Copper Cove

by Robert Dahlen

  Contents

  Title

  About this Book

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Copper Cove, city of marvels powered by magic and steam, is abuzz over the coming of the new rail line. Crafter Tabitha Miles would love to be on the first trip of the Velessan Express, but there’s work to be done. Staying awake past midnight to make ends meet, difficult clients, runaway automatons, guild enforcers...just another typical day for her.

  Tabitha’s latest commission seems like another job at first...but then she meets newspaper reporter Sophie Haverford and falls into a web of conspiracy and murder. Can Tabitha unravel the mystery, prevent a disaster, and win Sophie’s heart in time for tea?

  © 2017 Robert Dahlen. All rights reserved, except for those protected by fair use rights where you live.

  To Jocelynne Simone,

  a.k.a. Madame Askew

  (and vice versa),

  with gratitude for all her assistance,

  her kindness, her support,

  the laughter, and the tea.

  The trick isn’t hitting it. The trick is in knowing how hard to hit it.

  Perhaps I should explain what I mean. To do that, I need to tell why I was in Sarge’s flat early that morning.

  Sergeant Edwish Balden used to be in the police force, but he got struck in the wrong place by a crossbow bolt during a raid. Now, he can’t walk. He’d been one of the good ones, and all Copper Cove gave him for his work and his sacrifice were a small pension and a powered wheeled chair. The chair was a nice thought, but it broke down two or three times a year, and when that happened, he was house-bound.

  Sarge has a neighbor who looks out for him. When the chair breaks, she gets a message to the staff at Henry’s Crossing. They pass the message on to me when I go in for a cuppa, and I go round and fix it for Sarge.

  It was the same problem that it had time before last—a gear in the motor was sticking. The last time, a drop of oil had worked, but this time I bit the bullet and replaced the gear. It would cut into my profit from the job, but it was worth it.

  I closed up the chair and recharged the tank, drawing dwimm from the magosphere and infusing it into the water. I stood up, wiped my hands, and said, “That should do it, Sarge. Give it a go.”

  Sarge nodded as I wheeled the chair over to his couch. He lifted himself up and swung into the chair, careful not to disturb Darjeeling, who was lying on the armrest as she slept off a big bite of raspberry kringle. He settled in and tapped the start button on the left armrest.

  We could hear the faint whirring as the gears started to move, but the wheels didn’t budge. “Thought you said that would do it, Miles!” Sarge said.

  “Cogs and gears,” I muttered. I moved behind the chair, knelt down and touched the back. My quick sensing didn’t feel anything out of place. The damn thing should have worked.

  This is where the hitting came in. I was guessing that all the chair needed was a good hard smack. I let my sensing flow through the chair as I pulled my biggest wrench from my toolbelt.

  I tapped several spots on the back lightly with my forefinger. When it hit one spot on the left, I nodded and held my finger there. I hoisted my wrench and carefully swung it at the spot, trying my best to hit it just hard enough. Too hard, and I’d knock something loose and have to start over. Not hard enough, and I’d have egg on my face.

  The wrench struck the chair, and the gears roared to life. Sarge had to hit the off button to keep the chair from rolling through the door of his flat. “What the devil did you do to this?” he said, trying to hold back a grin.

  I stood up, spun the wrench around in my hand, and stuck it back in my toolbelt. “What do you think, Sarge?” I said. “I fixed it.”

  I should have charged Sarge more. Ms. Higgins, my landlady, raised my rent last month, and it seems like everything gets more expensive every time I go to the store. Life in Copper Cove.

  However, I'd read in the Courant that the city council still hadn't voted on the latest proposal to raise pensions. Sarge, and a lot of people like him, were having to make what they had do more. I knew he had to give up a few small things as it was to get his wheeled chair repaired. It would be cruel to pressure him into coughing up a few more coins.

  Sarge, as he always does, tried to slip me a little extra. As I always do, I made him take it back; he had given Darjeeling a bit of his kringle, and that was enough of a gratuity. I woke Darjeeling up, and as she curled up on my shoulder, I said goodbye and headed out of his flat and down Becker Street to get something to eat and a cuppa at Henry’s, and see if anyone else needed my services today.

  I’m Tabitha Miles, and I’m an independent crafter. When someone in Copper Cove has a machine, big or small, that has to be fixed, and they don’t want to go through the guilds or can’t afford to, I take care of it. The guilds call me a “renegade”, and want me and others like me to join them, but I’m not interested. There are too many regulations and too many fees, and I hate their dress codes.

  I wear button-down shirts, gray herringbone tweed trousers with bracers, boots with short heels and a flat cap that matches my trousers. I like how I dress, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks about it, and I’ll be damned if I ever get forced into wearing a skirt. Look at the ones that the women who work for the guilds are required to wear. I’d rather wear something with some bloody pockets, thank you very much.

  I was born and raised in Copper Cove. It was one of the biggest cities on the Crescent Sea, but it first rose to fame some fifty years ago. Following the discovery of how dwimm could be diffused in specially-treated water to create magical batteries, the city’s crafters began to create devices and machines that were amazing, useful, and only occasionally deadly. Early working arrangements and rivalries led to the founding of the two guilds, the Clockwork Consortium and the Fellowship of Brass, that wound up in an uneasy alliance that controlled the building and maintenance of those devices in the city.

  In theory, only those who were properly certified members of the guilds were supposed to repair their devices. In practice, enough people distrusted the guilds, or couldn’t afford them, to keep independent crafters in business, as long they did so quietly. It didn’t make me rich, but it paid the rent and kept me in tea and scones, so I was content.

  It was a cool afternoon, and I was glad I had worn a light jacket as I walked along. It only partially covered my tool belt, but most people were too distracted by Darjeeling to notice it anyway. It was a rare day when someone didn’t notice Darjeeling when I was out, and I would get stopped from time to time and asked about her. I would let children pet her, as long as they did so gently; she had never bitten anyone, but I didn’t want to take that chance. I tried not to be annoyed when they referred to Darjeeling as a “he”; I would gently correct them. If they tried that with me, though, all bets were off.

  I was heading towards Progress Street, one of the city’s oldest, winding through Copper Cove from northwest to southeast. The flats that lined the streets in and around Progress Street were old, and in many cases had had more floors added to the original structure. This gave the streets a charmingly overgrown feel, with some buildings reaching almost across the street. The lampposts appeared to bend to squeeze in. The lines that carried the dwimm that powered people’s devices were strung among the flats and lampposts like the web of a gigantic and somewhat tipsy spider. As always, pigeons battled for the best spots on those lines.

  The corner of Becker and Progress was a popular spot for buskers to perform, and I stopped at a corner to hear one of my favorites, Zoe, play for a moment. A ginger with a sharp smile and a sweet voice, Zoe had been an independent crafter until she discovered that she was more gifted with her vocals and her ukulele than she was
with a wrench and pliers. She was finishing up a cover version of “Steam Punk Girl”, and I joined the small lunchtime crowd in applauding.

  Zoe saw me and waved me over. “Good afternoon, Zoe!” I said with a smile.

  “Halloo, Tabitha,” she said as she petted Darjeeling. “I’ve got a bit of news for you. Do you remember Genevieve Stanbury?”

  “Of course. What’s the word on Genny?”

  “She died this morning.”

  “Cogs and gears,” I said slowly. “What happened?”

  Zoe shook her head. “They found her in her workshop. I don’t know more than that, but the police think it was likely an accident.”

  “Bloody shame,” I said, and I meant it. Genny had taken me under her wing and found me jobs when I had started my crafting career. She was always generous with her time and knowledge.

  Zoe strummed her ukulele. “I’m sorry, Tabitha. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Thank you, Zoe.” I dropped some shillings in her ukulele case. “Lift a glass for her tonight.”

  “I’ll be sure to.” She tipped her cap. I tipped mine in turn and started away, my mind filled with memories of Genny.

  Progress Street was crowded that afternoon. There were the horse-drawn cabs, carrying those who were better off to meetings or trysts, and omnibuses for the working class, pulled along their tracks by teams of specially-bred moa. A motorcar drove past, trailing steam from its tanks of dwimm-infused water. People hurried by me or strolled along, some wearing their finery, some the robes or uniforms of their position, some whatever they could afford or happened to be clean. I could see trolls, hired for construction or hauling jobs, heading for lunch. A trio of policemen marched along, two humans and one dwarf, their eyes seemingly everywhere. An elvish wizard stood to one side, watching the crowd with a mix of amusement and contempt, as people stared at his green robes and brass-trimmed staff.

  There was a small group of men in red and gold uniforms on one corner, and when I saw them, I tried my best not to be noticed. Their outfits marked them as members of the Fellowship of Brass, one of the two crafter’s guilds that held most of the power in Copper Cove. If it involved clockwork or dwimm, one guild or the other almost always had a hand in crafting it.

  The Fellowship had a store on that corner, and across the street from them was a store operated by their rivals, the Clockwork Consortium. Both stores sold much the same merchandise, the inventions that had first appeared over the last half-century. Some, such as iceboxes and teakettles, were life-changing and affordable for many people. Others were still out of reach for all but the rich, such as motorcars, or were not so practical, as was the case with the telephone.

  The stores could be found all across Copper Cove, and that rankled me. The design of the items the guilds sold was, in many cases, basic and uninspired. I knew that it was one way they kept the prices down, but there was no style involved. No imagination. It was frustrating to see, and one of the reasons why I try to bring a bit of flair to anything I craft.

  As I reflected on this, I stopped and smiled as I came within sight of the Ticking Tower. It’s actually named after some dignitary only remembered now by historians, a bloke named Grimes or Graves or something who was obsessed with time. He designed the tower, but died before it was completed.

  The tower is over 100 feet tall, four sided, with a giant clock on each side. The clocks are identical, but the facades that surround the faces are all different, each showing off a different aspect of life in the city many years ago. I love being able to look at and sometimes study the facades, to see the detail and the lovely blend of form and function, and reflect on the thought and craftsmanship behind that.

  I have similar thoughts when I look to the south of the city. Copper Cove doesn’t have the same amount of airship traffic as other cities do, mostly due to the strong winds that blow in from the Crescent Sea, but there are still several dockings every day. The terminal has five towers, all of different heights, where the airships dock. Many of those ships are beautifully crafted and decorated, but there’s beauty in the simpler and starker ones as well, in their ability to take flight and leave the ground behind.

  Atop each tower is a sculpture of a winged woman, each holding a beacon high above her head. The legends of the early days of Copper Cove tell of the valcyr, who came from the mountains to defend the young city from an invading goblin army. Historians have argued for generations about whether or not the valcyr actually existed, but even if they were figments of various imaginations, they made for gorgeous statues.

  I’ve lived in Copper Cove my whole life, and no matter how much the city may have changed, I still find myself surrounded by inspiration. I always wanted to be a crafter, and I’m reminded of that every time I see airships or the valcyr sculptures or the Ticking Tower. They thrill me, and they give me the hope that someday, I’ll create something that people will remember after I’m gone.

  Darjeeling chirped softly into my ear as I resumed my walk. “Are you hinting at something, my sweet?” I said to her. “We’ll be getting lunch soon, and then back to work on that commission—”

  I stopped as the commotion reached my ears. I glanced down Progress Street and saw the suit of plate armor marching slowly along. Behind it were a group of elves, dressed even more garishly than most, arguing over whose fault it had been that the myrmidon was out of control rather than doing anything about it.

  Myrmidons were automatons crafted from armor that had once been worn by elfin heroes, with the purpose of serving as bodyguards for nobles. However, many elves had no feel for crafting, and rogue myrmidons were common. They usually caused no harm...unless they happened to be stampeding down a city street at lunchtime.

  Most of the crowd were able to get out of its way, but I saw that one elderly woman had fallen to her knees and dropped her cane. She was having trouble getting to her feet, fumbling for her glasses as the myrmidon headed straight towards her. “Cogs and gears,” I muttered as I reached for my toolbelt.

  I always carried the usual tools, but I also had a few specialty ones that I would bring with me from time to time. I hadn’t dealt with myrmidons before, but I had one tool with me that worked with devices that had gone out of control—a Tucker’s Reverberator, which bore some resemblance to a giant bronze filigree clothespin. I yanked it off my belt and sprinted towards the myrmidon. “Halloo! Tin head!” I shouted.

  The myrmidon didn’t pause, which came as no surprise; it was probably crafted to ignore insults, especially my rather poor one. The woman on the ground looked up at it, mouth open, frightened beyond speech.

  I jumped in front of the myrmidon as it stretched out an arm. I slapped the reverberator on its hand. As it raised its other arm to strike, I tapped the button on the reverberator and backed away quickly.

  The myrmidon paused as the Tucker’s Reverberator started to shake, softly at first, then harder and faster, with an oddly tuneful hum. It dropped to its knees as bolts began to work loose. I crouched down to shield the elderly woman.

  With several loud pops, the bolts that held the armor together flew off; I had to dodge one that shot towards my head. The myrmidon loudly collapsed in a pile of gears, screws and pieces of armor. The onlookers applauded, murmured appreciatively, and in one case grumbled over losing a bet.

  I retrieved the old woman’s cane and knelt to help her up. “That worked,” I said to her with a grin, quietly thanking my lucky stars that it had. “Are you all right?”

  “What have you done?” We both glanced down the street at the elfin noble that was marching towards us in a whirl of petticoats and parasol, followed by a quartet of nervous attendants. I recognized the oak and thorn crest on their robes from the Courant. I had managed to wreck a myrmidon that belonged to Lady Gladiola Greenbrae.

  “Your pardon,” I said politely as I stood, “but—”

  “It's ruined!” Lady Greenbrae screeched as she pointed at the pile of parts. “My beautiful myrmidon!”

&nbs
p; “Yes, that was the point.” I yanked the reverberator, and the gauntlet I had attached it to, away from one of the attendants. “Someone was about to get hurt.”

  “How could you do this? Who’ll protect me now?”

  I glanced at what was left of the myrmidon as Greenbrae’s entourage started to gather the pieces. “You could always hit the crooks with a forearm or a breastplate.”

  Lady Greenbrae pointed her parasol at me. “I have had enough of your jokes, you impudent brat!”

  “And I have had enough of arrogant, self-centered, heartless nobles!” I snapped. “Here!” I tossed Lady Greenbrae the gauntlet. “You might need this,” I added with a smile.

  She snarled as she stormed off, her entourage hurrying to catch up. My smile faded as I turned to check on the old woman and saw the two men in blue and silver robes walking up to me. “Tabitha Miles?” one said.

  “Oh, what now?”

  The man who had spoken pointed to himself and his companion. “Ridley and Troutman. We’re with the Clockwork Consortium. Are you aware that you’ve violated the Wells Act?”

  “For using a reverberator on a runaway myrmidon?” I snapped.

  Ridley shifted nervously. “I’ll need to ask you to come with us—”

  “Sod off!” I pointed at the guilder. “I’ve saved this woman’s life! That’s far more important than your bloody rules!”

  Ridley looked at Troutman, then at the crowd that was watching us. I could see his face contort as he did the mental math and realized it added up to letting me be. “You’ll be hearing from us,” Ridley said as he walked away.

  “That’s just lovely,” I said to myself, rolling my eyes. It had been some months since the guilds had been after me for unsanctioned crafting, but now I would have to be somewhat more careful as I went about town.

  I felt a hand on my arm. “Young lady?” the woman I had rescued from the myrmidon said.