The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,54

and frequently now.

She hadn't been winning. She'd just slowed the speed at which she lost.

Something's got to be done, she thought. And soon.

The Butcher's Block stood on a grubby thoroughfare, sandwiched between a pawnshop and a whorehouse. It was a patched-up mess of wind-blasted sheet metal and flapping tarp. The facade leaned outward as if the whole building was about to tip drunkenly into the street. Lamp-posts, made filthy by the insidious ash in the air, glowed in the dark. Most passers-by wore goggles and face masks; those who didn't had red-rimmed eyes and racking coughs.

Inside, smoke replaced ash as the pollutant of choice. The tables and stools were as mismatched as the clientele. An electric iron candelabra hung from the ceiling, buzzing. The rattling of an oil-powered generator could be heard through the outside wall.

Frey pushed in through the door, unwrapping the scarf from around his face. Pinn, Malvery- and Crake followed, hacking and spluttering. None of the worn-looking patrons paid them any attention.

'Someone get me a drink!' Malvery rasped. 'My mouth tastes like a fireplace.'

'Darian Frey!' called the bartender, seeing them come in. 'Rot and damn! How are you?'

Frey walked over and shook his hand. His name was Ollian Rusk, and he was the proprietor. Huge, fat, permanently sweaty and bald as an egg. He kept a shotgun on a rack over the armour-plated bar, to distract attention from the bigger one he kept hidden underneath it.

'How's things in the ashtray of the world, Rusk?' Frey grinned.

'Getting by, getting by. Some drinks for your boys?'

'Reckon so. What do you recommend?'

'Beer's best, if you want to wash the atmosphere off your tongue.'

'Beer, then.'

'Coming up.'

Frey eyed the room, searching for familiar faces as Rusk poured the drinks. A lot of people came and went in Marlen's Hook. Every lowlife Frey had ever met - and he'd met quite a few - passed through here at one time or another. But tonight he was out of luck.

'Quiet lately,' said Rusk, divining his thoughts. 'Navy have come around sticking their noses in. Once word gets about, people don't want to come here so much.'

'Is nothing sacred?' Frey commiserated.

'Navy's jumpy. All these stories about colonies vanishing in New Vardia. Then there's those rumours that the Sammies found aerium, down where Murthia used to be. Everyone's paranoid they're kitting themselves up with a new Navy. Not to mention the Awakeners getting pissy 'cause the Archduke is trying to cut them down to size.' He laid the beers on the bar. 'The higher-ups think there might be conspiracies afoot. Looking for spies and such, I imagine. Turbulent times, friend.'

Malvery, Pinn and Crake snatched up their beers and downed them thirstily. Pinn burped and slammed his empty glass back on the bar.

'Three more, I suppose,' said Frey, whose own mug was only halfway to his lips.

Rusk poured the beers. Halfway through, he suddenly raised a finger and said, 'I forgot. I've got mail for you.'

'Bring it out,' said Frey. 'Let's have a look.'

The Butcher's Block was one of a dozen mail drops Frey had all over Vardia. It was a system used by many freebooters, who tended to have no fixed address. This way, they could be contacted through the underworld without a lengthy search. Some liked to have mail sent to a post office where they could collect it, but Frey distrusted post offices. Returning to the same spot frequently made him too easy to find, and some of the packages he received were suspect, to say the least. Employing bartenders and shopkeepers as unofficial mail drops carried the risk of theft, but usually the need to maintain a reputation kept them honest. Ollian Rusk handled more mail than some post offices did, because he was as trustworthy as they came.

Rusk went into a back room and emerged with a bundle of six letters wrapped in string.

'What do I owe you?'

'One bit and two for the letters. I'll run you a tab for the drinks.'

'Obliged,' he said, as he took them. The sight of the first letter made him groan.

'Bad news, Cap'n?' Malvery asked. 'You haven't even opened it yet.'

'No, it's nothing,' said Frey.

Malvery looked at him expectantly.

'Alright, it's from Amalicia,' he said. 'I recognise the handwriting. I've had a lot of letters from her lately.'

'Amalicia Thade?' Crake asked. 'The young lady you, er, rescued from the Awakeners by getting her father killed?'

'Hey, he got himself killed!' Frey protested. 'And yes, her.'

'What's she after?' Malvery asked.

Frey squirmed.

'Come on!' the doctor cried, joshing him. 'You might