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  Black & Mist

  Thomas J. Radford

  Black & Mist

  Thomas J. Radford

  Black & Mist

  Copyright © 2018 Thomas J. Radford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage & retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this story are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead would be really cool, but is purely coincidental.

  Published by Tyche Books Ltd.

  Calgary, Alberta, Canada

  www.TycheBooks.com

  Cover Art by James F. Beveridge

  Cover Layout by Lucia Starkey

  Interior Layout by Ryah Deines

  Editorial by M.L.D. Curelas

  First Tyche Books Ltd Edition 2018

  Print ISBN: 978-1-928025-89-4

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-928025-90-0

  Author photograph: Devin Hart

  This book was funded in part by a grant from the Alberta Media Fund.

  To my parents, Jillian and Dave, for how to navigate impossible, hopeless situations and long term projects. And because mum said I had to.

  Prologue

  ANOTHER PIPE HAD burst, flooding the corridor with mist. The ether-lined hull was driving the spewing miasma into a small whirlwind, pushing pale-faced and sweat-stained crew members past Kaspar, where he stood with his shoulder braced against the bulkhead door. As soon as the last one was clear, the door was forced shut, the wheel spun hard to seal it.

  “Everyone all right?” He turned to face the jammed hallway of coughing and wheezing sailors. Most ignored him; a few waved vaguely comprehensible acknowledgements.

  “Fine, Ensign, just fine,” one coughed, leaning over with his hands on his knees, drawing deep shuddering breaths.

  “Take it easy,” Kaspar reminded him, crouching down to check the man’s eyes. “Don’t want to get any in your lungs.”

  “Aye, sir.” The man made a face. Kaspar knew he was stating the obvious. It didn’t make any of the crew respect him any better, being that he was half the age of some of them, experienced marines and sailors all. But then none of them had been part of the testing of what drove this ship. Kaspar had, and, unlike most of the others, he’d actually made it back to port.

  Kaspar couldn’t care less what most of the crew thought of him. He’d endured worse. And neither this man nor any of the rest of the crew showed any signs of having been affected by the mist sickness. The mist was cold enough that breathing hurt. But there were worse things than mist aboard . . .

  “Another rupture?”

  The crew all snapped to attention in a way they never would have for Kaspar. Backs arrow straight and heels clicking together, salutes all around. Kaspar was the same, saluting the ship’s first mate. Not respect that made them stand to when Aristeia Quinn arrived, but something else. Kaspar fought to keep his eyes from unravelling the myriad scars that adorned the bared skin of her arms and could be glimpsed under the collar of her uniform. Where others took to painted skin, the Fata Morgana’s first mate favoured etched scarring. And it wasn’t wise to be caught staring.

  “Aye, sir,” Kaspar reported. “All hands accounted for.”

  There was another presence with the first mate. Not her Luscan deputy but Arlin Raines, architect of the fleet’s newest vessel. And unofficial captain. The tall Kitsune, wrapped in a loose-fitting coat, acknowledged Kaspar’s presence with a flick of the eyes. Not indifferent or dismissive, just uninterested in the presence of his own projects. He peered through the bulkhead porthole. Then, mindless of the cry it raised, spun the wheel and hauled it back open.

  “The leak has been closed off,” Raines said to Aristeia. “Your people may return to their work.”

  None of the crew rushed to re-enter the just-vacated area. Shifting glances were exchanged. It was normal to wait much longer before returning to a contaminated area.

  “Now,” Aristeia raised her voice. There was more of an edge to her tone than what had been used to carve out her markings. The crew moved, Kaspar pulling the door wide for them to pass. Sailors marched in, their faces tense, breathing short, controlled, or held entirely. For all the good it would do them.

  “This isn’t protocol,” Kaspar said, daring to raise eyes to meet those of the first mate. Her brow furrowed in annoyance, a flash of something hotter than anger in her eyes.

  “No, it is not,” the architect agreed with him. “But time has become something of a concern. We have a destination now. And something to retrieve. Opportunities . . .”

  A destination? This ship hasn’t even finished her maiden voyage and . . .

  “Tell me, Ensign, have your postings ever taken you into the Free Lanes?”

  Kaspar glanced at Aristeia. The woman was glowering at how the conversation was being directed towards him but not inclined to interrupt the Kitsune inventor. No, too important to the brass and braids for you to do that.

  “No, sir,” Kaspar replied. “Never sailed outside of the High.”

  “Makes you something of a minority amongst this crew, I would imagine,” Raines mused, almost to himself as was his penchant. “Something we can at least remedy in the near future. Though it will not be sailing, not as such . . .”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There should have been more to the architect’s dialogue. More words. But the Kitsune had lost interest in the outside world, retreating into the one inside his head.

  “Inform me once the repairs are complete,” Aristeia told Kaspar instead. “Mors and I will be in the brig, continuing our interrogation. I do not expect to hear of any more such incidents, Ensign.”

  Kaspar saluted, edge of his hand held up to his forehead. Safer than replying.

  The prisoner, the one they’ve been interrogating, they brought them in from the Free Lanes. Haven’t heard a word as to why.

  Don’t think I’ll be asking either.

  He turned back to his work detail, keeping a watchful eye on the piping running the length of all the corridors. He could hear the two sets of footsteps echoing on the metal flooring behind him and allowed himself a moment of sympathy for the prisoner Raines had come aboard with.

  The Free Lanes. What the hells are we going to the Free Lanes for?

  Chapter 1

  A TRIO OF ships had arrived at the docks, coming all the way in and settling at the piers. Violet had watched them enter, uneasy at the Alliance colours they’d been flying. From her perch in the crook of framing above a trading post, she’d seen the whole operation. They clearly weren’t warships, with none of the sleek violence that the frigates she’d seen embodied, or even the practical lines of the Tantamount. These were void-going tubs, pregnant whales masquerading as merchantmen that steadily disgorged their contents onto the docklands. It was that cargo that had kept Violet perched in her rafters for most of the afternoon, her fingers stiff and sore and her eyes strained from watching the procession.

  Draugr, dozens, if not hundreds of the creatures had trooped off the three vessels in slow shambling lines. Violet had counted them at first then given up after the first hour. The Draugr had been loaded into wagons and taken away—she’d counted those, too, until the teams had started returning and made her lose her count.

  What are they all doing here?

/>   The Tantamount had sailed, limped really, into Port Border a week ago. The stopover was at the end of one of the major High Lanes, named as it was for the gateway and boundary between the High and Free. Still weeks out from the densely populated Central Band and a last stop of regulated civilisation before one traversed into the more lawless Free Lanes. Alliance presence was minimal, restricted to a few patrols and staging points, or so Violet had been led to believe. She doubted the skipper and the captain would have brought the Tantamount in if they’d known about this though. Not after Rim. They were already as close to the High Lanes as both captain and skipper admitted they dared go.

  Repairs, refitting, and recruiting. Mend and make sails, as the captain called it. That was what was keeping the Tantamount grounded. The repairs were time-consuming and good crew were hard to find. Harder still to afford crew for a ship whose captain had stretched his purse to the limit. The skipper had been scouring the watering holes of Border for days trying to draft another navigator. Much to Quill’s, the Tantamount’s incumbent Kelpie navigator, glee, she had failed.

  Violet pushed all that from her mind. She slipped from her perch, feet kicking up clouds of dust as they hit the dirt road. She’d made up her mind about her next course of action. The first time she’d encountered Draugr they’d terrified her to the point of screaming. A reaction that still made the blood rush to her face in embarrassment. Now she had a chance to make up for that, maybe even redeem herself. Because the last time she’d spoken with a Draugr it had been to wish a former midshipman luck, as he and others like him set sail for parts unknown and uncharted, on the run from all and sundry. She needed to know if these Draugr were anything like Stoker and his companions.

  She picked a wagon, hitched not to a beast of burden but rather a golem construct. A steam one. She’d seen them before, except this one, like everything in the High Lanes, was better made, all brass and whirring gears, steam flowing in two plumes from shoulder-mounted funnels. Its legs churned up the road, beating a constant rhythm as it pulled the heavy wagon and its silent cargo slowly but steadily. Apart from the golem, the wagon was unmanned, no driver or porter to notice or chase Violet away as she jogged to keep pace with it. Hopefully, that would make things easier.

  Violet studied the wagon, keeping one wary eye on the golem as well. She didn’t have the best history with golems either and wasn’t sure how this one would react if she got too close to its cargo. The cargo, if that was the right word, stood in two neat rows inside the high-walled wagon, swaying with the motion and staring blankly ahead.

  “Hello?” Violet called, sounding hoarse and squeaky to her own ears.

  Neither golem nor Draugr responded, nor showed any indication they had even heard her.

  Violet tried waving, even raising her voice to the point of yelling. Nothing. She grimaced, feeling her breathing start to labour somewhat. The golem was setting a fair pace despite its heavy payload. She decided to take a chance and see how far the construct was prepared, or conditioned, to tolerate her presence.

  Breaking into a run, then a hop and an awkward jump, she bounded onto the running board of the wagon, catching hold of the side to steady herself. She tensed, waiting for the golem to come to a heart-shuddering halt and turn on her. But it never broke its relentless rhythm. Violet allowed herself to turn her full, almost, attention to the nearby Draugr.

  “Can you hear me?” she heard herself say, positioning herself directly in front of the closest Draugr. Still it stared resolutely ahead, its eyes grey and milky, unseeing. Nothing like the lively animation she’d seen from others.

  Taking another chance, Violet reached out and grabbed the Draugr by the arm, pulling until it came around. It moved easily enough and looked down at her arm. Confused, if anything. Under her touch, the Draugr’s arm felt like wood, like carved flesh. Unnatural.

  The wagon came to a halt then, throwing Violet off. She hit the ground hard, barely managing a roll to shake the worst of the impact. Her heart hammered in her chest, thinking she’d made a critical mistake by actually touching the Draugr cargo. Had that been too far, had she provoked the golem?

  But no, it looked as though they’d arrived at their destination. The golem stood motionless at the head of the wagon, secure in its tethered harness. Violet looked quickly but as yet no one had appeared to take charge of the new arrivals. They were outside what could have been a warehouse, a factory, or something else entirely. But Violet took advantage of her run of good luck to make a quick exit, scampering for the corner. She was easily in cover before the Alliance-coloured errand boys came out to receive their goods.

  One wasn’t wearing a uniform, clad instead in dark-stained leathers. The cut of those leathers left the wearer’s arms bare, displaying greyish-yellow skin, sallow and slick looking, a match to the elongated neck that seemed to merge into the narrow head. Violet hadn’t seen the like before. It was as though someone had tried to mould a person out of an eel or snake.

  The stranger seemed to be in charge, giving orders with flippant, vague gestures, though one hand always stayed close to a belt holding twin wands. Every move they made was languid, lazy, or so it seemed. One of the Draugr missed a step dismounting from the wagon, tumbling face first into the dirt. The creature made not the slightest effort to catch itself, falling like a stone, and would have taken the eel-man down too if they hadn’t moved. It was fast—Violet started at how fast it was—but it was minimalist, just a pivot on the heel to shift the torso out of the way. The Draugr hit the ground, and the eel-man laughed, nudging the Draugr with the toe of his boot until they got to their feet. The sight made Violet duck down further. Only duellists carried twinned wands, not something she had good experiences with. And this one had a personality to go with her gut feeling. All bad.

  While the lackeys tended to the Draugr, the duellist sauntered back to the warehouse, waving them open. The barn doors opened, slowly and with a groan of timbers, revealing the interior.

  More golems. And rows of still more Draugr, standing there like battered toy soldiers in neat little lines. They were still, not motionless, swaying a bit, but unnatural-like. The warehouse minders led the new ones to their own corner of the building. She heard whistling, short little pipes—maybe that was how they got the Draugr to do what they meant. After that, the Draugr minders came back to the wagon. Soon it was off too; she could hear the beat of the golem’s brass feet on the cobblestones as it ran back the way it came.

  The warehouse was some sort of labour camp, Violet concluded. Between the Draugr and the golems there were plentiful workers to be had. Most of the golems were like the wagon-puller, steam and brass, except one.

  It was there, innocuously tucked between two bulkier and polished fellows, the light from a second storey window just catching it on the shoulder. Dusty and mottled black, not as smooth nor as polished as she remembered it, but familiar.

  Familiar enough for her to get closer. Daft an idea as that seemed, curiosity won out. A step through the shadows to the side of the building while everyone and all were busy at the front. She kept her head down, practically crawling on hands and knees until she came to a window, just barely raising her head over the frame.

  With her eyes raised above the sill, there was no doubt in her mind. The golem was massive, twice her height and three times as wide. Black with a mottled skein that showed traces of colours beneath, a hoarfrost of white lacquer over rounded curves like it had been flash-frozen, a stain that hadn’t quite been removed. And oh so familiar.

  Violet turned away, dropping down, and put her back against the wall. Her breath came in short, painful gasps now, and her legs felt to be made of sand. Back to the ship. She had to get back to the ship.

  “SKIPPER!” VIOLET WAS bellowing, surprising even herself, before she was even halfway up the gangway to the Tantamount. “Skipper! Captain!”

  Nobody rushed to answer her hollering. Several deckhands did stop to turn and stare but didn’t seem overly put out by her boiste
rous arrival. As long as nobody was shooting at them, the crew seemed not to worry. That might change once Violet found the captain.

  “Quit your yammering,” a hoarse and gravelly voice told her. “You’re hurting me ears.”

  “Sorry, Haze.” Violet clenched her fists, trying to still herself. She’d run all the way back and her blood was pumping. Haze gave her a brief look of irritation before returning to his work. He was splicing, joining the strands of repurposed ropes together to make lines. Haze was one of the oldest sailors on the Tantamount, from a time before Violet had joined. Gabbi said his eyes were going but he didn’t need to see well to mend and make ropes—Haze was by far the best splicer on the ship. It was impressive to watch the way his knobby fingers became deft instruments, as nimble as the marlinspike he wielded to taper one of his ropes.

  And that was all the attention he gave her. Haze might be older than the captain and more seasoned than the skipper, if his ruddy skin and storied tattoos were anything to go by, but he had none of the warmth. Clearly he wasn’t going to point her to them either.

  A shadow fell over Violet and she skidded to a stop in front of the caster.

  “What?” Quill, the Tantamount’s navigator, demanded of her, lips pared back from his daggerlike teeth. As a Kelpie, Quill stooped and his legs bent backwards but he still towered over Violet. Since Violet had joined the crew, he had made it his personal mission to make life difficult for her. After Piper’s death his behaviour had been . . . odd. He still seemed to resent her but his attitude had lost that malicious razor edge. All bark and no bite.

  Well . . . less bite.

  “Stop your bleating, girl.” Quill waved off the rest of the crew.

  “Where’s the captain?” Violet said breathlessly, leaning over, hands on her knees. She tilted her head up to Quill. “The skipper? Where’s Nel?”