“The Blues are all up north,” Clay said. “Or didn’t you hear?”
“I heard,” the sailor said, gaze not shifting from Hilemore. “Blue-hunters been scurrying into this dump for weeks now, and they tell a different story. There’s still Blues aplenty down south, Skipper, you can bet a year’s worth of prizes on it. And it’s a dead-on certainty you’ll find Last Look Jack amongst ’em.”
“Who in the Travail is Last Look Jack?” Clay enquired of Hilemore.
“A legendarily monstrous Blue,” he replied. “The dock-side taverns are rich with dire warnings about the great beast and his ravenous appetite for ships and sailors. Though, curiously, no one has ever actually seen him.”
“How’d you think he got his name? They call him Last Look Jack, ’cause you see him once chances are you won’t be seeing nothing again. He was vicious even before the drakes rose against us, now they say he’s got a hunger that can’t be sated.”
“Guess that means you’d rather stay here,” Clay said, turning in his seat to face the door. “I’ll call for the next one . . .”
“Didn’t say that!” Scrimshine spat. “I’d sail the length of the Travail and back to get my carcass clear of this place. Just wanna make sure the good captain is aware of the risks.” He revealed a far-from-complete set of teeth in a strained smile. “And you won’t find a better pilot for the Chokes, Skipper. Sailed ’em for a dozen years or more, and it’s all up here.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “Might forget me old mum’s maiden name, but every course I ever set is still in here.”
“And the Shelf?” Hilemore asked.
“Been there too, not so often, but I can navigate a safe passage there and back.”
“What about farther south? Across the ice.”
The sailor’s chains rattled as he reclined in his seat, a deeper caution creeping into his gaze. “Once. Had a captain a bit touched in the head, convinced there was some old pirate treasure buried south of the Shelf. Never found it and the daft old sod froze to death on the journey back, along with four others.”
At Hilemore’s nod Clay pulled his book of sketches from the pocket of his duster, filled with his inexpert but legible drawings of what he could remember from the vision contained in the White’s blood. He flipped pages until he came to the image of the great spike rising from the ice, placing it in front of the sailor, who peered at it in evident bafflement.
“Guess you never saw this on your travels,” Clay observed.
The sailor gave a despondent groan and shook his head, slumping back in his seat. “Nah. Meaning you got no use for me, right?”
“Right.” Clay retrieved the book and turned to Hilemore. “The major’s got another dozen or so might fit the bill . . .”
“Saw the mountain though,” Scrimshine broke in.
“What mountain?” Hilemore asked him.
“The peak in the background of that scribbling. That’s Mount Reygnar. Named for some old god or other by the first Mandinorians to make it to the Shelf. I only ever saw it at a distance, right enough.”
“But you can guide us there?” Hilemore asked.
“Surely. But truth be told, it don’t take much guiding. Only high ground for miles around. Moor up at Kraghurst Station then keep true on a south-south-west heading for sixty miles, you’ll see it soon enough. That’s the easy part, Skipper.” He gave another gap-toothed smile, this one possessing some real humour. “Hard part is getting anywhere near Kraghurst in the first place. But you got me for that.” He turned his smile on Clay. “Right?”
? ? ?
“The debt between us is long settled,” Hilemore told Steelfine, watching the Islander cross his thick arms as he lowered his head in stern contemplation. “You should feel no obligation to join me in this.”
They were in the armoury, the thick walls offering protection against prying ears. Steelfine’s bulk took up most of the space, obliging Chief Bozware to squeeze himself into the gap between rifle racks. His agreement had been offered without hesitation. If anything, he seemed a little aggrieved it had taken Hilemore so long to approach him. “We’d be at the bottom of the Strait if not for you, Captain,” he said with a shrug. “Far as I’m concerned, you set the course and I’ll make sure we’ll get there.”
Steelfine was another matter. The fortunes of war had seen him rise higher in the ranks than a seaman of his station could normally expect, except after a lifetime of service. Hilemore was asking him to give up a great deal. In fact there was a small corner of Hilemore’s heart that hoped the Islander would march straight to the captain and report his crime. The man had repaid Hilemore several times over for saving his life during that first near-fatal meeting with Zenida, but it appeared some debts were never settled.
“Twelve,” Steelfine said after a long moment’s consideration. “Perhaps fifteen if their mates persuade them. Mr. Talmant and the juniors too, of course.”
Hilemore swallowed a sigh of equal parts relief and regret. He wanted to ask Steelfine if he was sure about his choice but knew it would be taken as a stain on his Island honour.
“Talmant and the other lads aren’t part of this,” Hilemore said. “I’ll not blight their future, assuming they have one.” He turned to the Chief. “You’ll speak to Dr. Weygrand?”
Bozware shook his head. “He won’t come, sir. Not with patients still in need of his care.”
“Very well. We’ll need a short delay to get properly organised. Tell the captain there’s a problem with the engines, something minor but it’ll take until tomorrow to fix.”
“Might be better to sabotage them. Stop him coming after us.”
“No. I’ve no desire to leave this ship marooned here.” He rested a hand on the bulkhead, feeling the thrum of the auxiliary engines turning over as Bozware’s stokers prepared for the impending voyage. Of all the ships he had sailed on he knew he would miss the Viable the most. “She’ll have a hard enough time being left in Trumane’s care as it is.”
He pulled his watch from his tunic, the two men following suit and synchronising the time on his mark. “The operation commences at four hours past midnight, gentlemen. To your tasks, if you please.”
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