Copper Cove

by Robert Dahlen

  Neil shook his head as he sliced off the tip of one of his bangers and held it up. “Come here, you little moocher,” he said with a sigh. Darjeeling took the sausage from him and nibbled it happily.

  “You can’t call her a moocher,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “That’s my job.” I grinned and scratched Darjeeling between her ears. “Speaking of jobs…”

  “Same as always.” Neil stared at his plate. “At least while I’m on the clock, anyway.”

  My ears perked up. “Doing work in your free time, are you?”

  “A secret project. Something I can’t get done at the guildhall.” Neil reached for his pint.

  “Do tell!”

  “Not unless you’re going to tell me all about your mystery commission.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “That’s your best comeback?” Neil half-smiled.

  “I save the good ones for the people I dislike.” I grinned and took a bite of fish.

  We may razz each other early and often, but Neil and I are still best of friends. We’ve never been more than that, and that was because while I have fancied both women and men, Neil doesn’t seem to fancy anyone. He’s a bit of a loner. That’s why we need each other; I get him away from his work, and he suffers patiently when I whine to him after the end of another short-lived romance.

  “But you’re meeting this client tomorrow?” Neil asked.

  “I will be.” I stretched. “I’d better get going soon to get some work done on that commission. Wish me luck?”

  “Luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  I reached for my ale, but Darjeeling was standing in front of my mug. She chittered hopefully as she stared at me. “Your turn,” Neil said.

  “Darjeeling…” I shook my head and pulled a chip from my plate. “Here,” I said as I handed it to her. “Now get away from my ale.”

  She proceeded to sit down in front of my mug. “I think she’s trying to tell you something,” Neil said.

  I stood up, reached behind Darjeeling, picked up my mug and took a big swig. “It’s too bad I wasn’t paying attention,” I said with a grin.

  It was not too late when I got home from the Crabby Kraken and put the kettle on. The tea was soon properly steeped, and I left my flat carrying the pot and a lantern, biscuits in my pockets, Darjeeling clinging to me as always.

  I took the stairs up to the roof and walked over to the old, weather-battered shed. I set my supplies down on the roof and unlocked the door, pushing it open.

  My flat is quite small; I can barely fit myself and Darjeeling in there. I needed a second room where I could store my tools and supplies and work on my projects. My landlady had no use for the shed that a prior tenant, a goblin wizard of no good repute, had built on the roof without her knowledge, so I persuaded her to rent it to me at a rate that was only mildly exorbitant.

  I paused before I stepped inside. The sun had started to set over Copper Cove, and it was quite a beautiful view from my rooftop. I could see the lights in the windows of the ramshackle flats around me and the newer ones nearby. The sunset’s glow shone on the towers and the Crescent Sea in the distance, and brought out the colors in the steam that spilled from the chimneys and smokestacks. I smiled at the sight, then caught my breath as I noticed how the rays lit up the roof of the new train station.

  The rail line had been proposed fifteen years ago, as a way around the sometimes stormy conditions that made boat and airship travel across the Crescent Sea difficult at times. Construction was all but complete; there were test runs scheduled over the next few days, and the Velessan Express was to make its first trip with paying passengers this coming Saturday.

  The rail line was to start in Copper Cove and run through the Velessan Isles, Strumbertgeren and the Tirnog Cape before reaching its end at Thorn Harbour. It was the single biggest construction project ever in the cities and islands of the Crescent Sea, and the Clockwork Consortium and the Fellowship of Brass took pride in noting that, even with the difficult conditions and effort required to construct the rail bridges across miles of water, no one had died during the construction.

  For all the skill I must grudgingly admit they possess, the guilds have little or no design sense, so I was grateful that the Copper Cove government had supervised the design and construction of the city’s train station. The highlight was the dome that topped the boarding platform, eight stories high, crafted of glass and patinaed brass with copper highlights.

  A lottery had been set up for the premiere trip on Saturday; ten winners and their families would get seats on the train along with officials, nobles, other famous people and a handful of reporters. I had entered, of course, and was hoping that I’d win, but I still planned to attend the ceremony if I didn’t. It would be worth braving the crowds and trying to stay awake during the speeches just to get a glimpse of the Velessan Express in person.

  I sighed softly to myself. All this daydreaming was not getting my commission finished or keeping the tea from going cold. I picked up my things and stepped into my workshop.

  Once inside, I poured myself a cup and sat on my workbench. The blueprints my mysterious client had forwarded to me sat there, showing what needed to be done. I’d been working on this project for the last few weeks, and had been making progress, but I wanted to get some extra work in to impress the client with an early delivery. Rostall had hinted when I took the job that doing so might earn me a bonus, and I had no desire to turn that down.

  Darjeeling loved the shed; it had a high ceiling with plenty of rafters and beams, a perfect place for her to climb and jump and stalk the occasional unwary stray insect or small bird, usually without success. As she made her way up, I unrolled the blueprint Rostall had given me when I had been hired and reviewed my work.

  My assignment was to create a matching pair of flat aluminum structures. They were to be composed of smaller frames, in triangular and trapezoidal shapes, connected by hinges, gears and universal joints. The gaps in the frames were to be filled in by a very fine mesh. I had to complete some of the smaller frames, then attach the other parts and assemble everything. I set aside the blueprint and my tea, adjusted my goggles and reached for my welding torch.

  It was one of those times when the minutes flew by. I was absorbed by what I was doing, so caught up that my tea went cold, not noticing that the sunlight that came in through the cracks in the walls had faded away. I love these moments, when the work is going smoothly and all is well in my little corner in the world.

  I didn’t stop until I reached for a wrench and bumped into Darjeeling; she had curled up on the table near me and fallen asleep. I found myself yawning at the sight, and I knew that as much as I wanted to keep working, I did a better job when I was awake. I grabbed my things, locked the door behind me as I left the shed, and headed back to my flat.

  My bed may have been small and lumpy, but it was there and waiting for me. I had just enough strength left to change into my pyjamas and settle in. As I did, I found my thoughts drifting towards Genevieve Stanbury. We had fallen out of touch in recent years, and I regretted it now, as memories of our friendship flooded back. I wiped away a tear.

  Darjeeling gently bumped my cheek with her snout as she curled up next to my pillow. I smiled and scratched her lightly between her ears. “Good night, my sweet,” I said to her just before I blew out the lantern and closed my eyes.

  Under normal circumstances, I’d be disappointed if I went to Henry’s Crossing for breakfast and didn’t have a note slipped to me with my tea. That morning, though, I didn’t mind, as I wanted nothing to distract me from my upcoming meeting with my mysterious client.

  There was an article in the Courant about Genevieve’s passing. A police sergeant, one Abner Putnam, said it appeared she had been crushed to death when a project she was working on collapsed, but that the investigation would continue. There were also quotes from an official with the Fellowship of Brass tut-tutting about renegade crafters...and a
slight rebuttal from the reporter, who expressed her sympathy for Genny and her family. Once again, I was not surprised to discover that Sophronia Haverford had written the article. I smiled as I set the newspaper aside.

  My client had specified that he would be waiting in an alley off Chimera Street, and that I was to come alone. I figured that bringing Darjeeling wouldn’t violate the spirit of that request, so she took her usual place on my shoulder as I finished breakfast and set off.

  Chimera Street used to be one of Copper Cove’s more disreputable areas, with run-down flats and a great deal of vermin on two and four legs. However, over the last ten years, several landowners had seen the street’s proximity to guild offices and had bought up the flats, renovating them and chasing away the vermin...and evicting the hard-working residents, forcing them into even less desirable quarters while the guilders moved in. Now, Chimera Street was seen as a shining light of progress, with shops and fancy restaurants and the like, with no mention of the poor souls this development had uprooted.

  I tried to keep my disdain to myself as I climbed off the omnibus at one end of the street. It seemed too clean for me, too shiny, and it was almost a relief when I peeked down one of the alleys and saw some trash that the wind had blown in, old newspapers and the like. I had to stop several times as I walked as people cooed over Darjeeling, but I had taken that into account and was still on time when I reached the alley where I was expecting to meet my client.

  I nervously checked my pocket. Before I had left my flat that morning, I had drawn a quick copy of the blueprints I was using for that project, showing how much work had been done and how much remained. I wanted to make as good an impression as possible, especially considering that might be bonus money at stake. “Darjeeling?” I whispered. “Stay calm. Don’t bother the client.” I hoped she was listening.

  The alley seemed empty at first, but as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see a man standing at the far end, near a fence and a garbage bin. He was tall and dressed in a long black greatcoat. His top hat was pulled down low, and he wore a scarf over his face so that all I could see of it were his eyes. “Miles?” he said in a voice that seemed to be pitched low on purpose.

  “Good day, sir,” I said politely, doffing my cap.

  “You came alone?”

  “As you requested.” I reached into my pocket. “I have a drawing here that’ll show the progress I’ve made.”

  He took the drawing from me with a gloved hand. “I’ll review this later,” he said. “Rostall has kept me appraised of your progress.”

  “It’s been coming along smoothly,” I said.

  “Will it be finished by Friday?”

  I tried not to let any surprise show, though my thoughts exploded with worry. Three days? How can I get it finished so quickly? “I was not aware that the deadline had been moved up,” I said carefully.

  “Needs change,” the client said, and there seemed be something in his voice. Nervousness? Irritation? “I may be called out of town, and should that happen—”

  He stopped and looked past me. For a moment, I thought Darjeeling was acting foolish, but I followed his gaze and realized what had disturbed him. There was a woman in the mouth of the alley. She had peeked around a corner and was watching us quietly.

  My client glared at me. “I said to come alone!” he thundered.

  “But—” I stammered.

  He pushed past me and ran out of the alley, brushing by the woman who had interrupted us. “Excuse me, sir?” she said, but he ignored her. A cab with no markings was waiting nearby; he ran into the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

  I hurried after him, but the coachman cracked his whip. The cab drove off, and I could see my three hundred crowns driving off with it. I clenched my fists, my face reddening with anger and worry.

  “Ma’am?” I turned to face the woman who had caused my client to flee. She was dark skinned, with big brown eyes and curly hair that spilled from under her ornate sky blue hat and over her shoulders. She wore an ankle-length, high collared dress that matched her hat, and boots that seemed surprisingly worn. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  I gaped at her for a moment, trying to restrain my frustration. I failed. “Is everything all right?” I shouted. “What do you bloody well think?”

  “I beg your pardon?” She seemed less angry than stunned.

  “That man you scared away was my client! I’m working on a commission for him! If I lose this, I’ll be out three hundred crowns!”

  “Oh dear.” She held a hand up to her mouth.

  I folded my arms and glared at her. “What the Hell do you think you were doing?”

  “I…” The woman looked down. “I had followed him when he left City Hall. I was hoping to interview him.”

  “Interview?”

  “Yes.” She had a look of regret on her face. “I was going to wait until you had departed to try to talk to him. I was trying not to be seen, but he caught me.” After a deep breath, she continued, “I do apologize. I hope I haven't cost you your commission.”

  “We'll find out soon enough,” I said. “But why? Why him?”

  “It's for a story I'm working on.”

  “A story? What, you write for one of those two-shilling fiction magazines?”

  “I should think not!” she said. “Nothing against them, but the stories I write are true.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Ah. Perhaps I should introduce myself at this point.” She extended a hand. “I’m Sophronia Haverford. I write for the Courant.”

  My jaw dropped. “Cogs and gears,” I said as I took her hand. “I read your articles in the newspaper every day.”

  “I’m glad someone does.” She smiled as we shook hands, and when I saw her smile, that was more than enough to erase the rest of my cranky mood.

  “No!” I blurted out. “Everyone reads you! I think your writing is marvelous! I…” I paused. “I should let go of your hand, shouldn’t I?”

  Sophronia chuckled. “If you’d like,” she said. “But I still haven’t had the pleasure…”

  “Oh! Right! I’m Tabitha Miles.”

  “Tabitha. That name sounds familiar.”

  “Plenty of people named ‘Tabitha’ out there,” I said. I tried my hardest not to blush while wondering if I had ever sounded that stupid before.

  “Perhaps—” She stopped and pointed at Darjeeling, who was beginning to wake up. “My heavens! Is that a khala?”

  “It is.”

  “He’s adorable!”

  “She,” I said, less forcefully than I normally would.

  Sophronia nodded. “What’s her name?”

  “Darjeeling.”

  “May I?” She reached out with a forefinger. I assented, and Sophronia scratched Darjeeling between her ears. “How sweet,” she murmured.

  I cleared my throat. “So…”

  “You’re about to ask why I sought to interview your client, aren’t you?”

  “Spot on.”

  “Well…” Sophronia tapped her chin. “I’m not sure how much I can say, but I do feel as if I owe you for all the hassle I’ve brought upon you. Perhaps lunch is in order.”

  I hesitated for a moment. On the one hand, I was concerned that being seen with a reporter could lead to trouble, especially if word got back to Rostall. On the other, it was Sophronia Haverford, and I could likely get a free meal and some fascinating conversation out of it. “Sounds like a fine suggestion,” I said politely.

  “Excellent! There’s a Pot Perfected on the next corner.”

  I held up my hands. “No,” I said. “Forgive me, but I will not drink that dishwater that they call tea.”

  “Do you have another place in mind, then?”

  “Absolutely.” I grinned.

  I didn’t tell Sophronia that I had an ulterior motive in bringing her to Henry’s Crossing. I was hoping to hear from Rostall, in case my client had passed a message on to him. I tried my best, as the cab Sophronia had hired d
rove along, not to think about what I would do if the client hadn’t. Sophronia didn’t bring the subject up, as she was too busy admiring and playing with Darjeeling, who seemed to enjoy the attention. The little traitor.

  When we arrived at Henry’s, I placed our order as Sophronia chose a table; I whispered to Amee that if a note came for me, they could bring it as they usually did. The tea was soon served, along with two sandwiches.

  “So,” I said casually as I finished my lunch, “why are you so eager to interview my client?”

  Sophronia raised an eyebrow. “You’re not the subtle type, are you?”

  “Neither are you,” I retorted.

  “I’m a reporter. I’m subtle when I need to be.” She glanced at Darjeeling, who was nibbling on a crust of bread. “It’s fascinating to hear how you wound up with a pet khala. I’d never seen one outside of a zoo before.”

  “Are you trying to change the subject?”

  “Ah. You’re on to my cunning plan.” Sophronia smiled. “I’m not surprised. You’ve always been the clever one.”

  “I have?”

  “So the guilds tell me. They would love to have you work for them.”

  I held back a sigh. “So you have heard of me.”

  “It would be a marvelous publicity stroke. Bring in the renegade crafter, force her to apologize for her ways, pay her a ridiculous sum of money and make her follow guild regulations from that moment on.”

  I scowled. “Why would they do that?”

  Sophronia sipped her tea. “They’d use you as an example, to try to get the other independent crafters in line.”

  “Excellent point.”

  She nodded. “You are right about the tea here, Tabitha. It is superior to what the Pot Perfected serves.”

  “And they’re more tolerant towards pets.” I grinned.

  Amee walked silently up to the table, plates in hand. “Dessert!” Sophronia said with a smile as the sprite set down the scones, cream and strawberry jam.

  Sophronia took a scone and applied the cream first, then the jam, as was proper. As she did, I saw the envelope that Amee had slipped under the plate with the scones. I tried to silently slip it out while Sophronia was occupied. “It’s no use,” she said as she passed the cream and jam over. “I saw it.”