“Want to take the fight to them, eh?” Arshav grunted. “Feel free, Captain. I’ll spread the word that your ship is to remain unmolested, just don’t expect any direct assistance.” He looked at his bloodied hand and grimaced in annoyance. “And if you should contrive to get yourself killed in the process, all the better.”
He rose from the table, fixing Lizanne with a hard stare. “One month, Miss Blood. And when I return I expect to find a fulsome level of productivity.” With that he turned and stalked from the building, shouting for Lockbar and his guards to follow.
Lizanne gave Trumane a sidelong glance. “Do you really think you can accomplish anything useful with just one ship, however fast?”
“Your father was kind enough to share the specifics of his latest design,” Trumane replied with a thin smile. “Provided it’s ready before we set off, yes, I believe we can accomplish a great deal.”
“This is foolish,” her father said. “You are needed here.”
Lizanne fastened the buttons on her overalls. They were the work of a seamstress from Lossermark, lined with fur to ward off the cold found at altitude, as well as featuring numerous additional pockets for tools and weapons. Jermayah had managed to produce another Smoker for her, though on this trip she would have to do without the mini-Growler.
“Madame Hakugen has things well in hand,” Lizanne replied. “And the production line is nearly complete. The intelligence to be had at the High Wall is too important to ignore.” She pulled on a shoulder rig for her twin revolvers. “Are you close to completing Captain Trumane’s project?”
Professor Lethridge appeared unconvinced by her reasoning and less than happy with the change of subject. “Two more days,” he said, face dark with reproach. “It would have taken longer but we’ve been fortunate in having so many skilled instrument-makers here. Lossermark was a port, after all, and sailors always need clocks and compasses.”
“Excellent,” Lizanne said. “When it’s done please concentrate your efforts on constructing more of these.” She nodded at the aerostat, bobbing gently in the wind between the two mooring poles at the end of the pier. The Firefly had undergone considerable modification since the last flight, with a wider gondola that would allow her to switch places with Tekela during flight and an envelope of greater size. An additional cannister of pressurised coal-gas had been fitted to the gondola should they need to replenish it. The improved feed mechanism for the blood-burner was also in place, though they had precious little product with which to fire it.
“Any we build from now on will be warcraft,” she added. “Capable of carrying as much fire-power as possible.”
“I’ve already drawn up the requisite designs,” he said.
“Of course you have.” She pecked a kiss to the professor’s cheek before starting towards the Firefly, the engine’s propellers starting to turn as Tekela powered up the caloric engine. “I’ll return in four days.”
“And if you don’t?” he called after her, fighting to be heard above the growl of the engine.
“Then at least you can consider our contract with the Okanas family null and void.”
II
THE BURNING SEAS
From the Journal of Miss Lewella Tythencroft—Sanorah, 21st Vorellum, 1600 (Company Year 211)
The successful management of a revolution, it transpires, requires neither military genius nor inspired leadership nor great rhetoric. No, if there is one lesson I have learned over the course of the preceding weeks it is that revolutions require, above all things, paper and ink as well as presses with which to apply the latter to the former.
I have no precise figures for the number of pamphlets, posters, handbills, one-sheet newspapers and other sundry publications produced by the Voters Rights Alliance since this all began but it surely must run into many thousands by now. The doughty old Alebond Commodities Mark II press that had served the Voters Gazette so well for several years eventually collapsed under the strain of it all. Had we not agreed on an alliance with the Printer’s Guild during the early days of this upheaval I doubt we would have achieved any measure of success in rousing the populace, but success, of course, is a relative concept.
Having read the paragraph above I find my tendency to ramble has once more come to the fore. It has been some time since I had the leisure to write in this journal and so much has happened in the interval that it will take too long to document every particular here. So, I am forced to summarise the principal events.
True to my promise to Mrs. Fredabel Torcreek, the Voters Rights Alliance shouldered most of the burden in housing the refugees from the Tyrell Islands. I must confess to operating in a haze of confused emotions for much of this time. Mrs. Torcreek’s news about Corrick engendered as much doubt and consternation as it did joy. It appears he has actually sailed off to the southern ice-cap in search of something glimpsed in a vision. Although, a much more thoughtful man than many in his profession, Corrick was never one given to flights of fancy and the notion that he might throw off Protectorate shackles to pursue something so ephemeral it seemed absurd to the point of impossibility.
Mrs. Torcreek, however, had at least a partial explanation: “My nephew drank the blood of White Drake, miss. Guess that makes a fella awful persuasive.”
Despite the doubts and unanswerable questions that threatened to befuddle my brain, I set myself to the task of aiding the refugees with all the energy I could muster. The minority who belonged to the managerial class were usually able to find relatives or friends to take them in which left the much-less-fortunate majority homeless without a scrip to their name. Many Voter families volunteered to provide foster homes for the distressingly high number of orphans, whilst others gave over spare rooms and attics to the few intact families to disembark the ships. Even so, the Alliance was forced to rent warehouse space to house the remainder. Wild speculation in the markets has had a strange effect on the warehouse district. Some remain full to capacity with unwanted luxury goods whilst those usually given over to agricultural produce and other necessities are increasingly empty. Consequently, finding a suitable location at a reasonable price was not difficult.
The large number of sick and wounded presented a far greater problem. All but a few independent hospitals in Sanorah are under corporate control and, since none of the refugees could provide an insurance certificate, their doors remained firmly closed to us. As might be expected many of the refugees with sick or injured relatives reacted badly to this, especially those hailing from Carvenport who, on the whole, display only a small regard for corporate authority. A minor riot erupted at the gates of the Ironship General Hospital, which degenerated into an ugly free-for-all when the constabulary arrived. More trouble might have broken out if aid hadn’t come from an unexpected quarter.
The day after the riot my father arrived at the Gazette offices with a letter of credit amounting to some one hundred thousand in exchange notes. Thanks to this donation the Alliance was able to secure all the required beds in the independent Sanorah hospitals. I will confess to a few private tears following this incident, my emotions being so aggravatingly variable at this juncture. The fact that my father’s intervention had been completely unsolicited, and I am aware that accumulating such a sum would have required him to liquidate a large portion of his personal assets, still brings a certain moistness to the eye.