The Waking Fire Page 11

  He frowned, wondering why they had gone to such lengths to ask him about a tale often told by drunks who claimed former allegiance to various Contractor Companies. “The Wittler Expedition. It’s a story. Not sure I ever believed it.”

  “It’s true enough, I assure you. Though over the years the factual details have been greatly confused in the public mind. Tell me, which version have you heard?”

  “Wittler was a Contractor, like my uncle. Captain of the Sandpipers . . .”

  “Sandrunners,” Madame Bondersil corrected. “Please go on.”

  “He and his company went looking for the White Drake and never came back. Some say the Spoiled got them all, others that they found the White and it ate them.”

  “And in any of these stories was the name Ethelynne Drystone ever mentioned?”

  Clay searched his memory. “Story goes there was a Blood-blessed with them, an Academy girl. If so, I guess she died with the others.”

  “No, Mr. Torcreek,” Madame Bondersil told him with a sad smile. “She most assuredly did not. I assume you require no extensive lecture on the need for discretion in this matter. Nor must I emphasise the consequences should our confidence in you prove misplaced.”

  Clay’s eyes snapped involuntarily to the revolver. Fully loaded, but they don’t need it. I reach for it and they know they’re wasting their time. Cats with a mouse. “Guess you don’t,” he muttered, returning his gaze to the map.

  “Excellent. The Sandrunners did indeed meet an untimely end on the Red Sands but Ethelynne Drystone was not amongst them. To my certain knowledge she escaped their fate having secured possession of an egg, a White egg. I trust the significance of this is not lost on you?”

  A White egg. He found himself searching the woman’s face for some sign of trickery, finding only a placid certainty. “Whites are a myth,” he said. “Never seen, never harvested. Just tall tales from the old days.”

  “The first settlers did indeed talk of encounters with Whites, but even then they were exceptionally rare and reports of their existence taken as the delusions of those who had lost their minds amidst the many horrors to be found in the Interior. As it transpires, thanks to Miss Drystone, we know they were far from a delusion and somewhere out there”—her hand played over the Red Sands once more—“lies the evidence to prove it.”

  In spite of his tension Clay couldn’t suppress a laugh, though it emerged as more of a groan. “And you ladies have some notion I might know where to find it?”

  “Oh, goodness no!” Madame Bondersil exchanged an amused glance with her subordinate, who held a hand to her mouth to suppress a chuckle. “Your esteemed uncle will do the finding, with Miss Lethridge’s assistance, whilst you, Mr. Torcreek, will be the conduit for that assistance.”

  “The Blue-trance,” he realised aloud, his puzzlement deepening further. “There’s at least half a hundred Blood-blessed in this port, and most of them in Ironship employ.”

  “Actually, there are currently thirty-five Blood-blessed resident in Carvenport, and their names are properly recorded in the Joint Company Register as per Special Edict of the Global Trade Council. Every one except you, young sir. Your value to us lies in your anonymity. Our competitors have no knowledge of your status and therefore no opportunity to intercept any communications you might make.”

  “The Blue-trance.” He shook his head, a sense of entrapment adding to his already heightened unease. “I’ve never done it. Never even tasted Blue. The price was always too high. Besides, who would I trance-talk with?”

  “Even better.” Madame Bondersil reached into her sleeve to extract a vial, holding it out to him. The colour of the vial’s contents was paler than the other product variants he knew and there was something odd about the way it caught the light. The gleam was duller than it should be, muted somehow, as if a portion of the light had been captured in the product. “Blue,” she said. “Fresh from the laboratory. The dilution is a relatively new formula, allowing for more control during the trance. It can become a little confusing in there at times.”

  He stared at the vial, hands frozen at his sides. After a second he glanced at Miss Lethridge, who favoured him with an oddly warm smile. “Thought there had to be some kind of . . . bond twixt the drinkers. That’s how you talk through the trance, make the connection.”

  “Absolutely correct, Mr. Torcreek,” Madame Bondersil complimented him. “The most clarity is achieved between Blood-blessed who have an emotional connection, the deeper the better. However, not all bonds need be affectionate, or even particularly close to be effective. In fact, considering the line of work you are now embarking upon you may want to exercise considerable circumspection in forming close relationships. To survive as a covert Blood-blessed often requires that you shun the affections of others. A truism you may well come to appreciate with terrible clarity.”

  She extended her arm further, raising an insistent eyebrow. “Shall we begin?”

  He forced himself to remain immobile and summoned the nerve to meet her gaze. “We ain’t yet discussed the terms of my contract.”

  Miss Lethridge gave another small chuckle. “Isn’t continued life and well-being payment enough?”

  He didn’t look at her, keeping his gaze on Madame Bondersil and finding to his surprise he had stopped sweating. A White egg. Every company in the world would drain their vaults just to bid on it. “No,” he said. “Not nearly enough.”

  Madame Bondersil lowered her arm and the two women exchanged another glance. “What do you want?” Miss Lethridge asked, not without a note of impatience.

  “One hundred thousand in Ironship scrip,” he said, still addressing Madame Bondersil. “My name kept off the register for the rest of my life, and . . .” He smiled for the first time since entering the room. “Keyvine.”

  “And who might he be?” Miss Lethridge enquired.

  “The current King of Blades and Whores,” Madame Bondersil informed her. “And author of Mr. Torcreek’s recent misfortunes.” She paused to issue a thin sigh. “I’m afraid Mr. Keyvine negotiated with us in good faith. Acting against him now would undermine our relations with his inevitable successor.”

  “Not my problem. Anyways, you don’t need to do any acting, just give me tonight and a decent supply of product. It’ll be done by morning and you’ll be assured of my loyalty during this whole crazy enterprise.”

  “Unacceptable.” Madame Bondersil’s face took on a stern resolve, all trace of her previous affability vanishing to reveal a far-more-unnerving visage. “Who do you imagine I am to be bartered with like some Blinds whore? Your life was preserved for a purpose, preserved by my agency I might add, otherwise your fall from that roof would certainly have been fatal. Your debt to Mr. Keyvine is your own business. Your debt to us, however, will be paid in full. We have done murder to secure your services and will not baulk at another should your truculence prove any more aggravating.” She extended the vial of Blue once again, her gaze locked on his. “I trust this is understood.”

  On the edge of his vision he noted the corner of the map was now curled and he heard Miss Lethridge take a deliberate step back, presumably to avoid besmirching her dress.

  Sweating once more, he raised his hand and opened his palm.

  “A hundred thousand scrip and omission from the register,” Madame Bondersil said, dropping the vial into his hand. “These terms are, however, perfectly acceptable.”

  —

  His aunt led him to one of the attic rooms when they were done with him, his head all fuzzy with the after-effects of the Blue-trance. “Join us for supper when you’re ready,” she said. “Got pork and black-bean stew. Fried taters too.”

  He replied with a tired nod, sinking onto the bed. It had been freshly made up, the sheets clean and crisp, and a jug of water sat in a bowl on a near by table. Fredabel lingered at the door for a moment, regarding him with a tight smile. />
  “You shouldn’t mind Braddon too much,” she said. “He had to beg, y’see. For Keyvine to give you up. Begging don’t sit right with a man like him.”

  Don’t sit right with anyone, he thought, but said, “Thank you, Auntie. For your . . . kind welcome.”

  “Family welcomes family, Claydon. Or at least they should.” She smiled again and left him alone.

  He lay back on the bed with a groan. Use of Blue, it transpired, was more taxing than Black or Red. His memory of the trance was dim, like a half-forgotten dream though Miss Lethridge had assured him it would become clearer with practice. For now, however, he remembered only a swirl of images amidst a discordant cacophony of mangled sound. It reminded him of a painting he had once stolen from a mansion in Manager Country: The Great Storm according to the title on the small brass plate affixed to the frame. It showed a convoy of warships, all sailing vessels from some bygone age, rendered near invisible by a raging tempest that covered most of the canvas, the clouds roiling in shades of black and grey, turned yellow in one place by a flash of lightning. The Blue-trance had been like stepping into that painting the instant he drank the vial, except the clouds and the lightning were all fashioned from memories, and not all were welcome.

  Derk and Joya were the first to come bubbling out of the morass, his last memory of them, just last night back in the steeple. Derk annoyed at being left behind, Joya worried, their faces smeared and stretched until they began to transform into something else. Clay had started to rage when Keyvine’s face appeared, pulse pounding and the trance turning red with it.

  Calm. Miss Lethridge’s voice in his mind. Focus.

  On what? he asked, rage lurching anew as Keyvine favoured him with a conspiratorial wink.

  These are your memories, she told him. Find a better one.

  His mind raced with feverish energy, fighting panic as he sought to summon some vestige of peace from his mind. The ball-room, he decided as Keyvine began to laugh. Of course.

  It had been a year ago, their biggest ever score before the fight with Cralmoor. The mansion belonged to the most senior Briteshore Minerals official in Carvenport, an irascible man with a habit of firing his servants for the smallest misdeeds. It had been a former servant who got them in, a maid with a grievance and the good foresight to make some impressions of the house keys before her dismissal. The Briteshore official and his family were away, leaving the place in the care of an aged butler who was a little too fond of helping himself to the wine-cellar and an arthritic housekeeper who rarely bothered herself with the upper floors after dark. Gaining access had been a simple matter, a sip of Green then a rapid scaling of the creeper-covered rear wall to the second floor where the maid’s keys gave him access to the windows. He fixed a rope for Joya and Derk to climb up after, their spoils being too numerous and weighty for just him. They went from room to room, Derk’s practised eye choosing the most valuable and least cumbersome items, sacks a-bulge with loot by the time they got to the ball-room.

  Joya laughing, he thought, focusing on the image. She had dropped her loot with a clatter, stepping onto the ornately tiled dance floor, arms wide as she gazed up at the chandeliers. None were lit but still they sparkled in the meagre light. She spun and spun across the floor, lithe form moving with unconscious grace, laughing all the while despite their hissed warnings.

  Beautiful, Miss Lethridge commented, the image dimming with her intrusion. His momentary resentment faded when he realised Keyvine’s burnt mask had now faded into the general morass. Did she get you caught?

  No, he replied. The housekeeper started yelling up the stairs and we ran. Didn’t make as much profit as expected though.

  He remembered berating Joya for her foolishness though he saw now it had been a forced tirade, the image of her dancing more precious than any of the shiny things they had stolen that night. The only time I ever saw her truly happy. Something I’ll never see again.

  Mr. Keyvine will surely be here when you return, Miss Lethridge said, sensing the dark turn in his thoughts. Think of it as an added incentive. Now, to business.

  It had seemed to take hours though she told him time could lose its meaning in the trance, a minute could seem like a day and a few moments might cover the span of an hour in the waking world. She had him concentrate on her thoughts instead of his and he found himself wondering at the orderliness of her mind. Instead of his roiling storm, her trance was more like a series of tightly controlled whirlwinds, some light and rich in colour, others dark and shot through with an inner vein of red fire.

  Tornadoes are plentiful on the plains of eastern Mandinor come the summer, she said. I borrowed the image, crafted it to fit my purpose. You would do well to find a pattern of your own, some means of imposing order on all this mess.

  She showed him the basics of sharing information via the trance. He soon found it was more complicated than a simple exchange of words. Words change with repetition, she warned. Intelligence is only valuable when unsullied by interpretation. Your understanding of a document will vary widely from an educated reading.

  Guess they don’t teach charm in the Academy, he returned, his storm taking on a sullen cast.

  Pay attention! She drew one of the whirlwinds closer, not as dark as some and with only a faint inner glow. It convulsed as it neared him, the whirling clouds slowing and coalescing into an image, some kind of mechanical diagram. This is a design I obtained during a recent sea voyage. A forgery as it happens but it’ll suffice for teaching purposes. Look closely, absorb the image. When we wake from the trance I’ll expect you to draw it.

  His drawing had been crude and barely legible to his own eyes, although Miss Lethridge and Madame Bondersil seemed unperturbed. “Better than expected,” was the older woman’s only comment whilst Miss Lethridge gave a small shrug of agreement.

  “Sleep well,” she advised Clay as he stood blinking in confusion. “We only have one more day before your uncle’s expedition sets off. Be in this room bright and early tomorrow, Mr. Torcreek. Any tardiness and Madame will deduct five percent from your fee.”

  Sleep contrived to elude him despite his fatigue and the lingering fogginess in his head. He lay on the bed eyes closed, hearing the dim murmur of conversation downstairs as his uncle and aunt shared their stew, and all the while the image of Joya dancing played itself over and over in his mind. Mr. Keyvine will most likely be here when you return. Miss Lethridge was right, he knew that. Keyvine will keep, but will I?

  He had never ventured into the Interior, his trips beyond the city wall having been infrequent forays to meet various criminal associates away from the vigilant gaze of the Protectorate. All he knew of the wider continent on which he lived had been gleaned from stories told by one-time Contractors and headhunters, none of which painted a pleasant picture. The Interior was a place of jungle, desert and tall mountains populated by wild drakes and savage tribes of mis-shapen Spoiled. If one didn’t get him the other surely would and he doubted Keyvine would ever even hear the news.

  For a moment it was as if the trance had returned, his mind clouding with the mingled vision of Joya’s dance and Keyvine’s smiling, flame-ruined face beyond the bars. “I do so detest an unbalanced debt,” Clay whispered aloud, opening his eyes.

  He waited until the sound of conversation faded, listening for the fall of feet on the staircase. “Please, Freda, enough,” he heard his uncle say as they climbed the steps. “I said I’d talk to him in the morning . . .” Then the soft closing of a door and silence.

  Life as a thief held many lessons on the virtues of patience and it was a full hour before Clay stirred from the bed, leaving his shoes where they were and moving to the window, feet soft and slow on the floor-boards. The window proved to be unlocked and the roof outside thankfully free of any nesting parakeets that might squawk an alarm. He inched his way out, flattening himself onto the roof and letting gravity carry him over the tiles to the
edge. He caught hold of it and dropped to the first-storey roof below, feet finding the apex with practised ease. From there it was a short balancing act and a leap to the ground where he rolled to absorb the impact before sprinting off into the gloomy streets ahead.

  No weapon and no money, he thought. Not to say no shoes. It was hardly the best condition in which to approach the most well-defended building in the Blinds. He was considering which of his hidden caches would be the best choice when Silverpin dropped from a roof-top to land directly in front of him.

  He skidded in alarm, bare feet sliding over the cobbles before giving way to deposit him on his rump. Silverpin was already looming above him and he shrank back, arms raised instinctively and eyes alive for the gleam of her curved knife. But instead of a blade her hand grasped a green-leather satchel, whatever was inside giving it a rounded appearance. She met his gaze and he was surprised to find no mockery in her smile, just sympathy. She dumped the satchel between his legs then walked away.

  Clay watched her unhurried progress towards his uncle’s house, seeing her disappear inside without a backward glance, then turned his attention to the satchel. His hands faltered as they moved to the buckles and he found to his annoyance they were shaking. He flexed his fingers and tried again, unfastening the straps with quick angry snaps of his wrists. He knew what he would find, he knew what gift Silverpin had given him but still he had to look.

  Keyvine’s ruined face stared up at him from the satchel, half-closed eyes dry and catching only the smallest gleam from the street-lights. There were new scars in the flesh, he saw, dried blood flaking on the mottled skin. He put up a fight. Didn’t help . . . What is she?

  Clay got to his feet, hefting the satchel. He stood there for a time, lost in indecision. Somewhere music was playing, a lone fiddler casting a mournful tune into the night air accompanied by the faint howl of a lonely dog. The road to the Blinds was open and the throne of the King of Blades and Whores sat empty. It was a silly notion, he knew. The two ladies would find him in no small amount of time and exact a severe punishment before forcing him on their mad search for the fabled White. Or they might decide he simply wasn’t worth the trouble and cut their losses. Besides, Derk and Joya were gone and the only home that awaited him was a haunted church with a burnt steeple.