Part 21 (1/2)

'Three.'

Granger's chest had been punctured on his left side. A third stream of blood now flowed from his flesh. He staggered back a few steps, gaping at his own lacerated body. His muscles were starting to ache and soon they would fail him altogether. The Samarol meanwhile continued his performance for the crowd, cleaning his seeing knife again as he jogged away. He had been deliberately inflicting shallow, non-lethal wounds. He was carving Granger up for the emperor's amus.e.m.e.nt.

Granger watched his opponent wiping the edge of that unholy knife against the leather patch on his belt. The Unmer metal was conveying its surroundings to the blind warrior, while granting him unnatural swiftness. In this battle the blade was Granger's real enemy.

The Samarol turned inwards for a fourth attack.

And Granger let him come. He feinted an uppercut with his sword, leaving his right shoulder vulnerable to attack. The bodyguard spotted the opening and struck out with the knife, but Granger was ready for him.

As the attack came, Granger dropped his sword and grabbed his opponent's wrist. And then he plunged the knife even deeper into his own shoulder. A grunt of surprise came from behind the wolf helmet. The Samarol tried to withdraw the knife, but Granger now seized the other man's wrist in both hands and held it fast. He had momentarily denied the bodyguard his sight.

Still fiercely gripping the other man's wrist, he swung him around, and around again in a circle, hoping to further disorientate his opponent, hoping to break his grip on the Unmer blade. But the Samarol folded his knees and buckled in one fluid movement, dragging Granger down to the ground with him.

Granger landed heavily against the man. For several heartbeats they wrestled, the Samarol trying to wrench the knife from Granger's flesh, while Granger tried to stop him. The pain was intolerable. He felt the edge of the blade raking against his clavicle. He felt his grip loosened by his own blood. He couldn't hold on. He was going to lose this struggle.

But then he thought about Swan and Tummel and Banks, their dead eyes staring lifelessly at the ground, the blood leaking from the holes in their skull as the emperor applauded. He imagined Creedy's brute face looking on as the Hookmen threw Hana into the brine, and he let the sound of her screams fill his heart. He pictured Ianthe in the hands of that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Maskelyne, using the girl to enrich his wretched little empire. Hu, Creedy, Maskelyne Hu, Creedy, Maskelyne Granger saw each of their faces behind that s.h.i.+ning wolf's mask before him now. And it filled him with rage. Granger saw each of their faces behind that s.h.i.+ning wolf's mask before him now. And it filled him with rage.

He seized the brim of the warrior's helmet and wrenched it backwards with all of his strength. He felt the chinstrap stretch and then suddenly snap as the helmet came away and flew across the arena.

The Samarol cried out. He released his hold of the knife and clamped his hands across his face. That face had only been exposed to the light for a heartbeat, but that was long enough for the horror of it to be burned in Granger's mind.

No flesh clung to the man's skull. It was as if the Unmer sorcery had consumed his living tissues, leaving nothing behind but raw bone. The eye sockets and nasal opening were covered by a smooth bra.s.s plate, utterly featureless and without ornamentation, and yet the bodyguard groped at it as if the light was searing his very nerves. He scrambled away from Granger on his hands and knees, howling like a child as he sought to reclaim his helmet. But without the knife in his hand and the helmet to cover his metal visage he could not find it.

Granger plucked the seeing knife from his shoulder and tucked it into the band of his breeches. He was weak and giddy and struggling to breathe against the pressure mounting in his chest. His hands and torso streamed with blood. But he thought he might now survive today after all. He stared at the corpses of his friends, Swan, Tummel and Banks, and a terrible grief came over him. That he should survive this trial at their expense. He could not forgive Hu for this.

All the crowd were silent as he turned to face the emperor. 'I survived your trials,' he said. 'Will you honour the law and release me?'

Briana Marks's face looked ashen, but the emperor's own was red with rage. 'How dare you speak to me?' he cried. 'Look at what you've done here! Do you have any idea how much Samarol cost? How many years it takes for the absorption to hold?' His thin chest rose and fell rapidly beneath his golden mail. He turned to the crowd. 'This man has shown himself to be a cheat. This is a mockery of justice!'

The crowd remained silent.

Administrator Grech came alongside the emperor and tried to speak, but Hu just slapped the old man across the face. He raised his Imperial hand again and pointed at Granger. 'Shoot him,' he said. 'Shoot him now.'

Outside the corral, the remaining Samarol reached for their carbine rifles. Nineteen knives slotted into nineteen barrels.

Granger looked to the Haurstaf witch for help, but she simply buried her head in her hands.

'Kill him!' the emperor roared.

There was nowhere for Granger to go, and nowhere to hide. Walls of dragon-bone caged him on three sides. The gate remained sealed.

The Samarol lifted their weapons.

Granger glanced at his fallen comrades one last time. And then he ran, away from the emperor and his Samarol. And as the bodyguards' fingers closed on the triggers of their rifles, Granger reached the harbour's edge and dived headlong into the brine.

CHAPTER 11.

THE DEADs.h.i.+P.

16th Hu-Rain, 145725 degrees 17 minutes north5 degrees 37 minutes westScythe Island is forty leagues SSW of our current position, but feels more distant yet. Have made good progress across the Candlelight Straits. Expect to reach the fringes of the Mare Regis by noon tomorrow. No dragon sightings. Chronograph stopped three times by dead airs. Have opted to use Sanderson Device in interim. Mellor feels there might be an Unmer deads.h.i.+p nearby. The men are uneasy about this.The girl remains an enigma. How is she able to perceive what lies in the depths of the ocean? I cannot imagine any scientific answer. Her ability seems more akin to the Haurstaf's own metaphysical powers. Indeed, Ianthe may herald a new bloom in mankind's evolutionary tree: a unique flower indeed and, if so, then needful of pollination. More careful observation is required.Word from Carl before we sailed the Unmer chariot is in excellent condition, but the power source has, alas, suffered from the inevitable rot. Brine has eroded almost all of her whispergla.s.s. Close to ten thousand ichusae recovered, which I am told is a record for a single haul in marine salvage. It seems to me that every one represents another lungful of air for Jontney. I maintain high hopes for our current expedition. Our hold is already one-tenth full, and all this from the Star Crab Bromera alone! Notable among our treasures is a fine suit of clamsh.e.l.l mail and six metal pyramids that, if separated, unerringly find their way back to each other at night. No physical obstacle or locked container is able to prevent this mysterious reunion. Because the pyramids display evidence of electrical fluids, Mellor, as always, has claimed this as proof of the Vitalist argument. I was too weary to argue with him. Boy a.s.signed to watch the artefacts has died of unknown causes, and so the pyramids continue to keep their secret for now.Sea mist encroaching from the south. Have ordered the usual precautions. The sun is burning a dark, dark red, although it is not yet noon. Its evil light seems to hang amidst the vapours like some dismal gas lamp.Ethan Maskelyne, aboard the Mistress Mistress Jontney was screaming. Maskelyne dropped his logbook and rose from the writing desk. He stepped out of the cabin into the adjoining corridor and almost collided with his wife, who was hurrying past.

'What is it?' he said.

'I don't know!' She looked dishevelled, her hair and frock all in disarray.

'You were supposed to be watching him!'

'I had to use the commode!'

The pair of them rushed to the end of the corridor and opened the door to the map room.

Jontney sat on the floor beside the map table, red-faced and bawling. Beside him, ice vapour rose from the open hatch to Maskelyne's void fly repository. The child had evidently been rummaging in there, for white deposits of crespic salts lay scattered across the floor around him.

Maskelyne ran over and scooped up his son. 'G.o.ds in h.e.l.l,' he exclaimed. 'Have you eaten any?' He forced his fingers into the little boy's mouth and peered inside. 'Have you eaten any?' Jontney's howling became all the more insistent. Maskelyne turned to Lucille and cried, 'Hot water! Fetch me hot water now!'

His wife just stood there, her face drained.

'Hot water!' Maskelyne demanded. 'The galley, go to the galley.' He studied the child again. 'G.o.ds, he's got the stuff all over his mouth.' He began wiping away the toxic powder from the boy's lips and gums.

Lucille hurried away.

'Hush now, baby,' Maskelyne said to his child. He hugged him close to his chest and smoothed the boy's hair. 'Hush, hush, it's going to be fine.' He gazed down at the open hatch and noticed a scalpel lying among the salt nearby. Someone had used it to carve away at the floorboards around both hinges of the hatch. Where had he seen that tiny blade before? After a moment, he realized.

Doctor Shaw.

Could Jontney have picked it up? Possibly. But surely the child could not have used it to free the hatch?

Lucille returned with pot of steaming water. Maskelyne handed the child over to her and tested the water with the back of his hand. Too hot. Too hot. Cursing, he carried the pot over to the bar, where he emptied a half a quart of wine into it. When the liquid was just cool enough to swallow safely, he forced the boy to drink. Cursing, he carried the pot over to the bar, where he emptied a half a quart of wine into it. When the liquid was just cool enough to swallow safely, he forced the boy to drink.

Jontney coughed and sputtered and wailed. He snorted watered wine out of his nose. But Maskelyne managed to get a fair amount of it down his throat. 'Now shake him,' he said to Lucille. 'Make him sick it up again.'

Lucille complied, and soon the child had brought back up the solution.

'Again.' Maskelyne lifted the pot to the boy's lips.

Lucille looked terrified. 'Is he going to be all right?'

'Crespic salts react with acid to produce an endothermic reaction,' Maskelyne said. 'If he's swallowed any, it could have frozen his stomach. We need to wash it out, warm him up. Now, there, make him bring it up again.'

The child was sick a second time, spattering wine across the rugs and the map table.

Maskelyne studied him intently. 'I don't know,' he said. 'He seems . . . fine. I think we've been lucky.'

Lucille cradled the little boy and tried to soothe him. She spoke softly, but with venom in her voice: 'How could you let this happen?'

'Me?' Maskelyne regarded her with amazement. 'You were supposed to be watching him.' were supposed to be watching him.'