She unhooked her arm from Sirus’s and moved to crouch at Madame Dolspeake’s side, leaning close to murmur in her ear. “Tell me, madame. What were you going to do when all the product ran out? When you had wrung the last drop of blood from the last withered drake? What were you going to do then?”
Madame Dolspeake met Catheline’s gaze, matching the enmity she saw in full measure. “I . . . remember you,” she said in a thin whisper. “A spoilt little bitch . . . born to a family of wastrels. You’d spread your legs . . . for the merest chance at a gossip-column headline.” Somehow the woman managed to laugh, though it emerged from her throat as more of a choking sob. “At least . . . now your looks match your character.”
Catheline’s lips drew back in a snarl, nails extending into claws as she clamped a hand to Madame Dolspeake’s throat. A short grunt came from the White and Catheline froze, the snarl fading as she jerked her hand away as if it had been burned. Watching her retreat a few steps and take a calming breath, Sirus was compelled to wonder at the viciousness of a woman who had to be restrained by one such as the White. After a moment Catheline straightened, smoothing her hands over her skirt before staring down at the older woman with cold determination. “The Artisan’s box,” she said. “Where is it?”
For a moment Madame Dolspeake said nothing, but soon began speaking in a rapid babble as the juvenile Whites tightened their grip. “Reported lost at Carvenport, though Bloskin was certain Lethridge had placed it in her father’s hands. He chose to leave it there in the hope the man could unlock it, then seize it when he had.”
“Ah yes, Taddeus Bloskin,” Catheline said. “The esteemed Director of Exceptional Initiatives who had the good sense to blow his brains out when the city fell.” She paused for a moment, frowning in recollection. “Lethridge’s father. Presumably that would be the famous Professor Graysen Lethridge, genius inventor and denizen of this very port.” She turned a questioning glance in Sirus’s direction.
“He’s not amongst the captives or the new recruits,” he reported promptly, hoping a steady current of fear would mask the memories provoked by the name Lethridge. Tekela slaughtering the Greens with that infernal repeating gun, the balloon taking her away. As ever, the daughter of the late Burgrave Artonin retained an effortless capacity to haunt his thoughts. His disastrous wooing in Morsvale. The sight of her adorned with the ancient sapphire necklace, twirling in delight in the museum vaults, probably the only time he had managed to make her laugh. Then the moment only three nights ago when he stood naked in her sights. Out of bullets, she had said with a shrug. “I’ll have his home searched,” Sirus added, flooding his mind with all the horrors he could muster before turning his attention to the collective memory of the Spoiled.
He was careful to scour the collective minds of the recent captives for the address before issuing a thought-command to a troop of Spoiled. It wouldn’t do for Catheline to question why he already knew of the location. The search-party shared their findings as they tore through the domicile of Professor Lethridge, finding no sign of the man or the elusive musical box. Also, no sign of Katrya’s body, which Sirus had buried in the port’s largest park. He put her close to the flower-beds, thinking she might have liked that.
“Gather every scrap of paper and machinery,” Catheline ordered. “Examine them yourself, General. I think this is a task for our keenest mind.” She paused as one of the searchers cast their gaze at the workshop’s ceiling, finding it mostly absent. “No fire damage,” she observed. “Why would the professor remove his own ceiling, I wonder?”
Sirus was aware of her close scrutiny as he sorted through the mélange of images captured by the collective mind of the army the night of Feros’s fall. He had hoped the escape of Tekela and her companions might have been missed altogether. Unfortunately, it transpired that several sets of eyes had glimpsed the balloon craft as it soared over the roof-tops towards the northern shore of the island. All of those who had seen it had died in the fighting, but not before their memories had been shared with others. The vision was dull and misty, as was often the case with memories formed during combat, but clear enough to make out the dimensions of the novel conveyance and its three occupants.
“A dirigible aerostat,” Sirus said, speaking aloud once more. “I’ve read of experiments with such craft in northern Mandinor, but all were said to be at a very early stage.”
“Then the professor must be a man of even greater talent than his reputation allows,” Catheline replied. She looked up at the White who gave a throaty rumble before turning its massive head in the direction of a neighbouring building. A dozen Reds immediately rose from their perch atop the building’s roof, Sirus recognising Katarias amongst them. The huge Red took the lead as they adopted a northern course, wings sweeping in rapid arcs.
“Ingenious as it is,” Catheline said, “it didn’t strike me as the fastest of vehicles. We’ll have them soon enough. Now then,” she added briskly, clasping her hands together and returning her attention to Madame Dolspeake, “let us discuss the strength of the Protectorate Northern Fleet.”
Katarias returned two days later, appearing on the northern horizon as the sun began to fade. The Red’s wings moved in sluggish half sweeps that barely caught the cooling evening air. He glided over the harbour wall to land on the quayside, head slumped and eyes dimmed with exhaustion. Catheline ordered he be fed immediately and a trio of captives were duly dragged forward to be feasted upon. They were all in their early teens, too young to be worth converting but kept alive for the amusement or nourishment of the drakes. Madame Dolspeake had at least been spared such a fate, though Sirus doubted she saw much mercy in Catheline’s decision to cast her broken but still-living body from the headquarters roof-top.
“I would have you join us, dried-up old hag though you are,” Catheline told the Chairperson, lifting the woman’s spindly form above her head with effortless strength. “Your experience and insight might have been useful. But I find that I simply can’t stomach the thought of your mind touching mine. Any wisdom or defiance to share at the final moment?”
Madame Dolspeake raised her head, a stream of blood falling from her mouth as she tried to speak. The words were too soft to hear and Sirus doubted the woman was still capable of forming a rational thought in any case.
“Oh, never mind,” Catheline said, casting the Chairperson away. She stood watching her plummet to the ground, arms crossed and expression reflective rather than triumphant. “I doubt it would have been one for the historians anyway.”
“The other Reds died,” she explained to Sirus now, seemingly deaf to the screams and breaking bones behind her. “Flew until they couldn’t fly any longer then fell into the sea.” There was a curiously mournful tone to her voice, as if she were speaking of cherished comrades lost in a noble cause. “Thankfully, he alone managed to stay aloft and caught sight of this.”
She pushed a memory into Sirus’s head, a small bulbous speck on a far horizon. “It appears the winds carried them west. He followed for over an hour but was forced to turn back lest he share his brothers’ fate. It was long enough to discern that the professor’s marvellous contraption is losing height.”