“A mile?” Lizanne squinted at the calculations on Tinkerer’s blackboard, finding little meaning in any of it.
“If the device is constructed according to specifications,” he told her. “There may be some variation in the blast radius according to variable weather conditions, but a mile is a reasonable estimation in most instances.”
She gave a slight shake of her head, more in wonder than doubt. “How?”
“Using a kerosene-gelatine mix in place of a standard fuel, an oxidiser-based explosive will generate a more energetic and sustained blast wave.” He blinked at her blank expression and added, “It will work. Trust me.”
“And it can be carried by an aerostat?”
“As long as crew numbers and additional weight are kept to a minimum.”
She stared at the board for a moment longer, pondering the implications of unleashing such a device upon the world. It was only one of several notions Tinkerer had proposed since emerging from his coma. The time spent imprisoned in his own mind had evidently generated a great deal of inventive energy, much of it of a worryingly destructive nature. If he can make this, she thought, what else can he make?
“Manufacturing time?” she asked.
Tinkerer turned to her father who had been summoned from the aerostat shed for an engineering opinion. “It will require transferring labour from other tasks,” he said. “Meaning no more rockets. And I’ll have to conduct some experimentation with materials . . .”
“How long, Father?” Lizanne insisted.
“Ten days, to make one device. And I’ll need a thousand workers to do it.”
“I’ll give you double the work-force,” she said, “to make two.”
Gadara’s Redoubt was in fact a chain of forts rather than a single holdfast. They were linked by a series of walls that followed the line of a ridge dominating the interior of the isthmus in an inverted U. The elevated position afforded clear views of the landward approaches. The Redoubt’s main keep consisted of a huge rocky mound which had been honeycombed over the course of succeeding decades to accommodate a number of chambers of varying sizes, providing enough space to house several battalions of troops. The mound was crowned by a narrow tower in a poor state of repair, though enough of the steps remained to allow Lizanne to climb to the top. She found Arberus there, binoculars held to his eyes as he surveyed his troops on the plain. It was a week since the conference aboard the Viable, and the army encamped below had grown to over fifty thousand fighters.
“How goes the training?” she asked him as she reached the top.
“It proceeds with varying success,” he said, a faintly sour note to his voice. “The Varestians excel in marksmanship and close-quarters combat, but ask them to march in line and they descend into a childlike state.”
“Is it strictly necessary to march in line on a modern battlefield?”
“Military discipline requires cohesion, the ability to work as a team. Drill is a useful way of instilling such discipline. These people know how to fight, but I contend they don’t yet know how to war.”
“Then they’d best learn quickly.”
He lowered his binoculars at the seriousness of her tone, eyebrows raised. “You have news?”
“I just tranced with Morva. The columns are returning to the main camp, with numerous captives in tow. We can expect them to march within the week. It’s time, General. Please muster your forces and advance to the Jet Sands with all possible haste.”
CHAPTER 42
Clay
“You’re certain this will work?” Hilemore asked him.
“I ain’t certain of anything much these days, Captain,” Clay replied. “But I do know there’s no way this fleet’s gonna make it across the Orethic in the state it’s in. But a blood-burner might.”
Hilemore turned away from him and moved to the starboard rail. Clay could almost feel the man’s guilt as his gaze tracked over the burnt and blackened fleet. In addition to the damage done the cost in lives had been heavy, as had the toll in wounded. Every ship still afloat reported sick bays full of burnt and maimed crew. Fully half their stocks of Green had already been expended in keeping the wounded alive.
“Just one battle,” Clay heard Hilemore murmur to himself.
“One battle don’t make a war,” Clay said. “The fleet may be done but the war ain’t.”
“You would have me abandon them?”
“Lutharon’s lost all scent of any Blues. They’re either dead or fled. The fleet can make its way back to Stockcombe.” He steeled himself for what he had to say next, aware of the likely reaction but also knowing it had to be said. “They did what we needed, anyways. If we’d tried to sail alone the Blues would’ve done for us.”
He refused to look away as the captain rounded on him, a dangerous glint in his eye. Since meeting Hilemore Clay had thought him incapable of breaking, a man so bound up in duty and the need to do what was right it was impossible for him to waver. Now he saw just a man like any other. Braver than most to be sure, and expert in fighting at sea, but still just a man who could be borne down by guilt. At another time it might have stirred Clay’s empathy. But today, with so much at stake, it just made him angry.
“If you ain’t gonna do it,” he went on, voice hardening, “give us the Endeavour and me and the Longrifles will sail on alone. You can run on back to Stockcombe and take a nice big bath in your self-pity.”
Hilemore’s fists bunched as he started towards Clay, his face the rigid mask of a man intent on violence.
“Sea-brother,” another voice said. It was softly spoken but still managed to bring Hilemore to a halt. Zenida stood close by, Akina at her side. “He’s right,” Zenida said, casting a sombre glance at the fleet. “They fought bravely but they’re done. Time to send them home. But we still have work to do.”
Evidently the Varestian’s word carried more weight than Clay’s, Hilemore’s aggression leeching away as he straightened, nodding stiffly. “The Endeavour will go with the fleet . . .” he began.
“No,” Zenida broke in. “Two blood-burners stand a better chance than one.” She sighed and turned to her daughter who, Clay saw, had begun scowling again, this time with even more ferocity than usual. “Though I would ask that you request Captain Tidelow find a spare berth.”
Steelfine had to carry Akina across the gangway to the Farlight, kicking and screaming all the way whilst her mother looked on in stern-faced silence. The girl had twisted away when her mother tried to embrace her, spitting curses in Varestian until Steelfine stepped forward to hoist her onto his shoulder.
As Akina was being forcibly disembarked others were coming aboard. Colonel Kulvetch and thirty of her Marines arrived by boat. Another twenty volunteers from amongst the ranks of the Voters were embarking the Endeavour. In addition to the increase in crew each ship was being loaded with extra cannon donated by the other ships. Some captains, the Dalcian pirate woman and Captain Gurkan chief amongst them, had also offered to have their ships towed by the blood-burners but Hilemore forbade it as impractical.
Every ounce of Red remaining to the fleet had been divided equally between the two blood-burners, meaning they would be able to sail on thermoplasmic power all the way to Varestia. A great deal depended on the weather but Hilemore estimated they would reach the Red Tides within ten days. The only issue remaining was the question of what to do with their allies.