“You should have waited,” Lizanne said, voicing the critique of an experienced burglar. “Your visit was too fresh in his memory, it was inevitable that he would connect you to the theft.”
Makario voiced a faint laugh. “It was just too tempting, you see. Like dangling a full bottle of best brandy before the eyes of a hopeless drunk. But it was a wonderful week alone with those pages, almost like being in the presence of Illemont’s ghost. I barely rose from the pianola, so lost was I in the music. I’m not claiming it was worth all those years in Scorazin, but it was worth a great deal nonetheless.”
“The Burgrave was well connected, I assume?”
“No, but his wife had a smidgen of Imperial blood and some of the other pages I stole had been gifted to her by the Emperor himself. The Moonlighter had offended the Divinity and could no longer be tolerated, however entertaining his skulduggery might be. The Burgrave received a visit from the Cadre, who didn’t take long to piece it all together. I suppose I should be grateful they didn’t amputate my fingers before throwing me into the great smokey pit. But then, I would never have met you, dear Krista, and I feel my life would be much poorer for the omission.”
“Lizanne,” she corrected. “As I’ve told you many times. My real name is Lizanne.”
“Oh,” he said with a wistful smile, raising the flute to his lips once more, “you’ll always be Krista to me. It was her who set me free, after all.”
She was woken by the ship’s siren sometime around dawn. The signal, two short blasts followed by two long, wasn’t one she had heard often and it took a moment to place it: “vessel in distress sighted.” She dressed quickly and checked that the vials in her Spider were fully loaded with product before strapping it to her wrist. She made her way to the bridge where the duty officer had his glass trained on something about thirty degrees to port. Through the bridge window she could see an ensign haranguing a squad of sailors on the lower deck as they manoeuvred a launch over the side.
“What is it?” she asked the duty officer, who obligingly handed over his spy-glass. She had no need of Green to make out the target, a bulbous shape silhouetted against the red morning sky, bobbing as it made an irregular but inexorable descent towards the waves. Realisation dawned instantly. This could be only one thing, a thing she had seen the designs for a few months before, and there were very few people capable of constructing it in so short a time.
“Distance?” she asked the duty officer.
“Just over a mile,” he replied.
Lizanne kept the spy-glass to her eye for a moment longer, tracking from the aerostat to the sea then back again as she gauged how long it would be before the craft completed its descent. It was too far, she knew. The launch wouldn’t get there in time.
“Keep the ship at dead slow,” she told the duty officer, handing back the spy-glass and making for the door. “Steer thirty degrees to port. On my authority if the captain has any questions,” she added before stepping outside.
Lizanne moved to the walkway in front of the bridge, depressing a button on the Spider to inject a full vial of Green. She took a second to steady herself as the product flooded her system before vaulting over the walkway railing and making her way down the cruiser’s upper works via a series of spectacular leaps before landing next to the boat party. They had succeeded in getting the boat over the side and lowered so that it bobbed on the swell. The wind was up this morning and the sea choppy, adding yet another level of difficulty to her task.
“You.” Lizanne pointed to the ensign in charge. “Take the tiller. You and you.” Her finger jabbed at the two burliest sailors in the party. “Get in. The rest of you stand away.”
She leapt over the side and landed in the middle of the boat where she immediately sat and hefted a pair of oars into the rowlocks. “Hurry up!” she ordered, seeing her three chosen crewmates staring down at her. The ensign reacted first, barking a command at the two sailors who had them following him down the netting on the Profitable’s hull.
“Don’t bother,” Lizanne told the two sailors as they began hauling the oars into place. “You’ll just upset my rhythm. Ready?” she asked, turning to the ensign who had obediently taken position at the tiller. He gave a tense nod and Lizanne raised the oars. “Hold tight,” she said, and began to row.
CHAPTER 6
Clay
“You have maps?” Kriz’s expression was guarded as she asked the question, and she avoided the hard, inquisitive gaze Hilemore afforded her before moving to where his pack lay in the corner of the captain’s cabin.
“The southern ice-shelf and the Chokes,” he said, extracting a rolled-up sheet of waxed parchment and laying it out on the desk. “The only one I was likely to need once we disembarked the Superior.”
Clay watched Kriz survey the map then shake her head. “No. I need a map of . . .” She paused and he knew she had been about to voice a name from her own era. “Arradsia,” she finished, a slight roll to her eyes giving an indication as to what she thought of the continent’s modern-day title.
The captain’s jaws bunched a little in evident impatience but he said nothing as he opened a desk drawer. “Captain Bledthorne may have been a poor pirate,” Hilemore said, extracting a sheaf of papers, “but he was a decent enough seaman to recognise the value of charts. I suspect he stole most of them. The condition is surprisingly good, something to do with the sterility of the atmosphere I assume.”
“Freezing temperatures kill most of the corrupting agents in the air,” Kriz said, her attention fixed on the charts as she sorted through them. “Here,” she said, pointing to a small map that Clay recognised as a rendition of south-eastern Arradsia. Although he had little notion of what Kriz intended, he was unsurprised when her finger alighted on a familiar landmark.
“Krystaline Lake,” he said.
“My people called it ‘The Divine Mirror.’” A sad smile of recollection played over Kriz’s lips. “On calm nights the surface would reflect the stars almost perfectly. It was a place of pilgrimage during the summer months where the Devos would gather to give thanks to the Benefactors.”
Hilemore let out a soft grunt, clearly irritated by what must sound to him like gibberish. “And the importance of this place today?” he enquired.
“There’s something there.” Kriz’s hand went to the small crystal she wore on a chain around her neck, the one with which Zembi had tried to kill her. So far she hadn’t revealed its significance to Clay beyond a single word: memory. “Something important.”
“Miss,” Hilemore said in a tone of controlled anger, “as previously stated I have no more tolerance for vagary or obfuscation. Speak plainly and tell me exactly what is at Krystaline Lake and why it is so important.”
Kriz looked at Clay, clearly seeking support, but his own desire for answers was at least a match for the captain’s. “I don’t see any more reason for secrets,” he told her.
“The knowledge I hold is dangerous,” she said, eyes switching between Clay and Hilemore. “Dangerous to you, your whole civilisation . . .”
“We have a more pressing danger to deal with,” Hilemore cut in. “As Mr. Torcreek has told you.”
“The White.” She nodded, closing her eyes, face downcast. “I know, and you are right to fear it. We never dreamed it would be capable of so much . . . hatred.”