After enjoying her tea she bathed in the fountain for a time. It was deep enough for her to float free, arms spread wide and eyes closed as her hair trailed in the water. Despite the water’s soothing caress she found herself irked by the constancy with which Electress Dorice’s face lingered in her mind. Pampered, indolent and useless for most of her life . . . until the last few months. The thought birthed a simmering heat in her chest, the same sensation that had gripped her when the Cadre had taken Tekela in Morsvale. Anger is a distraction, she reminded herself. Vengeance is for amateurs. But still, the heat continued to simmer.
After bathing she checked her luggage, confirming the tiny threads she had glued in certain places had been broken. The fact that whoever had performed the search hadn’t bothered to replace the threads was more concerning than the search itself. They don’t care if I know. Fortunately, whilst the search had evidently been thorough, it hadn’t been expert. She touched a satisfied hand to the cosmetic and jewellery cases nestled in her chest, before casting a reluctant eye at the ball-gown Bloskin had insisted she bring. A certain degree of finery will be expected, he had said, before handing over the frilly monstrosity. I’m told this is all the rage in Corvus, and it wouldn’t do to disappoint the Emperor. By all accounts, he’s quite taken with the legend of Miss Blood. Try not to disappoint him.
CHAPTER 8
Clay
Silverpin smiled as she bled, uncaring of the dark red torrent rushing from the hole he had blasted through her. He called me here for a reason, her voice spoke in his mind, calm and rich in certainty. A very old but very necessary design has been interrupted, and will now be resumed.
“I didn’t mean to,” Clay said, reaching out for her as she collapsed, her blood spreading across the chamber floor to form the now-familiar crimson wings. But this time it was different, because she didn’t die. Instead she stared up at him, face serene and accepting.
I was a monster, Clay. I deserved this . . .
“No . . .”
Millions would have died. Millions more enslaved. You saved them, for a time.
A great hiss of drawn breath drew his gaze and Clay found himself face-to-face with the White, its eyes full of malice and anger, mouth opening to reveal a haze of heated air as it summoned the flames from its guts. The fiery stream rushed forth, enveloping him in screaming agony. His skin blistered and peeled, his body twisted and deformed in the heat and through it all he heard a deep, grating rumble he knew was the sound of the White’s laughter . . .
? ? ?
“Dammit, young ’un, wake up!”
Clay shuddered as the dream faded, blinking until Skaggerhill’s broad, leathery features came into focus. The cabin they shared was still dark save for the dim moonlight streaming through the port-hole. “Ain’t even morning yet,” Clay groaned, pushing the harvester’s hand from his shoulder.
“That pet of yours is acting up again. Your uncle’s already had to stop one of the Corvies shooting it.”
Clay muttered a curse, swinging his legs off the bunk and reached for his clothes.
He found Lutharon in the aft section, lowered into a defensive crouch amidst the circle of accumulated driftwood and purloined barrels he had crafted into a nest. Uncle Braddon, Preacher and Loriabeth had formed a cordon in front of the drake, facing down a half-dozen Corvantine crewmen. They were all armed with a variety of edged weapons and seemed disinclined to heed the placating words of their young officer. To his surprise, Clay found he could understand much of their babble despite never having spoken Varsal in his life. Must be the trance, he concluded. Miss Lethridge knows it, so I know it. It was a strange but welcome facet of Blue he hadn’t known existed.
“The bugger nearly roasted me, sir!” one of the Corvantines said, the burliest one amongst them, brandishing the scorched arm of his jacket at Lieutenant Sigoral. “Ain’t natural having that beast aboard. Blasphemous even.”
Clay paused, deciding to experiment with his new-found ability. “You were told to stay away from him for a reason,” he said in heavily accented but reasonably-well-phrased Varsal. “He doesn’t like to be gawped at.”
“Threw him some grub is all!” the burly man bridled, stepping forward with a sea-axe in hand. Sigoral moved into his path, snapping out a curt order to stand fast as the fellow’s mates gave an angry murmur that bespoke imminent violence.
“Doesn’t like to be fed, either.” Clay stepped through the line of Contractors and moved slowly to Lutharon’s side. The Black gave a low rumble of discontent but allowed Clay to touch a hand to his flank. “Like to hunt, dontcha, old fella?” he said, slipping back into softly spoken Mandinorian.
Lutharon’s hide twitched under his palm and Clay sensed he was fighting an instinctive desire to flinch away. This was behaviour he had never exhibited in Ethelynne Drystone’s company, but then she had practically raised him from an orphaned infant. During the first few days following Ethelynne’s demise, Lutharon had followed Clay without question. He seemed fully capable of understanding his new master’s moods and responding to his unspoken wishes thanks to whatever bond Ethelynne’s final command had instilled. They had spent days ranging out over the Coppersoles whilst Captain Hilemore oversaw the repairs to the Viable Opportunity. Clay’s former fear of flight soon disappeared as they wheeled and soared above the mountains, the temporary joy a welcome respite from their shared grief. But since leaving Hadlock, Clay felt their connection fading with every passing day. Lutharon was becoming less placid in the presence of humans, more inclined to threatening growls or warning puffs of smoke whenever anyone but Clay came close. He had tried to strengthen the bond, spending as much time with the beast as he could, even drinking Blue and attempting to establish the kind of trance connection he had briefly shared with Silverpin. It didn’t work, their bond continued to erode and Clay had an intuition as to why.
“Heart-blood,” he murmured, smoothing his hand along Lutharon’s ebony scales. “That’s what I need, isn’t it, old fella? And we ain’t got any.”
He stayed with Lutharon for several hours. Eventually the drake had calmed enough for the Corvantine officer to persuade his sailors to return to their duties. The Longrifles went back to bed when it became clear they weren’t likely to return, though Braddon handed Clay a revolver just in case.
“Would’ve preferred the captain leave that lot behind,” he said.
Clay shrugged and strapped the gun-belt around his waist. “Reckon so will they before this is done.” He watched Braddon rest his arms on the aft rail, staring out at the passing ocean. It was calmer tonight, though the air grew colder with every southward mile they sailed and Captain Hilemore had assured them rougher seas were ahead.
“I don’t know what’s down there,” Clay said. “All I know is what I saw in the vision, and that ain’t much. Could be good. But the way our luck’s been lately, I think we both know it’s gonna be bad.”