? ? ?
The Profitable Venture, it transpired, had no less than three upper decks. The largest sat level with the edge of the hull and encompassed an area equivalent to three playing-fields. The next two encircled the ship’s command centre and officers’ quarters, a great iron island bristling with small-calibre cannon and newly installed batteries of Thumpers and Growlers, many no doubt bearing the crest of the Lethridge and Tollermine Manufacturing Company. Lizanne’s quarters were located on the middle deck, where she had been advised to confine her evening wanderings. She spent some time leaning on the starboard rail watching the sea pass by beyond the bulk of the paddle casement. The Profitable had recently been fitted with two of the latest mark of thermoplasmic engines and ploughed a north-westerly course at close to thirty knots. It was, she knew, a necessary expense of increasingly scarce product. The faster they could get to Corvus the sooner this alliance could be formalised, though she harboured serious doubts as to the Corvantines’ sincere desire for an agreement. After spilling so much blood and treasure it seemed unlikely the Emperor would willingly forfeit his cherished ambition to control the source of wealth in this world.
She made her way forward, finding herself replaying the final conversation with Tekela. “If you go there, you’ll die,” she had said, tears swelling in her eyes. “The Cadre never forgets and never forgives. Every Corvantine learns this from an early age.”
She was right, of course. The vindictiveness of the Cadre had been hammered home to Lizanne throughout her training. On several occasions over the past century long-retired Exceptional Initiatives agents had been targeted for assassination or abduction. It didn’t bode well for any reception she might receive.
On nearing the forward-facing section of deck she became distracted by the sight of a Growler crew struggling to free the loading mechanism of a jammed cartridge. Deciding to offer some words of advice she started forward when two strong hands reached out from the hatchway behind. One clamped onto her mouth, the other encircled her neck to drag her from sight. Lizanne didn’t bother to struggle, instead remaining limp until the assailant revealed his intentions.
“Now then,” a voice breathed in her ear. “What’s a tasty morsel like you doing wandering about above decks of a night?”
Lizanne bit the hand over her mouth, her captor withdrawing it with a soft curse. “Your accent is abysmal,” she told Arberus.
“Seems good enough to fool my shipmates,” he muttered, inspecting the bite mark on his hand. Lizanne looked him over, finding his uniform a little too neat for a recently press-ganged ordinary seaman.
“How did you get up here?” she asked. “Bloskin said you’d be assigned to the lowest deck.”
“Indeed I was. Been swinging buckets of bilge-water all day. Finding my way here wasn’t overly difficult. It’s always the same with military folk, move with a purpose and they tend to leave you alone.” He flexed his hand, wincing. “Quite the powerful bite you have.”
“Stop pouting, I didn’t break the skin.” She sighed and stepped closer, raising a hand to stroke his chin, speaking softly. “This is foolish. We can’t be seen together, not if you’re going to be of any use in Corvus.”
“I wanted to see you,” he said with a shrug, hands encircling her waist. “Where exactly is your cabin?”
“Oh no.” She put a hand on his chest and gently pushed herself away, not without some reluctance. “Our relationship will remain strictly professional for the duration of this mission. I need to . . . re-acclimatise myself to this role.”
“It could take weeks to find the Artisan,” he said. “If the bugger actually exists.”
“I was thinking more in terms of months, actually.” She stood back and pointed an imperious finger at a wrought-iron gangway descending into the lower decks. “Now be off with you, and don’t let me catch you pestering your betters again.”
He huffed out a small laugh and began to climb down, pausing before his head disappeared from view, face completely serious now. “You know I still think this whole enterprise is insane.”
“We’re living in an insane world.” She extended a foot and tapped the toe of her shoe onto his head. “Now get out of my sight, you unkempt bilge rat you.”
CHAPTER 5
Hilemore
“Collusion with the notorious pirate Zenida Okanas. Unauthorised pardoning of said pirate. Gross misuse of Protectorate equipment and personnel. Failure to adhere to standing orders in time of war. Allowing Syndicate interest to be usurped by informal contract with independent civilians spouting fairy stories.” Captain Trumane’s voice took on an increasing tremble as he spoke, his red-rimmed eyes seeming to glow with fury in the pale, hollow-cheeked mask of his face. He paused, staring up at Hilemore from behind his desk, a much-diminished version of the man who had greeted him only a few months before. Though never a physically imposing presence the captain had nevertheless possessed an energetic, if frequently petty air. Now the collar of his tunic hung loosely around a reedy neck and his hands shook so badly he was obliged to keep them clasped together on the desk. His faculty for pettiness, however, seemed as strong as ever.
“Please, Lieutenant,” he said, baring his yellowed teeth in something that might have been intended as a smile but in fact appeared more of a snarl. “Feel at liberty to correct me if I have omitted anything.”
“You were incapacitated, Captain,” Hilemore replied, standing at attention and keeping his voice as mild as possible. “The fleet had been destroyed in the Strait. Difficult choices had to be made.”
“There’s a difference between a hard command decision and outright betrayal of Syndicate interests . . .” Trumane’s tirade was interrupted by a bout of coughing, his reduced form convulsed by a series of deep, wracking heaves.
“Are you alright, sir?” Hilemore asked, stepping forward. “I can send for Dr. Weygrand . . .”
“Stay where you are!”
Trumane took a kerchief from his pocket and wiped at the pinkish moisture on his lips. “Rest assured, Lieutenant,” he rasped after a short period of heavy breaths. “If we were in a Syndicate port I would file formal charges obliging you to account for your actions in a court martial. As it is, all I can do is demote you to third mate pending future enquiries by the Sea Board. My first order to you is to get that rag-bag bunch of Contractors off my ship. And”—he levelled a shaking finger at Hilemore—“you can forget any lunatic notions of sailing south. Once reprovisioned, the Viable will sail for Feros.”