Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [137]
Crake gave him a puzzled look. “Two-man job, is it?”
“Actually, yes. I need you to distract the dockmaster. I mean really distract him. You think you can do the thing with the tooth?”
“I can try,” said Crake. “Did he strike you as particularly smart or quick-witted?”
“Not really.”
“Good. The less intelligent they are, the better the tooth works. It’s the smart ones who cause all the problems.”
“Don’t they always?” Frey commiserated, as he led the daemonist across the landing pad.
“What are you up to, anyway?” Crake asked.
“Taking out a little insurance,” replied Frey, with a wicked smile.
THE JOURNEY OUT WAS less traumatic than the journey there. Now that they had filters to protect against the strange fumes from the lava river, and they knew the trick of the compass and the mines, things were not so daunting. The only drama came from Pinn, who had a miserable time trying to subdue the cat, until Malvery hit on the idea of getting him drunk first. A quarter bottle of rum later, Slag was placid enough to take the mouth filter, after which they headed to Malvery’s surgery to apply antiseptic to Pinn’s scratched-up arms and hands.
There had been talk of ignoring the charts and flying straight up and out of there, instead of the laborious backtracking through the canyons, but they soon discovered that there was a reason why nobody did that. The area above Retribution Falls was heavily mined, and Jez theorized that these could be more magnetic than the ones they’d encountered, meaning that they’d home in on the Ketty Jay from a greater distance. Frey decided not to push their luck. They’d follow the charts.
Frey had Jez and Crake up in the cockpit again, one to navigate and one to read from the compass while he flew. The atmosphere between them had changed. Instead of sniping, Jez did not talk to Crake at all, beyond what was necessary to coordinate their efforts. Crake also seemed very quiet. Something was different between them, for sure, but Frey had the sense that it wasn’t entirely resolved yet.
Well, at least there had been progress. They weren’t fighting anymore. It was a start.
Frey was lighthearted as he piloted them through the fog. He was beginning to feel that things were really pulling together for them now. The changes had been slow and subtle, but ever since they’d left Yortland he’d felt more and more like the captain of a crew, rather than a man lumbered with a chaotic rabble. Instead of letting them do whatever they felt like, he’d begun to give them orders, and he’d been surprised how well they responded once he showed a bit of authority. They might gripe and complain, but they got on with it.
The raid on Quail’s place had been a complete success. Jez and Crake’s infiltration of the Winter Ball had yielded important information. And the theft of the compass and charts from the Delirium Trigger was their crowning glory so far. A month ago, he couldn’t have imagined pulling off anything so audacious. In fact, a month ago he couldn’t have imagined himself giving anybody orders. He’d have said: What right do I have to tell someone else what to do? He didn’t think enough of himself to take command of his own life, let alone someone else’s.
But it wasn’t about rights, it was about responsibilities.
Whether as passengers or crew, the people on board the Ketty Jay endured the same dangers as he did. If he couldn’t make them work together, they all suffered. His craft was the most important thing in the world to him, yet he’d never given a damn about her contents until now. It had always been just him and the Ketty Jay, the iron mistress to whom he was forever faithful. She gave him his freedom, and he loved her for it.
But a craft was nothing without a crew to operate her and pilots to defend her. A craft was made up of people. The Ketty Jay was staffed with drunkards and drifters, all of them running from something—whether it be memories or enemies or the drudgery of a land-bound life—but since Yortland, they’d been running