Chapter 9 - The Kraken Gate
I awoke at four bells. A quarter of a bell later, it was clear that the prospect of sleep had vanished, like a cutpurse with a gentleman’s pocket-money. Besides, Tyrone Rendish and Edgar Finnian were waiting for me in my dreams, and I had no wish to return to the task of reassembling them from their scattered body parts.
I rose, donned a simple pair of drawers and a man’s vest, and then began my morning exercises. Souficla is many things, but at its core, it instills self-confidence through mastery of one’s own mind and body. “I move, therefore I am,” is one of the key tenets. I began with the unata, and worked my way up through briata to the caneta forms, carefully controlling the cadence of my breathing. At first, I was unable to clear my head of dead employees, but as the caneta gave way to the drameda, and my movements became faster, I fell under the spell of the unending shapes of life. Calm descended as the forms possessed me. I saw nothing, yet felt everything; the floorboard, the joists, the foundations of my home and the rocky ground beneath it, the air moving across my hands and my own breathing as it echoed against the envelope of the room. Reluctantly, I pulled out before the start of the final form which required a lot of robust floor-work, the noise of which would have woken the neighbours.
I splashed myself with some water and pulled on a pair of khaki jodhpurs. A plain ivory-coloured blouse and red silk neck scarf followed for my top half. By the time I entered the dining room, Mrs. Underhill was serving breakfast. I made a show of being concerned while she pointed out that my demand to have everything packed in two days was unreasonable.
‘Your clothes haven’t had time to dry properly on the airer, Miss,’ she complained. Mrs. Underhill understood that I preferred the title ‘Ms.’, but was profoundly incapable of using it. ‘It’s not good to fold them when they’re damp. Make sure you unpack and hang them up as soon as you get to your destination. I can’t be held responsible if they go to mildew.’
I promised my housekeeper that I would take good care of my possessions when I reached Lannerville. As annoyed as I was to be chided by Mrs. Underhill, I got the sense that she was worried about me. She knew that I was in some way connected with the previous day’s explosion, and could only express her concern through the care of my wardrobe. Or perhaps I was reading too much into it.
My irritation at the interference imposed on us by Chancellor Gordon had faded, but I was still angry that Lieutenant Scott, of all people, was involved. The contract with Director Harman had been too good to be true. Now things were set to get more complicated. I was also furious at my own reaction to seeing Benjamin again. With time to prepare myself, I was sure I could have managed an air of detachment. Instead I had sounded petulant and unprofessional. I cursed Aripole’s legacy. It was all very well inheriting poise and grace from the female half of our divine couple but to make a business and thrive independently sometimes required, well…balls. At least that’s what I assumed was responsible for the insufferable arrogance that most successful men seem to exude. They would have handled yesterday’s surprise meeting better than I had. I wanted to hate them for their Draxil-blessed swagger but instead I felt only grudging admiration.
Mrs. Underhill sighed, waking me from my introspection.
‘Is it the job that’s troubling you?’ I asked. ‘Your services are paid up until the twelfth-cycle. The work in Lannerville should be done by then so I expect I’ll be back. There’s precious little in my line of work in the provinces.’
‘Thank you ever so much, Miss,’ replied Mrs. Underhill, and set forth again with her usual breathless style of delivery. ‘That is reassuring. I was dreadful worried last night so I wrote a letter to my brother and begged him to let me stay with him for a few cycles while I found some temporary employment.’
This thought obviously overwhelmed her for a moment because she dabbed an eye with a pale blue kerchief. ‘It’s not a good time to be looking for work what with the war and everything,’ she added. ‘Everyone is waiting to see what will happen you see.’
‘It’s probably nothing more that the usual posturing. Anyway, you needn’t worry, Mrs. Underhill, I’ll send for you if I’m detained in Lannerville beyond the end of the year. I don’t see how I can manage without you for more than a cycle or two. I’m sure there will be space. I’m told that the mansion is huge.’
‘Oh that is a pleasing thought I’d be ever so quiet. You’d hardly know I was there.’
‘Excellent! Now, why don’t we check the baggage?’
Mrs. Underhill led me through an inspection of the packing she’d done. Everything was in the front sitting room, ready to go.
‘Miss Derringer, would you like me to get your, err…work things ready to go?’
I smiled at my housekeeper. ‘No. That won’t be necessary. Probably best if I take care of that myself.’ She was referring to the trunk that held various tools of the trade. Some of the contents even made me nervous. I wondered if Mrs. Underhill would stay on if she really knew what was in that brown leather-clad trunk. She had collected everything together in one of the spare rooms.
‘That way the porters can’t leave anything behind,’ she explained.
‘Very practical, Mrs. Underhill,’ I told her. ‘I’ll move the trunk in here too.’
After a lecture on what was in each valise, I was finally left to myself. I returned to my bedroom, unlocked the trunk and set about removing everything from it.
First out was something that looked like a wooden cigar box, but larger. It was heavier too, thanks to six stick grenades I’d acquired via Emberly’s black market. I put it on the floor. A set of six throwing knives rolled in waxed canvas went onto the bed. They were a gift from the ambassador of Gulreimia for my company’s work, keeping the Prince safe. They were fine quality steel of a simple design, exquisitely weighted, and engraved with a tribal charm requesting clean flight. I smiled, thinking that, as fine as they were, they couldn’t compare with the two Gulreimian gentlemen whom the prince had personally released from his service to come and work for me. Four waxed packs of dynamite followed, each holding six sticks, then there was a cardboard box holding thirty-six fuse cords. Finally, a pair of revolvers and eight boxes of cartridges all came out of the chest before I could haul it downstairs to the sitting room.
I made several more trips with the contents, and repacked everything using spare lengths of linen that Mrs. Underhill had thoughtfully provided. I don’t like things that rattle when they’re being transported.
Finally, I fetched my cutlass from its place in the hallway and laid it with the other items that were travelling with me to Lannerville. Leaving it behind was unthinkable. Soldiers entering into the marines are required to bring their own cutlass, so that its value is understood, and will therefore be properly cared for. My father had paid for mine, in spite of his doubts over my choice of career. It was a fine example of northern workmanship. It consisted of a blade of Caddrian steel set into an ironwood grip. Its hand guard was also steel, engraved with a seahorse motif, and edged with a tracer of gold-leaf. It had served me well in Kontepract, and during the Siege of Belcando. Every scratch on the scabbard was as reminder, sharp as broken glass, of war.
Suddenly, I was struggling to breathe. I dropped my blade and sat heavily, no longer in control of my limbs. I missed the armchair on the way down…mostly, but the only things occupying my mind, as I pitched sideways onto the parquet floor, were mud and bullets. The trenches were sodden mires. It had been raining for days. Fox Company were holding, but there were only seven of us left. Larkin had taken a bullet to the head. Kipper Henderson and Thappsan gazed sightless at the sky in the midst of a pile of enemy soldiers, bayonetted as they had tried to swarm our position. I was vaguely aware of my own hand curling and uncurling…arm reaching for my cutlass before the next wave came at us.
Confusingly, a coach and two horses were flying at me through the quagmire. Carriage wheels crushed fallen combatants into the rank puddles. I could see myself ahead, next in line to be knocked down. When I cried out, no sound emerged, and so the other me was trampled into the mud.
The vision fractured. The trenches dissolved and I was back in Poplar Square. A gunshot sounded and Larkin’s head snapped back | snapped back | snapped back. Larkin’s head… No! It’s a flashback, Connie. A messy jumble of images from the past. Snap out of it.
I became aware of the room again, gradually. Lying on my side, gasping. Staying horizontal seemed like a good idea, so I remained on the floor, staring at the underside of the sofa. Small strands of hessian hung down beneath it. Three matches were also taking shelter there; one spent. Untidy. But out of sight. Although my breathing began to ease, my mind remained fixed on yesterday’s bizarre accident. Had it been an accident? If so, what had made the sound of a gunshot? I had seen nothing out of place on the day. Then again, I’d been diving aside to avoid getting turned into paste, and then I’d been busy wiping blood from cut in my forehead.
The sound of Mrs. Underhill’s footsteps spurred me into action.
‘Is everything alright, Miss. Derringer? Only I heard a noise.’ My housekeeper wiped her hands on her apron.
I was on my knees, placing the wrapped bundle of my throwing knives into my satchel. Lying on top of everything else in the trunk, it was the first thing that came to hand.
‘I dropped this, Mrs. Underhill. Everything is fine. Thank you.’
Mrs. Underhill smiled and departed. I left the throwing knives in my satchel. I couldn’t imagine them being much use, but my natural suspicions persuaded me to carry something. I reorganised the items in the satchel; a purse, a kerchief, a small mirror and such things, so that the knives lay beneath them all. My flashback had unnerved me. After further consideration, I loaded one of my pistols and placed it in the bag as well.
On the way out, I collected a long woollen cloak that could be used to hide my trousers, giving me a more feminine look. The Republic had swept away many of the Empire’s ridiculous strictures, but many people remained stuck in the past, people that I needed to avoid if I was to make it to Lannerville without attracting unwanted attention. What I would not compromise on were my leather boots, so I buckled them on and set out off for Lockhouse Security’s office.
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