“Not quite.” Clay raised his eyes to the host above. “Just hope it’s enough.”
“Reckon we’ll find out soon enough,” Braddon said. “Great many Reds flew over three days gone. We hunkered down in a fissure in one of the cliffs so they didn’t see. Next day we saw more Greens than I have in my life, all moving in one great pack.”
“Where to?” Clay asked.
“Same as the Reds, south.”
“Stockcombe.” He moved to the cliff edge, shielding his eyes to peer at the distant flank of the peninsular which led to the port. The White, he thought. Should’ve known it’d keep looking.
“Mount up,” he said, turning about and striding towards Lutharon. “We got a lotta distance to cover.”
“To where?” asked Braddon.
“Mount what?” asked Loriabeth.
“Stockcombe, where else?” Clay climbed onto Lutharon’s back, quickly followed by Kriz, who seemed to have lost her reluctance during the flight from the mountains. He grinned at Loriabeth and pointed at one of the drakes perched at the cliff edge. “And what else?”
III
THE RED TIDES
From the Journal of Miss Lewella Tythencroft—Sanorah, 32nd Vorellum, 1600 (Company Year 211)
That the sad, ugly but mercifully brief affair that sparked the revolution has since earned the name “The Battle of the Barricade” says much for the scale of the fighting that followed. There had been some rioting following the mob assault on the banks, but this died down when it became apparent that the Protectorate was prepared to use lethal force to guard its principal installations. However, for the most part the Ironship military stayed in barracks, probably due to the sudden spike in desertions which robbed it of more than half its strength within a week. Sporadic gun-battles erupted between the constabulary and more radical anti-corporate elements, but the latter lacked sufficient numbers to be more than a nuisance. By far the most important thing to happen in the aftermath of what has, to my mortification, also occasionally been dubbed “Free Woman Tythencroft’s defiant stand” was the walk-out and subsequent strike by the vast majority of corporate employees in Sanorah.
Within two days every company office and manufactory in the city and outlying districts lay silent and empty, the strikers forming delegations which duly turned up at the offices of the Gazette in search of acknowledgment and guidance. My days soon became an often-trying mix of meetings, speeches, correspondence and yet more meetings. Those queueing up outside my door were a varied lot indeed, ranging from soldiers and sailors representing what has become known as “The Free Protectorate,” to civic and company bureaucrats who suddenly find themselves bereft of higher authority.
Rumours began to circulate following the brief spate of strife after the Battle of the Barricade that the interim Board had effectively ceased functioning, its principal members either fled to country estates or taken to secluding themselves in their town houses. It was a company of infantry from the Free Protectorate who confirmed this to be truth rather than rumour, barging into the Sanorah Ironship headquarters to find the upper floors largely empty. The senior management of the largest corporate entity in the world had, it appears, simply given up and gone home.
It was at this juncture that I realised my ad hoc approach to organisation was no longer practical and I began appointing deputies, assuring my fellow Voters that all such appointments would be confirmed by electoral sanction when the situation became less fraught. I have to admit to a palpable sense of the bizarre as I went about the business of building what is essentially a dictatorship, some might even call it a dynasty given that, lacking another qualified and trustworthy figure to fill the role, I was obliged to appoint my father to the position of City Treasurer.
The most pressing issue proved to be the most complex, despite its simple urgency: The city needed to be fed. The large corporate-owned farms surrounding Sanorah had stopped supplying food to the markets during the riots, and continued to withhold produce in the aftermath. Swiftly deposing their managers when wages stopped being paid, the farm labourers declared themselves a confederation of independents. They subsequently agreed to resume supplying food-stuffs only on condition that all outstanding debts would be paid, along with assurances that future debts would be honoured. It required several hours of persuasion to calm the more hot-headed elements of my nascent administration, who argued the Free Protectorate should be sent to seize the farms.
“Farms with dead labourers and ruined buildings won’t grow anything,” I pointed out, deciding on a more conciliatory approach. The main obstacle was the fact that, at the dawn of a new age in which corporate scrip had become worthless, how was it possible to pay anyone for anything? Fortunately, our new treasurer came up with a novel solution in the form of Liquidation Notes. These were essentially promissory notes issued by the Free Sanorah Republic guaranteeing the bearer an allotted share of assets resulting from the impending liquidation of the Ironship Syndicate and others. Whilst Ironship no longer possessed any financial wealth its warehouses and manufactories still held considerable stocks of goods of all description. Wealth, it transpires, is what those in authority deem it to be.
“But it’s just paper,” I protested when my father first proposed the measure. The prototype note he had given me consisted of a rectangle bearing a date stamp and two signatures, mine appearing above his.
“Of course it is, Lewella,” he told me in mild irritation. “That’s all money has ever been.”
Despite my misgivings the Liquidation Notes gained a surprisingly rapid level of acceptance amongst the populace, including the newly independent farmers, who soon resumed food shipments. I ascribed some of this to the prevailing mood of uncertainty; the appearance of something, however nebulous, that indicated a return to normalcy proving highly welcome.
In addition to local concerns there was also the continual distraction of events elsewhere. The Voters Rights Alliance has long made use of sympathetic Blood-blessed and they proved invaluable in keeping us up to date with developments from far and wide, the most important from my perspective being the communications from the Arradsian port of Stockcombe, not least because the event brought news I had begun to suspect I might never hear.
“Captain Corrick Hilemore,” the young Blood-blessed told me during one of our semi-regular meetings. He looked tired, having responsibility for maintaining communications with numerous locations despite a rapidly dwindling supply of product. “He says he knows you. I think they’re hoping you’ll tell them he’s lying so they can seize his ship.”
“I do indeed know him,” I replied, finding a genuine smile on my lips for the first time in many days. “And any attempt to seize his ship will be highly ill-advised.”
34th Vorellum
I have just concluded a highly taxing meeting with Mrs. Torcreek. Whilst I value this woman’s insights greatly, of late her brusque manners and increasingly unreasonable demands have been a distraction I could well do without.
I write these next words some minutes after penning the above paragraph, having partaken of a calming measure of tea. Mrs. Torcreek is more than just my friend, she is in many ways as crucial to the initial success of this project as I am. Without her, and the support of the Carvenport refugees, the barricade may well have fallen and I would be writing this journal in the seclusion of a Protectorate prison cell. So I will continue to attest my deep regard and respect for Mrs. Torcreek and hope our friendship continues. However, the simple matter remains that I cannot give her what she wants.
“The Protectorate’s still got ships,” she pointed out to me. “And soldiers. And I got plenty of folks willing to shoulder arms and join this fight.”
“The Free Protectorate’s maritime forces are in a state of considerable disarray,” I replied, forcing as much patient sympathy into my tone as I could. We had discussed this matter several times and I have always detested repetition. “De
sertion has robbed the Northern Fleet of at least half its strength,” I went on. “Whilst the rest are scattered throughout Mandinor and elsewhere. Not all regions are sympathetic to our cause, nor all officers. As for our soldiers, given that the success we have enjoyed stemmed in no small part from the unwillingness of the rank and file to fight, I have few illusions they would be willing to sail across an ocean to do so in a war many regard as just a fanciful rumour.”
“Convince them otherwise,” Fredabel said bluntly. “You’re awful persuasive.”
“No amount of persuasion can overcome hard realities. This nascent republic of ours hangs by the slimmest thread. I regard it as nothing short of a miracle that we have avoided outright civil war. Sending the bulk of our military strength off on an expedition from which it seems unlikely they will return is unwise to the point of folly, and I will not do it.”
Seeing a glint of anger spark in Mrs. Torcreek’s eye, I realised my tone had become more strident than I intended. “I am fully aware of and sympathetic to your concerns, Fredabel,” I said, striving to adopt a more sedate tone. “And, thanks to my recent communication with Captain Hilemore, I know how dire the situation in Varestia is. It pains me to say this, but in all likelihood the peninsular is already lost. This monstrous army will assuredly visit itself on the former Corvantine Empire before turning its gaze towards Mandinor. When that happens we will need to be ready to meet it, with all the weapons at our disposal.”
She stared at me with an expression it pained me to see on her face: deep, sorrowful disappointment. “Won your great victory over the corporate world,” she said. “Now you don’t want to risk it. If the White takes Varestia there’ll be no stopping it. The battle is there.”
I closed my eyes, sighing heavily and knowing our friendship was now in peril, but the burden of duty sometimes permits no recourse to sentiment. Power, I have learned, can be a lonely business. “I have made my decision, Mrs. Torcreek,” I said. “Thank you for coming.”
35th Vorellum
The man who came to see me this afternoon was slight of build, his suit neat and nondescript, as was his face, neither especially handsome nor especially ugly. In short, he was the kind of man it would be easy to miss. It quickly transpired that this lack of notability was far from accidental.
The nondescript man had taken his place amongst the multitude of those who daily come in search of a meeting with Free Woman Tythencroft. The only noteworthy aspect to him was his willingness to wait patiently and without complaint. In recent days I have taken up residence in the formerly vacated Ironship headquarters, it seeming to me somewhat perverse and self-defeating to eschew use of eminently suitable accommodation for reasons of anti-corporate prejudice. It also benefited from a large and unheated lobby devoid of seating of any kind, meaning only the hardiest and most persistent souls will consent to wait out the hours required to gain access to my presence. Most can be diverted to my deputies and sundry officials, but others are not so easily palmed off. The nondescript man offered a card to the receptionist which stated his name, an alias I won’t bother to record, and business: Trans Global Export Consultant. His stated reason for seeking an audience related to “valuable information concerning the state of affairs in Varestia.”
I had him brought in immediately. My brief but highly significant communication with Corrick had left me in little doubt as to the importance of events unfolding on the far side of the Orethic Ocean and I was keen to obtain all the accurate intelligence I could.
“This . . . army,” I said, “of deformed and enslaved people . . .”
“And drakes,” the nondescript man put in with a polite smile.
“And drakes. They are now advancing into the peninsular itself?”
“That is my understanding. It is estimated that they will, unless faced with considerable resistance, complete the conquest of Varestia within a maximum of two months. After that we expect them to strike north into the Corvantine Empire proper, or is it Republic these days? So hard to keep track, don’t you find?”
“We?” I enquired. “Your company seems well informed, sir.”
The nondescript man remained silent for a brief moment before speaking two words: “Exceptional Initiatives.”
My initial impulse was to reach for the small bell on my desk and summon the two Free Protectorate soldiers stationed outside my door. For one who has devoted years to the Voter cause, these two words cannot fail to provoke alarm.
“There is no longer an Ironship Protectorate,” I pointed out, silently commending myself for the steadiness of my voice. “Therefore, there is no longer an Exceptional Initiatives Division.”
The nondescript man replied with a short laugh, but otherwise said nothing, continuing to sit in patient expectation of my next words.
“What do you want?” I asked, choosing the obvious route as I was suddenly in no mood for any cryptic obfuscation.
The nondescript man cast a glance around the room before replying. “We want in. It’s cold outside.”
“You expect me to find a place for your vile organisation within this administration? I think you mistake the nature of what we are building here.”
“On the contrary, we understand it very well. Power, Miss Tythencroft. You are building power, and for that to succeed you need us.” His hand went into the inner lining of his suit and emerged with a sheet of paper, which he unfolded before placing it on my desk. I saw it to be a diagram of some kind, though the long cylindrical device it depicted was unfamiliar.
“This,” the nondescript man said, “is a blueprint for a weapon of unprecedented destructive power and accuracy. It is currently being produced at a secluded location on the Varestian Peninsular, ostensibly as a defence against the invaders in the north. Should that defence succeed, exclusive rights to and use of this weapon will then fall to whomsoever has authority over the region. Unless I misjudge your character, I assume you fully appreciate the significance of this intelligence.”
I sat back in my chair, keeping my features expressionless. “You have a Blood-blessed agent on the peninsular,” I said. “Presumably located at the very place where this weapon is being produced.”
The nondescript man returned my gaze, saying nothing until it became clear that I had no intention of speaking until he did. “There are . . . sympathetic elements amongst those gathered to defend Varestia,” he said. “Some of them keen to exploit old contacts for personal reasons.”
“Personal reasons?”
“We are not the only former Ironship employees keen to find a place in your new world.”
I looked again at the diagram. It had long been my hope that, should the day ever arrive when the Voters Rights Alliance gained sufficient power to effect change in the world, we would aspire to something better than the greed and endless conflict of the Corporate Age. But then, none of us had ever envisaged the old world’s fall to happen so completely nor so swiftly. My days as unelected leader of this nascent government had left me with few illusions about the realities of wielding power, especially when my hold on it was so fragile.
“Can this device be replicated?” I asked.
“It can,” he assured me. “If the appropriate labour and resources are provided. However, I must point out that this device is the product of a very singular and unusual mind. Who can say what such a mind might produce in the future?”
I could have refused him, of course. I could have rung my little bell and had him thrown out, or even killed since there are many in the Free Protectorate perfectly willing to undertake such tasks. But I didn’t. Instead I clasped my hands together, conjured a brisk, businesslike smile to my lips and asked, “I assume you have a course of action to propose?”
CHAPTER 35
Hilemore
Colonel Kulvetch arrived late, marching along the outer-wall battlement in company with a full squad of South Seas Maritime Marines. Hilemore assumed h
er tardiness was the result of a careful surveillance of the wall to ensure the Voter rebels hadn’t prepared a treacherous ambush. Coll and Jillett had come to represent the Voters Committee along with a half-dozen fighters from the Wash Lane Defence Volunteers. Hilemore had arranged for the parley to take place atop the bridge that spanned the river flowing through the wall and over the falls. He thought it a rather marvellous piece of construction, an elegant stone arch some thirty yards long with a defensive tower at each end. The towers were unique amongst Stockcombe’s outer defences in that they hadn’t fallen into disuse. Although they now featured a pocked and cracked appearance thanks to the rival groups occupying them continuing to exchange fire throughout the crisis. Coll said the otherwise well-maintained appearance of the towers resulted from the corporate regime’s desire to police the main access point between the two halves of the city.
“You had to pay a three-scrip toll to walk from east to west,” he said. “They always did their best to keep the scum out.”
Kulvetch motioned for her escort to remain at the far end of the bridge and proceeded alone, ascending the curving incline and coming to a halt a few feet away. She gave Coll and Jillett a glance of cursory hatred before focusing her gaze on Hilemore, face rigid and voice clipped as she uttered a curt “What is it?”
“You saw the drake, I assume?” he asked.
“We did.”
“Then I also assume you know what it portends.”
“I know it means there are still Reds living on this continent. Beyond that, I know nothing.”
Jillett let out a disgusted snort but fell silent at Hilemore’s sharp glance. Persuading the Voters to agree to a parley hadn’t been easy, but at least they fully recognised the danger this city now faced. Kulvetch, he knew, would be even more reluctant to set aside her hatred and lust for revenge.