No she is not. He let the thought bubble to the surface of his mind. His investigations had been cautious, surreptitious intrusions into the minds of those captured at Carvenport. Those taken alive when the city finally fell amounted to barely a dozen people, all but four considered too old or infirm to be worthy of conversion. But there was one, a former stevedore whose pistol had misfired when he attempted to kill himself after a valiant stand at the docks. The man possessed a vivid recollection of the day Miss Blood’s rag-tag fleet had sailed from the harbour to fight their way through the blockade of Blues. She strode onto the deck of a warship to greet the captain and, at her side, a disconcertingly pretty young woman of diminutive stature. Her bearing was different, less stiff and formal than he remembered, her face lacking the scowl of one in constant search of something worthy of criticism. But it was undoubtedly her, Tekela, still alive and about to sail to safety in Feros.
“So she’s alive,” Katrya said, speaking aloud in clipped, angry Varsal. “Think she’s waiting for you? Think she’s dreaming of the day you come knocking at her door? If you were beneath her notice before, what do you imagine she’ll think of you now?”
“A monster,” he said and shrugged. “And she would be right. Soon this will be a world of monsters. I would spare her that, if I could.”
Katrya’s rage subsided at that, the bestial grin fading and her claws becoming hands once more. You intend to kill her, she thought, her mind roving through his thoughts as he lowered his barriers. Like you killed those Blood-blessed.
Even a monster can be merciful.
She came to him, leaning down to kiss his wounds before taking hold of his hand and pressing it to her belly. Soon there will be three of us. When you look upon our child will you see nothing more than a monster?
He wanted her to be lying, but he could feel it in her thoughts and her body. A new life grew inside her. A life they had made.
A life made in love, she said. Slaves we may be. Monsters we may be. But if we can be merciful, can we not love too?
CHAPTER 44
Clay
“That’s enough, Seer-dammit!” Clay grabbed the barrel of Sigoral’s carbine and forced it up. Sigoral tried to tug the weapon free but the Green lingering in Clay’s veins wouldn’t allow it. The marine’s rage at Kriz had come close to overturning his reason and he spent several seconds swearing at her in Varsal, his trigger-finger twitching continually until Clay decided to forestall any unwise actions. They stared at each other, Sigoral refocusing his rage on Clay, removing a hand from the carbine’s stock to reach for the pistol at his belt.
“Don’t!” Loriabeth said, moving closer to clamp a hand on the marine’s arm. “Won’t do no good,” she added in a softer tone, holding on until he turned to her, the rage fading from his gaze.
“I told you we couldn’t trust her,” he said, voice coloured by weary resignation. Clay released his grip on the carbine and Sigoral pulled free of Loriabeth before turning away.
“So,” Clay said, moving to Kriz’s side and nodding at the egg. “He’s in there, right? Your father.”
She nodded and sagged, Clay reaching out to catch her before she fell. “How do we open it?” he asked, holding her upright.
She drew the small needle gun from her belt and looked up to meet his gaze with a weak smile. “We . . . trance.”
? ? ?
“There’s not much left,” Clay said, eyeing the vial resting in the needle gun’s chamber. He snapped it closed and turned to Sigoral and Loriabeth. “Don’t know how long we’ll be under. Or what I’ll find,” he added, glancing at the egg.
“Your point, cuz?” Loriabeth enquired.
Clay turned to Sigoral, gave a bland smile which drew a quizzical frown from the marine, a frown that turned to alarm as Clay quick-drew his pistol and levelled it at the Corvantine’s head. “Point is, I ain’t keen on leaving my cousin in such uncertain company,” he said, gaze locked on Sigoral’s. “I’ll thank you to remove your gloves, Lieutenant.”
Sigoral stood stock still for several seconds, then his face betrayed a flicker of grim amusement as he slowly pulled off his gloves. “Let’s see it,” Clay ordered and the Corvantine extended his hands, turning them over. It was hard to spot in the gloom but Clay found it, a small pale mark on the palm of the marine’s left hand.
“Blood-blessed,” Loriabeth breathed, gaze narrowing as she stepped to the side, raising her rifle.
“How did you know?” Sigoral enquired.
“General demeanour,” Clay said, unwilling to elaborate in front of Loriabeth. “And you never took off your gloves. You’re Blood Cadre, right?”
“Certainly not,” Sigoral responded with a disdainful sniff. “I am an officer in the Marine Division of the Corvantine Imperial Navy. I also happen to be the appointed Blood-blessed to the INS Superior.”
“So the ship’s Blood-blessed didn’t really die off Carvenport. That’s how you got her all the way to Lossermark. Guess you ran out of product during the voyage, huh?”
“All but a few drops of Blue. I intended to report your arrival in Lossermark to the Imperial Fleet Command the very night Captain Hilemore seized the Superior. For obvious reasons I chose to be somewhat economical with the facts when telling him my story. Otherwise he might not have been so willing to allow me to join this very interesting expedition. My men knew their duty and kept quiet as to my true nature.”
“Have you tranced since? Told your bosses what we’re up to?”
“I attempted to, when we reached the ice. There was no one to receive my communication, something so unheard of it forces me to conclude the empire may have suffered some form of calamity.”
“Horse shit,” Loriabeth said. “He’s lying. For all we know he’s got orders to kill us and steal whatever we find here.”
“My cousin makes a good point,” Clay told Sigoral. “Seems the smartest thing would be to kill you now.”
“Yes it would.” Sigoral slowly let his hands fall to his side. He regarded each of them in turn, expression free of any fear, and also any defiance. “A servant of the empire must hold to his duty. But, for what it may be worth, I bear you no ill will and am proud to have made this most enlightening journey in such company.”
“Journey ain’t over yet,” Clay said. “You got any product on your person?”
“A small amount of Green, harvested in the forest when Miss Torcreek’s attention was elsewhere.”
“Best wait on using it till you really have to.” Clay holstered his revolver and turned back to Kriz. “My own supply is pretty low.”
“Cuz?” Loriabeth said, gaping at him.
“Got a better chance of getting out of here with two Blood-blessed in our party,” Clay told her. “And if killing us was his object, he’d have done it long since.”
He went to crouch at Kriz’s side, pressing the needle gun’s muzzle to her forearm. “Ready?” he asked.
Kriz had recovered a great deal thanks to the crystal’s healing light but he could see the lingering pain in her red-tinged eyes. Nevertheless she nodded, forcing a smile. “Ready.”
Clay squeezed the trigger, pushing half the Blue into her veins, then pressed the gun to his own forearm, pausing at Loriabeth’s softly spoken question, “What if you don’t come back?”
He looked up at her, smiled and nodded at Sigoral. “Try not to hate him too much. It’ll be awful lonely for you down here otherwise.”
She replied with a scowl that slowly softened into a tense smile. “You don’t come back I’m gonna spend what time I have left killing all the drakes I can find. He can do what he likes.”
“Uncle Braddon . . .” Clay began, then faltered, struggling for the words. “Reckon he’d be right proud, seeing you now. First Gunhand indeed.”
Her smile broadened a fraction and there was a catch in her voice as she replied, “Reckon he’d be proud of both of us, Clay.”
He nodded, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.