Tinkermage (Book 2) (7 page)

Chapter Eight

Stena Wavebreaker came from a long line of strong-backed sailors, all who’d mysteriously taken up the seafaring trade some two-hundred years ago. Their original family surname had been purposefully forgotten and the Wavebreaker Shipping Company established. A passion for the sea drove them to dangerous waters, bravely delivering cargo where no others would dare, taking on pirate ships with gleeful hostility. Reckless, no. Tough as twice-hardened gnomish steel, yes.

Stena had been a fixture on gnomish vessels for almost forty years, known by everyone for her less than gentle ways yet still loved by her crews. If you wanted cargo delivered to the Drake Islands or around the coast to the dwarvish stronghold of Olrad, you hired Stena Wavebreaker.

But an airship captain?

The clouds kissed her face with cold mist as she stood on the forward navigation deck of her most recent commission, a nameless vessel pieced together and re-thaumaturged into something that might (or might
not
) stay in the sky. Granted, she fought hard to stay airborne. The port and starboard fans, mounted on swivels four to a side, were locked vertically to support the main aft propeller, driving the airship forward as fast as they dared, although Stena could tell by the low whine of the engine they could do better yet. Rune-etched wood made up the ship’s hull and deck frames. Tethered above was the large, bulging air bladder comprised of several smaller air sacs, all of which fit into a skin framed by metal and wood. They swung beneath it like some maniacal pendulum.

Stena put her boot into one of the many rope anchors in place across the deck as the vessel heaved up against a wall of wind, tilted at a precarious angle, threatening to roll her down the deck. She’d been trying to read a map and resisted the urge to toss it aside and clutch an anchor rope.

No. She must exude utter confidence, unwavering fortitude, and insurmountable strength. She couldn’t show one sign of
ground-kisser’s
weakness. Her foot tightened beneath the ankle rope, muscles straining taut up through her leg. Her eyes fixed on the flag of Hightower fluttering from a pole near the prow. A white cog on a field of blue. Her heart swelled with pride at the sight of it even as she gritted her teeth from the ship’s billowing.

Just like the surge of waves below your feet, Stena!

The crew of four followed her lead, anchoring themselves while continuing to go about their business with cool efficiency. Levers flipped, shouts rang out, and water surged through pressure lines. The engines whined with increasing effort as the gnomish crew steered the vessel up the wave of wind.

She called out with a boom, “Hang tight and steer her right, good gnomes!”

The wind ate her words, and she repeated herself loud enough to be heard, squinted against a fierce pelt of rain, and willed her crew onward. The only one among them not part of her crew was the linguist, Bertrand, who Dale had assigned at the last minute to help communicate with the swamp elves when the time came. Yes, the swamp elves. Who knew if they still existed? Stena and her crew were to find out, and they would depend on the linguist to keep them alive. Right now, Bert was below with the cargo, undoubtedly hanging on for dear life with a bucket on hand in the event his dinner came up.

At the crest, the ship hitched and evened out. Stena relaxed. She knew it wouldn’t last though. Soon, there’d be another brutal wave of wind to batter them in some unexpected direction. Being on a stormy sea was smooth as a baby’s bottom compared to this. Her crew was just too new, too
green
.

“Maintain altitude,” Stena shouted. “The first of you who figures out how to keep this bucket of slop from rolling on its head gets an extra fill from the cask.”

Stena secured the map to the controller’s table with corner clasps. She pushed a shock of blondish-gray hair back into her fur-lined hood and studied the markings and intersecting lines of their course, looking for any piece of land they might have missed.

As directed by Precisor General Dale Dillwind some days ago, they’d flown back and forth across the lands south of Hightower, through clouds and gray skies, gazing down like gods upon the hills, forests, and streams. West across the Southland Farms where barns and homesteads looked like tiny, rust-colored boxes all the way to the Western Pass, then back east again over Swicki Forest and what had once been Dowelville. Stena had directed them to fly low over the newly charred Harwood Lake, marveling at the massive carcass of the mother amorph being hacked to pieces for disposal by gnomish workers. Stena had attached a note with their current report to a ship weight and dropped it down to the officers directing the cleanup crew. One officer had gone to it and waved up at them.

It was then that Stena realized the importance of their mission and Dale’s genius in sending the airships to the sky in the first place. Hightower hadn’t been threatened by outsiders in almost two hundred years, yet the precisor general had taken it upon himself to shake this sleepy town awake. He’d launched a half dozen ships to the far corners of Sullenor to seek help from races they’d not had contact with for decades, centuries even. Stena’s mission was the hardest, by far, and she would do everything she could to be his eyes and ears in the sky. While she was confident in their mission, she was also one hundred percent positive it was a fruitless task. Unlike most Hightower gnomes, she had great experience with the outside world, and that world had very little time for her folk and their problems.

Which only made Stena want to succeed even more.

“Lins! What’s wrong with the prow? It’s bending to this wind like a beat dog. Is it sad? Is this damnable boat
sad
? If I find myself staring at the ground one more time, I’m throwing you off this deck. Now, right the ship!”

“Aye, Captain!” came Linsey’s reply. As if to prove her competence, the port and starboard blades shifted, engine noise rising, and the prow nosed up at the moon.

Yes, they’d stay afloat if it damn well killed her.

So onward to the Southern Reaches they flew, far enough west to touch the foothills of the western curve of the Utenes, nervously looking down upon the Orcspoon River and gazing with wonder at orc fires wafting up from Rot Tooth Pass. A quick turnabout where they fought more crosswinds heading east again in a zigzag path all the way to the coast, where Stena plotted anew.

A name for her ship suddenly occurred to her. It was a small thing, really, but something she’d never have thought of without having spent so much gut-wrenching time in the air, tilting and dipping and whirling through the clouds. “
Swinger
,” she said, a wry smile creeping across her lips. “I think I’ll call you
Swinger
.”

“What’s that, Captain?” Her first mate, Linsey, landed on the deck and knocked against her. Linsey was gangly for a gnomestress, young and tough, wiry-framed, but with a sweet smile and a pleasant disposition. She’d forgone the fur hood, keeping it pushed back around her shoulders, complaining that it was too obstructive.
Young but smart
, Stena thought.

They crew had all just come off ships, hand-selected by Dale and Stena as long-ranging seafarers capable of working on constantly wavering vessels without falling into the briny sea: the quiet and professional Mechanic Crick, the loud and boisterous Mechanic Gowey, and the perpetually, and ironically, surly Boatswain Rose along with First Mates Linsey and Bertrand. But nothing could have prepared them for these mind-numbing heights. There was no room for error, untethered as they were. No second chances up here. Sometimes not even half a first chance.

“I’ve just named the ship, Lins. Gonna call her
Swinger
.”

“That’s a good name, ma’am. I’ll tell the crew.” The first mate turned to the massive engine assembly nestled just behind them and slapped a lever into the down position on a control panel, which fed more heat to the hungry bladder, thus strengthening their position. She turned back to her captain and brushed her gloved hands together. “We’re operating at full capacity Captain, easy as we please. Rose has the wheel. Where to now?”

Stena traced her finger across the map, back to the southwest. “Here’s our course. I’m tired of this weaving back and forth. Haven’t spotted anything strange…”
And you’re putting off the swamp elves, aren’t you?
“Can’t help but think we’ll do one pass near Goad’s Pocket and then advance to our target.”

“Very good, Captain.” Linsey’s long face and big, brown eyes expressed calm.

“I appreciate your support, Lins, and I’d also appreciate a steadier course. Seems like you’re guessing and then overcompensating in your adjustments. I know you’re nervous—Tock knows we all are in this wretched sky—but I need you to get a solid feel for these waves, these
air
waves. Do better, Lins, or we’re all going to die of starvation up here puking up our guts over the gunwales.”

The first mate didn’t flinch. “Aye, Captain.”

“Pass along the new course, please. And grab me covercup of snolt if you would.”

“Aye, Captain, on both counts.”

Linsey went about re-directing the craft, leaving Stena with her thoughts and a scalding cup of snolt. On a whim, Stena sealed and fixed the covercup to her belt, turned, and climbed the rope ladder between the two engine control panels, scaling it with natural, one-handed grace. At the top, she stood on a narrow, railed observation platform high above deck. Up here, removed from the stench of oily steam, the wind was fresh and sharp, eye opening, and without the saltiness of the sea. It was the highest point on the ship with a frightening view of everything below: the Southern Reaches to the starboard side, the Sea of Wailing aft, and
Swinger
turning inland away from the ocean with a clank of engines, a hiss of steam, and a general heave ho. Above her, the ship’s air bladder squeaked in its frame.

They eased into a low-density pocket where the wind calmed, and
Swinger
dropped below a bank of dappled clouds. The Utenes loomed ahead, an ominous wall of gray teeth—sharp, white peaks covered with snow, brutal and uncompromising—and while she’d navigated the hazards of a dozen harbors and ports, turbid ocean storms and dangerous reefs, she knew very little of air streams over land except from what she’d been able to study from maps over the past three days. She figured Goad’s Pocket was bound to have its share of aeronautical hazards, and she wondered if she should send Dale a message
now
in the event they ran themselves into trouble.

Two pigeons had been released thus far, marking their progress, and letting Dale know they hadn’t yet plummeted from the sky (because at first, that’s exactly what she’d thought would happen). As time went on, and with Linsey’s growing skills, Stena had found the airship design wondrous and quite stable, able to plow through the rough, coastal winds with hardly a hitch if driven correctly. The engines were of solid gnomish design, able to operate in the cold with minimal maintenance. There had only been a couple of close calls where the port side propeller had nearly seized up, but her mechanics quickly learned which cogs needed extra greasing—reedy little bastards, Gowey called them—and which could function relatively untouched.

She glanced back at Linsey, who worked the ship’s wheel with hard-nosed determination, and smiled at the young gnomestress’ moxie. Stena knew better than to let that confidence mislead her into making a bad decision, though, and with only four pigeons left, they needed to take a conservative approach. Stena would wait until they’d fully scouted Goad’s Pocket before sending another bird.

She took a long draw of steaming snolt, allowing the heat to singe her lips, roughly discarding the relentless sense of smug wellbeing at their good fortunes. The only negative to this trip was that she’d been up over twenty-four hours, full of anxious worry and anticipation over the mission. She needed
rest
!

Don’t be so damn stubborn you do something stupid out of sheer exhaustion.

To prove it, Stena shut her eyes and found herself suddenly wavering on the tiny platform. She briefly pictured being thrown clear of the ship in a sudden surge of wind, plummeting down, down, down as the ground rushed up to greet her.

Stena’s stomach lurched, and her brain spun. Her eyes snapped open. Yes, soon she’d attack one of the twin hammocks in the crew’s cabin; until then, the motion of the ship would have to do, the swaying becoming more familiar by the minute and her legs growing more accustomed to the ship’s grumbles and shakes.

Stena began to bond with
Swinger
as if it were her first ship. She pushed her anxiety aside, for she was learning
Swinger’s
habits and just how to guide her along.

Chapter Nine

Niksabella sat in the corner, near the window, and away from everyone else. She felt edgy, uncomfortable. Hot. She didn’t like the growing crowd. Their murmuring. Their looks. The unmistakable smell of oiled steel and boiled armor. What was the meaning of all this? What if she wanted to leave the room? Would the precisors guarding the door let her? Were they under some sort of arrest?

The relatively large suite—large for four or five gnomes, that is—had grown quite stuffy and full (and
fuller
as more entered). Aside from the guards at the door, there was Precisor General Dillwind and his first officer, a sourpuss called Roweiga. It was Niksabella’s opinion that Dillwind had dressed the first officer down outside after she’d been disarmed by Jancy. Roweiga was standing near the guards, a perpetual frown on her face.

Niksabella pressed her hand against her forehead, swiping the sheen of sweat with her palm while her eyes drifted to her brother. Lili was on one side, watching the soldiers, while Nikselpik argued with Fara over a glob of pea-colored ointment the cleric was attempting to rub on his face. “Get it away from me,” he groused at her. “Damn stuff stinks of ass and turns my forehead green, for Tock’s sake.”

The cleric remained persistent, feigning jabs with her glob-covered thumb even as he swatted at her hand. “I know you’re feeling better, but the fever will return if we don’t continue treatments.”

Nik finally crossed his arms and relented, allowing Fara to smear the poultice all over his forehead and the scar across his pate. Niksabella smiled. Her brother was getting his old self back, it seemed.

Flay, Terrence, and Uncle Brit—referred to as the Thrasperville gnomes—suddenly bolted in. “What’s the meaning of this, Dale?” Uncle Brit huffed, dressed in his bed robe and slippers. “I was just rousing from a dream about magnificent dragons. I had just tamed a massive golden-green beauty! You know how ruinous it is to one’s dreams when they’re spoiled by a gods-be-damned ballyhoo?”

“Just a meeting of the minds, Brit.” Dale put his hands up to placate the elder gnome. “Sorry to have woken you, but now that you’re here why not make yourself comfortable? Snolts and cakes in exchange for your wisdom. I need your help, good friend. Please.”

Where was Termund? Wouldn’t the others have woken him?

A table in the center of the room was heaped with dishes with pastries on top, four large decanters too, all hot to the touch. Several chairs were placed all around, and the Thrasperville fellows joined them, but not without some reservations. Flay was practically bouncing in his chair, eyes darting around like some trapped animal, hand never straying far from the hilt of his dagger. Even soft-faced Terrence seemed to have some misgivings, although he wasn’t as obvious about his discomfort as Flay. When Nika caught his eye though, a smile lit his face. Uncle Brit sat down opposite Flay and Terrence and dove directly into the pastries like a starving bear.

To Niksabella’s surprise, her brother climbed out of bed. He was thin and frail, bedclothes stained with tea and poultice, among other things, but it was much better than seeing him pasty and looking like death beneath his sheets. Lili wrapped him in a robe, and Fara and Lili each took an arm and helped him to the table, where he plopped down in between Brit and one of Dale’s precisors, a wiry fellow named Justin Lake.

“Hope you don’t mind if I fart now and then,” Nikselpik said to everyone at the table. “Me being so weak and all.”

“Oh, being weak has nothing to do with your gas,” Fara said with a tsk. “Everyone knows your favorite way to clear a room.”

Lili laughed. “Nik can clear out a fortress if need be. No need for all these blades and fancy armor.”

Uncle Brit waved in the opposite direction, toward Justin. “Aim that way,” he said, before going back to smearing honey on top of his crusted kanoodle.

Justin leaned over, gave her brother a pat on the arm, and said, “Fart anywhere you like, far as I’m concerned. Just give me a toot of warning first.”

Nik smiled at him and nodded as he reached for a muffin.

The door flew open, causing Dale’s guards to clutch at their hilts, relaxing when they saw it was Etty Vinkerwinkle, their cleric. Niksabella didn’t need an introduction to know who he was. His gray robes with the upward facing palm on the front gave him away. That, and his demeanor. The cleric strode briskly into the room, gave Fara a prolonged look, and sat down across from Nikselpik. He took a cup, slammed it down, and poured it to the brim with snolt.

This is Fara’s mentor and the head of her order. This is the one my brother hates so much.

Nikselpik put his hand to his mouth to block Etty from hearing—or
not
, judging from his loud tone—and leaned closer to Uncle Brit. “Well, if I do have to let loose a horrid wind, I know which direction I’m letting fly.”

Etty gave Nikselpik a heated glare, his spiked, blond hair and ever-flushed face adding to his severe countenance, but he didn’t rise to the wizard’s bait.

The tension was thick all around, and it didn’t help that the secret of Jontuk squirmed around in Niksabella’s head, known only to herself and Jancy and, more distantly, her brother. Speaking of Jancy, the waif of a girl sat next to Niksabella on the floor, between her seat and a large bookcase filled with books and other nautical knickknacks.

Even the decorations seemed stuffy.

Finally, she could take it no longer and went over to the window, throwing it open to let in some cold air. She took a huge breath and immediately felt invigorated.

“Thank, Evana,” Etty called.

“Hot, Etty?” Nikselpik again. “You always look so damn heated.”

“No. It’s the stink of this room. Repulsive. You’d think a pig died in here.”

These two will be impossible,
she knew. They’d be lucky if there wasn’t a brawl soon. Niksabella turned and nearly ran into the precisor general himself.

Dale took a step back and raised his hands. “Sorry, lass. Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Niksabella pursed her lips. “I don’t frighten. At least not easily.”

Dale laughed and gave a respectful nod. “Of course. You must be Niksabella. You know, I was tempted to throw that window open fifteen minutes ago. Hot enough for a bellows in here.”

She didn’t know what to make of the precisor general. Handsome but not rugged like Termund.

Not rugged but still durable, though.

Dale’s face was soft and just a bit round, scruffy with several days’ worth of beard. She imagined that wasn’t due to a lack of personal hygiene. No, this was a very busy gnome with an expanded sense of purpose, a
cause
. Perhaps forty-five or fifty years of age, compared to Niksabella’s sixty-two, married young and with children already from what she knew. Surprising since most gnomes didn’t fuss with marriage until their sixties. One of the youngest precisor generals, too.

Young and ambitious and now driven to do something… but what?

“It’s only going to get hotter.” He looked around the room, amused it seemed.

“I’ll agree with you on that count, General.”

“Oh, just call me Dale.”

“Okay, Dale. Why are we all together? Seems we’re a captive audience.”

“You’re nervous about my guards. Don’t worry. They’re my most loyal soldiers, as well as my first scout and first officer. Etty too. They all need to be here. They all need to know the plan. But mostly, I don’t like repeating myself. If they weren’t here, I’d have to call another meeting, perhaps another after that, and I
hate
meetings. I would have to explain everything over and over. Some things, they might not believe. So then I’d have to schedule yet
another
meeting, just like this one…”

“And you hate meetings.”

“Exactly.”

“So, we’re forming a plan?”

Dale put his palms on the sill and peered out into the cold, frost clinging to his breath. “We’re going to decide some things. Things that might mean life or death for our people.”

“Why am I here?”

Dale faced her, crossing his arms. “Why
are
you here? Protecting your brother? Some other, more clandestine reason?”

His eyes made her uneasy. He knew something. Maybe he knew a lot. Suddenly, Niksabella missed her old workshop, the simplicity of putting things together without fate and secrets and the gnomes who kept them. “To be honest, I’d rather be working, but I’m here for my brother until his health returns.”

“What will you do with your invention? Plan on taking it to Thrasperville?”

She tried to appear like that was a perfectly natural bit of information everyone besides she and Termund ought to know. “It’s a possibility. I haven’t decided yet.”

Dale’s smile still seemed comfortable, but his eyes narrowed just a teensy bit. “I read the account of your trial and even had a talk with that Zook fellow. He was quite happy to chat with us when Raulnock would not. Amazing device, your recursive mirror. At least if he can be believed.”

Niksabella was hit with a new wave of heat despite standing there at the edge of frigid cold. She felt Jancy shift beside her. Niksabella shrugged. “It’s not so amazing, really. Just a new design on an old idea.”

Dale’s eyes relaxed. He gazed back outside at nothing. “You know, I’d rather be somewhere else, too. My wife, Metina, and our three daughters. On an day like this, I’d just be finishing up a chat with my nosy next door neighbors, Lane Oseltick, or maybe picking up around the yard. Later, Metina and I would fire up the oven and get to baking. She mixes. I bake.” Dale laughed. “Well, mostly, I watch her do it all while keeping the gnomelings in line. Don’t give me that look. It’s a tough job!”

Niksabella imagined a home like that. Three young lasses, all giggling and playing while the scents of pies and breads wafted from the kitchen. She wondered where Dale lived. Was it one of those places she’d seen walking home from Bombrick’s? One of those places she’d
longed
for? Would she and Termund have that someday?
“I imagine they’re a handful.”

“Yes. They are.” He smiled at moment, then sobered and leaned in. “Well, whatever you decide, make it good.”

“I will,” she said, “I
promise
.” She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to promise anything. She supposed that’s why he was a leader of gnomes; he commanded respect.

“Ah, there they are.” Dale pushed away from the window to greet two new guests. One she knew all too well. A hawk-nosed fellow with his long, gray hair combed straight back and down past his shoulders. Beady, inquisitive eyes. A voice like an angry bird. Elwray Stormcranker, known for his ability to call up great storms and to set one’s ears to bending with his squawkish disposition.

But his acquaintance, this was a fellow she’d never seen before. A human. Tall and rail thin and seemingly weak as a wisp. He leaned on a cane for support, and when he pulled back his hood, the Thrasperville gnomes, along with Lili, Fara, and Niksabella, all gasped. His head and face was a mass of shiny scar tissue. Angry ridges marred his skin. As horrid as any monster from a nightmare.

Dale was not phased by the scarred human. “Hello, Elwray, Seether. Nice of you to join us. A shot of snolt to drive the cold from your bones?”

“No thank you,” the one called Seether said in a voice as thin as paper. Thin but polite. Gentle, even. “I prefer your gnomish tea above all else. Already arranged for some to be brought up. Very nice gnome, the innkeeper.”

“Jowell,” Uncle Brit cut in, the next to regain his manners. “A fine proprietor if ever there was one. Come, Mister… Seether, is it? Have a seat. Apparently we’re here to discuss
something
.
It’s all very mysterious.”

“Yes, yes.” Seether scuttled over to take a seat next to Uncle Brit, Elwray taking place at his right arm, the three filling up the side of the table nearest her brother’s bed. Nikselpik seemed to be enamored with Seether as well. He practically beamed at the strange human.

Niksabella winced inwardly at her initial horror. Seether had probably gotten reactions like hers his entire life.
Stupid and disrespectful.
The good news was that he didn’t seem to care.

“Good thing you have such wonderful tea,” he said. “I could never fully get used to this cold.”

“Come visit us under the mountain soon.” Uncle Brit slammed another mouthful of pastry home and talked while he chewed. “You’ll stay nice and crispy there.”

Everyone tried to let the comment go by, then Brit realized what he’d said. “Well, not crispy as in… well…”

Seether inclined his head. “I understand. Walking on eggshells is not necessary because of my condition. Please.” He gestured for Brit to continue eating and helped himself to a cup of snolt.

And so they all went back to stuffing their faces as Nikselpik, Uncle Brit, Seether, and Elwray carried on cross-corner conversations as if they’d been friends for decades, the rest of Dale’s soldiers keeping a surly vigil.

To Niksabella’s delight, the door opened yet again, and Termund popped into the room holding a simple, cobalt-colored tea set on a tray. He set it down in front of Seether. “Brought your tea.”