The sanctum under the house had changed little since Crake’s last visit. Plome, like Crake, had always leaned towards science rather than superstition in his approach to daemonism. His sanctum was like a laboratory. A chalkboard was covered with formulae for frequency modulation, next to a complicated alembic and books on the nature of plasm and luminiferous aether. A globular brass cage took pride of place, surrounded by various resonating devices. There were thin metal strips of varying lengths, chimes of all kinds, and hollow wooden tubes. With such devices a daemon could be contained.
Crake went cold at the sight of an echo chamber in one corner. It was a riveted ball of metal, like a bathysphere, with a small circular porthole. He felt the strength drain out of his limbs. A worm of nausea crawled into his gut.
Plome followed his gaze. ‘Oh, yes, that. Rather an impulse purchase. I haven’t used it yet. Need to wait for the electricity to get here. To provide a constant vibration to produce the echo, you see.’
‘I know how it works,’ Crake assured him, his voice thin. He felt suddenly out of breath.
‘Of course you do. And I expect you know how dangerous and unpredictable the echo technique is, too. Can’t risk a battery conking out on me while I’ve got some bloody great horror sitting inside!’ He laughed nervously, before noticing that Crake had lost the colour in his face. ‘Are you quite alright?’
Crake tore his eyes away from the echo chamber. ‘I’m fine.’
Plome didn’t pursue the matter. He produced a handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘The Shacklemores were here looking for you.’
‘The Shacklemores?’ Crake was alarmed. ‘When?’
‘Sometime around the end of Swallow’s Reap, I think. They said they were visiting all your associates.’ He wrung his hands. ‘Made me quite uncomfortable, actually. Made me think they knew about . . . well, this.’ He made a gesture to encompass the sanctum. ‘It’d be very awkward if this got out. You know how people are about us.’
But Crake too busy thinking about himself. The Shacklemore Agency was bad news. Bounty hunters to the rich and famous. He’d expected they’d be involved, but the confirmation still came as a blow.
‘Sorry, old chap,’ Plome said. ‘I suppose they found you out, eh?’
‘Something like that,’ he replied. Something much, much worse.
‘Barbarians,’ he snorted. ‘They take one look at a sanctum, then cry “daemonist” and hang you. Doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve done. Ignorance will triumph over reason every time. That’s the sad state of the world.’
Crake raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected such a comment from this generally conservative man. ‘You don’t think I should have stayed to face the music? Argued my case?’
‘Dear me, no! Running was the only thing you could have done. They just don’t understand what we’re about, people like us. They’re afraid of the unknown. And those blasted Awakeners don’t help, shooting their mouths off about Allsoul this and daemonism that, riling up the common folk. Why do you think I’m brown-nosing up to the local judge, eh? So I’ve got a fighting chance if anyone discovers what I’ve got hidden under my house!’
Plome had reddened during his tirade, and he had to take a few breaths and mop his brow when he was done. ‘Speaking of which, he could be here any minute. What can I help you with?’
‘I need supplies,’ Crake said. ‘I need to get back into the Art, and I don’t have any of the equipment.’
‘It’s practising the Art that got you into this pickle in the first place,’ Plome pointed out.
‘I’m a daemonist, Plome,’ Crake said. ‘It’s what I am. Without that, I’m just another shiftless rich boy, good for nothing.’ He gave a sad, resigned smile. ‘Once you’ve touched the other side, you can’t ever go back.’ A sudden, unexpected surge of tears surprised him. He fought them down, but Plome saw his eyes moisten and looked away. ‘A man should . . . a man should get back on a horse if it throws him.’
‘What happened to you?’ Plome asked, getting worried now.
‘The less you know, the better,’ he said. ‘For your own good. I don’t want you involved.’
‘I see,’ said Plome, uncertainly. ‘Well, you can’t go to your usual suppliers. The Shacklemores will have them staked out.’ He hurried over to a desk, snatched up a sheet of paper that was lying there, and scribbled down several addresses. ‘These are all trustworthy,’ he said, handing Crake the paper.
Crake ran his eye over the addresses. All in major cities, dotted around Vardia. Well, if he couldn’t persuade Frey to visit one of them, he could always take leave of the Ketty Jay and make his own way.
‘Thanks. You’re a good friend, Plome.’
‘Not at all. Our kind have to stick together in these benighted times.’
Crake folded the paper over, and saw that Plome had written it on the back of a handbill. He opened it out, and went grey.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘They’re posted all over. Whoever that is, they want him badly. Him and his crew.’
‘You don’t say,’ Crake murmured weakly.
‘You know, the Century Knights just turned up in town looking for him, if you can believe that!’ Plome enthused. ‘The Archduke’s personal elite!’ He whistled and pointed at the flyer. ‘He must have really messed up. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes when the Knights catch up with him!’
Crake stared at the handbill, as if he could simply will it out of existence.
WANTED FOR PIRACY AND MURDER, it said. LARGE REWARD.
Staring back at him was a picture of Frey.
Nine
A Matter Of Honour - Bree And Grudge - ‘One More Town We’re Not Coming Back To’ - Departure Is Delayed
Crake hurried through Tarlock Cove as fast as he dared. The streets were dark now, deepening towards true night, and stars clustered thickly overhead. The beam of the lighthouse swept across the town and out to sea. Crake walked with his collar up and his head down, his blond hair blowing restlessly in the salt wind, trying not to draw attention to himself.
Run, he told himself. Just run. You weren’t a part of it. They don’t even know you’re on the crew.
But run where? His assets had been seized, so he had only the money he’d taken when he fled, and there was little enough of that left. His only contact here was Plome, and the last thing Plome needed was to shelter a fugitive. He had his own secrets to keep. No, Crake wouldn’t implicate him in this matter. He’d deal with it on his own.
Run!
But he couldn’t. Because the only way he was going to stay ahead of the Shacklemore Agency was to keep on the move, and the only way he could do that was aboard the Ketty Jay.
And there was more, besides. It was a matter of honour. He didn’t care for Frey at all, and Pinn was beneath consideration, but the others didn’t deserve to be hung out to dry like that. Especially not Malvery, of whom Crake was becoming quite fond.
But if he was honest with himself, even if he’d hated them all, he’d have gone back. If only to warn them. Because it was the right thing to do, and because it made him better than Frey.
He traced his steps back to Old One-Eye’s, and paused at the threshold, listening for signs of a disturbance. He’d been seen drinking with the crew. If they’d already been caught, there was no sense getting himself picked up as well.
There was a good chance Frey hadn’t been recognised, though. The ferrotype on the handbills must have been taken a long while ago, ten years or more. It didn’t look much like Frey. He had a little less weight and a lot less care on his face. He was clean-shaven and looked happy, smiling into the camera, squinting in the sun. There were mountains and fields in the background. Crake wondered when it was taken, and by whom.
The drinkers were merry and the noise inside the tavern was customarily deafening. All seemed well. Peering through the windows, which were bleared with condensation, he detected nothing amiss.
Get in, grab them, and get out of tow
n.
He took a breath, preparing himself to face the throng inside. That was when he spotted a pair of Knights heading up the street towards him.
He knew them from their ferrotypes. Everyone knew the Knights. Broadsheets carried news of their exploits; cheap paperbacks told fictional tales of their adventures; children dressed up and pretended to be them. Most citizens of Vardia could identify twenty or thirty of the hundred Century Knights. But nobody knew all of them, for they operated as much in secret as in public.
These two were among the most famous, and they attracted stares from passers-by as they approached. The smaller Knight was Samandra Bree, wearing a long, battered coat and loose hide trousers that flared over her boots. Perched on her head was her trademark tricorn hat. Her coat flapped back in the wind as she strode along, offering glimpses of twin lever-action shotguns and a cutlass at her belt. Young, dark-haired and beautiful, Samandra was a darling of the press. By all accounts she did little to encourage their attention, which only made the people love her more and the press chase her harder.
Her companion was Colden Grudge, who wasn’t quite so photogenic. He was a man of bruising size with a face like a cliff. Thick, shaggy brown hair and an unkempt beard gave him a spiteful, simian look. Beneath a hooded cloak, time-dulled plates of armour had been strapped over his massive limbs and chest. He bore the insignia of the Century Knights on his breastplate. Two double-bladed hand-axes hung at his waist, and an autocannon was slung across his back.
Crake’s mouth went dry and he almost fled. It took him a few moments to realise that they weren’t heading for him at all, but for the tavern he was standing in front of. They were going to Old One-Eye’s.
He didn’t have time to think. In moments they’d be inside. Before he knew what he was doing, he thrust the handbill at them and blurted: ‘Excuse me. You’re looking for this man, aren’t you?’
The Knights stopped. Grudge glared at him, tiny eyes peering out from beneath a beetling brow. Samandra tipped back her tricorn hat and smiled. Crake found himself thinking that she really was quite strikingly gorgeous in person.
‘Why, yes we are, sir,’ she said. ‘Seen him?’
‘I just . . . yes, I just did, yes,’ he stammered. ‘At least I think it was him.’
‘And where was that?’ Samandra asked, with a faintly amused expression. She took his nervousness to be the reaction of a man intimidated by a pretty woman, instead of someone strangled by the fear of discovery.
‘In a tavern . . . that way!’ Crake improvised, pointing up the road.
‘Which tavern?’ Grudge demanded impatiently.
Crake grasped for a name. ‘Oh, it’s the one with lanterns out front, you know . . . The Howling Wolf or something . . . The Prowling Wolf! That’s it! That’s where I saw him!’
‘You sure about that?’ Grudge asked, unconvinced.
‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ Samandra asked, in that charmingly soft voice that made Crake feel like pond scum for lying to her.
‘Does it show?’ he said, with a grin. He gave them a smile, a glimpse of the golden tooth. Putting just a little power into it, letting the daemon suck a tiny fraction of his vital essence, just enough to allay their suspicions, just enough to say: believe him. ‘I’m visiting a friend.’
Samandra’s eyes had flicked to his tooth for just an instant, drawn by the glimmer. Now they were back on him.
‘Be where we can find you,’ she said.
Crake looked at her blankly.
‘The reward!’ she said, pointing at the handbill. ‘You do want the reward?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Crake said, recovering. ‘I’ll just be in here.’ He thumbed towards Old One-Eye’s.
Samandra and Grudge exchanged glances, then they hurried off up the road in the direction of The Prowling Wolf. Crake let out a slow, shaky breath and plunged into the tavern.
Frey was having a rare old time. He was exhausted from laughing and perfectly drunk, hovering in that elusive zone of inebriation where everything was in balance and all was right with the world. He never wanted this night to end. He loved Malvery and Pinn and even silent Harkins as brothers in arms. And if things began to wind down, well, the waitress had been giving him looks. She had a homely sort of face, but he liked her red hair and the freckles on her button nose, and he was in the mood for something curvy and soft tonight.
What a life it was! A fine thing to be a captain, a freebooter, a lord of the skies.
Crake’s arrival was something of a downer. ‘We’re getting out of here,’ he said, slapping the handbill onto the table and thrusting a finger at the picture of Frey. ‘Now!’
Frey, a little slow off the mark, was more surprised by the picture than the danger it represented. He recognised it immediately. How did they get their hands on that one? Who gave it to them?
Crake snatched the handbill away and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘I just had to head off Samandra Bree and Colden Grudge. They’re looking for us. They’ll be back in a few minutes. I suggest we not be here when they do.’
‘You met Samandra Bree?’ Pinn gaped. ‘You lucky turd!’
‘Spit and blood! Get moving, you idiots!’
The penny had finally dropped. They surged up and pushed their way through the crowd towards the door.
By the time they emerged from the tavern, Frey’s mood had seesawed from elation to cold, hard fear. The Century Knights? The Century Knights were on his tail? What had he done to deserve that?
‘Back to the Ketty Jay?’ Malvery suggested, scanning the street.
‘Bloody right,’ Frey muttered. ‘This is one more town we’re not coming back to.’
‘Why don’t we just emigrate and be done with it?’
‘Not a bad idea at that,’ Frey said over his shoulder, as he hurried away in the direction of the docks.
The town’s landing pad was situated halfway along one of the mountainous arms that sheltered the bay. Houses became sparser as they approached, and the streets were whittled down to a single wide path that dipped and curved with the land. It was flanked by storage sheds, the occasional tavern and a customs house. The vast, moist breathing of the sea was loud here. Waves crashed and spumed on the rocks far below.
Frey hugged his coat tight around him as he led his crew along the stony path. The previously welcoming town seemed suddenly threatening and nightmarish. He glanced over his shoulder for signs of pursuit, but nobody came running after them. Perhaps they’d given the Knights the slip.
Wanted for murder? Piracy, fine, he’d own up to that (to himself, at least. Damned if he’d admit it to a judge). But murder? He was no murderer! What happened to the Ace of Skulls wasn’t his fault!
It didn’t matter that piracy and murder carried the same penalty of hanging. In real terms, whether he did both or only one was moot: his end would be the same. But it was the principle of the thing. It was all so tragically unfair.
He slowed as they spotted a trio of Ducal Militiamen coming towards them. They were striding along the road from the docks, clad in the brown uniform of the Aulenfay Duchy, all buttoned-up jackets and flat-topped caps. The path afforded nowhere to duck away without looking suspicious.
‘Cap’n . . .’ Malvery warned.
‘I see them,’ Frey said. ‘Keep walking. It’s only me they’ll recognise. ’
Frey tucked his head down into his collar and shoved his hands into his pockets, playing the frozen traveller hurrying to get somewhere warm. He dropped back into the group, keeping Malvery’s bulk between him and the militiamen.
Their boots crunched on the path as they approached. Frey and his crew moved to the side of the path to let them pass. Their eyes swept the group as they neared.
‘Bloody chilly when the sun goes down, eh?’ Malvery hailed them with his usual booming good humour.
They grunted and walked on. So did Frey and his men.
The landing pad was busy with craft and their crews, loading the day’s catch onto the vessels for
the overnight flight inland. A freighter was rising slowly into the air, belly-lights bright. Its aerium engines pulsed as electromagnets pulverised refined aerium into ultralight gas, flooding the ballast tanks.
Frey had planned to avoid the rush and leave in the morning, since his cargo wasn’t nearly as perishable as fresh fish, but now he was glad of the chaos. It would provide cover for their departure.
They passed the gas-lamps that marked the edge of the pad and wended their way towards the Ketty Jay. Crews laboured in the dazzling shine of their aircrafts’ lights, long shadows blasted across the tarmac by the dark hulks that loomed above them. Thrusters rumbled as the freighter overhead switched to its prothane engines and began pushing away from the coast. The air was heavy with the smell of fish and the tang of the sea.