“And I was to be the agent of discovery.”
“To find a queen you have to break apart the hive. You have always been something of a catalyst, my dear. Wherever in the world I send you, noteworthy events are sure to follow. Though none as yet so noteworthy as the loss of Arradsia.”
“It would have happened in any case.”
Bloskin gave a non-committal shrug and once again retrieved the bound bundle of papers from his jacket, placing it on the bench. “You haven’t yet asked to see your new contract.”
Lizanne glanced at the bundle, making no move to pick it up. “Why do you imagine I want one?”
“Curiosity,” he said, leaning towards her and dropping his voice into an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper. “There’s more than just a contract in there, Lizanne. Don’t you want to see?”
“Not if the act of seeing it places me in danger.”
He reclined and turned his gaze towards the sea. “It seems so peaceful today. The sea becalmed beneath a summer sun. But it does make me consider that one day we may awake and find something very unwelcome on the horizon. I think you and I both know that very soon there could no longer be anywhere in this world free of danger.”
He kept his gaze on the sea as she stepped closer, retrieving the papers and untying the ribbon that bound them. The first few pages were a standard employment contract amended with the very specialised additional clauses unique to those recruited into Exceptional Initiatives. Also, she noted, a doubling in salary and enhanced allotments for nominated beneficiaries in the event of her death. Beyond the contract, however, was something else entirely. A sketch, or more accurately, a design rendered in clean precise lines on a piece of cheap parchment. It showed some form of bulbous contraption, rather like an elongated balloon, with several attachments that resembled the Corvantine’s screw propulsion system she had first glimpsed beneath the waters of Morsvale harbour. But this was no ship, as evidenced by the Eutherian letters inscribed along the sketch’s edges. The words were formed with florid lettering and an archaic sentence structure, though she had little trouble translating it: Rapid and easily navigable passage through the very air lies within our grasp. There was more, mainly consisting of a list of dimensions and projected velocities, plus a brief calculation entitled: Projected atmospheric resistance relative to forward velocity.
Lizanne detected a certain similarity in the lettering, stirring recollections of the scraps she had seen in Burgrave Artonin’s cache of documents.
“Yes,” Bloskin said softly. “It is indeed the Mad Artisan’s handwriting.”
Lizanne held the parchment up to the light. It was thick and coarse but lacked the speckling or stiffness of truly aged paper. “This is too recent to be genuine,” she said. “A copy of one of his designs, perhaps?”
“Perhaps. However, it has been examined by the finest graphologists and scholars, discreetly of course, and they all agree this is either the work of the Artisan himself or that of someone who can mimic his hand with absolute precision. Furthermore”—he tapped a yellow-stained finger to the calculation—“this particular formula was previously unknown to science prior to the discovery of this document. It has been thoroughly checked by experimentalists in the Research Division and it works.”
Lizanne’s gaze roamed the design again. “This can’t be more than five years old.”
“Our experts estimate three.”
“He died centuries ago.”
“Indeed he did, and yet here we have evidence his genius lives on, as real as you or I.” A smile returned to Bloskin’s lips and Lizanne could have sworn she heard the hard snap of a trap closing on her wrist. “Would you like to know where we got it?”
? ? ?
It’s impossible. Over the Blue-trance, Clay’s dust-devil swelled into a rendering of his face, the particles assuming a scornful expression.
Is it? Lizanne asked, summoning the whirlwind that contained the memory of his encounter with the White. You saw many wonders beneath that mountain, as I recall. We know the Artisan went there once. We know that those crystals have the power to change us. What if they changed him?
A shudder ran through Nelphia’s surface, raising the moon-dust into a facsimile of the domes he had seen in the subterranean city and the light shining from them: white, red, blue and green, but no black. Green, she said. You saw what the blue crystal did to the Briteshore Minerals people, transformed into Spoiled by the power of its light. What if he found a green crystal? Green blood is a panacea and a restorative. If these crystals possess the same power as the product they represent . . .
Which means, Clay mused, his scepticism diminished but only slightly, the Artisan made it into the city and back out again. Might explain why he went crazy. You say your boss got this from the Corvantines?
Handed to him personally by an old adversary in the Blood Cadre. They meet every now and then to reminisce, apparently. There was no explanation as to its origins but they did request it be shown to me.
It’s bait. They want you on this diplomatic mission of theirs.
Obviously. The question is why.
You stole the Artisan’s solargraph, killed a cart-load of their agents and held off their army at Carvenport. I doubt they’re gonna greet you with flowers and candy.
She let her thoughts settle, her whirlwinds becoming more placid and losing the red tinge of frustration that stemmed from the much-detested sensation of ignorance. You have docked at Lossermark, I assume?
Day and a half ago. Things’ve gotten a little confused since this tub’s original captain woke from his coma. He’s pretty trying company, I must say.
If he proves a barrier to our objective it’ll need to be dealt with. The time for scruples is behind us.
Hopefully it won’t come to that. My uncle’s got a notion of how to proceed. Looks like the future’s gonna need a helping hand.
There was a pause before he conveyed his next thought, several nascent dust-devils sprouting then fading before he found the right words. The White’s coming. You know that. When it does there’ll be a lotta people in Feros needing your help. Our people.
He didn’t need to share a memory for her to discern the object of his concern. Joya and Fredabel.
I can help them more if I can find the Artisan, she said eventually, conjuring the image of the design Bloskin had shown her. If he’s still somehow alive he possesses knowledge far beyond our own. I have to take the chance.
The domes he had raised turned to instant powder as another shudder rippled through the moon’s surface. You’re really gonna do this? Place yourself at their mercy?
I have never been at anyone’s mercy, Mr. Torcreek. I don’t intend to start now.