CHAPTER 5
Lizanne
“Crow’s nest reports twenty vessels so far, sir,” an ensign related from the speaking-tube. “Bearing south-south-west. Man-o’-war in the centre, all the rest appear to be freighters. Pennants are raised but the distance is too great to make out any signals.”
“Speed?” Captain Verricks asked, standing with his hands clasped behind his back with barely a twitch disturbing his whiskers.
“Estimated at eight knots, sir,” the ensign related a few seconds later.
“A somewhat sedate pace for an attacking fleet,” Verricks mused, turning to Lizanne with a questioning glance. She had entered the bridge without permission but the fact that she hadn’t been ordered to leave said much, for the captain valued her advice.
“The White will have captured a large number of ships at Feros,” she pointed out. “It could be a ruse. Approach at a slow speed to lure us close then spring the trap.” She nodded at a spy-glass on the map table. “May I?”
“Be my guest, miss.”
She moved to the front of the bridge, taking a vial of Green from her wallet and drinking a small amount. When first viewed through the lens of the spy-glass the approaching vessels were little more than grey smudges cresting the horizon, but soon sprang into sharp clarity as the vision-enhancing effects of the Green took hold. The first one to come into focus was a Blue-hunter, clearly heavily laden judging by how low she sat in the water, her paddles labouring as smoke belched from her single stack. Lizanne tracked the glass along the line of ships, stopping when a familiar sight came into view. She had only ever seen this ship through Clay’s eyes but the lines were unmistakable, as was the Ironship Protectorate flag and friendly greeting signal flying from her mast.
“The IPV Viable Opportunity,” she told Verricks. “This is not an enemy fleet, Captain. Though I would caution you that you may be about to experience a very trying interview.”
“Trumane.”
“Verricks.”
The two captains exchanged nods. They were alone in the ward-room apart from Lizanne; Director Thriftmor, who was engaged in a thorough hunt of the room’s cupboards, presumably for more brandy; and a woman of Dalcian appearance who had accompanied Captain Trumane. The captain looked much the same as she recalled from Clay’s shared memories, his uniform an impeccable buttoned-up contrast to Verricks’s open jacket and misaligned necktie. But there was a new pale hardness to Trumane’s face. Always a stern character, albeit with occasional displays of conviviality during moments of personal triumph, he appeared to Lizanne to have lost whatever vestiges of affability or humour he had once possessed. She doubted his crew had enjoyed their time under his command since Lieutenant Hilemore’s desertion in Lossermark harbour.
Lizanne would have described the Dalcian woman as elegant but for the tattered seaman’s jacket she wore and the numerous wayward strands of hair escaping from her otherwise severe bun. “May I present Madame Hakugen,” Trumane said, extending a hand to the woman. “A senior executive of the Eastern Conglomerate and former Comptroller of Lossermark Port.”
“Welcome aboard, madame,” Verricks greeted the woman with a formal bow which was returned in kind.
“And I am very pleased to meet you, Captain,” she said with a note of relieved sincerity.
“Your reputation precedes you, Captain Verricks,” Trumane went on. “So I won’t waste time with petty demands for the date of your commission.”
Verricks gave a slight incline of his head. “Appreciated, Captain. It therefore behooves me, as senior officer, to request your report.”
Trumane hesitated, his eyes flicking to Lizanne and Director Thriftmor.
“Your pardon,” Verricks said. “May I present Mr. Benric Thriftmor, Ironship Syndicate Board member and Director of Extra-Corporate Affairs.”
“Delighted, I’m sure,” Thriftmor replied, straightening from an empty cupboard with a distressed cast to his eyes. “Captain Verricks, I wonder where I might . . .”
“I had it tipped over the side, sir,” Verricks told him. “All other liquor on board is now under lock and key, and will remain so for the duration of our current difficulties.”
Thriftmor stared at the captain, tongue tracing over his lips in an unconscious display of desperate thirst. “Oh,” he said. “Well, as important as this meeting is, I find myself suddenly quite unwell and will adjourn to my cabin . . .”
“I had it searched and all the bottles disposed of,” Verricks told him, then pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Mr. Thriftmor. The steward will bring you some coffee presently.”
A range of emotions passed over the Director’s face, from defiance to anger before subsiding into resentful acceptance as he sank into a chair, gaze lowered.
Trumane afforded Thriftmor a brief and plainly disgusted glance before nodding at Lizanne. “And this lady?”
“Miss Lizanne Lethridge,” Verricks introduced her. “Of Exceptional Initiatives.”
Trumane stiffened a little at that, as did Madame Hakugen, though they both greeted Lizanne with a polite nod. “By any chance,” Trumane said, “would you be related to . . .”
“Professor Graysen Lethridge.” Lizanne didn’t bother to keep the weary irritation from her voice. Mention of her familial connections just now was certain to worsen her mood. “He’s my father.”
“And my valued colleague,” Trumane said. “His insights were of great assistance when designing the refit of the Viable Opportunity.”
“Then I hope you paid him. It would make a pleasant change from the norm. I believe you have a report to make.”
“My report is somewhat lengthy,” Trumane said after a moment of bemused irritation. “As yet I haven’t had time to compile a written version.”
“A verbal report will do very well, I’m sure,” Verricks said, moving to the table and pulling out a chair for Madame Hakugen. “Let us all please sit. Refreshment is on the way.”
Trumane related his tale over coffee and sandwiches, Lizanne noting the enthusiasm with which the former Comptroller consumed the food while the captain maintained an air of restraint. She already knew much of what he had to say, particularly regarding the desertion of Lieutenant Hilemore along with half the crew of the Viable Opportunity. “A vile and outrageous breach of contract,” Trumane said, some colour returning to his face. “I intend to petition the Sea Board for the ultimate penalty at the court martial, in the unlikely event the swine ever returns from his mad venture.”
“There will be no court martial, Captain,” Lizanne said, instantly drawing a fierce glower from the captain.
“I beg your pardon?” Trumane asked.
“Lieutenant Hilemore will face no charges,” she said simply. “In seizing the Corvantine ship and sailing for southern waters he acted on the instructions of an Exceptional Initiatives agent, as you should have done.”
“What Exceptional Initiatives agent?”
“Claydon Torcreek and the Longrifles Independent Company are contracted employees of my division.”
“Contracted for an insane expedition to the Interior from which they returned with a pack of fairy stories.”
“Their expedition bore fruit, bitter though it turned out to be. The answer to our current difficulties may well lie amidst the southern ice. It was your duty to find it, a duty Lieutenant Hilemore undertook instead. Therefore, as I say, he will face no charges.”
The reddish tinge to Trumane’s face deepened as he continued to glower. “I will not stand for this,” he grated. “When the Sea Board reads my full report . . .”
“If Torcreek and Hilemore fail,” Lizanne cut in, matching his glower with an intent stare, “within a few months there may well be no Sea Board to read it.”
Trumane began to speak again but stopped at a cough from Captain Verricks. “A matter for another time, I think, Captain,” he said. “I have little doubt that once this . . . confused state of affairs has been rectified there will be a full enquiry. Any charges you wish to bring against your subordinate will receive due consideration then. As for now, I should like to hear how you came to be in command of such an unusual fleet.”
Trumane took a moment to master his anger before turning away from Lizanne, addressing himself solely to Verricks. “The Viable was the only warship in Lossermark. With no cargo arriving and the Interior closed to foraging parties Madame Hakugen and I agreed that an evacuation had to be attempted.”
“So your fleet carries the entire population of Lossermark?” Verricks asked.
Trumane remained impassive but Madame Hakugen’s coffee-cup paused on its way to her lips, Lizanne noting how her hand trembled as she set it down. “Lossermark is a large port,” she said, staring straight ahead. “There wasn’t room for everyone. Mothers with children were automatically allotted a place, as were the Conglomerate Levies. All others had to be chosen by lot, myself included. The situation . . .” She faltered, blinking rapidly. “The situation deteriorated alarmingly on the day of departure.”
“Bunch of headhunters and other scum tried to storm their way onto the fleet,” Trumane elaborated. “A few salvos from the Viable put paid to that mischief.” He sipped his own coffee and Lizanne saw that his hand didn’t tremble at all. “To the Travail with the lot of them, I say,” he added. “Worthless cowards.”
Watching Madame Hakugen dab a napkin at her welling eyes, Lizanne recalled her own fraught days leading the resistance at Carvenport. As bad as things had gotten towards the end she had at least been spared the burden of making such a decision. “I’m sure you did your best, madame,” Lizanne told the former Comptroller. “These days it appears we have nothing but hard choices ahead of us.”
“Any incidents during the voyage north?” Verricks asked.
“We lost one ship to a storm three days from port,” Trumane said. “An old coal hauler barely fit to sail. Another two took off on their own course a day later. I wasn’t going to waste time hunting them down.”
“No drake attacks?” Lizanne asked.
Trumane gave her a frosty sideways glance and shook his head. “Never caught sight of one during the whole voyage. Makes me wonder if all these tall tales of rampaging drakes and conquering Spoiled are just that.”
“Sadly, they’re all true,” Verricks assured him, whiskers bunching in a grim smile. “Feros has fallen silent. We have been unable to trance with them for two days.”
“There could be any number of reasons for that,” Trumane said. “An outbreak of influenza amongst the trance staff for instance.”
“Indeed. Which is why I intend to sail there forthwith. Your command is hereby ordered to join us.”
“There must be thousands of civilians in those ships,” Lizanne said. “You’re asking them to sail towards the very thing they’re trying to escape.”
“Thirty-two thousand civilians, to be exact,” Madame Hakugen said. “Who have been at sea for far too long already. Our supplies are not copious and Feros is the nearest port.” She inclined her head at Captain Verricks. “We will be happy to sail under your protection, sir.”
Verricks gave a small huff of discomfort that told Lizanne all she needed to know about his intentions. “Captain Verricks is not offering protection, madame,” she said. “He intends to form company with the Viable Opportunity and sail for Feros at the best possible speed. The Viable is a blood-burner and there are three Blood-blessed on this ship, which means the engines of both vessels can be fired to full capacity. Do I miscalculate, Captain?”
“Military necessity, miss,” Verricks sniffed. “As you said. Nothing but hard choices.”
“If you abandon these people,” Lizanne told him, speaking every word with great precision, “the report I will write to the Board regarding your conduct will make Captain Trumane’s report on Lieutenant Hilemore seem like a love-letter in comparison.” She held his gaze, seeing the stern resolve of a professional and long-serving Protectorate officer.
“Much as I respect the advice of an Exceptional Initiatives agent,” Verricks replied, “command of this vessel rests with me . . .”
“She’s right.”
They turned to Director Thriftmor, both elbows resting on the table as he massaged his temples. An untouched cup of coffee sat beside him. “Leaving thousands of refugees to fend for themselves in the middle of the ocean is an unconscionable act,” Thriftmor went on, lowering his hands to regard Verricks with tired eyes. “One I can’t support or, more importantly, justify to a public whose passions will no doubt have been inflamed by a hostile press. You may have command of this ship, sir, but I am a Board member and senior shareholder of the Ironship Syndicate. To all intents and purposes this is my ship and so is”—he waved a hand at Trumane, trying and failing to remember his name—“his.”
Thriftmor turned away from Trumane’s glare to offer Madame Hakugen a smile. “Your ships will join with us, madame. Together we will sail for Feros where, if fortune favours us, safe harbour will be found.” He got to his feet and made a slump-shouldered progress to the door. “I’ll be in my cabin. Please knock only in the direst emergency.”
She found Makario at the rear of the mid–upper deck, following the sound of the flute he had somehow obtained during the voyage. Meeting here had become something of a nightly ritual. Since first meeting him in the odorous pit of Scorazin she had noted his aversion to serious conversation, something she now welcomed as a reprieve from the worries crowding her head, as was his music. It transpired that Makario was as accomplished with the flute as he was with the pianola and she had no difficulty in recognising the tune.
“Illemont again?” she asked, moving to rest her arms on the rail beside him. The long-dead Corvantine composer had been a particular favourite when Makario played for the largely unappreciative patrons of the Miner’s Repose. “One might suspect you of nurturing an obsession.”
“One would be correct,” he replied, lowering the flute. “But what is love, if not obsession?”
Makario pointed the instrument at the ships following the Profitable, the many freighters and Blue-hunters arranged in two long rows that extended for at least two miles. “I didn’t know we were expecting company.”
“We weren’t.” Lizanne cast her gaze over the darkened hulks of the refugee fleet. Whatever misgivings Captain Verricks might harbour about taking charge of this rag-tag collection of vessels hadn’t prevented him from issuing strict and sensible orders regarding its organisation. All lights were to be doused and each ship appointed a slot in a prearranged sailing formation. Every ship had also been strictly forbidden to stop for any reason. “I don’t care if the skipper’s grandmother falls overboard,” Verricks had said. “I’ll shoot any captain who stops their engines.”
“Keep playing,” Lizanne told Makario, keen for the distraction. “Please.”
Makario gave a gracious bow and raised the flute to his lips. Soon the lilting interlude from Illemont’s supposedly lost “Ode to Despair” was drifting across the warship’s pale wake.
“Have you finished it then?” she asked when the flute fell silent. “Your reconstruction of the great lost work?”
“I doubt if it can ever be finished. All I can do is record my guess-work and perhaps in time more talented souls will take it further.” He fell silent, face uncharacteristically sombre as he gazed at the following ships.
“Wishing you’d stayed behind?” Lizanne asked.
Makario gave a short laugh and shook his head. “We both know I had little choice. The Electress would have settled accounts with me sooner or later. It’s not in her nature to forgive a betrayal. Besides, I always had a yen to see the rest of the world, even if it is about to catch fire.”
“You never told me how you ended up in Scorazin. Your presence there seemed so incongruous.”
“I was a thief.” He shrugged. “Thieves go to prison.”
“Not to Scorazin. Not unless they’ve somehow offended the Emperor.”
Makario looked at the flute in his hands, slim fingers playing over the keys. “My obsession, as you call it, has always been more of an addiction, and an addict will go to extremes to sate his need. That old student of Illemont I told you about lit a fire in me, a fire that could only be quenched by seeking out everything I could find that the great man had written or touched in his lifetime. Sadly, amassing such a collection requires a great deal of money and my parents had selfishly conspired to ensure I was born poor. My talent brought money in time, and a modicum of fame in certain circles, but it was never enough to quench the fire.
“It was small things at first, an item of jewellery from a box left carelessly open the evening I had been contracted to play for the amusement of the lady of the house. Then there was a pocket-watch taken from the drawer of a viscount who had probably forgotten how many he owned. Many of the more valuable trinkets were not so easily plucked of course, but my access to the homes of the nobility enabled a first hand reconnaissance before a stealthy night-time intrusion.
“It transpired I had a facility for climbing; musicians tend to have strong hands and I have always been fairly spry. I found a delightfully awful old reprobate in one of Corvus’s seedier quarters who was more than willing to teach me the finer points of lock picking, as long as I kept him well supplied with ale and opium.
“Thanks to my new-found skills I soon had sufficient funds for a fine and growing collection of Illemontaria, and a decent fortune to go with it. I also had a name for my larcenous alter ego, the Moonlighter they called me. Corvus society was publicly alarmed and secretly delighted by his exploits. Ladies harboured entirely misplaced fears of being ravished in their own beds and servants were denied their meagre sleep ration to keep armed watch on the great houses lest the Moonlighter come calling. There was a lot of theatre to this, of course. Half the valuables that went missing during this period were never stolen by me, if they were stolen at all. And any family who did fall foul of the Moonlighter’s attentions found their cachet suddenly enhanced, invitations to grand occasions and exclusive dinners would follow. Everyone wanted to hear more about the Moonlighter. There was even a series of vulgar periodicals about him which I fervently hope the Cadre have since seized and burned. The prose was dire and the illustrations terrible, but even the nobility bought them.
“The wealthy are a strange breed, dear Krista. Like children in many ways with their pettiness and susceptibility to flattery, and there are few creatures in this world more susceptible than a once-handsome man of privilege. Burgrave Erbukan wasn’t a bad man, not really. Just bitter about getting old and fat, and he was far too trusting of the many artistic young men he invited to his home, a home which happened to contain one of the largest collections of original sheet music in the world. He was happy to show it to me, encouraged by an enthusiasm I, for once, didn’t need to fake. The collection had been inherited from his late wife, a woman in whose company he spent as little time as possible. It was clear the old dullard had no notion of what he had. Original handwritten sheets penned by some of the greatest composers who ever lived, and there amongst it all, not even properly catalogued, no less than four previously undiscovered pages from Illemont’s ‘Ode to Despair.’ I had to have them and, once the Moonlighter paid a visit to the Burgrave’s mansion the following night, for one precious week I did.”
“You should have waited,” Lizanne said, voicing the critique of an experienced burglar. “Your visit was too fresh in his memory, it was inevitable that he would connect you to the theft.”
Makario voiced a faint laugh. “It was just too tempting, you see. Like dangling a full bottle of best brandy before the eyes of a hopeless drunk. But it was a wonderful week alone with those pages, almost like being in the presence of Illemont’s ghost. I barely rose from the pianola, so lost was I in the music. I’m not claiming it was worth all those years in Scorazin, but it was worth a great deal nonetheless.”
“The Burgrave was well connected, I assume?”
“No, but his wife had a smidgen of Imperial blood and some of the other pages I stole had been gifted to her by the Emperor himself. The Moonlighter had offended the Divinity and could no longer be tolerated, however entertaining his skulduggery might be. The Burgrave received a visit from the Cadre, who didn’t take long to piece it all together. I suppose I should be grateful they didn’t amputate my fingers before throwing me into the great smokey pit. But then, I would never have met you, dear Krista, and I feel my life would be much poorer for the omission.”
“Lizanne,” she corrected. “As I’ve told you many times. My real name is Lizanne.”
“Oh,” he said with a wistful smile, raising the flute to his lips once more, “you’ll always be Krista to me. It was her who set me free, after all.”
She was woken by the ship’s siren sometime around dawn. The signal, two short blasts followed by two long, wasn’t one she had heard often and it took a moment to place it: “vessel in distress sighted.” She dressed quickly and checked that the vials in her Spider were fully loaded with product before strapping it to her wrist. She made her way to the bridge where the duty officer had his glass trained on something about thirty degrees to port. Through the bridge window she could see an ensign haranguing a squad of sailors on the lower deck as they manoeuvred a launch over the side.
“What is it?” she asked the duty officer, who obligingly handed over his spy-glass. She had no need of Green to make out the target, a bulbous shape silhouetted against the red morning sky, bobbing as it made an irregular but inexorable descent towards the waves. Realisation dawned instantly. This could be only one thing, a thing she had seen the designs for a few months before, and there were very few people capable of constructing it in so short a time.
“Distance?” she asked the duty officer.
“Just over a mile,” he replied.
Lizanne kept the spy-glass to her eye for a moment longer, tracking from the aerostat to the sea then back again as she gauged how long it would be before the craft completed its descent. It was too far, she knew. The launch wouldn’t get there in time.
“Keep the ship at dead slow,” she told the duty officer, handing back the spy-glass and making for the door. “Steer thirty degrees to port. On my authority if the captain has any questions,” she added before stepping outside.
Lizanne moved to the walkway in front of the bridge, depressing a button on the Spider to inject a full vial of Green. She took a second to steady herself as the product flooded her system before vaulting over the walkway railing and making her way down the cruiser’s upper works via a series of spectacular leaps before landing next to the boat party. They had succeeded in getting the boat over the side and lowered so that it bobbed on the swell. The wind was up this morning and the sea choppy, adding yet another level of difficulty to her task.
“You.” Lizanne pointed to the ensign in charge. “Take the tiller. You and you.” Her finger jabbed at the two burliest sailors in the party. “Get in. The rest of you stand away.”
She leapt over the side and landed in the middle of the boat where she immediately sat and hefted a pair of oars into the rowlocks. “Hurry up!” she ordered, seeing her three chosen crewmates staring down at her. The ensign reacted first, barking a command at the two sailors who had them following him down the netting on the Profitable’s hull.
“Don’t bother,” Lizanne told the two sailors as they began hauling the oars into place. “You’ll just upset my rhythm. Ready?” she asked, turning to the ensign who had obediently taken position at the tiller. He gave a tense nod and Lizanne raised the oars. “Hold tight,” she said, and began to row.