Rebel Skyforce (Mad Tinker Chronicles) (26 page)

They’re my books, too. Our books. Those books belong to all of us, all the rebels. Haven’t we gotten all we’re going to get from them until someone translates them?

Of course, Dan might learn all he could from those books, and then use that knowledge against them. To what end?

The questions whirled in Rynn’s mind like a cyclone, blowing papers around her piles of friends and enemies faster than she could capture them and return them to their proper places. All the while the questions blew, Rynn asked more of them. Surely there was one question, one answer, one chain of logical thought that would sort everything out. There had to be some way to reconcile her father’s paranoia with Zayne’s dangled promises and veiled threats, and weigh them against Dan’s apparent madness and his brilliance with magic.

None of that even brushed the surface of the mystery of Tanner, who was gone with the rest of the
Darksmith’s
crew when the world-ripper was sent for them the next day.

For the first time in months, Rynn was able to engage in the luxury of pacing as her worries swirled.

Chapter 19

“Assume that when you cannot see your enemy, they are moving with great certainty and terrifying swiftness toward your destruction.” –Xizix, demon sorcerer

The tunnels stank of stale seawater. They were too near the surface to be free of it. A string of spark lights dangled from freestanding poles. They hooked up to a portable dynamo to keep the darkness away. Rusted iron supports stood weary guard over the tunnels running in all directions from the central hub, their pitted orange surfaces anything but reassuring to anyone venturing down those shafts. In the entire chamber, only the floor had the sheen of newness. It sat dead level and smooth as fresh poured-stone, but it was just rock that had been worked smooth by hands that knew their trade.

Draksgollow took the place in with his eyes, digested it in his mind, and spat it out again. “You were right, this is the arse crack of the world, sure nuff.”

Kezudkan waved away the tinker’s complaint. He clopped around on his cane, pointing as if giving a tour. “We’ll wall up the outside entrance, get rid of that fetid stink. Vent shafts looked to be in order, though I wouldn’t mind one or two of your lads giving them a once-over to be certain. This will be our main control room, where we’ll keep the machine. We’ll bring equipment through and build workshops down these corridors. There are already worker barracks, and even some nicer suites belonging to the former owners of these mines. It’s perfect.”

“Perfect shit hole.”

Kezudkan raise his hands to the ceiling, twenty feet above. “And it’s all ours! No one will think to look for us here. No one will bother crossing the Black Depths just to be thorough. Most importantly, Erefan won’t think to look for us here. There is no value to the place except its remoteness, no clue that this might be where we would settle. I never mentioned the Ice Furnace with any wistful longing when Erefan lived within my walls. I have no connection with the place at all. It is absent of anything I would choose for myself—uncivilized, utilitarian, and drab.”

“Could have plunked ourselves in the middle of the Lumberlands, if you wanted someplace no one would ever look for you.”

Kezudkan graced Draksgollow with a heavy browed glare. “Let’s be reasonable. We’re not going to live like animals. I wouldn’t ask that of you, and I certainly wouldn’t volunteer myself for exile. We’re hiding away, not turning into vagabonds.”

“Fine. I’ll get men working on turning this shit hole into a habitable shit hole. I still don’t like the other half of this plan.”

“First thing’s first. We need to get ourselves hidden safely away. Then we’ll get rid of Erefan.”

“That rat-eater doesn’t know nuts from bolts. I don’t like losing a machine over him.”

“Trust me, if we can be rid of Erefan, we’ll be kings.”

“He knows we’re here,” said Jadon. Though sixteen, his voice had not deepened much. He sounded like a woman. “He sleeps lightly for a twinborn.”

“He sleeps like a warlock, that’s why,” Denrik said through gritted teeth. “And you were sloppy.”

The Zaynes, father and son, were cooped up in one of the nicer inns on Tinker’s Island. The proprietress was under the impression that they were paying well, thanks to Jadon’s magic, and settled up through month’s end. Everything in the room was white: curtains, bedding, pillows, walls. All was bleached and whitewashed and starched stiff as a mast. It was the sort of place that hung its hat on being a clean inn, the sort of damp praise offered in seedy waterside towns where being free of lice and roaches was a badge of honor.

“He’ll tell someone.”

Denrik stalked across the room and back. “Who?” he asked at length. “The girl knows, and by all accounts has said nothing. I don’t think he gets on with the Mad Tinker at all. They’re like kerosene and water.”

“We should go.”

Denrik fumed, chest heaving at each breath. Such power within their grasp, and that spoiled, sadistic Kadrin boy was standing in their way. His eyes settled on his son, so calm by comparison. Jadon’s expression hadn’t changed since he
arrived back from spying on Dan. Jadon’s expression rarely changed, ever. He was the rock in a stormy sea, unbothered by the chaos around him.

Denrik shook his head and blew out a breath to cleanse his anger and settle his thoughts. Heat was bad for the brain, anger bad for judgment, and passion bad for business. “No. No, we can’t waste this chance. Too much, too many rely on our success.”

“He’ll kill us.”

“I well bloody expect him to try!” Denrik shouted before remembering that anyone could have been to either side of their room, just the other side of a thin wall of plaster and paint.

“Letters are better.”

“What?” Denrik stopped short in his pacing.

“We leave. Send letters. Madlin can find us if you tell her where.”

Denrik wagged a finger in the air as he restarted his circuit of the room. “No, that leaves them a perfect chance to set us up for an ambush. As long as we’re in their realm, we will be on our guard. If we go back about our business, we’ll grow lax and lazy about watching ourselves.”

“Madlin won’t betray us.”

Denrik sniffed. “Lot you know of betrayal.”

“Madlin won’t betray us.”

“You say that like she calls us allies. We’ve merely dangled the prospect in the water. She’s yet to bite or swim off.”

Jadon remained silent. The boy’s eyes didn’t follow Denrik as he paced.

“Why won’t she?” Denrik asked.

“In her heart, she is like us.”

“‘Piss pot of a world,’ she called it.” Denrik scratched at his beard. He took a decanter from a dainty table by the window and poured himself a glass of brandy. “Think she might join with us? Common cause and all that?”

“The machine can do it. Guns for magic.”

“But not if we get killed by that demon child, is that it?”

Jadon didn’t answer. The boy always seemed to know when keep his mouth shut. It was what he did best, maybe even better than magic.

“Fine.” Denrik swallowed the brandy in a single gulp. “We’ll leave a letter before we depart. We need to find Stalyart, so we’ll have to find someplace with card halls, whores, and excellent liquor.”

Jadon nodded. “Marker’s Point.”

Denrik smirked. “It always seems to come back to there, doesn’t it?”

The Katamic Sea was in a sorry state, licking against the wharfs of Yekina harbor like a dog begging for attention. The tide was as low as it got, but the wharfs were long and sunk deep into waters that would berth an Acardian battleship, if they had any cause to stop in a Takalish harbor. The
Merciful
was a ship that carried no painted name on its side, or rather, it carried many different ones, none its own. Today it was the
Gallant Net
, a sly joke that amused its captain to no end.

The Mad Tinker counted more Takalish among his employees than any other nationality. Of the six who had been stranded from the
Darksmith
, four of them called Takalia home. All six spoke the language. It was a fair sight kinder than dropping them at Marker’s Point, which was a day’s sail closer to the desolate island where Tanner and the others had been stranded.

“Obliged, as always,” Tanner said cheerfully. It was easier to find cheer with a full belly and a head swimming in ale. He leaned precariously over the railing, watching his fellow castaways trudge down the gangplank, the wooden span bouncing beneath each step.

Tanner’s companion at the rail looped a protective arm around him. A swordsman has an innate balance that even a sailor could envy, but spirits can fog the optics of the finest spyglass. “Mayhap you stay aboard this time. Word of your survival will trickle back and your little friend can cease worrying over your memory.”

Tanner swiveled his head around, pausing a moment to let the sea and ship stop spinning. He looked Captain Stalyart over as if he had never met the man. He was suave, slick-haired, and olive skinned, tanned to a color his parents would never have known him by. He wore a nobleman’s garb with a scoundrel’s flare, leaving his shirt unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled to the elbow. He wore jewels fit for an heiress at his ears, neck, and fingers. For a moment, Tanner tried to remember whether Stalyart had ever
met
Dan before. Tanner was fairly certain that he had.

“I’m sure ... I’m sure he’s all broke up. Pro’bly sacked a city, sacrificed a hundred surgeons in my honor.”

“I believe it is virgins that are the preferred offering to the gods,” said Stalyart with a twinkle-eyed grin.

Tanner blew through loose lips, making an obscene noise. “Dan’s ain’t never had no hundred virgins anywhere near him. Sort who’d ... run round ‘n orchard wiff a stick. A stick. Knockin’ apples off.”

“Mr. Tanner, you have misplaced your liver,” said Stalyart. “I knew a man who wore your face who drank me out of a case of Cerrian Blue. What have you done with him?”

“Ain’t got proper pissed in ages. Rotten little puke. Hav’ta watch him like a block. A ... a hawk. Elsewise he’s gonna ... bodiesallovertheplace.” Tanner blinked a few times. A moment’s fumbling inside his jacket produced a bottle with a splash of amber liquid in the bottom. He pulled at the cork, but his fingers slipped off each time he tried. He held the bottle out to Stalyart.

The pirate captain took the bottle and examined the label up close. “Turning Hills. Acardian, but a good year. I think I paid five hundred eckles for this bottle.”

Tanner pointed a wobbly finger Stalyart’s way, chuckling. “You don’t ... you don’t—you stole that!”

Stalyart grinned, showing off sparkling white teeth. “I may have, at that.” He drew his cutlass and used the blade to pry up the cork’s edge. There was a little
pop
as it came free. Tanner made a grab for it as it sailed over the ship’s railing, but came away with only air.

Stalyart raised the bottle to the sun above. “To old friends, returned.” He swallowed what seemed like a fair half of the remaining liquor.

“Ole friens,” Tanner agreed. He took the bottle and swung it up to his lips in one motion. As he tilted his head back to drain the last of it, he kept on tilting until he fell over, thumping with dead weight against the
Merciful’s
deck.

In an ancient part of an ancient building, an ancient man hunched over a bowl of lukewarm stew. There were no sparse rooms in the Kadrin Imperial Palace, nor were any small or plain, or made of anything but polished black marble with green veins. The one Axterion had taken for his own was the one he had best found able to turn cozy, to fill with enough flotsam and detritus from his nearly hundred and fifty summers of life that he could feel like he took up the room. In so much of the palace, the rooms ignored you. A human was a speck of dust or a cobweb, as far as the throne room or the great banquet hall cared. Axterion surrounded himself with books and maps, chests of old clothes, footstools and pillows, anything he could think of to bring comfort to the cold confines.