The Black Lung Captain (39 page)

'His latest paper was going to be . . . controversial. He was drawing paralels between the Manes and the Awakeners. Specificaly, the Imperators.'

'Paralels?' Trinica asked.

'He thought the Manes and the Imperators were essentialy similar,' Kraylock said. 'Human hosts possessed by daemonic entities. The nature of the daemon is different, but the process is the same.'

Frey was amazed. 'You're saying that the Awakeners have been employing daemons? The same Awakeners who denounce daemonism and hang daemonists wherever they're found?'

'So he believed. The Manes and Imperators are both shrouded in secrecy and myth, but based on what truths he could obtain, he concluded that the Imperators were human hosts, presumably chosen from the ranks of the most faithful, who had been
joined
with a daemon to grant them extraordinary abilities. The Awakeners had always explained the Imperators' powers as evidence of the might of the Alsoul. Gifts from their deity to the loyal. But Maurin didn't hold with any of that. He wanted a scientific answer.'

'And he could prove it?'

'He had compeling research. He believed he had traced the origin of the Manes to its source, for one thing.'

'Where?'

'I don't know exactly. Somewhere in the north, near the coast. Marduk, I believe. Beneath the snows.'

'What happened there?'

'Approximately one hundred and fifteen years ago, a group of eminent daemonists assembled there. Maurin had letters detailing their plans. He even had the location, though, as I say, he never told me exactly. They came together to attempt a grand summoning. Something huge, something never before attempted.' He took off his glasses and cleaned them with a rag from the table. 'Something that went terribly wrong.'

'And the first of the Manes appeared soon after,' Trinica said.

Kraylock nodded. 'Those daemonists were the first of the Manes. Whatever they unleashed infected them. After that, they were the ones who spread the condition.'

Frey was getting impatient. 'So what does this have to do with—'

'The Awakeners?' Kraylock said. 'Because Maurin believed they knew about it. At the time they were aggressively attacking other religions. Any threat to their superiority was being wiped out. Al the old gods were dying.'

'Not so immortal after al, eh?' Frey said, but his comment was ignored.

'There were survivors of that first disaster,' Kraylock continued. 'At least two. Maurin had letters, hinting at the tragedy that had occurred. They went into hiding, but then they disappeared. Maurin thought the Awakeners took them.'

'Why did he think that?'

'Because five years later, the first of the Imperators appeared.'

Frey and Trinica worked it out at the same time.

'So, the Awakeners heard what the daemonists were up to,' Trinica said. 'When it failed, they kidnapped the survivors—'

'—refined the process—' Frey continued.

'—and used it themselves, yes,' Kraylock finished. 'Infecting their most faithful subjects with symbiote daemons.'

Frey whistled, impressed by the scale of their hypocrisy.

'But they could never admit to employing daemonism,' Kraylock went on. 'The Lord High Cryptographer had already issued an edict condemning it as heresy.

So they painted the Imperators as evidence of the superiority of their faith, and used them to root out and destroy other faiths. Daemonists in particular. They were extraordinarily effective. Their rivals were soon scattered or eliminated entirely.'

'The Awakeners want to control al daemonism in Vardia,' Trinica said.

'Exactly. Daemonists are capable of
genuine
miracles. The Alsoul can't compete with that. So the Awakeners discredited their competition while claiming its achievements as their own.'

'Crake always said the Awakeners were more like a business than a religion,' Frey commented. Now he understood why the Awakeners were so interested in rumours of a crashed Mane dreadnought. They didn't want anyone getting hold of what was on board. The Awakeners knew the Manes were daemons, and daemonism was
their
thing. If there was any daemonic treasure to be had, they wanted control of it.

'So what happened to al this evidence?' said Trinica.

'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 kiled?'

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 al 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 Chancelors 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.'

Twenty-Six

The Hospital — Crake's Progress — The Deal

The hospital stood on a hil on the edge of town. It was an old building with many windows, some of them lit to fend off the night. Sils crumbled at the edges; panes were cracked here and there; the wals 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 puled down hard over his head, as if he was driving through a thunderstorm. But the night was warm and stil. Apart from the rattle of the engine, it was eerily quiet.

A long, curving gravel drive led away from the waled 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 puled 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 stilness, the stoic way he went about his job. On another day, it wouldn't have bothered him, but lately he found such smal 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 chil in the air, and he clutched his coat tightly around him as he entered the hospital reception area. It was brown and dul and smeled 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'l take him through.'

The nurse shook her head and went back to her paperwork. 'Don't know why we bother having visiting hours at al,' 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 smal, tidy moustache. Crake folowed 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. Al 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 trolies. 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 chalenge 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 stairwel 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 wals were grimy, and there were bits of litter in the corners. Electric lights buzzed overhead, their surfaces smeared with oily thumbprints. There was no smel of disinfectant here, only a hint of mould. It was chily, 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 ilegal yet, he felt that it was too late to back out. He looked around nervously, seeking an escape and finding none.

The doctor walked ahead of him, his polished shoes tapping on the stone floor. Leading him on, silently. They both knew why he was here. Crake despised him for being a witness to his shame.

How had it come to this? He'd set out with such high hopes, such optimism. He'd met with men who traded in daemonist texts and held fascinating conversations with them about the nature of the Art. He'd acquired rare tomes at great expense and devoured them greedily. For a time he'd felt like he did when he first discovered daemonism at university. He was a repository, ready to be filed with knowledge. In a few short weeks he'd learned more than he had in the last few years.

But his joy hadn't lasted. He bought book after book but none had contained what he needed. He'd hoped to find a method to extract Bess from the metal suit he'd put her in. If not instructions, then even hints and pointers would have sufficed. But he was disappointed again and again. Plome's credit was not unlimited, and his own money was not sufficient to keep buying valuable, ilegal texts. With each book that failed to provide the answers he sought, the stakes got higher, and he found it harder and harder to relax or sleep.

Things had become strained between him and Plome. Crake hated having to beg him for money that he had no realistic prospect of ever paying back. Plome's constant fretting about his state of mind became tiresome. He began to stay down in the sanctum with Bess, and kept himself occupied by teaching her new commands with his whistle. But Bess had picked up on his mood too, and when she was awake she was fidgety and withdrawn. Almost as if she was scared of him. Angrily, he put her to sleep and left her like that; but the sight of the silent, empty armoured suit was like an accusation.

The old feeling started to creep back in. That sense of being trapped. Wherever he turned, he was oppressed. There was nowhere he could get any peace. He became too agitated to study, and that made him more agitated. He ransacked his books with increasing desperation for clues on how to proceed. He bought apparatus and did experiments based on hearsay and rumour. Nothing worked. No one could help him.