Tinker's Justice Page 3

  “Greetings,” Lunjak said as the group drew close enough for introductions. “I am Lunjak, successor of King Dekulon of—”

  The slim human in black waved him off, cutting the successor short. Taking a slate board in hand, the human jabbed at it with a stick of chalk, squeaking and tapping until he held up the finished work for their inspection. Written in daruu runes were the words: CANNOT UNDERSTAND. MUST WRITE. COME WITH ME.

  Lunjak nodded, gesturing to himself. “Lunjak.”

  The slim human hooked a thumb at his chest. “Axterion Solaran.” Then he muttered something in his own tongue to the giant. With a snap of the giant’s fingers, the human soldiers fell into formation around Kezudkan and his fellows.

  “Hope it’s not far,” Kezudkan muttered to Lunjak as they started the trek into the city.

  The conversation had moved at a glacial pace. Kezudkan, Lunjak, and the human sorcerer Axterion had passed around a slate board, scuffing out and rewriting messages to one another throughout the afternoon. The Kadrins had scant information about the destruction of their outlying city, and even the little that Kezudkan and Lunjak knew was treated as military intelligence. Perhaps five minutes of proper conversation on the subject was stretched into hours by the tedious chalk scribbling and undertone translations to the rest of the two contingents.

  Axterion’s people crowded his side of the long table and arrayed themselves along the wall. Several were clearly soldiers, but most dressed similarly to the sorcerer and presumably shared his occupation. Rune throwing—and the concept that aether could be unbound from objects—was an idea that the Kadrins seemed comfortable with. When they all gathered together around him, Kezudkan wondered just how easily he could be torn to tiny shreds by the first of them to get offended by something one of the daruu wrote. Kezudkan had always possessed a strong feel for the life within stone, but had never felt the sensation in the presence of people before. To feel that sort of life among humans … it made him question Korr’s vibrancy. The thought nagged at him as Lunjak eased the conversation into talk of alliance.

  Kezudkan grabbed the track switch lever and heaved, hoping the thunderail stayed on the tracks. “Do you know what a kuduk is?” he wrote.

  Axterion read the slate and looked up, a puzzled look on his face. He muttered over his shoulder to his compatriots, and clearly made out the word “kuduk” amid the blabbering. So they can speak the words. It was a simple failing of conversational understanding at work. Kezudkan was not about to let the observation pass without comment. He took the slate back. “You can sound out these words?” he wrote.

  Axterion glanced at the slate and shrugged, nodding. Kezudkan reached across the table and tapped the slate with one thick finger, then pointed to Axterion. The human sorcerer narrowed his gaze and looked sidelong at Kezudkan, but sounded the words out like a schoolboy with his first-year primer.

  “How did you know those sounds?” Kezudkan wrote.

  Axterion took the slate. “They are the same runes that our sorcerers use,” he wrote in reply.

  “Lunjak,” Kezudkan said aloud, “What if we brought the Pillar of Runes? Think that he could talk their rune language.”

  “I don’t know,” the successor replied. “But I don’t see how that helps us right now.”

  “Look around the table,” Kezudkan continued in an undertone. “The humans are wearing down; I know the look. They’ll call an end to the talks soon enough, and tomorrow we’ll see if we can’t find ourselves a proper translator.”

  The talks carried on for another hour, but Kezudkan had been right about the growing fatigue among the human contingent. The final few minutes of passing the slate board back and forth revolved around accommodations for the night. Lunjak accepted an offer of rooms for each of them, and human servants escorted them through the halls of the palace.

  Kezudkan had been preoccupied on the way in, paying more attention to the people than the stonework. He had taken his initial impression of the Veydran humans at the city gates, and had not bothered to revise it as he was presented with new information. The imperial palace was, to say the least, impressive work for humans. It was black marble, shot through with thin veins of copper that had oxidized to form a green patina. Unlike every other human structure Kezudkan had seen, there was no trace of mortar—“fools’ glue,” his people called it. Nor was there any sign of seams between stone blocks. It was as if the palace had been carved from a single monolithic block of stone. To a daruu eye, however, there were hints of the true process of creation. Misaligned grains in the rock and odd veining at corners and around arches hinted that the stone had flowed from its original shape. The palace was still rough in form, lacking the fluid beauty that the daruu city had displayed, but the craftsmanship was better than kuduks could manage.

  These … these are humans I might work with.

  The room Kezudkan was provided had everything a human might need, and it was passable for a daruu. The bed was plenty large and sturdy enough, but too soft for his old joints. The stone floor was obscured by thick carpets, which Kezudkan was not rude enough to pile in a corner for the duration of his stay. A pair of floor-to-ceiling windows dominated one wall, incessantly reminding him that he was not only above ground, but well above ground level. No amount of drapery was going to fool him into thinking otherwise. Of most immediate use was a writing desk, complete with a small provisional stash of paper and ink. In quaint fashion, the ink was the dipping sort, and an assortment of bird feathers was provided in place of pens.

  Kezudkan seated himself and took up one of the quills. It felt like nothing in his hand; his fingers pinched together with only a thread of resistance between them. Squinting in concentration, the old daruu dunked the tip in the inkwell and began scribbling a note. By the time he finished, there were droplets of ink across half the page, and his fingers were stained a deep violet color. He held up the note, holding it nice and still so that Gederon and whoever else might have been watching could read it through the viewframe:

  Have the Pillar of Runes outside the city in the morning (local time), same place you delivered us. We may have need of his services. All well.

  Best wishes,

  -K

  The following morning, after a sampling of bland local delicacies, the negotiations reconvened. All the principals from the previous day’s session had returned—Kezudkan recognized faces, even if he could not recall their names—and a number of newcomers crowded in as well. Sitting between the monstrous human general and the sorcerer Axterion was a human woman of child-bearing years. It felt demeaning to think of these humans in the terms by which he judged his human slaves, especially once Axterion introduced her, passing the slate across the table with the note: “Allow me to present Empress Celia, ruler of the Kadrin Empire.”

  Kezudkan had gathered that Axterion was someone highly placed in the empire, not merely the first scholar they could find with a working knowledge of daruu text. But there was no doubt now that they had the attention of the highest levels of the Kadrin government.

  As Lunjak inclined his head in acknowledgement and tapped out a formal reply on the slate board, Kezudkan’s mind wandered. We’ve got their ruler right here. Who are we to bargain with her? Kezudkan had stood before committees and councilors, negotiated with industrialists and entrepreneurs, employed scientists and thugs. None of that had prepared him to interact with royalty. There was a whole protocol around King Dekulon that went amiss in Kezudkan’s presence, and he knew deep down that only the king’s curiosity and good nature kept it from being an issue. The young woman who Axterion claimed as his liege sat still as a sculpture, but had rifle barrels for eyes. She could pull the trigger with a single uttered word to her sorcerers, he did not doubt.

  Kezudkan leaned subtly to Lunjak and spoke from the side of his mouth. “Perhaps we need to call in reinforcements.”

  “Not to worry,” Lunjak replied beneath his breath. “Zepdaan will be discovered at their gates any moment. I was about to m
ention his arrival.”

  Not the Pillar of Runes, you fool! Kezudkan wanted to shout. It’s time for King Dekulon to meet his counterpart. But curious eyes from across the table made him think better of getting into an argument right then, even if he could manage a civil tone as Lunjak’s unrelenting politeness plowed along into the day’s talks. He kept his tongue still and listened with his eyes, reading exchanges chalked on the slate board like they were a transcription rather than the communication itself. The morning passed like mud drying as Lunjak and Axterion went over plans to repatriate the refugees from the goblin slaughter.

  Things perked up once the Pillar of Runes was escorted into the conference. After a brief verbal tussle, which Zepdaan won, the Pillar of Runes took over at the center of the daruu contingent. The slate board was pushed aside, and Zepdaan acted as translator, familiar with the variant rune language that was apparently common to both human and daruu rune-throwers. After revisiting the introductory pleasantries with the new arrival, they skimmed the dross from the pot and delved into more pressing matters.

  “So,” Axterion asked through the translator, “how is it that you arrived here? You brought no animals, and your kind aren’t known for fleetness.”

  “That was a matter of secondary importance to the fate of your survivors,” Lunjak replied in kind. “We have a great deal to discuss on the topic, but let me first dig a side tunnel into a most peculiar discovery that we made, not long ago.”

  Here it comes. Kezudkan watched the reactions of the Kadrin humans. He noticed as soon as Zepdaan began translating that Axterion was far from the only one in the room who understood the alternate rune language. All the dark-clad officials in the room, as well as the empress, seemed to follow the pillar’s words without waiting for translation. In fact, Kezudkan guessed that it was only the general and his soldiers around the periphery of the room who warranted Axterion’s trouble in repeating the words in the human language.

  “You see, our friend here, Citizen Graniteson, is not from this world,” said Lunjak. Several whispered conversations broke out around the periphery of the world, and Axterion hesitated before translating for the rest of the Kadrins.

  “So … where precisely is he from?” asked Axterion. Despite having to wait a moment for the words to be translated, Kezudkan could tell by the smirk on the sorcerer’s face that he knew. The muddy bastard. This one knows about the other worlds.

  “A world called Korr,” said Lunjak, who waited just long enough for the words to be translated before chugging onward, full coal to the furnace. “Now before you decide that I have taken leave of my senses, please allow me to assure you that we took convincing as well. The very notion that our world is not the only one in existence was, to say the least, implausible. However, Citizen Graniteson was able to make a compelling case, which—” Lunjak stopped, glaring at Zepdaan, who had stopped his translation midway through the rant.

  “Let’s just show them the muddy thing,” said Zepdaan, turning up his palms. “That’s what you’re leading up to anyway. Quit angling your chisel and hit it.”

  Lunjak offered a forced smile to their hosts. “My colleague was just suggesting that I skip ahead and show you our proof. Please do not be alarmed by what you are about to see; it is completely harmless.”

  You obviously haven’t given that much thought to it yet. “Harmless” is one of the last descriptions I would offer for a world-ripper.

  “Kezudkan, if you would please give the signal,” said Lunjak. To Kezudkan’s mild surprise, the Pillar of Runes translated the request. There was an uneasy shifting in the seats of the humans across the table, and a few of the guards gripped their weapons tighter. Gravel-headed old dimwit. Make them edgy right before we surprise them, why don’t you?

  Kezudkan hoisted himself from his chair with nods to the empress and Axterion. The empress gave a nod in reply, which was a welcome reassurance before the shock he was about to give them. Hefting his cane, Kezudkan gripped it halfway up and held it aloft. Within seconds, a world-hole opened behind the daruu contingent. The Kadrins gasped, gaped, and wondered aloud at the sight. All but Axterion.

  The old sorcerer cackled. He threw his head back and laughed like he was at a comedic play of the finest caliber. Even his own attendants and his empress looked at him with questioning eyes, diverting them from their wonderment and hushed debates.

  “Something amuses you?” Lunjak asked.

  Axterion wiped tears from his eyes. “I’ve had the most miserable season I can remember. I’m beset with foes who are more prepared for a war than we are, and a grandson who’s mad as a pig in a blindfold. And here you come, dropping one of those machines right in front of me. Gut me, but the gods must be returning, and they’ve got a sense of humor.”

  Axterion straightened himself in his chair, took a deep breath to compose himself. “Gentlemen, let’s work out an arrangement.”

  Chapter 3

  “Overcoming the fear of the skies proves that we are capable of overcoming our natural inclinations.” –Wendrus Olkant, kuduk philosopher

  The Jennai was a rune-lift airship, the only one of its kind in Korr. Its hull was cobbled together from the wrecks of four vacu-dirge airships with the enormous vacuum tanks repurposed as crew quarters. The central space between the gondolas that hung beneath the vacuum tanks had been turned into an aerodrome with a runway of steel plating the full length of the ship. Each of the four quadrants of the Jennai housed a world-ripper for resupplying and for conducting raiding and recruitment actions.

  It felt cramped.

  With a standing crew numbering close to two thousand and featuring all the amenities of a small city, Rynn still felt trapped aboard the Jennai. It was Madlin’s fault; she knew in her head. But every morning Rynn woke with a fresh memory of a collar around her neck and two goblins chained to her. The airship wasn’t swift enough, large enough, or open enough to get rid of that feeling before she was plagued with memories of her time in Deliah’s custody.

  She had tried spending more time in the workshops to give her mind a respite both from Madlin’s dilemma and from the rebellion’s demands in general. Davlin had been a boon in helping with the organization of the military side of the rebellion, and Vaulk, Rascal, and Hayfield had taken up management of the civilian aspects of life aboard the ship. Rynn had squirmed her way into an oversight and figurehead role. What I really want is Kupe’s job, she chided herself. Show up, blow glory smoke in everyone’s faces, and get them to join up with us. Even in the privacy of her thoughts, she couldn’t convince anyone of that lie. She hated recruiting.

  Humans were stubborn beasts, more worried about the unknown future than their deplorable present. Every visit was a variation on a theme. “We just want a bit more meat is all,” “Just a few hours with my little ones all I’m after,” “They oughtta quit beatin’ us when’s all’s we’re doin’s what we’re told.” They lacked ambition, vision, hope. It was strange how the right infusion of the three could turn bedraggled workers into killers. But humans were greedy creatures as well, and once you convinced them—deep down, and not just the reluctant acceptance that slaves gave so easily—that they could have more, they wanted more. Kupe had a gift for that sort of convincing. Rynn could manage it, but it wore her out each time in a way that never seemed to weigh on Kupe. It was as if he had reserves of personality that weren’t depleted by giving alehouse speeches and holding mine-shaft rallies.

  No, Rynn didn’t really want to be Kupe, though she occasionally envied how little real responsibility he had. She would deny it to anyone, even Sosha and Jamile, and especially to her father, but she wanted to be Dan. Dan hadn’t ducked behind building corners during the fight for Tinker’s Island. He wouldn’t have run from the knockers if he had been in Rynn’s place for the heist that got No-Boots killed. He stood and fought, unafraid of any foe. Admittedly he took that bravado off a cliff with him, but it was the ability Rynn envied, not the mad bloodlust.

  Looking down at her lat
est personal project, Rynn saw a step in that direction. It looked like something out of Anzik’s world, a suit of plate armor that only went from arm to arm across the collar. Of course, the insides looked more like the right half of her tinker’s leg, with its spring reinforced joints and hinged articulation. It was time to test it out and see what it could do.

  Rynn slid the contraption over her head like a pullover shirt, with padding around the opening settling on her collarbone. Though the device weighed half as much as Rynn did, judicious use of levitation runes rendered it feather-light. It still swung around like she was pushing it through water due to its mass, but there was no discomfort in wearing it. Left-handed, she began buckling the straps for the right arm and securing the device in place. Unlike her tinker’s legs, she had designed the arms to fit over her clothing, not against bare skin, and the outer coverings hinged into place without having to be fitted as separate pieces.

  With the right arm encased to the wrist, she checked the articulation, pleased to find that she had nearly her full range of motion. She proceeded to strap into the left arm, which included a fingerless glove with a plate assembly fixed to the back. That plate assembly was the real trick of the device.