The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [83]
“Had a few, have we?” Frey whispered, with a suppressed threat in his voice.
“I was enjoying the company of a beautiful woman,” Crake slurred.
“I told you to stay sharp.”
“I am sharp.”
“You’d better be.” He looked around to be sure nobody was nearby, but the parlor was largely empty now. Pomfrey was studying his cards with an expression of fierce concentration, the tip of his tongue poking out the side of his mouth.
“Grand Oracle, my friend here has something to show you.”
Crake went white. “Not here!” he whispered. “What if it goes wrong?”
“He’s drunk. It’ll be fine,” Frey assured him under his breath. “Grand Oracle!”
Pomfrey looked up, startled to find himself at a card table. “What? Er, oh, yes. Sorry. Pardon me.”
“I said, my friend has something to show you,” Frey repeated. “A quite remarkable gold tooth he has.”
Crake glared at his captain, then turned his attention to Pomfrey and grinned his best grin.
“Oh,” said Pomfrey, not impressed in the slightest.
“Why don’t you have a closer look?” Frey urged.
“Spit and blood, Mr. Frey, you are acting awfully strange all of a …” Pomfrey trailed off as he caught sight of his reflection in Crake’s smile. “My,” he said. “That is a very nice tooth.”
Crake kept grinning as the Grand Oracle’s eyes glazed further, slipping from drunken to mesmerized.
“Now,” said Frey. “I’ve got a couple of questions.”
———
THEY LEFT THE TABLE soon afterward. Crake felt faintly nauseous from using his daemon-thralled tooth while drunk. Before he left, he made sure that Pomfrey remembered nothing of what had been said. Frey scooped up the money on the table for good measure, since the Grand Oracle would be in no state to recall whether he won or lost in the morning. After that, they found Amalicia and made their exit.
Crake was wounded to note that Samandra Bree had left too, without saying goodbye. He hoped he hadn’t said anything foolish to her. He couldn’t remember most of the last hour or so of their conversation. Rot and damnation! He’d never meant to drink so much, but he’d got carried away in her company.
She was just so bloody charming, that was the problem. The lively twinkle in her eyes, that mischievous mouth of hers. He didn’t mind admitting he was quite taken by her. It had been a long while since he’d had any interest in the fairer sex. He wasn’t sure if it was the drink or the memory of Samandra that was making him dizzy as he sat in the back of the motorized carriage, heading for the private landing pad where the guests’ aircraft waited.
The sight of Frey sitting opposite soured his thoughts. He was angry at being pulled away from Samandra and missing his chance to say goodbye. He was doubly angry that Frey had made him use his gold tooth in a place like that. If the Grand Oracle hadn’t been so drunk, he might have realized what was being done to him. A daemonist, unmasked in the midst of a house full of Awakeners? He’d have been hung for sure.
The Cap’n was losing perspective. That sphere had come to mean more to him than just the prospect of a fortune. He was chasing something else, and chasing it hard. But Crake wasn’t sure if even Frey knew what that something was.
SLAG’S AMBUSH—THE GREAT OUTDOORS—A STEALTHY EXIT—FREY’S CHIVALRY IS TESTED
he rooms and corridors of the Ketty Jay were the domain of the lumbering, strange-smelling entities that Slag deigned to share his aircraft with. He suffered their presence when it suited him, but usually he avoided them, preferring to remain in his own kingdom, the maze of vents and pipes and maintenance crawlways that ran behind the walls of the aircraft. He was the terror of the rats and mice that bred there, and he ruled with a red claw.
Tonight, he had bigger prey in mind.
The room was in darkness. On the top bunk, the fat one was snoring hard enough to inhale his blankets. Below him, the scrawny one lay quite still, breathing deep and slow.
Slag watched