“Oh, for wellies sake,” Papo said. “When will you ever come to your senses girl?” He turned to Mamo. “Versalina, you know what we talked about, right?”
Mamo shook her head. “Not now, Cipao.”
“Yes, now!”
“Cipao, don't…”
But Papo had already stood up, holding his anger under his breath. He spoke through his teeth. “You don't need to do the runs anymore, Pontopa. I'll do it. I'll fly Velos, work with Faso Gordoni and his automatons.”
“I—” Really, I didn't know what to say. I sputtered out some words, stopped myself, sputtered out a few more, took some deep breaths. My tea was cold enough to drink and so I took it down in one. I stood up and walked towards the door. I stopped there, tears in my eyes. “I've flown Velos all my life. What do you think I'd do without him?”
“You can still do the roasting and the processing,” Papo said. “You'd have plenty more time for your books.”
“Papo, you've never even dared to fly in the past. And you have the arrogance to think you can do so now.”
“He was one of the best jockeys around,” Mamo said.
Of course, they would have to pull the jockey ruse. I'd heard his story so many times. He'd won a lot of races until he fell of and broke his leg, trampled by his own horse. It had taken one of the best surgeons in Slaro, namely his old friend Doctor Forsolano, to install the titanium pins in his knee joint that allowed him to walk again. Now he couldn't ride before canting to the left a little, risking a fall.
“Pontopa,” Papo said. “I'm old enough to have learnt from my mistakes. I won't be so carefree as I was then.”
“Not so carefree? Riding a dragon isn't like learning to walk, you know?”
“I'll learn fast.”
“No, you won't learn, because you'll fall off like you did the horse and it will kill you. But you don’t care, do you? As long as I stay ‘safe’.”
“Mind what you say, Pontopa,” Mamo said.
But I was already outside and slamming the door.
✽✽✽
I couldn't stand being around the farm any longer, so I went outside to get some fresh air. There, I saw Velos, sleeping soundly, despite the row that had just took place in the cottage. The sun's waning red light glinted off the resin that plastered his skin. This resin really drained him. Eventually it would harden and flake off. This usually took a couple of weeks, but a bit of soap and water seemed to speed up the process. Although sometimes I felt guilty for not having the energy to do it as soon as I got back — I found the runs pretty draining too.
Velos lived in stables that Papo had converted to hold a dragon. Hay was littered across the ground for softness and the outer walls and inner rooms had been knocked out, leaving just the timber frame with a kiln placed at one opening for roasting the secicao beans. These were the fruits of my runs from the Southlands. I had arranged them in a pile, dropped in from Velos' own claws.
My cottage overlooked the stables, arched like a smile or at least I hope that's how Cini's airships saw it when they passed overhead. On the ground it looked kind of glittery with its frosted windows and hewn stone corners, curving around Velos' abode. Behind the cottage was the farmhouse where Mamo and Papo lived, and beyond that vineyards spreading into the distance, vines bare and barren through increasingly frosty winters. The farmstead stood between the Five Hamlets and a precipice, with sandstone cliffs that dropped down dramatically into a harsh, churning sea.
I took Velos’ water bucket and emptied it. I scraped some more bark off the secicao tree we'd brought from down south and put it in his basket for food. The stench when I did so was always nauseating at first, but eventually had a slightly intoxicating effect on the senses, drug that secicao was.
I proceeded to gather up any beans that had fallen off the wiry branches and put them into a separate bowl for processing. Each had within it the power to augment the ability of a man for several hours. It was Velos' staple. When its power was roasted, ground, and served in a mug warm, it caused people to see more clearly, lift greater weights, jump higher, heal faster. The effect could be up three times stronger if I processed it into oil, which was moderate in comparison to what you got in a cup.
As I perched myself next to the drowsy dragon, his breath balmy against my back, I ran my hand along his blue waxy skin. My hands nursed his countless scars and with each came a memory, deep grooves from automaton bullets, a pitchfork wound from the farmer who couldn't accept his 'monstrous roars', after all he did roar in his sleep sometimes and if it weren't for the compensation levies I'd agreed to pay to the town hall he wouldn't for much longer. Scales ran up his tail, up his back, up his neck towards the central steering fin that I liked to cling on to whenever I rode him south.
He lowered his neck, and I tousled his scaly head. Secicao was such a strange thing. I couldn't imagine life without it. Not just the effects of the drug, but the whole process to take it from plant to cup. The wind against my face as I flew south, the slight choking effect of the masks when the brown roiling secicao fumes of the continent of the Southlands hit us. It was always an adventure. For me and Velos, the world was our oyster.
I stroked Velos a little more until he started to let off a deep crooning sound from his massive snout and then I went for a walk along the cliffs.
In the distance, gulls circled around fishing boats, waiting for some fish to flop back into the water. The sun now had fallen below the horizon. I hadn't even thought to bring a jacket and it was a little chilly. But I didn't care.
My parents were bad enough, always complaining about the apparent increasing dangers, saying I'd never be safe even though I had a fearsome dragon to protect me. Now Faso had entered the equation too and King Cini was forcing me to enter into contract with the man.
I had to do something about this, and I had to act fast.
So, I made a decision. Tomorrow, I would go to Faso Gordoni and set my own terms. I'd tell him that I would perform the runs south, drop off the secicao (leaving enough left over for Velos to feed on) and he could do the processing. We'd market it as secicao harvested from a dragon's claws and processed by automatons. That would keep us apart and the king happy.
Anything to get out of this farce.
CHAPTER 2
Once the sun had set, I took the long road along the cliff edge towards Faso's at a casual pace. From below, came the sounds of the sea swishing and the blurps of foghorns. It wasn't long until I saw the green lights peeking out from the horizon, like fireflies. They were all lined up in a row, just like the constellation of the sword. They didn't belong to Faso's workshop as such, but to the path leading there, as if they were rolling up to some kind of spectacle, whatever that might be.
After several more steps, the workshop came into view. The entire thing was aglow and not just in green. It seemed to shimmer like an oil pool, awash with all the colours of the rainbow, swishing over it in waves, the entire structure alive with luminescence. The structure rocked slowly from side to side on two spindly brass legs.
Miniature automated airships and other automatons flew and zipped around it, carrying girders and obtuse bits of metal. Although the workshop had a roof, it still seemed unfinished, but building up rapidly, parts being fit into places with clanking and grinding sounds. There was a mouth at the base of the head, sealed shut.
Despite the dim light, I could see the guns, melted down at the ends and attached to cogs, which whirred around gear shafts, clearly powering this monstrous dwelling. I recognised the old cannons, now refactored into chimneys from where steam rose. Scattered around the workshop’s facade were red glowing crystal eyes that had given the war automatons such accuracy. All embedded into the brass wall, with inanimate war-automaton heads, recognisable from the history books, now a part of the furniture.
In the house's centre, I could make out the tongue-like door, and I half expected to see Faso looking out from it. But instead a strange automaton, tall and on two wheels, with a camera on
its domed head and a large green button on its face wheeled up to me. Above the button was a sign saying, “Please press for attention.”
I pressed for it, the camera clicked, and four blades popped out of the top. With a high-pitched whirr, the automaton floated up towards one of the workshop's slit eyes.
Eventually, the ramp came down, just in front of my feet this time, and Faso came sliding down on his haunches. I had to duck aside slightly so that he could land. He stood up, brushed himself off, and turned to me.
“Lady Wells. Why, pleased once again to make your acquaintance.” He offered me his hand and I took it limply.
I’d already decided that the best strategy with this man was to get straight to business. “I've come to talk about how we're going to keep King Cini happy without losing our heads.” I noticed something was missing. “Where's your ferret?”
“Why, upstairs, of course.”
“I thought you took it with you everywhere?”
Faso raised an eyebrow. “Whatever gave you that impression? My creations are useful but even a genius like myself needs to work on maintenance sometimes.”
I smiled with desultory satisfaction. “You mean he's broken?”
“Broken is such a limited word. I'd rather say needing modifications. Say, I've been working on quite a lot of ideas for our little project lately. If you would allow me to escort you inside?”
He gestured up towards the top of the ramp and tried to take hold of my elbow, but I shook him aside. “I'd rather we talked out here,” I said. “I think that we should — “
“Please, Pontopa,” he interjected. “I have some things to show you. I've been hard at work and I'd at least appreciate it if you took a look.”
He turned back towards the ramp and pressed a button. In an instant, the slats jumped up into a staircase, startling me.
“Come on,” he said and beckoned me on. The first step bowed a little under his weight, but it seemed sturdy enough. He pressed a button on the panel on the side and the whole thing spinned around in a spiral and carried him upwards without him having to walk a step. After about half way, he turned and shouted down over his shoulder, “Don't be shy, lady. There's nothing in here that will kill you, I assure.”
I waited gingerly for a few moments, unsure whether I really should be following him up. But I shrugged off my doubts and decided that, annoying as he was, Faso didn’t seem dangerous. I stepped on, letting the world revolve slowly around me. Soon I was at the top, Faso standing next to me. His hand touched my shoulder and I shuddered. He noticed my reaction and retracted his arm.
“Remember we're on business only here,” I said. “You've invited me into your workshop, not your bedroom.”
“Of course, I would never dream of compromising. Please, allow me to welcome you into my abode.”
I followed Faso inside. Surprisingly, despite its brass facade, the interior was covered in veneer, curved at the top and bottom like the insides of a barrel. But, apart from the polished walls, the entire place was in disarray. Mechanical heads were strewn across the tables, cogs and gears were piled up on the shelves, brass clocks and robot parts hung askew on the walls with no semblance of order. Piles of junk were also heaped in random piles around the room, some of them coming up to my knee.
Faso seemed such a tidy man on the outside that I wondered how he could stay sane in such a place. But a little space did pool around some kind of bronze and steel rug laid out on the floor. I didn't even want to ask what this was.
“It's a pig sty!” I said.
At that, Faso laughed. “Anything but,” he said. “Everything here has his place.”
“You mean there's some order to this?”
“An inventor always needs his systems. Of course, I wouldn't expect an average mind to understand how it works.”
I decided to ignore the fact that he seemed utterly incapable of saying anything right. “So, where's Ratter?” I asked.
“He's over there.” Faso pointed at a mahogany writing desk in the corner of the room. On it lay a corkboard with Ratter splayed out like it had been dissected.
I walked over, taking care not to knock over any stuff. I had to move like a ballerina, contorting myself into different positions, keeping my hands wide to keep balance, and then almost tripping over the metal rug.
Ratter looked a lot more complex than I'd imagined. Its spine had many more joints than a human's, and I couldn't even begin to comprehend how Faso had created the intricacies in its stubby little legs. It didn't have four legs, but six. Through its mouth, ran some kind of cylinder, connected to what looked like a revolver barrel with twenty or so holes.
Faso came over to join me. He stood awfully close, offputtingly so. He pointed to a sketch above the desk of the anatomy of a ferret. “Nature provides great examples,” he said. “While many inventors rely on trial and error, evolution has been prototyping its designs for millions of years.”
He turned and stared at me for a while, as if expecting me to be impressed. “A ferret doesn’t have six legs,” I pointed out.
“Why, of course. The two legs are a new addition. Ferrets are incredibly stealthy creatures, but the extra legs give extra gripping power for climbing those hard to reach places. The gun is also new. The ammunition can be changed by tickling him under the throat. He coughs it up, I put in the new ammo, and then get him to swallow it again. Really quite remarkable, don't you think?”
I snorted. “All I've seen it do so far is swat at mosquitoes. You're not truly trying to tell me this mechanical ferret as good as the real thing?”
“Ratter’s so much more than that. He's a damn useful machine who won’t bite your fingers unless I ask him to. You want to know how he works?”
I sighed. Of course, I didn't. But then, in the interests of diplomacy I thought I'd pander to his ego just this once. “How?”
Faso took a pencil from his desk and pointed at a green rubber pouch around Ratter’s belly. “This bladder is one of my latest inventions. Ratter now runs on secicao oil, which powers a piston engine, here.”
He pointed to a row of brass cylinders that ran along the torso. “The workings of which are incredibly intricate. And, in the absence of secicao oil, he can also be powered by an industrial spring.”
He pointed to a second cylinder by the hip, which had a key sticking out of it. “By hand or a Gordoni steam-powered winder, a device which I patented myself. What do you think?”
“It's interesting,” I said. What else could I say?
“Yes quite…” He stared at Ratter for an awkward moment, until I thought I better break the silence.
“Look, as much as you may want to show off your work, we came to talk about the king's contract. I can see how, let’s say, efficient your inventions are. So, I think it’s best if your automatons work on the processing and I can run Velos down to the Southlands to harvest secicao every two weeks. That way we stay out of each other's way. How does that sound?”
Faso lifted his head. “I don't think that would work.”
“Why not?”
“Cini said to combine our refinement processes. Not to work on separate processes but to work together. Otherwise, he would have just shipped your harvested secicao over to me for processing and I wouldn’t have had to come to this sleepy village.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Okay, so what do you propose, mister know-it-all?”
“What I'm saying is that we need to find a way to meld our processes together. We can combine our strengths and I can help you eliminate your weaknesses. Which is what I’ve been working on.” He gestured over to the metal rug on the floor. “Meet our new process.”
I realised, for the first time, that the thing was shaped a little like a dragon. “Dragonheats! Please don't tell me you're building a dragon automaton.”
“Heavens, no. It would cost a fortune to get together all the parts. Even I'm not that rich. This here, my darling, is dragon armour.”
As I examined it more closely,
I could still see some of the automaton eyes, those red laser crystals that used to belong to the dragon-killers. Otherwise, it was a convoluted mesh of pipes and screws and pistons. A much larger pipe curled around what I assumed to be the back of it, connecting to two long stretchy rubber sacks that ran along each side.
“You've got to be kidding,” I said. “If you think you’re putting that on Velos, you've got another thing coming.”
“I think it would quite suit him.”
“Suit him? It's a monstrosity. And Velos works quite well by himself, thank you very much. He doesn't need a coat of armour.”
“It's much more than armour, darling. It's a machine designed to augment the dragon’s abilities in the most astounding ways. Injecting secicao into him as he flies his runs. It will safeguard us from the dangers of the Greys and give him an edge if he ever needs to kill any of them. It will help protect us on our runs south.”
“Us?”
“Of course. It's much safer than flying by airship with all those Greys down there. I still need to add harnesses, of course, to secure us in place.”
I stopped for a moment to take a deep breath. I couldn't believe he actually thought I'd allow this. “Look, what did I tell you yesterday?”
He smirked, as if he'd ousted me at something. “You told me you didn't want automatons near Velos. But this isn't an automaton, I've been careful not to include a central intelligence.”
“It's still a machine.”
“But not something which could take control of Velos' body.”
“It doesn't matter. It's made out of dragon-killer parts. I'm not letting anything like that near Velos.”
“Hah,” Faso said. “So that’s is what this is about. You think that broken-down war-automatons could hurt your dragon? I've removed the cores for wellies sake.”
“I don't care. I know my dragon well enough to know he'll hate it.”
“Why? Has he ever tried wearing anything like this?”
“Of course, he's never tried. Velos hates automatons.”
Dragonseer (Secicao Blight Book 1) Page 2