The Black Lung Captain (4 page)

Jez and Silo walked a slow circuit around the
Ketty Jay,
studying her as they went. She was a shabby thing to look at, patched up in a dozen places, a bastard combination of a heavy combat craft and a cargo hauler. Yet there was a defiance about her, a certain blunt strength that Jez was fond of. She was built tough, a survivor. Like the cat that patroled her air ducts, she was scarred, ugly, and invincible.

Over the previous few days, the windglass of the cockpit had been replaced and the
Ketty Jay
had been cleaned. Silo and Jez had carried out numerous minor repairs on the craft's systems: soldering loose plates, oiling rusty mechanisms, running tests. Jez wasn't half the engineer that Silo was, but she was the daughter of a craftbuilder and she knew enough to lend a hand. Silo, for his part, had been mostly occupied with fixing the engine trouble that had made their last escape such a fiasco.

Silo stopped when they came to the
Ketty Jay's
starboard side. He scrutinised the hefty thruster above and astern of her wing. The tal Murthian was hard to read, as ever. That umber-skinned, hawk-nosed face was like a mask. Immobile and impenetrable. It was a surprise when his expression changed, like seeing a statue suddenly move.

'Need parts,' he said in his rumbling bass voice. After working on the engine for days, this was Jez's first hint of a diagnosis.

'Expensive parts?' she asked.

'Yuh.' He took out papers and a pinch of herbs, and began putting a rol-up together.

Jez watched his long, clever fingers at work. 'What's wrong with it?'

'Timing on the fuel injectors. Al wrong. I keep fixin' it, but it gonna get worse.' His accent was slow and hard, consonants like jagged rocks in the lazy tide of his vowels.

'Ah,' said Jez. She understood. Timing was everything in a prothane engine. If the mechanism was faulty, then it would need replacing. But the
Ketty Jay's
engine was from a workshop that had long since closed down, and the parts could be tricky to find. She doubted Frey had the money to buy them anyway.

'Wil it hold up?' she asked.

'She hold up for now,' said Silo. 'But she could go any moment.'

Jez sighed. That pretty much summed up their whole operation. Held together with elastic and luck, straining at the edges, always ready to snap. Yet somehow it never happened.

Silo offered her a rol-up, out of politeness. She held up a hand and gave him a smile of thanks. Even if she smoked, she wouldn't smoke that. Silo's rol-ups were a blend from Murthia, strong enough to induce hacking coughs and limb spasms in even the stoutest of men. They were al he had left to remind him of the land of his birth, thousands of kloms to the south. Silo was an exile, unwanted everywhere, who'd found his home on the
Ketty Jay.

As have we all,
Jez thought.

She gave him a comradely slap on the back and left him staring up at the thrusters while she headed astern. The cargo ramp was down, leading into the hold.

A bal came bouncing out of the shadowy gloom and roled past her feet. She stared after it, puzzled.

It was only the heavy thump of boots that warned her. She threw herself aside as an eight-foot-high armoured monster thundered down the ramp in pursuit of the bal. Half a ton of dul metal and ragged chain mail plunged past her, missing her by inches.

Bess.

The golem pounced on the bal with a triumphant crash, skidding along the landing pad and fetching up just short of the landing struts of a nearby aircraft. She scrambled to her feet, her short, thick legs supporting a humpbacked, outsized torso. The bal was cupped in her huge hands, held in front of the circular grile that passed for her face. Twin glimmers of light shone in the darkness behind the grile, glittering eagerly as she stared at her prize. Then she raced back up the ramp and into the
Ketty Jay,
ignoring Jez completely.

'Crake!'
Jez yeled irritably, as she picked herself up off the floor.

The daemonist appeared at the top of the ramp. He was blond-haired, with a close-cut beard, wearing an expensive coat that had frayed and faded with time.

His forehead was creased with worry.

Jez regretted her tone immediately. Crake wasn't looking good these days. His face was as worn as his coat. There were lines there, too deep for a man of thirty. Dark bags under his eyes.

'Are you alright?' he asked, wringing his hands. 'I'm so sorry. The game just got away from us.'

Jez softened. 'No harm done.'

'She didn't hurt you, did she?'

Jez waved it away. 'You know me. I'm like a cockroach.'

'Honestly, Jez, that's a little harsh. You just need a dab of make-up.' Crake cracked a smile, and that made her glad. She hadn't seen too many from him lately.

She went up into the hold. Bess was sitting on the floor, her legs sticking out in front of her, patting the bal this way and that. An eerie cooing noise was coming from within her. They watched her together for a moment.

'She seems happy,' Jez offered. Crake didn't reply. She looked at him. 'How are you holding up?'

Crake frowned at her. As if he couldn't understand what might prompt her to ask such a question. As if he couldn't imagine what she might mean.

'Fine,' he said, coldly. 'Just fine.'

Jez nodded and headed up the stairs from the hold to the walkway above. There she paused and looked over the railing. Crake was standing next to Bess, one arm laid over her arm, his forehead leaning against her face-grile. His mouth was moving. Though he was far out of human earshot, Jez could hear him anyway.

'Good girl,' he whispered, sadly. 'Good girl.'

Jez felt a tightening in her throat, and hurried away.

She'd almost reached the main passageway when a blood-chiling scream made her jump. She ran the last few steps and burst into the room to find Harkins lying on the floor outside the quarters he shared with Pinn, gasping, coughing and clawing at the air.

'What? Harkins, what?' she cried in alarm.

'The ca . . . it wa . . .' he panted, unable to draw breath. A moment later Slag padded out of his quarters. Harkins shrieked and backed up against the wal of the corridor. Slag stared at him with an expression of loathing, then caught sight of Jez and bolted towards the engine room.

'Oh,' said Jez, understanding now. 'Cat slept on your face again?'

'That bloody rotting moggy!' Harkins exploded, scratching at his unshaven cheeks to scrape off the moulted fur. His leather pilot's cap was askew, revealing a head of mousy hair that had thinned almost to transparency. 'It just . . . it's . . . even if I shut the door, Pinn comes in when I'm asleep and leaves it open! And even if he doesn't, the cat gets in through the vent! I have nightmares! Suffocation! You know what that's like? Do you?'

'No,' said Jez honestly, since she didn't need to breathe any more. 'Harkins, it's just a cat.'

Harkins' eyes bulged from his hangdog face. 'It's
evil!'
he said. 'It's . . . it's ... it
waits
, can't you see it? It waits til I'm asleep. It hates me! It hates me!'

'You and me both,' said Jez, with a rueful smile. 'I don't get on with animals.'

'It's
scared
of you. That's not the same. It's not even close to the same! It's about as far from the same as . . .' He trailed off, unable to think of a suitable comparison.

'Maybe you just need to stand up to him,' Jez suggested. 'You are about twenty times his size, after al.'

The gangly pilot picked himself up with a resentful glare. He looked twitchily around the corridor and then jammed his cap back down on his head. 'I'l never sleep now. Not for hours,' he huffed. Then he hurried off towards the hold and outside, where he'd be safe from the cat. Slag hadn't left the
Ketty Jay
since he was first brought aboard as a kitten, over fourteen years ago. The only thing that scared him, apart from Jez, was the sky.

She went to her quarters with a smile on her face, shaking her head.

My home. My family. What a curious lot we are.

As dusk fel, Frey, Pinn and Malvery headed into town, as they'd done every night since they landed here. Sometime Crake went with them, but not tonight. Jez wasn't one for drinking, Harkins was frightened of strangers, and Silo stayed with the craft for everyone's sake. The Second Aerium War was stil a raw wound almost eight years after it had finished. Silo's people had fought for the enemy, however unwilingly they'd done so. Murthians were not popular folk in Vardia.

Frey led the way as they folowed the wel-used path down the hil, through the darkening trees. The light drained from the sky, turning to violet and gold, and the last of the day's birdsong died away as the insects took over. This far south, spring was starting early: it wasn't even the end of Middenmoil yet.

When they got to the tavern, they were greeted by the usual fixed grimace on the owner's face. Frey could see how a little piece of his soul died every time these rowdy strangers pushed through the door, caling for drinks. This was a nice town, a quiet town. The kind of town where people got uncomfortable when grown men began to drunkenly sing shanties at the tops of their voices.

But it was the only tavern in town, so they kept coming back. Besides, Frey liked it. He liked the big windows that looked out over a cobbled road to the black woods. He liked to be able to see his reflection in the glass, thrown back by the soft light of the hooded gas lamps. They always sat at a table near a window, though he never said why.

It was about the point in the evening when Pinn started turning the conversation towards his sweetheart, and everyone else tried to turn it away. But Pinn was not to be deterred tonight, inspired by the sight of several young and moderately attractive females at the bar. Word of the strangers had spread. Since it was Kingsday tomorrow, a day of rest, some of the town's more youthful population had come to see what the fuss was about. The tavern was busier than they'd ever seen it.

'She's worth ten of any of them girls!' he slurred, waving a flagon about. 'That's fact. My Lisinda, she's . . . wel, I'm a lucky man. A lucky, lucky man. Some people go their whole lives without . . . without finding true love.' He shook his head blearily. 'But not me. Not me, oh no. I found mine. And I love her. I do!' He thumped his fist on the table, frowning, as if someone had been arguing the point. Then his face softened into a happy leer. 'I miss her lips. Lisinda's lips. Soft as . . .

soft as pilows.'

He lurched to his feet suddenly, and stood there swaying, his eyes trying to focus. 'Going for a piss,' he said, then stumbled off through the crowd.

Malvery let his head drop to the table with a thump. 'I may be forced to brain him if he doesn't shut up about that damn girl,' he said, despairingly.

'Please do,' said Frey, without much enthusiasm. He didn't seem to have any enthusiasm for anything tonight. Not even for the pretty redhead who kept glancing over at him from her spot among a group of friends. He knew that look. He counted himself something of an expert in the field of casual seduction. But somehow he just couldn't muster the effort to care at the moment. Drink had made him maudlin.

'Do you think she's even real?' Malvery continued. He took a pul from his flagon and wiped beer foam from his white moustache. 'I mean, how long's it been?

Years! Years of him talking about his bloody sweetheart, and al I've ever seen of her is that ferrotype he carries around.' He adjusted his glasses and snorted. 'I say she ain't even real.'

Frey stared into the middle distance as he finished his mug of grog. It was a theory he'd heard many, many times before from Malvery.

'What's up, Cap'n?' Malvery inquired. 'You've had a face like a bowel tumour al night.'

'I'm just not in the mood, Doc,' Frey said. ' 'Scuse me.'

He got up from the table and walked away. Through a doorway and along a corridor was a quieter room, out of sight of the main tavern area. This was where most of the older patrons had retreated, to avoid the raucous singing that would come later. A guitarist was playing in the corner, and the lamps were turned down low.

The townsfolk stared disapprovingly at Frey as he entered. He ignored them and found himself a stool at the bar. The scrawny young barman eyed him dubiously.

'Grog,' said Frey, putting a few shilies on the bar with a click.

There was a mirror behind the bar, tarnished with cigar smoke. Frey watched himself in it as he waited for his drink.

He was just as handsome as he'd ever been, in a roguishly unkempt kind of way. He had dark eyes, promising wickedness. Women went for those eyes. His hair was black, and always seemed to do exactly what he wanted it to. His cheeks and chin were peppered with just the right amount of grizzle. He'd been born lucky in looks, which was good, because in every other department things had been pretty shit. Abandoned as a baby on the steps of an orphanage, brought up with a bare minimum of education in a dead-end town in the backwaters of Lapin. It wasn't the best start in life.

He showed some talent with words, so they'd taught him to write. But reading didn't interest him. Stories seemed pointless; they weren't real. Instead, he turned his talent to charm and lies. He learned early on how the right words could turn an adult's wrath to indulgent chuckling. He learned, later, how they could induce a woman to take him to bed.

There had been many women since, but only one that meant anything.

The barman put a mug down in front of him. He picked it up and drank from it. His eyes flicked back to the mirror. He couldn't help it.

He needed to check he was stil there.

What's wrong with me?

It had started soon after they landed at Thornlodge Holow. At first he'd thought he was just rattled. He'd nearly flown the
Ketty Jay
into the side of a valey, and that was bound to shake anyone up. But days passed and he stil felt the same. He'd scraped past death before and it hadn't bothered him particularly. What was different this time?