Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

Crake trailed along behind, with one last look at his equipment. He didn't like leaving it lying around like that, but he didn't want to be left here on his own.

Beyond the door was a short corridor ending in a small room. Grist was already at the other end, his lantern illuminating the way. Crake followed his captain in.

It was not what he'd expected. The room was entirely unimpressive. Simple, square, and featureless. In the centre was a thin pedestal, a metre high, and on top of that was a metal sphere about the size of a grapefruit. There were no other exits.

Frey looked around disdainfully. 'I'm not seeing any of this vast wealth you spoke of, Captain Grist.'

Grist was studying the sphere. 'Mr Crake, do you know what this is?'

Crake looked closer. It was made of black metal and appeared smooth. Silver lines ran across its surface in curves and circles. The pattern had no symmetry, and there was never a straight line. It gave him a headache just to look at it.

But there was something more. At this distance, it was impossible not to notice. His finely honed daemonist's senses were quivering with the presence of unseen energies.

'I have no idea what it is,' he said. 'But that little ball is putting out a lot of power. Makes the barrier I just broke through look like a card trick.'

Grist's eyes glittered hungrily. His cigar moved from left to right in his mouth. 'Curious,' he said. 'Real curious.' He reached out to pick it up. 'Perhaps we should—'

He was arrested by the tip of a cutlass, which flicked through the air to press against his throat.

'Perhaps we should pause a moment, Captain Grist,' said Frey, 'so you can tell us exactly why we're here, and what we really came for.'

Grist's gaze slid down the length of the blade to Frey. Frey met him with a defiant stare.

'Now what you're doin' might be thought by some to be an unfriendly action,' Grist said, his voice a gravelly snarl. 'One deservin' of recriminations, if you take my meaning. You'd best not be plannin' to rip me off, Frey.'

'Odd,' said Frey. 'That's just what I thought you intended to do.'

'Gentlemen!' Hodd said. 'Can't we be reasonable?'

'Me and my crew were brought here under false pretences,' said Frey, never taking his eyes off the other captain. 'This man owes me some answers.'

The suspicions had been there from the start, of course. They always were. Frey never trusted anyone outside his own crew, least of all strangers who came bearing promises of great wealth. He'd been burned that way before. Ever since he'd met Grist, things had been adding up and adding up until there was no doubt left in Frey's mind.

He knew the ways of liars and cheats. He'd done enough of both in his time. He didn't always figure them out straightaway but, given time, he'd spot them. And as much as he liked Grist, he knew when he was being taken for a ride.

It was that look in Grist's eyes that did it. That unguarded moment, when he reached for the sphere. Greed. Naked lust. It was like the poor saps he'd seen entranced by Crake's gold tooth. Spellbound.

Grist knew what that sphere was. Frey would have bet his life on it. In fact, he thought, that was probably what he was doing right now.

'What makes you think I ain't honest, Frey?' Grist said. A barely suppressed rage had darkened his face. Frey was used to seeing him full of bullish bonhomie, but now he caught a glimpse of the other side. Grist was capable of terrible, towering anger. Frey would have to be very careful from now on.

'I'll tell you,' said Frey. 'But first, tell your bosun that if his hand gets any closer to that pistol, you'll be smoking your next cigar through a hole in your throat.'

From the corner of his eye, Frey saw Crattle's hand drift away from his revolver.

'Now,' said Frey. 'Let's begin at the beginning. Fifty-five, forty-five. You remember that?'

'Course I do,' Grist said. 'That's the split we agreed.'

'Right. You agreed to cut me in on forty-five per cent of a fortune. Almost half your money. It was your operation; you were just bringing me in. Nobody offers terms like that. I'd have been happy with seventy-thirty.'

'So you've a blade to my throat 'cause I was generous?'

'I'm not done. You could have come here with your own crew and kept it all. The only reason you needed me was because of Crake. A daemonist. Because you thought a daemonist might be able to get through this mysterious door Hodd found. In fact, you offered me forty-five per cent of the profits on the off-chance that my daemonist could help you out. People only offer that kind of money if they aren't intending to pay it. Easy to make promises you don't have to keep.'

'If you say so, Cap'n.'

'You made out you had no idea of the nature of that barrier, or even if there was something worth finding behind it,' said Frey. He leaned closer to Grist, smelling the sweat and smoke of him. 'But you took a pretty big risk and went to a lot of trouble to get my daemonist here. And it just happened to be right up his alley, isn't that right, Crake?'

Crake nodded uncomfortably. 'Straight daemonism. Nothing to it.'

'You said yourself, you're not a gambling man,' Frey said to Grist. 'So I reckon you knew. You knew what this craft was, and you knew what that barrier was. In fact, you knew a lot more than you were saying.'

'I knew,' said Grist. 'Now take that damned sword out of my face. No one's gonna hurt no one, are they, Crattle?'

'No. Cap'n." said the bosun. He relaxed a little, but his bulbous eyes were still wary in the lanternlight.

Frey let the point of his sword drop away from Grist's neck, but he kept it hovering nearby. Just in case.

Grist sucked resentfully on his cigar and glared at Frey. 'I knew she were a A lane craft. Knew it from Hodd's description, first time I met him. I come from the North; we all know about the Manes, more than you southern boys. They're just a spooky story to you. Us, we got to live with the threat of 'em. I even seen a dreadnought once, though it were gone in the fogs before I could decide to chase it or run.'

'You knew that door was protected by daemonism. That's why you needed Crake.'

'Aye,' said Grist. He was calming a little now. His tone had lost some of its darkness. 'Ain't the first time a Mane craft got downed. Back in the early days, when the Navy used to give a shit, they'd run patrols all over the North. They shot one down, got a good look at it. Then its mates all turned up. The Navy got out of there sharpish, but they took some gear with 'em, and they tested what they found.' Smoke seeped out between his teeth. 'Daemonism. Everyone thought the Manes might be daemons, but the Navy pretty much proved it decades ago. Never got round to telling nobody, though. Reckon they didn't want the panic.'

'You know a lot about it, though,' Crake put in. 'Navy reports on a crashed dreadnought? How does a man like you get access to information like that?'

'A man like me?' Grist said, with a dangerous stare. 'You don't know nothin' about me. I got my ways.'

'So you knew it was a Mane craft and you knew you needed a daemonist,' said Frey. 'I suppose you also knew your promise of treasure was worth dogshit, then.'

'Not true,' said Grist. 'Ship like this, it'll be full of stuff. Genuine Mane artefacts? They'll fetch ducats like you won't believe.'

'Not without the seal of the Explorer's Guild,' Frey replied. He looked at Hodd, who cowered a little. 'That's what you said, isn't it, Hodd? Back at the village? You didn't go through channels, did you? You haven't been paying your Guild membership. Nobody actually knows what Mane artefacts look like, so no one's going to believe we didn't just make the stuff ourselves if it doesn't come Guild-approved. We won't get a tenth of the value, selling it through fences.'