Read Online Ketty Jay 04 - The Ace of Skulls by Chris Wooding - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chris Wooding
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They’d barely touched the ground before a half-dozen men came heading over, led by the formidable figure of Kedmund Drave.
‘Let’s get out there and meet our fans,’ said Frey, who seemed rather jolly at the prospect of an argument.
They assembled down in the cargo hold, all but Bess, whom Crake had left dormant and hidden in the back. He thought it best if she stayed asleep: she wasn’t much help in delicate negotiations.
Silo pulled the lever and the cargo ramp opened up. The stink of prothane and aerium gas slipped in from outside, along with the noise of men and machines.
‘Best smiles, everyone,’ said Frey, and they followed him down to meet the welcoming committee.
Kedmund Drave was a man with a fearful reputation. He was the Archduke’s attack dog: stern, implacable, ruthless. They said he could smell treason; they said he could look into a man’s heart and root out a lie. And when you saw him, you believed it. He had a face that looked like it had never known a smile, cheek and throat scarred, eyes grey as stone, cropped hair the same colour. He wore close-fitting crimson armour beneath a dust-stained black cloak, a two-handed sword across his back, pistols at his waist.
‘Captain Frey,’ he said. ‘Just when I thought I had trouble enough.’
‘There’s always room for a bit more,’ said Frey. ‘How are you, Drave? Been a while.’
‘And haven’t you been busy since?’ said Drave, with an unmistakably dangerous insinuation which Crake didn’t much like.
Crake’s eyes went to the man standing nearby. Many of the Century Knights were familiar to the public through ferrotypes and broadsheets or children’s trading cards. Morben Kyne’s was a picture that nobody forgot.
He was cloaked in black like Drave, but his armour was even finer, delicately moulded to his body, the colour of burnished copper. A large-bore pistol that was more like a cannon hung at his hip, along with a pair of exquisite shortblades.
But it was his face that was most arresting; or rather, the lack of it. A deep cowl hid him partially, but Crake could still see the bronze mask beneath. It was smooth but etched with rows of tiny, strange symbols. The mouthpiece was rectangular and protruded slightly, like the radiator grille of a motorised carriage, giving him a mechanical look. And indeed, he might have been some kind of automaton, for there was not a millimetre of skin to be seen. Artificial eyes shone from the shadow within the cowl, pallid green glitters in the dark.
‘Pelaru,’ said Drave, switching his attention to the whispermonger. ‘Didn’t expect to find you keeping such company.’
‘Captain Frey graciously agreed to escort me to you,’ Pelaru replied. ‘I have information.’
‘Don’t you always? And what’s your price?’
‘That we can discuss in private.’
Crake stopped listening to the conversation as he caught sight of the woman striding purposefully towards them across the landing pad. His insides fluttered with delighted fear.
It was her.
She was dressed with typical practicality. Grubby coat, scuffed boots, hide trousers. Twin lever-action shotguns, a cutlass at her belt. And that tricorn hat, made famous by the Press and ten thousand ferrotypes. She walked right up to him, ignoring Drave and the others.
There was intention in her step. He suddenly realised she was going to hit him again.
‘Miss Bree,’ he began to protest in an embarrassingly high voice. ‘I think you should—’
She swept off her hat, her dark hair falling free, then grabbed the back of his head and kissed him on the mouth. After a moment she let him go, stared hard into his eyes.
‘You,’ she told him firmly, ‘are late.’
Frey laughed. Drave made a noise of exasperated disgust. Pinn called him a jammy turd.
‘Mind if I borrow him?’ she asked Frey. ‘You kept him from me long enough.’
‘Be my guest,’ said Frey, smiling. ‘Just bring him back in one piece.’
‘Comin’?’ she asked
‘Let’s get out there and meet our fans,’ said Frey, who seemed rather jolly at the prospect of an argument.
They assembled down in the cargo hold, all but Bess, whom Crake had left dormant and hidden in the back. He thought it best if she stayed asleep: she wasn’t much help in delicate negotiations.
Silo pulled the lever and the cargo ramp opened up. The stink of prothane and aerium gas slipped in from outside, along with the noise of men and machines.
‘Best smiles, everyone,’ said Frey, and they followed him down to meet the welcoming committee.
Kedmund Drave was a man with a fearful reputation. He was the Archduke’s attack dog: stern, implacable, ruthless. They said he could smell treason; they said he could look into a man’s heart and root out a lie. And when you saw him, you believed it. He had a face that looked like it had never known a smile, cheek and throat scarred, eyes grey as stone, cropped hair the same colour. He wore close-fitting crimson armour beneath a dust-stained black cloak, a two-handed sword across his back, pistols at his waist.
‘Captain Frey,’ he said. ‘Just when I thought I had trouble enough.’
‘There’s always room for a bit more,’ said Frey. ‘How are you, Drave? Been a while.’
‘And haven’t you been busy since?’ said Drave, with an unmistakably dangerous insinuation which Crake didn’t much like.
Crake’s eyes went to the man standing nearby. Many of the Century Knights were familiar to the public through ferrotypes and broadsheets or children’s trading cards. Morben Kyne’s was a picture that nobody forgot.
He was cloaked in black like Drave, but his armour was even finer, delicately moulded to his body, the colour of burnished copper. A large-bore pistol that was more like a cannon hung at his hip, along with a pair of exquisite shortblades.
But it was his face that was most arresting; or rather, the lack of it. A deep cowl hid him partially, but Crake could still see the bronze mask beneath. It was smooth but etched with rows of tiny, strange symbols. The mouthpiece was rectangular and protruded slightly, like the radiator grille of a motorised carriage, giving him a mechanical look. And indeed, he might have been some kind of automaton, for there was not a millimetre of skin to be seen. Artificial eyes shone from the shadow within the cowl, pallid green glitters in the dark.
‘Pelaru,’ said Drave, switching his attention to the whispermonger. ‘Didn’t expect to find you keeping such company.’
‘Captain Frey graciously agreed to escort me to you,’ Pelaru replied. ‘I have information.’
‘Don’t you always? And what’s your price?’
‘That we can discuss in private.’
Crake stopped listening to the conversation as he caught sight of the woman striding purposefully towards them across the landing pad. His insides fluttered with delighted fear.
It was her.
She was dressed with typical practicality. Grubby coat, scuffed boots, hide trousers. Twin lever-action shotguns, a cutlass at her belt. And that tricorn hat, made famous by the Press and ten thousand ferrotypes. She walked right up to him, ignoring Drave and the others.
There was intention in her step. He suddenly realised she was going to hit him again.
‘Miss Bree,’ he began to protest in an embarrassingly high voice. ‘I think you should—’
She swept off her hat, her dark hair falling free, then grabbed the back of his head and kissed him on the mouth. After a moment she let him go, stared hard into his eyes.
‘You,’ she told him firmly, ‘are late.’
Frey laughed. Drave made a noise of exasperated disgust. Pinn called him a jammy turd.
‘Mind if I borrow him?’ she asked Frey. ‘You kept him from me long enough.’
‘Be my guest,’ said Frey, smiling. ‘Just bring him back in one piece.’
‘Comin’?’ she asked
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