The Black Lung Captain

Thirty-Seven

The Battle Over Sakkan — Harkins Is Put Upon —

Emanda - Many Manes - 'Choppin' Time!'

The Navy frigates ploughed on towards the city, shedding fighter craft like glittering shards. Windblades streaked away ahead of the flotilla, joining up in formation as they raced to engage the enemy. The dreadnoughts were still out of range of the frigates' artillery, but that would change in a matter of minutes. The battle was about to begin.

Harkins kept to the edges of the battle zone, palms clammy and mouth dry. The Manes ignored him, as they ignored all the aircraft that were fleeing Sakkan. But Harkins wasn't fleeing. He was waiting for the Windblades to arrive. If he couldn't defend Jez on the ground, he could at least defend her in the air.

The dreadnoughts had risen away from the city streets and were readying themselves to meet the attack. They kept no formation that Harkins could recognise, but there was still an unmistakable coordination in their movements. They shifted and circled in perfect sync. It was a fluid defensive strategy that kept them moving, kept them separated, and made them difficult targets.

Harkins listened to the Firecrow's engines. He concentrated on the feel of the flight stick in his hand, the reassuring certainty of the instruments on his dash, the press of the seat against his back. It helped steel his nerve. He needed to slow his heartbeat, to fight the tightness in his chest and the sickness in his stomach. To overcome the terror of the battle to come.

Even the smell of the cockpit made him feel safe, the stink of his own sweat and the urine soaked into his trousers. Except that, every now and then, he still caught the scent of cat musk.

No. Just his imagination. He was all alone. Even the voices of his crew had gone silent. He'd heard gunshots and muffled voices, and a scuffle, and something bellowing that was probably Bess. After that, he didn't recognise any of the speakers, except one that he thought might have been that stinking bastard Grist. But wherever the ear-cuffs were now, they weren't with Jez. He could only hope that she hadn't been hurt.

Get out of here, said the panicked, fluttering voice of cowardice. She's gone. Probably dead. More dead than usual, I mean. There's no sense joining her. Just take off.

But that would be the final admission that he was worthless. The humiliations he'd suffered at the paws of the Ketty Jay's cat had whittied his pride to a shred, but it was the last shred he had, and he didn't want to let go of it. So he gritted his teeth, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and tried to think brave thoughts.

You can't hurt them anyway, the voice persisted. What are you going to do? Your little machine guns against armoured frigates? You won't even scratch them.

That was true. But Harkins wasn't planning on attacking the dreadnoughts directly. He'd heard stories about the Manes. The dreadnoughts had more than cannons to defend themselves.

As the Windblades approached, the dreadnoughts released their Blackhawks.

They slid from recesses in the flanks of their mothercraft and swooped out into the sky in a dark flock. It chilled Harkins to see them, and he had to withstand another assault on his resolve. They were so damned unnatural. Their wings swept far forward, curving to either side of the cockpit. The front end of the cockpits were round windows, through which their hideous pilots could be seen. Their very shape defied the laws of aerodynamics. Aerium engines had long since removed the need for wing lift in aircraft, but it should have been impossible to bank and turn at speed with their wings slanted so far forward, like the tines of a meat-fork. There was no tail assembly or rudder, only a blunt back end housing a thruster. How did they steer?

But however they did it, they did it well. Unlike the dreadnoughts, the Blackhawks flew in threes or sixes, in formations so tight they seemed suicidal. Yet they yawed and dived all together, like birds or bats, as if all the pilots were of exactly the same mind. Their coordination was literally inhuman.

You really want to fight these?

He really didn't. But he was going to anyway.

The Windblades' assault had been carefully timed so that they'd reach the enemy just after the frigates came into range. The effect was shattering. The sky over the city detonated in a terrifying thunder of smoke and flame. Great chains of explosions ripped among the dreadnoughts, sending the Blackhawks wheeling away. For a few brief moments, the enemy were in disarray, their formations buckled by the force of the fusillade. The Windblades lanced through the artillery haze and opened up with their machine guns.

The first assault was devastating. The sleek Windblades cut into their enemy, guns spitting, ripping through exposed flanks and keels. The Blackhawks tried to evade, but the ferocity of the attack overwhelmed them. Some went plunging earthward, trailing smoke. Others were torn into dirty balls of fire, their wings spinning away through the sky.

But the Windblades dominance was short-lived. The Blackhawks snapped back into formation with unbelievable speed. Shattered groups of fighters merged into units, locking in as if drawn together by magnets. The Manes were on the counter-attack faster than anyone could have predicted. The Windblades found themselves surrounded and under fire in moments.

A second wave of artillery came in, this time aimed at the dreadnoughts. The powerful guns of the dreadnoughts bellowed in reply. At this range the shots were speculative, but still deadly if they hit home.

Harkins shuddered and shook in his cockpit. He was flying high and to starboard of the main body of Mane craft. Below, beyond his port wing, he could see down on to the deck of one of the dreadnoughts. It swarmed with nightmarish figures, leering and strange. Some wore rags, others wore motley, still others strode among them in outlandish armour. He saw one that was a giant, at least eight feet tall, arms bulging with veined muscles and a neck thick as an ox's. They manned deck guns, ran back and forth with ammunition, or took potshots with rifles as the Windblades flew by. A filthy horde, yowling and shrieking, terrifying in aspect.

His hands gripped the flight stick hard. Blackhawks and dreadnaughts alike had ignored him so far. It wasn't too late to back out. How could a man race up to such daemonic savagery?

Leave. Just go.

No.

She's dead. It's not worth it. Live to fight another day.

But what if she wasn't? He couldn't bear the disappointment in her eyes if she knew he'd left her.

They'll kill you!

He gritted his teeth and let out a high wail that was his best approximation of a battle cry. Then, before he could think any better of it, he thrust the stick forward and plunged into the fray.

The sound of the Firecrow's engines rose to a scream as he dived. Below him were three Blackhawks, flying across his path, apparently oblivious to him. He didn't much fancy taking on three, so he looked about for a single Blackhawk, one that was damaged or detached from the flock. There were none to be seen. It was three, or nothing.

Three it was. He wouldn't let himself back out now. He'd do it for Jez.

He took aim, accounting for speed and distance with an expert eye. He sucked in a deep breath, let it out, and squeezed the trigger.

The brash clatter of his machine guns made him jump. They seemed exceptionally loud. By firing them he'd broken his silence, and invited the attention of the enemy.

But the Blackhawks paid the price for ignoring him. His first salvo caught the formation squarely from above, ripping through the body of one of the craft and tearing the cockpit and pilot to pieces. The other two reacted before he could bring his guns to bear on them. They spiralled away crazily, spinning and turning, drawing G-forces that would have made a human pilot pass out.

Harkins pulled out of his dive and raced away, hoping their evasive tactics would make them lose sight of him. Now that the surprise attack was over, he feared retribution.

But his tactic was useless. The Blackhawks air-braked and came climbing towards him, hard and steep. A third one appeared from nowhere, slipping into formation to replace the one he'd destroyed. Suddenly Harkins found himself pursued by a trio of aircraft, a three-clawed pincer reaching up towards him.

'Oh, this isn't bloody fair at all!' he squealed, as the air around him filled with tracer fire. He threw his craft left and right: diving, rolling, spiralling. Yellow incendiary bullets blazed past his wings. The Blackhawks shot past him. They braked, split apart, and in seconds they were back in formation again, right on his tail.

Harkins craned around in his seat, trying to catch sight of them. He jinked left and then dived, evading them by instinct alone. A salvo of bullets shredded the air where he'd been a moment before.

He tore down towards the heart of the conflict, risking the artillery barrage. Anything to get them off his back. Between evasions, he contorted himself in his cockpit, attempting to locate them. But the bastards were nailed to his blind spot and wouldn't be thrown off.

His heart was thumping and his face was glistening with sweat. This was exactly what he'd feared would happen. The Blackhawks were out of his league. Messing with them was an invitation to get killed.

Oh blimey, damn and shit, what've I just got myself into?

Explosions all around him. Pummelling blasts of sound and flame and fury. He shrieked against the din. The Firecrow was thrown this way and that. He plunged past the flank of a dreadnought and caught a flash impression of the decks, seething with Manes like maggots on a carcass.

Then the explosions faded, and he still wasn't dead. He slammed into a sequence of manoeuvres that pushed him to the limits of his endurance. Turns so steep that his vision sparkled and his head went light. Crushing dives that send the blood pulsing hard in his sinuses and forehead and threatened a red-out.

He pulled up, head pounding. That's the best I've got, he thought. There's nothing more.

Machine guns opened up on his tail. Bullets chipped his starboard wing. He spun away with a curse, craned over his shoulder, and caught a glimpse of them. "Right there, as if they'd never been away. They'd matched him move for move, implacable, just waiting for him to stop for an instant so they could shoot at him again.

They weren't going to let up on him. He could dodge about as much as he liked. They'd be waiting when he got tired. Harkins felt the sick panic that came with the certainty that he was going to die.

You should've run when you had the chance.

'Shit!' he screamed, pounding the dash with his fist. 'Shit! Shit! Shit!'

Machine guns sounded in a rattle. Harkins closed his eyes.

Sorry, Jez.

An explosion from behind him. His eyes flew open, and he twisted around in his seat.

Behind him one of the Blackhawks was spinning towards the city below, minus a wing. The other two moved to dodge the barrage of bullets slicing up at them from below, but they were too late. The bullets smashed into the flank of the second Blackhawk and sent it spiralling sideways. It crashed into its companion, who was still in close formation. The two of them tangled in a squealing collision and exploded.

'Waaa-hooo!' cried a familiar voice in Harkins' ear.

'Pinn?' he said in disbelief.

The Skylance came spinning through the cloud of smoke left by the destroyed Blackhawks.

'The one and only!' Pinn said. 'Here to save your sorry arse again!'



Pinn cackled. Damn, it was good to be alive! And there was nothing that made him feel quite so alive as murdering some dumb bastard who couldn't fly their aircraft as well as he could.

He glanced at the ferrotype hanging from his dash. A new face was in the frame where Lisinda's had once been. A face infinitely more beautiful to Pinn's eyes. Those red curls. That expanse of white bosom. The adorable way her front teeth overlapped.

Emanda.

He'd already forgotten what his previous sweetheart looked like. She'd faded from his memory without a picture to remind him. Well, who cared anyway? Let her be with her new man. She'd regret it one day, when Pinn was a hero and word of his exploits spread far and wide. She'd weep into her pillow when she saw the ferrotypes of him in the broadsheets, with Emanda on his arm. Someone better, prettier, more witty and charming than her. Someone more perfect in every way.

The face in the frame brought the memories flooding back. Wonderful days in Kingspire, a heady haze of booze, cards and bedplay. He'd borrowed some of her money and turned it into ten times the amount. Just having Emanda by his side put him on a winning streak. And she never left his side, except when she was on top of him, or under him, or in any other position they could think of. Damn, that woman had an appetite! And Pinn liked a woman with appetite.

How had he ever thought he wanted to be with Lisinda? She was a small-town girl with a small-town way of thinking. He'd dreamed of returning as a hero, but could he ever have settled into the dull, homely life she promised? No! What a lucky escape he'd had! The kind of life that Emanda offered, that was a life fit for a hero. That was the kind of woman he needed. A woman who could match him drink for drink, and who'd lead him to bed afterward.

After a few days of blissful, overwhelming happiness, the fateful moment came. They'd been lying together in bed, drunk, and she'd thought he was asleep. She'd leaned over and slurred quietly in his ear.

'You know, Artis Pinn, I think I'm falling in love with you.'

That was when he knew she was the one. The only one he'd ever love. His heart thrilled at the realisation. He pretended to be asleep until he heard her begin to snore. Then he slipped out of bed, picked up a pen, and scribbled a note.

He couldn't remember the exact words he'd used. He was barely sober enough to hold the pen. But he knew his lover would understand, the way she understood everything about him. He had to go, the note said, but he promised he'd be back. When he was rich. When he was a hero. When he was worthy to be with a woman like her.

And with that, he slipped away. He fuelled up his Skylance with the money he'd made, and asked about till he found the town of Endurance. He got there just in time to see a flotilla of Navy frigates departing at speed. Going by past experience, he reckoned it'd be more than likely that the Cap'n was tangled up in this somehow, so he tagged along. When he got close enough to Sakkan, he began to pick up Harkins' fearful blubbering through his earcuff. After that, it was just a matter of tracking him down.

He'd arrived just in the nick of time, it seemed. The way heroes were supposed to.

'You ready to get back in there, you shuddery old dog?' he asked Harkins.

'I suppose, I . . . Wait a . . . No. Yes. Ready.'

'Alright. Follow me down.'

'Pinn?'

'What?'

There was a pause. 'It's . . . that is . . . I'm . . . er . . .' He stopped and collected himself. "It's good to see you,' he said at last.

Pinn felt a smile spread across his face. 'Good to see you too,' he said, and was surprised to find that he meant it. Then he shoved his flight stick forward and dived towards the enemy, whooping all the way.

Time to make himself a hero. Emanda deserved nothing less.

The Manes came in a flood. The Century Knights were waiting for them.

They stood in a line, guns raised, in front of the massive stone fountain that formed the centrepiece of the sunken square. They'd had only seconds to organise themselves, but they did so quickly and smoothly at an order from Kedmund Drave. They were a well-oiled unit, disciplined and deadly. The Archduke's elite: the best of the best.

Frey and his crew stood with them.

When they first met the Knights in the square, Frey had half a mind to keep on running and let the Knights deal with the Manes at their back. At least they might slow the pursuit a bit before they were overwhelmed. But he'd made a snap decision, and, absurdly, decided to stay. He'd begun to feel a faint cameraderie with Bree and Grudge, enough that he'd feel like a rat for bailing out on them. Their paths had crossed several times over the last year and a half, and they'd saved his life in the past.

Maybe it was because he needed to do something honourable, because Trinica had treated him so dishonourably. Maybe it was just the pull of childhood fantasy. Every boy - and many girls - grew up wanting to be a Century Knight. Fighting alongside them came a close second.

Or maybe - and more likely - it was just because Samandra Bree was damned cute and he didn't like the idea of letting her get her face eaten by a Mane.

The horde hadn't expected resistance, perhaps. Certainly not on the scale they faced now. They came through the narrow bottleneck where the cobbled street entered the high-walled square. Over a dozen guns opened up on them, and they were mown down like wheat.

Frey and his men aimed and fired into the thrashing mass of Manes, hoping to hit whatever they could. The Knights, in contrast, were astonishingly accurate. Whenever Samandra Bree fired one of her twin shotguns, or Mordric Jask his large-calibre pistols, it was a headshot. Colden Grudge's autocannon was less precise, but he made up for it with his sheer destructive power. Each bolt tore through several Manes, smashing through limbs and ribs and skulls. They howled as they were shredded into bloody meat.

But the withering hail of bullets couldn't hold them back for long. One by one the defenders stopped to reload. For the Knights, it was a well-drilled manoeuvre accomplished with impressive speed. For Frey's crew, it was more a matter of fumbling the bullets into their chambers and trying not to drop any.

The Manes took advantage of the lull. They were relentless, leaping over their fallen, scrambling and slipping through the tumble of shattered bodies. The defenders couldn't catch them all, and the Manes began to break through the bottleneck and spread into the square.

'Bess!' said Frey. 'Get in there!'

Bess didn't need a second invitation. She thundered forward through the hail of bullets and crashed into the Mane horde. With her arms outstretched, she took up half of the width of the bottleneck. She scooped up the Manes and forced them back with sheer, unstoppable strength. The Manes scratched and bit at her, but it was like attacking a cliff face. With Bess narrowing the gap, the flow of Manes into the square was choked off.

Grissom and Jask turned their attention to those Manes that had made it through. They picked off their targets before they got within five metres of the line. The ghouls twisted and rolled to the ground, bearing holes in their foreheads.

Frey took a moment to reload, glancing around at his crew through the acrid haze of gunsmoke. Malvery and Silo were grim-faced. Crake was scared out of his wits. But it was Jez that concerned him. Did she regard the Manes with hatred, or did it pain her to kill them? Did she feel each death, or was she glad of the slaughter? He couldn't say, but he worried for her state of mind.

It was only moments before the flood began to overwhelm Bess. Even though her body blocked them, they clambered over her, or ducked beneath her huge arms. The area around the golem was piled with Mane casualties, but they showed no signs of abandoning their assault. If anything, the deaths of their fellows had increased their frenzy.

The dam burst a second time, and this time the weight of numbers was too great to withstand. The Manes poured into the square. The defender's gunfire became unfocused as their targets spread out, and more of them broke through as a result. The balance had tipped. They couldn't be held back.

'Stay together!' Drave shouted, more for the benefit of Frey's crew than the Knights.

The Knights chose their targets with icy precision and took them down. The air was a terrific percussion of rifles, shotguns and pistols, underpinned by the steady report of Grudge's autocannon and the artillery detonations from overhead. There was no use taking cover, since the Manes weren't firing back. This was a game of nerve. Crake had lost his: he was trembling visibly as he fired. Malvery was getting panicky, blasting every which way. But Frey and the others drew strength from the men and women at their side. They aimed and fired steadily, and though the breaking wave of Manes came closer and closer, they were made to pay dearly for every metre they gained.

But nothing could stop them.

Frey's pistol fired empty. No time to reload. He shoved it in his belt and drew his cutlass. He knew now they'd be overrun. The battle would go to close quarters.

Bring it on, then!

He was awash with adrenaline. His teeth were bared in a snarl. All the anger and disappointment and hate that had been inspired by Trinica's betrayal sharpened in that moment to a fine point. It didn't matter whether he lived or died. It just mattered that somebody paid.

Some of the others drew weapons, ready for hand-to-hand fighting. Kedmund Drave pulled out a huge two-handed sword. Others stuck to their shotguns or rifles. They'd use boots and gun butts to fend off the enemy long enough to get a point-blank shot in. To his right, Eldrew Grissom threw open his greatcoat, revealing an array of knives like the inside of a butcher's cupboard. He selected two gleaming cleavers.

'Choppin' time!' he yelled, with a crazed glint in his eye, and he went to work.

The Manes attacked all at once, jagged nails reaching out, mad faces behind them. Frey stepped to the fore, led by his cutlass. There was little he could do but surrender to its will. He could almost hear the singing of the daemon within as it took control, slashing in broad arcs, dismembering this and severing that. For his part, he simply concentrated on not getting hurt.

But for all the efforts of Frey and his crew, it was the Knights who held the Manes back. They moved like quicksilver, slipping fluidly between positions, always where they were needed. Whenever two Manes tried to take on Frey at the same time, there would be a Knight at his side to assist him, or one of his enemies would go down with a bullet in the brain. Even Drave and Grudge, who were more cumbersome in their heavy armour, seemed untouchable. They didn't have the speed of their companions, but they anticipated every strike and moved to counter it before it came. The Manes couldn't match them.

For a time, Frey lost himself. All thought disappeared in a bloody chaos of limbs and blades and teeth. His hands were spattered red. His breath rasped loud in his ears, heart pumping hard. His jaw clenched as he swung again and again, chopping away the grasping hands of the enemy. Fingernails raked his cheek. He found the owner, just as its head exploded, blown apart by somebody's shotgun.

When would it stop? When would they give up?

Behind him, he heard a cry. Crake. He risked a glance, and saw that one of the Manes had broken through. An awful, red-eyed, ragged thing. It had seized Crake's gun arm and was biting into the meat of his hand. Frey's blade came down on its neck. Crake staggered backwards, the thing's head still clamped tight to his flesh.

Then suddenly Bess was back among them, drawn by her master's voice. She'd abandoned her post and was ploughing into the Manes from the rear, scooping them up and flinging them in all directions. The Manes faltered, looking over their shoulders. The Knights had no such hesitation, and took the advantage. They shot and cut at the creatures, driving them back, gaining a little space and a few precious seconds to regroup.

A piercing shriek sounded over the square, stilling them all. Even the Knights froze at the sound. Even Bess. They sensed something. A signal, perhaps. Frey wiped blood from his face and searched for the source.

There it was. A Mane, eight feet tall, the same height as Bess. This one was clad in belts and bands of black leather armour, criss-crossing its thin yellow body. Buckles and straps hung from every part of it. Even its face was half-hidden by overlapping straps. What little could be seen of it was glowering, hollow-eyed and fearful. It carried two long, thick chains, far heavier than a man could lift. They hung from bracelets on its wrists, and as Frey saw it, it swung one and lashed it through the air like a whip, and screeched a second time.

A leader, a general. Come to rally them, to lead the final charge.

But no. The Manes were stepping back now, retreating. Bess turned quizzically towards Crake, looking for direction. He was grey with pain, but he managed to hold out his good hand. Stop. Don't do anything.

The Knights had the same idea. They stood ready, but nobody fired a shot. The Manes backed away, turned and ran out of the square the way they came. The general waited until they'd all passed and then stalked after them, without even a backward glance at the Knights, or the dozens of fallen Manes that littered the flagstones of the square.

Frey sagged, and let out a trembling breath. They'd given up. Just like that. The cost of the fight was too high for them. He exchanged a glance of happy disbelief with Malvery. The doctor swung his shotgun up on his shoulder and whistled.

'S'pose we showed them, eh, Cap'n?' he said.

'I s'pose we did,' he said. 'Go see to Crake, will you?'

'Right-o,' said Malvery. He went over to Crake, who'd flopped to the ground, holding the bloody head of the Mane in one hand. Its teeth were still buried in the other. Yellow eyes glared at him malevolently over his knuckles.

'Ooo. Nasty,' said Malvery, as he squatted down.

Crake wasn't in the mood for small talk. 'Get this damned horror off me,' he said.

Malvery pulled out a length of bandage and some disinfectant salve from his inner pocket. 'This ought to hold you till we get back to the Ketty Jay.' He felt around the Mane's head with an expression of disgust until he got his fingers between its teeth. 'Now,' he said, 'this might hurt a shitload.'

Crake's yell of pain echoed off the walls of the austere banks and imposing merchant houses that overlooked the square. Samandra Bree, who was standing with Frey, winced in sympathy.

'Poor feller,' she said.

'He'll be okay. It's only his gun hand. He's a bloody disaster with a pistol.'

Crake noticed them looking at him and waved weakly to her. She waved back. 'Glad you're back, Grayther Crake,' she called.

'Me too,' he said, though without much conviction.

'I notice you're missing one, though,' she said to Frey. 'Where's the blonde?'

Frey felt his mood curdle. 'She's gone,' he said.

'Oh,' said Samandra. 'My sympathies.'

'Yeah.' Frey checked his crew were alright, scanned the square, then looked into the sky, where the Navy and the dreadnoughts were battling. A Windblade went shrieking overhead in a death-plunge and crashed a dozen streets away. Screams and howls drifted over the city. Havoc was all around them, but this square was theirs. They were safe here for the moment. The Manes wouldn't come back.

'How'd you find us?' he asked, while he waited for Malvery to patch up Crake.

'Roke. We found him on the roof of the refinery. Good of you to leave him alive, by the way.'

'Hey, I'm a decent sort. We only needed a head start.'

'Well, you got it. When we caught up with him we weren't in the mood to be patient any more.' She winked. 'And there weren't no one around to see.'

'So you left word for the Navy and headed here.'

'They turned up right after you left. Drave with 'em. We went ahead with Drave, and they came fast as they could after. Not fast enough, I guess.'

The other Knights were reloading, idling in defensive positions in case anyone else should try to surprise them. Kedmund Drave, perhaps hearing his name, came over and joined them. He was the leader of this little group, a man with brutal features and silver hair cropped tight to a scarred scalp. He wore a suit of dull crimson armour, moulded to the contours of his body, and a black cloak. He regarded Frey with an expression that suggested he hadn't forgotten that time when Frey had emptied a shotgun into his chest at point-blank range.

'Where's Grist?' Drave demanded. 'I assume he's responsible for all this?' He waved up at the clouded wound in the sky.

Frey pointed back in the direction they'd come, where the black rectangle of the Storm Dog was lifting up above the city.

'There,' he said. 'And he's got the sphere.' And Trinica.

'Let me guess,' Drave said. 'You went ahead and tried to get it back yourself, instead of letting the Knights do it. Things went horribly wrong. Am I close?'

'No, you're pretty much dead on,' said Frey.

'You're turning out to be a wretched pain in my arse, Captain. I should arrest you all now and save you doing anything else stupid.'

'I think you've got bigger fish to fry right now, don't you? Protecting the citizens of Sakkan from a rabid mob of arctic ghouls, and all that?'

Drave gave him an iron stare. Frey stared back.

'Lucky for you that we do,' he said at length.

'I'll take what luck I can get these days,' Frey said, turning away. 'Malvery, are you done? We're out of here!'

Crake was on his feet now, his hand wrapped tight in bandages. He came over sheepishly and gave Samandra a little bow.

'Enchanted to see you again,' he said. 'I can only hope for better circumstances next time.'

She gave him a smile and touched the peak of her tricorn hat. 'Lookin' forward to it, Grayther Crake.'

'Alright, alright, you two can snuggle up later,' said Frey impatiently. He gave the Knights a quick salute. 'Good luck, you lot.'

'Same,' said Grissom. 'Get going.'

'Back to the Ketty Jay!' Frey called, and they headed out of the square, with Crake looking over his shoulder every now and then until Samandra Bree was out of sight.