The Art of Hunting (28 page)

‘His name?’

‘Captain Scalton.’

‘Thanks.’

The butcher nodded. As Granger turned to leave, he called after him: ‘I hope your boss has a lot of money.’

‘Something better than that,’ Granger replied.

On the third-floor veranda of the tea house, he spotted Scalton and four of his officers crowded around a table overlooking the market square. They were drinking steaming black tea and smoking
fruit tobaccos from floor-standing hookahs and chewing strips of what was probably dragon meat laced with opium. Granger walked right up to them and placed a cloth package on the table. In it were
his three Unmer knives: the tempest blade, the quicksilver knife and the prison skull blade.

‘Captain Scalton?’ he said.

Scalton was a slight man with white hair and a long and narrow hook-shaped nose that overhung a neat white beard. His face and hands were spotted with brine marks and his eyes were quick and
crowded with humour lines. ‘What’s this?’ he said.

‘Part payment,’ Granger said. ‘If you agree to sell my boss that old blue you’ve got in your hold.’

Scalton exchanged a glance with one of his younger officers. This man leaned forward and untied Granger’s package, revealing the three Unmer daggers. He held one up – the prison
skull blade – and then passed it to the captain, who examined it carefully. ‘I’ve seen finer examples,’ he said. ‘But who told your boss I was a collector?’

Granger smiled inwardly at his good luck. He shrugged. ‘It’s common knowledge, Captain.’

‘And who, might I enquire, is your boss?’

‘A man of means,’ Granger said, ‘with guests to entertain. That’s all I can tell you.’

The young officer’s hand hovered over the dagger, as if afraid to touch it. ‘Is it Unmer?’ he asked.

‘A skull blade,’ his captain replied. ‘Sometimes called a prison skull. Nasty little thing. It cuts most things just as a normal knife would. But once it gets lodged in bone,
it never comes out, never ever releases its grip. And it never stops hurting. I’ve heard of men hacking their own arms off to get rid of these things.’ He turned it over in his fingers,
then glanced at the other two blades. ‘I suppose they’re interesting enough to make a deal,’ he said. ‘A hundred for the prison skull, and forty for these other two –
against four thousand for the dragon.’

Granger let out a long breath. Scalton could sell the blades for four times that in the Losoto trove market.‘That’s an expensive dragon,’ he said. ‘You’d be lucky
to get half that for her meat.’

‘This one’s a fighter,’ Scalton said. ‘So she’s worth more to you than carcass value.’ He leaned forward. ‘I presume your boss is looking for a
spectacle for his guests, rather than simply a main course?’

Granger nodded. ‘I’ll want to see her first.’

The captain gave a thin smile. ‘As soon as you show me those gilders.’

‘I won’t be trading coin.’

Scalton leaned back in his chair and gave a snort of annoyance. ‘Then there’s no deal.’

Granger slid his kitbag down from his shoulder and loosened the drawstring. He reached inside and his fingers brushed the cool glass of the shield. He drew it out and placed it on the table
before Scalton and his officers. He was pleased to hear from the men a number of involuntary intakes of breath. Every one of their gazes was pinned to the table.

‘What does the sword do?’ Scalton asked.

Sword?

Granger looked down. Beside the shield lay the replicating sword, cloth still wrapped around it. He had no memory of taking it out or placing it there.

Had the sword
wanted
him to take it out?

‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Old habits. The sword is not for trade.’ He reached over to take it back.

‘One moment, please,’ Scalton said. He leaned forward and unwrapped the cloth from the blade. By the light of the tea house’s many candles and gem lanterns, the Unmer steel
shone with liquid fire. It was obvious, even to a layman, that this was something rare and exquisite. The captain’s eyes seemed to drink it in. He reached for the hilt.

‘Wait!’ Granger said. ‘Don’t touch it.’ He moved forward, with the intention of snatching the blade away before the other man could reach it . . .

. . . but he found that he couldn’t. His muscles froze. His hand stayed by his side, and he found himself simply standing there, watching as the captain’s hand closed around the
sword’s hilt and he lifted it from the table.

The replicates appeared at once. However, these were not the mad-eyed and brine-scorched ghouls that Granger summoned whenever he gripped the blade. They were copies of Scalton, appearing in his
image. Three of them stood in a half-circle around the table, each holding their own version of the sword in the captain’s hand.

The officers all started, shoving their chairs back, scrambling for the daggers, swords or pistols they kept in their belt. Even Scalton gasped and flinched away, as even he reacted to what he
must have perceived as an ambush. But then, abruptly, he understood what he was looking at. His eyes went wide with shock and disbelief. ‘Good god,’ he said, his gaze shifting from one
sword replicate to another. ‘Lords in heaven and the depths below.’

Granger was equally shocked. The sword had prevented him from simply snatching the blade away from the other man. But
why
? Was it evaluating Scalton’s merits as a potential new
owner? Granger felt his heart quicken. Would the sword allow itself to be passed on? Would it
release
Granger?

‘Move the sword,’ he said. ‘Carefully.’

Scalton swept the sword in a slow arc before him, and the three replicates mimicked him in perfect formation. By now several of the other tea house patrons had noticed this spectacle, and
conversations died on the terrace all around them, replaced by exclamations of surprise or fear or astonishment.

‘Now think of three separate moves,’ Granger said. ‘A thrust, sweep and parry. When you’ve pictured them in your head, assign each to one of the phantoms. But keep your
own sword still.’

‘The phantoms?’

‘The replicates,’ Granger said. ‘Sometimes it helps to think of them as ghosts.’

Scalton concentrated. After a moment, each of the replicates moved – this time independently. One swung its blade in a horizontal arc. Another thrust the sword tip forwards. The third,
however, remained motionless, still mimicking the sea captain. Every patron on the terrace had noticed the replicates by now, and stopped what they were doing to stare.

‘That’s good,’ Granger said. ‘But true mastery of a replicating sword takes time. As your skills improve, you’ll find yourself in control of more than three
replicates.’

‘More?’ Scalton said. ‘How many more?’

Granger recalled the moment one of his replicates had seized his own hand, how hundreds, perhaps thousands, of these sword ghouls appeared – their perceptions crowding his mind, bringing
his consciousness to the edge of complete collapse.

‘Depends on the wielder,’ he said.

‘I can command them to do anything?’ Scalton asked.

‘You can command them to die for you. When that happens, a new replicate appears.’

‘Good god.’ The captain looked at the blade in awe, completely transfixed by the shimmering steel and its three copies moving in unison. ‘I can see why you don’t want to
part with it,’ he said. Then he smiled. ‘But if you’re after a dragon, I’m afraid you’re going to have to.’

Granger’s nerves were still on edge, but he experienced a flicker of hope. He would have let Scalton have the replicating sword for free, if it would only release the psychic chains that
bound Granger to it.

He was about to say he had no objection when, from the corner of his eye, he saw one of Scalton’s replicates move unexpectedly. It bulled forward suddenly, and raised its blade as if to
strike the captain.

Scalton flinched.

Granger reacted at once. He snatched up his shield and raised it in front of Scalton, intercepting the blow. The repli-cate’s blade clashed against sorcerous Unmer glass with a spray of
green sparks. The shield hummed and then glowed fiercely, throwing a queer emerald illumination around them. Within its facets Granger caught a glimpse of fires raging.

Scalton cried out. Those officers who had been seated now scrambled away in panic.

‘Drop the sword,’ Granger yelled. ‘Now!’

But Scalton wasn’t listening. He was gaping at the sorcerous version of himself with a look of terror on his face. Granger barrelled forward between the pair of them, shoving the sword
replicate hard with the heel of his hand. Unbalanced, the replicate went over and crashed into a group of nearby naval officers. Granger spied movement to his left. A second replicate was pushing
through the group of men to attack.

Granger cursed. He slammed the lower end of the shield sharply down against Scalton’s wrist, knocking the sword from his grip. It clattered to the ground.

All three replicates vanished.

There was a moment of silence, while the shock of what had happened percolated through the crowd. Scalton stood there, white faced and wincing, rubbing his wrist. The younger officers seemed
just as stunned.

‘Like I said,’ Granger said. ‘Controlling them takes a bit of practice.’

Scalton fixed his wide eyes on Granger. ‘They almost killed me!’

Granger shrugged. He cursed his own stupidity. Of course the sword had had no intention of letting him sell it. The truth was that it didn’t want him to go to Ethugra and find Ethan
Maskelyne. It didn’t want Granger to be free. And so it had used whatever hold it had over him to try to sabotage his plans.

And it had almost succeeded.

This thing was more cunning than he gave it credit for. And it was growing stronger with every passing day.

Scalton rubbed his face and looked back at the table. ‘What does the shield do?’ he said.

Granger stood on the steamship deck with the captain and his men, gazing down at the dragon in the hold. She was far older and larger than Granger had expected. Indeed, it was
unusual for a serpent of this age to have borne a calf so recently, which made Granger wonder if she had merely adopted the slaughtered youngster. Nor was she a pure blue, not that that made a
difference. Her blue-green colouring indicated she was a mongrel, but then those were usually tougher than pure breeds. She was also in much worse condition than the butcher had implied. The
harpoon that had brought her down was still lodged in her hind leg amidst a mess of blood. Her snout was bloody, too, the skin pulled back by the steel net in which she had been wrapped, revealing
monstrous yellow teeth. Lacerations covered her torso, the bulk of which slowly rose and fell as Granger watched. That movement was the only sign the creature was alive. She wasn’t worth one
twentieth of the value of the shield he’d given up for her.

‘She’s half dead,’ Granger said.

‘Half dead is still alive,’ Scalton replied, ‘and these animals are tough as hell. Give it a couple of weeks and it’ll be ripping men to shreds in the arena.’

‘Can she still fly?’

‘What d’you want it to fly for?’

Granger didn’t answer. By now he had it on good authority that this was the only living dragon in Addle. The other ship had stopped here on its way
to
the hunting grounds. He
might, of course, still charter a vessel and head for Doma himself, but that would cost him time – not to mention putting him in considerable danger. He turned to the captain. ‘I want
to speak to her.’

‘You want to what?’

‘I’m going down.’

Scalton looked incredulous. He shook his head. ‘You know what that thing is, don’t you? I mean, you’re not labouring under the misapprehension that it’s a
puppy?’

Granger set down his kitbag.

‘Saints below,’ Scalton said. ‘Well, don’t blame me if it roasts you alive.’

Granger climbed down a series of metal rungs in the side of the hold. The hold reeked so strongly of brine that it was hard to breathe. He saw the black gleam of the beast’s eye through
the metal net and felt the heat emanating from her great body. As he drew near, he became aware of the heavy, ripe odour of blood, the huff and rasp of her breaths, and the stink of sulphur from
her nostrils. She did not move, but she was watching him warily.

He crouched down beside her head and spoke in Unmer. ‘Can you still fly?’

The dragon made no reply.

‘I can offer you a deal,’ Granger said.

For a long moment there was no sound from the great serpent but her laboured breathing. And then she spoke in a low, bestial hiss. ‘I’d rather die here than suffer the indignity . .
. of a life in the arena.’

‘That’s not what I’m offering.’

The dragon was silent.

‘I need you to carry me to Ethugra,’ Granger said.

‘You would buy my freedom for that?’

‘Aye.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I really need to get to Ethugra,’ Granger said.

‘So take a ship.’

‘I need to get there fast.’

The dragon did not speak again for a long moment. Granger could feel her hot breaths searing his face. The stink of her flaming venom filled his nostrils. Her black eyes were fathomless and yet
it seemed to Granger that they evinced unbearable pain. Finally she said, ‘If this net is removed, I will slay this crew.’

‘No,’ Granger said. ‘I can’t allow that.’

‘These men killed my daughter and sold her body for food.’

‘You must swear to leave this crew unharmed.’

‘I cannot.’

Granger hissed. ‘Then you’ll die in a Losotan slaughterhouse.’

‘Death would be welcome.’

Granger leaned closer and growled, ‘I had no idea your species were so weak.’

The great serpent gave a snort, which might have been of resignation or perhaps even humour. ‘You cannot appeal to my pride,’ she said. ‘I have none left.’

‘I’m appealing to your reason,’ Granger said. ‘Make the deal and live. Hold your revenge for tomorrow.’

Her vast chest rose and fell beneath the net. ‘I fail to see the appeal of logic,’ it said. ‘Tell me, why do you need to get to the prison city so quickly?’