Sea of Ghosts - Alan Campbell [126]
Then she sat down and poured herself a glass of water, sharpened with a drop of poppy oil and a pinch of anemone.
. . . borakai nineteen six eleven passing through from . . . administer the final payments through an intermediary . . . would not be welcome . . . are you awake . . . ? mark two two four, listening . . . out with his jurisdiction on the first . . .
Shut up!
The chatter stopped. Briana found herself shivering, suddenly afraid that her outburst would be recognized for what it was. A reaction prompted by the anguish of too many foreign thoughts passing through her head. The others would think that she was breaking down. Am I breaking down? Briana kept that thought to herself. She counted to five, slowly, trying to relax her thumping heart. Communication across the entire empire had momentarily ceased, and Briana could feel the Haurstaf network trembling with uncertainty. She swallowed hard and sent out another message:
Keep all communication on a peer-to-peer basis until further notice. The next voice I hear is going to find herself cleaning Port Awl horses with her tongue. She could almost hear a thousand groans reverberating through the ensuing silence. Yellow- and amber-grade psychics would be unable to maintain such intense concentration for long.
The lookouts have spotted a ship to the south.
Briana was about to lash out in anger, when she recognized the voice in her head. It was Pascal, aboard her companion ship, Trumpet.
It’s Hu’s steam yacht, the young psychic added. And it’s following us.
Granger?
Briana pulled on her boots, gloves and storm mask, wrapped her whaleskin cloak around her shoulders and hurried above deck. Freezing rain lashed her cloak, and the wind snapped at the sails above her. Howlish had trimmed the mainsail and taken down the spinnaker. Even so, the storm was forcing him to luff. The rigging thrummed like plucked wire; the masts groaned. Masked crewmen were busy tying down the spinnaker and securing the fore jib. Under the heavy clouds the Mare Lux looked as dark and angry as she had ever seen it, a great shuddering cauldron of brine. She could smell it through the filters of her mask. The Herald’s sister ships, Trumpet and Radiant Song, lay some distance off the starboard side, their red hulls rising and then crashing down through the waves. Briana grabbed a rail and scanned the southern horizon. There! A single plume of smoke.
Howlish was in a jovial mood. After Briana had removed her mask and dumped it on the wheelhouse bench, he said. ‘Good morning, ma’am. Fine day for it, don’t you think?’
Briana shucked off her cloak. ‘A fine day for what?’
‘For sinking the emperor’s flagship, ma’am.’ The captain exchanged a glance with the navigation officer.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ she replied.
‘We could always claim he attacked us.’
She smiled thinly. ‘Not even Hu’s going to believe that one man operated the Excelsior’s cannon arsenal. Are there any other vessels in sight?’
‘The horizon’s clear, ma’am.’
‘Can we run ahead of her?’
Howlish shook his head. ‘Not in this wind, ma’am,’ he said. ‘We’d only tear the Herald to pieces. The Excelsior’s engines give her a huge power advantage over us.’ He glanced at his pocket watch. ‘At her present speed she’ll be alongside in about ninety minutes.’
Briana peeled off her gloves and threw them down on top of her cloak. Dealing with an angry father was the last thing she needed right now, especially one who didn’t appear to be the sort to give up and go away quietly. How would Ianthe react? Briana sighed. Sinking her old man might be the best solution after all.
‘Ready the ship for battle,’ she said