“When the Blues rip his ship apart, he’ll know it quickly enough.”
“It’s not just the Blues.” Hilemore shot a glance at Clay, standing near by alongside his uncle. The rest of the Longrifles waited a short distance along the wharf, packs heavy with their belongings and the rations Hilemore had quite illegally provided from the ship’s stores. “Mr. Torcreek’s story proved too outlandish for him to accept.”
“So you’re just gonna let him leave us here?” Braddon asked.
“He’s the captain of my ship,” Hilemore said, a certain heat creeping into his voice. “As appointed by the Sea Board and confirmed fit for command by the ship’s doctor. My duty is clear.”
“Balls to your duty,” Clay said. “We got us a place to be and it’s far from here.” He turned and nodded towards the ship where an unusually vocal Steelfine harried the work party to greater efforts. “Seems to me there’s plenty in your crew ain’t too happy he woke up. The Islander in particular.”
“Mr. Steelfine knows his duty as well as I,” Hilemore snapped. “And I’ll thank you not to make mention of such dishonourable allusions in future.”
“Your captain don’t believe it,” Braddon said, adopting a more conciliatory tone than his nephew. “But you do, Mr. Hilemore. You really want to risk us not making our destination due to the jealous arrogance of a sick man? I see it if you don’t. This ain’t about broken regulations or deals with pirates. He knows when the only Protectorate ship to survive the Strait makes it to Feros, the laurels won’t be his. Lest he can find some way to discredit you, that is.”
Hilemore fell silent, turning away to wander to the quay’s edge. Mutiny will never be forgiven, he knew. Regardless of the justification. They’ll hang me and any who join me. He closed his eyes as memories of recent weeks crowded in: the destruction of the INS Imperial, the great northward migration of Blues, the bodies littering the ruins of Hadlock. If we’re gonna save the world . . .
“The crew won’t be with me,” he sighed eventually, voice barely above a mutter. “Most just want to get back to the safety of a familiar port, however illusory that safety might be. In truth, it was my intention to ask for volunteers when it came time to sail south. I thought perhaps half might step forward, now not even that. Taking a ship is one thing, sailing her short-handed is another. Then there’s the question of Chief Bozware’s modifications. The Viable won’t last a week in southern waters without them.”
Braddon moved to his side, longrifle cradled in his arms as he stared out into the harbour, a thoughtful frown on his brow. “Seems to me there’s more than one warship in this port,” he said. “One that won’t require so large a crew. And I ain’t no sailor, sir, but that looks like a pretty thick hull to me.”
Hilemore followed his gaze, straightening as his eyes lit on the sleek shape of the INS Superior. The Contractor captain was right about her hull, built strong enough to withstand the forces unleashed by driving through the heavy seas of the northern oceans at high speed. Which means she must be a blood-burner.
“Had Preacher and Lori keep watch on her since we got here,” Braddon went on. “They reckon there’s no more than ten sailors aboard. Seems they had a bad time of it up north. Reckon you can muster more than ten men, Mr. Hilemore?”
Hilemore straightened further, clasping his hands behind his back as if a military posture might alleviate the enormity of what he was about to do. “The harbour wall,” he said.
“Best leave that to me,” Clay said. “You’re forgetting we got another ally to call on.”
“You wanna sail the Chokes, eh?” the sailor spoke in a grating rasp that told of a throat beset by decades of grog and tobacco. His name was Scrimshine and he appeared to be of mixed heritage, the wiry build and high cheekbones speaking of some Dalcian blood, though his blue eyes and accent indicated a North Mandinorian birth. According to Major Ozpike the man was a recently captured smuggler about to embark upon a lengthy sentence in the Lossermark gaol. What made him of interest to Hilemore, however, was his previous service aboard Blue-hunters sailing the southern seas. Hilemore’s attempts to recruit a pilot from amongst the numerous seafarers in port had proven fruitless, mere mention of the southern seas bringing an abrupt end to all interviews. It left them with only one other option. Ozpike had demanded a hefty bribe to allow them access to the inmates, and the promise of yet more once he signed the parole orders in the event they found a suitable candidate.
“Indeed we do,” Hilemore replied. “And then on to the Shelf.”
The sailor’s eyes widened a fraction, though his voice betrayed only a cautious self-interest. “What’s at the Shelf that needs a Protectorate warship to fetch it?”
“Mind your own Seer-damn business,” Clay said. “You want out of this shit-pile or not?”
Clay ignored the warning glare Hilemore gave him, instead matching stares with the smuggler. “I know this brand of fellow of old, Captain,” he said after a moment’s narrow-eyed inspection. “He’s like to cut our throats the moment we clear the harbour. You’d best throw him back.”
“You do that you’ll be sailing to your deaths,” Scrimshine promised. He had been chained to the table, which itself was bolted to the floor of his cell. The iron links rattled on wood as the sailor shifted, fixing his gaze entirely on Hilemore. “This one don’t know shit about the sea, do he, Skipper? But you do. There’s salt in your veins just like me. Ever see the price the Chokes extracts from a foolhardy captain? Ain’t pretty. If the rocks or the bergs don’t rip the hull out from under you, the ice on the rigging might just get thick enough to tip you over. Then there’s the Blues, a’course.”
“The Blues are all up north,” Clay said. “Or didn’t you hear?”
“I heard,” the sailor said, gaze not shifting from Hilemore. “Blue-hunters been scurrying into this dump for weeks now, and they tell a different story. There’s still Blues aplenty down south, Skipper, you can bet a year’s worth of prizes on it. And it’s a dead-on certainty you’ll find Last Look Jack amongst ’em.”
“Who in the Travail is Last Look Jack?” Clay enquired of Hilemore.
“A legendarily monstrous Blue,” he replied. “The dock-side taverns are rich with dire warnings about the great beast and his ravenous appetite for ships and sailors. Though, curiously, no one has ever actually seen him.”
“How’d you think he got his name? They call him Last Look Jack, ’cause you see him once chances are you won’t be seeing nothing again. He was vicious even before the drakes rose against us, now they say he’s got a hunger that can’t be sated.”
“Guess that means you’d rather stay here,” Clay said, turning in his seat to face the door. “I’ll call for the next one . . .”
“Didn’t say that!” Scrimshine spat. “I’d sail the length of the Travail and back to get my carcass clear of this place. Just wanna make sure the good captain is aware of the risks.” He revealed a far-from-complete set of teeth in a strained smile. “And you won’t find a better pilot for the Chokes, Skipper. Sailed ’em for a dozen years or more, and it’s all up here.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “Might forget me old mum’s maiden name, but every course I ever set is still in here.”
“And the Shelf?” Hilemore asked.
“Been there too, not so often, but I can navigate a safe passage there and back.”