Evening found Crake and his captain leaning on a wooden railing, wrapped in furs, their breath steaming the air. The sun was setting in the west, throwing a bleak light over the tundra. The great plain was depressingly barren. Only the hardiest of shrubs and grasses grew in the frozen earth, in the lee of the stony hillocks that rumpled the landscape. A spiteful wind nipped at their faces. Even in spring, a mere hundred kloms or so north of the border, Yortland was bitterly cold.
From their vantage point - a path set into the hillside - they had a good view of the docks below. The main landing pad was cluttered with ugly, blockish aircraft. Flying bricks, Jez liked to call them: she didn't have a high opinion of Yort design. Nearby, in the workshop area, sat other craft in various states of disrepair. Two colossal hangars dominated the scene, their arched metal roofs patched with unthawed snow. The Delirium Trigger, battered and blasted, was slowly easing herself into one of them. Crake watched as she was swallowed up, then turned to Frey and said:
'I'm leaving.'
Frey stared down at the docks, his face grim. He didn't speak for a long time. 'You coming back?' he said eventually.
'I hope so. When I've done what I need to do. I'd intended to stay on long enough to help you get hold of that sphere - I thought it the honourable thing - but now, well . . .'
'You can't put it off for ever, right?' The wind blew black strands of hair around Frey's face. 'No telling when, or if, we'll find that bastard.'
Crake nodded.
'Something's been eating at you a long time,' Frey said. 'Ever since you came aboard, you've been on the run.'
Yes. From the Shacklemores. From myself.
'Some things . . .' Crake began. He knew that Frey didn't require an explanation, but he felt compelled to try. 'Some things, a man can't live with on his conscience. I thought I could keep ahead of it, you see? Keep on the move.'
'I get it, Crake. We all get it. That's why you were such a good fit for us.'
Crake was grateful for his understanding. Frey wasn't the kind who asked questions. A man's past was his own on the Ketty Jay.
Mostly, he reflected, that was a good thing. On Frey's crew, your only judge was yourself. But the conspiracy of silence had its downside. How could you be sure who was your friend and who wasn't, when they'd never seen the worst of you? When the secrets came out, who'd stand by your side?
What would happen to Jez, now? Could they forgive her for what she was?
And what if they found out about his crimes?
He couldn't face that. It was time to stop procrastinating. He'd made a promise to Bess. He'd atone for what he'd done. He'd find a way, somehow, to bring her back.
He looked out past the docks at the city beyond. Iktak was not a pretty sight. Its black stone buildings were bunkers against the cold. Most of it had been built underground, as all Yort settlements were. White ghosts of steam rose from the massive pipes that crawled across the landscape. Industrial chimneys smoked like restless volcanoes. A joyless place, more like a vast refinery than a place for people to live. A city of factories, waiting for winter's return. Without its cloak of snow to hide it, it was brown and bare and miserable.
Til be taking Bess,' he said.
'Thought you would,' said Frey. 'What'll you do with her? You can't have her walking around.'
'I'll put her to sleep, box her up, have her delivered to where I'm going.'
'Mind if I ask where that is? In case I need to find you?'
Crake took a slip of paper from his pocket, and handed it to Frey. He opened it and read the address.
'Tarlock Cove? Don't you have a friend there?'
'That's him. Plome. I'll be there some of the time. If not, I'll leave word for you. I'll be travelling a lot.'
'Travelling?'
'I have a few visits to make.'
A half-dozen, actually. Six names and addresses, given to him by Plome. Six people who, between them, could lay their hands on the best daemonic texts in the land.
I expect you've been all tied up in research, trying some new method or something, ain't you? Malvery had asked him once. Maybe working on something really special?
The doctor's voice had been sarcastic then. Pushing him, making him look at himself and what he'd become. It was an alcoholic's warning to a man he saw heading down the same route. And it had worked. Spit and blood, it had really worked. Crake was going to miss having a friend like Malvery. He was going to miss all of them, except Pinn.
But it couldn't be helped. Because now he was working on something really special. He was going to learn how to reverse what he'd done to his niece. He was going to bring her back to life. Real life, not the half-life she led inside a suit of armour. From that dim-witted thing that was more like a pet than a human, he'd extract the little girl inside, and restore her. Somehow.
If it sounded like madness, so be it. If he had no idea where to start, then he'd find a place. Whatever it took, there had to be a way.
He'd had a long talk with Plome, after their brush with the daemon in his sanctum. The politician was frankly in awe of him by then. Plome was the kind of daemonist who dabbled but never dared too much. Crake represented the man he wished he could be, if only he had the courage. Seeing him master the monster in the echo chamber had made him something of a hero in Plome's eyes.
Crake took advantage of that. He explained his plan. And he secured Plome's promise that he could make use of the politician's sanctum to conduct his experiments in.
'Hang the risks!' Plome had said, flushed with the excitement of their recent encounter. 'I'd be honoured, Crake! Honoured!'
Crake and Frey stood together for a time, neither quite knowing how to end it. Finally, Crake spoke up.
'I need money.'
'Oh?' Frey replied neutrally.
'Plome's agreed to help me out, but it won't be enough. What I'm up to . . . it's expensive business.' He looked over at his captain. 'I believe I played some part in obtaining all that money from Grand Oracle Pomfrey at the Rake table.'
'I'd have won it from him anyway, fair and square,' Frey said stiffly.
'Possibly,' said Crake. 'Or maybe he'd have got up and left with his winnings, too drunk to play on. We'll never know.'
He hated himself for asking. No matter how valid his claim to those ducats, he still felt like a beggar.
'Alright,' Frey said, not without a little bitterness. 'I've already had to shell out for new windglass for the autocannon cupola, but you can take half of what's left. Rot knows, you've earned it in your time on my crew.' He jabbed Crake in the chest with his finger. 'Don't you breathe a word to the others though, or they'll be on me like vultures.'
'I won't,' said Crake.
'Hey, why don't you take the compass?' Frey suggested suddenly. He lifted his hand, to show the silver ring on his little finger. 'It's your device, after all. That way you can come find us, if you change your mind. Just follow the compass back to me.'
Crake smiled. He'd made the ring and compass almost as a joke. Two daemons thralled together, one always pointing toward the other. It was so absurdly simple in comparison to what he'd be attempting.
'And who'll track you down next time you go missing in a Rake den, or in some woman's bed?' he said. 'Better the others keep hold of that.'
Frey looked crestfallen. 'Alright,' he said. 'That's sensible, I suppose.'
'It's just . . . it's something I have to do. I don't know how long it'll take, but . . .'
'I know.'
'I'll leave word at all of your mail drops when I'm finished.'
'Do that'
