Rebel Skyforce (Mad Tinker Chronicles) (16 page)

“How about a look at the Princess of Khesh?” the same voice suggested. It was punctuated by a meaty slap and a yelp from the offender.

“Thank you,” Cadmus said to whoever had doled out corporal morality on his behalf. “I will admit that we
could
do those sorts of things, but I assure you that we
will not
, even if I have to place a guard. We are neither savages nor juveniles, and we’re not going to behave like either. Now, does anyone else have a suggestion before I shut this thing off for the night?”

“How about looking in on Powlo at the new mine?” Greuder suggested. It was a voice that Cadmus could easily pick out of a crowd of fifty-odd in a darkened room. It made sense too, since Powlo was one of Greuder’s recruits, from back in the days when he still worked as a field agent.

“It’s after dark there, too, but at least they’ll have lights,” Cadmus said. His hands set to work on the dials, and the view of the Savage Lands whooshed by, leaving streaks of color in the viewer. It was a shame that the targeting coordinates were relative to the machine, because from Kezudkan’s workshop, Cadmus knew the settings for the Kheshi mining operation by memory. Instead, he had to blunder around the Kheshi countryside by starlight.

The audience chatted among themselves. A few who thought highly of their nocturnal geography shouted out instructions as Cadmus searched—some helpful, most not. Several availed themselves of the lull to supplement their refreshments, including a pint of a dark stout that Greuder offered in payment for his turn.

Fortunately Cadmus knew the Dragon Fangs by their peaks, same as those of the Homespires in Korr. The nighttime made the task of identifying peaks tedious, but eventually he caught sight of a tiny community nestled against the mountains. There were only a scattering of buildings, but the location was right, and he didn’t expect to find much more there.

“Got it!” Cadmus said. Those who hadn’t been watching the process turned their attention back to the wondrous machine once more, and everyone started settling back into their seats. It took the operation of multiple dials to guide the view down on something resembling a bird’s flight toward the mine entrance. Though it would have been easier to adjust the axes of translation and rotation one at a time, Cadmus figured that it was more about showmanship than just finding a target with the least effort.

“Anyone want to wager whether Powlo’s gotten to gold yet?” Greuder asked, standing up and addressing the crowd.

“Naw, you probably already worked out with him what he’s dug up,” someone replied. There were murmurs of agreement from the audience, and Greuder found himself with no takers for his bet.

“I’ll bet you a week’s wages that he hasn’t yet,” Cadmus said.

“You’re a funny man, tinker,” Greuder said with a low growl in his voice. “Since you don’t pay me anymore.”

“I admit, it would be a much richer bet if you weren’t retired,” Cadmus replied, still working the view on its swoop toward the mine. “Want to hire on as a cook, just to make the wager worthwhile?”

“I’d teach those stove-torturers of yours a thing or three, that’s for sure,” Greuder said. “Who’d you think—MERCIFUL EZIEL!”

The minor distraction of the Mad Tinker’s banter with Greuder was forgotten in an instant as they saw the scene unfolding within the newest Errol Company mine. Helmeted figures in dark clothing were dragging bodies out of the mine. The darkness made more detailed observations impossible from a distance. Cadmus spun the dials frantically to get them a closer look.

Kuduks.

In Tellurak.

“Get guns!” Cadmus ordered. “Grab whatever you can, pistols, rifles, just get here and get ready in a hurry.”

The audience scattered. There was no question of what Cadmus intended to try. The viewing party had turned into a rescue mission. Cadmus slung the view through the entrance and down the main tunnel of the mine. Blood smeared the floor in streaks as kuduk soldiers dragged body after human body from the tunnels. Rifles leaned against the wall, out of the path of the grim workers as they filed out.

Rifles set aside. Battle’s over.
He had brought the view too late to witness the battle, but it had to have been recent. It seemed like a small blessing; he wasn’t sure how much worse it would have been to witness the slaughter.

Cadmus followed the trail of blood until he saw it. There was a wavering archway in the air down the main tunnel, pressed against the side wall. Through the hole in Tellurak, he could see through into Korr. Standing side by side was a peculiar pair. One was a kuduk who looked to have been half replaced by clockwork parts, the other was an elderly daruu, leaning on a cane.

As the theater refilled with hastily armed Errol Company employees, Cadmus addressed them. “I’m going to count down, and I want a swarm of bullets in the air. Those two you see there, first of all.”

There were a dozen questions in the air at once, but Cadmus ignored them. The questioning voices quieted down one by one as Cadmus began his count. “Three...”

Cadmus looked to the dynamo, sputtering along, doing the best it could.

“Two...”

He reached up and gripped the heavy handle of the switch that controlled the world-ripper’s eponymous function.

“One...”

Eziel, Lord of War, grant us this chance to attack.

“Now!”

Cadmus threw the switch and the world-ripper shuddered and crackled. The theater erupted with the deafening din of dozens of shots being fired in an enclosed space with wonderful acoustics. The machine went dark as bullets tore into the wire meshwork that crisscrossed the open expanse of the frame.

Kuduk and daruu stood side by side, watching through the world-hole as the mine was cleared of human bodies. For a brief moment, there was a silvery flickering of light across the hall. It was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

“What the bleeding rutting blazes was that?” Draksgollow asked, pointing where the light had been a moment earlier.

“Haven’t the muddiest notion,” Kezudkan replied. “We can shut the machine down and examine it once the clear-up is done.”

Chapter 13

“Lord Eziel, grant us mercy from our enemies. Let us find peace among our fellow man. I am your servant, teach me to persevere.” –Invocation to Eziel, modern phrasing

A spark bulb that was about to burn out had the curious habit of glowing brighter than usual. Rascal was no expert on suns, but the one that hung over Yellowcorn Sky seemed ready to pop any minute. It threw off waves of heat like an open furnace door in the heavens. Sensible folk took refuge in the deep, where the pervasive earthy cool sheltered them from the abuse under the sky. Sensible folk didn’t build Yellowcorn, which sat on soil too loose and soft for even a proper basement. The lack of a deep kept most kuduk away though, and that went a long way toward excusing the weather.

Rascal was dressed in the local fashion—or what passed for fashion in the northeastern farmland of Ruttania. He wore a dull white cotton shirt with wooden buttons the size of monocles (he was now the sort of man who could afford wooden buttons), with the top two undone to let out the heat. His trousers were twill, the pale brown of the local hay, and durable but stiff. They were made for field work, but it was all that was sold in Yellowcorn; everyone from plowhands to wheat mill owners wore them. A pair of stiff, calf-high leather boots had taken weeks to break in, but with streets pockmarked with horse and ox dung, low slung footwear was inadvisable.

The one indispensable companion Rascal had met during his stay in Yellowcorn was his hat. It was a paltry thing, made of woven straw and shaped like a deep-dwelling gentleman’s hat except for a brim that was as wide as his shoulders. When the noontime sun could boil the sweat from your brow, a portable source of shade was essential.

Rascal took refuge under both the hat and the porch roof of the Blistered Saddle Ale Hall, occupying one of the painted wicker chairs. The Saddle didn’t take kindly to loiterers, so Rascal sipped at the cold beer he’d purchased to earn the use of their shade. It was a weak brew, easy on the stomach in the hot hours but not something he’d recommend to a friend. Rascal pressed the glass to his forehead, wiping the condensation across his skin and letting it leech the heat out of him.

Traffic on the street plodded along, mostly wagons and horses led on foot, with a few simple pedestrians mixed in. There was a general cessation of work in the fields each midday, to keep the workers from overheating in the worst of the day’s sun, but not everyone worked out in the fields. The couriers, drovers, and deliverymen of Yellowcorn still had jobs to do. They dressed in light fabrics, dyed in pale colors. Most wore hats like Rascal’s own, at least ones of similar function if not style. He had lost a bit of his deep-dweller’s pallor in his days on the run, but Rascal’s skin was still pale by comparison to the sunbaked locals.

If there was a bright spot to Yellowcorn—besides the one cooking them all from above—it was the women. Rascal had grown up in the deeps, where Korr’s temperature rarely varied. There were boilers and steam pipes in plenty keeping buildings warm, but out in the tunnels and caverns there was a chill that never went away. Residents wore sturdy cloth and dressed in layers. Sensible humans wore light jackets or coats when out of buildings. In Yellowcorn sweat poured openly and beaded in droplets on the skin, so garments tended to cling. When not fighting with the resistance, Rascal served as a priest of the Church of Eziel; he had avoided establishments where women’s forms were on such display as they were daily in streets of Yellowcorn.

A woman in a pale yellow dress caught his attention with a wave. She was blonde and slim, with delicate limbs. Rascal guessed she’d grown up in the city, not among the outlying farms. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, briefly grasping the edge of her bonnet between thumb and finger and giving a nod.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” said Rascal, lifting his own hat with a fingertip. “Care to join me?” He indicated the empty chair next to him, then took a sip of his beer.

She accepted the offered seat, perching on the edge with her back stiff and straight. “Do they call you Rascal?” she asked. Her voice was slow and soft, with a quaint accent common among sky-dwellers that kuduks considered uncivilized.

“You have the advantage on me, ma’am,” replied Rascal, finding himself mimicking her cadence.

“I’m Pella,” the woman replied. Rascal tried to guess her age, but the tan of her skin made his assessment difficult. The sun seemed to bake years off the body, but crisp the skin in return. She could have been anywhere from twenty to forty for all he knew. “Your big friend asked me to come find you.”

“Did he now?” Rascal asked. “Just to make sure we’re talking about the same big friend of mine, how many fingers has he got on his right hand?”

“You’re one for tricks, Mr. Rascal,” Pella replied. “He’s got five, just like you and me. It’s his left that’s missing two, not that a lady should pay any mind to those sorts of things.”

Rascal took a sip of his beer. “You get to be cautious, living around kuduks.”

“Mr. Hayfield said—”

“We ain’t landowners, and we ain’t kuduk,” Rascal said. “Me and Hayfield ain’t ‘misters.’ We’re just regular folk getting away for a bit of travel.”

Pella pursed her lips and gave him the long eye. “You may be, but you’re still strangers in these parts, carrying a hearty heap of coin. Seemed only polite. You have my apologies if I offended you, Rascal.”

“I don’t offend easy,” Rascal said, smiling to reassure her. “I think Hayfield likes people puffing him up though. Before the hand, he used to play crashball, and—”

“Oh, I know. He showed me the little clips he kept from the papers, him and his old team. Even had one of him in a flashpop, showing off his uni.”

Rascal snickered, and reached up under his hat to scratch his head. “Well, can’t blame the old bull for trying, I guess. Sorry if he bothered you, Pella. He’s not really a bad sort.”

“Oh, I took nothing amiss,” said Pella. “He never had a hand wandering when we spoke, and nary a misplaced look. Might not have minded if he did, neither. Been years since I had crashball sweepers fawning over me.”

“I’ll be sure to mention that to him,” Rascal said, punctuating with a wink.

Pella crossed her arms and made an exaggerated pout, “You wouldn’t dare,
Mr.
Rascal.”

“Naw, I wouldn’t,” Rascal replied. “If anything, I’d pull him aside and twist his crank a bit, tell him he shouldn’t subject a fine lady to flashpops of his rotten old mug on yellowed papers.” Pella chuckled and uncrossed her arms. “So what’s Hayfield got to say?”

“I’ve got a couple folks bunked at my family’s house. Hayfield says you should meet them.”

“I’m sorry, I might have asked this earlier, but aside from your name, who are you?”

“My family owns the railyard maintenance depot. My dad keeps the books. My mum’s the head mechanic. My two elder brothers are her assistants, and I work for my dad.”

“Nice business,” said Rascal. “I’m still getting used to everything being human-owned out here.”

“Not everything,” Pella said. “Not even most, really. There’s still a dozen or so kuduk families in town, owning most of the land and all the slaves. We don’t see so many collars as you’re probably used to back west and below, but the ones you see are theirs.”

“Does your family own their own land?”

“One of the few. That’s why your friend wanted you to come meet our guests. We’ve got ‘em holed up safe. Safer than them coming out.”

“Who are these ‘guests’ of yours?” Rascal asked.

Pella looked both ways, as if she were considering crossing the road instead of telling him something. She leaned in close, until her bonnet brushed against the brim of Rascal’s hat. “They’re with the rebellion.”

Rascal and Pella strolled through Yellowcorn arm in arm. It was less suspicious than walking as companions or business associates, since Rascal was new in town and the few who knew him believed him to be traveling for leisure. Pella seemed not to mind the simple deception, nor the fact that his arm was basted in a layer of sweat. Much as he found Pella fetching, he would have preferred a bit of space between them for ventilation’s sake.

When they arrived at her family’s home, Rascal found it typical of the city, though perhaps less shabby and weatherworn. The paint on the corrugated steel roof and the brick facade were both a dull white to keep the heat away—and blind gawkers like himself with the glare. A path of brick paving stones led from the dirt road to the porch, some hundred paces long. Out beyond the house was a barren field, and across the way there was a larger building adjoining the thunderail tracks.

“Doesn’t it get noisy around here, right by the tracks?” Rascal asked as they walked the brick path.

Pella loosened her grip on Rascal’s arm so she could turn without her bonnet knocking his hat off. She gave him a curious look. “Only when the cars thunder by,” she replied. “Living down in a deep, you must get used to a din, what with no place for all the sound to escape. I can’t imagine being boxed in with that many people, not to mention trolleys and steam wagons, and thunderails of your own.”

“It’s not quite as bad as you make it out. There’s always some sort of noise, but it’s comforting. The city has a sound, and when it gets quiet, you know something’s gunked up. Here? It took me five nights to get a proper sleep, what with all the quiet. I almost bought myself a pocketclock to put under my pillow, just to stop me waking up ten times a night to see what’s wrong.”

“I always heard kuduks were noisy people,” Pella said. “Ain’t enough of them around here to get the feel of them, but I figured it’d be nice having the quiet, knowing it means they can’t be around.”

Rascal kept a watch on the windows, and saw one of the curtains pull back as they approached. The glare from the glass kept him from seeing whoever was keeping watch for them. “I suppose there’s that. Say, Pella, are we expected?” Visions of an angry father flashed in Rascal’s head. There were some men that liked to keep their families safe even from innocuous strangers, and more than a few of the freeborn humans of Yellowcorn had cast baleful looks at the pale deep-dweller who had slunk in among them with no apparent profession.

“Aw, don’t you worry yourself. My dad and mum are good folk, and your friend’s waiting inside too.”

Rascal offered his hand when they reached the steps, and helped Pella up. The gesture felt silly as soon as he made it, since it was her own home and she probably took the steps a dozen times a day without anyone to help her. To her credit, she didn’t say a word, just gave a shy glance and accepted his aid. The door opened as soon as they reached the porch. Pella’s assurances blew away like dust before the thunderail when he saw the double-barrel of a scattergun aimed at his chest.

“Step aside, Pella,” said the square-jawed man with a salt-and-pepper beard and the weapon trained on Rascal. “You, stranger, what’s your name?” The man wore a gentleman’s shirt with wooden buttons like Rascal’s own, and light grey slacks that brushed the tops of black-polished shoes.

“Pious Henlon,” Rascal answered, giving his civic name and title in the church of Eziel. He let his arm go slack as Pella disentangled herself, and put his hands up slowly. “But I go by Rascal among friends. Am I among friends here?”

“Koop, let him alone,” a familiar voice boomed from inside the house. “If that ain’t the guy I’ve run jobs with for nine years, he’s got a brother he never mentioned.” The scattergun lowered and its owner nodded and jerked his head toward the inside of the house.

Rascal pulled off his hat and returned the nod before stepping past Koop and into the house. Pella followed on his heels and Koop shut the door behind them.

“What’s the matter with you, Dad?” Pella asked.

“Just being cautious, sweetie. Can’t be too cautious with this business,” Koop said. “Pardon the lead-slinger, Mr. Rascal, but I’m not used to this business yet.” There was no family resemblance between Pella and her father, save for the uniform darkness of their tanned skin. His hair was dark where hers was light. His frame was stocky, almost pudgy, where hers was delicate. By their facial features they could have been different species.

“No shot, no pardon,” said Rascal, hoping that the phrase was known out in the skies. His friend Hayfield stepped past Koop and clapped Rascal on the shoulder hard enough to knock him half a step to his right. “What’ve you got us into here, Hayfield?” Rascal backhanded the big lug in the chest, drawing a grin. It struck him that Hayfield fit in better among the sky-dwellers than he had in Eversall Deep, where his skin was darker than most. Among the locals of Yellowcorn, he blended right in—aside from his towering height and shoulders like the booms of a crane.