“Nor do I, but a dragon’s senses are far more acute than ours. At any rate, now that we know how the accident was caused, we can inspect the other wagons for the same. As we flew in, we saw where they all are parked, so we’ll go do that now. When I return, I’d like to look at those lists of people.”
A concerned look on his face, Master Ghelt nodded.
The angry woman from earlier followed along as Liara and Mia examined the wagons.
“I don’t understand why we had to stop loading the marble.” She was the site supervisor and was apparently worried about the weekly deliveries, already far behind schedule due to the accidents.
Liara looked at her. “Adept Ivy—”
“I told you to call me Stubs.” What must be her namesake shortened finger was visible on the hand she raised to point at Liara. She’d lost most of the index finger, to the second knuckle, at some point. “I hate being called Ivy.”
Liara scowled. “Adept . . . Stubs, you do want the loading to resume, do you not?”
“Of course! I don’t like being behind schedule.”
“For that to occur, we must ensure that none of your remaining wagons were tampered with.”
“I still can’t believe any of my people did what you claim. As much as I have to keep them in line, they’re all good workers.”
“Even good people can fall into bad things.”
Once all the wagons were inspected, they discovered that two of the remaining five had been tampered with in the same manner—the two that were being used for today’s shipment.
They returned to the first wagon identified as suspect.
“So, this wheel is bad?” Adept Stubs squatted down to examine it. “I don’t see any difference, and I’ll not have them waste time unloading the part of the shipment we already have on these wagons unless I’m certain.”
“Well, Mia assures me that it is.” Liara pointed. “Those three spokes there, and the three on the other side of the nave from them.”
The stonemason adept glanced at Mia, pressed her lips into a thin line, then looked back at the wheel. “Alright, I’ll bite.” She removed a large hammer from her belt and took a big swing at the questionable spokes.
The hammer bounced back and the spoke it hit gave out a loud crack.
“Yrdra’s tits.” Adept Stubs stared at the spoke. “It should not have done that, no matter how hard I swung!” Standing quickly, she trotted to the other side of the wagon. “No offense to your dragon, but I need to confirm this for myself.”
She lifted the hammer and aimed for the spokes. Like before, the hammer bounced back from them each time she swung, but not a single spoke cracked.
“Barbs and pissing blades!” Her jaw muscles worked a few moments before she turned to Liara. Gaze fierce, and said, “How do we find out who did this?”
“We ask everyone if it was them.”
Adept Stubs looked dumbfounded. “And you think the person is just going to admit it?”
Liara shrugged. “In words, probably not, but they will in their thoughts.”
“In their thoughts?”
Liara smiled. “Instruct your people to load the shipment onto wagons we confirmed were not tampered with, and meet me in the office.”
A few minutes later, the three stood inside.
“Master Ghelt,” Liara said, “I know I asked you to compile those lists, but how many employees work here? And I mean everyone, whether directly involved in the quarrying or not.”
He glanced from her to Adept Stubs and back. “Thirty.”
“I see. That’s not too bad. From where the wagons are parked when not in use, I’d guess that everyone could gain access to them at almost any time.”
He frowned. “Yes.”
“That being the case, I need to talk to everyone.”
“Now listen here,” Adept Stubs said, “we can’t just bring the quarry to a standstill. We’ve already lost time having to shift that shipment to other wagons.”
Liara nodded. “I understand, and that’s not my intention. You can work out a schedule of some sort where you send people to me when they’re free from other duties.”
“That should be feasible,” Master Ghelt said. “How long do you need with each person?”
Liara shrugged. “Five minutes? It shouldn’t take long to discover if a person was involved.”
“I see. Stubs, get working on that.”
Liara turned to the woman. “Will this afternoon be too soon to start?”
“No, that will be perfect, actually. I can send people over after their lunch break and a little at a time afterward.”
“Alright. Mia and I will return then. I’ll see about getting replacement wheels sent over from Bataan-Mok. In the meantime, get two guards posted on the wagons. Oh, and on the feed and tack room, too, and on the horses. You don’t have to worry about nahual watches for a time, we detected none within ten miles, so you should have plenty of people to cover everything. And it needs covering. Whoever did this likely saw the shipment being moved to the safe wagons and will realize that we are on to them. There’s no telling what they will try to tamper with next.”
Master Ghelt turned to Adept Stubs. “We’ll figure something out.”
Liara nodded and left the office.
They had made wonderful progress, but there were still two hours to lunch. What to do? What to do?
Can we go to the caves again? I like it there.
Liara smiled and patted Mia on the shoulder. That’s a great idea, sweetheart. Let’s go.
+ + + + +
Some kind of buzzing, ringing sound crept into his awareness. He tried ignoring it, but the sound was incessant.
You must make that noise stop.
Chanté opened his eyes. Morning light from the large window, though not direct, still lit up the rooms enough for him to see quite well.
The annoying buzz came from a chronometer, an alarm chronometer, sitting over on one of the shelves that rose above the front of the bed.
Please make that sound stop. Nantli, head and shoulders in the bedroom, looked down at him with large, pleading eyes.
“I will, lovely, just . . . let me come to my senses first.” Lying against her, falling asleep with her, had been wonderfully comforting. Why had he not thought to do that before?
Stretching, he stood up from the floor, walked the two steps to the bed, leaned over, and shut the accursed thing off.
Quillan had explained how to ‘read’ the time and use the alarm feature after dinner last night when he came to see the rooms dragonlinked were given. He’d been suitably impressed with the view from the bedroom and with the size of Nantli’s den. For whatever reason, he did not venture out onto the balcony.
Chanté breathed in deep and then breathed out. It was a good thing the alarm turned out to be so very effective at its purpose. He had been very tired. Yesterday had been exhausting and he wasn’t certain how much longer he would have slept without the time-keeping device. Also, this was apparently the first day of the new week and, more importantly, his first day of lessons. He wanted to fit in as best he could and not draw attention to himself. As such, he’d rather not be late to anything. The lessons wouldn’t be until the afternoon, however.
He looked again at the chronometer. The little hand pointed straight down to the five, and the long hand straight up at the ten. There was actually some time before he had to be at breakfast. Why had Quillan set the alarm so early?
A knock at the door interrupted his musings. With a pat on Nantli’s neck in passing, Chanté headed over to open it. Who would be knocking this early in the day?
“‘Morning,” Quillan said. He glanced down, and after a moment, shook his head and looked back up. Cheeks a bit red, he cleared his throat. “Uh, you should probably put some kind of clothing on, smallclothes at the very least, before answering the door.”
“Oh.” Chanté glanced down then turned around and headed back.
The sound of the door closing was f
ollowed by Quillan walking in the bedroom.
Chanté grabbed the pair of smallclothes from where he’d thrown them last night. After an hour tossing and turning, tangled up in the constricting sleepwear and underwear, he’d had to strip. Only then had he finally been able to fall asleep.
As he slipped the smallclothes back on, he said, “Incidentally, why did you set my alarm so early?”
“So we could bathe before breakfast.”
“So we could what?”
Quillan blinked. “Bathe?”
Chanté bit his lip. Should he know this word? “I, ah, I’m not sure what ‘bathe’ means.”
Quillan eyed him.
Anaya says that bathing is when Aeron removes dirt and sweat by cleaning himself with something called soap. Usually in a tub of warm water or under something called a shower.
“A shower?” Chanté mumbled. Like a thunderstorm?
I do not think it is exactly like that.
“Oh.” Quillan smiled. “You take showers, huh? Well, whether it’s a shower or a bath, in both cases you’re bathing. Grab a change of clothes”—he hiked up the pack on his shoulder—“and let’s go. After, we can have breakfast and then head to laundry for uniforms. We need to see what our chores are, too.”
“Oh, right. I forgot about going to laundry.” Chanté slipped on the shirt and trousers he’d removed last night before changing into the horrible sleepwear, and hurried to one of the big wardrobes, the one closest to the bed. He opened it and stared at all the clothing from the Caer. “Let’s see. I’ll need clean a shirt, pants and smallclothes, right?”
Quillan walked over and pointed. “Socks. Don’t forget a pair of socks, too.”
“Right. For my feet.” The Caer laundry had also provided him with a pair of shoes. He glanced over to where he’d set them last night, then quickly stuffed the change of clothes into his own pack and closed the wardrobe doors.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he put on the previously discarded socks and then the shoes. “You know, I have no idea where to go for the, ah, shower.”
“I memorized a few locations last night before I went to sleep,” Quillan said. “I know how to get to the bathing rooms.”
The ridiculousness of the situation made Chanté shake his head. He, the Bearer of Lightning, creator of this universe, needed help with such simple tasks. “I would be so lost on my own.”
Quillan chuckled and led the way.
At the end of the hall, they took a circular ramp down to another hallway, and then a few minutes later, Quillan paused outside a wide doorway. Just inside was a wall that extended most of the way left and right.
Quillan pointed to a pair of plaques on the wall. Each bore a letter. The one on the left was etched with an ‘M,’ the right with a ‘W.’
“We’re on the left.”
Chanté blinked. “How can you tell?”
“The letters are initials of the words ‘men’ and ‘women.’ Men and boys use the room on left, while women and girls use the one on the right.”
“Oh. I see.”
Chanté followed Quillan in.
The room around the corner was fairly large. There were several stations near the entrance with basins and mirrors. Beyond those were rows of some sort of large, shiny metal containers all the way to the back. A few of those had water and were occupied by either a man or a boy, sitting in them. Along the left side of the room, sections of wall that rose about six feet high—two feet shy of the ceiling—ran all the way to the back of the room, partitioning off what looked like an eight-foot wide area. In it, there were . . . things, devices, protruding every six feet or so from the left wall. Some devices, consisting primarily of a metal tube, sprayed water down upon a person standing underneath.
Chanté grunted. “Showers.”
Quillan glanced at him. “Ah, right. You prefer those. Grab a towel and we’ll find a couple available.” He picked up a thick, folded cloth from a nearby shelf and headed off.
Chanté grabbed one, too.
There were a lot of people in here, men and boys. As he followed Quillan to the back of the room, people they passed would glance at him, look away, then immediately look back and stare.
He let out a frustrated breath. Would he ever not be the center of attention?
Quillan walked through one of the three-foot gaps in the dividing wall, the gap nearest the back of the room, and moved next to the last two shower devices. These were the farthest from everyone else, for which Chanté was grateful. There were too many people watching them for his comfort.
“You seem to be popular.” Quillan set his pack on a short wooden bench that sat against the dividing wall. “I don’t like everyone gawking at you. I figured you’d rather not be near any of them, so I chose the last showers.”
“And for that I thank you.” Chanté set his pack down next to Quillan’s and had a look around. The dividing wall, though it had gaps to walk through, was tall enough to keep the curious from staring . . . though only the curious beyond it.
After stripping his clothes off, Quillan moved to the shower that was second from the back wall.
Chanté removed his clothes as well, and stood under the other shower, the one farthest in back.
He stared at the two metal knobs protruding from the wall before him and had a moment of panic. Nantli. I have no idea how to use a shower.
Is Quillan using one?
He is.
What is he doing?
Of course! Just like at dinner. Lovely dragon, you are a genius.
A surge of happiness mixed with a little pride came through the link.
Chanté glanced over at Quillan. The well-built young man stood to the side of the device, one hand under the falling water, the other twisting the knobs.
Hmm. Chanté moved out from under the device and turned the knobs. Water sprayed down out of dozens of little holes in the circle of metal at the end of the tube. As he twisted the left knob more, the water grew warmer. After some experimentation, he realized what the letters on the knobs, ‘H’ and ‘C,’ meant.
Once the temperature was to his liking, he stood under the spraying water. The sensation was surprisingly enjoyable.
Oooohhhhh. This is good! Showers are good!
I want to try.
I’m sorry, lovely, but you wouldn’t even fit in the door to this room.
He couldn’t hear it, but he felt her harrumph of disappointment through the link.
Another glance at Quillan revealed him rubbing a bar of something over his body. An identical bar sat on a little shelf below the knobs in front of Chanté. He grabbed it and imitated Quillan. As he rubbed, a kind of foam began to form. It, too, felt nice, and it gave off a very agreeable scent.
He continued to . . . shower? Whatever one called it, Chanté kept at it with glances at Quillan every now and again to make sure he was doing it properly.
There was a different type of soap for your hair, it seemed. Hair soap, the somewhat thick liquid had poured slowly onto Quillan’s hand, was stored in a bottle sitting on the same small shelf as the bar of soap. Chanté reached for his to make use of it, too. As he tried to remove the stopper, the glass bottle slipped through his fingers.
A sound he didn’t know he could make escaped his lips.
Heart racing, he grabbed for the bottle with both hands and missed. Damn it all! Here he was trying to not stand out and now he was going to make a commotion.
The bottle made what seemed a terribly loud sound as it bounced once, twice, three times, before clattering to a standstill.
“It’s a good thing bottles like those are enchanted for strength.” Quillan was smiling at him.
“Strength?”
“Sure. Glass is normally pretty fragile. Without the enchantment, that bottle would have shattered into numerous sharp fragments. Imagine stepping on dozens and dozens of tiny little knives with your bare feet.”
He stared at Quillan, horrified. “I–I see.” Thankful for the enchantment, h
e picked up the bottle and made a mental note concerning how slippery water made his hands.
The hair soap, ‘Shampoo’ was written on a label on the bottle, smelled pleasant, too. Cleaning his hair, rubbing his fingers vigorously against his scalp as he’d seen Quillan doing, felt remarkably good.
After another casual glance, he saw Quillan do something, and the reason for the machinist’s selection of that shower for himself finally became clear. Every time someone farther along in the showers would stare for too long, Quillan would casually move to block their view. The realization of what Quillan was doing sent a kind of pulse through Chanté. He turned to the water knobs and stared.
Quillan’s actions were . . . well, Chanté didn’t know what to call them, but he did know that they made him oddly happy and made his lips curve a little in a smile. How utterly strange.
Shaking his head in wonder, he rinsed the soap from his hair and glanced at Quillan again to see what next to do in the shower.
“Chanté.”
He jumped a little. Had he somehow given away the fact that he knew nothing of showering? He’d done everything exactly as Quillan had, hadn’t he? “Wh–What?”
Quillan twisted his lips and stared at Chanté’s head. “Your hair. It isn’t actually white. I guess when dry it looks that way, but when wet, it’s translucent.”
Relieved, Chanté reached up, but remembering that his hair was too short, he looked down. The scant hair he had there, now wet, looked like threads spun from pale glass.
He glanced at Quillan’s. His did not look like glass at all.
Chanté looked back at himself and frowned. “Is that . . . weird?”
“I don’t think so. I think it’s nifty. I like things that are different. People, too.” Quillan’s eyes widened a touch, and he quickly stepped back under the shower and made a show of rinsing off.
Nifty? What did nifty mean? Chanté pondered the word and finished rinsing off as well.
After they made use of the thick cloths, ‘towels,’ apparently, Chanté continued to surreptitiously watch Quillan. Like the young man did, he put on underwear and pants, then socks and shoes.
As he followed Quillan back to the basins and mirrors, Chanté tried not to get upset at the stares still directed his way. They were fewer, after all, and as Nantli had said, most just looked curious.
Of Gods, Trees, and a Sapling: Dragonlinked Chronicles Volume 4 Page 14