Sea of Ghosts - Alan Campbell [98]
Granger took a moment to catch his breath. His arms ached from the exertion. His own sweat stung his altered skin like vinegar poured into a wound. He felt sore all over, irritable, impatient. His every instinct screamed at him to get away now. Find the bridge, fight your way in if need be – lock the doors, gun the ship’s engines and get out of here. He could turn the Excelsior back into the Glot Madera, run as far as he could before the skeleton crew broke the door down, use a powder bomb to bluff his way out, or just blow himself to hell and take as many of them down with him as he could. But his need for revenge wouldn’t let him leave yet. He took hold of the lanyard behind the gun’s breech and peered out of the hatch again, letting his gaze roam over the milling crowd of jailers, administrators and soldiers. He couldn’t see the emperor anywhere.
A sudden roar came from the launch’s engines. Had Hu already boarded his pilot vessel? Granger couldn’t see him on the deck. He must already be inside. Granger cursed and rubbed madly at his burning eyes. The launch was too low in the water. The grapeshot wouldn’t hit it from this angle. The cannon’s barrel was aimed firmly at the crowd.
But then he spotted the emperor emerging from amidst the group of administrators at the top of the steps. He was still within range.
Granger stepped back from the cannon and pulled the lanyard.
An enormous concussion sounded. The gun carriage slammed backwards against its breech rope. Grapeshot burst out of the barrel, scattering in the air, and tore through the dockside crowds. Through drifting smoke Granger saw dozens of men and women drop, their flesh torn open by the tiny missiles. He glimpsed bloody clothes, scores of wounds. Someone screamed.
Emperor Hu remained standing exactly where he was, clutching his face. And then his bodyguards closed around him and bustled him roughly down the steps towards the waiting launch.
Granger had missed his target.
He cursed again. Then he snatched up the remaining powder cartridges, and ran with them to the nearest ladder. He climbed up and hurried through the crew quarters, his heart thumping wildly. Near the rear of the ship he found a stairwell that looked likely to take him up to the bridge. But as he started to climb, he came face to face with another man who had been rushing in the opposite direction.
The insignia on the man’s white uniform marked him as the first officer. When he saw Granger he halted abruptly and his eyes widened with alarm. ‘You . . .’ he began. But he couldn’t find the words to finish his sentence. Granger, with his scorched flesh and howling red eyes, must have made a terrifying spectacle.
The officer suddenly reached for the pistol at his belt.
Granger kicked the man’s legs out from under him.
He fell back heavily onto the stairs. He fumbled for his pistol again.
Granger snatched the seeing knife from the band of his breeches and plunged it upwards into the other man’s neck. He pinned the officer’s arms with his knees, holding the dying man down while he choked and gurgled on his own lifeblood. It was over in a moment.
Granger wiped the seeing knife clean on the officer’s uniform and carried on up the stairwell.
He reached the top of the stairwell without further incident, clutched the powder cartridges close to his chest, and flung open the door to the bridge. It was empty. Three outward-sloping glass windows composed of innumerable tiny panes offered views to port and starboard, and ahead across the Excelsior’s foredeck to the Haurstaf warship berthed further out from the quayside. A sweeping control bank of lacquered wood and gold piping curved around the silver and bone ship’s wheel. The rear wall had been exquisitely