The Arkhel Conundrum (The Tears of Artamon Book 4)

by Ash, Sarah

  “Arkhel!” He heard Branville’s irate shout ring out across the parade ground but kept going without a backward glance. He would have to deal with Branville’s fury when he returned to the workshop later; he reckoned, as he tore down the hill, that the team could manage without him for an hour or so.

  Bernay said they would set sail early. Suppose I’m too late and he’s already gone?

  As Toran neared the canal, he hastened his pace, even though he could feel a stitch burning in his left side, forcing himself to keep going along the muddy tow path.

  There were three barges lined up outside Cardin’s Iron Works, the pump machinery destined for the Caradas mining venture was already covered in tarpaulins, but to Toran’s relief, he spotted the ingenieur on the tow path, ticking off items in a small ledger.

  “Gerard!” He stumbled on a loose stone, righting himself.

  Bernay turned around. “Toran? Has the major sent you?”

  Toran was so out of breath that he was obliged to bend double, heaving and spluttering. It was not the way he had planned to say farewell.

  “Perhaps you have a letter for your father?”

  Toran shook his head, aware now that he had arrived that he was in the way and impeding Bernay’s schedule. “I just came to wish you God speed and a safe journey,” he managed to say at last.

  “You’ll be setting sail for the finals of the Emperor’s contest before too long, I imagine,” Bernay said.

  Toran nodded, tongue-tied, unable to find the words he’d wanted to thank Bernay for helping him to achieve his ambition.

  “A word of warning.” Bernay drew closer, his expression suddenly earnest, intense. “When you get to Tielen, stay well away from Guy Maulevrier. He’s a man who doesn’t like to lose. If he offers help—even in the most charming of ways—just don’t accept.”

  “Maulevrier?” Toran repeated, catching an uncharacteristic undertone of anger in Bernay’s voice. “Is he the one who stole—”

  “Doctor Guy Maulevrier of Tielborg University. Avoid him. At all costs.”

  It made Toran furious to think how Bernay had been cheated out of his rightful place in the competition by his one-time tutor. “But it’s so unjust!”

  “What’s done is done.” Bernay gave a shrug. “Let’s not spoil a fair morning by thinking on what might have been.”

  The bargees had begun to rope their sturdy tow-horses to the laden barges.

  “Imagine,” Toran said, wanting to change the subject, “how much swifter those barges would move with a little steam engine inside to propel them along the waterways.”

  “But then those noble beasts of burden would be put out to pasture.”

  Toran shot Bernay an affectionate glance; it was so like him to consider the consequences of changing the old ways where others would blindly insist that progress must sweep aside everything in its path. He realized how much he had valued his discussions with Bernay—and how much he would miss him. He reached out blindly and flung his arms around the ingenieur.

  “Gerard,” he said, his voice choked, his face half-buried in his shoulder. He expected Bernay to disentangle himself, to gently but firmly push him away. But instead, his arms enfolded him, holding him so tightly that Toran could feel his heart thudding fast.

  “Ingenieur!” Mahieu popped up from the deck of the nearest barge. “We’re done here. D’you want to come and check everything’s been safely stowed on board?”

  “I’m on my way!” Bernay called. He placed his hands on Toran’s shoulders, looking directly into his eyes. “The Aiglon is a fine design. You deserve to win the Emperor’s prize.” And then he gently but firmly pushed Toran away from him. Before Toran could react, he had stepped on board the barge, putting a barrier of wood and water between them.

  “God speed,” Toran said, blinking away tears.

  Chapter 24

  Azhkendir

  “Is it much further, Master Ryndin?” Gerard asked, stopping to mop his forehead. He had been toiling up the steep mountain track for hours behind Lord Ranulph’s elderly retainer and, although the air was fresh, with a nip of snow in it from the white peaks towering above, the strong spring sunshine was making him sweat.

  “Not far now,” replied Ryndin, “I think . . .”

  “You think?” puffed Kartavoi, the stoutly-built foreman of works, whose face had turned a deep shade of red as he climbed. “How long is it you’ve been away, old man?”

  “Twenty years, but I’ve trodden these paths many times in my dreams.” Ryndin might be gray-haired and stooped, but he was still much more sure-footed on the stony path than Gerard or Kartavoi. Like an old mountain goat; wiry and nimble, Gerard thought wryly.

  They had left their horses to graze in a green valley below and continued on foot. And as they walked, Gerard found himself assessing how difficult it would be to transport heavy mining equipment up and down the mountain. The first task will be to widen this track and make it safe for wagons. We’ll need to bring timbers to strengthen the surface; the soil is far too friable to support the weight.

  He was so absorbed in his calculations that it wasn’t until he looked up that he realized that Ryndin had disappeared from view.

  “Where’s the old fellow gone now?” wheezed Kartavoi.

  “Through here, Ingenieur!” came back Ryndin’s reedy voice. Gerard scrambled on up the treacherous path, rounding the corner to find himself on a wide ridge. On his left was a vertiginous drop. To his right he saw Ryndin waving jubilantly, pointing to the wall of rock towering over their heads. The empty shells of miners’ shacks huddled in the shelter of the cliff, all fallen into ruin, with only the stark broken tower of a tall chimney left to give any hint of what had gone on there before.

  “I’d no idea we’d climbed so high.” Gerard shaded his eyes, impressed by the panoramic view. Above him shimmered the snow-encrusted peaks of the Kharzhgyll Mountains. To his left lay a vast sea of somber green pines, the forest of Kerjhenezh, and below, the softer greens and heathery purples of the moorlands stretched far into the misty distance. Only the Arkhel Waste stood out, a grim, gray gash lying between the verdant mountain foothills and the moorlands.

  The air smelt icily clean, yet strangely sweet, as if the honeyed pollen from the wayside spring flowers were scenting the breeze. Gerard drew in a deep lungful, feeling it flow like a cleansing draught through his body . So much healthier than the smoke-tainted damp of Paladur.

  A harsh, high cry of a bird of prey rang out high above and, gazing upward, Gerard saw the wide serrated wingspan of a snow eagle circling overhead.

  If only Toran could see his father’s homeland as I’m seeing it now. He couldn’t fail to fall in love with this wild, windswept landscape.

  “Over here, Ingenieur.”

  Gerard followed the sound of Ryndin’s voice and found the old man behind the ruined shacks, staring up at an ivy-covered expanse of rock face.

  Kartavoi, who had been sitting on a boulder, taking a long drink from his water bottle, got to his feet and lumbered after Gerard.

  “This is the mine entrance.” Ryndin was holding back a curtain of old man’s beard and creeper. A breath of cold, dank air issued from the lightless cavern beyond. Gerard knelt down to open his backpack and took out the lantern he had brought and tinder to kindle a flame; Kartavoi did the same. Then they went in under the leafy green curtain, lifting their lanterns high to illuminate what lay beyond.

  Kartavoi let out a low whistle. “Impressive.”

  The unsteady lantern flames revealed a lofty cavern with two tunnels leading off into ink-black darkness. The tunnels were obviously man-made, for the openings had been widened to form roughly rectangular archways, strengthened and supported by thick props of seasoned timber. Shelves had been carved into the rock wall; useful places for the miners to store their supplies and tools, Gerard guessed. But most noticeable of all was the sound of water; not just a slow drip, or an intermittent trickle, but the persistent sound of a stream flowing some
where in the impenetrable darkness beyond.

  “This one.” Kartavoi called from the left-hand tunnel; Gerard and Ryndin joined him, soon forced to stoop by the low ceiling.

  “Did the mine flood in your time, Ryndin?” Gerard asked, as the sound of water grew louder and with it the oppressive feeling that they could be walking into trouble.

  “A couple of times,” Ryndin said. His voice sounded muffled in the confined space. Gerard began to feel oppressed by the low ceiling, the lack of light and the damp chill.

  Are we crazy, venturing so far underground? If the roof caves in, we’ll be crushed, and there’s no one to hear us call for help.

  The tunnel opened out into a chamber. The splash of water was so loud here that Gerard went to investigate, taking care to check where he placed his feet on the rough cavern floor.

  “What do you think, Master Kartavoi?” asked Gerard, noticing that the foreman had been examining the cavern walls with great attention, carefully chipping out little fragments and pocketing them.

  “There’s evidence of a rich seam of copper here.” Kartavoi said and Gerard heard an undisguised hint of greed in his voice.

  “Enough to warrant the expense of installing a pump?”

  “If there’s this much ore here, I’ll wager there’s much more beyond. Lord Ranulph will be most encouraged when he hears what we’ve found today.” Kartavoi grinned at Gerard. “This mine could make us all rich men.”

  ***

  All the way back down the scree-slippery path, Kartavoi talked about rebuilding the shacks, digging a well, blasting a third tunnel . . . And Gerard half-listened, calculating the cost of setting up a working pump to empty the mine of water. They had almost reached the place where they had left their horses when he looked up—and rubbed his eyes, not quite believing what had appeared further along the way.

  Two horsemen blocked the entrance to the little valley. As they drew nearer, Gerard saw that they were no ordinary riders but warriors, armed with axes and swords, who seemed to have emerged from the engravings in his boyhood book of hero legends. Both wore their long crow-black hair in tight braids and even from a distance Gerard could tell that their faces were tattooed with blue and blood-red clan-marks. But most disturbing of all was Ryndin’s reaction; the old man instantly reached for his pistol and drew it, pointing it unsteadily at the strangers.

  “Wait,” Gerard cautioned, placing one hand on Ryndin’s arm.

  “What are you doing here?” called the foremost warrior in the common tongue. “Who are you?” He rode several paces closer, staring down at them with cold suspicion. “Identify yourselves.”

  “Just travelers from Tourmalise,” Gerard replied, “taking the mountain air.” He could feel Ryndin trembling beneath his restraining grip; the old man slowly lowered the pistol. “We mean no harm.”

  “Tourmalise?” repeated the warrior, glancing blankly at his companion.

  “We’re not trespassing into Nagarian territory,” rasped Ryndin. “This is Arkhel land.”

  “Was Arkhel land,” corrected the warrior with a chilling smile. “And if you value your life, old man, you’ll not mention that accursed name around here again.”

  Ryndin stiffened, causing Gerard to tighten his grip. “Stay calm,” he murmured in Tourmaline. “Don’t rise to their bait.” The warriors must be members of Lord Nagarian’s ferocious bodyguard, the infamous druzhina that he’d been warned about. And if Ryndin blurted out his Arkhel heritage and allegiance, Gerard had no doubt that the Nagarian warriors would not hesitate to cut them down and leave their bodies as food for the mountain crows.

  “Answer my question.” The warrior stared directly at Gerard, ignoring Ryndin and Kartavoi. “What is your business here?”

  “To re-open the old copper mines.” Gerard could see no point in denying it. “We have all the legal documentation, officially approved by Lord Stoyan, if you care to come down to the camp and see for yourselves. We’re contracted to export copper to the Emperor’s shipyards in Tielen.” Gerard stared back at the tattooed warrior, determined not to be intimidated.

  “You’re too close to Lord Gavril’s domain. You’d better make sure that your miners don’t stray into Nagarian territory.” The warrior grinned at them, baring his teeth. “If they do—” He mimed throat-slitting, with one brutal slash of his index finger. “Who knows? Lady Morozhka might appreciate a human sacrifice or two. It’s been a while.”

  “Go back to Tourmalise,” added the second warrior. “You’re not welcome here.”

  With that the first turned his horse’s head around and set off across the grassy valley. The other followed.

  Gerard stood motionless, watching until they were out of sight and the dull thud of their horses’ hooves over the grassy turf could no longer be heard. He realized that he was trembling. He had not thought twice about confronting bullying cadets back in Paladur, but these young warriors—who looked so alike they must surely be twins—had shaken him.

  Such raw aggression. There’s no negotiating with savages like that.

  Ryndin suddenly hawked and spat. Gerard turned to him and saw that the old retainer’s lean face was contorted with an expression of virulent disgust. He sagged and Gerard only just managed to catch hold of him before he fell. He eased the old man onto a nearby boulder and took the pistol from him.

  “Here, Master Ryndin, have a swig of my aquavit.” Kartavoi handed him the flask and Ryndin silently took a mouthful. “That’ll restore you.” When Ryndin had finished, Kartavoi took a long swig himself. “So that’s what we’re up against,” he said to Gerard. “They’re out to stir up trouble. We’ll need armed guards patrolling the mine at all times.”

  “But I heard that their new lord, Gavril Nagarian, is a good friend of the Emperor’s. Surely he won’t let his men ride roughshod over our—”

  “The only Nagarian’s a dead Nagarian.” Ryndin said, each word bitter as bile. Color had returned to his wan face, two spots of hectic red on both cheeks; Gerard wondered if he was well enough to ride back to the camp.

  “Who’s this ‘Lady Morozhka’ they referred to? Another Nagarian noble?” he asked.

  Ryndin let out a dry bark of laughter. “You foreigners; you know nothing of our ways here. Morozhka, Lady Frost, she’s been the goddess of the mountains since time began.”

  “One of the local deities, then.” Gerard was beginning to lose patience with the old man. “Do the Azhkendi still worship the old gods? I thought Saint Serzhei was the patron saint of Azhkendir.”

  “You don’t want to anger Lady Frost up here in the mountains,” Ryndin said. “She’ll send her Snow Spirits to sing your soul out of your body.”

  As they rode back down towards the camp, Gerard could not help but recall Toran’s passionate outburst. “ Branville thinks it’s amusing to call me an Azhkendi peasant. But I’ve never even been to Azhkendir.” He remembered how Toran’s eyes had blazed with the intensity of his emotions. “ Where do I fit in? I’m an ‘Azhkendi peasant’ here in Tourmalise, but I have no connections with my father’s homeland; I can’t even speak the Azhkendi tongue. ”

  No wonder Toran’s father had wanted to keep his children away from this place. The landscape might be breathtakingly beautiful, but the mountain people were little better than savages. It was in no way a suitable environment for a gently bred young man, educated in the civilized, cultured atmosphere of Tourmalise, to advance his career.

  ***

  “You met two of Lord Nagarian’s druzhina?” Lord Ranulph’s cheerful expression suddenly faded.

  “Arrogant young thugs.” Kartavoi, who had been giving his report on the trip, had saved the least promising part till last. “I thought they were going to rob us at knifepoint. Don’t you agree, Bernay?”

  Gerard looked up from the legal documents he had been consulting. “They weren’t very welcoming,” he said. “But, as long as we don’t trespass onto Nagarian land, they can’t stop us. That copper mine belonged to your father, my lord
, and according to these deeds you have every right to re-open it.”

  “So, in your expert opinion, Ingenieur, we can go ahead? Excellent,” Lord Ranulph said. “And now that we’ve been paid for the first shipment of firedust to Tielen, we have funds in hand to purchase more equipment for the mine.”

  “I say we should use some of those funds to pay for bodyguards.” Kartavoi still sounded shaken by the encounter. “I wouldn’t put it past those Nagarian druzhina to try to ambush us. It’s so remote up there that no one would hear our cries for help—or come to our aid until it was too late. I don’t want to put my men’s lives needlessly at risk; opening up that old mine is going to be dangerous enough as it is.”

  Lord Ranulph nodded. “Very well, Kartavoi; I’ll get Iarko onto it. Three or four armed men should be more than enough to guard the site.”

  Gerard thought it best not to make further comment.

  “Let me guess what you’re thinking, Ingenieur.” Lord Ranulph poured himself a glass of aquavit and drank it down in one gulp. “‘What am I doing, stuck on the furthest frontier in this barbaric outpost of the New Rossiyan Empire?’”

  Gerard merely raised one eyebrow in reply. Lord Ranulph might give the outward impression that he was a jovial aristocrat dabbling for fun in an industrial endeavor, but he had come to realize that he was much more shrewd than he let people think.

  Lord Ranulph laughed. “But when you get that copper mine up and working for me and the money starts rolling in, you’ll forget all your misgivings.” He clapped Gerard amicably on the shoulder. Gerard, gritting a smile, found himself wondering, Can Toran really be this man’s son? He must take after his mother’s side of the family.

  Yet as he opened the door to the hut that served as home, he took out his notebook and looked through the latest drawings he had been working on: wings. He had agreed to come as a favour for Master Cardin—and if he made a little profit from the copper mine, he could put that money into developing his flyer himself—without any interference from Guy Maulevrier.