Sirus’s mind churned with questions regarding this woman. Who is she? Why does the White dote on her as if she were one of its own? Why didn’t it kill her like the others? But the biggest mystery of all was the fact that the woman’s mind remained her own, unshared and impenetrable. However, this didn’t prevent her from invading the minds of other Spoiled.
What are you looking at?
He turned to find her standing at his side, head angled in faint curiosity. The torn and scorched dress that had barely covered her when she first arrived in Feros had since been exchanged for a formal attire of dark blue, the kind usually worn by women of the corporate managerial class. Adorning the otherwise plain jacket were four silver shareholder pins, each one taken from the corpse of an Ironship Board member. With one more to come, Sirus thought, resisting the impulse to look over his shoulder as another scream sounded.
“The search is proceeding well,” he said aloud in Mandinorian, choosing to maintain his custom of speaking rather than thinking. He was curious to see if she objected to spoken communication. Besides, with this one there was no obvious indication she had absorbed any thought he might share. He sent a subtle probe her way as she followed his gaze, hoping to detect some faint leakage of emotion. But as usual there was nothing. Trying to touch her mind was like jabbing at a wall fashioned from cold unyielding iron. He wondered if his inability to reach her thoughts was somehow related to the fact that she was only partially Spoiled. Instead of the spines and discoloured scales of his fellow slaves, her brief exposure to the Blue crystal’s light had left her with a mostly human appearance. A cluster of scales had appeared around her eyes and a series of barely perceptible bumps marred the otherwise smooth perfection of her forehead. The eyes themselves showed the most change and were another unique and mysterious facet of her story. Instead of the yellow eyes with which they had all been afflicted, hers were like two red coals set into black orbs.
“He let me choose,” she said, surprising him by speaking aloud. “I always liked the combination of red and black. It used to drive my dress-maker to distraction.”
He blinked as her unnatural gaze lingered on him, his surprise heightened by the fact that she had spoken in Eutherian. “Such a lovely tongue,” she went on. “So much more elegant than Mandinorian, don’t you find?”
Her tone and flawless accent put him in mind of the casual and meaningless chatter of the Corvantine noble class. This was the kind of exchange he used to stammer his way through whenever his father had forced him to attend a social gathering. Somehow he knew that this woman would have felt entirely comfortable in such company.
“In some ways,” he replied, also in Eutherian. “Though it remains overly archaic in many instances, and the strictness of its grammar resists adaptation to the modern world.”
“Spoken like a true technocrat.” She inclined her head, revealing slightly elongated eye-teeth with a smile. “And it’s Catheline, by the way,” she added, with a shallow curtsy. “Since you were wondering. Catheline Dewsmine of the Sanorah Dewsmines. At your service, sir.”
“Sirus Akiv Kapazin, miss,” he replied with bow. “Former Curator of Native Artifacts at the Morsvale Imperial Museum of Antiquities.”
“Once a curator, now a general.” She pursed her lips in apparent admiration. “You’ve risen high for one so young.”
“I thought you were the general now.”
She surprised him again by laughing. She had a rich laugh he knew other men had assuredly once described as delightful. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of stealing your honours, good sir. Not when you’ve done such sterling work in our wondrous cause. Your stratagems are so much more elegant and effective than that Corvantine brute. Where is he, by the way?”
“Mopping-up operations,” Sirus said. “Some survivors are lingering amongst the inland hill-country, most of them refugees from Carvenport.”
“Carvenport, eh? Will we find our elusive quarry amongst them, do you think?” There was a sardonic twist to her lips that told him she already knew the answer.
“I very much doubt it, miss.”
“Catheline, please.” She stepped closer, looping an arm through his and steering him away from the edge of the roof. “And I will call you General, since you seem so attached to the term.”
“Sirus will suffice . . .”
“Nonsense.” She tweaked his nose with a finger. “I think we should accommodate some customs from the old world, don’t you?” She turned her focus on the ghastly tableau before them, smile broadening. “Since so much of it is about to vanish forever.”
The spread-eagled body of Madame Gloryna Dolspeake, Chairperson of the Ironship Board of Directors, was suspended in mid air by virtue of each of her limbs being clutched firmly in the jaws of an adolescent White. Her silver-grey head lolled as she voiced an exhausted scream that was more of a high-pitched gasp. A surprisingly small amount of blood leaked from the jaws of the Whites, the youthful beasts having been careful not to inflict fatal damage, as yet. It would have been a simple matter to convert the woman and pluck the secrets from her head, but it seemed Catheline had a preference for complication, at least insofar as the Ironship Board were concerned.
“Pardon the interruption, madame,” Catheline apologised, switching smoothly to Mandinorian. “Please do go on. You were telling us all about the fascinating Miss Lethridge and her recent mission to the Corvantine Empire. A perilous endeavour to be sure, and all to decipher the workings of an old music-box.”
Madame Dolspeake gave no immediate response, continuing to sag in apparent exhaustion until the juvenile Whites tugged in unison, the woman’s slight form convulsing and a fresh yelp erupting from her lips. “Yes!” she grated through clenched teeth. “The box . . . the Artisan’s box.”
A low, inquisitive rumble sounded above and Sirus raised his gaze to see the White lowering its massive head. Prior to this the beast had regarded the interrogation with apparent indifference, but mention of the Artisan seemed to have piqued its interest.
“Quite so,” Catheline said. “And what exactly is in this box, pray tell?”
“Answers . . .” Madame Dolspeake whimpered, her body seeming to thrum with pain. “A key to . . .”—her gaze took on a sudden animation, eyes flashing at the huge drake looming above her—“defeating this . . . monstrosity!” She shouted the final word, pain-wracked features moulded into a mask of defiant hate. Sirus couldn’t suppress a pang of admiration at this, something which drew a sharp glance from Catheline.
“You find something noble in this wretch, General?” she enquired, her arm tensing against his. Although she was not fully Spoiled, he could feel the strength in her, and added to that was the worrisome awareness that she was also a Blood-blessed.
“Allow me to assure you this woman is not worthy of your regard,” Catheline went on, fixing her gaze on the unfortunate Ironship luminary. Sirus could see the naked hatred shining in Catheline’s red-black eyes, her lips taking on a wet sheen as she continued, “This woman and her kind have enslaved those like me for generations. But for my family’s influence they would have had me labour in their service like some slum-born slattern. Once my family would have been great and powerful, standing high in the court of the Mandinorian Empire. Now, for all their wealth they are beggars, grubbing for crumbs from the corporate table like every other slave in this world of greed, a world they created. It is they who are the true monsters. They who have raped an entire continent in their avarice and would have raped the whole world.”