by R. J. Lucas
As we are finishing up, the conversation floating about from some of the other patrons, attracts our attention. It seems the protectors are actively searching for a teenage girl with double proth legs.
“Supposedly she has extraordinary capabilities,” one guy says.
“I heard she jumped completely out of the arena,” another says.
“How,” asks the first. “Those walls are four times the height of a man.”
“I told you. Her proths are special. She’s some kind of freak.”
“I heard she killed a baldagaar single handedly,” a woman says from the next table over.
“It wasn’t single handedly,” Braam shouts, finally unable to control himself. “She had help…I heard.”
They all turn to look at him, their discussion interrupted by Braam’s comments.
“That’s what I heard is all,” he adds weakly.
“Anyway…” one of them says. “Word has gotten back to Solomon and he is looking for her. He’s offering two-hundred quill to anyone that turns her in.”
I shift uncomfortably in the seat. I find myself relieved my proths are hidden under the table.
“We need to step very carefully,” Isaiah whispers to me. “If Solomon is looking for you, this could prove to be very risky. Hang tight and finish your bread pudding. I’ll be right back.”
Isaiah walks out of the tavern and returns five minutes later carrying some type of fabric in his hand. He drops it in my lap as he takes a seat. I begin to unfold it, realizing it is a waist wrap.
“You think you can get that on under the table without being noticed?” he asks.
“Yes. Thank you. I’m sure I can manage.”
30 – Mortimer Glass
We leave the tavern and traverse the crowded streets, bound for the scrapyard. Along the way, we stop at the airship for Isaiah to grab his leather satchel. He tells us its contents are rare and valuable, but I can hear the items contained within clank together as he lifts the bag. I assume his definition of valuable is a couple of bottles of kiju.
The scrapyard takes up an impressive amount of space on the outer edge of Steelwatch. As we approach, I am caught off guard by the number of people scurrying about, directing tow-legs, and moving various parts. Most of them look as if they have spent years doing hard, manual labor with their skin baking in the sun all day. They don’t look up or acknowledge us.
Dull thuds, hums, screeches, and the rumble of machinery make it difficult to talk, so we remain silent as we make our way through the center of this seemingly organized chaos.
On the far side of the yard is a worn-out looking building. One that appears to have served its purpose many times over, aged and weathered. It appears to be completely built from the metal scraps lying all around this expansive yard.
We climb the three stairs to the door, walk inside and are greeted by a tall, thin women. She has dark eyes and skin the color of rusted steel. I am a little amused to realize she blends right into her surroundings. When she speaks, I can see she is missing a couple of her front teeth. It doesn’t stop a sizable smile from spreading across her face when she sees Isaiah, though.
“Back again, fancy pants?” she asks, staring straight at Isaiah and ignoring the rest of us. She leans against the wall of the entryway and tosses up one of her legs, propping it on the wall across from her and effectively blocking us from any further advancement inside the facility. The split in her skirt allows material to fall away, revealing smooth flesh the entire length of her leg. Even though her face is showing signs of age, her legs appear young and beautiful. I can’t help staring at them.
“Miss Penelope. Lovely to see you as always,” says Isaiah.
“Did you bring any more of that fancy drink?”
“Ahh, come on, Miss Penelope. You know I wouldn’t show up here without bringing you a lovely gift.”
“Just how lovely do you mean?” she asks, while removing her leg from the wall and encouraging us to follow her further into the building.
“I’ve created something new, just for you.” Isaiah reaches into his satchel and pulls out a bottle of kiju. The glass is tinted red, unlike most clear bottles that hold kiju, or dark brown bottles that hold krum. “It’s infused with raspberries from my personal garden. You’ll find it has a delicate, sweet flavor.”
“Oh my!” Miss Penelope smiles as she gropes the bottle in her hands. “Why don’t you head on back and speak with Mortimer then. It appears I have other things to attend to now.”
Isaiah smiles and nods his head as Miss Penelope rushes over to her desk and pulls out a small glass. She blows in it to clear any dust and wipes the surface with her dingy blouse before pouring it full of the silky red substance.
We follow Isaiah through a large doorway and down a long, dark corridor. Opening a heavy, metal door at the end of the passage, reveals a large interior room where workers are building and repairing mechanical machines rather than moving supplies around. The noise is almost deafening. Heavy chains attached to roof top pullies convey parts around the warehouse, taking them from station to station. Hammering. Shaping. Grinding. I feel instantly annoyed by the sound of it all.
A tall, older man with silver hair and a slight limp, hobbles over to us. His long legs and asymmetrical gait make him seem like a spider, though a kindly one. He uses the assistance of a cane, made of wood with elaborate designs of birds and desert skitterers carved down the shaft.
“Mortimer Glass! You old fool! How are you?” Isaiah exclaims before wrapping the wiry man in an embrace.
“How goes it back in Graven Pointe?” he asks Isaiah, shouting over the sound of the workers and the hum of the tow-legs shifting around bundles of metal.
“Lydia hasn’t kicked me out yet. So, I guess things are good.”
The two men chuckle and banter with one another like old buddies for a minute before Mortimer drags us into his office so we can communicate without yelling. Isaiah introduces all of us and Mortimer gives us each a vigorous handshake, until he sees Amari. He pulls her close and embraces her in a bear hug, then steps back to take in the sight of her.
“Amari, my dear. How are you? It’s been a while.”
She smiles at him. “I’m good. Things are going well for me now that I am surrounded by people who actually care about me.”
Mortimer places his hands on Amari’s shoulders as if he is about to offer a bit of profound advice. “I’m so glad you were able to get away from that waste of human flesh.”
“So am I,” she responds. “I couldn’t have done it without my friends.”
“I would say I’m sorry to hear about Arcmire, but I’m not. That place was a cesspool. I’m glad it was destroyed.” A smile creeps across Mortimer’s face before addressing all of us. “I’ve got something you all might be interested in. Come to the window.”
We follow him over to the large window that overlooks the loud, repair facility just outside. He points out, directing our eyes to a row of scaffolding on the far side of the building and tells us to look up, three levels high. I strain my eyes to see the two men working there, grinding the bars. Sparks fly and sweat drips from their bodies. Then I recognize him at the same time Amari does.
“Is that Hugo?” Amari asks.
“Sure is.” Mortimer stands there with a crater-sized grin spread across his face. “He showed up here a few days ago begging for food. Said he was starving to death. Of course, he wasn’t. I told him he could easily go another six months with no food, what with all his fat reserves.” He ends his statement with a belly laugh that puts a smile on each of our faces.
“He does appear to have lost some weight, though,” I observe.
“I figured I’d put him and his glippy sidekick to work. I can always use the extra manpower,” Mortimer says. “Anyway, enough about that plugtail. I assume you have a supply list for me, Isaiah?”
Isaiah pulls the list from his pocket and passes it to Mortimer who briefly looks it over and says it shouldn’t be a pro
blem. Much to Isaiah’s surprise, Mortimer even offers to have the fat man and his companion load it on the ship for us. Of course, Isaiah agrees, and we are all excited over the idea of not having to do the work ourselves.
Isaiah hands twenty quill to the three of us, explaining that is what our payment was going to be anyway. He tells us to enjoy the evening while he and Mortimer catch up. So, we leave the scrapyard and find our way back to the row of shops and taverns.
“What now?” asks Amari. “I’ve never had twenty quill before.”
“Oh, I’m sure we won’t have a problem finding some trouble to get into.” Braam says.
We spend the next few hours strolling through the outpost, visiting shops, laughing, and avoiding the eccentrics that pass by. Amari warns me to hold my quill close as there are no shortage of pocket pickers here. We spot a couple of wanted posters for a girl wearing double proths. It appears Solomon has my capture valued at two-hundred quill, just as the patron in the tavern had said. I always felt as if I were worth more than that, though. The rough sketched photo on the poster looks nothing like me, so I’m not all that worried about being recognized.
Braam searches out a new pipe for himself while Amari and I spend time browsing clothing vendors and admiring the many colorful keffiyehs. The choices we make for ourselves are completely opposite of each other. She chooses a pink and grey print while I choose a solid black.
Smiling at our differences, we realize the sun is setting and our stomachs are protesting a lack of food. Amari suggests a rooftop tavern nearby that serves a good mug of krum for Braam. Amari and I don’t drink the stuff, but the big guy has been patient with our clothing venture this afternoon and deserves a mug.
Once at the tavern, Braam chooses a table that puts us against the outside railing. It allows us a clear view of the street below and everyone on it. When the wait-person arrives, Amari and I ask for water while Braam orders a mug of krum as well as meals for each of us.
“How do you know what we want?” I challenge him with obvious annoyance in my tone.
“Trust me, Neeka. My nose and my gut are in perfect harmony. I can tell you the skitterer is burnt and the root veggies have gone bad. I just saved you disappointment from a bad meal.”
I don’t want to argue. So, I accept Braam’s decision.
Once our drinks are delivered, Braam immediately guzzles his entire drink in one motion. He sits the empty container aside and reaches for mine and Amari’s water. Taking mine out of my hand, he dumps it over the side of the building.
“What the bobblegash!” I exclaim.
Without saying a word, he sits our cups back down in front of us, reaches inside his overcoat and pulls out a bottle of Isaiah’s raspberry-infused kiju. With a smirk on his face, he fills our cups.
Amari and I look at each other with amusement on our faces before venturing a taste of this forbidden drink.
“Mmmm,” Amari moans a soft sound as she tastes the kiju and relaxes in her seat. “This is delicious!” she whispers, causing Braam and I to smile.
I must admit. It is one of the best tasting drinks I have ever had. I decide without hesitation Isaiah must be a kiju-creating genius.
“Isaiah had a couple more bottles hid in a crate on the airship,” Braam explains. “Can you believe he hid it from us, like we might steal it or something?” He rolls his eyes and looks offended.
“But you did steal it,” I remind him, looking at him like he has lost his mind. I work to hide a smile.
“Yeah, but it’s still insulting,” he says, pulling his new pipe and a small canister of dried swampweed from the other side of his coat.
He packs the dried herb into his pipe and lights it. His eyes close as he inhales deeply, savoring the experience. It smells rich and sweet, almost like sweet breads cooking in the oven. A thick billow of smoke rolls from his mouth, forming a ghostly apparition that dances toward the sky.
“Now you try,” he says, offering me the pipe.
Papa never let me try his pipe and I’ve always been curious. It irritates my throat and I cough with the first inhale, but with the second, I get the hang of it. It tastes like burnt leaves and a sweetness I am not familiar with.
I offer it to Amari, and she declines. So, I give it back to Braam. It’s making me feel a little weird anyway, like I want to sink into my chair and live there.
“I assume this is your first time in Steelwatch as well?” Amari asks Braam.
“Yep, when you’re a protector, you stay where your post is and are rarely allowed to visit other outposts. I was stationed at the Fairebourne wall, so I never left Eden. I didn’t think I’d ever see this place.” He pauses and pours himself more kiju. “People used to talk about Steelwatch back in Eden, but you never know what it’s like until you’ve been here for yourself.”
“I guess the protectors really are just as compromised as the rest of us,” I say.
“It’s not so bad,” he says. “You get to crack heads regularly, plus keep what we find on people when we rummage their personals.”
“That’s awful,” Amari tells him.
“It’s a living.” He shrugs and takes another long drag on the pipe.
“Sounds like you miss it,” I say.
“Sometimes,” he admits, puffing his pipe. “Did I ever tell you I was married?”
“No. I don’t think you did.”
“Yeah. Not for long. Only a few months, actually. Her name was Veronika. She was as pretty as the day is long.”
“What happened?”
“She broke the law. She was sentenced to the Dread Wastes. Lord Solomon was merciful enough to put me on duty for the survival ceremony.”
“He made you march her to her doom?”
“He said it was a way for me to make peace with the end of my marriage.”
“He is a cruel man,” I say, feeling deep anger over his forced experience. “And beyond redemption.”
“Maybe,” Braam says as if this is the first time he is coming to the realization.
I want to ask what happened to her, if he saw her fight for her life. I want to ask if she survived, but I’m afraid of what the answer might be.
“What was her crime?” I ask.
“Ohhh…” he says, inhaling from the pipe. “She was a big reader. Couldn’t help herself. It was like a sickness with her. I tried to cure her of it, but in the end, there was nothing that could be done.”
“Do you really think banishment to the Dread Wastes is the appropriate punishment for owning books?”
“She knew the law.”
“The law is wrong.”
“That’s not for me to decide,” he says, but he doesn’t seem sure of himself.
“But you need to decide what is right and what is wrong for yourself,” Amari interjects.
“There is only survival,” he says, more firmly. “There is only today and making it to tomorrow.”
As the sun drops below the horizon in the west, I contemplate what Braam has said and wonder if he is right. I consider if that is why he never questioned Solomon and the law; if that is maybe how he got through so many awful and grueling days. We sit in silence for a moment enjoying our drinks and Braam, his pipe.
A gentle breeze floats by in the night air, blowing Amari’s hair like a wispy, white cloud in the wind. She smiles at me. And then, the silence is broken by an alarm blaring from the amplicones mounted to one of the buildings.
The screaming comes next.
“Baldagaar!” Someone yells from down the street. “Baldagaar inside the walls!”
31 - The Xulgun
The next few seconds are filled with the screams from people in the distance. The sounds of carts being crushed, and buildings being destroyed echo across the rooftops. The raspberry kiju in my glass begins to vibrate and ripple outward as if a pebble had been dropped in. A vicious roar rips my attention away from the trembling liquid and toward a bend in the street where just hours earlier, we were perusing the wares of the clothing shop
. The awful thud of the beast’s footsteps stomping down the street serves as a precursor to his appearance around the curve.
He is massive. Almost two hands higher than the one we fought in the arena. But much like the one we dealt with in Arcmire, this one also has no shirt, just bulging muscles like an overly lean ox. One of his arms is a proth, but it has no mechanics. It is a massive, steel hammer serving as an extension of his arm. He is barefoot and his pants are tattered, apparently from the vein-laced muscles being too large for the fabric to contain.
He runs in our direction, stopping every few steps to swing his hammer at an imaginary foe. The fronts of buildings are shattered at his clumsiness. He falls as if something threw him off balance, but recovers quickly, continuing toward us with his erratic behavior. Then I see something else.
I can’t quite make it out, but it is fast. So fast I can’t keep my eyes pinned on it. It looks human, but moves like lightning, leaving a green wisp behind it with every juke and dodge. Locked in battle with the baldagaar, it spins right, slices the beast’s leg with the two daggers in its hands and rolls away. I’ve never seen anything move so fast.
They battle just below us now and I can get a better look. It is a blue demon. He’s not nearly as tall as Braam, but he’s a good bit higher than me. His lean body isn’t overly muscular, and aside from his blue-tinted skin and unique facial markings, one would think he looks much like a human.
When he slows enough for me to get a better look, I can see he is wearing a solid, white burnoose. It’s tight and form fitting at the top, revealing the creases that separate each individual muscle in his abdomen. Below his waist, it flares out like a frock and makes it look as if he is dancing when he moves.
I’ve never seen a blue demon in action, but to say I am impressed would be an understatement. He appears to maintain the upper hand, slowly wearing the baldagaar down. But just when I think he is certain to defeat the beast, the baldagaar’s hammer makes contact, slamming him against one of the buildings.