
What do you think she meant? Clay asked after Lizanne had finished sharing the memories recovered from Tinkerer’s mind. The trance connection between them felt different now, the clarity of his mindscape sharper and the exchange of thoughts more rapid. When he had revealed the fact that he could now trance without the aid of product she had been sceptical, but a few seconds of communication had banished any doubts.
The Artisan’s greatest discovery was a tribe of Spoiled? he went on.
No ordinary tribe, Lizanne pointed out. They saved her, and they seemed different to the others. Using spoken language and dressing as individuals.
Never met a friendly Spoiled, to be sure, Clay conceded. But it all happened centuries ago, right? What use is this now?
A question to be answered if I can unlock more memories.
She turned her attention to the images he had shared, particularly the Black crystal and the vial of what the ancient woman called “convergence.” Synthetic product. She allowed her conflicted emotions to colour the shared trance. The very idea of such a thing was both tantalising and incredible, if not ominous in its implications.
You saw what her people built, Clay responded. What they were able to do with the crystals, even though they never really understood them.
If they had they might never have bred the White, for which we would all have been grateful.
She plucked the vial from the mound of moon-dust where he had placed it, turning it over to watch the viscous contents slosh about. An amusing notion sent a disordered twitch through her whirlwinds, provoking a pulse of curiosity from Clay.
Just thinking, she told him. About Madame Bondersil and her obsession with the White. She said its blood promised more than all the other variants combined. But, if this can do what your friend claims, all the blood we might drain from the White’s corpse would be worth only a fraction of the price we could command for this.
Can’t argue with that. As for the White’s blood, seeing the future’s sorely overrated. When we kill it the best thing we could do with its corpse is burn it.
Let’s hope we get the chance. What is your current location?
Lieutenant Sigoral puts us about seventy miles north-east of the Carnstadts. We’re doing a lot more walking the last few days. Getting harder to find Cerath to ride. Skaggerhill says the herds start to thin the closer you get to Black country, those that do graze here are a sight more jittery.
Tomorrow I’ll be flying north where I expect to find another city fallen to the White. Meaning it won’t be long before it has sufficient strength to invade Varestia. Urgency is required, Mr. Torcreek.
I’m aware. As for the White’s gathering strength, I’ve been thinking about that. It uses a Blue crystal to change folk into Spoiled. Destroy or steal that and its army ain’t growing any bigger.
Meaning it’s sure to be well-guarded.
Didn’t say it would be easy.
Point taken. Trance again when you reach the mountains. And if you should feel the urge to try this convergence product, make sure your ancient friend drinks it first.
Mr. Lockbar arrived the next day aboard a bulky freighter with instructions to take delivery of the first consignment of weapons. The hard mask of his face betrayed little emotion when Lizanne met him on the wharf to advise two ships would be required to carry the full load. “You have ships at anchor here,” he said. “Assign one of them.”
“Ships require crews,” Lizanne replied. “And that would denude our work-force.”
“Then tell the rest to work harder. If they need any encouragement we can always cut the food supplies.” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead producing a sealed envelope and handing it to her. “The Board has convened a council of war at the Seven Walls. It meets in twelve days. Your attendance is requested.”
“Requested?”
Lockbar met her gaze, blinked once and turned away. “I’ll expect the second ship to be fully loaded and ready to sail with the morning tide.”
“They’re going to kill you, you know,” Morva said.
Lizanne glanced back from the control panel with a raised eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” Morva insisted. “Arshav and Ethilda don’t share. Now your people are delivering weapons they’ll see it as the perfect time to get rid of you. When you go to this war council of theirs they’ll either come up with a convenient lie justifying your execution, or they’ll arrange an accident. Then the Mount Works and all the weapons will be theirs.”
“How shocking,” Lizanne observed, turning back to the control panel. She eased the pitch lever to port as a gust of wind pushed the Firefly’s nose a few points east of due north. “What terrible people your relatives are.”
“You knew,” Morva said after a short silence.
“I suspected. I find when dealing with people like your cousins it’s best to maintain a healthy paranoia.”
“Oh. Will you kill them first then?”
“One of the first lessons I was taught regarding strategy, and your lesson for the day: Never tell anyone your thoughts.”
Tekela stirred in the right-hand pilot’s seat, coming awake with a groan. “You let me sleep too long,” she muttered, frowning in groggy discomfort as she tapped the clock, which showed four hours past midnight.
“You needed to rest,” Lizanne said, relinquishing control of the aerostat as Tekela gripped the lever and settled her feet onto the pedals. Her natural affinity for piloting this machine was evident in the way it seemed to calm at her touch like a horse responding to a familiar rider. The buffeting that had made the gondola thrum faded into a faint vibration and the slight see-saw action of the compass-needle was replaced by a near-perfect stability.
“We’re ten miles due south of Subarisk,” Lizanne said. She unbuckled from the pilot’s seat and moved to the rear of the gondola to peer at the glass viewport Jermayah had set into the floor. Depressing the second button on the Spider, she scanned the ocean passing below, seeing no sign of any patrolling Blue packs.
“Green,” she instructed Morva. “I need you to be our eyes whilst I’m in the trance.”
Morva nodded and pressed the appropriate button on her own Spider. Jermayah had made new devices for all the Blood-blessed at the Mount Works, an improved design which cut down on the weight and added a quick-release catch for swift removal. Lizanne injected a small amount of Blue, sinking into the trance where Sofiya waited in her fairy-tale forest.
The starting point is clear, Lizanne reported. We’ll hover here then track your progress when the Viable commences the attack.
Acknowledged, Sofiya responded. The trance connection faded almost immediately but not before Lizanne had the opportunity to note that the sky above the forest had taken on a strangely reddish hue, the clouds frozen like a painting of sunset. Lizanne found herself unable to decide if this was a good or a bad sign regarding Sofiya’s mental stability. Sunset means the onset of night, she thought. But also the promise of a new day.
She blinked and found herself back in the gondola, finding to her annoyance that Morva was peering through the starboard port-hole rather than observing the sea below. Her rebuke died, however, when Morva said, “There’s something out there.”
Lizanne moved swiftly to her side, peering at the darkened sky beyond the port-hole. The cloud-cover was intermittent at this height, slipping by like wisps of powdered silver and growing into an obscuring fog farther out. A short scan of the sky with her Green-enhanced sight revealed nothing.
“Drake?” she asked Morva.
“It was hard to make out, and gone in an instant. It was there,” she added in response to Lizanne’s frown.
“Stand by at the ignition tube,” she said, reaching to retrieve her Smoker before returning her gaze to the port-hole. “Light the blood-burner on my order. Tekela, increase height by five hundred feet then begin to circle.”
Lizanne levered a round into the Smoker’s chamber then opened the starboard hatch. She was obliged to don a pair of welder’s goggles before leaning out into the icy chill, eyes roaming the sky. The clouds thinned as Tekela brought the Firefly higher, becoming a patchy blanket through which she could see the light of two moons glittering on the ocean. The aerostat tilted as Tekela began to turn, Lizanne gripping the handhold above the hatch and leaning out yet farther, still finding no sign . . .
It was the snap of the beast’s wings that saved her, reaching her ears barely a second before it attacked and giving her enough time to lurch back from the hatch. The Red’s jaws thrust through the opening and came together less than six inches from Lizanne’s flailing foot. The Firefly shuddered and went into a spiralling descent as the Red latched its claws onto the gondola’s hull. Lizanne had time to register the fact that it was the largest Red she had ever seen, matching the size of an adult Black. Its eyes were bright with hate above the snout, jaws widening and throat rattling as it summoned its flames.
The continuing spin forced Lizanne to clamp a hand to the support strut as she aimed the Smoker one-handed at the beast’s eyes and fired. Blood and scales erupted as the explosive round impacted, the snout vanishing from the hatch. From outside came a shrieking roar of pain and rage, followed by a chorus of answering shrieks. There’s more than one, Lizanne concluded.
Hearing a pained exclamation from the pilot’s seat, she rushed forward, finding Tekela clamping a gloved hand on her neck. “Let me see,” she said, pulling the hand away to reveal the blackish, reddened welt of un-Blessed skin subjected to undiluted drake blood. Lizanne reached for the satchel containing their reserves of product, extracting a vial of Green and emptying the contents over the burn. Tekela let out a strangled yell, shuddering in her seat.
“Can you still fly this thing?” Lizanne asked her.
Tekela took in a series of ragged breaths before straightening, flexing her fingers to banish the shudder then gripping the control lever. “I can fly,” she said, voice hoarse but steady.
“Due south,” Lizanne told her, moving back to the hatch and chambering another round. Peering out she saw that the huge Red’s attack had forced them back down into the clouds, making observation difficult. As the Firefly angled itself southwards a glance to the rear revealed at least six dark shapes, wings sweeping in rapid beats as they drew closer.
“Light the blood-burner,” she told Morva, turning to find her clutching the ignition tube with both hands, eyes wide and unseeing and face a frozen pale mask. She stirred when Lizanne reached out to deliver a hard shove to the side of her head, blinking and looking around as if waking from a nightmare. “Light the blood-burner,” Lizanne repeated in emphatic and deliberate tones.
Morva stared at her for a second then nodded and put her eye to the tube, depressing the forefinger button on her Spider. The thermoplasmic engine came on-line a split-second later, Lizanne bracing herself in the hatch against the sudden acceleration. Turning her gaze to the rear once more, she saw that one of the pursuing drakes had drawn close enough for her to make out the bloody, smoking wound on the side of its head. As the Firefly began to draw away, the drake worked its wings with furious energy to match their speed, spewing flame in copious blasts that fell just short of the aerostat’s tail rudder. The huge Red let out another shrieking roar as the Firefly’s speed increased, leaving it behind to be swallowed by the clouds, although Lizanne could still hear its roar for what seemed a very long time.
“One hundred and thirty miles an hour,” Tekela reported from the pilot’s seat, voice strained with forced humour. “A record.”
Lizanne closed the hatch and made her way forward, extracting another vial of Green from the satchel. “Drink this,” she said, handing it to Tekela, whose face was now grey with suppressed pain. She didn’t argue, tipping the entire contents of the vial down her throat and letting out a groan of relief. Lizanne checked her burn, finding the blackening gone but a raw, puckered scar some three inches long remained that no amount of Green could banish.
“It’s alright,” Tekela said with a weary smile. “I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”
Lizanne squeezed her shoulder and returned to Morva, pushing the Smoker into her trembling hands. “Take this,” Lizanne said. “Keep watch. I need to trance again.”
“I . . .” Morva said. “I never saw one . . . Not a real one . . .”
“It’s always a bracing experience,” Lizanne agreed. “Inject some Green. It’ll steady your hands.”
She settled back into the rear seat and injected Blue, slipping instantly into the trance. Sofiya’s mindscape took a few minutes to appear, Lizanne noting that the redness of the sky had deepened considerably.
Captain Trumane has just ordered the attack run, Sofiya informed Lizanne, an oddly serene smile on her lips.
We were intercepted, Lizanne told her. Reds. Tell the captain to abort the mission.
Sofiya pursed her lips in momentary consideration, then shook her head. No, I don’t think I’ll do that.
The White will be alerted. Lizanne added a forceful, commanding resonance to her thoughts. And we can no longer provide warning of any Blues. Abort the mission, Sofiya.
The other woman replied with a small, apologetic smile. I’m sorry, Miss Lethridge, but I don’t recall signing a contract with you. My contract is with the Ironship Maritime Protectorate, a body which, to all intents and purposes, no longer exists. I believe that makes me effectively a free agent. Excuse me, but I must bid you farewell for now. I really don’t want to miss the show.
SOFIYA!
But she was gone, Lizanne’s shouted thoughts vanishing into the void left by her absent mindscape. “Seer damn her to the Travail!” she fumed upon exiting the trance.
“Something wrong?” Morva asked. She stood at the rear port-hole, Lizanne taking some comfort from the fact that the woman’s hands no longer shook as she held the carbine.
Lizanne looked through the rear portal at the vortex of disturbed vapour coiling in the Firefly’s slip-stream. Turning back to resume the fight with the Reds was the courageous thing to do, another chapter to add to the legend of Miss Blood, a legend she had already made the mistake of believing. “Yes,” she said. “But nothing we can do anything about.”