The Mask And The Master (Mechanized Wizardry Book 2), page 31
Burn me if I know what we should do instead, though. If they kept running, maybe they could wait the bastards out, like a siege. She glanced over her shoulder at her brown oval mask, hanging from a hook on the wall. And if we can make it close enough to the keep, someone just might be able to come find us.
A horrible grinding noise overhead made her shrink back involuntarily. The periscope started to shudder, next to her right shoulder. It waggled back forth in its socket like the eyestalk of an upside-down slug. Then it stopped suddenly, leaving yeoman Richmond to wonder what she would see up there, if the scope were still working and she took a peek.
Then, with a sharp yank, someone pulled the periscope up through the roof.
Richmond blinked at the hole in the ceiling. It was circular, with surprisingly smooth edges, given the amount of force someone had just exerted to rip it right out of the Caravan’s metal skin. Fresh air through the miniature skylight and the fold in the front hatch seeped its way into the stiflingly hot, fumey atmosphere of the cockpit. Far from being a relief, the contrast made her nauseous, and Richmond started to cough.
“Welters,” she wheezed, keeping her watering eyes on the hole in the ceiling. She started to fumble for her gun when a glass vial appeared in the hole. Yeoman Richmond’s eyes traced the little glass bottle all the way down until it broke on the metal floor and she got her first whiff of the greenish liquid inside.
*****
Samanthi watched as the Golden Caravan careened wildly towards the hillside. Dame Gaulda leapt off its head, landing an easy five meters away from the tracked vehicle. Sir Mathias stopped clawing at the hatch on the vehicle’s back; locked, just like we thought, she supposed; and sprang off the long machine too. The knot of musketeers standing around her shifted their weight, the standing rank tracking the machine with their guns and the kneeling rank focusing on the big machine’s treads.
“Hold your fire,” murmured the sergeant, his pistol in one hand and his sabre raised in the other, ready to signal a volley. Who knew how many soldiers might be inside that thing? Still, with any luck, the stench bomb would take a little of the fight out of them.
Whoever had been driving the thing was not nearly as on the ball now as when they’d almost rolled over Sir Mathias. The Golden Caravan plowed into the loamy hillside, too quickly and too sharp an angle to get any traction. Its nose sank into the dirt and its tracks spun and jammed, shifting the big machine laterally along the hill. They chewed up a lot of undergrowth, but got the overgrown tractor nowhere. Showers of dirt flung skyward, and even at the distance they were standing, Dame Gaulda and Sir Mathias had to shield their heads.
Then the great machine sputtered to a halt, and the tracks quit their endless race around the collection of gears at the base of the treader. The forest was shockingly quiet in the absence of that growling motor.
Samanthi gave the crank on the Communicator another turn, even though the box had plenty of charge. She adjusted her fingers around the telescoping mouth-trumpet, ready to give a report as soon as there was something concrete to say. Guess what, Sir Kelley! We mostly stopped them, maybe? wasn’t exactly what the senior ‘naut would want to hear.
The second half of their company, with Kelley and the Cavaliers, had been patrolling an area just a bit north when Samanthi’s group had heard the roaring sound of the engine. She’d reported their position, and reported again when they’d engaged the enemy. Sir Kelley’s unit was on their way to their location at full speed, and she could just imagine the murder in his eyes at the prospect of engaging with the Golden Caravan directly. Better to wait until she had complete information rather than give him tidbits that would just make him more rabid.
Besides, this was far from done. Sure, two of the three guards were down and unmoving, and the third was a groaning heap with a dozen muskets at his head, but the Delians really couldn’t take anything for granted until they saw who was inside the hatch of that thing. And just because they drive a shiny, pretty machine doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous.
They’d taken this whole, methodical search east from the logging camp seriously, and with good reason. These Golden Caravan types were flaming scary. Samanthi’s heart was still pounding from the two explosive shots that rearguard had gotten off. Luckily, his aim had been bad. One musketeer had been close enough to take some flak, but Iggy and Sir Xiaoden wouldn’t be getting any company in the blown-up club.
Sir Mathias and Dame Gaulda were conferring with each other down below, keeping a close eye on the still machine. There was no sign or sound of movement inside. The sergeant next to Samanthi pointed forward with his saber, twice, and the lines of musketeers began a slow advance. She felt a little exposed, alone on the hill, until a pair of tall soldiers peeled back to stay with her. “I’m okay, really,” she said, frowning at them despite the rush of gratitude.
“It’s the sergeant, Miss. He worries,” the taller one said impassively. She fidgeted with the crank again, trying to keep her smile to herself.
“Watch that hatch,” she could hear the sergeant saying. “If they don’t come out with their hands empty, shoot to disable.”
Shoot to disable. She exhaled noisily. Sure, it made sense. The more live prisoners they had, the more information they could get about where to find the next crop of firebounders. I’m all for the rules of war, and treating your enemies better than they deserve. But I’m sure not gonna like making camp with the people who shot Iggy out of the sky, no matter how disabled they are.
The musketeers next to her flinched, and she looked up. The hatch atop the Golden Caravan had just swung open, slamming against the roof of the vehicle with a noisy clang. Her eyes widened and she clutched the mouth-trumpet hard. The advancing lines of musketeers stopped short as the sergeant raised his sabre, and Sir Mathias and Dame Gaulda instantly started prowling around the machine in predatory arcs, their arms pointing at the space right above the hatch. If anyone came out of that thing with so much as a scowl on their face, he’d be pulverized with lead in a second. But if a heavy-duty ‘naut—a Golden Caravan Gaulda—came out? Or a rain of explosives? Or a pillar of fire? It was maddening to have so little idea what these devious bastards were capable of. Samanthi bit her lip involuntarily, one hand straying to the pistol Mathias had insisted she wear—
She could hear the sound of coughing all the way from the hill. A pair of hands appeared above the hatch, empty. A round-faced man, wearing the same red leather as the others but not filling it out nearly so fetchingly, hauled himself into view. He sank down with a coughing spasm so bad it almost sent him tumbling off the machine. As he crouched on the roof on all fours, a tanned woman followed behind, her face shiny with tears and her body dry heaving as she climbed to the fresh air.
Sir Mathias leapt onto the surface of the Caravan. The man feebly raised his arms as the ‘naut snagged him by the collar, tossing him to the forest floor. The musketeers immediately rushed the prone figure, shouting for him to stay down. Gaulda brought the woman down just as easily. There was no fight left in the pair.
As the prisoners were trussed up and dragged to their feet, Samanthi caught sight of Sir Mathias looking over at her. She pumped her fist in the air, feeling the tightness in her stomach let up ever so slightly. Sir Mathias gave an exaggerated sigh of relief, his armored shoulders slumping. She grinned and shook her head as they both went back to work.
“Sir Kelley,” she transmitted, her smile coloring her voice. “We have some news.”
Chapter Twelve
One Cell For Another
Lundin yelped as the box jolted to a halt. He tilted off-balance and slid to the black wooden floor. He opened his eyes, blinking in the sunlight. The engine actually shut off for the first time in what felt like years. He heard Elia breathe a sigh of relief; the silence was like a cool glass of water after all those hours of roaring and pounding. Lundin felt his body still quivering like a tuning fork from the treader’s perpetual vibration. He pressed against the still walls to brace himself.
“Are we here?” Elia said. Her voice was sounding stronger after the night. Who knows how long we all slept? Lundin wondered, pushing himself up to a sitting position.
“Who knows?” he said. He pointed up to the minute grating. “We can’t have gone too far. From how fast the tree branches gave been going past, I think this thing is going slower than a horse.”
“So we’ve only driven a whole night at sub-horse speeds. That’s comforting,” Martext said, flat on his back.
“Better than super-horse speed,” Lundin countered, with limited effectiveness. “If this is the end of the line, the folks at Campos might actually be able to catch up with us.”
“Senior tech, please don’t say things like ‘end of the line,’” Elia said, running her hands nervously through her tangled hair. “I wasn’t having the best dreams just now.”
The side door started to rattle before Lundin could answer. Martext pulled his feet away from the black panel, gasping a little and clutching his stomach as he sat up. Elia peered over Lundin’s shoulder as he clenched his fists, her eyes as wide as they could possibly be. Should we run for it as soon as the door opens?
The lock clattered off and the panel swung open. The wolf-headed ‘naut completely filled the space, one enormous arm pointed at them with its gun barrel prominently visible. Not the time to run, Lundin decided, squinting in the flood of daylight.
“Back,” the ‘naut said, with a minuscule shake of his arm. Lundin helped Martext as they pressed their backs against the far wall. The door panel behind them moved slightly before the lock caught against their weight.
The ‘naut—Sir Ulstead, was it? I think I heard his name yesterday—took a step to the side, keeping his head and his gun arm visible. There was Willl with three L’s, with a platter balanced on one arm and a ceramic jug clutched in the other. He gave his blond bangs a nervous little toss when he saw them, but said nothing. Morning birds sang far above their heads.
“Oh, Willl,” Elia said sorrowfully. The thin blond stepped forward, keeping a close eye on Lundin. His throat was bandaged, and his upper lip was badly split. He set the jug down on the floor, bending at the knees so he could still keep the tray upright. Then he set the tray down. Lundin saw three small loaves of bread, with twice that many cuts of what looked like corned beef. The smell filled the tiny mobile cell immediately, and Lundin’s mouth started watering. He tried to keep his face expressionless, not wanting to give Willl with three L’s even a moment of satisfaction.
The former tech stepped back. “Can’t let you outside,” he mumbled, “but we can keep the door open while we’re stopped.”
Willl with three L’s looked up at the wolf-headed ‘naut, who was keeping his golden eyes fixed on the three of them. From the set of the ‘naut’s shoulders, it clearly wasn’t his idea to leave the box unsealed. Willl with three L’s must have interceded for them. You couldn’t have interceded for us before your buddies started shelling the fort?
“Why’d we stop?” Lundin said, keeping his face hard.
“So you can eat,” said the ‘naut.
“People can get sick in the box if they eat and move at the same time,” their driver said as she moved into view. She had a long chin and coppery hair, streaked with gray, that went with her red-brown leather vest. She rolled her shoulder in its socket, stretching her arms out as she looked in the box. Her matter-of-fact stare didn’t have the hostility of the ‘naut or the baggage of the former Civic.
“And what do you care if we get sick?” Lundin felt himself getting into a defiant rhythm.
“More to clean up,” said the driver. She shrugged. “And we’ve got time. It’s not like anyone’s gonna find you.”
The bald pronouncement was unbearable. Lundin struggled to his feet, clenching his fists recklessly. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” he said, taking a few hunchbacked steps forward to the edge of the door. Sir Ulstead extended his arm warningly, but Lundin almost didn’t care. “You’ll never get away with attacking a Delian fortress. And you’ll never get away with kidnapping us; not with the kind of people they’ll have looking for us. Our connections in Delia go all the way to the very top.”
She laughed with genuine good humor. “So do ours,” she said.
The driver clapped the ‘naut on his armored shoulder, walking away. “I’m gonna water the plants,” she whispered loud enough for everyone to hear.
A little chilly shiver went up and down Lundin’s spine as he stood, blinking, in the hatchway. So do ours. She had to mean Ouste, and maybe that steward too, planning murder right in the palace. It wasn’t possible that these people had penetrated any further; was it? I mean, much further, and you’ve got Princess Naomi as one of them, and unless they’re playing a very complicated double cross…
One step down from the Princess would be the four Regents. And they couldn’t possibly be in on the machinations. Could they?
The too-near sound of the driver relieving herself behind the vehicle wasn’t doing much to help him think. To his chagrin, though, it had almost no effect on his appetite; his stomach sounded like bear cubs in an echoey cave, having a growling contest and keeping their parents up all winter long. Lundin picked up the jug at his feet and removed the cork. It smelled like an herbal tea, minty and lukewarm. “Here you go,” he said, offering it to Martext.
“Just look at him,” Elia said, moments later, through a mouthful of crumbs. She and Lundin were sitting cross-legged, their knees almost touching in the cramped space. Martext was propped up against the locked panel, sipping gratefully at the tea and taking little bits of his beef.
Elia gestured with her chin. Lundin looked over his shoulder into the bright forest. Willl with three L’s was standing in the ferns, his back to them as he toed something through the dirt.
“How could he do this to us?”
“You pay anybody enough, and they’ll go bad,” Martext said.
“Come on.” Elia ripped off a new hunk of bread, lowering her voice. “A Civic for five years. An apprentice with the Haulers for two years before that. In all that time, did you ever hear him talking about money?”
“Never had a project with him until this.”
“I did in ‘74. He was the same sort of bumbler, you know? Pretty hard-working, but easily confused. Not much of a sense of humor. Never the one to volunteer ideas.”
“How’d he end up on our project?” Lundin said, turning back to them.
Elia adjusted her battered glasses and glanced over at Martext. “I guess Dame Dionne picked him. She picked me, anyway. She knew that I’m a conscientious person, and that I was getting a little bored in Masonry and Materials.”
“She assigned me to help make your life easier,” Martext said, looking at Lundin over the rims of his glasses. Lundin tilted his head a little, but didn’t say anything. The hard look in the other man’s eyes made him pretty sure there were no more details coming.
“I mean, Dame Dionne knew mechanized wizardry was a big deal,” Elia said. “Royal attention? Yeah, she wouldn’t mess around with that. So— now that I think about it— why did she decide to put a guy like Willl on the squad?”
“If it was her decision,” Lundin murmured. He tapped his fist against his knee, thinking. The piece of corned beef in his hand waggled between his fingers and thumb like a dog’s tongue.
“What are you saying? She’s senior ‘naut. Of course it was her decision.” Martext leaned forward. “Only the Board of Governors can give her orders.”
He said it like it was impossible for the Governors to do anything remotely suspicious; an assumption that Lundin, still mulling over the odds that Princess Naomi had been in on her own assassination, had no intention of making. If Ouste can be corrupt, one of Governors could be too. But then the thought hit him: who says she had to get a direct order to pick Willl with three L’s? The bad guys have the best wizard in Delia on their side. What if Ouste just planted a magical suggestion in Dame Dionne’s head?
The techs were looking at him. “Who knows?” he shrugged, putting on a sheepish smirk.
Martext let a slightly disgusted expression creep over his face before tucking back into his loaf of bread. Lundin ignored him, turning out to the open doorway again. They could think he was stupid if they wanted to; there was no way he was going to fill them on the fact that Ouste was a big old traitor. Not with torture chambers a very real and scary possibility in their future. His face twisted with regret. The Civics already knew too much to have any hope of avoiding interrogation. The least he could do was not load them up with more information to have to worry about confessing.
Willl with three L’s was glancing over at the black box when Lundin looked out. Their eyes met over the long distance. Almost immediately, Willl with three L’s looked down into the plants, then up into the sky before turning away again. Something about the look on the thin man’s face got his mind wandering, and he felt like he was back in the ‘naut warehouse, watching Samanthi stalk away with that pair of heavy seven-leaguers. Watching his old squad head into danger and adventure, while he ran an errand for his new team.
“You ever want to be in two places at once?” Lundin said softly, not turning. He sat back, curling his legs up to his chest. The two techs stopped chewing behind him. “You ever want to make two opposite sides happy?” He pressed his toe against the edge of the wall. “I think that’s Willl.”
“Why?”
“Just a feeling. Would a real mercenary stand up to that big ‘naut just so we could have the door open while we ate? I don’t think this is all for money. Some part of him actually cares a little about what happens to us.”
“So why’s he doing it, then?”
Lundin turned to Elia. “He’s just more loyal to them than he is to us,” he shrugged.
“Isn’t that obvious from the kidnapping?” Martext said.
He bowed his head a little bit. Good point.
