‘We know,’ Britha said. She had met merchants before. They were always very proud of their ships.
‘They are demon ships,’ Kush said. ‘Their unnatural power will move faster than even the Will of Dagon.’
‘Take us as far south as your nerve will allow you,’ Britha said. Hanno glared at her. ‘My nerve, woman, was tried in battle when you were still an infant wriggling in your own shit, and not against the likes of the savages you have on your small cold island.’
‘Well argued,’ Britha said, smiling. ‘So you’ll have no problem taking us.’
‘If you can pay,’ he said, crossing his arms.
Britha cursed herself for not taking any of the Cirig’s gold. They had died on the red beach wearing their torcs, silver for the cateran and gold for the mormaer. She had not taken it because she had not earned it. Such gifts were for those who had proved themselves in battle as warriors. When they were defeated they belonged to the victors. The Cirig expected nothing less when they met enemies in battle. That said, these considerations seemed foolish in the face of practical requirements, but if they let their ways go, what was left of them? It was her job to keep, even enforce, their ways no matter how hard or inconvenient it was. She felt shame at wanting to barter away gold and silver bought with skill, strength and blood.
Britha had not noticed Teardrop staring at Fachtna. He sighed and took off a finely wrought silver torc wrapped around his left arm. It was in the style of the Goidel, not as chunky and chain-like as those worn by the Pecht.
‘I will cut off a piece of this for you,’ Fachtna told Hanno.
‘Then you will spoil it for us, as we will soon own all of it if you wish passage south,’ Hanno said.
‘That is a gift worthy of a mighty mormaer,’ Britha said angrily. ‘One that you have not earned with mere trade.’
‘So haughty, walk if you prefer. I’m sure your demons will wait.’
‘This is not a good way to behave,’ Britha told the merchant. ‘You are taking advantage of us.’ People just didn’t act like this; they asked a fair price for the service rendered. They did not steal from you just because they knew you needed what they had to offer.
‘Britha,’ Teardrop said softly. She lapsed into a fuming silence. Fachtna reluctantly gave Hanno the torc.
‘We would also like to seek passage,’ the old man from the kneelers said.
‘All seem to seek the demons this night,’ Hanno said as he turned to the man. ‘But can you pay?’
18. Now
Du Bois was hungry. He was hungry because he had been on the go for the better part of three days and his body’s augmentations wouldn’t let him become tired, or indeed ever operate at anything other than heightened peak performance. He was sitting in the mess at Fort Southwick eating as much high-calorie food as he could, as quickly as possible. His body processed the food with near-total efficiency and turned it into energy.
Portsmouth had been locked down. Police and military blockaded the three bridges onto the island. Du Bois didn’t think it would help much and was largely of the opinion that it had been done to be seen to be done in what was being portrayed as a terrorist incident. He had, however, quietly circulated a picture of Natalie Luckwicke to those manning the blockades but he couldn’t imagine getting that lucky. The press were on to what they thought was a suspect, and Control had D-noticed the press to make sure that her picture didn’t get out.
Du Bois had come to the conclusion that Natalie had indirectly been the cause of what had happened in the nightclub and that somehow someone must have imbibed her blood. He wasn’t even sure where to start with that – drug dealers, blood clinics or just some mixed-up kids with syringes of blood, and if that was the case did it mean that Natalie was dead?
He knew the DAYP were in the city but was wondering if someone or something else was involved. Judging by the interrogation and mutilation of Arbogast, they were after the same thing as he was, though he hoped that they did not understand its significance. However, when he seeded the rats and the insects and set up AI monitoring of the imagery looking for traces of Natalie, he discovered that there were parts of the city that the rats just simply did not go, mostly in the southern part of Portsea Island towards the Solent. The seeded insects just disappeared when they went far enough south, as if they were encountering some kind of blood-screen. One problem at a time, du Bois decided, unless that was where she was hiding. A manual search of the seafront was rapidly becoming the only option. He would not like to be Control having to explain that to the Home Office. Their influence was incredibly strong but not total. The people of Portsmouth and Southsea were not going to like having their homes searched by soldiers and police regardless of the reason.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ Du Bois looked up at the soldier. To his eyes he seemed far too young to be in uniform, though he himself had been much younger when he had first joined the order as a squire. ‘There’s a woman here to see you, sir.’
Du Bois wasn’t sure what irritated him more, the mere presence of his brother here while he was working, or the fact that he had ridden his motorcycle. He decided it was the riding of his motorbike. The 1949 C series Vincent Black Shadow gleamed black and silver in the sun. The bike, along with his piano, were the possessions he prized most, the two things that gave him genuine pleasure.
Alexander, though it was difficult to think of him with that name looking at his distinctly female body, was leaning against the bike wearing leathers. His jacket was lying over the bike, and the tight black strapped top was causing a number of the soldiers on guard at the gate to stare. Knowing his brother, he had been flirting with them before du Bois arrived.
Alexander was taller than him, his long hair dark where du Bois’s was light, finely featured, his cheekbones were V-shaped slashes that could either make him look like a goddess or completely wicked. They had the same blue eyes though. Alexander’s body was full and statuesque. He would not have been out of place on a catwalk.
Even as a child, Alexander had been effeminate; du Bois had to protect him. He remembered his lack of comprehension when he discovered that Alexander liked to dress up in female servants’ clothes. He remembered nightmarish times travelling across Europe, Alexander disguised as a woman, fear of his brother’s proclivities being discovered, du Bois down on his knees morning and night praying for forgiveness for himself and deliverance for Alexander.
He had sought a cure for him, so he would not be damned to hell; instead he had found the Circle. Their access to L- and S-tech meant that Alexander could be whatever he wanted. Alexander had finally become a woman in the early nineteenth century. Du Bois had tried to accept it, envious of the way his younger bother could embrace each new age, disapproving of how he could embrace the excesses of each age as well. During a particularly bad argument in Marrakesh in the 1970s, Alexander had screamed at him that he was a fully functioning hermaphrodite. It had been too much for him. Du Bois had fled the argument, the Red City and North Africa.
Fully functioning hermaphrodite or not, Alexander was female-identifying now and wanted to be regarded as a woman. In this age nobody seemed to care, and even du Bois with his background could not see the harm and felt that God had greater sins to judge than Alexander’s. His own, for example.
‘Malcolm!’ Alexander cried happily and threw herself into her brother’s arms for a hug. Du Bois returned the hug uncomfortably.
‘What are you doing here, Alexander?’ he whispered. He was not pleased that she had even been able to find him. Someone in the Circle must have told her. He didn’t like the security ramifications of that. It smacked of a loss of hope.