The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [116]
Frey looked her over with a raised eyebrow. Her deathly pallor, her butchered hair. “I’ve picked up some hints,” he said. She scowled at him.
People watched them from doorways and alleyways. Mostly men and a few women, their gazes hungry or hostile. This wasn’t a place for strangers. Frey kept his hands near his cutlass and pistols. Trinica didn’t show the slightest sign of being intimidated.
“We’re safe enough,” Trinica said. “Everyone here knows who I am. Nobody will bother us.”
Frey was scarcely reassured. He’d wanted to bring some men along for protection, but Trinica had forbidden it. Smult wouldn’t respond well to that, and he might well be on edge already after the Coalition Navy’s visit.
Frey wasn’t sure who he’d have brought, anyway. Malvery? Too drunk. Harkins? Too cowardly. Pinn? He could barely haul himself out of bed nowadays. Silo was liable to inspire aggravation; Murthians weren’t too popular in Vardia, having fought on the wrong side of the Aerium Wars. That left Jez, who may or may not turn into a raging daemon and tear his head off at an inconvenient moment.
Crake and Bess? Gone. Gone to take care of some business of their own.
He missed them. Difficult as it was to admit, he admired Crake. He respected the daemonist’s smarts, his education, his way of putting things. Crake was a good sort, and those were hard to find in the world Frey lived in.
He could understand Crake’s need to deal with whatever was troubling him. The damage it was doing to him was obvious. These past few months, Frey had watched the daemonist hollowing out in front of his eyes. But he wished they hadn’t had to leave.
The crew of the Ketty Jay was a finely balanced group. Individually, each man and woman was a mess, but together, somehow, they’d found a way to work. The loss of two of their number had thrown everything out of kilter, and the whole operation was beginning to feel as if it was in danger of falling apart.
That scared him. Once, he’d cared only for his aircraft, and his crew had meant less than nothing. Now he had no idea what he’d do without them.
They approached the barricade surrounding the town hall. The guards at the gate recognized Trinica. It was hard not to. There wasn’t a pirate or a criminal in Vardia who hadn’t heard of the white-faced woman with the black outfit and blacker eyes. Her legend went before her.
“I’m here to see Smult,” she said, and they let her in. They barely glanced at Frey. They assumed that the tattered-looking man following in her wake was her bosun or a general dogsbody from her crew. It didn’t do Frey’s pride much good.
A gun-wielding thug met them at the door. He looked Trinica over, dismissed Frey with a snort, collected their weapons, and escorted them inside.
The town hall’s interior was a cross between a junk shop and a treasure trove. The stone corridors were piled high with artifacts and antiques. Strange sculptures and paintings were heaped up in the foyer, peeping out from behind velvet drapes. The sheer variety of objects was bewildering. There were boxes of guns, elaborate game boards with crystal pieces, a section of the chassis from a mechanical carriage, a curving broadsword of foreign design.
“Vases from Thace, armor from Yortland, perfume and necklaces from Samarla,” Trinica murmured as they walked through a narrow aisle between mountains of clutter.
“Bet he doesn’t have a mysterious sphere from Kurg,” said Frey rather childishly.
“Neither do we,” Trinica said. “That’s why we’re here, remember?”
“Your man’s quite a collector, though,” Frey murmured, looking around in wonderment. “This stuff must be worth a fortune.”
“No doubt,” said Trinica. “If you can sift out the valuable bits from the junk.”
“What’s the point of all this? He’s not showing it off. Does he sell it?”
“Not that I know of,” said Trinica. “He just likes to have them.”
Frey shook his head. All that wealth, lying around. Some people weren’t meant to be rich. When it