CHAPTER 30
Hilemore
“I’m sorry, Corrick. But you can expect no help.”
Hilemore reread the last line of the communique several times, it being the only sentence to convey any sense of intimacy. The rest of the missive contained a brief and depressing summary of recent events in Mandinor and assurances that she had advised the Voters Rights Alliance in this city to render assistance to him “subject to a reciprocal arrangement compatible with your honour.” This was followed shortly after by an observation he felt had been intended as much for his hosts’ eyes as his: “I’m sure all parties will benefit from your advice and calm counsel.”
“So you see,” Coll said after Hilemore had finished. “You want our help, you help us win this city back.”
“That,” Hilemore replied, “is not her intent.”
“Reads that way to me,” the stocky youth replied to a murmur of agreement from the other committee members. “We got supplies, you want ’em. So take your boat across the harbour and pound that bitch Kulvetch’s headquarters to rubble . . .”
“That’s not going to happen,” Hilemore interrupted, glancing over the communique once more before consigning it to his pocket. Lacking intimacy or not, it was the only correspondence he had received from Lewella in many months and he found himself unwilling to part with it. “You forget that I know Free Woman Tythencroft far better than any of you. Her intention, misguided though I believe it to be, is for me to negotiate a ceasefire between the Voters Rights Alliance and corporate forces, and subsequently to assume leadership of this city.”
Hilemore rose from his stool, scanning each of the young, angry faces before him and feeling far older than his twenty-eight years. Twenty-nine, he reminded himself, recalling his uncelebrated birthday on the ice. “Clearly,” he said, “had she met Colonel Kulvetch or any of you lot, she would have known this to be a hopeless prospect, as is any further negotiation with me.”
“Wait!” Jillett said as he started towards the door. Hilemore turned back to find her on her feet exchanging hard glares with her fellow committee members. She snatched her arm away as Coll reached out to restrain her. “We need to know,” she hissed at him.
“Know what?” Hilemore enquired.
“Your report to Free Woman Tythencroft,” she said. “How much of it is true?”
Hilemore had been circumspect in revealing full details of his eventful life since boarding the Viable Opportunity all those months ago, but saw little point in being overly secretive. His account had omitted the exact nature of the Longrifles’ mission to the Interior but confirmed its importance in resolving what he had termed “the current emergency.” “Every word,” he said.
“So there’s really an army of drakes and Spoiled rampaging across the world,” Jillett persisted.
“Indeed there is.”
“We ain’t seen ’em,” Coll said. “How do we know this ain’t all a pile of horse shit?”
“There is an entire fleet of merchant ships in your harbour terrified of putting to sea,” Hilemore pointed out. “Also, how long has it been since a Contractor crew, or anyone else for that matter, turned up at the gates?”
More exchanging of glances, though much of the previous hostility had given way to uncertainty.
“The world is in chaos,” Hilemore went on, “whilst you sit here indulging your petty squabbles and childish politics. I don’t know why you’ve been spared so far, but sooner or later they will be coming for you. Still”—he straightened his tunic and turned to leave once more—“on the bright side you may well have slaughtered each other before they get here.”
“Kulvetch won’t sell to you ’less you fight for her!” Coll called after him. “Where you gonna get your supplies?”
Hilemore had to admit it was a good question. Although, as he made his way back to the wharf and the crowded harbour came into view, it occurred to him that there was in fact a third party in this port who might be open to more rational negotiation.
“You want to sail away from the only safe port left on this continent?” Captain Tidelow asked, weathered brow creasing in doubt. “So’s we can go off and fight in a war all the way across the ocean?”
“I do,” Hilemore replied, voice raised so that all the other captains present could hear it. It appeared the master of every vessel in the harbour had come in answer to his invitation, so many in fact that he had been obliged to hold this conference on the Superior’s fore-deck. This had the added benefit of ensuring that both Colonel Kulvetch and the Voter rebels would be made fully aware of the proceedings. The captains were a mixed lot, North and South Mandinorian, Dalcian and Varestian, even a few Corvantines. Some had charge of company vessels but most were independents and habitually inclined to resent corporate authority.
“On whose say-so?” one of the other captains asked, a Dalcian woman of diminutive height but with the bearing and the scars that told of a piratical past.
“I am issuing no orders,” Hilemore said. “Merely appealing to reason and common sense.”
“Sailing off to fight a horde of drakes and Spoiled doesn’t sound particularly sensible,” one of the Corvantine captains observed in accented but precisely spoken Mandinorian. He was a tall man with a studious look, though his salt-reddened cheeks bespoke many years at sea. “It took weeks of hard perilous sailing to find a refuge for my ship and my crew,” the Corvantine went on. “One it will not be easy to persuade them to give up.”
“This is not a refuge,” Hilemore told him. “It’s a trap, and you are snared here by your own delusions. Do you really wish to be caught between these hate-filled children when they start fighting again? Because they will. And even if they don’t you are anchored in what may be the last occupied human settlement in Arradsia. Any time you spend here is borrowed time.”
He allowed a moment to let his words sink in, knowing each skipper present had their own epic of survival to ponder and that he was asking a great deal. “I make no promises and offer no reassurances,” he continued. “Only a chance to join a fight that needs fighting.”
“How’re we s’posed to get there?” the Dalcian woman asked. “My coal bunker’s barely a third full.”
“I don’t have the reserves to make it out of the harbour,” the Corvantine added.
“We pool our resources,” Hilemore told them. “Gather together all the coal we have and decide how many bunkers we can fill.”
“Meaning you intend some ships to be abandoned,” the Corvantine concluded.
Hilemore faced them, replying in a tone he hoped was both confident and regretful. “Yes.” This provoked an instant growl of protest but he continued, voice loud enough to override the grumbling. “There are ships at anchor here in such poor repair they’ll never sail again. You all know this. Others are too frail and slow for any kind of war-service. Their crews will be allocated to other ships, no sailor will be left behind.”
“Pox on this,” the Dalcian woman said, casting a dismissive hand at Hilemore and stomping towards the rail. She added something in her own tongue as she swung a leg over the side and began to scale the rope netting to her boat. Hilemore’s Dalcian was rusty and imperfect but this phrase was one he had heard often enough to translate: “Corporate swine are always selling you shit and telling you it’s gold.”
Hilemore resisted the urge to plead with them as other captains quickly followed the Dalcian woman’s example. He had neither the authority nor the power to compel them, and his conscience forbade making any false promises as to the likelihood of victory or any rich rewards. Had the situation been reversed he had to admit that he might well have taken the same course. Therefore, it was surprising to find about half the captains still standing on the fore-deck when the exodus had ended. The Corvantine had remained, as had Captain Tidelow.
“Not all my crew will come,” the Blue-hunter skipper mused, fingers playing through his lengthy beard. “But I reckon I can talk maybe two-thirds of them round.”
“My crew will follow my orders,” the Corvantine asserted. “They’re all former sailors in the Imperial Navy, as am I. And we’re very tired of running.”
The subsequent discussion with the other skippers confirmed similar sentiments, although with one important proviso. “We can’t fight without weapons,” the Corvantine said. He had introduced himself as Captain Gurkan of the merchant vessel Holloway, a swift three-paddle clipper built for the tea trade. Although not a blood-burner Hilemore knew she would make perhaps the most valuable addition to his makeshift flotilla.
“Weapons are being produced in a manufactory in Varestia,” he assured them. “New weapons of far greater power and accuracy than anything we have.”
“Lots of sea ’twixt here and there,” Tidelow pointed out. “Blues too, I’d reckon. And we don’t have your pet monster to guide us any more.”
“I’m reliably informed the Blues are concentrated in Varestian and Corvantine waters. Meaning we should have an unmolested journey, at least until we arrive.”
Hilemore clasped his hands together, briskly moving on before Tidelow asked him to elaborate. In actuality he had no such intelligence regarding the whereabouts of any Blue drakes but a lack of certainty was an obstacle just now, and a modicum of dishonesty a necessity. “I shall require full manifests of all cargo, crew and supplies for each of your ships. My chief engineer will conduct a thorough inspection of all vessels and will have the final word on what sails and what doesn’t.”
In all, Chief Bozware advised that some eighteen vessels out of a total of twenty-two were in a sufficient state of repair to make an ocean voyage to Varestia. Unfortunately, the parlous state of the combined fuel stocks meant they had only enough coal for a dozen vessels.
“Twelve’s better than one, Chief,” Hilemore said.
“Turns out there’s a jewel in the dung pile,” Bozware went on, handing Hilemore one of the manifests. The name ECT Endeavour was scrawled at the top of the sheet in laboured Mandinorian above a crew list of only six names and a cargo schedule containing mostly worthless sundries but one item of considerable importance.
“One full flask of Red,” Hilemore read.
“She’s a blood-burner,” the chief confirmed. “Fast Eastern Conglomerate Mail Packet working the route between Dalcia and Arradsia. Crew told me all about their misfortunes when I went to look her over. Turns out a Blue gave them a terrible mauling south of the Razor Sea, lost their skipper, company Blood-blessed and most of their mates. Somehow they managed to sail her all the way here. The upper works are a mess but the hull and the mechanicals are sound.”
“She’ll need crew,” Hilemore said. “A Blood-blessed . . . and a captain.”
“What do you think?” he asked Zenida a short while later. They had taken a boat to the Endeavour, the sparse crew welcoming them aboard with a refreshing display of relief and gratitude.
“Thought we was gonna just rot here,” the bosun said, apparently the only senior sailor left on board. He was a burly fellow but young for his rank, Hilemore suspecting he had earned it mostly through physical strength and, judging by the way the other crewmen avoided his eye, no small amount of intimidation. Still, he had managed to salvage his ship and sail it for hundreds of miles to a safe harbour, which indicated at least some facility for leadership.
“Nothing some decent carpentry and a lick of paint wouldn’t fix,” Zenida said, voice rich in irony as she surveyed the scorched and partly shattered wheel-house.
“I’ll assign you a work crew,” Hilemore told her.
“Me?” She stared at him in bafflement for a second, then frowned as realisation dawned. “A new command,” she mused, a mix of wariness and anticipation playing over her features as she once again looked the ship over. “Who will fire the Viable’s engine?”
“Lieutenant Sigoral, or Mr. Torcreek.”
“Assuming either of them actually survives to make it here.”
“There is at least one other Blood-blessed in this port. In extremis, I’m sure I can persuade her to join us.”
“Persuade or kidnap?”
“I did say, in extremis.”
“You always were a ruthless man, Captain.” She let out a soft laugh as she scanned the ugly mess of the vessel’s upper deck. The Endeavour was a one-stack, two-paddle ship with a narrow hull. Built for speed not comfort, Hilemore’s grandfather would have said.
“I had such fine hopes for my next ship,” Zenida commented. “I even had the plans drawn up. She would have been called the Flameheart, fastest ship afloat, and one day Akina would have been her captain.”
“That can all still happen,” Hilemore said. “When this war’s over.”
“Perhaps.” Zenida gave a wistful laugh. “The plans would need to be redone. I suspect all future ships will be propeller-driven like the Superior. We stand at the dawn of a new age, Captain. Let’s hope we live to see it, eh?”
“We will,” Hilemore said, voice flat with a certainty they both knew to be false.
Zenida nodded and cast a final glance over the ship. “I accept my new commission,” she said. “But with one condition.”
“I am not staying here!”
Hilemore ducked to let the spanner Akina had thrown sail over his head, making a loud clang as it collided with the engine-room bulkhead. The girl’s grease-besmirched face was bunched in fury as she reached into her tool-box for another missile.
“Akina!” Zenida said, voice hard with a rarely used parental authority. She stepped between her daughter and Hilemore, snaring the girl’s wrist in a tight grip as she drew her arm back for another throw. “This is my wish, not his,” she said in quietly spoken Varestian. “Are you my daughter?” She tugged Akina’s arm, the wrench in her grasp falling to the deck. “Are you my crew?”
Akina stared up at her mother, the fury vanished from her face to be replaced with naked fear. “I should be with you,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Don’t leave me here, please, Mama.”
Zenida released Akina’s arm, Hilemore seeing how she resisted the impulse to pull her close. “Daughters obey their mothers,” she said. “Crew obey their captains. You are ordered to stay here and follow our sea-brother’s instructions. You are his crew now.”
Akina pressed herself to her mother, arms enclosing her waist, the only sob Hilemore had ever heard from her escaping her lips and she clung on tight. Feeling like an intruder, he turned away, moving to the hatchway then pausing as a low whistle sounded from the speaking-tube.
“Signal from the crow’s nest, sir,” Talmant’s tinny voice reported. “Drake in sight overhead.”
“It’s definitely a Red, sir,” Steelfine said, spy-glass raised high as he tracked the winged silhouette across the sky. “Just one, though.”
“That’ll change soon enough,” Hilemore heard Scrimshine mutter at his back.
He scanned the surrounding ships, seeing the multitude of sailors crowding the decks, faces all turned skyward.
“It’s just out of rifle-range,” Steelfine went on. “That mad Contractor marksman might’ve been able to take it down. The rest of us would just be wasting ammunition. We could try a shot with the pivot-gun.”
“Also a waste of ammunition, Number One,” Hilemore said. “It’s already seen us in any case.” From his conversations with Clay he was well aware that what one drake saw, so did the White. It knows this ship, he thought. And now it knows where we are.
“Signal lamp, sir,” Talmant said, pointing to a blinking light on one of the neighbouring ships. It was a broad-beamed one-paddle freighter with Dalcian lettering on the hull. Hilemore could see the diminutive pirate captain at the lamp, signalling in plain code: I changed my mind.
Within minutes more lamps began blinking on other ships and soon it appeared every vessel in the harbour was sending out variations of the same message. “It appears,” Hilemore said, “we have a fleet after all.”