The Black Lung Captain (24 page)

Amalicia roled her eyes. 'Such reputable company you keep. I'l say he's your cousin. How's that?'

They walked for a little while.

'Why are you helping me, Amalicia?' Frey asked at length.

'Because I love you, of course,' she replied.

'Not because you want to get back at the Awakeners for al that time you spent in the hermitage?'

A wicked smile touched the edge of her lips. 'What kind of petty, vengeful woman do you take me for?' she asked with exaggerated innocence. 'The soiree is in a week. Until then, you're mine.'

Frey was alowed a brief visit back to the
Ketty Jay
to explain things to his crew and to tel Grist what was happening. Grist was enraged at the delay, but there was little he could do about it. He'd left some of his own men keeping watch on the compound where the sphere was hidden, in case the Awakeners moved it, but Frey thought it a futile exercise. Aircraft probably came and went al the time, and there was no teling if any of them were carrying the sphere, and no chance of folowing them anyway. Even smal aircraft would be spotted in open sky and chased off.

His duty to his crew done, Frey returned to Amalicia. The days that folowed were slow and luxurious. He spent the majority of them in bed, occasionaly rising to enjoy exquisite meals or to wander the grounds of the Thade estate in the sun. On the second day Crake visited, and they were fitted for new clothes and seen to by a barber. When their transformation was complete, they looked a strikingly handsome and sophisticated pair. Frey spent the evening resisting the urge to preen.

Amalicia, for her part, was sweetness itself. Gone were the rapid and occasionaly violent mood swings he remembered. She was attentive, considerate and sexualy voracious. Frey had a wonderful time in her company, and he basked in the attention she lavished on him.

'You stil want to run away, Amalicia?' he asked at one point. 'Stil want to go slumming round Vardia in a battered old aircraft with a bunch of inept alcoholics for company?'

The sun fel on one side of her face as she sipped her glass of wine, and she looked devastatingly serene. 'No,' she said. 'Do you?'

It was a question Frey spent a lot of time pondering, during those heady days. What was there for him back on the
Ketty Jay?
Sure, he had friends, and that was worth something. But was it worth the endless toil, the frustration, the danger? How much further would his luck take him before he caught a bulet somewhere vital, or his craft got shot down?

Sooner or later, a man had to stop wandering and plant his flag. Wouldn't this be a fine place to do it?

She'd marry you, if you asked her. You know she would. She's loved you all this time.

But even thinking it made him restless. How long before he got bored? Bored of her, bored of al of this? The fine food and quality booze were undoubtedly attractive, but there were only so many gardens a man could wander. Sleeping on silk sheets with a pretty young woman was al wel and good, but what about after a month? A year? A decade?

Amalicia, for her part, was obviously on her best behaviour. He knew what she was doing. Seducing him with her lifestyle. Intoxicating him with the dream of aristocracy.
Think what your life could be, Frey,
she was saying.
Why carry on with this foolish scheme of riches? I have all the riches you'll ever need.

With money like hers, he could do whatever he wanted. He could build a dozen orphanages. He could make a mark, something to leave behind that said:
Here
was Frey. He might not have been perfect, but at least his life meant half a shit.

But already he felt caged.

Damn it, what was
wrong
with him? This was exactly what he thought he wanted. It was everything he'd decided he needed to fil the yawning chasm that had opened up inside him. And yet now that it was within his grasp, he didn't want it.

It took five days of living in luxury with a perfect woman to make up his mind. After the soiree, he was leaving.

Seventeen

High Society — 'We Do Meet In The Strangest Places' —

Parlour Games — A Winning Smile

The soiree was hosted by the Duke of Lapin's third cousin, Aberham Race, and held at his townhouse in the duchy's capital. Unlike the Archduke and his wife, Race was a devout supporter of the Awakeners, and not afraid to show it. He used these soirees to drum up support for the organisation, which was suffering under progressively harsher edicts passed down against it by the Archduke. Frey thought that punishment was only fair, realy, since the Awakeners were behind the murder of the Archduke's son the winter before last.

Politics had always depressed him, so he only paid cursory attention to Amalicia's explanations as they rattled along the cobbled avenues in the back of a motorised carriage. Crake sat opposite Frey and Amalicia, looking slick and composed. Frey had known him so long that it was easy to forget he was born to the aristocracy. His accent had become so familiar that Frey didn't notice it any more. But seeing him dressed up this way, listening to his polite banter with Amalicia, Frey was reminded of the vast difference in the circumstances of their birth. Amalicia seemed rather charmed by him, despite her initial reservations. She viewed al Frey's companions with mistrust, as if she held them responsible for her lover's long absences.

The townhouse stood in a tree-lined avenue facing a lamplit park. They puled up outside and a doorman showed them in. A manservant led them upstairs into a series of large drawing-rooms, where the soiree was already wel underway.

Frey had to resist the urge to stare. There were glittering chandeliers, gold ceiling roses and embroidered drapes. A glass swan presided over a table of canapes, none of which Frey recognised as food. Bizarre sculptures, apparently designed to intimidate the uneducated, threatened him from their pedestals.

The guests were no less magnificent and alien. The men wore jackets stitched with gold and silver thread; the ladies wore gowns and jewels and glittering headpieces. Frey felt suddenly and completely out of his depth. He was outnumbered here. What did he have in common with these people? Did they even speak the same language he did?

'You look a little grey, Cap'n,' Crake said, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

'Don't cal me that,' Frey replied. 'You're my cousin, remember?'

'I remember, dear cousin,' Crake smirked. Frey had the unpleasant feeling that the daemonist was enjoying his discomfort.

A manservant approached with a tray ful of glasses of bubbling wine. They al took one.

'Stay sharp tonight,' Frey reminded Crake, indicating the drink in his hand. 'We've got a job to do.'

'Oh, don't worry about me,' said Crake. He glanced off to Frey's right and muttered, 'Incoming.'

A portly, middle-aged woman was making her way across the room towards them. The wrinkles in her sun-beaten face were buried under a thick plaster of make-up. 'Amalicia Thade,' she said. 'So glad you could come.'

'I wouldn't think of missing it,' Amalicia smiled. She turned to Frey and Crake, offering introductions. 'This is Lady Marila Race, our hostess. Lady Marila, may I introduce Darian Frey, my fiance.'

Frey choked on his mouthful of wine and bubbles foamed out of his nose.

'Dear me,' said Crake, handing Frey a handkerchief. 'That wine can be tickly on a dry throat, can't it, cousin?' He bowed galantly to Lady Race. 'My name is Damen Morcutt, of the Marduk Morcutts. It's an honour to attend one of your soirees. Realy, quite the highlight of my year so far. May I be bold enough to beg the pleasure of your company for a short while? I'm keen to hear al about Jadney and his exploits in the Navy. I hear he's become quite the young officer.'

'My little Jadney?' Lady Race cooed, as Crake led her off. 'Why, I'd be delighted!'

Frey wiped his face with the handkerchief and looked at Amalicia. 'He's good at this.'

'Pul yourself together,' Amalicia said through gritted teeth. 'What was that al about? Choking in public. Honestly! Can't you behave?'

'Fiance?' Frey asked. 'When were you going to tel me?'

'You wouldn't have got in the door otherwise. Now keep up. That's Chancelor Previn and his wife Marticia. We're going over there. Try to control yourself this time.'

The next hour was a particularly unpleasant one for Frey. It seemed that he met more people during that tortuous sixty minutes than he had in the preceding thirty-one years of his life, and none of them liked him. Somehow everything he said came out wrong. His attempts at wit fel flat. He did his best to folow what they were saying, but it al seemed so damned inconsequential. Marriages, scandals, investment opportunities. Who'd said what about who. Even the men gossiped like old women. Frey tried to come up with something inteligent to contribute, but al he got were blank stares or mildly condescending comments. Amalicia's fixed smile was beginning to crack and wobble at the edges, her patience wearing thinner with every blunder.

Eventualy Frey had had enough. He excused himself as best he could and went to locate Crake.

He was surprised to find the daemonist in conversation with a familiar face, and an extremely attractive one at that. It was Samandra Bree, one of the Century Knights, the Archduke's elite hundred. She looked very different without her ever-present tricorn hat, her battered coat and twin shotguns. Instead, she was dressed in a sleek gown of red and black, her dark hair gathered in a ponytail.

'Darian Frey, I declare,' she said as he approached. 'We do meet in the strangest places. As I recal, last time I saw you, you had a noose round your neck.' She looked around the room. 'You've come up in the world.'

'I think I'd rather be hung at this point,' Frey said miserably.

'High society not treating you wel?' Crake inquired.

'How do you
talk
to these people?' Frey asked in exasperation. 'It's like the moment I open my mouth, they're looking down on me.'

'Yes, they'l do that,' said Crake. 'The trick is not to try and engage them on their level. They'l spot a fake. Just be yourself.'

'It's not that easy.'

'Sure it is,' said Samandra. 'Tel me, what do you
really
think of 'em? Honestly, now.'

Frey gave her a suspicious look. 'You're not an aristocrat, are you?'

'Me? No. Daddy was a Militiaman. Wanted me to folow in his footsteps, but they plucked me out of training school when I eight and sent me to the Knight's Academy.'

'You don't seem out of place here, though.'

'Wel, after they got done teaching me to put a bulet between someone's eyes at a hundred yards, they taught me a little etiquette. The Archduke likes some of his Knights to be the public face, you know? That's why my partner ain't here.' She put her hand to her mouth. '
Isn't
here, I mean.'

'Colden Grudge?'

'Yeah. Poor Colden. Put him in a place like this and he'd auto-cannon half the room.'

'Now
he
sounds like the kind of feler I could get on with,' said Frey. 'Speaking of which, we're not stil under sentence of death or anything, are we? Never did get to colect those pardons for that whole misunderstanding about the Archduke's son.'

Samandra waved it away. 'Drave took care of it. You're in the clear.'

'Oh, good. I was just thinking how nice it was to meet you again. I'd hate to have to flee for my life.'

'And I'd hate to have to kil you. You seem a decent sort.'

Crake laughed nervously. 'Might I ask what a representative of the Archduke is doing here, at a soiree thrown in support of the Awakeners?'

Samandra looked skyward. 'Good question. I have to be the least popular girl in the room right now. The Archduke wants someone here to remind them we're watching. So here I am.' She nudged Frey. 'You never answered my question. What do you think of the company here?'

'I think they're a bunch of pompous, stuffed-arse idiots and their conversation is boring as watching shit crust over.'

'And how long do you think they'd last in our world? Out there, where the rest of us live?'

Frey grinned. 'Most of 'em would get kiled in the first bar they walked into.'

'There you go. Now stop thinking they're better than you, 'cause they ain't. I mean,
aren't.'
She roled her eyes. 'Al them etiquette lessons. Waste of good shooting time.'

'I
like
the way you talk,' Crake murmured into his glass, but nobody heard him.

'Y'know, Samandra, you're right,' said Frey. He was feeling considerably better. 'Who do these rich folk think they are? They're not better than me!' He looked at Crake, then down at the drink in his hand. 'Stay sharp, remember?'

'Stop fretting, Cap'n,' Crake said. 'It's under control.'

Samandra slapped Frey on the shoulder. 'Go out there and get em.

Frey headed back to Amalicia, and met her coming the other way, a look of urgency on her face.

'Where've you been?' she asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, she slipped her arm through his and motioned towards a pudgy man on the other side of the room, who looked rather lost. 'That's the Grand Oracle. Now's our chance.' She propeled him towards their target. 'Just smile a lot, and I'l do the rest.'

The Grand Oracle didn't look particularly grand to Frey. He was a balding, worried-looking man with weak eyes hidden behind a thick pair of spectacles. Frey had imagined him dressed in expensive robes, but instead he wore a long jacket of deep blue velvet, parted down the middle by the thrust of his bely. The emblem of the Cipher was tattooed on his forehead, declaring his faith to everyone.

'Grand Oracle Pomfrey,' said Amalicia. 'Please alow me to introduce my fiance, Darian Frey.'

Frey winced inwardly. He'd heard that word many times over the last hour, but it stil came as an unpleasant surprise, like being cudgeled by a mugger.

'Amalicia Thade!' exclaimed the Grand Oracle. 'My, how you've grown!' He shook Frey's hand. 'You're a fortunate man, sir. Congratulations to you both.' Then he turned to Amalicia and became grave. 'Terrible, about your father, my dear. He was a great friend to the Alsoul.'