“Then why drag us into this?” the woman persisted.
Lizanne watched the Protectorate sailors toss ropes to the marines. “In war the illusion of strength is as valuable as the reality. Now clench your fists and keep your gaze lowered. Do not say a word.”
As per his orders the Protectorate officer in charge of the shore party began to loudly harangue his coxswain for poor helmsmanship as soon as the gang-plank was lowered into place. He continued the diatribe as the sailors trooped onto the wharf, much to the apparent amusement of the onlooking marines. The sailors closed in on either side of Lizanne and the Griffans, shielding them from any curious glances as they made their way to the stacked crates containing the supplies.
“They may have counted us off,” a petty officer warned Lizanne as she moved to the far side of the crates.
“If they attempt to impede your return, kill them,” Lizanne replied, removing her sailor’s cap and tunic. “Try to be quiet about it.”
“We’ll be seen,” the man insisted. “Within seconds the whole harbour will be on alert.”
“Your captain has clear instructions should that occur. In a few hours it won’t matter anyway.”
Lizanne gestured for the Griffans to follow and made for a shadowed alley between two warehouses. “Both of you stay within three feet of my person at all times,” she told the couple as the shadow swallowed them. “And leave any talking to me.”
Lizanne was obliged to share some Green with the Griffans to enable a sprint past the outer cordon of Corvantine marines guarding the docks. A few shots were fired in their wake but their speed made it a waste of ammunition, not that Zakaeus seemed to appreciate the ease of their escape.
“You’re going to get us both killed!” he raged at Lizanne, pulling his wife close after she concluded a short bout of fear-induced vomiting.
Lizanne ignored him and turned her attention to the broad square ahead. They had taken shelter behind a huge tumbled pillar of bullet-pocked marble, part of the front edifice of the Corvantine Customs House, now transformed into little more than rubble. The square, once a small park of neat lawns and flower-beds, had become a shell-cratered patch of corpse-littered earth. Smoke rose in thick columns above the surrounding roof-tops and rifle fire echoed intermittently in the distance. Corvus, it appeared, was now more battleground than city.
Lizanne led them in a circuitous route around the square, keeping to the rubble piled on the fringes. Challenges came from various barricades as they followed a westward course through successive streets. Lizanne gave no answer to the shouted demands and for the most part those manning the barricades were content to let them proceed on their way. One, however, proved excessively keen for confrontation.
“Proclaim yourselves as true citizens!” a tall man called from atop a mound of loose brick and piled furniture, the Imperial flag flying from the pole he carried. He wore the besmirched clothing of a well-to-do member of the middling sort, this district lying at a decent remove from the dock-side slums.
“Proclaim or perish!” the tall man added, the others manning the barricade echoing what was evidently a newly born battle-cry. They were an ill-disciplined lot, evidenced by the volley of shots that rang out to accompany their exhortation. Lizanne dragged the Griffans behind an upturned coal-wagon as the bullets impacted around them like angry lead bees.
“Come out!” the tall man ordered. “Come out and procla—”
His words died as Lizanne injected a burst of Green, drew her pistol and darted out from behind the upturned wagon to slot a bullet between his eyes from a distance of thirty yards.
“I am a Blood-blessed soldier in the People’s Freedom Army!” she called out to the now-silent barricade. “And you’ve seen what I can do! Put down your weapons and go back to your homes!”
Lizanne hauled her companions to their feet and pushed them ahead. She wasn’t sure what effect her words might have had, but they made their way clear of this district without further incident.
? ? ?
“This is all?”
Besides Hyran, there were five people gathered in the basement of his grandfather’s long-abandoned shop, three men and two women. They were all much the same age, about twenty-five by Lizanne’s estimation, and also shared the ragged and besmirched appearance of those who had spent days in combat. They also had a hollow-eyed aspect that told of a lack of Green to stave off the consequent exhaustion.
“Every surviving Blood-blessed to have joined the Corvus rebels,” Hyran replied. “The empire takes all but a few into the Blood Cadre at a young age, so parents with radical notions tend to hide the true nature of any Blessed children.”
“What of the agents Arberus sent to the harbour?”
“It seems they found more willing ears than expected. Being cooped up for weeks hasn’t done much for morale and there’s many a sailor with family in Corvus. The general’s confident we can seize at least three ships when the time comes.”
“You’re her, aren’t you?” one of the Blood-blessed spoke up, a slender young woman with a bandage around her forearm. “Miss Blood?” Lizanne found herself discomfited by the gleam of awe in the young woman’s eyes. It seemed her legend had flown far wider than she thought.
“Just ‘miss’ will do,” Lizanne replied. “And you?”
“Jelna, here in the name of First Republic.” She cast a sour glance in Hyran’s direction. “The only true voice of revolution.”
“And the first to abandon the cause,” Hyran replied, which provoked Jelna into a combative snarl.
“Your Brotherhood has as much blood on its hands as the Regnarchy. You betrayed Bidrosin’s legacy . . .”
“Enough!” Lizanne broke in, her impatience with their radical feuding adding a hard edge to the command. They still can’t forget their petty squabbles even in the midst of all this. She took a moment to calm herself and nodded at the bandage on Jelna’s arm. “How bad is it?”
“Bullet graze.” Jelna shrugged, a cautious hopefulness creeping into her gaze as she eyed the satchel on Lizanne’s shoulder. “Stings a bit. A spot or two of Green would go down nicely.”
Lizanne placed the satchel on the floor, opening it to reveal the contents. “Courtesy of the IPV Profitable Venture,” she said. The captain had been none-too-happy about parting with almost the entire contents of the ship’s product safe. Consequently Lizanne had been obliged to issue a reminder of his obligations and the likely reaction of Director Bloskin should he fail to meet them. She shared the product out equally, Zakaeus and Sofiya accepting their vials with a reluctance that contrasted markedly with the enthusiasm of their new colleagues.