The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [124]
Strange times, he thought. But times had been strange since the Aerium Wars began. Frey didn’t trouble himself with the big picture too much. Let the world take care of itself, and he’d do the same. That was his usual philosophy, anyway. Yet, somehow, here he was at Bestwark University, waiting to meet a colleague of Grist’s father’s. All in the name of chasing down that Mane sphere before Grist did anything too terrible with it. And where was the profit in that?
Nowhere. Except that maybe he’d be able to sleep at night, knowing he’d at least tried to prevent a disaster he’d had a hand in causing.
Smult’s information had given them a few leads, even if the scumbag had subsequently sold them down the river. Grist was likely on the northern coast somewhere. That was the best place to start asking after him. But before they went flying about, freezing their pods off in the arctic air, Frey wanted to have a word with Daddy. See if he could narrow the search a bit.
So they’d flown over to Bestwark. Trinica had composed a polite letter of introduction. They didn’t want to alarm Grist’s father, so they pretended to be scholars interested in discussing his research. She gave false names, just to be safe.
They’d had the letter delivered to the university. The next day, they received a reply from a man called Professor Kraylock, inviting them to meet him. Trinica was surprised at the speed of the response, but neither of them was of a mind to question their luck.
Trinica had disappeared from the Ketty Jay early that morning, to “make some preparations.” She left word that she’d meet Frey at the university café. So Frey went alone, rather nervously. The gate guard had his name on a list, and he was allowed through. He made his way in and settled there to wait, feeling slightly cowed by the whole experience.
He looked around for Trinica, saw no one, and returned to hiding behind his broadsheet. His eye fell on an article that caught his interest. The Meteorologist’s Guild in Thesk was predicting a resurgence in the Great Storm Belt, the vicious weather system that ran across the Ordic Abyssal and separated the continent of Pandraca from the islands on the far side of the planet. The Aviator’s Guild feared that New Vardia and Jagos could become even more isolated if aircraft were forced to take the eastern route instead. That would involve circumnavigating almost two-thirds of the globe, and it was prohibitively fuel-expensive, not to mention dangerous.
“Anything interesting?” It was Trinica’s voice. He closed the broadsheet and looked up at her. And kept on looking.
“Darian, you’re staring,” she said. A gentle admonishment. Her expression was a little awkward, uncertain, embarrassed. Not exactly the emotions he’d associate with Trinica Dracken, pirate captain.
But he couldn’t help it. Whoever this was in front of him, it was not the woman he’d last seen on the Ketty Jay.
She’d transformed herself. The chalk-white pallor and vulgar red lipstick had gone. She wore only the slightest hint of makeup now. Her hair, which had been butchered as if with a blunt knife, had been cut into a short, fashionable style. The black contact lenses had disappeared. Her eyes were green, the way he remembered them. She was wearing a light, summery dress that exposed her pale collarbones.
It was like the past come to life. A vision of the woman he’d loved all that time ago. Oh, there were differences: ten years had passed, after all. Tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. Her face a little leaner than before, cheekbones a fraction sharper. And her hair was different, of course. But none of that was anything to him. Damn, his heart was actually beating harder at the sight of her.
“Are you alright?” she