Gravedigger 01 - Sea Of Ghosts (41 page)

‘How the hell does Maskelyne know what’s going on?’

The guard shrugged. ‘I don’t know, ma’am. He was the one who told me.’

‘And now you believe he knows how to get us out of this?’

‘He’s Ethan Maskelyne, ma’am.’

Briana sighed. She turned to Howlish. ‘How long till we’re in range?’

‘Minutes, ma’am.’

‘Then I don’t have time,’ she said to the guard. ‘If it’s so important, he can write me a note.’ She sent the guard away.

By now Howlish had turned the Haurstaf warship into the wind. The deck pitched as the
Herald
’s sails took up the strain. Rain lashed the wheelhouse glass. Spume burst against the bulwark and showered the Guild mariners fighting to control the boom. To starboard, Granger’s yacht bore down on them at tremendous speed, her funnels steaming, her bow rising and then crashing down through the dark and frothing waters.

‘Range shot,’ Howlish said.

First officer Lum rang the bell pipe, then waited for a heartbeat and rang it again. The comspool on the navigation console began to chatter in response. He scanned the tape. ‘Confirmed. Ranging to starboard now, sir.’

Moments later, one of the
Herald
’s cannon fired. A single shell flew out across the sea, but landed short of Granger’s yacht.

‘Range is good,’ Howlish said. ‘One through twenty, red stations.’

The first officer rang the bell pipe again, then paused before making three more rings in rapid succession. The comspool began chattering almost immediately. ‘Red stations one through twenty firing now, sir. Confirmed.’

This time twenty of the
Herald
’s cannons fired at once. The combined noise of the concussions rattled the duskglass panes. A great burst of smoke erupted from the side of the warship as twenty artillery shells arced across the space between the two ships. Most of the missiles flew wide, but two of them found their target. The uppermost section of the steam yacht’s bow imploded as the heavy shells tore through.

‘Strike confirmed,’ the first officer said. ‘Upper bow.’

The bell pipe rang twice.

‘Re-range for six knots and scatter,’ Howlish said. ‘Twenty through forty, red stations.’

‘Twenty through forty. Re-range and scatter. Aye, sir.’

The second barrage tore part of the roof off the steam yacht’s wheelhouse and blew a funnel cleat and cable away, but the Haurstaf gunners missed the bow entirely. The other ship came steaming straight towards them, faster than ever.

Howlish yawned. ‘Bear away,’ he said. ‘Ready chasers. Port guns one through twenty, red stations. Fire crews to stand by.’

‘She’s not deviating, sir,’ the first officer said.

‘She’ll deviate. Ring the commands, Officer Lum.’

Bells sounded outside. The helmsman spun the wheel. Out on the storm-blown deck Guild mariners began hauling in the mainsail. Slowly, the warship turned her stern towards the approaching yacht.

The first officer frowned. ‘She’s still not deviating, sir,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘She going to hit us.’

Howlish’s eyes narrowed. ‘What is the madman doing? He’ll sink us both. Fire the chasers.’

The first officer began madly ringing the bell pipe.

But Briana could see that it was too late. Granger’s ship was going to crash into them.

‘Broad reach,’ Howlish cried.

The comspool began to chatter out tape.

‘Chasers ready, sir.’

‘Leave the chasers. Put us on a broad reach now.’

The helmsman spun the wheel back.

Through the driving rain Briana saw the steam yacht bearing down on them, waves crashing against its thunderbolt-wielding figurehead. A solitary figure stood at the wheel amidst the shattered bridge. The
Herald
’s stern was now inching away, but not fast enough. Briana tensed for the impact.

‘He’s turning,’ Howlish said. ‘Too late, too late.’

At the last instant, the other vessel began to turn aside, but it was a futile manoeuvre.

The yacht struck the stern of the warship with an impact that almost knocked Briana off her feet. From the rear came a great crash of timbers and groan of metal. Men stumbled and fell across the rain-swept deck. The Haurstaf ship yawed wildly, her hull actually rising a few feet out of the water. The yacht kept coming, her vast momentum carrying her along as she scraped along the side of the warship with a juddering shriek. For an instant the two vessels were almost side by side. They began to part.

And then a second concussion thudded through the warship’s timbers. Granger’s yacht broke away, turning downwind as the man-o’-war rocked heavily and righted itself. In the Haurstaf wheelhouse, the helmsman fought against the wheel. The first officer steadied himself and rushed over to the comspool.

‘Port-side guns,’ Howlish said. ‘All of them.’

‘We’re still turning, sir.’

Howlish scowled at the helmsman. ‘Close haul.’

The helmsman was still struggling with the wheel. ‘I can’t . . . I think we’ve lost our rudder, captain.’

The captain snorted. ‘Then how can we
possibly
be turning
into
the wind?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

But it was true. The man-o’-war continued to pivot, as some unseen force pushed it into the very face of the gale, turning their broadside away from the departing yacht. The mainsail and jib began to luff. They were losing control.

The whole warship gave a sudden, violent jerk.

Captain Howlish fell against the navigation console. Briana grabbed the first officer’s arm to steady herself. From somewhere aft came a long, low groan.

The man-o’-war began to move backwards.

Shouts came from outside. Howlish threw open the wheel-house door to better hear his crewmen, admitting a blast of rain and wind. Briana lifted the hood of her whaleskin cloak and moved over beside him. ‘Trouble?’ she asked.

Three crewmen clung to the poop deck, leaning over the taffarell as they examined the wrecked stern by the light of a gem lantern. One of them was shouting something, but the wind stole his voice.

Howlish waved a fourth crewman over. ‘What is going on?’

The man looked up and said, ‘We’ve been harpooned, sir.’

‘What?’

‘A dragon harpoon, captain. Biggest one I’ve ever seen. It’s buried deep in the stern post, down at the waterline. She’s using it to tow us.’

‘Tow us?’

‘Aye, Captain. The steam yacht is towing us behind her.’

CHAPTER 14

Granger turned off the gas torch, lifted his mask and examined the cable welds with eyes blurred by exhaustion. He had secured the heavy tow line by wrapping it around three of the gun deck’s steel-reinforced dragon-bone arches before finally welding it fast. He glanced over at the rearmost cannon hatch, through which the cable disappeared. The bulkhead had buckled under the strain, but it would hold well enough. Raising the back of the gun carriage with a chain winch had allowed him to give the harpoon the required trajectory – down into the stern post where it met the waterline – but the recoil had badly damaged the old cannon itself.

Finding everything secure, he wondered if he ought to check on the engines. He was pushing them close to their design limits. But he felt too weary to venture down there right now. The helm was locked on course, the man-o’-war secured behind him, and he had fuel enough to drag the bastard for a hundred leagues – more than enough to take them where he needed to go. The thing about men-o’-war was that they had a deep draught. And the thing about the
Excelsior
was that she had much a shallower draught. And that was going to make her mightily easy to ground in coastal waters.

But now he badly needed sleep.

He wandered aft to the emperor’s private suite.

Hu’s living areas comprised a warren of deeply lustrous rosewood, hauled up from undersea forests. Some of the blood-coloured beams looked thousands of years old. Free-flowing partitions and arches made from the boughs of once-living trees divided the space between the hull into numerous nooks, each illuminated by a different-coloured gem lantern. It gave the impression of wandering through a woodland carnival. The furniture had been made in the same style, all rich dark curves lacquered to a high sheen – the sort of rustic elegance popular in Losoto that was neither rustic nor, Granger felt, particularly elegant.

In the largest of these convoluted wooded spaces Granger found an enormous circular bed set on eight gilt pedestals, each carved into the image of Hu himself. He frowned at it with disapproval but sat down anyway and took off his boots. He lay back into a mattress as soft as air and found himself staring up at his own grotesque reflection. The emperor had fitted a mirror to the ceiling. He sat up again and rubbed his eyes and went to find the head.

Hundreds of bottles, tins and jars packed the wooden shelves above the sink – a formidable collection of perfumes, lotions, medicines and creams. Granger picked up a jar of Potelemy’s Canker Sore Solution, popped it open and sniffed the contents. The odour brought a brief smile to his face. Permanganate of potash. He’d once had Banks and Creedy mix this stuff with bottles of Doctor Cooper’s Famous Sweetwater to make liquid fire. They’d poured the lot down the air shaft of an enemy bunker in Dunbar. With the right mixture of toiletries you could burn a man’s skin clean off.

While he took a piss he let his gaze wander over the shelves – Butterflower Soap, Parafranio’s Wonder Water, Sparkling Eye Drops, Face Polish, Silk Lustre Dust, Royal Lady Skin Soft Cream, Fragrance of the Glade – mentally sorting the explosive components and combustibles from the useless stuff. Most of these powders and potions cost more than he’d made in a month’s soldiering. Even the tins could be utilized by submerging them in lye and filling balloons with the explosive gas given off. It appalled him that any man could waste such potential by slapping it on his face.

He flushed the head, then went back to the bed chamber and eased his wounded body down into the sheets. That horrible, burning-eyed visage stared back at him from the mirror in the ceiling. It occurred to him that Ianthe might look through his eyes, so he closed them. He lay there for a long time, gazing into the darkness behind his eyelids, thinking about her. Then he got up again and went back to the head. He took the jar of Royal Lady Skin Soft Cream from the shelf and weighed it in his hand. Stupid thing. But he opened the jar anyway and scooped some out and rubbed it into the leathery folds of his face.

After he’d finished, he lay back down on the bed. That hideous face in the ceiling mirror, now daubed with white cream, mocked him. Granger grabbed the sheets and pillows from the bed and set off back to the bridge. It made more sense to sleep there, after all.

‘What do you want?’ Briana asked.

Maskelyne looked up from his writing desk. ‘Sister Marks,’ he said. He set down his pencil and stood up. ‘Actually, I want to help you.’

Briana glanced around the stateroom. This luxurious accommodation was usually reserved for visiting clients, and no expense had been spared on the deep Evensraum rugs, gilt furniture and clamshell lantern shades. Lucille was reclining on a white leather carasole bench with a glass of wine in her hand. Her bruises looked shocking in the bright white light. Painted toys lay scattered across the floor around Maskelyne’s son, who took one look at Briana and then crawled over to hide behind his mother’s legs.

‘As I understand it,’ Maskelyne said, ‘Colonel Granger has sunk your escort ships and is now dragging this vessel to some unknown destination.’

Briana opened her mouth to speak, but Maskelyne held up his hand.

‘The harpoon is lodged in the
Herald
’s stern post below the waterline,’ he went on, ‘making it impossible to reach without diving equipment – which, of course, you lack. Nevertheless, our kidnapper cannot board us, nor fire upon us without risking the life of his own dear child.’

‘He’s—’ Briana tried to interject.

‘Furthermore,’ the metaphysicist added, ‘Colonel Granger must assume that you have already summoned aid telepathically, and so he must act quickly. What, then, are his options?’

‘Obviously,’ Briana said, ‘he’s going to turn this kidnapping into a political statement.’

Maskelyne’s eyes opened in mild surprise. ‘Precisely,’ he replied. ‘How many cultures have found themselves
liberated
because they could not afford the psychic services their own enemies relied upon?’ His dark eyes gleamed. ‘What do you imagine would happen, for example, if our renegade colonel decided to run the Haurstaf flagship aground on the Evensraum coast?’ He smiled. ‘Have you ever seen an animal carcass lying across an ant trail? The bones are so clean they look like they’ve been polished.’

Briana smiled thinly.

‘Would I be correct in assuming you haven’t contacted Awl yet?’

‘I’m perfectly capable of dealing with this situation myself, Mr Maskelyne.’

‘Well, quite,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t want your sisters to think you incapable, would we?’

Briana felt her face redden. ‘Be careful, Mr Maskelyne. You are in no position to lecture others.’