“Join what?” I asked, a question I have since recognised as singularly foolish.
“Why, the revolution o’course, miss,” the scrawny youth told me. “That’s you, ain’t it?”
CHAPTER 18
Hilemore
“They’re safely on the plains,” Zenida said. “Mr. Torcreek thinks another three days until they reach the lake.”
“So soon?” Hilemore asked in puzzlement. His examination of the charts relating to southern Arradsia left him with no illusions as to the distances involved.
“Apparently a stampeding Cerath herd can cover a hundred miles a day,” she said. “Seems a hazardous form of travel to me, but there you have it.”
They were in his cabin, Zenida having just emerged from the regularly scheduled trance. Every time she did this Hilemore would sit in tense expectation of her awakening with nothing to report. “He also said to tell you that his uncle’s mood seems to have improved a little,” she added.
“Well that’s something at least.”
Hilemore rose from his desk, pacing to the window to gaze at the placid waters outside. They were anchored off the southern shore of the Upper Torquil. Unwilling to sit idle whilst awaiting the Longrifles’ return, Hilemore had undertaken an ad hoc mapping operation of this inland sea. It was clear that the charts of this region held by both the Maritime Protectorate and the Corvantine Imperial Navy were badly outdated and in sore need of revision. Besides which, he preferred to occupy the crew with something beyond yet more painting of the hull or another scrubbing of the bilge tanks.
“I thought I’d take a launch to shore tomorrow,” Zenida said, joining him at the port-hole. “Akina hasn’t set foot on dry land for months. Even for a Varestian, it’s not good to lose touch with the earth. With your permission of course.”
Hilemore surveyed the shore, which was much more picturesque than the marshlands that surrounded the Quilam. Small rocky islands topped by trees proliferated amongst the many inlets and creeks, though any scenic appreciation was offset by the knowledge of what lay beyond. “If you wish,” he said. “I’ll send Mr. Talmant along with an escort.”
“Why not come yourself? Take a little time away from your charts. I know Akina would like that.”
“All she ever does is make fun of me, when she’s not cursing me in pirate slang.”
“That’s why she would like it. And so would I.”
Hilemore turned towards her, finding a wary but definite smile on her lips. They were conversing half in Varestian and half Mandinorian, as they often did when alone, which reminded him that she hadn’t referred to him as “sea-brother” for several days now. In Varestian culture the absence of such formality between crewmates could have significant implications. The thought immediately summoned Lewella’s face to mind and he looked away.
You have no obligations, he reminded himself. A broken engagement is just that; the absence of obligation.
“I . . .” he began, unsure as he spoke what his answer would be, then stopped as a palpable vibration thrummed through the deck beneath his feet. The sensation was accompanied by a loud keening sound that seemed to be coming from beneath the ship.
He frowned at Zenida. “Is that . . . ?”
“It’s Jack,” she said. “And I believe that’s a warning cry.”
“Twenty points off the starboard bow, sir,” Talmant said, handing Hilemore a spy-glass as he and Zenida rushed onto the bridge. “About two miles out. Another to stern, similar distance. Chief Bozware has the auxiliary engine on-line and the blood-burner is standing by. Anchors are being raised.”
Hilemore settled the spy-glass on a patch of sea two miles beyond the bows, finding a familiar roiling to the Torquil’s surface he had hoped never to see again. A quick check of the stern confirmed it. Greens, and a damn sight more than we faced in the Cut.
“Well done, Mr. Talmant,” he said, lowering the glass and speaking swiftly but calmly. “Signal the Chief to bring us to one-third auxiliary power. Mr. Scrimshine, steer due west, if you please.” He pulled the set of keys from the chain around his neck and handed it to Zenida, lowering his voice. “Take every vial and report to the engine room. Tell the Chief to pack the blood-burner with as much product as he thinks she can take. Wait for my signal before firing it.”
She reached out to take the key, her hand closing over his and lingering for a second. “You owe me a trip to shore,” she said before swiftly exiting the bridge.
“Sound battle stations, Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore said, drawing his revolver and checking the cylinder. “Riflemen to the rail. All guns to load cannister.”
After the near-fatal confrontation in the Cut he had ordered Steelfine to see to the conversion of half their remaining standard shells to cannister. The armour-piercing warheads had been pried off and replaced with modified food cans filled with rifle bullets and whatever scrap-metal they could find. Such munitions were unlikely to prove as effective as true cannister-shot from an Ironship manufactory, but Hilemore expected them to prove their worth if the range was short enough.
He went out on the walkway tracking his spy-glass between the two approaching Green packs. It seemed to him that perhaps every aquatic Green in the Upper Torquil had been mustered by the White’s unseen but undeniable hand. Perhaps that’s why it took them so long to return, he mused. Gathering forces to make sure of us the next time.
“Take us to full auxiliary power, Mr. Talmant,” he called over his shoulder as the Superior settled to midships, shifting his glass to the western horizon, finding it mercifully clear of enemies. Hilemore returned to the bridge to plot their position on the map table. They were fast approaching the point where the Upper Torquil narrowed north of the Cut, meaning their overall speed would be reduced as they ran headlong into the morning tidal surge. The realisation raised the uncomfortable suspicion that the timing of this attack might not be coincidental.
“Signal the engine room,” he told Talmant. “Fire the blood-burner.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hilemore moved to stand at Scrimshine’s shoulder, peering through the bridge window. The blood-burner came on-line an instant later, the choppier waters of the narrows suddenly seeming to speed towards them as they surged to thirty knots then beyond. “Got some more tight manoeuvring for you, Leading Deck Hand,” Hilemore told Scrimshine. “Though I doubt it’ll be quite as bad as the Shelf. Think you’re up to it?”
“Beg pardon, sir,” Scrimshine said. “But there ain’t another hand on this tub I’d trust the job to.”
Hilemore didn’t feel inclined to argue the point, the helmsman was probably right. “You know the course from here,” he said. “On through the narrows to the Cut. Once there don’t wait for orders, take us straight through.”
“It’ll be heavy going, sir,” Scrimshine warned. “Tide’s likely to be fierce at this hour. Even with the blood-burner going.”
“If it’s hard for us it’s hard for the Greens,” Hilemore said, turning away. “Mr. Talmant, you have the bridge. Mr. Scrimshine’s position is to be protected at all costs. I’ll send two riflemen to assist.”
Talmant saluted and drew his revolver. “Very good, sir.”
“Mr. Steelfine!” Hilemore called as he descended the ladder to the deck, drawing up short as the Islander’s bulky form materialised at his shoulder almost immediately. “Muster all spare hands into a working party,” Hilemore ordered. “Shift the port and starboard batteries to the stern, and stack up the cannister for rapid loading.”