He turned to where the huge Blue still loitered twenty yards off, casting out his plaintive distress call. Clay concentrated, summoning the memory of the remade mindscape he had crafted in the beast’s head, filling it with a distress call of his own. The Blue’s response was surprising in its immediacy, propelling himself towards them with a single swish of his tail before rolling over to present his back spines.
“Grab on,” Clay told the others, reaching out to grasp the nearest spine. He took a firm hold of both the bony protrusion and Sigoral’s jacket before hauling himself closer. Kriz was obliged to help Loriabeth, who seemed to have lost the ability to raise her arms above the water, the older woman wrapping an arm around her chest and pulling them both towards the drake’s huge flank. Once they had all taken hold the Blue rolled again, lifting them clear of the water’s deathly chill before bearing them towards the ship.
As they surged through the water Clay caught sight of something bobbing on the surface, his pack, kept afloat by the bulbous cargo it held. Slow, he told the Blue, who obligingly reduced his speed, allowing Clay to reach out and reclaim the pack. Don’t worry, young ’un, he silently comforted the egg. Carried you way too far to leave you behind now.
He looked up as the deck of the ship loomed above, finding a row of gaunt and stunned faces. Uncle Braddon was the sole exception. Any astonishment he may have felt was clearly drowned by the joy of seeing his daughter again. “Got y’self a new pet, I see,” Braddon said, his heavy beard parting in a broad smile.
“More like a new friend,” Clay replied.
“That there’s Last Look Jack,” one of the crew said. It took Clay a moment to recognise Scrimshine’s face under the fellow’s scraggly beard. The former smuggler clutched a rifle in his bony hands as he stared down at the Blue’s massive body, eyes large in his emaciated skull. “We should kill it, Skipper!” he went on, turning to Hilemore with shrill insistence. “Kill it right now, I says!”
Hearing the murmur of agreement from the other crewmen and noting the severe doubt on the captain’s face, Clay said, “That name don’t fit him no more. This”—Clay leaned forward to pat the broad scaly space between the Blue’s eyes—“this is Old Jack now. And he’s gonna get us out of here.”
CHAPTER 2
Lizanne
“Nothing at all?”
Sofiya Griffan shook her head, loose red tresses playing over the pale skin of her forehead. She had maintained a largely silent and downcast demeanour since the Profitable Venture sailed from Corvus, her inexperienced mind no doubt crowded with the horrors she had witnessed during the capital’s fall. However, now she seemed on the verge of some form of mental collapse, her husband reaching out to clasp her hands as they trembled in her lap.
“Nothing,” she said, eyes flashing at Lizanne in resentful accusation, as if this turn of events were somehow her contrivance. “Feros is silent. That . . . that has never happened before.”
“You have an alternative point of contact, do you not?” Director Thriftmor asked, the inevitable brandy glass in hand. “In Sanorah?”
Sofiya’s head moved in a sharp, nervous nod. “A scheduled emergency contact in Northern Fleet Headquarters. I tranced with them less than an hour ago. They’ve had no contact with Feros since yesterday, nor with any fleet units in the harbour. Blood . . .” She faltered, closing her eyes to stem an upsurge of tears before continuing, forcing the words out. “Blood-burning patrol-craft have been dispatched but it will be several days before they report in.”
Silence reigned in the ward-room as each person present digested the news and the Director took the opportunity to refresh his glass. It was Captain Verricks who broke the silence, his only evident sign of discomfort a slight twitch in the impressive grey whiskers that covered the lower regions of his craggy face. “My orders remain clear,” he said in a gruff tone that said much for his ability to convey a sense of unflappable authority even in times of great uncertainty. “The Profitable Venture is to transport Director Thriftmor and Miss Lethridge to Feros following the completion of their mission to the Corvantine Empire. I intend to fulfil these orders. Trance or not.”
“Feros has fallen,” Lizanne told Verricks, the certainty in her own voice more than a match for his. Her imagination had seen fit to crowd her mind with a plethora of dreadful visions concerning the likely fates of those she had left behind to pursue her Corvantine adventures. Aunt Pendilla, Jermayah, Father . . . Tekela. Guilt and self-reproach roiled in her breast as she met the captain’s gaze. I should have gotten them on the first ship to a Mandinorian port. But she had had no notion the White would be able to strike so far north so quickly, and Feros was one of the most well-defended ports in the world.
“My orders . . .” Captain Verricks began but she cut him off.
“Your orders came from a Board which is now most likely dead or enslaved.” The harshness in her tone drew a frightened sob from Sofiya, but Lizanne ignored her, stepping closer to Verricks to emphasise her point. “We should hope for the former, since I do not relish the prospect of our adversary learning their secrets, as it surely has if it captured any alive.”
Verricks blinked, his gaze switching back and forth between her and Thriftmor. “In that event,” he said, and Lizanne could see the distasteful curl of his lips beneath the whiskers, “Director Thriftmor would appear to be the sole remaining authority.”
Thriftmor’s brandy glass halted its progress towards his mouth as all eyes turned to him in expectation. Besides Lizanne, Verricks and the Griffans, the ship’s senior officers were also present at this conference. It was clear to Lizanne that Thriftmor didn’t enjoy the scrutiny of such a sizable audience.
“I . . . ah,” he said, lowering his brandy glass and inclining his head at Verricks. “I believe, in times of crisis, it is best to defer to military judgement.” He coughed and forced a tight smile in Verricks’s direction. “Your advice, Captain?”
A derisive scowl momentarily creased the captain’s forehead before he turned his gaze away from Thriftmor to address his officers. “It’s highly likely the Profitable is closer to Feros than any Protectorate patrol-craft. Our first duty must be to the Syndicate. We will approach in full battle order and endeavour to carry out a fulsome reconnaissance of the Tyrell Islands. Once the current situation at Feros has been established, Mrs. Griffan will convey the intelligence to Northern Fleet Headquarters with a request for further orders.”
Had Lizanne still held to her operating parameters as an Exceptional Initiatives agent she would have protested, perhaps even leveraged her status to force the captain to sail immediately for northern waters. She had endured weeks in the stink and danger of Scorazin, the Imperial Prison City, to free the Tinkerer and the precious knowledge he possessed. Then there had been the great tribulation of the revolution and the fall of Corus, all the time wondering when the Electress would choose to settle her score. All just to get the Tinkerer aboard this ship. Making for Feros threatened to rob them of whatever advantage his secrets might hold. But the guilt still roiled and she found she had to know what had befallen those she had left to face the storm. So, she stood and said nothing as Captain Verricks reeled off a string of orders to his officers.
“In the meantime, Miss Lethridge,” Verricks said to Lizanne when the room had cleared, “it might be best if you compiled whatever report Exceptional Initiatives is expecting of you. It can be communicated by Mrs. Griffan before we close on the Isles.”