Clay whirled to the right, revolver raised to aim at a Red banking towards him. He fired as it levelled out. His reduced faculties made for a poor shot, raising a waterspout a good foot wide of the target. The Red shrieked in triumph, mouth gaping as it closed. Clay drew the hammer back for another shot, arm trembling as he attempted to aim down the beast’s throat.
The water beneath the Red erupted into a white froth as something shot from beneath the surface, something with a long snake-like body and blue scales that glittered in the cascading water. The Blue’s jaws clamped onto the Red’s neck, plucking it from the air with a crack of breaking vertebrae. The Blue coiled in mid air, seeming to hang there for a second and affording Clay an opportunity to gauge its size. Nine feet long, he thought with an oddly amused detachment. Just a tiddler. Then the Blue was gone, scattering water and blood as it dived back beneath the surface with its prize.
“Come on, cuz!” Loriabeth and Sigoral appeared at his side, each taking an arm and dragging him towards the bridge. The remaining Reds seemed to have fled, leaving the sky empty, but Clay’s attention was now fixed on the water. The appearance of the bridge had raised a great deal of silt from the lake-bed, leaving the water dark and pregnant with unseen menace.
They reached the bridge after a few seconds’ struggle through the water, Clay expecting another Blue to come surging up from the depths at any minute. Sigoral climbed onto the bridge and took hold of Clay’s arms, dragging him up and clear of the water whilst Loriabeth pushed from below.
Once successfully hauled clear, Clay lay at the edge of the bridge. The pain was now so acute his leg seemed to be on fire, sapping his strength so much that he could only lie there and watch Loriabeth offer her raised arms to Sigoral. Instead of reaching down to her, however, the Corvantine straightened, unslung his carbine and levered a round into the chamber. Clay raised a trembling hand as Sigoral lowered the barrel, croaking out an impotent “No!” as flame blossomed from the carbine’s muzzle. He turned, expecting to see Loriabeth slumping lifeless into the water, but instead finding her staring at the bloody, thrashing body of a Blue barely a yard away.
“If you wouldn’t mind, Miss,” Sigoral said, crouching to offer her his hand.
CHAPTER 25
Lizanne
“Seems too small,” Demisol said, peering at the spherical device she had placed on the defaced table. It was a little larger than an average-sized apple, constructed from a mix of iron and copper components. A small key lay alongside it, ready to be inserted into the slot on the top of the device.
“I’m assured it’s more than adequate for the task,” Lizanne said.
“So you didn’t make this?” Helina asked, her perennial suspicion as yet undimmed by Lizanne’s reappearance with the promised proof of her intent.
“I was fortunate enough to secure the services of someone sympathetic to our enterprise,” she replied.
“The wider this plan is known the greater the risk.” The diminutive radical stared down at the device for a long while before adding, “I know of only one inmate with the skills to construct something of this complexity.”
“The Tinkerer?” Demisol asked Lizanne, who shrugged.
“What does it matter?” she said. “The device will work and he is in the process of producing more.”
“We’ve had a few dealings with him in the past,” Demisol said. “Enough to know he cares nothing for our cause.”
“I promised him escape. He’s not particularly skilled in detecting lies.”
“But you are skilled in speaking them,” Helina observed.
“What revolutionary isn’t?” Lizanne nodded at the device. “Citizens, I require your decision. Once this is primed and placed there can be no turning back.”
Demisol gave no immediate reply, instead moving to the head of the table and sinking into a chair where the owner of this house once sat and entertained guests. “What have you told the Electress?” he enquired.
“That you’re reluctant to trust a new-comer,” Lizanne replied. “However, whilst I have not yet discerned any evidence of your involvement in the attempt on her life, certain passing remarks lead me to conclude there is more to learn here. Also, you have intimated a desire to have me spy on her, as she would expect.”
“So,” Helina said, “you haven’t given up the fop yet.”
Lizanne gave a thin smile. “Play a high card at the wrong moment and you risk losing the pot.”
“How does it work?” Demisol asked, nodding at the iron-and-copper apple on the table.
“Insert the key and turn it fully to the right. The delay is fifteen minutes. I will have a dozen more ready by next Ore Day, and a much larger device I’m assured will achieve our principal aim.”
“And then,” Demisol said softly, “Scorazin goes to war.”
“Yes.” Lizanne looked up, eyes tracking from one to the other. “Your decision, citizens?”
“We were obliged to . . . disenfranchise one of our number after putting your scheme to the group,” Helina said. “The Holy Leveller, ironically. Despite a lifetime lost in religious delusion, he proclaimed the plan a murderous and insane folly. But the vote went against him.”
“Unanimously,” Demisol added, rising and coming around the table to retrieve one of the timepieces. “We’re with you, citizen. It’s time to wipe the blot of this city from the soul of humanity.”
? ? ?
Earless Jozk was by far the worst gambler Lizanne had ever known. He would sit at her Pastazch table whenever he had money to spend, one hand twitching on his diminishing pile of chits as he peered at the hand she dealt, the value of which could be easily read in the various tics of his unwashed face. Tonight, the unalloyed glimmer of joy in his gaze told Lizanne he had drawn at least two cards of the Imperial Suit on the first throw of the die, a fact also plain to the four other players at the table who promptly folded.
“Cowards,” the stocky Fury muttered, reaching for the meagre pot. Despite the poor haul, this was in fact the most Lizanne had seen him win in a single night. Usually he would sit playing out hand after hand until his chits were exhausted, whereupon he would disappear from the Miner’s Repose until labour in the sulphur pit earned enough to buy a chair at the table, and the entire fruitless exercise would be repeated.
“It’s still a decent haul, Mr. Jozk,” she told him as she gathered up the cards and shuffled the deck. “Enough for a full cup of the good stuff and an hour upstairs, if you’d like.”
“I’m far from done,” he growled in response. “Just work those dainty hands, m’dear. I’ll decide how best to spend my wealth once I’ve cleaned the pockets of these craven dogs.”
The other players gave voice to some restrained laughter, but no open mockery. Jozk had earned his name not from losing an ear, but from his habit of biting them off those foolish enough to rouse his temper past breaking point. To his credit, however, he never became violent at the table or fell victim to any unwise notions regarding Lizanne’s person.