Tinker's Justice (9 page)

Draksgollow set his feet back to the floor and stood to greet his guest. “Councilor Steelsmith. It’s a pleasure.” He stuck out a hand, not sure whether councilors were above that sort of thing or not. Anyone he’d dealt with in business had always expected it, but Kep and his generals had warned him that politicians weren’t businessmen—at least not that they admitted publicly.

Gerkie Steelsmith did not take the proffered hand, but inclined her head in Draksgollow’s direction. “Mr. Draksgollow, I understand that I have you to thank for our rescue.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a tight smile. “Have a seat.” Draksgollow eyed the chair in the corner of the room, and Kep took the hint, sliding it over for Councilor Steelsmith.

“Let me be blunt, Mr. Draksgollow, since you appear to be a blunt man,” said Councilor Steelsmith. “What are the terms of our presence here?”

“Terms?”

“What is it you want, in exchange for our return?”

Draksgollow laughed. “We just pulled you out of a city overrun by humans that got themselves guns. You want us to send you back where we found you, we can do that now. But I’d rather you didn’t get rounded up and tied like a roast ham the minute we leave you on your own, so we’re looking for a place you can run things in exile. You got any suggestions, we’re open-eared.”

“So, you have no demands? No requests for a reward before we are returned?”

“Reward?” Draksgollow asked. He looked to Kep. “Kep, are we some sort of bandits or mercenaries?”

“Nope,” Kep lied for him. Draksgollow and Kep might not have been fighting for money, but most of their soldiers certainly were.

“Very well, then,” Councilor Steelsmith conceded. “And what was that machine we came through? I and the other councilors are quite keen on knowing how easily that security was breached.”

“Aw, there’s a lot you don’t know in this world,” Draksgollow replied. “Just let that be another on the list. Let’s just leave it that I can get places I need to get, and I’m using it to get there.”

“And what are you getting in this arrangement?” Councilor Steelsmith asked.

“Respect,” Draksgollow said. “We’re doing good work here, and hardly no one knows a button about it. People see humans wrecking everything they can get their hands on, and the government can’t do a rusted thing about it. I want them to know that I can, and I am. The name is Ganrin Draksgollow, and I want people to know that I’m working to save them from the human menace.”

“Human menace?” Councilor Steelsmith asked, furrowing her brow. “Even being held for three days by those brutes, I don’t think that the whole species is to blame. Most of them are docile enough.”

“How do you know which ones are docile, and which are just faking it until the time is right?” Draksgollow asked. “No, I’ve got a better plan. We killed thirty-five humans from Kupak rescuing you. We’re going to give you thirty-five new humans to replace them.”

“Replace them? From where?”

“We found a place with wild humans, still living on their own, talking their own languages and everything. They’ve never heard of the rebellion, couldn’t understand a word if you tried to tell them. Me and mine are rounding them up in chains, and we’re going to give them out as reparations for the war. That’s what we’re calling the Human Replacement Plan, which is an adjunct to the Human Extermination Project.”

“Extermination? That sounds extreme.”

“Once we nip the danglies off this rebellion—er, pardon the language—we’re going to root out the core. Get rid of just about all the humans; leave the ones who got special skills, and enough to show new slaves how to act. Rest go to the furnaces. With the council’s consent, I’d be willing to start with Kupak. Fresh slaves for the slave owners, and slaves to the patrons of the freeman we exterminate. You lot have all the paperwork of who owns who, who works for who. You just let me handle the replacements.”

Councilor Steelsmith stood. “Mr. Draksgollow, I don’t see that I can condone this sort of—”

“Yellowcorn’s a bit warm this time of year,” Draksgollow cut in, “but the humans haven’t rebelled. Probably because they practically run the place already, but it’s peaceful there. Kep can take you and the other councilors there right now, if you like. Safest place I can think of for you, if it comes right down to it. Or … you can let Kep take you down to the cages, you pick out thirty-five new humans, and you can get back to Kupak Deep and your own nice soft bed, soon as we get done clearing it out.”

Councilor Steelsmith locked gazes with Draksgollow, and held a glare on him for longer than most could stand to look at his maimed face. Without a word, she turned and left the room, Kep following close behind. Draksgollow didn’t think she was heading for the world-ripper.

Chapter 6

“You cannot hide a sorcerer beneath a farmer’s hat.” – Kadrin proverb

Jamile eyed Anzik up and down, making sure no detail was out of place. The clothes he wore were new, but Jamile had dragged them though the underbrush of the Veydran jungle just outside the lunar headquarters, laundered them, and repeated a handful of times. The wear made the outfit believable for a freeman human worker down on his luck stowing on thunderails city to city looking for work.

“I don’t see how a tavern in Korr makes any sense for a meeting,” Anzik said as Jamile circled him.

“Me neither,” Jamile replied. “But Rynn’s cranky enough these days that I don’t ask questions just out of curiosity. I save them up like bank notes, in case I want to ask something important.”

“A deserted island in Tellurak would be most secure. The remote location and paucity of both technology and magic in Tellurak leaves fewer opportunities for someone to stumble onto us browsing with a world-ripper, or overhearing our conversation. I can give her locations for seven small islands, any one of which would be suitable. If you could relay the options to Rynn with a request for her to select whichever she prefers, I think we can settle on a more appropriate meeting venue. I can change into my accustomed attire while you send Sosha.”

Jamile stopped her inspection and folded her arms, fixing Anzik with a raised eyebrow. “No. I think a tavern will do you some good. Get to see some right-as-Eziel people for once, instead of being stuck with sorcerers, tinkers, and twinborn all the time.”

Anzik said nothing, but Jamile noticed a knit to his brow. He wasn’t the statue-face everyone seemed to think; he just underdid it a little. A twitch of his lips could be a smile or a frown on most people, a single blink a look of perplexity.

“What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you
like
being cooped up alone all the time,” said Jamile.

Anzik cocked his head a few degrees.
Blessed mercy, I told him not to tell me
.

Jamile stood straight and tall as she could, lessening the degree to which Anzik towered over her. “I’m giving you an assignment. Once you’re done your business with Rynn, your mission is to get drunk. Extra marks if you talk to a pretty girl while you’re there—not counting Rynn. I’ll even give you some time after the meeting, if you need it.”

Anzik’s eyes shot wide. “You will
not
leave me there. I have important matters to attend.”

Jamile clucked her tongue. “You stare at your own walls all day. If there’s thinking to be done, let that twin of yours handle it, or try a little of it between drinks. A bit of ale in the head might give you a new perspective. Might also make things a bit easier with the girls.”

“I have no interest in talking to girls in a tavern,” Anzik said.

“What’ll you do when you’ve got yourself a princess … what’s her name again?”

“Anju.”

“By the time she’s old enough to marry you, she’ll be right to expect
you’re
the one who’s got things figured out. And how you going to know how to woo a girl if you’ve never tried?”

“We are arranged,” Anzik said, taking a pedantic tone. “Thus there will be no need for such speculative courtship as you recommend.”

Jamile let out a long breath and looked to the cavern ceiling. “Not going to be any royal heirs with
that
attitude, arranged or otherwise.”

“I think there may be a cultural gulf here,” said Anzik.

“Oh, don’t pull that twinborn nonsense on me,” Jamile replied. “Girls are girls, same in Korr and Tellurak, and bless my boots if they aren’t the same in Veydrus, too. But fine, I’ll let you off the good-time trolley, if you promise me one thing.”

Anzik angled his head to glance sidelong at her. “What promise?”

“Ask Kaia to dinner tonight,” she replied.

“I had the impression that she was the object of Mr. Kupe’s affections.”

Jamile sniffed. “Her and anything else in a dress. Boy your age should be more like that, actually. It’s healthy; proves all the glands are working. As a nurse, and as someone who spent years taking care of orphan boys younger and older than you, it’s time you looked after those glands of yours.”

“Are my garments satisfactory or aren’t they?” Anzik asked. Jamile was shocked to notice a flush to his cheeks.

Jamile held her hands up in surrender. “You win. Go be Mr. Crafty Sorcerer and bargain for kingdoms and worlds. Just … if you happen to talk a barmaid into your lap, you’ll feel a lot better.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Anzik said in a deadpan.

Rynn slunk into the Hammer’s Harm Tavern, careful to avoid any sudden movements that would cause her tinker’s legs to make noise. The latest model was inconspicuous beneath baggy coveralls, with a tighter pair of trousers underneath to keep edges from showing through when she sat down. Her hair was tied up in a handkerchief to hide the fact that it was brushed and washed regularly. Spectacles would have made her stand out in a crowd of humans, so Rynn had left them on the world-ripper control console with Sosha. Before the rebellion, Rynn had gone without optics of any sort except when she was working. She had forgotten the hazy blur the world took on past a few paces when she didn’t wear them. After months of never being without them, she had lost the habit of squinting to make out details, and noticed the strain every time she caught herself trying to read.

The Hammer’s Harm was humans only, located on the eighth layer of Venterad Deep, one of the deepest cities in Korr. Aside from the odd knocker patrol or some poor slob with a business errand he couldn’t pass off, there wasn’t a kuduk within three layers of her. The standard work shift wouldn’t be out for more than hour, so she had her pick of tables, taking one against the far wall, farthest from any other patrons.

“Ale me,” Rynn called out. An aleman came by within seconds, whisking a one-tenar coin from the table and replacing it with a tankard and eight gorms in change. Rynn left the coins there to save the trouble of fishing in her pockets to pay for Anzik’s drink.

She could have held the meeting almost anywhere. With the world-rippers, anyplace that wasn’t overrun with hostiles was just a few twists of the dials away. Sosha had given her a strange look when Rynn picked this location, but had managed to keep her mouth shut about it. Give the girl credit; at least she learned. Time was, Jamile and Sosha used to yammer constantly whenever they were around her. When she was little, and working with her father in the workshop, the two of them could go hours without saying anything to one another, even sitting side by side at a workbench. Sosha just felt a need to fill quiet air with the sound of her own voice. She was like Kupe in a dress sometimes—an image that had Rynn chuckling to herself as she sat by herself at the table.

The ale was everything her crewmen had boasted of—rich, thick, with a bitter jolt that didn’t linger between swallows. She still had yet to find any place in Korr that could make an ale to rival the better Acardian brews, but the Hammer’s Harm made a good effort. She closed her eyes, and tried to imagine that she was still Chipmunk, drinking with her friends at the Tap’n’Chug. Of course, she could go there whenever she liked, but she could never be just Chipmunk again. No simple disguise would pass muster there, and her old gang were all on the
Jennai
now. All except Tabby. And Buckets. And of course, No-Boots. If Rynn wasn’t careful, she’d end up as one of those maudlin drunkards who sat around mourning lost friends.

“Table’s lookin’ awful empty,” said a man in a plain brown shirt and an equally plain smiling face. His neatly trimmed beard glistened with oil, and his teeth shone white amid the coarse black hair. Rynn glanced at his hands; they were slender and pink. He worked for humans, in some job that a kuduk would have if it were on another layer.

Rynn gave him a tight, forced smile. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m waiting for someone.”

He slid into the seat across from her anyway. “I’ll keep a place warm for her,” he said with that same smile.

Rynn pulled a pistol—the common black powder variety that seemed so quaint now—and laid it on the table between them. “It’s a ‘he’ and I’ll wait alone, thanks.”

The man stumbled over his own shoes as he scrambled to his feet. “Eziel’s eyes, girl! You one of those rebels or something?”

Rynn looked up at him wide-eyed and innocent, face impassive. She took a sip of her ale. “Naw, I just own a pistol.”
And an airship with a cannon the size of a six-car thunderail.
“Now scoot. You’re blocking my view of the door.”
Scoot? When did I become Jamile? And so much for keeping a quiet corner to myself.

No one else approached her as she waited, with the exception of the aleman who brought her a fresh tankard. She wasn’t sure whether the aleman was the brave sort, just used to armed patrons, or counted on the fact that no drinker ever punched an aleman, let alone shot one.

Anzik’s arrival was both a blessing and a curse. Rynn couldn’t sit there all night letting the rebellion coast off in whatever direction she last pushed it, but she was enjoying the quiet and the drink. The Veydran sorcerer walked through the door like he had just entered a pipers’ den, wary of touching anything or anyone as he threaded his way over to the table. Someone—it was hard not to see Jamile’s hand at work—had dressed him in dreary brown trousers and a pullover shirt. If he was supposed to be a down-on-his-luck worker, like they had planned, Jamile ought to have had him stop shaving, or magic himself a beard to better fit in. Everyone in the tavern had either breasts or a beard except for Anzik. It wasn’t a shavers’ sort of establishment.

Rynn nodded to the seat across from her. With a furtive glance around the room, Anzik joined her. Without her spectacles on, it was hard to be sure, but she thought she saw a gap between his hand and the chair as it slid back far enough for him to sit. It could also have been the ale.

“This place is strange,” he said, his voice low, speaking Kheshi. “Such weak Sources all around. Is this typical, or was this part of your reason for selecting this peculiar location?”

“I picked it for the ale,” Rynn said, hoisting her tankard. She signaled for the aleman to bring one for Anzik. “Dunno about the rest. I can see aether when I need to, but I hardly bother most of the time.”

“I sometimes wonder what that would be like, seeing light and aether separately.”

Rynn paused, lowering the tankard as she was about to take a drink. “How’s that?”

“It’s not important. I have true business to conduct.”

“Half what we get sound fair?” Rynn asked.

Anzik blinked. “Yes, actually. More than fair. I had expected a harder bargaining position on your part.”

“We’ll be piled with them before long,” Rynn said. “Dragon’s got a fertilizer factory for a tongue, but he’s kept his deliveries going. We’re keeping up arming new recruits; we’ve got more in the field now than aboard the
Jennai
. It’s not going to hurt us to split the share even.”

“Excellent news,” said Anzik, sipping at his ale like a steam soup. “But I have another proposal to make.”

“I’m listening.”

“The Kadrin airships outmatch our own,” said Anzik. “Can you build us Korrish ones?”

Rynn regarded him a moment over the rim of her tankard, ale sloshing against her lip. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“And what do I get if I can?” Rynn asked. “Not that I’m saying I can, mind you, because it’s taking me months to get coil guns from a goblin workforce. I can’t exactly steal you airships and shrink them to fit through a world-hole.” She furrowed her brow. “Unless
you
can shrink them.”

Anzik shook his head. “Too large. But what price would you want for them if you can?”

I want you to translate 12 books into a language I can read.
It was tempting. Any sorcerer supposedly knew the language. A freak like Anzik would probably manage it in a day or two, not blinking the whole time. But the knowledge was more valuable than anything she could imagine. Anzik ought to pay
her
for the privilege, knowing that he’d learn the contents in the process. Plus … there was still something disquieting about him. His oddities disguised his character in a way Rynn couldn’t begin to unravel. He worked with his pirate father in one world, and was running a war in another. Simple pragmatism might keep him to his agreements while he needed her, but the moment he had all that he needed, Rynn suspected he could turn on them.