Tinkermage (Book 2) (13 page)

“Oh nonsense, Bert. We have Rose, here. See, Rose, your pleasant disposition will come in handy after all.”

“I’ll do the best I can, Cap.” Rose stoically lifted her bowl and drained the rest of the soup.

“What else, Bert?”

Bert set a few pages aside and pushed his spectacles back up from where they’d slid down his nose. “It was said that Willyam nearly wept at the elf queen’s beauty. He later wrote several poems and songs dedicated to her and even organized a small excursion back to that same hillock only to be met with silence. He even made a few sketches of her, drawn mostly during their short stay with the tribe. Here’s one.” Bertrand pulled a parchment free and put it on the table.

Stena stymied a gasp. She could understand why Willyam the explorer had seemed obsessed with Maelika. Even in the still image, standing with her wickedly barbed spear in hand, the elf queen seemed to be in perpetual motion. She
flowed.
She was not as dainty and fair as any elf Stena had seen. Quite the opposite. She was tall, her form thick beneath the light armor she wore. Her auburn hair was woven into an iron-colored crown, and those locks that had managed to escape swung wild about her head. Her eyes were as dark as coal, her skin a hue of leaf green touched with copper.

And when Bertrand had mentioned the Giyipcias wore shells and skins, Stena had anticipated something barbaric. The truth was, the queen’s armor was fine indeed, her pauldrons shaved into round shapes where they rested on her shoulders, angled so any weapon might glance off rather than bite. Pieces form-fitted to thigh and shin, chest and arm.

As hardened as she was from years at sea, Stena could not keep a chill from inching up her spine. It was like looking at a wild animal, or at least something unaccustomed to civility. Exquisitely beautiful and dangerous.

Her respect for Willyam the artistic explorer increased tenfold.

Rose stood and went to a small bucket and pitcher of water and began cleaning her bowl. “Seems like a lot of trouble to go to when there’s a good chance they’ll skewer us before they give us the opportunity to open our gobs.”

“Everything is a lot of trouble, Rose. Life, love, and direct orders from our precisor general.”

“Aye, Cap. Orders and love. Both a bit dodgy.”

“Not orders, Rose. Orders are always clear. You need help seeing my orders clear?”

“No, Cap.” Rose wiped her hands on her pants and sat back down. “Clear as a bell, you orders, Cap.”

“Right then. Anything
else
, Bert?”

“I pulled something from the archives. A surprisingly astute set of observations by Groshtmer the Orc King from a hundred years or so after Willyam’s visit. His accounts of the swamp elves were recorded by a Thrasperville traveler named Bolonk Wheelwobble, who had actually become friends with the orcs and used them as escorts through the Utenes to the lands of western Sullenor. Apparently, tribes of orcs had considered migrating to warmer climates southeast, following the Great Torrid River. Things had been going well until they were met with resistance.”

“The Giyipcias.”

“Yes. Groshtmer expressed his respect for the swamp elves and their battle prowess. “

“How far did the orcs make it?”

“Not far. Two fierce fights at the edge of the Giyipcias swamp and the orcs turned around and made for home.”

Stena rubbed her eyes, her body soaking up
Swinger
’s vibrations. It was a calming feeling, bolstered by the sweet taste of wine on her tongue and the sobering scent of hot brewing snolt. “Sounds like we’ve got opposing opinions of the swamp elves. Let me just say I’m happy we’re not orcs.”

“That is one thing everyone seems to agree on, Cap.” Rose nodded.

“There is one other thing everyone seems to agree upon, as well.”

“What’s that, Linguist Bertrand?”

“That the swamp elves are exceedingly violent when threatened. And good at it, too. Violence, that is.”

Stena grunted. “Violent and unpredictable. Can’t wait to meet them.”

Chapter Sixteen

Nikselpik stuffed the last of his things into a leather rucksack where it sat on his freshly made bed. He didn’t have much; just his old robe (freshly cleaned thanks to Lili) and his new books, which he placed in the bottom so Fara wouldn’t see them. While he’d made a promise to the cleric to study the healing arts—and he
would
if only to see her pretty face as much as possible—she’d be more than curious as to why he possessed copies of
Concentration Re-Animation
and
Putrefaction Refluxation
.

To avoid discovery of his new study of interest, he’d had Kalaquick deliver the rest of the books, and anything else that might be related to the craft directly, from the Hightower Library to his home and squirrel them away in his study. “And don’t touch anything!” he’d told his friend. He also hoped Kalaquick could keep a secret; after all, there was the minor detail of necromancy being prohibited and all.

But things change. His wellspring was returning, manifesting as something new, as evidenced by that brief moment of exhilaration when he’d attempted to quite involuntarily feed on Raulnock’s life force. Disturbing. Exciting. Rude, even. But rudeness was rarely Nikselpik’s main concern.

At least his wellspring was no longer sore, thanks to Fara’s efforts. Her mind tuning had soothed the pain, eased his anxiety, and provided him a welcome respite from his thus far agonizing recovery. Her cool fingers on his temples, mildly massaging, as she whispered gentle encouragement for him to let her in, allowed her to allay his pain, to
submit
.

And he had. Submitted. Allowed her into his head.

She’d filled it with pleasant things: the sounds of gnomelings laughing, soothing waves, long grass rustling in the breeze… and then deeper… something else. An exposed emotion she’d perhaps wanted to remain hidden, even as he wished the same about his.

He’d pulled away just in time, he thought, before he could discern anything deeper about her and she about him: that he was secretly very fond of her even as he was somehow changing on the inside. She left his head filled with heady calm and the lingering scent of cinnamon. Fara had gotten up and straightened her clothes, blushing, her eyes dodging about in an uncharacteristic moment of timidity, and then she stepped out quickly, closing the door behind her.

Sigh.

Now whenever he touched his wellspring, it seemed different. A deep shade of purple where it had once been blue. The change was uncomfortable, raw, frightening, like an organ having shifted inside of one’s body for no apparent reason. These changes, combined with his
deadspeak
, made him sure that he was more necromancer than not, more criminal than upstanding.

“Rotten,” he muttered to himself, fastening the rucksack.

Is that what I’m destined to be? Rotten?

There was naught to do but learn as much as he could about the change in order to be prepared for what might come next. The one thing he knew for sure was that he couldn’t stop the change. Hells, he could barely explain them, even to himself.

He sighed again. Nikselpik was anxious to be home. The first thing he’d do would get a hearthfire blazing, fetch a cup of mulled wine, and tear into his new collection of profane texts. Ah, it would be good to finally have some time alone.

But what of that other itch? He frowned. Those distant cravings. Would they continue to plague him? If it hadn’t been for Fara and Lili—and a few of the others—Nik was sure he’d be dead now. Even if he’d lived, without Fara’s healing magick he’d be skulking around in the Magi Den looking for more, committing every sort of crime just to secure a moment’s relief.

What will you do once you’re alone? Without Fara’s healing hands nearby…

It would be hard. But, he’d made the commitment already. He was going to stay off those futtering bugs by staying as busy as he could. Delving into his changing powers seemed the best place to begin. Yes, taking a good look at himself might lead to some kind of self-awareness—
or it might finish me.

A sting of impatience needled him. Despite wanting to leave, he knew better than to rush a gnomestress, much less two, so he plopped down on the bed next to his pack. He glanced about the tidy room. Lili and Fara had conducted a duel-pronged attack of sure-handed, organizational bustle. They’d dusted the bookshelves, swept the floors, re-positioned furniture, obviously intent on leaving a good impression on the Golden Cog’s owner.

Nikselpik wasn’t interested a whit in impressing Jowell Hartnail—or anyone else. While he appreciated the care everyone had provided over the past month, including the use of this wonderful suite—which he found had been paid for by Termund Grundzest—he didn’t feel the need for anyone to go out of their way any longer, nor did he feel he owed anyone anything. By Tick and Tock, he and his sister had effectively dismantled the most corrupt charlatan this city had ever known; his sister had done it in the courtroom and he on the battlefield.

“They should be celebrating us like heroes,” Nikselpik muttered, and he envisioned a magnificent parade down Longtowner Lane, himself seated high upon a sharp-looking precisor steed, perhaps Dale’s very own, and surrounded by the Hightower Musicalacadabra Association Band. Oh, never mind that last bit; the MAB were absolutely atrocious. He thought of crowds of grateful gnomes pressing in against the guard, anxious to get a look at their hero, shouting their devotion at the top of their lungs, thanking him for ridding them of that conceited swine’s ass of a First Wizard. Later, he’d be seated at Bombrick’s with a barmaid on each knee, mechanical arms swinging down from the ceiling with goblets of sweet wine. In between, his barmaids would liberally mix the ingredients of a
burning naysayer
into his wide open mouth. Any spillage—be it on bodice or breast—he’d summarily lick off…

Nikselpik sighed wistfully, thinking of firm gnomestress bottoms, lips, and dimples just as Lili entered the room. “Did you say something, Nik?” she asked.

“Oh, I was just thinking how grateful I am to have you around. I just…” he sighed again for affect “… I could never have gotten through all this without you, my dear, my faithful lady, always by my bedside, offering sweet succor throughout my fitful resistance, adjusting my bedpan beneath me as I writhed in an addict’s rage and loosed my bowels.”

“You had to go there, did you?”

“On the other hand, I have a talented cleric, fully realized in her faith. She sees Evana’s course better than any of her peers, I’d warrant. In her own way, she is as keen to do what’s
really
right as I am, I think.”

Fara entered with a dust pan of crumbs and emptied it into a bin. “Did I hear you speak the name of Evana?”

“Me?”

“Yes,” Lili interrupted, her small hand on her hips. “Nik was just saying Evana must be so proud to have an acolyte as complete as you.”

“Really?” Fara raised her pretty brows at Nikselpik, a caustic expression on her face.

Lili swept a feather duster over the books. “That last part was a bit overdone, Nik, but I can recommend you add cooking us dinner or taking us to Hightower Theater amidst all that venting of hot air. Might get you a lot farther.”

Nikselpik gasped and clutched his chest. “You’ve
stricken
me. Two against one. That’s rather unfair. I suppose the only thing left for me is to return home where I can recover in the peace and quiet of my own space. I will need a guard at my door to keep all my admirers at bay, but I imagine Jancy will do the job, since she’s my
truest
friend.”

Both of them stopped and looked at him.

Nikselpik chuckled, but to no effect. If anything, the gnomestresses looked even sterner. “It’s getting cold in her. Can we turn up the heat a bit?”

Lili held out the trash bin while Fara dumped more crumbs and swept-up dirt inside. “No need for that,” Lili said.

“Besides, we’re leaving soon,” Fara added.

“You said that this morning. It is now late afternoon. Are you on orc time?”

“If we had a little
help
, you’d already be home.”

“That’s why Jowell has a staff, dears,” he sighed, trying not to sound too impatient. “To clean up after derelicts like us.”

Lili set her cold eyes on him. “There’s only one derelict here.” She pointed at him, her finger stout enough to poke him in the eye if need be.

Nikselpik swallowed.

Fara giggled.

“Derelict or not,” he said, “it’s beyond me why you’re cleaning up and doing the staff’s job for them, unless this is part of our remuneration. In that case, carry on. I’ll just read until you’re done.”

The cleric moved to a small table where she might capture more of the offensive dirt. She glanced back at him, her red curls snapping, dancing like copper-red springs. “We’re not doing this to pay for the rooms. Good Termund and his fellows will be back one day, and we don’t want Jowell complaining to them about the room being left such a mess. That would be disrespectful. We were here nearly a month!” Fara corralled a fine pile of cork pieces, candy wrappers, and tumbling webs of dust. “Evana says that a tidy home is a tidy mind, and we should always leave a place as we found it.”

Nikselpik scowled. They were too much alike, these two: alike in that they seemed to get immense pleasure out of grinding his gears. Fara was the softer one but not by much, pummeling him with her pretty godliness from one side while Lili tore at him with practical stubbornness on the other. And
that
was something he’d not seen in Lili before. They’d spent most of the past year carousing around, consumed with wine and fun and friends, never worried about what tomorrow may bring. It wasn’t that he disliked this new Lili, she was just… different. “Still, a light cleaning should be more than sufficient. We’ve all got things to do.”

Lili turned on him. “If you aren’t going to help, at least shut up.”

Nikselpik rose for a return volley but saw both their expressions and fastened his lips. The bustling and straightening continued a few more minutes until, at last, Lili held up his bedpan. “You want me to bring this? Didn’t you give it a name? Lord Pissingpot or something?”

“Har har. No, if I need to go from now on, I’m just going to do it right where I stand, especially if either of you two are nearby.”

The doorknob turned with a click, and the door pushed slowly inward to reveal his sister. Niksabella wore a sad smile. “May I have a word with my brother? I’ll be leaving soon, and I…” When she couldn’t find the words, Lili and Fara both nodded and made directly for the door.

“Of course, dear,” Fara said, giving Niksabella a brief hug as she passed.

Lili did the same, saying, “We’re going to miss you, Nika. Please be safe.”

“Thank you. I will.”

For the first time in the light of his new sobriety Nikselpik was alone with his sister. It was only slightly uncomfortable, primarily because it was clear she had changed so much since the last time they’d been together. A stolid assuredness had replaced her normal wariness although she didn’t seem to have gone emotionally hard. In fact, she wore her feelings quite openly: at the moment, calm. That was probably a good thing.

“Hello, brother.”

“Hello, sister.”

“I thought we should talk. Before I go away. It’s been…”

“Of course. Please sit.”

Niksabella sat on the other side of his rucksack, taking his hand where it was slung over his belongings.

“We need to clear some things up, Nik.”

“Yes, agreed. Let’s get to clearing.”