“Couldn’t they have taken us with them?” Makario asked around a mouthful of bread. Lizanne had noted that his usual decorum, and refined accent, had slipped somewhat during their time in the boat.
“I doubt it can lift more than two persons at a time,” Tinkerer replied, eyes locked on the receding craft and head presumably filling with numerous design improvements. Lizanne wondered if her father would welcome the artificer’s input and found herself doubting it. Though the prospect of their meeting did fill her with a certain guilty anticipation.
She retrieved the flask of Green from the sack and sat beside Sofiya. Removing the stopper, she held the flask up to the woman’s nose in the hope the scent of product might provoke her into some kind of animation. Instead, she was rewarded with only a small nose wrinkle.
“Drink,” Lizanne said. “It’ll restore you.”
That drew a response, Sofiya turning her head to regard Lizanne with a vacant stare. “Can you restore my husband, Miss Lethridge?” she asked, her tone light and conversational. “The father to the child I carry. Can you restore him?”
Lizanne saw it then, the way the woman’s hands were clasped over her belly in a tight protective shield. “Emperor’s balls,” Makario muttered. “Just what we need.” He fell silent as Lizanne shot him a warning glare.
“No,” she said, turning back to Sofiya. “I cannot.” She reached out to prise the woman’s hands apart, placing the vial in her palm. “But I can keep you both alive. Don’t you think he would want that?”
Sofiya stared at the vial in her hand then put it to her lips and took a small sip, Lizanne taking some gratification from the faint colour she saw blossom in the woman’s cheeks.
“So what now?” Makario asked.
“We eat,” Lizanne said, reaching for the sack again. “And await rescue.”
“It may have escaped your notice, miss,” Captain Trumane said. “But, since Captain Verricks and Director Thriftmor can no longer be counted amongst the living, command responsibility for this fleet now rests with me. I’ll thank you to leave decisions regarding our course in my hands.”
They were alone in his cabin, Lizanne having been granted an interview only after the most strenuous insistence. Captain Trumane, it seemed, had none of Captain Verricks’s pragmatism when it came to advice offered by an Exceptional Initiatives agent.
Lizanne hadn’t been offered a seat but took one anyway, slumping into the chair opposite the captain’s desk and running a weary hand over her forehead. It had taken three hours for the Viable Opportunity to appear and rescue them, and most of that time had been taken up with coaxing Sofiya into eating something. She was in the care of the ship’s doctor now, a highly capable and affable man named Weygrand Lizanne recalled from some of Clay’s memories. Glancing up at Trumane’s arch, imperious visage above his steepled fingers, she couldn’t help but wish events had conspired to keep this man in a comatose state, which would have placed the good doctor next in line for command.
“As a matter of professional courtesy,” she began with all the politeness she could muster, “what is our present destination?”
She saw Trumane’s face twitch in an unconscious expression of discomfort. It was probably some effect of his prolonged coma and it told her a great deal. Wherever we’re going, he’s not happy about it.
“Given our current fuel stocks, not to mention the supply situation,” Trumane replied, “there is only one viable course.” His face twitched again and he let out a small cough before continuing. “Varestia,” he said. “Specifically the Red Tides.”
Lizanne stared at him, her lips curling as she contained an incredulous laugh. “I know only a little of your career, Captain,” she said. “So please correct me if my memory plays me false. Is it not the case that for most of your active service you have been engaged in antipiracy operations?”
Trumane coughed again. “Quite correct.”
“So, it would be a fair assumption that your name and reputation will be well known amongst piratical circles.”
“A fair assumption indeed.”
“Then please explain to me why sailing into the most pirate-infested region in the world at the head of an unarmed fleet of civilian vessels is such a good idea.”
“There is nowhere else!” Trumane slammed his hands onto the desk, face twitching with renewed intensity. He glared at Lizanne for a long moment before composing himself, leaning back and straightening his uniform as he added, “Not unless you think it wise we try our luck in a south Corvantine port.”
This was a point Lizanne was forced to concede. There was little prospect of finding safe harbour in one of the ports on the southern Corvantine coast. The region was a hotbed of Imperial loyalists and the chaos caused by the as yet incomplete revolution would surely make for a hostile reception from the local authorities. But the welcome they would receive in Varestian waters might well be worse.
“The Viable is the only warship in the fleet,” she said. “Even with two Blood-blessed on board to fire the engine and augment the defences, it won’t be able to protect every ship from seizure by pirates.”
“Not all Varestians are pirates,” Trumane replied. “Though they do tend to be universally greedy. They formed a government of sorts after the Empire lost control of the region, the seat of which is located at the Seven Walls. We will sail there and seek asylum in return for suitable compensation from the Ironship Syndicate.”
“The Seven Walls sits at the heart of the Red Tides,” Lizanne pointed out. “That’s a considerable distance to cover without drawing unwelcome attention, regardless of what agreement we might want to make.”
Trumane’s brow furrowed as he spent a moment in silent calculation, before his expression brightened fractionally. “Then we have your esteemed father to thank for providing the means of sending an advance party,” he said, the first smile Lizanne had seen him make appearing on his twitching face. “Miss Lethridge, please do not worry that I might dissuade you from volunteering for such a mission. I feel that keeping you cooped up aboard ship would be a singular waste of your talents.”
“It’s supposed to have a frame.”
Lizanne smothered a laugh as she watched Tinkerer unceremoniously pluck the pencil from her father’s hand and begin sketching lines on his blueprint. From the look on the professor’s face she deduced he was simply too shocked to voice an objection.
“A rigid envelope allows for more capacity and durability,” Tinkerer went on, the pencil moving in swift, precise strokes across the diagram. “And stronger fabric. Silk is far too fragile.” He stopped drawing and stepped back, turning to regard her father’s rapidly darkening countenance.
“And why,” Professor Lethridge began, voice possessed of a distinct quaver, “should I take any advice from the likes of . . .”
“Three concentric rings connected by diagonal cross-beams,” Jermayah broke in, lips pursed as he surveyed the altered blueprint. “You know, that might actually work, Professor.” He raised an eyebrow at Tinkerer. “Materials?”
“In the absence of a bespoke composite alloy, hollow copper tubing would be the best substitute.”
Professor Lethridge gave a snort but, Lizanne noted, failed to voice any further objections as Tinkerer went on to make additional modifications to the design for an improved aerostat. “The control surfaces are too small . . . Increased lifting capacity will allow for the addition of a second engine . . .”