Tinker's Justice
Authors: J.S. Morin
Tinker’s Justice
Book 4 of the Mad Tinker Chronicles
By J.S. Morin
Copyright © 2014 Magical Scrivener Press
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
“Every time a dragon speaks your name, your life grows shorter by a day.” – goblin proverb
Madlin slipped the spectacles off her face and mopped away dripping sweat with a rag from her belt. The furnaces made the foundry an oven not just for metals, but for the workforce as well. All around her, goblins hustled this way and that, each at some small errand that was essential in the grand operation of what Madlin had begun to call the Valley of Coil Guns. Every square foot of space was dedicated to the sole production of the weapons for which she had become famous. Each day she toured all twenty-one buildings in the complex, culminating in watching the day’s production quota packed into boxes and locked away in a warehouse. Technically that was the twenty-second building, but unlike the rest, Madlin was not allowed inside.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut to force away a headache. It had been a long day of inspecting reports written in notations she could barely comprehend, even after months of practice. The goblin metallurgists were meticulous in their record-keeping, but their handwriting was tiny. Madlin suspected after squinting at so many of them, she was going to need to grind a new refractory angle into her spectacles; the ones she had were just not quite up to the task.
The trill of the shift bell pierced Madlin’s ears like a hail of bullets. Thankfully the sound ended after a few seconds, and the goblin workforce flowed to allow one set of workers to exit as the next shift arrived. Even with all the time she had spent among them, she could only pick a few goblins out of a crowd by sight. When she opened her eyes moments later, she could have imagined that the shift had never changed. Goblins manned every piece of equipment, same as they had before she closed them. While she still marveled at their efficiency, Madlin was no longer awed by the goblins.
Just a bunch of replaceable gears: quick to train, quick to replace, never do anything to surprise you.
A goblin chuckle drew Madlin’s attention. A casual listener might mistake the sound for a stutter of the clearing of a throat, but Madlin had known the tinker long enough to recognize his nervous laugh. “Fr’n’ta’gur wants to see you,” K’k’rt said.
The elderly goblin walked with the aid of a stick, too proud to make the daily trek down from the mountain city atop the head of a lizard. K’k’rt hunched over, shoulders heaving as he caught his breath. “Must be important if you ran all the way here,” Madlin replied.
K’k’rt glowered at her. “I did not run. And it is always important when Fr’n’ta’gur wants to speak with someone.”
Madlin stretched and twisted her neck to the side until it cracked. She was sore and bleary-eyed, sticky with sweat and empty of stomach. “I guess I could use one of those baths the priests insist on,” she said with a sigh.
K’k’rt shook his head. “It’s not that kind of visit. Last time you had to wheedle the priests into granting you an audience. This time,
he
wants to see
you
. It’s an important distinction. You’re coming as you are, reeking and disheveled.”
Madlin raised an eyebrow. “You notice that sort of thing?”
K’k’rt chuckled. “I’m amazed
you
do. You hardly even know the names of your assistants. Now come along; Fr’n’ta’gur won’t like waiting.”
“I thought you told me he barely notices the passing of time.”
“That’s when you’re the one requesting the meeting.”
When Madlin arrived in Fr’n’ta’gur’s lair, the first thing that she noticed was that the dragon was not performing his usual theatrics, hiding in the dark recesses of the cavern upon her arrival. Instead, she found the cavern well lit by aether and the dragon waiting at the edge of the precipice that overlooked his sea of treasure. The second thing she noticed was the stack of crates—crates she recognized from the warehouse she was not allowed to enter.
“Greetings, Madlin Errol of Korr,” Fr’n’ta’gur said, his voice vibrating through the floor and into the soles of Madlin’s feet. The dragon grumbled something in the goblin tongue, and the priests that had escorted her to the lair departed in haste. “I have arranged privacy for us. There will be no ears listening to your replies, even if my own words rumble through the mountain. Nor will any goblin eyes peer in at us in secret.”
“To what do I owe these considerations?” Madlin asked. “Does it have something to do with the guns you owe me?”
Fr’n’ta’gur bared his teeth in what Madlin had come to understand was the equivalent of a smile. “Indeed. These are yours. You may take them home with you tonight.”
Madlin did quick math. “Those crates only hold eight coil guns apiece. There’s only seventy-two in that whole stack.”
“I imagine you must tire of life here among my worshipers,” Fr’n’ta’gur said. “You stay among us because of the terms of our bargain, not because you are stranded. Tonight, you return home with these seventy-two weapons. Tomorrow, you arrive to resume your work. Each night, you may take another load of crates, until you have your full share.”
“I … well …”
“Do you find this acceptable?” Fr’n’ta’gur asked.
I find it damned suspicious, you ship-sized lizard. When did you grow a generous streak?
“Yes, thank you,” Madlin replied. Was he trying to get rid of her? Did he assume that she would take seventy-two of the guns and count her blessings that she escaped with her life?
Perhaps
. Did he plan to attack, maybe breathe fire through the open world-hole?
Unlikely. What would he gain?
Was he just curious?
Best case, I suppose. Not much to bet on.
There was little else to be done though. Refuse, and Fr’n’ta’gur would take offense—for form’s sake, he would have to. Then again, with his promise of privacy, he could lie to his own priests and say anything he liked.
“You may also bring any personal effects you like,” the dragon said. “I understand the furnishings and tools are not to your human standards.”
Madlin forced a tight smile onto her face.
Gut you, K’k’rt! Do you run to your dragon with my every gripe?
“I apologize if my worshipers have not the skill of your native craftsmen. Make yourself as comfortable here as you are able. I expect that it will be three seasons before your weapons are all delivered, assuming this paltry amount is not typical of the number made each day.”
Every fiber of Madlin’s being told her that it was a trick, a trap of some sort, a double-deal, or an outright lie. The problem was that without knowing which, she couldn’t think of a way to refuse the dragon’s offer. Without a counter in place, angering the dragon would end their deal and her life.
“It’ll just take a moment,” Madlin said. Rynn was already readying the world-ripper for her retrieval. Madlin watched the dragon’s eyes, eager to discern how keen the beast’s vision was in the aether. Would it be able to track the viewframe’s location as Rynn lined it up prior to opening a hole?
Fr’n’ta’gur settled back onto his haunches, withdrawing his barge-sized head from her vicinity. The reptilian slits in the dragon’s eyes widened. Dan had always gotten a distant look in his eyes when he peered into the aether; Sosha and Jamile as well, on the few occasions Madlin had seen one of them look. Madlin’s assessment had counted on tracking the dragon’s eyes, but at least she was fairly certain that he was watching for the viewframe.
The hole opened not a foot from the stacked crates, angled away from the dragon. A trio of
Jennai
crewmen stood waiting, and immediately began hauling crates through to the airship. Rynn had thrown a blanket over the controls of the world-ripper, preventing any possibility that the creature took note of the settings—whatever good that might have done it. A hooded cloak hid Rynn’s face from the world-hole’s view. Every precaution was paranoid, distrustful, and precisely what Madlin would have done in Rynn’s place on such short notice.
Madlin stopped to bow just before she reached the world-hole. “Thank you again. I will return to the valley in the morning.” Before Fr’n’ta’gur could snake his neck around and sneak a peek into Korr, Madlin hustled through and Rynn closed the hole.
“I don’t like any of this,” Cadmus said, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair.
While Madlin had initially hopped to Korr, the strategy planning session that followed shortly afterward was held in the lunar headquarters. Cadmus, Madlin, Jamile, Greuder, Rascal, and Davlin were all present. The latter two represented the Church of Eziel, which had become the recruiting and manpower end of the Human Rebellion—they had also impressed Cadmus with their craftiness, organizational ability, and experience in deception. They all sat around a planning table in a purpose-built room bored out of the lunar rock specifically for meetings that required secrecy.
“We got seventy-two Rynn-guns out of it,” Davlin said, “and the promise of more. We get a bit bolt-footed and don’t send her back; we got something out of the deal.”
Madlin waved the notion away. “For the time I spent there, that’s rat shit. He’s trying to string us along like some back-alley root peddler. He’s given us just enough to prove he won’t stiff us entirely, and not enough that we consider cutting out losses and taking what we got.”
“Ain’t spottin’ the trap the key to breakin’ free of it?” Rascal asked. “I mean, anyone who
knows
they’re getting’ scammed ain’t really getting’ scammed. They go through with the deal; they get what’s comin’ to ‘em.”
“The dragon must underestimate us,” Greuder said. The old baker looked around for nods of agreement and found them lacking. “If he doesn’t know we’re on to him, we have the advantage. We just need to decide how to exploit it.”
Cadmus stood, his pent up energy no longer contained by a chair. “And that puts Madlin in the position of bait. No. No, we need to plan a raid on that warehouse. We grab what guns we can, we burn down their factories, kill as many workers as we can, and forget that whole world exists.”
“You know, Anzik can probably hear us,” Jamile pointed out. The young Megrenn sorcerer still lived within the lunar headquarters, though he was not a part of the rebellion. He kept to himself, and that allowed many of the inhabitants and visitors to forget his presence. Not to mention the fact that he had the magical prowess to hide himself from them, even when he was present.
Cadmus blew a frustrated breath. “His people can have their share from the raid. It’s the best deal any of us are likely to get. Veydrus was a fool’s errand, and we’ll wipe our hands of the place once we’ve made good.”
“You say we’ll raid them, like they wouldn’t expect it,” Madlin said. “Greuder thinks the dragon’s underestimating us, but what if it’s not? What if it’s one step ahead of us? Or two? I know there are wards around the warehouse—”
“World-ripper will get us past those,” Cadmus cut in.
“And I don’t know what they do,” Madlin continued. “They could be simple barriers we could bypass, or they could be explosive, or spark, or turn us all into pigs. It’s gutted magic, and we don’t know enough about it to even know what to be afraid of.”
“We could ask Anzik,” Jamile suggested.
Cadmus shook his head. “It would be the perfect time to alley-stab us. Misread the runes, get us all killed, and make off with all the coil guns for himself.”
“Why would he—?” Jamile began.
“Because my father is paranoid, and we might need a bit of paranoia to keep us all alive,” said Madlin. “But he’s still wrong about a raid. We know Rynn can get me out of there faster than the dragon can react. It wanted to see through into Korr, but we outsmarted it—or at least outmaneuvered it. I say we play along; see how many coil guns we can get out of this before we turn it ugly.”
