The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [104]
“Because you lot don’t know anything about them, outside of the drunken tales you hear in bars.”
“Fair comment,” said Malvery. “We are a pretty thick bunch, all in all.”
“You’re supposed to be a doctor,” Frey accused. “That makes you smart.”
Malvery shrugged. “I bring up the average. It still ain’t great.”
“You do have Pinn on board,” Crake pointed out.
Frey waved his hands. “Alright, alright! We’ll sort this whole bloody mess out later. Malvery, you’re with me. Crake, stay with Silo and Bess. Make sure nobody comes up behind us. Let’s get what we came for and hoof it before Grist gets wind that we’re planning to rob him.”
Beyond the barricade were scattered heaps of debris, and beyond them the corridor was aflame. Slicks of inflammable fluid sent up hazy curtains of black, foul-smelling smoke. Frey could dimly make out a doorway through the debris, uncomfortably close to the fire.
“You think that’s where our sphere is?” Malvery coughed.
“One way to find out,” said Frey. He hurried through the steaming debris, his arm over his face to shield him from the heat. By the time he got to the doorway, it was too painful to be cautious, so he just ran right in and hoped nobody would shoot him.
The heat lessened to a tolerable degree once he was inside. It was a small storeroom, with shelves of chests and rolls of documents that were getting dangerously close to bursting into flame. A large lockbox in the center stood open and empty.
Malvery hurried in after him, swearing as his mustache singed. He looked around the room, then grabbed Frey’s arm and turned him.
“Wakey wakey, eh, Cap’n?” he said, pointing.
There was an elderly man huddled in the corner of the room, propped against the wall. Frey hadn’t seen him. He was wearing Awakener robes, but they were crimson, not the white of the Speakers or the gray of the Sentinels. That made him an Interpreter, according to Crake. Only one level below the Grand Oracles in the Awakeners’ organization. An important man, then.
A long brown beard tumbled over his chest, almost concealing the sphere he held in his bony hands. Blood ran from his nose and stained his lips. His eyes focused in and out uncertainly beneath the Cipher tattooed on his brow.
“Doesn’t look good for him, Cap’n,” Malvery murmured. “Probably got knocked around in the crash. Broke something inside him.”
“How did …?” the old man said. “The Imperator …”
Frey crouched down in front of him, arms crossed over his knees, looking him over. He tutted. “You shouldn’t play with daemons, you know.”
The Interpreter’s eyes widened. Enough to tell Frey that Crake’s theory was right. Frey put his hand out expectantly. “I believe you have something of mine.”
The old man clutched the sphere closer to his body. His gaze became baleful. “How dare you? Damn thieves!”
“You stole it first,” Frey said.
“You don’t know …” the Interpreter began, then dissolved into violent coughing. Something rattled inside him with every breath. Blood glistened on his beard. “You don’t know what …”
“Alright, alright,” said Frey, holding up his hands. “Easy, old man.”
“You’re meddling with forces you don’t understand!” he snarled.
“That?” asked Frey, looking at the sphere. “I understand a lot of people want it. That makes it valuable.”
“It’s more than valuable, you fool! Do you know what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands?”
“Far as I’m concerned, it’s already in the wrong hands,” said Frey. He grabbed the sphere and pulled it out of the Interpreter’s feeble grip. The old man spluttered in outrage and then he began to cough again, more violently than before.
“Hey!” said Frey, backing off. “Calm down, eh? You’re not in great shape there. Think of your health or something.”
“Thousands …” the old man said, clawing at Frey’s trouser leg. “Thousands will die!”
Frey didn’t like the sound of that at all. “What does that mean?” he demanded.
The Interpreter had gone red in the face, his eyes bulging as if they were going to pop out of his head. His coughs had become long,