Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

'Gone,' said Kraylock. 'That is what leads me to suspect foul play in his murder. That, and the subject of his paper.'

Frey frowned. 'When did you say he died again?'

'Two years ago.'

Frey snapped his fingers at Trinica. 'And when did Smult say Grist suddenly started taking an interest in the Manes?'

'Don't snap your fingers at me,' said Trinica. 'He said the spring before last.'

'Yes. Two years ago.'

Frey watched Trinica make the deduction in her head. 'What if Maurin suspected he was going to be killed?'

Frey grinned. 'What if he made a copy of his research and sent it to someone nobody would suspect?'

Excitement was dawning on Trinica's face. Frey was feeling so damn clever, he barely knew what to do with himself.

'He sent his notes to his son!' Frey said. 'That's how Grist knew about the sphere. That's how he knew to bring a daemonist to unlock the door. That's how he got access to Navy reports. It was all in his father's notes.'

'You think they might not have been lost?' Kraylock said in amazement. 'You have to get them back! That research, in the right hands ... it could be the end of the Awakeners!' He sat back in his chair and blew out a breath, as if unable to believe what he'd just said.

'The end of the Awakeners." he said, more quietly. 'If the Archduke got hold of that . . . if the House of Chancellors knew about it . . . Why, the Awakeners have been using daemonists for more than a century! Spit and blood, that would be something. Maurin would laugh at that from his grave.' His eyes were alight. 'You must get me those notes!'

Frey got to his feet. Trinica rose with him. 'First we have to find Grist,' he said. 'North coast of Marduk. Sounds like a good place to start.' He shook Kraylock's hand vigorously. 'Thanks for your help, Professor.'

'The notes!' Kraylock said as they walked out. 'Don't forget the notes!'

Trinica gave Frey a sideways glance as they walked out of the door. 'I'm impressed, Captain Frey,' she said wryly. 'And that's the second time in three days. What's become of you?'

Frey was more than a little impressed himself. 'Stick around,' he said. 'There's more where that came from.'

The hospital stood on a hill on the edge of town. It was an old building with many windows, some of them lit to fend off the night. Sills crumbled at the edges; panes were cracked here and there; the walls were weathered and mossy. The darkness hid the worst of the dilapidation, but not enough of it.

Crake gazed bleakly at the scene from the back seat of the motorised carriage. The cab driver was hunched over on the bench up front, his shoulders squared and a cap pulled down hard over his head, as if he was driving through a thunderstorm. But the night was warm and still. Apart from the rattle of the engine, it was eerily quiet.

A long, curving gravel drive led away from the walled perimeter and the iron gates that squeaked with rust. The grounds that it passed through were badly kept: the grass was long, the trees overgrown and shaggy. The carriage pulled up outside the hospital. Crake checked his pocket watch - right on time - and got out.

'Wait for me here, please,' he said to the driver. 'I shan't be long.'

The driver touched his cap in response, then returned to his previous position and stayed there, unmoving, like some dormant automaton from a science-fiction novel. The man made Crake uneasy. He didn't like the driver's silence, his stillness, the stoic way he went about his job. On another day, it wouldn't have bothered him, but lately he found such small oddities hard to bear. Little things made him angry without reason. Sometimes he'd become over-emotional, and the slightest matter would make him want to weep. Even Plome had commented on it, and taken to avoiding him whenever it was decently possible to do so. Crake, for his part, passed most of his time in the sanctum beneath Plome's house. The longer he stayed there, the less inclined he was to deal with the world outside.

But sometimes sacrifices were necessary.

Crake paused for a moment, to arrange himself and marshal his courage. He was heavily bundled up, despite the lack of a chill in the air, and he clutched his coat tightly around him as he entered the hospital reception area. It was brown and dull and smelled faintly of bleach, but it was clean and orderly, which eased Crake's nerves a fraction. He'd always taken comfort in the signs of an efficient civilisation. Banks, theatres and high-class restaurants were a balm to the chaos in his life. At least this place, despite its seedy reputation, looked organised.

It was quiet at this time of night. A middle-aged nurse sat behind the reception desk, talking to a doctor. Both looked up as he entered.

'Visiting hours are over, I'm afraid,' said the nurse, once she'd established that he was not obviously maimed in any way. Her tone was sharp, calculated to persuade the listener that there was no point in arguing.

Crake tried anyway. 'Yes, I'm . . . er . . . I'm afraid I couldn't get here any earlier. It's my uncle Merin. He's very sick, I understand.'

'I'm sorry, but—' the nurse began, but the doctor overrode her.

'You must be Mardrew,' he said, walking over to shake Crake's hand. 'He said you were coming. He's very keen to see you.' The doctor turned to the nurse. 'It's alright, I'll take him through.'

The nurse shook her head and went back to her paperwork. 'Don't know why we bother having visiting hours at all,' she muttered sourly.

'This way, please,' said the doctor, showing Crake through a swing door. He was a short, thin man in his early thirties, with black hair oiled back close to his scalp and a small, tidy moustache. Crake followed him down a corridor until they were out of earshot of the nurse.

'You have the money?' the doctor asked him.

'Yes,' said Crake. And after that, nothing more was said.

So simple. They were past the nurse and in before Crake had time to think twice. A good thing, too. He felt sure that his deeply ingrained fear of authority would have got the better of him if he'd been forced to stand there and wait. He'd have crumbled under the nurse's gaze and turned back. But the doctor was in the reception, just as Crake's contact said he'd be. All Crake had to do was ask for his uncle Merin. The whole thing had gone like clockwork.

So why did he feel more scared than before?

They came across a sign indicating the way to the wards, but the doctor ignored it and went the other way down the corridor. The hospital was sterile and hushed. Nurses padded by, wheeling trollies. Janitors mopped the floors. They passed a hurrying doctor, who exchanged a quick word of greeting with Crake's escort. At any moment, Crake expected someone to challenge him. Surely they could sense he was on forbidden business? Surely it was obvious in his quick, roving gaze and his petrified expression?

But nobody took any notice.

Presently, they came to an door marked simply: ACCESS. The doctor checked to make sure nobody was in sight, then pushed it open and led Crake through.

There was a tight, dim stairwell beyond. They went down one level and through a metal door into another corridor.

The atmosphere here was less savoury- than the floor above. The walls were grimy, and there were bits of litter in the corners. Electric lights buzzed overhead, their surfaces smeared with oily thumbprints. There was no smell of disinfectant here, only a hint of mould. It was chilly, and Crake was glad of his coat.

I shouldn't be doing this, he thought to himself. The closer they got to their destination, the more sick and terrified he felt. It hadn't seemed real until he'd got through reception. He'd half-expected to be turned away. But the act of tricking the nurse had committed him. Even though he'd done nothing illegal yet, he felt that it was too late to back out. He looked around nervously, seeking an escape and finding none.