The Black Lung Captain (35 page)

'Are your engines supposed to make that sound?' she inquired, as Frey lowered the
Ketty Jay
towards the smal, crowded landing pad.

'Didn't have time to get them fixed in Iktak, did I?' he said. 'Speed is of the essence, and al that. It would've taken a couple of weeks to get the parts.'
Not that
I could have afforded them, anyway,
he added mentaly.

'You must have a fine engineer, then,' Trinica remarked.

He couldn't work out whether the compliment was snide or genuine, but it didn't matter in the end. Just by being here, she made him feel like a failure.

What was he even doing? Chasing after some artefact with no clear idea of what it was or what it did? It wasn't as if he could sel the thing, even if he did get his hands on it. Frey didn't have the most sensitive conscience, but he stil balked at the idea of delivering a super-weapon into the hands of the highest bidder. His dreams of a fortune had gone up in smoke, yet he went on anyway. Just like one of those idiots he saw at the Rake tables. The ones who lost everything while waiting for their luck to change.

Was he doing it to get back at Grist? Perhaps. Perhaps it was just because he was tired of being stepped on by everyone, not least the woman standing next to him. Or perhaps . . . perhaps he just
needed
this.

What will I leave behind?
The question that had been plaguing him ever since he'd almost died while being chased by a bunch of over-persistent yokels. Wel, if he could avoid leaving thousands of corpses behind, that would be good. Mass murder was a legacy he could do without.

Damn the reasons. Damn it al. He wasn't failing this time. That was al there was to it.

The town hal was one of the oldest structures in Hawk Point. It was a grand building, stony and solid, dating from a time when Hawk Point was young and ful of optimism. It had been designed as the heart of the settlement, the place from which the founders would put al their plans into practice. Plans for a just and honest outpost, where a man would get a fair wage for a fair day's work, and people were decent to one another.

That had been a long time ago. Those plans were forgotten, the people who made them dead or departed. The streets stank in the heat. The gutters were choked with rubbish that the sewers coughed up when the rains came. Mould streaked the post office wals. The schoolhouse windows were al smashed. The town hal itself was surrounded by a spiked barricade and watched by armed guards.

'This Smult feler,' said Frey, as they made their way up the street. 'He can't be doing too wel for himself if he lives in a dump like this.'

'You always did judge by appearances, Darian,' Trinica said.

'What of it? Most of the time it's a pretty good indicator.'

She tutted. 'And I thought you were sharper than that. People only show you what they want you to see. Haven't you learned that by now?'

Frey looked her over with a raised eyebrow. Her deathly palor, her butchered hair. 'I've picked up some hints,' he said. She scowled at him.

People watched them from doorways and aleyways. Mostly men and a few women, their gazes hungry or hostile. This wasn't a place for strangers. Frey kept his hands near his cutlass and pistols. Trinica didn't show the slightest sign of being intimidated.

'We're safe enough,' Trinica said. 'Everyone here knows who I am. Nobody wil bother us.'

Frey was scarcely reassured. He'd wanted to bring some men along for protection, but Trinica had forbidden it. Smult wouldn't respond wel to that, and he might wel be on edge already after the Coalition Navy's visit.

Frey wasn't sure who he'd have brought, anyway. Malvery? Too drunk. Harkins? Too cowardly. Pinn? He could barely haul himself out of bed nowadays. Silo was liable to inspire aggravation; Murthians weren't too popular in Vardia, having fought on the wrong side of the Aerium Wars. That left Jez, who may or may not turn into a raging daemon and tear his head off at an inconvenient moment.

Crake and Bess? Gone. Gone to take care of some business of their own.

He missed them. Difficult as it was to admit, he admired Crake. He respected the daemonist's smarts, his education, his way of putting things. Crake was a good sort, and those were hard to find in the world Frey lived in.

He could understand Crake's need to deal with whatever was troubling him. The damage it was doing to him was obvious. These past few months Frey had watched the daemonist holowing out in front of his eyes. But he wished they hadn't had to leave.

The crew of the
Ketty Jay
were a finely balanced group. Individualy, each man and woman was a mess, but together, somehow, they'd found a way to work.

The loss of two of their number had thrown even-thing out of kilter, and the whole operation was beginning to feel like it was in danger of faling apart.

That scared him. Once, he'd only cared for his aircraft, and his crew had meant less than nothing. Now, he had no idea what he'd do without them.

They approached the barricade surrounding the town hal. The guards on the gate recognised Trinica. It was hard not to. There wasn't a pirate or a criminal in Vardia who hadn't heard of the white-faced woman with the black outfit and blacker eyes. Her legend went before her.

'I'm here to see Smult,' she said, and they let her in. They barely glanced at Frey. They assumed that the tattered-looking man folowing in her wake was her bosun, or a general dogsbody from her crew. It didn't do Frey's pride much good.

A gun-wielding thug met them at the door. He looked Trinica over, dismissed Frey with a snort, colected their weapons and escorted them inside.

Inside, the town hal was a cross between a junk shop and a treasure trove. The stone corridors were piled high with artefacts and antiques. Strange sculptures and paintings were heaped up in the foyer, peeping out from behind velvet drapes. The sheer variety of objects was bewildering. There were boxes of guns, elaborate game boards with crystal pieces, a section of the chassis from a mechanical carriage, a curving broadsword of foreign design.

'Vases from Thace, armour from Yortland, perfume and necklaces from Samaria,' Trinica murmured as they walked through a narrow aisle between mountains of clutter.

'Bet he doesn't have a mysterious sphere from Kurg,' said Frey, rather childishly.

'Neither do we,' Trinica said. 'That's why we're here, remember?'

'Your man's quite a colector, though,' Frey murmured, looking around in wonderment. 'This stuff must be worth a fortune.'

'No doubt,' said Trinica. 'If you can sift out the valuable bits from the junk.'

'What's the point of al this? He's not showing it off. Does he sel it?'

'Not that I know of,' said Trinica. 'He just likes to have them.'

Frey shook his head. Al that wealth, just lying around. Some people weren't meant to be rich. When it was his turn, he intended to do a better job of it.

They were shown in to a dim room, draped in fabrics and stacked with artefacts. There were mannequins and chests of drawers, side tables and mirrors.

Stuffed animals glared from the shadows with glassy eyes. The room was stifling and close. Despite the heat of the day, the boiler had to be running hard.

At a table in the corner was Osric Smult. He was sitting on an antique chair, his entire attention focused on the jigsaw before him. Two bored-looking bodyguards were staring vacantly into space as Frey and Trinica were led in. Spotting her, they shook themselves and woke up a little.

'Trinica Dracken,' said Smult, without raising his head. 'Ain't you a sight?'

Frey presumed that was meant as irony, because if Smult had any eyes at al, he certainly couldn't see through them.

Smult was a wiry, tal man, dressed in a faded shirt, trousers and boots, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat. Beneath his clothes, every inch of exposed skin was covered in bandages. Rusty patches of dried pus and blood seeped through here and there. His face was similarly bound, and his eyes wrapped tight. The only gaps were for his mouth, and smal holes for the ears and nostrils. Glimpses of the red and blistered skin around his lips indicated some kind of disease that Frey would rather not know about. He looked up at them and smiled horribly, revealing yelowed teeth and breath that smelt of sweet rot, even from across the room.

'Osric Smult,' she said. 'How's your jigsaw?'

'Fine, fine. Man's gotta have a hobby, huh?'

Frey was unable to stop himself. 'How do you, er . . . how do you do a jigsaw when you can't see?'

Smult picked up a piece, turned it round in his hand, running his bandaged fingertips over the edge.

'Don't need to see it to make it fit,' he said. 'And who're you, sir?'

'Darian Frey, captain of the
Ketty Jay,"
Frey said, doing his best to make it sound more impressive than it was.

Smult tilted his head, interested. 'Strange company you're keepin', Miss Dracken,' he said. 'Real strange, considerin'.'

Considering what?
thought Frey.
How much does he know?

'These are strange times,' Trinica said neutraly.

'They are,' Smult agreed. 'I expect you saw the Navy leave?'

'We did. Might I ask what they were after?'

'Spies,' said Smult.

'Spies?'

Smult was feeling around the ragged interior of his jigsaw, searching for a place to put the piece in his hand. 'Do you remember our beloved Earl Hengar?' he asked.

Frey went pale. He remembered Hengar rather wel, since he'd accidentaly kiled him when he accidentaly blew up the
Ace of Skulls,
accidentaly. It was an accident, though.

'What does the Archduke's son have to do with it?' said Trinica.

'Wel, we al know he was dalying with the Samarlan ambassador's daughter, don't we? Rumour has it that lovestruck young men sometimes say sily things.

Unguarded things, the kind that a member of the Archduke's family realy shouldn't say. Especialy not to a woman who'd have been his mortal enemy only a few years before.' Smult scratched at his cheek. New bloodstains seeped through the bandages. Frey tried hard not to notice. 'Apparently, he said a lot of them.'

'He was leaking secrets to the Sammies?'

'Maybe. That's what the Navy think, anyway, though they'd never say as much. Probably Hengar reckoned it was al over and everyone was friends again. He always was a brainless boy. That's why the people loved him. He appealed on their level.' He lifted up his head and turned his face towards Frey. An ugly leer spread across his lips. 'Whoever kiled him did us al a favour.'

Frey attempted to look nonchalant, then stopped when he realised it was useless against a blind man. Hengar's death had been widely reported as the result of a catastrophic engine malfunction. Only a few people knew Frey had been involved in it, and he wasn't keen on advertising the fact. Smult's grin made him distinctly uncomfortable.

'Anyways,' Smult said at length. 'Seems like the Sammies suddenly know more than they- should about certain things. Navy came by to see if I could help them with their investigations.'

'And could you?' Trinica asked.

'Oh yes,' he said. 'But I didn't. I don't work for Navy, whatever the price. A man needs principles.' He pressed the jigsaw piece into place, and it fitted with a click. Then he sat back in his chair, as if wel satisfied with his achievement. 'So,' he said. 'To business. You'l be looking for Harvin Grist, then?'

If Trinica was as surprised as Frey was, she didn't show it. 'News travels fast,' she said.

'I make it my business to be the first to know,' said Smult. 'That's why I charge what I charge.'

'And you know where he is?'

'Not yet. But I have my eyes and ears out there. It won't be long. In the meantime, I can point you in the right direction.'

Trinica produced a bag of coins from some concealed pocket in her clothing. Frey hadn't even known she was carrying any. She held it up and jingled it. Smult tilted his head, listening.

'Why don't you tel me what you
do
know?' Trinica suggested. 'And I'l come back with more when you find him.'

Smult nodded at his bodyguard, who took the bag from Trinica and opened it up. Frey stared at it enviously. It galed him that Trinica could throw money around like that when he had barely enough to keep the
Ketty Jay
in the air. But he was damned if he'd ask her for any. That would be too much to take.

The bodyguard whispered in Smult's ear, then put the bag on the table next to him. Smult nodded and waved him away.

'Harvin Grist,' said Smult. 'Here's what I know. Born in White-rock, north of Marduk. Cold up there. His father was a scholar. Maurin Grist. Mother died of some kind of wasting disease; Grist watched her go. Long, drawn-out affair. Quite traumatised the boy, if I understand correct.' Smult's tongue, rough with boils, slipped out to lick at dry lips. 'Maurin moved them to Bestwark soon after. Had a position at the university. Went on to become a big name there.'

Frey opened his mouth to ask what his father had to do with anything, but Trinica silenced him with a glare. Frey roled his eyes and settled back on his heels.

He had the feeling that Smult was showing off the fact that he had al this information to hand.

Just tell us where to look for him!

'By al accounts, the boy didn't get much attention,' Smult continued. 'Maurin was wrapped up in his work. Distant sort. Young Harvin was an outstandin'

student, sportsman, al of that. The pride of his school. But Daddy didn't notice. In fact, the only time Daddy noticed him was when he was misbehavin'. So he misbehaved. And he kept on misbehavin'. Went off the rails, I believe is the term.'

Trinica was listening closely. She seemed to be finding some value in this tale that Frey was obviously missing.

'So he's smart? Educated?' she inquired.

'Smart, yes. Educated, to a point.'

'What then?'

'He left. Dropped out of school, ran away with some friends of his. They signed on with a freight captain and never looked back. He moved from place to place, crew to crew, al the usual. He talks like a pirate, but he's cleverer than he looks. He saved what money he had, put it places where it'd grow. Made deals and investments. Picked the right crews, made big scores, took the money and moved on. Sooner or later he got the scratch together for a craft of his own. That's when he started running narcotics.'