Iron Jackal (20 page)

Freshly jacketed and carrying a glass of good port, Malvery followed Hawkby to an upstairs den, where they settled themselves in front of a fire. Hawkby chattered excitedly while Malvery listened, content to soak in the atmosphere of the club. Hawkby was an eminent doctor now, the inventor of a pioneering new treatment that used magnetic fields to treat the demented. He had a small asylum of his own in the Chandletown district. Malvery was pleased to hear he was doing well: he’d always been a good, honest sort.

‘But enough of me,’ Hawkby said. ‘You’ve had quite the life of adventure, I hear!’

‘Ha! Is that what they say?’

‘We may not move in quite the same circles these days, but I know a thing or two. Surgeon on the
Ketty Jay
under Captain Frey. They say you’ve been behind the Wrack and gone toe-to-toe with the Manes.’

‘It was less toe-to-toe than shotgun-to-face,’ said Malvery. ‘Look, I ain’t gonna say there haven’t been high points, but being a freebooter ain’t quite as romantic as you’ve heard.’

‘Oh, now you’re being modest.’

‘Seriously. Most of the time we’re just rolling around pissed to fight off the boredom. They’re a good bunch, the
best
bunch, but sometimes . . .’ He accepted a refill of port from Hawkby’s bottle, and took a sip. Damn, it was good. ‘Sometimes I get to wondering what in buggery I’m doing with myself.’

Hawkby, sensing a story, nestled back into his armchair. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

Malvery looked into his glass, studying the way the firelight splintered and shone. Now he’d begun, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be talking about this at all. But he didn’t much want to discuss it with any of the crew, and here was someone who’d understand. Lulled by the alcohol and his surroundings, he decided to unburden himself of the thoughts that had been weighing on his mind these last few days.

‘Long time after I . . . well, you know what happened . . .’

Hawkby nodded gravely. Everyone knew what had happened to Henvid Clack.

Malvery shifted himself awkwardly in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t bring myself to pick up a scalpel after that. Couldn’t do much more than tie on bandages and dish out pills. But I got past it. Our engineer, Silo, got shot pretty bad, and I pulled him through. That was nearly two years ago, I reckon.’ He adjusted his glasses and harumphed. ‘And since then I ain’t done a whole lot of anything, really.’

‘Malvery, I’m amazed! If half the stories are true, you’ve been all over the place! What I wouldn’t give for a travelling life like yours!’

‘I mean I ain’t exactly saved many lives during that time,’ said Malvery. ‘Reckon I’m well into minus figures as far as that goes.’

Hawkby regarded him thoughtfully, his forefinger resting on his chin. Malvery dug into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet presentation box. He held it out to Hawkby.

‘I remember this,’ said Hawkby. He opened it and looked at the medal inside. ‘First Aerium War, yes? You were a field surgeon then.’

‘Aye. Carried some wounded fellers out of a firefight. Didn’t think much of it at the time, but they gave me that medal, and it made my name. Brought me to the attention of a bloke named Macklebury.’

‘Yes, I recall the Mackleburys. Your patrons.’

‘General Gred Macklebury. I met him at the presentation ceremony. I s’pose he liked me. After the war, he asked if I’d be his family’s personal physician. Offered me enough money to make your hair fall out. I reckon he liked the idea of having a war hero as a doctor, or some such thing. But I didn’t want to be sittin’ on my hands when there was surgery to be done, so I cut a deal with him. If he helped me set up my own practice, I’d be at his beck and call whenever I was needed. Whenever I wasn’t – which I reckoned would be most of the time – I’d be in my surgery.’

‘Eminently sensible,’ said Hawkby, closing the box and handing it back. Malvery dropped it into his pocket. He’d been carrying it there ever since Crake had found it in a drawer.

‘It worked out well for everyone. Macklebury liked to show me off in the evenings, so I ended up at all sorts of clubs and soirées and such that I’d never have got to otherwise. I wasn’t born with much money and never had much growin’ up, so you can imagine what I felt like, paradin’ around in the parlours of the rich and famous. I thought life couldn’t get much better. That was how I met Eldrea, too, and by damn, she was quite a woman back then.’

Hawkby topped up Malvery’s glass. ‘So far, old fellow, it sounds like the tale of a man justly rewarded for his bravery in the line of fire.’

‘You could say that. But then the Second Aerium War kicked off. Lot of folks out there dyin’ on the front lines. And I thought: ‘‘That’s where
I
oughta be. Back in among it.’’ But I had a life in Thesk by then. I was rich and comfy and I didn’t much fancy giving up my place by the fire. And I knew Macklebury would make sure I wasn’t called up. He wanted my services for himself. So I sat it out. Most of the Second Aerium War I spent in this club, while young doctors like you were sent out to the front.’ He hunched forward in his chair, the firelight reflecting from the lenses of his glasses. ‘Reckon that was the beginning of the end for me.’

‘I think you judge yourself harshly,’ Hawkby said. ‘There was need of doctors on the home front, too.’

Malvery was unconvinced. ‘The old me, he’d have gone regardless. But something changed between the wars. I lost that edge. Too much good living, too much drink. And somewhere along the way the woman I loved became an enemy, whether by my fault or hers, I dunno. Probably both. She thought she was marrying a braver man, I reckon.’

‘My dear Malvery!’ Hawkby cried, giving him a hearty thump on the shoulder. ‘I’m not used to seeing you so maudlin.’

‘Sorry,’ said Malvery, gathering himself. ‘Finding that medal brought it all back, I s’pose. I used to be full of piss and passion, you know? All I wanted to do was save lives. I just wonder what happened to that feller.’

‘Well then,’ said Hawkby with a shrug. ‘If you feel that way, come and work for me.’

Malvery frowned at him. ‘You mean it?’

‘You can be surgeon-in-chief at my asylum. Rot knows the daft beggars hurt themselves enough to need a man like you in residence. Stay with me for six months, I’ll see to your reinstatement in the guild, and after that you can do as you please. No doubt I’d be glad to keep you on, but if you think you’d prefer to work in a hospital or set up on your own, I shan’t stop you.’

Simple as that. He’d forgotten how it was in the world of high society, how easily doors were opened.

‘I’m sort of out of practice, mate,’ he said, but the protest was weak and Hawkby steamrollered it.

‘Pish! You were one of the best surgeons I ever saw. You have a gift, and it’s going to waste. I’d be honoured to have you on my staff.’

Could I?
Malvery thought.
Could I really?

What would it be like, after all these years, to return to a stable job, a stable world? To save lives again? Wasn’t that what he’d always wanted to do? Wasn’t it all he
ever
wanted to do?

This time round, he’d be humble. None of this poisonous high society nonsense, and no more marrying above his station. But it’d be good to have a decent waistcoat, to sit in the Axelby Club again, to cut his steak with a silver knife and wash it down with a fine vintage.

But first there was the question of Frey. His Cap’n’s life was in danger – his
friend’s
– and that was his first duty. It occurred to him that he ought to head back to the
Ketty Jay
soon. The Cap’n would be returning with news from Trinica, and Malvery had better be there for it.

‘It’s a generous offer, Hawkby,’ he said. ‘Thank you. But right now I’m in the middle of something that can’t wait. Can I have some time to consider?’

‘Of course, of course. Take all the time you need. You know where to find me.’ They got to their feet and shook hands. ‘The offer’s there. Think about it.’

‘I will,’ said Malvery. ‘I definitely will.’

Jez hadn’t slept in four years. But she was dreaming, all the same. She dreamed the day of her death.

She stood over her corpse, looking down on herself. Her body lay huddled in a hollow in the snow, skin blue and eyes closed. Death had relaxed her features. She was curled up foetally, as if she wanted to reach the end of her life in the same position as she began it.

It was morning, and a heavy lid of grey cloud pressed down, leaching the colour from the world. This was not the same as her memory. In real life, after she’d died, it had kept on snowing. She’d woken in a cocoon, a frosty womb for her rebirth, and had dug her way out to a clear blue sky. But this was a dream, not a memory, and things were different here.

She was not asleep, but she was in a deeper trance than she’d ever managed before. The incident on the train, when she’d heard the dying Dakkadian’s thoughts, had inspired her to experiment. Trancing was easy for her these days. It was like breathing out and sinking under water. But she’d always stayed at a safe depth till now, afraid of drowning.

She’d been consumed by the daemon inside her twice before. Then, she’d become something fearsome, something monstrous. She was afraid of what might happen if she lost control again. Perhaps she’d be forced to leave the
Ketty Jay
, for the good of everyone.

But if she ever hoped to find out what it meant to be a half-Mane, a little controlled risk was necessary. So she let herself sink. And she found herself dreaming.

She lifted her head and surveyed her surroundings. She knew this place well, though she’d long since forgotten its name. It was a small settlement near the icy coast of Yortland. She’d come here as the expedition navigator for Professor Malstrom. The Professor was Vardia’s foremost authority on the Azryx, a lost civilisation possessing strange and advanced technology which disappeared beneath the northern ice many thousands of years ago. Or so Malstrom believed, at least. There was barely a shred of evidence to support his theory. Even the name came from the Professor himself.

It was a fool’s quest, but Jez had been happy to take the money. She wouldn’t have been so keen if she’d known what was in store for her.

She followed the winding tracks in the snow, back to the town. Behind the low, domed Yortish buildings, the mountains rose like unsheathed fangs. Up on the glacier were the ice caves, the excavation site where the scientists had searched fruitlessly for a buried city.

An immense silence lay across the frozen wastes. The only sound was the crunching of her boots in the snow.

The bright blood was a shock in this clean white world. Bodies lay torn in hunks and rags, strewn between the close-set domes, their remains flung with great violence. Hide coats soaked red, concealing pieces of their occupants within. She walked past them, curiously unconcerned. They didn’t seem like they’d been people.

Her tracks led her to the place where she’d been given the Invitation, in an anonymous spot between the sloped walls of two snow-covered domes. But the Mane who had made her was nowhere to be seen. It had been beheaded before the Invitation was complete, killed by Riss, a colleague who’d felt more for her than she had for him. She hadn’t thought of Riss much since that day, even after all he’d tried to do for her. She never found out what became of him. Dead, or taken. Perhaps he deserved more of a tribute than she gave him, but Jez had never been the sentimental kind.

She came to the main street. It was little more than a thoroughfare of packed snow, leading through the buildings towards a tiny landing-pad on the far side, out of sight. A crashed snow-tractor rested against one wall, the windows of its cab cracked and smeared with blood. Bodies lay everywhere.

There was a dreadnought overhead.

She couldn’t understand why she hadn’t seen it before. But this was a dream, she supposed, and it followed its own logic. It hung there, enormous against the grey ceiling of cloud, all spikes and bolts and filthy iron. Ropes and chains trailed from its gunwales, hanging down onto the thoroughfare. The Manes had swarmed down them when they descended on the town, several years ago. But there were no Manes in sight now.

She stood where she was and looked at the dreadnought. A soft wind blew up the thoroughfare, pushing powdered snow before it. The dangling chains clanked against each other.

Then, through the aching quiet, she heard a sound she knew well. It was coming from the dreadnought. At first it was faint, but soon it grew louder, swelling to a clamour. Feral howls, like mad wolves, mournful, savage and needful.

She listened to her brothers and sisters, and it was like music.

Fourteen

Crickslint – A Slap – Trading Identities – A Visitation

N
ine nights left
, thought Frey, as he knocked on the door of the curio shop. Next to him, Crake stamped his feet and shivered. The unseasonable cold snap showed no signs of letting up.

‘Spit and blood,’ Crake muttered. ‘If this is autumn, I don’t want to be here for winter.’

‘Not to worry,’ said Frey. ‘Chances are I’ll be dead by then.’

‘That attitude’s not going to do you much good, now, is it?’

‘Just trying to look on the bright side.’