by J. S. Morin
“I fold,” she said, throwing her cards to the middle of the table. Her tankard was a better companion than her cards had been.
“Me too,” said Sosha. She gently deposited her cards atop Rynn’s. It was lucky for Sosha that money was all but useless aboard the Jennai, otherwise she would have been mired in lifelong debt from her weekly losses.
“I’ll take your coin,” Rascal said, pushing a stack of coins forward to match Davlin’s bet.
Vaulk, Hayfield, and Pick folded in turn. Despite his lack of rank, Rynn couldn’t turn Pick away from a card game.
Before the next card was dealt to the middle, there was a knock at the door. At first, Rynn thought she might have misheard, but a second knock removed all doubt, louder and more determined than the first.
“Come on in,” Rynn said. “But if you’re not here to play, something better be on fire.” Her fellow players laughed.
The door opened a crack. “General Rynn,” Kaia said, peeking in. “Something’s on fire.”
Rynn pushed herself to her feet. It was still the most awkward motion for her tinker’s legs to manage. “Deal me out for a few hands. I’ll be back.”
Rynn followed Kaia down a hall and into an empty side room. Her curiosity grew as she wondered what Kaia wouldn’t say in front of the officers.
“I’ve got a dilemma,” Kaia said.
“Doesn’t sound like any sort of fire I’ve ever heard of,” Rynn replied.
Kaia furrowed her brow and pursed her lips. “You weren’t being literal and you know it. This is a real problem. And for all I know it might cause a fire, depending what we do?”
“We? I thought you had the dilemma.”
“Well, it involves your father.
Rynn winced. “What has he done now?”
“Nothing ... yet,” said Kaia. “You see, he didn’t want to get dragged into another six-hour conversation with Mr. Harwick, so he made himself scarce and sent me to pick up the translation work he’s finished so far.”
“Sounds reasonable,” said Rynn. “That man could talk the paint off the walls.”
“Well, you see, he finished two of the books. One’s the world-ripper book. I brought that one back with me. The other’s a book that tells how to make a distress beacon. That’s a thing that calls for help for you.”
“Yeah, I know what it means.”
“Well,” said Kaia. “The book doesn’t tell you who it calls, or what kind of help they might send. Mr. Harwick was worried that your father might just build one to find out, and that maybe that wasn’t the best idea.”
“Sounds like something he’d do. After all, he wasn’t sure what the world-ripper would do when he first built it. And don’t let him tell you otherwise, either. He had guesses, and probably not as good a guess as what a distress beacon would do.”
“So … did I do the right thing?”
“That depends. Just what did you do?” Rynn asked.
Kaia looked all around, then leaned close. “Mr. Harwick still has it. He says he’ll save it for last if he has to, but he can’t stall your father forever.”
“Thanks, Kaia. Don’t worry about this. Just get back to the backup base and pretend nothing happened.”
Kaia let out a long breath. “Thanks, Rynn. You’re my hero.”
“Just get going before anyone notices you’re gone. Did you leave the world-hole open, or is someone waiting at the console?”
“Jamile. Just give her a nod when you get back to your game.”
“Will do,” Rynn replied. She watched Kaia sneak out into the hallway and shook her head. At least someone around here can wrap her head around twinborn.
Madlin was having lunch when K’k’rt arrived. Though the hour on her pocketclock mattered little, her days had developed a rhythm. Wake up. Breakfast. Lunch. Guard change. Dinner. Guard change. Bedtime. Overnight guard change. No one came to clean, and they didn’t let her out for bathing or her unmentionable business. Everything happened in the little suite of hers or not at all—and she’d be gutted and boiled before she cleaned her own prison cell. Breaks in the routine were always interesting, if not always welcome.
“What do you want?” she snapped. Even though K’k’rt had his change of heart, he had still provoked her into getting jolted by the guards. Plus, the guards didn’t need to know she’d mostly forgiven him.
“I bring good news,” said K’k’rt with a weak smile. “Fr’n’ta’gur needs you.”
Madlin dropped her pencil to the floor and hopped to her feet, startling her guards, but not enough so that they used the jolt on her. “Well then, let’s just run right down there and see what the fat lizard wants. Can’t keep an ancient as rusted mountains dragon waiting, or it might finally keel over from age while it waits.”
K’k’rt eyed the guards. There was no chuckle, which made Madlin worry. “He does not need to see you,” K’k’rt clarified. “He needs you. This is good news. Your recent inventions have not, shall we say, amused him.”
“Pardon me for bringing your tinkers into the Steam Age,” Madlin replied. “It’s hard to build modern equipment when you’re practically whittling everything by hand. I’ll draw up plans for a thunderail if you want, but without proper tools, good luck building one that isn’t a rolling death trap.”
“He needs something very particular this time, and I hope it will be an easy task for you,” said K’k’rt.
“I don’t like the sound of easy. Sounds suspiciously like anything but easy.”
“There is a volcano at the heart of the mountain against which Raynesdark rests,” K’k’rt said. “It is at risk of a rather spectacular eruption, according to the reports I’ve brought you.”
“What do I know about volcanoes?”
“Presumably, how your own people stopped this same problem in Korr.”
Madlin swallowed. Worlds are the same. Makes sense. “Oh, is that all?”
“Is there a problem?” K’k’rt asked, glancing at the guards.
Madlin forced a smile. “None at all. Give me about three days, and I’ll have it worked out for you to start work.”
“Excellent,” K’k’rt replied, nodding to himself as he deposited a stack of documents on Madlin’s desk. “That should be everything you need, I hope.”
“I’ll let you know if I need anything else,” Madlin replied. Three days to prepare to get myself out of this infected wound of a mountain.
Cannon fire thundered, shaking the deck of the False Profit. Jadon Zayne did not flinch or wince, though he may have twitched just enough to keep his balance. The fog that surrounded them deadened the noise, not so much to muffle it as to snuff it out before it could echo. Their target was a ship they could only see by the fires burning along its sails. He relies on me for everything now. I wonder if he even remembers how to pirate without magic to help. It was a dilemma that cropped up in his mind often, and had preoccupied him for much of the morning. How much longer could he abide his father’s behavior for the sake of the aid he gave the Megrenn Alliance?
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 lo
st 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.
&n
bsp; 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.