Where’s yours? Clay asked, causing her to turn, dust rising as she staggered a little in surprise. He raised his arms, gesturing at their surroundings. I showed you mine, he went on.
The woman stared at him for a moment then did something completely unexpected. She laughed. It was a genuine laugh, full of delight, continuing on as she went into a pirouette, raising more dust as she whirled. She moved with a fluid, practised grace that reminded him of Joya in the ball-room that time. He watched her dance, leaping and jumping before spiralling to her knees where she reached both hands into the moon-dust, laughing again as she cast it into the sky. It hung there, glittering like stars in the void.
You’re making a mess, Clay told her, asserting his will over the mindscape and sending the frozen dust cascading to the ground.
The woman’s laugh faded into a smile as she got to her feet, asking something in her own language. The words were meaningless, but in the trance language wasn’t the barrier it was in the waking world. You made this?
The question baffled him. What kind of Blood-blessed would be so impressed by a mindscape? Sure, he replied. It’s still a little rough around the edges, though. Been awhile since I had a chance to work on it.
The woman gazed all around, her wonder unabated. So much detail. You can craft others?
Not as fine as this one, but if I think hard enough, yeah.
She turned back and moved towards him, an unnerving amount of joyous anticipation on her face. He realised his estimation of her age may have been off by several years. She seemed almost childlike now, a near-desperate glint in her eye as she stopped and reached a tentative hand to his. Show me, she pleaded.
Clay took a step back, crossing his arms. We gotta lot to talk about before I start sharing any memories. He tapped a finger to his chest. You shooting me, fr’instance.
The joy slowly faded from her face and she took a backward step of her own, eyes downcast. A necessary precaution. The trance communicated her most prominent emotions with ease: bafflement and delight shot through with fear, but above it all a sense of grief, far deeper and more painful than even her displays of despair had indicated. Blood-blessed she might be, but she had no facility for concealing her thoughts. Clay suspected that if she had shared minds with Lizanne every secret would have been stripped from her in seconds. Such things were not within his skills, however, so he was obliged to wait for her to share.
The note-book, she said finally, thoughts leaking both reluctance and a sense of grim certainty. The diagram in the note-book. Is it accurate?
Couldn’t say. But the fella who drew it was awful clever and exacting in his trade. Not the type to make a mistake when looking at the stars.
Is he here? Another member of your party?
Clay shook his head. It’s just the three of us. The man who wrote that book is dead. I carry it as . . . a souvenir, I guess. We were friends, for a short time.
Are you . . . She paused, Clay sensing her thoughts churning as she sought to formulate the right question. Part of a group? A large group?
An army you mean?
Feeling the pulse of incomprehension in her thoughts Clay conjured an image from a shared trance with Lizanne, the Corvantine forces massing outside Carvenport. He cast it into the sky, letting it play out as the woman stared at it. He felt her emotions shift at the sight of the memory, her despair returning along with a distinct note of disgust.
This happened recently? she asked, watching as the first cannon shot landed amidst the trenches.
Few months ago, he said. Corvantine Imperial forces about to meet an ugly end, and I can’t say I’m sorry.
Who are they fighting?
The Ironship Protectorate, along with a whole lotta conscripts and Independent Contractors. That’s what I am, by the way. An Independent.
Independent, she repeated, her puzzlement abating only slightly. And what do the terms Corvantine and Ironship denote exactly?
Clay frowned. How long you been down here?
She stared at him for a moment then broke into another laugh, shrill and only a note or two shy of hysteria. Eventually the laughter subsided and she turned her gaze to the battle in the sky. I hoped the diagram was wrong. Her thoughts were faint murmurs beneath a resurgent swell of despair. Clay found himself impressed by the way she mastered her emotions in the space of a few seconds, disciplining her thoughts with a kind of stern precision the equal of anything he had seen in Lizanne’s mind. What is your name? she asked once the torrent of feelings had subsided into a tightly controlled ball.
Claydon Torcreek, ma’am, he replied. Blood-blessed to the Longrifles Independent Contractor Company. You can call me Clay.
Clay . . . She inclined her head in a gesture of greeting, though her eyes remained on the stars. And you can call me Kriz. Her shoulders shuddered as the ball of emotion threatened to burst, though she was quick to reassert control. And, to answer your question, by my estimation I have been down here for just over ten thousand years.
? ? ?
The trance vanished as quickly as it arrived, leaving him gaping up at her, still strapped to the pillar. “What?” he said.
She ignored the question and moved out of view. After a few seconds the rope fell away. Clay’s hands immediately went to his leg, still bathing in the light from the crystal, fingers exploring the smooth, remade flesh. “You did this, I guess?” he asked as Kriz reappeared. She ignored the question and pointed to his pack then in the direction of the chamber entrance. The expression of pointed impatience on her face conveying clear instruction. We have to go.
Her meaning was given added impetus by the arrival of another tremor, more powerful this time and the flicker of the crystal’s light more violent. Kriz motioned for him to get up as the tremor subsided, moving towards the dais.
“Thank you,” Clay said, levering himself upright and marvelling at the absence of pain as he tested his weight on the leg. “I mean it,” he persisted. “Really thought I was gonna lose it.”
Kriz paused, thumbing the lever to open the gun’s chamber once more, then glanced over her shoulder with a strained smile of acknowledgment. She gestured at the packs again and slotted another vial into the gun. Clay checked his pack, finding his pistol nestled amongst the contents. He checked the cylinder and found it fully loaded.
“Putting a lotta trust in someone you shot not long ago,” he told Kriz, strapping his gun-belt around his waist. She gave no reply, instead pressing the gun’s barrel into the flesh of Loriabeth’s forearm and pulling the trigger. Loriabeth came awake after a few seconds of spasmodic fidgeting. Clay rushed over to catch hold of his cousin’s flailing arms as her wide, bleary gaze swung about before fixing on him.
“How you doing, cuz?” he asked.
She blinked up at him in incomprehension for several seconds, then jerked in fright as Kriz injected the same waking agent into Sigoral. “What in the Travail . . . ?”
“It’s alright,” Clay told her. “She’s . . . friendly. Far as I can tell.”