Read Online Ketty Jay 04 - The Ace of Skulls by Chris Wooding - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chris Wooding
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forcing them to practise the Art in secret or risk being lynched. If the Awakeners won, the persecution would only get worse.
But if they lost, if they were driven out . . . well, what might that mean for daemonism? What great strides in science might they make if daemonists were allowed a university, a library, a place to share their views without fear? Maybe then their profession wouldn’t be so fraught with danger.
Maybe then no more daemonists would have to suffer the tragedy that he had.
‘Ready on the heliograph, Jez,’ said Frey. ‘We want to let ’em know we’re on their side.’
Jez, hunched over her desk, reached for the press-switch by which she could send coded messages. There was a signal light on the Ketty Jay ’s humped back, bright enough to be seen on all but the brightest day. Most aircraft didn’t have the daemon-thralled earcuffs that the Ketty Jay ’s pilots used. It gave the crew an edge that had saved their lives more than once. Crake felt a small sense of pride at that.
Frey picked up a mug of coffee from the dash and sipped at it, watching the windblades approach without much concern. ‘So what do we tell ’em, Pelaru?’
‘Tell them that I am aboard, and I have important information for their leader. He knows me.’
‘Oh yeah? Who’s in charge down there, then?’
‘Kedmund Drave.’
‘Shit! Shit! Ow!’ Frey hissed as he spilt burning coffee over his fingers. He put down the mug and flapped his hand in the air to cool it off. ‘You could have told me that before!’
‘You didn’t ask. You and he have some history, then?’
‘Few years ago, Frey emptied a shotgun into him, point blank,’ said Ashua with a wicked smile. She liked that story.
‘Suffice to say I’m not his favourite person,’ said Frey. ‘Jez, do the business.’
Jez began tapping on the press-switch, signalling to the approaching Windblades. She hadn’t looked up from her desk since Pelaru had entered. The Thacian was making such a show of ignoring her that his interest was obvious to everyone.
What’s going on between with those two? Haven’t they only just met?
Crake cleared his throat. ‘Any, er, any other Century Knights down there apart from Drave?’ he asked Pelaru, as casually as he could manage. Frey cackled knowingly, and he felt his cheeks growing hot.
‘Some, I believe. Morben Kyne. Colden Grudge. Samandra Br—’
Frey clapped his hands and twisted in his seat to grin at Crake. ‘You hear that?’
‘One word, Frey . . .’ Crake warned.
‘What?’ Frey protested innocently. ‘You should be happy. That girl’s a knockout.’
Crake hurried out of the cockpit, face burning, Ashua’s laughter in his ears. Samandra Bree. Spit and blood, just the thought of her made his heart beat faster. Samandra, who he hadn’t seen since she decked him in the Samarlan desert. Samandra: loud, vulgar, wonderful.
As he headed for his cramped quarters, he began calculating how much time he had before landing. Enough to trim his short blond beard and do what he could with his hair. Enough to pick out his best coat and apply a little scent. Enough to make sure his hands were clean and his fingernails clipped.
Samandra.
The dangers of Korrene had paled into insignificance all of a sudden. Today, he was both the happiest man alive, and the most terrified.
The Coalition’s forward base was near the eastern edge of the city, set around a cracked landing pad surrounded by a clutter of ruined buildings and broken streets. There were a dozen craft there, tough military models, Tabingtons and Besterfields. Shuttles flew back and forth from the freighter to the south. Portable anti-aircraft guns scanned the sky.
Half the pad was taken up by the camp. Tractors pulled trailers loaded with crates between the tents. Generals debated over maps. Squads of blue-uniformed men smoked and waited restlessly.
The Windblades escorted the Ketty Jay down. Pinn and Harkins landed their fighters alongside.
But if they lost, if they were driven out . . . well, what might that mean for daemonism? What great strides in science might they make if daemonists were allowed a university, a library, a place to share their views without fear? Maybe then their profession wouldn’t be so fraught with danger.
Maybe then no more daemonists would have to suffer the tragedy that he had.
‘Ready on the heliograph, Jez,’ said Frey. ‘We want to let ’em know we’re on their side.’
Jez, hunched over her desk, reached for the press-switch by which she could send coded messages. There was a signal light on the Ketty Jay ’s humped back, bright enough to be seen on all but the brightest day. Most aircraft didn’t have the daemon-thralled earcuffs that the Ketty Jay ’s pilots used. It gave the crew an edge that had saved their lives more than once. Crake felt a small sense of pride at that.
Frey picked up a mug of coffee from the dash and sipped at it, watching the windblades approach without much concern. ‘So what do we tell ’em, Pelaru?’
‘Tell them that I am aboard, and I have important information for their leader. He knows me.’
‘Oh yeah? Who’s in charge down there, then?’
‘Kedmund Drave.’
‘Shit! Shit! Ow!’ Frey hissed as he spilt burning coffee over his fingers. He put down the mug and flapped his hand in the air to cool it off. ‘You could have told me that before!’
‘You didn’t ask. You and he have some history, then?’
‘Few years ago, Frey emptied a shotgun into him, point blank,’ said Ashua with a wicked smile. She liked that story.
‘Suffice to say I’m not his favourite person,’ said Frey. ‘Jez, do the business.’
Jez began tapping on the press-switch, signalling to the approaching Windblades. She hadn’t looked up from her desk since Pelaru had entered. The Thacian was making such a show of ignoring her that his interest was obvious to everyone.
What’s going on between with those two? Haven’t they only just met?
Crake cleared his throat. ‘Any, er, any other Century Knights down there apart from Drave?’ he asked Pelaru, as casually as he could manage. Frey cackled knowingly, and he felt his cheeks growing hot.
‘Some, I believe. Morben Kyne. Colden Grudge. Samandra Br—’
Frey clapped his hands and twisted in his seat to grin at Crake. ‘You hear that?’
‘One word, Frey . . .’ Crake warned.
‘What?’ Frey protested innocently. ‘You should be happy. That girl’s a knockout.’
Crake hurried out of the cockpit, face burning, Ashua’s laughter in his ears. Samandra Bree. Spit and blood, just the thought of her made his heart beat faster. Samandra, who he hadn’t seen since she decked him in the Samarlan desert. Samandra: loud, vulgar, wonderful.
As he headed for his cramped quarters, he began calculating how much time he had before landing. Enough to trim his short blond beard and do what he could with his hair. Enough to pick out his best coat and apply a little scent. Enough to make sure his hands were clean and his fingernails clipped.
Samandra.
The dangers of Korrene had paled into insignificance all of a sudden. Today, he was both the happiest man alive, and the most terrified.
The Coalition’s forward base was near the eastern edge of the city, set around a cracked landing pad surrounded by a clutter of ruined buildings and broken streets. There were a dozen craft there, tough military models, Tabingtons and Besterfields. Shuttles flew back and forth from the freighter to the south. Portable anti-aircraft guns scanned the sky.
Half the pad was taken up by the camp. Tractors pulled trailers loaded with crates between the tents. Generals debated over maps. Squads of blue-uniformed men smoked and waited restlessly.
The Windblades escorted the Ketty Jay down. Pinn and Harkins landed their fighters alongside.
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