“It’s not me you need to convince, Claydon,” Ethelynne told him. “It’s them.”
CHAPTER 32
Lizanne
“Remarkable,” Alzar Lokaras said, looking at the photostats arrayed on the Viable’s ward-room table. They had been taken by a nervous young man who had emerged from the ranks of the Mount Works employees some days before, camera in hand, to offer his services. He was an apprentice photostatist who increasingly found the life of a manufactory worker less than pleasant. It had been Captain Trumane’s notion to pack him onto the Typhoon for a reconnaissance flight to the north. The aerostat was able to hover in place long enough for an exposure of decent length and Jermayah provided the required chemicals and equipment to develop the plates. The result was a visual record of northern Varestia far more accurate than any map, Imperial cartographers having neglected the area through fear of banditry for many years.
“You can see the passes clearly,” Alzar went on, finger tapping three points on a series of photostats that had been aligned to produce a continuous image. It captured the central span of the mountain range dominating the region the Varestians referred to as “the Neck.” There were three channels through the mountains, each separated by a ten-mile gap with the largest and most easily traversed one in the centre. This was known as the Grand Cut, whilst the eastern pass was the Small Cut and the western the Little Cut.
“The gateways to the peninsular,” Alzar went on. “They used to be fortified but the defences were destroyed by the Corvantines during the occupation. No one’s bothered to repair them since.”
“Meaning the enemy’s line of advance is wide open,” Trumane said.
There were only three of them in the ward-room, Alzar acting as the sole representative for the host of Varestian captains who had deserted Ethilda and Arshav’s authority. A dozen pirate vessels and armed freighters had arrived in Blaska Sound that morning. Alzar duly came ashore with a delegation to inform Lizanne that he was now Admiral of the Varestian Defence League before enquiring as to the progress of his niece’s education.
“She does very well,” Lizanne assured him, gesturing to where Morva waited near by. “Feel free to ask her yourself.”
“Business comes first,” he said after the briefest glance in Morva’s direction. “Here,” he went on, handing Lizanne a folded document. “I know how you corporate types like your contracts.”
The contract terms were sparse and simple: The Mount Works Manufacturing Company would supply weapons and personnel to assist in the defence of the Varestian Peninsular in return for continued safe harbour within Blaska Sound and provision of food and medical supplies guaranteed by the Varestian Defence League. There was no mention of patents, shares or allocation of future profits. Lizanne thought it a clumsily worded document but, as she doubted it would ever require scrutiny before an arbitration court in any case, was happy to sign it there on the wharf.
“Not necessarily,” she told Trumane now, sliding another photostat across the table showing a magnified view of the Grand Cut. The image had been captured at a slight angle, giving an impression of the steepness of the cliffs rising on either side of the track that snaked through the pass. “Even without fortifications, the terrain would seem to offer a singular opportunity to a defender.”
“With your aerial contraption we could shift some cannon onto the cliff-tops,” Alzar agreed after a moment’s consideration. “And your newfangled guns. Any army that tries to make it through will suffer a fearful toll.”
“You forget their command of the air,” Trumane said. “We know the enemy is far from stupid. They’ll send drakes to secure the cliff-tops before marching through.” His gaze narrowed as he turned it on Lizanne. “I believe Miss Lethridge has another stratagem in mind.”
“I do,” Lizanne said, playing a hand across the three passes. “We use explosive to block the Small and Little Cuts, leaving the Grand Cut open.” She pointed to the northern end of the pass. “We will still have to mount a meaningful defence, but it will take the form of a fighting withdrawal so as to draw the White’s forces in, and we’ll need all the Blood-blessed in our ranks and all the product we can gather to make it work.”
“I brought twenty-three Blood-blessed,” Alzar said. “But only half can be spared. The rest are needed to power the few blood-burners we possess. As for product.” He grimaced and shrugged. “Stocks are thinner by the day and those that hold them loath to sell except at extortionate prices.”
“Write promissory notes,” Lizanne advised. “Make the Mount Works Manufactory the guarantor if you like. If that fails the stocks will just have to be seized. The time for observing the legal niceties of trade is over.”
She turned back to the photostats, her finger tracing to a point two-thirds of the way along the Grand Cut. “The pass is at its narrowest here,” she said. “And overlooked by a promontory. I propose that we prepare the promontory with explosives and once the bulk of the White’s army reaches this point we bring it down. All three passes will be blocked and we will have killed a large number of enemy troops.”
“It won’t stop them,” Trumane said. “The passes can still be cleared. And the White will be sure to gather more strength to clear the rubble.”
“It will buy us time,” Lizanne replied. “As for the White’s ability to gather strength, I have an idea about that.”
She watched Tinkerer’s face closely as Makario lifted his hands from the pianola and the last note faded. The Follies of Cevokas, according to the musician’s judgement, was as inane and trite a piece of musical doggerel as he had ever heard. However, once he had reproduced the entire score on paper close examination of the text revealed one short melody of interest in the third act. It was hidden in a lyrically dense song known as “Cevokas the Genius,” in which the ever-pompous titular character reeled off a list of his intellectual achievements accompanied by a jaunty high-tempo tune. Once the tempo was slowed something far more elegant and familiar began to emerge.
“It’s definitely her,” Makario reported. “Empress Azireh’s handiwork concealed within a comic operetta of little distinction. It’s rather like finding a pearl in a pile of turds.”
“A shared joke, perhaps,” Lizanne mused, her gaze still lingering on Tinkerer, his face as pale and immobile as before. “A secret between lovers.” She imagined Azireh playing the tune for Alestine, first at the original speed then faster, perhaps improvising the lyrics. How they must have giggled together, she thought. Another secret shared between the princess and the Fiddly Girl.
“When this is over,” she said to Makario, “you might want to examine some other operettas of the period. I suspect Azireh penned quite a few. Doctor,” she went on, glancing at Dr. Weygrand, “if you would, please.”
Madame Hakugen had given over a large two-storey building for use as the settlement’s clinic, though it had required considerable repair and cleaning before Dr. Weygrand consented to occupy it. Tinkerer had been placed in an upstairs room along with a pianola where Makario laboured to craft the music that might wake him. However, the artificer remained as immobile as ever, forcing Lizanne to conclude that another trance was required.
The doctor betrayed some hesitation before moving to the bottle suspended from a metal stand at Tinkerer’s bedside. The bottle contained a mix of saline and powdered nutrients needed to keep the comatose patient alive these past weeks. A rubber tube trailed from it, ending in a needle inserted into the vein in Tinkerer’s forearm. Despite the attentions of Dr. Weygrand and his small staff of orderlies, Tinkerer had grown ever more thin and pale as the days went by and Lizanne didn’t need any expert advice to deduce he didn’t have many more left.