But he had a new crew now, and they were not the same. They were his friends.
What if it happens again? he thought. What if I get them all killed?
Just the thought of it sapped the strength from him. He slid down the wall and sat staring at the dead guard. He felt like he’d been emptied out.
But he was too close to victory over the iron beast to stay still for long. The urge to end this drove him back to his feet. In the corner, rungs led to a higher level. He took them, and found himself in the control chamber. Slatted windows provided a view of the desert all around. A bank of brass levers and dials faced him. There was nobody here. The Dak he’d just brained must have been the driver.
It didn’t take a genius to work out which levers to pull to stop the train. Frey let off speed, hauled the brake, and held on. The massive train began to slow to a stop, and all Frey could hear was the ascending screech of the brakes, louder and louder like madness.
Feveryself kill
Seven
Pinn’s wound was not enough to shut him up.
‘It’s all going grey!’ he wailed. ‘Doc! Where are you?’
‘I’m right here, carrying your fat arse,’ Malvery grunted, as he and Crake manhandled Pinn into the Ketty Jay ’s dingy infirmary.
‘Who’s that?’ Pinn cried, looking about, his eyes unfocused. ‘Is that you, Doc? You sound so far away. I can’t hear any- Ow! ’ He yelled in protest as they dumped him unceremoniously on the surgical table. ‘Hey! Careful!’
‘Can we gas him?’ panted Crake.
‘I’m thinking more like we should put him out of his misery,’ Malvery said, running an eye over Pinn’s bloodied arm. He took hold of the shirtsleeve and ripped it up to the shoulder.
‘Aren’t you supposed to have a bedside manner or something?’ Pinn complained.
Malvery harumphed and busied himself with assembling his surgical gear. The instruments were hanging up in a dresser that was bolted to the wall and had once been used to keep plates.
Crake could barely suppress a smile as he watched the doctor bustling around. Malvery was in a grump because Pinn had made him worry. Despite everything, Malvery was fond of Pinn. Crake thought him an odious, immoral dimwit with the intelligence of a cough drop, but he was crew, so that was that.
It was sweltering in the tiny infirmary. Since last night, the Ketty Jay had been hidden beneath an arch in one of the massive rock formations scattered across the desert. Despite being in the shade, her temperature had slowly risen until it was almost as hot inside as out, and she couldn’t get rid of the day’s heat without the engine running. Crake couldn’t wait for nightfall, when they could get out of here and back to Shasiith.
He could hear the rest of the crew coming back to the ship, bringing the relic they’d found on the train, among other things. Bess was carrying a chest full of assorted salvage. It had seemed a shame to hijack an entire train just for one little Samarlan relic, so they’d scavenged for some extra loot on the side. Apart from the relic, the train had carried an unremarkable cargo, mostly crops and mail. Not worth the effort it would take to haul it away. But Silo and Jez had identified some valuable machine parts and odd Samarlan devices. Frey had found some fine jewellery and a matched pair of exquisite knives on the body of a dead Samarlan. Crake had even discovered a beautifully bound book, which for some reason Frey had quickly appropriated. The Cap’n barely read in his native langu K nad even disage, let alone Samarlan.
He’d have to go and check on Bess later. He’d need to ask Silo to help him repair her armour, but generally she seemed none the worse for wear, which was a relief. All in all, the heist was a success. The only casualty was Pinn and, to be honest, if anyone needed shooting, it was him.
‘Can you grab me some carbolic, mate?’ Malvery asked, as he was laying out the instruments he would use to scare Pinn with before eventually agreeing to gas him unconscious. ‘It’s in the dresser.’
Crake walked over to it and began opening drawers. ‘Where?’
‘Third drawer down on the right. No, wait, the second.’
But Crake had already opened the third drawer down on the right. There were no medical supplies in there, but a small collection of keepsakes and personal effects. A ferrotype album and various documents, including an old membership certificate for the Guild of Surgeons. Lying to one side was a small, velvet-covered box.
Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have been so rude as to pick it up and open it. But he recognised the size and shape, and he had an idea what was inside. Curiosity got the better of him.
It was a medal, the size of a coin, with its ribbon folded up underneath it. A metal circle surrounding an X. Simple, but carefully detailed with lacquer and filigree.
‘The Duke’s Cross,’ Crake said, his eyes widening.
Malvery looked up from his task. ‘Wondered where that got to. Didn’t have space to keep everything in those piddly little quarters we get, so I took to storing bits and bobs in here.’
‘Bits and bobs?’ Crake said in amazement. He held the medal up. ‘This is yours?’
‘Aye,’ said Malvery. ‘Aye, it was. I mean, it is.’
‘You’ve had this all this time and you never told anyone?’
‘There’s plenty secrets this crew ain’t told each other, I reckon,’ said Malvery. ‘I forgot about it, mostly.’
‘How did you get it?’
‘First Aerium War, I was a field surgeon on the front line. Saved a few fellers once, pulled ’em out of a firefight. They gave me a medal.’
‘So why keep it quiet? Aren’t you proud of it?’
‘Course I am. Prouder than I ever was ab KI e0"›out anything. Just seems it belongs to that younger feller who won it, not to me.’
‘Hey!’ Pinn said indignantly, raising his head. ‘Who cares about some stupid medal? I’m dying, here!’
‘Exactly,’ said Malvery, with a bland look at Crake. ‘Who cares? Now can you get me that carbolic, like I asked?’
The Ketty Jay ’s engine room was like an oven.
Silo was no stranger to this heat. He’d been born in it and had grown up in it. He’d felt it in the cells, in pens and camps, in factories and in the jungle after he’d escaped his captors. It wasn’t the same as any summer in Vardia. It was hotter, drier, carrying the smell of baked earth and dust. It drew sweat from the skin and punished the energetic. An oppressive, hateful heat.
Samarla was out there, and it wanted him. He should never have come back here.
He moved through the cramped maze of metal walkways that hugged the Ketty Jay ’s engine assembly, testing this and that, hovering like a restless wasp at an apple. His adjusted the electromagnets that pulverised refined aerium into ultralight gas. As usual, it was unnecessary. Everything was in order. The whole assembly had only been put in a few months ago, by some of the best engineers in Yortland. Silo had become somewhat redundant after that. Gone were the days when the Ketty Jay ’s engine just barely held together, and only Silo’s frantic industry kept her alive.
He missed those days.
Slag, the Ketty Jay ’s ancient cat, was lying on the injector pipe, drowsing in the heat. Silo normally liked having Slag around. He approved of the cat’s silent company and his independence. Slag wouldn’t suffer to be petted. He came and went as he pleased. But the cat’s presence irritated him now. The fact that the engine ran so damned well irritated him. Everything irritated him.
Shoulda spoke up, he told himself. He thought in Vardic nowadays, in the same rough border dialect that he spoke. He hadn’t heard or spoken Murthian in almost a decade. Shoulda said somethin’ to the Cap’n.
But what would he have said? Leave me in Vardia, I don’t want to go with you? Where would he stay? A Murthian wouldn’t last long on his own. If he wasn’t lynched by people itching to settle old scores from the Aerium Wars, he’d be kidnapped and returned to Samarla. His former masters offered a reward for returned slaves.