by L. Penelope
“Should we call for a constable?” Zeli wondered.
Lanar clucked his tongue. “We should call for a doctor, though I don’t believe there’s any medicine for foolishness.” His voice was a whip crackling in the air. “Why would you flaunt your money around like that, are you an imbecile?”
His tone made Zeli’s bones turn brittle; she froze in surprise at his venom. Varten straightened his back, but there was no righteous anger in him. His hand still covered his stomach but his shoulders were slumped. He looked like a deflated balloon. His head dropped until only his hair was visible. “I’ve got more in the bank,” he mumbled.
She reached out to him then, placing a hand on his arm. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
He shook his lowered head. “I’m fine. And I’m sorry, I was being stupid.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I was the one who wanted to see the money change colors.”
“But you didn’t rob us.” His voice was low and rough. She’d never heard him sound like this.
“No, and neither did you.” She wanted so badly to see his face, to reassure him. “It was a mistake. I-I didn’t expect…” She looked around again at the endless throngs of people. Any of them could be a criminal. Just because people dressed well and didn’t have the air of poverty and desperation she’d grown up wary of didn’t mean they were good.
“You’re not an imbecile,” she whispered, just for him.
He lifted his head then and gave her a rueful look that said he didn’t quite believe her. A heavy band squeezed around her chest—that desolate, barren expression was so foreign on him. It was just wrong.
Varten was meant to be lightness and smiles and good humor. He was not this gutted thing, so obviously beating himself up.
Lanar sighed. “The banks are closed at this hour. We will not be able to book passage until tomorrow.”
The Rumpus started tomorrow and if they didn’t arrive until midday, they could well miss their opportunity to access the Archives.
“There’s another option,” she said, annoyed at Lanar for the way he’d spoken to Varten. Annoyed at the thieves and the crowd and the city. “Platform eighty-nine?” She had no desire to sell her people’s pain for transport, but that was the currency they had available.
Lanar’s eyes narrowed in distaste and she thought about how little they knew of him. Nothing really, as he wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Yalisa and Eskar had seemed to trust him enough to offer passage, but just because he was a countryman that didn’t mean he was a friend. His words, quick and hurtful, had added to an already bad situation. She was no longer certain she wanted him around.
She focused instead on Varten, grabbing his arm gently. This was their mission, they’d undertaken it together, and they didn’t need anyone else’s approval. His expression radiated uncertainty. “The Tinker will help us.”
Although she wasn’t always sure about trusting her own judgement, she had a good feeling about the Tinker. And at least they had something he wanted, an odd something, but it could be bartered.
However, Varten looked to Lanar for confirmation. It seemed he would not make a decision without it. Growing even more annoyed, she turned to face the man.
After a short lifetime, he nodded. “Very well, the Tinker it is.”
She bristled at his tone, and almost missed Varten’s sigh of relief. She wanted to speak to him privately, reassure him that they could do this on their own, the way they’d planned. She wasn’t even certain how much she believed it, but Varten’s confidence was part of what had been propelling her forward. This was probably just a temporary setback because of the speed and surprise of the robbery. It would just take him some time to return to normal.
But a tickling in the back of her mind warned caution. As they headed out of the station and back onto the tarmac, she stayed alert, her heart heavy and her guard up now more than ever.
* * *
Varten was having difficulty swallowing. Next to him, Zeli’s head was on a swivel, hypervigilant to their surroundings to prevent another attack. But all he could do was feel the arms around him, squeezing him like a vise. Pinning him motionless and helpless.
He was back in a cold room, straps holding him down on a hard table. Needles piercing his skin. The liquid injected into him was freezing, it made his veins burn cold. His throat threatened to close up and he tried breathing in slowly through his nose to get some air.
His mind didn’t return to the prison very often, though it existed there at the edges, the metal bars and cement floors looming just out of sight whenever he closed his eyes. Moments of powerlessness brought him back. When his body betrayed him and his mind was set adrift, lost in a sea of suffering.
He should have stayed in the palace in Rosira, at least there he couldn’t hurt anyone. Get anyone hurt. The thought of something happening to Zeli nearly undid him. He’d never forgive himself. Just like he hadn’t forgiven himself for the last time his ineptitude had resulted in harm and pain for people he cared about.
His ears pounded and he stumbled, blind to his surroundings. A smaller hand in his, squeezing tight, brought him back. He blinked, suddenly back in the present, and looked down at Zeli, whose face was creased with concern.
He longed to reassure her, but couldn’t say a thing. What was there to be sure of?
His own stupidity had resulted in them being robbed. Life in the country, life in a cell, hadn’t prepared him for this city. These people. He’d put the target on his own chest and hadn’t used plain common sense. Just another liability.
They approached platform eighty-nine and his spirits fell further. He’d taken an immediate liking to the Tinker with his obvious eccentricities, but the pile of metal sitting on the platform didn’t look like it would fly anywhere. It didn’t look like any of the other ships they’d passed. Instead of sleek and aerodynamic, it was boxy and blocky. A disparate mass of dull gray parts that seemed more like a scrap heap than a vehicle.
The three of them stopped short, staring at it. Confusion and dismay settled across Varten’s shoulders. His vision swam and he thought he might pass out.
The shrill dissonance of a mechanical bark cleared his head. Ziggy ran up, clattering across the blacktop, showing his obvious delight. He sped over to Zeli, who squatted down to pet his metal hide. Lanar took a quick step away from the little dog and eyed the “ship” dubiously.
“Ziggy? Where’d ye get off to now?” the Tinker cried as he came from around the other side of the ship. A broad smile split his face, causing something within Varten to settle. “Ye decided to take me up on me offer then, eh?”
He couldn’t bring himself to answer, so Zeli spoke up. “There was a situation,” she said. “We were robbed. We won’t be able to pay you anything until the banks open in the morning, but I promise we do have funds.” She looked at Varten, “I mean, one of us does.”
“Aw, pshaw,” the Tinker said. “I’ve told ye my price. I’ll take ye up for the stories alone.”
Lanar stepped forward, arms crossed. “You must understand, talk of life under the True Father is not entertaining. It can be very painful to relay.”
The Tinker’s face fell as his brows rose. “Oh, no, no, I don’t want to hear about the awful things. I wouldn’t put you through that. I want to know about normal life there. Breakfast, and how the sun looks when it rises, and what songs you sing when you’re working, things like that.”
Lanar tilted his head in confusion, but Zeli smiled. For a moment, Varten was caught in it, in how bright her face looked and how her eyes shone. It almost pierced the carapace of guilt quickly forming over him.
“Why do you want those kinds of stories?” she asked.
The Tinker leaned forward conspiratorially. “A good story is worth its weight in steel. They spark ideas, don’t they?” He tapped his head. “Never know where inspiration will strike. Collecting stories, talking to people from interesting places is all a part of creating. All a part of this puzzle cal
led life we’re tryin’ to piece together.” He rubbed his hands together with anticipation. “Come aboard, come aboard. We’d best be leaving if we want to get ye there in time for the Rumpus.”
Lanar sniffed, wholly unimpressed. He eyed the oddly shaped ship dubiously. “What type of craft is this?”
“Why it’s not a ship, per se. Wait right here, I’ll show ye.”
He disappeared behind the … well, whatever it was and in moments, the metal structure began to creak and groan. Steam billowed from small exhaust pipes along the top of a flat portion, perhaps a roof? And then the whole thing shuddered and began to rise.
And rise.
And rise.
It truly wasn’t a ship, it was … Well, sort of like a mechanical spider. With five legs, and a body that must house the cockpit. Dark glass panels encircled the half-dome center mass. One of the windows slid open and the Tinker leaned out, waving.
“This is Leggsy!” he shouted. “I’ll send the lift down for ye.”
They all stared up at it, Zeli in awe and Lanar in what looked like dread. A smile pulled at Varten’s lips. He didn’t want to smile, he wanted to wallow in guilt and shame, but it came all the same. This was far better than an airship or a train.
A mesh basket descended from the underside of the body, held by thin telescoping metal rods. When it touched the ground, a door on it popped open. Ziggy ran over and jumped into the basket with a gleeful bark.
Zeli looked over at Varten with wide eyes, and he shrugged. “Might as well get in,” he said, moving closer. He led the way with Zeli right behind him and Lanar bringing up the rear.
A wary hesitance flowed from the man like fog, but what other options did they have now? Once they were all on the platform, the basket’s door closed and it began to rise with a subtle shudder. The trip up gave them a terrific view of the air station, the city around them, the river and bay, and beyond. And then they were enclosed in darkness when the platform came to a stop.
Ziggy yipped once, and the lights flickered on. The interior of the … contraption was old, worn, and well patched. Varten had always had an interest in mechanical things and this was the most fascinating machine he’d yet encountered.
They exited the basket into a narrow hallway where his head nearly brushed the ceiling. The smell of oil and warm metal comforted the ragged place inside him. Ziggy led them down the corridor and up a set of ladders—their legs bent in unnatural ways, allowing them to negotiate the rungs—and onto the main bridge. There the Tinker sat in a padded captain’s chair in front of a glowing console.
Varten had learned about seagoing vessels from Ani’s brother, Tai, and of airships from Clove. He recognized some of the controls, though there were many different ones here. Curiosity beat through the haze of guilt. Would the Tinker show him how everything worked?
“Strap in,” the Tinker said, motioning to the jump seats behind him. They folded down from the sides and included safety belts.
Varten belted in next to Zeli, with Lanar across from them. “How fast does this thing go?” he asked.
“Ah, well, fast as a train on flat land. Faster uphill,” he said with a wink and swiveled around to man the controls.
Leggsy shuddered and then began vibrating. The engine was beneath them, Varten felt it spin up. Zigs settled under the console by the Tinker’s feet and appeared to fall asleep, if that was possible for a mechanical dog.
The Tinker spoke into a headset in Yalyish, likely talking to ground control. “We’ve got the go-ahead,” he said over his shoulder. “Hold onto yer teeth!”
Leggsy bounced once and then its long legs began to move. The motion was graceful, the bridge remained surprisingly stable—Varten would love to get a peek at the shock-absorption system. They walked along the city streets, obeying the traffic laws for the most part, even as they towered over all other vehicles.
The roads were clogged at this time of day and it was slow-going, but once they left the busy section of the city behind for a quieter, more residential one, they moved considerably faster.
The Tinker steered Leggsy over the other vehicles. It walked over busy intersections, ignoring the electric semaphores that guided the traffic. “The coppers don’t like it when I do that,” he confided, “but there’s no law against it. Laws don’t take into account vehicles like this. Special dispensation.” He tapped a certificate taped to the wall. Varten couldn’t read it, but it looked official.
And then they were out of the city and in the countryside, and this is when the Tinker abandoned the roads completely and picked up more speed, quickly reaching an all-out run, racing over the fields and over hills. Splashing through streams. Outrunning any wheeled vehicle. He could see how this could be as fast as a train, without needing any tracks.
“You don’t get into trouble for racing over people’s land?” Varten asked.
“For all her weight, Leggsy’s light on her feet. Don’t leave any damage. Some folk don’t like it, but they’d have to catch me to do something about it.” His chuckle was unreserved, and Varten actually cracked a smile.
“We’ll get there by morning. Ye don’t want to miss the opening ceremonies of a Rumpus! No, ye don’t want to miss that at all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Who suffers if a bird’s call goes unheard?
Are they chirping into the emptiness?
Does the Void swallow their voice or
do they sing
because they have a song?
—THE HARMONY OF BEING
The first step in learning to master Nethersong, according to Murmur, was to commune with the Mother. Kyara held herself back from issuing a snide retort when he said this, but still wondered how exactly one went about communing with a mountain. Mooriah was evidently attuned to her mood and shot her a censorious glare. Kyara held her hands up; she hadn’t said a thing.
At Murmur’s insistence, the Nethersingers would have their lessons in a cave set high in the large chamber of the underground city. Ella and Ulani were able to watch from a ledge a level above, but, according to the ancient man, couldn’t be in the same room.
Ella agreed to this, as she still had a line of sight on her daughter. And Kyara silently vowed to protect Tana from any surprises that should crop up along the way. She eyed Murmur warily as he led them to their new classroom.
Inside the small cave, the temperature was almost uncomfortably warm. A fire had been set up in the center of the space and some sort of herb was burning, making the air smell sweet. However, a thick humidity hung around them, so different from the rest of the city.
There was little furniture, just a few woven mats around the fireplace and some chipped pottery. A cistern in the corner collected water from a slow drip down a long, pointed rock formation hanging from the ceiling.
Once she, Mooriah, Tana, and Murmur were seated on the mats around the fire, Murmur instructed them to close their eyes. “Open yourself to the embrace of the Mother,” he said in a droning voice. “Quiet your will and she will invite you in.”
Kyara had never tried to meditate before. In Lagrimar, the Avinids—a fringe group who worshipped the Void—were proponents of the practice, and that was enough to keep her far away from it. But Mooriah claimed that being embraced by the Mother was as easy for a Nethersinger as connecting to her power.
“It should be like using your other sight,” the woman said, which for Kyara was as simple as changing her shoes. Even entering the World Between had not proved truly difficult, now that she knew she could. It required focus, but she found it similar to tying a complicated knot. Listening to the Mother, however, was not so easy.
She tried to relax her body and soften her will, but that just made her feel droopy and boneless. She attempted to empty her mind, but the effort gave her a mild headache. Frustrated, she repositioned herself on the flat mat, which provided no cushioning against the hard stone beneath.
Something in the cave sizzled, and she opened her eyes to find Murmur s
prinkling a powder onto the fire that caused the flames to pop and hiss. The thick air grew smoky and the sweet smell intensified.
Kyara’s eyelids grew heavy; her body turned weightless, like she was flying. She struggled against the sensation—Murmur was drugging them. Anger fought its way to the surface; she couldn’t let herself succumb. Then her limbs were suddenly dense, made of lead, and she was falling.
When she was finally able to open her eyes, the cave was completely dark. “Hello?” she called out, disoriented. When she got her hands on Murmur, she was going to throttle his old jelly neck.
She could actually sense her physical body, still seated on the ground in the cave, but whatever or wherever she was now, was different. Weightless, she had the odd disconnected sensation of both sitting and standing at the same time.
“Kyara?” Tana’s voice held fear.
“I’m here.” Kyara didn’t see anything at first, and then the girl appeared beside her, a slightly ghostly sheen to her the only thing to indicate that she wasn’t a physical presence. Mooriah and Murmur became visible a moment later. Murmur wasn’t solid like the rest of them. Perhaps since he wasn’t a Nethersinger by birth, his form here was far less substantial. Like a replication of a replication, soft and fuzzy. Kyara longed to rail against the ancient man, but didn’t want to alarm Tana.
“Where are we?” the girl asked.
“Inside the Mother.” Murmur’s voice creaked with age.
“Weren’t we there before?”
“We were inside her body, now we’re inside her heart. You may use your power here. Unleash it and allow it to flow.”
“And we won’t harm anyone?” Kyara asked.
“No, not here,” Mooriah replied. “It’s part of the magic of the Mother.” Kyara wasn’t certain about any of it, not about accessing her power so close to the others or Singing in general.