“Noted.” Hilemore inclined his head. “But I’d thank you to leave command decisions to me.”
“O’ course.”
Clay moved to the rail and clambered over, descending the rope net to the Lady Malynda. Kriz was tending the engine whilst Skaggerhill had the tiller. Loriabeth and Sigoral were seated in the middle whilst Preacher sat close to Braddon at the prow. Clay waited for his uncle to say something, hoping he would turn and offer at least some word of command to set them on their way. Even the smallest grunt would have been welcome. But he said nothing, continuing to sit and maintain his hungry vigil over the water. Clay opened his mouth to call to Braddon but stopped when Loriabeth caught his eye and gave a stern shake of her head.
“Daylight’s burning,” he said instead, lowering his gaze to Kriz. “If she’s ready, let’s be on our way. Lori, Lieutenant, eyes on the water. Preacher, watch the sky. It’s a safe bet we’ll have company before long.”
CHAPTER 13
Lizanne
“Ten million in Syndicate scrip, eh?” The broken-nosed man grinned at Lizanne as he lowered Trumane’s letter. “Quite the offer, don’t you think, Mother?” He held the letter out to the prim, neatly attired woman who stood close by. “Have a gander at the signature. I think you’ll find it amusing.”
The woman’s handsome features remained impassive as she scanned the letter, though her lips curled a little when she got to the end. “‘Your faithful correspondent, Captain Wulfcot Trumane,’” she read before raising her eyebrows at Lizanne. “Or ‘Captain Noose’ as he’s known in these waters. I must confess, Miss Lethridge, but for the manner of your arrival I might otherwise have taken this as a rather poor joke.”
“I have no jokes to offer you,” Lizanne replied. “Just an honest offer in return for safe harbour, and sound intelligence I believe you will find useful.”
“Your captain hung my cousin on the deck of his own ship,” the broken-nosed man said, then frowned and added, “Well, second cousin, and a truly rotten bastard to be sure. But still blood of my blood. And my people are all about blood. But then so are you. After all, it’s your name, isn’t it? Miss Blood?”
Lizanne and Tekela had been guided to a grand room on the second floor of the building the Varestians referred to simply as “The Navigation.” The title apparently derived from the building’s original use as the home of the Loyal Guild of South Corvantine Cartographers and Navigational Experts. The map-makers and compass designers had long since been exiled back to their northern homelands, but the building remained, complete with its appropriate and overwhelming decor. Maps were everywhere, hanging in tapestry form on the walls, rendered in oils on huge canvases, reproduced as floor mosaics and even plasterwork reliefs on the ceilings. She assumed this particular chamber had been some kind of ball-room, the floor covered from end to end in a vast map of the world which, judging from the florid Eutherian lettering and place names, dated back to the early corporate era.
Apart from herself and Tekela, the only other occupants were the broken-nosed man, his handsome of face if somewhat severe of demeanour mother and a man of South Mandinorian origin clad in curiously archaic clothing. Lizanne had quickly judged this man to be the most salient physical threat, not least by virtue of his cutlass and pistol, but also his muscular frame and set features, tensed as if in constant expectation of combat. She also deduced from the way the broken-nosed man moved about the room that he was not to be under-estimated either.
“We know who you are, you see?” he went on. “Famed Defender of Carvenport, Hero of the Corvantine Revolution and, most importantly at this particular juncture, a thieving, murdering bitch in the employ of the Ironship Exceptional Initiatives Division.” All humour faded from his face, voice dropping to a murmur. “And therefore not to be trusted.”
“I know of you too,” Lizanne replied, meeting his gaze squarely. “Arshav Okanas, renowned pirate and former Chief Director of the criminal enclave known as the Hive, where I believe you lost a duel to an Islander named Steelfine not so long ago. How’s your nose, by the way?” She turned her gaze from his reddening face before he could reply, inclining her head at the primly attired woman. “And you are Ethilda Okanas, widow to the late founder of the Hive and, I’m told, possessed of a more rational mind than your son.”
“Be assured that we speak with one mind on matters of business,” Ethilda replied. She briefly read through Trumane’s letter once more before tossing it onto a near by table. “This is worthless. With Arradsia lost your Syndicate’s collapse is inevitable, along with much of the corporate world. What use will we have for your scrip then? It has always been nothing more than paper, after all, and we have sufficient kindling.”
Lizanne took a moment to scan the opulence of the room, hoping the myriad maps might spark some stratagem. “I had hoped to address the whole council,” she said, playing for time as inspiration failed to materialise. “I believe a quorum of eight is required before any decision can be reached.”
She saw Arshav exchange an amused glance with his mother. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be content with a quorum of two,” he said. “You see, upon return to our beloved homeland there was what I believe historians refer to as a vicious power struggle. Our wise Ruling Council had taken it upon themselves to declare us dead after the Corvantine attack on the Hive, helping themselves to our family holdings in the process. It took five successive duels to put the matter right, by which time the council was short five members and the remainder had decided they preferred life at sea.”
“So you see, Miss Blood,” Ethilda said, “any accommodation you wish to make will require our agreement, and as yet I find myself content to let your fleet of beggars rot where it sits.”
Lizanne looked down, biting on a frustrated sigh. She saw that her boot rested on the Barrier Isles north of the Arradsian continent, the toe covering the Strait, the portal through which so much wealth had once flowed, enough to transform an entire world.
“You’re right,” she said, raising her gaze to address Ethilda. “Without product the corporate world will fall. But what are you without the corporations? With whom will you trade when they’re gone? Whose ships will you prey upon? The Corvantine Empire destroyed itself trying to maintain the illusion it could remain separate, eternal and unchanged for all time. They failed to see a basic truth: The corporate world is the world. If it falls so does everything else.”
She lowered her gaze once more, striding across the map until her boots came to rest on Varestia. “Do you imagine you are immune here? I’m sure your spies have informed you of what befell the Barrier Isles and Feros.”
“We have defences,” Arshav said. “A great many ships and the best sailors in the world.”
“The Corvantines had the most modern fleet in the world,” Lizanne returned. “I watched it sink and burn off Carvenport. If you know as much as you claim you’ll have some inkling of the force that will come against you. An army of Spoiled controlled by a single mind. And drakes, thousands of Reds, Greens and Blues, all of them filled with hate and hunger by the thing that commands them.”
Ethilda exchanged another glance with her son, this one much more serious. “How will taking in a bunch of impoverished corporatists aid us?” Arshav asked. “It strikes me you will be more a burden than a blessing.”