Tinkermage (Book 2) (12 page)

“We need to get her inside,” Fara said.

Lili rushed forward. “How can I help?”

Fara took the gnomestress by the shoulders. “Rags. A basin of water. Ice…” She looked around. “No. Snow. Lots of clean snow. We’ll pack it on top of the dressing.” Lili nodded and ran toward the Golden Cog, with Fritzy, Termund, and Niksabella on her heels.

Etty motioned. “C’mon now, fellas. Let’s get her inside. Careful.”

Dale directed his precisor guards to pick Jancy up. Terrence and Flay pitched in to help.

“Through the back,” Etty said, directing them toward the rear of the building.

“What?” Nikselpik started after them, hobbling, wobbling, and trying to push past the cleric. “She’ll go through the front door like everyone else—”

Etty put his hand on Nikselpik’s shoulder and squeezed. The grip stopped him cold—Nikselpik was surprised at his own weakness—but he countered with an angry fist to Etty’s chest, only the chest guard rendered the blow ineffective. “Unhand me…” he started to say, but the look on Etty’s face settled him quick. The cleric was haggard, sweating in the cold, a familiar look of exhaustion for the battle-hardened healer. There was no malice there, none of the condescension Nikselpik usually expected.

Etty squeezed his shoulder even harder, breaking the wizard’s anger completely. “Aside from being more discreet, it will be quicker. She’ll be fine, Nik,” he said. “We’ve got the best burnweavers in all of Sullenor, and we’ve had years of practice healing forge workers from the Iron quarter. It’s practically second nature to us now. Easy as breathing.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Etty.” He nodded, deflating into the sick, recovering gnome once more. Etty patted his shoulder in an uncharacteristic gesture of assurance and followed the group inside, leaving Nikselpik heavy-hearted and alone in the cold.

His soul shook with guilt. His feet ached from standing in slush.
Will she die in your employ as so many other have?
Things would have to change. No,
he
would have to change. It all started with his own thoughts and actions, much of which depended on him staying off the bugs. But could he do it? He’d been sure before, but what about now?

An overwhelming pain punched through his skull. His wellspring, smarting worse than before, like a hot coal digging around in the back of his brain.

All right, Fara my dear. Mind tuning it is.

Nikselpik limped toward the Cog, wounded but alive. Before he stepped inside, he noted there was no sign of the stonekin.

Chapter Fifteen

Swinger
hovered above the clouds. The air was calm and cold and bone deep.

Like a witch’s gaze,
Stena thought, peering through the frosted panes within general quarters.

The ship’s mechanics were continually cycled to keep them from locking up.
Swinger’s
engine purred, emitting the occasional hiss of hot steam or some other strange clack-a-clatter. It was a risky maneuver, chancing the intense cold, but less so than being caught on the ground or continuing to pit the exhausted crew against the sky winds knocking them about with little to no rest.

Earlier, they had touched down next to a lake to fill the water tanks, spending hours using their pickaxes to break through obstinate layers of ice and making too much noise for Stena’s comfort. She’d stood on the stern navigation deck, hovering over the brass panel that controlled several ship’s functions, including the starboard-side mounted crossbows, which were pointed directly at the snow-rimed forest.
Swinger
’s bulk had offered some cover for the crew as they worked, chipping away into the late afternoon, and by the time they were back in the air over Goad’s Pocket it was too late to scout properly, so Stena had directed them higher, above the cloud cover.

And then she’d ordered a round of rest for everyone, with four-gnome squads maintaining the rigging and mechanics in short shifts. The rest stayed happily below deck around the central furnace, keeping their fingers and toes and long ears warm as they clutched their shares of hot spiced cider in steaming mugs.

Now, Gowey and Lins were part of the top squad while Stena, Crick, Rose, and Bertrand cozied up in the general quarters below deck, sipping cider or snolt, nibbling on dried fruit and meats, and thankful for a little respite from the unrelenting cold. Some of the heat produced by the engines was directed into the general quarters, so it was warm enough. They’d even dropped the ship’s mini-stove from the wall in order to warm some grub, and Rose was currently being cheerfully glum as she heated some soup.

“Ain’t nothin’ like the
Diamond
, Cap,” Rose said, brushing her fingers through her short, spiky black hair with one hand while stirring soup with the other. She was referring to Stena’s primary vessel and the gem of the Wavebreaker Shipping Company.

“True.
Swinger
’s not the
Diamond
. But she’s ours now, and she’s doing her best to carry us through. Oak and iron, brass and rail, she gives her life for us to sail.” Stena rapped her knuckles three times against her wooden seat.

The group echoed the mantra: “Oak and iron, brass and rail, she gives her life for us to sail.” Followed by three knocks on the wooden table.

Seated to her left, Crick nodded slowly. “Better than my first commission. I was just a gnomeling really, not a hair on my chin or my ears for that matter. My da had no choice but to take me out to sea since my mother was took that winter by an explosion in the Turbing.”

“That bloody factory,” Rose said. “Shoulda shut that place down decades ago. My great uncle got his foot maimed there, you know.”

Crick nodded and continued, “We were two days out and taking on water. A diver went down, said there was a breach in the hull. Wood all rotted. Patching was easy enough, but the ship still kept taking on water near the stern, dipping back like a lame old mutt. They pulled apart some of the wood down below and found where they thought the problem might be. Despite my da’s protests, cap’n shoved a bucket of quicktar
in my hands
,
stuck an air hose in my mouth, and sent me down. Dark as pitch and so icy I forgot to move until someone tossed in a flarestick, so I took it and worked further aft, between beams and struts, squeezing past warped boards, thinking I’d surely die there in the belly. But I found this small knothole of a breach the patch diver’d missed. Tiny thing, it was. I put my eye to it and stared into the fathomless blue-gray beyond our ship, thinking how damn inconsequential we was and how vast the sea. Then I realized I was the only thing keeping all of us from a cold death, so I set to, scooped out some of that magicky mush, and closed it with a single stroke.

“My mind started playing tricks on me as I made my way back. I imagined someone stuffing the other end of the tube with an old sock or putting a handful of cockroaches inside. I’d heard of the jokes sailors played and, down there, I felt, well, vulnerable. But then I knew my da would not allow such tomfoolery. Still, I lost the air hose for just an instant, grabbed it and stuffed it back in my mouth and sucked in a lungful of salty brine. I got confused, no longer sure how to get back, and then I knew it was the
sea
trying to get at me. I’d shut it out with that quicktar and it wanted to kill me for it… I’ll never forget my da’s hands lifting me from that damnable dark!”

Crick gave his head a single shake. “Worked the sea my whole life after that. Not sure why. Maybe as a tribute to my da, who had taught me everything and loved me and saved me. Maybe because it was all I knew. But believe me, be it
on
or
under
deck, I always kept a wary eye on the murderous sea.” He pursed his lips and looked sidelong at Stena, giving her that look he sometimes gave when he wanted his point to stick. “No, I prefer it better up here, truth be told.”

Stena studied her mechanic. As always, full of words one minute then clammed up the next. In any case, it was the first time she’d heard that particular story. But strange times make for strange conversations, she supposed. Maybe Crick’s story would resonate with Rose. “See, Rose. We could be in the
Ginny
. You with a hose in your mouth and swimming around like a damn codfish amidst the decking.”

“Aye, Cap. I get that. But this old badger ain’t been up in the sky for nearly a hundred years.” Rose wore six silver rings through the upper part of each ear, a stick of whale bone through each lobe. The silver struggled to shine in the dull cabin light, as did her attitude. “What I’m sayin’ is… we don’t know what part’s gonna fail next. I found a loose section of rigging up around the rear bladder. Coulda got ourselves caught asses up or worse. Maybe even wrecked.”

“Wasn’t time for testin’, Rose. She works well enough. And you caught the problem.” Stena made sure the tone of her voice told Rose the subject was closed. Complaining was a common failing of Rose’s, but the pessimistic gnomestress was as hard-nosed as they came, saving Stena countless hours of rework and probably saving lives. She was good in a fight too.

Across from Stena, Bertrand’s tired eyes looked back at her through his thick spectacles. Even though he’d been sheltered down there most of the trip, he’d gotten no more rest than anyone else. He might have even gotten it worse. Stena nodded at the bruise on his forehead. “You get into a fight down here, Bert?”

Bertrand hesitantly touched the spot, winced, and withdrew his hand. “Seems I forgot to hang on once, Captain.”

“A ship will do that to you, Bert. Just when you think you might be getting a kiss, you get a clout to the noggin.”

“I’ll remember that, Captain.”

“Just remember the bump. That’s how we learn. Now, what can you tell us about these damned swamp elves?”

Bertrand pushed his spectacles up his nose and shuffled through a stack of parchments before him on the table. Rose sat down next to Bertrand, planting her face a few inches from her steamy bowl and began shoveling soup into her mouth with a large spoon.

Stena nodded at the documents. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll get ruined, all old and exposed as they are?”

“Oh, no, Captain. If it’s one thing the elder scribes could do, it was preserve parchments.” He shuffled them harder for emphasis. “These have all been treated with a special resin. Practically indestructible. Even by fire.” Bertrand looked at the documents proudly. “Really, one of our crowning achievements.”

“Crowning achievement, huh?” Rose looked at the papers, pulling her spoon out of her mouth and pointing it at the stack. “So what if I just ripped one up?”

“Pardon?”

“What if I just took one of those there parchments and ripped it in half? Surely, they aren’t
that
indestructible.” Rose looked at Stena and winked.

Stena felt a smile creep across her lips. “I think what Rose is saying is you scribes give yourselves too much credit, my friend.”

“Indestructible. Pah!” Rose went back to shoveling soup in her gob.

“Scholars are good for a few things, Cap,” Crick chimed in from his chair. “Writing things down. Talking about writing things down. Thinking about writing things down.”

“Passing notes,” Rose added between slurps.

“Making signs,” Crick said, raising a finger. “As in a street sign for
Longtowner Lane
. Because mayhap I don’t know where I’m standing.”

“Right!” Rose said. “Or like the letters A-L-E above the ale taps. Very useful, that.”

“Or the word
crapper
all done up in fine scroll above the loo.”

That sent Rose into a fit as she nearly choked on a mouthful of soup. “Yes, yes! Along with directions on how to dump your load!”

Stena fixed the bespectacled fellow with a mirthful look, but Bertrand was stone-faced. His stare impenetrable. He handed her a page. “All right then. Go ahead, Captain. Give it your best shot.”

Stena smiled and set her mulled wine on the table, taking the page from the scribe. It felt slick in her hands, not the sort of texture one expected from something hundreds of years old. She gave Bertrand a glance to make sure he was serious, then she took the page between her thumbs and index fingers and began to tear… only… it didn’t rip! She gave a shaky smile, tried again, this time with some serious tension in her grip. Not even the hint of a tear. After another two or three tries, where she gripped the page in her fists and tried to tear it with all her might, she gave up. She handed it back, frowning.

“Magick’ed,” Crick said.

“Magicked indeed,” Bert replied, nodding. “It’s a well-kept formula. Certain conditions on certain woods with the right ink. Takes several months to make one page.”

“Well, then. Here’s to our scribes.” Stena held up her cup. “May we someday build the hardiest of ships from their Tock-bedamned broadsheets.”

“Here, here!” Rose and Crick raised their drinks and quaffed.

Bertrand raised his cup warily, then took a modest drink, his spectacles like giant windows above the ceramic rim.

“Now that you’ve made us all look like jackanapes—”

“Speak for yourself, Crick said.

Stena continued with just the hint of an eyebrow raise. “How about those swamp elves? What more can you tell us?”

The scribe put his cup down and re-shuffled things, eyes moving down the first page and then back up to
Swinger
’s captain. “They are called the Giyipcias. Official documents from the last organized excursion to their swamplands was by the great explorer, Willyam Belltz. He and his team of explorers were nearly slaughtered by the then-Queen Maelika moments after they landed on a hillock deep within the swamp. The Giyipcias descended on the party with weapons of dark steel. They were accoutered in tortoise shell and lizard hide, stained dark so that they were almost impossible to see in the shadows of the jungle. The queen herself swooped in on the back of an immense bird. Maelika put the tip of her great spear to Willyam’s neck and said something to the effect of: ‘Speak wisely or die.’“

“Did he speak their tongue?” Crick said.

“At the time, there were no records of the Giyipcias at all, much less any texts written in their language. Willyam was quite on his own in that regard. The only thing that saved the explorers was Willyam’s legendary good nature and charming personality. It is reported he gave Maelika a broad smile and a hearty chuckle, eyes sparkling at the queen’s great beauty. It is said the elf queen was quite taken by the young gnome and gave him several opportunities to keep his head. Small tests, it seemed, as she studied his placating gestures, gentle tones, and respectful expressions. She watched as a large crate was brought from the aerostat’s hold. She tensed as he took an iron bar and wrenched off the lid—it is said this was quite a display of patience from the queen—until finally, Maelika withdrew her spear, curious as to what was inside. It turns out the elves weren’t interested in gnomish steel or the great supply of pelts and leathers and other assorted foodstuffs. What grabbed their interests were the clockwork toys Willyam had brought along. Clicking automatons that stood only as high as Maelika’s
knee. Glittering sprocket boxes and musitrons. The Giyipcias were transformed by the mechanical pieces, their faces lighting up with amusement, their dispositions turning to childlike glee.”

“And so they became friends?” Rose asked.

“Well, no. A modicum of trust had been established, and the swamp elves partook in the ale he’d brought…”

“That explains the barrels of our best stuff down in the hold,” Stena said, nodding her understanding.

“And that crate of tin dolls and other childish rubbish Lins and I lugged on board,” Rose said.

“We’re hoping the Giyipcias haven’t changed much since Willyam’s time. The only difference is that now we don’t have anyone with Willyam’s charm aboard the ship. No offense, Captain.”