Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

'So whose side are you on?'

'The Archduke's,' she said. 'Like always.' She peered round a corner and waved them on. 'Look, I ain't happy about it. I know how they treat the miners in these parts. I'd rather Roke and his lot were shot. But we're Century Knights. We keep the Archduke's peace. And we can't have businessmen getting offed every time the workers get a bit shirty.'

'Gradmuth Operations must pay a lot of tax, right?'

'That, and they fuel half the Navy.'

'They scratch the Archduke's back, he scratches theirs,' said Frey scornfully. 'And the common man gets screwed.'

'Hey, it's the way of the world,' said Samandra, a harsh edge creeping into her voice. 'You ain't so lily-white yourself, pirate.'

By now, the refinery was visible above the buildings, and the mercenary presence was heavier. They passed a long barricade that had been constructed in the centre of a square, and Frey spotted blue-uniformed men squatting on the rooftops. Eventually they came to the refinery gates, which were set in a high wall and guarded by a dozen men. Frey was finding it hard to see how the miners could possibly be a threat. A ground assault on this place would be suicidal.

The guards let them through, and they crossed a flagged courtyard towards a small metal door in the side of the refinery. The building loomed overhead, massive pipes scoring lines across the grey sky. Samandra held the door open and let the others past. Frey waited with her.

'Can I ask a question?'

'Other than that one?' she replied.

'Why are you looking for Grist?'

Samandra tipped back the brim of her tricorn hat. 'Rumour has it he's made off with a Mane artefact of unknown power.'

'Rumour has it, eh? Where'd you hear that?'

'From your daemonist,' she grinned. 'He's quite a chatty sort when he's drunk.'

Frey groaned. The soiree in Lapin that Amalicia had taken them to. He knew he shouldn't have left Crake alone for so long with Samandra.

'But Grist didn't have it then,' he said. 'The Awakeners did.'

'Yes, he did say the Awakeners had stolen it from you,' she said. 'But when our spies heard the Awakeners recently had a craft downed in the Flashpan, we sort of put two and two together. And when we heard you were looking for Grist all over the North, well . . .'

'Poor old Crake,' said Frey. 'He never stood a chance. Not above using your feminine charms in service of the cause, eh?'

She gave a derisive rasp. 'Me? There ain't much I'm above, when it comes to it. Anyway, he's a sweet feller. The pleasure was all mine. Where is he, anyway?'

'He's gone.'

'Shame. I kinda liked him.'

'Me, too.'

They went inside the refinery. Grudge led them up stone stairways and along tight corridors with smooth walls painted grey-green. It seemed colder in here than outside, and the electric lights did little more than provide contrast for the shadows. Frey guessed they were taking a back way to their destination.

That destination turned out to be a collection of offices and filing rooms, several storeys up. They passed by lamplit desks and shelves of neatly ordered paperwork, emerging at last into a chamber with a long window that took up the whole of one wall. It was divided into squares, and it looked out over the refinery floor, where enormous vats and brooding machinery lay dormant.

Frey guessed this was a common area for the foremen and their staff. Several doors led off from it. A large table took up much of the room. A few mercs were here, idling about or sitting at the table, guns hanging loose in their hands. With them were two men who Frey recognised, even though he'd never met them before.

The first was gaunt and sour-faced, with straggly, grey-white hair. He sat with his boots up on the table. His duster had fallen back to reveal a waistcoat laden with a variety of knives. There were half a dozen sheaths on either side of his ribs, and more inside the duster.

He was rolling a throwing knife through his fingers, flipping it end over end around his knuckles.

The other was more enigmatic. He leaned against one of the doors with his arms folded loosely across his stomach. He was wearing a black coat and a wide-brimmed hat, and he wore a black necktie around his face. All that could be seen of him was a slice of his eyes and forehead, and a fringe of shaggy black hair.

Frey knew them from the broadsheets. Eldrew Grissom and Mordric Jask. Century Knights. Deadly men, both. Grissom had the fastest hands in the game, with knives or pistols alike. Jask was a stone-cold warrior, famously unflappable, a man without fear.

'Everyone, this is Darian Frey and his crew,' said Samandra, as they entered the room. Grissom looked up and grunted. Jask tipped his hat.

'What are you all doing here?' asked Frey.

'Guarding the company men. What else?' Samandra replied.

'Why not just take them out of here?'

'The miners are getting shot down on account of those folks. Marching them through the town might be a provocation hard to take, don't you reckon? We're trying to avoid more bloodshed.'

'So you're gonna sit tight?'

'We sent word to the Navy. They'll be here sooner or later.'

'And you reckon the miners are going to to wait around for that?'

'No,' she said. 'I don't. But I can't see that we got too much choice.'

Jez spoke in his ear. 'The Ketty Jay's small enough to fly over the refinery. Could airlift them out. Or you. Just say the word.'

Frey didn't reply. To do so would be to give away the secret of the earcuffs, and besides, he had a feeling the Century Knights would have thought of that already, and decided against it. There had to be a reason for that.

'Why do I get the impression there's something you aren't telling me?'

Samandra raised an eyebrow. 'Smart feller,' she said. 'Come on.'

She walked over to Jask, who moved out of the way of the door he was guarding. Frey looked inside. Beyond was a room with a desk and some shelves, and little else. Its occupant was sitting on a seat. He raised his head as the door was opened.

He was tall, slim and elegant. His features were narrow and perfectly proportioned, even beautiful. He wore a coat of exotic silk and tailored clothes of the most exquisite cut.

But none of that was what marked him out. The truly remarkable thing was that his irises were bright yellow, and his skin was black as onyx, a colour so deep that it seemed tinted with dark blue in the dim light.

The truly remarkable thing was that he was a Samarlan.

Jask closed the door. Frey stared at Samandra.

'What in the name of the Allsoul's pendulous bollocks is a Sammie doing here?' he demanded.

'We did wonder the same thing,' she replied. 'Best we can figure—'

'Roke's selling aerium to the Sammies,' finished Grissom. He flipped a knife into the tabletop, where it stuck with a thump. 'Plain as day, not that you can get the bastard to admit it. And we don't have no proof, neither. Yet.'

'We'll hold 'em both till the Navy arrives, then ship 'em off for questioning,' Samandra explained. 'I'm sure our Samarlan friend will have a thing or two worth knowing.'

'There's a Sammie in there?' asked Malvery, who'd drifted over. He'd overheard the conversation, as had everyone else in the room. 'How'd he get here?'

'Just flew in, I imagine.'

'That easy?'

'We're not at war with them any more,' said Samandra. 'It's not illegal for them to be in the country. With all the air traffic, we couldn't stop 'em if we tried. But since they're liable to be lynched the moment they show their faces, they tend to stay at home.'

'Plus,' said Grissom, 'soon as they set foot in Vardia, they're ours.' He smiled a nasty smile.

'Yep,' said Samandra. 'It's sort of policy to pick up any Sammies we find. Just for a friendly chat, y'know? To see what we can glean.'