“Tranced with Miss Lethridge this morning,” Clay said. “I got news.”
He ordered the news shared with the crew. It may have been wiser to spare their morale by concealing the truth, but Hilemore felt it best to ensure they knew the reality of the situation, however grim it might be. Many crewmen had family in Feros, it was the largest Maritime Protectorate base after all, and the knowledge of its fall left a thick pall of despair over the ship. He kept them distracted with constant drills and much-needed repairs. Prolonged exposure to freezing temperatures had left many of the fittings and armaments in a poor state, in addition to causing much of the ship’s paint-work to flake off. The hold yielded a decent stock of paint in various hues and Hilemore ordered the renewed colour scheme to feature both Protectorate blue and Corvantine green. Although the remaining Corvantine crew were small in number, he was keen to emphasise the fact that, despite being a ship of several different allegiances, they had but one common purpose.
The possibility of an attack by Blues was a constant worry, albeit alleviated by Clay, who spent most days on the prow in silent communion with Jack. The huge Blue would range out ahead of the ships, his remarkable hearing able to detect his drake brethren over huge distances. Consequently, they were able to avoid the danger as Clay related a series of course changes to steer them clear of trouble. However, he also provided a warning.
“He says they’re hunting us,” the Blood-blessed told Hilemore during the evening watch. It was Clay’s habit to remain at his post until midnight before retiring for a few hours’ sleep. He sipped the coffee Hilemore had brought him with a tired but grateful grin. “The White’s got ’em scouring the southern seas for us. Ain’t sure how it knows what we’re about, but it surely does, and it don’t like it.”
“Can’t he . . .” Hilemore fumbled for the right words. “Talk to the other Blues, somehow. Tell them to leave us alone.”
“He can talk, but they ain’t listening. They only got ears for the White. That’s how it was centuries ago when it rose before. That’s how it is now. To them Jack’s just another enemy in need of killing.”
Hilemore inclined his head at the crew quarters. “Has she been any more forthcoming with her intelligence?”
“Kriz? Not really. Seems right fascinated with your ship’s library and charts and all. Hard to get her head out of a book just now, though it could be just a ruse to stop me asking questions. Fact is, until we get where we’re going, I doubt she’ll tell us anything she ain’t already.”
“Land in sight, Captain,” Talmant related from the speaking-tube connected to the crow’s nest. “Sea and sky reported clear of enemies.”
“All stop,” Hilemore ordered, Talmant promptly relaying the instruction to the engine room via the bridge telegraph. “Drop anchor and signal the Farlight to draw alongside. Tell them I also request Captain Tidelow’s presence for a conference.”
“I put us here,” Hilemore said a short while later, tapping a compass-needle to a position on the chart laid out on the ward-room table. In addition to Captain Tidelow he had summoned Zenida, Clay, Braddon and Kriz to the conference. Braddon was the only one seated, placing himself at the far end of the table and paying scant attention as he stroked his beard, eyes brooding and distant. Hilemore hadn’t heard him speak more than a few words since receiving the news about Feros and the man’s bearing didn’t invite conversation. By contrast, his daughter had been highly vocal in her grief.
The night after Clay had related the news that her mother was most likely dead Loriabeth had contrived to get drunk on a cask of rum purloined from the ship’s diminishing stores. She spent an hour or more at the stern, raging profanities into the sea air in between blasting imaginary enemies with her twin revolvers. Hilemore had ordered her left alone until she became so insensible as to mistake one of the life-boats for a drake. It was Lieutenant Sigoral who calmed her, grabbing her about the arms and chest as she attempted to reload her guns and put another salvo of bullets into the life-boat’s hull. The Corvantine held her as she twisted and spat in his arms, speaking softly into her ear until the rum in her veins finally drew her into an exhausted slump. Sigoral then carried her back to her bunk, staying by her side until morning.
“Forty miles due south of the Barnahy Firth,” Tidelow said, eyes tracking a westward course over the map. “Which would make Stockcombe the nearest port.”
“We’re not going to Stockcombe,” Hilemore said. He took a pencil and sketched out a route from their current position and into the Firth.
“The Lower Torquil.” Tidelow frowned as his finger tapped the small inland sea. “That’s some tricky sailing, Captain. It’s a fractious stretch of water, small though it may be.”
“So I’ve heard,” Hilemore agreed. “And even trickier when we get to the Upper Torquil.”
Tidelow moved back from the map, shaking his head. “The Upper Torquil is said to be richer in aquatic Greens than any other place in Arradsia. Hardly the safest course in the circumstances, sir.”
“But our course nonetheless.” Reading the deep uncertainty on Tidelow’s face, Hilemore added, “One you are not obliged to follow, sir.”
“What fine choices you give me.” Tidelow let out a sardonic laugh. “Follow you into drake-infested waters or sail alone to Stockcombe in the faint hope there might be someone left alive there to reprovision us.”
Hilemore turned to regard Braddon’s silent bulk. “Your counsel would be welcome, Captain Torcreek. I’d hazard there are few souls who know the Arradsian Interior better than you do.”
For a prolonged moment Braddon didn’t respond, continuing to stare into the middle distance until Clay said softly, “Need your help here, Uncle.”
The elder Torcreek gave his nephew an impassive glance then got to his feet, moving to regard the map for several seconds. “Northern flank of the Upper Torquil is mostly marshland,” he said, voice flat as he swept a hand over the numerous water-ways that characterised the region. “Impassible on foot or boat except for here.” His finger came to rest on a particular river at the northernmost point of the Upper Torquil. “Quilam River. Named for one of the fellas first discovered the Torquils. Current’s fierce but it’s the only means of making it to the plains country west of the Krystaline without going through the Coppersoles.”
“I got no desire to see them again,” Clay commented.
“The depth of the river?” Hilemore asked Braddon.
“Should accommodate the Superior for about half the way, after that we’ll need a steamboat of some kind to make it the rest of the way. Oars won’t do it, the current’s too strong.”
“I’ll set Chief Bozware to the task,” Hilemore said. “I’m sure he can rig something up. Been awhile since I commanded a small steam craft. I’m sure I can still remember how.”
“Erm,” Clay said, giving a small cough of discomfort. “Miss Lethridge had opinions on this matter, Captain. Thinks it’s best you stay with the ship this time.”
Hilemore stared at him, feeling an icy anger stealing over him. “She thinks that, does she?” he enquired in a low voice. “How very interesting.”
“Says you now command the most advanced warship in the world,” Clay went on with an apologetic shrug. “Probably, with all the Corvie ships sunk and all. You and this ship are too valuable an asset to risk. If we don’t make it back from the Krystaline you should sail for Varestia and aid with the defence. Said you can regard it as an order from Exceptional Initiatives if it helps.”