“Do you think she’ll follow us into the Wyld?”
Kallorek laughed harshly. “Oh, she’ll follow you. I’d bet my teeth on it. You’re all dead men,” he sneered. “Might as well tip the hourglass and start counting sand. Twenty years ago you guys might have been a match for Larkspur. But now? She’s gonna tear you apart. Maybe Ganelon could take her down—maybe—if she fought him fair. But I’ve heard a couple o’ them songs myself—enough to know she don’t fight fair, oh no. She’ll come at you sideways, rip your fucking heart out, and lick it clean. Frigid bloody hell I wish I could be there to see it.”
Clay shrugged. “Yeah, well, you can’t always get what you want, eh?”
The booker’s grin was an ugly thing. “You’d be surprised,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Flight
The pilot’s cabin was high on the stern, fronted by shuttered glass windows and furnished with a plush chair equipped with mug holders on either arm. Matrick offered to fly, but he’d been drinking since noon and was slurring his words, so Gabe delegated the job to Moog instead.
The wizard pulled three levers, one after another. The trio of sails fanned open, accompanied by a loud crack as lightning leapt across their metal ribs. The tidal engines—there were two at either end of the ship—whirred into motion. From so close Clay could see the four concentric rings within each spinning faster and faster as The Carnal Court came to life.
Moog was beaming. “I’ll say one thing for the druins, they sure left us some wonderful toys to play with.”
Clay flinched as the air spun into a fine mist around him. “Is there water inside?” he asked over the rushing noise.
Moog brushed his fingers over the steering orbs and nodded enthusiastically. “Of course!” He began to explain about hydro-gyres and something called cyclic pitch, but Clay had already stopped listening. They had drifted clear of the cave mouth and were climbing skyward. It was a few moments before Clay’s stomach reluctantly decided to join him in the air.
He glanced over at Gabriel, who was standing at the rail and staring westward.
Hang on, Rose, Clay thought. For whatever it’s worth, we’re on our way.
“Let’s say you find Gabe’s brat,” supposed Kallorek, who was slouched on the steps leading up to the foredeck. “Say you make it across the Heartwyld—which you won’t—and somehow get past the Horde into Castia—which doesn’t seem likely—and Rose is still alive—which she probably ain’t. What then? What’s your plan, Slowhand?”
The booker had been ranting all afternoon. Moog and the revenant were in quiet conversation near the prow. Gabriel was taking a turn as pilot, which basically involved not touching anything at all, and Ganelon had long since laughed himself to sleep in the master suite below. Matrick was below as well, probably drinking, and so Clay, who was watching the sun set from the starboard rail, was the only one within earshot.
He weighed a few responses to the booker’s question and finally settled on one among many in his vast repertoire of shrugs.
Kallorek scoffed. “You don’t have one, do you? Well let me save you the trouble: Rose is fucked, you hear me? And when you find her you’ll be just as fucked as she.”
Clay said nothing. They passed through a wisp of cloud and the sail crackled with silver light.
“There’s still time, Slowhand. Time to wise up and turn this boat around. Give Gabe a little bump on the head, convince Moog it’s for the best. That old bugger hangs on your every word, you know. And put that bloody zombie back in a box where he belongs. The other two are out till morning—we could be back in Conthas before sunrise, and you a rich man.”
Kallorek’s a snake, Clay reminded himself. He’ll hiss and hiss in your ear until what was once incomprehensible suddenly seems like a damn fine idea.
“I’m not the type to hold a grudge,” the booker lied. “And I like you guys. I really do. You practically made me. I was a small-time hustler before Saga. Take me home, Clay, and what’s done is done. Water under the bridge. Whaddaya say?”
“You’ll be home soon enough,” Clay said. “We’ll leave you just outside the forest. You’ll have a two-day walk, maybe three, then you’ll be back in Conthas, safe and sound.”
“The edge of the Wyld is barely safer than the Wyld itself,” Kallorek complained. “Something kicked the centaur tribes into a frenzy—they’re bloody everywhere these days. I’ll be lucky not to end up on a horseman’s spit with a fucking apple in my mouth. And besides, you know how much it cost me to make this thing skyworthy?” He waved a hand at the ship around them. “Too damned much to have you ass-rats take it sightseeing into wyvern territory. Do you see a ballista on board? A lob tosser? Any weapons at all? This boat ain’t cut out for crossing the Wyld! You’ll be a duck in a shark pond out there!”
“Don’t you mean pool?”
Kal’s face went the colour of a plum gone rotten. “Ha ha fucking ha,” he grated. “We’ll see who’s laughing when you and yours are buried in a pile of slag.”
Clay employed another shrug, subtly different from the one preceding it.
The booker shook his head, shifting uncomfortably in his restraints. After a while he started up again, but with a different tack.
“I wasn’t kidding about Larkspur, you know. I’ve met her a few times. Even tried to lure her back into the mercenary game, but I’d might as well have asked a wolf to eat a head of lettuce. She’s a killer, that one. She has a taste for blood, and the faster you run the hungrier she gets. I could manage that for you. I could buy her off, or at least pay her enough to say Matrick was dead and gone. Think about it, Slowhand. I’m the only chance you’ve got.”
Clay just stared out over the rail, squinting his eyes against the sun’s molten glare. The Carnal Court, due to its size and in spite of its four tidal engines, was a great deal slower than Vanguard’s Old Glory. They were flying due south for the time being, skirting the Wyld’s edge. Come morning they would veer west and make a straight line for Castia.
Kallorek kept on, relentless. “Okay, best-case scenario: You find the girl and you somehow manage to rescue her. You’d might as well stay in Castia and become faithful citizens of the gods-forsaken Republic then, cause there’ll be nothin’ left for you here. I’ll destroy everything you leave behind.”
He pitched his voice so the wizard could hear him. “Hey Moog, you know what’s left of your shitty little tower? Nothing! Just rubble and ruin. I burnt all your books, and I killed all your stupid animals. I even ate one of the bastards. You know what’s delicious? Tiny elephant! That’s right, I ate your tiny fucking elephant, Moog! Do you hear me? You’ve got nothing but the clothes on your back, you pillow-biting little rat.”
“Careful,” Clay warned, but Kallorek went on anyway.
“Tell you what: I’ll double the price on Matty’s head. I’ll drag him to Brycliffe myself and slit his fucking throat on the castle steps. And Ganelon? He’s headed straight back to the Quarry, but this time I’ll bury him so deep the basilisks won’t even find him for fear of the dark. Oh, and I’ve got special plans for Valery. She’s trying to get clean, you know, but I’ll put an end to that. I’ll ply her with so much scratch she’ll look like a whore’s bedpost! She’ll be a mindless junkie until the day it kills her.”
“Kal …” Clay broke in.
“And you, Slowhand—”
“ … don’t.”
“—I’ll burn your whole world away. You think Coverdale has a centaur problem? It’ll have a razed to the fucking ground problem. I’ll trash whatever hovel you call home and give your wife to my guards for sport.”
Clay left the rail, started toward him.