They stayed only a few more days until Chief Bozware reported he had done all he could to return the Viable’s engines to their previous level of efficiency.
“Could do with a lot more grease,” he said. “And more product. If we’re really going south, that is. She’s a tough old bird, Captain. But she ain’t built for the ice.”
“Can you make it so she is?”
“Maybe, with sufficient iron to buttress the bow and stern. It’ll slow her down a good deal though.”
“The Eastern Conglomerate owns a shipyard at Lossermark,” Hilemore remembered. “It’s where they build most of their Blue-hunters, as I recall.”
He saw a glimmer of anticipation creep in the Chief’s gaze. “And fine ships they are, sir.”
He smelled Lossermark before he saw it, the familiar coal-fire scent mingling with the sickly stench he knew came from the port’s harvesting plant. Despite the unpleasant aroma seeping through the mist he took it as an encouraging sign that this town retained some vestige of a human population.
“Seer’s balls, that stings,” Clay said, face bunching and eyes blinking rapidly against the smell. He had finally chosen to grace the bridge with his presence, even going to the trouble to arm himself with a revolver.
“I’m told you get used to it,” Hilemore said. “But it takes a year or so.”
The dark curtain of Lossermark’s harbour wall resolved out of the mist a few minutes later. It was of unusual construction in that it lacked a central opening. Instead it was formed of a series of huge copper doors suspended from an iron frame that stretched between the two rocky cliffs forming the harbour mouth. Each door was broader than two ships side by side and could be raised individually. Today, however, they were all firmly lowered.
“All stop,” Hilemore commanded, tracking his glass along the top of the wall. He could see a knot of people clustered around a bulky apparatus he recognised as a signal lamp. After a short delay the lamp began to blink out a series of bright, rapid flashes. The message was sent in plain code so he had no trouble reading it: “This port is closed. State your business.”
“Reply Mr. Talmant,” he said. “‘IPV Viable Opportunity seeking leave to enter in order to procure supplies. Our intent is peaceful.’”
He watched the light from their own signal lamp flickering on the greenish copper then trained his glass on the knot of people, watching them engage in an animated and lengthy discussion before apparently deciding on a reply. “‘Contact with other stations lost one month ago. Do you have news?’”
“‘Affirmative,’” Hilemore sent. “‘Will share after making port.’”
More commotion and gesticulation, then another message. “‘Do you have a Blood-blessed aboard?’”
He glanced at Clay, who seemed to be regarding this whole palaver with only mild interest. Don’t matter . . . We’re going south.
“‘Affirmative,’” Hilemore replied. “‘We have contact with Feros. Willing to negotiate services in return for safe anchorage.’”
He watched the people at the signal lamp discussing their options. He sensed more resignation than enthusiasm in their demeanour, evidenced by the hesitancy with which the next message was delivered. “‘Leave to enter granted. Be advised, Corvantine vessel also at anchor here. You are reminded this is a neutral port.’”
“Trouble?” Clay enquired as Hilemore exchanged a sharp glance with Mr. Talmant.
“I thought it didn’t matter,” Hilemore said, moving to the speaking-tube. He called down to Steelfine to convey the news and issue strict instructions that no weapons were to be fired without his explicit instruction. “Just one shot and I’ll hang the man who fired it.”
“Understood, sir.”
A great grating squeal rose from the door directly in front of the Viable’s bows, steam billowing atop the wall as the engines that drove the door laboured to raise it.
“How much Black do you have?” he asked Clay.
“Two full vials,” he replied. “No Red, though. Your Islander wouldn’t let me have the smallest drop.”
“On my orders.” He nodded at the door, now grinding itself free of the sea. “There’s a Corvantine ship on the other side of this. I doubt their reaction to our presence will be friendly, however I’m determined not to fire the first shot. Should they do so, I’ll need you to ensure they miss.”
“Diverting a shell in flight.” Clay’s eyebrows rose in consideration, face free of any particular alarm. “Miss Lethridge did it. Might tweak her nose a little if I could match the feat.”
“Can you do it or not?” Hilemore demanded, patience wearing thin.
“Maybe.” Clay gave a mock salute and turned towards the hatchway. “Guess we’ll find out in short order.” Hilemore watched him descend the ladder to the deck and make his way forward. He took up position beside Skaggerhill, the Longrifles’ harvester, and extracted a vial from his duster as the door reached its apogee fifty feet above.
“Ahead dead slow,” Hilemore ordered, gaze fixed on the revealed harbour ahead. He could see a line of Blue-hunters moored along the quay but no sign of a Corvantine warship as yet. The Viable slipped through the opening at a crawl, Hilemore forcing himself to appear as calm as possible though the tension was clear in the bead of sweat he saw trickle down the helmsman’s cheek.
“Steady lad,” Hilemore told him. “If their whole fleet couldn’t sink us in the Strait I’ll be damned if just one of their tubs will sink us now.”
“Enemy vessel twenty degrees to starboard, sir!” Talmant snapped. “One of the new ones by the look of it.”
Hilemore soon saw he was right. The Corvantine ship sat high in the water, sleek lines bare of paddles and a single stack angled back towards the stern. Her length and the number of guns singled her out as a frigate, smaller than the Viable and not so heavily armed, but probably almost as fast thanks to her screw propeller, even faster if she proved to be a blood-burner. She had clearly been in the wars, her paint-work blackened and hull dented in several places. It also appeared the rear section of her upper works had been wrecked, though the bridge remained intact. It took Hilemore a moment to pick out the Eutherian letters embossed aft of the forward anchor chain: INS Superior.
“I count only six crew on deck, sir,” Talmant reported. “Her guns are unmanned and she’s not making steam.”
Hilemore’s gaze was drawn to the frigate’s mast as a flag was hauled up, unfurling in the wind to reveal a white circle in a black background. Truce-flag. Too much to expect them to surrender, I suppose.
“Mr. Talmant, run up the truce pennant,” he said. “And tell Mr. Steelfine to stand down from battle stations.”
A small pilot tug guided the Viable to her anchorage, a length of quay at the extreme western end of the harbour, as far from the Corvantine frigate as they could get. Despite the exchange of truce signals it seemed the port authorities didn’t want to chance a clash of warships within the confines of the harbour. A platoon of twenty soldiers were waiting to greet them on the wharf, all clad in the grey uniform of the Eastern Conglomerate Levies, the name given to that company’s version of the Protectorate. They were an irregular force, a hard core of contracted professional officers augmented by sailors and shipwrights called to the Levies in times of crisis. From the state of their uniforms and the lack of cohesion in their line Hilemore concluded it had been some time since they had faced a proper inspection. Nevertheless, there was a hard-eyed wariness to their gaze and he noted that, whilst their uniforms could have benefited from a thorough laundering, their rifles were clean and held by experienced hands.