The bodies were a mix of Spoiled and Greens, though not every drake had perished. The Greens left alive after the battle had fled into the hills to the west, followed by the few surviving Reds. However, Lizanne doubted that a population of drakes would continue for very long on Varestian territory. As they flew towards the Redoubt the Firefly passed over numerous sickly drakes stumbling about the plain, both Reds and Greens. Some had already slumped into lifeless immobility and Clay opined that it had only been the White’s will that had sustained them so far from their birthplace.
“We’re still counting,” Arberus said, gaze still preoccupied by the bodies. “It could be over a hundred thousand people died here, ours and theirs.”
Lizanne glanced back at the Firefly, waiting in the courtyard with Clay and Tekela on board. She was keen to be gone but required certain assurances first, and had little time to indulge his morbid reverie.
“General Arberus,” she said, voice clipped and formal. It was enough to make him blink and turn towards her, a cautious frown on his brow.
“Back to business, is it?” he asked.
“The Spoiled,” she said. “I need to know their terms will be respected.”
So far the Varestians hadn’t ventured closer than a mile to the hill where the Spoiled congregated. The fact that the Spoiled had kept their weapons and posted a cordon of cannon around their camp might have had a good deal to do with it.
“There are few in my command with the appetite for another battle,” Arberus replied. “However, that may well change as the days pass. It’s a rare heart that can resist the lure of vengeance, and this army has a great deal to avenge.”
“Evacuate the Redoubt,” Lizanne told him. “Hand it over to the Spoiled. At least then they’ll have a strong position to defend if the Varestians turn on them. In the meantime I’ll set about meeting the rest of their terms.”
“You really think that’s possible? After all this?”
“The corporate world may have fallen, but I suspect there are still bargains to be struck in the one that has replaced it.”
A day later the Firefly rendezvoused with the Superior, resting at anchor some fifty miles south-east of Blaska Sound. Tekela skilfully steered the craft through a stiff cross-wind to set her down on the aft deck. Clay, still stooping a little but otherwise much recovered, was immediately embraced by his cousin and uncle as he stepped down from the gondola.
“How’s Skaggs?” he asked them.
“He’ll live,” Braddon Torcreek assured him. “And got himself quite a scar to boast about for years to come.”
“Sorry about Preacher, Uncle,” Clay said. “Mad as a Blue-addled rat he may have been, but I reckon I’ll still miss him.”
“At least he ain’t around to be proven wrong,” Braddon replied with a sombre shrug. “All the Seven Penitents were s’posed to perish in the Travail.”
“An impressive machine, miss.” Lizanne turned to find herself confronted with a tall man she knew instantly but hadn’t actually met. Hilemore’s gaze roamed over the Firefly in evident fascination, his military mind no doubt imagining all manner of practical uses for such a contraption.
“We had others that were more so,” she said, extending her hand. “You, I assume, are Captain Hilemore.”
“And you are Miss Lethridge.”
He gave a formal nod of his head as they shook hands. “I’m glad to see you recovered,” she said. “I had heard you were wounded.”
“Just a bump on the head. The blast from that newfangled rocket gave us a pretty hard smack. I got off lightly compared to my helmsman: broken jaw. Still, at least it’s shut him up for a while.”
“Thank you for doing this. I know you’re risking much in undertaking this mission.”
He gave a thin smile before replying, “Yesterday I received a signal from Captain Trumane to report aboard the Free Protectorate flagship as of this morning. I very much doubt he intended to offer warm congratulations and a captaincy in his new command.”
“Doesn’t that make you a mutineer? An outlaw perhaps?”
“Then little has changed. In any case, as far as I can ascertain, the laws that previously bound us no longer have meaning. Which would make me a private individual free to sail wherever I wish. Luckily, the bulk of my crew seems to share my sentiments, for the time being at least.”
“Where will you go when this mission is complete?”
“My . . . co-captain and I will retrieve her daughter from Stockcombe. After that . . .” Hilemore’s smile broadened. “I’ve a yen to do some exploring. My grandfather left a long shadow, one I’ve spent my life trying to match. But he was always more an explorer than a fighter. Perhaps that’s the legacy I should be honouring from now on. Besides”—Hilemore’s gaze darkened somewhat—“in a world that now has weapons like that rocket and your marvellous aerostat, the military path no longer has much appeal to me.”
“Without the Protectorate how will you live? A ship needs supplies, repairs from time to time.”
“There are many ports in this world, all now bursting with stockpiled goods. There are always opportunities for an honest captain to turn a profit.”
Lizanne turned as Tinkerer’s lanky form emerged from the Firefly. He stood surveying the ship and its scorched decks and damaged fittings, his usually bland features betraying a certain trepidation.
“I’ve never been on a boat,” he explained, catching Lizanne’s eye.
“This is a ship, sir,” Hilemore pointed out in polite but emphatic tones.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to become accustomed to your passenger’s manners, Captain,” Lizanne said. “Give him a cabin to himself, keep him supplied with pen, ink and paper and you’ll find him mostly tolerable.”
She went to Tinkerer, hesitating a moment before embracing him. His thin frame remained stiff and unresponsive except for the soft pat to her shoulder. “Are you sure about this?” she asked, drawing back. “Life in the new Mandinorian Republic might not be so bad.”
“A prison is a prison, no matter how comfortable,” he told her. “The memories the Artisan left me are more interesting in any case. There is a great deal still to find and study. Also, weapons are boring. They only do one thing.”
Lizanne went forward, finding Clay on the fore-deck with a young woman she recognised from the trance. “You have it?” she asked after Clay made the introductions. Kriz looked him at him before replying. When he nodded she reached for a chain about her neck, detaching a small vial and handing it to Lizanne.
“The formula,” Kriz added, giving Lizanne a strip of paper bearing a number of symbols. “I have tried to mirror the chemical notations used in this age,” she went on. “Although a plasmologist should conduct a thorough analysis before attempting to recreate it. The crystals?”
Lizanne consigned both items to her pocket then inclined her head towards the stern. “Unloaded and awaiting your inspection. A fair trade, wouldn’t you say?”