The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,134

on the Ketty Jay.

'Stay put,' he whispered. 'Too many of 'em.'

'No whisperin'!' snapped one of their captors.

Frey decided that they weren't in imminent danger of being killed by someone with an itchy trigger finger, so it was time to get some answers. 'Who are you lot, anyway?' he asked.

'We should be askin' you that.'

'We're visitors. Looking for someone. Whatever little spat you've got going on here, it's no business of ours.'

'Lookin' for someone? Who?'

'Feller named Almore Roke. You know him?'

There were exclamations of surprise and horror, and a clatter of rifles being primed. Frey stared nervously at the cluster of barrels pointed at his head. 'I take it you do?' he said, his voice small.

'I knew they was in league with Roke!' one of the men said.

'I'm not in league with anybody!' Frey babbled rapidly. 'I'm after a man called Harvin Grist. I heard Roke used to be on his crew. He might know where Grist is. I just want information, that's all! No need for the guns! No need for the guns!'

There was silence as they considered him. Frey was aware that his credibility in Trinica's eyes may well have suffered following his less than manly display, but he decided he'd rather be alive than brave.

'They're mercs!' piped up a high voice. Frey saw the skinny boy that had lured them into the ambush. 'Kill 'em!'

Frey shot him a poisonous glance and wished him a horrible death by venereal disease.

'They ain't mercs,' said a grizzled voice from behind them. A middle-aged man was striding forward. He was stout as an oak, with white hair and white stubble on his unshaven cheeks. By the way the others deferred to him, Frey pegged him as their leader. 'We saw 'em fly in, didn't we? You saw their wings. Mercs wouldn't fly a piece o' shit like that.'

Frey bit his tongue. Even though it was a point in his favour, he was tempted to argue out of pride.

'See?' he said, his voice strained. 'Not mercs. Now can I ask what in rotting bastardy is going on here?'

The grizzled man waved at his companions and they stepped back, returning to a state of wary readiness.

'I'll tell you,' he said. 'Name's Oldrew Sprine. Yours?'

'Darian Frey.'

'Right. Now your friend Roke—'

'Not my friend,' Frey interjected quickly.

'—he's the big cheese in these parts. Took his ill-gotten pirate gains and went into a different kind o' piracy. Robbin' the common folk.'

'Sounds like a despicable sort,' Frey commiserated.

Sprine sneered. 'This town is greased wi' the blood, sweat and tears of miners like us. Roke is the company's representative here.'

'The company?'

'Gradmuth Operations.'

'I've heard of them. Big aerium suppliers to the Navy,' Trinica said.

Sprine grunted. "Cept it's not just the Navy they're supplyin'. It's them pus-arsed Sammies!'

Frey raised an eyebrow. Yards supplying Samarlans? Their old enemies in the south, the same people they'd recently fought two wars against? It didn't sound especially likely.

'Soon as we got word, we was up in arms,' Sprine said. He spat on the ground. 'It's not enough that they pay us barely enough to feed our families. Not enough that they work us harder every day. Now they're makin' traitors of us, too!'

Frey was pleased to note that nobody seemed to want to shoot them any more. He glanced at Trinica, to be sure she was alright. She didn't seem the least bit scared.

'I heard the Century Knights were here?' he asked.

'Aye, they turned up quick-smart, didn't they?' said Sprine. 'Always do, when they're protectin' the rich folk. Don't turn up so fast when it's the miners in trouble. They're holed up in the refinery with Roke and the rest of the company folk.

'So these mercs . . . they work for Gradmuth Operations?'

'Aye. Paid killers.'

'Well,' said Frey, indicating the dishevelled doctor by his side. 'I think you can see by the state of us that we haven't been paid by anyone in a long time.'

Sprine looked them over. 'Aye. You've a point there.'

Frey fixed his eyes on a point a dozen metres behind Sprine. 'In fact, if we were mercenaries, we'd probably look more like that.'

Sprine laughed. 'You don't expect me to fall for thaaaAARGH?!' he bellowed, and then pitched forward into Frey as he was shot in the leg.

Pandemonium. The deafening, percussive sound of rifle fire. The air was full of snow and bullets and the stink of gunsmoke.

Malvery heaved Sprine off Frey as the miner fought to untangle his rifle and find a target. The mercenaries, dressed in blue uniforms, were shooting round