“Aye, sir.” Steelfine saluted and strode from the bridge as Lieutenant Talmant sounded three long blasts from the steam-whistle.
“Captain Torcreek,” Hilemore said, turning to the tall man in the green-leather duster. “If you would care to oblige me, I believe your eyes will be best employed in the crow’s nest.”
The Contractor’s leathery features betrayed a slight smile as he inclined his head, presumably in recognition of the respect Hilemore had continued to show him throughout the voyage from Hadlock. “Glad to, Captain,” he said, hefting his rifle, a .422 Silworth from the ship’s armoury. “I’ll take Preacher too. Ain’t much his eyes’ll miss, even in this fog. Lori and Mr. Skaggerhill will take their place with your riflemen. Don’t want it said we don’t earn our keep.”
“Also,” Hilemore added as Torcreek moved to the hatch. “Your nephew’s presence would be greatly appreciated. Captain Okanas is required in the engine room should we need to make a rapid escape.”
He saw a shadow pass over the Contractor’s face before he replied with a slow nod. “He’s . . . resting. But I’ll make efforts to rouse him.”
“Very good, Captain.”
By the time the Lossermark lighthouse came fully into view the ship was ready for battle, a demonstration of hard-won expertise that stirred a small glimmer of pride in Hilemore’s breast. Despite everything the Viable Opportunity remained a battle-worthy ship of the Maritime Protectorate, although he had reason to believe she might be the last such ship in the entire Arradsian region.
The lighthouse was of less impressive dimensions and design than the curve-sided wonder that guarded the approaches to Hadlock, having been constructed much longer ago by engineers lacking the insights of modern science. It rose from a cluster of wave-battered rocks to a height of little more than sixty feet, a plain octagonal tower painted red and white to draw the eye, though the colours had faded over the years. The light, however, remained strong and bright. Hilemore blinked moisture from his eye as he trained his spy-glass on the tower’s apex, picking out two faint figures through the glare. He took some comfort from the fact that the figures were waving, but whether in warning or welcome he couldn’t say.
“Lamp signal, Mr. Talmant,” he said. “Send in plain: ‘Is this port safe?’”
“Aye, sir.” Talmant relayed the order via the speaking-tube and Hilemore heard the clacking shutter of the Viable’s signal lamp through the wheel-house roof. However, the only response from the two lighthouse keepers was yet more waving. Hilemore tried to pick out their faces but the lingering mist was too thick. Spoiled or human, he had no way of knowing.
“I could take a boat over, sir,” Talmant suggested. “See what’s what.”
“No,” Hilemore replied, lowering the glass after a moment’s consideration. “Can’t wallow about so close to these rocks. Helm, maintain course.”
He went out onto the upper works, gazing ahead at the faint outline of the south Arradsian coast. It had taken six days to get here, mainly due to his desire to husband as much Red as possible. With the loss of Carvenport the flow of product into corporate holdings would have been reduced to a trickle, perhaps halted completely meaning there was no certainty of procuring more. Before that they had been obliged to spend three tense weeks in Hadlock whilst Chief Bozware repaired the Viable’s many wounds and the crew gleaned what supplies they could from the ruined port. It hadn’t amounted to much, sundry small arms, some powder barrels, which went only partway to replenishing their stocks, and a few dozen cans of preserved vegetables. More concerning than the meagre pickings, however, was the fact that amongst all the rubble they hadn’t found a single survivor.
“Should be more bodies, Captain,” one of the riflemen told him as they picked over the remains of the Ironship offices, hoping to find some product secreted away in the vaults. Instead they uncovered nothing more than a mound of blackened scrip notes.
“More?” Hilemore asked.
“Yes, sir,” the man insisted. “Been in and out of this port more times than I can count. Always a lively place, must’ve been home to nigh on twenty thousand folk, not counting all the sailors coming and going.”
A brief check of the ship’s books had confirmed the man’s reckoning, though he had under-estimated Hadlock’s population by some three thousand. Unwilling to impose the grisly task on the crew Hilemore had personally conducted a count of the corpses, though he was obliged to estimate the number they had found floating in the harbour on arrival as most had now subsided beneath the water. When added to the rapidly putrefying remains littering the ruins he came up with a figure of only eight thousand. It was a singular puzzle and he knew of only one person who might hold an answer.
“Spoiled took ’em,” Claydon Torcreek told him simply. He sat regarding Hilemore from across the ward-room table, wearing the same vaguely interested expression that had dominated his prematurely aged features since that first meeting with his Contractor company.
“Where?” Hilemore pressed. “Why?”
“I’m guessing the White has a use for ’em.”
“What use?”
“I don’t imagine it’s anything good.”
Hilemore resisted the officer-born impulse to shout. This man was not technically under his command after all. “Mr. Torcreek,” he said in as patient a tone as he could manage. “I have listened to your story in exhaustive detail, and, whilst I find it convincing in many respects, your continual attachment to cryptic responses does little to further your cause.”
Clay’s face momentarily lost its preoccupied cast, instead forming something that resembled an amused and insolent adolescent. “None of this matters, Captain,” he said. “Don’t matter if you believe me. Don’t matter where all those poor townsfolk went or what the White’s doing to them. Don’t matter how many days we spend in this dump fixing doohickeys and scraping shit from the hull.” He leaned forward, the insolence fading into a regretful certainty. “You and me, we’re going south to the ice. And there ain’t nothing gonna change that.”
“To save the world,” Hilemore said.
Clay reclined, shrugged and sighed, “Just repeating your words.”
“Words I have no memory of speaking.”
“Not yet. But you will.”
The White’s blood. Hilemore still wasn’t sure he believed it, this man had been gifted a vision of the future by drinking the blood of a White Drake, a creature once thought a legend. It was the stuff of fables, not the rational reality of the modern world. There’s a place, Clay had said that first night in Hadlock as they wandered the empty, wrecked streets together. A place where we’ll get answers, perhaps the biggest answer of all. How do we kill it? He went on to describe the spire he had seen in his vision, and Hilemore’s presence there. There was a strong temptation to dismiss it all, offer these Contractors a berth on the Viable in return for service and sternly forbid any more nonsensical talk of visions and saving the world. But he hadn’t. He told himself it was the corroborating testimony of Torcreek’s uncle and the other Contractors that swayed him, but in reality it had been the look in Clay’s eyes when they first met. The absolute sense of recognition on the man’s face was undeniable. He knew me.