Tinker's Justice (7 page)

“Things are that bad?”

“No,” Anzik replied. “I don’t want them to get that bad before I act. I think that was one of my father’s failings. He waited until we had crested the peak of disaster before he dug in his heels. Only Kadrin in-fighting saved us in the last war. I won’t wait until our last airship falls from the skies before I seek to overcome our deficit in aerial naval power.”

“Oh.”

She doesn’t understand. She is a physician, not a strategist.
“I need to take Korrish knowledge of airships and apply it to ours. Rynn would approve, as it will show that tinkering and magic can overcome magic alone. Please open a hole so that I might discuss terms.”

Jamile frowned. “I’ll make you a deal. Rynn’s had herself a bit of a day, and I’m not going to wake her. She wasn’t quite putting words together in a straight line, last I saw her, rambling on about Eziel-knows-what. You let her get a sleep in her, and I’ll have her come find you in the morning.”

A bargained position, better than I might otherwise get if I don’t enlist her aid. I might be able to rouse Kaia to use the machine for me, but this plan has a higher likelihood of success. Cadmus is out of the question. I don’t know whether Greuder can work the machine. Kupe cannot. I might be able to manage the controls on my own, but I would cost myself this alliance if I was discovered.
“Very well. Tomorrow.”

“Please repeat,” said Stalyart. “He wants
what
?”

Tanner and Stalyart—who went by the same names in Tellurak and Veydrus—sat together on the pillars of a pier, overlooking Zethin Harbor in Safschan. The
Wind’s Shadow
was moored nearby, taking on crates of goods with contents Stalyart would steadfastly deny any knowledge of.

“To make you an airship captain in the Megrenn sky army,” Tanner said. “Though I admit I might be hazy on the title. Says he needs men who can sail, and ran out of names.”

“I am touched by his consideration,” Stalyart replied. “Touched in a rude and most inappropriate manner. I have told him I have no interest in his wars. He has, until now, respected my wishes. There are causes worth killing for, but none worth dying for. This very much has the feel of a cause of death. He seeks to dangle the promise of a ship before me, hinting that I could steal it after the war. What manner of fool does he think I have become? I answer you: none.”

“So … then … I take it you want me to pass along a refusal?” Tanner asked. “We go on doing what we do, and you and Zayne keep sailing together in Tellurak?”

“Oh, no,” Stalyart said, his face suddenly blank. “Not at all. Denrik Zayne would never let such a slight pass.” Stalyart’s ever present grin slowly crept back onto his face. “I have told Captain Zayne for years that his mind will go soft if he is not lied to and deceived regularly. It seems that this has finally happened. I have followed him for … hmm … over twenty-two years now. I think it is time that he was reminded that I am, after all, a pirate.”

“How’s that, now?” Tanner asked.

“We are going to steal his airship, and we will
not
wait for the war to end.”

Chapter 5

“Train soldiers to fight for a cause. Hire them when you need foul deeds done without question.”

Half a dozen filthy humans rummaged through the shelves of a general goods store, shoveling merchandize into sacks without even looking to see what it was they were stealing. Similar scenes were playing out across Enmer Deep, the second largest city in Tollopland. The rioting had entered its third day, and kuduks who had the means were leaving the city in droves. Enmer Deep was quickly becoming a human slum, top to bottom. Military patrols concentrated on shepherding civilians to the thunderails and up to Enmer Sky, where airships packed to barely buoyant floated off with refugees.

General Yurgen spat on the floor in front of the world-ripper as he watched, tugging at his freshly braided beard. He looked like a proper general now, he knew, but the braids tugged at his chin in tiny bunches, and the weight of the rank beads threatened to tug the hairs from his face. “All right, you block-fisted oxen, you seen what’s what over there. Them Enmerites need us, and them humans ain’t gonna want us, and that’s the way it’s gonna be. You see a human what ain’t cowerin’ with his hands over his head, you pull the trigger. You see one of ours in trouble, you put yourself between them and the trouble. That’s bein’ a hero, and that’s what you boys’re gonna be. You ain’t heroes yet, but I’ll be blasted if I don’t make a hero of every last one of you lot. Now most of ours is already shoveled coal out of there, but that don’t mean you can get sloppy. I find a hole what don’t belong in one of ours, there’s gonna be discipline.”

Hard eyes and set jaws all pointed in General Yurgen’s direction. He looked them over and gave a nod. It had sunk in. “You boys go do the good work. Corporal Oggit, open ‘er up.”

“Yessir!”

A second later, the viewframe became a hole to Enmer Deep, into the middle of Daljean’s Fine Goods. The squad was sixty strong, and led by a grizzled army Sergeant named Zeetler, who hated humans since losing his brother in a mining accident that was blamed on human incompetence. Every man was armed with a fresh-made coil gun, never fired except in the test range. The soldiers poured through the world-hole like an angry river bursting a dam, cursing and shouting as they fell over the astonished human rioters.

“Keep it open,” General Yurgen ordered, “and follow ‘em good. I want to hear what’s goin’ on, smell it.” He ambled around to join Corporal Oggit behind the bullet-thick glass wall that separated the control console from the viewframe.

It was exhilarating to watch, probably even better—and certainly safer—than actually being there in the deep, felling humans like rats. There were too many kuduks in the squad to keep track of all of them as they dispersed into the city, so he had Corporal Oggit zip from one skirmish to another. Most of the humans fled as fast as their gangly legs could carry them, but some made a fight of it. They threw rocks and bricks; a few had pistols and returned fire. All were quickly dispatched by the sheer number of Yurgen’s men and the power of the coil guns they carried.

They had a few close calls. Some rebel element among Enmer’s humans seemed familiar with the world-ripper, and directed their stones and bullets toward the controller. The bullet-thick glass held, but the dings where shots had struck just in front of his face kept drawing Yurgen’s eye.

Corporal Oggit kept pace behind a knot of soldiers as they chased a gaggle of humans down a sloping tunnel. Yurgen shouted encouragement. “Keep on ‘em, boys! Fire on the run; they’ll be slower if they’re duckin’ the whole way.” One of the soldiers caught a boot in the ruts of the trolley rails. “You imbecile! Get up!”

Despite being safe behind cover and standing still, Yurgen found his breath coming quick. “There!” He pointed, though none of the squad looked back. “Two of them broke off to the left. In the silverworks! In the silverworks, you blind, suckling piglets!” Yurgen clenched both fists until it felt as if his knuckles would burst from the strain.

“I’m not sure how well they can hear you, sir,” Corporal Oggit said. “Might need to lean around the glass.”

Yurgen narrowed an eye at the corporal. “You’d like that, wouldn’t ya? Easy promotion, draggin’ my keester out of the line of fire if a human gets ideas, seein’ me peek out?”

“No, nothing like—”

“Or you just coverin’ for them coal-eyed inbreds who just let two humans get away? Prob’ly rebels too, just our luck.”

“Sorry sir, it was just a suggestion, that’s all,” Corporal Oggit insisted.

“Well, you just mind that I don’t write that bit into my report,” Yurgen said. “Bad enough writin’ ‘em in the first place, without havin’ to write ‘em longer on account of yammer-mouths like yourself.”

Yurgen turned his attention back to the action in the world-hole, where Corporal Oggit was still following behind the chasing soldiers. “Better’n crashball,” he muttered to himself, feeling his heart begin to race once more.

In another viewframe, a far different scene played out. Kuduks lined the walls of a lavish antechamber, expensive furniture shoved into a corner so that they might all be bunched together under the watch of a single guard. They were bound at the wrists and gagged, the beards of the men shaved down to bloodied skin. By the door, two more humans stood with rifles in hand, peeking down the tunnel outside. Even through the viewframe, the fear in that room had a stench to it.

General Bradet paced in front of his troops, standing between them and the scene in the Council Hall of Kupak Deep. Though Draksgollow’s army had given him a promotion to general, he was still a sergeant at heart, his beard frazzled and less impressive than any of the men in his command. He scratched an itch under his chin as he decided how long to let them stew, getting them riled up watching a bunch of helplesses being roughed over. With a curt nod, he decided that it had been long enough.

“Listen up, washcloths, because I don’t want to go over this twice,” Bradet said, projecting his voice so that the soldiers in the back could hear him. “This is a rescue mission. Dead humans are acceptable; dead kuduks are
not
. Our number one priority is the safe retrieval of nine councilors from Kupak Deep. Not eight, not seven, and sure as shit not six. Nine. Count them up, if you sniffing flowers can count. I see nine, right plain as a plate in front of me. You’re going to go through there, put a bullet shield between those hostages and anything that might harm them, and get them the cracked, rusted bolts out of there. They ask you any questions, just tell them you’re here to rescue them, and that they’ve got to move. They get panicked or stupid, and don’t want to move, pick them up and carry them. Mind your hands with the lady councilors. I want two of you on the heavy one there at the end. Once they’re through, you bring them down to the barracks, get them something to eat and let them have a piss, whatever they need. We’re a hotel from that point, and they’re dignitaries. Until then, they’re sacks of the most expensive meat you’re ever going to haul, and I don’t want to see bruise nor blood on any of them. Any questions?”

There was silence.

“Phase two,” said Bradet, pointing to the console operator, who took the cue. The view shifted to the next room, where two dozen human rebels, armed for a war, were packed together, fidgeting, waiting for someone to answer their demands. Bradet knew that, because he read it in the newspaper; it had been the lead story. “We will re-open the hole, once the councilors are safe, and we will eliminate the rebel force. That part, at least, I think you whistle-ears can manage without too much fuss.” He grinned, and his soldiers chuckled with some reservation. They were good lads. Still had a bit of a shine on them, but they would scuff with experience.

“First ones through, I want bullet shield mashed into the faces of those gun-toting humans, and I want both doors blocked off. Ready?”

“Yes, sir!”

Bradet grinned. It was good being general. “On the count of five!”

At the end of Bradet’s countdown, the world-hole opened, and his troops sprang into action. He couldn’t see what went on outside the viewframe’s vantage, as they had brought it as close as possible to the hostages to speed the rescue without impeding the flow of troops to do the rescuing. Bradet kept out of his men’s way, standing at the world-hole and ushering frightened councilors through as his men shepherded them.

“Come on, come on; get through. Make way for the others; you’re all safe, but get those arses of yours hustling. No time. I’ll explain later. Are you all right? Get going then. If that was a thanks, then you’re welcome, now
move
.”

In all, it took less than a minute. The three armed humans in the room were dead, nine hostages safe and cut free from their bonds, and a world-hole closed behind them.

“Who are you people?” one of the councilors demanded. She was grey of hair and sideburn, with a scowl that looked congenital. If it weren’t for the frazzled hair and a busted spectacle lens, she might have even been intimidating.

“We work for Draksgollow. I’m General Bradet.” He saluted, mindful of his orders from Draksgollow. They were supposed to make a good impression and leave it there. Much as he would have liked to backhand the ungrateful mule of a councilor whose first words free of a gag were anything but a thanks—it hadn’t been her who had mumbled gratitude through a burlap cloth.

“I’ve never heard of any Draksgollow,” one of the other councilors said, a man in his middle years with a mangled face that might never grow a proper beard again. “Who does he work for? And … what the quakes is this place? Where are we?”

Bradet held up his hands and gave a gentle smile. “You’re among friends. Go freshen up, grab a bite, and relax. We’ll figure out someplace safe we can deliver you, and you’ll be home by dinnertime. And don’t worry about Mr. Draksgollow; you’ll get to meet him before you go. It’ll be something you can write about in your memoirs, brag to your drinking mates about. And he’ll answer any questions.”

“All well and good, but
who
is this Draksgollow fellow?”

“He’s Korr’s solution to the human problem.”

General Knorlen clasped his hands behind his back, staring into the viewframe. Five minutes ago, he had ordered his troops to raid a church in the lowest layer of Kupak Deep. The city had been hard hit by the rebels, who had dug in and taken control of the lifts and stairshafts, cutting off all travel from layer to layer except those they permitted. Kupak was under siege from within. There hadn’t been a thunderail through in a week, and the two that tried were looted and derailed. Draksgollow had ordered a stop to it.

But the scene before him was anything but encouraging. The ragtag assemblage of human fighters was well-armed. Early intelligence sweeps through Kupak had given no indication that these rebels were coil-gun armed, but clear as the bullet-thick glass protecting Lieutenant Fedrin at the controls, there they were, firing back from around corners with guns that punched holes in stone. It didn’t help matters that the church was human-made brickwork, barely fit to stand under its own weight. The balls from the coil guns tore through the masonry like it was made of crackers—and not the rock-hard sort served in the cheap cars on the thunderail.

“I don’t like this,” Knorlen muttered.

“Yessir,” Lieutenant Fedrin agreed dutifully.

Knorlen fingered the coil-gun holstered at his hip, itching to order the machine on so he could offer support fire. Draksgollow would pitch a fit, risking himself like that, but Knorlen was rapidly approaching the point where he would either have to intervene or make the call to abort the whole operation.