by J. S. Morin
“Captain, we’re still off the trade lane,” the first mate said. “We’re not close enough to Bouo to be seeing port traffic—”
“Yes, I know,” Captain Toller snapped. “Pirates.”
“Most likely, sir,” the first mate agreed.
“No pirate hunting,” Madlin interjected. “My father put us on a course to avoid all delays.”
“Yet we found one anyway,” Captain Toller said. “Plans don’t account for everything.” To his men he shouted, “Cut the engines! Raise the bait sail!”
The smoke that poured from the ship’s twin smokestacks petered out. A pair of crewmen raised a single, plain white sail up a flimsy steel mast.
“This is pointless. They must have seen the smoke already.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Captain Toller replied. “I doubt they’ve spotted us at all yet.”
Madlin looked to the astronomy-grade telescope the Darksmith carried and wished it to rust and ruin. Trolling the Katamic Sea for pirates was far from her agenda, and sweeping with a lens that came near to seeing past the horizon wasn’t helping matters.
“Are you scared?” Jamile asked. She was closer than Madlin had realized. By the tremble in Jamile’s voice, Madlin had no need to inquire in return.
“Scared of what? Pirates with cannons from the dark ages, sailing in a bucket made of dead trees?” Madlin shook her head.
“But what if they start shooting at us?”
“It’s not like it’d be the first time I’ve been shot at,” Madlin replied. Her eyes widened as she realized her mistake. Rynn was a maid, nothing more—or so everyone was supposed to believe. And maids aren’t usually subjected to gunfire.
Madlin turned to see Jamile staring at her, wide-eyed.
“Pretend you didn’t hear that,” Madlin said. Jamile nodded, still staring.
The two girls shared a silence as the Darksmith drifted in the water. The tiny sail did nothing to propel the steel-hulled behemoth.
“They’re coming about,” the lookout called. “They’re taking the bait!”
“Ready the guns,” Captain Toller ordered. “Prepare to re-start the engines. There’s no place for them to hide once we get close enough.”
Madlin stood watching the sea with Jamile clinging to her arm. She knew the Takalish girl would rather retreat to their cabin. What kept Jamile by her side she couldn’t say. Loyalty? Protectiveness? Just wanting to show that she was brave enough?
“Stay close and keep out of the way when the fighting starts,” Madlin cautioned. “This shouldn’t get too chancy; our guns have twice the range of theirs.”
Madlin thought she could see a speck on the horizon. The sunlight reflecting off the water hurt her eyes, but also covered her squinting.
“It’s flying Zayne’s flag!” the lookout shouted. “The arrangement of sails looks right, too. Captain, I think this is our lucky day!”
“Is that the Fair Trader?” Captain Toller asked.
“Looks like it, sir.”
“What’s the Fair Trader?” Jamile whispered to Madlin.
“Captain Denrik Zayne’s ship,” Madlin replied. “Calls himself the Scourge of the Katamic. Looks like that’s about to end though.”
The Darksmith’s engines started once more. Black smoke poured from its smokestacks like the snort of an angry dragon. The deck jerked beneath Madlin’s feet as the ship lurched forward in pursuit of a ship that was being borne by the winds right into their path.
Madlin could make out the shape of a ship by the time the Fair Trader realized its mistake. It turned, digging its keel into the water for purchase as it fought to change course before the Darksmith had it in range.
It was too late for that though.
Crewmen worked furiously at cranks as the lookout barked angles and distances. The ponderous barrels of the Darksmith’s guns drifted into position.
Kthooom. Kthooom.
The noise hammered through the crew, thudding into their chests and coming up through the deck to send a shockwave through their feet. Madlin had slipped her fingers into her ears just before the shots fired, but Jamile yelped and cupped hands to hers. Shots splashed into the sea, not far from the pirates’ ship.
“They missed,” Jamile noted. She spoke too loudly, still clutching at her ears.
“Too much math to do on a moving ship,” Madlin said. She pointed to one of the gun crews. “See there? They’re already adjusting.”
One of the gunners pulled a lever, and a hollow copper tube fell out of the breech of the gun. Another crewman took a long, pointed shell and reloaded. As soon as the gun crew closed the breech, they turned cranks that shifted the gun’s aim.
“A fog’s coming in, sir!” the lookout shouted.
The skies were clear. It was late morning. The warmth of the sea should never have allowed fog in such conditions. Yet the fog grew. It rose like the steam from fresh stew, wafting up around the Fair Trader. As it spread and thickened, obscuring Zayne’s ship from view, its scope continued to expand, until the prevailing headwind blew it right over the Darksmith, turning midday to a hazy dream world of grey mist that engulfed them.
There were shouts of alarm from the crew. Jamile clutched once more at Madlin’s arm, but Madlin shook free of her grasp and sprinted for the lookout post, clutching her dress skirts to keep from tripping.
“Move aside,” she said as she shoved her way in front of the telescope. Through the eyepiece she saw nothing but uniform grey. The optics were useless against the veil of fog that shrouded them.
The crew and passengers of the Darksmith calmed after a time. The world was quiet within the fog, the vapors muffling sounds of sea and wind. Captain Toller ordered the engines to idle and they drifted at a rowboat’s pace, listening. No sailor enjoyed a fog, even in the most familiar of waters, but with a hostile ship somewhere within the grey gloom, it became a duel of blindfolded swordsmen.
The crew tiptoed about and orders were given at a whisper. The gun crews manned their posts, ready at a moment’s notice for the Fair Trader to break through the veil of fog and renew their assault. For all the superiority of the Darksmith’s guns, if the pirates drew close enough to board, Madlin didn’t like her companions’ chances.
How long they drifted, Madlin couldn’t say. She wished she had a pocketclock to mark the time in the sunless world they had entered. The crew kept up the watch as the current towed them along, and Madlin and Jamile pressed themselves against the captain’s door to keep out of the way.
Just as suddenly as the fog had begun, they floated free of it and found clear skies above. The Fair Trader was nowhere in sight.
“What was that?” Madlin asked. Captain Toller turned on his heel and strode to his cabin as the ship began resuming its normal activities. Madlin followed after him, catching the door before he had time to close it.
“Your father keeps that much from you, does he?” Toller asked. He took out a pipe and lit it. Madlin bit the inside of her cheek to keep from berating him for wasting her time. “There’s magic out here. More than the tinker lets on, I imagine. You just saw some. There’s no surprise that bastard Zayne still runs free, with magic to aid him. Much as I’d like to see him feed the sharks, I’d just as soon never see that ship of his again.”
“You think he’s twinborn?” Madlin asked. There was no one else around—Jamile had tagged along, but she hardly counted.
“Don’t know that you need to be to use magic. Then again, what do I know?” Captain Toller asked. “Never seen the likes of it in Korr though. If I had my guess, he’s the other kind.”
“You believe in Veydrus?” Jamile asked.
“Ladies, I grew up wearing a collar in Korr and dirty rags in this world. The stuff I seen in the days since then ... I’m ready to believe anything.”
“Yeah,” Madlin agreed. “I guess I am too.”
There were no more pirates or other distractions for the rest of the Darksmith’s voyage to Bouo, one of the larger ports on the northern
Kheshi coast. When they arrived, a small crowd gathered at the dockside as they unloaded the vessel and disembarked passengers. There were times when a valuable cargo drew hungry eyes eager for quick coin, but this was not one of those times. Madlin’s expedition numbered fifty and carried Errol-made rifles. In the whole of Bouo, there might have been three or four such weapons, purchased illicitly from Takalia’s military—the only group the Errol Company sold them to. Anyone who thought to steal the crates filled with weapons, ammunition, and gold would have had to contend with a force that outgunned the local militia, so the Darksmith went about their business unmolested.
Even so, the ship did not linger. Captain Toller took the Darksmith out of port as soon as Madlin and her expedition were safely unloaded. He was under orders from the Mad Tinker to return home as soon as he was able.
Madlin ordered her entourage to purchase horses, wagons, and fresh provisions. Powlo she assigned to arrange accommodations for the large group. Jamile took it upon herself to see that Madlin’s dress was laundered. There was much to be done before they left at dawn the next day.
After all of the arrangements had been made, the sun was still lingering above the skyline. Madlin decided to see a bit of the city before they rushed off, and Jamile tagged along.
“This place is bigger than any sky in Korr,” Jamile observed. No matter how sprawling a deep was, it could never feel so populous as an above-ground city, with open avenues and long sight lines displaying the extent of the city. Madlin preferred the coziness of a roof overhead, and preferably a half mile of stone.
“Doubt it,” Madlin replied. “This isn’t even big by Kheshi standards. It’s just crowded near the markets.”
“It looks like half the people are armed,” Jamile said. Her eyes wandered in every direction but the one she was walking, and Madlin had to take her by the wrist to keep her from disappearing into the crowd.
“If you can call it that,” Madlin said with a shrug. “What’s a blade worth these days? I’ve only seen a few pistols, and none of my father’s.”
“Is this the sort of place you’ve been shot at?” Jamile asked.
Madlin stopped in her tracks. Shit! She was paying attention. Jamile bumped into her in the crowd.
“Listen...” Madlin began, unsure how best to bury the topic.
“Never mind. Forget I said it.”
Madlin locked gazes with Jamile. The Takalish girl met her eyes and kept steady, but her face was drawn blank. Madlin put a hand to her forehead and tried to staunch the headache she sensed coming on.
“No,” said Madlin, “we need to talk. Let’s find someplace quiet.” She scanned the packed streets and the windows of nearby buildings—sounds of indoor commotion spilling out into the city. “Quiet-ish, anyway.”
Madlin found them a tea house off a side street, and she passed a few extra Kheshi fonn to the proprietor for an isolated seat in the back. The floors were unswept and the tables had a strange tacky film on them. The tea smell that pervaded the establishment fought down other, less pleasant odors that lurked about. Madlin knew that any place so slovenly would have available tables, but she wished she had found one that was a bit less unsavory.
“So what is it you needed to tell me?” Jamile asked. “I can keep a secret. I swear.”
“No speaking local languages,” Madlin said, speaking Korrish. “Keep your voice low, too, just in case.”
“Ooh,” Jamile said with a widening grin. “This sounds fun.”
“It looks like we’re going to be bunking in close quarters a lot, being the only two women along,” Madlin began. “I could try keeping this from you for months, but one of these nights you may hear something, or I may wake up suddenly and blurt something out. I need you to be prepared, ok?”
“Sure. Prepared for what, though?” Jamile leaned forward, looking every bit the gossip.
“I fight with the rebels in Eversall Deep.”
Jamile gasped. “No! You?”
Madlin shushed her. Most of the patrons had turned when Jamile raised her voice in surprise.
“Sorry,” Jamile said. “It’s just ... I never knew anyone fighting for the slaves. I mean, you hear bits and pieces, but I think they keep it out of the papers mostly. What’s it like?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s it like’?”
They paused a moment as a young slip of a Kheshi girl poured tea for them in tiny clay cups. Madlin blew on hers and sipped at it while she waited for Jamile to clarify.
“I mean, being part of the rebels. It must be frightening, risking being caught and hanged.”
“A little, sometimes,” Madlin admitted. “Mostly it’s fun though.”
“Fun?” Jamile blinked.
“Well, I spend the days getting told how worthless I am by a bunch of kuduks who aren’t half as smart as me. When I get together with my friends, we go pay them back a little. Feels good to let all the frustration out. It makes the world a better place for our kind, even if it’s only a little corner of Eversall Deep. There’s no problem that doesn’t look a little easier to handle once you’ve blown a few holes in it.”
Jamile pondered for a moment, looking up at the wall above Madlin’s head. “How to pump water up a pipe?” She grinned. Madlin couldn’t help but follow suit.
“You know what I mean.”
“No,” Jamile said, “I really don’t. I’ve got a safe little life. My patron treats me better than I could have hoped. I have a room of my own and enough food to keep my belly from rumbling. I never need to shoot and get shot at to feel better.”
“It’s more than that, I guess,” Madlin said. “I love them like family. They’re really the only family I’ve got in Korr. Like everything else, it seems, I’ve had to make one for myself.”
“Your family is a bunch of rebels with guns?”
“Both worlds, in a way,” Madlin joked. Taking a more serious tone, she continued. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t risk for them, or them for me. I guess that’s what it’s like.”
Chapter 8
“Have you ever stopped to think that there are some problems that no machine can solve?” -Madlin Errol
Erefan slunk along the side of the tunnel with a satchel thrown over one shoulder. Respectable kuduks avoided looking at him, even crossing to the far side of the tunnel to steer clear of him. Less genteel sorts put shoulders in his path, jarring him and sending him stumbling, calling curses after him. The collar around his neck kept him safe from real harm; he belonged to a daruu.
“Hey rat-eater, what you got in that sack?” a kuduk asked. The question was punctuated by a palm to the chest, stopping Erefan in his tracks. Erefan was slight by human standards, wiry, but lacking in the bulk that most owners preferred in laborers. The kuduk who stopped him was wearing coveralls and had a soot-stained face, clean around the eyes where goggles would cover them. He was a laborer, perhaps a mechanic. Had he been human, Erefan would have called him kindred.
“No idea,” Erefan answered, looking up but not meeting the kuduk’s eye. “Belongs to my owner. Didn’t look.”
“Aww, what a good little slave. Hey, I think I see a bit of stubble on you,” the kuduk said. He turned to a companion and grinned. “Maybe we oughtta give this one a shave. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking—”
“I’m late,” Erefan interrupted. “My owner needs this delivered.”
“I think we should find out what’s in the bag, in case you ain’t supposed to have it.”
Contrary to his story, Erefan knew precisely what he carried: simple inspection equipment and payment for a shipment due at the thunderail yard. There was also a pistol loaded with bullets that bore flesh-piercing runes. Kezudkan was an odd slave owner, trusting Erefan enough to send him armed into the city. Erefan was under orders to shoot anyone who tried to rob him. His fingers itched to draw the weapon and take his chances with the head-knockers and Kezudkan’s political connections.
“Leave the slave alone,” a voice called from behind Erefan. While
foot traffic had diverted around the little confrontation, it seemed they had not been completely ignored. “Can’t you see the runes on that collar? That one’s daruu property. He ain’t worth the trouble.”
The kuduk and his companion grumbled, and the first one gave Erefan another shove for good measure, but they stepped out of his way.
“Thanks,” Erefan said. He looked back to see who his benefactor was.
“Don’t talk to me, human,” replied a thin kuduk with a short, manicured beard. The beard style told Erefan that the kuduk was a banker or an accountant.
Erefan carried on, relieved to have avoided revealing his weapon. He suffered insults and hard looks as he went, and more jostling than a kuduk would have found, but no more impediments to his destination.
When he arrived at the thunderail station, the high-ceiling of the cavern was clouded with smoke, momentarily overwhelming the overhead vents. It was a comforting sight because it meant that the thunderail had recently arrived. He was not as late as he had feared.
Waves of kuduks filed out of the passenger cars. Erefan had to skirt a wrought iron fence. He’d have made little progress if not for the disdain many kuduks had for touching a human. He availed himself of the space respectable businessmen and silk-clad woman gave him, using it to make headway upstream to where the passenger line separated from his path.
A grey-bearded kuduk with the train’s manifest stood at the edge of the passenger platform, barking orders. At his direction, teams of workers with cranes were taking loads from the freight cars and transferring them to trolleys or steam wagons. The scene reminded Erefan of the docks at Tinker’s Harbor in Tellurak—which Cadmus had modeled after the rail yard.
“Sir,” Erefan called out as he approached. He waved to catch the freightmaster’s attention. “I’m here to inspect the contents of car forty-two. Here are my orders.” He dug into the pocket of his coveralls for a folded piece of paper and handed it over.
The freightmaster was a portly kuduk whose beard was trimmed short. He had either been sick recently, or been in trouble with the law. He snatched the paper from Erefan’s hands and gave it a quick perusal—or tried to. Erefan watched with well-concealed amusement as the kuduk’s brow furrowed and he held the paper closer to his face. Erefan could see the writing and knew the cause of the freightmaster’s consternation. Even in pen and ink, Kezudkan’s runes looked carved in stone. There were myriad extraneous lines that gave the symbols the appearance of depth and shadow. Erefan could read it even upside down, but the kuduk freightmaster was chiseling his way through.