“Especially after the progress made by Mr. Tollermine in deciphering its mysteries. Still, wasted are the tears of those who weep over spilled wine. Just pour yourself another, I always say.”
Lizanne said nothing. Now they were alone her earlier sense of vulnerability was slowly morphing into a simmering anger. Evidently, she was out of practice in masking such things for he frowned upon reading her expression. “I know you have questions for me,” he said. “Please do not feel constrained. We are no longer manager and employee, after all. Just two former colleagues enjoying the view.”
“Madame Bondersil,” she said. “Did you know?”
His face bunched a little in irritation at an unwelcome topic and he took a long drag on his pipe before replying. “You wonder how her unfortunate choices could have evaded my notice.”
“I do.”
“Then I regret to inform you that your estimation of my abilities is overly generous.” He gave a small grunt as she continued to stare. “There were . . . certain irregularities,” he admitted after a short but uncomfortable silence. “Small things, really. Slight inconsistencies in reported expenses, a few unexplained absences. I’ll admit I had concluded she was probably up to something, assuming her to be engaged in some intrigue or other aimed at furthering her status and finally ascending to the Board. Not an uncommon pursuit for a senior manager. Still, in light of the ever-increasing problems in maintaining a steady supply of quality product, it was . . . concerning.”
“And yet you still approved her request for my deployment.”
“It seemed likely that whatever scheme she had hatched was approaching its final phase, especially if it required your particular talents. I suspected she would seek to exploit the secrets contained in the Corvantine device, keeping them to herself whilst she enhanced her position. Having a living, breathing White in her grasp would have meant swift ascension to the Board. Of course, I had no notion of the true scale or nature of her deception.”
“And I was to be the agent of discovery.”
“To find a queen you have to break apart the hive. You have always been something of a catalyst, my dear. Wherever in the world I send you, noteworthy events are sure to follow. Though none as yet so noteworthy as the loss of Arradsia.”
“It would have happened in any case.”
Bloskin gave a non-committal shrug and once again retrieved the bound bundle of papers from his jacket, placing it on the bench. “You haven’t yet asked to see your new contract.”
Lizanne glanced at the bundle, making no move to pick it up. “Why do you imagine I want one?”
“Curiosity,” he said, leaning towards her and dropping his voice into an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper. “There’s more than just a contract in there, Lizanne. Don’t you want to see?”
“Not if the act of seeing it places me in danger.”
He reclined and turned his gaze towards the sea. “It seems so peaceful today. The sea becalmed beneath a summer sun. But it does make me consider that one day we may awake and find something very unwelcome on the horizon. I think you and I both know that very soon there could no longer be anywhere in this world free of danger.”
He kept his gaze on the sea as she stepped closer, retrieving the papers and untying the ribbon that bound them. The first few pages were a standard employment contract amended with the very specialised additional clauses unique to those recruited into Exceptional Initiatives. Also, she noted, a doubling in salary and enhanced allotments for nominated beneficiaries in the event of her death. Beyond the contract, however, was something else entirely. A sketch, or more accurately, a design rendered in clean precise lines on a piece of cheap parchment. It showed some form of bulbous contraption, rather like an elongated balloon, with several attachments that resembled the Corvantine’s screw propulsion system she had first glimpsed beneath the waters of Morsvale harbour. But this was no ship, as evidenced by the Eutherian letters inscribed along the sketch’s edges. The words were formed with florid lettering and an archaic sentence structure, though she had little trouble translating it: Rapid and easily navigable passage through the very air lies within our grasp. There was more, mainly consisting of a list of dimensions and projected velocities, plus a brief calculation entitled: Projected atmospheric resistance relative to forward velocity.
Lizanne detected a certain similarity in the lettering, stirring recollections of the scraps she had seen in Burgrave Artonin’s cache of documents.
“Yes,” Bloskin said softly. “It is indeed the Mad Artisan’s handwriting.”
Lizanne held the parchment up to the light. It was thick and coarse but lacked the speckling or stiffness of truly aged paper. “This is too recent to be genuine,” she said. “A copy of one of his designs, perhaps?”
“Perhaps. However, it has been examined by the finest graphologists and scholars, discreetly of course, and they all agree this is either the work of the Artisan himself or that of someone who can mimic his hand with absolute precision. Furthermore”—he tapped a yellow-stained finger to the calculation—“this particular formula was previously unknown to science prior to the discovery of this document. It has been thoroughly checked by experimentalists in the Research Division and it works.”
Lizanne’s gaze roamed the design again. “This can’t be more than five years old.”
“Our experts estimate three.”
“He died centuries ago.”
“Indeed he did, and yet here we have evidence his genius lives on, as real as you or I.” A smile returned to Bloskin’s lips and Lizanne could have sworn she heard the hard snap of a trap closing on her wrist. “Would you like to know where we got it?”
It’s impossible. Over the Blue-trance, Clay’s dust-devil swelled into a rendering of his face, the particles assuming a scornful expression.
Is it? Lizanne asked, summoning the whirlwind that contained the memory of his encounter with the White. You saw many wonders beneath that mountain, as I recall. We know the Artisan went there once. We know that those crystals have the power to change us. What if they changed him?
A shudder ran through Nelphia’s surface, raising the moon-dust into a facsimile of the domes he had seen in the subterranean city and the light shining from them: white, red, blue and green, but no black. Green, she said. You saw what the blue crystal did to the Briteshore Minerals people, transformed into Spoiled by the power of its light. What if he found a green crystal? Green blood is a panacea and a restorative. If these crystals possess the same power as the product they represent . . .
Which means, Clay mused, his scepticism diminished but only slightly, the Artisan made it into the city and back out again. Might explain why he went crazy. You say your boss got this from the Corvantines?
Handed to him personally by an old adversary in the Blood Cadre. They meet every now and then to reminisce, apparently. There was no explanation as to its origins but they did request it be shown to me.
It’s bait. They want you on this diplomatic mission of theirs.
Obviously. The question is why.
You stole the Artisan’s solargraph, killed a cart-load of their agents and held off their army at Carvenport. I doubt they’re gonna greet you with flowers and candy.