Secrets of the Fire Sea (11 page)

Nandi felt a brief stiffening of the same hackles that Professor Harsh so frequently raised. Wrapped in cotton wool, handled with kid gloves, overlooked for any foreign archaeological dig where there was even a hint of danger. Where else were you going to find sand-buried cities but in Cassarabia, with its bandits and wild nomads? Creeper-covered temples were two-a-penny in the jungles of Liongeli – but so were sharp-clawed thunder lizards, feral tribesman and river pirates. And here it was again. Jago, the heart of the enlightenment, but Commodore Black was still going to wait around while she poked through the Guild of Valvemen’s archives. What were he and his crude, lewd crew of rascals and brawlers going to do for her? Start a fight with the guild if it didn’t grant her the complete access the college had paid for?

What no one else seemed to realize was that every dig, every position she was barred from, was just another reminder of the hole left in her life by the death of her father, his bones lost in the sands outside the Diesela-Khan’s tomb thanks to a
single poisoned rifle ball. Nandi had ostensibly come to Jago to fulfil Doctor Conquest’s work, but in reality she was completing another expedition. One that had ended disastrously in the great southern desert. When she was finished here and standing back on the soil of the Kingdom of Jackals, her work circulating through the corridors of the college, then her father’s restless spirit would finally have his grief eased. Perhaps if she took her own sweet time in her studies, the commodore might grow bored and make for Pericur anyway, giving her an extra month or two alone here in Jago’s capital.

Nandi moved aside as the Pericurian ambassador led a delegation of Jagonese dockers forward towards the u-boat’s cargo hold. It looked as if he was unloading some of the crates carrying the transaction-engine parts. His embassy, Nandi suspected, was about to be upgraded with the fruits of the latest Jackelian science.

Commodore Black walked away to present the papers he had been given by Mister Walsingham to the local customs officials, and by the time he had finished with them, he looked to be in a dark mood. ‘The raw-faced cheek of it, lass. We’ve been allocated rooms in city-centre lodgings with not a choice in the matter, and we’re to be escorted there by these green-uniformed popinjays as if we were prisoners being given our afternoon constitutional by the warders.’

‘Maybe they don’t trust us,’ said Nandi.

‘They trust sailors well enough,’ said a voice behind them. ‘They trust them to act like sailors in any port and they’d rather not have Jagonese men and women claiming marriage rights with any of your lads or lasses when you sail out of here.’

Nandi looked at the short, broad man that had spoken – dressed in a Jackelian waistcoat with a battered leather trapper’s coat over it, rather than the brocaded velvet clothes
of the islanders. No local, this, and too scruffy to be one of the Jackelian embassy staff.

‘Ah well,’ said the commodore. ‘Lucky that my friend is here to study and not to find her fine self a husband.’

‘I’ve been married twice,’ said the man. ‘But never to anyone on Jago. I’m an outsider and they only tolerate me because they find my skills useful.’ He pointed to a set of cages on the side of the docks, iron bars holding back snarling, hooting specimens of the local wildlife. Nandi recognized the giant bear-like ursks from the illustrations in her college tomes, huge feral versions of the Pericurian ambassador who had travelled here with them. And by their side a cage filled with something else she had only glimpsed in books before,
ab-locks
. Leathery-skinned bipedal creatures with ape-like faces. They were a head or two under a man’s height, furless on the front but with a silver mane striped down their stooped backs.

‘My name is Tobias Raffold,’ said the trapper, ‘and I’ve been contracted by the Jackelian Zoological Society to deliver these creatures back to the Kingdom.’

Nandi noted the metre-long gap between the ursks’ cage and the one holding the ab-locks, the inhabitants of each crate snarling furiously at one another.

Tobias Raffold picked up a crowbar from the floor and drew it along the bars, turning the creatures’ growling attention towards him, hands snapping at the bars and trying to reach through to claw at him. ‘The only thing they bleeding loathe more than us is each other. Ursks and ab-locks rip each other apart when they cross onto each other’s territory.’

Nandi watched the ab-locks’ fierce red eyes burning as they pushed up against the bars. ‘They can be tamed, can’t they?’

‘Not at this age,’ said Tobias Raffold. ‘Trap ab-locks when they’re young and geld them and they can be taught basic orders well enough. They’re used in the Guild of Valvemen’s
vaults to porter for them. Ab-locks last longer than us before they’re killed by the energies of the turbine halls.’

‘Feral or tamed, I’m not carrying the likes of these in the
Purity Queen
, Mister Raffold,’ said the commodore. ‘I don’t transport live cargoes. They can die, they can escape, and even if they don’t their stench and racket will make my crew restless. They’re not a lucky cargo for old Blacky.’

The trapper waved a wad of money at the two of them. Jackelian paper notes drawn on Lords Bank. ‘I can make it lucky enough for you.’

‘Not with those you can’t,’ said the commodore. ‘I’ve been paid well enough to sail here and I already have an outbound cargo for Pericur. Taking these mortal whining things on board is a mite too close to slaving for my tastes.’

‘Don’t give me that cant,’ said the trapper. ‘You’ve got a cat on board your bloody boat to keep down the rats, haven’t you? Abs and ursks are nothing more than dumb beasts.’

Commodore Black wrinkled his nose and turned his head away from the whining ab-locks’ clamour. ‘Not dumb enough for me, Mister Raffold. You can wait for your regular Pericurian boat to put in and ship your pets away for the mortal Jackelian Zoological Society. I’ll not be taking them with me.’

‘I’ll have to wait a month for the next Pericurian boat, man. I just missed the last one!’

Nandi and the commodore left the Jackelian trapper on the dockside, cursing the old u-boat skipper for a superstitious fool.

As the two of them caught up with the other u-boat passengers and their guard, the gathering crowds coming to see the u-boat parted to allow another police escort to pass in the opposite direction. The second group of police militia were pulling an ursine towards the harbour, heavy chains bound
across long leather robes inscribed with the symbols of the Pericurian religion. They passed closed enough to Nandi and the others for Ambassador Ortin to take a quizzical interest in one of his fellow nationals being so rudely manhandled.

‘That is a preacher of the Divine Quad you are mistreating,’ Ortin urs Ortin protested to the officer leading the way. ‘Dear boy, can you not—’

Nandi and the ambassador lurched back as the ursine priest threw herself at the new arrivals, the police struggling to hold her. ‘You filthy heretic, you’ll burn in hell for this! Your presence here is hastening the apocalypse. This is sacred soil – sacred soil that you defile. Your fur will be burnt away with the wrath of Reckin urs Reckin. You will be left as hairless as these twisted, dirty infidels, the foul descendents of Amaja urs Amaja. You will burn along with all those malignant traders with their blind eyes that can see only profit, standing on the cursed soil where our ancient temples once stood. Their eyes will burn in their sockets for their sins, then they will know true blindness!’

‘You’ve had your answer, sir,’ said the officer in charge of the group as his men fought to bundle the giant priest away. ‘Now move along.’

‘What is going to happen to that lady?’ demanded the ambassador.

‘She stowed away on the boat from Pericur,’ said the officer. ‘Now she’s going back. She attacked some of your own traders down in the main market, turning over their stalls. You know we deport any of your preachers that try to sneak in. We could have arrested her for the damage she did.’

‘A zealot,’ said Ortin, sadly. ‘Treat her as kindly as you can.’

‘Nothing for the archduchess to complain about, sir.’

Nandi watched the disappearing figure of the preacher, still yelling about the end-times and the fall of paradise, railing
against the laughing Jagonese crowds who were jeering and taunting her. ‘Does all of the race of man look like devils to you, ambassador?’

‘I think there is a little bit of the devil in all of us, dear girl,’ said Ortin. ‘Whether you have a fine pelt like we do, or even if you don’t.’

Nandi nodded in agreement. So many tensions came from the misreading of history. All so avoidable.

The preacher’s voice grew fainter as they walked towards the capital.

‘The last judgement is coming, all of you…
doomed
!’

Jethro looked out of the window of their lodgings while Boxiron finished unpacking the last of the travel cases he had been too tired to start the day before. It was a grand hotel, the Westerkerk, but the fact that the connected rooms they had been given were almost as large as their lodgings back at Thompson Street did not disguise the fact that this place was as a good as a prison cell for them. As soon as they’d arrived they had noticed the police militia posted at all the hotel’s entrances, and while the soldiers were obviously busy turning away Jagonese claiming they had business with the
Purity Queen
’s crew, Jethro knew that their presence was a double-edged blade.

‘We have quite a view of the cathedral across the Grand Canal,’ noted Boxiron.

‘A view,’ said Jethro, ‘but not an unobserved way to present the Inquisition’s credentials to the cathedral staff.’

‘The law enforcers here are not like your friends back in Ham Yard,’ said Boxiron.

‘Indeed they are not,’ said Jethro. ‘If they changed the colour of their green uniforms for a redcoat’s cherry attire, they might almost be taken for a military force.’

‘You marked the coral defences ringing the island on the way in,’ said Boxiron. ‘The commodore told me they have battlements surrounding the capital’s surface structures almost as impressive.’

Jethro rubbed his chin. ‘An interesting frame of mind, don’t you think? All your enemies are external, all your defences facing out to protect you. But what do you do if you find there is a rot within? How would you cope with that?’

Boxiron did not get a chance to reply – there was a knock at their door and when the steamman opened it, Ortin urs Ortin stood there, filling the doorframe with his impressive furred bulk.

‘Good ambassador,’ said Jethro. ‘You’re not rooming in the hotel, are you? I thought your embassy would have taken you in.’

‘The deputy ambassador claims that she wasn’t told I was coming and that she’s taken the opportunity of my predecessor’s departure to remodel my apartments. I won’t be able to move into my embassy rooms for weeks.’

Jethro frowned. ‘You suspect a slight?’

‘Of course I suspect a slight, dear boy,’ said Ortin urs Ortin. ‘I am a rare male office-holder in a matriarchal society, and it seems my banishment here is not to be made a comfortable one. But even they can’t stop me taking up my duties. I have a summons to present myself to the stained senate this morning, as do you…’

‘Me? I’m a private party, good ambassador, not a representative of the Kingdom’s foreign office.’

‘There’s still a couple of reformers left on my staff here, despite the best efforts of the archduchess’s conservatives, and my house’s friends have caught wind of a few worrying circumstances brewing here,’ said the ambassador, moving to the window. ‘And that’s one of them.’

Jethro followed the direction of the large furred finger and saw an officer of the police militia striding towards the hotel.

‘Colonel Constantine Knipe, a particularly charmless fellow who seems to hold a low opinion of my appointment here that’s not far removed from that of my own enemies in Pericur. He’s already intercepted me and warned me to restrict my duties to a bare minimum and now I suspect it’s your turn. Well, at least I’ve beaten the old fruit here to you. I counsel saying little…’

True to the ambassador’s words, Colonel Knipe arrived outside their rooms a minute later, his appearance preceded by the clump-hiss of his mechanical leg. He glowered at Ortin urs Ortin as though his presence implied that all three of them were involved in some plot. Then Knipe turned his attention towards Jethro, his eyes skipping briefly past Boxiron – the steamman surely an exotic oddity on the island – and waved a sheet of paper at the ex-parson. ‘Jethro Daunt, citizen of the Kingdom of Jackals. The same Jethro Daunt, I am presuming, who was the consulting detective that retrieved the
Twelve Works of Charity
when the painting was stolen from the Middlesteel Museum.’

‘The same, good colonel. Although it would be truer to say that the painting never actually left the museum, it was merely switched and falsely identified as a forgery by the thief. You are exceedingly well informed.’

‘Our representatives in the Kingdom still collect your penny sheets,’ said the colonel. ‘And our transaction-engine vaults are still one of the wonders of the world.’

‘So I have heard,’ smiled Jethro. ‘And I see from the paper in your hand that their retrieval speeds match all that I have heard about their superiority.’

‘Why have you been summoned to the senate floor, Daunt?’

‘That, I’m afraid, only your stained senate can answer,’ said Jethro.

‘Your services have not been engaged by them?’

‘No,’ sighed Jethro. ‘Sadly, my visit here is of a private nature.’

‘There is nothing private on Jago when it comes to keeping our people safe,’ said the colonel. ‘I will have the reason for your appearance on our shores. We haven’t had a Jackelian u-boat call for over thirteen months.’

‘If you will,’ said Jethro, stiffly. ‘I have come here to pay my respects to a recent grave. That of Damson Alice Gray.’

‘The archbishop?’ said the colonel, surprised. ‘What is she to you?’

‘She and I were engaged to be married, although sadly the loss of my original living prevented our union.’