The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [62]
Crake turned up the collar of his greatcoat and raised his hand again, knuckles bunched to rap on the wood. His skin was clammy and his palms were damp. Everything felt closed in and unreal, as if seen through a camera lens. The taste of whiskey still lingered in his mouth. His heart skipped a beat now and then. It was a distressing new development that he’d noticed lately, usually when he was hungover.
I shouldn’t have come here.
He thought about making up an excuse. He could rejoin the crew in the morning and tell them he’d tried and failed. No harm done. Maybe it was better they didn’t find Dracken anyway.
But he wouldn’t lie to his friends like some common scoundrel. That would be too much of an injury to his pride.
Pride? A failed daemonist, drinking himself numb? Where’s the pride in that?
Self-disgust spurred him on. He knocked on the door.
“You told them you’d do this,” he murmured to himself. “What’s a man, if he doesn’t do what he says he will?”
He heard footsteps, and the door was opened to reveal a short, round man in a brocaded jacket, wearing a pince-nez. He was bald on top of his head, but a thin fringe of gray hair fell to his collar. His eyes bulged at the sight of Crake.
“Rot and damnation, will you get out of sight!” he snapped. He grabbed Crake by the arm and yanked him inside, then looked both ways up the alley and shut the door.
“A pleasure to see you too, Plome,” said Crake, smoothing out his coat and admiring the hallway. “How have you been?”
“You can’t keep turning up on my doorstep like this!” Plome spluttered. “There are procedures for this sort of thing! A letter, a clandestine rendezvous, disguises! Be more circumspect, won’t you?”
“Noted, Plome,” said Crake. “But I’m here now, and nobody saw me. Will you please relax?”
Plome produced a frilled handkerchief and mopped his brow. “I’m running for the House of Chancellors, you know,” he said.
“I didn’t,” Crake replied. “Congratulations.”
Plome harrumphed and flounced into the sitting room. “The slightest whiff of scandal, do you understand? The slightest whiff could ruin me.”
Crake followed him in. The sitting room, like the hallway, was paneled in dark wood and hung with portraits. Two armchairs sat to either side of an unlit fireplace, with a lacquered side table between them. Plome went to the liquor cabinet and pulled the stopper from a crystal decanter.
“I’m sorry,” said Crake. “I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t in desperate need.”
Plome poured two glasses of brandy and held one out to Crake. Crake had intended to resist the temptation of alcohol—he’d need a clear head for the night’s work—but his resistance crumbled at the sight of it. A clear head was no good without steady nerves, after all, and he didn’t want to risk causing offense by refusing. He took a sip and felt a bloom of warmth and well-being.
“As you see, we have electricity in Tarlock Cove at last,” said Plome, indicating the light fixtures. “And a great improvement it is too.”
Crake made an admiring noise. It wasn’t news to him; he’d seen it mentioned in a sidebar in the broadsheets months ago. He wouldn’t have come otherwise.
Last time he’d visited, Tarlock Cove had run exclusively on gas. The portable generators that provided many remote settlements with electricity had been outlawed. They were too noisy for a picturesque coastal town, and they put out unpleasant fumes. Instead, the town’s founders had built a small, quiet power plant and now charged the residents for their supply. It was the way it was done in the cities, and it was rapidly spreading to smaller settlements as the technology became cheaper.
Crake was all for progress in that regard. He needed a steady flow of electricity for what