Tinker's Justice (17 page)

Denrik Zayne was a puzzle to his son. Standing there beside him, he noted the resemblance to the reflection he saw in mirrors; his father was much older of course, and worn by wind, sun, and hardship. But the bone structure was unmistakably of common heredity, and the eyes held the same hue. Inside was the conundrum. The values that Jinzan Fehr—his father’s dead twin—had fought and died for showed in scant evidence within Denrik. He still spoke the words when occasion demanded it of him, but nothing of his actions lent credence to them. Freedom. Equality. A better life for everyone, even the commonest of common men.

The cannons fired once more, the whole broadside punishing the prey vessel. They sailed northern waters, in the straits between Takalia and what had once been Tinker’s Island. Jadon supposed that was still its name, but it was no longer home to the Errol Company. Those straits no longer clung to the iron protection of the Mad Tinker’s smoking ships and their ferocious Korrish cannons. Denrik Zayne was making up for lost time and reminding the merchant fleets that the seas still belonged to him.

By his words, Denrik Zayne should have been everything he was not. He should have been a hunter of pirates, a man who rescued ships lost at sea. If he insisted on lawlessness, he should have been a smuggler, bypassing the Shippers’ Guild’s rules and bringing people the goods they needed and wanted, regardless of official sanctions.

The helmsman guided the
False Profit
in close to the prey vessel, which listed badly in the water, obvious even with only its burning sails to see it by. The crew threw grapples across, aiming at hazy outlines as the two ships finally drew close enough to see one another in the fog. Steel rang as cutthroats hacked their way through a pitiful defense by the merchant crew.

He had something important to tell his father, but for the first time, Jadon gave serious consideration to withholding his information. Was his judgment not superior to his father’s by now? Was the benefit of Denrik’s experience worth the risk of setting the two of them at cross purposes? Of course, there was only so wrong a conversation between the two of them could go.

“Father, we need to talk,” Jadon said, raising his voice above the sound of men shouting and the clash of swords.

Denrik snapped a glare at him. “Now’s not the time.”

“Cadmus is bargaining with an Acardian lord, one who used to be twinborn.”

“Scarlet tides, boy, you pick now to tell me this?” Denrik asked. He shouted an order to his men to mind the mainsail, which was ready to fall free to the deck, still ablaze.

“Well, I wasn’t sure how you might take the news, so I had to decide how to approach telling you.”

“Of all the … who is the lord, and who was … gut me, can we discuss this later?”

Jadon scanned the deck of the prey vessel. His aether-vision showed the flow of battle far better than his father could see in the light, through the haze of fog. “We’ve all but won. It’s not as if you’re over there fighting. The Acardian is Lord Dunston Harwick. I haven’t discovered his Veydran identity, but I find it likely that he would have been Kadrin. Given how the population distribution trends between worlds, he should have been either Megrenn or Kadrin, and we would have been aware of notable Megrenn sorcerers well-placed in Acardian government.”

A pistol shot cracked the air. Denrik swore and shouted for his men to return fire. Someone on the prey ship was better armed than he had realized. Generally his father did not allow his men to waste Errol bullets on poorly-armed vessels, now that the future supply of such ammunition was in question.

“You see,” Jadon continued, despite his father’s distraction. “There have been mass kidnappings in the Acardian countryside, which the Korrish rebels are blaming on kuduks. They have reports that humans are being wiped out in Korrish cities, and will be replaced with slaves from here. Cadmus Errol appears to be collaborating with the Acardians to put a stop to it.”

“Very well,” Denrik said over his shoulder. “But you don’t seem sure of much. You’re hedging this all as guesswork.”

“Well, given that the Acardian is a sorcerer of unknown ability with Kadrin ties, I decided that discretion was the wisest armor. I haven’t been near any of the world-rippers while they were opened to Tellurak.”

“I thought you were confident in your illusions,” Denrik said. He trained his pistol at the captain of the prey vessel, who hunkered behind the ship’s wheel for cover.

Jadon’s shoulders twitched. “Hence the unknown abilities. If he was the twin of Axterion Solaran—”

“That relic’s older than the dragon.”

“… or Dolvaen Lurien, I might very well be dead before I realized he saw through my illusion.”

“Point taken,” said Denrik. He fired, and a chunk of wood split from the wheel of the prey ship. “Just keep as close an eye as you can, given the circumstances. Kadrin or no, if he’s helping save our kind in Korr, leave him be.”

“Very well. Thank you for your time,” said Jadon. “Enjoy the remainder of your battle.”

Chapter 13

“Note: all listed formulae have mix ratios with a tolerance of 0.05% or greater. Do not attempt precision chemistry in backward worlds unless you have brought your own equipment.” – Traveler’s Companion: Chemistry without a Lab

Kupe stood with his pack slung over one shoulder, waiting with the rest of his five-man—make that five-
person
—squad. Either through luck or someone flipping a few switches in the background, he had been lumped in with Charsi for the mission. He still couldn’t get over the mission name: Operation Potato. Kupe had visions of impersonating a farmhand, spending days on his hands and knees in the soft, spongy soil, ripping potato after potato off the vine.

Davlin stood by the viewframe, which was just a web of copper strung every which way with no picture in it. His uniform was the same plain-spun robe he had worn as a preacher, except now he wore a sword belted at his side. Kupe had never seen anyone ever use a sword. They were decorations in posh houses and exhibits in museums, not actual weapons. The coil gun at his belt … that was a weapon. Knockers carried clubs to drub sense into lawbreakers, and soldiers carried rifles. A sword seemed like a half measure all around; there was no point getting up close to someone if you just wanted to kill them.

“All right, Squad Seven, listen up,” Davlin said. “You will be assigned to the Kerrin Grove Orchard, which is seventy miles west of a city called Golis. It’s the beginning of harvest season, so there will be a number of workers out there, and you will be watching over them in the event that the kidnappers visit Kerrin Grove. Your tour is three days, after which you will have three days back aboard the
Jennai
before your next tour. Your periscope is runed for nighttime vision, so I want it monitored around the clock. You are each carrying four runed grenades. In the event that your farm is raided by the kidnappers, your first priority is to get one of those grenades through the open world-hole to disable their machine. Do not—I repeat,
do not
—throw your last grenade. That last grenade goes off in your hand, is that understood?” Kupe joined a small chorus of affirmatives, though he didn’t much care for the sound of that last provision. “We can’t risk any of ours getting taken prisoner. Any of
theirs
, don’t you hesitate a minute to grab one of them. And remember, no contact with the locals whatsoever. Sergeant Tipner, if you would open Squad Seven’s hole please.”

The world-ripper operator checked his log book and adjusted dials. When the hole opened, it showed a dark, soil-walled chamber. “Best of luck, and may Eziel guide your hand. Barring that, Tipner and the lads will be keeping an eye on all you potatoes.”

Kupe frowned. He was obviously missing something. He leaned close to Charsi as they all crowded through the world-hole. “What’s he callin’ us potatoes for?” he whispered.

Charsi elbowed him in the ribs and shushed him. Their squad leader flicked a switch and a single spark bulb lit the chamber, which was an inverted T-shape of intersecting tunnels the same size as the viewframe—and the same size as the giant auger that had made the lunar base. Kupe realized how the chamber had been built and it started making sense. A ladder ran up to the top, where a steel-grate platform had been constructed, and a thunderail engineer’s periscope was stationed. There were a few cushions spread around the floor, which had the look of fresh poured-stone, and three cots.

When the world-hole closed, Kupe’s first impression was the smell. It had an odor like the inside of a boot, mixed with a whiff of the familiar scents of fresh poured-stone and welding gasses.

The furnishings were worse than sparse. Tunnel rats built themselves more lavishly appointed hovels than the little chamber of loose earth. There weren’t even enough cots for the five of them. They would have to take turns sleeping or double up—Kupe wouldn’t mind that, actually, now that he thought about it. But there was a distinct lack of both privacy and creature comforts that seemed to be designed to tell Kupe that he was a soldier, and he bloody well better be spending his time soldiering.

Of course, it wasn’t all bad news. Kupe had expected to be out under the sun, disguised as a farmer. At least with a miniature deep, he would be safe from getting his skin burned, and no contact with the locals meant no farm work.

“Air’s a little close in here,” Kupe said, since no one else seemed eager to open a bottle of conversation. “They put enough vents in, you think?”

“General Rynn designed these potatoes,” the squad leader said. Kupe wanted to say that the man’s name started with a P … or maybe a B.

“Yeah, I keep hearing that. What’s with all the potato talk?” Kupe asked.

Charsi let out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t you ever pay attention?” she asked. “We’re a big lump under the ground in the middle of a farm, just like potatoes. That’s all there is to it.”

It was the last thing Charsi said to him all day. The rest passed like a dripping faucet, an interminable annoyance until it was time for sleep. Kupe took his turns at the periscope, but there was nothing but little trees and folks plucking apples off them. Even seeing real live trees wore thin after long enough staring at them.

Kupe’s second day as a potato was dampened by rain. He had imagined that tucked in the shallow deep he would be safe from the effects of weather, but he found that assumption to be mistaken. Soil wasn’t stone, and they weren’t even under that much of it. The rain soaked through the earth, and the hatch leaked; it had been built for a quick escape, not to be water-tight. The periscope hole leaked worst of all, with the pipe and handles trickling water into their hideaway. It made the already dank, sweat-smelling enclosure all the more inhospitable. Only General Rynn’s foresight in adding a drainage grate kept them from a having to sit in puddles—though doubling as a latrine didn’t help the odor.

The crazy, sky-dwelling Tellurakis didn’t seem to care about the rain. They marched out to the fields with their woven baskets and plucked apples. It wasn’t even much to watch, since they had moved on from the areas nearest the periscope. Watching distant farmhands was even less interesting than watching them up close. On his watches, Kupe kept hoping for a fight to break out or for a couple young lovers to sneak off into the orchard—anything to keep him entertained.

There was little to do in the potato except to gossip. Kupe learned more than he needed to about his fellow soldiers, their families, friends, and the officers in the rebellion. Half of it was guesswork, another half lies, the rest a combination of useless trivia and the eavesdropping of salacious busybodies. Kupe was used to hearing the same things everywhere he went. In Cuminol, people stopped him all the time to tell him pointless bits about their lives or someone else’s. It went with the territory, being known and all, but back then it was his stock in trade. Part of being known was knowing everyone, or at least letting them think you knew them. It made people feel important, having someone known greet them by name, ask about their children, check on their health. Now, it just felt like he was spinning a gear that wasn’t connected. The highlight of his day was figuring out that his squad leader’s name was Barvy.

Night arrived by Barvy’s declaration. The potato had a clock hung from a protruding root, and at 9:00 Barvy said it was lights out. It was a half-truth, since they didn’t switch the spark bulb off. The two on night watch would need the light to work by, so they merely hooded it so it only illuminated the upper section.

“Charsi, Kupe, first watch tonight,” Barvy said. “Wake up me and Barret in four.”

“Yessir,” Charsi replied with a nod.

“Gotcha,” said Kupe, before hastily amending a “sir.”

He and Charsi ascended to the grated platform. Kupe towed one of the cushions up with him so he had a choice other than standing or sitting on the cold metal when it wasn’t his turn at the scope. The fabric was soaked and squished in his hands, but it was still more comfortable than his other options.

They took turns in half-hour stretches, watching nothing. It was an amber-shaded nothing, thanks to General Rynn’s rune-work. It made it hard to tell whether it was daylight outside or the middle of a moonless night, but it made the orchard visible, so that was all that mattered. When it wasn’t his turn, Kupe spent his time watching Charsi with her eyes pressed against the optics. She had thinned a little since joining up with the rebels. She was one of the few who had. Most of them had gotten their first taste of good food and ample leisure on board the
Jennai
, but Charsi had always eaten well, and her work at The Bearded Man was only ever as taxing as she wished. Kupe reserved judgment on whether he preferred her thinner until he saw her in a proper dress. The uniform fit, but it didn’t flatter her figure.

“Ain’t comin’ tonight,” Kupe said softly. He didn’t want to risk waking the sleepers below.

“Huh?” Charsi replied, not taking her eyes from the periscope.

Kupe stood, feeling the hot, damp cling of his pants where the cushion had pressed them against him. He leaned close to Charsi’s ear. “Them kuduks … you think they’re gonna come in a rain like this? Most of them lot can’t abide the skies in the first place.”

“What makes you think kuduks who’d kidnap humans are soft on a bit of rain?”

“What makes you think they ain’t?” Kupe replied. “Most of them prob’ly never thought of pickin’ humans like they was apples, free off the tree, but I betcha most would take ‘em. All a matter of opportunity. So if these is just regular everyday kuduks with a new line of work, why’d they be any less skittish over the weather?”

“Betcha there’s a lotta money in it,” Charsi replied.

Kupe ran a hand over his face. “Hmm, never thought of that. ‘A day without work’s a day without pay,’ right?”

“You’d think.” Charsi turned the periscope, stepping around to keep her eyes against it. Kupe took a step to follow.

“But it’s still night, right?” Kupe asked. “They ain’t likely to be up all night after a long day snatchin’ up folk.”

“How do we know what time they’re on?” Charsi asked. “It’s night here, but we don’t know where the world-ripper kuduks are hiding.”

“How’s it?”

“Our clock’s set to local time, high sun at noon and all that,” Charsi said. “Who knows what time they’re using. Could be Cuminol time, or Kupak time, or Deep Standard for all we know.”

“How you know all this?”

“Kupe, maybe you never considered this, but I talk to five times as many people a day as you,” said Charsi. “Mostly you hawk a paper at someone, they swap you a coin, and that’s that. I bet hardly a kuduk says more than a ‘good day’ to you. Not nearly so many drinkers get by that easy. They hang around; they drink; they want someone to talk to.”

“Someone who looks good in a low-cut dress,” Kupe added.

Charsi’s lip curled at the corner. “Girl’s gotta make a living. If a few harmless eyes fatten the tips, all the better.”

Kupe listened a moment, steeling himself to ask her a question. The dynamo for the spark bulb hummed softly. Water dripped from periscope to grate, grate to poured-stone, poured-stone to drain. Snores rose from below. “Why’d you do it, anyway?”

“Do what?”

“Take that flashpop. You know the one.”

Charsi shrugged and took another step sideways to turn the periscope. “Davlin told me to get a flashpop for the papers, something that showed us getting’ the kuduks good.”

“But why me? Too many folks know this mug of mine. Most of Cuminol. Now, half the world’s seen it.”

Charsi took her eyes from the periscope and met Kupe’s. “I had no idea that would happen. You just … well, you bloody well looked like you were posing for the shot. You looked right at the camera and stood there, so I took the flashpop. You’re not the only one who knows people at the paper, so it was no trouble sneaking it to them for the evening edition. Besides, didn’t you always want to be famous?” She returned to watch through the optics.

“I guess I never knew what real fame was like,” said Kupe. Her back was to him. Even in the shadowed light of the spark bulb, he could see the smooth skin at the back of her neck. Kupe leaned close, letting her feel his breath a moment. When she didn’t shy away, he brushed aside her hair and placed a gentle kiss just above her collar.

Charsi giggled, reminding Kupe of the old Charsi, when she was still running The Bearded Man. He circled his arms around her waist and kissed the side of her neck. She kept looking through the periscope, but there was a smile growing on her lips.