I’m not sure. The welcome we’ll receive in the Red Tides is . . . uncertain to say the least.
Dealt with a fair few Varestians in my time. They’re a practical folk above all else, and they got spies everywhere. They have to know what’s been happening, or at least a good deal of it. Could be they don’t need as much persuading as you think. Besides which, there’s a service you could do me in Varestia.
He went on to explain about Zenida Okanas and her father’s connection to whatever lay beneath the waters of Krystaline Lake. A place called the High Wall, Clay told her. She says he had a pile of maps there. They’ll be useful if we’re gonna find this thing.
I’ll see what I can do, Lizanne replied. She paused and their shared mindscape took on a darker hue as the knowledge of what had befallen Feros struck home once again. What will you tell your uncle? she asked.
The truth. Think he and Lori deserve that much. Lines of deep red began to snake through the moon-dust like miniature lava floes. Grief took many forms in the trance, it seemed that in his case it burned. Looks like we both lost an aunt, huh? And Joya. Was hoping I’d see her again one day.
We don’t fully know what happened yet, she replied. There may yet be a chance some people escaped. The refugees were ever a resourceful lot. It was scant comfort, something else they both knew, but it was all she had.
Where are you now? she asked, happy to alter the topic of conversation.
Saw our last iceberg two days ago, so a good lick farther north. Captain Hilemore reckons another two weeks before we sight Arradsia. Would be quicker if we weren’t nurse-maiding that old Blue-hunter. They’re awful scared of Jack. Makes me nervous.
The connection thrummed as Lizanne’s Blue began to fade. Guess it’s time to say our farewells for now, Clay observed.
Wait. Lizanne drew one of her whirlwinds closer and formed it into one of his shared memories, the aerostat of marvellous design he had used to escape the world below the ice. I need more images of this. Anything you can remember. And anything that woman told you about it.
Think you can copy it, huh? he asked, swiftly moving to comply. Nelphia’s surface sprouted a new crop of memories, the dust blossoming into a panoply of image and sensation.
The drakes hold a very singular advantage over us, she replied, opening her mind to drink in all the knowledge before the Blue ran out. If we can contest the skies, we may have a chance.
CHAPTER 10
Hilemore
They were forced to leave the Dreadfire behind. Hilemore had briefly considered taking her under tow but that would have required leaving a skeleton crew on board and they had barely enough hands for the Superior as it was. He took possession of Captain Bledthorne’s charts and log, thinking they would be a boon to any historian, especially one with deep pockets. Following a brief solo inspection to ensure every scrap of anything useful had been removed from the hold he strode across her deck for what he knew would be the last time.
“Sorry, old girl,” he whispered, running a hand over her timbers before stepping onto the gang-plank. “I doubt you’d have liked the modern world, in any case. It’s far too noisy.”
“Sir?” Steelfine asked from the other side of the walkway.
“Nothing, Number One.” Hilemore crossed to the Superior, gesturing for the gang-plank to be removed. “Let’s get these lines cast off and see her on her way.”
“Could set a fire in her belly, sir,” Steelfine suggested. “Give her a decent funeral. The King of the Deep’s been expecting her, after all.”
“Then he’ll have to wait awhile longer.”
Hilemore lingered to watch the old ship slip away from the Superior’s port side. The prevailing currents swept southwards in the Whirls and soon the Dreadfire was drawn back into the channel through which she had carried them to safety. Despite her lost masts and many wounds, Hilemore thought she still retained a defiant aspect, as if all the long years in the ice and the recent fury of battle had been unable to dent her pride. “Perhaps,” he commented to Steelfine, “in a century or two she’ll provide a refuge for some other desperate souls.”
He waited until the Dreadfire had vanished completely into the maze of ice before turning about and striding towards the bridge. “Weigh anchor and signal the Farlight to make steam and take the lead. It’s only proper since they know the way out.”
It transpired that Lieutenant Talmant had done an excellent job of clearing a channel through the Chokes to the open sea. The young officer had used his stock of explosives wisely, blasting a course through the obstructing ice that was narrow but straight enough to eliminate the need for any tricky manoeuvring. Hilemore had ordered Talmant and his small squad back to the Superior, seeing little need to maintain a supervising presence on the Farlight now their escape route had been secured. In fact Hilemore nursed a secret hope the Blue-hunter might decide to follow her own course once free of the Chokes, thinking Captain Tidelow and his crew more of an irksome burden than useful allies. But, upon reaching the open sea the other ship duly fell in behind the Superior as she set her bows due north. So far she showed little sign of shirking the warship’s protection.
Scrimshine, against the odds generated by the growing pool of bets on the possibility of his demise, recovered from his gas-related illness seven days after the ships cleared the Chokes. Having been released from the sick bay on Skaggerhill’s advice he stood in the bridge entrance, swaying a little as he offered Hilemore a clumsy salute. “Reporting for duty, Skip—” he began before correcting himself. “Sir.”
Scrimshine’s already cadaverous face had been rendered even more gaunt and his colour was pale. However, what distracted Hilemore the most was the fact that the man was wearing a Protectorate uniform for the first time since joining the ship. Furthermore, it appeared to have been cleaned and pressed.
“Skipper will do, Mr. Scrimshine,” Hilemore told him. “I’ve grown accustomed to it.” He gestured at the wheel, which had been manned by Talmant for the past week. “Relieve the lieutenant at the helm, if you please. The heading is north-north-east.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore went on, “note for the log. Deck Hand Scrimshine hereby promoted to the rank of leading deck hand. Also, awarded a mention in dispatches for his outstanding actions during recent operations.”
“Very good, sir.”
He saw Scrimshine straighten a little as he took the wheel, but the former smuggler gave no other indication he had heard. “Heavy cloud ahead, Skipper,” he said instead. “Sitting low on the horizon. Looks like we’re in for it.”
“When aren’t we, Mr. Scrimshine?”
This brought a restrained chuckle from the others on the bridge and a small flare of reassurance in Hilemore’s breast. After all I put them through, they can still laugh, he thought. His good humour, however, evaporated with the arrival of Claydon Torcreek some minutes later. The Blood-blessed’s face was as grim as Hilemore had seen it. Beyond him Braddon Torcreek held his daughter in a tight embrace, tears streaming down the young gunhand’s face, which was for once rendered ugly as she strove to contain her sorrow.