Another crewman came close to succumbing to the gas as the journey wore on, Braddon managing to get a fresh mask on the man before he suffered lasting damage. After that Hilemore ordered everyone to replace their masks. He could tell from the increasingly fetid air leaking through his own mask that it was close to saturation. Finally, as the day slipped into evening the miasma began to thin. Mount Reygnar became a dim, thunderous bulk at their rear as Jack dragged the Dreadfire clear of its deadly atmosphere. It wasn’t until the last vestiges of smoke had cleared and they were once again amongst the bergs that Hilemore saw fit to remove his mask, taking a short experimental breath that he thought might be the sweetest air he had ever tasted.
“Take them off, lads,” he told the crew, heralding an outpouring of relief.
“Thank the Seer for that,” Skaggerhill said, drawing in several deep luxurious breaths as he tossed his mask over the side. “One more whiff of piss and I think I might’ve preferred the poison. No offence, miss,” he added, nodding in Kriz’s direction as she emerged on deck.
She replied with a placid nod before turning to Hilemore, speaking with a hesitancy that reminded him she was very much a stranger to this company. “Your man,” she began. “The helmsman.”
“Scrimshine,” Hilemore said. “What about him?”
She gave an apologetic sigh. “He’s dying.”
“This is all of it, sir,” Steelfine said, placing the last flask on the table. “Every drop of Green on board. Some of the lads had private stocks secreted about their person.”
“Had to shake it loose of them, I suppose,” Hilemore said.
“Actually no.” Steelfine inclined his head at where Scrimshine lay on his bunk, normally sallow features now rendered pale as candle wax as he convulsed with another bout of coughing. “Scoundrel he may be, but the lads know we’d all have perished long since but for his hands on the tiller.”
“Will it be enough?” Hilemore asked Kriz.
“I have no idea,” she replied. “I suspect my people knew less about the medicinal properties of drake blood than yours.”
“He’d need at least three full vials by my reckoning,” Skaggerhill put in. As harvester and ad hoc healer to the Longrifles he was the closest thing to a medic on board. “We’ve got”—he played a stubby-fingered hand over the assembled product—“maybe two, at most.”
“And no knowledge of what lies ahead,” Braddon added, meeting Hilemore’s gaze. “It’s a long way back to civilisation, Captain, and odds are there’ll be plenty of dangers betwixt here and there.”
Hilemore concealed a wince as Scrimshine coughed again, a deep, wet retch full of pain. The man’s a rogue, he reminded himself. Smuggler and pirate both, no doubt with a good deal of blood to account for, not to mention cannibalism. The decision was obvious and swiftly reached.
“Give it to him,” he told Skaggerhill. “All of it. Mr. Torcreek, Miss”—he went on nodding at Clay then Kriz—“please join me in my cabin. I believe it’s time we had a serious and honest discussion.”
CHAPTER 5
Lizanne
“Crow’s nest reports twenty vessels so far, sir,” an ensign related from the speaking-tube. “Bearing south-south-west. Man-o’-war in the centre, all the rest appear to be freighters. Pennants are raised but the distance is too great to make out any signals.”
“Speed?” Captain Verricks asked, standing with his hands clasped behind his back with barely a twitch disturbing his whiskers.
“Estimated at eight knots, sir,” the ensign related a few seconds later.
“A somewhat sedate pace for an attacking fleet,” Verricks mused, turning to Lizanne with a questioning glance. She had entered the bridge without permission but the fact that she hadn’t been ordered to leave said much, for the captain valued her advice.
“The White will have captured a large number of ships at Feros,” she pointed out. “It could be a ruse. Approach at a slow speed to lure us close then spring the trap.” She nodded at a spy-glass on the map table. “May I?”
“Be my guest, miss.”
She moved to the front of the bridge, taking a vial of Green from her wallet and drinking a small amount. When first viewed through the lens of the spy-glass the approaching vessels were little more than grey smudges cresting the horizon, but soon sprang into sharp clarity as the vision-enhancing effects of the Green took hold. The first one to come into focus was a Blue-hunter, clearly heavily laden judging by how low she sat in the water, her paddles labouring as smoke belched from her single stack. Lizanne tracked the glass along the line of ships, stopping when a familiar sight came into view. She had only ever seen this ship through Clay’s eyes but the lines were unmistakable, as was the Ironship Protectorate flag and friendly greeting signal flying from her mast.
“The IPV Viable Opportunity,” she told Verricks. “This is not an enemy fleet, Captain. Though I would caution you that you may be about to experience a very trying interview.”
“Trumane.”
“Verricks.”
The two captains exchanged nods. They were alone in the ward-room apart from Lizanne; Director Thriftmor, who was engaged in a thorough hunt of the room’s cupboards, presumably for more brandy; and a woman of Dalcian appearance who had accompanied Captain Trumane. The captain looked much the same as she recalled from Clay’s shared memories, his uniform an impeccable buttoned-up contrast to Verricks’s open jacket and misaligned necktie. But there was a new pale hardness to Trumane’s face. Always a stern character, albeit with occasional displays of conviviality during moments of personal triumph, he appeared to Lizanne to have lost whatever vestiges of affability or humour he had once possessed. She doubted his crew had enjoyed their time under his command since Lieutenant Hilemore’s desertion in Lossermark harbour.
Lizanne would have described the Dalcian woman as elegant but for the tattered seaman’s jacket she wore and the numerous wayward strands of hair escaping from her otherwise severe bun. “May I present Madame Hakugen,” Trumane said, extending a hand to the woman. “A senior executive of the Eastern Conglomerate and former Comptroller of Lossermark Port.”
“Welcome aboard, madame,” Verricks greeted the woman with a formal bow which was returned in kind.
“And I am very pleased to meet you, Captain,” she said with a note of relieved sincerity.
“Your reputation precedes you, Captain Verricks,” Trumane went on. “So I won’t waste time with petty demands for the date of your commission.”
Verricks gave a slight incline of his head. “Appreciated, Captain. It therefore behooves me, as senior officer, to request your report.”
Trumane hesitated, his eyes flicking to Lizanne and Director Thriftmor.
“Your pardon,” Verricks said. “May I present Mr. Benric Thriftmor, Ironship Syndicate Board member and Director of Extra-Corporate Affairs.”
“Delighted, I’m sure,” Thriftmor replied, straightening from an empty cupboard with a distressed cast to his eyes. “Captain Verricks, I wonder where I might . . .”
“I had it tipped over the side, sir,” Verricks told him. “All other liquor on board is now under lock and key, and will remain so for the duration of our current difficulties.”
Thriftmor stared at the captain, tongue tracing over his lips in an unconscious display of desperate thirst. “Oh,” he said. “Well, as important as this meeting is, I find myself suddenly quite unwell and will adjourn to my cabin . . .”