Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

It was a question Frey spent a lot of time pondering, during those heady days. What was there for him back on the Ketty Jay? Sure, he had friends, and that was worth something. But was it worth the endless toil, the frustration, the danger? How much further would his luck take him before he caught a bullet somewhere vital, or his craft got shot down?

Sooner or later, a man had to stop wandering and plant his flag. Wouldn't this be a fine place to do it?

She'd marry you, if you asked her. You know she would. She's loved you all this time.

But even thinking it made him restless. How long before he got bored? Bored of her, bored of all of this? The fine food and quality booze were undoubtedly attractive, but there were only so many gardens a man could wander. Sleeping on silk sheets with a pretty young woman was all well and good, but what about after a month? A year? A decade?

Amalicia, for her part, was obviously on her best behaviour. He knew what she was doing. Seducing him with her lifestyle. Intoxicating him with the dream of aristocracy. Think what your life could be, Frey, she was saying. Why carry on with this foolish scheme of riches? I have all the riches you'll ever need.

With money like hers, he could do whatever he wanted. He could build a dozen orphanages. He could make a mark, something to leave behind that said: Here was Frey. He might not have been perfect, but at least his life meant half a shit.

But already he felt caged.

Damn it, what was wrong with him? This was exactly what he thought he wanted. It was everything he'd decided he needed to fill the yawning chasm that had opened up inside him. And yet now that it was within his grasp, he didn't want it.

It took five days of living in luxury with a perfect woman to make up his mind. After the soiree, he was leaving.

The soiree was hosted by the Duke of Lapin's third cousin, Aberham Race, and held at his townhouse in the duchy's capital. Unlike the Archduke and his wife, Race was a devout supporter of the Awakeners, and not afraid to show it. He used these soirees to drum up support for the organisation, which was suffering under progressively harsher edicts passed down against it by the Archduke. Frey thought that punishment was only fair, really, since the Awakeners were behind the murder of the Archduke's son the winter before last.

Politics had always depressed him, so he only paid cursory attention to Amalicia's explanations as they rattled along the cobbled avenues in the back of a motorised carriage. Crake sat opposite Frey and Amalicia, looking slick and composed. Frey had known him so long that it was easy to forget he was born to the aristocracy. His accent had become so familiar that Frey didn't notice it any more. But seeing him dressed up this way, listening to his polite banter with Amalicia, Frey was reminded of the vast difference in the circumstances of their birth. Amalicia seemed rather charmed by him, despite her initial reservations. She viewed all Frey's companions with mistrust, as if she held them responsible for her lover's long absences.

The townhouse stood in a tree-lined avenue facing a lamplit park. They pulled up outside and a doorman showed them in. A manservant led them upstairs into a series of large drawing-rooms, where the soiree was already well underway.

Frey had to resist the urge to stare. There were glittering chandeliers, gold ceiling roses and embroidered drapes. A glass swan presided over a table of canapes, none of which Frey recognised as food. Bizarre sculptures, apparently designed to intimidate the uneducated, threatened him from their pedestals.

The guests were no less magnificent and alien. The men wore jackets stitched with gold and silver thread; the ladies wore gowns and jewels and glittering headpieces. Frey felt suddenly and completely out of his depth. He was outnumbered here. What did he have in common with these people? Did they even speak the same language he did?

'You look a little grey, Cap'n,' Crake said, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

'Don't call me that,' Frey replied. 'You're my cousin, remember?'

'I remember, dear cousin,' Crake smirked. Frey had the unpleasant feeling that the daemonist was enjoying his discomfort.

A manservant approached with a tray full of glasses of bubbling wine. They all took one.

'Stay sharp tonight,' Frey reminded Crake, indicating the drink in his hand. 'We've got a job to do.'

'Oh, don't worry about me,' said Crake. He glanced off to Frey's right and muttered, 'Incoming.'

A portly, middle-aged woman was making her way across the room towards them. The wrinkles in her sun-beaten face were buried under a thick plaster of make-up. 'Amalicia Thade,' she said. 'So glad you could come.'

'I wouldn't think of missing it,' Amalicia smiled. She turned to Frey and Crake, offering introductions. 'This is Lady Marilla Race, our hostess. Lady Marilla, may I introduce Darian Frey, my fiance.'

Frey choked on his mouthful of wine and bubbles foamed out of his nose.

'Dear me,' said Crake, handing Frey a handkerchief. 'That wine can be tickly on a dry throat, can't it, cousin?' He bowed gallantly to Lady Race. 'My name is Damen Morcutt, of the Marduk Morcutts. It's an honour to attend one of your soirees. Really, quite the highlight of my year so far. May I be bold enough to beg the pleasure of your company for a short while? I'm keen to hear all about Jadney and his exploits in the Navy. I hear he's become quite the young officer.'

'My little Jadney?' Lady Race cooed, as Crake led her off. 'Why, I'd be delighted!'

Frey wiped his face with the handkerchief and looked at Amalicia. 'He's good at this.'

'Pull yourself together,' Amalicia said through gritted teeth. 'What was that all about? Choking in public. Honestly! Can't you behave?'

'Fiance?' Frey asked. 'When were you going to tell me?'

'You wouldn't have got in the door otherwise. Now keep up. That's Chancellor Previn and his wife Marticia. We're going over there. Try to control yourself this time.'

The next hour was a particularly unpleasant one for Frey. It seemed that he met more people during that tortuous sixty minutes than he had in the preceding thirty-one years of his life, and none of them liked him. Somehow everything he said came out wrong. His attempts at wit fell flat. He did his best to follow what they were saying, but it all seemed so damned inconsequential. Marriages, scandals, investment opportunities. Who'd said what about who. Even the men gossiped like old women. Frey tried to come up with something intelligent to contribute, but all he got were blank stares or mildly condescending comments. Amalicia's fixed smile was beginning to crack and wobble at the edges, her patience wearing thinner with every blunder.

Eventually Frey had had enough. He excused himself as best he could and went to locate Crake.

He was surprised to find the daemonist in conversation with a familiar face, and an extremely attractive one at that. It was Samandra Bree, one of the Century Knights, the Archduke's elite hundred. She looked very different without her ever-present tricorn hat, her battered coat and twin shotguns. Instead, she was dressed in a sleek gown of red and black, her dark hair gathered in a ponytail.

'Darian Frey, I declare,' she said as he approached. 'We do meet in the strangest places. As I recall, last time I saw you, you had a noose round your neck.' She looked around the room. 'You've come up in the world.'

'I think I'd rather be hung at this point,' Frey said miserably.

'High society not treating you well?' Crake inquired.