by Rose Francis
“Fix this machine for me, Foxtail, as a test. If you can get it humming again, you have a job.”
The slave glared, nodded, and walked to where the baron pointed. The machine was an ancient pump from before the catastrophe. None of the baron’s men had ever been able to understand it, let alone fix it. It was an impossible job. Lucia realized her uncle was manufacturing an insult. The fox woman wouldn’t be able to help, he’d claim the rats were trying to cheat him again, then he and his guards would kill the lot of them. And maybe the sand pirate, too. Foxtail thumped the machine with a fist. “Tools,” she said.
The baron raised an eyebrow. This fox didn’t act like a slave. Maybe she’d been well treated under her last employ, given liberties in address. Her uncle would stop that quick. No slave, no matter how skilled, was allowed to be insolent or informal with him.
The baron gestured to one of his men and soon an array of tools were at the fox woman’s feet.
The rats shifted nervously, fingered their stunners and spears. They knew even better than Lucia the violence that threatened to break out.
Foxtail hefted a rubber mallet, the head comically large, and thumped it on the machine. Sand and dust exploded outwards in a revelation. The fox woman pressed her ear to the device listening to whatever rattled within.
“You, girl!” She barked, pointing at Lucia.
“Me? What?”
“Come here.” Foxtail paced along the yard, Lucia at her heels. The old woman muttered under her breath, cursing some ancient engineer. “This place. Here.” The woman tapped a thick slab of concrete with her toe.
They stood in a disused corner of the yard. Smashed stone underfoot. Not so far from Lucia’s chosen hill.
“Lift,” the woman grunted.
“You could say please.”
“Lift.”
Lucia nodded. She didn’t want to see the baron’s men kill anyone. Especially not the sand pirate. He had the look of a man who could travel the wastes. Maybe even get to the far side, to a town where her uncle had no sway. Maybe he could take her away.
Using her fingers, Lucia traced the edge of the stone slab, it was wider than her armspan and thick. She should have a pry bar for a job like this, or help.
“Lift.”
“Okay, I’m just looking for a handhold. This thing is big, y’know?”
Finding a grip deep in the stinging dirt, her fingers grinding against the rough concrete edge, Lucia lifted. She pulled and pushed, working her body under the bulk of the slab, feeling the cool moistness of undisturbed earth against her shoulder. Too late she worried about the slithering things that made the undersides of rocks their home. But luck held and no scorpions or rattlesnakes or oak-worms took her that day. She hefted the stone, digging deep into her reserves, and toppled it over with a crash.
Dust plumed up from the impact, sending Lucia into a coughing fit.
Foxtail crawled into the depression revealed by the stone. Machinery glistened in the earth. Knobs and buttons and a blinking user interface still working after ages underground. The fox shifter adjusted the machine with her tools, tapped at the screen with gestures Lucia didn’t recognize, and soon it was humming to life.
The baron’s mouth hung open like a dead man’s. “That’s impossible.”
Foxtail wiped her grimy hands on her dress. “Nope. Just old.”
The ground groaned and then, with a rumble like forgotten thunder, sprayers wheezed to life at their feet, filling the air with precious water.
“What? What?” the baron gawped.
“Not a pump.” Foxtail spat. “A sprinkler.”
The rats whooped with joy as mists of water moistened their dry pink skin. Triptongue stood uncomfortably still, clearly desperate to get away from the water but also unsure if he was allowed to move.
Lucia, for her part, danced in the delicate arcs, water plastering her clothes to her skin, dampening her hair. For a moment she forgot where she was. She forgot her uncle. She forgot her dreams of escape and just let life move through her, to take her limbs and let herself have a glimpse of joy for one glorious moment.
Distantly she felt the eyes of the sand pirate on her, could feel him admiring her sodden curves.
“Enough!” the baron roared. “This is a fortune we are wasting on the dust! Turn it off. Now.”
Foxtail nodded, tapping at the screen until the sprinklers ceased and the only water left in motion was what dripped from Lucia’s fingertips.
“You’re hired,” the baron said to Foxtail. And then to the rats, “It’s about time you sold me a worthy slave.”
Lucia escorted the slaves into the compound while her uncle concluded the business at hand. Her boots squished as she walked. Actually squished. How remarkable.
Chapter 2
The Man She Never Met
The moon loomed large in the night sky, threatening all with its presence.
The baron, in all his surly ways, cared for Lucia nearly as much as he cared for his mine and his criminal empire. The former he was determined to hand over to her as soon as she was competent in its workings. The latter he guarded with a jealous mania, never letting her know a whisper of his business.
So it was up to Lucia to take Triptongue and Foxtail into the home and see them situated amongst the other slaves, to feed them and interview them and fit them with chains while her uncle retired with a bottle of strong drink with the rat woman to discuss “business.” Her uncle’s lieutenant in all matters criminal, Gravechaser, was away tonight, doubtless on some terrible business.
That man scared Lucia. Any night he was away from the house was a better night indeed, even if the moon was full and tugging at her blood.
The servant quarters wrapped around the rear of the main house, like a kitten sleeping on her owner’s neck. Square, utilitarian rooms outfitted with bunks and communal sinks served as home for the workers. Her uncle’s mine named fifty-two souls in its care. Fifty-four now, with the addition of the fox shifters.
“Where did you work before this?” Lucia asked, as the two slaves bathed in the oily, recycled water of the cistern. “The rats said something about a prince?” On the table in front of her awaited the pile of their meager belongings. It was custom to let slaves keep trinkets, photos—at least until a master decided otherwise. Lucia’s chore was to examine the objects for treachery. The rats wanted her uncle’s operation. There wasn’t a line they wouldn’t cross to get it. She had to check every seam for hidden weapons. Every pocket for vials of poison.
“As I said earlier, Mistress Lucia, I was in the employ of the principality of Sierren. I served as court translator for fifteen years with great honor.”
“I’ve never heard of Sierren.” Triptongue’s possessions were few. A leather pouch smaller than two cupped hands held all his worldly goods—a life reduced to what you grab as you ran from your home. Three shining medals, one of gold and two of silver, clinked in the pouch. The writing on them was unfamiliar but the symbol of a sun rising behind a mountain was impressive.
“Sierren is a lovely kingdom, across the wastes several weeks journey.” Triptongue chirped. He delighted in any chance to speak. “Well, it was a kingdom, now they have bent the knee to the Suzerain and are merely another piece of the quilt of his glorious rule.”
Also in the fox shifter’s bag clinked a half dozen shining stones. Not gems, but rather cut glass.
“Those stones are a game, my lady. Traditionally played on a large painted board, but with paper and a brush I can create a reasonable facsimile.” His voice fell. “If one has time for such things, in a place like this.”
Triptongue washed himself with great eagerness, sponging his golden fur, combing it, working soap into every inch of his skin. The man could not get clean enough.
Foxtail made the last amount of effort possible. She stood over the reclamation grate and dumped the entire bucket of water over her head, then called the job done. She leaned against the far wall, as far from Lucia as possible, glo
wering at the floor.
“I’ve never been across the wastes,” Lucia said, trying to keep her eager tone in check. “What’s it like?”
“Big,” Foxtail grunted.
“Larger than we expected when we set off, that is certain.” Triptongue added. “If I had known civilization was so distant, I would have walked in the other direction.”
“You tried walking across the wastes? I thought you were captured?”
“We were captured,” Foxtail spat.
“Yes, after eight days on foot through the wastes those hideous rat people fell upon us. Or rather, we fell into a pit they had duplicitously concealed.”
Lucia nodded absently as she dumped out Foxtail’s bag. The canvas pack was half the size of the shifter herself and heavy. Where Triptongue carried only the slightest amount of possessions, Foxtail seemed to have grabbed everything as she fled. Tools, books, and half-eaten food wrapped in waxed cloth spilled across the table. It would take Lucia all night to go through it.
“Careful,” Foxtail growled.
Lucia bore the woman no ill will. It wasn’t the fox’s fault she was a slave now, but she had a job to do and if she put in a half-effort her uncle would know. She knew as much as his slaves what the end of a lash felt like. One by one, she unwrapped the wax packages, revealing dried fruit and hard cheeses, rock sugar, and a yard-long salami divided amongst dozens of identical bundles.
“Foxtail!” Triptongue snapped. “How could you keep so much food to yourself? Even after I complained about my low blood sugar and the taste of those bitter waste weeds? After all I have done for you, this is how you repay me.” The tall shifter sniffed, toweled off, and retreated to the farthest corner from the woman.
“Hush, Trip.” Foxtail muttered. “Had reasons.”
The night wore on Lucia, the moon’s full face making her equally parts agitated and craving solitude. She hurried through her task, first unwrapping the endless pile of sausage morsels and then just hefting each wrapped bundle to make sure nothing slipped by. Foxtail stared daggers at her from across the room.
But then she found something. Her fingers tingled as she lifted another wrapped disc from amongst the heaving pile of food.
“What’s this?”
“Not for you,” Foxtail growled, leaping across the room to steal it from Lucia’s hands. But it was too late, the girl unwrapped the package revealing a medallion red as blood, with the print of a wolf shifter pressed into the face of it. No other markings marred the object but Lucia could sense its power.
“What is this?”
“I have never seen that in my life,” Triptongue drew close, his face a mask of confusion. His eyes darted between the medallion and Foxtail. “What have you gotten us into?”
“Family heirloom. Don’t touch.”
In the same wrapping, almost invisible in the gloom, lay a blue crystal the size and shape of a wolf’s claw. Lucia picked it up carefully, holding it up to see better the fine engravings on its surface. A twinkle in the depths of the crystal drew her attention and then, with a sensation like falling upwards, a vision entered her mind.
A beautiful man, dressed in royal clothing, military emblems gleaming on his wide chest bowed and smiled warmly. “It has been too long, old friend. I trust my loyal servants have found you well and in good health. There is a terrible danger coming and I need your help to stop. General Conwynne, we need your help.”
In a flash the vision ended and Lucia toppled backwards, landing hard on her rear. Foxtail’s eyes shone with fear. Triptongue hurried over to help her up.
“I am so sorry, mistress. What on earth has happened to you?”
“You didn’t see it? Didn’t see him?” Lucia took Trip’s hand and nearly pulled him down on top of her trying to get to her feet. The man weighed as much as a twig.
“See who? Mistress, you aren’t making sense.”
“There was a man. He was gorgeous.” His features hung in her mind, like the afterimage of the sun. She saw eyes like burning amber. Hair white as snow but still youthful. The hint of fangs in his smile. A wolf shifter then, like her.
“She saw the prince,” Foxtail sighed. “It’s a message. For someone else. Not for your eyes.”
“A message? Why didn’t you say something? Confound you, you scheming witch. I shall sleep alone tonight. Please show me to my bunk, mistress. The day’s events have worn my nerves to a slender thread. One more surprise and I shall dig a hole and live my years away alone.”
“This prince, he’s your old master?”
“Employer,” Foxtail corrected. She and Triptongue had found their simple uniforms.
“He asked for someone called General Conwynne.”
“Know him?”
“There’s a man, near here by that name. He lives at the edge of Durance Ravine. I think he’s a scientist. A botanist maybe. We buy cures from him when the plague comes through.”
Whatever Foxtail knew, she wasn’t sharing.
“Mistress, please. We have traveled so far today. Could we sleep now?”
“I should fit you for the collars,” Lucia said. The collars had tracking chips, prevented the slaves from going where they shouldn’t or taking their chances in the wastes. The thought of calibrating the collars, of fishing out the equipment, wearied Lucia. She picked up the crystal claw. “In the morning. First thing. We’ll do the collars then. Try to stay out of the baron’s sight until then, okay?”
“Oh thank you, mistress. I could tell right away that you had a kind soul. Isn’t she a compassionate one, Foxtail?”
But Foxtail was already asleep, curled up right on the floor, her giant fluffy tail wrapped about her body.
“She never has been a fan of beds,” Triptongue sighed. “But I confess they are a weakness of mine.”
Lucia showed Trip to bed and locked the doors of the washing room. Even if Foxtail woke, she couldn’t go anywhere.
The moon roared in the sky and Lucia’s blood responded. In the old days, her kind shifted during the full moon. They ran as pack across the plains, playing and racing. That didn’t happen anymore. There were no alphas left. The shift was uncontrolled, violent. If a pack formed and shifted together, it’d be a bloodbath.
In the light of the moon, Lucia crawled to the top of her favorite rise, carefully avoiding her uncle’s night watch. The wind was still but the chill of the desert soothed her mind. She sat for but a moment before she fished the claw out of her pockets and held it up so that the moonlight shone through. Again a spark inside the claw called her and she fell into the vision.
Ancient magic, she knew. The claw of an alpha.
The prince appeared before her and said the same as before. “It’s been too long, old friend.” Then a sincere, warm smile. Lucia wished he’d smile that way at her and she let herself pretend that she was this General Conwynne.
“It’s good to see you as well,” she said to the desert stars, pitching her voice low and gruff like a general’s must be.
When the message finished, she watched it again. And then again. And again. Until every aspect of the prince’s face was known to her. Until she could have painted his portrait from memory. Until her heart roared for the man she’d never met.
The sun’s unforgiving touch woke Lucia with a start. She’d fallen asleep outside, on her hill, the memory crystal gripped tightly in her hand.
She wanted to watch the message again, to fantasize about meeting the handsome prince and the adventures they could have so far away from her uncle’s cursed holdings. But there was work to do. Daydreaming could come later. If her uncle found Foxtail and Triptongue uncollared, there’d be hell to pay.
Lucia picked herself up and slapped the desert dust from her clothes. She was lucky no scorpions or night spiders had found her this time. Hurrying but keeping her gait just this side of running, Lucia nodded to the guards and morning crew she passed. Winding her way around the back of the estate, to the slave quarters entrance.
Something was wro
ng.
The door to the wash room—the door she’d locked last night—lay flat on the ground. Someone had removed the hinges from the inside. She knew even before she looked. Foxtail was gone with her bag. Every scrap missing. Faint tracks led across the sand, tracing a path to the electrified fence. Lucia followed the tracks—just one set, a woman’s.
Foxtail had removed the door. Calmly walked across the yard, and then cut a hole through the fence. She was gone. The best mechanic she’d ever seen. A bargain for her uncle. And Lucia had let her slip away.
He is going to kill me.
Probably not literally, but her punishment would be severe. If she was banned from visiting town for a year she’d be happy. Likely, lashings awaited her.
Unless she got the slave back.
Lucia rushed through the bunkhouse, checking each bed until she found Triptongue still asleep. The man was so tall that his feet and ankles hung off the edge of the top bunk. He snored in a chirping wheeze. Apologizing in a mumble between breaths. His toes were thickly clawed, covered in a fine golden fur. Lucia grabbed a hank of the fur and twisted.
The poor shifter leapt out of bed, crashed his head into the ceiling, then tumbled over the edge to land nose first against the wooden floor. He looked like a jumble of limbs, like a skeleton assembled by a child.
“My lady!” He wheezed, untangling himself. “If I have given offense I do apologize. I am well aware of the difficulties my snoring presents. I have long sought treatment—”
“Foxtail is gone,” Lucia interrupted.
The fox shifter froze. “Gone? Gone where?”
“I expect to seek out that Conwynne guy. Or just to escape. But her tracks were aimed straight at the area where he lives. But how would she know her way around?”
Triptongue pulled himself to his feet, shaking his robes clean. “I believe that is a question I can answer. As well as possessing a masterful touch with machinery, my dear companion once served as navigator on an airship. Her knowledge of maps is unsurpassed. She has a preternatural gift for navigation.”