by J. S. Morin
Kep snickered, holding up the clipboard. “Don’t look at me, I just count ‘em.”
“Speaking of, what’s the count?”
“This one, or the day’s?” Kep asked.
Draksgollow removed his hat and fanned his head. For once he envied the humans their innate cooling system, wet and stinking though it might be. “Both.”
“Well, here we got eighteen males, twelve females—nine breeding age and two of them already bred—and twenty two children. We culled six—five for age, one as a cripple,” Kep reported. Draksgollow clenched his mechanical fist. He knew that cripples were the last thing Korr needed in new human stock, but for some reason it still hurt deep down. “On the day, one hundred eleven working males, ninety females, one hundred fifty one children, with a couple of the older females close to breeding. Sixty-one culled in total.”
Draksgollow nodded to let the squad know they were counted and cleared to take the new slaves through. There was only one squad left out in the fields. They would be back in the cool deeps before long.
“Not a bad haul,” Kep commented.
“A gesture, more than anything,” Draksgollow replied. “A proof of concept. We’ll need a huge operation to replenish Korr’s stock.”
“You don’t mind me sayin’, but these here seemed like more trouble than the ones we’re getting’ rid of.”
“Oh, they’ve got fight in them for now,” Draksgollow replied. “But that kind of anger fades quick enough once reality sets in. They’ve got closer ties to their kin, and won’t want to see them get hurt. They’re not used to getting beat if they don’t work, not used to getting a half ration if they don’t work themselves to collapse. Korr can break these. What they lack is organization, and that’s the real trouble with the rebels. A few troublemakers here and there, you can snuff them out like candles. You can’t snuff out a grease spill, once it catches fire. You gotta bury it good.”
Kep pointed down the rows of wheat. “Here come the last ones.”
“About rusted time,” Draksgollow grumbled. “Let’s count them up and get out of here.”
Back in the cool of his own office, in a desolate stretch of tunnels that Kezudkan had never seen, Draksgollow let the heat of the foreign world bleed out of him like pus from an infected wound. His desk was piled with reports, and his generals and officers stopped by to get advice, check in with him, or see what he might need. Despite all that, he kept his muddied boots off, letting the stone leech heat through the sole of his one good foot. He should have changed into fresh clothing, he knew. His guests were the delicate sort, with sensibilities belonging in the deeps, not the open skies, and especially not skies from another world. Draksgollow still smelled of farm, which, after conferring with his troops, was a mixture of dung, animal sweat, human sweat, and fertilizer—which was also dung.
Report after report, all glowing victories; it was enough to cool his sun-soured mood. They were biting into the neck of the growing human rebellion and shaking it. The details were just details; let the generals worry over those sorts of things. Draksgollow could spend an hour poring over a schematic with a hundred interlocking parts, and find the one number that was in error, but that was his stock in trade. For all the military airs he had put on of late, he knew he was still just a tinker, albeit one rich enough to buy armies. He enjoyed the big picture, and to a lesser extent, planning the raids. Then the generals got involved, turned the plans into something they could accomplish with the men they had, and generally mucked things up. It was good to see that for once they had skipped the mucking up part.
“Kep, where’s the report from General Knorlen?” Draksgollow shouted out his office door. “Those Kupak Deep rebels were the worst of today’s bunch. I want to know how it went.”
Kep poked his head in the door. “Ain’t got one from him.” The head disappeared.
“Get your arse back in here!” Draksgollow shouted. Kep reemerged with his head low, not meeting Draksgollow’s eye. “What do you mean? Get Knorlen and get his sorry beard in here, and I mean yesterday.” Kep was gone before Draksgollow finished his sentence.
Draksgollow sighed, checking the gibberish label on the bottle of booze he had taken with him from one of the farms. There was a picture of a waterwheel and a patch of grass riverbank, but the rest was human script. It looked like someone had shattered a pile of runes and sprinkled the pieces into rows of simpler symbols. He popped the cork and sniffed the contents. The overwhelming scent of alcohol stung his nostrils, but he guessed that the subtler smell beneath it was grape. The humans hadn’t known they would be the target of a world-ripper assault, so there was no reason to think they would have poisoned it. He took an experimental swig. Once the initial sting wore off, it was sweet. Not good, but palatable. He leaned back in his chair, throwing his good foot up on the desk as he drank the rest and waited for Knorlen to report in person.
Half an hour later the bottle was empty, and a light fuzz settled into Draksgollow’s head. Kep returned alone. “He ain’t coming back.”
“Aww, piss,” Draksgollow said, though he couldn’t muster enough anger to shout about it. “What’d that brickwit do?”
“Can’t be too sure, but I had the boys peek in on his world-ripper with ours, and the place is wrecked.”
“Underestimated ‘em,” Draksgollow said, nodding. “Shovel it, get a team in there. Get survivors out, and anything we can salvage. Plant charges and collapse the place when you’re done.”
“You got it, boss,” Kep said. Once in a while, it was nice to be treated like a businessman, instead of a soldier.
“Hey, before you go kicking the dogs, send in that lady councilor, the one in charge,” said Draksgollow. He worked his tongue around his mouth, trying to get rid of the clumsy, filmy feeling that made talking more work than it ought to have been.
“Her name’s—”
“Yeah, I know. Gerkie Steelsmith. Just tell her it’s time we had a talk.”
Kep departed with a vigorous nod.
Draksgollow had never been to sea, so he was only guessing that the swaying motion of the room was the same. He knew it was the waterwheel grape booze having its effect on him, which told him that his thoughts were clear enough to be meeting with councilors. Despite an unsteady view, his brain was still in there, tinkering away.
“This is him, councilor,” Kep’s voice preceded him into the office. Right behind him was a woman of late middle years, wearing a pair of spectacles with a freshly ground lens in one side. She was a sharp one—knew her optical refraction off the top of her head. One of Draksgollow’s glassworkers had taken care of it inside an hour. That was what a good man called “politeness,” and what a politician called an act of goodwill.
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.