His fear hadn’t abated, nor had his disgust at what he had been fashioned into. But the power of what the White had wrought here was undeniable. The ability to take an entire city of individuals and transform them into a cohesive whole, free of rivalry, greed or envy, and capable of working in absolute concert. Added to that were the physical changes. Sirus had never been a particularly athletic youth but now found himself lifting burdens previously beyond him, working for hours on end with scant need for all but the briefest rest. He was quicker too, moving about his new domain on swift and nimble feet. Then there were the skills. Sirus had never hammered a nail or chiselled a length of wood in his life, but now found himself working timber with the hands of a master craftsman, and it wasn’t just him. Every Spoiled under his command now possessed the same skills. Somehow the shipwright’s knowledge had been passed to all of them.
They worked through the night with only two hours’ break for sleep. Sirus was grateful to find his rest untroubled by the dreams or night terrors that had often plagued him since the basement. The White, it seemed, decreed that its army must have an undisturbed slumber. They launched the third boat a few minutes after dawn, Sirus shooting a cautious glance at the White. It had shifted its perch to the tallest remaining structure atop the harbour wall and now crouched silhouetted against the rising sun, still gazing east. Any sense of satisfaction at their achievement was absent from the faint torrent of its thoughts, which now held a dominant note of impatient expectation.
Sirus shuddered as the White straightened, every Spoiled within sight wincing in unison at its sudden shift in mood. Flaring its wings, it gave a loud but thankfully brief roar then launched itself into the air. It circled the harbour until a fresh sound greeted Sirus’s ears with piercing force. Drake calls, he realised, shifting his gaze from the White to the eastern sky, which had grown suddenly dark. A thousand drake calls.
They came in a screaming crimson mass, swirling around the harbour and churning the surface of the water with the beat of their wings. The White fanned its own wings and hovered as the Reds flocked around it. Another roar, far louder and longer than the first, issued from its gaping jaws. Sirus could still hear its thoughts but the sensation was different now, reminding him of the untranslatable word it had tried to teach him. This event, he knew, was beyond human understanding. The drakes were sharing something he and the other Spoiled could never hope to experience.
Are they gods now? he wondered. Will this be the entire world when they’re done?
After several more roaring sweeps the White descended to the quayside, landing a short distance from the slip-way. The sky gradually emptied as the Reds descended into the city, save one that glided down to land opposite the White. It was the largest Red Sirus had seen so far, as large as a full-grown Black, but still of course dwarfed by the White. The left side of the Red’s face was pock-marked with deep scars and its hide bore the signs of recent battle. Sirus noted that it alighted on three legs instead of four and assumed it had been injured, but then saw it held something in its claw. Sinking low, the Red gave a subdued rattling growl as it extended its claw to deposit an offering at the White’s feet. The White sniffed the gift then prodded it with its toe, drawing forth a groan that made Sirus realise this tribute was in fact a man. He lay immobile for several seconds before raising his head, revealing craggy but unspoilt features. He gazed around at his surroundings for a time before getting slowly to his feet, a large, barrel-chested man of middling years who betrayed absolutely no fear at all as he gazed up at the White.
“Chew well, you fucker,” Sirus heard the man say in coarse Eutherian. “I’m likely to choke you.”
It was one of the soldiers who recognised the man, the knowledge spreading through the onlooking horde of Spoiled in short order as the memory spread from mind to mind. Sirus had never seen this man in person but every Corvantine alive knew his name. Grand Marshal Morradin had returned to Morsvale.
CHAPTER 7
Lizanne
Electress Dorice came to find her on the last day of the voyage, appearing at Lizanne’s side as she paused during her morning constitutional around the mid-deck. The noblewoman’s handsome face was pale this morning, unadorned by rouge or paint, and she wore a simple gown of plain muslin.
“Miss Lethridge,” she said, her voice lacking any of the usual condescension or resentment. They had tended to avoid one another during the voyage, save for the evening meals, which Director Thriftmor insisted be attended by all members of the delegation. Lizanne assumed he was trying to cement some form of bond between them whilst also providing a talking shop from which a “nuanced strategy” would emerge to guide their impending dealings with the Corvantines. Director Thriftmor was full of phrases like “amicable concordance” and “synergised outcomes,” but “nuanced strategy” was by far his favourite. Lizanne had contrived to limit her presence at these soirees with some inventive imaginary ailments and artfully constructed euphemisms such as “the feminine regularity.” She found the prospect of their imminent arrival in Corvus oddly attractive in that it would at the very least spare her the company of her fellow diplomats.
“Electress,” Lizanne responded with a formally respectful nod then turned her gaze to the prow where the sea broke white against the iron hull of the Profitable Venture. “Grey skies and grey seas,” she said. “It seems we are to be denied fine weather for our last day aboard.”
“Quite appropriate, I assure you. Corvus is a fairly dreary city, truth be told.” The woman fell silent and Lizanne saw a new distance in her gaze, the eyes sunken and ringed with dark circles.
“Are you well, Electress?” she asked.
Unexpectedly, the woman smiled, though it was brief and her perfect teeth remained hidden behind unpainted lips. “I am as well as I will ever be,” she said, her smile fading completely before she continued. “I should like to tell you something, about the siege.” She hesitated, the distance in her gaze becoming yet more pronounced. “The child . . .” she began, the words soft and formed with a forced precision. “The child I failed to save in the evacuation. I found her the night the Spoiled came over the wall, wailing away in a ruined house, her parents gone or slaughtered. I was going to leave her. I was so terribly afraid, you see. I was at the barricade when the Spoiled and the Greens came charging out of the flames . . . And I ran. As far and as fast as I could, I ran and I ran. But I stopped when I heard that child crying.”
“You saved her,” Lizanne said.