The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,160

That was a line he wouldn't cross. Whatever she thought, he had enough honour for that.

Besides, he could have had ridiculous wealth twice over, first with her and then with Amalicia. The easy path. But both times he'd turned it down. Whatever the hole in his life was, filling it with money wasn't enough.

'I don't know how many times I've got to tell you, Trinica,' he said. 'You don't know me half as well as you think. You might have a price. I don't.'

At that, he saw the first flicker of uncertainty on her face. The smallest fracture in her surety.

Good, he thought bitterly. I hope it hurts, damn you. I hope you take it to your grave, and I hope you end up there real soon. I trusted you. But I reckon you don't know what trust is any more.

Grist pointed to Jez. 'Take her,' he told his men. 'The Captain too. Everyone else, lock 'em up down below.'

Jez and Frey were pulled out of the group. 'Hey! She's just a navvie! What do you want with her?' he demanded.

The end of Grist's cigar glowed. 'She's the reason you're here, Captain Frey. See, I need a Mane. And it just so happens you've got one on your crew. Now ain't that a twist?'

Thirty-Four

A Genuine Piece Of History — All Is Revealed —

Crake And The Pocket Watch — Feline Suspicions — Jez Has To Choose

Jez stared at Frey's back as they were marched into the depths of the hangar at gunpoint. Grist and Crattle accompanied them, along with several of the Storm Dog's crew. Trinica came, too. Perhaps she wanted to enjoy the fruits of her treachery.

The Cap'n walked with slumped shoulders, crushed by Trinica's betrayal. He tried to conceal his pain, but it showed anyway. He'd put every ounce of his faith in that woman, and she'd let him down. Even before the Cap'n had confessed to them that he had a history with Trinica, she'd seen the connection between them. She'd sensed the depth of feeling he carried.

And Trinica? What did she feel? Nothing at all, it seemed. Nothing at all.

Damn it, Cap'n. You're a good man, but you make the worst choices.

It occurred to her that she should be worrying about herself, rather than the Cap'n. It was her that Grist was interested in, not Frey. Because she was a Mane. She wasn't sure why that was important to their enemy, and she wasn't keen on finding out.

But she'd never known the Cap'n so defeated. It hurt her to see him diminished that way.

They were led away from the Storm Dog, down several sets of steps, along blank stone corridors lit by electric lights. Frey didn't speak, and neither did anyone else. Presently, they entered a small, chilly cellar, with walls that didn't match the modern construction of the rest of the hangar. It was as if they'd travelled a century back in time. There were two huge oak doors in the cellar floor, with heavy iron pull-rings and a complicated sequence of symbols carved into their surface.

Jez had been conscious of a growing unease as she drew closer to the cellar, but she hadn't known the source until she saw it. It was coming from those doors. The symbols were a daemonist's work, and though they had no force now, the memory of their power made Jez's skin prickle.

There was a sense of barely suppressed energy in the air. Something lurked behind those doors. She dreaded it, and didn't want to go further.

She must have slowed unconsciously, because one of the crewmen jabbed her in the back with the muzzle of his pistol. Ahead of them, two men were pulling the doors open. Beyond were worn stone steps. Crattle pulled a breaker on the wall. A row of lights, strung together with cables, began to glow in the stairway and the room just visible at the bottom.

'Ladies,' said Grist, bowing to Trinica and Jez. 'Cap'n,' he added, nodding at Frey. 'You're about to see a genuine piece of history.'

Grist led the way down. Jez followed with the rest of them. It sounded as if there was a crowd at the bottom of the stairs, a howling, shrieking horde whose cries bypassed the ears and went directly into the mind. They were getting louder with every step. She looked around at the others, distressed, but nobody else seemed to hear it. Was there agony in those voices? Terror? Or a fierce exultation? Every fibre in her body