by Lisa Daniels
“Just the ones I'm hired to, then?”
Quentin suppressed a snort, then feigned innocence.
“Way I see it,” Mia said, the familiar stony mask sliding over her features, “people like that don't deserve to live.”
Helga remembered the first few times she'd met Mia in the Steamcog, after she'd finished her bounty hunts on some dragons. Helga had been working on little repair projects then, and the iceblood exhibited curiosity about her work. She'd been tight-lipped about her occupation, of course. But they did strike up a cautious friendship—and when Helga heard Mia complaining about her staff getting in the way, she'd promised to work on a solution. Weeks of research upon magic-compatible gems later...
“I do agree that we should look into getting Helga's goods back,” Zaine said in his powerful voice. The kind of voice used to public speaking, to ruling others. “We can, of course, set her up a workspace in the outer house, and provide materials, but... I imagine it's not the same without everything you've worked for, is it?”
“You can do that?” Helga gaped. “You can just set me up somewhere and provide materials, no sweat?”
“He's one of those 'wealthy and influential' people that everyone in the factory sectors hates,” Mia said, now idly picking at her fingernails, ignoring the tea. “He's also a dr—”
“—Mia, that's not something that's need-to-know. Please, try for some discretion. We can't be fully sure how tolerant Helga is—”
“She's trying to say 'dragon,' right?” Helga asked.
A deathly, awkward silence fell in the room.
“Um... what do you know about dragons?” Quentin delicately fronted the question, blue eyes wide.
“My blacksmith, Old Tam. He was a dragon.” Funny how that old secret slipped out. Though he'd been dead some time, Helga never bothered to express it. He'd been tight-lipped with his secret, but trusted Helga with it. “Ancient guy. Said he was a defect. Couldn't transform properly. Too much human blood in his ancestry, I think. He could do the hands, and it helped him with his forging.” She raised up her hands to indicate the memory, remembering how they had scaled over and radiated heat and molten rivers in the cracks.
She wished she'd had that ability. Imagine never needing a forge to work metal.
“So—you know? And... do you... care?”
Obviously they were hinting towards the dragons that ravaged the villages and towns, as well as the outskirts of the Iron Reach, and that factory fiasco. Rumors about enslaved dragons, hoarded eggs. “I probably would if one tried to kill me. But Old Tam... he's the reason I got into blacksmithing in the first place.” Wait... Helga squinted at Zaine and Quentin. “You're both dragons?”
“Yes,” Mia said, before either of them slipped a word in. “I'm a little envious of you, actually. It took me more time to process.”
Helga smiled. “It's all about who you know, isn't it?”
Another silence blanketed them, before Zaine cleared his throat. “Well... that could have gone worse, I suppose. Looks like we'd better sort you out, then. Mia, do you mind staying with her a moment? Helping her settle in? I've got to discuss something with Quentin.”
The iceblood nodded, sitting next to Helga as Quentin stood up, looking as though death had come knocking on his door. Eyes pinched, face paling.
Interesting, Helga thought, even as she helped herself to more coffee.
Chapter Four – Quentin
Quentin smiled nervously at Zaine. No sooner did they separate from the others before Zaine slammed Quentin against the wall, arm crackling, morphing into the red scales of a dragon. Zaine’s eyes glinted lethally. “Your family, Quentin, is seriously messing with my attempts to quell tensions between the trads and humans.”
Gurgling, Quentin wrapped his hands around Zaine's fist, resisting the urge to morph himself. Attacking a prince would be tantamount to suicide. Quentin only ranked as a lord. “I—I can't control what my family does,” Quentin stuttered.
“But you used to be right in the thick of it, weren’t you? Happily going along with their little profiteering plans. Enabling dissent to reach breaking point! Oh, Quentin. You came from very, very bad stock.” Zaine's upper lip curled into a contemptuous sneer.
“I have already served with honor,” Quentin choked back. “I brought the forge girl as you asked. I gave Petyr the information about the Hinterlands dragons. I've served you faithfully for years! ”
“Six years to make up for a lifetime of deceit?” Zaine's hot breath wafted over Quentin. He sensed the flames building up in the prince's throat. “To make up for your family's alliance to Gorchev—for wiping out an entire species of dragon?”
Trying to ignore his shriveling stomach, Quentin gasped, “I don't condone what they did, Zaine. I never asked to be born to them. Please.”
His heart sank lower. He had been an enabler. Like Zaine said. Going right along with it all. Allowing dragon horns and body parts to be shipped, telling himself that it was okay. Sabotaging the Hinterlanders. Inferior dragons, his brood batch had claimed, mimicking the belief drilled into them from hatchlings. He saw it again. Their attack with human allies. Killing all the white dragons. Plucking the feathers from their wings and turning their furry bodies into coats.
They'd tried to take the small pile of eggs, but white eggs were delicate. Far less robust then red and green ones. None survived the journey.
“To gain more honor,” Zaine hissed, finally releasing his crushing grip, allowing Quentin to breathe again, “you will retrieve Helga's things. And you will look into matters regarding the trafficking of dragon parts in the sector she came from. I will also assign you to her. If she gives you an order, you will obey, unless that order is destructive to us in any way. Understand?”
Bile rose up in Quentin's throat. “You'd—you'd make a human order me around?”
“To me,” Zaine said, “you are lower than her. You're the scum that floats on water. A rat that scurries in trash.”
Quentin winced at this description. Resentment boiled in him. Steady. He's right. I'm nothing. I'm filth.
The words left him empty, with budding nausea. Nothing to be sick with. Or maybe he was just sick of himself.
“But that doesn't mean you don't deserve a chance. You do these things. You help the girl to empower my magicians, you root out more of Gorchev's disgusting little industry—I'll make sure you have your own clan name.”
Zaine allowed his hand to return to normal. He was still frustrated from the failure to pin down Gorchev. Even with the rescue operation on the factories, it turned out the deeds belonged to someone else, the dead dragons had vanished, and councilmen and police were reluctant to apprehend the man. And the factories were allowed to keep running, less than a week later.
Failure burned Zaine, and he lashed out at others. Gorchev likely sat in his office, laughing himself sick.
Finally free, Quentin dashed off, ready to do his master's bidding. Hating himself for bearing the clan name of Proudmoor.
*****
First things first—talk to Helga. Obvious place to start.
“You seem flustered,” Helga observed, even as she watched Mia leave with Zaine, apparently needing to sort out advance payment of an airship currently being constructed for them, and to interview a new potential iceblood.
“Nothing I don't deserve,” Quentin said, though his heart still felt as if it slopped in his shoes.
“Mia mentioned something about you. Your family directly contends Zaine's, doesn't it? He's some dragon prince, and your family would rather see a war and stamp out inferior species, than to shirk off their profits.”
With a wince, Quentin nodded. “Something like that.”
Her dark eyes bored into his. Fixing him with an unfathomable, thrilling look. “But you're here, and they're not. Why?” Something about her voice, low and fervent, rubbed Quentin just right. There was a rhythmic cadence to it, as if she spoke with every musical hit against an anvil.
“I'm not
entirely here by choice. I was captured and given an option. Die or serve.”
“Are you sure it's not your choice?”
Quentin didn't know how to respond to that. The more he delved into the horrors of his family, the less he wanted to associate with them. His pride had turned to ashes. He might have been disillusioned before it, but... he never stopped it.
“I need to ask you something. Where does your almost-husband live? I've been tasked with regaining your belongings.”
Helga gave a shrug. “I don't know. My mother didn't say much.”
Quentin prodded her a little more, before concluding he'd have to go to her family for the information. He wanted to speak with her longer, to explore the potential blossoming of attraction, but decided not to waste time—just in case Zaine ended up coming back and breathing down his neck.
He took a carriage after leaving, once more heading to Helga's former home. Maybe if it was nighttime, he might have risked dragon form, since human methods of travel were slow. Upon reaching the house, he rapped smartly upon it. The father answered, and it took him a moment to recognize Quentin.
“Afraid I can't be long,” Quentin said, going straight to the point. “I need to know where Helga's almost-husband lives. Where he owns his shop.”
The father gave Quentin a wide-eyed stare. “Why?”
“To see if I can procure Helga's items back.”
Narrowed eyes. “She's alright?”
“Of course.”
Now the father seemed to be wrestling with something, before he whispered, as if forbidden to say it, “Roper's Street. 53rd.”
Quentin gave the man his thanks, before hopping back on the carriage, making a small diversion to where one of Zaine's hirelings lived. An iceblood man called Keyten from the inner city, who didn't mind helping out on small things like this. Blond-haired Keyten, bored from the fact Zaine hadn't whisked him away on a new mission, eagerly accepted Quentin's offer for a potential rough and tumble with some small-time thugs.
Roper's Street straddled the line between the Eastern Factories and Ark Sector, and seemed to be a commercial location, holding small shops for food and clothes. The biggest shop of all was a string of blacksmith workshops, all owned by the same man.
“I've heard of this place,” Keyten said, appearing uncomfortable. “I think Gorchev owns this chain. Ran's Iron—and I can tell you, it's terrible quality. They don't bother smoking out the impurities to the same degree others do.”
Ran. Was that the name of Helga's almost-husband? Quentin held out his paper diagram of all the things Helga owned—including the fact that they were scratched with her signature—a name looped by the tail of the g.
One of the blacksmiths had what appeared to be a large storage space behind the shop where they stored resources for the other shops. Wasting no time, Quentin held up the diagram to a rat-faced man. “I'm looking for these items. They have been stolen. I will pay to have them back, which is more than what a thief deserves...”
Keyten casually tapped his sapphire staff, drawing the rat man's attention.
“We, uh...” his throat worked nervously. His eyes didn't seem able to tear themselves away from the diagram. “We don't have anything like that here. And I take offense at being called a thief.”
“So you won't mind if we...” Quentin's eyes flashed to a sword on display, one that looked suspiciously like the shape of one of Helga's officer swords, “...look in the back of your shop, since we clearly won't find anything there?”
The man's eyebrows twitched. “Certainly not!”
“Then what's that?” Quentin said, pointing at the sword. He noticed how the man seemed to be turning green and popping with sweat.
Sure signs of guilt. Would they really be so stupid as to have all of Helga's items in storage here, and blatantly sell her designs? The sword even had the hilt design Helga had made in another cast.
When the man started to blubber, Keyten used his powers to frost over the door and break into the storage containment.
Well. Looked like fetching Helga's stuff would be easier than anticipated...
Chapter Five – Helga
Helga grinned at Quentin as he placed the last of her missing designs into her new workshop. She honestly didn't expect him to succeed, and the fact that all of her items had returned, more or less intact, aside from the officer's weapon she'd been making... “You're the best. And they were really trying to sell my designs?”
“Yep,” Quentin said, making sure the room arrangement still appeared as neat as before. “They were just using your casts. Didn't even bother to make new ones. I'm afraid you probably will no longer have claim to your weapon designs, but I don't think they did anything with your inventions.” Like her music boxes, her attempted weapon designs like better, faster guns—the water pistols she'd made, designed only to squirt water out the ends...
She wanted to dash towards Quentin, bury her face into his chest, and hug him. As soon as the thought formed in her mind, she hesitated, before quashing it. Not appropriate. Even if he'd returned her life's work to her.
Just to make things that much better, Mia's friend, Servalan, dropped around later in the day. The stoneblood Helga had heard a lot about, but never met in person. Dark-haired, eyes as black as the depths of a mine, she had with her an assurance that Helga felt envious of.
“Zaine told me to give you these.” Servalan dumped a beautiful assortment of prismatic gems into Helga's hands—about eight of them. Small, but powerful. She took her time fishing in her pockets for the biggest gem of the lot—a prismatic the size of Helga's fist.
“Wow!” Helga said, eyes wide as she examined the large gem. “That's the biggest I've ever seen!”
Servalan appeared rather proud. “We stonebloods are good at finding these things. Biggest I've ever encountered. Maybe you can do something with it, smith-girl? Since the way Mia boasts about your skills, the sun practically shines out your ass.”
Helga grinned, showing the stoneblood to her workshop. She quite liked the older woman's attitude, and promptly invited Servalan around for a later date when Servalan admitted she couldn't really stay.
“Pressing matters. But yes, I'd like to come around. You'll make something for me?”
“A staff.” Helga tapped her new supply of gems. “I'll give it a fine cut, make it the strongest weapon you own. Mia's going to get the big one, though.”
“Guess I'll need to find another one if I want to beat her,” Servalan said, not offended at Helga's choice. “Maybe I'll see you later, smith-girl.”
Helga spent some time after that examining all her beloved inventions, planning how she'd make the weapons for the new gems. Quentin had provided her with more equipment than she was used to, and it didn't take long for Helga to sit down and start carving the wooden staffs that she intended to sequester the gems. If Servalan found gems of this quality more often, Helga could outstrip any similar competition.
Except, well, she didn't want to. Weapons needed to go to responsible people. She tinkered as well with her crossgun, starting on some of the modifications that would one day make it deadly. She made a barrel that contained eight quarrels, and several sets of them, and got about half the mechanism working. She'd need to start on a new sword with a different design, since those bastards had now a perfect model and used her casting. The casting was only to make sure she had enough metal for the shape, but now...
She sat rather mournfully by her different designs, wondering which ones she'd need to ditch.
Mia came into her shop long after dark had fallen, holding a bag of steaming food. “You should really consider eating, since you've been locked up in here all day.”
“Oh, I didn't hear you return! How was it?” Helga gratefully accepted the food from Mia, some kind of vegetable chunks in noodles, and used the little chopsticks that came with it to eat. Ark culture. Small parts of the Ark Sector still held onto their traditional utensils, before bronze and iron had taken over.
&
nbsp; “Boring as ever. But someone has to safeguard him. He's an important figure, and I'm a little worried that the closer it gets to the meeting we're supposed to be arranging, the more chance others are going to take a pop at him.”
Nodding, Helga told Mia briefly about Servalan's visit, and Quentin's return of her lost designs. Mia admired the gems and let her hands graze over the furnishing of the staff Helga had been working on. “This will be the weapon?”
“Yep. Saving this darling for you.” Helga held the fist-sized prismatic. Mia almost tripped over herself in excitement.
“Oh, steam it, Helga, you give me that, I'm going to be so strong. The necklace you gave me is pretty close to a staff itself!”
But not quite. “Your staff was sapphire. That's your basic magic gem. It's good for everyone, not just icebloods as some'll let you believe. Topaz is a better conduit. Jade better still, but that shit's expensive. Then you have diamond—then prismatic. But you'll never find a prismatic gem as big as some of the diamond or jade deposits. Plus, you can't fuse prismatics together. They're tougher than diamond, unforgiving to facet. So ultimately, you want to stick with jade or diamond.”
“What about the others, though? There's so many gems.”
“You're the iceblood,” Helga said, grinning all the same. Most of her information came from Old Tam. He knew a lot about the power of gems, spent long years studying their qualities. He believed jade to be the best compromise between expense and quality, but Helga had prismatics to play with, now. “The others all work, too, but if you want some bang with your magic, these tiered gems are the way to go.”
“I really need to learn this stuff.”
“You're not a gem cutter,” was Helga's answer.
“But I'm still the one with the steaming magic. You'd think I'd learnt about it by now...”
Smirking, Helga followed Mia back into the house, leaving the warmth of her forge for another day.
*****
Quentin and Helga read the headlines of the Daily Reach, whilst Zaine scowled at them from the other side. The prince picked at his food like a bird, hardly touching any of it. Appetite lost. Mia stood next to Quentin, slurping down a Miner's Jolt, looking anywhere but at Zaine.
