The Waking Fire Page 19

  Foxbine had held the weapon only briefly before handing it to Clay with a sigh of regret. “Tempted to buy her for myself, but I’m guessing the captain wants me to arm you as best I can.”

  Despite his initial misgivings, Clay had to admit the weapon sat well in his hands. The heft of it was oddly comforting and the length of the barrel, twelve inches rather than the usual six, gave it a more sinister appearance than most pistols. “They called it the Stinger,” the broker said as Clay peered down the sights. “Still shoots true, young fella. And the action’s smooth as the day she was made. Wouldn’t sell her otherwise. Business like this runs on reputation.”

  Foxbine raised a questioning eyebrow at Clay, who nodded in approval. “We’ll take her,” she told the broker, not bothering to ask the price. “Assume you’ve got a holster that’ll fit my friend here. We’ll also need two more cylinders, two boxes of .48 short and .52 long, the steel tips if you got ’em.”

  “Going after Black, huh?” the broker asked, reaching up to the shelves behind the counter for the required ammunition.

  “Iffen there’s any to find.” She took one of the boxes of .48 and tossed it to Clay. “Load her up. Tomorrow we’ll have us a lesson.”

  The holster was designed to fit under his left arm rather than around his waist, the Stinger being too long to carry at the hip with any comfort. The stock hung from a strap across his back, within reach for a quick assembly. However, at first she had him firing without the stock, standing on the platform on the boat’s stern and taking one-handed pot-shots at the various targets she pointed out.

  “Better,” she conceded as his bullet took a chunk out of the tree-stump. “And another.”

  After firing off twenty rounds or more she had him practice replacing the cylinder. “Gotta get so’s your hands can do it without thinking. Can’t be fumbling around when the Spoiled come boiling over the hill.”

  “How long you been at this?” he asked her.

  “Oh, fourteen years now, give or take. In my blood, y’see. Like Loriabeth, though never done anything so dumb as that girl.”

  “Your people were Contractors?”

  “Yep. Ma and Pa both. Second and Third Hands on the Chainmasters crew. Brought in live drakes from far and wide. Was them that caught the Blood-lot Black.” She gave a small, cautious frown. “Guessing my family owes you for that.”

  “Why? Wasn’t them that set it loose.” Clay snapped the lever in place, locking the cylinder to the Stinger’s frame, then started over at her insistent nod. “How come you didn’t join the Chainmasters?” he asked.

  “I did for a time. Never took to the work though. It’s a grim business, trapping and hauling beasts across miles of jungle and desert. Most of ’em die during the journey. Just stop eating and wither away. A dying drake is a grim sight but it’s the sound that gets ya, keening away for hours on end like a pining dog but pitched low so you can’t never blot it out. Besides, the money started getting thin after my second expedition. Just not enough wild ones left in reasonable distance of civilisation. So I went looking for another position. Your uncle and my pa go way back, so he took me on. Had to prove myself, though. Lucky for me the Spoiled came at us in decent numbers that year.”

  “They really as ugly as they say? Like men but all twisted up, I heard.”

  “They ain’t men.” There was a grim insistence to her tone, her affability suddenly vanished. “Ugly they is, inside and out. But it’s evil that makes ’em so. Don’t ever mistake a Spoiled for human, and never let ’em take you alive.”

  —

  “The White Drake,” Braddon said. The Longrifles had gathered in the Firejack’s ward-room, alone save for Captain Keelman. When the stewards had cleared away the dinner dishes Keelman passed round a box of Dalcian cigars. All but Preacher had taken advantage of the offer and soon a thick cloud of sweet-smelling smoke hung over the table as Clay fought the impulse to cough.

  “That’s what we’re after?” Skaggerhill asked, exhaling smoke in a laugh of mingled delight and incredulity.

  “Indeed,” Braddon assured him, tossing a neatly folded sheaf of papers onto the dining-table. “As bonded under contract with the Ironship Trading Syndicate. Fees and shares stipulated. Feel free to read at your leisure.”

  “I assume,” Skaggerhill said, barely glancing at the contract, “this means we have some notion of where to look when we get to the Red Sands.”

  “We make for the Crater,” Braddon replied, “search for any sign of the Wittler Expedition.” He paused to nod at Clay. “After that, my nephew will provide further guidance from our employers.”

  “Pardon me, Captain,” Foxbine said. “But this ain’t a capture crew. We find this thing, iffen it can be found, what then?”

  “There’s an egg,” Clay said, voice a little hoarse. “Or there was. Wittler’s crew found it before they all died. All but one anyway, if the story’s to be believed.”

  “All this time, thought it was all just another tall tale,” the gunhand mused.

  “Wittler was real enough,” Skaggerhill said. “Knew him a little, though I was scarcely older than Clay at the time. Fine captain, if a little unbending. Caused quite a stir when the Sandrunners failed to come back and claim their wagon. No-one knew the Badlands and the Sands better than Wittler. If they can take him they can take anyone.”

  “Ironship sent a Protectorate expedition in search of them not long after,” Braddon said. “All they found was bones. We’ll be on the lookout for what they missed. Protectorate don’t know the Interior like we do.”

  “And if we find nothing like they did?” the harvester asked.

  “Then hopefully more clues will be passed to Clay. And, fact is, we already have one.” He gave Clay an expectant nod.

  Clay took another draw on the cigar, managing not to grimace as he said, “The Mad Artisan. Any of you ever hear the name?”

  The Longrifles replied with blank faces, except for Preacher. He kept his gaze downcast, fixed on his hands clasped on the table before him, speaking softly, “A figure from Corvantine history. Inventor of many wonders and, in his day, said to be the wisest man in the empire.”

  “He have a name?” Braddon asked.

  “No-one knows it for sure,” Preacher replied. “Historians have often confused his tale with the comedy of Cevokas, although the dates don’t match up and, if Cevokas ever really existed, they could never have met.”

  “Is there any tale that puts the Artisan with the White?”

  Preacher shook his head. “Although he was supposedly a famous explorer in addition to everything else. One story has it that he found a cache of ancient but wondrous devices somewhere and that’s where the inspiration for all his inventions came from.”

  “What happened to him?” Braddon enquired.

  “Stories differ. Some say he fell foul of the Cadre, as many noteworthy personages did in the aftermath of their formation. Others have it that he just went wandering one day and never came back.”

  “How’d you know this?” Clay asked.

  Preacher raised his gaze, face as impassive as ever. “They teach more than scripture in the seminary.”

  “That’s useful, Preacher,” Braddon told the marksman. “You remember any more, let me know.” He turned to Captain Keelman. “How long till we make the Sands, Skipper?”

  “Well, we can’t follow the path taken by Wittler,” Keelman replied. “He took a barge down the Greychurn, then followed the fork that leads into the Badlands. The Firejack’s too broad in the beam for such a course. We’ll stick to the Greenchurn and skirt the badlands. There’s some shallows sixty miles or so south of Edinsmouth offers a decent mooring, far enough from the bank to ward against Spoiled attacks.” He paused for a contemplative puff on his cigar before replying. “I’d say twenty days altogether, including a stopover for supplies at Edinsmouth.”

 
“Thought this tub was a blood-burner,” Clay said. “Can’t it go any quicker?”

  His uncle’s face darkened a little but the wiry skipper seemed to take no offence. “Our Blood-blessed’ll quicken her up some on the straights, young fella. But the river ain’t the ocean and it sets its own pace.”

  He pushed back from the table and got to his feet. “I’d best see to the evening watch.” He inclined his head. “Gents, ladies. Some brandy in the cabinet if you’re partial.”

  Silverpin had already risen to retrieve the liquor by the time the door closed.

  “Guessing I don’t have to issue no lectures about circumspection,” Braddon said, accepting a glass of brandy from the bladehand as she shared it out. “Another crew gets word of what we’re after there’ll be an army of Contractors on our tail within days.” He fixed Clay with a hard stare. “Means no getting drunk and spilling your guts to some whore in Edinsmouth.”

  Clay sipped the brandy Silverpin passed him and pursed his lips in appreciation. Contracting life has its compensations. He returned his uncle’s stare with a hopeful smile. “They have whores in Edinsmouth?”

  —

  Edinsmouth was like Stockade but constructed on a much grander scale with an even smaller shore-based settlement. Dozens of piers and jetties extended out into the river, all crowded with two- or three-storey buildings and many linked by high walkways and cantilevered bridges that rose and fell continually like the bobbing heads of some water-bound herd of beasts. There was a whole fleet of barges and steamers moored up around the jetties, with more arriving and leaving by the hour. Night was coming on by the time the Firejack approached its mooring so the whole spectacle was peppered with the yellow orbs of a thousand or more lanterns.

  “Seer knows I hate this outhouse of a town.” Foxbine sighed in distaste as the Firejack’s paddles slowed to a crawl and the helmsman spun the wheel to align her starboard side to the jetty.

  “Don’t look so bad,” Clay observed, earning a caustic laugh from Skaggerhill.

  “A notion likely to change upon closer inspection,” the harvester said. “You’d best stay close tonight, young ’un. Sounds to me like the headhunters are in town.”

  Clay could hear the raucous laughter rising from the densest part of the stilt town, his Blinds-tuned ear picking out the vicious edge to it. Just like the Colonials Rest on fight night, he thought. Only even more hungry.

  “They’re troublesome?” he asked.

  Skaggerhill shrugged. “Some crews are worse than others, but all best avoided when they’re off the hunt. They spend months on end out there looking for Spoiled and when they find some there’s an even chance they ain’t gonna survive the encounter. It’s a rare headhunter lasts more than a few years. They’ll spend a night or two here, drinking and whoring themselves blind, then go on out and do it all again.” The harvester paused to nod at Silverpin, who stood regarding the town with a grim expression.

  “She knows all about it,” Skaggerhill said. “Used to be a headhunter, didn’t ya’, sweetness?”

  Clay knew Skaggerhill to be as tough a fellow as he was like to meet, but noticed the harvester couldn’t help blanching a little as Silverpin turned her gaze on him.

  “Anyways,” he said, coughing a little and turning away. “Just stay close to us, is all.”

  When the steamer had moored up they made their way to a tavern at the far end of the pier. The sign above the door featured a painting of a warship of antique appearance, sails billowing as her broadside blazed cannon fire at a flaming shore. “The Stupendous” proclaimed the white lettering below the image. It all meant nothing to Clay though he heard Preacher mutter something about the painting’s inaccuracy as they made their way inside. “She only had half that number of guns.”

  The tavern was busy but not overly crowded, populated mostly by boatmen and stevedores who clustered in their various crews, playing games of chance or attempting drunken renditions of old shanties. The Longrifles occasioned no particular interest as they took a table near the door.

  “Be back by midnight,” Braddon had instructed, himself opting to stay on the boat. “Anyone who has to be carried back will be fined.”

  Skaggerhill bought the first round, placing a clay tankard that nearly overflowed with a frothy dark beer in front of Clay. “Take it easy, strong stuff this,” Foxbine advised as Clay took his first gulp, raising his eyebrows in appreciation at the taste. It had a fruity tang to it and only a slight edge of bitterness, and the high alcohol content left a pleasing tingle on his tongue.

  “They call it Jungle Rot,” Skaggerhill said. “Barley and hops mixed with three types of fermented native fruit.”

  “Don’t care what they call it,” Clay said, draining half the tankard in a single, luxuriant swallow. “As long as there’s more.”

  He realised he hadn’t been drunk in quite some time, the last being a lengthy binge with Derk the day before he started training in earnest for the fight with Cralmoor. They had awoken the next day on the floor of the rented room they shared with Joya, who had kindly refreshed their senses with a bucket of none-too-fresh water. He found himself smiling at the memory of her tirade, rich in words he never realised she knew. She only quieted when he took her face in his hands and planted a long kiss on her forehead. It earned him a slap but at least she stopped yelling.

  “Stallwin!” He looked up at Skaggerhill’s shout, finding the harvester risen to his feet and pumping the hand of a slim, long-haired man about his own age, evidently another Contractor from the duster he wore.

  “Skaggs,” he replied with a grin. “So bastards never die, I guess.”

  He took a seat at Skaggerhill’s insistence, laying down a whiskey bottle he was affable enough to share if any wanted. “Longrifles,” he said, raising his glass in a salute. The others all raised their tankards and Clay sensed a certain gravity to the gesture. He was beginning to understand that mutual respect meant a lot between Contractors, possibly because it was so rare a commodity.

  “Riverjacks,” Skaggerhill replied in a formal tone and they all drank, Clay following suit and realising his tankard was near empty.

  “This here’s Kleb Stallwin,” Skaggerhill said to Clay. “Second hand to the Riverjacks. Kleb, say hello to Claydon Torcreek, the captain’s nephew and our newest hand.”

  “A pleasure, young sir.” Stallwin greeted him with a nod. “Though it seems you’ve chosen an interesting time to start your career.” He turned back to Skaggerhill, lowering his voice a little. “These boat-swabs had an interesting story, ’bout a Green pack attacking Stockade. Can’t be true, surely.”

  “Close enough to truth,” the harvester replied. “Damn near killed the captain’s daughter. Luckily Clay and Silverpin here got her over the wall in time.”

  “A whole pack?” Stallwin pressed. “Full-grown too?”

  “Full-grown,” Skaggerhill confirmed. “And meaner than I’ve seen in a long time. Would’ve taken ’em for southern breeds if they hadn’t been so far north.”

  “Maybe they moved,” Clay said, smothering a belch and searching his memory for the right word. “Migrated, I mean to say.”

  Stallwin indulged him with a smile. “Greens don’t migrate, son. No drake does. They’re so territorial they’ll kill one of their own brood if it wanders too far. More likely a long-hidden pack, driven to try for human prey by desperation. You may have been privileged to witness the final days of the last pack remaining north of the Badlands.”

  Stallwin and Skaggerhill’s conversation soon moved on to the exclusive, jargon-filled talk of those engaged in the same profession: the prices being paid for product in various settlements, which company had lost the most hands recently and so on. Clay found himself losing interest as the last of the Jungle Rot slipped down his throat.

  “Shit,” he mumbled, contemplating the bottom of his tankard with a grimace.

&nbs
p; “Fetch another round,” Foxbine said, sliding a scrip note across the table. “But get y’self a half-measure this time.”

  “Surely,” Clay lied, getting to his feet with note in hand. He made a slow progress to the bar, his way being obstructed by so many boatmen, though he found himself curiously unperturbed by all the jostling. The place was raucous, right enough, but the atmosphere had none of the simmering violence that pervaded nearly every drinking den in the Blinds. Somehow, here in this river-bound stilt town in the middle of a jungle far from what people chose to call civilisation, he felt safer than he had in years.

  He found a gap at the bar and waved the scrip note at the serving-woman, who seemed preoccupied with another customer.

  “Gotta shout in here, fella,” said the man on Clay’s right.

  Clay nodded and waved the note again, his call to the serving-woman cut short when she moved to the far end of the bar.

  “Too bad,” the man said. “Don’t worry, she’ll get to you soon enough. Probably all apologetic when she realises you’re Braddon’s kin.”

  Clay turned to him, taking a closer look. He was a diminutive figure of Old Colonial stock, his skin weathered and lined, like leather stretched over a frame of sticks. Clay took note of the pattern of scars and tattoos that had been etched into the flesh around his eyes and mouth, and the row of pointed teeth he revealed when his lips parted in a smile. File tooth, he thought, recalling some of the aged drunks who congregated in the Blinds and claimed allegiance to long-defunct headhunter crews. Those that still had teeth often looked like this, though this one wore a plain woolen coat of dark blue, just like the boatmen.