reception. I'll meet you at the back entrance at midnight. Half the money on acceptance of the merchandise, half on receipt. Are we understood?'
'Understood,' said Crake. He could barely force the word out through the dread that took hold of him.
'I need hardly remind you to be discreet,' said the doctor.
'No,' he said. 'You needn't.'
The doctor gave him an uncertain look, noticing his distress. He made no comment. Instead, he opened the door and went through. Crake followed.
The room was tiled and white and grubby. Three gurneys were positioned against the far wall, three shapes underneath, covered by white cloths. The doctor passed from one to the other, pulling the cloths away.
Lying there were three little girls, their skin white, eyes staring upward. All of them Bess's age when she died, or thereabouts. Each had a Y-shaped row of stitches, running from shoulders to breastbone to pelvis. So appallingly young and innocent. Crake stared at them, horror constricting his throat. Shame and self-loathing filled him. He reeled and steadied himself against the door frame.
I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't. . .
'Well?' said the doctor, indicating the corpses. 'Which one did you want?'
Twenty-Seven
Marduk was a cold, bleak and bitter place, even with summer coming on. It was the northernmost of the Nine Duchies, sharing a mountain border to the west with Yortland, which was the only colder place on the continent. Cruel winds blew down from the arctic, off the Poleward Sea. The month of Thresh had begun, heralding the start of the summer, but there was little of summer here.
Frey and Trinica walked along winding, slushy trails. Beyond the nearby buildings, snow-capped mountains rose hard and black. It was not yet dusk, but the peaks had swallowed the sun and the town of Raggen Crag was in twilight.
Neither had spoken for a long time. Wrapped in thick hide coats with furred hoods pulled over their heads, they wandered the paths of Raggen Crag without purpose or intention. It was enough, just to walk.
Lights glowed in the windows of the houses, which had been built in groups, huddled together for warmth. The sound of rumbling industrial boilers could be heard within. The roofs and roads were piled with drifts of dirty snow. Black arctic birds swung overhead, or sat on the heating pipes and puffed up their feathers.
It was a grim and simple settlement, like many others Frey had visited lately. They must have hit twenty-five towns in the last thirty days, and still Grist eluded them. There were sightings, hints -enough evidence to keep them in the chase - but nothing that had brought them closer to their target.
Every day, Frey scoured the broadsheets. But there was no sign of any disaster. No doomsday weapon unleashed.
What was Grist up to? What did he mean to do with the sphere he'd stolen? What was he waiting for?
If Frey was frustrated, his crew were doubly so. They were tired and bored. None of them cared about this mission the way he did. Nobody wanted to be dragged around a miserable duchy like Marduk while summer was wasting in the south. Pinn was almost permanently drunk, and Malvery had taken to joining him. Harkins was hardly ever seen on the Ketty Jay, he only came on board for brief visits, and even then he was so skittish that Frey could barely get a sensible word out of him. Silo was his usual self. Jez stayed out of everyone's way. Crake and Bess were gone.
But there was Trinica. At least there was Trinica.
Having Trinica on board hadn't been easy at first. No matter how much they tried to get on, their history always lay between them. The spectre of their unborn child kept them apart. Neither could forgive the other for that. There were so many sharp edges to their conversations.
But they persisted, driven by their common cause. Their encounters with Osric Smult and Professor Kraylock had convinced them that they needed each other, if they wanted to find Grist. In the days that followed, they worked well together. Trinica knew people who wouldn't even open the door to Frey. Frey, in turn, knew lowlifes who were beneath Trinica's notice. Trinica had a way with the high-borns; Frey knew how to butter up drunks. Between them they scoured the inns and drinking houses of the remote northern settlements, plumbing the locals for information.
But there was little information to be had. Grist had disappeared, seemingly without trace.
As time passed, they got used to each other again. The barbed comments came less often. Conversations were no longer loaded with implications. They were no longer walking on eggshells.
More and more, Frey found himself forgetting that they were supposed to be enemies. And it seemed Trinica was forgetting too.
It wasn't all plain sailing. The longer he spent with Trinica, the more he was exposed to her rapid, jagged changes of mood. She was prone to black depressions which made her difficult company. But he learned to ride out her fits of anger and her sullen episodes. Because for every storm there was a period of clear skies and sunlight, where she was suffused with childish joy. or testing him with a wry and wicked wit. For those times, there was little he wouldn't endure.
This evening she was thoughtful, and there was a kind of quiet sadness to her. He wasn't sure where it had come from, but he'd long learned to stop searching for cause and effect where Trinica was concerned. She was a different woman to the one he'd left behind, but now she was free of that ghoulish make-up he could almost believe the last twelve years had never happened.
'I'm worried about your crew,' she said suddenly. They were the first words spoken for half an hour.
He blinked. 'You are?'
'Aren't you?'
He thought about that. Worried wasn't exactly the word he'd use. He was aware that the atmosphere aboard the Ketty Jay wasn't good, but he'd assumed it would sort itself out without any interference from him.
'It's just this whole Grist thing,' he said. 'Once we catch the bastard, they'll be alright.'
'They won't, Darian. They're coming apart. I know it's mostly my fault, but still—'
' Your fault? How's that?'
She gave him a look, her pale face framed by the furred rim of her hood. 'You must see that they hate me.'
Darian plucked at the back of his glove. 'Hate is a bit strong,' he said. 'If we held a grudge against everyone who'd ever screwed us over, we'd have to leave the country. It's not like we've never been ripped off before.'
'Ah,' she said. 'But I'll bet you never invited the thief on board afterwards, though.'
'That's true. Except once, and that was to kick the shit out of him.'
She sighed, blowing out a plume of steam. Their feet crunched through the thin crust of old snow that lay on the paths. Two townsmen walked past leading a shaggy beast of burden, which was towing a piece of machinery on a cart. Frey had seen several of the creatures over the past month but he still wasn't exactly sure what they were. Something between a cow and a ram, he supposed, but since they came buried under a mass of knotted and tangled fur, it was difficult to tell. All he knew was that they were immensely strong and they stank like a mouldy underwear drawer. He vaguely wondered if they were good to eat.
'Listen,' she said. 'You were never the best at seeing what was in front of you, so I'll explain. Your crew resent me. Not only because I stole from them, but because I'm taking up your time.'
'You think they're jealous?' he scoffed. 'Trinica, they're not children.'
'Some of them aren't far off,' she said.
'S'pose you're right at that.'
'Darian, they've lost a friend in Crake. Even I can see that, and I never knew him. At times like that, when
