They pressed on for a short distance until the water became calm again. They had crafted a makeshift anchor by gathering up as many boulders as they could and wrapping them in a tarpaulin bound with rope. Clay pushed it over the side and the raft slowly came to a halt.
“Depth one hundred and thirty-five feet,” Sigoral reported after checking the markers whitewashed onto the anchor rope.
Kriz nodded and adjusted a valve on her apparatus before donning a leather belt which had been fitted with several lead weights. “Green and Black,” Clay said, handing her two vials. “Drink all of it now.” When she had done so he slipped a vial of Blue into the top pocket of her overalls. “Just in case,” he said.
Kriz sat on the edge of the raft as Clay readied the helmet. Even with Green in his veins it was a weighty item fashioned from some old boiler plate with the assistance of Chief Bozware. The plate had been hammered into two half-spheres and riveted together, a hole then cut through one side and a sealed glass window fitted.
“You see any Greens come straight back up,” he told Kriz, who replied with an impatient nod, gesturing for him to get on with it. Clay placed the helmet over her head and settled it onto the padded-leather collar about her neck before moving to the pump. It was a simple hand-powered device that would have benefited from an engine, but there hadn’t been time to construct one before leaving the Superior. However, Kriz had concluded that a Blood-blessed with sufficient Green would easily provide the required amount of air.
Clay refreshed his Green before taking hold of the pump-handle, the lever it was attached to blurring as he started to turn it. Sigoral moved to tie a rope around Kriz’s waist after which she took a few breaths before slipping into the water, sinking down immediately in a cloud of bubbles. Clay kept turning the pump-handle, his gaze fixed on the patch of disturbed water as Sigoral played out the rope.
“That’s it,” he said as the rope stilled in his grip. “She’s on the bottom.”
Minutes ticked by with grating slowness, Clay never faltering at the pump, his eyes tracking the bubbles as they moved away from the raft and more and more of the air-line was drawn over the side. This was a bad idea. The words kept repeating in his head with every turn of the pump-handle, the growing certainty fed by his still-raw guilt over Jack’s death. This was a bad idea. This was . . .
“Two tugs,” Sigoral said, the rope jerking in his hands. “She’s coming back up.”
It seemed to take an age for her to reappear, bobbing to the surface a few yards from the raft. Sigoral and Braddon hauled her closer before removing the helmet. Kriz hung onto the side of the raft, breathing heavily but her sweat-beaded face flushed with excitement. “I found it,” she told Clay, pointing. “One hundred yards that way.”
“No Greens?” he asked.
Kriz laughed, shaking her head. “Not one.” She raised her arms and he and Sigoral hauled her on board. “Let’s go,” she said, nodding at the oars.
“Getting late,” Braddon said, eyes narrowed as he surveyed the sky. “Better to wait for tomorrow.”
“It won’t take more than an hour,” Kriz insisted. “We should take the chance while there are no drakes in the vicinity.” She met Clay’s gaze, an insistent plea in her eyes. “We’re so close,” she added in her own language.
“Captain’s call,” Braddon told Clay, keeping his tone neutral, though Clay could see the shrewd appraisal in his uncle’s gaze.
“She’s right,” Clay said, his desire to get this hazardous enterprise out of the way overcoming his caution. “The more days we spend around here the more likely the Greens will catch our scent.” He moved to take up his oar, gesturing for Sigoral to do the same. “Let’s get it done.”
Her next dive was considerably longer, so much so that Clay used up a full dose of Green at the pump and was forced to change places with Sigoral. Clay’s growing agitation was made worse by an inability to perceive much of anything below the lake’s surface. However, this didn’t stop him continually attempting to do so as he stood at the edge of the raft, staring fixedly into the depths.
“Just gone past the hour,” his uncle said, holding up his pocket-watch. “Reckon it’ll be dark before long.”
Clay didn’t need any further persuasion. “I’m calling her back,” he said, reaching for the rope and giving it two hard tugs. He waited, the rope twisting a little in his grip but failing to slacken. He muttered a curse and began to tug again, but stopped when Preacher spoke a single terse word: “Green.”
Braddon instantly brought his rifle to his shoulder, moving to stand beside Preacher’s kneeling form. The marksman had his rifle trained on what seemed to Clay to be an empty stretch of water to the south, but he had learned by now to trust the man’s eyes.
“How many?” he asked.
“One. Just over a hundred yards out.”
“There’ll be more,” Braddon said, sweeping his own rifle from left to right.
Clay tugged on the rope once more then fell back as it lost all tension. “Shit!” He began to draw it up, hands moving in a rapid blur until the ragged end of the rope emerged from the water.
“Mr. Torcreek,” Sigoral said, nodding at something twenty yards away, Clay seeing a great mass of bubbles rising to the surface. A split-second later the air-line began to twist and coil like an elongated snake. Clay immediately began to haul it up, knowing he would also find it severed even before he got it out of the water.
“Sliced through,” his uncle said. He stepped closer, putting a hand on Clay’s shoulder, though any commiseration he was about to offer was drowned out by the boom of Preacher’s longrifle. Clay turned in time to see a long tail whipping the surface fifty yards to the south, the water flashing both red and white.
“She’s gone, Clay,” Braddon said, tugging his shoulder.
Clay returned his gaze to the water, staring hard into the depths. No . . . Blue, I gave her Blue. He reached for the vial in his wallet, raising it to his lips then stopping as an image blossomed in his head . . . Greens, a pack of them, gliding through the misty depths, their shapes rendered vague and distorted, as if he were seeing them through scratched glass . . .
It was as clear and real as any trance he had experienced, made more so by the near panic that accompanied the image. He looked at the vial in his hand, still full. I tranced with her, he realised, astonishment momentarily freezing him in place. I didn’t drink but I still tranced.
“We gotta go,” Braddon said, shaking him now as Preacher’s rifle boomed again. “You and the lieutenant get on the oars. Me and Preacher’ll hold them . . .”
Clay wasn’t listening, kicking off his boots and shrugging free of his duster before drinking down full vials of Green, Red and Black. “Don’t!” his uncle shouted, reaching for Clay as he launched himself clear of the raft, plunging into the lake and diving deep.
CHAPTER 21
Sirus
Like many older Corvantine cities the port of Sairvek had once been enclosed within a defensive wall, long since fallen into disuse as the conurbation grew in size and the Empire became more unified. It was still discernible amidst the maze of streets and houses as an irregular semicircle snaking from the coast through the outlying suburbs, but the days when troops had patrolled its battlements were long gone. Its principal aid to the defence of the city now lay in the fortified gatehouses which served as both police stations and barracks for Imperial soldiery. Two nights before Sirus had flown over the port on Katarias’s back and discovered there were twelve of these strong points in all. Eliminating them simultaneously would be the key to seizing the city.