Clay stared at the ocean for a long moment, but whatever she had seen failed to reappear. He knew these waters were rich in whales of various breeds, but Scrimshine’s warnings made him cautious. “You better go tell Mr. Steelfine,” he said. “Just in c—”
His words died as the deck shifted beneath their feet, sending them both tumbling against the bulkhead. Clay cried out as his bruised back connected with an iron buttress, but Loriabeth’s cry of distress dispelled any pain. The ship had shifted again, this time tipping to port at an alarming angle and sending Loriabeth skidding towards the rail. She hit hard and clung on as the ship continued to heave, her feet dangling over the edge. Clay could see the waves below, frothed into white by the Superior’s disturbed wake, then exploding upwards as the very large head of a Blue drake broke the surface, jaws gaping wide.
CHAPTER 9
Lizanne
“Miss Lizanne Lethridge, Ambassadress of the Ironship Trading Syndicate!” The Imperial Herald, resplendent in a long white coat adorned with gold braid, thumped an ebony staff on the marble floor, announcing Lizanne’s entrance in ringing Eutherian. She stood in her appalling dress at the top of the ball-room steps, trying not to squirm as all eyes turned to her. Being noteworthy was not a sensation she enjoyed, chafing as it did on her long-instilled need for anonymity. The murmur of conversation died as the guests, at least three hundred of them, all spent a moment in silent contemplation of the fabled Miss Blood. Despite the Corvantine dead she had piled up at Carvenport, she could detect no obvious signs of enmity amongst these Imperial worthies. Most faces exhibited a keen, near-predatory curiosity, whilst others affected an amused air or even a blatantly lustful glance or two.
Everyone you will meet there is a self-serving liar, Electress Dorice had warned and one glance told Lizanne she may well have been right.
“My dear Miss Lethridge.” Director Thriftmor politely detached himself from a gaggle of Corvantine ladies to greet her, offering his arm, which she duly took and allowed herself to be led down the steps. “How lovely you look,” he said, making her wonder if he might be taking some pleasure from her discomfort.
“Thank you, Director,” she replied. “It has long been my ambition to attend an Imperial function in the guise of a bedraggled flamingo.”
“Oh tosh,” he scoffed. “Though I would have chosen a darker shade of red. It would have done much to enhance your legend. Our hosts are always greatly impressed by symbolism.”
“Vapid as it may be,” she muttered.
“Well, quite.” He steered her towards a group of courtiers near the centre of the dance floor, switching smoothly into Eutherian. “A very important personage has avowed a keen interest in meeting you.”
The group all offered formal bows as they approached. There were four men of chamberlain rank and one woman, standing tall and elegant in a dress of crimson silk. The dress matched the woman’s colouring perfectly, complementing her pale skin and dark red hair to impressive effect. Lizanne knew her name instantly, having seen her face in many a photostat over the years. However, she contrived to display the correct amount of surprise when Thriftmor made the introductions.
“Countess, I present Miss Lizanne Lethridge, late of Carvenport and Feros. Miss Lethridge, please greet Countess Sefka Vol Nazarias, Noble Commander of the Imperial Cadre.”
Lizanne gave a curtsy of the appropriate depth and lowered her head in respect. “Countess.”
“Miss Lethridge. How wonderful to finally meet.” The woman’s voice had a surprising warmth to it, the words spoken in the kind of Eutherian that came only to those raised in the Imperial Court. “Please rise,” she said, extending a crimson-gloved hand.
So close, Lizanne mused, taking the offered hand and rising, her practised gaze lingering on the countess’s bare neck and the vulnerable kill spots it contained. Has any operative ever come this close, I wonder?
“This must be very frustrating for you,” Countess Sefka said, as if reading her mind.
“Countess?”
“Balls, meetings, parades and such. All terribly tiresome for those of us engaged in more practical pursuits, don’t you think?”
“I’ll happily suffer them all to win the Emperor’s agreement. This mission being of such import to us all.”
“Oh, well done.” The countess glanced at Thriftmor with a raised eyebrow. “Have you been coaching her, Director?”
“I assure you, Miss Lethridge knows her own mind.”
“Of that, I need no assurance.” She hooked her arm through Lizanne’s and led her away. “Let me rescue you from these dullards. Male company becomes tedious after a while, I find.”
She guided Lizanne to a set of tall windows opening out onto a veranda, Lizanne’s eyes instinctively picking out any shadowed alcoves which might conceal an assassin. “We’re quite alone, I assure you,” Countess Sefka said, once again intuiting her thoughts with irksome precision. “Come, let me show you the view.”
She released Lizanne’s arm upon reaching the veranda’s balustrade, resting her hands on the marble to gaze out at the broad ornamental lake below. It stretched away from the palace’s west-facing wing for at least two miles, the surface broken here and there by artificial islands bearing yet more temples. Each one was lit by a cluster of lanterns, giving the impression of a swarm of fire-flies frozen above a mirror.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the countess asked, turning to Lizanne with a smile.
“What do you want?” Lizanne replied, removing the formal respect from her voice. Without witnesses present continued artifice seemed pointless, even a little insulting.
The countess gave a brief laugh, apparently immune to any offence. “Cannot two professionals share a pleasant view and exchange an anecdote or two?”
“You’ve been trying to kill me for years. Now you want a chat?”
“Certainly.” Countess Sefka leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The Sanctum is full of the empire’s worst imbeciles. Centuries of inbreeding will do that, I suppose. You have no idea how long it’s been since I had a truly interesting conversation.”
“I’m sure any of your agents who made it out of Morsvale had many interesting things to say.”
“Actually, none of them managed to escape the great calamity. But the reports I received prior to their demise made for interesting reading.” She turned to rest her back on the balustrade, the humour on her face fading into a judgemental frown. “You compromised yourself to rescue a spoilt girl.”
“I rescued a Corvantine turncoat with contacts who could get me out of the city. The girl was his price for co-operation.”
“You’re lying.” Countess Sefka gave a regretful grimace. “You allowed yourself to be guided by sentiment. How very disappointing.”