The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,78

Oracle's eyes glazed further, slipping from drunken to mesmerised.

'Now,' said Frey. 'I've got a couple of questions.'

They left the table soon afterwards. Crake felt faintly nauseous from using his daemon-thralled tooth while drunk. Before he left, he made sure that Pomfrey remembered nothing of what had been said. Frey scooped up the money on the table for good measure, since the Grand Oracle would be in no state to recall whether he won or lost in the morning. After that, they found Amalicia and made their exit.

Crake was wounded to note that Samandra Bree had left too, without saying goodbye. He hoped he hadn't said anything foolish to her. He couldn't remember most of the last hour or so of their conversation. Rot and damnation! He'd never meant to drink so much, but he'd got carried away in her company.

She was just so bloody charming, that was the problem. The lively twinkle in her eyes, that mischievous mouth of hers. He didn't mind admitting he was quite taken by her. It had been a long while since he'd had any interest in the fairer sex. He wasn't sure if it was the drink or the memory of Samandra that was making him dizzy as he sat in the back of the motorised carriage, heading for the private landing pad where the guests' aircraft waited.

The sight of Frey sitting opposite soured his thoughts. He was angry at being pulled away from Samandra and missing his chance to say goodbye. He was doubly angry that Frey had made him use his gold tooth in a place like that. If the Grand Oracle hadn't been so drunk, he might have realised what was being done to him. A daemonist, unmasked in the midst of a house full of Awakeners? He'd have been hung for sure.

The Cap'n was losing perspective. That sphere had come to mean more to him than just the prospect of a fortune. He was chasing something else, and chasing it hard. But Crake wasn't sure if even Frey knew what that something was.

Eighteen

Slag's Ambush — The Great Outdoors —

A Stealthy Exit — Frey's Chivalry Is Tested

The rooms and corridors of the Ketty Jay were the domain of the lumbering, strange-smelling entities that Slag deigned to share his aircraft with. He suffered their presence when it suited him, but usually he avoided them, preferring to remain in his own kingdom, the maze of vents and pipes and maintenance crawlways that ran behind the walls of the aircraft. He was the terror of the rats and mice that bred there, and he ruled with a red claw.

Tonight, he had bigger prey in mind.

The room was in darkness. On the top bunk, the fat one was snoring hard enough to inhale his blankets. Below him, the scrawny one lay quite still, breathing deep and slow.

Slag watched them lazily from the vent high up on the wall, his paws crossed before him. Sometimes there was a barrier here, a grille that prevented him getting through, but not this time. That was good. The rats had been hiding too well lately. He was bored, and in the mood to torment his plaything.

He'd been watching for some time now. Usually he wouldn't trouble to be so careful, but something was amiss. He sensed it, even if he didn't know what it was.

Perhaps it was the odd behaviour of the scrawny one that was perturbing him.

Slag had got used to bullying Harkins. He sensed the fear coming off him, and fear meant weakness. Slag hated weakness, and was determined to punish it wherever he found it. But Harkins had been acting differently of late. Poking round the cargo hold with that metal beast clanking along behind him. Creeping through the Ketty Jay with a net.

Slag was supposed to be the hunter, not the hunted. This prey seemed to have got confused about his role. It was Slag's job to remind him.

Slag slipped warily out of the vent on to the top of a storage cupboard. From there, he dropped down on to an iron-bound trunk, and then to the floor. He sniffed the air suspiciously. His instincts still insisted that things weren't quite right, but he didn't understand why. There was no danger from the snoring fat one, with whom he shared a mutual disdain. Harkins was asleep and helpless. Everything looked normal enough.

Maybe it was because his prey wasn't twitching and muttering as much as he usually did. But his eyes were closed, and his breathing