by E M Kaplan
“It’s an agamite-powered wagon that can get you to Tooran in a single day, if you have the money.” The woman set her travel cases down. “As for me, I’d never set foot in one of them. If humans were meant to travel at great speeds like that, the good Lord would have given us wings, yeah?” She settled herself. “Never mind that I’d never have the coins to pay for it. Have a sit down, my dear, we’re going to be here a while.” The woman patted her second case, offering it to Mel as a bench.
Mel declined. Thinking about the coins sewn into the hem of her tunic, she asked, “How much does it cost?” She doubted she had enough. Passage fare in the contraption sounded as if it would be expensive. Agamite was not easy to come by, so the price of a trip would have to reflect that in order for the owner to profit.
“Dunno. More than I have, that’s for sure. And if this river doesn’t start moving along, I’m never going to get across it. I’ll be sleeping right here on my luggage.” The woman glanced out at the water and sighed. “Took me two days to get here by Standard. Regular old horse-drawn wagon, that is. For what? To spend the rest of my travel money on going right back home? Not if I can help it. If I have to, I’ll go out there and start paddling the ferry myself.”
Jesting aside, Mel had serious doubts as to the safety of the woman’s plan. Something had caused the whirlpool to form. And that same unnatural something might still be out there in the murky water. The rest of the patrons were discussing the enormous eddy—she had to know about it. The woman’s lack of concern, whether it was a symptom of having lived and experienced much stranger phenomena in a city or just foolhardiness, troubled Mel.
“At least you got across the river,” the woman went on, smoothing her worn skirts. “Go on with your grand adventure, you young thing. I’ll just be sitting here waiting for Sir Bluster-and-Important to get back from the pooper. Maybe he’s got the money to take me back home quickly.” The woman bobbled her eyebrows at Mel with a wry smile, bonded by their common dislike for the vile man and his sexual aggression.
Mel smiled her thanks at the woman—she’d learned from living among the stoic northerners that excessive thankfulness was annoying to most people, so she said nothing else—and left the rotunda.
In exploring the depot stables, Mel discovered that several of them had been cleaned out and converted into sheds of a different sort—garages for machines. And inside of these immaculate bays stood not animals, but large wooden vehicles the size of four horses in length and at least three in height. She’d never seen anything like them before. At the front of each, a driver sat at a handle of some sort, which connected to the rest of the carriage and somehow directed where it would head. Mel’s pulse pounded as she grew more and more excited, almost unable to stop herself from approaching one of them and placing her hand on the wood. If she could just touch the wood of one of the carriages, she was sure she would be able to suss out its construction, to figure out how it was put together, and how it converted the agamite into forward motion.
At that moment, the carriage closest to her roared to life with a great cloud of green-tinted steam. Eyes widening, she stepped forward as everyone else took a step or two back. She couldn’t suppress the utter delight she felt from crossing her face.
Then, with a sputter, the carriage died and fell silent.
Chapter 10
“I don’t know what’s wrong with the bloody thing,” the driver was saying as Mel approached. “I didn’t build the velowagon. I just point it in the direction it’s supposed to go.” Despite her thick-heeled boots, the driver, a young woman with a hint of a feral look to her face, reached only to Mel’s chin. At the moment, she was attempting to appease the crowd of stranded passengers who had gathered around her. Further stranded riders, that was—now that the river was closed off to them as well. It seemed they could neither go forward nor return from where they had come.
“We paid a lot of money to ride in this machine,” a man complained. Mel rolled her eyes when she realized he was the same man she had sent to the toilets by pinching his innards. When he noticed her, his face flushed a florid red, and his eyes flitted to the side in humiliation. Served him right.
The driver glanced at Mel, who leaned against the vehicle. Mel shrugged, her still-damp clothes not noticeable by now. She braced her hands behind her back and rested her weight against the carriage’s wooden side…and was transported through the vehicle’s inner workings.
She didn’t have names for the parts of the machine as she explored it. A central chamber with agamite was where she began. Heated with fire, the agamite fuel boiled water. The steam pushed through a pipe which raised some plugs. The force of the plugs created the motion that, when translated by turning cranks, propelled the wooden wheels of the vehicle. Aha. The agamite explained the greenish tint to the cloud of steam that Mel had witnessed earlier before the machine had gasped and gone silent.
Going back through the machine, poking its components with a delicate touch of her mind, Mel saw that the tank held water and was almost full. The water itself was pure and clean—river water, yet uncontaminated by plants or silt. No leaks in the chamber to release the steam before it could gather strength under pressure. Gently, she probed each plug—piston, she realized after a minute—and saw that more than half of them were jammed and in need of grease. Could the problem be that simple to fix? Maybe it was.
The vile, bejeweled man was now rabble-rousing the crowd, egging them on in their collective anger toward the driver. “We were promised a magical experience. A ride so fast we’d be propelled into the future.” His voice, with its stage-ready elocution, carried far into the crowd. “Give us our money back, you little witch. Plus once over again for your thievery.” His voice escalated both in volume and accusatory tone. The crowd of thirty or so people murmured their agreement. The man pressed in closer, shaking his sausage-like finger in the driver’s face. “We will not stand for this kind of con-artistry. I will personally prosecute you to the fullest extent of Tooran law. And I have associates in elevated places. You will feel the brunt of the law to its fullest extent.”
“You said that already,” Mel said, lifting her voice to be heard. At least one chuckle drifted through the crowd. For the driver’s ears only, Mel said, “I can help you.” Mel gave the girl a reassuring smile, taking in her fascinating attire—tall boots with an excessive amount of buckles, leggings, a shirt and vest, and a series of metal piercings that ran up the edge of one ear. Even the pouch strapped across her shoulder bore ornate workings and buckles. Pins, grommets, rivets. All of it fine craftsmanship, the work of a skilled artisan. Did the girl make these things herself or was this a common fashion mode in Tooran? Judging from the crowd of passengers, the ornaments were popular, but not in such profusion as the driver fancied.
Back pressed against the carriage, the girl’s dark eyebrows shot upward. “All the luck in the world couldn’t help me now. These people are ready to eat me alive. All over this stupid machine my father built. Had I inherited half an ounce of his intelligence, I might be able to fix it. But lucky me, I was a foundling. What I need is a tinkerer. Are you one?”
A tinkerer, a mechanic, a maker of tools. Mel was none of those. “I can help you,” was all she said. “Do you have a pot of grease?”
“Yeah, I think there’s one in the back of the velo,” she said. With a snap of her pointy teeth and a fierce glare at the now red-faced man, she slapped his finger out of her face and pushed her way through the crowd to the back of the carriage. The crowd, sensing some new development was taking place, allowed them to pass through.
A compartment at the back of the carriage opened up, from which the girl removed an iron pot with the handle of a thin brush sticking out of it. She sniffed the pot, made a face, and handed it to Mel. “I think it’s pig fat,” she said. “Smells horrible. You may want to hold your breath. But if you can get this velo to run, I’ll never leave home without a pot of it so long as I’m alive.”
Carrying the reek
ing pot and a mostly clean rag, Mel walked back to the front of the carriage where she stood, eyeing the mechanical door of the tall vehicle. She hadn't thought this part through. “Give me a boost?” she asked the driver, who jumped to comply, cupping her hands together in a makeshift foothold. Mel could have jumped up by herself, but not with this crowd of observers.
After gaining purchase on the front of the carriage, she propped the grease pot next to her, turned the latch on the compartment and peered into the darkness. Adjusting her eyes, she located the pistons, which were larger and heavier than she’d realized. She pushed strength into her arms and back and tugged. Stuck. More strength, a few tugs, and some creative cursing that she’d picked up from Ott occurred before the first piston came free. She almost flipped over backward off the carriage before she caught herself. Chuckles came from the interested crowd below, making her even more aware that she had an audience.
One by one, she cleaned and greased the pistons until they glided without making a sound. She closed the compartment, gathered up the pot and by-now filthy rag, and slid down the side of the carriage. “Fire her up,” she told the girl, using the jargon associated with other contraptions she’d read about. And with a brief prayer for luck, Mel watched as the velo gave a muffled roar as the fires caught, steam began to build, and the pistons chugged to life. A puff of green-tinted steam shot from the top chimney.
The driver whooped and swung down from her perch. She was already grabbing her money bag when she reached Mel. “How much do you want? I’m guessing at least half my take. It’s robbery, some would say, but I say it’s worth it. Saved me from being lynched, so Da would pay you whatever you asked for as well.”
From the handful of coins, Mel took just a few as a token gesture so she wouldn’t cause suspicion, though she didn’t need the money. From what she’d observed so far, Tooranans were a very money-driven people. “What I need is a ride to Tooran.”
“What? Is that all? You’re not from around here, are you?” The girl cuffed Mel on the shoulder. “You could have taken my whole purse and I’d have nothing to say about it. So I thank you for that. But at any rate, you can ride up top with me. You’ll have a grand view. And I happen to have an extra pair of these.” She reached into her satchel and pulled out a pair of eye coverings. When Mel hesitated, wondering why she would need the goggles, the driver tapped herself on the cheekbone and said, “Trust me. You’re going to want to put ‘em over your peepers.”
Chapter 11
Across the river in Port Navio, Ott was under fire. In a manner of speaking.
Thank Lutra, they’d made it to the shore before the river had gobbled up the riverboat. Ott had rowed the boat to the shore and gotten the others ashore, off the boat, safe on land long before the whirlpool had sucked the riverboat down its giant maw. Their little raft wouldn’t have stood a chance against the maelstrom. Even in a normal current, it would have felt like three sticks tied together with some twine.
His heart had leaped into his throat with worry over Mel, true enough, but he knew she was capable of getting herself and Charl to shore. He knew she’d be all right. Shoving any other possibility out of his mind, he’d guided his damp, bedraggled group to the inn he was most familiar with, hoping for cheap but clean rooms. He didn’t want to spend more for better rooms since he didn’t know how long they would need to wait there for Mel.
The Praesepio was a small, quiet inn away from the center of Navio. Ott didn’t think Rav would be comfortable any place busy with her wee babe. And judging by the saucer-like quality of Marget’s flashing eyes, even the relative quiet of the Praesepio dining hall was a bit of a shock. Still, it was one of the inns that Ott knew well and trusted for a safe place to stay.
As they crossed over the packed-dirt, damp roads of Navio, avoiding the farm carts headed away from the market this time of the evening, half the conversations they overheard were fearful speculation about the unnatural upheaval of the river.
“…It’s the end of the world, I tell ya.”
“You wouldn’t know the end if it was your own hindquarters.”
“I’m telling ya, bamboon for brains, the world is turning upside down. This is the first sign. Next thing you know, the missus will be inviting the trogs to supper.”
“Only if you’re the main course.”
“Just make sure to serve biscuits on the side…”
The rest of the chatter was about the trogs. Ott wasn’t surprised—just a day’s travel away by carriage, Cillary Keep still lay in ruins from the worst of the attacks. It’d be a long time before Navio forgot about all those dead girls in their fine clothes. The best and the brightest from all over the land, every city represented by the young lovelies. Most of them killed in one evening. The memory of that night still plagued his dreams though he hid that small fact from Mel. No sense in seeming more flawed than he already was in front of the woman. She’d get tired of all his whining sooner rather than later. No need to speed up that process. Lutra on a spit, he made enough mistakes just getting up in the morning.
Ott passed the stables he’d once spent the night in, thanks to a kind-hearted stablemaster. Well, in truth, the man’s wife was the one who offered Ott a clean bay in which to sleep off his ale-head, but he still thought of the couple with a fondness. And next to it was the smithy who’d let Rob work the bellows for a day while Ott hunted game. They’d lost a fair pile of coins to the smith during a wagering game the night before, but it had taken Ott only half the day to bring in some game and free Rob from the hot, dirty fires. Although, come to think of it, Rob hadn’t been too happy to see him and hadn’t spoken to him for a good day more.
Looking around now, Ott noticed the Navio townspeople seemed to linger less in the streets. In the distance they heard a scuffle, what might have been an argument that turned to fists, which had them stepping a little faster. Even mild-mannered Bookman was on his guard, flanking the opposite of the group as Ott, the two of them protective bookends. As darkness fell, the glances from passersby grew more furtive, and he was relieved to have made it to Praesepio before the night was on them. The innkeeper barred the door behind them with a resounding thud. Ott didn’t have the heart to tell him that the creatures could burrow up through the floor.
The inn was just as he remembered it—clean and well-kept—with very few windows, all of which were shuttered with heavy wooden planks against the looming threat of trogs. They stood just inside the door as he scoped for potential threats. The other patrons eyed them with suspicion, but soon turned back to their chargers and mead. Ott remembered the honey mead well. To his great misfortune, Daisy, one of the barmaids remembered him just as well. She threw her ample torso at him, forcing him either to catch her or be bowled over.
“Mattieus Ottick!” she shrieked, giving him a lusty kiss full on the mouth. She tasted like beer and sausages, not at all as he remembered, had he been pressed to say. Then again, there had been a lot of girls in a small space of time for him at one point in his life, a fact of which he was somewhat ashamed. “I knew you couldn’t have forgotten me. Don’t tell me—I already know why. I’m a tough woman to forget.” She primped her blonde hair and gave him a wide smile. Had her teeth always been that peculiar shade of yellow? He cringed, trying to hold her grasping hands away from his midsection. He failed, and she lunged at him. Lutra on a spit, she was clinging to him like a limpet, a barnacle on the bottom of their ravaged riverboat. “Oh my, you’re looking well. So much better even than I remember. And what’s this new toy?” Daisy said, having encountered the haft of the double-edged axe strapped to Ott’s back.
Rav eyed the woman as if she’d be willing to snap her neck on Mel’s behalf. “Hold the child,” she told Bookman, thrusting the swaddled baby into her surprised mate’s arms. She came to stand next to Ott, as the barmaid backed away, intimidated. Who wouldn’t be? Rav could be a force of nature—dark skin making the stark whites of her eyes and teeth stand out. With her hands on her hips as she stood now and t
hat look she gave Daisy, her eyes boring holes into the woman—even Ott had trouble swallowing.
“What’s…this?” Daisy asked. “We all know it’s dangerous out there these days. A person can’t be too careful with the trogs about. I see you have a bodyguard now. Of sorts. You always were popular with the female persuasion. Surely you can’t have settled down with just one…woman.” She looked Rav’s thin, brown body up and down, as if “female” were a questionable descriptor. Ott had never thought about Rav that way before. She was a nice enough girl. Kind of fierce, though, in a frightening way. As if she would just as soon rip out his innards as argue with him. So…not his type. He liked to wake up in the morning with all of his parts intact, thanks very much.
At Daisy’s unkind scrutiny and Ott’s own hesitation, Bookman’s hackles went up, making him look for all the world more trog than man at that moment. The blood rushed to Ott’s head as the situation began to escalate. His normal good fortune seemed but a distant memory.
“Easy now, man,” Ott told him. Then turned to face his doom in the form of a busty blonde. “I’m sorry, Daisy. Yes, it’s true. I’m no longer a free man.” At which words Bookman focused his glare on Ott. Lutra on a spit. Ott hadn’t meant to imply that Rav was his woman. But if that was how it was going to play out, he would take Bookman’s ire over Daisy’s aggressive attentions.
The sole unattached woman in their group was Marget. And while she was cute and fiery enough to play the part of Ott’s escort should he have needed further protection from Daisy, there was the slight issue of Ott having kissed Marget once, during his more self-centered days. Long before he’d met Mel, he would be quick to add. He scratched his head, aware that he was messing up his hair—a look which more than one lady had told him was endearing. He smoothed down his head and squared his shoulders. He did a visual check and was pleased to find that no red tinged his eyesight. There, you see. I’m completely in control. Good job. No need for rage. With a mental pat on the back, he turned back to his current skirmish.
