The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [133]
“Understood,” said Crake. He could barely force the word out through the dread that took hold of him.
“I need hardly remind you to be discreet,” said the doctor.
“No,” he said. “You needn’t.”
The doctor gave him an uncertain look, noticing his distress. He made no comment. Instead, he opened the door and went through. Crake followed.
The room was tiled and white and grubby. Three gurneys were positioned against the far wall, three shapes underneath, covered by white cloths. The doctor passed from one to the other, pulling the cloths away.
Lying there were three little girls, their skin white, eyes staring upward. All of them Bess’s age when she died, or thereabouts. Each had a Y-shaped row of stitches running from shoulders to breastbone to pelvis. So appallingly young and innocent. Crake stared at them, horror constricting his throat. Shame and self-loathing filled him. He reeled and steadied himself against the door frame.
I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t …
“Well?” said the doctor, indicating the corpses. “Which one did you want?”
MEANINGFUL CONVERSATIONS—JEZ CLEARS THE AIR—THE HAPPY AMPUTEE—A NEW LEAD—DEPARTURES
arduk was a cold, bleak, and bitter place, even with summer coming on. It was the northernmost of the Nine Duchies of Vardia, sharing a mountain border to the west with Yortland, which was the only colder place on the continent. Cruel winds blew down from the arctic, off the Poleward Sea. The month of Thresh had begun, heralding the start of the summer, but there was little of summer here.
Frey and Trinica walked along winding, slushy trails. Beyond the nearby buildings, snowcapped mountains rose hard and black. It was not yet dusk, but the peaks had swallowed the sun, and the town of Raggen Crag was in twilight.
Neither had spoken for a long time. Wrapped in thick hide coats with furred hoods pulled over their heads, they wandered the paths of Raggen Crag without purpose or intention. It was enough just to walk.
Lights glowed in the windows of the houses, which had been built in groups, huddled together for warmth. The sound of rumbling industrial boilers could be heard within. The roofs and roads were piled with drifts of dirty snow. Black arctic birds swung overhead or sat on the heating pipes and puffed up their feathers.
It was a grim and simple settlement, like many others Frey had visited lately. They must have hit twenty-five towns in the last thirty days, and still Grist eluded them. There were sightings, hints—enough evidence to keep them in the chase—but nothing that had brought them closer to their target.
Every day, Frey scoured the broadsheets. But there was no sign of any disaster. No doomsday weapon unleashed.
What was Grist up to? What did he mean to do with the sphere he’d stolen? What was he waiting for?
If Frey was frustrated, his crew was doubly so. They were tired and bored. None of them cared about this mission the way he did. Nobody wanted to be dragged around a miserable duchy like Marduk while summer was wasting in the south. Pinn was almost permanently drunk, and Malvery had taken to joining him. Harkins was hardly ever seen on the Ketty Jay; he only came on board for brief visits, and even then he was so skittish that Frey could barely get a sensible word out of him. Silo was his usual self. Jez stayed out of everyone’s way. Crake and Bess were gone.
But there was Trinica. At least there was Trinica.
Having Trinica on board hadn’t been easy at first. No matter how much they tried to get on, their history always lay between them. The specter of their unborn child kept them apart. Neither could forgive the other for that. There were so many sharp edges to their conversations.
But they persisted, driven by their common cause. Their encounters with Osric Smult and Professor Kraylock had convinced them that they needed each other if they wanted to find Grist. In the