Sea of Ghosts - Alan Campbell [52]
Granger had his suspicions. ‘Perhaps I’ll have that tea after all,’ he said.
Truan smiled again and waved Granger back to the sofa. Then he strolled across the room and pulled a bell chord. Chimes sounded in the hall outside. Granger took a seat and waited with the sealed amphora in his arms. A fortune or a pittance waited within.
‘Which part of Evensraum are you from?’ Granger asked.
‘Deslorn,’ Truan replied.
‘A shame what happened there. The typhoid, I mean.’
‘I believe it was cholera,’ Truan said. ‘We left the place long before the city filled with refugees. One of the benefits of being in shipping is that one owns ships.’
Air bubbled up through one of the jellyfish tanks. The pale blue creatures inside shivered.
‘I had family in Weaverbrook,’ Granger said.
Truan raised his eyebrows. ‘I had no idea you hailed from that part of the world, Mr Swinekicker.’
A key clicked in the lock. The jailer came in carrying a tray of tea.
‘Haven’t been back to see them in a while,’ Granger said.
‘I can sympathize,’ Truan said. ‘Nothing is more important than family.’
The jailer set the tea down on the table. ‘Anything else, sir?’
‘That will be all,’ Truan replied.
Granger looked at the jailer’s tattoos. ‘This can’t be easy for you,’ he said. ‘A man with a history like yours, running around like a boot boy after his master?’
The jailer glanced at Truan and back at Granger, and in that moment Granger finally understood Truan’s real identity.
He grabbed the amphora and leaped to his feet, barging past the jailer and knocking him off his feet. He raced down the stairs and was halfway towards the front door before he heard angry shouts and footfalls coming from behind. Evidently the jailer had recovered enough to come after him. Granger ran on, his chest cramping at the sudden exertion. His scarred lungs were not used to such exercise. The air seemed full of acid, but he ignored it. The bitter taste in his throat was worse. Creedy had lied to him, tricked him into coming here.
Ethan Maskelyne’s accent had been good, but it hadn’t been perfect. Granger had spent enough time in Evensraum to know the difference. But he hadn’t been sure of his suspicions until the jailer had confirmed them. An Ethugran jailer might be paid enough to treat an Evensraum captive as his master, but he would never believe it to be true. Granger’s comment should have humiliated and angered the man. And yet the only emotion in the jailer’s eyes had been fear. Fear of what Maskelyne would do to him.
He reached the front doors and burst through them. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a blizzard of paper whirling around the scribes’ desks. Maskelyne’s man had already reached the bottom of the steps and showed no sign of slowing down. Granger plunged out into the sunlight of Averley Plaza.
The beer drinkers lounged about in groups. A few turned to glance his way as he came storming out of the Imperial jail with the heavy amphora still clutched in his arms. Children shrieked happily as they played about the empty market stalls. The Drowned observed it all with their dead stone eyes, their faces frozen in eternal grimaces of agony. But Creedy was nowhere to be seen, and his launch was no longer moored at the dock.
Bastard.
Creedy had managed to get him away from Hana and Ianthe.
Granger stood in the centre of the plaza, wheezing. He needed a boat, any boat, to take him home.
Someone seized his arm.
Snarling, the Imperial jailer looked more like a street dog than ever before. His face was flushed, his eyes narrowed. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he said through his teeth. ‘Nobody runs out on my boss.’
Granger smashed the amphora across his head.
The jailer dropped to the ground, his head and shoulders drenched in oil.
Granger hardly gave him a second a glance. He was already running along the dockside, looking for a boat.
There were few to choose from, and no passenger ferry boats at all. Almost all of the market traders had already gone