Sea of Ghosts - Alan Campbell [68]
He moved behind the bar and began hunting around, looking for something. ‘If I removed this stopper,’ he said, ‘this room would eventually fill with brine. We’d sink.’ He located a heavy brass corkscrew. ‘And yet when we break the container . . .’ He placed the tiny bottle on the bar and raised the corkscrew over it.
Before Ianthe could yell at him to stop, Maskelyne struck the ichusae hard with the blunt end of the corkscrew. Instinctively, she raised her hands to protect her eyes . . .
But something unexpected happened. The bottle smashed, leaving only a small pool of brine on the surface of the bar. Maskelyne looked down at it. ‘Magic,’ he muttered. ‘There’s nothing inside, nothing that I can find. No portal, no trick, no . . .’ She sensed his jaw clench. ‘How can I hope to understand such lunacy? And yet this is the way I must save the world.’
‘What do you care for the world?’
‘I like the world,’ he said. ‘I live there.’ He took a swig of his drink, and Ianthe felt the raw spirit burn his throat. ‘And I, unlike so many others, am in a position to do something. What sort of man would I be if I didn’t at least try?’ He sounded angry. ‘What sort of father would I be?’
Murderer! Tears welled in Ianthe’s eyes, and she fought to keep them back. Her thoughts tumbled over themselves, backwards to the moment when Maskelyne’s men burst into the cell. They were seizing her, Creedy shouting: Get the girl out. Hold the mother till Granger gets back. Maskelyne wants them brought to Scythe together. All these lies for her benefit! And then they were carrying her along the corridor and up the stairs, and she was kicking and spitting, and Granger wasn’t there. Her jailer. Her protector. She cast her mind out, searching for him, but there were too many people in Ethugra. Boots thumping on the stairs. Sunlight. And then she looked out through her mother’s eyes—
‘How large were the dragon-bones?’ Maskelyne asked.
‘What?’
‘Fallen chariots, airbarques, they’re like catnip to dragons. Like gold, or . . .’ He raised his glass and gazed into the swirling amber liquor. ‘You should see how they fight over them. One usually finds that the larger the resident beast, the larger the hoard.’ He downed his drink and poured himself another. ‘Either we were lucky enough to find a deserted site, or the bones down there are trophies and our resident dragon is off hunting somewhere nearby. Unfortunately the latter is more likely. Even the most deranged addict must occasionally leave his hoard of drugs to feed.’
‘He’s not boring you with his dragon stories?’
Ianthe turned to face the voice out of habit, but she saw the new arrival through Maskelyne’s eyes – a slender woman in a simple white dress, she had come into the chamber through a door in the back. Her auburn hair gleamed under the gem lanterns like brandy. Her bright blue eyes sparkled with humour. In her pale arms she cradled a toddler, who gaped at Ianthe for a moment before burrowing its face in its mother’s hair.
‘Tell me that’s not troche she’s drinking,’ the woman said.
‘It’s my best Evensraum red,’ Maskelyne protested. ‘Four hundred gilders a cask.’
The woman came close to Ianthe and smiled. ‘He can be so stingy with his guests.’ She extended her hand. ‘I’m Lucille.’
‘My wife,’ Maskelyne added.
For a brief moment Ianthe found herself holding the woman’s fingers.
Lucille bounced the baby in her arms. ‘And this little tyke is Jontney.’ The boy looked at Ianthe again, then hid his face. ‘Oh don’t be so shy,’ his mother said. She passed Jontney to Maskelyne, who started fussing over him at once.
‘Ming,’ Jontney exclaimed.
‘Have you fed him?’ Maskelyne asked.
‘He’s just being greedy,’ Lucille replied. She turned to Ianthe. ‘Ming is milk.’
‘Agon want ming.’
‘Agon had his ming