Hilemore nodded and rose from his stool. He went to the wall, scanning the many pages pinned to it until he found something familiar and ripped it free.
“‘The Shared Guilt of the Corporate Age,’” he read aloud. “‘How the greed and corruption of the modern economy shames us all.’” He moved to the table, placing the page in front of Coll. “By Lewella Tythencroft, Acting Editor of the Voters Gazette. I was actually in her office when she wrote this.” He grimaced, huffing out a small, regretful sigh. “We had quite the argument about it, as I recall.”
“You know Lewella Tythencroft?” the hollow-eyed girl asked, gaze narrowed in doubt.
“I should,” Hilemore replied. “We were engaged to be married until very recently.”
The hollow-eyed girl’s name was Jillett and it transpired that she was the only Blood-blessed left in Stockcombe. After Hilemore’s revelation the committee had him escorted outside before spending the next hour in discussion, some of it quite heated judging by the shouts emerging from the inn. Eventually the voices fell silent and Hilemore was obliged to spend another hour wandering the square, closely watched by the Wash Lane Defence Volunteers.
“You been in battles then?” one of them asked, a hefty boy no more than sixteen years old who seemed intrigued by the medal ribbons on Hilemore’s tunic.
“I have,” he replied.
“Who with?”
“Dalcians, pirates, Corvantines and, most recently, drakes.”
The boy’s features bunched in surprise. “So it’s true then? They’ve risen up, like the Seer said.”
“I’m not sure the Seer foresaw all of this, but yes, the drakes are now making war on us, with the help of the Spoiled.”
“How come they ain’t come for us then?”
Hilemore cast a gaze at the sky and the surrounding cliffs. The lip of the enclosing crater was crowned with a series of defensive forts joined by a wall. To Hilemore’s eyes it seemed too insubstantial and dilapidated to offer much defence in the event of a serious attack. “I don’t know,” he replied. “But I’m sure they’ll get to it eventually.”
“You’re wanted,” Coll called from the inn’s doorway.
“Your first ship,” Jillett said once Hilemore had made his way back inside. She stood reading from a sheet of paper, suspicion still evident in her face.
“The IPV Company Pride,” Hilemore replied.
“Your youngest brother’s name and occupation.”
“Starrick, he’s a schoolmaster.”
“Where and when did you first meet Lewella Tythencroft?”
“During a riot in Sanorah, four years ago.”
“Her dog’s name.”
“She’s never had a dog, preferring cats. Her last cat, Mr. Mewsly, died shortly before I left for Dalcia. He was very old.”
Jillett lowered the sheet and nodded to Coll. “It’s him.”
“Couldn’t they just have shown you a photostat?” Hilemore asked.
Jillett’s lips formed a faint smile. “Apparently Free Woman Tythencroft advised our Blood-blessed contact that she no longer possesses any photostats of you.”
“I see.” Hilemore coughed. “I assume, nevertheless, that she also advised that my word can be trusted.”
“No, she didn’t. Not yet anyway.” Jillett pointed to a table where a stack of blank paper sheets had been placed alongside a pen and ink-well. “Free Woman Tythencroft insists on a full report of your activities and whereabouts for the past year. You will write it, I will memorise it and, once she has been fully apprised of its contents, she will advise us how best to proceed.”
“Advise or command?” Hilemore asked. “It seems Free Woman Tythencroft enjoys considerable authority here.”
“Not just here.” Jillett exchanged a glance with Coll, apparently unsure of how much information to share.
“Thought it was just Stockcombe, did you?” the stocky youth asked. “This revolution ain’t local, Captain. Half of Sanorah is now under Voter control, along with two complete cities in northern Mandinor.”
“You’re telling me Mandinor is now in a state of civil war?”
“There’s been fighting, but no battles as such from what we’re told. Protectorate ain’t got enough troops to do more than hold what they already got. Free Woman Tythencroft is the guiding light at the heart of it all, calming tempers so things don’t slip out of control like they did here. She wants a peaceful end to the corporate world. Myself, I ain’t too fussed about that.” He nodded at the stack of pages. “She’s waiting. Best get to it.”
Hilemore moved to the table and sat down, unbuttoning his tunic. “Might I have some coffee?” he asked, reaching for the pen. “This will take quite some time. I’ll also write a note for you to take to my ship; otherwise, my First Officer is likely to come ashore to look for me, and you really don’t want that.”
CHAPTER 25
Sirus
“It’s always been one of my favourite examples of military pragmatism,” Morradin commented as they watched the ships approach the Subarisk defences. “Given the apparently impossible task of destroying the great fortress of Aben Mael, and thereby ending the siege of Redways Station, Commodore Racksmith chose to regard the ships in his fleet no differently than any other military asset, and all military assets must be expendable; otherwise, what use are they?”
The Malign Influence lay at anchor beyond the range of the many guns in the Subarisk island forts. On either side of the flagship the entire fleet waited, merchant ships crammed with Spoiled towing similarly laden barges. It was some minutes past dawn, which meant the defenders of this port would by now have been fully aware of the size of the armada they faced, not that this appeared to concern Marshal Morradin. “Surprise is not our object here,” he said when Sirus had queried the allotted hour for the attack. “But shock. I want every soldier in that city to see what’s about to happen and know themselves doomed when they do.”
Sirus used a spy-glass to track the progress of the ships they had sent into the approaches. There were twelve in all, two for each of the forts. The force had been split into pairs consisting of a freighter and a warship. Catheline had been reluctant to commit their few military vessels to a mission of this nature but the combined faith of Morradin and Sirus convinced her to grant assent, albeit with a dark warning, “Lose me this battle and I won’t punish you,” she said. “He will.”
Sirus could sense the hungry anticipation of the Spoiled on the ships. They had all been selected for their enjoyment of their new lives and unreasoning loyalty to the White. Many had barely been sane before their conversion and some driven mad by the horrors witnessed since, revelling in slaughter and destruction with a sadistic glee that was painful to share. The need to use such fanatical soldiers was easily explained to Catheline, Sirus managing to conceal his gratification at removing so many maddened souls from the army.
Hearing the echoing boom of cannon, Sirus shifted the spy-glass to one of the forts, seeing several horizontal plumes of smoke erupting from its gun-ports. He tracked the fall of shot, watching the shells raise waterspouts in front of their ships but falling far too short to score any hits.