The noise from the workshop rose to a greater pitch, sounding to Lizanne like the buzzing of a thousand giant hornets. Ripples spread across the awning and it began to snap with increasing energy before the ties holding it in place were either deliberately undone or it was torn away by the gale raging beneath. As the awning peeled back from the workshop’s roof a large curved shape began to rise drawing an awed gasp from the onlooking crowd. Lizanne had expected the Mark II aerostat to be larger than the Firefly, but this was on another scale entirely.
The gas envelope that rose from the workshop was at least four times the size of the Firefly and different in shape. Instead of an elongated egg it put Lizanne in mind of a headless whale, being flatter and wider. Also, its smooth surface was broken by a cupola on its topside. She instantly recognised her father’s tall form standing in the cupola, giving a hesitant wave as a cheer rose from the crowd at the sight of him. Four rudders protruded from the stern, two vertical and two horizontal, swivelling in response to Tekela’s touch on the controls.
The aerostat rose higher, the source of the great buzzing noise soon revealed as two propelling engines fitted to either side of the gondola that seemed to sprout like some organic growth from the craft’s underside. The engines were angled so that the propellers pointed at the ground, blurred to invisibility as they pushed the aerostat higher still, drawing it clear of the workshop. It slowed to a hover some fifty feet off the ground at which point the spectators all burst into applause.
“Impressive,” Captain Trumane said, Lizanne turning to see a corner of his mouth curling in an infrequently seen expression of pleasure, or perhaps anticipation. “I wonder if it can lift a rocket.”
“It looks like a whale,” Morva said. “That’s what we should call it, the Flying Whale.”
“We’re not calling her that,” Tekela insisted. “She’s the Typhoon. I’m the pilot so I get to name her.” She turned to Lizanne with an expectant smile. “Isn’t that so?”
“I couldn’t care less if you call her the Flying Turd,” Lizanne said. “As long as she performs as expected.”
Her gaze tracked over the interior of the gondola. After a brief circuit of the Mount the new aerostat had been tethered to one of the taller chimneys. Lizanne, Morva and Trumane had climbed a rope ladder for an inspection. She estimated the compartment was sufficiently spacious for at least a dozen crew with wide hatches in the hull to which gun mountings had already been fitted.
“She can carry two Thumpers or five Growlers,” Professor Lethridge said, descending a ladder which extended from the centre of the floor into an opening in the ceiling. “Or a mix of the two. Plus another Growler in the upper observation point.”
“A clever modification, Father,” she complimented him. “Drakes do like to attack from above.”
“It might not be entirely necessary,” Captain Trumane put in, glancing up from an inspection of the control panel at the front of the gondola. “Is this altitude indicator’s maximum level accurate, Graysen?”
“A reasonable estimation based on the lifting capacity,” the professor replied. “There will be variations depending on atmospheric conditions, of course.”
“Ten thousand feet,” Captain Trumane said, tapping one of the dials. “I’m no drake-ologist but I believe no Red has ever been observed to fly higher than six thousand feet. Something to do with the thinness of the air, I believe.”
“Speed?” Lizanne asked her father, although it was Tekela who answered.
“On standard power we think she might get up to eighty miles per hour,” she said. “Two engines, you see? Once the blood-burners are lit, however . . .” She smiled. “Well, I’m very keen to find out just how fast she’ll go.”
“So,” Lizanne mused, moving to one of the gun mountings, “we have the advantage of height, speed and fire-power.”
“Whilst they possess greater numbers,” Trumane pointed out. “One ship doesn’t make a fleet.”
“With the materials already on hand,” Professor Lethridge said after a moment’s mental calculation, “we could produce perhaps two a month.”
“That won’t be enough,” Lizanne said. “Destroying the White’s ships has bought us time, but we can expect its army to reach the Varestian Peninsular within four to five weeks.” Growing larger with every village and town it destroys along the way, she added to herself.
“It’s a matter of labour rather than resources,” her father said. “With an expanded work-force . . .”
“You’ll have it,” she promised. “It’ll mean reduced production of weapons but that can’t be helped. Without more of these I doubt we have a chance.” She turned to Tekela. “I’m appointing you Chief Pilot. Your first task is to identify and train others in how to fly this thing.”
Tekela’s face took on a puzzled frown. “How do I do that?”
“Find people with relevant experience. Former helmsmen, locomotive-drivers and the like. Madame Hakugen should be able to help. Failing that just ask people to volunteer. I’m sure there are many keen to get out of the manufactory.” She turned to her father. “Captain Trumane voiced a pertinent question earlier,” she said, “regarding rockets.”
Ethilda and Arshav convened their war council in the observation tower crowning the Navigation. Lizanne had arrived alone in the Firefly an hour before, piloting it herself to land on the building’s expansive front lawn. Mr. Lockbar and his gang duly arrived, failing to deliver a formal greeting of any kind before conducting a thorough and ungentle search of her person for product and weapons. He then escorted her to the meeting where Lizanne was surprised to find Alzar Lokaras in attendance along with a half dozen captains of varying clan allegiances.
Ethilda hadn’t bothered to introduce any of the captains, though a few possessed sufficient manners to make themselves known to Lizanne before the meeting began. The most courteous was a trim woman clad in a long, waxed-canvas jacket and sea-boots, the least expensive garb of any other captain present. She was about Lizanne’s height and build and would have seemed much the same age but for her hair and lined face.
“Mirram Kashiel,” she said, removing her broad-brimmed hat and performing a low bow. “Captain of the Sunrider and Chief of Clan Kashiel.”
“Lizanne Lethridge . . .”
“Oh, I know who you are. They call you Miss Blood.” The woman straightened with a grin. “But I won’t. Bit of a silly name, don’t you think?”
“Extremely. I didn’t choose it.”
“Got our first delivery of your marvellous guns yesterday. Very impressive, ’specially the big ones. Could do with a lot more, though.”
“They’re on their way,” Lizanne assured her.
“If you’re finished with your chatter,” Arshav broke in, eyes hard and face set in as serious an expression as Lizanne had yet seen. “We have a war to plan.” He turned to Ethilda as the room fell silent. “Mother?”