The Mask And The Master (Mechanized Wizardry Book 2), page 35
“You heard the Golden techs back there,” she said. “The footbrake is useless.”
“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t use it.”
“Then tell me, Zig, what does it mean when something is useless?”
“Just trying to help,” he said, affronted, raising his hands.
I stalled out once with this burning clutch, and you’ve been trying to help ever since. Never mind that you played lumberjack during your drive. Dame Orinoco had been less than pleased when Zig had almost knocked a tree on her head. Samanthi wiggled on the uncomfortable seat, scooting herself forward and curling her arms around the controls protectively. Get your own, she mentally snapped at Zig.
Slowly, with a screeching of gears, the Golden Caravan was coming to a stop. It was pretty miraculous that the thing hadn’t died kilometers ago, given what a mammoth engine it had and how far the Golden crew had already travelled before they met up with Delia’s finest. If the crew was to believed, they’d already taken a winding path seventy kilometers long to get to this point, travelling west from their base on their mission of charity, and looping back around east towards home. The vehicle showed no signs of running dry, either. The Golden Caravan had to have access to quite a good ‘tum refinery to eke this kind of efficiency out of their fuel. One more thing about them that makes me nervous.
“Why’d she call the halt, I wonder,” Zig mused.
Samanthi shrugged, her hands firmly locked against the brakes. She leaned forward to peer out the front hatch. “Burn me,” she said, recoiling as Sir Mathias’s dark helmet appeared centimeters from her nose.
“You okay?” the ‘naut said, flipping up his visor. His brown eyes were about all she could see of him through the twisted hatch.
“Will you knock next time or something?” her heart was pounding. “What’s going on out there?”
Noisy boots pounded on the floor behind her. Sir Kelley squeezed his way past Zig to fit into the control room as well. The red-headed tech raised his long arms up by his ears, trying to get them out of the senior ‘naut’s way. Kelley paid absolutely no attention to him. “Did I hear a halt?”
“Yes sir. We’re coming over the last hill to the logging camp, and things aren’t looking right. There’s an awful lot of smoke.”
“Smoke?”
“From a number of the buildings.”
They were all silent for a moment. Outside, Mathias stifled a cough; standing next to the Caravan meant an awful lot of unpleasant fumes rushed into your lungs. Almost as many as when you’re driving the thing.
“Nauts are prepared to advance, Sir Kelley, with platoons in support. Do you think this hulk should stay put or get ready to run?” He drummed his hand on the metal hull, and the banging reverberated mightily through the control room.
“Find out what’s going on in the camp, and you tell me,” Sir Kelley said. “I’m still in discussions with our Golden friends, and we were just starting to make headway.” He turned and stalked back to the rear of the vehicle, where the prisoners were trussed up with a pair of musketeers in guard.
“Zig can wind up the Communicator,” Samanthi said. “Call it in once you know what’s happening.”
“You said the buildings were smoking? Like they’d been on fire?” Zig said, leaning closer to the hatch.
“Could be. Let’s hope someone just got over-enthusiastic in the mess hall, huh?”
“Be careful,” Samanthi said. Sir Mathias flipped down his visor, flicked his index finger away from his forehead in a little salute, and vanished from her tiny square to the outside world. Zig fumbled his way out of the room and started rummaging among their gear for the Communicator. “You be careful too, butterfingers,” she shouted over her shoulder, leaning back in the chair. It was just as well she couldn’t make out exactly what he said in response.
She pressed down on the clutch cautiously and shifted to neutral. The tracks shuddered, and she eased up on the handbrakes, no longer feeling like she was holding a pack of foxhounds at the end of a leash. Her brown eyes were a little troubled as she poked her head forward. Sure enough, there were trails of smoke lifting up into the sky from the friendly camp below.
“Spheres,” one of the musketeers said under his breath, struggling with his powder as Mathias swept by. There was a flutter of unsettled movement making its way through the lines of soldiers, which the sergeants were doing their best to stamp out with cajoling and chastisements. But the disciplinarians were just as blindsided as everyone else at the sight of their base camp, their oasis in the distant northeast Tarmic, with columns of billowy black smoke rising from the familiar buildings.
“With me,” Dame Orinoco said as Mathias met up with the cluster of ‘nauts, a dozen paces away from the frontmost musketeers. Dame Gaulda flicked her gun barrels clean, and Dame Julie drew her sabre. “Sir Kelley is keeping a eye on the prisoners?”
“I can call in to the Caravan when we find out what this mess is.” Mathias reported, pointing downhill with his head.
“Forward, then.”
The two lean Cavaliers rushed forward, with Sir Mathias and Dame Gaulda dogging their heels in a loose formation. There was no outward sign of fatigue in the Shock Trooper’s strides. How she could keep pushing herself like this was a mystery to Mathias. It was bound to take its toll eventually, but light-handed as they were with Xiaoden and Iggy gone, and with Dame Gaulda so determined to continue pulling her weight, it was hard for Orinoco and Kelley to order the Shock Trooper to stand down and recuperate. Woman must have ‘tum running through her veins. They pressed through the trees at nearly full speed as the platoons gathered into formations increasingly far behind them. The tree cover grew thinner, and they got their first clear view of the beleaguered camp.
The longhouse where the ‘nauts had been staying was a smoldering ruin. The cooking house was covered in scorch marks, with a gaping hole in the roof. The other three smaller buildings in the camp had just as much evidence of ill-treatment. Much more troubling, there wasn’t a red-blooded Delian soul in sight; not even logsmen watching the river, hooks in hand.
“Spheres,” Mathias heard himself say, his head swirling with questions. What happened here?
It was two days ago they’d tracked down and captured the Caravan. Their three prisoners—the two cringing techs who’d been inside the vehicle, and one of the brown-masked soldiers who’d been guarding them— had been cagey with information but seemed thoroughly cowed. There was no sense of a grand counter-attack in the works, or any hint of transmissions being sent to other masked bastards in the trees. With Sir Kelley personally monitoring them for nearly two days, Mathias felt as confident as possible that they hadn’t managed to sneak any messages out. And even if they were somehow able to call for reinforcements, wouldn’t they want their troops to attack us in the field? Why go for our camp—our theoretically secret camp? Unless—
“Do you see any hostiles?” Dame Gaulda said. She’d just had the same thought. Maybe this place isn’t deserted at all; maybe they lit the buildings up to make us nervous and draw us in for an ambush.
“Nothing yet,” said Dame Julie, sweeping the grounds with her visor. Sir Mathias had his gun barrel at chest level, scanning for signs of—
“East house!” Julie snapped out, her clear voice shattering through the air. The ‘nauts shifted their attention, swords and guns at the ready. A figure had emerged from the damaged building, raising one hand high.
“Friend! Friend!”
The newcomer was approaching the ‘nauts. Sir Mathias lowered his arm slightly, sidling to the right. The four ‘nauts made a silent box around the figure, their eyes flicking out to the buildings and the forest beyond even as the logger came forward. He recognized the woman. She was an experienced older hand at the camp whose name he couldn’t remember, with a serious face and quick hands for raft-building. She was smudged with soot and bruises, and one of her sleeves was torn.
“Thank the Spheres it’s you,” she said. “When we heard the noises we thought for sure it was another bunch of locals.”
“Locals? What do you mean?” Dame Orinoco asked.
“We got hit by a party of idiot wood folk, who saw a Delian flag and came storming up with axes to grind,” she said, spitting into the grass. “They said we worked for some ‘pretenders,’ whatever that means. They said we weren’t welcome here. And when the boss told them they weren’t welcome here, on private property, legally acquired, they went crazy. Torches popped up; swords and bows flew out. We were completely blind-sided. We’ve never seen that kind of aggression out here.”
Regular forest folk, getting aggressive for no reason… Two Forks all over again, Mathias thought grimly.
“A bunch of bandits, was it?” he said, flipping up his visor.
“No, no,” the logger said, shaking her head. “Just some yokels and trappers and farmers. Common people, you know? They’ve lost their minds. There were too many to fight, and we didn’t have weapons at hand anyway. Boss called a retreat to somewhere we could defend. He got hit with a crossbow bolt before we made our way into the cellar, but he’s still alive. We lost a few others. I think they got carried off. I don’t see bodies here, anyways. Spheres, I hope they’re all right!”
“So some rustics up here, spouting anti-Delian rhetoric,” Dame Orinoco said. “They made insane demands, and when you tried to find out why, they got furious and started fighting?”
“That’s about the speed of it.”
“Any strange weapons?” Dame Julie asked. “Or masks?”
“Yeah, a few brown masks. Different styles. Some painted, some just bare wood. But they all had bright yellow eyes.” She shuddered. “That’s Golden Caravan gear, isn’t it?”
“Masks are their prime export.”
“Apart from this down-with-Delia trash,” Dame Gaulda grumbled.
Sir Mathias glanced over his shoulder. The platoons were advancing in slow, careful rows, more than seventy muskets trained on every place where a mask might pop up. Their captured vehicle was far behind at the top of the hill, its dented golden skin just visible between the trees. All these people, he thought. All these weapons behind me. And I feel more nervous than ever.
“We’ll sweep through the camp, put out these fires, and make sure no one’s lingering around here. Start bringing your people up from the cellar when we give you the sign,” Dame Orinoco said. She raised two mailed fingers in the air, gesturing to the slow-moving platoons. “In the meantime, let’s get our master of physic down to see your wounded. ‘Nauts, fan out.”
A familiar hiss went off in his helmet as he raised his gun-arm again, moving past the charred house. “Zig here, Communicator wound up,” the tech’s voice piped up tinnily in his ears. “Any news from below?”
Our camp’s been ransacked. A mob of thugs attacked our people for flying a Delian flag. Whatever craziness we saw in Two Forks, it looks like it might be migrating through the woods. And, oh yeah, the Golden Caravan definitely had a hand in this.
“Nothing good, how about that?” he said, shaking his head. “Hold tight for more soon.”
He flicked the switch at his collar back to receiving and pressed forward. And tell Kelley to start getting some answers out of our prisoners, he thought, suppressing a shiver. ‘Cause whatever kind of fight this is, I think we’re losing it.
Chapter Fifteen
A Mouthful
Dame Miri stepped carefully through the mud. Her stolen boots squelched against the marshy gray-brown soil, and little brown crickets and jumping spiders flung themselves out of her way at every step like bursts of verminous confetti. She was grateful, for once, that these ranine-powered boots were as tight as they were; an unbroken wall of clothes from shoe to waist meant it was that much more unlikely she’d get a spider or a tick on her bare flesh. Keep telling yourself that, Miri Dearie, she said, brushing a cloud of gnats out of her face. You’ve probably got a dozen blood-suckers hitching a ride on you already.
The marshland had snuck up on her as she followed her mental image of the blocky-faced ‘naut. It was hard to believe that this swampy route was the way the kidnappers had chosen to drag Lundin and Elia and Martext, especially if they were moving on foot too.
Miri breathed a heavy sigh through her nose, keeping her mouth closed to keep the gnats out. Positive thinking, she said determinedly. Maybe this way is a shortcut to badguy central. She had been pressing all night, with only a few hours’ sleep near dawn, in an effort to gain ground on the captors. The ranine coils in her too-tight boots were whining with exertion with every long stride she took. The idea that she might be cutting off a corner in her pursuit was a lovely one to indulge in.
The brown mask was resting on top of her head now, like a flat, creepy hat. It was somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, and the golden illumination wasn’t much use in daylight. Dame Miri flipped the mask down to its proper position every few minutes or so, to take a new bearing on the ‘naut she was connected to. It seemed to work best when actually worn. Resting on her head like this, she only had the vaguest sense of a pull north towards the big guy. When she wore it, every craggy line in his thick features was visible to her, like he was standing across the clearing.
I wonder if he sees me coming towards him, she thought, spinning her wheels on mental ground she’d travelled before during this summertime walk. Or if he sees his dead partner walking home. Her fond hope was that his mask was showing him an image of his partner, smiling brightly, and put her location as back at the base of the hill where Dame Miri had left her. If the masks were designed to show the locations of people, and not simply other masks, it didn’t seem too far-fetched an idea. If that were the case, then her approach to the hideout of these mystery ‘nauts would be completely invisible.
If, instead, the masks are broadcasting their locations out to other masks, with a picture of whoever’s wearing or carrying it at the time, then these goons will be waiting to welcome me by name. Spheres, it’s frustrating not to have any idea how they’ve made this stuff happen.
She felt the thin weight of the journal inside the pocket of her filthy blazer and smiled. Amazing that the little leather volume, with all Lundin’s spellcasting notes, had stayed put through her daring forest flight. All these weeks being around people trying to figure out the why of magic has me spoiled, she thought. It’s not enough just to have a magic mask that does exactly what I need. If I don’t understand the mechanism behind it, it drives me crazy.
“I miss you idiots,” she murmured. For a moment, the techs’ faces seemed to be floating in front of her too, along with the enemy ‘naut. She shook her head and pushed a cluster of reeds aside with the point of her black knife, trying not to touch anything with her bare hands. They looked like cattails, but one never knew what might be poisonous in a strange marsh like this. Even the most benign-looking things could be dangerous.
A cavernous rumble to her right made her freeze. Which means that the dangerous-looking things are that much worse, she thought, slowly turning her head.
Most amphibians in the Tarmic were small enough to fit three in your palm. And most frogs or toads would be perfectly happy to waddle on top of each other in a person’s hand, not showing aggression towards anything bigger than a marsh fly. Laziness; skittishness; griminess; deliciousness (to certain tastes); these were the traits most Delians associated with your run-of-the-mill puddle jumper.
Not so with the grisly toad.
Its eyes glared across the marsh at her, as big as summer melons, with jet-black horizontal stripes for pupils. Its hulking shoulders were tan, speckled with black warts. From its throat all the way down its barrel-sized belly, it was a deep red, the color of spoiled wine or old blood. Rows of long spines down its back, starting in pairs just behind the bulging eyes, were brindled with the same unwholesome red. Two strange flat circles, behind either eye, were glistening with a sickly sheen. Jagged serrations outlined the jutting upper jaw like a goose’s beak. Its mouth was built for grasping and tearing. A household dog would vanish into that capacious gullet in a single swallow. The thing was the size of a prize hog, and aside from its powerful legs and its stubby head, it was nothing but an animated stomach. And if there was one thing Dame Miri knew about stomachs, remembering her own pangs before a little scrounged fruit this morning, it was that they got hungry.
Dame Miri felt her mouth grow dry as she looked the grisly toad over. It was nearly thirty meters away, but she saw the muscles in its massive back legs, meatier than a cow’s, and knew that nature’s ranine coils were better than anything a workshop could hope to devise. Thirty meters would vanish in two jumps. Maybe it’s not hungry, she thought, wrapping her fingers tighter around the knife. Unlike big bears, which tended to scrounge on dozens of little meals in the course of a day, grisly toads tended to follow the pattern of big snakes, as far as she remembered: find one big meal, take it in whole, and digest it over a long night’s sleep. Maybe it was sleeping, with a nice full belly, and I just walked too close. Very smoothly, she lifted a leg and backed away, her boots making only a tiny wet noise in the mud.
The grisly toad’s throat spread out like a blimp, flaring bright red in the afternoon sun. The same ground-shaking ribbit that had stopped her in her tracks earlier assailed her ears again. Even worse, the spines in its back raised skyward like a platoon of pikemen with weapons at the ready.
“Burn me,” Dame Miri sighed.
Then the toad jumped.
A single effortless hop carried it a dozen meters. It landed with an explosion of water and mud and leapt again, like a boulder skipping over the surface of a lake. Dame Miri raised her arms as it plowed into the mud only about three body lengths away from her, uprooting plants and showering her legs with gray sludge. Her eyes widened as it opened its mouth and a fleshy fist came rocketing towards her head. She swiveled so the tongue, as thick as a young tree trunk, caught her on the tricep instead of squarely between the eyes. It felt like a battering ram against her arm. A swat like that could easily break her bones if it hit her in the wrong place. There was a squelching sound as the gluey tongue latched on to her sleeve, and then she was flying sideways through the air as the grisly toad yanked her back towards its jagged mouth.
