The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [148]
“Keep an eye on him,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth.
“Right-o,” said Malvery.
Trinica was looking out of the window that gave a view of the refinery floor. She’d been keeping quiet and out of the way since the Century Knights had first appeared. Frey joined her.
“How’re you doing?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “We should see about speaking to Roke.”
“Better if I do it,” he replied. “Keep you out of the picture. You’re supposed to be a passenger.”
She nodded. “Do what you can.”
She seemed careless of the presence of the Century Knights. It was as if, without her outfit and her makeup, she really was a different person. An alter ego. One that carried no responsibility for the things done by Trinica Dracken, pirate captain. Given her sometimes fractured state of mind, he wondered if she really had separated one from the other. Perhaps, when she put on her disguise of black clothes and white skin, she put on a colder, harder personality with it. It certainly seemed that every day she spent without them, she became more and more like the young woman Frey had once known. Known and loved. But maybe he was just being fanciful.
He approached Samandra, who was talking with Grissom. She stopped when he came near. “Something I can help you with, Captain Frey?”
“I want to see Roke.”
“You do, huh? I wondered when you’d get round to asking. No other reason why you’d be in Endurance that I can see.”
“So, can I?”
“I should warn you, he’s not been the most talkative of souls.”
“I can be persuasive when I try.”
“I’ve no doubt. You’re welcome to talk with him, but I’ll be in there with you. And no rough stuff. He’s a powerful man, and we’re the Archduke’s right hand. Wouldn’t do. You understand?”
“Yeah,” said Frey, vaguely disappointed. Getting answers was so much easier when you could boot your victim all over the room. “I get it.”
She led him down a corridor to another office. The overseers’ area was stark and bare, with as much furniture as was necessary to function and little else. He suspected that the real moneymakers in the company had plusher offices elsewhere, away from the noise and stink of a refinery in full flow.
Sitting behind a desk, writing a letter, was Almore Roke. He was an erect, imperious-looking man with a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard. One eyebrow drooped, giving him an expression that suggested permanent suspicion. He wore a neat suit and silver cuff links.
“Who’s this?” he demanded, peering at Frey.
“Captain Darian Frey of the Ketty Jay,” Frey replied. He stepped into the room, and Samandra came with him. “I hear you used to serve on Harvin Grist’s crew.”
Roke tossed down his pen and sat back in his chair, arms crossed petulantly. “This again? What of it?”
“I’m looking for him.”
“So is she,” Roke said, jutting his chin toward Samandra. “Why should I care?”
Roke’s accent was a strange mix of the rough, guttural tones of the commoner and a crisper, fluting aristocratic lilt. A man born poor, now trying to pass himself off as one of the rich. Frey doubted he was fooling anyone.
“I’m wondering if you have in mind any places he might be,” said Frey. “Hideouts he once used, familiar haunts, that kind of thing. It’s very important that we find him.”
“Is it? Why?”
“Because otherwise he might end up killing a lot of people.”
Samandra stared at him in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“That device he’s got. We reckon the Awakeners know what it is. And they seem to think it could cost thousands of lives.”
“I thought it was a power source?” Samandra said.
“So did we. It’s not.”
Roke was watching their exchange with amusement. “I know where he is,” Roke said. “His hideout. If he’s gone to ground, he’s gone there.”
“And?”
“And,” said the businessman, stretching his back, “I’ll tell you after I get an apology from her and on the condition that my guest and I are released and given safe passage to a port of our choice.”
“Your guest? The Sammie?”
“Vulgar term,” said Roke, with a sneer. “They’re a fascinating people, very cultured. A shame the common man