“You’re confident this will work?” Lizanne asked Trumane. This mission had been his notion, conceived after being advised of the new invention’s capabilities.
“It would have been preferable to do a proper test,” Trumane replied. “But in time of war thorough preparation is a luxury. I trust your father’s engineering above all others. With continual reconnaissance during the approach there’s every reason to expect success.”
“And you’re certain they’ll strike next at Subarisk?”
“It’s the most logical choice, if the enemy’s object is to gather strength. Given their evident efficiency the port may already have fallen.”
Lizanne nodded, discomforted by the grim military logic of this plan, which required Subarisk to be in enemy hands for it to work. “Your new recruits are shaping up, I trust?” she asked. Trumane’s crew had been brought to full strength by a number of former sailors from the refugee fleet. It hadn’t been necessary to draft any recruits as the captain had been swamped with volunteers keen to escape the monotony of the manufactory.
“Only a few have military experience,” Trumane replied. “But they know their way around a ship, which is the main thing. I’ll whip them into shape soon enough.”
Lizanne didn’t like the emphasis he put on the word “whip,” but resisted the urge to voice any concerns. Trumane’s competence had become clear over the preceding weeks, forcing her to overlook his other less admirable qualities.
“As planned, we will conduct the first aerial reconnaissance in four days,” she said. “Advising any course changes to Mrs. Griffan.”
Recent flights had revealed that Blue drakes were surprisingly easy to spot from the air. Even at night the patrolling packs left a tell-tale series of white tracks across the ocean surface. This meant she would be able to guide the Viable around any concentrations of Blues during the voyage to Subarisk. A timetable had been drawn up for frequent trance communication between Lizanne and Sofiya. It made for an inflexible approach but that wouldn’t matter once the Viable was in position and could make full use of her remarkable speed.
“Four days then,” he said, surprising her with a salute before he strode up the gangway.
She waited for her father to disembark and together they watched the Viable sail away, following the course of Blaska Sound east to the sea. “I called it the Tinkerer Mark I,” he said once the ship had rounded a bend and disappeared from view. “Didn’t feel right naming it for myself. Since it’s not really mine.”
“Very generous of you, Father.”
They made their way back to the manufactory via the town, which at this hour was mainly occupied by children liberated from their morning lessons. Lizanne thought them an oddly well behaved lot, given to prolonged silence, little mischief and an absence of laughter, even when they played. They all saw too much at too young an age, Lizanne concluded, feeling for perhaps the first time in her life that her own childhood had been one of comparative ease and security.
“No sign of Tinkerer waking from his coma, I suppose?” the professor asked.
“None,” Lizanne replied. “And Makario’s made little progress with the next movement.”
“Pity. A fellow of many uses, even with his irksome manners.”
“I don’t think he has much say over his manners. It’s just how he’s made.”
They paused at the entrance to his workshop, a large warehouse with a canvas awning where its roof had been. Lizanne glanced through the open doors, trying to gauge the nature of the machine taking shape within.
“There’s still work to do,” her father said, moving to block her view.
“It’s not a Year’s End present, Father,” she said. “You don’t need to surprise me.”
“I would prefer an unvarnished opinion of the finished machine,” he said. “Free of any insights into the narrative of its construction.”
Lizanne gave a bemused shrug and clasped his arm before moving on. “As you wish.”
“I need thicker steel wire,” he called after her. “The coils you gave me were too flimsy.”
She waved her assent in response and went to find Morva for her afternoon lesson.
What do you think she meant? Clay asked after Lizanne had finished sharing the memories recovered from Tinkerer’s mind. The trance connection between them felt different now, the clarity of his mindscape sharper and the exchange of thoughts more rapid. When he had revealed the fact that he could now trance without the aid of product she had been sceptical, but a few seconds of communication had banished any doubts.
The Artisan’s greatest discovery was a tribe of Spoiled? he went on.
No ordinary tribe, Lizanne pointed out. They saved her, and they seemed different to the others. Using spoken language and dressing as individuals.
Never met a friendly Spoiled, to be sure, Clay conceded. But it all happened centuries ago, right? What use is this now?
A question to be answered if I can unlock more memories.
She turned her attention to the images he had shared, particularly the Black crystal and the vial of what the ancient woman called “convergence.” Synthetic product. She allowed her conflicted emotions to colour the shared trance. The very idea of such a thing was both tantalising and incredible, if not ominous in its implications.
You saw what her people built, Clay responded. What they were able to do with the crystals, even though they never really understood them.
If they had they might never have bred the White, for which we would all have been grateful.
She plucked the vial from the mound of moon-dust where he had placed it, turning it over to watch the viscous contents slosh about. An amusing notion sent a disordered twitch through her whirlwinds, provoking a pulse of curiosity from Clay.
Just thinking, she told him. About Madame Bondersil and her obsession with the White. She said its blood promised more than all the other variants combined. But, if this can do what your friend claims, all the blood we might drain from the White’s corpse would be worth only a fraction of the price we could command for this.
Can’t argue with that. As for the White’s blood, seeing the future’s sorely overrated. When we kill it the best thing we could do with its corpse is burn it.
Let’s hope we get the chance. What is your current location?
Lieutenant Sigoral puts us about seventy miles north-east of the Carnstadts. We’re doing a lot more walking the last few days. Getting harder to find Cerath to ride. Skaggerhill says the herds start to thin the closer you get to Black country, those that do graze here are a sight more jittery.