Ketty Jay 04 - The Ace of Skulls (31 page)

Crake retreated before the barrage. He’d never heard his father speak that way. It shocked him and shamed him, but it hardened his heart as well. What did he care for a man who’d never cared for him? What accusation could he face that he hadn’t already accused himself of? He’d done his duty; he’d tried his best. That was more than he owed this man.

He drew himself up and mustered as much dignity as he could with brandy dripping down his face. ‘Goodbye, Father,’ he said.

Rogibald turned back to the window without a word. Crake opened the door and left. It seemed a weak way to bid farewell for ever, but then, they’d never had much to say to one another.

He heard smashing glass as he hurried back through the house, and quickened his step to a run. He’d wasted too long on Rogibald already. It was time to look after himself.

Coward
, his father had called him. Well, if he’d learned one thing from his captain, it was this: cowardice was always the last insult thrown by the brave, just before they got shot in the face.

Damn you, Father. Die if you want. I’m done with you.

He reached the foyer, headed purposefully for the door, and stumbled to a halt. Through the panes of leaded glass on either side, he saw men running up the drive towards the mansion. Men with guns and clubs, faces distorted with hate.

Already they were at the door. Seized with the fear of their vengeance, he ran in the opposite direction, up the wide staircase of polished wood. They burst in behind him, a shouting horde. Someone yelled when they saw him. Crake fled upward, and a dozen men followed. The rest scattered throughout the mansion, smashing and destroying anything they could lay their hands on.

He sprinted wildly down a corridor, not knowing where he was going, desperate only to escape from the pain and death promised by his pursuers. And yet even through his terror there was a cold sense of inevitability, a closing-in all around him. The ground floor was occupied; the landing pad was cut off. How was he going to get out now?

One villager, particularly fleet of foot, sprang up the stairs and came thumping down the corridor after him. He was skinny and blond, a chair-leg club in his hand, his teeth gritted and his face red, drunk on the blind hatred of the mob and the sense of togetherness it brought. Crake heard him coming and knew he couldn’t outpace him. Instead he planted his feet, pulled out his revolver and aimed it square at his pursuer.

The villager skidded to a halt, blanching as he realised his predicament. Crake didn’t even think of mercy; he was too frightened. He fired, three times at short range.

They stood looking at each other in disbelief. Then the man turned and scrambled back the other way.

Crake looked at his gun as if there was something wrong with it. But no, it was just his aim.
I should give up firearms altogether
.

Three more men came rushing up the corridor, shoving the fleeing man aside. Crake didn’t dare gamble that the threat of a gun would keep them back. He turned tail and ran.

He pulled open a door and darted inside, slamming it behind him. A narrow stairwell led up and down: the servants’ stairs. He hesitated: perhaps he should descend to the ground floor? Could he get out that way? But instinct wouldn’t let him. It drove him away from danger, without regard for sense or logic. So he went up instead.

The door burst open below him, and there was a shout. He fired two shots down the stairs, the revolver deafening in the stairwell. The third time the hammer fell on an empty chamber. They pulled their heads in, but it wouldn’t keep them back for long. He reached the top of the stairs and came out on the upper floor of the mansion.

He shut the door behind him. If only he had his thralled skeleton key, he could have locked it, kept them back for a few more precious moments. But the Shacklemores took it when they captured him, and it was gone now.

He fled down the corridor. Voices ahead of him.
They’re coming up the main stairs
. He skidded to a halt, heart banging against his ribs. There were too many to escape. He was outnumbered and trapped. Nothing he could do would prevent the end. He’d die at the hands of a filthy lynch mob, beaten to death in a flurry of blows, bones snapping as they stamped on him, teeth kicked in, a blinding jumble of agony to see him out of the world.

He searched for a way to delay the inevitable, and found a door he didn’t recognise. It took him a moment to pull it from his memory. It had been repainted since he saw it last. He’d walked past it a thousand times, but had gone inside only once. He’d been a child, and he’d been beaten for his trouble.

There!

He seized the handle and turned it. It was locked. In desperation, he put his boot into it, hard. He kicked twice more, until the door frame split and it hung by a hinge. With one last kick, he was through.

The door to the servants’ stairwell opened at the same time. A bearded man aimed a gun at him and loosed off a wild shot. Crake darted into the room he’d opened.

It was tiny, barely big enough to contain half a dozen boxes of tools and sundries. A wooden ladder, fixed to the wall, led up to a hatch. The roof access. He climbed the ladder, shoved the hatch.

Locked.

No, no, no!

There was a bolt on the inside. Sense cut through his panic. He slid the bolt across, pushed the hatch, and it came open. Up he went, and out into the night. He dropped the hatch behind him and backed away, looking about for something to pile on top of it.

He was near the edge of the roof. A mountainous landscape of skylights and chimneys, lit from beneath, blocked his view. Down below he could see that the grounds were aswarm, the invaders racing over the lawns. There was the occasional crack of gunfire, but the Shacklemores were nowhere to be seen.

Closer by was Condred’s house. The lower windows had been smashed, and smoke was churning out of them.

They’re burning the place. Those ignorant bastards are burning my home.

The sound of rising engines drew his attention to the landing pad. Already several craft were high in the sky, small with distance. The last one was taking off, under fire from a few villagers who took pot-shots at it with their pistols.

Sudden hope ignited inside him at the sight. Surely one of the Shacklemores he’d met would remember that Crake was at the mansion? Surely Condred would tell them? He ran along the edge of the roof, waving his arms.

‘
Hey!
’ he shouted. ‘
Heeey! I’m still here!
’

The aircraft swung around lazily above the landing pad, turning towards him, and for a moment he’d thought they’d seen him. But it kept on turning, swinging round to follow the other craft towards Thesk, and its thrusters lit and pushed it away. Crake watched it dwindle, and the hope in his breast burned to ashes.

The hatch burst open behind him. Crake turned and aimed his empty pistol at the burly man who came climbing through. The man hesitated at the sight; but when Crake didn’t fire, a slow and wicked leer spread across his face. He kept on coming, slowly, as if to say:
I dare you
.

Crake lowered his weapon. It had suddenly become too heavy for him. His limbs were leaden. He couldn’t run any more. He didn’t see the point.

I should never have left the
Ketty Jay, he thought.
I should never have left my friends.

He walked to the edge of the building and let his pistol fall from his hand, over the side. It tumbled through the air and smashed to pieces on the driveway.

He closed his eyes. More men were coming through the hatch, but he didn’t care. They were too far away; they wouldn’t have him. He’d not be meat for the savages.

The wind blew his hair across his forehead. He felt it keenly, as if for the first time. He’d miss the wind. It seemed to get louder as he listened to it, rising to a scream in his ears as the world narrowed to a single sharp moment and his senses focused on one final and all-consuming task.

Take a step
, he thought, and he felt himself become light. Even in the exquisite sadness of the end, he knew this was the right thing to do.

He sucked in his breath, put out his foot over the edge, and then the roar of the biggest damn autocannon he’d ever heard scared the shit out of him.

His eyes flew open and he recoiled from the edge, throwing himself down with his hands over his head. The rooftop was chewed up all around him; slates and gutters were smashed, skylights exploded, shards of stone went wheeling into the sky. The wind whipped at him and the bellow of engines filled his ears. He saw the men from the village throw down their weapons and flee wildly from the onslaught.

Then the cannon stopped, and he heard a voice over the chaos.

‘Are you comin’ or what?’

He raised his head. Hovering just beyond the edge of the roof was a shuttle. He saw the masked and hooded face of Morben Kyne through the cockpit windglass. The side door was open, and the huge bearded figure of Colden Grudge stood there, his legs planted apart and an autocannon at his hip. Next to him, leaning out and reaching with one gloved hand, was the owner of the voice.

Samandra Bree.

The sight of her brought new strength to his limbs. He surged to his feet. The shuttle swayed alarmingly towards him, driven by a gust of wind; but Samandra’s hand found his and they clasped. She yanked him up with a strength greater than her size would suggest. His feet found a step, and Colden grabbed him by the shoulder. He was pulled inside, where he tumbled to the floor in a heap, tangled with Samandra.

‘Shift it, Kyne!’ she yelled, and the shuttle pulled away. Samandra kept an arm tight around Crake’s chest as they ascended. Grudge kept his autocannon trained on the villagers on the roof until the mansion had dwindled beneath them. Then he reached across and flung the door shut, sealing them in with the sound of the engines.

Crake climbed to his feet dazedly, still disorientated. He’d committed himself to death; it wasn’t easy to pull back from that. He staggered to the side door, slapped one hand against it to steady himself, and stared out of the window. Beneath him, the Crake family manor was getting smaller. He could see smoke coming from his father’s mansion now, as well as Condred’s house. They hadn’t even waited for their companions to get off the roof before they started burning.

‘You okay?’ Samandra asked, picking herself up. Grudge watched him steadily.

‘They’re burning my home,’ Crake said, his voice hoarse. Then, because he knew it had to be true, he added:

‘They killed my father.’

Samandra walked over to stand next him. She looked out, following his gaze. ‘Rough,’ she said at length.

He turned his head towards her. In amid the shock and the numbness, he felt something new, breaching the waters of his mind with a clear and inarguable certainty. He knew there was no time to waste, no time for
anyone
to waste, and that all things might be snatched away in a moment.

‘I’m in love with you,’ he told her then. ‘I want you to know that.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Duh,’ she said, and put an arm round his waist.

Twenty-One

A Master in Action – The Prisoner – Deadly Opposition – Frey Makes a Plan

I
t was all Frey could do not to run headlong down the corridor. He could hear her through the earcuff, her voice getting louder as he got closer. He’d heard her shriek – spit and pus, an actual
shriek
from her lips – and it had almost broken him. But he hadn’t entirely forgotten the danger he was in. His disguise wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, and running full pelt would alert everyone he passed.

What were those sons of bitches doing to her? He needed to find her, and find her
now
.

Two female Speakers were coming the other way. He checked his stride, walked by with a quick bow in their direction. They bowed back without a flicker of suspicion. As soon as they were gone he accelerated again.

He could feel her, he was sure of it. Whether by some trick of the earcuffs or his imagination, he had some sense of where she was. The other captain’s voices had disappeared now: only Trinica’s frightened protests were left, muffled into incoherence.

The Awakeners had brought all the frigate captains together in order to spring some kind of trap. What did they hope to gain? To take over their aircraft, annex them to the fleet so they could put loyal Awakener captains in charge? But what about their crews?

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the tone of Trinica’s voice. Very rarely had he heard her scared, especially since she became a pirate. But he heard it now. Real, mortal terror.

If they’ve harmed a hair on her head I swear I’ll murder every last one of them
.

He turned a corner, and checked himself again. Standing before a door was a Sentinel, his rifle standing upright next to him in the manner of a formal guard. There was no one else in sight.

The Sentinel looked up at him, noting his interest. ‘You’ll have to wait, brother,’ he said. ‘Nobody goes in till they’re done.’

Frey carried on walking towards him. ‘That’s fine, brother. There was one thing I wanted to ask you, though.’ He drove his knee between the unsuspecting man’s legs with all the force he could muster. The Sentinel doubled over, eyes bulging, a faint whistle coming from his nose like a kettle on the boil. Frey grabbed his hair, wrenched his head up and butted him in the face. The Sentinel crumpled to the floor, eyes blank and nose bloody.

He heard footsteps and spun around. His crew had followed him. They came hurrying up when they saw him.

Malvery looked down at the guard, then over at Jez. ‘Now there’s a master in action,’ he told her. She stared at him as if he was from another planet.

‘Guns,’ Frey said tersely. They pulled weapons from beneath their cassocks. They all looked ridiculous, Malvery and Pinn particularly so: fat men in too-small cassocks with Ciphers painted on their foreheads. But their faces were grim, and they were ready to do what had to be done.