The Waking Fire Read online

  Tekela stood in the doorway, dressed in a silk night-dress, her hand still on the door-handle and staring at Lizanne with wide eyes. For some reason her cheeks were damp with fresh tears. The scowl from that afternoon had vanished now, replaced by an expression of blank incomprehension.

  “What are you doing?” she had time to say before Lizanne’s finger tightened on the Whisper’s trigger.

  CHAPTER 12

  Clay

  The river folk proved to be a resourceful bunch when it came to dealing with fire, anchoring two paddle steamers close to the bank so they could play their pumps over the advancing flames. By morning the river-bank had been transformed into a tract of steaming ash that stopped less than ten feet from the wall. Only one Green corpse remained sufficiently whole to warrant harvesting, the others all no more than blackened humps rising from the cinders. They counted thirteen in all, Braddon estimating at least seven more were still prowling the jungle close to town.

  “Worth a day’s hunting, Captain,” Skaggerhill suggested. “Even iffen we bag just the one.”

  Braddon shook his head. “Can’t afford the time. Besides, every company in town will be out there within the hour. Get the best price you can for this one.” He nodded at the Green suspended head down from Skaggerhill’s harvesting frame. “Just be sure to have it done before evening. The boat won’t wait for us.”

  “Come hither, young ’un,” Skaggerhill said, moving to the hanging Green. “Learn a thing.”

  Clay couldn’t quite suppress his trepidation as he approached the drake. Dead it may be but its tail, secured to the frame’s upper spar by a chain, had an unnerving habit of twitching even hours after the beast’s demise. Also, as Skaggerhill had enthusiastically demonstrated, a drake’s bite reflex lingered for a good while even without a living brain to command it.

  “Hah!” The harvester chuckled as the snapping jaws closed on the thick wooden peg he thrust between them. “Only beast on the globe that can kill you when it’s stone-dead.” He took hold of the drake’s lower jaw with a thickly gloved hand, grunting with effort as he prised it apart and twisted the peg so that the jaws remained clamped in an open position.

  “The hide ain’t gonna be worth much in this state,” Skaggerhill mused, stepping back to survey the multiple bullet-holes and scorch-marks tracing the length of the corpse.

  “Had heard they were immune to fire,” Clay said, recalling the sight of the blackened drake corpses outside the wall.

  “Popular myth,” the harvester replied. “Their hide’s resistant to flame, that’s why Contractors wear these green-leather dusters. But don’t expect it to save you from a full blast of drake fire. A hot enough flame and they burn like anything else.”

  This was the big Green that had sought to bar Clay’s path to the wall, claimed by Braddon due to the fact that the Longrifles had put the most metal into it. Clay found himself even more impressed by it in daylight. Even slackened by death the power of the animal was evident in the bulging muscles of its legs and neck. Also, unlike the pen-bred Greens in Carvenport, its hide retained a complex pattern: a swirl of green and yellow, shot through with streaks of black. It was as if some paint had gotten all mixed up on the scales and frozen before the colours could meld.

  “Caught in mid-change when it died,” Skaggerhill explained. “They can shift their colour somewhat to match their surroundings. Still mostly green, but altered so as to confuse the sight of its prey. Jungle Greens ain’t so good at it as their plains cousins though; they can change colour completely so as to disappear into the grass. Yellow in the dry season, green in the wet. The river Greens though, they’re like ghosts. Just shadows in the water. It’s a brave Contractor works the river trade.”

  He pointed to a large steel bucket on the wagon. “Bring me that, would you? And that big clay jug next to it.”

  Skaggerhill removed the cork from the jug and sloshed a good measure of the contents into the bucket before swishing it around. “White spirit,” he said. “Kills any mites and impurities that could spoil the blood. Product Brokers will lower the price if they spy any bugs floating about.”

  He took a spile and mallet from the tool belt on his apron and had Clay position the bucket directly beneath the drake’s head. “Been hanging for long enough for the blood to pool,” he said, placing the spile’s point halfway along the neck. “Best stand back, it’ll gush some.”

  He gave the spile two hard whacks with the mallet, driving it deep into the drake’s hide. The outflow of blood was immediate, flowing from the spile to the bucket in a thick, dark torrent. “Should net us a full quart,” Skaggerhill sniffed, stepping back as the blood continued to flow. “Would be more if I had time. Reckon we’ll sell the carcass once it’s bled. It’ll take too long to skin her and harvest the bones.”

  “The bones?” Clay asked.

  “Yes indeedy. Bones, organs, eyes, naptha sacs, brains. It’s all worth something. Only thing best left to the plasmologists is the heart. Stuff you get from the heart is near black and like to burn you to the bone iffen a drop touches your skin. Well, us non-Blessed folks, that is. Reckon you’d be alright. Though I hear tell even the Blood-blessed can’t drink the stuff.”

  Clay gave him a sidelong glance. “My uncle told you what I am.”

  “No, but it ain’t hard to figure. Why else’d you be here, given your lack of skills and all?”

  Clay nodded at the rapidly filling bucket. “Do I get a share of this?”

  “That’s up to the captain. And payments are only tallied when the expedition’s over.”

  “I don’t mean money. I meant the product. You know how to dilute it, right?”

  “To a usable standard, sure.” His beard parted in a smile, teeth bright and eyes cheery. “But that, like everything else that occurs in this company, is up to the captain.”

  —

  He found Braddon with Loriabeth in the tent. Foxbine and Silverpin had been tending to her but he had told them to take themselves off to the tavern. He sat beside her recumbent form, eyes intent on the girl’s sweat-covered face, not looking up when Clay entered, though he did offer a muttered greeting. “That was a damn-fool thing you did last night.”

  “You’re welcome,” Clay replied, tone hardened by the ingratitude. He took a second to force down his anger before speaking again. “How is she?”

  “The wound is deep but she’ll keep her leg. Most who suffer a tail strike ain’t so lucky. Foxbine anointed the gash with Green to ward off infection and gave her a tincture of opium for the pain.”

  “So she’ll live?”

  “Seems so.”

  Clay found his uncle’s face unreadable. Was it anger or concern that drew his brows so? “You know,” he said, “if you leave her here she’s just gonna find a way to follow.”

  Braddon leaned back from Loriabeth’s side and gave him a weary glance. “What d’you want, Claydon?”

  “Skaggerhill bled near a full quart from the Green. I want some.”

  “Payment for this?” Braddon gestured at Loriabeth.

  “Some token of appreciation seems fitting.”

  “Fair enough. Thank you for helping to save my daughter’s life. Now go help Skaggs unpack the wagon.”

  “The Green . . .”

  “Ain’t for you, Clay. Madame Bondersil added a very particular clause to our contract concerning your employment. You get the requisite amount of Blue only at the allotted time for the trance. Apart from that”—his brows lifted in a mockery of apology—“you get shit all.”

  “I’ll be more use to this company if I have a ration of product.”

  “Your employers see it differently. They think you’ll be more likely to take to your heels the first time we get near civilisation, if not before. The life you chose had consequences, boy. Absence of trust being one of them.”

  “The life I chose?” Clay felt the
unwise heat building again, making him acutely aware of the forbidden vial in his pocket. “Thought it was you chose it for me, Uncle.”

  The faint vestige of humour faded from Braddon’s face, resuming his unreadable frown as he turned back to his daughter. “No place in my house for a boy who kills his own father.”

  Auntie thinks different. Auntie thinks your brother was better off dead. He didn’t know why he left it unsaid; the truth may have inflicted some additional hurt after all, a little recompense for his lack of product. But something about this felt all wrong, the two of them bickering whilst his cousin lay senseless and wounded just feet away.

  “I need a new gun,” he said instead. “Lost that relic you gave me last night.”

  “Carried that piece my first-ever expedition,” Braddon told him, his voice near toneless and oddly lacking in reproach. “Should’ve known better than to trust it to you, I guess.” He sighed and glanced up. “Go find Foxbine in the tavern. She knows the local iron broker. The cost will be deducted from your share.”

  —

  They boarded the Firejack come early evening, the two tall stacks already belching black smoke into the air as stevedores hauled aboard the last of her cargo. The horses, oxen and wagon would be left within the town stable and sold off if they failed to return within six months. Preacher and Skaggerhill carried Loriabeth up the gangplank on a stretcher, the sight of the unconscious girl provoking an unwise outburst from a youthful deck-hand. “Ain’t signed up to serve on no hospital barge. Ill luck to let some sickly bitch aboard . . .”

  Braddon knocked him down with a single punch, moving on without breaking stride or sparing another glance at the boatman, who now lay spitting blood onto the deck. “He’s new, Captain,” the Firejack’s First Mate apologised as Braddon approached the ladder to the wheel-house.

  “Skipper up top?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. My daughter and Miss Foxbine will have my cabin. I’ll bunk with the company.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Clay.” Braddon started up the ladder. “You’re with me.”

  The skipper proved to be a compact fellow of Old Colonial stock who, as far as Clay could tell, could have been any age between sixty and eighty. His features, partly obscured by a silver-grey beard, were leathery and wrinkled but there was an evident spryness to him that seemed to deny his years. Like most of the crew his uniform was only partially complete, a blue jacket and peaked cap bearing the Ironship badge. Otherwise there was little to distinguish him from the Independents who worked the river trade.

  “This is Captain Seydell Keelman,” Braddon introduced him. “Master of the Firejack. Captain, my nephew Claydon.”

  “Welcome aboard, young sir,” Keelman said, a keen scrutiny in his gaze as he looked Clay up and down. “You ain’t a company man, now are ya? Ironship Blood-blessed got a particular look to them. Not you though.”

  “I am proudly Independent, sir,” Clay told him. “And hope to remain so for the rest of my days.”

  “Well good for you. Spent two decades on the river without benefit of a company flag, myself. But”—he touched a finger to his cap—“comes a time when a man has to think on his pension.” He turned to Braddon. “How much?”

  “Half a vial.”

  Keelman’s hand went to his collar, extracting a chain attached to a bulky key. “Need you to sign for it,” he said. “The manager of the River Division is a stickler for balanced books.”

  He led them from the wheel-house and along a passageway to a large, well-appointed cabin, complete with a gleaming oak dining-table reflecting the brass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A number of portraits adorned the walls, each depicting a man in the uniform of a captain in the Ironship Merchant Fleet. “The Firejack tends to use up her captains,” Keelman explained, gesturing at the portraits. “I’m the sixth skipper since she launched fifteen years ago.”

  He went to one of the portraits, pulling it out on a hidden hinge to reveal the safe behind. He worked the heavy key in the lock then twisted the safe’s dial, hand moving with an unconscious rapidity which prevented Clay from catching more than two of the six digits in the combination. Hopefully the voyage down-river would afford further opportunities to learn the rest of it.

  Once the safe was opened Keelman removed a ledger-book, an empty vial and a flask from the safe. He carefully poured a half-measure of product into the vial from the flask and handed it to Braddon. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, after Braddon had signed the ledger-book, both it and the flask having been returned to the safe, once again locked and concealed behind the painting. “We’ll be underway within the hour. Be glad if your company would join me for supper tonight. Cookie’s gotten us some prime catfish.”

  “Happily accepted, Skipper,” Braddon told him.

  After Keelman had gone he pointed Clay to one of the chairs ringing the table and produced a pocket-watch from the folds of his duster. “Two minutes yet,” he said. “Sure you can do this?”

  Clay looked at the vial his uncle had placed on the table. Enough Blue for a trance of some intensity, though, as he had come to understand, the duration did not necessarily relate to the amount of product ingested. He found his palms were sweating and realised for the first time how much his sessions with Miss Lethridge had disturbed him. The ease with which she moved around his mind was disconcerting to say the least, made worse by the evident disdain for what she saw.

  “Guess we’ll find out,” he replied.

  Braddon kept a careful eye on the watch, waiting until the last ten seconds before nodding at Clay. He drank the vial in one gulp and the storm of image and sensation descended in a rush.

  Punctual, Miss Lethridge’s mind said in approval. I’m happy to see my lessons weren’t entirely wasted.

  Clay surveyed her thoughts, finding the panorama of disciplined whirlwinds largely unchanged though the nearest one was a darker hue than he recalled, flashing red and white and the clouds that formed it seemed to roil with greater energy than the others. Something wrong? he enquired.

  A minor complication, now resolved, she replied. There was a pause and he felt her undertake a brief voyage through his own recent experience. Still far too messy in here, Mr. Torcreek. You really need to find a coherent visual template. But what’s this? Another pause as she effortlessly prised open the throbbing boil that contained the previous night’s memories. Yes, the first sight of a wild drake is always jarring. He saw the clouds of her mind darken further in disapproval. However much your new colleagues might appreciate your heroics, you are not employed to needlessly risk your life. A great deal depends on the success of this expedition.

  He confined his response to a brief flash of lightning, something that happened whenever his anger and resentment flared.

  Don’t sulk, she chided him, a certain weariness colouring the shared sensation. Just make your report.

  We’re on the Firejack, he told her. About to leave Stockade.

  On schedule. Good. Apart from last night’s excitement, has there been any interest from other parties?

  Not so’s I’ve noticed. Uncle’s crew is highly respected, feared even. Other Contractors tend to keep their distance.

  She gave a pulse of satisfaction before continuing. When you surface, ask him if he’s familiar with any old stories concerning a Corvantine known as the Mad Artisan. I believe he may be important to our endeavour.

  I guess that means you ain’t found a map with a nice cross on it telling us where the White’s certain to be found?

  Our operation is unprecedented and its parameters highly dynamic.

  What’s that mean?

  It means nothing like this has been attempted before and no, I have yet to discover a map or other intelligence precisely identifying the location of our fabled quarry. Nor do I expect to.

  So where’s that
leave us?

  Continue to your objective. The Red Sands may offer further clues. The whirlwind twisted somewhat and he experienced a flush of uncertainty mingled with reluctance, two emotions he hadn’t felt from her before now.

  You sure you’re alright? he asked.

  Perfectly, she responded, the whirlwind snapping into a more regular shape. Look to your mission, and mind what I said about further heroics.

  Then she was gone.

  —

  “Damn, kiddo.” Foxbine gave a sad shake of her head, gunsmoke fading as the waterspout from Clay’s shot cascaded down a yard to the left of the floating branch she had told him to aim for. “Woulda thought a Blinds boy would know how to shoot.”

  “I ain’t used to the kick yet,” Clay said in annoyance. “This thing bucks like a mule.”

  “Don’t you go blaming your weapon, now. That there’s a fine piece of engineering.” She searched the passing river for another target. “There.” She pointed at a half-submerged tree-stump on the far bank. “Should be big enough for ya.”

  At first glance the pistol Foxbine chose for him appeared just as antique as his uncle’s double-barrelled relic. The black enamel on the frame was chipped in numerous places and the mismatched plain steel cylinder an obvious replacement for the original. But at least it was a six-shooter and, if Foxbine’s reaction to finding it at the iron broker’s was any indication, something of a prized rarity.

  “An Alebond Mark One long-barrel,” she said, a faint note of awe in her voice as she spied it through the iron broker’s glass counter.

  “Yep, she’s a treasure to be sure,” the broker said, an elderly man with bushy eyebrows that jutted out over his thick spectacles. “Would have made a goodly sum on her if she had all the original parts.”

  “You got the stock?” Foxbine asked.

  “It was all rotted but I made another myself.” He disappeared into the dense racks of rifles and shotguns crowding the rear of his shop, returning after a short delay with what appeared to be the sawn-off stock of a rifle. He took the pistol from the counter and slotted the stock into a brace on the rear of the butt, transforming it into a carbine. “They made these for the Royal Mandinorian Calvary,” the iron broker said, holding the weapon out to Foxbine. “Back when there still was such a thing. Some credit the winning of the Second Spoiled Wars to this beauty.”