Lizanne paused to press a kiss to his cheek before proceeding into the hidden alcove. It was of typically orderly appearance. Arberus would probably never shake off the military habits of a lifetime, even if it had all been artifice.
“This room is well soundproofed,” he said, a slightly hopeful note in his voice as he slid the concealing shelf-stack back into place.
“I made my position on that matter clear aboard ship,” she replied. “I assume your desertion was accomplished without difficulty?”
“The Director’s man had me conveyed ashore in an empty rum cask. By now I expect he’s expunged my name from the ship’s rolls.”
“And your contacts in the Brotherhood?”
“Diminished but still active. I’m afraid I’ve had to make certain promises to secure their co-operation.”
“Presumably they know the importance of our mission? If this world falls then all their deluded ambitions will be meaningless.”
“Arradsia is thousands of miles away, and the Brotherhood’s crusade has spanned generations. Rest assured, the revolution will always come first.”
Lizanne gave a small sigh of discomfort. Dealing with people steeped in dogma was never something she relished, but time was short and she had no other allies at hand. “Arrange a meeting,” she said. “I’ll need all the information they can provide on Scorazin.”
He stared at her in unblinking silence for several seconds. “Scorazin?” he asked finally, a hard edge to his voice.
“The Artisan is most likely there. So that is where I need to go.”
“Or I could just shoot you now and save time.”
“We are faced with a distinct lack of alternatives.” She undid her shoes and took them off, lying back on the bed with an arm across her eyes. All vestige of product had faded from her veins and her body was beginning to feel the exertions of the previous night. “I need to rest, Major. Please go and do as I ask.”
? ? ?
“One million in gold, not exchange notes or Imperial currency.” The young man spoke in soft but strident tones. He was of slight build with pale, freckled skin and a shock of red hair Lizanne’s tutors would have ordered him to dye black had he been recruited to Exceptional Initiatives. Arberus had introduced him as Korian, a code-name borrowed from Corvantine antiquity. Korian had been one of the seven divine brothers fabled to have built Corvus after being cast out of the gods’ heavenly abode. If Lizanne recalled rightly, Korian had been murdered by his brothers for the crime of coming to love the mere mortals who laboured in their service. His death sparked the revolt that brought down the brothers’ dominion and established the first ruling Corvantine dynasty. Historians considered the whole tale a fanciful myth but it had provided inspiration aplenty for Corvantine subversives for centuries.
“Plus twenty thousand rifles with two hundred rounds apiece,” Korian went on. “We will also require all intelligence the Ironship Protectorate holds on Imperial military deployments.”
Yet another uprising in the offing, Lizanne concluded. Don’t they ever get tired of this? “Done,” she said, suppressing a grin at the youth’s surprised frown. Evidently he had expected some hard bargaining but Lizanne saw little point in it. Although she was technically negating the good faith of Director Thriftmor’s negotiations by agreeing to fund and arm these rebels, she suspected that by the time she got the Artisan on a ship the empire’s internal problems would be superseded by more pressing concerns.
“You will simply hand all of this over without demur?” Korian asked.
“Crisis breeds urgency,” Lizanne replied. “And I am fully empowered by my employers to make whatever agreements are necessary to achieve my objective.”
Korian glanced at Arberus, who stood guarding the entrance to the store-room. The major smiled tightly and gave a firm nod, which seemed to alleviate the revolutionary’s unease. “What do you require?” he asked.
“A capable forger,” she said. “Plus, Imperial Cavalry uniforms in sufficient quantity to clothe a full company together with men to wear them and the requisite number of horses to carry said men. I shall also require a ceramicist skilled in delicate work.”
She paused, regarding his puzzled expression with a raised eyebrow. “I assume these requirements are within the Brotherhood’s capabilities. If not, perhaps there are other groups I should be speaking to. According to my employer’s files, the Republic First Alliance is more effective when it comes to infiltration . . .”
“Republic First,” Korian broke in, “lost all claims to Bidrosin’s legacy during the revolution. They are little more than thieves posturing as radicals. Any other group you might approach are shadows of their former selves, cowed dreamers who do nothing but endlessly rehash the grand epic of failure. Only the Brotherhood still stands for the people. Our struggle will never be done, not until the old order is scoured from this land and Bidrosin’s vision made real. Much as I despise the corporatist world and all it stands for, I’d crawl through the foulest sewer if it will win this struggle.”
Lizanne always found radical invective jarring, especially when delivered without a trace of irony. “How noble of you,” she said, unable to keep the weary tone from her voice. “Can you do this or not?”
CHAPTER 12
Clay
Clay skidded across the deck, staring in fixed horror as the drake’s jaws began to close on Loriabeth’s legs. He had no gun, no product and lacked even the strength to prevent his headlong tumble. Therefore, it was an overwhelming relief to hear the ear-jarring clack of the Blue’s teeth snapping on empty air as Loriabeth swung herself clear. The ship righted itself just as Clay collided with the rail, a shout of pained frustration issuing from his mouth. He flailed on the deck, hands scrabbling on the boards as he tried and failed to haul himself upright.
He looked up at the sound of Loriabeth scrambling to her feet with both pistols in hand, firing a rapid salvo at the Blue’s head as it darted forward for a second try. The beast flinched as the bullets tore at its snout, drawing blood but failing to dissuade it from making another lunge at its prey. Loriabeth dived to one side, rolling clear of the snapping jaws then whirling to empty both revolvers into the drake’s face at point-blank range. The Blue reared back as if stung, blood trailing from a ruined eye. Its mouth gaped wide once more, infuriated growls fading and a haze of heated air blossoming from its throat. Then it froze.
Clay stared at the immobile head of the beast, seeing how the rest of its snake-like body coiled and thrashed in the water below. His gaze snapped to the walkway above, finding the Varestian pirate woman standing there, eyes fixed on the Blue. Her face was set in the hard concentration that told of intense use of Black as she held the drake in place.