Language of the Land: A Steampunk Fantasy, page 1
Language of the Land:
A Steampunk Fantasy
Alma T. C. Boykin
© 2017 All Rights Reserved
Cover art: © Philcold | Dreamstime.com - Night Train Photo
© Philcold | Dreamstime.com - Night Train Photo
Table of Contents
One: The Problem
Two: Found on the Farm
Three: Down By the Riverside
Four: Feuds and Magic
Five: Out of the Cellar and into the Storm
Six: Returning to Normal
Seven: City Air
Eight: Urban Anxieties
Nine: In the Cold Depths
Ten: Truth and Wrath
Eleven: On the Run
Twelve: Feuds, Floods, and an Invasion?
Thirteen: Dairy Days
Fourteen: Under the Enemy’s Nose
Fifteen: Dayspring Mishandled
Sixteen: Trouble from the North
Seventeen: Fire in the Night
Eighteen: Hubris and Nemesis
Nineteen: Breaking Strains
Twenty: Storms Gather
Twenty-One: Earth, Water, Fire
Twenty-Two: Old Made New
Chapter One: The Problem
“I do not understand this,” Gjiela Omaku fumed, slapping the report down on the table. “This is the fourth report of rumors of strange animals from Karford in as many months. What are those people drinking?” She glared up at her assistant.
Anker Tomasi blinked over his half-glasses and handed her a small packet bearing the seal of the Royal Zoological Society. She pulled it out of his hand and skimmed the first page, stopped, read it carefully, and then studied the intricate drawing on the second page. “Ma’dame, I would venture to guess that they are drinking whatever the trapper drank before he shot that for the RZS,” Anker murmured.
Gjiela frowned down at the strange creature. It had strong forelimbs with thick claws, as if for digging or climbing, but it stood on its hind feet, with a humped back and a thick, flat tail, presumably for balance, and it measured four feet from snout to tail tip. The snout resembled a water bird’s flat beak, but with sharp teeth behind the small lips. Short brown striped fur covered the beast, with a longer fringe of white hair on the back of the fore limbs. To cap off the animal’s foolishness, the hind feet bore three hoofed toes instead of claws or something sensible. The combination reminded her of one of her nieces’ block games, where you stacked the blocks to make silly animals with a dog’s head, chatter bird’s body, hunting cat’s tail and chicken feet. Such things should not exist in the real world.
“What other foolishness do you have for me?” she grumbled.
“Only some more would-be trouble makers, Ma’dame.” The hard glint in his eyes reminded her that he’d once been a field Hunter, one of the better ones. “The nest should have been cleaned out.” He gave her the pages from the Hunters’ Bureau.
“Indeed.” She set the folder on the desk and leaned back, hands braced on the polished wooden surface, and stretched her shoulders. “Let me guess. More fools with delusions of ‘restoring the lost kingdom’ or some such nonsense.”
He didn’t smile or laugh. “Yes, Ma’dame, except these seem to have connections over the Grey Mountains, or so the reports suggest. The field Hunter did not recognize the code they used. I am inclined to believe it is a foreign language, not a code, but I am no scholar, Ma’dame,” he admitted, ducking his head and revealing the skullcap over his bald spot.
“Well, we’ll sort them out as we have all the others. Thank you and you are dismissed.”
“Very good, Ma’dame.” He bowed and glided across the carpet and out the half-open door. One of the best Hunters indeed, she recalled, impressed at his smooth, deadly movement even now. He’d been struck with near crippling arthritis and forced from the field three years ago. Gjiela assumed he carried weapons on his person and kept more in his desk, just as she did. Hunters never truly retired until they returned to the Bright Ones in the World Before. She twisted in her seat, opened the folder, and began reading, tapping her fingernails on the desk as she did.
As she’d suspected, the Hunters had found a batch of young idiots with delusions of romance and glory. Cog Nossti they called themselves, and according to the report had done nothing more than complain about Her Majesty’s government policies and the lack of freedom to indulge in heresy. Gjiela would have shrugged them off with a note to the Hunters to watch but not get involved, had it not been for the added page, the copy of an intercepted letter. She studied the patterns of repeating symbols. They certainly looked like a code or language, but she’d never seen anything quite like them. The shapes made her uneasy for some reason, as if she should recognize them. She shrugged the feeling away. Something for the archivists to look up. She turned her attention to other matters.
Outside the door, Anker Tomasi read over the annual report from the Department of Agriculture and frowned. The queendom had enjoyed harvest surpluses for as long as he could recall, but the amount of excess appeared to be declining for some reason. The summary report included no suggestions as to cause: no locust swarms, no storm fires, no grain diseases had struck this year. The root blight of twenty years ago remained a dreadful memory but nothing more. And yet crop yields, especially from the breadbasket of the Greene River Plains, looked as if they would be lower than the previous year. Anker rubbed the side of his nose and sniffed. Was it worth disturbing his boss? No, he decided, not until he had more information. One year did not a pattern make, and it could well be that a little too much rain here and a few too many dry days there had combined to lower the average. His brother had married into a farming family, and by now Anker knew the litany of farmers’ woes by heart. He made a note in his private pad to do a little research into the matter, then moved to his next task: how to arrange a meeting of the district Hunter leaders without causing a precedence fight.
Three hours later he heard the sound of switch-keys turning and gaslights clicking off. He rose to his feet as Ma’dame Gjiela Omaku swept out of her office, her brief case in hand. “I’m out of the rest of the day. I’ll be at the palace if anyone needs me.”
He and the two secretaries in the outer room bowed. “Yes, Ma’dame. The Bright Ones be with you.”
“And with thy going,” she replied absently, pulling on her coat as the office boy opened the outer door for her.
She managed to get the coat on without dropping the document case, grabbed her skirts with one hand, and trotted down the wooden steps. Hmm, some of these need to be replaced. They’re getting worn past the point of safety. Well, how many hundreds of feet climbed up to the tax court on the fourth level every day? Everyone and her sister fussed about their taxes, and more and more people seemed determined to challenge the city, district, and Crown auditors every year. Gjiela made a rude sound. The younger generation had no respect for the government and no understanding about what taxes were for. The trains and telegraphs didn’t run on air and wishes, and you couldn’t heat public buildings with dreams.
Here in Majescity Gjiela didn’t need a guard, and she enjoyed the freedom to go her own route and pace. That didn’t mean she wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings, however, or unarmed. It would look very bad for the head of Her Majesty’s Hunters to be run over by a tram, or mugged by a cut-purse, as had happened to her predecessor. Well, Gjiela thought as she waited for two carts and a tram to pass the intersection, Bonita Randel had been an oblivious fool in more ways than just that, and had deserved the short tenure she’d had as Chief Hunter. Someone should have started looking at her qualifications more closely after that comment about Lady Mihaly’s taste in men, even if it was true. The tram jingled through the intersection and Gjiela crossed the street, stepping around a small mound of dung left by the cart beasts. The overnight rain had washed the dust from the road, but not heavier trash.
She made good time between her offices and the palace, even in the normally crowded public park. The first strong cold storm of the fall had swept in overnight and she suspected many of the casual strollers had confined themselves to the covered markets or remained at home by their fires. She smelled more wood smoke in the air, another sign of fall’s arrival. As she strode through the nobles’ district closer to the palace, she caught glimpses of the tips of the trees within the palace’s walled gardens. A few looked redder than they had last week.
Gjiela ducked around the usual line of petitioners standing before the gilded wrought iron and steel main gate and presented her papers to the guard at the small, plain side gate. The man checked her against the list and allowed her to squeeze through the partly-open door. Gjiela reached the first courtyard, stopped, and dredged her memory for which way to go. Even after four years and scores of meetings, she still had trouble recalling the exact route that led her to the Chamberlain’s offices. The stag’s head, that’s it, she remembered. The second door to her left had the faint remains of a painting of a now extinct stag above it. She pulled the heavy door open and wiped her boots on the mat built into the floor, then took the second right turn, climbed one flight of stairs, passed two statues of remarkably well-built, half-naked men, then knocked on the inlaid whitewood door.
It opened on silent hinges. “Directress Omaku,” a papery voice whispered, and she entered, walked four paces forward and stopped. The door closed behind her and she bowed to the tall woman behind the desk. “Exactly on time. I appreciate promptness,” the voice continued as Gjiela straightened up. “Come. Have some tea.”
Gjiela handed her coat to the waiting footman and followed Chamberlain Floria Tarnaby into a second room where a grey-clad butler stood waiting. A small table all but groaned under the small cakes and savories, tea and milk pitchers, and polished silver and china. How Lady Tarnaby could eat as much as she did and yet remain slender always mystified Gjiela. She had to do extra exercises for a week to keep from losing her fighting trim after meeting with the Chamberlain. She waited until the older woman had settled herself with considerable grace into the high backed chair closest to the blue enameled heater before taking the other, lower, seat. The butler served Lady Tarnaby with tea and a plate of savories before offering Gjiela the pot. She poured for herself, then took a smaller plate.
“So,” Tarnaby sighed. “What news?” She looked out from half-closed eyes that always reminded Gjiela of the stories of the mountain cats that hunted in their sleep.
“My lady, reports of strange animals in the northeast, including specimens this time, and another group of young people with delusions of mischief.”
“Oh? What now, restoring the lost lands?” She sounded bored.
Gjiela swallowed her bite. “Not entirely, my lady. Tax protests, policy complaints, and the desire to indulge in heresy.”
“Heresy?” She sounded amused. “Which one?”
“My Hunters did not say, my lady, but I suspect it is another dirt worshipping group. That area seems to breed them.” Gjiela shook her head a little.
“Her Majesty’s Hunters did not say?”
Gjiela bowed at the correction. “No, my lady. This was a preliminary report. The group had not been fully infiltrated yet. The leader is a man, and for that reason, among others, the district director felt that haste was not necessary.” She made a shrugging gesture with the hand not holding a teacup.
Lady Tarnaby tisked and shook her head, making the lavender plume tucked into her otherwise severely plain black hair flutter. “His sisters and mother should have taught him better.”
“Indeed, my lady, indeed. I would not be surprised to find that he is an only son.” Tarnaby’s eyebrows jumped up and back down, indicating her agreement. “However, my lady, the Hunter on information duty intercepted an odd letter, and sent a copy to my office. It does not appear to be a known code, and our translators can’t make sense of it.”
“Oh?” She set down her cup and leaned forward, violet eyes now wide open and alert, pinning Gjiela. “What language?”
“None that my staff can comprehend, my lady. It uses symbols that are unfamiliar, and the patterns do not match our language, or Wallander, Sunderland, Ki-tan, or ah, I’m sorry, the one from the western archipelago, with all the clicks in it.” She shook her head a little, trying to dislodge the name.
“Grink’tak,” The older woman stated. She picked up her refilled cup and sipped, then ate the last savory on her plate. The butler refilled the plate and returned it, then stepped back, out of the conversation. “How odd. What do you propose to do with the letter?”
“Give it to the Archivist, my lady. As I recall, the Archive has scraps of almost everything formerly or currently spoken and written, and even if they do not find the meaning, at least they might be able to identify the language, if it is a language and not something foolish.”
“Good.” Tarnaby sat back, letting Gjiela finish her bites of sharp toasted cheese, soft sausage on dark bread, and smoked river fish. “Continue eating. It is perhaps time to speak with the director of schools about improving the citizenship lessons. This makes the fifth group this twelve-month to be fussing about royal policies, and importuning about heresies? Really, something needs to be done. The schools are supposed to do a better job explaining why Her Majesty’s policies are for the best interests of the queendom’s citizens. I suppose you are too young to have been involved in sorting out the so-called rebels in the north twenty years ago?”
“Yes, my lady. I’d just started initial Hunter training when the matter concluded.” Gjiela waited until the butler refilled Lady Tarnaby’s cup before topping off her own.
Tarnaby inhaled in a long sniff. “Hard as it was to believe, the deluded fools thought they could raise an army and overthrow Her late Majesty. They claimed they were descendants of the indigenes, if you can believe such utter foolishness, and that Her late Majesty’s reign was an offense to their gods.”
Eyes wide, Gjiela blinked. “An offense to their gods? My lady, that is... utter folly indeed, my lady.”
“The Hunters and Her late Majesty’s armsmen sorted them out easily enough, but they caused a minor stir for a month or so. None of which would have been necessary if the district countess had been paying attention, but one shouldn’t expect much from a Lianare. Too much interest in young men and not enough on her duties,” Tarnaby gave Gjiela a cutting look, then added, “At the time we suspected they might have been getting help from north of the mountains, but it seems they managed to go astray without any assistance from anyone.” She sighed. “There are a few fools in every generation, I fear.”
“It certainly seems so, my lady.” Gjiela thought for a moment. “They were not connected to the anti-railroad group, were they, my lady? It has been some time since I reviewed those particular episodes.”
“Hmm, I do not believe so, but it might be wise to check the records.” A spark in the Chamberlain’s eye and the hardness in her voice warned that Gjiela had better do it sooner than later. “Ought else of interest?”
“No, my lady. I anticipate the usual post-harvest rowdiness in the usual places, and a spate of late-season traders before the passes close, but nothing appears to be brewing, aside from the strange animals and the young fools.”
Tarnaby accepted a plate of sweets, biting into a small cake and revealing sharp looking teeth. Gjiela wondered how many people had discovered too late that the slow-looking woman commanded resources even Gjiela could only guess at. Her family had served the queens of Antalia since the days when they’d been driven from their homeland far to the east and north, and Gjiela suspected they held records dating back to the Burning Time, if only in the form of sacred memory songs. Could that be? “My lady? Would it be,” she looked down, not certain how to ask. “Ah, that is, would a reverend priestess be willing to look at the strange letter?”
“Why?”
She licked dry lips. “I had not thought, but— could— if it were a memory song, written down?” Gjiela tapped the amulet on its chain around her neck, mirroring Lady Tarnaby’s gesture.
“Bright Ones forefend such a thing coming to pass! Ask of Sister-major Veronica at the Low Street temple.” Tarnaby looked as if she’d found a dead and rotting pantry lizard in her breakfast soup.
Gjiela felt almost as sick as Tarnaby looked and she bowed in her chair. “I shall do as you say, my lady, and shall pray that I am completely wrong.”
“Do that.”
Three days later a copy of a letter appeared in the daily packet for the Archivist. Paola Dimarti looked at the envelope out of the corner of her eye, hoping to make it go away. She did not have time to drop everything and deal with some silly request from the Hunters. Her Majesty’s private secretary had swept in the day before with orders from the palace matron. “Her Majesty will be celebrating her thirty-sixth birthday at midwinter,” Secretary Gabbro had announced to the air, not deigning to look at the chief records keeper. “She wishes to have appropriate ceremonials, in the style of Queen Mariantha, blessed of the Bright Ones. Matron Karlo needs a full account of such by holy day next. See to it.” Holy day next would be in three days, but before Paola could protest, the snooty woman in her pristine white dress and gloves had swept back out.
The envelope remained depressingly real. Paola picked it up, unsealed the flap and read the cover message. After hunting through the pile of documents on her desk, she took the letter and wound her way through stacks of books and tall file cases until she found Brock Vonk at his desk. “Brock, can I tear you away from the finance minister’s research for an hour or so?”
