The Mask And The Master (Mechanized Wizardry Book 2), page 26
The pigeon turned to watch them go. It felt the heavy seed in its gizzard and looked up through the twiggy branches of the bush. There didn’t seem to be any cages here. It was glad the hands had taken the message so quickly. There was nothing worth staying for in this place.
Another few bites, and then home, it thought. It set one claw against the bowl and dunked its head back into the seeds.
Have I mentioned that I wish you were here? Lundin wrote for about the fourth time in his three-page letter. He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the vaulted ceiling of Haberstorm Hall. Inking his stylus again, he dove back into the message home.
So straightening things out with the barendoon is priority number one. We changed our language so we’re not asking for length but time now—exactly the sort of amateurish mistake you would’ve helped us avoid, Mister Consultant— but we haven’t given the new code a spin yet. We’ll be testing it out tonight (Spheres save us) on Colonel Yough. In fact, her whole coterie should be walking through the door soon. He shuddered. I should be grateful that she’s so supportive. I am grateful, amazingly grateful. It’s an incredibly good sign that she’s willing to take the risk herself, so fast. (Not that there is much risk, as far as we can tell. I’ve gone through Greatsight twice and came out of it a little giddy, maybe a little hungry each time. Nothing worse.)
It’s just that this project really has moved into the territory where, if things go wrong, we get executed. And that makes me trepidatious.
“Dust got in the star wheel, and I can’t find the booze dropper,” Willl with three L’s said, leaning against Lundin’s desk.
“Should be in the black valise.”
“Can I just use water?”
“No no, no water in the spell box. Look for the alcohol first. If you can’t find it, just wipe it down with a dry cloth, nice and slow. Okay?”
Willl with three L’s nodded and was gone. Lundin hunched over the table again.
As long as Yough doesn’t die, I’ll be delighted. If the spell works, and she’s happy, I’ll be ecstatic. And if it works so she doesn’t have to walk around Campos three times to get her eyes back to normal, I will be singing among the Spheres.
Lundin tapped the bottom of the stylus against the tabletop, smiling. Who am I kidding, he thought. I’m already flying high. There was still plenty of time for everything to go south in a thousand different ways. But it was damn good to feel like a success for once, after a very long, very stormy month.
He settled back into the letter. Question number two, a bit bigger and slightly less immediate: how do we get more ojing? I don’t mean I’m asking you to loan us a few. I mean how do we make them? Get them? If we pull this through, and the spell boxes catch on in the Army, Delia is going to need hundreds. Thousands, maybe. So please tell me that they come from cows, and that your average tanner can whip them up. That would really make my day.
Corollary question, even bigger and even less immediate: (I apologize for this jumbled letter, by the way. If I sound this way in person, I’m surprised more people don’t slap my face.) Is enchantment possible?
I understood that spells only worked on things with minds. Elia brought up the idea of imbuing a piece of leather with a spell to make it an ojing, though, and it was intriguing. Is enchanting just a delusion from the myths? Some other process at work that we understand better now that civilization is so civilized?
“Yough should be here in ten,” Martext called out.
“Have we double-checked her Enunciation?” Lundin said.
“It sounded like her name to me,” Dame Miri said, drumming her nails on the spell box lid.
I need to finish this off so Elia can get it to the post cart this evening. I feel like I’ve given you a solid thousand words of questions without asking about you once, Ronk. Lundin pulled the chair closer to the desk. As long as you tell me that the other wizards aren’t giving you grief, I’ll be happy. You’re a huge help. You’re our secret weapon. And I’ll never understand why you took an interest in this nonsense. All I can hope is that it pays off for you some day.
He signed his name in jagged, blocky strokes and set the stylus down. An equally meandering letter to Dame Dionne was by his left hand, ready to be folded, stuffed, and sent. And there was enough blank paper for one more letter.
Ten minutes, he thought, biting his lip. There was only one other person he wanted to get in touch with, and there was no way to say everything he wanted to say in ten minutes.
So instead he put his hands on his knees and, honoring a sudden impulse, closed his eyes. I wish you could be here today, because this wouldn’t have been possible without you, he thought, broadcasting the message the best way he knew how. And wherever you are, Samanthi, I hope you’re safe.
Chapter Eight
Borne By The Current
“Careful. Careful!” Samanthi said as they passed the stretcher to the waiting men on the raft. Iggy looked like a corpse, her skin waxy in the gray, overcast light. Her chest still rose and fell, though, and it wasn’t just the rocking of the raft on the water. The two logsmen took either end of the stretcher and carried her—not carefully enough—towards the eight-by-eight shelter that would be her little box of convalescence for the next four days. Samanthi dusted her hands on her thighs, squinting in the daylight, and looked over at Zig. The other tech was massaging his palm where a red imprint from the wooden handles of the stretcher was burning brightly.
“She’ll be okay,” Zig said, jerking his head towards their fallen tech.
“I’m glad you think so,” she shot back. It killed her to see Iggy like this. There should have been a wrench in one hand and a flask in the other; dubiously laundered overalls haphazardly draped on that lean body; a wicked smile in those smart, sleepy eyes. Instead she was the breathing cadaver of an old woman, swaddled in threadbare sheets. Samanthi had to turn away.
She caught sight of Zig, his forehead creased with worry as he pressed one hand into the other. His red hair was flopping every which way and the bags under his eyes had gotten deeper. Samanthi made herself calm down and pressed her knuckles gently into his upper arm. “You did your damndest with her,” she said.
“I’m no physician,” he said, his eyes flicking to the ground before turning to her.
“And when the real physicians got here, they told you you’d done a good job. Yeah? So listen to them, okay? Not to the voices up there,” she tapped the center of her forehead a few times.
Zig smiled at her and let out a breath, shoving his hands in the pockets of his vest. He rocked back on his heels. “Have you ever lost someone?” he asked quietly. “In the Recon squad?”
She could feel her eyes go a little far away. “In a manner of speaking.”
She shook herself and clapped Zig on the shoulder, stepping off the platform to the spongy earth below. “Come on. Day’s not over yet.” She clucked her tongue, looking out over the lumber camp at the bustle of soldiers. She’d forgotten just how far from over it was.
Horace burning Lundin, she thought. You sure picked a good time to skip out on us. I hope you’re safe and sound in your beautiful Civic workshop with your fresh-faced Civic friends. I hope you’re properly nourished, and well-rested, and making progress with some girl dumb enough to let you try to make progress with her. I hope that, for once in your life, you’re being brilliantly successful and getting some attention that doesn’t involve a reprimand or a demotion. Yeah, Horace. I hope things for you are going flaming great.
To her surprise, she wound up meaning every word. “Let’s make sure that never happens again,” she muttered to herself, looking from side to side.
The Delian platoons had arrived after sundown last night, about thirty-six hours after the fight at Two Forks. Seventy-two tired musketeers with half again as many support personnel tromped up to the logging camp, wanting nothing more than to eat and collapse. But when Dame Orinoco and Sir Kelley brought them up to speed, there’d been no rest for the weary; especially the master of physic and her staff, and the unlucky troopers chosen for double-strength patrols that night.
Dame Orinoco’s hand had been set and cleaned, and Dame Gaulda had been administered a tonic for smoke inhalation and a salve for her blistered skin. But there hadn’t been much they could do with Iggy. “Crushing injuries heal with rest and luck, if they heal at all,” the master of physic had declared flatly, rubbing her eyes. “You say she screamed when you set the leg?”
Zig had nodded vigorously.
“Good sign. If she still feels pain, that means she’s not paralyzed.” The woman had looked Iggy’s body up and down beneath the eyes of all the hovering ‘nauts. “We wrap the chest to stabilize the rib cage, and we do something about this foot.” Iggy’s left foot was swollen, blue, thoroughly unappetizing. “She can’t stay here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Where should she go?” Dame Orinoco had asked, looking over at Kelley.
“A hospital, where there are people to monitor her who don’t need to deploy into the forest at sunrise. Unless you’d like me to stay at her bedside for this whole mission?”
And so they’d decided to send her downriver. The mighty wooden raft the logsmen were building on the Bantam River wasn’t full-size yet, by their standards. It was best for the company to lash together as many logs as possible, of course, before sending workers sailing south to the lumber mill on the backs of their product. But the raft was big enough for the company to break even, at least, by launching it early. So they’d built an extra shelter on the giant floating platform just for Iggy, to keep her as comfortable as possible on the multi-day river cruise to civilization. And consciousness, Samanthi hoped. Her friend hadn’t done anything but sleep and breathe since Two Forks. They just had to trust that the broth they poured down her throat was going to be enough to keep her alive.
“Expert opinion, Samanthi,” Sir Mathias began, stepping up to her side. She blinked herself free of the reverie and looked up at him. His greasy hair was pulled back in a ponytail and his shirt was streaked with ‘tum. “Is Dame Gaulda’s suit in shape for deployment tomorrow?”
“Sure. Looks like the black flames, but Zig and I patched the chestplate where it got soft. It’ll hold up to anything that doesn’t blow it up.”
“Why doesn’t that reassure me?”
“As soon as we design armor that doesn’t explode when shot with explosives, you’ll be the first to know. The real question is, is Dame Gaulda in shape for deployment?”
Mathias grinned. “The master of physic says no. Or, well, she tried to, and then Dame Gaulda gave her the kind of look that gives you nightmares for life.” He wiped his fingers on his stomach, his smile changing. “We all want to get these bastards.”
“All we have to do is find ‘em, huh?” Samanthi scratched the small of her back. “The agents here at the camp know some good stuff about this Golden Caravan, at least. We’ve got a description of the tracks to look for for their vehicle, and all that. Where we start looking, though, I don’t know.”
“Kelley was talking with the logging boss, going over the intelligence again. Our agents had taken a pass through Two Forks half a month ago. No sign of any out-of-the-ordinary tech. No hint of radicalization on the scale we saw. The Golden Caravan was just a rumor; they knew less about it than other settlements, further north. So, either our agents missed the signs completely—”
“Or the Golden Caravan visited Two Forks sometime in the past two weeks,” Samanthi said. “Spheres, can that be right? How do you make so many people so crazy in two weeks?”
“Our hunch is that their base is to the east, across the Bantam,” he said with a shrug, leaving the question alone. “Now, if our information is anything like complete, there seem to be periods where they make contact with settlers multiple times a week, followed by long stretches where nobody sees the Caravan in public at all. We figure they pick a route from home base and give stuff away to whoever lives along that path, until their loot runs out. Then they head straight back to base to replenish their stocks. So the thought is that the Two Forks visit, a few weeks ago, was one of their first stops heading out on the latest jaunt. Which would put the Caravan currently west of us.”
“Or Forksville could have been one of their last stops heading home. Which would put them…?” Samanthi jabbed her index finger down here, then there, then there, marking random points in the air.
“I know,” he said, looking as helpless as she felt. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to their longhouse. “Kelley and Orinoco have been in there with the platoon Lieutenants all morning, trying to convince themselves they know what to do.”
“Damn, would it be nice to have Iggy help us cover some ground.” Samanthi looked back towards the raft, her forehead creasing with worry.
“She’ll be flying a new Ironsides in one month. I’ve got a feeling.”
“Tell me another one,” she said with a half-smile.
“We’re gonna catch the Golden Caravan in twenty-four hours. No casualties.”
“Got any more?”
Sir Mathias pressed a fingertip to the center of his forehead and closed his eyes beatifically. Samanthi could almost see the column of light entering his head as inspiration descended from the Spheres above. She snorted.
He opened his eyes with a glowing smile. “Before New Year’s Eve 880, you’re going to have triplets! A boy, a girl— and a little Shock Trooper born in full battle armor! What endurance! What an accomplishment! Ms. Elena, let me shake your hand.”
“Don’t touch me,” she said, batting his hand away. He pretended to stagger, lowering his head as she sighed in mock-exasperation. Then Samanthi squealed as he wrapped an arm around her waist and stood, folding her over his shoulder like a rolled-up carpet. She pounded against his back with her palms and kicked her feet towards his face as he swiveled this way and that. “Hold still, lady! I just want to talk to you,” he cried in a moronic voice as he struggled to look her in the eye.
Sir Mathias slowed to a stop. Samanthi craned her neck around the best she could, looking through his armpit. She saw Zig’s striped vest and the lower part of his chin.
“Yes?” she said.
“Uh.” The tech tilted his head sideways so he could see her under Mathias’ arm. “Did you want to look at Dame Gaulda’s reloaders? The bracers are disassembled over at the forge.”
“I was just going.”
After a moment, Zig nodded sideways. “Okay,” he said.
“Thanks, Zig,” she called out as the tech straightened up, walking past them at an unusually hurried pace. “What do you think you’re doing?” she barked at Sir Mathias, her arms flailing for balance.
“It’s called ‘putting you down.’ You’ll get used to it.”
“Ah-ah-ah!” she poked him hard in the spine with each sound. He straightened up, trying to look over his shoulder at her. Samanthi glared into his armpit.
“The forge, please,” she said coldly.
“…You can’t be—”
“You made a choice, Mascarpone, now you live with it.”
She could feel him shaking with laughter. “The forge, now, or I start biting!” she slapped him in the small of the back and crossed her arms.
“All in a day’s work,” Sir Mathias grinned, adjusting his hands on his senior tech.
“Columbine.”
Her eyes snapped open. Columbine hadn’t been asleep. The wooden cot the Haris family had to spare for her was a little too short and a lot too hard, even with a pad of threadbare quilts beneath her. Their dome-house was big by Two Forks standards, with a greatroom for eating and guests, a bedroom for the couple, and a personal pantry, where her little cot was stationed between sacks of onions. Feeling the flat boards against her spine, she’d found herself thinking fondly of nights in the dirt and the leaves with Ariell. Longing for one part of that life inevitably brought the rest of it flooding back. Were the woods really so bad? What if we’d never come to Two Forks? Could things possibly be worse? Sleeping was impossible with questions like that murmuring through her head.
But even wide awake, she hadn’t heard the door open. And she hadn’t known Mr. Haris was there until he’d spoken up. He was standing in the pantry door, with just the tiniest little light from the main room sending orange flickers across his ear and his graying hair. For a moment, Columbine considered faking sleep, but with him standing there so still and watchful, it didn’t seem like there was any point.
“Mr. Haris?” she said, making her voice a little sleepy.
He shifted his weight. “Did I wake you?” he said.
“No, not really.”
“I know it’s late, my girl. I was wondering if you wanted to come into the big room for a moment.”
She sat up slowly. “Why?”
“We were just talking about something with a few folks, the wife and I. And we thought we might want to talk to you too.”
“Me?”
“I’ll give you a little peace while you wake up. Come out when you’re ready; no rush,” Mr. Haris said, slowly closing the door. The pantry went absolutely dark.
Columbine sat on the cot, listening to her own breath. She pressed her hands against her orange pouch, feeling the liquid squish under her thumbs below the blanket. Who wants to talk to me? She’d never been as chatty as other kids; not really. And ever since Pauma found her, stumbling away from Two Forks, she’d been even worse at talking with people. All that yelling she did at the spheric today was probably the most words she’d put together at once since they shot Ariell in the back. So who…?
She put on a too-big robe, a hand-me-down from their oldest daughter (who lived out in Kess now, as far as they knew.) Columbine fumbled in the dark until she found the door and gave it a shove. It creaked when she pushed it. Mr. Haris must have known some secret to keep it from squealing.
