The Waking Fire Page 21

  The captain ordered the Viable’s pumps into action when they got to within forty feet of the pirate, the gun-crews taking up the hoses to play jets of water over the stricken vessel. They were required to stay at it for a good ten minutes before the flames and smoke had dampened sufficiently to allow boarding.

  “Away the grapples!” Steelfine shouted as the Viable drew even closer to the Windqueen, the range now no more than twenty feet. There was no sign of any opposition, nor even a glimpse of the crew beyond the few charred corpses littering the wreckage. The boarding party threw their ropes with practised accuracy, the grapples biting into the pirate’s timbers as the ropes were drawn tight. “Haul hard, lads!” Steelfine called, continuing to exhort them to greater efforts until they finally bumped hulls with the other ship.

  “Ladders up!” Hilemore ordered, moving to the rail with Steelfine at his side. “Once we’re aboard,” he told the Islander, who, he saw, now stood with a sea-axe in hand. “Take ten men and sweep belowdecks. Subdue any opposition and make efforts to secure whatever cargo they may have stolen.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Hilemore drew his sword as the last boarding ladder slammed into place, hopping up onto it and waving for the men to follow. “Time to earn your sea pay, lads!”

  He led them over in a rush, the men yelling at his back, either in eagerness or a desire to conquer their fear. Once aboard, however, he found there was little reason for trepidation, save the danger posed to a weak stomach. A man lay dead on the fore-deck, his torso separated from his lower half and guts liberally strewn about in a tangled red smear. Curiously, although much of the corpse was scorched and blackened, his face remained unmarked and free of soot. Varestian, Hilemore decided without surprise, noting the angular features common to those born to the Red Tides. Was there ever a more piratical race?

  “Chuck it up if you’re going to, lad,” he told a green-faced youth standing near by and staring at the carnage with wide, unblinking eyes. “Better out than in.”

  He glanced over to see Steelfine’s squad descending into the smoking guts of the ship then conducted a thorough search of the wreckage. They found another dozen corpses in various states of mutilation and one that appeared to be completely untouched, a muscular fellow of Dalcian lineage who was quite dead despite no obvious signs of injury.

  “It’s the blast, sir,” one of the riflemen said, a veteran judging by his age and the way he held his Silworth. “Smushes up the innards but leaves the outers be.”

  Hilemore turned at a shout from another man, seeing a diminutive figure being hauled from a smoking pile of timber. “Caught us a fish, sir,” the rifleman said. “Only a tiddler, though.”

  The captive couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, stick-thin arms visible through the ragged clothing he wore. He stumbled to his knees as the sailor dragged him to Hilemore, breathing in hard, choking sobs, face averted. Hilemore knew it was custom for Varestian youth to take to the seas at an early age but could scarcely credit why they would take one such as this on a pirate cruise.

  “Sea-brother,” Hilemore said in his basic but passable Varestian. The captive’s face abruptly snapped up, eyes wide in surprise and fear. A brief scan of the delicate if besmirched features told Hilemore his mistake. “Sea-sister,” he corrected. “Where is your captain?”

  The girl said nothing, though a hard narrowing of her eyes indicated it was more due to defiance than shock.

  “What d’you want done, sir?” the veteran rifleman enquired. “They didn’t strike their colours and pirates got no protection under the law. No consequence to just slinging her over the side.”

  Hilemore ignored him and cast his gaze about the deck, watching his men poke the smoking wreckage with their bayonets. It was all quiet but for the rustle and clatter of untended rigging. “There’s nothing else here,” he said then nodded at the kneeling girl. “Take this one back to the Viable. I’ll question her later. Tell the captain the rest of the crew appears to have been accounted for.” He moved towards the hold, speaking over his shoulder. “I’ll be taking inventory of the cargo with the Master-at-Ar—”

  Something large and bulky exploded from the hold in a cloud of splinters, ascending to a height of near twenty feet before crashing back down onto the deck with a sickening thud. Steelfine, Hilemore realised, watching as the Islander tried vainly to rise, teeth bared in a snarl and axe still in hand, eyes fixed on the figure emerging from the hold.

  “Arms up!” Hilemore barked, too late as the wave of force swept over them, sending rifles spinning and several men over the side. He himself was thrown from his feet and sent crashing into the part-ruined paddle casement. The air rushed from his lungs, forced out by the impact, leaving him gasping. His vision dimmed as he slid to the deck, seeing a shadowy figure move away from the hold on unsteady legs. He watched one of the fallen rifles rise into the air and fly towards the figure who raised a hand to catch it with almost casual ease.

  At least one Blood-blessed on board, Hilemore thought, watching the figure raise the rifle and point it at Steelfine.

  CHAPTER 14

  Lizanne

  Kill her. Lizanne’s finger had stalled just a fraction short of the Spider’s firing point. The girl continued to stare at her, mouth open and eyes wide. Perhaps it was her eyes that did it, bright and uncomprehending, so free of the spite she had shown earlier. Or perhaps it was the fresh tears still glistening on her cheeks. Kill her!

  From beyond the door came the sound of movement on the first-floor landing followed by Burgrave Artonin’s tired call. “Who is abroad at this time of night, pray tell?”

  I’ll have to be quick, Lizanne decided. One shot for her then another for him from the foot of the stairs. Tricky but not impossible. Then she would gather up all these wonderfully enlightening papers and be on her way. It would be prudent to set fire to the house as well. The servants would be sure to provide an excellent description of the mysteriously vanished maid who started work only that morning.

  Instead she just stood there, aiming her pistol and finding, much to her surprise, she was quite incapable of shooting a fifteen-year-old girl.

  “Well?” came an impatient query from upstairs.

  Tekela blinked and turned slowly to the doorway. Her first attempt to speak ended in a cough but she swallowed and tried again. “It’s just me, Father,” she called, voice thin but loud enough to carry. “I mislaid my slippers.”

  Lizanne heard the Burgrave sigh an exasperated curse. “Well, look for them in the morning.”

  Tekela turned back to Lizanne before replying, voice smaller now. “Yes, Father.”

  Lizanne heard Artonin’s door close and waited a few seconds before lowering the Whisper. “Close that,” she whispered, nodding at the study door.

  The girl hesitated then slowly swung the door closed, wincing at the slight squeal from the hinges. Lizanne saw her take a deep breath before turning back to confront her. “My father is a good man,” she said. “You won’t hurt him, will you?”

  Lizanne closed the ledger on the desk and returned it to the hiding-place in the bookcase, making sure the contents matched her memorised glance before securing the concealing edifice in place.

  “He is not a traitor,” Tekela said. “No matter what lies are spun against him. He is loyal to the Emperor.”

  She thinks I’m Cadre, Lizanne realised, her regard for the girl’s courage going up a notch. She turned back to meet her gaze, eyes lingering again on her still-damp cheeks. “Bad dream, miss?”

  Tekela flushed and wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her night-dress. Lizanne saw that her hands were trembling. “Please,” she said. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but . . .”

  “We’ll talk further in the morning, miss.” Lizanne moved to the girl’s side, pausing to whisper in her ear. “Speak of this and I will kill everyone in this house. Now, follow your fath
er’s instruction and go to bed.”

  —

  The Mad Artisan. The drifting clouds of Madame Bondersil’s mindscape flickered as she searched her memory. Not a tale I’m familiar with. You’ve passed it on to Mr. Torcreek, I assume?

  Yes, Madame. Not less than two hours ago. His command of Blue is improving but still lacks discipline.

  And the Longrifles’ progress?

  Safely aboard the Firejack, not without some drama apparently.

  Drama?

  A pack of wild Greens attacked Stockade. I’m afraid Torcreek indulged in some unwise bravado. Rest assured I cautioned him against any repetition.

  Greens attacking Stockade. Madame’s clouds took on a reddish tinge of surprised concern. Not an occurrence I ever thought I’d hear tell of again. There was a pause as she reordered her thoughts, the clouds soon taking on the same familiar, serene drift.

  I’ll start delving into the archives, she told Lizanne. See if there’s any mention of this mysterious Corvantine genius.

  There is another matter, Madame, Lizanne told her, forming one of her whirlwinds into an accurate depiction of the fan-like device she had seen affixed to the Regal’s hull.

  What is that? Madame asked.

  I was hoping you would know. Or, if not, then I suspect Jermayah would.

  She saw Madame twist one of her clouds into a near-exact copy of the image Lizanne had provided. There are other warships at harbour in Morsvale, I assume?

  Ten that I saw.

  Do they also feature this device?

  I didn’t have the opportunity to conduct an extensive reconnaissance. However, I doubt it. The Regal is a recent arrival and the other vessels appear to have been stationed in Arradsian waters for some time. Also, she was carrying a passenger of some importance. Grand Marshal Morradin is now in Morsvale. He was greeted on arrival by a full company from the Scarlet Legion.

  Madame’s clouds grew red once more, their drift transformed into a sudden roil. Troubling, was her only comment.

  Quite, Lizanne agreed. A ship of the Regal’s power in Arradsian waters is concerning enough. But the presence of Household troops coupled with Morradin’s arrival . . .

  Duly noted, Lizanne. Rest assured your intelligence will be passed to the Protectorate as a matter of urgency. In the meantime you have a primary objective and we cannot allow any distractions, however pressing they may appear.

  Her mindscape was now a simmering storm, dark with authority and shot through with something Lizanne hadn’t seen before. This was their first shared trance for the best part of a decade, and the colour and shape of Madame’s thoughts remained much the same as she remembered. But now she saw dark tendrils spreading throughout the clouds in brief, convulsive spasms, tendrils that had started to grow at mention of a development that might impede her pursuit of the White. Indeed, Madame, she assured her mentor. I have several lines of enquiry to pursue.

  The storm lessened, the tendrils shrinking into small, flickering vines. Good. I await your next report with interest.

  Thank you, Madame. She began to close the connection then stopped at Madame’s insistent thought.

  And, Lizanne?

  Yes, Madame?

  You know the girl has to die.

  Madame’s mindscape vanished, leaving Lizanne adrift amongst her whirlwinds and pondering the folly of trying to hide anything from someone so well versed in the trance. More troubling, however, was the lingering image of the tendrils coiling through Madame’s clouds. So, she thought. That’s what obsession looks like.

  —

  Tekela was waiting by the carriage after breakfast, pale of face and somewhat red-eyed beneath her bonnet. Despite her countenance Lizanne found herself struck by how pretty she was now that all vestige of a scowl had vanished, thinking her face as close to being genuinely doll-like as she had ever seen. “Apologies for my lateness, miss,” she told the girl with a curtsy. “I do hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  Tekela said nothing, simply staring at her in numb silence.

  Lizanne gave a brief glance at Rigan, who stood with crop in hand next to the carriage’s duckboard, regarding Tekela with a puzzled frown. Lizanne moved to her side, offering a hand and gesturing at the carriage. “Shall we be about it then? I truly think you will like this dress.”

  The girl gave a stiff nod and took the proffered hand, Lizanne leaning close as she climbed into the carriage. “Rebuke me,” she whispered in Eutherian.

  She met the girl’s startled glance and gave a barely perceptible nod accompanied by an insistent glare. “You . . .” Tekela began, stumbling over the words and attempting to imbue her tone with the customary waspish edge. “You will not last long in my father’s house like this,” she managed, though her words were coloured by a slight stammer. “Any further lateness and you’ll be turned out . . . Turned out into the street with no pay. Wouldn’t like that would you?”

  “No, miss,” Lizanne assured her with deep solicitude. “I surely wouldn’t.”

  “Enough dawdling.” The girl waved a hand at Rigan. “Let’s be away, boy.”

  Rigan tipped the peak of his cap and climbed onto the duckboard, setting the horse to motion with a gentle swish of his crop over its rump. Tekela sat in rigid silence as they made their way along Hailwell Gardens towards the northern quarter, her gaze fixed on Lizanne, who sat opposite engaged in a careful examination of the passing buildings. Morsvale was much more uniform in architecture than Carvenport, each house closely resembling its neighbours with their pillared porches and high, sloping roofs. In the poorer districts people lived in long rows of terraced brick-built housing, their walls dark with decades of accumulated soot. Lizanne doubted there was a building in the city less than fifty years old. They’ve stagnated here, she decided, recalling one of the many mantras beloved of the managerial class: progress through competition, competition through progress.

  “Are you a thief?” the girl burst out finally, though with sufficient presence of mind to speak in Eutherian. “Or a spy?”

  Lizanne turned to her, lowering her voice. “Not so loud, if you please, miss.”

  Tekela flushed under the weight of her stare, then replied in a softer tone. “The boy doesn’t understand us.”

  “No. But he might wonder why a maid can speak the noble tongue.”

  “So you’re a spy then. A thief wouldn’t know Eutherian.”

  Lizanne looked at her in silence, wearing an expression of placid expectation.

  “I know you’re not Cadre,” Tekela said. “They would just arrest us all. Which makes you a corporate saboteur. I know about your kind, you want to destroy the empire and make us all slaves.”

  Lizanne replied with a raised eyebrow.

  “I know you won’t kill my father,” the girl said, a note of triumph in her voice. “Or the servants, or me. If you were going to you’d have done it last night.”

  Horror she may be, stupid she is not. “And if you were going to expose me you would have done it by now,” Lizanne returned.

  Tekela’s brow took on a sullen frown and she looked away. “I hoped you’d be gone this morning,” she mumbled. “And the Cadre . . . Father doesn’t like them, and they don’t like him.”

  “Why?”

  The girl hesitated and Lizanne heard the lie in her muttered response. “I don’t know.” Tekela’s face tensed and her eyes flashed at Lizanne in wary accusation. “But if they knew you had even set foot in our house . . .”

  “They won’t. And as for destroying the empire, I’m afraid my objective is far more modest and I suspect you may be in a position to help me achieve it.”

  “And why should I do that? Since you’re not going to kill me, or anyone I care about, what threats can you make?”

  Lizanne scrutinised Tekela’s bearing closely for a moment, discerning less anger and uncertainty th
an she would have expected from a young girl finding herself ensnared in so dangerous a circumstance. There was a glimmer of something in her gaze, something more than fear or adolescent self-interest. Excitement, Lizanne realised. All her tantrums are just a mask for boredom and now she’s found a new game.

  “The servants seem to think your father is likely to place himself in the poorhouse,” Lizanne said. “The cost of your education and wardrobe being so exorbitant.”

  The ghost of a habitual pout played over Tekela’s lips. “Is that what spies do? Pay heed to commoners’ gossip?”

  “Yes, it is frequently what spies do. Useful information comes from a wide variety of sources and snobbery can be a fatal indulgence in my business.” She realised her voice had taken on an impatient edge, not dissimilar in fact from the inflection adopted by Madame Bondersil when her students failed to grasp the simplest of lessons. “What if,” she went on in a more moderate tone, “you could have all the dresses, shoes, bonnets and jewels you want? And your father could have a whole mansion full of books and ancient artifacts to puzzle over? Would you like that?”

  Tekela was silent for some time, small lace-clad hands fidgeting and a variety of emotions flicking across her doll-like face. “Your employers are wealthy then?” she asked.

  “Wealthy is a supremely inadequate term with which to describe my employers.” Lizanne smiled and leaned closer. “Your father owned a box, very old and valuable. It had a Eutherian inscription on the lid referring to the White Drake. I know he sold it at auction recently. Did you ever see it?”

  The girl frowned, eyes narrowing in calculation. “What do you want it for?”

  Lizanne shook her head. “Oh no, miss. If we are to enter into an arrangement information will flow but one way.”

  Tekela’s mouth took on a downward curve, as if she were about to embark upon another tantrum. However, a glance at Lizanne’s steady gaze seemed to cure her of the temptation. “Plague take bonnets and dresses and jewels,” she said. “I want passage out of this dreary city and a house in Feros for Father and me. I hear it’s a very interesting place.”