“Let’s hope they also find them credible,” Lizanne replied, taking the envelope.
Trumane gave one of his short but deep coughs, stiffening into a more formal posture. “We shall proceed to a point twenty miles west of here,” he said. “The waters off Viemen’s Island. An uninhabited rock of little interest, but an easy locale to find. Also, pirates tend to avoid it. Some superstition about the place’s being cursed by the King of the Deep.”
“If my mission succeeds I shall trance with Mrs. Griffan at the allotted hour,” Lizanne told him. “Please ask Dr. Weygrand not to sedate her too heavily.”
“And if you are unsuccessful?”
“Then it’s doubtful a trance will be possible. I suggest you linger at Vieman’s Island no longer than two weeks.” She paused, discomforted by the fact that she had no alternative destination to offer.
“After two weeks,” Trumane said, “we will have no option but to risk Corvantine waters.”
She nodded, wishing she had more to say, and that she felt this man to be more trustworthy. But once again the course of events had conspired to present her with nothing but bad choices. “Best of luck, Captain,” was all she could think to say.
He gave a salute, the twitch that marred his features marginally less pronounced today. “And to you, miss.”
Lizanne went to Jermayah, took the Smoker and ammunition from him before sharing a short, wordless embrace. She then moved to where her father was crouched beneath the gondola, engaged in a last-minute inspection of the engine.
“Any problems?” she enquired.
He didn’t look up, gaze fixed on some component in the engine’s internals. “The plasma-ignition valve can hold only one charge at a time,” he said. “The released energy will last for no more than three hours. It’s ignited via a viewing tube in the gondola . . .”
“I know, Father. It’s very simple.” She pulled on the jacket Tekela had given her, finding a woollen hat in one of the pockets. Professor Lethridge remained crouched, working a screwdriver as he fixed an access panel in place.
“The feed tube to the condenser will freeze if the engine remains idle for too long at altitude . . .”
“I know that too, Father.”
He tightened the last screw and finally raised his gaze to hers. She was shocked to find herself confronted by the pale, damp-eyed face of a very frightened man. “Your aunt . . .” he began in a strained voice, then faltered, looking away.
Lizanne crouched at his side. “Aunt Pendilla loved us both and we loved her,” she said. “We were a family.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his temple. “We still are. Best stand back, Father. It’s time for me to leave.”
Tekela’s small but nimble hands darted over the aerostat controls as the craft lifted off from the Viable. She sat at the front of the gondola with Lizanne in the rear behind the central strut that connected the engine to the main body of the craft. Tekela used a large central lever fitted with a throttle to control the angle and speed of the engine. A smaller one to the left was connected to what her father had named “ailerons,” a pair of stubby wings protruding from either side of the gondola which were used to control the forward and back pitch of the craft. A pair of foot-levers directed the large rear rudder which determined the port and starboard angle. Watching Tekela engage in the complex dance of lever and pedal that sent the aerostat into the air and on the correct heading, Lizanne wondered aloud if her musical training made her such a quick student as a pilot.
“Possibly,” Tekela conceded once they were clear of the ship. It was surprisingly quiet in the gondola. With the engine positioned outside its whirring buzz was reduced to a low hum, allowing for easy conversation. “When I was little Mother would stand over me with a ruler as I played my scales on the pianola. If I hit the wrong note, down came the ruler. It made for very quick hands.”
If I’d ever met your mother I’d have wrung the evil bitch’s neck, Lizanne thought but chose not to say.
She glanced over her shoulder, seeing the rapidly diminishing outline of the Viable through the rear window. As the aerostat drew higher still the rest of the fleet came into view, dozens of ships all reduced to toy-like dimensions in the space of a few moments. Although no stranger to heights Lizanne found that such a rapid ascent brought an uncomfortable lurch to the stomach and a decided sense of disorientation. She turned away, occupying herself with checking their weapons. In addition to the Smoker they had the original mini-Growler Jermayah had constructed in Feros, plus a pair of pistols and a standard-issue Silworth rifle fitted with a telescopic sight. In Lizanne’s experience it always paid to have a long-range weapon close at hand, a lesson starkly underlined by her experience in Scorazin.
“It has a tendency to veer upwards,” Tekela said. Lizanne looked up from the mini-Growler to see her eyes in the mirror above the forward window. “Best keep it to short bursts.” Lizanne saw a shadow creep into Tekela’s eyes then and she quickly lowered them to the controls. “Heading is set,” she said, finger tapping the compass. “Jermayah rigged a kind of pulley system that’ll keep the levers at the right angle. Still have to correct for the wind though, but it makes for a lighter work-load.”
“We still haven’t spoken,” Lizanne said, “about what you saw in Feros. About Sirus.”
Lizanne saw Tekela’s slim shoulders tense beneath the bulky confines of her jacket. “I wasn’t making it up,” she said.
“I know. But it does raise some troubling questions.” She shifted forward, speaking softly. “You said he saved you. How?”
“The Greens . . .” Tekela paused to swallow before continuing. “The Greens burned their way in and Sirus was there. Standing in the wreckage of the workshop doors. He was Spoiled, but I knew him right away. I . . . I tried to kill him. I had Jermayah’s new gun and I tried to kill them all. I got all the Greens but I ran out of bullets before I could get Sirus. He just stood there looking at me, then another Spoiled came in, a woman. I didn’t recognise her but she seemed to know me, and not in a friendly way. She had a pistol . . . Sirus shot her. I could tell it wasn’t easy for him, but he did it. He did it to save me.”
She fell silent for a while, tending to the controls with an occasional pause to wipe at her eyes. “I wanted him to come with us. I asked him to, but he said he couldn’t. He told us to go.”
Lizanne reached around the central strut to grip the younger woman’s shoulder, feeling her shudder as she contained a sob. “He always loved you,” she said.
“I suppose.” Tekela gave a miserable sniff and wiped at her nose with the sleeve of her jacket. “Though Emperor knows why. I was never exactly nice to him. All that awful poetry.” She drew in a hard breath, exhaling slowly. “Still, I doubt he writes anything any more.”
“No, I don’t expect he does. Tekela”—Lizanne’s grip grew slightly firmer on her shoulder—“if he’s Spoiled it means he’s in thrall to the White. Which means the White may possess every memory in his head, every memory of you, me, the solargraph, all of it. If it doesn’t have it now, it may well soon.”
“He saved me,” Tekela insisted. “He wouldn’t betray us.”
“Not willingly. I doubt any of the Spoiled do what they do willingly, but they do it nonetheless. Saviour or not, he’s a threat to us. And I think he knows that. It’s why he wouldn’t go with you. Should we see him again . . .”