“Know what?” she enquired, resisting the urge to flex her fingers over the Spider’s buttons. This man had a tendency to lead her towards unwise impulses.
“Melkorin,” Arshav said. “It’s been burned to the ground and most of its population appears to have vanished, those that aren’t lying dead in the streets that is.”
Melkorin, a port-town on the south Corvantine coast. The thought immediately led her to an obvious conclusion. It followed us.
“Strange that this should happen shortly after you arrive in our waters,” Arshav went on, a snarl creeping into his voice. “Quite the coincidence, don’t you agree?”
She considered dissembling, professing ignorance or confusion, but didn’t see the point at this juncture. The suspicion born on the deck of the Profitable Venture, when the Spoiled boarding party began their co-ordinated attempt to kill her, now seemed fully borne out. “The White is desirous of my death,” she said. “And the deaths of those I travel with. I did warn you its forces would be coming here.”
“Not so soon you didn’t.” His voice had risen to a shout, causing her escort of riflemen to stir, which in turn had Arshav’s pirates reaching for their weapons. “Alright,” he said, waving a hand at Lockbar and making an effort to calm himself. “Why does it want you dead?” he asked in a marginally more controlled tone.
“That,” Lizanne said, turning away and gesturing for him to follow, “is quite a lengthy tale, best shared over lunch.”
“Krystaline Lake,” Arshav said, shaking his head and reaching for the wine-bottle. “Father’s mad obsessions return to plague me once more.” He poured himself a generous measure and offered the bottle to Lizanne.
“No thank you.”
“Captain Noose?” Arshav asked, waving the bottle at Trumane, who sat opposite him. Lizanne had organised the meal in the only dwelling in Raker’s Mount that might be called grand. It was a three-storey house positioned at a decent remove from the rest of the town, proclaimed as the home of the Imperial Comptroller by the Eutherian letters carved above the lintel. The roof was mostly gone, the windows long vanished and the place smelled strongly of rot, but it did feature a dining-table complete with chairs.
“No,” Trumane replied, returning the enmity in Arshav’s gaze in full measure.
“Suit yourself.” Arshav set the bottle down and took a deep drink from his glass. “Piss water,” he said, with a grimace. “Don’t you people know how to greet an honoured guest?”
“Krystaline Lake,” Lizanne said.
“Oh yes, where your friends are off looking for Father’s fabled treasure. It’s all nonsense, you know. Ancient scribblings sold to generations of gullible fools, much of them fake, I’m sure.”
“We have reason to believe otherwise. There is something at the bottom of that lake that can help us win this war. If your father told you anything . . .”
Arshav laughed and drained his glass. “I mostly remember him telling me to get out of his sight. I was as much a disappointment to him as he was to me. So no, my dear Miss Blood, I have no secrets to share. Anything of use will be at the High Wall, and I am not welcome there.” His gaze darkened, fist tightening on the wine-bottle. “Even though it’s mine by right.”
“The High Wall is the seat of the Okanas family, is it not?” Lizanne asked. “It would seem strange that you and your mother were able to assert control over the Ruling Council, and the Seven Walls, but not your family home.”
“A home stolen from me by my own kin.” His gaze softened a little and he poured more wine, grimacing as he emptied the bottle before throwing it over his shoulder. “Perils of being born into a family of pirates, I suppose. The bastards’ll steal the gold from your teeth if you’re not careful. My dear cousin Alzar Lokaras, first-born son to my late aunt Kezia, now holds the High Wall. Supposedly in my sister’s name, as if she’s about to appear on the horizon anytime soon.”
“Will he be amenable to negotiation? Perhaps, if I went . . .”
“He’ll shoot you the moment he claps eyes on you. Hates all things corporate, y’see? Almost like a religion, really.” Arshav’s gaze swivelled to Trumane. “But it’s not like you didn’t give him plenty of reason, Captain. He lost a lot of sea-brothers to your attentions, as did I.”
He drank more wine, gulping it down so that some leaked from the corners of his mouth. “Was going to kill you, y’know,” he gasped when the glass was empty. “Had it all planned. Once you’d settled in here and gotten all comfortable. I’d turn up with all my ships and threaten to pound the town to pieces, just like you intended to do to the Hive. Then I was going to hang you on your own deck, you vicious fuck!” He slammed the wine-glass down on the table, hard enough to shatter it, blood leaking from his fingers as he glared at Trumane.
Lizanne found herself impressed by the captain’s failure to flinch. Martinet or not he was still a veteran Protectorate officer and Arshav his long-standing enemy, fully deserving of justice. Trumane said nothing, instead reaching for a napkin to dab away the drop of wine on his cheek.
Lizanne began to speak but Arshav held up his bloodied hand, turning his baleful gaze from Trumane to her. “Your fables and doomed friends trekking through the Interior mean nothing to me. We have a war to fight and my mother and I want our weapons. How soon before you actually start producing anything?”
“We need materials . . .”
“They’re being unloaded now. Everything on your list, just about, and enough food for a month. There’ll be more coming by the end of the week. How long?”
“We’re already making progress,” Lizanne lied. In fact most of the work-force’s efforts since arriving in Raker’s Mount had been directed towards making the place fit for habitation. Lizanne had placed Madame Hakugen in charge of civil matters and the former Comptroller had done a great deal to smooth the ruffled nerves in the wake of Lizanne’s speech. The former members of the Eastern Conglomerate Levies had been organised into a militia that also served as a constabulary, which did much to imbue the town with a sense of order. Jermayah was organising the principal manufactory in the old railway shed, but as yet no actual weapons had been produced.
“Lack of heavy plant is a problem,” Lizanne said. “Especially lifting gear. We’ve identified only three other Blood-blessed amongst the refugees. To make maximum use of their abilities requires product, especially Black and Red.”
“Product is an increasingly scarce resource,” Arshav replied. “For obvious reasons, and what stocks we do have will be needed by our own Blood-blessed when the fighting starts. But”—he gave a reluctant shrug—“there are a few flasks in my ship’s safe. You can have that.”
“That would be greatly appreciated.”
“I notice you haven’t answered my question.”
“A month,” she said, adopting her uncoloured tone. “The first delivery of Growlers and Thumpers will be made one month from now.”
“You think our enemy will give us that long?”
It was Trumane who answered, neatly folding his napkin and setting it down before addressing Arshav in a carefully modulated voice, no doubt designed to conceal his distaste. “Time in war is not given,” he said. “It’s bought, with blood. I command the fastest ship in these waters. Letting it sit here unused is a waste of a valuable asset.”