The Mask And The Master (Mechanized Wizardry Book 2) (18 page)

Everyone in the room tried very hard not to look at anyone else.  Princess Naomi went on.

“My advisors and I agree that the Civil Defense and Improvement building is simply not a secure enough location for your research to continue.  Not when the threats to Delia are so immediate.”

Lundin bowed, his head starting to swim a little.  “Where, uh, Your Highness—what would be a more secure location for us to keep working?”

The Princess brightened.  She extended a hand, and a thick-necked boulder of a man stepped forward, his black-and-gold armor bulging from the muscle underneath.  His eyes were lively and intelligent in a face that had taken its share of punishment.  “Lieutenant Colonel Farmingham is our liaison to Fort Campos, our easternmost outpost near the Flinthock foothills.  For the time being, you will be stationed there.  I wish we could keep you closer to home, Mr. Lundin, but our enemies have proven that they can infiltrate my palace itself.   You will be safer in Campos than you would be in the heart of the Royal compound.  Colonel?”

“Thank you, your Highness,” Farmingham said, a surprisingly musical lilt to his voice.  “Colonel Yough and I are committed to providing whatever you need to do your work at the fort.  We have a first-rate forge and steady supplies of ‘tum and ingots.  You let us know what machine equipment you’ll need to bring, and Army transport will pack it up straight away.”

“Your Highness—and, uh, Colonel—when exactly did you want us to relocate?”

“As soon as you can,” the Princess signed, a regretful look on her face.  “What a shock this must be to you.  But, understand, you are not secure here, and every hour you stay is an unnecessary risk.”

Princess Naomi hesitated, then looked up at her Herald and made a cutting-off gesture.  He bowed his head, stiffly but without hesitation.  The Heir went on signing to Lundin, in small movements close to her body. 
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she said. 
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he signed back.

She made her fingers into a letter ‘Y’ and traced several rows of medals down her chest. 
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Lundin nodded. 
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Lundin heard knots of whispering from the Civics in the room, none of whom knew hand language or had a good vantage point for the tête-a-tête.  The long, secret conversation was making them antsy.  Luckily for them, Princess Naomi nodded to her Herald again and turned to face the ‘nauts at the back wall.  “Dame Dionne,” the Herald translated in his gruff voice, “I regret to deprive you of a full team of techs through this whirlwind reassignment.  I hope you understand that their safety, and the security of their project, demands it.”

“Naturally, Your Highness,” Dame Dionne said, taking off her glasses.  “We’re honored you’ve taken such an interest in our folks, and, of course, after all, you hold the pursestrings!”  She laughed, perhaps too loudly.  “As always, we’re here to serve.”

Princess Naomi beamed with calculated gratitude.  “I’ll leave you with Colonel Farmingham here to coordinate the details of the team’s relocation.

“If I might take a moment; Mr. Lundin, can you introduce me to your men and women here?”

Five minutes later, the Princess and her entourage were gone, and Elia had thrown her arms around Lundin’s neck.  He raised his hands, confused.  “What are you doing?  Why do you Civics hug everyone in sight?”

Elia pulled away, gushing.  “Senior tech, it’s just that—well, the longer I stay around you, the more famous people I meet.  First it was Dame Miri Draker, the Feastday Hero, and I thought things couldn’t get any better.  But now, Princess Naomi, in person?  Shaking my hand?  Giving me a hand language name?  I just never knew things could get so exciting!”

“Savvy little girl,” Dame Miri said appreciatively, inclining her head towards the now-closed door.  “She’s going to make a great queen.”

“What was she, uh, hand-saying to you back there, Mr. Lundin?”  Willl with three L’s asked, wiggling his fingers.

“You caught it, didn’t you, Dame Miri?”  Lundin said, looking at the ex-Parade ‘naut.  “I saw you watching us out of the corner of my eye.  I didn’t know you spoke hand language.”

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Miri signed at him with her long fingers before turning to the others.  “We’re supposed to arrange a demo with this Colonel Yough out at Fort Campos, and convince the Army that our spell boxes work.  If we can win her over, the Princess thinks we’ll win some friends back here at home too.”

“And if we screw up again, and I get a bite taken out of my other hand?”  Martext said.

“Number one,” Lundin said, leaning against the work table for support, “I say we try a different spell this time.  Number two, I have a feeling that if we blow it again, we’re going to wish for those simple days when the only thing to worry about was a dog bite.”

The ‘nauts looked at the floor for a moment of silence.  “We shouldn’t blow it, then,” Willl with three L’s said at last, with a decisive air.

Lundin looked up, and his long face broke into a grin.  “Willl, I’m doubling your salary.”

“Really?”

“No, Dame Dionne won’t let me anywhere near the budget.  Who wants to help me pack?”  he said, leaping up from his stool with a light in his eyes.

Chapter Fourteen

Hot Potato

The little boy was looking at her again.  “No,” Columbine said, flopping on to one hip and turning her back to him.  The grass was soft against her scratched-up feet, and she curled it in her toes.

“Throw it!” he screeched happily.

“It’s not for throwing.”

“Come on, let’s play hot potato.  Stephan and Errol and the others want to.”

“Go get a potato then,” she told him over her shoulder with her most cutting look. 
I wish Ariell was watching this,
she thought as she scrunched up her face. 
This is a good one.

The boy laid it out for her, once again.  “You’ve got a beanbag,” he said, gesturing with both hands, “and it gets hot when you press it.”

“It’s not a beanbag.”

“Okay, fine, what is it then?  I’ll tell you;
it’s a hot potato
!  Come on!” he wailed to the heavens, loving the sound of his own voice.  “We have to play.  I mean, what else could that thing possibly be for?”

Columbine felt the warmth of her golden pouch shining through her palms.  She could feel the little crystal threads starting to form inside as the magic—the tool, she corrected herself—went to work.  In another few minutes, it would be hard as a thick piece of bark, and it would stop pumping out heat.  But for now, it was warm and wonderful.  “I just like to hold it,” she said, touching her hands to her face.

“Throw it!  Throw it!  Throw it!”

“Hey, boy, what’s the matter with you?  You leave that girl in peace!”  She heard a thick swatting sound, and turned around as Pauma, one of the farmer ladies, slapped the boy on the back of his head.  He shrieked and ran, scrambling on his hands and feet back towards the village square.  “Kipes!”  She bellowed, raising her head high.  “Your boy’s on the run!”

“Not if I catch him he ain’t!”  Mr. Kipes shouted back, looking up from his conversation in the square.  He rushed at his son and lifted him skyward, slinging the boy precariously over his back like a sack of hot potatoes.  The boy shrieked even louder, delighted, as his father made ferocious noises at him.  It made Columbine a little sad to hear it.

“What’s wrong there, Miss Columbine?”  Pauma said, looking down at the girl.

“I just.”  Her throat was tight all of a sudden.  She looked up at the farmer’s squinty face, and back to where Mr. Kipes was playing with his son.  “It’s just that my dad never really did that stuff, even when…”

Birds chirped happily in the silence, perched on the pointy tips of the stockade a dozen meters away.  Pauma dug the toe of her boot in the dirt.  “Seen your folks alive, since them low-lifes burned your farm?”

“No ma’am,” Columbine said very quietly.

Pauma whistled through her teeth and leaned her back against the wall of the nearest house.  The houses were funny little domes made of mud and wool, like big hollow mushrooms.  It was strange to go inside one, and see the sunlight peeking through the gaps in the fibers. 
Sure beats sleeping outside, though.

“What you got there?” the woman said, nodding her head towards Columbine’s hands.  Columbine wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her new blouse and held up the golden pouch, scooting closer to Pauma on her knees.  Pauma brushed her muddy fingers on her pants and touched the bag with two fingers.  Her face lit up.  “Ooo!  Hot!”  She shook her hand, pretending like it was a hot iron or something.  Columbine smiled and held the pouch close to her chest again.

“It’s middle of Joon, Miss Columbine!  What’re you doing, playing with some hot little thing like that?”

“I just like it,” she said.  “I think I like mine even more than Ariell likes her bow.  And Ariell loves her bow.”

“Flamin’ good shot, too.  She’s out hunting with the other midlings now, teaching ‘em a thing or two.”  Columbine nodded.  She knew that already.

Pauma coughed noisily.  “You know—I don’t know if you realized this from the way Kipes’ boy was being secretive about it—but them other kids would be happy to play with you too.”

She giggled, glancing up at Pauma.  “I know.”

The farmer nodded.  She crossed her arms over her chest and looked up and out into the treetops, as the summer breeze made them sway.

“Miss Pauma?”

The woman looked down at her.  Columbine ran her fingers along the edges of the golden pouch.  There were no seams anywhere she could see.  “Why do you think the Golden Caravan gave us these things?” she asked, a little scared without knowing why.

Pauma let out a long breath through her lips, making a sound like a horse.  She dug her hands into her pockets.  “Life’s hardest on the people who already got it hard, Miss Columbine.  I wouldn’t worry overmuch about a little good luck coming your way for once.”

“Ariell says nobody helps anybody but themselves.”

“Well, if that’s true, why’d we take you in here at Two Forks?  Just two more mouths to feed.”

“Because Ariell’s a flamin’ good shot and I wash dishes fast?”

Pauma grinned.  “Just because a good deed pays you back doesn’t mean it wasn’t good.  In fact, it proves it was.”

Columbine thought about that for a long moment.  “Do you like Delians?”  She asked.

The farmer’s face tightened a little.  “Why?”

“I want to do a good deed for the Golden Caravan.  But I think the deed they’d like best is if I did something bad to Delians.  And I can’t decide if that’s good or not.”

“Funny little puzzle you got there,” Pauma said, straightening up.  “I say let it rest, though. You won’t be seeing any Delians up here in hardscrabble country anyway.  All they care about is counting their money and playing with their Petronaut toys, safe behind city walls.”

“Is that what the pretenders do?  The Golden Caravan says ‘the pretenders will fall.’”

“They will, soon enough.  Not our concern, though.”

“But what if the Golden Caravan wants us to help make them fall?  Shouldn’t we do it?”

“Little Miss Columbine, all we need to do is take care of us.  We didn’t ask for any Golden Caravan loot, and just ‘cause we took it doesn’t mean we work for them.  As long as greedy old Delia leaves us alone, I care as much about whether them Regents fall as I do if a whale in the ocean jumps left or right.

“They’re already firing up the ovens for dinner.  You go on and grab an apron, now,” she said, tapping Columbine on the upper arm.

Columbine stood up.  The golden pouch was growing hard, and she felt the crystals crinkling underneath her thumb as she gently held it with one hand.  “What if Delia doesn’t leave us alone?”  she asked.  “What if they come here?”

The farmer looked down at her.  “What would you and your sister do if you saw them low-lifes who hit your farm again?”

Columbine’s fist tightened around the golden pouch until her knuckles went bone-pale.

Pauma watched the little girl’s hand and nodded slowly.  “Run along, then,” she whispered, patting Columbine on the shoulder as she took off, trotting towards the village square.  Pauma put her hands on her hips, eyes unblinking as she watched the child run.

The logging camp was a squat compound on the river’s edge, off in the distance.  In the twilight, Samanthi could make out a few figures standing on the dock, straining with long polearms to hook a half-dozen logs drifting downriver towards them.  A team of Delian lumberjacks had been at work up north, felling and bucking strong eld trees and rolling the cleanly stripped logs into the water.  The woodsmen here at the camp caught the logs as they floated by and pulled them into a small man-made cove, where they would be scaled by quality and sorted out.  Logs of the same grade were then lashed together into massive rafts, stabilized with long, fire-hardened beams and joists.
 
The Bantam River narrowed down to forty meters in some places, so the rafts could only be built so wide.  Luckily, all of the river’s loopiest curves and switchbacks were upriver from the camp, so a few gentle curves and one patch of soporific rapids were the only impediments on a raft journey south to the coastal roads.  Without sharp turns to worry about navigating, the woodsmen could make their rafts about as long as the whim struck them; easily over a hundred meters.  When the company boss judged that the logs were ready for transport, a few woodsmen would pitch their tents on the trunks of their cargo and shove off downstream, shepherding the lumber on a lazy week’s ride to the huge sawmill in the Bantam delta.  Samanthi caught sight of a pair of workers walking along the raft floating by the river’s edge.  By area, the raft completely dwarfed the house she’d grown up in, and they were still finding room for more logs.