Philip Reeve - Predator's gold

“Great Arkangel will be with us in a few more hours,” Masgard had announced, circling the huddle of prisoners while his men stood watchful guard with guns and crossbows at the ready. His words boomed from the loudspeaker horns on his lieutenant’s helmet. “Behave yourselves and you may look forward to healthy, productive lives in the gut. Attempt to resist, and you will die. This city is a pretty enough prize; I can afford to sacrifice a few slaves if you insist on making me prove how serious I am.”

Nobody insisted. The people of Anchorage weren’t used to violence, and the Huntsmen’s brutal faces and steam-powered guns were enough to convince them. They huddled together in the centre of the ballroom, wives clinging to husbands, mothers trying to stop their children crying or talking or doing anything that might draw them to the attention of the guards. When Masgard called for the margravine to dine with him, Freya thought it wisest to accept; anything to keep him in a good mood.

Still, she thought, prodding at her rapidly cooling meal, if dinner with Masgard is the worst I have to endure, I shall have got off lightly. It didn’t feel that light though, not when she glanced up at him and felt the air between them crawling with threat. Her stomach lurched, and she thought for a moment she was going to be sick. As an excuse not to eat she tried making conversation. “So how did you find us, Mr Masgard?”

Masgard grinned, blue eyes almost hidden under their heavy lids. He had been a little disappointed when he got here; the townspeople had given up far too easily, and Freya’s bodyguard had turned out to be a little joke of a man, not worthy of Masgard’s sword, but he was determined to be gallant to his captive margravine. He felt big and handsome and victorious, sitting there in Freya’s throne at the head of the table, and he had a feeling that he was impressing her. “How do you know it’s not my natural skill at hunting that led me to you?” he asked.

Freya managed a stiff little smile. “That’s not the way you work, is it? I’ve heard about you. Arkangel’s so desperate for prey that you pay people to squeak on other cities.”

“Squeal.”

“What?”

“You mean ‘squeal on other cities’. If you want to use under-deck slang, Your Radiance, you should at least get it right.”

Freya blushed. “It was Professor Pennyroyal, wasn’t it? Those stupid radio messages he sent. He told me he was just trying to reach a passing explorer, or a merchantman, but I suppose he’s been signalling to you all along.”

“Professor who?” Masgard laughed again. “No, my dear, it was a flying rat who did the squealing.”

Freya felt her eyes dragged towards his again. “Hester!”

“And you know the best part? She didn’t even want gold in exchange for your city. Just some boy; some worthless scrap of air-trash. Name of Natsworthy…”

“Oh, Hester! ” whispered Freya. She had always thought that girl was trouble, but she’d never imagined her capable of such a terrible thing. To betray a whole city, just to keep hold of a boy you didn’t deserve, who’d have been much better off with someone else! She tried not to let Masgard see her rage, because he’d only laugh. She said, “Tom’s gone. Dead, I think…”

“He’s had a lucky escape, then,” chuckled Masgard, through a mouthful of food. “Not that it matters. His quail’s vanished; she flew off before the ink was dry on her contract…”

The door of the dining room banged open, and Freya forgot about Hester and turned to see what was happening. One of Masgard’s men — the fellow with the loudspeaker-horns — stood in the doorway. “Fire, my lord!” he gasped. “Up at the harbour!”

“What?” Masgard went to the window, tearing the thick drapes aside. Snow whirled across the gardens outside, and behind it a red glare flickered and spread, throwing the gables and ducts on the roofs of Rasmussen Prospekt into sharp silhouette. Masgard rounded on his lieutenant. “Any word from Garstang and his boys at the harbour?”

The Huntsman shook his head.

“Fangs of the Wolf!” bellowed Masgard. “Someone set that blaze! They’re attacking our ship!” He drew his sword, pausing next to Freya’s chair on his way to the door. “If any of your verminous townspeople have harmed the Clear Air Turbulence, I’ll skin them alive and sell their hides as hearth-rugs.”

Freya tried to make herself small, pressing down into her chair. “It can’t be one of my people, you are holding them all…” But even as she said it she thought of Professor Pennyroyal. She hadn’t seen him in the ballroom. Perhaps he was free? Perhaps he was doing something to help? It seemed unlikely, but it was the only scrap of hope she had, and she clung to it while Masgard heaved her out of her chair and flung her at his lieutenant.

“Take her back to the ballroom!” he shouted. “Where are Ravn and Tor and Skaet?”

“Still guarding the main entrance, my lord.”

Masgard ran, and left the other man to drag Freya out of the dining room and shove her along the graceful curve of the corridor towards the ballroom. She supposed she should try to escape, but her guard was so big and strong, and so well armed, that she didn’t dare. Her relatives’ portraits stared down at her as she passed, looking as if they were disappointed in her for not fighting back. She said, “I hope somebody has set fire to your precious airship!”

“Won’t make any difference to us,” her guard growled. “It’s you who’ll suffer for it. Arkangel’ll be here soon. We won’t need an airship to get off your poxy town once it’s in the Scourge’s belly!”

As they neared the ballroom door Freya could hear a rising babble of voices coming from inside. The captives must have seen the fire, too, and were talking excitedly, while their guards hollered for quiet. Then something flashed past her head, and Masgard’s lieutenant went backwards without a cry. Freya thought he’d slipped, but when she turned there was a crossbow-bolt jutting from the front of his helmet and a thick dribble of blood starting to drip from one of the horns.

“Eww!” she said.

In an alcove beside the ballroom door a long shape unfolded itself from the shadows.

“Professor Pennyroyal?” Freya whispered. But it was Hester Shaw, already fitting a fresh bolt into the big crossbow she was carrying.

“You’re back!” gasped Freya.

“Oh, what a clever piece of deduction, Your Radiance.”

Freya flushed with anger. How dare the girl mock her? It was her fault this was happening! “You sold our course! How could you? How could you?”

“Well, I’ve changed my mind,” said Hester. “I’m here to help.”

“ Help? ” Freya was speaking in a hoarse, furious whisper, fearful that the guards in the ballroom would overhear. “How can you help? The best help you could have given us was to have never come anywhere near my city! We don’t need you! Tom didn’t need you! You’re selfish and wicked and cold and you don’t care about anybody but your horrible self…”

She stopped talking. They had each remembered, at the same instant, that Hester was holding a loaded crossbow, and that with a slight twitch of her finger she could pin Freya to the wall. She considered it for a moment, touching the tip of the bolt to Freya’s breast. “You’re right,” she whispered. “I’m evil. I take after my dad that way. But I do care about Tom, and that means I have to care about you and your stupid city as well. And I think you need me now.”

She lowered the crossbow and glanced down at the man she had just killed. There was a gas-pistol stuffed into his belt. “Do you know how to use that thing?” she asked.

Freya nodded. Her tutors had gone in more for etiquette and deportment than small-arms training, but she thought she grasped the general idea.