Show me.
He summoned the memory with surprising alacrity. It seemed his self-indulgence had paid off in tutoring him in efficient command of the trance. A dense patch of cloud swirled into the image of a campsite. Arberus sat close to a fire in the foreground, cleaning his revolver, prolonged tension clear in the depth of his furrowed brow. Beyond him Korian could be seen in animated disagreement with a cluster of young men and women. Fortunately, Hyran hadn’t thought to summon the sound so she was spared the gabble of revolutionary dogma.
How many in total? she asked.
Two hundred and fifty-six, he replied promptly, causing her to assume Arberus had made him memorise the details of the small army. All mounted and armed with repeating carbines. Two small cannon, also.
Will any more be coming?
Korian expects another thirty by the end of the week. This is pretty much all that remains of the Brotherhood in this region.
It was hardly a force capable of storming the walls of Scorazin, but if her plan worked it wouldn’t have to. Tell them to move into a position where they can assault the guard-house at Scorazin. They need to be ready to attack in three days. She felt the trance shudder around her as the Blue began to ebb. I have to go. The signal will come an hour after midday. If it doesn’t . . . tell Citizen Arberus this mission has failed and I believe he would be better employed in Feros than here.
What will it be? The signal.
If this works, an earthquake strong enough to shake an empire.
? ? ?
“Melina said you weren’t working tonight.” Makario stood in her doorway, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and what appeared to be some form of musical instrument in the other. “Me neither. Seems I’m surplus to requirements without music.”
“What is that?” she asked, peering at the curious thing he held, presumably the product of considerable effort over the three days since the parley. It appeared to be the result of an uncomfortable mating between a mandolin and a viola.
“My newest creation.” He handed her the wine-bottle and took hold of the instrument, fingers stroking an unfamiliar but nevertheless pleasant note from the six strings strung along its narrow neck. “The bastard child born of my fevered mind, and the scraps of every instrument I could trade for within these walls.” His fingers moved again, conjuring a jaunty tune she recognised as a Varestian sea shanty. “I doubt I could do justice to Illemont with it,” he said, finishing with a flourish, “but I think it’ll keep a roof over my head until we can repair my true love. I do need some practice, however. Perhaps you’d like to help.”
She had adduced at their first meeting that Makario was unlikely to have much interest in her womanly charms, but now saw an entreaty in his gaze that went deeper than a desire for drunken companionship. “I have a prior appointment,” she said, handing back the wine.
“Put it off,” he insisted, summoning a poorly rendered smile to his lips. “Staying indoors is by far the safest course in such troubled times.”
“Would that I could. But I also have to keep a roof over my head.”
“I’m sure whatever errand our dear leader has you running can wait. At least for tonight.”
“Why? What happens tomorrow?”
She held his gaze as the smile slipped from his face. Best to subdue him now, the professional part of her mind advised. Extract what information you can. Break his neck and leave him at the bottom of the stairs for Melina to find in the morning, victim of a drunken stumble. And without the pianola what use was he anyway?
Instead she just stood and watched as he retreated a few steps, face alternating between fear and charm. “I . . . really wish you’d stay,” he managed finally, adding in a desperate whisper, “please!”
“It doesn’t matter, Makario,” she told him. “Whatever it is. Whatever you did. I’m sure you had your reasons and I really don’t care. If you’re in league with Julesin I assume you’ve warned him I’m coming, and that doesn’t matter either.”
Makario became very still, the neck of his hybrid instrument creaking under the strain of a suddenly white-knuckled grip. “I am not in league with him,” he stated in a soft voice, each word spoken very precisely.
Lizanne sighed around a smile. “Best stay off the roof-tops tomorrow,” she said, and closed the door.
? ? ?
She had spent the previous two nights reconnoitring the semicircular row of terraced houses on Prop Lane where the Scuttlers made their headquarters. The row curved around a patch of dirt that had once been a small park in the centre of which stood a large marble plinth, home to a long-vanished statue to some forgotten Scorazin luminary. A narrow alley opposite the park made for a useful vantage point. It was rarely visited by the Coal King’s minions thanks to its proximity to a part-collapsed sewer drain. The stench was just short of unbearable but Lizanne’s nostrils had an habituated resistance to the more repellent miasmas of life.
Her first journey here had brought another near encounter with the tall, cloaked creeper she had seen the night she made her way to Tinkerer’s abode. She found a convenient corner to hide behind as the stooped figure passed by, once again dragging something. Given the legendary degeneracy of the night creepers she assumed it would be a body and was surprised to see it was in fact a sack, filled with something heavy that scraped filth from the cobbles as the figure disappeared into Keg Road. Bones? she wondered, but doubted it. More likely stolen ore. In either case it was a mystery she had no time or inclination to solve.