Lizanne moved forward, leaning over Tekela’s shoulder to view the landscape, her eyes tracking over the coast in search of landmarks. “Iskamir,” she said, spying a broad inlet a few degrees to the north. She gave Tekela’s shoulder a grateful squeeze. “We’re in the right place. You better take us up, high as you can, please. No telling what reception we’ll get from the locals.”
The island of Iskamir was often referred to in atlases and almanacs as the “jewel” or “beating heart” of Varestia, the central hub where pirates came to sell their booty and traders to buy it. As they flew over the eastern coast Lizanne was struck by how many ports it featured, all surrounded by towns of varying proportions. It occurred to her that this might well be the most densely populated land-mass on the globe, meaning the place had to be reliant on imported cargo to feed its population, as the interior was mostly mountains or rough hill-country. Not a place to hold out for very long in a siege, she concluded as the aerostat drew away from the coast and into the mountains. The peaks were so tall Tekela had to slow the craft and steer a way through them, hauling on the controls with ever more energy thanks to the fractious air currents and drifting patches of mist.
“Best if we fly around this place on the way back,” she said, her labour having left a sheen of sweat on her face despite the chill.
Once through the mountains they flew across a thin stretch of cultivated fields before once again finding themselves over the sea as they reached the strait that separated Iskamir from the unique construction that formed the Seven Walls. It came into view quickly, at first appearing to be a dark strangely regular notch on the horizon, but soon grew to a size that put her in mind of the mountains they had just traversed. She knew the great fortress’s origin dated back at least a thousand years and was a truly ingenious design; a small central island complete with a port around which a series of seven walls had been constructed between the smaller outlying islets. The result was a self-contained port permanently shielded from the tide on all sides. However, during the days when the old Varestian League had fought the last of its wars against the encroaching Corvantine Empire it had been greatly enlarged. The walls now stood over a hundred feet high featuring a miniature fort at each intersection. Once again making use of the riflescope, Lizanne could see each fort bristling with guns and busy with ant-sized figures running to their stations. It appeared their approach had not gone unnoticed.
Within the walls lay the port itself, so crammed with buildings, wharfs and jetties Lizanne could see scant sign of vegetation save for the occasional tree. I hope they’ve been stockpiling food, she mused. The only open space was a central square surrounded by a series of grand buildings, the largest of which she assumed would house the Varestians’ quasi-government.
“We’ll land there,” Lizanne said, pointing to the square.
“The forts?” Tekela asked in a thin voice. They were close enough now to see the gun-crews loading their pieces.
“Let’s hope they have enough honour to observe traditional customs.” Lizanne went to the canvas bag she had obtained from Captain Trumane. The item it contained was large and unwieldy, taking several tiresome minutes to extract. When it was done she dragged it to the hatch in the gondola’s floor.
“Hover in place for a moment,” she told Tekela. “We need to make sure they see it.”
She opened the hatch as Tekela duly brought the craft to a slow sideways drift, then fastened the ties attached to the corners of the item to the main strut before pushing it out. The flag unfurled to its full length thanks to the stiff winds found at these heights, revealing a design Lizanne hoped would still be recognised in these uncertain times; a white circle on a red background. Even the Varestians were reputed to respect the universal signal requesting truce and negotiation.
They drifted for several minutes as the flag fluttered and flapped below the aerostat. Lizanne kept careful watch on the closest fort, detecting a certain amount of confusion amongst the gun-crews, and no small amount of accompanying argument. She even saw a couple of men come to blows, but no cannon were fired.
“Take us in,” she told Tekela. “A slow and gentle approach would be best.”
She was obliged to cut the flag free once they were over the wall as it was coming perilously close to fouling the engine’s propellers. They would just have to hope the Varestians didn’t take this as a signal of hostile intent. People thronged the wharfs and streets as they flew over the port towards the square, most staring in wonder or suspicion, a few running in panic. There were numerous ships at anchor and many began to make steam at the sight of the aerostat. None of this gave Lizanne much confidence in a safe landing, but they couldn’t turn back now.
Tekela guided the aerostat to a hover when they came to the square, then slowly reduced the heat of the caloric burner to ensure a gentle congress with the ground. One of Jermayah’s design additions to the aerostat was retractable landing gear that sprouted from the gondola’s underside and rather resembled a metallic eagle’s claw. Tekela deployed it when they were a few feet from the square’s paved surface and the aerostat settled down with only a small bump.
“Excellently done,” Lizanne complimented her, peering through the window at a group of men rapidly descending the steps of the large building to their front. There were about twenty of them, and each one bore a rifle or carbine. “You had better go out and greet our hosts.”
Tekela gaped at her. “Me?”
Lizanne went to the rear of the gondola and began assembling the required equipment. “I’ll be along directly,” she said, strapping on her Spider.
“What do I say to them?”
“‘Hello’ is traditional.”
“I don’t speak Varestian.”
“Don’t worry. They’re almost always multilingual.”
Tekela hesitated for a long, silent moment then undid the forward hatch and climbed out of the gondola. Lizanne heard the pounding of boots as the men drew near and fanned out, one of them demanding something in harsh, breathless Varestian.
“Ah,” Tekela said. “Hello.”
There was a short pause, during which Lizanne used the Spider to inject a small burst of Green before moving to the rear hatch.
“Who the fuck are you?” the same voice demanded in heavily accented Mandinorian. “And what the fuck is this?”
“My name is Burgravine Tekela Artonin,” came the response in admirably steady tones. “And I don’t see any need for profanity, sir.”
“Trust me, girl,” the voice went on, growing louder as its owner drew closer, “a foul tongue is the least of—”
His words were drowned out as Lizanne stepped out from under the gondola, raised the mini-Growler and let loose with a prolonged burst of fire. She found Tekela was right about the weapon’s tendency to pull up when fired, it was also somewhat unwieldy thanks to the ammunition load and the miniature caloric engine required to spin the barrels. Consequently, even with the benefit of Green Lizanne’s aim was not as precise as she would have liked. The mini-Growler stitched a vertical line of bullet-holes up the edifice of the largest building in the square before transforming one of the statues on its roof into a stump of shattered marble.
Lizanne removed her finger from the firing mechanism, lowering her gaze to find that the men who had come to greet them were all now lying face-down on the paving-stones. She strode forward, focusing her gaze on the upturned face of the man who had addressed Tekela. In normal circumstances he would probably have been an imposing fellow, with his weathered face and sabre-scarred cheeks. Now he was just another scared man facing death. It was an expression she had grown used to recently.