Chris Wooding - Retribution Falls

Crake felt Jez’s good humour falter at the sight of so many people, and he gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Now, Miss Flay. Don’t let them intimidate you.’

‘You sure you couldn’t have just come on your own?’

‘That’s just not how it’s done,’ he said. ‘Deep breath. Here we go.’

Flagged paths meandered round pools and fountains towards the porch. Crake led them through the garden, stopping to take two glasses of wine from a passing waiter. He offered one to Jez.

‘I don’t drink,’ she said.

‘That doesn’t matter. Just hold it. Gives you something to do with your right hand.’

It was a little cooler inside the manor. The high-ceilinged rooms with their white plastered walls sucked some of the heat out of the night, and the open windows let the breeze through. Servants fanned the air. The aristocrats had gathered in here, too, bunching into corners or lurking near the canapés, moving in swirls and eddies from group to group.

‘Remember, we’re looking for Gallian Thade,’ Crake murmured. ‘I’ll point him out when I see him.’

‘And then what?’

‘And then we’ll see what we can find out.’

A handsome young man with carefully parted blond hair approached them with a friendly smile. ‘Hello there. I don’t think we’ve met,’ he said, offering a hand. He introduced himself as Barger Uddle, of the renowned family of sprocket manufacturers. ‘You know! Uddle Sprockets! Half the craft in the sky run on our sprockets.’

‘Damen Morcutt, of the Marduk Morcutts,’ said Crake, shaking his hand vigorously. ‘And this charming creature is Miss Bethinda Flay.’

‘My father used to use your sprockets all the time,’ she said. ‘He was a craftbuilder. Swore by them.’

‘Oh, how delightful!’ Barger exclaimed. ‘Come, come, I must introduce you to the others. Can’t have you standing around like wet fish.’

Crake let this puzzling metaphor pass, and soon they were absorbed into a crowd of a dozen young men and women, all excitedly discussing the prospect of making ever more money in the future.

‘It’s only a matter of time before the Coalition lifts the embargo on aerium exports to Samarla, and then the money will come rolling in. It’s all about who’s ready to take advantage.’

‘Do you think so? I think we’ll find that the Sammies don’t even need it any more. Why do you think the last war ended so suddenly?’

‘Nobody knows why they called the truce. The Allsoul alone knows what goes on inside that country of theirs.’

‘Pffft! It was aerium, pure and simple. They fought two wars because they didn’t have any in their own country and they couldn’t stand buying it from us. Now they’ve found some. Bet you anything.’

‘We shouldn’t even be trading with those savages. We should have gone in there and flattened them when we had the chance. Mark my words, this is only a lull. They’re building a fleet big enough to squash us like insects. There’ll be a third Aerium War, and we won’t win this one. New Vardia, that’s where I’m going. New Vardia and Jagos.’

‘The frontier. That’s where the money is, alright. Get right in on the ground floor. But I think I’d miss the society. I’d just shrivel out there.’

‘Oh, you’ve no sense of adventure!’

After a while, Crake and Jez excused themselves and made their way into an enormous drawing room. Here was the source of the music they’d been hearing ever since they arrived. A quintet of Thacian women played delicate folk songs from their homeland. They were slender, olive-skinned, black-haired, and even the least attractive among them could still be called pretty. They wore coloured silks and held exotic, exquisitely made instruments of wood and brass.

‘Listen,’ said Crake, laying a hand on Jez’s shoulder.

‘Listen to what?’

‘Just listen,’ he said, and closed his eyes.

In the field of the arts—as in science, philosophy, culture and just about everything else—Thacians were the leaders in the known world. Vardic aristocracy aspired to the heights of Thacian achievement, but usually all they could manage were clumsy imitations. To hear real Thacian players was a treat, which came at a hefty price—but then Gallian Thade wasn’t a man known to be short of money. Crake allowed himself to be swept away in the tinkling arpeggios, the haunting moan of the pipes, the counterpoint rhythms.

This was what he missed. The casual elegance of music and literature. To be surrounded by wonderful paintings and sculpture, perfect gardens and complicated wines. The upper classes insulated themselves against the world outside, padding themselves with beauty. Without that protection, things became ugly and raw.

He wished, more than anything, that he could go back. Back to how it was before everything went bad. Before . . .

‘Excuse me.’

He opened his eyes, irritated at the interruption. The man standing before him was taller than he was, broad-shouldered and bull-necked. He was fat, but not flabby, bald-headed, and sported a long, thin moustache and expensively cut clothes.

‘Sorry to spoil your enjoyment of the music, sir,’ he said. ‘I just had to introduce myself. Fredger Cordwain is my name.’

‘Damen Morcutt. And this is Miss Bethinda Flay.’ Jez curtsied on cue, and Cordwain kissed her hand.

‘Charmed. I must ask you, sir, have we met? Your face seems very familiar to me, very familiar indeed, but I can’t place it.’

Crake felt a small chill. Did he know this person? He’d been quite confident that nobody who knew his face would be here tonight. His crime had been kept out of the press—nobody wanted a scandal—and the Winter Ball was simply too exclusive for the circles Crake had moved in. Invitations were almost impossible to secure.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t quite recall.’

‘Perhaps we met on business? At a party? May I ask what it is you do?’

‘You may well ask, but I’m not sure I could answer!’ Crake brayed, falling into his role. ‘I’m sort of in between occupations at the moment. Father wants me to go into law, but my mother is obsessed with the idea that I should be a politician. Neither of them appeals much to me. I just want to be with my sweetheart.’ He smiled at Jez, who smiled back dreamily, bedazzled by her rich boyfriend. ‘May I ask what it is that you do?’

‘I work for the Shacklemore Agency.’

It took all of Crake’s control to keep his expression steady. The news was like a punch in the gut. Suddenly, he was certain that Cordwain was watching for a reaction from him, and he was determined to give none.

‘And what does the Shacklemore Agency do?’ asked Jez innocently, though she must have already known. Crake silently thanked her for the distraction.

Cordwain favoured her with a patronising smile. ‘Well, Miss, we look after the interests of our clients. We work for some very important people. My job is to deal with those people, keep things running smooth.’

‘Hired guns and bounty hunters, that’s what they are,’ sniffed Crake. He was quick on his feet in social situations, and he’d already decided on the best tactic for getting away as fast as possible. ‘I must say, I find it very distasteful.’

‘Damen! Don’t be rude!’ Jez said, appalled.

‘It’s alright, Miss,’ said Cordwain, with an unmistakable hostility in his gaze. ‘There’s some that don’t understand the value of the work we do. The law-abiding man has nothing to fear from us.’

‘I say, sir, do you dare to imply something?’ Crake bristled, raising his voice. People nearby turned and looked. Cordwain noticed the attention their conversation had drawn.

‘Not a thing, sir,’ he said coldly. ‘I apologise for disturbing you.’ He bowed quickly to Jez and walked away. The people around them resumed their conversations, glancing over occasionally in the hope of further drama.