Sirus shuddered as the images faded and he found himself back in the warehouse, on his knees and staring into Katrya’s remade eyes. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? her mind said. Now we can share everything.
Sirus stifled the impulse to recoil, clamping down on the disgust and fear mingling in his breast. He could feel something in Katrya’s thoughts, beyond the affection she had hidden for so long and now felt no compunction in sharing. It was like touching a jagged bone shoved through sundered flesh. Something had been broken in Katrya, probably in all of them when the crystals’ light flooded in. Somehow it had reached inside them and snapped the cord of reason and humanity that should have made them hate this transformation. He had it too, he could feel it, a throbbing persistent desire to surrender to this new body with its marvellous gifts. Katrya no doubt had more memories to share, as did the others . . .
You are needed. Sirus’s gaze snapped to the warehouse entrance, finding Majack regarding him in placid expectation. At the docks.
? ? ?
Sirus could sense no affection in Majack’s thoughts. In fact the soldier exuded little of anything beyond a blind sense of purpose as he led Sirus to the docks. Katrya followed along behind, skipping a little. Her thoughts conveyed a tone of childlike contentment that made Sirus wonder why such acceptance remained beyond him. They passed many fellow Spoiled on the way, all labouring to gather what provisions could be looted from the city into several great mounds along the approaches to the quayside. After a moment’s concentration Sirus found he could sense their purpose amongst the unspoken hum of shared thoughts. He commands that we prepare . . . The sea is broad and the way long . . .
The sea is broad . . . Sirus felt his simmering fear rise a notch at what that might mean but the sight that greeted him at the docks banished further consideration. Spoiled were at work aboard every ship in the harbour, hauling cargo or repairing damage with a concentrated, near-feverish energy. But what commanded his attention most was the presence of the White, perched atop the deck of a large freighter moored directly ahead. His attention was concentrated even more by the fact that it was looking at him.
Come . . .
The voice invading his mind was instantly recognisable; possessing the same note as the compelling undercurrent that ran through all their thoughts. It was soft, far from the booming echo Sirus might have expected from this beast. But its power to command was undeniable. He marched straight to the ship and up the gang-plank without hesitation, coming to a halt in the shadow of the White’s wing as it curled its snake-like neck to regard him.
Different . . . The voice mused as Sirus felt a sharp series of stabbing pains at the front of his skull, causing him to stifle a gasp as a thousand memories ran through his head in a scant few seconds. More, the White mused as it rummaged through his mind, Sirus sensing a note of increasing satisfaction. Thinks more . . . Knows more.
Abruptly the pain stopped and the White huffed out two twin circles of smoke from its nostrils. Once again the beast’s voice sang in Sirus’s mind, a single word but this time completely unintelligible, resembling no language that Sirus spoke or could recognise. However, the word was accompanied by a brief image, a man in white clothing reading a book, the page rich in complex diagrams and calculations.
Scientist, he thought. Scholar.
The White’s wings gave a small jerk, knife-length teeth bared in sudden annoyance. Sirus discerned a clear note of frustration in its shared thoughts as it swung its gaze away.
No, Sirus realised. I don’t understand.
After a few seconds the White’s wings settled and it swept its head round in a long arc that encompassed the whole harbour, Sirus following suit in response to the urge it placed in his head. Thirty-three ships, he counted obediently. Capable of carrying a force of perhaps four thousand.
He felt the White’s anger flare, visions of rent and burning bodies filling his mind.
We can build more, Sirus replied, the thoughts rushing forth in a panicked torrent. Simple craft . . . Barges that can be towed. A tactic first employed by the Emperor Hulahkin in the First Regency War . . .
He stopped as the White’s anger, and the dreadful encouraging images, receded to be replaced by a single word. Build.
I will . . . All that you need.
The White turned away, raising itself to gaze towards the east. Feeling a keen sense of dismissal, Sirus retreated to the gang-plank and returned to the wharf. A group of Spoiled had already begun to gather, presumably summoned by the White. They were all former townsfolk, clad in the tattered regalia of their station: carpenters, artisans, shipwrights, labourers. Sirus could feel their expectation and obedience; the White had given him a work-force. After a moment’s calculation he focused his mind on an illustration he recalled from one of the older tomes in the museum library: Marschenik’s History of the Regency Wars. The illustration showed an armada of oar-driven war galleys approaching the then-independent city-state of Valazin, each one towing two barges behind, all heavily laden with troops.
Draught’s too shallow for the Arradsian seas, a heavy-set man in shipwright’s garb responded before providing an image of his own, a longer craft with a narrower beam and a deeper hull. Troop barge from the Imperial Fleet, the shipwright explained, his thoughts rich in craftsman’s certainty. With enough timber we can build fifty in a month.
Timber? Sirus sent the thought out to all of them, receiving a chorus of responses. Plenty of trees beyond the wall . . . Tear down the houses . . . Break up the smaller boats . . .
Sirus nodded and glanced back at the White, still maintaining its eastward vigil. He summoned the memory of its command and conveyed it to his new work-force: Build, fifty in a week.
? ? ?
The first barge was completed by nightfall, with another ten already under construction in the Morsvale yards. Sirus couldn’t help but feel an absurd pride at the sight of the barge descending the slip-way to the harbour waters, greeted by a wave of satisfaction from the onlooking work-force.