Hilemore’s anger abruptly switched from icy to hot, and he felt a red flush creep over his cheeks as he leaned forward, meeting Clay’s reluctant gaze. “Understand this, Mr. Torcreek. I do not take orders . . .”
“He’s right,” Zenida interrupted.
Hilemore rounded on her, rage swelling further, then paused at the hard but insistent honesty he saw in her gaze. “This crew didn’t follow me,” she told him. “They followed you, through battle, mutiny, drake fire, ice and deadly gas. You might think I chose to wait for you, but you’re wrong. I knew if I had attempted to sail away they would have hung me from the mainmast and continued to wait until they froze. I cannot command this ship in your absence. That is the simple truth, sea-brother. You belong here.”
Hilemore rested his clenched fists on the map, trying to calm the thumping in his temples. The worst thing about being a captain, Grandfather Racksmith told him once, is recognising that you’re the most important man on the ship. And that’s a burden of responsibility few men can stand, for you no longer have the luxury of pride. “How will we know if you’re successful?” he said, his hard, grating voice breaking what he realised had been a protracted silence.
“I can trance with Captain Okanas,” Clay said. “Reckon we’ve been in each other’s company long enough for a viable connection. Anything happens to me, then Lieutenant Sigoral can trance in my stead. Anything happens to him, well, we’re most likely all dead and you need to sail for Varestia.”
Hilemore swallowed, feeling his rage subside into a nauseous anger. “Very well,” he said. “Assuming you reach the Krystaline, what then?”
Kriz stepped forward, placing a sheaf of papers on the table. Peering closer, Hilemore saw they were mechanical designs, but the device depicted was unfamiliar. It appeared to consist of a large sealed tube attached to a frame and something that resembled an upended metal fish-bowl. “What is that?” he asked.
“A subaquatic breathing apparatus,” Kriz said. “We’ll need to explore the lake-bed to locate the aerostat and recover what we need.”
“You can build this?”
She nodded. “There are sufficient materials on board to construct it. But I’ll require education in how to operate your welding gear.”
“The Chief will be busy, it seems.” Hilemore straightened, breathing deep to banish his anger, though a simmering core of it remained. It was selfish, he knew. Born of a desire to see the Interior for himself. For all its many dangers his time on the ice and the wonders witnessed there had birthed a thirst for more. Perhaps it’s in the blood, he mused. Grandfather was an explorer after all. But this was an active-duty warship and exploration would have to wait for more peaceful days.
“We will clear the Firth and enter the Lower Torquil by tomorrow evening,” he said. “Weather and drakes permitting we should reach the mouth of the Quilam River three days later. All your mechanicals will need to be complete by then. Let’s be about it.”
Chief Bozware used the Superior’s largest launch as the basis for his steam-powered river-boat. Taking his cue from the Superior’s own radical design, he opted for a propeller-driven craft rather than paddles. “Too complex to put together in the time available, sir,” he advised Hilemore during a visit to the makeshift workshop on the fore-deck. The Chief appeared tired under the usual sheen of oily grime, but the enthusiasm for his task shone through nonetheless. The shaft was a length of iron pole fashioned from a ceiling beam taken from the crew quarters. The propeller had been constructed of copper tubing from the ship’s hot-water system, the pipes flattened and welded into three identical blades. “With this it’s just two separate components instead of ten.”
“And the engine?” Hilemore enquired.
Bozware pulled back the tarpaulin covering a bulky shape in the centre of the launch. To Hilemore’s eyes the unveiled contraption resembled a greatly enlarged iron top hat sprouting from a dense nest of copper and iron tubing. “Luckily, the Corvies had a decent stock of spares for their auxiliary power plant,” Bozware said. “So the gearing and pipe-work weren’t too difficult. The boiler and condenser were another matter. Had to purloin a good few of cookie’s pots and pans from the galley, plus some deck-plates from the hold.”
He slapped a hand to the engine, a glimmer of pride evident in his besmirched features. “Reckon she’ll do a good ten knots in calm waters, if she’s stoked high enough.”
Hilemore turned to where Braddon Torcreek stood appraising the craft in his now-habitual silence. “Will ten knots suffice, do you think, Captain?” Hilemore asked him.
Braddon shrugged and muttered, “It’ll have to.” With that he stalked off towards the crew quarters. Hilemore had seen men succumb to grief before, crewmates who had learned of the death of loved ones on return to port. Some would lose themselves in drink, others whores or gambling and a few could be expected to tip themselves over the side during a lonely midnight watch. In Braddon’s case the man neither drank nor gambled, nor showed any inclination to suicide. Instead when not compelled to take part in a discussion he sat in his cabin repeatedly disassembling and cleaning his guns.
It’s not self-pity that’s snared this one, Hilemore decided, watching Braddon disappear belowdecks. It’s revenge. Which may be worse.
The Lower Torquil soon lived up to its reputation for troublesome sailing. Captain Tidelow, having taken a vote amongst those members of his crew not incarcerated in the brig, had opted to stay with the Superior. Both ships sailed through the Barnahy Firth and into the Lower Torquil without incident, finding mostly calm blue waters reflecting the clear sky above. However, the wind stiffened as the day wore on and the waters soon grew choppy. By late afternoon they were regularly swept by heavy torrents of rain and the wind had whipped the inland sea into a minor storm. They were forced to reduce speed and Leading Deck Hand Scrimshine obliged to work ever harder at the wheel to maintain their heading.
“Apparently it’s all due to geography, sir,” Lieutenant Talmant commented to Hilemore as they steadied themselves on a pitching bridge. “The prevailing wind comes from the west at this latitude and picks up increased velocity as it passes over the Torquils. It then slams into the natural barrier of the Coppersole Mountains, producing a kind of huge, high-pressure vortex.”
“Fucking fascinating that is,” Scrimshine muttered as he hauled on the wheel, low enough for only Hilemore to hear.
“Steady, Mr. Scrimshine,” Hilemore snapped causing the half grin to vanish from Scrimshine’s face. Recently promoted and decorated he may be, but that was no excuse for a lack of respect between ranks.
He turned his attention to the prow where Clay had continued to perch himself, despite the weather. Through the squall Hilemore caught occasional glimpses of Jack’s scales, glittering in the fading light as he broke the surface. The younger Torcreek reported that the beast was unnerved by his new surroundings, finding the relatively shallow waters and confines of the Torquils a marked contrast to his vast home waters. However, his senses remained sharp and so far the Blue hadn’t detected any sign of another drake.