A brief check of the ship’s books had confirmed the man’s reckoning, though he had under-estimated Hadlock’s population by some three thousand. Unwilling to impose the grisly task on the crew Hilemore had personally conducted a count of the corpses, though he was obliged to estimate the number they had found floating in the harbour on arrival as most had now subsided beneath the water. When added to the rapidly putrefying remains littering the ruins he came up with a figure of only eight thousand. It was a singular puzzle and he knew of only one person who might hold an answer.
“Spoiled took ’em,” Claydon Torcreek told him simply. He sat regarding Hilemore from across the ward-room table, wearing the same vaguely interested expression that had dominated his prematurely aged features since that first meeting with his Contractor company.
“Where?” Hilemore pressed. “Why?”
“I’m guessing the White has a use for ’em.”
“What use?”
“I don’t imagine it’s anything good.”
Hilemore resisted the officer-born impulse to shout. This man was not technically under his command after all. “Mr. Torcreek,” he said in as patient a tone as he could manage. “I have listened to your story in exhaustive detail, and, whilst I find it convincing in many respects, your continual attachment to cryptic responses does little to further your cause.”
Clay’s face momentarily lost its preoccupied cast, instead forming something that resembled an amused and insolent adolescent. “None of this matters, Captain,” he said. “Don’t matter if you believe me. Don’t matter where all those poor townsfolk went or what the White’s doing to them. Don’t matter how many days we spend in this dump fixing doohickeys and scraping shit from the hull.” He leaned forward, the insolence fading into a regretful certainty. “You and me, we’re going south to the ice. And there ain’t nothing gonna change that.”
“To save the world,” Hilemore said.
Clay reclined, shrugged and sighed, “Just repeating your words.”
“Words I have no memory of speaking.”
“Not yet. But you will.”
The White’s blood. Hilemore still wasn’t sure he believed it, this man had been gifted a vision of the future by drinking the blood of a White Drake, a creature once thought a legend. It was the stuff of fables, not the rational reality of the modern world. There’s a place, Clay had said that first night in Hadlock as they wandered the empty, wrecked streets together. A place where we’ll get answers, perhaps the biggest answer of all. How do we kill it? He went on to describe the spire he had seen in his vision, and Hilemore’s presence there. There was a strong temptation to dismiss it all, offer these Contractors a berth on the Viable in return for service and sternly forbid any more nonsensical talk of visions and saving the world. But he hadn’t. He told himself it was the corroborating testimony of Torcreek’s uncle and the other Contractors that swayed him, but in reality it had been the look in Clay’s eyes when they first met. The absolute sense of recognition on the man’s face was undeniable. He knew me.
They stayed only a few more days until Chief Bozware reported he had done all he could to return the Viable’s engines to their previous level of efficiency.
“Could do with a lot more grease,” he said. “And more product. If we’re really going south, that is. She’s a tough old bird, Captain. But she ain’t built for the ice.”
“Can you make it so she is?”
“Maybe, with sufficient iron to buttress the bow and stern. It’ll slow her down a good deal though.”
“The Eastern Conglomerate owns a shipyard at Lossermark,” Hilemore remembered. “It’s where they build most of their Blue-hunters, as I recall.”
He saw a glimmer of anticipation creep in the Chief’s gaze. “And fine ships they are, sir.”
? ? ?
He smelled Lossermark before he saw it, the familiar coal-fire scent mingling with the sickly stench he knew came from the port’s harvesting plant. Despite the unpleasant aroma seeping through the mist he took it as an encouraging sign that this town retained some vestige of a human population.
“Seer’s balls, that stings,” Clay said, face bunching and eyes blinking rapidly against the smell. He had finally chosen to grace the bridge with his presence, even going to the trouble to arm himself with a revolver.
“I’m told you get used to it,” Hilemore said. “But it takes a year or so.”
The dark curtain of Lossermark’s harbour wall resolved out of the mist a few minutes later. It was of unusual construction in that it lacked a central opening. Instead it was formed of a series of huge copper doors suspended from an iron frame that stretched between the two rocky cliffs forming the harbour mouth. Each door was broader than two ships side by side and could be raised individually. Today, however, they were all firmly lowered.
“All stop,” Hilemore commanded, tracking his glass along the top of the wall. He could see a knot of people clustered around a bulky apparatus he recognised as a signal lamp. After a short delay the lamp began to blink out a series of bright, rapid flashes. The message was sent in plain code so he had no trouble reading it: “This port is closed. State your business.”
“Reply Mr. Talmant,” he said. “‘IPV Viable Opportunity seeking leave to enter in order to procure supplies. Our intent is peaceful.’”
He watched the light from their own signal lamp flickering on the greenish copper then trained his glass on the knot of people, watching them engage in an animated and lengthy discussion before apparently deciding on a reply. “‘Contact with other stations lost one month ago. Do you have news?’”
“‘Affirmative,’” Hilemore sent. “‘Will share after making port.’”
More commotion and gesticulation, then another message. “‘Do you have a Blood-blessed aboard?’”
He glanced at Clay, who seemed to be regarding this whole palaver with only mild interest. Don’t matter . . . We’re going south.
“‘Affirmative,’” Hilemore replied. “‘We have contact with Feros. Willing to negotiate services in return for safe anchorage.’”
He watched the people at the signal lamp discussing their options. He sensed more resignation than enthusiasm in their demeanour, evidenced by the hesitancy with which the next message was delivered. “‘Leave to enter granted. Be advised, Corvantine vessel also at anchor here. You are reminded this is a neutral port.’”
“Trouble?” Clay enquired as Hilemore exchanged a sharp glance with Mr. Talmant.
“I thought it didn’t matter,” Hilemore said, moving to the speaking-tube. He called down to Steelfine to convey the news and issue strict instructions that no weapons were to be fired without his explicit instruction. “Just one shot and I’ll hang the man who fired it.”
“Understood, sir.”
A great grating squeal rose from the door directly in front of the Viable’s bows, steam billowing atop the wall as the engines that drove the door laboured to raise it.
“How much Black do you have?” he asked Clay.
“Two full vials,” he replied. “No Red, though. Your Islander wouldn’t let me have the smallest drop.”