“Blaska Sound.” Ethilda Okanas pointed to a spot somewhere in the middle of the painted map. It stood seven feet high and occupied much of the north-facing wall in the round tower that sprouted from the Navigation’s roof-top. The tower’s eastern wall was dominated by a broad window facing out to sea, the room itself liberally equipped with optical devices of varying types and dimensions. Arshav occupied himself with peering through the lens of a huge telescope whilst his mother conversed with Lizanne.
The painting was a rendering of the entire Varestian region, though the style was illustrative rather than strictly cartographical. Mountain ranges and forests were depicted in elevated perspective rather than the usual lines and text. Lizanne was also grimly amused to see that the artist had chosen to populate the Red Tides with several fancifully proportioned drakes.
She stepped closer to the map, peering at the narrow coastal channel marked in elaborate Eutherian as “Blaska Sound.” The mouth of the Sound stood perhaps twenty miles north of the Seven Walls and Iskamir. Close enough for a secure supply route, Lizanne mused. And also an easy place in which to bottle us up should they see the need.
“What facilities are there?” she asked, drawing a faint snicker from Arshav, who, she noticed, still had the Smoker slung over his shoulder.
“There’s a coal-mine ten miles in on the northern bank of the Sound,” Ethilda told her. “‘Raker’s Mount’ they call it. It’s an old Corvantine penal colony, abandoned since the Varestian Liberation. Our people have never been fond of grubbing in the dirt. The seams are still viable, so I’m told, so fuel won’t be a problem.”
“It’s also a desolate shit-hole,” Arshav added, grinning as he raised his eye from the telescope. “No roads or railways and tall mountains all around. The only way in and out is by sea.”
“We’ll need other materials,” Lizanne said. “Iron and steel, copper too. Also chemical agents for munitions. Not to mention food.”
Ethilda looked at her son, who shrugged, apparently bored with logistical details. “There’ll be stocks in the Iskamir warehouses,” he said. “All sorts of cargo’s piled up recently since trade’s been so poor.”
“Make a list before you leave,” Ethilda said and handed Lizanne an envelope. “Our formal counter-proposal.”
Seeing that the envelope had no seal Lizanne extracted the papers within, reading over the first few paragraphs. “This is a company charter,” she said, frowning.
“Indeed,” Ethilda said. “This day marks the founding of the Varestian Defence Conglomerate. I and Arshav are Co-Directors in Chief. You’ll note I’ve appointed you Director of Intelligence and Manufactory Liaison.”
“Congratulations,” Arshav put in.
“‘The Conglomerate will retain exclusive lifetime rights to any and all novel devices manufactured on Conglomerate soil,’” Lizanne read, feeling her pulse quicken. “‘Also all salvage rights over any captured belligerent vessel, including its cargo, fixtures and fittings. Plus any draconic plasma, heretoafter referred to as “product,” harvested within the established borders of the Varestian region will be regarded as Conglomerate property.’”
“Entirely fair in the circumstances,” Arshav said, moving away from the telescope and holding up a pen. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Lizanne stared at him, thinking it would be an easy matter to take that pen and push it through his eye and into his brain.
“You’ll get your share,” Ethilda said. “As a Director you will be afforded ten percent of total company stock. How you wish to distribute the dividends is up to you. Please add your signature to the final page.” She angled her head, looking past Lizanne at Tekela with a fond smile. “Your delightful ward can witness the transaction.”
Lizanne set her jaw and reached for the pen. “There is one other matter,” Ethilda said, her son giving a pout of mock apology as he drew the pen out of reach. “My late husband’s granddaughter.”
“What of her?”
“You indicated a detailed knowledge of what transpired at the Hive. I wish to know how.”
“I’m an Exceptional Initiatives agent. Intelligence is my business.”
“Then be so kind as to share what intelligence you hold regarding the whereabouts of Akina Okanas. This is not a matter for negotiation.”
Seeing the hard glint in the woman’s eyes, Lizanne knew this was no bluff. She also knew it wouldn’t profit her to share too much with these people. She abruptly decided to avoid any mention of Clay’s mission to Krystaline Lake, despite what insights these two might offer regarding the explorations undertaken by Zenida’s late father. An adage from Burgrave Artonin’s translation of Selvurin folk-tales popped into her head as she took in the poorly concealed greed on the Arshavs’ faces: Feed a snake and your only thanks will be venom.
“Captain Trumane’s flagship is the Viable Opportunity,” Lizanne said. “A vessel I believe you are familiar with. I learned the story from the crew.”
Arshav took a step forward, gaze narrowing. “Is my niece aboard?” he demanded in a low, dangerous voice. “Do you have her?”
“She’s no longer on the ship,” Lizanne went on in a clipped uncoloured tone, the voice her tutors had drilled into her as the most effective when lying. Poor liars always attempt a performance, she had been told. The truth requires no theatrics. “The Viable Opportunity sailed eastward around Arradsia after departing the Hive, eventually putting in at Lossermark where Zenida Okanas contrived to escape with her daughter.”
“That’s a pile of dog shit,” Arshav growled.
“Captain Trumane was wounded at the Battle of the Strait,” Lizanne continued, ignoring him and addressing his mother. “Leaving him in a comatose state. Command of the Viable then fell to a Lieutenant Hilemore, with whom I believe you are also familiar. Hilemore freed Zenida Okanas from Protectorate custody and employed her as the ship’s Blood-blessed. A measure that earned Captain Trumane’s severe disapproval when he woke from his coma in Lossermark harbour. It was the captain’s intention to return Zenida Okanas to the brig for eventual trial and likely execution. It appears Lieutenant Hilemore found such a course of action unacceptable to his honour and so he contrived to desert the ship along with Zenida, her daughter and a small number of mutineers. It seems they seized a Corvantine warship that had taken refuge in the harbour and sailed away, destination as yet unknown.”
Arshav glowered and turned away, he and Ethilda retreating to a corner of the room for a whispered discussion. They spoke in Varestian, which Lizanne knew well, but using a pirate slang that made translation difficult. She did, however, hear Ethilda utter the phrases “coming here” and “determined to kill us when she does,” to which Arshav replied, “I do hope so, Mother.”
Eventually they seemed to reach some form of agreement and turned back to Lizanne, Arshav tossing her the pen. “Rest assured, Miss Blood,” he cautioned her as she scrawled her name on the document, “we regard formal agreements just as seriously as does the corporate world, except in Varestia breach of contract is usually a fatal matter.” He gave a bland smile and patted the stock of the Smoker. “Don’t mind if I keep this do you?”
“Not at all.” Lizanne said, handing the contract back to Ethilda. “It’s customary to mark a new partnership with gifts, after all.”