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“Are you alright?” her father asked, moving closer to place a hand on her forehead. “Your temperature’s low. I’ll fetch Dr. Weygrand.”

“I’m fine,” she said, trying to swallow and finding her mouth dry. “Some water would be nice, though.”

“I’ll get it,” Tekela said, immediately scampering off.

Seeing Tinkerer on the next bunk Lizanne reached out to grasp his arm, giving it a gentle shake. “Do you remember anything?” she asked.

Tinkerer gave no response, continuing to lie still, eyes closed. Lizanne took his hand, finding it cold and seeing that his chest was barely moving. “I think you’d better get the doctor after all,” she told her father.

“Some form of comatose state,” Dr. Weygrand said a short while later. “But of a kind I’ve never seen before.”

He had conducted a full examination of the artificer, pronouncing his condition stable but unresponsive. Attempts to wake him with smelling-salts or prods from a small but sharp needle to the soles of his feet had produced no reaction. The doctor sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I’ll need to transfer him to the medical bay, rig up an intravenous drip to ensure he doesn’t dehydrate. I can add some stimulants to the mix which might wake him up.”

“No,” Lizanne said. He’s waiting, she realised. Or rather she’s waiting. Pumping drugs into his veins could disrupt his memories. “Thank you, Doctor,” she went on. “But I believe he’s best left unmedicated for now. However, I can’t stress enough how important it is that he remain alive.”

“It’s important for me that all my patients remain alive, miss,” Weygrand replied.

“Of course.” She smiled and gestured for Makario to follow her to a secluded corner of the hold. “The Follies of Cevokas,” she said. “Does it mean anything to you?”

“It’s a comic opera,” he said. “Dating back to the Third Imperium. Cevokas was . . .”

“A possibly fictional explorer of the Arradsian continent, I know. The tales of his exploits are classics of Corvantine literature.”

“And the basis for the Follies. It’s a fairly minor work, but highly popular in its day. It does seem a little vulgar for the Artisan’s tastes. He strikes me as a more discerning fellow.”

“She,” Lizanne corrected. “And she made it clear that we need to study the Follies of Cevokas. I believe there’s another movement to the composition, something that will unlock further memories from her chosen vessel.”

Makario glanced back at Tinkerer, silent and pale on the bunk. “So he’ll remain like this until we come up with the next movement?”

“I think so.”

The musician pursed his lips, frowning deeply, presumably as archaic tunes played in his head. “I’ll need to reconstruct the opera from memory. It’ll take awhile.”

Catching sight of her father returning to his work-bench, Lizanne started towards him. “Tekela might be able to help,” she told Makario. “She does seem to have a facility for such things.”

“And an equal facility for getting on my bloody nerves,” he added.

“Time is a factor,” she reminded him before joining her father. He was engaged in an improved version of the aerostat’s blood-burner, a new feed mechanism that would enable product to be combusted in batches rather than all at once. “Tinkerer’s rocket,” she said. “Do you think you can finish it?”

* * *

Captain Trumane’s course guided the fleet in a wide arc around Iskamir Island, keen to limit any contact with Varestian vessels during the voyage. They saw a few merchantmen over the course of the next few days but none felt the need to investigate such a large formation of foreigners. It was only when they made the westward turn towards Blaska Sound that a flotilla of fast, sloop-class ships appeared on the northern flank of their convoy. A few hours later another flotilla of similar size appeared to the south. The Varestian ships maintained a consistent distance from the fleet, making no attempt at communication.

“Making sure we don’t change our minds,” Trumane concluded after the second flotilla appeared. He tracked his spy-glass along the line of Varestian vessels, grunting in grim recognition. “Pirates, the lot of them. That one in the lead is the Ironspike. Chased her all the way around the Southern Barrier Isles a few years ago. The captain kept throwing his cargo away to increase speed. After a while we started finding the bodies of his crew. He couldn’t have had more than a half dozen men left by the time a storm brewed up. Had hoped the bugger had foundered in it.”

Blaska Sound came into view the next morning, a mist-shrouded estuary about three miles wide. The passage was further constricted by a series of granite reefs that prohibited any rapid manoeuvring. Trumane signalled one of the smaller ships to lead the way, a one-paddle mail packet of aged appearance but with a veteran captain renowned for his navigational skills. The Viable Opportunity took up station a mile to the east, circling slowly with all hands at battle stations. Trumane maintained a rigid vigilance over their Varestian escorts as the fleet made its way into the Sound, calling out the range to each ship for the ensign at his shoulder to note down. Lizanne felt there to be a certain theatre in all of this, Trumane putting on a show to bolster the nerves of his crew. However, he must have known that whilst the Viable was a formidable ship, if the Varestians chose to attack she would be overwhelmed in short order.

“Looks as if your employers are keeping their end of the bargain,” he said, lowering the spy-glass as the last of the refugee vessels proceeded into the Sound. “For now at least. Helm, steer forty points to port. Mr. Tollver, signal the engine room to take us to one-third speed.”

* * *

“What a Divinity-forsaken dump,” Tekela observed as the Viable weighed anchor off Raker’s Mount. The place consisted of a loose arrangement of dilapidated hovels clustered around a series of hill-sized slag-heaps. The mine itself was a gaping black hole gouged into the slope of the mountain that loomed over the town. An incline railway line led all the way from the mine to the docks, which were the only truly impressive feature the settlement had to offer.

Five piers jutted out from the quay, which had been constructed atop a granite shelf that became a cliff at low tide. Consequently, the piers had been built on tall supporting legs of iron, each one streaked with rust. It was a testament to the sturdiness of their original construction that the piers were still standing after so many years of neglect. The steam-driven elevators that had once conveyed cargo and crew from moored vessels to the docks were apparently rusted to uselessness. Therefore, the fleet had been obliged to wait for high tide before disembarking the refugees. They were crowding onto the quayside in increasing numbers, most standing around in groups which reflected the ship they had spent so many weeks aboard. A few had begun to drift into the town in search of shelter but it was clear to Lizanne that a great deal of organisation would be needed before these people could be called a work-force.

“You should’ve seen Scorazin, my dear,” Makario told Tekela. “This is a genteel spa-town in comparison. Besides, I’ll be happy just to feel solid ground beneath my feet again. I find myself heartily sick of a sailor’s life.”