Native Wind

by A. M. Burns

  A thick, noxious odor wafted up around them as they moved farther into the building. Small square tables occupied the space. Along the nearest wall rested a long bar with stools in front of it and a brass railing that sparkled in the afternoon light streaming through the large windows. Most of the occupants were seated near a raised stage where several women in large skirts were doing a high-kicking dance. Gray Talon followed Trey toward the bar.

  “If you’re going to bring him in here”—the bartender glared at Gray Talon—“you’ll need to sit over there.” The man pointed a thick, knotted hand at the far corner from the door. The light from the windows barely reached it, leaving the space blanketed in shadows.

  “We’d like something to eat,” Trey replied. “What have you got?”

  The bartender set down the glass he was cleaning. “It’s a bit early for dinner, but we have some chicken stew left over from lunch.”

  Several of the men gathered at the stage cheered, drawing Gray Talon’s attention away from the bartender for a moment. The person playing the piano glistened in the dim light. Looking closer, he realized it appeared the piano player wore some kind of metal mask that covered his whole head and draped down over his shoulders. Light played off his fingers that also sparkled with metal. Gray Talon wondered what kind of metal could be used to make a mask and gloves like the musician wore.

  “Come on, Talon.” Trey interrupted his observations.

  They walked over to the table in the darkened corner. Gray Talon sat so he could continue to watch the show.

  “I guess the reception here could’ve been worse,” Trey said. His gaze darted around the room as he sat with his back to the wall.

  Gray Talon shrugged. “We knew that they don’t like the People here in the Wyoming territory. The Rockwall war is still fresh in their minds, even if it was ten years ago.”

  “Yeah, I’ve never been up this way. Folks down in Colorado and Texas are a bit more accepting. This out-and-out hatred is hard to see.”

  “We’ll deal with it. If we have to, we’ll say I’m your indentured servant or something. The laws here are lax enough we should be able to get away with that. From what we’ve seen so far, people will look up on you for it.”

  “But they’ll look down on you,” Trey objected. “I don’t like that idea.”

  “We’re in another part of the country up here,” Gray Talon said, still watching the show. The girls were doing a series of kicks in perfect time to the music, and the piano player’s fingers still flashed in the light. “Did you notice the piano player?” He dropped his voice to change the subject. They’d had the discussion a couple of times on their ride from Arapaho lands, in what the whites called Kansas.

  Trey turned toward the stage. “What about him?”

  “His mask and gloves appear to be metal.”

  “Look at the detail,” his lover whispered. “There are even curls under the edge of the top hat. What kind of metal artist could accomplish that? And how uncomfortable must that be to wear? I wonder who or what is hiding under the mask.”

  “I don’t know,” Gray Talon said. “But the workmanship must be incredible if he can play the piano with those gloves on.” Trey’s mother had a piano that had been a family heirloom. She’d played it for them when they were boys. The brigands who killed her had smashed it, rendering its voice silent.

  The bartender appeared at the table with two bowls of stew, some bread, and a couple of glasses. “Sorry, sir,” he said to Trey, ignoring Gray Talon altogether. “It is the last of the stew. It may be short on a few things.” He placed the meal down for them.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Better than eating our own cooking.” Trey reached for the spoon that leaned in the stew. “What’s up with your piano player over there?” He gestured with the spoon toward the stage. “Does he always wear such an intricate mask when he works?”

  “That’s no mask—” The barkeep snorted. “—and he’s no man. Haven’t you seen a construct before?”

  “A construct?” Trey asked.

  “He’s a clockwork piece. I won him off old Rockwall McNair himself. The man might be the best earth mage this side of the Mississippi, but he’s not very good at cards. I beat him fair and square and took old Copperpot off his hands. Turns out he’s a really good piano player and dishwasher. I think I’d actually pay money for him if I had to.”

  “I’m fascinated. When the show is over, would you mind if I examined him?” Trey asked. “I’ve a bit of interest in the magical arts. You say that Rockwall McNair made him?” He took the first taste of the stew.

  The bartender seemed to study them with cold, suspicious eyes. “Yup. They say, out there at the ranch, they’ve got several more that ol’ Rockwall’s made.”

  “The stew is very good,” Trey said.

  “When the set is over, he’ll have a couple of minutes. Since the lunch crowd was fairly small today, there aren’t as many dishes for him to do. I’ll send him over so you can take a look at him.”

  Trey flashed the man an innocent smile. “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”

  The barkeep turned and walked back behind the bar, pulling out a rag to wipe his hands as he went. Gray Talon noticed that the man glared toward the piano.

  “Interesting, so now the whites are using magic to make slaves,” he said as he took the first bite of stew. Weak gravy and overly soft carrots slid across his tongue, nearly making him gag. “Why did you tell him this stew was good? This swill is worse than horse piss.”

  “I want to get a good look at Copperpot,” Trey responded as he dipped the cornbread into his stew. “I’ve never met a magical construct before. It might give me some ideas. I can see where a lot of whites would be willing to use them as labor now that the blacks are freemen and have to be paid for their work.” He scrunched his face up, and Gray Talon couldn’t tell if the unpleasant look was due to the food or something else.

  The music and show continued long after they finished their meal. More men from the town poured into the saloon. They made Gray Talon nervous. The shadowed corner gave him an odd sense of security. Even with his shapeshifting abilities, this many people could be a problem if a fight broke out.

  A thunder of applause filled the saloon as the show ended. All the ladies came across the stage and took a bow. One of them announced that there’d be another show during dinner, but right now the girls needed to go get some rest. Men hooted and hollered. Several reached up and pulled women off the stage to laughter from both the men and the women. The women disappeared with the men up a curved flight of stairs near the edge of the bar.

  “They don’t even treat their women with a modicum of respect around here either,” Gray Talon huffed, not bothering to keep the disdain from his whispered voice. Comanche men knew how to treat their prospective mates, be they female or male.

  Trey didn’t respond. His gaze rested on the construct, Copperpot, as it stood from the piano bench and walked toward the bar. The bartender said something and pointed toward their table. The metal man turned and walked across the room to them.

  As the construct got closer, the face Gray Talon’d been unable to see before became clear. It was as detailed as the curls of hair beneath the copper hat. The nose was a little long, but otherwise the chin and cheekbones made for a ruggedly handsome face complete with thin lips and slightly too-round eyes. The odd lines running down from the corner of the mouth reminded Gray Talon of a ventriloquist dummy he’d seen one time in Pueblo while his mother had been shopping. A slight clank reverberated through the floorboards as the thing walked toward them.

  “Boss said you want to talk to me.” The mouth moved just like the dummy’s had, but the man’s voice that came out was smooth and easily understood. The speech even sounded a bit more refined than most of the local men.

  Trey’s eye widened. “Yes, actually I’d like to examine you if possible. The idea of magical constructs is fascinating.”

  “I have work to do shortly, but the boss
says to take a couple of minutes with you.” The thing stood patiently next to their table. Gray Talon noted that several of the bar patrons were turning their way to watch what unfolded.

  “The bar owner says that you were created by Rockwall McNair.” Trey stood up and walked around the metal man.

  “That is correct. McNair is my creator.”

  “Do you know how he crafted such a detailed outer form for you?” Trey’s delicate fingers slid down along the thing’s arm.

  “He is an earth mage.” The reply was very matter-of-fact. “Copper is a metal from the earth. He can easily shape it to his will.”

  Trey nodded. “I can see where that would be the case. How are you powered? Do you have to take in anything to keep you going?”

  The metal head turned at an odd angle with a slight squeak of metal on metal. It looked a bit like a cat tilting its head. “I do not eat, if that is what you are asking. Otherwise, I do not understand. I just go.”

  The purse of Trey’s lips told Gray Talon he was thinking but hadn’t finished the idea yet. Like his mentor Singing Crow, Trey’s thoughts could take a while to come to completion. Gray Talon leaned back in his chair and watched the exchange. He bet the barkeep would call the construct back to work before Trey finished examining Copperpot.

  “So what kind of jobs are you capable of?” Trey lifted the thing’s fingers and moved the joints back and forth.

  “So far I have not found anything I cannot do.”

  “I heard you play the piano. Is that why you were made?” The mage let the hand fall back to the construct’s side.

  There was a pause, and the thing tilted its head to the other side. Its round eyes grew larger and then smaller. “I do not know why I was created. McNair, the creator, did not tell me why. He just created me. I play the piano very well. I clean dishes very well. I am made of copper. I do not rust in the water. I never asked why I was created.”

  Trey stepped away from the metal man for a moment, his face set in thoughtful contemplation. “Who were you, before you were Copperpot?”

  6

  TREY SHIFTED in the saddle. They were only a couple of miles outside Cheyenne, but he had hoped to be farther away from the city before they made camp for the night. The sun was nearly on the western horizon. With Gray Talon’s ability to change shape and his own magic, they could’ve ridden through the night, but the mission wasn’t that urgent, so each night they stopped and camped. He looked up. Gray Talon, in eagle form, circled above him. He couldn’t wait for camp to talk more about Copperpot. He hoped he’d hidden his disappointment when he hadn’t been able to finish examining the construct. Their discussion had been cut short by the bar owner calling him back to work. Several of the patrons had made jokes about the thing as it clattered into the back room. Trey didn’t like that; it seemed cruel. There was something more to the construct, and when they found the dragon’s daughter and had her safely back to her mother, he wanted to come back to Cheyenne and find out more about Copperpot. He might even try to find Rockwall McNair, although he knew he’d have to leave Gray Talon behind for that. McNair had been a prominent figure in one of the largest wars against the People in recent history.

  The eagle dropped gracefully out of the sky and landed on the ground. The air around it shimmered for a moment, looking like a distant haze on a hot day. Then Gray Talon stood where the eagle had been. Spot nickered and picked up his pace to reach the Comanche hunter.

  “This looks like a good place,” Gray Talon said. They had entered a small ravine with only a few large pines along the bottom near the stream that trickled there.

  Trey slid off Spot. “This will work for the night. Any sign of a decent dinner from up there?”

  His partner shrugged. “Nothing in miles. The stream opens up a little down the hill. There might be some fish down there. You set up camp, and I’ll see what I can find.” With another shimmer, he shifted into a bear and trotted down the hill.

  An abundant amount of deadfall nearby made it easy for Trey to find enough wood for the fire while Spot settled into grazing summer grasses that would soon turn brown and disappear under a blanket of snow. After gathering sufficient fuel, he scattered some of the dry branches around, making a noisy barrier that would alert them to anything approaching their camp.

  As the first major wisps of smoke drifted up from the fire, Gray Talon crashed back into camp, his lumbering bear form breaking many of the branches Trey had scattered around. Two large salmon hung out of his mouth. Dropping the fish by the fire, he shifted back to his human form with a smile.

  “Your mighty hunter has again provided us dinner.” He puffed out his chest.

  Trey couldn’t help but laugh. “My mighty hunter.”

  Gray Talon frowned. “Hey, that’s better than your servant, isn’t it? We have to present that façade in town, but out here, we know who we are.”

  “That we do. So why don’t you clean the fish you caught while I dig out the skillet.”

  Minutes later, the fish sizzled on the skillet and the two settled down next to the fire. Herbed fish was a heavy contrast to the fresh pine fragrance of the ravine. The sun finished its descent, leaving the cracking fire the only light until the moon rose. From the past few nights, Trey knew that was still a few hours away.

  “So you got pretty intense back in town over Copperpot,” Gray Talon said after flipping the fish the first time.

  “He’s a very interesting thing,” Trey replied, still not sure how to put into words what he thought of the construct.

  “He’s a thing?”

  “In all honesty, I’m not sure what he is. There’s more to him than just a copper outside, no matter how well constructed. There has to be a power source. That and I felt something when talking to him. It’s almost like there’s someone alive in there.”

  “Alive? How could there be something alive in there?”

  “I don’t know. He has an aura just like any living thing,” Trey explained. When Gray Talon had first drawn his attention to the construct, he’d noticed the aura hanging over him. And it wasn’t the aura of a piece of metal; it was the aura of a living thing. Actually it was the unique aura of a human being.

  “But how is that possible?”

  “That’s what I’d like to find out. His aura should be closer to that of rocks. I’d have to examine him more intensely to find out. Or talk with his creator.”

  Gray Talon shook his head, his long black braids waving. “You know that McNair hates the People. What makes you think he’d speak with you?”

  “He doesn’t need to know I’m of the People,” Trey countered. “We could talk one magic user to another. But according to Singing Crow, many mages, particularly white ones, are very jealous of their knowledge. I might not be able to get any information out of him.”

  “And what would you do with it if you had it?”

  Trey frowned. He hadn’t really thought that out. “I don’t know. I haven’t encountered that type of magic before and want to know more.”

  “It isn’t enough to know the magic to speak with the spirits. You have to know more.” Gray Talon laughed.

  “That’s just the way some of us are,” Trey replied. “The idea of new kinds of magic just ignites my mind. I want to know as much as I can. You know that.”

  “I know that, and I love that about you, but I have to give you a hard time about it. This is why the shamans are always taken care of by the tribe. Their minds are full of so much stuff. They don’t have time for hunting, building, or wives.”

  “Hey, that’s not fair. I have time for you!” Trey objected.

  Gray Talon laughed again. “So now I’m your wife?”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it!”

  The Indian spun around from the fire and caught the other man up in his arms. The embrace was warm and comforting.

  “I know, my silly mage, I know.”

  A LARGE branch cracked in the night, waking Trey from the light sleep he’d fal
len into after they’d eaten their fish. From Gray Talon’s gentle breathing, he could tell his partner had just woken up too but was lying there waiting to see what was coming toward them. A prickle of energy ran along him as the Indian shifted to a different form. Trey reached out with his magic for the fire. It only took a small push for the flames to roar up, illuminating a good part of the ravine and the metal man who stood at the edge of the stick barrier Trey had created.

  “Copperpot?” He sat up. Behind him, the growl of a cougar filled the ravine.

  “You asked me who I was before I was Copperpot. I never got to answer,” the construct replied.

  The fire died down, and Trey reached back to rest a hand on Gray Talon’s furry feline head.

  “So who were you before?” he asked.

  Metal shoulders heaved in a human gesture. Trey noticed a dent that hadn’t been there that afternoon. “I don’t remember. I know there was something before, but I can’t remember. I thought about it all evening while I washed dishes. I know there was something, but I can’t remember. While I played during the show, I pondered it harder than anything I have ever pondered before, and still nothing. You asked me, and I thought maybe you had the answer. You remind me of the creator.”

  Trey frowned. “I’m sorry, Copperpot, but I don’t have the answer for you. Maybe your creator, Rockwall McNair, has it.”

  “But he abandoned me with Mr. Jenkins at the saloon. I know that he deliberately lost the card game. I don’t know why, but he could’ve won. He always won when playing the ranch hands, and Mr. Jenkins isn’t nearly as good at cards as they are.” The construct paused and looked down at the ground. “Sometimes I think maybe I wasn’t good enough for him and he decided to let me go.”