Cry of Metal & Bone

by L. Penelope

  Darvyn stood, thankfully pulling Tai’s focus away from Lizvette. The Lagrimari man squinted through the tiny window embedded in the door to their compartment, arms folded across his chest. He hadn’t relaxed yet, and Tai couldn’t blame him for his sense of urgency. What wouldn’t a man do to save the woman he loved? Not that Tai had ever been in love.

  Lizvette shifted, but he refused to look at her.

  The compartment door slid open on a mechanical hinge and the few passengers streamed into the main aisle. Tai and the others followed, exiting the train into the station. They climbed a flight of stairs to the main level and entered a long, sparsely populated lobby, dotted with seating areas and vendor booths, though they were more vacant than full.

  “We’ll have to change our money to Dahlinean shings,” Lizvette said, pulling out her change purse. “I expect the exchange rate will be terrible.”

  Darvyn looked over from his perusal of the quiet interior. “Why is this place so abandoned? The station in Melbain was overflowing with people.”

  “Too far north,” Tai said, pointing to a map on the wall. Dahlia City was the northernmost city in Yaly, bordered on one side by a treacherous mountain range. The snowcapped peaks were visible through the large picture window next to the map. On the street, people bustled about, bundled up in coats and scarves that hadn’t been necessary in Melbain.

  “Plus, the Physicks are held in quite low esteem by many of the commonwealths,” Lizvette added. “Dahlinea is not a place most Yalyish would visit unless necessary.”

  “Did something cause a rift?” Darvyn asked.

  Lizvette motioned them forward toward the currency exchange on the other end of the station. “Several years ago, Dahlinea sought to contribute soldiers to the confederate defense. Only these weren’t men with any combat training, they were mechanical warriors, tin beasts powered by amalgam. The other commonwealths were not pleased. They were convinced to test out the contraptions, assured that they would result in huge financial savings, but the machines went astray, injuring quite a few people in the process, and the entire program was shut down,” she explained as they walked. “Many Investors across the country lost a lot of money in the endeavor, and Dahlinea took the brunt of the blame. Ever since then, the Physicks have been stripped of some of their power in the Senate. Many of the other commonwealth leaders don’t trust the more powerful amalgams, though the people at large love their toys more than ever.”

  “‘The branches of the tree spread further apart.…,’” Tai murmured as they approached the counter.

  Lizvette gave him a surprised glance. “You’re familiar with The Ayalya?”

  “I do know how to read, duchess,” he said lightly. She pursed her lips and went to respond, then apparently thought better of it.

  A door behind the counter of the exchange booth opened, revealing a squat, middle-aged man. Lizvette faced him, offering a radiant smile. “We’re just in from Melbain.” She slid a handful of coins across the counter.

  The dour clerk looked down at the money and nodded, then turned to a contraption before him that had rows of dials and buttons. His thick fingers blurred across the machine.

  Lizvette tapped her fingers on her lips, drawing Tai’s attention to her mouth until he blinked and tore himself away. “Excuse me, sir. Are there tours available for the amalgamation factories?”

  The clerk’s eyes never left his machine. “You’ll have to check with the foreman of one of the factories or the lead Spellsayer. Though I can’t say as I’ve heard of them giving tours.” He shrugged and pulled a lever on the side of his counting machine. A trilling bell sounded, and change began sliding down an incline on the other side of the counter. The Dahlinean shings dropped into several neat piles of shiny coins. Lizvette scooped them into her purse and thanked the clerk for his aid.

  “A factory tour?” Tai asked as they headed toward the train station exit. Lizvette held up a finger and led them behind an empty vendor booth so they were out of sight from the main part of the lobby.

  “I was thinking of how we could gain entry to the Physick headquarters. That’s where Kyara said she was being held, right?”

  Darvyn nodded.

  “Well, I doubt they would just allow us to waltz into their facility through the front door, but if we can find someone with access and assume their identity…” She raised her eyebrows.

  Tai beamed, impressed with her ingenuity. He turned to Darvyn. “Can you copy someone like that? Make one of us into an exact replica?”

  He nodded. “I’ve done it before. With King Jack, as a matter of fact.”

  Tai did a double take, and Darvyn shrugged. “It’s a great plan,” Tai told Lizvette. “But why a factory?”

  “Well, all we really know about the Physicks is that they’ve systematized the production of amalgamations. They’re all produced in massive factories in this city. A factory worker—someone involved in adding the magic to the machines—would likely have the access we need, but their movements wouldn’t necessarily attract notice. It seems like a good place to start getting answers.”

  Darvyn perked up a bit, nodding at her logic, but worry beat against Tai. “What if the … net thing that Absalom character used to steal your Song, what if those are common here? He also had something that allowed him to see right through your cloaking spell.”

  Lizvette’s shoulders slumped. “And the sound weapon. I should have thought about that. Why do you think they had no effect on you, Tai?”

  “Wish I knew. Thick Raunian skull, maybe.” He grinned and rapped on his forehead with his knuckles. Lizvette laughed, and he ignored the fizzle in his chest.

  “I got the impression that the netting he used to drain my Song was fairly rare,” Darvyn said. “I think that’s why he was charging the Dominionists so much for it. And the spectacles that make it possible to see through spells…? I’ve encountered them before.” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked off into the distance for a moment. “They won’t be expecting us, that’s a point in our favor. This may just be a chance we have to take. Lizvette’s plan is sound. We will have to be on our guard.”

  Tai didn’t have a good feeling about this, but they had no other ideas, and Darvyn was clearly impatient. Tai hadn’t liked Lizvette coming to Dahlinea now that the Physicks had proved themselves so ruthlessly dangerous. However, it wasn’t as if Melbain was safe for her, thanks to her miscreant father.

  But there was another issue. “Even before we get to the factory, we can’t just roam the city as we are. At least I can’t—a Raunian is rare and memorable in these parts. And if the Physicks can see through a disguise spell, this mission will be over before it begins.”

  Lizvette looked back and forth between them, again tapping her finger to her lips. How he wished she wouldn’t do that. “Perhaps we can use a more traditional disguise for now,” she said. “And then see if we can find out how common those devices are.”

  Her expression turned slightly mischievous, and Tai swallowed. Myr save him, there was nothing more appealing than a woman with a rogue streak.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The chief of the mountain village met the seeker on her way back down the trail. “We have heard tales of your travels. Will you join us in making merry? For we have just left the presence of Gilmer the Hunter, and there is much to celebrate.”

  She longed to refuse, but her weary feet made the decision for her.

  —THE AYALYA

  The unholy clattering they were making in the early-morning hours finally brought the guards in, and Kyara exhaled the heavy breath she’d been holding. Dansig spoke urgently in Lagrimari, gesturing wildly toward his son, who lay on the bed writhing in pain. Sweat poured from his skin as his eyes rolled back in his head.

  The guard took one look at the boy, pulled out a metal hearing cone from his belt loop, and placed it in his ear. It must be a communications amalgam, for he spoke into it like a telephone, alerting the medical staff that one of the prisoners was
incoming. Someone replied, too far away and muffled for Kyara to understand. Not long after, two white-robed servants arrived with a stretcher and carried the twin away. The whole thing had taken under five minutes.

  Sitting propped against the wall, his brother looked on without moving. As soon as the outer door clanked shut, he slid back down onto the bed and exhaled loudly.

  “Do you think it will work?” Varten asked, his coloring paling to a ghostly hue. The tiny bit of healing that Roshon had managed had faded rapidly. It must be a difficult thing to master with the medallion, for he had only been able to help Varten for a scant few minutes at a time.

  “It’s got to work. Have some faith, son.”

  The plan was for Roshon to get to the medical wing and find a way to escape. Earlier in their incarceration, the whole family had been frequent visitors to the infirmary, subject to all manner of testing, and so they were familiar with the layout of the place. Roshon was sure that with the medallion, he could find a way out and then contact the police or the Elsiran ambassador for help.

  Dansig placed an arm around Varten, holding him close. He touched his son’s forehead and frowned.

  The spell Roshon had created for himself mimicked a very dire version of his brother’s illness—though Varten’s situation was nearly as grim. Seeing Roshon in such a state reminded Kyara of how little time they had, of how this gambit needed to pay off so they could help Varten.

  Roshon had practiced nonstop over the past twenty-four hours in order to manage the medallion well enough to enact the ruse. They had no choice but to place their trust in him as the only one who could wield the amalgam magic.

  Peering at the door to the prison chamber, Kyara silently wished him luck. Asenath had not returned, and now Roshon appeared to be their only hope.

  She wished she had been able to help Roshon more, but mastering a power like that took time. She could not bear to dwell on her own brutal training at Ydaris’s hand. Those days were among her darkest. Dansig, on the other hand, was a patient tutor. He never raised his voice, and his calm demeanor balanced Roshon’s impatience and frustration.

  Kyara wished she’d had a teacher like him, though it would not have mattered. There were no other Nethersingers for Kyara to learn from. The Physicks had certainly tried to find one, and while Ydaris had hidden Kyara in plain sight for a decade, she suspected the Cantor, too, had sought news of any other Nethersingers for her own gain. After all, it was because she’d delivered Kyara that Ydaris was now accepted by the Physicks again after living in exile for so long.

  Kyara sat up as recognition slammed into her. That’s where she knew the name Mooriah! The memory had niggled at her for days, struggling to come to the surface. During her time with the Cavefolk, an old shaman called Murmur had mentioned another Nethersinger, one who had lived hundreds of years ago, whose name had been Mooriah.

  Back in that time, Nethersingers were killed at birth, but Mooriah’s father had saved her and brought her to live with the Cavefolk in secret. Kyara strained to remember what else Murmur had told her, but it hadn’t been much. Was it possible that the Sad Woman from her dreams was the ancient Nethersinger?

  Mooriah had expected Kyara to understand her message: Embrace the Light. She racked her brain, trying to remember what Murmur had told her deep in those underground caverns where the Cavefolk dwelt. She recalled a vision he’d seen in his youth of the war among the three worlds. He’d insisted that her deadly Song would be needed to fight for the Living World. According to Asenath, the Light was the Living World, but was that what Mooriah meant? Somehow Kyara thought not.

  Murmur had wanted to teach her how to control her Song, but his teaching style had involved nearly killing Darvyn. Thankfully Kyara had saved him, pulling the deadly energy of Nethersong from his body, a feat she’d never achieved before.

  She had to admit that she was stronger at managing her Song now than she was before Murmur’s trick, but she still didn’t trust him. Being manipulated and controlled was something she’d had enough of. The wound on her chest was a constant ache as it was, and now she suspected there were even more forces at work wanting to use her power. It made her wish the Physicks would just drain her dry and end it. If only the True Father had stolen her Song the way he did so many others’.

  “How did you escape tribute and manage to hold on to your Song?” she asked Dansig to fill the uneasy silence.

  He looked up thoughtfully. “My mother kept us mobile. She was a peddler. We lived on the highway in a caravan, stayed ahead of the Collectors.”

  Kyara nodded. She’d lived much of her life on the road, too. Between assignments, she’d preferred staying away from the castle as much as possible.

  “My sister was caught by the nabbers when I was fourteen,” Dansig continued. “I went straight to the Keepers then. Joined the same week.”

  Kyara leaned forward. “Did you find her?”

  Dansig’s eyes were hollow. He shook his head. “The Keepers embedded me in the army—spying, relaying info back to them.”

  “You fought in the Sixth Breach, right?”

  He held her gaze with a considering look. “I came over to Elsira during the Sixth Breach,” he said slowly, “but I did not fight.”

  Dansig looked down at his sleeping son and sighed. “I wanted to leave the Keepers. Not because I disagreed with their mission, but their methods could sometimes be…”

  “Cutthroat?” A member of the Keepers had betrayed Darvyn, and she’d witnessed his own people collar him when he stood up for her. Freedom fighters they may be, but they were still imperfect men and women.

  “People working for a good cause are still people,” Dansig said, echoing her thoughts. “At the end of the day, a group is only as good as its leaders, and I had some … problems with the elders.” He shifted and wiped the sweat from Varten’s sopping brow. “It didn’t help that I had the Dream of the Queen several times. Some were jealous of that.”

  Kyara leaned forward. “You saw Her?” She still wasn’t sure she even believed in the Queen Who Sleeps, though Darvyn had assured her the deity was real.

  “Just before the Sixth Breach, I asked Her for help leaving. She guided me to a tear in the Mantle, a weak point in the magic. I slipped through and lived in the mountains for a time. After the fighting ended, I found the prisoner of war camps where the Lagrimari soldiers trapped in Elsira were housed. That’s where I met Emi.”

  The twins’ Elsiran mother had been a member of some sort of religious order that worshipped the Queen Who Sleeps.

  “Why do you think She did it? Helped you leave?” Kyara asked.

  Dansig’s expression slackened. The emotion drained from his face. “She never does anything without a reason.” The words were cold. “I believe She wanted me in Her debt. I wonder if my child’s life is payment enough.” The last was a bitter whisper likely not meant for Kyara to hear. The mission that had landed his family in prison had been undertaken at the Queen’s behest.

  “They like to meddle in our lives, don’t they?” Kyara mused. Dansig looked up questioningly. She waved her arm in the air. “The powerful. The strong. The gods. They push us this way and that way, and for what? Sometimes I just want to push back.”

  Dansig scratched his jaw. “I do think they have their reasons. Sometimes we are sacrifices for the greater good. What is it you’re struggling with, Kyara?”

  She dropped her head into her hands, running her fingers through the rows of braids. Darvyn’s face flickered in her mind briefly before fading away. “I just want to choose. I want a choice in what happens to me.”

  Dansig was grim, his voice heavy and low. “All I can say is this: when you get the choice, choose wisely. More wisely than I did.”

  His hand went back to Varten, who murmured restlessly in his sleep. Kyara closed her eyes. She would remember his words and hoped she lived to see the day she could heed his advice.

  * * *

  For Lizvette, Dahlia City, while large and teemin
g with people, had a very different air from Melbain City. She and the others left the train station and emerged in the modern metropolis of the central business district. Like in Melbain, towers rose into the sky around them, though these were considerably shorter and less grand. But after only a handful of blocks, the architecture changed drastically. Worn-down buildings with brick facades lined the streets; the neighborhood was dingy and unkempt. Even the automobiles charging down the street were all older, without the gleam of regular polishing.

  “Those markings,” Darvyn said, scanning the people going about their business on the streets. “What do they mean?” He turned to peer at a woman who had just passed them, her head covered in a colorful scarf. A blocky tattoo was emblazoned on the back of her neck. Several of the people they’d seen in the commonwealth bore the marks. Men often had them on shaved heads, while women bore them on their necks.

  Lizvette faced forward, her stomach churning. “Those tattoos are how the Dahlineans mark Bondmen—the lowest caste in Yaly. Investors use an ink that fades away after seven years, the period of their indenturing.”

  “Indenturing?” Darvyn asked.

  “It’s like slavery,” Tai spat. “The commonwealths keep the lower classes, the poor toilers, tightly controlled. The workers are required to use commonwealth banks and stores, and are paid in a currency that is worthless elsewhere. Yet somehow they always remain in debt. They nearly always have to extend their indenturing.”

  Darvyn looked troubled, and Lizvette couldn’t blame him. It was an abominable practice.

  “Let’s go in here,” she said, coming upon a store with coats and winter gear displayed in the window. Her autumn shawl was doing nothing to protect against the colder northern temperatures.