The Black Lung Captain totkj-2 Page 19

  'Grand Oracle Pomfrey,' said Amalicia. 'Please allow me to introduce my fiance, Darian Frey.'

  Frey winced inwardly. He'd heard that word many times over the last hour, but it still came as an unpleasant surprise, like being cudgelled by a mugger.

  'Amalicia Thade!' exclaimed the Grand Oracle. 'My, how you've grown!' He shook Frey's hand. 'You're a fortunate man, sir. Congratulations to you both.' Then he turned to Amalicia and became grave. 'Terrible, about your father, my dear. He was a great friend to the Allsoul.'

  'As I will be, Grand Oracle,' said Amalicia. ' You know, of course, that I was in training to be a Speaker before tragedy called me away to fulfil my duty to my family.'

  Frey raised an eyebrow. As he recalled, she'd been dragged kicking and screaming to that hermitage.

  'Quite so, quite so,' said Pomfrey. 'I do hope you can lend your influence against the Archduke and that poisonous wife of his. Do you know, they're attempting to force us to shut down our operations in the cities? Planning regulations or some such rubbish. As if they didn't know they'd be severely cutting our income by doing so.'

  'Those of faith will simply travel to the countryside to seek the wisdom of the Allsoul,' Amalicia said, with the blithe confidence of someone who didn't give a toss either way.

  'I hope you're right, child,' he said glumly. He looked at Frey. 'And you, young man. What is it that you do?'

  'I'm in merchandise,' he said. 'Cargo.'

  'Ah, you own a shipping line?'

  'Indeed I do,' said Frey, accidentally putting on a posh accent as he did so. Amalicia kicked him in the ankle.

  'And how are you finding the party?'

  Frey leaned in, shielding his mouth with his hand in a parody of conspiracy. 'To tell you the truth, Grand Oracle, I feel like the Ace of Skulls in a hand of Quad Ladies.'

  The Grand Oracle's eyes creased in amusement. 'I had that very hand only last week. Four Ladies and I turned over the Ace of Skulls. Lost everything. I was sick as a dog. You play Rake?'

  'Oh, I'm just an eager amateur.'

  'Perhaps you'd care for a hand or two in the parlour? If the lady wouldn't mind, of course?'

  'Darling?' Frey inquired sweetly.

  'Please, go ahead. You menfolk must have your games,' said Amalicia. She gave Frey a kiss on the cheek and whispered, 'Nicely done,' in his ear. Then she drifted off across the room in search of other conversation.

  Frey walked into the parlour with the Grand Oracle. It was a small, cosy room with high windows looking out over the square. The air was rich with the scent of cigars. Several tables had been laid out, some for cards and some for other traditional parlour games like Peepers and Whizzbang. All of them were occupied, but Frey spied a game of Rake in the corner with a few seats free.

  'I imagine having the Allsoul on your side must be a bit of an advantage in cards,' Frey commented, as they made their way to the table.

  The Grand Oracle smiled. 'If only I were allowed to abuse my talent so. Are you of our faith?'

  'My parents brought me up to worship only cold, hard currency,' Frey lied. 'I've always felt there had to be more to life than that, but . . .' He shrugged. 'Maybe I never found the right teacher.'

  'Hmm,' said the Oracle. 'Or perhaps you are not aware of what the Awakeners can do for you. Through us, the Allsoul's favour may be begged to know the future, and even to change it. A great asset in business.'

  'I'd heard it was possible, but I never understood how.'

  They took seats at the table, returning the nods of the other players as they settled themselves.

  'The patterns of the air, the turning of water in a bucket, the arrangement of a shuffled deck - all these are part of the Allsoul's pattern. Nothing is random. There is nothing it does not touch. But through the Cryptonomicon, we have the wisdom to interpret these signs as the voice of the Allsoul. And those with especial skill can arrange signs to speak to the Allsoul itself, and be understood.'

  'Amazing,' said Frey, as he emptied out a purse of money that he'd borrowed from Amalicia. 'The arrangement of a shuffled deck is part of the Allsoul's language?'

  'Indeed it is,' Pomfrey smiled.

  Frey whisded. 'I think I'm about to lose a horrible amount of money, Grand Oracle.'

  Pomfrey chuckled as the cards were dealt. 'The Allsoul's will be done.'

  Four hours later, they were still at it. By then only Frey and the Oracle were left at the table. Frey had been carefully eliminating all the other participants and then losing his winnings to Pomfrey. The standard of play was shocking. Manipulating the game was no trouble at all for someone like Frey, who'd spent a sizable fraction of his life in Rake dens.

  Early on. Frey had snagged a manservant ant and told him to bring a bottle of rum. He'd been aggressively filling everyone's glass ever since, especially the Grand Oracle's. Pomfrey was long past the point of refusing as he topped him up again.

  'I have a Run!' he declared, showing his hand triumphantly.

  Frey looked. A Run was five cards of any suit in numerical sequence, without a break. Pomfrey had 3, 4, 6, 7 and 8.

  'So you do,' Frey smiled, shaking his head in mock disbelief. He pushed the pile of money, gathered from the other players, towards the Grand Oracle. 'You really do have the Allsoul on your side.'

  'Ha!'

  Frey dealt the cards again, then caught sight of Crake and surreptitiously motioned him over. Crake ignored him. He was still talking with Samandra Bree. In fact, he hadn't left her side all night. Frey tried again, more vigorously. Crake pretended not to see him, until Frey's flailing became so pronounced that he was in danger of toppling off his chair.

  'What are you doing?' asked the Grand Oracle, blearily.

  'I have a friend I'd like you to meet,' said Frey, as a sullen Crake joined them at the table. 'Damen Morcutt, this is Grand Oracle Pomfrey.'

  Pomfrey was too interested in his cards to manage more than a quick hello. Crake looked over his shoulder for Samandra, but she'd already disappeared. He was looking distinctly unsteady.

  'Had a few, have we?' Frey whispered, with a suppressed threat in his voice.

  'I was enjoying the company of a beautiful woman,' Crake slurred.

  'I told you to stay sharp.'

  'I am sharp.'

  'You'd better be.' He looked around to be sure nobody was nearby, but the parlour was largely empty now. Pomfrey was studying his cards with an expression of fierce concentration, the tip of his tongue poking out the side of his mouth.

  'Grand Oracle, my friend here has something to show you.'

  Crake went white. 'Not here!' he whispered. 'What if it goes wrong?'

  'He's drunk. It'll be fine,' Frey assured him under his breath. 'Grand Oracle!'

  Pomfrey looked up, startled to find himself at a card table. 'What? Er, oh, yes. Sorry. Pardon me.'

  'I said, my friend has something to show you,' Frey repeated. 'A quite remarkable gold tooth he has.'

  Crake glared at his captain, then turned his attention to Pomfrey and grinned his best grin.

  'Oh,' said Pomfrey, not impressed in the slightest.

  'Why don't you have a closer look?' Frey urged.

  'Spit and blood, Mr Frey, you are acting awfully strange all of a—' Pomfrey trailed off as he caught sight of his reflection in Crake's smile. 'My,' he said. 'That is a very nice tooth.'

  Crake kept grinning as the Grand Oracle's eyes glazed further, slipping from drunken to mesmerised.

  'Now,' said Frey. 'I've got a couple of questions.'

  They left the table soon afterwards. Crake felt faintly nauseous from using his daemon-thralled tooth while drunk. Before he left, he made sure that Pomfrey remembered nothing of what had been said. Frey scooped up the money on the table for good measure, since the Grand Oracle would be in no state to recall whether he won or lost in the morning. After that, they found Amalicia and made their exit.

  Crake was wounded to note that Samandra Bree had left too, without saying goodbye. He hoped he hadn't sai
d anything foolish to her. He couldn't remember most of the last hour or so of their conversation. Rot and damnation! He'd never meant to drink so much, but he'd got carried away in her company.

  She was just so bloody charming, that was the problem. The lively twinkle in her eyes, that mischievous mouth of hers. He didn't mind admitting he was quite taken by her. It had been a long while since he'd had any interest in the fairer sex. He wasn't sure if it was the drink or the memory of Samandra that was making him dizzy as he sat in the back of the motorised carriage, heading for the private landing pad where the guests' aircraft waited.

  The sight of Frey sitting opposite soured his thoughts. He was angry at being pulled away from Samandra and missing his chance to say goodbye. He was doubly angry that Frey had made him use his gold tooth in a place like that. If the Grand Oracle hadn't been so drunk, he might have realised what was being done to him. A daemonist, unmasked in the midst of a house full of Awakeners? He'd have been hung for sure.

  The Cap'n was losing perspective. That sphere had come to mean more to him than just the prospect of a fortune. He was chasing something else, and chasing it hard. But Crake wasn't sure if even Frey knew what that something was.

  Eighteen

  Slag's Ambush — The Great Outdoors — Stealthy Exit — Frey's Chivalry Is Tested

  The rooms and corridors of the Ketty Jay were the domain of the lumbering, strange-smelling entities that Slag deigned to share his aircraft with. He suffered their presence when it suited him, but usually he avoided them, preferring to remain in his own kingdom, the maze of vents and pipes and maintenance crawlways that ran behind the walls of the aircraft. He was the terror of the rats and mice that bred there, and he ruled with a red claw.

  Tonight, he had bigger prey in mind.

  The room was in darkness. On the top bunk, the fat one was snoring hard enough to inhale his blankets. Below him, the scrawny one lay quite still, breathing deep and slow.

  Slag watched them lazily from the vent high up on the wall, his paws crossed before him. Sometimes there was a barrier here, a grille that prevented him getting through, but not this time. That was good. The rats had been hiding too well lately. He was bored, and in the mood to torment his plaything.

  He'd been watching for some time now. Usually he wouldn't trouble to be so careful, but something was amiss. He sensed it, even if he didn't know what it was.

  Perhaps it was the odd behaviour of the scrawny one that was perturbing him.

  Slag had got used to bullying Harkins. He sensed the fear coming off him, and fear meant weakness. Slag hated weakness, and was determined to punish it wherever he found it. But Harkins had been acting differently of late. Poking round the cargo hold with that metal beast clanking along behind him. Creeping through the Ketty Jay with a net.

  Slag was supposed to be the hunter, not the hunted. This prey seemed to have got confused about his role. It was Slag's job to remind him.

  Slag slipped warily out of the vent on to the top of a storage cupboard. From there, he dropped down on to an iron-bound trunk, and then to the floor. He sniffed the air suspiciously. His instincts still insisted that things weren't quite right, but he didn't understand why. There was no danger from the snoring fat one, with whom he shared a mutual disdain. Harkins was asleep and helpless. Everything looked normal enough.

  Maybe it was because his prey wasn't twitching and muttering as much as he usually did. But his eyes were closed, and his breathing deep, so Slag hopped up on to the bed.

  Some of these odd beings slept heavily. Not like a cat at all. Slag could thump about the room as much as he liked and nobody would notice him. But it still took technique to clamber on to a face without waking its owner. Slag was massive, old and scarred from a thousand fights, but despite his hefty frame he was a master of the art of stealth.

  He slipped along the bunk towards Harkins' head. He could smell the stale breath of his enemy, feel the air brushing past his sensitive whiskers. He slowed, examined the terrain, picked out the best method of approach. When he was ready, he made his move.

  Suddenly the ground surged underneath him. As if the bed itself had snapped shut like a set of jaws. He tensed to bolt, but a white sack enveloped him first, tangling his paws and blinding him. He thrashed, but he couldn't get a proper grip to run, and he felt himself lifted into the air. He tumbled on to his back, upside down, helpless, constrained. He hissed and spat and writhed in fury, but the sack had him trapped.

  'Ha!' Harkins cried. 'Ha! Thought I was asleep, didn't you! Well, I fooled you!'

  It was a gabble of meaningless sounds to Slag. He was shaken all about in his awful white prison. He twisted and turned, trying to right himself. Nobody did this to him! Nobody! Least of all that filthy fearful prey-thing!

  'How do you like that, eh? I'll show you!'

  'Will you shut your damn meat-hole?' moaned Pinn, who'd been awakened by the commotion.

  'I got him! I got the cat!'

  'Great,' said Pinn irritably. 'Throw it in a river or something. Scabby little bag of stink.'

  'Throw it in the river? That's a good idea, Pinn! A good idea!'

  'Happy to help. Now bugger off.'

  Slag's flailing had got one of his claws hooked into the fabric of the sack. He struggled to free his paw, but instead succeeded in using it as an anchor to twist himself round into an upright position at the bottom of the sack. Now with his paws beneath him, he tugged. The fabric tore, but his paw remained trapped by a loop of stubborn thread. He pulled again, and this time a longer tear appeared.

  'Erm,' said Harkins.

  There was a creaking of bedsprings. Pinn rolling over to look down on the scene. 'I hope you didn't think your pillowcase was going to hold a cat that size, did you?'

  Slag's claw pulled free, but he'd sighted freedom and attacked the rent, slashing and shredding. The scrawny one squealed, and the sack suddenly, terrifyingly, plunged downward as it was released. Slag hit the floor in a heap, but now at least he'd found the ground, and it would take more than a fall like that to hurt him. With the sack settling around him, he oriented himself, picked himself up and thrashed his way out of the neck of the pillowcase.

  'Uh-oh,' said Pinn gleefully. 'He's mad now.'

  Harkins was struggling with the door, trying to slide it open. The fear was coming off him now, that familiar smell. Harkins was many times his size, but Slag would have attacked anything at this point, even the oily monster that lived in the hold. He was berserk with rage.

  His whole life, he'd been top of the food chain. He'd had vicious fights with enormous rats, but he'd never been beaten and never backed down. And he'd certainly never been manhandled in such a way. What had been done to him was too much to bear. It demanded bloody revenge.

  He launched himself at Harkins' calf and sank his claws through his trousers. Harkins squealed in agony, swatting at him, but Slag clambered up his legs, arse and back, his claws cutting through cloth and hooking into flesh. Harkins was desperately trying to reach behind himself as he stumbled through the open door. His arms occupied with the cat, he tripped and went head-first into the metal wall of the corridor beyond. Slag jumped free as his victim crumpled to the floor, wailing and clutching his head. Pinn was helpless with laughter in his bunk.

  Harkins tried to scramble away, but Slag wasn't about to let him. This wasn't finished until his prey was no longer moving. He sprang at Harkins' face. Harkins got his hands up in time to protect his eyes, but Slag sank yellow fangs into his fingers instead.

  Harkins screamed, scrambling to his feet, desperately trying to shake off the cat. Slag was having none of that. He hung from Harkins' hand by his teeth, scrabbling for purchase with his claws. Harkins trilled an operatic wail, eyes wide as he stared in horror at the black, furry mass attached to him. Then his hand clamped around Slag's belly and tore him away, along with a chunk of finger. Slag found himself lobbed down the corridor towards the engine room, the taste of blood in his mouth. A seasoned warrior, he flipp
ed in the air, landed on his feet, and charged back for more.

  Harkins was running away down the corridor, his wounded hand clutched to his chest. Just then the female, Jez, stepped out of her quarters, holding a pistol.

  'Harkins! Hey, are you alright?'

  Harkins let out an incoherent blubber of terror and pushed past her, heading for the cargo stairs. Slag skidded to a halt. The female was standing between him and his prey. He hated this one. She made him afraid. The mere sight of her was enough to get his hackles up. She was wrong. Not natural. Unknown.

  'Will you quit tormenting him?' she snapped at Slag. Slag just hissed at her. After a moment, she shrugged and went back into her quarters. 'I give up. I've got my own problems.'

  As soon as the door to her quarters was shut, Slag raced down into the cargo hold. Harkins had reached the lever that activated the ramp. As Slag came thumping down the steps, he pulled it. Hydraulics whined as the ramp began to open. Harkins looked over his shoulder and saw the cat approaching.

  'Stay away from me!' Harkins shrieked, pressing himself up against the bulkhead of the Ketty Jay as if he could melt through it. 'Get . . . just get away!'

  He bolted for the gap that was opening at the end of the cargo ramp. Slag ran to intercept, but at the last moment Harkins threw himself down and rolled sideways, slipping out through the gap. There was a short squeal and a heavy thump as he hit the ground.

  Slag went to the edge of the ramp and looked down. Harkins was getting painfully to his feet a couple of metres below, staggering away across the grass. He went a short distance, stopped, and turned back.

  The ramp bumped on to the ground. Beyond was tarmac. Slag sniffed it distrustfully, then recoiled a step. He glared at Harkins.