The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [143]
Frey shot him a poisonous glance and wished him a horrible death by venereal disease.
“They ain’t mercs,” said a grizzled voice from behind them. A middle-aged man was striding forward. He was stout as an oak, with white hair and white stubble on his unshaven cheeks. By the way the others deferred to him, Frey pegged him as their leader. “We saw ’em fly in, didn’t we? You saw their wings. Mercs wouldn’t fly a piece o’ shit like that.”
Frey bit his tongue. Even though it was a point in his favor, he was tempted to argue out of pride. “See?” he said, his voice strained. “Not mercs. Now, can I ask what in rotting bastardy is going on here?”
The grizzled man waved at his companions and they stepped back, returning to a state of wary readiness.
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “Name’s Oldrew Sprine. Yours?”
“Darian Frey.”
“Right. Now your friend Roke—”
“Not my friend,” Frey interjected quickly.
“—he’s the big cheese in these parts. Took his ill-gotten pirate gains and went into a different kind o’ piracy. Robbin’ the common folk.”
“Sounds like a despicable sort,” Frey commiserated.
Sprine sneered. “This town is greased wi’ the blood, sweat, and tears of miners like us. Roke is the company’s representative here.”
“The company?”
“Gradmuth Operations.”
“I’ve heard of them. Big aerium suppliers to the Navy,” Trinica said.
Sprine grunted. “ ’Cept it’s not just the Navy they’re supplyin’. It’s them pus-arsed Sammies!”
Frey raised an eyebrow. Vards supplying Samarlans? Their old enemies in the south, the same people they’d recently fought two wars against? It didn’t sound especially likely.
“Soon as we got word, we was up in arms,” Sprine said. He spat on the ground. “It’s not enough that they pay us barely enough to feed our families. Not enough that they work us harder every day. Now they’re makin’ traitors of us too!”
Frey was pleased to note that nobody seemed to want to shoot them anymore. He glanced at Trinica, to be sure she was alright. She didn’t seem the least bit scared.
“I heard the Century Knights were here?” he asked.
“Aye, they turned up quick-smart, didn’t they?” said Sprine. “Always do when they’re protectin’ the rich folk. Don’t turn up so fast when it’s the miners in trouble. They’re holed up in the refinery with Roke and the rest of the company folk.”
“So these mercs … they work for Gradmuth Operations?”
“Aye. Paid killers.”
“Well,” said Frey, indicating the disheveled doctor by his side. “I think you can see by the state of us that we haven’t been paid by anyone in a long time.”
Sprine looked them over. “Aye. You’ve a point there.”
Frey fixed his eyes on a point a dozen meters behind Sprine. “In fact, if we were mercenaries, we’d probably look more like that.”
Sprine laughed. “You don’t expect me to fall for thaaa AARGH?!” he bellowed, and then pitched forward into Frey as he was shot in the leg.
Pandemonium. The deafening, percussive sound of rifle fire. The air was full of snow and bullets and the stink of gun smoke.
Malvery heaved Sprine off Frey as the miner fought to untangle his rifle and find a target. The mercenaries, dressed in blue uniforms, were shooting round the corner at the end of the alley. Frey and Malvery went the other way, toward the miners. Malvery dragged his captain toward the wall, as far out of the line of fire as they could go. Hard chips nipped at Frey’s cheeks as bullets bounced off the stone.
He cast around desperately for Trinica and saw her being bundled away by Silo. The miners were in disarray, some of them shooting and others retreating, falling over one another. One lay on the ground, staring upward, a fanned spatter of red blood on the snow. Everyone was yelling.
Frey and Malvery slid along the wall, pressing themselves close to it. Bullets flew past them in both directions. Some of them thumped into flesh, but thankfully none of it belonged to Frey.
Then they were behind the miners, their heads down, running. The miners were too caught up in their gunfight with the mercs to care about prisoners now. Frey threw himself