The Waking Fire Read online

  It had landed atop another freighter, the crew displaying considerably less aggression than that of the Drakespite in the rapidity with which they hurled themselves from her rails, my Red-lit fires no doubt adding impetus to their flight. The Black whirled amidst the flaming tangle of rigging and timber, mouth gaping to cough its fiery response then howling in frustration as the flames failed to gout. I landed hard on the deck barely twenty feet from him, the glut of Green preventing a disabling injury, and stared into his eyes in direct challenge, a thing no male could ever tolerate for long. It roared again and charged, claws tearing the deck into splinters and tail coiling for a strike, whereupon it froze into absolute immobility as I called on the Black I had ingested bare moments before.

  That it was a fearsomely strong beast was self-evident, but before now I had not truly appreciated the power of this animal. It strained against my Black-born grip with all its might, draining my reserves of ingested product with such speed I must confess to a sudden sheen of sweat on my brow and a growing impatience for Mr. Torcreek to make good his boast. Strange then, that it is at this juncture that I must describe another sensation, a certain insight beyond the general alarm and urgency of the situation. For, as I maintained my vigil upon the beast’s eyes, I discerned something beyond its animal craving for flesh and triumph: a deep and consuming terror, and not of me. I realised in that instant the Black had not been seeking revenge for its capture and torment, nor for the insertion of a steel tap into its flesh. It had been trying to get away, seeking escape from something far worse than these small, two-legged pests. It was as my mind tracked over the course of the beast’s flight, from the shattered vat with its mysterious corpse through the close-packed streets to the docks, that Mr. Torcreek proved himself no braggart.

  The rifle-bullet made a faint whine as it streaked overhead to smack precisely into the centre of the Black’s sloping forehead. It gave a single spasmodic jerk, its long body undulating from head to tail, then collapsed onto the part-destroyed deck with a choking gargle.

  CONCLUSION

  The Board will find a full list of casualties and tally of damage at Addendum II, together with a cost estimate for repairs. As stated above, the compilation of an exact and incontrovertible account proves impossible, however, certain facts can be established beyond any reasonable contradiction.

  Firstly, a woman of unknown identity, accompanied by a small child of undetermined gender, did indeed climb onto the platform alongside Mr. Dunmorn as he was concluding a rather lengthy discourse on the merits of company loyalty. In all truth, Mr. Dunmorn was not widely regarded as the most compelling orator which may account for the inattention of much of the crowd at the critical moment. Despite this, I have collated statements from six individual witnesses, all of good character and reliable judgement, attesting that the unidentified woman stepped out of the line of parents and children awaiting the Blood-lot and made an unhurried passage onto the platform, unnoticed by either Mr. Dunmorn or the team of harvesters making ready to apply the spile to the Black’s neck. The woman is described as young but I have made no progress in obtaining a more detailed description. One of the male witnesses did testify to a certain conventional attractiveness in her form and bearing but viewed her at too great a distance to provide details of hair colour or complexion. Descriptions of the child are equally vague but its height would indicate an age of eight years, the correct age for presentation at the Blood-lot.

  It seems that it was barely seconds subsequent to Mr. Dunmorn’s order to commence harvesting that the woman gathered up her child and leapt into the vat. It is at this point that most accounts, perhaps understandably, become somewhat confused. However, my correlation of various testimonials has unearthed some key points of agreement. It seems clear that the vat shattered from within, killing poor Mr. Dunmorn and the harvesters in the process. Also, the Black was not responsible for this particular piece of destruction, being secured by chains to the harvesting rig when it occurred. Following the destruction of the vat and the resultant dispersal of so much product, a general panic seized the crowd but three witnesses retained sufficient presence of mind to attest that the Black’s chains were nowhere in sight as the product rained down, after which it began its desperate flight from the scene.

  My conclusion is alarming but inescapable; the Black was set free by the agency of a Blood-blessed, upon whose shoulders the deaths of Mr. Dunmore and so many others can now be placed. The list of suspects wishing harm to Syndicate interests on this continent is long, the Corvantine Empire being worthy of perhaps greatest attention. But I find it difficult to comprehend what advantage even they could gain from this incident. Also, what connection this hidden agent has with the unknown woman, or her purpose, remains singularly mysterious. As reported above, the woman’s body was recovered, albeit in an unrecognisable condition, but the child she bore into the vat was not found at her side. Several children did perish in this incident, mainly those gathered for the Blood-lot, but all have been claimed by grieving relatives. Who this child was, or where he or she may have gone, remains perhaps the most troublesome mystery to emerge from this entire episode.

  I assure the Board that my efforts to resolve these questions are not exhausted and I will continue to expend all necessary energy to provide the requisite answers.

  In lieu of the arrival of Mr. Dunmorn’s replacement, I remain, Sirs and Ladies, your most loyal employee and Shareholder,

  Lodima Bondersil

  Acting Director—Carvenport Division

  Arradsian Continental Holdings

  I

  THE RED SANDS

  What do we mean when we use the term “product,” that otherwise innocuous word that has become so burdened with significance over the course of the preceding century and the advent of the Corporate Age? Most readers, I’m sure, would reply with just one word, “Blood.” Or, if they were of a more verbose inclination, they might expand their definition thusly: “Drake Blood.” This is basically correct but has a tendency to mask the truly vast complexity of the subject addressed within the pages of this modest tome. For, as even the most superstitious Dalcian savage or illiterate Island brute can attest, there is no one type of product. I will spare you, dear reader, a fulsome technical description of each variant, and the increasing list of derivatives reaped from the carcasses of the Arradsian drake. Instead, I feel it would be more apposite, and perhaps amusing, to simply repeat a mantra taught to students at the Ironship Academy of Female Education, amongst whom I am proud to count myself:

  Blue for the mind.

  Green for the body.

  Red for the fire.

  Black for the push.

  From A Lay-person’s Guide to Plasmology by Miss Amorea Findlestack. Ironship Press—Company Year 190 (1579 by the Mandinorian Calendar).

  CHAPTER 1

  Lizanne

  Mr. Redsel found her at the prow just past sunset. It had become her habit to linger here most evenings when weather permitted, taking in the spectacle of the stars and the moons, enjoying the seaward breeze on her skin and the constant rhythmic splash of the Mutual Advantage’s twin paddles. Their cadence had slowed tonight, the captain reducing speed as they drew near to the Barrier Isles with all their hidden dangers. Come the morning the churning currents of the Strait would surround them and the paddles would turn at full speed, but for now a sedate pace and strict observance of charts and compass were needed.

  She didn’t turn at Mr. Redsel’s approach, though his footfalls were audible above the paddles. Instead she kept her gaze upon the risen moons, Serphia and Morvia, thinking it a pity their larger sister was not visible tonight. She always enjoyed the sight of Nelphia’s myriad valleys and mountains, largely free of craters unlike her pocked and scarred siblings. Benefits of a recently active surface, according to her father. But still a dead world.

  “Miss Lethridge,” Mr. Redsel said, coming to a halt behind her. She didn’t turn
but knew he would be maintaining a gap of due propriety. Her cautious observance throughout the voyage had left her in little doubt that he was far too practised to risk any clumsiness at so crucial a juncture. “I find you lost in the whispers of night, it seems.”

  Marsal, she mused inwardly. Opening with a quotation. Somewhat trite but obscure enough to convey the impression of a scholarly past.

  “Mr. Redsel,” she replied, allowing a little warmth to colour her tone. “Am I to take it the cards did not favour you?”

  The other passengers spent the evenings engaged in various amusements, chiefly consisting of cards and amateurish peckings at the aged pianola in their plush but modestly dimensioned lounge. They were mostly content to leave her be, beyond an occasional insistence on petty conversation. Shareholder status had its advantages and none possessed sufficient standing, or gall, to impose their presence to any tedious degree. Mr. Redsel, however, had been more attentive than most, though before tonight he had yet to make the approach she knew was inevitable from the moment he came aboard in Feros.

  “Mourning Jacks was never my game,” he replied. “Miss Montis took me for a full ten scrips before I had the good sense to excuse myself.”

  She allowed the silence to linger before turning to face him, hoping reluctance might entice a more revealing approach. Mr. Redsel, however, displayed a creditable discipline in remaining silent, though his decision to reach into his jacket for a cigarillo case betrayed a slight impatience.

  “Thank you,” she said as he proffered the open case, extracting one of the thin, leaf-wrapped delights. “Dalcian, no less,” she added, playing the cigarillo along her top lip to capture the aroma.

  “I find everything else is a poor substitute,” he said, striking a match and leaning closer. Smoke billowed as she put the cigarillo to her lips and sucked the flame onto the leaf. An amateur might have taken the opportunity to let the proximity endure, perhaps even steal a kiss, but Mr. Redsel knew better.

  “One should indulge one’s passions, where possible,” he said stepping back and lighting his own cigarillo before flicking the dying match away into the gloom beyond the rail. “Don’t you think?”

  She shrugged and tightened her shawl about her shoulders. “I had a teacher once who was fond of equating indulgence with weakness. ‘Remember, girls, the path to the Shareholder’s office lies not in play, but diligence.’” It was a truthful anecdote and she smiled at the memory, Madame Bondersil’s frequently stern face looming in her memory. It will be good to see you again, Madame, she thought, glancing out at the two moons shimmering on the blackening waves. Should I survive the night.

  “It seems you were an observant pupil,” Mr. Redsel said. Her words gave tacit permission for his gaze to play over her bodice where the gleam of a Shareholder’s pin could be seen through the thin silk of the shawl. “A full Shareholder at such a young age. Few of us could ever hope to rise so high so quickly.”

  “Diligence matched with plain luck is a potent brew,” she replied, taking another shallow draw on her cigarillo and tasting nothing more than finest Dalcian leaf. At least he’s no poisoner. “In any case, I would have thought you would shun such aspirations. You are an Independent are you not?”

  “Indeed, at present a syndicate of one.” He gave a self-deprecating bow. “My previous contract being fulfilled, I thought it opportune to invest some profits in finally exploring the land from which all wealth flows and makes us its slaves.”

  Another quote, Bidrosin this time, delivered with a sardonic lilt to convey his lack of sympathy with so notorious a Corvantine radical. “So, you’ve never seen Arradsia?” she asked.

  “A singular omission I am about to correct. Whilst you, I discern, are more than familiar with the continent.”

  “I was born in Feros but schooled in Carvenport, and had occasion to see some of the Interior before the Board called me to the Home Office.”

  “Then you must be my guide.” He smiled, leaning on the rail. “For I’m told there will be an alignment in but a few short months, and Arradsia is said to offer the finest view.”

  “You are an astronomer then, sir?” She put a slight note of doubtful mockery in her tone, moving to stand alongside him.

  “Merely a seeker of spectacle,” he said, raising his gaze to the moons. “To see three moons in the sky, and the planets beyond, all arranged in perfect order for but the briefest instant. That will be a sight to cherish through the years.”

  Where did they find you? she wondered, her gaze tracking over his profile. Rugged but not weathered, handsome but not effete, clever but not arrogant. I might almost think they bred you just for this.

  “There’s an observatory in Carvenport,” she said. “Well equipped with all manner of optical instruments. I’m sure I can arrange an introduction.”

  “You are very kind.” He paused, forming his brow into a faintly reluctant frown. “I am bound to ask, Miss Lethridge, for curiosity was ever my worst vice, you are truly the granddaughter of Darus Lethridge, are you not?”

  Clever, she thought. Risking offence to gain intimacy by raising so sensitive a topic. Let us see how he responds to a little set-back. She sighed, forming a brief jet of smoke before the breeze carried it away. “And another admirer of the great man reveals himself,” she said, moving back from the rail and turning to go. “I never knew him, sir, he died before I was born. Therefore I can furnish no anecdotes and bid you good night.”

  “It is not anecdotes I seek,” he said, voice carefully modulated to a tone of gentle solicitation, moving to stand in her way, though once again maintaining the correct distance. “And I apologise for any unintended insult. You see I find myself in need of an opinion on a recent purchase.”

  She crossed her arms, cigarillo poised before her lips as she raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Purchase?”

  “Yes. Some mechanical drawings the vendor assured me were set down by your grandfather’s own hand. However, I must confess to certain doubts.”

  She found herself gratified by his puzzlement as she voiced a laugh, shaking her head. “A syndicate of one. This is your business, sir? The purchase of drawings?”

  “Purchase and sale,” he said. “And not just drawings but all manner of genuine arts and antiquities. The salient word being ‘genuine.’”

  “And you imagine I may be able to provenance these drawings for you, with my expert familial eye.”

  “I thought perhaps you would know his line, his script . . .” He trailed off with a sheepish grimace. “A foolish notion, I see that now. Please forgive the intrusion and any offence I may have caused.” He inclined his head in respectful contrition and turned to leave. She let him cover a good dozen feet before delivering the expected question.

  “What is it? What device?”

  He paused in midstride, turning back with an impressively crafted frown of surprise. “Why, the only one that truly matters,” he said, gesturing at the slowly turning paddles and the twin stacks above the wheel-house from which spent steam rose into the night sky.

  “The thermoplasmic engine,” she murmured, a genuine curiosity stirring in her breast. To what lengths have they gone to craft this trap? “The great knicky-knack itself,” she added in a louder tone. “Which version?”

  “The very first,” he told her. “If genuine. I should be happy to show them to you tomorrow . . .”

  “Oh no.” She strode to his side, looping her arm through his and impelling him towards the passenger quarters. “Curiosity is also my worst vice, and once stirred one not to be denied.”

  —

  Indulgence? she asked herself a few hours later as Mr. Redsel lay in apparently sated slumber at her side. Her eyes tracked over his torso, lingering on the hard muscle of his belly sheened in sweat from their recent exertions. She had found him as well practised in the carnal arts as everything else, another fulfilled expectation. I doubt
Madame would have approved of this particular tactical choice.

  The notion brought a faint grin to her lips as she slipped from the bed. She paused to retrieve her discarded bodice from the floor before going to the dresser where Mr. Redsel had arrayed the drawings for her perusal on entering the cabin. His rather involved and inventive description of their origins had been interrupted by her kiss. She had enjoyed his surprise, as she had enjoyed what came next. For a time she had kept a lover in Feros, a suitably discreet Ironship Protectorate officer with a wife far away across the ocean and a consequent disinterest in any protracted emotional entanglements. But Commander Pinefeld had been sent to a distant post some months ago, so perhaps there had been an element of indulgence to this episode, although it had served to dispel any small doubts she might harbour about his true purpose in seeking her out.

  She had seen it as he approached his climax, face poised above hers, his objective made plain in the unblinking stare he fixed on her eyes. She had returned his gaze, legs and arms clutching him tighter as he thrust at an increasing tempo, making the appropriate noises at the appropriate moment, allowing him the temporary delusion of success in forging the required bond. She felt she owed him something. He had, after all, been very practised.

  The light of the two moons streamed through the open port-hole, providing enough illumination for an adequate perusal of the drawings. There were three of them, the paper faded to a light brown and the edges a little frayed, but the precisely inked dimensions of the world’s greatest single invention remained clear. The words “Plasmic Locomotive Drive” were inscribed at the top of the first drawing in a spidery, almost feverish script, conveying a sense of excitement at a recently captured idea. The date 36/04/112 was scrawled with a similarly energetic hand in the bottom-right corner. The imprecision of the text, however, was in stark contrast to the depiction of the device itself. Every tube, spigot and valve had been rendered in exquisite detail, the shadows hatched with an exactitude that could only derive from the hand of a highly skilled draughtsman.